Born In Ice (7 page)

"It is. How do you treat people who pop uninvited into your studio?"

"I haven't got a studio. How about a tour?"

She didn't bother to muffle the oath, or the sigh. "You're a bold one, aren't you? All right, then, since I don't seem to be doing anything else. The man goes off," she complained as she crossed the grass. "Doesn't even wake me. Leaves me a note is all he does, telling me to eat a decent breakfast and keep my feet up."

"And did you?"

"I might have if I hadn't heard somebody tramping around my property."

"Sorry." But still he grinned at her. "When's the baby due?"

"In the spring." Despite herself she softened. It took only the mention of the baby. "I've weeks yet, and if the man keeps trying to pamper me, I'll have to murder him. Well, come in, then, since you're here."

"I see that gracious hospitality runs in the family."

"It doesn't." Now a smile tugged at her lips. "Brianna got all the niceness. Look," she said as she opened the door. "Don't touch, or I will break those fingers."

"Yes, ma'am. This is great." He started to explore the minute he stepped in, moving to the benches, bending down to check out the furnace. "You studied in Venice, didn't you?"

"I did, yes."

"What started you off? God, I hate when people ask me that. Never mind." He laughed at himself and strolled toward her pipes. His fingers itched to touch. Cautious, he looked back at her, measured. "I'm bigger than you."

She nodded. "I'm meaner." But she relented enough to take up a pontil herself and hand it to him.

He hefted it, twirled it. "Great murder weapon."

"I'll keep that in mind the next time someone interrupts my work."

"So what's the process?" He glanced toward drawings spread out on a bench. "You sketch out ideas?"

"Often." She sipped at her tea, eyeing him. In truth, there was something about the way he moved, light and fluid without any fuss, that made her yearn for her sketchpad. "After a quick lesson?"

"Always. It must get pretty hot in here when the furnaces are fired. You melt the stuff in there, and then what?"

"I make a gather," she began. For the next thirty minutes she took him step by step through the process of hand-blowing a vessel.

The man was full of questions, she thought. Intriguing questions, she admitted, the kind that made you go beyond the technical processes and into the creative purpose behind them. She might have been able to resist that, but his enthusiasm was more difficult. Instead of hurrying him along, she found herself answering those questions, demonstrating, and laughing with him.

"Keep this up and I'll draft you as pontil boy." Amused, she rubbed a hand over her belly. "Well, come in and have some tea."

"You wouldn't have any of Brianna's cookies-biscuits."

Maggie's brow arched. "I do."

A few moments later Gray was settled at Maggie's kitchen table with a plate of gingersnaps. "I swear she could market these," he said with his mouth full. "Make a fortune."

"She'd rather give them to the village children."

"I'm surprised she doesn't have a brood of her own." He waited a beat. "I haven't noticed any man coming around."

"And you're the noticing sort, aren't you, Grayson Thane?"

"Goes with the territory. She's a beautiful woman."

"I won't disagree." Maggie poured boiling water into a warmed teapot.

"You're going to make me yank it out," he muttered. "Is there someone or not?"

"You could ask her yourself." Miffed, Maggie set the pot on the table, frowned at him. Oh, he had a talent, she thought, for making you want to tell him what he wanted to know. "No," she snapped out and slapped a mug on the table in front of him. "There's no one. She brushes them off, freezes them out. She'd rather spend all her time tending to her guests or running out to Ennis every time our mother sniffles. Self-sacrificing is what our Saint Brianna does best."

"You're worried about her," Gray murmured. "What's troubling her, Maggie?"

" 'Tis family business. Let it alone." Belatedly she poured his cup, then her own. She sighed then, and sat. "How do you know she's troubled?"

"It shows. In her eyes. Just like it's showing in yours now."

"It'll be settled soon enough." Maggie made a determined effort to push it aside. "Do you always dig into people?"

"Sure." He tried the tea. It was strong enough to stand up and dance. Perfect. "Being a writer's a great cover for just being nosy." Then his eyes changed, sobered. "I like her. It's impossible not to. It bothers me to see her sad."

"She can use a friend. You've a talent for getting people to talk. Use it on her. But mind," she added before Gray could speak, "she's soft feelings underneath. Bruise them, and I'll bruise you."

"Point taken." And time, he thought, to change the subject. He kicked back, propping a booted foot on his knee. "So, what's the story with our pal Murphy? Did the guy from Dublin really steal you out from under his nose?"

It was fortunate that she'd swallowed her tea or she might have choked. Her laugh started deep and grew into guffaws that had her eyes watering.

