"I haven't done it very often." The anticipation of spearing up into the sky still gave her stomach an intriguing little flip. "But yes, I think I do. I like looking down." She smiled at herself as she watched the ground tilt away below. It fascinated her, always, to picture herself above her own home, the hills, streaking through the clouds to somewhere else. "I suppose it's second nature to you."

 

"It's fun, thinking about where you're going."

 

"And where you've been."

 

"I don't think about that much. I've just been there."

 

As the plane climbed, he put a hand under her chin, turned her face toward his to study it. "You're still worried."

 

"It doesn't feel right, going off like this, and so luxuriously, too."

 

"Catholic guilt." The gilt in his eyes deepened when he grinned. "I've heard of that particular phenomenon. It's like if you're not doing something constructive, and actually enjoying not doing it, you're going to hell. Right?"

 

"Nonsense." She sniffed, irritated that it was even partially true. "I've responsibilities."

 

"And shirking them." He tsked and fingered the gold cross she wore. "That's like the near occasion of sin, isn't it? What is the near occasion of sin, exactly?"

 

"You are," she said, batting his hand away.

 

"No kidding?" The idea of that appealed enormously. "I like it."

 

"You would." She tucked a loose pin into place. "And this has nothing to do with that. If I'm feeling guilty, it's because I'm not used to just packing up and going on a moment's notice. I like to plan things out."

 

"Takes half the fun out of it."

 

"It stretches out the fun to my way of thinking." But she

 

gnawed on her lip. "I know it's important that I be in Dublin for the wedding, but leaving home just now..."

 

"Murphy's dog sitting," Gray reminded her. "And keeping an eye on the place." A sharp eye, Gray was certain, since he'd talked to Murphy privately. "Old Smythe-White left days ago, so you don't have any customers to worry about."

 

"Guests," she said automatically, brow creasing. "I can't imagine he'll be recommending Blackthorn after what happened. Though he was terribly good about it."

 

"He didn't lose anything. 'Never travel with cash, you know,'" Gray said in a mimic of Smythe-White's prissy voice. " 'It's an invitation for trouble.' "

 

She smiled a little, as he'd hoped. "He may not have had anything stolen, but I doubt he spent a peaceful night knowing his room had been broken into, his possessions pawed through." Which was why she'd refused to charge him for his stay.

 

"Oh, I don't know. I haven't had any trouble." He unfastened his seat belt and rose to wander into the galley. "Your brother-in-law's a classy guy."

 

"He is, yes." Her brow furrowed when Gray came back with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. "You're not going to open that. 'Tis only a short flight and-"

 

"Sure I'm going to open it. Don't you like champagne?" "I like it well enough, but-" Her protest was cut off by the cheerful sound of a popping cork. She sighed, as a mother might seeing her child leap into a mud puddle.

 

"Now then." He sat again, poured both glasses. After handing her one, he tapped crystal to crystal and grinned. "Tell me about the bride and groom. Did you say they were eighty?"

 

"Uncle Niall, yes." Since there could be no putting the cork back into the bottle, she sipped. "Mrs. Sweeney's a few years younger."

 

"Imagine that." It tickled him. "Entering the matrimonial cage at their age."

 

"Cage?"

 

"It has a lot of restrictions and no easy way out." Enjoying the wine, he let it linger on his tongue before swallowing. "So, they were childhood sweethearts?"

 

"Not exactly," she murmured, still frowning over his description of marriage. "They grew up in Galway. Mrs. Sweeney was friends with my grandmother-she was Uncle Niall's sister, you see. And Mrs. Sweeney had a bit of a crush on Uncle Niall. Then my grandmother married and moved to Clare. Mrs. Sweeney married and went to Dublin. They lost track of each other. Then Maggie and Rogan began working together, and Mrs. Sweeney made the connection between the families. I wrote of it to Uncle Niall, and he brought himself down to Dublin." She smiled over it, hardly noticing when Gray refilled her glass. "The two of them have been close as bread and jam ever since."

 

"The twists and turns of fate." Gray raised his glass in toast. "Fascinating, isn't it?"

 

"They love each other," she said simply, sighed. "I only hope-" She cut herself off and stared out the window again.

 

"What?"

 

"I want them to have a fine day, a lovely one. I'm worried my mother will make it awkward." She turned to him again. However it embarrassed her, it was best he knew so that he wouldn't be too shocked if there was a scene. "She wouldn't go out to Dublin today. Wouldn't sleep in Maggie's Dublin house. She told me she'd come tomorrow, do her duty, then go back immediately."

 

He lifted a brow. "Not happy in cities?" he asked, though he sensed it was something entirely different.

 

"Mother's not a woman who finds contentment easily anywhere at all. I should tell you she may be difficult. She doesn't approve, you see, of the wedding."

 

"What? Does she think those crazy kids are too young to get married?"

 

Brianna's lips curved, but her eyes didn't reflect it. "It's money marrying money, as she sees it. And she... well, she has strong opinions about the fact that they've been living together in a way outside the sacrament."

 

"Living together?" He couldn't stop the grin. "In away?"

 

"Living together," she said primly. "And as Mother will tell you, if you give her the chance, age hardly absolves them from the sin of fornication."

 

He choked on his wine. He was laughing and whooping for air when he caught the glint of Brianna's narrowed gaze. "Sorry-I can see that wasn't meant to be a joke." "Some people find it easy to laugh at another's beliefs." "I don't mean to." But he couldn't quite get the chuckles under control. "Christ, Brie, you've just told me the man's eighty and his blushing bride is right behind him. You don't really believe they're going to some firey hell because they..." He decided he'd better find a delicate way of putting it. "They've had a mature, mutually satisfying physical relationship."

 

"No." Some of the ice melted from her eyes. "No, I don't, of course. But Mother does, or says she does, because it makes it easier to complain. Families are complicated, aren't they?"

 

"From what I've observed. I don't have one to worry about myself."

 

"No family?" The rest of the ice melted into sympathy.

 

"You lost your parents?"

 

"In a manner of speaking." It would have been more apt, he supposed, to say they had lost him.

 

"I'm sorry. And you've no brothers, no sisters?" "Nope." He reached for the bottle again to top off his glass.

 

"But you've cousins, surely." Everyone had someone, she thought. "Grandparents, or aunts, uncles."

 

"No."

 

She only stared, devastated for him. To have no one. She couldn't conceive of it. Couldn't bear it.

 

"You're looking at me like I'm some foundling bundled in a basket on your doorstep." It amused him, and oddly, it touched him. "Believe me, honey, I like it this way. No ties, no strings, no guilts." He drank again, as if to seal the words. "Simplifies my life."

 

Empties it, more like, she thought. "It doesn't bother you, having no one to go home to?"

 

"It relieves me. Maybe it would if I had a home, but I don't have one of those, either."

 

The gypsy, she recalled, but she hadn't taken him literally until now. "But, Grayson, to have no place of your own-"

 

"No mortgage, no lawn to mow or neighbor to placate." He leaned over her to glance out the window. "Look, there's Dublin."

 

But she looked at him, felt for him. "But when you leave Ireland, where will you go?"

 

"I haven't decided. That's the beauty of it."

 

"You've got a great house." Less than three hours after landing in Dublin, Gray stretched his legs out toward the fire in Rogan's parlor. "I appreciate your putting me up."

 

"It's our pleasure." Rogan offered him a snifter of after-dinner brandy. They were alone for the moment, as Brianna and Maggie had driven to his grandmother's to help the bride with last-minute arrangements.

 

Rogan still had trouble picturing his grandmother as a nervous bride-to-be. And more trouble yet, imagining the man even now haranguing the cook as his future step-grandfather.

 

"You don't look too happy about it."

 

"What?" Rogan glanced back at Gray, made himself smile. "No, I'm sorry, it's nothing to do with you. I'm a bit uneasy about tomorrow, I suppose."

 

"Giving-the-bride-away jitters?"

 

The best Rogan could come up with was a grunt.

 

Reading his host well, Gray tucked his tongue in his cheek and stirred the unease. "Niall's an interesting character."

 

"A character," Rogan muttered. "Indeed." "Your grandmother had stars in her eyes at dinner." Now Rogan sighed. She had never looked happier. "They're besotted with each other."

 

"Well..." Gray swirled his brandy. "There are two of us and one of him. We could overpower him, drag him off to the docks, and put him on a ship bound for Australia."

 

"Don't think I haven't considered it." But he smiled now, easier. "There's no picking family, is there? And I'm forced to admit the man adores her. Maggie and Brie are delighted, so I find myself outgunned and outvoted."

