The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  “So the years passed, with Carrick grieving and Lady Gwen doing what was expected of her. She birthed her children, and took joy in them. She tended her flowers, and she remembered love. For though her husband was a good man, he had never touched her heart in its deepest chambers. And she grew old, her face and her body aging, while her heart stayed young with the wistful wishes of a maid.”

  “It’s sad.”

  “ ’Tis, yes, but not yet over. As time is different for faeries than for mortals, one day Carrick mounted his winged horse and flew out over the sea, and dived deep, deep into it to find its heart. There, the pulse of it flowed into his silver bag and became sapphires. These he took to Lady Gwen, whose children had children now, whose hair had gone white and whose eyes had grown dim. But all the faerie prince saw was the maid he loved and longed for. At her feet, he spilled the sapphires. ‘These are the heart of the sea. They are my constancy. Take them, and me, for I will give you all I have, and more.’

  “And this time, with the wisdom of age, she saw what she had done by turning away love for duty. For never once trusting her heart. And what he had done, for offering jewels, but not giving her the one thing that may have swayed her to him.”

  Without realizing it, Aidan closed his fingers over Jude’s on the table. As they linked together, that little sunbeam danced back.

  “And that it was the words of love—rather than passion, rather than longing, even rather than constancy—she’d needed. But now she was old and bent, and she knew as the faerie prince couldn’t, not being mortal, that it was too late. She wept the bitter tears of an old woman and told him that her life was ended. And she said that if he had brought her love rather than jewels, had spoken of love rather than passion, and longing and constancy, her heart might have won over duty. He had been too proud, she said, and she too blind to see her heart’s desire.

  “Her words angered him, for he had brought her love, time and again, in the only way he knew. And this time before he walked away from her, he cast a spell. She would wander and she would wait, as he had, year after year, alone and lonely, until true hearts met and accepted the gifts he had offered her. Three times to meet, three times to accept before the spell could be broken. He mounted and flew into the night, and the jewels at her feet again became flowers. She died that very night, and on her grave flowers sprang up season to season while the spirit of Lady Gwen, lovely as the young maid, waits and weeps for love lost.”

  Jude felt weepy herself and oddly unsettled. “Why didn’t he take her away then, tell her it didn’t matter?”

  “That’s not the way it happened. And wouldn’t you say, Jude Frances, that the moral is to trust your heart, and never turn away from love?”

  She caught herself, and realizing she’d been too wrapped up in the tale, even as her hand was in his, drew back. “It might be, or that following duty provides you with a long, contented life if not a flashy one. Jewels weren’t the answer, however impressive. He should have looked back to see them turn into flowers—flowers she kept.”

  “As I said, you’ve a strong mind. Aye, she kept his flowers.” Aidan flicked a finger over the petals in the bottle. “She was a simple woman with simple ways. But there’s a bigger point to the tale.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Love.” Over the blooms, his eyes met hers. “Love, whatever the time, whatever the obstacles, lasts. They’re only waiting now for the spell to run its course, then she’ll join him in his silver palace beneath the faerie hill.”

  She had to pull herself out of the story and into the reasoning, she reminded herself. The analysis. “Legends often have strings attached. Quests, tasks, provisions. Even in folklore the prize rarely comes free. The symbolism in this one is traditional. The motherless maid caring for her aging father, the young prince on a white horse. The use of the elements: sun, moon, sea. Little is said about the man she married, as he’s only a vehicle used to keep the lovers apart.”

  Busily making notes, she glanced up, saw Aidan studying her thoughtfully. “What?”

  “It’s appealing, the way you shift back and forth.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “When I’m telling it to you, you’re all dreamy-eyed and going soft, now here you are, sitting up straight and proper, all businesslike, putting pieces of the story that charmed you into little compartments.”

  “That’s precisely the point. And I wasn’t dreamy-eyed.”

  “I’d know better about that, wouldn’t I, as I was the one looking at you.” His voice warmed again, flowed over her. “You’ve sea goddess eyes, Jude Frances. Big and misty green. I’ve been seeing them in my mind even when you’re not around. What do you think of that?”

  “I think you have a clever tongue.” She got up, without a clue what she intended to do. For lack of anything else, she carried the teapot back to the stove. “Which is why you tell a very entertaining story. I’d like to hear more, to coordinate them with those from my grandmother and others.”

  She turned back around, jolted when she realized he was standing just behind her. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing at the moment.” Ah, boxed you in now, haven’t I? he thought, but kept his voice easy. “I’m happy enough to tell you tales.” Smoothly, he rested his hands on the edge of the stove on either side of her. “And if you’ve a mind to, you can come into the pub on a quiet night and find others who’ll do the same.”

  “Yes.” Panic was beating bat wings in her stomach. “That’s a good idea. I should—”

  “Did you enjoy yourself last night? The music?”

  “Mmmm.” He smelled of rain, and of man. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. “Yes. The music was wonderful.”

  “Is it that you don’t know the tunes?” He was close now, very close, and could see a thin ring of amber between the silky black of her pupils and the misty green of the iris.

  “Ah, I know some of them. Do you want more tea?”

