Irish Lady (11 page)

She rested her forehead against his chest, taking comfort in his hand stroking the nape of her neck. “I have no excuse for the way I behaved. I'm terribly ashamed and very sorry that I hurt you. You didn't deserve it. But if it's any consolation, I suffered too. The guilt never left me. You never left me. I'm trying to make amends, but I'm not surprised that you don't trust me.”

“Are y' comin' back with me now, Meggie?”

She looked at him, at his too-long hair and the impossible blue of his eyes and drew a deep breath. “I've come back
to
you, Michael, not
with
you. There's a difference.”

“I don't see it.”

“When this is over, if everything turns out all right, I'll explain it.” She lifted a shaking hand to brush away the hair falling across his forehead. “You need a haircut. Shall I give you one?”

He nodded. A haircut would occupy his mind, take away the ideas he had no business having. Absorbed in their own thoughts, they walked hand in hand back to the cottage.

Michael rested on the couch while Meghann assembled what she needed. Motioning him to the sink, she had him sit on a chair near the basin. She lifted several layers of hair, allowing the coarse, straight strands to sift through her fingers. She could see clear to his scalp. His hair was scrupulously clean. Wrapping a towel around his shoulders, she reached for the water bottle, lifting and spraying until his entire head was damp. She combed his hair forward, divided it into sections and picked up the scissors.

His arm snaked out, grabbing her wrist. “Y' do know what you're doing, don't you?”

Meghann's eyes widened innocently. “Does it matter? No one's going to see you.”

“Just how many haircuts have y' given?”

She pretended to think. “You're my very first.”

He started to rise, but Meghann pushed him back down into the chair. “Don't be ridiculous, Michael. How hard can it be? I won't take off too much. If it looks right and you agree, I'll continue.”

“All right,” he grumbled. “Don't get carried away.”

Meghann handed him a small mirror and caught her bottom lip between her teeth to keep from laughing. Michael was as vain as a teenager.

Carefully, she measured off a section of hair on the side of his head, held her scissors against it and snipped. Wisps of black fell on the towel. Then she moved to the other side and did the same.

Michael held up the hand mirror, checked both sides, set it down and nodded for her to continue. Lifting, measuring and cutting, she worked her way up the sides, across the top and down the back of his head.

He relaxed. The play of her fingers moving gently across his scalp was unnervingly sensual. He closed his eyes, adjusting his head to accommodate the slight pressure of her hands. The pads of her fingers, cool and deeply personal, moved against him as she lifted pieces of hair and patted them into place after she'd made the cut. It was a dance, the light, deliberate, back-and-forth motion, the stretching of damp hair, the scissor blades closing around a strand, the sharp anticipation, the brief sound of fine-grained sandpaper as his hair separated from the shaft, and the exquisite pleasure of Meghann's fingers, light and sure against his head. He found himself leaning into her, wishing she would go on forever, wishing she would knead his shoulders, rub his back, press her lips against his chest as she had done on the beach.

“I'm through,” she said gently, rubbing her palms against his stubbled cheeks. “Would you like me to shave you? I don't mind, and you need it.”

Dear God, could he live through it? His body was tight as a drum. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded his head.

She was gone for less than a minute. When she returned he saw his razor and a can of shaving cream he'd never seen before.

“Where did that come from?”

Meghann shook the can and sprayed a generous amount into her palm. “It's mine. I use it for my legs.”

A vision of white foam slathered over a shapely leg, one sweep revealed at a time by the swath of a razor, danced along the edges of his imagination. He swallowed, and with the discipline learned in the H-Blocks closed his mind against the image.

The foam was warm against his cheeks and throat. Slowly, carefully, Meghann moved the blade over his throat, up the line of his jaw and across the plane of his cheek. His bare flesh felt cool without its blanket of foam. He opened his eyes to see her dip the blade in water and return to a foamy spot on his neck. Another smooth, careful stroke, more tensing of his muscles, the sensation of cool against his skin before the cleansing dip into warm water. Over and over she applied the razor, focusing on the correct angle like an artisan crafting a priceless sculpture.

