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. “Grayson.”
“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 offense, 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 light-headed, 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.
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. “Grayson.”
“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 offense, 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 light-headed, 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.
