Sinister Intentions & Confiscated Conception Read online

  “Oh, only a day or so more, I think,” Kit murmured.

  Barney rose. “That would be a mistake, lass. Ye may not want to know it, but ye’ve been called back yerself, in a sense. Ye’ll not be happy until ye understand yer own past.”

  Kit smiled weakly, unwilling to dispute him. She placed some money on the table—including a generous tip for her helpful waitress—and allowed Barney to escort her to the door.

  Outside, in the crisp night air, Mike was happily scratching away at the sheepdog, Sam, who had all four legs raised euphorically to the star-speckled sky so that Mike could freely rub his belly.

  “He’s a great dog!” Mike told Barney enthusiastically.

  “Aye, he’s a good old friend.”

  “Mike, say thank you to Mr. Canail again, then we’d better get you into bed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Canail,” Mike said dutifully.

  “Nothin’ to thank me fer, boy. And I’m just Barney, to young and old alike.”

  Mike talked all the way back to the inn. He was excited about Barney, and he was excited about Sam the sheepdog. He was, in short, excited about everything.

  “Can’t we stay here a while, Mom? Can’t we, please?”

  Her head was pounding. She didn’t have the strength for an argument with her son. He was excited but tired, and if she gave him a flat no, he would get teary and keep arguing.

  “We’ll see, Mike.”

  After a few minutes she realized that Mike had fallen silent. She gazed at him quickly and saw that he had fallen fast asleep in his seat.

  A few minutes later they were turning into Jamie’s place. Kit parked the car and decided to try not to waken her son. He weighed about sixty-odd pounds, though, and she was grunting as she lifted him from the seat. He stayed asleep, though.

  The front door was open, but old Jamie was nowhere to be seen. Kit made her way up the stairs, struggled for a minute to fit her key into the lock, then went through her room to the little chamber beyond it. A second later she half fell onto the bed with Mike as she tried to lower him to it. She thought for sure that she had awakened him, but all he did was issue a tired little sigh and curl on his side.

  Kit pulled off his jacket, shoes and pants, then decided he could sleep quite well in his knit shirt and pulled the covers up to his neck. With a last glance at him, she flicked off the overhead light, backed into her room as she closed the door, and then choked back a scream, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes widening in fear and astonishment.

  She hadn’t been able to close her door behind her when she had entered, and now there was a man standing in the doorway again. This silhouette was tall, broad in the shoulders, dominating the room. She caught her breath and kept herself from screaming—because she knew him.

  He took a step forward into the light. “All right, Kit. What the devil are you doing here?”

  She should have told him it was none of his business, that she had a right to be anywhere she chose—and that he had no right to enter her room unasked. Instead, she clenched her hands behind her back to keep them from shaking. “I’m writing a book—” she began feebly.

  “The hell you are!” he exclaimed, so sharply that she took an involuntary step backward.

  And then she was angry with herself for allowing him to intimidate her. “Justin, I was hired to write a book, and I really don’t give a damn what you think. It’s the truth.”

  “Oh?”

  Her heart quickened its beat as he took off his trench coat. It appeared as if he intended to stay a while—invited or not.

  He draped his coat over the foot of the bed, pushed up the sleeves of his tweed sweater and stuck his hands in his pockets, staring at her with eyes that were politely questioning—and very cold.

  “A book on Shallywae? Or on Bailtree? Such large towns!”

  The depth of his sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. She also noticed that his accent seemed very strong tonight. She remembered clearly that it had always been that way when he was angry. “Since I had to come to Ireland anyway,” she replied coolly, “I promised Mike that I would bring him to see...the cemetery.”

  “Did you really?”

  “Yes, of course!” Her palms were sweating, and she realized that she should order him out of the room. If only she could!

  “Haven’t you heard?” he asked her. “There’s been another murder.”

  “Yes,” she said faintly. “I’ve heard.”

  “Get out of Shallywae, Kit.”

  “This isn’t Shallywae. It’s Bailtree—”

  “Get out, Kit!”

  “Are you threatening me, Justin?”

  She had been wrong when she had thought he hadn’t changed much. He had. His face was gaunt. Lines of strain were etched deeply around his mouth, which now appeared to be nothing more than a thin line. He was very tense. As she watched him, she could see a tic in his jaw and the furious pounding of a vein in his throat.

  He took a step closer to her, and she clenched her teeth. She had forgotten that he was such a big man.

  She hadn’t expected him to react to her one way or another. It had been a long time. She had run out on him, true, but she had left the note. And he must have understood her feelings about what had happened. He shouldn’t be so angry now, so hostile. He shouldn’t be looking at her with his eyes so hard and cold. So merciless. She realized that she didn’t know him at all.

  “Aye, Kit,” he said softly, the whispered caress of his words sending sharp chills cascading down her spine. “Aye, lass, I’m threatening you. Take the boy and leave here.”

  “I—” It was all she could say. She stood mutely staring at him, waiting.

