"You're supposed to look happy when you garden, not troubled."

 

Putting a hand on top of her hat, Brianna lifted her head to look at Gray. A good day, she decided at once. When he'd had a good day, you could all but feel the pleasure of it vibrate from him.

 

"I was letting my mind wander."

 

"So was I. I got up and looked out of the window and saw you. For the life of me I couldn't think of anything else."

 

"It's a lovely day for being out-of-doors. And you started working at dawn." With quick and oddly tender movements, she staked another stem. "Is it going well for you, then?"

 

"It's going incredibly well." He sat beside her, indulged himself with a gulp of the perfumed air. "I can barely keep up with myself. I murdered a lovely young woman today."

 

She snorted with laughter. "And sound very pleased with yourself."

 

"I was very fond of her, but she had to go. And her murder is going to spearhead the outrage that will lead to the killer's downfall."

 

"Was it in the ruins we went to that she died?"

 

"No, that was someone else. This one met her fate in the Burren, near the Druid's Altar."

 

"Oh." Despite herself Brianna shivered "I've always been fond of that spot." "Me, too. He left her stretched over the crown stone, like an offering to a bloodthirsty god. Naked, of course."

 

"Of course. And I suppose some poor unfortunate tourist will find her."

 

"He already has. An American student on a walking tour of Europe." Gray clucked his tongue. "I don't think he'll ever be the same." Leaning over, he kissed her shoulder. "So, how was your day?"

 

"Not as eventful. I saw off those lovely newlyweds from Limerick this morning, and I minded the American children while their parents had a lie-in." Eagle-eyed, she spotted a tiny weed and mercilessly ripped it out of the bed. "They helped me make hot cross buns. After, the family had a day at Bunratty, the folk park, you know. Only returned shortly ago. We're expecting another family this evening, from Edinburgh, who stayed here two years past. They've two teenagers, boys, who both fell a bit in love with me last time."

 

"Really?" Idly he ran a fingertip down her shoulder. "I'll have to intimidate them."

 

"Oh, I imagine they're over it now." She glanced up, smiled curiously at his snort of laughter. "What?"

 

"I was just thinking you've probably ruined those boys for life. They'll never find anyone to compare with you."

 

"What nonsense." She reached for another stake. "I talked to Maggie earlier this afternoon. They might be in Dublin another week or two. And we'll have the baptism when they get back. Murphy and I are to be godparents."

 

He shifted, sat cross-legged now. "What does that mean, exactly, in Catholic?"

 

"Oh, not much different, I'd imagine, than it means in any church. We'll speak for the baby during the service, like sponsors, you see. And we'll promise to look after his religious upbringing, if something should happen to Maggie and Rogan."

 

"Kind of a heavy responsibility."

 

"It's an honor," she said with a smile. "Were you not baptized ever, Grayson?"

 

"I have no idea. Probably not." He moved his shoulders, then cocked a brow at her pensive frown. "What now? Worried I'll burn in hell because nobody sprinkled water over my head?"

 

"No." Uncomfortable, she looked away again. "And the water's only a symbol, of cleansing away original sin."

 

"How original is it?"

 

She looked back at him, shook her head. "You don't want me explaining catechism and such, and I'm not trying to convert you. Still, I know Maggie and Rogan would like you at the service."

 

"Sure, I'll go. Be interesting. How's the kid anyway?"

 

"She says Liam's growing like a weed." Brianna concentrated on what her hands were doing and tried not to let her heart ache too much. "I told her about Mr. Smythe-White-I mean Mr. Carstairs."

 

"And?"

 

"She laughed till I thought she'd burst. She thought Rogan might take the matter a bit less lightly, but we both agreed it was so like Da to tumble into a mess like this. It's a bit like having him back for a time. 'Brie,' he might say, 'if you don't risk something, you don't win something.' And I'm to tell you she was impressed with your cleverness in tracking Mr. Carstairs down, and would you like the job we've hired that detective for."

 

"No luck on that?"

 

"Actually, there was something." She sat back again, laid her hands on her thighs. "Someone, one of Amanda Dougherty's cousins, I think, thought she might have gone north in New York, into the mountains. It seems she'd been there before and was fond of the area. The detective, he's taking a trip there, to, oh, that place where Rip van Winkle fell asleep."

 

"The Catskills?"

 

"Aye, that's it. So, with luck, he'll find something there."

 

Gray picked up a garden stake himself, eyeing it down the length, wondering absently how successful a murder weapon it might be. "What'll you do if you discover you've got a half brother or sister?"

 

"Well, I think I would write to Miss Dougherty first." She'd already thought it through, carefully. "I don't want to hurt anyone. But from the tone of her letters to Da, I think she'd be a woman who might be glad to know that she, and her child, are welcome."

 

"And they would be," he mused, setting the stake aside again. "This, what-twenty-six-, twenty-seven-year-old stranger would be welcome."

 

"Of course." She tilted her head, surprised he would question it. "He or she would have Da's blood, wouldn't they? As Maggie and I do. He wouldn't want us to turn our back on family."

 

"But he-" Gray broke off, shrugged.

 

"You're thinking he did," Brianna said mildly. "I don't know if that's the way of it. We'll never know, I suppose, what he did when he learned of it. But turn his back, no, it wouldn't have been in him. He kept her letters, and knowing him, I think he would have grieved for the child he would never be able to see."

 

Her gaze wandered, followed the flitting path of a speckled butterfly. "He was a dreamer, Grayson, but he was first and always a family man. He gave up a great deal to keep this family whole. More than I'd ever guessed until I read those letters."

 

"I'm not criticizing him." He thought of the grave, and the flowers Brianna had planted over it. "I just hate to see you troubled."

 

"I'll be less troubled when we find out what we can."

 

"And your mother, Brianna? How do you think she's going to react if this all comes out?"

 

Her eyes cooled, and her chin took on a stubborn tilt. "I'll deal with that when and if I have to. She'll have to accept what is. For once in her life, she'll have to accept it."

 

"You're still angry with her," he observed. "About Rory."

 

"Rory's over and done. And has been."

 

He took her hands before she could reach for her stakes. And waited patiently.

 

"All right, I'm angry. For what she did then, for the way she spoke to you, and maybe most of all for the way she made what I feel for you seem wicked. I'm not good at being angry. It makes my stomach hurt."

 

"Then I hope you're not going to be angry with me," he said as he heard the sound of a car approaching.

 

"Why would I?"

 

Saying nothing, he rose, drawing her to her feet. Together they watched the car pull up, stop. Lottie leaned out with a hearty wave before she and Maeve alighted.

 

"I called Lottie," Gray murmured, squeezing Brianna's hand when it tensed in his. "Sort of invited them over for a visit."

 

"I don't want another argument with guests in the house." Brianna's voice had chilled. "You shouldn't have done this, Grayson. I'd have gone to see her tomorrow and had words in her home instead of mine."

 

"Brie, your garden's a picture," Lottie called out as they approached. "And what a lovely day you have for it." In her motherly way she embraced Brianna and kissed her cheek. "Did you have a fine time in New York City?"

 

"I did, yes."

 

"Living the high life," Maeve said with a snort. "And leaving decency behind."

 

"Oh, Maeve, leave be." Lottie gave an impatient wave. "I want to hear about New York City."

 

"Come in and have some tea then," Brianna invited. "I've brought you back some souveniers."

 

"Oh, what a sweetheart you are. Souveniers, Maeve, from America." She beamed at Gray as they walked to the house. "And your movie, Grayson? Was it grand?"

 

"It was." He tucked her hand through his arm, gave it a pat. "And after I had to compete with Tom Cruise for Brianna's attention."

 

"No! You don't say?" Lottie's voice squeaked and her eyes all but fell out in astonishment. "Did you hear that, Maeve? Brianna met Tom Cruise."

 

"I don't pay mind to movie actors," Maeve grumbled, desperately impressed. "It's all wild living and divorces with them."

 

"Hah! Never does she miss an Errol Flynn movie when it comes on the telly." Point scored, Lottie waltzed into the kitchen and went directly to the stove. "Now, I'll fix the tea, Brianna. That way you can go fetch our presents."

 

"I've some berry tarts to go with it." Brianna shot Gray a look as she headed for her bedroom. "Baked fresh this morning."

 

"Ah, that's lovely. Do you know, Grayson, my oldest son, that's Peter, he went to America. To Boston he went, to visit cousins we have there. He visited the harbor where you Yanks dumped the British tea off the boat. Gone back twice again, he has, and taken his children. His own son, Shawn, is going to move there and take a job."

 

She chatted on about Boston and her family while Maeve sat in sullen silence. A few moments later Brianna came back in, carrying two small boxes.