 

"I like him," Gray said in grinning apology. "How can you not like a man who wears a jacket the shade of a Halloween pumpkin with tasseled alligator shoes?"

 

"There you are." Rogan waved an elegant hand. "In any case, we're pleased to be able to provide you with a wedding during your stay in Ireland. You're comfortable at

 

Blackthorn?" "Brianna has a knack for providing the comfortable."

 

"She does."

 

Gray's expression sobered as he frowned into his drink. "Something happened a few days ago that I think you should know. She didn't want me to mention it, particularly to Maggie. But I'd like your take on it."

 

"All right."

 

"The cottage was broken into."

 

"Blackthorn?" Startled, Rogan set his brandy aside.

 

"We were outside, in that shed she uses for potting. We might have been in there for half an hour, maybe a little longer. When we went back in, someone had tossed the place."

 

"Excuse me?"

 

"Turned it upside down," Gray explained. "A fast, messy search, I'd say."

 

"That doesn't make sense." But he leaned forward, worried. "Was anything taken?"

 

"I had some cash in my room." Gray shrugged it off. "That seems to be all. Brianna claims none of the neighbors would have come in that way."

 

"She'd be right." Rogan sat back again, picked up his brandy but didn't drink. "It's a closely knit community, and Brie's well loved there. Did you inform the garda?"

 

"She didn't want to, didn't see the point. I did speak with

 

Murphy, privately."

 

"That would tend to it," Rogan agreed. "I'd have to think it was some stranger passing through. But even that seems out of place." Dissatisfied with any explanation, he tapped his fingers against the side of his glass. "You've been there some time now. You must have gotten a sense of the people, the atmosphere."

 

"Next stop Brigadoon," Gray murmured. "Logic points to a one-shot deal, and that's how she's handling it." Gray moved his shoulders. "Still, I don't think it would hurt for you to keep an eye out when you come back."

 

"I'll do that." Rogan frowned into his brandy. "You can be sure of it."

 

"You've a fine cook, Rogan me boy." Niall strolled in carting a tray loaded with china and a huge chocolate torte. He was a large man, sporting his thirty extra pounds like a badge of honor. And did indeed look somewhat like a jolly jack-o'-lantern in his orange sport coat and lime-green tie. "A prince of a man, he is." Niall set down the tray and beamed. "He's sent out this bit of sweet to help calm my nerves."

 

"I'm feeling nervous myself." Grinning, Gray rose to cut into the torte himself.

 

Niall boomed out with a laugh and slapped Gray heartily on the back. "There's a lad. Good appetite. Why don't we tuck into this, then have a few games of snooker?" He winked at Rogan. "After all, it's my last night as a free man. No more carousing with the boy-os for me. Any whiskey to wash this down with?"

 

"Whiskey." Rogan looked at the wide, grinning face of his future grandfather. "I could use a shot myself."

 

They had several. And then a few more. By the time the second bottle was opened, Gray had to squint to see the balls on the snooker table, and then they still tended to weave. He ended by closing one eye completely.

 

He heard the balls clack together, then stood back. "My point, gentlemen. My point." He leaned heavily on his cue.

 

"Yank bastard can't lose tonight." Niall slapped Gray on the back and nearly sent him nose first onto the table. "Set 'em up again, Rogan me boy. Let's have another."

 

"I can't see them," Rogan said slowly before lifting a hand in front of his face and peering at it. "I can't feel my fingers."

 

"Another whiskey's what you need." Like a sailor aboard

 

a pitching deck, Niall made his way to the decanter. "Not a drop," he said sadly as he upended the crystal. "Not a bleeding drop left."

 

"There's no whiskey left in Dublin." Rogan pushed himself away from the wall that was holding him up, then fell weakly back. "We've drank it all. Drunk it all. Oh, Christ. I can't feel my tongue, either. I've lost it."

 

"Let's see." Willing to help, Gray laid his hands heavily on Rogan's shoulders. "Stick it out." Eyes narrowed, he nodded. " 'S okay, pal. It's there. Fact is, you've got two of 'em. That's the problem."

 

"I'm marrying my Chrissy tomorrow." Niall stood, teetering dangerously left, then right, his eyes glazed, his smile brilliant. "Beautiful little Chrissy, the belle of Dublin."

 

He pitched forward, falling like a redwood. With their arms companionably supporting each other, Rogan and Gray stared down at him.

 

"What do we do with him?" Gray wondered. Rogan ran one of his two tongues around his teeth. "Do you think he's alive?" "Doesn't look like it."

 

"Don't start the wake yet." Niall lifted his head. "Just get me on me feet, lads. I'll dance till dawn." His head hit the floor again with a thud. "He's not so bad, is he?" Rogan asked. "When I'm drunk, that is." "A prince of a man. Let's haul him up. He can't dance on his face."

 

"Right." They staggered over. By the time they'd hefted Niall to his knees, they were out of breath and laughing like fools. "Get up, you dolt. It's like trying to shift a beached whale."

 

Niall opened his bleary eyes, tossed back his head, and began, in a wavering but surprisingly affecting tenor, to sing.

 

"And it's all for me grog, me jolly, jolly grog. It's all for me beer and tobacco." He grunted his way up on one foot, nearly sent Gray flying. "Well, I spent all me tin on lassies drinking gin. Far across the Western ocean I must wander."

 

"You'll be lucky to wander to bed," Rogan told him.

 

He simply switched tunes. "Well, if you've got a wingo, take me up to ringo where the waxies singo all the day."

 

Well insulated by whiskey, Rogan joined in as the three of them teetered on their feet. "If you've had your fill of porter and you can't go any further-"

 

That struck Gray as wonderfully funny, and he snickered his way into the chorus.

 

With the harmony and affection of the drunk, they staggered their way down the hall. By the time they reached the base of the stairs, they were well into a whiskey-soaked rendition of "Dicey Riley."

 

"Well, I wouldn't say it was only poor old Dicey Riley who'd taken to the sup, would you, Brie?" Maggie stood halfway down the stairs with her sister, studying the trio below.

 

"I wouldn't, no." Folding her hands neatly at her waist, Brianna shook her head. "From the looks of them, they've dropped in for several little drops."

 

"Christ, she's beautiful, isn't she?" Gray mumbled.

 

"Yes." Rogan grinned brilliantly at his wife. "Takes my breath away. Maggie, my love, come give me a kiss."

 

"I'll give you the back of my hand." But she laughed as she started down. "Look at the lot of you, pitiful drunk. Uncle Niall, you're old enough to know better."

 

"Getting married, Maggie Mae. Where's my Chrissy?" He tried to turn a circle in search and had his two supporters tipping like dominoes.

 

"In her own bed sleeping, as you should be. Come on, Brie, let's get these warriors off the field."

 

"We were playing snooker." Gray beamed at Brianna. "I won."

 

"Yank bastard," Niall said affectionately, then kissed Gray hard on the mouth.

 

"Well, that's nice, isn't it?" Maggie managed to get an arm around Rogan. "Come on now, that's the way. One foot in front of the other." Somehow they managed to negotiate the steps. They dumped Niall first.

 

"Get Rogan off to bed, Maggie," Brianna told her. "I'll tuck this one in, then come back and pull off Uncle Niall's shoes."

 

"Oh, what heads they'll have tomorrow." The prospect made Maggie smile. "Here we go, Sweeney, off to bed. Mind your hands." Since she considered him harmless in his current state, the order came out with a chuckle. "You haven't a clue what to do with them in your state."

 

"I'll wager I do."

 

"Oh, but you smell of whiskey and cigars." Brianna sighed and draped Gray's arm over her shoulders, braced him. "The man's eighty, you know. You should have stopped him."

 

"He's a bad influence, that Niall Feeney. We had to toast Chrissy's eyes, and her lips, and her hair, and her ears. I think we toasted her toes, too, but things get blurry about then."

 

"And small wonder. Here's your door. Just a bit farther now."

 

"You smell so good, Brianna." With what he thought was a smooth move, he sniffed doglike at her neck. "Come to bed with me. I could show you things. All sorts of wonderful things."

 

"Mmm-hmm. Down you go. That's the way." Efficiently, she lifted his legs onto the bed and began to take off his shoes.

 

"Lie down with me. I can take you places. I want to be inside you."

 

Her hands fumbled at that. She looked up sharply, but his eyes were closed, his smile dreamy. "Hush now," she murmured. "Go to sleep."

 

She tucked a blanket around him, brushed the hair from his brow, and left him snoring.

