Читать книгу Summer Of Love - Marion Lennox, Amy Woods - Страница 11

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.

He strode out to meet her and stopped and blinked.

She was wearing jeans and an oversized crimson sweater. She’d lost the make-up. Her face was a smatter of freckles and the rest seemed all eyes. She’d towelled her hair dry but it was still damp, the short curls tightly sprung, coiling as much as their length allowed.

She was wearing some kind of sheepskin bootees which looked massively oversized on her slight frame. She was flushed from the heat of her bath, and she looked like a kid.

She was treading down the stairs as if Here Be Dragons, and it was all he could do not to move forward and give her a hug of reassurance.

Right. As if that’d go down well. Earlier he’d picked her up when she needed to be picked up and she’d pretty near had kittens.

He forced himself to stay still, to wait until she’d reached the bottom. Finally she looked around for where to go next and she saw him.

‘Hey,’ he said and smiled and she smiled back.

It was a pretty good smile.

And that would be an understatement. This was the first time he’d seen this smile full on, and it was enough to take a man’s breath away.

He had to struggle with himself to get his voice to sound prosaic.

‘Kitchen?’ he managed. ‘Dining room’s to the left if you like sitting with nineteen empty chairs and an epergne, or kitchen if you don’t mind firestove and kettle.’

‘Firestove and kettle,’ she said promptly but peered left into the dining room, at its impressive size and its even more impressive—ostentatious?—furnishings. ‘This is nuts. I have Queen Victoria in my bathroom. Medieval castle with interior decorator gone mad.’

‘Not quite medieval, though the foundations might be. It’s been built and rebuilt over the ages. According to Mrs O’Reilly, much of the current decorating was down to your mother. Apparently your grandfather kept to himself, the place gathered dust and when she was here she was bored.’

‘Right,’ she said dryly, looking askance at the suits of armour at the foot of the stairs. ‘Are these guys genuine?’

‘I’ve been looking at them. They’re old enough, but there’s not a scratch on them. Aren’t they great?’ He pointed to the sword blades. ‘Note, though, that the swords have been tipped to make them safe. The Conaills of Glenconaill seem to have been into making money, not war. To take and to hold is their family motto.’ He corrected himself. ‘Our family creed.’

‘Not my creed,’ she said dryly. ‘I don’t hold onto anything. Did you say dinner?’

‘Kitchen this way. I used your bath time to investigate.’ He turned and led her through thick wooden doors, into the kitchen beyond.

It was a truly impressive kitchen. A lord’s kitchen.

A massive firestove set into an even larger hearth took up almost an entire wall. The floor was old stone, scrubbed and worn. The table was a vast slab of timber, scarred from generations of use.

The stove put out gentle heat. There was a rocker by the stove. Old calendars lined the walls as if it was too much trouble to take them down in the new year—simpler to put a new one up alongside. The calendars were from the local businesses, an eclectic mix of wildlife, local scenery and kittens. Many kittens.

Jo stopped at the door and blinked. ‘Wow.’

‘As you say, wow. Sit yourself down. Mrs O’Reilly said she’d kept your dinner hot.’ He checked out the firestove, snagged a tea towel and opened the oven door.

It was empty. What the heck?

The firestove had been tamped for the night, the inlet closed. The oven was the perfect place to keep a dinner warm.

He closed the oven door and reconsidered. There was an electric range to the side—maybe for when the weather was too hot to use the firestove? Its light was on.

The control panel said it was on high.

He tugged open the oven door and found Jo’s dinner. It was dried to the point where it looked inedible.

‘Uh oh,’ he said, hauling it out and looking at it in disgust. And then he looked directly at Jo and decided to say it like it was. ‘It seems our housekeeper doesn’t like you.’

‘She’s never met me before tonight. I imagine it’s that she doesn’t...she didn’t like my mother.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I didn’t like my mother myself. Not that I ever met her.’

