She went back, picked more tomatoes as now she’d be making the soup for six, and glanced over at Iona after Connor had gone.
“He doesn’t know yet,” Iona said. “He’d tell you if he did. You if no one else. So he doesn’t know he’s in love with her.”
“He doesn’t know yet, but he’s coming around to it. Sure he’s loved her all his life, so realizing it’s another sort of love than he let himself believe takes some time.”
Branna looked toward the cottage, thought of him, thought of Meara. “She’s the only one he’ll ever want a life with, or a lifetime. Others have and could touch his heart, but none but Meara could break it.”
“She never would.”
“She loves him, and always has. And he’s the only one she’ll ever want a life with, or a lifetime. But she hasn’t his faith in love or its power. If she can trust herself and him, they’ll make each other. If she can’t, she’ll break his heart and her own.”
“I believe in love and its power. And I believe that when given the choice, Meara will reach for it, hold on to it, and treasure it.”
“I hope more than I hope for almost anything else you’re right.” Branna let out a breath. “Meanwhile, the two of them haven’t yet figured why no one else in the world has ever made them feel as they do now. The heart, it’s a fierce and mysterious thing. Let’s get all this inside, scrubbed off. I’ll show you how to start the soup, then we’ll see how much we can jar before Meara comes.”
* * *
SHE ARRIVED, TIMELY AND OUT OF SORTS.
Once she’d stalked through to the kitchen, she fisted her hands on her hips, frowned at the shining jars of colorful vegetables cooling on the counter, the soup simmering low on the stove.
“What’s all this? If you’ve called me here to do kitchen work, you’re to be sorely disappointed. I’ve had enough work altogether today.”
“We’re nearly done,” Branna said pleasantly.
“I’m having a beer.” Meara completed her stalk to the fridge, yanked out a bottle of Smithwick’s.
“Is everything all right at the stables?”
Meara snarled at Iona. “All right? Oh, sure it’s been more than all right with us having a summer day in October and every blessed soul within fifty kilometers deciding nothing would do but they ride a horse today. If I wasn’t taking out a group, I was doing rubdowns or hauling saddles in, hauling them out.”
She waved the beer in the air before opening it. “And didn’t Caesar take it in his head to bite Rufus on the arse, and this after I told the Spanish lady riding him to give the horses some space. So then I had a near hysterical Spanish lady on my hands, and I can barely understand her as she’s hysterical in Spanish, and doing half the talking with her hands so the reins are flying about giving Caesar the notion she wants a fine gallop.”
“Oh God.” Iona spoiled the attempt to sound concerned by choking off a laugh.
“Oh sure it’s an amusement to you.”
“Only a little, because I know it’s all right, and you wouldn’t have put her on Caesar if she couldn’t ride.”
“For all her hysterics, she rode like a bloody conquistador, and I have a suspicion she angled for the gallop all along. Fortunately, I was on your Alastar, and caught up with her easy. Grinning wide she was, though she tried to turn that around when I got hold of Caesar’s bridle and pulled him up. And I swear to you—”
Now she pointed, face livid. “I swear to you the two horses had a hearty laugh over it all.” She chugged down beer. “And after that one I had five teens. Five girl teens. And that I can’t talk about at all or I might have Spanish hysterics myself. And you.” She pointed again, an accusing jab at Iona. “You’ve a free day to play about in the gardens as you’re sleeping with the boss.”
“I’m such a slut.”
“Well, there you are.” Meara drank again. “And that’s why I won’t be doing any kitchen work or garden work, and if there’s spells or enchantments to be done, I’ll require another beer at the very least.”
Branna glanced over toward the jars at a trio of tiny pops—a sign the lids had sealed. “That’s a good sound. There’s no work at all. We’re having the day off.”
This time Meara drank slowly. “Has she fallen under a spell herself?” she asked Iona. “Or has she been into the whiskey?”
“Neither, but there should be whiskey later. We’re having a céili.”
“A céili?”
“I’ve the first of my harvesting done, and the jarring as well. We’ve had a summer day in October.” Branna dried off her hands, laid the cloth out. “So have your singing voice ready, Meara, and put on your dancing shoes. I’m in the mood for a party.”
“Are you sure this isn’t a spell?”