 

Suffering was to be expected. Overindulgence had to be paid for, and Gray was always willing to pay his way. But it seemed a little extreme to have to take a short, vicious trip to hell because of one foolish evening.

 

His head was cracked in two. It didn't show, a fact that relieved him considerably when he managed to crawl into the bathroom the following morning. He looked haggard, but whole. Obviously the jagged break in his skull was on the inside.

 

He'd probably be dead by nightfall.

 

His eyes were small, hard balls of fire. The inside of his mouth had been swabbed with something too foul to imagine. His stomach clutched and seized like a nervous fist.

 

He began to hope he'd be dead long before nightfall.

 

Since there was no one around, he indulged himself in a few whimpers as he stepped under the shower. He'd have sworn the smell of whiskey was seeping out of his pores.

 

Moving with the care of the aged or infirm, he climbed out of the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist. He did what he could to wash the hideous taste out of his mouth.

 

When he stepped into the bedroom, he yelped, slapped his hands over his eyes in time-he hoped-to keep them from bursting out of his head. Some sadist had come in and opened his drapes to the sunlight.

 

Brianna's own eyes had gone wide. Her mouth had fallen open. Other than the towel hanging loosely at his hips, he wore nothing but a few lingering drops of water from his shower.

 

His body was... the word exquisite flashed into her mind. Lean, muscled, gleaming. She found herself linking her fingers together and swallowing hard.

 

"I brought you a breakfast tray," she managed. "I thought you might be feeling poorly."

 

Cautious, Gray spread his fingers just enough to see through. "Then it wasn't the wrath of God." His voice was rough, but he feared the act of clearing it might do permanent damage. "For a minute I thought I was being struck down for my sins."

 

"It's only porridge, toast, and some coffee."

 

"Coffee." He said the word like a prayer. "Could you pour it?"

 

"I could. I brought you some aspirin."

 

"Aspirin." He could have wept. "Please."

 

"Take them first then." She brought him the pills with a small glass of water. "Rogan looks as sad as you," she said as Gray gobbled down the pills-and she fought to keep her hand from stroking over all that wet, curling dark hair. "Uncle Niall's fit as a fiddle."

 

"Figures." Gray moved cautiously toward the bed. He eased down, praying his head wouldn't roll off his neck. "Before we go any further, do I have anything to apologize for?"

 

"To me?"

 

"To anyone. Whiskey's not my usual poison, and I'm fuzzy on details after we started on the second bottle." He squinted up at her and found she was smiling at him. "Something funny?"

 

"No-well, yes, but it's not very kind of me to find it funny." She did give in then, sleeking a hand over his hair as she might over that of a child who had overindulged in cakes. "I was thinking it was sweet of you to offer to apologize right off that way." Her smile warmed. "But no, there's nothing. You were just drunk and silly. There was no harm in it."

 

"Easy for you to say." He supported his head. "I don't make a habit of drinking like that." Wincing, he reached for the coffee with his free hand. "In fact, I don't believe I've ever had that much at one time, or will again."

 

"You'll feel better when you've had a bite to eat. You have a couple of hours before you have to drive over for the wedding-if you're up to it."

 

"Wouldn't miss it." Resigned, Gray picked up the porridge. It smelled safe. He took a tentative bite and waited to see if his system would accept it. "Aren't I going with you?"

 

"I'm leaving in a few minutes. There's things to be done. You'll come over with Rogan and Uncle Niall-since it's doubtful the three of you can get into any trouble on such a short drive."

 

He grunted and scooped up more porridge.

 

"Do you need anything else before I go?"

 

"You've hit most of the vital points." Tilting his head, he studied her. "Did I try to talk you into going to bed with me last night?"

 

"You did."

 

"I thought I remembered that." His smile was quick and easy. "I can't imagine how you resisted me."

 

"Oh, I managed. I'll be off, then."

 

"Brianna." He sent her one quick, dangerous look. "I won't be plastered next time."

 

Christine Rogan Sweeney might have been on the verge of becoming a great-grandmother, but she was still a bride. No matter how often she told herself it was foolish to be nervous, to feel so giddy, her stomach still jumped.

 

She was to be married in only a few minutes more. To pledge herself to a man she loved dearly. And to take his pledge to her. And she would be a wife once again, after so many years a widow.

 

"You look beautiful." Maggie stood back as Christine turned in front of the chevel glass. The pale rose suit gleamed with tiny pearls on the lapels. Against Christine's shining white hair sat a jaunty, matching hat with a fingertip veil.

 

"I feel beautiful." She laughed and turned to embrace Maggie, then Brianna. "I don't care who knows it. I wonder if Niall could be as nervous as I am."

 

"He's pacing like a big cat," Maggie told her. "And asking Rogan for the time every ten seconds."

 

"Good." Christine drew in a long breath. "That's good, then. It is nearly time, isn't it?"

 

"Nearly." Brianna kissed her on each cheek. "I'll be going down now to make sure everything's as it should be. I wish you happiness... Aunt Christine."

 

"Oh, dear." Christine's eyes filled. "How sweet you are."

 

"Don't do that," Maggie warned. "You'll have us all going. I'll signal when we're ready, Brie."

 

With a quick nod Brianna hurried out. There were caterers, of course, and a houseful of servants. But a wedding was a family thing, and she wanted it perfect.

 

The guests were milling in the parlor-swirls of color, snatches of laughter. A harpist was playing in soft, dreamy notes. Garlands of roses had been twined along the banister, and pots of them were artistically decked throughout the house.

 

She wondered if she should slip into the kitchen, just to be certain all was well, when she spotted her mother and Lottie. Fixing a bright smile on her face, she went forward.

 

"Mother, you look wonderful."

 

"Foolishness. Lottie nagged me into spending good money on a new dress." But she brushed a hand fussily along the soft linen sleeve.

 

"It's lovely. And so's yours, Lottie."

 

Maeve's companion laughed heartily. "We splurged sinfully, we did. But it isn't every day you go to such a fancy wedding. The archbishop," she said with a whisper and a wink. "Imagine."

 

Maeve sniffed. "A priest's a priest no matter what hat he's wearing. Seems to me he'd think twice before officiating at such a time. When two people have lived in sin-"

 

"Mother." Brianna kept her voice low, but icily firm. "Not today. Please, if you'd only-"

 

"Brianna." Gray stepped up, took her hand, kissed it. "You look fabulous."

 

"Thank you." She struggled not to flush as his fingers locked possessively around hers. "Mother, Lottie, this is Grayson Thane. He's a guest at Blackthorn. Gray, Maeve Concannon and Lottie Sullivan."

 

"Mrs. Sullivan." He took Lottie's hand, making her giggle when he kissed it. "Mrs. Concannon. My congratulations on your lovely and talented daughters."

 

Maeve only scowled. His hair was as long as a girl's, she observed. And his smile had more than a bit of the devil in it. "A Yank, are you?" "Yes, ma'am. I'm enjoying your country very much. And your daughter's hospitality."

 

"Paying tenants don't usually come to family weddings."

 

"Mother-"

 

"No, they don't," Gray said smoothly. "That's another thing I find charming about your country. Strangers are treated as friends, and friends never as strangers. May I escort you to your seats?"

 

Lottie was already hooking her arm through his. "Come ahead, Maeve. How often are we going to get an offer from a fine-looking young man like this? You're a book writer, are you?" "I am." He swept both women off, sending a quick, smug smile to Brianna over his shoulder.

 

She could have kissed him. Even as she sighed in relief, Maggie signaled from the top of the stairs.

 

As the harpist switched to the wedding march, Brianna slipped to the back of the room. Her throat tightened as Niall took his place in front of the hearth and looked toward the stairs. Perhaps his hair was thin and his waist thick, but just then he looked young and eager and full of nerves.

 

The room hummed with anticipation as Christine walked slowly down the stairs, turned, and with her eyes bright behind her veil, went to him. The archbishop blessed them, and the ceremony began.

 

"Here." Gray slipped up beside Brianna a few moments later and offered his handkerchief. "I had a feeling you'd need this."

 

"It's beautiful." She dabbed at her eyes. The words sighed through her. To love. To honor. To cherish.

 

Gray heard Till death do us part. A life sentence. He'd always figured there was a reason people cried at weddings. He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a friendly squeeze. "Buck up," he murmured. "It's nearly over."

 

"It's only beginning," she corrected and indulged herself by resting her head on his shoulder.

 

Applause erupted when Niall thoroughly, and enthusiastically, kissed the bride.

