When at last they reached the gates of the castle, the sky was almost light. The household anxiously awaited their arrival, and servants hurried to meet them, their faces pale with worry. Ronan dismounted first, carefully helping Maeve from the saddle. She clung to him, her steps unsteady as he guided her inside.
Grace slid from her own mount, her legs stiff from the ride. Patience was at her side in an instant, steadying her with a firm hand. “Come,” she said gently. “You need rest.”
Rest. It sounded so simple, so natural, and yet Grace doubted she would find it easily. Still, she allowed herself to be led inside, the familiar warmth of the castle wrapping around her like a protective cloak.
The group dispersed quickly. Ashley directed the servants to see to the horses, while Carew and Lady Donnellan escorted Maeve to her chambers. Patience, Freddy, and Joy were shown to their chambers, all ready for their beds. Grace followed, her steps slow and deliberate, as though each one carried the weight of the night’s events, but she was not ready to sleep.
Once in the sitting room, she found Theo curled in the chair, and Grace scooped him up and held on to him for solace. She sank into a chair by the fire, the warmth seeping into her chilled bones. She took comfort in watching the crackle of the flames and the soothing purrs emanating from Theo’s tiny body.
“You were very brave,” Carew said, interrupting her mind’s wanderings. He leaned against the door frame, his face shadowed with exhaustion but his eyes warm as they met hers.
Grace glanced at him, startled by his presence. “I do not feel brave,” she admitted. “I acted without thinking.”I would have done anything to save you, she thought but did not add.
“You saw what needed to be done, and you did it.”
Grace shook her head, her brow furrowing. “It does not feel that way. I…I am not sure how I feel. Grateful that Ashley intervened, I think…and yet, if he had not…” She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Carew had somehow moved forward and was kneeling before her. He placed a hand on Grace’s. “You did what you could to protect Maeve and I. That’s what matters.”
Grace nodded slowly, though her mind still wrestled with the enormity of it all. She thought again of Patience, of her sister’s unwavering composure despite her own history with violence. Perhaps she could imitate her sister; find a way to find peace amid the turmoil. Or perhaps it simply took time.
“How is Maeve?”
“Maeve is resting,” he said quietly. “She asked after you. She said you saved us both.”
Grace’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down at her hands. “I did not?—”
“You did,” Ronan interrupted gently, his tone leaving no room for argument. “What you did tonight took courage, Grace. I owe you more than I can say.”
Her throat tightened, and she managed a small nod. “I am only glad it is over,” she murmured, “and that she is safe.”
“As am I,” Ronan said, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he stood up and stepped back. “You should rest. We all should.”
He extended his hand, and Grace rose, her movements slow and deliberate as the heaviness of the night pressed down upon her once more. She accepted his hand, the warmth of his touch steadying her for a fleeting moment. When she stood, her eyes met his briefly, and in them, she saw not the resolute Lord Carew but the man beneath—the brother who had fought so fiercely for his sister, the man who had fought Kilroy for her.
“Goodnight, my lord,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of her exhaustion but also something else, something unspoken.
Ronan hesitated, his hand lingering against hers for just a moment longer. Then, as if compelled by something beyond himself, he gently drew her into an embrace. It was not the embrace of triumph or relief but one of gratitude and understanding. His arms encircled her carefully, almost reverently, as though he feared she might shatter under the weight of all they had endured. And also to avoid squishing the cat.
“Goodnight, Grace,” he murmured close to her ear, his voice soft and steady.
For a moment, she allowed herself to rest there, the faint scent of the sea lingering on his coat and the warmth of his presence offering a fragile comfort. She felt the strength in his arms, not just the physical strength that had carried him through the night but the quiet fortitude that had brought them all to safety. And yet, she sensed the weariness within him, as if he perhaps still carried some burden.
When they parted, her cheeks were warm, though she told herself it was from the firelight. She nodded once more, her fingers brushing against the folds of her skirt as she stepped back. “Goodnight, Ronan,” she repeated, this time without formality, the name slipping past her lips with a familiarity she had not intended.
However, her mind refused to find ease. What would happen tomorrow—or the day after? She dreaded the thought of leaving him. There was a finality in it that made her chest tighten, though she could not fully explain why. She had not come to Donnellan by design, but she had certainly become a different person from the one who had left England. She had acted with courage, faced danger, and stood firm when it mattered most. All because of him.
The idea of departing, of returning to a life where their paths would seldom cross again, filled her with a quiet dread. She had known him in moments of both strength and vulnerability, seen the depths of his character, and found something she had not realized she had been seeking. Could she simply walk away from that? It seemed she had little choice. Whilst there had been some closeness, and friendship, there had been no hints of anything more.
Surprisingly, when she undressed and slipped beneath the heavy blankets, sleep came. The day’s events, the fear and resolve, the unspoken emotions all seemed to catch up with her at once, pulling her into the oblivion of sleep.
Ronan stoodat the window of his study, the early morning light casting long shadows across the room. The fire in the hearth had burned low, the embers glowing faintly. He should also seekhis bed, but his thoughts were too heavy and all-consuming to permit any comfort from sleep. He stared out over the rolling hills beyond Donnellan, their rugged beauty softened by the pale mist that lingered over the land.
Flynn was dead.
The knowledge should have brought him satisfaction, perhaps even relief, but instead, it left him hollow. The fury that had driven him to this point seemed now to dissipate, leaving in its place a gnawing emptiness. Flynn’s death would not undo the harm he had wrought. It would not erase the marks left upon Maeve’s body, nor the scars upon her spirit. And it certainly had not ended the old wounds of the feud between their families.
Lord Corlach would want retribution. Flynn might have been a scoundrel and a manipulator, but he had been Corlach’s son, and his death would not be ignored. The feud was not over—it had merely shifted its shape. Flynn had been one enemy among many, a symbol of the larger conflict that had plagued their families for generations. And now the animosity would only deepen.
