His tenderness towards his grandmother threatened, again, to melt Sinead's heart. She knew how irrational thoughts could be when love was involved. Hadn't she rung her mother incessantly until she dragged the woman from her bed? "The comb was on your pillow?"

"Aye, it was."

"But it shouldn't mean anything. The Banshee follows my family."

"There's more to the legend," Catherine said.

Jack re-joined them in a clatter of china and silver, interrupting the conversation.

Instead of sitting across from Sinead, at his grandmother's left hand, he took the chair next to Sinead.

He placed a mug of coffee in front of her then offered a plate containing a flaky croissant.

He moved his chair close to hers. Hoping to control her? Maybe use his presence to threaten her? Either way, he was in for a shock. Sinead wasn't easily intimidated. She tore off one end of the pastry. "Your grandmother wants to know why I haven't blackened your eye."

He choked on a drink of coffee.

"I've wondered the same thing. But since you've brought coffee, I'll tolerate you another few minutes." She took a sip. "Fabulous. Thank you. A bit more cream might have been nice."

"As you would say, wombat, bite me."

"Jack Neil Quinn," Catherine warned.

"Jack Neil Quinn," Sinead repeated. "That must be the name they call you when you're in trouble." Unaccountably she was enjoying her visit much more. "I'll bet you've been called by your full name rather frequently."

He dragged her chair ever closer to his. Uncomfortably close. Impolitely close.

Sinead inhaled the scent of him, that of Irish countryside and the hint of autumn rain.

He put his hand on her bare knee and squeezed.

It wasn't a polite touch, or even a warning grip. It was a promise of forthcoming retribution.

She didn't heed the warning, though, fool that she was.

As she took another sip of coffee, he tightened his grip.

She tried to stay still; she tried not to flinch. But damn it, in his grandmother's ancestral house, in the formal breakfast room, Sinead's pussy moistened.

She enjoyed goading Quinn. Part of her wanted to see how far she could push him. What in the name of creation was wrong with her? He intoxicated her. Since she'd had a taste of him, she wanted more. She wanted his punishment. She wanted him.

Boldly she closed her hand over his. Then she did something she'd never been brave enough to do before. She guided his hand up her thigh towards her moist core.

Unerringly, he fingered her clit.

She jerked, already that close. Dear God. Now that she'd started it, she realised he'd finish it.

She reached for her coffee, clattering the fine china. "I'd love another cup," she managed, praying she could hold back a gasp.

He smiled. He pinched her clit.

She gritted her teeth.

"I'll have a refresh on my tea as well, my boy."

He flipped Sinead's skirt back into position then scooted his chair back from the table.

"You were telling me about the Banshee," Sinead managed, struggling to focus on something other than her body's insistent demands.

Catherine laced her hands on top of the table. "According to lore, you're correct, the Banshee traditionally only follows certain families. But since Agnes's curse, the Banshee also heralds death for the Quinns. That explains why the comb I found on my pillow has your family crest."

"I'm confused," Sinead admitted. And she was sure it had nothing to do with Jack's proximity.

"You know the story of the Quinns and O'Malleys," Catherine said.

"'Tis chronicled in the Annals of the Four Masters. And of course she knew her family's side of the tale.

"The facts, aye," Catherine agreed, "but not the details. Not the reasons."

"Go on," Sinead encouraged. "Please." She wanted to hear the Quinn side of the tale.

"Our family raided your keep."

This much, Sinead knew.

Catherine shuddered. "So much bloodshed, on both sides. So much anger, and could have been avoided."

Jack reached across Sinead to top off his grandmother's tea. Intentionally, Sinead was sure, he crowded her.

After Catherine added a healthy splash of milk to her cup and stirred it a dozen times more than needed, she continued, "Your family kept sheep, you know. And the Quinns were hungry. One of their children was near to starving, if the legend is true."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Aye. The child's mother went right to the hold and begged for food."

"And she was turned away?"

"She was afraid for her child, desperate for herself and her clansmen, I suppose. She tried to steal a lamb, but the O'Malleys forcibly took it back. Angered by the way she was treated, my Quinn ancestors led an attack on your keep. Unforgivable. Yet I understand no physical harm was intended. They decided to take all the sheep."

Sinead slumped in her chair. She'd never heard this side of the story. Did not make it untrue, however.

"During the raid, your ancestor, the lovely Bridget, caught the eye of my relation. She was standing atop a hill, as legend has it. It was foggy, but her fiery red hair seemed to be alight. She was indignant, protecting her family. Even though she was a woman, she took up a sword to join the battle."

A woman after Sinead's own heart.

"The Quinns disarmed her, but they found they couldna hurt her. So they took her and refused to let her go."

"They kidnapped her. Some things never change," Sinead said. She levelled a look at Jack "Right, then."

Despite his grandmother being there, he shoved back his chair and. With deadly efficiency he yanked her from her seat, toppling the chair. He dragged her against him and claimed her mouth forcefully.

