“ ‘These are tears of the moon,’ he told her. ‘They are my longing for you. Take them, and me, for I will give you all I have, and more.’ Again, though tears of her own spilled onto her cheeks, she refused him. For she belonged to another, had his child inside her, and would not betray her vow. Once more they parted, duty and pride, and the pearls that lay on the ground became moonflowers.
“So the years passed, with Carrick grieving and Lady Gwen doing what was expected of her. She birthed her children, and took joy in them. She tended her flowers, and she remembered love. For though her husband was a good man, he had never touched her heart in its deepest chambers. And she grew old, her face and her body aging, while her heart stayed young with the wistful wishes of a maid.”
“It’s sad.”
“ ’Tis, yes, but not yet over. As time is different for faeries than for mortals, one day Carrick mounted his winged horse and flew out over the sea, and dived deep, deep into it to find its heart. There, the pulse of it flowed into his silver bag and became sapphires. These he took to Lady Gwen, whose children had children now, whose hair had gone white and whose eyes had grown dim. But all the faerie prince saw was the maid he loved and longed for. At her feet, he spilled the sapphires. ‘These are the heart of the sea. They are my constancy. Take them, and me, for I will give you all I have, and more.’
“And this time, with the wisdom of age, she saw what she had done by turning away love for duty. For never once trusting her heart. And what he had done, for offering jewels, but not giving her the one thing that may have swayed her to him.”
Without realizing it, Aidan closed his fingers over Jude’s on the table. As they linked together, that little sunbeam danced back.
“And that it was the words of love—rather than passion, rather than longing, even rather than constancy—she’d needed. But now she was old and bent, and she knew as the faerie prince couldn’t, not being mortal, that it was too late. She wept the bitter tears of an old woman and told him that her life was ended. And she said that if he had brought her love rather than jewels, had spoken of love rather than passion, and longing and constancy, her heart might have won over duty. He had been too proud, she said, and she too blind to see her heart’s desire.
“Her words angered him, for he had brought her love, time and again, in the only way he knew. And this time before he walked away from her, he cast a spell. She would wander and she would wait, as he had, year after year, alone and lonely, until true hearts met and accepted the gifts he had offered her. Three times to meet, three times to accept before the spell could be broken. He mounted and flew into the night, and the jewels at her feet again became flowers. She died that very night, and on her grave flowers sprang up season to season while the spirit of Lady Gwen, lovely as the young maid, waits and weeps for love lost.”
Jude felt weepy herself and oddly unsettled. “Why didn’t he take her away then, tell her it didn’t matter?”
“That’s not the way it happened. And wouldn’t you say, Jude Frances, that the moral is to trust your heart, and never turn away from love?”
She caught herself, and realizing she’d been too wrapped up in the tale, even as her hand was in his, drew back. “It might be, or that following duty provides you with a long, contented life if not a flashy one. Jewels weren’t the answer, however impressive. He should have looked back to see them turn into flowers—flowers she kept.”
“As I said, you’ve a strong mind. Aye, she kept his flowers.” Aidan flicked a finger over the petals in the bottle. “She was a simple woman with simple ways. But there’s a bigger point to the tale.”
“Which would be?”
“Love.” Over the blooms, his eyes met hers. “Love, whatever the time, whatever the obstacles, lasts. T
hey’re only waiting now for the spell to run its course, then she’ll join him in his silver palace beneath the faerie hill.”
She had to pull herself out of the story and into the reasoning, she reminded herself. The analysis. “Legends often have strings attached. Quests, tasks, provisions. Even in folklore the prize rarely comes free. The symbolism in this one is traditional. The motherless maid caring for her aging father, the young prince on a white horse. The use of the elements: sun, moon, sea. Little is said about the man she married, as he’s only a vehicle used to keep the lovers apart.”
Busily making notes, she glanced up, saw Aidan studying her thoughtfully. “What?”
“It’s appealing, the way you shift back and forth.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“When I’m telling it to you, you’re all dreamy-eyed and going soft, now here you are, sitting up straight and proper, all businesslike, putting pieces of the story that charmed you into little compartments.”
“That’s precisely the point. And I wasn’t dreamy-eyed.”
“I’d know better about that, wouldn’t I, as I was the one looking at you.” His voice warmed again, flowed over her. “You’ve sea goddess eyes, Jude Frances. Big and misty green. I’ve been seeing them in my mind even when you’re not around. What do you think of that?”
