Tears of the Moon

by Nora Roberts

  “It’s not a matter of place, you arrogant jackass.”

  “Don’t take it out on me, boy-o,” Carrick said cheerfully. “I’m with you on this one. She overstepped, no question of it. Why, what was the woman thinking, taking something of yours and going off with it that way? No matter that you’d given it to her, a kind of gift, one might say. That’s nothing but a technicality.”

  “Well, it is.”

  “And so I’m saying. Then as if that wasn’t nerve enough, what does she do? Fixes it up so you’ve the evening free—”

  “She fixed it up?” For lack of something more satisfying, Shawn heaved another rock. “I knew I wasn’t crazy. Damn it all.”

  “Playing with your mind, that’s what she’s about.” Carrick waved a hand, then tossed the little star that clung to his fingertips out over the water, where it trailed silver light. “Cooking you a meal, making everything, herself included, pretty for you. A more devious female I’ve never known. You’re well shed of her. Maybe you should take another look at her sister, after all. She’s young, but she’d be malleable, don’t you think?”

  “Ah, shut up.” Shawn got to his feet and strode off, scowling at the merry sound of Carrick’s laughter.

  “You’re sunk, young Gallagher.” Carrick sent another star over the water. “You’ve not quite resigned yourself to having your head under, but there you are. Mortals, why is it that half the time they’d rather suffer than dance?”

  This time when he flicked his wrist he held a crystal, smooth and clear as a pool of water. Passing his hand over it, he watched the image swimming inside. Fair of face, she was, with eyes soft and green as freshly dewed grass and hair pale as winter sunlight.

  “I miss you, Gwen.” Holding the glass to his heart, he called for the white horse to ride the sky, as he did night by night. Alone.

  • • •

  The house was empty when he got back, and that’s what he’d expected. It was, he told himself, what he wanted. The solitude. She’d put the food away, and that surprised him. Knowing her temper, he’d expected to find she’d hurled pot and pan or whatever else around the room. But the kitchen was tidy as a church, with only the faint scent of candle wax clinging to the air. Since it made him feel churlish to find it so, he got himself a beer and took it into the parlor.

  He hadn’t intended to play, but to sit by the cold fire and brood. But by God if he was going to have an evening off shoved down his throat, he’d spend it doing something that pleased him.

  He sat, laid his fingers on the keys, and played for his own pleasure.

  It was the song he’d given her that Brenna heard when she walked back toward the garden gate. Her first reaction was relief that she’d found him. The second was misery, as the song was salt in a fresh wound.

  But it was a misery that had to be faced. She put her hand on the gate. And it held fast against her. She shoved it, yanked at the latch, then stepped back in shocked panic when it refused to open.

  “Oh.” A sob rose in her throat. “Oh, Shawn. Have you closed me out then?”

  The music stopped. In the silence she fought back the tears. She wouldn’t face him with them. But when the door opened, she hugged her arms hard, digging her fingers in to keep those tears at bay.

  He thought he’d heard her call, a teary whisper in his mind. He’d known she was out there, whether it was sense or magic, didn’t matter. She was there, standing under the spill of moonlight. Her eyes were wet, her chin was up.

  “Are you coming in, then?”

  “I can’t . . .” The weeping tried to get the better of her, and she ruthlessly battled it back. “I can’t open the gate.”

  Baffled, he started down the path, but she leaped forward, gripped the top of the gate in her hands. “No, I’ll stay on this side. It’s probably best. I went looking for you, then I figured, well, you’d come back here sooner or later. I, ah, I had to think it through awhile, and maybe I don’t do that often enough. I . . .”

  Was he ever going to speak? she thought desperately. Or would he just stand there looking at her with eyes shielded so she couldn’t see into him?

  “I’m sorry, I’m so truly sorry, Shawn, for doing something that upset you. I didn’t do it with that in mind, you have to know. But some of what you said before is true. And I’m sorry for that as well. Oh, I don’t know how to do this.” Frustration rang in her voice as she turned her back on him.

  “What is it you’re doing, Brenna?”

  She stared straight ahead, into the dark. “I’m asking you not to cast me off for making a mistake, even a big one like this. To give me another chance. And if there can’t be anything else between us now, that you won’t stop being my friend.”

  He would have opened the gate to her then, but thought better of it. “I gave you my word on the friendship, as you gave me yours. I’ll not break it.”

