by Henry, Jane
Our servants are attentive as I walk with her beside me, and some raise eyebrows when I walk past my office and to the large, gleaming stairway that leads to the second floor. I’ve never taken a woman into our home. Not once. Men of The Clan don’t date casually. We’re no celibates, but we know where to find women, how to keep our interactions with them private, and how to prevent any ties from forming. Unions within The Clan are often arranged, as any possible union must be approved to solidify or strengthen us. So if a woman’s brought home, she’s done so as a kind of entry into courtship. You don’t introduce a woman you don’t wish to marry to The Clan.
Unless she’s your prisoner, and we’ve had precious few of the female variety.
Finally, we get to my room. For safety purposes, each bedroom on the second floor has been protected with a variety of safety measures. The windows are kept locked, steel bars securing the outside. Security cameras are trained on every exit and entry into this house, the windows no exception. We’ve installed bright floodlights at the entrances and exits, and thorn bushes line the entire perimeter of our house.
I dismiss the men who work for us as my bodyguards. Standing at attention outside my bedroom, they’re dressed in the suits we require, but I know beneath their jackets they wear harnesses and holsters. I dismiss them for now. I want privacy.
I open the door quickly, and drag her in behind me, before I shut and lock it.
I’ve got her alone now. My pulse quickens. I’m hyper aware that she’s my charge, and I have full clearance to do anything I want to her.
Anything.
I swallow hard, tempering my need to master this beautiful, tenacious, headstrong girl. Christ but she’s gorgeous. My methods of interrogation won’t be the same as I’d use on a man.
She looks about my room with wide, curious eyes. If she’s been as sheltered as I suspect, I bet she’s likely never seen anything like this. My room is one of the larger ones, with a private bath, a king-sized bed, a small desk and chair, and ample room to move around. I can see the housekeepers have been in today. My beds made, the pillows fluffed, and there are still lines in the carpet where they’ve run the Hoover.
I leave her restraints on, lead her to the upholstered chair next at the foot of my bed, and push her to sitting.
I could take a stern approach with her. My father expects me to punish her, and I know why, of course. But her wide eyes tell me she’s fearful. I’m tempted to coerce her. Intimidate her. Dominate her. Time will tell which methods she responds best to. It might help if I pretend I’m the good guy.
“Now, lass,” I begin, pulling the chair from my desk and straddling it in front of her. “We talk.”
She stares at me, and I can’t quite read her expression. She’s fearful, I’ve no doubt, I can tell by the way she swallows hard, her eyes wide, giving her away. But it seems she’s also curious, and I suspect the girl’s got questions herself. She looks away and tucks her head to her chest, as if to shield herself from me, and a raw, primal urge rises within me.
No one will touch her. No one will harm her.
I’ll have the truth from her.
But this woman is mine.
The first woman that’s ever been taken to my private quarters. The first I’ve taken prisoner. The first I’ve shielded from my father’s wrath.
Mine.
I observe her without attempting to hide it. As mine, she’ll learn to withstand my scrutiny.
She wears faded, dated clothing, a tattered dress that may have been white once but now is yellowed with age and wear. Is the woman eccentric, or something else? Her long, thick black hair hangs all the way to her waist.
“He’s your father,” she states plainly. It takes me by surprise. I don’t expect it to be the first thing she says.
“Who?” I ask. I’m curious how she’ll describe my dad.
“The older, stern man downstairs.”
Older and stern. Accurate.
“The man who tried to strike me, before you stopped him.”
She noted that. I nod. “Aye.”
“Why did you stop him from hitting me?” she asks, her brow furrowed in confusion.
“I’m the one that’ll ask questions first, lass,” I tell her. She doesn’t control this. I’m also not sure I want to tell her why I stopped him. If she gets it in her head that she isn’t to fear me, or that I’ve got a weakness for her, it could complicate things.
She sits up straighter and holds my gaze. “Alright, then. Let’s have it.”
“Your name.”
“Caitlin.”
“Spell it.”
“C-A-I-T-L-I-N.”
Caitlin. An Irish name, then. Though she’s American, and her father was, too, I wonder. Why is her Christian name Irish, and why does she live here?
“You mentioned Jimmy Anderson, the lighthouse keeper, was your father.”
She nods but doesn’t reply.
“Why does no one in Ballyhock know of your existence, Caitlin?”
Something flashes in her eyes, something I can’t quite decipher. She swallows but doesn’t break eye contact. “My father kept me hidden,” she finally says.
“How so?”
She blinks, just once, swallows hard, then continues. “He said beyond the walls of the lighthouse were men who’d hurt me.” Her voice hardens, along with her eyes. “Apparently, he was right.”
I grip her arm. Threatening.
“Stick to the questions, lass,” I order, my voice sharpening. I’ve brought her up here for a reason. She doesn’t respond. “Now tell me how he kept you hidden.”
“Until today, I’ve never stepped foot outside the lighthouse.”
Is the girl out of her mind? Is she sane?
“Excuse me?”
She clears her throat. “I said, I’ve never stepped foot outside the lighthouse before today.”
How is that possible? She’s no child. Is she lying?
