Saint
Everyone’s asleep when I do my usual rounds. I prefer the yard at dawn. The first light of day has zero chaos.
With seasons changing it’s the kind of wintry morning that gets inside your bones.
My da used to say Black Heath had its own weather and the land held onto the cold longer than anywhere else because it had things worth preserving.
As a kid, I thought he was talking about horses. These days, I’m not so sure.
Pulling the collar of my sherpa lined jacket higher, I wonder if the Harrington girl turned into an icicle overnight.
Last thing I’d need would be the posh princess dying from hypothermia.
I sip the black, strong coffee in my thermos mug and tell myself I’m checking the horses again, but when I walk under the hayloft, I look up. Can’t see much through the cracks, though.
Before I know it, I’m repositioning the ladder under the hatch and climbing, the coffee sloshing.
The moment I look over at her, pretty inky lashes flutter open, her gaze catching my approach. There’s no sign of fear or biting demands from our captive. Just a glare.
I crouch beside the bales she’s huddled on top of, holding out the coffee. “No fancy French lattes around here. This is all ya get.”
She doesn’t move, or even blink.
I wait a beat, two, three. My patience has limits.
“Suit yourself,” I mutter.
But it pisses me off.
I set the mug on the hay beside her head. “Drink it or don’t.”
Still no damn reaction.
Something ugly twists inside me. People do as I say, when I demand it. This childish behavior doesn’t sit well with me. Ungrateful Harrington brat.
I reach for her arm and yank her upright, so the tux jacket slides off her shoulders. She’s lighter than she looks.
The contact burns through the calm I’ve been clinging to. But I also notice how her skin is cold to the touch and how her hard nipples poke at the silk.
I pick up the mug and offer it to her again. “Here.”
Her hands shoot up fast, snatching the mug, and the next second lukewarm coffee is flying. It hits my throat, messes up my jacket, and somehow reaches my clean shirt.
For a heartbeat I just stare at her.
She’s still in that sexy party dress, shiny hair all tangled, expression set to a scowl. Her chin is high, sparkling eyes locked on me, foolishly taunting a reaction.
My jaw works once before a humorless laugh slips out. “Guess the princess doesn’t care for coffee.”
“Coffee, I like,” she says. “Tallons, I hate.”
“You haven’t quite understood the dynamics yet, have ya?”
“Enlighten me, Saint.” Her glare deepens. “You hide me away up here, leave my wrists tied, bring me the dregs of your morning coffee, and I’m supposed to thank you for it?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice flat. “You should. People who challenge me regret it.”
She doesn’t flinch. “So what you’re really saying is that you throw tantrums when someone disagrees with you?”
The corner of my mouth twitches. She’s pushing every button I’ve got, and for the first time in a long time, my steadfast control is tested.
I should walk away and get on with my day. However, I’m still humoring her outburst, coffee soaking through my shirt, pulse ticking.
The dress straps have slipped down her shoulders, her arms are covered in goosebumps and her lips are pale.
I tell myself it’s just an observation or instinct, nothing else. A guy can notice when a prisoner is freezing in his loft. Doesn’t mean I gotta care.
Her wrists are still bound, the rope digging faint grooves into her skin. I could’ve untied her last night, but it was easier than chasing her across the heath in the dark.
I dig out the small knife in my pocket and flip it open. The sound of the blade sliding free has her flinching before she pretends she’s brave.
“Relax,” I mutter. “You might be annoying, but I’m not gonna cut ya up. Unless you give me a reason to.”
Her eyes narrow on me. “You don’t need to threaten me. I know what your family’s capable of. Everyone in Black Heath knows it.”
I crouch in front of her and hook a finger under the rope. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. We’re good people who run legitimate businesses.”
Her pulse jumps beneath my touch, a small, frantic rhythm against my hand.
One clean snick and the fibers part with a soft snap. The knife gleams once in the light and then it’s gone, folded back into my pocket.
She rubs her wrists, red marks visible on her pale skin.
“I’ll bring food and water later,” I say, standing to my full height. “Make yourself comfortable while you’re here.”
She laughs, but it’s far from natural. “I’ll never be comfortable here. And I wouldn’t care if I never saw you again.”
