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“That’s what I’m seeing now. It was more of, ‘I want to be with this man, and feeling as I do about him, I want to help him with that which matters to him.’ It’s a lovely thought, but that doesn’t change the fact you should’ve left it to me.”
“You can be sure I’ll be leaving such matters, and everything else, to you in the future.”
“If that vow lasts a week, I’ll expect to see pigs flying over Ardmore Bay. And in case you’re wondering in that calculating brain of yours, I’ll be contacting Magee myself, and I’ll send him music if what he says convinces me—which is what I intended to do once he came here and I got his measure.”
She stopped at that, eyed him suspiciously. “You were going to show him your work?”
“I was, most likely. I’ll admit that dozens of times in the past I’ve come close to sending it off and then pulled back. When something comes out of you, it’s precious. There was a fear of others finding it wanting. It was safer not to risk it. I was afraid of losing something that mattered to me. Does that make me less in your eyes, Brenna?”
“It doesn’t, no. Of course it doesn’t. But if you don’t ask,” she said, remembering her father’s words, “the answer’s always no.”
“I’m not arguing your point, just your methods. Now tell me this, if Magee had said to you, ‘Why, what are you sending me this silly amateur music for? Whoever wrote it has no talent whatsoever,’ would you have thought less of me?”
“Of course not, you pinhead. I’d’ve known that Magee had no taste other than what he may have in his own mouth.”
“Ah, well, now, that’s tidied up a considerable mess. Can we go back to the part where you’re in love with me?”
“No, because I’m not anymore. I’ve come to my senses.”
“That’s a damn shame, that is. You’ll have to wait here a minute. There’s something I need from inside.”
“I’ll not stand out here. I’m going home.”
“I’ll only come after you, Brenna,” he called over his shoulder as he walked to the door. “And what I have in mind is best done here, and in private.”
She considered climbing over the gate just to spite him, but the whole emotional mess had made her tired. It might as well get finished now as later.
So she waited, arms crossed. When he came out, he carried nothing, which only made her scowl.
“The moon’s full,” he commented as he went to her. “Maybe there’s others have more to do with the timing of all this than we know. But it was meant to be in moonlight, and it was meant to be here.”
He slipped a hand into his pocket, kept it there. “I had a plan at one time, how I’d let you chase me down, wear at my resistance and convince me there was nothing for me to do but give up and marry you.”
Her eyes went blurry with shock. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you really think you were tugging me around like a puppy on a leash? Is that the kind of man you want when the day is done, O’Toole? The kind you want walking beside you through life, fathering your children?”
“Is this a game you’ve been playing?”
“Partly, and as much as you were. Game’s over now, and I find I want this done more in what might be the traditional manner. Brenna.” He took her hand, not at all displeased that it was trembling. “I love you. I don’t know when it started, years ago or weeks. But I know my heart’s lost to you, and I wouldn’t have it another way. You’re what I want, all there is of you. Make a life with me. Marry me.”
She couldn’t take her eyes from his face. The whole world was in his face. “My head hurts,” she managed.
“God bless you.” With a half laugh, he took her hand, kissed it. “How could I not love such a woman?” He kept her hand firm in his as he took the ring from his pocket.
The pearl gleamed like the moon, white and pure, in a simple band of gold. “A moon tear,” he told her, “given to me to give to you. I know you don’t wear rings as a rule.”
“I—they—with the work they get caught and banged around.”
“So I got a chain for it as well. You can wear it around your neck.”
He would have thought of such a thing, she realized. Such a small and lovely detail. “I’m not working at the moment.”
He slid it onto her finger, and her hand steadied under his.
“I suppose it suits me, as you do. As the whole of you suits me. But you won’t make me cry.”
“Yes, I will.” He touched his lips to her forehead, her temple. “I bought you land today.”
“What?” Tears might have dazzled her vision, but she managed to step back. “What? Land? You bought land? Without a word to me, without me laying eyes on it?”
“If you don’t like it, you can bury me in it.”
