Shadow Spell (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 2)

“I hate being tended.”

“So do I, like poison. That’s why I’m doing it. You deserve a bit of a pinch.”

“Go on then, make me feel guiltier than I already do.”

“No need for that.” He sat down, just above her hip, gave her a brief study. And pulled the blue chalcedony out of his pocket. “I thought you might want this.”

“Oh. How did you—”

“It was a quick trip to the stables to fetch your jacket, and this out of the pocket.” He dangled it by the band. “Do you want it or no?”

“I do, very much.”

He laid it around her neck himself. “Have more of a care with it, and with him.”

“I will.” She looked up, into his eyes. “I swear it. Thank you. Thank you, Fin.”

“You’re welcome, and maybe we’ll see if there’s any cakes to go with that tea.”

He started out, glanced back. She held the stones in her palm, stroked them gently with a finger.

Love, he thought. It could make you a fool or a hero. Or both at once.

18

MEARA WOKE IN CONNOR’S BED. ALONE. THREE WHITE candles glowed in clear glass domes on his dresser. Some magickal health thing, she supposed—as the scent of lavender—sprigs of it under the pillow along with more crystals—was likely meant for health and restful sleep.

The last she remembered, as she scanned back, she’d stretched out on the sofa downstairs, tucked in by Fin, waiting for the others to come in for their tea.

She wondered if they had.

It annoyed her she’d dropped off again like a sick child. And annoyed her more to find herself alone in bed.

When she eased out of bed, she found her legs a little wobbly, which added a third annoyance. She’d felt so strong after drinking the broth, found it lowering to realize she wasn’t fully recovered.

Someone had changed her into her nightwear, and that was lowering as well.

She walked, a bit drunkenly, into the bath, peered at herself in the mirror over the sink. Well, it was God’s holy truth she’d looked better, but she’d looked worse.

She frowned as she saw her toothbrush, the creams she used, other toiletries tucked neatly into a basket on the narrow counter.

They’d moved her in, hadn’t they, while she slept. Just packed her up, settled her in without so much as a by-your-leave.

Then she remembered why, and sighed.

She deserved it, and had no ground to stand on. She’d put herself and everyone else at risk, given them hours of worry. No, she wouldn’t question the decision; she wouldn’t complain.

But she would damn well find Connor.

She cracked open the door leading to Iona’s room. If Boyle and Iona had gone to Boyle’s, as they did most nights now, Connor would be using this room. Though he should be using his own, with her.

Rain pattered, and without even a hint of moonlight she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark before she tiptoed into the room. She heard breathing, moved closer. She had a mind to just crawl right in with Connor, and they’d see what he had to say about it.

Then as she leaned over the bed for a closer look, she clearly saw Iona, tucked up with Boyle, her head on his shoulder.

A sweet picture, she thought—and a private one. But before she could back away, Iona whispered, “Are you feeling sick?”

“Oh, no, no, I’m sorry.” Meara hissed it out. “So sorry. I woke, and I came in looking for Connor. I didn’t mean to wake you.”