River is getting up there?
Butterflies churn in my stomach for him, because I don’t know how anyone could ever stand in front of fifty-odd people and do improv of any kind. I’m sure these storytellers know their stories well before they get up there, practicing them out loud until they can say them in their sleep. But does River? No notes . . . no cues . . . and everyone is watching him.
River saunters over to the corner, an easy smile giving away nothing. No nerves with this guy. With a deft flick of his wrist, he steals the tweed newsboy cap off Fergus’s head and settles it onto his own head, wisps of his golden-brown hair curling at the brim.
He perches himself on the stool and leans into the microphone. “All I wanted to do was enjoy a pint and a meal with me friends.” A round of laughter erupts. I’ve noticed that sometimes when River speaks to others from Ireland, his accent thickens a little and his choice of words changes. I wonder if it’s intentional.
“Well, that’s okay. I brought a lovely American bird here tonight to experience the lost art of storytelling. Amber?” He holds out a hand, gesturing at me. “Come on, stand up. Give us a bow.”
I feel my cheeks burst as all eyes suddenly shift to me. Contrary to what many think, I don’t like being the center of attention, good or otherwise.
I shoot a glare at River, but he only nods toward me, waiting.
Oh, what the hell . . . With a deep breath, I slip off my chair and, tucking one ankle behind the other, I splay my skirt with my fingers and bend at the knee. A playful round of applause ensues.
“Right, of course. A curtsy. My American princess wouldn’t bow.” He winks at me and then, to my relief, takes the attention off of me. “My brothers and I had the pleasure of listening to two great men, Seamus and Fionn Delaney, regale us with fantastical lore throughout our childhood. We have an entire arsenal of stories passed down that I could choose from. Funnily enough, though, the tale I want to tell you tonight is not one of theirs. It comes from Marion Delaney. At least two or three times a week, I’d refuse bedtime until she’d tell it to me. Now, I’ll apologize in advance because I’m not nearly as long-winded as that fat bastard over there,” he sticks his thumb out at Fergus, who only laughs, “and it’s not nearly as eloquent. But I was only seven when I learnt it, so you’ll have to pardon me.”
Another round of chuckles.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard of the Great Hunger, between the years of 1845 and 1852? A million men, women, and children lost their lives due to starvation and disease; another million left Ireland in hopes of a new life elsewhere. Terrible time for our country.”
I can’t help but frown, wondering what this children’s bedtime story could be about.
“Well, the story goes something like this . . .”
I can feel the swing in the atmosphere instantly, that moment when River’s entire presence shifts from casual banter to purpose, his gaze capturing the eyes of the audience.
“There was once a God-fearing man by the name of Seamus McNally,” he begins, his voice suddenly deeper, calmer, more confident. “His wife gave birth to nine children in total: five girls and four boys. Not unusual back then to have such a large family, especially for farmers. Only, the boys never lived beyond the first year of life. Seamus and his wife kept trying, because they needed the boys to help run the farm. And when his wife died during childbirth with their fourth boy, who also passed on, Seamus was left to care for five little girls on his own. You can imagine what a terrifying prospect that is for any fella.”
Despite the solemn introduction to this story, River’s little quip has people snickering.
“Now, Seamus was actually a descendant of Brian Boru, High King of Ireland, and had the English not stripped his ancestors of their property in the centuries that followed, imposing ridiculous laws to persecute Catholics, Seamus might have been an estate owner, able to support his family in comfort. But it was not to be. For a few years he prospered as a tenant farmer, renting a four-hectare patch of land on the very property his ancestors once owned near Waterford.
“And then one day, almost overnight, a terrible potato blight swept through the country, turning the plant leaves black and potatoes rotten. All of Seamus’s crops were destroyed, and when it came time to pay rent, he couldn’t. The English landlord evicted him and his family and burned down his house, just like that.” River snaps his fingers.
“Luckily, Seamus was a likeable, hardworking fella, and he secured a job as a laborer on another tenant farm quickly, helping harvest oats. In exchange for his services, he was given enough space to build a one-room mud hut for his family, their pig, and three chickens to share, and a tiny patch where he could grow potatoes for his family the following year, assuming the blight would be over.
