Free A Love by Any Measure by Killian McRae Page B

smiled wickedly.
    “I would never,” Margaret proclaimed in a low voice. “How profane. Besides, Lord Grayson orders all servants away from his and Miss Caroline’s chambers after dark.” Maeve set the bag on the counter as she took out the ledger to note the purchase. She was nearly blushing in a confusion of unease, but let her hair fall over her face to hide it. Meekly, she pushed the ledger forward. “Your signature, ma’am.”
    “You know what that means?” Margaret shrugged at Cecily’s question. “It means he already has someone, and I bet—”
    “You need to sign!”
    It was fortunate that the outburst had the result of leading the English to want to move their conversation elsewhere. Cecily signed, and the women quickly made their way out the door.
    A few hours passed until at last it was time for Maeve to make her way down the lakeshore toward home. On a good day, the distance took an hour to cross. Today, however, her feet dragged slowly as she tried to make sense of the anger — and dare she say, jealousy — that had wracked her.
    Horse hooves clopping and a familiar voice drew her from her contemplating. She turned to find the smiling face of Jared Boyle beaming at her.
    As he was heading in her direction, he offered her a place on his cart, which she accepted gladly. Her feet had grown just as weary as her mind; she never would have imagined something as seemingly benign as working in a bakery could be so taxing. She grimaced when she thought of what poor Owen must feel like at the end of the day.
    “How go things at O’Toole’s?”
    Maeve tilted her head in Jared’s direction. “Does everybody know my every move?”
    “It’s Killarney,” Jared answered with an eye roll. “You can’t kick a stone without it being heard clear across town.”
    She sighed. That’s what worried her. “The bakery is fine. Katie O’Toole is a good woman; it’s very kind of her to offer me the work. The clientele, however … ” Her voice trailed off, remembering the maids’ conversation as she shifted uncomfortably on the seat.
    “English mutts nipping at your skirts a bit?”
    Her silence was confirmation. It wasn’t in Maeve’s nature to speak ill of … anyone.
    A warm squeeze on her shoulder let her muscles relax a bit. “Don’t let them get to you. Be patient. Everything will right itself soon enough.”
    His face looked oddly smug as he made the proclamation. Maeve wondered, but she let it fall by the wayside as they rounded the bend in the road and she saw the smoke rising from her own hearth. All else was forgotten in the warmth of coming home.

The Voyeur
    Killarney had changed little, yet presented itself as a tribute copy of smaller proportion to August’s matured eyes. In his days of youth, Ireland had been exotic and formidable with its masses of people shifting about and the skeletal frame of St. Mary’s Cathedral dominating the landscape like a leviathan. In the interim, funds had been raised and the edifice completed. As the carriage passed by its front steps, he could see women pulling their daughters in and out, lecturing them on the importance of mass, no doubt.
    “You haven’t said a word since Middle Lake, August.”
    “Hmm?”
    Caroline’s voice broke his reverie as the carriage bumped along the roughly cobbled streets leading to Burke & Woodrow, the Killarney office handling the legal and financial concerns of all Grayson holdings in County Kerry.
    “What are you thinking of, dear brother?” she asked further, giving him a warm smile.
    August leaned in, placing his leather-clad hands over the lace of her gloves. “I’m thinking how resilient they are. Think of all they survived, all they still endure. Makes me remember how fortunate we are, compared to them.”
    “I never considered you one for compassion,” Caroline mused, turning over her hands and rubbing his fingers delicately. “May I tell you something? I think providence has brought you