so she left that to her brother Shawn when she could get away with it.
Those who knew Gallagher's knew it was Aidan, the eldest, who ran the show now that their parents seemed bent on staying in Boston. Most agreed he seemed to have settled down from his wanderlust past and now tended the family pub in a manner that would have made Shamus proud.
For himself, Aidan was content in where he was, and what he did. He'd learned a great deal of himself and of life during his rambles. The itchy feet were said to come from the Fitzgerald side, as his mother had, before she married, traveled a good bit of the world, with her voice paying the fare.
He'd strapped on a knapsack when he was barely eighteen and traveled throughout his country, then over into England and France and Italy and even Spain. He'd spent a year in America, being dazzled by the mountains and plains of the West, sweltering in the heat of the South, and freezing through a northern winter.
He and his siblings were as musical as their mother, so he'd sung for his supper or tended bar, whichever suited his purposes at the time. When he'd seen all he longed to see, he came home again, a well-traveled man of twenty-five.
For the last six years he'd tended the pub and lived in the rooms above it.
But he was waiting. He didn't know for what, only that he was.
Even now, as he built a pint of Guinness, drew a glass of Harp, and tuned in with one ear to the conversation in case he was obliged to comment, part of him sat back, patient and watchful.
Those who looked close enough might see that watchfulness in his eyes, eyes blue as a lightning bolt under brows with the same dark richness as the prize bar where he worked.
He had the rawboned face of the Celts, with the wild good looks that the fine genes of his parents had blended, with a long, straight nose, a mouth full and shamelessly sensual, a tough, take-a-punch chin with just a hint of a cleft.
He was built like a brawler-wide of shoulder, long of arm, and narrow of hip. And indeed, he had spent a good portion of his youth planting his fists in faces or taking them in his own. As much, he wasn't shamed to admit, for the fun of it as for temper.
It was a matter of pride that unlike his brother, Shawn, Aidan had never had his nose broken in battle.
Still, he'd stopped looking for trouble as he'd grown from boy to man. He was just looking, and trusted that he'd know what it was when he found it.
When Jude walked in, he noticed-first as a publican, and second as a man. She looked so tidy, with her trim jacket and bound-back hair, so lost with her big eyes scanning the room as a doe might consider a new path in the forest.
A pretty thing, he thought, as most men do when they see an attractive female face and form. And being one who saw many faces in his career, he noted the nerves as well that kept her rooted to the spot just inside the door as if she might turn and flee at any moment.
The look of her, the manner of her, captured his interest and a low and pleasant hum warmed his blood.
She squared her shoulders, a deliberate move that amused him, and walked to the bar.
'Good evening to you,' he said as he slid his rag down the bar to wipe up spills. 'What's your pleasure?'
She started to speak, to ask politely for a glass of white wine. Then her smiled, a slow, lazy curving of lips that inexplicably set her insides a fluttering and turned her mind into a buzzing mess of static.
Yes, she thought dimly, everyone was gorgeous here.
He seemed in no particular hurry for her answer, only leaned comfortably on the bar, bringing that truly wonderful face closer to hers, cocking his head and his brow at the same time.
'Are you lost, then, darling?'
She imagined herself melting, just sliding onto the floor in a puddle of hormones and liquid lust. The sheer embarrassment of the image snapped her back to herself. 'No, I'm not lost. Could I have a glass of white wine? Chardonnay if it's available.'
'I can help you with that.' But he made no move to, just then. 'You're a Yank, then. Would you be Old Maude's young American cousin come to stay in her cottage awhile?'
'Yes. I'm Jude, Jude Murray.' Automatically she offered her hand and a careful smile that allowed her dimples a brief appearance in her cheeks.
Aidan had always had a soft spot for dimples in a pretty face.
He took her hand, but didn't shake it. He only held it as he continued to stare at her until-she swore she felt it- her bones began to sizzle. 'Welcome to Ardmore, Miss Murray, and to Gallagher's. I'm Aidan, and this is my place. Tim, give the lady your seat. Where are your manners?'
'Oh, no, that's-'
But Tim, a burly man with a mass of hair the color and texture of steel wool, slid off his stool. 'Beg your pardon.' He shifted his gaze from the sports event on the television over the end of the bar and gave her a quick, charming wink.
'Unless you'd rather a table,' Aidan added as she continued to stand and look mildly distressed.
'No, no, this is fine. Thank you.' She climbed onto the stool, trying not to tense up as she became the center of attention. It was what troubled her most about teaching, all those faces turned to hers, expecting her to be profound and brilliant.
He finally released her hand, just as she expected it to dissolve in his, and took the pint glass from under the tap, to slide it into welcoming hands. 'And how are you finding Ireland?' he asked her as he turned to take a bottle of wine from the mirrored shelf.
'It's lovely.'
'Well, there's no one here will disagree with you on that.' He poured her wine, looking at her rather than the glass. 'And how's your granny?'
'Oh.' Jude was amazed that he'd filled the glass perfectly without so much as a glance at it, then set it precisely in front of her. 'She's very well. Do you know her?'
'I do, yes. My mother was a Fitzgerald and a cousin to your granny-third or fourth removed, I'm thinking. So, that makes us cousins as well.' He tapped a finger on her glass. 'Slainte, cousin Jude.'
'Oh, well- thank you.' She lifted her glass just as the shouting started from the back. A woman's voice, clear as church bells, accused someone of being a bloody, blundering knothead with no more brains than a turnip. This was answered, in irritated male tones, that he'd rather be a bleeding turnip than dumb as the dirt it grew in.
No one seemed particularly shocked by the shouts and curses that followed, nor by the sudden crash that had Jude jolting and spilling a few drops of wine on the back of her hand.
'That would be two more of your cousins,' Aidan explained as he took Jude's hand yet again and efficiently dried it. 'My sister, Darcy, and my brother, Shawn.'
'Oh. Well, shouldn't someone see what's the matter?'
'The matter with what?'
She only goggled as the voices in the back rose.
'You throw that plate at my head, you viper, and I swear to you, I'll-'
The threat ended on a vicious curse as something crashed against the wall. Seconds later, a woman swung out of the door behind the bar, carrying a tray of food and looking flushed and satisfied.
'Did you nail him, Darcy?' someone wanted to know.
'No, he ducked.' She tossed her head, sending a cloud of raven-black hair flying. Temper suited her. Her Kerry blue eyes snapped with it, her generous mouth pouted. She carried the tray with a sassy twitch of hip to a family of five crowded at a low table. And when she served, bending down to catch whatever the woman at the table murmured to her, she threw back her head and laughed.
The laughter suited her just as well as the temper, Jude noted.
'I'll be taking the price of the plate out of your pay,' Aidan informed her when she strolled over to the bar.
'That's fine, then. Worth every penny, more if I'd hit the mark. The Clooneys are needing two more Cokes, a ginger ale and two Harps-a pint and a glass.'
Aidan began to fill the order. 'Darcy, this is Jude Murray from America, come to stay in Old Maude's cottage.'
'Pleased to meet you.' The temper was quickly replaced by a lively interest in Darcy's eyes. The pout gave way to a quick and dazzling smile. 'Are you settling in well?'
'Yes, thank you.'
