The Mighty Quinns: Rourke

Her hero. Her savior. And her undoing…

Rourke Quinn found her on the storm-tossed shores of Cape Breton. The woman in his arms was unconscious and bleeding. And Rourke knew her. Annie MacIntosh was the town outcast—a wild thing. And as untamed and beautiful as the Atlantic itself. This storm was just the thing to keep Rourke as close to her as he dared....

Annie grew up fiercely independent. She was a survivor, needing no one and nothing. She cut herself off from the town and society, relying only on her raw need for survival. But Rourke unleashes a hunger she never knew existed. This man—this stranger—satiates an appetite she hardly dared imagine. It’s more exciting and more turbulent than that storm that rages outside. And Rourke has only one chance with the wild girl he can’t live without...before losing her to a world he can never be part of.

Praise for Kate Hoffmann’s MIGHTY QUINNS

“This truly delightful tale packs in the heat and a lot of heart at the same time.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Dermot

“This is a fast read that is hard to tear the eyes from.

Once I picked it up I couldn’t put it down.”

—Fresh Fiction on The Mighty Quinns: Dermot

“A story that not only pulled me in, but left me weak in the knees.”

—Seriously Reviewed on The Mighty Quinns: Riley

“Sexy, heartwarming and romantic, this is a story to settle down with and enjoy—and then reread.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Teague

“Sexy Irish folklore and intrigue weave throughout this steamy tale.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Kellan

“The only drawback to this story is that it’s far too short!”

—Fresh Fiction on The Mighty Quinns: Kellan

“Strong, imperfect but lovable characters, an interesting setting and great sensuality.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Brody

Dear Reader,

One of my favorite things about writing books for Mills & Boon is the opportunity to explore interesting new places. When I decided to do this latest quartet of Mighty Quinn books, I was excited to have the chance to choose four very different settings, in various parts of the world. Of course, the final book had to be set in Ireland, but for this book, I played with the settings of Central America and Africa before deciding on the island of Cape Breton in Canada.

With its vibrant Celtic culture and old lighthouses, I knew right away that this was the perfect place for a Quinn to fall in love—with the countryside and the heroine!

So, for all my Canadian fans, this one’s for you. I hope I’ve represented this beautiful corner of your country well. I think it’s the perfect place for Rourke and Annie to find their happy ending.

Enjoy!

Kate Hoffmann

The Mighty Quinns: Rourke

Kate Hoffmann

KATE HOFFMANN has written more than seventy books for Mills & Boon, most of them for the Blaze® line. She spent time as a music teacher, a retail assistant buyer and an advertising exec before she settled into a career as a full-time writer. She continues to pursue her interests in music, theater and musical theater, working with local schools in various productions. She lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her cat, Chloe.

Dedicated to the memory of Rita MacNeil,

an extraordinary voice from an extraordinary place.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Excerpt

Prologue

“IT’S BEEN SO long. I’m beginning to lose hope that we’ll ever find them.”

Aileen Quinn stared out the window of her office at the slate-gray sky. Autumn was quickly turning to winter and she dreaded the damp cold that would settle into her bones. In her younger days, she’d traveled to the south of France during the worst of the Irish winter, soaking up the sun along the Mediterranean coast. But she hadn’t traveled for years, finding herself more comfortable in familiar surroundings.

“I have one more lead to check on your brother Diarmuid,” Ian said, leafing through his notes. “But I’m sad to say that we’ve found nothing on Lochlan. I have researchers on four continents looking for him, but he just disappeared. Off the grid, they call it.”

Aileen had hired Ian Stephens months ago to help her research the parents she’d never known for a chapter in her autobiography. She had grown up in an orphanage, believing that she’d been the only daughter of a destitute Irish widow who’d died of consumption—after her husband had been killed in the Easter Uprising. But Ian had discovered four older brothers—siblings she hadn’t remembered—whose fates had been scattered to the winds when their mother couldn’t care for them.

