Born in Fire (35 page)

“You’re not telling me—you’re not saying—you haven’t actually…”

“Slept with him?” Christine leaned back, tapping her well-manicured nails on the arm of the love seat. “That’s certainly my business, isn’t it? And I don’t require your approval.”

“Of course not.” He heard himself beginning to babble. “I’m just concerned, naturally.”

“Your concern is noted.” She rose, regally. “I’m sorry that you’re shocked by my behavior, but it can’t be helped.”

“I’m not shocked—damn, of course I’m shocked. You can’t just…” He could hardly say the words, could he? In his grandmother’s parlor. “Darling, I know nothing about the man.”

“I know about him. I haven’t any definite plans on how long we’ll be in Galway, but we will be stopping in to see Maggie and her family on the way. Shall I give her your regards?”

“You can’t have thought this through.”

“I know my own mind and heart better, it seems, than you think. Have a safe trip, Rogan.”

Dismissed, he had no choice but to kiss her cheek and leave. The moment he was in the car, he yanked at the phone. “Eileen, reschedule Limerick for tomorrow…. Yes, there’s a problem,” he muttered. “I have to go to Clare.”

When the first touch of fall caressed the air and gilded the trees, it seemed a sin not to enjoy it. After two solid weeks of work, Maggie decided she deserved a day off. She spent the morning in the garden, weeding with a vigor that would have made Brianna proud. To reward herself, she decided to bike to the village for a late lunch at O’Malley’s.

There was a bite to the air, and the layered clouds to the west promised rain before nightfall. She pulled on her cap, pumped up her rear tire, which was going flat, then guided the bike around the house and through the gate.

She set off at a leisurely pace, dreaming a bit over the harvesting in the fields. The fuchsia continued to bloom in teardrops of red despite the threat of early frost. The landscape would change as soon as winter set it, become barren and swept by a bitter wind. But it would still be beautiful. The nights would lengthen, urging people to their fires. The rains would come, sweeping across the Atlantic with the wail of the wind.

She looked forward to it, and to the work she would do in the chilly months ahead.

She wondered if she could convince Rogan to come west during the winter, and if she did, would he find charm in the rattling windows and smoky fires. She hoped that he would. And when he stopped punishing her, she hoped that they could go back to the way things had been before that last night in France.

He’d see reason, she told herself, and leaned low over the bike against the wind. She’d make him see it. She’d even forgive him for being high-handed, overconfident and dictatorial. The moment they were together again, she would be calm and cool and sweet-tongued. They’d put this foolish disagreement behind them, and—

She had time to squeal, barely, and to swerve into the hedgerows as a car barreled around the curve. Brakes screamed, the car veered, and Maggie ended up bottom first in the blackthorn.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what kind of a blind, ignorant fool is it who tries to run down innocent people?” She shoved the cap back that had fallen over her eyes and glared. “Oh, of course. It would be you.”

“Are you hurt?” Rogan was out of the car and beside her in an instant. “Don’t try to move.”

“I can move, curse you.” She batted his exploring hands away. “What do you mean driving at that horrible speed? This isn’t a raceway.”

The heart that had lodged hard in his throat freed itself. “I wasn’t driving that fast. You were in the middle of the road, daydreaming. If I’d come around that turn a second sooner, I’d have flattened you like a rabbit.”

“I wasn’t daydreaming. Minding my own business was what I was doing, not expecting some jackeen to come speeding along in a fancy car.” She brushed off the seat of her pants, then kicked her bike. “Now see what you’ve done. I’ve a puncture.”

“You’re lucky it’s the tire that’s flat and not yourself.”

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I’m putting this excuse for transportation in the car.” Once he’d done so, he turned back to her. “Come on, I’ll drive you back home.”

“I wasn’t going home. If you had any sense of direction, you’d see I was going to the village, where I was going to have a meal.”

“That’ll have to wait.” He took her arm in the proprietary manner she forgot she’d found amusing.

“Oh, will it? Well, you can drive me to the village or nowhere at all, because I’m hungry.”

“I’ll drive you home,” he said again. “I have something to discuss with you, privately. If I’d been able to get through to you this morning, I could have told you I was coming and you wouldn’t have been riding that bike in the middle of the road.”

