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brother. If I did,” Carrick added with a thin sneer, “you’d be braying like a jackass. You’ve my word on that as well.”
    â€œI appreciate your restraint,” Shawn began, then tensed up again. “Are you after thinking that I’ll be the second stage in the breaking of your spell? For if you are, you’re looking in the wrong direction.”
    â€œI know where I’m looking well enough, young Gallagher. It’s you who doesn’t. But you will, soon enough. You will.” Carrick bowed gallantly. And vanished just as the skies opened and rain fell in a fury.
    â€œWell, that’s perfect, isn’t it?” Shawn stood in the driving rain, angry and puzzled. And very late for work.

    Â 
FOUR

H E WAS A man who liked to take his time with things. To mull and consider, to weigh and to measure. So that’s what he did, telling no one, for the moment, of his meeting with Carrick at the side of Old Maude’s grave.
    It concerned him a bit. Oh, not the meeting with a faerie prince so much. It was in his blood to accept the existence of magic, and in his heart to appreciate it. The manner of the discussion was what worried him, and the direction it had taken.
    He’d be damned if he’d find himself picking out, or being picked out by, a woman, and stumbling into love just to fall in line with Carrick’s plans and wishes.
    He just wasn’t the marrying and settling-in sort, as Aidan was. He liked women, that he did. The smell of them, the shape of them, the heat of them. And there were, well, so many of them out there. All fragrant and rounded and warm.
    As much as he tended to write about love, in all its delightful and painful varieties, on the personal level he preferred to skirt around its edges.
    Love, the sort that grabbed the heart with both hands and took it over, was such a bloody responsibility. And life was so pleasant just as it was. He had his music and the pub, his friends and his family, and now the little cottage on the hill that was all his.
    Well, except for the ghost, who didn’t appear to want his company in any case.
    So he took his time, thinking it all through and going about his business. He had fish to fry and potatoes to slice and a great whopping shepherd’s pie cooking in the oven. The sounds of Saturday night were beginning to heat up in the pub beyond his kitchen door. The musicians from Galway that Aidan had booked were slipping into a ballad, and the tenor was doing a fine job singing about Ballystrand.
    Since Darcy had gotten in her shopping fix with Jude in Dublin, she was in a rare mood, all smiles and cooperation. Orders she called out to him like a song, then danced back out with them when he’d finished his part. Why, they hadn’t had a hard word between them for the whole of the day.
    He thought it might be a record.
    When he heard the kitchen door swing open, letting in a flood of music, he slid a long slice of golden fish onto a plate. “I’ve all but got this last order done here, darling. And the pie needs only five minutes more.”
    â€œI’d love some of it when it’s done.”
    He glanced over his shoulder and beamed. “Mary Kate! I thought you were Darcy. And how are you, then, sweetheart?”
    â€œI’m fine and well.” She let the door swing shut behind her. “And you?”
    â€œThe same.” He drained chips and arranged the orders even as he studied her.
    Brenna’s younger sister had blossomed during her university years. He thought she’d be about one and twenty now, and pretty as a picture. Her hair was a sunnier, more golden red than Brenna’s, and she wore it in soft waves that fell just past her chin. Her eyes had a touch of gray over the green, and she smudged them up prettily. She wasn’t much taller than her oldest sister, but fuller at the bust and hip, and she wore a dark green Saturday-night dress to show off a very