by Ava Miles
Maybe if she were excited enough about traveling to somewhere exotic, like seeing the ruins at Carthage…
The idea seemed crazy, and she let it fade from her mind, like a sailboat disappearing into the horizon. She would never be able to travel like that. It was a miracle she could even take a walk with Boru, and it was best if she didn’t get her hopes up much beyond that. But it did make her consider the possibility she might work toward more accessible goals.
Her breath caught at the thought of being able to go to dinner at the home of the people who worked with her. No one asked her to tea, and certainly not for a meet-up in the local pub. It was a grace mostly, but sometimes she wished they’d ask her only so she’d have the illusion of being normal.
A knock sounded on the door, and she almost frowned at the interruption. “Yes?”
Cian poked his head inside. “Have a minute?”
She’d dreaded this talk. His disapproval stung, mostly because part of her knew he was right—she was flirting with danger. But it didn’t feel that way when she was with Trevor. Could a man who’d listened to her love and dreams with so much eagerness still want to rip them away from her? She wanted to think Aileen was right, that she could change Trevor’s mind, but she was afraid to find out.
“Always, Cian,” she said, gesturing to the chair next to her on the sofa. “I’m sorry you interrupted me earlier.”
“I’m not,” he said, never one to mince words. “I know Aileen has this theory about animals only loving good people, but even bad people have dogs and cats.”
“Oh, Cian,” she said, trying not to be cross.
“Do you think I like to speak of such things? First, you’re a grown woman of thirty-four, as Aileen keeps reminding me lately, and second, you haven’t taken a fancy to anyone since Sven came around. Becca, I want you to be happy, but this man—whether he’s good or bad is no matter. He has the job of trying to buy this very land we’re standing on out from under you.” He reached for her hand, which he clasped. “My dearest Becca, I see how you look at him and how you looked in his arms—although I hope that fades from this old mind. You’re falling for him, and it’s only going to cause you pain. I’d cut my own arm off before I let that happen. You know that.”
She felt tears fill her eyes. Cian had been her lifeline for years. She’d clung to him from the moment he’d found her in that closet, crying for her mom and dad, who lay dead on the floor outside.
She’d seen everything, everything, and it had changed her entire world forever.
Cian had left Doctors Without Borders to take care of her, having promised her parents to do so if something ever happened to them. He’d brought her back to her grandmother, but her trauma had kept him near, the only link to parents now dead. Part of her knew he’d hoped to heal her as a doctor, and God knew, he’d done everything he could from researching her ailment to suggesting specialists when his treatments didn’t bear fruit.
Whether he would have left if he hadn’t fallen in love and married Aileen was immaterial. When she’d taken over for her grandmother, he’d closed his town medical practice, calling it retirement, and supported her in her every project.
“I only want what’s best for you, love,” Cian said, “even though Aileen tells me it’s none of my affair. But I promised your parents to look out for you, and I try my best. When I light a candle for them in church, I tell them how you’ve done them proud. The Wild Irish Rose was beautiful under your grandmother’s hand, but under yours, my Becca, it’s flourished beyond all my imaginings. You have a real gift, child, and I’ll do everything I can to see you continue to flourish as well.”
She wiped at the tears streaming down her face and laughed when Cian dug out a handkerchief and wiped his own eyes before handing it to her.
“Oh, Cian, you can’t know…”
He squeezed her hand. “I know.”
She blew her nose and wiped at more tears. “Oh, I’m plobaireacht.”
“No,” he said, kissing the back of her hand. “You’re only feeling that grand heart of yours. In this moment, you remind me of your mother. She had a heart as large as the sun.”
And it had been the death of her, Becca thought darkly. Even after all of these years, she still couldn’t set aside her grief. How could two such generous people, who’d devoted their lives to healing, be killed for helping others?
Her mother and father had refused to hand over their medical supplies to a militia, and the men had retaliated by killing them. They’d almost killed Becca too.
How was any of it fair?
A memory from her first days back at the inn flickered to life. She’d spent most of her time in the closet that had been her grandmother’s and was now hers, although much expanded now, wrapped up in a knitted blanket. Her grandmother had gone in there with her. Her stalwart love had helped ease some of the pain. Life isn’t fair, my dear, Becca. I only wish you’d discovered it when you were a little older and not quite so hard as you have.
“Well, now that we’re both plobaireacht,” Cian said, sniffing for good measure, “I need to confess something weighing on my mind.”
She took a sip of her tea, hoping to settle her nerves some. “All right, let’s hear it.”
“Aileen will likely bean me with a frying pan when she learns of it, and you may too, although I’m counting on that grand heart of yours.”
Something about his tone snapped her out of the fog of emotion. “What did you do?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I thought it was a good idea at the time.”
“Cian.”
“I was the one who let Buttercup inside your chambers,” he said, his eyes on the floor.
“You did what!” she said, standing up. “But you scared Aileen at first even. Cian O’Shea, are you out of your ever-loving mind? What were you thinking?”
He snorted loudly. “I was thinking to interrupt you and the American who wants to buy this land out from under you. Truth be told, from the state of his undress, my timing was spot on.”
“Are you thick?”
