Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  She blinked. "Tell you what?"

  "About the ghosts."

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

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

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

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

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

  "Have you heard them whispering?"

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

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

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

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

  Chapter Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Then we're alone for the moment."

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

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

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

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

  "Maggie-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I won't if you won't."

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

  "Nothing heavy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "If I can, yes."

  "Go away."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Thanks for breakfast."

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

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

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

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

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

  He was in heaven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  So many subtle flavors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "You're evading, Brianna."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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