The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  “Kicked me out of the room,” Aidan said as he got yet another glass. “Said I was to come down here and drink like a new father so she could start her auntie’s privilege and spoil the baby.”

  “Auntie?” Try as he might, he couldn’t visualize Darcy as auntie.

  “Mollie O’Toole’s fussing around, and says she’s staying the night. They’ve already got Ailish dressed up in a little sleeping gown with lace on it. She looks . . .”

  He trailed off, just leaned forward and laid his palms on the counter. “Christ. Christ! What this does to a man! My soul’s shaking, I swear to you. I never knew there was more to feel than I’ve already felt. That I could love like this in a heartbeat’s time. There she is, not an hour old, and I’d kill for her. Die for her. When I think I might have missed them if fate hadn’t opened the door for me.”

  Trevor said nothing, could say nothing.

  “I’ll owe you all of my life for this one night.”

  “No.”

  “I will. If one day you’re blessed with a child of your own, you’ll know just how much is owed.” Aidan shook himself, turned back. Any more, he thought, and he’d embarrass the man beyond redemption. “The Irish are sentimental sorts. Let’s have a drink here, so I can get my legs back under me.”

  Trevor figured that if the toasting kept up at this pace, he would not only lose his legs, he’d fall on his face. But he raised his glass with Aidan to the new mother, and then to the child.

  By the time Aidan went back up and Darcy came back down, he felt that he was watching a revolving door through the deep amber haze of Jameson’s. And that seemed perfectly fine.

  It only took one look at his face, at the cheerful and decidedly sloppy grin that was as endearing as a boy’s, the tousled hair and the loose body stretched out in the chair, to clue her in.

  Since the look of him had her wanting to cuddle him just as she’d cuddled her niece, she walked over and patted his cheek. “Sure and you’re on your way to being piss-faced, aren’t you, darling?”

  “I never drink more than two. You lose focus.”

  “Of course you do, and that’s a fine and upstanding rule just begging to be broken on such a night.”

  “It would’ve been rude not to toast the baby.”

  “Unforgivably.”

  “Are we toasting the baby again?” There was just enough sweet hope in his tone to make her chuckle.

  “I think it’s time we made our way over to the pub, then we’ll see about that. Let’s get you to your feet. You can lean on me.”

  “I can stand up.” Vaguely insulted, he pushed back from the table. The minute he was upright, the room took one slow, rather lovely spin. “Whoa.” He put a hand out. “I’m all right. Just finding my balance.”

  “Well, let me know when you’ve located it.” She glanced toward the bottle, winced at the level. She hadn’t realized how much they’d gotten into the poor man between them. “We’ve abused you sorely, and after all your heroics, too.” Gently, she slipped an arm around his waist. “We’ll go over and get you a meal. I bet you’d like something hot in your belly.”

  “You. I’ve already got you there, and in my head. Every damn place. Aidan kissed me, so it’s your turn.”

  “We’ll get to that, by and by.” With her arm around his waist and his tucked companionably around her shoulders, they staggered down the hall.

  “Let’s go see the baby. I’m crazy about babies.” He tried to steer toward the steps as they passed, but she kept him heading for the door.

  “Are you, now?” Well, what a revelation. “We will go see her, in the morning. Ailish is sleeping now, like an angel, and God knows, Jude needs some rest.” She managed to open the door, lead him out.

  The fresh air swept over him like a wave, made him sway. “Man, what a night.”

  “I warn you, if you pass out, I’m letting you drop where you fall.” But even as she threatened, she tightened her grip.

  “I’m not going to pass out. I feel great.” The stars were out. Thousands of them sparkling, winking, gleaming against a sky of black glass. There might never have been a storm.

  “Listen, you can hear the music from the pub.” He stopped, bringing her closer to his side. “What’s that song? I know that one.” He concentrated, until it swam clear in his mind. Then to Darcy’s surprise and delight, he began to sing.

  Standing in the sea breeze and starlight, she joined him on the chorus, adding harmony.