Michael couldn't keep his eyes from her face, the ivory skin, the wide golden eyes, the cinnamon-dark hair falling against high-boned cheeks and her small squared-off chin. Not once did she allow herself to look at him, but he knew that she was aware of his gaze. Otherwise the pink glow would have long faded from her cheeks.

When he thought he couldn't stand the nearness of her for another minute, she stepped back to survey her handiwork. With a satisfied smile she soaked a kitchen towel in hot water, wrung it out and pressed it against his face. The heat of the towel, the smell of floral perfume, the knowledge that he was close enough to bury his face against her throat nearly undid him.

He reached for her, found empty space and realized she'd stepped behind him to remove the towel, replacing it with a dry one. Michael dried his face, lifted the hand mirror, and smiled. “You've made me presentable again.”

Her laugh was air-filled and shaky. “You were always that.”

Their eyes, whiskey-gold and blue, met in the mirror and locked. For a long moment they stared, emotions veiled from one another. Finally Michael spoke. “The paper says there's a
cruinniu
in the village tonight. Will y' come with me?”

“Aren't you worried that someone will recognize you?”

“No.”

Meghann quelled her anxiety and thought of the pure pleasure of dancing with Michael. “Yes. I'll come with you.”

***

Meghann felt comfortable in Donegal. It was a town typical of the Republic. Small houses with whitewashed walls, dark wooden doors, and thatched roofs came right up to the single main street. Dwellings were attached to small businesses. Mothers attended to their children while taking cash and helping customers. There were few visitors in the northwest corner of Ireland, and most were happy to see anyone come in even if it was only to chat. Not until summer tempered the weather to a reasonable sixty degrees would the tourists come to see the castle on the banks of the mossy, tranquil River Eske.

Michael dressed for the occasion in navy denims, which nearly fit, a V-necked burgundy sweater with a white shirt open at the collar. Meghann was grateful that she'd packed a skirt. It was a calf-length wraparound made up in a practical heather tweed, nothing fancy, but it was a skirt all the same and her sweater matched it perfectly. She'd chosen boots and her parka for the long walk into town. Nights were cold, even if it was nearly summer, and it would be late by the time they returned.

They walked companionably, Michael shortening his stride to accommodate Meghann. Her hand was tucked inside his as naturally as if they'd been together for years. When they reached the village he was sorry the distance wasn't greater.

“I haven't been to one of these since the recreation club on Divas Street,” she confessed, preceding him into the church hall ablaze with light.

“Neither have I.”

Meghann looked at him, startled. “Why not?”

He shrugged. “I'm not much for dancing.”

“Of course you are. You were a wonderful dancer.”

“Y' can't possibly remember that.”

Meghann's cheeks flamed. “I remember everything about you.”

“Then y' must know that the only girl I ever danced with was you.”

“Why is that?”

They had moved into the coatroom. He helped her remove her coat and hang it up. They were alone for a few precious moments. Michael looked down at Meghann, and the heat in his gaze was like the lethal pull of headlights holding their victim immobile until escape was no longer an option. He leaned closer, and closer still, until she closed her eyes against the drowning blueness and felt his lips close over hers.

When he lifted his head, his voice was rough and gravelly against her ear. “I never wanted anyone but you.”

The kiss had been heady, drugging, tremendously flattering, but it was his words that left her breathless, shaking, and confused. Why would he say such a thing now? Had he heard what she told him on the beach? Did it mean that he would consider a different way of life, away from the North and “the Troubles”?

Still wondering, she followed him into the well-lit hall. The chairs were arranged in a large circle. First, those who wanted to perform would entertain their guests with songs, and stories. Then the chairs would be removed and the dancing would begin.

Michael found two seats in the shadows, leaving Meghann to hold the chairs while he brought back two glasses of Guinness, a pint for him, half for her. She accepted the creamy-headed dark brew with a shy smile and turned expectantly toward the impromptu stage. Two musicians, one with a guitar, the other holding a violin, pulled chairs into the center of the circle and sat down. Without sheet music, they began to play from memory. The audience listened, spellbound, as the eerie, wailing melody lifted and soared until it seemed as if the clear, piercing notes could not be held inside the four walls.

