“The same,” he said, “plus the sandwich.”

“A fine choice. I’ll be right back with it.”

“She’s stronger than she looks,” Brenna told him when Jude moved to another table. “And more stubborn. Now that she’s found her direction, so to speak, she’ll only work harder to prove she can do what you tell her she shouldn’t. Aidan won’t let her overdo, I promise you. The man adores her.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed. The Gallagher men seem to be devoted to their women.”

“So they better be, or their women will know why.” Relaxed, she kicked back, pulled off her cap. Those red curls tumbled down. “So you aren’t finding it, I guess we’d say, too rustic for you out in the countryside here after being used to New York City?”

He thought of the job sites he’d experienced: mud slides, floods, blistering heat, petty vandalism and sabotage. “Not at all. The village is exactly what I expected after Finkle’s reports.”

“Ah, yes, Finkle.” She remembered Trevor’s scout very well. “Now there’s a man I believe prefers urban conveniences. But you’re not so . . . particular then.”

“I’m very particular, depending. That’s why I incorporated most of your design into the theater project.”

“Now that’s a fine and sneaky compliment.” And nothing could have pleased her more. “I suppose I was angling more toward the personal. I have a special fondness for the cottage on Faerie Hill, and I wasn’t sure you’d find the place to your liking. Thinking, I suppose, a man with your background and wherewithal would be more inclined to settle at the cliff hotel with maid service and the restaurant and so forth.”

“Hotel rooms become confining. And I find it interesting to stay in the house where the woman who was engaged to one of my ancestors was born, and lived, and died.”

“She was a fine woman, Old Maude. A wise woman.” Brenna kept her eyes on Trevor’s face as she spoke. “Her grave’s up near the well of Saint Declan, and it’s there you can feel her. She’s not the one in the cottage now.”

“Who is?”

Brenna lifted her eyebrows. “You don’t know the legend then? Your grandfather was born here, and your father as well, though he was a babe when they sailed to America. Still he visited many years back. Did neither of them tell you the story of Lady Gwen and Prince Carrick.”

“No. So it would be Lady Gwen who haunts the cottage?”

“Have you seen her?”

“No.” Trevor hadn’t been raised on legends and myths, but there was more than enough Irish in his blood to cause him to wonder about them. “But there’s a feminine feel to the place, almost a fragrance, so odds are for the lady.”

“You’d be right about that.”

“Who was she? I figure if I’m sharing quarters with a ghost, I should know something about her.”

No careless dismissal of the subject, no amused indulgence of the Irish and their legends, Brenna noted. Just cool interest. “You surprise me again. Let me see to something first. I’ll be right back.”