The Wild Sight (11 page)

“Eat some shepherd’s pie,” he said over his shoulder while he opened the cupboard. “You’ll feel better.”

Rylie stood silently watching for another long moment. Shepherd’s pie and tea weren’t what she needed. She needed him.

“Donovan, please,” she entreated, wincing inwardly at her whimpering tone. “Just hold me.”

The cupboard door thunked shut as he turned to face her, and she walked into the welcoming circle of his arms. She pulled
herself close, her own arms around his waist, and laid her head against his chest. The strong, steady beating of his heart
under her ear felt comforting in a way she’d never experienced before. For the first time in a very long time she felt safe.
She swayed with the realization and his grip tightened.

“None of it matters,” he whispered into her hair. “It doesn’t change who you really are.”

Rylie pulled back to search his handsome face. “You don’t know who I really am.”

“I know enough,” he countered. Then his lips covered hers.

Warm and soft at first, his tongue began a gentle exploration of her mouth. But when she answered him with eager abandon,
the kiss grew possessive, demanding. She molded herself against the hard planes of his body and moaned her answer.

After another heady moment, Donovan broke the kiss, panting. “No regrets?”

“Only if you stop now,” she replied, and reached for him again.

His killer smile gleamed as he dodged around the table. “Wee minx,” he murmured. Then with one deft movement, he shoved the
tray of food into the fridge. “We may want this later.”

She giggled. “Much later, Mr. Practical.”

“Much later,” he agreed.

And the next moment, he swooped her off her feet, one arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees.

She gave an involuntary squeak of surprise, then gasped, “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“With a wee little thing like you?” he scoffed as he carried her through the living room. “Not likely.”

Rylie busied herself undoing the buttons on his shirt, but her fingers fumbled with excitement. She’d only managed to unbutton
three when he set her on the bed.

While she eagerly toed off her sneakers, Donovan divested himself of his shirt and T-shirt. She practically came just seeing
his bare chest. He really was that gorgeous, all lean hard muscles and ridged abs.

No CPA ever looked so good!

Panting, she yanked her sweater over her head and flung it on the floor, then ripped open the snap and zipper of her jeans,
peeling them down her legs. Still smiling, he knelt in front of her and pulled the annoying jeans the rest of the way off.
She grasped his forearms and hauled him toward her for another mind-numbing kiss.

While her tongue greedily invaded the moist interior of his mouth, her fingers unbuckled his belt and worked open the fly
of his wool trousers. When she brushed the hard length of his arousal, he broke away with a sharp intake of breath.

“Slow down,” he hissed, rummaging in the drawer of the nightstand with one hand. “I’ve only one condom.”

“Poor planning on your part,” she teased, pulling his pants around his knees.

“So shall I run down to the corner and buy some more then?” he mocked, stepping out of his slacks.

She suppressed a giggle at his very proper blue and white pinstriped boxers. “Don’t you dare.”

“I thought not.”

His boxers joined his pants on the floor as he bore her backward onto the middle of the bed, which creaked noisily under their
combined weight. While Donovan’s beautiful lips claimed hers again, his busy fingers sent her bra and underwear to the floor
with the rest of their clothes.

Rylie’s body hummed with the need to have him inside her.
Now.
Twisting her mouth from his, she snatched the foil packet from his hand and ripped it open. As he massaged her breasts, she
climbed astride his thighs and smoothed the condom over his impressive erection.

“Sweet saints in heaven,” he groaned, falling against the squeaky mattress.

She intended to tease him a little, but found she couldn’t wait. She wanted him so badly that instead of easing slowly, the
moment she touched herself to him, she plunged down on his full, hard length. Intense pleasure ripped through her, destroying
all her coherent thoughts and inhibitions. She rode him hard, the sweet promise of release shimmering on the edge of her consciousness.

“Oh God, Rylie,” he rasped.

Then he let go of her breasts and wrapped his hands around her hips. Before she could protest, he flipped her under him, thrusting
into her once. Twice. She encircled his waist with her legs and met his next thrust with her own, shattering into the throes
of orgasm. A moment later, she felt him join her.

Donovan shifted away from the enticing contours of Rylie’s bottom, snuggled intimately against him in the narrow confines
of his bed. In the past few hours, they’d brought each other to completion two more times with hands and mouths. First they’d
been in the shower after a session of eating scones and jam in bed had gotten completely out of hand. The bathroom had suffered
an even worse fate, with water and sodden towels everywhere.

