The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  Aidan considered the trouble of getting Shawn out of his clothes, and the mess that would be made if he didn’t. So he propped his brother against the wall. “Just hold this up for a bit,” he said.

  “All right.” Obligingly, Shawn braced his weight against the wall. “She thinks it’s just sex, you know.”

  “Aye, well . . .” Working as fast as he could, Aidan crouched to take off Shawn’s boots, which, he noted in disgust, had been tied into nasty little knots. “Women are the oddest of creatures.”

  “I’ve always liked them myself. There’s so many varieties. But this is like having a lightning bolt smash right into my heart so it’s all hot and bright and shaky. I’m not letting her go, and that’s the end of it.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He got the boots off, and the jeans, and working briskly as a man with experience in such matters, efficiently stripped his brother down to the skin.

  Knowing what was to follow, he shrugged out of his own shirt and tugged off his pants. “In you go.”

  “I can’t go anywhere. I’m naked. I’ll be arrested.”

  “I’ll post your bond, not to worry.” And not without sympathy, Aidan turned the shower on full cold and shoved his beloved brother under the heartless spray.

  Oh, the scream all but peeled the skin off his face, and the curses that followed battered his ears. But Aidan held ground, dodged a fist when he had to, and clamping Shawn in a headlock, held him mercilessly under.

  “You’re drowning me, you bastard.”

  “Not yet.” In a ruthless move, Aidan used his free hand to yank Shawn’s head back by the hair so the icy spray showered his face. “Just shut your mouth and hold your breath, and you’ll live through it.”

  “I’ll kill you dead as Abraham when I’m out of here.”

  “You think I’m enjoying this, do you?” Laughter rose into his throat as he yanked Shawn’s head back again. “You’d be right. Head clearing?”

  Since Shawn’s answer was a glug, Aidan gave it another minute, then switched off the spray. He was wise enough to move quickly out of range before tossing his brother one of Darcy’s fancy towels. “Well, you’re a sorry picture, but your eyes are clear. Are you going to be sick on me now?”

  Though his limbs were weak as a baby’s, Shawn wrapped the towel around his waist and tried for dignity. “Drowning me’s one thing, insulting me’s another. I ought to break your face for it.”

  Crisis passed, Aidan decided, then lifted a brow. “It appears someone tried to break yours. Did Brenna put that bruise on your chin?”

  “No. Her father did.”

  “Mick O’Toole?” Aidan paused in the act of drying his own chest. “Mick O’Toole popped you one?”

  “He did. But we’ve come to terms now.” Shawn stepped out of the shower, annoyed that the blissful cushion of whiskey had been washed away, so now he could hurt all over—face, hand, leg. And heart.

  “At a guess I’d say you got drunk together.”

  “That was part of the process.” He flipped down the lid of the toilet, sat, and as he dressed again he filled Aidan in on the morning.

  “You’ve had a busy day.” Aidan laid a hand on his shoulder. “I can ask Kathy Duffy to do the whole of the shift.”

  “No, I can work. It’ll keep my hands busy while I figure out what to do next.” He stood up. “I mean to have her, Aidan, however it has to be done.”

  “You gave me advice once, on matters of the heart. Now I’ll return the favor. Find the words, the right ones, and give them to her. I imagine there’s different ones for different women, but when it’s all cleared away, it means the same.”

  • • •

  Before he came down again, Shawn tidied himself up as best he could and did the same for Darcy’s bathroom. Nothing was worth the spitting lecture she’d spew over him if he left it as it was. Since he felt the beginnings of a filthy head coming on, he rooted out the makings of the hangover remedy his family called Gallagher’s Fix and downed a full glass of it.

  He couldn’t say he was feeling his best, but he thought he could get through the day now without making a bigger muck of things.

  From the look of sympathy that Kathy Duffy sent him when he entered the kitchen again, he imagined he wasn’t looking his best either.

  “There now, lad.” She clucked over him and had a strong cup of tea ready. “You just drink this and gather your wits. I’ve got things under control for now.”

  “I’m grateful to you. I know I left things turned ’round here.”

