Jewels of the Sun (10 page)

Still she trembled, putting him in mind of a volcano poised to erupt, a storm ready to strike. Her hands remained trapped between them, but her fingers gripped his shirt now and held fast.

She heard him murmur something, a whisper against the wall of sound that was her blood raging. His mouth, so hot, so skilled, his body, so hard, so strong. And his hands, light as moth wings on her face. She could do nothing but give, and give, even as some shocking, unrecognizable part of her urged her to take.

And when he drew away it was as if her world tilted and spilled her out.

He kept his hands on her face, waited for her eyes to open, focus. He’d intended only to taste, to enjoy the moment. To see. But it had gone beyond intentions into something just out of his control. “Will you let me have you?”

Her eyes were huge, glazed with confusion and pleasure. And nearly brought him to his knees. He didn’t particularly care for the sensation.

“I . . . what?”

“Come upstairs and lie with me.”

Shock came a bare instant before she simply nodded her head. “I can’t. No. This is completely irresponsible.”

“Is there someone in America who has a hold on you?”

“A hold?” Why wouldn’t her brain function? “Oh. No, I’m not involved with anyone.” The sudden gleam in
Aidan’s eyes had her straining back. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to just . . . I don’t sleep with men I barely know.”

“At the moment, I feel we know each other pretty well.”

“That’s a physical reaction.”

“You’re damn right.” He kissed her again, hard and hot.

“I can’t breathe.”

“I’m having a bit of trouble with that myself.” It was against his natural instincts, but he stepped away. “Well, what do we do about this, then, Jude Frances? Analyze it on an intellectual level?”

His voice might have carried the musical lilt of Ireland, but it could still slash. Because she wanted to wince, she straightened her shoulders. “I’m not going to apologize for not jumping into bed with you. And if I prefer to function on an intellectual level, it’s my business.”

He closed his mouth before the snarl escaped, then jammed his hands in his pockets and paced up and down the tiny room. “Do you always have to be reasonable?”

“Yes.”

He stopped, eyed her narrowly, then to her complete confusion, threw back his head and laughed. “Damn it, Jude, if you’d shout or throw something, we could have a nice bloody fight and end it wrestling on the kitchen floor. And, speaking for myself, I’d feel a hell of a lot more satisfied.”

She allowed herself a quiet breath. “I don’t shout or throw things or wrestle.”

He lifted a brow. “Ever?”

“Ever.”

His grin came fast this time, a flash of humor and challenge. “I bet I can change that.” He stepped toward her, shaking his head when she backed away. He caught a loose strand of her hair and tugged. “Will you wager on it?”

“No.” She tried a hesitant smile. “I don’t gamble either.”

“You walk around with a name like Murray, then tell me you don’t gamble. It’s a disgrace you are to your blood.”

“I’m a testament to my breeding.”

“I’ll put my money on the blood every time.” He rocked back on his heels, considering her. “Well, I’d best start back. A walk in the rain’ll clear my head.”

She steadied herself as he took his jacket from the hook. “You’re not angry?”

“Why would I be?” His gaze whipped to hers, bright and intense. “You’ve a right to say no, haven’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, but I imagine a number of men would still be angry.”

“I’m not a number of men, then, am I? And, added to that, I mean to have you, and I will. It doesn’t have to be today.”

He flashed her another grin when her mouth fell open, then walked to the door. “Think of that, and of me, Jude Frances, until I get my hands on you again.”

When the door closed behind him, she stood exactly where she was. And though she did think of that, and of him, and of all the pithy, lowering, brilliant responses she should have made, she thought a great deal more of what it had been like to be held against him.

I
’M COMPILING STORIES
, Jude wrote in her journal,
and find the project even more interesting than I’d expected. The tapes my grandmother sent bring her here. While I’m listening to them, it’s almost as if she’s sitting across from me. Or, sweeter somehow, as if I were a child again and she had come by to tell me a bedtime story.

She prefaces her telling of the Lady Gwen tale by stating she’d never told me this story. She must be mistaken, as portions of it were very familiar to me while Aidan was relating it to me.

