His Cinderella Heiress (2 page)

‘Pardon?'

‘I'd be furious too, if I were you. The worst thing in the world is to want to kick and all you have to kick is yourself.'

She blinked. Laughter and empathy too? ‘S...sorry.'

‘That's okay. Horace gets tetchy when he gets stuck, so I'd imagine you're the same. Hands—put 'em in mine and hold.'

‘They're covered in mud. You won't be able to hold me.'

‘Try me,' he said and held out his hands and waited for her to put hers in his.

It felt wrong. To hold this guy's hands and let her pull... Jo Conaill spent her life avoiding dependence on anyone or anything.

What choice did she have? She put out her hands and held.

His hands were broad and toughened from manual work. She'd guessed he was a farmer, and his hands said she was right. He manoeuvred his fingers to gain maximum hold and she could feel the strength of him. But he was wincing.

‘You're icy. How long have you been here?'

‘About an hour.'

‘Is that right?' He was shifting his grip, trying for maximum hold. ‘Am I the first to come along? Is this road so deserted, then?'

‘You're not a local?'

‘I'm not.' He was starting to take her weight, sitting back on his heels and leaning backward. Edging back as the planks started to tilt.

The temptation to struggle was almost irresistible but she knew it wouldn't help. She forced herself to stay limp.

Channel Horace
, she told herself.

‘Good girl,' Finn said approvingly and she thought:
What—did the guy have the capacity to read minds?

He wasn't pulling hard. He was simply letting his weight tug her forward, shifting only to ease the balance of the planks. But his hold was implacable, a steady, relentless pull, and finally she felt the squelch as the mud eased its grip. She felt her feet start to lift. At last.

He still wasn't moving fast. His tug was slow and steady, an inch at a time. He was acting as if he had all the time in the world.

‘So I'm not a local,' he said idly, as if they were engaged in casual chat, not part of a chain where half the chain was stuck in mud. ‘But I'm closer to home than you are.'

He manoeuvred himself back a little without lessening his grip. He was trying not to lurch back, she realised. If he pulled hard, they both risked being sprawled off the planks, with every chance of being stuck again.

He had had experience in this. With Horace.

‘Horace is heavier than you,' he said.

‘Thanks. Did you say...two hundred pounds?'

‘I did, and I'm thinking you're not a sliver over a hundred and ninety. That's with mud attached,' he added kindly. ‘What part of Australia do you come from?'

‘S... Sydney.' Sometimes.

‘I've seen pictures.' Once more he stopped and readjusted. ‘Nice Opera House.'

‘Yeah.' It was hard to get her voice to work. He'd released her hands so he could shift forward and hold her under her arms. Once more he was squatting and tugging but now she was closer to him. Much closer. She could feel the strength of him, the size. She could feel the warmth of his chest against her face. The feeling was...weird. She wanted to sink against him. She wanted to struggle.

Sinking won.

‘We...we have great beaches too,' she managed and was inordinately proud of herself for getting the words out.

‘What, no mud?'

‘No mud.'

‘Excellent. Okay, sweetheart, we're nearly there. Just relax and let me do the work.'

He had her firmly under the arms and he was leaning back as she forced herself to relax against him. To let him hold her...

The feeling was indescribable—and it worked!

For finally the mud released its grip. Even then, though, he was still in control. He had her tight, hauling her up and back so that she was kneeling on the planks with him, but she wasn't released. He was holding her hard against him, and for a moment she had no choice but to stay exactly where she was.

She'd been stuck in mud for an hour. She was bone-chillingly cold, and she'd been badly frightened. Almost as soon as the mud released her she started to shake.

If he didn't hold her she could have fallen right off the planks. No, she
would
have fallen. She felt light-headed and a bit sick.

He held and she had to let him hold. She needed him.

Which was crazy. She didn't need anyone. She'd made that vow as a ten-year-old, in the fourth or fifth of her endless succession of foster homes. She'd yelled it as her foster mother had tried to explain why she had to move on yet again.

