Chapter 19
Sorcha
Turning over in bed, my legs get tangled in the massive black dressing gown that Ciar wrapped me in when I got out of the bath before collapsing into bed.
I kick out and flop over. I’m too hot, and even though I’m comfortable in this cloud of a bed, I’m sweating.
My hot water bottle is pressed against my back, soothing my muscles, but I pull it away and fling it to the bottom of the bed.
I sit up and shove my hands into my hair.
I’m still in Axl’s room, and I look around in the dark, wondering where everyone went.
Pulling the dressing gown tighter around me, I stand up and cross over to the closed bedroom door.
I open it and peer out, cautious because it’s my default setting.
I don’t hear anything until I make it halfway down the grand staircase.
Muted voices are coming from off the entrance hall, maybe from Axl’s study.
I move down the rest of the steps, my bare feet silent on the thick carpet.
Every muscle screams in protest from the fight, a deep, satisfying ache that’s now being overshadowed by a prickle of unease.
I cross the entrance hall, the marble cool under my feet.
They don’t hear me coming. It’s only when I’m standing in the doorway of the study that I’m noticed.
Firstly, by an older man who looks like he could be Axl’s dad, and then by my guys, who all turn to stare at me like I just grew a second head.
I gulp. “What?” I mumble, pulling the top folds of the dressing gown closer together.
“Ah, Sorcha Gannon, I presume,” the older man says, giving me a slow smile.
“Who wants to know?” I croak, even though it’s obvious by the posh English accent.
“Forgive me,” he says, rising and giving me a slight bow. “Marquess Alexander Edward Rhodes the Fourth.”
“Marquess,” I mutter, my gaze briefly going to Axl.
He smirks.
It’s familiar, grounding. It makes me less nervous, even though I feel like I have walked into a business meeting naked under this gigantic dressing gown.
“Nice to meet you,” I add, giving the Marquess a curtsey. Fucked if I know etiquette when it comes to meeting English nobles.
The Marquess lets out a low chuckle, the sound rich and genuinely amused. “Charming,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Axl, you failed to mention she had manners.”
“She’s full of surprises,” Axl replies, but his eyes are fixed on me, a silent warning in their green depths.
“You should be in bed,” Ciar growls, his intention clear, which is to herd me back upstairs and out of whatever serious conversation I’ve just crashed.
The atmosphere in the study is so thick you could choke on it. This wasn’t some casual chat. “What’s going on?” I ask, my gaze sweeping over their tense faces, from Ciar’s clenched jaw to Cillian’s watchful stillness.
The Marquess’ expression is unreadable, but his eyes are sharp and calculating.
He’s sizing me up. I meet his stare, refusing to be the little girl sent back to her room while the men talk business.
“Your men have something to discuss with you of the utmost importance,” he says.
“I will leave you to it.” He scoops up a stack of old-looking papers from the desk and shoves them into his inside jacket pocket.
With a final, assessing glance in my direction, he sweeps out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality.
I look at my guys and see something new in their eyes.
Something that makes my skin prickle. It’s not just possession anymore. It’s calculation.
“Okay,” I say, my voice a low rasp. “Someone start talking before I start breaking things, starting with your faces.”
Ciar moves first, closing the distance between us. He reaches out, his hand hovering near my face before he seems to think better of it. “It’s about your family, Sorcha. Your history.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “My history? It’s short and shitty. What’s to talk about?”
“Not yours exactly,” Axl says, his voice tight. He gestures to the chair Ciar just vacated. “The Gannons. From a long time ago. He was one of the founding members of St. Bart’s.”
I stare at him, the words not quite connecting. I don’t really give a shit. “And?”
“And he left you something,” Cillian says, his blue eyes intense. “A fuck-ton of something. An entire hidden estate.”
“Hidden from who?”
“Everyone.”
“Even the Gannons?” I ask suspiciously. This is starting to sound like a trap. I shake my head. “Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out.”
Axl sighs, looking every bit the aristocrat his father is, but with a dangerous edge that his dad hides under layers of tailored suits and good manners. “Your ancestor, Ardal Gannon, was a clever bastard,” he starts, his voice even. “He set up a pact with the founding families. Five of them.”
My gaze flicks between the three of them. Ciar is a thundercloud, his jaw tight, watching me like I might bolt. Cillian is just… watching. Always watching.
“Ardal hid the bulk of his fortune,” Axl continues. “Tied it to the college charter. The clause states that the first of his bloodline to legally bind themselves to one of the other founding families inherits the lot.”
The words hang in the air, ridiculous and unbelievable. A hidden fortune. A secret pact. It sounds like something out of a shitty historical novel. “And you expect me to believe this?” I ask, my voice dripping with scorn. “What’s the catch? Because there’s always a fucking catch.”
“The catch is, sunshine, that my dad needs your signature on a marriage certificate.”
“What?” I thunder, rising out of my seat. “Gross! You can all get fucked!”
“That was badly worded,” Axl says, trying not to laugh at my outrage. “A marriage certificate to me.”
“Oh,” I say, calming a fraction. “Oh. Not that it makes it any better. You know how I feel about this. What aren’t you telling me?”
Ciar fills in the details about the Rhodes’s machinations.
Axl adds more to the tale, and I sink back into my seat. “So, it’s me and you, and that will suddenly sprout this executor into unlocking some hoard of treasure?”
“Pretty much,” he says. “So how about it, sunshine? Fancy making history?”