Dark Witch

  be much good around here.”

  “Don’t need a nurse, thanks.”

  Stubborn, she thought. But so was she. She went back in, got the first-aid kit, a couple of ice packs. Marched back to his office.

  “Some would say you’re being stoic and manly,” she began as she dragged over a chair. “But my take is sulky baby because your hands hurt.”

  “I enjoyed the getting of them, so I’m not sulky. Put that away.”

  “When I’m done with it.” She got out the antiseptic, gripped his wrist. “This is going to sting.”

  “Don’t be— Shit! Bloody fucking hell.”

  “Baby,” she said with some satisfaction, but blew on the sting. “If you’re going to punch somebody in the face with bare knuckles, you’re going to pay the price.”

  “If you disapprove of fighting, you’re in the wrong place. Likely the wrong country.”

  “I don’t—that is situationally, and that jerk deserved it. Just let this lie while I clean this one up.” She set the ice pack on one hand while she doctored the other. “You knew what you were doing. Did you box in college?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Resigned—and in any case the ice pack felt just grand—he sat back a little. “Are you trying to set my hand on fire to purify it?”

  “It’ll only sting for a minute. What manner of speaking?”

  The look he gave her could only be described as a glower. She’d always wondered what a glower actually looked like.

  “You’re full of questions.”

  “It’s only one,” she pointed out. “And talking will distract you. What manner of speaking?”

  “Jesus. I worked my way through university fighting. Bare-knuckle matches, so this current situation isn’t new to me. I know how to tend to myself.”

  “Then you should have done it. That’s a hard way to earn tuition.”

  “Not if you like it, and not if you win.”

  “And you did both.”

  “I liked it better when I won, and I won my share.”

  “Good for you. Is that how you got that scar through your eyebrow?”

  “That’s another question. A different kind of fight—pub fight, and a broken bottle. As I’d been drinking myself, my reflexes were a bit slow.”

  “You’re lucky you have the eye.”

  Surprised by her response, and the matter-of-fact tone, he cocked that scarred brow. “Not that slow.”

  She only smiled. “Switch hands.”

  He had big ones, she thought. Strong, with blunt fingers and wide palms. The rough hands of a man who worked with them, and she respected that.

  “Fin told me about the mare, and the bet.”

  He didn’t glower this time, but shifted a little on the chair. “Fin loves a story, and the telling of one.”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  “We keep her at the big stables. She’s skittish around strangers yet, and needs more time and pampering.”

  “What do you call her?”

  He shifted again, as she knew now he did when uncomfortable or mildly embarrassed. “She’s Darling. It fits her. Haven’t you done with that yet?”

  “Nearly. I like that you drank him under the table for the horse that needed you. And I like that you knocked the crap out of him today. I probably shouldn’t. My parents tried to raise me to be someone who wouldn’t. But they failed.”

  She glanced up to find his eyes on her again. “You can’t be what you aren’t.”

  “No, you really can’t. I’m a mild disappointment to them, which is worse somehow than being a serious disappointment. So I’m working hard not to be any kind of disappointment to myself.”

  She eased back. “There.” And took his hands gently by the fingers to examine the knuckles. “Better.”

  Oh yeah, she thought as their eyes met yet again. Flutters and tingles, and a quick churning to top it off. She’d be in serious trouble if she didn’t watch herself.

  But it was Boyle who drew away. “Thanks. You’d better get on. You’ll have things to do.”

  “I do.” She started to reach for the kit, but he brushed her away.

  “I’ll deal with it. Eight tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  When she left, he brooded down at his hands. He could still feel her touch on them. A different kind of sting. He looked up when Fin eased into the doorway, leaned on the jamb. Smiled.

  “Don’t start with me.”

  “She’s a pretty thing. Bright, eager. And if she’d been flirting any harder, I’d have been forced to shut the door for privacy.”

  “She was doing no such thing. She’d had it stuck in her head to tend to my hands, that’s all.”

  “Not nearly all, and I know you, mo dearthair. You think of her, even as you tell yourself you shouldn’t think of her.”

  Sure if he had, he was human, wasn’t he? But he was also not a stupid, irrational sort of man.

