WHO WE ONCE WERE.
A/N Thank you all, for the reviews, favorites and alerts for this series of stories. A special thanks as always goes out to Jedi Skysinger for her BETA on this and all my other stories.
Part Three, Derry Feb '98
On the way back to Belfast
The hand-off at the docks went like clockwork, just as Fiona had said it would. With the ancient SUV loaded down with enough weapons to start a small war, the couple left Derry Harbor and headed out of the maritime city towards Belfast.
She was an idiot, a stark raving mad idiot. What the hell had she been thinking? A hormone crazed teenager had more tactical awareness than she had shown lately... And now she was stuck, trapped by her own stupidity...
Fiona Glenanne closed her eyes and slumped down in the passenger seat of the old Land Rover Defender as her lover and the main reason for her present state of mind drove sedately along the A6, the main Derry to Belfast road.
She should have kept him at arm's length. She should have waited longer before involving him in her life. Opening her eyes, she gazed at his profile. This man who had only been a fixture in her life for slightly over three weeks had already managed to turn her whole world upside down.
The young Irishwoman swallowed thickly and now…and now she was going to have to kill him.
She didn't want to do it, but she really had no choice. Because of her adolescent crush, he was on the verge of finding out her secret. In less than ten miles, she was going to have to direct him to turn off the main carriageway and onto a narrow track which would lead them to a barn where her brother Liam had left all the equipment she needed to age the trigger mechanisms on the guns they had just purchased on behalf of the Real IRA.
She took a long look at the man who had stolen a piece of her heart, thinking about exactly how much, or rather how little, she knew about him. Michael McBride had entered her brother Sean's circle of friends shortly after they had had their very public disagreement with Liam about how the peace process was progressing.
Nobody outside the family and the higher echelons of the Provisional IRA knew it had just been an act to attract the attention of the Real IRA recruiters. She and Sean had always been known as the family firebrands, which made their decision to part company from the Provo and their big brother's anger at their betrayal all the more plausible.
She remembered catching the eye of the tall dark stranger during her initiation into the radical breakaway group, his deep blue orbs and the slight challenge in his smile drawing her attention. She had returned his smile and then, a few weeks later in a Belfast bar, when he had finally gotten up the nerve to approach her, she had pressed the barrel of a snub nose revolver into his stomach before accepting his offer of a dance.
He was a criminal, not long out of a foreign jail, returned to his homeland because of a misunderstanding with a low level Mafioso. A young man with a desire to belong, who had, having no family left alive, aligned himself with the organization she had been sent to destroy.
She ran the tip of her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. What if she trusted him? What if she took that suicidal leap of faith and told him everything? Would he hand her over to the newly formed council of the RIRA and denounce her and Sean as traitors? Was he a cold-hearted killer? Was he capable of making love to her one night and killing her the next? A long ragged sigh escaped from between her lips, drawing his gaze briefly away from the road ahead. Was she the type of woman who could sleep with a man and then end his life?
"Sommit tha matter, luv?"
Her hand shook, but it didn't stop her pressing the barrel into the back of her lover's exposed neck. One shot and it would be over and she could get on with the job she had been sent to do. It was what was expected of her, by her family and the cause they all believed in. Letting McBride live was putting everything she stood for and everyone she loved in danger.
"Fiona?"
"Am fine, Michael, keep yar eyes on tha road." She pushed away the image, swallowing down the threat of nausea at the mere thought of executing the man at her side. Dammit, she couldn't do it! She now had two choices left and neither one was palatable.
She could tell him the truth and hope and pray that his feelings for her ran deeper than to the cause he claimed he would die for. Or she could keep quiet, ignore the Provo's orders to sabotage the guns and hand the fully functioning deadly weapons over to the RIRA, and then look for another way to bring down the rival organization.
"Ya don't seem fine – d'ya wan' me ta pull over?"
Why couldnae he jus' shut up? Forcing a smile, she sat up a little straighter in the seat. "I'm jus' a little tired, thot's all. I'll tell ya whot, tha's a little side road coming up on tha left. Take thot an' thar's a little barn at tha end o' tha lane. We'll stop thar an' rest up fer a while."