  He moved casually into the room, then stretched out on her bed, never taking his eyes from her. He leisurely laced his fingers behind his head. “Do you think I’m a murderer, then, Kit?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” he mused. “If it’s the truth.” His voice hardened again. “Then why are you here?”

  “I told you—”

  “A lie.”

  Anger finally drew Kit from her trembling subjugation. “It isn’t a lie, Justin. You’re welcome to call my publisher.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “You bastard!”

  “Get out, Kit.”

  “What I do or don’t do isn’t your concern, Justin.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But it is,” he said gravely.

  She laughed, feeling a little hysterical. “How could I be in danger, Justin? Wouldn’t I be under your protection? Who would dare to assault a friend of the King of the High Hill?” Why didn’t she just tell him that she fully intended to leave the next day? she wondered. For that matter, why couldn’t she just shut up? Another laugh escaped her—she really was getting hysterical. “Or is it only your friends who are in danger—at least when they’ve offended you in some way?”

  He spat out a furious expletive, then suddenly stood with startling agility. For a moment she felt fear, a weakness, as if she might pass out. His hands were very strong.

  She remembered their touch. Inside she seemed to shake and shiver; she didn’t know if she was excited or terrified, attracted or repelled. She wanted to run into Mike’s room and lock the door between them, and at the same time she wanted to reach out and ease the lines of tension around his eyes, his mouth.

  He moved toward her, and she tried to back away. She came up against the door to Mike’s room and was forced to brace herself there. She lashed out defensively. “I’m not eighteen anymore, Justin O’Niall! I can’t be manipulated! Told to leave—”

  “You didn’t leave the first time I told you to, if I remember correctly,” he reminded her.

  “Look,” she said, a bit desperately, “Justin, you were there when I nee
ded you, and I thank you for that. Very much.”

  “Do you really? Everyone else is trying to hang me.”

  He spoke politely, casually. Kit knew then with an absolute certainty that he was innocent—that he really didn’t gave a damn what people thought, because he, too, knew that he was guiltless. But she also knew that he hadn’t forgotten the past any more than she had, and that there was something there that he hadn’t forgiven, either.

  And he was moving closer to her.

  “Justin, stop it! You have no right! You’re the one who has to get out of here. This is my room, and you’re interfering in my life.”

  He paused, laughing, and despite herself she was enchanted by the sound. He probably hadn’t laughed much lately.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Kit? In your own words, I am the King of the High Hill. I can do anything I choose, and I choose to be here—interfering in your life.”

  “Justin—”

  “You shouldn’t have come here, Kit, if you didn’t want me to interfere.”

  “I don’t see what—”

  “Then you’re either blind or stupid, or you think that I am.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Oh, stop it, will you? This is insane.”

  He was walking toward her again, and she had nowhere to go. She would have melted into the wood of the door if she could have, but she couldn’t, so she simply stiffened her spine against it.

  And then he was there, so close that he was almost touching her. He rested his palms against the door on either side of her head and stared into her eyes.

  “We have to talk, Mrs. McHennessy.”

  “We have to talk?” She felt nearly hysterical. “Justin, you’re being accused of murder, and you’re acting as if you’re not even concerned!”

  “Kit.” He simply said her name, nothing more. Then he shifted his weight, and she felt his warmth running over her like a tide. He was striking. From the power of his eyes to the sensual, self-mocking curl of his lip. His features were as ruggedly chiseled as the cliffs that faced the sea, as proud, as strong. He was and always had been a law unto himself. The O’Niall. And when she had first known him...

  He had been the gentlest man she had ever met, sensitive to her pain and to her youth. She’d seen him angry, true, but only against injustice. He’d been ruthless and determined—but only to send her home. He’d never touched her. Never come near her like this.

  Until she had touched him...that night.

  He ran his knuckles lightly over her cheek.

  “Why are you here, Kit?”

  “I told you—”

  “Why?”

  She felt like molten liquid, her knees unable to support her. “Because,” she rasped out at last.

  “Because of what happened in the cottage?” he asked softly, and if anything, she began to tremble even more violently, because in his gentle tone she heard the same sensitivity she had once clung to for her life.

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t know that she had touched him, but suddenly her palms were against the soft wool of his sweater. She could feel his heat beneath the fabric, along with the pounding of his heart. She felt the tension coil in his muscles and the vibrancy of his life.

  “Justin, that night... I was—I was drugged.”

  “On passion?” he queried cynically. “What a wonderful excuse.”

  “You son of a bitch!” she hissed at him. “I was young and innocent, and you seduced—”

  “I beg to differ!” he interrupted curtly. Then his voice filled with softness again, softness and tenderness.

  “I’d not have touched you, Kit. I tried to help you. You were young. Too young. But I was no saint; you seduced me.”

  She felt the blood rush to her face. “Justin, something strange happened that night. Listen to me—I was drugged!” She was convinced that it wasn’t imagination or conjecture. It was the truth. Merely being here, seeing this place again, had convinced her of it.

