Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
T he ride back to Donnellan Castle was shrouded in unreality, Grace faintly registering the rhythmic beat of hooves upon the earth. The mood was sombre, the events of the night hanging heavily over them. The mist that had clung to the ground earlier had thickened to fog, its damp embrace lending an oppressive chill to the journey. Grace rode near the centre of the party, her shaking hands tight upon the reins, her thoughts like a swirling snow-storm she could not seem to see through.
She had tried to shoot a man.
Her fingers flexed without her consciously making them do so, as if they could still feel the weight of the pistol, the cold metal against her skin. The memory of that moment was seared into her mind: the glint of Flynn’s pistol, the sneering triumph on his face, the raw panic that had seized her chest as he aimed at Ronan. She had acted without thinking, moved by some primal instinct she had not known she possessed. And though her shot had missed its mark—thank heavens Ashley’s had not—she could not escape the knowledge that she had been perfectly willing to kill for him.
The numbness she felt was not from the cold but from the enormity of what she had done, or nearly done. She was not a soldier, not a hero in one of her stories. She was Grace Whitford, the quiet sister, the one who preferred books to ballrooms, who never sought to stand out. And yet, tonight, she had lifted a weapon and tried to end a man’s life.
She would do it again. It was not a feeling she welcomed, but it was there all the same, a steely thread running through the fabric of her shock. It had been necessary, she told herself. It’d had to be done.
The thought churned in her mind as the miles passed. Flynn had been a monster and deserved his punishment. The marks on Maeve’s face, the fear in her eyes, spoke volumes of his cruelty. He had sought to kill Carew, and Grace had been compelled to stop him. She was grateful—deeply, fervently grateful—that Ashley’s shot had ended it instead, sparing her the weight of having to bear Flynn’s death upon her own conscience. Not that it was easy for Ashley, but he’d had experience of such things in the war.
As they rode on, her gaze drifted to Patience, who rode confidently beside her husband. Patience, who had killed a man to save Ashley’s life and seemed none the worse for it. Grace had not asked her sister about that moment before, but now she wondered. Did Patience feel this same strange numbness? Did she lie awake at night, replaying the scene in her mind? Or had she simply accepted it as part of life’s cruel necessities and dismissed it with her customary strength?
“Are you cold?” Patience’s voice broke through her reverie, and Grace started slightly, realizing that her sister was watching her with quiet concern.
“A little,” Grace admitted, though she had not noticed. She offered a faint smile to reassure her. “I am well enough.”
Patience regarded her for a moment longer, then nodded. “If you need to rest, say so. We will stop.”
Grace shook her head. “The sooner we are back, the better.”
Patience nodded her understanding, glancing back at Maeve, who rode behind Ronan on his gelding. She was slumped against her brother, her exhaustion and trauma evident in every line of her body. Patience’s gaze softened. “We did right to come along.”
The conversation lapsed, and the party rode on, the looming outline of Donnellan Castle growing closer with every passing mile. The journey felt endless, but Grace welcomed the monotony of it. It gave her time to sort through her thoughts, to try to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions churning within her.
When at last they reached the gates of the castle, the sky was almost light. The household anxiously awaited their arrival, and servants hurried to meet them, their faces pale with worry. Ronan dismounted first, carefully helping Maeve from the saddle. She clung to him, her steps unsteady as he guided her inside.
Grace slid from her own mount, her legs stiff from the ride. Patience was at her side in an instant, steadying her with a firm hand. “Come,” she said gently. “You need rest.”
Rest. It sounded so simple, so natural, and yet Grace doubted she would find it easily. Still, she allowed herself to be led inside, the familiar warmth of the castle wrapping around her like a protective cloak.
The group dispersed quickly. Ashley directed the servants to see to the horses, while Carew and Lady Donnellan escorted Maeve to her chambers. Patience, Freddy, and Joy were shown to their chambers, all ready for their beds. Grace followed, her steps slow and deliberate, as though each one carried the weight of the night’s events, but she was not ready to sleep.
