Quinn laughed, liking her immediately. “The woman’s obviously a genius. So how would you like a job as my Irish publicity rep?”
“I think you’d be in trouble,” she countered. “Being that there’s many in these parts who wouldn’t buy a book just because I recommended it.”
“Aunt Kate’s a witch,” Rory explained.
“A druid witch,” Celia tacked on.
Quinn was amused by the faint challenge that rose in Kate O’Sullivan’s blue eyes at this revelation. “As it happens, I’ve been playing with the idea of writing a witch heroine,” he said mildly. “Perhaps you’ll make time to consult with me while I’m here.”
It was her turn to laugh. “And wouldn’t that start tongues wagging?” Her smile was warm, belying the stereotype of the wicked witch of fairy tales. “Of course I’ll consult with you, Mr. Gallagher, if only to make certain you get it right.”
“There you go again.” Nora smiled with affection at her sister-in-law as she placed a flowered teacup in front of Quinn. “Stirring things up again.”
“The gods gave us all unique talents, Nora. Unfortunately stirring things up seems to be what I seem to do best.” Kate gave a slight sigh, then pulled out a chair across the table from Quinn, picked up her little red-haired daughter Brigid and plunked her on her lap.
Unlike the gregarious Rory Fitzpatrick, Kate O’Sullivan’s son, standing almost behind his mother’s chair, reminded Quinn vaguely of Maeve.
“Hi.” Quinn held out his hand. “My name’s Quinn. What’s yours?”
The boy shot a quick wary look up at his mother.
“Answer the man, darling,” Kate coaxed gently.
“Jamie.” He stared down at the floor. “Jamie O’Sullivan.”
The surname, which he hadn’t paid all that much attention to when Kate O’Sullivan had introduced herself, rang a bell. It was a common enough name in Ireland certainly, but Quinn knew without a single doubt that the bad-tempered, foulmouthed drunk in the pub was this little boy’s father. He also knew that the reason Jamie refused to shake his hand was not so much because he was shy. He was afraid.
And why not? Quinn thought grimly, knowing all too well how painful a man’s big rough hands could be.
He glanced up at Nora and read the regretful answer in her eyes. And in that suspended moment of shared concern for Kate O’Sullivan and her children, Quinn—who’d spent his entire life deftly avoiding involvement—felt as if he’d just taken a fatal misstep into quicksand.
Chapter Six
In Fortune’s Hand
Intending to retrieve his car, Quinn had put on his jacket and was headed for the front door when Brady called to him.
“From the looks of you, you’d be going out somewhere.”
“I thought I’d walk into town.” Quinn entered the book-filled room, which looked out over green rolling pastures and the distant sea beyond. The sun was brighter in this country renowned for rain than Quinn had expected. “I’m going to need my car to get to the shoot at the lake tomorrow.”
“Oh, you can’t be doing that, my boy.” Brady put down the book of Gaelic folktales he was reading on a nearby table. “It’s much too far to be walking. I’d offer to drive you myself, but I’ve a great deal of paperwork to do. The bills don’t pay themselves, don’t you know. And poor Nora, as lovely and sweet as she is, has never had a head for figures.”
He pushed himself from the overstuffed chair and began rummaging around in an old desk, finally locating a green ledger book.
“It’s no problem,” Quinn said. “The walk will do me good.” Especially after the unusually large breakfast he’d shared with Maeve.
“Truly, there’s no need for you to be doing that,” Brady said quickly. “Nora will be more than happy to drive you back into the village to fetch your automobile.”
“I don’t want to disturb her Sunday.”
“You won’t be disturbing her at all,” Brady assured him. “Aren’t you a guest? She wouldn’t be having you walk all that way into Castlelough.”
Quinn decided not to mention that he ran longer distances on a daily basis back home.
“Thanks for the suggestion.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Brady looked up from sharpening a yellow pencil with a penknife and beamed his approval. “Enjoy your Sunday drive, now.”
Quinn was on his way to the kitchen when he passed the parlor and saw Fionna sitting in front of the lace-covered window, knitting needles clacking.
“I expect you’ll be wanting a ride into the village to fetch your automobile?” she called out to him.
He paused in the doorway. “Actually I was planning to walk. Brady suggested Nora, but—”
“And isn’t that clever of my son to think of her?” Fionna’s smile, which echoed Brady’s, set internal alarms blaring. “Our Nora’s an excellent driver. And you couldn’t have a better tourist guide.”
“Surely your granddaughter has better things to do than chauffeur me around.”
“Now don’t you be worrying your head about that.” The knitting needles continued to clack with the speed of dueling rapiers in an old Errol Flynn movie. “The family can take up her chores for this one day.” With a brisk nod of her bright red-gold head, Fionna declared the subject closed.
It crossed Quinn’s mind that Nora’s father and grandmother seemed awful damn eager to get the two of them alone together. He wondered idly if they could actually be setting a trap for him, the rich Yank.
It wasn’t as if such schemes hadn’t succeeded before: get an American to marry you so you can get a green card to live legally in the States, then bring over your entire family on the next boat. Or plane, these days, he supposed.
The idea almost made him laugh. Fionna and Brady Joyce could set all the snares they chose. But in this case their prey was far too wary to be captured.
He’d planned to sneak out the kitchen door without being noticed, but found Nora where he’d left her earlier. The O’Sullivans had apparently departed and she’d changed from the dress she’d worn to church into a pair of jeans, a creamy sweater and a white apron.
She was kneading bread. The warm smell of the yeast coupled with the sight of her slender arms elbow deep in the mound of dough made Quinn’s gut twist with something indefinable.
“May I help you?” She glanced up at him with a smile, but her eyes were guarded. As well they should be, Quinn thought grimly. The widow Fitzpatrick was obviously intelligent enough to realize he was way out of her league. “Would you be liking a cup of tea? Or, perhaps, some coffee?”
“Nothing, thanks. I need to go into town to get my car. Brady suggested you’d be able to drive me, but I assured him I can walk.”
“Of course I’ll be taking you.” Again, her smile was pleasant, but self-protective barriers remained firmly in place in her eyes. “If you don’t mind waiting until I get this bread in the pan.”
“I don’t mind at all.” He turned a chair around, straddled it and leaned his arms on the top of the seat back. “I’ve never seen bread being made.”
She laughed at that. “What a deprived life you’ve led, then, Mr. Gallagher.”