Chapter 1: PART I
Chapter Text
The sky was pale, a single sheet of endless silver, as a westerly breeze swept over the village Dúlainn. The ground was rich and green and soft beneath Eoin McGonigal’s feet. His dark gaze turned towards the ocean and the Aran Islands beyond, which seemed to float upon the foamy sea at a great distance. At Eoin’s back stood the formidable Triple Goddess tavern. The seaside pub was the only ale house for nearly two hundred kilometers, and as the day gradually slipped into night, the raucous laughter and singing grew ever louder from within.
After returning from the tunnels and trenches of France, Eoin, an aspiring writer, had received word that his great uncle, Cian McGonigal, had passed, and both of his sons having died in the war, had left his generous estate in County Clare to Eoin.
Eoin was waiting at the Triple Goddess pub for an insurance adjustor, an English fellow called Dudley Clarke, Esquire. Clarke had handled Cian McGonigal’s affairs for decades and had been the one to inform Eoin of his unexpected inheritance of Étaín Estate. A Catholic boy from Belfast, Eoin had never been this far west before, had never seen the jagged cliffs and limestone beds of Ireland’s western coast. It was familiar in the way that all lush, emerald hills were, but foreign to him all the same.
“Capt. McGonigal, I presume.”
Eoin turned to find a man in a fine, gray suit sporting a bright purple Bond Street bowtie strolling towards him, an umbrella open in his grasp although it was not raining.
“Mr. Clarke?”
“The one and the same. How do you do?”
They took Mr. Clarke’s automobile to the estate, the man in question talking all the while about the various affairs of the late Cain McGonigal, the affairs for which Eoin was now responsible. Étaín Estate employed nearly twenty people for the house and grounds, as well as contained a ruling majority in the local coal mines, which employed over one hundred men. All of whom were now Eoin’s responsibility.
Pulling through the wrought-iron gate of Étaín, Mr. Clarke tapped his fingers against the steering wheel and grinned sardonically at Eoin, who looked as if he walked to the gallows. “Don’t worry, my boy. We’ve had it all written down for you.”
The main house of the estate was an impressive, towering beast of brick and sandstone and iron, all wide windows and a thousand damn chimneys. It was bigger than any home Eoin had seen before, and as Mr. Clarke parked the car in the rounded drive, in the midst of which sat a stone fountain, Eoin peered up at his new home and felt, immeasurably, dwarfed by it.
“What a lonesome place this must be,” he said, quietly and only to himself.
Mr. Clarke introduced Eoin to the head butler, a tall, portly fellow called Mr. Murphy, and the head cook, a short, portly lady called Mrs. O’Sullivan. Mr. Murphy led the men into the study wherein Mr. Clarke had entirely too many papers for Eoin to sign, while one of the footmen fetched Eoin’s luggage from the car and the maids prepared the master bedroom for his arrival.
“That won’t be necessary,” Eoin told Mr. Murphy. “I’m perfectly happy to sort the room me’self.”
A great frown twisted Mr. Murphy’s wormy lips. “That would be improper, sir, as you are now the master of this house.”
His tone made it clear there was no room for argument, so Eoin thanked him and said his goodbyes to Mr. Clarke, who winked with delight as he retreated to his vehicle. “You’re going to love it! A nice, big estate for you to play with. Lord knows what sort of trouble you’ll get up to.”
Eoin grinned despite himself. Over his shoulder, it was Mr. Murphy who replied. “There will be no trouble here, sir.”
Mr. Clarke peered at Eoin, a twinkle in his eye. “We’ll see about that.”
Then, Mr. Clarke was gone with a wild slinging of gravel, which caused Mr. Murphy quite the fuss, and one of the maids materialized at Eoin’s side like an apparition, ready to give him a tour of his new home. The great manor house with its long hallways and lofty ceilings and grand staircases contained two libraries, a variety of bedrooms, a handful of baths, a large dining room, a study, two drawing rooms, a ball room, an extensive kitchen with pantry, a vast storage cellar, and, Eoin was pleased to discover, a greenhouse attached to one of the rear entrances.
“Tomorrow, Mr. Mayne will be here to give you a tour of the grounds, sir.”
“Who is Mr. Mayne?”
“The gamekeeper, sir.”
The maid was young, a slip of a thing with dark skin and darker hair, and with the slightest hint of a French accent, which she hid well. If only Eoin had not had his fair share of the French in the service, he would have never realized. “Do ya mind me askin’, where are ya from?”
There came a defiant set of her chin, which titled proudly. “Algeria, sir.”
Eoin gave what he hoped was a warm smile. “A long way from home, then.” He glanced around the corridor with its ornate mahogany walls and its marbled tiles. “Me, too.”
The house was beautiful but untouchable, and as Eoin wandered the halls of his new home, he shivered against a coldness that had naught to do with the chill in the air. He thought to unpack his things, but found that the maids had already done so, his journal on the bedside table, his books stacked away in the study, his clothes all neatly folded in the drawers. Feeling abruptly quite useless and wanting to not be confined to the halls of the grand manor—too much like a gilded coffin—, Eoin declared that he was going for a walk around the grounds and that he would return in time for supper.
There was some protest from Mr. Murphy, who suggested a footman accompany him as a guide, but Eoin swiftly declined and slipped down the front staircase without another word.
Since the war, Eoin had not done very well with being indoors. He much preferred the open, outdoor air. On the grounds, he could breathe. The Irish air was sweet, familiar, the grass soft underfoot. The world had a twinkling sheen to it, the earth damp, and Eoin let his feet carry him to the eastern woods. He ducked beneath low-hanging branches and stepped over mossy rocks, listening to birdcalls in the trees above as he moved aimlessly through the vibrant wood.
As he explored, pausing now and again to stroke his fingers over the glistening leaves of an alder tree or to crouch and inspect this frog or that dragonfly, Eoin felt that he could write here. This was yet another new beginning for the young Irishman, and though he was much changed since he’d worked the tunnels in France, Eoin hoped he would find himself again—here. And finally, he would write again.
The distant barking of a dog broke the peaceful stillness of nature.
Eoin turned to the noise in time to see a flash of burnt orange shoot passed him, cutting straight through the trees and disappearing as quickly as it had come. On impulse, and with a grin, Eoin dashed after the Irish Setter with a bark of his own.
Eoin chased the dog through the brush and trees until they came upon a wee brook. The waters were impossibly clear, the embankments all exposed roots and squishy ground, slabs of rocks protruding here and there. Eoin approached the brook, paused, closed his eyes and inhaled, deeply. The sound of the gently running water as it bubbled over smooth, age-warn stones quieted the noise in his head.
“Oh,” Eoin said aloud to the dog, a beautiful thing of sleek fur and proud snout, who splashed happily about in the brook. “This is an excellent spot. Thank you, my friend.”
He stripped of his shoes and socks, wading into the cool water to join the Setter, who was now busily rolling in the muddy embankment with a puppy-like sort of glee. Laughing, Eoin kicked a foot across the surface of the water, splashing a bit at the dog. The furry beast barked in response, tail wagging.
“He’s a friendly sort,” a voice called, sudden and deep and sounding of home. “By the looks it, so are you.”
The newcomer was fair in color and hair, with thick shoulders and a weighted stare that cut right to the very bone of Eoin in an instant. He stood at the top of the western ridge, overlooking the brook, and peered down his nose at Eoin, hands in his pockets, a rifle draped over one arm and tucked in the crook of his elbow.
“And who might you be?”
Feeling suddenly unsteady on his feet beneath the gaze of this handsome stranger, Eoin fought to find his voice. “I’m Eoin…” His lips curled into a smile of their own accord. “Are ya from Belfast?”
The man gave a slight nod. “Aye.” He glanced skyward at the green canopy of trees, so verdant this time of year, as if he could not look upon Eoin for too long.
What a joy, to find someone from home, so far west. How unexpected.
At Eoin’s side, the Setter barked and splashed through the brook.
“Handsome pup.”
Another gentle nod. Another, “Aye.”
“Not feelin’ particularly loquacious today?” Eoin teased the stranger in spite of himself. He was delighted when the man gave a huff, which might have been a laugh. He shifted his weight, glancing at Eoin, lips curling as he spoke, “Oh, no, I, unlike much of the human population, only speak when I have something that is worth bein’ said.”
Before Eoin could reply, the man whistled and the red Setter darted forward, out of the water and up the embankment to its master. Without a word, the stranger turned to take his leave. As he and the pup disappeared into the trees, Eoin shouted out. “What should I call ya then?”
The stranger’s reply drifted down to him on the breeze.
“You will not call me.”
Eoin rose the following morning before the sun. Since the war, since France, sleep had often evaded him. His first night in his strange, new surroundings had not done much to help. So, he woke early and tired and with a sense of foreboding as to what the day might bring. Stumbling along in the dark towards what he hoped was the kitchen, he thought to fetch some tea and, perhaps, try his hand at a bit of writing that morning.
There was a short story he’d written for a small publishing house in Belfast before the war—a character piece about two brothers in conflict—, which he had been encouraged to turn into a novel. For the last several months, Eoin had toiled over the story to no avail.
The damn thing just refused to be written.
Moments later with a steaming cup of tea—courtesy of a kitchen maid who’d been rolling out fresh dough that morning—, Eoin curled into a chair in the greenhouse, notebook in his lap, and peered out at the misty grounds of Étaín Estate. The world was still quiet, still bathed in the lavender light of pre-dawn. Ink pen hovering above the paper, Eoin found himself wondering about the man in the woods yesterday. He wondered why this man might’ve found himself so far from their north-eastern home. He wondered as to whether the man had served in the war—it was likely—and where he had been stationed, if he had dug trenches like Eoin or been an artillery man, like Eoin’s brother Ambrose. Had Eoin and this stranger fought side-by-side without knowing it? Had the actions of one saved the life of the other?
Eoin pictured the man’s face, proud and rugged and handsome in its own right.
The man’s visage stirring him on, Eoin put pen to paper.
It was after lunch that Mr. Murphy found Eoin in the study, pouring over the estate’s financials and wishing that he had his older brother’s brain for maths. The sun was bright that afternoon, light spilling in from the many windows and giving the otherwise cold and uninviting room a bit of warmth.
“Capt. McGonigal, the employees have arrived.”
Eoin mustered what he hoped was a pleasant enough smile as he set down his ink pen and closed the record book. “Mr. Murphy, I’ve said that ya may call me Eoin.”
The butler nodded, solemnly. “Sir.”
Eoin had fought losing battles before. He sighed, resigned.
“If you are ready, sir—” Mr. Murphy continued. “I shall bring them through.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Eoin stood from behind the giant oak desk of his late, great uncle—a beautiful but imposing monstrosity. “I should like t’meet them in the drawin’ room. Can the maids put the kettle on?”
“Sir—”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy.”
Although Eoin had met most of the housekeeping staff upon his arrival at Étaín, he had yet to meet the grounds staff—a team of gardeners, a handyman, and the gamekeeper. He welcomed them individually over tea and biscuits, and found that they were each quite lovely. He knew he would grow to become especially fond of the head gardener, an elderly man with soft eyes and a softer laugh called Mr. Niall Walsh, who reminded Eoin of his late grandfather.
It was after Mr. Walsh’s meeting that the gamekeeper arrived. To Eoin’s surprise, he had seen the man before.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Robert Mayne.”
The man visibly withheld a scoff or a sigh or some other audible frustration. He looked at Eoin head-on. “Call me Paddy. Sir.” While Eoin was surprised, the gamekeeper was not and tipped his head Eoin’s way in greeting. “Mr. McGonigal.”
“Captain.” Mr. Murphy corrected, lip stiff.
Eoin waved his hand. “That won’t be necessary… Can I offer ya a’cup of tea?”
Arms clasped in front of him, the gamekeeper—Paddy—declined. “No, no, thank you. Sir.”
An unearned disappointment washed over Eoin. He smiled, anyhow. “It’s nice to officially make yer acquaintance, though m’sorry to see that the pup couldn’t make it this time.”
“Tyger sends his regrets.”
“Yer dog is called tiger?”
A strange look befell the gamekeeper. Eoin watched as a challenge rose within his grey gaze, the curl of his lip. “It was that or lamb, but aye, he has fire burnin’ in his eyes.”
Eoin’s stomach gave a flutter of excitement. “You know yer Blake.”
“Oh, I know a great deal much more than that.”
Eoin smiled like the devil at the gamekeeper’s cheekiness. It was his first real smile since catching the train from Belfast. To his surprise, the gamekeeper gave a wee grin back, a mischievous sort of thing.
“Might I suggest, sir,” called Mr. Murphy from the doorway. “That Mr. Mayne show you the layout of the grounds?”
The men drew to the study where the maps of the grounds were kept.
Map sprawled on the surface of a table near the bay window, the both of them bent in close as the gamekeeper trailed a finger over the map’s etchings to indicate the boundaries of the estate and its notable features. At such intimate proximity, Eoin enjoyed his time taking stock of Paddy Mayne.
He was handsome, as Eoin had thought, all pretty lips and straight teeth and strong brow, but there was a harshness to him. He bore a beard that was too scruffy to be proper, hands worn from hard work, and he carried himself as if cared not who looked upon him. There was a grievance in his very bearing. It was obvious that Paddy was a proud man, and Eoin suspected, an intelligent, formidable one, as well.
Eoin stared for too long, and he felt the gamekeeper’s brief amusement.
Then, the man turned his full, dark gaze on Eoin in a look of pure detachment. Paddy was estimating him, Eoin realized and fought a shiver under the weight of the gamekeeper’s stare. Eoin had known in an instant where he stood with Mr. Murphy and the rest of the house staff, which roles they had been relegated to playing for society’s sake. But he felt, strangely, that with the gamekeeper he was not quite so sure.
“This here’s me cottage. Over yonder—” Paddy’s finger glided across the map. “—is the game hut. S’where we keep the rifles, traps, and such. I’ll build the new coops here.”
“Coops?”
The gamekeeper was quiet for a moment. “For yer new grouse, sir.”
Mr. Murphy, who had been standing sentry at the door—Lord in Heaven, would Eoin ever be rid of that man?—, explained, “The late Mr. McGonigal purchased a dozen grouse shortly before his death, sir. He had the intention of breeding them, I believe.”
“Aye,” agreed the gamekeeper with no shortage of irritation. It appeared that he, too, begrudged the butler’s constant interruptions. “Once I sort the new coops, we’ll get ‘em layin’ in no time.”
A younger writer from the city, Eoin could not have cared less about the mating habits of gamebirds. It must have shown on his face because the gamekeeper hummed, as if in consideration of him, and drew back, clasping his hands behind his back. “Wouldja like a tour of the grounds, sir?”
Although a long walk with his intriguing gamekeeper sounded more than tempting, Eoin had no doubt it would be the last thing the man in question would want to preoccupy his time. It had been a perfunctory suggestion, not a genuine offer, and though a tour was within the gamekeeper’s remit, Eoin found he did not want to force the man to suffer his presence if he did not wish it so.
“No, thank you.” Eoin gestured the map. “I think I can manage.”
So, the gamekeeper left to resume his duties, and Eoin found himself drifting towards one of the large windows in the foyer in order to spy him as he went. A lone figure in the lush, green wilderness of the estate, Paddy Mayne seemed not out of place in the landscape, but rather as a perfect complement to it.
Eoin stilled as he felt a presence at his elbow. It was the maid from Algeria. Eve.
“Paddy Mayne was a captain in the war.” Her voice was soft and rich, velvety and decadent, like dark chocolate. “He was awarded the Distinguished Service Order at the Somme.”
The gamekeeper’s silhouette grew smaller and smaller, and once Eoin could no longer make sight of him, he turned to Eve. He thought to ask her how Paddy came to be in County Clare, so far from the cobbled streets of their home, but he knew that was not her story to tell. Knew that he would rather hear it in the gamekeeper’s own words, besides.
So, instead, Eoin invited her to have dinner with him. He so hated to eat alone, having grown up in a busy home with his parents and brother and cousins, all loud singing and laughing and shouting at once.
“Mr. Murphy will not approve,” Eve told him, though it was plain that she neither cared for nor agreed with the head butler’s position.
“Then, it’s a good thing he’s not in charge.” Eoin gave a conspiratorial wink.
Eve smiled like a cat. “And do you feel in charge, Capt. McGonigal?”
No. No, he did not.
One week passed at Étaín, then another. Eoin’s days were consumed with bookkeeping and payment-rendering and phone calls with the lawyer, Mr. Clarke. There were many issues to resolve surrounding the transfer of the estate and the conclusions of the late Cain McGonigal’s various affairs, ranging from settling old poker debts to filing new tax forms for the property.
