A long, black cloak whipped about his legs and the wind twirled horns into his thick black hair. Arms crossed, he glared at her with eyes of cobalt blue that shot sparks of anger.
“What are ye doin’ here?” A thick Irish brogue rolled off his tongue. “Yer trespassin’.”
Was this his house? An apology sprang to her lips, but he glared at her and anger elbowed aside any remorse she might have felt. He was the one trespassing. Didn’t she have the deed to the property in her bag?
“I might ask you the same thing. This is my home,” she said, standing and gathering the quilt about her with as much modesty as she could muster.
“The devil it ‘tis.” His voice combined with the threatening keen of the wind and for an instant, Ailis wondered if he was real or conjured up by the storm. She’d traveled across the ocean with only a faded and torn document as her guide, her future pinned on the romantic musings of a man who had admittedly fathered her out of wedlock, then left her in a strange land across the sea. Was it possible the property was not her father’s to give her? Could this devil possess the only thing she had left in the world?
Outside the door, noticeable only by his pink nostrils and his snorts, a black horse pawed at her doorstep. Ailis glanced at the horse and remembered stories she’d heard about Satan astride a black beast that blew fire from his nostrils.
“I’ve only just arrived here today.” She brought her gaze back to The Devil’s face, conveying as much courage as she could muster.
“And I expect ye to be gone tomorrow.”
Taken aback by his unexplained anger, Ailis moved back a step, the hairs on her neck prickling to attention. “Listen, Mr. Whoever-you-are. I have the deed to this property. My father left it to me and it’s all I have left. I intend to make my home here and the likes of you won’t scare me away.”
“The likes of me, ye say?” A sudden grin played across his handsome face. “And who might ye be to be tellin’ me such?”
“My name is Ailis Throckmorton.”
His eyes probed hers for a moment, then the anger drained out of his expression, and the wind caressed away his horns. “Throckmorton, did ye say? Where are ye from, lass?”
Unnerved by his sudden shift in mood, Ailis fumbled with an explanation. “I came from Boston.”
“America?”
“Yes.”
He whirled and stepped back out into the night. Ailis followed, stumbling over the quilt wrapped around her. “Do you live here?”
He paced the length of the house, his cloak swirling out behind him. “No.”
“Then you didn’t light the fire and bring the furniture?”
He paused in mid-stride and glanced beyond her into the house, then swung his gaze back to her face. He stared at her for a moment, then touched her arm. “There’s no fire and no furniture here. The night will be cold and my home is warm. Will ye come home with me until mornin’ and I’ll see ye get safely back to Galway?”
Ailis frowned at his words and whirled around. The rooms were empty, the floors dusty. No fire burned on the hearth and no heat coiled out to welcome her. Was she daft? Or had he cast some dark spell to addle her senses?
“But . . . but . . . I was just by the fire,” she offered weakly.
“The loneliness up here can have a way with yer mind.” His grip was firm and warm as he caught her elbow and urged her toward him. “Come home with me.”
“No.” Ailis backed up a step. “I have what I need here. I have boxes of food and supplies and . . . things.”
“Where are yer . . . things?” He stepped closer and Ailis retreated until her back pressed against the side of the house. Surprising warmth effused the quilt she clutched to her chest.
“Down there, by the path. My cartman wouldn’t come closer.”
Again, he glanced past her into the now-empty recesses of the cottage, then turned and disappeared into the darkness. Ailis closed her eyes, fighting to make some quick sense of her situation. His boots crunched, the sound fading, pausing, then moving closer. She opened her eyes when he dropped two boxes at her feet, then swept around the corner of the house again. He returned a few minutes later, bearing her trunk in his arms. He bent to set it down and she saw that his hair was jet black and lay in soft piles of waves. But when he straightened, he was again the threatening vision she must have conjured up to torture herself.
Addled by the sudden change of events, by the self-doubts flooding through her, she stared into his face. Perhaps she had gone mad on the voyage here. Perhaps she had been mad all along and that was why her father had turned her out.
Again he touched her, this time a gentle laying of his hand on her arm. His skin was warm and soft and trembled slightly, hardly noticeable, not at all the icy touch of Satan. His fingers easily encircled her wrist. “There’s a warm fire waitin’ at home with supper warmin’ over it. Ye can stay the night and we’ll sort all this out tomorrow.”