  “I wouldn’t mind it. Why didn’t you sing then?”

  “Sing?” Her throat was bone-dry, a desert of nerves.

  “I had my eye on you, most of the time. You never sang along, chorus or verse.”

  “Oh, well. No.” He really had to move. He was taking all her air. “I don’t sing, except when I’m nervous.”

  “Is that the truth, then?” Watching her face, he moved in, sliding his body into an amazing fit against hers.

  She knew what to do with her hands now. They lifted quickly to brace against his chest. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve a mind to hear you sing, so I’m making you nervous.”

  She managed a stuttering laugh, but when she tried to shift she only succeeded in pressing more firmly against him. “Aidan—”

  “Just a little nervous,” he murmured and lowered his mouth to nip gently at her jaw. “You’re trembling.” Another nip, teasing and light. “Easy now, I’m after stirring you up, not frightening you to death.”

  He was doing both. Her heart was rapping against her ribs, ringing in her ears. While he slowly nibbled his way over her jaw, her hands were trapped against the solid wall of his chest. And she felt marvelously weak and female.

  “Aidan, you’re . . . This is . . . I don’t think—”

  “That’s fine, then, a fine idea. Let’s neither of us think for just a minute here.”

  He caught her bottom lip—the wide, soft wonder of it—between his teeth. She moaned, quiet; her eyes clouded, dark. A spear of pure and reckless lust shot straight to his loins.

  “Jesus, you’re a sweet one.” His hand lifted from the stove, fingers skimming over her collarbone. As he held her where he wanted her, he took her mouth. Sampling, then savoring, then wallowing in the taste of her.

  Even as she slid toward surrender, he used his teeth to make her gasp. And went deeper than he’d intended.

  Still she trembled, putting him in mind of a volcano poised to erupt, a storm ready to strike. Her hands remained trapped
between them, but her fingers gripped his shirt now and held fast.

  She heard him murmur something, a whisper against the wall of sound that was her blood raging. His mouth, so hot, so skilled, his body, so hard, so strong. And his hands, light as moth wings on her face. She could do nothing but give, and give, even as some shocking, unrecognizable part of her urged her to take.

  And when he drew away it was as if her world tilted and spilled her out.

  He kept his hands on her face, waited for her eyes to open, focus. He’d intended only to taste, to enjoy the moment. To see. But it had gone beyond intentions into something just out of his control. “Will you let me have you?”

  Her eyes were huge, glazed with confusion and pleasure. And nearly brought him to his knees. He didn’t particularly care for the sensation.

  “I . . . what?”

  “Come upstairs and lie with me.”

  Shock came a bare instant before she simply nodded her head. “I can’t. No. This is completely irresponsible.”

  “Is there someone in America who has a hold on you?”

  “A hold?” Why wouldn’t her brain function? “Oh. No, I’m not involved with anyone.” The sudden gleam in Aidan’s eyes had her straining back. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to just . . . I don’t sleep with men I barely know.”

  “At the moment, I feel we know each other pretty well.”

  “That’s a physical reaction.”

  “You’re damn right.” He kissed her again, hard and hot.

  “I can’t breathe.”

  “I’m having a bit of trouble with that myself.” It was against his natural instincts, but he stepped away. “Well, what do we do about this, then, Jude Frances? Analyze it on an intellectual level?”

  His voice might have carried the musical lilt of Ireland, but it could still slash. Because she wanted to wince, she straightened her shoulders. “I’m not going to apologize for not jumping into bed with you. And if I prefer to function on an intellectual level, it’s my business.”

  He closed his mouth before the snarl escaped, then jammed his hands in his pockets and paced up and down the tiny room. “Do you always have to be reasonable?”

  “Yes.”

  He stopped, eyed her narrowly, then to her complete confusion, threw back his head and laughed. “Damn it, Jude, if you’d shout or throw something, we could have a nice bloody fight and end it wrestling on the kitchen floor. And, speaking for myself, I’d feel a hell of a lot more satisfied.”

  She allowed herself a quiet breath. “I don’t shout or throw things or wrestle.”

  He lifted a brow. “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  His grin came fast this time, a flash of humor and challenge. “I bet I can change that.” He stepped toward her, shaking his head when she backed away. He caught a loose strand of her hair and tugged. “Will you wager on it?”

  “No.” She tried a hesitant smile. “I don’t gamble either.”

  “You walk around with a name like Murray, then tell me you don’t gamble. It’s a disgrace you are to your blood.”

  “I’m a testament to my breeding.”

  “I’ll put my money on the blood every time.” He rocked back on his heels, considering her. “Well, I’d best start back. A walk in the rain’ll clear my head.”

  She steadied herself as he took his jacket from the hook. “You’re not angry?”

  “Why would I be?” His gaze whipped to hers, bright and intense. “You’ve a right to say no, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, but I imagine a number of men would still be angry.”

  “I’m not a number of men, then, am I? And, added to that, I mean to have you, and I will. It doesn’t have to be today.”

  He flashed her another grin when her mouth fell open, then walked to the door. “Think of that, and of me, Jude Frances, until I get my hands on you again.”

