His Cinderella Heiress (10 page)

‘Your nieces and nephews won't get to see it.'

‘You don't want to meet them?'

‘Why would I want to?'

‘They're family, too.'

‘Not my family.'

‘It seems to me,' he said softly, ‘that family's where you find it. And it also seems that somehow you've found it. Your hair gives you away.'

‘If we're talking about my red hair then half of Ireland has it.'

‘It's a very specific red,' he told her. ‘My daddy had your hair and I know if I've washed mine nicely you can see the glint of his colour in mine.' And he lifted a finger and twisted one of her short curls. His smile deepened, an all-enveloping smile that was enough to make a woman sink into it. ‘Family,' he said softly. ‘Welcome to it, Jo Conaill. You and your teddy.'

‘I don't want...'

‘Family? Are you sure?'

‘Y...yes.'

‘That's a big declaration. And a lonely one.' He turned so he was facing her, then tilted her chin a little so her gaze was meeting his. ‘I might have been raised in poverty, but it seems to me that you've been raised with the more desperate need. Does no one love you, Jo Conaill?'

‘No. I mean...' Why was he looking at her? Why was he smiling? It was twisting something inside her, and it was something she'd guarded for a very long time. Something she didn't want twisting.

‘I won't hurt you, Jo,' he said into the stillness and his words made whatever it was twist still more. ‘I promise you that. I would never hurt you. I'm just saying...'

And then he stopped...saying.

* * *

Finn Conaill had been trying to work it out in his head. Ever since he'd met her something was tugging him to her. Connecting.

It must be the family connection, he'd thought. Or it must be her past.

She looked stubborn, indecisive, defiant.

She looked afraid.

She'd taken a step back from him and she was staring down at the bear in her arms as if it was a bomb about to detonate.

She didn't want family. She didn't want home.

And yet...

She wanted the teddy. He knew she did.

By now he had some insight into what her childhood must have been. A kid alone, passed from foster family to foster family. Moved on whenever the ties grew so strong someone wanted her.

Learning that love meant separation. Grief.

Learning that family wasn't for her.

A cluster of wild pigeons was fussing on the cobblestones near the stables. Their soft cooing was a soothing background, a reassurance that all was well on this peaceful morning. And yet all wasn't well with this woman before him. He watched her stare down at the teddy with something akin to despair.

She wanted the teddy. She wanted...more.

Only she couldn't want. Wanting had been battered out of her.

She was so alone.

Family... The word slammed into his mind and stayed. He'd been loyal to Maeve for so many years he couldn't remember and he'd thought that loyalty was inviolate. But he'd known Jo for only three days, and somehow she was slipping into his heart. He was starting to care.

‘Jo...' he said into the silence and she stared up at him with eyes that were hopelessly confused, hopelessly lost.

‘Jo,' he said again.

And what happened next seemed to happen of its own volition. It was no conscious movement on his part, or hers.

It was nothing to do with them and yet it was everything.

He took the teddy from her grasp and placed it carefully on the ground.

He took her hands in his. He drew her forward—and he kissed her.

Had he meant to?

He didn't have a clue. This was unchartered territory.

For this wasn't a kiss of passion. It wasn't a kiss he'd ever experienced before. In truth, in its beginning it hardly felt like a kiss.

He tilted her chin very gently, with the image of a wild creature strongly with him. She could pull away, and he half expected her to. But she stayed passive, staring mutely up at him before his mouth met hers. Her chin tilted with the pressure of his fingers and she gazed into his eyes with an expression he couldn't begin to understand. There was a sort of resigned indifference, an expression which should have had him stepping back, but behind the indifference he saw a flare of frightened...hope?

He didn't want her indifferent, and it would be worse to frighten her. But the hope was there, and she was beautiful and her mouth was lush and partly open. And her eyes invited him in...

It was the gentlest of kisses, a soft, tentative exploration, a kiss that understood there were boundaries and he wasn't sure where they were but he wasn't about to broach them.