  “If a body can’t indulge himself foolishly now and again, what’s the point?” She bustled around as she talked, dealing with the fry pan and the pot she had simmering. “I’ve got the fish cakes doing and they’re selling brisk. You had fresh cockles, so I did up the soup, and it’s ready for serving now if any’s a taste for it. Now most are wanting chips, but I’ve done up some pan boxty as well.”

  “It’s a treasure you are, Mrs. Duffy.”

  She pinked and fluttered at that. “Oh, go on with you. It’s nothing your dear mother wouldn’t have done for one of mine if the need were there.” She flipped fish cakes onto plates, spooned up chips that had drained, and added bits of parsley and pickled beets.

  As if timed to a turn, Darcy came in to pick up the orders. “Well, the dead have arisen,” she said with a quick study of her brother. “Though you look like you need to be buried.”

  “Oh, he’s just a little shaky on his pins is all. Don’t poke at him, Darcy, there’s a good girl.”

  Shawn sent his sister a wide and sour grin behind Kathy’s back as she loaded her tray. “We’ll need two servings of your soup, Mrs. Duffy, and another of the fish cakes, with the boxty, and one further of fish and chips. And all would care for the green salad you were kind enough to make while my brother was indisposed.”

  “In two shakes, darling.”

  Darcy balanced her tray, and after shooting an evil look at Shawn, she headed out, singing “Whiskey for Breakfast.”

  “I’ll deal with the frying, Mrs. Duffy, if you wouldn’t mind seeing to the salads.”

  “Are you feeling up to it, lad?”

  “I am, yes, thanks.”

  “It’s best to keep busy, but mind your hand. Those are nasty scratches.” She gave him a little pat as they passed each other. “And when Brenna comes in later to work, the two of you will make it up, mark my words.”

  If she’d smacked him over the head with the rolling pin, he’d have been less staggered. “Brenna?”

  “I’m thinking the two of you had a bit of a spat,” Kathy went on, cheerfully scooping up salad. “Lovebirds don’t always sing pretty tunes.”

  Recovering, Shawn narrowed his eyes at the door. “Darcy.” He said it darkly, bitterly, and with a hint of the violence he intended.

  “Darcy?” With a rumbling laugh, Kathy lined up the bowls. “Now why would I need Darcy to be telling me what I can see with my own eyes? Wasn’t I in the pub myself last night?”

  “I barely spoke to Brenna last night in the pub.” Sulking now, Shawn set the cakes to sizzling. “We were, the both of us, busy.”

  “I might expect that sort of answer from most men, but you’re a poet, and you know very well just how much can be said with a look. The two of you clicked eyes together every blessed time you stepped out of the kitchen. Nothing I haven’t been expecting for years.”

  “Oh, bloody hell.” He muttered it, well under his breath, but the woman had ears like a rabbit.

  “Now, what’s the matter? It’s a pretty business seeing the two of you starting to dance in the same direction.”

  And a mouth, Shawn thought, that flapped like a sheet in a gale. “Ah, the thing of it is, Mrs. Duffy—and I’m hoping you’ll take this as delicate as it’s meant—if, as things are, Brenna hears any talk of the two of us . . . dancing in the same direction, as you put it, she’ll do a very fast jig the opposite way.”

  Judging the progress of the frying, she reached up for sou
p bowls. “And since when has Mary Brenna O’Toole heard anything if it didn’t please her to? The girl’s ears are as stubborn as the rest of her—and good luck to you with her.”

  He shook the fry basket to drain more chips. “You’ve a point there, well taken.”

  “I’ve known the two of you since you were both bumps under your mothers’ aprons.” She ladled up soup and was generous with dumplings. “And ten years back—aye ten, as I recall it was the summer my Patrick broke his arm falling off the cabin roof, where he had no business being in the first place. Ten years ago this summer I said to Mr. Duffy as we sat out in the pub of an evening, and Brenna sat with her family at a near table, and you were playing one of your tunes on the fiddle while your father worked the bar . . .”

  She trailed off as she set the bowls aside for Darcy. “I said to him, as I watched her watching you, and saw that now and again a glance of yours would land in her direction, there’s something that will come around when the time’s right.”