It was all at once tedious, time-consuming, and soul-crushing. To make matters worse, Eoin had not a single moment of respite to himself. At every turn, there was a maid or a footman or, God forbid, Mr. Murphy, always lingering and ready to fulfill his every need. Eoin was not so used to being coddled—or watched—, and the entire experience was making him feel claustrophobic.
He was far from the tunnels of France, but here, too, Eoin struggled to breathe.
In those pulse-racing moments when Eoin realized the full dread of his new position and the implications it had on his life, his future, he would take to the grounds. He roamed the green hills and plucked wildflowers in the fields and sat on the muddy banks of the brook, his feet in the water. Sometimes, he would bring a book to read, or his notebook if he were in a writer’s mood, an apple in his pocket.
Always, he looked—and hoped—for the gamekeeper with the quick wit and the wild eyes.
Then, one afternoon well over a month after Eoin’s arrival, he overheard the cook mention that there should soon be grouse eggs on the menu, as the new gamebirds had begun mating. The overheard comment was all the excuse that Eoin needed—he decided to call on the reclusive gamekeeper who, for better or worse, had occupied entirely too many of Eoin’s thoughts as of late.
It was a gray day, a bitter chill in the air, and even Eoin’s best coat couldn’t keep the gooseflesh from his arms. As he wandered deeper and deeper into the towering wood towards the gamekeeper’s cottage, Eoin felt, briefly, like a child again, exploring the Divis hills and sprawling moorlands of north-western of Belfast. He was greeted, as he strolled over roots and around brush, by birdsong and the rustle of woodland creatures scurrying about. He followed along the brook, recalling the estate’s map in mind, and soon found himself in a wee hamlet. A short rock wall framed a small yard in front of a squat, stone cottage with dark shutters and overflowing flowerboxes in the windows.
The joyous barking of a dog—of a Tyger—calling out to him, Eoin stopped short.
Under the awning of a small shed was affixed a waterspout beneath which a very wet and very naked Paddy Mayne stood washing himself.
Paddy hollered at the dog distractedly, who continued to yip and bark at Eoin, clawing at the wooden gate to receive the newcomer, who was frozen where he stood, entranced as he was by his gamekeeper lathering soap over his body. Eoin knew he should announce himself, but he could not—for he could not speak. His breath was caught in his throat as he drank in the sight of corded arms and sculpted shoulders, of a lean waist and strong legs, and of a perfect, pale, peach-shaped ass.
Tyger began to howl at the fence, and just as Paddy turned to investigate the fuss, Eoin called across the yard. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
Wordlessly, Paddy shut off the water and reached for a towel. He dried his face, then his arms, then his torso, taking all of the time in the world before he turned to face his unexpected guest. “No intrusion at all.” Paddy ran the towel over his hair. “S’yer house. One of ‘em.”
The gamekeeper took further time still to dry his legs, and to afford him some privacy, Eoin turned toward the wee meadow which hugged the far side of the cottage. “It’s a lovely place ya’ve got here…I’ve come to check on the grouse. There’s talk they should be layin’ soon.”
“Didja now?” Towel tucked around his waist, Paddy moved to the door. “Come on in, then.”
It took only one look inside for Eoin to know he loved the gamekeeper’s cottage. The quaint home was cozier and more welcoming than the oppressive silence and cavernous chill of the grand manor on the estate. A fire dwindled in the wood-burning stove, a heavy quilt draped over the back of a chair, and two shelves piled with books hung proudly on the wall. There were, also, telling traces of the gamekeeper everywhere. Eoin’s gaze danced about—his comb and razor by the wash basin and cracked mirror, a pair of woolen socks discarded at the foot of the bed, a box of cigars and a deck of cards on the table.
While Paddy dressed, Eoin drew closer to the bookshelves. He fingered the spine of a James Joyce novel, skimmed his fingers over the bindings of Keats’ Poems 1817.
“Are ya a well-read man, Capt. Mayne?”
“Do not—” the gamekeeper snapped, his voice a rough growl, before Paddy remembered himself. Shoulders tense, he took a deep breath, as if to calm himself. “I prefer to be called Paddy. Sir.”
“I apologize,” Eoin replied sincerely. He knew as well as any war veteran why some men might want to leave the war behind entirely. “Do ya read often, Paddy?”
The fight seemed to melt off of the gamekeeper in an instant, bare shoulders slumping slightly as he motioned the bookshelf. “As often as I can. Read most of these three or four times now. Can be hard to get yer hands on a good novel out this way.”
“Yer more than welcome t’come and take from the library at Étaín, if ya’d like. From what I’ve seen it’s an admirable collection.”
“We’ll sit and have tea, will we?”
Eoin grinned, despite the jab and ran a hand over the Setter’s head, the dog’s tail thumping his leg. “If ya fancy it.”
“I am a solitary creature by nature. Folks don’t much mind me, and I don’t much mind it.”
It was as polite a rejection as Eoin had ever received, though that did little to sweeten the sting. More than anything in his last few weeks at Étaín, Eoin had discovered a loneliness he had never known. A loneliness which, it seemed, would not be remedied any time soon.
Paddy tugged on a shirt, only bothering with half the buttons, before he shrugged on his suspenders. “But I might take ya up on the offer for some more books.” The gamekeeper began tugging on a pair of boots. “So, ya wondered about the grouse…?”
Paddy led him through the woods, Tyger darting between and around them all the while, to the gamekeeping shed to the south of the property. On the way, he pointed out a beaver dam on the brook and the old road to the mines near Dúlainn. When they reached the hut, Paddy showed Eoin the game traps, fishing nets, and hunting rifles the estate sported, and the men discussed the local game, mostly duck, pheasant, and red and fallow deer.
“I can’t say I have half a mind t’talk about huntin’ or fishin’,” remarked Eoin as he returned a squirrel trap. “I’d never even held a rifle before I joined up.”
Paddy grinned, a mad, feral sort of thing, and brushed his shoulder against Eoin’s, as if he and Eoin were in on the same joke. “Aye. I don’t know much about shootin’ birds, but I do know about shootin’ Germans.”
The grouse coops which the gamekeeper had built were attached to the rear of the shed. The birds were unbothered by their visitors as Paddy unlatched one of the doors. He reached in, taking a grouse in hand, and asked, “Want t’hold one?”
After their inspection of the birds, the men continued to walk the estate. It was a companionable stroll in that lovely golden hour when the sun set itself to sleep while the moon rose to kiss the stars. Tyger contented himself to trail at their feet as they came round the edge of the estate, approaching the manor house.
When the house—tall and strong and incongruous with the land—finally became visible over the ridge, Paddy halted and tucked his hands in his pockets. “I’ll leave ya here, then.”
“Why don’t ya come in?” asked Eoin, who did not yet wish to part with his prickly gamekeeper. “Stay and have some supper with me.”
“Oh, no. I don’t think so—sir.” Paddy eyed the manor wearily, the slightest hint of distain crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I don’t think Mr. Murphy would be much too pleased about that.”
“All the more reason to do it, then.” Eoin laid a hand on Paddy’s arm. He felt a rush—of excitement? of hunger?—come over him at the bold move, and though he could not feel the heat of Paddy’s skin through his thick coat, Eoin felt warmed all the same.
Paddy was quiet, and Eoin wondered if he’d overstepped, allowing his hand to drop from the other man’s arm. Sometimes, Eoin forgot himself. Forgot the world he lived in and the rules he was expected to play by. He opened his mouth to apologize for his forwardness, perhaps brush it off with a joke, but not a second later, a wicked smirk on his lips, Paddy jerked his head towards the grand house.
“Alright, why the hell not? C’mon then.”
They entered into a ritual sort of dance.
Once or so a week, Paddy would call upon Eoin to borrow books from the estate’s library, and once or twice a week, Eoin would visit Paddy’s cottage and the men would go assess the grouse, who had finally begun to produce eggs.
Occasionally, they would discuss a novel—if Paddy had particularly hated or enjoyed it—over tea in the study at Étaín or over poitín nestled in the warmth of the cottage. Though Eoin had already recognized that Paddy, with his wit and his razor-sharp tongue, was an intelligent man, their conversations revealed an extremely well-read man with an insatiable hunger for that which only literature and poetry could provide—beauty, life, understanding.
Their conversations often turned into debates, passionate and limitless and full of shouting and laughing in equal measure, and for Eoin, those moments with Paddy by the firelight felt like a homecoming. After months of drowning in his late uncle’s affairs and adjusting to the rigidity of his new role, Eoin finally felt himself coming back to life.
And it was all thanks to his handsome, cantankerous gamekeeper.
As March gave way to April, there came a two-week spell of rain, a relentless downpour that refused to quiet day or night. In that time, Eoin remained firmly in the manor, fretting away in the study, and Paddy performed only the absolutely necessary chores on the grounds—drenched through to the bone each time—and otherwise sheltered in his cottage. With each day that passed without a fire-side conversation over Homer or Shelley, without seeing the devilish twinkling rise in Paddy’s eye whenever he prepared to say something quite contrary, without hearing Paddy’s rumbling laugh at something witty Eoin had managed to utter, Eoin grew more and more restless until he was entirely impossible to be around. Even his darling Eve kept her distance.
When the break in the rains finally came, Eoin tossed a few books into leather sack and jollied off towards the woods like a man possessed.
The cottage door was open when he arrived. Eoin gave a shout, but as he stepped inside, he realized the house was empty. Dropping the sack of novels by the entry, Eoin noticed a notebook open on the table in front of the wood-burning stove. He drew to it, the words barely visible in the dwindling firelight. His finger skimmed the page, as did his eyes.
Poetry. It was poetry.
Paddy returned to the cottage in short order, a bundle of firewood in his hands, with little surprise at seeing Eoin standing uninvited in his home.
“I did not mean to intrude,” murmured Eoin as he politely, pointedly, closed the book of Paddy’s poetry.
“For someone who doesn’t mean to intrude, ya make frequent work of it,” remarked Paddy, not unkindly. The gamekeeper huffed as he crossed to fire. He chucked two logs into the stove and deposited the rest in a crate on the floor. “Though, s’not much worth intruding upon, I suppose.”
“I brought more books.”
“They better be good. The last lot were pure shite.”
“You chose ‘em,” teased Eoin. He gestured the sack near the door. “I found a copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall in one of the spare bedrooms.”
An approving look dawned on Paddy’s face. “I have always preferred Anne ta Emily.”
Eoin could stand it no longer. He tapped on the notebook on the table. “Are you a poet?”
Paddy regarded him for a long while. It wasn’t uncomfortable, Paddy’s appraisal. Indeed, Eoin had long realized that he quite enjoyed being the sole point of Paddy’s focus. But Eoin knew that if Paddy did not find whatever he searched for, Eoin would never know of Paddy the poet. This, finally, would be something they could not share.
After a small eternity, Paddy nodded. “Aye, as a matter of fact, I am a poet.”
Eoin could not help but to beam for the joy in his heart. What a gift, unexpected and rich, his gamekeeper was. “I write myself. Short stories, fiction mostly.”
“Are ye any good?”
Eoin scoffed, smiling. “No, I’m terrible.”
A shit-eating grin split Paddy’s fair face in half. “Finally, an honest gentleman.”
“I am no gentleman, Paddy Mayne. If anything, I’m but a child playin’ dress-up.”
A quiet moment passed as both men stood in the glow of the fire, Eoin’s confession dissolving the air, the space, between them. Finally, Paddy moved to the kettle on the small stove and asked him, “Wouldja like to hear some?”
Eoin’s stomach flipped with a delirious sort of thrill. “Some of yer poetry?”
The gamekeeper kept his back to Eoin as he fiddled with the kettle, and his voice was usually quiet as he answered. “Aye.”
“Yes, Paddy. I would like that very much.”
That was all it took.
Paddy shared his poetry, shared his heart and mind with Eoin, and Eoin was lost to Paddy in an instant. Paddy’s voice was rich and warm, like a mug of coffee on a cold morning, as he recited his own words put to paper. Where Eoin’s new life seemed too cold in all aspects, Paddy raged like fire.
And Eoin had been deliciously, deliriously burned.
Paddy’s poetry revealed that which he rarely outwardly expressed—his more tender passions, his sensitivity, his yearning. This was a man who keenly observed the world around him, and found it wanting. A man who turned to poetry to envision the world as it could be, rather than as it was. A tortured man with unspent emotion, who was not—could not—be satisfied.
But by God, was Eoin tempted to try.
In the days and weeks that followed, Eoin was simply and utterly consumed by Paddy Mayne. He invented a myriad of excuses for them to spend time together. After their discussion (that was really, arguably, a spirited debate) about Blake's Songs of Innocence, Eoin suggested a game of chess, bringing out his uncle’s antique set to tempt Paddy into a game. Chess matches, then, became something of a regular routine for them on rainy days and the occasional weekend. Paddy was a much keener player than Eoin, tactical and with a killer’s instinct, but the younger man found he did not mind to lose. Not when a loss was his reward for hours spent huddle over the board with Paddy, all concentrated brow and casual jokes over a glass of Irish whiskey.
Some evenings, Eoin would pack up his supper and bring it with him to Paddy’s cottage, forcing the gamekeeper to dine with him on Mrs. O’Sullivan’s fine cooking, Tyger begging for scraps all the while.
The first time he’d done so, Paddy had gone a bit bashful around the eyes and murmured, “It’s awfully kind of ya t’think of me.”
Eoin’s heart shuttering beneath his breast, he had replied, with hardly the breath to utter it, “Why shouldn’t I think of ya?”
He enjoyed this most of all—breaking bread with Paddy. It felt like home.
Eventually, their vibrant literary discussions naturally gave way to a more intimate sort of talk. Eoin inquired about Paddy’s family, his history, his likes and dislikes, and Paddy humored him. The gamekeeper talked sensibly, briefly, practically about all of the things Eoin wanted to know. He didn’t expand or let himself go, as this was not his nature. But Eoin consumed every morsal of knowledge Paddy shared, piecing it together like a jigsaw until he could see the image of Paddy Mayne the boy, the soldier, the poet, the person.
For his part, Eoin indulged every curiosity and whim of Paddy’s. He told him of his family, of France, of the little university schooling he’d received before the war. Most of all, though, Eoin spoke of home, of those old familiar streets and the River Lagan and the dockyards and his mum’s barmbrack and every little thing in between. Whenever he spoke about Belfast, a knowing but pained countenance settled over Paddy like a moth-eaten blanket.
Over those blessed weeks, Eoin and Paddy revealed themselves to one another—and all the while, Eoin was writing.
He wrote about Paddy—his observations of the gamekeeper, his questions and curiosities about him, about the way Paddy made Eoin feel, and the ways in which the beautifully complex man inspired Eoin. Before long, Paddy had become the central figure in Eoin’s novel, which slowly morphed into a story not about two brothers—but of two men who were close in quite a different manner.
It was salacious, his novel. In the wee hours of the morning, he toiled over the lunacy of even attempting publication. It would have to be done anonymously, of course. But even then, Eoin suspected, the novel would still likely never see the light of day.
That was alright, he decided, for this novel to be for him and him alone.
It would be enough that Paddy had inspired Eoin to finally put pen to paper after such a long time.
Once, Eoin asked Paddy if he’d ever considered publishing his poetry.
Paddy had huffed a laugh, dropping his hands onto his thighs as he blew out a great puff of air. “Oh, no. I may be a good poet—or a very poor one—but a poet is what I am and what I’ve got to be. There’s no question about it. But my poetry is not one for this world…”
Eoin had half a mind to offer to help pursue publishing for Paddy’s works. But he did not—because he was a coward and had not yet shown Paddy his own published works. For the shame of Paddy disapproving of his work was not something Eoin could bear.
There was, also, a selfish, possessive part of Eoin that delighted in the fact that Paddy’s poetry was for the two of them alone.
One morning in late April, Eoin was busy drowning in account statements and the latest reports from Mr. Clarke’s office regarding the longevity of the mines’ output, when a dull throbbing had begun in his temples, spreading slowly behind his dark eyes. Such migraines were not uncommon as of late, and as Eoin attempted to rub it out, there came a knock at the door.
“Pardon the interruption, sir, but Mr. Mayne is here to see you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy. Send him in, please.”
Normally, Eoin would’ve stood, would’ve gone to the foyer to greet his—his friend? Saints, what had this man become but his everything?—, yet the pain behind his eyes was only increasing, proving quite the distraction.
“Are ya alright, Eoin?”