She couldn't deliver the guns in working order to people who would use them to kill innocents, nor could she bring herself to place a bullet in the back of the skull of Michael McBride. Instead, she was going to follow her heart and trust that the stranger from Kilkenny possessed a conscience.
"Ya've gone soft, an' fallen fer a pretty face. I always said this wa' no job fer a beour and ya proved me right... Thank ye fer thot." It was as if Liam was sitting behind her, whispering in her ear. "So never ye mind, sweetheart. I'll take care o' ham fer ya... Lough Neargh is jus' along tha' way. I'll drop his body in thar an' nobody will be tha wiser."
The young Irishwoman shifted uncomfortable in her seat. She had no doubt in her mind if Liam ever heard of the risks she had taken, he would banish her to the family home to care for their ageing mother, and McBride would disappear into a watery grave, whether it was in the largest lake in Ireland or out at sea.
She touched her lover's arm and leaned across to place a reassuring kiss on his cheek. She had to have faith. It was the only way left open to her. She had trusted him when she had brought him along on this trip. She had trusted him enough to spend a night alone with him in a deserted farmhouse and she had trusted him to be her back up when they had picked up the weapons.
Michael McBride wa' a good man, I know it. Deep down in me soul, I know he'll nae hurt me.
With that thought foremost in her mind, Fiona nudged his arm and pointed to the turning that was just becoming visible on the left hand side of the highway.
"Thot's tha road we need ta take."
"Okay, then." He sent her puzzled look as the SUV began to pitch and sway on the uneven surface. "Ya have sommit planned?"
She sighed heavily and frowned. "Get us ta tha barn an' I'll tell ya everything."
Closing her eyes, the auburn haired young woman sent out a silent prayer that she wasn't about to make the biggest and last mistake of her short life. McBride wa' a good man. It wa' thar written in tha light o' his eyes, in his smile... in every single inch o' him.
As soon as the heavy vehicle came to a stop, Fiona had the door open and her feet on the ground. Using the hood of the SUV as cover, she drew the snub nose Smith and Wesson from the waistband of her jeans and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket.
"So, whot's so important it couldnae wait?" the dark haired man appeared from the other side of the Defender. "Don' we have some whar ta be?"
"War right whar we need ta be. Go open tha doors fer me, Michael, an' I'll bring tha car inside." She ducked her head down just in case he saw the concern in her eyes and pushed by him to climb into the driver's seat.
"Fi?"
"Dammit, toughen up, ya soft hearted idjit," she silently scolded herself while doing her best to hide her growing agitation behind an easy smile. "Liam'll nae trust ya wit' anythin' important again."
"Stop yar dawdling and get tham doors open, Michael. I swear yer worse than me brudders fer wantin' ta know every little detail o' me life."
"I didnae mean -"
"Tha doors, Michael." Thankfully he stopped quizzing her and turned to the task of pulling the tall wide barn doors back until there was enough room for her to drive the Defender inside.
Cutting the engine, the red-head used the rear view mirror to watch as her lover closed the doors and then started walking towards her. Sucking in a deep breath, she held it for a moment and then let it out.
This wa' it... She blinked and steadied her nerves before climbing down to meet her fate.
Am nae wrong. He' wa' nae a killer. She had faith in her judgement. However, the hand wrapped around the handle of her revolver reminded her of her duty if she happened to be wrong.
"So, whot's all this then?" Michael pointed to a table, which had been set up in the center of the barn, and the various jars, tools and glass trays laying on its surface.
"It's all part o' tha plan. It's nothin' fer ya ta be worried about," she answered airily, pleased that her voice didn't betray her true feelings. "But befer we get started, I wanted ta ask ya sommit. D'ya have any idea whot tha guns war carryin' are gonna be used fer? D'ya care whot breaking tha ceasefire will do ta tha negotiations thot ar' abou' ta take place?"
He didn't answer her immediately. Instead he backed away, one eye staying on her while he investigated the equipment which had been left by her brother to make the weapons unusable.
