Her Irish Rogue. Kate Hoffmann

      

       She felt wild, unrestrained… primal.

      The night was all about instinct…and pleasure. The sounds of the ceremony seemed to fade into the distance as a haze of desire surrounded them both. Although the light wind reminded Claire they were outside, the stones and the darkness concealed them. They were alone. And Claire’s need for Will, for his touch, his taste, had taken control.

      This time, though, she wanted him inside her. “Make love to me,” she murmured. “Now. Please, Will. I need you.”

      Moments later he was filling her completely. She arched against him, driving him even deeper, feeling a delicious sense of power…of rightness. Neither one of them seemed to be able to hold back. Will drove into her, again and again. Claire cried out with pleasure, but the sounds were swallowed by the night and the noise of the crowd.

      It was the most passionate sex she’d ever experienced.

      And if the rest of her nights were like this, she was never going home…

       KATE HOFFMANN’s

      first book was published in 1993. Since then she’s written over fifty more titles, including the popular MIGHTY QUINN series. Her books, known for their mix of humour and sensuality, have appeared in the Sensual and Blaze® lines. Kate lives in a small town in Wisconsin, with her cats and her computer. Besides writing, she works with school students in theatre and musical activities. She also enjoys golf, movies, music of all kinds and genealogy research.

      Dear Reader,

      As you can see by the title of this book, I’m back in Ireland again! After writing the MIGHTY QUINN books, I just can’t seem to leave the “auld sod” behind. And this from a girl who has only a few drops of Irish blood in her (from my fifth great-grandfather, Patrick Doolin).

      Her Irish Rogue was a chance to indulge in a bit of Irish magic. While visiting Ireland a few years back, I found the land and the people entirely captivating, so it wasn’t difficult to imagine my hero, Will Donovan, as a sexy innkeeper living on an island off the coast of County Kerry. When a mid-western girl arrives on the island, Will gets a chance to live out a fantasy. And that’s what a holiday love affair ought to be – pure fantasy.

      I hope you enjoy this holiday in Ireland. And who knows? Maybe I’ll be going back soon to find a few more Quinn cousins.

      Happy reading,

       Kate Hoffmann

      HER IRISH ROGUE

      BY

      KATE HOFFMANN

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      1

      THE BOAT SKIMMED over the choppy gray water, sending a gentle spray into the air to land on Claire O’Connor’s face. She brushed a damp strand of hair from her eyes, then fixed her gaze on the small island in the distance, a hazy bump on the horizon.

      The Isle of Trall. She’d left Chicago twenty-four hours earlier and now that she was nearing her destination, Claire realized she’d come on a fool’s errand. “I must be crazy,” she murmured.

      “What’s that, lass?”

      Claire glanced over at Billy Boyle, the captain of the mail boat, and forced a smile. “Nothing,” she murmured.

      “If ye step inside, you won’t be gettin’ so damp.”

      “That’s all right,” Claire said. Perhaps the cold and damp were exactly what she needed to shake a little sense into herself. So much had happened in the past two days she’d hardly had a chance to think clearly. She’d lost her boyfriend, her job and her apartment all in one six-hour period. As a result, she’d begun a quest to get them all back in one crazy act of desperation, an act that brought her to a tiny island off the western coast of Ireland.

      “We don’t see too many single passengers makin’ the trip to Trall,” Captain Billy said. “Mostly couples. It’s a romantic destination, ye know. Not really a place for people to visit on their own.”

      Her grandmother, Orla O’Connor, had told her of the island, and of the legend, but Claire wanted to hear it again, from someone who had more than just fifty-year-old evidence of its existence. “Why is that?” she asked.

      “They come hoping to find the Druid spring. It’s in all the tour books. It’s said that if a couple drinks the water, they will be bound together for life. Eternal love and all that. You ask me, I think it’s bollocks.”

      “Do you know where this spring is?” she asked.

      Captain Billy shook his head. “I’m the one who should have been lookin’. I’ve had meself three wives and not one of them is still warmin’ me bed.”

      Claire turned her attention back to the island. She’d been under the assumption that the location of the spring would be posted on every roadside in Trall, with huge signs and arrows pointing the way, and maybe even a modern visitors center. Her grandmother had said nothing about having to search for it! “Is there anyone who knows where it is?”

      Captain Billy considered her question for a long moment, then shrugged. “I’d suppose Sorcha Mulroony would know. She’s a Druid princess or… priestess, I think she calls herself. Me, I think she’s a bit barmy. But she fancies herself the keeper of all the island’s magic. You could ask her, but she charges a steep price for her services.”

      “Her services?”

      “Soothsaying, curses, spells, she does it all. I bought a curse from her last year. Cost me fifty euros, it did. There was a tosser from Dingle who was tryin’ to get the contract for the mail boat by cuttin’ my price. Sorcha cursed his boat and it sank in the harbor the very next day.”

      “Did you ever think maybe she just poked a hole in the side of his boat and that’s why it sank?”

      Billy thought about the possibility as if it had never occurred to him before. Then he shrugged. “I don’t care what she did. That bloke isn’t haulin’ mail to Trall, is he now?”

      “I suppose he isn’t,” she said with a smile. Claire wrapped her corduroy jacket more tightly around her, watching as the island grew larger and larger on the horizon. “Can you recommend a place to stay on Trall?”

      “There’s a lovely inn to the north of town. The Ivybrook out on Cove Road. This time of year, there should be rooms available. Will Donovan runs it. His family has been on the island for generations. He’s a celebrity of sorts, he is.”

      “Famous? For what?”

      “Oh, we don’t gossip about our neighbors on Trall.” Billy frowned. “But maybe this isn’t gossip, more in the line of news. A few years back, he was named one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors. Got his picture in a fancy magazine for it.”

      “Interesting,” Claire said.

      “His great-grandfather was the first to run the inn. T’was an old manor house at one time. A summer home for some posh Brit. Will left the island for university and we thought we’d seen the last of ’im. Then three years ago, he comes back to Trall to run the inn. His folks, Mick and Maeve Donovan, wanted to be closer to their daughter and their grandkids, so they were off to Dublin. Island life seems to suit Will. That’s not gossip, it’s fact.”

      “I probably should have called ahead for a reservation.”

      “I haven’t brought any tourists out to the island in the past three days,” the captain said. “So I don’t think ye’ll have a problem. There’ll be more folks coming in for the Samhain celebration later this week.”

      “Oh, I’ll be gone by then,” Claire said. “I’m just staying a night, maybe two.”

      “If ye don’t find Will at the inn, there’s a key under the flowerpot next to the door. Just let yourself