Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(39)

As she did, the men watched it. Then Fin said something that had Boyle letting out a laugh before he slung an arm around Fin’s shoulders and turned to walk back.

She saw it then, the ease between them. More than partners, she realized. More still than friends. Brothers.

“Performance is over for the day,” Boyle called out. “There’s work needs doing.”

At his words, the staff that had gathered, scattered.

Iona cleared her throat. “You should put something on those knuckles.”

Boyle merely glanced at them, sucked at them again. And shrugging, continued inside. Fin stopped by Iona.

“He’s a brawler, is Boyle.”

“The other guy started it.”

Now Fin laughed. “No doubt. Maturity’s given Boyle the sense to wait until he’s well provoked, and rare is it for him to throw the first punch. Otherwise, he’d have given Riley the hammering he deserved weeks ago instead of making the wager.”

She should mind her own business. She should . . . “What was the wager?”

“Riley’s a horse trader of the lowest sort. He had in his possession a mare he’d neglected. I’m told she was skin and bones and sick and lame. He planned to sell her off for dog food.”

Eyes fired, lips peeled back in a snarl. “I’d like to punch him myself.”

“You don’t have the hands for it.” Fin watched Alastar nuzzle at Iona’s shoulder, and the way she leaned her head to his. “Best to use your feet for such matters, and aim for the balls.”

“I’d be happy to, in this case.”

“I’ll tell you, as Boyle likely won’t, as he’s a man of few words—or none at all if he can manage it. He offered Riley what he’d have gotten for selling her off, and more besides, but Riley doesn’t care much for Boyle, or for me, and he demanded double that. So being a cannier businessman than you might think, Boyle wagered him on who could drink the most whiskey and stay on his feet. If Riley won, Boyle would pay the asking price. If Boyle won, Riley turned over the mare for what was offered. The publican wrote it in the book, and considerable money changed hands, I’m told.”

As he spoke, Fin unlooped the reins from the post. “And at the end of the long night, it was Boyle still on his feet. Though I’d wager he had the devil’s own head the next morning, he had the mare as well.”

“A drinking bet.”

“As I said, our Boyle’s matured. Now then.” Fin handed the reins to Iona, made a hammock with his hands. “Up you go.”

Her mind full of questions, impressions, she put her boot in Fin’s hands, mounted Alastar smoothly. “Where do you want him?”

“I want both of you in the ring. Let’s see what you can do.”





8





AT THE END OF THE WORKDAY, SHE LET HERSELF THINK OF MAGICK. What would Branna teach her today? What new wonder would she see, feel, do? She said good-bye to the horses, to her coworkers before starting out.

And saw Boyle in his little office, all beetled brow and swollen knuckles as he hacked away at paperwork.

Definitely a flutter going on, she thought. Not that she intended to flirt with her boss. Plus, for all she knew, he had a parade of girlfriends. Or maybe even more daunting, didn’t find her attractive.

Besides, she wasn’t looking for a relationship, or an entanglement. She needed to get her feet firmly planted in her new life, learn more about her awakening powers—and hone them if she intended to be a real help to her cousins.

When a woman planned to go up against ancient evil, she shouldn’t allow herself to become distracted by sexy eyebrows or broad shoulders or—

“In or out,” Boyle ordered, and kept pecking at his keyboard. “Stop the bleeding hovering.”

“Sorry. I, ah, wasn’t sure if . . . I’m finished for the day,” she told him.

He glanced up, held her eyes for a beat. Grunted and looked back down at his work.

His hands had to hurt, she thought. She could practically see them throbbing. “You really should ice down those knuckles.”

“They’ll be all right. I’ve had worse.”

“Probably, but if they’re swollen and stiff—or worse, get infected—you won’t be much good around here.”

“Don’t need a nurse, thanks.”

Stubborn, she thought. But so was she. She went back in, got the first-aid kit, a couple of ice packs. Marched back to his office.

“Some would say you’re being stoic and manly,” she began as she dragged over a chair. “But my take is sulky baby because your hands hurt.”

“I enjoyed the getting of them, so I’m not sulky. Put that away.”

“When I’m done with it.” She got out the antiseptic, gripped his wrist. “This is going to sting.”

“Don’t be— Shit! Bloody fucking hell.”

“Baby,” she said with some satisfaction, but blew on the sting. “If you’re going to punch somebody in the face with bare knuckles, you’re going to pay the price.”

“If you disapprove of fighting, you’re in the wrong place. Likely the wrong country.”

“I don’t—that is situationally, and that jerk deserved it. Just let this lie while I clean this one up.” She set the ice pack on one hand while she doctored the other. “You knew what you were doing. Did you box in college?”