“The family barely survived the winter but they all did, selling off their livestock and the few meager possessions they had. Seamus relied on Marion McNally, his eldest girl, to take care of her sisters while he worked the land from daybreak until nightfall, arriving home hunched over and aching. She was fourteen, and while they had no shillings to their name, she learned to become quite resourceful, taking the girls out to collect wood to burn for warmth, and nettle and seaweed and berries, both to eat and to barter with, for more clothes and necessities. They’d even collect sheep manure from neighboring farms, as it was considered rich in nutrients and good for growing crops. All she kept telling herself was that they needed to survive until the fall harvest, and then all would be grand again.
“But the following fall harvest saw virtually every last potato in all of Ireland again ravaged by this blight. Marion knew that her family could not survive another winter. Now, there was plenty of anger boiling in the Irish at this point, especially where the McNallys lived. Anyone who had been to the shorelines by Waterford could tell you that ships full of oats and grain were leaving the docks and heading for England. Entire families of Irish were starving—to death, in many cases—and yet the English landlords were forcing tenant farms to sell their crops in order to pay their rents. The land Seamus labored on was one such farm.
“Spurred by the sight of her little sisters’ skeletal limbs, Marion decided she would face this English landlord of theirs, a wealthy man who visited his lands only once or twice a year and was rumored to have arrived a fortnight before. She knew Seamus would never approve, so she waited until he left for the day, and then, collecting a handful of berries to give her sustenance for the fifteen-kilometer walk west, she put the second eldest in charge and left their little hut. She had no idea what she would say as she marched through the fields, noting all the landmarks on her path toward this home—there was no road to guide her—but she figured she’d know by the time she arrived.
“You can only imagine what was going on in little Marion’s mind as she crested a hill and caught her first glimpse of the landlord’s home. This was a girl who, like many Irish farm families, had only ever seen the tiny, drafty cottages that her kind lived in. To see this huge stone building now . . .”
River sets his pint down on a side table, freeing his hands to animate his excitement. “Remember, I told you that Seamus’s ancestors came from royalty, and so they didn’t merely live in an estate home. They lived in a bloody castle! If you’ve been to Kilkenny, then you’ve seen something like what Marion saw that day—a beautiful home towering high above the ground, with turrets on the ends and half a dozen chimneys to help bring its occupants warmth. And real glass windows! Of course, it wasn’t quite as grand as Kilkenny, but to Marion, it was worthy of a king. Which spurred her on even more, because that should have been her family’s house. So she marched toward that castle, the massive wooden door in her sights . . . until a man’s voice called out to her. ‘Who are you?’ She turned to see a young man atop a horse, trotting toward her. She guessed him to be maybe twenty, dressed in trousers and a woolen jacket, his waistcoat peeking out beneath. He was an ordinary-lookin’ fella, but he was English and no doubt a Protestant, and therefore she despised him on sight.
“ ‘What’s it to ya?’ she asked boldly, hugging her ratty shift dress close to her body. His horse circled around her once . . . twice . . . before he hopped off. ‘This is my land and you’re trespassing,’ he said. This was her English landlord? She put on a brave face. ‘Me name is Marion McNally and me family’s starvin,’ she announced. ‘We’re all starvin’ and you’re here, prancin’ around with your fancy horse, wearin’ your fancy clothes, livin’ in your big castle. Don’t ya know that people on your land are dying? That ya could feed them with what you send back to England to make your selfish countrymen fat and blissful?’ ”
I smile, listening to River mimic a much thicker, more pronounced Irish brogue to perfection.
“The young man simply stared at her, for so long she was beginning to think he might order her executed for treason. ‘I’m sorry, miss . . . but we don’t have much choice. If we don’t collect rents and taxes from our farms, then we’ll be forced to evict them from our land, or lose our land, altogether.’
