She exhibited an uncanny way with horses, and spent hours each day with them. Even his bitchiest mares and orneriest stallions became big old marshmallows with Ceara. It was as if she had some magical way of communicating with them that other human beings lacked. Same went for Bubba and Billy Bob, who, despite Quincy’s sporadic efforts, had always been sorely lacking in social graces. Quincy had considered dog obedience classes, but he’d never had the time for it. Now, with his wife in the house, he had dogs that suddenly sat when told and didn’t jump up on him or put their paws on the edge of the table during a meal to beg for food. Quincy had always fondly called his Australian shepherds “Mexican jumping beans on speed,” but the description no longer fit. Even more amazing, he’d never seen Ceara use a cross tone with them or discipline them in any way; the animals simply worshiped her and seemed to sense what behaviors would please her and which ones wouldn’t.
Too bad he wasn’t gifted with the same intuition.
Well, Quincy was a goner, right along with Bubba and Billy Bob. How could any man in his right mind not fall in love with Ceara? She was sweet and funny and absolutely dear. That she was gorgeous was frosting on the cake. Being married to her was as easy as slipping his feet into a pair of old boots.
Only what about dating? And candlelight dinners? Or talking so long on the phone that their voices gave out, and they were happy to just hear each other breathe? Quincy felt as if the curse had cheated Ceara out of a proper courtship. He wished he could rectify that, but his days had become so busy, with not only a ranch to run, but also a wife who needed to be taught how to do nearly everything, that he honestly didn’t have much time for romance.
Ceara and his relationship was fraught with as much miscommunication as it was with pure fun. She found everything in his world peculiar, bewildering, or downright amazing as she familiarized herself with the twenty-first century: automobiles, ATVs, cell phones, radios, stereos, remote controls, computers, iPads, clothing on other women that she felt was indecent, television, Netflix, the theater, and fine restaurants.
On the following Friday night, a week and one day after their wedding, Quincy took his bride to a new French Creole restaurant that was so high-end there were no prices on the menu. Hello? He needed to court his wife, and she deserved nothing but the best.
It went without saying that Ceara couldn’t make sense of the entrée selections, but Quincy didn’t expect to be baffled himself. What the hell was Crevettes à la Créole or Langouste Grillée? He found himself regretting that he’d studied Spanish instead of French, but to be fair to himself, he’d dined in French places before and had no trouble deciphering the language. Ordering wine was easy enough, and he was feeling so inadequate by the time the waiter brought it to the table that he decided to drink his fair share of the bottle.
Apparently he was scowling, because Ceara asked, “What is it, Quincy? Ye look as if ye want to murder someone.”
He gave up on trying to act sophisticated. “I don’t know what the frigging hell to order.” Ouch. When it came to rough language, Ceara was a sponge. “Forget I said that, and don’t you say it again. Let me rephrase. I can’t read the damned menu.”
Her eyes danced with delight. “’Tis wonderful that ye canna. Nor can I.” She picked up her menu and squinted at the offerings. “We shall have an adventure!”
Quincy was afraid he’d accidentally order her snails. Most menus in a foreign language had all the entrées underscored with a translation into English to describe the dish. Not so at this joint. He personally enjoyed escargot, but he was afraid Ceara would gag as she tried to swallow. “Let’s try the Filet de Truite Florentine. At least I know what it is.”
She frowned. “I do na.”
Quincy had once seen the dish on a menu and explained that it was trout fried in a light batter and smothered in a tasty lemon sauce. Fried. His normally healthful diet was going to hell in a handbasket. He could almost feel his arteries going glug-glug in protest. He didn’t care. Being with Ceara was habit-forming, and if he took his last breath well before turning one hundred, at least he was finally enjoying the journey.
He poured them each some wine. He’d selected a white, slightly on the sweet side, even though he hadn’t known for sure what they would eat. Ceara wrinkled her nose when she took a sip; then she smiled. “Not champagne, but ’tis lovely.”
