by Nora Roberts
“Because it wasn’t familiar to me.”
She’d suspected that, after she’d calmed down. He didn’t strike her as a man who’d waste time asking questions when he already had the answers. “Why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?”
He would mind. Usually. But he felt he owed her an explanation. “My grandfather had very little to say about his family here, or Ardmore. Or Ireland, for that matter.”
While he waited for the coffee to brew—please, God, soon—he got out what he needed for the omelette. “He was a difficult man, with a very hard shell. My impression was that whatever he’d left here made him bitter. So it wasn’t discussed.”
“I see.” Not clearly, Darcy mused, as it was hard to understand a family that didn’t discuss everything. At the top of their lungs as often as not. “Your grandmother also came from here.”
“Yes. And my grandmother abided by his wishes.” He glanced at Darcy, his eyes cool and remote. “In everything.”
“I imagine he was a powerful man, and powerful men are often difficult and intimidating.”
“My father would be viewed as a powerful man. I wouldn’t consider him difficult or intimidating.”
“So you’ve come back in part, have you, to see for yourself where those Magee seeds were first sown?”
“In part.”
She did not fail to notice the dismissive tone. A sore spot here, she decided, and though she’d have dearly loved to poke a bit, she left it alone. For now. “Well, then, since here’s where you are, why don’t you tell me what you think of the cottage?”
Tension, tension that irritated him, eased a bit. He poured his first cup of coffee as he dealt with the eggs. “I just sent my mother a fax telling her it was a postcard.”
“A fax? Is that the way mother and son communicate?”
“Mother and son use technology where it’s useful.” Remembering manners, he poured her a cup, brought it to the table. “Best of all worlds, isn’t it? A thatchedroof cottage in the Irish countryside and the conveniences of modern times.”
“You left out your ghost.”
He had a steady hand, but nearly bobbled the skillet. “I wouldn’t say she’s mine.”
“While you’re living here she is. A tragic figure is Lady Gwen, and while I sympathize and appreciate the romance of it all, I find it hard to understand anyone who would pine, even for love, over the centuries, beyond death. Life’s the point, isn’t it, and making it work for you.”
“How much more do you know about her?”
“As much as any in these parts, I suppose.” She enjoyed watching his long fingers and competent hands do their work. “Though Jude’s done more of a study on the matter for her book. Several I know have seen her.”
He glanced back. It wasn’t surprise in his eyes, but caution. “Have you?”
“I don’t think I’m the type a ghost spends time with. Perhaps you will, as she walks here.”
“You’re vision enough for me. What about the second half of the legend? This Carrick.”
“Oh, he’s a clever one, and tricky with it. Stubborn pride and poor temper put him in the fix he’s in and he’s not above using his wiles to repair it now that the time’s up. You may not have noticed, but Brenna wears her rings, her engagement and wedding rings, on a chain around her neck when she’s working.”
“I saw a man come close to losing his finger on a job once when his wedding ring caught in a skill saw. She’s smart to avoid that.” He took out plates, divvied up the egg dish, all with a smooth efficiency that she appreciated. “What do Brenna’s rings have to do with the legend?”
“Her engagement ring is a pearl, the second of the jewels Carrick offered Gwen. Those tears of the moon he gathered into his magic bag. Carrick gave the pearl to Shawn.”
Trevor’s eyebrows lifted, but he turned back for flatware. “A generous sort.”
“I don’t know about that, but the pearl was given to him by Carrick at Old Maude’s grave, and now it’s Brenna’s. The first offered was diamonds. Jewels of the sun. Ask Jude about that if you have an interest. The third and last he offered were sapphires. From the heart of the sea.”
“The heart of the sea.” His dream came back to him, fast and clear so that he once again stared down at his own hand.
“A pretty story, you’re thinking, and so I would myself if those I know hadn’t become part of it. There’s one more step that has to be taken, one more pair of hearts that have to meet and promise to each other.” She sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim. “The others who lived here in this cottage since Old Maude passed were step one and step two.”
He said nothing for a moment, just retrieved the toast that had popped up. “Are you warning me that I’ve been selected as step three?”
“It follows smoothly, doesn’t it? Now, however practical-minded a man you might be, Magee, you’ve Irish blood in your veins, and you share that blood with a man who once loved the woman who lived in the place. As candidates go for the breaking of spells, you’d be my pick.”
Considering, he took out the butter and jam. “And a practical-minded woman like you believes in spells.”
“Believe in them?” She leaned toward him as he sat. “Darling, I cast them.”
The way she looked at the moment, her eyes hot and bright, her smile just the other side of wicked, he’d have believed her a witch without hesitation. “Setting aside your considerable powers, are you going to tell me you believe this story, and all its parts, as reality?”
“I do, yes.” She picked up her fork. “And if I were you, and living here, I’d take great care with my heart.” She lifted a forkful of creamy egg and cheese, slid it between her lips. “There are those who also believe if one loses that heart here, it’s forever pledged.”
“Like Maude’s.” The idea of it worried him more than he wanted to admit. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, I wondered if you’d ask. You’re an attractive man, and I like the look of you. Added to that—and I’m not ashamed to say it’s a big ‘added to that’ to me— you’re rich. I think there’s a good possibility I might enjoy your company as well.”
