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broken in battle.
    Still, he’d stopped looking for trouble as he’d grown from boy to man. He was just looking, and trusted that he’d know what it was when he found it.
    When Jude walked in, he noticed—first as a publican, and second as a man. She looked so tidy, with her trim jacket and bound-back hair, so lost with her big eyes scanning the room as a doe might consider a new path in the forest.
    A pretty thing, he thought, as most men do when they see an attractive female face and form. And being one who saw many faces in his career, he noted the nerves as well that kept her rooted to the spot just inside the door as if she might turn and flee at any moment.
    The look of her, the manner of her, captured his interest and a low and pleasant hum warmed his blood.
    She squared her shoulders, a deliberate move that amused him, and walked to the bar.
    “Good evening to you,” he said as he slid his rag down the bar to wipe up spills. “What’s your pleasure?”
    She started to speak, to ask politely for a glass of white wine. Then he smiled, a slow, lazy curving of lips that inexplicably set her insides a fluttering and turned her mind into a buzzing mess of static.
    Yes, she thought dimly, everyone was gorgeous here.
    He seemed in no particular hurry for her answer, onlyleaned comfortably on the bar, bringing that truly wonderful face closer to hers, cocking his head and his brow at the same time.
    “Are you lost, then, darling?”
    She imagined herself melting, just sliding onto the floor in a puddle of hormones and liquid lust. The sheer embarrassment of the image snapped her back to herself. “No, I’m not lost. Could I have a glass of white wine? Chardonnay if it’s available.”
    “I can help you with that.” But he made no move to, just then. “You’re a Yank, then. Would you be Old Maude’s young American cousin come to stay in her cottage awhile?”
    “Yes. I’m Jude, Jude Murray.” Automatically she offered her hand and a careful smile that allowed her dimples a brief appearance in her cheeks.
    Aidan had always had a soft spot for dimples in a pretty face.
    He took her hand, but didn’t shake it. He only held it as he continued to stare at her until—she swore she felt it—her bones began to sizzle. “Welcome to Ardmore, Miss Murray, and to Gallagher’s. I’m Aidan, and this is my place. Tim, give the lady your seat. Where are your manners?”
    “Oh, no, that’s—”
    But Tim, a burly man with a mass of hair the color and texture of steel wool, slid off his stool. “Beg your pardon.” He shifted his gaze from the sports event on the television over the end of the bar and gave her a quick, charming wink.
    “Unless you’d rather a table,” Aidan added as she continued to stand and look mildly distressed.
    “No, no, this is fine. Thank you.” She climbed onto the stool, trying not to tense up as she became the center ofattention. It was what troubled her most about teaching, all those faces turned to hers, expecting her to be profound and brilliant.
    He finally released her hand, just as she expected it to dissolve in his, and took the pint glass from under the tap, to slide it into welcoming hands. “And how are you finding Ireland?” he asked her as he turned to take a bottle of wine from the mirrored shelf.
    “It’s lovely.”
    “Well, there’s no one here will disagree with you on that.” He poured her wine, looking at her rather than the glass. “And how’s your granny?”
    “Oh.” Jude was amazed that he’d filled the glass perfectly without so much as a glance at it, then set it precisely in front of her. “She’s very well. Do you know her?”
    “I do, yes. My mother was a Fitzgerald and a cousin to your granny—third or fourth removed, I’m thinking. So, that makes us cousins as well.” He tapped a finger on her glass. “ Slainte, cousin Jude.”
    “Oh, well . . . thank you.” She lifted her glass just as the shouting started from the back. A woman’s