He glanced at her, lifted his brow when he saw her staring at him. "What?"

"I suppose I thought you'd go for the modern and slick, outside as well as in."

"Would you?"

She started to speak, then shook her head. "Not here," she realized. "No, not here, not for this. Here you want duachais."

"Okay. Since I want it, why don't you tell me what it is?"

"Oh, it's Gaelic for-" She waved her hand as she tried to find the right translation. "For'tradition.' No, not just that. It has to do with a place most particularly, and its roots and its lore. With, well, with what and why it is."

His eyes narrowed, focused. "Say it again."

"It's duachais."

"Yeah, that's it. That's just exactly it."

"You're very right about wanting that here, and I'm glad of it."

"And considerably surprised by it."

"A bit anyway, yes. I shouldn't be." Because his perception unsettled her, she moved away. "And into the theater?"

"Yeah, doors again, two across." He took her hand, an absentminded gesture that neither of them noticed. But others did.

"The audience area, three sections, two aisles. Full house is two hundred and forty. Small again, and intimate. The stage is the star here. I can see you there."

She said nothing, only studied the empty space ahead of her.

He waited a beat. "Are you afraid of performing?"

"I've performed all my life." One way or another, she thought. "No, I've no stage fright, if that's what you mean. Maybe I need to build that image in my head, as you're building your theater, and see if it stands as sturdy. You're proud of what you've done and what you're doing. I intend to be the same."

It wasn't why she'd come out. She'd meant to surprise him, to flirt with him, to make certain he thought of her through the day. Wanted her through the day.

"I like your theater, Trevor, and I'll be pleased to sing in it with my brothers, as discussed. As for the rest" she moved her shoulders, took his empty mug-"I need a bit more convincing. We'll likely have a session tonight." She'd make sure of it. "Why don't you have your supper here, stay for it. Then after, you can come into my parlor. This time I'll pour the wine."

Rather than wait for his answer, she slid her free hand into his hair, lifted her mouth to his. And with the promise of more, should he care for it, in her eyes, she turned and walked away.

The minute she opened the kitchen door she smelled the baking. Apples, cinnamon, brown sugar. Shawn must have come in just behind her, and had been busy since. There was a pot already simmering on the stove, and he was chopping whatever else he intended to put in it on the thick board.

He barely glanced at her. "You can put apple crumble as the sweet on the daily, and Mexican chile as well. We have some fresh plaice, for frying."

Rather than spring into action, she wandered to the refrigerator and got herself a bottle of ginger ale. Here, she thought, sipping it and eyeing her brother, was a source that would be brutally honest and one she trusted completely.

"What do you think of my voice?" she demanded.

"I could do with hearing a good deal less of it."

"It's my singing voice I'm referring to, you bone-head."

"Well, thus far, it's cracked no glass that I'm aware of."

She considered heaving the bottle at him, but she wasn't done with it. "I'm asking you a serious question, and you could do me the courtesy of answering in kind."

Because her tone had been stiff rather than hot as expected, he lowered his knife and gave her his full attention. The broody look she was wearing he was well accustomed to, but not when there was real worry in her eyes.

"You've a beautiful voice, strong and true. You know that as well as I do."

"No one hears themselves as others do."

"I like hearing you sing my music."

That, she thought, was the most simple and most perfect of answers. Her eyes warmed and rather than throw the bottle, she set it aside to hug him.

"What's all this now?" He rubbed a hand over her back, patted when she sighed and rested her head on his shoulder.

"What does it feel like, Shawn, to have sold your music? To know people will hear it, people who don't know you? Is it grand?"

"In part, aye, in part it's the grandest thing. And it's scary and befuddling all at the same time."

"And still, deep down, it was what you always wanted."

"It was. Keeping it deep down meant it didn't have to be scary and befuddling."

"I like singing, but not as my life's ambition. It's just what we do, when the mood strikes. The Gallagher way." She drew back. "Tell me this, then, now that you are selling your music, does it take any of the joy out of it, or make it seem like no more than a job?"

"I thought it might, but no. When I sit down and there's a tune in my head, it's just the tune as it always was." He stroked a finger under her chin. "What is it, darling? Tell me the trouble."

"Trevor wants to record me. Like a contract. Like a career. He thinks my voice will sell."

