Haunting Embrace (9 page)

The intensity of him was like a hot flash that incinerated her from the inside out and made her pulse erratic, her breath shaky. He sat next to her on the bench that ran the length of the table, close enough that she could smell the soap he’d used to wash with, and beneath that the deeply masculine scent of his skin, unique, utterly enticing, undeniably Áedán. It was forest leaves and fresh air, sweat and passion, seduction and strength.

He lounged carelessly back against the edge of the table, his long legs stretched out, but she knew he was alert and watching her. She glanced at his unwounded hand, where it lay lightly on his muscled thigh, long fingers brown and somehow elegant despite the many cuts and scars covering them. She had the crazy impulse to touch him as she stared into those enigmatic eyes.

“Mr. Brady,” Colleen said, pulling a thin line through her needle and then dropping it into a cup and pouring alcohol over it. “Are you ready?”

He nodded, settling his wounded hand on the table, fingers up. With a towel to catch the spill, Colleen splashed alcohol on his palm, making sure she’d thoroughly flushed the gash, then fished the line and needle from the alcohol, pinched the nasty cut shut, and began to sew with skilled precision. Meaghan saw Áedán’s jaw tighten, but he gave no other sign of pain. In moments, Colleen finished and tied off the knot.

“Should have done this a bit ago,” she said. “It’s not good to wait so long before closing a wound, but there you have it.”

She took a salve from a cupboard beneath the sink and slathered it on the red and swollen skin around the stitches before wrapping it with clean strips of cloth. Áedán said nothing through it all, but when she finished, he covered her hand with a gentle touch.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ballagh,” he said softly.

Colleen flushed. “You’re welcome.”

Áedán looked like he might say more, but instead, he cast Meaghan one last glance and then he stood. In that look, she’d felt him weighing options, piecing together the jagged edges of his thoughts, and working out a way to make them fit nicely. The look became considering, and she guessed he’d reached a solution.

His mouth quirked in a small but satisfied smile that sent a shiver down her spine. Then, without a word, he lifted his coat from the hook where Colleen had hung it, and strode from the kitchen. A moment later, she heard the front door opening and closing on the silence he left behind. Colleen stayed where she was, frozen for a moment, and then she hung her head, looking very young and lost.

“I suppose he’s off to find Mickey,” Colleen said on an exhalation. “He’ll be at the pub, is my guess. The drink will either mellow Mickey or it will turn him into a bear. There’s no way to know which it’s to be until the deed’s done.”

Meaghan didn’t know what to say to that. She felt angry and helpless. This was her Nana, a woman who’d sheltered Meaghan her entire life. Someone she’d shared her tears and joys with when they could be trusted to no one else. Now she wanted to console her grandmother but knew Colleen’s pride would not allow any show of sympathy.

“Niall’s finished eating,” Meaghan said softly.

Colleen turned and let her gaze rest on the chubby baby, who looked like he wore more of the porridge than he’d eaten, no matter how careful Meaghan had been in feeding him. He gave Colleen an elated smile, clenching his sticky fists and opening his fat fingers as he squealed with pleasure.

“Would you like me to bathe him?” Meaghan asked.

“Ah, that would be good of you. The tub’s right there, tucked up beneath the shelves.”

Meaghan pulled the large metal tub from its place and set it on the table, and she and Colleen filled it with water, adding some from the pot simmering on the stove to make it warm. Niall watched with squirming curiosity.

Colleen gave him an indulgent smile. “He does love his baths,” she said.

Indeed, it was all Meaghan could do to get the wriggling, porridge-covered bundle out of his chair and nappy and into the tub, where he splashed with unabashed glee. Her father had been a butterball, she thought with a silent sense of hysteria. She supposed when things got so strange they could no longer be processed or viewed with any type of objectivity, they were simply accepted, perhaps earmarked for later consideration, and then filed away.

“How long have you and Mickey been married?” Meaghan asked as she held the baby with one hand and gently poured water over him with a cup Colleen had given her.

A wave of guilt came from Colleen before the words followed, startling Meaghan.

“Four and a half months,” Colleen answered without meeting Meaghan’s eyes.