“ ‘It’s not even your land. It’s me family’s land. You’re a bunch of thieving bastards!’ Marion exclaimed boldly, and then turned and ran as fast as her skinny legs could carry her, expecting to be run down at any moment. But she wasn’t. And almost a fortnight later, when the weather had turned cold, a knock sounded on the wooden plank they used for a door to keep out the draft. They opened it to find two sacks of milled oats sitting outside, hidden beneath a few thick woolen blankets. The sound of horse hooves could be heard in the distance, galloping away.
“Seamus quickly hid the bags inside, because the situation for everyone had become desperate, and he was afraid they would be pillaged. There was just enough to keep his girls alive for the winter, he hoped. Now, it wasn’t bad enough that the blight had stolen virtually all food for the farmers, but that year saw the harshest winter Ireland had seen in years. Cottages were buried to their rooftops in snow as storm after storm pounded the country. By the spring, bodies lay everywhere.
“But the McNally family survived yet again, hiding within their one-room home, keeping warm with the tiniest of fires and those woolen blankets and their body heat, rationing their oats for a daily helping of porridge, using melted snow to make it. Seamus knew he should eat more, let the kids go without so he could stay healthy and take care of them like many parents had to do in those long, dark days, but he couldn’t bear listening to their hungry cries.
“And because of that, he fell ill. In the early spring, Seamus passed on, leaving Marion to care for her four sisters. The five of them, stronger than most laborers around because of the milled oats they lived off of through the winter, were able to keep their hut by working the fields as Seamus had, and planting more potatoes, in hopes that a third year of blight was impossible.”
He pauses to nod a thanks to Rose as she drops off a fresh pint. The Irish really do love their Guinness. That’s his fourth now, and there isn’t even a hint—a slur, a lax face, a stray thought—that would suggest it’s affected him in any way.
“When Marion heard rumors of the landlord arriving at the house again, she knew she had to visit him. To apologize. It was the right thing to do, especially after she had spoken to him in such a horrific way. She knew that it was that young man on a horse who dropped the milled oats and blankets at her door.
“So on the following Sunday, she again marched through the fields, along the stone wall, over the hill, her body weaker from hunger, her dress even more tattered and filthy. The man was not out on his horse this time. She found him standing before a two-hectare-sized garden patch, the soil freshly tilled, his arms folded over his chest, his brow furrowed.
“ ‘What are you going to plant?’ she asked by way of greeting. He looked at her for a long moment before saying, ‘I don’t know, Miss Marion. What do you think I should plant here?’ She was surprised to know that he remembered her name but she pretended not to be and said, ‘You’re in Ireland, so potatoes, of course,’ which made him burst out laughing. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, holding out his hand to show her the beans. ‘But just in case of that pesky blight, I was thinking these, too. And some corn and cabbage.’ She nodded her approval. Beans and corn were expensive to plant. He asked her how her family had fared over the winter, and she shared the news of her father. His father had died as well, over Christmas, he admitted. When Marion had met this man the fall before, he hadn’t been the landlord, after all. His father had in fact owned the land.
“The young man’s name was Charles Beasley, and he was happy to see Marion alive and well. She had been a pretty young ginger-haired thing the year before, the day she marched onto his family’s property with fire in her eyes. She still was, though far too thin for his tastes. It had been a long winter for him, sitting in the comfort of his family’s estate home near Bath, wondering if the bags of milled oats he’d dropped at her door that day would be enough to keep her alive. It was long enough to concoct a plan. He had already inquired about the McNally family in secret on the day he arrived in Ireland and knew what had happened to her father. He figured it was only a matter of time before that fiery little Irish girl would show up again.
“So when she did, he was ready. He told her that he planned on staying on his estate for the summer to ensure proper management of the land, and he needed servants to care for him, and workers for his crops. He asked if she and her sisters could move into the servants’ quarters of his house and fulfill those roles.
“Even though he’d basically saved her and her sisters from certain death the winter before, Marion didn’t trust this Englishman, or his intentions. But she also had no choice. The tenant farmer whose land they lived on hadn’t paid his taxes and they’d all be evicted soon enough. The five McNally girls would be left to beg on the sides of the road. So she agreed.
