When Shamus opened the pub, he'd sunk his life's hopes and his life's savings into it. There had been more thin times than thick, and once a gale wind had whipped over the sea and lifted the roof clean off and carried it to Dungarvan.

Or so some liked to say when they'd enjoyed more than a gla.s.s or two of the Irish.

Still, the pub had stood, with its roots dug into the sand and rock of Ardmore, and Shamus's first son had moved into his father's place behind the old chestnut bar, then his son after him, and so forth.

Generations of Gallaghers had served generations of others and had prospered well enough to add to the business so more could come in out of the damp night after a hard day's work and enjoy a pint or two. There was food as well as drink, appealing to body as well as soul. And most nights there was music too, to appease the heart.

Ardmore was a fishing village and so depended on the bounty of the sea, and lived with its capriciousness. As it was picturesque and boasted some fine beaches, it depended on the tourists as well. And lived with their capriciousness.

Gallagher's was one of its focal points. In good times and bad, when the fish ran fast and thick or when the storms boiled in and battered the bay so none dared venture out to cast nets, its doors were open.

Smoke and fumes of whiskey, steam from stews and the sweat of men had seeped deep into the dark wood, so the place forever carried the smell of living. Benches and chairs were covered in deep red with blackened bra.s.s studs to hold the fabric in place.

The ceilings were open, the rafters exposed, and many was the Sat.u.r.day night when the music was loud enough that those rafters shook. The floor was scarred from the boots of men, the sc.r.a.pe of chair and stool, and the occasional careless spark from fire or cigarette. But it was clean, and four times a year, needed or not, it was polished glossy as a company parlor.

The bar itself was the pride of the establishment, a rich, dark chestnut bar that old Shamus himself had made from a tree folks liked to say had been lightning-struck on Midsummer's Eve. In that way it carried a bit of magic, and those who sat there felt the better for it.

Behind the bar, the long mirrored wall was lined with bottles for your pleasure. And all were clean and shiny as new pennies. The Gallaghers ran a lively pub, but a tidy one as well. Spills were mopped, dust was chased, and never was a drink served in a dirty gla.s.s.

The fire was of peat because it charmed the tourists, and the tourists often made the difference between getting by and getting on. They came thick in the summer and early fall to enjoy the beaches, spa.r.s.er in winter and at the dawn of spring. But they came nonetheless, and most would stop in at Gallagher's to lift a gla.s.s, hear a tune, or sample one of the pub's spiced meat pies.

Regulars trickled in soon after the evening meal, as much for conversation or gossip as for a pint of Guinness. Some would come for dinner as well, but usually on a special occasion if it was a family. Or if it was a single man, because he was tired of his own cooking, or wanted a bit of a flirt with Darcy Gallagher, who was usually willing to oblige.

She could work the bar or the tables and the kitchen as well. But the kitchen was where she least liked to be, so she left that to her brother Shawn when she could get away with it.

Those who knew Gallagher's knew it was Aidan, the eldest, who ran the show now that their parents seemed bent on staying in Boston. Most agreed he seemed to have settled down from his wanderl.u.s.t past and now tended the family pub in a manner that would have made Shamus proud.

For himself, Aidan was content in where he was, and what he did. He'd learned a great deal of himself and of life during his rambles. The itchy feet were said to come from the Fitzgerald side, as his mother had, before she married, traveled a good bit of the world, with her voice paying the fare.

He'd strapped on a knapsack when he was barely eighteen and traveled throughout his country, then over into England and France and Italy and even Spain. He'd spent a year in America, being dazzled by the mountains and plains of the West, sweltering in the heat of the South, and freezing through a northern winter.

He and his siblings were as musical as their mother, so he'd sung for his supper or tended bar, whichever suited his purposes at the time. When he'd seen all he longed to see, he came home again, a well-traveled man of twenty-five.

For the last six years he'd tended the pub and lived in the rooms above it.

But he was waiting. He didn't know for what, only that he was.

Even now, as he built a pint of Guinness, drew a gla.s.s of Harp, and tuned in with one ear to the conversation in case he was obliged to comment, part of him sat back, patient and watchful.

Those who looked close enough might see that watchfulness in his eyes, eyes blue as a lightning bolt under brows with the same dark richness as the prize bar where he worked.