"We talked about thot befer, Fi. I told ya back then, Am willing ta do whotever it takes ta get tha British ta feck off back across tha water." He was holding up one of the jars that was filled with an acid compound which would weaken and age the trigger mechanisms.
"So, ya believe killin' our own people, murderin' innocents is tha way ta accomplishment thot?" The way he was staring back at her sent chills down her spine. He had lost all semblance to the man who had made love to her only hours earlier. There was a cold icy aura bout him as he stared blankly back at her through narrowed eyes.
"Tha people will understand. Thar has ta be sacrifices made if-"
She shook her head. How could I have been so wrong? He was parroting the same hardcore rubbish that the RIRA leaders spouted at their recruitment rallies.
"Would ya blow up a church on a Sunday ta make thot point?"
His features twisted in a sudden rage. The jar was slammed down onto the table top and his hands turned to fists. "Don't – don't go thar. Ya don' know whot yer talkin' about," he spat.
She had no idea what had sparked off such a fury in the dark haired man. She'd obviously hit a nerve mentioning bombing a church, so she changed her aim slightly. She needed him to listen to her, rather than backing off and yelling.
"If not a church, how about a school? Tis a school full o' kiddies a legitimate target? How about thot hundred an' fifty kilo bomb thot wa' planted in tha middle of Banbridge? If thot had gone off - it wa' right outside tha gates o' a primary school, Michael. Could ya justify thot ta yar conscience?"
"I don't know, Fi. Whot d'ya want me ta say?" He spun away, putting more distance between them. But at least the fire had dampened in his eyes. "Do I want ta see children dead and innocents blown up? God, no!... But whot else can we do?"
Tears began to well in her blue-green eyes. How could she have gotten things so wrong? This man, filled with so much anger and hate, wasn't the same man who had made love to her tenderly two nights ago. She sniffed and took a step closer to him, her thumb drawing back the hammer of the snub-nose revolver hidden in her coat pocket.
"We can take a different path." She no longer tried to disguise the tremor in her voice. "Ya could join me an' we'll find another way, a better way..."
"Doin' whot exactly?... Is this some sorta test? Or have ya jus' lost yar mind, girl?" He was in front of her now, his hands gripping her shoulders tightly.
"Am not workin' for tha RIRA, Michael. Am workin' against tham." She blurted out her confession and, at the same moment, made her gun safe and brought both hands up to cup his bristle covered cheeks. "Am here ta sabotage tha weapons so they can nae be used by tha bastids," she continued softly.
"Whot?"
His tone was flat and as he looked down at her through hooded lids. She shivered then, for the first time feeling truly afraid in his presence.
"Am with tha Provo, Michael. I always have been an' always will be. Thot fight me and Sean had wit' Liam wa' jus' a piece o' play actin'. Ya have ta understand, I didnae mean ta drag ya inta this, ta lie ta ya tha way I did. But ya have ta believe me, I love me country dearly. I've seen whot can happen when ya let hatred rule yar life. I've... We have ta give tha peace process a chance. Ya see thot, dontcha?"
She stroked her thumbs along his cheekbones, praying that he felt the same way she did. She had laid out her heart and soul before him and now could only wait to see if he was the man she had hoped he was.
"Ya realize whot ya've jus' told me could get you an' Sean killed? If I walk away – if I grass ya ta McKevitt -"
"I'd be slaughtered along wit' Sean, and probably Rosanna and tha babbies, too. Ya'd be responsible fer startin' a blood feud cuz Liam would..." She paused and swallowed hard. "Ya really don' want ta know whot me brudders would do."
He took hold of her hands, clutching them briefly between his own before releasing her and stepping away. "Yer giving me nae choice but ta back yar play har."
"If ya love our country like ya say ya do, if ya really do want whot's best fer our people, then ya'd be fighting fer peace... But, if yer just a bastid who gets off on violence and fear... Well, go tell McKevitt and thot wife o' his whot you've discovered an ya'll get all tha blood ya could wish fer. Thot's yar choice, Michael. Thot wa' always gonna be yar choice in tha end."
