She smirked her triumph. “Not a lick. As soon as you’ve downed it, you can tell us all about the process and what we’re to do next.”
Dutifully, he drank what she gave him, admitting to feeling better almost immediately. For certain, he didn’t sound as hoarse.
“Hurry and tell us what we’re meant to do,” she demanded.
“Nothing.”
Half convinced she hadn’t heard him properly, she turned to Ruairí for clarification.
With a chuckle, he said, “I heard it, too,mo ghrá.”
“Well, you’re no help, you aren’t.” She smiled to indicate she was teasing.
“Isis—”
The backdoor practically flew off its hinges as it slammed open, and both Ruairí and Ronan positioned themselves with hands raised for battle. A flaming ball swirled in each of their palms as they prepared to lob fire at whoever might enter. The entire scene was so instantaneous, Bridget didn’t have a chance to react. It bothered her to think what their lives must’ve been like that they should automatically affect a fighter’s stance rather than assume the wind blew the door open.
She pushed through them with a light laugh and abruptly stopped short when a bear of a man stepped through the opening. Her first instinct was to shy away, but she held her ground, knowing Ruairí would always have her back. That realization gave way to the knowledge that she likely trusted him more than she wanted or planned.
Lifting her chin, she offered a welcoming smile to the glowering stranger. “Sure, and that’s one way to make your presence known, but if you’re wanting a room, you could’ve come through the front door.”
A twinkle appeared in his ocean-blue eyes, but his scowl remained. “Are you the owner of this place, then? Bridget O’Malley?”
Ruairí answered before she could. “Depends who’s askin’.”
“I’m askin’, and it wasn’t you who I was addressin’,” the stranger growled, narrowing his eyes in challenge.
Ronan shifted in front of her, and she once again darted around him and closer to the posturing newcomer.
“I am… Bridget O’Malley, that is.” She held out a hand and was surprised when he took it in a gentle hold to shake.
“Then I’m happy to meet ya, girl.” He turned contemplative as he studied her face, not releasing her. “You’re meant to be a great witch, ya are,” he said softly. “What’s holdin’ ya back?”
“Fear,” she blurted, then nearly choked on her tongue. Never would she have told another living soul her innermost secrets. She wasn’t usually forthcoming with her weaknesses. Roisin had only ever received a watered-down version of Bridget’s thoughts and feelings when she asked. “How… are you… how…?” she sputtered.
His smile was devilish, and his impossibly blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ve a few more questions for ya, child. Are you willin’ to sit with me a spell and have a pint?”
She thought about it for less than ten seconds before she nodded. “One condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t try to murder me or abduct me from my own pub.” She placed her hands on her hips and gave him a saucy smile. “It’s too bleedin’ early in the morning for drama.”
He laughed, and the rumbly sound was oddly soothing. “Aye. I can promise you that.”
“Good.” She turned toward Ruairí and wasn’t surprised to see his anger simmering below the surface. His flushed cheeks and snapping eyes were laser focused on the stranger.
“You’ll not be alone with her. Not until we know you don’t work for Loman O’Connor.”
“I owe you no explanation, boyo, but I’ll grant that I don’t know the man you speak of if that will make you stand down.”
Bridget walked to Ruairí and placed a hand on his crossed arms. “If you would stay and make breakfast for the others, I’d be grateful.”
Never breaking his staring contest with the dark-haired stranger, he lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. Three towering stacks of crêpes, paired with three large bowls of various berry toppings and a heaping bowl of whipped cream, now took up half the table. A long platter filled with a variety of meat took up the other half.
“Breakfast is served,” he said shortly.
“You forgot the juice, coffee, and tea,” Ronan said with a muffled laugh.