Logically, I dreamed of it because the memory of the story was in my subconscious and being in the cottage tripped it free.

Jude stopped typing, pushed back, drummed her fingers. Yes, of course, that was it. She felt better now that she’d written it down. It was exactly the exercise she always gave
to her first-year students. Write down your thoughts on a certain problem or indecision, in conversational style, without filters. Then sit back, read, and explore the answers you’ve found.

So why hadn’t she documented her encounter with Aidan in her journal? She’d written nothing about the way he’d caged her between the stove and his body, the way he’d nibbled on her as she were something tasty. Nothing about how she felt or what she thought.

Oh, God. Just the memory of it had her stomach flipping.

It was part of her experience, after all, and her journal was designed to include her experiences, her thoughts and feelings about them.

She didn’t want to know her thoughts and feelings, she reminded herself. Every time she tried to think about it in a reasonable manner, those feelings took over and turned her mind to mush.

“Besides, it’s not relevant,” she said aloud.

She huffed out a breath, rolled her shoulders, and put her fingers back on the keys.

It was interesting to note that my grandmother’s version of the Lady Gwen tale was almost exactly the same as Aidan’s. The delivery of each was defined by the teller, but the characters, details, the tone of the story were parallel.

This is a clear case of well-practiced and skilled oral tradition, which indicates a people who respect the art enough to keep it as pure as possible. It also indicates to me, psychologically, how a story becomes legend and legend becomes accepted as truth. The mind hears, again and again, the same story with the same rhythm, the same tone, and begins to accept it as real.

I dream about them.

Jude stopped again, stared at the screen. She hadn’t meant to type that. The thought had slipped into her mind and down through her fingers. But it was true, wasn’t it? She dreamed about them almost nightly now—the prince on the winged white horse who looked remarkably like the man she’d met at Maude’s grave. The sober-eyed woman whose face was a reflection of the one she thought she’d seen—had seen, Jude corrected, in the window of the cottage.

Her subconscious had given them those faces, of course. That was perfectly natural. The events in the story were said to have happened at the cottage where she lived, so naturally the seeds had been planted and they bloomed in dreams.

It was nothing to be surprised by or concerned about.

Still, she decided she was in the wrong mood for journal entries or exercises and turned off the machine. Since Sunday she’d kept very close to the cottage—to work, she assured herself. Not because she was avoiding anyone. And though the work was satisfying her, fueling her in a way, it was time to get out.

She could drive into Waterford for some supplies and those gardening books. She could explore more of the countryside, instead of just roaming the hills and fields near her house. Surely the more she drove, the more comfortable she’d be with driving.

Solitude, she reminded herself, was soothing. But it could also become stifling. And it could make you forgetful, she decided. Hadn’t she had to look at the calendar that morning just to figure out if it was Wednesday or Thursday?

Out, she told herself while she hunted up her purse and her keys. Explore, shop, see people. Take photographs, she
added, stuffing her camera in her purse, to send to her grandmother with the next letter home.

Maybe she would linger and treat herself to a nice dinner in the city.

But the minute she stepped outside, she realized it was here she wanted to linger, right here in the pretty garden with her view of the green fields and the shadowy mountains and wild cliffs.

What harm would it do to spend just half an hour weeding before she left? Okay, she wasn’t dressed for weeding, but so what? Did she or did she not know how to do her own laundry now?

Except for the sweater she’d managed to shrink to doll size, that little experiment had come off very well.

So she didn’t know a weed from a daisy. She had to learn, didn’t she? She just wouldn’t yank anything that looked pretty.

The air was so soft, the light so lovely, the clouds so thick and white.

When the yellow dog bounded up to dance at her gate, she gave in. Just half an hour, she promised herself as she walked over to let her in.

Jude delighted the dog with strokes and scratches until she all but dissolved at Jude’s feet in a puddle of devotion.

“Caesar and Cleo never let me pet them,” she murmured, thinking of her mother’s snobbish cats. “They have too much dignity.” Then she laughed as the dog sprawled on her back to expose her belly. “You just don’t have any dignity at all. That’s what I like about you.”

