"Is Brady the man from the airplane?" Jacob asked between bites.
"Yes, he is." Bridget smiled again, but this time it wasn't for Riley.
"Did he remember us?" Jacob finally set his fork aside.
"He sure did." Bridget relaxed visibly as she spoke to her son.
"I didn't realize you knew Brady." Riley tried to keep his gaze above where Bridget's pulse beat at the base of her throat. All points below that were unsafe for a man in his current state of sexual deprivation.
"He sat beside us on the airplane," Jacob explained. "He told us about the curse and the Cliffs of... of..."
"Moher," Bridget finished. "The Cliffs of Moher."
"Yeah, them."
"You're saying you already knew about the curse before you arrived?" Riley wasn't sure yet what this information meant, but he intended to give it considerable thought. "You can't quite see the Cliffs from
Caisleán Dubh
," he pointed out, wondering why he'd connected the two thoughts.
Because a castle with a view of the Cliffs is valuable.
Well, Bridget would be disappointed, if that was her—
"Here we are." Mum and Maggie carried plates with something gooey and chocolate on each one.
"What is it?" he asked, narrowing his gaze. Maggie swept away his empty dinner plate and placed the concoction before him. The rich aroma of chocolate wafted to his nostrils and he inhaled appreciatively. "Smells edible."
Maggie punched him in the arm. "It's more than edible, you oaf," she said. "Bridget says it's decadent."
"Decadent, is it?" Riley grinned and lifted one shoulder. "Well, I'll be the judge of that, but what is it?"
"Mississippi Mud Pie," Jacob answered.
"Mud pie?" Riley chuckled at the lad and elbowed him. "And did you go out in the yard and collect the mud for the pie yourself, lad?"
"Nope. Chocolate mud." Jacob scooped a huge bite of the mud in question, along with nuts and other tasty-looking morsels, into his mouth.
"'Tis tasty then?" he asked, and the lad nodded and kept shoveling.
"You're using poor Jacob as a tester?" Maggie asked, placing a hand on each hip as she hovered over him. Waiting. "Well?"
"Well, what?" Riley looked from her to his plate, then around the table at the others.
Mum took her seat and started eating, too. She rolled her eyes and glanced heavenward. "Isn't this fit for the Virgin Herself? 'Tis divine, Maggie."
Maggie giggled and clapped her hands together. "See?" She turned her glower on Riley again. "Eat."
Riley squeezed his eyes closed, prayed, and crossed himself.
Maggie punched him again.
"Ow." He rubbed his arm and reached for his fork. "All right, then. I'll taste this Mississippi Mud Pie of yours, but if it's really mud, you'll be wearing it."
She folded her arms in front of her and waited.
He brought the fork to his mouth and hesitated, remembering the last "sweet" Maggie had made. A shudder rippled through him and she punched him again, sending the bite balanced on his fork back to his plate with a plop.
"How do you expect a body to taste it if you keep knocking it away?" He pointed at her chair. "Over there or I'll not take a single bite."
"Your loss," Bridget said, licking her fork.
The sight of Bridget's tongue stroking the silver tines sent another lightning bolt through Riley. He gulped and forced himself to look at his food and not at her. He heard Maggie walk around the table and pull out her chair beside Bridget.
Slowly, he put the fork between his lips and deposited gooey, creamy chocolate and nuts upon his tongue. He chewed once and stopped, narrowing his eyes and pinning Maggie. "You didn't make this," he accused.
Maggie sputtered in outrage and pushed her chair back, leaping to her feet. Bridget grabbed her arm and pulled her back into her chair.
"Granny always said that if somebody says something unkind
and
untrue, that knowing the truth is every bit as good as winning."
"Was that supposed to make sense?" Riley asked, yelping when the toe of a shoe made abrupt contact with his shin. "Mary Margaret, I told you—"
"It wasn't Maggie."
"Who...?"
She just kept smiling while Maggie and Mum snickered. Bridget's smile was way too confident. Why? Where had the nervous hillbilly gone? She folded her arms beneath her breasts, leveling them at a nice angle for his perusal. He took another huge bite of pie and swallowed it without taking his gaze away from the woman who'd turned his life arseways.
She tempts a man.
"Do you like mud, Uncle Riley?" Jacob asked, swinging his feet back and forth beneath the table.
"Aye, 'tis the best mud I've ever tasted." He darted a look from Maggie to Bridget, then back. "No matter who made it."
"I did, you bloody—"
"Ah, Maggie," Mum said, shaking her infamous index finger. "You know better than to swear at me table."
And wasn't it a good thing Mum couldn't read her son's mind? The thoughts Riley'd had about Bridget right here in Mum's kitchen were scandalous. Aye, he wanted to do every scandalous thing he could think of to Bridget's body, and he could think of plenty.
Correction:
had
thought of them.
Awake, all he could do was think of her in anger or lust—either way, with passion. Asleep, he was plagued with dreams of a faceless woman who'd haunted him for years.
You're a pitiful excuse for a man, Mulligan.
He finished his "mud" and pushed away from the table. "Well, now. From what you've told me, I'm to thank three cooks this time?"
"Aye," two women said, while Bridget said, "Yes."
"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." He looked at Maggie but not Bridget, and planted a kiss on Mum's cheek. "A fine meal. Even the afters."
He left the kitchen before Maggie could do him any further bodily harm, and went into the parlor. If he was going to Shannon Saturday, he'd best be practicing. He pulled the fiddle case from the shelf where the instrument had been stored since long before Riley's birth.
He opened it and the sight of the old fiddle made him smile. His fingers itched to play, so he rosined the bow and tuned the strings, then played a bit to limber his fingers.
Jacob sat on the ottoman nearby, staring at Riley with open curiosity.
"My da taught me to play on this very fiddle," Riley explained, remembering.