“I think you have a clever tongue.” She got up, without a clue what she intended to do. For lack of anything else, she carried the teapot back to the stove. “Which is why you tell a very entertaining story. I’d like to hear more, to coordinate them with those from my grandmother and others.”
She turned back around, jolted when she realized he was standing just behind her. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing at the moment.” Ah, boxed you in now, haven’t I? he thought, but kept his voice easy. “I’m happy enough to tell you tales.” Smoothly, he rested his hands on the edge of the stove on either side of her. “And if you’ve a mind to, you can come into the pub on a quiet night and find others who’ll do the same.”
“Yes.” Panic was beating bat wings in her stomach. “That’s a good idea. I should—”
“Did you enjoy yourself last night? The music?”
“Mmmm.” He smelled of rain, and of man. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. “Yes. The music was wonderful.”
“Is it that you don’t know the tunes?” He was close now, very close, and could see a thin ring of amber between the silky black of her pupils and the misty green of the iris.
“Ah, I know some of them. Do you want more tea?”
“I wouldn’t mind it. Why didn’t you sing then?”
“Sing?” Her throat was bone-dry, a desert of nerves.
“I had my eye on you, most of the time. You never sang along, chorus or verse.”
“Oh, well. No.” He really had to move. He was taking all her air. “I don’t sing, except when I’m nervous.”
“Is that the truth, then?” Watching her face, he moved in, sliding his body into an amazing fit against hers.
She knew what to do with her hands now. They lifted quickly to brace against his chest. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve a mind to hear you sing, so I’m making you nervous.”
She managed a stuttering laugh, but when she tried to shift she only succeeded in pressing more firmly against him. “Aidan—”
“Just a little nervous,” he murmured and lowered his mouth to nip gently at her jaw. “You’re trembling.” Another nip, teasing and light. “Easy now, I’m after stirring you up, not frightening you to death.”
He was doing both. Her heart was rapping against her ribs, ringing in her ears. While he slowly nibbled his way over her jaw, her hands were trapped against the solid wall of his chest. And she felt marvelously weak and female.
“Aidan, you’re . . . This is . . . I don’t think—”
“That’s fine, then, a fine idea. Let’s neither of us think for just a minute here.”
He caught her bottom lip—the wide, soft wonder of it—between his teeth. She moaned, quiet; her eyes clouded, dark. A spear of pure and reckless lust shot straight to his loins.
“Jesus, you’re a sweet one.” His hand lifted from the stove, fingers skimming over her collarbone. As he held her where he wanted her, he took her mouth. Sampling, then savoring, then wallowing in the taste of her.
Even as she slid toward surrender, he used his teeth to make her gasp. And went deeper than he’d intended.
Still she trembled, putting him in mind of a volcano poised to erupt, a storm ready to strike. Her hands remained trapped between them, but her fingers gripped his shirt now and held fast.
She heard him murmur something, a whisper against the wall of sound that was her blood raging. His mouth, so hot, so skilled, his body, so hard, so strong. And his hands, light as moth wings on her face. She could do nothing but give, and give, even as some shocking, unrecognizable part of her urged her to take.
And when he drew away it was as if her world tilted and spilled her out.
He kept his hands on her face, waited for her eyes to open, focus. He’d intended only to taste, to enjoy the moment. To see. But it had gone beyond intentions into something just out of his control. “Will you let me have you?”
Her eyes were huge, glazed with confusion and pleasure. And nearly brought him to his knees. He didn’t particularly care for the sensation.
“I . . . what?”
“Come upstairs and lie with me.”
Shock came a bare instant before she simply nodded her head. “I can’t. No. This is completely irresponsible.”
“Is there someone in America who has a hold on you?”
“A hold?” Why wouldn’t her brain function? “Oh. No, I’m not involved with anyone.” The sudden gleam in Aidan’s eyes had her straining back. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to just . . . I don’t sleep with men I barely know.”
“At the moment, I feel we know each other pretty well.”
“That’s a physical reaction.”
“You’re damn right.” He kissed her again, hard and hot.
“I can’t breathe.”
“I’m having a bit of trouble with that myself.” It was against his natural instincts, but he stepped away. “Well, what do we do about this, then, Jude Frances? Analyze it on an intellectual level?”
His voice might have carried the musical lilt of Ireland, but it could still