What had they come for, all the invaders? Romans, Vikings, Saxons, Normans, Britons. What fascination did this simple little island hold for them that they would war and die to take it?
And turning, he looked out and away, and thought he saw part of the answer.
The village below was neat and pretty as a painting, with the broad beach a sweep of sand glittering golden in the fitful sunlight. The sea spread, blue as summer, shimmering in that same restless light, foaming white at the edges.
The hills stretched back and back, green and lush with patches of rich brown, muted gold to complete the quilt of land. Just the shadow of dark mountain peaks rose behind them.
Even while he watched, the light changed, shifted, grew, and he could see the shadows of clouds swim over the land as the sunlight beat through them.
The air smelled of grass, fading flowers, and sea.
He doubted it was the beauty of the country that brought those who wanted to land here. But he was sure it was part of the reason they had fought to stay.
“We’re a land that absorbs our invaders, and makes them one of us.”
Trevor glanced around, expecting to see an Irish touristor one of the locals behind him. Instead he looked into Carrick’s wild blue eyes.
“You get around.” With some surprise, Trevor saw that they were alone, when only moments before there had been at least half a dozen people exploring the hill.
“I prefer a bit of privacy.” Carrick winked at him. “Don’t you?”
“It’s difficult for me to be private when you pop up at will.”
“I’ve been wanting to have a word with you. How goes your theater, then?”
“We’re on schedule.”
“Ah, you Yanks are big on schedules. I can’t tell you how many come through here, checking their watches and their maps and figuring out how to do this and that and the other all with staying on schedule. You’d think they’d toss such things aside when they’re about a flaming holiday, but habits die hard in some.”
With his hair blowing in the wind, Trevor tucked his hands in his pockets. “So, you wanted to have a word with me about the American habit of clock watching?”
“Just a bit of a conversational gambit. If you’re after seeing your uncle’s resting place again, it’s this way.” Carrick turned, walking gracefully over the rough ground with his silver doublet sparkling.
“John Magee,” Carrick began when Trevor joined him by the marker. “Beloved son and brother. Died a soldier, far from home.”
Trevor felt an ache around his heart, a kind of distant grief. “Beloved son, undoubtedly. Beloved brother is debatable.”
“You’re thinking of your granda. He came here rarely, but he came.”
“Did he?”
“Aye, to stand as you are, with a scowl most often on his face and his thoughts dark and confused. Because it troubled him, he closed his heart. A deliberate click of a lock.”
“Yes,” Trevor murmured. “I can believe that. He did nothing, as I can remember, that wasn’t deliberate.”
“You’re a deliberate man yourself, in some ways.” Carrick waited until Trevor’s head lifted, until their eyes met again. “But isn’t it an interesting thing, that when he whose seed started your father stood on this hill, looked down at what was home, he didn’t see what you do. Not a lovely spot, edged with magic and welcome. He saw a trap, and would have gnawed his leg off at the ankle to escape it.”
Carrick turned to study Ardmore again. His black hair streamed back, like a cape. “Perhaps in a way, he did. And hobbled with the loss of some part of himself, he went to America. If not for his doing that, you wouldn’t stand here today, looking down and seeing what he couldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t,” Trevor corrected. “But you’re right. I wouldn’t be here without him. Tell me, who puts the flowers here on John Magee’s grave, after all this time?”
“I do.” Carrick gestured to the little pot of wild fuchsia. “As Maude no longer can, and it was the one thing she asked of me. Never did she forget him, and never did her love waver in all the years between his death and her own. Constancy is the finest of your mortal virtues.”
“Not everyone can claim it.”
“No, but those who do know a joy in it. Is your heart a constant one, Trevor Magee?”
Trevor looked up again. “It’s not something I’ve given a lot of thought to.”
“That’s shading close to a lie, but we’ll shift the question for you. You’ve had a taste of fair Darcy now. Do you think you can push back from the banquet and walk away?”
“What’s between us is private.”
“Hah. Your privacy means nothing to me. Three times a century I’ve waited for you—you, I’m sure now, and no other. You’re the last of it. You stand there, worrying about being taken for a fool, which is only another kind of pride, your granda’s sort, when you’ve only to take what’s already been given. Your blood’s hot for her. Your mind’s clouded with her, but you stop short of exploring what’s in your heart for her.”
