He held and she had to let him hold. She needed him.

Which was crazy. She didn’t need anyone. She’d made that vow as a ten-year-old, in the fourth or fifth of her endless succession of foster homes. She’d yelled it as her foster mother had tried to explain why she had to move on yet again.

‘It’s okay!’ she’d yelled. ‘I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.’

Her foster mother had cried, but Jo hadn’t. She’d learned never to let herself close enough to cry.

But now she was close, whether she’d willed it or not. Her rescuer was holding her in a grip so strong she couldn’t break it even if she tried. He must be feeling her shaking, she thought, and part of her was despising herself for weakness but most of her was just letting him hold.

He was big and warm and solid, and he wasn’t letting her go. Her face was hard against his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart.

His hand was stroking her head, as he’d stroke an injured animal.

‘Hey, there. You’re safe.’

And before she could even suspect what he intended he’d straightened, reached down and lifted her into his arms.

His Cinderella Heiress
Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARION LENNOX has written more than one hundred romances and is published in over a hundred countries and thirty languages. Her multiple awards include the prestigious US RITA® Award (twice), and the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for ‘a body of work which makes us laugh and teaches us about love’. Marion adores her family, her kayak, her dog and lying on the beach with a book someone else has written. Heaven!

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To Mitzi. My shadow.

Contents

COVER

INTRODUCTION

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

A WOMAN WAS stuck in his bog.

Actually, Finn Conaill wasn’t sure if this land was part of the estate, but even if this wasn’t the property of the new Lord of Glenconaill he could hardly ignore a woman stuck in mud to her thighs.

He pulled off the road, making sure the ground he steered onto was solid.

A motorbike was parked nearby and he assumed it belonged to the woman who was stuck. To the unwary, the bike was on ground that looked like a solid grass verge. She’d been lucky. The wheels had only sunk a couple of inches.

She’d not been so lucky herself. She was a hundred yards from the road, and she looked stuck fast.

‘Stay still,’ he called.

‘Struggling makes me sink deeper.’ Her voice sounded wobbly and tired.

‘Then don’t struggle.’

Of all the idiot tourists... She could have been here all night, he thought, as he picked his way carefully across to her. This road was a little used shortcut across one of County Galway’s vast bogs. The land was a sweep of sodden grasses, dotted with steel-coloured washes of ice-cold water. In the distance he could see the faint outline of Castle Glenconaill, its vast stone walls seemingly merging into the mountains behind it. There’d been a few tough sheep on the road from the village, but here there was nothing.

There was therefore no one but Finn to help.

‘Can you come faster?’ she called and he could hear panic.

‘Only if you want us both stuck. You’re in no danger. I’m coming as fast as I can.’

Though he wouldn’t mind coming faster. He’d told the housekeeper at the castle he’d arrive mid-afternoon and he was late already.

He spent considerable time away from his farm now, researching farming methods, investigating innovative ideas, so he had the staff to take care of the day-to-day farming. He’d been prepared to leave early this morning, with his manager more than ready to take over.

But then Maeve had arrived from Dublin, glamorous, in designer clothes and a low-slung sports car. She looked a million light years away from the woman who’d torn around the farm with him as a kid—who once upon a time he was sure he wanted to spend his life with. After a year apart—she’d asked for twelve months ‘to discover myself before we marry’—what she’d told him this morning had only confirmed what he already knew. Their relationship was over, but she’d been in tears and he owed her enough to listen.

And then, on top of everything else, there’d been trouble lambing. He’d bottle-fed Sadie from birth, she was an integral part of a tiny flock of sheep he was starting to build, and he hadn’t had the heart to leave until she was safely delivered.

Finally he’d tugged on clean trousers, a decent shirt and serviceable boots, and there was an end to his preparation for inheriting title and castle. If the castle didn’t approve, he’d decided, it could find itself another lord.

And now he was about to get muddy, which wasn’t very lordly either.

At least he knew enough of bogland to move slowly, and not get into trouble himself. He knew innocuous grassland often overlaid mud and running water. It could give way at any moment. The only way to tread safely was to look for rocks that were big enough to have withstood centuries of sodden land sucking them down.

After that initial panicked call, the woman was now silent and still, watching him come. The ground around her was a mire, churned. The bog wasn’t so dangerous that it’d suck her down like quicksand, but it was thick and claggy so, once she’d sunk past her knees, to take one step after another back to dry land would have proved impossible.

He was concentrating on his feet and she was concentrating on watching him. Which he appreciated. He had no intention of ending up stuck too.

When he was six feet away he stopped. From here the ground was a churned mess. A man needed to think before going further.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said.

He nodded, still assessing.

She sounded Australian, he thought, and she was young, or youngish, maybe in her mid to late twenties. Her body was lithe, neat and trim. She had short cropped, burnt-red curls. Wide green eyes were framed by long dark lashes. Her face was spattered with freckles and smeared with mud; eyeliner and mascara were smudged down her face. She had a couple of piercings in one ear and four in the other.

She was wearing full biker gear, black, black and black, and she was gazing up at him almost defiantly. Her thanks had seemed forced—like I know I’ve been stupid but I defy you to tell me I am.

His lips twitched a little. He could tell her anything he liked—she was in no position to argue.

‘You decided to take a stroll?’ he asked, taking time to assess the ground around her.

