WHO WE ONCE WERE.
A/N: Thank Jedi Skysinger for BETAing this chapter.
Abandoned
Dublin: April 1999
With the muffled hollow banging of doors being slammed shut, the rapid thud of shoes on the concrete floor of the balcony and the loud piercing shrieks of children heading off to school, Fiona Glenanne woke up positive that she must have died and gone to hell.
"Ya bastid," she groaned, wincing as her head pounded away like somebody was doing a frigging Irish jig in her skull. "I'll kill ya. Ah swear by all tha's holy, I'll knock ya inta next week fer this." She could have sworn she hadn't drunk enough to give her such a blinding headache.
Turning onto her side, she reached out for the object of her anger. But instead of her fingers skimming over warm skin, she discovered only cold sheets. Opening her eyes, she lifted her head off the pillow to look around. But before she could do anything more, her stomach clenched and bile rose up into her throat. Gasping, she scrambled out from under the covers and made a mad dash for the bathroom, only just making it in time as vomit sprayed from her mouth and luckily into the toilet.
Dropping to the floor, she held her hair out of the way as her stomach continued to empty itself. Finally, it was all over. Still coughing and gagging and with her head spinning, Fiona staggered to her feet and over to the cracked enamel sink. Using her arms to brace herself, she stood leaning forward as her body shook and beads of cold sweat broke out on her forehead and neck. It had ta be tha beef, tha idjit musta bought some bad meat.
Having washed out her mouth, she reached for her toothbrush. It was there, but all alone. Tha's odd, she thought. Then she let her gaze wander over to the bath and overhead shower.
His shampoo, conditioner and body wash were all gone too. Tha's not right.
Slowly reaching out, she opened the medicine cabinet door.
No aftershave, razors, or shaving cream. This is not happenin'! It tisn't real. It's a mistake. He wouldnae leave – not wid out tellin' me.
Her bottom lip began to tremble as she sprinted back to the bedroom and flung open his side of the wardrobe to find nothing but empty hangers waving and jingling on the rail.
"He wouldnae…" Shaking her head in denial ,she dragged open the drawers that normally held his underwear, t-shirts and jumpers to find them just as empty as the wardrobe.
Her head! She rubbed at her temples as she walked into the living space. This was no ordinary headache. He had cooked dinner, beef in a red wine sauce.
She sank down on to the couch and hunched forward with her arms wrapped around her. He drugged me, she sniffed. There was no other explanation. He had masked the taste of whatever he had given her in the rich sauce.
She sniffed again and felt her eyes fill with tears. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not... A sob ripped its way out from her chest, the headache forgotten as her chest tightened and suddenly she couldn't breathe. Gasping, she began to rock as the tears fell.
He wa' so loving and attentive, he cooked fer me, made love ta me, whispered sweet endearments in me ear. He held me in his arms as I fell asleep, promised ta be wid me forever. I trusted ham, loved ham. We war gonna ter be t'gether forever. He promised. He wa' takin' me on his secret missions. We war a team, I got ham outta tha' disco in Holland an' he went against his own people savin' me fram tha soldiers when they came fer me.
She wiped furiously at the tears. He tricked me, made love ta me knowing that he wa' going ta leave. Tha bastid made me trust ham.
She had known all along that he wouldn't be in Ireland forever, but she had envisioned traveling the world with him, helping out on assignments. It was to have been her secret, her own life away from her brothers watching her every move, away from having to have her every action sanctioned by the family.
"So, who is dis fella yar dating?" Liam had growled out the question during a Sunday dinner at their mother's house.
She had felt so uncomfortable under the gaze of the whole family. She had looked from one to the other: their mother, Liam her oldest brother and head of the family, Seamus, his wife Isabelle, and Colin. All sitting with their full attention fixed on her, waiting to be informed on every detail of her latest beau. She had just been grateful that Sean and his family were away on holiday so she hadn't had to deal with him adding to the atmosphere filled with disapproval.
"His name is Michael an' his jus' a friend," she had answered sullenly.
"So, when are we goin' ta meet ham?" Liam continued his questioning in between mouthfuls of roast lamb.
"I said, he's jus' a friend. Ya don' have ta meet ham at all." Her heart had started thudding in her chest as she wondered exactly how much her brother knew.
"I hear tell his name is Michael McBride, his fram Kilkenny an' he's been sleepin' in yar bed most nights o' tha week," Liam had shot back.