 

"There's so many shops there," she commented, determined to be cheerful. "Everywhere you look something else is for sale. It was hard to decide what to bring you."

 

"Whatever it is, it'll be lovely." Eager to see, Lottie set down a plate of tarts and reached for her box. "Oh, would you look at this?" She lifted the small, decorative bottle to the light where it gleamed rich blue.

 

" 'Tis for scent, if you like, or just for setting out."

 

"It's lovely as it can be," Lottie declared. "Look how it's got flowers carved right into it. Lilies. How sweet of you, Brianna. Oh, and Maeve, yours is red as a ruby. With poppies. Won't these look fine, setting on the dresser?"

 

"They're pretty enough." Maeve couldn't quite resist running her finger over the etching. If she had a weakness, it was for pretty things. She felt she'd never gotten her fair share of them. "It was kind of you to give me a passing thought while you were off staying in a grand hotel and consorting with movie stars."

 

"Tom Cruise," Lottie said, easily ignoring the sarcasm. "Is he as handsome a lad as he looks in the films?"

 

"Every bit, and charming as well. He and his wife may come here."

 

"Here?" Amazed at the thought, Lottie pressed a hand to her breast. "Right here to Blackthorn Cottage?"

 

Brianna smiled at Lottie. "So he said."

 

"That'll be the day," Maeve muttered. "What would so rich and high-flying a man want with staying at this place?"

 

"Peace," Brianna said coolly. "And a few good meals. What everyone else wants when they stay here."

 

"And you get plenty of both in Blackthorn," Gray put in. "I've done a great deal of traveling, Mrs. Concannon, and

 

I've never been to a place as lovely or as comfortable as this. You must be very proud of Brianna for her success."

 

"Hmph. I imagine right enough you're comfortable here, in my daughter's bed."

 

"It would be a foolish man who wasn't," he said amiably before Brianna could comment. "You're to be commended for raising such a warm-hearted, kind-natured woman who also has the brains and the dedication to run a successful business. She amazes me."

 

Stumped, Maeve said nothing. The compliment was a curve she hadn't expected. She was still searching through it for the insult when Gray crossed to the counter.

 

"I picked up a little something for both of you myself." He'd left the bag in the kitchen before he'd gone out to Brianna. Setting the scene, he thought now, as he wanted it to play.

 

"Why, isn't that kind." Surprise and pleasure coursed through Lottie's voice as she accepted the box Gray offered.

 

"Just tokens," Gray said, smiling as Brianna simply stared at him, baffled. Lottie's little gasp of delight pleased him enormously.

 

"It's a little bird. Look here, Maeve, a crystal bird. See how it catches the sunlight."

 

"You can hang it by a wire in the window," Gray explained. "It'll make rainbows for you. You make me think of rainbows, Lottie."

 

"Oh, go on with you. Rainbows." She blinked back a film of moisture and rose to give Gray a hard hug. "I'll be hanging it right in our front window. Thank you, Gray, you're a darling man. Isn't he a darling man, Maeve?"

 

Maeve grunted, hesitated over the lid of her gift box. By rights, she knew she should toss the thing into his face rather than take a gift from a man of his kind. But Lottie's crystal bird was such a pretty thing. And the combination of basic greed and curiosity had her flipping open the lid.

 

Speechless, she lifted out the gilt and glass shaped like a heart. It had a lid as well, and when she opened it, music played.

 

"Oh, a music box." Lottie clapped her hands together.

 

"What a beautiful thing, and how clever. What's the tune it's playing?"

 

Stardust," Maeve murmured and caught herself just before she began to hum along with it. "An old tune."

 

"A classic," Gray added. "They didn't have anything Irish, but this seemed to suit you."

 

The corners of Maeve's mouth turned up as the music charmed her. She cleared her throat, shot Gray a level look. "Thank you, Mr. Thane."

 

"Gray," he said easily.

 

Thirty minutes later Brianna placed her hands on her hips. There was only she and Gray in the kitchen now, and the plate of tarts was empty. " Twas like a bribe."

 

"No, 'twasn't like a bribe," he said, mimicking her. "It was a bribe. Damn good one, too. She smiled at me before she left."

 

Brianna huffed. "I don't know who I should be more ashamed of, you or her."

 

"Then just think of it as a peace offering. I don't want your mother giving you grief over me, Brianna."

 

"Clever you were. A music box."

 

"I thought so. Every time she listens to it, she'll think of me. Before too long, she'll convince herself I'm not such a bad sort after all."

 

She didn't want to smile. It was outrageous. "Figured her out, have you?"

 

"A good writer's a good observer. She's used to complaining." He opened the refrigerator, helped himself to a beer. "Trouble is, she doesn't have nearly enough to complain about these days. Must be frustrating." He popped the top off the bottle, took a swig. "And she's afraid you've closed yourself off to her. She doesn't know how to make the move that'll close the gap."

 

"And I'm supposed to."

 

"You will. It's the way you're made. She knows that, but she's worried this might be the exception." He tipped up Brianna's chin with a fingertip. "It won't. Family's too important to you, and you've already started to forgive her."

 

Brianna turned away to tidy the kitchen. "It's not always comfortable, having someone see into you as though you were made of glass." But she sighed, listened to her own heart. "Perhaps I have started to forgive her. I don't know how long the process will take." Meticulously she washed the teacups. "Your ploy today has undoubtedly speeded that along."

 

"That was the idea." From behind her he slipped his arms around her waist. "So, you're not mad."

 

"No, I'm not mad." Turning, she rested her head in the curve of his shoulder, where she liked it best. "I love you, Grayson."

 

He stroked her hair, looking out the window, saying nothing.

 

They had soft weather over the next few days, the kind that made working in his room like existing in endless twilight. It was easy to lose track of time, to let himself fall into the book with only the slightest awareness of the world around him.

 

He was closing in on the killer, on that final, violent meeting. He'd developed a respect for his villain's mind, mirroring perfectly the same emotions of his hero. The man was as clever as he was vicious. Not mad, Gray mused as another part of his mind visualized the scene he was creating. Some would call the villain mad, unable to conceive that the cruelty, the ruthlessness of the murders could spring from a mind not twisted by insanity.

 

Gray knew better-and so did his hero. The killer wasn't mad, but was cold-bloodedly sane. He was simply, very simply, evil.

 

He already knew exactly how the final hunt would develop, almost every step and word was clear in his head. In the rain, in the dark, through the wind-swept ruins where blood had already been spilled. He knew his hero would see himself, just for one instant see the worst of himself reflected in the man he pursued.

 

And that final battle would be more than right against wrong, good against evil. It would be, on that rain-soaked, wind-howling precipice, a desperate fight for redemption.

 

But that wouldn't be the end. And it was in search of that unknown final scene that Gray raced. He'd imagined, almost from the beginning, his hero leaving the village, leaving the woman. Both of them would have been changed irrevocably by the violence that had shattered that quiet spot. And by what had happened between them.

 

Then each would go on with the rest of his life, or try. Separately, because he'd created them as two dynamically opposing forces, drawn together, certainly, but never for the long haul.

 

Now, it wasn't so clear. He wondered where the hero was going, and why. Why the woman turned slowly, as he'd planned, moving toward the door of her cottage without looking back.

 

It should have been simple, true to their characters, satisfying. Yet the closer he came to reaching that moment, the more uneasy he became.

 

Kicking back in his chair, he looked blankly around the room. He hadn't a clue what time of day it was, or how long he'd been chained to his work. But one thing was certain, he'd run dry.

 

He needed a walk, he decided, rain or no rain. And he needed to stop second-guessing himself and let that final scene unfold in its own way, and its own time.

 

He started downstairs, marveling at the quiet before he remembered the family from Scotland had gone. It had amused him, when he'd crawled out of his cave long enough to notice, how the two young men had sniffed around Brianna's heels, competing for her attention. It was tough to blame them.

 

The sound of Brianna's voice had him turning toward the kitchen.

 

"Well, good day to you, Kenny Feeney. Are you visiting your grandmother?"

 

"I am, Miss Concannon. We'll be here for two weeks." "I'm happy to see you. You've grown so. Will you come in and have a cup of tea and some cake?" "I wouldn't mind."

 

Gray watched a boy of about twelve give a crooked-toothed grin as he stepped out of the rain. He carried

 

something large and apparently heavy wrapped in newspaper. "Gran sent you a leg of lamb, Miss Concannon. We slaughtered just this morning."

 

"Oh, that's kind of her." With apparent pleasure Brianna took the grisly package while Gray-writer of bloodthirsty thrillers-felt his stomach churn.

 

"I have a currant cake here. You'll have a piece, won't you, and take the rest back to her?"

 

"I will." Dutifully stepping out of his wellies, the boy stripped off his raincoat and cap. Then he spotted Gray. "Good day to you," he said politely.

