The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  “She underestimates you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She underestimates you,” Trevor repeated as they walked back across the sand. “She sees the surface—a beautiful woman with a keen sense of fashion who’s passing the time working in her family business. One her brothers run. A woman who in her mind holds the lowest position on the ladder and doesn’t do much more than take orders.”

  Darcy’s eyes narrowed now, but not against the sun. “Oh, is that how you see it?”

  “No, that’s how your Sinead sees it. But she’s young, inexperienced. So she doesn’t see that you have as much to do with the running of Gallagher’s as your brothers. The way you look doesn’t hurt a thing when it comes to setting the atmosphere, but I watched you today.” He glanced down at her. “You never missed a step, even when you were pissed off you never broke rhythm.”

  “If you’re trying to get ’round me with compliments . . . it’s in the way of working. Though I have to say I can’t remember having any like these from a man before.”

  “No, they all tell you you’re the most beautiful woman they’ve ever seen. It’s a waste of time to state the obvious, and it must get tedious for you.”

  She stopped as they reached the street, stared at him a moment, then laughed. “You’re a rare one, Trev from New York. I think I like you, and wouldn’t mind spending a bit of time here and there in your company. Now if you were just rich, I’d marry you on the spot so you could keep me entertained and indulged all my days.”

  “Is that what you’re looking for, Darcy? Indulgence?”

  “And why not? I’ve expensive tastes that I want to feed. Until I meet a man who’s willing and able to fill my plate, I’ll go on filling my own.” She reached up to touch his cheek. “Doesn’t mean I can’t have a meal or two with another along the way.”

  “Honesty, too.”

  “When it suits me. And since I have a feeling you’d cut through even a well-crafted lie quick enough, why waste the effort?”

  “There it is again.”

  She sent him a puzzled look as they crossed the street. “What?”

  “Efficiency. I find that very arousing in a woman.”

  “Christ, you’re the oddest of ducks. Since I find it amusing to arouse you so easily, I’ll take you up on that breakfast offer.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  She jingled her keys in her pocket and wondered why the idea was so appealing. “Eight o’clock. I’ll meet you in the restaurant at the hotel.”

  “I’m not staying at the hotel.”

  “Oh, well, if you’re at the B and B, we can—”

  “There you are, Darcy.” Aidan came up behind, his keys already in his hand. “Jude thought you were coming down the house to visit.”

  “I was distracted.”

  “I see you met my sister,” he said to Trevor. “Why don’t you come in for a pint on the house?”

  “Actually, I have some work. I was also distracted,” Trevor said with a glance at Darcy. “But I’ll take you up on the offer later.”

  “Always welcome. Your men are keeping us busy. Now with Darcy back, I’m wagering they’ll keep us busier yet.” He winked and shot the key into the lock. “Likely we’ll have a seinsiun going later tonight. Come in if you’ve the chance and you’ll get a small idea of what we’ll be offering those who come through on the way to your theater.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Darcy, did you have that chat with Sinead?” She kept her eyes on Trevor’s. “It’s dealt with. I’ll be coming in to tell you about it in just a minute.”

  “That’s fine, then. Good evening to you, Trevor.”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “Your men,” Darcy said when the door closed. “Your theater.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And that would make you Magee.” She took a careful breath, knowing it would only keep her calm for the short term. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask. What difference does it make?”

  “I think it makes a difference in how you presented yourself to me. I don’t care to be deceived and toyed with.”

  He slapped a hand on the door before she could wrench it open. “We’ve had a couple of conversations,” he said evenly. “There was nothing deceptive about them.”

  “Then we have different standards in that area.”

  “Maybe you’re just ticked off that I’m rich after all, and now you’ll have to marry me.”

  He sent her a smile designed to charm, and got nothing but a withering stare in return. “I don’t find your humor appropriate. Now step back from the door. We’re not yet open to the public.”

  “Is this our first fight?”

  “No.” She did manage to yank open the door now, nearly bashing his face with it. “It’s our last.” She didn’t slam it, but he clearly heard the click of the lock through the thick wood.

  “I don’t think so,” he said with a great deal more cheer than another man might have felt under the circumstances. “Nope, I don’t think so.” He strolled down to his car and thought it might be a good opportunity to wander up to the cliffs and take a look at the ruins everyone had told him about.

  • • •

  This was the Ireland he’d come to see. The ancient and the sacred, the wild and the mystic. He was surprised to find himself alone, as it seemed to him that any who were drawn to this area would be compelled to come here, high on the cliffs where the ruins brooded.

  He circled the steep stone gables of the oratory that had been built in the saint’s name. It stood on the rough and uneven ground and was guarded, he supposed, by the souls who rested there. Three stone crosses stood guard as well, with the fresh water quiet in the well beneath them.

  He’d been told it was a lovely walk from here around the headland, but he found himself more inclined to linger where he was.

  Darcy was right, he decided, the structure might have tumbled, but the heart of it lived.

  He stepped back, respectful enough, or just superstitious enough, not to step on graves. He assumed the small, pitted stones were graves.

  And glancing down, he saw the marker for Maude Fitzgerald.

