still.
He was doomed to love her.
So he worked with her, then paid for the candles—full price, he thought with amusement, for the gods knew Branna O’Dwyer was a practical witch, and left her to drive home through the steady rain.
He checked on Maggie first, pleased with her progress. He gave the sweet-natured mare half an apple and some of his time and attention. He visited the rest of the horses, giving them time as well. He had pride in what he’d built here, in what he and Boyle had built here and at the rental stables. Pride, too, in the falconry school nearby.
Connor ran it like a dream, Fin thought.
If not for Cabhan, he could leave tomorrow for India or Africa, for America or Istanbul, and know Boyle and Connor would take care of all they’d built.
Once Cabhan was done, he’d do just that. Pick a spot on the map, and go. Get away, see something new. Anything but here for a bit, for here was all he loved far too deeply.
He gave the little stable dog Bugs a treat, then on impulse picked him up, took him along to the house. Fin imagined they’d both enjoy the company.
He liked his quiet and alone as much as Branna did hers—or nearly. But the nights were so bleeding long in December, and the chill and dark so unrelenting. He couldn’t pop up to Boyle’s above the garage as he’d often done in the past, and he expected Boyle and his Iona would end up at Branna’s even though she tried to discourage it.
They would guard her, as he could not.
That alone stirred rage and frustration he had to shove back down.
He set the dog down inside the house, flicked a hand to the fire to have the flames snapping, another toward the tree he’d put in the big front window.
The dog pranced around, his joy at being inside so palpable, Fin smiled and settled a little. Yes, they’d both do well with the company.
He wandered back toward the kitchen, its light bright on all the gleaming surfaces, got himself a beer.
She’d only been in his home once, and only as Connor was there, and hurt. But he could see her there. He’d always seen her there. It ground his pride to admit he’d built the place with her in mind, with the dreams they’d once woven together in mind.
He carried a few of her candles into the dining room, put the tapers in silver holders, set out some of the mirrored ones. Yes, they caught the light well, he decided. Though she’d be unlikely to see her work in his space.
He thought of making some food, but put it off as he purely hated to cook. He’d slap something together later, he decided, as a trip to the pub for a meal didn’t appeal with the rain thrashing.
He could go downstairs, wile away some of the evening with sports on the big TV, or kill time with a game or two. He could stretch out with another beer in front of the fire with a book that wasn’t all magicks and spells.
“I can do whatever I bloody well please,” he told Bugs. “And it’s my own fault, isn’t it, that nothing pleases me. Maybe it’s just the rain and the dark. What would please me is a hot beach, some blasting sun, and a willing woman. And that’s not altogether true, is it?”
He crouched, sent Bugs into paralytic joy by giving him a belly rub. “Would we were all so easily happy as a little stable dog. Well, enough of this. I’m tired of myself. We’ll go up and work, for the sooner this is done, the sooner I’ll find if that hot beach is the answer after all.”
The dog followed him, slavishly devout, as he walked back, then up the wide stairs to the second floor. He thought of a hot shower, maybe a steam as well, but turned directly into his workroom. There he lit the fire as well, flames shimmering in a frame of deep green tourmaline while the dog explored.
He’d designed every inch of the room—with some help from Connor—the black granite work counters, the deep mahogany cabinetry, the wide plank cypress floors that ran throughout the house. Tall, arched windows, with the center one of stained glass that created the image of a woman in white robes bound by a jeweled belt. She held a wand in one hand, a ball of flame in the other