‘I read about this place on the Internet.’ Still he could hear the defiance. Plus the accent. With those drawn-out vowels, she had to be Australian. ‘It said this district was famous for its quaking bogs but they weren’t dangerous. I asked in the village and the guy I asked said the same. He said if you found a soft part, you could jump up and down and it bounced. So I did.’

His brows lifted. ‘Until it gave way?’

‘The Internet didn’t say anything about sinking. Neither did the guy I asked.’

‘I’d imagine whoever you asked assumed you’d be with someone. This place is safe enough if you’re with a friend who can tug you out before you get stuck.’

‘I was on my bike. He knew I was alone.’

‘Then he’d be trying to be helpful.’ Finn was looking at the churned-up mud around her, figuring how stuck she truly was. ‘He wouldn’t be wanting to disappoint you. Folk around here are like that.’

‘Very helpful!’ She glowered some more. ‘Stupid bog.’

‘It’s a bit hard to sue a bog, though,’ he said gently. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll fetch planks from the truck. There’s no way I’ll get you out otherwise. I’ve no wish to be joining you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said again, and once more it was as if the words were forced out of her. She was independent, he thought. And feisty. He could see anger and frustration—and also fury that she was dependent on his help.

She was also cold. He could hear it in the quaver in her voice, and by the shudders and chattering teeth she was trying to disguise. Cold and scared? But she wasn’t letting on.

‘Hold on then,’ he said. ‘I’ll not be long. Don’t go anywhere.’

She clamped her lips tight and he just knew the effort it was taking her not to swear.

* * *

To say Jo Conaill was feeling stupid would be an understatement. Jo—Josephine on her birth certificate but nowhere else—was feeling as if the ground had been pulled from under her. Which maybe it had.

Of all the dumb things to do...

She’d landed in Dublin two nights ago, spent twenty-four hours fighting off jet lag after the flight from Sydney, then hired a bike and set off.

It was the first time she’d ever been out of Australia and she was in Ireland. Ireland! She didn’t feel the least bit Irish, but her surname was Irish and every time she looked in the mirror she felt Irish. Her name and her looks were her only connection to this place, but then, Jo had very few connections to anything. Or anyone.

She was kind of excited to be here.

She’d read about this place before she came—of course she had. Ireland’s bogs were legion. They were massive, mysterious graveyards of ancient forests, holding treasures from thousands of years ago. On the Internet they’d seemed rain-swept, misty and beautiful.

On her lunch break, working as a waitress in a busy café on Sydney Harbour, she’d watched a You Tube clip of a couple walking across a bog just like this. They’d been jumping up and down, making each other bounce on the spongy surface.

Jumping on the bogs of Galway. She’d thought maybe she could.

And here she was. The map had shown her this road, describing the country as a magnificent example of undisturbed bog. The weather had been perfect. The bog looked amazing, stretching almost to the horizon on either side of her bike. Spongy. Bouncy. And she wasn’t stupid. She had stopped to ask a local and she’d been reassured.

So she’d jumped, just a little at first and then venturing further from the road to get a better bounce. And then the surface had given way and she’d sunk to her knees. She’d struggled for half an hour until she was stuck to her thighs. Then she’d resigned herself to sit like a dummy and wait for rescue.

So here she was, totally dependent on a guy who had the temerity to laugh. Okay, he hadn’t laughed out loud but she’d seen his lips twitch. She knew a laugh when she saw one.

At least he seemed...solid. Built for rescuing women from bogs? He was large, six-two or -three, muscular, lean and tanned, with a strongly boned face. He was wearing moleskin trousers and a khaki shirt, open-necked, his sleeves rolled above the elbows to reveal brawny arms.

He was actually, decidedly gorgeous, she conceded. Definitely eye candy. In a different situation she might even have paused to enjoy. He had the weathered face and arms of a farmer. His hair was a deep brown with just a hint of copper—a nod to the same Irish heritage she had? It was wavy but cropped short and serviceable. His deep green eyes had crease lines at the edges—from exposure to weather?

Or from laughter.

Probably from laughter, she decided. His eyes were laughing now.

Eye candy or not, she was practically gritting her chattering teeth as she waited for him. She was totally dependent on a stranger. She, Jo Conaill, who was dependent on nobody.

He was heading back, carrying a couple of short planks, moving faster now he’d assessed the ground. His boots were heavy and serviceable. Stained from years of work on the land?

‘I have a bull who keeps getting himself bogged near the water troughs,’ he said idly, almost as if he was talking to himself and not her. ‘If these planks can get Horace out, they’ll work for you. That is if you don’t weigh more than a couple of hundred pounds.’

Laughter was making his green eyes glint. His smile, though, was kind.

She didn’t want kind. She wanted to be out of here.

‘Don’t try and move until they’re in place,’ he told her. ‘Horace always messes that up. First sign of the planks and he’s all for digging himself in deeper.’

‘You’re comparing me to a bull?’

He’d stooped to set the planks in place. Now he sat back on his heels and looked at her. Really looked. His gaze raked her, from the top of her dishevelled head to where her leather-clad legs disappeared into the mud.

The twinkle deepened.

‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, indeed. I’ll not compare you to a bull.’

And he chuckled.

If she could, she’d have closed her eyes and drummed her heels. Instead, she had to manage a weak smile. She had to wait. She was totally in this man’s hands and she didn’t like it one bit.

It was her own fault. She’d put herself in a position of dependence and she depended on nobody.

Except this man.

‘So what do they call you?’ He was manoeuvring the planks, checking the ground under them, setting them up so each had a small amount of rock underneath to make them secure. He was working as if he had all the time in the world. As if she did.