He had the rawboned face of the Celts, with the wild good looks that the fine genes of his parents had blended, with a long, straight nose, a mouth full and shamelessly sensual, a tough, take-a-punch chin with just a hint of a cleft.

He was built like a brawler-wide of shoulder, long of arm, and narrow of hip. And indeed, he had spent a good portion of his youth planting his fists in faces or taking them in his own. As much, he wasn't shamed to admit, for the fun of it as for temper.

It was a matter of pride that unlike his brother, Shawn, Aidan had never had his nose broken in battle.

Still, he'd stopped looking for trouble as he'd grown from boy to man. He was just looking, and trusted that he'd know what it was when he found it.

When Jude walked in, he noticed-first as a publican, and second as a man. She looked so tidy, with her trim jacket and bound-back hair, so lost with her big eyes scanning the room as a doe might consider a new path in the forest.

A pretty thing, he thought, as most men do when they see an attractive female face and form. And being one who saw many faces in his career, he noted the nerves as well that kept her rooted to the spot just inside the door as if she might turn and flee at any moment.

The look of her, the manner of her, captured his interest and a low and pleasant hum warmed his blood.

She squared her shoulders, a deliberate move that amused him, and walked to the bar.

"Good evening to you," he said as he slid his rag down the bar to wipe up spills. "What's your pleasure?"

She started to speak, to ask politely for a gla.s.s of white wine. Then her smiled, a slow, lazy curving of lips that inexplicably set her insides a fluttering and turned her mind into a buzzing mess of static.

Yes, she thought dimly, everyone was gorgeous here.

He seemed in no particular hurry for her answer, only leaned comfortably on the bar, bringing that truly wonderful face closer to hers, c.o.c.king his head and his brow at the same time.

"Are you lost, then, darling?"

She imagined herself melting, just sliding onto the floor in a puddle of hormones and liquid l.u.s.t. The sheer embarra.s.sment of the image snapped her back to herself. "No, I'm not lost. Could I have a gla.s.s of white wine? Chardonnay if it's available."

"I can help you with that." But he made no move to, just then. "You're a Yank, then. Would you be Old Maude's young American cousin come to stay in her cottage awhile?"

"Yes. I'm Jude, Jude Murray." Automatically she offered her hand and a careful smile that allowed her dimples a brief appearance in her cheeks.

Aidan had always had a soft spot for dimples in a pretty face.

He took her hand, but didn't shake it. He only held it as he continued to stare at her until-she swore she felt it-her bones began to sizzle. "Welcome to Ardmore, Miss Murray, and to Gallagher's. I'm Aidan, and this is my place. Tim, give the lady your seat. Where are your manners?"

"Oh, no, that's-"

But Tim, a burly man with a ma.s.s of hair the color and texture of steel wool, slid off his stool. "Beg your pardon." He shifted his gaze from the sports event on the television over the end of the bar and gave her a quick, charming wink.

"Unless you'd rather a table," Aidan added as she continued to stand and look mildly distressed.

"No, no, this is fine. Thank you." She climbed onto the stool, trying not to tense up as she became the center of attention. It was what troubled her most about teaching, all those faces turned to hers, expecting her to be profound and brilliant.

He finally released her hand, just as she expected it to dissolve in his, and took the pint gla.s.s from under the tap, to slide it into welcoming hands. "And how are you finding Ireland?" he asked her as he turned to take a bottle of wine from the mirrored shelf.

"It's lovely."

"Well, there's no one here will disagree with you on that." He poured her wine, looking at her rather than the gla.s.s. "And how's your granny?"

"Oh." Jude was amazed that he'd filled the gla.s.s perfectly without so much as a glance at it, then set it precisely in front of her. "She's very well. Do you know her?"

"I do, yes. My mother was a Fitzgerald and a cousin to your granny-third or fourth removed, I'm thinking. So, that makes us cousins as well." He tapped a finger on her gla.s.s. "Slainte, cousin Jude."

"Oh, well- thank you." She lifted her gla.s.s just as the shouting started from the back. A woman's voice, clear as church bells, accused someone of being a b.l.o.o.d.y, blundering knothead with no more brains than a turnip. This was answered, in irritated male tones, that he'd rather be a bleeding turnip than dumb as the dirt it grew in.

No one seemed particularly shocked by the shouts and curses that followed, nor by the sudden crash that had Jude jolting and spilling a few drops of wine on the back of her hand.