Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Fiona
T he kitchen smelled of roasted meat, buttered potatoes and brown bread, the scents curling around me like a trap when I walked into the house.
I ran up to take a quick shower and change into more ladylike clothes, but I refused to put on makeup.
I let my wavy hair dry naturally and suffered a look from Mam that clearly said, “Honestly, Fiona, why can’t ye just fall into line?”
But she didn’t insist I go slap on lipstick and instead set me to kneading a fresh batch of dough under her watchful eye.
We had a cook, as any proper horse family of our status did, but tonight, Brigid Conlan had insisted on preparing the meal herself—with my help.
She called it a show of hospitality.
I knew better.
This wasn’t about tradition or kindness.
It was about me.
Or rather, what I could offer as a good Irish wife.
“Mind yer hands, Fi,” Mam chided, not even looking up as she stirred the thick gravy in the pot.
“If ye overwork that, it’ll bake too heavy.”
I exhaled slowly, forcing my fingers to relax.
The dough was warm under my touch, pliant, obedient.
I wish I could be so lucky.
“This is a right dose,” I muttered, keeping my voice just low enough that she could pretend not to hear me if she wanted to.
She sighed but didn’t argue, which said enough.
Instead, she bustled across the vast country kitchen, her apron tied primly at the waist of her modest floral dress, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a neat bun, not a strand out of place.
While she didn’t cook many of our meals, the kitchen was still her domain.
Warm and homey, filled with cast-iron pots, polished copper pans and the faint scent of turf smoke from the range.
I had always loved this room—until right this very moment.
Tonight, it wasn’t a kitchen.
It was a stage.
And I was the prize on display.
Before I could say anything more, my father strode in, instantly changing the vibe from one of sullen acceptance of my fate to feeling like I was traversing on a thin wire.
Seamus Conlan never walked—he arrived, his presence filling every inch of space, even when he didn’t speak.
He cut an imposing figure, sharply dressed in slacks and a crisp button-down, his sleeves rolled just enough to make him look like a man who still worked with his hands, though I knew better.
As the king of Glenhaven, he was a delegator, a procurer and a dictator.
He barely glanced at the meal preparations before giving me a hard stare.
“Behave yerself tonight, Fiona.”
Not a request.
A demand.
I wiped my hands on a cloth and turned to him, raising an eyebrow.
“I always behave.”
Seamus snorted, stepping closer.
“Ye’ll be respectful to the Kavanaghs. I won’t have ye embarrassing me.”
The implication was clear.
He expected me to be pleasant, charming, accommodating.
I was already bristling, but then he added, “If Brian asks ye to go out, ye’ll say yes.”
The words landed like a slap.
I stared at him, heat rising in my chest.
“What?”
“Ye heard me. I have a feelin’ the boy wants to court ye, so ye’ll accept his offer.”
I scoffed, shaking my head, anger burning in me hotly and giving me the courage to stand up to my father.
“That’s ridiculous. It’s 1978. No one courts anyone anymore. And I should have a say in this.”
Da’s face hardened.
“Ye’ll go if he asks and I won’t have ye talking back to me.”
A slow burn of rage crept up my spine.
It wasn’t a suggestion.
It wasn’t even a command.
It was a foregone conclusion.
My father had already decided, just as he had decided everything for me my entire life.
I clenched my fists, my nails pressing into my palms, but I forced myself to keep my voice even.
“And what if I don’t like him?”
A dangerous silence settled between us.
My mother, who had been stirring the gravy, turned the spoon in slow, methodical circles, her lips pressed thin.
Da took a step closer, voice dropping to something colder.
“Learn to like him. Merging our families will make Glenhaven more powerful than any other farm in this country. Ye’ll do as ye’re told, girl. Or ye can leave this house.”
That hit like a punch to the gut.
Not because I didn’t expect it—because I did.
But hearing it out loud, feeling the full force of his control…
it made me sick.
Mam turned then, her hands gripping the wooden spoon a little tighter.
“Seamus…”
Her voice was quiet, a plea rather than a protest.
But her husband didn’t soften.
He simply waited for my obedience.
I swallowed hard, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw ached in my refusal to acquiesce.
His features were stoney and I feared I might get a slap across my face, but then the doorbell rang, slicing through the tension.
My father glared at me—a last warning look before turning on his heel and heading to the door.
I inhaled sharply, pushing my frustration down, smoothing out my expression.
He will not break me.
?
Michael Kavanagh was a rotund man with graying black hair and a belly that spoke of indulgence.
He owned a moderately sized thoroughbred farm in Newbridge and although not a close friend of my father’s, they ran in the same circles.
