Maeve’s face twisted, and for a moment I thought she might burst into tears. Instead, she grabbed Rowan, and embraced him. Rowan’s body went stiff under her touch, but he softened just enough to pat her shoulder awkwardly. “Thank you, thank you so much.”
“I’m bored,” Flynn announced. Maeve let go of Rowan and he shot Flynn a grateful look, which was perhaps the first time anyone had ever been grateful to Flynn for anything.
“How can you possibly be bored in this place?” she asked him.
“You mean, how can I stand living under the same roof as my English oppressors?” Flynn wrapped an arm around Maeve’s shoulder. “Well, I’ll tell you, Maeve, it takes a fiesty Irish spirit and my body weight in Guinness just to see me through the day. Speaking of which, I think it’s time we hit the pub.”
“Flynn, it’slunchtime.”
“The pub does lunch.”
“Rowan was going to cook,” I protested. We hadn’t even finished the tour. I hadn’t got to show Maeve my library yet.
“The pub is fine,” Rowan said quickly, his eyes darting to the door. I realized that he wasn’t ready to cook for Maeve yet. Of course. I should have thought. Yet another way I’ve let Rowan down.
“I’m starving. And I’ve heard good things about these British pubs of yours.” Maeve sniffed the air. “Hey, what’s that burning smell?”
I leapt forward, but Flynn was faster, sliding in between Maeve, blocking her view so she couldn’t see Arthur frantically trying to put out a fire on the corner of the banner. “That’s the smell of these Protestant infidels after I beat them all at pool. Now, to the pub!”
I followed behind the others, my cock already aching with need. One thing was for certain, when Maeve Moore learned how to harness her power, Briarwood Castle was going to be shaking right down to its foundations.
CHAPTER NINE
MAEVE
Iexpected us to pile into some rickety British car and drive down to the village, but instead the guys set off on foot across the gardens. Just outside the inner gatehouse was a small, cobbled path that wound down through the trees. It came out on the edge of a field. I could just make out the village in the distance – a row of houses dotted across the edge of the hill.
I had no idea that England’s landscape was so irregular. In Arizona, the plains stretched out in all directions, so the horizon was a constant companion – always impossible to reach but right there in your face. Here, rolling hills, quaint villages and ancient trees obscured it.
Corbin swung open a small wooden gate, darting his eyes both ways as he stepped into the field. “Do we own this field, too?” I asked.
He shook his head. “The estate next door – Raynard Hall – technically owns this field. In England, we have something called the ‘right to roam’ over open areas of land. It means that we’re allowed to walk through here, even though we don’t own it and it’s not a public road.”
Wow. In Arizona, if you walked on a farmer’s land without permission, he could shoot you. I checked over my shoulderfor rifle-toting farmers as I followed Corbin into the field, a delicious shiver of the forbidden coursing through my veins.
We reached the village after a brisk twenty-minute walk that left me puffing. I expected exhaustion to grab me from all the traveling and jet lag, but instead, my body buzzed with nervous energy. The village looked just like the kind of quaint place you saw on English TV programs. Thatched-roof houses lined one long, narrow street, each one hung with handwritten signs declaring their purpose. There was a post office, a tearoom, and a couple of crystal shops. At the other end of the main street (or, as Corbin called it, the high street) were more modern shops with awnings, and something called Tesco that look like it might be a grocery store.
Down a narrow cobblestoned alley was the Tir Na Nogpub. I’d never been inside a pub or bar before, and as first experiences went, this one was awesome. Corbin, Flynn, and Arthur had to duck under the low beams that crossed the roof as they descended toward the bar. Dim booths were lit by candles on the tables and wrought-iron lanterns on the walls.
The boys lined up at the bar. Flynn pushed me in front of him. My eyes widened at the long line of bottles and the enormous taps jutting from the rustic wooden bar in front of me. There didn’t seem to be any kind of menu. How did anyone ever choose what they wanted?
“Fancy a pint, lads?” A girl about my age with a thick Scottish accent leaned over the bar, her elbows pushing her tits together so her cleavage was practically in Flynn’s face. He didn’t look like he minded. She wore her fiery-red hair in two long braids, and her wide mouth turned up in a cheeky grin.
“Five pints of your famous ale, thanks Neale, and a couple of menus.” Flynn leaned back and squeezed my arm. “We’ve got a friend with us today.”
“Aye, I didn’t know you had any of those, Flynn O’Hagan.” Neale slammed five giant glasses with handles on the counter and started filling them from a tap.
“I don’t even like beer—” I protested.
“This isn’t your watery American piss, luv,” Corbin said as Neale slid an enormous glass of amber liquid underneath my nose. “Wait until you try arealEnglish ale.”
Judging by the bitter smell wafting off the top of the glass, I wasn’t going to be impressed. I dared a tentative sip, and nearly spat the mouthful back out again. This isworsethan American beer. It’s too…beery. How could people drink this?
Neale flirted with the guys as she poured the rest of their drinks, sharing old jokes and gossiping about people from the village. They clearly came here a lot. This bothered me more than it should. I was starting to feel pretty grumpy until the guys backed away from the bar to find a booth and she turned to me with a conspiratorial grin.
“Welcome to Jolly Old Blighty,” she pointed at my pint. “How about I get you something a little more special?”
“Is it more beer?” I groaned.
