by Nora Roberts
Aidan Gallagher. What a marvelous name.
He’s so handsome. I know it’s completely shallow to dwell on someone’s physical appearance, but . . . Well, if I can’t be shallow in the pages of my own journal, where can I be?
His hair is a deep, rich chestnut, and the sunlight teases out the red in it. He has wonderful eyes, a dark and brilliant blue, and when he turns them on me, just looks at me as he often does, everything inside me goes hot and soft. His is a strong face. Good bones, as Granny would say. His mouth smiles slow and easy, and there’s just the slightest of clefts in his chin.
His body . . . I can hardly believe I’ve had it over mine, under mine. It’s so hard and firm, with muscles like iron. Powerful, I suppose is the word.
My lover has a very powerful build.
I suppose that’s enough wallowing in the superficial.
All right . . . done.
His other qualities are just as impressive. He’s very kind and has a lively sense of humor. He listens. That’s a skill in danger of being lost, and Aidan’s is well honed.
His family ties are deep and strong, his work ethic admirable. I find his mind fascinating, and his skill in storytelling entertaining. The truth is, I could listen to him for hours.
He’s traveled extensively, seen places I’ve only dreamed of seeing. Now that his parents have settled in Boston, he’s taken over the family business and slipped into the role of head of the family with a calm and rather casual authority.
I know I shouldn’t be in love. What Aidan and I have is a satisfying physical relationship, and a lovely and affectionate friendship. Both are precious, and should be more than enough for anyone.
But I can’t help being in love with him.
I’ve come to realize that everything ever written about falling in love is absolutely true. The air’s sweeter, the sun brighter. I don’t think my feet have touched the ground in days.
It’s terrifying. And it’s wonderful.
Nothing I’ve ever experienced is like this. I had no idea I had such feelings inside me. Passionate and giddy and absolutely foolish feelings.
I know I’m the same person. I can look in the mirror and it’s still me looking back. Yet somehow there seems to be more of me. It’s as if pieces that were hidden or unacknowledged have suddenly tumbled into place.
I realize the physical and emotional stimuli, the charge of endorphins and . . . oh, the hell with that. This doesn’t need to be analyzed and slotted. It just has to be.
It’s so outrageously romantic, the way he walks to my cottage at night. Coming through the gloom or the moonlight to knock at my door. He brings me wildflowers or seashells or pretty stones.
He does things to my body I’ve only read about. Oh, God, reading has definitely taken second place.
I feel wanton. I have to laugh at myself. Jude Frances Murray has a sex drive. And it shows no signs of abating.
I’ve never had so much fun in my entire life.
I had no idea romance could be fun. Why didn’t someone tell me?
When I look in the mirror, I feel beautiful. Imagine that. I feel beautiful.
Today I’m picking Darcy up and we’re going to Dublin to shop. I’m going to buy extravagant things for no reason at all.
The Gallagher house was old and lovely and sat on the edge of the village, up a steep little hill and facing the sea. If Jude had asked, she would have been told that Shamus’s son, another Aidan, had built the house there the same year he married.
The Gallaghers didn’t make their living on the sea, but they enjoyed the look of it.
Other generations had added bits and pieces to the house over the years, as money and time had allowed. And now that there were many rooms, most of them had a view to the sea.
The house itself was dark wood and sand-colored stone that seemed to be cobbled together in no particular style. Jude found it intriguing and unique. It was two stories, with a wide front porch that needed a coat of paint and a narrow stone walk worn by traffic. Its windows were in diamond-shaped panes she imagined were the devil to keep clean.
She thought it was caught somewhere between grand and quaint, with just enough of both. And with the light morning fog just burning off around it, it held a bit of mystery as well.
She wondered what it had been like for Aidan to grow up there, in the big, rambling house, a stone’s throw from the beach and cozy enough to the village to have swarms of friends.
The gardens needed work, to Jude’s newly experienced eye, but they had a nice, wild way about them.
