Jewels of the Sun by Nora Roberts
“All of them.” Mr. Riley wheezed out a laugh and slapped his thin hand on the bar. “Sure and I’ve never seen a female face that wasn’t pretty enough for a pinch. The Yank here has witchy eyes. You mind your step, Aidan lad, or she’ll put a spell on you.”
“Maybe she has already.” He cleared glasses, put them in the sink under the bar, got fresh ones for the tap. “Have you been out of a midnight, Jude Frances, picking moonflowers and whispering my name?”
“I might,” she heard herself say, “if I knew which were moonflowers.”
This made Mr. Riley laugh so hard she feared he’d topple off his stool. Aidan only smiled, served his pints, took the coin. Then he leaned close, watched her eyes go wide and her lips tremble apart in surprise. “I’ll point out the moonflowers for you, the next I come to call.”
“Well. Hmmm.” So much for snappy repartee, she decided, and gulped down some wine.
Either the wine, or the intimacy of the look he sent her, went straight to her head. She decided she would have to approach both with a bit more caution and respect. This time when Aidan lifted the bottle, she shook her head and put her hand over her glass.
“No, thanks. I’ll just have water now.”
“You want the fizzy sort?”
“Fizzy? Oh, yes, that would be nice.”
He brought it to her in a short glass with no ice to speak of. She sipped it, watching as he set two more glasses under taps and began the methodical process of building a Guinness.
“It takes an awfully long time,” she said more to herself than him, but he glanced over, one hand still maneuvering the taps.
“Only as long as it takes to make it right. One day, when you’re in the mood for it, I’ll build you a glass and you’ll see what you’re missing by sipping that French business there.”
Darcy swung back to the bar, set down her tray. “A pint and a half, Smithwick, pint of Guinness and two glasses of Jameson’s. And when you’re done there, Aidan, Jack Brennan’s come to his limit.”
“I’ll see to it. What time do you have, Jude Frances?”
“Time?” She stopped staring at his hands—they were so quick and clever—and glanced down at her watch. “Lord, it’s after eleven. I had no idea.” Her hour had stretched into nearly three. “I need to get back.”
Aidan gave her an absent nod, a great deal less than she’d hoped for, and filled his sister’s order while Jude searched for the money to pay for her drinks.
“My grandson’s paying.” Mr. Riley laid a fragile hand on her shoulder. “He’s a good lad. You put your money away, darling.”
“Thank you.” She offered a hand to shake, then found herself charmed when the old man lifted it to his lips. “I enjoyed meeting you.” She slid off her stool, sent a smile to the younger Riley. “Both of you.”
Without Darcy to clear the path, getting to the door was a little more problematic than getting to the bar had been. When she got there, her face was flushed from the heat of bodies, and her blood dancing to the hot lick of the fiddle.
She considered it one of the most entertaining evenings of her life.
Then she stepped outside into the cool night air. And saw Aidan just as he ducked under the violent swing of an arm the width of a tree trunk.
“Now, Jack,” he said in reasonable tones as a giant of a man with shocking red hair bunched hamlike fists again. “You know you don’t want to hit me.”
“I’ll do it! I’ll break your interfering nose this time, by Jesus, Aidan Gallagher. Who are you to tell me I can’t have a fucking drink in the fucking pub when I’ve a fucking mind to?”
“You’re well and truly pissed, Jack, and you need to go home now and sleep it off.”
“Let’s see if you can sleep this off.”
He charged, and while Aidan prepared to pivot and easily avoid the bull rush, Jude let out a short scream of alarm. It took only that to distract Aidan enough to have Jack’s wild punch connect.
“Well, hell.” Aidan wiggled his jaw, blew out a breath as Jack’s lumbering charge sent the man sprawling facedown on the sidewalk.
“Are you all right?” Terrified, Jude rushed over, skirting the sprawled form that was approximately the size of a capsized ocean liner. “Your mouth’s bleeding. Does it hurt? This is awful.” She fumbled in her bag for a tissue as she stuttered.
Aidan was irritated enough to tell her the blood was as much her fault for screaming as it was Jack’s for throwing the punch. But she looked so pretty and distressed, and was already dabbing at his painfully cut lip with the tissue.
He started to smile, and as that hurt like twice the devil, he winced.
“Oh, what a bully! We need to call the police.”
“For what?”
“To arrest him. He attacked you.”
