Sin Worth the Penance Read online

  Sin Worth The Penance

  The Devilish Divas Series, Book Six

  M.J. Schiller

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 2019 by Mary Jean Schiller. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep

  www.ebookprep.com

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-123-1

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Before You Go…

  Hell Hath No Fury

  Also by M.J. Schiller

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Killian

  Two weeks ago, I was peering out an airplane window at the lovely green isle below. My blood stirred. The very sight of my birthplace created an innate response, a sensation of familiarity, warmth, and comfort. She was calling out and awaking something primitive in my soul. The feeling lasted but a twinkling, then it was gone.

  It was a false sense of home besides. Home was where my Josie was, and my poor Josie was no more. I lost her to cancer. An evil I was now all too well-acquainted with.

  And so, I came limping back to Ireland like a beat dog, with no other plan but to help my Uncle Padraig with his bar, until I could be persuaded to do otherwise.

  The place was called—not so originally—Murphey’s. My family name, and the last name of a slew of folks in the area. It was a tad larger than a normal Irish pub, but scads smaller than the bar I’d owned in the States, The Pint Well-Taken. It stood on the corner of our two-block “downtown,” which consisted of a church, a petrol station, a market, and the pub. All the necessities. Behind Murphey’s, the land jutted out, far above the Celtic Sea, creating a meadow of sorts, almost exactly as wide as the pub at the base. We had a middling crowd in for a Wednesday, but the way the rain was lashing down outside, it wasn’t any wonder.

  I kept myself as busy as I could. It gave me less time to ponder. But today…today I was dead dog tired—yet it was the best I’d felt in a while. Now isn’t that a sad commentary on my life?

  But exhaustion beat out sorrow any day, and I preferred the work at Murphey’s rather than ruminating about what was no longer mine. So if labor kept memories at bay, then they could treat me like a slave and I’d be a happy man. I swiped at the old, scarred bar with a towel, mopping up the remains of a Guinness. Fact was, this bar suited me better than my own had. That one was too pristine. It lacked character, it did. This one was like entering an old church. Only with pleasanter memories.

  “Killian?” My Aunt Deirdre glanced over from her pour. “Be a love and fetch me a bottle of Jameson’s from the pantry, would ya?”

  She was the salt of the earth, that one. Uncle Paddy was a lucky man to have her. And, although she had a parcel of children at home, she still played the ma to every waif blown in her door, the most recent being me. I was thankful to have someone to look after me. A sprite of a woman, she was in her late fifties and as sweet as could be. But if her kids got her riled up, she could equally be a terror. I kept on her good side.

  “Aye.” My brogue had intensified since I returned. I took off to follow instructions.

  “And, while you’re at it, a bottle of gin, as well.”

  I nodded and crossed the room, noting a table that needed to be bussed along my way. Under the stairs leading to the rooms I rented above, was a small stock room. I opened the door and felt along the inside wall for a switch but could find none. I left the door ajar instead, thinking, surely the light from the pub would be enough to illuminate a bottle of Jameson’s and some gin. I squinted in the murky interior as I searched the shelf in the back for the familiar green bottle.

  Then, in a sweep, what little light there was disappeared. The door swung shut, and I was left in utter blackness. I could sense someone present, and by the alluring fragrance, a woman. Arms came round me, and hands stroked the fronts of my thighs. I froze, gobsmacked, completely caught off-guard. Then, lips nibbled at my neck, a tongue sliding with it along my skin. I’d been a widower for coming up on a year—and with no woman—but my body hadn’t forgotten what need was. Heat quivered through me.

  A sultry voice broke the silence. “Guess who?”

  I cleared my throat. “I haven’t a clue.”

  She swatted my head. “Would ya deny me, Murphey?”

  My confusion deepened. It wasn’t a case of mistaken identity then. She knew my name. An old flame?

  She leaned in, her mouth at my ear. “Ya weren’t denying me yesterday in your ma’s bedroom.”

  Wait? What? Ma’s bedroom?

  She continued to purr in my ear. “Or did ya want me to remind ya? ’Cause I can do that, ya know.”

  She slipped around in front of me, and before I could protest, lush lips covered mine and reeled me into a dizzying kiss. She used her hands on the sides of my face to guide her and, God help me, I responded. Her lips tasted of sin and sweet strawberries. But if she was a sin, she was a sin worth the penance, for sure. She awoke a nearly unbearable craving, the likes of which I’d never known.

  But, this woman was sorely confused, for I had been in no mother’s bedroom with her, except maybe in my dreams. I should pull away. I should straighten her out on just who she was kissing. Instead, I wove my fingers through her silky tresses and hung on for dear life. But when she reached down my pants…I jumped, as did she. We both simultaneously exclaimed, “Oh, my God,” mine a murmur of pleasure and alarm, hers a reaction of surprise.

