by Sara Forbes
I shake my head. What’s the point in torturing myself? I’m going to be gone from here once I get the green light from Mom that Brett has given up, or my visa runs out—whichever happens first.
“I suppose you’re a pro, coming from Texas,” Cliona remarks.
“Nope,” I say. “Gotta disappoint you there. I don’t know anyone with a ranch. Let’s just say I’m glad to be this side of the fence.”
“Oh.”
Now I’m wondering if that’s a reproachful “oh” or a surprised “oh.” Cliona seems to be one of those people who keeps a tight rein on her true emotions—on the surface everything is pretty and ordered and happy. Underneath, not so much, I suspect. But I’m only guessing.
Danny comes out of the stables perched on a different steed—an amazing sleek, black horse, and rides him around in a wide circle. There’s an ease and an elegance in the way he gets the horse to do what he wants. They seem to blend together, as they leap over fences. Danny’s totally in his element here. I remember his animated face when he talked to me about the joy of horse riding.
“Let’s walk,” Cliona announces suddenly.
“Okay.”
As I fall in step beside her heading toward the stables, I wonder if my gawking was too obvious and whether it annoyed her.
Casting my gaze around for something to say, I point up to the name over the stable door that reads “Sofa King Fast.”
“That’s the horse’s name?” I ask.
She grins. “Yes, that’s the one Danny’s on now. Say it aloud and you’ll get it.”
I do. And I laugh.
“Horse owners try it all the time—getting names past the regulators so that the racing commentators will have a hard time of it. We have a Sofa King Slow as well.” She cocks her head. “That old grey mare, see?”
I nod.
“So, how are you enjoying working for the Moores?” Cliona asks.
“It’s great so far,” I say.
“You’re not the first to show up looking for work. But you are the first to get the job.”
“Lucky me.” I laugh. “I don’t see how I could be any better than them though.”
“Oh, I’d say you’re doing just fine. You must find our fuddy-duddy class-privileged ways strange, perhaps even antithetical to your views?”
“I don’t have views.”
She smirks. “Everybody has views, Shannon. You have to agree that the employer is nice.” She nods toward Danny.
“He’s okay.” I gaze out toward the fields, pointedly not at Danny.
“Just be careful there,” she says.
I grit my teeth and face her full on. “Look, Cliona, my purpose here is…to visit my aunt and keep my business going, and to do my best for the Moores. I am careful.”
She regards me for what seems like a millennium, her crystalline green eyes taking in every detail of my face, her incredibly symmetric features slightly tensed. “God, Shannon, it’s not you I’m worried about,” she says in her soft, lilting voice.
She’s worried about her son—about a woman encroaching on the father of her child.
Her eyes narrow, as if in pain. “Danny’s helped me a lot these past years, which haven’t been the easiest.”
“Helped you?” I repeat. “Well, of course.”
She sighs and regards me for a long moment. “Shannon, Danny’s not Lorcan’s father.”
I gape at her.
“You thought he was?”
“I-I didn’t know,” I admit, my face burning.
She shakes her head. “Just look at him.” She moves away from me, along the fence, leaving me to chew on her words.
Danny has brought his stallion to a halt and dismounted. Cliona sashays over to him in her perfect jodhpurs and riding jacket. Standing together—the tall dark handsome man, the svelte blonde—they look like the idealized romantic couple. But this news and the memory of Danny’s kiss takes the sting out of the image.
I get the feeling they harbor secrets that they’re not sharing with me and will never share with me. It’s another reason not to get involved. I sigh, and turn and trudge back to the house.
13
DANNY
Riding Sofa King, feeling that thrill again, is a balm to my soul. I dismount and stroke his flank, still rippling from exertion. I pushed him hard today, riding down to Lannigan’s fields and back up again in record time. He may be retired but the old racehorse has still got it where it counts.
Apart from the horses, I’m alone out here. Cliona went to pick up Lorcan from school. Garrett went inside a while ago claiming a migraine which he gets all too often. Shannon got fed up, I suppose, as she’s not a fan of horses.
I stride back toward the house. Through the large Georgian window overlooking the pond, I see Shannon in her favorite drawing room. It’s my favorite too, but I haven’t mentioned it to her I case she thinks I’m hinting for her to vacate it.
I know that if I go in the house, into that room, then for sure someone will disturb us, so I stop by the old orchard wall and just watch her. She’s sitting on the sofa, looking pensively at a notebook, scribbling something, then twisting to her laptop and typing furiously. Her concentrated look is different from the slightly blank expression she wears when she’s doing the housework.
This is her in her natural mode—the businesswoman, the creative entrepreneur—the true side I want to get to know better. I want to know about what her home and her life in Texas is like. How she spends a normal day. Who her friends are.
She picks up her phone, looks at the screen and a world-weary look crosses her features. Who makes her look like that? What is she going through really? I want to know.
It’s odd that she even accepted the housekeeping role. There’s always some explanation. I just need to earn her trust so she’ll open up and tell me.
