Gray didn’t mind when the leaden sky began to spit rain again. He stood on a parapet of a ruined castle looking out on a sluggish river. Wind whistled and moaned through chinks in the stone. He might have been alone, not simply in this spot, but in this country, in the world.
It was, he decided, the perfect place for murder.
The victim could be lured here, could be pursued up ancient winding stone steps, could flee helplessly up, until any crumb of hope would dissolve. There would be no escape.
Here, where old blood had been spilled, where it seeped into stone and earth so deep, yet not so deep, fresh murder would be done. Not for God, not for country. But for pleasure.
Gray already knew his villain, could picture him there, slicing down so that the edge of his knife glinted silver in the dull light. He knew his victim, the terror and the pain. The hero, and the woman he would love, were as clear to Gray as the slow run of the river below.
And he knew he would have to begin soon to create them with words. There was nothing he enjoyed in writing more than making his people breathe, giving them flesh and blood. Discovering their backgrounds, their hidden fears, every twist and turn of their pasts.
It was, perhaps, because he had no past of his own. He had made himself, layer by layer, as skillfully and as meticulously as he crafted his characters. Grayson Thane was who he had decided to be, and his skill in storytelling had provided a means to become who and what he wanted, in some style.
He would never consider himself a modest man, but considered himself no more than a competent writer, a spinner of tales. He wrote to entertain himself first, and acknowledged his luck in hitting some chord in the public.
Brianna had been right. He had no desire to be a Yeats. Being a good writer meant he could make a living and do as he chose. Being a great one would bring responsibilities and expectations he had no desire to face. What Gray didn’t choose to face, he simply turned his back on.
But there were times, such as this, when he wondered what it might be like to have roots, ancestry, a full-blooded devotion to family or country. The people who had built this castle that still stood, those who had fought there, died there. What had they felt? What had they wished for? And how could battles fought so long ago still ring, as clear as the fatal music of sword against sword, in the air?
He’d chosen Ireland for this, for the history, for the people whose memories were long and roots were deep. For people, he admitted, like Brianna Concannon.
It was an odd and interesting bonus that she should be so much what he was looking for in his heroine.
Physically she was perfect. That soft, luminous beauty, the simple grace and quiet manner. But beneath the shell, in contrast to that open-handed hospitality, was a remoteness, and a sadness. Complexities, he thought, letting the rain slap his cheeks. He enjoyed nothing better than contrasts and complexities—puzzles to be solved. What had put that haunted look in her eyes, that defensive coolness in her manner?
It would be interesting to find out.
CHAPTER THREE
He thought she was out when he came back. As focused as a hound on a scent, Gray headed to the kitchen. It was her voice that stopped him—soft, quiet, and icy. Without giving a thought to the ethics of eavesdropping, he shifted and moved to the doorway of the parlor.
He could see her on the phone. Her hand twisted in the cord, a gesture of anger or nerves. He couldn’t see her face, but the stiff set of her back and shoulders was indication enough of her mood.
“I’ve just come in, Mother. I had to pick up a few things in the village. I’ve a guest.”
There was a pause, Gray watched as Brianna lifted a hand, rubbed it hard at her temple.
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry it upsets you. I’ll come around tomorrow. I can—”
She broke off, obviously interrupted by some sharp comment on the other end of the phone. Gray pushed back an urge to move into the room and soothe those tensed shoulders.
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go tomorrow. I never said I was too busy, and I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll do the marketing, yes, it’s no problem. Before noon, I promise. I have to go now. I have cakes in the oven. I’ll bring you some, shall I? Tomorrow, Mother, I promise.” She muttered a goodbye and turned. The weary distress on her face turned to shock when she saw Gray, then a flush crept into her cheeks. “You move quietly,” she said with the faintest trace of annoyance in the tone. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt.” He had no shame about listening to her conversation, nor about watching her varying reactions flicker over her face. “Your mother lives nearby?”
“Not far.” Her voice was clipped now, edged with the anger that stirred inside her. He’d listened to her personal misery and didn’t think it important enough to apologize for. “I’ll get your tea now.”
“No hurry. You’ve got cakes in the oven.”
She leveled her eyes at his. “I lied. I should tell you that I open my home to you, but not my private life.”
He acknowledged this with a nod. “I should tell you, I always pry. You’re upset, Brianna. Maybe you should have some tea.”
“I’ve had mine, thank you.” Her shoulders remained stiff as she crossed the room and started to move past him. He stopped her with the faintest of brushes of his hand on her arm. There was curiosity in his eyes—and she resented it. There was sympathy—she didn’t want it.
“Most writers have as open an ear as a good bartender.”
She shifted. It was only the slightest movement, but it put distance between them, and made her point. “I’ve always wondered about people who find it necessary to tell their personal problems to the man who serves them ale. I’ll bring your tea into the parlor. I’ve too much to do in the kitchen for company.”
Gray ran his tongue around his teeth as she walked away. He had, he knew, been put ever so completely in his place.
Brianna couldn’t fault the American for curiosity. She had plenty of her own. She enjoyed finding out about the people who passed through her home, hearing them talk about their lives and their families. It might have been unfair, but she preferred not to discuss hers. Much more comfortable was the role of onlooker. It was safer that way.
But she wasn’t angry with him. Experience had taught her that temper solved nothing. Patience, manners, and a quiet tone were more effective shields, and weapons against most confrontations. They had served her well through the evening meal, and by the end of it, it seemed to her that she and Gray had resumed their proper positions of landlady and guest. His casual invitation to join him at the village pub had been just as casually refused. Brianna had spent a pleasant hour finishing his book.
