Marion Lennox - Summer Of Love

‘And you’re stuck here with me and Mrs O’Reilly and coffee that tastes like mud.’

‘You noticed,’ she said approvingly. ‘That’s a start.’

‘A start of what?’ he asked mildly and she glanced sharply up at him as if his question had shocked her. Maybe it had. He’d surprised himself—it wasn’t a question he’d meant to ask and he wasn’t sure what exactly he was asking.

But the question hung.

‘I guess the start of nothing,’ she said at last with a shrug that was meant to be casual but didn’t quite come off. ‘I can cope with mud coffee for a week.’

‘All we need to do is figure what we want to keep.’

‘I live out of a suitcase. I can’t keep anything.’ She said it almost with defiance.

‘And the armour wouldn’t look good in a nice modern bungalow.’

‘Is that what your farmhouse is?’

‘It is.’ The cottage he’d grown up in had long since deteriorated past repair. He’d built a large functional bungalow.

It had a great kitchen table. The rest...yeah, it was functional.

‘I saw you living somewhere historic,’ Jo said. ‘Thatch maybe.’

‘Thatch has rats.’

She looked up towards the castle ramparts. ‘What about battlements? Do battlements have rats?’

‘Not so much.’ He grinned. ‘Irish battlements are possibly a bit cold even for the toughest rat.’

‘What about you, Lord Conaill? Too cold for you?’

‘I’m not Lord Conaill.’

‘All the tapestries in the great hall...they’re mostly from a time before your side of the family split. This is your history too.’

‘I don’t feel like Lord Conaill.’

‘No, but you look like him. Go in and check the tapestries. You have the same aristocratic nose.’

He put his hand on his nose. ‘Really?’

‘Yep. As opposed to mine. Mine’s snub with freckles, not an aristocratic line anywhere.’

And he looked at her freckles and thought...it might not be the Conaill nose but it was definitely cute.

He could just...

Not. How inappropriate was it to want to reach out and touch a nose? To trace the line of those cheekbones.

To touch.

He knew enough about this woman to expect a pretty firm reaction. Besides, the urge was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

‘I reckon your claim to the castle’s a lot stronger than mine,’ she was saying and he had to force his attention from her very cute nose to what they were talking about.

They’d reached the forecourt. He turned and faced outward, across the vast sweep of Glenconaill to the mountains beyond. It was easier talking about abstracts when he wasn’t looking at the reality of her nose. And the rest of her.

‘Your grandfather left the castle to two strangers,’ he told her. ‘We’re both feeling as if we have no right to be here, and yet he knew I was to inherit the title. He came to my farm six months ago and barked the information at me, yet there was never an invitation to come here. And you were his granddaughter and he didn’t know you either. He knew we’d stand here one day, but he made no push to make us feel we belong. Yet we do belong.’

‘You feel that?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s just...walking across the lands today, looking at the sheep, at the ruined walls, at the mess this farmland has become, it seems a crime that no push was made...’

‘To love it?’ She nodded. ‘I was thinking that. The tapestries... A whole family history left to disintegrate.’ She shrugged. ‘But we can’t.’

‘I guess not.’ He gazed outward for a long moment, as though soaking in something he needed to hold to. ‘Of course you’re right.’

‘If he’d left it all to you, you could have,’ Jo said and he shrugged again.

‘Become a Lord in fact? Buy myself ermine robes and employ a valet?’

‘Fix a few stone walls?’

‘That’s more tempting,’ he said and then he grinned. ‘So your existence has saved me from a life of chipping at cope stones. Thank you, Jo. Now, shall we find out if Mrs O’Reilly intends to feed us?’

And Jo thought...it felt odd to walk towards Castle Glenconaill with this man by her side.

But somehow, weirdly, it felt right.

‘What are you working on at the moment?’ Finn asked and she was startled back to the here and now.

‘What?’

‘You’re carrying sewing needles. I’m not a great mind, but it does tell me there’s likely to be sewing attached. Or do you bring them on the off chance you need to darn socks?’

‘No, I...’

‘Make tapestries? On the plane? Do you have a current project and, if so, can I see?’

She stared up at him and then stared down at her feet. And his feet. One of his boots was dripping mud.

Strangely, it made him seem closer. More human.

She didn’t show people her work, so why did she have a sudden urge to say...?

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’ he said cautiously.

‘It’s not pretty. And it’s not finished. But if you’d really like to see...’

‘Now?’

‘When your foot’s dry.’

‘Why not with a wet foot?’

‘My tapestry demands respect.’

He grinned. ‘There speaks the lady of the castle.’

‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘But my tapestry’s up there with anything the women of this castle have done.’ She smiled then, one of her rare smiles that lit her face, that made her seem...

Intriguing? No, he was already intrigued, he conceded.

Desirable?

Definitely.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked and he caught himself. He’d known this woman for how long?

‘I’m very sure,’ he told her. ‘And, lady of the castle or not, your tapestry’s not the only thing to deserve respect. I will take my boot off for you.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ she told him. ‘Fifteen minutes. My bedroom. See you there.’

And she took off, running across the forecourt like a kid without a trouble in the world. She looked...free.

She looked beautiful.

Fifteen minutes with his boot off. A man had to get moving.

* * *

The tapestry was rolled and wrapped in the base of her kitbag. He watched as she delved into what looked to be the most practical woman’s pack he’d ever seen. There were no gorgeous gowns or frilly lingerie here—just bike gear and jeans and T-shirts and sweaters. He thought briefly of the lawyer and his invitation to dinner in Dublin and found himself smiling.

Jo glanced up. ‘What?’

‘Is this why you said no to our lawyer’s invite? I can’t see a single little black dress.’

‘I don’t have a use for ’em,’ she said curtly.

‘You know, there’s a costume gallery here,’ he said and she stared.

‘A costume gallery?’

‘A store of the very best of what the Conaills have worn for every grand event in their history. Someone in our past has decided that clothes need to be kept as well as paintings. I found the storeroom last night. Full of mothballs and gold embroidery. So if you need to dress up...’

She stared at him for a long moment, as if she was almost tempted—and then she gave a rueful smile and shook her head and tugged out the roll. ‘I can’t see me going out to dinner with our lawyer in gold embroidery. Can you? But if you want to see this...’ She tossed the roll on the bed and it started to uncurl on its own.

Fascinated, he leaned over and twitched the end so the whole thing unrolled onto the white coverlet.

And it was as much as he could do not to gasp.

This room could almost be a servant’s room, it was so bare. It was painted white, with a faded white coverlet on the bed. There were two dingy paintings on the wall, not very good, scenes of the local mountains. They looked as if they’d been painted by a long ago Conaill, with visions of artistic ability not quite managed.