Dark Witch (11 page)

“That I did.” The wild howl shot cold fingers up his spine. And that, he thought, was new, at least to him. “I expect he doesn’t like us talking over him.”

“Why aren’t you afraid?”

“I’m riding with a witch, aren’t I? What have I got to worry about?”

She choked out a laugh, struggled to steady her pulse. “I learned to levitate a feather today. I don’t think that’s going to do a lot of good.”

And he thought he had his two fists, and the utility knife in his pocket, if needed. “It’s more than I can do. See now, the fog’s thinning, and there’s Ashford up ahead.”

So it was, the glamorous fairy-tale spread of it, windows lighted pale gold.

“They went there. The first three. They came back, years after their mother sent them away to save them. They stayed in the castle, walked the woods. I dreamed of the youngest coming back, riding back as she’d ridden away as a child. On a horse named Alastar.”

“Ah, well then. I didn’t know the name of the horse. That explains it, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know what it explains. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“What you must.”

“What I must,” she murmured as he stopped at the hotel’s entrance. “Okay. Okay. Thanks for the ride, and for talking me through the weird.”

“Not a problem. I’ll see you in.”

She started to object. She was only steps from the door. And thinking of the voice in the fog, changed her mind. It was just fine to have a big, strong man walk her in. No shame in it.

With him she walked into the warmth, into the rich colors, the flowers. And the smile of the woman on duty at the lobby table.

“Good evening to you, Ms. Sheehan. And Boyle, it’s good seeing you.”

“Working late, Bridget?”

“I am. A good night for it, as it’s gone wet again. I’ve your key right here, miss. I hope you enjoyed your day.”

“I did, very much. Thanks again, Boyle.”

“I’ll see you to your door.”

“Oh, but—”

He just took the key from her, glanced at the number. “This is in the old part, isn’t it?” So saying, he took Iona’s arm, pulled her along and down the corridor.

“It’s that way now.” Iona made the turn.

“The place is a rambling maze.”

“Part of its charm.” She tried not to worry about the desk clerk likely thinking she and Boyle were a thing.

He stopped at the door, unlocked it. After pushing the door open, he took a long, careful look.

“Well, you are messy.”

“As advertised.” Her eyes widened when he walked right in. He couldn’t possibly think—

He picked up the hotel pen on the nightstand, scrawled something on the pad.

“That’s my mobile. If you get nervous, ring me up. Better you ring Branna, but I’m just minutes away if it comes to that.”

“That’s . . . That’s so kind.”

“Don’t get watery about it. I’ve just hired you, haven’t I, and done the bloody paperwork. I can’t have you running back to America. Lock the door and go to bed. Switch on the telly if you need the noise.”

He walked to the door, opened it. “And remember,” he said, looking back at her. “You can hold a flame of your own making in the palm of your hand.”

He shut the door. Even as she started to smile, he rapped hard enough to make her jump.

“Lock the bloody door!”

She dashed to it, locked it. And listened to his boot steps fading away.

* * *

SHE MADE A BARGAIN WITH HERSELF. AT WORK, SHE’D FOCUS ON WORK
. She couldn’t and wouldn’t let whatever she might have to face interfere with making a living.

When work was done, she’d take whatever time Branna was willing to give. She’d learn, she’d practice, she’d study.

But she would also demand and get answers.

So she mucked, cleaned, brushed, hauled, fed, and watered. And did her best to stay out of Boyle’s way. Remembering the ride home, and her panic, left a thin layer of embarrassment.
She
was the one with power, however unrefined, and she’d gone weak and trembly, and let him look after her.

Worse, for just a second—maybe two or three seconds—when he’d come into her room, she’d been the one with the wrong idea. A sad fact she’d been forced to admit when she’d pulled out of a dream. Not of evil sorcerers and shadows, she thought as she brushed Spud’s mane.

But of a sex dream, and a damn good one, involving her and Boyle and a
Wizard of Oz
field of poppies.

But it sure as hell hadn’t put them to sleep.

That subconscious revelation added a lot of thicker layers to the embarrassment.

Meara poked her head in the stall. She wore a kelly green cap today, with her hair streaming through the back opening in a long tail. “You braided Queen Bee’s mane.”

“Oh, yeah. I just . . . I’ll take it out.”

“No, indeed. It looks charming, and she’s fairly preening with her new do. Just don’t do the fancy work with any of the geldings. Boyle’ll huff about, say we’re making them into dandies when they’re good plain hacks. He’s such a man, is Boyle.”