‘It's okay,' she'd yelled. ‘I don't need you. I don't need anyone.'

Her foster mother had cried but Jo hadn't. She'd learned to never let herself close enough to cry.

But now she was close, whether she willed it or not. Her rescuer was holding her in a grip so strong she couldn't break it even if she tried. He must be feeling her shaking, she thought, and part of her was despising herself for being weak but most of her was just letting him hold.

He was big and warm and solid, and he wasn't letting her go. Her face was hard against his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart.

His hand was stroking her head, as he'd stroke an injured animal. ‘Hey there. You're safe. The nasty bog's let you go. A nice hot bath and you'll be right back to yourself again. You're safe, girl. Safe.'

She hadn't been unsafe, she thought almost hysterically, and then she thought maybe she had been. If he hadn't come... Hypothermia was a killer. She could have become one of those bog bodies she'd read about, found immaculately preserved from a thousand years ago. They'd have put her in a museum and marvelled at her beloved bike leathers...

‘There was never a chance of it,' Finn murmured into her hair and his words shocked her into reaction.

‘What?'

‘Freezing to your death out here. There's sheep wandering these bogs. I'm thinking a farmer'll come out and check them morn and night. If I hadn't come along, he would have.'

‘But if you're not...if you're not local, how do you know?' she demanded.

‘Because the sheep I passed a way back look well cared for, and you don't get healthy sheep without a decent shepherd. You were never in real danger.' He released her a little, but his hands still held her shoulders in case she swayed. ‘Do you think you can make it back to the road?'

And then he frowned, looking down at her. ‘You're still shaking. We don't want you falling into the mud again. Well, this is something I wouldn't be doing with Horace.'

And, before she could even suspect what he intended, he'd straightened, reached down and lifted her into his arms, then turned towards the road.

She froze.

She was close to actually freezing. From her thighs down, she was soaking. She'd been hauled up out of the mud, into this man's arms, and he was carrying her across the bog as if she weighed little more than a sack of flour.

She was powerless, and the lifelong sense of panic rose and threatened to drown her.

She wanted to scream, to kick, to make him dump her, even if it meant she sank into the bog again. She couldn't do anything. She just...froze.

But then, well before they reached the road, he was setting her down carefully on a patch of bare rock so there was no chance she'd pitch into the mud. But he didn't let her go. He put his hands on her shoulders and twisted her to face him.

‘Problem?'

‘I...no.'

‘You were forgetting to breathe,' he said, quite gently. ‘Breathing's important. I'm not a medical man, but I'd say breathing's even more important than reaching solid ground.'

Had her intake of breath been so dramatic that he'd heard it—that he'd felt it? She felt ashamed and silly, and more than a little small.

‘You're safe,' he repeated, still with that same gentleness. ‘I'm a farmer. I've just finished helping a ewe with a difficult lambing. Helping creatures is what I do for a living. I won't hurt you. I'll clean the muck off you as best I can, then put your bike in the back of my truck and drive you to wherever you can get yourself a hot shower and a warm bed for the night.'

And that was enough to make her pull herself together. She'd been a wimp, an idiot, an absolute dope, and here she was, making things worse. This man was a Good Samaritan. Yeah, well, she'd had plenty of them in her life, but that didn't mean she shouldn't be grateful. He didn't need her stupid baggage and he was helping her. Plus he was gorgeous. That shouldn't make a difference but she'd be an idiot not to be aware of it. She made a massive effort, took a few deep breaths and tugged her dignity around her like a shield.

‘Thank you,' she managed, tilting her face until she met his gaze full-on. Maybe that was a mistake. Green eyes met green eyes and something flickered in the pit of her stomach. He was looking at her with compassion but also...something else? There were all sorts of emotions flickering behind those eyes of his. Yes, compassion, and also laughter, but also...empathy? Understanding?