Sincerely shocked, Aidan gaped at her. “Now, why would I want to have one of my oldest friends arrested just for bloodying my lip?”
“Friend?”
“Sure. He’s just nursing a broken heart with whiskey which is foolish but natural enough. The lass he thought he loved went off with a Dubliner, two weeks ago last Wednesday, so he’s taken to drinking out his sorrows the past few days, then causing a ruckus. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“He hit you in the face.” Perhaps if she said it slowly, clearly, the meaning would get through. “He said he was going to break your nose.”
“That’s only because he’s tried to break it before and hasn’t found success. He’ll be sorry for it in the morning, nearly as sorry as he’ll be because his aching head won’t just roll off his shoulders and leave him in peace.”
Aidan did smile now, but cautiously. “Were you worried for me, darling?”
“Apparently I shouldn’t have been.” She said it primly and balled up the bloody tissue. “As you appear to enjoy brawling in the street with your friends.”
“Was a time I enjoyed brawling in the street with strangers, but with maturity I prefer my friends.” He reached out, as he’d been wanting to, and toyed with the ends of her bound-back hair. “And I thank you for having concern for me.”
He stepped forward. She stepped back.
And he sighed. “One day you won’t have quite so much room to back away. And I won’t have poor drunk Jack at me feet to deal with.”
Philosophically he bent down and, to Jude’s astonishment, picked up the enormous semiconscious man and swung him handily over his shoulder.
“Is that you, then, Aidan?”
“Aye, Jack.”
“Did I break your nose?”
“No, you didn’t, but you bloodied my lip a bit.”
“Fucking Gallagher luck.”
“There’s a lady present, you knothead.”
“Oh. Begging pardon.”
“You’re both ridiculous,” Jude decided and turned away to march to her car.
“Jude, my darling?” Aidan grinned, hissed as his lip split again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, say at half-one.” He only chuckled when she continued to walk, heels clicking briskly, then turned to give him a fulminating look as she got into her car.
“Is she gone now?” Jack wanted to know.
“She’s going. But not far,” Aidan murmured as she drove decorously down the street. “No, she won’t go far.”
• • •
Men were baboons. Obviously. Jude shook her head, tapped her finger on the wheel in a disapproving manner as she drove home. Drunken brawls on the street were not amusing pastimes, and anyone who thought they were was in dire need of therapy.
God, he’d made her feel like an idiot. Standing there grinning at her while she dabbed at the blood on his mouth and babbled. An indulgent grin, she thought now, from the big, strong man to the foolish, fluttery female.
Worse, she had been foolish and fluttery. When Aidan had tossed that enormous man over his shoulder as if he was a bag of feathers, her stomach had definitely fluttered. If she hadn’t tightened up that very instant and stalked away, she might well have whimpered in admiration.
Mortifying.
And had he been the least bit embarrassed at getting a fist planted in his face in front of her? No, indeed. Had he blushed to introduce the drunken fool at his feet as an old and close friend? No, he had not.
He was very likely behind the bar again right this minute, entertaining his customers with the story, making them laugh over her scream of alarm and trembling hands.
Bastard.
She sniffed once, and felt better for it.
By the time she pulled in the drive she’d convinced herself that she’d behaved in a scrupulously dignified and reasonable manner. It was Aidan Gallagher who’d been the fool.
Moonflowers, indeed. She slammed the door of her car sharply enough to send the echo ringing down to the valley.
After huffing out another breath and smoothing down her hair, she headed for the gate. And when her gaze was drawn up, she saw the woman in the window.
“Oh, God.”
The blood drained out of her head. She felt each individual drop of it flow out. Moonlight shimmered gently on the pale fall of hair, on the white cheeks, against the deep green eyes.
She was smiling, a beautiful, heart-wrenching smile that hooked Jude’s soul and all but ripped it out.
Gathering courage, she shoved the gate back and ran for the door. When she yanked it open it occurred to her that she’d neglected to lock it. Someone had gone in while she’d been in the pub, she told herself. That was all.
Her knees trembled as she dashed up the stairs.
The bedroom was empty, as was every other room when she hurried through the house. All that was left was the faint sighing scent of woman.
Uneasy, she locked the doors. And when she was in her bedroom again, she locked that as well from the inside.
