Authors: Loucinda McGary
The Wild Sight (22 page)
Rylie’s stomach lurched and her breath caught.
Would
this nightmare never be over?
“Oh,” she murmured, her hand rising to the stitches at her throat.
“Don’t worry,” Doreen reassured. “I’m sure Donovan shall be here directly.” And she disappeared out the door without another
word.
In spite of Donovan’s foreboding, they arrived without mishap. Heaney screeched the Beamer to an illegal halt right in front
of the hospital’s main doors.
“Good luck, O’Shea. And if she turns you down, I intend to try my luck!”
“You wish,” Donovan retorted, slamming the car door behind himself. For an attorney, Heaney was a decent enough sort.
With a jaunty wave and a squeal of tires, Heaney departed. By the time Donovan reached Rylie’s room on the third floor, his
aching leg had made him forget all about his headache. ’Twas hardly nine in the morning and he felt as if he’d spent a twelve-hour
day at hard labor.
However, he immediately forgot that too. As soon as he stepped through the door, she cried out his name and flew at him, nearly
knocking him over. She wore a filmy blue-green nightgown that he quickly discovered left most of her back bare. The moment
his hands touched her silken skin, a wave of raw desire ripped through him and sprang his lad to full alert. He felt a tiny
half step from heaven itself.
“Oh God, Donovan! I was so worried,” she babbled into the front of his new leather jacket. “Doreen said you went . . . ” She
choked on the rest, tightening her grip on him.
“’Tis all right, sweetheart,” he soothed. “I’m all right.”
He rubbed his cheek across the top of her head and realized he’d forgotten to shave when her soft hair caught in the stubble
of his beard.
“Are you sure?” Rylie pulled back and met his gaze, tears shining in her stormy gray eyes. “Did you . . . see anything . .
. in the fens?”
Donovan dropped his left hand and gripped the cane to steady himself. “I saw McRory.” She blanched at his words, so he rushed
to add. “He’s found peace.”
She gave a shaky sigh. “Was . . . was that all?”
“Nothing else. I swear.”
Very carefully, so that he didn’t jostle her injured arm, he threaded his right hand into her hair and drew her face to his.
Bending his head, he brushed his mouth across her upturned lips.
“So it’s over,” she breathed against his cheek. Then hooking her arm around his neck, she plunged her tongue into his mouth.
Caught off guard, Donovan swayed unsteadily and had to push her away. “It may be over for now,” he blurted, the lead weight
back in his stomach. “But I still have The Sight or curse or whatever ’tis.”
Rylie planted her right fist against her hip and stuck out her pointed little chin. “I don’t care. I love you, Donovan, and
that’s all that matters to me.” And then she launched herself at him again.
This time he met the onslaught of her tongue with his own, but only for a moment. They were dangerously close to toppling
over, so he broke the kiss after one luxuriant taste.
“I love you too,” he affirmed. “But right now, my very weak flesh needs to sit down.”
“So I guess the rooftops are still out.”
Donovan hobbled to the nearest chair and collapsed into it. “I’m afraid so.”
She perched on the wooden chair arm and ruffled his hair. “Better watch out. Your sister has plans to marry us off by Christmas.”
He captured her hand and placed a wet kiss squarely in her palm. “Would that be so bad?”
Rylie gasped, eyes round with shock. “Yes—No—I mean . . . ” Flustered, she gave him a little shove. “You’re the one who doesn’t
know how to do long term.”
Grabbing her hand again, Donovan unzipped his jacket and pressed her palm flat against his rapidly beating heart. Which belonged
to her anyway.
“You told me I only had to do three days.”
Then his lips claimed hers. Her tongue met his in a wild, eager duel. He knew he would never tire of the hot, sweet taste
of her. The tangy satin inside her mouth. The hard peaks of her nipples. The sensual heat of her surrounding him, making him
whole. Forever would scarcely be enough time.
Before desire burned away the last vestiges of his reason, Donovan broke the kiss, and leaned his forehead against hers. They
were both panting.
“As I was saying,” he remarked when he finally caught his breath. “Considering the past three days, I think long term shouldn’t
be a problem.”