  “I never thought of her that way back then.”

  “Of course you did,” Kathy said comfortably. “You just didn’t know it.”

  When it was time for the evening shift, Darcy lay in wait for Brenna. And nearly missed her, as Brenna came in the front instead of the back.

  “You missed a great crowd today.” Darcy sauntered over. It took only a strategic shift of her body to corner Brenna by the coatrack. “Shawn was late for work,” she continued in a whisper, “and was drunk besides. What’s going on?”

  “I can’t talk about it now. I made a mess of things, I can say that much.”

  Darcy laid a hand on Brenna’s shoulder until she finished her study. “You look terrible. Was it a big fight or a little one?”

  “It wasn’t a fight at all with Shawn.” She glanced over at the kitchen door, wondering how they were going to deal with it all, and with each other, now. “Got drunk, did he? Well, now, I wish I’d thought of that. Let me go on to work, Darcy. It’s going to be a long night, and the sooner it’s started, the sooner it’s done.”

  If anyone expected her to leave it at that, they didn’t know Darcy Gallagher. At the first opportunity, she was in the kitchen. She took a good look at her brother as she relayed orders. Though he was a bit rough around the edges still, he appeared sober and steady.

  “Brenna’s come in.” Darcy noted with interest that Shawn’s steady motion with the rolling pin broke. “She looks unhappy. And so do you.”

  He went back to rolling out the pastry for meat pies. “We’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  He flicked his eyes up. “Why?”

  “Because she’s my oldest and dearest friend in all the world, and you, though an accident of fate, are my brother.”

  Humor flickered across his face. “We’ll be all right, Darcy,” he repeated. “It’s for us to work it out.”

  “You’re turning down the assistance of an expert in this particular field of battle.”

  He began to score the dough, measuring it into neat squares. “I’ll hold you in reserve, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Well, it’s your choice, after all.” She started out, stopped, turned around. “Does she matter?”

  Knowing how well his sister read faces, Shawn kept his head lowered. “Do you think I don’t know what comes out of my mouth goes in your ear, then off your tongue and into her ear?”

  “It won’t. If you ask me.”

  He looked up then. Loyalty was her finest trait, as far as he was concerned. And he knew she’d sooner break her arm than her word. “Then I’m asking you. I feel it’s my life up on a thin and slippery line. Step off one way, the ground’s solid, off the other it’s a bog. You sink in, and it’s over.”

  “Then watch your step,” Darcy advised, and went back into the pub.

  The noise level was already rising. It would be a din, hushed down once the music started, and peaking again at every break the band took. Brenna worked the taps with both hands, even while she listened to Jack Brennan lumber his way through a joke he’d heard about a princess and a frog. Though her heart wasn’t in it, she laughed at the end.

  When the band began to set up, she ordered herself to pay no mind, no mind at all. But her gaze wandered over nonetheless and locked on the blond singer.

  Just the type Shawn would drift back to, she thought. Shallow bastard. What would it take him? A month, a week, a bloody night before he rolled atop another woman?

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” Jude said as she slid onto a stool. “But can I have a mineral water?”

  “You can.” Brenna got the glass, remembered ice as Jude had that Yank preference for it. “Why would you be afraid to ask?”

  “Because you look as if you want to punch someone. I wouldn’t want it to be me.”

  “It’d more likely be myself, or that blonde over there.”

  “Eileen? Why?”

  “To start, she has tits.” Brenna set the glass down, ordered herself to put the rest aside. “You look well tonight, Jude Frances. Well and happy.”

  “I’m both. I’ve gained two more pounds. I can’t get my trousers hooked anymore.”

  Brenna took orders and coin, continued to work the taps. “So you’ll make use of all those maternity clothes Darcy talked you into. Don’t you want a table—a chair for your back?”

  “No, I’m fine here for now. I’m just staying long enough for the first set, and a bowl of soup.”

  “You want a meal?” It came out as an accusation, making Jude stare.

  “Well, I’d considered it.”

