Heart of the Sea

  “Well, thus far, it’s cracked no glass that I’m aware of.”

  She considered heaving the bottle at him, but she wasn’t done with it. “I’m asking you a serious question, and you could do me the courtesy of answering in kind.”

  Because her tone had been stiff rather than hot as expected, he lowered his knife and gave her his full attention. The broody look she was wearing he was well accustomed to, but not when there was real worry in her eyes.

  “You’ve a beautiful voice, strong and true. You know that as well as I do.”

  “No one hears themselves as others do.”

  “I like hearing you sing my music.”

  That, she thought, was the most simple and most perfect of answers. Her eyes warmed and rather than throw the bottle, she set it aside to hug him.

  “What’s all this now?” He rubbed a hand over her back, patted when she sighed and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “What does it feel like, Shawn, to have sold your music? To know people will hear it, people who don’t know you? Is it grand?”

  “In part, aye, in part it’s the grandest thing. And it’s scary and befuddling all at the same time.”

  “And still, deep down, it was what you always wanted.”

  “It was. Keeping it deep down meant it didn’t have to be scary and befuddling.”

  “I like singing, but not as my life’s ambition. It’s just what we do, when the mood strikes. The Gallagher way.” She drew back. “Tell me this, then, now that you are selling your music, does it take any of the joy out of it, or make it seem like no more than a job?”

  “I thought it might, but no. When I sit down and there’s a tune in my head, it’s just the tune as it always was.” He stroked a finger under her chin. “What is it, darling? Tell me the trouble.”

  “Trevor wants to record me. Like a contract. Like a career. He thinks my voice will sell.”

  There were a dozen things he could say, jokes that any brother might spring to out of habit and that odd affection. Instead, because he sensed she needed it, he gave her the easy truth. “You’ll be wonderful, and send us all mad with pride.”

  She let out a sound that ended in a shaky laugh. “But it wouldn’t be like a session or a ceili . It would be real.”

  “You’ll travel, and get rich, which is what you’ve always wanted. And it’ll come from what’s inside you, which is the only way it’ll make you happy.”

  She picked up the ginger ale again. “You’re awfully smart all of a sudden.”

  “I’ve always been smart. You only admit it when I agree with you.”

  “Hmm.” She sipped again, her mind working quickly now, picking its way through obstacles and traps. “You and Brenna are working together in a sort of way. I mean you write the music, but she pushes it. She’s the one who arranged for Trevor to hear it. She’s in a way of being your business agent, or partner, or whatever you might call it.”

  Shawn’s answer was a grunt as he picked up his knife and began chopping again. “She can get on her bossy side about it, let me tell you.”

  That had Darcy biting her lip. “Does it cause problems between you?”

  “None that wouldn’t pass if she’d mind her own.” But when he glanced up again and saw Darcy’s face, he laughed. “Well, for heaven’s sake, why the worry? I’m just winding you up a bit. It’s true enough she pushes, and I can dig in when she shoves too fast and too hard. But I know it’s that she believes in me. It matters, nearly as much as it does that she loves me.”

  The pang inside her heart came hard and unwelcome. “The believing in could be as important, as satisfying, to some. As a start, anyway. As a start,” she repeated in a murmur. “You can’t finish until you start.”

  Determined to believe it, she took her apron off the hook and went into the pub, leaving Shawn frowning after her.

  It was never hard to arrange for a session at Gallagher’s. A word here, a word there. What better way was there, after all, to spend a rainy spring evening than with music and drink, with strangers and friends? By eight, the pub was packed and pints were flowing. Brenna had already moved behind the bar to lend a hand, and Darcy felt she herself had served enough stew to make an ocean.

  And Trevor Magee had yet to darken the door.

  The devil take him, she decided, and had a table of tourists glancing around uneasily as she served their drinks with a smile that glittered sharp and bright as a blade.

  If he couldn’t be bothered to accept her invitation for supper, music, and sex, what was the man made of? Stone? Ice? Steel? She slammed empties on the counter and had Aidan’s full attention.

  “Mind the glassware, Darcy. We’ve hardly one to spare with the crowd we have tonight.”

  “Bugger them,” she said under her breath. “Two pints Guinness, one Smitty’s, half of Harp, and two brandy and gingers.”