“Piece of cake,” Rylie huffed. After a long inhale she added, “Besides, we can always postpone the ceremony until spring.”
Donovan shook his head. “I don’t plan to be anywhere near this place come Beltane.”
“Bell what?” She slid on the chair arm and almost fell into his lap, her breasts brushing erotically across his forearm. He
had to stifle a groan at the intimate contact.
“Beltane is an ancient Celtic holy day, like Samhain.” Unable to resist nuzzling the tender flesh behind her ear, Donovan
cut off further explanation. He wasn’t made of stone after all. Well, at least not all of him.
“Oh right,” Rylie agreed, a breathy moan slipping out at the touch of his mouth. “Smart man . . . very smart man.” And she
kissed him again.
The End
THE VILLAGE OF BALLYNEAGH IS WHOLLY FICTITIOUS BUT the other towns and cities in the book, Armagh, Dungannon, Ballymena, Portadown,
Newtownabbey, and of course Belfast all exist, though not exactly as portrayed by this author. The Giant’s Causeway and Rathlin
Island are also real locales and the author tried to render both as accurately as possible.
The fens of Lough Neagh do exist, though not in the precise location presented in this story. These natural wetlands are extensive
and located on both the east and west shores of the lough. At least one portion in County Armagh is designated as a national
nature reserve.
The Niall Marker is a real gender-specific genetic trait that has been traced back to the fifth-century High King of Ireland,
Niall of the Nine Hostages. Research studies indicate that as many as fifteen percent of the men in Ireland (both the Republic
and the North) carry it.
WRITING MAY BE A SOLITARY ACTIVITY, BUT NO BOOK IS created in a vacuum, certainly not this one. Many people’s combined efforts
were necessary to see this story into print and while I cannot hope to thank every person who contributed, I would like to
acknowledge and thank the following:
First and foremost, the love of my life, Dave, who took me to Ireland and so many other wonderful places. I am forever grateful
(if sometimes undeserving) for your unfailing belief and support of my writing, and for your unique artist’s perspective.
My editor Deb Werksman, who pulled my baby out of the slush and loved it as much as I do.
Marlyn A. Farley, my
First Reader Extraordinaire,
who read my fumbling efforts for decades and remained positive and encouraging. I would never be here without you!
My face-to-face critique partners, Aimee Carper, Cathy Decker, and Jo Lewis-Robertson who cared enough to bleed all over this
manuscript and help me make it the very best story I could write.
My BFFs (Best Friends Forever) and head cheerleaders, Whit and Shirl. And the other members of my cheerleading squad, especially:
Sharen, Debbie J., Pam W., Michele, Terri S., Dennis, Alice, Phyllis, Kathy E., Donee Sue, and Guy, and others too numerous
to name but you know who you are.
All my wonderful on-line (and sometimes in person) writer-buddies who shared experiences, opinions, and commiserated, especially
Diana Duncan, Willie Ferguson, Tina Ferraro, and Debrah Williamson. The ’06 Packers in general and the other nineteen members
of the Romance Bandits in particular. Banditas
rock
!
BLESSED WITH THE GIFT OF “IRISH BLARNEY” LOUCINDA McGary (everyone calls her Cindy) became a storyteller shortly after she
learned to read. If she didn’t like the way a story ended she made up her own ending. In high school Cindy wrote stories featuring
herself, her friends, and their favorite movie and rock stars. After college she published a couple dozen poems in magazines
and even wrote a couple novels. Then life intervened. Family and career became her top priorities, though she could never
quite stop dabbling in writing. She also developed an almost legendary love of travel that took her all over the United States
and abroad.
A long-time reader of romances, Cindy discovered and joined Romance Writers of America in 2001. At the end of 2003 she decided
to leave her management career to pursue her twin passions of travel and writing. Cindy likes to set her romantic and suspenseful
novels in some of the fascinating places she has visited.
Cindy loves to hear from readers, writers, and just about everybody! Please drop her an email:
Or send her a postcard for her ever-increasing collection:
P.O. Box 15492
Sacramento, CA 95813