Perfect Timing Read online

  Ceara turned to stare at the exit, and suddenly she felt like a lost child. Where would she find shelter? What would she have to eat? Though it was mid-March, the weather was still bitterly cold here, even more so than at home. Recalling the yellow-haired woman’s words about soon being back on the streets, Ceara almost wished she were in the cell again, where she had at least been warm and would have been fed regular meals, even if only bread and gruel.

  Trembling with trepidation, she pushed out through the doors and found herself in a large, well-lighted room lined with wooden benches. Quincy Harrigan stood just inside the glass entrance, which led outside. The breadth of his chest and shoulders was enhanced by a bulky blue inar of sorts, one of the oddest garments she’d ever seen. Instead of flowing loosely over his torso and legs, it hugged his upper body and reached only to his waist. Nevertheless he was breathtakingly handsome, everything about him emanating strength. His hat, broad of brim, sat at a forward tilt on his head, revealing the pitch-black hue of his hair at the sides. She fleetingly wondered if he was a descendant of the Black Irish, for his skin was the color of dried chicory root and his eyes were so dark a brown they reminded her of coal polished to a high sheen.

  He didn’t immediately speak, and Ceara couldn’t think what to say. Had Sir Quincy—what was the term?—posted her bail?

  “Well,” he finally said, “you look none the worse for wear.” With the flat of his hand, he pushed open one of the doors. “After you.”

  Ceara hurried across the gleaming floor and exited in front of him onto a walkway of inlaid stone. At the end, it spilled into an intersecting path that was gray and made of long, rectangular slabs that felt as hard as rock beneath her slippers. She stopped to gape.

  “What is this?” she asked. “Not stone, surely, unless ye’ve learned how to melt and pour it like iron from a forge.”

  He paused beside her, his expression wary and yet perplexed. “It’s cement.” When she still looked at him questioningly, he added, “Concrete.”

  “Ah.” Lifting her skirt, Ceara tapped the surface with her toe. “’Tis strange to me.”

  A sudden gust of chill wind set her off balance. With a shiver, she accepted that she was still weak from the journey and wondered how long it would be before she regained her strength.

  Quincy shrugged out of his inar and draped it over her shoulders. “Use my jacket. It’ll keep the cold at bay.”

  Jacket. She committed the word to memory as the heat of his body radiated from the lining to surround her with warmth. “’Tis soft with cáera skin,” she said appreciatively as she fingered the wool. “’Tis good to recognize something. So farmers still raise cáera for meat and wool?”

  “We call them sheep.” The moment he offered that bit of information, he frowned and muttered something she didn’t catch. Grasping her elbow, he led her to the rear of the police station, where countless carriages were parked. In her mum’s crystal ball, Ceara had seen Sir Quincy’s equipage, a gemstone green monstrosity with an enclosed passenger area at the front and a wagon attached to the back. As they approached the vehicle, Ceara was amazed by its actual size. It sat so high off the ground on big, fat wheels that she almost could have bent at the waist and walked underneath it.

  “My truck,” he said, thumping the right front door. “Sorry about the dirt. I use it at the ranch. It’s not fancy, but it gets me around.”

  As he opened the door, Ceara stopped and tipped her head back to search his expression. This man planned to take her somewhere, and if she left with him, she would be at his mercy. “I am thinking that ye negotiated me release, sir. Is that correct?”

  “Against my better judgment, but yes, guilty as charged.”

  “’Twas generous of ye.” She drew his jacket close. “But where, may I ask, are ye taking me?”

  “Back to my place.”

  “To yer manor, ye mean?”

  A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth but never reached his lips. “It’s just a house, not a manor.”

  A terrible possibility occurred to her. “Are ye taking me there to punish me for me crimes against ye?”

  The smile finally won out and slowly tipped his mouth into a disarming grin. Eyes twinkling, he said, “That would be taking the law into my own hands.” When Ceara held his gaze, he added, “I have no intention of punishing you. You’ll be as safe as a babe in its mother’s arms.”