  “Take a water to Jude, would you, while the Guinness is settling, and see if you can talk her into having some stew. Her appetite’s been off the last day or so.”

  She wanted to snap, just on principle, but it wasn’t possible to take a bite out of a man who looked so concerned over his wife. Instead she simply went back to the kitchen herself, ladled out stew, added a basket of bread and butter. She carried them, with water and a glass of ice, to Jude’s table.

  “Now, you’re to eat,” Darcy said as she set down the food. “Else Aidan’ll be worried, Shawn insulted, and I’ll just be mad.”

  “But I—”

  “I mean it, Jude Frances. You’ve my niece or nephew to take care of, and I won’t have him or her, as the case may be, going hungry.”

  “It’s just that . . .” She glanced around, motioned Darcy to lean down. “The last couple of days, about five or so, I’ve had this terrible craving. I can’t do anything about it, can’t seem to stop myself. Ice cream,” she whispered. “Chocolate ice cream. I swear I’ve eaten two gallons of it this week, bought the market out of it.”

  Darcy snorted out a laugh. “Well, what’s wrong with that? You’re entitled.”

  “It’s so cliche ´d. I’m not eating pickles with it or anything-ridiculous, but just the same. I feel so stupid about it, I haven’t been able to tell Aidan.”

  “Do the crime, pay the consequences.” Darcy nudged the bowl closer. “Besides, that’s no way to feed a baby. You have a bit of Shawn’s stew, and for being such a sport and saving this seat for that cad Magee, I’ll buy your ice cream tomorrow.”

  Struggling not to pout, Jude picked up her spoon. “Chocolate. And the cad just walked in.”

  “Did he?” Pride, and not a little slice of temper, made her refuse to turn around. “It’s about bloody time. What’s he doing?” Casually, she picked up Jude’s bottle of water and poured it.

  “He’s scoping, the way men do. Hunting for you, I’d say. Ah, bull’s-eye. God, the way he looks at you. It’s wonderful, hot and proprietary with a little edge of aloofness. He’s got a man with him, very polished and urban and attractive, who looks amused and out of place.”

  Without thinking, Jude ate a spoonful of stew. “They look like friends,” she went on. “The one laid a hand on Trev’s shoulder, buddy-like, gestured toward the bar. But Trev’s shaking his head, giving it a nod in this direction. His friend’s just got a load of you now, and his eyebrows went straight up, almost to hairline. I’m surprised his tongue didn’t fall out.”

  Impressed, Darcy angled her head. “You’re awfully good at this sort of business, aren’t you?”

  “Psychologist, writer. They both observe. I’m just much better, thank God, at writing about people than analyzing them. So, I’m looking forward to hearing the music tonight,” she went on, raising her voice enough to signal Darcy she could and wanted to be heard. “I’m glad I got a table before we were overrun.”

  “We’d just plant you in a chair behind the bar. Eat your stew now, before it goes cold.”

  “I really don’t—well, hello, Trevor.”

  Prepared now
, Darcy did turn, offered a friendly smile. “Aren’t you the lucky one. Jude’s got a table here I’m sure she’d be glad to share with you. We’re jammed tonight.” Then she shifted that same smile to the man beside Trevor and had the pleasure of seeing pure male appreciation in his eyes. “And good evening to you.”

  “Darcy Gallagher, Jude Gallagher, Nigel Kelsey. A friend of mine.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Trevor didn’t tell me I’d be bombarded by beauties.” He took Jude’s hand first, kissed it smoothly, then repeated the gesture with Darcy.

  “You’ve brought us a charmer, Trevor. Have a seat here, and tell me what’s your pleasure to drink. I’ve got to pick up an order at the bar that’s overdue.”

  “G and T for me,” Nigel ordered.

  “Ice and lemon?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Pint of Harp,” Trevor told her.

  “Right away, then. And the stew’s good tonight, if you’re in the mood for it.”

  “Or if you’re not,” Jude muttered as Darcy moved off.

  “So, you’re the American writer who married the publican.” Nigel, in his urban black sweater, jacket, and slacks took a stool.

  And looked, Jude thought, like a bohemian at a barn dance.

  “I came over as an American, found out I was a writer. You’re from England?” she asked, tagging his accent.

