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He was right about the rain, of course. The wind blew in and brought the first drops as Breen stepped outside.
She watched Aisling and Mahon gather up their boys, and Liam race off on two legs that became four.
And her grandmother, agile as a teenager, mount the mare while Sedric transformed into a cat to leap up with her.
“I’ll help you put a meal together, Morena, while your da gives Harken a hand with the milking and such. A wet night we’re in for.” Finola gathered Breen into a hug, whispered in her ear, “You have that care now, darling.”
“I will.”
Flanked by Marco and Keegan, she walked through the rain—picking up fast—and thought how she’d walked to the tree from the other side in rain hours before.
And as she had when she’d stepped from Ireland into Talamh, she stepped back into clear air. Cool, on the damp side, but with no rain pelting down.
She had things to say, but kept quiet on the walk back.
“You feeling okay, my Breen?” Marco took her hand in his.
“Absolutely.” Though her arm throbbed a little, as Aisling had warned her.
“Scared me.”
“Me, too. But he’s the one burned to ash—or his wraith and his vessel are.
“You’re going to stop worrying, because tonight’s about celebrating.” She tossed out little beams of light. “You’re staying out of the kitchen, going straight upstairs, and taking the shower I know you’vebeen wanting since you rode back. You’re going to unpack because it drives you crazy not to, then when Brian gets home, we’re going to have the dinner I made.”
When they stepped out of the woods, she looked down at Bollocks, since he stuck with her instead of racing for the bay.
“And you stop worrying, too. You go swim. Go on.”
He ran off but shot several looks back to be sure before he leaped in the water.
“Something smells good,” Marco began the minute they walked into the cottage.
“No.” Folding her arms, she blocked his path. “Not one foot in the kitchen.”
“I’m just gonna—”
“No. You’re just gonna go upstairs.”
“Bossy pants.” He sent an anxious look toward the kitchen but obeyed.
“You can start the fire,” she told Keegan as she stripped off her jacket—one her grandmother had cleaned of blood and mended. “Then you can explain why you felt it necessary to take that shot at me.”
She marched into the kitchen; Keegan flicked a hand at the fire and followed.
“What shot?”
“How I finally did what I should’ve done in the first place. I did my best.” She got a pot, slammed it into the sink to fill it with water for the pasta.
“But you didn’t, and not doing your best let him open you up, here to here.” He traced a finger—and not gently—from above her elbow nearly to her shoulder.
“I stood my ground, I fought back. I burned someone alive. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”
“Defend, by whatever means.” He took an open bottle of wine—one she’d used in making the sauce—and poured it near to the rim of a glass, then got a beer for himself.
“Tell me how it is you fought in a battle where many fell on bothsides, and came out with barely a scratch, but today, you faced one and your blood stained the ground.”
“Because he’s agod, for fuck’s sake.” She grabbed the glass, gulped down wine.
