Born in Fire (17 page)

She looked fearless, defiant and completely in control.

And so she was…now. The bout of nerves had served to embarrass her so much that she’d beaten them back with nothing more than sheer willfulness.

She was here. And she meant to succeed.

“You’re impossibly late.” The complaint was a last line of defense, delivered in a mutter as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. Their eyes met. “And incredibly beautiful.”

“You approve of the dress?”

“That’s not the word I would have chosen, but yes, I do.”

She smiled then. “You were afraid I’d wear boots and torn jeans.”

“Not with my grandmother standing guard.”

“She’s the most wonderful woman in the world. You’re lucky to have her.”

The emotional force of the statement more than the words caused Rogan to study her curiously. “I’m aware of that.”

“You can’t be. Not really, for you’ve never known any different.” She took a deep breath. “Well.” There were eyes on her already, dozens of them, bright with curiosity. “It’s into the lions’ den, isn’t it? You needn’t worry,” she said before he could speak. “I’ll behave. My future depends on it.”

“This is only the beginning, Margaret Mary.”

As he drew her into the room with its whirl of light and color, she was very much afraid he was right.

But behave she did. The evening seemed to go well as she shook hands, accepted compliments, answered questions. The first hour seemed to float by like a dream, what with the sparkle of wine, the glitter of glass and the flash of jewels. Drifting through it was easy, as Maggie felt slightly removed from the reality, somewhat disconnected, as much audience as actor in a sumptuously produced play.

“This, ah this.” A bald man with a drooping mustache and a fussy British accent expounded on a piece. It was a series of glowing blue spears trapped within a sheer glass globe. “
Imprisoned,
you call it. Your creativity, your sexuality, fighting to set itself free. Man’s eternal struggle, after all. It’s triumphant, even as it’s melancholy.”

“It’s the six counties,” Maggie said simply.

The bald man blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“The six counties of Ireland,” she repeated with a wicked rebel gleam in her eyes. “Imprisoned.”

“I see.”

Standing beside this would-be critic, Joseph muffled a laugh. “I found the use of color here so striking, Lord Whitfield. The translucence of it creates an unresolved tension between its delicacy and its boldness.”

“Just so.” Lord Whitfield nodded, cleared his throat. “Quite extraordinary. Excuse me.”

Maggie watched him retreat with a broad smile. “Well, I don’t think he’ll be after buying it and setting it in his den, do you, Joseph?”

“You’re a wicked woman, Maggie Concannon.”

“I’m an Irishwoman, Joseph.” She winked at him. “Up the rebels.”

He laughed delightedly and, slipping an arm around her waist, led her around the room. “Ah, Mrs. Connelly.” Joseph gave Maggie a subtle squeeze to signal her. “Looking stunning as always.”

“Joseph, always a smooth word. And this—” Anne Connelly shifted her attention from Joseph, whom she considered a mere factotum to Maggie. “This is the creative drive. I’m thrilled to meet you, my dear. I’m Mrs. Dennis Connelly—Anne. I believe you met my daughter, Patricia, yesterday.”

“I did, yes.” Maggie found Anne’s handclasp as delicate and soft as a brush of satin.

“She must be off with Rogan somewhere. They’re a lovely couple, aren’t they?”

“Very.” Maggie lifted a brow. She knew a warning when she heard one. “Do you live in Dublin, Mrs. Connelly?”

“I do indeed. Only a few houses away from the Sweeney mansion. My family has been a part of Dublin society for generations. And you’re from the west counties?”

“Clare, yes.”

“Lovely scenery. All those charming quaint villages and thatched roofs. Your family are farmers, I’m told?” Anne lifted a brow, obviously amused.

“Were.”

“This must be so exciting for you, particularly with your rural upbringing. I’m sure you’ve enjoyed your visit to Dublin. You’ll be going back soon?”

“Very soon, I think.”

“I’m sure you miss the country. Dublin can be very confusing to one unused to city life. Almost like a foreign land.”

“At least I understand the language,” Maggie said equably. “I hope you’ll enjoy your evening, Mrs. Connelly. Excuse me, won’t you?”

And if Rogan thought he would sell that woman anything that Maggie Concannon created, Maggie thought as she walked away, he’d hang for it.

