Tears of the Moon (39 page)

“Of course not, you pinhead. I'd've known that Magee had no taste other than what he may have in his own mouth.”

“Ah, well, now, that's tidied up a considerable mess. Can we go back to the part where you're in love with me?”

“No, because I'm not anymore. I've come to my senses.”

“That's a damn shame, that is. You'll have to wait here a minute. There's something I need from inside.”

“I'll not stand out here. I'm going home.”

“I'll only come after you, Brenna,” he called over his shoulder as he walked to the door. “And what I have in mind is best done here, and in private.”

She considered climbing over the gate just to spite him, but the whole emotional mess had made her tired. It might as well get finished now as later.

So she waited, arms crossed. When he came out, he carried nothing, which only made her scowl.

“The moon's full,” he commented as he went to her. “Maybe there's others have more to do with the timing of all this than we know. But it was meant to be in moonlight, and it was meant to be here.”

He slipped a hand into his pocket, kept it there. “I had a plan at one time, how I'd let you chase me down, wear at my resistance and convince me there was nothing for me to do but give up and marry you.”

Her eyes went blurry with shock. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you really think you were tugging me around like a puppy on a leash? Is that the kind of man you want when the day is done, O'Toole? The kind you want walking beside you through life, fathering your children?”

“Is this a game you've been playing?”

“Partly, and as much as you were. Game's over now, and I find I want this done more in what might be the traditional manner. Brenna.” He took her hand, not at all displeased that it was trembling. “I love you. I don't know when it started, years ago or weeks. But I know my heart's lost to you, and I wouldn't have it another way. You're what I want, all there is of you. Make a life with me. Marry me.”

She couldn't take her eyes from his face. The whole world was in his face. “My head hurts,” she managed.

“God bless you.” With a half laugh, he took her hand, kissed it. “How could I not love such a woman?” He kept her hand firm in his as he took the ring from his pocket.

The pearl gleamed like the moon, white and pure, in a simple band of gold. “A moon tear,” he told her, “given to me to give to you. I know you don't wear rings as a rule.”

“I—they—with the work they get caught and banged around.”

“So I got a chain for it as well. You can wear it around your neck.”

He would have thought of such a thing, she realized. Such a small and lovely detail. “I'm not working at the moment.”

He slid it onto her finger, and her hand steadied under his.

“I suppose it suits me, as you do. As the whole of you suits me. But you won't make me cry.”

“Yes, I will.” He touched his lips to her forehead, her temple. “I bought you land today.”

“What?” Tears might have dazzled her vision, but she managed to step back. “What? Land? You bought land? Without a word to me, without me laying eyes on it?”

“If you don't like it, you can bury me in it.”

“I might. You bought land,” she said again, but her voice had gone dreamy.

“So you can build us a house, and the two of us can fill it into a home.”

“Damn it. There you are, you've made me cry.” She threw her arms around his neck. “Just hold on a minute, I'm a mess.” With her face buried against his shoulder, she breathed him in. “I thought it was just a longing for you, and that would be enough for both of us. I do long for you, but it's not enough and it's not all. Oh, this is where I want to be. And I did chase you down, nothing will convince me otherwise.”

She drew back enough to touch her lips to his. “I had it all worked out what I would say to you tonight, and now I can't remember just how it was to go. Only that I love you, Shawn. I love you as you are. There's nothing I'd change.”

“That's more than good enough. Will you come inside now? I'll warm your supper.”

“It's the least you could do after you let it go cold.” She linked her fingers with his. “You won't insist on a big, fancy wedding, will you?”

“I don't see how when I've a mind to have us wed as quick as can be managed.”

“Ah.” She leaned against him. “I do love you, Shawn Gallagher. There's one more thing,” she said as they walked toward the cottage. “Won't you need a name for your song, the one Magee wants?”

“It's ‘renna's Song,' ” he told her. “It always was.”

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HEART OF THE SEA

The stunning conclusion in Nora Roberts's

all-new Irish trilogy of the Gallagher siblings

Coming soon from Jove Books!

It boasted in its vicinity a pretty jut of cliffs upholstered with wild grass, and a hotel that clung to them. If one had a mind to, it was a pleasant if hearty walk on a narrow path around the headland, and at the top of the first hill were the ruins of the oratory and well of Saint Declan.

The view was worth the climb, with sky and sea and village spread out below. This was holy ground, and though dead were buried there, only one grave had its stone marked.

The village itself claimed neat streets and painted cottages, some with the traditional thatched roofs, and a number of steep hills as well. Flowers grew in abundance, spilling out of window boxes, baskets and potsand from the dooryards. It made a charming picture from above or below, and the villagers were proud to have won the Tidy Town award two years running.

Atop Tower Hill was a fine example of a round tower, with its conical top still in place, and the ruins of the twelfth-century cathedral built in the honor of Saint Declan. Folks would tell you, in case you wondered, that Declan arrived thirty years before good Saint Patrick.

Not that they were bragging, but just letting you know how things stood.

Those interested in such matters would find examples of
ogham
carving on the stones put for safekeeping inside the roofless cathedral, and Roman arcading faded with time and wind but still worth the study.

But the village itself made no attempt at such grandeur and was merely a pleasant place with a shop or two and a scatter of cottages built back away from lovely sand beaches.

The sign for Ardmore said
failte
, and that meant welcome.

It was that very combination of ancient history and simple character and hospitality that interested Trevor Magee.

His people had come from Ardmore and Old Parish. Indeed his grandfather had been born here, in a small house very near Ardmore Bay, had lived the first years of his life breathing that moist sea air, had perhaps held his mother's hand as she'd walked to the shops or along the surf.