After she undressed and huddled in bed, she left the light burning. It was a long time before she slept. And dreamed of jewels bursting out of the sun and tumbling through the sky to be caught in a silver bag by a man riding a winged horse white as snowfall.
They swooped out of the sky, over the fields and mountains, the lakes and rivers, the bogs and the moors that were Ireland. Across the battlements of castles and the humble thatched roofs of cottages, with the white wings of the horse singing against the wind.
They came to a flashing stop, hooves striking ground at the front of the cottage on the hill with its white walls and deep-green shutters and flowers spilling from the door.
She came out to him, her hair the palest of golds around her shoulders, her eyes green as the fields. And the man, with hair as dark as hers was light, wearing a silver ring centered with a stone no less brilliant than his eyes, leaped from the horse.
He walked to her and spilled the flood of jewels at her feet. Diamonds blazed in the grass.
“These are my passion for you,” he told her. “Take them and me, for I would give you all I have and more.”
“Passion isn’t enough, nor are your diamonds.” Her voice was quiet, contained, and her hands stayed folded at her waist. “I’m promised to another.”
“I’ll give you all. I’ll give you forever. Come away with me, Gwen, and a hundred lifetimes I’ll give you.”
“ ’Tisn’t fine jewels and lifetimes I want.” A single tear slipped down her cheek, as bright as the diamonds in the grass. “I can’t leave my home. Won’t change my world for yours. Not for all your diamonds, for all your lifetimes.”
Without a word, he turned from her and mounted his horse. And as they rose up into the sky, she walked away into the cottage, leaving the diamonds on the ground as if they were no more than flowers.
And so they became flowers and covered the ground with fragrance, humble and sweet.
SIX
JUDE AWOKE TO the soft, steady patter of rain and the vague memory of dreams full of color and motion. She was tempted to snuggle under the covers and slide back into sleep, to find those dreams again. But that seemed wrong. Overindulgent.
More productive, she decided, to create and maintain a routine. A rainy Sunday morning could be spent on basic housekeeping chores. After all, she didn’t have a cleaning service here in Ardmore as she had in Chicago.
On some secret level she actually looked forward to the dusting and mopping, the little tasks that would in some way make the cottage hers. She supposed it wasn’t very sensible of her, but she actually enjoyed rooting through the cleaning supplies, selecting her rags and cloths.
She spent a pleasant portion of the morning dusting and rearranging the knickknacks Old Maude had scattered all over the house. Pretty painted fairies, elegant sorcerers, intriguing chunks of crystal had homes on every tabletop and shelf. Most of the books leaned toward Irish history and folklore, but there were a number of well-worn paperbacks tucked in.
Old Maude had liked to read romance novels, Jude discovered, and found the idea wonderfully sweet.
Rather than a vacuum, Jude unearthed an old-fashioned upright sweeper, and hummed along with its squeaky progress over rug and wood.
She scrubbed down the kitchen and found a surprising glow of satisfaction when chrome and porcelain gleamed. Gaining confidence as she went, she wielded her polishing cloth in the office next. She would get to the boxes in the tiny closet soon, she promised herself. Perhaps that evening. And she’d ship off to her grandmother anything that seemed worthwhile or sentimental enough to keep.
She stripped the bed in her room, gathered the rest of the laundry. She found it slightly embarrassing that she’d never done laundry before in her life. But surely it couldn’t be that complex a skill to learn. It occurred to her that she should have started the wash before she started the cleaning, but she’d remember that next time.
In the cramped room off the kitchen, she found the basket, which she realized she should have taken upstairs in the first place, and dumped the laundry in it.
She also discovered there was no dryer. If she wasn’t mistaken, that meant she had to hang clothes out on a line. And though watching Mollie O’Toole as she did so had been enjoyable, doing it herself, for herself, would be a little more problematic.
She’d just have to learn. She would learn, Jude assured herself. Then, clearing her throat, she took a hard look at the washing machine.
Hardly new, it had a spray of rust spots over the white surface. The controls were simple. You got cold water or hot, and she assumed if you wanted something clean, you used hot and plenty of it. She read the instructions on the box of detergent and followed them meticulously. The sound of water pouring into the tub made her beam with accomplishment.
To celebrate she put on the kettle for tea and treated herself to a handful of cookies from the tin.
The cottage was tidy. Her cottage was tidy, she corrected. Everything was in place, the laundry was going so . . . Now there was no excuse not to think about what she’d seen the night before.
