“You’ve made a scene for no reason, and will have tongues wagging throughout the county.”
“Cabhan going at you in the middle of the road in the middle of the day is reason enough. You’ll have some whiskey.”
“I won’t, but I’d have some tea if it’s no trouble to you.”
He started to speak, then just turned on his heel, leaving her on his living room sofa as he strode off to the kitchen.
In the moment alone, she tugged at the neck of her sweater, looked down at herself. She could clearly see the imprint of Cabhan’s fingers on her skin over the top of her bra. She rose, deciding the matter would be best dealt with in private.
And the rest of her circle, along with her dog, crowded in.
“Don’t start. I want the powder room a moment first.” She sent a look at Meara, at Iona, the request clear in her eyes.
So they followed her into the pretty little half bath under the stairs.
“What is it?” Iona demanded. “What don’t you want them to see?”
“I’d as soon my brother and your fiancé don’t get a gander of my breasts.” So saying she stripped off the sweater. And on Meara’s hiss of breath, the bra.
“Oh, Branna,” Iona murmured, lifted her hands. “Let me.”
“If you’d lay your hands over mine.” Branna covered her own breasts. “I could do it myself, but it’ll be faster and easier with your help.”
Branna searched inside herself, brought up the warmth of healing, sighed into it when Iona joined her, and again when Meara just put an arm around her waist.
“It’s not deep. He only had me for a fraction of a second.”
“It hurts deep.”
Branna nodded at Iona. “It does, or did. It’s easing already, and my own fault for giving him even that small opening.”
“I think it’ll go faster, hurt less if you look into me. If you boost what I can do with what you have. Just for this, okay? Look at me, Branna. Look into me. The hurt lifts out, let it go. The bruising eases. Feel the warm.”
She let it go, opened herself, twined what she had with Iona.
“It’s clear. He’s left no mark on or in you. You’re . . .” Iona paused, still searching for injury. And her eyes widened.
“Oh, Branna.”
“Ah, well, I supposed that’s next.” She unhooked her pants, let them fall to reveal the streaks of bruising up her inner thighs.
“Bloody bastard,” Meara muttered and took Branna’s hand in a strong grip.
“It was the fog, a kind of sly attack. More a brush than a squeeze, so it’s not as dark or painful. Have at it, Iona, if you wouldn’t mind.”
She let herself go again, let herself drift on the warmth Iona gave her until even the echo of pain faded.
“He wanted to frighten me, to attack me on the level women fear most. But he didn’t frighten me.” Calmly Branna hooked her pants again, slipped into her bra, then her sweater. “He enraged me, which gave him the same chance to rush my defenses and find that one small chink. It won’t happen a second time.”
She turned to the mirror over the sink, gave herself a hard look—and a very light glamour.
“There, that’s done the job. Thank you, both of you. I’ll see if Fin’s made a decent cup of tea and tell you all what happened.”
She stepped out. Connor stopped pacing the foyer, strode straight to her, caught her up against him.
“I’m fine, I promise. I . . . No prying into my head, Connor, you’ll only annoy me.”
“I’ve a right to be certain my sister’s unharmed.”