Chapter 5
Patrick O’Malley cursed beneath his breath. The woman he’d been trying to avoid was just rounding the corner of the house near the doorway to the rooftop, his station for the next few hours.
“Mr. O’Malley,” she called out in greeting, setting his teeth on edge as she no doubt intended it to.
“O’Malley,” he corrected for the umpteenth time.
She beamed at him. Did the woman know she tied him in knots every time she smiled in his direction? Was she trying to distract him on purpose? His temper started to percolate…not a good thing.
Deciding to confront the issue once and for all, he bit out, “Are ye tryin’ to get me to toss ye over me shoulder?”
Shock leached the color from her face, but he did not feel remorse for startling the woman. When she did not immediately answer, he prompted, “Well? Are ye?”
Hand to her well-endowed breast, she rasped, “What on earth ever gave you that idea?”
“Ye’re smilin’ at me as if ye’d welcome me in yer arms.”
Color bloomed across the curve of her cheeks. “I did not realize smiling at a man would cause him to think the way you do,” she huffed.
Agitation deepened the color, adding an ethereal glow that captivated him. Her beauty tormented him, kept him awake nights. Her mouth held him in thrall when he should have been sleeping. Her generous curves had him fisting his hands in his hair in a bid to rip it out in frustration when he should be counting sheep. The woman was dangerous to his mind, his job, and his heart.
He was bloody well tired of suffering alone!
Before she had time to react, he hauled her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers in a searing kiss that demanded a response. Surrounded by her scent—sun-warmed honeysuckle, he was soon lost in the lushness of her mouth, the flavor that was uniquely Gwendolyn—a combination of tart cherries and sweet summer berries. The sound of her sigh as she wrapped her arms around his waist and raised up on her toes to capture his lips with soft, sweet kisses of her own packed a punch like a swig from his grandda’s jug of Poitín.
He’d had his first sip of that potent illegal brew when he was but a lad of ten years. Ma had been incensed, but Da and Grandda had understood and deflected the worst of his mother’s anger.
His body reacted swiftly, sharply. Before his hand slid to cup the curve of her backside, his wavering control snapped back into place. Ignoring her rose-tinged lips swollen from his kisses, and the glazed look in her whiskey-hued eyes, he rasped, “I beg yer pardon.”
Before she could collect herself to reply, he’d increased the distance between them, yanked open the door to the rooftop and slammed it shut. Not trusting temptation—hers or his own, he bolted the door behind him.
A few chilly hours spent on top of the roof hadn’t cooled the feeling rioting through him. How was he going to handle the situation? Now that he’d kissed her, he knew he would not soon forget her sumptuous flavor.
“What’s got ye pacing and growling?” Eamon O’Malley demanded, shoving his cousin back against the door to their quarters. “Ye’re acting like ye did the time that golden-eyed witch Saoirse handed yer heart back to ye.”
The anger that had been simmering for the last four hours erupted. He never should have kissed the woman! It hadn’t gotten her out of his system. It planted her firmly in his mind and his heart. Incensed that his plan had backfired, Patrick delivered a right cross that stunned his cousin, followed by the lightning-fast sucker punch that dropped him like a stone.
“Bloody hell!” Flaherty shouted, shoving Patrick out of the way to help their cousin to his feet. “What maggot’s got yer brain on fire now?”
Garahan elbowed his way into the room. “Ye started without me?” Turning to Patrick, he asked, “What’s the wager this time?”
Eamon ignored the sharp pain in his jaw, shifting it side to side, relieved that it wasn’t broken. “Our illustrious cousin’s got himself a woman.”
Garahan stared at Patrick. “Cannot be Mollie. Ye’d never go behind yer brother, Finn’s, back and court his woman.”
Flaherty’s eyes widened. “Francis, then?”
Eamon grunted. “She’s a fair maid to be sure, but she’s been hanging around the stables casting her lures at the farrier whenever he comes to check His Grace’s horses.”
Patrick raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to punch ye, Eamon.”
