Actually, the door was already locked when they finally made it to Blackfriar’s. But when Mac pulled her round to the kitchen door and knocked, Conla let them in at once. She was a spare woman, all sharp corners without a trace of fluff. Sloane had often wondered if she ever indulged in her own food, but despite the visual austerity of her form, Conla was warm and generous.

She soon had them seated in the tiny dining room, two plates of warm fish pie and a heaping pile of chips and the prerequisite bottle of vinegar between them. Just like the Irish, the Manx served some form of potatoes with everything.

Conla bustled back into the kitchen with a wave of her striped dishcloth, advising them they could let themselves out when they were done.

Both she and Mac took a moment to sniff appreciatively, grinning at each other. Sloane cut into the buttery crust that immediately welled with savory goodness. She groaned as she lifted it to her lips. “It’s been too long since I’ve eaten Conla’s food.”

Mac chuckled. “I say that all the time and I eat here twice a week.”

The blend of savory herbs, rich creamy sauce and melt-in-your-mouth fish was like orgasm on a fork. She swallowed and sighed, speaking without thinking. “Damn, if I had waited to fight with you until after we ate, I could have had this days ago.”

He raised an eyebrow, then grinned, white teeth flashing. “True. But you’ve always been a stubborn little thing.”

“Have I?”

“Aye. Who else gets a book published at the age of nineteen?”

“I thought you didn’t approve of my books.”

“Sloane,” he sighed. “It wasn’t the books themselves I’m opposed to, it’s the attention they draw. I dislike the idea of you being in the spotlight. It’s dangerous.”

With a shiver, Sloane remembered the white-haired man. Mac certainly had a point. For awhile, they ate in silence. Sloane wasn’t sure if it her still-impaired state was to blame, but she was so aware of the man across from her that it became hard to focus on the delicious food. The way the low lighting brought out the deep red in his hair. And made the gold in his beard glint, highlighting the hard planes of his face, the sensual curve of his mouth. Mac had taken off his coat, slinging it over his chair. The movement of his shoulders under thick black Henley he wore made her lips press together, remembering the way he’d look without it.

He had pushed up his sleeves, and watching his forearms flex as he cut up his pie, her throat went dry. Reaching for her water, she took a slow sip, food momentarily forgotten. What was it about the power and wiry strength of that innocuous part of a man’s body that made her ache? Then there was his hands, darkened by the sun, roughened by hard, physical work…

“Ye keep staring at me like tha’,” Mac growled, making her jump, “and it wonna be only this pie tha’ I’m eating tonight, promise or no’.”

Sloane gasped. Then her jaw tightened and she lifted her chin. “It’s your fault, making me think about having an affair with you.”

“I didna say anything about an affair, tha’ was ye.” His dark tone had her hesitating, but the alcohol in her veins made her ask the question anyway.

“But you don’t want that?” she swallowed once as Mac went still.

The silence between them spun out, becoming uncomfortable for the first time since the beginning of the evening. When Mac finally shook his head, she was almost relieved. Almost.

“Why not?” she said, setting her fork down.

“I’m no’ saying we willna end up in bed, because we will.” The way his gaze darkened as he looked at her made Sloane grab her own glass of water and take a hasty drink. Mac’s lips curved. “But it willna be started on a night when either of us have been drinking. And I willna let ye pretend it’s anything less than wha’ it is.” His voice hardened. “Like it or no’, I meant wha’ I said, Sloane. Ye are mine. I’ll give ye time to get used to the idea, but this isn’t about sex.” He hesitated and then grinned wickedly. “Or no’ jus about sex.”

Sloane’s stomach tightened painfully as she looked into that familiar handsome face. He was drawing her in, making her want the dream again. And damn if that didn’t piss her off. “What do you really know of me?”

“Everything,” he said without a trace of irony, taking a sip of water as she looked at him askance.

“Mac, except for tonight, we’ve barely talked in years. You don’t know who I am, not really.”

He set his drink down with a thump. “Ye think I doona know who ye are?” His eyes darkened. “Remember the colt, Sloane?”

Despite herself, Sloane’s hand flew to her mouth, and tears filled her eyes.

She’d been sixteen that summer, nearly seventeen. She’d had a fight with her folks and fled the rental they’d had that summer. Normally, they rented from Mac, in town, but that summer they had rented the Watterson place. She’d found herself outside Mac’s stable, as she had so many times that summer and others. He had a mare with foal and it was no surprise to see the lights on in the barn.

Hoping to chase away her foul mood, Sloane had stepped inside, only to see Mac’s stricken face over the stall door.

“Can I help?” But when she got close enough to see inside, it was clear no one could help. Blood pooled between piles of straw. The mare was gone, and a weak, knobbly-legged foal lay crumpled in a corner. Mac had torn the birth sac over his mouth and nose, but the poor thing was barely breathing.

“Vet’s over to Peel and I canna get no one else. No’ tha’ will make much difference. Best go on home, Sloane, I’ll do me best, but…you doona want to be here for this.” She could remember his weary words as if it were yesterday. Furious, she’d stalked into the stall.

“Tell me what to do.”

And he had, but Mac swore after it had been Sloane that had pulled the colt through the long night. She was the one who finally got him to stand, two full hours after his mother had died.

