Nell (26 page)

“I checked on Connor,” she said. “He's sleeping. Perhaps he'll be hungry later.”

Frankie laughed. “He's always been a healthy eater. My food bills should be huge by the time he's twelve.”

She slipped dark glasses on her head and came toward him. “Will he sleep through the night?”

He could see the poreless texture of her skin. English skin. “I don't know,” he said slowly. “The medication tires him.”

“Are you still in the mood for a walk?”

“Aye. Are you?”

She smiled. “Yes. Very much.” He had sampled Avery's cologne, yet his smell was distinctively his own, a symphony that began loudly and slid into subtle tangling developments. The cologne had always been wasted on Avery, but then it was a scent designed to appeal to a woman, and, unlike Avery, Frankie had worn it for her. “Shall we go?”

They walked side by side. She was long-legged and used to hiking, but still, he shortened his stride to match hers. The hills posed no difficulty for him. His pace never changed, nor was he short of breath. Clearly, Frankie Maguire, the man, was comfortable out of doors, just as the boy had been. The Aran sweater and corduroy slacks he wore suited his lean, rangy frame, and his shoes were high at the ankle and thickly soled, ideal for hiking the roads of Ireland.

She led him through the hedgerow, single-file, to the path along the river. He stepped in front, climbed through first, and held out his hand to help her up the embankment. Jillian, who'd climbed the cliffs like a mountain goat from the time she could walk, reached up, placed her hand in his, and clung while he hoisted her through the shrubbery and up the hill. The path widened for a bit, and she was able to walk beside him again.

The silence had grown to the point where Jillian felt the need to speak, when he pulled her back against his chest and held his finger against her lips. “Shhh,” he whispered, pointing to a thicket on the left. “Look.”

Jillian stared into the darkest part of the thicket. At first, she couldn't see anything, but when her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw a silver fox with three kits, two red and one silver, still as statues, staring back at her. “Oh,” she whispered, “I haven't seen the silver ones in years.”

She felt his breath against her cheek when he spoke. ‘They're nearly extinct this far north. I haven't seen any since I was a child.” He released her and once again moved to her side.

They'd climbed the bluff and looked down on the sun turning the river to liquid gold. Suddenly, it occurred to her that there might never be a better time to ask the question that had troubled her for weeks. Perhaps he would confide in her. She summoned her courage and spoke. “Why is it that no one seems to know anything about you, Danny? Have you always lived in Belfast?”

He pulled a strand of hair away from her mouth with his thumb. “A bit curious, are you?” he said lightly.

“More than a bit.”

“May I ask why?”

She turned to face him. “Of course. As soon as you answer my question.”

“And if I don't?”

Why didn't he recognize her? Jillian wasn't exactly a common name. “Are you hiding something, Danny?”

“Every man hides something from time to time.”

“Not every man is so leery about answering a simple question.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “You can argue with the best of them, can't you, lass?”

She turned the full force of her meadow-green gaze on him. “Did you think I couldn't?”

He shook his head. “You're intelligent enough. But the spirit is bred out of you English girls, early on.”

“You're changing the subject.”

“Aye.”

Did she dare ask him? Jillian took a deep breath. “I want to ask you a question. It's a favor, really. But unless you trust me, it won't work.”

His heartbeat accelerated. “You want a favor from
me
?”

“Yes.”

He was silent for several minutes. Her fists were clenched so hard that her nails dug painfully into her palms. When at last he spoke, her relief was so great she nearly collapsed.

“You befriended my wife when she needed you most. You saved Connor's life and mine. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, lass.”

She waved her hand as if to brush aside his reasoning. “This isn't about Colette or Connor.”

“What is it about?”

Jillian cleared her throat and mentally cursed the color that rose in her fair skin. It was now or never. “Do you fancy me, Danny?”

He froze. Something was happening, and he hadn't the slightest notion of how to prepare for it. Her question demanded an answer. “You're not hard on the eyes, if that's what y' mean,” he said warily.

She nodded. “That's what I mean, part of it, anyway.” She swallowed. “You don't find me repulsive or unfeminine or anything like that?”

“Lord, Jilly.” He was trying to control his laughter. “What a question, lass. Don't y' ever look in a mirror? There must be men right now asking themselves how soon would be the proper time to start queuing up at your door.”

She looked up. “I know that I'm attractive. I need to know if
you
think so.”

Every survival instinct immediately kicked in. He swallowed. “If that's what all this is about, yes, I find you attractive. Any man would. Even one who buried his wife not yet four weeks ago.”

