Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Fran
The time passes so quickly, I’m shocked when there’s a knock on the door. It’s our stewardess telling us we’re landing and it’s time to buckle up.
Tate helps me dress, a wicked gleam in his eye when he takes in everything, and I know what he sees—the teeth marks around my neck, the pink handprints from when he got carried away with my arse, the glisten of sweat along my brow from having come three times in the space of one hour—on his mouth, from his fingers, and the most glorious of all, a full body climax when he came in me.
The intimacy eased the ache in my heart, the pain at having seen his brutality up close. It was nothing like I thought it would be.
Once, years ago, some of us took a trip to Ireland and watched a bare-knuckled fight. The McCarthy men, friends of the Cowens, are experts. And it was really, really, bloody hot.
But that was controlled, somehow managed. This… was not.
For some reason, I thought watching Tate hurt Fergus would be the same as the fight.
Don’t get me wrong, I love that he defended me.
And he’s right, Fergus did deserve it.
But this… the pain of it all, the intensity… it was too bloody much.
Too much.
I think it’s everything, though. My fears from what I’ve seen.
My fears of what happens next.
I’m tired, as we’re nearing evening, and amazed that we’ve come this far so quickly. A car ride and ferry to Dublin would take a good nine to ten hours at the very least, and we’re here in the space of the time it took us to jump each other’s bones.
I can deal with that.
Tate wordlessly reaches for my hand and tangles our fingers together. It gives me momentary solace, but I wonder… what will happen to us next? I’ve gotten the Clan into so much trouble. Will I ever be able to make up for what I’ve done? Will they ever forgive me?
Will he?
“We’ve got a short ride to Ballyhock,” Tate says, after we exit. “But our friends aren’t far away.”
I’ve never been here before. I wish it was under better conditions, but I’ll take what I can.
I put us here. I did.
And it’s up to me to get us out of this mess.
The car that waits for us is a long, sleek navy blue with a sunroof. Tate snickers. “Leave it to Lachlan to bloody show off, eh?”
The name rings a bell, but I haven’t met him before.
Then I remember something I heard from my research at one point.
“Oooh. He’s the one that was in love with Sheena’s younger sister, but when they met she was like a wee girl, right?
And he waited all those years for her? Like her bodyguard, and they were soulmates and now they’re married with children, right? ”
He gives me a sidelong glance with pursed lips and doesn’t reply at first. I feel my cheeks flush. I know this because of my research, and it’s a reminder I’ve stuck my nose where it doesn’t belong. But when he replies, he doesn’t reprimand or scold.
“Of course he did,” he says, as if waiting years for a girl to grow up is normal and expected. “How could he do anything else? He loves her.”
He loves her.
My heart twangs like a plucked string on a guitar.
He loves her.
And for one brief moment, I forgive him his violence and I forgive myself for my betrayal. For one brief moment, I give thanks that we’ve made it as far as we have. Because any woman who’s somehow earned the love of a man of the Clan is a lucky lass indeed.
I will do everything I can to keep his love, to earn my place in the ranks of graceful women of the Clan.
I don’t know if it’s possible. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to, but I’ll do whatever it takes.
A large, burly bloke with wavy brown hair comes to the side of the car, grinning at Tate like he’s a long-lost friend. They do the man-hug thing, smacking each other on the backs so hard I wince, then Tate puts his arm around me.
“Lachlan, meet Fran.”
Lachlan smiles at me and shakes my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
That’s one that seems okay enough with me being here, I guess. I wonder if they know who I am and what I’ve done? Will they all be as cordial as they are now when they find out? I’ve kept the McCarthy Clan mostly out of the books but have definitely spied on them as well.
I sigh, as I slide in beside Tate.
Wow. Tate wasn’t kidding, Lachlan really has gone all out. While the guys talk easily about their friends and recent events since they last saw each other, Tate holds my hand, and I take in every detail. Leather-clad interior, a sunroof, pristine condition.
“I’d reckon this isn’t the car you use to take the bairns out for a spin, eh?”
Lachlan snorts. “Hardly.”
They talk about the children, his wife Fiona’s recent completion of a graduate degree, and how Keenan, the Irish leader, is considering yet another addition on the huge home. And while I listen with one ear, my mind is preoccupied.
Broken bones. Blood-laced spittle. A call to come pick up a body or a witness, whichever the choice.
Tate’s Clan… the Clan I’ve idolized and glorified in my fiction, is a band of brutal, vicious brothers, who’ll stop at nothing to get what they want.
