Born in Fire Page 16

  "Maggie," he said again, and brushed the tousled hair from her cheek. "What a woman you are. It's hard to be sorry for trampling, or for being trampled when I—" He broke off. He'd lifted her hand as he spoke, started to kiss her fingers, when his gaze landed on the dark smudges on her arm. Appalled, he started. "I've hurt you."

  "Mmm. Now that you mention it, I'm beginning to feel it." She rolled her shoulder. "I must have hit the doorway pretty hard. Now, you were about to say?"

  He shifted off of her. "I'm terribly sorry," he said in an odd voice. "It's inexcusable. An apology's hardly adequate for my behavior."

  Her head tilted, and she took a good long look at him. Breeding, she thought again. How else could a buck-naked man sitting on a rumpled bed appear so dignified. "Your behavior?" she repeated. "I'd say it was more our behavior, Rogan, and that it was well done on both parts." Laughing at him, she pushed herself up and locked her arms around his neck. "Do you think a few bruises will wilt me like a rose, Rogan? They won't, I promise you, especially when I earned them."

  The point is—"

  "The point is we tumbled each other. Now stop acting as though I'm a fragile blossom that can't admit to having enjoyed a good, hot bout of sex. Because I enjoyed it very much, and so, my fine fellow, did you."

  He trailed a fingertip over the faint bruise above her wrist. "I'd rather I hadn't marked you."

  "Well, it's not a brand that's permanent."

  No, it wasn't. But there was something else, in his carelessness, that could be. "Maggie, I wasn't thinking before, and I certainly didn't leave Dublin today planning on ending up like this. It's a little late to be thinking of being responsible now." In frustration he dragged a hand through his hair. "Could I have gotten you pregnant?"

  She blinked, sat back on her haunches. Let out a long breath. Born in fire. She remembered her father had told her she'd been born in fire. And this was what he'd meant. "No." She said it flatly, her emotions too mixed and unsteady for her to explore. "The timing's wrong. And I'm responsible for myself, Rogan."

  "I should have seen to it." He reached over to rub his knuckles down her cheek. "You dazzled me, Maggie, sitting on my lap with your wildflowers. You dazzle me now."

  Her smile came back, lighting her eyes first, then curving her lips. "I was coming across the fields away from my sister's and toward home. The sun was bright, Murphy was haying in his field, and there were flowers at my feet. I haven't felt so happy since my father died five years ago. Then I saw you in the kitchen, working. And it may be I was dazzled as well."

  She knelt again, rested her head on his shoulder. "Must you go back to Dublin tonight, Rogan?"

  All the minute and tedious details of his schedule ran like a river through his brain. Her scent, mixed with his own, settled over them like a mist. "I can rearrange some things, leave in the morning."

  She leaned back, smiled. "And I'd rather not go, out to dinner."

  "I'll cancel the reservations." He glanced around the room. "Don't you have a phone up here?"

  Tor what? So it can ring in my ear and wake me up?"

  "I can't think why I asked." He eased away to tug on the wrinkled slacks of his suit. "I'll go down, make some calls." He looked back to where she knelt in the center of the narrow, rumpled bed. "Very quick calls."

  "They could wait," she shouted after him.

  "I don't intend to be interrupted by anything until morning." He hurried down, sentimentally scooping up a tattered meadowsweet as he went.

  Upstairs, Maggie waited five minutes, then six before climbing out of bed. She stretched, wincing a bit at the aches. She considered the robe that was tossed carelessly over a chair, then humming to herself, strolled downstairs without it. He was still on the phone, the receiver cocked on his shoulder as he made notes in his book. The light, softer now, pooled at his feet. "Reschedule that for eleven. No, eleven," he repeated. "I'll be back in the office by ten. Yes, and contact Joseph, will you, Eileen? Tell him I've having another shipment sent from Clare. Concannon's work, yes. I ..."

  He heard the sound behind him, glanced back. Maggie stood like some flame-crowned goddess, all alabaster skin, sleek curves and knowing eyes. His secretary's voice buzzed in his ear like an annoying fly.

  "What? The what?" His eyes, their expression dazed at first, then heated, skimmed up, then down, then up again to lock on Maggie's face. "I'll deal with it when I get back." His stomach muscles quivered when Maggie stepped forward and jerked down the zipper of his slacks. "No," he said in a strangled voice. "You can't reach me anymore today. I'm . . ." The breath hissed between his teeth when Maggie took him in her long, artist's fingers. "Sweet Jesus.

  Tomorrow," he said with the last of his control. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  He slapped the receiver into the cradle, where it jiggled then slipped off to crash against the counter. "I interrupted your call," she began, then laughed when he dragged her against him. It was happening again. He could almost stand outside himself and watch the animal inside take over. With one desperate yank, he pulled her head back by the hair and savaged her throat, her mouth. The need to take her was raging, some fatal drug that stabbed into his veins, speeding up his heartbeat and clouding his mind. He would hurt her again. Even knowing it, he couldn't stop. With a sound, part rage, part triumph, he pushed her back on the kitchen table. He had the dark, twisted satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in surprise. "Rogan, your papers."

