Page 37 of Savage Reckoning

I’m galvanised into action. I dart across the room to grab the potty just as he drops into a squat right beside little Roisin.

“Don’t pee on the baby,” I yell, dashing back to shove the potty under his bottom in the nick of time.

There’s the satisfying splatter of toddler pee hitting plastic while Sebastien grins up at me, clearly well pleased with his efforts. He finishes and stands, only to start closely examining his prize possession as though he might be the only male on the planet possessed of such equipment.

I resist any mention of going blind. What do I know anyway? Instead, I drop to my haunches, move the potty to a safe distance, and reach for his shorts to pull them back up.

“Nice work, mate.” Dear God, let the crisis be over…

Sebastien wobbles off, and I allow myself to breathe, only to be jolted back onto full alert when a bright-pink beachball hurtles past Roisin’s head.

“Whoa, be careful.” I scoop the baby off the floor, but she seems fine.

Meanwhile, Sebastien is in hot pursuit of the beachball, whooping.

He kicks the ball and lands on his rump. Immediately, he’s up again and chasing it across the playroom, shouting something incomprehensible. He manages to dribble it in my direction, and I do the only thing possible in the circumstances.

I kick the ball back.

Sebastien is overjoyed. The game is on. He charges about like a thing possessed, screeching, kicking, falling over, jumping up again, spinning in small circles, and generally creating mayhem. And I’m not much better. I bob about the room, toeing the ball back and forth, all the while holding baby Roisin to my chest to keep her out of the line of fire. She clings to my shirt, her tiny fingers curled in the expensive fabric, cooing happily to herself.

“If proof were needed that Yanks can’t play soccer, this is it.”

I spin around at the soft Irish brogue. Jed O’Neill is framed in the doorway, a mocking smile plastered across his face, with Casey Savage peering around him.

The pair saunter in.

“You weren’t thinking of using my daughter as a rugby ball, were you?” Jed goes on to enquire.

I hand the baby to her father. “Well, now that you mention it…”

Casey bends to hug Sebastien. “We heard you shrieking halfway down the stairs. Are you having a good time?”

The toddler nods happily and proceeds to clamber back onto his trike. He resumes his laps of the room, waving to us each time he passes.

Jed turns away from the boy to mutter for my ears only, “Jack’s about to go and have a word with your man from the hospital. He said if you want to join them, you’re welcome.”

I nod. “Where?”

“Dungeon. Do you know the way?”

“No, but if you—”

“I’ll show you,” Casey offers. “Jed can stay with the kids.”

Her husband holds baby Roisin above his head, and she giggles. “We’ll show young Seb how we play football on this side of the pond, won’t we, darlin’?”

That settled, I follow Casey out of the playroom and back down to the main hall. I’m expecting some sort of secret passage, perhaps a huge iron door leading down into the bowels of the castle, but instead she leads me outside and around the outer wall. We pass a barn, now converted into a workshop for the helicopters and a garage for quad bikes.

“We don’t bother with any cars on the island,” Casey tells me, “so we don’t need roads. It’s over a mile from one end of the island to the other, though, and it takes two hours to walk all the way round, so the bikes are useful if someone’s in a hurry.”

“Does everyone come and go by helicopter, then?”

“No. We have a small harbour on the other side of the island and half a dozen or so launches. We keep a larger transport vessel on the mainland for bringing supplies over, and men if we need to. Your guest arrived in the hold of that boat this morning.”

“Ah.” I’d wondered how he was moved across here but left the arrangements to Jack.

“And there’s The Lydia,” she goes on, “My father’s yacht, moored just outside the harbour. You’ll see it from around this next corner.”

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