The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  Brenna blinked, then her eyes gleamed with amused pleasure. “Oh, she’ll like that one. I’ll be sure to save that for the next time she’s ready to kick my ass over something. Well, look here at what’s strolling up the road, handsome as two devils and just as dangerous.”

  Even as Jude’s lovely relaxation sprang into one sticky ball of tension, Brenna was braking at the narrow drive of the cottage and leaning out to call to Aidan.

  “There’s a wild rover.”

  “Never, no more,” he said with a wink, then took the hand she’d laid on the window to examine the skinned knuckles. “What have you done to yourself now?”

  “Bloody bastard refrigerator took a bite out of me.”

  He clucked his tongue, lifted the scrape to his lips. But his gaze drifted to Jude. “And where are you two lovely ladies bound for?”

  “I’m just bringing Jude back from a visit with my mother, and I’m off to Betsy Clooney’s to bang on her windows.”

  “If you or your dad has the time tomorrow, the stove at the pub’s acting up and Shawn’s sulking over it.”

  “One of us’ll have a look.”

  “Thanks. I’ll just take your passenger off your hands.”

  “Have a care with her,” Brenna said as he walked around the truck. “I like her.”

  “So do I.” He opened the door, held out a hand. “But I make her nervous. Don’t I, Jude Frances?”

  “Of course not.” She started to climb out, then ruined the casual elegance she’d hoped for by jerking back again because she’d forgotten to unhook her seat belt.

  Before she could fumble with it, Aidan released it himself, then simply nipped her by the waist and lifted her down. Since that tangled her tongue into knots, she didn’t manage to thank Brenna again before that young woman, with a wave and a grin, took the truck barreling down the road.

  “Drives like a demon, that girl.” With a shake of his head, Aidan released Jude, only to take her hands. “You haven’t been down to the pub all week.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Not so busy now.”

  “Yes, actually, I should—”

  “Invite me in and fix me a sandwich.” When she simply gaped at him, he laughed. “Or failing that, go walking with me. It’s a fine day for walking. I won’t kiss you unless you want me to, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Well, then.” He lowered his head, got within an inch of his pleasure when she stumbled back.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I was afraid of that.” But he eased away. “Just a walk then. Have you been up to Tower Hill to look at the cathedral?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “And with your curious mind? Then we’ll walk that way, and I’ll tell you a story for your paper.”

  “I don’t have my recorder.”

  Slowly, he lifted one of the hands he still held and brushed his lips over the knuckles. “Then I’ll make it a simple one, so you remember it.”

  EIGHT

  HE WAS RIGHT about the day. It was a perfect one for walking. The light glowed like the inside of a pearl. Luminous, with a slight sheen of damp. She could see, over the hills and fields rolling toward the mountains, a thin and silvery curtain that was certainly a line of rain.

  Sunlight poured through it in beams and ripples, liquid gold through liquid silver.

  It was the kind of day that begged for rainbows.

  The breeze was just a teasing shimmer on the air, fluttering leaves growing toward their summer ripeness and surrounding her with the scent of green.

  He held her hand with the careless, loose-fingered grip of familiarity and made her feel simple.

  Relaxed, at ease, and simple.

  Words rolled off his tongue to charm her.

  “Once, it’s said, there was a young maid. Fair as a dream was her face, with skin white and clear as milk and hair black as midnight, eyes blue as a lake. More than her beauty was the loveliness of her manner, for a kind maid was she. And more than her manner was the glory of her voice. When she sang, the birds stilled to listen and the angels smiled.”

  As they climbed the hill, the sea began to sing as backdrop, or so it seemed, to his story.

  “Many’s the morning her song would carry over the hills, and the joy of it rivaled the sun,” he continued, and tugged her along the path. As they walked on, the breeze turned to wind and danced merrily over sea and rock.

  “Now the sound of it, the pure joy of it, caught the ear and the envy of a witch.”

  “There’s always a catch,” Jude commented and made him chuckle.

  “Sure and there’s a catch if the story’s a good one. Now this witch had a black heart and the powers she had she abused. She soured the morning milk and caused the nets of the fisherfolk to come up empty. Though she could use her arts to disguise her vile face into beauty, when she opened her mouth to sing, a frog’s croaking was more musical. She hated the maid for her gift of song, and so cast a spell on her and rendered her mute.”

  “But there was a cure—involving a handsome prince?”

  “Oh, there was a cure, for evil should always be confounded by good.”

  Jude smiled because she believed it. Despite all logic, she believed in the happy-ever-after. And such things seemed more than merely possible here, in this world of cliffs and wild grass, of sea with red fishing trawlers streaming over deep blue, of firm hands clasped warm over hers.

  They seemed inevitable.

  “The maid was doomed to silence, unable to share the joy in her heart through her songs, as the witch trapped it inside a silver box and locked it with a silver key. Inside the box, the voice wept as it sang.”

  “Why are Irish stories always so sad?”

