Page 69 of Quinn, By Design

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Niall waited on hisporch for his brother, the image of Lucy from the first Sunday she’d visited him crystal clear in his mind. Exhausted, grieving, and even then, he’d been shaken by her courage. He was bigger than her, stronger than her, and she’d been prepared to confront him on behalf of her grandpa. He admired the hell out of the way she wouldn’t turn tail when she was afraid.

She hadn’t known why Bechet scared her, still she’d dealt with him professionally and regularly.

Her grandpa had told her stories to distract her while he was dying, and she’d played Cam’s game to comfort him.

She’d told Niall about the whispers following her gran’s death. Told him her lover had accused her of being deliberately out of the room when she was babysitting her gran. The bastard’s betrayal would have hit harder than a back-hander and felled any other woman. She’d retained her dignity and goodness. Because after Niall and she had found their rhythm, everything she’d done for him had been driven by kindness.

She’d eased his guilt about his da’s death using logic, compassion and a smack of rage to acquit him of neglect.

She thought he’d kept the exhibition secret because he didn’t trust her. Why hadn’t he seen he’d fixed the game to make her blame herself?

“Waiting for me?” Liam called from the gate.

“Thinking,” he replied. “Come on in.”

Sitting opposite each other in the kitchen, Liam hauled a bottle of Jameson’s from his briefcase and set it on the table. “You’ll want a drink for what I have to say.”

“I’m guessing the sun’s over the yardarm somewhere in the Irish-speaking world”—Niall leaned back on the chair legs to collect two Vegemite jars and set them on the table—“but you’re making me nervous.”

“You deserve to be nervous. I met Lucy’s lawyer this afternoon.” Liam splashed whiskey into both jars.

“Maybe I need water.” Niall pushed his chair back this time and crossed to the sink.

“Only if you plan to swim.”

“Was Lucy there?” Niall set a jug of water on the table but swallowed a mouthful of raw spirit. He was hungry for a sight of her after twenty-four hours.

“We were the only witnesses.”

“That sounds ominous.” Niall stared into his jar, the lingering taste of Jameson’s nutty tones no balm for his building panic. He’d made Lucy cry.

“Fascinating is closer to the truth. I emailed Mr. Dawson the letter refusing the bequest. He acknowledged receipt. Today he asked for a meeting.” His brother let the words hang in the air. Working on a Sunday. Not good.

“Tell me.” Niall had met Henry, a master of the non-committal expression.

“He told me there’s a codicil to Cam’s will.” Liam poured water into his jar, swirled it, then looked up. “If you reject the bequest as it stands, you’re to receive fifty thousand dollars cash.”

“Praise the saints. She doesn’t have that sort of money on hand.” Niall slammed his jar on the table. “Do you believe him?”

“Stop abusing the fine glassware,” Liam muttered. “And I don’t like my chances if I accuse Henry Dawson, a lawyer with a sterling reputation, of lying about a will. But, no, I don’t believe him. What did you do for Lucy to rub your nose in her wealth?”

“I said she was stupidly rich,” he confessed with the penitence of a devout Catholic. “That I couldn’t be a pet poodle.”

“You’re some kind of dumb ass. What brought that tirade on?”

“She stocked my fridge.”

“Whatwasshe thinking?” His brother’s sarcasm made Niall wince. “I might have to go down to McTavish’s and abuse her myself.”

“Don’t mock me. It might sound like a small thing, but it was the last in a long line—” He stopped, appalled by what he was saying.

“Of kind actions.” His brother finished for him. “You tend to show your feelings through actions rather than words. Sometimes you need to say the words.”

---