Page 28 of Beer & Broomsticks
“That would be the Lucky O’Malley’s pub on the other side of the alley. They’ve a pint o’ plain that will make a man of ya.”
“As if I wasn’t already one before,” Castor said dryly.
“Sure, and you aren’t until you’ve gotten pissed in an Irish pub.” He slipped on his shoes and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go plot the demise of me bastard da.”
“I think I’m going to like you, boy.”
Ronan snorted. “That fills me with joy, it does.”
“Now why does everything you say sound so sarcastic?”
“Because I’m Irish, man. Because I’m Irish.”
CHAPTER12
“Jaysus!” When Ronan entered the hall with a man looking just like his father, Ruairí about had heart failure. His first thought was to shout a warning to the O’Malleys then try to neutralize the threat. But before that thought took firm hold, the small differences between Loman and this stranger with Ronan became apparent. For one, the genuine laughter wasn’t liberally laced with cruelty. For the second, the eyes were different. Just marginally softer, bluer in color.
“Who’s this, then?” he asked warily.
“This is our Uncle Alexander.” Ronan gave a hard laugh, and his tight expression said he was as suspicious of all this as Ruairí.
“The fuck you say!”
“Ouruncle?” The Loman clone asked with a raised brow. “How many of my brother’s offspring reside in this place?”
“Sure, and you make us sound like those flyin’ cockroaches from Florida.” Ruairí eyed the man with distaste.
“Palmetto bugs, and if the wings fit…”
The American accent threw him coming from someone who looked so eerily like his hated uncle. “Are you about insulting every person you meet, man? If so, you can take yourself away from the O’Malleys’ inn.”
As Alexander opened his mouth to reply, he caught sight of someone behind Ruairí’s shoulder, and the haughty expression vanished from his face.
Ruairí already knew who was there. He’d felt the prickle of her nearness, and any man who saw Bridget tended to go all soft around the edges. He shifted to block Alexander’s view. “She’s not for the likes of you,” he growled.
A cocky grin flashed as wicked amusement lit the other man’s icy eyes. “You don’t know who or what I am, boy, but I can promise, you don’t want to try your teeth on me.”
“She’s spoken for, and I’ll not have you stirrin’ up trouble with your cauldron of tricks, yeah?”
Alexander eyed him and gave a nod of grudging respect. “You’re nothing like your father.”
“Loman’s not my father, and thank Christ for that. My own was rotten enough, he was.”
“I suppose introductions are in order.”
The arrogance of the fecker! Opening his mouth to tell the man where he could go, Ruairí was forestalled by Ronan.
“Alexander Castor, this is my cousin Ruairí O’Connor.”
“You must be Shane’s son.”
“Aye,” Ruairí bit off. “Though I’ve not called him father in thirty years. Not since he allowed his brother to knock me out cold.”
Some of the swagger left Castor, and real regret shone in his eyes. “I’m sorry. Had I been there—”
“You’d like to do nothing, just like my da. Seems no one cared to challenge Loman in his own castle.” He shrugged it off as Bridget joined them, not caring to dirty her with the truth of his miserable childhood. “We’ve things to discuss, us three. Do you mind if we use the drawing room,mo ghrá, or do you have something planned for the space?”
She studied him with curious eyes before leaning into his side and turning her attention to the newcomer. Bridget smiled her greeting, the coolly casual one she reserved for anyone not in her immediate circle, and Ruairí was pleased to see her maintain a professional barrier in the face of such a jaw-droppingly fit man. “The drawing room is free for your use. I’ve got to head to Lucky’s to prepare for the night shift, but I’ll let the others know to leave you be.”