He stared down at the dinner, baked hard onto the plate. Then he shrugged, lifted the lid of the trashcan and dumped the whole thing, plate and all, inside.

‘You realise that’s probably part of a priceless dinner set?’ Jo said mildly.

‘She wouldn’t have served you on that. With the vitriol in the woman it’s a wonder she didn’t serve you on plastic. Sit down and I’ll make you eggs and bacon. That is...’ He checked the fridge and grinned. ‘Eureka. Eggs and bacon. Would you like to tell me why no one seems to like your mother?’

‘I’ll cook.’

‘No,’ he said gently. ‘You sit. You’ve come all the way from Australia and I’ve come from Kilkenny. Sit yourself down and be looked after.’

‘You don’t have to...’

‘I want to, and eggs and bacon are my speciality.’ He was already hauling things out of the fridge. ‘Three eggs for you. A couple—no, make that three for me. It’s been a whole hour since dinner, after all. Fried bread? Of course, fried bread, what am I thinking? And a side of fried tomato so we don’t die of scurvy.’

So she sat and he cooked, and the smell of sizzling bacon filled the room. He focused on his cooking and behind him he sensed the tension seep from her. It was that sort of kitchen, he thought. Maybe they could pull the whole castle down and keep the kitchen. The lawyer had told him they needed to decide what to keep. This kitchen would be a choice.

‘To take and to hold. Is that really our family creed?’ Jo asked into the silence.

‘Accipere et Tenere. It’s over the front door. If my schoolboy Latin’s up to it...’

‘You did Latin in school?’

‘Yeah, and me just a hayseed and all.’

‘You’re a hayseed?’

He didn’t mind explaining. She was so nervous, it couldn’t hurt to share a bit of himself.

‘I have a farm near Kilkenny,’ he told her. ‘I had a short, terse visit from your grandfather six months back, telling me I stood to inherit the title when he passed. Before that I didn’t have a clue. Oh, I knew there was a lord way back in the family tree, but I assumed we were well clear of it. I gather our great grandfathers hated each other. The title and all the money went to your side. My side mostly starved in the potato famine or emigrated, and it sounded as if His Lordship thought we pretty much got what we deserved.’

He paused, thinking of the visit with the stooped and ageing aristocrat. Finn had just finished helping the team milk. He’d stood in the yard and stared at Lord Conaill in amazement, listening to the old man growl.

‘He was almost abusive,’ he told Jo now. ‘He said, “Despite your dubious upbringing and low social standing, there’s no doubt you’ll inherit my ancient title. There’s no one else. My lawyers tell me you’re the closest in the male line. I can only pray that you manage not to disgrace our name.” I was pretty much gobsmacked.’

‘Wow,’ Jo said. ‘I’d have been gobsmacked too.’ And then she stared at the plate he was putting down in front of her. ‘Double wow. This is amazing.’

‘Pretty impressive for a peasant.’ He sat down with his own plate in front of him and she stared at the vast helping he’d given himself.

‘Haven’t you already eaten?’

‘Hours ago.’ At least one. ‘And I was lambing at dawn.’

‘So you really are a farmer.’

‘Mostly dairy but I run a few sheep on the side. But I’ll try and eat with a fork, just this once.’ He grinned at her and then tackled his plate. ‘So how about you? Has your grandfather been firing insulting directions at you too?’

‘No.’

Her tone said, Don’t go there, so he didn’t. He concentrated on bacon.

It was excellent bacon. He thought briefly about cooking some more but decided it had to be up to Jo. Three servings was probably a bit much.

Jo seemed to focus on her food too. They ate in silence and he was content with that. Still he had that impression of nervousness. It didn’t make sense but he wasn’t a man to push where he wasn’t wanted.

‘Most of what I know of this family comes from one letter,’ Jo said at last, and he nodded again and kept addressing his plate. He sensed information was hard to get from this woman. Looking up and seeming expectant didn’t seem the way to get it.

‘It was when I was ten,’ she said at last. ‘Addressed to my foster parents.’

‘Your foster parents?’