“I noticed. You’re good together.”

“Well, I should hope. It’s going clear, so the ride’s on for the afternoon. They shifted to three, hoping for better weather, and it looks like we may get it. It’s a party of four—two couples, friends from America, so that should be nice for you. Boyle’s sent off for Rufus, he’s a big, playful gelding. One of our guests is near to two meters tall.”

“Which is what?”

“Oh, in Yank?” With a frown, she pushed at her cap, scratched her head. “About six and a half feet, I’m thinking. Otherwise, we’ll saddle up Spud there, and Bee, and Jack. You can take your pick from the rest.”

“Maybe Caesar, unless you want him.”

“Go ahead.” Meara made a little note on her clipboard. “They asked for ninety minutes, so you’ll see more than yesterday.”

“I want to see it all. And, Meara?” The guilt over the dream wouldn’t allow her to just let it go. “I just wanted to say thanks for lending me Boyle last night for the ride home.”

“I’m not in the habit of lending him, but you’re welcome to keep him if you like.”

“Oh, did you have a fight?”

“About what?” The puzzled frown gave way to wide eyes, then a roll of wicked laughter. “Oh! You’re thinking me and Boyle are tangled. No, no, no! I love the man to distraction, but I don’t want him in my bed. It would be like shagging my brother. And that thought’s just put me off my lunch.”

“You’re not . . .” Embarrassment kicked up several notches. “I just assumed.”

“Look like lovebirds, do we?”

“There’s just something, I guess, intimate, between you, so I thought you were together. That way.”

“We’re family.”

“Got it. Good. I guess it’s good. Maybe it’s a problem.”

Now Meara leaned on the side of the stall opening. “You’re a fascination to me, Iona. A problem?”

“It’s just that when I assumed, I had a good reason to ignore the . . .” She wiggled her fingers over her stomach.

“You’ve got”—Meara mimicked the gesture—“for Boyle.”

“He looks really good, on a horse and off. The first minute I saw him, I just . . . whew.” She laid one hand on her heart, the other on her belly, patted both.

“Is that the truth?”

“He’s all tough and cranky. Then there’s the big hands, the scar,” she said, tapping her eyebrow. “And those liony eyes.”

“Liony.” Meara tried out the words. “Well now, I suppose they are. Boyle McGrath, King of the Beasts.” She let out another of her barroom laughs.

“That’s just looks, but they’re really impressive. On top of it, he was really kind to me. Then there was the sex. Dream,” Iona said quickly when Meara’s mouth fell open. “Sex dream. I had one last night, and I felt so guilty because I really like you. And you don’t want to hear any of this.”

“You’re mistaken, entirely. I want to hear all of this, in the greatest of detail.”

On a laughing moan, Iona covered her face with her hands. “You’re Boyle’s friend. If you tell him the Yank’s got this slow simmer going on, he’ll either laugh himself into a coma or fire me.”

“He’d do neither, but why would I tell him any such thing? There’s a sisterhood that covers such matters. That’s a universal sort of thing to my mind.”

“Of course there is. Anyway, I think I’m just jet-lagged, and turned around, and coming to grips. It’s nothing. It’ll pass.”

“Maybe you should take him on a ride before you—”

She broke off at the sound of raised voices. “Ah, Christ.”

Turning on her heel, Meara strode out, and as the voices—male, extremely pissed—escalated, Iona followed her.

Boyle faced off with a hard-packed bull of a man in a red cap and plaid jacket. The bull, his face nearly as red as his cap, jabbed out with a finger. “I come here being reasonable, though you’re a cheat and a liar for all that.”

“And I’m telling you, Riley, what business we had is done and over. Get off my property, and keep clear of it.”

“I’ll get off your bleeding property when you give me back the horse you next to stole from me, or hand over fair payment. You think you can steal from me. Bloody thief.” He shoved Boyle back two steps.

“Oh Jesus,” Meara muttered. “Now he’s done it.”

“Don’t put your hands on me again,” Boyle warned, very quietly.

“Oh, I’ll put more than my hands on you, you fucking shite.”

Riley threw a punch. Boyle shifted his weight, angled his head, and the fist breezed by his ear.

“We should call the police. The guard, whatever it’s called.”

Meara barely glanced at Iona. “No need.”

“You get one more.” With his arms still down by his sides, Boyle spread his hands. “Take it, if you’ve a mind to, and know you won’t be walking away from this if you do.”

“I’ll beat ya bloody.” Riley charged, fists up, head down.