“In the head?” he asked with a smile. “Ask the missus.”
He stood and put his hand on her arm. She didn’t shrug it off. She’d never shrug him off.
“I know you mean well, Cian,” she said. “I do.”
“Fine, then, I’ve expiated my conscience so I can walk lighter the rest of the day. I’m here for you, regardless of what you do with the American. I’m behind you all the way.”
Her heart warmed, and she kissed his cheek. “Yes, I know.”
“And if you need me or any of our boys to rough him up, you say the word.” He winked cheekily and then dashed for the door. “If you could find it in your heart not to tell Aileen, I’d greatly appreciate it. I’ll be kicked out of me own bed for days.”
“You’d deserve it too,” she said, laughing. “Okay, I won’t tell her.”
“You’re an angel,” he said with a wink. “I’m off to feed your furry rabbits. You might consider bringing one into the main house. The guests might like it. Aileen showed me this video on Facebook of people doing yoga with rabbits and goats the other day. I sometimes wonder…”
“Oh, off with you,” she said, making a shooing motion with her hand.
He grinned and ducked out the door.
“That silly, interfering old…” Goodness, she loved him. Then she started to laugh. Well, at least Buttercup hadn’t figured out how to get into the main house on her own. That was a relief.
Which meant tonight there would be no interruptions with Trevor.
Was that what she wanted?
Yes, she realized, she did want him to herself. She might be in for some heartache like Cian feared, but oh, to be with a man like that would be worth it. Aileen called Trevor a right fine thing, and Becca couldn’t fault her assessment.
But that wasn’t the real reason she felt drawn to him. He gave of himself so generously—he’d listened to her today, really listened, and his thoughtful com
mentary had soaked into her like the easy Irish rain into a lush landscape. She was all warm and glowing from Trevor’s undivided attention. Now that was the kind of man one could…
She stopped her thoughts. No, this wasn’t a forever kind of love, no matter how unique and compelling. He was the Oisin to her Niamh, which was why she’d placed him in that suite. He was like the rain—and it always stopped raining sometime.
It was important she remember that.
Chapter 11
Arthur Hale knew when something was up.
He could all but sniff it in the pub. Of course, all Clara was sniffing was the foam on the beer she’d insisted on ordering. He’d told her she wasn’t a beer girl. Big mistake. She’d told the chatty bartender to pull her a nice one. He’d almost choked and left her a widow. She’d only winked at him, the minx.
As he studied the patrons of the town pub, he could feel their regard. An old woman and an even older man wouldn’t attract this kind of attention on their own merit, he imagined. It was like they were sizing things up. Trevor.
Had the townspeople heard about his interest in Becca? Arthur knew the young man hadn’t lost his jacket and shirt because the alpaca had grabbed a hold of them. He wasn’t born yesterday.
“Have you noticed, my dear, how everyone seems to be staring at us?” he whispered when they walked over to a booth and sat down. He was way too old to stand at a bar and drink.
“We are cute,” she said, pulling on his cheek like he was a child.
“Stop that!” he hissed, rubbing it.
“That’s not what you said this morning,” she sang.
“Woman, you are out of control,” he said, even though he appreciated the praise to his virility. At his age, most men were dead down there, while he was going through a Paris spring. Or an Indian summer. Who cared? It was incredible.
“I love this town and this country, Arthur,” she said, smiling at one of the servers as he went by with a tray of brown bread and butter. He discovered he was hungry.
“I’m glad you do,” he said. “I need some food, so waggle those silver brows at your young admirers and get a server over here pronto.”
She laughed but did as he asked. In five seconds flat, the bustling man was taking their order. He could get used to this kind of treatment.
“You were talking about people staring at us, dear,” she said, taking a huge drink of beer. “Now that I look around all spy-like, there does seem to be some extra speculation. It’s the kind of attention I used to get at a gallery showing or a charity fundraiser in Manhattan. You know, where people are watching you but trying not to be obvious about it.”
Exactly. “I think it’s about Trevor.”
She tapped his arm playfully. “Why ever would you say that?”
He harrumphed. “First, I still don’t understand why he wasn’t staying at The Wild Irish Rose to begin with. Second, he wasn’t shirtless because the alpaca took a bite out of him.”
The gales of her laughter reached every corner of the pub, and he wasn’t surprised to see a few smiles. Clara did that to people. “Of course, he wasn’t shirtless because of that. He was with Becca. In delico.”
“In what? Woman, you need a dictionary. I think you mean en flagrante delicto, and if that were true, he’d have been missing his pants too.” But he got pretty close, no doubt.
“Oh, Arthur, don’t be a stick in the mud. Trevor doesn’t seem to need our matchmaking efforts, but I’m sure as hell not going to leave.” She gave a sharp cry of delight when the server brought a tray of steaming brown bread fresh out of the oven.
He couldn’t blame her. After buttering the bread, he almost cried out too. It was earthy and delicious. He’d have to ask Margie to start making some in her bakery in Dare Valley. Or he could ask Hargreaves…
No, if he made such a request of Hargreaves, he’d likely owe the man a favor, and who knew what that might lead to?