“I might. You bought land,” she said again, but her voice had gone dreamy.
“So
you can build us a house, and the two of us can fill it into a home.”
“Damn it. There you are, you’ve made me cry.” She threw her arms around his neck. “Just hold on a minute, I’m a mess.” With her face buried against his shoulder, she breathed him in. “I thought it was just a longing for you, and that would be enough for both of us. I do long for you, but it’s not enough and it’s not all. Oh, this is where I want to be. And I did chase you down, nothing will convince me otherwise.”
She drew back enough to touch her lips to his. “I had it all worked out what I would say to you tonight, and now I can’t remember just how it was to go. Only that I love you, Shawn. I love you as you are. There’s nothing I’d change.”
“That’s more than good enough. Will you come inside now? I’ll warm your supper.”
“It’s the least you could do after you let it go cold.” She linked her fingers with his. “You won’t insist on a big, fancy wedding, will you?”
“I don’t see how when I’ve a mind to have us wed as quick as can be managed.”
“Ah.” She leaned against him. “I do love you, Shawn Gallagher. There’s one more thing,” she said as they walked toward the cottage. “Won’t you need a name for your song, the one Magee wants?”
“It’s ‘renna’s Song,’ ” he told her. “It always was.”
Turn the page for a preview of
HEART OF THE SEA
The stunning conclusion in Nora Roberts’s
all-new Irish trilogy of the Gallagher siblings
Coming soon from Jove Books!
THE VILLAGE OF Ardmore sat snug on the south coast of Ireland, in the county of Waterford, with the Celtic Sea spread out at its feet. The stone seawall curved around, following the skirt of the gold sand beach. It boasted in its vicinity a pretty jut of cliffs upholstered with wild grass, and a hotel that clung to them. If one had a mind to, it was a pleasant if hearty walk on a narrow path around the headland, and at the top of the first hill were the ruins of the oratory and well of Saint Declan.
The view was worth the climb, with sky and sea and village spread out below. This was holy ground, and though dead were buried there, only one grave had its stone marked.
The village itself claimed neat streets and painted cottages, some with the traditional thatched roofs, and a number of steep hills as well. Flowers grew in abundance, spilling out of window boxes, baskets and potsand from the dooryards. It made a charming picture from above or below, and the villagers were proud to have won the Tidy Town award two years running.
Atop Tower Hill was a fine example of a round tower, with its conical top still in place, and the ruins of the twelfth-century cathedral built in the honor of Saint Declan. Folks would tell you, in case you wondered, that Declan arrived thirty years before good Saint Patrick.
Not that they were bragging, but just letting you know how things stood.
Those interested in such matters would find examples of ogham carving on the stones put for safekeeping inside the roofless cathedral, and Roman arcading faded with time and wind but still worth the study.
But the village itself made no attempt at such grandeur and was merely a pleasant place with a shop or two and a scatter of cottages built back away from lovely sand beaches.
The sign for Ardmore said failte, and that meant welcome.
It was that very combination of ancient history and simple character and hospitality that interested Trevor Magee.
His people had come from Ardmore and Old Parish. Indeed his grandfather had been born here, in a small house very near Ardmore Bay, had lived the first years of his life breathing that moist sea air, had perhaps held his mother’s hand as she’d walked to the shops or along the surf.
His grandfather had left his village and his country, taking his wife and young son with him to America. He had never been back, and as far as Trevor knew, had never looked back either. There had been a distance and a bitter one, between the old man and the country of his birth. Ireland and Ardmore and the family Dennis Magee had left behind had rarely been spoken of.
So Trevor’s image of Ardmore had a ripple of sentiment and curiosity through it, and his reasons for choosing it had a personal bent.
But he could afford personal bents.
He was a man who built, and who, as his grandfather and father before him, built cleverly and well.
His grandfather had made his living laying brick, and made his fortune speculating on properties during and after the Second World War, until the buying and selling of them was his business, and the building done by those he hired.
Old Magee had been no more sentimental about his laborer’s beginnings than he
