Heart Of The Sea

CHAPTER Sixteen

Darcy intended to go straight through the pub and upstairs so she could make herself presentable. But Aidan was already there, inventorying stock. He took one look at her, set down his clipboard.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. It's nothing. I had myself a little jag, is all."

She started through, but he simply moved in front of her, put his arms around her, pressed his lips to her hair. "There, darling, tell me what's the matter." His greatest fear was that Trevor had hurt her in some way, and then he'd have to kill a man who'd become a friend.

"Oh, Aidan, don't start me up again." But she held on, and held tight. "It's just a mood."

"You're a moody one, no question. But one thing you're not, Darcy, is a blubberer. What's made you cry?"

"Me, mostly, I think." It felt so good to be held by one who had never let her down. "I have so much in my head, and it seemed the only way to let some of it out was with tears."

He braced himself for the worst. "Magee hasn't done anything-"

"He hasn't, no." And that, she thought, was part of the problem. He'd done nothing but be what he was, what she wanted. "Aidan, tell me something. When you went traveling all those years ago, saw all those things, all those places, was it wonderful?"

"It was. Some was grand, some bloody awful, but altogether it was wonderful." He stroked a hand through her hair, remembering. "I guess you could say I had a lot in my head as well back then, and rambling was my way of getting some of it out."

"But you came back." She drew away then, studying his face. "Of all the places you've been and seen, you came back here."

"Here's home. The truth is-" He dabbed a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I didn't think I would, not when I set out. I thought, well, here's Aidan Gallagher off to see the world and find his place in it: All the while, my place was right here, where I started. But I had to go away to come back."

"Ma and Dad, they aren't coming back." Her eyes filled again, though she'd have sworn she had already cried herself dry. "Sometimes I miss them so much I can hardly stand it. It's not every day or like that, but just in the once and a while it hits me that they're thousands of miles away in Boston."

Impatient with herself, she scrubbed her hands over her face to dry it. "I know they've come back for the weddings, and they'll come to see your baby when it's born, but it's not the same."

"It's not. I miss them, too."

She nodded. Hearing him say it helped. "I know they're happy, and that's a comfort. Every time they ring or write, they're full of news and excitement about the Gallagher's Pub they've built way over in Boston."

"We're an international franchise now," Aidan said, and made her laugh a little.

"Next we'll be planting one in Turkey or God knows." She let out a little sigh. "They're happy there, and I know I'll go over and see them one day. But it makes me think that if I went away, I might not come back either. As much as I want to go, to see places and do things, Aidan, I don't want to lose what's here."

"It's not a matter of losing, but of changing. You won't know what changes till you go. You've been needing to go since you could stand on your own feet. I was the same. It's Shawn who's planted here and never had a question about it."

"Sometimes I wish I were like him." She looked up sharply. "And if you ever tell him I said such a thing, I'll swear you're a liar."

He laughed, tugged her hair. "There. That's better."

"There's more." Sliding a hand into her pocket, she fingered the stone she carried there. "I have to decide if Trevor has it right and I should sign his contract and have him make me a singer."

"You are a singer."

"It's different. You know it."

"It is. Are you asking my opinion?"

"I'd like to weigh it in."

"You'd be brilliant. I don't say that because I'm your brother. I have traveled and in traveling had the opportunity to hear a lot of voices. Yours shines, Darcy, and always has."

"I could do it," she said quietly. "I believe I could, and not make a mess of it. More, and better, I think I'd like it. Attention," she said with a glint in her eye, "is food and drink to me."

"You'd have a banquet this way, wouldn't you?"

"I would. Trevor had me go up and talk to his man this morning. Nigel, from London. He didn't paint a picture that was all rose and gilt, and I appreciated that. It would be hard work."

"You know how to work hard. And how to dance around the task when you've had enough, which is almost as important."

Another brick of worry tumbled off her shoulder. "I wouldn't have to dance if you weren't such a slave driver. And I have a feeling Trevor's cut from the same cloth. He'll push me, and I won't always like it."

"It sounds as if you've decided."

"I suppose I have." She waited a moment, and discovered she felt relief instead of excitement. The excitement, she thought, would come. "I haven't quite put it all in its place as yet, and I'm not ready to tell Trevor. I prefer letting him dangle a bit longer, and perhaps nudging him toward sweetening the pot."

"There's my girl."

"Wheeling a deal's the Gallagher way. There's more still." Holding her breath, she took the stone from her pocket, held it out.

It wasn't surprise she saw in his eyes so much as acknowledgment, then a kind of resignation. "I knew you'd be the third. I didn't want to think about it."

