There was a desk that looked old and sturdy. Its surface was polished to a high gloss. A brass lamp, an old inkwell, and a glass bowl of potpourri stood on it. A vase of dried flowers was centered on a mirrored dresser. Two chairs, covered in a soft rose, flanked a small occasional table. There was a braided rug on the floor that picked up the muted tones of the room and prints of wildflowers on the wall.
Gray leaned against the headboard, yawned. He didn't need ambience when he worked, but he appreciated it. All in all, he thought he'd chosen well.
He considered rolling over, going back to sleep. He hadn't yet closed the cage door behind him-an analogy he often used for writing. Chilly, rainy mornings anywhere in the world were meant to be spent in bed. But he thought of his landlady, pretty, rosy-cheeked Brianna. Curiosity about her had him gingerly setting his feet on the chilly floor.
At least the water ran hot, he thought as he stood groggily under the shower. And the soap smelled lightly, and practically, of a pine forest. Traveling as he did, he'd faced a great many icy showers. The simple hominess of the bath, the white towels with their charming touch of embroidery suited his mood perfectly. Then again, his surroundings usually suited him, from a tent in the Arizona desert to plush hotels on the Riviera. Gray liked to think he twisted his setting to fit his needs-until, of course, his needs changed.
For the next few months he figured the cozy inn in Ireland would do just fine. Particularly with the added benefit of his lovely landlady. Beauty was always a plus.
He saw no reason to shave, and pulled on jeans and a tattered sweatshirt. Since the wind had died considerably, he might take a tramp over the fields after breakfast. Soak up a little atmosphere.
But it was breakfast that sent him downstairs.
He wasn't surprised to find her in the kitchen. The room seemed to have been designed for her-the smoky hearth, the bright walls, the neat-as-a-pin counters.
She'd scooped her hair up this morning, he noted. He imagined she thought the knot on top of her head was practical. And perhaps it was, he mused, but the fact that strands escaped to flutter and curl around her neck and cheeks made the practical alluring.
It probably was a bad idea all around to be allured by his landlady.
She was baking something, and the scent of it made his mouth water. Surely it was the scent of food and not the sight of her in her trim white apron that had his juices running.
She turned then, her arms full of a huge bowl, the contents of which she continued to beat with a wooden spoon. She blinked once in surprise, then smiled in cautious welcome. "Good morning. You'll want your breakfast."
"I'll have whatever I'm smelling."
"No, you won't." In a competent manner he had to admire, she poured the contents of a bowl into a pan. "It's not done yet, and what it is is a cake for tea."
"Apple," he said, sniffing the air. "Cinnamon."
"Your nose is right. Can you handle an Irish breakfast, or will you be wanting something lighter?"
"Light isn't what I had in mind."
"Fine, then, the dining room's through the door there. I'll bring you in some coffee and buns to hold you."
"Can I eat in here?" He gave her his most charming smile and leaned against the doorjamb. "Or does it bother you to have people watch you cook?" Or just watch her, he thought, do anything at all.
"Not at all." Some of her guests preferred it, though most liked to be served. She poured him coffee she already had heating. "You take it black?"
"That's right." He sipped it standing, watching her. "Did you grow up in this house?"
"I did." She slid fat sausages in a pan.
"I thought it seemed more of a home than an inn."
"It's meant to. We had a farm, you see, but sold off most of the land. We kept the house, and the little cottage down the way where my sister and her husband live from time to time."
"From time to time?"
"He has a home in Dublin as well. He owns galleries. She's an artist."
"Oh, what kind?"
She smiled a little as she went about the cooking. Most people assumed artist meant painter, a fact which irritated Maggie always. "A glass artist. She blows glass." Brianna gestured to the bowl in the center of the kitchen table. It bled with melting pastels, its rim fluid, like rain-washed petals. "That's her work."
"Impressive." Curious, he moved closer, ran a finger tip around the wavy rim. "Concannon," he murmured, then chuckled to himself. "Damn me, M. M. Concannon, the Irish sensation."
Brianna's eyes danced with pleasure. "Do they call her that, really? Oh, she'll love it." Pride flashed in. "And you recognized her work."
