Heart Of The Sea goa-3

by Nora Roberts

  And why the hell hadn't he looked before he'd leaped? Any moron would have known she wasn't able to leave home just now. Which only proved that love made a man less than a moron. That was pathetic.

  The lightning that shattered the sky in one blinding streak perfectly suited his mood. Edgy, electric.

  Why hadn't he come clean with her? Well, not clean, Trevor mused. Just more direct. It would have been simpler, and more productive, to have told her he wanted to take her to New York. Winding business through it, certainly, but that would have put a different tone on the whole thing. He'd clutched before the first swing, he admitted, then boxed himself in when he started the whole conversation by announcing he was going.

  Now he either went without her or made excuses.

  He hated making excuses.

  Thunder rumbled like laughter, whipped by the howling wind, and rain danced a frantic jig against his window.

  The trouble was, he didn't know how to play it. And he always knew how to play it, how to find the most constructive route through a problem to the solution. But there were more obstacles, more wrong turns in love than he'd ever imagined. Still, he'd never come up against a wall he couldn't scale, break through, or tunnel under.

  This wasn't going to be the first.

  He needed to let the problem simmer, to brew a bit until the solution came to him. The best way to do that was to concentrate on something else.

  He started with the faxes that had come in throughout the day. Since he'd already read over the draft of Darcy's contract, he put that in a folder. The one thing that was clear, he thought, was this angle. She was a hell of a find for Celtic Records. And Celtic would nurture her. Neither of them had to worry about this part of their relationship.

  He wanted his parents to hear that voice. A tape recording. Why hadn't he thought of that before? He'd get her voice on tape before he headed back to New York. That would at least partly introduce the woman he loved to his family.

  He would take the papers down to her at the pub once he'd cleaned off his desk, go over them with her, answer her questions. She was bound to have questions. Then he'd tell her he needed a tape.

  Satisfied with the idea, Trevor set the folder down and turned to his other paperwork.

  He thought about going downstairs and making more coffee, foraging for a meal. He didn't want to eat alone, and that annoyed him. It had never bothered him before. The fact was, he wanted to chuck even the idea of work and go down to the pub, where there were people. Where there was Darcy.

  Despite the risk of the storm, he ran his E-mail instead. He knew he should shut the computer down, but he had to do something to keep busy, to stop himself from leaving the cottage for the pub.

  It gave him perverse satisfaction to imagine her watching the door, wondering if and when he'd come through it.

  He didn't care how stupid that made him. It was the damn principle of the thing.

  The business inquiries came first, as was his habit. He answered them, printed out or saved what he wanted a record of, then shifted over to personal posts.

  One from his mother gave him his first smile in hours.

  You don't call, you don't write. Well, not often enough. I think I've convinced your father that what we need is a nice trip. To Ireland. It's taken very little convincing, actually. He misses you as much as I do, and I think he wants to get his fingerprints on the theater. I hope it's progressing well-am sure it is, under your hand.

  He's already started shuffling work and schedules though he doesn't think I know it. I'm doing the same. If all goes well, we'll come next month. Once our plans are finalized, I'll let you know all.

  I assume you're well as you haven't said otherwise, and busy because you always are. I hope you're taking some time for yourself. You were working much too hard before you left, punishing yourself because of Sylvia.

  I won't say any more on that, as I can see you're getting that irritated look in your eye. No, I lied, I'll say one thing more. Give yourself a break, Trevor. No one, not even you, can live up to your standards.

  There, I'm done. I love you. Prepare for an invasion.

  Mom

  Did he have an irritated look in his eye? He studied the faint reflection of his face in the window and decided, yes, probably. It was comforting, and disconcerting, to be understood quite that well.

  He hit Reply.

  Nag, nag, nag.

  That, he knew, would make her laugh.

  Hurry and come over so you can nag me in person. I miss that.

  Yes, the theater's going well, though we had to knock off early today. Hell of a storm blowing through. I'm going to have to shut down in a minute.

