The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

the force of anger came out in a scream that shattered every window in the cottage. Blindly she whirled toward the door and raced out, down the stairs, out of the house.
    She ran over the hills until she couldn’t catch her breath, until her sides stung and her legs trembled. A soft rain began to fall through the sunshine, sparkling the air and dewing the grass. The wind came up strong and sounded like a woman weeping. Through it, like a whisper, was the music of pipes.
    Finding herself on the path to Ardmore, Jude continued to walk.

ELEVEN
    A RAINY EVENING at the pub had people snuggled into their chairs and doing as much dreaming as talking. Young Connor Dempsey played wistful tunes on the squeeze-box while his father sipped his Smithwick’s and discussed the state of the world with his good friend Jack Brennan.
    Since Jack’s heart was mending now, he paid as much attention to the conversation as he did his own beer.
    From behind the bar, Aidan kept an eye on him nonetheless. Jack and Connor Dempsey Senior often disagreed on the state of the world and occasionally felt the need to use their fists to bring the point home.
    Aidan understood the need well enough, but he didn’t care to have the debate rage in his place.
    He checked the progress of the football game on the bar set now and then. Clare was outscoring Mayo and he gave them a quick mental cheer, as he had a small wager on the outcome.
    He anticipated a quiet night and wondered if he couldcall upon Brenna to cover for him. He had an urge to see if Jude would like another meal with him. In a restaurant this time, with flowers and candles on the table and a nice straw-colored wine in pretty glasses.
    It would be the sort of thing she was more accustomed to, he imagined, than scrambled eggs and fried potatoes dished up in her own kitchen.
    Shy and sweet she might be, but she was a sophisticated woman. City-bred and upper class. The men she was used to would take her to the theater and fancy restaurants. They would wear ties and well-cut suits and talk of literature and cinema in weighty tones.
    Well, he wasn’t exactly ignorant, was he? He read books and enjoyed films. He’d traveled more than most and had seen great art and architecture firsthand. He could hold his own against any Chicago dandy in conversation.
    When he caught himself scowling, he shook his head. What was he doing, for Christ’s sake, setting himself up in competition with some imaginary man? It was pathetic the way he couldn’t seem to hold three thoughts in his head unless one of them centered on Jude Murray.
    It was likely just sexual frustration, he decided. He hadn’t slid his hands over a woman’s body in a considerable amount of time. Every time he imagined doing so, it was Jude’s body under his hands. And thanks to that morning, he had a much clearer picture of just what that body of hers included.
    All that soft white skin that tended to show a rosy flush so easily. Long, slim legs, and a tiny, sexy mole just at the rise of her left breast. She had such pretty shoulders, shoulders that just seemed to cry out for the trail of a man’s lips.
    The way she shied, then melted when he touched her. Was it any wonder he was fixated on her? A man would have to be dead a decade not to be stirred.
    A part of him—one that he wasn’t particularly proud of—wished he could just charm her into bed and be done with it. Release and relief and a pleasure for both of them. Another part admitted, just a bit uneasily, that he was just as fascinated by her mind and her manner as he was by the package wrapped around it.
    Quiet and shy, tidy and polite. She just made a man want to keep rubbing away at the sheen of composure until he found everything that lay hidden beneath.
    The door opened. Aidan glanced over casually, then he looked again, eyes widening in something close to shock.
    Jude stepped in. No, it was more a stalking. She was wet down to the skin, her hair wild and dripping around her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, and though he told himself it was a trick of the light, they looked dangerous. He would have sworn they sent off sparks as she strode up to the bar.
    “I’d like a drink.”
    “You’re soaking wet.”
    “It’s raining, and I’ve been walking in it.” Her voice was clipped with an undertone of heat. She shoved at her wet, heavy hair. She’d lost her band somewhere along the run. “That’s the usual result. Can I have a drink or not?”
    “Sure, I’ve the