Tears of the Moon (2 page)

Well, they weren't children anymore, and she'd as soon knock as walk in on something she shouldn't.

He could have had a woman in here, for all she knew. The man attracted them like sugar water attracted bees. Not that he was sweet, necessarily. Though he could be.

God, he was pretty. The errant thought popped into her head, and she immediately hated herself for it. But it was hard not to notice, after all.

All that fine black hair looking just a bit shabby, as he never remembered when it was time for a trim. Eyes of a quiet and dreamy blue—unless he was roused by something, and then, she recalled, they could fire hot and cold in equal measure. He had long, dark lashes that her four sisters would have sold their soul for and a full, firm mouth that was meant, she supposed, for long kisses and soft words.

Not that she knew of either firsthand. But she'd heard tell.

His nose was long and just slightly crooked from a line drive she'd hit herself, smartly, when they'd been playing American baseball more than ten years before.

All in all, he had the face of some fairy-tale prince come to life. Some gallant knight on a quest. Or a slightly tattered angel. Add that to a long, lanky body, wonderfully wide-palmed hands with the fingers of an artist, a voice like whiskey warmed by a turf fire, and he made quite the package.

Not that she was interested, particularly. It was just that she appreciated things that were made well.

And what a liar she was, even to herself.

She'd had a yen for him even before she'd beaned him with that baseball—and she'd been fourteen to his nineteen at the time. And a yen tended to grow into something hotter, something nervier, by the time a woman was twenty-four.

Not that he ever looked at her like she was a woman.

Just as well, she assured herself, and shifted her stance. She didn't have time to hang around mooning over the likes of Shawn Gallagher. Some people had work to do.

Fixing a thin sneer on her face, she deliberately lowered her toolbox and let it fall with a terrible clatter. That he jumped like a rabbit under the gun pleased her.

“Christ Jesus!” He scraped his chair around, thumped a hand to his heart as if to get it pumping again. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.” She continued to sneer. “Butterfingers,” she said sweetly and picked up her dented toolbox again. “Give you a start, did I?”

“You damn near killed me.”

“Well, I knocked, but you didn't bother to come to the door.”

“I didn't hear you.” He blew out a breath, scooped his hair back, and frowned at her. “Well, here's the O'Toole come to call. Is something broken, then?”

“You've a mind like a rusty bucket.” She shrugged out of her jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair. “Your oven there hasn't worked for a week,” she reminded him with a nod toward the stove. “The part I ordered for it just came in. Do you want me to fix it or not?”

He made a sound of assent and waved his hand toward it.

“Biscuits?” she said as she walked by the table. “What kind of breakfast is that for a man grown?”

“They were here.” He smiled at her in a way that made her want to cuddle him. “It's a bother to cook just for myself most mornings, but if you're hungry I'll fix something up for the both of us.”

“No, I've eaten.” She set her toolbox down, opened it, started to rummage through. “You know Ma always fixes more than enough. She'd be happy to have you wander down any morning you like and have a decent meal.”

“You could send up a flare when she makes her griddle cakes. Will you have some tea in any case? The pot's still warm.”

“I wouldn't mind it.” As she chose her tools, got out the new part, she watched his feet moving around the kitchen. “What were you doing? Writing music?”

“Fiddling with words for a tune,” he said absently. His eye had caught the flight of a single bird, black and glossy against the dull pewter sky. “Looks bitter out today.”

“ 'Tis, and damp with it. Winter's barely started and I'm wishing it over.”

“Warm your bones a bit.” He crouched down with a thick mug of tea, fixed as he knew she liked it, strong and heavy on the sugar.

“Thanks.” The heat from the mug seeped into her hands as she cupped them around it.

He stayed where he was, sipping his own tea. Their knees bumped companionably. “So, what will you do about this heap?”

“What do you care as long as it works again?”

He lifted a brow. “If I know what you did, I might fix it myself next time.”

This made her laugh so hard she had to sit her butt down on the floor to keep from tipping over. “You? Shawn, you can't even fix your own broken fingernail.”