She’d made a mental note to include dog treats on her supply list when Brenna’s pickup bumped along the road and zipped into her drive.

“Well, you’ve met Betty, then.”

“Is that her name?” Jude hoped her grin wasn’t as
foolish as it felt on her face as the dog nuzzled her nose into her hand. “She’s very friendly.”

“Oh, she has a fondness for the ladies, particularly.” Folding her arms on the open window, Brenna rested her chin there. She wondered why the woman seemed embarrassed to have been caught petting a dog. “So you’re fond of dogs, are you?”

“Apparently.”

“Whenever she wears out her welcome, you just shove her out the gate, and she’ll head home. Our Betty knows a soft touch, and she doesn’t mind taking advantage.”

“She’s wonderful company. But I suppose I’m keeping her from your mother.”

“She’s more on her mind than Betty’s presence at the moment. Refrigerator’s out again. I’m heading down to kick it for her. Haven’t seen you at the pub this week.”

“Oh. No, I’ve been working. I haven’t really been out.”

“But you’re heading off today.” She nodded her head toward Jude’s purse.

“I thought I’d drive into Waterford, hunt up those gardening books.”

“Oh, now there’s no need to go all that way, unless you’re set on it. Come down the house and talk to my mother while I’m banging on the icebox. She’d enjoy that, and it’d keep her from badgering me with questions.”

“She wouldn’t be expecting company. I wouldn’t want to—”

“Door’s always open.” The woman was so interesting, Brenna thought. And hardly said more than one short string of words at a time unless you bumped and nudged at her. If anyone could pry bits and pieces out of her, to Brenna’s mind, it was Mollie O’Toole.

“Come on, hop in,” she added, then whistled for the dog.

Betty yapped once, cheerfully, then bounded to the truck and leaped neatly into the back.

Jude searched for a polite excuse, but everything that came to mind seemed stilted and rude. Smiling weakly, she latched the gate and walked around the truck to the passenger side. “You’re sure I won’t be in the way.”

“Not a bit of it.” Pleased, Brenna beamed at her, waited until she climbed in, then roared backward out of the drive.

“God!”

“What?” Brenna slammed on the brakes, forcing Jude to slap her hands on the dash before her face plowed into it. She hadn’t had time to fasten her seat belt.

“You. . . ah.” Regulating her breathing, Jude hastily dragged the belt around her. “You don’t worry that a car might be coming?”

Brenna laughed, a rollicking sound, then gave Jude a friendly pat on the shoulder. “There wasn’t, was there? Don’t fret, I’ll keep you in one piece. Those are lovely shoes,” she added. Though Brenna didn’t see how they’d be as comfortable as a stout pair of boots. “Darcy wagers you wear shoes made in Italy. Is that the truth?”

“Um . . .” With a vague frown, Jude stared down at her neat black flats. “Yes, actually.”

“She’s a keen eye for fashion, Darcy does. Loves looking through the magazines and such. Dreamed through them even when we were girls together.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Oh, she is, yes. The Gallaghers are a fine, handsome family.”

“It’s odd that such attractive people aren’t involved with anyone. Particularly.” Even as she said it, casually as she could, she cursed herself for prying.

“Darcy has no interest, never has, in the local lads. Above a bit of flirting, that is. Aidan—” She jerked a
shoulder. “Seems married to the pub since he came back, else the man is very discreet. Shawn . . .”

A frown marred Brenna’s brow as she whipped the truck into the drive at her house. “He doesn’t look hard enough at what’s in front of his face, if you’re asking me.”

The dog leaped out of the truck and raced around the back of the house.

The frown vanished as Brenna hopped out. “If you’re of a mind to do some shopping in Waterford City, or Dublin, Darcy’s your girl. Nothing she likes better than wandering the shops and trying on clothes and shoes and playing at the paints and powders. But if your stove’s acting up, or you find a leak in your roof—” She winked as she led Jude to the front door. “You give me a call.”