Exclusive rights be damned. She’d smash every last piece into dust before she saw any in Anne Connelly’s hands. Talking to her as though she were some slack-jawed milkmaid with straw in her hair.

She held her temper back as she made her way out of the ballroom and toward one of the sitting rooms. Each was crowded with people, talking, sitting, laughing, discussing her. Her head began to throb as she marched down the stairs. She’d get herself a beer out of the kitchen, she decided, and have a few minutes of peace.

She strode straight in, only to come up short when she saw a portly man puffing on a cigar and nursing a pilsner.

“Caught,” he said, and grinned sheepishly.

“That makes two of us then. I was coming down for a quiet beer myself.”

“Let me fetch you one.” Gallantly, he heaved his bulk out of the chair and pulled a bottle out for her. “You don’t want me to put out the cigar, do you?”

The plea in his voice made her laugh. “Not at all. My father used to smoke the world’s worst pipe. Stunk to high heaven. I loved it.”

“There’s a lass.” He found her a beer and a glass. “I hate these things.” He jerked his thumb toward the ceiling. “M’wife drags me.”

“I hate them, too.”

“Pretty enough work, I suppose,” he said as she drank. “Like the colors and shapes. Not that I know a damn thing about it. Wife’s the expert. But I liked the look of it, and that should be enough, I’d say.”

“And I.”

“Everyone’s always trying to explain it at these blasted affairs. What the artist had in mind and such. Symbolism.” He rolled his tongue over the word as if it were a strange dish he wasn’t quite ready to sample. “Don’t know what the devil they’re talking about.”

Maggie decided the man was half-potted and that she loved him. “Neither do they.”

“That’s it!” He raised his glass and drank deeply. “Neither do they. Just blustering. But if I was to say that to Anne—that’s my wife—she’d give me one of those looks.”

He narrowed his eyes, lowered his brows and scowled. Maggie hooted with laughter.

“Who cares what they think anyway?” Maggie propped her elbow on the table and held a fist to her chin. “It’s not as if anyone’s life depended on it.” Except mine, she thought, and pushed the idea away. “Don’t you think affairs like this are just an excuse for people to get all dressed up and act important?”

“I do absolutely.” So complete was his agreement that he rapped his glass sharply to hers. “As for me, do you know what I wanted to be doing tonight?”

“What?”

“Sitting in my chair, with my feet on the hassock and Irish in my glass, watching the television.” He sighed, regretfully. “But I couldn’t disappoint Anne—or Rogan, for that matter.”

“You know Rogan, then?”

“Like my own son. A fine man he’s turned out to be. He wasn’t yet twenty when I saw him first. His father and I had business together, and the boy couldn’t wait to be part of it.” He gestured vaguely to encompass the gallery. “Smart as a whip, he is.”

“And what business are you in?”

“Banking.”

“Excuse me.” A female voice interrupted them. They looked up to see Patricia standing in the doorway, her hands folded neatly.

“Ah, there’s my love.”

While Maggie looked on, goggle-eyed, the man lunged out of his chair and enfolded Patricia in a hug that could have felled a mule. Patricia’s reaction, rather than stiff rejection or cool disgust, was a quick, musical laugh.

“Daddy, you’ll break me in half.”

Daddy? Maggie thought. Daddy? Patricia Henessy’s father? Anne’s husband? This delightful man was married to that—that icy stick of a woman? It only went to prove, she decided, that the words
till death do us part
were the most foolish syllables human beings were ever forced to utter.

“Meet my little girl.” With obvious pride, Dennis whirled Patricia around. “A beauty, isn’t she? My Patricia.”

“Yes, indeed.” Maggie rose, grinning. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you. Congratulations on the wonderful success of your show.”

“Your show?” Dennis said blankly.

“We never introduced ourselves.” Laughing now, Maggie stepped forward and offered Dennis her hand. “I’m Maggie Concannon, Mr. Connelly.”

“Oh.” He said nothing for a moment as he racked his brain trying to recall if he’d said anything insulting. “A pleasure,” he managed to say as his brain stalled.

“It was, truly. Thank you for the best ten minutes I’ve had since I walked in the door.”

Dennis smiled. This woman seemed downright human, for an artist. “I do like the colors, and the shapes,” he offered hopefully.

“And that’s the nicest compliment I’ve had all evening.”