It was, he decided, the perfect place for murder.
The victim could be lured here, could be pursued up ancient winding stone steps, could flee helplessly up, until any crumb of hope would dissolve. There would be no escape.
Here, where old blood had been spilled, where it seeped into stone and earth so deep, yet not so deep, fresh murder would be done. Not for God, not for country. But for pleasure.
Gray already knew his villain, could picture him there, slicing down so that the edge of his knife glinted silver in the dull light. He knew his victim, the terror and the pain. The hero, and the woman he would love, were as clear to Gray as the slow run of the river below.
And he knew he would have to begin soon to create them with words. There was nothing he enjoyed in writing more than making his people breathe, giving them flesh and blood. Discovering their backgrounds, their hidden fears, every twist and turn of their pasts.
It was, perhaps, because he had no past of his own. He had made himself, layer by layer, as skillfully and as meticulously as he crafted his characters. Grayson Thane was who he had decided to be, and his skill in storytelling had provided a means to become who and what he wanted, in some style.
He would never consider himself a modest man, but considered himself no more than a competent writer, a spinner of tales. He wrote to entertain himself first, and acknowledged his luck in hitting some chord in the public.
Brianna had been right. He had no desire to be a Yeats. Being a good writer meant he could make a living and do as he chose. Being a great one would bring responsibilities and expectations he had no desire to face. What Gray didn’t choose to face, he simply turned his back on.
But there were times, such as this, when he wondered what it might be like to have roots, ancestry, a full-blooded devotion to family or country. The people who had built this castle that still stood, those who had fought there, died there. What had they felt? What had they wished for? And how could battles fought so long ago still ring, as clear as the fatal music of sword against sword, in the air?
He’d chosen Ireland for this, for the history, for the people whose memories were long and roots were deep. For people, he admitted, like Brianna Concannon.
It was an odd and interesting bonus that she should be so much what he was looking for in his heroine.
Physically she was perfect. That soft, luminous beauty, the simple grace and quiet manner. But beneath the shell, in contrast to that open-handed hospitality, was a remoteness, and a sadness. Complexities, he thought, letting the rain slap his cheeks. He enjoyed nothing better than contrasts and complexities—puzzles to be solved. What had put that haunted look in her eyes, that defensive coolness in her manner?
It would be interesting to find out.
CHAPTER THREE
He thought she was out when he came back. As focused as a hound on a scent, Gray headed to the kitchen. It was her voice that stopped him—soft, quiet, and icy. Without giving a thought to the ethics of eavesdropping, he shifted and moved to the doorway of the parlor.
He could see her on the phone. Her hand twisted in the cord, a gesture of anger or nerves. He couldn’t see her face, but the stiff set of her back and shoulders was indication enough of her mood.
“I’ve just come in, Mother. I had to pick up a few things in the village. I’ve a guest.”
There was a pause, Gray watched as Brianna lifted a hand, rubbed it hard at her temple.
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry it upsets you. I’ll come around tomorrow. I can—”
She broke off, obviously interrupted by some sharp comment on the other end of the phone. Gray pushed back an urge to move into the room and soothe those tensed shoulders.
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go tomorrow. I never said I was too busy, and I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll do the marketing, yes, it’s no problem. Before noon, I promise. I have to go now. I have cakes in the oven. I’ll bring you some, shall I? Tomorrow, Mother, I promise.” She muttered a goodbye and turned. The weary distress on her face turned to shock when she saw Gray, then a flush crept into her cheeks. “You move quietly,” she said with the faintest trace of annoyance in the tone. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt.” He had no shame about listening to her conversation, nor about watching her varying reactions flicker over her face. “Your mother lives nearby?”
“Not far.” Her voice was clipped now, edged with the anger that stirred inside her. He’d listened to her personal misery and didn’t think it important enough to apologize for. “I’ll get your tea now.”
“No hurry. You’ve got cakes in the oven.”
She leveled her eyes at his. “I lied. I should tell you that I open my home to you, but not my private life.”
He acknowledged this with a nod. “I should tell you, I always pry. You’re upset, Brianna. Maybe you should have some tea.”
“I’ve had mine, thank you.” Her shoulders remained stiff as she crossed the room and started to move past him. He stopped her with the faintest of brushes of his hand on her arm. There was curiosity in his eyes—and she resented it. There was sympathy—she didn’t want it.
“Most writers have as open an ear as a good bartender.”
She shifted. It was only the slightest movement, but it put distance between them, and made her point. “I’ve always wondered about people who find it necessary to tell their personal problems to the man who serves them ale. I’ll bring your tea into the parlor. I’ve too much to do in the kitchen for company.”
Gray ran his tongue around his teeth as she walked away. He had, he knew, been put ever so completely in his place.
Brianna couldn’t fault the American for curiosity. She had plenty of her own. She enjoyed finding out about the people who passed through her home, hearing them talk about their lives and their families. It might have been unfair, but she preferred not to discuss hers. Much more comfortable was the role of onlooker. It was safer that way.
But she wasn’t angry with him. Experience had taught her that temper solved nothing. Patience, manners, and a quiet tone were more effective shields, and weapons against most confrontations. They had served her well through the evening meal, and by the end of it, it seemed to her that she and Gray had resumed their proper positions of landlady and guest. His casual invitation to join him at the village pub had been just as casually refused. Brianna had spent a pleasant hour finishing his book.
