He started back, noted she’d set more candles in his library, still more in the space he’d fashioned into a music room.
She’d come up with flowers as well—little glass jars of roses tied with silver ribbons.
He found her and Meara, along with some of the catering staff, busy in the dining area.
Another fire, more candles, more roses, silver trays and crystal dishes filled with food, chafing dishes holding more.
And all the sweets displayed on his buffet—the cakes and biscuits and pastries. Offerings of cheeses under a clear dome.
Iona, in a short sheath of dark, deep silver, had her hands on her hips as she took—he had no doubt—eagle-eyed stock. Beside her, Meara had her hair tumbling loose over the shoulders of a gown the color of carnelian that clung to her curves.
“I think I’ve made a mistake,” he said and had both his friends turning to him. “Why have I invited people here tonight when I could have two beautiful women all to myself?”
“That’s just the sort of charm that will have all your guests talking about this party for months,” Iona told him.
“I was going to say bollocks, but it’s charming bollocks,” Meara decided. “Your home looks absolutely amazing on top of it all.”
“I didn’t have much to do with it.”
“Everything,” Iona corrected. “You just let me play with fire.” Laughing, she walked over, hooked her arm in his. “And Cecile and her team are the best. Honestly, Cecile, the food looks too good to eat.”
Cecile, a tall blonde in black pants and a vest over a crisp white shirt, flushed with pleasure. “Thanks for that, but eating it’s just what we want everyone to do. We did some stations downstairs as Iona suggested,” she told Fin. “And have a bar set up there as well. We’ll have servers passing through regularly up here, down there, to be sure all your guests are well seen to.”
“It all looks brilliant.”
“You haven’t seen downstairs.” Iona led him to the stairs and down. “I went a little mad with the candles, and got nervous, so I did a protection spell. They can’t burn anything or anyone.”
“You think of everything.”
More candles and greenery, pretty food and flowers. He walked to the bar, to the fridge behind it and took out a bottle of champagne.
“You should have the first drink.”
“I’ll take it.”
He opened the champagne with a muffled pop, poured her a flute, then poured one for himself. “It was a happy day when you came into our lives, deirfiúr bheag.”
“The happiest of my life.”
“To happy days then.”
She tapped her glass to his. “To happy days, for all of us.”
Within the hour it seemed he had half the village in his house. They swarmed or gathered, gawked or settled right in. They filled plates and glasses, sat or stood in his living room or, as Iona had predicted, wandered downstairs where the band he’d hired began their first set.
He found himself happy enough with a beer in his hand to move from conversation to conversation. But of all the faces in his house, there was one he didn’t see.
Then as if he
wished it, she was there.
He came back upstairs to do his duty with his main-floor guests, and she was there, standing in his kitchen chatting with the caterers.
She’d left her hair down, a black waterfall that teased the waist of a dress of velvet the color of rich red wine. He thought Iona could have found a hundred more candles and still not achieved the light Branna O’Dwyer brought into his home.
He got a glass of champagne, brought it to her. “You’ll have a drink.”
“I will indeed.” She turned to him, eyes smoky, lips as red as her dress. “You throw a fine party, Fin.”