‘Tom and Monica Hastings. They were lovely. They wanted to adopt me. It had happened before, with other foster parents, but they never shared the letters.’

‘I see.’ Although he didn’t. And then he thought, Why not say it like it is? ‘You understand I’m from the peasant side of this family,’ he told her. ‘I haven’t heard anything from your lot before your grandfather’s visit, and that didn’t fill me in on detail. So I don’t know your history. I’d assumed I’d just be inheriting the title, and that only because I’m the next male in line, no matter how distant. Inheriting half this pile has left me stunned. It seems like it should all be yours, and yet here you are, saying you’ve been in foster homes...’

‘Since birth.’ Her tone was carefully neutral. ‘Okay, maybe I do know a bit more than you, but not much. I was born in Sydney. My mother walked out of the hospital and left me there, giving my grandfather’s name as the only person to contact. According to the Social Welfare notes that I’ve now seen—did you know you can get your file as an adult?—my grandfather was appalled at my very existence. His instructions were to have me adopted, get rid of me, but when my mother was finally tracked down she sent a curt letter back saying I wasn’t for adoption; I was a Conaill, I was to stay a Conaill and my grandfather could lump it.’

‘Your grandfather could lump it?’

‘Yeah,’ she said and rose and carried her plate to the sink. She ran hot water and started washing and he stood beside her and started wiping. It was an age-old domestic task and why it helped, he didn’t know, but the action itself seemed to settle her.

‘It seemed Fiona was a wild child,’ she told him at last. ‘She and my grandfather fought, and she seemed to do everything she could to shock him. If I’d been a boy I’m guessing she would have had him adopted. My grandfather might have valued a boy so having him adopted away from the family might have hurt him more than having an illegitimate grandchild. But I was just a girl so all she could do to shock him was keep me as a Conaill and grind it into his face whenever she could. So Social Welfare was left with him as first point of contact and I went from foster home to foster home. Because I’d been in foster care for ever, though, there was always the possibility of adoption. But every time any of my foster parents tried to keep me, they’d contact my grandfather and eventually he’d talk to Fiona—and she would refuse. It seemed she wanted to keep me in my grandfather’s face.’

‘So it was all about what was between Fiona and her father. Nothing about you.’

‘It seems I was the tool to hurt him.’ She shrugged and handed him the scrubbed frying pan. ‘Nothing else. Why he’s left me anything... I don’t understand.’

‘I suspect he ran out of options,’ Finn told her. He kept his attention on the pan, not on her. ‘I was the despised poor relation who stood to inherit the title whether he willed it to me or not. You were the despised illegitimate granddaughter. I imagine it was leave everything to us or leave it to a cats’ home—and there’s no sign that he was fond of cats.’ He gazed around the kitten-adorned walls. ‘Except in here, but I doubt the kitchen was his domain.’

‘I guess.’ She let the water run away and watched it swirl into the plughole. ‘Isn’t it supposed to swirl the other way?’

‘What?’

‘I’m in a different hemisphere. Doesn’t the water go round in opposite directions?’

‘What direction does it go round in Australia?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You’ve never looked?’

‘It’s not the sort of thing you notice.’

‘We could check it out on the Internet.’

‘We could,’ she conceded. ‘Or we could go to bed.’ And then she paused and flushed. ‘I mean...’ She stopped and bit her lip. ‘I didn’t...’

‘You know, despite the fact that your mother was a wild child, I’m absolutely sure you didn’t just proposition me,’ he said gently and handed her the dishcloth to wipe her hands. ‘You’re tired, I’m tired and tomorrow we have a meeting with the lawyer and a castle to put on the market. That is, unless you’d like to keep it.’

She stared at him. ‘Are you kidding? What would I do with a castle?’

‘Exactly,’ he said and took the dishcloth back from her and hung it up, then took her shoulders in his hands and twisted her and propelled her gently from the room. ‘So tomorrow’s for being sensible and we might as well start now. Bedtime, Jo Conaill. Don’t dream of bogs.’

