Page 21

Briar

T he cars outside my bedroom woke me up.

The London street was noisier than my home in the middle of the garden center.

In the distance, a horn blared as a draft of city air with the faint hint of exhaust seeped through the old windowpanes, so different from the lavender and jasmine that usually greeted me in the morning.

Light danced on the floor through a crack in the curtains.

For the past few days, Rory and I had toured London.

She showed me some of the tourist sights I had been interested in since I was here, and she kept me occupied because we couldn’t get a reading room reservation at the National Archives right away.

Lorcan joined us periodically, always keeping to himself but moving next to me like a protective shadow whenever we were together.

Cormac appeared to work all the time. I usually only saw him for meals in the drawing room.

I sprang from the bed and padded across the plush gray rug under my feet to the bathroom for the morning routine: use the toilet, brush my teeth and hair, finally deciding to leave it long and bouncy.

After returning to the wardrobe, I opened the doors to reveal the drawers inside and my few hanging items nestled among the clothes that had already been there.

Rory had been right—I wouldn’t have needed to pack.

I smiled at the thought of her easy confidence, happy to have her show me around.

I selected a pair of pants and a button-down shirt that hung gracefully over the waistband.

I snagged my phone and key card from the nightstand and wandered toward the drawing room.

If no one was there, I could at least peruse the books in the family library.

The thought of going to the art gallery flitted through my mind, but I dismissed it, not wanting to know what treasures I would find there.

As I trotted down the stairs to the second floor, I texted Amy. Off to the archives today. How is everything at home?

The narrow hall with its high ceilings and off-white walls stretched before me.

I glided past the bedrooms, pausing briefly outside Lorcan’s door and wondering if I should knock and let him know I was awake.

I abandoned the idea and continued toward the drawing room.

A smile played on my lips as I entered through the French doors.

Each time I did, I noticed something new. There was so much to take in.

The morning sun sparkled through the wall of windows at the far end of the room.

Heavy emerald-green drapes lined each of them, complementing the mint-green walls with their white decorative trim.

A chandelier that appeared to be made only of glass hung from a ceiling rose.

Under the window and to the left, an assortment of art deco-inspired chairs and sofas provided a comfortable resting place; a buffet toward the front of the room was stocked full of assorted pastries and drinks.

To the right, Lorcan sat at the table with a cup of tea in hand.

In front of him lay the saucer to accompany his cup and a mess of scattered papers.

He sat there like he belonged in this room.

The calm serenity on his face as he looked at the documents was as unreadable as ever.

My heart fluttered as his gaze lifted to meet mine. Would I ever understand him?

The corners of his lips turned up as his shoulders softened. That smile was subtle and disarming, enough to make my pulse quicken despite myself.

“Good morning,” he said. “Help yourself.” He gestured to the buffet, holding the teacup with an elegance I could never master.

His fingers looked like they barely gripped the handle, soft and gentle with the fragile piece.

A fancy urn sat at the end of the buffet with several loose-leaf teas in glass jars and tiny teapots lined up like soldiers going into a battle against sleep.

I turned back to the assortment, a knot tightening in my stomach as I stared, bewildered.

It was quite different from the cup of coffee I had grabbed while out and about with Rory the past few days.

There was a soft rustle as Lorcan moved to stand behind me.

His hand touched the small of my back, sending a thrill up my spine, and I struggled not to smile.

“It isn’t that different from home.” His voice was gentle but had a lilt of amusement.

“Put some tea in the teapot and fill it with water from the samovar—”

“The what?”

“The urn-looking thing. Take that to the table, then grab whatever pastry you want. Dani will be back in a few minutes with a plate for me. She’ll get whatever you want from downstairs.”

I found his gaze with mine and batted my lashes. “Including coffee?”

Lorcan made a face at me that turned into a smile. “Including coffee.”

I eschewed the tea and placed a Danish on a small plate to take to the table.

I cleared my throat as I sat, folding the napkin from the table over my lap, and poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher.