As if he understood what had caused her to fear.

Whatever, she didn't like it. He might be gorgeous. He might have saved her, but she needed to be out of here.

‘I can take care of myself from here,' she managed. ‘If you just walk across to the road, I'll follow in your footsteps.'

‘Take my hand,' he said, still with that strange tinge of understanding that was deeply unsettling. ‘You're shaky and if you fall that's time wasted for both of us.'

It was reasonable. It even made sense but only she knew how hard it was to place her hand in his and let him lead her back to the road. But he didn't look at her again. He watched the ground, took careful steps then turned and watched her feet, making sure her feet did exactly the same.

Her feet felt numb, but the leathers and biker boots had insulated her a little. She'd be back to normal in no time, she thought, and finally they stepped onto the glorious solid road and she felt like bending down and kissing it.

Stupid bogs. The Irish could keep them.

Wasn't she Irish? Maybe she'd disinherit that part of her.

‘Where can I take you?' Finn was saying and she stared down at her legs, at the thick, oozing mud, and then she looked at her bike and she made a decision.

‘Nowhere. I'm fine.' She forced herself to look up at him, meeting his gaze straight on. ‘Honest. I'm wet and I'm dirty but I don't have far to go. This mud will come off in a trice.'

‘You're too shaken to ride.'

‘I
was
too shaken to ride,' she admitted. ‘But now I'm free I'm not shaking at all.' And it was true. Jo Conaill was back in charge of herself again and she wasn't about to let go. ‘Thank you so much for coming to my rescue. I'm sorry I've made you muddy too.'

‘Not very muddy,' he said and smiled, a lazy, crooked smile that she didn't quite get. It made her feel a bit...melting. Out of control again? She didn't like it.

And then she noticed his feet. His boots were still clean. Clean! He'd hauled her out of the bog and, apart from a few smears of mud where he'd held her, and the fact that his hands were muddy, he didn't have a stain on him.

‘How did you do that?' she breathed and his smile intensified. ‘How did you stay almost clean?'

‘I told you. I'm an old hand at pulling creatures out of trouble. Now, if you were a lamb I'd take you home, rub you down and put you by the firestove for a few hours. Are you sure I can't do that for you?'

And suddenly, crazily, she wanted to say yes. She was still freezing. She was still shaking inside. She could have this man take her wherever he was going and put her by his fireside. Part of her wanted just that.

Um...not. She was Jo Conaill and she didn't accept help. Well, okay, sometimes she had to, like when she was dumb enough to try jumping on bogs, but enough. She'd passed a village a few miles back. She could head back there, beg a wash at the pub and then keep on going.

As she always kept going.

‘Thank you, no,' she managed and bent and wiped her mud-smeared hands on the grass. Then she finished the job by drying them on the inside of her jacket. She gave him a determined nod, then snagged her helmet from the back of her bike. She shoved it onto her head, clicked the strap closed—only she knew what an effort it was to make her numb fingers work—and then hauled the handles of her bike around.

The bike was heavy. The shakiness of her legs wouldn't quite support...

But there he was, putting her firmly aside, hauling her bike around so it was facing the village. ‘That's what you want?'

‘I...yes.'

‘You're really not going far?'

‘N... No. Just to the village.'

‘Are you sure you'll be fine?'

‘I'm sure,' she managed and hit the ignition and her bike roared into unsociable life. ‘Thank you,' she said again over its roar. ‘If I can ever do anything for you...'

‘Where will I find you?' he asked and she tried a grin.

‘On the road,' she said. ‘Look for Jo.'

And she gave him a wave with all the insouciance she could muster and roared off into the distance.

CHAPTER TWO

A
S
CASTLES
WENT
, it seemed a very grand castle. But then, Finn hadn't seen the inside of many castles.

