Jewels of the Sun

by Nora Roberts

  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.

  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. Butterflies 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 accumulated already. More than two dozen tales and fables and stories. It had been so gradual, and so little like work. Her analysis 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 analysis 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.

  The dim pub with music playing, the O’Tooles’ busy kitchen, the hills where she’d walked with Aidan. It would make it more personal, more real.

  It would be writing.

  She clasped her hands together, palm pressed hard to palm. She could let herself write the way she’d always wanted to. As she thought of it, let herself touch the shining idea of it, she could almost feel that lock inside her slide open.

  If she failed, what did it matter? She had been, at best, an average teacher. If she turned out to be no more than an average writer, at least she would be average at something she desperately wanted to do.

  Excitement whipping through her, she placed her hands on the keys, then quickly jerked them back. Self-doubt, her oldest companion, pulled up a chair beside her.

  Come now, Jude, you don’t have any talent for self-expression she told herself. Just stick with what you know. No one’s going to publish your paper anyway. You’re already indulging yourself outrageously. At least stick with the original plan and be done with it.

  Of course no one was going to publish it, she admitted on a long breath. It was already much too long for a paper or an article or a treatise. Two dozen stories was too many. The logical thing to do was pick out the best six, analyze them as planned, then hope some publication on the fringes of academia would be interested.

  That was sensible.

  A butterfly landed on the corner of the table, fanned wings blue as cobalt. For a moment, it seemed to study her as curiously as she studied it.

  And she heard the drift of music, pipes and flutes and the weeping rush of harp strings. It seemed to flood down the hills toward her, making her lift her gaze to all that shimmering green.

  Why in such a place did she have to be sensible Jude? Magic had already touched her here. She had only to be willing to open herself to more.

  She didn’t want to write a damn paper. She wanted, oh, God, she wanted to write a book. She didn’t want to stick with what she knew or what everyone expected of her. She wanted, finally, to reach for what she wanted to know, for what she’d never dared expect from herself. Fail or succeed, to have the freedom of the experience.

  When self-doubt muttered beside her, she rudely elbowed it aside.

  The rain fell and mists swirled outside the windows. A fire glowed in the little hearth in my cottage kitchen. On the counter were flowers drenched from the rain. Cups of tea steamed on the table between us as Aidan told me this tale.

  He has a voice like his country, full of music and poetry. He runs the pub in the village of Ardmore that his family has owned for generations, and runs it well so that it’s a warm and friendly place. I’ve often seen him behind the bar, listening to stories or telling them while music plays and customers drink their pints.

  He has charm in abundance and a face that draws a woman’s eye and that men trust. His smile is quick, his temper slow, but both are potent. When he sat in the quiet of my kitchen on that rainy afternoon, this is what he told me.

  Jude lifted her hands, pressed them to her lips. Over them, her eyes were bright and shining with discovery. There, she thought. She’d begun. She’d begun and it was exhilarating. It was hers. God, she felt almost drunk on it.

  Drawing another steadying breath, she tapped keys until she’d moved Aidan’s tale of Lady Gwen and Prince Carrick under her introduction.

  She reread the story, this time inserting how he’d spoken, what she’d thought, the way the fire had warmed the kitchen, the beam of sunlight that had come and gone in a slant over the table.

  When she was done, she went back to the beginning and added more, changed some of her phrasing. Driven now, she opened a new document. She needed a prologue, didn’t she? It was already rushing through her head. Without pausing to think, she wrote what pushed from her mind to her fingers.

  Inside her head there was a kind of singing. And the lyrics were simple and wondrous. I’m writing a book.

  Aidan stopped at the garden gate and just looked at her. What a picture she made, he thought, sitting there surrounded by all her flowers, banging away on the keys of that clever little machine as if her life depended on it.

  She had a silly straw hat perched on her head to shade her eye
s. Glasses with black wire rims were perched on her nose. A brilliant blue butterfly danced over her left shoulder as if reading the words that popped up on the screen.

  Her foot was tapping, making him think there was music in her head. He wondered if she was aware of it, or if it played there as background to her thoughts.

  Her lips were curved, so her thoughts must be pleasing her. He hoped she’d let him read them. Was it the influence of love, he wondered, or did she really look stunningly beautiful, somehow glowing with power?

  He had no intention of disturbing her until she was done, so he simply leaned against the gate with what he’d brought her tucked in the curve of his arm.

  But she stopped abruptly, snatching her hands from the keys and pressing one to her heart as her head whipped around. Her eyes met his, and even with the distance he could see the variety of sensations play in them. Surprise at seeing him, and the pleasure. Then the faint embarrassment that seemed to cloud them all too often.

  “Good day to you, Jude Frances. I’m sorry to interrupt your work.”

  “Oh, well . . .” She’d felt him there, felt something, she thought, however ridiculous that sounded. A change in the air. Now she was caught. “It’s all right.” She fumbled with the keys to save and close, then took off her glasses to lay them on the table. “It’s nothing important.” It’s everything, she wanted to shout. It’s the world. My own world. “I know it’s odd to be set up out here,” she began as she rose.