Her oval face glowed in the candlelight. Her eyes shimmered like sapphires. She was so beautiful, even in her funny-looking clothes, that his mouth went dry. He hoped as she gazed back at him that she was thinking similar thoughts about him. He’d decided to spruce up for the occasion and taken his Western-cut sports jacket out of storage. In addition to a dress shirt, he wore a string tie that boasted a hunk of amber imported from Japan. He felt downright fancy. Hell, he’d even spit-shined his boots.
The waiter came to take their order. Ceara surprised Quincy by holding the menu up and pointing to a selection he couldn’t see, saying, “I’ll be trying this, if ye please.”
Quincy hoped it wasn’t something awful, but what the hell. She seemed to be delighted to have a culinary adventure with him. Maybe, he decided, his not knowing how to read the menu made her feel on more equal ground. His being suave and sophisticated clearly didn’t matter to her. He relaxed and began to enjoy the dinner.
Remembering the films of Ceara that he’d studied after her surprising invasion of his arena, he asked her how she so easily charmed his difficult horses, particularly Beethoven.
“’Tis one of me gifts, understanding animals.” She fluttered her fingertips near her temple. “I have lost much of it. Afore coming forward, I could talk to them inside me head. Now that is gone.” A sad look settled on her lovely features, but then she brightened. “’Tis no big deal.” Her cheeks went pink. “That is how ye say it? When something does na matter, I mean.”
Quincy nodded. “I’m sorry you’ve lost so many of your gifts.”
“I’ve not lost all of them. It’s only that the ones I still have are weaker.” She rested her elbows on the table and fingered her pretty lace shawl, the ends of which she’d looped over her breasts. “’Tis strange. When I use me gifts now, it makes me shaky in the legs and a wee bit ill.”
“Then don’t use them.”
She laughed and tugged her braid forward over her shoulder. “’Tis like asking me to stop breathing. If I said to ye, ‘Stop seeing,’ could ye do it? Me gifts . . . well, I’ve always had them. ’Tis like using yer hands to pick up things. Ye do not think before ye do it.”
Just then the maître d’, followed by a waiter with a small platter balanced on his upturned palm, stopped at Quincy’s side and set a copper dish, roiling with heated alcohol, at the center of the table. While the waiter placed coffee mugs near the plates, the maître d’ added coffee to the bowl, ignited it, and then, streaming blue fire over the tablecloth from a ladle, filled the cups. Quincy had no time to object—or to inform the gentlemen that he hadn’t ordered a flaming coffee, which was traditionally an after-dinner drink.
Ceara shrieked, leaped to her feet, and yelled, “God’s teeth!” before emptying both her water and wine goblet on the flames. Snatching Quincy’s water glass in case the fire needed further baptizing, she whirled on the astounded waiter. “Are ye mad?” she cried. “Holy Mother of God, we’re here to be fed, not burned.”
The hum of conversation in the restaurant came to a sudden halt. The maître d, forgetting his fake French accent, said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. It scared the hell out of me the first time I saw it, too.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s harmless, I swear, all just for show.”
Quincy had to swallow hard for fear he’d burst out laughing. Ceara’s face had gone as white as chalk. She was a spunky little thing, though, and quickly recovered her composure. “’Tis sorry I am fer making such a mess,” she said shakily, “but in future, afore ye set a woman afire, ye should give her fair warning.”
Speaking softly to the servers, Quincy explained that t
he coffee had been delivered to the wrong diners. After apologizing profusely, the maître d’ escorted them to a new table, and soon the appetizer Ceara had ordered, raw oysters on the shell, was served to them, along with a new bottle of wine, compliments of the house. Quincy expected Ceara to turn up her nose and refuse to suck slimy stuff into her mouth. But, as always, she surprised him. She studied him as he swallowed an oyster, then followed his lead like a lady born to the manor.
“’Tis how we eat raw oysters at home as well,” she told him. “’Tis glad I am to know that not everything has changed. Me sister, Brigid, and I always hoped to discover a pearl in one of ours, but we ne’er did.”