Mrs O'Reilly, a little, round woman with tired eyes and capable, worn hands, bustled into the dining room and placed his dinner before him. It was a grand dinner too, roast beef with vegetables and a rich gravy, redolent of red wine and fried onions. It was a dinner almost fit for...a lord?

‘There you are, My Lord,' the housekeeper said and beamed as she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. ‘Eh, but it's grand to have you here at last.'

But Finn wasn't feeling grand. He was feeling weird.

My Lord
. It was his title. He'd get rid of it, he decided. Once the castle was sold he didn't need to use it. He wasn't sure if he could ever officially abandon it but the knowledge of its existence could stay in the attic at the farm, along with other family relics. Maybe his great-great-great-grandson would like to use it. That was, if there ever was a great-great-great-grandson.

He thought suddenly of Maeve. Would she have liked to be My Lady? Who knew? He was starting to accept that he'd never known Maeve at all. Loyalty, habit, affection—he'd thought they were the basis for a marriage. But over the last twelve months, as he'd thrown himself into improving the farm, looking at new horizons himself, he'd realised it was no basis at all.

But Maeve's father would have liked this, he thought, staring around the great, grand dining room with a carefully neutral expression. He didn't want to hurt the housekeeper's feelings, but dining alone at a table that could fit twenty, on fine china, with silver that spoke of centuries of use, the family crest emblazoned on every piece, with a vast silver epergne holding pride of place in the centre of the shining mahogany of the table... Well, it wasn't exactly his style.

He had a good wooden table back at his farm. It was big enough for a man to have his computer and bookwork at one end and his dinner at the other. A man didn't need a desk with that kind of table, and he liked it that way.

But this was his heritage. His. He gazed out at the sheep grazing in the distance, at the land stretching to the mountains beyond, and he felt a stir of something within that was almost primeval.

This was Irish land, a part of his family. His side of the family had been considered of no import for generations but still...some part of him felt a tug that was almost like the sensation of coming home. Finn was one of six brothers. His five siblings had left their impoverished farm as soon as they could manage. They were now scattered across the globe but, apart from trips to the States to check livestock lines, or attending conferences to investigate the latest in farming techniques, Finn had never wanted to leave. Over the years he'd built the small family plot into something he could be proud of.

But now, this place...why did it feel as if it was part of him?

There was a crazy thought.

‘Is everything as you wish?' Mrs O'Reilly asked anxiously.

He looked at her worried face and he gazed around and thought how much work must have gone into keeping this room perfect. How could one woman do it?

‘It's grand,' he told her, and took a mouthful of the truly excellent beef. ‘Wonderful.'

‘I'm pleased. If there's anything else...'

‘There isn't.'

‘I don't know where the woman is. The lawyer said mid-afternoon...'

He still wasn't quite sure who the woman was. Details from the lawyers had been sparse, to say the least. ‘The lawyer said you'd be expecting me mid-afternoon too,' he said mildly, attacking a bit more of his beef. Yeah, the epergne was off-putting—were they tigers?—but this was excellent food. ‘Things happen.'

‘Well,' the woman said with sudden asperity, ‘she's Fiona's child. We could expect anything.'

‘You realise I don't know anything about her. I don't even know who Fiona is,' he told her and the housekeeper narrowed her eyes, as if asking,
How could he not know?
Her look said the whole world should know, and be shocked as well.

‘Fiona was Lord Conaill's only child,' she said tersely. ‘His Lady died in childbirth. Fiona was a daughter when he wanted a son, but he gave her whatever she wanted. This would have been a cold place for a child and you can forgive a lot through upbringing, but Fiona had her chances and she never took them. She ran with a wild lot and there was nothing she wanted more than to shock her father. And us... The way she treated the servants... Dirt, we were. She ran through her father's money like it was water, entertaining her no-good friends, having parties, making this place a mess, but His Lordship would disappear to his club in Dublin rather than stop her. She was a spoiled child and then a selfish woman. There were one too many parties, though. She died of a drug overdose ten years ago, with only His Lordship to mourn her passing.'