How have I not seen this, not really known this until now?
I’ve seen the way they’d burn full kingdoms for their loved ones, the fierce, unfettered passion in their eyes.
The women tried to tell me, of course, though they never knew they did. Both Islan and Paisley have tried at times to warn me about who their brothers really were, what their brothers really did. And at the time, I thought they only needed a good friend to talk to.
I never dreamed that they were trying to warn me. But of course they were. Isn’t that what good friends do?
“Fran?”
Tate’s looking at me with concern, and I realize he’s been talking to me and I didn’t notice.
I give him a smile. “Sorry. Was just looking out to see what kind of view I could get.”
“Bloody gorgeous, isn’t it?” Tate says. “Wait until it’s daylight and you can see so much more.”
From where we are, I catch the barest glimmer of white-capped waves and a sandy beach.
I roll down my window, the crisp night air flooding the car, inhaling the salty air.
Tate doesn’t admonish me or ask me to close my window.
He merely laces his fingers with mine as we look out the window in silence.
We arrive at the McCarthy family home when night’s fully settled around us.
I take in every detail, dumbstruck. The Cowen homes, nestled in the Highland mountains, are where I’d like to settle for the rest of my life.
But here, with the sea at our backs and the salt air christening us in benediction—well, I’d settle for a summer home.
“You’re smiling,” Tate says, tugging a lock of my hair. “Good to see you smile, lassie.”
I shrug. “Just imagining where we’d put a summer home so we’re not obstructing the McCarthy’s view.”
Tate’s deep, manly chuckle makes my toes curl.
“I think we’ll make it work.”
Lachlan and Tate take our bags and we head up to the main house. We’ve come through a wrought-iron, heavily guarded gate to get here, which doesn’t surprise me in the least.
“The Cowen’s should invest in a gate like that,” I say to Tate, then quickly dismiss the thought. It wouldn’t work as well with sprawling homes along a mountainside.
“Why gates? We’ve got Bailey.”
I nod with a smile. “Och, aye, Bailey will keep us safe, won’t he?”
Lachlan grins at us.
There’s a lovely red-haired woman waiting for us in the foyer, and the smell of tea and something delicious and freshly baked. My stomach churns with hunger. I’m starving. The sound of children’s laughter echoes from another room, and the clink of dishes in a room behind her.
“Welcome,” she says, taking Tate’s two hands and kissing him on the cheek. “Is your mother well?”
I’ve heard a rumor that Flora and Maeve are mates, and this confirms it for me.
“Aye, Maeve, she’s sent her love and says there was no time, but next time she’ll send a tin of her shortbread.”
“Making this granny plump, she is, your mother doesn’t have a scrap of fat on her.”
Tate grins and kisses her cheek.
“Maeve, meet Fran. My lass.”
My lass.
Even as early as a week ago, what I’d have given to be his lass. Now, though… I wonder what the trade-off is.
She gives me a warm embrace, as several women and blokes come out of the dining area.
I hear names, though I recognize no one.
Keenan and Caitlin, a stern bloke a few years older than Tate with gray around his temples but kind green eyes, and his gorgeous black-haired wife.
A red-haired beauty who throws her arms around Lachlan’s neck.
That must be Fiona. And a plump, vibrant brunette who grins at me and waves like we’re long-lost friends.
Megan, she’s called, holding the hand of a stunning bloke with glasses, a McCarthy Clan Superman come to life.
We’re ushered into a large dining room, and I watch as the lasses kiss their children good night and nannies whisk them away.
The room quiets, as we all take our seats, staff wordlessly filling teacups and passing platters of rich, decadent slabs of soda bread and iced tea cakes.
I take one small tea cake, my hunger eaten by nerves, but Tate rolls his eyes and fills a plate until it resembles the platter. He shoves it between us.
“It isn’t often we get to sample the McCarthy’s kitchen,” he says. “Eat up, lass.”
“You do say the most romantic things,” I tell him, liberally buttering a golden scone. I don’t have to be asked twice.
Megan winks at me.
The room quiets as Keenan takes his place at the head of the table. “Tate,” he begins. “Tell us why you’re here.”
Tate clears his throat. I know there’s no time for sugarcoating the truth. I know what’s happened matters now, that we have to protect his sisters, and the safety of the Clan. The scone feels stuck in my throat as he tells them everything.
That I’m the writer.
That my ex-husband betrayed me.
That his last words hinted at Interpol interference.