“Despite the horrendous poverty that all of Ireland faced, life for Marion and her sisters improved drastically that summer. They had fresh water to drink and bathe in from the stream nearby; dry, warm beds to sleep in; cotton and wool for new clothes. For the first time in their lives, they knew what it felt like not to be hungry. They stayed within the castle’s walls, as did Charles for the most part, not wanting to risk contracting the typhus or dysentery that was running rampant through Ireland during those years.
“Marion assumed it was only a matter of time before Charles expected other things—manly things—from one of the five girls. She hoped it would be only her that he targeted, given she was the oldest. And she assumed it would be her, given the looks he stole her way on a daily basis.
“But he never did. Charles Beasley stayed on in Ireland, not leaving for England in the winter, and not once in the five years that the McNally girls lived under that roof—their rightful roof, through their lineage—did Charles Beasley try anything untoward. He could have. Those girls would have given him what he asked for in exchange for their family’s lives. While the entire country around them struggled through starvation and revolts against England for abandoning them in their time of need, valuing the market before Irish lives, somehow Charles held onto his land, giving the girls a home where they could grow into strong, independent Irishwomen.”
River clears his voice, and when he begins again, it sounds huskier. “The same heart condition that ailed Charles’s father took hold of Charles the winter of 1851. It was on his deathbed that he finally confessed his love for Marion. By then almost twenty, she had grown into a beautiful bird, and could have had any suitor she desired, had she put herself before her sisters. She finally admitted that she had grown to love him as well, and wished that things could have been different. ‘But they can’t,’ Charles whispered through a weak smile.” River’s own smile mimics the emotion. “ ‘You’ll always be an Irish Catholic peasant girl and I’ll always be an English Protestant lord.’ Marion wasn’t a woman who cried often, but she wiped her tears from her cheeks then, to say, ‘If the likes of me was never going to be good enough for the likes of you, then why do all this?’ With the last bit of strength left in Charles’s body, he reached for her hand, grasped it tight. ‘Oh, my dear Marion. It was the likes of me who would never be good enough for the likes of you.’ ”
A sharp ball forms in my throat as River suddenly grows silent. Nothing but a few sniffles and the odd clank of a dish from a kitchen behind the walls can be heard.
“Marion and her sisters left after Charles passed on and made their way to other parts of the country, met their husbands, and married. But Marion never stopped thinking about Charles Beasley, a man she was supposed to despise because of what he was, but a man she loved because of who he was.”
With a slow, heavy sigh, River catches my eye for a moment, offering me a secretive smile before he leans into the microphone again. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I cried myself to sleep a lot when I was a little boy.”
A round of chuckles, followed by loud applause, ricochets off the stone walls as River clasps hands with Fergus, and the old man steals back his hat to cover his bald head.
“What is . . . hey, are you crying?” Rowen asks with sincere interest, peering down at Ivy, whose face is ducked in her lap, her compact mirror opened.
“No,” she mutters, running her pinky finger along the bottom corner of her eye.
“You are!” Rowen claps his hands. “I don’t believe it. You, I can see it,” he throws a hand my way, “but I’d never have guessed that this one would be a romantic.”
“It was a sad story!” she hisses, turning to glare at him as she throws a soft punch into his stomach.
River’s return, his hands rubbing my shoulders affectionately as he squeezes around my chair to his, distracts me from the interesting spat across from me. “Your mother did not tell you that story when you were seven years old.”
“She did! At least twice a week. You can ask, I begged her.”
What would River and Rowen’s mother be like? I push that curiosity aside—I’d love to meet her—and ask, “So that must make you a true romantic?”
That earns a smirk. “I guess I am.” He pauses. “Is that bad?”
“No, not at all.”
Tugging my chair closer to his, until our thighs press against each other, River quietly plays with my curly locks of hair as the next storyteller takes the stage.
