"Yes, she is, and she's wonderful at her job. But your mother's a professional woman, too. A professional mother."

Brenna blinked, then her eyes gleamed with amused pleasure. "Oh, she'll like that one. I'll be sure to save that for the next time she's ready to kick my a.s.s over something. Well, look here at what's strolling up the road, handsome as two devils and just as dangerous."

Even as Jude's lovely relaxation sprang into one sticky ball of tension, Brenna was braking at the narrow drive of the cottage and leaning out to call to Aidan.

"There's a wild rover."

"Never, no more," he said with a wink, then took the hand she'd laid on the window to examine the skinned knuckles. "What have you done to yourself now?"

"b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d refrigerator took a bite out of me."

He clucked his tongue, lifted the sc.r.a.pe to his lips. But his gaze drifted to Jude. "And where are you two lovely ladies bound for?"

"I'm just bringing Jude back from a visit with my mother, and I'm off to Betsy Clooney's to bang on her windows."

"If you or your dad has the time tomorrow, the stove at the pub's acting up and Shawn's sulking over it."

"One of us'll have a look."

"Thanks. I'll just take your pa.s.senger off your hands."

"Have a care with her," Brenna said as he walked around the truck. "I like her."

"So do I." He opened the door, held out a hand. "But I make her nervous. Don't I, Jude Frances?"

"Of course not." She started to climb out, then ruined the casual elegance she'd hoped for by jerking back again because she'd forgotten to unhook her seat belt.

Before she could fumble with it, Aidan released it himself, then simply nipped her by the waist and lifted her down. Since that tangled her tongue into knots, she didn't manage to thank Brenna again before that young woman, with a wave and a grin, took the truck barreling down the road.

"Drives like a demon, that girl." With a shake of his head, Aidan released Jude, only to take her hands. "You haven't been down to the pub all week."

"I've been busy."

"Not so busy now."

"Yes, actually, I should-"

"Invite me in and fix me a sandwich." When she simply gaped at him, he laughed. "Or failing that, go walking with me. It's a fine day for walking. I won't kiss you unless you want me to, if that's what's worrying you."

"I'm not worried."

"Well, then." He lowered his head, got within an inch of his pleasure when she stumbled back.

"That's not what I meant."

"I was afraid of that." But he eased away. "Just a walk then. Have you been up to Tower Hill to look at the cathedral?"

"No, not yet."

"And with your curious mind? Then we'll walk that way, and I'll tell you a story for your paper."

"I don't have my recorder."

Slowly, he lifted one of the hands he still held and brushed his lips over the knuckles. "Then I'll make it a simple one, so you remember it."

CHAPTER Eight

He was right about the day. It was a perfect one for walking. The light glowed like the inside of a pearl. Luminous, with a slight sheen of damp. She could see, over the hills and fields rolling toward the mountains, a thin and silvery curtain that was certainly a line of rain.

Sunlight poured through it in beams and ripples, liquid gold through liquid silver.

It was the kind of day that begged for rainbows.

The breeze was just a teasing shimmer on the air, fluttering leaves growing toward their summer ripeness and surrounding her with the scent of green.

He held her hand with the careless, loose-fingered grip of familiarity and made her feel simple.

Relaxed, at ease, and simple.

Words rolled off his tongue to charm her.

"Once, it's said, there was a young maid. Fair as a dream was her face, with skin white and clear as milk and hair black as midnight, eyes blue as a lake. More than her beauty was the loveliness of her manner, for a kind maid was she. And more than her manner was the glory of her voice. When she sang, the birds stilled to listen and the angels smiled."

As they climbed the hill, the sea began to sing as backdrop, or so it seemed, to his story.

"Many's the morning her song would carry over the hills, and the joy of it rivaled the sun," he continued, and tugged her along the path. As they walked on, the breeze turned to wind and danced merrily over sea and rock.

"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 gra.s.s, 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?"