  “You’ll want a table,” Brenna said briskly. If Jude ordered from a table it would be Darcy’s job to go into the kitchen.

  “No, I don’t. I’ve gotten some bits and pieces about trouble between you and Shawn. You can’t deal with it, Brenna, if you can’t so much as open that door and shout out an order for soup.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to deal with it.” When Jude only folded her hands on the bar, Brenna hissed out a breath. “You know, I’m finding married women a pain in the ass.” She finished building a Guinness, pulled a pint and a glass of lager, and exchanged them for the price. “You’ve got fairy tales on your brain,” she continued. “That’s not how it is here.”

  “I might agree with you but for one thing. Well two things. Carrick and Lady Gwen.”

  Brenna snorted and started another pair of pints. “They’ve nothing to do with me. I’ll tell you how I’d end a fairy tale,” she continued, thinking of Jack Brennan’s joke. “In mine, the princess doesn’t kiss the frog, but dines well on frog legs at end of day. I’ll get your damn soup.”

  Spoiling for a fight, she strode to the door, shoved it open. Shawn was at the stove, a wooden spoon in one hand, a spatula in the other. The heat had his hair curling just a bit, and he needed a trim. He hadn’t bothered to shave, which was an odd thing for Shawn. But under the day’s growth on his jaw was unmistakable bruising.

  Before she could speak, the warm, liquid voice of the blond singer drifted into the room. It didn’t matter if it was unreasonable. It didn’t matter if it was uncalled for.

  It just pissed her off.

  “I need an order of soup.”

  “It’s hot and ready,” he said easily, because he gauged her mood. “I’ve my hands a bit full here, if you wouldn’t mind spooning it up yourself.”

  “Everyone’s hands are full,” she muttered, but she got down a bowl. “What happened to your face?”

  He swiveled his jaw. “I wasn’t watching my step.”

  “Aye. I heard you got yourself a snootful. Well, that’s no answer.”

  Since she’d decided to snipe at him, Shawn reasoned, she wasn’t going to wallow and brood. Much better all around. “It served at the time.”

  She filled the bowl, set it on a plate. “And now?”

  He wanted to lean over, just lean to her while both their hands were occupied and close his mouth over hers. Instead, he lifted a
shoulder. “And now I’ll have to be more careful where I step.” For the hell of it, he began to hum in harmony with Eileen’s lovely voice.

  “You think it’s as easy as that, do you? Well, it’s not. We’ll talk about this after closing.”

  He let her have the last word since it was exactly what he’d intended to say to her. When she stalked out, her face fierce, he went back to work with a lighter heart.

  A couple of tourists from Cleveland overindulged. Brenna helped Aidan steer them toward the B and B, on foot, as it was feared they’d break their necks if they attempted to ride their bikes even that far.

  Gauging his timing, Shawn slipped out. “Ah, well, you got them off, then. I was thinking you might need an extra pair of hands.”

  “No, they should be able to stumble their way into bed.” Aidan watched them lurch and weave down the street and shook his head at their off-key rendition of “Whiskey, You’re the Devil.” “A pair of Yanks straight out of school. Well, but what’s a Grand Tour without one drunken night in an Irish pub, after all?” He caught Shawn’s eye, figured the meaning. “It’s been a long one, so we’ll call it a night. Thanks for helping out, Brenna.”

  “It’s not a problem. Good night, Aidan.”

  “It’s been longer for you and me,” Shawn said when he and Brenna were alone on the street.

  “It has, but it’s not done. I’d like a walk on the beach if it’s the same to you.”

  “All right.” He didn’t take her hand, but walked beside her, his own hands in his pockets. “It’s a fresh night. Full of moon.”

  “That’s lucky. We won’t freeze or fall on our faces.”

  He had to laugh. “You’re such a romantic fool, Mary Brenna.”

  “A fool, from time to time. I was foolish with you, knowing my sister’s feelings.”

  “With or without you, I couldn’t give her what she thinks she wants from me. There’s no getting past that. I’m sorry she’s hurt, and sorrier still that it was you she struck out at. But in thinking it through, I don’t know if there was a way it could’ve been avoided.”