Libidos momentarily sated, they’d partially dressed and gone into the kitchen to heat up the shepherd’s pie. Quickly dispatching
that, they’d eventually gorged themselves with every edible thing in the cupboard. A short nap had left them so invigorated
that their next go round threatened to knock plaster from the walls. In retrospect, he imagined everyone in the pub below
probably heard them.

One more time would undoubtedly be his complete ruin, though certain parts of his anatomy stirred with a differing opinion.
Glancing at the illuminated bedside clock, Donovan reluctantly hauled his arse out of bed and pulled on his rumpled boxers.
Smears of jam decorated the front of his T-shirt so he tossed it into the corner and opened the bureau drawer for a clean
one.

Behind him, the bed springs creaked and Rylie’s sleep muffled voice asked, “Why are you getting dressed?”

“So I can take you back to Dungannon before we both turn into pumpkins.”

Donning the fresh T-shirt, he turned and steeled for her protest. The dim light from the living room shone just enough for
him to watch her stretch languidly, the coverlet slipping below one pert nipple. He bit his lower lip to stifle a groan.

“Any other time, I’d want to stay,” she admitted. “But this is the noisiest, lumpiest bed I’ve ever slept in.”

Then she threw off the covers and amidst the sound of more metal grating, rolled to the side of the mattress, exquisite in
her nakedness. Whatever clever thing he’d been about to say dried in Donovan’s constricted throat, and her husky chuckle made
something far more complicated than simple lust pound through his veins.

“Oh, my mistake,” she continued, eyeing the growing tent of his boxers. “I guess not all the lumps were the bed.” She picked
up her panties and twirled them around with her index finger. “So what is it the locals say? One more quick shag before we
hit the road?”

“Shag is English slang,” he replied haughtily, picking his crumpled trousers off the floor. “And if you don’t put on those
knickers straight away, I’ll be beating down the door of the pharmacy and then where will we be?”

“In a right feckin’ mess?” she asked innocently, then burst into a gale of laughter that he couldn’t help but echo.

At five minutes before midnight, Donovan kicked his trousers into the heap of dirty clothes in the corner, sighed and fell
backward onto the mattress in a raucous chorus of squeaking springs. His bed was nearly wrecked, the loo flooded, and the
cupboard bare, but the scent of Rylie’s hair lingered on the pillowcase.

He’d never felt better in his entire life.

Much later, the jangling of his mobile awakened him from a sound sleep. He squinted against the sunlight streaming in the
window and saw that it was a quarter past eight.

Could Rylie be up and about already?Wanton little minx.

He smiled in spite of the muzziness clouding his head and answered the phone.

“Donovan? Did I wake you?” asked an unfamiliar female voice. “Oh, no! So very sorry to call this early. ’Tis Brenna, Brenna
McRory.”

“Brenna,” he repeated. Then the tinge of urgency in her tone registered in his brain, and he shook his head to clear the fog
of sleep. “Is something wrong?”

“Did you see or talk to Aongus yesterday? He wasn’t in his office all day and he didn’t come home last night.”

“Sorry, no.” Donovan stood, and then squirmed when his feet hit the cold floor. The image of Professor McRory and Sybil Gallagher
flashed across his mind.

“Did he say he’d be in Ballyneagh?”

He balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder while he pulled on a pair of sweat pants.

“No, I just assumed he went to the dig site.” Brenna sounded distracted, and more than a little upset. “But I left him several
messages and it’s not like him to ignore my calls.” Before he could murmur a phrase of false reassurance, she plunged on.
“The thing is, I finished the testing and I wanted him to bring you back here to discuss the results. This is not the kind
of news to deliver over the phone.”

“’Tis all right, Brenna,” Donovan broke in to calm her obvious distress. “We already know Rylie’s not Dermot’s daughter. He
told her.”

“’Tis not about Rylie . . . ” Her voice broke, a very bad sign surely. “Oh, God! I’m so sorry. I really didn’t want to tell
you this way.”

Donovan sat down abruptly.

“What?” he demanded. His mind raced with a dozen horrible possibilities. “Just tell me, Brenna.”

He heard her take a deep breath before she spoke with deadly calm. “Rylie is not Dermot’s offspring. But neither are you,
Donovan.”