The woman at the window. Lady Gwen.
Her ghost.
There was no reasonable way to deny she’d seen that figure twice now. It had been too clear. So clear she knew she could, even with her rudimentary skills, sketch the face that had watched her from the window.
Ghosts. They weren’t something she’d been brought up to believe in, though part of her had always loved the fancy of her grandmother’s tales. But unless she had suddenly become prone to hallucinations, she’d seen a ghost twice now.
Could it be she’d tumbled off the edge of the breakdown that had been so worrying her when she left Chicago?
But she didn’t feel so unsteady now. She hadn’t had a tension headache or a queasy stomach or felt the smothering weight of oncoming depression in days.
Not since she’d stepped over the threshold of Faerie Hill Cottage for the first time.
She felt . . . good, she decided after a quick mental check. Alert, calm, healthy. Even happy.
So, she thought, either she’d seen a ghost and such things did exist, which meant readjusting her thinking to quite an extent . . .
Or she’d had a breakdown and the result of it was contentment.
She nibbled thoughtfully on another cookie and decided she could live with either situation.
At the knock on the front door she quickly brushed crumbs from her sweater and glanced at the clock. She had no idea where the morning had gone, and she had deliberately put Aidan’s promised visit out of her head.
Apparently he was here now. That was fine. They’d work in the kitchen, she decided, shoving pins back into her hair as she walked down the hall to the door. Despite her initial, well, chemical reaction to him, her interest in him was purely professional. A man who fought with drunks on the street and flirted so outrageously with women he barely knew had no appeal to her whatsoever.
She was a civilized woman who believed in using reason, diplomacy, and compromise to solve disputes. She could only pity someone who preferred using force and bunched fists.
Even if he did have a beautiful face and muscles that just rippled when put into use.
She was much too sensible to be blinded by the physical.
She would record his stories, thank him for his cooperation. And that would be that.
Then she opened the door, and he was standing in the rain, his hair gleaming with it, his smile warm as summer and just as lazy. And she felt about as sensible as a puppy.
“Good day to you, Jude.”
“Hello.” It was a testament to his effect on her that it took her a full ten seconds to so much as notice the enormous man beside him clutching flowers in his huge hand. He looked miserable, she noted, the rain dripping off the bill of his soaked cap, his wide face pale as moonlight, his truck-grill shoulders slumped.
He only sighed when Aidan rammed an elbow hard into his ribs.
“Ah, good day to you, Miss Murray. I’m Jack Brennan. Aidan here tells me I behaved badly last night, in your presence. I’m sorry for that and hope to beg your pardon.”
He shoved the flowers at her, with a pitiful look in his bloodshot eyes. “I’d had a bit too much of the drink,” he went on. “But that’s no excuse for using strong language in front of a lady—though I didn’t know you were there, did I?” He said that with a slide of his eyes toward Aidan and a mutinous set to his mouth.
“No.” She kept her voice stern, though the wet flowers were so pathetic they melted her heart. “You were too busy trying to hit your friend.”
“Oh, well, sure Aidan’s too fast for me to plant a good one on him when I’m under the influence, so to speak.” His lips curved, for just a moment, into a surprisingly sweet smile, then he hung his great head again. “But despite circumstances being what they were, it’s no excuse for behaving in such a manner in front of a lady. So I’m after begging your pardon and hoping you don’t think too poorly of me.”
“There now.” Aidan gave his friend a hearty slap on the back. “Well done, Jack. Miss Murray’s too kindhearted to hold a grudge after so pretty an apology.” He looked back at her, as if they were sharing a lovely little joke. “Aren’t you, Jude Frances?”
Actually she was, but it irritated her to be so well pegged. Ignoring Aidan, she nodded at Jack. “I don’t think poorly of you, Mr. Brennan. It was very considerate of you to come by and bring me flowers. Would you like to come in and have some tea?”
His face brightened. “That’s kind of you. I wouldn’t mind—”
“You’ve got places to go, Jack.”
Jack’s brows drew together. “I don’t. Particularly.”
“Aye, you do. This and the other. You take my car and be about it. You’ll remember I told you Miss Murray and I have business to tend to.”
“All right, then,” he muttered. “But I don’t see how one bloody cup of tea would matter. Good day, Miss Murray.” Shoulders hunched, cap dripping, he lumbered back to the car.
“You might have let him come in out of the rain,” Jude commented.
