The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

Gallagher’s?”
    “This is Jude Murray, cousin to Old Maude,” Darcy told him. “This is my brother Shawn, the one in dire need of your professional help.”
    “Ah, Brenna told me she’d met you when you arrived. Jude F. Murray, from Chicago.”
    “What’s the ‘F’ for?” Aidan wanted to know.
    Jude swiveled her head to look at him, found it was just a little light. “Frances.”
    “She saw Lady Gwen,” Shawn announced, and before Jude could swivel her head back again, the pub had gone quiet.
    “Did she, now?” Aidan wiped his hands on his cloth, set it aside, then leaned on the bar. “Well, then.”
    There was a pause, an expectant one. Fumbling, Jude tried to fill it. “No, I just thought I’d seen . . . it was raining.” She picked up her glass, drank deeply, and prayed the music would start again.
    “Aidan’s seen Lady Gwen, walking the cliffs.”
    Jude stared at Shawn, then back at Aidan. “You’ve seen a ghost,” she said in carefully spaced words.
    “She weeps as she walks and as she waits. And the sound of it stabs into your heart so it bleeds from the inside out.”
    Part of her simply wanted to ride on the music of hisvoice, but she blinked, shook her head. “But you don’t actually believe in ghosts.”
    He lifted that handsome eyebrow again. “Why wouldn’t I?”
    “Because . . . they don’t exist?”
    He laughed, a rich and rolling sound, then solved the mystery of her never empty glass by topping off the wine. “I’ll be wanting to hear you say that after living here another month. Didn’t your granny tell you the story of Lady Gwen and Carrick of the faeries?”
    “No. Well, actually, I have a number of tapes she made for me, and letters and journals that deal with legends and myths. I’m, ah . . . considering doing a paper on the subject of Irish folklore and its place in the psychology of the culture.”
    “Isn’t that something.” He didn’t trouble to hide his amusement, even when he saw the frown cloud over her face. To his mind she had as pretty a pout as he’d ever seen. “You’ve come to a good place for material for such a fine project.”
    “You should tell her about Lady Gwen,” Darcy put in. “And other stories, Aidan. You tell them best.”
    “I will, then, another time. If you’re interested, Jude Frances.”
    She was miffed, and she realized with some distress, just a little drunk. Mustering her dignity as best she could, she nodded. “Of course. I’d like to include local color and stories in my research. I’d be happy to set up appointments—at your convenience.”
    His smile came again, slow, easy. Devastating. “Oh, well, we’re not so very formal around here. I’ll just come around one day, and if you’re not busy, I’ll tell you some stories I know.”
    “All right. Thank you.” She opened her purse, startedto get out her wallet, but he laid a hand over hers.
    “There’s no need to pay. The wine’s on the house, for welcome.”
    “That’s very kind of you.” She wished she had a clue as to just how much welcome she’d put into her bloodstream.
    “See that you come back,” he said when she got to her feet.
    “I’m sure I will. Good night.” She scanned the room, since it seemed polite to make it a blanket statement, then looked back at Aidan. “Thank you.”
    “Good night to you, Jude Frances.”
    He watched her leave, absently getting a glass as another beer was called for. A pretty thing, he thought again. And just prim enough, he decided, to make a man wonder what it would take to relax her.
    He thought he might enjoy taking the time to find out. After all, he had a wealth of time.
    “She must be rich,” Darcy commented with a little sigh.
    Aidan glanced over. “Why do you say that?”
    “You can tell by her clothes, all simple and perfect. The little earrings she had on, the hoops, those were real gold, and the shoes were Italian or I’ll marry a monkey.”
    He hadn’t noticed the earrings or the shoes, just the overall package, that understated and neat femininity. And being a man, he had imagined loosening that band she’d wrapped around her hair and setting it free.
    But his sister was pouting, so he turned and flicked a finger down her nose. “She may be rich, Darcy my darling, but she’s alone and shy as you never are. Money won’t buy her a friend.”
    Darcy pushed her hair back over her shoulder. “I’ll go by the cottage and see her.”
    “You’ve a good heart.”
    She