  She parted from me, and the next thing I knew, the door creaked open and light poured in. I spun to both find out who this vixen was and apologize for not announcing myself more clearly. Blinking in the light, I put an arm up to block it, but all I saw was this gorgeous, curly, black-as-midnight hair and a tight denim-covered ass that would drive a man to lust. Weak-kneed, I searched behind me and lowered myself onto a crate.

  What just happened? My brain had a hard time coming back to its normal senses. Was I kissed by an angel? Or, perhaps the heavens are playing tricks on me? I needed to discover who she was.

  I
sprang to my feet and stuck my head out the door, but it was too late. And, although it was a wide open room with nowhere to hide, my phantom kisser was naught to be seen. I sat on the crate again, still stunned. It all happened so quickly. But a million lovely sensations were created in that short encounter.

  I rubbed my lips thoughtfully, trying to relive the moment, but finally shook myself. I forgot my reason for being in the press in the first place. Strangely, I was reluctant to leave. It wasn’t like the gal was coming back. I slowly collected the requested bottles and left the pantry, closing the door softly behind me. My gaze roamed the room again as I returned to my spot behind the bar, searching her out without success.

  “Ahh. Thanks a million, Killian. You’re a jewel to be sure.”

  Still dazed, I muttered some response and proceeded through the familiar ritual of opening the bottles and setting pour spouts into their necks.

  “Killian?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Cat gone and got your tongue, lad? What’s wrong with ya?”

  I swiveled to look at her. “I’m sorry, Auntie. I guess I’m a bit distracted.”

  She arched a brow. “A bit?” She chuckled and moved off.

  I tripped after her. “Say, did ya…umm…happen to see a woman come out of the stock room?”

  She stopped topping off a Guinness and examined me. “You been rattling some hussy in the press, have ya?”

  The heat rose in my face. I felt like a schoolboy caught in the cloak room with a gal. “No, Auntie.” I shook my head vehemently. “I’m not like those wayward cousins of mine. I wouldn’t be so bold. Have ya forgotten? I’m a good boy.”

  She patted my cheeks. “Aye. You’re a good one, that’s God’s truth.” She sighed, handing the customer his pint. “Not like my Connor.”

  At that very moment, the cousin in question sauntered in with his lads.

  “In walks the devil,” Deirdre muttered.

  I leaned in to her. “Why? What’s the craic with Connor?”

  “Ack. Don’t ask.” She rolled her eyes and spun on her heels, marching toward the kitchen as her husband was coming out with a tray full of glasses. “Connor’s here.”

  Paddy grunted, took a gander at his youngest son, then returned his attention to the bar. “Ya got enough pints there, Killian?”

  I checked. “Aye. I think we’re right set for a time.” I looked at a customer seated on a stool directly across from me. His drink was perilously low. “Fancy another scoop?”

  He grinned. “Is a duck’s arse watertight?”

  I let on I was pondering the question then nodded, snagging a glass to pour him a Guinness. “Aye. I believe so.”

  My uncle was collecting dirty cups from the bar.

  “Uncle Paddy,” I nodded toward the table where Connor and his pals were raising quite a ruckus now, “what’s on with Connor?”

  “Ayy. That one.” He shook his head, tsking, then raised his voice, although his son was out of hearing range. “He’s testing my threshold, I can tell ya that much.” He whirled and stormed off to the kitchen.

  I frowned, eyeing Connor, as if by observing him I could tell what was about, but he seemed normal enough to me. He was Paddy and Deirdre’s baker’s dozen baby, born thirteenth in the lot. Most of my cousins were about my age, but Connor was more like…twenty-three…twenty-four. He had long blond hair he shook out of his eyes constantly, not a thing like his brother Flynn, who was said to be the spitting image of me.

  The swinging, saloon-like doors behind me squeaked. I was told the building was once a convent, but that still didn’t explain why the nuns needed a saloon door. I half-twisted around. Tag Kavanaugh, our primary cook, filled the doorway. A stupendous, beast of a man, I wasn’t used to his bulk yet. He stood a good six inches taller than me, and was probably twice as wide, shoulder to shoulder. At six-two—tall for an Irishman—I wasn’t used to looking up to people. But talking to him could put a kink in my neck. By all accounts, he was a sweetheart, though. I hadn’t had the time to form my own opinion yet. Glancing over my shoulder, I sidled up to Tag, who was filling his soda. A waitress, Breanna McDermott, approached from the other side of the bar with an order. I took it from her but leaned into Tag.

  “Say,” I said in a low tone. “What’s the skinny with Connor?” He opened his mouth, and I quickly interrupted him. “And don’t be telling me not to ask, ’cause I’m asking.”