“I’m another year older,” Aileen said. She forced a bright smile. “I never intended to live to see my ninety-seventh birthday. Good Lord, I’ve lived far too long.”

“You’re the youngest ninety-seven-year-old I’ve ever met,” Ian said with a smile. “Look at you. You’re still writing, still active.”

“That’s lovely of you to say, but it doesn’t make this old body of mine feel any younger.” Aileen laughed softly. “In my mind, I’m still a young woman. When I look in the mirror these days, I barely recognize myself. I wish I could have some of those years back.”

“You’ve led a full life, Miss Quinn. An important life. Your books have meant a lot to so many people. You’re one of Ireland’s most beloved novelists.”

“And yet, I’m searching the ends of the earth for a family, desperate to give myself a legacy beyond my books. I could have had my own family if I hadn’t put my work first.”

Ian had found the descendants of two of her brothers—Tomas’s family near Brisbane, Australia, and Conal’s family in Chicago in the U.S. But it had been five months since he’d brought good news about the other two. She’d planned a festive family reunion for the holidays at Ballyseede Castle, leasing out the entire castle and its twenty-two bedrooms. She wanted the rooms full.

“What do you know of Diarmuid so far?” Aileen asked.

“We’ve come across a clue in a 1945 Canadian census. The age seems to be right and the individual lists his birthplace as Ireland. His name is registered as Dermot, but that is the anglicized version of the Gaelic name. Sometimes the census takers didn’t always get a spelling correct.”

Aileen leaned forward in her chair. “That does sound hopeful.”

“If this Dermot is the one, he settled on Cape Breton, worked as a fisherman and had three sons. The eldest, Alistair, died in the Second World War. The next son, Brian, or Buddy, as he was known, died about five months ago, a bachelor. And the youngest, Paul, died about eight years ago. His son, Rourke, is the only heir.”

“Rourke?”

“From our research, that’s his mother’s maiden name. She was quite a bit younger than her husband and has since remarried.”

“When will we know for sure if Dermot is Diarmuid?” Aileen asked.

“It’s difficult to say. But we’re getting closer. I have a genealogist in Halifax who will be traveling to Cape Breton this week to check the records and ask some questions. Hopefully someone will remember something about Dermot.”

A soft knock sounded on the door and Sally stepped inside Aileen’s office. “I have lunch laid out in the breakfast room whenever you’re ready, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Sally,” Aileen replied. “We’ll be along in a bit.” She turned to Ian. “I hope you’ll stay. I wanted to tell you about my plans for a grand family reunion over the Christmas holidays. I’ve rented a castle.”

Ian blinked in surprise. “A castle? Well, in that case, I’m not sure I should pause for lunch. I have a lot to accomplish over the next few months.”

“Of course, I want you to be there,” Aileen said. “I want you to put together a book on the family history. The reunion will be the final chapter in my autobiography.”

“It would make a perfect ending.”

“Much better than a funeral, don’t you think?” Aileen teased. She pushed up from her chair, wincing at the ache in her hip. “Come,” she said. “Let’s see what Sally has for us. I smelled bread baking this morning.”

Ian circled her desk and held out his arm. Aileen took it, clutching her cane in her other hand. “Did I tell you someone at the RTE network contacted me when they learned about our search?” he asked. “They have an American production company that wants to make a documentary about your life.”

“Imagine that,” Aileen said. “I can’t think it would be a very interesting documentary.”

“I beg to differ,” Ian said. “I think it would be wonderful. And that’s what I told the producer when she called me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aileen said. “I’ve managed for so long to keep a private life. You don’t think a documentary might be...unseemly, do you?”

“I think your readers would love to know more about the woman behind the books.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Aileen said. “Perhaps you can convince me over lunch.” They walked out into the foyer. “And we can discuss hiring more investigators to search out Lochlan. One just doesn’t go missing in the modern world. There’s always something left behind, some piece of paper that will give us a clue. Perhaps if we find Diarmuid, that branch of the family will know about Lochlan.”