His kiss said
Trust me
. His kiss matched that flare of hope he was sure he'd seen. His kiss said,
You're beautiful and I don't understand it but something inside is drawing me to you.
And it said,
This kiss is just the beginning.

* * *

Her first reaction was almost hysterical. Her roller coaster of emotions had her feeling this was happening to someone other than her.

But it was her. She was letting the Lord of Glenconaill kiss her.

Was she out of her mind?

No. Of course she wasn't. This was just a kiss, after all, and she was no prude. She was twenty-eight years old and there'd been men before. Of course there had. Nothing serious—she didn't do serious—but she certainly had fun. And this man was lovely. Gorgeous even. She could take him right now, she thought. She could tug him to her bed, or maybe they should use his bed because hers was ridiculously small. And then she could tear off his gear and see his naked body, which she was sure would be excellent, and she was sure the sex would be great...

Instead of which, her lips were barely touching his and her body was responding with a fear that said,
Go no further
. Go no further because one thing she valued above all others was control, and if she let this man hold her...

Except he was holding her. His kiss was warm and strong and true.

True? What sort of description was that for a kiss?

But then, in an instant, she was no longer thinking of descriptions. She wasn't thinking of anything at all. The kiss was taking over. The kiss was taking her to places she'd never been before. The kiss was...mind-blowing.

It was as if there'd been some sort of shorting to her brain. Every single nerve ending was snapped to attention, discarding whatever it was they'd been concentrating on and rerouting to her mouth. To his mouth. To the fusing of their bodies.

To the heat of him, to the strength, to the feeling of solid, fierce desire. For this was no cousinly kiss. This wasn't even a standard kiss between man and woman or if it was it wasn't something Jo had ever experienced before.

She was losing her mind. No, she'd lost it. She was lost in his kiss, melting, moulding against him, opening her lips, savouring the heat, the taste, the want—and she wanted more.

Her body was screaming for more. That was what all those nerve endings were doing—they'd forgotten their no doubt normally sensible functions and they were screaming,
This is where you're meant to be. Have. Hold.

This is your...your...

No.

Whatever it was, whatever her body had been about to yell, she was suddenly closing down in fright. She was tugging away, pushing, shoving back. He released her the instant she pushed. She stood in the silent courtyard and stared at him as if he had two heads.

He didn't have two heads. He was just a guy. Just a stranger who happened to be vaguely related.

He was just the guy who'd saved her teddy.

She stared down at the bear at her feet, gasped and stooped to grab it. But Finn was before her, stooping to pick it up before she did. Their gaze met on the way up, and he handed over the bear with all solemnity.

‘Was that why we stopped?' he asked. ‘Because you'd dropped your bear?'

‘Don't...don't be ridiculous.'

‘Then don't look scared. Sweetheart, it was just a kiss.'

‘I'm not your sweetheart.'

‘No.'

‘And I couldn't care less about the teddy.' But she did, she realised.

Why?

Because Finn had offered to burn it for her?

Because Finn had saved it?

The stupid twisting inside her was still going on and she didn't understand it. She didn't want it. It felt as if she was exposing something that hurt.

‘We can give these things to charity,' she managed. ‘That'd be more sensible than burning.'

‘Much more sensible,' he agreed. Then he picked up the giraffe. ‘I'll still be keeping this lad, though. No one would be wanting a stuffed giraffe with a wobbly neck.'

‘I'll mend him for you.'

‘That would be a kindness. But he's still not going to charity. How about Loppy?'

‘I guess...I'm keeping him as well.' She was still wary, still unsure what had just happened. Still scared it might happen again.

‘Then here's a suggestion,' he said, and the cheerful ordinariness was back in his voice, as if the kiss had never happened. ‘There's a trailer in the stables. I'll hook it up and cart these guys—with the exception of Loppy and Noddy—into the village before the night dew falls. That'll stop us needing to cart them upstairs again. Meanwhile, you do some mending or take a walk or just wander the parapets and practice being Lady of the Castle. Whatever you want. Take some space to get to know Loppy.'