“Are you proposing?”
She shot a grin at him, wide and gorgeous. “Not quite yet. I’m telling you this because I’ve the impression you’re a man who sees through pretenses as easy as a knife slides through butter.”
She picked up her own knife and demonstrated on the stick he’d taken from the refrigerator. “I’m not a woman who falls in love. I’ve tried,” she said, and for a moment the light in her eyes clouded. Then she shrugged and spread the butter on a slice of toast. “It’s just not in me. And it may be that we’re not what destiny has in store for each other, but if we are, I think we might come to an arrangement that pleases both of us.”
Under the circumstances, he decided, another refill of coffee couldn’t hurt. He got up to top off the cups. “I’ve met a lot of people in my business, sampled a lot of cultures, and I have to say this is the strangest breakfast conversation I’ve ever had.”
“I believe in fate, Trevor, in the meeting of like minds, in comfort and in honesty when it serves its purpose.” She took another bite of omelette. “Do you?”
“I believe in like minds, comfort and honesty when it serves its purpose. As to fate, that’s a different matter.”
“There’s too much Irish in your blood for you not to be a fatalist,” she told him.
“Is that the nature of the beast?”
“Of course. And at the same time, we manage to be optimistically sentimental and full of dark and exciting superstition. As for honesty.” Her eyes twinkled at him. “Now that’s a matter of degrees and viewpoints, for what’s better, all in all, than a well-told tale embroidered with colorful exaggerations? However, honesty is something I think you appreciate, so what’s wrong with letting you know that if you fall in love with me, I’ll likely let you?”
He enjoyed the rest of his coffee. And her. �
�I’ve tried to fall in love. It didn’t take for me, either.”
For the first time sympathy moved over her face, and she reached out to touch his hand. “It’s as painful not being able to stumble, I think, as the fall would be.”
He looked down at their joined hands. “What a sad pair we are, Darcy.”
“Best, isn’t it, to know yourself, and your limitations? It could be that some pretty young woman will catch your eye and your heart will pop right out of your chest and plop at her feet.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But meanwhile, I wouldn’t mind having you spend some of your time, and your not inconsiderable funds, on me.”
“Mercenary, are we?”
“Yes, I am.” She gave his hand a friendly pat, then went back to her breakfast. “You’ve never had to count your pennies, have you?”
“Got me there.”
“But if you ever have to earn a few extra, you make a very fine omelette.” She rose, taking both of the plates to the sink. “I appreciate a decent cook, as it’s not a skill I have, nor one I care to develop.”
He came up behind her, ran his hands over her shoulders, down her arms and back again in one long stroke. “Going to wash my dishes?”
“No.” She wanted to stretch like a satisfied cat, but thought it wiser not to. “But I might be persuaded to dry them for you.”
She let him turn her around, kept her eyes on his as he lowered his head. Then, with not a little regret, placed her fingers on his lips before they touched hers. “Here’s what I’m thinking. Either of us could seduce the other with considerable style if not much effort.”
“Okay. Let me go first.”
Her laugh was low and smooth. “And however satisfied we might be after, it’s early days yet. Let’s keep that adventure for another time.”
He gathered her a little closer. “Why wait? You’re the fatalist.”
“Clever. But we’ll wait because I’ve a mind to. I’ve a very strong mind.” She tapped his lips with her finger once, then drew back.
“Me, too.” Deliberately, he lifted her hand to his lips again, brushed them over her palm, then her knuckles.
“I like that. I might just come back for more, another time. And as things are, I believe I’ll leave the dishes to you after all. Now, will you walk me out like a proper gentleman?”
“Tell me,” he said as they started out of the kitchen, “how many men have you wrapped around your finger to date?”
“Oh, I’ve lost count. But none of them seemed to mind it.” She glanced back as the phone began to ring. “Do you need to answer?”
“The machine’ll get it.”
“Answering machines and faxes. I wonder what Old Maude would think.” She stepped outside and off the stoop to where the flowers were dancing in the breeze. “You look suited to this place,” she said after a moment’s study of him. “And I imagine you look just as suited to some lofty boardroom.”
He reached down to snap off a spray of verbena and handed it to her. “Come back.”
“Oh, I imagine I’ll wander your way again.” She tucked the flower into her hair as she turned to the
garden gate.
He saw then why he hadn’t heard her drive up. She’d ridden a bike. “Darcy, if you’ll wait a minute, I’ll drive you back down.”
“No need. Good day to you, Trevor Magee.”
She straddled the bike and steered down the narrow drive and into the bumps and ditches the locals claimed was a road. And managed, Trevor noted, to look outrageously sexy doing it.
Since he stopped by the site after going into the village, it was after noon when he walked to the Gallagher house. His knock was answered by the barking of a dog, a throaty, excitable sound that made him take a cautious step in reverse. He was an urbanite and had a healthy respect for anything capable of making that kind of noise.
The barking stopped seconds before the door opened, but the dog itself sat beside Jude, madly thumping its tail. Trevor had seen the dog a time or two, but at a distance. He hadn’t realized the thing was quite so large.