I try to listen, but it’s hard, my mind constantly wandering to a seemingly far-off place. A place where this thing with River isn’t simply a vacation fling, the expiration date looming. A place where he kisses me and begs me to make it work. Where we lie in bed and make plans for future visits; where he sees the Oregon mountains and fields that I’ve grown up with; where he meets the sheriff for the first time; where I meet the Delaney family. Daily Skype and phone calls and texts that turn into talks of one of us moving. Could I actually move to Ireland? I guess I could . . . if we married. What would I do? Work in the bar? What would I need to do to be certified as a nurse here?
By the time Shannon O’Callahan has stepped off the stage to a round of applause—mine hollow because I didn’t hear a word of her story—my imagination, inspired by a wish, has created an entire life for River and me.
“I’ll make sure Ivy gets home safe,” Rowen offers, holding the taxi door open.
With the slightest eye roll at me, she slides into the backseat. “Call me tomorrow night, if you want,” she says through the open window just as they pull away.
“Why wouldn’t your brother want a ride home?” I ask as River guides me toward his car, his arm roped around my waist.
“You want the truth or the gentleman’s response?”
I answer him with a pointed look and he chuckles softly.
“He’s hoping his night with Ivy hasn’t ended yet.”
The very idea makes me laugh. “What . . . him and Ivy? I thought she was going to stab him with her fork earlier tonight, when he started teasing her about getting emotional. Why on earth would he think she’s interested?”
“Well . . .” River holds the passenger-side door open for me to climb in. “I may have led him to believe that with a few things that I said earlier.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Because you actually thought Ivy might be interested in Rowen?”
His green eyes are sparkling when he slides into the driver’s seat. “Because I highly doubt she is.”
I start giggling. “You realize that she may actually hurt him, right?”
He cranks the engine and entwines his fingers with mine, and we shift the car into first gear together. “I’m kind of hoping she does. Not too much,” he quickly adds, a cute frown puckering his face. “Just a little bit. The bastard deserves it for the pranks he’s played on me.”
River weaves his car through the narrow streets, deftly avoiding bar revelers—really, there doesn’t seem to be a night when the streets aren’t filled with people enjoying Dublin’s bar scene—whirling around the roundabouts, a comfortable silence settling into the car.
“How much of that story is true?”
River opens his mouth, then hesitates for a moment. “If it weren’t for Marion McNally and Charles Beasley, I wouldn’t be sitting here today, that much I do know. Marion and her sisters all went on to marry husbands and bear children. It was the youngest, Sally McNally, whose lineage I can be thankful for. In every single generation, the first-born girl carried Marion McNally’s namesake. Which is why my ma’s name is Marion. And as fate would have it, she married a Seamus.”
“That’s just . . .” Tears well in my eyes. “. . . an incredibly tragic but uplifting story.” I smile to myself. “That’s why you wanted me to see that monument, isn’t it?”
He pulls my hand to his mouth, kissing my fingers, before setting us back onto the gear to shift around a corner. As if telling me that he’s so happy I understand the deeper meaning. Or, at least, that’s what I want it to mean. “Ma never let us up from the dinner table until every last scrap of food was cleaned from our plates. While Da’s side fared slightly better with the pub to support them, her family struggled greatly. The famine and starvation, the way the English government virtually abandoned us during those years . . . all of that is true, and I could tell you a hundred more stories about it. It’s why Ireland was in a constant state of rebellion for a hundred and forty-odd years after. It’s why the Irish Republican Army began in the first place. It’s why we fought—” He cuts himself off, inhales deeply.
Irish Republican Army. “The IRA.”
“Yeah.”
“So, your family was a part of that?”
He glances at me once before refocusing on the road. “They were, up until the mid-seventies. My great-granddad and his brother fought in the Easter Uprising, back when violence seemed to be the only way that England would listen.”
“I read about the uprising yesterday, at the museum. The British won that, didn’t they?”
“They did. But they executed fifteen of the republican leaders and the Irish people hated them for it. That little uprising of two thousand Irishmen started the revolution. It’s why we’re free of England’s rule today.”
I can hear the pride in his voice.
“And then my granddad and his brothers fought in the civil war. He actually knew Éamon de Valera well. The Republic’s third president,” he adds for my benefit.
