Wedding at King’s Convenience (2 page)

But she wasn’t entirely ready to agree to his terms just yet. He’d already sweetened his offer once and she’d no doubt he would do so again. Yes, he could find another farm just as suitable for his needs, but he wouldn’t find a prettier one, Maura told herself. Besides, he’d already told her he thought the Donohue land was perfect.

Which meant he wouldn’t be withdrawing his offer. And Maura, coming from a long line of wily horse traders, was going to make sure she got the very best deal she could. It wasn’t greed motivating her, either. Just think what a movie crew would do to her well-ordered life, not to mention her home and land. She’d need some of the money he would pay her just to put to rights the sorry mess they would no doubt leave behind.

While she stared at him, his gaze moved past her, scanning the surrounding countryside. As she’d grown up on Donohue land, and knew every inch of it as well as Tarzan knew the jungle, she didn’t have to look to know what he was seeing. Green fields as far as the eye could see. Stone fences rising up from the ground like ancient sentinels. The shadow of the Partry Mountains looming behind them and the whole of Lough Mask stretching out in front of them, its silvery surface looking on this gray day like molten steel frothing in the wind. Across the way, a tumbled ruin of an ancient castle slept as if only waiting for the clang of a sword to wake it. Sheep wandered these hills freely as they had
for centuries and would, no doubt, for centuries to come. The Irish wind kissed the land and the rain blessed it and those who lived here appreciated every single acre as no outsider ever could.

The village of Craic was only two kilometers down the long, twisting road and dotted along the way were B and Bs, a few more farmhouses and even one palatial mansion belonging to one Rogan Butler and his wife, Aly, who now spent most of their time in Dublin.

But here in the middle of her own fields, she and Jefferson might as well have been the only two people on the planet. A latter-day Adam and Eve, without the fig leaves, thanks very much, and surrounded by bleating sheep.

“Did I tell you,” he said, shattering the quiet between them, “that my great-grandmother was Irish?”

“You mean Mary Frances Rafferty King who was born in County Sligo and met your great-grandfather when he was taking a tour of Ireland? He saw her in a pub. On a Tuesday, wasn’t it?” Maura smiled. “Aye, you might have mentioned her once or twice.”

He grinned at her. “Didn’t mean to bore you.”

“Did I say I was bored?”

“No.” He stepped closer and she felt the heat of him reaching for her, charging the icy air. “But let me know if you feel yourself nodding off and I’ll try harder to enchant you.”

“You mean to say you’ve got to
try
to be appealing?” she quipped, taking a quick step or two back from him. “I’m disappointed. Here I thought you were just a born charmer.”

“Did you?” he asked, closing the distance between
them again with a single, long step. “Now, isn’t that interesting?”

“I didn’t say your charm was
working
on me, mind you,” Maura told him, enjoying their sparring far too much. It had been a long time since she’d met a man who appealed to her on so many different levels. A shame, she reminded herself, that he was only here temporarily. Better that she keep that thought in mind before her body and heart became too involved for their own good.

“You can’t fool me, Maura. I’m wearing you down.”

“Is that right?”

“It is,” he said. “You haven’t threatened to throw me off your property in almost—” he checked his watch “—six hours.”

Still smiling, she said, “I could remedy that right now.”

“Ah, but you don’t want to.”

“I don’t?” That smile of his should be considered a lethal weapon, she told herself.

“No,” he said, “because you actually like having me around, whether you’ll admit to it or not.”

Well, he was right about that now, wasn’t he, she thought. But then what single woman in her right mind wouldn’t enjoy having a man such as Jefferson King about the house? It wasn’t every day a rich, gorgeous man showed up on her doorstep wanting to rent her farm. Could she really help it if she was enjoying the negotiations so much that she was rather dragging the process out?

“Admit it,” he said, his voice low enough that it was barely more than a breath. “I dare you.”

“You’ll find, Jefferson,” she said softly, lifting her eyes to meet his, “that if I want you…
around,
I’ll have no trouble admitting it. To you or to myself.”

I
n the village of Craic, Jefferson King was big news and Maura had half the town nagging her to sign his silly papers so they could all “get famous.” Not a moment went by when she didn’t hear someone’s opinion on the subject.

