“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.”

Gray watched a boy of about twelve give a crooked-toothed grin as he stepped out of the rain. He carried something large and apparently heavy wrapped in newspaper.

“Gran sent you a leg of lamb, Miss Concannon. We slaughtered just this morning.”

“Oh, that’s kind of her.” With apparent pleasure Brianna took the grisly package while Gray—writer of bloodthirsty thrillers—felt his stomach churn.

“I have a currant cake here. You’ll have a piece, won’t you, and take the rest back to her?”

“I will.” Dutifully stepping out of his wellies, the boy stripped off his raincoat and cap. Then he spotted Gray. “Good day to you,” he said politely.

“Oh, Gray, I didn’t hear you come down. This is young Kenny Feeney, grandson of Alice and Peter Feeney from the farm down the road a bit. Kenny, this is Grayson Thane, a guest of mine.”

“The Yank,” Kenny said as he solemnly shook Gray’s hand. “You write books with murders in them, my gran says.”

“That’s right. Do you like to read?”

“I like books about cars or sports. Maybe you could write a book about football.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Will you have some cake, Gray?” Brianna asked as she sliced. “Or would you rather have a sandwich now?”

He cast a wary eye toward the lump under the newspaper. He imagined it baaing. “No, nothing. Not now.”

“Do you live in Kansas City?” Kenny wanted to know. “My brother does. He went to the States three years ago this winter. He plays in a band.”

“No, I don’t live there, but I’ve been there. It’s a nice town.”

“Pat, he says it’s better than anywhere. I’m saving me money so I can go over when I’m old enough.”

“Will you be leaving us, then, Kenny?” Brianna ran a hand over the boy’s carrotty mop.

“When I’m eighteen.” He took another happy bite of cake, washed it down with tea. “You can get good work there, and good pay. Maybe I’ll play for an American football team. They have one, right there in Kansas City, you know.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Gray said and smiled.

“This is grand cake, Miss Concannon.” Kenny polished off his piece.