The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  Her stomach jittered. Excitement, anticipation, nerves. “That’s quick work.”

  “Most of it’s standard. You’ll want to look it over, take it to your lawyer. Solicitor,” he corrected. “Any questions, changes, we’ll discuss.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I have to go to New York for a couple days.”

  She was grateful she was sitting down with her feet up, as her knees went soft as jelly. “Do you? You haven’t mentioned it.”

  “I’m mentioning it now.” Having just decided. “Come with me.”

  Yes, a very good thing she was sitting down. She stayed stretched out as every muscle of her body tensed. “Come with you to New York City?”

  “You can sign the final papers there.” On his turf. “We’ll celebrate.” He wanted her to meet his family, see his home, his life. “The business won’t take that long. I’ll show you the city.” And give her a taste of what he could offer her.

  Trevor and New York. The thrill of being with him in a place she’d seen in dreams. And illusions. “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more. That’s the truth.”

  “Then I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “I can’t, Trevor. I can’t go with you now.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s high season. You saw how it is in the pub with barely enough hands to go around. I can’t leave Aidan and Shawn short that way during summer season. It’s not right.”

  Damn it, he didn’t want her to be responsible, to be sensible now. “You can get someone to fill in for you. It’s only a few days.”

  “I could, and that would ease part of the problem. But I can’t leave here now, however much it appeals. Jude’s due any day. She needs her family, as does Aidan. What kind of a sister would I be to go dancing off at such a moment?”

  “I thought she had another week at least.”

  “Men.” She mustered up a smirk. “Babies come when they please, and first babies are the most willful, so I’m told. It’s lovely to think about going off with you now, but I couldn’t bear the guilt of it.”

  “We’ll take the Concorde. It’ll cut the traveling time down to negligible.”

  The Concorde. She rose, walked behind the bar for a ginger ale. Like a movie star, she thought. Jetting off wherever you pleased, whenever the mood struck, and arriving almost before you’d left.

  Dear God, she’d love it. He knew she would.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  She was right, and he knew it. Still, he wanted to push. There was an urgency inside him, to put things back on an even keel. No, that was a lie. To put things back, he thought, disgusted with himself, to his advantage.

  “You’re right. It’s bad timing.”

  “I can tell you I wish it wasn’t. A trip on the Concorde and a whirl through New York City. Any other time, I’d already be packing my bag.” She would, no matter what it cost, be cheerful, be casual, be the sophisticated woman he would understand. “So then, when do you go?”

  Go? For a moment he was completely, foolishly blank. He’d never intended to go without her. Boxed yourself in, Magee, he realized, and took a swig from her bottle when she brought it back to the table. “I’ll get the draft contract to you first, and if you’ve got no problem with it, have my people put the final together. Couple of days. That way I can do what I have to do there and bring the papers back with me.”

  “That’s efficient.”

  “Yeah.” He set the bottle down. It tasted foul. “My middle name.”

  “Let me know when you’ve made your plans.” She trailed a finger over the back of his hand. “I’ll give you a bon voyage that will hold you until your welcome back.”

  She was not cooperating, Trevor decided. The woman was not following the rules here. He brooded at his office table, staring out into the storm-tossed night when he should have been working.

  Why hadn’t she asked him to postpone his trip a few days? Even a couple of weeks? It would have provided the perfect opportunity to give in to her, to show her he was willing to make concessions to keep her happy.

  And why the hell hadn’t he looked before he’d leaped? Any moron would have known she wasn’t able to leave home just now. Which only proved that love made a man less than a moron. That was pathetic.

  The lightning that shattered the sky in one blinding streak perfectly suited his mood. Edgy, electric.

  Why hadn’t he come clean with her? Well, not clean , Trevor mused. Just more direct. It would have been simpler, and more productive, to have told her he wanted to take her to New York. Winding business through it, certainly, but that would have put a different tone on the whole thing. He’d clutched before the first swing, he admitted, then boxed himself in when he started the whole conversation by announcing he was going.

  Now he either went without her or made excuses.

  He hated making excuses.

  Thunder rumbled like laughter, whipped by the howling wind, and rain danced a frantic jig against his window.

  The trouble was, he didn’t know how to play it. And he always knew how to play it, how to find the most constructive route through a problem to the solution. But there were more obstacles, more wrong turns in love than he’d ever imagined. Still, he’d never come up against a wall he couldn’t scale, break through, or tunnel under.

  This wasn’t going to be the first.

  He needed to let the problem simmer, to brew a bit until the solution came to him. The best way to do that was to concentrate on something else.

  He started with the faxes that had come in throughout the day. Since he’d already read over the draft of Darcy’s contract, he put that in a folder. The one thing that was clear, he thought, was this angle. She was a hell of a find for Celtic Records. And Celtic would nurture her. Neither of them had to worry about this part of their relationship.

  He wanted his parents to hear that voice. A tape recording. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He’d get her voice on tape before he headed back to New York. That would at least partly introduce the woman he loved to his family.