"Tha's none o' yar business, Liam," she had snapped in reply, before looking at all the disapproving faces. "It's none o' any of yars business who I invite inta me bed. Am a grown woman. I kin do wha' I like."
"It tis me business when ya put tha family at risk. Who is he? Wha's his affiliations? Have ya had him checked out? Ya put yar trust in tha wrong one, girl, an' we could all be fer it. Ya wan' ta see us all banged up cos ya've fallen fer a pretty face?"
"Trusted tha wrong man," she sobbed brokenly. Getting to her feet, she made her way into the kitchen.
"He's not tha wrong man! It's a mistake. He'll come back..." She reached into the fridge and pulled out a half full bottle of red wine. "He'll come back."
A week later...
Bernadette Murphy stood in the doorway of her sixth floor flat, one arm tightly wrapped around her waist holding a fleece cardigan closed around her thickset body. Her other arm rose and fell at regular intervals as she smoked a cigarette and stared out at the dull, cloud-filled sky. She prayed she had done the right thing and that she hadn't left it too late. She also prayed she wasn't about to get a bullet to the back of her head for interfering in something that had nothing to do with her.
She had been concerned for days by all the noise coming from the neighboring flat, all the loud crashes and the shouting and then the crying had eventually become too much to bear. Her neighbors were a wild couple, of that there was no doubt. They would come home at all hours and, when they fought, it was loud enough to wake the dead. The sound of breaking furniture over the last few days wasn't something that under normal circumstances would have worried her. Because normally on the following day, she would see them out and about, back to being a happy, nearly always smiling couple, walking hand in hand or him with his arm draped over her shoulders keeping her close.
He was a quiet one, but she always had a kind word for the kiddies and, when at home, would spend hours standing out on the balcony gossiping with the girls. Now though, she shook and turned her head towards her neighbor's door. The curtains had been drawn for a week and nobody had seen hide nor hair of either of them.
They kept it quiet, but everybody knew who she was, Miss Fiona Glenanne. Her brothers were known men, but it a lot of ways she was even more infamous. Women in the IRA were kept in the background; after all, the dirty business of fighting a guerilla war was man's work. She was one of maybe a handful of women who were full active members and got the same respect and fear as the men.
At the sound of a car door slamming, she moved forward to peer over the balcony wall to the street below. She watched as the man she was waiting for left his large fancy silver car and came running up to the entrance of the block of flats.
Dis wa' it. She remained on the balcony, listening to the sound of his heavy foot falls echoing up from the stairwell. While she waited, she shifted nervously from one pink slipper clad foot to the other and ran her fingers through her hair before pulling a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. By the time the door to the stairs swung open, she was half way through her latest nicotine fix and she wasn't only shaking from the cold.
Ryan O'Keefe was short and slightly built with sandy brown hair and sharp angular features. He was a known man, too. He was a fixer and a money man for the Dublin underworld and he was also a cousin to the Glenanne family.
"Mr. O'Keefe, sur, Am so sorry ta be bothering ya, but we're all so worried about yar cousin, Fiona," Bernadette spoke as soon as he was close enough to hear.
"So, wha' has ya so worried?" He was in front of her now, but he was staring past her to the door to his cousin's flat.
"It's like I said ta ya on tha phone, nobody has seen either o' dem fer o'er a week an' tha noises comin' fram inside, I swear it sounded like a murder wa' takin' place. We tried knockin' but they don' answer, an' me fella wa' all fer callin' tha Garda, so I thought it best ta call ya instead."
"Ya did tha right thing," Ryan thanked her. Pulling out a roll of cash, he thrust several notes into her hand. "I'll sort it out fer ya, missus. Young people, huh?"
"D'ya wan' me ta wait -"
"Nah, get away wit cha inta the warm. This'll turn out ta be sommit about nuttin'."
He waited for her to go inside and then banged loudly on the door. "Fi, McBride, 'Tis me. Open up!"
He rattled the letter box and then bent over to peer inside. What he saw had him standing up and stepping back, his right leg coming up to deliver one, two, three hard kicks to the door until it caved in from the assault.
As soon as he broke down the door, he rushed inside; the snub-nose revolver he always carried in his pocket was now in his hand. The lounge was a mess, furniture over turned, ornaments smashed, empty liquor bottles rolling about on the carpet.
"Fi! McBride!" he called out again, thumbing the hammer back, ready to fire, his heart leaping in his chest. This wa' bad, so vary, vary bad.
