The Wild Sight (6 page)

“Boh?” he grunted and craned his head to see if there was anyone behind her.

“No,” the nurse replied. She placed his breakfast tray on top of the nightstand, and pushed the rolling table back within
his reach. “But Miss Rylie Powell has come all the way from America to see you.”

“Nuh,” Dermot growled like a petulant child and pointed at the door.

“Hear her out, Dermot,” Mrs. Garvey scolded, motioning Rylie forward. “’Tis the least you can do.”

The scowl on the mobile half of his face reminded Rylie of the expression Donovan had worn yesterday morning when he first
saw her.
Like father, like son.

The nurse plunked the plastic communication device on the tabletop in front of Dermot, gave her a nod, then stepped back.
Setting her purse on the floor, Rylie poked inside the brown envelope, pulled out the picture of her mother and laid it on
Dermot’s tray.

“Do you recognize her? That’s my mother, Jennifer Laski.” She took a deep breath then added, “She died of cancer six months
ago.”

Dermot shook his shaggy head, then reached for the stylus attached to his communication device. “Sorry” flashed across the
screen, followed by, “Pretty. Like you.”

Breaking eye contact, Rylie pulled out the other photos and placed the one of her as a toddler with her mother in front of
him. “Maybe you recognize her here? Twenty-seven years ago, when she was a student at NYU, she married an Irishman, and a
year later they had me.” She laid out the photos of her with her father. “I have no memory of my father, and my mother seldom
spoke of him. But my birth certificate lists his name as Dermot O’Shea.”

“Nuh,” Dermot insisted and tapped out “Not me” on his communication device.

She smoothed the copy of her birth certificate on top of the photos and stared unflinchingly into his pale eyes. “Your son
told me you spent a lot of time in Liverpool thirty or so years ago. My mother said my father came from Liverpool, and before
that Belfast.”

The muscles in Dermot’s jaw clenched. He stabbed the stylus at the words “Not me” still on the screen. Then he tapped out,
“I luvd Moira.”

Donovan’s mother.
Tears blurred Rylie’s vision and she squeezed her eyes shut to keep them from spilling out. After taking a couple of deep
steadying breaths, she finally dared to open her eyes and speak again.

“So if you’re not my father, then you won’t mind taking a DNA test.” She did not make it a question.

Dermot gave an unintelligible grunt and another of his half-scowls. For the briefest moment, Rylie thought she saw something
flare in the depths of his pale blue eyes.

“’Tis a very simple test,” the nurse interceded, patting Dermot’s shoulder. “Just a cotton swab inside your mouth. Doesn’t
hurt a bit.”

The old man’s gaze moved from Rylie to the nurse and back again. He shoved Rylie’s photos and birth certificate toward her,
then tapped out, “Yes.”

Giving a nod of approval, Mrs. Garvey patted his shoulder again, “There now, that’s more like it.”

Rylie swept her things back into the envelope, careful not to touch Dermot’s gnarled fingers. Instead of feeling triumphant,
she felt oddly deflated.

“You can pick up a test kit at the hospital,” Mrs. Garvey informed her. “’Tis only three blocks away. I’ll call the lab so’s
they can have one ready for you, shall I?”

“I’d really appreciate it.” Without looking at Dermot again, Rylie turned and walked with the nurse out into the hall.

“Tommy!” the woman bellowed down the corridor. “Help Mr. O’Shea with his bath and change his clothes.” Then she turned to
Rylie. “I’ll make that call straight away. Can you find the hospital? The lab’s on the bottom floor at the back.”

Nodding, Rylie shuffled out the front door, through the still drizzling rain to her car.

The wiper blades on the Morris left more water on the windscreen than they removed. Donovan squinted through the smears as
he turned into the parking lot of Holy Family. Just as he suspected, Rylie’s dark blue rental car occupied the same spot as
yesterday. Cursing under his breath, he pulled into the empty space next to it.

