“I don’t know much of your story, Cait.” I walk to the little kitchenette and spy a kettle. “Anyone for a cuppa?”
I make us cups of tea as Caitlin tells me of her marriage to Keenan.
“I was kept in the lighthouse by my adopted father,” she says. “No one in Ballyhock knew I existed.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, pouring steaming hot water over the tea bags.
“Dead serious,” she says with a smile. “I hadn’t touched a cell phone, watched television, or seen a cello-wrapped snack cake in my life.”
“Or a man,” Maeve says with a laugh.
Caitlin giggles. “Oh, you’ve got that right.”
She regales us with stories of the first year they were wed, how Keenan softened and how she learned to appreciate him.
“And in the end, lass, I can tell you this much. Women want to be loved, don’t they? We want to know we’re the epicenter of someone’s universe, that he’ll do anything to slay our dragons and keep us safe, don’t we?”
“Aye, of course,” I say. I don’t have to give it a second thought. When he holds me to his chest, kisses my forehead, entwines his fingers with mine, he shows me how very much I mean to him.
“And men want to be respected,” Maeve says. “It’s how we show them we love them, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” Caitlin says. “We let them take care of us. Now, granted, I don’t have much experience beyond the walls of our home, and I know it might look very different to a woman not wed to one of these cavemen.”
Maeve laughs out loud. “Don’t I know it.”
“But I know it pleases Keenan very much to take care of me. He listens and respects me as well, but from the very beginning, he knew I’d support him as leader of the Clan.” She pauses, allowing her words to have emphasis. “No matter what that meant.”
No matter what.
I mull over her words. We talk on, drink our tea, and finally cave and make some instant noodles in the little cups, unanimously agreeing we’d give anything for some of the staff’s good food. We distract one another with talk, knowing the ones we love still fight battles outside this door.
When I grow quiet, Maeve reaches a hand to me and squeezes my leg. “He’s a strong lad, isn’t he?” she says. “Never knew a boy like him in his youth. Keenan talked nonstop about his potential as a member of the Clan. He can handle himself and will, lass. Mark my words. He’s a woman to come home to now. And that will make all the difference.
It’s good to be here like this, it’s good to be back home with them. Even in the dark, cool room with just my two friends, talking about their men and their children, their lives and mine, my heart is filled to overflowing.
Sometimes you need to lose nearly everything to appreciate the goodness you already have.Chapter 22LachlanI leave Fiona with reluctance, but know she’s under good protection. No one will hurt her in the fortress of our bunker. She’s much safer there while I do what has to be done.
I return to the McCarthy mansion and go straight to the interrogation room. Tully and Cormac have retrieved our entire guard. Keenan pulls up feed on his phone and mulls it over.
“No one at the gate now, but it’s been locked to anyone returning home until further notice.”
It’s unsettling that the fortress we’ve built’s been compromised.
“We’ll sort this out,” Boner says, uncharacteristically sober as he looks around the room. “We bloody well will.”
Cormac’s taken over interrogation. The fiercest of our number, he knows how to twist the truth out of a man when he needs to.
“Who do you work for?” Cormac asks one of the guards, who looks suitably ashamed as he stares at Cormac.
“No one, sir, we work for the McCarthy family and you know—”
Cormac strikes him so hard and fast, the man’s head snaps back and blood spurts from his nose. “No more lies. You pulled a gun on Lachlan when he asked you to show your ink. Who do you fucking work for?”
The man doesn’t give in easily, but Cormac doesn’t either. When our prisoner hangs his head, both eyes swollen shut and his body sagging from the beating he’s taken, he finally confesses.
“Jay Byrne, Boston,” he says, crying like a baby now. We all watch, prepared for Cormac to put him out of his misery when he’s given his answers. “Said to hurt the women. Paid us to infiltrate your guard.”
Not a fucking rival, then, but a sick old man with a vendetta against us.
“How did you fucking infiltrate?” Carson asks.
“Took them over, one by one,” the man says. “In their sleep. Took their clothes and identities. We were matched by description, facial recognition, and thumbprints modified.”