"I ought to, I just bought a-I don't know what the hell it is. A sculpture. Worldwide Galleries, London, two weeks ago."
"Rogan's gallery. Her husband."
"Handy." He went to the stove to top off his cup himself. The frying sausages smelled almost as good as his hostess. "It's an amazing piece. Icy white glass with this pulse of fire inside. I thought it looked like the Fortress of Solitude." At her blank look, he laughed. "You're not up on your American comic books, I take it. Superman's private sanctum, in the Arctic, I think."
"She'll like that, she will. Maggie's big on private sanctums." In an unconscious habit she tucked loose hair back into pins. Her nerves were humming a little. She supposed it was due to the way he stared at her, that frank and unapologetic appraisal that was uncomfortably intimate. It was the writer in him, she told herself and dropped potatoes into the spitting grease.
"They're building a gallery here in Clare," she continued. "It'll be open in the spring. Here's porridge to start you off while the rest is cooking."
Porridge. It was perfect. A rainy morning in an Irish cottage and porridge in a thick brown bowl. Grinning, he sat down and began to eat.
"Are you setting a book here, in Ireland?" She glanced over her shoulder. "Is it all right to ask?"
"Sure. That's the plan. Lonely countryside, rainy fields, towering cliffs." He shrugged. "Tidy little villages. Postcards. But what passions and ambitions lie beneath."
Now she laughed, turning bacon. "I don't know if you'll find our village passions and ambitions up to your scope, Mr. Thane."
"Gray."
"Yes, Gray." She took an egg, broke it one-handed into the sizzling skillet. "Now, mine ran pretty high when one of Murphy's cows broke through the fence and trampled my roses last summer. And as I recall, Tommy Duggin and Joe Ryan had a bloody fistfight outside O'Malley's pub not long back."
"Over a woman?"
"No, over a soccer game on the television. But then, they were a wee bit drunk at the time, I'm told, and made it up well enough once their heads stopped ringing."
"Well, fiction's nothing but a lie anyway."
"But it's not." Her eyes, softly green and serious, met his as she set a plate in front of him. "It's a different kind of truth. It would be your truth at the time of the writing, wouldn't it?"
Her perception surprised and almost embarrassed him. "Yes. Yes, it would."
Satisfied, she turned back to the stove to heap sausage, a rasher of bacon, eggs, potato pancakes onto a platter. "You'll be a sensation in the village. We Irish are wild for writers, you know."
"I'm no Yeats."
She smiled, pleased when he transferred healthy portions of food onto his plate. "But you don't want to be, do you?"
He looked up, crunching into his first slice of bacon. Had she pegged him so accurately so quickly? he wondered. He, who prided himself on his own aura of mystery-no past, no future.
Before he could think of a response, the kitchen door crashed open and a whirlwind of rain and woman came in. "Some knothead left his car smack in the middle of the road outside the house, Brie." Maggie stopped, dragged off a dripping cap, and eyed Gray.
"Guilty," he said, lifting a hand. "I forgot. I'll move it."
"No rush now." She waved him back into his seat and dragged off her coat. "Finish your breakfast, I've time. You'd be the Yank
writer, would you?"
"Twice guilty. And you'd be M. M. Concannon."
"I would."
"My sister, Maggie," Brianna said as she poured tea. "Grayson Thane."
Maggie sat with a little sigh of relief. The baby was kicking up a storm of its own. "A bit early, are you?"
"Change of plans." She was a sharper version of Brianna, Gray thought. Redder hair, greener eyes-edgier eyes. "Your sister was kind enough not to make me sleep in the yard."
"Oh, she's a kind one, Brie is." Maggie helped herself to a piece of the bacon on the platter. "Apple cake?" Maggie asked, sniffing the air.
"For tea." Brianna took one pan out of the oven, slipped another in. "You and Rogan are welcome to some."
"Maybe we'll come by." She took a bun from the basket on the table and began to nibble. "Plan to stay awhile, do you?"
"Maggie, don't harass my guest. I've some extra buns if you want to take some home."