  Her eyes they shined like diamonds.

  I thought her the queen of the land,

  And her hair hung over her shoulders

  Tied up with a black velvet band.

  He grinned down at her, shifting until he could get both arms around her. “It always makes me think of you.”

  “Under the present circumstances, I’ll take that as a compliment. I didn’t know you could sing, Trevor Magee, and in such a fine, strong voice. What other surprises have you in store for me?”

  “We’ll get to that, by and by.”

  So she laughed, wiggled free enough to get him walking again. “I’ll count on it.”

  TWENTY

  MOST OF IT was a blur. Faces, voices, movement. He lost track of how many pints had been pushed into his hands, how many times his back had been slapped. He remembered being kissed, repeatedly.

  Many had shed tears. He was mortally afraid one of them had been himself.

  There’d been singing—he was pretty sure he’d done a solo. Dancing—he vaguely remembered rounding the floor with his chief electrician, a burly man with a tattoo. At one point, he thought, he’d made a speech.

  Sometime during the chaos, Darcy had pulled him into the kitchen, poured some soup into him. Or stuck his head in the bowl, he wasn’t quite sure which.

  But he recalled trying to wrestle her to the floor, which wouldn’t have been such a bad idea if Shawn hadn’t been in the room at the time. And if he hadn’t lost the bout to a woman he outweighed by a good fifty pounds.

  Jesus Christ. He’d been stinking drunk.

  It wasn’t that he’d never been drunk before. He’d gone to college, for God’s sake. He knew how to get drunk and party if he wanted to. The thing was, this one had snuck up on him, and he didn’t enjoy being quite so hazy on the details of his behavior.

  There was, however, one little item that came through clear. Waterford-crystal clear.

  Darcy guiding him up to bed, him stumbling, and yes, still singing, an embarrassingly schmaltzy rendition of “Rose of Tralee.” During which he stopped long enough to inform Darcy that his mother’s aunt’s cousin’s daughter had been the Chicago Rose in 1980-something.

  Once he was prone, he made a suggestion that was so uncharacteristically lewd, he imagined another woman would have kicked him back down the stairs. But Darcy had only laughed and remarked that men in his condition weren’t nearly as good at it as they thought they were, and he should go on to sleep.

  He’d obliged her, and saved himself what would have been certain humiliation, by passing out.

  But he was awake now, in the full dark, with approximately half the sand of Ardmore Bay in his mouth and the full cast of Riverdance step-toeing inside his head.

  He lay there, hoping for oblivion.

  When his wish wasn’t granted, he imagined the pleasure of sawing off his head and setting it aside to cure while the rest of him got some sleep. But to do that he’d need to find a damn saw, wouldn’t he?

  Deciding a bucket of aspirin was probably wiser, he eased himself up. Every inch was a punishment, but he managed to bite back a groan and keep at it until he could sit on the side of the bed.

  Through bleary eyes, he stared at the glowing dial of the bedside clock. Three forty-five. Well, it just got

  better and better. Gingerly, he turned his head and saw that Darcy slept on, peaceful and perfect.

  Bitter resentment mixed with the sand in his mouth. How could the woman just sleep when a man was dying beside her? Had she no sensibil
ity, no compassion? No goddamn hangover?

  He had to fight the urge to give her one rude shove so misery could have company.

  He gained his feet, grinding his teeth when the room swam sickly. His stomach suited up, joined the other branches of his body in mutiny, and churned queasily.

  Never again, he vowed. Never again would he drink himself drunk. He didn’t care if he delivered triplets in a tornado. The thought of that made him want to smile, the wonder of holding that small, raging life in his hands. But all he could manage was a grimace as he hobbled toward the bathroom.

  Without thinking, he switched the light on, then heard the high whine that was his own gasping scream. Blind, tortured, he slapped at the switch, came perilously close to whimpering when the blessed dark descended again.

  He could only stand, his back braced against the wall, and try to get his breath back.