He should have driven straight here and not bothered to stop at her B&B first. But when the manager told him Rylie had left
early, he’d known exactly where she went. Heaven knew how long she’d been here and what she’d been doing. This was his punishment
for forgetting to set his alarm. After a restless night, he’d finally fallen asleep sometime after one and woke up just before
eight.

Still muttering curses, he slammed the car door and strode toward the entrance. Inside his jacket pocket, his mobile rang
for the third time this morning, and for the third time, he ignored it. Doreen, or whoever was calling, could just wait awhile
longer. He shoved through the door, and seeing no one at the front nurses’ station, didn’t slow his pace until he reached
his father’s room.

Without stopping to knock, he thrust open the door. His father sat in the chair, the nurse on one side of him, and Rylie on
the other.

“Precisely what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Rylie met his gaze then turned and wouldn’t look at him, while the nurse gave him a haughty glare. “Morning, Mr. O’Shea. Your
father consented to give a DNA sample for Miss Powell.” She secured the cotton swab she held inside a plastic container and
handed it to Rylie. “There ya go, m’dear.”

Shoving the container into her purse, Rylie finally looked at him again. Her flinty eyes sparked with challenge.

Donovan chose to ignore her for the moment and addressed his father instead. “Is this true, Da?”

Dermot gave what passed for a nod and a grunt of approval.

“Has anyone else been in to see you this morning?”

“Nuh,” his father answered.

“But the physical therapist is due any minute,” the nurse chimed in at the same time. “He’s working with Mrs. O’Halloran right
now. So I’m afraid you can’t stay long.”

Donovan gave the nurse an equally frosty glower, then addressed his father in a low, tightly controlled tone. “Remember what
I said yesterday about the PSNI, Da. They will find out the truth of it.”

“Nuh,” Dermot repeated, then gurgled a half-intelligible obscenity.

Donovan could feel his control starting to slip. “Fine, have it your way then.”

Before he finished speaking, the old man’s pale eyes moved from him to Rylie and back again.

“Boh?” Dermot grunted, glancing sidelong at Rylie once more.

A rap on the door prevented Donovan from questioning his father further. The physical therapist stuck his head inside.

“Time for your session, Mr. O’Shea.”

“Out with the pair of you.” The nurse shooed Rylie and him in front of her as if they were wayward lambs.

Donovan didn’t bid his father good-bye and he noticed Rylie didn’t either. When they reached the entrance, the nurse bustled
off to her office. He positioned himself between Rylie and the front door, blocking her exit.

“Why didn’t you call me back last night?” His tone sounded a bit sharper than he’d intended.

Her eyes jerked up and confronted him. “I didn’t want to talk to you.”

He took a deep breath and unclenched his hands. “Well, I wanted to apologize to you. I lost my head, and I’m very sorry I
upset you.”

She looked away, dark lashes sweeping down. His fingers twitched, and he battled an unreasoning urge to reach for her.

“Are you angry at me for . . . ” She glanced at her purse. “Coming here and . . . you know.”

Still trying to control his unruly libido, Donovan shook his head. “Of course not, though I am surprised Dermot agreed.”

“Me too,” she said in a distinctly disappointed voice. “They told me at the hospital lab that it could take two or three weeks
to get the results.”

“And you have to go home before then,” he finished for her.

She nodded, shoulders drooping in defeat. Her dejection and vulnerability sent a wave of empathy washing over him. Not knowing
your own parentage must be bloody awful. Was that what made him want to comfort Rylie Powell? Put the sparkle back in her
eyes?

Before he could curse himself for a fool, a sudden inspiration struck. “Didn’t Professor McRory say his wife specialized in
DNA? Maybe she could do the test more quickly.”

Rylie’s head snapped up, and hope colored her cheeks. “Do you think we can talk her into it?”

Another recollection made Donovan snort. “I think you’d have no trouble talking the professor into anything.”

