The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

handily over his shoulder.
    “Is that you, then, Aidan?”
    “Aye, Jack.”
    “Did I break your nose?”
    “No, you didn’t, but you bloodied my lip a bit.”
    “Fucking Gallagher luck.”
    “There’s a lady present, you knothead.”
    “Oh. Begging pardon.”
    “You’re both ridiculous,” Jude decided and turned away to march to her car.
    “Jude, my darling?” Aidan grinned, hissed as his lip split again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, say at half-one.” He only chuckled when she continued to walk, heels clicking briskly, then turned to give him a fulminating look as she got into her car.
    “Is she gone now?” Jack wanted to know.
    “She’s going. But not far,” Aidan murmured as she drove decorously down the street. “No, she won’t go far.”
    • • •
    Men were baboons. Obviously. Jude shook her head, tapped her finger on the wheel in a disapproving manner as she drove home. Drunken brawls on the street were not amusing pastimes, and anyone who thought they were was in dire need of therapy.
    God, he’d made her feel like an idiot. Standing there grinning at her while she dabbed at the blood on his mouth and babbled. An indulgent grin, she thought now, from the big, strong man to the foolish, fluttery female.
    Worse, she had been foolish and fluttery. When Aidan had tossed that enormous man over his shoulder as if he was a bag of feathers, her stomach had definitely fluttered. If she hadn’t tightened up that very instant and stalked away, she might well have whimpered in admiration.
    Mortifying.
    And had he been the least bit embarrassed at getting a fist planted in his face in front of her? No, indeed. Had he blushed to introduce the drunken fool at his feet as an old and close friend? No, he had not.
    He was very likely behind the bar again right this minute, entertaining his customers with the story, making them laugh over her scream of alarm and trembling hands.
    Bastard.
    She sniffed once, and felt better for it.
    By the time she pulled in the drive she’d convinced herself that she’d behaved in a scrupulously dignified and reasonable manner. It was Aidan Gallagher who’d been the fool.
    Moonflowers, indeed. She slammed the door of her car sharply enough to send the echo ringing down to the valley.
    After huffing out another breath and smoothing down her hair, she headed for the gate. And when her gaze was drawn up, she saw the woman in the window.
    “Oh, God.”
    The blood drained out of her head. She felt each individual drop of it flow out. Moonlight shimmered gently on the pale fall of hair, on the white cheeks, against the deep green eyes.
    She was smiling, a beautiful, heart-wrenching smile that hooked Jude’s soul and all but ripped it out.
    Gathering courage, she shoved the gate back and ran for the door. When she yanked it open it occurred to her that she’d neglected to lock it. Someone had gone in while she’d been in the pub, she told herself. That was all.
    Her knees trembled as she dashed up the stairs.
    The bedroom was empty, as was every other room when she hurried through the house. All that was left was the faint sighing scent of woman.
    Uneasy, she locked the doors. And when she was in her bedroom again, she locked that as well from the inside.
    After she undressed and huddled in bed, she left the light burning. It was a long time before she slept. And dreamed of jewels bursting out of the sun and tumbling through the sky to be caught in a silver bag by a man riding a winged horse white as snowfall.
    They swooped out of the sky, over the fields and mountains, the lakes and rivers, the bogs and the moors that were Ireland. Across the battlements of castles and the humble thatched roofs of cottages, with the white wings of the horse singing against the wind.
    They came to a flashing stop, hooves striking ground at the front of the cottage on the hill with its white walls and deep-green shutters and flowers spilling from the door.
    She came out to him, her hair the palest of golds around her shoulders, her eyes green as the fields. And the man, with hair as dark as hers was light, wearing a silver ring centered with a stone no less brilliant than his eyes, leaped from the horse.
    He walked to her and spilled the flood of jewels at her feet. Diamonds blazed in the grass.
    “These are my passion for you,” he told her. “Take them and me, for I would give you all I have and more.”
    “Passion isn’t enough, nor are your diamonds.” Her voice was quiet,