Reaching the bedroom door, he paused to take a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for what he might find. Turning the handle, he slowly pushed the door open and gasped.
The room was a bigger mess than the lounge. Somebody had taken a knife to the mattress and the pillows. Feathers from the tattered remains of the pillows covered every surface and the mattress was sliced up so badly that the springs were exposed in several places. Over in one corner of the room, the rest of the bedding was ripped up and lay in a pile.
"Jayzuz, fecking hell." He spun around, taking in the devastation surrounding him. Whar tha hell war Fiona and Michael? Had somebody taken dem? Wha' tha hell had dey been up ta?
He turned back to the lounge, his hands hanging limply at his side all the while he was staring at the mess. His stomach tightened as he realized he was going to have to call the family. He was going to have to tell the Glenanne boys that their sister was missing. Shite! He was going to be the one to tell his Aunty Maeve her last baby girl was missing.
"Feck, feck, feck," he cursed as he searched for the telephone, following the lead until he spied the white slim-line wall phone laying on the floor half hidden under one of the seat cushions from the upturned couch. Sucking in a breath, he reached for the phone when he heard a scraping noise.
Whirling around with his gun aimed back at the bedroom, he cautiously re-entered the room and stared for a second as a small bruised and swollen feminine hand appeared from within the discarded pile of sheets.
"Mary, mudder o' God!" Relief flooded his body. She wa' alive.
He rushed to her side, staring at her tear stained face. Her whole body was shaking and, as he got closer, he caught the stink of strong spirits. He drew in a sharp breath at the sight of her bruised, torn knuckles and the long deep scratch marks on her arms and neck. She looks like she's been in one helluva fight.
"Fiona, Fiona darlin', wha happened ta ya?" he spoke gently as he sank down in front of her and cupped her face in his hands. She looked straight through him.
"C'mon, sweetheart, wha' happened? Whar's McBride? Who did dis ta ya?" he pleaded for her to show some sign of life, to tell him who had caused her so much pain.
She continued to stare blankly through him, her body trembling under his hands. He bit down on his bottom lip, desperately trying to think what to do for the best, but he hadn't a clue.
"Fiona!" he spoke sharply, giving her a shake. "Wha' happened, girl? Answer me!"
She stiffened in his arms; a spark of light came into her eyes, but then dimmed almost instantly. "Ah want me mam," she whispered. "Ah want me mudder." Her voice rose and a sob shook her body. "Get me outta o' har. Ah – c-can't – "
More sobs racked her thin frame and Ryan, more shaken than he had ever been in his life, nodded. "O-kay, sweetheart, c'mon then. Let's get ya outta har an' to yar mammy's. Yar safe now."
He tried to help her up, but she couldn't stand. The more he looked at her, the more concerned he became and the more he was thinking Michael McBride was a dead man. In the end, he wrapped her in a blanket and carried her out of the flat and to his car. Putting her on the back seat, he got into the front and pulled away with a squeal of tires. As he drove, he got out his mobile phone and pressed 3 on the speed dial.
"Aunty Maeve, Ah've got your Fiona in me car. She's inna bad way, Am bringin' har ta ya... No, I dunno wha's wrong wid har. She's got a helluva lot o' bruises but nuttin' else, not tha' I kin see... Yes, I think ya should get yar boys ta come home, I'll be wit ya soon."
()()
She knew where she was and she knew exactly what had happened. She had been rescued and was on her way home. She had been lost, but now she was found. She had been a fool, but never again.
She had been wrong. He had left, he hadn't called, he didn't love her... He had used her and now he was gone...
She was no man's goddamn asset that could be used and then tossed aside!
On the first day, she had drunk the half-full bottle of red wine and then torn through the flat looking for a note. He had to have left her note. He couldn't have been so heartless. She had cried herself to sleep hugging his pillow and breathing in his scent.
On the second day, she had stared at all the mess her search for a note had caused and, with the help of a bottle of whiskey, she had spent the day cleaning and polishing.
She had woken on the third day on the floor of the living room and had finally come to the realization that he wasn't coming back. He had left without a word to go God only knew where. She wasn't even sure he had told her his real name. Michael McBride, Michael Westen, was his real name even Michael?
On that third day, part of her died. She felt it, inside her chest, a dark hollow pit where her heart had once resided. She felt nothing. She was dead inside. She drank the remains of the bottle of whiskey and then went in search of the cooking brandy.