She didn’t. She was late.

She was late and covered in bog.

‘What would who call me?’ she snapped.

‘Your Mam and Daddy?’

As if. ‘Jo,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Just Jo?’

‘Just Jo.’ She glared.

‘Then I’m Finn,’ he said, ignoring her glare. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Just Jo.’ He straightened, putting his weight on the planks, seeing how far they sank. He was acting as if he pulled people out of bogs all the time.

No. He pulled bulls out of bogs, she thought, and that was what she felt like. A stupid, bog-stuck bovine.

‘You’re Australian?’

‘Yes,’ she said through gritted teeth, and he nodded as if Australians stuck in bogs were something he might have expected.

‘Just admiring the view, were we?’ The laughter was still in his voice, an undercurrent to his rich Irish brogue, and it was a huge effort to stop her teeth from grinding in frustration. Except they were too busy chattering.

‘I’m admiring the frogs,’ she managed. ‘There are frogs in here. All sorts.’

He smiled, still testing the planks, but his smile said he approved of her attempt to join him in humour.

‘Fond of frogs?’

‘I’ve counted eight since I’ve been stuck.’

He grinned. ‘I’m thinking that’s better than counting sheep. If you’d nodded off I might not have seen you from the road.’ He stood back, surveyed her, surveyed his planks and then put a boot on each end of the first plank and started walking. The end of the planks were a foot from her. He went about two-thirds along, then stopped and crouched. And held out his hands.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Put your hands in mine. Hold fast. Then don’t struggle, just let yourself relax and let me pull.’

‘I can...’

‘You can’t do anything,’ he told her. ‘If you struggle you’ll make things harder. You can wiggle your toes if you like; that’ll help with the suction, but don’t try and pull out. If you were Horace I’d be putting a chain under you but Horace isn’t good at following orders. If you stay limp like a good girl, we’ll have you out of here in no time.’

Like a good girl. The patronising toerag...

He was saving her. What was she doing resenting it? Anger was totally inappropriate. But then, she had been stuck for almost an hour, growing more and more furious with herself. She’d also been more than a little bit frightened by the time he’d arrived. And cold. Reaction was setting in and she was fighting really hard to hold her temper in check.

‘Where’s a good wall to kick when you need it?’ Finn asked and she blinked.

‘Pardon?’

‘I’d be furious too, if I were you. The worst thing in the world is to want to kick and all you have to kick is yourself.’

She blinked. Laughter and empathy too? ‘S...sorry.’

‘That’s okay. Horace gets tetchy when he gets stuck, so I’d imagine you’re the same. Hands—put ’em in mine and hold.’

‘They’re covered in mud. You won’t be able to hold me.’

‘Try me,’ he said and held out his hands and waited for her to put hers in his.

It felt wrong. To hold this guy’s hands and let her pull... Jo Conaill spent her life avoiding dependence on anyone or anything.

What choice did she have? She put out her hands and held.

His hands were broad and toughened from manual work. She’d guessed he was a farmer, and his hands said she was right. He manoeuvred his fingers to gain maximum hold and she could feel the strength of him. But he was wincing.

‘You’re icy. How long have you been here?’

‘About an hour.’

‘Is that right?’ He was shifting his grip, trying for maximum hold. ‘Am I the first to come along? Is this road so deserted, then?’

‘You’re not a local?’

‘I’m not.’ He was starting to take her weight, sitting back on his heels and leaning backward. Edging back as the planks started to tilt.

The temptation to struggle was almost irresistible but she knew it wouldn’t help. She forced herself to stay limp.

Channel Horace, she told herself.

‘Good girl,’ Finn said approvingly and she thought: What—did the guy have the capacity to read minds?

He wasn’t pulling hard. He was simply letting his weight tug her forward, shifting only to ease the balance of the planks. But his hold was implacable, a steady, relentless pull, and finally she felt the squelch as the mud eased its grip. She felt her feet start to lift. At last.

He still wasn’t moving fast. His tug was slow and steady, an inch at a time. He was acting as if he had all the time in the world.

‘So I’m not a local,’ he said idly, as if they were engaged in casual chat, not part of a chain where half the chain was stuck in mud. ‘But I’m closer to home than you are.’

He manoeuvred himself back a little without lessening his grip. He was trying not to lurch back, she realised. If he pulled hard, they both risked being sprawled off the planks, with every chance of being stuck again.

He had had experience in this. With Horace.

‘Horace is heavier than you,’ he said.

‘Thanks. Did you say...two hundred pounds?’

‘I did, and I’m thinking you’re not a sliver over a hundred and ninety. That’s with mud attached,’ he added kindly. ‘What part of Australia do you come from?’

‘S... Sydney.’ Sometimes.

‘I’ve seen pictures.’ Once more he stopped and readjusted. ‘Nice Opera House.’

‘Yeah.’ It was hard to get her voice to work. He’d released her hands so he could shift forward and hold her under her arms. Once more he was squatting and tugging but now she was closer to him. Much closer. She could feel the strength of him, the size. She could feel the warmth of his chest against her face. The feeling was...weird. She wanted to sink against him. She wanted to struggle.

Sinking won.

‘We...we have great beaches too,’ she managed and was inordinately proud of herself for getting the words out.

‘What, no mud?’

‘No mud.’

‘Excellent. Okay, sweetheart, we’re nearly there. Just relax and let me do the work.’