  Wise Woman

  “So here you are,” he murmured. “There’s a picture of you with my great-uncle in one of the old albums my mother salvaged when my grandfather died. He didn’t keep many pictures from here. Isn’t it odd that he had one of you?”

  He hunkered down, touched and gently amused to see that flowers had been planted over her in a soft blanket of color. “You must have had a fondness for flowers. Your garden at the cottage is lovely.”

  “Had a way with growing things, did Maude.”

  At the comment, Trevor looked back toward the well, then rose. The man who stood there was oddly dressed, all in silver that sparkled in the sun. A costume, Trevor assumed, for some event at the hotel. He was certainly the theatrical sort, with his long flow of black hair, wicked smile, and lightning-blue eyes.

  “Don’t startle easily, do you? Well, that’s to your favor.”

  “A man who startles easily shouldn’t pass the time here. Great spot,” Trevor added, glancing around again.

  “I favor it. You’d be the Magee come from America to build dreams and find answers.”

  “More or less. And you’d be?”

  “Carrick, prince of the faeries. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The bland amusement in Trevor’s tone had Carrick’s brows beetling. “You’d have heard of me, even over in your America.”

  “Sure.” Either the man was a lunatic or he wasn’t willing to step out of character. Probably both, Trevor decided. “It so happens I’m staying in the cottage over the hill.”

  “I know where the devil you’re staying, and I don’t care for that indulgent tone you’re using. I didn’t bring you here to have you make sport of me.”

  “ You brought me here?”


  “Mortals,” Carrick grumbled. “They like to think everything’s their own doing. Your destiny’s here, tied with mine. If I planted a few seeds to get you moving on it, who has a better right?”

  “Pal, if you’re going to drink this early in the day, you ought to stay out of the sun. Why don’t I give you a hand back down to the hotel?”

  “Drunk? You’re thinking I’m drunk?” Carrick threw back his head and laughed until he was forced to hold his sides. “Bloody bonehead. Drunk. We’ll show you drunk. Just give me a moment here to recover myself.”

  After several long breaths, Carrick continued. “Let’s see here, something not so subtle. I’m thinking, for I see already you’re the cynical sort. Ah, I’ve got it!”

  His eyes went dark as cobalt, and Trevor would have sworn the tips of the man’s fingers began to glow gold, then in his hands was a sphere, clear as water. Swimming in it was the image of Trevor himself and Darcy, standing together on the beach while the Celtic Sea charged the shore beside them.

  “Have a look at your destiny. She’s fair of face and strong of will and hungry of heart. Are you clever enough to win what the fates offer you?”

  He flicked his wrist, sent the globe flying toward Trevor. Instinctively he reached out, felt his fingers pass through something cool and soft. Then the globe burst like a bubble.

  “Hell of a trick,” Trevor managed, then looked over at the well. He was alone again, with just the stir of the grass in the wind for company. “Hell of a trick,” he repeated, and more shaken than he cared to admit, he stared down at his empty hands.

  FOUR

  DREAMS HAUNTED HIM through the night. Trevor had always dreamed in broad and vivid strokes, but since coming to Faerie Hill Cottage his dreams had taken on a finite, crystalline quality. As if someone had sharpened a lens on a camera.

  The odd man from the cemetery rode a white, winged horse over a wide blue sea. And Trevor felt the broad back and bunching muscles of the mythic steed beneath him. In the distance, the sky and water were separated clearly, like a thin pencil stroke drawn with a ruler.

  The water was sapphire, the sky gray as smoke.

  The horse plunged, its powerful forelegs cutting through the surface, spewing up water that Trevor could see, could feel in individual drops. He could taste the salt of it on his lips.

  Then they were in that swirling underworld. Cold, so cold, with the dark underlit with some eerie glow. There were flickers of iridescent light, like faerie wings fluttering, and the music playing through the pulse beat of water was pipes.

  Deeper, still deeper, flying down in this element as smoothly as they had flown in the air. The thrill of it coursed through him like blood.

  There, on the soft floor of the seabed a hillock of darker, wilder blue throbbed, like a waiting heart. Into this, the man who called himself a prince thrust his arm to the shoulder. And Trevor felt the slick texture of the mass on his own flesh, the vibration ripple up his own arm. His hand flexed, closed, twisted, and he wrenched free the heart of the sea.

  For her, he thought, clutching it tight. This is my constancy. Only for her.

  When he woke, his hand was still fisted, but the only heart that pounded was his own.

  As baffled as he was shaken, Trevor opened his hand. It was empty, of course it was empty, but he felt the charge of power fading from his palm.

  The heart of the sea.

  It was ridiculous. He didn’t have to be a marine biologist to know there was no shimmering blue mass, no organic life beating away on the floor of the Celtic Sea. It was all nothing more than an entertaining scene played by the subconscious, he told himself. Full of symbolism, he was sure, that he could analyze to death if he were so inclined.

  Which he wasn’t.

  He got out of bed, heading for the bath. Absently he pushed a hand through his hair. And found it damp.

  He stopped short, lowering his hand slowly, staring at it. Cautious, he brought his hand to his face, sniffed. Sea water?