 

"Oh, Gray, I didn't hear you come down. This is young Kenny Feeney, grandson of Alice and Peter Feeney from the farm down the road a bit. Kenny, this is Grayson Thane, a guest of mine."

 

"The Yank," Kenny said as he solemnly shook Gray's hand; "You write books with murders in them, my gran says."

 

"That's right. Do you like to read?"

 

"I like books about cars or sports. Maybe you could write a book about football."

 

"I'll keep it in mind."

 

"Will you have some cake, Gray?" Brianna asked as she sliced. "Or would you rather have a sandwich now?"

 

He cast a wary eye toward the lump under the newspaper. He imagined it baaing. "No, nothing. Not now."

 

"Do you live in Kansas City?" Kenny wanted to know. "My brother does. He went to the States three years ago this winter. He plays in a band."

 

"No, I don't live there, but I've been there. It's a nice town."

 

"Pat, he says it's better than anywhere. I'm saving me money so I can go over when I'm old enough."

 

"Will you be leaving us, then, Kenny?" Brianna ran a hand over the boy's carrotty mop.

 

"When I'm eighteen." He took another happy bite of cake, washed it down with tea. "You can get good work there, and good pay. Maybe I'll play for an American football team. They have one, right there in Kansas City, you know."

 

"I've heard rumors," Gray said and smiled.

 

"This is grand cake, Miss Concannon." Kenny polished off his piece.

 

When he left a bit later, Brianna watched him dart over the fields, the cake bundled under his arm like one of his precious footballs.

 

"So many of them go," she murmured. "We lose them day after day, year after year. Shaking her head, she closed the kitchen door again. "Well, I'll see to your room now that you're out of it."

 

"I was going to take a walk. Why don't you come with me?"

 

"I could take a short one. Just let me-" She smiled apologetically as the phone rang. "Good afternoon, Blackthorn Cottage. Oh, Arlene, how are you?" Brianna held out a hand for Gray's. "That's good to hear. Yes, I'm fine and well. Gray's just here, I'll... oh?" Her brow cocked, then she smiled again. "That would be grand. Of course, you and your husband are more than welcome. September's a lovely time of the year. I'm so pleased you're coming. Yes, I have it. September fifteenth, for five days. Indeed yes, you can make a number of day trips from right here. Shall I send you some information about it? No, it would be my pleasure. And I look forward to it as well. Yes, Gray's here as I said. Just a moment."

 

He took the phone, but looked at Brianna. "She's coming to Ireland in September?"

 

"On holiday, she and her husband. It seems I tickled her curiosity. She has news for you."

 

"Mmm-hmmm. Hey, gorgeous," he said into the receiver. "Going to play tourist in the west counties?" He grinned, nodded when Brianna offered him tea. "No, I think you'll love it. The weather?" He glanced out the window at the steadily falling rain. "Magnificent." He winked at Brianna, sipped his tea. "No, I didn't get your package yet. What's in it?"

 

Nodding, he murmured to Brianna. "Reviews. On the movie." He paused, listening. "What's the hype? Mmm. Brilliant, I like brilliant. Wait, say that one again. 'From the fertile mind of Grayson Thane,' " he repeated for Bri-

 

anna's benefit. "Oscar worthy. Two thumbs straight up." He laughed at that. "And the most powerful movie of the year. Not bad, even if it's only May. No, I don't have my tongue in my cheek. It's great. Even better. Early quotes on the new book," he told Brianna.

 

"But you haven't finished the new book."

 

"Not that new book. The one that's coming out in July. That's the new book, what I'm working on is the new manuscript. No, just explaining some basic publishing to the landlady."

 

Pursing his lips, he listened. "Really? I like it."

 

With an eye on him Brianna went to the stove for her roaster. He was making noises, the occasional comment. Occasionally he'd grin or shake his head.

 

"It's a good thing I'm not wearing a hat. My head's getting big. Yeah, publicity sent me an endless letter about the plans for the tour. I've agreed to be at their mercy for three weeks. No, you make the decision on that sort of thing. It just takes too long for them to mail stuff. Yeah, you too I'll tell her. Talk to you later."

 

"The movie's doing well," Brianna said, trying to resist pumping him.

 

"Twelve million in its first week, which is nothing to sneeze at. And the critics are smiling on it. Apparently they like the upcoming book, too. I'm at the top of my form," he said, reaching into a canister for a cookie. "I've created a story dense in atmosphere with prose as sharp as a honed dagger. With, ah, gut-wrenching twists and dark, biting humor. Not too shabby."

 

"You should be very proud."

 

"I wrote it almost a year ago." He shrugged, chewed. "Yeah, it's nice. I have an affection for it that will dim considerably after thirty-one cities in three weeks."

 

"The tour you were speaking of."

 

"Right. Talk shows, bookstores, airports, and hotel rooms." With a laugh he popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. "What a life."

 

"It suits you well, I'd think."

 

"Right down to the ground."

 

She nodded, not wanting to be sad, and set the roaster on the counter. "In July, you say."

 

"Yeah. It's crept up on me. I've lost track. I've been here four months."

 

"Sometimes it seems you've been here always."

 

"Getting used to me." He grazed an absent hand over his chin, and she could see his mind was elsewhere. "How about that walk?"

 

"I really need to get dinner on."

 

"I'll wait." He leaned companionably against the counter. "So, what's for dinner?"

 

"Leg of lamb."

 

Gray gave a little sigh. "I thought so."

 

Chapter Twenty

 

On a clear day in the middle of May, Brianna watched the workmen dig the foundation for her greenhouse. A small dream, she thought, flipping the braid she wore from her shoulder to her back, come true.

 

She smiled down at the baby who gurgled in the portable swing beside her. She'd learned to be content with small dreams, she thought, bending to kiss her nephew on his curling black hair.

 

"He's grown so, Maggie, in just a matter of weeks."

 

"I know. And I haven't." She patted her belly, grimaced a little. "I feel less of a sow every day, but I wonder if I'll ever lose all of it again."

 

"You look wonderful."

 

"That's what I tell her," Rogan added, draping an arm around Maggie's shoulders.

 

"And what do you know? You're besotted with me."

 

"True enough."

 

Brianna looked away as they beamed at each other. How easy it was for them now, she mused. So comfortably in love with a beautiful baby cooing beside them. She didn't care for the pang of envy, or the tug of longing.

 

"So where's our Yank this morning?"

 

Brianna glanced back, wondering uneasily if Maggie was reading her mind. "He was up and out at first light, without even his breakfast."

 

"To?"

 

"I don't know. He grunted at me. At least I think it was at me. His moods are unpredictable these days. The book's troubling him, though he says he's cleaning it up. Which means, I'm told, tinkering with it, shining it up."

 

"He'll be done before long, then?" Rogan asked.

 

"Before long." And then... Brianna was taking a page out of Gray's book and not thinking of and them. "His publisher's on the phone quite a lot now, and sending packets by express all the time, about the book that's coming out this summer. It seems to irritate him to have to think of one when he's working on another." She glanced back at the workmen. "It's a good spot for the greenhouse, don't you think? I'll be pleased to be able to see it from my window."

 

"It's the spot you've been talking of for months," Maggie pointed out and refused to be turned from the topic. "Are things well between you and Gray?"

 

"Yes, very well. He's a bit sulky right now as I said, but his moods never last very long. I told you how he engineered a truce with Mother."

 

"Clever of him. A trinket from New York. She was pleasant to him at Liam's christening. I had to give birth before I could achieve close to the same." "She's mad for Liam," Brianna said. "He's a buffer between us. Ah, what's the trouble, darling," she murmured as Liam began to fuss. "His nappie's wet, that's all." Lifting him, Maggie patted his back and soothed. "I'll change it."

 

"You're quicker to volunteer than his Da." With a shake of her head, Maggie laughed. "No, I'll do it. You watch your greenhouse. It'll only take a minute."

 

"She knows I wanted to talk to you." Rogan led Brianna toward the wooden chairs set near the blackthorns for which the cottage was named.

 

"Is something wrong?"

 

"No." There was an edginess about her under a forced calm that was out of character. That, Rogan decided with a slight frown, would have to be Maggie's department. "I wanted to talk with you about this Triquarter Mining business. Or the lack of it." He sat, laid his hands on his knees. "We haven't really had the chance to talk it through since I was in Dublin, then the baby's christening. Maggie's satisfied with the way things have shaken down. She's more interested in enjoying Liam and getting back to her glass than pursuing the matter."

 

"That's how it should be."

 

"For her, perhaps." He didn't say what was obvious to both of them. Neither he nor Maggie required any of the monetary compensation that might result from a suit. "I have to admit, Brianna, it doesn't sit well with me. The principle of it."

