Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(34)

“She’s better, thanks. Just a bout of bronchitis that lingered awhile. The doctor dosed her with medicine, and Branna with soup, so she’s well again.”

“It’s good to hear it.”

“You brought the rain,” Boyle commented.

“Apparently. And Branna. You look more than well.”

“I’m well enough. You cut your travels short then?”

“Six weeks was long enough. Did you miss me?”

“No. Not a bit.”

He smiled at her, quick and again sharp, then turned those vivid eyes on Iona. “You’d be the American cousin. Iona, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Fin Burke,” he said and extended a hand over the table. “As this lot doesn’t have the manners for introductions.”

She took his hand automatically, and felt the heat, a quick zip of power. Still smiling, he cocked an eyebrow as if to say: What were you expecting?

“Another Guinness for you?” he asked.

“Oh, no. Despite understanding and generous bosses, this is my limit. Thanks anyway.”

“I wouldn’t mind some tea before I head out in the rain,” Meara said. “Thanks, Fin.”

“Tea then. Another pint, Boyle?”

“I’m in my truck, so this will have to do me.”

“I’m on my feet,” Connor said, “so I’ll have another.”

“Sure I’ll join you.” Fin had barely glanced around when their waitress hurried up. “Hello there, Clare. The ladies, they’ll have tea. Connor and I will have a pint. Guinness tonight.”

He found a chair, pulled it up. “We won’t bring business into the party,” he said to Boyle. “We’ll talk later in that area, though I think we’ve kept each other up to date. And you as well, Connor.”

“Suits me. I took Merlin out a few times while you were rambling, as did Meara,” Connor told him. “And he took himself out when he wanted. Will you be coming by the school tomorrow?”

“I’ll make a point of it, and the stables.”

“Make sure you have a kind word for Kevin and Mooney.” Boyle lifted his beer. “As your newest acquisition battered both of them.”

“Got spirit, he does, and an iron will. Has he battered you as well?”

“Not for lack of trying. He likes this one.” Boyle nodded toward Iona.

Locking eyes with Iona again, Fin tapped his fingers on the table as if to an inner tune. “Does he now.”

“After doing his damnedest to buck me across to Galway, the Yank here mounts him and takes him around the ring like a show horse.”

Fin smiled slowly. “Is that a fact? Are you a horsewoman then, Iona?”

“It is, and she is,” Boyle answered. “She’s now in our employ, which I’m keeping you up to date with in person.”

“Happy to have you. A working holiday for you, is it?”

“I . . . I’m going to live here. That is, I’m living here now.”

“Well then, welcome home. Your grandmother’s well, I hope. Mrs. O’Connor?”

“Very. Thanks.” To keep them still, Iona clutched her hands together under the table. “I needed a job, so Branna asked Boyle to meet with me. I worked at Laurel Riding Academy in Maryland. I have references, and my resume. That is, Boyle has them now, if you need to see them.”

Shut up, shut up, she ordered herself, but nerves overwhelmed her. “You have a wonderful operation. Meara showed me around. And you’re right. Alastar has spirit, and a strong will, but he’s not mean. Not innately. He’s just mad and unsettled, finding himself in a strange place, with people and horses he’s not used to. Now he has something to prove, especially to Boyle.

“Thank God,” she breathed when the tea arrived. She could use it to stop her mouth.

“You make her nervous.” Amused now, Branna spoke to Fin. “She tends to chatter on when she’s nervous.”

“I do. Sorry.”

“And apologizes continually. That really has to stop, Iona.”

“It does. Why did you buy him—Alastar?” she began. Then held up a hand. “Sorry. None of my business. Plus you said you didn’t want to talk business.”

“He’s beautiful. I have a weakness for beauty, and strength, and . . . power.”

“He’s all that,” Meara agreed. “And anyone who knows bloody anything about horses knows he’s not meant to plod around with tourists on his back every day.”

“No, he’s meant for other things.” He looked at Branna. “Needed for other things.”

“What are you about?” she murmured.

“He spoke to me. You understand me,” he said to Iona.

“Yes. Yes.”

“So, he’s here, and on her way is the prettiest filly in the West Counties. Spirited, too, a two-year-old, fine as a princess. She’s Aine, for the faerie queen. We’ll be playing matchmaker there, Boyle, when she’s mature enough. Until she is, she’ll do well on the jump course, even, I think, with novices.”

“You’ve more than breeding on your mind.” Branna nudged her tea aside.

“Ah, darling, breeding’s ever on it.”