“You don’t seem to be in any great hurry to ask me in out of it.” Aidan angled his head as he studied her face. “Maybe you hold a grudge after all.”
“Maybe she has already.” He cleared glasses, put them in the sink under the bar, got fresh ones for the tap. “Have you been out of a midnight, Jude Frances, picking moonflowers and whispering my name?”
“I might,” she heard herself say, “if I knew which were moonflowers.”
This made Mr. Riley laugh so hard she feared he’d topple off his stool. Aidan only smiled, served his pints, took the coin. Then he leaned close, watched her eyes go wide and her lips tremble apart in surprise. “I’ll point out the moonflowers for you, the next I come to call.”
“Well. Hmmm.” So much for snappy repartee, she decided, and gulped down some wine.
Either the wine, or the intimacy of the look he sent her, went straight to her head. She decided she would have to approach both with a bit more caution and respect. This time when Aidan lifted the bottle, she shook her head and put her hand over her glass.
“No, thanks. I’ll just have water now.”
“You want the fizzy sort?”
“Fizzy? Oh, yes, that would be nice.”
He brought it to her in a short glass with no ice to speak of. She sipped it, watching as he set two more glasses under taps and began the methodical process of building a Guinness.
“It takes an awfully long time,” she said more to herself than him, but he glanced over, one hand still maneuvering the taps.
“Only as long as it takes to make it right. One day, when you’re in the mood for it, I’ll build you a glass and you’ll see what you’re missing by sipping that French business there.”
Darcy swung back to the bar, set down her tray. “A pint and a half, Smithwick, pint of Guinness and two glasses of Jameson’s. And when you’re done there, Aidan, Jack Brennan’s come to his limit.”
“I’ll see to it. What time do you have, Jude Frances?”
“Time?” She stopped staring at his hands—they were so quick and clever—and glanced down at her watch. “Lord, it’s after eleven. I had no idea.” Her hour had stretched into nearly three. “I need to get back.”
Aidan gave her an absent nod, a great deal less than she’d hoped for, and filled his sister’s order while Jude searched for the money to pay for her drinks.
“My grandson’s paying.” Mr. Riley laid a fragile hand on her shoulder. “He’s a good lad. You put your money away, darling.”
“Thank you.” She offered a hand to shake, then found herself charmed when the old man lifted it to his lips. “I enjoyed meeting you.” She slid off her stool, sent a smile to the younger Riley. “Both of you.”
Without Darcy to clear the path, getting to the door was a little more problematic than getting to the bar had been. When she got there, her face was flushed from the heat of bodies, and her blood dancing to the hot lick of the fiddle.
She considered it one of the most entertaining evenings of her life.
Then she stepped outside into the cool night air. And saw Aidan just as he ducked under the violent swing of an arm the width of a tree trunk.
“Now, Jack,” he said in reasonable tones as a giant of a man with shocking red hair bunched hamlike fists again. “You know you don’t want to hit me.”
“I’ll do it! I’ll break your interfering nose this time, by Jesus, Aidan Gallagher. Who are you to tell me I can’t have a fucking drink in the fucking pub when I’ve a fucking mind to?”
“You’re well and truly pissed, Jack, and you need to go home now and sleep it off.”
“Let’s see if you can sleep this off.”
He charged, and while Aidan prepared to pivot and easily avoid the bull rush, Jude let out a short scream of alarm. It took only that to distract Aidan enough to have Jack’s wild punch connect.
“Well, hell.” Aidan wiggled his jaw, blew out a breath as Jack’s lumbering charge sent the man sprawling facedown on the sidewalk.
“Are you all right?” Terrified, Jude rushed over, skirting the sprawled form that was approximately the size of a capsized ocean liner. “Your mouth’s bleeding. Does it hurt? This is awful.” She fumbled in her bag for a tissue as she stuttered.
Aidan was irritated enough to tell her the blood was as much her fault for screaming as it was Jack’s for throwing the punch. But she looked so pretty and distressed, and was already dabbing at his painfully cut lip with the tissue.
He started to smile, and as that hurt like twice the devil, he winced.
“Oh, what a bully! We need to call the police.”
“For what?”
“To arrest him. He attacked you.”
Sincerely shocked, Aidan gaped at her. “Now, why would I want to have one of my oldest friends arrested just for bloodying my lip?”
“Friend?”