He had her firmly under the arms and he was leaning back as she forced herself to relax against him. To let him hold her...

The feeling was indescribable—and it worked!

For finally the mud released its grip. Even then, though, he was still in control. He had her tight, hauling her up and back so that she was kneeling on the planks with him, but she wasn’t released. He was holding her hard against him, and for a moment she had no choice but to stay exactly where she was.

She’d been stuck in mud for an hour. She was bone-chillingly cold, and she’d been badly frightened. Almost as soon as the mud released her she started to shake.

If he didn’t hold her she could have fallen right off the planks. No, she would have fallen. She felt light-headed and a bit sick.

He held and she had to let him hold. She needed him.

Which was crazy. She didn’t need anyone. She’d made that vow as a ten-year-old, in the fourth or fifth of her endless succession of foster homes. She’d yelled it as her foster mother had tried to explain why she had to move on yet again.

‘It’s okay,’ she’d yelled. ‘I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.’

Her foster mother had cried but Jo hadn’t. She’d learned to never let herself close enough to cry.

But now she was close, whether she willed it or not. Her rescuer was holding her in a grip so strong she couldn’t break it even if she tried. He must be feeling her shaking, she thought, and part of her was despising herself for being weak but most of her was just letting him hold.

He was big and warm and solid, and he wasn’t letting her go. Her face was hard against his chest. She could feel the beating of his heart.

His hand was stroking her head, as he’d stroke an injured animal. ‘Hey there. You’re safe. The nasty bog’s let you go. A nice hot bath and you’ll be right back to yourself again. You’re safe, girl. Safe.’

She hadn’t been unsafe, she thought almost hysterically, and then she thought maybe she had been. If he hadn’t come... Hypothermia was a killer. She could have become one of those bog bodies she’d read about, found immaculately preserved from a thousand years ago. They’d have put her in a museum and marvelled at her beloved bike leathers...

‘There was never a chance of it,’ Finn murmured into her hair and his words shocked her into reaction.

‘What?’

‘Freezing to your death out here. There’s sheep wandering these bogs. I’m thinking a farmer’ll come out and check them morn and night. If I hadn’t come along, he would have.’

‘But if you’re not...if you’re not local, how do you know?’ she demanded.

‘Because the sheep I passed a way back look well cared for, and you don’t get healthy sheep without a decent shepherd. You were never in real danger.’ He released her a little, but his hands still held her shoulders in case she swayed. ‘Do you think you can make it back to the road?’

And then he frowned, looking down at her. ‘You’re still shaking. We don’t want you falling into the mud again. Well, this is something I wouldn’t be doing with Horace.’

And, before she could even suspect what he intended, he’d straightened, reached down and lifted her into his arms, then turned towards the road.

She froze.

She was close to actually freezing. From her thighs down, she was soaking. She’d been hauled up out of the mud, into this man’s arms, and he was carrying her across the bog as if she weighed little more than a sack of flour.

She was powerless, and the lifelong sense of panic rose and threatened to drown her.

She wanted to scream, to kick, to make him dump her, even if it meant she sank into the bog again. She couldn’t do anything. She just...froze.

But then, well before they reached the road, he was setting her down carefully on a patch of bare rock so there was no chance she’d pitch into the mud. But he didn’t let her go. He put his hands on her shoulders and twisted her to face him.

‘Problem?’

‘I...no.’

‘You were forgetting to breathe,’ he said, quite gently. ‘Breathing’s important. I’m not a medical man, but I’d say breathing’s even more important than reaching solid ground.’

Had her intake of breath been so dramatic that he’d heard it—that he’d felt it? She felt ashamed and silly, and more than a little small.

‘You’re safe,’ he repeated, still with that same gentleness. ‘I’m a farmer. I’ve just finished helping a ewe with a difficult lambing. Helping creatures is what I do for a living. I won’t hurt you. I’ll clean the muck off you as best I can, then put your bike in the back of my truck and drive you to wherever you can get yourself a hot shower and a warm bed for the night.’

And that was enough to make her pull herself together. She’d been a wimp, an idiot, an absolute dope, and here she was, making things worse. This man was a Good Samaritan. Yeah, well, she’d had plenty of them in her life, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t be grateful. He didn’t need her stupid baggage and he was helping her. Plus he was gorgeous. That shouldn’t make a difference but she’d be an idiot not to be aware of it. She made a massive effort, took a few deep breaths and tugged her dignity around her like a shield.

‘Thank you,’ she managed, tilting her face until she met his gaze full-on. Maybe that was a mistake. Green eyes met green eyes and something flickered in the pit of her stomach. He was looking at her with compassion but also...something else? There were all sorts of emotions flickering behind those eyes of his. Yes, compassion, and also laughter, but also...empathy? Understanding?

As if he understood what had caused her to fear.

Whatever, she didn’t like it. He might be gorgeous. He might have saved her, but she needed to be out of here.

‘I can take care of myself from here,’ she managed. ‘If you just walk across to the road, I’ll follow in your footsteps.’

‘Take my hand,’ he said, still with that strange tinge of understanding that was deeply unsettling. ‘You’re shaky and if you fall that’s time wasted for both of us.’

It was reasonable. It even made sense but only she knew how hard it was to place her hand in his and let him lead her back to the road. But he didn’t look at her again. He watched the ground, took careful steps then turned and watched her feet, making sure her feet did exactly the same.