  I thought you'd like to know I've chosen the name for it. I'm calling it Duachais. It's Gaelic. Well, you probably know that, but I had to look up the spelling. It means the roots of a place, the traditions of it. A very clever woman told me that's what I wanted in the theater. She was right.

  Of course, a name like that's going to give Publicity nightmares.

  No need to worry, I'm taking time for myself. It's impossible to do otherwise here. You just have to look to be, well, sucked into looking some more.

  I'm about to sign Darcy Gallagher to a recording contract with Celtic. She's an amazing talent. Wait until you hear her. Give me a year, and her voice, her name, her face will be everywhere. It's a hell of a face.

  She's got ambition, talent, energy, temperament, brains, and charm. This is no shy colleen. You'll like her.

  I'm in love with her. Is it supposed to make me feel like an idiot?

  He stopped, stared at his last line. He hadn't meant to type that. With a shake of his head, he started to delete.

  Lightning burst like a bomb, throwing hot blue light into the room. He saw the thin crack snake down the window glass, then thunder blasted in one ear-deafening roar.

  And the lights went out.

  "Shit." It was his first thought once his heart stopped screaming in his ears. That one had probably fried his computer.

  His own fault. He knew better.

  Since the screen was as black as the rest of the world, indicating his battery backup had failed, he swore again and fumbled for the flashlight that he'd set next to the machine.

  He switched it on, got nothing. What the hell was this? he wondered and gave it an irritated shake. He'd checked it before he'd started to work, and the beam had flashed on strong and bright.

  More annoyed than concerned, he got up, felt his way to the spare bed, worked up to the little table beside it and the matches and candles that were always there.

  The next slash of lightning had him jolting, spilling half the matches out of the box, and cursing himself. "Get a grip," he muttered and nearly shuddered at the sound of his own voice coming out of the dark. "It's not your first storm, or your first blackout."

  But there was something- different here. Something that, if he'd wanted to be fanciful, he'd have called deliberate about the wind and rain and fierceness of it all. As if the savagery was personal.

  That was so ridiculous he laughed as he struck the match. The little flame made him feel more in control. He touched it to the wick of the candle. A little breath of relief escaped as he picked up the candle, intending to carry it with him to light more.

  And in the next wild spurt of lightning, he saw her.

  "Carrick's temper is up."

  The candle flame shook as his hand jerked. He had to be satisfied that he didn't drop it and set the cottage on fire.

  "Storms often make people uneasy." Gwen smiled at him gently. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. He knows it too, you can be sure of that, and is indulging himself in a little tantrum just at the moment."

  Steadier, Trevor set the candle down. "It seems excessive."

  "He's a dramatic sort, my Carrick. And he's suffering, Trevor. Waiting wears on the soul, and when you can nearly see the end of the waiting, it's harder still. I wonder, could I ask you a question, of a personal nature?"


  He shook his head. It was all too strange, and somehow eerily ordinary, this talking to a ghost in a little cottage on a storm-ravaged night. "Why not?"

  "I hope it doesn't offend you, but I can't help wondering what it is that stops you from telling the woman you love what's in your heart."

  "It's not as simple as that."

  "I know that's your thinking." A thread of urgency ran through her voice now, though her hands stayed quiet and still, folded together at her waist. "I want to know why it can't be just that simple."

  "If you don't lay groundwork, you make mistakes. The more important it is, the more important not to make mistakes."

  "Groundwork?" she asked, confused. "And that would be- what, exactly?"

  "With Darcy, it's showing her what she can have, the kind of life she could live."

  "By that you're meaning all the grand things? The riches and wonders?"

  "Yes, that's right. Once she sees-" He broke off, seriously alarmed, when the floor shook under his feet. But before he could move, Gwen held up a hand.

  "I beg your pardon. I've a temper of my own." She kept her hand up, closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were dark and vibrant. "And what did Carrick offer me, but the same in his way? Jewels and riches, a palace for a home, and immortality. Can you not see the mistake in that, a mistake that cost us both three times a hundred years?"