  He would take the papers down to her at the pub once he’d cleaned off his desk, go over them with her, answer her questions. She was bound to have questions. Then he’d tell her he needed a tape.

  Satisfied with the idea, Trevor set the folder down and turned to his other paperwork.

  He thought about going downstairs and making more coffee, foraging for a meal. He didn’t want to eat alone, and that annoyed him. It had never bothered him before. The fact was, he wanted to chuck even the idea of work and go down to the pub, where there were people. Where there was Darcy.

  Despite the risk of the storm, he ran his E-mail instead. He knew he should shut the computer down, but he had to do something to keep busy, to stop himself from leaving the cottage for the pub.

  It gave him perverse satisfaction to imagine her watching the door, wondering if and when he’d come through it.

  He didn’t care how stupid that made him. It was the damn principle of the thing.

  The business inquiries came first, as was his habit. He answered them, printed out or saved what he wanted a record of, then shifted over to personal posts.

  One from his mother gave him his first smile in hours.

  You don’t call, you don’t write. Well, not often enough. I think I’ve convinced your father that what we need is a nice trip. To Ireland. It’s taken very little convincing, actually. He misses you as much as I do, and I think he wants to get his fingerprints on the theater. I hope it’s progressing well—am sure it is, under your hand.

  He’s already started shuffling work and schedules though he doesn’t think I know it. I’m doing the same. If all goes well, we’ll come next month. Once our plans are finalized, I’ll let you know all.

  I assume you’re well as you haven’t said otherwise, and busy because you always are. I hope you’re taking some time for yourself. You were working much too hard before you left, punishing yourself because of
Sylvia.

  I won’t say any more on that, as I can see you’re getting that irritated look in your eye. No, I lied, I’ll say one thing more. Give yourself a break, Trevor. No one, not even you, can live up to your standards.

  There, I’m done. I love you. Prepare for an invasion.

  Mom

  Did he have an irritated look in his eye? He studied the faint reflection of his face in the window and decided, yes, probably. It was comforting, and disconcerting, to be understood quite that well.

  He hit Reply.

  Nag, nag, nag.

  That, he knew, would make her laugh.

  Hurry and come over so you can nag me in person. I miss that.

  Yes, the theater’s going well, though we had to knock off early today. Hell of a storm blowing through. I’m going to have to shut down in a minute.

  I thought you’d like to know I’ve chosen the name for it. I’m calling it Duachais. It’s Gaelic. Well, you probably know that, but I had to look up the spelling. It means the roots of a place, the traditions of it. A very clever woman told me that’s what I wanted in the theater. She was right.

  Of course, a name like that’s going to give Publicity nightmares.

  No need to worry, I’m taking time for myself. It’s impossible to do otherwise here. You just have to look to be, well, sucked into looking some more.

  I’m about to sign Darcy Gallagher to a recording contract with Celtic. She’s an amazing talent. Wait until you hear her. Give me a year, and her voice, her name, her face will be everywhere. It’s a hell of a face.

  She’s got ambition, talent, energy, temperament, brains, and charm. This is no shy colleen. You’ll like her.

  I’m in love with her. Is it supposed to make me feel like an idiot?

  He stopped, stared at his last line. He hadn’t meant to type that. With a shake of his head, he started to delete.

  Lightning burst like a bomb, throwing hot blue light into the room. He saw the thin crack snake down the window glass, then thunder blasted in one ear-deafening roar.

  And the lights went out.

  “Shit.” It was his first thought once his heart stopped screaming in his ears. That one had probably fried his computer.

  His own fault. He knew better.

  Since the screen was as black as the rest of the world, indicating his battery backup had failed, he swore again and fumbled for the flashlight that he’d set next to the machine.

  He switched it on, got nothing. What the hell was this? he wondered and gave it an irritated shake. He’d checked it before he’d started to work, and the beam had flashed on strong and bright.

  More annoyed than concerned, he got up, felt his way to the spare bed, worked up to the little table beside it and the matches and candles that were always there.

  The next slash of lightning had him jolting, spilling half the matches out of the box, and cursing himself. “Get a grip,” he muttered and nearly shuddered at the sound of his own voice coming out of the dark. “It’s not your first storm, or your first blackout.”

  But there was something . . . different here. Something that, if he’d wanted to be fanciful, he’d have called deliberate about the wind and rain and fierceness of it all. As if the savagery was personal.

  That was so ridiculous he laughed as he struck the match. The little flame made him feel more in control. He touched it to the wick of the candle. A little breath of relief escaped as he picked up the candle, intending to carry it with him to light more.

  And in the next wild spurt of lightning, he saw her.

  “Carrick’s temper is up.”

  The candle flame shook as his hand jerked. He had to be satisfied that he didn’t drop it and set the cottage on fire.

  “Storms often make people uneasy.” Gwen smiled at him gently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He knows it too, you can be sure of that, and is indulging himself in a little tantrum just at the moment.”

  Steadier, Trevor set the candle down. “It seems excessive.”

