Her Irish Rogue

She felt wild, unrestrained… primal.

The night was all about instinct…and pleasure. The sounds of the ceremony seemed to fade into the distance as a haze of desire surrounded them both. Although the light wind reminded Claire they were outside, the stones and the darkness concealed them. They were alone. And Claire’s need for Will, for his touch, his taste, had taken control.

This time, though, she wanted him inside her. “Make love to me,” she murmured. “Now. Please, Will. I need you.”

Moments later he was filling her completely. She arched against him, driving him even deeper, feeling a delicious sense of power…of rightness. Neither one of them seemed to be able to hold back. Will drove into her, again and again. Claire cried out with pleasure, but the sounds were swallowed by the night and the noise of the crowd.

It was the most passionate sex she’d ever experienced.

And if the rest of her nights were like this, she was never going home…

KATE HOFFMANN’s

first book was published in 1993. Since then she’s written over fifty more titles, including the popular MIGHTY QUINN series. Her books, known for their mix of humour and sensuality, have appeared in the Sensual and Blaze® lines. Kate lives in a small town in Wisconsin, with her cats and her computer. Besides writing, she works with school students in theatre and musical activities. She also enjoys golf, movies, music of all kinds and genealogy research.

Dear Reader,

As you can see by the title of this book, I’m back in Ireland again! After writing the MIGHTY QUINN books, I just can’t seem to leave the “auld sod” behind. And this from a girl who has only a few drops of Irish blood in her (from my fifth great-grandfather, Patrick Doolin).

Her Irish Rogue was a chance to indulge in a bit of Irish magic. While visiting Ireland a few years back, I found the land and the people entirely captivating, so it wasn’t difficult to imagine my hero, Will Donovan, as a sexy innkeeper living on an island off the coast of County Kerry. When a mid-western girl arrives on the island, Will gets a chance to live out a fantasy. And that’s what a holiday love affair ought to be – pure fantasy.

I hope you enjoy this holiday in Ireland. And who knows? Maybe I’ll be going back soon to find a few more Quinn cousins.

Happy reading,

Kate Hoffmann

HER IRISH ROGUE

BY

KATE HOFFMANN

www.millsandboon.co.uk

1

THE BOAT SKIMMED over the choppy gray water, sending a gentle spray into the air to land on Claire O’Connor’s face. She brushed a damp strand of hair from her eyes, then fixed her gaze on the small island in the distance, a hazy bump on the horizon.

The Isle of Trall. She’d left Chicago twenty-four hours earlier and now that she was nearing her destination, Claire realized she’d come on a fool’s errand. “I must be crazy,” she murmured.

“What’s that, lass?”

Claire glanced over at Billy Boyle, the captain of the mail boat, and forced a smile. “Nothing,” she murmured.

“If ye step inside, you won’t be gettin’ so damp.”

“That’s all right,” Claire said. Perhaps the cold and damp were exactly what she needed to shake a little sense into herself. So much had happened in the past two days she’d hardly had a chance to think clearly. She’d lost her boyfriend, her job and her apartment all in one six-hour period. As a result, she’d begun a quest to get them all back in one crazy act of desperation, an act that brought her to a tiny island off the western coast of Ireland.

“We don’t see too many single passengers makin’ the trip to Trall,” Captain Billy said. “Mostly couples. It’s a romantic destination, ye know. Not really a place for people to visit on their own.”

Her grandmother, Orla O’Connor, had told her of the island, and of the legend, but Claire wanted to hear it again, from someone who had more than just fifty-year-old evidence of its existence. “Why is that?” she asked.

“They come hoping to find the Druid spring. It’s in all the tour books. It’s said that if a couple drinks the water, they will be bound together for life. Eternal love and all that. You ask me, I think it’s bollocks.”

“Do you know where this spring is?” she asked.

Captain Billy shook his head. “I’m the one who should have been lookin’. I’ve had meself three wives and not one of them is still warmin’ me bed.”

Claire turned her attention back to the island. She’d been under the assumption that the location of the spring would be posted on every roadside in Trall, with huge signs and arrows pointing the way, and maybe even a modern visitors center. Her grandmother had said nothing about having to search for it! “Is there anyone who knows where it is?”