"I cannae believe ya'd do this ta me, Fiona... This better nae be some damn test," he added angrily, shooting her a look filled with ire.
"It's nae a test o' anythin' except yar conscience. Am trustin' ya wit' me life, Michael. I've only known ya a few weeks, but I believe yer a good man who knows right fram wrong... Tell me tha truth, honestly, d'ya truly believe whot McKevitt an' his like are tellin' ya? Thot doin' things thar way will make tha Brits back off?"
"It wa' good enough fer ya da' an' fer mine, too." The anger had lessened, as he began to sound more like a sulky boy.
"Aye, an' thirty years ago, mabbe it wa' tha best way forward. But tha world has changed. Jus' look around, nobody has tha stomach fer another thirty years o' killing... Me family's got as much reason as any ta hate, but we know... I know... thot it cannae go on like this.. Ya know am right, Michael."
He stalked to the back of the Defender while she watched, barely breathing as he lifted out the first crate of weapons from the back.
"Well, let's get on wit' it then." The heavy crate landed on the table with a bang.
They worked in silence, removing the trigger housing part on each gun and dipping the springs into the small jars filled with an acid compound. After a few minutes, they washed each one off and reassembled the weapon before moving onto the next.
Some would work for a time before failing, others not at all. The hierarchy of the RIRA would look to the supplier for an explanation and, when they couldn't find a trace of him, they would believe he had absconded after conning them out of their money, hopefully never guessing that the Glenanne family at the behest of the Provo Council had been the cause of all their woes.
"I'll make it up ta ya, I promise -"
He cut her off with a look of disgust. "Jus' leave it, will ya?"
So she did, keeping her head down until just after the sky began to grey in the pre-dawn light as they finally loaded the last crate on to the back of the Defender. Several times she had to stop her hand reaching out to touch McBride's arm or to caress his cheek. But the whole time he remained cool and aloof, refusing to even to make eye contact.
It was only when they neared Belfast that he brought their vehicle to a stop and turned to face her, all signs of friendship gone.
"I've done whot ya asked, but I'm nae gonna be thar when ya hand 'em over. I cannae believe whot ya've done ta me, Fiona... So, it'll nae be me thot they'll be rememberin' when they find out whot ya've given tham is rubbish." He barked a bitter laugh. "An' I'm willin' ta bet thar'll be no trace o' yar arms dealer friend when yar brudders ar' finished wit' ham fer tham ta find when they go lookin' fer someone ta blame."
She dropped her gaze, unable to meet his heated stare any longer, guilt twisting in her belly.
"Yer on yar own now."
And then before she could stop him, he was gone, sprinting down a dark back alley and her with no time left give chase.
St. Valentine's Day
Just like when she had taken delivery of the shipment in Derry, the handing over of the arms in an abandoned Belfast warehouse had gone off without a hitch. The local shot caller, Patrick Keenan, had nearly danced a jig as his men had unloaded the crates from the back of the Defender. Cracking open each wooden case in turn, the hardened terrorist had pulled out several of each type of weapon and scrutinized them closely. Running his large, calloused, work-hardened hands lovingly over a selection from the stockpile of AK47s, Remington pump-action automatic shotguns, Glock semi automatic pistols and, the biggest prize of all, two pristine .50 calibre Barrett machine guns and three hundred armour piercing rounds for them to fire.
"Let's see how tha Brits like this little lot." He had snaked an arm about her waist and tried to plant a kiss on her lips. But she'd managed to wriggle out of his grasp and make her escape with a parting promise to let him buy her drink at the next planning session.
"Am gonna hold ya ta thot, Fiona Glenanne, an' if yer really nice ta me, I'll give ya a leading role in our first big job... Whot d'ya think o' thot, lass?"
What she had thought as she'd smiled sweetly at the heavily built and bearded Irishman was how easy it would be to bring the whole assignment to an end right there and then by shooting Keenan and his small team of men and then blowing up the old building to destroy all the evidence.