My gaze flits back to the window. She’s gone. Where’d she go? I pick up speed and march toward the house. It’s nearly the end of her shift, so she may have left for Nuala’s.
Instead of going inside, I veer around the corner of the house and wait by the front entrance, leaning my spine against the stone monument that obscures me from view from the first-floor bedrooms.
After a few minutes—when the clock strikes five exactly—the door swings open and out she comes. She’s engrossed in her phone, biting her bottom lip as she scrolls. That wave of wanting to protect her washes over me again.
I intercept her path, trying not to seem too much like an eager puppy. Or a stalker.
“Trying to escape?” I say.
She jumps. “You started me! Again.”
“Is everything okay?”
She shakes her head. “Uh-huh, sure.”
I take her hand and hold it. We stare into each other’s eyes. She’ll tell me when she’s ready. I’m going nowhere.
Shannon’s gaze slides off my face up to the windows.
“This is a blind spot,” I tell her. “Nobody can see us from any room, on any floor.”
“For real?”
“Tried and tested,” I say with a chuckle. “A mis-spent childhood.”
Without warning, she clasps her fingers around my neck, pulling me down to her. She plants the most glorious kiss on my lips, hard, possessive and desperate. I pull her into me, tight, and return the kiss, leaving her breathless.
It’s the most erotic thing that has ever happened to me. “Normally I make the first move,” I say.
She chuckles. “You’re kidding, right?
I shake my head. I walk her backward until her spine is pressed against the pillar. Taking her chin in my hands, I angle her face upward and capture her lips again in a greedy, needy kiss.
Her bag drops on the ground beside our feet. Her hands slide inside my blazer then inside my shirt, sliding along my torso. She sets me aflame with her delicate touch on my bare skin.
Her T-shirt is tucked inside those skinny jeans and I tug at it.
“I can’t,” she gasps, taking her hand aw
ay and clasping my fingers. “I promised Nuala to be home for dinner. And if I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
“But soon?” I ask her, gripping my hands behind my back. She’s got more self-control than I do that’s for sure.
She nods, grins, picks up her bag, and strolls down the driveway, leaving me staring after her, burning with helpless lust.
14
SHANNON
Did I sleep after that? Of course not! After a dinner where I didn’t say a whole lot to Nuala, I go up to my bedroom and try to get some writing done offline. Unsuccessfully. Then I try to read. After fifteen minutes, I toss the book aside.
I end up sending a barrage of texts to Marci about the exciting progress of my liaison with the duke. She's at work so she can’t call, but she is pretty prompt at responding to each message. I know she’s imagining something straight out of Georgette Heyer. And in a funny way, she wouldn’t be so wrong.
You’re so lucky!!! she enthuses.
I know!!! I type back.
I don’t tell her about my unease at certain things. What would be the point when I can barely articulate the problem to myself? It’s enough that he makes me feel like an honest to goodness but extremely horny princess. Or duchess.
When I wake some hours later to sunshine beaming through the lace curtains, I realize that it’s Sunday—my day off. That doesn’t make me as happy as I thought it would, and it’s not just the internet connection I’ll be missing. Still, I can use the time to finish up two writing jobs, maybe even before their deadlines.
As I enter the kitchen Nuala nearly jumps on me.
“So, are you ready?” she asks.
“Ready?”
“For mass. It’s Sunday.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t go to mass?”
“Well…” How do I tell her that my mother lapsed years ago? Will this be the nail in the coffin of their relationship? “I’m not particularly religious, personally,” I say. “I-I’m not quite sure whether Mom still goes sometimes or not.”
Her eyebrows bounce up and down. “Neither am I particularly religious. But it’s the best source of live entertainment this side of Cork.”
I laugh. “Oh. I see.”
Just as I’m wondering if Danny might show up there and give me some eye candy, she adds, “you’ve been in that Protestant house all week, a dose of the Catholic church will do you good.”
Well, so much for that.
“They’re Protestants?” I ask, not that the distinction means anything to me. I know it’s a big deal for some people in Ireland.
“All the west Brit landlords are protestant. That’s another reason he’s not too popular. That’s no fault of his own, mind you.”
A now familiar irritation crawls over my skin. “Danny, you mean?”
She nods. “Aye.”
I want to ask her about the “another reason,” but she shoves me along the hall. “You’ll need to wear something decent.”
Not this again.
“I—"
“Not those jeans,” she says firmly. “Not to the church.”
***
An hour later, I’m sitting in a solid, mahogany pew beside Aunt Nuala. The church is small but high-ceilinged. Every inch of the walls is adorned in sumptuous murals or paintings. Gold paint and white marble everywhere.
My mom brought me to churches like this when I was younger—for friends’ baby baptisms and holy communions. Then she kind of stopped all that. I never really thought about it before.
I opted to wear navy jeans that have no holes and a black t-shirt and neat little bomber jacket. The ensemble is the most conservative my selection has to offer and it passed muster with Nuala. Just about.
We’re sitting near the back which gives me a view over the congregation—or at least the backs of their heads and shoulders. The way people shuffle in and slide quickly into their seats suggests that they have assigned places and that nobody dares to change the order of things.