“Sure. He’s just nursing a broken heart with whiskey which is foolish but natural enough. The lass he thought he loved went off with a Dubliner, two weeks ago last Wednesday, so he’s taken to drinking out his sorrows the past few days, then causing a ruckus. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“He hit you in the face.” Perhaps if she said it slowly, clearly, the meaning would get through. “He said he was going to break your nose.”
“That’s only because he’s tried to break it before and hasn’t found success. He’ll be sorry for it in the morning, nearly as sorry as he’ll be because his aching head won’t just roll off his shoulders and leave him in peace.”
Aidan did smile now, but cautiously. “Were you worried for me, darling?”
“Apparently I shouldn’t have been.” She said it primly and balled up the bloody tissue. “As you appear to enjoy brawling in the street with your friends.”
“Was a time I enjoyed brawling in the street with strangers, but with maturity I prefer my friends.” He reached out, as he’d been wanting to, and toyed with the ends of her bound-back hair. “And I thank you for having concern for me.”
He stepped forward. She stepped back.
And he sighed. “One day you won’t have quite so much room to back away. And I won’t have poor drunk Jack at me feet to deal with.”
Philosophically he bent down and, to Jude’s astonishment, picked up the enormous semiconscious man and swung him handily over his shoulder.
“Is that you, then, Aidan?”
“Aye, Jack.”
“Did I break your nose?”
“No, you didn’t, but you bloodied my lip a bit.”
“Fucking Gallagher luck.”
“There’s a lady present, you knothead.”
“Oh. Begging pardon.”
“You’re both ridiculous,” Jude decided and turned away to march to her car.
“Jude, my darling?” Aidan grinned, hissed as his lip split again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, say at half-one.” He only chuckled when she continued to walk, heels clicking briskly, then turned to give him a fulminating look as she got into her car.
“Is she gone now?” Jack wanted to know.
“She’s going. But not far,” Aidan murmured as she drove decorously down the street. “No, she won’t go far.”
• • •
Men were baboons. Obviously. Jude shook her head, tapped her finger on the wheel in a disapproving manner as she drove home. Drunken brawls on the street were not amusing pastimes, and anyone who thought they were was in dire need of therapy.
God, he’d made her feel like an idiot. Standing there grinning at her while she dabbed at the blood on his mouth and babbled. An indulgent grin, she thought now, from the big, strong man to the foolish, fluttery female.
Worse, she had been foolish and fluttery. When Aidan had tossed that enormous man over his shoulder as if he was a bag of feathers, her stomach had definitely fluttered. If she hadn’t tightened up that very instant and stalked away, she might well have whimpered in admiration.
Mortifying.
And had he been the least bit embarrassed at getting a fist planted in his face in front of her? No, indeed. Had he blushed to introduce the drunken fool at his feet as an old and close friend? No, he had not.
He was very likely behind the bar again right this minute, entertaining his customers with the story, making them laugh over her scream of alarm and trembling hands.
Bastard.
She sniffed once, and felt better for it.
By the time she pulled in the drive she’d convinced herself that she’d behaved in a scrupulously dignified and reasonable manner. It was Aidan Gallagher who’d been the fool.
Moonflowers, indeed. She slammed the door of her car sharply enough to send the echo ringing down to the valley.
After huffing out another breath and smoothing down her hair, she headed for the gate. And when her gaze was drawn up, she saw the woman in the window.
“Oh, God.”
The blood drained out of her head. She felt each individual drop of it flow out. Moonlight shimmered gently on the pale fall of hair, on the white cheeks, against the deep green eyes.
She was smiling, a beautiful, heart-wrenching smile that hooked Jude’s soul and all but ripped it out.
Gathering courage, she shoved the gate back and ran for the door. When she yanked it open it occurred to her that she’d neglected to lock it. Someone had gone in while she’d been in the pub, she told herself. That was all.
Her knees trembled as she dashed up the stairs.
The bedroom was empty, as was every other room when she hurried through the house. All that was left was the faint sighing scent of woman.
Uneasy, she locked the doors. And when she was in her bedroom again, she locked that as well from the inside.
After she undressed and huddled in bed, she left the light burning. It was a long time before she slept. And dreamed of jewels bursting out of the sun and tumbling through the sky to be caught in a silver bag by a man riding a winged horse white as snowfall.
