Chapter 20
Bayne
Kitt’s woken up in a sullen mood. She’s not even put the kettle on as she usually does, is just sitting on the couch, the pink chenille blanket wrapped around her shoulders. I bring her toast, made with the last of the bread she baked earlier in the week.
“Thanks.” She offers a weak smile.
“You alright?” I think about her sucking my cock last night. The most amazing feeling of my life. Did that upset her? “Was I too rough last night?”
“No.” She shakes her head. She’s not even shy about it as she confesses, “I liked last night.”
“Me too,” I say.
I wait a beat for her to speak. “Just something with my mom that bummed me out.”
“Want to talk?” She shakes her head no, and I don’t push her.
Seeing her like this… it makes a strange aching in my chest. I want to fix it. And I can’t. I don’t like that.
The words are out before I can stop them. “There’s a horse race this morning. You should come.”
“What?”
“The boys all know you’re here. Under my care. Why not show your face?”
She glances down at the tea I’ve brought her. Just a splash of milk like she likes. “Does this mean I can go back to the lodge now?”
“No. I trust the Baynes, but I don’t fully trust the Burneses.” Despite our decade-long truce. “I don’t want you out of my sight just yet.”
I wait for disappointment to flood her face at not being able to go back to her friends. It doesn’t. She looks up at me. “Horses. That sounds fun.”
“Get dressed,” I say. “And wear your heavy coat. It’s going to be cold. I’ll take you out to the pub after, get a proper meal in you.”
I leave her alone with her thoughts. She’s like that sometimes, quiet, needing a bit of space. Funny how well I’m coming to know her habits, sharing a house with her.
We reach the Castle and her face lights up at the sight of the ivy-covered church. “It’s beautiful.” she says.
“It’s not done.”
She tosses me a look. “Still. It’s beautiful. I can’t wait to see the inside.”
“You won’t be going inside,” I say. “No womenfolk allowed.”
Her brows knit. “Are you being serious? Is there a no-girls-allowed sign on the door or something? Is this a boys-only club?”
“Pretty much.” I pull the truck around the back of the house. The men are all gathered along the road, excited for the race.
A young Bayne and Burnes boy sit on their respective gigs, the two big wheels on both carts recently aired by Crank. They’ve each got a friend in tow beside them in their two-seater. Their horses paw at the ground, eager to go.
“This is nothing like what I expected! There’re so many horses in your fields. And they’re all so beautiful.” She stares out over the land.
My stables, my fields, my champion-breed horses. The Traditional Romani Cob, first brought over from the British Isles, their coats covered in large brown and white spots, long brown and white manes, and pretty, long white hair hanging down their legs over their hooves.
“The sight is something from a different era, isn’t it?”
“When you said a horse race, I was thinking men riding on saddles. Those carts—I’ve never seen anything like them. Are they from your family?”
“Aye. My great-grandfather was a Romani. His heritage was horses and we’ve carried it on through the generations. Eamon and I always rode and raced, but the Burnes boys had nothing to do with horses. Now, all the Kings are obsessed.”
“Looks like you’ve started a trend.”
“Looks that way, don’t it.” It’s a point of pride with me, the way I’ve used a pastime from my bloodline to bring our clans together for the greater good of the island.
She gets a little shy, fiddling with her fingers. “Do you think they’ll like me okay? They won’t be too mad about DI Collins and all that…”
“Eamon’s been talking you up. And you’re a girl, after all. Of course the men will take to you.”
“Do I look okay? Did I wear the right thing?” Her brown eyes look up at me with more trust than I probably deserve. I can tell it’s an important question to her and she needs me to say the right thing to reassure her.
I reach over, smoothing her dark hair. “You look. Beautiful.”
“Thanks.” She gives me a shy smile then turns her attention to the window.
“Come on. We can’t be late. The race has to start right at eleven.”
“Why?” She unbuckles her seat belt.
“Eleven on Sunday morning. The whole island will be at church. The perfect time for illegal street racing,” I explain.
“You just keep getting me in deeper trouble with the law, don’t you? You are corrupting me.” But she climbs out of the truck with ease, eager to see the horses.
As we make our way to meet the others I grab her hand in mine. A clear message to all the men who now turn their heads watching us arrive.
Kitt is with me.
The men eye her beauty but remain a respectful distance away.
I greet the men, making sure all is in order. Men saddle up to ride their horses down the sides of the road alongside the racers. A few of us follow behind the horses in our cars, judging the race from the best seats.
Eamon rides in the back of the sports car I’m driving, hanging out the window, whooping and hollering on the Bayne boy. Kitt follows suit as she leans out her car window, letting her dark hair fly behind her as we speed down the road.
My Bayne boy wins. The losers gather around me to give me stifled congratulations that will be more genuine after a few pints at the pub, handing me rolls of cash. I parcel out the earnings to the other winners.
Looking down at the fat wad of money in my hand, I glance over at Hammer, a good-natured man with fists like hams and a babyface. “Be right back,” I tell Kitt, leaving her side for the first time today to go and speak with the younger man.
When I return, she eyes me. “It looked like you’d already paid all the other winners. Wasn’t that your prize money?”
“Nah. Belongs to all of us, really. And he’s got a baby on the way. His wife is expecting their firstborn any day.”
“Aww. That’s sweet.” She gives me that shiny-eyed look women save for the rare instances when they think you’re actually in the right. “Let me know when the baby is born. I’d love to send a meal to them.”
“Will do,” I say, knowing full well she’ll be moved on by then.
We head off to the pub where I choose a two-person table in a cozy corner by the fire, leaving the younger lads to their rowdy drinking at the bar.
She goes to order a salad, but I talk her into the burger and chips the place is famous for. She savors every bite, washing it down with a soda. She can’t finish her plate, so I help out, making the last few fried potatoes disappear along with some malt vinegar.
When we step out into the sunlight, bellies full of food, lungs filled with fresh air, DI Collins is waiting by his white car. The blue-and-acid-green stripes and the word POLICE grab my eye.
He narrows his gaze at me. “Cailean Bayne. May I have a word?”