 

Chapter Eight

 

Trips on private planes, champagne, and glossy society weddings were all well and good, Brianna supposed. But she was glad to be home. Though she knew better than to trust the skies or the balmy air, she preferred to think the worst of the winter was over. She dreamed of her fine new greenhouse as she tended her seedlings in the shed. And planned for her converted attic room while she hung the wash.

 

In the week she'd been back from Dublin, she all but had the house to herself. Gray was closeted in his room working. Now and again he popped off for a drive or strolled into the kitchen sniffing for food.

 

She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or miffed that he seemed too preoccupied to try to charm more kisses from her.

 

Still, she was forced to admit that her solitude was more pleasant knowing he was just up the stairs. She could sit by the fire in the evening, reading or knitting or sketching out her plans, knowing he could come wandering down to join her at any time.

 

But it wasn't Gray who interrupted her knitting one cool evening, but her mother and Lottie.

 

She heard the car outside without much surprise. Friends and neighbors often stopped in when they saw her light on. She'd set her knitting aside and started for the door when she heard her mother and Lottie arguing outside it.

 

Brianna only sighed. For reasons that escaped her, the two women seemed to enjoy their bickering.

 

"Good evening to you." She greeted them both with a kiss. "What a fine surprise."

 

"I hope we're not disturbing you, Brie." Lottie rolled her merry eyes. "Maeve had it in her head we would come, so here we are."

 

"I'm always pleased to see you."

 

"We were out, weren't we?" Maeve shot back. "Too lazy to cook, she was, so I have to drag myself out to a restaurant no matter how I'm feeling."

 

"Even Brie must tire of her own cooking from time to time," Lottie said as she hung Maeve's coat on the hall rack. "As fine as it is. And it's nice to get out now and again and see people."

 

"There's no one I need to see."

 

"You wanted to see Brianna, didn't you?" It pleased Lottie to score a small point. "That's why we're here."

 

"I want some decent tea is what I want, not that pap they serve in the restaurant."

 

"I'll make it." Lottie patted Brianna's arm. "You have a nice visit with your ma. I know where everything is."

 

"And take that hound to the kitchen with you." Maeve gave Con a look of impatient dislike. "I won't have him slobbering all over me."

 

"You'll keep me company, won't you, boy-o?" Cheerful, Lottie ruffled Con between the ears. "Come along with Lottie, now, there's a good lad."

 

Agreeable, and ever hopeful for a snack, Con trailed behind her.

 

"I've a nice fire in the parlor, Mother. Come and sit."

 

"Waste of fuel," Maeve muttered. "It's warm enough without one."

 

Brianna ignored the headache brewing behind her eyes. "It's comforting with one. Did you have a nice dinner?"

 

Maeve gave a snort as she sat. She liked the feel and the look of the fire, but was damned if she would admit it. "Dragged me off to a place in Ennis and orders pizza, she does. Pizza of all things!"

 

"Oh, I know the place you're speaking of. They have lovely food. Rogan says the pizza tastes just as it does in the States." Brianna picked up her knitting again. "Did you know that Murphy's sister Kate is expecting again?"

 

"The girl breeds like a rabbit. What's this-four of them?"

 

" 'Twill be her third. She's two boys now and is hoping for a girl." Smiling, Brianna held up the soft pink yarn. "So I'm making this blanket for luck."

 

"God will give her what He gives her, whatever color you knit."

 

Brianna's needles clicked quietly. "So He will. I had a card from Uncle Niall and Aunt Christine. It has the prettiest picture of the sea and mountains on it. They're having a lovely time on their cruise ship, touring the islands of Greece."

 

"Honeymoons at their age." And in her heart Maeve yearned to see the mountains and foreign seas herself. "Well, if you've enough money you can go where you choose and do what you choose. Not all of us can fly off to warm places in the winter. If I could, perhaps my chest wouldn't be so tight with cold."

 

"Are you feeling poorly?" The question was automatic, like the answers to the multiplication tables she'd learned in school. It shamed her enough to have her look up and try harder. "I'm sorry, Mother."

 

"I'm used to it. Dr. Hogan does no more than cluck his tongue and tell me I'm fit. But I know how I feel, don't I?"

 

"You do, yes." Brianna's knitting slowed as she turned

 

over an idea. "I wonder if you'd feel better if you could go away for some sun."

 

"Hah. And where am I to find sun?"

 

"Maggie and Rogan have that villa in the south of France. It's beautiful and warm there, they say. Remember, she drew me pictures."

 

"Went off with him to that foreign country before they were married."

 

"They're married now," Brianna said mildly. "Wouldn't you like to go there, Mother, you and Lottie, for a week or two? Such a nice rest in the sunshine you could have, and the sea air's always so healing."

 

"And how would I get there?"

 

"Mother, you know Rogan would have the plane take you."

 

Maeve could imagine it. The sun, the servants, the fine big house overlooking the sea. She might have had such a place of her own if ... If.

 

"I'll not ask that girl for any favors."

 

"You needn't. I'll ask for you."

 

"I don't know as I'm fit to travel," Maeve said, for the simple pleasure of making things difficult. "The trip to Dublin and back tired me."

 

"All the more reason for you to have a nice vacation," Brianna returned, knowing the game well. "I'll speak to Maggie tomorrow and arrange it. I'll help you pack, don't worry."

 

"Anxious to see me off, are you?" "Mother." The headache was growing by leaps and bounds.

 

"I'll go, all right." Maeve waved a hand. "For my health, though the good Lord knows how it'll affect my nerves to be among all those foreigners." Her eyes narrowed. "And where is the Yank?"

 

"Grayson? He's upstairs, working."

 

"Working." She huffed out a breath. "Since when is spinning a tale working, I'd like to know. Every other person in this county spins tales."

 

"Putting them on paper would be different, I'd think. And there are times when he comes down after he's been at it for a while he looks as though he's been digging ditches. He seems that tired."

 

"He looked frisky enough in Dublin-when he had his hands all over you."

 

"What?" Brianna dropped a stitch and stared. "Do you think I'm blind as well as ailing?" Spots of pink rode high on Maeve's cheeks. "Mortified I was to see the way you let him carry on with you, in public, too."

 

"We were dancing," Brianna said between lips that had gone stiff and cold. "I was teaching him some steps."

 

"I saw what I saw." Maeve set her jaw. "And I'm asking you right now if you're giving your body to him."

 

"If I'm..." The pink wool spilled onto the floor. "How can you ask me such a thing?"

 

"I'm your mother, and I'll ask what I please of you. No doubt half the village is talking of it, you being here alone night after night with the man."

 

"No one is talking of it. I run an inn, and he's my guest." "A convenient path to sin-I've said so since you insisted on starting this business." She nodded as if Grayson's presence there only confirmed her opinion. "You haven't answered me, Brianna."

 

"And I shouldn't, but I'll answer you. I haven't given my body to him, or to anyone."

 

Maeve waited a moment, then nodded again. "Well, a liar you've never been, so I'll believe you."

 

"I can't find it in me to care what you believe." It was temper she knew that had her knees trembling as she rose. "Do you think I'm proud and happy to have never known a man, to have never found one who would love me? I've no wish to live my life alone, or to forever be making baby things for some other woman's child." "Don't raise your voice to me, girl." "What good does it do to raise it?" Brianna took a deep breath, fought for calm. "What good does it do not to? I'll help Lottie with the tea."

 

"You'll stay where you are." Mouth grim, Maeve angled her head. "You should thank God on your knees for the life you lead, my girl. You've a roof over your head and money in your pocket. It may be I don't like how you earn

 

it, but you've made some small success out of your choice in what many would consider an honest living. Do you think a man and babies can replace that? Well, you're wrong if you do."

 

"Maeve, what are you badgering the girl about now?" Wearily Lottie came in and set down the tea tray.

 

"Stay out of this, Lottie."

 

"Please." Cooly, calmly, Brianna inclined her head. "Let her finish."

 

"Finish I will. I had something once I could call mine. And I lost it." Maeve's mouth trembled once, but she firmed it, hardened it. "Lost any chance I had to be what I'd wanted to be. Lust and nothing more, the sin of it. With a baby in my belly what could I be but some man's wife?"

 

"My father's wife," Brianna said slowly.

 

"So I was. I conceived a child in sin and paid for it my whole life."

 

"You conceived two children," Brianna reminded her.

 

"Aye, I did. The first, your sister, carried that mark with her. Wild she was and will always be. But you were a child of marriage and duty."

 

"Duty?"

 

With her hands planted on either arm of her chair, Maeve leaned forward, and her voice was bitter. "Do you think I wanted him to touch me again? Do you think I enjoyed being reminded why I would never have my heart's desire? But the Church says marriage should produce children. So I did my duty by the Church and let him plant another child in me."