His grandfather had left his village and his country, taking his wife and young son with him to America. He had never been back, and as far as Trevor knew, had never looked back either. There had been a distance and a bitter one, between the old man and the country of his birth. Ireland and Ardmore and the family Dennis Magee had left behind had rarely been spoken of.

So Trevor's image of Ardmore had a ripple of sentiment and curiosity through it, and his reasons for choosing it had a personal bent.

But he could afford personal bents.

He was a man who built, and who, as his grandfather and father before him, built cleverly and well.

His grandfather had made his living laying brick, and made his fortune speculating on properties during and after the Second World War, until the buying and selling of them was his business, and the building done by those he hired.

Old Magee had been no more sentimental about his laborer's beginnings than he had been about his homeland. To Trevor's recollection, the man had shown no sentiment about anything.

But Trevor had inherited the heart and hands of the builder as much as the cool, hard sense of the businessman, and had learned to use both.

He would use them both here, and a dash of sentiment as well, to build his theater, a traditional structure for traditional music, using as its entrance the already established pub known as Gallagher's.

The deal with the Gallaghers had been set, the ground broken for the project before he'd been able to hack through his schedule for the time he wanted to spend here. But he was here now, and he intended to do more than sign checks and watch.

He wanted his hands in it.

A man could work up a good sweat even in May in such a temperate climate when he spent a morning hauling concrete. That morning Trevor left the cottage he'd decided to rent for the duration of his stay wearing a denim jacket and carrying a steaming mug of coffee. Now a handful of hours later, the jacket had been tossed aside and a thin line of damp ran front and back down his shirt.

He'd have paid a hundred pounds for one cold beer.

The pub was only a short walk through the construction rubble. He knew from stopping in the day before that it did a brisk business midday. But a man could hardly quench his thirst with a chilly Harp when he forbade his employees to drink on the job.

He rolled his shoulders, circled his neck as he scanned the site. The concrete truck let out its continual rumble, men shouted, relaying orders or acknowledging them. Job music, Trevor thought. He never tired of it.

That was a gift from his father. Learn from the ground up, had been Dennis Junior's credo, and the thirdgeneration Magee had done just that. For more than ten years, fifteen if he counted the summers he'd sweated on construction sites, he'd learned just what went into the business of building.

The backaches and blood and aching muscles.

At thirty-two, he spent more time in boardrooms and meetings than on a scaffold, but he'd never lost the appreciation, or the satisfaction of swinging his own hammer.

He intended to indulge himself doing just that in Ardmore, in his theater.

He watched the small woman in a faded cap and battered boots, circle around, gesture as the wet concrete slid down the chute. She scrambled over sand and stone, used her shovel to rap the chute and alert the operator to stop, then waded into the muck with the other laborers to shovel and smooth.

Brenna O'Toole, Trevor thought, and was glad he'd followed his instincts there. Hiring her and her father as foremen on the project had been the right course of action. Not just for their building skills, he decided, and they were impressive, but they knew the village and the people in it, kept the job running smooth and the men happy and productive.

Public relations on this sort of project were just as vital as a sturdy foundation.

Yes indeed, they were working out well. His three days in Ardmore had shown him he'd made the right choice with O'Toole and O'Toole.

When Brenna climbed out again, Trevor stepped over, extended a hand to give her a final boost.

“Thanks.” She sliced her shovel into the ground, leaned on it, and despite her filthy boots and faded cap looked like a pixie. Her skin was pure Irish cream, and a few curls of wild red escaped the cap.

“Tim Riley says we won't have rain for another day or two, and he has a way of being right about such things more than he's wrong. I think we'll have the slab set up for you before you have to worry about weather.”

“You made considerable progress before I got here.”

“Sure and once you gave us the high sign there was no reason to wait. We'll have you a good, solid foundation, Mr. Magee, and on schedule.”

“Trev.”

“Aye, Trev.” She tipped back her cap, then her head so she could meet his eyes. She figured him a good foot higher than her five-two, even wearing her boots. “The men you sent along from America, they're a fine team.”

“As I handpicked them, I agree.”

She thought his voice faintly aloof, but not unfriendly. “And do you never pick females then?”

He smiled slowly so it seemed humor just moseyed over his face until it reached eyes the color of turf smoke. “I do indeed and as often as possible. Both on and off the job. I've put one of my best carpenters on this project. She'll be here next week.”

“It's good to know my cousin Brian wasn't wrong in that area. He said you hired by skill and not gender. It's a good morning's work here,” she added, nodding to the site. “That noisy bastard of a truck will be our constant companion for a while yet. Darcy'll be back from her holiday tomorrow, and I can tell you she'll bitch our ears off about the din.”

“It's a good noise. Building.”

“I've always thought the same.”

They stood a moment in perfect accord while the truck vomited out the last yard of concrete.

“I'll buy you lunch,” Trevor said.

“I'll let you.” Brenna gave a whistle to catch her father's attention, then mimed spooning up food. Mick responded with a grin and a wave, then went back to work.

“He's in his heaven,” Brenna commented as they walked over to rinse off their boots. “Nothing makes Mick O'Toole happier than finding himself in the middle of a job site, the muckier, the better.”

Satisfied, Brenna gave her feet a couple of stomps then headed around to the kitchen door. “I hope you'll take some time to see the area while you're here, instead of locking yourself into the job at hand.”

“I plan to see what's around.” He had reports, of course, detailed reports on tourist draws, road conditions, routes to and from major cities. But he intended to see for himself.