  “She’s Connor’s cousin, and she works for us. I’ve no business thinking of her beyond that.”

  “Bollocks. She’s a pretty woman, and smart and strong enough to make her choices—as she’s already proved. The power now, that worries you some.”

  Now Boyle sat back, gave a slow nod with his eyes on Fin’s. “What it means, and what all of you, and me besides, as I’m with you, may be doing concerns me. And should be your priority as well. It’s no time for flirtations.”

  “If not now, when? For this could be the end of all of us and I’d sooner die after bedding a woman than before.”

  “I’d rather live, and bed the woman after the battle’s won.”

  Fin’s mood lightened with his smile. “Eat your pudding first. You can always have seconds. I’ll be taking Alastar for a ride, see how he does.”

  “Toward Branna’s?”

  “Not yet, no. She’s not ready. I’m not either.”

  Alone, Boyle went back to brooding. They needed to get ready, he thought, remembering the howl in the fog. Every blessed one of them.

  * * *

  AT THE END OF THE WEEK, IONA SAT IN BED AT JUST BEFORE SIX IN THE MORNING. She’d spent her last night in the castle. She wanted so much to make her home with her cousins, but to do that, she had to leave this indulgent dream.

  No more cheerful maids to tidy her room and bring her tea and biscuits. No more dazzling breakfast buffets. No more snuggling in at night, listening to the wind or the rain or both and imagining herself in the thirteenth century.

  But she was trading all that for family. A much better deal.

  She’d done most of the packing the night before, but rose now to finish, to calculate the tip for housekeeping. To take her last castle shower.

  With a half hour to spare before Connor—at his insistence—picked her up, she practiced her craft.

  The feathers seemed safest, considering. Branna had refused to teach her anything new until she’d mastered the four elements. And mastered them to Branna’s high watermark.

  No amount of wheedling, bribery, cajoling had moved her cousin one inch.

  So master them, she would.

  At least she’d progressed to a small pile of feathers rather than a single one.

  In the dim light she quieted her mind, reached down for the power. Reaching out her hands, she thought of air lifting, warm gentle breeze, a stir, a whisper.

  Fluttering, the white feathers rose, separated, swayed, and turned in the air. She sent them higher, little climbs, gentle tumbles. Easy, easy, she told herself. A light touch.

  She held her arms high, circled herself, watched them circle with her. And joyful, quickened just a bit.

  A turn, a twirl, pretty white feathers mirroring her moves. Up, down, lazy swirls, perfect rings, then a slim white tower.

  “I feel it,” she murmured. “I do. And it’s lovely.”

  On a laugh, she spun, again, again. Spread her arms so feathers followed each one, formed two whirling circles. Serpentine, figure eights, then again into one dow
ny cloud.

  “A plus. Even Branna has to give me the mastery check mark on this one.”

  At the hard and rapid knock on the door, she let out a yelp. The feathers fell, tumbling over her.

  “Damn it!”

  She brushed them off her shoulders. Blew them out of her face as she walked to the door.

  “You broke my hold,” she began. “I was just— Oh. Boyle.”

  “There’s feathers everywhere. Did you rip the pillow?”

  “No. They’re my feathers. What are you doing here?” Irritation cleared into worry. “Is something wrong? Is someone hurt?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. No one’s hurt. Connor got called in to the falconry school. A plumbing thing, and he’s the handy one. I’m drafted to fetch you. Are you packed?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I could’ve gotten someone from the hotel to take me.”

  “I’m here, so let’s get your things.”

  “All right. Thanks. I’ve just got to clean this up. The feathers.”

  “Hmm.” He reached out, surprising her with the skim of his fingers over her hair. “Here’s a couple more,” he said, and handed them to her.

  “Oh. Okay.” She got on her hands and knees, started scooping feathers.

  “Are they valuable feathers you have scattered everywhere?”

  “They’re just feathers.”

  “Well then, leave them. The housekeeper will deal with them. It’ll take you an hour to pluck them off the floor.”

  “I’m not leaving this mess for Sinead.” She plucked a few more, then sat back on her heels. “I’m an idiot.”

  “I’ll not comment on that.”

