The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

grinned and picked up her tray. “You were looking at her bum when she left.”
    He grinned back. “I’ve good eyes.”
     
    After the last customer wandered his way home, and the glasses were washed, the floor mopped, and the doors locked, Aidan found himself too restless for sleep, or a book, or a glass of whiskey by his fire.
    He didn’t mind that last hour of the day spent alone in his rooms over the pub. Often he treasured it. But he treasured just as much the long walks he was prone to take on nights where the sky was thrown open with stars and the moon sailed white over the water.
    Tonight he walked to the cliffs, as they were on his mind. It was true enough what his brother had said. Aidan had seen Lady Gwen, and more than once, standing high over the sea, with the wind blowing her pale hair behind her like the mane of a wild horse and her cloak billowing, white as the moon overhead.
    The first time, he’d been a child and initially had been filled with excited terror. Then he’d been moved beyond measure by the wretched sound of her weeping and the despair in her face.
    She’d never spoken, but she had looked at him, seen him. That he would swear on as many Bibles as you could stack under his hand.
    Tonight he wasn’t looking for ghosts, for the spirit memory of a woman who’d lost what she loved most before she’d recognized it.
    He was only looking for a walk in the air made chilly by night and sea, in a land he’d come back to because nowhere else had ever been home.
    When he climbed up the path he knew as well as thepath from his own bed to his bath, he sensed nothing but the night, and the air, and the sea.
    The water beat below, its endless war on rock. Light from the half moon spilled in a delicate line over black water that was never quite calm. Here he could breathe, and think the long thoughts he rarely had time for in the day-to-day doing of his work.
    The pub was for him now. And though he’d never expected the full weight of it, it sat well enough on his shoulders. His parents’ decision to stay in Boston rather than to remain only long enough to help his uncle open his own pub and get it over the first six months of business hadn’t come as that much of a surprise.
    His father had missed his brother sorely, and his mother had always been one for moving to a new place. They’d be back, not to live, perhaps, but they would be back to see friends, to hold their children. But Gallagher’s Pub had been passed on from father to son once again.
    Since it was his legacy, he meant to do right by it.
    Darcy wouldn’t wait tables and build sandwiches forever. He accepted that as well. She stored her money away like a squirrel its nuts. When she had enough to content her, she’d be off.
    Shawn was happy enough for the moment to run the kitchen, to dream his dreams and to have every other female in the village pining over him. One day he would stumble over the right dream, and the right woman, and that would be that as well.
    If Aidan intended Gallagher’s to go on—and he did—he would have to think about finding himself a woman and going about the business of making a son—or a daughter, for that matter, as he wasn’t so entrenched in tradition he couldn’t see passing what he had on to a girl.
    But there was time for that, thank Jesus. After all, he wasonly thirty-one, and he didn’t intend to marry just for responsibility. There would be love, and passion, and the meeting of minds before there were vows.
    One of the things he’d learned on his travels was what a man could settle for, and what he couldn’t. You could settle for a lumpy bed if the alternative was the floor, and be grateful. But you couldn’t settle for a woman who bored you or failed to stir your blood, no matter how fair her face.
    As he was thinking that, he turned and looked out over the roll of land, over to the soft rise where the white cottage sat under the sky and stars. There was a thin haze of smoke rising from the chimney, a single light burning against the window.
    Jude Frances Murray, he thought and found himself bringing her face into his mind. What are you doing in your little house on the faerie hill? Reading a good book perhaps, one with plenty of weight and profound messages. Or do you sneak into a story with fun and foolishness when no one’s around to see?
    It’s image that worries you, he mused. That much he’d gotten from the hour or so she’d spent on one of his stools. What are people