Mulligan Stew (39 page)

Riley made a choking sound and bit the inside of his cheek. He brought his hands to her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "Dreams about what?" He kept his voice calm, though inside he was anything but calm. His hormones performed a jig while his pulse played a reel. The beat of a
bodhrán
pounded through another part of him, echoing the rhythm of the very act he'd thought about day and night for weeks. "Your dreams, Bridget. Tell me."

He held his breath and waited, watching the fluctuating expression in her eyes. "Tell me," he urged.

"About you," she said, exhaling in a loud whoosh.

"What about me?" His mouth went dry.

"Sex," she whispered. "I've been dreaming about
sex.
"

"And me?" Knowing they'd both been plagued with erotic dreams sent Riley's libido into a rage. He could barely speak. "Sex and me?" he repeated, his voice breaking.

She shook her head, holding his gaze, though her cheeks flamed crimson. "Sex
with
you."

Riley wanted to swing her into his arms and carry her up the stairs. No, to hell with that idea. He wanted to knock the pretty dishes off the table and take her there. Right there where she'd tortured him for weeks with her lovely breasts, sweet smile, and delicious food.

"Aren't you... aren't you going to say anything?" she asked, and her expression made it clear that her confession was one of the most difficult things she'd ever done. "Have I offended you?"

"
Offended
me, is it?" He almost laughed, but feared that might offend
her
. "Far from it, lass."

"I'm not a girl." She licked her lips. "I'm a woman."

"Aye." His gaze drifted down to her breasts and back to her eyes. "Aye, a woman in every way."

"I've never..." She bit her lower lip. "I've never wanted anyone since..."

Riley took a deep breath. "Since Culley."

"Yes." She shook her head. "I don't know what's come over me here. Maybe it's Ireland."

"Irishmen make the best lovers," he teased.

She smiled and lowered her lashes. He reached out and cradled her chin again, dying a little inside. He wanted desperately to tell her about his own dreams, but he couldn't. Not yet. Not until he understood the full magnitude of them.

But he wanted Bridget. Only Bridget. His dreams had nothing to do with that. But why was she dreaming about having sex with him?

The thought of it made the ache between his thighs intensify and his next breath was labored. "Bridget, you're killing me here."

The smile she gave him was filled with mischief. She reached down between them and pressed the heel of her hand against him. He throbbed against her and a groan erupted from deep in his chest.

"I'm glad I'm not the only one."

She walked away to finish cooking, leaving him there in a very bad way. Barely able to think, let alone walk, he called over his shoulder in an odd voice even to his own ears, "I'm off to take a shower, luv. A bloody
cold
one."

Her giggle followed him up the stairs. Unable to see straight, he crashed his skull into that fecking beam again and cursed.

She giggled louder.

* * *

Well, she'd told him. Bridget finished preparing supper while Riley cooled off. The thought brought a smile to her lips and warmth to the rest of her.

He wanted her, too, and hadn't seemed totally shocked by her confession. Now what were they going to do about it? Neither of them had discussed
that
. In fact, they'd both skirted around the subject.

What was there to discuss? Either they would or they wouldn't.

Bridget's cheeks flamed and her hands trembled as she set the serving platters on the table. She went to the bottom of the steps and called to let Riley know supper was ready. As an afterthought, she reminded him to watch out for the beam on his way back.

He thanked her and started down the steps. Every step brought him closer to her. She would have to face him again after her confession. Of course, she'd known that, but it had to be done.

But now what?

Maybe that was all it would take. Her dreams would end and she'd turn her attention to opening Mulligan Stew. Problem solved.

He emerged from the stairway with his damp hair curling around his face. He'd shaved, too. The shirt he wore was a rich blue. She didn't remember seeing it before. It matched his eyes.

Problem not solved.

She'd opened a bottle of wine to breathe. Maggie had told her it was homemade from some kind of berries, though she didn't know what. She'd also told Bridget that Mum sometimes sipped it for her gout.

Bridget had to smile, wondering if she could make wine from cherries.

Riley saw the wine and the crystal and raised an eyebrow. "It looks good."

"It's nothing fancy—just fried chicken, and before you pick up your knife and fork, let me tell you that where I come from, fried chicken is finger food."

"I'm not a fancy kind of man," he said, pulling out a chair for her. He quirked an eyebrow. "And did you fetch the chicken from the yard yourself?"

She shook her head, grinning. "There are chickens at the market."

He smiled, watching her. Just having him look at her set her heart aflutter. The thought of having him touch her again set her on fire.

Problem
definitely
not solved.

Bridget made sure the stove was off and removed her apron. On knees made of rubber bands, she lowered herself into the chair. Riley brushed her shoulder with his hand after he'd pushed in her chair.

She sighed, but resisted the urge to grab his hand and put it on her breast. Wouldn't that have shocked him?

Looking across the table at him as he took his seat, she noted the gleam in his eyes had transformed them from blue to cobalt. There was an intensity about him this evening that stole her breath and had her libido doing the twist to an Elvis tune like she had with Granny as a little girl.