  He smirked and took a drink. Throwing a peek at the kitchen, he waved Bre closer. “Come here to me.”

  “What?” she said in a hushed, excited tone, knowing some good craic was coming.

  “Ya know that piece of fluff Connor has on the side?”

  I was clueless, but Bre nodded rapidly. “Maureen?”

  “Aye, that’s the one.” He drew us in even closer, so close I could smell the grease on his T-shirt. “She’s got one up the flue.”

  Bre gasped, but still and all, seemed rather pleased to be let in on the secret. “Ya don’t say?”

  I blinked. “She’s in the family way?”

  He dipped his head. “Aye.”

  I stole another glimpse at Connor. He didn’t seem all that shaken about it, but people were good at hiding things. “Oh, that’s bad.”

  Tag raised his gaze, too. “Aye. They found out about it this morning. Paddy and Dee ain’t over the moon about it either. In fact, they’re raging.”

  “Don’t suppose they’d be buzzed by the news, him being engaged to Tara Duffy and all.” Bre looked absolutely gleeful. “Oh, there’ll be a row about this, for sure.”

  As if on cue, voices rose in the kitchen. At the end of the dark hall, Deirdre was illuminated by the stove light, going toe-to-toe with her husband, her hands on her hips, practically shaking with fury and giving out with all her might.

  “Seems it’s started all ready,” Tag murmured. “I need to get back there.” He left.

  I hated family division. I filled Bre’s order but caught her attention and lifted my chin. “Send him over here. I want to talk to him.”

  Her eyes glowed. “Connor? Whatcha gonna say?”

  I placed a pint under the tap, poured my first layer of Guinness, and gave her an honest answer. “I haven’t the foggiest notion.” I finished filling her tray, and she sauntered off. I spread my arms wide on the bar, mulling it over. Before I’d fully formulated a plan, Connor approached.

  “Ya wanted to see me, Killian?” he asked hesitantly.

  I frowned at him. Behind me, Paddy was mumbling under his breath as he walked up the short hall connecting the bar to the kitchen. “Not here.” I jerked my head toward the front. “Outside.”

  He studied me for a second then glanced beyond my shoulder and back. “Aye.” He shuffled off toward the door, some of the cockiness gone out of his step.

  I spun as Paddy came through the doors. “Mind if I skip out for a breath of air?”

  He waved a bar towel at me and cleaned up some glassware left by a couple who’d just paid. “Go on with ya.”

  “Thanks a million.” I scooted out before he could change his mind.

  Outside, Connor sat on a bench on the wooden walkway connecting Murphey’s to the one store in town. He raised his gaze at the sound of the door opening, but remained seated, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. I crossed my arms and stared down at him. No use in beating around the bush.

  “A little birdie told me you’ve gone and knocked up Maureen.”

  His jaw tightened. He glanced away. “’It wasn’t my fault.”

  My frown became deeper. “What? Was she doing it by herself, then?”

  He removed his hands from his pockets and leaned with his forearms on his thighs. The setting sun caused him to squint as he stared out over the street. “Nah.” He sighed, hanging his head. “It’s only…she’s such a ride.” He twisted to peer up at me. His words came out faster, as if it’d been a burden to keep them in. He was clearly relieved to have someone to talk to about it. “She drives me mad, and I get
carried away and…I forgot to wrap it up.”

  I exhaled, wondering if this was a conversation he should be having with his da. But sometimes things get heated between father and son, and I wanted to avoid that. I motioned for him to move so I could sit by him. We were both silent for a moment. I turned to scrutinize him. “Ya need to do right by Maureen and the wee chiseler.”

  “I know. But Tara’s da’ll murder me. I’m no good to the babe six feet under either.”

  Perhaps this was a hint of an exaggeration, but not knowing the man, I couldn’t be certain. I looked Connor in the eye. “Do you love Maureen?”

  “I….” His voice became choked, but he nodded. “I do.” He slapped his knee. “Ahh! I don’t know how I got myself in such a pickle. Tara’s nice and all, but…” He shook his head. “And ya don’t know her da. He’s a mean cuss.”

  I thought on it. I patted his knee and pushed to my feet. “Leave her da to me.”

  His face brightened. “You’ll talk to him?”

  I furrowed my brow, studying him. “If you love Maureen, I’ll make the way easier for ya. But you need to break the news to Tara yourself.”

  He blew out air. “I know.”

  “All right, then.” I offered him my hand and hauled him to his feet. “You figure out how you’re going to handle what you have to do, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Little did I know I would have the opportunity to do just that a mere half-hour later.

  Tag, up for another soda, elbowed me and nodded toward the front of the room. “That’s him. The father.”