Page 52 of The Irish Arrangement

I hadn’t counted on her authority, though. More than once, before we could even mount our horses, she corrected more of my staff. Little things, it seemed. But she knew what she was talking about. No employee of the Sullivan organization could be called an idiot. I expected the best. Ian did too. All of the direct leaders and supervisors beneath us also held up the same standards.

These men in the stables and barn weren’t incompetent, so for Cara to be able to offer better advice, it proved that she’d dealt with animals a lot.

We rode out together, and I filled the quiet with an explanation of the land we owned here. It was vast, and I stuck with only a summary of so many details about our property. She seemed interested in the historical aspects of it too, but overall, she listened more than she spoke up and asked in-depth follow-up questions.

Weaving around trees, we stuck to an established path. In the open fields, we let the horses pick up speed and exercise their legs. When I wasn’t pointing out landmarks and other features that marked the boundaries of the Sullivan land, she asked about the stables, if we hunted, if we bred racing horses, and if there was any form of a crop nearby.

I didn’t know all the details, but I bet a conversation with my father would answer many of her inquiries. I wasn’t sure when to let her meet him. He was so fragile and cranky.

Like she wouldn’t be able to handle his grumpiness. She tolerated me, and I was worse.

It seemed more appropriate to wait until Ian—or someone in the family—could prove that Cara and Nora weren’t descendants of the Boyle family.

Plus, it would please Dad to have him meet Cara when she could attest to carrying the heir he refused to die without.

Soon. I’d arrange for her to meet him soon.

“As long as you are careful,” I said once we stopped at a clearing high up on a woodsy hill, “you can ride wherever you want on the property.”

“As long as I am careful?” she mocked.

I didn’t reply. We both knew she was more of an expert with horses than I was.

“If you want to ride, fine. A guard at the border will know if you’re trying to run.”

Gazing out at the vast landscape, she sighed and shook her head. “No. I won’t run.” She faced me, serious and calm. “I told you that I would be your wife for six months. And I will. I always stand by my word.”

I don’t. I narrowed my eyes, reminded again that she was still only willing to put one foot forward and brace the other one to escape.

“That was our deal,” she added. “The one we shook on at the church.”

I knew which one. It didn’t change the fact that I’d lied.

“Is that what you meant the other day? When you grumbled about sticking to a deal?”

She furrowed her brow and looked out to the distance again, clamming up. Her instant silence unnerved me, making me suspicious. “Yes. The deal you and I made. That you’d let me go if I’m not pregnant within six months.”

Not happening. I walked closer to her, standing behind her as I looked out over the sweeping hills and meadows below. “Where would you go?” I couldn’t shake this nagging doubt that she had something else in mind. That she wasn’t talking about the supposed deal we had, but something else was motivating her.

I had no intention to ever let her leave. And I hated the idea of her being motivated to leave.

“Where would you go after six months?” I asked again when she didn’t reply.

“Back to my mom.” She sighed. Her shoulders heaved up and down, and I couldn’t hold back from reaching out and massaging her there. Keeping my fingers digging in, I kneaded the tension there, rewarded when she leaned back toward me.

“She’s probably missing me badly,” she admitted, honest but cautious to open up like that.

“Would it make you happy if I gave you your phone back? To contact her?”

She leaned back, smirking. “Oh, my happiness matters now?”

I tugged her fully into my embrace, kissing her long and hard as I lowered one hand to cup her between her legs. She hissed, jolting a bit at my touch.

“Sore?” I teased.

She rolled her eyes and tried not to smile. “Maybe.”

I massaged her there, locking my gaze on hers. “I wondered if being on a saddle would hurt…”

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