 

"I can understand that, you being a businessman yourself." She smiled a little. "You never met Mr. Carstairs. It's difficult to hold a grudge once you have."

 

"Let's separate emotion from legalities for a moment."

 

Her smile widened. She imagined he used just that brisk tone with any inefficient underling. "All right, Rogan."

 

"Carstairs committed a crime. And while you might be reluctant to see him imprisioned, it's only logical to expect a penalty. Now I'm given to understand that he's become successful in the last few years. I took it on myself to make a few discreet inquiries, and it appears that his current businesses are aboveboard as well as lucrative. He's in the position to compensate you for the dishonesty in his dealings with your father. It would be a simple matter for me to go to London personally and settle it."

 

"That's kind of you." Brianna folded her hands, drew a deep breath. "I'm going to disappoint you, Rogan, and I'm sorry for it. I can see your ethics have been insulted by this, and you want only to see justice served."

 

"I do, yes." Baffled, he shook his head. "Brie, I can understand Maggie's attitude. She's focused on the baby and her work and has always been one to brush aside anything that interfered with her concentration. But you're a practical woman."

 

"I am," she agreed. "I am, yes. But I'm afraid I have a bit of my father in me as well." Reaching out, she laid a hand over Rogan's. "You know, some people, for whatever reason, start out on unsteady ground. The choices they make aren't always admirable. A portion of them stay there because it's easier, or what they're used to, or even what they prefer. Another portion slide onto a stable footing, without much effort. A bit of luck, of timing. And another, a small, special portion," she said, thinking of Gray, "fight their way onto the solid. And they make something admirable of themselves."

 

She fell into silence, staring out over the hills. Wishing. "I've lost you, Brie."

 

"Oh." She waved a hand and brought herself back. "What I mean to say is I don't know the circumstances that led Mr. Carstairs from one kind of life to another. But he's hurting no one now. Maggie has what she wants, and I what contents me. So why trouble ourselves?"

 

"That's what she told me you'd say." He lifted his hands in defeat. "I had to try."

 

"Rogan." Maggie called from the kitchen doorway, the baby bouncing against her shoulder. "The phone. It's Dublin for you."

 

"She won't answer the damn thing in our own house, but she answers it here."

 

"I've threatened not to bake for her if she doesn't." "None of my threats work." He rose. "I've been expecting a call, so I gave the office your number if we didn't answer at home."

 

"That's no problem. Take all the time you need." She smiled as Maggie headed out with the baby. "Well, Margaret Mary, are you going to share him now or keep him all to yourself?"

 

"He was just asking for you, Auntie Brie." With a chuckle, Maggie passed Liam to her sister and settled in the chair Rogan had vacated. "Oh, it's good to sit. Liam was fussy last night. I'd swear between us Rogan and I walked all the way to Galway and back."

 

"Do you suppose he's teething already?" Cooing, Brianna rubbed a knuckle over Liam's gums, looking for swelling.

 

"It may be. He drools like a puppy." She closed her eyes, let her body sag. "Oh, Brie, who would have thought you could love so much? I spent most of my life not knowing Rogan Sweeney existed, and now I couldn't live without him."

 

She opened one eye to be certain Rogan was still in the house and couldn't hear her wax so sentimental. "And the baby, it's an enormous thing this grip on the heart. I thought when I was carrying him I understood what it was to love him. But holding him, from the very first time I held him, it was so much more."

 

She shook herself, gave a shaky laugh. "Oh, it's those hormones again. They're turning me to mush."

 

" 'Tisn't the hormones, Maggie." Brianna rubbed her cheek over Liam's head, caught the marvelous scent of him. "It's being happy."

 

"I want you to be happy, Brie. I can see you're not."

 

"That isn't true. Of course I'm happy."

 

"You're already seeing him walk away. And you're making yourself accept it before it even happens."

 

"If he chooses to walk away, I can't stop him. I've known that all along."

 

"Why can't you?" Maggie shot back. "Why? Don't you love him enough to fight for him?"

 

"I love him too much to fight for him. And maybe I lack the courage. I'm not as brave as you, Maggie."

 

"That's just an excuse. Too brave is what you've always been, Saint Brianna."

 

"And if it is an excuse, it's mine." She spoke mildly. She would not, she promised herself, be drawn into an argument. "He has reasons why he'll go. I may not agree with them, but I understand them. Don't slap at me, Maggie," she said quietly and averted the next explosion. "Because it does hurt. And I could see this morning when he left the house that he was already walking away."

 

"Then make him stop. He loves you, Brie. You can see it every time he looks at you."

 

"I think he does." And that only increased the pain. "That's why he's in a hurry all at once to move on. And he's afraid, too. Afraid he'll come back."

 

"Is that what you're counting on?"

 

"No." But she wanted to count on it. She wanted that very much. "Love isn't always enough, Maggie. We can see that from what happened with Da."

 

"That was different."

 

"It's all different. But he lived without his Amanda, and he made his life as best he could. I'm enough his daughter to do the same. Don't worry over me," she murmured, stroking the baby. "I know what Amanda was feeling when she wrote she was grateful for the time they had together. I wouldn't trade these past months for the world and more."

 

She glanced over, then fell silent, studying the set look on Rogan's face as he came across the lawn.

 

"We may have found something," he said, "on Amanda Dougherty."

 

Gray didn't come home for tea, and Brianna wondered but didn't worry as she saw that her guests had their fill of finger sandwiches and Dundee cake. Rogan's report on Amanda Dougherty was always at the back of her mind as she moved through the rest of her day.

 

The detective had found nothing in his initial check of the towns and villages in the Catskills. It was, to Brianna's   i thinking, hardly a surprise that no one remembered a pregnant Irishwoman from more than a quarter of a century in the past. But Rogan, being a thorough man, hired thorough people. Routinely, the detective made checks on vital statistics, reading through birth and death and marriage certificates  for  a  five-year  period  following  the  date  of Amanda's final letter to Tom Concannon.

 

And it was in a small village, deep in the mountains, where he had found her.

 

Amanda Dougherty, age thirty-two, had been married by a justice of the peace, to a thirty-eight-year-old man named Colin Bodine. An address was given simply as Rochester, New York. The detective was already on his way there to continue the search for Amanda Dougherty Bodine.

 

The date of the marriage had been five months after the final letter to her father, Brianna mused. Amanda would have been close to term, so it was most likely the man she had married had known she'd been pregnant by another.

 

Had he loved her? Brianna wondered. She hoped so. It seemed to her it took a strong, kind-hearted man to give another man's child his name.

 

She caught herself glancing at the clock again, wondering where Gray had gone off to. Annoyed with herself, she biked down to Murphy's to fill him in on the progress of the greenhouse construction.

 

It was time to finish dinner preparations when she returned. Murphy had promised to come by and check over the foundation himself the following day. But Brianna's underlying purpose, the hope that Gray had been visiting her neighbor as he often did, had been dashed.

 

And now, with more than twelve hours passed since he'd left that morning, she moved from wonder to worry.

 

She fretted, eating nothing herself as her guests feasted on mackerel with gooseberry sauce. She played her role as hostess, seeing there was brandy where brandy was wanted, an extra serving of steamed lemon pudding for the child who eyed it so hopefully.

 

She saw that the whiskey decanter in each guest room was filled, and towels were fresh for evening baths. She made parlor conversation with her guests, offered board games to the children.

 

By ten, when the light was gone and the house quiet, she'd moved beyond worry to resignation. He would come back when he would come, she thought, and settled down in her room, her knitting in her lap and her dog at her feet.

 

A full day of driving and walking and studying the countryside hadn't done a great deal to improve Gray's mood. He was irritated with himself, irritated by the fact that a light had been left burning for him in the window.

 

He switched it off the moment he came inside, as if to prove to himself he didn't need or want the homey signal. He started to go upstairs, a deliberate move, he knew, to prove he was his own man.

 

Con's soft woof stopped him. Turning on the stairs, Gray scowled at the dog. "What do you want?"

 

Con merely sat, thumped his tail.

 

"I don't have a curfew, and I don't need a stupid dog waiting up for me."

 

Con merely watched him, then lifted a paw as if anticipating Gray's usual greeting.

 

"Shit." Gray went back down the stairs, took the paw to shake, and gave the dog's head a good scratch. "There. Better now?"

 

Con rose and padded toward the kitchen. He stopped, looked back, then sat again, obviously waiting.

 

"I'm going to bed," Gray told him.

 

As if in agreement, Con rose again as if waiting to lead the way to his mistress.

 

"Fine. We'll do it your way." Gray stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed the dog down the hall, into the kitchen, and through to Brianna's room.

 

He knew his mood was foul, and couldn't seem to alter it. It was the book, of course, but there was more. He could admit, at least to himself, that he'd been restless since Liam's christening.

