Keenan (Dangerous Doms 1)

I growl and don’t respond, making Bradley laugh out loud. “Naturally. Busybody priest, that’s who.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, getting to my feet and escorting him out.

Caitlin isn’t a traitor. She had no news of the notes we found, and no clue her father orchestrated the spying.

But why would he spy?

And who is she?

I’m relieved and at the same time, troubled. I need to know more about this mysterious girl. But until I do, I’m not letting her out of my sight.

When I open the door for Bradley, I see a figure roaming the garden outside the house. The morning still holds a bit of the chill of spring, but I step outside to get a closer look.

I recognize the long, wavy hair, and her posture, arms crossed over her chest as she walks. Mam.

Bradley goes to his car, and I shove my hands in my pockets, walking to the garden. Mam doesn’t notice I’m there at first, and she startles when she turns and sees me.

“Keenan! I didn’t see you coming, son,” she says softly. She sits on one of the stone benches under a blooming arch. The sun’s barely risen, the light of early morning filtering through patches of leaves.

“Sorry, mam,” I tell her. “I saw someone out here and wanted to investigate.”

She smiles and nods, and it seems her smile is a bit sad.

“Something troubling you?”

She shakes her head slightly. “Ah, only a bit,” she whispers. “Just a bit.”

Mam keeps her troubles away from us boys. The women of The Clan are expected to be strong and fearless. She doesn’t like to show fear, and I don’t blame her.

“It doesn’t help anything,” she says. “But goodness, the girl bears the resemblance of someone I knew.”

I sit up straighter. “Does she, now?” I ask. “Can you tell me?”

She shakes her head. “It’s silly. Just an old friend of mine. But it’s strange, son. She bears her name as well. ‘Tis like looking at a ghost, seeing that girl of yours.”

A chill runs down my spine. This is something we need to pursue.

“Who was it?” I ask her. “Can you tell me?”

“Yes,” she says. “But ye must not repeat it, son. Promise me that.”

“I give you my word. But it’s important you tell me, mam. Caitlin is innocent, I know that. But she was told her father kept her in the lighthouse to keep her safe. Though she may not be a threat to us, it’s likely she’s in grave danger.”

My mother’s eyes look sorrowful. “The Caitlin I knew was the daughter of Mack Martin.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

Mack Martin.

The head chief of our rival clan.

“Was?”

My mother nods. “Yes. She left with someone she loved overseas. When she came back, she was a different woman. Changed. She wouldn’t speak to me of what happened. And then one day, she left and didn’t come back. We were told…” her voice trails off.

I wait for her to tell me.

“She’d taken her own life.”

How is this possible? How could it be that the woman bears such a resemblance to Caitlin? Were they related?

“Good to know, mam. I’ve got some investigating to do.”

I know who’ll have the answers. I’ll have to force Father Finn to fess up. I stand to leave, and she reaches for my hand.

“Be careful, Keenan. If she was hidden, I can imagine there was good reason. Take good care of her, son. And if she was indeed Caitlin’s daughter… well, then she was right to be hidden.”

If Caitlin is the granddaughter of Mack Martin, she ought to be hidden now.

I don’t need to ask why. The Martins are a ruthless, barbarous lot.

My mother feels an obligation to watch out for Caitlin.

And hell. I do, too.Chapter TenCaitlinI wake with a yawn, stretching in the bed, when my body goes still.

I was so tired the night before, I fell asleep quickly, even with Keenan on the other side of the bed. He didn’t touch me at all, and his bed was so large we might’ve been strangers.

Well. Okay, so, we are.

I look over to the side of the bed, at the rumpled sheets, and sit up. Where did he go? And why didn’t I hear him? I suppose men like him learn to move discreetly.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, when I hear footsteps outside the hall. I freeze. I don’t feel safe here, not yet, not when his father could walk in at any minute. But when the door opens, it’s only Keenan that enters.

He’s wearing a t-shirt and loose-fitting pants, when he enters the room.

“Good morning,” I say.

He raises one eyebrow. “Morning, lass.”

I like the way he says that. My father was American, and though I’ve lived here my whole life, the Irish accent is new to me.

“Where’d you go?”

He looks at me again, a quizzical expression on his face. “You’re never to ask me that, Caitlin,” he corrects sternly. “I’ve many errands to attend that don’t involve you, and it’s best you don’t ask. Ever. Understood?”