But she wasn’t going to be hurried into a decision. Not by her friends, not by her sister and not by Jefferson. She’d give him her answer when she was ready and not before.

She should have thought twice about suggesting to him they go to the village pub for supper. Should have known that her friends and neighbors would pounce on the opportunity to engage Jefferson in conversation while managing to give Maura a nudge or two at the same time. But, the truth was, she had been feeling far
too…itchy to trust herself alone in her house with him. He was a fine-looking man after all, and her hormones had been doing a fast step-dance since the moment she’d first laid eyes on him.

Now, Maura had to wonder if coming into the Lion’s Den pub for a meal hadn’t been a bad idea after all.

Of course, she was surrounded by villagers, so there was no chance at all her hormones would be able to take over her good sense. But the downside was, she was surrounded by villagers, all of whom were vying for Jefferson’s attentions.

In early December, the interior of the pub was dim, with lamplight gleaming dully on paneled walls stained with centuries of smoke from the peat fires kept burning in a brazier. The floor was wood as well, scuffed from the steps of thousands of patrons. There were several small round tables with chairs gathered close and a handful of booths lining two of the walls. The bar itself was highly polished walnut that Michael O’Shay, the pub owner, kept as shiny as a church pew. And beside the wide mirror reflecting the crowd back on itself, there was a television perched high on a shelf, displaying a soccer game with the sound muted.

Michael sauntered up to their table with a perfectly stacked pint of Guinness beer for Jefferson and a glass of Harp beer for Maura. As he set them down, he gave a swift, unnecessary swipe of the gleaming table with a pristine bar rag. Then he beamed at them both like Father Christmas. “I’ll have your soup and bread up for you in a moment. It’s potato-leek today. My Margaret made it and you’ll enjoy it I’m sure. When your movie
folk arrive,” he added with a grin for Jefferson, “I’ll see that Margaret makes it by the boatload for you.”

Maura sighed. Hadn’t taken him long to get Hollywood into the conversation.

“Sounds good,” Jefferson said, taking a sip of his thick black beer.

“Has your Rose had her baby yet, Michael?” Maura asked, then said in an aside to Jefferson, “Michael and Margaret are about to become grandparents.”

“We are indeed,” the pub owner said and gave Maura a knowing look, “so the extra money made when your film crew arrives will be most welcome.”

Maura closed her eyes. Clearly, all anyone wanted to talk about was the notion of having a film made in their little village. Michael had hardly left to bustle back to his bar when three or four other locals found a reason to stop by the table and talk to Jefferson.

She watched him handle the people she’d known all her life with courtesy and she liked him for it. Surely a man like him didn’t enjoy being the center of attention in a village less than a third the size of the town he called home. But rather than being abrupt, he seemed to almost encourage their chatter.

Maura listened with half an ear as Frances Boyle raved about her small traveler’s inn and the good service she could promise King Studios. Then Bill Howard, owner of the local market, swore he’d be happy to order in any and all supplies Jefferson might require. Nora Bailey gave him her card and told him again that she ran a full-service bakery and would be happy to work with his caterers and finally Colleen Ryan offered her skills
as a seamstress, knowing that being so far from Hollywood, his costume people might be needing an extra hand, fine with a needle.

By the time they wandered off, each of them giving Maura a nudging glare, Jefferson was grinning and Maura’s head pounded like a badly played bodhran drum.

“Seems as though you’re the only one who doesn’t want my business,” he said, then took another sip of his beer.

“Aye, it does at that, doesn’t it?”

“So why are you holding out?”

“Holding out?” Maura pretended surprise. “I’ve not promised you a thing, have I?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “You haven’t. You’ve just sat by and let me talk and wheedle and eventually raise my offer a bit each day.”

True enough and she had hopes he’d go a bit higher yet before the deed was done and the bargain struck. If her friends and neighbors could curb their enthusiasm a little.

“The whole town wants this to happen,” he said.

“Aye, but the whole town won’t have the disruption of a film crew camped out on their land during the height of lambing season, will they?” She considered that a point well made and rewarded herself with a sip of her beer.