“We’ll fill those twenty-two bedrooms in Ballyseede Castle,” Ian said. “Mark my words.”

“Yes. I believe we will,” Aileen replied.

1

THE PEARSON BAY hardware store was bustling with activity as Rourke Quinn walked through the battered front door. The locals, worried about the approaching storm, were buying last-minute supplies before the wind and rain drove them indoors.

“Hey, Rourke! You hanging around for this? It’s supposed to be the storm of the decade. At least that’s what forecasters are callin’ it.”

Rourke turned to smile at Betty Gillies, the store owner. “Nope. I’m heading out. I want to get to the mainland before it hits. I just needed some batteries for my camera. Thought I’d take a few last pictures of the coastline before I left the island.”

“We’re going to miss you around here,” she said. “Heck, I’m gonna miss you. You were good for the bottom line.”

Rourke chuckled. “I’m sure I was.”

He’d arrived on the eastern shore of Cape Breton Island almost three months ago, coming to the Maritimes to settle his uncle’s estate. His father’s family had lived on the island for almost a hundred years, plying the waters of the Atlantic as fishermen. But Uncle Buddy was the last of the Quinns to make his home on Cape Breton and now that he was gone, his cottage would be sold.

Born in America of an American mother and a Canadian father, Rourke had always felt torn between the Cape Breton culture of his Canadian family and the big-city life of his hometown. His uncle had known this and Rourke suspected that was why the cottage had been left to him—so that he might find his way “home” again.

Rourke had spent summer vacations working on his uncle’s fishing boat, making the long trip up from New York City, where his parents lived. His father, Paul, had wanted Rourke to experience a working-class job, hoping that it would make him more interested in college and a business career. As he got older, Rourke found himself drawn to the business Paul had founded with two friends. During high school, he spent his summer vacations with his father, learning the ins and outs of civil engineering. Uncle Buddy was relegated to a couple weeks at the end of August.

Rourke felt a familiar twinge of guilt assail him, but he brushed it aside. He’d spent the past three months renovating Buddy’s place, making it habitable for a modern family. Now it was ready. He’d talked to a few real estate agents and made plans to list it, but he hadn’t made a final decision. Perhaps it might be better to rent it out.

“A single decision can change the course of your life,” he murmured to himself. Buddy had always offered sage advice with pithy sayings or old proverbs. That was one of his favorites.

When Rourke was young he used to tease his uncle. Yeah, I’ll make sure to embroider that on a pillow, he’d say. But now that he was older, he’d begun to realize the impact of that advice—and the truth of it as it applied to his own life.

After high school, he’d decided to join the firm. He worked nights and weekends as a draftsman at Paul’s office and took engineering classes during the day. Though it was never said out loud, he knew that the company was in trouble and that his father needed his help. And with every year that passed, the stress took more of a toll on Paul’s health.

He’d continued to work at the company, even after his father’s sudden death of a heart attack, hoping to save his dad’s legacy by getting the firm back on track. But without the support of the other two partners, Rourke knew it was a lost cause. He quit the day after he heard of Buddy’s death.

Rourke stared at the selection of batteries. He wished he’d had one last chance to talk to Buddy, to ask him the questions that had been plaguing him for the past few years. Where is my life going? What do I really want? Am I ever going to be truly satisfied?

“So you’re putting the place up for sale, are you?” Betty asked.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Rourke replied as he pulled a package of batteries off the rack and dropped it on the counter. “I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”

“Is this it?” she said, pointing to the batteries.

Rourke nodded, then reached into his pocket for his wallet. But as he was pulling out the money to pay for the purchase, the patrons around him suddenly went silent. Betty’s gaze fixed on a spot over his shoulder and Rourke slowly turned.

