She nodded. "I'm meaner." But she relented enough to take up a pontil herself and hand it to him.

 

He hefted it, twirled it. "Great murder weapon."

 

"I'll keep that in mind the next time someone interrupts my work."

 

"So what's the process?" He glanced toward drawings spread out on a bench. "You sketch out ideas?"

 

"Often." She sipped at her tea, eyeing him. In truth, there was something about the way he moved, light and fluid without any fuss, that made her yearn for her sketchpad. "After a quick lesson?"

 

"Always. It must get pretty hot in here when the furnaces are fired. You melt the stuff in there, and then what?"

 

"I make a gather," she began. For the next thirty minutes she took him step by step through the process of hand-blowing a vessel.

 

The man was full of questions, she thought. Intriguing questions, she admitted, the kind that made you go beyond the technical processes and into the creative purpose behind them. She might have been able to resist that, but his enthusiasm was more difficult. Instead of hurrying him along, she found herself answering those questions, demonstrating, and laughing with him.

 

"Keep this up and I'll draft you as pontil boy." Amused, she rubbed a hand over her belly. "Well, come in and have some tea."

 

"You wouldn't have any of Brianna's cookies-biscuits."

 

Maggie's brow arched. "I do."

 

A few moments later Gray was settled at Maggie's kitchen table with a plate of gingersnaps. "I swear she could market these," he said with his mouth full. "Make a fortune."

 

"She'd rather give them to the village children."

 

"I'm surprised she doesn't have a brood of her own." He waited a beat. "I haven't noticed any man coming around."

 

"And you're the noticing sort, aren't you, Grayson Thane?"

 

"Goes with the territory. She's a beautiful woman."

 

"I won't disagree." Maggie poured boiling water into a warmed teapot.

 

"You're going to make me yank it out," he muttered. "Is there someone or not?"

 

"You could ask her yourself." Miffed, Maggie set the pot on the table, frowned at him. Oh, he had a talent, she thought, for making you want to tell him what he wanted to know. "No," she snapped out and slapped a mug on the table in front of him. "There's no one. She brushes them off, freezes them out. She'd rather spend all her time tending to her guests or running out to Ennis every time our mother sniffles. Self-sacrificing is what our Saint Brianna does best."

 

"You're worried about her," Gray murmured. "What's troubling her, Maggie?"

 

" 'Tis family business. Let it alone." Belatedly she poured his cup, then her own. She sighed then, and sat. "How do you know she's troubled?"

 

"It shows. In her eyes. Just like it's showing in yours now."

 

"It'll be settled soon enough." Maggie made a determined effort to push it aside. "Do you always dig into people?"

 

"Sure." He tried the tea. It was strong enough to stand up and dance. Perfect. "Being a writer's a great cover for just being nosy." Then his eyes changed, sobered. "I like her. It's impossible not to. It bothers me to see her sad."

 

"She can use a friend. You've a talent for getting people to talk. Use it on her. But mind," she added before Gray could speak, "she's soft feelings underneath. Bruise them, and I'll bruise you."

 

"Point taken." And time, he thought, to change the subject. He kicked back, propping a booted foot on his knee. "So, what's the story with our pal Murphy? Did the guy from Dublin really steal you out from under his nose?"

 

It was fortunate that she'd swallowed her tea or she might have choked. Her laugh started deep and grew into guffaws that had her eyes watering.

 

"I missed a joke," Rogan said from the doorway. "Take a breath, Maggie, you're turning red."

 

"Sweeney." She sucked in a giggling breath and reached for his hand. "This is Grayson Thane. He was wondering if you stepped over Murphy's back to woo me."

 

"Not Murphy's," he said pleasantly, "but I had to step all over Maggie's-ending with her head, which needed some sense knocked into it. It's nice meeting you," he added, offering Gray his free hand. "I've spent many entertaining hours in your stories."

 

"Thanks."

 

"Gray's been keeping me company," Maggie told him. "And now I'm in too fine a mood to yell at you for not waking me this morning."

 

"You needed sleep." He poured tea, winced after the first sip. "Christ, Maggie, must you always brew it to death?"

 

"Yes." She leaned forward, propped her chin on her hand. "What part of America are you from, Gray?"

 

"No part in particular. I move around."

 

"But your home?"

 

"I don't have one." He bit into another cookie. "I don't need one with the way I travel."

 

The idea was fascinating. Maggie tilted her head and studied him. "You just go from place to place, with what- the clothes on your back?"

 

"A little more than that, but basically. Sometimes I end up picking up something I can't resist-like that sculpture of yours in Dublin. I rent a place in New York, kind of a catchall for stuff. That's where my publisher and agent are based, so I go back about once, maybe twice a year. I can write anywhere," he said with a shrug. "So I do."

 

"And your family?"

 

"You're prying, Margaret Mary."

 

"He did it first," she shot back to Rogan.

 

"I don't have any family. Do you have names picked out for the baby?" Gray asked, neatly turning the subject.

 

Recognizing the tactic, Maggie frowned at him. Rogan gave her knee a squeeze under the table before she could speak. "None that we can agree on. We hope to settle on one before the child's ready to go to university."

 

Smoothly Rogan steered the conversation into polite, impersonal topics until Gray rose to leave. Once she was alone with her husband, Maggie drummed her fingers on the table.

 

"I'd have found out more about him if you hadn't interfered."

 

"It's none of your business." He leaned over and kissed her mouth.

 

"Maybe it is. I like him well enough. But he gets a look in his eyes when he speaks of Brianna. I'm not sure I like that."

 

"That's none of your business, either."

 

"She's my sister."

 

"And well able to take care of herself."

 

"A lot you'd know about it," Maggie grumbled. "Men always think they know women, when what they know is a pitiful nothing."

 

"I know you, Margaret Mary." In a neat move he scooped her out of the chair and into his arms.

 

"What are you about?"

 

"I'm about to take you to bed, strip you naked, and make incredibly thorough love with you."

 

"Oh, are you?" She tossed back her hair. "You're just trying to distract me from the subject at hand."

 

"Let's see how well I can do."

 

She smiled, wound her arms around his neck. "I suppose I should at least give you the chance."

 

When Gray strolled back into Blackthorn Cottage, he found Brianna on her hands and knees rubbing paste wax into the parlor floor in slow, almost loving circles. The little gold cross she sometimes wore swung like a pendulum from its thin chain and caught quick glints of light. She had music on, some lilting tune she was singing along with in Irish. Charmed, he crossed over and squatted down beside her.

 

"What do the words mean?"

 

She jolted first. He had a way of moving that no more than stirred the air. She blew loose hair out of her eyes and continued to polish. "It's about going off to war."

 

"It sounds too happy to be about war."

 

"Oh, we're happy enough to fight. You're back earlier than usual. Are you wanting tea?"

 

"No, thanks. I just had some at Maggie's."

 

She looked up then. "You were visiting Maggie?"

 

"I thought I'd take a walk and ended up at her place. She gave me a tour of her glass house."

 

Brianna laughed, then seeing he was serious, sat back on her haunches. "And how in sweet heaven did you manage such a feat as that?"

 

"I asked." And grinned. "She was a little cranky about it at first, but she fell in." He leaned toward Brianna, sniffed. "You smell of lemon and beeswax."

 

"That's not surprising." She had to clear her throat. "It's what I'm polishing the floor with." She made a small, strangled sound when he took her hand.

 

"You ought to wear gloves when you do heavy work."

 

"They get in my way." She shook her hand, but he held on. Though she tried to look firm, she only managed to look distressed. "You're in my way."

 

"I'll get out of it in a minute." She looked so damned pretty, he thought, kneeling on the floor with her polishing rag and her flushed cheeks. "Come out with me tonight, Brie. Let me take you to dinner."

 

"I've a-I've mutton," she said, fumbling, "for making Dingle Pies."

 

"It'll keep, won't it?"