  Naked, he lowered himself to the side of the bed again. He’d never considered himself a particularly fanciful man. In fact, he liked to think he was more grounded in reality than most. But there was no denying that he’d dreamed of flying through the sea on a winged horse and had awakened with his hair damp from sea water.

  How did a rational man explain that?

  Explanations required information. It was time he started gathering it.

  It was too early to call New York, but it was never too early to fax. After he’d dressed for the day, Trevor settled into the little office across from his bedroom and composed the first message to his parents.

  Mom and Dad:

  Hope you’re both well. The project’s on schedule and remains on budget as well. Though after a couple of days’ observation, I’ve concluded the O’Tooles could handle the job without me, I prefer staying, at least for the present, to supervise. There’s also the matter of community relations. Most of the village and the surrounding parish seem to be in favor of the theater. But the construction disturbs the general tranquility of the area. I think it’s wise for me to remain visible and involved.

  I also intend to continue the preliminary publicity from here.

  Meanwhile, I’m enjoying the area. It’s as beautiful as you told me, Dad. And you’re remembered fondly here. The two of you should take some time and come over.

  Gallagher’s is as you remembered and Finkle reported, a well-run, friendly, and popular business. Connecting the theater to it was a brilliant concept, Dad. I’m going to spend more time there, getting a clearer feel for just how it all runs and what changes or improvements we might want to implement to benefit the theater.

  Mom, you’d particularly like the cottage where I’m staying. It’s a postcard—and better yet is reputed to have its own ghost. You and Aunt Maggie would get a kick out of it. No unearthly visitation to report, I’m afraid, but since I’m trying to drench myself in local color, I wonder if the two of you can pass on any information you might have on the legend based here. It’s something about star-crossed lovers, of course. A maid and a faerie prince.

  I’ll call when I get a chance.

  Love, Trev

  He read it over to be sure he’d kept his request casual, then shot it off to his parents’ private line.

  The next fax was to his assistant and was much more to the point.

  Angela, I need you to research and relay any and all information available on a legend local to Ardmore. References: Carrick, prince of faeries, Gwen Fitzgerald, Faerie Hill Cottage, Old Parish, Waterford. Sixteenth century.

  Trevor Magee

  Once he’d transmitted, he checked his watch. Though it was just past eight, it was too early to tap his other source. He’d wait an hour before he paid a visit to Jude Gallagher.

  With the business completed, the sudden and desperate urge for coffee broke through. It was strong enough to have him abandoning everything else. The one thing he missed was his automatic coffeemaker and its timer. It was something he intended to purchase at the first opportunity.

  There was, in Trevor’s mind, little more civilized in this world than waking up to the scent of coffee just brewed.

  As he came to the base of the steps, a knock sounded on the door. With his mind already in the kitchen, his system already focused on that first jolting sip, he opened the door.

  And concluded there was perhaps one thing more civilized than waking up to coffee. She was standing on his little stoop.

  A smart man, a wise man, would forgo a lifetime of coffee for a beautiful blue-eyed woman wearing a snug scoop-necked sweater and a come-get-me smile. And he was a very smart man.

  “Good morning. Do you wake up looking like that?”

  “You’ll have to do more than offer me breakfast before you get the chance to find out for yourself.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “I believe that was the nature of the invitation.”

  “Right.” His mind wasn’t clickin
g rapidly along without its daily dose of caffeine. “You surprise me, Darcy.”

  She’d intended to. “Are you feeding me or aren’t you?”

  “Come in.” He opened the door wider. “We’ll see what we can do.” She stepped inside with a light brush of her body against his. She smelled like candy-coated sin.

  She wandered by to glance in the front parlor. It was very much as Maude had left it, with its pretty fancies set out here and there, the shelf thick with books, and the soft old throw tossed over the faded fabric of the sofa.

  “You’re a tidy one, aren’t you?” She turned back. “I approve of a tidy man. Or perhaps you consider it efficiency.”

  “Efficiency is tidy—and it’s my life.” With his eyes on hers he laid a hand on her shoulder, pleased when she simply stared back at him with that same mild amusement on her face. “I was just wondering why it’s not cold.”

  “Cold shoulders are a predictable reaction, and predictability is tedious.”

  “I bet you’re never tedious.”

  “Perhaps on the rare occasion. I’m annoyed with you, but I still want my breakfast.” She skirted around him, then glanced over her shoulder. “Are you cooking, or are we going out?”

  “Cooking.”

  “Now I’m surprised. Intrigued. A man in your position knowing his way around a kitchen.”

  “I make a world-famous cheddar-and-mushroom omelette.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that—and I’m very . . . particular about my tastes.” She walked back toward the kitchen and left him blowing out one long, appreciative breath before he followed.

  She sat at the little table in the center of the room, draping her arm over the back of her chair and looking very much like a woman accustomed to being served. Though his system no longer needed a jump-start, Trevor made coffee first.

  “While I’m sitting here watching you deal with some homey chores,” Darcy began, “why don’t you tell me why you let me babble on yesterday about your family and ancestors and seemed so interested in information that would be already familiar to you.”