Annie Macintosh was a familiar figure to everyone in town. Her family had lived on the eastern shore as long as the Quinns had. Her great-grandfather had built and kept the lighthouse on Freer’s Point.

Annie’s life had been more tragic than most. Her parents had died when she was young, both of them drowned under mysterious circumstances. She’d been brought up by her grandmother in the old light keeper’s cottage, set on a beautiful piece of property overlooking the Atlantic.

As a shy child, she’d been the target of the local bullies, their taunts focused on her stammer, on her mismatched clothes, on her tangled auburn hair or her pale complexion. Recalling the torment as an adult, Rourke had to wonder why no one had stepped in to help her. He’d stood up for her once, only to get pummeled for it by a group of six townies.

He could see her now, surrounded by the six bullies, her stance defiant, struggling to express her anger even through her stutter, which invited more derision from the boys. It had been the most courageous thing he’d seen in his young life and it had been one of those moments that Buddy had talked about. That day, he’d realized that he wouldn’t spend his life being led by others. He was a leader, not a follower.

Annie silently walked to the row of freezers and refrigerators on the far wall that held bait for the sport fishermen. When she returned to the counter, she was carrying two large boxes of frozen herring.

Rourke stepped aside, giving her a hesitant smile. “Go ahead. I can wait.”

She smiled back at him and for a moment, Rourke forgot to breathe. The dirty, disheveled girl had grown into an incredible beauty. Her eyes had always been an odd shade of blue—almost teal—ringed with dark lashes, but they had an unexpected effect on him now. Her hair, thick and wavy, hung just to her shoulders, and though tousled by the wind, seemed to be well tended. She wore simple clothes, a pair of jeans that hugged her long legs, a faded shirt and a canvas jacket.

But it was that heart-shaped face, so unusual and so captivating. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to look away. He took in as many details as he could before she finished her transaction. After she paid, she hefted the two boxes into her arms and turned for the door.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly, her gaze meeting his and then lingering for a moment. The corners of her mouth curled up slightly in what he could only take as a hesitant smile.

Somehow, he sensed that her gratitude wasn’t for the cut in line, but for what had happened all those years ago. “Can I help you carry those out?” he asked, reaching for the box under her left arm.

She shook her head and tried to walk by him, twisting her body away. The box slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a thud, then slid across the hardwood like a giant hockey puck.

Rourke made a move to retrieve it, but so did she, and when they reached the frost-covered box, they bumped heads as they squatted at the same time. He grabbed the box, then helped her to her feet. “Where are you parked?” he asked.

Cursing beneath her breath, she took the box from him, struggling as she tried to tuck it under her arm. Then, without giving him another look, she turned and hurried out of the store. Rourke stared after her, speechless, wondering at her odd behavior. The rest of the patrons had watched her retreat in silence, as well.

Drawing a deep breath, he returned to the counter and laid out the money for the batteries. “That was odd,” he murmured.

“You’re tellin’ me,” Betty replied.

“What do you think she’s going to do with all that herring?”

“The locals use it for crab pots,” Betty said. “But that’s not what’s odd.”

“What is, then?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard her speak.”

Rourke frowned. “Really? I know as a kid she didn’t say much, but I hadn’t realized that was still going on.”

“She doesn’t talk to anyone. Just goes about her business. Gotta wonder about that. She must get a little lonely out there, living all by herself.” Betty made a little circle with her finger beside her temple. “Some of us think all that solitude has made her a bit crazy.”

“I haven’t been out to the Freer’s Point light in years,” Rourke said. “Not sure I could find it if I tried.”

“You take the turn by the Banner Realty sign on the coast road,” Betty said, frowning. “You planning a trip out there?”

Rourke shrugged as he tucked the bag of batteries into his jacket pocket, then said goodbye to everyone in the store. He’d been anxious to get out of town before the storm struck, but his mind was suddenly focused on Annie Macintosh. While neighbors were helping neighbors prepare for the high winds and rain, boarding up windows and fueling generators, who was there to look out for her? Did she have any friends on the island at all?

