Page 42 of Her Irish Savage

“Your uncle is changing things,” Oona says, pursing her lips. “And not for the better. He’ll be turning your bedroom into an office, he says.”

Of all the petty, manipulative…

She says, “I couldn’t have him taking all your things.”

I hold the box closer, catching a whiff of its clean-smelling wood. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

She stretches a hand up to cup my jaw. “You be a good girl, now.”

“I will,” I lie.

Turning to Patrick, she cocks her head to one side, like a bird on a ledge. “You take care of our girl, Paddy Moran.”

I’m amazed that she calls him by a nickname. I’m even more astonished by his grave tone as he says, “I will, Miz Maguire.”

She harrumphs. “It wasOonawhen ya lived in thedún. It can beOonanow.”

“Oona,” he says meekly.

“Go on now,” she says. “Carry that box for Herself.”

I’m shocked when he takes the cigar box from my hands. He looks like he’s a schoolboy in some black-and-white movie, carrying home an innocent girl’s books.

“Now get her out of here before her uncle decides to work some mischief.” Oona makes a shooing motion, as if she’s frightening off a mouse with her non-existent apron.

“Do you need a ride back to thedún?” Patrick asks courteously.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says. “Go on. Be a good boy, Paddy.”

Obediently, he takes my arm. We’re halfway to the parking lot before I manage to splutter, “Be a good boy, Paddy?”

A smile ghosts his lips.

I can’t let it rest. “When did you live at thedún?”

“Before you were born,” he says. I’m astonished to hear his voice grow wistful as he clarifies his words. “Before I was married.”

“When the hell were you going to tell?—”

Patrick cuts me off, shouldering in front of me before I reach the car.

“I need to talk to Fiona.” The voice beyond Patrick’s broad shoulders is high and nasal, like someone fighting nasty spring allergies.

“Call and make an appointment.” Patrick’s snarl sounds like he’s three seconds shy of ignition. There’s a violence in his words, a savagery like a pickax to the base of my skull.

“I—I don’t have t— time?—”

I’ve finally placed the voice. And Patrick’s bodyguard act is amusing, but I can’t imagine being threatened by anyone who’s reduced to absolute stammering by a few gruff words.

“Down, boy,” I say to my self-appointed protector. I put a hand on Patrick’s arm before I step around the wall of his body.

He scowls, but I’m too busy smothering a laugh to put him in his place.

The man waiting to talk to me is half Patrick’s size. His rumpled brown suit looks like he’s been wearing it for weeks, and a button is missing from his yellowed shirt. Dandruff dusts his shoulders. His smudged eyeglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, causing him to blink like a startled frog. The finger he uses to push them back in place is stained with ink.

It’s something of a miracle that Quentin O’Roark has made it to my father’s funeral. Q is—was—Da’s Quartermaster. He knows where every dollar of the Old Colony’s Crew wealth came from and where every penny is stored. His office is in one of the townhouses across from thedún. I was only there once, on a summer afternoon, when the room easily topped one hundred degrees from the heat of all Q’s computers. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t left the house for years.

“Quentin,” I say, like we stand around chatting on a regular basis. A flash of surprise widens his eyes. I wonder how many other people in the cemetery remember his full name.

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