Carson (Dangerous Doms 4)

With the fragrant flowers in hand, the pretty posies gathered firmly between my fingers, I walk down the path away from the McCarthy mansion toward Holy Family. The ancient spires are magnificent and glorious tonight, black against the moonlit sky. A chill wind whips over the sea. I shiver and draw my cardi a bit closer to me.

Behind this building lies the cemetery. Again, I shiver, and this time it isn’t from cold.

What am I doing here? What am I playing at?

I don’t believe in ghosts.

But when a wisp of a cloud glides by the full moon, I wonder.

Do I?

They’re getting married tomorrow, I tell Eve. Nolan and Sheena. They’re good together. I ramble on and on, unsure of whether or not my words are somehow heard beyond the dead or just clumsy thoughts in my mind.

I’m sorry, I tell her. But I don’t tell her why.

I reach the entrance to the cemetery and open the gate. It’s so quiet out here, so beautiful. The groundskeeper maintains the ancient cemetery to perfection, though all’s cast in shadows under the moonlight. I pause when I think I hear something. I look sharply toward the rectory. Was that a cough? Is it Father Finn, his windows open above me?

Or someone else?

I look behind me and see nothing.

Maybe I should have brought a guard. Nolan would lecture me to high heaven if he knew I went out at night without a guard. Keenan would damn near lock me up.

But after a moment, I hear nothing.

Eve’s grave is one of the newest, just beyond the enormous oak tree at the entrance. I walk around it and freeze.

I’m not alone.

Carson stands with his head bowed; his hands shoved in his pockets. He’s saying something softly under his breath. I feel as if I’ve invaded a private moment, one I should never have seen. But if I turn to leave and he hears me, what then? Still clasping the flowers in my hand, I turn to go, but of course, it isn’t that easy. Klutz that I am, I step on a twig. His head snaps up, and his whole body tenses. Angry eyes meet mine from behind his glasses. But his gaze gentles when he sees it’s me.

“Megan?”

Guess he does know my name then. Interesting.

My voice is wobbly, and the hand holding the flowers trembles. “Aye.”

He holds my gaze. “Why are you here?”

I don’t know if it’s my imagination that paints his words with accusation.

I swallow, then lift my hand with the flowers, waving it like a white flag. “I… I came to put these on the grave,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry I interrupted. I’ll just…” I lay the flowers on the ground and turn away, irrational tears filling my eyes, and a sizable lump rising in my throat. I’m such a klutz. It’s no wonder no one wants to be with me. I turn to leave, but his voice is hard and commanding, and I freeze at his words.

“No. Come here.”

I look over at him. He’s scowling at me, and Mother of God, I had no idea a scowl could affect me the way his does. I just stare at him.

“Go on,” he says, his voice laced with anger. “Do what you came for.” He steps aside as if his standing in front of the grave is the reason I haven’t moved.

I pick the flowers up and walk toward the grave. He watches my every move, but once I’m in front of the stone, I shake myself mentally. I’m here to pay my respects to my friend, no more, no less. I close my eyes.

I’m sorry, I tell her. I’m so sorry. You should be here with us, still. I press my lips to my fingers, then take my fingers and touch them to the gravestone. A parting kiss.

“Thank you,” I say to Carson. “That was all. I should get to bed. Big day tomorrow and all that.”

He looks behind me, then shakes his head. “Don’t tell me you came alone?”

Goddammit, I was hoping I’d get away with it.

“I did,” I tell him. “But I’ll just be getting back now anyhow.”

“The hell you will. Alone?”

I frown at him. They’re all alike, just like the girls said. “I don’t see a guard with you.”

His frown deepens. My heart does a crazy little flutter.

Fear?

Or something else?

“Right,” he says. “So, correct me if I’m wrong, then. You’re trained in fighting? You’re carrying multiple weapons?” He glares, as if my stupidity infuriates him. “You’ve killed in the line of self-defense before, have you?”

I shiver at the mental images of the men of the Clan, the men that I love as if they were my very own brothers, doing exactly what he’s saying. And I’m no fool. They do more than kill in self-defense.

But I’m tired of them telling me what to do, pretending I can’t take care of myself. My temper flares. Figures he ignores me for months, then our first interaction he’s getting all high-handed.