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ she told him. ‘I’ve been stuck in some pretty scary places in my time but the bog’s the worst. Thank you for pulling me out.’

‘It was my pleasure,’ he told her. ‘And Jo...’

‘Yes?’ He’d let her go. She was out of the door but glancing back at him.

‘I’m glad I’ve inherited with you. If we have to be dissolute, unwanted relatives, it’s good that it’s two of us, don’t you think?’

‘I guess.’ She frowned. ‘I mean...we could have done this on our own.’

‘But it wouldn’t have been as much fun,’ he told her. ‘Tomorrow promises to be amazing. How many times in your life do you inherit a castle, Jo Conaill?’ Then, as she didn’t answer, he chuckled. ‘Exactly. Mostly none. Go to bed, Jo, and sleep thinking of fun. Tomorrow you wake up as Lady of the Castle Glenconaill. If we have to inherit, why not enjoy it?’

‘I’m not a Lady...’

‘You could be,’ he told her. ‘Okay, neither of us belong, but tomorrow, just for a little, let’s be Lord and Lady of all we survey. We might even Lord and Lady it over Mrs O’Reilly and if she gives us burnt toast for breakfast it’s off with her head. What do you say?’

She gazed at him, dumbfounded, and then, slowly, her face creased into a smile again.

It really was a beautiful smile.

‘Exactly,’ he told her. ‘Tomorrow this is our place. It’s where we belong.’

‘I don’t belong.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he told her. ‘Your grandfather and your mother no longer hold sway. Tomorrow you belong here.’

‘I guess I could pretend...’

‘There’s no pretence about it. Tomorrow you belong right here.’

She met his gaze. Everything that needed to be said had been said but just for a moment she stayed. Just for a moment their gazes locked and something passed between... Something intangible. Something strong and new and...unfathomable.

It was something he didn’t understand and it seemed she didn’t either. She gazed at him for a long moment and then she shook her head, as if trying to clear a mist she’d never been in before. As if trying to clear confusion.

‘Goodnight,’ she said in a voice that was decidedly unsteady.

‘Goodnight,’ he told her and finally she left.

He stood where he was.

Surely she hadn’t guessed that he’d had a crazy impulse to walk across and kiss her?

And surely her eyes hadn’t said that that kiss might have been welcome?

* * *

His bedroom was magnificent, almost as magnificent as the one the old Lord had slept in. He lay in the vast four-poster bed and thought of the cramped cots he and his brothers had shared as kids, of the impoverished farm his parents had struggled to keep, of a childhood lacking in anything but love.

But he thought of Jo and he knew he’d been lucky. She’d told him little, and yet there was so much behind her words that he could guess. A childhood of foster homes, and anyone who wanted to keep her being unable to do so.

She looked tough on the surface but he didn’t need to scratch very deep before seeing scars.

She was...intriguing.

And that was something he shouldn’t be thinking, he decided. Wasn’t life complicated enough already?

‘No.’ He said it suddenly, out loud, and it surprised even him. His life wasn’t complicated. He’d fought to make their parents’ farm prosper. His father had died when he was in his teens and his brothers were younger. His mother had had no choice but to let him have his head. He’d set about changing things, firstly trying to keep them all from starving but in the end relishing the challenge. None of his brothers had had any inclination to stay on an impoverished farm. They’d gone on to have interesting, fulfilling careers but farming seemed to be in Finn’s blood. By the time his mother died, twenty years later, the farm was an excellent financial concern.

And then there’d been Maeve, the girl next door, the woman he’d always assumed shared his dreams. The woman he’d thought he’d marry.

‘You’re loyal to a fault.’ Sean, his youngest brother, had thrown it at him on his last visit home. ‘You took on the farm when you were little more than a kid and practically hauled us all up. You gave up your dreams for us. You never let our mam down. You’ve managed to make a go of the farm, and that’s great, but Maeve—just because you promised eternal love when you were ten years old doesn’t mean you owe her loyalty for life. She doesn’t want this life. I’m thinking half what she thought was love for you was loyalty to her dad, but there’s more to life than loyalty. She’s seen it. So should you.’

