The Last Bride in Ballymuir (35 page)

“
We can’t go on this way
much longer,” Michael said. “I’d sell my bloody soul for the chance
to kiss you as you’re meant to be kissed. And to get my hands on
you....” He drew a ragged breath.

Kylie nodded, her throat tight with
emotion.

He moved closer, but didn’t
touch her. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. I want
you to come away with me. Not some weak excuse for privacy like
the cinema in Tralee, but someplace so far that we don’t stand the
risk of running into anyone from Ballymuir. I want to be more than
passing
acquaintances in public. I want to
be free of all this—
this—goddamn worry of
what being seen with me might do to you.”

He touched his fingertips to her cheek, and
she shivered at the heat his caress carried.

“
And those silk sheets Vi
spoke of,” he said in a low, thick voice, “I want to see you on
them with nothing but my body to cover you. I want to make love to
you until neither of us has the strength left to move. Then I want
to sleep and do it all again.”

Once, not so very long ago, he’d said things
less explicit than this to her, and she’d been silent with
apprehension. Now, she wanted it all. And more.

She found her voice. “When?”

“
W-when?” he echoed, looking
as though it had never occurred to him that she’d fall in with his
plan.

“
Yes, when?”

He raked a hand through his
hair. “Well now, love,
I guess that’s the
one part of this scheme I haven’t exactly got down.” His smile was
endearingly crooked. “I guess I was too wrapped up in what we’d be
doing.”

“
Understandably so,” she
said, then gave him a smile of her own. She sobered as reality came
crashing in. “It’s a grand idea, truly it is. But with the art
exhibition coming up, and no break in school till June, I don’t see
much hope for us.”

“
Have faith,” he said, then
laughed.

“
Care to share?”

A conservative slice of air
between them, he led her
back toward the
low, sloping roofs of the village. “Well,
I
was just thinking how Vi insists if you want something enough, and
visualize it down to the smallest
detail,
you can nudge it down the path to reality.”

Kylie smiled at the fanciful idea, then
considered its wise-beyond-her-years source. She stopped walking,
hauling Michael up short. “Close your eyes.”

She waited until he’d complied before closing
her own. “Now give it a try.”

They stood there at the edge of the quay, two
village lunatics, eyes tight shut.

“
Do you think we’re
visualizing the same thing?” Kylie eventually asked.

He chuckled. “Variations on a theme, I’d
imagine.”

Smiling, she opened her eyes, then
immediately wished she hadn’t. For one instant she wondered if
through amateurish magic, she’d somehow conjured this specter.

But, no, it was just Johnny O’Shea, that last
bird come home to roost.

She saw nothing of the dapper man she’d once
known. Her father looked and smelled as though he’d drunk his way
from prison to Ballymuir.

“
Haven’t you got a kiss for
me?”

“
Hello, Da,” she said, and
hated the way her voice wavered. She wanted to be strong,
firm.

“
I was telling the blokes
down at the pub how busy my own child was. How she couldn’t even
come to the phone when I called. And now I see that you’ve been
busy, indeed.”

He eyed Michael, who had
taken a firm grasp of
her hand. Kylie held
on as if he were her only lifeline.

“
I’m Michael Kilbride, a
friend of your daughter’s. Welcome home.”

“
Did ye hear that, Kylie? A
welcome from a perfect stranger and nothing from you. No welcome,
no home, not even a place to lay my head.”

“
Sorry, Da, but—”

Michael squeezed her hand
and cut in. “She’s got
nothing to be sorry
for. Kylie’s given up her own bed,
caring
for an ill friend.”

Her father stuck out his chin and his eyes
narrowed. She’d never thought him a mean drunk, but the
possibility was evident.

“
I’m better than a friend,
I’m family. The only fam
ily she’s
got.”

“
Well now, Da, that isn’t
exactly true anymore. I have Breege Flaherty for a grandmum and
Michael’s sister, Vi, for my own. I’m sorry I don’t have a place
for you, but it’s not as though I could afford much after trying to
take care of your debts.”