 

"It will, yes, but... If you're tired of my cooking-"

 

"Brianna." His voice was soft, persuasive. "I want to take you out."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because you've got a pretty face." He skimmed his lips over her knuckles and made her heart stick in her throat. "Because I think it might be nice for you to have someone else do the cooking and the washing up for one night."

 

"I like to cook."

 

"I like to write, but it's always a kick to read something someone else has sweated over."

 

"It's not the same."

 

"Sure it is." Head tilted, he aimed that sudden razor-sharp gaze at her. "You're not afraid to be alone with me in a public restaurant, are you?"

 

"What a foolish thing to say." What a foolish thing, she realized, for her to feel.

 

"Fine then, it's a date. Seven o'clock." Wise enough to know when to retreat, Gray straightened and strolled out.

 

She told herself not to worry over her dress, then fretted about it just the same. In the end she chose the simple hunter green wool that Maggie had brought her back from Milan. With its long sleeves and high neck, it looked plain, even serviceable, until it was on. Cannily cut, the thin, soft wool had a way of draping over curves and revealing every bit as much as it concealed.

 

Still, Brianna told herself, it suited a dinner out, and that it was a sin she'd yet to wear it when Maggie had gone to the trouble and expense. And it felt so lovely against her skin.

 

Annoyed at the continued flutter of nerves, she picked up her coat, a plain black with a mended lining, and draped it over her arm. It was simply the offer of a meal, she reminded herself. A nice gesture from a man she'd been feeding for more than a week.

 

Taking one last steadying breath, she stepped out of her room into the kitchen, then started down the hall. He'd just come down the stairs. Self-conscious, she paused.

 

He stopped where he was, one foot still on the bottom step, his hand on the newel post. For a moment they only stared at each other in one of those odd, sliding instants of awareness. Then he stepped forward and the sensation rippled away.

 

"Well, well." His lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. "You make a picture, Brianna."

 

"You're wearing a suit." And looked gorgeous in it.

 

"I drag one on now and again." He took her coat, slipped it over her shoulders.

 

"You never said where we were going."

 

"To eat." He put an arm around her waist and swept her out of the house.

 

The interior of the car made her sigh. It smelled of leather, and the leather was soft as butter. She skimmed her fingers over the seat as he drove.

 

"It was kind of you to do this, Gray."

 

"Kindness had nothing to do with it. I had an urge to go out, and I wanted you with me. You never come into the pub at night."

 

She relaxed a little. So that's where they were going. "I haven't lately. I do like stopping in now and then, seeing everyone. The O'Malleys had another grandchild this week."

 

"I know. I was treated to a pint to celebrate."

 

"I just finished a bunting for the baby. I should have brought it with me."

 

"We're not going to the pub. What's a bunting?"

 

"It's a kind of sacque; you button the baby into it." As they passed through the village she smiled. "Look, there's Mr. and Mrs. Conroy. More than fifty years married, and they still hold hands. You should see them dance."

 

"That's what I was told about you." He glanced at her. "You won contests."

 

"When I was a girl." She shrugged it off. Regrets were a foolish indulgence. "I was never serious about it. It was just for fun."

 

"What do you do for fun now?"

 

"Oh, this and that. You drive well for a Yank." At his bland look, she chuckled. "What I mean is that a lot of your people have some trouble adjusting to our roads and driving on the proper side."

 

"We won't debate which is the proper side, but I've spent a lot of time in Europe."

 

"You don't have an accent I can place-I mean other than American. I've made kind of a game out of it, you see, from guessing with my guests."

 

"It might be because I'm not from anywhere."

 

"Everyone's from somewhere."

 

"No, they're not. There are more nomads in the world than you might think."

 

"So, you're claiming to be a gypsy." She pushed her hair back and studied his profile. "Well, that's one I didn't think of."

 

"Meaning?"

 

"The night you came. I thought you looked a bit like a pirate-then a poet, even a boxer, but not a gypsy. But that suits, too."

 

"And you looked like a vision-billowing white gown, tumbled hair, courage and fear warring in your eyes."

 

"I wasn't afraid." She glimpsed the sign just before he turned off the road. "Here? Drumoland Castle? But we can't."

 

"Why not? I'm told the cuisine's exquisite."

 

"Sure and it is, and very dear."

 

He laughed, slowing to enjoy the view of the castle, gray and glorious on the slope of the hill, glinting under lights. "Brianna, I'm a very well paid gypsy. Stunning, isn't it?"

 

"Yes. And the gardens... you can't see them well now, and the winter's been so harsh, but they've the most beautiful gardens." She looked over the slope of lawn to a bed of dormant rosebushes. "In the back is a walled garden. It's so lovely it doesn't seem real. Why didn't you stay at a place like this?"

 

He parked the car, shut it off. "I nearly did, then I heard about your inn. Call it impulse." He flashed a grin at her. "I like impulses."

 

He climbed out of the car, took her hand to lead her up the stone steps into the great hall.

 

It was spacious and lush, as castles should be, with dark wood and deep red carpets. There was the smell of wood-smoke from the fire, the glint of crystal, the lonely sound of harp music.

 

"I stayed in a castle in Scotland," he began, moving toward the dining room with his fingers twined with hers. "And one in Cornwall. Fascinating places, full of shades and shadows."

 

"You believe in ghosts?"

 

"Of course." His eyes met hers as he reached out to take her coat. "Don't you?"

 

"I do, yes. We have some, you know, at home."

 

"The stone circle."

 

Even as she felt surprise, she realized she shouldn't. He would have been there, and he would have felt it. "There, yes, and other places."

 

Gray turned to the maitre d'. "Thane," he said simply.

 

They were welcomed, shown to their table. As Gray accepted the wine list, he glanced at Brianna. "Would you like wine?"

 

"That would be nice."

 

He took a brief glance, smiled up at the sommelier. "The Chassagne-Montrachet."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Hungry?" he asked Brianna, who was all but devouring the menu.

 

"I'm trying to memorize it," she murmured. "I dined here once with Maggie and Rogan, and I've come close to duplicating this chicken in honey and wine."

 

"Read it for pleasure," he suggested. "We'll get a copy of the menu for you."

 

She eyed him over the top. "They won't give one to you."

 

"Sure they will."

 

She gave a short laugh and chose her meal at random. Once they'd placed their orders and sampled the wine, Gray leaned forward. "Now, tell me."

 

She blinked. "Tell you what?"

 

"About the ghosts."

 

"Oh." She smiled a little, running a finger down her wineglass. "Well, years ago, as it happened, there were lovers. She was betrothed to another, so they met in secret. He was a poor man, a simple farmer so they say, and she the daughter of the English landlord. But they loved, and made desperate plans to run off and be together. This night, they met at the stone circle. There, they thought, at that holy place, that magic place, they would ask the gods to bless them. She carried his child now, you see, and they had no time to lose. They knelt there, at the center, and she told him she was with child. It's said they wept together, with joy and with fear as the wind whispered cold and the old stones sheltered them. And there they loved each other a last time. He would go, he told her, and take his horse from his plow, gather whatever he could, and come back for her. They would leave that very night."

 

Brianna sighed a little, her eyes dreamy. "So he left her there, in the center of the circle of stones. But when he reached his farm, they were waiting for him. The men of the English landlord. They cut him down so that his blood stained the land, and they burned his house, his crops. His only thought as he lay dying was of his love."

 

She paused, with the innate timing of one who knows and spins tales. The harpist in the far corner plucked softly at a ballad of ill-fated love. "And she waited there, in the center of the circle of stones. While she waited, she grew cold, so cold she began to tremble. Her lover's voice came across the fields to her, like tears in the air. She knew he was dead. And knowing, she laid down, closed her eyes, and sent herself to him. When they found her the next morning, she was smiling. But she was cold, very cold, and her heart was not beating. There are nights, if you stand in the center of the circle of stones, you can hear them whisper their promises to each other and the grass grows damp with their tears."

 

Letting out a long breath, Gray sat back and sipped at his wine. "You have talent, Brianna, for storytelling."

 

"I tell you only as it was told to me. Love survives, you see. Through fear, through heartache, even through death."

