“A wolfhound, he is.” Her mind was busy figuring details. “You’re welcome to sit in the kitchen. Are you hungry, then?”
He rubbed Con’s head and grinned down at her. “Miss Concannon, I think I love you.”
She flushed at his compliment. “Well, you give your heart easily then, if for no more than a bowl of soup.”
“Not from what I’ve heard of your cooking.”
“Oh?” She led the way into the kitchen and hung his dripping coat on a hook by the rear door.
“A friend of a cousin of my editor stayed here a year or so ago. The word was that the hostess of the Blackthorn cooked like an angel.” He hadn’t heard she looked like one as well.
“That’s a fine compliment.” Brianna put on the kettle, then ladled soup into a pot for heating. “I’m afraid I can only offer you plain fare tonight, Mr. Thane, but you’ll not go to your bed hungry.” She took soda bread from a bin and sliced it generously. “Have you traveled long today?”
“I started out late from Dublin. I’d planned to stay another day, but I had the itch.” He smiled, taking the bread she set on the table and biting into the first piece before she could offer him butter. “It was time to get on the road. Do you run this place alone?”
“I do. I’m afraid you’ll have a lack of company this time of year.”
“I didn’t come for company,” he said, watching as she measured out coffee. The kitchen was beginning to smell like heaven.
“For work, you said. I think it must be wonderful to be able to tell stories.”
“It has its moments.”
“I like yours.” It was simply said as she reached into a cupboard for a stoneware bowl glazed in deep blue.
He raised a brow. People usually began to ask dozens of questions at this point. How do you write, where do you get your ideas—the most hated of questions—how do you get published? And questions were usually followed up by the deathless information that the inquirer had a story to tell.
But that was all she said. Gray found himself smiling again. “Thanks. Sometimes I do, too.” He leaned forward, sniffed deeply when she set the bowl of soup in front of him. “It doesn’t smell like plain fare to me.”
“It’s vegetable, with a bit of beef. I can make you a sandwich if you like.”
“No, this is great.” He sampled, sighed. “Really great.” He studied her again. Did her skin always look so soft and flushed? he wondered. Or was it sleepiness? “I’m trying to be sorry I woke you,” he said and continued to eat. “This is making it tough.”
“A good inn’s always open to a traveler, Mr. Thane.” She set his coffee beside him, signaled the dog who immediately stood from his perch beside the kitchen table. “Help yourself to another bowl if you like. I’ll tend to your room.”
She hurried out, quickening her steps as she came to the stairs. She’d have to change the sheets on the bed, the towels in the bath. It didn’t occur to her to offer him one of the other rooms. As her only guest, he was entitled to the best she had.
She worked quickly and was just plumping the pillows in their lace-edged cases when she heard the sound at the door.
Her first reaction was distress to see him standing in the doorway. Her next was resignation. It was her home, after all. She had a right to use any part of it.
“I was giving myself a bit of a holiday,” she began and tugged at the quilt.
Odd, he thought, that a woman performing the simple task of tucking in sheets should look so outrageously sexy. He must be more tired than he’d thought.
“I seemed to have dragged you from your bed in more ways than one. It wasn’t necessary for you to move out.”
“This is the room you’re paying for. It’s warm. I’ve built the fire up, and you’ve your own bath. If you—”
She broke off because he’d come up behind her. The prickling down her spine had her stiffening, but he only reached for the book on the night table.
Brianna cleared her throat and stepped back. “I fell asleep reading it," she began, then went wide-eyed in distress. “I don’t mean to say it put me to sleep. I just—” He was smiling, she noted. No, he was grinning at her. The corners of her mouth tugged in response. “It gave me nightmares.”
“Thank you.”
She relaxed again, automatically turning sheets and quilt down in welcome. “And you coming in from the storm had me imagining the worst. I was sure the killer had popped right out of the book, bloody knife in hand.”
“And who is he?”
She cocked a brow. “I can’t say, but I’ve my suspicions. You’ve a clever way of twisting the emotions, Mr. Thane.”
“Gray,” he said, handing her the book. “After all, in a convoluted sort of way, we’re sharing a bed.” He took her hand before she could think of how to respond, then left her unsettled by raising it to his lips. “Thanks for the soup.”
“You’re welcome. Sleep well.”
He didn’t doubt he would. Brianna had hardly gone out and closed his door when he stripped off his clothes and tumbled naked into the bed. There was a faint scent of lilacs in the air, lilacs and some summer meadow scent he recognized as Brianna’s hair.
He fell asleep with a smile on his face.
CHAPTER TWO
It was still raining. The first thing Gray noticed when he pried his eyes open in the morning was the gloom. It could have been any time from dawn to dusk. The old clock on the stone mantel said nine-fifteen. He was optimistic enough to bet it was a.m.
He hadn’t studied the room the night before. Travel fatigue, and the pretty sight of Brianna Concannon making his bed, had fuzzed his brain. He did so now, warm under the pooling quilt. The walls were papered so that tiny sprigs of violets and rosebuds climbed from floor to ceiling. The fire, gone cold now, had been set in a stone hearth, and bricks of turf were set in a painted box beside it.
