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“I gave the house staff the night off,” he says when no one comes out to greet us. “Wait here a second.”

“All of them?” I ask as he opens the door.

“All but the chef.”

I make a face. “Didn’t think you’d be much of a cook.”

“And I didn’t bring you here to eat dinner.”

“Where’s all that Harrington hospitality your da lives and breathes by?”

His gaze sweeps the house. “It’s not my hospitality that interests you. My father only performs it properly when there’s an audience.”

“What is it you think I’m interested in?”

“We’ll figure that out tonight.”

“I'm only here to fix your hand,” I say in a rush when he steps into the rain and shuts the door.

I watch him cross in front of the headlights, rain soaking his shoulders before he disappears inside. For a moment, I consider getting out and running back the way we came—then he returns with a black umbrella.

He opens it and comes straight to my side, shielding the gap as he pulls my door open.

I remember what I’d said in the pub about Saint and Keira and brush off the dumb comparison.

We aren’t like them.

“How gentlemanly of ya,” I say, climbing out. “Maybe there’s a redeemable side to ya after all.”

Fionn’s face stays blank. “What do I need to be redeemed for?”

I laugh as we walk. “Try kidnapping me for starters.”

“Right, I thought you were going to say murder.” He holds the umbrella over me as we climb the steps. “Then again, we both have blood on our hands after that night.”

I step under the portico. “Why did ya shoot that man?”

Fionn closes the umbrella, moves inside, and drops it into a cast-iron stand. “If I wanted you hurt, I would’ve done it myself.”

“Well, just so we’re clear.” I drag the cap off my head and rake my fingers through my damp hair. “I could’ve really hurt you out there in that field.”

He moves ahead, leading me deeper into the house. “Why didn’t you?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question.”

The entrance hall is dark wood and gold framed portraits. My boots leave faint wet marks on the floor, and I resist the urge to make them worse on purpose.

“This way,” he says.

We walk past a staircase wide enough for a wedding photograph and into a downstairs room that looks more like a private clinic than a place where normal people keep plasters.

Cabinets line one wall. A leather chair sits beneath a brass floor lamp. There’s a sink, folded towels, and a locked metal box that probably contains supplies to patch a bullet hole.

“Of course you have a post-murder pantry,” I say.

“My father refuses to sit in a doctor’s surgery, so they come to him.”

“Is he sick?”