  Quincy Harrigan stirred several emotions within her, but feeling safe wasn’t one of them. She glanced over her shoulder, taking in the world around her. Nothing she saw looked remotely like home. As reluctant as she was to go with him, she couldn’t see that she had any choice. With no coin, she couldn’t hope to procure shelter or food, and even in her beloved Ireland, ’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. I
n 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 bright spots of color flagged her cheeks to chase away her pallor. She spat out some words that he didn’t recognize, but it wasn’t necessary to understand to know he was being insulted. She was putting on quite a show—he had to give her that—and despite his worry over Loni, a grin tugged at his mouth. That seemed to make her even madder. Then, with an obvious attempt to collect herself, she said in English, “I told ye me reason fer coming. Believe it or not, ’struth!”

  Quincy sighed. “’Struth? What the hell does that mean?”

  “God’s truth. ’Tis a common word at home.”

  Quincy took the highway on-ramp and tromped the fuel pedal as he merged with traffic. He smiled to himself when she loosened one hand from the dash to brace her shoulder against the passenger door. He didn’t for a moment believe that she was truly frightened—unless, of course, she was actually crazy and completely delusional.

  “’Tis icy!” Ahead on the asphalt there was a long stretch of packed snow. She gaped at it with eyes that had gone as round as nickels. “God have mercy! Are ye out of yer mind? ’Tis slick. We shall surely—” She broke off, gulped, and closed her eyes. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord—”

  “I’m studded up,” Quincy said, cutting her prayer short.

  She cracked open one eye to peer at him. In all his days, he’d never seen a prettier blue. “Ye’re what?”

  He felt silly explaining what was patently obvious, but the gentleman in him felt compelled to offer her some reassurance, just in case she really was afraid. Maybe she was so mired in insanity that she actually believed she was nearly five hundred years old. “My tires are studded. Studs, you know?” Keeping his attention on the road, he spared her a brief glance to see if any comprehension showed on her face. None. “Studs,” he repeated. “They’re little nails that poke out from the tires to grab on the ice.”

  “Ah,” she said, the sound tremulous. Then, “Pray tell me—what are tires?”

  That cinched it for Quincy. Losing what little patience he had left, he flipped on the stereo to end the conversation. At the sudden sound of music and lyrics, Ceara jumped as if he’d stuck her with a hatpin.

  “Holy Mother!” She clamped her hands over her mouth, gaping at the dash. Then, apparently getting over the start, she leaned as far forward as the seat belt allowed to finger the electronic screen. “Where are they?” she asked tremulously.

  Quincy shot her a wary glance. “Where are who?”

  “The minstrels,” she said, her voice quavering. “Do ye have a crystal ball in there? I can hear them, but I canna see them.” She traced the square outline of the display. “’Tis naught but a box.” She fixed wondering, frightened eyes on him. “Do ye have people trapped in there? ’Tis cruel beyond words, sir! And all fer yer pleasure? What manner of life can they have, imprisoned in so small a place?” She twisted on the seat to rest her palm over the speaker in the door panel. When she felt the vibration, she jerked her hand away as if something had burned her. “Lord, have mercy. ’Tis a horrible world I’ve landed in, fer certain.”

  Quincy had always prided himself on having a halfway decent imagination, but this gal took fantasy to a whole new level. Even so, for just an instant, Quincy could almost believe she truly was from the fifteen hundreds and seeing things for the first time that she didn’t understand. Bullshit, his voice of reason told him. If he allowed himself to buy into this poppycock, he was crazier than she was.

  “It’s a stereo, for God’s sake. People aren’t trapped in there, and you know it as well as I do. We don’t use crystal balls to see and hear people. We use airwaves.” He’d be damned if he allowed her to play him for a fool. “I’ve had it with this game of yours, Ceara, if that’s even your real name. Don’t screw with me. You’re way out of your league.”

  He increased his speed, signaled to change lanes, and studiously ignored her dramatic performance until they reached his ranch.

  * * *

  Nona Redcliff must have heard Quincy and Ceara enter the house, because she appeared in the kitchen before Quincy could divest his guest of the jacket he’d lent her. Nona’s dark eyes settled with glittering intensity on Ceara, quickly taking in the details of her appearance and dress.

  “So,” Nona said, “you are our mysterious Ceara O’Ceallaigh? Just the lady I’ve been hoping to interview.”

  Dragging a startled gaze from the many appliances in Quincy’s kitchen, Ceara straightened her narrow shoulders and clasped her hands at her slender waist. Until that moment, Quincy hadn’t realized how small she was. Compared to Nona, a woman of average height, she looked tiny. Quincy guessed her to top out at no more than five-two, if that. He noted that she’d resumed staring at his stainless-steel Sub-Zero freezer and refrigerator, side-by-side built-ins that had cost him a small fortune. Then she gaped at his double ovens, the two dishwashers, the steamer, and the microwave. It took her a full half minute to return her attention to Nona. “Ye have me at a disadvantage,” she replied. “Have ye a name?”

