A magic night of shadows and light when the faeries came out to dance.

"I can't believe what a state I got myself into over this. Everyone was right. They said it would just happen, and it did. I guess the best things do."

She turned when they reached the spot where she'd imagined putting an arbor. Behind them the house-her house, she thought with warm pride-was lit up bright as Christmas. The music continued to pour out, tangled with voices and laughter.

"This is how it should be," she murmured. "A house should have music."

"I'll give you music in it whenever you like." When she smiled and slipped into his arms, he guided her into a dance, just as she'd dreamed he would.

It was perfect, she thought. Magic and music and moonlight. One long night where the darkness was only a brief flicker.

"If you came to America and played one song, you'd have a recording contract before you'd finished it."

"That's not for me. I'm for here."

"Yes, you are." She leaned back to smile at him. Indeed, she couldn't imagine him anywhere else. "You're for here."

And it was the magic and the music and the moonlight that pushed him before he had the words ready. "And so are you. There's no reason for you to go back." He eased her away. "You're happy here."

"I've been very happy here. But-"

"That's enough right there to keep you. What's wrong with just being happy?"

His abrupt tone had her smile turning puzzled. "Nothing, of course, but I need to work. I have to support myself."

"You can find work to content you here."

She had, she thought. She'd found her life's work in writing. But old habits die hard. "There doesn't seem to be much call for psychology professors in Ardmore at the moment."

"You didn't like doing that."

He was starting to make her nervous. A chill slid up her arms and made her wish for a jacket. "It's what I do. What I know how to do."

"So you'll figure out how to do something else. I want you here with me, Jude." Even as her heart gave one wild leap at the words, he continued on. "I need a wife."

She wasn't sure if the thud was her heart dropping again, or just simple shock. "Excuse me?"

"I need a wife," he repeated. "I think you should marry me, then we'll figure out the rest of the business later."

CHAPTER Seventeen

"You need a wife," she repeated, keeping her voice calm, spacing the words evenly.

"I do, yes." It wasn't precisely how he'd meant to put it, but it was too late now. "We need each other. We mesh well, Jude. There's no point in you going back to a life that didn't satisfy you, when you can have one here that does."

"I see." No, she didn't see, she thought. It was like trying to look through dark, murky water. But she was trying to see. "So, you think I should stay here and marry you because you need a wife and I need- a life?"

"Yes. No." There was something wrong with how she'd phrased that. Something not quite right about the tone of it. But he was too flustered to figure it out. "I'm saying I could support you well enough until you find the kind of work you enjoy doing, or if you'd just rather work at making a home instead, that's fine as well. The pub does well enough. I'm not a pauper, and though it may not be the style of living you're accustomed to, we'd manage it all right."

"We'd manage it. While you- support me in the style I'm not quite accustomed to. Support me, until I bumble around and find what I might be good at doing?"

"Look." Why couldn't he get the words to line up the right way? "You have a life here, is what I'm saying. You have one with me."

"Do I?" She turned away as she struggled to hold back something dark and bubbling that wanted to spew out of her. She didn't recognize it, wasn't sure she wanted to, but she sensed it was dangerous. The Irish, she mused, were supposed to be poets, to have the most charming of words flow right off the tongue.

And here, for the second time in her life, she was being told she should marry a man because it would be good for her.

William had needed a wife, too, she remembered. To help cement his position, to entertain, to look presentable. And of course, she'd needed a man to tell her what to do and when and how to do it. A wife for one, a life for the other. What could be more logical?

The first time she'd been told that, she'd obeyed. Quietly, almost meekly. It infuriated and it shamed to remember that. It infuriated and it shamed to realize how much a part of her wanted to do the same with Aidan.

But there was more to her now. More than she'd realized. She was making something of herself, and by God, she intended to finish. Without being guided gently along because she was so inept at finding her own way.

"I've had time here, Aidan." Face composed, voice level, she turned back to study his face in the silvered light of the swimming moon. "I've had time with you. These months don't make a life, and it's my life I'm trying to figure out, so I can build on it, make something of it. And of myself."

