Born In Ice (34 page)

It was all so simple. A moment of gold she would treasure. And when he lifted his head, and his lips sought hers again, he smiled into her eyes.

There was need, but no hurry, and longing without desperation. If either of them thought this might be their last time together, they looked for savoring rather than urgency.

She sighed out his name, breath hitching. He trembled.

Then he was inside her, the pace achingly slow. Their eyes remained open. And their hands, palm to palm, completed the link with interlacing fingers.

A shaft of light through the window, and dust motes dancing in the beam. The call of a bird, the distant bark of a dog. The smell of roses, lemon wax, honeysuckle. And the feel of her, the warm, wet feel of her yielding beneath him, rising to meet him. His senses sharpened on it all, like a microscope just focused.

Then there was only pleasure, the pure and simple joy of losing everything he was, in her.

She knew by dinnertime that he was leaving. In her heart she had known when they had lain quiet together after loving, watching the sunlight shift through her window.

She served her guests, listened to their bright talk of their day at the seaside. As always, she tidied her kitchen, washing her dishes, putting them away again in the cupboards. She scrubbed off her stove, thinking again that she should replace it soon. Perhaps over the winter. She would have to start pricing them.

Con was sniffing around the door, so she let him out for his evening run. For a time she just stood there, watching him race over the hills in the glowing sunlight of the long summer evening.

She wondered what it would be like to run with him. To just race as he was racing, forgetting all the little details of settling the house for the night. Forgetting most of all what she had to face.

But, of course, she would come back. This was where she would always come back.

She turned, closing the door behind her. She went into her room briefly before going up to Gray.

He was at his window, looking out at her front garden. The light that hung yet in the western sky gilded him and made her think, as she had so many months before, of pirates and poets.

"I was afraid you'd have finished packing." She saw his suitcase open on the bed, nearly full, and her fingers tightened on the sweater she carried.

"I was going to come down and talk to you." Braced for it, he turned to her, wishing he could read her face. But she'd found a way to close it off from him. "I thought I could make Dublin tonight."

"It's a long drive, but you'll have light for a while yet."

"Brianna-"

"I wanted to give you this," she said quickly. Please, she wanted to beg, no excuses, no apologies. "I made it for you."

He looked down at her hands. He remembered the dark green wool, how she'd been knitting with it the night he'd come into her room late and picked a fight with her. The way it had spilled over the white of her nightgown.

"You made it for me?"

"Yes. A sweater. You might find use for it in the fall and winter." She moved toward him, holding it up to measure. "I added to the length of the sleeves. You're long in the arm."

His already unsteady heart shifted as he touched it. In the whole of his life, no one had ever made him anything. "I don't know what to say."

"Whenever you gave me a gift, you'd always tell me to say thank you."

"So I did." He took it, felt the softness and warmth on the palms of his hands. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Do you need some help with your packing?" Without waiting for an answer, she took the sweater back and folded it neatly into his suitcase. "You've more experience with it, I know, but you must find it tedious."

"Please don't." He laid a hand on her shoulder, but when she didn't look up, dropped it again. "You've every right to be upset."

"No, I don't. And I'm not. You made no promises, Gray-son, so you've broken none. That's important to you, I know. Have you checked the drawers? You'd be amazed at what people forget."

"I have to go, Brianna."

"I know." To keep her hands busy, she opened the dresser drawers herself, painfully distressed to find them indeed empty.

"I can't stay here. The longer I do now, the harder it is. And I can't give you what you need. Or think you need."

"Next you'll be telling me you've the soul of a gypsy, and there's no need for that. I know it." She closed the last drawer and turned around again. "I'm sorry for saying what I did earlier. I don't want you to go remembering hard words between us, when there was so much more."

Her hands were folded again, her badge of control. "Would you like me to pack you some food for the trip, or a thermos of tea perhaps?"

"Stop being the gracious hostess. For Christ's sake, I'm leaving you. I'm walking out."

