“Over a woman?”

“No, over a soccer game on the television. But then, they were a wee bit drunk at the time, I’m told, and made it up well enough once their heads stopped ringing.”

“Well, fiction’s nothing but a lie anyway.”

“But it’s not.” Her eyes, softly green and serious, met his as she set a plate in front of him. “It’s a different kind of truth. It would be your truth at the time of the writing, wouldn’t it?”

Her perception surprised and almost embarrassed him. “Yes. Yes, it would.”

Satisfied, she turned back to the stove to heap sausage, a rasher of bacon, eggs, potato pancakes onto a platter. “You’ll be a sensation in the village. We Irish are wild for writers, you know.”

“I’m no Yeats.”

She smiled, pleased when he transferred healthy portions of food onto his plate. “But you don’t want to be, do you?”

He looked up, crunching into his first slice of bacon. Had she pegged him so accurately so quickly? he wondered. He, who prided himself on his own aura of mystery—no past, no future.

Before he could think of a response, the kitchen door crashed open and a whirlwind of rain and woman came in. “Some knothead left his car smack in the middle of the road outside the house, Brie.” Maggie stopped, dragged off a dripping cap, and eyed Gray.

“Guilty,” he said, lifting a hand. “I forgot. I’ll move it.”

“No rush now.” She waved him back into his seat and dragged off her coat. “Finish your breakfast, I’ve time. You’d be the Yank writer, would you?”

“Twice guilty. And you’d be M. M. Concannon.”

“I would.”

“My sister, Maggie,” Brianna said as she poured tea. “Grayson Thane.”

Maggie sat with a little sigh of relief. The baby was kicking up a storm of its own. “A bit early, are you?”

“Change of plans.” She was a sharper version of Brianna, Gray thought. Redder hair, greener eyes—edgier eyes. “Your sister was kind enough not to make me sleep in the yard.”

“Oh, she’s a kind one, Brie is.” Maggie helped herself to a piece of the bacon on the platter. “Apple cake?” Maggie asked, sniffing the air.

“For tea.” Brianna took one pan out of the oven, slipped another in.

“You and Rogan are welcome to some.”

“Maybe we’ll come by.” She took a bun from the basket on the table and began to nibble. “Plan to stay awhile, do you?”

“Maggie, don’t harass my guest. I’ve some extra buns if you want to take some home.”

“I’m not leaving yet. Rogan’s on the phone, will be as far as I can tell until doomsday’s come and gone. I was heading to the village for some bread.”

“I’ve plenty to spare.”

Maggie smiled, bit into the bun again. “I thought you might.” She turned those sharp green eyes on Gray. “She bakes enough for the whole village.”

“Artistic talent runs in the family,” Gray said easily. After heaping strawberry jam on a piece of bread, he passed the jar companionably to Maggie. “You with glass, Brianna with cooking.” Without shame, he eyed the cake cooling on top of the stove. “How long until tea?”

Maggie grinned at him. “I may like you.”

“I may like you back.” He rose. “I’ll move the car.”

“If you’d just pull it into the street.”

He gave Brianna a blank look. “What street?”

“Beside the house—the driveway you’d call it. Will you need help with your luggage?”

“No, I can handle it. Nice to have met you, Maggie.”

“And you.” Maggie licked her fingers, waited until she heard the door shut. “Better to look at than his picture in back of his books.”

“He is.”

“You wouldn’t think a writer would have a build like that—all tough and muscled.”

Well aware Maggie was looking for a reaction, Brianna kept her back turned. “I suppose he’s nicely put together. I wouldn’t think a married woman going into her sixth month of pregnancy would pay his build much mind.”

Maggie snorted. “I’ve a notion every woman would pay him mind. And if you haven’t, we’d best be having more than your eyes checked.”

“My eyes are fine, thank you. And aren’t you the one who was worried about me being alone with him?”

“That was before I decided to like him.”

With a little sigh Brianna glanced toward the kitchen doorway. She doubted she had much time. Brianna moistened her lips, kept her hands busy with tidying the breakfast dishes. “Maggie, I’d be glad if you could find time to come by later. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Talk now.”

“No, I can’t.” She glanced at the kitchen doorway. “We need to be private. It’s important.”

“You’re upset.”

“I don’t know if I’m upset or not.”

“Did he do something? The Yank?” Despite her bulk, Maggie was out of her chair and ready to fight.

“No, no. It’s nothing to do with him.” Exasperated, Brianna set her hands on her hips. “You just said you liked him.”

“Not if he’s upsetting you.”

“Well, he’s not. Don’t press me about it now. Will you come by later, once I’m sure he’s settled?”

“Of course I will.” Concerned, Maggie brushed a hand over Brianna’s shoulder. “Do you want Rogan to come?”

“If he can. Yes,” Brianna decided, thinking of Maggie’s condition.

“Yes, please ask him to come with you.”

“Before tea, then—two, three o’clock?”

“That would be good. Take the buns, Maggie, and the bread. I want to help Mr. Thane settle in.”

There was nothing Brianna dreaded more than confrontations, angry words, bitter emotions. She had grown up in a house where the air had always simmered with them. Resentments boiling into blowups. Disappointments flashing into shouts. In defense she had always tried to keep her own feelings controlled, steering as far to the opposite pole as possible from the storms and rages that had served as her sister’s shield to their parents’ misery.