Captain Billy considered her question for a long moment, then shrugged. “I’d suppose Sorcha Mulroony would know. She’s a Druid princess or… priestess, I think she calls herself. Me, I think she’s a bit barmy. But she fancies herself the keeper of all the island’s magic. You could ask her, but she charges a steep price for her services.”

“Her services?”

“Soothsaying, curses, spells, she does it all. I bought a curse from her last year. Cost me fifty euros, it did. There was a tosser from Dingle who was tryin’ to get the contract for the mail boat by cuttin’ my price. Sorcha cursed his boat and it sank in the harbor the very next day.”

“Did you ever think maybe she just poked a hole in the side of his boat and that’s why it sank?”

Billy thought about the possibility as if it had never occurred to him before. Then he shrugged. “I don’t care what she did. That bloke isn’t haulin’ mail to Trall, is he now?”

“I suppose he isn’t,” she said with a smile. Claire wrapped her corduroy jacket more tightly around her, watching as the island grew larger and larger on the horizon. “Can you recommend a place to stay on Trall?”

“There’s a lovely inn to the north of town. The Ivybrook out on Cove Road. This time of year, there should be rooms available. Will Donovan runs it. His family has been on the island for generations. He’s a celebrity of sorts, he is.”

“Famous? For what?”

“Oh, we don’t gossip about our neighbors on Trall.” Billy frowned. “But maybe this isn’t gossip, more in the line of news. A few years back, he was named one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors. Got his picture in a fancy magazine for it.”

“Interesting,” Claire said.

“His great-grandfather was the first to run the inn. T’was an old manor house at one time. A summer home for some posh Brit. Will left the island for university and we thought we’d seen the last of ’im. Then three years ago, he comes back to Trall to run the inn. His folks, Mick and Maeve Donovan, wanted to be closer to their daughter and their grandkids, so they were off to Dublin. Island life seems to suit Will. That’s not gossip, it’s fact.”

“I probably should have called ahead for a reservation.”

“I haven’t brought any tourists out to the island in the past three days,” the captain said. “So I don’t think ye’ll have a problem. There’ll be more folks coming in for the Samhain celebration later this week.”

“Oh, I’ll be gone by then,” Claire said. “I’m just staying a night, maybe two.”

“If ye don’t find Will at the inn, there’s a key under the flowerpot next to the door. Just let yourself in.”

“Why would he lock the door if everyone knows where the key is?”

“’Cause of Dickie O’Malley. He’s got a farm south of town and he’s got no hot runnin’ water. So he wanders into town looking for a place to take a bath. Dickie is a dirty bugger and he always leaves a mess. Uses every clean towel in the place. He also drinks every last drop of whiskey before he leaves. I guess you could say it’s his callin’ card. That’s not gossip, lass, it’s just fact.”

They passed the rest of the trip in silence, Claire sitting at the stern of the boat, trying to make out details of the island as they approached. Suddenly, her reasons for coming to Trall seemed so silly. She’d come to find a magic spring that would make her boyfriend love her again.

The sequence of events leading to this moment had been burned indelibly into her brain. She’d risen just yesterday morning, thinking it was a day like any other. Eric had left for the office early and rather than ride in with him, Claire had decided to sleep a little longer and take the train. It was only moments after she got up that she found the note, a fluorescent green sticky stuck to the bathroom mirror. It’s over. I’m sorry. Goodbye.

Eric had been pensive and moody for the past month, but Claire had assumed he was leading up to a proposal of marriage, not a breakup, especially after she’d found the credit card receipt for a $9,000 purchase at one of Chicago’s finest jewelers.

She’d dressed for work, determined to speak to him the moment she arrived at the office. They’d worked at the same advertising agency for four years and had been together for two and a half. He couldn’t be serious about breaking up, she’d told herself.

But when she’d arrived at work, she’d found the agency in complete chaos. A company meeting had been called early that morning to inform the staff that the agency had just been bought out by a larger firm. Half the employees would be without jobs. She was promptly called into the creative director’s office and told she was officially unemployed. It was only then she’d learned Eric had tendered his resignation the day before and was already gone, his office empty of his personal effects, his whereabouts unknown.