"You're going," she returned in a cool and steady voice, "as you always said you would. It might be easier on your conscience if I wept and wailed and made a scene, but it doesn't suit me."

"So that's that." He tossed some socks into the case.

"You've made your choice, and I wish you nothing but happiness. You're welcome back, of course, if you travel this way again."

His gaze cut to hers as he snapped the case closed. "I'll let you know."

"I'll help you down with your things."

She reached for his duffel, but he grabbed it first. "I carried them in. I'll carry them out."

"As you please." Then she cut out his heart by coming to him and kissing him lightly on the cheek. "Keep well, Gray-son."

"Goodbye, Brie." They went down the steps together. He said nothing more until they'd reached the front door. "I won't forget you."

"I hope not."

She walked part way with him to the car, then stopped on the garden path, waiting while he loaded his bag, climbed behind the wheel. She smiled, lifted her hand in a wave, then walked back into the cottage without looking back.

An hour later she was alone in the parlor with her mending basket. She heard the laughter through the windows and closed her eyes briefly. When Maggie came in with Rogan and the baby, she was nipping a thread and smiling.

"Well, now, you're out late tonight."

"Liam was restless." Maggie sat, lifting her arms so Rogan could pass the baby to her. "We thought he'd like some company. And here's a picture, the mistress of the house in the parlor mending."

"I'm behind in it. Would you like a drink? Rogan?"

"I wouldn't turn one down." He moved toward the decanter. "Maggie?"

"Aye, a little whiskey would go down well."

"And Brie?"

"Thank you. I think I will." She threaded a needle, knotted the end. "Is your work going well, Maggie?"

"It's wonderful to be back at it. Yes, it is." She planted a noisy kiss on Liam's mouth. "I finished a piece today. It was Gray talking about those ruins he's so fond of that gave me the notion for it. Turned out well I think."

She took the glass Rogan handed her, lifted hers. "Well, here's to a restful night." "I'll give you no argument there," her husband said with fervor and drank.

"Liam doesn't think the hours between two and five A.M. should be for sleeping." With a laugh Maggie shifted the baby onto her shoulder. "We wanted to tell you, Brie, the detective's tracking Amanda Dougherty to-where is that place, Rogan?"

"Michigan. He has a lead on her, and the man she married." He glanced at his wife. "And the child."

"She had a daughter, Brie," Maggie murmured, cuddling her own baby. "He located the birth certificate. Amanda named her Shannon."

"For the river," Brianna whispered and felt tears rise up in her throat. "We have a sister, Maggie."

"We have. We may find her soon, for better or worse."

"I hope so. Oh, I'm glad you came to tell me." It helped a little, took some of the sting out of her heart. "It'll be good to think of it."

"It may just be thinking for a while," Rogan warned. "The lead he's following is twenty-five years old."

"Then we'll be patient," Brianna said simply.

Far from certain of her own feelings, Maggie shifted the baby, and the topic. "I'd like to show the piece I've finished to Gray, see if he recognizes the inspiration. Where is he? Working?"

"He's gone." Brianna sent the needle neatly through a buttonhole.

"Gone where? To the pub?"

"No, to Dublin, I think, or wherever the road takes him."

"You mean he's gone? Left?" She rose then, making the baby chortle with glee at the sudden movement.

"Yes, just an hour ago."

"And you sit here sewing?"

"What should I be doing? Flogging myself?"

"Flogging him's more like. Why, that Yank bastard. To think I'd grown fond of him."

"Maggie." Rogan laid a warning hand on her arm. "Are you all right, Brianna?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Rogan. Don't take on so, Maggie. He's doing what's right for him."

"To hell with what's right for him. What about you? Take the baby, will you?" she said impatiently to Rogan, then, arms free, went to kneel in front of her sister. "I know how you feel about him, Brie, and I can't understand how he could leave this way. What did he say when you asked him to stay."

"I didn't ask him to stay."

"You didn't-Why the devil not?"

"Because it would have made us both unhappy." She jabbed the needle, swore lightly at the prick on her thumb. "And I have my pride."