 

There'd been something about it, the ritual itself, that ancient, pompous, and oddly soothing rite full of words and color and movement. The costumes, the music, the lighting had all melded together, or so it had seemed to him, to tilt time.

 

But it had been the community of it, the belonging he'd sensed from every neighbor and friend who'd come to witness the child's baptism, that had struck him most deeply.

 

It had touched him, beyond the curiosity of it, the writer's interest in scene and event. It had moved him, the flow of words, the unshakable faith, and the river of continuity that ran from generation to generation in the small village church, accented by a baby's indignant wail, fractured light through stained glass, wood worn smooth by generations of bended knees.

 

It was family as much as shared belief, and community as much as dogma.

 

And his sudden, staggering wish to belong had left him restless and angry.

 

Irritated with himself, and her, he stopped in the doorway of Brianna's sitting room, watching her with her knitting needles clicking rhythmically. The dark green wool spilled over the lap of her white nightgown. The light beside her slanted down so that she could check her work, but she never looked at her own hands.

 

Across the room, the television murmured through an old black-and-white movie. Gary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in sleek evening dress embraced in a wine cellar. Notorious, Gray thought. A tale of love, mistrust, and redemption.

 

For reasons he didn't choose to grasp, her choice of entertainment annoyed him all the more.

 

"You shouldn't have waited up."

 

She glanced over at him, her needles never faltering. "I didn't." He looked tired, she thought, and moody. Whatever he'd searched for in his long day alone, he didn't appear to have found it. "Have you eaten?"

 

"Some pub grub this afternoon."

 

"You'll be hungry, then." She started to set her knitting aside in its basket. "I'll fix you a plate."

 

"I can fix my own if I want one," he snapped. "I don't need you to mother me."

 

Her body stiffened, but she only sat again and picked up her wool. "As you please."

 

He stepped into the room, challenging. "Well?"

 

"Well what?"

 

"Where's the interrogation? Aren't you going to ask me where I was, what I was doing? Why I didn't call?"

 

"As you've just pointed out, I'm not your mother. Your business is your own."

 

For a moment there was only the sound of her needles and the distressed commercial voice of a woman on television who'd discovered chip fat on her new blouse.

 

"Oh, you're a cool one," Gray muttered and strode to the set to slam the picture off.

 

"Are you trying to be rude?" Brianna asked him. "Or can't you help yourself?"

 

"I'm trying to get your attention."

 

"Well, you have it."

 

"Do you have to do that when I'm talking to you?"

 

Since there seemed no way to avoid the confrontation he so obviously wanted, Brianna let her knitting rest in her lap. "Is that better?"

 

"I needed to be alone. I don't like being crowded."

 

"I haven't asked for an explanation, Grayson."

 

"Yes, you have. Just not out loud."

 

Impatience began to simmer. "So, now you're reading my mind, are you?"

 

"It's not that difficult. We're sleeping together, essentially living together, and you feel I'm obliged to let you know what I'm doing."

 

"Is that what I feel?"

 

He began to pace. No, she thought, it was more of a prowl-as a big cat might prowl behind cage bars.

 

"Are you going to sit there and try to tell me you're not mad?"

 

"It hardly matters what I tell you when you read my unspoken thoughts." She linked her hands together, rested them on the wool. She would not fight with him, she told herself. If their time together was nearing an end, she wouldn't let the last memories of it be of arguments and bad feelings. "Grayson, I might point out to you that I have a life of my own. A business to run, personal enjoyments. I filled my day well enough."

 

"So you don't give a damn whether I'm here or not?" It was his out, wasn't it? Why did the idea infuriate him?

 

She only sighed. "You know it pleases me to have you here. What do you want me to say? That I worried? Perhaps I did, for a time, but you're a man grown and able to take care of yourself. Did I think it was unkind of you not to let me know you'd be gone so long when it's your habit to be here most evenings? You know it was, so it's hardly worth me pointing it out to you. Now, if that satisfies you, I'm going to bed. You're welcome to join me or go upstairs and sulk."

 

Before she could rise, he slapped both hands on either arm of her chair, caging her in. Her eyes widened, but stayed level on his.

 

"Why don't you shout at me?" he demanded. "Throw something? Boot me out on my ass?"

 

"Those things might make you feel better," she said evenly. "But it isn't my job to make you feel better."

 

"So that's it? Just shrug the whole thing off and come to bed? For all you know I could have been with another woman."

 

For one trembling moment the heat flashed into her eyes, matching the fury in his. Then she composed herself, taking the knitting from her lap and setting it in the basket. "Are you trying to make me angry?"

 

"Yes. Damn it, yes." He jerked back from her, spun away. "At least it would be a fair fight then. There's no way to beat that iced serenity of yours."

 

"Then I'd be foolish to set aside such a formidable weapon, wouldn't I?" She rose. "Grayson, I'm in love with you, and when you think I'd use that love to trap you, to change you, then you insult me. It's for that you should apologize."

 

Despising the creeping flow of guilt, he looked back at her. Never in the whole of his life had another woman made him feel guilt. He wondered if there was another person in existence who could, with such calm reason, cause him to feel so much the fool.

 

"I figured you'd find a way to get an I'm sorry out of me before it was over."

 

She stared at him a moment, then saying nothing, turned and walked into the adjoining bedroom.

 

"Christ." Gray scrubbed his hands over his face, pressed his fingers against his closed eyes, then dropped his hands. You could only wallow in your own idiocy so long, he decided. "I'm crazy," he said, stepping into the bedroom.

 

She said nothing, only adjusted one of her windows to let in more of the cool, fragrant night air.

 

"I am sorry, Brie, for all of it. I was in a pisser of a mood this morning, and just wanted to be alone."

 

She gave him no answer, no encouragement, only turned down the bedspread.

 

"Don't freeze me out. That's the worst." He stepped behind her, laid a tentative hand on her hair. "I'm having trouble with the book. It was lousy of me to take it out on you."

 

"I don't expect you to adjust your moods to suit me."

 

"You just don't expect," he murmured. "It's not good for you."

 

"I know what's good for me." She started to move away, but he turned her around. Ignoring the rigid way she held herself, he wrapped his arms around her.

 

"You should have booted me out," he murmured.

 

"You're paid up through the month."

 

He pressed his face into her hair, chuckled. "Now you're being mean."

 

How was a woman supposed to keep up with his moods? When she tried to push away, he only cuddled her closer.

 

"I had to get away from you," he told her, and his hand roamed up and down her back, urging her spine to relax. "I had to prove I could get away from you."

 

"Don't you think I know that?" Drawing back as far as he would permit, she framed his face in her hands. "Gray-son, I know you'll be leaving soon, and I won't pretend that doesn't leave a crack in my heart. But it'll hurt so much more, for both of us, if we spend these last days fighting over it. Or around it."

 

"I figured it would be easier if you were mad. If you tossed me out of your life."

 

"Easier for whom?"

 

"For me." He rested his brow on hers and said what he'd avoided saying for the last few days. "I'll be leaving at the end of the month."

 

She said nothing, found she could say nothing over the sudden ache in her chest.

 

"I want to take some time before the tour starts."

 

She waited, but he didn’t ask, as he once had, for her to come with him to some tropical beach. She nodded. ”Then let's enjoy the time we have before you go " She turned her face so that her mouth met his Gray laid her slowly onto the bed. And when he loved her, loved her tenderly.

 

Chapter Twenty-one

 

For the first time since Brianna had opened her home to guests, she wished them all to the devil. She resented the intrusion on her privacy with Gray. Though it shamed her, she resented the time he spent closed in his room finishing the book that had brought him to her.

 

She fought the emotions, did everything she could to keep them from showing. As the days passed, she assured herself that the sense of panic and unhappiness would fade. Her life was so very nearly what she wanted it to be. So very nearly.

 

She might not have the husband and children she'd always longed for, but there was so much else to fullfill her. It helped, at least a little, to count those blessings as she went about her daily routine.

 

She carried linens, fresh off the line, up the stairs. Since

 

Gray's door was open, she went inside. Here, she set the linens aside. It was hardly necessary to change his sheets since he hadn't slept in any bed but hers for days. But the room needed a good dusting, she decided, since he was out of it. His desk was an appalling mess, to be sure.

 

She started there, emptying his overflowing ashtray, tidying books and papers. Hoping, she knew, to find some little snatch of the story he was writing. What she found were torn envelopes, unanswered correspondence, and some scribbled notes on Irish superstitions. Amused, she read:

 

Beware of speaking ill of fairies on Friday, because they are present and will work some evil if offended.

 

For a magpie to come to the door and look at you is a sure death sign, and nothing can avert it.

 

A person who passes under a hempen rope will die a violent death.