As if things couldn’t get worse, when she returned home a few hours later, she found an overnight envelope propped up against her apartment door. Inside was a notice that her building was being converted to condos and she was welcome to buy at a price an unemployed advertising art director could never afford.

Claire had always been so careful in planning her life, from finding the right man to getting a job at the best agency in town to living in a beautiful apartment in a trendy Chicago neighborhood. She watched her diet, choosing organic foods from the grocery store, and she worked out religiously, four times a week at her health club. She even did volunteer work once a week with an after-school program. How could her life possibly have gone so bad in such a short time?

“When it rains, it pours,” her grandmother had told her as Claire had sat numbly on her sofa. And then, Orla O’Connor had given her granddaughter a simple solution. Win back the man in your life first. The rest will fall into place. When Claire had asked how, Orla had a ready answer. A trip to Ireland, to the Isle of Trall, would solve all her problems.

“And here I am,” she murmured. On a boat to Trall.

Captain Billy steered into a calm harbor and deftly maneuvered the boat up to an empty dock. When it bumped against the wood pilings, he jumped off and secured the lines, then helped Claire onto the dock. A moment later, her luggage was sitting at her feet.

“The mail boat leaves at noon, Monday to Friday. You can catch a ride back with me or take the car ferry. That makes three trips a day, every day.”

“Which way is the inn?” Claire asked.

“’Bout a mile down the road,” Billy said, pointing off to the north. He glanced up at the sky. “You’d better hurry along. It looks like we’re due for a spot of rain.”

“Isn’t there a taxi?”

This time he glanced at his watch. “Well, there usually is, if guests are expected, but you weren’t expected, now, were you? Dougal Fraser runs the island’s taxi service, but it’s nearly 4:00 p.m. I suspect he’s already well into his second pint at the pub. That’s it just over there. The Jolly Farmer, it’s called.”

“Could you give me a ride to the inn?”

The captain shook his head. “Oh, no. That would be puttin’ a toe onto Dougal’s turf and he wouldn’t take kindly to me doin’ that. We have our own little rules here on the island and stealin’ a man’s livin’ is one that we never break. Besides, I keep my car on the mainland. No need for it here. There’s nowhere to go on this island.”

“And if he’s not there? Am I expected to walk a mile with my suitcases?”

“Oh, I’m sure someone will come along and offer you a ride, then. Just wave them down and tell them where you’re going.”

Claire watched as Billy grabbed a sack from the boat and hefted it over his shoulder. “Come along, I’ll show you the way.” They walked to the end of the dock and Billy pointed to a small white-washed building on the corner of the cobblestone street. “Walk right in there and ask for Dougal. Hurry along now, before ye get wet.”

The light rain had turned to a steady downpour as Claire reached the door of the pub. She wiped the water from her eyes and walked inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior, but when they did, she saw the bartender and two patrons staring at her with curious gazes.

“I’m looking for Dougal Fraser?” Claire said.

WILL DONOVAN tossed another sod of peat onto the hearth in the spacious parlor of the inn, then stared into the flames. The peat flamed, sending a welcome rush of warmth into the chilly room.

“Fetch me another whiskey,” Sorcha murmured, staring at him through a tumble of coppery-red hair.

He glanced over his shoulder to see her holding out the crystal tumbler, snuggled into her usual spot on the sofa. Her lips curved into a smile he knew all too well, one she’d used on any number of men to great success, weaving her spell about them until they were defenseless against her charms. Will had fallen prey the summer he’d returned to the island three years ago, indulging in a brief but passionate affair with Sorcha.

But in the end, after six tempestuous months, they realized they’d made much better friends than lovers. Until just last year, Sorcha had still been convinced he was the only man for her. So she had used every Druid power she possessed to make his life miserable. In fact, he still carried one or two of her curses. “Why should I fetch you a whiskey?” he asked, relaxing into an overstuffed chair across from the sofa.

“You’re the host here. I’m the guest.”

“And you invited yourself to supper,” Will reminded her.

“Please, fetch me a whiskey,” Sorcha whined. “Or I’ll put a feckin’ curse on you, Will Donovan.”

