That would be grand, and then she could think of it as a fine joke herself.
Imagine Meara Quinn lusting for Connor O’Dwyer. And she could admit there were little pockets of lust burning in uncomfortable places.
But a talk with Branna would quash all that, and things would be back as things should be.
Maybe she’d had a little twinge over him now and then through the years. What woman wouldn’t feel a twinge or two for the likes of Connor O’Dwyer?
The man made a picture, didn’t he? All long and lean and that curling mop of hair, that pretty face, that knowing grin. Add in his caring ways, for he had that as much as the pretty.
A temper to be sure, but less than hers by far. By a few thousand kilometers, truth be told. And a far happier, steadier outlook on life than most, including herself.
For all he’d faced the whole of his life, he kept that happy outlook, those caring ways. You mixed the power in, for it was an awesome thing to behold even for one who’d known and seen it all her life, and the full package of him packed a solid punch.
And he knew it well, used it well—on more than a fair share of females to her way of thinking.
Not that she held that against him. Why not pluck the flowers along the way?
For her, for sense and logic, she’d stick with being his friend rather than part of a bouquet.
She sighed, hunched her shoulders as the air chilled. She’d have to speak to him of it—foolish to tell herself otherwise. But after she’d told Branna and they’d had a good laugh over it.
She’d be able to talk to Connor, make it all a fine joke, after she told Branna.
She dug into her pocket for her gloves as the wind kicked up. And to think they’d called for a bright morning, she thought as clouds smothered the sun.
And she heard her name on the wind.
Pausing, she looked over in that direction, saw she stood at the big downed tree by the thick vines. By the place where beyond lay the ruins of Sorcha’s cabin, and the land that could slip in and out of time on Cabhan’s whim.
He’d never before called to her, bothered with her. Why would he? She had no power, was no threat. But he called now, and the voice that oozed seduction pulled at something inside her.
She knew the dangers, knew all the warnings and risks, yet found herself standing at the curtain of vines without realizing she’d walked to them. Found herself reaching.
She’d just have a look, just a quick look is all.
Her hand touched the vines, and a dreamy warmth came with the touch. Smiling, she started to part them while fog oozed through their tangles.
The hawk cried as it dove. It sliced a path along those vines so she stumbled back. Shuddered and shuddered with the fog swimming nearly to her knees.
Roibeard perched on the downed tree, looked at her with eyes bright and fierce.
“I was going in, have a look. Can you hear him as well? It’s my name he’s calling. I only want to see.”
When she reached out again, Roibeard spread his wings in warning. Behind her Branna’s hound let out a soft woof.
“Come with me if you like. Why don’t you come with me?”
Kathel caught the hem of her jacket in his teeth, pulled her back.
“Stop that now! What’s wrong with you? What’s . . . What’s wrong with me?” she murmured, swaying now, knees watery, head light.
“Bugger it.” She laid an unsteady hand on Kathel’s great head. “Good dog, smart and good. Let’s get away from here.” She looked back at Roibeard, and at the shadows dimming again as the sun struggled through the mists. “Let’s all get away from here.”
She kept her hand on the dog, walking fast while the hawk swooped and glided overhead. Never in her life was she so glad to see the woods behind her, and the home of the Dark Witch so close at hand.
She wasn’t ashamed to run, or to fling herself, just ahead of the hound, breathless into Branna’s workshop.
In the act of pouring something that smelled of sugar biscuits from vat to bottle, Branna looked up. Immediately set the pot aside.