"Make it with me." The quick jolt of desperation stunned him, left him floundering. "You care for me, Jude."

"Of course I do." Somehow she managed to keep her voice pleasant when she said it, though that dark and bubbling brew was still churning inside her. "Marriage is a serious business, Aidan. I've been there, and you haven't. It isn't a commitment I intend to make again."

"That's ridiculous."

"I haven't finished." Her voice was chilly now, ice over steel. "It isn't a commitment I intend to make again," she repeated, "until I trust myself, and the man, and the circumstances enough to believe it's forever. I won't be cast aside again."

"Do you think I would do such a thing as that?" Angry now, he gripped her arms, held tight. "You'd stand here and compare me to that bastard who broke his vows to you?"

"I have nothing else to compare you to, or this to. I'm sorry that annoys you. But the fact is, marriage isn't in my plans at this time. I thank you for the thought. Now I really should go back inside. I'm neglecting my guests."

"The hell with them. We'll settle this."

"We have settled it." Keeping that same rigid smile on her face, she shoved his hands away. "If I didn't make myself clear, I'll try again. No, I won't marry you, Aidan, but thank you for asking."

As she said it, thunder boomed over the hills and a lance of lightning exploded, shooting a flash of thin white cracks across the bowl of the sky. She turned to walk into the house while the wind reared up to slap the air and send her chimes into a wild and bitter song.

Odd, she thought, that her heart felt just the same. Wild and bitter.

Aidan only stared after her. She'd said no. He simply hadn't prepared himself for the possibility she would say no. He'd made up his mind that they would marry. She was the one. For him there would only ever be one.

The sudden fury of the wind streamed through his hair, and the air stung with ozone from the next hurled spear of lightning. He stood in the midst of the oncoming storm struggling to clear his head.

She just needed a bit more time and persuading. That was it. Had to be it, he thought as he rubbed the heel of his hand over his heart. The ache in it was a new and panicky feeling he didn't care for. She'd come around, of course she would. Any fool could see they needed to be together.

He just had to make her see she'd be happy here, that he would take good care of her. That he wouldn't let her down as she'd been let down before. She was just being cautious, that was all. He'd taken her by surprise, but now that she knew his intentions, she'd grow used to them. He'd see to it.

A Gallagher didn't retire the field at the first volley, he reminded himself. They stuck. And Jude Frances Murray was about to find out just how hard and how long a Gallagher could stick.

Face set, he strode back to the house. If he'd glanced up, he might have seen the figure in the window above. The woman stood, her pale hair around her shoulders, and a single tear, bright as a diamond, sliding down her cheek.

Jude managed to get through the rest of the party. She laughed and she danced and she chatted. It took no effort to keep herself surrounded by people and avoid another confrontation with Aidan. It took more to nudge him out the door when people began to leave, to make smiling excuses to him about being exhausted. She needed to sleep, she told him.

Of course she didn't. The minute her house was empty, she rolled up her sleeves. She didn't want to think, not yet, and the best way to avoid it was good, solid work.

She gathered up plates and glasses from all over the house, then washed and dried and put away every one of them. It took hours, and her body was as exhausted as she'd claimed. But her mind refused to rest, so she continued to push herself, wiping, scrubbing, tidying.

Once she thought she heard the sound of a woman's weeping drift down the stairs, but she ignored it. The despair in it made her own eyes sting, and that wouldn't do. Her own tears wouldn't help Lady Gwen. They wouldn't help anyone.

She dragged furniture back into place, then hauled out the sweeper and vacuumed the floors. Her face was pale with fatigue, her eyes dark with it by the time she climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

But she hadn't wept, and the sheer manual labor had burned off everything but a reeling physical exhaustion. Still fully dressed, she lay down on the bed, turned her face into the pillow, and willed herself to sleep.

Dreaming of dancing with Aidan under the silver light of a magic moon with flowers sweeping out, colorful and gay as faeries, and the air charmed by their scents.