"I'm not leaving yet. Rogan's on the phone, will be as far as I can tell until doomsday's come and gone. I was heading to the village for some bread."
"I've plenty to spare."
Maggie smiled, bit into the bun again. "I thought you might." She turned those sharp green eyes on Gray. "She bakes enough for the whole village."
"Artistic talent runs in the family," Gray said easily. After heaping strawberry jam on a piece of bread, he passed the jar companionably to Maggie. "You with glass, Brianna with cooking." Without shame, he eyed the cake cooling on top of the stove. "How long until tea?"
Maggie grinned at him. "I may like you."
"I may like you back." He rose. "I'll move the car."
"If you'd just pull it into the street."
He gave Brianna a blank look. "What street?"
"Beside the house-the driveway you'd call it. Will you need help with your luggage?"
"No, I can handle it. Nice to have met you, Maggie."
"And you." Maggie licked her fingers, waited until she heard the door shut. "Better to look at than his picture in back of his books."
"He is."
"You wouldn't think a writer would have a build like that -all tough and muscled."
Well aware Maggie was looking for a reaction, Brianna kept her back turned. "I suppose he's nicely put together. I wouldn't think a married woman going into her sixth month of pregnancy would pay his build much mind."
Maggie snorted. "I've a notion every woman would pay him mind. And if you haven't, we'd best be having more than your eyes checked."
"My eyes are fine, thank you. And aren't you the one who was worried about me being alone with him?"
"That was before I decided to like him."
With a little sigh Brianna glanced toward the kitchen doorway. She doubted she had much time. Brianna moistened her lips, kept her hands busy with tidying the breakfast dishes. "Maggie, I'd be glad if you could find time to come by later. I need to talk to you about something."
"Talk now."
"No, I can't." She glanced at the kitchen doorway. "We need to be private. It's important."
"You're upset."
"I don't know if I'm upset or not."
"Did he do something? The Yank?" Despite her bulk, Maggie was out of her chair and ready to fight.
"No, no. It's nothing to do with him." Exasperated, Brianna set her hands on her hips. "You just said you liked him."
"Not if he's upsetting you."
"Well, he's not. Don't press me about it now. Will you come by later, once I'm sure he's settled?"
"Of course I will." Concerned, Maggie brushed a hand over Brianna's shoulder. "Do you want Rogan to come?"
"If he can. Yes," Brianna decided, thinking of Maggie's condition. "Yes, please ask him to come with you."
"Before tea, then-two, three o'clock?"
"That would be good. Take the buns, Maggie, and the bread. I want to help Mr. Thane settle in."
There was nothing Brianna dreaded more than confrontations, angry words, bitter emotions. She had grown up in a house where the air had always simmered with them. Resentments boiling into blowups. Disappointments flashing into shouts. In defense she had always tried to keep her own feelings controlled, steering as far to the opposite pole as possible from the storms and rages that had served as her sister's shield to their parents' misery.
She could admit, to herself, that she had often wished to wake one morning and discover her parents had decided to ignore church and tradition and go their separate ways. But more often, too often, she had prayed for a miracle. The miracle of having her parents discover each other again, and reigniting the spark that had drawn them together so many years before.
Now, she understood, at least in part, why that miracle could never have happened. Amanda. The woman's name had been Amanda.
Had her mother known? Brianna wondered. Had she known that the husband she'd come to detest had loved another? Did she know there was a child, grown now, who was a result of that reckless, forbidden love?
She could never ask. Would never ask, Brianna promised herself. The horrible scene it would cause would be more than she could bear.
Already she had spent most of the day dreading sharing what she'd discovered with her sister. Knowing, for she knew Maggie well, that there would be hurt and anger and soul-deep disillusionment.
She'd put it off for hours. The coward's way, she knew, and it shamed her. But she told herself she needed time to settle her own heart before she could take on the burden of Maggie's.
Gray was the perfect distraction. Helping him settle into his room, answering his questions about the nearby villages and the countryside. And questions he had, by the dozen. By the time she pointed him off toward Ennis, she was exhausted. His mental energy was amazing, reminding her of a contortionist she'd once seen at a fair, twisting and turning himself into outrageous shapes, then popping out only to twist and turn again.
