cloth and spread it on the grass, then lifted out a covered dish filled with fried chicken, a jar of her mother's special pickles, and a bowl of Boston baked beans.
He sniffed appreciatively. “Smells divine. Where is that devil's food cake?”
“It's in the basket,” she said, nervously thrusting a heavy crockery jug at him. “Please pop the cork. It's lemonade. I hope it's still cool enough to taste good.”
He took a bite of the chicken, then tugged the cork out of the jug. “Everything is wonderful. You are some cook! Or did your Mama do all the work—after all, she thought it was for Amos Wells, didn't she?”
“I made everything myself except the pickles, and I didn't do it for Amos Wells—or for you either, so wipe that cocky look off your face, Mr. Madigan,” she said like a schoolmarm scolding a particularly devilish and endearing pupil.
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied as he attacked a crisp dill pickle with his white teeth.
Rebekah's appetite was not nearly so voracious as Rory's, but she watched him with a warm glow of purely feminine pleasure as he enjoyed her cooking. Yet no matter how much she delighted in being with him, she knew there would be grave repercussions for their time together. Forcing the unpleasant thought aside, she decided to enjoy the afternoon and dug into her chicken and the sweet, savory beans. “Tell me about Ireland, Rory. I've never been farther east than Kansas.” She made a face. “That's where I was born. My parents moved to Nevada when Leah and I were little girls.”
“And we all know how long ago that was,” he said with a chuckle. A faraway look came into his eyes when he leaned back against a tree trunk and laced his fingers behind his neck. “Ireland...strange, but I haven't thought of it in years. Green as your eyes, it was, and the air heavy with mist every morning. Nothing like this dusty, wild country.”
“You said your father was head groom to some nobleman.” Her expression held a hint of awe, for she had never even seen a person with a title, much less known one.
“The Earl of Waltham. He wasn't a bad sort—for a Sassenach. He let my brothers and me attend classes when his son was tutored. Waltham Hall was a grand place. Built in the sixteenth century, a great drafty fortress it was—more castle than country estate.”
“Do you know that when you speak of your childhood, your accent returns?” Rebekah asked softly, guessing how lonely and frightened he must have been.
“Aye. When I lose my temper it comes back, too. And I've a terrible swift temper, as you might have guessed,” he said with a heart-stopping smile.
“So I've noticed. It's a proud and prickly man you are, Rory Madigan,” she said, mimicking his brogue with a saucy tilt of her head. Her expression grew serious as she reached out and touched his hand tentatively. “I can't imagine what it's like to lose everything—everyone you love. You're braver than anyone I've ever met, Rory.”
“No, I'm not brave, Rebekah. I'm just a survivor, that's all. I've spent years wandering from place to place, living from hand to mouth. I've made a lot of money boxing. Then lost it just as fast gambling, drinking...and other things.” He held her hand, feeling the delicate pulse inside her wrist.
She snatched it away angrily. “Those other things wouldn't happen to be women, would they?”
He sat up with a low chuckle and reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “I'm a reformed rake, Rebekah. You have my word on it. No more drifting, no more carousing.”
“And no more women?” she asked, pouting, yet waiting as his lips drew nearer.
“Only one woman,” he murmured against her mouth as he drew her into a kiss.
* * * *
The Hunts brought
He sniffed appreciatively. “Smells divine. Where is that devil's food cake?”
“It's in the basket,” she said, nervously thrusting a heavy crockery jug at him. “Please pop the cork. It's lemonade. I hope it's still cool enough to taste good.”
He took a bite of the chicken, then tugged the cork out of the jug. “Everything is wonderful. You are some cook! Or did your Mama do all the work—after all, she thought it was for Amos Wells, didn't she?”
“I made everything myself except the pickles, and I didn't do it for Amos Wells—or for you either, so wipe that cocky look off your face, Mr. Madigan,” she said like a schoolmarm scolding a particularly devilish and endearing pupil.
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied as he attacked a crisp dill pickle with his white teeth.
Rebekah's appetite was not nearly so voracious as Rory's, but she watched him with a warm glow of purely feminine pleasure as he enjoyed her cooking. Yet no matter how much she delighted in being with him, she knew there would be grave repercussions for their time together. Forcing the unpleasant thought aside, she decided to enjoy the afternoon and dug into her chicken and the sweet, savory beans. “Tell me about Ireland, Rory. I've never been farther east than Kansas.” She made a face. “That's where I was born. My parents moved to Nevada when Leah and I were little girls.”
“And we all know how long ago that was,” he said with a chuckle. A faraway look came into his eyes when he leaned back against a tree trunk and laced his fingers behind his neck. “Ireland...strange, but I haven't thought of it in years. Green as your eyes, it was, and the air heavy with mist every morning. Nothing like this dusty, wild country.”
“You said your father was head groom to some nobleman.” Her expression held a hint of awe, for she had never even seen a person with a title, much less known one.
“The Earl of Waltham. He wasn't a bad sort—for a Sassenach. He let my brothers and me attend classes when his son was tutored. Waltham Hall was a grand place. Built in the sixteenth century, a great drafty fortress it was—more castle than country estate.”
“Do you know that when you speak of your childhood, your accent returns?” Rebekah asked softly, guessing how lonely and frightened he must have been.
“Aye. When I lose my temper it comes back, too. And I've a terrible swift temper, as you might have guessed,” he said with a heart-stopping smile.
“So I've noticed. It's a proud and prickly man you are, Rory Madigan,” she said, mimicking his brogue with a saucy tilt of her head. Her expression grew serious as she reached out and touched his hand tentatively. “I can't imagine what it's like to lose everything—everyone you love. You're braver than anyone I've ever met, Rory.”
“No, I'm not brave, Rebekah. I'm just a survivor, that's all. I've spent years wandering from place to place, living from hand to mouth. I've made a lot of money boxing. Then lost it just as fast gambling, drinking...and other things.” He held her hand, feeling the delicate pulse inside her wrist.
She snatched it away angrily. “Those other things wouldn't happen to be women, would they?”
He sat up with a low chuckle and reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “I'm a reformed rake, Rebekah. You have my word on it. No more drifting, no more carousing.”
“And no more women?” she asked, pouting, yet waiting as his lips drew nearer.
“Only one woman,” he murmured against her mouth as he drew her into a kiss.
* * * *
The Hunts brought
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