He looked truly shocked. “But I’ve already
paid with years of my life and every pence I couldn’t get
offshore.”

Explaining honor to Johnny
was like discussing the sanctity of human life with an assassin.
Kylie skipped the impossible and gave in to the inevitable.
“I’ll get you home, Da. You can have my spot in
front
of the fire.”

“
Well, if I can’t be having
a room, I suppose that will do,” he said grudgingly. “Do I at least
get a private bath? I could do with a little freshening
up.”

“
I’m not running a bed and
breakfast—”

“
He’ll sleep in Breege’s
barn,” Michael cut in. “The boys left their bedrolls there. It’s
warm enough to get him through the night. And if he wants to
freshen, he can use the hose.”

Johnny puffed up like a bantam rooster. “Who
are you to be giving my daughter orders?”

“
The man who will see that
you never take advantage of her again,” Michael answered in a flat
tone.

Kylie sensed a tension in
the air she didn’t understand. It seemed more than male
territoriality, and
whatever the source, it
sent a chill curling through her.

Johnny slowly deflated. “A barn, you say.
Jesus and Mary, I’m glad your poor, sainted mam didn’t live to see
this. What would she say?”

“
I’d wager she’d think
you’re getting more than you deserve, O’Shea,” Michael answered.
“You’ll come with me, and can visit Kylie tomorrow.”

Kylie knew she should be objecting to this
bit of blatant, take-charge, know-it-all chauvinism, but all she
felt was relief.

After Michael had finished questioning Johnny
on the whereabouts of any belongings he might have, she drew him
aside.

They both looked back to
Johnny, who bent over to tie his shoe, then tumbled to the ground.
Before
Kylie could voice her concern, he
gave a wave, stood,
and stumbled to a
bench.

“
Just havin’ a little
sit-down,” he called.

“
Better a sit-down than a
fall-down,” Michael said
, and Kylie
laughed.

She tugged his hand and moved him a few more
steps down the road for discretion’s sake.

“
You know that event we were
envisioning?”

He nodded.

“
I want you to envision me
showing my gratitude for tonight in some very creative
ways.”

He grinned, then brushed a
brief kiss against her
cheek. “You won’t
know the meaning of grateful until
I’ve had
my way with you on those silk sheets, love.”

Arrogant man, she loved him so.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Drunkenness hides no secrets.

—
Irish Proverb

Michael had decided he didn’t like Johnny
O’Shea long before the man puked in his car. The sour scent of
vomit, though, wasn’t helping matters.

“
This time, O’Shea, you’ll
be cleaning your own mess.”

Johnny moaned and shifted in his seat.

“
And I get the feeling that
you’re not a man for the
aftermath.”

O’Shea told Michael to go commit certain
indecent acts, then way bloody late, stuck his head out the
window. It was tempting to swerve too close to the hedgerow lining
the road and take the little bastard’s head off. Only the fact
that this was Kylie’s father—a miracle of genetics, there—and that
another little bastard, Gerry Flynn, was on his tail, stopped
him.

By the time they’d pulled onto Breege’s
property, O’Shea seemed to have tossed himself dry. Gerry Flynn had
faded away, probably satisfied Michael wasn’t continuing up the
road to Kylie’s. Michael aimed the car’s headlights at the barn and
then hopped out.

Once inside, he switched on the lights, took
a second to be certain that the boys’ bedrolls were where he’d
last seen them, and exited to gather up his charge.

O’Shea was asleep—or
unconscious. Since leaning
over the man
wasn’t worth considering, he walked to the driver’s door, slipped
in, and turned off the beams.

“
O’Shea, wake
up.”

His mouth hung open and his eyelids were at
half-mast.

“
C’mon, little man, up with
you.”

O’Shea’s head lolled to the side.