 

"Duty," Brianna repeated, and the tears she might have shed were frozen in her heart. "With no love, no pleasure. Is that what I came from?"

 

"There was no need to share my bed with him when I knew I carried you. I suffered another labor, another birth, and thanked God it would be my last."

 

"You never shared a bed with him. All those years."

 

"There would be no more children. With you I had done what I could to absolve my sin. You don't have Maggie's wildness. There's a coolness in you, a control. You'll use that to keep yourself pure-unless you let some man tempt you. It was nearly so with Rory."

 

"I loved Rory." She hated knowing she was so near tears. For her father, she thought, and the woman he had loved and let go.

 

"You were a child." Maeve dismissed the heartbreak of youth. "But you're a woman now, and pretty enough to draw a man's eye. I want you to remember what can happen if you let them persuade you to give in. The one upstairs, he'll come and he'll go as he pleases. Forget that, and you could end up alone, with a baby growing under your apron and shame in your heart."

 

"So often I wondered why there was no love in this house." Brianna took in a shuddering breath and struggled to steady her voice. "I knew you didn't love Da, couldn't somehow. It hurt me to know it. But then when I learned from Maggie about your singing, your career, and how you'd lost that, I thought I understood, and could sympathize for the pain you must have felt."

 

"You could never know what it is to lose all you've ever wanted."

 

"No, I can't. But neither can I understand a woman, any woman, having no love in her heart for the children she carried and birthed." She lifted her hands to her cheeks. But they weren't wet. Dry and cold they were, like marble against her fingers. "Always you've blamed Maggie for simply being born. Now I see I was nothing more than a duty to you, a sort of penance for an earlier sin."

 

"I raised you with care," Maeve began.

 

"With care. No, it's true you never raised your hand to me the way you did with Maggie. It's a miracle she didn't grow to hate me for that alone. It was heat with her, and cold discipline with me. And it worked well, made us, I suppose, what we are."

 

Very carefully she sat again, picked up her yarn. "I've wanted to love you. I used to ask myself why it was I could never give you more than loyalty and duty. Now I see it wasn't the lack in me, but in you."

 

"Brianna." Appalled, and deeply shaken, Maeve got to her feet. "How can you say such things to me? I've only tried to spare you, to protect you."

 

"I've no need of protection. I'm alone, aren't I, and a virgin, just as you wish it. I'm knitting a blanket for another woman's child as I've done before, and will do again. I have my business, as you say. Nothing has changed here, Mother, but for an easing of my conscience. I'll give you no less than I've always given you, only I'll stop berating myself for not giving more."

 

Dry-eyed again, she looked up. "Will you pour the tea, Lottie? I want to tell you about the vacation you and Mother will be taking soon. Have you been to France?"

 

"No." Lottie swallowed the lump in her throat. Her heart bled for both the women. She sent a look of sorrow toward Maeve, knowing no way to comfort. With a sigh she poured the tea. "No," she repeated. "I've not been there. Are we going, then?"

 

"Yes, indeed." Brianna picked up the rhythm of her knitting. "Very soon if you like. I'll be talking to Maggie about it tomorrow." She read the sympathy in Lottie's eyes and made herself smile. "You'll have to go shopping for a bikini."

 

Brianna was rewarded with a laugh. After setting the teacup on the table beside Brianna, Lottie touched her cold cheek. "There's a girl," she murmured.

 

A family from Helsinki stayed the weekend at Blackthorn. Brianna was kept busy catering to the couple and their three children. Out of pity, she scooted Con off to Murphy. The towheaded three-year-old couldn't seem to resist pulling ears and tail-an indignity which Concobar suffered silently.

 

Unexpected guests helped keep her mind off the emotional upheaval her mother had stirred. The family was loud, boisterous, and as hungry as bears just out of hibernation.

 

Brianna enjoyed every moment of them.

 

She bid them goodbye with kisses for the children and a dozen tea cakes for their journey south. The moment their car passed out of sight, Gray crept up behind her.

 

"Are they gone?"

 

"Oh." She pressed a hand to her heart. "You scared the life out of me." Turning, she pushed at the stray wisps escaping her topknot. "I thought you'd come down to say goodbye to the Svensons. Little Jon asked about you."

 

"I still have little Jon's sticky fingerprints over half my body and most of my papers." With a wry grin Gray tucked his thumbs in his front pockets. "Cute kid, but, Jesus, he never stopped."

 

"Three-year-olds are usually active." "You're telling me. Give one piggyback ride and you're committed for life."

 

Now she smiled, remembering. "You looked very sweet with him. I imagine he'll always remember the Yank who played with him at the Irish inn." She tilted her head. "And he was holding the little lorry you bought him yesterday when he left."

 

"Lorry-oh, the truck, right." He shrugged. "I just happened to see it when I was taking a breather in the village." "Just happened to see it," she repeated with a slow nod. "As well as the two dolls for the little girls." "That's right. Anyway, I usually get a kick out of OPKs." "OPKs?"

 

"Other people's kids. But now"-he slipped his hands neatly around her waist-"we're alone again."

 

In a quick defensive move she pressed a hand to his chest before he could draw her closer. "I've errands to do."

 

He looked down at her hand, lifted a brow. "Errands."

 

"That's right, and I've a mountain of wash to do when I get back."

 

"Are you going to hang out the wash? I love to watch you hang it on the line-especially when there's a breeze. It's incredibly sexy."

 

"What a foolish thing to say."

 

His grin only widened. "There's something to be said for making you blush, too."

 

"I'm not blushing." She could feel the heat in her cheeks. "I'm impatient. I need to be off, Grayson." "How about this, I'll take you where you need to go."

 

Before she could speak, he lowered his mouth, brushed it lightly over hers. "I've missed you, Brianna."

 

"You can't have. I've been right here."

 

"I've missed you." He watched her lashes lower. Her shy, uncertain responses to him gave him an odd sense of power. All ego, he thought, amused at himself. "Where's your list?"

 

"My list?"

 

"You've always got one."

 

Her gaze shifted up again. Those misty-green eyes were aware, and just a little afraid. Gray felt the surge of heat spear up from the balls of his feet straight to the loins. His fingers tightened convulsively on her waist before he forced himself to step back, let out a breath.

 

"Taking it slow is killing me," he muttered.

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"Never mind. Get your list and whatever. I'll drive you."

 

"I don't have a list. I've only to go to my mother's and help her and Lottie pack for their trip. There's no need for you to take me."

 

"I could use the drive. How long will you be there?"

 

"Two hours, perhaps three."

 

"I'll drop you off, pick you up. I'm going out anyway," he continued before she could argue. "It'll save petrol."

 

"All right. If you're sure. I'll just be a minute."

 

While he waited, Gray stepped into the path of the front garden. In the month he'd been there, he'd seen gales, rain, and the luminous light of the Irish sun. He'd sat in village pubs and listened to gossip, traditional music. He'd wandered down lanes where farmers herded their cows from field to field, and had walked up the winding steps of ruined castles, hearing the echos of war and death. He'd visited grave sites and had stood on the verge of towering cliffs looking out on the rolling sea.

 

Of all the places he'd visited, none seemed quite so appealing as the view from Brianna's front garden. But he wasn't altogether certain if it was the spot or the woman he was waiting for. Either way, he decided, his time here would certainly be one of the most satisfying slices of his life.

 

After he dropped Brianna off at the tidy house outside Ennis, he went wandering. For more than an hour he clambered over rocks at the Burren, taking pictures in his head. The sheer vastness delighted him, as did the Druid's Altar that drew so many tourists with their clicking cameras.

 

He drove aimlessly, stopping where he chose-a small beach deserted but for a small boy and a huge dog, a field where goats cropped and the wind whispered through tall grass, a small village where a woman counted out his change for his candy bar purchase with curled, arthritic fingers, then offered him a smile as sweet as sunlight.

 

A ruined abbey with a round tower caught his eye and had him pulling off the road to take a closer look. The round towers of Ireland fascinated him, but he'd found them primarily on the east coast. To guard, he supposed, from the influx of invasions across the Irish Sea. This one was whole, undamaged, and set at a curious slant. Gray spent some time circling, studying, and wondering how he could use it.

 

There were graves there as well, some old, some new. He had always been intrigued by the way generations could mingle so comfortably in death when they rarely managed it in life. For himself, he would take the Viking way-a ship out to sea and a torch.

 

But for a man who dealt in death a great deal, he preferred not to linger his thoughts overmuch on his own mortality.

