Tears of the Moon (37 page)

“But I . . . you've been dreaming. I've ten pounds of potatoes here to deal with. Why would I be making stovies if I was planning on having the evening free?”

“That's a question I can't answer, but I've Kathy Duffy coming in, and there's no need for both of you tonight.”

“I've no plans but to do my job here. You've mixed something up.”

Enjoying the timing, Aidan turned to Darcy as she came in. “Darcy, did Shawn ask for this evening free or did he not?”

“He did, a couple of days back. Selfish bastard.” Not one to let an opportunity pass, she flashed a challenging look at Aidan. “And since you're so bloody accommodating with our brother, I'm wanting Saturday afternoon off for myself.”

“Saturday afternoon.” Aidan nearly choked on his water. “You can't have a weekend day off as we're heading into spring.”

“Oh, so it's all right for him.” She pointed a finger toward a baffled Shawn. “But it's a different matter entirely for me.”

“I don't need the evening off.”

“You've got it,” Aidan snapped, and ground his teeth as Darcy folded her arms. “A weekday evening's a different matter from a weekend afternoon.”

“All right, fine, then. I'll take the evening off Monday next. Unless me being female means I don't get the same considerations as this one.” Satisfied that she'd boxed Aidan in, she flounced out.

“I don't remember asking for tonight off,” Shawn said vaguely.

“Aye, and you don't remember to tie your bootlaces half the time.” Seriously annoyed, Aidan jerked a thumb at the door. “Out with you, you troublemaker.”

Shoving up his sleeves and squaring his shoulders, Aidan went out to deal with his treacherous sister.

She had everything under control, and quite the job of work it had been. It had to be special, and as close to perfect as she could manage. Shawn Gallagher would see he wasn't the only one who could fuss and fiddle and set a nice scene.

She'd been to the market and got all the makings. While Shawn had been busy cooking at the pub, she'd been doing the same at the cottage. Maybe she didn't have his flair with such things, but she wasn't altogether helpless.

She'd chilled the wine and had even ferreted out a tin pail she'd scrubbed to use as an ice bucket. The champagne glasses she'd borrowed from Jude. Flutes, she'd called them, Brenna thought. And elegant they were.

She'd set a nice table, if she said so herself. A pair of pretty plates and cloth napkins, the flowers she scavenged from her mother's garden and the one at the cottage.

Candles, she thought as she lighted them. Surely everything was in place for an atmosphere of romance and celebration.

Oh, she couldn't wait to see his face when she told him about his music. It had been a test of will and restraint not to shout out the news to everyone she'd passed that day. But it was for Shawn first.

After they'd celebrated the thrill of it, and his future, lifted a glass or two, she'd tell him the rest. She couldn't—wouldn't—fumble with the words. Hadn't she practiced them in her head all of the day?

“I love you,” she said now, out loud to the empty room. “I think I always have, I know now I always will. Will you marry me?”

There. She rubbed the heel of her hand against her heart, as it was galloping like a wild horse. It wasn't so hard, really. Maybe her tongue felt a little thick and clumsy, but she'd said it straight out without stuttering.

And if he balked or refused, she'd just have to kill him.

As her ears were pricked for it, she heard the sound of his car as he turned into the street. All right, Brenna. She closed her eyes, steadied herself. Here we go.
Damned if he'd asked for an evening off. Still stewing about it, Shawn shoved open his garden gate. He should know, shouldn't he? And if he had, wouldn't he have made plans for it? He knew what was going on in his own life, for Christ's sake.

Not that he couldn't adjust. He'd ring Brenna and see if she was agreeable to having an evening together. He'd throw a meal together, or it was early enough that they could go out to the hotel restaurant.

Aidan and Darcy had to be having him on, though for the life of him he couldn't think of the purpose.

The minute he stepped into the house he caught the scent of cooking, then the flicker of light back in the kitchen. What now, was all he could think. Had Lady Gwen taken to making meals while he was away from home?