‘I...thank you.' It was what she needed, she conceded. Space.

‘Take all the time you need,' Finn said and then his smile faded and the look he gave her was questioning and serious. ‘We're here until the documents can be signed. We do need to figure if there's anything in this pile to keep. But Jo...'

‘Y... Yes?'

‘Never, ever look at me again as if you're afraid of me,' he told her. ‘We can organise things another way. I can stay in the village, or you can if that makes you feel safer. Whatever you like. But I won't touch you and I won't have you scared of me.'

‘I'm not.'

‘Yes, you are,' he said gently. ‘And it needs to stop now.'

* * *

It took a couple of hours to link the trailer, pack the toys and cart them into the village. In truth, it was wasted time—there was so much in the castle to be sorted and dispersed that taking one load to the local charity shop was a speck in the ocean.

But he knew Jo needed him to leave. He'd kissed her, he'd felt her respond, he'd felt the heat and the desire—and then he'd felt the terror.

He wasn't a man to push where he wasn't wanted. He wasn't a man who'd ever want a woman to fear him.

And then there was the complication of Maeve and her father's expectations. He was well over it. The whole thing made him feel tired, but Maeve had left loose ends that needed to be sorted and they needed to be sorted now.

He was almost back at the castle but somehow he didn't want to be taking the complication of Maeve back there. He pulled to the side of the road and rang.

‘Finn.' Maeve's voice was flat, listless. Normally he'd be sympathetic, gently pushing her to tell him what was happening but today things felt more urgent.

‘Have you told him?'

‘I can't. I told you I can't. That's why I came to see you. Finn, he'll be so upset. He's wanted us to marry for so long. He's already had a heart attack. It'll kill him.'

‘That's a risk you have to take. Keeping the truth from your father any longer is dumb.'

‘Then come and tell him with me. You can placate him. He's always thought of you as his son.'

‘But I'm not his son,' he said gently. ‘Maeve, face it.'

‘Give me another week. Just a few more days.'

‘By the time I come home, Maeve.' His voice was implacable. ‘It has to be over.'

There was a moment's pause. Then... ‘Why? You've met someone else?' And, astonishingly, she sounded indignant.

And that was what he got for loyalty, he thought grimly. An ex-fiancée who still assumed he was hers.

‘It's none of your business, Maeve,' he told her and somehow forced his voice back to gentleness. ‘Whatever I do, it's nothing to do with you.'

He disconnected but he stayed sitting on the roadside for a long time.

Loyalty...

It sat deep with him. Bone-deep. It was the reason he couldn't have walked away from his mam and brothers when his dad died. It would have been far easier to get a job in Dublin, fending for himself instead of fighting to eke out an existence for all of them. But the farm was his home and he'd fought to make it what it was, supporting his family until the need was no longer there. And by then the farm felt a part of him.

And Maeve? Maeve was in the mix too. She'd been an only child, his next door neighbour, his friend. Her father dreamed of joining the two farms together, and Finn's loyalty to that dream had always been assumed.

Maeve had smashed that assumption. He should be sad, he thought, but he wasn't. Just tired. Tired of loyalty?

No.

He could see the castle in the distance, solid, vast, a piece of his heritage. A piece of his country's heritage. Could old loyalties change? Shift?

His world seemed out of kilter. He wasn't sure how to right it but somehow it seemed to have a new centre.

A woman called Jo?

It was too soon, he told himself. It was far too soon, but for now...for now it was time to return to the castle.

Time to go...to a new home?

CHAPTER SIX

J
O
SEEMED
TO
spend the next three days avoiding him as much as she could. The tension between them was almost a physical thing. The air seemed to bristle as they passed, so they spent their time doing what their separate skills required, separately.

Finn took inventory of the farm, working his way through the flocks of sheep, looking at what needed to be done before any sale took place. Inside the castle, the personal stuff was deemed to be Jo's, to do with what she wanted. She, after all, was the granddaughter of the house, Finn said firmly. She wanted none of it—apart from one battered bear—but things needed to be sorted.