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.
He rubbed Con’s head and grinned down at her. “Miss Concannon, I think I love you.”
She flushed at his compliment. “Well, you give your heart easily then, if for no more than a bowl of soup.”
“Not from what I’ve heard of your cooking.”
“Oh?” She led the way into the kitchen and hung his dripping coat on a hook by the rear door.
“A friend of a cousin of my editor stayed here a year or so ago. The word was that the hostess of the Blackthorn cooked like an angel.” He hadn’t heard she looked like one as well.
“That’s a fine compliment.” Brianna put on the kettle, then ladled soup into a pot for heating. “I’m afraid I can only offer you plain fare tonight, Mr. Thane, but you’ll not go to your bed hungry.” She took soda bread from a bin and sliced it generously. “Have you traveled long today?”
“I started out late from Dublin. I’d planned to stay another day, but I had the itch.” He smiled, taking the bread she set on the table and biting into the first piece before she could offer him butter. “It was time to get on the road. Do you run this place alone?”
“I do. I’m afraid you’ll have a lack of company this time of year.”
“I didn’t come for company,” he said, watching as she measured out coffee. The kitchen was beginning to smell like heaven.
“For work, you said. I think it must be wonderful to be able to tell stories.”
“It has its moments.”
“I like yours.” It was simply said as she reached into a cupboard for a stoneware bowl glazed in deep blue.
He raised a brow. People usually began to ask dozens of questions at this point. How do you write, where do you get your ideas—the most hated of questions—how do you get published? And questions were usually followed up by the deathless information that the inquirer had a story to tell.
But that was all she said. Gray found himself smiling again. “Thanks. Sometimes I do, too.” He leaned forward, sniffed deeply when she set the bowl of soup in front of him. “It doesn’t smell like plain fare to me.”
“It’s vegetable, with a bit of beef. I can make you a sandwich if you like.”
“No, this is great.” He sampled, sighed. “Really great.” He studied her again. Did her skin always look so soft and flushed? he wondered. Or was it sleepiness? “I’m trying to be sorry I woke you,” he said and continued to eat. “This is making it tough.”
“A good inn’s always open to a traveler, Mr. Thane.” She set his coffee beside him, signaled the dog who immediately stood from his perch beside the kitchen table. “Help yourself to another bowl if you like. I’ll tend to your room.”
She hurried out, quickening her steps as she came to the stairs. She’d have to change the sheets on the bed, the towels in the bath. It didn’t occur to her to offer him one of the other rooms. As her only guest, he was entitled to the best she had.
She worked quickly and was just plumping the pillows in their lace-edged cases when she heard the sound at the door.
Her first reaction was distress to see him standing in the doorway. Her next was resignation. It was her home, after all. She had a right to use any part of it.
“I was giving myself a bit of a holiday,” she began and tugged at the quilt.
Odd, he thought, that a woman performing the simple task of tucking in sheets should look so outrageously sexy. He must be more tired than he’d thought.
“I seemed to have dragged you from your bed in more ways than one. It wasn’t necessary for you to move out.”
“This is the room you’re paying for. It’s warm. I’ve built the fire up, and you’ve your own bath. If you—”
She broke off because he’d come up behind her. The prickling down her spine had her stiffening, but he only reached for the book on the night table.
Brianna cleared her throat and stepped back. “I fell asleep reading it," she began, then went wide-eyed in distress. “I don’t mean to say it put me to sleep. I just—” He was smiling, she noted. No, he was grinning at her. The corners of her mouth tugged in response. “It gave me nightmares.”
“Thank you.”
She relaxed again, automatically turning sheets and quilt down in welcome. “And you coming in from the storm had me imagining the worst. I was sure the killer had popped right out of the book, bloody knife in hand.”
“And who is he?”
She cocked a brow. “I can’t say, but I’ve my suspicions. You’ve a clever way of twisting the emotions, Mr. Thane.”
“Gray,” he said, handing her the book. “After all, in a convoluted sort of way, we’re sharing a bed.” He took her hand before she could think of how to respond, then left her unsettled by raising it to his lips. “Thanks for the soup.”
“You’re welcome. Sleep well.”
He didn’t doubt he would. Brianna had hardly gone out and closed his door when he stripped off his clothes and tumbled naked into the bed. There was a faint scent of lilacs in the air, lilacs and some summer meadow scent he recognized as Brianna’s hair.
He fell asleep with a smile on his face.
CHAPTER TWO
It was still raining. The first thing Gray noticed when he pried his eyes open in the morning was the gloom. It could have been any time from dawn to dusk. The old clock on the stone mantel said nine-fifteen. He was optimistic enough to bet it was a.m.
He hadn’t studied the room the night before. Travel fatigue, and the pretty sight of Brianna Concannon making his bed, had fuzzed his brain. He did so now, warm under the pooling quilt. The walls were papered so that tiny sprigs of violets and rosebuds climbed from floor to ceiling. The fire, gone cold now, had been set in a stone hearth, and bricks of turf were set in a painted box beside it.
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.