Once in the sitting room, she found Theo curled in the chair, and Grace scooped him up and held on to him for solace. She sank into a chair by the fire, the warmth seeping into her chilled bones. She took comfort in watching the crackle of the flames and the soothing purrs emanating from Theo’s tiny body.
“You were very brave,” Carew said, interrupting her mind’s wanderings. He leaned against the door frame, his face shadowed with exhaustion but his eyes warm as they met hers.
Grace glanced at him, startled by his presence. “I do not feel brave,” she admitted. “I acted without thinking.” I would have done anything to save you , she thought but did not add.
“You saw what needed to be done, and you did it.”
Grace shook her head, her brow furrowing. “It does not feel that way. I…I am not sure how I feel. Grateful that Ashley intervened, I think…and yet, if he had not…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Carew had somehow moved forward and was kneeling before her. He placed a hand on Grace’s. “You did what you could to protect Maeve and I. That’s what matters.”
Grace nodded slowly, though her mind still wrestled with the enormity of it all. She thought again of Patience, of her sister’s unwavering composure despite her own history with violence. Perhaps she could imitate her sister; find a way to find peace amid the turmoil. Or perhaps it simply took time.
“How is Maeve?”
“Maeve is resting,” he said quietly. “She asked after you. She said you saved us both.”
Grace’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her hands. “I did not?—”
“You did,” Ronan interrupted gently, his tone leaving no room for argument. “What you did tonight took courage, Grace. I owe you more than I can say.”
Her throat tightened, and she managed a small nod. “I am only glad it is over,” she murmured, “and that she is safe.”
“As am I,” Ronan said, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he stood up and stepped back. “You should rest. We all should.”
He extended his hand, and Grace rose, her movements slow and deliberate as the heaviness of the night pressed down upon her once more. She accepted his hand, the warmth of his touch steadying her for a fleeting moment. When she stood, her eyes met his briefly, and in them, she saw not the resolute Lord Carew but the man beneath—the brother who had fought so fiercely for his sister, the man who had fought Kilroy for her.
“Goodnight, my lord,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of her exhaustion but also something else, something unspoken.
Ronan hesitated, his hand lingering against hers for just a moment longer. Then, as if compelled by something beyond himself, he gently drew her into an embrace. It was not the embrace of triumph or relief but one of gratitude and understanding. His arms encircled her carefully, almost reverently, as though he feared she might shatter under the weight of all they had endured. And also to avoid squishing the cat.
“Goodnight, Grace,” he murmured close to her ear, his voice soft and steady.
For a moment, she allowed herself to rest there, the faint scent of the sea lingering on his coat and the warmth of his presence offering a fragile comfort. She felt the strength in his arms, not just the physical strength that had carried him through the night but the quiet fortitude that had brought them all to safety. And yet, she sensed the weariness within him, as if he perhaps still carried some burden.
When they parted, her cheeks were warm, though she told herself it was from the firelight. She nodded once more, her fingers brushing against the folds of her skirt as she stepped back. “Goodnight, Ronan,” she repeated, this time without formality, the name slipping past her lips with a familiarity she had not intended.
However, her mind refused to find ease. What would happen tomorrow—or the day after? She dreaded the thought of leaving him. There was a finality in it that made her chest tighten, though she could not fully explain why. She had not come to Donnellan by design, but she had certainly become a different person from the one who had left England. She had acted with courage, faced danger, and stood firm when it mattered most. All because of him.
The idea of departing, of returning to a life where their paths would seldom cross again, filled her with a quiet dread. She had known him in moments of both strength and vulnerability, seen the depths of his character, and found something she had not realized she had been seeking. Could she simply walk away from that? It seemed she had little choice. Whilst there had been some closeness, and friendship, there had been no hints of anything more.
Surprisingly, when she undressed and slipped beneath the heavy blankets, sleep came. The day’s events, the fear and resolve, the unspoken emotions all seemed to catch up with her at once, pulling her into the oblivion of sleep.