"Why?"

He looked at her then, eye to eye. "My girl," he murmured.

The force of love was so fierce it nearly dropped her. "Oh, Aidan, you'll make me cry again."

"We can't have that." To give them both time to compose, he got two bottles of water from under the bar. "So, you went up to Old Maude's grave?"

"No. Tower Hill." She took the water, drank deeply when she realized her throat was dust-dry. "There are flowers blooming over John Magee now. I was hardly surprised to see him. Carrick, I mean. Still, my heart shook."

She pressed her fist to it, and in the fist she held the stone. "It's a wonder, isn't it? He looks sharp, Carrick does, and bold. But behind his eyes is sorrow. Love is such a tangle."

"Do you love Trevor?"

Because it seemed hot against her heart, she lowered the stone. "Yes. It's not what I thought it would be. It's not soft and easy, and it sure as hell doesn't make me feel like a queen. There's been a change in me since the minute I looked out my window and saw him. There might not have been anyone else there for a space of time, and so I should have known it was already too late to stop it."

He knew that feeling very well, and the stuttering nerves that went with it. "And would you, if you could?"

"I think I would. Stop it or slow it or something until I could get my breath steady. Or the man could catch up with me. He keeps himself one step back. It's a cold step and a deliberate one. I understand it, as I've taken it often enough myself. He wants me."

She said it musingly, then caught Aidan's wince. "Oh, don't go male and brotherly on me now when you've been doing so well."

"I am male and your brother." He shifted, and now he drank deep as well. "But go on."

"There's passion, and love would be bland without it. There's a caring that stops it from being nothing but heat. But that step, the chill in it, stops it all just short of- trust," she decided. "And acceptance."

"One of you has to take the step forward instead of back."

"I want it to be him."

There was a trace of her old arrogance in her tone. It worried Aidan as much as it amused him. She opened her fingers, letting the stone rest on her palm where, like a heart, it pulsed its blue light.

"Carrick showed me things, amazing things. I could have them, he said. I've only to wish for it. Riches and excitement, fame and glory, love and beauty. To wish for it, but only one wish, one choice."

"What do you want?"

"All of it." She laughed, but there was something brittle in the sound that broke his heart. "I'm selfish and greedy and want all. I want everything I can snatch up and hold, then I want to go back and get more. Why can't I want the simple and the ordinary and the quiet, Aidan? Why can't I be content with easy dreams?"

"You're so hard on yourself, mavourneen. Harder than anyone else can be. Some people want the simple and the ordinary and the quiet. It doesn't make those who want the complicated and extraordinary and the exciting greedy or selfish. Wanting's wanting, whatever the dream."

Struck, she stared at him. "What a thought," she managed at last. "I never looked at it that way."

"Study on it a while." He brushed a fingertip over the stone, then closed her hand around it. "And don't rush your wish."

"That I'd already concluded for myself." She slipped it back into her pocket where it couldn't tempt her. "Carrick may be in a fired hurry, but I'm inclined to take my time."

She pressed a kiss to each of Aidan's cheeks. "You were just what I needed, just when I needed you."

She did give it time. Her talk with Aidan had settled her and made her able to enjoy the time. As the days passed into a week, she even found herself amused that neither she nor Trevor brought up the potential business end of their relationship.

He was, she thought, as canny a negotiator as she was. One of them would break first. She didn't intend for it to be her.

Work on the theater progressed in a kind of stage by stage that she found more interesting than she would ever have believed. A change was happening right outside her window. A monumental change that had its seeds in a dream and was so much more than bricks and mortar.

She wanted it for him. That, she supposed, was the nature of love. That you could want so intensely your lover's dream to come true.

Now that most of the roof was on, she missed seeing Trevor out her window. He was inside the shell of the building as often as not. As the noise was as terrible as ever, she rarely kept her windows open on the off chance of hearing his voice.

With summer, the beaches drew people to Ardmore, and so the pub. Work kept her mind occupied, and for the first time she began to see just what the theater would mean to home.

It wasn't only the villagers and the neighbors talking of it now, but those who visited.

She could stop for a moment in the crush of a lunch shift, look around at the packed tables and bar, hear the voices, and imagine what it would be like the following summer. And she could wonder where she would be.

As both she and Trevor appreciated the distance from work, most nights she went to the cottage. It became her habit to walk whenever weather allowed, though he never failed to offer his car. She liked the quiet that slid over the air after midnight, and the balm of the breeze, and rush of starlight.

Odd, but she wasn't sure she'd really appreciated it before she'd understood she wouldn't be there forever. The softness that came from the sea, and the waves that were a constant hum and lap in the night.