She uncovered the platter of crispy chicken and passed it to him. "Dark or white?" she asked.

His gaze left the platter and dropped to her chest. "I've always been a breast man."

"Oh, mercy." Bridget almost dropped the platter, but he reached out to help her ease it back to the table. "You're a dangerous man, Riley Mulligan."

He remained silent as he served himself a crispy chicken breast, a mound of mashed potatoes smothered in gravy, and some of the fried cabbage he loved. He added a biscuit to his plate and looked across the table at her.

"Not yet," he whispered.

"Not yet what?"

"Dangerous." He bit into the chicken breast, tearing the tender meat away from the bone, and chewed very slowly before swallowing. "I'm not promising anything, though."

"Promising?"

"You're starting to sound like a parrot, Bridget." He grinned again and served her since she hadn't bothered to fill her own plate. "Eat up now. You need to keep up your strength, luv."

Luv?
She drew a deep breath to quell her trembling. "Promises, promises," she whispered, wondering where she'd found the nerve to say such a thing.

He threw back his head and laughed. The joyousness of it filled the kitchen and Bridget's heart. "Something about you has definitely changed," she said as his laughter subsided. "For the better."

He grew solemn and nodded, eating very slowly. Between his first and second breast—
mercy
—he told Bridget that he'd followed her advice about something.

"About what?" she asked, barely tasting her own food.

"The past." An expression of resignation settled across his handsome face. "I faced it. Accepted it."

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. "I'm glad," she whispered. "Very glad."

They sipped their wine and he asked about the sourdough she'd used to prepare the breading on the chicken and for the biscuits. Bridget prattled on about the methods she'd used to prepare the food and why, realizing as he helped her clear the table that he'd done it to distract her. She was thankful for that.

But soon she knew they would discuss their dilemma again. Now that it was out in the open, they couldn't very well bury it again. Not comfortably anyway.

Nothing about this was the least bit comfortable. He insisted on washing the gigantic iron frying pan for her, so she wiped the table and stood staring out the kitchen window. The sun slowly sank beyond
Caisleán Dubh
, creating almost a halo around the tower.

"Riley, look."

He came to stand beside her, drying his hands on a towel. "Jaysus. I've never seen it look like
that
."

She took his hand. "Let's go down there. It's a lovely evening, and I want to see it again."

He winced, blinked several times. "Aye, get your jumper while I fetch the flashlight."

"No, not the flashlight," she said, grabbing what was left of the wine and two glasses. "Candles."

Riley sucked in a breath. "That could be dangerous."

"I thought you said you weren't dangerous."

"Yet."

"Well... I wasn't thinking about that," she said, though she probably had been, at least subconsciously. "I made tarts for dessert. We can be the very first customers in Mulligan Stew's dining room."

"I'm still a bit uncomfortable there," he admitted. "But I'd better get used to it."

"Yes." She looked out the window again. "I feel a powerful sense of... belonging there. It's very strange."

His voice sounded very odd. "Then I say let's do it."

Bridget whirled around to stare at his face. Which "it" did he mean?

There's only one way to find out....

Chapter 19

Caisleán Dubh
had never looked more beautiful. Considering Riley had once considered it the most terrifying of places, thinking of it as beautiful was a concept it would take some time to get his mind around.

The woman walking at his side, on the other hand, would outshine any castle. He wanted to hold her hand, but he was loaded down with wine and a blanket. She carried a basket with the candles, dishes, and their dessert.

This was madness. He chewed on that thought in silence, then had to wonder if it was, really. After all, Bridget would be opening a restaurant in
Caisleán Dubh
. Folks would be eating more than tarts there, and probably by candlelight. What was wrong with a bit of pretending if it made her happy?

Aye, and wasn't she glowing with happiness just now? The closer they came to
Caisleán Dubh
, the happier Bridget grew. She was the most perplexing woman, and the most desirable.

What was he to do about her? She'd dreamed about him. About
him
. It was bloody vexing, to say the least.

And the highest form of flattery.

It had taken more courage than
he
would ever have for her to make such a confession. After all, he hadn't told her about his dreams of Aidan and Bronagh.

A thought took root in his mind and refused to budge. Were they sharing their dreams? Did she believe her dreams were of him, when they were really of Aidan? The thought that he wasn't the man of her dreams grated on him.
Shite.
Was such a thing even possible? It sounded completely mad.

Of course, believing in a curse or spell didn't sound exactly sane. Despite his hope that the spell could be broken, the nagging questions about why and how his da had died continued to plague him. If only he knew for sure what had killed Da. If only...

"Isn't it amazing?" Bridget asked as they paused before the entrance.

"Aye, I'll grant you that." He watched her from the corner of his eye. "As are you."

"I think you've kissed the Blarney stone," she said, heading toward the opening. "It's a pity we can't open the doors ourselves."

"Not without some heavy equipment, I'm afraid." Though Riley was hard enough now to possibly manage it on his own.
Ouch.