Page 87 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
“You bought underwear too?” Her lush mouth was fighting a smile.
“No, but maybe you’ll show me yours after the tour.” They were flirting, and God, it felt good. There’d been so little happiness in this house. “Shall I open your gift first?”
She crossed her feet. “Sure. I hope you like it.”
Her nerves were obvious, and when he pulled out the canvas in the gift bag, he understood why. She’d painted him walking in the fields at dawn, his house in the background, his sheep nestled around him. His face wasn’t visible, but his body was turned toward the spot where she always set up her painting supplies. Somehow, he knew he was smiling in the painting, and truth be told, he always did smile when he saw her, even before, when he was fighting the pull between them.
“It’s beyond beautiful, Angie, and so surprising. I…never expected a gift as treasured as this.” He knew exactly where he’d hang it. Over the mantel with the stove in the main room.
“I’m glad you like it.” She uncrossed her ankles and stood normally again. “I called itIn His Element.”
His throat grew thick. She saw him, and he was glad of it. Lovers should see each other. “Are you sure it’s not too precious a gift? I know you need to sell your paintings, and I expect you could sell this.”
She put her hands over his, her grip entreating. “I want you to have it. Carrick, you’ve given me so much. I want…you to have something from my hands.”
He lifted one of those hands and kissed it. She touched his jaw and traced the line of bone and sinew. He wanted to close his eyes and let her explore him before he did the same to her. It took the control of a saint to pull away. “Let me give you the tour, Angie.” His voice had dropped an octave.
She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Lead on.”
He laughed. “Well, look around you. It’s an open floor plan—more modern than Irish.”
“I love the floor-to-ceiling windows,” she said as they wandered into the main floor. “Oh, the views you have, Carrick. The light in here must be incredible. Maybe even better than in my studio. I tell you. Windows make all the difference.”
He’d never thought about light in that way, but it gave him an odd feeling to learn the house was suited to her painting needs. “You have an open invitation to paint here anytime. You mentioned Bets’ studio is bursting, what with all your new classes.”
“We’ll manage,” Angie said, glancing around. “Liam is adding some extra shelves in the closet, and I’m rethinking a few things here and there. But never mind. Tell me what you see here.”
He outlined where the rooms would be for sitting, dining, and cooking, and gave her a quick look at the downstairs bathroom before mentioning the new theater room. Oh, she loved that, he was pleased to discover. He took her hand as they walked up the stairs to the second floor. He’d swept those too, making sure there was nothing she could slip upon.
“There are four bedrooms up here,” he said, letting go of her hand as she walked down the hallway and peeked into each.
“They’re large with big windows,” she exclaimed. “I love them. Being in the cottage has me missing big bedrooms. Big bathrooms too. I like that two of your bedrooms have en suite bathrooms. Carrick, it’s lovely.”
“Thank you, Angie.” He eyed the long hallway, suddenly aware of how quiet it sounded. When he was working, he usually kept the radio on, and the sound of a saw or hammer was his accompaniment. Not today. The silence was almost as potent as the wind. Unavoidable.
Lonely, if he were being honest.
He’d planned his bedroom in the west corner and made it the largest with a view of the sycamore tree. Sorcha again. He’d thought she’d love that view. Now he knew she would never sleep in it. Maybe he could use the bedroom for something else. He had an office, too, but it wasn’t very big. Didn’t the largest sheep farmer in the county need a larger office?
“You look sad, Carrick.” She leaned against the doorway. “Is it hard to build this house?”
He blew out a breath. “It was the hardest in the beginning. It’s only since I let go of her words on my sheep that I’ve accepted she won’t be living here. Oh, that makes me sound mad, and many in the village think I am mad for building this house. But I made a promise to her. I keep my promises, Angie.”
She crossed and put her hand on his arm. “I know you do, Carrick.”
When she said no more, he let out more of the pent-up air in his chest. “It’s a hard thing, letting go. But I know I need to make this my house now. My mind is starting to move along with the notion.” He’d only needed his heart to lead the way, he realized.
“I’m glad.” She rubbed his arm before she dropped her hand. “I’m also glad you didn’t want to make love here. I didn’t know if I could say so earlier, but I feel like I can say it now.”
His throat thickened for another reason, hearing that. “Aren’t we always direct with each other?”
She opened her hands as if searching for the right words. “This house and the reasons you built it were your own and ones I’d never wish to hurt. Carrick, I didn’t want to make love to you here.”
“When it was Sorcha’s house,” he said, meeting her gaze. “You were brave to come at all.”
“It’s not brave,” she said, gesturing down the hallway. “It’s part of you, and I happen to like all of you. This house matters to you. That’s why I’m here.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I like that you’re not running to the door.”