  “Why? It’s a lovely day for being outside.”

  “Yes . . . yes, it is.” She turned off the machine to save the battery. “I lost track of time.”

  Because she said it as if confessing a sin to a priest, Aidan laughed as he unlatched the gate with his free hand. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself, and getting things done. Why worry about the time?”

  “Then I’ll just say it’s the perfect time for a break. I imagine the tea’s cold now, but . . .”

  She trailed off as she noted what he carried. Her eyes lit with delight and she hurried toward him. “Oh, you have a puppy. Isn’t it sweet!”

  It had been lulled to sleep during Aidan’s walk from the village, but stirred now as the voices woke it. The fierce yawn came first, then dark brown eyes blinked open. He was a ball of black and white fur, all floppy ears and big feet, with a thin whip of a tail curled between his legs.

  He let out an excited yip and immediately began to wriggle.

  “Oh, aren’t you adorable, aren’t you pretty? And so soft,” she murmured when Aidan passed the puppy into her hands. When she nuzzled his fur, he immediately covered her face with adoring licks.

  “Well, now, there’s no need to ask if the two of you like each other. It’s the love at first sight that our Jude claims not to believe in.”

  “Who could resist him?” She lifted the pup into the air, where he wiggled in ecstasy.

  “The Clooneys’ bitch had a litter a few weeks back, and I thought this one had the most character. He’s just weaned and ready for his new home.”

  Jude crouched, setting the puppy down so he could climb up and over her legs and tumble onto his back for a belly rub. “He looks ready for anything. What will you name him?”

  “That’ll be up to you.”

  “To me?” She glanced up, then laughed as the pup nipped at her fingers for more attention. “Greedy, aren’t you? You want me to name him for you?”

  “For yourself. I brought him to you, if you’re wanting him. I thought he could keep you company on your faerie hill.”

  Her hands stilled. “You brought him to me?”

  “You’re fond of the O’Tooles’ yellow hound, so I thought you might like having a dog of your own, from the ground up, so to speak.”

  Since she only stared, Aidan backtracked. “If you’re not inclined to dealing with one, I’ll take him myself.”

  “You brought me a puppy?”

  Aidan shifted his feet. “I suppose I should have asked you first if you were interested in one. My thought was to surprise you, and—”

  He broke off when she sat abruptly on the ground, gathered the puppy into her arms, and burst into tears.

  He didn’t mind tears as a rule, but these had come without warning and he hadn’t a clue of their direction. The more the puppy squirmed in her embrace and licked at her face, the tighter she held him and the harder she wept.

  “Oh, now, darling, don’t take on so. There now a ghra, there’s no need for all this.” He squatted down, digging out his handkerchief and patting at her. “Hush, now, it’s all my fault entirely.”

  “You brought me a puppy.” She all but wailed it and sent the pup into sympathetic howls.

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I should have thought it through first. He’ll be happy at the pub. It’s not a problem at all.”

  “He’s mine!” She curled herself around the pup when Aidan reached down. “You gave him to me, so he’s mine.”

  “Aye.” He said it cautiously. God above, a woman was a puzzle. “You’re wanting him, then?”

  “I always wanted a puppy.” She sobbed it out, rocking back and forth.

  Aidan dragged a hand through his hair and gave up. He sat down with her. “Have you, now? Well, then, why didn’t you have one?”

  Finally, she lifted her tear-drenched face. Her eyes continued to brim and spill over with tears. “My mother has cats,” she managed and hiccoughed.

  “I see.” As much, he supposed, as he could see through a fog of pea soup. “Well, a cat’s a nice thing. We’ve one of our own.”

  “No, no, no. These are like royalty. They’re gorgeous and aloof and prissy and sleek. They’re purebred Siamese, and really beautiful, but they never liked me. I just wanted a silly dog that would get on the furniture and chew up my shoes and—and like me.”

  “I think you can depend on this one for all of that.” Relieved, Aidan stroked her cheek, wet with tears and puppy kisses. “So you won’t curse me when he leaves a puddle on your floor or gnaws one of the nice Italian shoes Darcy’s always admiring?”

  “No. It’s the most wonderful present I’ve ever had.” She reached out for Aidan, sandwiching the delighted puppy between them. “You’re the most wonderful man in the world.”

  Much as the dog had done to her, she covered Aidan’s face with adoring kisses.

  Perhaps he’d brought the dog to charm her, but there was no point in feeling guilty about it because it had worked, was there? How could he have known he would be filling a deep childhood longing with a flop-eared mongrel pup?

  He tucked the uneasy sensation away and managed to cover her enthusiastic mouth with his.

  He wanted her happy, he reminded himself. That was the important thing.

  “I need a book,” she murmured.

  “A book?”

  “I don’t know how to train a puppy. I need a book.”