  “London, born and bred. Trev was right about this place,” he added with a glance around. “It’s authentic, a movie set. Damn near perfect.”

  “We like to think so.”

  “Nigel doesn’t mean to be patronizing.” Trevor took the seat beside Jude in the narrow booth. “He’s just an ass.”

  “I meant it as a compliment. English pubs, certainly in the city, tend to be a bit more reserved than those you find in Ireland. And rarely have barmaids with faces like film stars.”

  He swiveled to take another look at Darcy. “I think I’m in love.”

  “A complete ass. You’re not eating,” Trevor said to Jude. “Is Darcy wrong about tonight’s stew?”

  “No.” Guilty, Jude took another spoonful. “It’s wonderful. It’s just I’m not really hungry. I had a late . . . mmmm.”

  “Cravings?” When she flushed, Trevor laughed. “For my sister, all three times, it was Fig Newtons for breakfast. She ate truckloads.”

  “Chocolate ice cream, at teatime. Gallons.” Jude shot a wary glance toward Aidan. “I haven’t made a full confession yet. Aidan’s afraid I’ll waste away.” She put a hand on her belly. “As if.”

  “Here we are, now, gin and tonic and a Harp.” Darcy set them down. “Will you have a meal with us, then?”

  “We’ll have the stew,” Trevor said before Nigel could order. “Will you sing later?”

  “I might.” With a saucy wink, she sauntered off.

  “I might have wanted a look at the menu,” Nigel complained.

  “You’re coming to the lady’s rescue here. We eat the same thing, and that way we can each take a portion of her stew and save her.”

  “God bless you,” Jude said with feeling and passed Trevor the basket of bread.

  Their bowls had barely been served when music started. Just a fiddle and pennywhistle at first from a couple of the people crammed around the table at the front. The table itself was loaded with pints and glasses, ashtrays and packs of cigarettes.

  Conversation didn’t stop with the music, but it lowered. It was Darcy, Trevor noted, who worked the table, taking away the empties, the overflowing ashtrays and replacing them with fresh. An old man with a squeeze box gave her a little pat on the bottom, in much the same way an adult pats a baby, then, tapping his foot, picked up the tune and filled it out.

  “That’s Brian Fitzgerald on the fiddle,” Jude told them. “We’re cousins of some sort. And that’s young Connor on the pennywhistle and Matt Magee, likely a cousin of yours, Trevor, on the little accordion. The young woman with the guitar is Patty Riley, and I don’t know the other woman, the other fiddler. I don’t think she’s local or I would.”

  Nigel nodded, sampled his stew. “Do you get many musicians in for an informal who aren’t local?”

  “All the time. Gallagher’s has a reputation with its sessions, formal and informal.” She looked on Trevor with warm affection when he casually spooned some of her stew into his bowl, then Nigel’s. “I’d name the baby after you for this, but Aidan would be suspicious.”

  “It’s not a hardship. Shawn’s a genius.”

  “I thought Trev was exaggerating the culinary skills of our newest artist.” Happily now, Nigel dug into the stew again. “I should’ve known better. He’s never wrong.”

  It was the laugh that caught Nigel first. Warm, female, sexy. He glanced over, toward it, and watched as Darcy laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder, counted off the time with her toe, then caught the tune with her voice.

  As I was going over the far-famed Kerry mountains/ I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting.

  He laid his spoon down, focused, and shut out the background noise.

  I first produced me pistol, and then produced me rapier/ Saying stand and deliver for you are my bold deceiver.

  It was a bright, jumpy song with bouncy lyrics. Nothing that put great demands on a voice but for its quickness. But it took no more than the first verse for him to know.

  He looked at Trevor, nodded. “No, you’re never wrong.”

  There were reels, jigs, waltzes, and ballads, with or without voices joining in. When Shawn finally came out of the kitchen, Nigel got his first look at the three Gallaghers together.

  “Excellent genes there,” he murmured, and Jude beamed.

  “Aren’t they beautiful? And listen,” she added when they began to sing of the bold Fenian men.

  Despite her enjoyment of her family, she caught the look that passed between Nigel and Trevor. These, she thought, were men who had something to say to each other, and wouldn’t while she could hear. Well, she owed them. So when the song was over, she patted Trevor’s arm.