  She pressed a hand to her lips, held it there until she thought she could speak again. “You mean so much to me. I have to clear this between us.” Steadying herself, she turned around. “Some of what you said was true, but some was wrong. Some of the most important parts were wrong.”

  “And you’ll tell me which was which?”

  She flinched at the icy sarcasm, but couldn’t find enough of her temper to scrape together for a retort. “You know how to aim and shoot as well as any,” she said quietly. “And it’s all the more effective as you do it so rarely.”

  “All right, I’m sorry for that.” He had to be, as he’d never seen her look quite so wounded. “I’m angry still.”

  “I’m pushy.” She drew a breath in, let it out, but the ache was still there. “And single-minded, and I can be careless with people even when they matter to me. Maybe more when they matter. I did think, well, the man’s doing nothing with this music of his, so I’ll have to do it for him. That was wrong of me—wrong to put the way I’d do things or think about them onto what was yours. I should have told you, as you told me.”

  “On that we agree.”

  “But it wasn’t wholly selfish. I wanted to give you something, something important, something that would make you happy and matter to you. It wasn’t about the money, I swear it. It was for the glory.”

  “I’m not looking for glory.”

  “I wanted it for you.”

  “What does it matter to you, Brenna? You don’t even care for my music.”

  “That’s not true.” Temper spiked a bit now, at the sheer unfairness of it. “What am I, deaf and stupid now as well as a bully? I love your music. It’s beautiful. It never mattered to you what I thought, anyway. Christ knows, poking at you about it over the years never riled you enough to prove me wrong. You’ve been wasting a gift, a kind of miracle, and it makes me furious with you.”

  Glaring at him, she swiped tears from her cheeks. “I can’t help that I feel that way, and it doesn’t mean I think less of you, you blockhead. It’s because I think so much of you. And then you go and write a song that reaches right into my heart, that touches me the way nothing ever has before. Even before it was finished, weeks and weeks ago, when I saw what there was of it there on the piano, just tossed there like you couldn’t recognize a diamond if it jabbed your eye out, I loved it. I had to do something with it, and I don’t care if it was wrong. I was so proud of what you can do I couldn’t see past it. Damn you to hell and back again.”

  She’d rocked him onto his heels, staggered him. He whistled out a breath. “That’s quite the apology, that is.”

  “Oh, fuck you. I take back every bit of any apology I was foolish enough to make.”

  There, he thought, was his woman. This time he laid his hands on the gate and gave her a look of wicked satisfaction. “It’s too late, I already have it, and I’m keeping it. And here’s something back at you. It always mattered what you thought of my music, and of me. It mattered more what you thought than anyone else in the world. What do you say to that?”

  “You’re just trying to get ’round me now because I
’m angry again.”

  “I’ve always been able to get ’round you, darling, angry or not.” He nudged, and the gate opened smooth and silent. “Come in through the gate.”

  She sniffled, wished for a tissue. “I don’t want to.”

  “You’ll come in regardless,” he said, snatching her hand and yanking her through. “Now I’ve some things to say.”

  “I’m not interested.” She shoved at the gate again, cursed violently when it didn’t budge.

  “You’ll listen.” He turned her, trapped her, caught her hands before she could think of making fists out of them. “I don’t like what you did, or how you went about it. But your reasons for it soften that considerably.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Stop being a twit.” When her mouth fell open, he lifted her a couple of inches off the ground. “I’ll get tough with you if I must. You know you like it when I do.”

  “Why, you . . .”

  When she fumbled for words, he nodded. “Ah, speechless, are you? It’s a refreshing change. I don’t need someone directing my life, but I don’t mind someone being part of the direction. I won’t be pushed or tricked or manipulated, and if you try, you’ll be sorry.”

  “You’ll make me sorry?” she all but sputtered. “I’m already sorry I did the first thing to try—”

  “Brenna.” He gave her a casual little shake that had her mouth dropping open again. “There are times you’re better off to just shut your mouth and listen. This is one of them. Now, as I was saying,” he went on while she blinked at him. “Being tricked is one thing, but surprised is another matter. And I’m thinking that, under it all, you wanted to surprise me with something, like a gift, and I threw it back at you. For that, Brenna, I’m sorry.”

  The fear and sorrow were sliding away, but it was hard to resist grabbing onto the tail of them. “I don’t think a great deal of your apology, either.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “You’re awfully damn pushy yourself all of a sudden.”

  “I’ve my limits, and you should know them well enough by this time. So . . . how much is Magee willing to pay me for the tune?”

  “I didn’t ask,” she said stiffly.

