Page 43 of Beer & Broomsticks
As if the threat the two of them presented didn’t concern him, Alexander strolled in the room, as pretty as you please, not stopping until he was in front of the wardrobe. “What’s in there?”
“Exactly what I’m wondering,” Bridget said. “You can do the honors, if you’ve a mind.”
“No!” The word was ripped from Ruairí’s soul and came out high pitched. If Bridget discovered the sword in the closet, he was completely fucked.
They all turned to look at him, Ronan and Bridget with varying stages of disbelief and Alexander with wry amusement.
“What are you hiding, my dear nephew? For sure, it’s not going to be a happy reveal if it’s got your undies choking your balls that tight.”
After giving Alexander a shut-the-feck-up glare, Ruairí faced Bridget, ignoring Ronan altogether. “It’s nothing,mo ghrá.I’m asking you to trust me.”
Wrong thing to say. Wariness settled on her visage, and she cast another look at the glowing doors of the cabinet. “What’s in there?” There was no denying the demand in her voice.
“Bridg, please.” He was begging for his life.Theirlife.
She gestured to Ronan. “Open it.”
Locking eyes with his cousin, Ruairí slowly shook his head.
The disbelief intensified on Ronan’s face. “You brought ithere?”
With a defeated sigh, Ruairí closed his eyes. Shite was about to hit the fan and splatter all over him.
“What? What did he bring?” Bridget’s forbidding tone caused the sick dread building in his chest to settle into a leaden ball in the pit of his stomach.
The instant Ronan caved to Bridget’s unwavering stare, Ruairí knew he was a dead man walking. She’d not forgive him again. He’d only meant to make a game of the hunt so they could spend time together and she could remember what it was like to love him, but he’d grossly miscalculated by not telling her the complete truth.
Ronan opened the doors, and the golden light flared so brightly, they all shielded their eyes, right before it died out. And lying on the bottom shelf was the Sword of Goibhniu, pretty as you please and betraying Ruairí in every way.
Like a marionette with frayed strings being forced to perform, Bridget turned to face him with slow, jerky movements. Her eyes—so bright and lively only an hour before—were dull and lifeless, as if her body no longer contained its soul.
“You tricked me? Again?”
Her hoarse question was lacking in the expectant rage. Lacking any emotion at all. And that lack caused terror in his heart. “Bridg—”
“Again, Ruairí?”
He was wrong about her anger. “I—”
“You were willing to let me run all over hell and back, lookin’ for that fuckin’ thing, and you had it the entire time?”
He winced at the screech in her voice.
“’Twasn’t meant as anything to hurt you. It was meant for the two of us to spend time together. To help you remember what we shared.”
“Oh, it helped me remember, it did. It helped me remember what a lyin’ gobshite you are!”
“No,mo ghrá.I—”
“You’ll save your pathetic excuses, Ruairí O’Connor. You can pack them up in that bag of yours and leave my inn.”
Her fury was palpable, and as the victim of her wrath, he was helpless to do anything but comply. Alexander and Ronan were silent and sober as judges as he crossed to the wardrobe and removed his bag from the top shelf to begin stuffing his clothes inside.
Color crept up his neck, and he wanted to defend his actions, but he didn’t have the right. He’d taken a gamble, and he’d lost the roll of the dice. Lifting the sword, he stared down at the metal weapon that had caused all his woes. From birth, this thing had cursed him. It was only proper he give it back to the rightful owner.
Silently, he held it out to Bridget.
For a long moment, she stared at the sword in his hands, seemingly unwilling to take it. Finally, she did, immediately looking disappointed as if she were expecting something to happen when she took it from him.