 

"Have you heard them whispering?"

 

"I have. And I've wept for them. And I've envied them." She sat back, shook off the mood. "And what ghosts do you know?"

 

"Well, I'll tell you a story. In the hills not far from the field of Cullodon a one-armed Highlander roams."

 

Her lips curved. "Is this truth, Grayson, or made up?"

 

He took her hand, kissed it. "You tell me."

 

Chapter Five

 

She'd never had an evening quite like it. All the elements added up to one wonderful memory-the gorgeous man who seemed fascinated by her every word, the romantic trappings of a castle, without the medieval inconveniences, glorious French food, delicate wine.

 

She wasn't sure how she would ever pay him back for it -particularly for the menu Gray had charmed out of the maitre d'.

 

She began the only way she knew, by planning a special breakfast.

 

When Maggie came in, the kitchen was filled with sizzling scents, and Brianna was singing.

 

"Well, you're having a fine morning, I see."

 

"I am, yes." Brianna flipped over a thick slab of spiced toast. "Will you have some breakfast, Maggie? There's more than enough."

 

"I've eaten already." It was said with some regret. "Is Gray about?"

 

"He isn't down yet. Usually he's sniffing at the skillets by this time of day."

 

"Then we're alone for the moment."

 

"Yes." Her light mood plummeted. Carefully Brianna set the last piece of bread on the platter and put the meal into the oven to keep warm. "You've come to talk about the letters."

 

"I've kept you worrying over it long enough, haven't I? I'm sorry for that."

 

"We both needed to think." Brianna folded her hands over her apron, faced her sister. "What do you want to do, Maggie?"

 

"What I want to do is nothing, to pretend I've never read them, that they don't exist."

 

"Maggie-"

 

"Let me finish," she snapped out and began to roam the kitchen like an ill-tempered cat. "I want to go on as we are, and to keep my memories of Da my own. I don't want to wonder or worry about a woman he knew and bedded a lifetime ago. I don't want to think about a grown brother or sister somewhere. You're my sister," she said passionately. "You're my family. I tell myself this Amanda made a life for herself and her child somewhere, somehow, and they wouldn't thank us for poking into it now. I want to forget it, I want it to go away. That's what I want, Brianna."

 

She stopped, leaning back on the counter and sighing. "That's what I want," she repeated, "but it's not what must be done. He said her name-almost the last thing he said in life was her name. She has the right to know that. I have the right to curse her for it."

 

"Sit down, Maggie. It can't be good for you to be so upset."

 

"Of course I'm upset. We're both upset. We have different ways of dealing with it." With a shake of her head she waved Brianna off. "I don't need to sit. If the baby isn't used to my temper by now, he'll have to learn." Still she made an effort, taking a couple of calming breaths. "We'll need to hire an investigator, a detective, in New York. That's what you want, isn't it?"

 

"I think it's what we have to do," Brianna said carefully. "For ourselves. For Da. How will we go about it?"

 

"Rogan knows people. He'll make calls. He's wonderful at making calls." Because she could see Brianna needed it, she managed a smile. "That'll be the easy part. As to finding them, I don't know how long that might take. And God only knows what we'll do if and when we're faced with them. She might have married, this Amanda, and have a dozen children and a happy life."

 

"I've thought of that. But we have to find out, don't we?"

 

"We do." Stepping forward, Maggie laid her hands gently on Brianna's cheeks. "Don't worry so, Brie."

 

"I won't if you won't."

 

"It's a pact," Maggie kissed her lightly to seal it. "Now go feed your lazy Yank. I've fired my furnace and have work to do."

 

"Nothing heavy."

 

Maggie tossed back a grin as she turned for the door. "I know my limits."

 

"No, you don't, Margaret Mary," Brianna called out as the door slammed shut. She stood for a moment, lost in thought until Con's steady tail thumping roused her. "Want out, do you? Fine, then. Go see what Murphy's up to."

 

The minute she opened the door, Con streaked out. After one satisfied bark, he was loping toward the fields. She closed the door on the damp air and debated. It was after ten, and she had chores. If Gray wasn't coming down to breakfast, she'd take it up to him.

 

A glance at the menu on the table had her smiling again. She was humming as she arranged the breakfast tray. Hefting it, she carried it upstairs. His door was closed and made her hesitate. She knocked softly, got no response, and began to gnaw her lip. Perhaps he was ill. Concerned, she knocked again, more loudly, and called his name.

 

She thought she heard a grunt, and shifting the tray, eased the door open.

 

The bed looked as though it had been the scene of a small war. The sheets and blankets were tangled into knots, the quilt trailing over the footboard onto the floor. And the room was stone cold.

 

Stepping over the threshold, she saw him, and stared.

 

He was at the desk, his hair wild, his feet bare. There was a heap of books piled beside him as his fingers raced over the keys of a small computer. At his elbow was an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The air reeked of them.

 

"Excuse me." No response. The muscles in her arms were beginning to ache from the weight of the tray. "Gray-son."

 

"What?" The word shot out like a bullet, taking her back a step. His head whipped up.

 

It was the pirate again, she thought. He looked dangerous and inclined to violence. As his eyes focused on her, without any sign of recognition, she wondered if he might have gone mad during the night.

 

"Wait," he ordered and attacked the keyboard again. Brianna waited, baffled, for nearly five full minutes. He leaned back then, rubbed his hands hard over his face like a man just waking from a dream. Or, she thought, a nightmare. Then he turned to her again, with that quick, familiar smile. "Is that breakfast?"

 

"Yes, I ... It's half past ten, and when you didn't come down..."

 

"Sorry." He rose, took the tray from her, and set it on the bed. He picked up a piece of English bacon with his fingers. "I got it in the middle of the night. It was the ghost story that clicked it, I think. Christ, it's cold in here."

 

"Well, 'tis no wonder. You're after catching your death with nothing on your feet and the fire out."

 

He only smiled as she knelt at the hearth and began to arrange new turf. She'd sounded like a mother scolding a foolish child. "I got caught up."

 

"That's all fine and good, but it's not healthy for you to be sitting here in the cold, smoking cigarettes instead of eating a decent meal."

 

"Smells better than decent." Patient, he crouched down beside her, ran a carelessly friendly hand down her back. "Brianna, will you do me a favor?"

 

"If I can, yes."

 

"Go away."

 

Stunned, she turned her head. Even as she gaped at him, he was laughing and taking her hands in his.

 

"No offence, honey. It's just that I tend to bite if my work's interrupted, and it's cooking for me right now."

 

"I certainly don't mean to be in your way."

 

He winced, bit back on annoyance. He was trying to be diplomatic, wasn't he? "I need to hang with it while it's moving, okay? So just forget I'm up here."

 

"But your room. You need the linens changed, and the bath-"

 

"Don't worry about it." The fire was glowing now, and so was the impatience inside him. He raised her to her feet. "You can shovel it out when I hit a dry spell. I'd appreciate it if you'd drop some food off outside the door now and again, but that's all I'll need."

 

"All right, but-" He was already guiding her to the door. She huffed. "You don't have to be booting me out, I'm going."

 

"Thanks for breakfast."

 

"You're-" He shut the door in her face. "Welcome," she said between her teeth.

 

For the rest of that day and two more she didn't hear a peep out of him. She tried not to think of the state of the room, if he'd remembered to keep the fire going or if he bothered to sleep. She knew he was eating. Each time she brought up a fresh tray, the old one was outside the door. He rarely left so much as a crumb on a plate.

 

She might have been alone in the house-if she hadn't been so aware of him. She doubted very much that he gave her a moment's thought.

 

She'd have been right. He did sleep now and again, catnaps that were ripe with dreams and visions. He ate, fueling his body as the story fueled his mind. It was storming through him. In three days he had more than a hundred pages. They were rough, sometimes static, but he had the core of it.

 

He had murder, gleeful and sly. He had hopelessness and pain, desperation and lies.

 

He was in heaven.