As the two men enjoyed a pre-dinner drink in the front salon, Mr.
Kavanagh surveyed the space with the air of a man inspecting a fine horse before a purchase.
I stood politely to the side with my sister, Siobhan, and my brother, Paddy, while Brian Kavanagh participated in the conversation.
My mind wandered and I thought about training with Uncle Rory on Sunday at Kildare.
I knew Saturday night I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep as I’d be too excited to hit the course.
My love of steeplechase started when I was young as my family attended many events in the area because our horses competed.
Rory let me ride on Glenhaven’s course whenever we could swing it but getting actual training time at Kildare meant I could race against other riders.
“Miss Fiona,” Michael Kavanaugh said, his voice deep and sure of itself.
I jolted out of my fantasy.
“I see what all the fuss is about. Even prettier than Brian told me.”
His son, who had been ignoring me until now, smiled.
A year older than me, he looked smug and full of himself.
He was tall, well built, with dark hair styled just enough to look effortless, and the unmistakable gleam of a man who had never heard the word no .
All the thoroughbred people knew each other well and I’d known Brian for years, although we hadn’t really talked that much.
I used to be beneath his notice and I wish it had stayed that way, but apparently Glenhaven makes me even prettier.
“Ye flatter me, Mr. Kavanagh,” I said smoothly, keeping my tone polite but distant.
Brian’s looked me over in a way that wasn’t lecherous so much as proprietary and it made me want to kick him in the shins.
“Ye’re the prettiest girl in the county,” he said, as if it were an indisputable fact.
I forced a smile.
“I’m sure many of the girls in Tipperary would disagree.”
Brian chuckled, unbothered.
“Ah, but I don’t care about them now, do I?”
I wanted to mime gagging myself with my index finger, but that was childish and would earn me Da’s wrath, so I just batted my eyelashes and smiled coyly while internally trying to think of something to say that would turn him off.
“Dinner is ready to be served,” my mother said as she entered the salon, her apron gone and her hands clasped serenely, as if she hadn’t just slaved over the meal.
“I hope ye gentlemen enjoy the effort. Fiona did most of it herself.”
Oh, such a lie, but I didn’t call her out.
My mother was a good cook, but I hoped they might get food poisoning somehow and then they’d think I’m not good marriage material.
Mam led us to the dining room, which was set for an elegant meal, the long oak table polished to a high shine, the best china laid out.
My father directed everyone where to sit, putting himself and Mr.
Kavanagh at the ends of the table and me right next to Brian.
He gallantly held out my chair for me, causing Paddy and Siobhan to bust into a quiet fit of giggles.
Dinner was a performance on my part as I ate with delicate bites and acted the demure, obedient daughter.
I listened with great interest as my father tried to impress the Kavanaghs with his plans to expand our empire.
“I’m thinking of starting a breeding operation in Kentucky. Glenhaven is ready to gain a foothold in the American bloodstock market.”
“That’s ambitious,” Mr.
Kavanagh said, although his tone was a little disbelieving.
“And is it really necessary?”
“We already ship our best stallions to the States so that the Americans can breed with our bloodlines. Why not expand there permanently? Glenhaven is ready to take the world stage but it would need the right partners.”
Mr.
Kavanagh’s eyes gleamed with opportunity, and he glanced at me briefly.
Of course, I’d be the tie to bring them into the fold.
“We should talk about this more,” he said from across the table.
“Maybe at the club tomorrow?”
I tuned them out at that point.
The thought that I’d be a part of the conversation about merging the two farms nauseated me.
Brian attempted small talk, of course, but it was boring.
He boasted about his horses, his car, his travels.
I answered politely but gave little away.
He leaned back in his chair, his wineglass swirling lazily in his hand, the flickering candlelight catching the deep red of the liquid.
He was entirely too pleased with himself, basking in the sound of his own voice as he recounted his latest trip abroad.
“It’s a shame ye’ve never been to Paris, Fiona,” he said, casting me a knowing look.
“Ye’d love it. The fashion, the lights, the way the city hums at night—nothing like Ireland.”
I smiled, polite but disinterested.
“Aye, I’m sure it’s lovely, but I don’t think I’d trade the green hills for city lights.”
Brian chuckled, shaking his head like I was some poor, naive farm girl who didn’t know any better.
“Ah, ye’re too attached to this place. There’s a whole world out there, ye know. Ye ought to see it before ye settle down, before ye’re…” He trailed off meaningfully, his stare holding mine in a way that made my skin prickle.
“Tied to the land like the rest of us.”