The least he could do before he left was check on her. He could afford to stick around for a few more hours, maybe help her batten things down. The storm wasn’t supposed to hit the coast until midnight and it was just past three in the afternoon.

He made a few more quick stops, for gas and snacks, then headed out along the coast. He made the turn at the sign and as he drove the winding road, he caught sight of the lighthouse. Rourke pulled the SUV to a stop, reconsidering what he was about to do.

Was this another one of those moments? Rourke wondered. Was this really about being a good neighbor, or was this about the strange attraction he felt for Annie Macintosh? An uneasy feeling came over him and he thought about turning the car around and heading back to the coast road. After all, he was no white knight ready to ride to her rescue. “Come on, Buddy, give me a sign,” he murmured.

A few seconds later, a sparrow, buffeted by the winds, landed on the hood of Rourke’s car. The bird stared at him through the windshield. Rourke held his breath and a moment later, it flew off.

He cursed softly, then continued his drive toward the water. So many years had passed since they’d last seen each other. Did she really remember him or had he only imagined the look of recognition in her eyes?

The road was rutted and hard to navigate, his Range Rover bumping along as he tried to make out two tire tracks in front of him. When the light keeper’s house finally came into view, he stopped the truck and stared out at the landscape.

The cottage had seen better days. The porch was sagging at one end, the chimney looked as if it was listing and the shutters that used to protect the house from storms like the one rolling in were falling off their hinges.

When he reached the house, Rourke turned off the ignition and hopped out of the truck. “Hello!” he shouted.

A dog barked in the distance and he walked up to the front door, avoiding the rotten step just in time. Rourke rapped on the door and waited. “Hello! Miss Macintosh?” A few seconds later, a border collie came charging around the corner of the house and Rourke froze, wondering if he’d be able to make it back to the truck before being bitten.

But the dog stopped short, then spun around and ran in the opposite direction. It stopped again, as if waiting for Rourke to follow him. He charged again and this time, Rourke held out his hand. The dog gave him a wary look as he came closer, then nudged Rourke’s palm with his nose.

“Do you know where she is?” he asked.

The dog took off and Rourke followed, heading down a narrow path toward the sea. The lighthouse and keeper’s cottage were set on land that had been scrubbed almost bare by the wind. The trees had been cleared long ago, leaving nothing to serve as a shield between the buildings and the white-capped Atlantic.

The surf was already high, the water roiling ahead of the storm blowing in from offshore. As he stared out at the horizon, he caught sight of Annie, standing on a small spit of sand and rock, the waves crashing around her and sending up huge plumes of water.

She was already wet, yet she didn’t seem to notice. She just stared out at the slate-gray water, her eyes fixed on some distant point. The wind whipped her hair around her face and the roar was so loud that he doubted she’d be able to hear him. The dog stood on the shore, barking at her, but she didn’t turn around.

Another wave broke against the rocks and he watched as she struggled to keep her balance on her precarious perch. “What the hell are you doing?” he muttered. Rourke ran toward the shore, cupping his hands over his mouth and shouting at her to come back in.

To his relief, she turned at the sound of his voice. But at that exact moment, a rogue wave hit the rocks, slamming against her back and knocking her down. From where he was, Rourke couldn’t see if she’d slid into the surf. He said a silent prayer that the water hadn’t washed her away.

He made it down to the water in a matter of seconds, then climbed through the rocks. Rourke kept his eye on a small patch of maroon, the color of her jacket. When he reached her, she was lying on her back, the water rushing around her. Her eyes were closed and he leaned close, listening for her breathing. Rourke saw her chest move, then picked her up in his arms.

When they reached the safety of the shore, he laid her down in the tall grass and examined her for injuries. To his dismay, he found a cut on the back of her head that was bleeding into her wet hair. The dog circled around them both, whining and pawing at his mistress.