Page 19 of Beer & Broomsticks
“Quentin and I were licking our wounds and commiserating over the abuse heaped upon us. Seems we both have women who like to inflict pain.”
She laughed. “Poor Ruairí. Should I be throwing you a pity party and inviting all your friends from the pub, then?”
He grinned as he sat next to her. “That would be sporting of ya. Are drinks on the house?”
“Pfft. The lot of you would drink me dry.” Bridget turned the parchment so it was facing him and tapped the fake notation in the corner. “Look, what do you make of this? I’ve written down a few things that came to mind, and I’ll need to consult the book, but I believe these three additions are clues for retrieving the Sword of Goibhniu.” She practically danced on the edge of her chair.
Ruairí had written“Hidden in the hearth inside the heart, now fallen to ruin.”
Pulse racing, he pretended to consider it along with what she’d scribbled. “The old castle ruins? We played within those crumbling walls too many times to count as children. Do you think it’s as simple as all that?”
He’d chosen the site to remind her of their first kiss. It was where they snuck away to meet and where they’d once written their names encircled within a heart, in permanent marker on the stone inside the room-size chimney. They huddled together, laughing with glee as they did it, certain no one would ever find their scrawled promise to each other. But the two of them would always know it was there. Ruairí hoped, if they spent time wandering around, the old memories might further soften her toward him.
“You don’t believe it is?” She gave the map a skeptical look. “I thought the clue referred to our ancient family home. That’s the only one I’ve ever known about, but I could ask Cian when he returns if you—”
“No!”
She looked up in surprise.
“I mean…” He searched for an excuse to explain away his panic. “Well, with Moira’s attack, it seems we should act sooner rather than later. Cian might get back and not know of another O’Malley family estate, all the same.”
With curious eyes, she studied him, and he felt hot under the scrutiny. Bridget was the only person able to see through him when she cared to, and her thoughtful gaze was an indication she might care to now.
A smile curled her full lips, and her eyes—normally a murky green from the trials of life—brightened. “I’ve a mind to get started tomorrow. I’ll have Carrick and Roisin take over so we can leave at first light. It’s a drive.”
“Did you forget I can teleport us?”
She paused, then laughed. “I did, yeah. How is it I’ve forgotten? You transported us everywhere.”
“I’m thinkin’ it was too painful for either of us to recall those early years. To have such love and lose it… It makes one shy away from the memories or die of a broken heart.” His voice was gruff as the emotions overwhelmed him, and he found it difficult to meet her eyes. With a small shrug to rid himself of his embarrassment, he absently reached for the O’Malley grimoire—and got the shock of his life!
He went arse over teakettle and landed flat on his back with the room spinning above him and his heart pounding like he’d sprinted uphill.
“Ruairí!” Bridget’s worried cry cleared the circling birdies and had him delicately turning his head to look at her. Her horror was genuine. Dropping to her knees beside him, she ran her hands over his face and neck, then cradled his head to her breast. “Jaysus! I thought that feckin’ thing killed ya dead.”
“It’s nice to know you’d miss me,mo ghrá.” He snuggled closer, content to lie in her arms until doomsday. As he saw it, that fecking spellbook did him a favor.
Her arms tightened a fraction, then she dropped him like a hot rock. The woman lacked compassion and didn’t even react when his head banged the boards. Yes, there was a plush rug to cushion the blow, but she could’ve at leastlookedcontrite.
“I’m wise to your ways, Ruairí O’Connor,” she said with a wry tone. “I half believe you used your own magic to play at falling down so I’d hold you close.”
“I would’ve if I’d have thought of it first,” he admitted with a wicked grin. Rising up on one elbow, he rubbed the back of his head and winced. “I can’t say it didn’t hurt this hard noggin of mine, though.”
“Here, and let me look. Sit up.” She positioned herself behind him, and with tender fingers, probed the area at the back of his head.
He hissed in a breath when she hit a particularly sore spot.
“Should I call round to the doctor for you?” she asked with a light caress of his neck. “Or I can call GiGi Gillespie to see if she can examine what’s left of your brain.”
Twisting to face her, he gave her a look of exasperation. “Sure, and I might have a brain bleed, but you’ll bust my bollocks. If I die in my sleep it will serve you right, you shrew.”
She laughed and bussed a kiss on his lips. “Poor Ruairí, I’ll be bookin’ that party for you after all but in the form of a wake.”
He joined her in laughter, and as the last of it died away, they stared into one another’s eyes, their frayed connection somehow beginning to weave back together into a stronger bond.
One of friendship.
He had lied when he said he didn’t want to be friends. He absolutely did, but he also wanted so much more.