Watching her mouth purse around the shell and hearing the slight slurping sounds she made gave Quincy a hard-on. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair, glad for the generous fall of the white linen tablecloth. Being with Ceara and sharing the same bed with her every night had his body screaming for release. Over the last few days, Quincy had been making subtle moves on her, trailing a finger along her throat, caressing her shoulder, or toying with her braid so he could titillate the sensitive nerve endings along her spine. Each time, he could have sworn she’d gotten turned on. On more than one occasion, he’d felt sure she’d even smiled invitingly at him. But never once had the words he needed to hear passed her lips.
Saying she wouldn’t object was a hell of a lot different from saying she’d enjoyed his lovemaking and wanted to repeat the experience.
Maybe he’d lost his touch. He hadn’t dated for so long, his moves might be rusty. Nah. He wasn’t that out of practice. Ceara was either not getting the message, or she was being deliberately obtuse, or she was getting the message loud and clear and purposely ignoring it. He studied her across the table, noting every expression that crossed her face. She didn’t strike him as a woman with a talent for playing games. In fact, just the opposite. She was as easy to read as a freeway billboard. So why, for the first time in his adult life, was he striking out with a woman?
He knew their first encounter had been painful for her. Maybe, in her innocence, she thought it would hurt like that every time. If so, he needed to set her straight. He decided to lead into the conversation slowly.
“I’ve got a question I’ve been dying to ask you. How did a beautiful woman like you manage to remain a virgin until the ripe old age of twenty-six?”
She smiled slightly. “’Twasna a choice, ye ken. From the moment of me birth, me da had high hopes of forming a strong alliance with another chiefdom by arranging a marriage fer me with another leader’s son. As it happened, I developed a great fondness for a young man who was suitable, but before we could be married, he was killed in a horse riding accident.”
Quincy noted that sadness flickered in her eyes for only an instant, and then her expression brightened. “After his death, I couldna find another man to suit me, and as I told ye on our wedding night, me da wouldna force me into marriage with someone I dinna find appealing.”
“And during all the years that followed, you never—well, you know—fooled around? Women of today enjoy intimate relationships with men in and out of marriage.”
She arched a burnished brow. “Is that what ye call it now, ‘fooling around’? In me time, ’tis called fornication. ’Tis unacceptable fer an unmarried lady to engage in those activities. According to the church, ’tis a grave sin, and I also had to bear in mind that, long in the tooth though I was, marrying might still be a possibility. In her first marriage, a woman must go to her husband unsullied.”
To Quincy, that sounded archaic, not to mention sexually stifling for the women, but he’d studied enough history to know that attitudes had changed drastically over the centuries. In his time, few brides married as virgins.
“I see,” he said.
She gave him a questioning look. “Would ye have preferred a soiled bride?”
Quincy shook his head. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about you,” he told her, and meant it. He only wished she were a tad more relaxed about discussing sex. He didn’t get it. How could it be brazen of a woman to discuss the physical aspects of a marital relationship with her husband? His imagination stopped well short of such things never being discussed in the sixteenth century. That said, maybe Ceara’s mother had never gotten around to explaining to Ceara that such conversations were okay between a husband and wife.
As they left the restaurant, Quincy very casually slipped an arm around her shoulders. She shot him a suspicious glance. “The sidewalk may be a little icy,” he said, which wasn’t really a lie, because the night temperatures in Crystal Falls often dipped below freezing at this time of year. “I don’t want you to slip and fall.”
Instead of protesting, she relaxed against him, her hip bumping his thigh as they walked toward his truck. Again, very casually, Quincy let his hand dangle forward over her slender shoulder so his fingertips could accidentally feather across the upper swell of her breast. He felt goose bumps rise on her skin, but maybe they were from the cold air.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked. “That lace shawl is pretty for dinner out, but it can’t offer much protection from the chill.”