His cousin grinned at him. “Didn’t ye now?”
Garahan cracked his knuckles.
A silent signal that had Flaherty slipping the rifle off his shoulder, placing it on the bench along the back wall of their quarters.
With a nod the others followed suit.
A heartbeat later they were paired off. “No hitting below the belt,” Eamon warned. “We want to be sure and give our mothers grandsons and granddaughters to spoil.”
Patrick’s grin was quick and deadly. “No gouging of eyes.”
Garahan shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Wagers?”
“Best two out of three falls?” Flaherty suggested.
Eamon tilted his head to one side as the howl of the wind roared past their quarters. He grinned. “Loser take’s me midnight shift atop the roof.”
The cousins stood with fists raised—ready to take on all comers…namely each other. Feet slightly apart, weight distributed evenly as they stood on the balls of their feet, ready to move in any direction.
Garahan slowly smiled. “I’ll take that wager.” His fist clipped the edge of Eamon’s chin as his cousin leaned to the side.
“I’m guessing ye’ll be taking me shift after all, Darby.”
Garahan’s eyes narrowed as he deflected the blow Eamon tried to land to his midsection.
“Ye want to watch?” Flaherty asked Patrick, “or do ye want to take a piece out of me?”
Patrick let his fists do the talking as the two men fought, evading blows, and delivering them.
“Bloody hell!”
Patrick froze as the duke’s comment sluiced over him as if it were a bucket of snow.
Flaherty’s shout of triumph filled the room as he landed a blow that had his cousin’s nose gushing with blood.
“Enough!” the duke commanded. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and folded it before shoving it at Patrick.
Eamon used the sleeve of his coat to wipe the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Garahan used his cuff to stanch the blood from the cut beneath his right eye.
“What in the bloody hell is going on here?”
The rumble of laughter coming from the O’Malleys had the duke straightening to his full height—a good four inches shy of Patrick, the tallest and the oldest of his personal guard, to glare at his men.
“I cannot countenance you shirking your duty to my family, my wife and our babes!”
Taken aback, immediately remorseful, Patrick apologized. “Forgive me, Yer Grace. I wasn’t neglectin’ me duties. As ye know, ‘tis our way of practicin’ while havin’ a family discussion.”
The anger radiating off the duke had Patrick wondering when their sessions beating on one another had become a problem for the duke. It hadn’t been before today. They regularly set aside time to keep their bare knuckle skills sharp. What changed? Had the duke received another threat?
Searching for the words to express the extent of the remorse he felt for letting his employer down—though he knew not the why of it, he did feel the sharp arrow of the duke’s disappointment. He’d given his word. Somehow, he had let the duke down. He needed to find out how and why. The man had taken O’Malley’s brothers and cousins in to do a job that required the skills the O’Malleys, Garahans, and Flahertys had in spades. They were fighting men who came from a long line of men who’d fought to protect and preserve their families, their land, and their freedom for generations. Family discussions always included a bit of a dust-up…practicing their skills.
Blood dripped from the handkerchief he held to his nose, darkening the black of his coat. Patrick’s gut clenched as he reeled with the knowledge that it did not matter what he thought, the man Patrick admired above all others felt he had let them down. It hadn’t been more than twenty minutes that they’d spent pounding on one another, testing their skills, but the result was still the same…His Grace questioned his loyalty—their loyalty.
“It won’t happen again, Yer Grace,” Patrick vowed. “Ye have me word.”
The duke didn’t immediately respond and that, more than words, expressed the depth of his employer’s anger. Had he completely lost the duke’s trust? Would the duke’s anger shift to his brothers and cousins? He had to ask. Had to know!
“I understand if ye think I’ve let ye down, Yer Grace,” Patrick began, “What will it take for ye to let me win yer trust back?”
The men stood quietly with their hands at their sides, faces bruised, bleeding from the battering they’d taken and given—waiting for the duke to speak.
The duke’s blue eyes glittered with unholy light a heartbeat before his fist delivered an uppercut that lifted Patrick O’Malley off his feet and into the wall. Without another word, the duke spun on his heel and strode from the building.
