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an heiress.’

      ‘I wait tables.’

      ‘There you go. We’ve both been leading double lives. And now... It seems we’re cousins?’

      ‘You’re not cousins,’ Mrs O’Reilly snapped, but he ignored her.

      ‘We’re not,’ he conceded, focusing only on Jo. ‘Just distant relations. You should be the true heir to this whole place. You’re the only grandchild.’

      ‘She’s illegitimate,’ Mrs O’Reilly snapped and Finn moved a little so his body was firmly between Jo and the housekeeper. What was it with the woman?

      ‘There’s still some hereabouts who judge a child for the actions of its parents,’ he said mildly, ignoring Mrs O’Reilly and continuing to smile down at Jo. ‘But I’m not one of them. According to the lawyer, it seems you’re Lord Conaill’s granddaughter, marriage vows or not.’

      ‘And...and you?’ What was going on? She had the appearance of street-smart. She looked tough. But inside...the image of the trapped fawn stayed.

      ‘My father was the son of the recently deceased Lord Conaill’s cousin,’ Finn told her. He furrowed his brows a little. ‘I think that’s right. I can’t quite get my head around it. So that means my link to you goes back four generations. We’re very distant relatives, but it seems we do share a great-great-grandfather. And the family name.’

      ‘Only because of illegitimacy,’ Mrs O’Reilly snapped.

      Enough. He turned from Jo and faced Mrs O’Reilly square-on. She was little and dumpy and full of righteous indignation. She’d been Lord Conaill’s housekeeper for years. Heaven knew, he needed her if he was to find his way around this pile but right now...

      Right now he was Lord Conaill of Castle Glenconaill, and maybe it was time to assume his rightful role.

      ‘Mrs O’Reilly, I’ll thank you to be civil,’ he said, and if he’d never had reason to be autocratic before he made a good fist of it now. He summoned all his father had told him of previous lords of this place and he mentally lined his ancestors up behind him. ‘Jo’s come all the way from Australia. She’s inherited half of her grandfather’s estate and for now this castle is her home. Her home. I therefore expect you to treat her with the welcome and the respect her position entitles her to. Do I make myself clear?’

      There was a loaded silence. The housekeeper tried glaring but he stayed calmly looking at her, waiting, his face impassive. He was Lord of Glenconaill and she was his housekeeper. It was time she knew it.

      Jo said nothing. Finn didn’t look back at her but he sensed her shiver. If he didn’t get her inside soon she’d freeze to death, he thought, but this moment was too important to rush. He simply stood and gazed down at Mrs O’Reilly and waited for the woman to come to a decision.

      ‘I only...’ she started but he shook his head.

      ‘Simple question. Simple answer. Welcome and respect. Yes or no.’

      ‘Her mother...’

      ‘Yes or no!’

      And finally she cracked. She took a step back but his eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Yes, what?’ It was an autocratic snap. His great-great-grandfather would be proud of him, he thought, and then he thought of his boots and thought: maybe not. But the snap had done what he intended.

      She gave a frustrated little nod, she bobbed a curtsy and finally she answered him as he’d intended.

      ‘Yes, My Lord.’

      * * *

      What was she doing here? If she had to inherit a castle, why couldn’t she have done it from a distance? She could have told the lawyer to put up a For Sale sign, sell it to the highest bidder and send her a cheque for half. Easy.

      Why this insistence that she had to come?

      Actually, it hadn’t been insistence. It had been a strongly worded letter from the lawyer saying decisions about the entire estate had to be made between herself and this unknown sort-of cousin. It had also said the castle contained possessions that had been her mother’s. The lawyer suggested that decisions would be easier to make with her here, and the estate could well afford her airfare to Ireland to make those decisions.

      And it had been like a siren song, calling her...home?

      No, that was dumb. This castle had never been her home. She’d never had a home but it was the only link she had to anyone. She might as well come and have a look, she’d thought.

      But this place was like the bog that surrounded it. The surface was enticing but, underneath, it was a quagmire. The housekeeper’s voice had been laced with malice.

      Was that her mother’s doing? Fiona? Well, maybe invective was to be expected. Maybe malice was deserved.

      What hadn’t been expected was this strong, hunky male standing in the doorway, taking her hand, welcoming her—and then, before her eyes, turning into the Lord of Glenconaill. Just like that. He’d been a solid Good Samaritan who’d pulled her out of the bog. He’d laughed at her—which she hadn’t appreciated, but okay, he might have had reason—and then, suddenly, the warmth was gone and he was every bit a lord. The housekeeper was bobbing a curtsy, for heaven’s sake. What sort of feudal system was this?

      She was well out of her depth. She should get on her bike and leave.

      But she was cold.

      The lawyer had paid for her flight, for two nights’ accommodation in Dublin and for the bike hire—he’d suggested a car or even a driver to meet her, but some things were non-negotiable. Two nights’ accommodation and the bike was the extent of the largesse. The lawyer had assumed she’d spend the rest of her time in the castle, and she hadn’t inherited anything yet. Plus the village had no accommodation and the thought of riding further was unbearable.

      So, even if she’d like to ride off into the sunset, she wasn’t in a position to do it.

      Plus she was really, really cold.

      Finn... Lord of Glenconaill?...was looking at her with eyes that said he saw more than he was letting on. But his gaze was kind again. The aristocratic coldness had disappeared.

      His gaze dropped to the worn stone tiles. There was a puddle forming around her boots.

      ‘I met Miss Conaill down the bog road,’ he said, smiling at her but talking to the housekeeper. ‘There were sheep on the road. Miss Conaill had struck trouble, was off her bike, wet and shaken, and I imagine she’s still shaken.’ He didn’t say she’d been stuck in a bog, Jo thought, and a surge of gratitude made her almost light-headed. ‘I offered to give her a ride but, of course, she didn’t know who I was and I didn’t know who she was. I expect that’s why you’re late, Miss Conaill, and I’m thinking you’re still wet. Mrs O’Reilly, could you run Miss Conaill a hot bath, make sure her bedroom’s warm and leave her be for half an hour? Then there’s roast beef warm in the oven for you.’

      His voice changed a little, and she could hear the return of the aristocrat. There was a firm threat to the housekeeper behind the words. ‘Mrs O’Reilly will look after you, Jo, and she’ll look after you well. When you’re warm and fed, we’ll talk again. Meanwhile, I intend to sit in your grandfather’s study and see if I can start making sense of this pile we seem to have inherited. Mrs O’Reilly, I depend on you to treat Jo with kindness. This is her home.’

      And there was nothing more to be said. The housekeeper took a long breath, gave an uncertain glance up at...her Lord?...and bobbed another curtsy.

      ‘Yes, My Lord.’

      ‘Let’s get your gear inside,’ Finn said. ‘Welcome to Castle Glenconaill, Miss Conaill. Welcome to your inheritance.’

      ‘There’s no need for us to talk again tonight,’ Jo managed. ‘I’ll have a bath

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