The line of men in front of me looks extremely homogeneous, sitting shoulder to shoulder—broad-shouldered and blond, all of them. A wall of strength.
“The Callaghans,” my aunt whispers.
My eyes widen. The famous Callaghans? They look like they could single-handedly erect a house or an entire village. Where are the womenfolk?
“Seamus Junior,” says Nuala nodding toward the leftmost in the row.
I note that she barely takes her eyes off him for the rest of the ceremony.
I go through the motions of the antiquated service, copying the sit-kneel-stand pattern of everyone else. Beyond that, I let my mind wander rampantly as I stare up at the ornate rafters and beautiful stained-glass windows.
Where is Danny now? Attending a parallel session over in the Protestant Church? Is he repenting his sins? I was pretty forward with him yesterday. I couldn’t help it. He brings out this streak of lust in me. My heart warms as I remember his face smiling down into mine, his fervent question “But soon?”
I squirm in delicious anticipation of…soon.
Lost in my wicked daydreams, the mass service passes quicker than I expected, and soon I’m rising and joining the crowd in heading out of the church.
The minute I step out into the cool air, the four blond men crowd around me. At first, it’s a cacophony of male voices with thicker accents than I’ve been hearing so far, much more Irish, and I have to focus hard on parsing what they’re saying.
“It’s Nuala’s niece, is it?” the older man says by way of greeting. “I’m Seamus Mór or Seamus Senior.” His craggy face is formidable—someone used to barking orders, no doubt necessary with three strapping sons. I give him a sunny smile.
“How’s he treating you up there in the house?” he asks.
Even though everybody’s asking me this in their different ways, I never seem to know how to answer it.
“It’s OK,” I say lightly.
“You’re bringing a bit of life to the place, anyway.”
The speaker is a younger version of his father but with longish red-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, a broad forehead, an impressive beard, and wicked green eyes. He’s the most ripped of the lot. In his speech, I detect a definite Californian accent, so I’m guessing he’s the prodigal son.
“Seamus Junior,” he says, extending his hand. “Or just Seamus. Actually, I’m just back from your neck of the woods myself.” His hand engulfs mine in a tight handshake and he pumps it a few times.
“San Francisco, yes, I heard. How did you like it?” I ask.
“Grand. But there’s no place like home.” He glances at his father who nods grimly.
“Well, that’s nice,” I say.
“And how long are you here for yourself?” Seamus Junior asks.
“Oh… a few weeks.”
Father and son exchange glances. I’m used to this by now—the sly glances, everyone wondering what the hell I’m doing here and how long I’m staying, and what my motivations are. It’s like they can’t relax until they’ve got me slotted into their system of classification. It’s getting exhausting. But my smile stays intact.
It’s then that I notice Nuala shaking her head, giving me the dagger eyes from where she’s standing with her group of people under a tree.
“Um, sorry, I better go, my aunt’s waiting to go. Nice meeting you.” I look apologetically at the two younger Callaghans who didn’t get their turn.
There’s a chorus of byes and I head back to Nuala.
“Don’t be wasting your breath on the Callaghans,” she says, pulling me into her group but speaking so low that only I can hear. There’s an icy note to her voice I’ve never heard before. I raise my eyebrows, but I don’t see the point in rocking the boat so I blend into the group of middle-aged ladies, introducing myself and then doing more listening than talking. The conversation revolves around the weather and some old farmer guy that just died. When I peer around again, the Callaghans have gone.
“Nuala,” I ask as we’re half way of the walk home. “What’s with the Callaghans?”
She shakes her head rapidly, her mouth pursed in a tight line. The gravel and wet leaves squelch under our footsteps. “Just keep to yourself, don’t get involved in any politics, and you’ll be okay,” she says.
“It’s kinda late for keeping to myself. I’m sure I could handle the politics and still be okay,” I say breezily. “Politics just go over my head most of the time.”
She looks at me and shakes her head. “You sound like your mother.”
I hope she elaborates, but she doesn’t.
We come back to Nuala’s cottage and while she makes dinner, I fire up my laptop in my bedroom and get going on the final paragraphs of my article. I’m pretty happy with it. The clean air and the lack of Brett pressure seem to have unblocked my creativity.
Then I go down and join Nuala for a delicious dinner of lamb stew. Just as we’re done, there’s a rap on the door.
Sean pokes his head in. “We’re off to the pub, ma.”
“Who’s we?”
“Shannon and me.” He shoots me a mischievous smile.
Nuala starts collecting plates noisily. “Oh, son...It’s only three o’clock.”
“Yeah. And you can’t keep her locked up.”
I mouth “thank you” to my cousin.
Nuala gives a resigned sigh and I scuttle to the hallway to get my coat before she can change her mind.
When we get out into the cool fresh air, I detect there’s alcohol on his breath. “You’ve been drinking already?” I ask him.
“Hardly. Well, just a drop. So, she schlepped you off to the mass, did she? How was that?”
“About as interesting as you’d imagine.”