When he walked in, he was as surprised to see Brenna as he would have been to see the ghost.

She was wearing a dress, which was odd enough. But she was standing, smiling, with candlelight all around her, the good, rich scent of stew simmering, and a bottle of champagne in a rain bucket standing on the counter behind her.

“What's all this?”

“It's dinner. Beef and Guinness stew. The one thing I can make that no one has trouble choking down.”

“You cooked?” He rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache brewing.

“I've been known to on the rare occasion.”

“Yes, but, did we . . . Well, we must've,” he decided, scanning all the pretty preparations. “This is beyond a bit of absentmindedness. I think something must be wrong with me.”

“You look fine to me.” Since he wasn't going to make a move, she did, walking to him to kiss him. “More than fine.” This time her hands slid over his face, and the kiss went dreamy. “It's glad I am to see you, Shawn.”

He started to question it all again, then as Brenna's mouth moved warm over his, thought it was foolish to bother. “It's a pleasure coming home to you.”

Get used to it, she thought and smiled as she stepped back. “I've been waiting. All but jumping out of my skin,” she admitted. “I've things to tell you.”

“What are they?”

Words leaped to her tongue but she bit them back. “Let's have this open first.”

“I'll do it.” He nudged her away from the champagne, then lifted his brows at the label. “The pricey stuff. Are we celebrating?”

“We are.” She caught the look in his eye, and the way his fingers suddenly stilled on the foil. “If you ask me if I'm breeding I'll brain you. I am not.”

Her eyes were laughing as she spoke. He kept his on them as he twisted the wire. “You're in a rare mood.”

“I am. There are some things that don't happen every day of the week, and a rare mood's what you get from them when they do.” She felt as bubbly as the wine he poured. Taking her glass, she lifted it. “This is to you, Shawn.”

“And what did I do?”

“We should sit down. No, I can't. We'll have to stand. Shawn, you've sold your first piece of music.”

 

TWENTY
T
HE PUZZLED SMILE
slid away from his face. “I've done what?”

“You've sold your song, and there'll be others as well. But the first's the biggest thrill, isn't it?”

Very deliberately, he set his glass down again. “I haven't put any music up for sale, Brenna.”

“I did. Well, in a way I did. The song you gave me, I sent it off to the Magee in New York City. He called me today, just this morning, and said how he wants to buy it. And that he wants to see your other work.” She spun in a circle, too excited to see how cool his eyes were as they watched her. “I didn't think I'd get through the day without telling you.”

“What right did you have to do that?”

Still beaming, she sipped champagne. “To do what?”

“To send my music off that way, to take it on yourself to show a stranger what was mine?”

“Shawn.” She put a hand on his arm to give him a little shake. “He's buying it.”

“I gave it to you because you asked me—because I thought you wanted it for yourself, and that you valued it for that. Is this what you planned all along, to send it off somewhere, have another put a price on it?”

Something was wrong, badly and dangerously wrong. The only way she knew how to deal with it was temper. “What if it was? It got results, didn't it? What good is it to make songs without doing something with them? Now you can.”

He met heat with ice. “And it's for you to decide, is it, what I can and should do, and how and when I should do it?”

“You weren't doing anything about it.”

“How do you know what I'm doing or not, planning on doing or not?”

“Haven't I heard you say a thousand times you weren't ready to show it for sale?”

The minute the words were out of her mouth, she recognized her mistake. Even as she searched for a way around it, he was plowing on. “That's right, you have. But that didn't suit you, didn't sit well with the way you want things done. What good is it, you're thinking, if you can't make a living from it. If you don't have coin to show for it at end of day.”

“It's not the coin—”

“My music is the most personal thing in my life,” he interrupted. “Whether I ever make a pound from it doesn't change what it is to me. You don't understand that, Brenna, or respect that. Or me.”

“That's not true.” She was beginning to feel something other than anger. It was a clawing in the gut, in the throat, that had nothing to do with temper. “I only wanted you to have something out of it.”

“I had something out of it.”