To relax, she got down on hands and knees and scrubbed the kitchen floor.
It was barely two when she heard Con's welcoming barks. The tea was steeping, her cakes frosted, and the little sandwiches she'd made cut into neat triangles. Brianna wrung her hands once, then opened the kitchen door to her sister and brother-in-law.
"Did you walk over, then?"
"Sweeney claims I need exercise." Maggie's face was rosy, her eyes dancing. She took one long, deep sniff of the air. "And I will, after tea."
"She's greedy these days." Rogan hung his coat and Maggie's on hooks by the door. He might have worn old trousers and sturdy walking shoes, but nothing could disguise what his wife would have termed the Dublin in him. Tall, dark, elegant, he would be in black tie or rags. "It's lucky you asked us for tea, Brianna. She's cleaned out our pantry."
"Well, we've plenty here. Go sit by the fire and I'll bring it out."
"We're not guests," Maggie objected. "The kitchen'll do for us."
"I've been in it all day." It was a lame excuse. There was no more appealing room in the house for her. But she wanted, needed, the formality of the parlor for what needed to be done. "And there's a nice fire laid."
"I'll take the tray," Rogan offered.
The minute they were settled in the parlor, Maggie reached for a cake.
"Take a sandwich," Rogan told her.
"He treats me more like a child than a woman who's carrying one." But she took the sandwich first. "I've been telling Rogan about your very attractive Yank. Long gold-tipped hair, sturdy muscles, and big brown eyes. Isn't he joining us for tea?"
"We're early for tea," Rogan pointed out. "I've read his books," he said to Brianna. "He has a clever way of plunging the reader into the turmoil."
"I know." She smiled a little. "I fell asleep last night with the light on. He's gone out for a drive, to Ennis and about. He was kind enough to post a letter for me." The easiest way, Brianna thought, was often through the back door. "I found some papers when I was up in the attic yesterday."
"Haven't we been through that business before?" Maggie asked.
/> "We left a lot of Da's boxes untouched. When Mother was here, it seemed best not to bring it up."
"She'd have done nothing but rant and rave." Maggie scowled into her tea. "You shouldn't have to go through his papers on your own, Brie."
"I don't mind. I've been thinking I might turn the attic into a loft room, for guests."
"More guests." Maggie rolled her eyes. "You're overrun with them now, spring and summer."
"I like having people in the house." It was an old argument, one they would never see through the same eyes. "At any rate, it was past time to go through things. There were some clothes as well, some no more than rags now. But I found this." She rose and went to a small box. She took out the lacy white gown. "It's Granny's work, I'm sure. Da would have saved it for his grandchildren."
"Oh." Everything about Maggie softened. Her eyes, her mouth, her voice. She held out her hands, took the gown into them. "So tiny," she murmured. Even as she stroked the linen, the baby inside her stirred.
"I thought your family might have one put aside as well, Rogan, but-"
"We'll use this. Thank you, Brie." One look at his wife's face had decided him. "Here, Margaret Mary."
Maggie took the handkerchief he offered and wiped her eyes. "The books say it's hormones. I always seem to be spilling over."
"I'll put it back for you." After replacing the gown, Brianna took the next step and offered the stock certificate. "I found this as well. Da must have bought it, or invested, whatever it is, shortly before he died."
A glance at the paper had Maggie sighing. "Another of his moneymaking schemes." She was nearly as sentimental over the stock certificate as she'd been over the baby gown. "How like him. So he thought he'd go into mining, did he?"
"Well, he'd tried everything else." Rogan frowned over the certificate. "Would you like me to look into this company, see what's what?"
"I've written to them. Mr. Thane's posting the letter for me. It'll come to nothing, I imagine." None of Tom Concannon's schemes ever had. "But you might keep the paper for me until I hear back." "It's ten thousand shares," Rogan pointed out. Maggie and Brianna smiled at each other. "And if it's worth more than the paper it's printed on, he'll have broken his record." Maggie shrugged and treated herself to a cake. "He was always after investing in something, or starting a new business. It was his dreams that were big, Rogan, and his heart."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 83