It was a warning. She heard it but chose to disregard it. Now came the hard part. There was nothing else to do but say it, now, before she lost her nerve. “I want to have a child.”

His stomach twisted. “You have one.”

She corrected herself. “I want to bear a child.”

“What's stoppin' you, other than your political appointment, the state of our country, and the fact that you no longer have a husband? But maybe you've already chosen his successor.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she shook her head and forced out the words. “No. I need a man.”

A muscle throbbed in his cheek. This couldn't be happening, not to him, not coming from her. “There are plenty to go around.”

“I want—”

“Don't say it,” he said savagely. His hands reached out, hard and hurting, on her shoulders. “Don't you dare say it.”

“Danny,” she said brokenly. “You know what I'm asking.”

“Aye,” he said, his face lit with rage. “I know what you're askin', and it's lucky you are that I don't have it in me to murder a woman.” He shook her slightly, released her, and stepped back. “Do y' think because I'm poor and Irish that you can use me? Do y' think I have no feelings for my own, that I can spill my seed, sire a child, and walk away? Did y' learn nothin' from Colette? Have y' not seen me with my son? I worship the bloody ground he walks on. Do y' think I could father a child and not have anything t' do with the raisin' of him?” His hands clenched. “Were y' born with a lump of ice instead of a heart, Jillian Graham, or did something happen to make y' the way you are?”

He didn't expect her to answer, but again she surprised him. “You're underestimating yourself. Perhaps it's you who doesn't look in the mirror.” She pressed the back of her hand against her nose and sniffed. Then she laughed softly and shook her head. “You don't know very much about women, Danny, if you think I want you only for your semen.” Her voice shook. She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried again. “Colette was my friend. She told me how it was between you since the shooting. I mean her no disrespect, but I didn't ask you as a last resort. I'm thirty-five years old. Men have told me they wanted me since before I understood what that meant. I've never been in love. I could fall in love with you, if only you would give me the chance.”

He stared at her, stricken into speechlessness, despair warring with the bubble in his chest that he recognized as hope, delirious, impossible hope.

Jillian straightened to her full height and looked directly at him. “I'm going home, Danny. My room is on the second floor, the last one on the right. If you don't come, I'll understand.”

His eyes watched the white blur that was her shirt until it disappeared over the rise.

“Jilly,” he whispered. “Dear God, Jilly. What in the name of heaven am I goin' t' do with you?”

Jillian belted the sash of her robe around her waist and ran her fingers through her shower-damp hair. Avoiding the mirror, she turned off the light and walked into the darkened bedroom, relieved to see that only a small turf fire blazing in the hearth lit the room. She had humiliated herself beyond all limits and could not yet bear to look at her reflection. What had come over her? If her mother knew, she would have her committed. Not that she would ever know, of course, but if she did—

Jillian shuddered, threw herself onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling, her cheeks burning. She had wanted him to know her, to remember as she did. Dear God, how would she face him tomorrow? How would she face anyone?

A voice, familiar and amused, rose from the foot of the bed.
You're being absurd.

“Nell,” Jillian whispered. “Where are you?”

Here.
A willowy feminine form materialized before the armoire. Her hand reached out to touch the beveled glass mirror.
What
a
lovely
thing. 'Tis so clear, like the calmest pool.

“It's a mirror. You must have them.”

Of
course. But not like this.
She leaned closer.
Is
that
really
me?

“I thought ghosts didn't have reflections.”

Nell looked offended.
I'm not a ghost, and as far as I know, there is no protocol for ghosts.

“What are you, then?”

Nell sniffed.
Certainly
not
a
ghost.

“I've done something dreadful,” Jillian confessed.

I
wouldn't call it dreadful.

“Were you there?”

Not
really. Let us say that I am aware when you do something particularly unusual such as that fiasco in the street yesterday.
Nell walked to the dressing table and sat down on the low stool to peer at herself in the mirror. She picked up a bottle of perfume and inspected it. Experimenting, she pushed down the lid, rearing back in surprise when the concentrated fragrance shot directly into her nasal passages.
My
goodness.

Against her will, Jillian laughed. “I know you have perfume.”

Nell set down the bottle carefully.
Is· that what it is?

Jillian moaned, turned over, and buried her face in the pillow.

Listen
to
me, Jillian.
Nell's voice was close to her ear.
To
tell
a
man
that
you
want
him
in
your
bed
isn't such a terrible thing. Rather, it will make him take notice where he didn't before. Mark my words, he is thinking of you and what you offered this very moment. He would not be a man if he were not.

Jillian rolled over. “Do you really think so?”

