His arousal thrust against her belly. If it weren’t for his trousers, she suspected he’d take her as he promised, as he threatened, despite the fact his grandmother awaited them.
He nipped at her right ear lobe.
“Quinn,” she protested.
He laved the tiny hurt with the tip of his tongue.
Her nipples had remained hard. Her pussy still throbbed. He cupped a breast, as if weighing it. Juices flooded her.
At each turn, she proved him right. She was naturally submissive to him.
“Get dressed, lass, ‘afore I change my mind.”
“Maybe I’m hoping you changed your mind.”
He laughed. The sound was as rich and intoxicating as the man himself.
“Your clothes are in the bottom two dresser drawers.”
She pulled away from him and hurried to the corner of the room where he’d left her baggage. She was all-too-aware of him standing there, legs spread shoulder-width apart, arms folded as he watched her every move.
“If it ‘twouldn’t shock
máthair Chríona
, I’d keep you naked.”
She donned a bra then pulled on a T-shirt.
“What fresh hell is this?” he asked, reading her the writing across her chest. He raised his brows.
She refused to be embarrassed. “It’s not what I would usually select to meet someone’s grandmother. Next time you kidnap me, buy me some clothes.”
“The naked thing is sounding more tempting than ever.”
A deadly, wicked gleam entered his blue eyes.
Quickly she wriggled into a skirt, just in case he was serious.
He held open the bedroom door and preceded her down the stairs, evidently not taking any chances.
She noticed that the front door was still bolted.
With an outstretched palm, he indicated she should precede him into the breakfast room.
The room was as striking as the rest of the home. Watercolours of outdoor scenes hung on the walls. There were several floor-to-ceiling windows with heavy drapes pulled back. Sunlight streamed in.
He announced their presence.
When the woman turned from one of the windows, he said, “
Móraí
, may I present Sinead O’Malley. Sinead, my grandmother, Catherine Quinn.”
When he addressed his grandmother, his voice held a tender note.
Móraí
was an affectionate term, one he’d likely used since boyhood. It revealed another side she found dangerously appealing and endearing. The man was making it more and more difficult to hate him.
“Sinead. It’s my pleasure.” Tall and regal, Catherine Quinn resembled a warrior princess. Even though she leaned on a cane for support, the years had been kind. With grace and a simultaneous air of command, she crossed the room. She stopped in front of them and smiled brightly. The corners of the woman’s eyes crinkled in genuine welcome.
Sinead was taken aback again.
She’d spent her life despising the Quinns and resenting their success and wealth. And yet the clan’s matriarch seemed warm, holding no hostility.
Catherine leant on the cane with her left hand and extended her right hand, saying, “Thank you for accepting my invitation. I’m afraid I spent several sleepless nights afraid you wouldn’t come.”
Sinead fired a scowl at Jack. “I was given little choice in the matter, ma’am. It wasn’t phrased as an invitation.”
“Oh?” She shot her grandson a stern look. “Is that right, Jack?” Catherine asked.
He ran a finger beneath his collar.
Jack had warned her to mind her manners and she’d also been raised to respect her elders. But she couldn’t fight her innate sense of fair play. She wanted his behaviour on the table. She didn’t want Catherine believing she’d issued an invitation and that it had been cordially accepted. That would be dishonest.
She accepted Catherine’s extended hand. “It seems your family has a history of kidnapping O’Malley women.”
“Kidnapping, is it?” Catherine asked her grandson, her head cocked to the side.
“Sinead…” His soft word of warning was wrapped in a sheath of anger.
“He warned me to mind my manners with you,” Sinead told Catherine. “I think I’m in for some terrible trouble now.”
“Nonsense. My grandson is as kind as the day is long.”
During winter in Siberia
.
“Right,” he agreed.
Catherine used her cane for support as she lowered herself into a high-backed chair at the head of the table. “Do not dare,” she told Jack when he tried to assist her. “Men in this family,” she said to Sinead. “Think they can solve everything for their women.”
“Physically.”
She heard his growl.
“Please have a seat, child,” Catherine said, indicating the chair to her right. “And you,” she told Jack, “can pour our guest a cup of tea, if you will.” She indicated the sideboard, with a lovely teapot in a colourful
cosy
. An assortment of pastries was arranged on a two-tiered serving plate.
“Coffee, please,” Sinead managed, as she took the seat. “The promise of a cup was the only thing that got me out of bed.”
“Anything for your highness,” he asked, clearly annoyed by her behaviour and his grandmother ordering him to fulfil host duties.
She smiled sunnily. “Of course. Perhaps a scone or croissant, as well. Chocolate something or other.”
“The coffee is in the kitchen, I believe,” Catherine told him.
“Yes, I know. I brewed it already.”
Catherine cleared her throat. “Go on with you, my boy.”
He clearly saw what his grandmother was about and he didn’t like it. Well and all, wasn’t that too bad? Sinead wanted a minute or two alone with the clan matriarch as much as Catherine seemed to want time with her.
“He’s not a bad sort, actually,” Catherine said after he left the room. She picked up her china cup, the nearly translucent porcelain appearing delicate in her grip.
“If you go for brutes.”
The cup didn’t even rattle as she returned it to its saucer. “He’s a brute, is he?”
“Terrible.”
“And you haven’t blackened his eye?”
Sinead laughed. Suddenly she liked the older woman, especially as she hadn’t raised a brow at Sinead’s attire.
“He’s terribly protective of me. And since the silver comb on my pillow…” She spread some butter on a cream cracker. “I’m afraid he’s certain I’m going to pop off.”
