Jude's thoughts ran along the same lines. But his behavior, and her own, thrilled her.

When he heard her long, windy sigh, he winced and decided he had to do whatever he could to make her comfortable.

"I'll take you upstairs."

"Mmmm." She certainly hoped so, so they could do it all over again.

"Maybe you'd like a hot bath and a cup before I see you home."

"Hmmm." She sighed again, then pursed her lips. "You want to take a bath?" The idea was intriguing.

"I thought it might make you feel a bit better."

"I don't think it's possible to feel any better, not on this plane of existence."

He shifted, and since she was limp as a noodle, found it fairly easy to turn her around so she was cradled in his arms. When she only smiled and dropped her head on his shoulder, he shook his head.

"What's come over you, Jude Frances Murray? Wearing underwear designed to drive me crazy, then letting me have my way with you on the floor?"

"I have more."

"More what?"

"More underwear," she replied. "I bought bags of it."

It was his turn to drop his head weakly on her shoulder. "Sweet Jesus. I'll be waked in a week."

"I started with the black because Darcy said it was foolproof."

He only choked at that.

Pleased with his reaction, she snuggled closer. "You were putty in my hands. I liked it."

"She's gone shameless on me."

"I have, so I'll tell you I want you to carry me upstairs. I love when you do that because it makes me feel all female and fluttery. Then take me to your bed."

"If I must, I must." He glanced around, noting the scatter of clothes. He would come back for them, he told himself. Later.

And when he did, quite some time later, he fingered the bits of lace as he carried them back upstairs. She was full of surprises, was Jude Frances, he thought. Just as much surprising to herself, if he was any judge.

The shy rose was blooming.

Now she was sleeping, cozy as you please, in his bed. She looked right there, he decided as he sat down on the edge to watch her sleep. Just as she'd looked right serving drinks in his pub, or working in her garden, or walking the hills with the O'Tooles' dog beside her.

She had, indeed, clicked neatly into his life. And why, he wondered, shouldn't she stay a part of it? Why should she go back to Chicago when she was happy here, and he was happy with her?

It was time he had a wife, wasn't it? And started a family. He'd found no one who made the prospect of that a sunny one until Jude.

He'd been waiting for something, hadn't he? And here she had walked right into his pub one rainy night. Destiny took no more than that.

She might think otherwise, but he'd talk her around it.

It didn't mean she had to give up her work, though he'd have to puzzle on exactly how she could do what most satisfied her. She was a practical woman, after all, and would want her options spelled out.

She had strong feelings for him, he thought as he toyed with her hair. As he had for her. She had roots here, as did he. And anyone with eyes could see that now she'd found those roots she was blooming.

There was a logic to it all that he was sure would appeal to her. Maybe it made him a little jumpy in the gut, but that was natural enough when a man contemplated such a big change in his life, along with the responsibility, the permanence of a wife and children.

So if his palms were a bit sweaty, it was nothing to be concerned about. He'd work it out in his head for her, then they'd move on from there.

Satisfied, he slipped into bed beside her, drew her against his side where he liked her best, and let his mind drift into sleep.

While he slept, Jude dreamed of Carrick, astride a white winged horse, skimming over sky and land and water. And as he flew he was gathering jewels from the sun, tears from the moon, and the heart of the sea.

CHAPTER Fifteen

It was a bold step, but she'd taken a lot of them lately. There wasn't anything wrong with it. Maybe it was foolish and impractical, but it wasn't illegal.

Still, Jude glanced around guiltily as she carried a table out to the front garden. She'd already chosen the spot, right there at the curve of the path where the verbena and cranesbill nudged against the stones. The table wobbled a little on the uneven ground, but she could compensate for it.

A little wobbling was nothing compared to the view and the air and the scents.

She went back for the chair she'd selected, arranged it precisely in back of the table. When no one came along to demand what the devil she thought she was doing, she dashed back for her laptop.

She was going to work outside, and the prospect had her giddy with delight. She'd angled her work area so that she could see the hills as well as the hedgerows, and the hedgerows were blooming wildly with fuchsia. The sun gleamed softly through the cloud layers so that the light was a delicate tangle of silver and gold. There was the most fragile of breezes to stir her flowers and bring their fragrance to her.

She made a little pot of tea, using one of Maude's prettiest pots. A complete indulgence with the little chocolate biscuits she'd arranged on a plate. It was so perfect it was almost like cheating.

Jude vowed to work twice as hard.

But she sat for just a moment, sipping her tea and dreaming out over the hills. Her little slice of heaven, she thought. Birds were singing, and she caught the bright flash of a duet of magpie, at least she thought they were magpies.

One for sorrow, she mused, two for joy. And if she saw a third it was three for- She could never remember, so she'd just have to stick with joy.

She laughed at herself. Yes, she'd stick with joy. It would be hard to be any happier than she was at that moment. And what was better to prolong happiness but a fairy tale?

Inspired, she got down to work.

The music of birds trilled around her. b.u.t.terflies flitted their fairy wings over the flowers. Bees hummed sleepily while she drifted into a world of witches and warriors, of elves and fair maidens.

It surprised her to realize how much she had acc.u.mulated already. More than two dozen tales and fables and stories. It had been so gradual, and so little like work. Her a.n.a.lysis of each was far from complete, and she would have to buckle down there. The trouble was her words seemed so dry and plain next to the music and magic of the tales.

Maybe she should try to incorporate some of that- lilt, she supposed- into her work. Why did the a.n.a.lysis have to be so stilted, so scientific? It wouldn't hurt to jazz it up a little, to put in some of her own thoughts and feelings, and even a few of her experiences and impressions. To describe the people who'd told her the story, how they'd told it and where.