She had three categories.

The first contained documents that might be important and photographs she decided to scan and file electronically in case someone in the future—not her—needed to reference them.

The second was a list of the things that seemed to go with the castle—the massive furnishings, the tapestries, the portraits.

The third contained items to be sold or given to museums. That included the storeroom full of ancient clothes. At some point in the far distant past, one of their ancestors had decided the amazing clothes worn on ceremonial occasions by generations of Conaills were worth preserving. A storeroom had been made dry and mothproof. The clothes smelled musty and were faded with age but they were still amazing.

‘A museum would kill for them,' Jo told Finn.

He'd come in to find her before dinner. She was on the storeroom floor with a great golden ballgown splayed over her knees. The white underskirt was yellowed with age, but the mass of gold embroidery worked from neckline to hem made it a dazzle of colour.

‘Try it on,' Finn suggested and Jo cast him a look that was almost scared. That was what he did to her, he thought ruefully. One kiss and he had her terrified.

‘I might damage it.'

‘I will if you will,' he told her. He walked across to a cape that would have done Lord Byron proud. ‘Look at this. Are these things neckcloths? How do you tie them? I'd have to hit the Internet. I'm not sure of the boots, though—our ancestors' feet seems to have been stunted. But if I can find something... Come on, Jo. We're eating dinner in that great, grand dining room. Next week we'll be back to being Finn the Farmer and Jo the Barista. For tonight let's be Lord and Lady Conaill of Castle Glenconaill. Just for once. Just because we can.'

Just because we can.
The words echoed. She looked up at him and he could see the longing. Tattoos and piercings aside, there was a girl inside this woman who truly wanted to try on this dress.

‘Dare you,' he said and she managed a smile.

‘Only if you wear tights.'

‘Tights?'

‘Leggings. Breeches. Those.' She pointed to a pair of impossibly tight pants.

‘Are you kidding? I'll sing falsetto for ever.'

‘Dare you,' she said and suddenly she was grinning and so was he and the thing was done.

* * *

He was wearing a magnificent powder-blue coat with gilt embroidery, open to just above his knees. He'd somehow tied an intricate cravat, folds of soft white linen in some sort of cascade effect that was almost breathtaking. He looked straight out of the pages of the romance novel she'd read on the plane. His dark hair was neat, slicked, beautiful. And he was wearing breeches.

Or pantaloons? What were they called? It didn't matter. They clung to his calves and made him look breathtakingly debonair. He looked so sexy a girl's toes could curl.

She forced herself to look past the sexy legs, down to his shoes. They looked like slippers, stretched but just on. More gilt embroidery.

More beauty.

‘If you're thinking my toes look squashed you should feel everything else,' he growled, following her gaze. ‘How our ancestors ever fathered children is beyond me. But Jo...' He was staring at her in incredulity. ‘You look...beautiful.'

Why that had the power to make her eyes mist she had no idea. He was talking about the clothes, she told herself. Not her.

‘You're beautiful already,' he told her, making a lie of her thoughts. ‘But that dress...'

She was wearing the dress he'd seen on her knee and why wouldn't she? This was a Cinderella dress, pure fantasy, a dress some long ago Conaill maiden had worn to a ball and driven suitors crazy. She'd have to have had warts all over her not to drive suitors crazy, Jo thought. This dress was a work of art, every inch embellished, golden and wondrous. It was almost more wondrous because of the air of age and fragility about it.

But it fitted her like a glove. She'd tugged it on and it had slipped on her like a second skin. The boned bodice pushed her breasts up, cupping them so their swell was accentuated. She'd powdered her curls. She'd found a tiara in her grandfather's safe, and a necklace that surely wasn't diamonds but probably was. There were earrings to match.

She, too, was wearing embroidered dancing slippers. She needed a ball, she thought, and then she thought, no, she had enough. She had her beautiful gown.