His tenderness towards his grandmother threatened, again, to melt Sinead’s heart. She knew how irrational thoughts could be when love was involved. Hadn’t she rung her mother incessantly until she dragged the woman from her bed? “The comb was on your pillow?”
“Aye, it was.”
“But it shouldn’t mean anything. The Banshee follows my family.”
“There’s more to the legend,” Catherine said.
Jack re-joined them in a clatter of china and silver, interrupting the conversation.
Instead of sitting across from Sinead, at his grandmother’s left hand, he took the chair next to Sinead.
He placed a mug of coffee in front of her then offered a plate containing a flaky croissant.
He moved his chair close to hers. Hoping to control her? Maybe use his presence to threaten her? Either way, he was in for a shock. Sinead wasn’t easily intimidated. She tore off one end of the pastry. “Your grandmother wants to know why I haven’t blackened your eye.”
He choked on a drink of coffee.
“I’ve wondered the same thing. But since you’ve brought coffee, I’ll tolerate you another few minutes.” She took a sip. “Fabulous. Thank you. A bit more cream might have been nice.”
“As you would say, wombat, bite me.”
“Jack Neil Quinn,” Catherine warned.
“Jack Neil Quinn,” Sinead repeated. “That must be the name they call you when you’re in trouble.” Unaccountably she was enjoying her visit much more. “I’ll bet you’ve been called by your full name rather frequently.”
He dragged her chair ever closer to his. Uncomfortably close. Impolitely close.
Sinead inhaled the scent of him, that of Irish countryside and the hint of autumn rain.
He put his hand on her bare knee and squeezed.
It wasn’t a polite touch, or even a warning grip. It was a promise of forthcoming retribution.
She didn’t heed the warning, though, fool that she was.
As she took another sip of coffee, he tightened his grip.
She tried to stay still; she tried not to flinch. But damn it, in his grandmother’s ancestral house, in the formal breakfast room, Sinead’s pussy moistened.
She enjoyed goading Quinn. Part of her wanted to see how far she could push him. What in the name of creation was wrong with her? He intoxicated her. Since she’d had a taste of him, she wanted
more.
She wanted his punishment. She wanted him.
Boldly she closed her hand over his. Then she did something she’d never been brave enough to do before. She guided his hand up her thigh towards her moist core.
Unerringly, he fingered her clit.
She jerked, already
that close
. Dear God. Now that she’d started it, she realised he’d finish it.
She reached for her coffee, clattering the fine china. “I’d love another cup,” she managed, praying she could hold back a gasp.
He smiled. He pinched her clit.
She gritted her teeth.
“I’ll have a refresh on my tea as well, my boy.”
He flipped Sinead’s skirt back into position then scooted his chair back from the table.
“You were telling me about the Banshee,” Sinead managed, struggling to focus on something other than her body’s insistent demands.
Catherine laced her hands on top of the table. “According to lore, you’re correct, the Banshee traditionally only follows certain families. But since Agnes’s curse, the Banshee also heralds death for the Quinns. That explains why the comb I found on my pillow has your family crest.”
“I’m confused,” Sinead admitted. And she was sure it had nothing to do with Jack’s proximity.
“You know the story of the Quinns and O’Malleys,” Catherine said.
“’Tis chronicled in the
Annals of the
Four Masters.
And of course she knew her family’s side of the tale.
“The facts, aye,” Catherine agreed, “but not the details. Not the reasons.”
“Go on,” Sinead encouraged. “Please.” She wanted to hear the Quinn side of the tale.
“Our family raided your keep.”
This much, Sinead knew.
Catherine shuddered. “So much bloodshed, on both sides. So much anger, and could have been avoided.”
Jack reached across Sinead to top off his grandmother’s tea. Intentionally, Sinead was sure, he crowded her.
After Catherine added a healthy splash of milk to her cup and stirred it a dozen times more than needed, she continued, “Your family kept sheep, you know. And the Quinns were hungry. One of their children was near to starving, if the legend is true.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Aye. The child’s mother went right to the hold and begged for food.”
“And she was turned away?”
“She was afraid for her child, desperate for herself and her clansmen, I suppose. She tried to steal a lamb, but the O’Malleys forcibly took it back. Angered by the way she was treated, my Quinn ancestors led an attack on your keep. Unforgivable. Yet I understand no physical harm was intended. They decided to take all the sheep.”
Sinead slumped in her chair. She’d never heard this side of the story. Did not make it untrue, however.
“During the raid, your ancestor, the lovely Bridget, caught the eye of my relation. She was standing atop a hill, as legend has it. It was foggy, but her fiery red hair seemed to be alight. She was indignant, protecting her family. Even though she was a woman, she took up a sword to join the battle.”
A woman after Sinead’s own heart.
“The Quinns disarmed her, but they found they couldna hurt her. So they took her and refused to let her go.”
“They kidnapped her. Some things never change,” Sinead said. She levelled a look at Jack
“Right, then.”
Despite his grandmother being there, he shoved back his chair and. With deadly efficiency he yanked her from her seat, toppling the chair. He dragged her against him and claimed her mouth forcefully.
He thrust his tongue into her mouth, demanding her submission; demanding contrition.
She told herself she didn’t want him or his domination. She didn’t want this. Didn’t.
Did.
Damn it.
He kept at it until she responded with the passion he wanted, mindless, it seemed, that his grandmother was sipping her tea.
“Now,” he said, ending the kiss, “unless you want me to turn you over my knee, here and now and blister your behind, you’ll mind your manners.”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” His hands on her shoulders were tight, relentless, but not painful. “There’s a reason my relations kidnap yours. To shut you up.”