Ronan stood at the window of his study, the early morning light casting long shadows across the room. The fire in the hearth had burned low, the embers glowing faintly. He should also seek his bed, but his thoughts were too heavy and all-consuming to permit any comfort from sleep. He stared out over the rolling hills beyond Donnellan, their rugged beauty softened by the pale mist that lingered over the land.
Flynn was dead.
The knowledge should have brought him satisfaction, perhaps even relief, but instead, it left him hollow. The fury that had driven him to this point seemed now to dissipate, leaving in its place a gnawing emptiness. Flynn’s death would not undo the harm he had wrought. It would not erase the marks left upon Maeve’s body, nor the scars upon her spirit. And it certainly had not ended the old wounds of the feud between their families.
Lord Corlach would want retribution. Flynn might have been a scoundrel and a manipulator, but he had been Corlach’s son, and his death would not be ignored. The feud was not over—it had merely shifted its shape. Flynn had been one enemy among many, a symbol of the larger conflict that had plagued their families for generations. And now the animosity would only deepen.
Ronan’s gaze drifted to the fields below, thinking of where Maeve had used to play as a child. He had failed to protect his sister, failed to shield her from Flynn’s machinations. That failure weighed heavily on him now, a constant reminder of the cost of generations of pride and the lingering consequences of the feud. Maeve was safe, yes, but she was not whole. The light in her eyes had dimmed, and Ronan did not know if it would ever return.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He turned as the door opened, and his mother entered, her presence as steady and quiet as ever. She hesitated for a moment, her worried gaze casting over him before she stepped into the room.
“You do not sleep,” she said softly, her voice softly scolding. “The household is concerned.”
Ronan turned back to the window, his jaw tightening. “It changes nothing.”
His mother closed the door behind her, her footsteps light as she crossed the room. “When will you tell me what happened?” she asked, gently probing. “Your father asks after you. I had to tell him about Maeve when you left again without greeting him earlier. Word reached him before I had a chance to warn his valet.”
He sighed heavily. “I will see him forthwith. Perhaps it is best if we go together and I tell you both.”
“First, this just came by messenger for you.”
The familiar crest pressed into the wax caught Ronan's attention immediately. It was the crest of Corlach. He took the letter from her with a furrowed brow and broke the seal, his fingers steady despite the weight he felt pressing on him. The parchment was crisp, the handwriting bold and deliberate. He read it in silence, his emotions shifting from guarded curiosity to contemplative.
Dear Lord Carew,
Word of my son’s death has reached me. Though my son’s actions brought about his own end, I cannot deny the role our feud has played in perpetuating such reckless enmity. For all our families have lost over the years, I have come to see the folly in carrying this bitterness further.
I beg you—let this end here and now. Flynn is gone, and with him, let there be no more grievances between us. Let there be no further bloodshed, no more families torn asunder by hatred borne of wounds long scarred over. I am an old man and do not wish my legacy to be hatred.
I pray Lady Maeve is unharmed. Whatever Flynn’s sins, I grieve if they caused her pain.
Corlach
Ronan folded the letter slowly, his mind turning over each word. Corlach’s tone was not one of defiance but of regret, a rare sentiment from a man who had been his family’s adversary for so many years. For the first time, Ronan felt the stirrings of a possibility he had scarcely dared to consider: peace.
“Bad news?” His mother’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up to find her watching him with quiet concern.
“No,” he replied, his tone carefully measured, “not bad but unexpected. Corlach writes to propose an end to the feud.”
Her brows lifted in surprise. “Truly?”
Ronan nodded, his gaze distant. “He admits Flynn’s responsibility in all of this and asks that we let it end here. He claims to grieve for Maeve’s suffering.” His voice hardened slightly on the last words, the thought of Flynn’s treatment of his sister still raw in his mind.
She stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm. “Perhaps he means it,” she said gently. “You need not trust him to accept peace. This will be a relief to your father. His own culpability weighs heavily on him.”
Ronan nodded and together they made their way to speak with him.