  “I’m going for a quiet cup of tea in the kitchen.” And then slip out the back door and home. “Thanks for the company and the rescue. Lovely to meet you, Nigel. Enjoy your stay with us.”

  She started to scoot out, couldn’t manage it, then was grateful once again as Trevor somehow got her smoothly to her feet. Now, following impulse, she kissed his cheek. “Good night.”

  As the fiddlers had gone into a duel, Nigel had only to wait until Jude was two steps away before she was out of earshot. “They’re a gold mine.”

  “That may be, but Aidan won’t give up the pub, and neither will Shawn.” Trevor nursed his single pint. “They’ll do the performance here, and the recording. That’s for family, and for Gallagher’s, but the long term. No.”

  “You didn’t mention Darcy.”

  “I’m working on her. Her loyalty’s here, too, and with her brothers. But she has a taste for the rich life. I just have to convince her she can have both.” He drummed his fingers, watching as one of the fiddlers passed her the instrument instead of his empty pint. Then rose to refill it himself while she picked up the tune.

  “With a face like that, a voice like that, and Christ, listen to her play, she can have anything she wants.”

  “I know.” The fact that it didn’t entirely please him had Trevor setting down his glass. “And so, believe me, does she.”

  “No naive Irish lass, huh? Still, I’ve never known you to fail when your mind’s set. You’ll sign her, Trev.” Nigel lit one of his dwindling pack of Players, eyed Trevor through the smoke. “What else are you looking for from her?”

  Too much for comfort, Trevor thought. Entirely too much. “I haven’t decided.”

  “If you decide to keep it strictly business, I wouldn’t mind—” He cut himself off when Trevor’s eyes, scalpelsharp, met his. “I think we’ll just leave that unsaid. I’ll just go to the bar and order another G and T.”

  �
�Good idea.”

  “I think so, as we haven’t snarled over a girl since first term at Oxford, and you won that one anyway.” Nigel rose, nodded toward Trevor’s glass. “Another pint?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll just keep my head clear. And Nigel, make this one your last, will you? You’ll be driving back to the cottage on your own.”

  “I see. You always were a lucky bastard.”

  Luck, as far as Trevor could see, was only part of what he would need to handle Darcy Gallagher.

  He waited for her, in what she liked to call her parlor. And waited restlessly among her pretty things. The scent of her seemed to be everywhere, a subtle reminder that kept him on edge. He didn’t want a reminder. He wanted her.

  Everything in her rooms was feminine. Not the flouncy sort, but the sleek. Slippery pillows he had no idea she’d made herself were tossed artistically over the couch. A tall, slim vase held tall, slim flowers with bold red heads.

  There was a painting on the wall of a mermaid, wild wet hair of gleaming black raining down her back and naked breasts as she surfaced in a triumphant arch of body from a blue sea.

  It was stunning, sensual and somehow innocent.

  It was simply and rather beautifully rendered. Anyone seeing it would note the resemblance, he was sure, in the shape of the face, the full curve of lips.

  He wondered when Darcy had posed for it and immediately wanted to strangle the artist.

  That, he realized, was a serious problem, every bit as serious as this unrelenting desire for her. He detested jealousy and possessiveness in relationships. They weren’t just deadly, weren’t just weak, they were . . . unproductive.

  He needed to step back, clear himself out of this sexual haze he’d been in ever since he’d seen her at the damn window.

  Then she opened the door, and that haze simply engulfed him.

  “Did you send Nigel off to home all by himself, then?” She closed the door behind her, leaned back against it.

  “He’s a big boy.”

  She reached down, flipped the lock. “I hope you told him not to wait up.”

  Trevor stepped to her. “You’ve been on your feet all night.”

  “That I have, and they’re letting me know it.”

  “Why don’t I get you off them?” He scooped her up and into his arms.

  Chuckling, she nuzzled his neck. “Well, what do you know, that’s better already.”

  “Sweetheart, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  FIFTEEN

  “COFFEE.”

  A man couldn’t be expected to survive on three hours’ sleep without coffee. Sex might satisfy, food might fuel, love might sustain, but without coffee, what was the point?

  Especially at five-thirty in the morning.