The problem was, she wanted to take a real nip-right there, just along his jaw. To see how it tasted. And if she tried it, she imagined he'd be the one to faint. "I won't be able to get started in here until Monday or Tuesday, so there's no real rush getting your things out. But-"

She lifted a finger, tapped it against his chest. "I meant what I said about hanging pictures at the cottage."

He only laughed. "If I get the urge to pick up a hammer," he began, then threw her off balance by bending down to place a quick, friendly kiss on her cheek. "I'll be sure to call the O'Toole."

"Aye, do that." Irritated all over again, she started to stride out. Aidan, looking frazzled, came to the doorway.

"She's fine. She says she's fine. I called the doctor, and he says she's fine. Just to rest a bit and keep her feet up."

"Darcy's making her some tea."

"That's good, that's fine, then. Jude's fretting some because she'd planned to take flowers to Old Maude this afternoon. I'd run them up myself, but-"

"I'll do it," Shawn told him. "You'll feel better if you can stay with her a bit longer. I can drive up, have a bit of a visit with Old Maude, then be back in time for the pub."

"I'd be grateful-am grateful," he corrected, his face clearing a little now. "She told me how you picked her up and carted her off to bed. Made her stay there."

"Just ask her not to go into a swoon around me again. My heart won't take it."

Shawn took flowers to Maude, the cheerful purple and yellow pansies that Jude had already gathered. He didn't often come to the old cemetery. He'd lost no one truly close to him who'd been laid to rest there. But he thought since the cottage was close, he could take over the task from Jude until she was more up to the climb.

The dead were buried near the Saint Declan's Well, where those who had made the pilgrimage to honor the ancient Irish saint had washed the travel from their hands and feet. Three stone crosses stood nearby, guarding the holy place, and perhaps, he thought, giving comfort to the living who came high on this hill to honor the dead.

The view was spectacular-Ardmore Bay stretched out like a gray swath under storm-ready skies. And the beat of the Celtic Sea, the heart that pulsed day and night, spread to the horizon. Between that drumming and the wind there was music, and birds, undaunted by winter, sang to it.

The sunlight was weak and white, the air damp and going raw. The wild grass that fought its way among the stones and cobbles was pale with winter. But he knew winter never had much of a march here, and soon enough fresh green shoots would brave their way among the old.

The cycle that such places stood for never ended. And that was another comfort.

He sat beside Maude Fitzgerald's grave, folding his legs companionably and laying the pansies under her stone where the words "Wise Woman" were carved.

His mother had been a Fitzgerald before her marriage, so Old Maude had been a cousin of sorts. Shawn remembered her well. A small, thin woman with gray hair and eyes of a misty, far-seeing green.

And he remembered the way she'd sometimes looked at him, deep and quiet, in a manner that hadn't made him uneasy so much as unsettled. Despite it, he'd always been drawn to her, and as a child had often sat at her feet when she'd come into the pub. He'd never tired of listening to her tell stories, and later, years later, had made songs out of some of them for himself.

"It's Jude who sends you the flowers," he began. "She's resting now, as she had a bit of a spell with the baby. She's fine, so there's nothing to worry about. But as we wanted her to lie down for a while, I said I'd bring her flowers to you. So I hope you don't mind."

He fell silent a moment, letting his gaze wander. "I'm living in your cottage now that Aidan and Jude have moved into the house. That's the Gallagher way, as I'm sure you know. And now with the baby coming, the cottage would be a wee bit small. Jude's granny, that would be your cousin Agnes Murray, signed the cottage over to her as a wedding gift."

He shifted to find more comfort on the ground, and his fingers began to tap on his knee in an unconscious match to the rhythm of the sea.

"I like living there, in the quiet. But I wonder that I haven't seen Lady Gwen. Do you know she showed herself to Brenna O'Toole? You'll remember Brenna, she's the oldest of the O'Toole girls who live down from your cottage. She's the redhead-well, most of the O'Toole girls are redheaded, but Brenna's got like- sunfire at the edges of it. You'd think it would burn your fingers to touch it, and instead it's just warm and soft."

He caught himself, frowned a little, cleared his throat. "In any case, I've been living there near to five months now, and she hasn't shown herself to me, not clearly. And there's Brenna come by to fix the stove, and the lady not only shows herself but speaks to her as well."

