The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

in his throat.
    Dimly, he heard his brother’s voice, an answering laugh, the faint tune played by a young boy. And he remembered, barely, where they were. Who they were.
    “Jude. Wait.” The blood was roaring in his head as he tried to ease her back. “This isn’t the place.”
    “Why?” She was desperate. She needed something. Him. Anything. “You want me. I want you.”
    Enough that he would easily imagine reversing their positions and mounting her where they stood like a stallion covering a ready mare. With fire in the blood, and no heart at all.
    “Stop now. Let’s catch our breath here.” He stroked a hand over her hair, a hand that was far from steady. “Tell me what’s the matter.”
    “Nothing’s the matter.” Her voice cracked and proved her a liar. “Why does something have to be the matter? Just make love with me.” Her hands shook as she fought with the buttons of his shirt. “Just touch me.”
    Now he did reverse positions, pressed her against the door and firmly took her face in his hands to lift it. Whatever his body was telling him, his heart and mind gave different orders. He was a man who preferred following the heart.
    “I might touch, but I’ll never reach you if you don’t tell me what’s troubling you.”
    “There’s nothing troubling me,” she hissed at him. Then burst into tears.
    “Oh, there now, darling.” It was less worrisome to comfort a woman than to resist one. Gently, he gathered her in, cradled her against his chest. “Who hurt you, a ghra ?”
    “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”
    “Of course it’s something, and not stupid at all. Tell me what’s made you sad, mavourneen. ”
    Her breath hitched, and desolate, she pressed her face into his shoulder. It was solid as a rock, comforting as a pillow. “My husband and his wife are going to the West Indies and having a baby.”
    “What?” The word came out like a bullet as he jerked her back. “You’ve a husband?”
    “Had.” She sniffled, and wished her head could be on his shoulder again. “He didn’t want to keep me.”
    Aidan took two long breaths, but his head still reeled as though he’d swallowed a bottle of Jameson’s. Or been clobbered by one. “You were married?”
    “Technically.” She fluttered a hand. “Do you have a handkerchief?”
    Staggered, Aidan dug in his pocket, handed it to her. “I think we’ll start back at some beginning, but we’ll get you some dry clothes and some hot tea before you catch a chill.”
    “No, I’m all right. I should—”
    “Just be quiet. We’ll go upstairs.”
    “I’m a mess.” She blew her nose savagely. “I don’t want people to see me.”
    “There’s no one out there who hasn’t shed a few tears of their own, and some right here in this pub. We’ll go out and through the kitchen and up.”
    Before she could argue, he took her arm and pulled her to the door. Then even as the first wave of embarrassmenthit, he continued to pull her, into the kitchen, where Darcy looked over in surprise.
    “Why, Jude, whatever’s the matter?” she began, then closed her mouth as Aidan gave a quick shake of his head and nudged Jude up a narrow staircase.
    He opened a door at the head of it and stepped into his small, cluttered living room. “The bedroom’s through there. Take whatever works best for you, and I’ll put on the tea.”
    She started to thank him, apologize, something, but he was already moving through a low doorway. There was enough tension in his wake to bow her spirits even lower.
    She stepped into the bedroom. Unlike the living room, it was neat as a pin and sparsely furnished. She wished she had the time, and the right, to poke about a bit. But she moved quickly to the little closet, giving herself time only to scan the single bed with its navy cover, the tall chest of drawers that looked old and comfortably worn at the hinges, the faded rug over an age-darkened wood floor.
    She found a shirt, as gray as her mood. While she changed she studied the walls. There he had indulged in his romantic side, she thought. Posters and prints of faraway places.
    Street scenes of Paris and London and New York and Florence, stormy seascapes and lush islands. Towering mountains, quiet valleys, mysterious deserts. And of course, the fierce cliffs and gentle hills of his own country. They were tacked up edge to edge, like a fabulous, eccentric wallpaper.
    How many of those places had he been? she wondered. Had he been to them all,