Chapter Fifteen

 

“Nah, ‘tis not,” he said, his voice a gentle grate against her sensitive eardrums. “Miss Colby Quaid, meet Her Highness, Grace O’Malley, the Queen of Umaill, the fearless chieftainess of the mighty O’Maill clan, and the seafaring scourge of the British crown.” He bowed. Ash actually bowed to the wooden statue.

“The Irish pirate?” She had to ask. “Was this what Kevin meant?” Or who.

“Aye, the fighting O’Malleys of Rockfleet Castle.”

Colby couldn’t believe her eyes. This wasn’t some legendary Irish female pirate. Uh-uh. There, in the center of Ash’s cramped little spare bedroom, as tall as the ceiling and resting in an equally large wooden cradle, surrounded by a pool of wooden curlicues and shavings and sawdust was—her. Colby Quaid. In the very naked flesh. Every exposed peak and crevice of her.

An orderly row of woodcarving tools: gouges, chisels, blades and mallets, rested on a canvas covered table against the wall to her right, but she couldn’t NOT look at the giant carved wooden statue of—oh my. It’s me.

It was one of those magnificent creations that hung at the prows of masted schooners of old. Of pirate ships. The lady’s bare feet and legs wept behind her, her ankles crossed as if she’d risen from the waves. Her head was up and her chin lifted as if into a stiff wind. Her eyes were carved of clear amber, the pupils big and black as if they saw through Colby.

As if she wasn’t already enough of a magical apparition, the wooden queen held a crystal blue globe in her raised palms aloft, as if offering a tithe to Neptune—or some nautical god of Ash’s fertile imagination. Interestingly, a feathery tendril of ivy twined between her full breasts to circle her waist before it dipped to her sex, intimately covering that one part of her bare body.

My bare body. Bared. What was it Ash always said? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph? Yeah. That.

Colby swallowed hard, every step around this piece of art an insight into the romance and skill of the man in the room. He hadn’t said a word since he’d opened the door to this startling revelation. This secret.

Meeting Grace Malone in the flesh certainly wasn’t what she’d expected when he’d pulled up to the curb. The man was a player. A panty melting, drop dead gorgeous male who, whether he knew it or not, pulled wanton glances from women he passed on the street. She’d anticipated a drink and the promise of a tussle—if he was lucky. But this…

Wow. Her heart pounded as hard and as fast as it often had before battle. There were no words. Suddenly weak in the knees, she rested one palm to the curvy hip of this fantastical replica of—me. Wow, this really is me. I can’t believe it’s…me.

While most of the creation had been carved from a rich, honey golden wood, the mounds of billowing hair around the pirate queen’s face held a decidedly reddish tint, nearly the same as her natural hair color before the desert suns of the Mideast had bleached the life out of it—and her.

Streaks of darker red ran alongside streaks of pure gold. Carved curls, spirals, and tangles dripped in a mass down the statue’s back that led to a sumptuous ass. Even if Colby thought that fabulous figure was the true image of herself, she’d never tell Ash. Not him, the eternal rogue who fancied himself a lady’s man and the man of his house, and considered his future wife nothing more than necessary domestic staff. Many men married to replace their mothers or because they needed a slave, someone to cook and clean and cater to their every whim, and that person… is not me.

But this woman… this figurehead. Something else again. What on earth was he trying to tell her?

“You like strawberry blondes,” she whispered past the dry catch in her throat. And apparently, very naked women.

“Aye.” He covered a cough. “But just one.”

Another revelation, one she’d known for years but hadn’t had the guts to face. The player it seemed was not what she’d thought he was, but then. Was she? “This must’ve taken a while to carve.” Like… years…

Another, “Aye,” and a rustle of footsteps over sawdust as warm hands descended to her shoulders. Was he as nervous as she was? “This is my first.” His voice had turned decidedly raspy. Hoarse, as if his throat was dry and he needed a drink. She certainly did. “I made another down at me warehouse. Some rich bloke up in Cape Cod ordered it, but that one burned.”