He thrust his tongue into her mouth, demanding her submission; demanding contrition.

She told herself she didn't want him or his domination. She didn't want this. Didn't.

Did.

Damn it.

He kept at it until she responded with the passion he wanted, mindless, it seemed, that his grandmother was sipping her tea.

"Now," he said, ending the kiss, "unless you want me to turn you over my knee, here and now and blister your behind, you'll mind your manners."

She gasped. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." His hands on her shoulders were tight, relentless, but not painful. "There's a reason my relations kidnap yours. To shut you up."

"I..." She started to protest, then thought better of it and shut her mouth.

"Better," he approved. "Much better."

Catherine regarded the two over the rim of her cup. Rather than chastising her ill-mannered grandson, she smiled.

Jack righted Sinead's chair.

Sinead collapsed breathlessly back into it.

"Now then, where was I?" Catherine returned her cup and saucer to the table.

Sinead's hand shook as she reached for her own cup. The man unnerved her. His grandmother seemed not to mind at all that her grandson was manhandling their guest. Sinead wanted to escape, but another, naughty part of her wanted to surrender completely. She'd never been more confused, more challenged, more aroused.

"Be a dear and refill my cup," Catherine told Jack as if they were all watching a polite game of croquet. Then she continued. "As I was saying, our relation Cormac Quinn fell in love with Bridget. Instead of holding her for ransom like the family demanded, he decided to run away with her. Cormac's father was furious with his youngest son and went after the pair. The elder Quinn took up his sword against Cormac."

Jack topped up his grandmother's tea. Catherine used the pause for dramatic effect before saying, "Bridget stepped in front of the sword."

"She was killed?" Sinead asked.

"Aye. That she was. Cormac returned his beloved's body to her family. Devastated by the loss of her youngest child, Bridget's mother swore a curse on the Quinns, tying the fates of the two clans together."

Sinead might not believe in curses, but the story was fascinating.

"Bridget's mother wanted the Quinns to feel the same pain as she did. She wanted them to experience the same loss, the same devastation. There have been no spectacular relationships in our lineage for hundreds of years."

Jack picked up the thread. "Death, desertion, not marrying at all has plagued us. Because of Irish law, divorce has not been an option until recently, although I'm sure relations of mine have wished for the opportunity."

"That happens in every family," Sinead said.

Catherine nodded. "But there has rarely been more than one child born of any Quinn union. You'll have to admit that's unusual."

Sinead nodded at that. "For the most part," she conceded. "But the same is true of my family."

"Indeed, we're tied together, thanks to Bridget's mother, Agnes. The few marriages that seemed blessed and lasted were virtually child-free. Too many marriages have been cut short by accidents, by war, by untimely death, far too many than can be rationally explained."

Sinead believed there was a rational explanation for everything, or rather she had believed in rational explanations until Jack showed up and she found a silver comb in her Denver hotel room.

"According to legend, Agnes was a witch. When she swore out the curse, bones rattled in their graves, the sun went behind the clouds, darkness fell."

"Probably an eclipse," Jack said.

She couldn't agree more.

Catherine scowled before continuing, "Agnes proclaimed that the curse could only be lifted by an O'Malley once again choosing a Quinn," Catherine continued.

"We can leave this for future generations, then," Sinead said. "Because I certainly am not choosing a Quinn." She'd rather continue her tour, pouring her energies into replenishing the family coffers, and forgetting the orgasms Jack Quinn had given her. Surely there was another man out there who could give her what she wanted?

"You could make that choice and no one would blame you. Until I found the silver comb, I would have agreed with you. But I'm an old woman, Sinead. I too grew up despising your relatives. But I no longer see the point in continuing this nonsense. Until the curse is lifted, our families are joined together. Births, deaths, failed marriages. You two have a chance to end it once and for all, freeing your children."

I'm sorry. I can't help. I have no desire to marry. And if I did, I wouldn't choose Jack."

"Because he's a brute?" Catherine asked.

Sinead sighed.

"You're descended from the mighty Bridget," Catherine told her. "What would you have from a man who is your equal? A simpleton, perhaps? Or mayhap a doormat? Or do you prefer a man who will accept you and your strengths? A man who will challenge you as much as you challenge him?"

Sinead thought back to Donal and to the other failed relationships in her life. None of them had given her a challenge. None had inflamed her blood. "I understand that you would want this," she said. "Truly I do. But I want nothing to do with the Quinns. I've accepted your invitation. I've heard your story. And my answer is no. If you'll excuse me..."

"Sinead..."

"I won't run." When she saw his brows draw together, she added, "I'll let you or one of your people drive me home. It was a pleasure, ma'am," she told Catherine. "I wish you health."

He stood while she left the table.

He was such a contradiction. A masterful Dominant, an ill-mannered lout, and a solicitous lover.

"I'll be up in ten minutes. Be prepared."

Desire scorched her cheeks.

She shouldn't want him. She should remain firm in her decision to leave. But, damn, this man made her respond in ways she never had before.

Chapter Eight.