“You’re late.”

“It’s raining.”

“Is it? Send your dog over to Aisling’s. The children would enjoy the visit.”

She looked at Bollocks, who gave her hand a lick, then trotted off.

“How did you tell him?”

“I thought it.”

“Good.” He turned away, and carefully conjured three wraiths.

“Three at once? I can’t—”

He shot a finger out to silence her. “Stop talking. They’ll stay as they are as you learn. For one power, for another sword, for the third fists and feet. You choose. Choose wisely.”

Resigned—though she’d hoped for the day off and a visit with Morena and her grandparents—she picked up her sword.

She had a woman, on the plump side with a pleasant face, a demon dog, and—she thought—an elf.

Since the dog worried her most, she blasted it with power as she charged the elf, took him out with the sword. But when she turned to punch out at the woman, she turned into a bear, one with long, keen claws and sharp teeth.

“Well, shit!” She punched, aiming for midbody to avoid the teeth and claws. And, like hitting a brick wall, you didn’t bother the brick, but your hand hurt like fire.

“Not wisely.”

Her hair, a wild, wet mess, fell in her face. Disgusted, defensive, she shoved it back. “I went after the biggest threat first, and the elf almost simultaneously because he’d be fast. That’s sensible. And she looked like an aging milkmaid.”

“Do you believe things are always as they appear?” He knocked his knuckles lightly on Breen’s head. “You’re of the Fey, but you didn’t look.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Bollocks. You knew the elf.”

“I guessed . . . Or sensed.”

“Knew. Now.”

He dissolved the wraiths, conjured three more. All looked ordinary. Two women this time, one with gray hair and a basket of apples, one young with a white apron over a pink dress, and a man with a charming smile and thick golden-brown hair.

“Look. See. Act.”

“I—”

“Quickly.”

The snap in his voice jolted her, and maybe the jolt shook something loose, but she looked, saw, acted.

“Witch.” She hit the old woman with power. “Were.” Then took out the massive buck the man became with the sword before whirling into a kick that struck the young woman in the torso. “Faerie.”

“Good.”

He dissolved, then conjured, again and again. He seemed to have an endless supply.

“Good.” He dissolved the last trio. “Tomorrow one will move.”

Winded, dripping, she bent over to brace her hands on her knees. “Just one?”

“For now.”

She’d worry about that tomorrow. Besides, arguing with Keegan wasted breath she currently couldn’t spare.

“All right.”

She started to put the sword down, but he picked his up. “Now, I move.”

Soaked to the skin, she stared at him. “Wouldn’t you like some ale by the fire?”

“I would, and will have some. When we’re finished. Defend.”

She blocked. Mostly, she knew, because he didn’t come hard. Just as she knew that little courtesy wouldn’t last.

She tried to sneak in a power hit on the side, but he blocked her, then flicked her with a shock.

Since it would’ve been a mortal wound, she stepped back to acknowledge it.

“I’ve been fighting in this stupid rain for nearly an hour already,” she complained. “And you come in fresh.”

“So might an enemy.”

She fought. She’d never actually beaten him. Oh, she’d gotten some strikes in, when he wasn’t really trying, or like when they’d been on horseback and she’d taken him by surprise.

But for the most part, her goal with him was to stay alive and on her feet as long as possible.

It would be sweet, really sweet to take him down. With skill, with cunning, with power.

She started with cunning, feigning more fatigue than she felt. Gradually, he pulled back. Blocking weakly, breathing harder than she needed to, she searched for an opening.

She struck out with power and sword at once, and knew she’d rocked his balance. When she reared back for the killing blow, he punched back, but she blocked.

And was so thrilled, she spun too quickly, slid on the muddy ground. Cursing, she fell into him.

They both went down.

He gripped her so he hit first. Before she could think to be grateful he’d taken the worst of the fall, he rolled her over, and had his sword at her throat.

“Once again, you’re dead.”

“And wet, and muddy. I slipped.”

“Do you think battles only happen on bright days and dry ground?”

“I’ve never been in a battle. I didn’t used to have enemies.”

“Things change.” He removed his sword, but not his body. And took his sweet time considering her. “You pretended to flag so I’d hold back a bit.”

“It was working until I slipped.”

“You slipped because you didn’t remember your feet. But it was a good ploy.”