Her feet felt numb, but the leathers and biker boots had insulated her a little. She’d be back to normal in no time, she thought, and finally they stepped onto the glorious solid road and she felt like bending down and kissing it.

Stupid bogs. The Irish could keep them.

Wasn’t she Irish? Maybe she’d disinherit that part of her.

‘Where can I take you?’ Finn was saying and she stared down at her legs, at the thick, oozing mud, and then she looked at her bike and she made a decision.

‘Nowhere. I’m fine.’ She forced herself to look up at him, meeting his gaze straight on. ‘Honest. I’m wet and I’m dirty but I don’t have far to go. This mud will come off in a trice.’

‘You’re too shaken to ride.’

‘I was too shaken to ride,’ she admitted. ‘But now I’m free I’m not shaking at all.’ And it was true. Jo Conaill was back in charge of herself again and she wasn’t about to let go. ‘Thank you so much for coming to my rescue. I’m sorry I’ve made you muddy too.’

‘Not very muddy,’ he said and smiled, a lazy, crooked smile that she didn’t quite get. It made her feel a bit...melting. Out of control again? She didn’t like it.

And then she noticed his feet. His boots were still clean. Clean! He’d hauled her out of the bog and, apart from a few smears of mud where he’d held her, and the fact that his hands were muddy, he didn’t have a stain on him.

‘How did you do that?’ she breathed and his smile intensified. ‘How did you stay almost clean?’

‘I told you. I’m an old hand at pulling creatures out of trouble. Now, if you were a lamb I’d take you home, rub you down and put you by the firestove for a few hours. Are you sure I can’t do that for you?’

And suddenly, crazily, she wanted to say yes. She was still freezing. She was still shaking inside. She could have this man take her wherever he was going and put her by his fireside. Part of her wanted just that.

Um...not. She was Jo Conaill and she didn’t accept help. Well, okay, sometimes she had to, like when she was dumb enough to try jumping on bogs, but enough. She’d passed a village a few miles back. She could head back there, beg a wash at the pub and then keep on going.

As she always kept going.

‘Thank you, no,’ she managed and bent and wiped her mud-smeared hands on the grass. Then she finished the job by drying them on the inside of her jacket. She gave him a determined nod, then snagged her helmet from the back of her bike. She shoved it onto her head, clicked the strap closed—only she knew what an effort it was to make her numb fingers work—and then hauled the handles of her bike around.

The bike was heavy. The shakiness of her legs wouldn’t quite support...

But there he was, putting her firmly aside, hauling her bike around so it was facing the village. ‘That’s what you want?’

‘I...yes.’

‘You’re really not going far?’

‘N... No. Just to the village.’

‘Are you sure you’ll be fine?’

‘I’m sure,’ she managed and hit the ignition and her bike roared into unsociable life. ‘Thank you,’ she said again over its roar. ‘If I can ever do anything for you...’

‘Where will I find you?’ he asked and she tried a grin.

‘On the road,’ she said. ‘Look for Jo.’

And she gave him a wave with all the insouciance she could muster and roared off into the distance.

CHAPTER TWO

AS CASTLES WENT, it seemed a very grand castle. But then, Finn hadn’t seen the inside of many castles.

Mrs O’Reilly, a little, round woman with tired eyes and capable, worn hands, bustled into the dining room and placed his dinner before him. It was a grand dinner too, roast beef with vegetables and a rich gravy, redolent of red wine and fried onions. It was a dinner almost fit for...a lord?

‘There you are, My Lord,’ the housekeeper said and beamed as she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. ‘Eh, but it’s grand to have you here at last.’

But Finn wasn’t feeling grand. He was feeling weird.

My Lord. It was his title. He’d get rid of it, he decided. Once the castle was sold he didn’t need to use it. He wasn’t sure if he could ever officially abandon it but the knowledge of its existence could stay in the attic at the farm, along with other family relics. Maybe his great-great-great-grandson would like to use it. That was, if there ever was a great-great-great-grandson.

He thought suddenly of Maeve. Would she have liked to be My Lady? Who knew? He was starting to accept that he’d never known Maeve at all. Loyalty, habit, affection—he’d thought they were the basis for a marriage. But over the last twelve months, as he’d thrown himself into improving the farm, looking at new horizons himself, he’d realised it was no basis at all.

But Maeve’s father would have liked this, he thought, staring around the great, grand dining room with a carefully neutral expression. He didn’t want to hurt the housekeeper’s feelings, but dining alone at a table that could fit twenty, on fine china, with silver that spoke of centuries of use, the family crest emblazoned on every piece, with a vast silver epergne holding pride of place in the centre of the shining mahogany of the table... Well, it wasn’t exactly his style.

He had a good wooden table back at his farm. It was big enough for a man to have his computer and bookwork at one end and his dinner at the other. A man didn’t need a desk with that kind of table, and he liked it that way.

But this was his heritage. His. He gazed out at the sheep grazing in the distance, at the land stretching to the mountains beyond, and he felt a stir of something within that was almost primeval.

This was Irish land, a part of his family. His side of the family had been considered of no import for generations but still...some part of him felt a tug that was almost like the sensation of coming home. Finn was one of six brothers. His five siblings had left their impoverished farm as soon as they could manage. They were now scattered across the globe but, apart from trips to the States to check livestock lines, or attending conferences to investigate the latest in farming techniques, Finn had never wanted to leave. Over the years he’d built the small family plot into something he could be proud of.

But now, this place...why did it feel as if it was part of him?