Her lashes flick up, gaze snaring mine. “Send Dane with the food instead. He’s the better-looking pig in the sty.”
That stings more than it should. I couldn’t give a damn what she thinks. But the thought of her fancying my kid brother, that sparks my temper.
I inch closer. “You sure about that?”
She doesn’t move. Just keeps glaring at me like she’s waiting for me to cross the line again.
“Keep your hands and your eyes off my family, Harrington. Do you understand me?”
Her brows pop high. “Oh, really? So you can put your lips on me, but your brothers can’t?”
The way she says it is so mocking and proud, practically daring me to make good on every dark, dirty thought I’ve had since I kissed her.
For a second, my muscles go rigid and my body locks. The worn boards groan under my work boots and the horses shuffle below.
I glance at her lips. Bad idea. Then take in the bare skin on her shoulder. Even worse idea. The memory of how good she‘d tasted flashes up uninvited, and I have to crush it down hard.
“None of us want ya,” I say, stepping back. “I only crossed that line for the good of the cause. Tallons and Harringtons will never see eye to eye, especially after this.”
Her smile falters, just a little, and she shivers. Instinct moves faster than sense. I shrug off my jacket and drop it onto the bales beside her.
“Put it on,” I command. “You freezing to death would complicate things.”
She doesn’t thank me. Of course she doesn’t. Just glares at the jacket like it’s beneath her.
“I’d rather freeze than wear that,” she says, voice all clipped vowels and inherited arrogance.
Pure Harrington brattiness.
I huff out a low rumble that almost passes for a laugh, though I’m far from joyful. That attitude of hers will get her in big trouble.
“What? Not good enough for ya? Not bought from a French boutique or made from the fur of a thousand fucking innocent bunnies?”
Her eyes narrow. “Really? You stick up for rabbits, but you’ll trap a human in your loft?”
I shrug. “Pretty much. They aren’t lyin’, stealin’ Harringtons.”
“That’s rich coming from the man who stole me.”
The truth is, I like the spark that flares when she bites back. It’s controlled fury. Tamed fire. And fuck, I wanna push her till she explodes.
“Anyway, I’d never wear real fur,” she fires back. “I just don’t want future trauma triggers of your horrible scent all over me.”
For a heartbeat I see myself through her eyes with a coffee-stained shirt, workman’s hands, the guy her family considers a threat. A man she’d never accept in her respected, refined world.
“Trust me, Harrington, my scent’s not the thing that’ll haunt ya.”
“Just leave me alone,” she snaps. “If I have to stay here, I’d prefer to not endure you, too.”
I turn away, staring out through the slits in the loft doors. Pale morning light slices across the loose hay scattered across the flooring.
The smell of her floral perfume has almost died, however the faint trace of it still clings to the air. That sweet fragrance doesn’t belong here. But fuck, it’s got my senses fired up.
“Put the jacket on, or I’ll dress ya in it myself,” I tell her. “I’ve got work to do and when I get back, you’d better be making peace with your trauma triggers and have that jacket on your back.”
“I’m not wearing it,” she snaps. “I’d rather freeze.”
“Put the damn jacket on, Harrington,” I warn, voice low. “I don’t have time for games.”
She folds her arms. “Then stop making me part of them.”
Something in me snaps. I cross the space in a few strides, grab the jacket off the hay, and shove it at her. She twists away, still huffing, so my hand closes around her arm, and I yank her closer.
“Stop fighting me,” I grit.
“Stop ordering me to wear your ugly clothes,” she shoots back. “I want nothing from you, Saint.”
We struggle, her pushing against me, the jacket becoming a victim in our war. Every tug drags sherpa and body parts together until the fight isn’t about warmth anymore. It’s about who gives in first.
However, I win by forcing a sleeve up her arm, rotating her on the spot and shoving the other arm in next. While she wriggles like I’ve covered her in chains, I pop the collar to cover her neck.
The motion nudges her chest into mine, her breath coming fast against my throat.
When it’s done, my hands clamp on her shoulders while hers fist my wet shirt.
Her gaze clashes with mine, brave and a dazzling blue-gray. “Happy now?”