 

Nearly all of the graves he passed were decked with flowers. Many of them were covered with plastic boxes, misty with condensation, the blossoms within all no more than a smear of color. He wondered why it didn't amuse him. It should have. Instead he was touched, stirred by the devotion to the dead.

 

They had belonged once, he thought. Maybe that was the definition of family. Belong once, belong always. He'd never had that problem. Or that privilege. He wandered through, wondering when the husbands, the wives, the children came to lay the wreaths and flowers. On the day of death? The day of birth? The feast day of the saint the dead had been named for? Or Easter maybe. That was a big one for Catholics.

 

He'd ask Brianna, he decided. It was something he could definitely work into his book.

 

He couldn't have said why he stopped just at that moment, why he looked down at that particular marker. But he did, and he stood, alone, the breeze ruffling his hair, looking down at Thomas Michael Concannon's grave.

 

Brianna's father? he wondered and felt an odd clutch around his heart. The dates seemed right. O'Malley had told him stories of Tom Concannon when Gray had sipped at a Guinness at the pub. Stories ripe with affection, sentiment, and humor.

 

Gray knew he had died suddenly, at the cliffs at Loop Head, with only Maggie with him. But the flowers on the grave, Gray was certain, were Brianna's doing.

 

They'd been planted over him. Though the winter had been hard on them, Gray could see they'd been recently weeded. More than a few brave blades of green were spearing up, searching for the sun.

 

He'd never stood over a grave of someone he'd known. Though he often paid visits to the dead, there'd been no pilgrimage to the resting place of anyone he'd cared for. But he felt a tug now, one that made him crouch down and brush a hand lightly over the carefully tended mound.

 

And he wished he'd brought flowers.

 

"Tom Concannon," he murmured. "You're well remembered. They talk of you in the village, and smile when they say your name. I guess that's as fine an epitaph as anyone could ask for."

 

Oddly content, he sat beside Tom awhile and watched sunlight and shadows play on the stones the living planted to honor the dead.

 

He gave Brianna three hours. It was obviously more than enough as she came out of the house almost as soon as he pulled up in front of it. His smile of greeting turned to a look of speculation as he got a closer look.

 

Her face was pale, as he knew it became when she was upset or moved. Her eyes, though cool, showed traces of strain. He glanced toward the house, saw the curtain move. He caught a glimpse only, but Maeve's face was as pale as her daughter's, and appeared equally unhappy.

 

"All packed?" he said, keeping his tone mild.

 

"Yes." She slipped into the car, her hands tight around her purse-as if it was the only thing that kept her from leaping up. "Thank you for coming for me."

 

"A lot of people find packing a chore." Gray pulled the car out and for once kept his speed moderate.

 

"It can be." Normally, she enjoyed it. The anticipation of going somewhere, and more, the anticipation of returning home. "It's done now, and they'll be ready to leave in the morning."

 

God, she wanted to close her eyes, to escape from the pounding headache and miserable guilt into sleep.

 

"Do you want to tell me what's upset you?"

 

"I'm not upset."

 

"You're wound up, unhappy, and as pale as ice."

 

"It's personal. It's family business."

 

The fact that her dismissal stung surprised him. But he only shrugged and lapsed into silence.

 

"I'm sorry." Now she did close her eyes. She wanted peace. Couldn't everyone just give her a moment's peace? "That was rude of me."

 

"Forget it." He didn't need her problems in any case, he reminded himself. Then he glanced at her and swore under his breath. She looked exhausted. "I want to make a stop."

 

She started to object, then kept her eyes and mouth closed. He'd been good enough to drive her, she reminded herself. She could certainly bear a few minutes longer before she buried all this tension in work.

 

He didn't speak again. He was driving on instinct, hoping the choice he made would bring the color back to her cheeks and the warmth to her voice.

 

She didn't open her eyes again until he braked and shut the engine off. Then she merely stared at the castle ruins. "You needed to stop here?"

 

"I wanted to stop here," he corrected. "I found this my first day here. It's playing a prominent part in my book. I like the feel of it."

 

He got out, rounded the hood, and opened her door. "Come on." When she didn't move, he leaned down and unfastened her seat belt himself. "Come on. It's great. Wait till you see the view from the top."

 

"I've wash to do," she complained and heard the sulkiness of her own voice as she stepped out of the car.

 

"It's not going anywhere." He had her hand now and was tugging her over the high grass.

 

She didn't have the heart to point out that the ruins weren't likely to go anywhere, either. "You're using this place in your book?"

 

"Big murder scene." He grinned at her reaction, the uneasiness and superstition in her eyes. "Not afraid are you? I don't usually act out my scenes."

 

"Don't be foolish." But she shivered once as they stepped between the high stone walls.

 

There was grass growing wild on the ground, bits of green pushing its way through chinks in the stone. Above her, she could see where the floors had been once, so many years ago. But now time and war left the view to the sky unimpeded.

 

The clouds floated silently as ghosts.

 

"What do you suppose they did here, right here?" Gray mused.

 

"Lived, worked. Fought."

 

"That's too general. Use your imagination. Can't you see it, the people walking here? It's winter, and it's bone cold. Ice rings on the water barrels, frost on the ground that snaps like dry twigs underfoot. The air stings with smoke from the fires. A baby's crying, hungry, then stops when his mother bares her breast."

 

He drew her along with him, physically, emotionally, until she could almost see it as he did.

 

"Soldiers are drilling out there, and you can hear the ring of sword to sword. A man hurries by, limping from an old wound, his breath steaming out in cold clouds. Come on, let's go up."

 

He pulled her toward narrow, tight winding stairs. Every so often there would be an opening in the stone, a kind of cave. She wondered if people had slept there, or stored goods. Or tried to hide, perhaps, from the enemy who would always find them.

 

"There'd be an old woman carrying an oil lamp up here, and she has a puckered scar on the back of her hand and fear in her eyes. Another's bringing fresh rushes for the floors, but she's young and thinking of her lover."

 

Gray kept her hand in his, stopping when they came to a level midway. "It must have been the Cromwellians, don't you think, who sacked it. There'd have been screams, the stench of smoke and blood, that nasty thud of metal hacking into bone, and that high-pitched shriek a man makes when the pain slices him. Spears driving straight through bellies, pinning a body to the ground where the limbs would twitch before nerves died. Crows circling overhead, waiting for the feast."

 

He turned, saw her eyes were wide and glazed-and chuckled. "Sorry, I get caught up."

 

"It's not just a blessing to have an imagination like that." She shivered again and fought to swallow. "I don't think I want you to make me see it so clear."

 

"Death's fascinating, especially the violent type. Men are always hunting men. And this is a hell of a spot for murder -of the contemporary sort."

 

"Your sort," she murmured.

 

"Mmm. He'll toy with the victim first," Gray began as he started to climb again. He was caught up in his own mind, true, but he could see Brianna was no longer worrying over whatever had happened at her mother's. "Let the atmosphere and those smoky ghosts stir into the fear like a slow poison. He won't hurry-he likes the hunt, craves it. He can scent the fear, like any wolf, he can scent it. It's the scent that gets in his blood and makes it pump, that arouses him like sex. And the prey runs, chasing that thin thread of hope. But she's breathing fast. The sound of it echoes, carries on the wind. She falls-the stairs are treacherous in the dark, in the rain. Wet and slick, they're weapons themselves. But she claws her way up them, air sobbing in and out of her lungs, her eyes wild." "Gray-" "She's nearly as much of an animal as he, now. Terror's stripped off layers of humanity, the same as good sex will, or true hunger. Most people think they've experienced all three, but it's rare even to know one sensation fully. But she knows the first now, knows that terror as if it was solid and alive, as if it could wrap its hands around her throat. She wants a bolt hole, but there's nowhere to hide. And she can hear him climbing, slowly, tirelessly behind her. Then she reaches the top."

 

He drew Brianna out of the shadows onto the wide, walled ledge where sunlight streamed. "And she's trapped."

 

She  jolted  when   Gray   swung   her   around,   nearly screamed. Roaring with laughter, he lifted her off her feet. "Christ, what an audience you are." " Tisn't funny." She tried to wiggle free. "It's wonderful. I'm planning on having him mutilate her with an antique dagger, but..." He hooked his arm under Brianna's knees and carried her to the wall. "Maybe he should just dump her over the side."

 

"Stop!" Out of self-preservation she threw her arms around him and clung.

 

"Why didn't I think of this before? Your heart's pounding, you've got your arms around me." "Bully."

 

"Got your mind off your troubles, didn't it?" "I'll keep my troubles, thank you, and keep out of that twisted imagination of yours."

