At the bottom of the stairs, she paused, glancing into the rooms she could see to confirm no other lights were on except for the one shining beneath the library door. Grayson still played, because there was no real doubt to her he was the pianist, the music gentle and soothing but wholly unfamiliar. She was, by no means, knowledgeable on music other than she could differentiate Beethoven from Gershwin, and some of the most commonly known classical pieces even if only so far as to know it was well known. Without the ability or technology to enjoy music as a kid, her love of reading had bloomed instead. Regardless of her lack of knowledge, the piece soothed her. This music was delicate, flowing beautifully from note to note. She stepped closer to the door, leaning to listen with her ear close to the wood, but her curiosity won and she carefully pressed down the antique lever, pushing the door into the room.
The comforting aromas of leather, pipe tobacco — despite the fact Emerson Holmes had been restricted from smoking in the cottage for many years — and wood oil greeted her. Built-in shelves lined every wall, interrupted only by windows on three of the four walls, with Father Holmes' ornate antique desk occupying the middle of the space facing the central fireplace, currently dormant. The piano was tucked in the corner of the library in an alcove deep enough to keep the instrument clear of regular traffic. It only took a few steps into the room for Grayson Holmes to come into view, seated on the piano bench in his blue flannel pajama pants and gray tee shirt, his head bowed as his long fingers drew beauty from the heirloom.
He stopped playing when she reached him, extending his arm to reach for her. A slow, sexy smile curled his lips at one corner when he looked over his shoulder at her.
“Don't let me stop you,” Kipling said, taking his hand before she slid onto the space on the bench beside him, her back to the keys in a position that made it easier to see his face. “I didn't know you played, but somehow it doesn't surprise me at all. “
Grayson chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest, and brought her knuckles to his lips for a kiss. He lowered their hands to rest on his thigh, his thumb stroking her fingers. She loved this man, beyond limits and beyond description; she loved him so much it sometimes made the simple act of breathing difficult.
“Why are you playing piano in the middle of the night?” she asked, keeping her voice low in reverence for the stillness of the cottage surrounding him. She tried to look affronted but doubted she fooled him. “And why isn’t there a piano in Baker Street?”
He drew in a long, deep breath, and heat rose up her throat at his study of her bordering on arousing scrutiny. “This piano was in Baker Street,” he explained, switching the order of answer. “It’s where Mum first began my lessons, teaching me herself with Dad helping. He learned from Mrs. Bertrand. You met her—”
“At Shirl’s wedding. I remember,” she finished with a smile and wink. “She was very sweet.”
He nodded, canting his head in the general direction of the rest of the cottage. “When we moved back here to Sussex it was one of the few things my parents brought with us.” Not releasing her hand, he brought his other across to lay his palm against her jaw, stroking near the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “If you would like a piano, I will see one is waiting for us upon our return.”
“After our honeymoon,” she said softer, her heart beating faster, but for a far better reason.