Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
A isling stared at the man like he’d just announced he was the reincarnated soul of Saint Patrick, the primary patron saint of Ireland. Then she turned—slowly, disbelievingly—back to Bríd.
“Please tell me this is a prank.”
Bríd gave a serene little shrug as though betrothals-by-will were as common as tea with milk.
“I don’t believe any of this nonsense,” Aisling declared, crossing her arms so hard she nearly bruised her own ribs.
“Have you read your grandmother’s will?” the man—Ronan Something-or-Other—asked with infuriating calm.
Okay, maybe she had only skimmed it, getting to the good stuff about the house and the money left her to use to update the place, but she didn’t remember seeing anything about a betrothal. And though the man was handsome, she wasn’t going to marry a man just because the will said so.
“Yes. Well... sort of.” Aisling waved a hand. “There’s just so much gobbledygook in there, it’s like trying to read a medieval spell book. I fell asleep by page three.”
“Try page twenty-five.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Is that the secret betrothal clause? Right between the sheep tax exemptions and the clause about ancestral chickens?”
He didn’t blink. “It was signed at your birth. They believed it would be a peaceful way to bring the families together.”
Bríd sighed. “The O’Byrne and Gallagher feud.”
“Wait—families? A feud?” Her gaze whipped to Bríd again. “Are you telling me there’s been an actual feud? Like pitchforks, potato throwing, and flaming torches?”
“A hundred years’ worth,” Ronan said. “Give or take.”
Aisling groaned and stormed off, muttering to herself as she stomped down the hall, rummaging through the stack of legal papers she’d barely skimmed after arriving. She found the will, flipped through the pages with mounting dread, and returned to the kitchen, already regretting everything.
She read the clause aloud with all the dramatics of someone narrating their own emotional hostage situation.
“ Clause VII: On the Union of the O’Byrne and Gallagher Lands...Furthermore, it is to be understood that, upon Aisling’s arrival in Ireland, she shall be informed of the agreement made at her birth—namely, her informal betrothal to the Gallagher heir, Ronan Conner Gallagher, grandson of Séamus. While this arrangement bears no legal compulsion, it is the earnest hope of this testator that the two parties may, in time, find their way to one another, thus fulfilling the long-held wish to reunite these adjoining lands through kinship and affection.”
By the time she finished, her ears were ringing. There it was in black and white. Her grandmother had basically tried to marry her off via a legal document like she was some 18th-century heiress in need of property consolidation.
Ronan smiled.
No, smirked. The kind of smirk that launched a thousand murder fantasies.
“We’re engaged,” he said. “Have been since birth.”
“Oh no, sir. We are not engaged. That’s barbaric. Outdated. Straight out of an episode of Poldark, and not even the good season. If you know what television series I’m referring to.”
“I do,” he said. “It was excellent. Especially seeing something from the British side of the American Revolutionary War.”
At least the man had good taste.
Bríd sipped her tea. “The betrothal was one of many reasons why your mother left. Even before you were born, they were discussing the merging of the families.”
“Well, that explains a few things,” Aisling muttered.
“So, I guess we won’t be setting the date for our nuptials any time soon?” he said with a laugh.
“We’ll set the date when hell freezes over. I only marry for love, and even that’s been hard to find,” she said, remembering how she just knew that her life with Michael had been on a path to success, only to be derailed by his infidelity.
“Take your time,” he said. “We can wait until after lambing season.”
She stared at him, aghast. “You’re insane if you think I’d marry you over a few acres and a family feud.”
He stepped closer, arms crossed. “You care nothing about ending a war and creating lasting peace. Or bringing our estates together so that it’s one big piece of property. Like a typical woman, all you care about is hearts and flowers.”
Marriage was a lifetime commitment. And he’d just made it sound like he was after her grandmother’s estate.
“And what’s wrong with that? I deserve hearts and flowers. I deserve a man who doesn’t treat marriage like a land merger. I deserve someone who—at the very least—doesn’t act like I’m the villain in his soap opera.”
“Villain? That’s a perfect description for you. You want romance. I want peace between the estates. We all have dreams.”
Like she cared whether there was peace between the estates, she didn’t plan on being here long enough to bring about a reconciliation between the families. After all, she was the only member left in her family.
“I don’t care if we’re the Irish Montagues and Capulets,” she snapped. “I am not marrying the Blarney Stone in boots.”
His eyes twinkled with a dangerous gleam. “The feud continues, then. Who is going to fire the first shot?”
It was hard to believe she was standing here speaking to a stranger she was betrothed to about a feud.
