"I picked up a little something for both of you myself." He'd left the bag in the kitchen before he'd gone out to Brianna. Setting the scene, he thought now, as he wanted it to play.
"Why, isn't that kind." Surprise and pleasure coursed through Lottie's voice as she accepted the box Gray offered.
"Just tokens," Gray said, smiling as Brianna simply stared at him, baffled. Lottie's little gasp of delight pleased him enormously.
"It's a little bird. Look here, Maeve, a crystal bird. See how it catches the sunlight."
"You can hang it by a wire in the window," Gray explained. "It'll make rainbows for you. You make me think of rainbows, Lottie."
"Oh, go on with you. Rainbows." She blinked back a film of moisture and rose to give Gray a hard hug. "I'll be hanging it right in our front window. Thank you, Gray, you're a darling man. Isn't he a darling man, Maeve?"
Maeve grunted, hesitated over the lid of her gift box. By rights, she knew she should toss the thing into his face rather than take a gift from a man of his kind. But Lottie's crystal bird was such a pretty thing. And the combination of basic greed and curiosity had her flipping open the lid.
Speechless, she lifted out the gilt and glass shaped like a heart. It had a lid as well, and when she opened it, music played.
"Oh, a music box." Lottie clapped her hands together.
"What a beautiful thing, and how clever. What's the tune it's playing?"
Stardust," Maeve murmured and caught herself just before she began to hum along with it. "An old tune."
"A classic," Gray added. "They didn't have anything Irish, but this seemed to suit you."
The corners of Maeve's mouth turned up as the music charmed her. She cleared her throat, shot Gray a level look. "Thank you, Mr. Thane."
"Gray," he said easily.
Thirty minutes later Brianna placed her hands on her hips. There was only she and Gray in the kitchen now, and the plate of tarts was empty. " Twas like a bribe."
"No, 'twasn't like a bribe," he said, mimicking her. "It was a bribe. Damn good one, too. She smiled at me before she left."
Brianna huffed. "I don't know who I should be more ashamed of, you or her."
"Then just think of it as a peace offering. I don't want your mother giving you grief over me, Brianna."
"Clever you were. A music box."
"I thought so. Every time she listens to it, she'll think of me. Before too long, she'll convince herself I'm not such a bad sort after all."
She didn't want to smile. It was outrageous. "Figured her out, have you?"
"A good writer's a good observer. She's used to complaining." He opened the refrigerator, helped himself to a beer. "Trouble is, she doesn't have nearly enough to complain about these days. Must be frustrating." He popped the top off the bottle, took a swig. "And she's afraid you've closed yourself off to her. She doesn't know how to make the move that'll close the gap."
"And I'm supposed to."
"You will. It's the way you're made. She knows that, but she's worried this might be the exception." He tipped up Brianna's chin with a fingertip. "It won't. Family's too important to you, and you've already started to forgive her."
Brianna turned away to tidy the kitchen. "It's not always comfortable, having someone see into you as though you were made of glass." But she sighed, listened to her own heart. "Perhaps I have started to forgive her. I don't know how long the process will take." Meticulously she washed the teacups. "Your ploy today has undoubtedly speeded that along."
"That was the idea." From behind her he slipped his arms around her waist. "So, you're not mad."
"No, I'm not mad." Turning, she rested her head in the curve of his shoulder, where she liked it best. "I love you, Grayson."
He stroked her hair, looking out the window, saying nothing.
They had soft weather over the next few days, the kind that made working in his room like existing in endless twilight. It was easy to lose track of time, to let himself fall into the book with only the slightest awareness of the world around him.
He was closing in on the killer, on that final, violent meeting. He'd developed a respect for his villain's mind, mirroring perfectly the same emotions of his hero. The man was as clever as he was vicious. Not mad, Gray mused as another part of his mind visualized the scene he was creating. Some would call the villain mad, unable to conceive that the cruelty, the ruthlessness of the murders could spring from a mind not twisted by insanity.
Gray knew better-and so did his hero. The killer wasn't mad, but was cold-bloodedly sane. He was simply, very simply, evil.
He already knew exactly how the final hunt would develop, almost every step and word was clear in his head. In the rain, in the dark, through the wind-swept ruins where blood had already been spilled. He knew his hero would see himself, just for one instant see the worst of himself reflected in the man he pursued.
And that final battle would be more than right against wrong, good against evil. It would be, on that rain-soaked, wind-howling precipice, a desperate fight for redemption.
But that wouldn't be the end. And it was in search of that unknown final scene that Gray raced. He'd imagined, almost from the beginning, his hero leaving the village, leaving the woman. Both of them would have been changed irrevocably by the violence that had shattered that quiet spot. And by what had happened between them.
Then each would go on with the rest of his life, or try. Separately, because he'd created them as two dynamically opposing forces, drawn together, certainly, but never for the long haul.
Now, it wasn't so clear. He wondered where the hero was going, and why. Why the woman turned slowly, as he'd planned, moving toward the door of her cottage without looking back.
It should have been simple, true to their characters, satisfying. Yet the closer he came to reaching that moment, the more uneasy he became.
Kicking back in his chair, he looked blankly around the room. He hadn't a clue what time of day it was, or how long he'd been chained to his work. But one thing was certain, he'd run dry.
He needed a walk, he decided, rain or no rain. And he needed to stop second-guessing himself and let that final scene unfold in its own way, and its own time.
He started downstairs, marveling at the quiet before he remembered the family from Scotland had gone. It had amused him, when he'd crawled out of his cave long enough to notice, how the two young men had sniffed around Brianna's heels, competing for her attention. It was tough to blame them.
The sound of Brianna's voice had him turning toward the kitchen.
"Well, good day to you, Kenny Feeney. Are you visiting your grandmother?"
"I am, Miss Concannon. We'll be here for two weeks." "I'm happy to see you. You've grown so. Will you come in and have a cup of tea and some cake?" "I wouldn't mind."