  “He’s a dramatic sort, my Carrick. And he’s suffering, Trevor. Waiting wears on the soul, and when you can nearly see the end of the waiting, it’s harder still. I wonder, could I ask you a question, of a personal nature?”

  He shook his head. It was all too strange, and somehow eerily ordinary, this talking to a ghost in a little cottage on a storm-ravaged night. “Why not?”

  “I hope it doesn’t offend you, but I can’t help wondering what it is that stops you from telling the woman you love what’s in your heart.”

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “I know that’s your thinking.” A thread of urgency ran through her voice now, though her hands stayed quiet and still, folded together at her waist. “I want to know why it can’t be just that simple.”

  “If you don’t lay groundwork, you make mistakes. The more important it is, the more important not to make mistakes.”

  “Groundwork?” she asked, confused. “And that would be . . . what, exactly?”

  “With Darcy, it’s showing her what she can have, the kind of life she could live.”

  “By that you’re meaning all the grand things? The riches and wonders?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Once she sees—” He broke off, seriously alarmed, when the floor shook under his feet. But before he could move, Gwen held up a hand.

  “I beg your pardon. I’ve a temper of my own.” She kept her hand up, closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were dark and vibrant. “And what did Carrick offer me, but the same in his way? Jewels and riches, a palace for a home, and immortality. Can you not see the mistake in that, a mistake that cost us both three times a hundred years?”

  “Darcy’s not like you.”

  “Oh, Trevor, look closer. Why is it you can stand on the same ground and still not see each other?”

  She lowered her hand. “Well, this night’s work isn’t done. You’ll go down to the village now. There’s a need for you there.”

  “Darcy?” Panic pushed him forward. “Is she all right?”

  “Oh, aye, she’s fine and well. But there’s a need for you. ’Tis a night for wonders, Trevor Magee. Go on, now, and be part of them.”

  He didn’t hesitate. She’d hardly faded away when he was snatching up the candle to light his way out of the house and into the storm.

  NINETEEN

  THE AIR WAS alive, and angry. It slapped and bit. Rain, like thin needles of glass, jabbed at his clothes and stabbed at exposed skin. Nasty marbles of hail beat down on grass, battered the flowers, and turned the ground into treachery.

  And still the lightning slashed, ripping open the sky so thunder could charge through in snarling bellows.

  Trevor was breathless and drenched before he got to the car.

  The rational part of his mind warned him it was insane to venture out on such a night. More sensible to wait out the storm than to drive into the snapping teeth of it. But he was already turning the key in the ignition.

  The wind howled like a banshee, tore at the hedgerows so that bits of bloom and leaf flew past like crazed insects. He’d have sworn it had fists and fingers. His headlights made twin slashes through the wall of rain, spotlighting the full fury of it. He fought the car down the road that was rapidly turning into a ditch of mud, and when he shuddered around a bend, the sky exploded, etching the jagged burst of light on his eyes. The freight train of thunder roared after it.

  Under it all, quiet as grief, was the sound of a woman’s desperate weeping.

  He stomped on the gas, fishtailed sickly around the next curve. In the distance, he saw a sprinkling of lights that was Ardmore.

  Candle- and lamplight in the houses. Some would have generators, he realized. The pub did. Darcy was fine, tucked inside, warm, dry, safe. There was no reason to drive like a madman when there was nothing wrong.

  But the sense of urgency, the brutal need to hurry stayed with him. With his hands clamped to the wheel, he skidded around the turn at Tower Hill. And his
car stopped dead.

  “What the hell is this?” Frantic, infuriated, he twisted the key, pumped impatiently at the gas. But all he got in return was a faint and mocking click.

  Swearing, he punched open the glove compartment, snatched out the flashlight he kept there, and felt only grim satisfaction when the beam shot on.

  With its next violent gust, the wind nearly swept him off his feet as he climbed out of the car. It seemed to want to. Pitting himself against it, he fought his way to the gate, muscled it open while the rain slashed and the hail pummeled. He would just cut through, save time.

  The boggy ground sucked at his feet, slowed him to a jog when he wanted, needed, to run flat out. The stones of the dead speared up like teeth out of a knee-high layer of fog that lay nowhere else.

  Carrick, Trevor thought, in disgust and fury. Pulling out all the stops.

  Lightning burst again, seemed to glow blue over the grave of the long-dead John Magee.

  Flowers? Trevor skidded to a halt, panting, and stared down at the carpet of flowers blooming like a rainbow. The grass was bent and flattened by the force of the storm, but those fragile petals were open and perfect. The wind that shoved against him only fluttered them gently, and no cold finger of fog touched them.

  Magic, he thought, then looked out, toward the sea where he could see the white-tipped walls of waves rear and crash. Magic wasn’t always bright and pretty. Tonight, it was full of wrath.

  He turned from the grave and rushed on.

  He skidded, slithering down the hill. He rapped hard into the trunk of a tree that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. Pain pounded in his shoulder, racing to match the pounding of his heart. Every time he lost his balance, should have tumbled over the stony ground to the road below, he managed to gain it again.