His Cinderella Heiress (3 page)

‘My father was the son of the recently deceased Lord Conaill's cousin,' Finn told her. He furrowed his brows a little. ‘I think that's right. I can't quite get my head around it. So that means my link to you goes back four generations. We're very distant relatives, but it seems we do share a great-great-grandfather. And the family name.'

‘Only because of illegitimacy,' Mrs O'Reilly snapped.

Enough. He turned from Jo and faced Mrs O'Reilly square-on. She was little and dumpy and full of righteous indignation. She'd been Lord Conaill's housekeeper for years. Heaven knew, he needed her if he was to find his way around this pile but right now...

Right now he was Lord Conaill of Castle Glenconaill, and maybe it was time to assume his rightful role.

‘Mrs O'Reilly, I'll thank you to be civil,' he said, and if he'd never had reason to be autocratic before he made a good fist of it now. He summoned all his father had told him of previous lords of this place and he mentally lined his ancestors up behind him. ‘Jo's come all the way from Australia. She's inherited half of her grandfather's estate and for now this castle is her home.
Her
home. I therefore expect you to treat her with the welcome and the respect her position entitles her to. Do I make myself clear?'

There was a loaded silence. The housekeeper tried glaring but he stayed calmly looking at her, waiting, his face impassive. He was Lord of Glenconaill and she was his housekeeper. It was time she knew it.

Jo said nothing. Finn didn't look back at her but he sensed her shiver. If he didn't get her inside soon she'd freeze to death, he thought, but this moment was too important to rush. He simply stood and gazed down at Mrs O'Reilly and waited for the woman to come to a decision.

‘I only...' she started but he shook his head.

‘Simple question. Simple answer. Welcome and respect. Yes or no.'

‘Her mother...'

‘Yes or no!'

And finally she cracked. She took a step back but his eyes didn't leave hers. ‘Yes.'

‘Yes, what?' It was an autocratic snap. His great-great-grandfather would be proud of him, he thought, and then he thought of his boots and thought:
maybe not
. But the snap had done what he intended.

She gave a frustrated little nod, she bobbed a curtsy and finally she answered him as he'd intended.

‘Yes, My Lord.'

* * *

What was she doing here? If she had to inherit a castle, why couldn't she have done it from a distance? She could have told the lawyer to put up a For Sale sign, sell it to the highest bidder and send her a cheque for half. Easy.

Why this insistence that she had to come?

Actually, it hadn't been insistence. It had been a strongly worded letter from the lawyer saying decisions about the entire estate had to be made between herself and this unknown sort-of cousin. It had also said the castle contained possessions that had been her mother's. The lawyer suggested that decisions would be easier to make with her here, and the estate could well afford her airfare to Ireland to make those decisions.

And it had been like a siren song, calling her...home?

No, that was dumb. This castle had never been her home. She'd never had a home but it was the only link she had to anyone. She might as well come and have a look, she'd thought.

But this place was like the bog that surrounded it. The surface was enticing but, underneath, it was a quagmire. The housekeeper's voice had been laced with malice.

Was that her mother's doing? Fiona? Well, maybe invective was to be expected. Maybe malice was deserved.

What hadn't been expected was this strong, hunky male standing in the doorway, taking her hand, welcoming her—and then, before her eyes, turning into the Lord of Glenconaill. Just like that. He'd been a solid Good Samaritan who'd pulled her out of the bog. He'd laughed at her—which she hadn't appreciated, but okay, he might have had reason—and then, suddenly, the warmth was gone and he was every bit a lord. The housekeeper was bobbing a curtsy, for heaven's sake. What sort of feudal system was this?

She was well out of her depth. She should get on her bike and leave.

But she was cold.

The lawyer had paid for her flight, for two nights' accommodation in Dublin and for the bike hire—he'd suggested a car or even a driver to meet her, but some things were non-negotiable. Two nights' accommodation and the bike was the extent of the largesse. The lawyer had assumed she'd spend the rest of her time in the castle, and she hadn't inherited anything yet. Plus the village had no accommodation and the thought of riding further was unbearable.

