Free Aisling Gayle by Geraldine O'Neill Page A

agreed, nodding gravely, “but the bad guys can spoil it for the rest of us at times.”
    Jameson turned to Aisling, holding out the bags of shopping. “You might miss these later,” he said, handing them to her.
    “Thank you,” Aisling said, colouring up as she thought of the contents of the lingerie bag, “and thanks again for the coffee and everything . . .” She looked up at him and his deep brown eyes met hers once again.
    It was only for a few moments. But in that short time, Aisling Gayle felt something stir inside her, that she had not felt for a long, long time.

    Chapter 8

    The following morning Aisling woke up to the sound of her mother knocking on the bedroom door. “Come on, lazybones,” she joked, coming into the room with a cup of tea for Aisling. “We’re eating outside this morning . . . you wouldn’t believe the heat already. Jean said we might find it too hot later on, so we thought we might make the best of the morning while the heat is still comfortable.”
    Aisling sat up in bed, delighted to see her mother in such good form. “Who’s the chef this morning?” she joked.
    “Me,” Maggie said, sitting down on the bottom of the bed. “I’m trying my hand at the pancakes this morning – just to keep Jean happy. You know the Yanks. They like to make a big issue out of nothing. Anyway . . .” she absentmindedly ran a hand over the blanket, checking what material it was made out of, “there’s no harm in learning how to cook different things.”
    “The change is good for us all,” Aisling said carefully. She took a sip of the hot tea.
    “Are you okay, Aisling?” Maggie suddenly asked, her face creased in concern. “Did you get an awful fright yesterday?”
    Aisling shrugged, and tucked one wing of her blonde hair behind her ear. “I’m grand now,” she said quietly, putting the cup of tea down on the little bedside locker, “but I was really frightened by the time I met up with Thomas . . . and his father.” For some reason, Aisling found herself self-conscious about calling Jameson Carroll by his name.
    Maggie nodded. “Thanks be to God you did meet them,” she said, her voice croaky.
    Then, she suddenly moved up on the bed, and, in a most uncustomary gesture of affection, she gently put her arms around Aisling’s neck. “Thank God you’re safe, Aisling . . . I’d die if anything happened to you . . . and so would Oliver Gayle.” Then, she lowered her head and kissed Aisling on the cheek.
    “Honestly, Mammy, I’m fine.” Aisling was almost breathless with shock.
    Maggie sat back on the bed now, and took Aisling by the hand. “I know he has his faults,” she said, “but he’s not the worst – he doesn’t keep you short of anything. And though you might not think it,” she rushed on now, “I’m sure underneath it all, that he worships the ground you walk on.”
    Aisling picked her teacup up again and said nothing. What was there to say? What man – who supposedly worshipped the ground his wife walked on – would behave like an old tom-cat?
    “This holiday,” Maggie went on, her curled head nodding earnestly, “might be the making of ye both. Indeed . . . you’ll see when we get back. He’ll have missed you, and when he hears what happened to you yesterday, he’ll realise that he doesn’t want to let you out of his sight.” She nodded away to herself. “A good-looking girl like yourself – and from a decent family.”
    Aisling continued to drink her tea.
    “Have you got anything to bring back to him yet?” Maggie continued.
    Aisling shook her head. “Not yet . . .”
    Maggie brightened up. “Sure we’ve plenty of time left,” she said, standing up now. “You’ll find something nice for him the next day we’re out, I’m sure.” She patted the bed again now. “Be down in a couple of minutes, and the breakfast will be ready to take outside.”
    Shortly afterwards, dressed in a cool, pale-blue cotton dress and white sandals, Aisling joined