The door to his father’s chambers opened slowly, the familiar scent of wood smoke wafting out to greet him. Lord Donnellan sat in his usual chair near the hearth, his once-imposing frame now frail with age and illness. Despite his weakened state, his eyes were sharp as they met Ronan’s.
“You have news,” his father said, his voice gravelly but steady. It was not a question.
“I do,” Ronan replied, stepping inside and motioning for his mother to follow. She hesitated briefly but complied, her presence a quiet support that Ronan found himself grateful for.
Ronan held up the folded letter. “A message from Corlach,” he said. “He proposes we end the feud. Flynn is dead, and he wishes to let the feud die along with him.”
The elder man’s brows furrowed, his gaze narrowing. “And you believe him?”
“I believe he is weary of this fight, as are we all,” Ronan replied. “Flynn’s death, though just, has left a heavy mark. To carry on this feud would only deepen the wounds he has left behind.”
“It has never lessened enmity before.” His father leaned back in his chair, his expression inscrutable. “And what of Maeve?” he asked after a moment. “How fares my daughter?”
Ronan’s jaw tightened when he thought of what Flynn had done to her. “She is safe now,” he answered quietly, “but the wounds Flynn inflicted cannot be mended with kind words and assurances. I failed her, Father.”
“Maeve does not see you as a failure. She sees you as her brother, the man who risked everything to save her. That matters, whether you believe it or not.” His mother’s voice was firm but kind.
“The blame is mine. I should have ended this long ago,” his father interjected.
Ronan’s chest tightened at their words, but he nodded slowly.
“She will heal in time. All we can do is love her and give her time to find her strength again.”
Lord Donnellan’s sharp gaze did not waver as he considered. Though his body had grown frail, the steel of his mind remained unbroken. Ronan’s father studied his son for a long moment before speaking. “If Corlach truly seeks peace, it would be folly to refuse him. Both families have endured enough. I will pen a reply.”
The decision settled over the room like a quiet benediction. Ronan felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly, though he knew the road ahead would still be fraught with challenges.
“Who are these guests your mother mentioned? And what is this I hear about a young lady travelling with you?”
Ronan stiffened slightly but recovered quickly. “Miss Grace Whitford,” he said, his tone steady. “She accompanied me here under extraordinary circumstances through no fault of her own. She is the sister of Lady Westwood, Lady Rotham, and Mrs. Ashley Stuart, all of whose husbands you are acquainted with. The guests are her family come after her. We owe all of them—especially her—a debt of gratitude.”
Lord Donnellan’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of interest passing over his face. “Indeed?”
Ronan hesitated, then began, his voice quiet but firm. “She risked herself to save Maeve. She entered Flynn’s home under the guise of seeking shelter, gaining access where I could not. She found Maeve and brought her out to safety, despite the great risk to herself. And when Flynn came after us and threatened me, she did not falter.” He did not mask his pride. “Her courage is remarkable.”
His mother, beside her husband, observed Ronan closely, a faint smile playing on her lips.
He glanced at her, a flicker of discomfort contorting his features, though he did not deny her the assumptions she was no doubt making. “She deserves the highest praise for what she has done. Without her, we might not have succeeded.”
Lord Donnellan leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on the arms. “A lady of such character should be acknowledged. I should like to meet her, Ronan. It seems I owe her my thanks.”
Ronan inclined his head. “I will arrange it, Father. But for now, you must rest.”
His father waved a hand dismissively. “Do not coddle me, boy. I am frail, but I am not feeble. Go and see that this young woman is properly received.”
“Yes, Father.”
As he left the room, Ronan’s mind churned with conflicting emotions. He had spoken of Grace with truth, but in doing so, he had revealed more of his own thoughts than he had intended. Her presence with him last night had shifted something within him, though he could not yet name what that was.
As he walked through the quiet halls of his home, Ronan felt a glimmer of hope take root that the ghosts of the past might finally find peace. Perhaps the feud truly could end here, and with it, the cycle of pain that had defined so much of his heritage. And perhaps, just perhaps, the future held something brighter—something worth fighting for in a different way.