A lean black cat stretched out on the walkway gave Jude a steely stare out of golden eyes as she approached. Hoping he wouldn’t take a swipe at her, she crouched down tentatively to scratch between his ears.
He rewarded the attention by narrowing those eyes and letting out a purr that rumbled like a freight train.
“That’s Bub.” Shawn stood in the front doorway and shot Jude a grin. “Short for Beelzebub, as he’s a devil of a cat by nature. Come in and have some tea, Jude, for if you’re expecting Darcy to be ready on time, you don’t know her.”
“There’s no hurry.”
“That’s a good thing, as she’ll primp an hour just to run out for a quart of milk. God knows how long she’ll be admiring herself for a trip to Dublin.”
He stepped back to let Jude in, then tossed a shout over his shoulder toward the stairs. “Jude’s here, Darcy, and she says to get your vain ass moving if you expect a ride to Dublin City.”
“Oh, but I didn’t,” Jude burst out, flustered, and had Shawn laughing as he drew her firmly inside.
“She won’t pay any mind. Can I get you some tea, then?”
“I’m fine, really.” She glanced around, noting that the living room spilling off the little foyer was cluttered and comfortable.
Home, she thought again. It said home and family. And welcome.
“Aidan’s down the pub seeing to deliveries.” Shawn took her hand in a friendly manner and tugged her into the living room. He’d been wanting to have some time with her, to take stock of the woman who had his brother so enchanted. “So you’ll have to make do with me.”
“Oh. Well, that doesn’t sound like a hardship.”
When he laughed again she realized she’d never have flirted so easily, so harmlessly with a man a few months before. Certainly not one with a face like a wicked angel.
“My brother hasn’t given me opportunity to have more than a word with you up to now.” Shawn’s eyes twinkled. “Keeping you to himself as he is.”
“You’re always in the kitchen when I come into the pub.”
“Where they keep me chained. But we can make up for it now.”
He was flirting right back with her, she realized, just as harmlessly. It didn’t make her nervous. It didn’t give her those odd and lovely liquid pulls that flirting with Aidan did. It just made her comfortable.
“Then I’ll start by saying you have a lovely house.”
“We’re happy with it.” He led her to a chair, and when she sat, made himself comfortable on the arm of it. “Darcy and I rattle about well enough.”
“It’s made for more people. A big family, lots of children.”
“It’s held that more often than it hasn’t. Our father was one of ten.”
“Ten? Good God!”
“We’ve uncles and aunts and cousins scattered all over and back again—Gallaghers and Fitzgeralds. You being one of them,” he added with a grin. “I remember as a boy having packs of them coming in and out of the house from time to time, so I was always sharing me bed with some lad who was my cousin from Wicklow or Boston or Devonshire.”
“Do they still come back?”
“Now and then. You did, cousin Jude.” He liked the way she smiled at that, sweet and a little shy. “But it’s Darcy and me in the house most times now. And will be until the first of the three of us decides to marry and start a family. The house’ll go to the one who does.”
“Won’t th
e other two mind?”
“No. That’s the Gallagher way.”
“And you’ll know you’ll always be welcome here, that it’ll still be home.”
“That’s right.” He said it quietly because he read tones and nuances well, and could see she was yearning for a home of her own. “Do you have a house in Chicago?”
“No. It’s a condo like a glorified flat,” she added, then suddenly restless, rose. Flat, she thought again, was precisely how it seemed to her now. “This is a wonderful spot. You can watch the sea.”
She started to walk to a window, then stopped by a battered old piano. The keys were yellowed, and several of them chipped, and over the scarred wood sheet music was scattered. “Who plays?”
“All of us.” Shawn came up beside her, put his long fingers over the keys and played a quick series of chords. Battered the instrument might have been, but its notes rang sweet and true. “Do you play as well?”
“A little. Not very well.” She blew out a breath, reminding herself not to be such a moron. “Yes.”
“Which is it?”
“Yes, I play.”
“Well, then, let’s hear it.” He gave her a nudge, hip against hip, that surprised her into sitting down on the bench.
