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A s he headed back to Lippincott Manor, Flaherty’s head pounded in time with his gelding’s hooves.

Though he could not put his finger on when, he thought he’d detected a hint that Lady Calliope was hiding something from him—aside from Mary Kate Donovan.

If he could describe the feeling, it would be as if the skeletal finger of the banshee skated up his spine.

Shoving that to the back of his mind, he cleared his thoughts of all that he had heard since rising that morning.

The first thing he intended to do upon returning was to demand that Sean tell him the whole of what happened, from the moment he’d lost consciousness when the physician started digging for the first lead ball.

As he followed the road leading to the manor house, Flaherty had a feeling the tale was incomplete.

The woman he’d been courting believed that he had tossed her out, and he could not remember doing so. He knew the truth was there, somewhere in the middle of what she believed and what he believed.

Dermott approached as Flaherty dismounted. “Ye don’t look like a man who’s about to wed the woman he loves.”

Flaherty was still mulling over the fact that he hadn’t even seen the lass, let alone had the opportunity to ask her to marry him.

He was man enough to admit that it would have been an awkward conversation, being as how he would have had to lead off with the apology he owed her.

In truth, he wasn’t so sure that he had insulted the lass, but then again, why would his cousins make up a tale like that when it would hurt Mary Kate?

Flaherty led his horse into the stable for a rubdown.

One of the earl’s stable lads was there to take over the chore, which might have had something to do with the fact that Dermott had been dogging his steps, demanding to know what had happened.

Once the gelding was preening, his hide rippling with pleasure at being combed, Flaherty confided, “The lass wasn’t in any shape to speak to me. ”

“Has something happened to her? Surely we would have heard, because their ladyships are thick as thieves and both have formed friendships with their lady’s maids,” Dermott reminded him.

“Lady Calliope said Mary Kate had been weeping.” Just the thought that it had been because of the harsh words he could not remember saying had Flaherty falling silent.

“Then ye aren’t in need of the license or the vicar tonight?”

Flaherty’s hand curled into a tight fist as the guilt of causing the lass pain sliced his guts to ribbons. He didn’t realize he’d fisted his hand to level his cousin with a punch until Dermott leaned to the side to avoid the blow.

“Well now,” he rumbled, “I’m guessing yer reply is a no, then.” With a shake of his head, he continued, “Sean has the footmen assembled for today’s lesson in hitting their target.”

Duty calls . “I hope at least one of them will hit the target I set up for them today.”

“Ye’d think at least one of them would have had experience firing a weapon,” Dermott remarked. “When will ye switch to a pistol? The footmen should be comfortable with both rifle and pistol if they’re going to be protecting the duke’s family.”

“That they should,” Flaherty agreed. “Would ye mind telling his lordship that me plans have been put off for a day or two?”

“Aye.” The understanding in his cousin’s eyes helped to ease some of the worry that the longer the lass hid from him—and now that he had time to reason it out, he was certain that she had been avoiding him—the harder it would be to convince her that she was mistaken.

Added to that thought was the tiny seed of doubt that took root: Mary Kate Donovan would not accept his offer of marriage.

Flaherty did not have the time to worry about what might happen—he was expected to continue training the footmen.

He sure as shite could not do that if he was bemoaning the fact that the slip of a lass had a hold of his heart, distracting him from his duties.

O’Malleys and Garahans let themselves be distracted by a pretty face—Flahertys did not!

He entered the building by the rear door and swiftly made his way toward the kitchen to see if Mrs. Wyatt had left him the promised scones. The cook’s expectant gaze had him internally flinching as he answered her unasked question. “I’m to return tomorrow. Mary Kate was not free to see me.”

Mrs. Wyatt’s expression all but shouted her thoughts. Instead of giving voice to what she was thinking, the woman said, “It sounds as if you could use a bit of jam on those scones I set aside for you.”

Flaherty appreciated that she’d changed the subject. Thinking of her mouthwatering scones, he smiled. “I would love nothing more, but I’m certain Finch has the next group of footmen ready and waiting for me to take them through their paces today.”

Mrs. Wyatt wrapped two warm scones in a linen cloth, handed it to him, and frowned. “I overheard the physician remind Mrs. Jones that you could return to your normal diet and activities, provided you did not overdo it.”

When he did not reply, she sighed. “By the time you’ve finished instructing the footmen, the second batch of meat pies will be ready. I’ll set some aside for you.”

He grinned at her. “You are a treasure, Mrs. Wyatt. Thank ye.” Passing through the door to the main part of the house, he nodded to the butler who had been waiting for him.

“Ah, there you are, Flaherty.” Finch waited a beat.

Though the older retainer did not ask, it was obvious from the expectant look on his face that he hoped Flaherty would share news of when he and Mary Kate would marry.

The man was doomed to disappointment. Flaherty shook his head at the butler, who gave a brief nod, then turned to instruct the footman stationed outside the earl’s library to assemble the next group for target practice.

When they were alone, Finch remarked, “Miss Donovan has a kind heart. I do believe she just needs a bit of time to realize it was the fever talking.”

