Free Priceless by Raine Miller

caused any more disruption to this household than I had in the short time I’d been here?  I didn’t think so.
    He looked me over, probably disgusted by my bedraggled state.  Was this one of Mr. Everley’ s servants sent down to deal with me?  I lifted my chin and tried to pretend he hadn’t just caught me bawling my eyes out.  What a joke that was.  I slashed at the tears rolling down my face, and stood up quickly, trying to face up to whatever was in store for me.
    His face gentled and he reached for my suitcase.  “My name is Finnegan.  May I show you to your room, Miss Hargreave, is it?”  His voice had a definite Irish lilt, but refined, and strangely…kind.
    “Y-yes…I g-g-guess so,” I managed to answer. “It’s j-just for the n-night.  I’m leaving in the m-m-morning.”  It was nearly impossible for me to speak from the involuntary sobs that still had hold of me.  I hoped I wasn’t frightening the poor man to an early death.
    “Follow me, my dear.  You look like you could use some warming up…and drying off.”
    Thank God he took charge because I was very near the end of my rope.  I followed Mr. Finnegan with the burgundy smoking jacket down a hallway and up an impressive staircase, past enormous paintings and sculptures I refused to even try to make out in the dim lighting because I would never see them again after this night.
    I know myself pretty well.
    I just couldn’t take in any more.  Something dry to put on, a bed, and maybe a couple Nurofen if I was really lucky, and the sum total of my requirements would be mercifully fulfilled.
    “This is the room we had arranged for your stay with us, Miss Hargreave.  It is a suite with a sitting room just off there.”  He pointed to an open doorway lit by lamplight.  “You’ll also find things for making tea or coffee if you’d like a hot drink before you retire.”
    I looked around at the beautiful rooms set up for me to live in while I worked on assessing Mr. Everley’s art collection, and at Mr. Finnegan regarding me so kindly as he explained the basics…and felt tears leaking down my face again.
    I vaguely registered a conversation with him about helping me to get back to my rental car tomorrow so I could leave, amid more pathetic tears.  He took it all in his stride and patted my hand awkwardly before he left me alone, saying something about breakfast in the morning, and that things would look better to me after a restful sleep.  He probably thought I was an escapee from a mental ward, poor man.
    Maybe things wo uld feel better in the morning.  Or maybe they wouldn’t.
    They probably wouldn’ t, I decided.
    And by this point I didn’t even care.
    I didn’t ponder Mr. Finnegan’s prediction s, either.  I couldn’t.  I wasn’t able to do anything more than strip out of my damp and filthy clothes, don some warm pajamas, and gulp down a couple of painkillers with water directly from the bathroom sink.
     

     
    THINGS did feel different for me the next morning, but not necessarily better.  I had a headache the size of Greenland for one thing, and my throat felt scratchy and irritated.
    W hen I opened my eyes to realize exactly where I was, I jumped out of the luxurious Irish linens dressing my bed and wandered into the adjoining sitting room.  I went straight to the tea cart Mr. Finnegan had mentioned last night, hoping a hot cup might help soothe my burning throat.  I made a mug of my favorite Titanic Blend and poured in a couple of milk pods.
    The first sip was heavenly, but it was much too hot to gulp so I took it with me into the bathroom.  All I could think about was getting out of this place and to the Belfast airport.
    I didn’t waste time.
    I threw on some clean jeans and a long-sleeved brown shirt that felt soft and comfortable against my sensitive skin.  In reality, my body ached all over.  I left the muddy stuff from last night where it lay on the floor with little concern.  They could throw it all