 

When it finally ground to a halt, he crawled into bed, pulled the covers over his head, and slept like the dead.

 

When he woke, he took a long look at the room and decided a woman as strong as Brianna was unlikely to faint at the sight of it. The sight of him, however, as he studied himself in the bathroom mirror, was another matter. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. He looked, he decided, like something that had crawled out of a bog.

 

He peeled off his shirt, winced at the smell of it, and himself, and stepped into the shower. Thirty minutes later he was pulling on fresh clothes. He felt a little lightheaded, more than a little stiff from lack of exercise. But the excitement was still on him. He pushed open the bedroom window and took a deep gulp of the rainy morning.

 

A perfect day, he thought. In the perfect place.

 

His breakfast tray was outside the door, the food gone cold. He'd slept through that, he realized, and lifting it, hoped he could charm Brianna into heating it up for him again.

 

And maybe she'd go for a walk with him. He could use some company. Maybe he could talk her into driving into Galway, spending the day with him in crowds. They could always-

 

He stopped in the kitchen doorway, and his grin spread from ear to ear. There she was, up to her wrists in bread dough, her hair scooped up, her nose dusted with flour.

 

It was such a wonderful picture, and his mood was high. He set the tray down with a rattle that had her jolting and looking up. She had just begun to smile when he strode to her, framed her face firmly in his hands, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

 

Her hands fisted in the dough. Her head spun. Before she could react, he'd pulled away. "Hi. Great day, isn't it? I feel incredible. You can't count on it coming like that, you know. And when it does, it's like this train highballing right through your head. You can't stop it." He picked up a piece of cold toast from his tray, started to bite in. It was halfway to his mouth before it hit him. His eyes locked on hers again. He let the toast fall back to the plate.

 

The kiss had merely been a reflection of his mood, light, exuberant. Now, some sort of delayed reaction was setting in, tightening his muscles, skimming up his spine.

 

She simply stood there, staring at him, her lips still parted in shock, her eyes huge with it.

 

"Wait a minute," he murmured and moved to her again. "Wait just a minute."

 

She couldn't have moved if the roof had caved in. She could barely breathe as his hands framed her face again, gently this time, like a man experimenting with texture. His eyes stayed open, the expression in them not entirely pleased as he leaned toward her this time.

 

She felt his lips brush hers, soft, lovely. The kind of touch that shouldn't have kindled a fire in the blood. Yet her blood heated. He turned her, just enough so that their bodies met, tipped her head back just enough so that the kiss would deepen.

 

Some sound, distress or pleasure, hummed in her throat before her fisted hands went limp.

 

Hers was a mouth to savor, he realized. Full, generous, yielding. A man shouldn't hurry a mouth such as this. He scraped his teeth lightly over her bottom lip and thrilled to the low, helpless purr that answered him. Slowly, watching her eyes glaze and close, he traced her lips with his tongue, dipped inside.

 

So many subtle flavors.

 

It was wonderful, the way he could feel her skin warm, her bones soften, her heart pound. Or maybe it was his heart. Something was roaring in his head, throbbing in his blood. It wasn't until greed began to grow, with the crafty violence that mated with it, that he drew back.

 

She was trembling, and instinct warned him that if he let himself go, he'd hurt them both. "That was better than I imagined it would be," he managed. "And I've got a hell of an imagination."

 

Staggered, she braced a hand on the counter. Her knees were shaking. Only fear of mortification kept her voice from shaking as well. "Is this how you always behave when you come out of your cave?"

 

"I'm not always lucky enough to have a beautiful woman handy." He tilted his head, studying her. The pulse in her throat was still jumping, and her skin was still flushed. But, unless he was off the mark, she was already rebuilding that thin, defensive wall. "That wasn't ordinary. There isn't any point in pretending it was."

 

"I'm not ordinarily kissed by a guest while I'm making bread. I wouldn't know what's ordinary for you, would I?" His eyes changed, darkening with a hint of temper. When he stepped forward, she stepped back. "Please, don't."

 

Now those dark eyes narrowed. "Be more specific."

 

"I have to finish this. The dough needs to rise again."

 

"You're evading, Brianna."

 

"All right, don't kiss me like that again." She let out a choppy breath, drew another in. "I don't have the right defenses."

 

"It doesn't have to be a battle. I'd like to take you to bed, Brianna."

 

To occupy her nervous hands, she snatched up a towel and rubbed at the dough clinging to her fingers. "Well, that's blunt."

 

"It's honest. If you're not interested, just say so."

 

"I don't take things as casually as you, with a yes or a no, and no harm done." Fighting for calm, she folded the towel neatly, set it aside. "And I've no experience in such matters."

 

Damn her for being cool when his blood was raging. "What matters?"

 

"The one you're speaking of. Now move aside, so I can get back to my bread."

 

He simply took her arm and stared into her eyes. A virgin? he wondered, letting the idea circle around and take root. A woman who looked like this, who responded like this?

 

"Is something wrong with the men around here?" He said it lightly, hoping to cut some of the tension. But the result was a flash of pain in her eyes that made him feel like a slug.

 

"It's my business, isn't it, how I live my life?" Her voice had chilled. "Now, I've respected your wishes and your work these past days. Would you do me the same and let me get on with mine?"

 

"All right." He let her go, stepped back. "I'm going out for a while. Do you want me to pick up anything for you?"

 

"No, thank you." She plunged her hands into the dough again and began to knead. "It's raining a bit," she said evenly. "You might want a jacket."

 

He walked to the doorway, turned back. "Brianna." He waited until she'd lifted her head. "You never said whether or not you were interested. I'll have to assume you're thinking about it."

 

He strode out. She didn't let out her next breath until she heard the door close behind him.

 

Gray worked off excess energy with a long drive and a visit to the Cliffs of Moher. To give them both time to settle, he stopped in for lunch at a pub in Ennis. He walked off a heavy dose of fish and chips by wandering along the narrow streets. Something in a shop window caught his eyes, and following impulse he stepped inside and had it boxed.

 

By the time he returned to Blackthorn, he'd nearly convinced himself that what he'd experienced in the kitchen with Brianna was more a result of his joy over his work than chemistry.

 

Still, when he stepped into his room and found her kneeling on the edge of his bathroom floor, a bucket beside her and a rag in her hand, the scales tipped the other way. If a man wasn't dazzled with sex, why else would such a picture make his blood pump?

 

"Do you have any idea how often I come across you in that position?"

 

She looked over her shoulder. "It's an honest living." She blew her hair back. "I'll tell you this, Grayson Thane, you live like a pig when you're working."

 

He cocked a brow. "Is that the way you talk to all your guests?"

 

He had her there. She flushed a little and slapped her rag back on the floor. "I'll be done here soon if you've a mind to get back to it. I've another guest coming in this evening."

 

"Tonight?" He scowled at the back of her head. He liked having the place to himself. Having her to himself. "Who?"

 

"A British gentleman. He called shortly after you left this morning."

 

"Well, who is he? How long's he staying?" And what the hell did he want?

 

"A night or two," she said easily. "I don't interrogate my guests, as you should know."

 

"It just seems to me that you should ask questions. You can't just let strangers waltz into your home."

 

Amused, she sat back and shook her head at him. A combination of the scruffy and elegant, she thought, with his gold-tipped hair pulled back piratelike, those lovely eyes of his sulky, the pricey boots, worn jeans, and crisp shirt. "That's exactly what I do. I believe you waltzed in yourself, in the dead of night, not so long ago."

 

"That's different." At her bland look, he shrugged. "It just is. Look, would you get up and stop that? You could eat off the damn floor."

 

"Obviously today's rambling didn't put a smile on your face."

 

"I was fine." He prowled the room, then snarled. "You've been messing with my desk."

 

"I cleaned off an inch of dust and cigarette ash, if that's what you're meaning. I didn't touch your little machine there except to lift it up and set it down again." Though she'd been tempted, sorely, to open the lid and take a peek at the works.

