“Here are the books, Uncle Bryan,” Sam Harrison said, handing the little stack over.
“Well done, Sam. Worthy of the Baker Street Irregulars, I’d say.”
“Thanks, gov’nor,” Sam said, using the dialect of the London street urchins who had come to the aid of Sherlock Holmes on occasion.
The conspirators grinned at each other.
“Bryan!” Rachel gasped, appalled. “You stole those from Porchind!”
“Borrowed,” he corrected her.
“And made my son an accessory!” Alaina fixed him with a steely look, turning her body as if instinctively shielding her baby daughter from Bryan’s powers of corruption.
Bryan ignored them both, totally absorbed in examining his ill-gotten booty. He singled out one small book from the others and tapped a finger against the title handwritten inside the front cover. “ ‘The Journal of Arthur Drake III.’ ” He turned to Rachel and lifted an eyebrow. “Now, what do you suppose Porky and the Rat would want with this?”
“To read it, I imagine,” she said tightly.
“What’s going on out here?” Faith Callan asked, stepping out onto the porch with her son Nicholas perched on her hip. The toddler rested his dark head on his mother’s shoulder, and had his thumb firmly planted in his mouth. His eyelids were at half mast, indicating naptime was at hand.
“Just a little shell game,” Bryan said absently, stroking his godson’s head.
Alaina tugged Faith aside to give her the play-byplay, and Bryan turned to Faith’s husband as he came out onto the porch. Shane Callan was tall, aristocratically handsome with black hair and pale gray eyes, but most important to Bryan at the moment was the fact that Shane had spent sixteen years as a federal agent.
“Shane,” he said with a bright smile. “You’re just the man I wanted to see.”
“I’m glad Addie refused to let this thing go,” Bryan said as he and Rachel settled back against the chintz cushions of the old glider.
“Me too.”
They had moved the old swing around to the back of the house. It now stood near the fenced edge of the cliff with overgrown shrubbery on either side of it, creating a secret bower from which they could watch the sun sink into the ocean and the stars drop down into the twilight sky. A benevolent weather system had kept the fog bank from rolling in and made the evening lovely and warm. Waves washed against the shore below in a soothing rhythm. It was such a peaceful scene compared to the afternoon that Rachel took a long moment just to savor it.
Addie had gone to bed directly after supper, exhausted from the day’s events. Rachel felt the same kind of freedom as a mother whose toddler had drifted off extra early for a change. She and Bryan were going to have a few extra hours all to themselves. Bliss.
She had changed into a loose-fitting purple cotton sweater and a comfortable lavender skirt. Her hair was still up, but the chignon was very loose, and the evening breeze set all the fine tendrils around her face fluttering like ribbons. She curled her bare feet beneath her on the cushion and sipped at her glass of white wine.
Bryan sat beside her, the picture of relaxed masculinity in old jeans and a faded denim work shirt. His long legs were stretched before him and crossed at the ankles. His profile was to her as he gazed out at the ocean, and Rachel studied him as an artist studies a subject to be sketched. His was a strong, handsome face with its high forehead and solid jaw. His evening beard shadowed the lean planes of his cheeks. His eyes looked tired, but intelligent, contemplative as he stared out at the sea.
A wave of love swept over Rachel, echoing the surf that surged against the shore below them. It took her a little by surprise and it frightened her deep inside. Summer was slipping away from them.
Bryan turned to her slowly, his eyes mirroring the ache she felt. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, and his thumb brushed away a teardrop she hadn’t been aware of.
“Summer’s not over yet,” he whispered, and bent to press a sweet kiss against her lips.
When he sat back, he took a deep breath, almost visibly shrugging off the mantle of melancholy that had fallen over them. He smiled gently and sang a line from an old Celtic folksong about a young man who had wandered into Edwards Town unknown, unloved, and unseen, there to meet a beautiful girl he called his County Leitoim queen.
Rachel smiled. He had a lovely voice. “Did you learn that in Ireland?” she asked, suddenly realizing how little she knew about him, about his background.
“No. My father likes to sing that one. It makes my mother furious because the girl in the song is blond and my mother’s hair is black. She claims Dad sings it to remind her of one of his old girlfriends. He’s allowed to sing it only when he’s in the garage making his fireworks.”
“He makes fireworks for a living?”
“No. That’s his hobby. He designs twelve-meter racing yachts for a living.”
“That’s… unusual.”
“We Hennessys are an unusual bunch,” he admitted with great pride.
Rachel chuckled. “So I gather. Tell me about them.”
He told her about growing up in the Hennessy household with his three brothers and three sisters, about how they had all been encouraged to be themselves, to pursue whatever dreams caught their fancy. He told her about Catholic school and Sister Agnes, the Iron Nun. He told her about his travels and his work. He told her about Serena. He told her about the Fearsome Foursome and how they had all ended up in Anastasia.
“They’re wonderful friends,” Rachel murmured, “You’re very lucky.”
“They’re your friends now too,” he said, pushing one sneakered foot against the ground to set the glider into lazy motion. “That’s the wonderful thing about having friends-you get to share them.”
Rachel said nothing. She would have loved nothing better than to stay in Anastasia and have Bryan’s friends become her friends. But that wasn’t the way things were going to be.
“It’ll work out, Rachel,” Bryan promised. He lifted her chin and smiled down at her, his blue eyes twinkling like stars in the dusk. “All you need is a little faith in magic.”
Rachel shook her head sadly. “You can’t pull a happy ending out of that hat of yours, Bryan. Life doesn’t work that way.”
“We’ll see.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a kiss.
“Don’t be so practical,” he said against her lips as his big hands found their way under her sweater. “Love wasn’t meant to be practical. Love is magic.”
Rachel didn’t try to argue. Bryan seemed intent on showing her the truth of his statement, and she couldn’t bring herself to stop him. She didn’t want to stop him; she wanted to love him. She wanted to drink in his love and store it up inside her against the promise of a lonely future. She wanted to make love with him there in their secret bower with the ocean sighing below them and the last rays of twilight slipping into the sea.
“Show me,” she whispered, leaning back from him. Her fingers caught at the bottom of her sweater, and she slowly drew the garment over her head.
Desire tightened Bryan’s expression as he stared at her, his intense gaze lingering on her firm, small breasts and the nipples that hardened with the kiss of the cooling breeze. She was so young and lovely, like an innocent goddess as she sat there on the swing looking up at him with fathomless violet eyes.
With deft fingers he pulled the pins from her hair and the pale tress spilled around her like champagne in the soft light. She reached up to pull his glasses off and set them carefully aside, then her fingers fell to the task of unbuttoning his shirt. Bryan sat very still, almost as if he were afraid to move for fear of breaking the spell. He absorbed every nuance, every subtlety of feeling-Rachel’s sadness, her vulnerability, the love she kept locked in her heart because she was afraid of how badly it would hurt when the end came.
But there wasn’t going to be an end. He swore that to himself with a fierceness he hadn’t known in years. There wasn’t going to be an end to this. He loved Rachel Lindquist, and he was damn well going to have her for the rest of his life. He’d been forced to give up the woman he loved once. It wasn’t going to happen again, not if he had any power over the matter.
