Jewels of the Sun (17 page)

Finding herself on the path to Ardmore, Jude continued to walk.

A
RAINY EVENING
at the pub had people snuggled into their chairs and doing as much dreaming as talking. Young Connor Dempsey played wistful tunes on the squeeze-box while his father sipped his Smithwick’s and discussed the state of the world with his good friend Jack Brennan.

Since Jack’s heart was mending now, he paid as much attention to the conversation as he did his own beer.

From behind the bar, Aidan kept an eye on him nonetheless. Jack and Connor Dempsey Senior often disagreed on the state of the world and occasionally felt the need to use their fists to bring the point home.

Aidan understood the need well enough, but he didn’t care to have the debate rage in his place.

He checked the progress of the football game on the bar set now and then. Clare was outscoring Mayo and he gave them a quick mental cheer, as he had a small wager on the outcome.

He anticipated a quiet night and wondered if he could
call upon Brenna to cover for him. He had an urge to see if Jude would like another meal with him. In a restaurant this time, with flowers and candles on the table and a nice straw-colored wine in pretty glasses.

It would be the sort of thing she was more accustomed to, he imagined, than scrambled eggs and fried potatoes dished up in her own kitchen.

Shy and sweet she might be, but she was a sophisticated woman. City-bred and upper class. The men she was used to would take her to the theater and fancy restaurants. They would wear ties and well-cut suits and talk of literature and cinema in weighty tones.

Well, he wasn’t exactly ignorant, was he? He read books and enjoyed films. He’d traveled more than most and had seen great art and architecture firsthand. He could hold his own against any Chicago dandy in conversation.

When he caught himself scowling, he shook his head. What was he doing, for Christ’s sake, setting himself up in competition with some imaginary man? It was pathetic the way he couldn’t seem to hold three thoughts in his head unless one of them centered on Jude Murray.

It was likely just sexual frustration, he decided. He hadn’t slid his hands over a woman’s body in a considerable amount of time. Every time he imagined doing so, it was Jude’s body under his hands. And thanks to that morning, he had a much clearer picture of just what that body of hers included.

All that soft white skin that tended to show a rosy flush so easily. Long, slim legs, and a tiny, sexy mole just at the rise of her left breast. She had such pretty shoulders, shoulders that just seemed to cry out for the trail of a man’s lips.

The way she shied, then melted when he touched her. Was it any wonder he was fixated on her? A man would have to be dead a decade not to be stirred.

A part of him—one that he wasn’t particularly proud of—wished he could just charm her into bed and be done with it. Release and relief and a pleasure for both of them. Another part admitted, just a bit uneasily, that he was just as fascinated by her mind and her manner as he was by the package wrapped around it.

Quiet and shy, tidy and polite. She just made a man want to keep rubbing away at the sheen of composure until he found everything that lay hidden beneath.

The door opened. Aidan glanced over casually, then he looked again, eyes widening in something close to shock.

Jude stepped in. No, it was more a stalking. She was wet down to the skin, her hair wild and dripping around her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, and though he told himself it was a trick of the light, they looked dangerous. He would have sworn they sent off sparks as she strode up to the bar.

“I’d like a drink.”

“You’re soaking wet.”

“It’s raining, and I’ve been walking in it.” Her voice was clipped with an undertone of heat. She shoved at her wet, heavy hair. She’d lost her band somewhere along the run. “That’s the usual result. Can I have a drink or not?”

“Sure, I’ve the wine you like. Why don’t you take it over by the fire there, and warm yourself a bit. And I’ll get you a towel for your hair.”

“I don’t want the fire. I don’t want a towel. I want whiskey.” She issued it like a challenge and dropped a fisted hand on the bar. “Here.”

Her eyes still made his think of a sea goddess, but it was a vengeful one now. He nodded slowly. “As you like.”

He got out a short glass and poured two fingers of Jameson’s into it. Jude snatched it up, tossed it back like water. Her breath exploded out of the sudden fire dead center of her chest. Her eyes watered but stayed hot.

A wise man, Aidan kept his face carefully blank. “You’re welcome to go upstairs to my rooms if you’d like to borrow a dry shirt.”

