The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

head lifted, until their eyes met again. “But isn’t it an interesting thing, that when he whose seed started your father stood on this hill, looked down at what was home, he didn’t see what you do. Not a lovely spot, edged with magic and welcome. He saw a trap, and would have gnawed his leg off at the ankle to escape it.”
    Carrick turned to study Ardmore again. His black hair streamed back, like a cape. “Perhaps in a way, he did. And hobbled with the loss of some part of himself, he went to America. If not for his doing that, you wouldn’t stand here today, looking down and seeing what he couldn’t.”
    “Wouldn’t,” Trevor corrected. “But you’re right. I wouldn’t be here without him. Tell me, who puts the flowers here on John Magee’s grave, after all this time?”
    “I do.” Carrick gestured to the little pot of wild fuchsia. “As Maude no longer can, and it was the one thing she asked of me. Never did she forget him, and never did her love waver in all the years between his death and her own. Constancy is the finest of your mortal virtues.”
    “Not everyone can claim it.”
    “No, but those who do know a joy in it. Is your heart a constant one, Trevor Magee?”
    Trevor looked up again. “It’s not something I’ve given a lot of thought to.”
    “That’s shading close to a lie, but we’ll shift the question for you. You’ve had a taste of fair Darcy now. Do you think you can push back from the banquet and walk away?”
    “What’s between us is private.”
    “Hah. Your privacy means nothing to me. Three times a century I’ve waited for you—you, I’m sure now, and no other. You’re the last of it. You stand there, worrying about being taken for a fool, which is only another kind of pride, your granda’s sort, when you’ve only to take what’s already been given. Your blood’s hot for her. Your mind’s clouded with her, but you stop short of exploring what’s in your heart for her.”
    “Hot blood and a clouded mind have very little to do with the heart.”
    “That’s foolishness. Isn’t the first step toward love the passion, the second the longing? And you’re past the first step, already on to the second, and too stubborn to admit it. I’ll wait.” Impatience shot into his eyes, and they seemed to burn. “But I’ve a bloody schedule of me own, so make lively, Yank.”
    He snapped his fingers, a kind of lightning shot. And vanished.
     
     
    It put him in a foul mood. A rash and foul mood. As if it wasn’t irritating enough to have Mick O’Toole handing him advice on his personal life, he’d been given a potful from someone who shouldn’t even exist. Both mortal and mystic were pressuring him to take some sort of definitive step with Darcy, and he’d be damned if he’d be cornered that way.
    His life was his own, and so was hers.
    To make a point of it, he waved off the calls when he crossed the job site and went straight into the pub’s kitchen door.
    Shawn glanced up from scrubbing pots. “Hello, Trev. You’re late for lunch, but I’ll fix you up if you’re hungry.”
    “No, thanks. Darcy out there?”
    “She just went up to her little palace. I’ve fish stew still on the . . .” Shawn trailed off, as Trevor was already climbing the stairs. “Well, I suppose he’s not hungry for what I can serve him.”
    He didn’t knock. It was rude, he knew it, and got some perverse satisfaction from it. Just as he got satisfaction from seeing Darcy’s surprise when she walked out of the bedroom with a little shopping bag in her hand.
    “Sure, you’re at home, aren’t you?” However mild the words, there was the unmistakable whip of irritation through them. He enjoyed it. “It’s sorry I am I can’t entertain you at the moment, but I’m just off to Jude’s to take her the little stuffed lamb I bought for the baby.”
    His response was to stride to her, fist her hair in his hand, and drag her head back even as his mouth swooped down to crush hers. Shock stabbed into her, fused with an instant and molten lust so it was like one slice from a burning sword.
    She shoved at him first, and meant it. Then gripped him hard, and meant that as well. He paid no attention to either reaction until he was good and finished. And when he was, he pulled her back, and his eyes were steel bright.
    “Is that enough for you?”
    She struggled to find her balance, her wit. “As kisses go, it was—”
    “No, damn it.” Temper roughened his voice and at that her