“What is it?” she demanded.

“Sounds like the witch and the warrior.” Gray’s eyes had darkened, focused intently on Shannon’s face. “What happens next?”

Shannon put her hands under the table and linked them together. “You tell me.”

“All right.” Gray glanced at Brianna, who gestured for him to tell the tale. “Legend has it that there was a wise woman, a witch, who lived on the land here. She had the sight and, burdened with it as much as blessed, lived apart from the rest. One morning when she went to the dance to commune with her gods, she found the warrior in the circle, wounded, his horse beside him. She had the gift of healing and treated his wounds, nursing him until he was strong again. They fell in love. Became lovers.”

He paused to add tea to the cups, picked up his own. “He left her, of course, for there were wars to be fought and battles he’d pledged to win. He vowed to come back, and she gave him a broach to pin to his cloak and remember her by.”

“And did he?” Shannon cleared her throat. “Come back.”

“It’s said he did, riding to her across the field in a storm that shook the sky. He wanted to take her to wife, but he wouldn’t give up his sword and shield. They fought over it bitterly. It seemed no matter how much they loved, there was no compromise in either. Next time he left, he gave her the broach, to remember him until he returned. But he never came back again. It’s said he died in another field. And with her gift of sight, she knew it the moment it happened.”

“It’s just a story.” Because they were suddenly chilled, Shannon wrapped her hands around her cup. “I don’t believe in that kind of thing. You can’t tell me you do.”

Gray moved his shoulders. “Yes, I can. I can believe those two people existed, and that there was something strong between them that lingers. What I’m curious about is why you’d dream of them.”

“I had a couple of dreams about a man on a horse,” Shannon said impatiently. “Which I’m sure any number of psychiatrists would have a field day with. One has nothing to do with the other. I’m tired,” she added, rising. “I’m going to bed.”

“Take your tea,” Brianna said kindly.

“Thanks.”

When Shannon left, Brianna laid a hand on Gray’s shoulder. “Don’t poke at her too much, Grayson. She’s so troubled.”

“She’d feel better if she stopped holding so much inside.” With a half laugh he turned his head to press his lips to Brianna’s hand. “I ought to know.”

“She needs time, as you did.” She sighed, long and deep. “Murphy. Who would have thought it?”

Chapter Eleven

It wasn’t as if Shannon was avoiding going out to the standing stones. She’d simply overslept. And if she’d had dreams, she thought as she picked at her late breakfast of coffee and muffins, it was hardly a surprise.

Trifle before bed and a legend by a master story spinner equaled a restless night.

Still, the clarity of them worried her. Alone, she could admit she’d felt the dream, not just envisioned it. She felt the rough blanket at her back, the prickle of grass, the heat and weight of the man’s body on hers. In hers.

She blew out a long breath, pressing a hand to her stomach where the memory of the dream brought an answering tug of longing.

She’d dreamed of making love with the man with Murphy’s face—yet not his face. They’d been in the stone circle, with the stars swimming overhead and the moon white, like a beacon. She’d heard the hoot of an owl, felt warm breath coming quickly against her cheek. Her hands knew the feel of those muscles, bunching and straining. And she’d known, even as her body had erupted in climax, that this would be the last time.

It hurt to think of it, hurt so that now, awake, aware, the tears still threatened and burned bitterly behind her eyes.

She lifted her coffee again. She was going to have to snap out of it, she warned herself, or join the ranks of her associates in the line at the therapist’s office.

The commotion at the back door had her composing her face. Whoever it was, Shannon was grateful for the diversion.

But not grateful enough to be pleased when she saw it was Maggie.

“I’m letting you in, aren’t I?” Maggie said to Con. “You needn’t push.”

The dog burst through the open door, raced under the table, then dropped down with a long-suffering sigh.

“I’m sure you’re welcome.” Maggie’s easy smile chilled several degrees when she spotted Shannon alone in the kitchen. “Morning. I’ve brought some berries by for Brie.”

“She had some errands. Gray’s working upstairs.”

“I’ll leave them.” At home, Maggie crossed to put the bag in the refrigerator. “Did you enjoy your meal with Murphy?”

“News certainly travels.” Shannon couldn’t keep the annoyance at bay. “I’m surprised you don’t know what he served.”

With a smile as thin as her own temper, Maggie turned back. “Oh, it would have been chicken. He has a hand at roasting, not that he makes a habit of cooking for women.” She took off her cap, stuffed it in her pocket. “But he’s taken with you, isn’t he?”

“I’d say that was his business, and mine.”

“You’d say wrong, and I’ll warn you to mind your step with him.”

“I’m not interested in your warnings, or your nasty attitude.”

Maggie tilted her head in a gesture that had much more to do with disdain than curiosity. “Just what are you interested in, Shannon Bodine? Do you find it amusing to dangle yourself in front of a man? One you have no intention of doing more than toying with? You’d come by that naturally enough.”

The red haze of fury was blinding. She was on her feet in a snap, fists bunched. “Goddamn you. You have no right to cast stones at my mother.”

“You’re right. Absolutely.” And if she could have bitten her tongue, Maggie would have taken the words, and the unfairness behind them, back. “I apologize for that.”

“Why? You sounded exactly like your own mother.”

Maggie could only wince. “You couldn’t have aimed that shaft better. I did sound like her, and I was as wrong as she. So I’ll apologize again for that, but not for the rest.”