“What?” he repeated, the sound hollow and meaningless inside his head.

For a long, empty moment everything ground to a halt. He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. Then his hands started
to shake. He wrapped both of them around the mobile to keep it against his ear. All the awful imaginings weren’t even close
to this!

“You can’t . . . How—” More words refused to emerge and he choked.

“The Niall marker,” Brenna’s voice sounded far away, but every syllable was a bullet, blasting away pieces of him like the
wobbly targets in a shooting gallery. “You have it, but Dermot doesn’t. Since it’s passed from father to son, there’s no way
he can be your biological father.”

Chapter 10

BALANCING HER TWO BAGS AND PURSE IN ONE HAND, RYLIE rapped on the door of Donovan’s apartment. If he didn’t answer quickly,
the scent from the bakery bag would prove too tempting.

Just like him.

However, if he opened the door less than fully dressed, she would have quite a dilemma. Which to open first, the bag with
the thick slices of bread called bram-brack or the bag with the condoms?

If only every day offered such delectable choices.

She was about to knock again when the door swung open, and Donovan stood there in jeans, pullover, and socks, but no shoes.
Okay, enough clothes to solve the
initial problem.

“Special delivery from Brigit’s,” she announced, holding up the white paper bag as she stepped inside. Then she rattled the
plastic bag in her other hand. “And a little something from the pharmacy in Dungannon. A dozen little somethings.”

She moved close, intending to stand on tiptoe and kiss him, but he brushed away, his movements stiff and guarded.

“I was just about to call you,” he said, and his tone sounded strained. “I have to get to Holy Family right away.”

She tossed both bags on the coffee table and clutched his arm. “Has something happened to Dermot?”

He shook his head and pulled away. “No, not exactly. . . ”

His stony expression did nothing to ease her growing anxiety. He sat on the couch and mechanically pulled on his sneakers.
Chewing her bottom lip, she plopped next to him.

“If it’s not an emergency, you should eat something first,” she babbled, pulling the bag with the raisin bread toward her.
“I know you haven’t had anything.”

He shook his head again and the haunted look in his eyes stopped her words and her breath.

“I can’t . . . ” Donovan closed his eyes and his throat worked for a moment. Then he spoke in a rough whisper, “Brenna called
about the tests.”

“No!” Horror ripped down her spine.

“No, not that! God, no.” He reached over and cupped her cheek with a trembling hand, and she sagged against him in relief.

“Dermot’s not your father. But Brenna says—” His voice choked off again for a moment. He dropped his hand and looked away.
“She says he’s not mine either.” When she tried to protest, he plunged on. “I have the Niall Marker and he doesn’t, so he
can’t have fathered me.”

“There must be a mistake,” she insisted, but the tortured look on his face said otherwise.

She knew exactly what he was feeling, the shock, disbelief, anger.
What kind of sick cosmic joke was this?
An unreasoning urge broadsided her, and she ached to touch him, hold him, reassure him everything would be okay. But she
couldn’t because she knew it wasn’t true. Everything might never be okay again.

Still looking a bit unsteady, he stood and reached for his jacket. Rylie picked up her purse and the bag of brambrack and
stood also.

“I’ll drive.”

Neither of them spoke more than a few words all the way to Armagh, though Rylie did manage to get Donovan to eat a slice of
the brambrack. She had one too, even if it did taste like ashes.

In spite of the lack of verbal exchange, a fierce protectiveness blossomed and grew inside her. When they reached the care
facility, she got out of the car and marched inside next to him. No one greeted or acknowledged them as they strode down the
hall, but Rylie did see the physical therapist entering the room next to Dermot’s.

She positioned herself like a sentinel next to the door. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

“Thanks,” Donovan replied, and without making eye contact, he disappeared inside.

“Boh?” asked Dermot when he entered the room.

His shrewd gaze took in Donovan’s obvious distress and he pulled over his tray table and communication device. Donovan scooted
the chair close to the bed and sat stiffly on the edge of the seat.

“We need to talk, Da,” he said, tilting his head so that he could see the screen when his father typed. “About the DNA tests.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed to a pugnacious squint as he punched at the device. “Told truth! She’s not mine.”

“This isn’t about Rylie. It’s about you and me.”

A gray cloud of confusion passed across Dermot’s face and he gurgled an unintelligible question.

Taking a deep breath Donovan began. “The woman who did the tests is studying a trait passed from father to son.” He lifted
his gaze and watched Dermot carefully. “I told her to include you and me.”