“It is odd that Trevor was at the other inn when we arrived,” she said, licking her lips in the most delicious way. “I didn’t buy his story about staying close to the pub.”
“And he didn’t put up a fight about us coming to visit him, remember?” Arthur said. “I told you it was too easy.” Maybe this was about more than his interest in Becca. In fact, why had he been in this sleepy Irish town to begin with? He’d only said he was taking a holiday. Right. And yet, he’d admitted he’d be working some.
Clara polished off her beer—God help him—and signaled to the bartender for another pull.
“Please, my dear,” Arthur said. “Only make that motion of your hands when you’re alone with me.”
“You’re an old rascal, but I love you. And fine, only with you. Now, what are you going to do? I can hear those clogs working in your mind.”
He pulled his hair to make his point. “It’s cogs, Clara. For Pete’s sake.”
“So? I speak just fine. Now, again, what are you planning to do?”
He inclined his chin to a hefty man in the corner talking with some other townspeople. Somehow Arthur knew they were talking about him and Clara. He’d lived in a small town most of his life. He had the radar.
“I’m going to do what I do best,” he told her, cutting another piece of bread and buttering it. “Investigate.”
She gave a long-suffering sigh he was getting to know all too well. “I was afraid of that.”
* * *
When Trevor caught up with his uncle and aunt for cocktails later, he was unnerved to find Cian sitting in their front parlor like a guest for tea. Even more so because he caught the tail end of a question his uncle had just asked him. “…you think of our boy, Trevor?”
Good God.
“Hello, folks,” he called out, hoping to avert disaster. “How was your trek into town?”
“I had beer!” his aunt called out, hefting up a mug filled with brown ale from her seat on the sofa. “And then Cian brought by his favorite beer after I told him how much I loved the one I had in town.”
“Murphy’s is a favorite, of course,” the man was saying to his aunt with a smile—a smile! He hadn’t known the man could stretch his lips like that so pleasantly. “But Elbow Lane in Cork City has one of the finest brews around if you ask me.”
Trevor normally would have agreed, but he didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction.
“Come and try some, Trevor,” his aunt called. “You’re glowering like my husband.”
Uncle Arthur shook his head. “I’m not glowering, woman.”
When Trevor reached her, she smiled and crooked her finger. He edged closer.
“I love to tease him,” she said in a whisper. “I’m finding it’s the secret to a happy marriage. In my first marriage, all I had were cautionary tales. Now I seem to have a treasure trove of good advice.”
She had only been married a few weeks, happily this time, thank God, and here she was dishing out marital advice. He found it downright charming.
The mug she was holding sloshed dangerously when she thrust it at him. “Here. Have some. You look like you need it.”
“I was going to have a whiskey,” he said, and then at her crestfallen expression, took the mug and drank. “Good.”
“Good? Sit down. Trevor, you need to let the Irish brush off on you a little more. My boy, after drinking this, I can see why the Irish call it ‘mother’s milk.’”
He laughed. “That’s Guinness, Aunt Clara.”
“You can’t tell her anything,” his uncle said, patting her knee. “Still, my dear, if you like it that much, we should go to this Elbow Lane and Smokehouse. Cian says it’s only about forty or so minutes away. He and Aileen would be happy to take us on their night off tomorrow.”
“How lovely!” Aunt Clara said, pushing off the sofa. She bustled up over to Cian, who was sitting in an adjacent chair, and kissed him smartly on the cheek, making the man laugh.
To see Cian now was like looking at a different person. Well, a woman as lovely as Aileen wouldn’t pick a r
otten apple, he imagined. His demeanor with Trevor had to be unique, due to a beautiful woman he thought of like a daughter, no doubt.
“It’s a date then,” the man said. “You’re welcome to join us, Trevor.”
He considered the invitation for a moment. Was it an olive branch or a way of keeping his eye on Trevor? “Only if Becca would be able to join us. I’d hate for her to be left out of the party.”
The man’s eyes turned downright stormy. “She’ll be covering for us on our night off. How kind of you to ask after her.”
He said it like he was running a knife over the words.
“The one thing I’ve learned living in Ireland is that everyone is invited to the party,” he bandied back. Surely someone could cover for her. He wondered again why Cian and Aileen didn’t cover for Becca so she could go on holiday. Surely they were more than capable. Didn’t they know how much she longed to travel?
Cian stared at him—a silent, weighing stare—before giving a loud hum and standing up. He sounded a lot like Buttercup, in fact. Trevor got a little queasy at the notion. He’d been so relieved the alpaca hadn’t ambushed him on his walk to Honeysuckle Cottage.
“I need to go see if Aileen needs anything,” Cian said. “Clara, I’ll have someone put more of that beer in your room, if you’d like, for later.”
“That would be lovely, Cian, thank you,” she said, giving a cute little belch. “Oh, excuse me. I have to say, Cian, I never want to leave this place.”
“Still, we must,” Arthur said, rising and shaking Cian’s hand. “Thank you for coming by. We look forward to tomorrow night.”
“I’ll be telling Aileen,” he said, still smiling, much to Trevor’s shock. “She’ll be over the moon.”
The moment Cian left, Uncle Arthur pinned him with a gaze. “What are you up to, Trevor?”