Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(37)

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.