“Like I would,” Rylie said with an enormous roll of her eyes. “Besides, that won’t score any points with his
wife.
”

“You’re right, I’m afraid.” Seeing her disdain for McRory gave his ego a healthy boost. “So I guess it’s up to me then.”

He pulled out his mobile, which showed three voicemail messages. Ignoring them, he found McRory’s number and punched it in,
then walked over to a quiet corner of the entrance so that his conversation couldn’t be overheard. Though she shifted her
feet in anticipation, Rylie hung back a discrete distance.

McRory answered on the second ring, and after exchanging greetings, Donovan came directly to the point. “I need to ask a favor.”

When it came down to sharing the details with the professor, Donovan experienced a momentary stab of regret over his hasty
decision. Something in him didn’t like McRory, and not just because he was cheating on his wife. But there was no help for
it now. Taking a deep breath, he laid out the essentials as briefly as possible.

“’T would be bloody bad luck if the lovely lass turned out to be your sister,” McRory mused with an undertonethat set Donovan’s
teeth on edge. “I can see how you’d want to clear that up soon as you could.”

Biting back a pithy retort, Donovan asked, “Since your wife is an expert on DNA, would she be willing to run the tests?”

“I expect she would, especially if you and your father were willing to be part of her study. She’s doing extensive research
that tracks DNA on the male chromosome.” McRory gave a lecherous chuckle. “She tries to recruit every man she meets. Fortunately,
’tis only a swab of the cheek that she needs.”

A true case of the pot and the kettle.

“Could we bring the samples to her today?” Donovan asked instead.

“That’d be grand. I’ll be working on reports all day and the break will be welcome. Can you get here by tea time?”

At Donovan’s affirmative, they settled on a meeting time and place. McRory gave him directions and assured him that his wife
would run the tests.

Just as Donovan was about to ring off, McRory asked, “Did Inspector Lynch get hold of you yet? Seems they’ve already identified
the body from his remaining finger prints.”

“Not yet.” One of those missed calls was undoubtedly the inspector. “So the man must have been in one of their databases.
Was he some sort of criminal?”

“Indeed, a most nasty sort,” the professor replied, sounding a bit smug. “A member of the old IRA splinter group the Provos.
Lynch said his name was Malachy Flynn.”

“Never heard of him or the Provos.” Both mercifully true.

But McRory wasn’t quite ready to let it go. “Apparently during the heyday of The Troubles, the Provos were quite active in
County Armagh, with a lot of local supporters. Lynch seems to think your father might have been one of them.”

“My father was never in the IRA,” Donovan quickly denied.

“Well, ’twas all a very long time ago, wasn’t it?” McRory said a bit too smoothly. “See you and the lovely Rylie at four.”
And he rang off.

Chapter 6

BY THE TIME DONOVAN LIMPED UP IN THEMORRIS, RYLIE’S rented car sat at the curb in front of the Ballyneagh pub. He turned beside
the bakery and parked around back. Inside the pub, Rylie sat in the snug closest to the window, waiting for him.

“Here’s our boyo now!” Gerry Partlan announced to the half-dozen patrons, who all craned their necks in Donovan’s direction.
“A spot to eat for you and the pretty wan?”

The smell of lentil soup wafting in from the kitchen reminded Donovan that he’d skipped breakfast. Reining in his annoyance
he answered, “Fine, Gerry. Thanks.”

While the publican scurried into the kitchen, Donovan ducked behind the bar and pulled two bottles of mineral water from the
fridge under the counter. He could feel every eye in the place watch his progress as he crossed the floor to join Rylie. Dressed
in a purple v-neck sweater and khaki trousers, she sipped from a glass of soda. Back at Holy Family, he hadn’t noticed what
she wore, or that several strands of her hair loosely framed her face. His pulse stuttered when she looked up at him.

He plunked the bottles of water in the center of the table and slid onto the padded bench across from her. “I thought we should
have lunch before we go to Queen’s.” “Good idea,” she said, then watched Gerry Partlan wend his way toward them with two bowls
of soup, a heap of champ, and soda bread arranged on a tray.

