Page 25

CHAPTER 25

T heir group spent the remainder of the night speaking to the Garda . After the tents were erected, the bodies bagged, and the onlookers shooed away, Rose, Fi, and Patrick were separated so their individual statements could be taken. With regret on his visage, one of the officers confiscated the gun and took Rose away.

Patrick would be surprised if they ever made it to the station. His ex-wife had the ability to influence malleable young men like the one who had detained her for the shooting, and she’d come out of this mess smelling like the flower she was named for.

On leaden feet, he escorted Fi up the stairs to his bedroom, where she proceeded to cuddle against him and fall into a slumber. Yet for him, sleep was elusive.

Who wanted them dead?

Dawn came and went, and Fi slept on as he mulled over potential threats. The only conclusion he drew was a victim’s family member. But why not come after him themselves? Why hire non-magical assassins to do their dirty work? Surely they had to know they stood no chance against a warlock with his abilities.

A knock sounded at the door. Other than to snort softly and snuggle down, Fi remained sleeping as Patrick eased from beneath her body to answer.

Grim faced, Dubheasa pulled him into the hall. “We’ve not found the woman responsible.”

“Did you think it would be so easy, then, love?” He grinned in the face of her ire and drew her to him for a tight hug.

“I’m frustrated, Da. Who has the ability to hide from a pair of Guardians?”

“A deity, Aether, or other Guardians?”

“Aye, and we know it’s not Damian, Ronan, or me. So why would any god or goddess wish to harm you?”

“I don’t know. It may just be someone we haven’t considered, or we haven’t looked in the right direction yet. But it won’t matter after today.”

The door behind him swung wide, and Fi, looking delightfully rumpled, scowled. “You’d best be telling me what’s happening today, Patrick O’Malley, or whoever’s after you will need to stand in line to bash you over the feckin’ head.”

Dubheasa, the traitor, laughed.

“Yeah, and I intended to tell you this morning, but you were sawing logs like a lumberjack,” Patrick retorted as he drew Fi’s hair back and dropped lingering kisses along the column of her neck. With no little satisfaction, he noted she craned her neck, allowing him full access.

“I’ll give ya a lumberjack,” she muttered, but her fingers curled around his shoulders as she clung to him. “And about three hours to stop your seduction.”

He chuckled and released her.

Blue eyes glinting with humor, she shook her head. “What are you up to, Patrick O’Malley? And know I didn’t come out of me mother’s womb yesterday, yeah?”

With a shudder that wasn’t all that fake, he scowled. “Please don’t ever mention Clara’s womb again when I’m feeling frisky. The visual will kill my drive for a fortnight or two.”

“Fair enough.” She shared a grin with Dubheasa. “Can I beg you for a cuppa, then we can get this discussion started proper like?”

“Bridget has breakfast waiting, but she’s not happy you and Da slept the day away.”

Fi thread her arm through Patrick’s and gave him a squeeze. “I did all the sleeping. Your da stayed awake to worry.”

“You knew about that?” He was surprised she noticed, but he shouldn’t have been. Fionola was as observant a person as he’d ever met. Perhaps he should’ve discussed the possibilities of their enemy with her.

“Aye. Whenever I woke, you were staring into space. Part of me feared you’d gone back to the island, in your mind.”

Her comment chilled him. Was that always going to be a worry for them both?

“His neurotransmitters were fully healed, Fi,” Dubheasa said, not unkindly. “Neither of you will have to stress over a relapse again.”

Patrick released a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. The assurance was welcome, indeed.

When they entered the kitchen, Bridget was her usually busy self, but Ruairí inserted himself at every opportunity, attempting to ease her workload.

“As much as it pains me to sing the praises of an O’Connor, you’re likely to never find a better mate than the one you’ve got, Bridget, me love,” Patrick said with a hard pat on Ruairí’s back. “He sees you, and that’s half the battle in the fight for a lasting relationship.”

Her laughing eyes met those of her lover, and she winked. “Da’s coming around.”

