His Cinderella Heiress. Marion Lennox

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