The portly bartender set the food down with a flourish, his eyes flicking between them with a speculative gleam. “And what
else might the two of you be needin’?”

“Nothing else, thanks,” Donovan replied. When Gerry showed no signs of leaving, he added, “But Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Sheridan
appear to need your assistance.”

Taking the hint, Partlan ambled off. Rylie’s stiff posture visibly relaxed. They ate in silence, not looking at one another
until their hands knocked together when they both reached for the last piece of bread.

“I’ll just split it.” Donovan tore the bread into two roughly equal if ragged hunks.

Rylie murmured her thanks, smeared on some butter and quickly finished her potatoes. Momentarily mesmerized by the movement
of her alluring mouth, Donovan realized he was staring and gave himself a mental slap. He polished off his own bread in two
large bites then gulped down the last of his water.

“All set then?”

Rylie nodded and he rose and held her bright yellow rain jacket for her.

“I have your sweatshirt in the Morris.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, remembering why she’d left it behind. “Shall
I go get it?”

She shook her head. Her tightly pressed lips told him she was thinking the same thing.

“Later,” she murmured, and handed him the keys to her car.

They reached the front door the same time as Ballyneagh’s two chief matrons. Donovan held the door for Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs.
Sheridan.

“Going sightseeing, then?” Mrs. Sheridan asked, giving first Rylie and then him a measuring glance.

Mustering up his most charming smile, Donovan nodded. “Belfast.”

“A pity it’s still raining,” said Mrs. Cassidy, also eyeing both of them. “But you’ll have a splendid time to be sure.”

“Splendid,” Donovan repeated with a tad too much enthusiasm.

Mrs. Cassidy raised one eyebrow before she and her friend turned and walked toward the grocer’s. As Donovan held the car door
for Rylie, he saw the two women pause in front of the barbershop, heads together, twittering. Yet another thing he hated about
small town Irish life. Everyone within a ten-kilometer radius would be discussing his and Rylie’s excursion to Belfast by
supper. He slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the car door.

“Splendid,” Rylie cooed in a perfect echo of him.

They both laughed.

In spite of the persistent rain, the drive to Belfast passed pleasantly. To Rylie’s relief, Donovan appeared to be unperturbed
by her visit to Dermot and the DNA test. He never brought it up, so neither did she.

Instead they stayed on neutral, congenial topics. He talked about the culture shock he’d experienced when he first moved to
America. Then he did a sidesplitting rendition of his Uncle Izzy’s Jersey accent and contrasted it to Gerry Partlan’s leprechaun
brogue.

When she finally stopped laughing, Rylie took her turn at doing her best gum snapping, Valley girl imitations of her old classmates.
Then she entertained him with some gross dentistry stories, and he admitted that being a CPA paled in comparison. By the time
the tall brick and stone buildings of Belfast appeared on the horizon, they felt like old friends. At least on the surface.

Rylie hadn’t ventured closer than the Belfast airport when she’d arrived, and the city proved to be a noisy maze of winding
streets, congested traffic, and Old World architecture. Within a few minutes of entering the city proper, Rylie felt thankful
Donovan was driving. No way could she have negotiated her way through the mess. In the rain. And on the wrong side of the
road to boot! She readily expressed her gratitude.

Donovan flashed one of his dazzling smiles. “I’ll let you reward me with a small libation.”

Before she could protest that he didn’t drink, he made an abrupt left turn that robbed her of breath. Then he whipped the
car down a narrow side street and nosed it into a parking space. She grabbed her purse and hurried after him. He stood on
the corner, pointing across the street.

“There it is!” He cried. “Nectar of the gods.”

She stared at a familiar green awning.

Starbucks.

Amid much kidding and laughter, she ordered herself a cappuccino and him the largest cup of dark roast they sold.