  “Ah, so you can keep your fingers out of some pies. It’s good to know.”

  “You’re a hateful man. I told you it wasn’t about the money.” She pushed at him, and rather than humiliate herself with the bloody gate again, stomped down the path. “I don’t know how I could have been blind to that part of your nature all these years. How I could have thought myself in love with you, I’ll never know. The very idea of spending my life with the likes of you gives me a cold chill.”

  He couldn’t stop the grin. It was so lovely to have all the parts of his life nicely in order again. “We’ll get to that in just a minute. It matters that it wasn’t about money, Brenna, matters that you weren’t thinking, ‘Well, if I’m going to be with this man he’d damn well better prove he’s man enough to make a living off his talents. And since he won’t, I will.’ ”

  “I don’t give a tinker’s damn how you make your living.”

  “That’s what I’m seeing now. It was more of, ‘I want to be with this man, and feeling as I do about him, I want to help him with that which matters to him.’ It’s a lovely thought, but that doesn’t change the fact you should’ve left it to me.”

  “You can be sure I’ll be leaving such matters, and everything else, to you in the future.”

  “If that vow lasts a week, I’ll expect to see pigs flying over Ardmore Bay. And in case you’re wondering in that calculating brain of yours, I’ll be contacting Magee myself, and I’ll send him music if what he says convinces me—which is what I intended to do once he came here and I got his measure.”

  She stopped at that, eyed him suspiciously. “You were going to show him your work?”

  “I was, most likely. I’ll admit that dozens of times in the past I’ve come close to sending it off and then pulled back. When something comes out of you, it’s precious. There was a fear of others finding it wanting. It was safer not to risk it. I was afraid of losing something that mattered to me. Does that make me less in your eyes, Brenna?”

  “It doesn’t, no. Of course it doesn’t. But if you don’t ask,” she said, remembering her father’s words, “the answer’s always no.”

  “I’m not arguing your point, just your methods. Now tell me this, if Magee had said to you, ‘Why, what are you sending me this silly amateur music for? Whoever wrote it has no talent whatsoever,’ would you have thought less of me?”

  “Of course not, you pinhead. I’d’ve known that Magee had no taste other than what he may have in his own mouth.”

  “Ah, well, now, that’s tidied up a considerable mess. Can we go back to the part where you’re in love with me?”

  “No, because I’m not anymore. I’ve come to my senses.”

  “That’s a damn shame, that is. You’ll have to wait here a minute. There’s something I need from inside.”

  “I’ll not stand out here. I’m going home.”

  “I’ll only come after you, Brenna,” he called over his shoulder as he walked to the door. “And what I have in mind is best done here, and in private.”

  She considered climbing over the gate just to spite him, but the whole emotional mess had made her tired. It might as well get finished now as later.

  So she waited, arms crossed. When he came out, he carried nothing, which only made her scowl.

  “The moon’s full,” he commented as he went to her. “Maybe there’s others have more to do with the timing of all this than we know. But it was meant to be in moonlight, and it was meant to be here.”

  He slipped a hand into his pocket, kept it there. “I had a plan at one time, how I’d let you chase me down, wear at my resistance and convince me there was nothing for me to do but give up and marry you.”

  Her eyes went blurry with shock. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you really think you were tugging me around like a puppy on a leash? Is that the kind of man you want when the day is done, O’Toole? The kind you want walking beside you through life, fathering your children?”

  “Is this a game you’ve been playing?”

  “Partly, and as much as you were. Game’s over now, and I find I want this done more in what might be the traditional manner. Brenna.” He took her hand, not at all displeased that it was trembling. “I love you. I don’t know when it started, years ago or weeks. But I know my heart’s lost to you, and I wouldn’t have it another way. You’re what I want, all there is of you. Make a life with me. Marry me.”

  She couldn’t take her eyes from his face. The whole world was in his face. “My head hurts,” she managed.

  “God bless you.” With a half laugh, he took her hand, kissed it. “How could I not love such a woman?” He kept her hand firm in his as he took the ring from his pocket.

  The pearl gleamed like the moon, white and pure, in a simple band of gold. “A moon tear,” he told her, “given to me to give to you. I know you don’t wear rings as a rule.”

  “I—they—with the work they get caught and banged around.”

  “So I got a chain for it as well. You can wear it around your neck.”

  He would have thought of such a thing, she realized. Such a small and lovely detail. “I’m not working at the moment.”

  He slid it onto her finger, and her hand steadied under his.