“And your dad?”
“Him, too . . . for a while.” He clears his throat. “My uncle Thomas—Da’s older brother—was killed in the Northern riots in ’69, when he was eighteen. So, yeah . . . my granddad and dad were right pissed with anything British or Protestant. They fought with the IRA for a time.”
I’m trying to keep an open mind here, even as I listen to River admit that he comes from a long line of men who fought in the name of the IRA. Does that mean that River’s family members are . . . terrorists? I can’t ask him something like that. Besides, he said that was forty years ago. And it’s not River, I remind myself. It’s kind of like Bonnie’s family, who is German. Her great-grandfather was an actual Nazi soldier in the war—a secret that she’s told only me. That’s not her fault, or her parent’s fault. I need to look at this the same way. “You said they stopped fighting? What changed for them?”
“Times changed. Violence—especially the kind that was happening then, with plenty of innocent casualties—wasn’t the answer anymore.”
“Huh. I bet you have a lot of stories.”
“Some.” He sighs, squeezing my hands. “For another night, maybe.”
St. Stephen’s Green stretches out to the left of us. I haven’t gone back there yet. I haven’t felt the need to, though it’s probably something I should do, for a sense of closure. “The papers said that police suspected the IRA behind that. What do you think?” For a country I was so desperate to visit, I really had no clue about its history. My ignorance is embarrassing.
He stares hard out at the road, his jaw clenching. “Maybe. But if it is, it’s nothing my family stands for.”
I don’t press the topic, leaning over to settle a soft kiss on his cheek instead. “Thank you for tonight. It’s too bad I lost that bucket list of mine. I had this very item on it. Number thirty-two, I think.”
“Huh . . . Imagine that.” I catch his smile in the side mirror as he checks his blind spot and then changes lanes to turn down my street. In another minute, River’s car is sitting next to Simon’s, the quiet house looming before me as the car idles low.
“So?” His hands rest on his lap. He’s making no move to turn off the engine, to step out of the car, to walk me to the door.
To climb into my bed.
“So . . .”
“So, I don’t want to put the same kind of pressure on you that I unintentionally did last night, Amber. And I’m afraid that me coming inside will do just that.” His gaze flickers to my legs before settling on the hedge out front. “We can say good night right here, and I can come meet you after work tomorrow night, and I’ll be perfectly glad to do so. It’s whatever you want.”
I study his profile for a long moment—the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow, as if those words were difficult to say; the way that strong jaw clenches slightly; the way his right hand isn’t really resting on his lap, but gripping it, as if keeping it at bay.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was torn by desire and indecision. Tonight, that same desire is raging, coupled with a newfound mass of emotions, unspoken thoughts, and compelling curiosities. But that indecision? That dissolved as if it had never existed. I don’t believe I’d feel differently about River in three weeks than I do tonight. I’d only feel more.
I don’t have the luxury of weeks or months or years with him. I have only days, and I don’t want to regret how I use them.
“What do you want?” I ask softly.
A weak chuckle escapes him, his head falling back onto the headrest for a moment. “Do you really need to ask?”
Reaching over, I turn the key and the quiet rumble dies.
Heat flashes in his gaze as he turns to look at me, and then we both climb out of the car. Hand-in-hand, we walk toward the cherry-red door, the only sound my beautiful but painful heels clicking against the concrete.
“Thank God we’re home.” I groan, my fingers twisting the deadbolt shut once inside. “These shoes are killing me.” They looked so perfect, sitting next to the dress at the boutique where I bought the outfit.
River steps in close and leans forward, peering down at them. “Those shoes?”
“Yes. They’re pretty, but they—ah!” River suddenly slings me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Gently, of course, one arm gripping my thighs. A breeze against my skin warns me that my dress is likely hiked far above any respectable level, but there’s not much I can do about it at this point. Besides, it really doesn’t matter. I’m sure I’ll be losing it entirely soon enough, a prospect that leaves me with nervous flutters in my stomach. The good kind, this time.
