Sometime during the chaos, Darcy had pulled him into the kitchen, poured some soup into him. Or stuck his head in the bowl, he wasn't quite sure which.

But he recalled trying to wrestle her to the floor, which wouldn't have been such a bad idea if Shawn hadn't been in the room at the time. And if he hadn't lost the bout to a woman he outweighed by a good fifty pounds.

Jesus Christ. He'd been stinking drunk.

It wasn't that he'd never been drunk before. He'd gone to college, for God's sake. He knew how to get drunk and party if he wanted to. The thing was, this one had snuck up on him, and he didn't enjoy being quite so hazy on the details of his behavior.

There was, however, one little item that came through clear. Waterford-crystal clear.

Darcy guiding him up to bed, him stumbling, and yes, still singing, an embarrassingly schmaltzy rendition of "Rose of Tralee." During which he stopped long enough to inform Darcy that his mother's aunt's cousin's daughter had been the Chicago Rose in 1980-something.

Once he was prone, he made a suggestion that was so uncharacteristically lewd, he imagined another woman would have kicked him back down the stairs. But Darcy had only laughed and remarked that men in his condition weren't nearly as good at it as they thought they were, and he should go on to sleep.

He'd obliged her, and saved himself what would have been certain humiliation, by passing out.

But he was awake now, in the full dark, with approximately half the sand of Ardmore Bay in his mouth and the full cast of Riverdance step-toeing inside his head.

He lay there, hoping for oblivion.

When his wish wasn't granted, he imagined the pleasure of sawing off his head and setting it aside to cure while the rest of him got some sleep. But to do that he'd need to find a damn saw, wouldn't he?

Deciding a bucket of aspirin was probably wiser, he eased himself up. Every inch was a punishment, but he managed to bite back a groan and keep at it until he could sit on the side of the bed.

Through bleary eyes, he stared at the glowing dial of the bedside clock. Three forty-five. Well, it just got better and better. Gingerly, he turned his head and saw that Darcy slept on, peaceful and perfect.

Bitter resentment mixed with the sand in his mouth. How could the woman just sleep when a man was dying beside her? Had she no sensibility, no compassion? No goddamn hangover?

He had to fight the urge to give her one rude shove so misery could have company.

He gained his feet, grinding his teeth when the room swam sickly. His stomach suited up, joined the other branches of his body in mutiny, and churned queasily.

Never again, he vowed. Never again would he drink himself drunk. He didn't care if he delivered triplets in a tornado. The thought of that made him want to smile, the wonder of holding that small, raging life in his hands. But all he could manage was a grimace as he hobbled toward the bathroom.

Without thinking, he switched the light on, then heard the high whine that was his own gasping scream. Blind, tortured, he slapped at the switch, came perilously close to whimpering when the blessed dark descended again.

He could only stand, his back braced against the wall, and try to get his breath back.

"Trevor?" Darcy's voice was low, her hand gentle as she laid it on his arm. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm just dandy, thanks. And you?" The words ground out of a throat currently lined with heavy-gauge sandpaper.

"Ah, poor darling. Well, if you didn't have a head after last night, you wouldn't be human. Come on, then, lie back down and let Darcy fix you up."

Perversely, now that she was awake and prepared to soothe, annoyance added to the ugly mix brewing inside him. "You and your horde of sadists fixed me up already."

"Oh, it was terrible. I'm so ashamed."

He'd have narrowed his eyes into a glare, but there was too much blood in them to risk it. "Are you laughing?"

"Of course I am." She tugged his arm, drawing him back into the bedroom. "But that's neither here nor there. Here we go now, that's the way, sit yourself down."

She was entirely too good at it, he thought. Just how many drunken men had she tucked back into bed the morning after? It was a vile thought, an unworthy thought, but even knowing that he couldn't stop it from taking root.

"Had a lot of practice at this?"

Something in his tone slapped, but she shrugged it off because he was suffering. "You can't run a pub and not have the occasional experience with someone who's overindulged. You need a bit of the cure, is all."

"If you think you're going to get more whiskey into me, you're crazy."

"No, no, I've something better than hair of the dog. Just rest yourself." She fluffed pillows behind him, gentle and efficient as a nurse. "It'll take me a minute. I should have made some up last night, but with all the excitement I didn't think of it."

"I just want a goddamn aspirin." Preferably one the size of Pluto.

"I know." She touched her lips to his throbbing head. "I'll be right back."

What game was this? he wondered. Why was she being so nice, so sweet? He'd awakened her at four in the morning and snarled at her. Why wasn't she snarling back? Why wasn't she suffering any effects of last night's celebration?

Suspicious, he forced himself to get up again, and with his jaw clenched, managed to tug on jeans. He found her in the kitchen, and once his abused eyes adjusted to the laser beam of light, saw she was mixing ingredients in a jar.

"You stayed sober."

She stopped what she was doing, glanced back at him. Oh, the man looked as raw and rough as they came, and still managed to be handsome. "I did, yes."

"Why?"

"It was clear even before we got to the pub that you were going to be drunk enough for both of us. And you were entitled. Darling, why don't you sit down? There's no need to pay the piper any more than his due. Your head must be big as the moon this morning."

"I don't make a habit of getting drunk." He said it with some dignity, but because he felt decidedly queasy, he retreated to the living room to sit on the arm of a chair.

