Chapter Thirteen #2
Eileen had no idea what to say. She hadn’t punched anyone in a decade—and at the time she’d felt fully justified, because Cormac MacManus had told her she was fat!
As if he sensed there was a deeper meaning for her striking him, he murmured, “If ye’re thinking to stun a man by punching him when he least expects it, ye’ll want to aim lower…much lower.”
His rumble of laughter snapped her back to the present. Desperate not to cry, Eileen shoved away from him. “You broke my heart!”
“And I apologized for it.”
She shook her head. “No, you most definitely did not.”
He reached for her hand, lifted it to his lips, and brushed a kiss to her knuckles. “I let ye clip me jaw. That’s an apology in me book.”
She wrenched her hand free, placed both hands on her hips, and narrowed her eyes. “Let me?”
“Ye know that I did.”
Watching his eyes for a hint at what was going on inside that thick head of his, she realized something. “You weren’t expecting me to hit you.”
He studied her for a long moment before replying, “Faith, ye’re right. I was expecting tears.”
Eileen curled her aching hand into a fist, though it hurt like blazes, and lifted it in front of his face. “Given the choice between weeping and hitting…I’ll—”
Flaherty feinted to the left, and her punch went wide. He called over his shoulder to his brothers, “Did ye see that, lads?”
“Aye, Fenton.” Seamus chuckled and glanced at the men flanking him. “Our brother’s in over his head.”
“Aye,” Rory said. “’Tis clear the lass loves him.”
“She reminds me of Ma,” Dillon added.
Flaherty moved fast for a man who’d recently been declared dead. He captured her arms behind her, so she couldn’t hit him again, and drew her flush against him. “Can ye forgive me, lass? There was no other choice if I were to protect ye.”
Looking up into his battered face, she noticed a dark purple bruise beginning to form on his chin. Her heart settled, and with it her fit of anger. “I’m sorry I punched you. I have no idea what came over me.”
“I warned the lad that my daughter had a temper,” Doonan told the men gathered around the couple.
“We Flahertys always fall for the feisty lasses,” Rory replied.
Dillon grinned at his brother. “When’s the wedding, Fenton?”
Eileen ignored everyone, turning her focus on Flaherty, unsure of what to do now that she’d done the unthinkable—punched the man who, only moments before, was lying in a coffin.
Shame slithered inside of her, settling in her belly.
Her hands started shaking. How could she make him understand it was because she’d thought she’d never see him again…
that she’d lost her one chance at happiness?
Flaherty was quiet long enough that she lifted her gaze to meet his. When their eyes met, he rasped, “Will ye promise not to toss any more punches at me, if I promise to warn ye ahead of time that me wake was a necessary deception?”
She could not help the snort of laughter that bubbled up inside of her at the incongruity of his suggestion. His frown told her he had not been jesting with her, and did not approve of her reaction. She laughed harder. His brothers joined in.
“’Tis a fine wife ye’ll make for our brother,” Seamus said.
“We’re proud to have ye join our family,” Rory added.
“Ye’re just the woman to keep the youngest of us in line,” Dillon told her. “Welcome to the family, lass.”
Flaherty pulled her into his arms. “Me brothers have the right of it. ’Tis a fine wife ye’ll be. The perfect wife for me…as long as ye don’t let yer temper have free rein too often.”
She bit her tongue to keep from telling him that she always had control of her temper…until she didn’t. “There’s a pitcher of water on the table. Let me get you a cup.”
Flaherty snorted. “Yer first duty as me wife will be to learn that I prefer Irish whiskey or poteen if ye’ve got it.”
“Not water?”
“Nay, lass.”
“What do you drink when you’re thirsty?”
He chuckled. “Ale.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “I’d like to propose something to you, Flaherty.”
He eased back to stare at her upturned face. “Fenton.”
“Er…yes, of course, Fenton.”
“What did ye have in mind?”
She brushed the tips of her fingers in an arc around the bruise that grew darker by the moment. She’d have to remember to tell Moira and Siobhan she’d gotten the better of Flaherty, though best not to mention that to Fenton…ever.
“Lass?” he prompted her.
Eileen dropped her hand to her side and gathered her courage. She hoped Flaherty would understand and agree with her. “From this moment forward, I expect the truth from you. No lies, no matter if it is to spare my feelings.”