There was a crazy thought.

‘Is everything as you wish?’ Mrs O’Reilly asked anxiously.

He looked at her worried face and he gazed around and thought how much work must have gone into keeping this room perfect. How could one woman do it?

‘It’s grand,’ he told her, and took a mouthful of the truly excellent beef. ‘Wonderful.’

‘I’m pleased. If there’s anything else...’

‘There isn’t.’

‘I don’t know where the woman is. The lawyer said mid-afternoon...’

He still wasn’t quite sure who the woman was. Details from the lawyers had been sparse, to say the least. ‘The lawyer said you’d be expecting me mid-afternoon too,’ he said mildly, attacking a bit more of his beef. Yeah, the epergne was off-putting—were they tigers?—but this was excellent food. ‘Things happen.’

‘Well,’ the woman said with sudden asperity, ‘she’s Fiona’s child. We could expect anything.’

‘You realise I don’t know anything about her. I don’t even know who Fiona is,’ he told her and the housekeeper narrowed her eyes, as if asking, How could he not know? Her look said the whole world should know, and be shocked as well.

‘Fiona was Lord Conaill’s only child,’ she said tersely. ‘His Lady died in childbirth. Fiona was a daughter when he wanted a son, but he gave her whatever she wanted. This would have been a cold place for a child and you can forgive a lot through upbringing, but Fiona had her chances and she never took them. She ran with a wild lot and there was nothing she wanted more than to shock her father. And us... The way she treated the servants... Dirt, we were. She ran through her father’s money like it was water, entertaining her no-good friends, having parties, making this place a mess, but His Lordship would disappear to his club in Dublin rather than stop her. She was a spoiled child and then a selfish woman. There were one too many parties, though. She died of a drug overdose ten years ago, with only His Lordship to mourn her passing.’

‘And her child?’

‘Lord Conaill would hardly talk of her,’ she said primly. ‘For his daughter to have a child out of wedlock... Eh, it must have hurt. Fiona threw it in his face over and over, but still he kept silent. But then he wouldn’t talk about you either and you were his heir. Is there anything else you’ll be needing?’

‘No, thank you,’ Finn said. ‘Are you not eating?’

‘In the kitchen, My Lord,’ she said primly. ‘It’s not my place to be eating here. I’ll be keeping another dinner hot for the woman, just in case, but if she’s like her mother we may never hear.’

And she left him to his roast beef.

For a while the meal took his attention—a man who normally cooked for himself was never one to be ignoring good food—but when it was finished he was left staring down the shining surface of the ostentatious table, at the pouncing tigers on the epergne, at his future.

What to do with this place?

Sell it? Why not?

The inheritance had come out of the blue. Selling it would mean he could buy the farms bordering his, and the country down south was richer than here. He was already successful but the input of this amount of money could make him one of the biggest primary producers in Ireland.

The prospect should make him feel on top of the world. Instead, he sat at the great, grand dining table and felt...empty. Weird.

He thought of Maeve and he wondered if this amount of money would have made a difference.

It wouldn’t. He knew it now. His life had been one of loyalty—eldest son of impoverished farmers, loyal to his parents, to his siblings, to his farm. And to Maeve.

He’d spent twelve months realising loyalty was no basis for marriage.

He thought suddenly of the woman he’d pulled out of the bog. He hoped she’d be safe and dry by now. He had a sudden vision of her, bathed and warmed, ensconced in a cosy pub by a fire, maybe with a decent pie and a pint of Guinness.

He’d like to be there, he thought. Inheritance or not, right now maybe he’d rather be with her than in a castle.

Or not. What he’d inherited was a massive responsibility. It required...more loyalty?

And loyalty was his principle skill, he thought ruefully. It was what he accepted, what he was good at, and this inheritance was enough to take a man’s breath away. Meanwhile the least he could do was tackle more of Mrs O’Reilly’s excellent roast beef, he decided, and he did.

* * *

If she had anywhere else to go, she wouldn’t be here. Here scared her half to death.

Jo was cleaned up—sort of—but she was still wet and she was still cold.

She was sitting on her bike outside the long driveway to Castle Glenconaill.

The castle was beautiful.

But this was no glistening white fairy tale, complete with turrets and spires, with pennants and heraldic banners fluttering in the wind. Instead, it seemed carved from the very land it was built on—grey-white stone, rising to maybe three storeys, but so gradually it gave the impression of a vast, long, low line of battlements emerging from the land. The castle was surrounded by farmland, but the now empty moat and the impressive battlements and the mountains looming behind said this castle was built to repel any invader.

As it was repelling her. It was vast and wonderful. It was...scary.

But she was cold. And wet. A group of stone cottages were clustered around the castle’s main gates but they all looked derelict, and it was miles back to the village. And she’d travelled half a world because she’d just inherited half of what lay before her.

‘This is my ancestral home,’ she muttered and shivered and thought, Who’d want a home like this?

Who’d want a home? She wanted to turn and run.

But she was cold and she was getting colder. The wind was biting. She’d be cold even if her leathers weren’t wet, she thought, but her leathers were wet and there was nowhere to stay in the village and, dammit, she had just inherited half this pile.

‘But if they don’t have a bath I’m leaving,’ she muttered.

Where would she go?

She didn’t know and she didn’t care. There was always somewhere. But the castle was here and all she had to do was march across the great ditch that had once been a moat, hammer on the doors and demand her rights. One hot bath.