“Sure I can.” Grinning, he mimed just biting one off and made her laugh again.

“Don't you concern yourself with what I do with the innards of the thing, and I won't concern myself with the next cake you bake in it. We each have our strengths, after all.”

“It's not as if I've never used a screwdriver,” he said and plucked one out of her kit.

“And I've used a stirring spoon. But I know which fits my hand better.”

She took the tool from him, then shifting her position, stuck her head in the oven to get to work.

She had little hands, Shawn thought. A man might think of them as delicate if he didn't know what they were capable of doing. He'd watched her swing a hammer, grip a drill, haul lumber, cinch pipes. More often than not, those little fairy hands of hers were nicked and scratched or bruised around the knuckles.

She was such a small woman for the work she'd chosen, or the work that had chosen her, he thought as he straightened. He knew how that was. Brenna's father was a man of all work, and his eldest daughter took straight after him. Just as it was said Shawn took after his mother's mother, who had often forgotten the wash or the dinner while she played her music.

As he started to step back, she moved, her butt wriggling as she loosened a bolt. His eyebrows lifted again, in what he considered merely the reflexive interest of a male in an attractive portion of the female form.

She did, after all, have a trim and tidy little body. The sort a man could scoop up one-handed if he had a mind to. And if a man tried, Shawn imagined Brenna O'Toole would lay him out flat.

The idea made him grin.

Still, he'd rather look at her face any day. It was such a study. Her eyes were lively and of a sharp, glass green under elegant brows just slightly darker than her bright red hair. Her mouth was mobile and quick to smile or sneer or scowl. She rarely painted it—or the rest of her face, come to that—though she was thick as thieves with Darcy, who wouldn't step a foot out of the house until she was polished to a gleam.

She had a sharp little nose, like a pixie's, that tended to wrinkle in disapproval or disdain. Most times she bundled her hair under a cap where she pinned the little fairy he'd given her years before for some occasion or other. But when she took the cap off, there seemed miles of hair, a rich, bright red that sprang out in little curls as it pleased.

It suited her that way.

Because he wanted to see her face again before he took himself off to the pub, Shawn leaned back casually on the counter, then tucked his tongue in his cheek.

“So you're walking out with Jack Brennan these days, I'm hearing.”

When her head came up swiftly and connected with the top of the oven with a resounding crack, Shawn winced, and wisely swallowed the chuckle.

“I am not!” As he'd hoped, she popped out of the oven. There was a bit of soot on her nose, and as she rubbed her sore head, she knocked her cap askew. “Who said I am?”

“Oh.” Innocent as three lambs, Shawn merely shrugged and finished his tea. “I thought I heard it somewhere, 'round and about, as such things go.”

“You've a head full of cider and never hear a bloody thing. I'm not walking out with anyone. I've no time for that nonsense.” Annoyed, she stuck her head back in the oven.

“Well, then, I'm mistaken. Easy enough to be these days when the village is so full of romance. Engagements and weddings and babies on the way.”

“That's the proper order, anyway.”

He chuckled and came back to crouch beside her again. In a friendly way, he laid a hand on her bottom, but he didn't notice when she went very still. “Aidan and Jude are already picking out names, and she's barely two months along yet. They're lovely together, aren't they?”

“Aye.” Her mouth had gone dry with that yen that was perilously close to need. “I like seeing them happy. Jude likes to think the cottage is magic. She fell in love with Aidan here, and started her new life, wrote her book, all the things she says she was afraid even to dream of once happened right here.”

“That's lovely, too. There's something about this place,” he said half to himself. “You feel it at odd moments. When you're drifting off to sleep, or just waking. It's a . . . a waiting.”

With the new part in place, she eased out of the oven. His hand slid up her back lazily, then fell away. “Have you seen her? Lady Gwen?”

“No. Sometimes there's a kind of movement on the air, just at the edge of your vision, but then nothing.” He pulled himself back, smiled carelessly, and got to his feet. “Maybe she's not for me.”

