The Irish Lover Page 3

  Mary found that she was hanging on each word, and when Michael paused she squeezed his arm. “What happened?”

  “One night many years later the man went to the castle. He listened to the cries of pain coming from the serving girl the Englishman was abusing. He whistled and the dog came to the window. The dog was vicious and he growled at the man outside. The Englishman came to the window, bold and secure in his power. The Irishman whistled to the dog, a tune he’d taught him as a pup. The wolfhound turned on the lord and tore him limb from limb.”

  “So the dog was a plant, a furry assassin.”

  “Furry assassin? I quite like that.” Michael chuckled. “Yes, the dog was sent to the castle to rid the glen of the hated lord.”

  “And no one knows who the statue is?”

  “No, though everyone has their preference.”

  They walked along in silence for a moment and Mary realized she was snuggled against his side, almost leaning on him as they walked. She straightened, putting distance between them. They passed a fish and chip take-away shop, a bakery and a sewing store with a window full of brightly colored yarn. Next to that was a solicitor’s office—the solicitor’s name was written on the window in sedate gold lettering, but the frame of the window was beautifully carved wood, polished to a high gleam. In each corner was a fanciful carved creature—griffon, dragon, mermaid and gargoyle. Above the window was an old wooden sign: “Callahan and Son Fine Wood Furniture.”

  Mary stepped away from Michael, laying her hand on the griffin’s head. “This was Grandpa’s shop.”

  Michael looked up. “I’d forgotten that. I always knew it as the solicitor’s office.”

  “I wish I had my camera. Grandpa would love to see this.”

  “Should we go in? I’m sure they’d let you have a look around.”

  Mary stroked the wood carving, imagining her grandfather’s fingers where hers now were. “Do you think I could come back later? I want to take pictures and I don’t want to get all teary before I go to have tea with you mother.”

  Michael’s arm came around her shoulders and a little thrill went through her at his touch. “You’re allowed to be sad.”

  Mary bit her lip, pushing back the tears that threatened. “I know.”

  “Well then, I need a cup of tea; how’s about we head?”