  "Darcy's not like you."

  "Oh, Trevor, look closer. Why is it you can stand on the same ground and still not see each other?"

  She lowered her hand. "Well, this night's work isn't done. You'll go down to the village now. There's a need for you there."

  "Darcy?" Panic pushed him forward. "Is she all right?"

  "Oh, aye, she's fine and well. But there's a need for you. 'Tis a night for wonders, Trevor Magee. Go on, now, and be part of them."

  He didn't hesitate. She'd hardly faded away when he was snatching up the candle to light his way out of the house and into the storm.

  CHAPTER Nineteen

  The air was alive, and angry. It slapped and bit. Rain, like thin needles of glass, jabbed at his clothes and stabbed at exposed skin. Nasty marbles of hail beat down on grass, battered the flowers, and turned the ground into treachery.

  And still the lightning slashed, ripping open the sky so thunder could charge through in snarling bellows.

  Trevor was breathless and drenched before he got to the car.

  The rational part of his mind warned him it was insane to venture out on such a night. More sensible to wait out the storm than to drive into the snapping teeth of it. But he was already turning the key in the ignition.

  The wind howled like a banshee, tore at the hedgerows so that bits of bloom and leaf flew past like crazed insects. He'd have sworn it had fists and fingers. His headlights made twin slashes through the wall of rain, spotlighting the full fury of it. He fought the car down the road that was rapidly turning into a ditch of mud, and when he shuddered around a bend, the sky exploded, etching the jagged burst of light on his eyes. The freight train of thunder roared after it.

  Under it all, quiet as grief, was the sound of a woman's desperate weeping.

  He stomped on the gas, fishtailed sickly around the next curve. In the distance, he saw a sprinkling of lights that was Ardmore.

  Candle- and lamplight in the houses. Some would have generators, he realized. The pub did. Darcy was fine, tucked inside, warm, dry, safe. There was no reason to drive like a madman when there was nothing wrong.

  But the sense of urgency, the brutal need to hurry stayed with him. With his hands clamped to the wheel, he skidded around the turn at Tower Hill. And his car stopped dead.

  "What the hell is this?" Frantic, infuriated, he twisted the key, pumped impatiently at the gas. But all he got in return was a faint and mocking click.

  Swearing, he punched open the glove compartment, snatched out the flashlight he kept there, and felt only grim satisfaction when the beam shot on.

  With its next violent gust, the wind nearly swept him off his feet as he climbed out of the car. It seemed to want to. Pitting himself against it, he fought his way to the gate, muscled it open while the rain slashed and the hail pummeled. He would just cut through, save time.

  The boggy ground sucked at his feet, slowed him to a jog when he wanted, needed, to run flat out. The stones of the dead speared up like teeth out of a knee-high layer of fog that lay nowhere else.

  Carrick, Trevor thought, in disgust and fury. Pulling out all the stops.

  Lightning burst again, seemed to glow blue over the grave of the long-dead John Magee.

  Flowers? Trevor skidded to a halt, panting, and stared down at the carpet of flowers blooming like a rainbow. The grass was bent and flattened by the force of the storm, but those fragile petals were open and perfect. The wind that shoved against him only fluttered them gently, and no cold finger of fog touched them.

  Magic, he thought, then looked out, toward the sea where he could see the white-tipped walls of waves rear and crash. Magic wasn't always bright and pretty. Tonight, it was full of wrath.

  He turned from the grave and rushed on.

  He skidded, slithering down the hill. He rapped hard into the trunk of a tree that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. Pain pounded in his shoulder, racing to match the pounding of his heart. Every time he lost his balance, should have tumbled over the stony ground to the road below, he managed to gain it again.

  Later, he would think that that alone had been a miracle.

  On solid ground once more, he ran, feet pounding against the wet footpath, around yet one more turn. He could see the pub now, the warm, welcoming glow of light against the window.

  Lungs burning, he focused on that. Then something drew his gaze over and up, a whisper under the wind? A weeping. He saw in the top window of the Gallagher house a woman. Pale hair glowing against the dark, green eyes watching him.