Dermot’s face went a shade paler and his jaw twitched, but he made no sound. Donovan felt his own nails digging into his palms.

“I have the trait, but you don’t, Da.”

For a dozen agonizing heartbeats, Donovan held his breath. Dermot appeared to do the same. Neither of them moved. Finally
a single tear emerged from the corner of Dermot’s eye and slid down his grizzled cheek.

Donovan sucked in a noisy, searing breath of air. “You . . . You knew.” Somehow, he was on his feet, his hands loosening and
fisting convulsively. “You always knew, didn’t you?”

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Dermot gave what passed for a nod. A sob rattled in his chest.

Too many emotions and questions crashed through Donovan for him to give voice to any of them, so he paced to the end of the
bed and back, twice. On his third time, Dermot dashed his good hand across his eyes, then picked up the stylus. Donovan stopped
to peer over his shoulder.

“Luved her,” he typed. Then, “She luved U. Enuff 4 me.”

“Oh God, Da,” Donovan whispered, his knees threatening to buckle under him. “Oh God . . . Oh God . . . ”

He pulled Dermot into a fierce embrace, the mass of new implications threatening to overcome him. The old man’s scrawny shoulders
felt like brittle bird bones in the grip of his fingers, but he held Donovan equally tight with his good arm.

A commotion outside the door dragged Donovan back to reality. He could hear Rylie’s voice rising above several others, commanding
them not to interrupt. His father’s hand trembled and dropped away. Donovan loosened his own hold, stepped back and scrutinized
him. His breathing seemed shallow and rapid, his eyes dull with fatigue as he glanced from Donovan to the door and back.

Here was one more thing Dermot did not need to face. At least not at the moment.

Giving the old man’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, Donovan softly admonished, “Get some rest, Da. I’ll send that lot away.”

After a brief verbal tussle with the physical therapist, the nurse, and the hulking aide, Tommy, Donovan gladly let Rylie
lead him to the car. The charge nurse had agreed that as soon as she checked Dermot’s vitals, he wouldn’t be disturbed again
until lunchtime.

Once he’d fastened his seat belt, Donovan leaned against the headrest with a weary sigh.

“Are you all right?” Rylie asked for the third time as she backed the car out of the parking space.

“I hardly know,” he answered truthfully this time. He closed his eyes and felt the car turn out of the parking lot onto the
street before he added, “Given the circumstances, I guess I’m as well as can be expected.”

Rylie’s small hand settled atop his for a moment, feeling warm and soft and comforting somehow. “Do you want to talk about
. . . the circumstances?” Her hand fluttered away. “If you don’t want to, that’s all right.”

He opened his eyes and gazed at her profile, full cheek, pert nose, and determined chin. Her alluring mouth was pulled tight
with worry. Worry over him.

“No, I want to.”

She glanced at him when he spoke, her gray eyes tender with concern. Quickly, he looked away, disconcerted by the unexpected
answering response within him.

Trying to decide where to start, Donovan took a deep breath, and then he told her everything. How his mother had disappeared
right before they’d moved from the old cottage. How Dermot’s drinking grew worse and worse over the years. How he’d jumped
at the chance to study in America even though neither Dermot nor Doreen wanted him to go. How it was so much easier to never
look back.

Donovan hadn’t really intended to, but once he started, the words seemed to tumble out of their own accord. Someone else spoke,
calm and matter-of-fact, while he observed and Rylie drove and listened without comment. When the long recitation finally
ended, he sat for a dozen silent heartbeats, staring at his clenched hands.

“You were lucky.” Rylie spoke at last, her voice little more than a whisper. “Not many men can truly love a child they know
is not their own.” As Donovan digested this nugget of information she continued, a hint of abrasion in her tone. “My stepfather
cared for me, but it wasn’t the same. Especially not once my brothers were born.”

“What a bloody fool,” Donovan muttered. “How could any man not love you?”

A deep rosy color bloomed on her cheeks. “Plenty haven’t.” Then after a brief pause, she asked, “Is this the right road to
Belfast?”

“Belfast?” he echoed, pronouncing the word like she did, like a Yank. “Yes, but why?”

“Because I’m taking you to get a decent cup of coffee.”