  Together they made their way to the car.

  ~~~~

  Chapter Three

  “Mary Callahan, I would have known you even without the name. Come in, come in, you’re very welcome.”

  Michael watched as his mother ushered Mary in, taking her coat and scarf and fussing over her.

  “Are you cold, Mary? Would you find it cold here? Sure you wouldn’t, Chicago is a cold enough place isn’t it?”

  Mary opened her mouth several times, but realized quickly enough that his mother didn’t require a reply. Michael winked at her when she glanced over her shoulder at him. Mary relaxed a bit after that, and Michael had to check the urge to grab her and hug her.

  “Michael, will you show Mary to a seat? Good lad.”

  “In here.” Michael ushered her through a door to the front room. Used only on holidays and when the priest came to visit, the front room was a buttery yellow with lace curtains and carved dark wood furniture. The round table was set with three places. Jam and cream for scones were already on the table in delicate china bowls.

  A moment later his mother came bustling in through the other door, which led to the less formal sitting room and the kitchen beyond. He stood and took the tray from her, holding it as she unloaded a teapot, milk, sugar and a plate of fresh baked scones.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Baker, this is lovely. I hope you didn’t go to much trouble.”

  “No trouble, no trouble at all.” Tea was poured, scones passed out, and finally his mother took a seat. “I would have known you were Siobhan’s daughter easy enough. You have the look of her.”

  “Thank you. How did you know my parents?”

  “I worked with your mother as a teacher. Your father was a few classes ahead of me in school, so I knew him well enough too. You wouldn’t have thought they’d go together. You father was a quiet man, and Siobhan a bit wild, but they were good for each other.”

  “I hadn’t heard that she was wild; my grandparents never described her that way.”

  “She was a proper daughter in law when they were around; it was only when she was out with your father or on her own that she let her hair down a bit. But don’t think that she was a bad woman—she was as kind any you could find. She was good craic, she was.”

  “Crack?” Mary looked confused.

  “Craic. It’s Irish and it means good fun.” Michael reached for another scone, ignoring his mother’s look.

  “Oh right. I’m sorry, I knew that.”

  “Do you speak Irish?”

  “No, I only know a few words.”

  For an hour Michael’s mother told story after story about Siobhan. Mary hung on each word, her attention absolute. Michael’s heart clenched for her. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like not to know your parents, to be disconnected from your home. He’d thought that in the light of day his inexplicable fascination with Mary Callahan would be gone, but it wasn’t. Instead it was growing with each breath she took, each word she spoke.

  “And you and Michael are of an age,” his mother was saying. “In fact, I have something to show you.” She rose and went to the china cabinet against the wall. The lower compartment held a variety of photo albums and mementos from Michael’s childhood. She pulled out an album he recognized—a pale blue book containing his baby pictures.

  “Mother…”

  He would never forgive her if she forced Mary to sit through a page-by-page photo narration of his childhood.

  She ignored him and cleared a place on the table to set down the book. Mary scooted her chair so she could see better. Michael could feel himself going pink with embarrassment.

  “Here’s Michael, wasn’t he a nice fat baby?”

  Mary’s lips twitched and she looked at him under her lashes. “He certainly was.”

  With a groan Michael dropped his head onto his hands.

  “Here we are.” She flipped through the pages until she came to one near the middle of the book. There was a series of photos of three-year-old Michael sitting in the grass with a younger child leaning against him. The little girl had curly red-brown hair and wore a pretty green dress.

  “That’s you, Mary.”

  Mary looked at the photo and then at Michael, surprise writ large on her face.

  “What?” Michael was as surprised as Mary looked.

  “That’s the both of you. Cailtytown isn’t such a big place that there would be many babies at any time, so the two of you played together.”

  Michael knew he’d seen the pictures before, and his mother must have told him who the little girl was, but he hadn’t remembered, or associated the little curl-haired baby with the dark-haired beauty he’d met in the pub.

  His mother turned a page and there they were, Michael’s arms around the little Mary, whose eyes were closed, baby lashes crescents on her chubby cheeks.

  “Michael was quite in love with you, and you were smitten with him, sure you were.”

  Now it was Mary’s turn to blush, and Michael couldn’t keep from grinning. It was strange and almost comforting to know that they’d met before. Maybe that was why he was drawn to her.

  “You would have been eighteen months here, and Michael is just after turning three.” His mother’s lips pressed together. “Six months after this your parents were gone and your grandparents had closed the shop and gone off to America.”

  Mary touched the photo album. “It must have been hard for them, after.”

  “It was, it was. We thought we were far enough south that the Troubles wouldn’t touch us.” Rose touched Mary’s hand. “We all mourned for them, and for you, to lose your parents so young.”

  “Thank you.” M
ary took a breath, and Michael’s heart clenched when he saw the tears in her eyes. “My grandparents were wonderful, and I loved growing up in Chicago.”

  “Sure enough, sure enough, but this is your home. Now tell me, what are your grandparents up to over in America?”

  The conversation lightened as Mary described her life growing up. Her grandfather worked as a carpenter, and her grandmother a bank manager. They were comfortably retired in a suburb of Chicago.

  “And what do you do, Mary?”

  “At the moment, nothing. I worked in TV, producing a local interest show called Chicago’s Time. Due to the economy there wasn’t funding to keep the show going.”

  “In TV you were; tell me, do you know Oprah?”

  Mary laughed. “I did meet her once. She’s very nice.”

  The conversation turned to her work in TV. Michael had always assumed people who worked in TV, especially American TV, would be wild and egotistical, but as she spoke with calm assurance he could imagine Mary in command of people, directing a program.

  His mother rose from the table, carrying out the tray with the teapot and plate of scone crumbs. When the door closed behind her Mary smiled.

  “Your mother is lovely.”

  “I’m quite fond of her myself. Though I cannot believe she showed you baby pictures.”

  Mary shook her head, a half smile on her face. “We were babies together. That makes me wonder if it wasn’t fate that you invited me into the pub last night.”

  Michael raised his cup, gaze locked with hers. “To fate.”

  His mother returned with a tray laden with brown bread, cold sliced ham, relishes and salad. “I saw the time and thought we might need a spot of dinner.”

  Mary looked at the food, then her watch. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to stay so late.”

  “Not at all, not at all. Now Mary, did I tell you that your grandfather made this furniture?”

  “Really?” She swiveled in her seat to look around the room. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Does he still make it?”

  “Not like this. He’s made a few things, but most of his work was repairing and replacing wood pieces in historic homes. He did make me a doll house.” Her smile was soft with remembrance. “It was beautiful, like this.”

  “I remember your mother coming with your father and grandfather to assemble it. That piece over there is too big to come in the door, so they put it together right here.”

  “I know my mother worked for Grandpa.”

  “She stopped teaching when they married, but went right into the shop, whipping that place into shape. By the time you were born she was as good as your father at putting pieces together, and small enough that her hands would go places your father’s couldn’t.”

  Mary’s eyes were once again bright with tears. “I wish I’d come back before this, to hear these stories about them.”

  His mother was blinking and Michael put his hand on her arm, more grateful than he could say to have her.

  She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and wiped her nose. “You’re here now, and that’s good. Michael, why don’t you take Mary for a walk. When you come back, I’ll have a bit of sweet stuff for us.”

  For the second time that day Mary walked, arm in arm, with Michael. Her emotions were swinging from near joy at learning about her parents to an aching sadness that she was not a part of this place, these people.

  “How are you, Miss Mary Callahan?” They were away from the house, wandering along a narrow road lined with tidy cottages. The sun was low in the sky, and the wind was cold. Michael wrapped his arm around Mary’s shoulders when she shivered.

  “That’s a loaded question. I don’t quite know what to feel.”

  “Fair enough.” He kept the silence as they walked on. He’d guided them out of the town, and they were now walking down a winding road that snaked between the fields. Michael opened a gate in the stone wall on their right and led her off the road. There was a path bisecting the field of knee-high grass. Slowing their steps, they wandered slowly amid the lake of green. When they were midway down the field Michael stopped her. “If I were any kind of gentleman I wouldn’t do this.”

  ****

  “Do what?” But she knew the answer, even before his hands cupped her cheeks, and his lips met hers.

  The kiss was soft, gentle. The breeze swirled around them and Mary leaned into Michael. His arms came around her, cradling her body.

  Mary pulled back, looking up into his green gaze. Soft as the kiss had been, its effect on her was anything but. She felt alive, every inch of skin tingling and sensitive. A kiss hadn’t affected her that much in a very long time, maybe ever.

  Michael was smiling, rubbing her arms, and a horrible thought struck her. “Michael, I’m only here for a few days, and I’m sorry, but I don’t do vacation flings.”

  “Who said that’s what I’m interested in?”

  Mary didn’t trust the warm feeling in her belly, didn’t trust Michael, though he’d given her no reason to distrust him.

  “As far as I know, you might have a wife and two kids in Dublin.”

  Micahel’s lips twitched. “A wife and two kids?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And my mother wouldn’t have said something?”

  “Why would she? We were just there having tea.”

  “No man can bring a pretty woman to tea without his mother making a guest list for the wedding.”

  “That’s…that’s…”

  “That’s Irish Mammys for you.” A gust of wind made her shiver and Michael pulled her against his chest. Mary went willingly. “I want nothing from you, pretty Mary, that you aren’t willing to give.”

  “This is nuts.”

  “It may be, but there’s something about you that calls to me. I’ve not felt this before, and I’d be a fool to ignore it. I’d like to spend more time with you.” Michael tipped her chin up, their gazes locked. “I want to do far more than kiss you.”

