Page 46 of Which Witch is Willing?
Words floated by him like leaves on a stream.
Moira had done it on purpose.
Making him hard. Leaving him that way.
She was playing a game.
When he got her alone, Nick Kingswood planned on showing her exactly what it meant to play with Conquest.
21
They were being followed.
Moira might have been sure of it sooner, but with Uncle Sal a few paces ahead of her, Nicholas Kingswood beside her, and Cheeto trotting along behind, she’d felt…safe. Contented. Like for just this handful of minutes, all was right with the world.
But of course, it wasn’t, and she cursed herself for a fool and a simpleton for forgetting it.
She glanced back over her shoulder for the third time in as many minutes, her mind shifting from Nick’s explanation of how he’d managed to get the Moira Jo from Stumps to Port Townsend so quickly—a tricky operation involving a few favorable trade winds generated by Aerin.
Nick stopped mid-sentence, his body tensing as he flipped on to high alert. “What?” he asked. “What is it?”
“Did you hear that?” she whispered, the deserted street falling suddenly silent.
Another rustle. A crash.
Sal came up beside them, lifting the baggy pants leg of his overall to retrieve the wickedly curved fish-gutting knife that had been his lifelong companion.
Nick put himself between Moira and the potential danger, already reaching behind him to summon the flaming arrow that was his birthright.
They gave a collective exhale when a small, spotted fawn staggered from the alley, blinking broad brown eyes at them.
“Aww. Would you look at that? Poor little thing’s lost his momma.” She took a step toward it, but was quickly yanked back by Uncle Sal.
“Stay here, Moira Jo. That thing don’t look right.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this.” Nick shifted uncomfortably on the sidewalk. “But I think your uncle might be right. Julian’s been rather busy of late. There’s no end to the hideous diseases it might be carrying.”
“Y’all don’t be silly. I’m sure the poor thing’s probably just hungry.” Moira took a few tentative steps toward the small, spindle-legged creature, her carton of leftovers in one hand, the other stretched out in invitation.
When she was only a couple feet away, she popped open the carton, withdrawing a couple French fries and holding them out as enticement.
Cheeto snorted behind her, less a warning than a witness of his discontent at Moira sharing what would usually be his dedicated snack.
The fawn’s shining black nose twitched in the direction of the fries, the little nostrils flaring before it eagerly snaffled them up.
Moira set the open carton down in front of the small, eager body, encouraged when it lowered its head and set to scarfing.
“See?” Moira said, looking back at the improbable group of the males spanning the sidewalk—a pig, an immortal, and a hillbilly. “It’s just hungry.” She reached stroked the deer’s small head, beginning at the sleek indentation between its eyes and sliding her fingers up his small, silky ear.
Which came off in her hand.
Moira stared at the tawny scrap in her palm for an undetermined length of time before it occurred to her to gasp and drop it.
“Oh, dear God. Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” she jabbered, panic reeling her back to the days when those had been her chief expletives. “Look what I did!”
“Moira Jo!” Sal hollered. “You come away from that thing. It ain’t natural!”
“Wait!” she shouted back. “I can fix this.” Moira retrieved the ear from the sidewalk held it in a rough approximation of where it had been as withdrew her wand from her bra.