He hummed, a response, a greeting, and soon, Paddy’s shadow fell over him. The gamekeeper took him, gently, by the chin and titled Eoin’s face so that he could meet Paddy’s concerned gaze. He winced a little. “M’fine, Pads. Just got a touch of a headache.”
“Mr. Murphy,” hollered Paddy, fingers still tenderly clasping Eoin’s face. “Have one of the maids prepare some coffee for Mr. McGonigal.” Then, softer, to Eoin, Paddy added, “The caffeine will help. D’ya need a cold compress?”
“No, no, Paddy, I told ya m’fine.” Eoin brushed Paddy’s hand away and straightened in his chair. “What has ya callin’ so early?”
“I’ve come ‘cause one of the birds is sick. She won’t eat and she’s gone funny in the face, eyes all swollen and what not. Think she’s got some kind of disease.”
“Oh.”
“Aye.” Paddy nodded, hands clasped behind his back. Rubbing his temples, Eoin asked what the gamekeeper recommended, and Paddy leaned one hip against Eoin’s grand desk as he answered, “Could try to isolate her—build another pen and what not to keep it from spreadin’.”
“Ya don’t sound too optimistic?”
Eve appeared in the doorway, a tray of coffee and biscuits in hand. She placed the tray atop the table by the bay window, but Paddy waved her away before she could pour, doing it himself, instead. He placed a steaming cup before Eoin. “Drink up.”
Eoin quipped something only half-intelligible and did as he was told. He drained half the cup in one go, the coffee scalding his tongue and throat. “What do ya suggest, then?”
As Paddy poured himself some coffee, he shrugged. “Could go through the trouble of isolatin’ her, but s’likely she won’t get no better. The kinder thing might be to put her down now, save her a slower death.”
“Is there really no hope to rehabilitate?” grumbled Eoin, pressing against his temples. The discomfort wasn’t ceasing, and Eoin suspected all the coffee in the world wouldn’t put a dent in his pain. He closed his eyes against the throbbing, and so heard rather than saw Paddy draw closer.
"Ya’d hafta get a veterinarian in, and there’s no one in Dúlainn.” Paddy stood beside him now, voice wafting down gently, as he spoke. Eoin froze as he felt Paddy’s hands rise to his temples, thumbs pushing tenderly into either side and rubbing in slow, soothing circles. Eoin blinked his eyes open, peering up at his gamekeeper, who stared back at him defiantly. As he tended to Eoin’s sore head, Paddy continued, “Closest vet’s probably in Galway, and you’ll pay a wee fortune gettin’ ‘em here. Even then, the grouse might be too far gone. I’d say ya should save y’erself the trouble. Sir.”
Eoin huffed a laugh, and in his moment of weakness, gave into the impulse to lean forward, resting his forehead against Paddy’s stomach. The gamekeeper shuffled, stepping in between Eoin’s knees to lessen the pressure on Eoin’s neck, thumbs dutifully circling Eoin’s temples.
They remained so for what might have been a small eternity, Eoin taking what comfort he could in Paddy’s tender embrace, before Paddy goaded him into drinking more coffee.
Eventually, his pain receded enough that Eoin could be feasibly coherent once more.
“We’ll shoot her, then,” he murmured, returning to the bird.
Paddy’s voice, so close, so soft, agreed. “Aye. I’ll see to it, then.”
“No.” Eoin shook his head. “I’ll do it.”
Paddy seemed to hesitate, which was unusual for the forthright poet. “It’s well within my remit to see to it. M’happy to take care of it.”
Eoin rubbed the bridge of his nose, sipped some coffee. “I know, Paddy. But if there’s to be some killin’ in my name, I’ll be the one to do it. Even if it’s only a bird.”
That evening just before dusk, Eoin joined Paddy at the game hut. There was a shotgun loaded and waiting. When it was over, Paddy loaded the carcass onto a wheeled cart to dispose of, and Eoin tossed the now-empty shells and returned the rifle to its proper place.
“How’s the head, then?”
“Better now,” Eoin replied, flashing his gamekeeper a brief smile. “Thanks.”
For the second time that day, Paddy hesitated. Brow raised, Eoin motioned for his gamekeeper to speak his mind. “What is it ya’ve got t’say, Paddy?”
Paddy came to stand beside him, and for a moment, Eoin thought the man might reach for him. But Paddy stuffed his hands inside his trouser pockets instead and rocked on his heels as he spoke. “I’ve noticed ya been gettin’ these headaches more and more recently, and I’ve heard ya haven’t been sleepin’ as much—”
Had heard, Eoin suspected, from Eve.
“—do ya think ya might need t’see a doctor?”
Eoin’s pulse was a dull bell in his ears. He swallowed a blush and forced his hands to steady as he clapped Paddy on the arm. “I appreciate yer concern, truly, Paddy, I do. But m’fine. I get the headaches because I don’t sleep, but I’m sure the lack of sleep will pass soon. Do not worry about me, Paddy Mayne.”
He knew Paddy was not assuaged. The gamekeeper’s gaze was heavy and contemplative, but if he had more concerns to air, he did not voice them. Instead, he looped an arm around Eoin’s shoulders and began to guide him back towards the house.
“As if ya could fuckin’ stop me.”
Despite the reprieve that his conversations with Paddy had become, and in spite of Eve’s friendliness and companionship, Eoin was still miserably lonely within the grand halls of Étaín. Every moment he was within, his thoughts remained solely on means of escape. Worse than this, the work of running the grand estate and the mines just beyond had already become a dreadful, monotonous affair.
Along with his violent headaches, Eoin had begun to suffer from an unyielding restlessness. It rooted in deep within his bones and spread, taking possession of him like a madness. The restlessness made Eoin’s heart beat violently, made his palms sweat, his head ache. It was a miserable, wretched sort of poison.
He wanted to beat his head against a stone. Or reach for the familiar comfort of a pistol in hand.
“It really is a terrible place, is it not? All the endless rooms that nobody ever uses, all the mindless routine, the methodical cleanliness, the mechanical order. What can a man do with such a place but leave it alone, least it drain from him his very soul?”
Eve smiled at him, tragically, sentimentally, over the rim of her glass. “Does he know you are a poet yourself?”
Eoin flushed at her implications. Though he knew she felt a certain softness towards him, Eve was, he recognized, first and foremost a survivor. Between her sharp mind and keen observational skills, Eoin acknowledged that Eve had the means to end him, should she ever need to.
“I’m not a poet,” he murmured, an obvious deflection away from the subject of a certain foul-mouthed gamekeeper.
Before Eve could sink her claws in further, the sound of the manor’s doorbell rang throughout the stale air. With a wicked smirk, Eve placed her mug down on the small sitting table and stood. “I suppose I should see to that.”
“Whoever it is,” drawled Eoin. “Tell ‘em to go away.”
“I shall tell them you are too busy pouting to entertain visitors.”
In the months since he’d moved onto the estate, a number of local politicians or landowners and their wives had frequented his doorstep, gathering their impressions of Étaín’s new master, and more often than not, asking for sizable charitable donations to this or that and flaunting their eligible daughters who would make most handsome wives. To this, Eoin would always smile politely and admit that he was no in need of a wife, to which the women almost always answered, “Capt. McGonigal, all unmarried young men are in need of a wife.”
Eoin couldn’t be bothered with the lot of them.
Moments later, Eve reappeared with a rather long shadow trailing in her wake. “You have a visitor, sir.”
Eoin had half a mind to tell them both to fuck off, and he would have done had he not caught a glimpse of a familiar shock of cornstalk hair. As tall and skinny and bright as ever, Lieutenant Johnny Cooper stood in his drawing room, a blindingly brilliant grin on his boyish face.
“Johnny!” Eoin yelped in surprise and crossed the room in two easy strides, drawing his dear friend into a tight hug. “What on earth are ya doin’ here, Johnny?”
“Surprised to see me?” asked Johnny with a smile. “Not as surprised as I was, I assure you, to find out that you had inherited an entire estate without so much as a note in your last letter.”
“Oh, ya know…” Eoin rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. But he was not properly chagrinned for too long, delighted as he was by his friend’s unexpected appearance. Gripping Johnny by the upper arms, Eoin leaned back to appraise him. The young lieutenant had put on more weight since the war, though still as gangly and tall as a bean sprout, and Eoin was pleased to see that his dear friend had not lost an ounce of his sunny disposition.
“Ya look well, my friend.”
Johnny cocked his head, thoughtfully. His hands found Eoin’s and he gave a little squeeze. Johnny’s voice was soft, so as not to be overheard by the house staff, when he replied, “I wish I could say the same for you, Eoin.”
“Oh, I’m fine. It’s just the Irish weather, haven’t’cha heard?”
Graciously, Johnny accepted the digression. He stepped back with a dramatic sweep of his arms and gestured the manor surrounding them. “She’s a dream, Eoin. God, imagine the parties. We must. Will you give me a tour willingly, or should I beg?”
“Later, later,” promised Eoin with a laugh. “Let’s go to the village, to the pub, and grab a few drinks like old times.”
Johnny eyed the vaulted ceilings of the main entrance—and the handsome, young footman hovering by the door—and gave a lecherous grin. “I’ll hold you to it.”
Eoin let Johnny drive one of the two automobiles belonging to the estate into Dúlainn, madman behind the wheel as he was. As they drove over the winding hills and across the muddy roads, the men chatted animatedly, catching up since their last exchange of letters. Part of Eoin’s soul was soothed by the mere presence of his brother-in-arms, who he had not seen since they were both honorably discharged from the King’s army. It was so easy, slipping back into conversation with Johnny Cooper, as if no time had passed, as if he were unchanged.
The Triple Goddess was positively heaving with bodies when Eoin and Johnny arrived, so much so that a few men stood in the yard with their ales while others sat on the bonnets of their cars or on overturned casks.
“What’s all this, then?” Eoin asked one of the miners.
The miner removed his cap and nodded a greeting. “Hello, Capt. McGonigal, sir. The boys ‘re all in town today for the match.”
“The match?” asked Johnny, hovering at Eoin’s shoulder.
“The boxin’ match, sirs. Paddy Mayne and Reg Seekings.”
“Paddy?” Eoin’s heart was in his throat. Paddy, his Paddy, his gamekeeper, in a boxing match. Eoin wondered, briefly, why Paddy hadn’t mentioned, and then he wondered a bit more about what else there was to Paddy’s life that Eoin did not know about. He was immediately delighted be the prospect that there might yet be more to uncover about his man.
“And how do we know the paddy?” Johnny inquired as he and Eoin forced their way through the throng of bodies towards the bar to order a couple of pints.
“No, he’s called Paddy. He’s my—gamekeeper.”
“Oh.” There was a distinctly disappointed note to Johnny’s voice at Eoin’s markedly un-lascivious answer.
The match, it seemed, had already started ‘round the back of the pub. The side door was propped open, releasing a great volley of boisterous noise. Like the rest of the pub’s occupants, Johnny and Eoin were drawn inevitably to the ruckus, and as they drew near to the simple rope-and-barrel boxing ring, anticipation prickled Eoin’s skin.
He was there, alright, his Paddy, half naked and in mud up to his calves, brawling with a brute the size of a mountain. Though the man was roughly Paddy’s height, he was nearly twice the gamekeeper’s weight, but Paddy was faster, darting out of the way of what would’ve been a deadly blow. They boxed with bare knuckles, which Johnny noted was deliciously barbaric, and Eoin watched as blood trickled from Paddy’s split lip, saw the purple which was already blossoming over Paddy’s left brow.
If Eoin weren’t already positively enamored with his ornery gamekeeper, the sight of Paddy Mayne shirtless, sweaty, pulverizing another man for all he’s worth, would’ve tipped Eoin over the edge. The fighter in Eoin drew towards Paddy, moth meeting flame, to marvel at the power of Paddy’s body, the strength and endurance, the resilience and skill as he battled the brute. There was no denying it now—Eoin desired Paddy. Eoin’s entire body had grown taunt in the space of a minute, and one glimpse at Johnny’s shit-eating grin told Eoin that his want was written clear across his face.
He tried to school his features, took a long gulp of his beer, forced himself to breathe deep and slow.
“Which one is your boy, then?” Johnny eyed the match like he wanted in on the action, his trigger finger twitching relentlessly, a devilish glee to his blue eyes.
“The man with the beard.”
“He is attractive,” murmured Johnny. “In a pretty, craggy sort of way.”
Eoin struggled to breathe. “Don’t I fuckin’ know it.”
It was at this precise moment that, across the crowded yard and in the middle of the makeshift boxing ring, Paddy caught Eoin’s gaze. As their eyes met, Paddy’s fist halted mid-air, and the gamekeeper blinked comically. His hesitation was the exact advantage his opponent needed. The man struck hard, clear across Paddy’s jaw, and then, Paddy was on his ass in the mud.
“Fuck me.” Paddy’s growl was loud enough that it cut through the noise of the crowd. He laid on his back, hands gripping his face, as the brute towered over him, tauntingly.
“Had enough, then, aye, Paddy?”
Without thinking, Eoin shouldered his way through the mob to Paddy’s corner of the ring, Johnny following dutifully. His gamekeeper had just clambered back to his feet when Eoin’s hand seized the rope barricade of the ring. “Alright, there, Paddy?”
Paddy’s gaze, hot and heavy, pierced Eoin like a knife. “Didn’t expect t’see you of all people here.”
The other boxer—who was even more of a beast up close, a smattering of tattoos across his chest with a crazed grin and wild eyes and an angry, naturally quarrelsome face—pounded his fists together. “Who’s this, aye, Paddy? Not that posh toff you work for.”
Paddy pointed a finger at his opponent, but he looked at Eoin. “I did not say that.”
“No, I fuckin’ said it, didn’t I?” smarted the brute as he raised his arms in fighting stance once more, much to the crowd’s delight. “Are we gonna fuckin’ finish this, or what?”
“Aye,” snarled Paddy, though still he did not look away from Eoin. Captivated as they both were, Eoin leaned over the ropes, and with fire in his veins, he drew Paddy close enough that the gamekeeper’s breath ghosted Eoin’s cheek. “Ya put him down, Paddy, and don’t let him get back up.”
The fight was over soon thereafter, and when a bit of the crowd had cleared out, Paddy found Eoin and Johnny near the bar. As they pick their way to a table, Eoin noticed Johnny’s wandering eyes and mischievous smirks cast towards Paddy’s opponent—Reg, Reg fuckin’ Seekings, sir—, and he caught Johnny’s arm. Lowering his voice, Eoin murmured a quick word of caution.
“Ya’ll do well t’be careful here, Johnny. We are far from London, far from France. These men, they’re not so advanced as you and I.”
But Johnny was not looking at him. His gaze remained locked on the other men, and as a result, he caught Paddy’s sidelong glance in Eoin’s direction. His heavy glance. “No? Not even your keeper?”
Eoin flushed, and Johnny snorted. “That’s what I thought.”
Paddy and Reg were bloodied and covered in mud, but they’d shrugged their shirts back on and were welcomed in the tavern likes heroes returned from war. Money was exchanged as bets were reconciled, and the barman placed a fat purse of coin atop their table—Paddy’s prize for winning.
“Many thanks, Jimmy. Much obliged.”
“Same time next month, boys?”
Reg and Paddy both agreed instantly.
Across the table, Eoin flashed Paddy a fat grin and sipped on his pint, tongue darting out to swipe a bit of foam off his top lip. He hoped it wasn’t his imagination that Paddy tracked the movement with a dark gaze before he gave his own wee smile in return. Beside him, over his glass of ale, Johnny purred at the fighters. “So, you do this often, then?”
“Why? Interested in gettin’ your hands dirty, are ya?” Reg challenged, and Eoin wondered if the man didn’t see everything, down to life itself, as a challenge. For his salt, Johnny gave a coy turn of his mouth and drawled, “The dirtier the better, darling.”
Eoin watched as Paddy swallowed a laugh and sipped his beer. His knuckles were busted, swollen and red. Later, Eoin might find Paddy at the cottage and bind the wounds himself. Might clean and wrap the splits in his skin. Might kiss the dirty back of his hand or the calloused planes of his palms.
Eoin thought he could live in a land of maybe and might, if Paddy were there with him.
“I enjoy your tattoos,” continued Johnny, bright and unflappable as ever. “Did you get them in the war?”
“I did.” Reg beamed like a lunatic, mouth wide beneath his thick mustache, before his sneer turned cruel, his gaze raking up and down Johnny’s person. “But what would you know about the war? No doubt, you got daddy to get ya out of the service.”
On the table, Eoin’s hand curled into a fist. Anger, hot and quick, consumed him. He turned on the boxer, growling, “Ya have no bloody idea what the fuck yer talkin’ about, big man. I strongly suggest ya shut yer trap before I decide to shut it for ya.”