When the moon was bright, she liked it best, that alone time where she could see the cliffs throw shadows.

Whenever she reached Tower Hill, she stopped. If the wind was pushing the clouds, the spear of the tower seemed to sway, and the stones, old and new, beneath it stood silent and still.

Flowers bloomed yet on the grave of Johnnie Magee. But Carrick, if he was there, chose not to show himself.

She walked on. The road narrowed, and the scatter of lights in Ardmore were lost behind her. There was the scent now of fields and grass and growing things, then the glow out of the shadowed dark that was the lights in the cottage on the faerie hill.

He was waiting for her. And that, she thought with a delicious thrill, was just how she liked it.

As always, her heart grew lighter and she had to force herself not to rush to the gate. He called out to her the minute she stepped inside.

"Back in the kitchen."

Now wasn't that homey, she thought, amused at both of them. The little woman home from work and the man in the kitchen. It was a bit like playing house, she supposed, and tried not to worry that the house, and the game, wasn't for either of them in the long run.

He was at the stove, which amused her. He could cook, as he'd demonstrated at that first breakfast. But he wasn't one to make a habit of it.

"Want some soup?" He stirred at the little pot, sniffed. "It's canned, but it's food. I was stuck on the phone all night and missed dinner."

"Thanks, no. I managed to get some of Shawn's lasagna, which I can promise tasted better than that will. If you'd called, I'd have brought you some."

"Didn't think of it." He turned to get a bowl out of the cupboard. One look at her, and he wanted to grab her. "You're later than usual," he said, keeping his tone casual as she set a bag on the counter. "I wasn't sure you'd make it tonight."

"We were busier than usual. I shouldn't say 'usual,' " she corrected and rolled the ache from her shoulders. "We've been packed every night this week. Aidan wants Shawn to take on some help in the kitchen, and you'd think Aidan had brought his manhood into question. Such a ruckus. They were still going at it when I left."

"Aidan's going to need another man at the bar."

"Well, I won't be the one to say so, as he'll have the same reaction as Shawn. I'm not having my head bit off."

She got the kettle to fill as Trevor leaned back against the counter, spooning up soup where he stood. "I'll have some tea to keep you company. Since you're eating, you might want to have what's in the bag with your tinned soup."

"What is it?"

She only smiled and turned on the tap. Trevor set down his bowl, peeked in the bag. When his hand darted in, like an eager boy's into a pond after a prize frog, she laughed.

"Bagels?"

"Well, we couldn't have you pining, could we?" Delighted with his reaction, she carried the kettle to the stove. "Shawn made them, lest you think I've been baking-and believe me you're better off I haven't. He wasn't pleased with the first batch or you'd have had them a couple of days ago. But he's well satisfied with these, so I think you'll enjoy them."

Trevor only stood there, the plastic-wrapped bread in his hand, staring at her as she turned on the burner under the kettle. It was ridiculous, insane, but something was stirring inside him. Warm, fluid, lovely. In defense, he struggled with a joke.

"A full dozen, too. I guess I owe you twelve hundred dollars."

She glanced back, her face blank for a moment, then it filled with humor. "A hundred a piece. I forgot about that. Damn, I suppose I'll have to split it with Shawn." She patted his cheek, then reached for the tea. "Well, no charge this time. I thought you'd enjoy a little bit of home."

"Thank you."

His voice was so serious, she glanced back, saw his face. His mouth was serious as well, and his eyes were dark and fixed on her. Her pulse scrambled, so she covered it with a shrug. "You're very welcome, but it's just a bit of bread after all."

No, it wasn't. She'd thought of it. Without even realizing how much the small gesture would mean, she'd thought of him.

He set the bag down, stepped to her, turned her. And laid his mouth on hers.

Soft, lush, long and deep. That something that stirred inside him swelled.

He drew back, half believing he'd see what it was, what it meant, in her face. But her eyes were clouded. Deep blue smoke blurring whatever was behind them.

"Well." She was sinking, sinking without meaning to have stepped into the bog. "I can't wait to see what happens after you taste-"

But he silenced her. Another kiss, luxurious and tender. She was trembling, he realized, and had trembled against him before. But it was different, for both of them somehow different. The crackle of power that always snapped between them was only a low humming now, steady and true. The blood that always raced ran thick, almost lazy.

"Trevor." His name circled in her head, slipped through her lips. "Trevor."

He reached behind her, switched off the burner, then lifted her into his arms. "I want to make love with you." And saying it, he knew it would be the first time.