“I’m fine.” Her throat felt as if someone had raked hot needles down it, but there was a rather pleasant little fire simmering in her gut now. She set the glass back down on the bar, nodded to it. “Another.”

Experience had him leaning casually on the bar. With some you could empty the bottle and no one was the worse for it. With others you nudged them out the door before they bent their elbow once too often. And there were some who needed to pour out their troubles more than they needed the publican to pour the whiskey.

He recognized which he was dealing with here. Added to that, if a glass and a half of wine gave her a buzz, two shots of whiskey would put her under. “Why don’t you tell me what the trouble is, darling?”

“I didn’t say there was any trouble. I said I wanted another glass of whiskey.”

“Well, you won’t get one here. But I’ll make you some tea and a seat by the fire.”

She drew in a breath, then let it out with a shrug. “Fine, forget the whiskey.”

“There’s a lass.” He patted the fist still bunched on his bar. “Now you go and sit, and I’ll bring you tea. Then you can tell me what’s the matter.”

“I don’t need to sit.” She tossed her wet hair out of her face, then leaned forward as he was. “Come closer,” she ordered. When he obliged and their faces were only inches apart, she took a handful of his shirt. She spoke clearly, concisely, but still had the wit to keep her voice low. “Do you still want to have sex with me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” But it gave her a dark thrill to repeat
herself. “Do you want to have sex or not?”

Even as his nerves jangled, he went hard. It was beyond his power to control either reaction. “Right this minute?”

“What’s wrong with now?” she demanded. “Does everything have to be planned and patterned and tied up in a damn bow?”

She forgot to keep her voice down this time, and several heads turned and eyebrows wiggled. Aidan laid a hand over the one still clutching his shirt and patted gently.

“Come on back in the snug, why don’t you, Jude?”

“In the what?”

“Come on, back here.” He patted her hand again, then pried her fingers off. With a gesture he pointed out a door at the end of the bar. “Shawn, come out here and man the bar for a moment, would you?”

He lifted the flap at the end of the bar so Jude could pass through, then nudged her through the door.

The snug was a small, windowless room furnished with two sugan chairs that had been his grandmother’s and a table his father had made that wobbled just enough to be endearing. There was an old globe lamp that Aidan switched on, and a decanter of whiskey that he ignored.

The snug was a place designed for private conversations and private business. He couldn’t think of anything more private than dealing with the woman he’d been fantasizing about asking him if he wanted to have sex.

“Why don’t we—” “Sit down” was what he’d intended to say, but his mouth was too busy being devoured by hers. She had his back up against the door, her hands fisted in his hair, and her lips hotly, hungrily fastened on his.

He managed one strangled groan, then lost himself in the pleasure of being attacked by a wet and willful woman. She was pressed against him. Jesus, plastered against him,
and her body was like a furnace. He wondered that her clothes didn’t simply steam away.

Her heart was racing, or maybe it was his. He felt the frantic, nervous beat pound and pitch between them. She smelled of the rain and tasted of his whiskey, and he wanted her with a fervor that was like a sickness. It crawled through him, clawed at him, reeled in his head, burned in his throat.

Dimly, he heard his brother’s voice, an answering laugh, the faint tune played by a young boy. And he remembered, barely, where they were. Who they were.

“Jude. Wait.” The blood was roaring in his head as he tried to ease her back. “This isn’t the place.”

“Why?” She was desperate. She needed something. Him. Anything. “You want me. I want you.”

Enough that he would easily imagine reversing their positions and mounting her where they stood like a stallion covering a ready mare. With fire in the blood, and no heart at all.

“Stop now. Let’s catch our breath here.” He stroked a hand over her hair, a hand that was far from steady. “Tell me what’s the matter.”

“Nothing’s the matter.” Her voice cracked and proved her a liar. “Why does something have to be the matter? Just make love with me.” Her hands shook as she fought with the buttons of his shirt. “Just touch me.”

Now he did reverse positions, pressed her against the door and firmly took her face in his hands to lift it. Whatever his body was telling him, his heart and mind gave different orders. He was a man who preferred following the heart.

