“She’s grateful to you, Maggie. It’s just not in her to say so.”

“I don’t need her to say so anymore.” Maggie laid a hand on her belly. “I have my own, and it makes all the difference. I never knew I could feel so strongly about anyone. Then there was Rogan. After that, I thought I could never feel so strongly about anything or anyone else. And now, I do. So maybe I understand a little how if you didn’t love, and didn’t want the child growing in you, it could blight your life as much as loving and wanting it can brighten it.”

“She didn’t want me, either.”

“What makes you say such a thing?”

“She told me.” It was a load lifted, Brianna discovered, to say it aloud. “Duty. ’Twas only duty, not even to Da, but to the Church. It’s a cold way to be brought into the world.”

It wasn’t anger Brianna needed now, Maggie knew, and bit back on it. Instead, she cupped Brianna’s face. “It’s her loss, Brie. Not yours. Never yours. And for myself, if the duty hadn’t been done, I’d have been lost.”

“He loved us. Da loved us.”

“Yes, he did. And that’s been enough. Come, don’t worry on it. I’ll take you upstairs and show you what we’ve been up to.”

From the back of the hallway, Gray let out a long breath. The acoustics in the building were much too good for secrets to be told. He thought he understood now some of the sadness that haunted Brianna’s eyes. Odd that they should have the lack of a mother’s care in common.

Not that the lack haunted him, he assured himself. He’d gotten over that long ago. He’d left the scared, lonely child behind in the cheerless rooms of the Simon Brent Memorial Home for Children.

But who, he wondered, was Rory? And why had Rogan hired detectives to look for a woman named Amanda Dougherty?

Gray had always found the very best way to find the answers was to ask the questions.

“Who’s Rory?”

The question snapped Brianna out from her quiet daydream as Gray drove easily down narrow winding roads away from Ennistymon. “What?”

“Not what, who?” He nipped the car closer to the edge as a loaded VW rounded a curve on his side of the road. Probably an inexperienced Yank, he thought with a superior degree of smugness. “Who’s Rory?” he repeated.

“You’ve been listening to pub gossip, have you?”

Rather than warn him off, the coolness in her voice merely egged him on. “Sure, but that’s not where I heard the name. You mentioned him to Maggie back at the gallery.”

“Then you were eavesdropping on a private conversation.”

“That’s redundant. It’s not eavesdropping unless it’s a private conversation.”

She straightened in her seat. “There’s no need to correct my grammar, thank you.”

“That wasn’t grammar, it was . . . never mind.” He let it, and her, stew a moment. “So, who was he?”

“And why would it be your business?”

“You’re only making me more curious.”

“He was a boy I knew. You’re taking the wrong road.”

“There is no wrong road in Ireland. Read the guidebooks. Is he the one who hurt you?” He flicked a glance in her direction, nodded. “Well, that answers that. What happened?”

“Are you after putting it in one of your books?”

“Maybe. But it’s personal first. Did you love him?”

“I loved him. I was going to marry him.”

He caught himself scowling over that and tapping a finger against the steering wheel. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because he jilted me two paces from the altar. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“No. It only tells me that Rory was obviously an idiot.” He couldn’t stop the next question, was surprised he wanted to. “Do you still love him?”

“That would be remarkably idiotic of me as it was ten years ago.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Being tossed aside hurts,” she said tersely. “Being the object of pity in the community hurts. Poor Brie, poor dear Brie, thrown over two weeks before her wedding day. Left with a wedding dress and her sad little trousseau while her lad runs off to America rather than make her a wife. Is that enough for you?” She shifted to stare at him. “Do you want to know if I cried? I did. Did I wait for him to come back? I did that as well.”

“You can punch me if it makes you feel better.”

“I doubt it would.”

“Why did he leave?”

She made a sound that came as much from annoyance as memory. “I don’t know. I’ve never known. That was the worst of it. He came to me and said he didn’t want me, wouldn’t have me, would never forgive me for what I’d done. And when I tried to ask him what he meant, he pushed me away, knocked me down.”

Gray’s hands tightened on the wheel. “He what?”

“He knocked me down,” she said calmly. “And my pride wouldn’t let me go after him. So he left, went to America.”

“Bastard.”

“I’ve often thought so myself, but I don’t know why he left me. So, after a time, I gave away my wedding dress. Murphy’s sister Kate wore it the day she married her Patrick.”

“He isn’t worth the sadness you carry around in your eyes.”

“Perhaps not. But the dream was. What are you doing?”

“Pulling over. Let’s walk out to the cliffs.”

“I’m not dressed for walking over rough ground,” she protested, but he was already out of the car. “I’ve the wrong shoes, Gray. I can wait here if you want a look.”

“I want to look with you.” He tugged her out of the car, then swung her up in his arms.

“What are you doing? Are you mad?”

“It’s not far, and think of what nice pictures those nice tourists over there are going to take home of us. Can you speak French?”

“No?” Baffled, she angled back to look at his face. “Why?”

“I was just thinking if we spoke French, they’d think we were—French, you know. Then they’d tell Cousin Fred back in Dallas the story about this romantic French couple they’d seen near the coast.” He kissed her lightly before setting her on her feet near the verge of a rocky slope.