I stiffened, immediately knowing what he was getting at.
I was offended he thought me unworldly.
My passport was in good working order and I’d traveled to England and Italy with my parents.
I wasn’t a simpleton who couldn’t see past her front door.
“And what makes ye think I’ll be settling down anytime soon?” I asked, keeping my voice light, though my jaw was tight.
Brian smirked, setting his glass down with a soft clink.
“Well, yer da seems to think it’s about time. And ye know how it is—our families, our farms. It’s all about keeping things in the right hands, isn’t it?”
I bristled at his confidence.
He spoke as if my future had already been decided, as if I had no say in it.
“I suppose it’s easy for ye,” I said, arching a brow.
“Ye’ll inherit Kavanagh Stud without question. No one’s pushing ye into anything, are they?”
“Not at all,” Brian admitted, flashing me a grin.
“But that’s because I already know what I want.”
I had the sinking feeling I knew exactly what he was about to say.
“And what is that?” I asked, dreading the answer.
Brian leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make my stomach turn.
“Ye, Fiona.”
I barely kept my expression neutral.
It took every ounce of effort not to respond.
“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” he continued, as if I needed reminding.
“And we both know our families want the same thing. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Makes sense for whom?” I asked, forcing a small laugh to keep the sharpness out of my tone.
“For everyone,” Brian said smoothly.
“For yer family, for mine. For us.”
“Brian—”
“Look,” he interrupted, flashing me an easy smile.
“We don’t have to make a big thing of it. Just a dinner, somewhere nice. I’ll pick ye up in the Porsche, we’ll go to Waterford, maybe find a place with a bit of music. No pressure, no expectations—just us enjoying a night out.”
I hesitated.
Every part of me wanted to say no, to tell him that I had no interest in being part of whatever grand plan he and our fathers had cooked up.
But across the table, my da’s sharp watch burned into me, his expression a silent warning.
Be agreeable, Fiona.
Be obedient.
My hands clenched in my lap beneath the table.
I forced a smile.
“That sounds… lovely.”
Brian’s grin widened.
“Great. Saturday night, then.”
I nodded, though the idea of spending an evening with him made my stomach twist uncomfortably.
Across the table, my da gave a single approving nod before turning his attention back to his conversation with Michael Kavanagh.
I knew what that meant—I had done exactly as expected.
And I hated every second of it.
Once the Kavanaghs left, Siobhan, Paddy and I cleaned up the kitchen and headed up to our respective rooms.
I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling and contemplating how I’d survive a date with a man I didn’t know, didn’t particularly like and was expected to entertain marriage with, when Siobhan came bursting in.
She ran to the bed, rolled over me and came to rest at my side.
She propped her head in her hand and grinned at me.
“Brian is so dreamy.”
I rolled my eyes at my sixteen-year-old sister.
She was very into boys and admittedly, Brian was about as handsome as they came.
“I’m interested in more than just looks.”
“Then it’s a good thing he’s rich too,” she quipped.
Sighing, I turned on my side to face her, resting my head on my pillow.
“I don’t want to date him. I don’t want to date anyone. Da is just trying to marry me off so that their farm will merge with ours.”
Siobhan looked genuinely perplexed.
“Don’t ye want to be married?”
“Sure, and someday I will be. But I want it to be my choice.”
“But Brian is gorgeous and rich. Why wouldn’t that be yer choice?”
I sighed again, this time rolling away from her and off my bed.
I sat down in front of my vanity mirror and stared into it.
“It’s not my choice because Da is making me do it. Ye’re supposed to be with someone for love. Like the way Rory and Kathleen are.”
Siobhan was silent so I turned to look at her, finding her on her back and staring at my ceiling the same way I had been.
“Promise me something,” I said, and her head twisted toward me.
“Never do something ye don’t want to do. Always follow yer dreams.”
“Sounds like ye won’t take yer own advice.”
“Da’s threatened to kick me out of the house if I don’t fall in line.”
Her bow-shaped mouth went slack and she sat up.
“He wouldn’t.”
“He would,” I said bitterly, turning back to face my reflection.
I heard her feet hit the floor and she appeared behind me in the mirror.
Leaning over, she wrapped her arms around me.
“Don’t worry, Fi. Ye won’t have to marry the gobshite, no matter how handsome and rich he is.”
It made me laugh and I leaned my head against her.
“And how do ye know that?”
She grinned, green orbs like mine twinkling with mischief.
“Because if it comes to that, I’ll help ye run.”
I stared at the two of us in the looking glass, hoping we would both be women who ultimately had the fortitude to do what was best for ourselves.