Before Reg could respond, Johnny placed a pacifying hand on Eoin’s arm, his cheery disposition never slipping. “I’m quite capable of defending myself, Eoin, though I do appreciate it.” Johnny turned his stare on the burly boxer, blue eyes like steel as they sliced into the stranger, a grin playing at his lips. “Actually, I've killed thirty-seven men in service to the crown.”
A tense silence settled over the table.
Around them, the conversations and laughter of the other patrons continued loudly, offset by the pair of fiddlers performing in the corner. Eoin flexed his grip on his pint glass, rage still simmering beneath the surface—he was a tolerable lad by miles, but he’d not have a word spoken against Johnny Cooper—, and he felt the weight of Paddy’s attention. But for once, Eoin could not look back.
“Right,” grumbled Paddy. Clearing his throat, he hollered over the din of the tavern, voice thrown to the fiddle players. “Oi! Enough of that maudlin shite. Play somethin’ feckin’ happy.”
The music abruptly stopped, and after a few prolonged moments, returned once more, this time with a lighter tune, the first chords of an Irish jig ringing out. As the fiddlers grew louder, Reg extended an olive branch, instead of an apology. Remarking on Johnny’s posh accent, he asked, “Long way from home, aren’t ya?”
Johnny raised a delicate brow. “I could say the same for you. What brings you to Ireland?”
Reg jerked a thumb at the gamekeeper. “We fought together in France.”
“As did we,” murmured Eoin, knocking his elbow against Johnny’s and earning a knowing smile from the blonde. Eoin returned the grin with one of his own, and finally, finally, let his eyes fall on Paddy, who, he was unsurprised to find, was watching him with an unreadable expression. “Me, Johnny, and Bombardier Fritz.”
“Livin’ in the fuckin’ pink, no doubt,” joked Reg, not unkindly, before he raised his glass in a toast. “We put ‘em out of it, aye, boys?”
“Cheers to that,” purred Johnny, and the men raised their glasses.
One pint became two became five, and by nightfall, Eoin felt warm and red in the cheeks. He excused himself, heading outside for a cigarette while Reg and Johnny fetched the next round. Hands cupped around his lighter, he drew the flame to the fag stuck between his lips. When it caught, Eoin took a long, slow drag, lungs filling with that familiar tang, and for the thousandth time since he picked up the habit in the service, felt his body awash with a sort of relief.
“Mind if I get some of that?”
Paddy’s voice, heavy with ale, made Eoin’s stomach tighten.
Blowing a plume of smoke, Eoin proffered the cigarette, which Paddy took and drew to his mouth. Eoin forced himself to look away. “Ya didn’t tell me ya box.”
“I box.”
For a few quiet, delicious moments, Eoin and Paddy stood shoulder to shoulder on the stoop of the Triple Goddess tavern, bathed in moonlight as they silently shared a smoke. The entire long while, Eoin fought the temptation to brush his hands against Paddy’s, to lean into the man’s warmth, to turn and stare. When a smoldering tip was all that was left, Paddy cut Eoin a sheepish glance and asked, softly, “Another?”
Eoin tucked into the front pocket of his shirt and withdrew his lucky, silver cigarette case, a gift from his grandparents from before the war. Wordlessly, he popped the case open and extended his offering to Paddy. The gamekeeper plucked out a cigarette and drew it to his lips, grey eyes flickering up to Eoin’s face as he waited. Pocketing the cigarette case, Eoin fished out his lighter, struck it, and held the flame to Paddy’s lips.
Paddy’s hands came to rest atop Eoin’s, cupping the flame and sheltering it from the evening breeze. Their hands joined over the lighter, their eyes met, and for a wild, dizzying second, Eoin thought he might’ve seen something like desire in Paddy’s gaze. In that beautiful, small eternity, Eoin couldn’t breathe.
“Paddy—”
The door of the pub burst open with a torrent of sound—clinking glasses, men’s voices, the scraping of chairs, those damn fiddlers—, and the spell was broken.
Paddy stepped away with haste, dragging on the cigarette, before he handed it back to Eoin at arm’s length. “Better get back in, yeah?”
Eoin watched him go and tried to ignore the little breaking of his heart.
When the pub closed, Johnny suggested a nightcap at Étaín.
The men arrived at the estate miraculously whole, despite the dark and bumpy country roads and Eoin’s, admittedly, poor and inebriated driving. Once parked in the drive near the stone fountain—which Eoin had come to loathe—, the men spilled out of the vehicle, drunk and joyous and hungry for more.
Johnny led the way, dancing up the front steps and dramatically throwing open the grand doors before the footman could. Reg tripped up after him, all booming laughter, and as Eoin made to follow, a rough hand caught him by the chest.
Paddy’s grey eyes were wilder than Eoin had ever seen them, but the gamekeeper was eerily calm as he spoke, voice deep and quiet. “I hope ya understand that I am takin’ a huge fuckin’ risk here with ya, Eoin. Please, my Belfast boy, do not let me down.”
Confused, Eoin reached for Paddy. “What—”
It happened like a lightning strike.
Paddy’s bloodied hand slid across Eoin’s cheek, then round the back of his head, fingers trailing through the hair at his nape, to pull Eoin near so that Paddy could kiss him.
Eoin’s mouth fell open, pliant and willing, and his head swam in utter, disbelieving ecstasy as Paddy kissed him. Finally, finally, goddamn finally. There was a great beast that roared to life within him beneath Paddy’s lips, his hands, and Eoin grabbed at his gamekeeper like a man possessed. Shoving him against the bonnet, Eoin sought to devour. For too long he had waited and wondered and dreamed about what his tempting gamekeeper would taste like, feel like, and he wasn’t interested in wasting another second.
“Paddy.” Eoin gasped against Paddy’s mouth before he caught the gamekeeper’s bottom lip between his teeth. Eoin bit down, hard enough to draw blood, and earned himself a delicious growl as Paddy clawed at Eoin’s hips, drawing him impossibly closer.
Paddy’s hands crawled up Eoin’s body. He gripped Eoin’s chin hard enough to bruise, sending a delightful wee thrill ricocheting through Eoin. “These fuckin’ dimples,” growled Paddy, eyes wild, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his thumb dug into Eoin’s cheek. “These goddamn dimples are fuckin’ obscene.”
Then, Paddy tilted his head to drop a kiss onto Eoin’s dimple. Seconds later, Eoin felt the wetness of Paddy’s tongue as it swept over his skin, burrowing into his dimple as if Paddy could consume him.
With a groan, Eoin thrust his hips, and Paddy shoved him away as if burned.
“Fuck.” Paddy licked his lips, chest heaving, gaze blown wide. “Oh, Eoin—I have to go now, or else I will have you—and I cannot.” His voice was strained, and Paddy added, earnestly, ardently, “But not for lack of wanting.”
“Ya cannot have me?” Eoin repeated, scoffing, already reaching for Paddy, the separation too soon, instantly too much to bear. “Why the fuck not?”
Something primitive gripped Paddy. “Because if I were to have ya, I would want to keep ya, and I cannot.”
With a snarl, Eoin grabbed Paddy’s face between his hands so that he might make him see. Fingertips digging into Paddy’s bearded flesh, Eoin growled, “You already have me. I am already yours.”
Eoin watched—heart hammering against his ribcage, pulse racing—as the last of Paddy’s walls crumbled, beaten down by Eoin’s admission. Paddy melted into him, and this time, oh this time, the kissing was so much sweeter. It was a savoring, a languid, sensual meeting of mouths and bodies, all whimpers and sighs of pleasure as they explored the new and wonderful landscapes of one another.
When he couldn’t breathe, body vibrating with want, Eoin drew back. Months of getting to uncover the mystery of Paddy Mayne—fireside literary conversations about the very root of life, soothing strolls in the woods with Tyger, long suppers shared, debates about religion and reason and all the things that made a man whole—all rose within him. Eoin had returned from the war a changed man, but each day with Paddy reminded him more and more who he was.
“Yer the most—the only—worthwhile thing about my life here,” whispered Eoin against Paddy’s lips.
Paddy’s eyes fell shut at Eoin’s confession. One heartbeat lapsed. Two. When Paddy looked at him, Eoin felt the stirrings of something incredible in his very soul.
“We should get inside,” murmured Paddy, softly. There were too many windows of the grand house looming over them, windows behind which too many watchful eyes might linger. His hands slipped down between their bodies, and Paddy took Eoin’s hands in his own, rough callouses meeting, melding.
Eoin’s smile turned shy, hopeful. “Will ya stay tonight, with me?”
Paddy allowed his forehead to rest against Eoin’s. His hot breath ghosted Eoin’s cheeks, and Paddy squeezed his hands, lips brushing Eoin’s, as he replied, “The devil himself couldn’t make me leave.”
Chapter 2: Part II
Chapter Text
Eoin woke to a bone-deep warmth that curled his toes into the bedsheets, a contented sigh taking root deep inside his chest. He delighted in the bizarre sensation of waking to a world better than slumber, as if reality was the wonderful dream.
Without hesitation, he reach blindly across the bed until his hand found purchase on Paddy’s skin. The gamekeeper slept soundly on his stomach beside Eoin, one arm curled under his head, snoring softly. Eoin skimmed his fingers over the freckles on Paddy’s shoulders, reverent in his ministrations. That he was so allowed to touch this man, that he had been allowed to kiss and feel and have this man.
Eoin had never known such a disbelieving gratitude for his fortunes.
Paddy had made love the way he argued. The affair had begun brutally, all rough hands and eager bodies, but once Paddy had gotten his point across, the man had slowed to a practiced, patient sort of rhythm. He and Eoin had joined together and come back apart, two halves of a deliciously spent whole.
And then, perhaps most pleasing of all, Paddy had stayed.
The shorter man had curled around Eoin like a shield, breath hot on Eoin’s neck, his heart hammering against Eoin’s back. In his sated, sleepy state, Paddy had murmured some A. E. Housman quote and dropped a kiss onto Eoin’s shoulder, tucking in for the night.
Eoin would never voice it to the gamekeeper, but as he’d fallen asleep in his lover’s arms, he had wondered briefly if Paddy would slip out in the night, or if he’d be there when Eoin woke.
What a gift to find Paddy still beside him in the morning.
After a few prolonged moments of lying in bed, gazing fondly at Paddy and recounting the previous evening’s events in his mind’s eyes, Eoin withdrew from the bed to wash in the adjoining room. After pissing and running a damp cloth over his body, Eoin returned to the bed to stir Paddy from his sleep.
Paddy came to with a growl and a swat of his hand. “You will leave me be,” he demanded, eyes firmly shut.
“I will not,” replied Eoin around a laugh. “I must go and see whether yer man has killed my friend, and I would like for ya to join me, in the event that he has done so and I am compelled to seek my revenge.”
The gamekeeper gave an undignified snort as he burrowed further into the blankets and bedsheets. With a damnable fondness, Eoin could not resist the temptation to reach out and card his hand through Paddy’s soft, unruly hair. His stomach twisted with a delirious sort of glee at the gentle purr he received in return.
“Give me yer hand,” instructed Eoin, softly, already reaching for Paddy’s nearest arm. The split knuckles from his brawl with Reg had crusted over once again with blood, as had Paddy’s lip. Taking a damp cloth, Eoin began to wash the broken flesh, careful not to re-open the healing wounds.
“Ya don’t haf’to do that.” Paddy was quiet, still nestled in the pillows, gaze and voice heavy from slumber as he watched Eoin tend to him. There was a sudden touch of shyness about him that Eoin found immediately, infinitely endearing.
“There are not many things I have to do, Paddy, but—” Eoin’s dark eyes flickered up to meet the gamekeeper’s unwavering stare. “There are a great many things I would like to do. With you. For you… If ya’ll let me.”
In that gentle, sleepy morning moment, a thousand words passed unspoken between them, and when Eoin finished wiping the dried blood from Paddy’s hands and lips, Paddy slid one strong hand around the back of Eoin’s head and drew him in. This was a kiss that was full of promise, a kiss so heavy with affection and intention—it was the sort of kiss that would have, in the days of old, made even the gods jealous with want.
Paddy nipped tenderly at Eoin’s bottom lip, beard scraping Eoin’s chin, hot breath ghosting over Eoin’s skin. Paddy rested their foreheads together, quivering. “Somethin’ tells me you will be the death of me, Eoin McGonigal.”
“If that is to be the case, I promise to make yer dyin’ worthwhile.”
After some more leisurely kissing and a bit of heavy petting, Eoin was eventually able to lure Paddy into the world of the living once more. They found Reg and Johnny passed out in various states of dress in the conservatory, bits of tobacco, an empty champagne bottle, and a pair of glasses sprawled around them. Paddy kicked Reg awake, and the man rose with a violent start, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. Paddy had the decency to look apologetic for all of two seconds before he hauled Reg to his feet.
“We’ll be off, then.”
As Johnny stirred, Eoin fought to keep the grin from his face. “I’ll be seein’ ya then, Paddy.”
The gamekeeper stared at him for a long moment. “Aye.”
Eoin’s heart gave a funny little skip. Then, the brawlers were gone.
Taking pity on his friend, Eoin called after Eve to concoct a hangover cure for Johnny, who languished on the conservatory’s daybed clutching his head. The kitchen staff had breakfast brought to the conservatory where Eoin ate while Johnny gradually, painfully fought his way back to life.
“Well,” drawled Johnny as he polished off the last of Eve’s concoction. “Last night’s little romp was certainly unexpected.”
A light blush crept over Eoin’s cheeks. “Aye,” he agreed, quietly. “It was.”
“How did you get on with your gamekeeper, then?”
Only when he was certain the estate staff were out of earshot did Eoin relent, a wicked gleam in his eye as he smartly informed Johnny, “A fella never kisses and tells…”
Even in his ailing state, Johnny summoned a lecherous grin for his friend. “Well done, you. At least someone got a happy ending last night, though I was awfully tempted.”
“Tempted—by Reg?” Eoin snorted. “Ya can’t be serious? He was a right cunt to ya, Johnny.”
“Precisely. So, I’m obviously in love with him.”
Johnny stayed at Étaín for a week. He was a riot among the house staff, romanticized wildly about the estate and grounds—waxing on about how he was quitting the city forever to find solace and refuge in nature—, and convinced Eoin to throw precisely one party. There was a full band, too many champagne towers, and a feast fit for a king; it was a monstrous, grand affair that cost an outrageous amount—a beast entirely of Johnny’s making. The Brit had insisted that Eoin invite all of the local gentry, as well as a few big names from Dublin, Cork, Belfast, and London, should any of the gents and ladies find themselves out that way.
Much to Eoin’s dismay, but not to his surprise, Paddy had pointedly rejected his invitation to attend the fête. It made Eoin’s skin itch. The Irishman had not laid eyes—or hands, or anything else for that matter—on his gamekeeper since first taking Paddy to bed. Were it not for the searing touch of Paddy’s hands and lips burned into his skin, Eoin might have convinced himself that he’d dreamt it all up.
On the night in question, the first few hours of the soiree were spent in an endless cycle of introductions and small talk, the likes of which made Eoin want to stick needles in his eyes and break his own fingers one at a time. After a few drinks, Johnny coerced Eoin into making a speech, which he did so purely under penalty of his friend’s wrath. The whole thing was one great shamble of fake charm and feigned interested.
Eoin loathed it—but Johnny was having an utter ball.
The cornsilk blonde swanned from room to room like a debutante, never without a glass of champagne or a companion to charm. Eoin let Johnny have his fun, appreciating the wicked gleam in his friend’s eye as he devoured every drop of gossip, every whisper of scandal he could coax out of the well-inebriated gentry.
Eve, too, appeared to be enjoying herself as she flittered about like a shadow, observing, no doubt plotting. More than once, she’d caught Eoin’s glance from across the ballroom to give a devilish wink. She was enjoying herself—and enjoying how miserable Eoin was finding the experience.
Just before midnight, the party showed no signs of slowing, and it took no small effort for Eoin to extract himself and slip outside unnoticed. Warmed from the champagne, the cool evening breeze rolling over the hills was a welcome respite. So, too was the gentle stillness of the night, enveloped in that ever-calm silence despite the ruckus from within the manor.
Eoin’s feet carried him over the now-familiar landscape, through the towering trees and over winding brook, to that which called to him.
The meadow emerged from between the trees, and beyond, Paddy’s cottage became a beacon, burning warm and bright in the darkness. Light shone from the windows, a wee trail of smoke rising from the squat chimney, and Eoin felt overwhelmed by the sensation of a homecoming as he approached the stone gate.