She remembered clearly standing in the bedroom, staring at what had once been their bed that was now only hers. Her fingers had tightened around the handle of the carving knife in her hand, her lips had curled into a snarl and, as she released a pain filled cry, she had plunged the blade into the mattress.
She set herself the task of destroying every single thing that reminded her of her ex-lover, he had taken his clothes and his guns and even his goddamn toothbrush, but he was still haunting her. How unfair was that? After all, she was the one that had died.
The brandy was gone, but she had found the stash of sixteen bottles of poteen, all that was left from their experiments with distilling.
"Fiona, sweetheart, war nearly thar. I'll have ya wif yar Mammy soon, darlin'."
She remembered feeling his breath tickling her neck as he leaned in close against her, their hands working in unison as they measured out the ingredients. Each time their fingers tips touched, it felt like sparks ignited. She would never feel that level of passion again. Her soul mate had deserted her and she had no explanation as to why.
She closed her eyes and wished she was back in the flat. There was one remaining bottle of the illegally brewed alcohol buried away under the sheets. Maybe that one last bottle would have been the one to fill the void in her soul.
()()
Maeve Glenanne paced back and forth along the gravel path that led from the drive to her front door. Her delicate bird-like features were set in hard grim lines.
"War tha hell are dey?" She glanced at her watch and stared out across the manicured lawn to the winding road that led to her home. "Wha's tekin' ham so long?"
As soon as she had put the house phone down from her nephew's call, she had rushed into the kitchen and gotten out the pre-paid phone that Liam had left for her use in case of an emergency. Any one of the family that saw the number come up on their caller ID would answer immediately, regardless of what they were doing or where they were.
Within five minutes, she knew all her boys were on their way home. With the call made, she had gone to the front door. Fiona lived on the other side of the city. On a normal drive, the journey took less than half an hour. Now fifteen minutes had past and Ryan still hadn't arrived. Tha boy use ta drive getaway cars, wha tha hell is he playin' at?
Then she caught a glimpse, a sudden flash of silver, and moments later she heard the roar of a high performance car being put through its paces. As she hurried down to the driveway, she was greeted by the sight and sound of gravel being sprayed up into the air as Ryan's car came to a screeching halt.
She watched as her brother's only son jumped from the car and opened the back door before reaching inside. When he turned, she gasped and her hand went to her mouth at the sight of her baby girl hanging limply in his arms.
"Oh, me god, Ryan, wha' happened? Wha's happened to me babby?" As he walked past her, his face set in grim angry lines, she followed behind reaching out to touch her little girl's arm, shocked at how cold she was even wrapped in a blanket.
"Tek har straight inta tha front parlour an' put har by tha fire." She had to run to keep up with Ryan's rapid strides.
As soon as he placed Fiona down onto the couch in front of the blazing fire, Maeve pushed him out of the way and sat down next to her only daughter. "Oh, Fiona, wha's happened? Ar' ya hurt, child?" She stroked her daughter's matted greasy hair and then wrinkled her nose at the smell of liquor which seemed to be coming from the young woman's skin.
"Ryan?" She turned to her nephew, her blue-green eyes searching his face for a clue as to what had happened.
"I gotta call fram thar next door neighbor. She'd heard shoutin' an' crying'. But nobody would go inside. Cos, well, dey wa' all scared o' who dey are. So, she called me ta come sort 'em out."
"McBride did this?" Her voice went up an octave. "He hurt me girl?"
"He warn't thar. She wa' all alone and tha place has been ripped t'pieces." He looked worriedly at his cousin. "I tink dey musta had a big blow out an' he's left har. Thar wa' nothin' of the man's d'ere."
Maeve sighed and turned back to Fiona, who hadn't moved. She was sitting upright, staring into space with a blank expression. "Tha boys 'll be har soon. Go make yarsel' a cuppa. Am gonna help Fiona ta bed."
"Ya wan' me ta carry har? She's not walkin' so well."
"Fiona, ah wan cha get up nae. C'mon, girl, tis time fer bed." Maeve got to her feet and gave her daughter's arm a sharp tug.
"Mammy?" Fiona looked up, recognition dawning in her eyes. "Mammy, I -"
"Come on, angel, I tink ya need a sleep in a nice comfy bed."
Fiona sniffed and then slowly got to her feet. She was shaky and Maeve had to hold onto her tightly. But they eventually made it up stairs and to room she kept set aside for her daughter.