‘And her child?'

‘Lord Conaill would hardly talk of her,' she said primly. ‘For his daughter to have a child out of wedlock... Eh, it must have hurt. Fiona threw it in his face over and over, but still he kept silent. But then he wouldn't talk about you either and you were his heir. Is there anything else you'll be needing?'

‘No, thank you,' Finn said. ‘Are you not eating?'

‘In the kitchen, My Lord,' she said primly. ‘It's not my place to be eating here. I'll be keeping another dinner hot for the woman, just in case, but if she's like her mother we may never hear.'

And she left him to his roast beef.

For a while the meal took his attention—a man who normally cooked for himself was never one to be ignoring good food—but when it was finished he was left staring down the shining surface of the ostentatious table, at the pouncing tigers on the epergne, at his future.

What to do with this place?

Sell it? Why not?

The inheritance had come out of the blue. Selling it would mean he could buy the farms bordering his, and the country down south was richer than here. He was already successful but the input of this amount of money could make him one of the biggest primary producers in Ireland.

The prospect should make him feel on top of the world. Instead, he sat at the great, grand dining table and felt...empty. Weird.

He thought of Maeve and he wondered if this amount of money would have made a difference.

It wouldn't. He knew it now. His life had been one of loyalty—eldest son of impoverished farmers, loyal to his parents, to his siblings, to his farm. And to Maeve.

He'd spent twelve months realising loyalty was no basis for marriage.

He thought suddenly of the woman he'd pulled out of the bog. He hoped she'd be safe and dry by now. He had a sudden vision of her, bathed and warmed, ensconced in a cosy pub by a fire, maybe with a decent pie and a pint of Guinness.

He'd like to be there, he thought. Inheritance or not, right now maybe he'd rather be with her than in a castle.

Or not. What he'd inherited was a massive responsibility. It required...more loyalty?

And loyalty was his principle skill, he thought ruefully. It was what he accepted, what he was good at, and this inheritance was enough to take a man's breath away. Meanwhile the least he could do was tackle more of Mrs O'Reilly's excellent roast beef, he decided, and he did.

* * *

If she had anywhere else to go, she wouldn't be here.
Here
scared her half to death.

Jo was cleaned up—sort of—but she was still wet and she was still cold.

She was sitting on her bike outside the long driveway to Castle Glenconaill.

The castle was beautiful.

But this was no glistening white fairy tale, complete with turrets and spires, with pennants and heraldic banners fluttering in the wind. Instead, it seemed carved from the very land it was built on—grey-white stone, rising to maybe three storeys, but so gradually it gave the impression of a vast, long, low line of battlements emerging from the land. The castle was surrounded by farmland, but the now empty moat and the impressive battlements and the mountains looming behind said this castle was built to repel any invader.

As it was repelling her. It was vast and wonderful. It was...scary.

But she was cold. And wet. A group of stone cottages were clustered around the castle's main gates but they all looked derelict, and it was miles back to the village. And she'd travelled half a world because she'd just inherited half of what lay before her.

‘This is my ancestral home,' she muttered and shivered and thought,
Who'd want a home like this?

Who'd want a home? She wanted to turn and run.

But she was cold and she was getting colder. The wind was biting. She'd be cold even if her leathers weren't wet, she thought, but her leathers were wet and there was nowhere to stay in the village and, dammit, she had just inherited half this pile.

‘But if they don't have a bath I'm leaving,' she muttered.

Where would she go?

She didn't know and she didn't care. There was always somewhere. But the castle was here and all she had to do was march across the great ditch that had once been a moat, hammer on the doors and demand her rights. One hot bath.

‘Just do it,' she told herself. ‘Do it before you lose your nerve entirely.'

* * *

The massive gong echoed off the great stone walls as if in warning that an entire Viking war fleet was heading for the castle. Finn was halfway through his second coffee and the sound was enough to scare a man into the middle of next week. Or at least spill his coffee. ‘What the...?'