Paddy was a few glasses into the whiskey, dressed only in a pair of low-hanging cotton trousers for sleep, when Eoin knocked. The pair of them stood in silence when Paddy opened the door, his eyes raking slowly over Eoin’s form, clad in a freshly pressed tuxedo—an exquisitely cut suit Johnny had personally tailored for the occasion—, and Eoin felt the tips of his ears burn. He must’ve looked so foolishly to Paddy.
Eoin hastened to undo the button his dinner jacket, clearing his throat awkwardly, but when Paddy’s gaze finally met his own, it was not mockery that Eoin saw in his grey eyes—but lust.
“Aren’t they expectin’ you elsewhere t’night?”
“Indeed. But ya would not come t’me, so I had no choice but t’come to you.” Eoin volunteered the bottle of champagne he’d filched from the party. “Aren’t ’cha goin’ to let me in?”
“Never had much taste for that stuff.”
“That may be, but we’re celebratin’ tonight, Pads.”
A flicker of amusement danced across Paddy’s arresting face as they settled into their usual spot by the fire. Eoin shrugged off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt before he uncorked the bottle, Tyger nipping at his lap all the while. He placed a few good strokes over the pup’s head, scratching softly behind his ears, while Paddy fetched a pair of mugs.
“And what, pray tell, are we celebratin’?”
Eoin poured Paddy a generous glass, and as he passed his gamekeeper the mug, Eoin threw him a conspiratorial smirk. “My escape, of course.”
He extended his own mug to Paddy for a toast, and a rogue grin spread beneath Paddy’s beard as he raised his mug in return. “Cheers, then.”
Eoin drank till his cup was empty. Then, emboldened by drink and firelight and the hunger in Paddy’s rakish gaze, Eoin told him, voice firm, “I feel I should make me intentions clear, Paddy Mayne. I have come t’have you, if ya’ll let me.”
“Fuck’s sake, Eoin,” growled Paddy—and then the mad Irishman was on him.
Paddy caged him into the chair as he began an assault against Eoin’s mouth, hands gripping hard at Eoin’s hips. It was a battle of lips and teeth and tongues, and Eoin reached, desperately, for him. Only once before had Eoin been allowed to have Paddy like this, and already, he was a man addicted.
There was a rush to get Eoin’s tuxedo off, Paddy tearing savagely at the offending garments. “You—” Paddy drawled as he unfastened Eoin’s trousers, the pair of them stumbling towards the bed. “—show up t’my home, lookin’ like a fuckin’ vision in yer fuckin’ dandy clothes—” Paddy thrust Eoin backwards until he fell upon the mattress, knees bent over the side which Paddy then knelt between, yanking Eoin’s trousers to his ankles. “—and expect me not to lose my head about it?”
And when Paddy took him in his mouth, Eoin swore he saw God behind his eyelids.
The following months passed like a dream.
Paddy and Eoin chased every free moment together. In between their usual philosophical debates and chess matches, were stolen kisses and tender glances and a lingering hand on a shoulder, a knee, the gentle curve of a neck. After warm suppers and long walks with the dog, there was lovemaking—sometimes fast and feverish, all bruises and biting, both so eager to take, take, take from one another; other times, it was so deliciously slow, both taking their time to savor, to explore, to learn, both desperate to give over pleasure to the other.
It was one of the great privileges of Eoin’s life to learn Paddy in this way. Eoin knew that Paddy was ticklish along the underside of his ribs, knew how the Irishman mewled like a kitten when Eoin kissed curve of his inner thigh, knew that for as much as Paddy enjoyed dominating Eoin, he also relished when Eoin took control.
For his part, Paddy knew all of the wonderful ways he could take Eoin apart, knew that Eoin was just as responsive to a hand as a mouth, knew that Eoin went silent—unable to think, to speak, to even so much as whimper—in those moments of true pleasure when Paddy coaxed his lover to the edge of an orgasm, knew that afterwards Eoin needed Paddy to remain, to stay by his side with slow kisses and soft words until his soul had returned to the mortal plane.
As the days turned to weeks, Eoin and Paddy found new and invented ways to have one another all around the grounds of the estate.
They swam naked in the cool brook and then had wonderful, lazy sex on the muddy banks.
Eoin played the piano for Paddy—“My brother plays much better than I do, but I’ll give it a go for ya.”—and then took Paddy against the bench, the keys screeching as he rocked into his gamekeeper, hand cupped over Paddy’s mouth so that the house staff would not hear his sinful moans.
In the pouring rain, Paddy fucked Eoin raw against the side of the grouses’ shed until Eoin had wood splinters in this hands and knees.
And each time after, when they were both sated, limbs loose and hearts beating a war drum within their chests, it took only mere moments before they were hungry for one another again.
It was, in short, a time of pure ecstasy.
July arrived in a ray of sunshine and birdsong. Despite the pleasant weather, Eoin had toiled in his office all morning—Mr. Clarke had sent a fresh batch of paperwork via courier the previous evening, and Eoin was determined to sort it all as soon as possible. If Mr. Clarke was to be believed, Eoin’s final arrangements with the esquire were coming to an end, and soon. Eoin did not wish to delay the matter any longer—not when he was so close to finally sorting his remaining plans for the grand estate of the late Cain McGonigal.
After—when everything was signed and sealed and set off with the post—, Eoin took his lunch in the greenhouse, basking in the warmth of the rare, midday sun. As usual, Eve joined him. She knew about his arrangements with Mr. Clarke, and Eoin could see dozens of questions dancing on the tip of her tongue and hiding in the curve of her painted lips. She was dying to know, but he understood that she would never ask.
“It’ll be settled soon,” he confided in her. “Likely by September.”
Eve raised her eyebrow. “And then? What comes next for Capt. McGonigal?”
Eoin smiled. “That is the question…”
Just after dawn that morning, Paddy had gone to a neighboring farm to assist in some equipment repairs, but the gamekeeper was set to meet Eoin after lunch. So, when the dishes were cleared and his belly full, Eoin bid Eve goodbye and set to the hills.
As he approached the tree line, Eoin caught sight of Paddy walking on the far end of the property. As he strolled among the ferns and tall grasses and wildflowers, a stream of sunlight followed where Paddy walked, and Eoin thought, not for the first time, that Paddy Mayne was a wildly beautiful man.
He waited for Paddy, there at the edge of the wood, and tried to tame the furious beating of his heart. How many times had Paddy bedded him? How many touches, kisses, glances had they shared? And yet still, the very sight of him nearly tipped Eoin over the precipice of reality.
“Good day, sir,” Paddy called as he drew near, an impish gleam in his eye.
“Afternoon, Mr. Mayne,” replied Eoin with a grin, raising a hand to shield his gaze from the sun. “Beautiful day…”
“It’ll be a sad day, indeed, when there is naught for ya t’speak to me about but the weather.”
Laughing, Eoin jostled Paddy’s shoulder, looping his arm around the other man’s shoulders as they ambled along. “I was goin’ t’say—before I was so imprudently interrupted—that it’s a beautiful day, and therefore, I should like t’lie in yer meadow.”
“Very well then.”
In a bed of wild daisies and foxglove and harebells, Paddy and Eoin laid in the sunshine, disturbed only by the bees, and when, sometime later, Paddy placed a flat palm against Eoin’s chest, hovering over him in the grasses, and told him, “I desire t’see you in all this light,” what could Eoin do but obey?
Reclined in the wildflowers, propped up on his elbows, Paddy watched him as Eoin unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it from his shoulders. He watched as Eoin peeled off the vest beneath, revealing a great, pale expanse of flesh, the kind which Paddy would like to lick and suck, before Eoin’s hands dropped to the belt at his waist. Eoin knelt in the grass to remove his trousers, shucking off his underwear along with it, shoes already discarded. And when he stood naked above Paddy, lean body haloed by the sun, Paddy’s lips parted in a silent, blasphemous prayer.
Eoin went to him, legs slotting over his gamekeeper’s hips as Paddy laid back in the grass. Hands fisting in the gamekeeper’s suspenders, Eoin licked his way into Paddy’s mouth and sighed at the sweetness he tasted there.
“I said,” murmured Paddy, lips nipping at Eoin’s mouth before he began trailing hot, wet kisses across Eoin’s cheek, his jaw, the hollow of his throat. “—that I wanted to see you.”
In a single, fluid movement, Paddy rolled them so that Eoin was laying back in the grass with Paddy resting between his open legs. The rush of it stole Eoin’s breath, and surrounded entirely by his lover, Eoin felt himself growing hard where his cock pressed against the coarse line of Paddy’s trousers. “Paddy…” Rocking back onto his heels, Paddy loomed over him as his eyes feasted over Eoin’s naked form, the paleness a stark contrast with the dazzling violets and ambers and lilacs of the flowers, all nestled in a vibrant emerald bed. In another lifetime, Eoin might have felt self-conscious, so exposed was he, but in that moment, all Eoin felt was adored as Paddy looked upon him with nothing but want.
Leaning down, Paddy began to track a line of freckles up Eoin’s leg, knuckles dragging over the soft skin. He dropped a kiss onto Eoin’s hipbone, and Eoin brought a hand up to run through Paddy’s hair, holding his gamekeeper to him.
With a torturous slowness, Paddy took stock of him. He kissed the juncture of Eoin’s elbows, caressed the backs of Eoin’s knees, counted his ribs one-by-one, traced Eoin’s collarbone with the tip of his tongue, without rush or worry. And all the while, Paddy whispered words into Eoin’s skin.
“And when thou art weary,” Paddy recited, voice deep and purposeful as he drew his teeth across Eoin’s shoulder. “—I’ll find thee a bed…”
His gamekeeper kissed a line down Eoin’s torso, paying devout attention to the bayonet scar which marred the Irishman’s abdomen. “Of mosses, and flowers, to pillow thy head.”
Paddy took Eoin’s half-hard cock in his hand. He gave a slight squeeze, then ran his thumb over the damp tip while he brushed his lips over one nipple, then the other. “There, beauteous Eoin, I’ll sit at thy feet…”
With his free hand, Paddy reached down to cup Eoin’s balls gently. Eoin’s breath stuttered, hips cantering forward, seeking a friction Paddy was not yet ready to give. Painstakingly slowly, Paddy began to stroke him. “While my story of love I enraptur’d repeat.”
When Paddy finally leaned down to kiss him, Eoin all but wept into his mouth from the glorious relief of it.
Paddy continued to worship Eoin’s body with his mouth, his hands, his tongue, until he brought Eoin to the brink of pleasure—and though Eoin was desperate to feel Paddy, to dig his fingers into the taut muscles of his shoulders, to taste the salty sweat on his skin, Paddy refused.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” purred his gamekeeper, hands still working Eoin over, and there was nothing Eoin could do but hopelessly, helplessly, allow himself to be delivered into ecstasy by Paddy’s capable hands.
After, Paddy used his mouth to lick Eoin clean, his lover in a delirious, orgasmic haze, but the moment Paddy relented, Eoin pounced. He pushed his gamekeeper into the flowers and tall grasses and kissed him senseless, determined to keep his own mouth busy least he do something foolish like profess his undying love or the like. Eoin was overcome by a frenzy as he removed Paddy’s clothes, the man in question grinning up at him from his bed of wildflowers with a mocking sort of mirth.
“Ya drive me wild, Paddy Mayne.”
“The feelin’ is utterly mutual, my Eoin.”
Later that evening, Paddy fixed Eoin a modest supper of vegetable stew, which they ate with the last of Paddy’s bread, and throughout the course of the meal, Paddy slowly became consumed with a frantic itch. He clawed at his arms, his stomach, scratching away to no avail, when Eoin finally snapped.
“Pads, let me take a look, aye?”
Pulling the shirt over Paddy’s head, Eoin’s stare widened comically as he saw the nasty red rash discoloring Paddy’s skin. And it was everywhere. “Oh.”
Standing naked, prostrate before the fire in his cottage, Paddy stood, grumpy and grumbling, as Eoin rubbed soft paraffin all over Paddy’s rash. “I am quite happy t’do this me’self, ya know.”
Eoin didn’t bother to roll his eyes. “Just hold still, will ya?”
The taller man was thorough in his lathering, massaging the salve deep into the skin and covering every square inch of Paddy’s flesh. When he finished, he washed his hands in the water basin and told Paddy that they would not be returning to the meadow.
Paddy sighed dramatically, arms crossing over his stomach, the firelight illuminating all the lines and curves of his body. “Now, that tis a shame… you looked quite exquisite in the sunlight.”
Reclining against the counter, Eoin studied the chorded muscles in Paddy’s forearms, his legs, the shape of his proud beard, the rigid planes of his stomach, the hang of his cock. Tilting his head, Eoin gazed on thoughtful, admiring, adoring. A great warmth bloomed in his chest alongside the stirring low in his belly. “Here I am, thinkin’ the same of you right now.”
And though Paddy itched like he was burning in the pits of hell, he let Eoin push him to the floor before the fire, let Eoin coat his fingers in the paraffin, then work Paddy open with one finger, two, let Eoin slide into him gently, mouth falling open with a pleasure-pain gasp. The paraffin coating Paddy’s rash made Eoin’s sweat-slick skin slide against the gamekeeper’s body with a pornographic, wet sound, and when Paddy came, spilling over the coarse rug below his belly, the gamekeeper thought, in that moment, that he might actually die a happy man.
“I have wrote a poem about you.”
A summer storm descended upon Étaín in late July, the brook overflowing into the surrounding trees as heavy rain bombarded the windows of Paddy’s cottage. Tyger sat in the open doorway, head atop his paws, as he watched the fat drops pelt the ground, unrelenting. Eoin had curled into a chair by the extinguished fire, a book open on his lap, when Paddy’s admission interrupted his reading.
Eoin’s heart gave a wee flutter as a slight blush rose unbidden to his cheeks. “Will ya read it to me?”
Though he blushed himself, Paddy swallowed his nerves and nodded. “Aye.”
The poem was everything.
Paddy’s beautiful, soul-bearing words were nothing short of a declaration of love, and when the gamekeeper finished his recitation, the two of them made love to the sound of the pouring rain again and again and—
Two days later, Eoin invited Paddy to the manor and showed the gamekeeper the manuscript of his latest novel, the one which Paddy had inspired even before they were lovers.
Paddy read the first hundred pages of the story in a single sitting, silent and thoughtful at the desk in Eoin’s room, a cup of tea untouched beside him. Waiting for him to finish was a grueling affair for Eoin, who fluttered about like a seagull looking for a dry deck. Though Paddy had often shared his work with Eoin, the young author had never had the courage to show Paddy any of his musings, not even his publications, and Eoin knew that this novel was his most honest, most revealing work yet. When Paddy finally laid the papers on the desk and turned to him, Eoin felt his worry like a lump in the throat.
“The men in yer book…” Paddy’s voice washed over him like honey, slow and soothing and sweet. “They love each other.”
“Right so,” whispered Eoin.
Paddy leaned back deeply in the chair and crossed his hands over his stomach, gaze lost out the window where the rolling hills of Ireland sat beyond reach. “Do you think it is possible for two men to love each other like a man and a wife?”
“I do.”
The gamekeeper gave a considering nod and ran a hand over his beard. He scratched a little at his chin, then finally, Paddy turned to meet Eoin’s apprehensive stare. “Aye, as do I.”
His words landed heavy on Eoin’s chest, knocking the wind out of him. Eoin trembled. “Good. That’s—good.”
Paddy crossed the room in two purposeful strides and kissed him then. It was a searing sort of kiss, like a seal over Eoin’s heart, and then they retired to Eoin’s bed so that Paddy could read a bit of the novel aloud, as he was often wont to do, and in the gaps between Eoin’s own words, Paddy told Eoin I love you, too.
When Paddy had his fill of the literature, he tossed the papers to the floor and rolled atop Eoin, pinning the author to the mattress to kiss and take him. Their lovemaking was a dizzyingly languid, torturously delicious rendezvous, and when they were both spent, they remained coiled together, one mass of limbs and heartbeats, the sheets twined around them like a bind. A stream of summer sunlight catching in the gamekeeper’s hair, Eoin traced the lines of Paddy’s face sweetly, gently, slowly. There was an aching tenderness in his actions, one which stole Paddy’s breath, the man lax beneath him, grey eyes wide with wonder. Eoin brushed a kiss over Paddy’s brow, his cheekbone, his lips, while Paddy’s hands stroked a path between the plains of Eoin’s back and hips.
Eoin wanted to say, I love thee, Paddy Mayne. So, he did.
Just not with words.