Ever since Liam had bought the big fancy stone manor house for her, Maeve had kept a room for each of her children, so whenever they came to stay, they had their own private space. Over the years, they had each, at one time or another, come back home, sometimes just for a night, other times for weeks at a time. But whenever they came home, they found their own room just as they had left it, as if they had never been away.
"Am gonna run ya a bath, an' then when yar feelin' a bit better, we'll set down an' have a little talk an' ya kin tell me all about it."
She tsked when she got no response and then left the room to run the bath. As she put in scented bath salts, her mind was running through what was held in the family's private arsenal and the list of people she needed to contact. She wasn't sure what exactly had happened to her baby girl, but she was damn well going to find out. The first step was to find Michael McBride and, if it turned out he was the cause of Fiona's present condition, she knew just the right spot to dump his body.
With the bath run, she tested the temperature before going to fetch her daughter. She helped her undress and forced back her tears at how thin her little girl had become. The deep scratches on her arms, neck and thighs looked raw and infected. She stored the sight in her memory. When they caught whoever had caused this, they would pay tenfold before they died.
Once she had Fiona settled in the bath, Maeve knelt down and washed her daughter's hair, treating her like a small child. It was while she was sponging away the dirt and blood that she heard the front door bang open and heavy footsteps on the stone tiled floor of the hall.
"Whar is she?" Hearing Sean's sharp angry tone, Maeve closed her eyes and prepared herself to try to manage her wild boys.
"She's upstairs wid ya mammy an' I tink they wan' ta be left alone fer now," Ryan replied.
"So wha' happened? Whar's McBride?"
The voices lowered and she couldn't make out the rest of the conversation. Turning her attention back to her unresponsive daughter, she sighed softly. She dreaded to think what tale Fiona would tell when she finally came to her senses.
"Fiona, love, let's get you dry an' inta bed." She coaxed her daughter out of the bath and handed her a towel. "C'mon, now, ya get yarsel' dry an' I'll plait yar hair ta keep it outta tha way. We'll putta towel o'er yar pillow ta stop it gettin' wet."
Combing out Fiona's long auburn hair, Maeve kept up a constant line of chatter trying to cover up the angry voices of her boys downstairs as they cross-examined Ryan about what had occurred in Fiona's Dublin flat.
"Thar ya go." Maeve smiled and handed Fiona a long cotton nightdress. "Let's get ya inta bed and it will all be better in tha morning." She pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the light from the room.
After tucking her daughter into bed and kissing her forehead, she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She wiped a hand over her brow and listened to the raised voices coming from below. Colin had joined Sean and Ryan and the conversation was turning heated.
Both Sean and Ryan knew McBride far better than the rest of the family, yet neither man could explain why the love of Fiona's life had suddenly disappeared and left her in such a state. Had he left of his own accord? What did they really know about him?
She was on the first step down when the front door opened and closed again, followed by measured footsteps heading in the direction of all the loud voices. Then there was silence.
She paused and a wave of relief washed over her. Liam was home, her oldest boy, the head of the family. He would know what to do. He would make it right.
()()
She had walked inside, out of the rain and the cold, revelling in the warmth of the flat as soon as she stepped through the door. He had put the electric heater on all three bars and the small square table that normally sat against the wall was now in the center of the room, covered with their one and only table cloth and laid out with a small vase of flowers and cutlery for two.
"Dinner'll be ready in an hour."
He had glided over, carefully removing her coat and lifting her woollen hat off her head. His lips had touched the tip of her nose and then her lips in a tender kiss.
"Ya need ta get warm. I ran a bath fer ya."
She had smiled up at him, lifting her arms to wrap them around his neck. "Wha's all this fer?"
"Nuttin', nuttin at all." He had smiled back and, before she could ask another question, he had enveloped her in his arms while his lips descended on to hers, taking her breath away in a deep passionate kiss.
They had ended up in the small bathroom, along the way she had lost her green sweater and her bra, while his cream brush cotton shirt was unbuttoned and untucked. His hands had been everywhere, igniting a fire inside her core. His lips were on hers, before straying to her jaw, her neck and then lower still, suckling on her breasts while he stripped away her jeans before dropping to his knees in worship. The memory of his tongue working her into a frenzy while his hands cupped her ass, holding her still, making her legs go weak as her fingers curled in his hair –
"No, no, no, yar not goin' ta do tha' to yarself, nae anymore," she moaned, flinging an arm over her eyes. "Never again, yar never gonna make a fool o' yarself o'er a man again."