But instead of going with her instincts, she had reminded herself they had bigger fish to fry than one small RIRA brigade. So she had done her best to keep a hint of warmth in her tone as she'd replied, "I'll await yar call, Patrick."
Then, without a backward glance, she had climbed into the Defender and driven away. The man had been positively giddy at getting his hands on so many automatic weapons. She had actually felt a twinge of pity for him.
But only a twinge.
That had been twenty four hours ago and she was still waiting for the fallout from her massive lapse of judgement which went by the name of Michael McBride. Whar tha hell wa' he? And whot tha hell wa' he doin'?
After leaving Keenan, she had gone straight home to her rented flat on the outskirts of the city and, once behind closed and bolted doors, she had allowed her emotions free rein. For the first time in bloody years, she had let her guard down and given an outsider a glimpse of the real Fiona Glenanne. An' whot had happened?... Tha bastid had run off.
She just had to pray that was all he had done. Because if he had breathed a word of what had happened on the road from Derry to Belfast, she would make him pay dearly before ending his worthless existence.
Assuming he didnae get her killed first.
She'd spent a restless Friday in her flat, doing exactly what she was supposed to, laying low and staying out of sight, when what she had wanted to do was scour the streets for her erstwhile lover. But, in the end, her adrenaline fuelled body had decided she'd done enough waiting around for something to happen.
Surely, her subconscious had argued, if McBride had chosen to turn her into the RIRA high command, she would have had the bang on her door by now.
So, with that thought in mind, she had left the security of her flat in the early evening and made the two hour drive to Dublin in the south where Mr. McBride had a room in a boarding house overlooking the Liffey River.
Inside the run down, three-story building, she had climbed the stairs to the top floor and managed to reach his room without seeing another soul. Knocking lightly on the door, she'd waited for only a few seconds before bringing out her lock picking set.
Inside her lover's private refuge, she had discovered a neatly made single bed with a bedside cabinet, a four drawer chest of drawers with an aged microwave stood on top and a small fridge beside it. Not a single book, photograph or ornament adorned the place. Moving across to the only other door in the room, she found a small shower room with a toilet and a sink.
Pursing her lips, she noted his toothbrush, a bar of soap and his shaving accoutrements were sitting on top of the window sill in front of the sink. Moving back into the main room, she opened the drawers on the dresser and found each one contained at least a few items of clothing. He hadn't run away, or if he had, he had gone in such a rush as to leave his few meager belongings behind.
It was then she noticed the crumpled up shirt on the floor, half hidden under his bed. Reaching down, she pulled the garment all the way out and that was when she dropped down onto his bed.
The plaid shirt was the one he had been wearing on the night of their first dance. He had worn it since, but that one night always came to mind when he wore it. Holding it up to her face, she breathed in his scent, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell. It had obviously been laying around for days.
When she realized he had yet to return to his home, and as she had no idea when if ever he would, she had scrunched up the shirt and pushed it down into her bag. Then after smoothing down the rumpled cover on the bed, she had left.
That night she'd showered and then slipped into the freshly laundered shirt before going to bed. It didn't smell of him any more, but that didn't matter. It was a reminder of what she had lost.
So now she was stuck in a sort of limbo, unable to decide what to do for the best. She had no idea where McBride had gone or what he was doing. Even though it appeared that he had kept his word and hadn't informed the leaders of the RIRA that their ranks had been infiltrated by PIRA saboteurs, that didn't mean that he wouldn't do so at a later date
The soldier that ruled her head demanded she tell her brothers everything, confess that she had made a massive tactical error and then help them do whatever was necessary for the safety and security of the clan. However, her heart fought back, urging her to remember how she had felt every time McBride had looked into her eyes, how his touch had made her tingle all over. Filling her mind with memories of his gentleness in the ruins of her old home and later when a sudden bout of grief for her lost sister had threatened to overwhelm her, she laid in bed, staring at the ceiling and running her fingers over the sleeves of his shirt.