Dancing to the side, Boyle turned, jabbed two short punches.

Kidney punches? Iona wondered as her eyes went wide. Oh God!

Riley stumbled, but stayed on his feet, punched out again. The blow grazed Boyle’s shoulder as Boyle slapped it away with a forearm.

Then he followed up. A right to the jaw, left to the nose. Jab, uppercut—Iona thought—a left cross. Two punches to the middle.

Fast, so fast. Light and quick on his feet, barely showing a reaction when Riley managed to land a blow. Bare knuckles slapped and crunched into flesh and bone. Riley, his nose pouring blood, his mouth dripping it, made a staggering charge. On a pivot, Boyle swept up his fist—definitely an uppercut—hitting the jaw like an arrow in a bull’s-eye.

He started to follow up, pulled back. “Fuck it,” she heard him mutter as he simply put a boot on Riley’s ass and shoved him facedown on the ground.

“Oh God. My God.”

“There now.” Meara patted her shoulder. “It’s just a bit of a dustup.”

“No. It’s . . .” She fluttered her fingers over her belly.

Meara snorted out a laugh. “Aye, a fascination to me you are.”

A few feet away, Fin sat astride a restless Alastar. “Again?” he said mildly.

“Fucker wouldn’t walk away.” Boyle sucked at his raw knuckles. “And I gave him every chance.”

“I saw you giving him those chances as I rode up, and how could he be walking away with your fist in his face?”

Boyle only grinned. “That was after the chances.”

“Well, let’s make sure you haven’t killed him, as I’ve no desire to help you hide a body this morning.” As he dismounted, he crooked a finger at Iona. “Yes, you. Be a darling and tie Alastar to the post. Don’t unsaddle him.”

When he held out the reins, she hurried over to take them.

Using his boot again, Boyle rolled Riley onto his back. “Broke his nose, that’s for certain, and loosened some teeth, but he’ll live through it.”

Fin stood, hands in his pockets as they both studied the unconscious Riley. “This goes back to that horse you won off him, I take it.”

“It does.”

“Bloody git.”

Whistling cheerfully through his teeth, Mick strolled out carrying a bucket of water. “Thought you could be using this.”

Fin took it. “Stand clear then,” he advised, then tossed the water in Riley’s face.

The man sputtered, coughed. His eyes opened and rolled in his head.

“Good enough.” Boyle crouched down, took one arm. On a sigh, Fin took the other.

Absently stroking Alastar, Iona watched them haul the man to his truck, shove him up and in. She couldn’t hear what words were exchanged, but in moments, the truck drove away, weaving a bit.

As she did, the men watched it. Then Fin said something that had Boyle letting out a laugh before he slung an arm around Fin’s shoulders and turned to walk back.

She saw it then, the ease between them. More than partners, she realized. More still than friends. Brothers.

“Performance is over for the day,” Boyle called out. “There’s work needs doing.”

At his words, the staff that had gathered, scattered.

Iona cleared her throat. “You should put something on those knuckles.”

Boyle merely glanced at them, sucked at them again. And shrugging, continued inside. Fin stopped by Iona.

“He’s a brawler, is Boyle.”

“The other guy started it.”

Now Fin laughed. “No doubt. Maturity’s given Boyle the sense to wait until he’s well provoked, and rare is it for him to throw the first punch. Otherwise, he’d have given Riley the hammering he deserved weeks ago instead of making the wager.”

She should mind her own business. She should . . . “What was the wager?”

“Riley’s a horse trader of the lowest sort. He had in his possession a mare he’d neglected. I’m told she was skin and bones and sick and lame. He planned to sell her off for dog food.”

Eyes fired, lips peeled back in a snarl. “I’d like to punch him myself.”

“You don’t have the hands for it.” Fin watched Alastar nuzzle at Iona’s shoulder, and the way she leaned her head to his. “Best to use your feet for such matters, and aim for the balls.”

“I’d be happy to, in this case.”

“I’ll tell you, as Boyle likely won’t, as he’s a man of few words—or none at all if he can manage it. He offered Riley what he’d have gotten for selling her off, and more besides, but Riley doesn’t care much for Boyle, or for me, and he demanded double that. So being a cannier businessman than you might think, Boyle wagered him on who could drink the most whiskey and stay on his feet. If Riley won, Boyle would pay the asking price. If Boyle won, Riley turned over the mare for what was offered. The publican wrote it in the book, and considerable money changed hands, I’m told.”