  “Wait. Just wait.” She got to her feet, took a breath. Quiet the mind first, she reminded herself.

  And floated the feathers up. On a pleased little laugh, she gathered them, then cupped her hands, let them fall into her palms.

  “Did you see that?” Glowing, she held her cupped hands out. “Did you see?”

  “I’ve eyes, don’t I?”

  “It’s just so wonderful. It’s feels so right. Watch this.”

  She threw her hands up, sent the feathers flying, sent them swirling again, dipping, rising, then once again cupped her hands to gather them.

  “It’s so pretty. I’ve been practicing for days, and I’ve finally got it. Really got it.”

  Still beaming, she looked up at him. Stopped. Everything stopped.

  He looked at her, in that straight way he had—dead eye to eye. It wasn’t wonder she saw there, or amusement, or irritation.

  It was heat.

  “Oh.” She sighed it, and following her heart, leaned toward him.

  He stepped back, a quick and complete evasion. “You’ve got your feathers.” Moving past her, he dragged the two suitcases off the bed. “Grab something. If there’s more, I’ll come back for it.”

  “Just my jacket, and my laptop. I’ll get them. I’m sorry.” Mortified, she dumped the feathers in their bag, secured it. “I guess I was caught up, and I misread. I thought you . . . but obviously not.”

  “Get a move on, will you?” The words snapped out of him; she felt them like hard finger flicks on her cheeks. “We’ve all of us got work.”

  He carried the cases as if they weighed nothing, and breezed right by her.

  “Fine. Fine! I get it. And again, I’m an idiot. You’re not attracted to me, message received. But you don’t have to be rude about it.”

  She shoved the bag of feathers in her laptop case. “I’ve been rejected before, and somehow I survived. Believe me, I’m not planning on jumping you, so you don’t have to add the slap and kick. I’m a big girl,” she added, snatching up her jacket and scarf. “And I’m responsible for my own—”

  He dropped the cases with a bang that made her jump. “You talk too bloody much.” With that, he gave her a yank. Off guard, she plowed into him, and managed no more than a quick oof before he shoved her chin up. And took her mouth like a man starving for it.

  Rough and hard, the kind of kiss that gave her no choice but to hang on. Blasts and booms of that heat assaulted her. She’d have staggered from them if he hadn’t hauled her right off her feet.

  Dazzled, done for, she wrapped her arms around his neck and rode that high, hot wave.

  And seconds later he dropped her unceremoniously back on her feet.

  “That shut you up at least.”

  “Ah—”

  He hefted the cases again. “You want the ride, get yourself moving.”

  “What?” She shoved her hands through her hair. “What was that?”

  “You are an idiot. Of course I’m attracted to you. Any man with blood in him would be. That’s not the issue.”

  “It’s not the issue. What is?”

  “I’m not interested in doing anything about it. And if you ask one more question, I’m dumping these bags, and you can find your own way to Branna’s.”

  “All I did was move in a little,” she said as she dragged on her jacket. “You’re the one who did the grabbing.” She snatched up her laptop case, and sailed out of the room.

  “That I did,” he muttered. “And that’s made me an idiot as well.”

  She kept her mouth firmly shut on the short drive. She wouldn’t say a word. It took bitter willpower, as she had plenty to say, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.

  Better to ignore him. More mature to say nothing.

  No, she decided, more powerful to keep silent.

  Even as she thought it, the truck jolted, as if it hit an invisible bump on the smooth road.

  Boyle spared her one brief, hot look.

  Had she done that? Iona gripped her hands together, fighting against a leap of glee. Had she actually lifted an entire truck? Unintentionally, but still a big jump from a pile of feathers.

  She considered trying it again, just to see, but fortunately for all involved Boyle pulled up at Branna’s cottage.

  She shoved out of the truck, started around to the bed to drag out her suitcases. Then thought the hell with it. He’d carted them out, so he could cart them in. She reversed, strode straight for the cottage door.

  A sleepy-eyed Branna opened it before she knocked. “You’re timely.”

  “He was early. Thanks again for letting me stay.”

