Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(38)

“That’s just looks, but they’re really impressive. On top of it, he was really kind to me. Then there was the sex. Dream,” Iona said quickly when Meara’s mouth fell open. “Sex dream. I had one last night, and I felt so guilty because I really like you. And you don’t want to hear any of this.”

“You’re mistaken, entirely. I want to hear all of this, in the greatest of detail.”

On a laughing moan, Iona covered her face with her hands. “You’re Boyle’s friend. If you tell him the Yank’s got this slow simmer going on, he’ll either laugh himself into a coma or fire me.”

“He’d do neither, but why would I tell him any such thing? There’s a sisterhood that covers such matters. That’s a universal sort of thing to my mind.”

“Of course there is. Anyway, I think I’m just jet-lagged, and turned around, and coming to grips. It’s nothing. It’ll pass.”

“Maybe you should take him on a ride before you—”

She broke off at the sound of raised voices. “Ah, Christ.”

Turning on her heel, Meara strode out, and as the voices—male, extremely pissed—escalated, Iona followed her.

Boyle faced off with a hard-packed bull of a man in a red cap and plaid jacket. The bull, his face nearly as red as his cap, jabbed out with a finger. “I come here being reasonable, though you’re a cheat and a liar for all that.”

“And I’m telling you, Riley, what business we had is done and over. Get off my property, and keep clear of it.”

“I’ll get off your bleeding property when you give me back the horse you next to stole from me, or hand over fair payment. You think you can steal from me. Bloody thief.” He shoved Boyle back two steps.

“Oh Jesus,” Meara muttered. “Now he’s done it.”

“Don’t put your hands on me again,” Boyle warned, very quietly.

“Oh, I’ll put more than my hands on you, you fucking shite.”

Riley threw a punch. Boyle shifted his weight, angled his head, and the fist breezed by his ear.

“We should call the police. The guard, whatever it’s called.”

Meara barely glanced at Iona. “No need.”

“You get one more.” With his arms still down by his sides, Boyle spread his hands. “Take it, if you’ve a mind to, and know you won’t be walking away from this if you do.”

“I’ll beat ya bloody.” Riley charged, fists up, head down.

Dancing to the side, Boyle turned, jabbed two short punches.

Kidney punches? Iona wondered as her eyes went wide. Oh God!

Riley stumbled, but stayed on his feet, punched out again. The blow grazed Boyle’s shoulder as Boyle slapped it away with a forearm.

Then he followed up. A right to the jaw, left to the nose. Jab, uppercut—Iona thought—a left cross. Two punches to the middle.

Fast, so fast. Light and quick on his feet, barely showing a reaction when Riley managed to land a blow. Bare knuckles slapped and crunched into flesh and bone. Riley, his nose pouring blood, his mouth dripping it, made a staggering charge. On a pivot, Boyle swept up his fist—definitely an uppercut—hitting the jaw like an arrow in a bull’s-eye.

He started to follow up, pulled back. “Fuck it,” she heard him mutter as he simply put a boot on Riley’s ass and shoved him facedown on the ground.

“Oh God. My God.”

“There now.” Meara patted her shoulder. “It’s just a bit of a dustup.”

“No. It’s . . .” She fluttered her fingers over her belly.

Meara snorted out a laugh. “Aye, a fascination to me you are.”

A few feet away, Fin sat astride a restless Alastar. “Again?” he said mildly.

“Fucker wouldn’t walk away.” Boyle sucked at his raw knuckles. “And I gave him every chance.”

“I saw you giving him those chances as I rode up, and how could he be walking away with your fist in his face?”

Boyle only grinned. “That was after the chances.”

“Well, let’s make sure you haven’t killed him, as I’ve no desire to help you hide a body this morning.” As he dismounted, he crooked a finger at Iona. “Yes, you. Be a darling and tie Alastar to the post. Don’t unsaddle him.”

When he held out the reins, she hurried over to take them.

Using his boot again, Boyle rolled Riley onto his back. “Broke his nose, that’s for certain, and loosened some teeth, but he’ll live through it.”

Fin stood, hands in his pockets as they both studied the unconscious Riley. “This goes back to that horse you won off him, I take it.”

“It does.”

“Bloody git.”

Whistling cheerfully through his teeth, Mick strolled out carrying a bucket of water. “Thought you could be using this.”

Fin took it. “Stand clear then,” he advised, then tossed the water in Riley’s face.

The man sputtered, coughed. His eyes opened and rolled in his head.

“Good enough.” Boyle crouched down, took one arm. On a sigh, Fin took the other.

Absently stroking Alastar, Iona watched them haul the man to his truck, shove him up and in. She couldn’t hear what words were exchanged, but in moments, the truck drove away, weaving a bit.