Open
your
eyes, love. I know what it is you want. You'll
find
more
than
enough
to
surprise
you.
Nell smiled.
Take
a
bit
of
that
perfume, and dab it
— She leaned close to whisper in Jillian's ear and laughed when she blushed. Then she stood.

“Are you leaving?”

I'll only be in the way.

“Good-bye, Nell.”

There
is
something
else, Jillian, something you don't understand. But it will wait, for now.

Jillian blinked, struck with a wave of myopia. Nell's figure blurred at the edges. Her features were no longer clearly defined. For an instant, the fire leaped and spit behind the grate, throwing arcs of light against the walls before it died down again.

***

Frankie crossed his arms and leaned against the garden gate, his eyes on the figure silhouetted in the bedroom window. He knew the room was Jillian's. It was the same one she had as a child.

He shouldn't have tempted fate. He should have stayed away from Kildare Hall, but the idea of revisiting the site where he had spent his happiest hours weakened his resolve. That he would be near Jillian had nothing to do with his irrational desire to step back into the past, or at least it hadn't, he told himself, until she mentioned her harebrained scheme to requisition his gene pool for her own purposes.

Now that she had, he couldn't get past it. She was smart enough to know how it would affect him. He was a man who'd been too long without a woman. And when a man knows that a woman looks at him that way, he can't help but wonder what it would be like just once to— His jaw clenched, and he bit down on the soft inside of his cheek. “Damn you, Jillian,” he muttered under his breath. “I was willing to leave it alone. Now, look what you've done t' me.”

It was late, after eleven. He'd stayed out for hours, haunting the roads he'd traveled as a boy, arguing with himself, reliving her words, imagining what it would be like to have her beneath him, her arms reaching out to pull him close, her lips and legs willingly parting for him. Now he was spent, his decision made, if only his body would cooperate.

His shoes made no sound as he climbed the stairs and looked in on his son. Pillowed against the soft down duvet, Connor's black head contrasted sharply with the white behind it. His arm curled under his sturdy body, and his chest rose and fell in the healthy rhythms of sleep. No help there. If Connor had his way, he would take up residence in the Kildare stables with Ned, the kennel keeper. Frankie's mouth twisted at the corners. He couldn't blame the lad for that. Love for the gentle golden dogs was in his blood.

Farther down the hall, his hands began to shake. Frankie leaned against the wall outside Jillian's room and struggled to control himself. How much was it possible to want a woman? It was as if all the years between had disappeared and he was a boy again, this time without the blindfolds. He would give Jillian Fitzgerald something of what she wanted, but only because he wanted it, too. And he would leave no part of himself behind to be raised as an English Protestant. Perhaps, when he told her, and he would tell her all of it, she would reconsider, erect that barrier of cool Fitzgerald pride, and refuse him.

He feared that less than the other possibility, the one where she was more woman than he'd ever hoped to have, where she would welcome him with loving words and worshiping hands no matter who he was or what he'd done, where she begged him to stay, offering her body and her heart and her home, unconditionally, the same little girl who'd said so long ago, “Then I'll be a Catholic, too.”

It was past time to find out who waited for him in the darkened room, cozy with firelight. Heart hammering in his chest, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

She was sitting up in bed, facing the windows. Her arms were wrapped around her legs, her chin on her knees, and she wore something white and sleeveless.

Soft music from the stereo system muted the sound of his entrance. The door clicked softly when he closed and locked it. She didn't turn around. He settled back into the shadows to look at her, really look at her, for as long as he could stand it.

Her shoulders were slender and summer-tanned, the smooth muscles defined by her clasped hands. The delicate material of her nightgown covered generous breasts and long, shapely legs. She was tall. He preferred tall women. They were easier to dance with. He'd always fancied brunettes, but now he was sure there had never been anything as lovely as the way the light played on Jillian's hair, coloring the tousled strands whiskey gold, amber, and palest wheat.

Shining hair, slow-falling hair, bare shoulders, a naked back. Innocence, independence, seduction, had never been better combined. He noticed everything, his infatuation feeding insatiably on the sap rising within him. He needed this, all of it, her hair and skin, the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, the faintest scent of lilacs, the desire opening her face. If she would only look at him. Perhaps he would live after all.

She turned and looked directly into his eyes. He saw the pink flood her cheeks and heard her words airy and breathless. “You came after all.”

He nodded, making it easy for her. “Aye. How could I not?”

She watched him cross the room and sit beside her on the bed, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light. “I didn't think you would.”