  “Trevor?” Darcy’s voice was low, her hand gentle as she laid it on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, I’m just dandy, thanks. And you?” The words ground out of a throat currently lined with heavy-gauge sandpaper.

  “Ah, poor darling. Well, if you didn’t have a head after last night, you wouldn’t be human. Come on, then, lie back down and let Darcy fix you up.”

  Perversely, now that she was awake and prepared to soothe, annoyance added to the ugly mix brewing inside him. “You and your horde of sadists fixed me up already.”

  “Oh, it was terrible. I’m so ashamed.”

  He’d have narrowed his eyes into a glare, but there was too much blood in them to risk it. “Are you laughing?”

  “Of course I am.” She tugged his arm, drawing him back into the bedroom. “But that’s neither here nor there. Here we go now, that’s the way, sit yourself down.”

  She was entirely too good at it, he thought. Just how many drunken men had she tucked back into bed the morning after? It was a vile thought, an unworthy thought, but even knowing that he couldn’t stop it from taking root.

  “Had a lot of practice at this?”

  Something in his tone slapped, but she shrugged it off because he was suffering. “You can’t run a pub and not have the occasional experience with someone who’s overindulged. You need a bit of the cure, is all.”

  “If you think you’re going to get more whiskey into me, you’re crazy.”

  “No, no, I’ve something better than hair of the dog. Just rest yourself.” She fluffed pillows behind him, gentle and efficient as a nurse. “It’ll take me a minute. I should have made some up last night, but with all the excitement I didn’t think of it.”

  “I just want a goddamn aspirin.” Preferably one the size of Pluto.

  “I know.” She touched her lips to his throbbing head. “I’ll be right back.”

  What game was this? he wondered. Why was she being so nice, so sweet? He’d awakened her at four in the morning and snarled at her. Why wasn’t she snarling back? Why wasn’t she suffering any effects of last night’s celebration?

  Suspicious, he forced himself to get up again, and with his jaw clenched, managed to tug on jeans. He found her in the kitchen, and once his abused eyes adjusted to the laser beam of light, saw she was mixing ingredients in a jar.

  “You stayed sober.”

  She stopped what she was doing, glanced back at him. Oh, the man looked as raw and rough as they came, and still managed to be handsome. “I did, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It was clear even before we got to the pub that you were going to be drunk enough for both of us. And you were entitled. Darling, why don’t you sit down? There’s no need to pay the piper any more than his due. Your head must be big as the moon this morning.”

  “I don’t make a habit of getting drunk.” He said it with some dignity, but because he felt decidedly queasy, he retreated to the living room to sit on the arm of a chair.

  “I’m sure you don’t.” Which was why, she supposed, he wasn’t just feeling sick this morning, but insulted as well. It was adorable. “But it was a night for exceptions, and you were having such a grand time, too. It was surely the best party we’ve had around here since Shawn and Brenna’s wedding, and that went on all day and half the night.”

  She came out, her robe flowing around her legs, carrying some dark and suspicious-looking liquid in a glass. “We had so much to celebrate, after all. Jude and the baby, then the theater.”

  “What about the theater?”

  “The naming of it. Oh, that likely washed away in the beer, didn’t it? You announced the naming of the theater. Duachais. I was never so pleased, Trevor. And those in the pub, which by the time we closed was everyone and their brother, were just as delighted. It’s a fine name, the right name. And it means something to all of us here.”

  It annoyed him that he couldn’t get a handle on the moment, that he’d announced it when he hadn’t been in control. Where was the dignity in that? “You thought of it.”

  “I told you the word. You put it in the right place. Here, now, wash the aspirin down with this, and you’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  “What is it?”

  “Gallagher’s Fix, a little potion passed down in my family. Come on, now, there’s a good lad.”

  He scowled at her, plucked the aspirin out of her outstretched hand, then the glass. She looked gorgeous, rested, perfect, with her hair loose and glossy, her eyes clear and amused, her lips slightly curved, in what might have been sympathy. He wanted, desperately, to lay his aching head on her lovely breasts and die quietly.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Oh, now, it’s not such a bad taste all in all.”