An hour later and she was still awake, tossing and turning, afraid to surrender to the sleep. Because she knew as soon as she dropped her defenses, his face would appear before her and his voice, McBride's voice, would fill her mind.
At some point on that first day she had rang the local hospitals. She had switched on the police scanner and listened for reports of accidents or the discovery of a male body. When she had finally unplugged the device, she was unsure whether to be happy or sad when nobody matching her lover's description had been injured or found dead.
"We have ta talk ta har. She's tha only one who knows wha' happened." That was Colin, his voice ringing out loud and clear over the top of all the others.
Why was it that her brothers always had to talk as if they were at opposite ends of the house from each other rather than in the same room?
Turning on to her side, Fiona pulled the bed covers over her head, trying to block out the sounds from below. Why couldn't they just leave her alone in her misery?
"She's nae said a word ta me. Wha' makes ya think she wan's ta talk ta any of yers?"
She pulled the covers tighter around her head and put her hands over her ears. They meant well. She knew deep down they all meant well, but she was at her most vulnerable and they were down there, probably sitting around the kitchen table dissecting her private life. Private, huh? Tha' wa' a joke! When had she ever hadda private life?
"Sit down!" their mother shouted, followed by the sound of something hard coming down on what Fiona guessed was the solid oak table. "We don' know wha's gone on 'tween 'em. Ah want ya ter get out thar an find McBride. Dig ham outta wha' ever hole he's hidin' in an bring ham back har."
They wouldn't find him. He had been gone a week. He was too damn good to be caught. Why the hell did it still matter to her if Michael Westen was safe or not? He was the one that left. He deserved to be hurt... But not by them.
"Look, how abou' I go back ta tha flat an give it a goin' over an' see wha I kin find? I cannae believe tha bastid took everything."
Fiona shot up in the bed, her feet landing on the floor at her cousin's Ryan's suggestion. This was too much, to have them all poking through her things.
"Aye, an' talk tha neighbors. See wha they have ta say." Sean was warming to the subject. Even with a whole floor separating them, she could hear the eagerness in his voice.
No! This wa' tha very end! Ryan O'Keefe and his little gang o' felons sticking thar noses inta every part o' har life and reportin' back all tha little details ta tha four men downstairs... Reportin' ta har MAMMY! No!
She loved her brothers dearly, but this was a step too far. She had to put a stop to this now. Reaching out, she discovered a long dark green dressing gown laying at the end of her bed and, when she looked down, her sheepskin lined slippers lay near her feet.
Standing up, she took a moment to gain her equilibrium and then marched purposefully out of the door.
"Liam, d'ya nae have anythin' ta say? Yar've been mighty quiet abou' all this."
"Am waitin' ta har wha' Fiona has ta say; til then I plan on sittin' back an lettin' tha rest o' ya run round like a bunch o' headless chickens."
Gripping the stair rail tightly, Fiona came down the wide staircase. Great, now me own brudder wan's ta interrogate me... Will he tek me ta tha freezer room he uses for his work an' –
She stifled a hysterical laugh as a wave of real terrifying fear washed over her, nearly dropping her to her knees. The IRAs most feared interrogator wanted to hear what she had to say. Liam didn't know it but she had witnessed his method of getting information once before. Would she end her days hanging from a meat hook, waiting to die from blood loss and shock, her entrails pooling around her feet as she pleaded for a swift death?
The enormity of what she had done brought fresh tears to her eyes. If it ever came out, it would break her mother's heart. She had helped a spy, a man sent to destroy everything her family stood for. If they found out – if it ever came out that she had bedded an American spy, would they protect her – or throw her to the wolves?
She froze. Would Liam hand her over? Even if he refused, would he be able to stop them from taking her? Her whole body shook and she nearly lost her nerve. But then she turned to ice. Nothing could hurt her, not any more, never again.
"I thought he wa' comin' ta see ya?" She reached the kitchen door as Sean spoke.
"I dinnae see ham," came Liam's curt reply.
She flung the door open with a bang, just as Sean spoke again. "I thought-?"
"Well ya tort wrong, didn't ya?" Liam growled and Fiona found herself staring into her oldest brother's cold pale blue eyes. "Fiona, wha' are ya doin' up?" he asked, his voice softer than before as he raked his gaze over her, taking in the weight loss, the marks on her neck and the state of her knuckles.
She hid her hands in her pockets. She had no intention of explaining that she punched holes in the walls of her flat in an effort to re-direct the pain away from her heart.