 

"No, no one does." He snuggled her a little closer. "That's what fiction's all about, books, movies, whatever. It gives you a break from reality and lets you worry about someone else's problems." "What does it do for you who tells the tale?" "Same thing. Exactly the same thing." He set her on her feet and turned her to the view. "It's like a painting, isn't it?" Gently, he drew her closer until her back was nestled against him. "As soon as I saw this place, it grabbed me. It was raining the first time I came here, and it almost seemed as if the colors should run." She sighed. Here was the peace she'd wanted after all. In his odd roundabout way he'd given it to her. "It's nearly spring," she murmured.

 

"You always smell of spring." He bent his head to rub his lips over the nape of her neck. "And taste of it." "You're making my legs weak again." "Then you'd better hold on to me." He turned her, cupped a hand at her jaw. "I haven't kissed you in days." "I know." She built up her courage, kept her eyes level. "I've wanted you to."

 

"That was the idea." He touched his lips to hers, stirred when her hands slipped up his chest to frame his face.

 

She opened for him willingly, her little murmur of pleasure as arousing as a caress. With the wind swirling around them, he drew her closer, careful to keep his hands easy, his mouth gentle.

 

All the strain, the fatigue, the frustration had vanished. She was home, was all that Brianna could think. Home was always where she wanted to be.

 

On a sigh she rested her head on his shoulder, curved her arms up his back. "I've never felt like this."

 

Nor had he. But that was a dangerous thought, and one he would have to consider. "It's good with us," he murmured. "There's something good about it."

 

"There is." She lifted her cheek to his. "Be patient with me, Gray."

 

"I intend to. I want you, Brianna, and when you're ready..." He stepped back, ran his hands down her arms until their fingers linked. "When you're ready."

 

Chapter Nine

 

Gray wondered if his appetite was enhanced due to the fact that he had another hunger that was far from satisfied. He thought it best to take it philosophically-and help himself to a late-night feast of Brianna's bread-and-butter pudding. Making tea was becoming a habit as well, and he'd already set the kettle on the stove and warmed the pot before he scooped out pudding into a bowl.

 

He didn't think he'd been so obsessed with sex since his thirteenth year. Then it had been Sally Anne Howe, one of the other residents of the Simon Brent Memorial Home for Children. Good old Sally Anne, Gray thought now, with her well blossomed body and sly eyes. She'd been three years older than he, and more than willing to share her charms with anyone for smuggled cigarettes or candy bars.

 

At the time he thought she was a goddess, the answer to

 

a randy adolescent's prayers. He could look back now with pity and anger, knowing the cycle of abuse and the flaws in the system that had made a pretty young girl feel her only true worth was nestled between her thighs.

 

He'd had plenty of sweaty dreams about Sally Anne after lights out. And had been lucky enough to steal an entire pack of Marlboros from one of the counselors. Twenty cigarettes had equaled twenty fucks, he remembered. And he'd been a very fast learner.

 

Over the years, he'd learned quite a bit more, from girls his own age, and from professionals who plied their trade out of darkened doorways that smelled of stale grease and sour sweat.

 

He'd been barely sixteen when he'd broken free of the orphanage and hit the road with the clothes on his back and twenty-three dollars worth of loose change and crumpled bills in his pocket.

 

Freedom was what he'd wanted, freedom from the rules, the regulations, the endless cycle of the system he'd been caught in most of his life. He'd found it, and used it, and paid for it.

 

He'd lived and worked those streets for a long time before he'd given himself a name, and a purpose. He'd been fortunate enough to have possessed a talent that had kept him from being swallowed up by other hungers.

 

At twenty he'd had his first lofty, and sadly autobiographical, novel under his belt. The publishing world had not been impressed. By twenty-two, he'd crafted out a neat, clever little whodunit. Publishers did not come clamoring, but a whiff of interest from an assistant editor had kept him holed up in a cheap rooming house battering at a manual typewriter for weeks.

 

That, he'd sold. For peanuts. Nothing before or since had meant as much to him.

 

Ten years later, and he could live as he chose, and he felt he'd chosen well.

 

He poured the water into the pot, shoveled a spoonful of pudding into his mouth. As he glanced over at Brianna's door, spotted the thin slant of light beneath it, he smiled.

 

He'd chosen her, too.

 

Covering his bases, he set the pot with two cups on a tray, then knocked at her door.

 

"Yes, come in."

 

She was sitting at her little desk, tidy as a nun in a flannel gown and slippers, her hair in a loose braid over one shoulder. Gray gamely swallowed the saliva that pooled in his mouth.

 

"Saw your light. Want some tea?"

 

"That would be nice. I was just finishing up some paperwork."

 

The dog uncurled himself from beside her feet and walked over to rub against Gray. "Me, too." He set down the tray to ruffle Con's fur. "Murder makes me hungry."

 

"Killed someone today, did you?"

 

"Brutally." He said it with such relish, she laughed.

 

"Perhaps that's what makes you so even tempered all in all," she mused. "All those emotional murders purging your system. Do you ever-" She caught herself, moving a shoulder as he handed her a cup.

 

"Go ahead, ask. You rarely ask anything about my work."

 

"Because I imagine everyone does."

 

"They do." He made himself comfortable. "I don't mind."

 

"Well, I was wondering, if you ever make one of the characters someone you know-then kill them off."

 

"There was this snotty French waiter in Dijon. I garotted him."

 

"Oh." She rubbed a hand over her throat. "How did it feel?"

 

"For him, or me?"

 

"For you."

 

"Satisfying." He spooned up pudding. "Want me to kill someone for you, Brie? I aim to please."

 

"Not at the moment, no." She shifted and some of her papers fluttered to the floor.

 

"You need a typewriter," he told her as he helped her gather them up. "Better yet, a word processor. It would save you time writing business letters."

 

"Not when I'd have to search for every key." While he read her correspondence, she cocked a brow, amused. " 'Tisn't very interesting."

 

"Hmm. Oh, sorry, habit. What's Triquarter Mining?" "Oh, just a company Da must have invested it. I found the stock certificate with his things in the attic. I've written them once already," she added, mildly annoyed. "But had no answer. So I'm trying again."

 

"Ten thousand shares." Gray pursed his lips. "That's not chump change."

 

"It is, if I think I know what you're saying. You had to know my father-he was always after a new moneymaking scheme that cost more than it would ever earn. Still, this needs to be done." She held out a hand. "That's just a copy. Rogan took the original for safekeeping and made that for me."

 

"You should have him check it out."

 

"I don't like to bother him with it. His plate's full with the new gallery-and with Maggie."

 

He handed her back the copy. "Even at a dollar a share, it's fairly substantial."

 

"I'd be surprised if it was worth more than a pence a share. God knows he couldn't have paid much more. More likely it is that the whole company went out of business."

 

"Then your letter would have come back."

 

She only smiled. "You've been here long enough to know the Irish mails. I think-" They both glanced over as the dog began to growl. "Con?"

 

Instead of responding, the dog growled again, and the fur on his back lifted. In two strides Gray was at the windows. He saw nothing but mist.

 

"Fog," he muttered. "I'll go look around. No," he said when she started to rise. "It's dark, it's cold, it's damp, and you're staying put."

 

"There's nothing out there."

 

"Con and I will find out. Let's go." He snapped his fingers, and to Brianna's surprise, Con responded immediately. He pranced out at Gray's heels.

 

She kept a flashlight in the first kitchen drawer. Gray snagged it before he opened the door. The dog quivered once, then as Gray murmured, "go," leaped into the mist.

 

In seconds the sound of his racing feet was muffled to silence.

 

The fog distorted the beam from the flash. Gray moved carefully, eyes and ears straining. He heard the dog bark, but from what direction or distance he couldn't say.

 

He stopped by Brianna's bedroom windows, playing the light on the ground. There, in her neat bed of perennials, was a single footprint.

 

Small, Gray mused, crouching down. Nearly small enough to be a child's. It could be as simple as that-kids out on a lark. But when he continued to circle the house, he heard the sound of an engine turning over. Cursing, he quickened his pace. Con burst through the mist like a diver spearing through the surface of a lake.

 

"No luck?" To commiserate, Gray stroked Con's head as they both stared out into the fog. "Well, I'm afraid I might know what this is about. Let's go back."

 

Brianna was gnawing on her nails when they came through the kitchen door. "You were gone so long."

 

"We wanted to circle the whole way around." He set the flashlight on the counter, combed a hand through his damp hair. "This could be related to your break-in."

 

"I don't see how. You didn't find anyone."

