Chapter Fourteen
Before they had taken three steps outside the great hall, the full impact of what had just occurred set in.
A glance out of the corner of her eye confirmed that she wasn’t dreaming: Flaherty was alive.
Solid and corporeal. A sense of peace washed over her as she stared at her father’s back, and those of the Flaherty brothers.
The group that had been tight as a bowstring inside the great hall seemed relaxed as they mounted their horses and rode toward the village.
In that moment, she realized the warmth of peace was the Lord reminding her he had answered her prayer for a miracle, and she silently thanked Him. Flaherty was not dead!
In the next breath she wondered when her life would return to normal—or would she have to become accustomed to a new way of life?
Even as that thought popped into her head, another entered it as a dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger stalked toward Flaherty with purpose.
What now? She could not discern just by looking at the man if his intentions were bad or good.
Did he pose a threat to Flaherty, to her, or to O’Malley and the others?
Knowing Flaherty’s injuries could be a detriment to his defending them—as well as his stiff-necked pride, his inability to admit he wasn’t at full fighting form—she slipped her arm from his and rushed toward the stranger.
Flaherty tried to stop her, but she was determined not to let anything happen to him, until he had at least more than a day to recover.
She stood in front of the newcomer, noting the breadth and width of the man.
He was built like Flaherty and O’Malley, and it occurred to her that he could be one of the duke’s men she’d heard were dark-haired—the Garahans, she recalled. “Are you one of the duke’s guard, too?”
“I’d have to be addle-brained to join up with the likes of Flaherty, O’Malley, and the Garahans.”
“Oh.” His response surprised her. Who was this man, then? “Forgive me—with your build and the way you were walking toward us, as if you were acquainted with Flaherty, I thought you served with him.”
Flaherty moved to stand beside her. “O’Ghill,” he rumbled. “Haven’t seen ye in an age. What brings ye to Cornwall?”
“Flaherty,” O’Ghill replied.
“Last I heard, ye were rambling with McGreevy and Fitzpatrick,” Flaherty remarked.
O’Ghill grinned. “Well now, it’s been an eventful ramble. I take it ye also heard how I happened to stop in the Borderlands and helped to save Garahan’s wife and then O’Malley’s?”
Eileen did not know Garahan, nor his wife, but she knew O’Malley’s wife. “Mollie?”
O’Ghill smiled down at her. “Nay, not Finn’s wife. Thomas O’Malley’s wife, Caro. Thomas and Ryan Garahan protect Baron and Baroness Summerfield, along with Dillon and his new wife, Phillipa.”
Eileen digested all that O’Ghill was telling her about Flaherty’s family—more than she remembered hearing from Flaherty himself.
Apparently, O’Ghill wasn’t finished. “The baroness is the duke’s sister. They live in Summerfield-on-Eden at Summerfield Chase. Since ye did not ask, and in case ye were wondering, Garahan’s wife is Prudence.”
“Is it nice to meet you, O’Ghill?” She stared at him, waiting to see how he would respond.
He surprised her by snorting with laughter.
“Flaherty, ye’d best be keeping this one.
She’s got the wit, and beauty, to fit right in with the other wives I’ve met.
” O’Ghill stepped closer to Eileen before Flaherty could stop him.
“Ah, lass, ye’ll remember meeting me, and the pleasure it gave ye for years to come. ”
Flaherty growled, and Eileen turned to stare at him. She was about to ask if his headache had returned. She fully expected it to.
Dillon approached them, smiling. “O’Ghill! What brings ye to Penwith Tower? Business or pleasure?”
O’Ghill grinned. “Well now, I wouldn’t be averse to a bit of pleasure, but as it happens, I heard rumblings of trouble brewing in and around the village of St. Ives. As it was me intention to visit with more of me cousins, I thought I’d make a slight detour and pay the two of ye a visit.”
Eileen noticed the camaraderie between O’Ghill and Dillon and was surprised that Fenton hadn’t greeted O’Ghill as warmly as his brother had. “Did you say cousin, Mr. O’Ghill?”
“Aye, lass,” the dark-haired man answered.
“Killian O’Ghill, at yer service. Though I’m more closely related to the Garahans, we O’Ghills are kin to the O’Malleys and Flahertys as well.
” He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles with practiced ease, releasing her hand when Flaherty growled.
“I take it this lovely lass—whom ye have yet to introduce me to—is more than just a friend, eh, Flaherty?” When Flaherty glared at him, O’Ghill chuckled.
“Ah, so that’s the way of it. This vision of loveliness is off-limits. To everyone, or just me?”