 

"You don't have to clean up after me all the time." He hissed out a breath, stuffed his hands in his pockets when she simply stood, bucket in hand, and looked at him. "Goddamn it, I thought I'd figured this out. It's not doing my ego any good to know you're not even trying to tie me up in knots." He closed his eyes, let out a breath. "Okay, let's try this again. I brought you a present."

 

"Did you? Why?"

 

"Why the hell not?" He snatched the bag he'd put on the bed and handed it to her. "I saw it. I thought you'd like it."

 

"That was kind of you." She slipped the box from the bag and began to work at the tape that held it closed.

 

She smelled of soap and flowers and disinfectant. Gray set his teeth. "Unless you want me to toss you on the bed you've just tidied up, you'd be wise to step back."

 

She looked up, startled, her hands freezing on the box. "I'm serious."

 

Cautious, she moistened her lips. "All right." She took a step back, then another. "Is this better?"

 

The absurdity of it finally struck. Helpless to do otherwise, he grinned at her. "Why do you fascinate me, Brianna?"

 

"I have no idea. None at all."

 

"That might be why," he murmured. "Open your present."

 

"I'm trying." She loosened the tape, turned back the lid, and dug into the tissue paper. "Oh, it's lovely." Pleasure lit her face as she turned the porcelain cottage in her hands. It was delicately made, the front door open in welcome, a tidy garden with each tiny petal perfect. "It looks as though you could move right in." "It made me think of you."

 

"Thank you." Her smile was easier now. "Did you buy it to soften me up?" "Tell me if it worked first."

 

Now she laughed. "No, I won't. You have advantage enough as it is." "Do I?"

 

Warned by the purr in his tone, she concentrated on replacing the cottage in the bed of tissue. "I have dinner to tend to. Will you be wanting a tray?" "Not tonight. The first wave's past." "The new guest is expected by five, so you'll have company with your meal." "Terrific."

 

Gray had been prepared to dislike the British gentlemen on sight, rather like a stud dog, he realized, exercising territorial rights. But it was difficult to feel threatened or irritated with the tidy little man with the shiny bald pate and the snooty public school accent.

 

His name was Herbert Smythe-White, of London, a retired widower who was in the first stages of a six-month tour of Ireland and Scotland.

 

"Pure indulgence," he told Gray over dinner. "Nancy and I weren't blessed with children, you see. She's been gone nearly two years now, and I find myself brooding about the house. We'd planned to make a trip like this, but work always kept me too busy." His smile was laced with regret. "I decided to make it myself as a sort of tribute to her. I think she would have liked that."

 

"Is this your first stop?"

 

"It is. I flew into Shannon, leased a car." He chuckled, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and polishing the lenses on a handkerchief. "I'm armed with the tourist's weapons of maps and guidebooks. I'll take a day or two here before heading north." He set his glasses back on his prominent nose. "I'm very much afraid I'm taking the best first, however. Miss Concannon sets an excellent table."

 

"You won't get an argument from me." They were sharing the dining room and a succulent salmon. "What work were you in?"

 

"Banking. I'm afraid I spent too much of my life worried about figures." He helped himself to another spoonful of potatoes in mustard sauce. "And you, Mr. Thane. Miss Concannon tells me you're a writer. We practical sorts always envy the creative ones. I've never taken enough time to read for pleasure, but will certainly pick up one of your books now that we've met. Are you traveling, also?"

 

"Not at the moment. I'm based here for now."

 

"Here, at the inn?"

 

"That's right." He glanced up as Brianna came in.

 

"I hope you've room for dessert." She set a large bowl of trifle on the table.

 

"Oh, my dear." Behind his polished lenses, Smythe-White's eyes danced with pleasure, and perhaps a little greed. "I'll be a stone heavier before I leave the room."

 

"I put magic in it, so the calories don't count." She dished generous portions into bowls. "I hope your room's comfortable, sir. If there's anything you need, you've only to ask."

 

"It's exactly what I want," he assured her. "I must come back when your garden's in bloom,"

 

"I hope you will." She left them a coffeepot and a decanter of brandy.

 

"A lovely woman," Smythe-White commented.

 

"Yes, she is."

 

"And so young to be running an establishment alone. One would think she'd have a husband, a family."

 

"She's nothing if not efficient." The first spoonful of trifle melted on Gray's tongue. Efficient wasn't the word, he realized. The woman was a culinary witch. "She has a sister and brother-in-law just down the road. And it's a close community. Someone's always knocking on the kitchen door."

 

"That's fortunate. I imagine it could be a lonely place otherwise. Still, I noticed as I was driving in that neighbors are few and far between." He smiled again. "I'm afraid I'm spoiled by the city, and not at all ashamed that I enjoy the crowds and the pace. It may take me awhile to grow accustomed to the night quiet."

 

"You'll have plenty of it." Gray poured brandy into a snifter, then, at his companion's nod, into a second. "I was in London not long ago. What part are you from?"

 

"I have a little flat near Green Park. Didn't have the heart to keep the house after Nancy went." He sighed, swirled brandy. "Let me offer some unsolicited advice, Mr. Thane. Make your days count. Don't invest all your efforts in the future. You miss too much of the now."

 

"That's advice I live on."

 

Hours later it was thoughts of leftover trifle that pulled Gray away from his warm bed and a good book. The house moaned a bit around him as he dug up a pair of sweats, pulled them on. He padded downstairs in his bare feet with greedy dreams of gorging.

 

It certainly wasn't his first middle-of-the-night trip to the kitchen since he'd settled into Blackthorn. None of the shadows or creaking boards disturbed him as he slipped down the hall and into the dark kitchen. He turned on the stove light, not wanting to awaken Brianna.

 

Then he wished he hadn't thought of her, or of the fact that she was sleeping just a wall beyond. In that long, flannel nightgown, he imagined, with the little buttons at the collar. So prim it made her look exotic-certainly it made a man, a red-blooded one, wonder about the body all that material concealed.

 

And if he kept thinking along those lines, all the trifle in the country wouldn't sate his appetite.

 

One vice at a time, pal, he told himself. And got out a bowl. A sound from the outside made him pause, listen. Just as he was about to dismiss it as old house groans, he heard the scratching.

 

With the bowl in one hand, he went to the kitchen door, looked out, and saw nothing but night. Suddenly the glass was filled with fur and fangs. Gray managed to stifle a yelp and keep himself from overbalancing onto his butt. On something between a curse and a laugh, he opened the door for Con.

 

"Ten years off my life, thanks very much." He scratched the dog's ears, and since Brianna wasn't around to see, decided to share the trifle with his canine companion.

 

"What do you think you're up to?"

 

Gray straightened, rapped his head against the cupboard door he'd failed to close. A spoonful of trifle plopped into the dog's bowl and was gobbled up.

 

"Nothing." Gray rubbed his throbbing head. "Jesus Christ, between you and your wolf I'll be lucky if I live to see my next birthday."

 

"He's not to be eating that." Brianna snatched the bowl away from Gray. "It isn't good for him."

 

"I was going to eat it. Now I'll settle for a bottle of aspirin."

 

"Sit down and I'll have a look at the knot on your head, or the hole in it, whatever the case may be."

 

"Very cute. Why don't you just go back to bed and-"

 

He never finished the thought. From his stance between them, Con abruptly tensed, snarled, and with a growl bursting from his throat leaped toward the hallway door. It was Gray's bad luck that he happened to be in the way.

 

The force of a hundred and seventy pounds of muscle had him reeling back and smashing into the counter. He saw stars as his elbow cracked against the wood, and dimly heard Brianna's sharp command.

 

"Are you hurt?" Her tone was all soothing maternal concern now. "Here now, Grayson, you've gone pale. Sit down. Con, heel!"

 

Ears ringing, stars circling in front of his eyes, the best Gray could do was slide into the chair Brianna held out for him. "All this for a fucking bowl of cream."

 

"There now, you just need to get your breath back. Let me see your arm."

 

"Shit!" Gray's eyes popped wide as she flexed his elbow and pain radiated out. "Are you trying to kill me just because I want to get you naked?"