Meghann loved music. Before the horror of Cupar Street, her mother had taught her to play the piano. The Devlins didn't own a piano, and Meghann, remembering her mother's long fingers against the ivory keys, never touched one again.

The musicians were followed by three talented singers, a storyteller, another musician playing the lyre, a piper, and a comedian. The residents of Donegal were an appreciative audience, and with each round of Guinness, the leg-slapping and cheers grew louder. Michael was enjoying himself. The room was warm, the mood social, the drams potent, and soon the lights would be dimmed and Meghann would be in his arms.

For a few brief hours he could forget the dark cloud that loomed over him and the knowledge that too soon it would be over and he would never feel again what he felt tonight. Michael felt the pull of his own mortality. When Meghann left for Belfast he had no intention of waiting for the axe to fall. He would find out the truth, no matter what the cost. But that was the future. Now, he wanted to forget everything but the warm camaraderie of the Irish working class, the class into which he was born.

When the entertainers finished, Meghann helped to fold chairs and Michael joined the group of men who stacked them against the wall, good-naturedly joking and ribbing each other as they worked. They were interested in visitors, and Michael, sensing they would be easier with it, reverted to the brogue of West Belfast, accentuating his
h
's at the beginning of words and dropping the
g
's at the end.

“On holiday, are ye?” a bearded, broad-shouldered giant with a thick head of brown curls spoke up.

“Aye.” Michael couldn't be sure, but he thought he recognized IRA. Grinning engagingly, he held out his hand, offering a false name. “I'm Feeney. Thomas Feeney. We've rented a place a short walk from the village.”

The man nodded and extended his hand. “Patrick O'Shea.” He nodded toward the group of women stacking chairs. “Is that y'r missus?”

Michael saw where his gaze pointed and followed it to where Meghann stood folding the last two chairs. He came up with an elaborate lie that felt right. “We're just married.”

O'Shea chuckled knowingly. “We thought so, or we would have been more neighborly.” He offered his hand again. “Good luck t' ye and t' the pretty colleen. Don't let any of the local blokes cut in.”

Michael laughed, dropped his arm to his side, and made his way through the assembling couples to where Meghann waited. She looked up expectantly.

“Will you dance with me, Mrs. Feeney?” he asked.

She picked up the cue immediately and her eyes sparkled. “I would be delighted, Mr. Feeney.”

Michael led her to the floor, took her hand, slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close. The top of her head reached his chin. He lowered his cheek so that it rested against hers and silently blessed the villages of rural Ireland for not allowing popular music to destroy the closeness that a man and woman could find in each other's arms on a dance floor.

Slowly his feet moved to the music. Meghann moved with him, following his lead, her weight warm and boneless, as if she were attached to his chest. No one in the room watching the couple, so oblivious to everyone but themselves, doubted their story of a recent wedding. They were obviously in love.

Meghann's emotions were raw. Even the Guinness couldn't dull their edges. Michael's hand on her back, his lean, hard jaw pressed against her cheek and the unnerving heat and closeness of his arms and legs evident through the wool of her clothing, unleashed years of repressed longing.

Michael inhaled the scent of her skin. Her mouth was very close. If he moved his cheek just so, their lips would meet. She couldn't run away or make a scene, not after the story they'd come up with. Still, it was a risk, a risk he was very willing to chance if only he could taste her, feel the softness of her lips, take her tongue inside his mouth.

She settled against him, and the new intimacy shook him. Burying his face against her throat, he pressed her into the saddle of his hips, willing her to know what he wanted, to understand what she did to him, what they might never share again. He needed her desperately, and he no longer cared whether or not she needed him. Tonight was his. Opening his mouth against her throat, he tasted salt and moisture and the sweet, floral scent of her perfume. “Meggie,” he muttered hoarsely. “I want you. I've never wanted anything more in my life. Can y' do it, my darling? Do y' understand what it is I'm asking?”