In August, Paddy read to Eoin from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and while Eoin listened to the tale of the albatross in the impassioned, steady thrum of Paddy’s voice, Eoin decided that he should like, very much, to watch his lover at play in the ocean, to take Paddy on the damp sandy shores of their emerald isle.
Paddy drove them—like an absolute madman—down over the southern cliffs to a secluded inlet near the town called Lehinch, where they might enjoy the sea. Eve had packed the pair a light picnic of sandwiches and fruit and sweet tea cakes, parceled up with blankets and towels and other such important wares for a seaside outing. With their supplies, Paddy and Eoin made a home for themselves on the gray sands and shale stones beneath the shadow of behemoth cliffs and the great, fat sea stacks beyond the water’s edge.
Though the sun was hiding behind a grey oyster of a cloud, the water was warm and the waves mild, and there, protected by the ancient cliffs, the young Irishmen swam, ate, frolicked, and fucked.
Eoin had the good sense to realize that he was experiencing one of those perfect days that one wishes to live in for eternity. A perfect day in a perfect place with a perfect man, a day which made him feel invincible, reminded him why the suffering of life was worth it in the end, if only for days like those.
It was there that Eoin felt the stirrings of something like forever in his chest.
Foamy sea water lapping at his hips, Eoin reached for Paddy and drew the man into him. Eoin watched in delight as a droplet of water trickled from the long, damp locks atop his gamekeeper’s head to drip off the tip of Paddy’s nose. Paddy seemed freer there by the sea. There was a childlike mischief in his eyes as he tackled the waves and danced across the wet sands.
“Is it everything you had hoped?” asked Paddy as he swayed in Eoin’s arms in the water.
“No.” Eoin’s whisper of a voice was nearly lost to the salty air. He took Paddy’s jaw in his hand, thumbed at Paddy’s bottom lip, beard tickling his fingertips, and studied Paddy’s grey gaze, alive and full. “How was I t’know yer a right fuckin’ menace in the water?”
Paddy chuckled. “You wee fucker…” Then, he kissed Eoin and kissed him, and when Eoin lifted his legs to wrap around Paddy’s waist, the gamekeeper held firm in his footing, despite the great surge and pull of the ocean. Coiled around his lover like the serpent of Eden, Eoin tangled his long fingers in Paddy’s hair, nails scraping at the shorter man’s scalp as Paddy devoured him.
The gamekeeper dragged his lips from Eoin’s to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses along Eoin’s jaw, his cheek, his temples. Paddy pressed sweet kisses into Eoin’s curls, and in between each ghost of a kiss, Paddy spoke poetry to him.
“I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you.”
Eoin tucked his head into the damp hollow of Paddy’s neck.
“None has understood you—”
He brushed his tongue against Paddy’s salty skin.
“—but I understand you.”
Eoin closed his eyes and breathed deeply the scent of the sea, of Paddy, of their bodies joined. He let Paddy hold him while gentle waves rocked against them, his gamekeeper a bastion against the tumult of the ocean, and felt at home.
“You are an affliction from which I fear I will never recover,” confessed Eoin. He brushed the hint of a kiss along Paddy’s shoulder as he drew back to look at him, gooseflesh rising over his skin. Paddy’s stare was heavy when their eyes met, and a long moment passed between them.
“I think you are the poet.”
“Perhaps, I am inspired by one.”
“I can think of many a worser fate,” drawled Paddy as he drew a large paw of a hand over the damp planes of Eoin’s back, fingers stroking a soothing rhythm there. “—than to be yer muse.”
And when Paddy kissed him then, it felt everlasting.
Reluctant to leave their coastal haven, Eoin and Paddy waited until nightfall to return to the confines of Étaín Estate—it was that fateful drive which summoned the beginning of the end.
The world was dark and the headlights dim. Neither of them saw the stag until it was too late. Paddy’s reflexes allowed him to swerve in time to miss the red deer, but the tires caught on a patch of mud, skidding terribly, and sent the automobile careening off the edge of the road into the thicket of trees which crowded the shoulder.
The collision was quick, but violent, and the sickening crunch of Eoin’s arm was deafened by the metallic crack of the vehicle’s grill as it met the trunk of a towering oak.
Everything seemed to still and quiet in the immediate after. Body thrumming with adrenaline, Eoin only distantly felt the pain in his arm, though based on the present angle it was quite broken. Gathering his breath, Eoin glanced at Paddy, who was blinking owlishly, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
There was a gash on Paddy’s forehead, blood tricking down into his right eye.
“Paddy.”
The gamekeeper turned to him, gaze dropping to Eoin’s bent arm cradled to his chest. “Yer hurt.”
“So’re you.” Eoin gestured the cut and watched, his limbs slowly returning to life, as Paddy lifted a hand to the bloody gash. “Are ya alright?”
It took three tries to get the engine running again, and as Eoin’s arm became consumed with a ferocious pain, the pair limped on the rest of the journey. The whole of Étaín manor was alive when they eventually drew into the gravel drive, every window bleeding light into the darkness, and when a footman opened the grand front doors, it was Paddy who hollered for the doctor.
“S’not so bad,” grumbled Eoin even as he swallowed a wave of nauseous. “Had worse durin’ the war.”
Paddy, eyes wild and wide, gave a grunt of acknowledgement as he brought one arm around Eoin, ignoring the taller man’s protests that he really was fine, honest, Pads. Nothing that can’t be sorted with a splint, anyhow. But Paddy was beyond hearing, and so Eoin allowed himself to be half-carried up the steps of the manor house and into the front lounge where Mr. Murphy was waiting.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“Automobile accident,” huffed Paddy as he deposited Eoin onto a daybed. The gamekeeper, blood still caked upon his own brow, told one of the maids to fetch Eoin a drink for the pain, to which Mr. Murphy puffed his chest and promptly informed Paddy, “You are not one to be giving orders here, Capt. Mayne.”
“Do not call him that,” spat Eoin, cutting a glare at the head butler. “He’s right—I would like a drink, very much.” Frowning, Eoin gazed up at his gamekeeper. “Paddy, please tend t’yer head.”
Immediately, one of the older maids materialized at Paddy’s side with a moist cloth. He saw the protests brewing on Paddy’s lips, but Eoin silenced them with a single withering look and was satisfied only when his gamekeeper began to swipe away at the blood on his brow.
“Someone’ll need to see to the vehicle,” murmured Eoin as he graciously accepted a glass of whiskey from Eve. Distantly, he was aware that one of the staff had gone to summon the doctor, that Mr. Murphy was currently fretting and ordering the staff about, but it was getting harder for Eoin to focus, the ache in his arm drawing all of his attention and good humor.
He was also aware of Paddy’s hovering.
“M’fine, Pads.” Then, “Sit. Please.”
Paddy hesitated, then sank onto the plush seat beside Eoin, his thigh warm against Eoin’s own, and the touch did wonders to calm the taller man’s nerves. Eoin allowed himself to slump back into the cushions, head lulling skyward, eyes closing.
A shadow cast over them. Mr. Murphy stared disapprovingly down his nose at Paddy sitting too closely, too comfortably in the master’s house. “What precisely happened?” the head butler demanded, his tone and posture conveying his absolute belief that whatever calamity befell them was undeniably, principally Paddy’s fault.
“There was a deer,” Paddy said, voice strained in that manner which meant he was trying, and perhaps failing, to withhold his notorious temper.
“You struck a deer?”
“No.” Paddy blew a long breath through his nose. “We hit a tree.”
“A tree? There was a deer, but you did not strike it. You struck a tree.” Mr. Murphy’s condescension was tangible, and it was Eoin who released a long-suffering sigh and requested that his butler please quiet down. The touch of a headache began to prick at the space behind his eyes.
“Apologies, Capt. McGonigal.” Mr. Murphy tilted his head in contrition before once again narrowing his gaze on Paddy. “You understand that your wages will be docked for the cost of the repairs on—”
Eoin’s eyes snapped open with a fury. “They will not.”
“Oh, no,” drawled Paddy. The devil was alight in his eye. “If Mr. Murphy feels my wages should be docked, then who am I to disobey?”
“Knock it off, Paddy—”
Derision and distain from Mr. Murphy flooded the room as he scowled down at Paddy. “I can understand, Mr. Mayne, if you are not accustomed to owning such valuable property as a motorized vehicle, but the destruction of your employer’s property will not be tolerated—"
“You—” Eoin’s voice was a vicious thing, lips curling menacingly over his too-straight teeth, as he surged to his feet to bodily slot himself between his love and his bully of a butler. “—do not speak to him that way.”
“Sir—”
“He’s right, Eoin,” Paddy purred, the hardened planes of his face contorting with a satirical penitence.
“You will address him as Capt. McGoni—”
“I am but your lowly servant. How dare I deign to destroy that which is yer’s—”
“Paddy, that’s enough.” It was a plea, and as the throbbing in Eoin’s head continued to grow, he glared at Mr. Murphy. His tone was firm and non-negotiable when he commanded, “Get out. I’ll summon ya if yer needed.”
A white blanket of shame-faced surprise covered Mr. Murphy’s aged features. A tense hush fell over the staff, the myriad of footmen and maids freezing on the spot, their breath catching as they watched the uncomfortable exchange.
“I apologize, sir. I shall take my leave.” As Mr. Murphy turned from the room, striding with straight shoulders, the remainder of the house staff twisted on their heels to follow suit. Only Eve stood fast.
Eoin was dizzy with pain and rage. “I’m sorry about that,” he murmured, reaching for Paddy’s hand only for his gamekeeper to draw himself just beyond reach. Eoin pretended not to feel stung at the slight.
“I am used to it.” Paddy said it quietly, his tone distant—as were his eyes. “I should take my leave, as well.”
“What? No. Paddy, ya’ll stay and have the doctor take a look at’cha.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
A strangled sort of laugh scraped passed Eoin’s teeth. “Ya can’t be serious? Are ya foolin’, Paddy?”
When Paddy stood to leave, Eoin’s stomach dropped like a stone into the sea. He watched, in wonder, in terror, as Paddy closed himself off, then. To the world. To Eoin. And a swift panic gripped Eoin fiercely. “Paddy, please.”
“I’ve no need for the doctor. See to it that he sets yer arm proper and gives ya some of the good stuff to help ya sleep.” Paddy paused inside the threshold of the door, lips poised to speak while Eoin’s heart beat double time beneath his ribs.
Only, no more came.
Then, Paddy was gone, the large, mahogany doors closing firmly in his wake.
A week passed before Eoin saw Paddy again—but not for lack of trying.
At every opportunity, Eoin sought out Paddy at the cottage, at the grouse coops, across the grounds, but his gamekeeper was nowhere to be found. Eoin was bereft, at first, longing for the comfort of Paddy’s touch and missing his gamekeeper like a soldier missed a lost limb. Then, as the hours and days ticked by, Eoin’s misery molted into anger when he realized Paddy was purposefully avoiding him. What had he done to deserve being shunned like so? Anger and despair twisted like twin snakes around his heart, and for the first time, Eoin realized the power Paddy held over Eoin’s life, his future, his happiness.
The young author’s sojourn at Étaín Estate had started as a lonely, miserable experience, full of the coldness of an empty manor house and the tedium of daily operations and desk work. Despite the wretched start, Paddy had come into Eoin’s life, as bright and beautiful as a shooting star—and everything changed. That gloomy and isolated world became full of light and love and laughter, and after nearly a year in County Clare, Eoin had fallen hopelessly, helplessly in love with Paddy Mayne, his gorgeous, cankerous, intelligent gamekeeper with the wicked eyes and brilliant mind and sinful mouth.
Eoin had put himself utterly at the wild man’s mercies, for in that year he had so completely given himself over to Paddy, in mind, body, and soul.
Such love was a beautiful, terrifying thing.
After a week of Paddy’s dodging, Eve informed Eoin that one of the footmen had seen the gamekeeper at the pub in town, and Eoin had the mind to wait for Paddy to return home that evening. An old, practiced habit, Eoin let himself into Paddy’s cottage, determined to destroy the new berth his love had created between them—Eoin would not stand for it.
His broken arm healing in a cloth sling, the splint tight and straight, Eoin had some difficulty getting the fire going in the wood-burning stove. Once the kindling took, he set about making tea. Some time later, he heard Tyger before he saw Paddy. The dog burst into the cottage, skirting his master’s legs, to barrel straight for him. Eoin kissed the dog’s head, ruffling Tyger’s burnt orange fur, pleased that at least one of them was happy to see him. Paddy hovered inside the doorway, eyes heavy with drink, his face melancholic.
“What’re ya doin’ here?”
“Thought I’d come for tea,” Eoin quipped, rising to his feet. At the risk of stating the obvious, Eoin couldn’t help but acknowledge Paddy’s turn of behavior. “Ya’ve been avoidin’ me.”
With a controlled slowness, Paddy leant against the counter and crossed his hands in front of him. “Oh,” he replied, the vowel long, the tone short. “But I’ve been busy. Lots of work ta do repairin’ yer vehicle and all.”
“Murphy was out of line. It was an accident, Paddy. There’s no fault to be found in it.” Eoin’s frustration mounted. “Is that foolishness why ya’ve been so scarce? Punishin’ me for a poor man’s attitude.”
Paddy’s face was hard. His eyes, though heavy with ale, remained shuttered, and his mouth was pulled tightly beneath his beard. His grey gaze locked onto the fire burning in the stove. “Mr. Murphy helped ta remind me that you and I belong to very different classes of people. That’s all.”
“What the hell are ya on about?” Eoin scoffed and crossed to his gamekeeper. “Paddy, you and I—we are the same.”
“Oh, no. We most certainly are not. Sir.”
Sir. Eoin wanted to rip that word out of the air and burn it.
“Fuck off, Paddy, ya know that’s not true. I was a soldier, a writer—and a penniless one at that! I have known poverty my entire life. And this? Étaín? I asked for none of it.”
“Aye!” shouted Paddy, the first flicker in his mask of indifference. “But ya have it, nonetheless. And I don’t see ya givin’ it up any time soon.”
“But I am, Pads. I—”
Eoin’s stomach gave a sour turn, and not for the first time since he had made his decision regarding his late uncle’s estate, Eoin wondered whether he should have included Paddy in those plans from the start. Lord, he wasn’t about to allow his omission to cost him the great love of his life.
The taller man stepped into the space between Paddy’s legs and forced his gamekeeper to look at him. Up close, Eoin could see the bitterness about Paddy—but there was a sadness, too. It was this sadness that gave Eoin hope.
“Paddy, please listen.” Eoin took the gamekeeper’s hands in his own, rough callouses sliding together. The tightness in his chest loosened a fraction when Paddy did not draw away from him. “I am givin’ it all up. We’re liquidatin’ all of Cain McGonigal’s assets, tyin’ up all the loose ends. Once Mr. Clarke and I have it all sorted, I’m donatin’ the house to turn it into a boys’ home, and then I’m leavin’…”
There came a sudden alertness in Paddy’s grey gaze. “Yer leavin’?”
“I’ve been plannin’ for months…I was—I was goin’ to ask ya to come with me.”
There. He’d said it. Eoin had laid all his cards upon the table, gifted the gamekeeper Eoin’s future in the palm of a shaking hand and prayed Paddy would pick it up. Heart in the pit of his stomach, Eoin told his lover, “I hate this place, Paddy. I hate everything about it. It is a cold, desolate, miserable place with no heart or soul—not til you, Paddy. Saints, as if ya don’t know yer the only thing that has made my exile here bearable.”
A shadow of something akin to shame fell over Paddy’s face, and the bearded man turned his face to the floor, unable to face Eoin any longer.
“I am a writer. So, I will travel and I will write and I will make an honest livin’, and for fuck’s sake, I will let myself be happy.” Eoin swallowed his hurt at Paddy’s actions of late, shoved it down deep and prayed to whatever great being lived beyond their world that Paddy would hear him. That Paddy would set aside this ridiculous notion of societal standings and just let himself love Eoin in return. “And I am leavin’ this terrible place…whether ya come with me or not. Though I fear—” His voice broke, eyes gone wet. “—that it will break my heart if ya do not.”
The faint glow of the fire danced across the bearded planes of Paddy’s face, and Eoin wanted to map the flickers with his fingertips and feel Paddy—the heat and flesh of him—beneath his hands. A small eternity lapsed in the quiet of the cottage before Paddy finally parted his lips to speak.
“Perhaps…” Paddy’s words fought themselves, scraping harshly over his tongue and chipping his teeth along the way. “You should go. —Alone.”
Notes:
The poems Paddy quotes are 'To Emma' by John Keats and 'To You' by Walt Whitman.
Whoops, sorry about the cliffhanger. Final part coming soon...!
Thanks for reading, friends!