“Daddy, Mother’s looking for you.” Patricia brushed a stray ash from his lapel. The gesture, one she had carelessly used with her own father countless times, arrowed straight into Maggie’s heart.

“I’d better let her find me, then.” He looked back at Maggie, and when she grinned at him, he grinned back. “I hope we meet again, Miss Concannon.”

“So do I.”

“Won’t you come up with us?” Patricia asked.

“No, not just now,” Maggie answered, not wishing to socialize further with Patricia’s mother.

The bright look faded the moment their footsteps died away on the polished floor. She sat down, alone, in the light-flooded kitchen. It was quiet there, so quiet she could nearly fool herself into believing the building was empty but for her.

She wanted to believe she was alone. More, she wanted to believe the sadness she suddenly felt was just that she missed the solitude of her own green fields and quiet hills, the endless hours of silence with only the roar of her own kiln and her own imagination to drive her.

But it wasn’t only that. On this, one of the brightest nights of her life, she had no one. None of the chattering, brilliant crowd of people upstairs knew her, cared for her, understood her. There was no one abovestairs waiting for Maggie Concannon.

So she had herself, she thought, and rose. And that was all anyone needed. Her work was well received. It wasn’t so difficult to cut through all the fancy and pompous phrases to the core. Rogan’s people liked what she did, and that was the first step.

She was on her way, she told herself as she swung out of the kitchen. She was rushing down the path toward fame and fortune, the path that had eluded the Concannons for the last two generations. And she would do it all herself.

The light and the music sparkled down the staircase like fairy dust along the curve of a rainbow. She stood at the foot of the stairs, her hand clutched on the rail, her foot on the first tread. Then, with a jerk, she turned to hurry outside, into the dark.

When the clock struck one, Rogan yanked at his elegant black tie and swore. The woman, he thought as he paced the darkened parlor, deserved murder and no less. She’d vanished like smoke in the middle of a crowded party arranged for her benefit. Leaving him, he remembered with boiling resentment, to make foolish excuses.

He should have known that a woman of her temperament couldn’t be trusted to behave reasonably. He certainly should have known better than to give her such a prominent place in his own ambitions, his hopes for the future of his business.

How in hell could he hope to build a gallery for Irish art when the first Irish artist he’d personally selected, groomed and showcased had fled her own opening like an irresponsible child?

Now it was the middle of the night, and he’d not had a word from her. The brilliant success of the show, his own satisfaction with a job well done, had clouded over like her precious west county sky. There was nothing he could do but wait.

And worry.

She didn’t know Dublin. For all its beauty and charm there were still sections dangerous to a woman alone. And there was always the possibility of an accident—the thought of which brought on a vicious, throbbing headache at the base of his skull.

He’d taken two long strides toward the phone to telephone the hospitals when he heard the click of the front door. He pivoted and rushed into the hallway.

She was safe, and under the dazzle of the foyer chandelier, he could see she was unharmed. Visions of murder leaped back into his aching head.

“Where in the sweet hell have you been?”

She’d hoped he be out at some high-class club, clinking glasses with his friends. But since he wasn’t, she offered him a smile and a shrug. “Oh, out and about. Your Dublin’s a lovely city at night.”

As he stared at her, his hands closed into ready fists. “You’re saying you’ve been out sightseeing until one in the morning?”

“Is it so late then? I must have lost track. Well then, I’ll say good night.”

“No, you won’t.” He took a step toward her. “What you will do is give me an explanation for your behavior.”

“That’s something I don’t have to explain to anyone, but if you’d be more clear, perhaps I’d make an exception.”

“There were nearly two hundred people gathered tonight for your benefit. You were unbelievably rude.”

“I was nothing of the kind.” More weary than she wanted to admit, she strolled past him into the parlor, slipped out of the miserably uncomfortable heels and propped her tired feet on a tassled stool. “The truth is, I was so unbelievably polite, my teeth nearly fell out of my head. I hope to Christ I don’t have to smile at another bloody soul for a month. I wouldn’t mind one of your brandies now, Rogan. It’s chilly out this time of night.”

He noticed for the first time that she wore nothing over the thin black dress. “Where the devil is your wrap?”

“I didn’t have one. You’ll have to mark that down in your little book. Acquire Maggie a suitable evening wrap.” She reached up for the snifter he’d poured.