  ~~~~

  Chapter Four

  Mary’s heart overruled her head. They walked back to his house and would have gone straight to the car if Michael’s mother hadn’t called them in for sweet mince tart. As soon as the plates were cleared, Michael jumped up, telling his mother Mary was jet lagged and needed to rest and that he was headed back to Dublin. Before she could say anything they were out the door.

  When they reached Glenncailty she ignored her misgivings and took his hand, leading him through the castle to her room. At the door she fumbled with the key, too aware of Michael’s hands on her hips, his body warm and solid at her back.

  “Let me.” He took the key from her, slid it into the lock. A moment later they were in. Michael closed the door. “Mary, I don’t want to rush you, or do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

  Her emotions had been through a roller coaster today and she felt both fragile and strangely powerful. Maybe this was a mistake. Ignoring her doubts and fears, she went with what her heart wanted, and that was Michael.

  Rather than replying in words she put her hands on Michael’s shoulders and kissed him. She opened her mouth, tracing the seam of his lips with her tongue. He tasted like sugar and tea, and the stubble on his cheek abraded her. Michael started, and for a moment she worried she’d been too aggressive, but his arms wrapped around her hips, jerking her against him.

  Their kiss deepened. She nipped his lower lip, then sucked it gently. Michael’s tongue dipped into her mouth, tasting her, possessing her. When they broke for air Michael’s erection was pressed against her belly.

  “I’ve just thought of something.” Michael looked like he was in pain.

  “What?”

  “I don’t have a condom.”

  “Oh. I’m on birth control. Have you been tested?”

  “Tested for what?”

  Mary’s smiled. “When was the last time you had sex?”

  “Not that long ago…”

  Mary tipped her head, giving him a skeptical look
. Michael blew out a breath. “Five years. It’s been five years.”

  “Oh, that’s just sad.”

  “No need to tell me.”

  “I’m clean and I’d say that with my birth control we’re safe enough.”

  Michael cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. “Mary Callahan, you’re not the type of woman a man should rush to the bedroom.”

  Something in her melted at his words. He saw her as something unique and beautiful—saw her in a way no other man in her life had.

  “Michael Baker, I’m the kind of woman who knows what she wants.”

  “And what you do want, pretty Mary?”

  “You.” She kissed him.

  Primal awareness of him tingled through her. His kiss made her feel alive and wanton. His hands were at her waist and when she leaned away his hands slid down to her ass. Catching the hem of his jumper she pulled it and the shirt below up enough to touch his bare belly. Muscles rippled under her fingers and Mary wanted to lick him, bite him, make him feel what she did.

  Michael’s hands were on her ass, hiking her up. She wrapped her legs around him, her skirt riding up to her hips. She was wearing tights, but they didn’t feel like much of a barrier as he lowered her to the bed. Reaching for her waistband she prepared to help him with her clothes, but he stopped her.

  “Let me,” he whispered.

  Starting at her toes he stripped her—removing her boots, then reaching under her skirt for her tights. When her legs were bare he kissed the top of each foot, then rested her right heel on his shoulder as he nibbled and licked her ankle.

  Her toes curled. She could feel the simple, soft touch along every nerve ending in her body.