"Women are perverse creatures."

Shawn's heart gave one quick thud, as he hadn't expected anyone to speak back to him in such a place. He looked up and saw a man with long black hair, eyes of piercing blue, and a smile wicked at the corners.

"So I've often thought myself," Shawn said calmly enough, but his heart had decided one quick thud wasn't enough and began to gallop in his chest.

"But we can't seem to do without them, can we?" The man unfolded himself from the stone chair that crouched near the trio of crosses. His movements were graceful as he walked over grass and stone on soft leather boots, then sat on the opposite side of the grave.

The wind, the chilly snap of it, played through his hair, fluttered the short red cape tossed regally over his shoulders.

The light brightened, cleared so that everything-stones, grass, flowers-stood out in sharp relief. In the distance, entwined with the sound of sea and wind, came the dance of pipes and flutes.

"Not for any real length of time," Shawn answered, kept his gaze level and hoped his heart rate would soon do the same.

The man laid his hand on his knees. He wore hose and a doublet of silver, both shot through with threads of gold. And on one hand was a silver ring with a brilliant blue stone. "You know who I am, don't you, Shawn Gallagher?"

"I've seen pictures Jude's drawn of you for her book. She's clever with a sketch."

"And well and happy now, is she? Wedded and bedded?"

"Aye, she's all of that, Prince Carrick."

Carrick's eyes gleamed, both power and amusement alive in them. "Does it worry you to converse with the prince of the faeries, Gallagher?"

"Well, I've no desire to be taken off to a faerie raft for the next century or so, as I've things I prefer to do here."

With his hands still resting on his knees, Carrick threw back his head and laughed. It was a full, rich sound. Seductive, engaging. "Some of the ladies in court would enjoy you, I'm certain, for your looks and your musical gifts. But I've a use for you here, on your side. And here you'll stay, so don't trouble yourself."

He sobered abruptly, leaned forward. "You said Gwen spoke to Brenna O'Toole. What did she say to her?"

"Don't you know?"

He was on his feet without seeming to move at all. "I'm not permitted in the cottage, nor past the borders of its gardens, though my home is beneath it. What did she say?"

Sympathy stirred in Shawn's heart. The question had been more plea than command. " 'His heart is in his song.' That's what she said to Brenna."

"I never gave her music," Carrick said softly. He lifted an arm and with a flick of his wrist had the light blazing. "Jewels plucked from the fire of the sun. These I gave her, these I poured at her feet when I asked her to come with me. But she turned away from them, from me. From her own heart. Do you know what it is, Gallagher, to have the one you want, the only one you'll ever want, turn from you?"

"No. I've never wanted like that."

"There's a pity for you, for you're not alive until you do." He lifted his other hand, and darkness fell with silver beams and sparkles. Fog, thin and damp, crawled over the ground. "Even so, even when she took another at her father's bidding, I gathered the teardrops from the moon, and these I spilled into pearls at her feet. And still she wouldn't have me."

"And the jewels of the sun, the tears of the moon became flowers," Shawn continued. "And these she tended, year after year."

"What is time to me?" Impatience shimmering now, Carrick glared at Shawn. "A year, a century."

"A year is a century when you're waiting for love."

Emotion swam into Carrick's eyes before he closed them. "You're clever with words as well as tunes. And you're right."

Once more he snapped his wrist and the sun was back, winter pale. "Still, I waited, and too long I waited, to go to her that last time. And from the sea, through the deep blue depths of it, I took its heart. And from this, hundreds of sapphires I gathered for her, and these, too, I poured at her feet. For my Gwen, all that I had and more for Gwen. But she told me she was old, and it was too late. For the first time, I saw her weep about it, weep as she told me if I'd once given her the words that were in my heart instead of jewels, instead of promises of eternities and riches, she might have been swayed to give up her world for mine, her duty for love. I didn't believe her."

"You were angry." Shawn had heard the story too many times to count. When he'd been a boy, he'd often dreamed of it. The dashing faerie prince astride a white winged horse, flying to the sun, to the moon, to the sea. "Because you had loved her, and didn't know how else to show it, how else to tell her."

"What more can a man do?" Carrick demanded, and this time Shawn smiled.