  “Are they?” He looked sincerely surprised. “It’s not sad so much as . . . poignant. Poetry doesn’t most usually spring from joy, does it, but from sorrows.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She brushed absently at her hair as the wind tugged tendrils free. “What happened next?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. For five years the maid walked these hills and the fields, and the cliffs as we walk them now. She listened to the song of the birds, the music of the wind in the grass, the drumbeat of the sea. And these she stored inside her, while the witch hoarded the joy and passion and purity of the maid’s voice inside the silver box, so only she could hear it.”

  As they reached the top of the hill with the shadow of the old cathedral, the sturdy spear of the round tower, Aidan turned to Jude, whisked her hair back from her face with his fingers. “What happened next?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  “Tell me what happened next.”

  “But it’s your story.”

  He reached down to where little white flowers struggled to bloom in the cracks of tumbled rocks. Picking one, he slid it into her hair. “Tell me, Jude Frances, what you’d like to happen next.”

  She started to reach up for the flower, but he caught her hand, lifted a brow. After a moment’s thought, she shrugged. “Well, one day a handsome young man rode over the hills. His great white horse was weary, and his armor dull and battered. He was lost and injured from battle, and a long way from home.”

  She could see it, closing her eyes. The woods and shadows, the wounded warrior longing for home.

  “As he moved into the forests, the mists swirled in so he could hear nothing but the labored breathing of his own heart. With each beat counted, he understood he came closer to the last.

  “Then he saw her, coming toward him through the mists like a woman wading through a silver river. Because he was ill and in need, the maid took him in and tended his wounds in silence, nursed him through his fevers. Though she was unable to speak to comfort him, her gentleness was enough. So they fell in love without words, and her heart almost burst from the need to tell him, to sing out her joy and her devotion. And without hesitation, without regret, she agreed to go with him to his
home far away and leave behind her own, her friends and family and that part of herself locked tight in a silver box.”

  Because she could see it, feel it, even as she spoke, Jude shook her head, moved through the tilted gravestones to lean back against the round tower. The bay swept out below, a spectacular blue where the red boats bobbed, but she was caught in the story.

  “What happens next?” she asked Aidan.

  “She mounted the horse with him,” he continued, picking up the threads she’d left for him as if they’d been his own. “Bringing with her only her faith and her love, and asking for nothing but his in return. And at that moment, the silver box, still clutched in the greedy hands of the witch, burst open. The voice trapped inside flew out, a golden stream that winged its way over the hills and into the heart of the maid. And as she rode off with her man, her voice, more beautiful than ever, sang out. And the birds stilled to listen, and the angels smiled again.”

  Jude sighed. “Yes, that was perfect.”

  “You’ve a way with telling a story.”

  The words thrilled her, rocked her, then made her feel shy all over again. “No, not really. It was easy because you’d started it.”

  “You filled in the middle part, and in a lovely way that makes me think not all the Irish has been drummed out of you after all. There now,” he murmured, pleased. “You’ve a laugh in your eyes and a flower in your hair. Let me kiss you now, will you, Jude Frances?”

  She moved fast. Caution, she told herself, sometimes had to be quick. Ducking under his arm, she scooted around him. “You’ll make me forget why we walked here. I’ve read about round towers, but I’ve never seen one up close.”

  Patience, Gallagher, he thought, and tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “Someone was always trying to invade and conquer the jewel of Ireland. But we’re still here, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, you’re still here.” She turned a slow circle, studying hill and cliff and sea. “It’s a wonderful spot. It feels old.” She stopped, shook her head. “That sounds ridiculous.”

  “Not at all. It does feel old—and sacred. If you listen well, you can hear the stones sing of battle and of glory.”

  “I don’t think I have the ear for singing stones.” She wandered, skirting the carved markers, the graves laden with flowers, and picked her way over the rough ground. “My grandmother told me she used to come up here and sit. I bet she heard them.”

  “Why didn’t she come with you?”

  “I wanted her to.” She brushed her hair back as she turned to face him. He fit here, she thought, with the old and the sacred, with the songs of battle and glory.

  Where, she wondered, did she fit?

  She walked inside the old ruin where the sky soared overhead for a roof. “I think she’s teaching me a lesson—how to be Jude in six months or less.”

  “And are you learning?”

  “Maybe.” She traced her fingers over the ogham carving, and for a moment, just a moment, felt them tingle with heat.

  “What does Jude want to be?”

  “That’s too general a question, with too many simple answers like happy, healthy, successful.”

  “Aren’t you happy?”

  “I. . .” Her fingers danced over the stones again, dropped away. “I wasn’t happy teaching, in the end anyway. I wasn’t good at it. It’s discouraging not to be good at what you’ve chosen as your life’s work.”

  “Your life is far from done, so you’ve more than time enough to choose again. And I’ll wager you were better at it than you decided to believe.”

  She glanced up at him, then began to walk out again. “Why would you think so?”

  “Because in the time I’ve spent with you I’ve listened to you, and learned.”

  “Why are you spending time with me, Aidan?”

  “I like you.”

  She shook her head again. “You don’t know me. If I haven’t figured myself out yet, you can’t know me.”

  “I like what I see.”

  “So it’s a physical sort of attraction.”

  That quick brow quirked again. “And is that a problem for you, then?”

  “Yes, actually.” But she managed to turn and face him. “One I’m working on.”