If she told Sean, or god forbid Liam, what had occurred, she knew without a doubt her words would seal Michael's fate. Neither man would be willing to risk the family's safety on a stranger's honor. With her head counselling full disclosure and her heart urging her to wait a few more days, it was no wonder she was barely getting any sleep and had a raging headache.
It was mid afternoon when a light knock on her front door had the auburn haired woman jumping to her feet, and reaching for her gun. Sucking in a deep breath, she cautiously approached the front door. Generally speaking, death squads didn't politely knock on their targets doors and wait to be let inside; however, they might do so when going after such a prize as the little sister of a high ranking member of a rival group, especially if they wanted to take their time making her pay for her deceit.
Standing to one side of the solid door, Fiona tried to slow her rapidly beating heart as she peered through the spy hole to see who was on the other side.
And then all of a sudden she didn't know whether to laugh, cry or turn the air blue with curses, as through the fish eye lens she made out the tall muscular frame, dark hair, blue eyes and, most prominently, the cocky self assured dazzling smile of Michael McBride.
Casting aside the gun, she threw the door open wide and stood with a hand on each side of the frame, blocking his way inside. It was then she noticed the large bouquet of flowers he was holding in in front of his chest. A dozen long stem red roses in amongst what looked like a cloud of babies breath, wrapped in cellophane emblazoned with the name of the most expensive florist in city.
"Whot's this?" She eyed the flowers suspiciously. "Did ya buy tham as an apology fer running off, or ta place on me grave?"
He had the decency to drop the cheesy grin and at least look a little ashamed. "I came har ta talk. Can I come in?" he asked softly.
She thought briefly about hitting him about the head with the roses before slamming the door in his face; however, in truth she was feeling nothing but relief at the sight of him. Moving aside, she gestured for him to come past.
Closing the door behind him, she took the flowers and carried them into her small kitchen. "Help yarself ta a seat... Ya want anything ta drink?"
"Am fine." Instead of waiting in the living room, he followed her into the kitchen. "Er... I wanted ta tell ya... I'm, ah... Am sorry I ran off... Ya gave me one hell o' a shock, so ya did, lass, an' – an' I needed sometime ta think things through."
Not wanting to let him see how much his appearance had effected her or how much her hands were shaking, she kept her back to him as she leant down to rummaged through the cupboards, hunting for the only vase she had brought with her when she had moved into the small flat.
"An' whot have ya decided?" She found the tall glass vase she'd been searching for and placed it in the sink to fill it half way with water.
"Am not gonna tell anybody about whot you an' Sean are up ta. Jus' like I promised, I'll keep me mouth shut... But I cannae say I approve. Whot ya doin' is dangerous. Yer gonna get yarself killed."
"Ya underestimate me, Michael." She turned to face him, irritation flashing in her eyes. Why did every man in her life think she needed protecting?
"I know exactly whot am doin' and tha risks am takin'. Yer forgetting who I am, McBride, an' whot I've been doin' since I wa' a teenager."
"Okay, I get it." He held up a hand in a gesture of surrender. "I don't like it, but I get it." He paused and then moved closer until he was standing directly in front of her.
She was very aware of his masculinity as he looked down at her from his greater height. "I don't want ta lose ya." His fingers tentatively rearranged a few strands of her hair placing them behind her ear. "An' I like being wit' ya."
"I like ya, too," she admitted, reaching up to comb her fingers through his tousled dark hair. Then, standing on her tiptoes she pressed a soft kiss against his lips.
One tender kiss turned into two as he drew her closer, his free arm snaking about her waist. Feeling his tongue run along the inside of her lip, she opened her mouth in a sigh and he took it as an invitation to deepen the kiss.
It wasn't long before Michael's heavy winter jacket was discarded on the kitchen floor and his shirt untucked from the top of his jeans and then her own sweater was being pushed upwards by large masculine hands, which palmed her breasts over the top of her bra.
As her body responded to his touch, it all became too much. The powerful hormone driven emotions raging through her body suddenly terrified the Irishwoman. All the pent up stress of the last few days mixed with the realization that she could lose herself so utterly to a man she barely knew, who now possessed the knowledge to destroy her entire family, shook her to the very core.