  That was wrong, he thought, and she was gone as soon as he thought it. Against the glass was the faintest of light, and no movement behind it.

  Wrong. Something was wrong. So he turned away from the pub and pushed through the wind to the door of the house. He shoved it open, letting in wild wind and wilder rain. Before he could call out, he saw Jude, sitting at the top of the stairs. Her face was sheet white, her hair a tangle, and the nightgown she wore damp with sweat.

  "Thank God. Oh, thank God. I can't get down." She let out a little gasp, clutched her belly. "The baby. The baby's coming."

  Ruthlessly he shut down panic, though he took the stairs two at a time to reach her, grip her hand. She squeezed it hard enough to grind bone. "Breathe. In and out, come on. Look at me and breathe."

  "Yes, okay, yes." Her eyes clung to his, wide, glazed with the pain that ripped through her as the contraction crested. "God, oh, God, it's huge!"

  "I know. I know, honey. Keep breathing. You're coming down the other side now."

  "Yes. It's passing, but- I never expected- It's all so fast." Even as her breath gushed out in relief from the absence of that wicked pain, she lifted a shaky hand to push at her hair. "I was having tea in bed. I talked to Aidan and told him I was going to bed. And then the power went out and it all started at once."

  "We'll get you to the hospital. Everything's fine."

  "Trevor, it's too late. I won't make it."

  Panic wanted to flood back, but he dammed it up before it could touch her. "This business usually takes a while. How far apart are the contractions?"

  "I haven't timed the last few. The phones are out. I couldn't call the pub or the doctor. I thought if I could get downstairs- but I couldn't. Before, they were close, two minutes, and now they're coming faster and harder."

  Jesus. Sweet Jesus Christ. "Did your water break?"

  "Yes. It's not supposed to happen so fast. All the classes, all the books. It should take hours. Get Aidan. Please, get- Oh, oh, God, here it comes!"

  He helped her through it, voice calm and bracing as his mind raced. Much too c
lose, much too hard. He'd seen the process three times and that was enough to know Jude was right. She would never make the hospital.

  "Let's get you into bed. Put your arms around my neck. That's the way."

  "I need Aidan." She wanted, badly, to weep. Just to scream out with sobs.

  "I know. I'm going to go get him. You stay calm, Jude. You just hold on." He laid her in bed, glanced around quickly. She'd managed to light several candles. That would have to do. "When the next one comes, breathe through it. I'll be right back."

  "I'll be all right." She lay her head back where he'd propped pillows. Had to be. Everything in the world depended on it. "Women used to do this all the time without doctors and hospitals." She did her best to smile. "Only, damn it, none of them were me. Hurry."

  He didn't want to think how many contractions she'd go through alone, how frightened she'd looked lying there alone in bed with only candles for light. He didn't want to think of what could go wrong.

  He sprinted back into the storm. The wind had changed and was at his back, pushing him faster, shoving as if it, too, urged him to hurry. Still, it seemed he'd run miles before his hand closed over the knob of Gallagher's Pub.

  He burst into the warmth, the music and laughter.

  Darcy spun around, beaming. "Well, now, look what the storm's blown in." She got no farther than that before the look in his eye registered. "What is it? Are you hurt?"

  He shook his head, gripped her shoulder while he turned to Aidan. "It's Jude."

  "Jude?"

  Trevor had never seen the blood drain as completely, as quickly, from a man's face before. "What is it?" Even as he asked, Aidan was throwing the pass-through up, bulleting through.

  "The baby's coming. Now."

  "Ring the doctor," Aidan shouted, and was out the door.

  "Now," Trevor repeated to Darcy. "It's coming now. There's no time for the doctor, and the phones are out in any case."

  "Oh, Mother of God." Then she bit back the spurt of fear. "Let's hurry, then. Jack, Jack Brennan-man the bar. Someone tell Shawn and Brenna. Tim Riley, will you go for Mollie O'Toole? She'll know what to do."