Sean was right. The last twelve months had taught him that what he thought of as love was simply loyalty to a friend, loyalty to a way of life, loyalty to his vision of his future.

So where did his future lie now?

He thumped the pillow and then, when it didn’t result in immediate sleep, he tossed back the covers and headed to the window. It was a vast casement window, the stone wall almost two feet thick.

Beneath the window the land of Glenconaill stretched away to the moonlit horizon, miles of arable land reaching out to the bogs and then the mountains beyond.

If he’d inherited the whole thing...

‘You didn’t. This place is money only,’ he muttered and deliberately drew the great velvet curtains closed, blocking out the night. ‘Don’t you be getting any ideas, Lord Finn of Glenconaill.’

And at the sound of his title he grinned. His brothers would never let him live it down. All now successful businessmen in their own rights, they’d think it was funny.

And Maeve...well, it no longer mattered what Maeve thought. He’d accepted it over the last few months and this morning’s visit had simply confirmed it. Yes, she was in a mess but it wasn’t a mess of his making. Their relationship was well over.

Had she faced her father or gone back to Dublin?

It was none of his business.

He headed back to bed and stared up at the dark and found himself thinking of the wide acres around Castle Glenconaill.

And a girl sleeping not so far from where he lay. A woman.

A woman named Jo.

* * *

By the time Jo came downstairs, the massive dining room was set up for breakfast. The housekeeper greeted her with a curt, ‘Good morning, miss. Lord Conaill’s in the dining room already. Would you like to start with coffee?’

It was pretty much your standard Bed and Breakfast greeting, Jo decided, and that was fine by her. Formal was good.

She walked into the dining room and Finn was there, reading the paper. He was wearing a casual shirt, sleeves rolled past his elbows. Sunbeams filtered through the massive windows at the end of the room. He looked up at her as she entered and he smiled, his deep green eyes creasing with pleasure at the sight of her—and it was all a woman could do not to gasp.

Where was formal when she needed it?

‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked and somehow she found her voice and somehow she made it work.

‘How can you doubt it? Twelve hours!’

‘So you’d be leaving the jet lag behind?’

‘I hope so.’ She sat at the ridiculous dining table and gazed down its length. Mrs O’Reilly had set places for them at opposite ends. ‘We’ll need a megaphone if we want to communicate.’

‘Ah, but I don’t think we’re supposed to communicate. Formality’s the order of the day. You’re the aristocratic side of the family. I’m the peasant.’

‘Hey, I’m on the wrong side of the blanket.’

‘Then I’m under the bed, with the rest of the lint bunnies.’

She choked. The thought of this man as a lint bunny...

Mrs O’Reilly swept in then with coffee and placed it before her with exaggerated care. ‘Mr O’Farrell’s just phoned,’ she told Finn, stepping back from the table and wiping her hands on her skirt as if she’d just done something dirty. ‘He’s the lawyer for the estate. He’s been staying in Galway and he can be here in half an hour. I can ring him if that’s not satisfactory.’

Finn raised his brows at Jo. ‘Is that satisfactory with you?’

‘I...yes.’

‘We can see him then,’ Finn told her. ‘In Lord Conaill’s study, please. Could you light the fire?’

‘The drawing room would be...’

‘The study, please,’ Finn said inexorably and the woman stared at him.

Finn gazed calmly back. Waiting.

For a moment Jo thought she wouldn’t answer. Finally she gave an angry tut and nodded.

‘Yes, My Lord.’

‘Mrs O’Reilly?’

‘Yes.’

‘You haven’t asked Miss Conaill what she’d like for breakfast.’

‘Toast,’ Jo said hurriedly.

‘And marmalade and a fruit platter,’ Finn added. ‘And I trust it’ll be up to the excellent standard you served me. You do realise you burned Miss Conaill’s dinner last night?’