"My grandpa?"
"Aye, lad." Riley cleared his throat. "Culley—your da—always played sweeter than me with his long, skinny fingers." He held his own work-roughened paw out to show Jacob. "I have a farmer's hands, but I can still play a bit."
"Ah, don't let Uncle Riley be joshin' you, Jacob," Mum said as she sat in her rocker and picked up her knitting basket. "He's the finest fiddler in Clare."
"Really?" Jacob's eyes grew round.
"
If
that's true," Riley said quietly, "'tis only because your da isn't here."
Jacob nodded, seeming satisfied with that explanation. He held his hands out toward Riley, palms down. "Do I have long, skinny fingers?"
Riley made a great show of turning the lads small hands for a thorough examination. "Aye, you do. I'll wager you'll be a fine fiddle player."
"Really?"
"Aye."
Bridget and Maggie clattered pans and dishes as they cleaned the kitchen. Somehow, it felt right after a fine meal to sit here with Mum, Culley's son, and knowing his sister and—
And if that isn't dangerous thinking....
He mentally shook himself and turned his attention back to making music.
"Play a song," Jacob said. "Please?"
"I think I can manage that." Riley played "Londonderry Aire," because it was one of Mum's favorites. Her foot tapped, her knitting needles quieted, and her chair rocked to the music.
"Wow, you're good," Jacob said when Riley lowered the instrument. "Will you teach me?"
Riley's throat clogged and his vision blurred. He blinked away the sensation and cleared his throat. "I'd be proud to teach you, Jacob."
Mum made a sniffling sound and Riley looked across the room to find Maggie and Bridget seated near her. He hadn't even seen them enter the room while he played.
He met Bridget's gaze and his breath froze at the softness in her expression. "With your permission, Bridget?" he amended.
"Please, Momma?" Jacob asked, stroking the side of the fiddle Riley held.
"Yes," she said, still staring at Riley with an unfathomable and disturbing look in her eyes. "I'd like that. Very much."
"Well, then." Riley showed Jacob how to hold the bow, then he positioned the fiddle the way his own da had shown him so long ago. "Go ahead, Jacob. Make music like your da did."
An unholy screech and scratch filled the house, but the grin on Jacob's face made it bearable. The vault door on Riley's memories eased open a wee bit farther.
But this time he couldn't quite close it.
* * *
Bridget waited until the house was quiet and Jacob was sound asleep. From her dark bedroom, she looked out at the moonless night and found no sign of Riley. Jacob must've worn his uncle out today.
Between the stunt Jacob had pulled this morning and the long evening of music and laughter, they were all tired. Bridget yawned and shook her head. She
would
see the castle again, and she would do it tonight.
She looked at the tower's dark shape, barely visible across the meadow.
Caisleán Dubh
called to her. Beckoned, really.
It all sounded downright crazy, but she couldn't explain it. She
wasn't
crazy, but there was something about her that was connected to this castle. That certainty had continued to grow within her until she'd had no choice but to accept it.
Granny would've called her "tetched." Well, she was "tetched," but not in the head. She pressed the heel of her hand to her breastbone. In her heart. Her soul.
Maybe I really am crazy.
She shook her head and smiled. A logical woman would wait for the inspector, but she was feeling anything but logical. She bit her lower lip and tried to convince herself to wait, but in the end she pulled on her cardigan and grabbed the flashlight she'd found in the shed.
Quietly, she tiptoed down the front staircase—farther from Riley's room—and back through the kitchen to the door. She remembered that the front door had a squeak that might ruin everything.
If Riley knew what she was doing, he would raise all kinds of old Billy Hell. Whatever that meant. Granny had said it all the time, but Bridget really had no idea who or what Billy Hell was. Maybe it had something to do with that Billy Beer Grandpa had hated so much.
Billy Hell or not, Bridget had a mission.
Once outside, she switched on the flashlight and started across the meadow. She followed the path that had been worn between the house and the stables, knowing that another path continued on toward the road and
Caisleán Dubh
from there.
She looked up at the tower thrusting toward the night sky and smiled. The whispering started again, surrounding her, filling her, calling her.
The castle wanted her. Maybe it even needed her. All Bridget knew was that
she
needed it. She lengthened her stride and crossed the road, smiling as she remembered the first time she'd walked this close to
Caisleán Dubh
.
She'd been frightened enough to dang-near wet her pants.
How quickly things changed. She drew a deep breath, rounded the corner nearest the entrance, and paused. The whispering sounded almost like singing now. She moved toward the opening and pressed her cheek against the rough doors.
"Home," she whispered. At least, it
felt
like home. She'd never been to Ireland or
Caisleán Dubh
before, but knew she belonged here. Right here. Right now.
After a moment, she drew a deep breath and steadied herself, aiming her flashlight at the same opening she'd passed through this morning in search of Jacob. Mostly, she saw dust. Something scurried across the floor and she followed it with the flashlight. A mouse?
Bridget was
not
afraid of mice. Snakes were another matter, but they ate mice. However, hadn't Saint Patrick driven the snakes out of Ireland?
"Stop it, Bridget." She rolled her eyes at her own silliness and slipped through the opening, clearing the jagged stones with ease. The flashlight beam was broad enough to create a good sweep of the room. When she found the staircase curving toward the tower, her breath caught.
It looked... familiar? She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to figure out how the staircase
could
look familiar. Had she seen something in a book or magazine? Nothing made sense or connected. Finally, she shrugged and opened her eyes to continue her exploration.
Huge paintings hung along the walls. They were covered with dust and cobwebs, but those could be cleaned. Perhaps the canvas had remained undamaged beneath the grime. Would she find portraits of Mulligans who'd lived centuries ago? The thought made her pulse quicken as she walked to the side of the chamber opposite the staircase.