Page 94 of Calling on the Matchmaker
“That’s all I need.” He drew a line on her cheek, tracing the pattern of freckles. “That, along with permission to kiss everyfreckle on your body, which is what I’ve been dreaming about doing since the moment I met you.”
She gasped at his bold statement, then shoved his arm. “Riley Rafferty, you’ll be getting no such permission.”
He chuckled, then leaned into her ear. “It might take me a lifetime to kiss each and every one, but I intend to do it, Finola. You are forewarned.”
She shivered, but the light blue flames flickering in her eyes told him all he needed to know, that her reaction was one of pure pleasure, and that she would relish a lifetime of his kisses.
“So you’re happy?” He brushed a kiss against her forehead.
“Aye.” She released a contented sigh. “As long as I can make you the happiest man alive, then I’ll be the happiest woman.”
Riley smiled. Spending their marriage making each other happy? That would indeed make the perfect match.
32
Bellamy McKenna tossed the towel over his shoulder before he grabbed the handles of three empty mugs in one hand and three in the other.
For a Tuesday evening, the pub was deserted—the tables and chairs barren with only the dirty dishes to signal that anyone had been there at all over the supper hour. Most men were out celebrating, as right they should on Shrove Tuesday, the last day before Lent. And a day filled with weddings. Thankfully, the cases of cholera in the city seemed to be subsiding with a recent cold spell, and it wasn’t overrunning the city the way everyone had predicted it would.
Bellamy knew of at least a dozen weddings, mostly from the matches Oscar had made. They’d gotten invitations to all of them, and Oscar was making the rounds to each home, never one to waste the opportunity for craic. In fact, Oscar anticipated Shrove Tuesday all year, eager for the feasting and dancing and the chance to mingle and talk to his heart’s content.
Bellamy had never enjoyed the celebrations as much as his father, so it hadn’t been much of a sacrifice to offer to stay behind and mind the pub. Besides, even though he’d been successful in matching Finola Shanahan and Riley Rafferty, Oscar hadn’tprovided any other opportunities to help with matchmaking, which meant he didn’t have a vested interest in attending any of the wedding celebrations.
Not that he was sore about it. Okay, maybe he was a little. Oscar could have given him another match or two to work on his own instead of relegating him to his normal role as assistant, following the master around like a pup.
But Oscar had made it clear that he hadn’t liked Bellamy’s unconventional methods with Finola and Riley, had felt as though Bellamy had taken too many risks in trying to get the couple together.
“You got lucky, Bellamy,” Oscar had boomed into a pub full of customers. “You managed to make a match this time, but you won’t be able to do that again, not like that.”
Bellamy had wanted to retort that he didn’t intend to do it again the same way, that each couple was different and needed a unique approach tailored specifically to them. But he’d held in his views, knowing his dad would think those were unconventional too.
Bellamy pushed in a chair with his hip before starting on his way to the bar counter. Captain Sullivan O’Brien was still sitting on one of the stools, the only man left in the pub—even old Georgie McGuire was gone for the night.
The captain never drank any of the hard spirits, only ever asked for a bowl of stew and sipped the watery ale that Riley’s sister Jenny brewed.
Sullivan had finished his supper but was lingering. The question was—why?
The steamboat captain was a brawny man, made of more muscle than three other fellows combined. With his dark hair and eyes and perpetual layer of dark facial scruff, he had an almost menacing appearance. At the very least, he put off an intimidating aura. Not only that, but he was quiet, introverted, and gruff.
Bellamy suspected Sullivan used those aloof qualities to hold others at bay because he was insecure. And if Bellamy had to take a guess at what was causing the insecurity, he’d say it was the burn scars.
The captain did his best to hide the scars behind his high collar and cravat. But a slight line of puckered red skin showed anyway, and no doubt it covered a good portion of his shoulder and maybe even his back.
After rounding the bar counter, Bellamy placed the empty mugs into a basin with all the others that needed washing, a task Jenny would take care of in the morning.
Sullivan shot a dark glance his way, and something in the man’s expression told Bellamy now that everyone else had gone, he wanted to talk but didn’t quite know how to get the conversation started.
Bellamy arched his brows at the fellow’s mug. “Looks like you need a refill, so you do.”
“No.” Sullivan issued the curt word while he rose from his stool. “I’m leaving.”
Bellamy quickly sifted through all the information he’d learned about Sullivan O’Brien over the past couple of years the man had frequented the pub. He was from New Orleans, was in command of a host of steamboats, was the oldest son of a wealthy steamboat magnate, fought for a year in the war with Mexico, and was close to thirty years old.
And he was single. On Shrove Tuesday.
Oh, aye. Bellamy knew exactly what the captain wanted. He leaned against the counter and nodded at the fellow. “Go ahead and ask me.”
Situating his flat-brimmed captain’s hat on his head, Sullivan tossed Bellamy a glare. “Ask you what?”