Michael scowled. There was no hope for it. If
he had felt any compassion, he would have carried Johnny O’Shea to
the barn and let him sleep it off. But more than the vomit stopped
him. It ground at him, the way the man had treated Kylie tonight,
as though she lived solely to serve him.

Michael thought back to when she’d told him
of her rape, of Johnny off drunk, leaving her to fend for herself.
Hearing the story, he’d had his doubts about Johnny’s lack of
complicity.

He looked at the man in the car beside him.
Clearly, tonight was not the first time Johnny had used his
daughter to suit his ends. His lines had been too well rehearsed
for that. Even so, could the man truly have been evil enough to
trade Kylie’s innocence for debts forgiven? That it was even
remotely possible sent a shot of pure venom to Michael’s heart.

He climbed out of the car and slammed the
driver’s door, then stalked to the tap and filled the rusting
bucket beneath it with water. Icy cold, please. Then he returned to
the car, opened Johnny’s door, and let fly without a moment’s
hesitation. O’Shea awoke gasping and sputtering. Michael looked at
his car’s interior and shrugged. A little water was nothing
compared to its other contents.

“
You’re home,” he
said.

While Michael removed the standard prisoner’s
release duffel from the boot of the car, O’Shea staggered toward
the barn. Michael pulled abreast of him in the entry.

Johnny squinted into the interior. “You
really think I’m sleepin’ here?”

Michael gave him a firm push. “And d’you
really think I’ll be driving you anyplace else?”

He tossed O’Shea’s belongings onto a chair,
then grabbed rags and detergent from a shelf. “The bucket’s by the
car. Fill it and get busy. And you’d best put on something dry
after you’ve finished cleaning. Wouldn’t want you to catch a
chill.”

O’Shea snorted. “How do you plan to make me
clean your car?”

He had to give the runt credit for a huge set
of balls. He rolled his shoulders like a fighter readying for the
ring. “I’ve found that people never argue with me more than
once.”

O’Shea sized him up, then stuck out his chin.
“And if I do, they’ll find me beaten to a pulp in the morning?”

“
No, just a bit worse for
the wear.” As he looked at
the man, Michael
felt a grim smile fight its way out. A bucket of water looked to be
the gentlest greeting the little rooster had received tonight.
“What the hell is that on your forehead anyway, a rug
burn?”

“
Nothin’ at all,” O’Shea
muttered, then thrust out one shaking hand. “Just give me the
goddamn stuff and let me get this over with.”

When the car was at last cleaned to Michael’s
satisfaction, and sat doors open, airing out, he prodded O’Shea
back into the barn. The hard work seemed to have had a sobering
effect; O’Shea began to settle in with minimal complaint. Michael
permitted himself to soften—marginally. This was Kylie’s father, he
kept reminding himself. And anyone who had contributed to such a
wonder had to have some good.

O’Shea stepped out of a stall, dressed in dry
clothes. Michael acknowledged him with a nod.

“
It’s not a far walk uphill
to Kylie’s,” he said. “If you get there early enough in the
morning, I’m sure she’ll be glad to give you a bite to
eat.”

“
And will I be finding you
there?”

“
If you’re asking whether I
live with your daughter, the answer is no. I will tell you this,
though,” he said. “Don’t get comfortable with the idea of
not seeing me around. I know Kylie’s wishes, and
I’ll
do what I have to, to see that you
follow them.

“
And since I’ve got you
alone, and you’re not nearly as sotted as you were earlier, I’ll
add this, too. At the risk of your health, you’ll do nothing to
disturb your daughter’s life. No complaining and whining until
she feels honor-bound to let you live with
her. No more references to her ‘poor, sainted mother.’
None of that shit or you’ll answer to
me.”

O’Shea’s brows rose. “Answer to you? Now,
there’s a rich one. Think I haven’t had a word or two dropped about
you already? Think I don’t know exactly who I’m talking to? Christ,
I might be a bit poor with the numbers when it comes to money, but
I’m no murderer.”

The blow scarcely hurt anymore, and Michael
knew he had Kylie to thank for starting the healing.