There were a dozen things he could say, jokes that any brother might spring to out of habit and that odd affection. Instead, because he sensed she needed it, he gave her the easy truth. "You'll be wonderful, and send us all mad with pride."

She let out a sound that ended in a shaky laugh. "But it wouldn't be like a session or a ceili. It would be real."

"You'll travel, and get rich, which is what you've always wanted. And it'll come from what's inside you, which is the only way it'll make you happy."

She picked up the ginger ale again. "You're awfully smart all of a sudden."

"I've always been smart. You only admit it when I agree with you."

"Hmm." She sipped again, her mind working quickly now, picking its way through obstacles and traps. "You and Brenna are working together in a sort of way. I mean you write the music, but she pushes it. She's the one who arranged for Trevor to hear it. She's in a way of being your business agent, or partner, or whatever you might call it."

Shawn's answer was a grunt as he picked up his knife and began chopping again. "She can get on her bossy side about it, let me tell you."

That had Darcy biting her lip. "Does it cause problems between you?"

"None that wouldn't pass if she'd mind her own." But when he glanced up again and saw Darcy's face, he laughed. "Well, for heaven's sake, why the worry? I'm just winding you up a bit. It's true enough she pushes, and I can dig in when she shoves too fast and too hard. But I know it's that she believes in me. It matters, nearly as much as it does that she loves me."

The pang inside her heart came hard and unwelcome. "The believing in could be as important, as satisfying, to some. As a start, anyway. As a start," she repeated in a murmur. "You can't finish until you start."

Determined to believe it, she took her apron off the hook and went into the pub, leaving Shawn frowning after her.

It was never hard to arrange for a session at Gallagher's. A word here, a word there. What better way was there, after all, to spend a rainy spring evening than with music and drink, with strangers and friends?

By eight, the pub was packed and pints were flowing. Brenna had already moved behind the bar to lend a hand, and Darcy felt she herself had served enough stew to make an ocean.

And Trevor Magee had yet to darken the door.

The devil take him, she decided, and had a table of tourists glancing around uneasily as she served their drinks with a smile that glittered sharp and bright as a blade.

If he couldn't be bothered to accept her invitation for supper, music, and sex, what was the man made of? Stone? Ice? Steel? She slammed empties on the counter and had Aidan's full attention.

"Mind the glassware, Darcy. We've hardly one to spare with the crowd we have tonight."

"Bugger them," she said under her breath. "Two pints

Guinness, one Smitty's, half of Harp, and two brandy and gingers."

"Take a water to Jude, would you, while the Guinness is settling, and see if you can talk her into having some stew. Her appetite's been off the last day or so."

She wanted to snap, just on principle, but it wasn't possible to take a bite out of a man who looked so concerned over his wife. Instead she simply went back to the kitchen herself, ladled out stew, added a basket of bread and butter. She carried them, with water and a glass of ice, to Jude's table.

"Now, you're to eat," Darcy said as she set down the food. "Else Aidan'll be worried, Shawn insulted, and I'll just be mad."

"But I-"

"I mean it, Jude Frances. You've my niece or nephew to take care of, and I won't have him or her, as the case may be, going hungry."

"It's just that-" She glanced around, motioned Darcy to lean down. "The last couple of days, about five or so, I've had this terrible craving. I can't do anything about it, can't seem to stop myself. Ice cream," she whispered. "Chocolate ice cream. I swear I've eaten two gallons of it this week, bought the market out of it."

Darcy snorted out a laugh. "Well, what's wrong with that? You're entitled."

"It's so clich‚d. I'm not eating pickles with it or anything ridiculous, but just the same. I feel so stupid about it, I haven't been able to tell Aidan."

"Do the crime, pay the consequences." Darcy nudged the bowl closer. "Besides, that's no way to feed a baby.

You have a bit of Shawn's stew, and for being such a sport and saving this seat for that cad Magee, I'll buy your ice cream tomorrow."

Struggling not to pout, Jude picked up her spoon. "Chocolate. And the cad just walked in."

"Did he?" Pride, and not a little slice of temper, made her refuse to turn around. "It's about bloody time. What's he doing?" Casually, she picked up Jude's bottle of water and poured it.