“Should we celebrate this day with a drink?” Ruairí asked with a chuckle.

“I’ll settle for a coffee with a dram of whiskey,” Patrick replied as he reached for two mugs. “Fi?”

“Tea.”

“She’s the reasonable one, she is.” He gave her a wink and set the kettle to boil before pouring himself a cup of coffee from the carafe. “Who are we waiting on, regarding this discussion?”

“The boys.” Bridget piled beans, eggs, tomatoes, sausage, and potatoes onto two plates. “Toast is on the table with the jam,” she said as she handed him the full dishes and nodded toward a seat. “I’ll make your coffee, Da.”

“You don’t have to wait on me, love. I’ve two capable hands, yeah?” Patrick kissed her cheek and shifted out of the way to allow Carrick’s wife entry to the kitchen.

“Yeah, Da, but I’ve been doing this so long, it would throw off my entire day if I were to pass off the work to another.”

“Believe her,” Roisin said as she gathered two mugs in one hand and the carafe in the other. After placing them on the table, she took a seat on the bench with her back to the wall. “Carrick’s on his way, after he sees Aeden off to school.”

“Should we move to the pub, if more people are joining us?” Fi asked, eyeing the size of the room.

Chuckling, Patrick pulled her to her feet, sat in her seat, then drew her back down onto his lap. “There’s plenty of room, love.”

Face flushed, she laughed and crammed a slice of toast in his mouth. “Only if every couple doubles up like us.”

He grinned around the bite, then noticed the silence around them. As he used his drink to wash down his food, he raised his brows. “What?”

“It’s good to see you happy, Da,” Dubheasa said with a soft smile.

Heat crept up his neck, and it suddenly became difficult to meet anyone’s eyes. Being the center of attention wasn’t something he particularly cared for, and last night’s performance for Fi had been born from his need to tell her how much he loved her. But all of it would disappear.

Soon .

The bustle in the kitchen resumed, and when he glanced up from his plate, it was to find Fi watching him.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Now’s not the time, love. But I promise to tell ya true when it is. Can that be good enough for ya?”

She considered it for a long minute before nodding. “Aye.”

By the time the rest of the O’Malleys and their significant others arrived, it was determined they should use the private meeting room at the pub to house everyone. Ten people in the kitchen created a claustrophobic atmosphere for Fi, and thankfully, Patrick recognized her stress. Or perhaps he needed more room himself, after his incarceration on the island. Her own confinement had triggered a newfound desire for open floor plans.

“You all right, love?” he asked after they settled onto their seats.

“Aye.”

After a squeeze of her hand, he released her and focused on Ronan. Wariness was in his eyes whenever he looked at the other man, and Fi wondered if it would always be so. She hoped not. It would make for awkward family functions if he didn’t learn to trust the Guardian.

“Does he look so much like him, then?” she leaned forward to ask.

“No. It’s the power he wields that’s the problem.” Patrick’s mouth curled down, and he shook himself. “I’ve no reason to hold his da’s actions against him, but it’s a hard habit to break.”

She could easily understand why he’d feel that way, considering what he’d told her. For over two hundred and fifty years, the O’Malleys and O’Connors were at war. Longer than that, if one considered their feud began before the powerful sword that brought about the suspension of the O’Malleys’ magic was stolen. Only a few of the newer generation wanted the fighting to end, but as a man conditioned to look for betrayal at every turn, Patrick would have a difficult time putting his fear and suspicion aside.

“For what it’s worth, it appears both Ruairí and Ronan love their mates,” she told him. “My understanding is that both men have sacrificed for your daughters more than once.”

“Aye.” Patrick’s expression was strained, pinching the lines around his eyes and mouth. “I’ll come around.”

“I wish I could make it better for you.” Gracing him with a tender smile, she brushed her fingertips along his wrist. “All will be well, Paddy O.”

His lips twitched as his eyes warmed, and it pleased her to see his irises were lighter. Still, there was something holding him back, because they hadn’t reached the emerald color she’d witnessed during his happiest state. She only wished she knew what that something was because she wanted desperately to fix it.