"A fat lot of good that does you. You probably offered to fix him sandwiches for the trip."

"I did."

"Oh." Disgusted, Maggie rose, turned around the room. "There's no reasoning with you. Never has been."

"I'm sure you're making Brianna feel much better by having a tantrum," Rogan said dryly.

"I was just-" But catching his eye, Maggie bit her tongue. "You're right, of course. I'm sorry, Brie. If you like I can stay awhile, keep you company. Or I'll pack up some things for the baby, and we'll both stay the night."

"You both belong at home. I'll be fine, Maggie, on my own. I always am."

Gray was nearly to Dublin and the scene kept working on his mind. The ending of the book, the damn ending just wouldn't settle. That's why he was so edgy.

He should have mailed the manuscript off to Arlene and forgotten it. That last scene wouldn't be digging at him now if he had. He could already be toying with the next story.

But he couldn't think of another when he wasn't able to let go of the last.

McGee had driven away because he'd finished what he'd come to Ireland to do. He was going to pick up his life again, his work. He had to move on because... because he had to, Gray thought irritably.

And Tullia had stayed because her life was in the cottage, in the land around it, the people. She was happy there the way she never would be anywhere else. Brianna-Tullia, he corrected, would wither without her roots.

The ending made sense. It was perfectly plausible, fit both character and mood.

So why was it nagging at him like a bad tooth?

She hadn't asked him to stay, he thought. Hadn't shed a tear. When he realized his mind had once again shifted from Tullia to Brianna, he swore and pressed harder on the accelerator.

That's the way it was supposed to be, he reminded himself. Brianna was a sensible, levelheaded woman. It was one of the things he admired about her.

If she'd loved him so damn much, the least she could have done was said she'd miss him.

He didn't want her to miss him. He didn't want a light burning in the window, or her darning his socks or ironing his shirts. And most of all, he didn't want her preying on his mind.

He was footloose and free, as he'd always been. As he needed to be. He had places to go, a pin to stick in a map. A little vacation somewhere before the tour, and then new horizons to explore.

That was his life. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. He liked his life. And he was picking it up again, just like McGee.

Just like McGee, he thought with a scowl.

The lights of Dublin glowed in welcome. It relaxed him to see them, to know he'd come where he'd intended to go. He didn't mind the traffic. Of course he didn't. Or the noise. He'd just spent too long away from cities.

What he needed was to find a hotel, check in. All he wanted was a chance to stretch his legs after the long drive, to buy himself a drink or two.

Gray pulled over to a curb, let his head fall back against the seat. All he wanted was a bed, a drink, and quiet room.

The hell it was.

Brianna was up at dawn. It was foolish to lie in bed and pretend you could sleep when you couldn't. She started her bread and set it aside to rise before brewing the first pot of tea.

She took a cup for herself into the back garden, but couldn't settle. Even a tour of the greenhouse didn't please her, so she went inside again and set the table for breakfast.

It helped that her guests were leaving early. By eight, she'd fixed them a hot meal and bid them on their way.

But now she was alone. Certain she would find contentment in routine, she set the kitchen to rights. Upstairs, she stripped the unmade beds, smoothed on the sheets she'd taken fresh from the line the day before. She gathered the damp towels, replaced them.

And it couldn't be put off any longer, she told herself. Shouldn't be. She moved briskly into the room where Grayson had worked. It needed a good dusting, she thought and ran a finger gently over the edge of the desk.

Pressing her lips together, she straightened the chair.

How could she have known it would feel so empty?

She shook herself. It was only a room, after all. Waiting now for the next guest to come. And she would put the very next one into it, she promised. It would be wise to do that. It would help.

She moved into the bath, taking the towels he'd used from the bar where they'd dried.

And she could smell him.

The pain came so quickly, so fiercely, she nearly staggered under it. Blindly she stumbled back into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and burying her face in the towels, wept.

Gray could hear her crying as he came up the stairs. It was a wild sound of grieving that stunned him, made him slow his pace before he faced it.