 

"Because we weren't quick enough. There's another possible explanation." He jammed his hands in his pockets. "Me."

 

"You? What do you mean?"

 

"I've had it happen a few times. An overenthusiastic fan finds out where I'm staying. Sometimes they come calling like they were old pals-sometimes they just trail you like a shadow. Now and again, they break in, look for souvenirs."

 

"But that's dreadful."

 

"It's annoying, but fairly harmless. One enterprising woman picked the lock on my hotel room at the Paris Ritz, stripped, and crawled into bed with me." He tried for a grin. "It was... awkward."

 

"Awkward," Brianna repeated after she'd managed to close her mouth. "What-no, I don't think I want to know what you did."

 

"Called security." His eyes went bright with amusement.

 

"There are limits to what I'll do for my readers. Anyway, this might have been kids, but if it was one of my adoring fans, you might want me to find other accommodations."

 

"I do not." Her protective instincts snapped into place. "They've no right to intrude on your privacy that way, and you'll certainly not leave here because of it." She let out a huff of breath. "It's not just your stories, you know. Oh, they draw people in-it all seems so real, and there's always something heroic that rises above all the greed and violence and grief. It's your picture, too."

 

He was charmed by her description of his work and answered absently. "What about it?"

 

"Your face." She looked at him then. "It's such a lovely face."

 

He didn't know whether to laugh or wince. "Really?"

 

"Yes, it's..." She cleared her throat. There was a gleam in his eyes she knew better than to trust. "And the little biography on the back-more the lack of it. It's as if you came from nowhere. The mystery of it's appealing."

 

"I did come from nowhere. Why don't we go back to my face?"

 

She took a step in retreat. "I think there's been enough excitement for the night."

 

He just kept moving forward until his hands were on her shoulders and his mouth lay quietly on hers. "Will you be able to sleep?"

 

"Yes." Her breath caught, expelled lazily. "Con will be with me."

 

"Lucky dog. Go on, get some sleep." He waited until she and the dog were settled, then did something Brianna hadn't done in all the years she'd lived in the house.

 

He locked the doors.

 

The best place to spread news or to garner it was, logically, the village pub. In the weeks he'd been in Clare County, Gray had developed an almost sentimental affection for O'Malley's. Naturally, during his research, he'd breezed into a number of public houses in the area, but O'Malley's had become, for him, as close to his own neighborhood bar as he'd ever known.

 

He heard the lilt of music even as he reached for the door. Murphy, he thought. Now, that was lucky. The moment Gray stepped in, he was greeted by name or a cheery wave. O'Malley began to build him a pint of Guiness before he'd planted himself in a seat.

 

"Well, how's the story telling these days?" O'Malley asked him.

 

"It's fine. Two dead, no suspects."

 

With a shake of his head, O'Malley slipped the pint under Gray's nose. "Don't know how it is a man can play with murder all the day and still have a smile on his face of an evening."

 

"Unnatural, isn't it?" Gray grinned at him.

 

"I've a story for you." This came from David Ryan who sat on the end of the bar and lighted one of his American cigarettes.

 

Gray settled back amid the music and smoke. There was always a story, and he was as good a listener as he was a teller.

 

"Was a maid who lived in the countryside near Tralee. Beautiful as a sunrise, she was, with hair like new gold and eyes as blue as Kerry."

 

Conversation quieted, and Murphy lowered his music so that it was a backdrop for the tale.

 

"It happened that two men came a-courting her," David went on. "One was a bookish fellow, the other a farmer. In her way, the maid loved them both; for she was as fickle of heart as she was lovely of face. So, enjoying the attention, as a maid might, she let them both dangle for her, making promises to each. And there began to grow a blackness in the heart of the young farmer, side by side with his love of the maid."

 

He paused, as storytellers often do, and studied the red glow at the end of his cigarette. He took a deep drag, expelled smoke.

 

"So one night he waited for his rival along the roadside, and when the bookish fellow came a-whistling-for the maid had given him her kisses freely-the farmer leaped out and bore the young lover to the ground. He dragged him, you see, in the moonlight across the fields, and though the poor sod still breathed, he buried him deep. When dawn came, he sowed his crop over him and put an end to the competition."

 

David paused again, drew deep on his cigarette, reached for his pint.

 

"And?" Gray asked, caught up. "He married the maid." "No, indeed he didn't. She ran off with a tinker that very day. But the farmer had the best bloody crop of hay of his life."

 

There were roars of laughter as Gray only shook his head. He considered himself a professional liar and a good one. But the competition here was fierce. Amid the chuckles, Gray picked up his glass and went to join Murphy.

 

"Davey's a tale for every day of the week," Murphy told him, gently running his hands along the buttons of his squeeze box.

 

"I imagine my agent would scoop him up in a heartbeat. Heard anything, Murphy?"

 

"No, nothing helpful. Mrs. Leery thought she might have seen a car go by the day of your troubles. She thinks it was green, but didn't pay it any mind."

 

"Someone was poking around the cottage last night. Lost him in the fog." Gray remembered in disgust. "But he was close enough to leave a footprint in Brie's flower bed. Might have been kids." Gray took a contemplative sip of beer. "Has anyone been asking about me?"

 

"You're a daily topic of conversation," Murphy said dryly.

 

"Ah, fame. No, I mean a stranger." "Not that I've heard. You'd better to ask over at the post office. Why?"

 

"I think it might be an overenthusiastic fan. I've run into it before. Then again..." He shrugged. "It's the way my mind works, always making more out of what's there."

 

"There's a dozen men or more a whistle away if anyone gives you or Brie any trouble." Murphy glanced up as the door to the pub opened. Brianna came in, flanked by Rogan and Maggie. His brow lifted as he looked back at Gray.

 

"And a dozen men or more who'll haul you off to the altar if you don't mind that gleam in your eye."

 

"What?" Gray picked up his beer again, and his lips curved. "Just looking."

 

"Aye. I'm a rover," Murphy sang, "and seldom sober, I'm a rover of high degree. For when I'm drinking, I'm always thinking, how to gain my love's company."

 

"There's still half a pint in this glass," Gray muttered, and rose to walk to Brianna. "I thought you had mending."

 

"I did."

 

"We bullied her into coming out," Maggie explained and gave a little sigh as she levered herself onto a stool.

 

"Persuaded," Rogan corrected. "A glass of Harp, Brie?"

 

"Thank you, I will."

 

"Tea for Maggie, Tim," Rogan began and grinned as his wife muttered. "A glass of Harp for Brie, a pint of Guiness for me. Another pint, Gray?"

 

"This'll do me." Gray leaned against the bar. "I remember the last time I went drinking with you."

 

"Speaking of Uncle Niall," Maggie put in. "He and his bride are spending a few days on the island of Crete. Play something bright, will you, Murphy?"

 

Obligingly, he reeled into "Whiskey in the Jar" and set her feet tapping.

 

After listening to the lyrics, Gray shook his head. "Why is it you Irish always sing about war?"

 

"Do we?" Maggie smiled, sipping at her tea as she waited to join in the chorus.

 

"Sometimes it's betrayal or dying, but mostly it's war."

 

"Is that a fact?" She smiled over the rim of her cup. "I couldn't say. Then again, it might be that we've had to fight for every inch of our own ground for centuries. Or-"

 

"Don't get her started," Rogan pleaded. "There's a rebel's heart in there."

 

"There's a rebel's heart inside every Irish man or woman. Murphy's a fine voice, he does. Why don't you sing with him, Brie?"

 

Enjoying the moment, she sipped her Harp. "I'd rather listen."

 

"I'd like to hear you," Gray murmured and stroked a hand down her hair.

 

Maggie narrowed her eyes at the gesture. "Brie has a voice like a bell," she said. "We always wondered where she got it, until we found out our mother had one as well." "How about 'Danny Boy'?"

 

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Count on a Yank to ask for it. A Brit wrote that tune, outlander. Do "James Connolly," Murphy. Brie'11 sing with you."

 

With a resigned shake of her head, Brianna went to sit with Murphy.

 

"They make lovely harmony," Maggie murmured, watching Gray.

 

"Mmm. She sings around the house when she forgets someone's there."

 

"And how long do you plan to be there?" Maggie asked, ignoring Rogan's warning scowl. "Until I'm finished," Gray said absently. "Then onto the next?" "That's right. Onto the next."

 

Despite the fact that Rogan now had his hand clamped at the back of her neck, Maggie started to make some pithy comment. It was Gray's eyes rather than her husband's annoyance that stopped her. The desire in them had stirred her protective instincts. But there was something more now. She wondered if he was aware of it.