So, even if she'd like to ride off into the sunset, she wasn't in a position to do it.

Plus she was really, really cold.

Finn... Lord of Glenconaill?...was looking at her with eyes that said he saw more than he was letting on. But his gaze was kind again. The aristocratic coldness had disappeared.

His gaze dropped to the worn stone tiles. There was a puddle forming around her boots.

‘I met Miss Conaill down the bog road,' he said, smiling at her but talking to the housekeeper. ‘There were sheep on the road. Miss Conaill had struck trouble, was off her bike, wet and shaken, and I imagine she's still shaken.' He didn't say she'd been stuck in a bog, Jo thought, and a surge of gratitude made her almost light-headed. ‘I offered to give her a ride but, of course, she didn't know who I was and I didn't know who she was. I expect that's why you're late, Miss Conaill, and I'm thinking you're still wet. Mrs O'Reilly, could you run Miss Conaill a hot bath, make sure her bedroom's warm and leave her be for half an hour? Then there's roast beef warm in the oven for you.'

His voice changed a little, and she could hear the return of the aristocrat. There was a firm threat to the housekeeper behind the words. ‘Mrs O'Reilly will look after you, Jo, and she'll look after you well. When you're warm and fed, we'll talk again. Meanwhile, I intend to sit in your grandfather's study and see if I can start making sense of this pile we seem to have inherited. Mrs O'Reilly, I depend on you to treat Jo with kindness. This is her home.'

And there was nothing more to be said. The housekeeper took a long breath, gave an uncertain glance up at...her Lord?...and bobbed another curtsy.

‘Yes, My Lord.'

‘Let's get your gear inside,' Finn said. ‘Welcome to Castle Glenconaill, Miss Conaill. Welcome to your inheritance.'

‘There's no need for us to talk again tonight,' Jo managed. ‘I'll have a bath and go to bed.'

‘You'll have a bath and then be fed,' Finn said, and there was no arguing with the way he said it. ‘You're welcome here, Miss Conaill, even if right now it doesn't feel like it.'

‘Th...thank you,' she managed and turned to her bike to get her gear.

* * *

If things had gone well from there they might have been fine. She'd find her bedroom, have a bath, have something to eat, say goodnight and go to bed. She'd talk to the lawyer in the morning. She'd sign whatever had to be signed. She'd go back to Australia. That was the plan.

So far, things hadn't gone well for Jo, though, and they were about to get worse.

She had two bags—her kitbag with her clothes and a smaller one with her personal gear. She tugged them from the bike, she turned around and Finn was beside her.

He lifted the kitbag from her grasp and reached for the smaller bag. ‘Let me.'

‘I don't need help.'

‘You're cold and wet and shaken,' he told her. ‘It's a wise woman who knows when accepting help is sensible.'

This was no time to be arguing, she conceded, but she clung to her smaller bag and let Finn carry the bigger bag in.

He reached the foot of the grand staircase and then paused. ‘Lead the way, Mrs O'Reilly,' he told the housekeeper, revealing for the first time that he didn't know this place.

And the housekeeper harrumphed and stalked up to pass them.

She brushed Jo on the way. Accidentally or on purpose, whatever, but it seemed a deliberate bump. She knocked the carryall out of Jo's hand.

And the bag wasn't properly closed.

After the bog, Jo had headed back to the village. She'd have loved to have booked a room at the pub but there'd been a No Vacancies sign in the porch, the attached cobwebs and dust suggesting there'd been no vacancies for years. She'd made do with a trip to the Ladies, a scrub under cold water—no hot water in this place—and an attempt at repair to her make-up.

She'd been freezing. Her hands had been shaking and she mustn't have closed her bag properly.

Her bag dropped now onto the ancient floorboards of Castle Glenconaill and the contents spilled onto the floor.

They were innocuous. Her toiletries. The things she'd needed on the plane on the way over. Her latest project...

And it was this that the housekeeper focused on. There was a gasp of indignation and the woman was bending down, lifting up a small, clear plastic vial and holding it up like the angel of doom.