 

"Stop that." The rebuke was mild as she tut-tutted over the bruise. "I've got some witch hazel."

 

"I'd rather have morphine." He blew out a breath and stared narrow-eyed at the dog. Con continued to stand, quivering and ready at the doorway. "What the hell is with him?"

 

"I don't know. Con, stop being a bloody fool and sit." She dampened a cloth with witch hazel. "It's probably Mr, Smythe-White. Con was out roaming when he got in. They haven't been introduced. It's likely he caught a scent."

 

"It's lucky the old man didn't get a yen for trifle then."

 

She only smiled and straightened up to look at the top of Gray's head. He had lovely hair, she thought, all gilded and silky. "Oh, Con wouldn't hurt him. He'd just corner him. There, you'll have a fine bump, you will."

 

"You don't have to sound so pleased about it."

 

"It'll teach you not to give the dog sweets. I'll just make you an ice pack and-" She squealed as Gray yanked her into his lap. The dog's ears pricked up, but he merely wandered over and sniffed at Gray's hands.

 

"He likes me."

 

"He's easily charmed. Let me up or I'll tell him to bite you."

 

"He wouldn't. I just gave him trifle. Let's just sit here a minute, Brie. I'm too weak to bother you."

 

"I don't believe that for a minute," she said under her breath, but relented.

 

Gray cradled her head on his shoulder and smiled when Con rested his on her lap. "This is nice "

 

"It is."

 

She felt a little crack around her heart as he held her quietly in the dim light from the stove while the house settled m sleep around them.

 

Chapter Six

 

Brianna needed a taste of spring. It was chancy, she knew, to begin too early, but the mood wouldn't pass. She gathered the seeds she'd been hording and her small portable radio and carted them out to the little shed she'd rigged as a temporary greenhouse.

 

It wasn't much, and she'd have been the first to admit it. No more than eight feet square with a floor of hard-packed dirt, the shed was better used for storage than planting. But she'd imposed on Murphy to put in glass and a heater. The benches she'd built herself with little skill and a great deal of pride.

 

There wasn't room, nor was there equipment for the kind of experimentation she dreamed of. Still, she could give her seeds an early start in the peat pots she'd ordered from a gardening supply catalog.

 

The afternoon was hers, after all, she told herself. Gray was closeted with his work, and Mr. Smythe-White was taking a motor tour of the Ring of Kerry. All the baking and mending were done for the day, so it was time for pleasure.

 

There was little that made her happier than having her hands in soil. Grunting a bit, she hefted a bag of potting mix onto the bench.

 

Next year, she promised herself, she'd have a professional greenhouse. Not a large one, but a fine one nonetheless. She'd take cuttings and root them, force bulbs so that she could have spring any time of year she liked. Perhaps she'd even attempt some grafting. But for the moment she was content to baby her seeds.

 

In days, she mused, humming along with the radio, the first tender sprigs would push through the soil. True it was a horrid expense, the luxury of fuel to warm them. It would have been wiser to use the money to have her car overhauled.

 

But it wouldn't be nearly so much fun.

 

She sowed, gently patting dirt, and let her mind drift.

 

How sweet Gray had been the night before, she remembered. Cuddling with her in the kitchen. It hadn't been so frightening, nor, she admitted, so exciting, as when he'd kissed her. This had been soft and soothing, and so natural it had seemed, just for a moment, that they'd belonged there together.

 

Once, long ago, she'd dreamed of sharing small, sweet moments like that with someone. With Rory, she thought with an old, dull pang. Then she'd believed she'd be married, have children to love, a home to tend to. What plans she'd made, she thought now, all rosy and warm with happy ever after at the end of them.

 

But then, she'd only been a girl, and in love. A girl in love believed anything. Believed everything. She wasn't a girl now.

 

She'd stopped believing when Rory had broken her heart, snapped it into two aching halves. She knew he was living near Boston now, with a wife and a family of his own. And, she was sure, with no thought whatever of the young sweet springtime when he'd courted her, and promised her. And pledged to her.

 

That was long ago, she reminded herself. Now she knew that love didn't always endure, and promises weren't always kept. If she still carried a seed of hope inside that longed to bloom, it hurt no one but herself.

 

"Here you are!" Eyes dancing, Maggie burst into the shed. "I heard the music. What in the world are you up to in here?"

 

"I'm planting flowers." Distracted, Brianna swiped the back of her hand over her cheek and smeared it with soil. "Close the door, Maggie, you're letting the heat out. What is it? You look about to burst."

 

"You'll never guess, not in a thousand years." With a laugh, Maggie swung around the small shed, grabbing Brianna's arms to twirl her. "Go ahead. Try."

 

"You're having triplets."

 

"No! Praise God."

 

Maggie's mood was infectious enough to have Brianna chuckle and fall into the rhythm of the impromptu jig. "You've sold a piece of your glass for a million pounds, to the president of the United States."

 

"Oh, what a thought. Maybe we should send him a brochure. No, you're miles off, you are, miles. I'll give you a bit of a hint then. Rogan's grandmother called."

 

Brianna blew her tumbling hair out of her eyes. "That's a hint?"

 

"It would be if you'd put your mind to it. Brie, she's getting married. She's marrying Uncle Niall, next week, in Dublin."

 

"What?" Brianna's mouth fell open on the word. "Uncle Niall, Mrs. Sweeney, married?"

 

"Isn't it grand? Isn't it just grand? You know she had a crush on him when she was a girl in Galway. Then after more than fifty years they meet again because of Rogan and me. Now, by all the saints in heaven, they're going to take vows." Tossing back her head, she cackled. "Now as well as being husband and wife, Rogan and I will be cousins.

 

"Uncle Niall." It seemed to be all Brianna could manage.

 

"You should have seen Rogan's face when he took the call. He looked like a fish. His mouth opening and closing and not a word coming out." Snorting with laughter, she leaned against Brianna's workbench. "He's never gotten accustomed to the idea that they were courting. More than courting, if it comes to that-but I suppose it's a difficult thing for a man to imagine his white-haired granny snuggled up in sin."

 

"Maggie!" Overcome, Brianna covered her mouth with her hand. Giggles turned into hoots of laughter.

 

"Well, they're making it legal now, with an archbishop no less officiating." She took a deep breath, looked around. "Have you anything to eat out here?"

 

"No. When is it to be? Where?"

 

"Saturday next, in her Dublin house. A small ceremony, she tells me, with just family and close friends. Uncle Niall's eighty if he's a day, Brie. Imagine it."

 

"I think I can. Oh, and I do think it's grand. I'll call them after I've finished here and cleaned up."

 

"Rogan and I are leaving for Dublin today. He's on the phone right now, God bless him, making arrangements." She smiled a little. "He's trying to be a man about it."

 

"He'll be happy for them, once he gets used to it." Brianna's voice was vague as she began to wonder what sort of gift she should buy the bride and groom.

 

"It's to be an afternoon ceremony, but you may want to come out the night before so you'll have some time."

 

"Come out?" Brianna focused on her sister again. "But I can't go, Maggie. I can't leave. I have a guest."

 

"Of course you'll go." Maggie straightened from the bench, set her jaw. "It's Uncle Niall. He'll expect you there. It's one bloody day, Brianna."

 

"Maggie, I have obligations here, and no way to get to Dublin and back."

 

"Rogan will have the plane take you."

 

"But-"

 

"Oh, hang Grayson Thane. He can cook his own meals for a day. You're not a servant."

 

Brianna's shoulders stiffened. Her eyes turned cool. "No, I'm not. I'm a businesswoman who's given her word. I can't dance off for a weekend in Dublin and tell the man to fend for himself."

 

"Then bring him along. If you're worried the man will fall over dead without you to tend him, bring him with you."

 

"Bring him where?" Gray pushed open the door, eyed both women cautiously. He'd seen Maggie go dashing into the shed from his bedroom window. Curiosity had eventually brought him out, and the shouting had done the rest. "Shut the door," Brianna said automatically. She fought back embarrassment that he should have walked in on a family argument. She sighed once. The tiny shed was now crowded with people. "Was there something you needed, Grayson?"