“I'd think you the perfect candidate for a heartbroken ghost,” Brenna said and turned away from his surprised glance. “She should work fine now,” she added, giving the dial a turn. “We'll just see if she heats up.”

“You'll see to that for me, won't you, darling?” The oven timer buzzed, startling them both. “I've got to be going,” Shawn said, reaching over to shut it off.

“Is that your warning system, then?”

“One of them.” He lifted a finger, and on cue there came the cheerful bell from the clock by his bed. “That's the second round, but it'll go off on its own in a minute as it's a windup. Otherwise, I found I'd be having to run in and slap it off every bloody time.”

“Clever enough when it suits you, aren't you?”

“I have my moments. The cat's out,” he continued as he took his own jacket from the hook. “Take no pity on him should he come scratching at the door. Bub knew what he was after when he insisted on moving out here with me.”

“Did you remember to feed him?”

“I'm not a complete moron.” Unoffended, he wrapped a scarf around his neck. “He has food enough, and if he didn't, he'd go begging at your kitchen door. He'd do that anyway, just to shame me.” He found his cap, dragged it on. “See you at the pub, then?”

“More than likely.” She didn't sigh until she'd heard the front door close behind him.

Yearnings in the direction of Shawn Gallagher were foolishness, she told herself. For he would never have the same aimed her way. He thought of her as a sister— or worse, she realized, as a kind of honorary brother.

And that was her fault as well, she admitted, glancing down at her scruffy work pants and scarred boots. Shawn liked the girlie type, and she was anything but. She could flounce herself up, she supposed. Between Darcy and her own sisters, and Jude for that matter, she would have no limit of consultants on beautifying Brenna O'Toole.

But beyond the fact that she hated all that fuss and bother, what would be the point in it? If she polished and painted and cinched and laced to attract a man, he wouldn't be attracted to what she was in any case.

Besides, if she put on lipstick and baubles and some slinky little dress, Shawn would likely laugh his lungs out, then say something stupid that would leave her no choice but to punch him.

There was hardly a point in that.

She'd leave the fancy work to Darcy, who was the champion of being female. And to her sisters, Brenna thought, who enjoyed such things. As for herself—she'd stick with her tools.

She went back to the oven, running it at different temperatures and checking the broiler for good measure. When she was satisfied it was in good working order, she turned it off, then packed up her tools.

She meant to go straight out. There was no reason to linger, after all. But the cottage was so cozy. She'd always felt at home there. When Old Maude Fitzgerald had lived in Faerie Hill Cottage, for more years than Brenna could count, Brenna had often stopped in for a visit.

Then Maude had died, and Jude had come to stay for a while. They'd become friends, so it had been easy to fall back into the routine of stopping in now and then on her way home, or into the village.

She ignored the urge to stop in more often than not now that Shawn was living there. But it was hard to resist. She liked the quiet of the place, and all the pretty little things Maude had collected and left sitting about. Jude had left them there, and Shawn seemed content to do the same, so the little parlor was cheery with bits of glass and charming statues of faeries and wizards, homey with books and a faded old rug.

Of course, now that Shawn had stuffed the secondhand spinet piano into the dollhouse space, there was barely room to turn around. But Brenna thought it only added to the charm. And Old Maude had enjoyed music.

She'd be pleased, Brenna thought as she skimmed her finger over the scarred black wood, that someone was making music in her house again.

Idly, she scanned the sheet music that Shawn forever left scattered over the top of the piano. He was always writing a new tune, or taking out an old one to change something. She frowned in concentration as she studied the squiggles and dots. She wasn't particularly musical. Oh, she could sing out a rebel song without making the dog howl in response, but playing was a different kettle of fish altogether.

Since she was alone, she decided to satisfy her curiosity. She set her toolbox down again, chose one of the sheets, and sat down. Gnawing her lip, she found middle C on the keyboard and slowly, painstakingly, picked out the written notes, one finger at a time.