“You got your licks in.”

“Well, it was you taught me to fight.” At the memory of it sentimental tears clouded Mary Kate’s eyes. “I’m sorry I called you a whore. I did it the first time out of anger, and the others out of spite.” She dabbed at her eyes. “And I’m sorry for the things I wrote about you in my diary—well, sorry for some of them.”

“We won’t let it matter.” Their fingers linked. “I don’t want him, or anyone, between us. I’m asking you not to make me push him away.”

“So you can feel righteous and me guilty? No, I’ll have none of that.” A ghost of a smile flitted around her mouth. “I can get me own man when I want one. But . . .” She angled her head. “There’s one thing I’d like to know.”

“What would it be?”

“Does he kiss as well as it seems he would from looking at him?”

“When he puts his mind to it, he can melt every bone in your body.”

Mary Kate sighed. “I had a feeling.”

She walked to the cottage, but her mind wasn’t much clearer when she arrived than it had been when she’d started out. There was rain coming, a soft one, Brenna thought, from the way the sun was shining under the clouds.

A good day to curl up by a fire, she thought. But of course there wasn’t a puff of smoke rising from the chimney at Faerie Hill Cottage. Shawn forgot such things twice as often as he remembered them.

His car was gone, so she imagined he’d taken himself off to church. She’d wait. She passed through the garden gate, and glancing up, half expected to see the quiet green eyes of Lady Gwen watching. But nothing stirred, mortal or otherwise.

She stepped in, nearly tripped over his work boots that lay where he’d kicked them off the night before, with a good coating of dirt on the heels. She nudged them aside with the toe of her own, then crossed over into the little front parlor to build a fire.

His music sheets were scattered over the piano, and a cup that would have held his tea was sitting carelessly on a table. As was a squat green bottle that held a clutch of flowers from the front garden.

He would think of such things, she mused. He wouldn’t remember to clean off his boots, and neither did she more often than not, but he’d take the time and have the thought to put flowers out.

Why didn’t she think of things like that? She liked a house with flowers, and with candles sitting about. And the scents they created together that made the air delicate. She would think of cleaning the chimney out, and laying by turf or wood, but she would never think of the little touches that turned house to home.

Hanging curtains was one thing, she decided. Thinking of lace was another altogether.