Chapter Text
The moon was shapeless and dull, half hidden behind low-hanging clouds in a velvet sky beyond the tall windows of Étaín Estate. Eoin had long left the waking world, curled like a cat beneath plush feather comforters and Egyptian linens, a notebook discarded on the pillow beside him. So deep in slumber was he that the young Irishman barely stirred when Paddy’s knees alighted on the mattress behind him.
The gamekeeper settled himself beneath the covers, one arm, heavy and warm, finding its home around Eoin’s rangy form. Paddy’s fingers laid claim to the soft skin of his lover’s belly, thumb stroking the pale flesh. “Are you gone from this world, my Belfast boy?”
Eoin gave a low, incoherent hum, still lost to Morpheus’s playland, and Paddy’s chest rumbled with affection at Eoin’s back. Beard against his lover’s neck, Paddy’s lips tickled Eoin’s ear as he soothed and serenaded his boy. “No more a tired heart downcast or overcast, / No more pangs that wring or shifting fears that hover…”
Eoin grasped for consciousness, following Paddy’s voice out of the darkness. “Have ya snuck yer way into my bed, Paddy Mayne?”
“Sleeping at last in a dreamless sleep locked fast,” his gamekeeper finished, his words steady and low. Then, he added, the hint of smile in his tone, “Aye, like a thief, I crept in—right under Murphy’s fat nose and passed yer young, dashin’ footmen—”
“Are they dashing?”
A pause. “Well, young, anyhow.”
Eoin burrowed backwards into Paddy contentedly, legs twining beneath the sheets. Even on his best days, Eoin had not dared to dream of a love like this, easy and intimate and true, one half made whole by another. Eoin laid a hand upon Paddy’s, laced their fingers, and gave a long squeeze. “If ya don’t mind, love, I’ll be goin’ back t’sleep now.”
Paddy pulled Eoin tighter against his chest and closed his eyes. “The Land of Dreams is better far / Above the light of the Morning Star.”
“Yer mixin’ yer poets, Paddy...” Eoin gave a wee yawn. “Sleep well, my love.”
Eoin drew himself from the memory, returning to that harsh and unforgiving present. Sat at his desk with a mountain of tax forms and sales contracts stacked before him, he peered at it, unseeing. How Eoin longed for a late night or a gentle morning with Paddy. Longed for the touch of hands, the kiss of flesh. Longed to listen to the rough timbre of Paddy’s voice, to see the flash of his sharp grin, to hear the barking roar of his laughter.
“Perhaps… You should go. —Alone.”
Since his gamekeeper had uttered the words which had splintered Eoin’s heart and shattered his very spirit, three miserable weeks had passed. In that time, Paddy had gone to great efforts to avoid Eoin, despite Eoin’s many earnest attempts otherwise. When the young Irishman did manage to confront Paddy, his endeavors were rewarded with nonchalance and derision from his stubborn gamekeeper.
“How can ya tell me you love me and then disregard me like a plaything?”
“I never said I loved you,” replied Paddy, calm and cool and so goddamn apathetic.
“But you did! In yer poetry and yer touch and—”
“You are a child, Eoin, if ya ever thought we had a chance at a future.”
With every argument, each cruel word muttered by his love, Eoin’s hope withered more and more. He oscillated frequently between rage and despair, both of which were made worse in the face of Paddy’s eternally unflappable façade of indifference.
But it was just that—a façade. Eoin knew Paddy loved him. He just wasn’t sure how to convince Paddy of it, so determined was the gamekeeper to force himself to forget.
“We have a guest.”
Eoin started at the sound of Eve’s voice, banging his knee against the great oak desk. His favorite maid had materialized like an apparition at the mouth of the room. Hissing in pain, the Irishman glanced up at his friend and demanded, “Send them away.”
“You will want to meet this man.”
“I have no need for—”
“He says he is here for Paddy.”
Eoin stilled in his chair, a muscle twitching in his strong jaw, and after a long moment, he stood and followed Eve to the main entrance where a tall gentleman lingered in the foyer. Eoin was immediately struck by how beguiling the stranger was, body long and elegant and well-formed. With little round eyeglasses and a smart coat and dark hair, the man was handsome despite the jut of his chin, the sharp point of a thin nose. His arrival at Étaín came on a cool September morning, and the newcomer introduced himself to Eoin with a firm handshake and the lilt of French accent.
“Augustin Jordan, a pleasure.”
“Eoin McGonigal,” he drawled, hand tight in the other man’s grip. “Mr. Jordan, I’ve been informed yer looking for Mr. Mayne. May I ask what business ya have with my gamekeeper?”
A certain protectiveness laced his words. Despite their recent quarrels, Eoin loved Paddy, deeply, and he would never see harm come to Paddy, not if he could help it. And while the Frenchman seemed remarkably harmless, his sudden and unexpected arrival proved unusual.
Jordan gave a charming smile, one meant to disarm, to endear. “No trouble, I guarantee you, monsieur. Paddy is—” His smiled widened into something more genuine. “—a dear friend of mine. We served together in the war. I only wish to pay him a visit.”
There was something familiar about Jordan, but Eoin could not place it. Before he could respond, Eve appeared at his elbow. “Sirs, there is tea and cake in the drawing room.”
“Oh, thank you, but I couldn’t.” Jordan gave yet another charming smile, his luggage still firmly in hand. “It has been a long journey, and as I’m sure you can imagine, I am rather eager to see my old friend.”
“I’m sure it’s been a journey, indeed. County Clare is an awful long way to travel. Just to see a friend.”
“I confess,” Jordan replied, the hint of boyishness playing across his handsome features. “I’ve come with a proposal in mind. You may know that Paddy is a writer—” Eoin had half a mind to tell his guest that there were a great many things that he knew about the wonderful, formidable Paddy Mayne. “—my father owns several, successful publishing houses in Paris, and I hope for Paddy to join me there.”
“Join you? In Paris?”
The Frenchman flashed Eoin a bashful glance. “I apologize, Mr. McGonigal. It may seem uncouth, trying to steal away with your employee. But I am certain Paddy’s work will flourish under my father’s tutelage.”
Eoin’s heart gave a pathetic stutter. “And Paddy is… he’s expecting you?”
“Yes, I’ve sent letters.”
And that was when Eoin recognized why the stranger seemed so familiar to him. It was Jordan’s countenance. The eagerness, the longing, the delight—all conjured at the mere prospect of seeing Paddy Mayne. It was a look Eoin knew intimately, for he often saw it in the mirror.
A laugh startled forth from Eoin’s lips. Because, in an instant, his weeks of utter turmoil and confusion over Paddy’s bewildering and abrupt withdrawal from him became quite clear.
“Mr. Jordan, it would be my pleasure to accompany you to Mr. Mayne’s cottage.”
“I do not wish to disturb your day, sir. Perhaps, a footman—”
“I insist.”
Their walk to the cottage was briskly taken, and as Jordan waxed poetic about the beauty of the McGonigal family estate, Eoin struggled to contain his tumultuous emotions which steadily approached hysteria. What a fool he had been. When the squat cottage became visible through the trees—and that meadow where he and his gamekeeper had made love in the midday sunshine—, Eoin felt the breaking of his heart starting all over again, the pain made fresh and new.
Upon their approach, both men spotted Paddy where he stood beside the shed, ax in hand, hacking away at a batch of firewood for the woodstove. Jordan released a joyous shout, bounding swiftly passed the stone gate and across the muddy yard. “The Irish Lion! It has been too long a time, Paddy Mayne.”
Eoin halted his steps at the gate, ignoring Tyger when the Irish Setter began to crowd his feet, and watched—in horror, in agony, in disbelief—as Jordan threw down his luggage on Paddy’s stoop, beaming, and moved to embrace Paddy like the long-lost lovers that Eoin knew they were. Eoin wondered if he imagined the way Paddy stiffened beneath Jordan’s touch, and when Paddy’s steely gaze met Eoin’s over Jordan’s shoulder, the hard planes of Paddy’s bearded face became stone.
It was the most emotion Eoin had witnessed from Paddy in a fortnight.
“Why are you here?”
Eoin’s pain brewed into a frenzy untold, his face morphing into a cruel, mocking thing. There was a sick sort of pleasure at finally having a reason to turn his pain into spite. “I have brought yer friend to see you, Mr. Mayne. He is quite eager for yer company, so long as it has been since you were last together, I imagine. It is a wonder ya survived so long apart.”
“You have no clue about which you speak, Eoin,” said Paddy with a frightening sort of calm, and Eoin hated the damnable flutter of his heart at the sound of his name on Paddy’s lips. The gamekeeper harshly shrugged out of Jordan’s embrace and turned to the Frenchman. “I was askin’ you. Why have you come?”
“To see you, bien sûr.” Jordan grinned, long accustomed to Paddy’s moods and temper. Undeterred—and still fucking grinning—, the newcomer reached to drape an arm around the gamekeeper’s shoulders. With a snarl, Paddy shoved him off and glared up at the taller man. “Was my lack of reply to yer letters too subtle for ya?”
Surprise and disbelief shuttered Jordan’s face, and a strangled laugh erupted out of Eoin. “You need not put on a show for me, Paddy Mayne.”
“Eoin—”
Finally crossing the threshold into the cottage yard, Eoin gestured the tall stranger and demanded of Paddy, “This is why, isn’t it? This is why you will no longer have me. He’s why. Have I merely been a placeholder for him all this time?”
“How dare you.” Molten fury flashed in Paddy’s grey gaze, and for a moment, Eoin wondered if Paddy might strike him. Lips curling to reveal gritted teeth, Paddy seethed. “How dare you demean what we had.”
“Oh, so now you can be minded to give a damn!”
The Frenchman glanced wildly back and forth between Paddy and Eoin. “It appears I am missing something…”
Eoin ignored the stranger, barreling forward with his hurt and his wrath and his accusations, of which there were now many. “Am I a joke t’ya? Has this all been some big laugh? Have ya been writin’ about what a sap I’ve been to yer fuckin’ Frenchman this whole time?”
Paddy scoffed, a dry and callous thing. “Do not play the fool, Eoin. Yer smarter than that.”
“You will not condescend to me,” growled Eoin. His entire body felt alive with a raging fire, the likes of which he had not endured since he was bloodied and bruised, fighting for his life in the bastard tunnels of the Pas-de-Calais. “I have been a fool. A bloody, fuckin’ fool! I was so blinded by ya, Paddy. Blinded by yer brilliance and yer talent and yer fuckin’ attention. To think ya really loved me—”
It was, perhaps, reckless to speak so honestly, so freely in front of a stranger. Those were not kind times to men like he and Paddy—and Eoin suspected, Jordan. But weeks of agony and heartache and loss had driven Eoin to the very brink of madness. He was long passed caring about society, about fear of repercussions, even as he handed Jordan the very rope with which to hang him.
“What else am I to think, Paddy, but that I have been played a fool? We were in love—and then you were just gone. And yer actin’ like ya don’t care—like it isn’t killin’ ya to be apart. ‘Cause it’s killin’ me, Paddy!”
“Oh, I care. But people like you don’t belong with people like me, Eoin McGonigal. Yer too—ah, fuck—” Paddy broke off with a dismissive wave of hand, seemingly warring with himself, trapped somewhere between fury and frustration. Then, the mad gamekeeper spun away from Eoin to set the devil upon the Frenchman. “You have no fuckin’ right, comin’ here, makin’ a mess of things. I told you—” Paddy waved a dangerous finger in Jordan’s face, his vehemence a brandished weapon. “—that I was through with you, ya fuckin’ snake.”
For his salt, Jordan did not wither beneath Paddy’s ire. He frowned down at the gamekeeper, his light eyes flickering over to Eoin. “How was I to know you had taken another lover, when you never write, never telegraph?”
“Ya were to take the fuckin’ hint, you filthy fuckin’ rat.”
Jordan gave a long-suffering sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. “If this is about what happened with Stirling—”
“Because of you, we were stood down and stood down—and good fuckin’ men died for it. We could’ve been there to save ‘em, you fuckin’ coward!”
“The intelligence seemed—”
“What the fuck would you know about intelligence?” With a sneer, Paddy pushed passed the Frenchman to where his luggage—a single leather bag—sat abandoned on the front steps of the cottage. Paddy snatched up the offending object and shoved it hard into Jordan’s chest. “Take yer shite and be gone from me. I have no use of you.”
Paddy looked to Eoin. “And you should go back to yer big house, while it is still yer’s, and leave me to my books and my solitude as ya should’ve done in the first goddamn place.”
“Paddy, you cannot be serious,” began Jordan, entirely unimpressed with the turn of circumstance, but before the Frenchman could continue, Paddy pounced with a startling ferocity, snarling in the taller man’s face. “Do I look like I’m serious to you?”
While Eoin surveyed the scene before him—his beautiful, wonderful, wild Paddy become as destructive and uncaring as a hurricane, denying not one lover, but two—, Eoin felt the last remaining dregs of his sanity and energy drain from him like rainwater down the gutter. Finally, he understood; finally, he recognized Paddy’s madness for what it was.
“You are a coward, Paddy Mayne,” Eoin said, softly, sadly, and then, the Irishman turned and began the slow march back to the manor, away from the man he loved.
That evening, Eoin sent word to his mother and brothers to prepare for his arrival in Belfast.
Eoin was quitting County Clare, quitting the heartbreak it now held for him, and going home. The young author had the maids gather his few personal belongings as he himself set to collecting the last odds and ends of paperwork necessary for the donation of the estate to St. Senán’s Church, who would soon operate an orphanage on the grounds of Étaín. Eoin intended to tie up the final loose ends from Belfast, confident that Mr. Clarke could handle the actual transfer there in Dúlainn.
It was, of course, Eve who found him after supper—which he barely touched for the nausea in his stomach and the pain in his chest—by the fire in the study, a bottle of sherry on hand.
“I don’t actually like sherry,” murmured the Irishman by way of greeting. “Too sweet…but I can’t seem ta find any whiskey or rum.”
“There’s some in the cellar.”
“Just my luck.”
She considered him closely. “You are running away. It seems unlike you.”
Eoin gave her a brave face even as his eyes stung from unshed tears. “I cannot continue to be here, not when he treats me like a ghost. How can I? He is everywhere—” In his bed where they slept and made love. In the drawing room where they played chess and conversed and supped. In every forest and valley and meadow of the estate, there was Paddy, Eoin’s great love who refused to love him any longer. “I can’t bear it, Eve. It is a constant torture worse than death.”
Eve’s pity was hard to come by, but Eoin appeared to have it in spades. He smiled at her, wide and true, and told the beautiful woman, “You have been a great solace to me, my friend. I want to thank you fer all that ya’ve done for me.”
“I don’t much like men, but I like you,” she confessed. “You’re one of the good ones, Eoin.”
Eoin snorted and shifted towards the fireplace and the warmth it promised. “Lotta good that’s done me.”
“Paddy is an idiot.” Eve reached for the bottle of sherry and helped herself to a glass. For a long, companionable moment, the pair of them sat in silence before the stone hearth and the roaring fire within. Eventually, Eve asked him, “Where will you go? After Belfast.”
“I don’t know. Anywhere. Everywhere.”
The liquidation of Cain McGonigal’s assets had proven more than fruitful. With Mr. Clarke’s guidance, Eoin had sold over half the acreage of the sprawling estate and all shares of ownership in the local mines, as well as the numerous stocks belonging to his late uncle. Even after donating the manor and grounds to the church, the financial returns were such that Eoin had been able to pay off the mortgage on his mother’s house in Belfast and his and Ambrose’s university debts. Such wealth, especially when hoarded as Cain had done, was obscene, so Eoin had agreed to give half of whatever funds remained to charity. He would make his way with whatever was left.
“Money won’t be an issue, at least not at first.” He poured himself another glass of the dessert wine, then filled Eve’s glass as well. “Maybe I’ll go to America…but wherever I go, I know that I will miss you.”
An uncharacteristic shyness fell over the young maid at his remark. In the soft glow of firelight, Eoin noticed for the first time how young Eve actually was, how soft she remained in the cheeks and eyes, and he wondered what she must have been like as a girl, wild and free before war consumed the world.
After some hesitation, Eve firmly met Eoin’s curious stare. “I would like to come with you.”
“Oh.”
“I came here to be free of my past, because I had no other choice. But I no longer wish to dwell in this place.” Her conviction built with her words, voice growing firmer, posture more confident. “I will work. You know I can do that, and I will—”
“Eve—!” Eoin laughed. “Ya need not convince me. If ya wish to join me on my travels, then you may. That’s it, done.”
First disbelief, then a dubious joy flickered across her stunning features. “You’re certain?”
