Cormac nods. He knows I mean it, and hell, I do.
“Aye, Keenan. Take it easy on him, though, he—”
“No.” I say angrily. “Relay the message.”
There will be no more “taking it easy” on him.
Cormac nods and leaves. Nolan and I will have words before the day’s out. Caitlin watches in silence.
“He drinks pretty hard, doesn’t he?”
“Too hard. Irish men can drink any others under the table, but he takes it to another level altogether.”
“He could hurt himself.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I mutter. “Happy to do the job myself.” Though I’m angry, I’m concerned above all. This has gone on long enough. No more.
Soon, we’re heading back home.
I don’t waste any time when we return. I call a meeting of The Clan and bring Caitlin with me. It’s time that we told my men what we’re planning. My father and mother are on board, but I want everyone to know.
“Keenan,” my mother greets us just as we enter the meeting. Her eyes are bright, and she looks as excited as a schoolgirl. I kiss her cheek. She kisses me back, then holds my arm to get my attention.
“Yes?”
“I can begin the preparations, then?”
“Please do,” I tell her. “We’ve no time to waste.” Though the Martin men last night did not return home—and they never will—one of them recognized her. It’s only a matter of time that Martin finds out who I’ve got here, and the sooner I stake my claim the better.
“Oh, I’m so pleased,” my mother says, stifling a little squeal. She lets me go, reaches for Caitlin, and gives her a fierce embrace. “You’re to be my daughter, sweet Cait.” She kisses first one cheek, then the next, and the two chat excitedly for a brief moment before I pull her away.
“We’ve got to discuss this with the others,” I tell her. “But please, expedite as much as you can, and spare no expense. Notify Father, and be sure we’re ready within two days’ time, aye?”
“Aye,” she agrees, and with another squeal, she leaves.
“She’s so happy.” Caitlin looks at me with wide, curious eyes. “Does she… is it possible… does she really care so much about me?”
“Dear girl,” I tell her, amusement laden in my tone. “Do you have any idea how much they love you?”
“Love me?” she says. “How? They hardly know me.”
But they will. And simple, innocent women like her don’t change their colors. She’s already won the hearts of those she touches. She’ll make an excellent woman of The Clan.
I shake my head and usher her into the room. “Just trust me, lass. They’ll love you more deeply as they get to know you, but you’ve planted the seeds of devotion already.”
She doesn’t believe me, but perhaps someday she will.
I’m not prepared for her gasp when we enter the room, and how she draws closer to me, burying her head on my arm.
“Keenan,” she whispers. “My God, there are so many. I had no idea.”
I forget she isn’t used to crowds of people like this. I hold her hand, but I won’t coddle her. “Be brave, Caitlin,” I tell her. “Face them. They are to be your people, too.”
She closes her eyes briefly, before opening them, inhaling, and facing my men. I try to see what she sees, a sea of large, muscled, men of The Clan, their bodies marked with the ink of our people, symbolic Celtic knots and rings that identify us as men of the McCarthy line. They watch her with curiosity and respect.
“Hello,” she finally says, her cheeks flushing as if she wonders if she spoke the right words.
A loud welcome greets her, and she falters a little. “Oh, my.”
“Sit, lass.” I point to a chair beside me.
I face my men and tell them everything. How we found her. What we found. How she’s related to the Martins, and why it’s essential we wed.
“Was she indeed responsible for spying?” Boner asks. He wants it clarified before all. I look to Caitlin before I answer, conscious of the fact that I haven’t exonerated her.
I clear my throat. “No. We know it wasn’t her, but the man who called himself her father. Jack Anderson.”
Caitlin pales but doesn’t speak. I watch her lips thin in a line that spells trouble.
I tell them of the wedding, where and when it will be, and after we’ve set up surveillance and everything we need, I dismiss them. She sits, her hands in her lap, and doesn’t look at me.
“Come, Caitlin,” I order, but she doesn’t move.
“Caitlin,” I warn, not liking that I have to tell her a second time. “You did well, lass. Now come.”
Still, she doesn’t move.
I step toward her and take her hand, giving her a sharp tug. “You know better than that, lass. When I give you an instruction, you—”
“You didn’t tell me.”
Gone is my quiet lass, her eyes alight with fire. She’s waited until I dismissed my men to have words, and I give her that much credit. But she’s furious with me. Her little hands are clenched in fists, and faint splotches of pink paint her cheeks.