Since it was Saturday, the streets teemed with people and parking was scarce, but eventually they found Starbucks and a nearby
car park. Soon they settled at a secluded table over very large hot drinks. Rylie’s instincts were brilliant. He did feel
better after sipping a fortifying cup of dark roast.

“Maybe when we’re done, we can do some sightseeing,” she suggested. “I’ve heard the Ulster Museum is good.”

Donovan couldn’t stop a grimace. “Last time I was in the Ulster Museum, I was thirteen and ended up face down on the floor
in front of a display of Celtic jewelry.”

“Oops. Guess museums aren’t high on your list of things to do,” she said, fingering her latte cup. “We could stroll around
the botanical gardens. Or there’s always shopping.”

Purposefully, he made another face and she laughed, the rich sound sending sensual awareness across his nervous system. He
glanced at his watch, then out the window at the puffy clouds dotting the sky.

“Let’s go next door and get some sandwiches,” he said, gulping down the last of his coffee. “Then I’ll take you to see the
Giant’s Causeway, where legend has it that the Ulster warrior, Finn MacCool, scooped the earth from Lough Neagh and threw
it into the sea to make a pathway to his lady love in Scotland.”

Silvery lights sparkled in Rylie’s eyes, sending another wash of heat through him as she finished off her own drink.

“You Ulster boys know how to impress a lady,” she mused with a saucy grin.

“I’m afraid old Finn set the bar rather high.”

He held her jacket for her.

“Not for you,” she murmured with a knowing lift of her eyebrows.

Images of the wildly pleasurable things they’d done last night danced across his mind. He had only meant to comfort her, but
his libido had gotten completely out of hand. And then she had been amazing.

He’d had his share of flings, to be sure, especially once he learned how American girls loved a lad with a brogue. But making
love with Rylie had felt different somehow.

With an inward groan, Donovan shoved those disconcerting thoughts aside and held open the door of the deli. Now, more than
ever, he had no right to such feelings. This latest revelation gave him enough baggage to clog bloody Heathrow.

Rylie ducked under his arm and walked inside the store. They bought fresh sandwiches, crisps, and bottles of water, which
they took to the car. Donovan drove out of the city and up the main motorway through Ballymena to the Antrim coast.

The weather held though, as always, winds buffeted the coastal cliffs. He pulled into a turnout so that they could eat overlooking
the sea. However, the breeze proved too strong and they were forced to finish their meal inside the car.

“What island is that?” she asked between bites.

Donovan gazed at the barren dark hump. “Rathlin, famous for two things, Robert the Bruce and Guglielmo Marconi.”

“Oh, right, I remember reading that in a guide book,” she said, expression thoughtful. “A Scottish king and an inventor.”

“Only Robert the Bruce was an outlaw when he hid in a cave on Rathlin, a wanted fugitive.” Donovan finished off his sandwich
while he watched her expression change. He could plainly hear her thoughts echoing his.
One man’s hero is another’s outlaw.

“I suppose the guide book related the story about the spider?” he said instead. “How watching it try and try to spin a web
motivated the Bruce to fight again.”

Rylie nodded, pouring the last slivers of her crisps into her hand. “Spiders give me the creeps.”

She finished off the crumbs and the rest of her sandwich before she spoke again. “I borrowed the B&B manager’s computer this
morning and emailed the private investigator.” Her eyes remained fixated on the car windscreen. “I sent her the info on Christy
Reilly and asked her to try and locate him.”

He took a swig of water to clear his throat before he asked, “In the prison, you mean?”

Nodding again, she turned to face him, her pretty mouth pulled tight and her chin pointed up in stubborn defiance. “It’s something
I need to do, Donovan. The whole reason I came here.”

At the moment, the new knowledge of his parentage was too raw for him to comprehend, but because this was her, empathy arose
from an elemental place within him. “Well, if he’s still in Northern Ireland it’ll be simple, for there’s only one real prison
left, and it’s just outside Belfast.”

“Really?” Realization and something akin to hope flashed across her face.

All he could picture was her, his wee golden princess, waltzing into a maximum-security facility. Donovan winced. “But that’s
no place for you to go. Not alone.”

“You’re probably right.” She dropped her gaze to her hands. “Would you go with me? If it is the one near Belfast, I mean.”

The disturbing turn his visions had taken with the dead man in the fens caused him to shudder at the possibilities of what
might happen if he went into a prison. However, this was Rylie asking, and heaven knew he could deny her nothing.