With this, he slammed the car door behind her and skirted the hood.

“If you’d been able to get through this morning, and had had this nasty way about you, I’d have told you not to bother to come at all.”

“I’ve had a difficult morning, Maggie.” He resisted the urge to rub at the headache drumming behind his temples. “Don’t push me.”

She began to, then saw that he’d said no more than the truth. There was trouble in his eyes. “Is it a problem at work?”

“No. Actually, I do have some complications with a project in Limerick. I’m on my way there.”

“So you’re not staying.”

“No.” He glanced at her. “I’m not staying. But it isn’t the factory expansion I need to speak with you about.” He stopped at her gate, shut off the car. “If you’ve nothing to eat, I’ll run into the village and bring something back.”

“It’s not a problem. I can make do.” She relented enough to close a hand over his. “I’m glad to see you, even though you nearly ran me down.”

“I’m glad to see you.” He lifted the hand to his lips. “Even though you nearly ran into me. I’ll get your bike out.”

“Just leave it in front.” After striding up the walk, she turned. “Have you a proper kiss for me?”

It was hard to resist that quick flash of smile, or the way she reached up to link her hands behind his head. “I’ve a kiss for you, proper or not.”

It was easy to meet the heat, to draw the energy in. What was difficult was to check the need, that instant desire to back her through the door and take it all.

“Perhaps I was daydreaming a bit before,” she said, tugging on his lips. “I was thinking of you, and wondering how much longer you’d punish me.”

“How do you mean?”

“By staying away from me.” She spoke airily as she pushed through the door.

“I wasn’t punishing you.”

“Just staying away, then.”

“Distancing myself, to give you time to think.”

“And time to miss you.”

“To miss me. And to change your mind.”

“I have missed you, but I haven’t changed my mind or anything else. Why don’t you sit? I need to get some more turf for the fire.”

“I love you, Maggie.”

That stopped her, had her closing her eyes a moment before she turned back. “I believe you might, Rogan, and though something in me warms to it, it changes nothing.” She hurried out.

He hadn’t come to beg, he reminded himself. He’d come to ask her to help him with a problem. Though from her reaction, he believed things were changing more than she was ready to admit.

He paced to the window, to the sagging sofa, back again.

“Will you sit?” she demanded when she came back with her arms piled with turf blocks. “You’ll wear out the floor. What’s this business in Limerick?”

“A few complications, that’s all.” He watched as she knelt at the hearth and expertly stacked fuel. It occurred to him that he’d never seen anyone build a turf fire before. A restful sight, he mused, that drew a man close to seek that warm red heart. “We’re expanding the factory.”

“Oh, and what do you make at your factory?”

“China. For the most part the inexpensive sort that’s fashioned into mementos.”

“Mementos?” She paused at her work, leaned back on her haunches. “Souvenirs, you mean? Not those little bells and teacups and such in the tourist shops?”

“They’re very well done.”

She tossed back her head and laughed. “Oh, it’s rich. I’ve hired myself a man who makes little plates with shamrocks all over them.”

“Have you any idea what percent of our economy depends on tourism, on the sale of little plates with shamrocks on them, or hand-knit sweaters, linen, lace, bloody postcards?”

“No.” She snorted behind her hand. “But I’m sure you can tell me, down to the pence. Tell me, Rogan, do you do much business in plaster leprechauns, or plastic shillelaghs?”

“I didn’t come here to justify my business to you, or to discuss the fact that this expansion—which will allow us to manufacture some of the finest china produced in Ireland—will create more than a hundred new jobs in a part of the country that desperately needs them.”

She waved a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, I’ve insulted you. I’m sure there’s a rising need for thimbles and ashtrays and cups that say ‘Erin Go Bragh.’ It’s just hard for me, you see, to picture a man who wears such wonderful suits owning a place that makes them.”

“The fact that I do makes it possible for Worldwide to subsidize and offer grants to a number of artists each year. Even if they are snobs.”

She rubbed the back of her hand over her nose. “That puts me in my place. And since I don’t want to waste what time we have arguing, we’ll say no more about it. Are you going to sit, or just stand there and glower at me? Not that you don’t look fine, even with a scowl on your face.”

