The interior of the car made her sigh. It smelled of leather, and the leather was soft as butter. She skimmed her fingers over the seat as he drove.

“It was kind of you to do this, Gray.”

“Kindness had nothing to do with it. I had an urge to go out, and I wanted you with me. You never come into the pub at night.”

She relaxed a little. So that’s where they were going. “I haven’t lately. I do like stopping in now and then, seeing everyone. The O’Malleys had another grandchild this week.”

“I know. I was treated to a pint to celebrate.”

“I just finished a bunting for the baby. I should have brought it with me.”

“We’re not going to the pub. What’s a bunting?”

“It’s a kind of sacque; you button the baby into it.” As they passed through the village she smiled. “Look, there’s Mr. and Mrs. Conroy. More than fifty years married, and they still hold hands. You should see them dance.”

“That’s what I was told about you.” He glanced at her. “You won contests.”

“When I was a girl.” She shrugged it off. Regrets were a foolish indulgence. “I was never serious about it. It was just for fun.”

“What do you do for fun now?”

“Oh, this and that. You drive well for a Yank.” At his bland look, she chuckled. “What I mean is that a lot of your people have some trouble adjusting to our roads and driving on the proper side.”

“We won’t debate which is the proper side, but I’ve spent a lot of time in Europe.”

“You don’t have an accent I can place—I mean other than American. I’ve made kind of a game out of it, you see, from guessing with my guests.”

“It might be because I’m not from anywhere.”

“Everyone’s from somewhere.”

“No, they’re not. There are more nomads in the world than you might think.”

“So, you’re claiming to be a gypsy.” She pushed her hair back and studied his profile. “Well, that’s one I didn’t think of.”

“Meaning?”

“The night you came. I thought you looked a bit like a pirate—then a poet, even a boxer, but not a gypsy. But that suits, too.”

“And you looked like a vision—billowing white gown, tumbled hair, courage and fear warring in your eyes.”

“I wasn’t afraid.” She glimpsed the sign just before he turned off the road. “Here? Drumoland Castle? But we can’t.”

“Why not? I’m told the cuisine’s exquisite.”

“Sure and it is, and very dear.”

He laughed, slowing to enjoy the view of the castle, gray and glorious on the slope of the hill, glinting under lights. “Brianna, I’m a very well paid gypsy. Stunning, isn’t it?”

“Yes. And the gardens . . . you can’t see them well now, and the winter’s been so harsh, but they’ve the most beautiful gardens.” She looked over the slope of lawn to a bed of dormant rosebushes. “In the back is a walled garden. It’s so lovely it doesn’t seem real. Why didn’t you stay at a place like this?”

He parked the car, shut it off. “I nearly did, then I heard about your inn. Call it impulse.” He flashed a grin at her. “I like impulses.”

He climbed out of the car, took her hand to lead her up the stone steps into the great hall.

It was spacious and lush, as castles should be, with dark wood and deep red carpets. There was the smell of wood smoke from the fire, the glint of crystal, the lonely sound of harp music.

“I stayed in a castle in Scotland,” he began, moving toward the dining room with his fingers twined with hers. “And one in Cornwall. Fascinating places, full of shades and shadows.”

“You believe in ghosts?”

“Of course.” His eyes met hers as he reached out to take her coat. “Don’t you?”

“I do, yes. We have some, you know, at home.”

“The stone circle.”

Even as she felt surprise, she realized she shouldn’t. He would have been there, and he would have felt it. “There, yes, and other places.”

Gray turned to the ma?tre d’. “Thane,” he said simply.

They were welcomed, shown to their table. As Gray accepted the wine list, he glanced at Brianna. “Would you like wine?”

“That would be nice.”

He took a brief glance, smiled up at the sommelier. “The Chassagne-Montrachet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hungry?” he asked Brianna, who was all but devouring the menu.

“I’m trying to memorize it,” she murmured. “I dined here once with Maggie and Rogan, and I’ve come close to duplicating this chicken in honey and wine.”

“Read it for pleasure,” he suggested. “We’ll get a copy of the menu for you.”

She eyed him over the top. “They won’t give one to you.”

“Sure they will.”

She gave a short laugh and chose her meal at random. Once they’d placed their orders and sampled the wine, Gray leaned forward. “Now, tell me.”

She blinked. “Tell you what?”

“About the ghosts.”

“Oh.” She smiled a little, running a finger down her wineglass. “Well, years ago, as it happened, there were lovers. She was betrothed to another, so they met in secret. He was a poor man, a simple farmer so they say, and she the daughter of the English landlord. But they loved, and made desperate plans to run off and be together. This night, they met at the stone circle. There, they thought, at that holy place, that magic place, they would ask the gods to bless them. She carried his child now, you see, and they had no time to lose. They knelt there, at the center, and she told him she was with child. It’s said they wept together, with joy and with fear as the wind whispered cold and the old stones sheltered them. And there they loved each other a last time. He would go, he told her, and take his horse from his plow, gather whatever he could, and come back for her. They would leave that very night.”

Brianna sighed a little, her eyes dreamy. “So he left her there, in the center of the circle of stones. But when he reached his farm, they were waiting for him. The men of the English landlord. They cut him down so that his blood stained the land, and they burned his house, his crops. His only thought as he lay dying was of his love.”