  Because it was such a typical reaction, he grinned and drew back. “First off, I’d recommend a lot of newspapers to cut down on those puddles, and a stout hunk of rope to save your shoes.”

  “Rope?”

  “So he’ll chew on that instead.”

  “That’s clever.” She beamed now. “Oh, and he’ll need food and a collar and toys and shots. And . . .” She lifted the pup into the air again. “Me. He’ll need me. Nothing ever has before.”

  I do. The words were in his mind, struggling their way to his tongue, but she leaped up, to whirl herself and the pup in a circle.

  “I have to put my things back inside and run down to the village and get him everything he needs. Can you wait and drive down with me?”

  “I can, yes. I’ll put the things inside. You stay out and acquaint yourself with your new friend there.”

  As Aidan walked to her table, he let out an unsteady breath. It was best he hadn’t said it, he told himself. It was too soon for both of them to change the level of things. There was plenty of time to bring up marriage.

  Plenty of time to figure how it would best
be done.

  She bought him a red collar and leash, and dishes of bright blue. Aidan found her some rope and tied it into a sturdy hank. Still, she filled a sack with other things she deemed essential to her puppy’s happiness and well-being.

  She took him for a walk around the village, or tried to. He spent most of the time trying to shake off the leash or tangling himself in it or chewing on it. She resolved to get her hands on a training manual as soon as possible.

  She met Brenna as her friend was loading a toolbox into the back of her lorry outside the village bed-and-breakfast.

  “Good day, Jude, and what have you there? Isn’t that one of the Clooney pups?”

  “Yes, isn’t he wonderful? I’m calling him Finn after the great warrior.”

  “Great warrior, is it?” Brenna crouched down to give Finn a friendly scratch. “Aye, you’re a fierce one I’ll wager, mighty Finn.” She laughed as he leaped up to lap at her face. “He’s a lively one, isn’t he? You made a nice choice. I’d say he’ll be nice company for you, Jude.”

  “That’s what Aidan thought. He gave him to me.”

  Lips pursed, Brenna glanced over. “Did he, now?”

  “Yes, he brought him to the cottage this afternoon. It was so sweet of him to think of me. Do you think Betty will like him?”

  “Sure and Betty loves company, too.” After a last pat for Finn, Brenna straightened. “She’ll be pleased to have the pup to play with. I was just about to stop in the pub for a pint. Do you want to join me? I’m buying.”

  “Thanks, but . . . No, I should get Finn home. He must be hungry by now.”

  The minute they parted, Brenna made a beeline for the pub. She caught Darcy’s eye, gave a quick jerk of her head, then moved off to a corner table where she could have some privacy.

  Darcy brought along a glass of Harp. “What are you bursting with?”

  “Sit down a minute.” She kept her voice low and her eye on Aidan over Darcy’s shoulder when Darcy sat. “I just saw Jude walking her new puppy down the street.”

  “She’s got a puppy, does she?”

  “Shh. Keep your voice down or he’ll hear we’re talking of it.”

  “Who’ll hear we’re talking of what?” Darcy asked in a hissing whisper.

  “Aidan’ll hear we’re talking of how he picked out one of the Clooney bitch’s litter—handsome one, too—and took it up to Jude at her cottage for a present.”

  “He—” Darcy caught herself as Brenna shushed her again, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Aidan gave her a puppy? He didn’t say a word to me about it, or anyone else as far as I know.”

  Since it was news both fresh and surprising, Darcy pondered over it. “He’s been known to give a lass a trinket from time to time, but that’s usually for an occasion.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking as well.”

  “And flowers,” Darcy continued. “He’s always been one for taking flowers to a woman who’s caught his eye, but this is different altogether.”

  “Exactly different.” Brenna slapped the table lightly for emphasis. “This is a live and permanent thing. A sweetheart sort of thing, it is, not just the I’m-enjoying-myself-in-your-bed sort of thing.” To punctuate the opinion, she lifted her glass and drank.

  “Well, she gave him that painting she bought in Dublin, and he’s taken with it out of all proportion if you ask me. Maybe he was after giving her something back, and just happened on the pup.”

  “If it was to give her something back in kind for the painting—and I thought it a lovely painting—he’d have given her a trinket or a bauble or something of the sort. A token for a token,” Brenna said firmly. “A puppy is several steps up from a token.”

  “You’re right about that.” Darcy drummed her fingers, narrowing her eyes at her brother as he worked the bar. “You think he’s in love with her?”

  “I’d risk a wager on it that he’s heading in that direction.” Brenna shifted. “We ought to be able to find out, and if not us, Shawn could. And we can wheedle it out of him easy enough, for he never thinks twice about what’s coming out of his mouth.”

  “No, but he’s fierce loyal to Aidan. I’d like her for a sister,” Darcy considered. “And seems to me she suits Aidan down to the ground. I’ve never seen him look at a woman as he does our Jude. Still, Gallagher men are notorious slow to move to marriage once the heart’s engaged. My mother said she had to all but pound my father over the head with orange blossoms before he came to ask her.”