Seeing that tiny, toothpick-legged little creature swaying on four hoofs at last, his big dark eyes blinking at her had made her spin right around, tears pouring down her face.

It was the first time she’d felt Mac’s arms around her.

That night was whole reason she’d bought the Watterson place.

That was also the night she realized she loved Mac. Really loved him. It had rocked her. Obviously, it had made an impression on Mac as well.

“I still have him, you know.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“Aye,” Mac took a bite of his pie, watching her teary eyes go wide. “I’ll never get rid of that fucking horse.”

She fisted her napkin until her knuckles ached. “Mac,” she whispered, then stopped, unable to say anything further.

“Ye saved him. Because tha’ is the way ye’ve always been. Ye grab onto what matters and ye hang on, even when it hurts ye something terrible. Tis why ye came back to me.”

“I didn’t come back to Manx because of you, Mac,” she said again, but this time Sloane could hear the lack of conviction in her own words.

Obviously Mac did, too. He took a lazy drink of water before digging back into his pie. “Yes, ye did, love. And one day soon, ye’ll realize it, but don’t ever tell me I don’t know ye, Sloane. I’ve seen your soul, I’ve been protecting it fer years. It captured me a long, long time ago, though it took me a while to admit it. When I did, I thought I was wrong, powerfully wrong to be wanting something I didna think I had any right to. ’Tis why I pushed ye away,” he finished.

“But now?”

“I’ve changed me mind,” he said simply. “To hell with what’s right. I love ye.”

Love? Her fork clattered to her plate and her jaw dropped.

Mac’s gaze fell to her mouth and darkened. “Ye keep doing tha’ and I swear, Sloane, I’m gonna find something to put between those pretty lips.”

She jerked back, her face flushing instantly. But she refused to let him distract her.

“You said,” she bit out the word, “‘love.’ ”

“Aye, I know I did.” He snatched a fry from her side of the plate and dipped it in the vinegar on his own before taking a bite, watching her as he chewed.

“Mac,” she said weakly. “What happened to not pushing?”

“I’m no’ pushing. I’m stating.” His eyes had turned a pure, blazing blue that took her breath away. “We’ve had too many misunderstandings between us. When it comes to this, I willna be anything but crystal clear. I fucking love ye. The sooner ye get used to the fact, the better.”

She blinked at him, her head spinning. What a night. “Mac, I don’t know—”

He lifted a hand. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I don’t mind waiting. For tha’. For other things, I think neither of us may be so patient.” He shot her a predatory grin before finishing his fry in one neat bite.

Sloane pursed her lips, even as her heart skipped a couple of beats. When it steadied, she thought of something odd he’d said. “What did you mean, about protecting me?”

Mac looked at her, then quickly away, his voice thick. “Only tha’ I promised your da, when ye were very young, to always protect ye, keep ye safe.”

Sloane was startled, then shocked, so touched her eyes started stinging again. Her dad wasn’t the type to ask such personal favors, especially from a workingman like Mac. She closed her eyes, swaying in her seat.

He glanced at her, looking concerned. “Ye want me to take ye home now?”

She nodded. “It’s too much. It’s all been just a little too . . . Christ, Mac.”

He understood. He didn’t say anything, not as he helped her stack the dishes and set them on the sideboard, or the whole way back to the flat, but he understood. Sloane needed time. He was trying to keep that in mind, but it was powerfully hard when he knew that for once in his lifetime, time was running short.

It was a pleasant surprise at the door when she went to her toes and brushed her lips over his cheek.

“Thanks for tonight, Mac. If nothing else, you reminded me that I do have more than one friend. As for the rest . . .” She shrugged, smiling ruefully before stepping over the threshold and quietly shutting the door in his face.

He stared at it for a long time before spinning on his heel and walking back down to the beach. Looking out over the water, he folded his arms, thinking.

It may well have been a misstep, telling Sloane in such bald terms how he felt, but he could feel the walls closing in around them. He had ever since he’d decided on this course of action.

Eventually, the rest of them would find out. Eventually, he’d be forced to take action. He already knew what that action would have to be. There was no choice, really.

He could only hope Sloane would understand when the time came.

Far out to sea, a speck of white tossed over the dark waves just as he was turning to leave. It looked like nothing more than sea foam, but Mac knew better. He waited. His lips tightened as the speck grew, swiftly taking on a sleek, majestic form. Soon, the waves lapping the shore were splashing against fetlocks, then hooves dancing on the sand.

It was a stallion, foam-white and huge. He whistled a shrill challenge and Mac chuckled. “Let’s remember who created who here, eh, Finbar?”

Dark eyes regarded him as the beast pranced closer, tossing his graceful neck back and forth, the snow-white mane bright against the night.

“I do hope all is well?”

The horse huffed out a breath, almost a laugh. Inquiries already. Danu, Lugh was a sharp one. He should know, he’d trained the lad himself.

“Aye, well, the king can wait.”

Finbar tossed his head again before lowering it to butt Mac hard in the chest. He pushed at the horse’s muzzle, feeling suddenly bereft as he looked out at the sea. “I know, but I canna go home yet, ye silly beast.”

And maybe never again.