"I missed a joke," Rogan said from the doorway. "Take a breath, Maggie, you're turning red."

"Sweeney." She sucked in a giggling breath and reached for his hand. "This is Grayson Thane. He was wondering if you stepped over Murphy's back to woo me."

"Not Murphy's," he said pleasantly, "but I had to step all over Maggie's-ending with her head, which needed some sense knocked into it. It's nice meeting you," he added, offering Gray his free hand. "I've spent many entertaining hours in your stories."

"Thanks."

"Gray's been keeping me company," Maggie told him. "And now I'm in too fine a mood to yell at you for not waking me this morning."

"You needed sleep." He poured tea, winced after the first sip. "Christ, Maggie, must you always brew it to death?"

"Yes." She leaned forward, propped her chin on her hand. "What part of America are you from, Gray?"

"No part in particular. I move around."

"But your home?"

"I don't have one." He bit into another cookie. "I don't need one with the way I travel."

The idea was fascinating. Maggie tilted her head and studied him. "You just go from place to place, with what- the clothes on your back?"

"A little more than that, but basically. Sometimes I end up picking up something I can't resist-like that sculpture of yours in Dublin. I rent a place in New York, kind of a catchall for stuff. That's where my publisher and agent are based, so I go back about once, maybe twice a year. I can write anywhere," he said with a shrug. "So I do."

"And your family?"

"You're prying, Margaret Mary."

"He did it first," she shot back to Rogan.

"I don't have any family. Do you have names picked out for the baby?" Gray asked, neatly turning the subject.

Recognizing the tactic, Maggie frowned at him. Rogan gave her knee a squeeze under the table before she could speak. "None that we can agree on. We hope to settle on one before the child's ready to go to university."

Smoothly Rogan steered the conversation into polite, impersonal topics until Gray rose to leave. Once she was alone with her husband, Maggie drummed her fingers on the table.

"I'd have found out more about him if you hadn't interfered."

"It's none of your business." He leaned over and kissed her mouth.

"Maybe it is. I like him well enough. But he gets a look in his eyes when he speaks of Brianna. I'm not sure I like that."

"That's none of your business, either."

"She's my sister."

"And well able to take care of herself."

"A lot you'd know about it," Maggie grumbled. "Men always think they know women, when what they know is a pitiful nothing."

"I know you, Margaret Mary." In a neat move he scooped her out of the chair and into his arms.

"What are you about?"

"I'm about to take you to bed, strip you naked, and make incredibly thorough love with you."

"Oh, are you?" She tossed back her hair. "You're just trying to distract me from the subject at hand."

"Let's see how well I can do."

She smiled, wound her arms around his neck. "I suppose I should at least give you the chance."

When Gray strolled back into Blackthorn Cottage, he found Brianna on her hands and knees rubbing paste wax into the parlor floor in slow, almost loving circles. The little gold cross she sometimes wore swung like a pendulum from its thin chain and caught quick glints of light. She had music on, some lilting tune she was singing along with in Irish. Charmed, he crossed over and squatted down beside her.

"What do the words mean?"

She jolted first. He had a way of moving that no more than stirred the air. She blew loose hair out of her eyes and continued to polish. "It's about going off to war."

"It sounds too happy to be about war."

"Oh, we're happy enough to fight. You're back earlier than usual. Are you wanting tea?"

"No, thanks. I just had some at Maggie's."

She looked up then. "You were visiting Maggie?"

"I thought I'd take a walk and ended up at her place. She gave me a tour of her glass house."

Brianna laughed, then seeing he was serious, sat back on her haunches. "And how in sweet heaven did you manage such a feat as that?"

"I asked." And grinned. "She was a little cranky about it at first, but she fell in." He leaned toward Brianna, sniffed. "You smell of lemon and beeswax."

"That's not surprising." She had to clear her throat. "It's what I'm polishing the floor with." She made a small, strangled sound when he took her hand.

"You ought to wear gloves when you do heavy work."

"They get in my way." She shook her hand, but he held on. Though she tried to look firm, she only managed to look distressed. "You're in my way."

"I'll get out of it in a minute." She looked so damned pretty, he thought, kneeling on the floor with her polishing rag and her flushed cheeks. "Come out with me tonight, Brie. Let me take you to dinner."

"I've a-I've mutton," she said, fumbling, "for making Dingle Pies."

"It'll keep, won't it?"

"It will, yes, but... If you're tired of my cooking-"

"Brianna." His voice was soft, persuasive. "I want to take you out."

"Why?"

