The work Nigel had spoken of didn't worry her overmuch. She wasn't afraid of working hard. The travel was something she'd always dreamed of. The niggle came from the fact that she had no driving ambition to perform. But perhaps that was to the good. Without that force and need, mightn't she enjoy it more?

She'd have money to lavish on herself, her family, her friends. Oh, she'd have no problem at all with the money.

But it all circled back. There was something between herself and Trevor, and on her part it was more vital than anything had been in her life.

She had to make him love her.

It was so irritating not to know if she was making progress there. The man was much too self-contained for her peace of mind. With her mouth set in a pout, she tugged a fuchsia blossom from the hedge and tore it to pieces as she walked down the narrow road.

Why was it when it finally happened, she'd lost her heart to a man who wasn't dazzled with her? Who wasn't eager as a puppy to please? Who didn't promise her the world on a silver platter, even if those who had done that most often hadn't had the platter, much less the world, at their disposal.

She probably wouldn't have fallen in love with him if he'd been or done any of those things, but that was beside the point. She was in love with him, so why couldn't he just love her back so everything could be lovely?

Damned perverse individual.

When he'd kissed her there in the kitchen of Faerie Hill Cottage, hadn't he felt it? Hadn't he known her heart was spilling right out of her and into his hands? Oh, she hated that she couldn't stop it.

Hated more that the first time, the only time, she'd wanted a man to see inside her, he just wasn't looking.

So, she'd have to deal with that. She tossed the remains of the tattered blossom away, watching it whip like confetti in the brisk wind on the hill. She had plenty of tools at her disposal to employ. Sooner or later, she'd box him right in.

Damned if she wouldn't.

Before she was done, she'd be rich, famous. And married.

As she came around the bend, the sun flashed into her eyes like a beacon, sharp and white and direct. She raised a hand to shield them, blinking, and saw through the glare the glint of silver.

"Good morning to you, Darcy the fair."

Slowly, with her heart stuttering, she lowered her hand. It hadn't been the sun at all that had beamed at her. It was filtered soft through layered stacks of clouds that turned the sky the color of Trevor's eyes. It was magic that shone out at her, and the man standing on the side of the road, under the looming spear of the round tower, owned it.

"I'm told you frequent Saint Declan's Well."

"Oh, I'm here and there, depending. And it's rare for you to wander to that hill."

"I'm here and there as well. Depending."

His eyes flashed with humor, as bright as the doublet he wore. "Since here's where you are and so am I, will you walk with me?" The iron gate opened as he spoke, though he didn't touch it with his hand.

"Men are the same. Faerie or mortal, they must show off." Pleased when he frowned, she breezed by him and through the opening. "I wondered if you'd ever have cause to seek me out."

"I gave you more credit than you deserved." There, he thought when she turned her head to glare at him. Point for point. "I was certain a woman of your talents would have conquered any man she took aim at. But you've yet to land the Magee."

"He's not a fish. And who put the idea in his head that he was obliged to fall in love with me so he'd get his back up about it straight off?"

"Too much Yank practicality and not enough Irish romance in him, that's his problem." Disgusted because Darcy was right about his own miscalculation, he strode over the rough ground. "I don't understand the man. If his blood didn't leap the minute he saw you, I'm a jack-rabbit. You should've been able to bring him to the mark by this time."

He stopped, and his eyes burned into hers. "You want him, don't you?"

"If I didn't, he'd never have touched me."

"And has he touched only your body? Has he reached your heart?"

She turned, looking down, to where the village lay. "Isn't your magic strong enough to see into my heart?"

"I want the words from you. I've learned, with pain, the power of words."

"The ones I have are for him, not for you. They'll be spoken when I choose, not when you demand."

"In the name of Finn, I knew I'd have trouble with you."

He pondered a moment, rubbing his chin. Then with a sly smile, he raised his arms high. The air shivered, rippled like water at a stone's toss. Shapes formed behind it, shadows that spread and speared up and took on color and life. The gentle voice of the sea became a roar, a thousand sounds beating against each other.

"Look now," Carrick ordered, but she was already staring, eyes wide, at the buildings and streets and people where her village had been. "New York City."