  “Well, I hope you work fast because I want the pleasure of you.”

  Her breath clogged and had to be released slowly and deliberately. “I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve never had a conversation like this in my life, so obviously I don’t know what to say to that, except something that’s bound to sound incredibly stupid.”

  He frowned as he stepped toward her. “Why would it sound stupid if it’s what you’re thinking?”

  “Because I have a habit of saying stupid things when I’m nervous.”

  He slipped the flower stem deeper into her hair as the wind wanted to tug it free again. “I thought you sang when you were nervous.”

  “One or the other,” she muttered, moving backward to keep what she thought was a safe distance.

  “You’re nervous now?”

  “Yes! God!” Knowing she was close to stuttering, she held her hands up to hold him off. “Just stop. I’ve never had anything tie me up like this. Instant attraction. I said I believe in it, and I do, but I’ve never felt it before. I have to think about it.”

  “Why?” It was a simple matter to reach out, grab her by the wrists, and tug her forward against him. “Why not just act on it when you know it’ll feel good? Your pulse is jumping.” His thumbs skimmed over her wrist. “I like feeling it leap like that, seeing your eyes go cloudy and dark. Why don’t you kiss me this time and see what happens next?”

  “I’m not as good at it as you are.”

  Now he laughed. “Jesus, woman, you’re quite the package. Let me decide for myself if you’re good at it or not. Come on and kiss me, Jude. Whatever happens next is up to you.”

  She wanted to. Wanted to feel his mouth against hers again, the shape and texture and flavor of it. Just now his lips were curved, and the light of fun was in his eyes. Fun, she thought. Why couldn’t it just be fun?

  With his fingers still lightly braceleting her wrists, she leaned toward him. And he watched her. She rose onto her toes, still his eyes stayed on hers. Tilting her head just slightly, she eased up to brush her lips over his.

  “Do it again, why don’t you?”

  So she did, mesmerized when his eyes stayed open, compelling hers to do the same. She lingered longer this time, brushing left, then right. Fascinating. Experimenting, she scraped her teeth lightly, over his bottom lip and heard her own quiet sound of pleasure as from a great distance.

  His eyes were so blue, as vivid as the water that stretched to the horizon. It seemed her world turned that single, marvelous color. Her heart began to pound, her vision to blur as it had that first time at Maude’s grave.

  She said his name, just one sigh, then threw her arms around him.

  The jolt rocked him to the soles of his feet, the sudden heat, the abrupt burst of power that whipped out of her and snaked around him like rope.

  His hands streaked up, over her hips, her back, into her hair to grip hard and fast. The kiss changed from a coy brush and nibble to a wild war of tongues and teeth and lips where body strained to body and pulse thundered against pulse.

  In that warm cascade of sensation, she lost herself. Or perhaps she found the Jude that had been trapped inside her—like a voice locked in a silver box.

  Later, she would swear she heard the stones sing.

  She buried her face in the curve of his neck and gulped in the scent of him like water.

  “This is too fast.” Even as she said it she locked her arms around him. “I can’t breathe, I can’t think. I can’t believe what’s going on inside my body.”

  He gave a weak laugh and nuzzled her hair. “If it’s anything to what’s going on inside mine, we’re likely to explode any second here. Darling, we could be back at the cottage in minutes, and I’d have you in bed in the blink of an eye
. I promise you we’d both feel a good deal better for it.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but I—”

  “Can’t go quite that fast, or you wouldn’t be Jude.”

  Though it cost him, he drew her back to study her face. More than pretty, he thought now, but solid as well. Why was it, he wondered, she didn’t seem to know just how pretty or just how solid she was?

  Because she didn’t, more time and more care were needed.

  “And I like Jude, as I’ve said before. You need some courting.”

  She couldn’t say if she was stunned, amused, or insulted. “I certainly don’t.”

  “Oh, but you do. You want flowers and words, and stolen kisses and walks in soft weather. It’s romance Jude Frances wants, and I’m the one to give it to you. Well, now, look at that face.” He caught her by the chin as an adult might a sulky child, and she decided insult won. “You’re pouting now.”

  “I certainly am not.” She would have jerked her face free, but he tightened his grip, then leaned down and kissed her firm on the mouth.

  “I’m the one who’s looking at you, sweetheart, and if that’s not a fine pout, I’m a Scotsman. It’s that you’re thinking I’m making fun of you, but I’m not, or not much anyway. What’s wrong with romance then? I’d like some myself.”

  His voice went warm and rich, like whiskey by the fire. “Will you give me long looks and warm smiles from across the room, and the brush of your hand on my arm? A hot, desperate kiss in the shadows? A touch”—he skimmed his fingertips over the curve of her breast and all but stopped her heart—“in secret?”

  “I didn’t come here looking for romance.”

  Hadn’t she? he thought. With her myths and legends and tales. “Looking or not, you’ll have it.” On that score his mind was made up. “And when I make love with you, the first time, it’ll be long and slow and sweet. That’s a promise. Walk back with me now, before the way you’re looking at me makes me break that promise as soon as I’ve made it.”

  “You just want to be in charge. In control of the situation.”