“Yanks,” muttered the multi-tattooed barista as he gave Rylie her change.

“Ulster forever, Connacht never,” Donovan retorted in what sounded like only a half-joking tone.

When they reached the car, he explained, “Two of the five kingdoms of Ancient Ireland. Deadly enemies.”

Rylie decided not to ask how he knew the barista was from Connacht.

She’d just finished her cappuccino when they arrived at Queen’s University. Donovan drove around the stately red brick buildings
for ten minutes until he found a parking spot. “At least the rain has stopped,” he observed, as they got out of the car and
hiked across the wet grass.

As they had prearranged, Professor McRory waited for them in the lobby of the building they entered. He clapped Donovan on
the back and kissed her on both cheeks in greeting, a gesture she had no intention of returning. The moment she’d realized
that McRory was married and also messing around with Sybil Gallagher, all Rylie could see was his smarmy nature.

“My wife’s lab is on the second story,” he said, motioning toward the staircase. “She’s expecting us.”

With McRory leading the way, Rylie stuck close behind Donovan. If her probable half-brother noticed, he gave no indication.
He took a couple more gulps of his coffee, and set the over-sized paper cup on the edge of the ash can next to the door at
the top of the stairs.

“Hard to believe the two of you are related,” McRory said.

“We’re not,” Donovan answered in a tone that dared anyone to disagree.

Of course, Rylie couldn’t help but rise to the challenge. “Guess we’ll find out.”

McRory looked far too pleased at her sassy response as he rapped on a glass-paned door.

“Indeed we shall.” He opened the door and called out, “Here we are, darlin’.” Then gestured Rylie and Donovan inside.

Dressed in a white lab coat, a tall woman with a single red braid down her back turned to greet them.

“I’m Dr. Brenna Murphy McRory.” Laugh lines webbed the corners of her golden brown eyes when she smiled and extended a latex-gloved
hand. “Oh, sorry.” She snapped off the glove and offered her hand again. “You must be Rylie and Donovan O’Shea.”

“Rylie Powell,” Rylie corrected, shaking her hand.

“At least until we find out differently,” McRory interjected.

Donovan shot the professor a withering glare, then stuck out his own hand. “Charmed to meet you, Dr. Murphy McRory.” His voice
was chilly in its formality.

“Brenna, please,” insisted McRory’s wife.

She looked five or six years older than her husband, which would put her in her early forties. Roughly twice Sybil Gallagher’s
age.
Time for a new model?
Rylie bit her lower lip to keep from sneering at McRory.

“Charmed, Brenna.” Donovan repeated, his tone still bordering on glacial.

“I really appreciate you doing this,” Rylie jumped in to avoid an awkward silence. “It’s just that I’m only here for ten more
days, and I’d really like to know . . . ” She could feel Donovan’s disapproving gaze and her voice trailed away.

Brenna McRory’s golden eyes flicked between Donovan and her. “Yes, Aongus explained your—situation.” She cleared her throat.
“In spite of what you see on American telly, paternity tests aren’t a simple matter of yes or no. A series of genetic markers
must be identified and compared.”

Rylie could feel her hopes plummeting as Brenna McRory spoke. “How long does that take?”

“Oh, only a day or two,” the older woman reassured. “I’ve all my equipment set up and I was preparing a batch of specimens
for my own research project. I’ve isolated a specific genetic marker and tied it back to the Irish High King, Niall of the
Nine Hostages.”

“He was the original forefather of the O’Neill clan,” the professor interrupted his wife. “And quite a prolific old carouser.”
He cast a sly glance at Donovan. “I’d say our Donovan would be a good subject to include in your study, Brenna. With his dark
hair and blue eyes, he appears to be the only true Celt amongst us. I don’t have the marker myself.” He brushed at his sandy
brown hair and added, “Too much Viking blood.”

“I don’t mind being part of your study,” Rylie quickly volunteered. “Even though I know I’m half Polish.”

