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?
She was well out of her depth. She should get on her bike and leave.
But she was cold.
The lawyer had paid for her flight, for two nights’ accommodation in Dublin and for the bike hire—he’d suggested a car or even a driver to meet her, but some things were non-negotiable. Two nights’ accommodation and the bike was the extent of the largesse. The lawyer had assumed she’d spend the rest of her time in the castle, and she hadn’t inherited anything yet. Plus the village had no accommodation and the thought of riding further was unbearable.
So, even if she’d like to ride off into the sunset, she wasn’t in a position to do it.
Plus she was really, really cold.
Finn... Lord of Glenconaill?...was looking at her with eyes that said he saw more than he was letting on. But his gaze was kind again. The aristocratic coldness had disappeared.
His gaze dropped to the worn stone tiles. There was a puddle forming around her boots.
‘I met Miss Conaill down the bog road,’ he said, smiling at her but talking to the housekeeper. ‘There were sheep on the road. Miss Conaill had struck trouble, was off her bike, wet and shaken, and I imagine she’s still shaken.’ He didn’t say she’d been stuck in a bog, Jo thought, and a surge of gratitude made her almost light-headed. ‘I offered to give her a ride but, of course, she didn’t know who I was and I didn’t know who she was. I expect that’s why you’re late, Miss Conaill, and I’m thinking you’re still wet. Mrs O’Reilly, could you run Miss Conaill a hot bath, make sure her bedroom’s warm and leave her be for half an hour? Then there’s roast beef warm in the oven for you.’
His voice changed a little, and she could hear the return of the aristocrat. There was a firm threat to the housekeeper behind the words. ‘Mrs O’Reilly will look after you, Jo, and she’ll look after you well. When you’re warm and fed, we’ll talk again. Meanwhile, I intend to sit in your grandfather’s study and see if I can start making sense of this pile we seem to have inherited. Mrs O’Reilly, I depend on you to treat Jo with kindness. This is her home.’
And there was nothing more to be said. The housekeeper took a long breath, gave an uncertain glance up at...her Lord?...and bobbed another curtsy.
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘Let’s get your gear inside,’ Finn said. ‘Welcome to Castle Glenconaill, Miss Conaill. Welcome to your inheritance.’
‘There’s no need for us to talk again tonight,’ Jo managed. ‘I’ll have a bath and go to bed.’
‘You’ll have a bath and then be fed,’ Finn said, and there was no arguing with the way he said it. ‘You’re welcome here, Miss Conaill, even if right now it doesn’t feel like it.’
‘Th...thank you,’ she managed and turned to her bike to get her gear.
* * *
If things had gone well from there they might have been fine. She’d find her bedroom, have a bath, have something to eat, say goodnight and go to bed. She’d talk to the lawyer in the morning. She’d sign whatever had to be signed. She’d go back to Australia. That was the plan.
So far, things hadn’t gone well for Jo, though, and they were about to get worse.
She had two bags—her kitbag with her clothes and a smaller one with her personal gear. She tugged them from the bike, she turned around and Finn was beside her.
He lifted the kitbag from her grasp and reached for the smaller bag. ‘Let me.’
‘I don’t need help.’
‘You’re cold and wet and shaken,’ he told her. ‘It’s a wise woman who knows when accepting help is sensible.’
This was no time to be arguing, she conceded, but she clung to her smaller bag and let Finn carry the bigger bag in.
He reached the foot of the grand staircase and then paused. ‘Lead the way, Mrs O’Reilly,’ he told the housekeeper, revealing for the first time that he didn’t know this place.
And the housekeeper harrumphed and stalked up to pass them.
She brushed Jo on the way. Accidentally or on purpose, whatever, but it seemed a deliberate bump. She knocked the carryall out of Jo’s hand.
And the bag wasn’t properly closed.
After the bog, Jo had headed back to the village. She’d have loved to have booked a room at the pub but there’d been a No Vacancies sign in the porch, the attached cobwebs and dust suggesting there’d been no vacancies for years. She’d made do with a trip to the Ladies, a scrub under cold water—no hot water in this place—and an attempt at repair to her make-up.
She’d been freezing. Her hands had been shaking and she mustn’t have closed her bag properly.
Her bag dropped now onto the ancient floorboards of Castle Glenconaill and the contents spilled onto the floor.
They were innocuous. Her toiletries. The things she’d needed on the plane on the way over. Her latest project...
And it was this that the housekeeper focused on. There was a gasp of indignation and the woman was bending down, lifting up a small, clear plastic vial and holding it up like the angel of doom.
‘I