“Oh, goodie. Let’s throw rotten vegetables at each other while we’re at it.”
“Oh no, our feud is much more than rotten vegetables. It’s more about your livestock trespassing.”
“I don’t have livestock.”
The man acted like it was two hundred years ago, not the twenty-first century.
“Yes, you do, and you can start by keeping your goat out of my garden.”
Her mouth dropped open as she remembered the pesky animal that she’d awoken to in the house. “Goat? That goat is mine?”
“The one with the bell,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “The thing likes to wander over and taste my roses. And tulips. And I’m pretty sure it tried to hump the wheelbarrow.”
Aisling burst out laughing. “Are you seriously blaming me for the personal choices of a free-range goat?”
“It’s clearly yours. She’s claimed your porch.”
She glanced outside, and the blasted goat was standing on the porch, desecrating the wooden slats. She’d soon find himself in a pen if the property had one.
“That hardly makes me responsible for his dining preferences. Maybe the rest of your flowers taste nasty.”
The man sighed and shook his head.
“If he crosses the hedge again,” Ronan said, voice low, “he’ll end up in a stew.”
A gasp ripped from her throat. “You wouldn’t.”
“I’m already picturing the marinade. It will be delicious.”
“Don’t touch my goat, Gallagher. Or your roses will only bloom for the dead.”
He stepped closer. “You’re a little spitfire. That red hair and those damn emerald eyes are a clear sign of your heritage. I bet you have men eating out of your palm.”
If only he knew her track history with men. Not good. Not good at all.
“Hardly. You don’t grow up and go to school in New York City without learning how to take care of yourself. You should talk to my ex-fiancé if you want to know how far I’ll go when you do me wrong. Don’t think you can scare me.”
His brows lifted. “You really are an O’Byrne. Stubborn as a fence post and spitting mad.”
“And you’re really starting to test my patience.”
He grinned again. “I’ll speak to Father Callahan about posting the bans.”
“You do that. I’ll be right behind you with a public announcement that I object to everything you are, including your roses. What kind of man grows roses?”
“A botanist, that’s who,” he said.
Bríd chuckled softly behind her teacup. “Lord, the two of you will kill each other by week’s end.”
“Exactly,” Aisling said. “So, no, I will not be selling this place to him. I’m here to restore the estate, understand my family, and decide my future.”
Ronan stepped back. “To understand your family, you’ll need more than a few weeks.”
“Why, thank you, Ronan. I’m sure your family tree is spotless and clean of any scandal.”
“Not hardly,” he said. “But don’t worry. You’ll learn about the feud soon enough if you do any research on how our great-grandfathers fought a duel to win back the land. How your grandfather used to let his sheep run through our pastures and onto our land until my father started keeping them. You’ll learn how your grandmother liked to make the Gallagher boys stand up in class and recite Shakespeare. How, for nearly a century, we have fought over the property lines, and the O’Byrnes have always cheated us out of at least an acre.”
“Please tell me there are scrolls,” she said.
“There might be. And if you get a surveyor to prove that your side didn’t cheat us out of the land, I’ll eat my boot.”
“Oh, I plan on it. I’ve already scheduled a topographical scan.”
It had been one of the first things she’d done this morning when she made the decision she could not do the renovation herself.
He blinked. “You what?”
“I called a local contractor. He has a drone.”
His mouth worked for a moment without words. “The war is well and truly back on. Your drone, better not cross the stone wall fence or I’ll shoot it down.”
She flipped on the burner beneath the kettle. “Do let me know who fires the first shot.”
He grinned. “Me. At your goat.”
And with that, he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him so hard, the windows rattled.
Aisling blinked at the now-empty doorway, then slowly turned to Bríd.
“I don’t even know how to unpack what just happened.”
Bríd sipped her tea, amused. “Under the grumpy exterior, he’s a good man. Better than his father. Maybe even a good candidate for husband and father.”
“No,” she said, pouring her guest a fresh cup of tea. “He can keep his grumpiness wrapped in barbed wire for all I care. I am not marrying a man who threatens to stew my goat and annex my property.”
“Spoken like a true O’Byrne.”
“I’m starting to think that’s not a compliment.”
Bríd just smiled and patted her hand. “We’ll see.”
Aisling shook her head, poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, and took a long, bracing sip.
One thing was clear: between ancient grudges, rogue livestock, creaking floorboards, and arrogant neighbors who thought they could charm their way through property lines, this six-month inheritance clause was going to be anything but boring.
And who would have ever thought they still betrothed infants? It should be against the law.
Hell would freeze over before she married Ronan Gallagher.