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“I do.”
Shock simply robbed him of speech. He stared at his wife, laid a hand on the back of his chair, and managed to find his voice. “How could you say such a thing? How could you want Darcy hurt?”
“If he can hurt her, he matters. Aidan, no man’s ever really mattered to her. They’ve been, well, toys, amusements, diversions. Don’t you want her to find someone who matters?”
“Of course I do. But I can’t see it being Magee.” Annoyed, he began to pace again. “Not when both of them are thinking with their glands.” He shook his head. “Trips to London. Barely know each other and it’s trips to London.”
“I walked into a smoky pub on a rainy night, and there you were. My life changed, and I didn’t even know who you were.”
He stopped pacing. Love too huge to measure swelled in his heart. “A one in a million for us.” He sat, reached across the table for her hands. “And fate played a part.”
“Maybe it’s playing one now.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking this has something to do with the legend? The last part of it?”
“I think there’s one Gallagher left. One heart not yet touched or offered or given. And I think it’s interesting—no, it’s fascinating—that Trevor Magee is in Ardmore. As a writer . . .” She paused a moment, because it was still thrilling to know she was a writer. “I’d have trouble believing it’s just coincidence. The old family connection, Darcy’s a Fitzgerald on your mother’s side, and cousin to Maude. Trevor’s great-uncle was Maude’s one and only love. They lost each other, just as Gwen and Carrick lost each other.”
“That’s just your imagination, and your romantic side taking over, Jude Frances.”
“Is it?” She shrugged. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”
She wasn’t waiting for anything. Alice Mae was already on her way in, and Betsy had been delighted at the offer of two days’ work. Pleased with herself, Darcy breezed through the kitchen and straight out the back door.
It was a bit of a shock to step out and into the solid gray block walls and lumber bones of the breezeway that would connect the two structures. Already, she thought, there was some form to it, recognizable even to her untutored eye. Men stood on scaffolding, hammering or drilling or riveting. How could she tell through all the noise?
Someone, a very optimistic someone, to her mind, was playing a radio. All she could hear from it was a tinkle and squawk that might have been music.
She saw the way the roof would curve in a kind of arch, the rafters thick to echo the feel of those that had held the pub for generations.
Unexpectedly, she felt a twinge, and recognized it as pride. Gallagher’s was the root, and the theater a branch on the tree.
She walked through, mindful of the cables and cords that snaked over the subflooring. She’d already spotted Trevor, up on the scaffolding platform at the far end where the breezeway widened. His tool belt was slung at his waist, and there was some clever power tool buzzing in his hand. He wore tinted glasses, as much for protection from flying wood and concrete dust, she supposed, as a shield against the mild sunlight.
He looked rough and ready and exactly right for her mood.
She stopped beneath him, waiting, aware that many of the men were looking at her rather than going safely about their business. Mick O’Toole sauntered by, a bundle of rebar balanced over his shoulder.
“You’re distracting our crew, pretty Darcy.”
“I won’t be but a minute. How’s it all going, then, Mr. O’Toole?”
“Himself knows what he wants and how he wants it. As I’m in agreement with him, it couldn’t be going better.”
“Will it be wonderful?”
“It will. A credit to Ardmore. Watch your step here now, darling. Lots to trip over hereabouts.”
“I’ve thought of that,” she murmured. There was a great deal to trip over when it came to Trevor Magee.
When Mick headed off, she looked back up and saw it was Trevor who waited now. That was more like it.
“A word with you, Mr. Magee?” she shouted up.
“What can I do for you, Miss Gallagher?”
So, he wouldn’t trouble to come down. That was fine.She skimmed her hair back from her shoulder. “I need today and tomorrow to train a new part-time waitress. But I’m at your disposal come Thursday if that suits you.”
Anticipation curled in his gut, but he merely nodded. “We’ll leave Thursday morning, then. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“That’s a very early start.”
“Why waste time?”
For a beat, they only watched each other. “Why, indeed?”
She turned, strolled back into the kitchen. And when the door was closed did a quick victory dance.
TEN
AFTER CONSIDERABLE DEBATE and weighing of the pros and cons, Darcy decided to be on time. Her reasons for breaking precedent were purely selfish, and she didn’t mind admitting it. She wanted to enjoy every minute of her two days off.