 

"No." He lifted a hand, brushing his thumb over the dirt on her cheek-a gesture that had Maggie's eyes narrowing. "You have dirt on your face, Brie. What are you up to?" "I'm trying to put in some seeds-but there's hardly room for them now."

 

"Mind your hands, boy-o," Maggie muttered. He only grinned and stuck them in his pockets. "I heard my name mentioned. Is there a problem?"

 

"There wouldn't be if she wasn't so stubborn." Maggie tossed up her chin and decided to dump the blame at Gray's feet. "She needs to go to Dublin next weekend, but she won't leave you."

 

Gray's grin turned into a satisfied smile as his gaze shifted from Maggie to Brianna. "Won't she?" "You've paid for room and board," Brianna began. "Why do you need to go to Dublin?" he interrupted. "Our uncle's getting married," Maggie told him. "He'll want her there, and that's as it should be. I say if she won't leave you behind, she should take you along."

 

"Maggie, Gray doesn't want to be going off to a wedding, with people he doesn't know. He's working, and he can't just-"

 

"Sure he does," Gray cut her off. "When do we leave?" "Good. You'll stay at our house there. That's settled."

 

Maggie brushed her hands together. "Now, who's going to tell Mother?"

 

"I-"

 

"No, let me," Maggie decided before Brianna could answer. She smiled. "She'll really hate it. We'll have the plane take her out Saturday morning so you won't be badgered by her the whole trip. Have you a suit, Gray?"

 

"One or two," he murmured.

 

"Then you're set, aren't you?" She leaned forward, kissed Brianna firmly on both cheeks. "Plan to leave Friday," she ordered. "I'll call you from Dublin."

 

Gray ran his tongue around his teeth as Maggie slammed out. "Bossy, isn't she?"

 

"Aye." Brianna blinked, shook her head. "She doesn't mean it. It's just that she's always sure she's right. And she has a deep fondness for Uncle Niall and for Rogan's grandmother."

 

"Rogan's grandmother."

 

"That's who he's marrying." She turned back to her potting, hoping to clear her mind with work.

 

"That sounds like a story."

 

"Oh, it 'tis. Gray, it's kind of you to be so obliging, but it's not necessary. They won't miss me, really, and it's a lot of trouble for you."

 

"A weekend in Dublin's no trouble for me. And you want to go, don't you?"

 

"That's not the point. Maggie put you in a difficult position."

 

He put a hand under her chin, lifted it. "Why do you have such a hard time answering questions? You want to go, don't you? Yes or no."

 

"Yes."

 

"Okay, we go."

 

Her lips started to curve, until he leaned toward them. "Don't kiss me," she said, weakening.

 

"Now, that's a lot of trouble for me." But he reined himself in, leaned back. "Who hurt you, Brianna?"

 

Her lashes fluttered down, shielding her eyes. "It may be I don't answer questions because you ask too many of them."

 

"Yes,

 

"Did you love him?"

 

She turned her head, concentrated on her pots, very much."

 

It was an answer, but he found it didn't please him. "Are you still in love with him?"

 

"That would be foolish."

 

"That's not an answer."

 

"Yes, it is. Do I breathe down your neck when you're working?"

 

"No." But he didn't step back. "But you have such an appealing neck." To prove it, he bent down to brush his lips over the nape. It didn't hurt his ego to feel her tremble. "I dreamed of you last night, Brianna. And wrote of it today."

 

Most of her seeds scattered on the workbench instead of in the soil. She busied herself rescuing them. "Wrote of it?"

 

"I made some changes. In the book you're a young widow who's struggling to build on a broken past."

 

Despite herself, she was drawn and turned to look at him. "You're putting me in your book?"

 

"Pieces of you. Your eyes, those wonderful, sad eyes. Your hair." He lifted a hand to it. "Thick, slippery hair, the color of the coolest sunset. Your voice, that soft lilt. Your body, slim, willowy, with a dancer's unconscious grace. Your skin, your hands. I see you when I write, so I write of you. And beyond the physical, there's your integrity, your loyalty." He smiled a little. "Your tea cakes. The hero's just as fascinated with her as I am with you."

 

Gray set his hands on the bench on either side of her, caging her in. "And he keeps running into that same shield you both have. I wonder how long it'll take him to break it down."

 

No one had ever said such words about her before, such words to her. A part of her yearned to wallow in them, as if they were silk. Another part stood cautiously back.

 

"You're trying to seduce me."

 

He lifted a brow. "How'm I doing?"

 

"I can't breathe."

 

"That's a good start." He leaned closer until his mouth was a whisper from hers. "Let me kiss you, Brianna."

 

He already was in that slow, sinking way he had that turned all her muscles to mush. Mouth to mouth. It was such a simple thing, but it tilted every thing in her world. Further and further until she was afraid she would never right it again.

 

He had skill, and with skill a patience. Beneath both was the shimmer of repressed violence she once sensed in him. The combination seeped into her like a drug, weakening, dizzying.

 

She wanted, as a woman wanted. She feared, as innocence feared.

 

Gently he took the fingers she gripped on the edge of the bench, soothed them open. With his mouth skimming over hers, he lifted her arms.

 

"Hold me, Brianna." God he needed her to. "Kiss me back."

 

Like a crack of a whip, his quiet words spurred her. Suddenly she was clinging to him, her mouth wild and willing. Staggered, he rocked back, gripping her. Her lips were hot, hungry, her body vibrating like a plucked harp string. The eruption of her passion was like lava spewing through ice, frenzied, unexpected, and dangerous.

 

There was the elemental smell of earth, the wail of Irish pipes from the radio, the succulent flavor of woman in his mouth, and the quivering temptation of her in his arms.

 

Then he was blind and deaf to all but her. Her hands were fisted in his hair, her panting breaths filling his mouth. More, only wanting more, he slammed her back against the shed wall. He heard her cry out-in shock, pain, excitement-before he muffled the sound, devouring it, devouring her.

 

His hands streaked over her, hotly possessive, invasive. And her pants turned to moans: Please... She wanted to beg him for something. Oh, please. Such an ache, a deep, grinding, glorious ache. But she didn't know the beginning of it, or how it would end. And the fear was snapping like a wolf behind it-fear of him, of herself, of what she'd yet to know.

 

He wanted her skin-the feel and taste of her flesh. He wanted to pound himself inside of her until they were both empty. The breath was tearing through his lungs as he gripped her shirt, his hands poised to rip and rend.

 

And his eyes met hers.

 

Her lips were bruised and trembling, her cheeks pale as ice. Her eyes were wide with terror and need warring in them. He looked down, saw his knuckles were white from strain. And the marks his greedy fingers had put on her lovely skin.

 

He jerked back as if she'd slapped him, then held up his hands. He wasn't sure what or who he was warding off.

 

"I'm sorry," he managed while she stood pressed back into the wall, gulping air. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

 

"I don't know." How could she know where there was nothing but this horrible pulsing ache. She hadn't dreamed she could feel like this. Hadn't known it was possible to feel so much. Dazed, she brushed at the dampness on her cheeks.

 

"Don't cry." He dragged an unsteady hand through his hair. "I feel filthy enough about this."

 

"No, it's not-" She swallowed the tears. She had no idea why she should shed them. "I don't know what happened to me."

 

Of course she didn't, he thought bitterly. Hadn't she told him she was innocent? And he'd gone at her like an animal. In another minute he would have dragged her down on the dirt and finished the job.

 

"I pushed you, and there's no excuse for it. I can only tell you I lost my head and apologize for it." He wanted to go back to her, brush the tangled hair from her face. But didn't dare. "I was rough, and frightened you. It won't happen again."

 

"I knew you would be." She was steadier now, perhaps because he seemed so shaken. "All along I knew. It wasn't that, Grayson. I'm not the fragile sort."