Will crossed the room and grabbed her glass, then strolled over to the small table that held the decanter. He poured a small measure into the tumbler and returned to the sofa. But when Sorcha held out her hand, he pulled the whiskey back. “I’ll give you this drink if you do me a small kindness in return.”

Sorcha sat up on her heels, brushing her hair out of her pale eyes. “This sounds interesting. What’s wrong? Has it been a while since you’ve had some?”

He wagged his finger at her. “We’re not going to go there, Sorcha,” he muttered. “We’ve been there before and it didn’t work.”

“I know. But this time we can just have a shag. We won’t bother with the relationship.”

“Let’s be honest. You devour men. You require that they worship you and wait on you and satisfy you until they’re nothing but blithering fools. And then you toss them aside for someone new.”

Sorcha’s lips pressed into a pout. “How can you say that? I love men.”

“Maybe a little too much,” Will said.

“If you’re going to insult me, then give me my whiskey. I feel like getting pissed.”

“Not until you do something for me.”

“What do you want? Obviously not my body. I should be humiliated, but I’m not. I’ve come to think of you as a…dare I say it? A brother?” She giggled. “A very hot brother. Oh, hell, I’d probably be riddled with guilt if we slept together again. I do have some standards to maintain.”

“I want you to lift the curse you put on me,” he said.

A satisfied grin curled her lips. “I didn’t think you believed in my powers.”

“I don’t.”

“Which curse?” she asked.

Will groaned. “How many are there?”

There was a long moment before Sorcha answered. “Two. No, three.” She paused. “No, wait, I lifted that one after you helped me fix my car. Two,” she said.

“And what were they?”

“Well…one was so you’d never meet another woman as beautiful and sexy as I am. And the other had to do with your…performance in the bedroom.” She slowly raised her index finger, then let it curl up again. “A willy-wilting curse for Will.”

He frowned. Since they’d ended their relationship, his luck with women hadn’t been great, but he’d still been able to perform when called upon. He’d had three serious relationships in the past two years and all had ended after only a few months. In between, he’d indulged in an occasional one- or two-night stand with old girlfriends in London or Dublin. Living on an island offered few possibilities for regular or casual sex. That could only be found on the mainland.

“In the spirit of our newfound friendship,” Will said, “I want you to reverse both curses. Right now. In front of me.”

Sorcha sighed and grabbed the whiskey from his hand. “All right.” She swallowed her drink in one gulp, then sat up straight and closed her eyes, tipping forward until her red hair fell like a curtain around her face. Slowly, she began to rock back and forth, mumbling a string of words that Will recognized as Gaelic. Though he knew a fair bit of the language, he didn’t understand what she was saying. Suddenly, she opened her eyes. “I’m starved,” she said. “I need taytos. I have to have nourishment for this to work.” Then she closed her eyes and began to mutter again.

Will wandered back to the kitchen and grabbed a bag of potato crisps. When he returned to the parlor, Sorcha was lying down on the sofa. He handed her the bag of crisps and she tore it open, then popped one into her mouth. “God, I’m hungry,” she muttered. “Do you have any chocolate?”

“We’re going to eat in an hour. Are you done?”

She stuffed two more crisps into her mouth, then nodded. “Yes. You are now completely curse-free.” She paused. “Well, not entirely. I did a wee counterspell, just something between two good friends.”

“Sorcha, you promised.”

“This is a good spell. The next woman you meet will madly desire you and you’ll have a wildly passionate sexual encounter within twenty-four hours. She will stop at nothing to get into your trousers and have a go.”

A frantic knocking sounded through the quiet of the parlor and Sorcha giggled. “Ah! The spell has worked. It’s herself! I wonder who it could be? The single women on this island are a sad lot, except, of course, for me. I suppose Eveleen Dooly wouldn’t be so bad in bed. And then there’s Mary Carlisle. She’s old but she’s sprightly.”

“At least Eveleen wouldn’t curse me,” Will muttered. “While I answer the door, you remove the spell. Am I clear?”

“Quite,” Sorcha said. “Just walk slowly. It’ll take some time. It was a very complex spell.”

Will strolled out to the front hall, then waited a bit before he opened the front door. Standing on the steps was a woman, drenched by the rain, her shoes covered in mud.

