Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy #2)

“Shall we head that way, then?” Padraig asks. “It’s not far, still in the Liberties, and you can do a largely self-guided tour. It’s a tourist favorite.”

I want to say yes. I can’t imagine Mount mingling amongst a crowd of people snapping pictures, but photos I’ve seen of the Gravity Bar were part of the inspiration for the restaurant on the top floor of Seven Sinners. Being this close to it and not going to see it would suck.

“Whatever the lady wants,” Mount says, shocking the hell out of me. “Let’s go to the Storehouse. If we’re going to be tourists for a day, we might as well do it right.”

Ten minutes later, we’re exiting the car onto a cobblestone street next to a massive stone-and-brick building. I head for the door that reads Welcome to the Home of Guinness. Inside, it’s a complete madhouse. The noise of hundreds of tourists echoes upward through the open center. Mount’s hand never leaves the small of my back as we stand in line to purchase tickets, and then wander through the gift-shop area to the escalator to start the tour.

“Arthur Guinness was a smart man.”

Mount nods to a sign painted on what looks like a partial replica of a fermentation tank. It reads:



Not everything in black and white makes sense.





The fact that Mount noticed the sign makes me think of the overwhelming presence of black, white, and gold in the two suites I’ve seen in his compound. And the dining room. And the hallways.

“Did you get your decorating tips from Guinness?” When I turn to face him, he’s on the step below me, putting us at eye level.

Mount’s laugh booms out, echoing over the chatter, which I swear goes quiet for a moment. “No. No, I did not.”

“Then what’s that all about?”

The humor in his expression fades, and I don’t think he’ll reply, but he does.

“It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“That there is such a thing as absolutes. Good and evil. Right and wrong.”

That explains the black and white. “But what’s with the gold?”

“The golden rule. He who has the most gold makes the rules . . . and gets to determine where those lines between right and wrong are drawn.”

I feel like Mount just gave me a peek inside his head, and I’m not sure what to do with that information. In this situation, undoubtedly, Mount has the most gold, therefore he makes the rules. But right and wrong, good and evil . . . those concepts don’t seem like they’d trouble him much. Or, if anything, I’d assume he’d say he lives in the shades of gray.

Mount lifts his chin and glances up. “You’re missing the good stuff.”

I look where he indicated. It’s a glass sign that reads:



This is the storehouse where, for almost a century the magic process of fermentation took place. Construction began in July 1902. Four years later, fermentation began and continued until 1988.





My curiosity about the black, white, and gold is pushed aside for a moment as the history of where I’m standing washes over me. It might not have a damn thing to do with whiskey, which is my passion, but my roots and their ties to the city feel stronger than ever.

Mount and I wander up each floor, reading the placards and listening to the holograms describe the history of Guinness. What impresses Mount the most is that Arthur Guinness had the foresight and confidence to sign a nine-thousand-year lease for the storehouse property.

“That took balls. Have to respect the man for that, if nothing else.”

“It was crazy! They must have thought he was insane,” I say.

Mount shakes his head. “Brilliant, more likely.”

After learning about how to properly build a pint and tasting a sample, we finally make it to the Gravity Bar, and I’m able to see the famous 360-degree view of Dublin beyond the glass. It’s surreal.

Mount positions himself behind me. He places his hands on either side of mine, resting on the tall table with the remains of our pints between us, protecting me from the jostling of the massive number of people crammed into the space.

“I can’t believe I’m actually here.” I turn my head to meet his gaze. “Thank you. I know this isn’t what you would’ve picked to do today, but it meant a lot to me.”

He doesn’t answer but his dark gaze pierces mine, making me wish I had another peek into this man’s head. He’s an enigma.

Mount’s palm slides against the small of my back once more before he replies. “Finish your pint. We’re not done with Dublin yet.”





Mount





I want her to kiss me. Right there in the bar, I want her to turn around and fucking kiss me of her own free will. When she doesn’t, I force down my disappointment and lead her down the stairs and out of the building, telling myself that at least she’ll never think of Guinness without remembering this trip. And me.

When we drive past the famous Saint James’s Gate as we leave the Liberties, Keira reaches over and grabs my arm.

“There it is! That’s it.”

It’s the shiny black-lacquered gate with the golden harp and Guinness name beneath it that I’ve seen in many an ad for the company, but Keira doesn’t care. She’s practically bouncing in her seat at experiencing it for herself, and her excitement is contagious.

I’ve been to Dublin before. It wasn’t pleasant business, but it had to be done. I couldn’t tell you a thing about the city after I left except it was gray and rainy, and the river looked an unhealthy shade of green.

But now I’m seeing it all through Keira’s eyes, and it’s a completely different perspective. She’s successfully changed my opinion of Dublin, solely by experiencing it with her at my side.

When she asks Padraig to drop us off at a true Irish pub near Temple Bar, I don’t argue. I let her pull me out of the car when he stops in front of a restaurant that fits the bill, and lead me inside.

The food is greasy, but filling, which apparently is exactly what we need, because Keira gets it in her head that she wants to see as many of the pubs in Temple Bar as possible. If I were to compare it to New Orleans, I’d describe Temple Bar as the French Quarter of Dublin, which is probably why we both feel so at home here. The buildings are all connected, and we wander the uneven cobblestone streets with no particular destination in mind but wherever Keira’s fancy takes us.

In between pubs, she drags me into brightly colored shops and buys the most random things. My favorite? An inexpensive but creative necklace.

“I think it suits me. Don’t you?” She’s tipsy from drinking all day—whiskey, beer, and cider, the combination of which has stripped her of her normal stiffness around me.

I offer up the euros to pay for the necklace and lift it out of her palm. It’s a hand flipping the bird, and the knuckles are tattooed with two words: Work Hard. My lips twitch with the urge to smile as I fasten it around her neck.

“It definitely suits you.”