I should step back. Instead, I stare at her mouth, and my veins burn red-hot at the thought of sticking my tongue down her throat.
“Ecstatic,” I say finally, and step away before I do something reckless.
She tilts her head. “Run along and check the prison fences. I’m done being around you.”
I shake my head as she perches on the hay, hair a mess, face pale. Even swamped in Sherpa, every inch of her screams of poised wealth, but wearing my big jacket seems to bring out a wildness that suits her even more.
Fuck, she looks hot.
“You’ll have to get used to me,” I say. “You’re in my territory now. Which means you’ll see me again. I guarantee it.”
Her lips part for a quick inhale. “Do you seriously expect me to stay up here without a phone…with nothing to do but sit here and wait for you to bribe my father?”
“That’s exactly what I expect.”
“Does he know I’ve been taken?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He does.”
“So what now?”
I cross my arms, studying her. The answer’s simple.
“Now,” I say slowly, “you wait. You eat what you’re given. You do as you’re told. And if you’re lucky, your old man will sign on the dotted line before the deadline so ya can go home.”
Her eyes narrow. “When’s the deadline?”
“We want the land officially signed over to us in fourteen days.”
Her brow creases. “And what if he doesn’t sign? What will you do with me then?”
“That’s the wrong question.” I step closer.
“Every day your da refuses, I tighten something else. A shipment stalled at the docks. A buyer warned off. A rumor dropped in the right ear. By day fourteen, he won’t just be choosing between you and the land.
He’ll be choosing how much of his empire he wants left standing.
I’ll only let ya leave when I’ve got what I want.
You should hope he puts his blood before his pride. ”
“And if he doesn’t?” she asks, voice a little less certain.
“Oh, he will.” I let a low chuckle break. “Why do you think we took ya from the gala, huh?”
Her confusion flickers.
“Means he can’t brush a Harrington scandal under the carpet,” I go on, every word a slow drip toward her realization. “At this point, no one knows we’ve got ya. So while he’s scrambling to keep his reputation clean, the story writes itself.”
I move to the hatch, ready to leave.
“Maybe I’ll keep it simple,” I say, watching the way her breath stills. “Maybe word gets out that ya came home from France in disgrace. The whole of Paris is whispering stories of the Irish Harrington girl who shacked up with a married man while her father plays respectable.”
She flinches, just a fraction, and I press harder.
“Or maybe you came home because the pregnant wife found out. Maybe she threatened to blackmail your da about your coke addiction, bribe him for a big payout, so you ran. And when ya disappeared, well…”
I give a small shrug. “Everyone assumes the worst. Another spoiled rich girl who went off the rails.”
Her eyes flash, sharp with hate and humiliation. “You wouldn’t.”
“Doesn’t really matter which version people believe. I control the narrative now.”
Her face drains of color.
“And your da? He’d crawl over glass before he’d let the rumors ruin his high society image. That’s why he’ll sign. To save face.”
Fury tightens her pretty features in a way she can’t hide this time. “You’re a lowlife scumbag, Saint.”
I stop at the hatch, one hand on the frame. Streaming daylight slashes across her, lighting her up like a damn angel.
“Maybe,” I say. “But your father built his empire in the same way. You don’t know everything about your old man.”
She tugs the jacket tight to her chest. “I know he has morals.”
I meet her eyes across the distance, something hot and dangerous tightening in my chest.
“Don’t kid yourself,” I bite out. “He’s as ruthless as the rest of us. And deep down you’re just as bad. Your opinion of me is tarnished because of my name.”
“No,” she says, voice trembling as she stands her ground. “My opinion of you is based on fact.”
I smirk. “Fine. So aside from kidnapping ya… What do you really know about me?”
She rises to her bare feet, chin high, all pride and poison. “You’re a con man with a God complex.”
“God complex, huh?” I tilt my head, let the grin cut slow. “Then welcome to my church, princess. Because after the way you kissed me, you’re begging for worship. You just haven’t realized who ya have to pray to yet.”
I put my foot on the ladder. As I climb down, I glance over at the captive who’s wearing my jacket and mutter a curse.
Fuck, nothing good would come from being around her.
I’ll leave feeding her to someone else.