Page 57 of Faithless Vows

“No.” His mouth curves. “You came here because no one ever taught you the difference between wanting and having.” One of the men at his table grunts his approval, tossing a card down.

“Since you’re here, though, introductions are in order.” Malachy gestures lazily with the hand holding his drink. “You’ve met my son, Conor.” So that’s it—the resemblance I noticed on the quay. Seamus’s brother.

Conor tips his head in my direction, then turns back to the cards in his hand.

Malachy flicks his fingers toward Declan. “You’ve already met that one.”

Declan’s lip curls. “More than he deserves.”

Malachy turns his head toward one of the older men seated two chairs down from him, a broad-shouldered man with thick hands wrapped around a tumbler, grey starting at his temples and clear blue eyes. “Eamon Walsh. That name should sound familiar to you. I believe I mentioned the Walshes in my letter.”

Walsh.

The man gives me a flat look, like I’m shit on his heel and he’s deciding if I’m worth the trouble of scraping off. My eyes flick to the younger man beside him. Same blue eyes. Same build. Same hard set to the shoulders.Must be his son. Finn.He meets my stare, the corner of his mouth ticking up slightly. A fucking dimple appears in his cheek.

Eamon takes a slow drink, then sets his glass down. “My lad would’ve done right by her.” Nobody argues. Nobody looks away. I feel my jaw lock. He goes on like he’s discussing the weather. “Would’ve courted her proper. Would’ve put a roof over her head without turning it into a grave for every decent thing in her.” His eyes move over me once, cool and dismissive. “But Seamus chose this instead.” That gets a low murmur out of the men nearest him.

Malachy swirls the whiskey in his glass. “Aye. It’s no surprise my son chose a weak husband for his daughter. He was too weak to carry on the family business here in Ireland. Ran off to Boston to stand second under your da.” His lip curls in a sneer. “Another lad who couldn’t cut it.”

“My wife and our marriage are none of your business,” I say through clenched teeth.

Declan laughs then, one ugly bark of sound. “Your wife?” He takes a step toward me before Conor puts a hand outwithout even looking at him. Declan stops short, breathing hard through his nose.

Malachy’s voice cuts in. “What wife would that be, Ronin? You were entrusted with my granddaughter, a fine lass, and you proved yourself unfit to keep her.” There’s no heat in it. That’s what makes it worse. No raised voice. No outrage. Just certainty. Flat and final.

Before I can think better of it, the urge to get on my feet and face Malachy hits hard, and I start tugging against the ropes, the chair creaking under me. A couple of the men glance over, but most don’t even bother to look up from their cards or their drinks.

Malachy doesn’t even look at me as he continues. “I warned her father years ago. Told him Ireland’s where she belonged. But Seamus had notions. Cormac Byrne had ambition. Men like them have a talent for convincing themselves they’ve done the right thing. So they carried her across the water and laid her at the feet of a boy they mistook for a man.”

I twist against the ropes. “Say what you like about me, but leave my father out of it.” That makes Conor smile for the first time, and it isn’t a pleasant sight.

Malachy looks almost bored. “You don’t get to tell me who I may speak of under my own roof.”

“Speaking of roofs,” I say, making a show of looking around the room. “This where you do business, Malachy? Thought a man like you might manage better than a barn.” That earns a few laughs around the tables. Real laughter this time.

Malachy’s eyes sharpen. “And there he is.” He reaches into the pocket of his coat and draws out a familiar envelope.The papers.He sets them on the table in front of him and taps them once with two fingers. “You carried these all the way from Boston,” he says. “Tucked against your heart, if I’m not mistaken.” One eyebrow lifts. “Almost romantic.”

My mouth tightens, but I give him nothing.

Malachy tuts softly. “Paulie Shea. There’s a man who’s done all right out of this business. Two crates of Paddy’s for the crossing, wasn’t it? You’ll be happy to hear I asked Paulie to hold the ship in harbour after you docked. Thought it best to keep your passage home ready.” He tilts his head. “In return he’ll be taking a few more crates than you originally agreed upon when he sails. Seemed a fair trade.”

If he’s hoping for a reaction, he’s not getting one. I don’t give a damn about the extra crates.

He leans back. “I told you on the telephone you weren’t welcome here. I told you I’d know if you set foot on Irish soil before your boots ever touched it. I knew when you went looking for Paulie. I knew what you offered him. I knew the day you boarded. I knew the hour you docked.” He glances at the envelope. “And I knew what you brought with you. You’re not difficult to follow, Ronin Byrne. Men full of pride rarely are.”

Malachy opens the envelope and slides the papers halfway out. “The Church already has what it needs. The rest is a formality.” He looks at me over the top of the pages. “You can save us all a little time and sign these now.”

I laugh once through my nose. “No.”

He slides the papers back inside and folds the envelope shut without even glancing down. “That wasn’t me asking.”

“Still no.”

Declan mutters, “Stupid prick.”

Malachy ignores him. “You’ve made a long journey to be told something very simple.” He tucks the envelope back into his coat pocket. “You will not see her. You will not speak to her. You will not write to her. You will not put yourself in her path again.”

I look right back at him. “I didn’t cross an ocean to sit in a chair and be told no.”