She had her Prince Charming.

And oh, those breeches...

‘Our ancestors would be proud of us,' Finn told her and offered his arm, as befitted the Lord of the Castle offering his arm to his Lady as they approached the staircase to descend to the dining hall.

She hesitated only for a moment. This was a play, she told herself. It wasn't real.

This was a moment she could never forget. She needed to relax and soak it in.

She took his arm.

‘Our ancestors couldn't possibly not be proud of us,' she told him as they stepped gingerly down the stairs in their too-tight footwear. But it wasn't her slippers making her feel unsafe, she thought. It was Finn. He was so big. He was so close.

He was so gorgeous.

‘Which reminds me...' He sounded prosaic, but she suspected it was an effort to make himself sound prosaic. She surely couldn't. ‘What are we going to do with our ancestors?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘All the guys who wore these clothes. All the pictures in the gallery.'

‘I guess...they'll sell with the castle. They can be someone else's ancestors.'

‘Like in Gilbert and Sullivan? Do you know
The Pirates of Penzance
?' He twirled an imaginary moustache and lowered his voice to that of a raspy English aristocrat. ‘Major General Stanley, at your service,' he said, striding ahead down the staircase and turning to face up to her. Prince Charming transformed yet again. ‘So, My Lady,' he growled up at her. ‘In this castle are ancestors, but we're about to sell the castle and its contents. So we don't know whose ancestors they will be. Mind, I shudder to think that an unknown buyer could bring disgrace upon what, I have no doubt, is an unstained escutcheon. Our escutcheon. We'll have to be very careful who we sell it to.'

‘Escutcheon?' she said faintly and he grinned.

‘Our unblemished pedigree, marred only by you not appearing to have a daddy, and me being raised surrounded by pigs. But look at us now.' He waved down at the grand entrance and the two astonishing suits of armour. ‘Grand as anything. Forget Major General Stanley. I'm dressed as Lord Byron but I believe I aspire to the Pirate King. All I need is some rigging to scale and some minions to clap in irons.'

‘I vote not to be a minion.'

‘You can be my pirate wench if you like,' he said kindly. ‘To scrub decks and the like.'

‘In this dress?'

He grinned. ‘You could pop into a bucket and then swish across the decks with your wet dress. The decks would come up shiny as anything.' And then he paused and smiled at her, a smile that encompassed all of her. Her beautiful dress with its neckline that was a bit too low and accentuated her breasts. Her powdered curls. Her diamond necklace and earrings and tiara.

But somehow his smile said he saw deeper. His smile made her blush before he said anything more.

‘Though I'd have better things to do with my wench than have her scrubbing decks,' he said—and he leered.

How could she blush when there was a bubble of laughter inside? And how could she blush when he was as beautiful as she was?

And suddenly she wanted to play this whole game out to its natural conclusion. She wanted to play Lady to his Lord. She wanted Finn to sweep her up in her beautiful ballgown and carry her upstairs and...

And nothing! She had to be sensible. So somehow she lifted her skirts, brushed past him and hiked down the remaining stairs and across the hall. She removed her tiara and put it safely aside, lifted the helmet from one of the suits of armour and put it on her head. Then she grabbed a sword and pointed it.

‘Want to try?' she demanded. ‘This wench knows how to defend herself. Come one step closer...'

‘Not fair. I don't have my cutlass.' He glanced ruefully at his side. ‘I think there's a ceremonial sword to go with this but I left it off.'

‘Excellent.' Her voice was sounding a bit muffled.

‘Jo?'

‘Yep.'

‘Can you see in that thing?'

‘Nope.'

‘So if I were to come closer...'

‘I might whirl and chop. Or...'

‘Or?'

Or...uh oh... She bent—with difficulty—boned bodices weren't all that comfortable—and laid the sword carefully on the floor. She raised her hands to the helmet. ‘Or you might help me off with this,' she said, a bit shakily. ‘It sort of just slid on. Now...it seems to be heavy.'

