She was either crazy, or she'd just had her second conversation with Carrick, prince of the faeries.

Shivering, she rubbed her free hand over her face. Okay, either way she was crazy.

Then why did she feel so d.a.m.n good?

She walked slowly, fingering the priceless jewel as a child might a pretty stone. She needed to write it all down, she decided. Carefully, concisely. Exactly how he'd looked, what he'd said, what had happened.

And after that, she would try to get some sort of perspective on it. She was an educated woman. Surely she would find a way to make sense of it all.

When she came down the slope toward her cottage, she saw the little blue car in the drive and Darcy Gallagher just getting out.

Darcy was wearing jeans and a bright red sweater. Her hair tumbled down her back like wild black silk. One glance had Jude sighing with envy even as she cautiously tucked the diamond into the pocket of her slacks.

To once, she thought-just once-look that carelessly gorgeous, that absolutely confident. She fingered the jewel absently and thought it would be worth the price of diamonds.

Darcy spotted her and shaded her eyes with the flat of one hand while she waved with the other. "There you are. Out for a walk, are you? It's a fine day for it, even if they're calling for rain tonight."

"I've been visiting Maude." And I talked to a faerie prince who left me a diamond that could probably buy a small Third World country before he vanished into thin air. With a weak smile, Jude decided she'd keep that little bit of information to herself.

"I just went a couple rounds with Shawn and took a drive to cool off." Darcy skimmed her gaze over Jude's shoes, casually, she hoped, to try to gauge how close in size they were to what she wore herself. The woman, Darcy thought, had fabulous taste in shoes. "You're looking a bit pale," she noted when Jude walked closer. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine." Self-consciously, she pushed at her hair. The breeze had teased strands out of the band. Which, she thought, would make her look unkempt rather than wonderfully tousled like Darcy. "Why don't we go in and have some tea?"

"Oh, that would be nice, but I've got to get back. Aidan'll already be cursing me." She smiled then, a dazzle of charm. "Maybe you'd like to come back with me for a time, and then he'd be distracted with you and forget to skin my a.s.s for walking out."

"Well, I-" No, she thought, she didn't think she was up to dealing with Aidan Gallagher when her head was already light. "I really should work. I have notes to go over."

Darcy pursed her lips. "You really enjoy it, don't you? Working."

"Yes." Surprise, surprise, Jude thought. "I enjoy the work I'm doing now very much."

"If it was me, I'd find any excuse in the world to avoid working." Her brilliant gaze scanned the cottage, the gardens, the long roll of hill. "And I'd die of loneliness out here all by myself."

"Oh, no, it's wonderful. The quiet, the view. Everything."

Darcy shrugged, a quick gesture of discontent. "But then you've got Chicago to go back to."

Jude's smile faded. "Yes. I have Chicago to go back to."

"I'm going to see it one day." Darcy leaned back against her car. "All the big cities in America. All the big cities everywhere. And when I do, I'll be going first cla.s.s, make no mistake." Then she laughed and shook her head. "But for now, I'd best be getting back before Aidan devises some hideous punishment for me."

"I hope you'll come back when you have more time." Darcy shot her that dazzling look again as she climbed into her car. "I've the night off, thank the Lord. I'll come by with Brenna later, and we'll see what kind of trouble we can get you in. You make me think you could use a bit of trouble."

Jude opened her mouth without a clue how to respond, but was saved the trouble when Darcy gunned the motor and shot out into the road with scarcely more care than Brenna took.

CHAPTER Nine

There are three maids, Jude wrote, as she nibbled on a shortbread biscuit, and each represents some particular facet of traditionally held views of womanhood. In some tales two are wicked and one good, as in the Cinderella myth. In others, the three are blood sisters or fast friends, poor and orphaned or caring for one sickly parent.

Some variations have one or more of the female characters possessing mystical powers. In nearly all, the maidens are beautiful beyond description. Virtue, i.e., virginity, is vital, indicating that innocence of physical s.e.xuality is an essential ingredient to the building of legend.

Innocence, a quest, monetary poverty, physical beauty. These elements repeat themselves in a number of perpetuated tales that become, over generations, legends. The interference, for good or ill, of beings from the otherworld-so to speak-is another common element. The mortal or mortals in the story have a moral lesson to learn or a reward to glean from their selfless behavior.

Almost as often simple beauty and innocence are equally rewarded.

Jude sat back and closed her eyes. She struck out there, didn't she? Since she wasn't beautiful or innocent, had no particular power or skill, it didn't look like she was going to be whisked away into a fairy tale with a happy ending.

Not that she wanted to be. The mere idea of coming face-to-face with the inhabitants of a faerie hill or a sky castle, or a witch, wicked or otherwise, made her shaky.

Shaky enough, she admitted, to imagine jewels turning into flowers. Warily, she slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled the bright stone out to examine it yet again.

Just gla.s.s, she a.s.sured herself, beautifully faceted certainly, sparkling like sunlight. But gla.s.s.

It was one thing to accept that she was sharing the cottage with a three-hundred-year-old ghost. That had been leap enough. But she could reason that out as there had been studies on that particular phenomenon, doc.u.mentation. Parapsychology wasn't universally accepted, but some very reputable scientists and respected minds believed in the energy forms that laymen called ghosts.

So she could deal with that. She could rationalize what she had seen with her own eyes.

But elves and faeries and- whatever. No. Saying you wanted to believe and stating you did believe were two different matters. That was when the indulgence of it all stopped being harmless and became a psychosis.

There were no handsome faeries wandering the hills, visiting graveyards to hold philosophical discussions, then becoming annoyed with people who happened by.

And those nonexistent faeries didn't go around tossing priceless jewels at strange American women.

Since logic didn't seem to apply to the situation, she had to a.s.sume that her imagination, always a bit of a problem, had tipped out of control.

All she had to do was yank it back on track, do her work. It was very possible she'd had some sort of episode. A fugue state during which she'd incorporated various elements from her research. The fact that she felt almost ridiculously healthy didn't enter into it. The stress of the past few years could have caught up with her, and while her body was fine, her mind could be suffering.

She should go to a good neurologist and have a full workup to rule out a physical problem.

And visit a reputable jeweler to have the diamond-the gla.s.s, she corrected herself-examined.

The first idea frightened her and the second depressed her, so she defied logic and put both notions on hold.

Just for a few days, she promised herself. She would do the responsible thing, but not quite yet.

All she wanted to do was work, to pour herself into the stories. And she would resist the urge to wander down to the pub, to spend the evening pretending not to watch Aidan Gallagher. She'd stay at home with her papers and notes, then drive into Dublin in a few days and find both jeweler and doctor.

She'd shop, buy books, do a bit of sight-seeing.

One solid evening of work, she told herself. After that, she would take a few days to explore the countryside and the cities, the villages and the hills. She'd take a logical step back from the stories she was gathering and studying, and that would help her with her own perspective before she went to Dublin.

At the knock on the front door her fingers fumbled on the keys of the computer. And her heart jumped. Aidan, was her first thought, and that alone irritated her. Of course it wasn't Aidan, she told herself, even as she dashed to the mirror to check her hair. It was well after eight, and he'd be busy at the pub.

Still, when she hurried downstairs to answer, her heart was beating just a little fast. She opened the door and barely had time to blink.

"We brought food." Brenna strolled in, a brown grocery sack propped on her hip. "Biscuits and crisps and chocolate."