Chapter Four #2
“I’ll see to it that he does. In a village this size, it will have done irreparable damage to the lass’s reputation.
I’ll see that he marries the poor woman.
The duke would have his head, and mine, if me cousin is responsible for causing such a scandal in the village His Grace is trying to rebuild.
The relationship with the good people of St. Ives suffered after the previous duke neglected them to the point that the villagers have taken to smuggling to keep food on their tables and a roof overhead. ”
“We’ll keep watch,” Kelly said.
“And send word to Mollie if you are overlong,” Simpson added.
“Thank ye.” O’Malley bounded down the wooden stairs and strode toward the stables.
“Fecking eedjit!” Before Finn called Flaherty any other names, he recalled how he himself had acted in between the times he was able to get to Wyndmere Hall and spend time with Mollie, the woman he loved, before they married.
’Twas time for the last single man in the guard to find a woman who would put up with him.
He sighed. That might take a while.
The gelding stood saddled and waiting for O’Malley. He thanked the stable lad and walked over to his horse. “Flaherty’s missing.”
The horse lifted his head and snorted loudly.
“Exactly what I think. If he is truly lost, then his arse is where his head should be!” The whinny of agreement took the edge off O’Malley’s anger.
“We’ll start our search for my missing cousin at the Mermaid’s Glass, and hopefully enlist some help combing the cliffs first, then the caves.
We’d best be stopping at the Randy Cock as well. ”
A short while later, O’Malley reined in his horse. He tied him to the post outside of the Mermaid’s Glass, opened the door to the tavern, and stepped inside. Every head turned. Every man stared. His gut churned. “What’s me cousin done this time?”
“Haven’t seen him,” the burly man at the corner table grumbled. O’Malley nodded as he walked toward the bar.
“Last I heard, he was headed out on patrol,” another voice chimed in.
O’Malley squinted in the dim light and frowned.
The tall, thin man was one of Judson’s wreckers.
O’Malley had no use for anyone who would take a life instead of saving one, but would remember what the man said, even as he ignored him and kept walking.
Two more men, one on either side of him—smugglers, not wreckers—mentioned seeing Flaherty near the cliffs last night before the storm increased in intensity.
Had his cousin lost his footing on the cliffs?
Should O’Malley be searching the beach instead?
Unease scraped his gut raw. The ache only added to the worry for his cousin.
Once he found Flaherty, he would deliver a right cross to his chin, or double him over with a punch to the solar plexus.
O’Malley sure as shite hoped his cousin hadn’t fallen off the cliff and broken a leg—or his head.
He nodded to the women standing behind the bar, the Doyle sisters, who worked here alongside Doonan’s daughter.
For the life of him he couldn’t remember if the redhead was Moira or Siobhan.
Flaherty spent more time in the taverns than O’Malley had since marrying Mollie.
Deciding it would never be a good idea to insult any of the smugglers’ daughters, he greeted the redhead first. “Morning, Miss Doyle.” Before she answered, he turned to the blonde. “Morning to ye as well, Miss Doyle.”
The barmaids were attractive enough, but neither were as beautiful as Mollie. He smiled, but instead of the answering smile he expected, they frowned. Not good. He cleared his throat and asked, “Was Flaherty here last night?”
Neither woman answered, though they shared a look that spoke volumes. They knew something! The redhead glared at him, lifted her tray, and stepped around the bar—and him. Frustrated, O’Malley asked the blonde, “Did he stop in at any point during the day?”
She shook her head. Something was definitely wrong. He sensed these two women not only knew something, but they had seen Flaherty. What reason would they have for withholding that information from him? His thoughts immediately went to Judson and his men. Had the women been threatened by the brutes?
“Is there a reason ye cannot speak, or are the both of ye mute?”
The redhead set down a tankard on the table on O’Malley’s right and surprised him by answering, “I choose whom I speak to. I did not feel like answering you.” This sister had to be Moira.