There were flowers here, snugged together in color and shape into a lovely blanket outside the door, trailing and tangling up a trellis, spilling happily out of pots of simple red clay.

They seemed to grow as they chose, yet there was a tidiness, an almost ruthless neatness, Jude thought, to the entrance of the house. The stoop was scrubbed so clean it looked adequate as a table for major surgery. And Jude felt herself wince when Brenna carelessly left dirt from her boots over its surface.

“Ma!” Brenna’s voice rang out, down the pretty hallway, up the angled staircase, as a fat gray cat slid out of a doorway to wind around her boots. “I’ve brought company.”

The house smelled female, was Jude’s first thought. Not just the flowers, or the polish, but the underlying scent of women—perfume, lipstick, shampoo—the sort of candy-coated fragrance young women and girls often carried with them.

She remembered it from college, and wondered if that
was why her stomach clutched. She’d been so miserably awkward and out of place among all those recklessly confident females.

“Mary Brenna O’Toole, I’ll let you know when my hearing’s gone, and then you can shout at me.” Mollie came down the hallway, tugging off a short pink apron.

She was a sturdy-looking woman, no taller than her daughter but certainly wider. Her hair was only slightly less brilliant than Brenna’s but quite a bit tidier. She had a plump, pretty face with an easy smile and friendly green eyes that beamed welcome even before she held out her hand.

“So you brought Miss Murray to see me. You’ve the look of your granny, a dear woman she is. I’m happy to meet you.”

“Thank you.” The hand that clasped Jude’s was strong and hard from a lifetime of making a home. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

“Not at all. If it’s not one thing than for sure it’s another around the O’Tooles’. Come in and sit in the parlor, won’t you? I’ll fix us some tea.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Of course you’re not.” Mollie gave her a comforting squeeze on the shoulder as she might to any of her girls if they felt out of place. “You’ll keep me company while the lass here is in the kitchen, banging and cursing. Brenna, I’m telling you just as I’ll tell your dad when I get hold of him. It’s time that refrigerator was hauled out of my house and another brought in.”

“I can fix it.”

“And so both of you say, time and time again.” She shook her head as she led Jude into the front parlor with its company chairs and fresh flowers. “It’s a cross to bear, Miss Murray, having those that are handy with things in
your life, for nothing ever gets tossed away. It’s always ‘I can fix it,’ or ‘I have a use for it.’ Make Miss Murray at home, Brenna, while I see to the tea. Then you can have at it.”

“Well, I
can
fix it,” Brenna mumbled when her mother was out of earshot. “And if I can’t it’s good for parts, isn’t it?”

“Parts of what?”

Brenna glanced back, focused on Jude again and grinned. “Oh, for this and for that, or else for the other thing entirely. So I hear Jack Brennan came to beg your pardon with a fistful of posies Sunday last.”

“Yes, he did.” Jude perched on her chair and looked with some envy at the way Brenna slouched comfortably in hers. “He was very sweet and embarrassed. Aidan shouldn’t have made him do it.”

“It was one way to pay Jack back for the fat lip.” Twinkling now, she shifted in her chair, hooking one booted ankle over the other. “How did he manage it? It’s a rare thing for a fist slowed by whiskey to land on Aidan Gallagher.”

“It was my fault, I suppose. I called out—” Screamed, Jude thought in self-disgust. “I must have distracted him and then he had a fist in his face, and his head was snapping back, his mouth bleeding. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Haven’t you?” Fascinated, Brenna pursed her lips. Even in a female household, she’d grown up with the stray fist flying. It would often be her own. “Don’t they have the occasionally donnybrook in Chicago?”

It was a word that made Jude smile, and think for some reason of baseball. “Not in my neighborhood,” she murmured. “Does Aidan often have fistfights with his customers?”

“No, indeed, though he started his own fair share of
brawls once upon a time. These days if someone’s reached his limit and is feeling a bit frisky, Aidan talks them around it. Most don’t want to push him in any case. Gallaghers are known for their dark moods and black temper.”