  “I suppose it suits me, as you do. As the whole of you suits me. But you won’t make me cry.”

  “Yes, I will.” He touched his lips to her forehead, her temple. “I bought you land today.”

  “What?” Tears might have dazzled her vision, but she managed to step back. “What? Land? You bought land? Without a word to me, without me laying eyes on it?”

  “If you don’t like it, you can bury me in it.”

  “I might. You bought land,” she said again, but her voice had gone dreamy.

  “So
you can build us a house, and the two of us can fill it into a home.”

  “Damn it. There you are, you’ve made me cry.” She threw her arms around his neck. “Just hold on a minute, I’m a mess.” With her face buried against his shoulder, she breathed him in. “I thought it was just a longing for you, and that would be enough for both of us. I do long for you, but it’s not enough and it’s not all. Oh, this is where I want to be. And I did chase you down, nothing will convince me otherwise.”

  She drew back enough to touch her lips to his. “I had it all worked out what I would say to you tonight, and now I can’t remember just how it was to go. Only that I love you, Shawn. I love you as you are. There’s nothing I’d change.”

  “That’s more than good enough. Will you come inside now? I’ll warm your supper.”

  “It’s the least you could do after you let it go cold.” She linked her fingers with his. “You won’t insist on a big, fancy wedding, will you?”

  “I don’t see how when I’ve a mind to have us wed as quick as can be managed.”

  “Ah.” She leaned against him. “I do love you, Shawn Gallagher. There’s one more thing,” she said as they walked toward the cottage. “Won’t you need a name for your song, the one Magee wants?”

  “It’s ‘renna’s Song,’ ” he told her. “It always was.”

  Turn the page for a preview of

  HEART OF THE SEA

  The stunning conclusion in Nora Roberts’s

  all-new Irish trilogy of the Gallagher siblings

  Coming soon from Jove Books!

  THE VILLAGE OF Ardmore sat snug on the south coast of Ireland, in the county of Waterford, with the Celtic Sea spread out at its feet. The stone seawall curved around, following the skirt of the gold sand beach. It boasted in its vicinity a pretty jut of cliffs upholstered with wild grass, and a hotel that clung to them. If one had a mind to, it was a pleasant if hearty walk on a narrow path around the headland, and at the top of the first hill were the ruins of the oratory and well of Saint Declan.

  The view was worth the climb, with sky and sea and village spread out below. This was holy ground, and though dead were buried there, only one grave had its stone marked.

  The village itself claimed neat streets and painted cottages, some with the traditional thatched roofs, and a number of steep hills as well. Flowers grew in abundance, spilling out of window boxes, baskets and potsand from the dooryards. It made a charming picture from above or below, and the villagers were proud to have won the Tidy Town award two years running.

  Atop Tower Hill was a fine example of a round tower, with its conical top still in place, and the ruins of the twelfth-century cathedral built in the honor of Saint Declan. Folks would tell you, in case you wondered, that Declan arrived thirty years before good Saint Patrick.

  Not that they were bragging, but just letting you know how things stood.

  Those interested in such matters would find examples of ogham carving on the stones put for safekeeping inside the roofless cathedral, and Roman arcading faded with time and wind but still worth the study.

  But the village itself made no attempt at such grandeur and was merely a pleasant place with a shop or two and a scatter of cottages built back away from lovely sand beaches.

  The sign for Ardmore said failte, and that meant welcome.

  It was that very combination of ancient history and simple character and hospitality that interested Trevor Magee.

  His people had come from Ardmore and Old Parish. Indeed his grandfather had been born here, in a small house very near Ardmore Bay, had lived the first years of his life breathing that moist sea air, had perhaps held his mother’s hand as she’d walked to the shops or along the surf.

  His grandfather had left his village and his country, taking his wife and young son with him to America. He had never been back, and as far as Trevor knew, had never looked back either. There had been a distance and a bitter one, between the old man and the country of his birth. Ireland and Ardmore and the family Dennis Magee had left behind had rarely been spoken of.

  So Trevor’s image of Ardmore had a ripple of sentiment and curiosity through it, and his reasons for choosing it had a personal bent.

  But he could afford personal bents.

  He was a man who built, and who, as his grandfather and father before him, built cleverly and well.

  His grandfather had made his living laying brick, and made his fortune speculating on properties during and after the Second World War, until the buying and selling of them was his business, and the building done by those he hired.

  Old Magee had been no more sentimental about his laborer’s beginnings than he