“What are you having?” I lifted my chin, wondering what his typical morning meal in this place would be.

He slid into his seat, having followed me back to the table. “A full Irish breakfast. It seemed fitting for the morning.” He gazed off past me as though another thought was on his mind, one he didn’t want to share.

As he finished, Dani walked through the door carrying a tray.

Lorcan moved with measured proficiency, gathering the papers before him and tucking them into a dark leather portfolio on the table.

He looked like a man moving from muscle memory, and his being surrounded by what I assumed was work was routine.

I glimpsed a Celtic heart topped with antlers and a seal’s head embossed on the front as he closed the folder. It was stunning—and very formal.

“Lorcan,” Dani said as she set a plate with a silver cover in front of Lorcan, followed by a small bowl of butter. She removed the cover to reveal bacon, eggs, two kinds of sausage, tomatoes, and bread.

“Thank you.” He barely glanced at her, his smile focused on the food. He took a large bite of the bread and made a slight sound. “They don’t make soda bread like this in Australia.”

Dani laughed. “They don’t normally make it this way in England either, but you know your brother.”

The blond woman turned to me. “Can I get you anything, Briar?”

My eyes widened as I looked at Lorcan’s plate. There was no way I could eat all that. Not this morning. “Can I have scrambled eggs and toast with avocados, please?”

“Certainly. I’ll be back with that shortly.” She walked from the room, more poised than anyone I had ever seen.

Lorcan’s eyes shot up, and he hastened to swallow another mouthful. “And she wants coffee, Dani. Strong, I suppose.” He laughed as though he had heard something funny.

I tilted my head, not hearing a sound. There was no way he could have heard anything Dani said. She was too far away.

My chest tightened as I thought about this house that Lorcan so obviously belonged in. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Hmm?” He cocked a brow as he took another bite, this time of the dark sausage.

“What are you doing in your little house in Byron Bay if this is what you grew up with?”

The air stilled around us as he pushed his food around his plate, his shoulders tensing. I half expected him to laugh it off and say nothing.

He cleared his throat, tracing random designs on his plate with his fork. The utensil clattered when he dropped it, causing me to jump as it broke the silence.

He paused, grabbing his teacup, the drink absorbing all his focus.

He brought it to his lips but hesitated just before he took a sip.

“There are things about my family that are not easily explained. And…” He stared at the cup before speaking faster.

“I didn’t grow up here. I grew up in Ireland.

” He finished bringing the cup to his lips, his gaze refusing to meet mine.

He had spoken with such finality. Still, I wanted to know more. “Where in Ireland?” I asked, my voice low. I toyed with the silverware in front of me to escape from looking at his subtle frown and glassy eyes.

He pressed his lips together. “I grew up at Dún Na Farraige near Waterford. It is the Irish residence of the Marquess.”

The name rang through the room like it was a mystic place, conjuring images of windswept cliffs and stone walls.

It was hard to reconcile the man whose beach home appeared so simple with the one sitting in front of me: a man with roots in such grandeur who fitted into this world without a twinge of unease. “But…”

He set his cup into the saucer and pushed his food plate back from the table’s edge, leaning forward on his folded arms. “My family still owns most of the property that belonged to the Marquess. That is the basis of Dún Na Farraige Estates.” His tone contained a mix of pride and bitterness.

“Wow.” I toyed with my glass, unsure of what else to say. This existence wasn’t what he portrayed back in Australia. The sheer scale of it was staggering—a world so far removed from the quiet, earthy life I imagined for him. And to imagine I didn’t want to take his money for the garden.

His eyes met mine and held them. “Briar, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Once we’re done here, I want nothing to do with my family. I’m not a part of this world anymore.” Although his words were firm, he couldn’t quite suppress the sadness in them.

“What world are you a part of?” I asked.

His voice was steady, but his gaze flickered away as though the truth behind his words wasn’t as simple as he made it sound. “My home now is in Byron Bay, and I’m living the life I want.” His voice carried the resolve of someone who had chosen freedom over comfort.