‘I knew it,' she spat, turning to Jo with fury that must have been building for years. ‘I knew how it'd be. Like mother, like daughter, and why your grandfather had to leave you half the castle... Your mother broke His Lordship's heart, so why you're here... What he didn't give her... She was nothing but a drug-addicted slut, and here you are, just the same. He's given you half his fortune and do you deserve it? How dare you bring your filthy stuff into this house?'

Finn had stopped, one boot on the first step. His brow snapped down in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘Needles.' The woman held up the plastic vial. ‘You'll find drugs too, I'll warrant. Her mother couldn't keep away from the stuff. Dead from an overdose in the end, and here's her daughter just the same. And half the castle left to her... It breaks my heart.'

And Jo closed her eyes.
Beam me up
, she pleaded. Where was a time machine when she needed one? She'd come all this way to be tarred with the same brush as her mother. A woman she'd never met and didn't want to meet.

Like mother, like daughter
... What a joke.

‘I'll go,' she said in a voice she barely recognised. She'd sleep rough tonight, she decided. She'd done it before—it wouldn't kill her. Tomorrow she'd find the lawyer, sign whatever had to be signed and head back to Australia.

‘You're going nowhere.' The anger in Finn's voice made her eyes snap open. It was a snap that reverberated through the ancient beams, from stone wall to stone wall, worthy of an aristocratic lineage as old as time itself. He placed the kitbag he was holding down and took the three steps to where the housekeeper was standing. He took the vial, stared at it and then looked at the housekeeper with icy contempt.

‘You live here?' he demanded and the woman's fury took a slight dent.

‘Of course.'

‘Where?'

‘I have an apartment...'

‘Self-contained?'

‘I...yes.'

‘Good,' he snapped. ‘Then go there now. Of all the cruel, cold welcomes...' He stared down at the vial and his mouth set in grim lines. ‘Even if this was what you thought it was, your reaction would be unforgivable, but these are sewing needles. They have a hole at the end, not through the middle. Even if they were syringes, there's a score of reasons why Miss Conaill would carry them other than drug addiction. But enough. You're not to be trusted to treat Miss Conaill with common courtesy, much less kindness. Return to your apartment. I'll talk to you tomorrow morning but not before. I don't wish to see you again tonight. I'll take care of Miss Conaill. Go, now.'

‘You can't,' the woman breathed. ‘You can't tell me to go.'

‘I'm Lord of Glenconaill,' Finn snapped. ‘I believe the right is mine.'

Silence. The whole world seemed to hold its breath.

Jo stared at the floor, at her pathetic pile of toiletries and, incongruously, at the cover of the romance novel she'd read on the plane. It was historical, the Lord of the Manor rescuing and marrying his Cinderella.

Who'd want to be Cinderella?
she'd thought as she read it, and that was what it felt like now. Cinderella should have options. She should be able to make the grand gesture, sweep from the castle in a flurry of skirts, say,
Take me to the nearest hostelry, my man, and run me a hot bath...

A hot bath
. There was the catch. From the moment Finn had said it, they were the words that had stuck in her mind. Everything else was white noise.

Except maybe the presence of this man. She was trying not to look at him.

The hero of her romance novel had been...romantic. He'd worn tight-fitting breeches and glossy boots and intricate neckcloths made of fine linen.

Her hero had battered boots and brawny arms and traces of copper in his deep brown hair. He looked tanned and weathered. His green eyes were creased by smiles or weather and she had no way of knowing which. He looked far too large to look elegant in fine linen and neckcloths, but maybe she was verging on hysterics because her mind had definitely decided it wanted a hero with battered boots. And a weathered face and smiley eyes.

Especially if he was to provide her with a bath.

‘Go,' he said to Mrs O'Reilly and the woman cast him a glance that was half scared, half defiant. But the look Finn gave her back took the defiance out of her.

She turned and almost scuttled away, and Jo was left with Finn.

He didn't look at her. He simply bent and gathered her gear back into her bag.

She should be doing that. What was she doing, staring down at him like an idiot?

She stooped to help, but suddenly she was right at eye level, right...close.

His expression softened. He smiled and closed her bag with a snap.