Maggie rolled her eyes. "Count on a Yank to ask for it. A Brit wrote that tune, outlander. Do "James Connolly," Murphy. Brie'11 sing with you."
With a resigned shake of her head, Brianna went to sit with Murphy.
"They make lovely harmony," Maggie murmured, watching Gray.
"Mmm. She sings around the house when she forgets someone's there."
"And how long do you plan to be there?" Maggie asked, ignoring Rogan's warning scowl. "Until I'm finished," Gray said absently. "Then onto the next?" "That's right. Onto the next."
Despite the fact that Rogan now had his hand clamped at the back of her neck, Maggie started to make some pithy comment. It was Gray's eyes rather than her husband's annoyance that stopped her. The desire in them had stirred her protective instincts. But there was something more now. She wondered if he was aware of it.
When a man looked at a woman that way, more than hormones were involved. She'd have to think it over, Maggie decided, and see how it set with her. In the meantime she picked up her tea again, still watching Gray.
"We'll see about that," she murmured. "We'll just see about it."
One song became two, and two, three. The war songs, the love songs, the sly and the sad. In his mind Gray began to craft a scene.
The smoky pub was filled with noise and music-a sanctuary from the horrors outside. The woman's voice drawing the man who didn't want to be drawn. Here, he thought, just here was where his hero would lose the battle. She would be sitting in front of the turf fire, her hands neatly
folded in her lap, her voice soaring, effortless and lovely, her eyes as haunted as the tune.
And he would love her then, to the point of giving his life if need be. Certainly of changing it. He could forget the past with her, and look toward the future.
"You look pale, Gray." Maggie tugged on his arm until he backed onto a stool. "How many pints have you had?"
"Just this." He scrubbed a hand over his face to bring himself back. "I was just... working," he finished. That was it, of course. He'd only been thinking of characters, of crafting the lie. Nothing personal.
"Looked like a trance."
"Same thing." He let out a little breath, laughed at himself. "I think I'll have another pint after all."
Chapter Ten
With the pub scene he'd spun in his imagination replaying in his head, Gray did not spend a peaceful night. Though he couldn't erase
it, neither could he seem to write it. At least not well.
The one thing he despised was even the idea of writer's block. Normally he could shrug it off, continue working until the nasty threat of it passed. Much, he sometimes thought, like a black-edged cloud that would then hover over some other unfortunate writer.
But this time he was stuck. He couldn't move into the scene, nor beyond it, and spent a great deal of the night scowling at the words he'd written.
Cold, he thought. He was just running cold. That's why the scene was cold.
Itchy was what he was, he admitted bitterly. Sexually frustrated by a woman who could hold him off with no more than one quiet look.
Served him right for obsessing over his landlady when he should be obsessing about murder.
Muttering to himself, he pushed away from his desk and stalked to the window. It was just his luck that Brianna should be the first thing he saw.
There she was below his window, neat as a nun in some prim pink dress, her hair all swept up and pinned into submission. Why was she wearing heels? he wondered and leaned closer to the glass. He supposed she'd call the unadorned pumps sensible shoes, but they did senselessly wonderful things to her legs.
As he watched, she climbed behind the wheel of her car, her movements both practical and graceful. She'd set her purse on the seat beside her first, he thought. And so she did. Then carefully buckle her seat belt, check her mirrors. No primping in the rearview for Brianna, he noted. Just a quick adjustment to be certain it was aligned properly. Now turn the key.
Even through the glass he could hear the coughing fatigue of the engine. She tried it again and a third time. By then Gray was shaking his head and heading downstairs.
"Why the hell don't you get that thing fixed?" he shouted at her as he strode out the front door.
"Oh." She was out of the car by now and trying to lift the hood. "It was working just fine a day or two ago."
"This heap hasn't worked fine in a decade." He elbowed her aside, annoyed that she should look and smell so fresh when he felt like old laundry. "Look, if you need to go to the village for something, take my car. I'll see what I can do with this."
In automatic defense against the terse words, she angled her chin. "Thank you just the same, but I'm going to Ennistymon."
"Ennistymon?" Even as he placed the village on his mental map, he lifted his head from under the hood long enough to glare at her. "What for?"
"To look at the new gallery. They'll be opening it in a couple of weeks, and Maggie asked if I'd come see." She stared at his back as he fiddled with wires and cursed. "I left you a note and food you can heat since I'll be gone most of the day."
"You're not going anywhere in this. Fan belt's busted, fuel line's leaking, and it's a pretty good bet your starter motor's had it." He straightened, noted that she wore earrings today, thin gold hoops that just brushed the tips of her lobes. They added a celebrational air that irritated him unreasonably. "You've got no business driving around in this junkyard."
"Well, it's what I have to drive, isn't it? I'll thank you for your trouble, Grayson. I'll just see if Murphy can-"
"Don't pull that ice queen routine on me." He slammed the hood hard enough to make her jolt. Good, he thought. It proved she had blood in her veins. "And don't throw Murphy up in my face. He couldn't do any more with it than I can. Go get in my car, I'll be back in a minute." "And why would I be getting in your car?" "So I can drive you to goddamn Ennistymon." Teeth set, she slapped her hands on her hips. "It's so kind of you to offer, but-"
"Get in the car," he snapped as he headed for the house. "I need to soak my head."
"I'd soak it for you," she muttered. Yanking open her car door, she snatched out her purse. Who'd asked him to drive her, she'd like to know? Why she'd rather walk every step than sit in the same car with such a man. And if she wanted to call Murphy, well... she'd damn well call him. But first she wanted to calm down. She took a deep breath, then another, before walking slowly among her flowers. They soothed her, as always, the tender green just beginning to bud. They needed some work and care, she thought, bending down to tug out an invading weed. If tomorrow was fine, she'd begin. By Easter, her garden would be in its glory.
The scents, the colors. She smiled a little at a brave young daffodil. Then the door slammed. Her smile gone, she rose,turned. He hadn't bothered to shave, she noted. His hair was damp and pulled back by a thin leather thong, his clothes clean if a bit ragged.
She knew very well the man had decent clothes. Why, didn't she wash and iron them herself?
He flicked a glance at her, tugged the keys out of his jeans pocket. "In the car."