“’Tis fine I am.” Her lips curved in a sweet smile that dimpled her cheek when she glanced up at him. Her eyes shimmered in the moon glow and light spilling from the windows of businesses they passed. “’Tis only a short way to your truck.”
All Quincy’s instincts told him she was giving him the green light. So why wouldn’t she just say so, damn it? Call him old-fashioned and too much of a gentleman, but he couldn’t take this to another level until he knew with absolute certainty that she wanted him to.
As he assisted his wife into his truck, he glimpsed a flash of bare leg where her skirt rode up. His guts knotted with burning desire. He decided then and there that it would be another cold shower for him tonight. If this kept up, he’d catch pneumonia.
* * *
All the way home, Ceara chewed the inside of her cheek, so frustrated with Quincy that she wanted to reach across the truck and whack him on the thigh. She’d leaned against him. She’d smiled at him. She’d tried countless times to issue him an invitation with her eyes. He acted as if he noticed none of it, and yet he continued to assault her senses with soft caresses—toying with her hair, lightly trailing his fingertips down her arm, teasing the sensitive spot just below her ear, and sometimes resting a hand over her shoulder, as he had moments ago, to make her nipples throb with yearning for his touch.
The man was driving her to the brink of madness. When they reached the house, he would leave her alone in their bed to take an impossibly long shower, and when he finally joined her under the blankets, he’d settle as close to his edge of the mattress as possible. It was as if an invisible wall had been erected and he’d issued an unspoken rule that neither of them should climb over it.
Oh, how Ceara wished she could talk with her mum. How did a wife encourage her husband to bed her without speaking and behaving like a tavern wench? Ceara struggled to fall asleep each night, her mind filled with memories of their wedding night—the slow glide of Quincy’s hands over her skin, the jolts of pleasure he’d sent coursing through her body, and the feverish need that had come over her when his hard shaft had plunged deep into her core. She wanted—no, needed—to experience all those feelings again, only she didn’t know how to persuade Quincy to accommodate her.
Tonight would end no differently, Ceara thought drearily as she trudged up the stairs to their bedchamber, and the realization had her clenching her teeth. After cleansing herself, she donned her flannel gown, then climbed into bed to await the sound of her husband’s footsteps ascending the stairs. When he finally entered the room, he spoke softly to the dogs, telling them to go to their beds, and then, just as Ceara expected, he went into the bathroom and closed the door. Soon she heard the shower come on and Quincy making gasping, shuddering sounds, which told her the water was cold. Why would a sane man stand under a stream of freezing water when warmth was
a turn of the faucet handle away?
Mayhap, Ceara mused, Quincy simply didn’t desire her. She wasn’t plump and well-rounded like the dairymaids that her older brothers had found so attractive before they settled down into marriage. Quincy might have similar tastes, preferring accommodating females with lush, generous curves who were free with their favors prior to wedding. Be that the case, Ceara was stuck. She’d not been born a dairymaid who had been taught little if anything about ladylike behavior, and she could think of no way to make her figure more buxom. She ate goodly amounts of food, but none of it ever seemed to add extra padding. Her da had often said his daughters could eat him out of house and home with nary an ounce of fat on their bones to show for it.
Sighing wistfully, Ceara turned onto her side. She felt the mattress give and smiled when her reaching hand settled on a furry ruff. Billy Bob. He’d come to comfort her. She curled her arm around the dog’s neck and pressed her face against his forehead. At least one male in the house found her appealing.
* * *
The following morning, Quincy’s father showed up with a manila envelope clutched in one hand. Ceara opened the door to greet him, because Quincy was upstairs shaving. “A cheery morning to ye, Mr. Harrigan.”
He laughed, looking so much like Ceara’s husband that she couldn’t help but marvel at the resemblance. “Just call me Dad, honey.” As he moved into the kitchen, he hooked an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You’re a member of the family now.”
Ceara liked the Harrigans and wanted very much to be accepted, but Frank’s mention of family sent a pang of longing through her belly for the perfectly wonderful and much-missed kinsmen she’d left behind. “’Tis an honor.”