“Bran?” she repeated as though she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
He nodded. The name had popped into his head out of his distant memories. Now that he thought about it, he recognized the irony of his choice. “Bran. It’s an old Celtic name. My mother liked it.”
His mother had read him the legend of Prince Bran of Ireland countless times during his childhood. The nightly stories had stopped when she’d married his stepfather. Ian could no longer remember whether stopping the pleasurable pastime had been his mother’s choice, or his own.
He grimly suspected that it had been his own sullen rebellion that had put an end to the formerly treasured bedtime ritual.
“And your last name?” Bailey asked.
“Bran will do.”
She frowned. “A mystery man, are you?” she asked, looking disgruntled.
He chuckled. She reminded him just then of her idiosyncratic and plainspoken aunt, whom he’d watched and enjoyed on occasion during the past year.
“A very private man,” he replied, wondering if she would take offense.
If she did, she didn’t allow it to show. “Whatever. If you like, I’ll take you to the front desk so you can check in. The dining room opens for dinner at five, and—”
“Thank you, but I won’t need a room,” Ian cut in. “I have a place. I was just looking around the inn out of curiosity,” he added, sensing the need for some explanation of his presence.
“But—”
He felt the slight tugging sensation that signaled the end of his time here. When he would return—if ever— was up to the whims of whatever force controlled his fate.
He took a step toward the gazebo’s opening. “I must go now.”
“So soon?” She stood, looking oddly disappointed. Or was that only wishful thinking on his part?
“Will you be in the area long?” she asked. “I’d be happy to give you a tour of the inn sometime, if you’re interested in historic buildings. It has quite a colorful past.”
He managed not to wince. “I’m sure it does. I’d, er, like to hear about it, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to return.”
“Oh. Well, it was very nice to meet you, Bran.”
He stepped onto the rock path that wound through the gardens, and then turned, feeling the need to say something more. He’d been given the opportunity to meet her, talk to her, have her smile at him, even if only this once. Even if he could see that her smiles didn’t extend to her lovely eyes.
Something was still hurting her… and worrying her. Something she couldn’t share with the family she obviously cared for very deeply. Maybe there was a reason that she’d seen him, heard him. Maybe he was supposed to help her.
For some reason, he wanted very much to help Bailey Gates, though there was nothing he could do to help himself.
Life was too short, too precious a gift to spend it being unhappy—or angry. He had learned that lesson the hard way. Maybe there was something he could say to make it easier for Bailey to reach that valuable conclusion.
He would like to think he had accomplished something worthwhile—no matter how small—during the alltoo-brief time he’d had with her.
“Bailey?” The feel of her name on his tongue was strangely intriguing.
She looked at him in question. “Yes?”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark slacks. “You have a lovely smile. Don’t forget how to use it.”
He hurried away then, quickly putting bushes and trees between them so that she wouldn’t know exactly where he’d gone. As he felt the grayness overtake him, he grimaced at the inanity of his parting words to her. Unfortunately, he’d never been skilled with flowery, morally uplifting phrases. He’d always left that sort of thing to Anna.
He’d never regretted his lack of talent in that area— until now.
“BAILEY? Are you listening to me?”
Bailey blinked and made herself focus on her aunt, who sat in a nearby chair in the inn’s small, private sitting room. They’d finished dinner a half hour earlier and had retired to the sitting room to visit before Bailey went back to the cottage for the night.