“Well now, that’s honest.” He turned to the blonde. “What about ye?”
She frowned and tossed her braid over her shoulder. “Neither of us would lift a finger after what he said about our friend.”
O’Malley’s heart sank to his feet. “I apologize for whatever me cousin said. He’s not normally given to speaking out of turn.”
“He said a mouthful,” the blonde retorted. “But why would he? He doesn’t even know Eileen!”
“How could he judge her like that?” the redhead added.
“As soon as I find him, I’ll ask—”
“It’s too late, and won’t make a difference now. The die has been cast,” the blonde whispered.
O’Malley knew then that whatever Flaherty had said, he had gone far beyond the pale. “I’ll make certain that he apologizes to Eileen here, in front of witnesses, for whatever he said.”
That had the two women sharing another meaningful glance. The redhead sighed. “I’ve heard that you never break your word.”
“Aye, lass. I’d rather break me right arm.”
“He was here before the storm hit.” She elbowed her sister. “He spoke to you, Siobhan. Tell O’Malley what he said.” Ah, the redhead had just confirmed that she was Moira.
Siobhan hesitated, scanned the room to ensure that no one was listening to their conversation, then whispered, “He was going to the cliffs first—mumbled something about being late meeting someone.”
The hair on the back of O’Malley’s neck stood on end.
Flaherty had been meeting someone, but who?
He rubbed a hand over the faint scar that ringed his neck.
His cousin either hadn’t had time to send word to him, or had decided to take it upon himself to shield O’Malley from whatever he hoped to find out.
When O’Malley found his cousin, they would have it out…
with their fists! O’Malley hadn’t died at the end of that hangman’s noose, as that crooked excise man had intended.
He was alive and in full fighting form. How dare his cousin try to continue to shield him from doing his duties?
Flaherty, along with Coventry’s men and the duke, had rescued him, but not before he had resigned himself to dying to protect the duke—and his wife and their unborn child.
He shook off the memory of the trapdoor opening beneath his feet…
the feel of the noose tightening around his neck as his weight yanked on the rope.
He had sworn to protect and guard the duke and his family with his life, as had his brothers and cousins.
They had been clubbed over the head, stabbed, and shot in the line of duty, but he was the only one who had nearly died at the end of a rope.
When he married Mollie, he’d vowed to protect her with his life.
He had been prepared to die to keep her and the babe sleeping beneath her heart safe.
These last few months, since Mollie had given birth to their daughter, he had noticed his cousin taking more risks, when it had not been necessary. Did Flaherty doubt O’Malley’s ability to perform his duty? Had he somehow given his cousin reason to lose faith in him?
Bloody hell! That shite stopped now! O’Malley would find the bloody eedjit, then demand to know who Flaherty was meeting, and why in God’s name his cousin had kept it from him. As the man in charge at Penwith Tower, if it affected the duke and his family, O’Malley needed to know.
They’d settle this today! He’d know, before night fell, what maggot had eaten its way into Flaherty’s brain. Then, and only then, would he and Flaherty have it out in a no-holds-barred bare-knuckle brawl!
Now that he had an idea of what had transpired last night, O’Malley thanked the women.
“Ye have me word, Flaherty will apologize to Miss Doonan.” With a nod, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the tavern.
When he found Flaherty, it would take all of his control not to beat some sense into him.
Only then would he admit to worrying that his cousin had tripped and fallen off the cliff.
Instead of mounting his horse, he untied the reins and led the animal toward the other tavern, just a short distance away.
Thinking out loud, he grumbled, “At one point along the path, ’tis only a twenty-foot drop to the beach.
If Flaherty landed on his head, he may have been dazed at first, but not too badly injured.
His head’s hard as granite. Not even me Garahan cousins have heads as hard as the Flahertys! ”
After he culled what information he could from the men who frequented the Randy Cock, he would search the cliffs. He stood in front of the tavern and remembered the night they’d put the plans into place to set the snare for Buxton, that bleeding blackguard who…