 

He found he could smile after all. "Oh, but you are, Brianna. And I've never been quite so clumsy. This may seem like an awkward time to tell you, but you don't have to be afraid of me. I won't hurt you." "I know. You-"

 

"And I'm going to try my damnedest not to rush you," he interrupted. "But I want you."

 

She discovered she had to concentrate to breath evenly again. "We can't always have what we want."

 

"I've never believed that. I don't know who he was, Brie, but he's gone. I'm here."

 

She nodded. "For now."

 

"There's only now." He shook his head before she could argue. "This is as odd a place for philosophy as it is for sex. We're both a little wired up, right?"

 

"I suppose you could say that."

 

"Let's go inside. This time I'll make you some tea."

 

Her lips curved. "Do you know how?"

 

"I've been watching you. Come on." He held out a hand. She looked at it, hesitated. After another cautious glance at his face-it was calm now, without that odd feral light that was so frightening and exciting-she slipped her hand into his.

 

"Maybe it's a good thing we've got a chaperone tonight."

 

"Oh?" She turned her head as they stepped outside.

 

"Otherwise you might sneak up to my room tonight and take advantage of me."

 

She let out a short laugh. "You're too clever for anyone to take advantage of you."

 

"Well, you could try." Relieved neither of them were trembling now, he slung a companionable arm around her shoulders. "Why don't we have a bit of cake with the tea?"

 

She slid her eyes toward him as they reached the kitchen door. "Mine, or the one the woman makes in your book?"

 

"Hers is only in my imagination, darling. Now, yours-" He froze when he pushed the door open. Instinctly he shoved Brianna behind him. "Stay here. Right here."

 

"What? Are you-oh, sweet Jesus." Over his shoulder she could see the chaos of her kitchen. Tins had been turned over, cupboards emptied. Flour and sugar, spices and tea were swept onto the floor.

 

"I said stay here," he repeated as she tried to shove by him.

 

"I'll not. Look at this mess."

 

He blocked her with an arm across the doorway. "Do you keep money in your tins? Jewelry?"

 

"Don't be daft. Of course I don't." She blinked up at him. "You think someone was after stealing something? I've nothing to steal and no one would."

 

"Well, someone did, and they could still be in the house. Where's that damn dog?" he muttered.

 

"He'd be off with Murphy," she said dully. "He goes off to visit most afternoons."

 

"Run over to Murphy's then, or to your sister's. I'll take

 

a look around." She drew herself up. "This is my home, I'll remind you. I'll look myself."

 

"Stay behind me," was all he said.

 

He checked her rooms first, ignoring her expected shriek of outrage when she saw the pulled-out drawers and tumbled clothes.

 

"My things."

 

"We'll see if there's anything missing later. Better check the rest."

 

"What sort of mischief is this?" she demanded, her temper heating as she trailed behind Gray. "Oh, damn them," she swore when she saw the parlor.

 

It had been a quick, hurried, and frantic search, Gray mused. Anything but professional and foolishly risky. He was thinking it through when another idea slammed into him.

 

"Shit." He took the stairs two at a time, burst into the mess of his own room, and bolted straight for his laptop. "Somebody will die," he muttered, booting it up.

 

"Your work." Brianna stood pale and furious in the doorway. "Did they harm your work?"

 

"No." He skimmed through page after page until he was satisfied. "No, it's here. It's fine."

 

She let out a little sigh of relief before turning away to check Mr. Smythe-White's room. His clothes had been turned out of the drawers and closet, his bed pulled apart. "Mary, Mother of God, how will I explain this to him?"

 

"I think it's more to the point to ask what they were looking for. Sit down, Brianna," Gray ordered. "Let's think this through."

 

"What's to think about?" But she did sit, on the edge of the tilted mattress. "I've nothing of value here. A few pounds, a few trinkets." She rubbed her eyes, impatient with herself for the tears she couldn't manage to stem. "It wouldn't have been anyone from the village or nearby. It had to be a vagrant, a hitchhiker perhaps, hoping to find a bit of cash. Well..." She let out a shaky breath. "He'll have been disappointed in what he found here." She looked up abruptly, paling again. "You? Did you have any?"

 

"Mostly   traveler's   checks.   They're   still   here." He shrugged. "He got a few hundred pounds, that's all."

 

"A few-hundred?" She bolted off the bed. "He took your money?"

 

"It's not important. Brie-"

 

"Not important?" she cut in. "You're living under my roof, a guest in my home, and had your money stolen. How much was it? I'll make it good."

 

"You certainly will not. Sit down and stop it."

 

"I said I'll make it good."

 

Patience snapped, he took her firmly by the shoulders and shoved her down on the bed. "They paid me five million for my last book, before foreign and movie rights. A few hundred pounds isn't going to break me." His eyes narrowed when her lips quivered again. "Take a deep breath. Now. Okay, another."

 

"I don't care if you've gold dripping from your fingers." Her voice broke, humiliating her.

 

"You want to cry some more?" He sighed lustily, sat down beside her, and braced for it. "Okay, let it rip."

 

"I'm not going to cry." She sniffled, used the heels of her hands to dry her cheeks. "I've got too much to do. It'll take hours to put things right here."

 

"You'll need to call the police?"

 

"For what?" She lifted her hands, let them fail. "If anyone saw a stranger lurking about, my phone would already be ringing. Someone needed money, and they took it." She scanned the room, wondering how much her other guest might have lost, and how big a hole it would put in her precious savings. "I want you to say nothing to Maggie about this."

 

"Goddamn it, Brie-"

 

"She's six months along. I won't have her upset. I mean this." She gave him a steady look through eyes still shimmering with tears. "Your word, please."

 

"Fine, whatever you want. I want yours that you'll tell me exactly what's missing."

 

"I will. I'll phone to Murphy and tell him. He'll ask about. If there's something to know, I'll know it by nightfall." Calm again, she rose. "I need to start putting things in order. I'll start with your room so you can get to your work."

 

"I'll see to my own room."

 

"It's for me to-"

 

"You're pissing me off, Brianna." He unfolded himself slowly until he stood toe to toe with her. "Let's get this straight. You're not my maid, my mother, or my wife. I can hang up my own clothes."

 

"As you please."

 

Swearing, he grabbed her arm before she could walk out on him. She didn't resist, but stood very still, looking just over his shoulder. "Listen to me. You have a problem here and I want to help you. Can you get that through your head?"

 

"Want to help, do you?" She inclined her head and spoke with all the warmth of a glacier. "You might go borrow some tea from Murphy. We seem to be out."

 

"I'll call him for you," Gray said evenly. "And ask him to bring some over. I'm not leaving you alone here."

 

"Whatever suits you. His number's in the book in the kitchen by the..." She trailed off as the image of her lovely little room flashed into her head. She closed her eyes. "Gray, would you leave me alone for a little while? I'll be better for it."

 

"Brianna." He touched her cheek.

 

"Please." She'd crumble completely, humiliatingly, if he was kind now. "I'll be fine again once I'm busy. And I'd like some tea." Opening her eyes she managed to smile. "truly I would."

 

"All right, I'll be downstairs " Grateful, she got to work.

 

Chapter Seven

 

Gray sometimes toyed with the idea of buying himself a plane. Something very much along the lines of the sleek little jet Rogan had left at his and Brianna's disposal for the trip to Dublin might be just the ticket. He could have it custom-decorated to suit him, play with the engine himself occasionally. There was nothing to stop him from learning how to fly it.

 

It would certainly be an interesting toy, he mused as he settled into the comfortable leather seat beside Brianna. And having his own transportation would eliminate the   [ minor headache of arranging for tickets and being at the mercy of the hiccups of the airlines.

 

But owning something-anything-equaled the tesponsibility of maintaining that something. That was why he rented or leased, but had never actually owned a car. And though there was something to be said for the privacy and convenience of a neat little Lear, he thought he would miss the crowds and company and all the odd expected glitches of a commercial flight.

 

But not this time. He slipped his hand over Brianna's as the plane began to taxi.

 

"Do you like to fly?"