Confused, Meaghan glanced at the baby, who had to be close to a year, and then back at Colleen.

“He’s not mine. Did you not know that?”

“No. I didn’t.”

Her world tilted in a crazy way. She’d always assumed she and Colleen were blood, but if her father had not been Colleen’s biological son, that wasn’t true. It hurt her to learn this painful fact, though really, it had no bearing on her feelings for the woman she called Nana.

“Mickey’s first wife died in childbirth and left him with a son he could scarce care for. He mourns her still.”

“But he married you anyway?”

Another wash of emotion, this one tart with resentment.

She nodded. “Out of necessity. Nothing more. There’s no love lost between us.”

It shouldn’t have shocked her, given the cold disgust in Mickey’s voice when he spoke to Colleen, but somehow it did. Meaghan glanced over her shoulder, where Colleen bustled between the counter and the stove as she chopped chunks of lamb and dropped them into a pot with hot oil and bacon to brown.

“Okay, so I get why
he
needed a wife, but why on earth would
you
marry him?” Meaghan asked, incredulous. “I mean, what compelled you? He’s hardly civil to you.”

And the bastard had knocked up her grandma within the first week of marrying her, by the looks of it. She shuddered, thinking of what she was certain had been a cruel conception of the child Colleen carried. No way had Mickey been tender, not when he looked at his wife with such contempt.

The emotion spicing the air now was shame. Colleen swallowed hard and looked away, her chin rising with that stubborn pride that made Colleen who she was, who she would one day be. “I best get dinner on the table. No telling when they’ll be back.”

Meaghan wanted to apologize for the insult she’d obviously—thoughtlessly—given, but Colleen’s expression was shut tight, and Meaghan knew she’d do more damage than good if she tried to say she was sorry. Instead, she finished with bathing Niall and put him in a clean diaper.

“He’ll be ready for a lie down,” Colleen said. “Upstairs, there’s a cradle near the bed. Could you put him in with a bottle?”

“It’s not good to leave him with a bottle, not of milk or formula anyway. Bad for his teeth. And you should always wipe his gums and teeth with a cloth to clean them before he sleeps.”

As she spoke, Meaghan took a clean towel from the folded stack on the shelves, dampened it, and demonstrated.

“Where did you learn that? Have you children of your own, then?”

“Oh, no. None of my own. But my sister and I run a care center for children,” she said.

Colleen cocked her head, her look quizzical. “Is that a fact?”

“Yes. It’s the sugars that rot the teeth,” Meaghan went on, thinking of the brilliant white teeth in her father’s smile. She stilled and a dark laugh bubbled up inside her. “Chicken or the egg,” she muttered.

“What’s that?” Colleen asked, wooden-handled fork held over her skillet.

“You said Saraid made that comment. Well, my father—Niall here—will grow up to have a radiant smile. I was just wondering, is it because I told you to care for his teeth just now? And did I tell you because I know what they’ll look like in fifty years, or would they have looked like that whether or not I was here to tell you at all? It’s what Saraid was asking. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

Colleen blinked at her, but her face went pale. She nodded tensely, and turned back to the sizzling meat with a pensive expression. Without another word, Meaghan went upstairs to lay Niall down for his nap.

The room where Colleen and Mickey slept was small, with a narrow bed that was probably a tight fit for them both. Meaghan stared at it, thought of Colleen swollen with child, and felt overwhelmed with sadness.

She’d been close to Nana Colleen, and if anyone had asked her before today if she’d known her grandmother well, Meaghan would have answered, absolutely. But now she saw that Colleen had hidden many secrets behind those sparkling dark eyes, and Meaghan wondered if she was ready to know them all.

Chapter Six

D
OWNSTAIRS again, Meaghan decided she’d better get busy and find the fecking Book of Fennore, if that was what she needed to do to get back to her own time. Colleen chopped vegetables with a vengeance that made Meaghan think she imagined something other than carrots and potatoes beneath her blade.

“Colleen,” Meaghan began hesitantly. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me.”

She caught herself reaching for the pendant in her pocket and stopped, surprised. She still felt repelled by the thing, and yet, something about it baited her, lured her to touch it. She realized it had insinuated itself into her thoughts without her being aware. She could still sense the hum of it, muted but insistent, and if she tried, she thought that voice might still be there, whispering, waiting for her to hear.