  “Something was strange that night. Maybe you’re right. Maybe—”

  “There are no maybes!” Kit asserted furiously. “Oh! Why on earth are we having this conversation?”

  “We’re going to have lots of conversations, Kit. But not now. Now, my love, you’re going to get away from here.”

  “No one can make me—not even you!”

  He stared at her for a moment, a curious mix of emotions flashing through his eyes before the cool shield fell over them once again. “Mrs. McHennessy, I’m no longer so taken by your youth or innocence, no longer beholden to protect you, as it were. In fact, I’m well aware of your lies, and I find myself thinking that no quarter should be granted.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “But you do. You do. For now, though, get out. Go home. Run.”

  “I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “But you should.” His voice was soft again, and his words sounded like a warning.

  “Don’t threaten me, Justin.”

  “I’m not threatening you, Katherine. I’m asking you; I’m pleading with you!”

  His voice was deep and fascinating; there was more command than pleading in it, despite his chosen words, but something in his tone brought her eyes to his. He watched her in return, and it seemed as if the years passed away. She knew him so well.

  He touched her, and she didn’t resist. His left hand was at her nape, his fingers in her hair. The callused palm of his right hand was against her cheek, lifting her face.

  And then his mouth descended to hers.

  There was no denying the power of his kiss. His lips covered hers, and she felt his sweet persuasion. His body was hard, and his muscles rippled beneath her fingers. His tongue moved deeply and intimately into her mouth, filling her with longing all the way to a coiling recess of desire deep inside of her.

  She’d kissed other men. But drugs or no drugs, no man kissed like Justin. No man could touch her as Justin could.

  She broke away from him at last. She wanted to say something, to curse him for what he’d done—for what he’d made her feel—but she couldn’t.

  He smiled, and for a moment his dark lashes shadowed his cheeks. When he gazed at her again she felt weak all over, and then she was gasping for breath, because he had suddenly lifted her and deposited her on the bed, then lain down quickly beside her.

  “Justin!”

  Tenderness streaked through the darkness of his eyes, and he kissed her again, but this time his lips just brushed against her forehead.

  “You grew up to be beautiful, Kit.”

  “Justin...”

  He sighed, started to move, then paused. Kit knew why. She could feel the pressure of his chest against her breasts, and she almost cried out herself, begging him not to move. It was absurd, though. So much stood between them.

  He stood up and grabbed his trench coat. “Will you listen to me, please? Kit, go home. For God’s sake, go home.”

  “I can’t. I have to know what happened that night. Why I was drugged—”

  “I know why,” he interrupted quietly, resignation in his voice.

  “You do?”

  “It was in the tea,” he told her.

  “You know for sure? You had it analyzed?”

  “Strange thing, Kit. The tea disappeared, too,” he said. “Now you know, so go home.”

  “I...can’t.”

  His back was to her. He hesitated, then turned and spoke again. “The cottage on the cliff is empty, Kit. And if you stay, I’ll be close. Don’t ever doubt it.”

  “This is absurd!” She tried for lightness. “I’m still amazed that you even remember me.”

  His expression unreadable, he said, “Oh, I remember you well.” His eyes met hers briefly. “Very well. And since you’ve chosen to return...” He shrugged.
<
br />   “What are you talking about?”

  “Good night, Mrs. McHennessy.”

  He closed the door sharply behind him as he left.

  Kit started shaking, and all she could do was stare stupidly at her trembling hands. Finally she stood up and lit a cigarette, but after only a few puffs she coughed, then crushed it out.

  What was she doing here? she asked herself over and over again. The hell with the past. She should just get out. Justin himself had told her to. He didn’t want her here. Eight years had passed since she had seen him last, but that last time...

  What had she been doing in bed with him? True, she had been drugged, but even so, it had made no sense.

  He had agreed with her! she suddenly realized. They had been drugged. It had been the tea.

  Kit closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think. She was tired, and she was going to undress and go to sleep. She had to go to sleep. She had to stop thinking—or go mad.

  It was easy to get ready for bed, but sleep was another matter entirely. She was tired, but all she could do was toss and turn, until she finally fell asleep. And then she began to dream.

  It was an instant replay of a past that would not be put to rest. She could see the cliff; she could hear the howling of the wind. She dreamed of death, of ghosts, of laughing banshees....

  The cottage was there, surrounded by darkness, eerily lit by the strange reflections of a glowing moon. Bagpipes played a mournful note, and the wind rose and fell, rose and fell....

  There was firelight. Michael was laughing, teasing her, holding her, pinning her to the bed. Telling her of ancient rites. Of a druid, clothed in a black cloak, of the horned mask of the goat-god, the fertility god...

  Then Michael was gone, and the goat-god stood before her in his mask and cape. She wanted to scream, to fight, but she couldn’t move from the bed. The goat-god touched her, and to her horror and shame, she wanted him....

  And then the goat-god wasn’t a goat-god at all, but Justin O’Niall, rising above her in the darkness. She saw his face in the moon glow, determined and satanic, his features taut with naked purpose...and desire.