He was holding the woman’s gaze, staring her down, and with a gaze like that there was never any doubt as to the outcome.

‘I’m sorry, My Lord. It won’t happen again.’

‘It won’t,’ Finn told her and gave a curt nod and went back to his newspaper.

The woman disappeared. Jo gazed after her with awe and then turned back to Finn. He was watching her, she found. He’d lowered his paper and was smiling at her, as if giving the lie to the gruff persona she’d just witnessed.

And it was too much. She giggled. ‘Where did you learn to be a lord?’ she demanded. ‘Or is that something that’s born into you with the title?’

‘I practice on cows,’ he said with some pride. ‘I’ve had six months to get used to this Lordship caper. The cows have been bowing and scraping like anything.’ He put his paper down and grinned. ‘Not my brothers so much,’ he admitted. ‘They haven’t let me live it down since they heard. Insubordination upon insubordination. You’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Do you guys share the farm?’ She held her coffee, cradling its warmth. The dining room had an open fire in the hearth, the room was warm enough, but the sheer size of it was enough to make her shiver.

‘I own my parents’ farm outright, but it wasn’t much of an inheritance when I started. My brothers all left for what they saw as easier careers and they’ve done well. Me? I’ve put my heart and soul into the farm and it’s paid off.’

‘You’re content?’

He grinned at that. ‘I’m a lord. How can I not be content?’

‘I meant with farming.’

‘Of course I am. I don’t need a castle to be content. Cows are much more respectful than housekeepers.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ she said, thinking the man was ridiculous. But she kind of liked it.

She kind of liked him.

‘No wife and family?’ she asked, not that it was any of her business but she might as well ask.

‘No.’ He shrugged and gave a rueful smile. ‘I’ve had a long-term girlfriend who’s recently decided long-term is more than long enough. See me suffering from a broken heart.’

‘Really?’

‘Not really.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll live.’

And then Mrs O’Reilly came sniffing back in with toast and he followed her every move with an aristocratically raised eyebrow until she disappeared again. It was a bit much for Jo.

‘You do the Lord thing beautifully.’

‘You should try.’

‘Not me. I’m inheriting what there is to inherit and then I’m out of here.’

‘Maybe that’s wise,’ Finn said thoughtfully. ‘From all accounts, your grandpa wasn’t the happiest of men. Maybe being aristocratic isn’t all it’s cut out to be.’

‘But being content is,’ she said softly. ‘I’m glad...I’m glad, Finn Conaill, that you’re content.’

* * *

The lawyer arrived just as Mrs O’Reilly finished clearing breakfast. Jo had had half a dozen emails from this man, plus a couple of phone calls from his assistant. She’d checked him out on the Internet. He was a partner in a prestigious Dublin law firm. She expected him to be crusty, dusty and old.

He turned up in bike leathers. He walked in, blond, blue-eyed, his helmet tucked under one arm, a briefcase by his side, and she found herself smiling as she stood beside Finn to greet him. There were things she’d been dreading over this meeting. Being intimidated by the legal fraternity was one of them, but this guy was smiling back at her, dumping his gear, holding out his hand in greeting. A fellow biker.

‘Whose is the bike?’ he asked.

‘Mine,’ she said. ‘Hired in Dublin.’

‘You should have let me know. My father would disapprove but I know a place that hires vintage babies. Or there are places that hire Harleys. We could have set one up for you.’

‘You’re kidding. A Harley?’ She couldn’t disguise the longing.

‘No matter. After this morning, I imagine you’ll be able to buy half a dozen Harleys.’ He glanced at Finn and smiled. ‘And yours will be the Jeep?’

And there it was, the faintest note of condescension. Jo got it because she was used to it, and she glanced up at Finn’s face and she saw he got it too. And his face said he was used to it as well.

