Dark Witch (12 page)

As he spoke, Fin unlooped the reins from the post. “And at the end of the long night, it was Boyle still on his feet. Though I’d wager he had the devil’s own head the next morning, he had the mare as well.”

“A drinking bet.”

“As I said, our Boyle’s matured. Now then.” Fin handed the reins to Iona, made a hammock with his hands. “Up you go.”

Her mind full of questions, impressions, she put her boot in Fin’s hands, mounted Alastar smoothly. “Where do you want him?”

“I want both of you in the ring. Let’s see what you can do.”

8

A
T THE END OF THE WORKDAY, SHE LET HERSELF THINK OF MAGICK
. What would Branna teach her today? What new wonder would she see, feel, do? She said good-bye to the horses, to her coworkers before starting out.

And saw Boyle in his little office, all beetled brow and swollen knuckles as he hacked away at paperwork.

Definitely a flutter going on, she thought. Not that she intended to flirt with her boss. Plus, for all she knew, he had a parade of girlfriends. Or maybe even more daunting, didn’t find her attractive.

Besides, she wasn’t looking for a relationship, or an entanglement. She needed to get her feet firmly planted in her new life, learn more about her awakening powers—and hone them if she intended to be a real help to her cousins.

When a woman planned to go up against ancient evil, she shouldn’t allow herself to become distracted by sexy eyebrows or broad shoulders or—

“In or out,” Boyle ordered, and kept pecking at his keyboard. “Stop the bleeding hovering.”

“Sorry. I, ah, wasn’t sure if . . . I’m finished for the day,” she told him.

He glanced up, held her eyes for a beat. Grunted and looked back down at his work.

His hands had to hurt, she thought. She could practically see them throbbing. “You really should ice down those knuckles.”

“They’ll be all right. I’ve had worse.”

“Probably, but if they’re swollen and stiff—or worse, get infected—you won’t 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 downy 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.