 

"Well, you surprise me, Brianna. Snooping."

 

Blushing red, she dropped the notepad, stuck her hands behind her back. Oh, wasn't it just like Grayson Thane, she thought, to come creeping up on a person.

 

"I was not snooping. I was dusting."

 

He sipped idly at the coffee he'd gone to the kitchen to brew. To his thinking, he'd never seen her quite so flummoxed. "You don't have a dust rag," he pointed out.

 

Feeling naked, Brianna wrapped dignity around her. "I was about to get one. Your desk is a pitiful mess, and I was just straightening up."

 

"You were reading my notes."

 

"I was putting the notebook aside. Perhaps I glanced at the writing on it. Superstitions is all it is, of evil and death."

 

"Evil and death's my living." Grinning, he crossed to her, picked up the pad. "I like this one. On Hallowtide-that's November first."

 

"I'm aware of when Hallowtide falls."

 

"Sure you are. Anyway, on Hallowtide, the air being filled with the presence of the dead, everything is a symbol of fate. If on that date, you call the name of a person from the outside, and repeat it three times, the result is fatal." He grinned to himself. "Wonder what the garda could charge you with."

 

"It's nonsense." And gave her the chills. "It's great nonsense. I used that one." He set the notebook down, studied her. Her high color hadn't quite faded. "You know the trouble with technology?" He lifted one of his computer disks, tapping it on his palm as he studied her with laughing eyes. "No balled up papers, discarded by the frustrated writer that the curious can smooth out and read."

 

"As if I'd do such a thing." She flounced away to pick up her linens. "I've beds to make." .    "Want to read some of it?"

 

She paused halfway to the door, looking back over her shoulder suspiciously. "Of your book?"

 

"No, of the local weather report. Of course of my book. Actually, there's a section I could use a local's spin on. To see if I got the rhythm of the dialogue down, the atmosphere, interactions."

 

"Oh, well, if I could help you, I'd be glad." "Brie, you've been dying to get a look at the manuscript. You could have asked."

 

"I know better than that, living with Maggie." She set the linens down again. "It's worth your life to go in her shop to see a piece she's working on."

 

"I'm a more even-tempered sort." With a few deft moves he booted his computer, slipped in the appropriate disk. "It's a pub scene. Local color and some character intros. It's the first time McGee meets Tullia." "Tullia. It's Gaelic."

 

"Right. Means peaceful. Let's see if I can find it." He began flipping screens. "You don't speak Gaelic, do you?"

 

"I do, yes. Both Maggie and I learned from our Gran."

 

He looked up, stared at her. "Son of a bitch. It never even occured to me. Do you know how much time I've spent looking up words? I just wanted a few tossed in, here and there."

 

"You'd only to have asked."

 

He grunted. "Too late now. Yeah, here it is. McGee's a burned-out cop, with Irish roots. He's come to Ireland to look into some old family history, maybe find his balance, and some answers about himself. Mostly, he just wants to be left alone to regroup. He was involved in a bust that went bad and holds himself responsible for the bystander death of a six-year-old kid."

 

"How sad for him."

 

"Yeah, he's got his problems. Tullia has plenty of her own. She's a widow, lost her husband and child in an accident that only she survived. She's getting through it, but carrying around a lot of baggage. Her husband wasn't any prize, and there were times she wished him dead."

 

"So she's guilty that he is, and scarred because her child was taken from her, like a punishment for her thoughts."

 

"More or less. Anyway, this scene's in the local pub. Only runs a few pages. Sit down. Now pay attention." He leaned over her shoulder, took her hand. "See these two buttons?"

 

"Yes."

 

"This one will page up, this one will page down. When you finished what's on the screen and want to move on, push this one. If you want to go back and look at something again, push that one. And Brianna?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"If you touch any of the other buttons, I'll have to cut all your fingers off."

 

"Being an even-tempered sort."

 

"That's right. The disks are backed up, but we wouldn't want to develop any bad habits." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm going to go back downstairs, check on the progress on your greenhouse. If you find something that jars, or just doesn't ring quite true, you can make a note on the pad there."

 

"All right." Already reading, she waved him off. "Go away, then."

 

Gray wandered downstairs, and outside. The six courses of local stone that would be the base for her greenhouse were nearly finished. It didn't surprise him to see Murphy setting stones in place himself.

 

"I didn't know you were a mason as well as a farmer," Gray called out.

 

"Oh, I do a bit of this, a bit of that. Mind you don't make that mortar so loose this time," he ordered the skinny teenager nearby. "Here's my nephew, Tim MacBride, visiting from Cork. Tim can't get enough of your country music from the States."

 

"Randy Travis, Wynonna, Garth Brooks?"

 

"All of them." Tim flashed a smile much like his uncle's.

 

Gray bent down, lifted a new stone for Murphy, while he discussed the merits of country music with the boy. Before long he was helping to mix the mortar and making satisfying manly noises about the work with his companions.

 

"You've a good pair of hands for a writer," Murphy observed.

 

"I worked on a construction crew one summer. Mixing mortar and hauling it in wheelbarrows while the heat fried my brain."

 

"It's pleasant weather today." Satisfied with the progress, Murphy paused for a cigarette. "If it holds, we may have this up for Brie by another week."

 

Another week, Gray mused, was almost all he had. "It's nice of you to take time from your own work to help her with this."

 

"That's comhair," Murphy said easily. "Community. That's how we live here. No one has to get by alone if there's family and neighbors. They'll be three men or more here when it's time to put up the frame and the glass. And others'll come along if help's needed to build her benches and such. By the end of it, everyone will feel they have a piece of the place. And Brianna will be giving out cuttings and plants for everyone's garden." He blew out smoke. "It comes round, you see. That's comhair."

 

Gray understood the concept. It was very much what he had felt, and for a moment envied, in the village church during Liam's christening. "Does it ever... cramp your style that by accepting a favor you're obliged to do one?"

 

"You Yanks." Chuckling, Murphy took a last drag, then crushed the cigarette out on the stones. Knowing Brianna, he tucked the stub into his pocket rather than flicking it aside. "You always reckon in payments. Obliged isn't the word. Tis a security, if you're needing a more solid term for it. A knowing that you've only to reach out a hand, and someone will help you along if you need it. A knowing that you'd do the same."

 

He turned to his nephew. "Well, Tim, let's clean up our tools. We need to be getting back. You'll tell Brie not to be after fiddling with these stones, will you, Grayson? They need to set."

 

"Sure, I'll-Oh Christ, I forgot about her. See you later." He hurried back into the house. A glance at the kitchen clock made him wince. He'd left her for more than an hour.

 

And she was, he discovered, exactly where he'd left her.

 

"Takes you a while to read half a chapter."

 

However much his entrance surprised her, she didn't jolt this time. When she lifted her gaze from the screen to his face, her eyes were wet.

 

"That bad?" He smiled a little, surprised to find himself nervous.

 

"It's wonderful." She reached into her apron pocket for a tissue. "Truly. This part where Tullia's sitting alone in her garden, thinking of her child. It makes you feel her grief. It's not like she's a made-up person at all."

 

His second surprise was that he should experience embarrassment. As far as praise went, hers had been perfect. "Well, that's the idea."

 

"You've a wonderful gift, Gray, for making words into emotions. I went a bit beyond the part you wanted me to read. I'm sorry. I got caught up in it."

 

"I'm flattered." He noted by the screen she'd read more than a hundred pages. "You're enjoying it."

 

"Oh, very much. It has a different... something," she said, unable to pinpoint it, "than your other books. Oh, it's moody, as they always are, and rich in detail And frightening. The first murder, the one at the ruins. I thought my heart would stop when I was reading it. And gory it was, too. Gleefully so."

 

"Don't stop now." He ruffled her hair, dropped down on the bed.

 

"Well." She linked her hands, laid them on the edge of the desk as she thought through her words. "Your humor's there as well. And your eye, it misses nothing. The scene in the pub, I've walked into that countless times in my life. I could see Tim O'Malley behind the bar, and Murphy playing a tune. He'll like that you made him so handsome."

 

"You think he'll recognize himself?"

 

"Oh, I do, yes. I don't know how he'll feel about being one of the suspects, or the murderer, if that's what you've done in the end." She waited, hopeful, but he only shook his head.

 

"You don't really think I'm going to tell you who done it, do you?"

 

"Well, no." She sighed and propped her chin on her fist. "As to Murphy, probably he'll enjoy it. And your affection for the village, for the land here and the people shows. In the little things-the family hitching a ride home from church in their Sunday best, the old man walking with his dog along the roadside in the rain, the little girl dancing with her grandda in the pub."

 

"It's easy to write things down when there's so much to see."