“You said yourself that most of the sheep give birth out in the fields. We’ll be filming mostly at the front of the house. Outdoor shots of the manor—”

She snorted. “It’s a farmhouse.”

“Looks like a manor to me,” he countered, then continued quickly, “There may be a few scenes around the barn and the holding pens, but we won’t get in the way.”

“And you can promise that?” She eased back in the booth and looked at him across the table.

“I’ll promise it, if that’s what it takes to get you to sign.”

“Desperate now?” She smiled and took another soothing drink. “Might make a woman think you’d be willing to sweeten your offer a bit.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” Jefferson told her with a nod of approval. “But I might be willing to go a little higher yet, if you’d make up your mind and give me your decision.”

She smiled to herself, but kept it small so he wouldn’t see the victorious gleam that had to be shining in her eyes. “As well I might, depending on how much higher you’re talking about.”

He gave her an admiring tip of his head. “Too bad your sister’s not the one making this deal. I have the distinct feeling she’d be easier to convince.”

“Ah, but Cara has her own priorities, doesn’t she?” Smiling at the thought of her younger sister, Maura could admit to herself that she would have eventually accepted Jefferson’s offer even if he hadn’t paid her for the use of her land. Because he’d agreed to give Cara a small part in the movie. And since her sister dreamed of being a famous actress, Cara had been walking in the clouds for days now.

“True,” he said. “If she were doing the bargaining, she might have wangled herself a bigger part.”

“She’ll do fine with what she’s got. She’s very good, you know.” Maura leaned forward. “For a few weeks last year, Cara was on one of those British soap operas. She was brilliant, really, until they killed her off. She had a lovely death scene and all. Made me cry when she died.”

His mouth quirked, just high enough to display a dimple in his left cheek. “I know. I sat through the tapes.”

“She is good, isn’t she? I mean, it’s not only that I’m her sister and love her that makes me think so, is it?”

“No, it’s not. She’s very good,” Jefferson told her.

“She has dreams, Cara has,” Maura murmured.

“What about you? Do you have dreams, too?” he asked.

Her gaze met his as she shook her head. “’Course I do, though my dreams are less lofty. The barn needs a new roof and before long, my old lorry’s going to keel over dead with all four tires in the air. And there’s a fine breed of sheep I’d like to try on my fields, as well.”

“You’re too beautiful to have such small dreams, Maura.”

She blinked at him, surprised by the flattery and, at the same time, almost insulted to be told that her dreams were somehow lacking in imagination. She’d once had bigger dreams, as all young girls do. But she’d grown up, hadn’t she? And now her dreams were more practical. That didn’t make them less important. “They’re mine, aren’t they, and I don’t think they’re small dreams at all.”

“I just meant—”

She knew what he meant. No doubt he was more accustomed to women who dreamed of diamonds or, God help her, furs and shiny cars. He probably saw her as a country bumpkin with her worn jeans and fields full of shaggy sheep. That thought was as good as a cold shower, dousing the fire in her hormones until she felt almost chilled at the lack of heat.

Before he could speak again, she glanced to one side
and announced, “Oh look! The Flanagan boys are going to play.”

“What?”

Maura pointed to the far corner of the pub where three young men with dark red hair sat down, cradling an assortment of instruments between them. While Michael finally made good on his promise and delivered their bowls of steaming potato-leek soup and soda bread hot from the oven, the Flanagan brothers began to play.

In moments, the small pub was filled with the kind of music most people would pay a fortune to hear in a concert hall. Fiddle, drum and flute all came together in a wild yet fluid mesh of music that soared up to the rafters and rattled the window panes. Toes started tapping, hands were clapping and a few hearty souls sang out the lyrics to traditional Irish music.

One tune slid into another, rushing from fast and furious to the slow and heartbreaking, with the three brothers never missing a beat. Jefferson watched the energized crowd with a filmmaker’s eye and knew that he’d have to include at least one pub scene in the movie they would be filming here in a few months. And he was going to put in a word with his director about the Flanagan brothers. Their talent was amazing and he thought the least he could do was display it on film. Who knew, maybe he could help more dreams to come true.

Once he finally got Maura to sign his damned contract.