And with it, temptation. A part of her
wanted
to hear its horrible message.

She longed to go home, but after being near the Book of Fennore, after seeing it firsthand, she knew better than to trust anything linked to it. If the pendant had a connection to the Book, then she would wait until she had them both before she touched either one—and even then, she’d do it only if she saw no other choices.

Colleen glanced up at her, knife poised over her cutting board, head cocked at a curious angle. The mannerism and expression was so like the Colleen that Meaghan had known in her own time, it made her want to smile.

“And what did I tell you that has you thinking, missy?” Colleen prompted.

“Well, you said I’d have to find the Book of Fennore to get home. Have you heard rumors about it? About anyone seeing it?”

“Aye, there are always rumors. We’ve, I mean to say, Br—Mr. MacGrath—he’s our landlord, and, well, you probably know already that he owns pretty much the whole island. Anyway, he’s had a bit of luck lately—not that he hasn’t always been lucky, that one. But people talk, you know, and they wonder if there’s more to it than just luck. It is
good
luck, though,” she said hastily, as if concerned that Meaghan might get the wrong impression. “Good enough that it’s trickled down to his tenants.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that his cattle are going for top price. His herds are breeding. His pockets are lined, and we all benefit. He’s dropped rents—unheard of in other places.”

Meaghan frowned, trying to figure out what that had to do with anything. And then she remembered one of the legends that surrounded the Book. It was said to hold the power of the universe. It could grant any wish. Of course the most asked for would be wealth.

Cautiously, she asked, “And people attribute Mr. MacGrath’s good luck to the Book of Fennore?”

“Some.”

“Why?”

Colleen fixed her attention on her cutting board again, and Meaghan knew instinctively it had more to do with wanting to hide her thoughts than dice the bleeding vegetables. A curious mixture of pride and anger hovered around her grandmother.

“People talk,” Colleen said again, her voice husky. “You know how they are. They say Mr. MacGrath has been behaving strangely. They say he’s a queer look in his eye.”

“Has he?”

“His eyes sparkle like sunlight on blue waters,” she said casually.

But Meaghan was watching her grandmother and saw a flush creep up her throat, felt a rush of longing waft off her that seemed at odds with her grandmother’s stiff back and pinched expression.

Like Ballagh, the name MacGrath was an old name on this island, part of its history. If she’d been right in her earlier guess, she suspected that
this
MacGrath would have to be Cathán’s father.

“You know him well, Mr. MacGrath?” Meaghan asked.

Colleen gave a soft laugh. “We’re speaking of the lord and king of Ballyfionúir. He’s a wealthy, important man. What would he know of a fisherman’s wife?”

Yet the stiffness in Colleen’s shoulders, the bitterness in her voice and emotions all contradicted her words. Meaghan wanted to probe deeper. She wanted to understand the mixed signals, but at that moment, Colleen looked very small, very vulnerable, and Meaghan knew she was poking around in something painful for her grandmother. It piqued her interest, but she had too much respect and love for this woman to give in to it.

Meaghan waited, hoping the silence would urge Colleen to fill it. After a moment, she did.

“A year or so ago, a few strangers came around and settled here,” she said. “They asked a lot of questions about the Book. Thought they’d find it on our island. Not surprising, an island and a Book that share a name would seem to go hand in hand, wouldn’t they? We’ve had other treasure hunters seeking it from time to time. These men were foreigners and no one had much to tell them. One was a black man.”

This in a tone that implied a black man on the Isle of Fennore was rarer than a sighting of the Book itself. Meaghan wasn’t surprised. Not until the Celtic Tiger—the “economic miracle” that took Ireland from one of the poorer European countries to one of its wealthiest—was Ireland attractive enough to immigrants to draw them from other countries. Ballyfionúir, being on an isolated island, was inhabited mainly by people who’d been born there or were related, one way or another, to a native of the island. Even in Meaghan’s natural time, the island was only sparsely integrated with cultures and races other than Irish.

“Have you ever met these strangers yourself, Colleen?” Meaghan asked.