They swooped out of the sky, over the fields and mountains, the lakes and rivers, the bogs and the moors that were Ireland. Across the battlements of castles and the humble thatched roofs of cottages, with the white wings of the horse singing against the wind.
They came to a flashing stop, hooves striking ground at the front of the cottage on the hill with its white walls and deep-green shutters and flowers spilling from the door.
She came out to him, her hair the palest of golds around her shoulders, her eyes green as the fields. And the man, with hair as dark as hers was light, wearing a silver ring centered with a stone no less brilliant than his eyes, leaped from the horse.
He walked to her and spilled the flood of jewels at her feet. Diamonds blazed in the grass.
“These are my passion for you,” he told her. “Take them and me, for I would give you all I have and more.”
“Passion isn’t enough, nor are your diamonds.” Her voice was quiet, contained, and her hands stayed folded at her waist. “I’m promised to another.”
“I’ll give you all. I’ll give you forever. Come away with me, Gwen, and a hundred lifetimes I’ll give you.”
“ ’Tisn’t fine jewels and lifetimes I want.” A single tear slipped down her cheek, as bright as the diamonds in the grass. “I can’t leave my home. Won’t change my world for yours. Not for all your diamonds, for all your lifetimes.”
Without a word, he turned from her and mounted his horse. And as they rose up into the sky, she walked away into the cottage, leaving the diamonds on the ground as if they were no more than flowers.
And so they became flowers and covered the ground with fragrance, humble and sweet.
SIX
JUDE AWOKE TO the soft, steady patter of rain and the vague memory of dreams full of color and motion. She was tempted to snuggle under the covers and slide back into sleep, to find those dreams again. But that seemed wrong. Overindulgent.
More productive, she decided, to create and maintain a routine. A rainy Sunday morning could be spent on basic housekeeping chores. After all, she didn’t have a cleaning service here in Ardmore as she had in Chicago.
On some secret level she actually looked forward to the dusting and mopping, the little tasks that would in some way make the cottage hers. She supposed it wasn’t very sensible of her, but she actually enjoyed rooting through the cleaning supplies, selecting her rags and cloths.
She spent a pleasant portion of the morning dusting and rearranging the knickknacks Old Maude had scattered all over the house. Pretty painted fairies, elegant sorcerers, intriguing chunks of crystal had homes on every tabletop and shelf. Most of the books leaned toward Irish history and folklore, but there were a number of well-worn paperbacks tucked in.
Old Maude had liked to read romance novels, Jude discovered, and found the idea wonderfully sweet.
Rather than a vacuum, Jude unearthed an old-fashioned upright sweeper, and hummed along with its squeaky progress over rug and wood.
She scrubbed down the kitchen and found a surprising glow of satisfaction when chrome and porcelain gleamed. Gaining confidence as she went, she wielded her polishing cloth in the office next. She would get to the boxes in the tiny closet soon, she promised herself. Perhaps that evening. And she’d ship off to her grandmother anything that seemed worthwhile or sentimental enough to keep.
She stripped the bed in her room, gathered the rest of the laundry. She found it slightly embarrassing that she’d never done laundry before in her life. But surely it couldn’t be that complex a skill to learn. It occurred to her that she should have started the wash before she started the cleaning, but she’d remember that next time.
In the cramped room off the kitchen, she found the basket, which she realized she should have taken upstairs in the first place, and dumped the laundry in it.
She also discovered there was no dryer. If she wasn’t mistaken, that meant she had to hang clothes out on a line. And though watching Mollie O’Toole as she did so had been enjoyable, doing it herself, for herself, would be a little more problematic.
She’d just have to learn. She would learn, Jude assured herself. Then, clearing her throat, she took a hard look at the washing machine.
Hardly new, it had a spray of rust spots over the white surface. The controls were simple. You got cold water or hot, and she assumed if you wanted something clean, you used hot and plenty of it. She read the instructions on the box of detergent and followed them meticulously. The sound of water pouring into the tub made her beam with accomplishment.
To celebrate she put on the kettle for tea and treated herself to a handful of cookies from the tin.
The cottage was tidy. Her cottage was tidy, she corrected. Everything was in place, the laundry was going so . . . Now there was no excuse not to think about what she’d seen the night before.
The woman at the window. Lady Gwen.
Her ghost.
There was no reasonable way to deny she’d seen that figure twice now. It had been too clear. So clear she knew she could, even with her rudimentary skills, sketch the face that had watched her from the window.
