Quinn's Deirdre (5 page)

Desmond Sullivan stared and made the sign of the
cross. His face flushed scarlet,
then
went white.
 
His mouth dropped open, and he babbled
something Deirdre couldn’t quite make out in Irish.
 
“Jaysus,” he
said,
his brogue broader than any she’d ever heard. “’Tis yourself but weren’t you
dead and buried?”

“Ye can see she’s not,” Quinn said. “I’ve not heard
the story yet myself but ‘tis plain she’s alive.”

As he collapsed into a kitchen chair, the old man
hooted with laughter. “Ah, sure, ‘tis grand yer woman’s back.
 
I wish you well of her. Maybe she can pry the
bottle from your hand and keep ye sober.
 
‘Tis the least she could do if she will since she’s the cause of
ye
becoming such a drunkard.”

“Don’t put that at my door,” Deirdre cried, riled by
his tone. “It isn’t my fault.”

The old man glared at her with eyes much like
Quinn’s, a pair of hard sapphires. “Oh, isn’t it? If ye hadn’t been dead, he
wouldn’t have taken to drink.
 
You
weren’t here to see him with his heart broken and no fire left in his belly to
go on. I’ve no idea why you did it, Deirdre
King ,
but
I saw what your leaving, your death did to him.
 
And now you turn up, not dead at all. I’m glad if ye’re here to love him,
but if you hurt him again, sure, I’ll be the one to…”

“Hush, Uncle Des,” Quinn said. “It’s up to me to
work things out with her if they can be, and I’m still half drunk.
 
My brain’s mush at the moment and I can’t
think straight.”

“Ye’ll have a head tomorrow, lad and be sick as a
dog.”

“Aye, I likely will but that’s mine, too, uncle.”

Desmond’s harsh expression softened a little. “Are
ye comin’ back down, then, Quinn?”

Please don’t.
 
Even if we don’t talk tonight, I need you
here.
 
Deirdre didn’t speak aloud but hoped he might
read her the way he once had.
 
He shook
his head and winced. “No, I’m not up for it so I won’t.
 
Ye can close up, can’t
ye
?”

“I’ve done it often enough.
 
I’ll leave
ye
to it,
then and see you tomorrow.”

Quinn almost sounded humble. “Thank you, Des.”

Neither Deirdre nor Quinn moved as he took his leave
but listened as his feet pounded down the staircase.
 
His uncle’s scolding provided additional
details about Quinn’s condition during her absence.
 
Des, as she remembered, had doted on his
nephew like a son.
 
He had supported
Quinn in almost everything and valued his words as if they were gold nuggets.
Now he made his disgust with Quinn and his drinking apparent, harsh from a man
who loved his whiskey well.
 
She’d hoped
she had stumbled onto something out of the ordinary, Quinn drunk, but it wasn’t
so.
 
If
I got him into this cycle, then I need to help him break it.
 
It’s the only way we’ll ever be together,
because I won’t be with a drunk.
 
Despite her bravado to Des, guilt hit home
hard.
 
She did her best to protect Quinn
and instead, she’d almost destroyed him.

A sharp draft from the open window blew into the
kitchen and Quinn shivered. “Maybe I’m sick and not drunk at all,” he said.
“I’m colder than a witch’s tit, and I’m seldom cold unless I’m ill.”

“I opened the window to let out the smell,” Deirdre
said. “I’ll go close it.
 
Put some
clothes on, Quinn.”

If he didn’t, she might yield to temptation.
 
Whatever he’d meant by saying he wasn’t so
good in the bedroom these days, close proximity to his nude body lowered her
defenses.
 
Deirdre wanted him, needed his
hands to roam over her, caressing and fondling. She ached to take him inside
her.
 
Until they worked out their
emotions, though, it wasn’t a good idea. She knew it, but she could want and
did.
 
By the time she’d managed to shut
the window and put the drapes in place, he’d donned a pair of gray sweatpants
and a white t-shirt.
 
Clean-shaven and
showered, his appearance had improved over how he’d looked downstairs, but he
remained more than a little unsteady on his feet.
 
“I think I’ll lie down before I fall down,
Deirdre.”

Was he dismissing her? She didn’t know, but she kept
her voice level. “I think that’s a good idea.”

“Come with me and keep me company?”

He hadn’t tried to kiss her and he hadn’t touched
her any more than necessary. Or, he hadn’t unless she counted holding hands
downstairs. Something in his voice moved her, although Deirdre could tell it
wasn’t an invitation to get intimate. “Yeah, I will.
 
I need to go grab my bag from the car first,
though.”

Quinn’s eyes glistened, and Deirdre swore she
spotted tears.
 
“All yer things from
before are still here,” he said. “If ye could wait till morning, I’d appreciate
it.
 
I know I probably haven’t welcomed
ye home proper so it’s likely ye think I’m not glad but I am, Deirdre, so much
I don’t know what to say with me piss-eyed drunk and shattered, too.
 
I need to hear yer story, that goes without
sayin’, but for now, won’t you just stay with me.”

She’d almost forgotten the way words tended to echo
when he talked until he spoke something close to poetry.
 
But she remembered well how much she loved
Quinn, always had and still did.
 
Deirdre
couldn’t deny him.
 
“I will, Quinn.”

Without thinking about it or considering any
consequences, Deirdre walked to him.
 
She
lifted her hand and cupped it to his cheek, then stretched to kiss his mouth with
tenderness, not passion. He tasted minty, having brushed his teeth, but she
could also taste the remnants of the whiskey behind it.
 
Quinn remained motionless for a long moment,
then
his arms locked around her.
 