  When the door closed behind him, she stood exactly where she was. And though she did think of that, and of him, and of all the pithy, lowering, brilliant responses she should have made, she thought a great deal more of what it had been like to be held against him.

  SEVEN

  I ’M COMPILING STORIES, Jude wrote in her journal, and find the project even more interesting than I’d expected. The tapes my grandmother sent bring her here. While I’m listening to them, it’s almost as if she’s sitting across from me. Or, sweeter somehow, as if I were a child again and she had come by to tell me a bedtime story.

  She prefaces her telling of the Lady Gwen tale by stating she’d never told me this story. She must be mistaken, as portions of it were very familiar to me while Aidan was relating it to me.

  Logically, I dreamed of it because the memory of the story was in my subconscious and being in the cottage tripped it free.

  Jude stopped typing, pushed back, drummed her fingers. Yes, of course, that was it. She felt better now that she’d written it down. It was exactly the exercise she always gave to her first-year students. Write down your thoughts on a certain problem or indecision, in conversational style, without filters. Then sit back, read, and explore the answers you’ve found.

  So why hadn’t she documented her encounter with Aidan in her journal? She’d written nothing about the way he’d caged her between the stove and his body, the way he’d nibbled on her as she were something tasty. Nothing about how she felt or what she thought.

  Oh, God. Just the memory of it had her stomach flipping.

  It was part of her experience, after all, and her journal was designed to include her experiences, her thoughts and feelings about them.

  She didn’t want to know her thoughts and feelings, she reminded herself. Every time she tried to think about it in a reasonable manner, those feelings took over and turned her mind to mush.

  “Besides, it’s not relevant,” she said aloud.

  She huffed out a breath, rolled her shoulders, and put her fingers back on the keys.

  It was interesting to note that my grandmother’s version of the Lady Gwen tale was almost exactly the same as Aidan’s. The delivery of each was defined by the teller, but the characters, details, the tone of the story were parallel.

  This is a clear case of well-practiced and skilled oral tradition, which indicates a people who respect the art enough to keep it as pure as possible. It also indicates to me, psychologically, how a story becomes legend and legend becomes accepted as truth. The mind hears, again and again, the same story with the same rhythm, the same tone, and begins to accept it as real.

  I dream about them.

  Jude stopped again, stared at the screen. She hadn’t meant to type that. The thought had slipped into her mind and down through her fingers. But it was true, wasn’t it? She dreamed about them almost nightly now—the prince on the winged white horse who looked remarkably like the man she’d met at Maude’s grave. The sober-eyed woman whose face was a reflection of the one she thought she’d seen—had seen, Jude corrected, in the window of the cottage.

  Her subconscious had given them those faces, of course. That was perfectly natural. The events in the story were said to have happened at the cottage where she lived, so naturally the seeds had been planted and they bloomed in dreams.

  It was nothing to be surprised by or concerned about.

  Still, she decided she was in the wrong mood for journal entries or exercises and turned off the machine. Since Sunday she’d kept very close to the cottage—to work, she assured herself. Not because she was avoiding anyone. And though the work was satisfying her, fueling her in a way, it was time to get out.

  She could drive into Waterford for some supplies and those gardening books. She could explore more of the countryside, instead of just roaming the hills and fields near her house. Surely the more she drove, the more comfortable she’d be with driving.

  Solitude, she reminded herself, was soothing. But it could also become stifling. And it could make you forgetful, she decided. Hadn’t she had to look at
the calendar that morning just to figure out if it was Wednesday or Thursday?

  Out, she told herself while she hunted up her purse and her keys. Explore, shop, see people. Take photographs, she added, stuffing her camera in her purse, to send to her grandmother with the next letter home.

  Maybe she would linger and treat herself to a nice dinner in the city.

  But the minute she stepped outside, she realized it was here she wanted to linger, right here in the pretty garden with her view of the green fields and the shadowy mountains and wild cliffs.

  What harm would it do to spend just half an hour weeding before she left? Okay, she wasn’t dressed for weeding, but so what? Did she or did she not know how to do her own laundry now?

  Except for the sweater she’d managed to shrink to doll size, that little experiment had come off very well.

  So she didn’t know a weed from a daisy. She had to learn, didn’t she? She just wouldn’t yank anything that looked pretty.

  The air was so soft, the light so lovely, the clouds so thick and white.

  When the yellow dog bounded up to dance at her gate, she gave in. Just half an hour, she promised herself as she walked over to let her in.

  Jude delighted the dog with strokes and scratches until she all but dissolved at Jude’s feet in a puddle of devotion.

  “Caesar and Cleo never let me pet them,” she murmured, thinking of her mother’s snobbish cats. “They have too much dignity.” Then she laughed as the dog sprawled on her back to expose her belly. “You just don’t have any dignity at all. That’s what I like about you.”

  She’d made a mental note to include dog treats on her supply list when Brenna’s pickup bumped along the road and zipped into her drive.

  “Well, you’ve met Betty, then.”

  “Is that her name?” Jude hoped her grin wasn’t as foolish as it felt on her face as the dog nuzzled her nose into her hand. “She’s very friendly.”