Tears of the Moon (35 page)

“At times I feel her there, or catch the scent of her hair or her skin. But not once in a hundred years times three have I been able to see or to touch or so much as speak my heart to her.”

“You cast a harsh spell on the both of you,” Brenna commented.

“I did, yes, and I have paid for that rash moment of temper. You know of such things,” he said.

“I do, indeed. And fortunate it is I haven't the power to conjure or cast.”

“Mortals.” Amusement softened his face. “You've no concept of what powers you hold, and so you use what you have most carelessly on yourselves and each other.”

“That's pot calling kettle.”

“As you see it,” he agreed with a nod. “But there was no faerie magic in what began between me and Gwen. I neither tricked nor lured her to me, as some tell the tale. She came to me willing, until her father forbade her. Until he promised her to another for fear of me.”

“I believe the truth of that.” Because she did, she laid a comforting hand on his arm. “A maid had less say in such choices then.”

Carrick tossed his leg over the horse, slid down. “Then make yours.”

“I have.” She mirrored his move, watched his mouth twitch. “But I'll follow through in my own way.”

“Listen,” was all he said.

The music drifted out on the air, wove around her like a silk net. “It's Shawn playing. The song he gave me. Oh!” She closed her eyes. “It fills the heart right up. There's nothing in your raft lovelier than that,” she said, reaching down to open the gate.

But it held fast, no matter how she pushed or pulled.“I can't open it.” Panicked, she whirled around, but horse and rider were gone. She turned back, gripping the gate with both hands, shoved.

“Shawn!”

“There, now.” She was in his arms, and there was a chuckle in his voice. “You were dreaming. An excitable one.”

“Dreaming.” Her mind was full of mists and stars and music. “I couldn't open the gate. I couldn't get in.”

“You are in.”

“I am in. God, I'm fuzzy-brained yet. I must've dropped off like a rock.” She pushed at her hair. “Give me a minute to wake up.”

“I've some news that might clear the cobwebs.”

“What is it?”

“Aidan's taken with your drawings of the theater.”

As he'd suspected they would, the clouds in her eyes cleared immediately. “Really? Is he?”

“He is, yes. So pleased, in fact, he's already spoken of them to the Magee.”

“What did he say?”

“Which of them?”

“Both, either.” She gripped his arms and shook. “Don't play with me, Shawn, or I'll have to hurt you.”

“Sure and that's a frightening thought, so I'll tell you. I can't relay exactly what Magee said, as it was Aidan who spoke with him, but it seems that the man's interested enough to want to take a look at what you've drawn up.” Shawn toyed with her hair as he spoke, a new habit he was enjoying. “So they're going off to New York City, and we'll see what we see.”

“It's a good design.”

“It looked good to me.”

“It would work and work well.” Worrying over it, she gnawed at her lip. “Any dunderhead would see that it blends with what's here, adds to it rather than overpowering. He won't get better from any of his fancy architects.”

“You have to work on your confidence, Brenna. So much modesty's unseemly.”

She only snorted. “But how is Magee to know that if he can't actually
see
? The way the pub sits and how the land is and so on.”

“He has photographs,” Shawn reminded her. “Finkle took dozens while he was here.”

“It's not the same. I should talk to Magee myself, is what I should do.”

“You may be right, but wouldn't it be best to give it a bit of time, then see what he thinks before jumping in boots first and pushing at him?”

“Some take a good push.” Her lips slanted into a sneer. “As yourself is a perfect example. When is Aidan sending them? Maybe I should take another look at them first.”

“They're already on the way. He shipped them off in yesterday's post, by special courier as Magee requested.”

“Well, then. Well.” They would stand or fall on their own, she thought, as Shawn's song would. She nearly blurted out that she'd already spoken to Magee herself, and that between them they were keeping the man busy looking over their efforts.

No, better to wait, then give Shawn the results instead of the worry of wondering.

“And what are you thinking of so hard and long?”

“The next steps, and what happens after they're taken. It seems when one thing changes, everything changes with it.”

“I've thought the same myself.” Look at us, he thought, and brushed her hair back from her face.

Her pulse stumbled. Another change, she realized, that his just touching her could cause that sudden and vivid awareness. “Does it worry you?”

“No. But if it concerns you at the moment, I'd rather just take you dreaming again.” His lips cruised over hers as he laid her back. “If you hold on to me, we'll go together.”

“I want to be with you. You're the only one.” It was the closest she could come to lowering her shields.

He took her dreaming, gliding up, sinking down with the lights of the candles and turf fire shimmering everywhere. There was a tenderness in her she hadn't explored before. A welling need to give whatever was asked, and give gently.

They undressed each other. No tugs, no pulls this time. Fingers slid over skin, and lips followed, lingered so that each caress, each taste was precious. Sigh answered murmur. A mingling of breath.

Desire, without the red flash of flames, was gilded at the edges. Even when he urged her up to that fine and trembling peak, the glow held steady.

They watched each other as he slipped inside her.

It was like coming home.

His lips curved as they lowered to hers, another link. Her hands lifted, framed his face, held him there, just there while the beauty of it had tears swimming to her eyes.

“Come with me.” She murmured it against his mouth. “Let go and come with me.”

Her breath caught as she began the tumble, then released in a sigh when he took her hand and fell with her.

His mouth was on hers again before the mists cleared. “Stay.”

She shouldn't. Even as he shifted to draw her against his side she thought of all the reasons why it was best if she left now, crept quietly into her own bed.

“All right,” she said and settling her head on his shoulder, slept.

Of course, by dawn he'd shoved her to the edge of the bed. That was a little something they'd have to work on, Brenna thought as she got up in the half-light. She'd be damned if she'd spend every night of her life fighting for space on the mattress.