“These are pretty,” he agrees, carrying me up the stairs through my playful shrieks. He needs no directions to my bedroom, where he flicks on the muted bedside lamp. Strong hands somehow gracefully maneuver my body off his shoulder, setting me down on the bed. His fingers skim the length of my legs, from my thighs down to my ankles, hooking around the heels to flick them off. They thump against the hardwood. “But you’re right. Completely impractical.”
His eyes have changed color—from that lush, bright green to a much darker shade. A fact I realize as he stretches out on top of me, forcing me down onto my back. His gentleman’s hesitation in the car earlier is gone, replaced with a confidence that provokes.
“So is this,” I whisper, curling my fingers around his shirt, desperate to admire his muscular body again. He lifts his arms above his head, allowing me easy access to slide the material over his head, tossing it on the floor. Giving my hands access to his chest, his skin hot to the touch.
My heart races.
He simply watches my face as I roam his upper body, propped up on one elbow to allow for it. “What happened here?” I trace a long, thin line over his top rib.
“A scuffle between me, my brother, and a fence.”
Of course. I shake my head. “Who won?”
“Some would say my brother, but I’d say the fence.”
“Rowen?”
His fingers slide gently along the curve of my neck. “Aengus.”
That elusive older brother that he doesn’t like talking about. I continue my wanderings, to a scar on his collarbone. “And here?”
He gives me a sheepish smile. “A scuffle between, me, Aengus, and a hay wagon.” His head dips, warm breath skating across my skin. “The wagon definitely won that one.”
I start laughing—a deep belly laugh that cuts off with a light gasp the second his mouth finds my neck. I lose all interest in my investigation, happily roping my arms around his body.
He tenses, suddenly, as my nail catches a stitch.
“I’m sorry.” I completely forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.
“Doesn’t hurt,” he murmurs, grasping first my one hand, and then the other. Kissing my fingertips one at a time. “But you do have nails, so . . .” He threads his fingers between mine and pins both of my hands above my head. And he stares down at me, his erection pressing hard against my thigh. “I could just lie here like this all night.”
I’m pretty sure that I can’t, not with this intense ache between my legs. “Liar.” I lift my head off the bed to skim my tongue over his lips in answer, teasing him. He groans, forcing my head back into the pillow as his tongue slides into my mouth with a deep, warm kiss and his body shifts to grind against me.
This connection between us is so much more intense than last night, now that I’m sure.
I’m so very sure that I want this, and him.
So sure that I curl my shoulder when his hand slips under my back to unzip my dress. So sure that I help him by tugging it up and over my head as he kneels, watching. So sure that when he slides my panties over my hips and all the way down my legs to my feet, his gaze taking in my body without shame, I reach for his belt buckle, his button, his zipper, slipping my hand into the front of his jeans to grasp him before he’s had a chance to touch me so intimately.
I don’t think I’ve ever taken the lead on that.
River seems to like it, though, helping by peeling the rest of his clothes off, giving me free access. Only he’s not patient. With a gentle but aggressive move, I find myself lying on my back again, with his mouth and reverent hands wandering over every square inch of my body, inside my body, touching me with more skill than I’ve ever experienced before. In fact, every other experience I’ve had pales in comparison to the one I’m sharing now with River.
By the time I hear the tear of a foil wrapper, I feel like I’ve been waiting an eternity.
By the time he pushes into me—such a full, wonderful sensation—I feel like I’ve known him forever.
And by the time our raspy breaths slow, our limbs coiled around each other, our bodies sated and spent, I’m thinking of cancelling plane tickets and spending the next three months exactly like this, with River.
I open my eyes to catch a glimpse of River’s bare and perfect backside a second before it disappears into his boxer briefs. The morning sun shines through the window beyond him. It’s nine thirty and I knew he’d have to leave to get to work. But it leaves a hollow ache in my chest all the same.
I’m addicted to him. I certainly acted like it last night. And this morning. Twice.
The truth is, I’ve never felt even remotely like this about any guy before. That’s kind of scary, seeing as I’ve had three long-term relationships and I had actually convinced myself that Aaron was it for me.
