Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“What did you get out of that?” I ask my men as we assemble outside the rectory, heading down the cobblestone street that bears right and takes us into the heart of the village. I promised Caitlin we’d get breakfast, and I mean to keep my promise.
“Her mam must’ve been promised to someone powerful, for one,” Boner says. “Her betrothed would’ve killed her if he’d found out she was pregnant with another’s child.”
“No doubt,” I agree.
Christ, it’s a problem. The Martins are our biggest rivals in all of Ballyhock. I’ll have to investigate with my mother and father as well. I’ll need to know the history of The Clans to get to the bottom of this.
“I can’t believe it,” Caitlin says, as we walk hand in hand.
“What’s that?” I want to hear what she got from that.
“That he wasn’t my real father.”
“He raised you as his daughter, and that’s all that matters, Caitlin.”
“It isn’t,” she says. “What if my father’s a monster? What if the man whose blood runs through my veins is a despicable, evil man?”
“Could be, lass,” I tell her, as we approach the main street that brings us into Ballyhock centre. “But most men aren’t pure evil or pure good. Most war with good and evil.”
“I can’t—I can’t stand the thought, though,” she says.
I lace my arm around her shoulders. “Listen to me, Caitlin,” I say. “Men are complicated creatures. Some do evil things, yet their hearts aren’t made of stone, see? They’re loyal and fair to their core.”
“Like your father,” she says.
“Caitlin,” I warn, when Boner’s head whips back to look at us.
“Hush, woman,” I order. “You’ll not speak ill of my father.”
She blinks in confusion. “Speak ill? I was only speaking the truth, though.”
I feel my lips twitch. She’s cute. “Aye,” I say softly, so none of the others would hear. “Like my father.”
She’s quiet for a minute before she continues. “And like you.”
I don’t answer.
I take her into the Cottage Brew, the tiny coffee shack that sits on the adjacent cliff that juts out beyond The Clan estate. I hold the door open for her, and she steps inside, sunlight peeking through a cluster of clouds makes it look like she has a halo.
“You’re looking at me funny,” she says with a smile as we step inside, but before I respond, she takes in a deep, cleansing breath, her shoulders lifting before she releases the breath with a sigh of contentment.
“What is that?” she whispers. “Smells like honey and sunshine and the warmth of a hearth.”
I love how she makes the simplest statement poetry.
“Miss Isobel’s soda bread, and the finest tea this side of the Atlantic.”
“Soda bread,” she breathes. “I’ve been dying to try some.”
“Not had soda bread?” I ask, bewildered.
She shrugs, while the men pile into the shop and head to the counter. Isobel, a petite, round woman with spectacles perched on her nose, ruddy cheeks, and a beaming smile, welcomes us in. We’re neighbors, so we’re her regulars, and like our alliance with the church, we see to it that Isobel is safe and secure.
“Ah, me boys,” she says in her thick brogue. “What brings ye here?”
We order our food, and I observe the reactions of the customers in the shop. Many avert their eyes, for our reputation precedes us. We own most of this town, and keep the peace, but though our darker dealings aren’t broadcast afar or widely spread, they know who we are.
Though some look at Caitlin with mild curiosity, none react with shock. None with even the faintest bit of recognition. Isobel’s newer to this part of the country, so I don’t expect her to show any. Still, the regulars here who knew Caitlin might’ve.
Caitlin takes a bite of the dense, mildly sweet bread, slathered with Isobel’s creamy butter, and her eyes widen. She chews, swallows, and sighs. “That’s delicious, Keenan. My, it’s better than I even expected.” She turns to Isobel and grins. “My compliments to the chef!”
Jesus, this girl’s adorable.
When we’re finished, her shoulders droop, and I can tell she’s exhausted. She isn’t used to socializing, and it drains her.
“Time to go home,” I announce. I ask my men briefly if they’ve seen anything, but all concur. No one shows any signs of recognizing Caitlin. She asks what the other shops are, so I show her. I point out the other places along the street. There’s the fish shop across from Cottage Brew, D’Agostino’s down the road, The Blimey Pub, and Lickety Split Ice Cream Shoppe. The Cheeky Mackerel on the shore, Ballyhock library, and the Village Seamstress.
I want to take her everywhere. I want to sit beside her when she drinks her first pint, give her the first golden chip she’s ever eaten, feed her the flaky, steaming hot fish straight from the fry basket at the Mackerel. I want to show her what the sunset looks like from the very top of Cold Stone Castle. I want to sneak her away to the highest of the mountain peaks in Dublin. I want to sit beside her when she dips her toes in the Irish Sea for the first time. I want to give her her first taste of champagne, her first moonlit walk, and so much more.