She'd never seen anger so cold, so controlled. There was no mistaking it in that rigid face, those hard eyes. It made her feel like a bug not worthy of being squashed. “For Christ's sake, Shawn, you should be dancing instead of hammering at me. The man wants to buy your song. He thinks it should be recorded.”

“What he thinks matters more than what I do?”

“Oh, you're twisting this all around. You have an opportunity, and you're too stubborn to take it.”

“Is that how it is between us? You make the decisions, you do the thinking, and I'm just to follow, to fall in line and be grateful you're looking out for me as I'm too half-witted to look after myself?”

“Why are you turning this one thing into everything?” Her hand shook as she dragged it through her hair. “Didn't you arrange for the man to look at my design?” It struck her suddenly that she'd forgotten about that, about everything Magee had said to her about her own work. She'd forgotten all that in the thrill of his offering for Shawn's.

“I did,” Shawn countered. “And you can't see any difference in that, Brenna, than this? I talked to you of showing your design, I didn't go behind your back with it, or pull tricks.”

“It wasn't a trick, wasn't meant as one.” But she was beginning to see the wrong turn, and the sinking sensation in her stomach layered sickness over understanding. “You never said you didn't want to do something with your music. It was always you weren't ready.”

“Because I wasn't ready.”

“Well, if we're stuck on that one point, I say you were.” Fear made her lash out. “And so does a man who appears to be something of the expert on such things. Damn you, you gave the song to me, and I did what I chose with it. I thought you'd be pleased, but it's not a mistake I'll make again.”

He stared her down, viciously pleased when she began to tremble. “And neither will I.” Without another word, he turned and walked out of the house.

“You son of a bitch.” She kicked the door behind him. “You shortsighted, ungrateful,
simple
bastard. This is the thanks I get for trying to do something for you. If you think I'm running after you, you'll have a long wait.”

She snatched up her glass, downed the contents. Bubbles exploded in her throat, set her eyes to watering.

To think of all the time and trouble she'd gone to, only to have him act as if she were some sort of shrew or bully. Well, she wasn't crying over it, or him for that matter.

She braced her hands on the counter, leaning forward and breathing slow to try to relieve the horrible pressure in her chest.

Oh, God, what had she done? She just couldn't get her mind around where she'd gone so completely wrong. The method, yes, there she had surely mis-stepped. But the results . . . How could something she'd thought would be a joy to him whip out of her hands to lash at them both?

She turned, wanting to sit down until she felt steadier, and saw Lady Gwen. “A lot of help you've been. His song, you told me. His heart's in his song and I was to listen. Isn't that just what I did?”

“Not closely enough,” was the answer. Then Brenna was alone.

•  •  •

He knew how to walk off a mad. He'd done so before. He trooped over the fields, letting the moonlight guide him. Thinking wasn't the order of business, movement was.

He climbed the cliffs, let the wind and the water clear his head. But the anger wouldn't pass. He'd given his heart to a woman who thought very little of him as a man.

Sent off his music, had she? And to a stranger, a man neither of them had met face-to-face or measured. And not a word to him about it, just following her own whim and expecting him to shuffle right along in her wake.

Well, he wasn't having it.

Didn't she think he could see her line of thinking? Just how simpleminded did she think he was? Oh, Shawn's an affable sort, and clever enough in his way, but he'll not get off his arse unless someone plants a boot on it.

So this was her boot this time around. If the man's going to sit about and play with music half the time, we'd best see if we can do something practical with it.

It was his music, not hers, and she'd never troubled herself to so much as pretend to understand or appreciate it.

And what did this man Magee know about it anyway?

Celtic Records, Shawn's mind murmured. Come now, you've looked into such matters enough to know just what Magee and his like know about it. Why pretend otherwise?

“Neither here nor there,” Shawn muttered and heaved a rock over the cliff. Hadn't he already turned it over in his head that once he'd met Magee for himself, gotten a feeling on the man, he'd consider the possibility of showing him a piece of music?