“Did you let her knock you down?”
“I didn’t, no, though I’d considered doing just that to give her a boost. Didn’t prove necessary. She’s always been quick, but she’s learning to be sneaky as well.”
She rubbed her ass. “And now I’m wet where I wasn’t.”
“I can fix that.” He moved in a little closer, reached around her. His hands trailed lightly over the butt of her wet trousers.
Warmth seeped over, through, and his hands lingered. Something in her eyes, he thought, something in those dark, exotic eyes. He caught himself on the point of drawing her in when she stepped back.
“Thanks.” She polished off his tea. “And for that as well, though I could use a glass of that wine Branna’s so fond of.”
“Then come in and have one. I’m calling on the others to come. There’s Guinness stew and a fresh round of bread.”
“I should go on.” She shifted back, glanced toward her lorry. “I’m all but living here these days.”
“She needs her circle, Meara. It would be a favor to me if you’d stay.”
Now she looked over her shoulder, as if sensing something sneaking up behind her. “Is he coming already?”
“I can’t say, not absolutely. I’ll be hoping Fin can say more. So come inside and have some wine and stew, and we’ll be together.”
They came, as Connor knew they always would. So the kitchen filled with voices, the warmth of friends with Kathel stretched in front of the little hearth, and good, rich stew simmering on the stove.
As he’d get his Guinness in the stew, Connor opted for wine himself. Drinking it, he watched his besotted friend grin as Iona, once again, replayed her moment of victory.
Who would have thought Boyle McGraff would fall so hard, so fully? A man who said little, and in general paid more mind to his horses than the ladies. As loyal and true a friend as they came, and a brawler under the self-taught control.
And here was Boyle of the scarred knuckles and fast temper starry-eyed over the little witch who talked to horses.
“You’re looking sly and satisfied,” Meara commented.
“I’m enjoying seeing Boyle resemble an overgrown puppy when he looks at Iona.”
“They fit well, and they’ll make a good life together. Most don’t.”
“Ah now, not most.” It pinched his heart to hear her say it, know she felt it. “The world needs lovers who fit, or how would we go on? To be only one of one for a life? That’s a lonely life.”
“Being one of one means being able to go as you please, and not facing being one of two, then ending up the one of one when it all goes to hell.”
“You’re a cynical one, Meara.”
“And fine with it.” She shot him a look under arched brows. “You’re a romantic one, Connor.”
“And fine with it.”
She laughed, quick and easy, as she set the napkins she held on the table. “Branna says it’s serve yourself from the pot on the stove, so you’d best get in line.”
“That I will.”
He fetched wine for the table first to give himself a moment to open a bit, to test the air for any sense or sign before they sat and ate, and talked of magicks. Light and dark.
The stew was a bit of magick itself, but then Branna had a way.
“God, this is good!” Iona spooned up more. “I have to learn how to cook like this.”
“You’re doing well with the side dishes,” Branna told her. “And Boyle’s a steady cook. He can handle that, and you’ll do the sword fighting.”
“Maybe so. After all, I did knock Meara on her ass.”