’twas not safe for a lady to wander about a village without a male escort to protect her. Besides, where were all her grand intentions to be brave and self-sacrificing to save the lives of others? All the Harrigan first wives were still fated to die, and despite the hostile reception, Ceara had come here for them.
She gave a startled bleep when Quincy’s big, hard hands encircled her waist. With an ease that unnerved her even more, he swung her up onto the seat of his truck. “Buckle up,” he said as he closed the thick portal.
Though Ceara’s first language was Irish, she prided herself on being fluent in English as well. But what did buckle up mean? She perched rigidly on the cushion, which appeared to be dyed leather but was butter soft. Hands folded and clenched on her knees, she watched as he circled the truck and climbed in on the opposite side to sit behind a large thing that looked like a wagon wheel. She jumped when he inserted a key into a slot at the wheel’s base and made the truck roar to life.
“God’s teeth!”
He glanced over at her. “What?”
“That noise, sir! What is it?”
“Drop the ‘sir,’ and in answer to your question, it’s the engine. Diesels are loud.” He leaned across her, groped near the door, and then drew a strap across her chest. The tips of her breasts tingled when the inside of his forearm grazed them. “I thought I said to buckle up.”
He jabbed the shiny metal tongue at the end of the strap into a square thing near her hip. Then he straightened and repeated the process with the strap on his side. Ceara deeply disliked feeling trapped. Briefly she wondered whether this was some sort of ritual restraint; then she realized it couldn’t be, since he’d imprisoned himself in the same way.
“Whatever shall we do if the carriage topples and we must jump clear to save ourselves?” she asked.
He sent her a sharp, burning look. “Can we dispense with the act for a while? It’s a truck, not a carriage, and I think you damned well know it.”
He backed up the truck , then jerked on a stick poking out from the wheel column to make the equipage go forward.
“Ye’ll not go fast, I pray.” She glanced over at him. “’Tis dangerous, surely, at such speeds.”
“Don’t worry. I never exceed the limit by over five miles an hour.” A muscle ticked in his lean cheek. “And I repeat, let’s drop the act. As entertaining as it is—and as good as you are at it—my patience with this charade is starting to wear thin.”
* * *
Quincy tried his best to ignore his passenger as he drove toward home, but he wasn’t successful, even by half. When he pulled out onto Main, she squeaked when she saw traffic coming at them in both lanes, grabbed the dash with white-knuckled fingers, and haltingly spurted out a Hail Mary.
Gotcha , Quincy thought, barely managing to squelch a smirk. “That’s amazing! People said the Hail Mary way back in the fifteen hundreds?”
She crossed herself. When she looked over at him, Quincy saw that her face had gone as pale as milk. “’Twas mostly taken from the Gospel of Luke, and later on words were added. Have ye not heard of the Council of Trent, where the prayer was sanctified?”
The Council of Trent? Quincy had heard of it, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall when it had taken place. In the fifteen hundreds sometime?
When he braked suddenly behind a blue Toyota, she released her hold on the dash long enough to cross herself again. “’Tis a fair new prayer at home, but a lovely one, asking fer the intercession of our Holy Mother.”
She resumed her death hold on the dash. Quincy wondered how she managed to make all the color drain from her face. Now, that was some fine acting. The lady had missed her calling to Hollywood. “So when are you planning to come clean?” he asked. “You broke into my arena for a reason, and I don’t for a second buy that you did it merely to play games with me and my family.”
Two
She gave a startled bleep when Quincy’s big, hard hands encircled her waist. With an ease that unnerved her even more, he swung her up onto the seat of his truck. “Buckle up,” he said as he closed the thick portal.
Though Ceara’s first language was Irish, she prided herself on being fluent in English as well. But what did buckle up mean? She perched rigidly on the cushion, which appeared to be dyed leather but was butter soft. Hands folded and clenched on her knees, she watched as he circled the truck and climbed in on the opposite side to sit behind a large thing that looked like a wagon wheel. She jumped when he inserted a key into a slot at the wheel’s base and made the truck roar to life.
“God’s teeth!”
He glanced over at her. “What?”
“That noise, sir! What is it?”
“Drop the ‘sir,’ and in answer to your question, it’s the engine. Diesels are loud.” He leaned across her, groped near the door, and then drew a strap across her chest. The tips of her breasts tingled when the inside of his forearm grazed them. “I thought I said to buckle up.”
He jabbed the shiny metal tongue at the end of the strap into a square thing near her hip. Then he straightened and repeated the process with the strap on his side. Ceara deeply disliked feeling trapped. Briefly she wondered whether this was some sort of ritual restraint; then she realized it couldn’t be, since he’d imprisoned himself in the same way.
“Whatever shall we do if the carriage topples and we must jump clear to save ourselves?” she asked.
He sent her a sharp, burning look. “Can we dispense with the act for a while? It’s a truck, not a carriage, and I think you damned well know it.”
He backed up the truck , then jerked on a stick poking out from the wheel column to make the equipage go forward.
“Ye’ll not go fast, I pray.” She glanced over at him. “’Tis dangerous, surely, at such speeds.”
“Don’t worry. I never exceed the limit by over five miles an hour.” A muscle ticked in his lean cheek. “And I repeat, let’s drop the act. As entertaining as it is—and as good as you are at it—my patience with this charade is starting to wear thin.”
* * *
Quincy tried his best to ignore his passenger as he drove toward home, but he wasn’t successful, even by half. When he pulled out onto Main, she squeaked when she saw traffic coming at them in both lanes, grabbed the dash with white-knuckled fingers, and haltingly spurted out a Hail Mary.
Gotcha , Quincy thought, barely managing to squelch a smirk. “That’s amazing! People said the Hail Mary way back in the fifteen hundreds?”
She crossed herself. When she looked over at him, Quincy saw that her face had gone as pale as milk. “’Twas mostly taken from the Gospel of Luke, and later on words were added. Have ye not heard of the Council of Trent, where the prayer was sanctified?”
The Council of Trent? Quincy had heard of it, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall when it had taken place. In the fifteen hundreds sometime?
When he braked suddenly behind a blue Toyota, she released her hold on the dash long enough to cross herself again. “’Tis a fair new prayer at home, but a lovely one, asking fer the intercession of our Holy Mother.”
She resumed her death hold on the dash. Quincy wondered how she managed to make all the color drain from her face. Now, that was some fine acting. The lady had missed her calling to Hollywood. “So when are you planning to come clean?” he asked. “You broke into my arena for a reason, and I don’t for a second buy that you did it merely to play games with me and my family.”
Two
Similar Books