“I’m still dead. And wet and muddy.”

“You’re better than you were. You could hardly have gotten worse, but still better is better.”

“And somehow you think that’s a compliment.”

“Compliments are for ballrooms and trysts in moonslight. But one I can give you? You may not have the skill or mind of a warrior, but you have the body of one. You have strength and endurance. You had both when we began, and now you have more.”

And hair the rain had turned to long, wet, red ropes. Eyes gray as the broody sky and lips full as a joyful heart.

Beautiful. Not the breathtaking beauty of a Shana, but a more interesting one to his mind. A face, he thought, made to study and remember.

He studied her now, as she looked steadily back at him. Steady or not, heat rose into her cheeks—a redhead’s curse, flushing them like garden roses.

She felt him, he thought, and felt that shimmering heat as well. She wondered just as he did.

“Am I alive again?” she murmured.

“You appear to be.”

He started to lower his head, got a breath away from the taste of those full lips. And the shock ran along his ribs.

Now those full lips curved. “Now you’re dead, wet, and muddy.”

“Clever,” he muttered as frustration and admiration warred. “A woman should always use her wiles, as they’re a keener weapon than most blades.”

“You’d be the first to ever claim I had any to use.”

“You have them right enough.” He rolled off her, stood, then gripped her arm to haul her up. “The rain brings the dark early. We had some enemy scouts try to break the line in the south.”

“Oh.”

It made it real again. All too real.

“There’s no worry. We held them back, sent them back, shored it up. But I’ll walk you back over nonetheless. Marg would expect it,” he said before she could argue. “As would my mother. So you’ll give me an ale by the fire as my reward.”

“I don’t have any ale.”

Sincerely baffled, he stared at her. “That’s a sad and pitiful thing.”

“I have wine.”

“That will have to do. Call your dog.”

She looked over, and through the rain and gloom, saw the lights glowing in Aisling’s cottage. “I’ve never called him from so far.”

“Distance means nothing. Connection is all.”

She reached out to the dog, mind to mind, heart to heart.

Time to go home, Bollocks. Come on back, boy.

She felt the click—connection. In less than a minute, she heard the familiar happy bark.

“He loves you.” As he watched the dog race through the rain, Keegan shoved his dripping hair back. “He’ll always hear you, always come to you.”

He bounded up to greet her with licks and wags, then generously did the same with Keegan before they started for the road.

“There was a time I’d never have been caught in the rain without an umbrella—always prepared.” She shook her head. “It was cloudy when I left this morning, and probably rained on the other side, but I didn’t even think to grab an umbrella.”

“The wet won’t melt you.”

When Bollocks leaped over the wall, Keegan gripped Breen by the waist and lifted her over. “The story of the evil witch with the green face.”

“The Wizard of Oz.”

“Aye, that. The water from the pail wouldn’t have melted her, but it was a good story nonetheless. Mind your feet on the steps.”

“Do you have a favorite book?”

“Why a favorite when there are so many, and I haven’t read all of them?” He swirled his hand and brought globes of light to the gloom of the woods.

Unsure of herself, she dug for small talk. “Let’s try this. You’ve traveled in this world.”

“I have.”

“What did you like about it?”

“I liked the mountains and the vast open in your Montana, and the forests and the tall white mountains in the farther west. Here, in Ireland, I like the familiar green and quiet of the hills.”

“What about things?”

“Things?” In his fluid way, he reached down for a stick, then threw it for the dog to chase. “Ah, all the books. And the music, so much to hear. I like some of the television. And pizza. This is brilliant. I had the best of that in the land of Italy, I think, and there they have art that opens the heart or twists it.”

Here in the woods, the rain came as a little patter. She liked listening to his voice weave through it.

“I’m a fan of pizza myself, but of all the food in the world, that’s it?”

“Ice cream, in the cone. And burritos.” He shrugged. “There’s much good food in this world, and many things of value. You’ve built great cities that have their own kind of beauty, but such noise. A constant din. You have great art, but many who covet it, and want to close it in for only themselves. And people who have kindness and generosity, who love their children, help their neighbors. But so many with such anger and greed and envy. Some with hate boiling like poison in the blood. Those who strike with violence for no cause, wars, so many at once. Rulers who clutch power, but not for the common good. None of that is our way.”