‘Just do it,’ she told herself. ‘Do it before you lose your nerve entirely.’

* * *

The massive gong echoed off the great stone walls as if in warning that an entire Viking war fleet was heading for the castle. Finn was halfway through his second coffee and the sound was enough to scare a man into the middle of next week. Or at least spill his coffee. ‘What the...?’

‘It’s the doorbell, My Lord,’ Mrs O’Reilly said placidly, heading out to the grand hall. ‘It’ll be the woman. If she’s like her mother, heaven help us.’ She tugged off her apron, ran her fingers through her permed grey hair, took a quick peep into one of the over-mantel mirrors and then tugged at the doors.

The oak doors swung open. And there was...

Jo.

She was still in her bike gear but she must have washed. There wasn’t a trace of mud on her, including her boots and trousers. Her face was scrubbed clean and she’d reapplied her make-up. Her kohl-rimmed eyes looked huge in her elfin face. Her cropped copper curls were combed and neat. She was smiling a wide smile, as if her welcome was assured.

He checked her legs and saw a telltale drip of water fall to her boots.

She was still sodden.

That figured. How many bikers had spare leathers in their kitbags?

She must be trying really hard not to shiver. He looked back at the bright smile and saw the effort she was making to keep it in place.

‘Good evening,’ she was saying. She hadn’t seen him yet. Mrs O’Reilly was at the door and he was well behind her. ‘I hope I’m expected? I’m Jo Conaill. I’m very sorry I’m late. I had a small incident on the road.’

‘You look just like your mother.’ The warmth had disappeared from the housekeeper’s voice as if it had never been. There was no disguising her disgust. The housekeeper was staring at Jo as if she was something the cat had just dragged in.

The silence stretched on—an appalled silence. Jo’s smile faded to nothing. What the...?

Do something.

‘Good evening to you too,’ he said. He stepped forward, edging the housekeeper aside. He smiled at Jo, summoning his most welcoming smile.

And then there was even more silence.

Jo stared from Mrs O’Reilly to Finn and then back again. She looked appalled.

As well she might, Finn conceded. As welcomes went, this took some beating. She’d been greeted by a woman whose disdain was obvious, and by a man who’d seen her at her most vulnerable. Now she was looking appalled. He thought of her reaction when he’d lifted her, carried her. She’d seemed terrified and the look was still with her.

He thought suddenly of a deer he’d found on his land some years back, a fawn caught in the ruins of a disused fence. Its mother had run on his approach but the fawn was trapped, its legs tangled in wire. It had taken time and patience to disentangle it without it hurting itself in its struggles.

That was what this woman looked like, he thought. Caught and wanting to run, but trapped.

She was so close to running.

Say something. ‘We’ve met before.’ He reached out and took her hand. It was freezing. Wherever she’d gone to get cleaned up, it hadn’t been anywhere with a decent fire. ‘I’m so glad you’re...clean.’

He smiled but she seemed past noticing.

‘You live here?’ she said with incredulity.

‘This is Lord Finn Conaill, Lord of Castle Glenconaill,’ the housekeeper snapped.

Jo blinked and stared at Finn as if she was expecting two heads. ‘You don’t look like a lord.’

‘What do I look like?’

‘A farmer. I thought you were a farmer.’

‘I am a farmer. And you’re 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 and go to bed.’

‘You’ll have a bath and then be fed,’ Finn said, and there was no arguing with the way he said it. ‘You’re welcome here, Miss Conaill, even if right now it doesn’t feel like it.’

‘Th...thank you,’ she managed and turned to her bike to get her gear.

* * *

If things had gone well from there they might have been fine. She’d find her bedroom, have a bath, have something to eat, say goodnight and go to bed. She’d talk to the lawyer in the morning. She’d sign whatever had to be signed. She’d go back to Australia. That was the plan.

So far, things hadn’t gone well for Jo, though, and they were about to get worse.

She had two bags—her kitbag with her clothes and a smaller one with her personal gear. She tugged them from the bike, she turned around and Finn was beside her.

He lifted the kitbag from her grasp and reached for the smaller bag. ‘Let me.’

‘I don’t need help.’

‘You’re cold and wet and shaken,’ he told her. ‘It’s a wise woman who knows when accepting help is sensible.’

This was no time to be arguing, she conceded, but she clung to her smaller bag and let Finn carry the bigger bag in.

He reached the foot of the grand staircase and then paused. ‘Lead the way, Mrs O’Reilly,’ he told the housekeeper, revealing for the first time that he didn’t know this place.

And the housekeeper harrumphed and stalked up to pass them.

She brushed Jo on the way. Accidentally or on purpose, whatever, but it seemed a deliberate bump. She knocked the carryall out of Jo’s hand.

And the bag wasn’t properly closed.

After the bog, Jo had headed back to the village. She’d have loved to have booked a room at the pub but there’d been a No Vacancies sign in the porch, the attached cobwebs and dust suggesting there’d been no vacancies for years. She’d made do with a trip to the Ladies, a scrub under cold water—no hot water in this place—and an attempt at repair to her make-up.

She’d been freezing. Her hands had been shaking and she mustn’t have closed her bag properly.

Her bag dropped now onto the ancient floorboards of Castle Glenconaill and the contents spilled onto the floor.

They were innocuous. Her toiletries. The things she’d needed on the plane on the way over. Her latest project...

And it was this that the housekeeper focused on. There was a gasp of indignation and the woman was bending down, lifting up a small, clear plastic vial and holding it up like the angel of doom.