 

"It's more than what you see, with your eyes, I mean." She lifted her hands, let them fall again. She didn't have words, as he did, to juggle into the right meaning. "It's the heart of it. There's a deepness to the heart of it that's different from what I've read of your writings before. The way McGee fights that tug of war within himself over what he should do. The way he wishes he could do nothing and knows he can't. And Tullia, the way she bears her grief when it's near to bending her in two, and works to make her life what it needs to be again. I can't explain it."

 

"You're doing a pretty good job," Gray murmured.

 

"It touches me. I can't believe it was written right here, in my home."

 

"I don't think it could have been written anywhere else." He rose then, disappointing her by hitting buttons that jangled the screen. She'd hoped he let her read more.

 

"Oh, you've changed the name of it," she said when the title page came up. "Final Redemption. I like it. That's the theme of it, is it? The murders, what's happened to McGee and Tullia before, and what changes after they meet?"

 

"That's the way it worked out." He hit another button, bringing up the dedication page. In all the books he'd written, it was only the second time he'd dedicated one. The first, and only, had been to Arlene.

 

To Brianna, for gifts beyond price.

 

"Oh, Grayson." Her voice hitched over the tears rising in the back of her throat. "I'm honored. I'll start crying again," she murmured and turned her face into his arm. "Thank you so much."

 

"There's a lot of me in this book, Brie." He lifted her face, hoping she'd understand. "It's something I can give you."

 

"I know. I'll treasure it." Afraid she'd spoil the moment with tears, she ran her hands briskly over her hair. "You'll want to get back to work, I'm sure. And I've whittled the day away." She picked up her linens, knowing she'd weep the moment she was behind the first closed door. "Shall I bring your tea up here when it's time?"

 

He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes as he studied her. He wondered if she'd recognized herself in Tullia. The composure, the quiet, almost unshakable grace. "I'll come down. I've nearly, done all I need to do for today."

 

"In an hour then."

 

She went out, closing the door behind her. Alone, Gray sat, and stared, for a long time, at the brief dedication.

 

It was the laughter and the voices that drew Gray, when the hour was up, toward the parlor rather than the kitchen. Brianna's guests were gathered around the tea table, sampling or filling plates. Brianna herself stood, swaying gently from side to side to rock the baby sleeping on her shoulder. "My nephew," she was explaining. "Liam. I'm minding him for an hour or two. Oh, Gray." She beamed when she saw him. "Look who I have here."

 

"So I see." Crossing over, Gray peeked at the baby's face. His eyes were open, and dreamy, until they latched onto Gray and stared owlishly. "He always looks at me as if he knows every sin I commited. It's intimidating."

 

Gray moved to the tea table and had nearly decided on his choices when he noted Brianna slipping from the room. He caught up with her at near the kitchen door. "Where are you going?" "To put the baby down." "What for?"

 

"Maggie said he'd be wanting a nap." "Maggie's not here." He took Liam himself. "And we never get to play with him." To amuse himself, he made faces at the baby. "Where's Maggie?"

 

"She's fired up her furnace. Rogan had to run into the gallery to handle some problem, so she came dashing down here just a little bit ago." With a laugh she bent her head close to Gray's. "I thought it would never happen. Now I have you all to myself," she murmured. She straightened at the knock on the door. "Keep his head supported, mind," she said as she went to answer.

 

"I know how to hold a baby. Women," he said to Liam. "They don't think we can do anything. They all think you're hot stuff right now, boy-o, but just wait. In a few years they'll figure your purpose in life is to fix small electrical appliances and kill bugs."

 

Since no one was looking, he bent his head to press a light kiss on Liam's mouth. And watched it curve.

 

"That's the way. Why don't we go in the kitchen, and-" He broke off at Brianna's startled exclamation. Shifting Liam more securely in the crook of his arm, he hurried back down the hallway.

 

Carstairs stood at the threshold, a tan bowler in his hands, a friendly smile on his face. "Grayson, how nice to see you again. I wasn't certain you'd still be here. And what's this?"

 

"It's a baby," Gray said shortly.

 

"Of course it is." Carstairs tickled Liam's chin and made foolish noises. "Handsome lad. I must say, he favors you a bit, Brianna. Around the mouth."

 

"He's my sister's child. And what might you be doing here at Blackthorn, Mr. Carstairs?"

 

"Just passing through, as it were. I'd told Iris so much about the cottage, and the countryside, she wanted to see it for herself. She's in the car." He gestured to the Bentley parked at the garden gate. "Actually, we'd hoped you might have a room for us, for the night." She goggled at him. "You want to stay here?" "I've bragged, perhaps unwisely, about your cooking." He leaned forward confidentially. "I'm afraid Iris was a bit irked at first. She's quite a cook herself, you know. She wants to see if I was exaggerating." "Mr. Carstairs. You're a shameless man." "That may be, my dear," he said, twinkling. "That may be."

 

She huffed, sighed. "Well, don't leave the poor woman sitting in the car. Bring her in for tea."

 

"Can't wait to meet her," Gray said, jiggling the baby.

 

"She says the same of you. She's quite impressed that you could lift my wallet without me having a clue. I used to be much quicker." He shook his head in regret. "But then, I used to be much younger. Shall I bring in our luggage, Brianna?"

 

"I have a room. It's smaller than what you had last." "I'm  sure  it's  charming.  Absolutely  charming." He strolled off to fetch his wife. "Can you beat it?" Brianna said under her breath. "I don't know whether to laugh or hide the silver. If I had any silver."

 

"He likes you too much to steal from you. So," Gray mused, "This is the famous Iris."

 

The photograph from the pinched wallet had been a good likeness, Brianna discovered. Iris wore a flowered dress that ruffled in the breeze around excellent legs. To Brianna's eye, Iris had used the time in the car to freshen her hair and makeup and so looked fresh and remarkably pretty as she strolled up the walk beside her grinning husband.

 

"Oh, Miss Concannon. Brianna, I do hope I can call you

 

Brianna. I think of you as Brianna, of course, after hearing so much about you and your charming inn."

 

Her voice was smooth, cultured, despite the fact that her words all but tumbled over each other to get out. Before Brianna could respond, Iris flung out both hands, gripped hers, and barrelled on.

 

"You're every bit as lovely as Johnny told me. How kind of you, how sweet to find room for us when we've dropped so unexpectedly on your doorstep. And your garden, my dear, I must tell you I'm dizzy with admiration. Your dahlias! I never have a bit of luck with them myself. And your roses, magnificent. You really must tell me your secret. Do you talk to them? I chatter at mine day and night, but I never get blooms like that."

 

"Well, I-"

 

"And you're Grayson." Iris simply rolled over Brianna's response and turned to him. She freed one of Brianna's hands so that she could grip Gray's. "What a clever, clever young man you are. And so handsome, too. Why, you look just like a film star. I've read all your books, every one. Frighten me to death, they do, but I can't put them down. Wherever do you come up with such thrilling ideas? I've been so anxious to meet both of you," she continued, holding on to each of them. "Badgering poor Johnny to death, you know. And now, here we are."

 

There was a pause while Iris beamed at both of them. "Yes." Brianna discovered she could find little else to say. "Here you are. Ah, please come in. I hope you had a pleasant trip."

 

"Oh, I adore traveling, don't you? And to think with all the racketing around Johnny and I did in our misspent youth, we never came to this part of the world. It's pretty as a postcard, isn't it, Johnny?"

 

"It is, my sweet. It certainly is."

 

"Oh, what a lovely home. Just charming." Iris kept her hand firmly on Brianna's as she glanced around. "I'm sure no one could be anything but comfortable here."

 

Brianna gave Gray a helpless look, but he only shrugged. "I hope you will be. There's tea in the parlor if you like, or I can show you your room first."

 

"Would you do that? We'll put our bags away, shall we, Johnny? Then perhaps we can all have a nice chat."

 

Iris exclaimed over the stairway as they climbed it, the upstairs hall, the room Brianna escorted them into. Wasn't the bedspread charming, the lace curtains lovely, the view from the window superb?

 

In short order Brianna found herself in the kitchen brewing another pot of tea while her new guests sat at the table making themselves at home. Iris happily bounced Liam on her lap.

 

"Hell of a team, aren't they?" Gray murmured, helping by getting out cups and plates.

 

"She makes me dizzy," Brianna whispered. "But it's impossible not to like her."

 

"Exactly. You'd never believe there was an unscrupulous thought in her head. Everyone's favorite aunt or amusing neighbor. Maybe you should hide that silver after all."

 

"Hush." Brianna turned away to carry plates to the table. Carstairs immediately helped himself to the bread and jam.

 

"I do hope you'll join us," Iris began, choosing a scone, dipping into the clotted cream. "Johnny, dear, we do want to get business over with, don't we? So distressing to have business clouding the air."