Flaherty stared at her without speaking. The silence was deafening. Had she pushed him too far?
Finally, he nodded. “I agree. No lies.”
She sighed, then slowly smiled and mimicked his thick Irish brogue, saying, “Truth be told, I’m proud that I snuck a punch in under yer guard.”
His brothers roared with laughter. “Ye’d best marry the lass soon, boy-o!” Seamus said.
“Do not let her slip away,” Rory warned.
“Did O’Malley ask the duke for the special license yet?” Dillon asked.
Flaherty tugged on her hand. As soon as they reached the table, she selected a cup and filled it with ale. Handing it to him, she said, “There’s no whiskey or poteen here, but Da has a bottle of each hidden in our barn.”
He thanked her, lifted the cup, and drained it. “Well then, we’d best be leaving, as I’m in dire need of a glass of the Irish.”
“We’ll make sure Judson and his men don’t escape,” Seamus announced. As he walked past Flaherty, he asked, “How’s yer face?”
“Hurts like the devil. Me wife-to-be has a fine jab.”
“That she does,” the eldest Flaherty agreed. “Ye’ll need to let her practice on taking ye down with a blow to—as ye so eloquently hinted at, but didn’t say—yer manliness.”
When the other brothers agreed, Flaherty’s jaw dropped open. A glance at his bride-to-be had him frowning. Eileen was trying to stifle her laughter with both hands over her mouth.
“’Tisn’t a laughing matter, lass.”
“I suppose it isn’t.” Eileen finally managed to stop laughing. “I could borrow one of the serving platters from the Mermaid’s Glass to put in front of your… Erm, Seamus?” She turned to Flaherty’s eldest brother. “What was it you called it?”
“Manliness.”
“Ah, that’s right. Thank you.” She turned back to Flaherty, but his lips cut off what she had been about to say. As he deepened the kiss, she clung to him. When the kiss ended, her knees were weak, and her heart was pounding.
“Don’t give in to his charm,” Rory warned.
“Else he’ll use it against ye,” Dillon called out.
Flaherty grinned. “Me brothers have the right of it. I’m not against using me charm if it gets me what I’m wanting.” His blue eyes held the promise of desires unknown. In a low, deep voice, he added, “What I’m needing.”
Her entire body tingled at the unspoken promise in his gaze. “I promise not to punch you, unless it is absolutely necessary.”
Flaherty shook his head. “It won’t be.”
“How do you know?” she asked, before admitting, “I was scared.”
Flaherty brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I know.”
How could he know, when he had supposedly already been declared dead? “And angry.”
He rubbed his jaw. “I felt yer anger.”
She sighed. “My heart broke when Da told me you were dead.”
Flaherty tenderly pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’ll fix it, lass.”
He could not truly believe that possible, could he?
When she did not respond, he asked, “Did ye not hear me, lass?”
Her eyes met his. It was there in his tender gaze—the man actually believed he was capable of doing just that.
Flaherty repeated, “I’ll fix it.” Before she could speak, he tenderly placed a knuckle beneath her chin, tilted it up, and brushed a soft kiss to her lips. “Trust me.”
Eileen hesitated. “No more lies?”
“Aye, lass. No more lies.” He kissed the end of her nose, then once more pressed his lips to hers.
Eileen rested her head against his broad chest and sighed. “I’m sorry you’re in pain.”
“Ah, so then ye’re sorry ye hit me?”
She pressed her face into his chest to hide her laughter before answering, truthfully, “Not yet, but I might be later.”
“Faith, I hadn’t expected ye to be sorry…yet. Eileen-lass, ye’re mo chroí.”
She snuggled closer. “And you are mo ghrá, Fenton.”
Doonan beamed at the couple. “Did you hear that? My daughter is his heart, and your brother is her love.”
“Well now, that’s something worth celebrating.” Dillon grinned at Doonan. “I’m thinking ’tis time for a toast.”
Doonan smiled. “Well now, I’ve a bottle of the Irish at home, and”—he nodded to Seamus, Rory, and Dillon—“a special bottle of poteen for just this occasion. Follow me.”
Eileen was lost in the bliss of being held in Flaherty’s arms. The man she’d pulled from the storm-tossed waves. The man she would love for the rest of her life…the other half of her heart, and the rock they would build the foundation of their life on.
They’d been through hell and back—what else could possibly happen?