“What are ye doin’ here?” A thick Irish brogue rolled off his tongue. “Yer trespassin’.”
Was this his house? An apology sprang to her lips, but he glared at her and anger elbowed aside any remorse she might have felt. He was the one trespassing. Didn’t she have the deed to the property in her bag?
“I might ask you the same thing. This is my home,” she said, standing and gathering the quilt about her with as much modesty as she could muster.
“The devil it ‘tis.” His voice combined with the threatening keen of the wind and for an instant, Ailis wondered if he was real or conjured up by the storm. She’d traveled across the ocean with only a faded and torn document as her guide, her future pinned on the romantic musings of a man who had admittedly fathered her out of wedlock, then left her in a strange land across the sea. Was it possible the property was not her father’s to give her? Could this devil possess the only thing she had left in the world?
Outside the door, noticeable only by his pink nostrils and his snorts, a black horse pawed at her doorstep. Ailis glanced at the horse and remembered stories she’d heard about Satan astride a black beast that blew fire from his nostrils.
“I’ve only just arrived here today.” She brought her gaze back to The Devil’s face, conveying as much courage as she could muster.
“And I expect ye to be gone tomorrow.”
Taken aback by his unexplained anger, Ailis moved back a step, the hairs on her neck prickling to attention. “Listen, Mr. Whoever-you-are. I have the deed to this property. My father left it to me and it’s all I have left. I intend to make my home here and the likes of you won’t scare me away.”
“The likes of me, ye say?” A sudden grin played across his handsome face. “And who might ye be to be tellin’ me such?”
“My name is Ailis Throckmorton.”
His eyes probed hers for a moment, then the anger drained out of his expression, and the wind caressed away his horns. “Throckmorton, did ye say? Where are ye from, lass?”
Unnerved by his sudden shift in mood, Ailis fumbled with an explanation. “I came from Boston.”
“America?”
“Yes.”
He whirled and stepped back out into the night. Ailis followed, stumbling over the quilt wrapped around her. “Do you live here?”
He paced the length of the house, his cloak swirling out behind him. “No.”
“Then you didn’t light the fire and bring the furniture?”
He paused in mid-stride and glanced beyond her into the house, then swung his gaze back to her face. He stared at her for a moment, then touched her arm. “There’s no fire and no furniture here. The night will be cold and my home is warm. Will ye come home with me until mornin’ and I’ll see ye get safely back to Galway?”
Ailis frowned at his words and whirled around. The rooms were empty, the floors dusty. No fire burned on the hearth and no heat coiled out to welcome her. Was she daft? Or had he cast some dark spell to addle her senses?
“But . . . but . . . I was just by the fire,” she offered weakly.
“The loneliness up here can have a way with yer mind.” His grip was firm and warm as he caught her elbow and urged her toward him. “Come home with me.”
“No.” Ailis backed up a step. “I have what I need here. I have boxes of food and supplies and . . . things.”
“Where are yer . . . things?” He stepped closer and Ailis retreated until her back pressed against the side of the house. Surprising warmth effused the quilt she clutched to her chest.
“Down there, by the path. My cartman wouldn’t come closer.”
Again, he glanced past her into the now-empty recesses of the cottage, then turned and disappeared into the darkness. Ailis closed her eyes, fighting to make some quick sense of her situation. His boots crunched, the sound fading, pausing, then moving closer. She opened her eyes when he dropped two boxes at her feet, then swept around the corner of the house again. He returned a few minutes later, bearing her trunk in his arms. He bent to set it down and she saw that his hair was jet black and lay in soft piles of waves. But when he straightened, he was again the threatening vision she must have conjured up to torture herself.
Addled by the sudden change of events, by the self-doubts flooding through her, she stared into his face. Perhaps she had gone mad on the voyage here. Perhaps she had been mad all along and that was why her father had turned her out.
Again he touched her, this time a gentle laying of his hand on her arm. His skin was warm and soft and trembled slightly, hardly noticeable, not at all the icy touch of Satan. His fingers easily encircled her wrist. “There’s a warm fire waitin’ at home with supper warmin’ over it. Ye can stay the night and we’ll sort all this out tomorrow.”