She struggled free, pushing against his chest and arms until he backed away. Breathless and trembling, her instincts took over and her tightly packed bony fist flew, catching him on the jaw, rocking his head sharply to the side. He jolted back his eyes wide with confusion.
"Fi, whot tha hell?"
"Thot's fer running off," she told him and then she hit him again, an open handed slap to his right cheek this time. "An' thot's fer underestimating me."
He held a hand up first to the left side of his jaw where her bony knuckles had connected and then gently rubbed over the bright red hand print on his right cheek with the back of his hand. "Underestimating ya-?"
"Thot ya ran an' left me ta finish tha job, I dinnae care, but ya ran off wit' outta explanation as ta... I didnae know if ya wa' gonna- I thought ya -"
Unable to get the words out, she lashed out with a slipper covered foot, catching his shin hard enough to make him take a step back and then she slipped past him heading for the door.
She could feel him right behind her, and when his hand landed on her shoulder, she was ready for him. Grabbing his wrist, she pushed her hip into his side and leaned forward, tossing him over her shoulder and onto the living room floor.
Dropping down on top of him, she went to throw another punch, but he caught hold of first one wrist and then the other. "Ya dropped a feckin' bomb on me head, Fi..." He gasped as he tightened his grip on her arms. "Whot tha feck did ya expect me ta do? Yer cannae jus' throw stuff like thot out an' expect a man ta jus' take it... Ya coulda got us both killed!"
They stared at each other in silence, both breathing heavily. Slowly, the anger faded from their eyes and, hesitantly Michael released his grip on her wrists.
"Am sorry... I wanted ta tell ya befer. But I didnae know how." She gazed down at him through moisture filled blue-green orbs, the uncontrollable rage which had filled her mind now quelled.
He shifted slightly underneath her, his palms now stroking along her jean clad thighs. "I dinnae know whot ta think when ya-"
She cut him off with a finger across his lips. She hadn't once considered things from his prospective. He must have been wondering who was going to kill him first. The RIRA for being party to destroying their weapons or the Glenanne brothers for leaving one of their own with no back up.
"I fergive ya," she smirked cheekily, as he raised his eyebrows in protest. Then tapping her finger on the tip of his nose, she continued. "But whot I cannae fergive is ya getting' yar knickers inna twist about me doin' this job. Cuz thot means ya don't believe Am capable. I'll have ya know Michael McBride thot I've-"
It was her turn to have her words cut off as, with a sudden move, the dark haired man twisted out from beneath her and now he was the one on top, pinning her to the cheap nylon carpet. His grin only widening as she squirmed underneath him.
"Am sorry... I trust ya, I do. But I cannae help but worry when ya put yerself in danger. You'll jus' have ta live wit' it."
She scowled up at the infuriating man who gazed back at her so placidly. She had no idea why, but it was impossible to stay mad at him. "Fine." she pouted. "I give ya permission ta worry. Jus' don't get in me way an' don' expect me ta worry abou' ya, cuz I already told ya I dinnae worry, ever."
"Fine." He mimicked her tone exactly and smiled again as her words contradicted her angst-filled outburst of violence a moment before. Her lover placed a soft peck to the tip of her nose and then another to her brow and then to her lips, deepening the last one, his mouth pressing firmly over hers as his hips ground down against her stomach letting her feel his growing passion.
It was as if a dam burst, sending all her jumbled up emotions streaming out. Her fears, anger, love and longing all mixed together along with frustration, agitation and finally the relief of his return.
He clung onto her as she writhed beneath him, kisses interspersed with bites and nips while her hands beat upon his back before turning to claws which pulled and tore at his clothing in an effort to get to the skin beneath.
It wasn't long before he lost his hold on her and they rolled across the floor, a small wooden table was knocked over and then kicked across the room. The couch which got in the way as they tussled was violently kicked and shoved out of the way for their lust fuelled battle.