"Because you've got a pretty face." He skimmed his lips over her knuckles and made her heart stick in her throat. "Because I think it might be nice for you to have someone else do the cooking and the washing up for one night."

"I like to cook."

"I like to write, but it's always a kick to read something someone else has sweated over."

"It's not the same."

"Sure it is." Head tilted, he aimed that sudden razor-sharp gaze at her. "You're not afraid to be alone with me in a public restaurant, are you?"

"What a foolish thing to say." What a foolish thing, she realized, for her to feel.

"Fine then, it's a date. Seven o'clock." Wise enough to know when to retreat, Gray straightened and strolled out.

She told herself not to worry over her dress, then fretted about it just the same. In the end she chose the simple hunter green wool that Maggie had brought her back from Milan. With its long sleeves and high neck, it looked plain, even serviceable, until it was on. Cannily cut, the thin, soft wool had a way of draping over curves and revealing every bit as much as it concealed.

Still, Brianna told herself, it suited a dinner out, and that it was a sin she'd yet to wear it when Maggie had gone to the trouble and expense. And it felt so lovely against her skin.

Annoyed at the continued flutter of nerves, she picked up her coat, a plain black with a mended lining, and draped it over her arm. It was simply the offer of a meal, she reminded herself. A nice gesture from a man she'd been feeding for more than a week.

Taking one last steadying breath, she stepped out of her room into the kitchen, then started down the hall. He'd just come down the stairs. Self-conscious, she paused.

He stopped where he was, one foot still on the bottom step, his hand on the newel post. For a moment they only stared at each other in one of those odd, sliding instants of awareness. Then he stepped forward and the sensation rippled away.

"Well, well." His lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. "You make a picture, Brianna."

"You're wearing a suit." And looked gorgeous in it.

"I drag one on now and again." He took her coat, slipped it over her shoulders.

"You never said where we were going."

"To eat." He put an arm around her waist and swept her out of the house.

The interior of the car made her sigh. It smelled of leather, and the leather was soft as butter. She skimmed her fingers over the seat as he drove.

"It was kind of you to do this, Gray."

"Kindness had nothing to do with it. I had an urge to go out, and I wanted you with me. You never come into the pub at night."

She relaxed a little. So that's where they were going. "I haven't lately. I do like stopping in now and then, seeing everyone. The O'Malleys had another grandchild this week."

"I know. I was treated to a pint to celebrate."

"I just finished a bunting for the baby. I should have brought it with me."

"We're not going to the pub. What's a bunting?"

"It's a kind of sacque; you button the baby into it." As they passed through the village she smiled. "Look, there's Mr. and Mrs. Conroy. More than fifty years married, and they still hold hands. You should see them dance."

"That's what I was told about you." He glanced at her. "You won contests."

"When I was a girl." She shrugged it off. Regrets were a foolish indulgence. "I was never serious about it. It was just for fun."

"What do you do for fun now?"

"Oh, this and that. You drive well for a Yank." At his bland look, she chuckled. "What I mean is that a lot of your people have some trouble adjusting to our roads and driving on the proper side."

"We won't debate which is the proper side, but I've spent a lot of time in Europe."

"You don't have an accent I can place-I mean other than American. I've made kind of a game out of it, you see, from guessing with my guests."

"It might be because I'm not from anywhere."

"Everyone's from somewhere."

"No, they're not. There are more nomads in the world than you might think."

"So, you're claiming to be a gypsy." She pushed her hair back and studied his profile. "Well, that's one I didn't think of."

"Meaning?"

"The night you came. I thought you looked a bit like a pirate-then a poet, even a boxer, but not a gypsy. But that suits, too."

"And you looked like a vision-billowing white gown, tumbled hair, courage and fear warring in your eyes."

"I wasn't afraid." She glimpsed the sign just before he turned off the road. "Here? Drumoland Castle? But we can't."

"Why not? I'm told the cuisine's exquisite."

"Sure and it is, and very dear."

He laughed, slowing to enjoy the view of the castle, gray and glorious on the slope of the hill, glinting under lights. "Brianna, I'm a very well paid gypsy. Stunning, isn't it?"

"Yes. And the gardens... you can't see them well now, and the winter's been so harsh, but they've the most beautiful gardens." She looked over the slope of lawn to a bed of dormant rosebushes. "In the back is a walled garden. It's so lovely it doesn't seem real. Why didn't you stay at a place like this?"

He parked the car, shut it off. "I nearly did, then I heard about your inn. Call it impulse." He flashed a grin at her. "I like impulses."