She’d packed light, which hadn’t been an easy feat for her, and because of it the chore had taken her hours. Planning, debating, discarding. She’d raided her wish jar, something she did only for the most important of events. But she needed to buy something wonderful to commemorate the trip, didn’t she?
For two days she’d worked like a mule to be certain her responsibilities at the pub were well covered. In lieu of sleep she’d given herself a manicure, a pedicure, and a facial to make certain she presented as polished an image as she could manage.
She’d selected her lingerie with the canniness and foresight of a general preparing for battle.
Trevor Magee wouldn’t know what hit him—once she allowed him to seduce her.
The idea had odd little nerves fluttering in her stomach. And she wanted to be, had to be, calm, cool, cosmopolitan. She had no intention of playing the culchie — country bumpkin—in London or in bed. Part of the problem was Trevor was exactly as Aidan had described him.
Slick.
It didn’t matter if he dressed in work clothes and sweated along with his crew or waded through the mud hauling supplies. Still, beneath the sweat and dirt was a gloss that came from privilege, education, and wealth.
She’d met other men from privilege. The fact was, she’d honed the skill of recognizing, and separating from the pack, those trust fund babies on tour or holiday.
But, a trust fund babe Trevor was not, and she thought never had been. With all his wealth he worked, and the power of both the rewards and the labor sat well on him. That earned her respect, and Darcy gave her respect sparingly.
She’d never known anyone quite like him. And while that intrigued her, it also made her wary.
Added to it all, layered through the observations and the interest, was the not so simple fact that she wanted him. She’d never wanted a man with quite so much focus and intensity. She wanted his hands on her, his mouth on hers. His body on hers.
In the few hours she’d slept the night before, she’d dreamed of him. Strange, confused dreams. In them he’d come to her on a white winged horse, and together they’d flown over a sea as blue as sapphire, over the damp green fields of home, through pearly light toward a silver palace where trees had dripped with golden apples and silver pears, and the music that rose into the air was enough to break the heart.
In the dream, for that short, misty time, she was in love. In a way she’d never thought she could be, had never been certain she wanted to be. So completely, blindly, joyfully in love that nothing seemed to matter but those moments with him.
He’d said only one thing to her as they’d flown through sunlight, moonlight, faerie light.
Everything. And more.
All she could say, all she could feel as she turned her body to his, laid her cheek upon his was, You. You’re everything, and more.
She’d meant it, with everything she had inside her, all she would ever have, would ever be. And waking, she’d wished she could feel that a
gain, so much power of emotion. But she’d lost it in dreams and could only smile at her own fancies.
Neither she nor Trevor wanted fancies.
At six on the dot, she carried her bag downstairs, and her heart thumped with anticipation. What would she see and do and taste over the next forty-eight hours?
Everything . The thought elated her. And more.
She took one last scan of the pub, tidy and scrubbed. Sinead, Betsy, and Alice Mae should surely be able to handle what she often did alone. She’d drummed the routine into their heads and had left a written list as a backup. Satisfied, she let herself out and promised not to give the pub a single thought until she stepped foot in it again.
It was the dot of six.
It pleased her to see Trevor pull up to the curb as she walked out. They were of a mind, then, she thought. Things would go smoother because of it.
It surprised her to see he was wearing a suit. Italian, she imagined when he got out of the car to take her luggage. Blisteringly pricey, she was sure, but not a bit flashy. The stone gray matched his eyes well, and the shirt and tie were all of a hue, so the look was smartly European.
Power, she thought again. Yes, he wore it very well.
“Well, now, look at you.” Deliberately she fingered his sleeve as he loaded her luggage into the boot. “Aren’t you pretty this morning?”
“I have a meeting.” He closed the boot, then went around to open her door. “The timing’s a little tight.” He got a whiff of her as she slid past him and wished the meeting and all its participants straight to hell.
She waited until he was in the driver’s seat. “I’d think a man in your position could call his own time.”
“You do that and you bring one more thing into a meeting that usually bogs things up. Ego.”
“But I’ve noticed you’ve got one.”