“I can speak for myself, Mr. O’Ghill,” Eileen said.
“Can ye now?”
“O’Ghill!”
The way Flaherty said his cousin’s name had her wondering if there was bad blood between the two. She hurried to say, “I’m sure Fenton can attest to the fact that I am not shy about speaking my mind—that is, once he gets past whatever issue the two of you seem to have with one another.”
O’Ghill’s eyes gleamed with merriment. “I’ve no issue with the youngest of the Flahertys.”
She filed that information away and introduced herself. “My name’s Eileen Doonan, and I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. O’Ghill.”
Flaherty slipped his arm around her waist and hauled her to his side. “The lass and I are to marry as soon as the special license arrives.”
O’Ghill shook his head. “I never thought the day would come when the Garahans, O’Malleys, and Flahertys would all be wed! Back home in Ireland, the lot of ye were legends, brawling with yer fists and leaving a trail of broken hearts—”
Flaherty interrupted, “Let’s just leave it at brawling legends.”
“Aye, out of respect for yer lovely bride-to-be.” O’Ghill scanned the area outside of the tower and added, “I’ve picked up some scuttlebutt at the Randy Cock.” He snickered. “Whoever came up with that name must have had more than his share of the drink in him at the time.”
Dillon agreed, then added, “I’ve been in the Mermaid’s Glass—’tis more me style. Ye’ll have to stop in and meet the Doyle sisters.”
“Moira and Siobhan,” Eileen said. “I work there, too.”
Flaherty shook his head at her. “Ye used to work there, lass.”
Eileen slipped out of his hold, crossed her arms in front of her, and frowned. “I still work there.”
“I cannot have ye—”
Dillon interrupted, “Why don’t we continue this conversation somewhere a bit more private?”
Flaherty grunted at his brother, while Eileen shook her head at Dillon. “I have no problem telling anyone who listens that I make my own decisions about my life. I can and will continue to work at the Mermaid’s Glass—until I change my mind!”
“No wife of mine will be pouring ale and fending off advances of men who only have one thing in mind!” Flaherty declared.
“Last I heard,” Eileen replied, “you aren’t married.
” She spun on her heel and walked away from the men.
If she stayed for another minute, she was liable to say something she should regret.
She couldn’t explain why his assumption that she would no longer work at the tavern bothered her so much.
Mayhap because of what Doonan had told him about her.
She’d gone along with her da whenever cargo arrived.
She was adept at keeping the horses quiet.
Although Flaherty couldn’t countenance it, Doonan rarely told her that she couldn’t go.
Her father let her make her own decisions.
*
“Well, don’t just stand there with yer gob hanging open. Shut it, and go after the lass!” When Flaherty didn’t move, O’Ghill swore, “Bollocks! Ye don’t deserve her, if ye don’t apologize to her.”
“But I don’t want—”
“Before ye say another word, brother,” Dillon interrupted, “think first. Eileen’s a strong woman—and a smuggler’s daughter to boot. Has she mentioned going with her da on nights when cargo arrives?”
“Nay, though her da has. Why?”
Dillon held his brother’s gaze. “If Doonan mentioned it to ye, did ye not think that her midnight experiences working with her da would hint at her independent streak?”
When Flaherty found his tongue tied, his brother continued, “The fact that she pulled ye out of the sea in the middle of a storm didn’t have ye thinking that the lass is a very determined woman?”
When Flaherty still hesitated, O’Ghill grumbled, “Ye’re a bleeding eedjit if ye don’t go after her. If ye don’t, I will!”
Flaherty’s blood shot straight to boiling. “Like hell ye will!” He stormed after Eileen. She was already outside the curtain wall by the time he strode under the archway. He could see her in the distance, and called out, “Eileen. Wait!”
She looked over her shoulder at him, then started walking faster. She disappeared from view where the road that led to St. Ives dipped down.
He broke into a run, ignoring the pounding in his skull. Bloody hell, ’twas as if he could feel every stitch put into it all over again! Why hadn’t the lass answered him? She’d said she’d marry him—loved him!
A short distance later, the road curved, and he saw her glance back again. This time, she hiked up her skirts and took off running.
“Oh no ye don’t, ye wee vixen!” Flaherty forgot everything except the overwhelming need to catch up to the lass, sweep her off her feet, and take her somewhere quiet, where they wouldn’t be disturbed.
He planned to have a conversation with her to straighten out her hardheaded notions about who could tell whom what!
Ahead, she stumbled and had to slow down. Flaherty caught up to her, spun her around, and grabbed hold of her upper arms. “What’s got into ye? Why are ye running from me?”