  “No.” With nothing else available, he drank, glared. “I don’t like the whole deal.”

  This need, he thought as she patiently waited for him to drink the rest. It was too big, too sharp. Even now, when he felt as vile as a man could and still live, he was all but eaten up with need for her. It was humiliating.

  “Thanks.” He shoved the glass back at her.

  “You’re very welcome.” A little twist of temper snaked through her, but she cut it off, reminding herself he deserved a bit of patience and pampering.

  He’d brought her niece into the world, and for that she would owe him for a lifetime. He’d named his

  theater from a word she’d given him. That was an honor she wouldn’t slight by snapping at him when he was laid low.

  So she sucked it in and prepared to spoil him a bit.

  “I’ll tell you what you need now, and that’s a good hot breakfast to set you right. And your coffee. So I’ll be your loving mother and see to it for you.”

  She started back toward the kitchen, stopped, shook her head. “For heaven’s sake, where’s my mind? Speaking of mothers, yours called to the pub last night.”

  “What? My mother?”

  “It was when you were outside, serenading the Duffys on their way home. Shawn spoke with her, and she said just to give you a message.”

  He’d gotten to his feet. “Nothing’s wrong?”

  “No, not at all. Shawn said she sounded very pleased and happy and added a congratulations for Ailish. In any case, she said to tell you yes, of course it’s supposed to, and that she couldn’t be more delighted. She asked that you call her back today so you can tell her all about it.”

  “Supposed to what? All about what?”

  “I couldn’t say.” She moved back into the kitchen, her voice carrying through the opening.

  “I don’t know what she’s—” He broke off, staggered, and braced himself with a hand to the back of a chair.

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

  But he hadn’t sent that post. He’d been about to delete that part when the power had gone out, the laptop had died. He had never hit Send. It wasn’t possible for her to have gotten a message he’d never sent.

  Then he rubbed his hands over his face. Hadn’t he already learned the impossible was almost the ordinary here?
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  Now what? His mother was delighted that he felt like an idiot. That was good, he decided, pacing restlessly now, because he was feeling more like one every minute.

  The woman in the next room was making him weak and senseless and stupid. And part of him was thrilled knowing he could be weakly and senselessly and stupidly in love. That worried him.

  He stopped to stare at the painting of the mermaid and felt his temper strain. And who was he in love with? Who the hell was she really? How much of her was the siren depicted here, and how much the affectionate woman fixing breakfast? Maybe it was all a spell, some sort of self-serving magic woven over him that had taken his own emotions out of his control to satisfy someone else’s—something else’s needs.

  Maybe she knew it.

  Duachais . The lore of a place, he thought grimly. Darcy knew the lore of this place. Gwen had been offered jewels, from the sun and moon and sea. And had refused them. What had Darcy said when he’d asked her if she would trade her pride for jewels?

  That she’d find a way to keep both.

  He’d lay odds on it.

  She had kept this painting, hadn’t she? Kept it, hung it on her wall long after she’d shown the artist the door.

  “I’ve no breakfast meats up here,” Darcy said as she came out. “So I’ll have to go down and pilfer from Shawn. Would you like bacon or sausage, or have you room for both?”

  “Did you sleep with him?” It was out, stinging the air, before he could stop it.

  “What?”

  “The artist, the one who painted this.” Trevor turned, faced his own senseless outrage. “Did you sleep with him?”

  She took a moment to try to think over the wild beat of blood in her head. “You’re trying my patience, Trevor, and I’m not known for it to begin with. So I’ll only say that’s none of your concern.”

  Of course it wasn’t. “The hell it isn’t. Was he in love with you? Did you enjoy that, being that fantasy for him, before you sent him on his way?”

  She wouldn’t let it hurt. It wouldn’t be permitted. So she concentrated on the bright fury in Trevor’s eyes and let her own rise to meet it. “That’s a fine opinion you have of me, and not so far from the mark. I’ve had men, and make no excuses for it. I’ve taken what suited me, and so what?”