“Does everyone but me know what I said?” Flaherty demanded.

The butler squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, as if it would make him appear any taller than his five feet, eight inches of height. “Miss Donovan was the only person able to calm you when you were tossing and turning, burning with fever.”

The butler’s comment added another dagger to Flaherty’s heart. “I swear I don’t remember telling her to leave.”

Finch met and held the Irishman’s gaze long enough to have Flaherty fighting the urge to squirm. “Even the strongest of men cannot control the rambling of their minds when a fever takes hold. I believe you.”

The sound of footsteps approaching had the butler falling silent and Flaherty turning to greet the men. “Well now, I hope ye’re ready to take on the new target I’ve asked Sean to set up for ye.”

The group followed him down the hallway to the side door that would lead them to the outbuilding where he had been living since being permanently assigned the duty of guarding Earl Lippincott, Lady Aurelia, and their son.

As promised, his cousin had set up two targets for the men to use.

One at a reasonable distance, and the other a bit beyond.

He hoped to hell that at least one of the men would be able to hit their mark.

“Now then, lads, we’ll be starting with pistols and then moving on to rifles. Who wants to shoot first?”

The first two footmen hit the edge of the target. The third managed to get closer to the center. Finally, the last man hit just to the left of dead center. Flaherty cheered, “Well done, lad! I’m thinking ye’ve been practicing, though, for the life of me, cannot imagine when ye’ve had the time.”

The younger man shrugged, while the others ribbed him good-naturedly about his hidden skill. Flaherty knew from experience that the lad had not magically been imbued with the talent. He was used to firing a weapon.

“Not everyone who is employed in a position was trained or born into the job. At times, a man accepts any job that will help feed his family.”

“Is it true that you are a former soldier?” one of the men asked.

Flaherty shrugged. “Officially, that would be no.” He pitched his voice low to add, “Unofficially, I have been known to lead a mission or two back home, but ye did not hear that from me lips.”

The men readily agreed, which was a relief.

Flaherty knew not to speak of his political leanings as a lad.

The bitter memory of losing his Uncle Patrick O’Malley—falsely imprisoned and later exonerated, only to die in his brother’s arms hours before they were released—was still fresh in his mind.

The Flaherty connection to the O’Malley family was through his ma’s side.

His grandma was an O’Malley. Every member of his family, as well as his rebellious countrymen, would fight to the death not only for their freedom, but to protect their families.

Not one of them would ever boast of their exploits—nor their da’s or grandda’s—for fear of calling attention to what was better left in the past.

Flaherty walked over to the table where he’d set out the weapons and munitions they’d be using. He lifted the Kentucky long rifle, turned, and began a detailed explanation of how the rifle compared to the Brown Bess musket.

“Is that an American rifle?” one of the footmen asked.

“Aye. Me O’Malley cousins live on both sides of the Atlantic.

This beauty was a gift to me cousin, Patrick.

” Flaherty set it down to hold up the English rifle.

“Though the Brown Bess is a handy weapon to have, the Kentucky long rifle uses a smaller caliber .50 compared to .75. What’s more, ’tis more accurate—up to four hundred yards! ”

The footman who’d hit his target said, “I’d like to shoot it.”

“Let’s see how you aim and shoot it, then, Sterns.”

The youngest among the footmen held out his hands and just stared at the long, sleek maple barrel as Flaherty placed it in his hands. “Ye’ll need to stop admiring this beauty long enough to learn how to load her.”

Sterns watched, listened, and loaded the rifle. When prompted, he glanced at Flaherty.

“Use the rear sight to line up the front sight, aim, then fire.”

The young man shot and hit the target dead-on.

“Excellent! We’ve got a sharpshooter among us, lads,” Flaherty proclaimed. “Who’s next?”

A short while later, the group helped collect the weapons and Flaherty looped two rifles over one shoulder. The other two he’d have to carry.

“I can help you carry them,” Sterns offered.

“Won’t Finch be looking for ye by now, lad?”

“Aye, but he’ll ask the others where I am.”

Between the two of them, they stored the weapons in the guards’ quarters.

Before Sterns left, Flaherty thanked him again.

“Ye’ve fine aim, lad. I’ll be letting his lordship and Sean know that ye’ll be me top choice to have on hand should we need an armed guard protecting her ladyship.

” The footman’s grin had Flaherty chuckling.

“Best let Finch know ye’re returning to yer duties.

I don’t need himself chasing me down demanding to know what kept ye. ”

“Thank you, Flaherty!”

He nodded and watched as Sterns loped toward the rear door.

Flaherty’s upper back ached, but he rolled his shoulders a few times to relieve the pain and followed behind the footman.

Once inside, he sought out Sean first. He’d give his report, and his cousin would relay it to the earl.

It had been an hour well spent, as they’d identified another footman with fine aim who knew his way around both pistol and rifle.

An excellent advantage should any more of the duke’s enemies come calling.

Flaherty would bet a week’s worth of Mrs. Wyatt’s scones that it wouldn’t be too long before another of the duke’s many enemies would come slithering around, looking to cause confusion and delay. If and when they did, the duke’s men would be ready.