He surrendered on a long breath. “Your work’s going well?”

“Very well.” She shifted, crossing her legs on the rug. “I’ll show you what’s new before you go, if there’s time.”

“We’re a little behind at the gallery. I suppose I should tell you that Joseph and Patricia have eloped.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve had a card from them.”

He tilted his head. “You don’t seem at all surprised.”

“I’m not. They were crazy in love with each other.”

“I seem to recall you claiming Patricia was crazy in love with me.”

“Not at all. I said she was half in love with you, and I’ll stand by that. I imagine she wanted to be in love with you—it would have been so convenient after all. But it was Joseph all along. That’s not what’s troubling you, is it?”

“No. I admit it took me by surprise, but it doesn’t trouble me. I’ve come to realize I took Joseph’s skills for granted. He’ll be back tomorrow, and I’m grateful for it.”

“Then what is it?”

“Have you had a letter from your uncle Niall?”

“Brianna has. She’s the one who gets them, as she’s the one who’ll remember to answer back. He wrote to tell her he’d be visiting Dublin and might pass through on his way back home. Have you seen him?”

“Seen him?” On a sound of disgust, Rogan pushed out of the chair again. “I can’t get near my grandmother without stepping all over him. He’s settled himself in her house for two weeks past. We’ve got to decide what to do about it.”

“Why should we do anything?”

“Are you listening to me, Maggie? They’ve been living together. My grandmother and your uncle—”

“Great-uncle, actually.”

“Whatever the devil he is to you, they’ve been having a flaming affair.”

“Have they?” Maggie let out a roar of approving laughter. “Well, that’s wonderful.”

“Wonderful? It’s insane. She’s been acting like some giddy girl, going dancing, staying out half the night, sharing her bed with a man whose suits are the color of fried eggs.”

“So you object to his taste in clothes?”

“I object to him. I’ll not have him waltzing into my grandmother’s house and planting himself in the parlor as if he belongs there. I don’t know what his game is, but I won’t have him exploiting her generous heart, her vulnerability. If he thinks he’ll get his hands on one penny of her money—”

“Hold that.” She sprang up like a tiger. “’Tis my blood you’re speaking of, Sweeney.”

“This is no time to be overly sensitive.”

“Overly sensitive.” She jabbed him in the chest. “Look who’s talking. You’re jealous because your granny’s got someone besides you in her life.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true as the day. Do you think a man couldn’t be interested in her, but for her money?”

Familial pride stiffened his spine. “My grandmother is a beautiful, intelligent woman.”

“I’ll not disagree with that. And my Uncle Niall is no fortune hunter. He retired from his business most comfortably set. He may not have a villa in France or wear suits tailored by the bloody British, but he’s done well enough and has no need to play gigolo. And I won’t have you speak of me kin in such a way in me own house.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you. I’ve come to you because, as their family, it’s up to us to do something about the situation. Since they’re planning a trip to Galway within the next few days, and passing by here on the way, I’d hoped you might speak with him.”

“Certainly I’ll speak with him. He’s my kin, isn’t he? I’d hardly ignore him. But I won’t help you interfere. You’re the snob, Rogan, and a prude as well.”

“Prude?”

“You’re offended by the idea of your grandmother having a rich and full sex life.”

He winced, hissed through his teeth. “Oh please. I don’t want to imagine it.”

“Nor should you, since it’s her private business.” Her mouth twitched. “Still…it’s interesting.”

“Don’t.” Defeated, he sank into the chair again. “If there’s one picture I don’t want in my mind, it’s that.”

“Actually, I can’t quite get it there myself. Now, wouldn’t it be a strange thing if they married? Then we’d be in the way of cousins after all.” Laughing, she slapped his back when he choked. “Could you use a whiskey, darling?”

“I could. Maggie.” He took several deep breaths. “Maggie,” he called again as she rummaged through in the kitchen. “I don’t want her to be hurt.”

“I know.” She came back, holding two glasses. “It’s knowing that that kept me from bloodying your nose when you spoke so of Uncle Niall. Your gran’s a fine woman, Rogan, and a wise one.”

“She’s—” Finally, he said it aloud. “She’s all I have left of my family.”

Maggie’s eyes gentled. “You’re not losing her.”