“I haven’t played in months,” she began, but he was already riffling through the sheet music, setting a piece in front of her before joining her on the bench.
“Try this one.”
Because she only intended to play a few chords, she didn’t bother digging her reading glasses out of her purse. Without them, she had to lean closer and squint a little. She felt the skitter of nerves, wiped damp palms on her thighs, and told herself it wasn’t one of the childhood recitals that had scared her into desperate nausea.
Still, she had to take two deep breaths, which made Shawn’s lips twitch before she began to play.
“Oh!” She flowed from the first bar into the second. “Oh, this is lovely.” She forgot her nerves in sheer pleasure as the notes drifted out dreamily, as her throat began to ache from it. “It’s heartbreaking.”
“It’s meant to be.” He cocked his head, listening to the music as he studied her. He could see easily why she’d caught his brother’s eye. The pretty face, the quiet manner, and those surprising expressive and misty eyes.
Yes, Shawn mused, the combination would draw Aidan’s interest, then wind around his heart. As for her heart, it was a yearning one. That he understood well.
“You play very well indeed, Jude Frances. Why did you say you didn’t?”
“I’m used to saying I don’t do things well, because I usually don’t.” She answered absently, losing herself in the music. “Anyone could play this well. It’s wonderful. What’s it called?”
“I haven’t named it yet.”
“You wrote it?” She stopped playing to stare at him. Artists of all kinds, any kind, left her awestruck. “Really? Shawn, it’s gorgeous.”
“Oh, don’t start flattering the man. He’s irritating enough.” Brenna strode into the room and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her baggy jeans.
“The O’Toole here has no appreciation for music unless it’s a rebel song and she’s drinking a pint.”
“When you write one, I’ll lift a glass to you as well.”
They sneered companionably at each other.
“What are you doing here? There’s nothing broken that I know of.”
“Do you see my toolbox in my hand?” Would he never just look at her? she wondered. The bloody bat-blind moron. “I’m going to Dublin with Jude and Darcy.” Brenna lifted a shoulder. “I got weary of Darcy badgering me about it, so I’ve surrendered.” She turned and shouted up the stairs, “Darcy, for sweet Jesus’ sake, what’s taking you so bloody long? I’ve been waiting an hour.”
“Now you’ll have to confess that lie to Father Clooney,” Shawn told her, “as you just walked in the house.”
“It’s only venial, and it may get her down here before next week.” She dropped into a chair. “Why aren’t you down to the pub helping Aidan? It’s delivery day.”
“Because, Mother, he asked me to stay and see to Jude until Darcy made her entrance. But since you’re here, I’ll be off. You’ll come back and play again, Jude Frances.” He smiled as he rose. “It’s a pleasure to hear my tunes played by someone who appreciates music.”
He started out, pausing by Brenna’s chair long enough to tug the bill of her cap over her eyes. She yanked it back up as the front door slammed behind him.
“He acts as if I were still ten and kicking his ass at football.” Then she gave a twinkling grin. “It’s a fine ass, too, isn’t it?”
Jude laughed and rose to straighten the sheet music. “The rest of him isn’t bad, either. And he writes wonderful music.”
“Aye, he’s a rare talent in him.”
Jude turned, lifted her eyebrows. “You didn’t seem to think so a minute ago.”
“Well, if I told him, he’d just get all puffed up about it and be more unbearable than usual.”
“I suppose you’ve known him forever.”
“Forever and a day, it seems,” Brenna agreed. “There’s four years between us, and he came along first.”
“And you’ve been in this house too many times to count. You can walk into it as though it’s your own, because that’s the kind of house it is.”
Jude rose to wander, to look at family photographs scattered here and there in frames that didn’t match, an old pitcher with a chipped lip that held a brilliant array of spring flowers. The wallpaper was faded, the rug worn.
“I suppose I’ve run as tame here as Darcy and her brothers have in my own house,” Brenna told her. “Sure, Mrs. Gallagher’s laid the flat of her hand across my bottom with as much enthusiasm as she did her own children.”