“It’s about time,” she muttered, pale hair plastered to her face. “I’m soaked to the skin. And I couldn’t find the key. It’s supposed to be under the flowerpot.”

“I’m sorry,” Will said, reaching out to grab her bags. “Sorcha must have used…well, never mind. Come in, please. Welcome to the Ivybrook Inn.”

She walked inside, tracking mud across the parquet floor of the hall. Glancing back, she noticed what she’d done, then cursed softly, struggling out of her ruined shoes. “I couldn’t find the taxi. He was supposed to be at the pub and he wasn’t. Some farmer offered to give me a ride on his horse. Good thing, because an Irish mile seems to be a lot longer than an American mile. It took me forever to get here.” She picked up her shoes, her wet clothes making a puddle around her. “I need a room.”

Will studied her as he stepped behind the front desk. It was hard to tell what she looked like. She’d tied a scarf around her head to ward off the rain and her hair hung in a stringy mess over her eyes. One cheek was muddy and the other was stained with mascara.

Her jacket and jeans were so baggy and waterlogged that her shape was indistinct beneath them. She did have very pretty feet, Will mused, and her toenails were painted a bright pink. And she looked young, probably not much older than twenty-five or twenty-six. Will watched as she rummaged through her purse.

“You’re American?” he asked.

She shoved her hair back and met his gaze for the first time. Tiny droplets clung to her lashes and she blinked several times, sending rivulets down rosy cheeks. “I—I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

“American?” Will repeated softly, his gaze falling to her lips.

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

When he looked up, he found himself staring into sparkling turquoise eyes. She held out a credit card. “No, not at all,” he said, taking the card. “I was just curious. You sounded…American.”

A tiny smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “That’s probably because I am.” A shudder ran through her and she rubbed her arms. “So, may I have a room? I’d really like to get out of these clothes and—”

“Yes, of course,” Will said. “And I’d like to get you out of those…I mean, I’m sure you’d be more comfortable if you took your clothes off…and put others back on.” He grabbed the key for the nicest room on the second floor. “Room seven,” he said. Will reached out and grabbed her hand, then put the key in her palm. Her skin was damp and cool to the touch and he let his fingers linger, his thumb slowly caressing the inside of her wrist. “Top of the stairs and to your left. It’s at the end of the hall. All our rooms are en suite.”

“What does that mean?” she muttered, staring down at the key.

He grabbed her shoes from her hand. “They all have their own bathrooms. Seven has a very large tub with a shower. Why don’t you go on up and I’ll bring your luggage and shoes after I’ve had a chance to dry them off.”

“All right,” she said. She gently pulled her hand from his grip, then started toward the stairs.

“What is your name?” Will called.

She spun around. “What?”

“Your name. For the register.”

“It’s on the card,” she replied. “O’Connor. Claire O’Connor from Chicago. Illinois.”

“Welcome to the Ivybrook Inn, Miss O’Connor,” he said, glancing down at the credit card. “I’m Will Donovan.”

She nodded, then trudged up the stairs, her clothes dripping as she climbed. When he turned to tend to her bags, he found Sorcha leaning up against the doorjamb to the front parlor, clutching the bag of crisps to her chest and munching thoughtfully. “An American. Pretty thing, that,” she murmured, nodding toward the stairs. “I hear American girls are positively wild in the sack.”

“I don’t seduce the guests,” he said. “Don’t you have some potions to brew? Go home, Sorcha.”

“Too bad about the curse,” she murmured. “I’m afraid you were a bit too fast answering the door. I didn’t have a chance to remove the spell.” She grinned as she popped another crisp into her mouth. “She’s definitely worth a shag or two, Will. I think I’ll just be going now.” She walked over to Will, straightened his collar and smoothed his hair. “Just remember to be nice and to use a Johnny. Good sex is safe sex.”

“Get out,” Will muttered.

She grabbed her mackintosh from the coat tree in the hall and slipped into it. “Have fun, Wills. You can thank me later,” she said.

Will walked back to the kitchen to fetch some rags, then cleaned up the mess Claire O’Connor had made in the entry hall. Her shoes were ruined, but he dried off her suitcases and carried them upstairs.