The water was the color of her eyes today, he noted. That cool, misty green that spoke of dreaming. It was clear enough that he could see the sturdy humps of the Aran Islands, and a little ferryboat that sailed between Innismore and the mainland. The smell was fresh, the sky a moody blue that could, and would, change at any moment. The tourists a few yards away were speaking in a rich Texas twang that made him smile.
“It’s beautiful here. Everything. You’ve only to turn your head in this part of the world to see something else breathtaking.” Deliberately, he turned to Brianna. “Absolutely breathtaking.”
“Now you’re trying to flatter me to make up for prying into my business.”
“No, I’m not. And I haven’t finished prying, and I like to pry, so it’d be hypocritical to apologize. Who’s Amanda Dougherty, and why is Rogan looking for her?”
Shock flashed over her face, had her mouth tremble open and closed. “You’re the most rude of men.”
“I know all that already. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’m going back.” But as she turned, he simply took her arm.
“I’ll carry you back in a minute. You’ll break your ankle in those shoes. Especially if you’re going to flounce.”
“I don’t flounce as you so colorfully put it. And this is none of your . . .” She trailed off, blew out a huff of breath. “Why would I waste my time telling you it’s none of your business?”
“I haven’t got a clue.”
Her gaze narrowed on his face. Bland was what it was, she noted. And stubborn as two mules. “You’ll just keep hammering at me until I tell you.”
“Now you’re catching on.” But he didn’t smile. Instead he tucked away a tendril of hair that fluttered into her face. His eyes were intense, unwavering. “That’s what’s worrying you. She’s what’s worrying you.”
“It’s nothing you’d understand.”
“You’d be surprised what I understand. Here, sit.” He guided her to a rock, urged her down, then sat beside her. “Tell me a story. It comes easier that way.”
Perhaps it would. And perhaps it would help this heaviness in her heart to say it all. “Years ago, there was a woman who had a voice like an angel—or so they say. And ambition to use it to make her mark. She was discontent with her life as an innkeeper’s daughter and went roaming, paying her way with a song. One day she came back, for her mother was ailing and she was a dutiful daughter if not a loving one. She sang in the village pub for her pleasure, and the patron’s pleasure, and a few pounds. It was there she met a man.”
Brianna looked out to sea as she imagined her father catching sight of her mother, hearing her voice.
“Something hot flashed between them. It might have been love, but not the lasting kind. Still, they didn’t, or couldn’t resist it. And so, before long, she found herself with child. The Church, her upbringing, and her own beliefs left her no choice but to marry, and give up the dream she’d had. She was never happy after that, and had not enough compassion in her to make her husband happy. Soon after the first child was born, she conceived another. Not out of that flash of something hot this time, but out of a cold sense of duty. And that duty satisfied, she refused her husband her bed and her body.”
It was her sigh that had Gray reaching out, covering her hand with his. But he didn’t speak. Not yet.
“One day, somewhere near the River Shannon, he met another. There was love there, a deep, abiding love. Whatever their sin, the love was greater. But he had a wife, you see, and two small daughters. And he, and the woman who loved him, knew there was no future for them. So she left him, went back to America. She wrote him three letters, lovely letters full of love and understanding. And in the third she told him that she was carrying his child. She was going away, she said, and he wasn’t to worry, for she was happy to have a part of him inside her growing.”
A sea bird called, drew her gaze up. She watched it wing off toward the horizon before she continued her story.
“She never wrote to him again, and he never forgot her. Those memories may have comforted him through the chill of his dutiful marriage and all the years of emptiness. I think they did, for it was her name he said before he died. He said Amanda as he looked out to the sea. And a lifetime after the letters were written, one of his daughters found them, tucked in the attic where he’d kept them tied in a faded red ribbon.”
She shifted to Gray then. “There’s nothing she can do, you see, to turn back the clock, to make any of those lives better than they might have been. But doesn’t a woman who was loved so deserve to know she was never forgotten? And hasn’t the child of that woman, and that man, a right to know his own blood?”
“It may hurt you more to find them.” He looked down at their joined hands. “The past has a lot of nasty trapdoors. It’s a tenuous tie, Brianna, between you and Amanda’s child. Stronger ones are broken every day.”
“My father loved her,” she said simply. “The child she bore is kin.
There’s nothing else to do but look.”
“Not for you,” he murmured as his eyes scanned her face. There was strength there mixed with the sadness. “Let me help you.”
“How?”
“I know a lot of people. Finding someone’s mostly research, phone tag, connections.”
“Rogan’s hired a detective in New York.”
“That’s a good start. If he doesn’t turn up something soon, will you let me try?” He lifted a brow. “Don’t say it’s kind of me.”
“All right I won’t, though it is.” She brought their joined hands to her cheek. “I was angry with you for pushing me to tell you. But it helped.” She tilted her face toward his. “You knew it would.”
“I’m innately nosy.”
“You are, yes. But you knew it would help.”
“It usually does.” He stood, scooped her from the rock. “It’s time to go back. I’m ready to work.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The chain the story had around his throat kept Gray shackled to his desk for days. Curiosity turned the key in the lock now and again as guests came and went from the cottage.
