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“Now the sound of it, the pure joy of it, caught the ear and the envy of a witch.”
“There’s always a catch,” Jude commented and made him chuckle.
“Sure and there’s a catch if the story’s a good one. Now this witch had a black heart and the powers she had she abused. She soured the morning milk and caused the nets of the fisherfolk to come up empty. Though she could use her arts to disguise her vile face into beauty, when she opened her mouth to sing, a frog’s croaking was more musical. She hated the maid for her gift of song, and so cast a spell on her and rendered her mute.”
“But there was a cure—involving a handsome prince?”
“Oh, there was a cure, for evil should always be confounded by good.”
Jude smiled because she believed it. Despite all logic, she believed in the happy-ever-after. And such things seemed more than merely possible here, in this world of cliffs and wild grass, of sea with red fishing trawlers streaming over deep blue, of firm hands clasped warm over hers.
They seemed inevitable.
“The maid was doomed to silence, unable to share the joy in her heart through her songs, as the witch trapped it inside a silver box and locked it with a silver key. Inside the box, the voice wept as it sang.”
“Why are Irish stories always so sad?”
“Are they?” He looked sincerely surprised. “It’s not sad so much as . . . poignant. Poetry doesn’t most usually spring from joy, does it, but from sorrows.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She brushed absently at her hair as the wind tugged tendrils free. “What happened next?”
“Well, I’ll tell you. For five years the maid walked these hills and the fields, and the cliffs as we walk them now. She listened to the song of the birds, the music of the wind in the grass, the drumbeat of the sea. And these she stored inside her, while the witch hoarded the joy and passion and purity of the maid’s voice inside the silver box, so only she could hear it.”
As they reached the top of the hill with the shadow of the old cathedral, the sturdy spear of the round tower, Aidan turned to Jude, whisked her hair back from her face with his fingers. “What happened next?” he asked her.
“What?”
“Tell me what happened next.”
“But it’s your story.”
He reached down to where little white flowers struggled to bloom in the cracks of tumbled rocks. Picking one, he slid it into her hair. “Tell me, Jude Frances, what you’d like to happen next.”
She started to reach up for the flower, but he caught her hand, lifted a brow. After a moment’s thought, she shrugged. “Well, one day a handsome young man rode over the hills. His great white horse was weary, and his armor dull and battered. He was lost and injured from battle, and a long way from home.”
She could see it, closing her eyes. The woods and shadows, the wounded warrior longing for home.
“As he moved into the forests, the mists swirled in so he could hear nothing but the labored breathing of his own heart. With each beat counted, he understood he came closer to the last.
“Then he saw her, coming toward him through the mists like a woman wading through a silver river. Because he was ill and in need, the maid took him in and tended his wounds in silence, nursed him through his fevers. Though she was unable to speak to comfort him, her gentleness was enough. So they fell in love without words, and her heart almost burst from the need to tell him, to sing out her joy and her devotion. And without hesitation, without regret, she agreed to go with him to his home far away and leave behind her own, her friends and family and that part of herself locked tight in a silver box.”
Because she could see it, feel it, even as she spoke, Jude shook her head, moved through the tilted gravestones to lean back against the round tower. The bay swept out below, a spectacular blue where the red boats bobbed, but she was caught in the story.
“What happens next?” she asked Aidan.
“She mounted the horse with him,” he continued, picking up the threads she’d left for him as if they’d been his own. “Bringing with her only her faith and her love, and asking for nothing but his in return. And at that moment, the silver box, still clutched in the greedy hands of the witch, burst open. The voice trapped inside flew out, a golden stream that winged its way over the hills and into the heart of the maid. And as she rode off with her man, her voice, more beautiful than ever, sang out. And the birds stilled to listen, and the angels smiled again.”
Jude sighed. “Yes, that was perfect.”
“You’ve a way with telling a story.”
The words thrilled her, rocked her, then made her feel shy all over again. “No, not really. It was easy because you’d started it.”
“You filled in the middle part, and in a lovely way that makes me think not all the Irish has been drummed out of you after all. There now,” he murmured, pleased. “You’ve a laugh in your eyes and a flower in your hair. Let me kiss you now, will you, Jude Frances?”
She moved fast. Caution, she told herself, sometimes had to be quick. Ducking under his arm, she scooted around him. “You’ll make me forget why we walked here. I’ve read about round towers, but I’ve never seen one up close.”
