“Boyle?” And damn it, Iona felt her heart jump.
“No. Cabhan.”
This time her nerves jumped even as she and Meara pushed off the couch.
“There’s fog all around the house, pressed right up to the windows like a Peeping Tom.”
“What should we do?” Iona saw it now, the gray curtain of it as she stepped to the glass with her friends. “We should do something.”
“We will. We’ll have music. He can’t go past my shield on this place,” Branna said as she calmly took out the fiddle, the bow. “So we’ll have more wine, and we’ll have music. And we’ll shove the sound of it right up his arse.”
“Something lively then.” Meara shot her middle finger at the window before she turned. “Something for dancing. I’ll see if I can teach Iona a few steps.”
“I’m a fast learner,” she said, as much to what lurked outside as to Meara.
17
THE HANGOVER WOKE HER, THE STEADY THROB, THROB, throb in her temples that picked up the beat from the bang, bang, bang in the center of her skull.
She’d had worse, Iona thought, but not by much.
She considered pulling the covers over her head and trying to sleep it off, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—miss work. Cautiously she opened her eyes, then squinted at the living room window.
Not in bed, she realized, but on the couch with a pretty throw in melting shades of purple tucked around her. She remembered now. She’d stretched out on the couch after dancing herself breathless and after joining her friends in a song or two.
She didn’t have their quality of voice, but she knew the words thanks to Nan, and could pull off some decent harmony.
Plus it was fun, she thought. And defiant, making song as the fog curled outside.
She’d drunk, eaten, talked, laughed, then sung and danced her way through that first awful punch of pain. And now she had a hangover to distract her, and that was all to the good.
She hadn’t cried—or not enough to count—and that was even better.
She’d down a gallon of water, a bottle or two of aspirin, make herself eat something. Then shower for a few days. All better.
And she’d work through the rest.
Sometime between the first glass of wine and the last, she determined she’d go to the stables as usual. She wouldn’t crawl off and quit a job she loved because her boss—her lover—had broken her all-too-fragile heart.
If he wanted her gone, he’d have to fire her.
She got up, shuffled her way to the kitchen. She’d gulped down water, some aspirin, and was contemplating trying some dry toast when Meara walked in looking annoyingly bright-eyed and rosy.
“Got a bit of a head this morning, do you?”
Iona gave Meara as close to the stink eye as she could manage. “Why don’t you?”
“Oh, I’ve a head like a rock and a stomach like iron.” She spoke cheerfully as she put on coffee. “Can’t remember ever being the worse for wear after a drinking night.”
“I hate you.”
“And who’s to blame you? We left you where you dropped last night, as it seemed best. Since I’d brought a change with me in case we made a night of it, I slept in your room. You’ll want the coffee and some food in your system. Oatmeal, I’m thinking.”
Iona winced. “Really?”
“Good and healthy. I’ll make it up, as Branna won’t be stirring as yet.”
“Does she have a head like a rock and a stomach like iron, too?”