The lawyer’s accent was strongly English. She’d read a bit of Ireland’s background before she came. The lawyer would be public school educated, she thought. Finn...not so much. But she watched his face and saw the faint twitch at the edges of his mouth, the deepening of the creases at his eyes and thought, He’s amused by it.

And she thought, You’d be a fool to be condescending to this man.

‘I’m the Jeep,’ he conceded.

‘And the new Lord Conaill of Glenconaill,’ the lawyer said and held out his hand. ‘Congratulations. You’re a lucky man.’

‘Thank you,’ Finn said gravely. ‘I’m sure every Irishman secretly longs for his very own castle. I might even need to learn to eat with a fork to match.’

He grinned to take any offence from the words and Jo found herself grinning back. This man got subtle nuances, she thought, but, rather than bristling, he enjoyed them. She looked from Finn to the lawyer and thought this farmer was more than a match for any smart city lawyer.

‘Lord Conaill and I have just been having breakfast,’ she said. ‘Before he takes me on a tour of the estate.’

‘You know you’re sharing?’

‘And that’s what you need to explain,’ Finn said and they headed into her grandfather’s study, where John O’Farrell of O’Farrell, O’Farrell and O’Lochlan spent an hour explaining the ins and outs of their inheritance.

Which left Jo...gobsmacked.

She was rich. The lawyer was right. If she wanted, she could have half a dozen Harleys. Or much, much more.

The lawyer had gone through each section of the estate, explaining at length. She’d tried to listen. She’d tried to take it in but the numbers were too enormous for her to get her head around. When he finally finished she sat, stunned to silence, and Finn sat beside her and she thought, He’s just as stunned as I am.

Unbelievable.

‘So it’s straight down the middle,’ Finn said at last. ‘One castle and one fortune.’

‘That’s right and, on current valuations, they’re approximately equal. In theory, one of you could take the castle, the other the fortune that goes with it.’ The lawyer looked at Jo and smiled. He’d been doing that a bit, not-so-subtle flirting. But then he decided to get serious again and addressed Finn.

‘However, if you did have notions of keeping the castle, of setting yourself up as Lord of Glenconaill and letting Miss Conaill take the rest, I have bad news. This place is a money sink. My father has been acting as financial adviser to Lord Conaill for the last forty years and he knows how little has been spent on the upkeep of both castle and land. He’s asked me to make sure you know it. The cosmetic touches have been done—Lord Conaill was big on keeping up appearances and his daughter insisted on things such as central heating—but massive capital works are needed to keep this place going into the future. Lord Conaill told my father he thought your own farm is worth a considerable amount but, in my father’s opinion, if you wished to keep the castle, you’d need considerably more. And, as for Miss Conaill...’ he smiled again at Jo ‘...I suspect this lady has better things to do with a fortune than sink it into an ancient castle.’

Did she?

A fortune...

What would the likes of her do with a fortune?

Finn wasn’t speaking. He’d turned and was looking out of the massive casement window to the land beyond.

He’d need time to take this in, she thought. They both would. This was...massive. She tried to think of how it would affect her, and couldn’t. She tried to think of how it would affect Finn, but watching his broad shoulders at the window was making things seem even more disconcerting.

So focus on something else. Anything.

‘What about Mrs O’Reilly?’ she found herself asking, and the lawyer frowned.

‘What about her?’

‘It’s just...there’s no mention of her in the will and she seems to have been here for ever. She knew my mother.’

Finn turned and stared at her. She kept looking at the lawyer.

‘I believe she has,’ the lawyer said. ‘There has been...discussion.’

‘Discussion?’

‘She rang after the funeral,’ the lawyer admitted. ‘Her husband was the old Lord’s farm manager and she’s maintained the castle and cared for your grandfather for well over thirty years. My father believes she’s been poorly paid and overworked—very overworked as the old Lord wouldn’t employ anyone else. My father believes she stayed because she was expecting some sort of acknowledgement in the will. She knew the castle was to be left to you, My Lord,’ he told Finn. ‘But it would have been a shock to hear the remainder was to be left to a granddaughter he’d never seen.’

