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.”