Free Jewels of the Sun by Nora Roberts Page A

are as many—more actually—grotesque legends as there are benevolent ones.”
    “Which do you prefer?”
    “Oh, well.” She fumbled a little. “Both, I suppose, depending on the mood.”
    “Do you have many?”
    “Many what?”
    “Moods. I think you do. You have moody eyes.” There , he thought, that’s made her look in my direction again .
    Those long, liquid pulls started up again in her belly, so she looked away again. Quickly. “No, actually, I’m not particularly moody. Anyway, hmmm. You have babies being snatched from their cradles and replaced with changelings, children devoured by ogres. In the last century we’ve changed passages and endings in fairy tales to happy-ever-after, when in reality their early forms contained blood and death and devouring. Psychologically, it mirrors the changes in our cultures, and what parents want their children to hear and to believe.”
    “And what do you believe?”
    “That a story’s a story, but happy-ever-after is less likely to give a child nightmares.”
    “And did your mother tell you stories of changelings?”
    “No.” The idea of it had Jude laughing. “But my grandmother did. In a very entertaining fashion. I imagine you tell an entertaining one, too.”
    “I’ll tell you one now, if you’ve a mind to walk down to the village with me.”
    “Walk?” She shook her head. “It’s miles.”
    “No more than two.” Suddenly he wanted very much to walk with her. “You’ll work off Mrs. Duffy’s cakes, then I’ll feed you supper. We have beggarman’s stew on the menu tonight, and it sits well. I’ll see you get a ride home after a bit.”
    She slid her gaze toward him, then away again. It sounded wonderfully spontaneous, just stand up and go, noplans, no structure. Which, of course, was exactly why it wouldn’t do.
    “That’s tempting, but I really should work a little longer.”
    “Then come tomorrow.” He took her hand again, drawing her to her feet as he rose. “We have music at Gallagher’s of a Saturday night.”
    “You had music there last night.”
    “More,” he told her. “And a bit more. . . structured you’d say, I suppose. Some musicians from Waterford City, the traditional sort. You’ll enjoy it and you can’t write about Ireland’s legends, can you, without its music? So come down to the pub tomorrow night, and I’ll come to you on Sunday.”
    “Come to me?”
    He smiled again, slow, deliberate, delightful. “To tell you a story, for your paper. Will Sunday in the afternoon do for you?”
    “Oh, yes, that would be fine. Perfect.”
    “Good day to you, then, Jude Frances.” He strolled to the gate, then turned. His eyes were bluer, more intense when they met hers, held hers. “Come on Saturday. I like looking at you.”
    She didn’t move a muscle, not when he turned to open the gate, not when he walked through and down to the road. Not even after he was well beyond the high hedge and away.
    Looking at her? What did he mean by that? Exactly.
    Was that some sort of casual flirtation? His eyes hadn’t looked casual, she thought as she began to pace up and down the narrow path. Of course, how would she know, really, when this was only the second time she’d seen him?
    That was probably it. Just an offhand, knee-jerk flirtationfrom a man used to flirting with women. More, when you considered the situation, a friendly remark.
    “ ‘I’d like to see you in the pub on Saturday, come on by,’” she murmured. “That’s all he meant. And damn it all to hell and back, why do I have to pick everything apart?”
    Annoyed with herself, she strode back into the house, closed the door firmly. Any sensible woman would have smiled at him when he’d said it, flirted back a little. It was a harmless, even conditioned response. Unless you were a neurotic tight-ass.
    “Which, Jude F. Murray, is exactly what you are. A neurotic tight-ass. You couldn’t just open your idiot mouth and say something like, ‘I’ll see what I