She pressed her lips to the side of his throat as he carried her out. It was like sliding into a dream, she thought, one she hadn't known she had pooled inside her. Being granted a wish she hadn't known slept in her heart.

She felt- treasured.

When he carried her up the stairs, the romance of it made her heart ache. Music drifted through her head. Harps and flutes both low and sweet. He stopped, looked at her, and she thought he must hear it as well. Such moments were made for magic.

The bedroom windows were open, so the wind danced through the curtains and brought with it all the damp and mysterious scents of night. The moon shimmered through in silver dust.

He sat her on the bed, then moved around the room to light the candles that had been set out for practicality and never used. Their flames swayed and tossed soft shadows, a softer fragrance. From the tall bottle on the table by the bed he took one of the flowers she had picked from the cottage garden and put there. He handed it to her.

Then he sat beside her, lifted her into his lap and held her. The way she curled into him as if she'd been waiting made him wonder how they had missed this step. Why they had both rushed to reach the peak, time after time, night after night, without once lingering over the journey.

This time, he promised himself. This time.

When he touched a hand to her cheek, she lifted her face, lifted her mouth to meet his. Time spun out, lost importance in this new and sumptuous mating of lips. The love hidden inside her heart poured into it without shame or fear, and still continued to rise inside her as if from a well that never ran dry.

Here was the compassion neither thought they needed, the tenderness both had shrugged aside, and all the patience they'd forgotten.

He pressed his lips to the center of her palm. Her hands were elegant, he thought, silky of texture. They might have belonged to a princess in a castle. No, there was too much strength in them for a princess. A queen, he decided, kissing her fingers one by one, who knew how to rule.

He brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist, and felt her blood beat there.

Music whispered on the wind as he laid her back on the pillows. Her arms came up, her fingers skimming over his face, into his hair, as gentle as his had been. Her eyes weren't clouded now, but clear.

"There's magic tonight," she said, and drew him down to her.

They touched, as if it was the first time, as if there had been no others before or would be no others after.

Innocence reaching for intimacy. For that night at least, she knew it was true and gave herself to it. To him.

Through the glow of candlelight and moonbeams, they gave to each other.

He tasted and she whispered. She stroked and he murmured. Sounds of pleasure twined together. Without rush, they undressed each other and savored the magic.

His skin was tones darker than hers. Had he noticed that before? Had he paid enough attention to how like silk she was, or how passion, the gradual, glorious build of it, gave that lovely white skin a flush of rose?

The taste of her, there, just at the underside of her breast. Nothing else had that delicacy of flavor. He thought he could live on that alone for the rest of his life.

And when his tongue slid over her and she shivered, he was sure of it.

Even when warmth simmered toward heat, when breaths became gasps and murmurs moans, there was no hurry. She crested on a long, gentle wave, her body flowing up to his. She felt golden, rich with sensation, each one somehow separate and shining even as they merged together.

Love made her selfless, nudged her to give back the glory. She rose over him, slid down to him, her lips warm and tender. Her hands skimmed over him, tough muscles that quivered at her lazy strokes, smooth skin that delighted her.

Now, she thought, now before greed could sneak back and steal this time from them. She clasped his hands with hers and took him into her.

Slowly and silkily, with urgency only a pulsebeat away. He filled, she surrounded.

The light danced over her skin, her hair, into her eyes, bewitching him. He remembered the painting of the mermaid with her face, that gorgeous arch of body, lovely tumble of hair. She belonged to him now, fact and fantasy. He'd have followed her, if she'd asked, into the sea. Into the heart of it.

Her eyes closed, her head tipped back, her body bowed. Nothing he'd ever seen was more beautiful than that moment when she lost herself. The shiver ran down her and into him. He swore he could feel it, feel her, in every cell.

He came up to meet her, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat. And it was there, holding each other, that they let go of everything else and sank under the surface, and toward the heart, together.

In the dark, wrapped around him, her mind sliding toward sleep, Darcy closed a hand over the silver disk that lay on his heart. She assumed his Irish-loving mother had given it to him, and that he wore it touched her.

"What does it say?" she murmured, because the words were faded and unclear to her.

But when he told her she was already drifting, so his voice floated like out of a dream. Forever love.

Later, when they slept, he dreamed a dream of blue water shot through with sunlight like bright jewels, tipped by white waves that spewed drops like tears. Beneath the surface, where silence should have reigned, was music. A celebration of sound that quickened the pulse and fed the spirit.

He went toward it, searching shadows and light for the source. The golden sand beneath his feet was littered with gemstones, as if some carelessly generous hand had strewn them like bread crumbs.

