He leaned toward her and pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, then her cheek.
“My Vera,” he whispered.
He strung kisses along her jaw. She breathed out his name. Brogan kissed her lips, warm and fervent. He wrapped both arms around her, amazed at how perfectly she fit, at how wonderful she felt, how sweet her lips tasted.
She kissed him in return, earnest and heart-full.
He had no idea what lay ahead of them. But in that moment, he chose to hope for the best.
The next day at the shop was filled with stolen glances and hardly hidden smiles. Now and then, when Brogan slipped past Vera, he would take her hand and lightly kiss her fingers. She loved it, but she also deeply hoped to be kissed again like she had been the night before. Her wary heart had melted in that moment, choosing to believe in this man who rescued children, fed the poor, and saved working people from certain misery.
As closing time approached, she thought perhaps she would get her wish. But Móirín arrived just before Vera meant to lock the door.
“Don’t hold supper for me,” Brogan said to his sister. “I’ve a few bits of business to see to, and I’m likely to be back late.” He turned to Vera. “I’ll be quick as I can be, so I can see you before you settle in for the night.”
She raised a shoulder in a half-shrug. “You’re assuming I want to see you.”
Brogan slipped close enough to pull her to him, though only his arm and her waist touched. “Don’t you?”
Vera held his gaze. She didn’t answer beyond a slow-
spreading smile.
“What if I vow to bring you a bag of hot chestnuts?”
She let her smile grow to a grin, even laughed a little. She’d done that more often since she’d met him.
With his free hand, he took hers and raised it to his lips. He kissed the back of her hand, her knuckles, the tips of her fingers. A breath quivered from her. He turned her hand over and brushed the lightest of kisses on the inside of her wrist.
“Blessed fields, you two,” Móirín’s voice interrupted. “You’re fit to make me vomit, you are.”
Brogan kept Vera’s hand in his but ceased his attentions. “Sisters are the worst,” he muttered with a laugh.
“This sister’s doing you a favor, lad, so you’d best not get on m’bad side.”
He met Vera’s eyes. “Don’t let her boss you about.”
“I won’t.”
He gave her hand one more quick kiss. “I’ll try not to be back too late.”
On that, he slipped from the shop. The moment he was gone, Móirín sat at the table and motioned for Vera to do the same.
“I need to close up,” Vera said.
“We need to talk first.”
No one could ever accuse Móirín of being weak-willed. Little wonder she’d so bravely assisted her brother in hiding from the Peelers.
Móirín didn’t keep her waiting. “My brother’s in love with you.” The bold declaration came without any hint of blush or hesitation. “And, having watched you watch him, I know ’tis a mutual feeling. I also know you’ve a few concerns due to m’brother’s often maddening sense of loyalty and infuriating selflessness.”
Vera didn’t know whether to laugh or be shocked.
“Let me see if I can’t sum up a conversation you’ve likely had with him recently.” She folded her hands on the tabletop. “He told you we grew up in a rough area of Dublin, that I was employed at Guinness. He explained that a man began causing problems and that same man was killed. A murder charge was levied along with a helping-a-murderer charge, and he and I fled to London.”
“Not quite word for word,” Vera said, “but that’s the bits and baubles of it.”
“And, while you’ve come to realize what a good heart he has and have found in your own heart a willingness to forgive him for having given you a false name, you’re still struggling with his having killed someone.”
She sighed. “It is a difficult thing to have rattling about in my chest. Came as a surprise.”
“Then allow me to surprise you further.” Móirín’s expression remained stoic. “Brogan didn’t kill anyone.”
“But the man in Dublin who was causing you so much grief—”
Móirín held up a hand to cut off the objection. “Brogan is not the one who is wanted for murder,” she said. “I am.”
A million questions flew through her mind. “I am almost certain he told me he was—” But suddenly she wasn’t certain. Perhaps he’d implied it. Or perhaps she’d inferred it.
“He lets people believe he killed my assailant. I think if he could manage it, he would try to convince the Peelers that he was the one who did it. Brogan protects people; it’s what he does, even at great cost to himself.”
“I know.” She spoke the realization as she had it. Brogan helped people. She’d seen it time and again. “It’s one of the things I—”
She stopped the words before they emerged.
Móirín finished for her. “One of the things you love about him.”
Heat crept over Vera’s face, putting truth to Móirín’s assumptions.
“You’ll find that helping people is a Donnelly trait.” Móirín lifted the edge of her dress enough to reach into her boot and pull out a knife. She set it on the table next to her.
“Are you expecting trouble?” Vera eyed the weapon.
“Always.” Móirín bent her arm and slipped her hand beneath the back collar of her dress. She pulled out a thick, black rod, roughly eight inches long. She held it out to Vera. “A fighting stick, you’ll find, is a useful thing.”
“I’d always imagined a shillelagh being longer.”
Móirín smiled. “’Tisn’t an ordinary shillelagh. I made this one m’self.” She placed one hand on each end of the stick and gave a firm outward tug. The stick pulled long, like a telescope. She twisted each end until a click sounded. Móirín tossed it in the air and caught it.
“There you are. An extremely portable and fighting-ready shillelagh.” She spun it about and handed it to her. “Safer than a gun for one who’s not experienced with a firearm, and better suited to you than a knife.”
Vera accepted the fighting stick, curious about Móirín’s invention. “Do you spend a lot of time twiggin’ which weapon is best suited to a person?”