Jefferson’s gaze slid to her and his breath caught in his chest. He’d been aware of her beauty before now, but in the dim light of the pub with a single candle burning in a glass jar on the table, she looked almost ethereal.
Insubstantial. Which was a ridiculous thought because he’d seen her wrestle a full-grown sheep down to the ground, so a fragile woman she most definitely was not. Yet he was seeing her now in a new way. A way that made his body tighten to the point of discomfort.

You’d think he’d be used to it, he thought. He’d been achy for nearly a week now, his body in a constant state of unrequited readiness that was making him crazy. Maybe what he needed to do was stop being so damn polite and just swoop in and seduce Maura before she knew what hit her.

Then a whirlwind swept into the pub and dropped down at their booth, nudging her sister over on the bench seat.

“Oh, soup!” Cara Donohue cooed the words and reached for her sister’s bowl with both hands. “Lovely. I’m famished.”

“Get your own, you beggar,” Maura told her with a laugh, but pushed her soup toward her sister.

“Don’t need to, do I?” Cara grinned, then shot a quick look at Jefferson. “Have you convinced her to sign up yet?”

“Not yet,” he said, putting thoughts of seduction to one side for the moment. Cara Donohue was taller and thinner than Maura, with a short cap of dark curls and blue eyes that shone with eagerness to be doing. Seeing. Experiencing. She was four years younger than her sister and twice as outgoing, and yet Jefferson felt no deep stirring for her.

She was a nice kid with a bright future ahead of her, but Maura was a woman to make a man stop for a second and even a third look.

“You will,” Cara said with a bright, musical laugh. “You Americans are all stubborn, aren’t you? And besides, Maura thinks you’re gorgeous.”

“Cara!”

“Well, it’s true and all,” her sister said with another laugh as she finished Maura’s soup, then reached for her sister’s beer. She had a sip, then winked at Jefferson. “It does no harm to let you know she enjoys looking at you, for what breathing woman wouldn’t? And I’ve seen you giving her a look or two yourself.”

“Cara, if you don’t shut your mouth this minute…”

Maura’s threat died unuttered, but Jefferson couldn’t help smiling at the sisters. He and his brothers were just the same, teasing each other no matter who happened to be around to listen. Besides, he liked hearing that Maura had been talking about him.

“There’s no harm in it, is there?” Cara was saying, with a glance at first her sister, then Jefferson. “Why shouldn’t you take a good look at each other?”

“Pay no attention to my sister,” Maura told him with a shake of her head.

“Why?” he asked. “She’s not wrong.”

“Maybe not, but she doesn’t have to be so loud about it, does she?”

“Ah Maura, you worry too much,” her sister told her and patted her arm.

The music suddenly shifted, jumping into a wild, frenetic song with a beat that seemed to thrum against the walls and batter its way into a man’s soul. Jefferson found himself tapping his fingers on the tabletop in time with the quickening rhythm.

“Oh, they’re playing ‘Whiskey in the Jar!’ Come on, Maura, dance with me.”

She shook her head and resisted when Cara tried to pull her to her feet. “I’ve worked all day and I’m in no mood for step dancing. Most especially not with my big-mouthed sister.”

“But you love me and you know it. Besides, it’ll do you good and you know you adore this song.” Cara grinned again and gave her sister’s arm a good yank.

On her feet, Maura looked at him, almost embarrassed, Jefferson thought, then with a shrug she followed her sister into the cleared-away area in front of the tables. A few people applauded as Cara and Maura took their places beside each other, then, laughing together, the Donohue sisters leaped into action. Their backs were arrow straight, their arms pinned to their sides and their feet
were flying.

Jefferson, like most everyone else in the world, had seen the Broadway show with the Irish dancers and he’d come away impressed. But here, in this tiny pub in a small village on the coast of Ireland, he was swept into a kind of magic.

Music thundered, people applauded and the two sisters danced as if they had wings on their feet. He couldn’t tear his eyes off Maura. She’d worked hard all day at a job that would have exhausted most of the men he knew. Yet there she was, dancing and laughing, as graceful as a leaf on the wind. She was tireless. And spirited. And so damned beautiful, he could hardly draw a breath for wanting her.