He’d had it to himself, or nearly so for so many weeks, he thought he might find the noise and chatter annoying. Instead it was cozy, like the inn itself, colorful, like the flowers that were beginning to bloom in Brianna’s garden, bright as those first precious days of spring.
“It’s beautiful here. Everything. You’ve only to turn your head in this part of the world to see something else breathtaking.” Deliberately, he turned to Brianna. “Absolutely breathtaking.”
“Now you’re trying to flatter me to make up for prying into my business.”
“No, I’m not. And I haven’t finished prying, and I like to pry, so it’d be hypocritical to apologize. Who’s Amanda Dougherty, and why is Rogan looking for her?”
Shock flashed over her face, had her mouth tremble open and closed. “You’re the most rude of men.”
“I know all that already. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’m going back.” But as she turned, he simply took her arm.
“I’ll carry you back in a minute. You’ll break your ankle in those shoes. Especially if you’re going to flounce.”
“I don’t flounce as you so colorfully put it. And this is none of your . . .” She trailed off, blew out a huff of breath. “Why would I waste my time telling you it’s none of your business?”
“I haven’t got a clue.”
Her gaze narrowed on his face. Bland was what it was, she noted. And stubborn as two mules. “You’ll just keep hammering at me until I tell you.”
“Now you’re catching on.” But he didn’t smile. Instead he tucked away a tendril of hair that fluttered into her face. His eyes were intense, unwavering. “That’s what’s worrying you. She’s what’s worrying you.”
“It’s nothing you’d understand.”
“You’d be surprised what I understand. Here, sit.” He guided her to a rock, urged her down, then sat beside her. “Tell me a story. It comes easier that way.”
Perhaps it would. And perhaps it would help this heaviness in her heart to say it all. “Years ago, there was a woman who had a voice like an angel—or so they say. And ambition to use it to make her mark. She was discontent with her life as an innkeeper’s daughter and went roaming, paying her way with a song. One day she came back, for her mother was ailing and she was a dutiful daughter if not a loving one. She sang in the village pub for her pleasure, and the patron’s pleasure, and a few pounds. It was there she met a man.”
Brianna looked out to sea as she imagined her father catching sight of her mother, hearing her voice.
“Something hot flashed between them. It might have been love, but not the lasting kind. Still, they didn’t, or couldn’t resist it. And so, before long, she found herself with child. The Church, her upbringing, and her own beliefs left her no choice but to marry, and give up the dream she’d had. She was never happy after that, and had not enough compassion in her to make her husband happy. Soon after the first child was born, she conceived another. Not out of that flash of something hot this time, but out of a cold sense of duty. And that duty satisfied, she refused her husband her bed and her body.”
It was her sigh that had Gray reaching out, covering her hand with his. But he didn’t speak. Not yet.
“One day, somewhere near the River Shannon, he met another. There was love there, a deep, abiding love. Whatever their sin, the love was greater. But he had a wife, you see, and two small daughters. And he, and the woman who loved him, knew there was no future for them. So she left him, went back to America. She wrote him three letters, lovely letters full of love and understanding. And in the third she told him that she was carrying his child. She was going away, she said, and he wasn’t to worry, for she was happy to have a part of him inside her growing.”
A sea bird called, drew her gaze up. She watched it wing off toward the horizon before she continued her story.
“She never wrote to him again, and he never forgot her. Those memories may have comforted him through the chill of his dutiful marriage and all the years of emptiness. I think they did, for it was her name he said before he died. He said Amanda as he looked out to the sea. And a lifetime after the letters were written, one of his daughters found them, tucked in the attic where he’d kept them tied in a faded red ribbon.”
She shifted to Gray then. “There’s nothing she can do, you see, to turn back the clock, to make any of those lives better than they might have been. But doesn’t a woman who was loved so deserve to know she was never forgotten? And hasn’t the child of that woman, and that man, a right to know his own blood?”
“It may hurt you more to find them.” He looked down at their joined hands. “The past has a lot of nasty trapdoors. It’s a tenuous tie, Brianna, between you and Amanda’s child. Stronger ones are broken every day.”
“My father loved her,” she said simply. “The child she bore is kin.
There’s nothing else to do but look.”
“Not for you,” he murmured as his eyes scanned her face. There was strength there mixed with the sadness. “Let me help you.”
“How?”
“I know a lot of people. Finding someone’s mostly research, phone tag, connections.”
“Rogan’s hired a detective in New York.”
“That’s a good start. If he doesn’t turn up something soon, will you let me try?” He lifted a brow. “Don’t say it’s kind of me.”
“All right I won’t, though it is.” She brought their joined hands to her cheek. “I was angry with you for pushing me to tell you. But it helped.” She tilted her face toward his. “You knew it would.”
“I’m innately nosy.”
“You are, yes. But you knew it would help.”
“It usually does.” He stood, scooped her from the rock. “It’s time to go back. I’m ready to work.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The chain the story had around his throat kept Gray shackled to his desk for days. Curiosity turned the key in the lock now and again as guests came and went from the cottage.
He’d had it to himself, or nearly so for so many weeks, he thought he might find the noise and chatter annoying. Instead it was cozy, like the inn itself, colorful, like the flowers that were beginning to bloom in Brianna’s garden, bright as those first precious days of spring.