"Thank ya fer yar concern, but I want ya all ta go," she started off quietly.
They stared back at her blankly, unmoving, taking in her appearance as she stood framed the doorway. Then, with a scrape of his chair, Sean rose to his feet and made to offer her his seat.
"Sit down, sis, an tell us wha' happened. Wha' kin we do ta help?"
"Wa' it McBride? War gonna find ham fer ya, Fi. We'll make ham pay fer wha' he's done ta ya." Colin was on his feet too, both men moving in her direction.
A muscle in her cheek twitched and her hands came out of her dressing gown pockets while her eyes flickered to the nearby shelf. Colin's hand curled around her bicep and, as he went to assist her across the room, she erupted.
Colin fell back from the punch that landed on his jaw and only just got his arm up in time to deflect the copper saucepan that was meant to finish him off.
"He's left me! He ran away in tha middle o' tha night wiv out even leaving me a note!" she screeched, hurling the pan across the room in the general direction of her family. "Are ya all happy now ya know? Nae, piss off, tha lot o' ya."
The men in the room all became quiet at the outburst. Maeve stepped cautiously in the direction of her daughter, but stopped when she saw the heavy marble rolling pin in her girl's hand.
"I wan' ya all ta leave me alone an' leave ham alone, too. It's none o' yar damn business! If I wan' ham hurt, I'll be tha one doin' it."
When nobody stepped up to challenge her, she threw the rolling pin onto the table where it bounced once and narrowly missed Liam's arm. Leaving the kitchen, she walked stiffly towards the stairs, trying to hide how much she was shaking. Her foot was on the first step when the silence was broken by her eldest sibling's gruff tone.
"Ryan, git over ta tha flat, see wha' ya kin find. Colin, get on tha computer o' yours. Tha' bio ya had on McBride, start diggin' inta it get wha' ya can on his past, his family, Thar tha rat might go ta hide. Sean, Ah wan' ya back in Belfast, spread some cash around – "
I tol' 'em ta drop it. Fiona closed her eyes, listening as her brothers continued to completely ignore her wishes.
"This's a waste o' time and ya know it. War pissin' in tha dark har. I know he wa' comin' ta see ya. He asked me ta talk ta ya. I thought – " Sean interrupted his older brother's orders.
"I told ya once, I never saw ham. Thar wa' no meetin'."
"Well, I war right then... Itsa waste o' time. He's gotta have a week on us... Ryan said tha flat had been locked down fer that long. We'll nae catch ham."
No, ya won't. He's already outta tha country. I kin almost guarantee it. Fiona walked up the stairs, ignoring the rest of the conversation taking place. Wha' wa' tha point o' opening me mouth when they jus' go off an' do things thar way regardless o' wha' I want? They would nae fine him. Sean wa' right. But at least while they searched, they would be outta me hair an' I kin git some peace.
Back in bed, she lay staring up at the high ceiling listening to the sounds of her departing older siblings. Let them chase all over Ireland for a ghost. He was gone for good and now because the way he had left, if he ever returned, they would kill him on sight.
Her eyes slid closed as exhaustion took hold. His face swam into view almost immediately just as she knew it would. She heard his voice, promising to keep her with him forever. Her whole body ached and yearned for the feeling of completeness which only came when he was inside her. They had been more than lovers; he was her other half; the only man she had let all the way into her closely guarded heart.
Lifting her head she took one of her pillows and wrapped her arms about it, turning onto her side and bringing her knees up so she lay in a fetal position, hugging the soft duck down pillow to her chest.
What had possessed her to let him take so much control over her life, to induce her into betraying her cause, to go against her family?
A shiver ran up her spine. He had made her dare to believe in a future where there was more than guns, bombs and endless fighting. He had suckered her into believing in a higher purpose.
"I wuz wonderin' if ya would care ta dance?
Nobody had ever been so brazen in their approach. She was after all Fiona Glenanne, hardcore IRA and the darling of the Glenanne clan. No one got near her without an introduction and having been thoroughly vetted by her brothers.
She had pressed the muzzle of her gun against his belly, willing and eager to shoot him for his impertinence. But instead of showing fear, he had smiled.
"I tek thot as a yes."
She could have sworn his eyes twinkled under the dim lights of the Black Sand Pub. When his hand gently laid over hers, she had felt a spark of electricity pass between them. She had actually let him disarm her and then lead her out on to the dance floor. He was fearless and with a sense of style utterly different from any other man she had met.