‘It's the doorbell, My Lord,' Mrs O'Reilly said placidly, heading out to the grand hall. ‘It'll be the woman. If she's like her mother, heaven help us.' She tugged off her apron, ran her fingers through her permed grey hair, took a quick peep into one of the over-mantel mirrors and then tugged at the doors.

The oak doors swung open. And there was...

Jo.

She was still in her bike gear but she must have washed. There wasn't a trace of mud on her, including her boots and trousers. Her face was scrubbed clean and she'd reapplied her make-up. Her kohl-rimmed eyes looked huge in her elfin face. Her cropped copper curls were combed and neat. She was smiling a wide smile, as if her welcome was assured.

He checked her legs and saw a telltale drip of water fall to her boots.

She was still sodden.

That figured. How many bikers had spare leathers in their kitbags?

She must be trying really hard not to shiver. He looked back at the bright smile and saw the effort she was making to keep it in place.

‘Good evening,' she was saying. She hadn't seen him yet. Mrs O'Reilly was at the door and he was well behind her. ‘I hope I'm expected? I'm Jo Conaill. I'm very sorry I'm late. I had a small incident on the road.'

‘You look just like your mother.' The warmth had disappeared from the housekeeper's voice as if it had never been. There was no disguising her disgust. The housekeeper was staring at Jo as if she was something the cat had just dragged in.

The silence stretched on—an appalled silence. Jo's smile faded to nothing.
What the...?

Do something.

‘Good evening to you too,' he said. He stepped forward, edging the housekeeper aside. He smiled at Jo, summoning his most welcoming smile.

And then there was even more silence.

Jo stared from Mrs O'Reilly to Finn and then back again. She looked appalled.

As well she might, Finn conceded. As welcomes went, this took some beating. She'd been greeted by a woman whose disdain was obvious, and by a man who'd seen her at her most vulnerable. Now she was looking appalled. He thought of her reaction when he'd lifted her, carried her. She'd seemed terrified and the look was still with her.

He thought suddenly of a deer he'd found on his land some years back, a fawn caught in the ruins of a disused fence. Its mother had run on his approach but the fawn was trapped, its legs tangled in wire. It had taken time and patience to disentangle it without it hurting itself in its struggles.

That was what this woman looked like, he thought. Caught and wanting to run, but trapped.

She was so close to running.

Say something.
‘We've met before.' He reached out and took her hand. It was freezing. Wherever she'd gone to get cleaned up, it hadn't been anywhere with a decent fire. ‘I'm so glad you're...clean.'

He smiled but she seemed past noticing.

‘You live here?' she said with incredulity.

‘This is Lord Finn Conaill, Lord of Castle Glenconaill,' the housekeeper snapped.

Jo blinked and stared at Finn as if she was expecting two heads. ‘You don't look like a lord.'

‘What do I look like?'

‘A farmer. I thought you were a farmer.'

‘I am a farmer. And you're an heiress.'

‘I wait tables.'

‘There you go. We've both been leading double lives. And now... It seems we're cousins?'

‘You're not cousins,' Mrs O'Reilly snapped, but he ignored her.

‘We're not,' he conceded, focusing only on Jo. ‘Just distant relations. You should be the true heir to this whole place. You're the only grandchild.'

‘She's illegitimate,' Mrs O'Reilly snapped and Finn moved a little so his body was firmly between Jo and the housekeeper. What was it with the woman?

‘There's still some hereabouts who judge a child for the actions of its parents,' he said mildly, ignoring Mrs O'Reilly and continuing to smile down at Jo. ‘But I'm not one of them. According to the lawyer, it seems you're Lord Conaill's granddaughter, marriage vows or not.'

‘And...and you?'
What was going on?
She had the appearance of street-smart. She looked tough. But inside...the image of the trapped fawn stayed.