“Hot blood and a clouded mind have very little to do with the heart.”
“That’s foolishness. Isn’t the first step toward love the passion, the second the longing? And you’re past the first step, already on to the second, and too stubborn to admit it. I’ll wait.” Impatience shot into his eyes, and they seemed to burn. “But I’ve a bloody schedule of me own, so make lively, Yank.”
He snapped his fingers, a kind of lightning shot. And vanished.
It p
ut him in a foul mood. A rash and foul mood. As if it wasn’t irritating enough to have Mick O’Toole handing him advice on his personal life, he’d been given a potful from someone who shouldn’t even exist. Both mortal and mystic were pressuring him to take some sort of definitive step with Darcy, and he’d be damned if he’d be cornered that way. His life was his own, and so was hers.
To make a point of it, he waved off the calls when he crossed the job site and went straight into the pub’s kitchen door.
Shawn glanced up from scrubbing pots. “Hello, Trev. You’re late for lunch, but I’ll fix you up if you’re hungry.”
“No, thanks. Darcy out there?”
“She just went up to her little palace. I’ve fish stew still on the . . .” Shawn trailed off, as Trevor was already climbing the stairs. “Well, I suppose he’s not hungry for what I can serve him.”
He didn’t knock. It was rude, he knew it, and got some perverse satisfaction from it. Just as he got satisfaction from seeing Darcy’s surprise when she walked out of the bedroom with a little shopping bag in her hand.
“Sure, you’re at home, aren’t you?” However mild the words, there was the unmistakable whip of irritation through them. He enjoyed it. “It’s sorry I am I can’t entertain you at the moment, but I’m just off to Jude’s to take her the little stuffed lamb I bought for the baby.”
His response was to stride to her, fist her hair in his hand, and drag her head back even as his mouth swooped down to crush hers. Shock stabbed into her, fused with an instant and molten lust so it was like one slice from a burning sword.
She shoved at him first, and meant it. Then gripped him hard, and meant that as well. He paid no attention to either reaction until he was good and finished. And when he was, he pulled her back, and his eyes were steel bright.
“Is that enough for you?”
She struggled to find her balance, her wit. “As kisses go, it was—”
“No, damn it.” Temper roughened his voice and at that her own eyes slitted. “Is what that does to you, what you know it does to me, enough for you?”
“Have I said differently?”
“No.” But even as he struggled with his straining temper, he cupped her chin. “Would you?”
However set off he was, she was sure his study of her was cool, calculated, and thorough. A man with that measure of control was an irritant, she thought. And a challenge. “You can be sure you’ll be the first to know if I’m dissatisfied.”
“Good.”
“And as a woman of my word, I’m telling you now I don’t appreciate you bursting into my home uninvited and manhandling me because some bug’s crawled up your arse.”
With a half laugh, he shook his head, stepped back. “Point taken. I’m sorry.” He bent down, picked up the bag she’d dropped, and handed it to her. “I was just up on Tower Hill, at my uncle’s grave.”
She angled her head. “Are you grieving, Trevor, for someone who died long before you were born?”
He opened his mouth to deny it, but the truth simply slid out. “Yes.”
Everything about her softened. She reached out to touch his arm. “Come sit down now, and I’ll make you some tea.”
“No, thanks.” He took her hand, lifted it to his lips in an absent gesture that made something inside her stretch and yearn. Then he turned away and paced restlessly to the window to look out at the work in progress.
Was he the invader here, he wondered, staking his claim? Or a son returning to dig in roots? “My grandfather wouldn’t speak of this place, and being a slavishly dutiful wife, my grandmother wouldn’t either. As a result—”
“Your curiosity was whetted.”
“Yes. Exactly. I thought about coming here for a long time. On and off, even made half-baked plans a couple of times. But I never seriously committed to it. Then the idea for the theater jumped into my head, full blown, as if I’d been building it there, stage by stage, for years.”
“Isn’t that the way it is sometimes with ideas?” She crossed to him, looked out with him. “They simmer around without you really being aware of it, until they’re cooked proper.”
“I suppose.” Hardly aware of it, he took her hand. Just held it. “Since the deal’s done, there’s no harm in telling you I’d have paid more for the lease,