It scares me that he could have been. That I might not have ever known what this feels like.
“I can take those stitches out for you, when they’re ready. If you want,” I offer, my voice scratchy.
He peers over his shoulder at me, flashing a smile more devastating today than it was yesterday. “Better your hands than Rowen’s.”
“Did your doctor tell you when they could come out?”
He picks his jeans up off the ground, the curve and ripples of his stomach bringing back flashes to last night. I squeeze my thighs together with the memory. “A week or so.”
“So . . . Wednesday. It’s a date.” That’s two days from now. I hope I see him before then. I’d be quite happy to spend the next six days in this bed with him. I don’t need to see any cliffs or quaint Irish towns while I’m here.
He stretches across the bed, leaning in until his face is only inches away from me, whispering, “That sounds like a very romantic date,” before stealing a deep kiss, his tongue prodding. I give it access. Happily. I didn’t even do that for Aaron, my fear of foul morning breath outweighing desire every time.
I trace the big tattoo—kind of like an eagle but not quite—on his chest with my fingertip. River’s the first guy I’ve been with who’s had any sort of tattoo. I’m not the kind of girl to swoon over them. But now . . . I’m attracted to anything and everything River-related. “Do you really have to go?” I hear myself murmur, my voice pleading and annoying and . . . I don’t care.
Seizing my fingers and kissing them once before letting go, he stands again and pulls his jeans on. “I do. Rowen’s got class on Mondays until one.”
“Right.” Rowen mentioned something about taking summer business classes at one of the universities. I hesitate. “What about you? And college, I mean.”
“Me and college?” He sighs. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know what I’d do. Plus, Delaney’s will get passed on to me, to own and run. I have a responsibility to keep it alive.”
I frown. “Really? Just you?” That hardly seems fair to his brothers.
“Tradition says it always goes to the eldest, to keep the feuds to a minimum. My uncle Thomas—the one killed in the riots—was supposed to inherit it, instead of Da. Their other brother—Uncle Samuel—would be helping run it, but he passed on when I was ten. Tumbled down a flight of stairs one night, drunk. That was the end of him.”
I gasp. “That’s . . . horrible!”
“Yeah, well, it happens,” River says casually, as if he made peace with it long ago. “And he had no family of his own, so running Delaney’s is all on Rowen and me now.”
“But, you’re not the oldest, are you?”
“No . . .” River’s forehead puckers. “Aengus isn’t interested.”
There’s something very wrong with this brother. I can feel it in the air every time River mentions him. But I don’t like that feeling, so I change the topic back to us. “So, after Rowen finishes class . . .”
He yanks his shirt over his head with a smile. “Then we’ve got the after-work crowd.”
“And after that?”
“After that . . .” He dives back down for another kiss. “I’m coming to get ya.” His lips stretch into a smile, even pressed against mine.
“That’s right. You are.”
He breaks away, pressing his forehead against mine. “You’re far too good for me, ya know that, right?”
“Like Charles Beasley and Marion McNally?”
He chuckles. “See? You’re hooked. You’re going to be begging me to tell you that story again.”
“At least twice a week, at bedtime.”
With a heavy sigh, he stands and stretches, peering down at me, a strange look on his face.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just . . .” He hesitates. “I wish you didn’t live so far away.”
“I know. I’ve been trying not to think about that,” I admit, chasing away the sadness that comes with the reminder. I haven’t completely dismissed the notion that came to me last night while resting against his body, to just stay in Ireland for the next three months. It is crazy, of course, and my conscience was quick to remind me that I promised myself not to abandon my plans for a man ever again. I’m trying to ignore that little voice for the time being. Besides, now that I’m out of the sex haze, I realize that it’s not something I can decide today. Or even suggest to River. For all I know, this thing between us is so appealing to him—and to me—because I’m leaving on Sunday.
Still, knowing he’s at least thinking the same thing brings me comfort.
“But, since I do live so far away . . .” I slowly push the sheets down, until the cool morning air skates against my exposed skin.
River’s breath hitches. With the quickest glance at the clock on the nightstand, he peels his clothes off.