“Shall I draw up a contract?” he teased, and for a second, Eoin thought she might hug him, such was her sudden delight. She did not. Instead, Eve smoothed her skirt and nodded, decisively. “I shall go pack, then.”
Eve did pack her suitcase—the photograph of her father wrapped in a scarf and placed delicately on top—, and when her belongings were all tucked away, she pulled on her coat, stuffed her socked feet into a weathered pair of winter boots, and headed out for the gamekeeper’s cottage.
Eve Mansour needed a word with Paddy Mayne.
“Is that the last of it, sir?”
Mr. Murphy stood, back straight and stiff as always, surveying the trunk strapped to the luggage rack on the newly repaired automobile. It perplexed the head butler that the master of such a grand manor—though for however brief a time—could own so little when it came down to it.
“That’s the last of it, Mr. Murphy.”
It was just gone noon. After announcing their intentions to leave Étaín, Mrs. O’Sullivan had prepared a veritable feast of a breakfast, and Mr. Murphy had gathered the house staff for a proper, respectable farewell. It had been a busy and boisterous morning, and now, as Eoin and Eve prepared to take their final leave of the estate, Eve’s focus was singular and serious where she gazed out at the ridge of the eastern woods.
“Is somethin’ the matter?” asked Eoin, gently.
“I thought he would come.”
Eoin knew who she meant. “He is done with me, so I must be done of him.”
“I was informed that Mr. Jordan left the property shortly after you returned last night,” remarked Eve, coolly, as though she was speaking of the weather or any such other mundanity. “It appears he is already making his return journey to France, alone.”
Eoin did not care to speak of Augustin Jordan, or Paddy Mayne, or whatever might have been. Though he was devastated to leave things with Paddy as they were, Eoin was also desperate to be done with that accursed place and the heartache he had found there. So, Eoin forced a placating smile and asked, “Have ya said all yer goodbyes, then?”
“I have.” Her dark eyes pierced the very soul of him. “Have you?”
“I think I’ll bring some of Mrs. O’Sullivan’s shortbread and a few of those little sandwiches for the road. I’ll only be a moment, and then we can get on with it. If we leave soon, we can make it to Belfast by nightfall.”
Eve answered his evasion with a disapproving frown, so Eoin went to fetch the refreshments for the long drive ahead. The head cook was more than happy to prepare the biscuits and the like for their journey, and when she handed Eoin a small wicker basket of food, Mrs. O’Sullivan gave him a warm hug of goodbye. “You’ve done a good thing, givin’ this place to the children. You’re a good man, Capt. McGonigal.”
“Ya’ll write to me and let me know if anythin’ goes amiss with the boys’ home?”
The portly woman nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”
“Keep an eye on Mr. Murphy while yer at it. He needs—”
There came a sudden commotion from the front of the manor, and Eoin could faintly hear shouting. Mrs. O’Sullivan heaved a great sigh and rolled her eyes. “Speak of the devil. What’s Murphy goin’ on about, now?”
The devil, it turned out, was actually Paddy Mayne, and the commotion the result of his arrival at the manor which had inspired a natural conflict with Mr. Murphy. Voices raised to the heavens, the men had taken to verbally lashing one another on the front steps of Étaín while Eve looked on boredly.
“If ya’ve come for another fight,” Eoin hollered, pulling Paddy’s attention from the head butler. “I’ll tell ya I’ve got none left in me.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that for one fuckin’ second.” Paddy grinned like a wolf. There was a challenge about him, but Eoin had grown weary. “So, that’s it, then? Yer leavin’, back to ole Belfast?”
“Ya told me to go, so I am goin’.”
“Since fuckin’ when do you listen to a goddamn word I say, aye?”
Mr. Murphy cleared his throat. “Capt. McGonigal, sir, I apologize. I’ll have him removed at once.” Only, when the butler turned towards the footman, each of them blanched at the very thought, down to the last man, and Paddy gave a bark of laugh. “Listen here, you fat fuckin’ shite—”
“That’ll be enough, Paddy,” he snapped, firm and impatient. He had grown tired of Paddy’s moods. And because Eoin was a glutton for punishment, he added, “Why didja not leave with yer Frenchman?”
“Though he is French, he is not mine. Nor am I his.”
Coming round the side of the car, Eve curled a hand on Eoin’s bicep, even gaze cutting Paddy in half, and murmured, “Perhaps, this is a conversation to have in private.”
Eoin laid his hand atop hers, glad for the comfort of her touch. “He has nothin’ to say to me that is worth hearin’, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty ta say, and you will hear me, Eoin McGonigal, even if I’ve ta chase ya halfway back to Belfast to see it so.”
Paddy was a stubborn beast when he put his mind to something, and between one breath and the next, Eoin knew this was a confrontation he could not avoid. After weeks of chasing Paddy to no avail, the gamekeeper had finally deigned to speak with him. So, Eoin took Eve’s suggestion and ordered the remainder of the house staff to return inside—aye, Mr. Murphy, that includes you—so that he might say his final goodbyes to Paddy—his gamekeeper, his friend, his confidant, his love, his tormentor—in relative privacy.
When they were alone, Paddy jumped right to the heart of it. “I reckon I hate you, Eoin.”
Though he’d suspected as much, to hear it spoken aloud stole his breath. Eoin nodded, numbly, and said, “So, ya’ve come to have it out, air yer grievances and what not. Get on with it then. S’a long drive to Belfast.”
“I had accepted what I was—who I was—, and I accepted that I would be alone. And then you came along with yer fuckin’ curls and yer dimples and yer smile—ya’ve ruined me, Eoin.”
“Me and yer Frenchman, you mean.”
“Jordan was—nothin’. He was the war and convenience and—he doesn’t even like Whitman for fuck’s sake, and I never loved—” Paddy scoffed, a little growl of a thing, and pushed his hair away from his eyes. “D’ya love me, Eoin?”
The question stripped him bare. Heart pitted like a stone in his stomach, Eoin trembled. “You know I do, Paddy.”
Paddy sucked his teeth and looked away, ever at war with himself. “Aye, I do. Though I have not half a mind to believe it. Such a thing seems impossible.”
“If I have not with my words and my affection and my time convinced you of my love, Paddy, then I have failed us both.”
“Perhaps I believe that you love me, but not that I am deservin’ of it.”
The gamekeeper refused, still, to look at him, and when Paddy cleared his throat, Eoin realized, there, in the quiver of Paddy’s proud jaw, in the rapid blink of his grey eyes, that Paddy was afraid. And when he finally, finally, met Eoin’s stare, Paddy was only a boy made small by his fear.
“Yer a damned thief, Eoin McGonigal. Ya’ve stolen me very mind. All I do is think of you, and dream of you, and every damned word I read in every book I own makes me remember you. Ya’ve poisoned me against me’self.”
Eoin mouth pulled into a bittersweet smile. The Irish sky was overcast and dismal above them. Eoin prayed for a rain that would absolve them both. “Then, ya’ll be glad to be rid of me.”
“You can’t go—Eoin, I—” The gamekeeper’s voice was deep and firm even as he fought to speak. “I love you, Eoin—I love you.”
“I know, love.”
And he did. Eoin knew it in his very bones. He allowed himself to draw near to Paddy, to place a warm hand on a bearded cheek. “Blair, yer so unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and I wish always t’know and ta love you.”
Paddy’s eyes closed, savoring, as he leant into Eoin’s touch.
“But—” Grey eyes flew open, and Eoin’s heart broke twice over for the dread and self-loathing he saw in Paddy’s stare. “—I fear you cannot let ye’rself love me, Paddy, not truly. It was so easy for ya ta turn from me these last few weeks, so easy for ya to break my heart—and I know ya did it out of—of fear or of thinkin’ ya were protectin’ me, Paddy. But one day ya’ll change yer mind again. Ya’ll tire of me, like you tired of the Frenchman.”
“Eoin, please—just listen.”
Then, Paddy told him everything then.
Standing in the front drive of Étaín Estate, a light mist falling from the skies above, Paddy told Eoin of the war and the closeness, the comfort, he found with Jordan in that fresh hell. He spoke of Jordan’s recklessness, which had very nearly seen them both hanged on the Western Front, and Paddy’s fear for their damned souls. How he had attempted, after the victory, to make a normal life for himself with a good prod girl from home. How one drunken mistake with a neighborhood lad had sent Paddy running far and wide from the cobbled streets of Belfast to the reclusive McGonigal estate where he might sequester himself away from society, doomed to live an unfulfilled life of suffering, like his poets.
How Paddy had accepted his miserable fate until Eoin had come along.
“After the accident, and Murphy…” Jordan’s letters had frightened Paddy, reminding him as they did of the consequences of such a relationship between men. “Don’t ya see, Eoin? I reckoned ya were Dante, and I Virgil, guidin’ ya into the depths of hell. I could not see you hanged for my sins.”
“Our sins.”
Eoin’s correction hung between them, like a bare thread.
“We were gettin’ too careless,” murmured Paddy, voice soft with honesty, eyes kind. “That day at the beach, anyone could’a seen. And half the damned staff here know what we’ve done, what we are. All it takes is one word ta the local constable… I had to end it, Eoin.”
“That was not your decision to make, not alone.”
Eoin’s head was spinning from Paddy’s confession, and there, at his breast, was still the burden of his heartache, his anger, his grief. “You have treated me like a child. I have known from the start the risks we were takin’, but it was my choice to take them. I don’t need yer protection, Paddy. I just—I fuckin’ needed you. And ya took everythin’ from me when you walked away.”
The rain was falling heavier now, pelting his skin, soaking his clothes, and as he blinked through the wetness, Eoin made his own confession to Paddy. “Ya have no idea how I am ruined by you—and it is a ruination I will gladly take. But I will not have you in fits and starts, Paddy Mayne. I will have you always, or not at all.”
A long silence followed Eoin’s declaration.
Here, he had said to Paddy. I have laid myself bare at your feet. What will you do with me?
The September shower continued around them, the gravel drive turning to slush and mud at their feet, and when Paddy reached for him through sheets of rain, Eoin trembled. The shorter man brushed a shaking hand over Eoin’s damp brow to curl a wet tendril of Eoin’s hair around his forefinger. “These last few weeks have been miserable without ya, Eoin. My only solace was that you were so close by, even if I could not have you. I told ya to go alone because I am a damned coward, as you said—but I can’t bear the thought of ya leavin’ and never seein’ ya again.”
Paddy’s lips peeled back over his teeth. He licked rainwater from his top lip and peered up at the grand manor house. Eoin could see the wheels turning over in the gamekeeper’s mind. “We cannot live freely, not together, not here, nor in Belfast. We’ll have to go to Africa, or Asia, or somewhere the like.” He glanced at Eoin, boyishly. “If ya’ll have me.”
It was Paddy’s talk of a shared future that threatened to break him.
Flooded with emotion—with love and grief and joy and fear—, Eoin made his decision in an instant. He breached the void between them, grabbing Paddy’s arms and pulling him close. “Yer out of what little mind ya have left, Paddy Mayne, if you think I’m goin’ anywhere without you. If ya think I’ll ever let’cha out of my sight again.”
Paddy kissed Eoin in the pouring rain, one strong hand firm round the back of Eoin’s head. “So witness me God, Eoin McGonigal,” Paddy breathed against his lover’s lips. “I will follow you to the very edges of this earth.”
Eoin felt a little like he was falling.
The young author had been fully prepared to leave County Clare and the great love he’d found there, never to return, never to look back. Never to see or kiss or hear from his gamekeeper ever again. And now, kissing Paddy in the rain, one hand clutched in Paddy’s, looking to run away together… Eoin was delirious with the happiness of it.
“We will catch our death,” he breathed against Paddy’s mouth, shivering from the wet and cold. Eoin dropped another peck on the gamekeeper’s lips, then trailed a wake of kisses across his cheek, the pleasure-pain drag of Paddy’s beard against his skin a familiar and much welcome sensation.
“Go on, then.” Paddy jutted a chin towards the manor, but Eoin crossed to the wooden trunk strapped into the rack on the back of the waiting automobile. Quickly, he unfastened the straps, flicked the lock, and set about collecting his luggage. The young Irishman left Eve’s suitcase behind and sprinted up the front steps and into the shelter of the grand house. Paddy followed, grinning like the devil, fat drops of rain dripping from his beard as a footman opened the door to let them enter.
Rainwater pooling at their feet, Eoin blinked the wet from his eyes and sought Eve. “Do you know how to drive?”
“You’re getting water on my shoes.” Lips pursed just so, Eve’s sharp gaze studied Paddy over Eoin’s shoulder. “I take it he’s come to his senses then.”
Paddy had the wherewithal to look abashed at her scolding. The gamekeeper cleared his throat. “Thanks to the pestering of a dear friend.”
“We are not friends, Paddy Mayne,” purred Eve, and though the words were harsh, there was the ghost of a smile playing on her lips.
Paddy laughed, a quick, deep thing, and Eoin’s chest tightened with affection for them both. He took Eve’s slender hands within his own. “Might you give my regrets to my mother? Mam will see to it that yer takin’ care of. Ya’ll have a room and me mam’s excellent cookin’, til ya get on yer feet.”
Eve squeezed his fingers. He knew she wanted to ask, are you sure? will you be alright? where will you go? when will I see you again? Instead, she squared her shoulders and smiled at him, coyly. “You have brothers, yes? Are they as kind and as handsome as you?”
“Taller and smarter, too.”
He hugged her, then, pulled her in tight and pressed his cheek into the crown of her hair. She smelled, faintly, of lavender. Eoin dropped a kiss on her head. “I will write you at my mother’s place.”
“I will not read them,” she murmured, face buried in his chest, arms loosely bound around him.
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
“I will be seeing you again, my darling girl.”
That was the truth, and they both knew it.
Eve drew back and tossed a withering look at Paddy. “Be good. Both of you.” Then, she turned on her heel and strode for the door without stopping.
Eoin watched her go, silhouetted in the grand entrance, and when the vehicle disappeared down the winding road, his heart seized in his chest. Goodbye, my friend. Without looking, he reached for Paddy, who came willingly, hand slipping into Eoin’s open palm. “She’s a tough bird,” drawled Paddy, voice low and tough beneath the rattle of the rain. “She’ll be fine.”
“I know.” His smile was tight, his eyes wet. Eoin squeezed Paddy’s hand, then dropped it as he faced the waiting house staff. “Mr. Murphy, can we have the other automobile prepared for a journey?”
Eoin and Paddy retired to the master chambers while the staff readied the second vehicle. They stripped off their sodden clothes, the maids providing fresh garments for them both. Eoin stood, transfixed, while Paddy ran a towel through his damp hair, muscled body long and naked in the shadowy light. His dark gaze tracked the familiar landscape of his lover’s body—the freckles on Paddy’s shoulders, the scar from a bullet wound on his arm, the jut of his hipbone.
When he kissed Paddy, then, it was a passionate but slow thing. An oath of a kiss, demanding and earnest.
“Promise yer never gonna turn away from me again.”
Eoin was too far gone to be embarrassed at the vulnerable desperation that chased his plea.
Paddy sighed, heavy and warm, against Eoin’s mouth. His fingers carded through Eoin’s wet locks, their bodies twined together where they stood on plush carpet. Swallowing thickly, Paddy turned to his favorite poet to say that which his mind could not articulate. “I have found him who loves me, as I him in perfect love, / With the rest I dispense—I sever from all that I thought would suffice me, for it does not—it is now empty and tasteless to me, / I heed knowledge, and the grandeur of The States, and the examples of heroes, no more.”
Shivering with want, Eoin dug his fingers into the flesh of Paddy’s body, tethering himself to the world. “Promise,” he demanded. “Say it.”
“I promise, Eoin, love. I promise.”
On the 25th of October, the RMS Scythia ocean liner left the southern port of Kinsale, Ireland, bound for North Africa. Among the hundreds of names on the passenger manifest were Capt. Eoin McGonigal and Capt. Robert Blair Mayne.
Notes:
That's it, done! This chapter was a wee bit of a rollercoaster. Lots of big emotions, lots of little moments. I hope y'all enjoyed Jordan's cameo (sorry for making him the villain, whoops) and Eve's sweet goodbye. And, of course, the happy ending for our boys, starting off on their new adventure...
A million thank you's to everyone who has given kudos and comments and followed along with my little story. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did. Also, big love to the SAS discord comm. Y'all are the best. <3
The poems Paddy quotes are 'Sleeping at Last' by Christina Rossetti, 'The Land of Dreams' by William Blake, and 'Calamus/Live Oak, with Moss' by Walt Whitman.
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