Inside him, the wanting roared, desperately, painfully, unleashed from its restraints. How could he have wanted so and pretended otherwise? Deliberately, he picked up her hand and pressed his mouth and then his tongue against her palm. He felt her tremble, saw her close her eyes and lean her head back against the pillows, saw her throat, long and lovely and exposed. He touched his lips to the smooth skin, heard the sharp intake of her breath, felt the softness of her breasts under his hands, and gave himself up to the power of his wanting.

Filling his hands with her hair, he breathed in her scent, opened her beautiful, sensual mouth with his tongue, tasting and exploring her lips, the hollow at her throat, the swells of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips, and the exciting, forbidden heat between her legs. He pulled away to look at her, to drink in eyes and legs and mouth and hair, the parts of her that had the power to send him over the edge.

“Kiss me again,” she whispered, offering her mouth. “Kiss me now.”

The kiss began as soft and searching, and then it wasn't soft at all. It was hard and dangerous and passionate, and when it was over, he leaned into her, his hands seeking out places where only a lover's hands may settle. “Now, this,” he said softly, working at the buttons of her nightgown until they were undone and she lay naked and waiting and wanting while he looked and stroked and licked and sucked, all the while whispering words she'd never heard before.

“My God, Jilly,” he said hoarsely against her throat. “I've no brain left t' speak of, and I'm thinking with the only part of me that has blood left in my body. Tell me you're ready for me, lass.”

Her answer was to press against him, open her legs, and whisper into his ear, “I've always been ready for you.”

He had no words left in him. Quickly, efficiently, he removed his clothes, dropped them by the bed, and knelt over her.

Jillian reached up to pull his head down, to trace his lips with her tongue. She felt the ridges expand on his shoulders and neck. He entered her all at once, filling her completely. For a timeless instant, she tensed and he stilled. Then she relaxed, and her tongue slipped inside his mouth.

With a low groan, he thrust deeply, matching her rhythm.

He heard her whisper softly in his ear and strained to hear her. “Please,” the breathless voice pleaded with him. “I want you so much. Please, know me.”

“I know you, lass,” he murmured against her throat. “I never stopped knowin' you.” The ache of withdrawal and the dizzying pleasure of her hot woman's flesh closing around him were too much, and for the first time in two years, he came, explosively, inside a woman.

“Jilly,” he said, much later when it was finished and the soft body beneath his was beginning to arouse him again, “whatever am I going t' do with you?”

She didn't answer but looked up at him with wide, knowing eyes.

He couldn't help himself. “It was your first time, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” It never occurred to her to lie. He was leaning on his elbow, and she was fascinated by the differences between them. How odd that women's bodies were immortalized when a man could look like this.

“My God, Jilly. Where have you been, a nineties woman like yourself?”

“I waited for you.”

His face changed. Could she possibly mean it? Impossible. The hope rising in his chest flickered and died out. “Don't say that.”

“All right,” she said, keeping her eyes on his face. “I won't. What shall I say?”

He slid his hand possessively over her body and let it rest on the underside of her breast. “Say that you want me again.”

She would say anything to feel him inside her again. Her voice was husky, alluring, impossible to resist. “I want you again.”

***

The day dawned, warm and clear, the summer air spiced with the smells of growing things. Jillian stretched, felt the soreness between her legs, remembered, and reached out to touch him. He was gone. She opened her eyes and sat up. Through the long windows, she saw a figure moving across the downs, four collie pups leaping and wrestling, running to catch up with his long stride. She looked at the clock on the mantel. Ned wasn't due for another two hours. Besides, the kennel keeper had never moved like that, with a smooth, confident arrogance that ate up the ground.

She swung her legs over the bed. Barefoot, she tiptoed down the stairs and out the door, down the winding drive, through the organized garden paths, to the downs. Beneath her feet, the grass was wet with dew. She leaned against the trunk of a leafy black oak and watched Frankie Maguire throw sticks for the frolicking collies to bring back to him.

Behind her, deep in the shadows, Nell Fitzgerald waited and watched and remembered another time, another black-haired young man. Then she shook off the memory. It was their time, Frankie's and Jillian's, the two of them, time for their lives to come full circle. She would help if necessary, but experience told her not to underestimate the powers of love.

A breeze touched Jillian's face, touched her hair above her forehead. The day was already unusually hot. She watched the scene before her. It seemed to unfold in slow motion, a black-haired man, his sleeves rolled up, corduroy trousers loose and low on his hips. The pups jumped on him, and he laughed, his long, beautiful hands stroking their white bibs. She heard the laugh, saw the play of ropy muscles under his shirt and the deeply tanned skin on his arms, and her throat closed. Slowly, she moved into the sunlight.