Ghosts. They weren’t something she’d been brought up to believe in, though part of her had always loved the fancy of her grandmother’s tales. But unless she had suddenly become prone to hallucinations, she’d seen a ghost twice now.
Could it be she’d tumbled off the edge of the breakdown that had been so worrying her when she left Chicago?
But she didn’t feel so unsteady now. She hadn’t had a tension headache or a queasy stomach or felt the smothering weight of oncoming depression in days.
Not since she’d stepped over the threshold of Faerie Hill Cottage for the first time.
She felt . . . good, she decided after a quick mental check. Alert, calm, healthy. Even happy.
So, she thought, either she’d seen a ghost and such things did exist, which meant readjusting her thinking to quite an extent . . .
Or she’d had a breakdown and the result of it was contentment.
She nibbled thoughtfully on another cookie and decided she could live with either situation.
At the knock on the front door she quickly brushed crumbs from her sweater and glanced at the clock. She had no idea where the morning had gone, and she had deliberately put Aidan’s promised visit out of her head.
Apparently he was here now. That was fine. They’d work in the kitchen, she decided, shoving pins back into her hair as she walked down the hall to the door. Despite her initial, well, chemical reaction to him, her interest in him was purely professional. A man who fought with drunks on the street and flirted so outrageously with women he barely knew had no appeal to her whatsoever.
She was a civilized woman who believed in using reason, diplomacy, and compromise to solve disputes. She could only pity someone who preferred using force and bunched fists.
Even if he did have a beautiful face and muscles that just rippled when put into use.
She was much too sensible to be blinded by the physical.
She would record his stories, thank him for his cooperation. And that would be that.
Then she opened the door, and he was standing in the rain, his hair gleaming with it, his smile warm as summer and just as lazy. And she felt about as sensible as a puppy.
“Good day to you, Jude.”
“Hello.” It was a testament to his effect on her that it took her a full ten seconds to so much as notice the enormous man beside him clutching flowers in his huge hand. He looked miserable, she noted, the rain dripping off the bill of his soaked cap, his wide face pale as moonlight, his truck-grill shoulders slumped.
He only sighed when Aidan rammed an elbow hard into his ribs.
“Ah, good day to you, Miss Murray. I’m Jack Brennan. Aidan here tells me I behaved badly last night, in your presence. I’m sorry for that and hope to beg your pardon.”
He shoved the flowers at her, with a pitiful look in his bloodshot eyes. “I’d had a bit too much of the drink,” he went on. “But that’s no excuse for using strong language in front of a lady—though I didn’t know you were there, did I?” He said that with a slide of his eyes toward Aidan and a mutinous set to his mouth.
“No.” She kept her voice stern, though the wet flowers were so pathetic they melted her heart. “You were too busy trying to hit your friend.”
“Oh, well, sure Aidan’s too fast for me to plant a good one on him when I’m under the influence, so to speak.” His lips curved, for just a moment, into a surprisingly sweet smile, then he hung his great head again. “But despite circumstances being what they were, it’s no excuse for behaving in such a manner in front of a lady. So I’m after begging your pardon and hoping you don’t think too poorly of me.”
“There now.” Aidan gave his friend a hearty slap on the back. “Well done, Jack. Miss Murray’s too kindhearted to hold a grudge after so pretty an apology.” He looked back at her, as if they were sharing a lovely little joke. “Aren’t you, Jude Frances?”
Actually she was, but it irritated her to be so well pegged. Ignoring Aidan, she nodded at Jack. “I don’t think poorly of you, Mr. Brennan. It was very considerate of you to come by and bring me flowers. Would you like to come in and have some tea?”
His face brightened. “That’s kind of you. I wouldn’t mind—”
“You’ve got places to go, Jack.”
Jack’s brows drew together. “I don’t. Particularly.”
“Aye, you do. This and the other. You take my car and be about it. You’ll remember I told you Miss Murray and I have business to tend to.”
“All right, then,” he muttered. “But I don’t see how one bloody cup of tea would matter. Good day, Miss Murray.” Shoulders hunched, cap dripping, he lumbered back to the car.
“You might have let him come in out of the rain,” Jude commented.
“You don’t seem to be in any great hurry to ask me in out of it.” Aidan angled his head as he studied her face. “Maybe you hold a grudge after all.”