"Sweet Mary." She had already stepped back, half afraid she would stumble and fall into that vast, crowded, wonderful world. "Such a place."

"You could have it, the best of it. Shops full of treasures."

Store windows, filled with glittering jewels, sleek clothes raced by in front of her eyes.

"Elegant restaurants."

White tablecloths, exotic flowers, the shimmer of candlelight, the glint of wine in crystal.

"Luxurious quarters."

Polished wood and thick carpets, a fluid curve of stairs, a wide, wide window that looked out over trees gone to flame with fall.

"It's Trevor's penthouse. It could be yours." Carrick watched the awe, the pleasure, the desire, run over her face. "He has more. His family's getaway in a place called the Hamptons, a villa in Italy on the sea, a pretty pied-a-terre in Paris, the town house in London."

A house of brilliant white wood and sparkling glass with the blue water close, another in soft, pale yellow with a red tile roof tucked onto a soaring cliff over yet another blue sea, the charm of old stone and iron rails over the streets of Paris, and the dignified brick home she remembered from London. They all flashed by, made her head spin.

Then they were gone, in the blink of an eye, and there was only Ardmore sitting cozily under the layered, gray-edged clouds.

"You could have it, all of it, for with some women they've only to want to have."

"I can't think." Giving in to her shaky legs, she sat on the ground. "My head aches from it."

"What do you want?" Watching her, Carrick reached for his pouch and turning it over, poured a flood of sparkling blue stones onto the ground. "I offered them to Gwen, but she turned from them, and from me. Would you?"

She shook her head, but not in denial. In sheer confusion.

"He gave you jewels, and you wear them."

"I-" She ran her fingers over the bracelet on her wrist. "Yes, but-"

"He looked at you and found you beautiful."

"I know it." The brilliance of the stones made her eyes tear. It was the shine of them, she told herself. It wasn't her heart breaking. "But beauty doesn't last. If that's all that holds him, what happens when it fades? Am I only to be wanted for what can be seen?"

It would be enough if she wasn't in love. Enough to have only that if the man was anyone but Trevor.

"He's heard your voice and promised you fame, wealth, and a kind of immortality. What more is there? What more have you ever dreamed of?"

"I don't know." Oh, she wanted to weep. Why should she want to weep for having seen wonders?

"You have the power, you have the choice, and here is a gift for you."

He plucked up one of the stones and taking her hand, laid it warm in the cup of her palm. "On this you can wish. Not three wishes, as so many of the stories go, but one only. Your heart's desire is in your hand. Be it fortune, you will live in wealth. Vanity, and your beauty will fade never. Fame, and the world will know you. Love? The man you want most is yours, always and ever."

He stepped back from her, and if her eyes had been clear, she might have seen compassion in his. "Choose well, Darcy the fair, for what you choose you live with."

And he was gone, and the jewels, save the one in her hand, bloomed to flowers. She saw now they covered a grave, and the name carved into the stone was "John Magee."

She lay her head against it and wept now for both of them.

CHAPTER Sixteen

Darcy intended to go straight through the pub and upstairs so she could make herself presentable. But Aidan was already there, inventorying stock. He took one look at her, set down his clipboard.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. It's nothing. I had myself a little jag, is all."

She started through, but he simply moved in front of her, put his arms around her, pressed his lips to her hair. "There, darling, tell me what's the matter." His greatest fear was that Trevor had hurt her in some way, and then he'd have to kill a man who'd become a friend.

"Oh, Aidan, don't start me up again." But she held on, and held tight. "It's just a mood."

"You're a moody one, no question. But one thing you're not, Darcy, is a blubberer. What's made you cry?"

"Me, mostly, I think." It felt so good to be held by one who had never let her down. "I have so much in my head, and it seemed the only way to let some of it out was with tears."

He braced himself for the worst. "Magee hasn't done anything-"

"He hasn't, no." And that, she thought, was part of the problem. He'd done nothing but be what he was, what she wanted. "Aidan, tell me something. When you went traveling all those years ago, saw all those things, all those places, was it wonderful?"

"It was. Some was grand, some bloody awful, but altogether it was wonderful." He stroked a hand through her hair, remembering. "I guess you could say I had a lot in my head as well back then, and rambling was my way of getting some of it out."