A silver palace rose up into the blue light, its towers glinting and a banquet of flowers spread at its feet. The music swelled, seduced, became female. A woman's voice raised in song. A siren's call that was irresistible.

He found her beside the silver palace, sitting on a hill of rich blue that pulsed like a heart. There she sat and sang and smiled at him in a beckoning way.

Her hair, dark as midnight, flowed around her, teased the milky skin of her breasts. Her eyes, blue as the hill, laughed.

He wanted her more than he wanted to live. The wanting made him feel weak, and the weakness infuriated him. Still he couldn't stop himself from going to her.

"Darcy."

"Have you come for me, then, Trevor?" Her voice wove spells, magic threads winding even when she spoke. "What will you give me?"

"What do you want?"

She only laughed again, shook her head. "It's for you to figure out." She reached out a hand, coyly inviting him to join her. Jewels sparkled at her wrist, little points of brilliant fire. "What will you give me?"

Frustration beat through his blood. "More of these," he said, touching the gems at her wrist. "As many as you want, if that's what you want."

She held her arm out, turning it so the stones shot fire.

"Well, I can't say I mind having such things, but it's not enough. What else have you got?"

"I'll take you to all the places you want to see."

She pouted at that and picked up a glittering comb to run it through her flowing hair. "Is that all?"

Temper snaked up, hissed in his throat. "I'll make you rich, famous. Put the damn world at your feet."

Now she yawned.

"Clothes," he snapped. "Servants, houses. The envy and admiration of everyone who sees you. Everything you could ask for."

"It's not enough."

He saw that this time when she spoke, her eyes wept.

"Can't you see it's not enough?"

"What, then?" He reached for her, intending to pull her up, to make her answer, but before his hands could touch, he slipped, stumbled, and was falling.

The voice that followed him wasn't Darcy's, but Gwen's. "Until you know and give, it won't be done. Until you do, it won't begin."

He shot out of sleep like a man at the edge of drowning, heart thundering, breath raw. And even then, awake, aware, he heard the faintest whisper.

"Look at what you already have. Give what's only yours to give."

"Christ." Shaken, he got out of bed. Darcy shifted closer to the warmth he'd left, and slept on.

He started toward the bathroom, for water, then yanked on his jeans instead and went downstairs. Three A.M., he thought when he saw the clock. Perfect. He got down the bottle of whiskey and poured a stiff three fingers into a glass.

What the hell was wrong with him? But he knew, and knocked back the whiskey, hissed at the heat, set down the glass. He was in love with her. With a half laugh, he pressed his fingers to his eyes. Fell in love over bagels, he decided.

He'd been doing fine until then, he thought. Holding his own. Attraction, affection, interest, sex. Those were all safe and sound, those were all controllable.

Then she brings him a bagful of baked goods and he's gone. Joke's on you, Magee, he thought. You've been on your way since the first minute. The last slide just took you by surprise.

Hell of a slide, too.

He hadn't thought he had it in him. After Sylvia, when he'd done everything he could to be in love, had planned it, orchestrated it, and failed so miserably at it, he'd been sure he simply wasn't capable of that kind of emotion toward a woman.

It had worried him, dismayed him, angered him. Then he'd accepted it as likely for the best. If a man lacked something, it was only logical, efficient even, to compensate for it elsewhere. Work, his parents, his sister. The theater.

It had been enough, nearly enough. He'd convinced himself of it. And convinced himself that he could want Darcy, have Darcy, care for Darcy without it ever being more than that.

Now, without plan, without effort, it was- she was everything.

Part of him was thrilled. He wasn't incapable of love. But there was just enough fear snaking through that thrill to remind him to be cautious. Be careful.

He went to the back door, opened it to cool his head with air gone damp and misty. He needed a clear head to deal with Darcy.

Magic, she'd said. There was magic tonight. He believed that, and was beginning to accept that there had been magic all along. In her, in this place. Maybe it was fate, and maybe it was luck. He'd have to work out if that luck was good or bad. Loving Darcy wasn't going to be a smooth and easy road. Then again, he'd never really wanted the smooth and easy.

He didn't want what his grandparents had-the chill formality of their marriage with no passion, with no humor or affection. There'd never be anything like chilly formality with a woman like Darcy.

He wanted her, and would figure out how to keep her. He didn't doubt that. It was just a matter of calculating what to offer, how to offer, and when to offer what she wouldn't be able to resist.

The last echo of the dream drifted back to him. Give what's only yours to give.

He closed the words out, shut the door. He'd had enough of magic for one night.