"I'm sure you don't." Which was why, she supposed, he wasn't just feeling sick this morning, but insulted as well. It was adorable. "But it was a night for exceptions, and you were having such a grand time, too. It was surely the best party we've had around here since Shawn and Brenna's wedding, and that went on all day and half the night."

She came out, her robe flowing around her legs, carrying some dark and suspicious-looking liquid in a glass. "We had so much to celebrate, after all. Jude and the baby, then the theater."

"What about the theater?"

"The naming of it. Oh, that likely washed away in the beer, didn't it? You announced the naming of the theater. Duachais. I was never so pleased, Trevor. And those in the pub, which by the time we closed was everyone and their brother, were just as delighted. It's a fine name, the right name. And it means something to all of us here."

It annoyed him that he couldn't get a handle on the moment, that he'd announced it when he hadn't been in control. Where was the dignity in that? "You thought of it."

"I told you the word. You put it in the right place. Here, now, wash the aspirin down with this, and you'll be right as rain in no time."

"What is it?"

"Gallagher's Fix, a little potion passed down in my family. Come on, now, there's a good lad."

He scowled at her, plucked the aspirin out of her outstretched hand, then the glass. She looked gorgeous, rested, perfect, with her hair loose and glossy, her eyes clear and amused, her lips slightly curved, in what might have been sympathy. He wanted, desperately, to lay his aching head on her lovely breasts and die quietly.

"I don't like it."

"Oh, now, it's not such a bad taste all in all."

"No." With nothing else available, he drank, glared. "I don't like the whole deal."

This need, he thought as she patiently waited for him to drink the rest. It was too big, too sharp. Even now, when he felt as vile as a man could and still live, he was all but eaten up with need for her. It was humiliating.

"Thanks." He shoved the glass back at her.

"You're very welcome." A little twist of temper snaked through her, but she cut it off, reminding herself he deserved a bit of patience and pampering.

He'd brought her niece into the world, and for that she would owe him for a lifetime. He'd named his theater from a word she'd given him. That was an honor she wouldn't slight by snapping at him when he was laid low.

So she sucked it in and prepared to spoil him a bit.

"I'll tell you what you need now, and that's a good hot breakfast to set you right. And your coffee. So I'll be your loving mother and see to it for you."

She started back toward the kitchen, stopped, shook her head. "For heaven's sake, where's my mind? Speaking of mothers, yours called to the pub last night."

"What? My mother?"

"It was when you were outside, serenading the Duffys on their way home. Shawn spoke with her, and she said just to give you a message."

He'd gotten to his feet. "Nothing's wrong?"

"No, not at all. Shawn said she sounded very pleased and happy and added a congratulations for Ailish. In any case, she said to tell you yes, of course it's supposed to, and that she couldn't be more delighted. She asked that you call her back today so you can tell her all about it."

"Supposed to what? All about what?"

"I couldn't say." She moved back into the kitchen, her voice carrying through the opening.

"I don't know what she's-" He broke off, staggered, and braced himself with a hand to the back of a chair.

I'm in love with her. Is it supposed to make me feel like an idiot?

But he hadn't sent that post. He'd been about to delete that part when the power had gone out, the laptop had died. He had never hit Send. It wasn't possible for her to have gotten a message he'd never sent.

Then he rubbed his hands over his face. Hadn't he already learned the impossible was almost the ordinary here?

Now what? His mother was delighted that he felt like an idiot. That was good, he decided, pacing restlessly now, because he was feeling more like one every minute.

The woman in the next room was making him weak and senseless and stupid. And part of him was thrilled knowing he could be weakly and senselessly and stupidly in love. That worried him.

He stopped to stare at the painting of the mermaid and felt his temper strain. And who was he in love with? Who the hell was she really? How much of her was the siren depicted here, and how much the affectionate woman fixing breakfast? Maybe it was all a spell, some sort of self-serving magic woven over him that had taken his own emotions out of his control to satisfy someone else's-something else's needs.

Maybe she knew it.

Duachais. The lore of a place, he thought grimly. Darcy knew the lore of this place. Gwen had been offered jewels, from the sun and moon and sea. And had refused them. What had Darcy said when he'd asked her if she would trade her pride for jewels?

That she'd find a way to keep both.

He'd lay odds on it.

She had kept this painting, hadn't she? Kept it, hung it on her wall long after she'd shown the artist the door.

"I've no breakfast meats up here," Darcy said as she came out. "So I'll have to go down and pilfer from Shawn. Would you like bacon or sausage, or have you room for both?"

"Did you sleep with him?" It was out, stinging the air, before he could stop it.

"What?"

"The artist, the one who painted this." Trevor turned, faced his own senseless outrage. "Did you sleep with him?"

She took a moment to try to think over the wild beat of blood in her head. "You're trying my patience, Trevor, and I'm not known for it to begin with. So I'll only say that's none of your concern."

Of course it wasn't. "The hell it isn't. Was he in love with you? Did you enjoy that, being that fantasy for him, before you sent him on his way?"

She wouldn't let it hurt. It wouldn't be permitted. So she concentrated on the bright fury in Trevor's eyes and let her own rise to meet it. "That's a fine opinion you have of me, and not so far from the mark. I've had men, and make no excuses for it. I've taken what suited me, and so what?"

He jabbed his hands into his pockets. "And what suits you, Darcy?"

"You did, for a time. But we seem to be at the end of that. Take yourself off, Trevor, before each of us says something that makes it impossible for us to deal with one another again."