Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(33)

“I’ve more on hand. I’ll send it along with Iona in the morning.” She sat, picked up her beer. “So, here’s to Iona and her new position, and to you for having the good sense to hire her.”

She felt nearly giddy, sitting there. Cousins, boss, coworker—and ordering, at Connor’s suggestion, the beef and barley stew.

As her first working day in Ireland, it couldn’t get better.

And then it did.

Connor slid away from the table. He came back a few moments later with a violin.

“Connor,” Branna began.

“I’m buying, so the least you can do is play for your supper.”

“You play the violin?”

Branna glanced at Iona, gave a shrug much like her brother’s. “When the mood comes.”

“I always wanted to play something, but I’m hopeless. Please, won’t you?”

“How can you say no?” Connor handed his sister the violin and bow. “Give us a song, Meara darling. Something cheerful to match the mood.”

“You didn’t pay for my supper.”

He sent her a wink, both cheeky and wicked. “There’s always a sweet to come, if you’ve the appetite.”

“One.” Branna tested the bow. He’d rosined it, she noted, confident he’d coax her into it. “You know he won’t leave off till we do.”

She angled her chair, tested again, tweaked the tuning. Voices around them quieted as Branna smiled, tapped her foot in time.

Music danced out, cheerful as Connor had asked, lively and quick. Branna’s gaze laughed toward Meara, and Iona saw the friendship, the ease and depth of it even as Meara laughed and nodded.

“I’ll tell me ma when I go home, the boys won’t leave the girls alone.”

More magick, Iona thought. The bright, happy music, Meara’s rich, flirtatious voice, the humor on Branna’s face as she played. Her heart, already high, lifted as she imprinted everything—the sound, the look, even the air on her memory.

She’d never forget this moment, and how it made her feel.

She caught Boyle watching her, a bemused smile on his face. She imagined she looked like a starstruck idiot, and didn’t care.

When applause rang out, she found herself bouncing on her seat. “Oh, that was great! You’re both amazing.”

“Won us a prize once, didn’t we, Branna?”

“That we did. First prize, Hannigan’s Talent Show. A short-lived enterprise to match our short-lived career.”

“You were grand, both of you, then and now, but we’re grateful Meara didn’t run off to be a singing star.” Boyle gave her hand a pat. “We need her at the stables.”

“I’d rather sing for the fun than my supper.”

“Don’t you want to have more fun?” Iona gave Meara a poke on the arm. “Give us another.”

“Look what you started,” Branna said to her brother.

“You don’t play for fun often enough. I always wish you would.” And when he laid a hand on Branna’s cheek, she sighed.

“You have a way, you do, and you know it.”

“Iona’s not the only Yank in here tonight. I’ve spotted a few others. Give them ‘Wild Rover,’ and send them back with the memory of the two beauties in the pub in Cong.”

“Such a way, you do,” she said and laughed. And shaking her hair back, lifted the fiddle.

Iona saw the smile fade, all the humor fade out of the smoky eyes. Something else came into them, so quick there, then gone, she couldn’t be sure. Longing? Temper? Some combination of both.

But she lowered the instrument again.

“Your partner’s back,” Branna said to Boyle.





7





EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM WAS SHARP. The cheekbones, the jaw, even the bold green of his eyes—and the glint in them.

He’d come in on a kick of wind that had the simmering peat fire giving a quick snap.

As they had with Connor, several people hailed him. But Connor had been greeted with easy and affectionate warmth. Finbar Burke’s welcome was edged with respect and, Iona thought, a little caution and wariness.

He wore a black leather coat that skimmed to his knees. Rain, which must have started while she’d been cozy and warm, beaded on it, and on his sweep of black hair.

Cautious herself, Iona skimmed her gaze toward Branna. Nothing showed on her cousin’s face now, as if that momentary swirl of emotion had been nothing more than illusion.

Fin wound through the crowd and, as Branna had with Meara, laid a hand on Boyle’s shoulder, and on Connor’s. But his gaze, Iona noted, fixed on Branna.

“Don’t let me interrupt.”

“And there he is, home from the wars at last.” Connor sent him a cheeky grin. “And just in time to stand the next round.”

“Some of us have to work tomorrow,” Branna reminded her brother.

“Sure it’s fortunate my boss is an understanding and generous sort of man. Unlike yours,” Connor added with a wink for Branna, “who’s a tyrant for certain.”

“I’ll stand the round,” Fin said. “Good evening to you, Meara, and how’s your mother faring? I got word she was feeling poorly,” he said when she blinked at him.