Mulligan Stew by Deb Stover Page A

Jacob and the main room with a high four poster, a small iron stove in the corner near the window, and a rocking chair. They even had their own bathroom with an old claw-footed tub beneath a nice window.
    Luxury. Pure luxury.
    She washed her face and slipped into her worn flannel nightgown, then climbed into the bed, snuggling into—of all things—a feather bed. She had a vague memory of visiting her great-granny's cabin in the hills and sleeping in a feather bed once, and she'd thought then that it was the grandest thing in the world. She'd been right.
    Thanking God for bringing them here to Culley's family, tears stung her eyes and she blinked. They'd come so close to being homeless, and now they not only had a home—at least for a while—but a family. A real family.
    Her heart warmed all over again as she remembered the way Fiona Mulligan had welcomed and embraced them. Jacob had a real granny again, an aunt, and an uncle—well, sort of an uncle. Fiona and Maggie's warmth helped make up for Riley's aloofness. Surely he would realize how ridiculous it was to deny Jacob's relationship. The family resemblance was uncanny. Any fool could see it.
    "Thank you, Lord," she whispered on a sigh.
    Smiling, she turned on her side and clicked off the lamp. She folded her arms across her chest and stared into the dark for what seemed like hours. Sleep eluded her and she turned to her other side, staring at the patch of moonlight on the bedroom floor.
    What time was it in Tennessee right now? She was exhausted, yet she couldn't sleep. Too much excitement, no doubt. She rose and padded barefoot to the long narrow window, welcoming the stove's radiant heat and the moonlight that bathed her face. The night was clear and cool. Mrs. Mulligan had said at dinner that the weather was fair for this time of year. Considering how incredibly green Ireland was, Bridget suspected rain was more common than sunshine.
    Her gaze followed a streak of moonlight across the field toward the sea, but something tall, dark, and foreboding thrust upward from the earth to block her visual journey. Caisleán Dubh.
    A tremor raced through her and she bit her lower lip. There was no such thing as a curse, yet something about that castle called out to her yet gave her the creeps at the same time.
    A warning... or a welcome?
    Oh, stop it, Bridget. With a sigh, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass and watched a lone figure stride through the moonlight. Her heart pressed upward against her throat. The figure paused and turned toward the cottage, and she had the undeniable feeling that he could see her standing there.
    He was too far away to identify, but she knew somehow that the man was Riley Mulligan. Who else could he be? The land between the cottage and the castle all belonged to the Mulligans, and Riley was the only man in the family besides young Jacob.
    He stood there unmoving, staring—so she imagined—right at her. After a few moments, he turned and continued on across the meadow. She released a shaky breath that fogged the windowpane. Rubbing the back of her neck, she went to peer at her sleeping son and smiled. At least one of them could rest.
    A huge yawn tugged at her mouth and she decided she might try again, too. After all, tomorrow would be their first full day in Ireland, and she wanted to greet it fresh and rested.
    The room was cool despite the stove, and she welcomed the weight of the patchwork quilt, tugging its softness up around her chin. As she had every night since learning her husband hadn't abandoned her, she pictured Culley's shy grin as he'd looked at their wedding, then later after they'd consummated their union. She reminded herself that their son had been conceived in love.
    Her body warmed and relaxed. Her husband had been her first—and, so far, only—lover. She remembered that night as if it had been only yesterday.
    He'd been so gentle, showing her how to please and be pleased. That first time had hurt some, but