“Tell the truth,” I admonish harshly.
She blinks at me in surprise. This either is the truth, or she’s a very good liar.
“I did,” she insists.
“Never left?”
“How many times are you going to make me repeat myself?” she asks.
I’ll have none of her cheek.
“Listen well, lass,” I say, my voice etched with warning. “You’ll speak to me with respect.”
She swallows hard. “Or you’ll punish me,” she says softly. She’s a bright one.
I don’t deny it. She needs to know where we stand. I came between her and my father’s punishing hand today, but he isn’t the one she needs to fear now.
“You’ll be expected to obey me,” I tell her. “Now answer the question.”
She sighs, and I can tell she’s warring within herself, wondering what I’ll do and what I expect of her.
“No,” she finally says with a sigh. “As I said, I’ve never left the lighthouse. It was the only safe place I had.”
Though it seems nearly impossible that in a modern age she’s been sheltered to such extremes, such a reclusive life isn’t unheard of. And her father was most definitely eccentric and reclusive himself.
“No education?” I ask her.
She lifts her chin, and with a tone that’s adorably haughty, she replies. “I learned to read at the age of four, and my father educated me thoroughly.”
Well, then.
“So you’ve had book learning?”
“Of course I have. My father was a brilliant man, and he taught me himself.”
I nod.
“Tell me the extent of your education,” I demand. I’m not sure why I’m so fixated on this, but I’m filled with a burning need to know everything there is about her. Everything.
She shrugs. “He taught me algebra and trigonometry and calculus. I’m fluent in Latin and French. I’ve read the works of the masters, both British and American literature as well as the works of Shakespeare. I’ve studied the art and music of the greats.”
I blink
in surprise. It appears she certainly has had proper schooling.
It’s time to move onto more pressing questions. I’ll get to the records she held at a later date, but one thing’s become clear to me. If her father was as educated as she gives him credit, it’s quite possible the records belonged to him, and not her.
We’ll get to that.
“You’ve stumbled several times since I’ve taken you with me,” I state. “Tell me why.”
Her face pales, and she licks her lips. “I haven’t eaten any food in several days.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
I don’t realize I’m on my feet until I see her shrink back, looking up at me.
Christ, why didn’t I notice before? Her eyes are a bit sunken, her skin so pale she looks like a newly-hatched sprite.
“Why haven’t you eaten?” I demand harshly. I’m not angry with her, but I’m furious I’ve a woman in front of me literally starving to death.
Her gaze hardens. “I’d think it obvious. I had no food.”
“The old man left you with nothing to eat?”
“Not nothing,” she says. “But if you recall, he died last month. We had stores put aside, but I’ve eaten every bit of them. It was why I visited the garden shed to begin with. I wondered if he’d left anything there.”
“Did he?”
“No...no food.” She bites her lip, as if she’s said too much.
No food. Are the records his then?
Still holding her gaze, I take my mobile out of my pocket, and make a quick call. Douglas, one of our servants, answers.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want a tray of food brought to my room within five minutes.”
We’ve a kitchen that rivals the best restaurants in all of Ireland. They’ll bring food, and promptly.
“Five minutes, sir?”
“Waste no time. I don’t care what it is. Cut slabs of bread and cheese if necessary, but food and water’s to be delivered as fast as you can.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
She looks down when I hang up the phone, capturing her lips between her teeth. Fucking hell, I can’t believe the lass is literally starving.
It angers me her father left her bereft, and that right here, in one of the most wealthy villages in all of Ireland, the lass is starving to death under our very noses. What possessed him to keep her apart from the rest of the world? Was he as insane as we all gave him credit?
I will not question her further until she’s eaten.
Next, I call Sebastian, our clan’s private doctor. We don’t risk notice of the authorities when injured. Sebastian treats us promptly and thoroughly.
“Yes, sir?”
“How might one go about feeding someone who’s been starving?”
“Well,” he says thoughtfully. I can picture him stroking his chin. It’s not a common question, I’d think, but at the same time, he’s used to answering anything and everything from us. Waking in the middle of the night to tend to gunshot wounds or lacerations will do that to someone, I suppose.
“I’d go slowly, and introduce small, manageable meals that are nutritionally dense.” I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Of course, be sure hydration is prioritized as well. How long has said person been starving?”
“A few days.”
“Then it’s likely the same as coming off a fast,” he says. “Was it likely he or she was malnourished before there was no food at all?”
“Highly likely.”
“Then we’ll want to get some vitamins in and good, nourishing food.”
“Aye. I’ve ordered food brought for now, but I want you to call the kitchen and tell them to prepare what you think best for this evening and tell them I gave the order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
A knock comes at the door, and I quickly retrieve the food.
I hang up the phone and turn to her. But she doesn’t care about my conversation. Her eyes are riveted on the tray in my hand, piled with the food I ordered.
“Oh, my,” she whispers, licking her lips. “Oh, that looks so good.”
“I’m going to unfasten your cuffs so you can eat. Don’t you dare do anything stupid, or I’ll punish you. Firmly.”
She nods. I release her hands.