“Hello, Trevor. How nice. Come in.”
“Ah . . .” He glanced meaningfully at the dog, and Jude laughed.
“Finn’s harmless. I promise. He just likes to make a racket so I’ll think he’s protecting me. Say good day to Mr. Magee,” Jude ordered, and Finn obediently lifted a huge paw.
“I’d like to stay on his good side.” Hoping the dog would let him keep all his fingers, Trevor shook, hand to paw.
“I can put him out back if he worries you.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” He hoped. “I’m sorry to interrupt your day. I was hoping you had a minute.”
“I’ve several minutes. Come in and sit down. Can I get you some tea? Have you had lunch? Shawn sent down a lovely casserole.”
“No, nothing, thanks, I’m fine. Don’t go to any trouble.”
“It’s not a bit of trouble,” she began, but she pressed one hand to the small of her back and the other to her belly as she stepped back.
“You sit down.” Trevor took her arm and steered her textStyle2">to the living room. “I’ll confess, large dogs and pregnant women unnerve me.”
It wasn’t true. Large dogs might have unnerved him, but pregnant women melted him. But the statement got her to a chair.
“I promise neither of us will bite.” But she sat, gratefully. “I swore I was going to stay calm and graceful through this experience. I’m pretty calm yet, but I said good-bye to grace at the six-month point.”
“You look like you’re handling it well. Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl?”
“No, we want to be surprised.” She laid a hand on Finn’s head when he came to sit by her chair. Trevor noted she didn’t have to reach far. “I took a walk last evening and looked at your site. You’re making progress.”
“Steady. This time next year you’ll be able to walk down and take in a show.”
“I’m looking forward to it, very much. It must be satisfying to turn your visions into reality.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing? With your books, with your baby?”
“I like you. Are you comfortable enough to tell me what’s on your mind?”
He waited a beat. “I forgot you’re a psychologist.”
“I taught psychology.” In a gesture of apology, she lifted her hands, let them fall again. “In the last year or so I’ve cured myself of being too shy to say what I’m thinking. The result has pros and cons. I don’t mean to be pushy.”
“I came here to ask you something, talk to you about something. You figured it out. That’s not pushy, that’s . . . efficient,” he said after a moment. “One of my favorite words lately. Carrick and Gwen.”
“Yes?” Now she folded her hands, looking serene and easy. “What about them?”
“You believe they exist? Existed?” he corrected.
“I know they exist.” She saw the doubt in his eyes and took a moment to gather her thoughts. “We’re from a different place, you and I. New York, Chicago. Urban, sophisticated, our lives based on facts and the tangible of the everyday.”
He saw where she was going and nodded. “We’re not there anymore.”
“No, we’re not there anymore. This is a place that . . . ‘thrives’ isn’t the word I want, because it doesn’t need to thrive. It just is. This place that’s home for me now, this place that’s drawn you to build one of your dreams here, isn’t just apart from where we came from because of history or geography. It understands things we’ve forgotten.”
“Reality is reality, whatever part of the world you’re standing in.”
“I thought that once. If you still do, why do Carrick and Gwen worry you?”
“Interest me.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Him, then.”
Trevor hesitated, remembering the man who’d appeared near Saint Declan’s Well. “I don’t believe in faeries.”
“I imagine Carrick believe
s in you,” Jude murmured. “I want to show you something.” She started to rise,cursed under her breath, then held up a hand, waving it testily when Trevor got to his feet. “No, damn it, I’m not ready to be hauled up every time I sit down. Just a minute.” She shifted, then boosted herself out, belly first, by pushing her hands against the arms of the chair. “ Relax. It’ll take me a minute. I’m not as light on my feet as I used to be.”
As she walked out, Trevor sat back down. He and Finn eyed each other with interest and suspicion. “I’m not going to steal the silverware, so let’s both just stay in our respective corners.”
As if it had been an invitation, Finn sauntered over and planted both forepaws in Trevor’s lap.
“Christ.” Gingerly, Trevor lifted the dog’s feet out of his crotch. “Perfect aim. Now I know why my father never let me have that puppy. Down!”
At the command Finn’s butt hit the floor, then he lovingly licked Trevor’s hand.
“There, you’ve made friends.”
Trevor glanced up at Jude and barely resisted squirming to relieve the throbbing in his balls. “You bet.”
“Go lie down, Finn.” Jude gave the dog an absent pat before sitting on the hassock at Trevor’s feet. “Do you know what this is?” She opened her hand, held it out. Centered in her palm was a clear and brilliant stone.
“At a glance it looks like a diamond, and given the size, I’d say it’s a very nicely faceted piece of glass.”
“A diamond, first water, between eighteen and twenty carats. I got a book, a loupe, and figured it out. I didn’t want to take it to a jeweler. Go ahead,” she invited, “take a closer look.”
Trevor took it out of her hand, held it to the light streaming through the front window. “Why didn’t you want to take it to a jeweler?”
“It seemed rude, as it was a gift. I visited cousin Maude’s grave last year, and I watched Carrick pour a flood of these out of the silver bag he wears at his belt. I watched them bloom into flowers, except for this one that lay sparkling in the blossoms.”