He cradled her close and tight as she clung
to him, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
 
It marked the first moment she’d felt as if
she’d come home, and a warm rush of emotion poured over her.
 
Until Quinn’s body trembled against hers, she
hadn’t realized he wept. When she did, she glanced upward.

Tears trailed down in tandem, but he wore a smile.
“Quinn?” she asked. “What is it?”

“Ah,
mo ghra,
‘tis
joy,” he said. “And it probably doesn’t help I’m still under the influence or
I’d have better control of my emotions.”

Deirdre held him close as he wept, standing within
the shelter of his arms.
 
Neither said
anything more.
 
She lacked words and
besides, there didn’t seem to be much to say, not now.
 
When he calmed, they walked to the bedroom. He
climbed into bed while she pulled out a nightgown from a dresser drawer.
 
Deidre turned bashful and headed into the
bathroom to change.
 
She washed her face
and brushed out her hair, then tamed it into a braid.
 
Looking chaste as a nun and feeling horny,
she crawled in beside Quinn.

“Is the room spinning or is it just me?” he asked,
eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“It’s you,” she said. “You’re gonna feel so bad in
the morning, darlin’.”

He chuckled. “I fear ye’re right, woman.
 
Come, lay your head and let me hold you some
more.”

She scooted closer and put her head against his
shoulder.
 
Deirdre snuggled against him,
and he tucked her tighter with one arm.
 
His body radiated tension but as they cuddled, she could feel his tight
muscles relax.
 
“You smell just the
same,” he whispered.
 
“I slept with your
pillow for months because it smelled of you, but the fragrance faded in time.”

Her perfume had been among the few things she’d
refused to change to become Mallory.
 
Goodbye, bitch
. Deirdre unwound, too,
but before she drifted off, Quinn fell asleep, although he swore he seldom
did.
 
His breathing shifted into a slower
rhythm, and she matched it.
 
I’m back
where I belong, she thought, as she passed into sleep country.
 
Although she felt safe, something niggled at
her brain. She ignored it, too tired and content to pursue it.

****

In the morning, she awakened alone but aware of her
location.
 
Deirdre sat up and called his
name. “Quinn.”

He answered from the kitchen with a groan. “I’m in
here dying,
acushla.”

Deirdre followed his voice and found him seated at
the small kitchen table, his head in his hands.
 
The anticipated hangover had struck.
 
“How bad do you feel?” she asked, with some sympathy.

“I feel like shit beaten up in a bucket.” He moaned.
“I’ve got a desperate headache fit to split my skull.
 
Bright light sends a dagger through my eyes,
and I ache all over.”

“It’s not like it’s never happened before,” she
said, tone light.
 
She sympathized more
than she planned to show him. “Are you going to puke again?”

 
“So far, no,”
he said with a shudder. “I don’t think there’s anything left to come up or I
might.”

“I’ll get you water and some ibuprofen for your
head.”

“God bless you, Deirdre, would you please?”

Last night, they were both strained, almost like two
strangers, but the more time spent in his company, the more familiar she
became.
 
She dosed him, fussed over him a
little but not enough to inflate his ego, and watched him crawl onto the
couch.
 
Quinn curled into a near fetal
position, eyes squinched shut.
 
He kept
quiet and still as if noise or movement intensified his misery, but after more
than an hour, Deirdre glanced over to see a smile on his lips.
 
His eyes remained closed, but his relaxed
posture indicated he’d improved.

“Better?” she asked.

“Oh, aye, some,” he said. “At least I’m fairly
certain I’ll live this time.
 
I might
even consider eating in a bit.”

His cavalier attitude, so much a part of his
personality, sobered Deirdre.
 
His casual
comment stirred her emotions into a dither.
 
He joked about living while she’d allowed him to believe she died.
 
She missed him for three years while he
mourned her, his life crashing into chaos in his grief.
 
In her zeal to protect him, she realized
she’d been selfish.
 
Unable to bear the
possibility of his death and in fear for her life, she ran. And doing so sent
Quinn to a terrible hell.
 
I was so blind, so stupid.
 
I thought I was saving him and instead, I was
killing him through slow torture, one terrible day, one bottle at a time.

Mallory seldom wept.
 
She had learned to lock the hurts deep within and hide them because
somewhere, Deirdre knew if she began to cry, she might never stop.
 
Tears rained down her face as she sat across
from Quinn in a silent waterfall.
 
When
she didn’t respond, he asked, without any mirth in his voice, “Deirdre, ye’re
here, are ye not?”

“I am, Quinn.” She forced the words up her throat
and out before the first sob broke free.
 
Deirdre buried her face in her hands and cried.
 
Blinded by her tears, deafened by the loud
noise she made, she had no idea Quinn moved until he knelt before her.
 
He touched the back of her head with one hand.
“Woman, I’m all right, I am.
 
Don’t keen
over me like a banshee just yet.”

She raised her head and cupped his face between her
hands. “Oh, Quinn, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you the way I did.
 
I didn’t think about how you’d feel.
 
I wanted to protect you, to keep you safe and
I was wrong.
 
I should’ve told you what
happened and not kept it from you, but I couldn’t bear to lose you, I
couldn’t.
 
I’m sorry.”

Deirdre blubbered like a toy-deprived toddler until
Quinn pulled her into his arms.
 
He held
her, rocking her a bit and whispered soft words of comfort.
 
He used all the old endearments and a few new
ones.
 
Sometimes he threw in some Irish,
but he talked in a steady, calm tone until she eased.
 
She clung to him, almost ill with the
realization Quinn had no notion why she’d gone or let him think her dead.
 
Her mind whirled dizzy.
 
He
doesn’t know about WITSEC or why I did it or anything.
 
I never told him.