  Nona introduced herself but didn’t extend Ceara the courtesy of an outstretched hand. Instead she led the way to Quincy’s office, where she leaned a hip against his desk, folded her arms, and gave Ceara a long, burning look. Quincy, standing just behind Ceara, studied the flame-red braid that trailed down her back to well below her knees. Convinced it had to be a hairpiece, because he’d never seen a modern-day woman with tresses so long, he searched in vain for a clip or comb that attached the rope of hair to the back of her head, but he saw nothing.

  A fax came in, and Ceara jumped at the sound. Her delicate brows pleated in a bewildered frown when paper was ejected by the machine. The next instant, Quincy’s desk phone rang, and Ceara jolted yet again. When the answering machine picked up the call and a man’s voice came over the air, she weaved on her feet, as if she might faint. Quincy’s first instinct was to grab her shoulders, but instead he only moved closer to catch her if she fell.

  Meeting Quincy’s gaze, Nona asked, “Do I have your authorization to question this woman?”

  Quincy waved a hand. “Go for it.”

  Nona relaxed against the desk and crossed her ankles. A stare-down ensued, with Ceara at the receiving end. “How did you gain entry to Mr. Harrigan’s arena, Ms. O’Ceallaigh?”

  Quincy saw that Ceara trembled, an almost imperceptible quivering of her whole body. Yet despite her apparent fear, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and replied in a steady voice, “I canna say how I gained entry. ’Tis beyond me how it came about. I came forward in time to end the curse on the O’Hourigans. Begging yer pardon, the Harrigans. While saying the traveling prayer, I asked the Blessed Ones to guide me to a place where I would be most likely to find Quincy O’Hourigan, and the stallion’s stall is where I landed.”

  A chill coursed the length of Quincy’s frame as he recalled his thoughts earlier about Beethoven’s stall being his favorite thinking place. And that was where he’d found Ceara, asleep in the straw.

  Nona’s team members appeared in the office. Quincy quickly decided everyone needed to adjourn to the living room, where there was more space. After his guests were settled, all eyes turned to Ceara, who stood at the center of the room as if she were facing a firing squad. In a sense, that wasn’t far wrong. Quincy knew countless questions would be aimed at her, each carefully worded to trip her up and trick her into revealing the truth. He fel
t almost sorry for her but pushed the sentiment aside.

  The interrogation proceeded quickly, Nona taking the lead and rephrasing the same question over and over again until Ceara began to pace in a tight circle, chafing her arms as if she were cold. Quincy had laid a fire that morning before leaving for the arena, but he was so focused on the drama playing out in front of him that he didn’t bother to get up and strike a match to the paper and kindling.

  Spinning on a heel, her long green skirts swirling around her slender ankles, Ceara hugged herself and gave the same answer Quincy had now heard a dozen times. “I stood on the knoll by the stream with me family gathered ’round. Me mum was crying, with her face pressed against Da’s inar. He had tears in his eyes as well. ’Twas a very sad moment, ye understand. ’Tis possible fer druids to go forward, but never back, and we all knew we’d never see each other again. Seeing their grief, I almost changed me mind, but I had memorized the traveling prayer and knew deep in me heart that I had to go. I likened it to when me father and brothers went forth into battle, not knowing if they would ever come home to us again. I stayed on the traveling star, closed me eyes, and whispered the words, asking the Blessed Ones to guide me forward on my journey to a place where I would most likely encounter the man I sought, Sir Quincy O’Hourigan. Me mum and I—we had seen in her ball that he was the only unmarried O’Hourigan left. He was the man I needed to meet, no other. And the Blessed Ones granted me request.”

  “So you didn’t enter the arena by a door, window, or skylight?” Nona persisted.

  Ceara threw up her hands and widened her pacing circle. With a pronounced shiver, she passed the hearth, then spun back. She gave a flick of her wrist, and the kindling burst into flame with a muted roar, then began to crackle and snap. Nona gasped and recoiled. Quincy started violently and swore. An eerie silence fell, broken only by the pop of burning pitch.