“I didn’t—”

“I gave my word to Murphy,” she barreled on. “And a deal’s done. You can have your cursed twenty-five percent of the fifty pounds. But if I choose to make something for a friend—”

“It wasn’t a complaint.” He wrapped his hand around her fisted one. “It was a compliment. You have a generous heart, Maggie.”

With the wind so successfully stripped from her sails, she sighed. “The papers say I’m not to make anything that doesn’t go to you.”

“The papers say that,” he agreed. “I imagine you’ll go on snarling about it, and you’ll go on slipping your friends gifts when it suits you.” She shot him a look from under her lashes, so blatantly guilty, he laughed. “I see I could have sued you a time or two over the last few months. We can make what we’d call a side deal. I won’t take my percentage of your fifty pounds, and you’ll make something for my grandmother for Christmas.”

She nodded, lowered her lashes again. “It isn’t just about money, is it, Rogan? I’m afraid sometimes that it is, that I’ve let it be. Because I like the money, you see. I like it very much, and all that goes with it.”

“It’s not just about money, Maggie. It’s not just about champagne showings or newspaper clippings or parties in Paris. Those are just trimmings. What it’s about really is what’s inside you, and all that you are that goes into creating the beautiful, the unique and the startling.”

“I can’t go back, you see. I can’t go back to the way things were, before you.” She looked at him then, studying his face feature by feature while his hand lay warm over hers. “Will you take a drive with me? There’s something I want to show you.”

“I have a car outside. I’ve already put your bike in it.”

She had to smile. “I should have known you would.”

With a fall wind in the air, and the leaves a riot of color, they drove toward Loop Hea. Away from the narrow road, spilling back like the sea itself, were harvested fields and the deep, sweet green so special to Ireland. Maggie saw the tumbled stone sheds that looked no different than they had when she had traveled this road nearly five years before. The land was there, and the people tended it, as they always had. Always would.

When she heard the sea, smelled the first sharp sting of it on the air, her heart lurched. She squeezed her eyes tight, opened them again. And read the sign.

LAST PUB UNTIL NEW YORK.

Shall we sail over to New York, Maggie, and have a pint?

When the car stopped, she said nothing, only got out to let the wind slap cool over her skin. Reaching for Rogan’s hand, she held it as they walked down the beaten path to the sea.

The war continued, wave against rock in the echoing crash and hiss that was eternal. The mist had rolled in, so that there was no border between sea and sky, just a wide, wide cup of soft gray.

“I haven’t been here in almost five years. I didn’t know I’d ever come again to stand like this.” She pressed her lips together, wishing the fist around her heart would loosen, just a little. “My father died here. We’d come out together, just us two. It was winter and bitter cold, but he loved this spot more than any other I can think of. I’d sold some pieces that day to a merchant in Ennis, and we’d celebrated in O’Malleys.”

“You were alone with him?” The horror of it slashed Rogan like a rapier. He could do nothing for her but pull her into his arms and hold on. “I’m sorry, Maggie. So sorry.”

She brushed her cheek over the soft wool of Rogan’s coat, caught the scent of him in it. She let her eyes close. “We talked, about my mother, their marriage. I’d never understood why he stayed. Maybe I never will. But there was something in him that yearned, and that wanted for me and Brianna whatever that yearning was. I think I have the same longing, but that I might have the chance to grab hold of it.”

She drew back so that she could look at his face as she spoke. “I’ve something for you.” Watching him, she took one of the glass drops from her pocket, held it out in her palm.

“It looks like a tear.”

“Aye.” She waited while he held it to the light and studied it.

He rubbed a thumb over the smooth glass. “Are you giving me your tears, Maggie?”

“Perhaps I am.” She took another one out of her pocket. “It comes from dropping hot glass in water. When you do, some shatter right away, but others hold and form. Strong.” She crouched and chose a rock. While Rogan watched she struck the glass with rock. “Strong enough that it won’t break under a hammer.” She rose again, holding the undamaged drop. “It holds, you see. Does nothing more than bounce away from the blow and shine. But there’s this thin end here and it only takes a careless twist.” She took the slim, trailing end between her fingers. The glass turned to harmless dust. “It’s gone, you see. Like it never was.”

“A tear comes from the heart,” Rogan said. “And neither should be handled carelessly. I won’t break yours, Maggie, nor you mine.”

“No.” She took a long breath. “But we’ll hammer away often enough. We’re as different as that water and hot glass, Rogan.”

“And as able to make something strong between us.”

“I think we might. Yet I wonder how long you’d last in a cottage in Clare, or I in a house full of servants in Dublin.”

“We could move to the midlands,” he said, and watched her smile. “Actually, I’ve given that particular matter some thought. The idea, Maggie, is negotiation and compromise.”

“Ah, the businessman, even at such a time.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “I’ve plans to open a gallery in Clare to spotlight Irish artists.”

“In Clare?” Pushing back her windblown hair, she stared at him. “A branch of Worldwide here in Clare? You’d do that for me?”

“I would. I’m afraid I’ll spoil the heroics by telling you I’d thought of the idea long before I met you. The conception had nothing to do with you, but the location does. Or I should say it has to do with us.” As the wind picked up he pulled her jacket together and buttoned it. “I believe I can live in a west-county cottage for part of the year, just as you could live with servants for the other.”