Marion Lennox - Summer Of Love

Jo.

She was still in her bike gear but she must have washed. There wasn’t a trace of mud on her, including her boots and trousers. Her face was scrubbed clean and she’d reapplied her make-up. Her kohl-rimmed eyes looked huge in her elfin face. Her cropped copper curls were combed and neat. She was smiling a wide smile, as if her welcome was assured.

He checked her legs and saw a telltale drip of water fall to her boots.

She was still sodden.

That figured. How many bikers had spare leathers in their kitbags?

She must be trying really hard not to shiver. He looked back at the bright smile and saw the effort she was making to keep it in place.

‘Good evening,’ she was saying. She hadn’t seen him yet. Mrs O’Reilly was at the door and he was well behind her. ‘I hope I’m expected? I’m Jo Conaill. I’m very sorry I’m late. I had a small incident on the road.’

‘You look just like your mother.’ The warmth had disappeared from the housekeeper’s voice as if it had never been. There was no disguising her disgust. The housekeeper was staring at Jo as if she was something the cat had just dragged in.

The silence stretched on—an appalled silence. Jo’s smile faded to nothing. What the...?

Do something.

‘Good evening to you too,’ he said. He stepped forward, edging the housekeeper aside. He smiled at Jo, summoning his most welcoming smile.

And then there was even more silence.

Jo stared from Mrs O’Reilly to Finn and then back again. She looked appalled.

As well she might, Finn conceded. As welcomes went, this took some beating. She’d been greeted by a woman whose disdain was obvious, and by a man who’d seen her at her most vulnerable. Now she was looking appalled. He thought of her reaction when he’d lifted her, carried her. She’d seemed terrified and the look was still with her.

He thought suddenly of a deer he’d found on his land some years back, a fawn caught in the ruins of a disused fence. Its mother had run on his approach but the fawn was trapped, its legs tangled in wire. It had taken time and patience to disentangle it without it hurting itself in its struggles.

That was what this woman looked like, he thought. Caught and wanting to run, but trapped.

She was so close to running.

Say something. ‘We’ve met before.’ He reached out and took her hand. It was freezing. Wherever she’d gone to get cleaned up, it hadn’t been anywhere with a decent fire. ‘I’m so glad you’re...clean.’

He smiled but she seemed past noticing.

‘You live here?’ she said with incredulity.

‘This is Lord Finn Conaill, Lord of Castle Glenconaill,’ the housekeeper snapped.

Jo blinked and stared at Finn as if she was expecting two heads. ‘You don’t look like a lord.’

‘What do I look like?’

‘A farmer. I thought you were a farmer.’

‘I am a farmer. And you’re an heiress.’

‘I wait tables.’

‘There you go. We’ve both been leading double lives. And now... It seems we’re cousins?’

‘You’re not cousins,’ Mrs O’Reilly snapped, but he ignored her.

‘We’re not,’ he conceded, focusing only on Jo. ‘Just distant relations. You should be the true heir to this whole place. You’re the only grandchild.’

‘She’s illegitimate,’ Mrs O’Reilly snapped and Finn moved a little so his body was firmly between Jo and the housekeeper. What was it with the woman?

‘There’s still some hereabouts who judge a child for the actions of its parents,’ he said mildly, ignoring Mrs O’Reilly and continuing to smile down at Jo. ‘But I’m not one of them. According to the lawyer, it seems you’re Lord Conaill’s granddaughter, marriage vows or not.’

‘And...and you?’ What was going on? She had the appearance of street-smart. She looked tough. But inside...the image of the trapped fawn stayed.

‘My father was the son of the recently deceased Lord Conaill’s cousin,’ Finn told her. He furrowed his brows a little. ‘I think that’s right. I can’t quite get my head around it. So that means my link to you goes back four generations. We’re very distant relatives, but it seems we do share a great-great-grandfather. And the family name.’

‘Only because of illegitimacy,’ Mrs O’Reilly snapped.

Enough. He turned from Jo and faced Mrs O’Reilly square-on. She was little and dumpy and full of righteous indignation. She’d been Lord Conaill’s housekeeper for years. Heaven knew, he needed her if he was to find his way around this pile but right now...

Right now he was Lord Conaill of Castle Glenconaill, and maybe it was time to assume his rightful role.

‘Mrs O’Reilly, I’ll thank you to be civil,’ he said, and if he’d never had reason to be autocratic before he made a good fist of it now. He summoned all his father had told him of previous lords of this place and he mentally lined his ancestors up behind him. ‘Jo’s come all the way from Australia. She’s inherited half of her grandfather’s estate and for now this castle is her home. Her home. I therefore expect you to treat her with the welcome and the respect her position entitles her to. Do I make myself clear?’

There was a loaded silence. The housekeeper tried glaring but he stayed calmly looking at her, waiting, his face impassive. He was Lord of Glenconaill and she was his housekeeper. It was time she knew it.

Jo said nothing. Finn didn’t look back at her but he sensed her shiver. If he didn’t get her inside soon she’d freeze to death, he thought, but this moment was too important to rush. He simply stood and gazed down at Mrs O’Reilly and waited for the woman to come to a decision.

‘I only...’ she started but he shook his head.

‘Simple question. Simple answer. Welcome and respect. Yes or no.’

‘Her mother...’

‘Yes or no!’

And finally she cracked. She took a step back but his eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’ It was an autocratic snap. His great-great-grandfather would be proud of him, he thought, and then he thought of his boots and thought: maybe not. But the snap had done what he intended.

She gave a frustrated little nod, she bobbed a curtsy and finally she answered him as he’d intended.

‘Yes, My Lord.’

* * *

What was she doing here? If she had to inherit a castle, why couldn’t she have done it from a distance? She could have told the lawyer to put up a For Sale sign, sell it to the highest bidder and send her a cheque for half. Easy.

Why this insistence that she had to come?

Actually, it hadn’t been insistence. It had been a strongly worded letter from the lawyer saying decisions about the entire estate had to be made between herself and this unknown sort-of cousin. It had also said the castle contained possessions that had been her mother’s. The lawyer suggested that decisions would be easier to make with her here, and the estate could well afford her airfare to Ireland to make those decisions.

And it had been like a siren song, calling her...home?

No, that was dumb. This castle had never been her home. She’d never had a home but it was the only link she had to anyone. She might as well come and have a look, she’d thought.

But this place was like the bog that surrounded it. The surface was enticing but, underneath, it was a quagmire. The housekeeper’s voice had been laced with malice.

Was that her mother’s doing? Fiona? Well, maybe invective was to be expected. Maybe malice was deserved.

What hadn’t been expected was this strong, hunky male standing in the doorway, taking her hand, welcoming her—and then, before her eyes, turning into the Lord of Glenconaill. Just like that. He’d been a solid Good Samaritan who’d pulled her out of the bog. He’d laughed at her—which she hadn’t appreciated, but okay, he might have had reason—and then, suddenly, the warmth was gone and he was every bit a lord. The housekeeper was bobbing a curtsy, for heaven’s sake. What sort of feudal system was this?