“A most kind offer,” said McRory’s wife. “But I’m afraid this marker is gender specific, found only on the male chromosome.”

“I’ll be happy to volunteer.” Donovan’s crossed arms and stiff stance belied his words, but he added, “And since you’ll already
be testing my father’s DNA, you might as well include him in your data.”

Brenna smiled beatifically. “I’m most appreciative. The more data I collect, the more indisputable my findings.” She pulled
on a fresh latex glove and extracted a sterile swab from its blister pack. “I just need to swipe the inside of your cheek.”

Uncrossing his arms, Donovan leaned down and opened his mouth. As Dr. McRory stuck the swab inside, Rylie experienced an uncomfortable
flash from last night, of the feel of Donovan’s tongue, the warm smoothness inside his mouth. Hot blood rising in her face,
she turned quickly away and pretended to study the equipment in the lab. The only thing she recognized was a centrifuge. An
unexpected tap on her arm startled her.

“If you’ll be so kind as to give me the other samples,” Brenna said, an astute gleam in her whiskey-colored eyes. “I shall
have all of them prepped in a few minutes. Then we can go to tea.”

Feeling foolish, Rylie pulled the plastic bag from her purse and handed it to the other woman. At the same time, Donovan’s
cell phone rang. Flipping it open, he frowned.

“Sorry, I need to take this,” he apologized, and slipped out the door into the hallway.

Rylie fought the urge to follow him. With Donovan out of the room and Brenna engrossed in her DNA samples, she was left alone,
facing the professor. His toothy grin looked lecherous.

“So tell me about Niall of the Nine Hostages,” she said, seeking a diversion.

“Ah, yes, Niall Noigíallach,” the professor pronounced the name with ease. “That’s what he’s called in the mother tongue.
He was High King around the middle of the fifth century. Legend says he kept the peace by taking high-born hostages from each
of the five king doms of Ireland as well as the Scots, Saxons, Britons, and French.”

Obviously enjoying his subject, McRory droned on about Niall’s prowess in battle and the disputed location of his death. Leaning
against the nearest counter, Rylie pretended to listen, but her eyes kept flicking to the door in hopes that Donovan would
reappear.

“Brenna’s studies indicate that as many as fifteen to twenty per cent of all the men in Ireland carry the Niall marker,” the
professor continued. “That many descendants puts him second only to Genghis Khan in proliferation.”

That explained why McRory admired the guy.
Rylie’s sardonic thoughts were interrupted by Donovan’s return. He walked up, scowl firmly in place. At the sight of him,
Rylie’s stomach did a funny little flip that felt anything but sisterly. She would soon know for sure.

McRory’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “Inspector Lynch?”

“My sister,” Donovan replied shortly. “Ready to go?” To Rylie’s relief, he stepped between her and the professor.

“I thought we’d take Rylie to tea at the Crown Liquor Saloon,” McRory cut in smoothly before she could answer. “’Tis quite
something to see. Brenna will be finished directly and we can all go in the same car.”

“I know where it is,” Donovan countered. “We’ll meet you there.”

For a brief second, a shadow passed over the professor’s smiling countenance, but he quickly said, “Grand.” Then he called
over his shoulder, “Brenna, darlin’, are you ready? We’re all going to the Crown.”

“Another minute,” she called back.

“Meet you at the bar,” Donovan said, and headed for the door.

Thankful for the rescue, Rylie broke into a jog to keep up with him. They reached the bottom of the stairs before she finally
got a chance to speak. “Was your sister calling about this DNA thing?”

Donovan gave a sketchy nod, which didn’t seem like a good sign.

“Was she mad—upset, I mean?”

“She wasn’t happy, but I expect she’ll get over it.”

He held the door and they walked outside. Even though it was still afternoon, the light was fading rapidly. In place of the
rain, a heavy mist hung low, and the grounds of the University resembled an old atmospheric movie set. She battled the urge
to call her brooding companion Heathcliff.