Dubheasa called the meeting to order once Eoin and Brenna arrived. Trailing them was a man named Fintan Sullivan, who Bridget informed her was a cousin to Brenna and a Seer, to boot. Their connection was apparent in the multi-colored hair they both sported, along with their strong features. Brenna’s face was softer, more rounded, but her large eyes were shaped the same.

When Fintan’s sea-foam-colored gaze repeatedly strayed to Fi, she shivered. A sneaky feeling wouldn’t leave her, and she was positive he knew things about her that she’d never told another. The second she had more time, she intended to discover what a Seer could actually do.

“Rose swears it wasn’t her who hired the men, and for the first time in my life, I believe her,” Patrick was saying when Fi tuned in to the conversation.

She nodded. “I got the same impression. If she knew who they were, she’s the best feckin’ actress I’ve seen.”

“So not her,” Bridget said as though she were disappointed by the fact. “Did the brute wake up yet, or is he still out?”

She referred to the man Patrick had punched in the temple. The guy had slipped into an unexplained coma and hadn’t woken as of this morning, according to Cian.

“We can wake him with a simple spell,” Piper said. Until now, she’d been listening with interest but refraining from contributing to the conversation. “I’ll call my cousin Alastair and see if he’ll help me while the rest of you spread your resources and look for our mystery woman.”

Brenna turned to her cousin. “Have you received anything from the ancestors, Fin?”

Although he answered in the negative, his frown indicated he had. Once again his gaze locked on Fi, and she understood he was holding back because of her. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a call to make.”

She rose and pressed a hand to Patrick’s shoulder, then left the room. When she was clear of the others, she dialed her mother.

“Fionola?” Mam’s tearful voice fed Fi’s guilt for not returning home immediately after escaping from the prison. She didn’t trust Tadhg to represent what happened or her desire to stay with Patrick until he was recovered.

“Hi, Mam,” she said, equally as tearful.

What was it about the unconditional love of a parent that always made a grown woman feel like a child? Her mother was as strong and dependable as they came, but if she was in such emotional state, her fear must be great.

“When are you coming home? Tadhg said you stayed with that awful man. Why would you do such a thing, girl?”

“He’s not awful, Mam. Sure, and he was confused for a bit, but he’s healed now.”

Clara rattled off a few choice phrases, and Fi winced at the things coming from the other side of the call. Tadhg added his vitriol in the background, feeding into their mother’s worry.

Infusing authority into her voice, Fi said, “Mam, calm down and stop letting Tadhg rile ya. Patrick is a good man, and I’ll not have you saying such things about him.”

A snort sounded behind her and caused her to turn. The man in question sat atop a bar stool on stage, in his hands was a guitar, and he was fiddling with the tuning pegs. Amusement curled his lips, and his eyes were laughing when they met hers.

With a glare, she stalked to the opposite end of the pub. The first notes of the song he wrote drifted to her, and Fi’s heart melted as she recalled the words he’d sung the night before.

“I have to go, Mam. I just wanted you to know I’m okay, yeah?”

“When will you be home?”

“Soon.”

“Tell her you’ll be home tomorrow,” Patrick called out.

She frowned across the distance. How had he heard the question, and why did he sound so positive? Did he intend to send her packing? He had another think coming if he believed he could get rid of her so easily.

“Soon,” she said again, firmer this time. “I’ll phone you tomorrow and check in. You’re not to worry, all the same.”

“You should go home, Fionola,” he told her the moment she ended the call. “It’s safer.”

“Shut your gob, Patrick O’Malley! I’ll not run because some mad cow is after ya.”

“Is it your intent to always be this bossy?”

“Are you man enough to handle it?” she challenged him as she ascended the stairs.

Setting aside the guitar, he crooked his finger, beckoning her nearer. When she stopped in front of him, fists on hips and the light of battle in her eyes, he grinned and hauled her close.

“Likely I’m not, but I’ll die a happy man from trying.”