‘I knew it,’ she spat, turning to Jo with fury that must have been building for years. ‘I knew how it’d be. Like mother, like daughter, and why your grandfather had to leave you half the castle... Your mother broke His Lordship’s heart, so why you’re here... What he didn’t give her... She was nothing but a drug-addicted slut, and here you are, just the same. He’s given you half his fortune and do you deserve it? How dare you bring your filthy stuff into this house?’

Finn had stopped, one boot on the first step. His brow snapped down in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Needles.’ The woman held up the plastic vial. ‘You’ll find drugs too, I’ll warrant. Her mother couldn’t keep away from the stuff. Dead from an overdose in the end, and here’s her daughter just the same. And half the castle left to her... It breaks my heart.’

And Jo closed her eyes. Beam me up, she pleaded. Where was a time machine when she needed one? She’d come all this way to be tarred with the same brush as her mother. A woman she’d never met and didn’t want to meet.

Like mother, like daughter... What a joke.

‘I’ll go,’ she said in a voice she barely recognised. She’d sleep rough tonight, she decided. She’d done it before—it wouldn’t kill her. Tomorrow she’d find the lawyer, sign whatever had to be signed and head back to Australia.

‘You’re going nowhere.’ The anger in Finn’s voice made her eyes snap open. It was a snap that reverberated through the ancient beams, from stone wall to stone wall, worthy of an aristocratic lineage as old as time itself. He placed the kitbag he was holding down and took the three steps to where the housekeeper was standing. He took the vial, stared at it and then looked at the housekeeper with icy contempt.

‘You live here?’ he demanded and the woman’s fury took a slight dent.

‘Of course.’

‘Where?’

‘I have an apartment...’

‘Self-contained?’

‘I...yes.’

‘Good,’ he snapped. ‘Then go there now. Of all the cruel, cold welcomes...’ He stared down at the vial and his mouth set in grim lines. ‘Even if this was what you thought it was, your reaction would be unforgivable, but these are sewing needles. They have a hole at the end, not through the middle. Even if they were syringes, there’s a score of reasons why Miss Conaill would carry them other than drug addiction. But enough. You’re not to be trusted to treat Miss Conaill with common courtesy, much less kindness. Return to your apartment. I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning but not before. I don’t wish to see you again tonight. I’ll take care of Miss Conaill. Go, now.’

‘You can’t,’ the woman breathed. ‘You can’t tell me to go.’

‘I’m Lord of Glenconaill,’ Finn snapped. ‘I believe the right is mine.’

Silence. The whole world seemed to hold its breath.

Jo stared at the floor, at her pathetic pile of toiletries and, incongruously, at the cover of the romance novel she’d read on the plane. It was historical, the Lord of the Manor rescuing and marrying his Cinderella.

Who’d want to be Cinderella? she’d thought as she read it, and that was what it felt like now. Cinderella should have options. She should be able to make the grand gesture, sweep from the castle in a flurry of skirts, say, Take me to the nearest hostelry, my man, and run me a hot bath...

A hot bath. There was the catch. From the moment Finn had said it, they were the words that had stuck in her mind. Everything else was white noise.

Except maybe the presence of this man. She was trying not to look at him.

The hero of her romance novel had been...romantic. He’d worn tight-fitting breeches and glossy boots and intricate neckcloths made of fine linen.

Her hero had battered boots and brawny arms and traces of copper in his deep brown hair. He looked tanned and weathered. His green eyes were creased by smiles or weather and she had no way of knowing which. He looked far too large to look elegant in fine linen and neckcloths, but maybe she was verging on hysterics because her mind had definitely decided it wanted a hero with battered boots. And a weathered face and smiley eyes.

Especially if he was to provide her with a bath.

‘Go,’ he said to Mrs O’Reilly and the woman cast him a glance that was half scared, half defiant. But the look Finn gave her back took the defiance out of her.

She turned and almost scuttled away, and Jo was left with Finn.

He didn’t look at her. He simply bent and gathered her gear back into her bag.

She should be doing that. What was she doing, staring down at him like an idiot?

She stooped to help, but suddenly she was right at eye level, right...close.

His expression softened. He smiled and closed her bag with a snap.

‘You’ll be fine now,’ he said. ‘We seem to have routed the enemy. Let’s find you a bath.’

And he rose and held out his hand to help her rise with him.

She didn’t move. She didn’t seem to be able to.

She just stared at that hand. Big. Muscled. Strong.

How good would it be just to put her hand in his?

‘I forgot; you’re a wary woman,’ he said ruefully and stepped back. ‘Very wise. I gather our ancestors have a fearsome reputation, but then they’re your ancestors too, so that should make me wary as well. But if you can cope with me as a guide, I’ll try and find you a bedroom. Mind, I’ve only just found my own bedroom but there seem to be plenty. Do you trust me to show you the way?’

How dumb was she being? Really dumb, she told herself, as well as being almost as offensive as the woman who’d just left. But still she didn’t put her hand in his. Even though her legs were feeling like jelly—her feet were still icy—she managed to rise and tried a smile.

‘Sorry. I...thank you.’

‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he said ruefully. ‘I had the warm welcome. I have no idea what bee the woman has in her bonnet but let’s forget her and find you that bath.’

‘Yes, please,’ she said simply and thought, despite her wariness, if this man was promising her a bath she’d follow him to the ends of the earth.

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