Jude marveled a little at that. No one had ever laid the flat of their hand across her bottom. Reason was always employed in discipline, and passive-aggressive guilt laid. “It would have been wonderful, don’t you think, to grow up here, surrounded by music.”
She circled the room, noting the comfortably faded cushions and old wood, the clutter and the patterns of light through the windows. It could use some sprucing, without a doubt, she mused. But it was all here. Home, family, continuity.
Yes, this was the place for family, for children, the way her cottage was the place for solitude and contemplation.
She imagined the walls in this house held the echos of too many voices raised in temper, in joy, to ever be truly quiet.
The clatter on the stairs had her turning to see Darcy race down them, her hair billowing out. “Are you just going to laze around all day?” Darcy demanded. “Or are we off to Dublin?”
It was a much different trip to Dublin than it had been from. The car was full of chatter, leaving Jude barely any room for nerves. Darcy was full of village gossip. It seemed young Douglas O’Brian had gotten Maggie Brennan in trouble and there was to be a wedding the minute the banns were called. And James Brennan had been so outraged by the idea of his daughter sneaking out to wrestle with Douglas, he’d gotten drunk as three princes and spent the night sleeping in the dooryard, as his wife locked him out of the house.
“I heard that Mr. Brennan went hunting for young Douglas, and the lad hid out in his father’s hayloft—where the smart wagers are the deed was first done—until the crisis passed.” Brenna stretched out like a lazy cat in the backseat, with the bill of her cap over her eyes. “Maggie’s going to have second thoughts soon enough, when she finds her belly swelled and that feckless Douglas with his boots under the bed.”
“The pair of them not yet twenty,” Darcy added with a shake of her head. “It’s a sorry way to start a life.”
“Why do they have to get married?” Jude wanted to know. “They’re too young.”
Darcy just stared at her. “Well, they’re having a baby, so what else is to be done?”
Jude opened her mouth, shut it before she could logically point out the v
ariety of alternatives. This, she reminded herself, was Ireland. Instead, she tried another route. “Is that what you’d do?” she asked Darcy. “If you found yourself pregnant?”
“First, I’d be careful not to have sex with someone I wasn’t prepared to live with should the need arise. And second,” she said after some thought, “I’m twenty-four and employed, and not afraid of village gossip so much that I wouldn’t raise the child on my own if I’d made a blunder.”
She turned her head then, lifted a brow at Jude. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“No!” Jude nearly swerved off the road before she recovered. “No, of course not.”
“Why ‘of course not’ when you’ve been sleeping with Aidan every night for the past week? Protection’s all well and good, but it’s not infallible, is it?”
“No, but . . .”
“Ah, stop scaring her, Darcy. You know you’re just jealous because she’s having regular sex and you’re not.”
Darcy tossed a sneering look toward the backseat. “And neither are you, my girl.”
“And more’s the pity.” Brenna shifted, came forward to prop her arms on the back of the front seats. “So tell us poor deprived women about sex with Aidan. There’s a pal, Jude.”
“No.” She said it with a laugh.
“Oh, don’t be a prude.” Brenna poked her shoulder. “Tell me, does he take his sweet time about it, or is he a member of the Irish Foreplay Club?”
“The Irish Foreplay Club?”
“Ah, you’ve not heard of it,” Brenna said soberly as Darcy snickered. “Their battle cry is ‘Brace yourself, Bridget.’ Then they’re in and out before their lager’s gone warm.”
Surprising herself, Jude all but screamed with laughter. “He doesn’t call me Bridget unless I call him Shamus.”
“She’s made a joke.” Darcy wiped an imaginary tear from her eye. “Our Jude. What a proud moment this is.”
“And a fine one,” Brenna agreed. “But tell us, Jude, does he take his time with it, sort of sliding around and nibbling in the right places, or is it all hot and fast and over with before you can call out you’ve seen God?”