 

"Business?" Brianna took Liam again, settled him on her shoulder.

 

"Unfinished business." Carstairs dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "I say, Brianna, this bread is tasty. Have a bit, do, Iris."

 

"Johnny rhapsodized over your cooking. I'm afraid I got a teeny bit jealous. I'm a fair cook myself, you know."

 

"A brilliant cook," a loyal Carstairs corrected, snatching his wife's hand and kissing it lavishly. "A magnificent cook."

 

"Oh, Johnny, you do go on." She giggled girlishly before swatting him aside. Then she pursed her lips and blew him several quick kisses. The byplay had Gray wiggling his brows at Brianna. "But I can see why he was so taken with the table you set, Brianna." She nibbled delicately on her scone. "We must find time to exchange some recipes while we're here. My speciality is a chicken and oyster dish. And if I do say so myself, it's rather tasty. The trick is to use a really good wine, a dry white, you see. And a hint of tarragon. But there I go, running on again, and we haven't dealt with our business."

 

She reached for another scone, gesturing to the empty chairs. "Do sit down, won't you? So much cozier to talk business over tea."

 

Agreeably Gray sat and began to fill his plate. "Want me to take the kid?" he asked Brianna.

 

"No, I've got him." She sat with Liam resting comfortably in the curve of her arm.

 

"What an angel," Iris cooed. "And you've such an easy way with babies. Johnny and I always regretted not having any ourselves. But then, we were always off having an adventure, so our lives were full."

 

"Adventures," Brianna repeated. An interesting term, she thought, for bilking.

 

"We were a naughty pair." Iris laughed, and the gleam in her eyes said she understood Brianna's sentiments exactly. "But what fun we had. It wouldn't be quite right to say we were sorry for it, when we enjoyed it so much. But then, one does get older."

 

"One does," Carstairs agreed. "And one sometimes loses the edge." He sent Gray a mild look. "Ten years ago, lad, you'd never have pinched my wallet."

 

"Don't bet on it." Gray sipped at his tea. "I was even better ten years ago."

 

Carstairs tossed back his head and laughed. "Didn't I tell you he was a pistol, Iris? Oh, I wish you'd have seen him button me down in Wales, my heart. I was filled with admiration. I hope you'll consider returning the wallet to me, Grayson. At least the photographs. The identification is easily replaced, but I'm quite sentimental over the photos. And, of course, the cash."

 

Gray's smile was quick and wolfish. "You still owe me a hundred pounds. Johnny."

 

Carstairs cleared his throat. "Naturally. Unquestionably. I only took yours, you see, to make it seem like a burglary."

 

"Naturally," Gray agreed. "Unquestionably. I believe we discussed compensation in Wales, before you had to leave so unexpectedly."

 

"I do apologize. You'd pinned me down, you see, and I didn't feel comfortable coming to a firm agreement without consulting Iris first."

 

"We're strong advocates of full partnership," Iris put in.

 

"Indeed." He gave his wife's hand an affectionate pat. "I can truthfully say that all our decisions are a matter of teamwork. We feel that, combined with deep affection, is why we've had forty-three successful years together."

 

"And, of course, a good sex life," Iris said comfortably, smiling when Brianna choked over her tea. "Marriage would be rather dull otherwise, don't you think?"

 

"Yes, I'm sure you're right." This time Brianna cleared her throat. "I think I understand why you've come, and I appreciate it. It's good to clear the air over it."

 

"We did want to apologize in person for any distress we've caused you. And I wanted to add my sympathies over my Johnny's clumsy and completely ill-advised search of your lovely home." She cut a stern look at her husband. "It lacked all finesse, Johnny."

 

"It did. Indeed it did." He bowed his head. "I'm thoroughly ashamed."

 

Brianna wasn't entirely certain of that, but shook her head. "Well, there was no real harm done, I suppose."

 

"No harm!" Iris took up the gauntlet. "Brianna, my dear girl, I'm sure you were furious, and rightly so. And distressed beyond belief."

 

"It made her cry."

 

"Grayson." Embarrassed now, Brianna stared into her teacup. "It's done."

 

"I can only imagine how you must have felt." Iris's voice had softened. "Johnny knows how I feel about my things. Why, if I came home and found everything topsy-turvy, I'd be devastated. Simply devastated. I only hope you can forgive him for the regrettable impulse, and for thinking like a man."

 

"I do. I have. I understand he was under a great deal of pressure, and-" Brianna broke off, lifting her head when

 

she realized she was defending the man who had cheated her father and invaded her home.

 

"What a kind heart you have." Iris streamed into the breech. "Now if we could touch on this uncomfortable business of the stock certificate one last time. First, let me say it was very broad-minded, very patient of you not to contact the authorities after Wales."

 

"Gray said you'd be back."

 

"Clever boy," Iris murmured.

 

"And I didn't see any point in it." With a sigh Brianna picked up a finger of bread and nibbled. "It was long ago, and the money my father lost was his to lose. Knowing the circumstances was enough to satisfy me."

 

"You see, Iris, it's just as I told you."

 

"Johnny." Her voice was suddenly commanding. The look that passed between them held until Carstairs let out a long breath and dropped his gaze.

 

"Yes, Iris, of course. You're quite right. Quite right." Rallying, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, drew out an envelope. "Iris and I have discussed this at length, and we would very much like to settle the matter to everyone's satisfaction. With our apologies, dear," he said, handing Brianna the envelope. "And our best wishes."

 

Uneasy, she lifted the flap. Her heart careened to her stomach and up to her throat. "It's money. Cash money."

 

"A check would make bookkeeping difficult," Carstairs explained. "And then there's the taxes that would be involved. A cash transaction saves us both from that inconvenience. It's ten thousand pounds. Irish pounds."

 

"Oh, but I couldn't-"

 

"Yes, you can," Gray interrupted.

 

"It isn't right."

 

She started to hand the envelope back to Carstairs. His eyes lit up briefly, his fingers reached out. And his wife swatted them away.

 

"Your young man is correct in the matter, Brianna. This is quite right, for everyone involved. You needn't worry that the money will make an appreciable difference in our lives. We do quite well. It would ease my mind, and my heart, if you'd accept it. And," she added, "return the certificate to us."

 

"Rogan has it," Brianna said.

 

"No, I got it back from him." Gray rose, slipped into Brianna's rooms.

 

"Take the money, Brianna," Iris said gently. "Put it away now, in your apron pocket. I'd consider it a great favor."

 

"I don't understand you."

 

"I don't suppose you do. Johnny and I don't regret the way we lived. We enjoyed every minute of it. But a little insurance toward redemption wouldn't hurt." She smiled, reached over to squeeze Brianna's hand. "I'd look on it as a kindness. Both of us would. Isn't that right, Johnny?"

 

He gave the envelope one last, longing look. "Yes, dear."

 

Gray walked back in, holding the certificate. "Yours, I believe."

 

"Yes. Yes, indeed." Eager now, Carstairs took the paper. Adjusting his glasses, he peered at it. "Iris," he said with pride as he tilted the certificate for her to study as well. "We did superior work, didn't we? Absolutely flawless."

 

"We did, Johnny, dear. We certainly did."

 

Chapter Twenty-two

 

"I have never in the whole of my life had a finer moment of satisfaction." All but purring, Maggie stretched out in the passenger seat of Brianna's car. She sent one last glance behind at their mother's house as her sister pulled into the street.

 

"Gloating isn't becoming, Margaret Mary."

 

"Becoming or not, I'm enjoying it." She shifted, reaching out to put a rattle in Liam's waving hand as he sat snug in his safety seat in the back. "Did you see her face, Brie? Oh, did you see it?"

 

"I did." Her dignity slipped just a moment, and a grin snuck through. "At least you had the good sense not to rub her nose in it."

 

"That was the bargain. We'd tell her only that the money came from an investment Da made before he died. One that recently paid off. And I would resist, no matter how it pained me, pointing out that she didn't deserve her third of it as she never believed in him."

 

"The third of the money was rightfully hers, and that should be the end of it."

 

"I'm not going to badger you about it. I'm much too busy gloating." Savoring, Maggie hummed a little. "Tell me what are your plans for yours?"

 

"I've some ideas for improvements on the cottage. The attic room for one, which started the whole business."

 

As Liam cheerfully flung the first one aside, Maggie pulled out another rattle. "I thought we were going to Gal-way to shop."

 

"We are." Grayson had badgered her into the idea and had all but booted her out of her own front door. She smiled now, thinking of it. "I've a mind to buy me one of those professional food processors. The ones they use in restaurants and on the cookery shows."

 

"That would have pleased Da very much." Maggie's grin softened into a smile. "It is like a gift from him, you know."

 

"I'm thinking of it that way. It seems right if I do. What about you?"