Of course, the creation was nude. This was Ash after all. But as he would say, “Bloody hell,” Colby breathed, her sharp eyes still taking in details only a close friend—or lover—would’ve known about her. Like the tiny scar at the corner of her left eye where she’d been gouged by some asshat’s fingernail in a hard won soccer game against Quincy, Mass. That was one for the records, more of a catfight than a competition.

But he’d also caught the very full breasts Colby had once wrapped and bound before games to keep them out of her way. As a driven athlete, she’d had no use for that much jiggle, had even considered a surgical reduction. But now?

She ran her fingers over the wooden peak of a perfect nipple, smiling at that devilish mind behind her. Sliding her fingertips down the carved lady’s ribcage, she spied a mole above the left hip identical to hers. Colby pinched her lips, fighting a chuckle. Ash knew her body so well. Even the hollow of her butt cheeks, the dimple where those cheeks flared. The embarrassing size of them. Wow. Does this little room make my butt look big?

Heat lapped at her cheeks and prickled up her neck. Oh, m, my, my...

She stifled the girly impulse to fan herself at the knowledge that he’d had his hand on her ass, by proxy maybe, but still. This was definitely her butt.

The tiny room was suddenly unspeakably—stuffy. He knew her body better than she knew his. Her only glimpse of him in the buff had been this morning, and yes, the glorious sight had nearly done her in.

At last, the master cleared his throat. “This is the original. Like I said before, I made another for that customer, but it burned in the fire. I could nah sell this one, nah for all the gold nor silver in the land. If you do nah like it, I—”

She whirled on him, still fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “It’s….” So hard to describe. “…the most…” Still working here. “…interesting woman I’ve ever seen,” she offered, the warmest parts of her body throbbing. Her belly clenched. Other places too.

A shadow shifted in those glorious blues of the rowdy male standing before her. “Interesting?” he repeated as if the word soured on his tongue.

She grinned. Giggled. Bit her lip, then stuck her chin at him. “It’s me, Ash. I can’t very well say she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen, when she’s me, can I?”

“Aye, ‘tis you.” There it was, the smile she hadn’t realized she’d been waiting for. It blossomed over his rugged face like the morning sun over the Hindu Kush in springtime. In two steps, she was in his arms. He spun her in a slow circle, his hand cupping the back of her head while she carefully held onto his biceps since his neck was off limits. “It took me a year to carve her, another to get her perfect, then another to sand and polish. Another to protect…”

Her heart stalled. Protect. He’d been working on this masterpiece, imbuing it with his protection, since she’d joined the Army? Why does one man DO something like this for the woman who’d left him behind? What a waste of time! Why had he obsessed and poured his heart into a silly piece of wood just because…?

He loves me.

“You’ve had your hands on me for years.” She made that a quiet observation, fighting the noisy beat of her heart. He truly loves me.

Ash nodded. “And in me heart, Lass. With every nick and gouge, every careful pare, cut and sweep, I said a Hail Mary for you. Just for you. I prayed to the Holy Virgin you’d come home safe and well, and I…” His eyes turned dark and black as his pupils expanded, drawing her in. “Even if you didn’t return to me, I begged the Lord to please let you live, Colby. To at least keep you safe so you could do whatever you wanted with your life. Just to bring you home, Lass. That was enough for me.”

He hadn’t said: Bring you home to me. Just bring you home. The ultimate sacrifice of true love. Simply to let me go and let me live…

Her heart swelled. This man… this reckless, romantic, aggravating male might not be the player she’d thought he was. Like her mother and her father before Ash, like Quaid, Inc., she might’ve completely missed the mark. Ash was more than the cheeky Irishman she’d judged him to be.

Lifting her hands to his shoulders, she aligned her thumbs with his collarbones, and her breasts with his broad chest. The man’s arms and body surrounded her with adoration, just like his sacrifice. “So tell me about Grace O’Malley.” If you can…