Garahan and Flaherty slipped through the door, watching the duke’s angry strides increase the distance between the guard he’d placed his unswerving trust in toward the family they’d sworn on their lives to protect.
“He’s coming around, lads.” Eamon propped his cousin against the wall where he’d landed.
Patrick came to with a jerk, his eyes unable to focus, his head spinning. Eamon held up one finger—no wait…was it two fingers? Narrowing his eyes, his cousin’s fingers shifted from one to two making his stomach flip over.
“How many fingers do ye see?”
Patrick groaned inwardly, no matter the injury or its severity, whatever number he told his cousin, Eamon’s reply was always the same, close enough.
“One.”
This time though, Eamon’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw stiffened. Not a good sign. “Never thought His Grace had it in him.”
“Didn’t anticipate the blow,” Patrick admitted. “Never saw it comin’.” The ache in his jaw throbbed in time with the pain in his face. It had been some time since he’d suffered from such a blow. O’Malley had a job to do, even if he would no longer have that job a sennight from now.
He had to prove to the duke that his trust in him was not misplaced.
When the others walked back inside, he asked them, “Did His Grace say anything?”
Garahan and Flaherty exchanged a telling look before Flaherty replied, “Not a word.”
“Do ye think he’ll sack us?” Garahan wondered aloud.
Eamon seemed to be considering the ramifications. Rubbing his bruised jaw, he finally replied, “Not right away. He’ll need time to assemble a new guard.”
“We’ve men enough with the lads from the duke’s staff and others from the village.” Patrick struggled to get his feet under him and nearly went down. His cousins rushed to hold him up. “There’s a stable lad and a footman on duty inside and two men from the village guarding the perimeter. How did I let His Grace down?”
Garahan spoke up. “Ye know he relies on ye to handle the rotation of his men, their shifts, and reporting to Coventry and King.”
“Aye. Why then, isn’t it enough that we had men performin’ their duties in our stead?”
Flaherty frowned. “They aren’t ye.”
“He’s never had an issue with me plans or the duty rotation before today…” his voice trailed off as the answer filled his aching head. “The kidnappin’ threat.”
“He’s a man after our hearts, Patrick,” Eamon stated. “He’d die to protect his family. The threat must have him losing sleep in a bid to watch over his precious babes.”
“Aye,” Patrick agreed. “I didn’t think to ask if he needed me to personally stand guard by the nursery.” Anguish slashed through his gut at the knowledge that he should have had the forethought to anticipate the duke’s need. With what had occurred since the duke accepted his title, the attempts on his family, his wife, the family name…Patrick had anticipated the duke’s every need and adjusted his men and their assignments to accommodate the duke.
As of late, he had been so wrapped up in the gut-wrenching beauty of Mrs. Alexander and his reaction to her that he had not been thinking clearly. He’d failed in his duty to the duke. His stomach roiled as the ache in his head and jaw trebled as he came to grips with the knowledge that he would have no choice but to resign.
Before he left, he would install his brother as his replacement. “I need to send a missive to Finn.”
His cousins stared at him, as if they knew what Patrick had in mind. The intensity of their loyalty to family—and to the duke filled him with renewed purpose. They would stay on and see their duty through to the Duke of Wyndmere, no matter if Patrick was at the helm or Finn. Pride and loyalty ran deep in the O’Malley, Garahan, and Flaherty clans. Every one of them had bled protecting the duke and his family.
Resigned to do what his conscience and honor demanded, he announced, “Until Finn arrives to take on me duties, we need to prove to His Grace that it was a mistake—mine, and that it will never happen again—as I won’t be here to make it. Whether or not His Grace sacks us…or forgives us, until then, we have a job to do.”
The men readily agreed. “To yer posts then, and God help the man who shirks his duty. I’ll be tossin’ him from the roof meself.”
“And if it’s ye?” Eamon challenged.
Patrick’s green eyes glittered with unholy light. “I’ll jump.”
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