During her life time, she had witnessed her father dragged way never to return. She had heard the shots that killed her oldest brother and, later on, she had helped in the ambush of the soldiers who had been involved in the raid that had ended his life. On one dark terrible night, she had been raped by a loyalist terrorist and, years later, lost her only sister to a British soldier firing wildly into a crowd.
She had committed a long list of crimes, armed robberies, blown up cars and trucks, dealt in guns and heavy artillery and, on occasion, she had committed murder. In some instances, it had been to protect her family and in others as a sniper, following the orders of the ruling council of the IRA.
Yet this dark haired stranger had made her want more for herself. His touch both soothed her troubled soul and set her body a light with passion. He empowered her, trusting her with his life on more than one occasion. He let her into his world as a spy, taking her on missions, treating her as his equal. Yet he equally left her feeling vulnerable and exposed. He knew every detail of her past, while his own was a kept a closely guarded secret.
"Wha' hadda I done tha' wa' so wrong?" she sniffed, her body and mind losing the battle to stay awake. She would never get the answer to that particular question because she knew the chances of her ever finding Michael Westen were minute.
Sighing, she surrendered to the inevitable haunting memory of their last night together. "How could he have been so cruel?" That last night, he had made it so special... Why had he done that if not to torture her?
His lips pressed against her core as his tongue lapped on her juices. Losing control, she stumbled backwards until her bottom hit the edge of the sink. He slowly rose up, kissing and licking his way up her body as his hands skimmed over her back, supporting her as the tremors of her orgasm slowly subsided.
"Yar bath'll get cold." His voice was raspy and low, his eyes dark and intense.
For a moment, all she could do was stare as he ran his tongue over his lips.
"Join me." She had reached for the button fly on his jeans.
"It'll be me pleasure, luv."
He stood still, letting her strip him of his clothes, moving his hands to her hair only when she dropped to her knees to return the favor he had so recently done for her. From her position kneeling on the cheap black and chequered linoleum flooring, she looked up, her eyes staring into his as she wet her lips and then licked a line up from the base to the tip of his swollen manhood, swirling her tongue over the tip. His long fingers tangled in her mane of hair and he growled softly as she slowly, inch by inch, took him into her mouth.
Her hands stroked the backs of his legs, feeling his thigh muscles tense as she brought him nearer to the edge. She ignored the frantic tug on her hair and his strangled calls for her to stop, that he was about to cum. Then, at the very last moment, she rose up holding him close as he fought to keep control.
She loved the power she held over him, the super cool spy with the ice cold logical brain, and she could reduce him to a quivering wreck.
"Tha bath is getting' cold," she commented as he brought his breathing back under control.
"We'd best get wet then."
He spun her around, making her shriek in surprise. Lifting her up with hands that easily spanned her waist, he carried her kicking and screaming in mock anger over to the old enamel bath tub. Then, in one easy move, he climbed in and dropped down, sending water cascading over the side to soak their clothes and the cheap linoleum floor.
"Easy thar, luv. We need ta keep some o' the water in tha tub." He bit down on her ear, before gently nuzzling on her neck.
Tilting her head to one side to give him better access, she leaned back against him as his hands kneaded her breasts, his fingers pinching and rubbing against her sensitive nipples. Raising her arms, she reached back, her fingers running through his soft short hair made curly by the humidity in the bathroom.
One hand slid lower, down her torso over her belly to settle between her legs. As one finger slipped inside, she sighed softly, pressing her bottom against his erection. As he worked her into a frenzy with his hand, she did the same with the friction of her body grinding against his.
After a few minutes, she was panting, her fingers clawing at his arm. Breaking free she turned over to face him, wedging her knees between his legs and the sides of the bath. Clinging onto him, she shifted as he positioned himself and entered her.
Her hands skimmed over his shoulders, down his back and then over his chest. She loved the feel of him, hard muscle overlaid by smooth skin except for the scars. She adored every single little imperfection: the harsh pebble dashing from a shotgun blast, a shallow indentation of a knife point, and slight puckering of an old bullet wound. Each mark told a story, was a memory of a life lived to the full.
In the small narrow bath, there was little room to move. They took their time, enjoying the sensation of togetherness. The feel of him sheathed inside her, moving infinitely slowly just enough to bring her to the peak and hold her there, his mouth on hers in endless kisses while he held her tightly in his arms.
She woke gasping for air, as the tears began to fall.
Part two coming soon.
(Pun intended.)