Page 97 of Shadow Spell

“Magickal,” she said with a smile.

His gaze slid toward Branna, lingered a moment. “In all ways.”

“And what about the Burkes? Do they dance?”

“We’ve been known to. Myself, I do better at it with my hands on a woman. And since Boyle’s not making the move, I’m obliged to.”

He surprised Iona by pulling her to him, circling her fast, then dropping into steps that took the dance into a half time. After a moment’s fumbling, she caught on, matched him well enough, with his arms guiding her.

“I’d say the Burkes hold their own.”

When he twirled her around, she levitated herself a few inches off the floor and made him laugh.

“As does the American cousin. I’m looking forward to dancing with you at your wedding. It may be I’ll have to be standing in for the groom on that, while he stands on the sidelines.”

“Now I see I’ve no choice in the matter, or find myself shown up by Finbar Burke.”

Boyle snatched Iona away, solved the issue of his less talented feet by lifting her off hers and turning circles.

And Branna found herself facing Fin.

Connor saw the moment, squeezed Meara’s hand in his.

“Will you?” Fin asked.

“I’m about to put dinner on the table.”

He said, “Once,” and took her hand.

They had a way, Connor thought, a smooth way of flowing along with the music, in time, in step, as if they’d been made to move together.

His soft heart ached for them, both of them, for it was love ashimmer in their steps. Around the kitchen, they turned, flowed, turned, eyes for each other only, easy and happy as they’d once been.

Beside him, Meara stopped as he had, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

For one lovely moment, all was right in the world. All was as it had been once, how it might be yet again.

Then Branna stopped, and though she smiled, the lovely moment shattered.

“Well now, I hope you’ve all worked up an appetite.”

Fin murmured something to her, in Irish, but too soft and low for Connor to understand. Her smile fell toward sorrow as she turned away.

“We’ll have more music after our meal, and there’s wine aplenty.” Movements brisk, Branna turned the music down. “Tonight’s not for work or worries. We’ve food fresh from the garden tonight, and our own Iona made the soup.”

That pronouncement brought on a long, hushed silence that hung until Iona rolled out a laugh. “Come on! I’m not that bad a cook.”

“Of course you’re not,” Boyle said with the air of a man facing a hard, unhappy task. He went to the stove, spooned up a taste straight from the pot. Sampled, lifted his eyebrows, sampled again. “It’s good. It’s very good indeed.”

“I don’t know if a man in love’s to be trusted,” Connor considered. “But we’ll eat.”

They ate a bounty from the garden, kept the conversation light and away from all things dark. Wine flowed freely.

“And how’s your mother faring in Galway?” Fin asked Meara.

“I’m not ready to say she’s there to stay, but closer to it. I had a talk with my sister, who’s that surprised it’s a happy arrangement—for now in any case. My mother’s working in the garden, and keeping it in trim. And she’s struck up a bit of a friendship with a neighbor who’s a keen gardener herself. If you could hold the cottage a bit longer—”

“As long as you need,” Fin interrupted. “I’ve a mind to do a few updates there. When you’ve time enough, Connor, we could talk about a bit of work on the place.”

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