Tears of the Moon by Nora Roberts Page A

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.”
    â€œAye, do that.” Irritated all over again, she started to stride out. Aidan, looking frazzled, came to the doorway.
    â€œShe’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.”
    â€œDarcy’s making her some tea.”
    â€œThat’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—”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œIt’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