Begin as you mean to go on, her mother often said. Well, she'd begin by shoving her elbow into his ribs several times a night until he learned to share.

But her eyes were warm, watching him as she dressed. And the kiss she gave him before she left was unashamedly loving. “We'll get a bigger bed,” she whispered, then hurried out to get home before her mother came down to make breakfast.

An hour later, he woke alone and vaguely dissatisfied. Couldn't the woman have said good-bye at least? That was going to change. In fact, the whole business was going to change, and sooner than she might expect.

He wanted her in his life altogether, and not just for snatches of time in his bed. He rose, and gauging his time, figured he had plenty of it to have a look at the land he'd gotten word was for sale.

 

NINETEEN
T
HE PRICE WAS
as steep as the lay of the land, but Shawn liked the feel of it. As he stood in what was no more than a drizzle now, he could see the water from one direction, stone gray to mirror the sky, and calmer now.

The storm had died in the night, but the beach was littered with shells and kelp and debris that had been heaved out of the sea.

He imagined they would face the house that way, with at least one good-size window in the front room so they could watch the moods of the water.

In back there was the rise of distant mountains, shadowy bumps up into the cloudy sky. Then on either side was the fall of hills and fields, the deep, wet green shimmering through winding ribbons of mist.

He didn't have the talent to build a house in his mind, sketch one on paper, or take materials and tools and make it a reality. Not as Brenna did. But he could, particularly when the interest was personal, conjure up a glimmer of it.

He wanted a music room—well, not just for music, he thought, as he walked away from the area that he thought most likely for planting a house. It would have to be comfortable and welcoming so others would feel easy about coming in and staying awhile. But a room, and not a tiny, cramped one, where he could have his piano, and his fiddle. He'd want a kind of cabinet— perhaps Brenna could build it—for his music. And a stand, or whatever could be devised for a good tape recorder.

He'd always meant to record his music, and it was time to begin. If he ever meant to get to the next step, which he did in his own time and way, and polish a few of his pieces, the recorder was essential. Then he'd see about choosing one and going about the business of peddling the tunes.

Because the thought of it stretched his nerves, he shook his head. But not quite yet, of course. Not quite yet. He had a great deal to do first, and more than enough time.

He and Brenna had to come to terms first, and the house had to be built. Then they'd want to settle into it, and into each other for a while. He would get to the other business by and by.

The road leading to the plot he was considering was a worse mess than the track that led from Ardmore to Faerie Hill, then down to the O'Tooles' house. Still, it wouldn't worry him overmuch, and if it troubled Brenna it could be leveled some or widened or whatever. That was a business he'd leave to her.

It wasn't a big plot, but enough for a sturdy house and garden. Room enough, he calculated, for a cabin as well, as she'd want one for her tools and perhaps a workshop. She would need that just as he would his room for music. They'd do very well with their separate interests, he thought, and was grateful neither of them was the type who needed to be in each other's pockets day and night.

They had mutual and opposing ground, and he thought it a nice mix.

There was a skinny stream in the far back, and a trio of tough-looking trees that put him in mind of the three crosses near Saint Declan's Well.

The man who wanted to part ways with the land had said that there was a turf bog behind them and that no one had bothered to cut it for years. He himself hadn't cut turf since he was a boy and went out with his grandfather on his mother's side. The Fitzgeralds had been more people of the land and the Gallaghers people of the town.

Shawn thought he might enjoy it, if his life and comfort didn't absolutely depend upon it.

He wandered back toward what was grandly called a road, where the hedgerows grew tall and had the first haze of spring on them. As he did three magpies darted by like bullets shot from the same gun in rapid succession.

Three for marriage, he thought, and decided it was more than sign enough for him.

When he drove away toward the village to work, he considered himself a landowner, as hands had been clasped and shaken on the deal.

Brenna worked at home the early part of the morning. The wind had torn a few shingles from the roof, and a couple of leaks had sprung with the rain that had been driven hard by the wind.

It was simple enough work, no more than a patch here and there, and it gave her a fine opportunity to sit in the wavering sunlight and look out at the water.

When she built a house, she thought, she'd choose higher ground so her view of the water would be from windows rather than a rooftop. It was good to look and see the boats out again and know that life was sliding back into its regular rhythm.

And maybe she'd have some sky windows as well, so she could look up and see the sun or the rain or the drift of stars. It was time for a home of her own, she knew, though she'd miss the sounds and scents of family.

But there was something inside her that told her the time was now for the next stage of what she was and where she was going. There'd been a different tone between her and Shawn the night before, and it had changed everything in her once and forever. Her mind and her heart were in one place now.

It was time to tell him, to ask him. To browbeat him if there was no choice. Whatever it took, the O'Tooles were going to be planning another wedding.

God help them all.

She scooted over to the ladder, climbed down. Leaving her toolbox by the back door, she went in to tell her mother the job was done and she'd be on her way.

When the phone rang, she picked it up without thinking, then guiltily tucked the receiver under her chin and wiped the shingle grime off her hands onto her jeans. “Hello.”

“Miss O'Toole?”

“This is one of them.”

“Miss Brenna O'Toole.”

“Aye, you've hit the target.” Automatically Brenna pulled open the refrigerator door and perused the contents. “What can I do for you?”

“Would you hold the line, please, for Mr. Magee?”

“Oh.” She shot up straight, bumping the door with her hip and slamming it on her own hand. She bit back a yelp. “Yes, I could do that. Goddamn it,” she added in a mutter when she heard the line click, and sucked at her sore fingers.

“Miss O'Toole, Trevor Magee.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Magee.” She recognized his deep, smooth voice from the time she'd waded through what had seemed like an army of assistants to speak with him. “Are you calling from New York City?”

“No, actually I'm on my way to London.”