She wrings her hands in front of her as if she’s afraid I might turn and run with the tray. I slide it onto my desk.
“Come,” I order, crooking a finger at her. She stands on wobbly legs and makes her way to my desk. I lift the heavy chair and bring it with her, setting the chair in front of the desk. “Eat. Slowly. Drink some water as well. Have you had anything to drink?”
She shrugs. “A bit. After a time, it gets difficult to drink when you’re so hungry, though.”
Fair enough. I lean against the desk and watch her as she sits gracefully onto the chair. Even held prisoner, under my watchful eye, starving and afraid, she holds herself with the elegance of royalty.
She reaches for a slice of bread, but when she lifts the knife to butter it, her hand shakes. The knife clatters back to the tray.
“Give it here,” I say gruffly. She doesn’t protest as I take the knife and smear a thick layer of butter over the crusty bread. I hand her the bread. “Eat slowly.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice. I watch as her lips close around the bread, her eyelids flutter shut, and she moans out loud. “Mmmm,” she moans, the sound so guttural and hoarse, it’s damn near sexual. My mind is spinning with a world of possibilities.
If what she’s telling me is true, she’s never been outside. Never left her house. The world of men is completely foreign to her, for better or for worse. God almighty, the power that gives me…
“Drink, lass,” I order, after she’s eaten half a slice of bread. She looks at me in surprise. “Drink,” I repeat, jerking my head at the large pitcher of water. But I’m a wanker, not realizing the damn thing’s too heavy for her to lift in her weakened state. She goes to lift the heavy pitcher, wrist trembling.
“Give me that,” I say gruffly, taking it from her grip. “You’ll spill that everywhere.” Either she knows obedience is wise, or she knows her limits, but she quickly concedes.
I don’t really care about her spilling anything. The housekeepers come several times a day, and a little water spill never hurt anyone. I do, however, value her obedience and submission. I’m watching her with a careful eye. I pour her a tall glass of water before I hand it to her.
“Good girl,” I approve, when she takes large gulps. Not meeting my eyes, she puts it back on the tray, then returns to the bread.
“Finish that,” I tell her, waving my finger to the bread. “Do your best.”
She obeys, then follows the bread with a slice of cheese.
“This tastes so good,” she says in a little voice. “Thank you.”
I nod. She can thank me if she chooses, but I didn’t feed her out of the kindness of my heart. I need the girl strengthened for what lies ahead.
Next, she eats from a small bowl of fruit, taking small bites and chewing carefully, before washing her food down with more water. A little color comes back in her cheeks as she eats.
She’s a stunner, this one, simple and outlandish though she might be. Her high cheekbones are pale pink, highlighting her eyes. They’re a pretty blue, framed with thick lashes. There’s something special about this girl. I want to pull her to me and hold her close, shield her from any harm that may come her way. I blink in surprise and turn away. Has she bewitched me that I think strange thoughts around her? I don’t feel this way around women, and certainly none who are potential spies, or threats to The Clan.
And even if the circumstances were normal, I can’t have her. She’s an American, and Clan rules specifically state we’re to marry Irish.
Marry? What the ever-loving Christ’s come over me that I even think of such a thing?
My father’s words come back to me with the force of a hurricane.
First
, I’ll show her who’s in control here. She opens her mouth to take another bite when I hold up my hand. “That’s enough. Put that down, now. No more until later.”
Her lips are poised to take a bite. She looks up at me in surprise,
“Excuse me?” Her voice registers something beyond surprise. Irritation? Anger?
“I said, you’ve had enough to eat. No more until I permit it.”
Frowning, she places the food back on the plate. Still frowning, she stares at me in unabashed curiosity.
It occurs to me she doesn’t know the rules of etiquette. She doesn’t know how she’s to behave or how to respond. She doesn’t know how to socialize, or the unwritten rules of behavior. She’s never known the companionship of anyone save her father.
If she were mine… if I were to truly keep this woman as my very own… I’d introduce her to everything. I swallow hard.
Everything.
And with that knowledge, I make up my mind.
Caitlin belongs to me, only me and no other, no matter the circumstance. I found her. I saw her first.
She’s mine.
Chapter Six
Caitlin
My belly isn’t empty for the first time in a month. I’m pleasantly satisfied with the simple fare, and after the day’s events, I feel as if I need a nap to sleep the food off. I drink the water easily, and could eat more food without question, but Keenan takes it away from me.
He’s watching me with a look I can’t quite decipher. The green of his eyes, the same as his father has, and a few of the other men present today, makes him look a little less the fierce warrior I assume he is, or he appears to me. He has the eyes of an angel, a beatific vision. But this man is not an angel. Maybe he’s a demon, then. One of the fallen.
Given what I’ve seen of him thus far, it seems like a distinct possibility.
I want more of the food before me, but he takes the tray away, and I know without him telling me this is a sort of test. He wants to test my obedience. Though I’m ignorant to the ways of the world, I’m not ignorant to the ways of men. I’m far too well read for that.
His father thought I should be punished, and for whatever reason he’s chosen, Keenan hasn’t punished me. Instead, he’s asked me a few questions and fed me. What, then, is the man’s plan with me?