He hesitated then but finally decided to tell it how it was. ‘The old Lord wasn’t without his faults,’ he told them. ‘My father said he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d made promises to her that he had no intention of keeping. It gave him cheap labour.’

‘And now?’ Jo asked in a small voice.

‘Her husband died last year. The place is without a farm manager and I wouldn’t imagine you’ll be having ongoing use for a housekeeper. She’ll move out as soon as you wish.’

‘But she’s been left nothing? No pension? Nothing at all?’

‘No.’

‘That sucks,’ Jo said.

‘She doesn’t like you,’ Finn reminded her, frowning.

‘It still sucks. She took care of my grandfather?’

‘I believe she did,’ the lawyer told her. ‘For the last couple of months he was bedbound and she nursed him.’

‘And she hated my mother, so she can’t be all bad. How much would a cottage in the village and a modest pension be? Actually, you don’t even need to tell me. Work it out and take it from my half.’

‘She burned your dinner!’ Finn expostulated.

Jo shrugged and smiled. ‘If I thought she’d just inherited my home I might have burned her dinner.’

‘She called your mother a drug addict.’

‘My mother was a drug addict.’ She turned back to the lawyer. ‘Can you set it up?’

‘Of course, but...’

‘Take it from both sides,’ Finn growled. ‘We both have a responsibility towards her and we can afford to be generous. A decent house and a decent pension.’

‘There’s no need...’ Jo started.

‘We’re in this together,’ he said.

The lawyer nodded. ‘It seems reasonable. A pension and a local cottage for Mrs O’Reilly will scarcely dent what you’ll inherit.

‘Well, then,’ he said, moving on. ‘Irish castles with a history as long as this sell for a premium to overseas buyers looking for prestige. If you go through the place and see if there’s anything you wish to keep, we can include everything else with the sale. I’d imagine you don’t wish to stay here any longer than you need. Would a week to sort things out be enough? Make a list of anything you wish to keep, and then I’ll come back with staff and start cataloguing. You could both have your inheritance by Christmas.’ He smiled again at Jo. ‘A Harley for Christmas?’

‘That’d be...good,’ Jo said with a sideways look at Finn. How did he feel about this? She felt completely thrown.

‘Excellent,’ Finn said and she thought he felt the same as she did.

How did she know? She didn’t, she conceded. She was guessing. She was thinking she knew this man, but on what evidence?

‘Jo, let me know when you’ve finished up here,’ the lawyer was saying. ‘We can advance you money against the estate so you can stay somewhere decent in Dublin. I can lend you one of my bikes. I could take you for a ride up to Wicklow, show you the sights. Take you somewhere decent for dinner.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, though she wasn’t all that sure she wanted to go anywhere with this man, with his slick looks and his slick words.

‘And you’ll be imagining all the cows you can buy,’ he said jovially to Finn and she saw Finn’s lips twitch again.

‘Eh, that’d be grand. Cows...I could do with a few of those. I might need to buy myself a new bucket and milking stool to match.’

He was laughing but the lawyer didn’t get it. He was moving on. ‘Welcome to your new life of wealth,’ he told them. ‘Now, are you both sure about Mrs O’Reilly?’

‘Yes.’ They spoke together, and Finn’s smile deepened. ‘It’s a good idea of Jo’s.’

‘Well, I may just pop into the kitchen and tell her,’ the lawyer told them. ‘I know she’s been upset and, to be honest, my father was upset on her behalf.’

‘But you didn’t think to tell us earlier?’ Finn demanded.

‘It’s not my business.’ He shrugged. ‘What you do with your money is very much your own business. You can buy as many milking stools as you want. After the castle’s sold I expect I won’t see you again. Unless...’ He smiled suggestively at Jo. ‘Unless you decide to spend some time in Dublin.’

‘I won’t,’ Jo said shortly and he nodded.

‘That’s fine. Then we’ll sell this castle and be done with it.’