‘A Lady of the Castle pretending to be a pirate wench, in a suit of armour?' He stood back and chuckled. ‘I think I like it.'

What was she doing, asking this man for help? What a wuss! She bent to retrieve her sword, an action only marred by having to grope around her swirling skirts. With it once more in her hand, she pointed it in what she hoped was his general direction. ‘Help me or the giraffe gets it,' she muttered.

‘Noddy?' he demanded, astounded. ‘What's Noddy done to you?'

‘Nothing, but we knights don't skewer lords. We hold them to ransom and skewer their minions instead.'

‘So how will you find my...minion? Noddy's up in my bedroom.' He was smiling at her. It was a bit hard to see through the visor but she knew he was smiling.

‘With difficulty,' she conceded. ‘But I stand on my principles.' She tried again to tug her helmet off and wobbled in her tight slippers but she held onto her defiance. ‘If you're the pirate king, I insist on equal status.'

‘We can go back to being Lord and Lady of our real life castle.'

‘I guess.' She sighed. Enough. She had to confess. ‘Finn, this may look like a bike helmet but it seems the helmet manufacturers of days of yore had a lot to learn. Help me get this off!'

He chuckled. ‘Only if you guarantee that Noddy's safe.'

‘Noddy's safe.'

‘And no ransom?'

‘Not if I don't have to play wench.'

‘Are you in a position to negotiate?'

‘I believe,' she said, ‘that I still have a sword and I stand between you and your dinner.'

‘That's playing mean.'

‘Help me off with the helmet or we'll both starve,' she said and he chuckled again and came forward and took the sword from her hands and gently raised her helmet.

She emerged, flushed and flustered, and it didn't help that he was only inches away from her face and he was smiling down at her. And he did look like the Lord of His Castle. And her skirts were rustling around her and his dangerous eyes were laughing, and how they did that she didn't know but it was really unfair. And the look of him... The feel of his coat... The brush of his fingers...

The odds were so stacked in this man's favour.

He was Lord to her Lady.

Only, of course, he wasn't. He wasn't hers. He wasn't anyone's and she didn't want anyone anyway. In less than a week this fantasy would be over. She'd be on the road again, heading back to Australia, and she'd never see him again and that was what she wanted, wasn't it?

Goodbyes. She was really good at them.

Goodbyes were all she knew.

‘Jo?'

She must have been looking up at him for too long. The laughter had faded, replaced by a troubled look.

‘I...thank you.' She snatched the helmet from his hands and jammed it back on its matching body armour. Which should have meant she had her back to him, but he took the sword and came to stand beside her, putting the sword carefully back into a chain-meshed hand.

He was too close. She was too flustered. He was too...

‘Dinner! And don't you both look beautiful!' Mrs O'Reilly's voice was like a boom behind them. How long had she been standing there? Had Finn known she was standing there? Okay, now it was time for her colour to rise. She felt like grabbing the sword again and...

‘Knives and forks at noon?' Finn said and the laughter was back in his voice. He took her hand and swung her to face the housekeeper, for all the world like a naughty child holding his accomplice fast for support. ‘Are we late, Mrs O'Reilly?'

‘I'll have you know those clothes haven't been touched for hundreds of years. And, as for that armour, it's never been moved.'

‘See,' Finn told Jo mournfully. ‘I told you we're more interested in finance than war. Ours is not a noble heritage.'

‘Just as well we're selling it then.'

‘Indeed,' he said but his voice didn't quite sound right. She flashed him a questioning glance but he had himself together again fast. ‘We're sorry, Mrs O'Reilly. It's to be hoped nothing's come to any grief.'

‘It does suit you both,' the housekeeper admitted. ‘Eh, you look lovely. And it's yours to do with what you want.'

‘Just for a week,' Finn told her. ‘Then it's every ancestor for himself. Off to the highest bidder. Meanwhile, Lady of the Castle Glenconaill, let's forget about war. Let's eat.'