Blood Magick (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #3)(72)

Here was magick in having her soft and yielding, her sigh warm against his cheek as they embraced. The heat rose through him, around him, with the snow a silent curtain to close out all the world but them.

He took her breasts, gently, gently, as he could still see in his mind the violent marks what shared his blood had put on her. He swore as her heart beat against his hand, he would never harm her, would give his life to keep her from harm.

Whatever came tomorrow, he’d never break the oath.

Her hands glided over him, and her fingers brushed against the mark he carried. Her touch, even so light, brought on a bone-deep ache there. A price he’d pay without question.

The water, a steady drumbeat in the hush of the night, swirled around them as their hands drifted under it to give pleasure.

Her breath caught, shaking her heart with the meeting of emotion and sensation, the rise of need and wonder.

How could tenderness cause such heat—a wire in the blood, a fire in the belly—and still have her wish to draw every moment into forever?

So when she straddled him, took him deep, and deep and deep, she knew she would never take another. Whatever the needs of the body, no other could touch her heart, her soul. Combing her fingers through his hair, she held his face as she moved over him so he could see her, see into her, and know.

On their slow climb, the swirling water glowed, a pool of light to bathe them and surround them. As they fell, holding tight, the light flowed out against the dark to illuminate the soft curtain of snow.

Later, lax and sleepy in his bed, she curled against him. As tonight became tomorrow, she held fast to what she loved.

? ? ?

IT TOOK MORE PRECIOUS DAYS BEFORE BRANNA COULD acquire all the ingredients, in quantities to allow for experimenting, needed for the poison.

Connor looked on as she sealed them in individual jars on her work counter.

“Those are dangerous, Branna.”

“As well they need be.”

“You’ll take precautions.” His face only went stony when she shot him a withering glance. “So you always do, I know full well. But I also know you’ve never worked with such as this, or concocted such a lethal brew. I’ve a right to worry about my sister.”

“You do, but you needn’t. I’ve spent the days waiting for all of this to arrive to study on them. Meara, take him off, would you? The pair of you should be off to work, not hovering around me.”

“If we can’t use the stuff until near to April,” Meara argued, “can’t you wait to make it?”

“As Connor’s so helpfully pointed out, I’ve never done this before. It may take some time to get it right, and I might even have to send out for more before we’re sure of it. It’s a delicate business.”

“Iona and I should do this with you.”

Patience, Branna ordered herself, and dug some out of her depleting stores.

“And if the three are huddled in here, hours a day, maybe for days on end, Cabhan will know we’re brewing up something. It’s best we all continue our routines.” Struggling against annoyance, as his worry for her was from love, she turned to him. “Connor, we talked all this through.”

“Talking and doing’s different.”

“We could mix up the routines a bit,” Meara suggested, caught between them. “One of us can stay for an hour or two in the morning, another can come around midday, and another come round early from work.”

“All right then.” Anything, Branna thought, to move them along. “But not this morning as you’re both on the schedule. I’m only going to be making powders, distilling. Preparing the ingredients. And I know what I’m about. Added to it, I expect Fin by midday, so there’s two of us at it already.”

“That’s fair enough,” Meara said before Connor could argue, and grabbed his hand. “I’ve got to get on or Boyle will be down my throat and up my arse at the same time. Branna, you’ll let us know if you need any help.”

“Be sure I will.”

Connor strode over, gave Branna a quick, hard kiss. “Don’t poison yourself.”

“I thought I would just for the experience, but since you ask so nicely . . .”

She breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind them, then found Kathel sitting, staring at her.

“Not you as well? When did I all at once become an idjit? If you want to help, go round on patrol.” She marched to the door, opened it. “I’m after cloaking the workshop and locking up besides. It wouldn’t do to have someone wander in for hand balm while I’m doing this work. Be helpful, Kathel,” she said in a more cajoling tone, “and you’ll tell me if you find Cabhan’s anywhere near.”

Another sigh of relief when she’d shut the door behind him.

She cloaked the glass so none but who she chose could see inside. She charmed the doors so none but who she chose could enter.

And turning back to the counter, began—carefully—with wolfsbane.

It was painstaking work, as one of the precautions involved psychically cleansing each ingredient.

Some said those who practiced the dark arts sometimes imbued poisonous plants with the power to infect strange illnesses by only a touch or an inhale of scent.

She didn’t have the time or inclination to fall ill.

After cleansing, she rejarred the entire plant, or crushed petals or berries, or distilled.