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I still remember her as wee Fi, the smallest of his lanky brood, the only one to inherit her mother’s ginger hair. God rest Rose’s soul. Fiona’s been living with her father since she graduated. She cared for him, growing their food and working part-time to earn money to keep them afloat.
He’d let the only good thing he ever did with his life rot like an overripe tomato in his daughter’s garden. Unpicked. Wasted.
My eyes betray me, unable to hide the primal hunger that courses through my body as I think of his only daughter. He can see the fire burning within me, fueled by forbidden desire and unbridled passion. The heat radiating from my body is palpable, igniting a dangerous spark between us that cannot be ignored.
Finally, his shaky voice comes through.
“What do you want with my girl?”
“It’s simple. I’m demanding Fiona’s hand in marriage. In return, I’m offering you a dowry.” I tell him the lump sum of his debts to me. “To take her as my wife.”
“No. Nah. Absolutely not.” He shakes his head. “Not my little girl. Married to a Burnes?”
He says my surname like we’re vermin. Aye, my great-grandfather had many children who went on to procreate. My cousins and I litter the island, but we’re not the trash.
He sets his jaw. “Not happening.”
I can see his love and protectiveness for his daughter, even though he has failed her in many ways.
“It’s not your choice,” I say firmly. “She deserves more than that rundown shack and an absent father.”
“I may not have much to offer her now, but this is her home,” he states.
“This isn’t enough,” I retort. “I offer her stability and security that you can't provide.”
He scoffs. “Yer no better than me,” he says, venom spewing from his voice.
“At least I’m willing to fight for her,” I reply coolly.
“She wouldn’t want this.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
“She doesn’t know what she wants yet,” I say. “But I know what she deserves.”
“She deserves to choose who she marries,” he argues weakly.
“She will choose,” I assure him. “To marry me.”
He looks torn between wanting what’s best for his daughter and holding onto some semblance of control over her life.
Finally, he says, “You can’t take my little girl.”
“Your little girl?” I laugh. He should have taken proper care of her when he could.
“Wait—” He rises from his chair, a shaky hand pressing into the table as he steadies himself.
“Dinnae bother getting up. The decision is already made.”
“And if I say no?”
“You won’t.” We stare into one another’s eyes until he looks away.
“We do have one thing in common,” I say.
He snivels. “I don’t think so.”
“Protestant or Catholic, it looks like neither of us believes in birth control.”
His fingers clutch at his pint glass, wishing it was my throat.