  He jerked her hips from the edge of the wood, raising them with his hands. His eyes were warrior bright on hers as he drove himself into her. Her hand flailed out, knocked the cup from its saucer and sent both flying to the floor. China shattered, even as the jolting table sent his open briefcase crashing to the ground. Stars seemed to explode in front of Maggie's eyes as she gave herself up to the delirium. She felt the rough wood on her back, the sweat that bloomed up to slicken her skin. And when he braced her legs higher and thrust himself deep, she could have sworn she felt him touch her heart. Then she felt nothing at all but the wild wind that tossed her up and up and over that jagged-edged peak. She gasped for air like a woman drowning, then expelled it on a long, languorous moan. Later, sometime later, when she found she could speak, she was cradled in his arms. "Did you finish your calls, then?" He laughed and carried her out of the kitchen.

  It was early when he left her. A sunshower tossed wavering rainbows into the morning sky. She'd made some sleepy offer to brew him tea, then had drifted off again. So he'd gone to the kitchen alone. There'd been a miserable jar of hardening instant coffee in her cupboard. Though he'd winced, Rogan had settled for it, and for the single egg in her refrigerator. He was gathering up, and trying to sort out, his scattered papers when she stumbled into the kitchen. She was heavy-eyed and rumpled, and barely grunted at him as she headed for the kettle. So much, he thought, for loverlike farewells.

  "I used what appeared to be your last clean towel."

  She grunted again and scooped out tea.

  "And you ran out of hot water in the middle of my shower."

  This time she only yawned.

  "You don't have any eggs."

  She muttered something that sounded like "Murphy's hens."

  He tapped his wrinkled papers together and stacked them in his briefcase. "I've left the clippings you wanted on the counter. There'll be a truck by this afternoon to pick up the shipment. You'll need to crate it before one o'clock." When she made no answer at all to this, he snapped his briefcase closed. "I have to go." Annoyed, he strode to her, took her chin firmly in hand and kissed her. "I'll miss you, too."

  He was out the front door before she could gather her wits and chase after him. "Rogan! For pity's sake, hold up a moment. I've barely got my eyes open." He turned just as she launched herself at him. Off balance, he nearly tumbled them both into the flower bed. Then she was caught close and they were kissing each other breathless in the soft, luminous rain.

  "I will miss you, damn it." She pressed her face into his shoulder, breathed d
eep.

  "Come with me. Go throw some things in a bag and come with me."

  "I can't." She drew back, surprised at how sorry she

  was to have to refuse. "I've some things I need to do. And I—I can't really work in Dublin."

  "No," he said after a long moment. "I don't suppose you can."

  "Could you come back? Take a day or two."

  "It's not possible now. In a couple of weeks, perhaps I could."

  "Well, that's not so long." It seemed like eternity. "We can both get what needs to be done done, and then . . ."

  "And then." He bent to kiss her. "You'll think of me, Margaret Mary."

  "I will."

  She watched him go, carrying his briefcase to the car, starting the engine, backing out into the road. She stood for a long time after the sound of the car had faded, until the rain stopped and the sun gilded the morning.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MAGGIE walked across the empty living room, took a long look out of the front window, then retraced her steps. It was the fifth house she had considered in a week, the only one not currently occupied by hopeful sellers, and the last one she intended to view. It was on the outskirts of Ennis, a bit farther away than Brianna might have liked—and not far enough to Maggie's taste. It was new, which was in its favor, a box of a house with the rooms all on one floor. Two bedrooms, Maggie mused as she walked through yet again. A bath, a kitchen with room for eating, a living area with plenty of light and tidy brick hearth. She took one last glance, set her fists on her hips. 'This is it."

  "Maggie, it's certainly the right size for her." Brianna nibbled her lip as she scanned the empty room. "But shouldn't we have something closer to home?"

  "Why? She hates it there in any case."

  "But—"

  "And this is closer to more conveniences. Food shops, the chemist, places to eat out if she's of a mind to."

  "She never goes out."

  "It's time she did. And since she won't have you jumping at every snap of her finger, she'll have to, won't she?"

  "I don't jump." Spine stiff, Brianna walked to the window. "And the fact of the matter is, she's likely to refuse to move here in any case."

  "She won't refuse." Not, Maggie thought, with the ax I hold over her head. "If you'll let go of that guilt you love wrapping about you for a moment, you'll admit this is best for everyone. She'll be happier in her own place—or as happy as a woman of her nature can be. You can give her whatever she wants out of the house if that eases your conscience, or I'll give her money to buy new. Which is what she'd rather."

  "Maggie, the place is charmless."

  "And so is our mother." Before Brianna could retort, Maggie crossed to her and swung an arm around the stiffened shoulders. "You'll make a garden, right outside the door there. We'll have the walls painted or papered or whatever it takes."

  "It could be made nice."

  "No one's better suited to do that than you. You'll draw out whatever money it takes until the two of you are satisfied."

  "It's not fair, Maggie, that you should bear all this expense."

  "Fairer than you might think." The time had come, Maggie decided, to speak to Brianna about their mother. "Did you know she used to sing? