An Irish Rogue

By Suzanne Barrett

Justine Farris would do anything for her dotty old aunt, but marrying Declan Walsh seems just plain crazy. Although the handsome handyman might be sent back to Ireland unless they pretend to tie the knot, how can Justine possibly say “I do” when they can’t agree on anything.

Declan would never have proposed to an independent, unconventional woman like Justine, but this is an emergency. Then, suddenly, he begins to wish that his temporary fiancée could stay in his arms forever. And where there’s a will, there’s a way....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Barrett
• Release date: Feb 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215250921

Suzanne Barrett

Following a career in engineering, Suzanne has returned to her first love of writing and literature. Born in Southern California, Suzanne, along with her husband and a loving tuxedo cat, make their home in the Santa Cruz Mountains. Suzanne is also a jewelry designer, and her wirework has been shown at various arts and wine events throughout the county. When she’s not writing, Suzanne loves to garden.Her books have been published by Kensington Books and Turquoise Morning Press. Sierra Bride is Suzanne’s first published historical and is set near the eastern slope of the Sierras where she spent an enjoyable part of her childhood collecting rocks and riding horses. Late Harvest, a story about winemaking, was a two-time Golden Heart finalist for Romance Writers of America. In Love and War is set in Suzanne's favorite part of Ireland, County Cork and tells of the decades-old conflict between Irish Republicans and the Free State. Taming Rowan draws on Suzanne's career in engineering and is set in another favored location, Northern England.

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An Irish Rogue

by

Suzanne Barrett

An Irish Rogue

Copyright © 2011, Suzanne Barrett

Trade Paperback ISBN:

Digital ISBN:

Editor, Karen Block

Cover Art Design by Kim Jacobs

Electronic release, December 2011, February 2023

Trade Paperback release, December 2011

Revised and Re-edited

Suzanne Barrett Enterprises

137 Rustic Lane

Santa Cruz, CA 95060

Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author, publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

This edition is published by agreement with Barrett Enterprises, 137 Rustic Lane, Santa Cruz, CA 95060, Santa Cruz, CA 95060.

Dedication

To my stepdad: Darrell, I miss you every day.

Acknowledgments

Heartfelt acknowledgments to Carolyn Woolston and Karen Block

An Irish Rogue

Justine Farris would do anything for her dotty old aunt, but marrying Declan Walsh seems just plain crazy. Although the handsome handyman might be sent back to Ireland unless they pretend to tie the knot, how can Justine possibly say I do when they can’t agree on anything.

Declan would never have proposed to an independent, unconventional woman like Justine, but this is an emergency. Then, suddenly, he begins to wish that his temporary fiancée could stay in his arms forever. And where there’s a will, there’s a way….

Reviews

A wonderful creative writing style…so easy to visualize the settings and characters with such raw intensity. I highly recommend IN LOVE AND WAR to anyone who loves a well-written and thought-provoking story, complex characters, and powerful emotions.

~Carole, The Romance Reviews

TAMING ROWAN

A rich, strong romance to please any true contemporary romance fan.

~MSReads, Martha’s Reviews

A totally sexy read with charming characters that will keep you glued to every page…a great romance that you won’t want to put down. If I have my way, I’ll be reading much, much more from Ms. Barrett!

~Night Owl Reviews

AN IRISH ROGUE

Suzanne Barrett writes a book so good it stays with you long after you’ve finished the final page.

~Lynna Banning, Harlequin Historicals author

GIFT OF THE HEART

I fell in love with her writing style…have added Suzanne Barrett to my must-read authors list for future releases.

~Booked Up Reviews

Chapter One

Declan Walsh pounded a fist into his palm. Bollix, Tim. I can nail a couple of boards together, but I’m a stonemason, not a carpenter—and hardly that if truth be known. You’ve told these people I’m a bloody expert. He fixed his cousin with a stare. An idiot would find me out. Then what am I to do?

I don’t see you’ve a choice, Dekko. But no matter. Just pay attention to what I tell ya, and you’ll catch on. Finish carpentry’s easy enough to learn.

Tim, older by ten years, heavier by thirty pounds, focused on the road and clamped one booted foot down on the aging pickup’s accelerator. With a bone-rattling thump, the green Ford paused before lurching ahead.

These are women, boyo. His cousin rolled his eyes. Pulchritudinous females. They don’t know jack squat about carpentry. He zipped onto an exit lane and braked for a traffic light. As long as you look like you know what you’re doing, they’ll go about their business, and you can go about yours.

Declan uttered an expletive. It won’t work, Tim. Not in five lifetimes. What in the name of the saints were you thinking? He stared at his cousin’s ruddy cheeks, then at the road ahead. How the bloody hell he’d let Tim talk him into this addle pated scheme, he didn’t know. His cousin hadn’t changed a whit since he immigrated to California. He still had a rare way with words.

One thing was certain. Declan knew he’d never pass for the creative-genius master carpenter Tim had claimed him to be. His business was finishing his novel and staying away from Immigration Enforcement Agent Henderson and the rest of those ICE buggers before they had him back to Ireland.

A man without a green card must watch his step, all right. But leave it to old Tim. I told ya I’d fix it fer ya, and I will. The light turned green, and Tim shifted gears. The truck roared ahead. Trust me. This is the best way. The Feds will never find you here.

Neither would his publisher. Declan closed his fingers around the handgrip and hung on as the truck snaked around ruts in the aging blacktop. The road twisted and turned as it skirted the base of the mountain. Redwoods and tanbark oaks clustered on knolls high above the narrow blacktop, their roots partially exposed from seasonal rains. Off to his right, he gazed at the six-hundred-foot drop to grey-spotted boulders and the river swirling below and felt a glimmer of hope. In these hills a man might simply disappear.

Tim jerked the pickup onto a winding, wheel-rutted road that threaded itself between log cabins and a couple of flat, ranch-style homes surrounded by a dense redwood growth. A half mile farther the road abruptly ended at a cattle guard. Tim swerved to the right, and steered the pickup between twin stone pillars, their mortar crumbling. They jounced along a dirt lane flanked by apple trees, the lichen-covered trunks grey-green in the afternoon sun. An old orchard, by at least fifty years, Declan guessed. Fallen trees lay scattered among the spring grass, decayed and neglected. Ah, well. That, at least, he could rectify. He’d worked his uncle’s apple orchard near Dungarvan often enough. He could rebuild the gateposts, too. But as for the finish carpentry, he had neither the skill nor the experience.

The ladies’ll be real happy to see ya, Tim said, his Waterford brogue more pronounced when he was in a jovial mood. His tone suggested to Declan it might be the other way around. His cousin had always had an eye for women.

Tim scratched his forehead with one chunky hand. I told Laverne you’d probably want to stay nearby. Get close to your work, like.

Declan frowned. As if he had a choice. Why the hell hadn’t he got his work visa sorted out before ICE was tipped off? His jerk of a boss on his last job knew when the extension had to be filed. He’d probably accidentally tossed it in the ash can. Now Declan had to hide out like some damned fugitive until the papers Tim filed could be processed and the duplicate mailed back, or risk deportation.

He cocked his head toward Tim. What’s the house needin’?

Tim let out a gust of air. It’s a bleedin’ monstrosity, it is. Needs everything.

It figures. Declan rested his chin between thumb and forefinger. What are they like, these women?

The older man whistled. The aunt’s name is Laverne Farris. She’s a bit over the top. Eccentric like, but a real looker, if I do say so. Her two nieces live with her. One’s a new-age sort. Always brewin’ up herb potions ‘n dabblin’ with crystals. T’other one owns a bookshop in Riverton. She’s the sensible one. Oh, and there’s the boyfriend. Tim grinned. You’ll meet him soon enough. Soon to be a permanent fixture around the place, I’ve heard. A talker but ‘bout as useless as they come.

Declan groaned. That’s all he needed. A trio of eccentric females, a gab-happy male, and an albatross of a house needing work he wasn’t sure he could do.

They topped a rise and descended into a meadow. The most unusual house Declan had ever seen dominated the landscape.

Jaysus, what a mix-up! The structure jutted off in several directions with dozens of narrow windows, tiny cupolas, and an honest-to-goodness slate roof. Weathered shingles covered the sides, and a verandah wrapped around the structure. Not Victorian or a turn-of-the century bungalow, but rather a hodgepodge of the two.

At the edge of a sloping lawn, a whimsical sculpted monk stood watch over an herb bed, and in the center of a ragged patch of grass sat a round fountain. Water spurted from a gargoyle’s mouth and dribbled into a pond covered with lily pads.

Tim braked in front of the verandah, and they climbed out. With one hand on the car door, Declan made another quick appraisal of the exterior. Hundreds of intricate gingerbread bits of trim marched around the eaves. Curved shingles, shaped pilasters at each corner, a parapet, and second story sloping dormers. It was a house caught in a time warp. He had the sinking feeling he was about to embark on an impossibility.

But you don’t have a choice. Deportation officers checked all the regular job sites. They’d have him on the next plane to Dublin if he so much as set foot within five miles of San Francisco, which is why Tim had shuttled him down to the Central Coast.

Well, boyo, you’re up against it now.

He studied the rickety porch steps leading to the front entrance. Those’d be no problem. He’d worked the odd carpentry job in Cork to support his writing. He knew which end of a nail to pound in. But he’d never done what Tim said was needed here. He’d never remodeled an entire house.

Still, it was money in his pocket and the location looked ideal. He could lie low until Immigration and Customs returned his paperwork. It might only be a matter of days unless Henderson’s vendetta overrode justice. He’d not put anything past the agent.

A movement in the garden caught his eye. A lanky blonde in a faded blue dress bent over rows of plants, snipping cuttings and tossing them in a flat basket. She straightened, gazed at Declan. Young, maybe early twenties. Her braless breasts bobbed with each step as she meandered over.

Tim wiped his forehead with a red bandanna. This is Willow, he said in a choked voice. My cousin, Declan. Would Laverne be about?

She’s doing, like, a reading, the girl answered. She directed vague blue eyes at Declan. Are you here to work on the house?

I am, Declan answered.

Oh, right. You’re just like Justine said. She gave Declan a smile.

Sorry?

My sister. She said you’d probably be good-looking.

Tim guffawed. Did she, now?

Declan’s face burned.

Yeah. She said— Willow’s lips curved into a knowing smile. Well, I won’t tell you what else she said. Um, you want some Mystical Moment tea while you wait for Laverne?

Tea? Oh, sure, Declan answered, his interest piqued by the unanswered comment. How long will she be?

Willow shrugged. It’s hard to say, but it doesn’t really matter. Justine’s coming. She handles everything. She’s the business-minded one.

Tim nudged Declan. Justine owns the bookshop in town.

Willow glided inside and they sat down on the worn verandah steps. Moments later, she appeared with two mugs. Tim took a swallow of the steaming brew. Jaysus!

Willow smiled. It’s, like, my special blend. Comfrey, red raspberry leaf, and burdock, with a touch of star anise.

Declan sipped politely. It’s…uh, refreshing. It tasted like no tea he’d ever drunk. If she weren’t present, he’d spit it out. He cast a quick look at Tim who rolled his eyes when Willow wasn’t looking.

You live here with your aunt? Declan asked to make conversation.

The girl smiled, revealing small white teeth. Since we were kids. Our parents were killed in a plane crash and Laverne took us in. She glanced toward the driveway. There’s Justine now.

A grey Honda SUV chugged over the crest of the hill and lumbered down the lane toward the house. Declan peered at the driver, as the vehicle bounced over the rutted dirt drive. Brown hair, glasses. The business type, all right. Not much resemblance to her ditzy sister.

The Honda pulled up behind Tim’s pickup and a young woman hopped out.

Declan found himself staring at her as she walked toward them. Her mink brown hair turned under at the shoulders. Tiny gold-rimmed glasses barely hid luminous eyes, the color of doves’ wings. A peach-colored turtleneck clung to generous breasts; her ankle-length denim skirt skimmed brown boots. He could picture her in a shop selling books. Von Daniken, no doubt, and Arthur E. Clarke. That’d be the type of books she’d read.

He drew his gaze back to her face. Arresting features, oddly attractive. Up-tilted nose, full lower lip, the hint of a cleft chin. She was different from her sister. He liked the leg-hiding long skirt, the peach top, even her glasses. Still, she seemed to fit in with the strange old house.

He glanced at Willow. That one had ideas about one hundred eighty degrees out from any one he knew. Instinctively, he perceived Justine would be an upholder of law and order. She’d be a rules person. He clenched and unclenched his fist. It’d be the height of idiocy to let her know about his expired visa.

A smile creased Tim’s lip. Miss Farris, meet my cousin.

Justine’s cool grey eyes lit on Declan. Her look reminded him of Father Basil when he’d found Declan smoking in the rectory. He swallowed and held out his hand. Walsh. Declan.

She ignored his gesture. Mr. Walsh. My aunt engaged you to do some work on the house, but I might as well tell you I’m completely opposed to most of it. My aunt has no concept of what is involved.

Justine! Willow broke in. You promised not to talk about that. She locked gazes with her sister, and a moment later turned away, the anger evident in her features.

Yoo hoo. There you are, a husky voice called from the front door. The screen door slapped back on its frame.

Tim’s eyes lit up, and Declan turned toward the melodious voice. It had to be the aunt. He had half an inkling what she’d be like living in a house this strange.

He was wrong. Laverne Farris was beautiful, in a faded sort of way. Mid-to-late forties, he’d guess. Hair as black as midnight cascaded down her back. Silver streaks fanned out from her temples like birds’ wings. Three-inch earrings dangled from each lobe, and a black caftan dotted with silver stars stretched from shoulder to ankle.

She held out a slender hand, a ring adorning each finger. I’m sorry to be late. Business, you know.

Declan shifted nervously then clasped her hand. Ma’am.

Tim—Mr. Cullinane’s told us about you. Working on this crumbling old house will take skill, but he assured us you’re an expert. I know you can keep the place from falling about our ears. Her eyes shone. Laverne Farris plainly loved the old house.

Tim beamed.

Declan scanned a patch of peeling paint on the siding and compressed his lips. Despite its unusual appearance, the house had a friendliness about it. No matter the cool reception from the bookish one, he would enjoy the challenge. He’d always liked doing things with his hands. Doing them well gave him a tangible sense of accomplishment.

He gave Justine a sidelong glance. Her disapproval invited an additional challenge. One that wasn’t so tangible.

He could handle that. He’d been hired to do a job, not win a popularity contest. Besides, he reminded himself, he needed an out-of-the-way place to avoid running into Agent Henderson. After Henderson’s wife had thrown herself at him during a post soccer match celebration, the revengeful agent was no doubt searching every construction site in three counties.

Laverne sighed. Well, what do you think, Mr. Walsh?

Declan chewed on his lip with what he hoped was the right amount of hesitation. The house needs work, all right. Hard to tell how much needs doing until I’ve had a chance to inspect the structure inside and out. Give me a day or two to have a good look around.

Tim broke in. We were hoping maybe Dekko could find digs nearby?

That won’t be necessary, Laverne said. Mr. Walsh can stay right here. She gestured airily toward a detached garage. It used to be a coach house. There’s an apartment above. Justine, you can move your studio into the house.

***

Justine gritted her teeth. Why did her aunt want this Irishman to tackle the house? It wasn’t sensible. James could do the work and that would save money. After all, he’d be a member of the family soon, and he could handle a hammer and a saw as well as anyone. At least she thought he could. It didn’t make sense to hire an outsider.

But when had Laverne even been sensible? Passionate, yes. But practical?

Justine took a deep breath. The fact that Walsh was good looking to the point of distraction didn’t help. She ran her eyes over his solid frame, studied his face. She rather liked his unruly dark red hair, and he had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. But good looks didn’t make the man a craftsman, no matter how much Tim Cullinane sang his praises. And she wasn’t looking for a man. She already had one.

She stifled a groan. Both her sister and her aunt were obviously charmed by the Irish duo. It would never occur to them to look at it from a business perspective. Aunt Laverne was so attached to the house she’d likely want all sorts of impractical changes. But no matter who did the work, she planned to keep her eye on things.

She allowed her gaze to linger on Declan Walsh’s moss-colored eyes. He grinned and she shifted her focus to his chambray shirt. Red-gold hair sprinkled over tanned, corded forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves. The fabric stretched tautly across broad shoulders.

Something about the set of