  “See if you’re thanking me after a week or two. Good morning to you, Boyle. If you’re after hauling those all the way, it’s the second on the left. I’ll show you your room,” Branna continued, and led the way up the narrow stairs. “Mine’s at the back, and Connor’s the front. I’ve my own bath, as when we added on, that was priority. Sharing a bath with him was a trial, and one you’ll now experience for yourself.”

  “I don’t mind, not at all.”

  “And if you’re saying the same after that week or two, you’re a liar. But that’s how it has to be.”

  The bed with its simple headboard of iron slats painted creamy white faced a window where the view of the woods was framed in lace. The ceiling followed the slant of the roof and formed a cozy nook for a little desk and chair with a needlepointed seat.

  The dresser, small scale again, bloomed with painted flowers against the same creamy white as the headboard. A little pot of shamrocks with their pretty white bells blooming sat on the dresser. The same rich green covered the walls and served as a backdrop for colorful prints of the hills, of the woods and gardens.

  “Oh, Branna, it’s wonderful. It’s so pretty.” Iona brushed her fingers over the cloud-soft throw, an energetic pop of plums and purples and lavenders, folded at the foot of the bed. “I love it. I’m so grateful.”

  This time Branna was a bit more prepared for the enthusiasm of the embrace, if not the quick bounce.

  “You’re very welcome of course, and if you’ve a mind to change anything—”

  “I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s perfect.”

  “Where do you want these?” Boyle demanded from the doorway in a tone that took no trouble to hide aggravation.

/>   Iona turned, and eyes that had gone misty dried cool. “Anywhere. Thank you.”

  Taking her at her word, he dropped them just over the threshold, and kept the toes of his boots firmly on the other side. “Well, I’ll be off then.”

  “You’ve time yet, don’t you?” Branna’s mind might have leapt with questions at the temper, the hot and cold of it, running in the room like open taps, but she kept her smile and tone easy. “I’ll fix you breakfast for your trouble.”

  “Thanks for that, but I’ve things to do. Nine’s soon enough to come in this morning. Take time to settle.”

  He left quickly, and with a clomp of boots on the stairs.

  “So, what’s all this about?” Branna wondered, then noting the fire in Iona’s eyes, held up a hand. “Hold that in until we’re down in the kitchen. I’ve a feeling I’ll be wanting more coffee for this.”

  She led the way, then poured two mugs. “Go on then, cut it loose.”

  “He comes banging on the door. I’d been floating feathers. I’ve got it, Branna. I’ll show you. But he broke my focus, and there’s feathers everywhere, but I pulled it back, and I showed him. I was excited and happy, who wouldn’t be? But I’m not blind or stupid.”

  She stomped around the kitchen as she spoke, one hand gesturing wildly. Branna kept her eye on the coffee in the mug in case it threatened to lap over.

  “I know when a man’s thinking about making a move. I know that look. You know that look,” she said, pointing at Branna.

  “I do indeed, and it’s a fine one under most circumstances.”

  “Exactly, and since it felt fine, I went with it, or would have. I mean, for God’s sake, all I did was lean in a little, and he pulls back like I’d jabbed him with a burning stick.”

  “Hmm,” Branna said and got down a skillet.

  “I felt like an idiot. You know how that kind of thing makes you feel. Well, you probably don’t,” Iona reconsidered. “What man would pull back from you? But I felt hot, not in the good way. Embarrassed. So I apologized. Just read it wrong, that’s all, sorry about that. Okay, so maybe I babbled a little, but I felt awful and stupid, and completely flustered because I’d thought he and Meara were a thing, but she said no, so I let myself open that door, which I hadn’t because of Meara, and you don’t poach. Besides, he’s the boss, and you don’t want to step in it. And then I did, so it was worse. And I’m apologizing and trying to make it like no big thing, and he grabs me.”

  Branna paused for a moment in her task of frying bacon and eggs. “Is that the truth of it?”

  “He yanked me in, and kissed me until my brains leaked out of my ears and the top of my head blew clean off.” She made an exploding noise, threw her hands up, fountained them down. “And in like five seconds he just drops me, and makes some nasty comment about shutting me up, and says let’s get going.”

  “A poet Boyle McGrath will never be.”