Patience, Gallagher, he thought, and tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “Someone was always trying to invade and conquer the jewel of Ireland. But we’re still here, aren’t we?”
“Yes, you’re still here.” She turned a slow circle, studying hill and cliff and sea. “It’s a wonderful spot. It feels old.” She stopped, shook her head. “That sounds ridiculous.”
“Not at all. It does feel old—and sacred. If you listen well, you can hear the stones sing of battle and of glory.”
“I don’t think I have the ear for singing stones.” She wandered, skirting the carved markers, the graves laden with flowers, and picked her way over the rough ground. “My grandmother told me she used to come up here and sit. I bet she heard them.”
“Why didn’t she come with you?”
“I wanted her to.” She brushed her hair back as she turned to face him. He fit here, she thought, with the old and the sacred, with the songs of battle and glory.
Where, she wondered, did she fit?
She walked inside the old ruin where the sky soared overhead for a roof. “I think she’s teaching me a lesson—how to be Jude in six months or less.”
“And are you learning?”
“Maybe.” She traced her fingers over the ogham carving, and for a moment, just a moment, felt them tingle with heat.
“What does Jude want to be?”
“That’s too general a question, with too many simple answers like happy, heal
thy, successful.”
“Aren’t you happy?”
“I. . .” Her fingers danced over the stones again, dropped away. “I wasn’t happy teaching, in the end anyway. I wasn’t good at it. It’s discouraging not to be good at what you’ve chosen as your life’s work.”
“Your life is far from done, so you’ve more than time enough to choose again. And I’ll wager you were better at it than you decided to believe.”
She glanced up at him, then began to walk out again. “Why would you think so?”
“Because in the time I’ve spent with you I’ve listened to you, and learned.”
“Why are you spending time with me, Aidan?”
“I like you.”
She shook her head again. “You don’t know me. If I haven’t figured myself out yet, you can’t know me.”
“I like what I see.”
“So it’s a physical sort of attraction.”
That quick brow quirked again. “And is that a problem for you, then?”
“Yes, actually.” But she managed to turn and face him. “One I’m working on.”
“Well, I hope you work fast because I want the pleasure of you.”
Her breath clogged and had to be released slowly and deliberately. “I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve never had a conversation like this in my life, so obviously I don’t know what to say to that, except something that’s bound to sound incredibly stupid.”
He frowned as he stepped toward her. “Why would it sound stupid if it’s what you’re thinking?”
“Because I have a habit of saying stupid things when I’m nervous.”
He slipped the flower stem deeper into her hair as the wind wanted to tug it free again. “I thought you sang when you were nervous.”
“One or the other,” she muttered, moving backward to keep what she thought was a safe distance.
“You’re nervous now?”
“Yes! God!” Knowing she was close to stuttering, she held her hands up to hold him off. “Just stop. I’ve never had anything tie me up like this. Instant attraction. I said I believe in it, and I do, but I’ve never felt it before. I have to think about it.”
“Why?” It was a simple matter to reach out, grab her by the wrists, and tug her forward against him. “Why not just act on it when you know it’ll feel good? Your pulse is jumping.” His thumbs skimmed over her wrist. “I like feeling it leap like that, seeing your eyes go cloudy and dark. Why don’t you kiss me this time and see what happens next?”
“I’m not as good at it as you are.”
Now he laughed. “Jesus, woman, you’re quite the package. Let me decide for myself if you’re good at it or not. Come on and kiss me, Jude. Whatever happens next is up to you.”
She wanted to. Wanted to feel his mouth against hers again, the shape and texture and flavor of it. Just now his lips were curved, and the light of fun was in his eyes. Fun, she thought. Why couldn’t it just be fun?
With his fingers still lightly braceleting her wrists, she leaned toward him. And he watched her. She rose onto her toes, still his eyes stayed on hers. Tilting her head just slightly, she eased up to brush her lips over his.
“Do it again, why don’t you?”
So she did, mesmerized when his eyes stayed open, compelling hers to do the same. She lingered longer this time, brushing left, then right. Fascinating. Experimenting, she scraped her teeth lightly, over his bottom lip and heard her own quiet sound of pleasure as from a great distance.
His eyes were so blue, as vivid as the water that stretched to the horizon. It seemed her world turned that single, marvelous color. Her heart began to