She needed this. She needed to vent and, from Michael's reactions, he needed a release too. They were both angry and shaken up by all that had happened and the effect it had had on their growing relationship. They ended up naked, still on the floor, breathless and flushed she sat astride him, her long auburn hair framing her features like a wild mane.
"I win," she declared victoriously.
He ran the tip of his tongue over his sweat beaded lip, all the time his eyes were skimming over every detail of her lithe body. "I t'ink it wa' more like a draw," he replied staring appreciatively at her small perfectly formed breasts. "But am willing ta concede."
"Concede, is it?" She slapped him lightly on the chest and immediately leaned forward to kiss him better, licking a line along his torso up to his chin.
"Aye, in tha hope thot we can carry on this discussion somewhere more comfortable."
Sitting up, she took her first proper look at the devastation they had wrought to her flat and that was when she first felt the carpet burns to her knees, elbows, back and buttocks.
"Are ya feelin' yer years, Michael?" she asked, though secretly she agreed with him. A comfortable mattress and soft sheets certainly held an appeal.
He answered her by sharply sitting up and then, with her light as a feather body cradled in his arms, he got all the way to his feet. "They say yer as young as tha woman ya hold." He kissed her and kept kissing her as he crossed the room, following to where she pointed to her bedroom door.
She landed on the mattress and then, before she could any more than draw a breath, his lips and hands were upon her, taking her to heights she'd never reached before. Clawing and dragging her nails across the sheets, she writhed as he took her to heaven with nothing more than his oh so talented tongue, his large hands merely holding her in place. Then, before she had had the chance to truly come all the way down, he mounted her, pushing into her in one long delicious slide that led to another and another, taking her to a second and then third peak before he joined her.
Afterwards, they lay cocooned under the covers, wrapped in each others' arms while their breathing slowly returned to normal. Sore but thoroughly sated, Fiona snuggled as close as she could to her man and let her eyes slide shut. Finally, after all the trauma from her ridiculously bad handling of their return to Belfast, she felt she could relax.
"Fiona, are ya awake?"
"Umm" she hummed happily.
"Fi, why is me blue plaid shirt under yar pillow?"
Fiona's blue-green eyes flew open and she sat up, her now totally relaxed mind unprepared to come up with a good lie. "I wanted ta see ya," she answered him truthfully. "Ya weren't at home and, as I'd come such a long way, I let me self in."
"You broke inta me flat?"
"I dinnae know if ya'd skipped town or tha country, so I came ta see. Ya weren't thar... An' I locked up when I left. I don't see whot tha problem is."
"Ya don't see -" He shook his head and sighed. "Why take me shirt?"
This was more tricky. "It wa' lying on tha floor, in need o' a wash."
"And so you put it under yar pillow –?"
"Cuz I didnae have a clean nighty an' it wa' cold in me bed all alone." Her hand slid under the sheet, settling between his legs, stroking along his semi hard manhood.
She watched as his Adam's apple rose and fell. "Well, I wouldnae want ya ta be cold," he answered, as he pushed back the sheet and gently drew her down on top of him.
"Maybe ya could stay? Ya know, help keep me warm on these cold spring nights." He was hard now and his hips rocking against the rhythm of her hand.
"It's certainly gentlemanly t'ing ta do, luv." His eyes rolled back as she ducked down her mouth, her tongue taking over from from what her hand had been doing seconds ago. "An' am... all about...ah, being...a... gentleman."
And she revelled in the gasps and moans that issued from his lips as she put her own talented tongue and teeth to work, returning the pleasure he had given her before with his own mouth.
They stayed in her bed for the rest of the day until dinner, when his stomach rumbled low and they paused long enough to bring their food and drink back to her bedroom, and on through the night, brief conversations quickly giving way to satisfied sighs as Mr. McBride kept his gentlemanly promise to keep her warm, until at last they both sank into a deep sleep, comfortably entangled in one another's arms and legs, the cold and the danger of the outside world temporarily forgotten.
And when daylight came to wake them late on the Sunday morning, it took all of Fiona's limited self discipline to leave her new lover while she headed off to Sunday dinner with her family.