“I might touch, but I’ll never reach you if you don’t tell me what’s troubling you.”

“There’s nothing troubling me,” she hissed at him. Then burst into tears.

“Oh, there now, darling.” It was less worrisome to comfort a woman than to resist one. Gently, he gathered her in, cradled her against his chest. “Who hurt you,
a ghra
?”

“It’s nothing. It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Of course it’s something, and not stupid at all. Tell me what’s made you sad,
mavourneen.
”

Her breath hitched, and desolate, she pressed her face into his shoulder. It was solid as a rock, comforting as a pillow. “My husband and his wife are going to the West Indies and having a baby.”

“What?” The word came out like a bullet as he jerked her back. “You’ve a husband?”

“Had.” She sniffled, and wished her head could be on his shoulder again. “He didn’t want to keep me.”

Aidan took two long breaths, but his head still reeled as though he’d swallowed a bottle of Jameson’s. Or been clobbered by one. “You were married?”

“Technically.” She fluttered a hand. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

Staggered, Aidan dug in his pocket, handed it to her. “I think we’ll start back at some beginning, but we’ll get you some dry clothes and some hot tea before you catch a chill.”

“No, I’m all right. I should—”

“Just be quiet. We’ll go upstairs.”

“I’m a mess.” She blew her nose savagely. “I don’t want people to see me.”

“There’s no one out there who hasn’t shed a few tears of their own, and some right here in this pub. We’ll go out and through the kitchen and up.”

Before she could argue, he took her arm and pulled her to the door. Then even as the first wave of embarrassment
hit, he continued to pull her, into the kitchen, where Darcy looked over in surprise.

“Why, Jude, whatever’s the matter?” she began, then closed her mouth as Aidan gave a quick shake of his head and nudged Jude up a narrow staircase.

He opened a door at the head of it and stepped into his small, cluttered living room. “The bedroom’s through there. Take whatever works best for you, and I’ll put on the tea.”

She started to thank him, apologize, something, but he was already moving through a low doorway. There was enough tension in his wake to bow her spirits even lower.

She stepped into the bedroom. Unlike the living room, it was neat as a pin and sparsely furnished. She wished she had the time, and the right, to poke about a bit. But she moved quickly to the little closet, giving herself time only to scan the single bed with its navy cover, the tall chest of drawers that looked old and comfortably worn at the hinges, the faded rug over an age-darkened wood floor.

She found a shirt, as gray as her mood. While she changed she studied the walls. There he had indulged in his romantic side, she thought. Posters and prints of faraway places.

Street scenes of Paris and London and New York and Florence, stormy seascapes and lush islands. Towering mountains, quiet valleys, mysterious deserts. And of course, the fierce cliffs and gentle hills of his own country. They were tacked up edge to edge, like a fabulous, eccentric wallpaper.

How many of those places had he been? she wondered. Had he been to them all, or had he places still to go?

She let out a huge sigh, not caring that the sound was ripe with self-pity, and carrying her wet sweater, went back into the living room.

He was pacing, and stopped when she came in. She was dwarfed by his shirt and looked small and miserable and not nearly up to dealing with the emotions swinging around inside him. So he said nothing, not yet, merely took her sweater and carried it into the bath to hang over the shower rod and drip.

“Sit down, Jude.”

“You’ve every right to be angry with me, coming in this way, behaving as I did. I don’t know how to begin to—”

“I wish you’d be quiet for a minute.” He snapped it at her, telling himself when she winced that he wasn’t made of stone. Then he stalked into the kitchen to deal with the tea.

She’d been married, was all he could think. That was quite a detail she’d neglected to mention.

He’d thought her to have had little experience with men, and here she’d been married and divorced and was obviously still pining for the bastard.

Pining for some fancy man in Chicago who wasn’t true enough to keep his vows, and all the while Aidan Gallagher had been pining for her.

If that wasn’t enough to burn your ass, what was?

He poured the tea strong and black and added a healthy drop of whiskey to his own.

She was standing when he came back, the fingers of her hands twisted together. Her damp hair curled madly, and her eyes were drenched. “I’ll go downstairs and apologize to your customers.”