Marion Lennox - Summer Of Love

‘I’m Lord of Glenconaill,’ Finn snapped. ‘I believe the right is mine.’

Silence. The whole world seemed to hold its breath.

Jo stared at the floor, at her pathetic pile of toiletries and, incongruously, at the cover of the romance novel she’d read on the plane. It was historical, the Lord of the Manor rescuing and marrying his Cinderella.

Who’d want to be Cinderella? she’d thought as she read it, and that was what it felt like now. Cinderella should have options. She should be able to make the grand gesture, sweep from the castle in a flurry of skirts, say, Take me to the nearest hostelry, my man, and run me a hot bath...

A hot bath. There was the catch. From the moment Finn had said it, they were the words that had stuck in her mind. Everything else was white noise.

Except maybe the presence of this man. She was trying not to look at him.

The hero of her romance novel had been...romantic. He’d worn tight-fitting breeches and glossy boots and intricate neckcloths made of fine linen.

Her hero had battered boots and brawny arms and traces of copper in his deep brown hair. He looked tanned and weathered. His green eyes were creased by smiles or weather and she had no way of knowing which. He looked far too large to look elegant in fine linen and neckcloths, but maybe she was verging on hysterics because her mind had definitely decided it wanted a hero with battered boots. And a weathered face and smiley eyes.

Especially if he was to provide her with a bath.

‘Go,’ he said to Mrs O’Reilly and the woman cast him a glance that was half scared, half defiant. But the look Finn gave her back took the defiance out of her.

She turned and almost scuttled away, and Jo was left with Finn.

He didn’t look at her. He simply bent and gathered her gear back into her bag.

She should be doing that. What was she doing, staring down at him like an idiot?

She stooped to help, but suddenly she was right at eye level, right...close.

His expression softened. He smiled and closed her bag with a snap.

‘You’ll be fine now,’ he said. ‘We seem to have routed the enemy. Let’s find you a bath.’

And he rose and held out his hand to help her rise with him.

She didn’t move. She didn’t seem to be able to.

She just stared at that hand. Big. Muscled. Strong.

How good would it be just to put her hand in his?

‘I forgot; you’re a wary woman,’ he said ruefully and stepped back. ‘Very wise. I gather our ancestors have a fearsome reputation, but then they’re your ancestors too, so that should make me wary as well. But if you can cope with me as a guide, I’ll try and find you a bedroom. Mind, I’ve only just found my own bedroom but there seem to be plenty. Do you trust me to show you the way?’

How dumb was she being? Really dumb, she told herself, as well as being almost as offensive as the woman who’d just left. But still she didn’t put her hand in his. Even though her legs were feeling like jelly—her feet were still icy—she managed to rise and tried a smile.

‘Sorry. I...thank you.’

‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he said ruefully. ‘I had the warm welcome. I have no idea what bee the woman has in her bonnet but let’s forget her and find you that bath.’

‘Yes, please,’ she said simply and thought, despite her wariness, if this man was promising her a bath she’d follow him to the ends of the earth.

CHAPTER THREE

JO HAD A truly excellent bath. It was a bath she might well remember for the rest of her life.

Finn had taken her to the section of the castle where Mrs O’Reilly had allocated him a bedroom. He’d opened five doors, looking for another.

At the far end of the corridor, as far from Finn’s as she could be, and also as far from the awesome bedroom they’d found by mistake—it had to have been her grandfather’s—they’d found a small box room containing a single bed. It was the only other room with a bed made up, and it was obvious that was the room Mrs O’Reilly wanted her to use.

‘We’ll make up another,’ Finn had growled in disgust—all the other rooms were better—but the bed looked good to Jo. Any bed would look good to Jo and when they’d found the bathroom next door and she’d seen the truly enormous bathtub she’d thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

So now she lay back, up to her neck in heat and steam. Her feet hurt when she got in, that was how cold they were, but the pain only lasted for moments and what was left was bliss.

She closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing at all.

She thought of Finn.

What manner of man was he? He was...what...her third cousin? Something removed? How did such things work? She didn’t have a clue.

But they were related. He was...family? He’d defended her like family and such a thing had never happened to her.

He felt like...home.

And that was a stupid thing to think. How many times had she been sucked in by such sweetness?

‘You’re so welcome. Come in, sweetheart, let’s help you unpack. You’re safe here for as long as you need to stay.’

But it was never true. There was always a reason she had to move on.

She had to move on from here. This was a flying visit only.

To collect her inheritance? This castle must be worth a fortune and it seemed her grandfather had left her half.

She had no idea how much castles were worth on the open market but surely she’d come out of it with enough to buy herself an apartment.

Or a Harley. That was a thought. She could buy a Harley and stay on the road for ever.

Maybe she’d do both. She could buy a tiny apartment, a place where she could crash from time to time when the roads got unfriendly. It didn’t need to be big. It wasn’t as if she had a lot of stuff.

Stuff. She opened her eyes and looked around her at the absurd, over-the-top bathroom. There was a chandelier hanging from the beams.

A portrait of Queen Victoria hung over the cistern, draped in a potted aspidistra.

Finn had hauled open the door and blanched. ‘Mother of... You sure you want to use this?’

She’d giggled. After this whole appalling day, she’d giggled.

In truth, Finn Conaill was enough to make any woman smile.

‘And that’s enough of that,’ she said out loud and splashed her face and then decided, dammit, splashing wasn’t enough, she’d totally submerge. She did.

She came up still thinking of Finn.

He’d be waiting. ‘Come and find me when you’re dry and warm,’ he’d said. ‘There’s dinner waiting for you somewhere. I may have to hunt to find it but I’ll track it down.’

He would too, she thought. He seemed like a man who kept his promises.

Nice.

And Finn Conaill looked sexy enough to make a girl’s toes curl. And when he smiled...

‘Do Not Think About Him Like That!’ She said it out loud, enunciating each word. ‘You’ve been dumb enough for one day. Get tonight over with, get these documents signed and get out of here. Go buy your Harley.’

Harleys should be front and foremost in her mind. She’d never thought she’d have enough money to buy one and maybe now she would.

‘So think about Harleys, not Finn Conaill,’ she told herself as she reluctantly pulled the plug and let the hot water disappear. ‘No daydreaming. You’re dry and warm. Now, find yourself some dinner and go to bed. And keep your wits about you.’

But he’s to be trusted, a little voice said.

But the old voice, the voice she knew, the only voice she truly trusted, told her she was being daft. Don’t trust anyone. Haven’t you learnt anything by now?

* * *

He heard her coming downstairs. Her tread was light but a couple of the ancient boards squeaked and he was listening for her.