Serena couldn’t help smiling back at him. “And you must be Mr. McElroy.”

He feigned a look of surprise. “And how did you guess that I wonder?”

Serena ignored his question and guided her job horse toward the stables. The Irishman fell in beside her.

“That’s a rather nice hack you’ve got, Mr. McElroy.”

He glanced down, as if surprised to find himself mounted. “Is it?”

Serena laughed and gave her reins to the groom before dismounting. “Mad for horses, are you?”

He slid from his horse and handed the groom his reins as well.

Serena raised her eyebrows. “I thought you were heading out for a ride?”

He fell into step beside her, his broad, heavily muscled shoulders only a few inches above her own. “I was going down to the lake site, but it was you I was in a fever to see, Mrs. Lombard, not a load of sweaty blokes shoveling dirt.”

“Me? Whyever would you be in a,” she hesitated, “fever to see me.”

“’Cause Lockheart hasn’t stopped talking about ye these past five weeks.”

Serena stopped and turned to him. His eyes sparkled as they looked down into hers.

“Mr. McElroy, I find that very difficult to believe. Would you perhaps be spreading a bit of the, er, blarney?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Ach, ye caught me all right.”

She shook her head and resumed walking. “Tell me why you’ve really come all this way, Mr. McElroy.”

“We’ve come to bring you some decent horseflesh, since Jessup complained you’d hired a horse fit for the knackers.” His Irish accent had miraculously departed. “Lockheart himself picked out old Kestrel.” He jerked his chin back toward the stables.

“Jessup misspoke. I am quite satisfied with Honey. I’m afraid you’ve come all this way for naught.”

He reached in front of her to open the door to the sunroom, which was the most convenient entrance to the house when coming from the stables.

“Oh, we’ve come to look at a brewery down south of here.”

Serena halted by the double doors to the great hall. “We?”

McElroy leaned unnecessarily close to reach for the door. “Aye, me and Gareth, both.” He opened the door and there was the man in question, crouched low in the middle of the black and white tile looking at something with her son.

***

Gareth had wanted to merely send the horses along, but Declan had convinced him it was his duty to check on the progress at Rushton Park.

“You don’t want another incident like Featherstone, Gare. The way to avoid that is to have some oversight.”

Gareth had shaken his head. “You just want to see this woman sculptor, Declan. You couldn’t give two pins about the progress of my park.”

The Irishman had laughed, not denying his curiosity.

“We need to see to Kennelworth’s Brewery and it’s only a short ride from Rushton.”

“Yes, but hardly direct.”

“Humor me, Gare.”

So Gareth had let himself be talked into an unnecessary journey. He’d left Declan to whatever schemes he had devised about the horses and had gone to the library, only to find a boy spread out in the middle of the smaller reading room, several large books open on the floor, along with an automaton in half a dozen pieces. He had looked up at Gareth, his eyes vague as his mind was obviously still on his work. Of course Gareth knew who he was: the sculptor’s child. He looked like a miniature of his mother, his complexion rosy, his cheeks round, and his golden-brown hair a riot of unkempt curls. Only his eyes were a different shade than his mother’s, a calm blue gray rather than hazel.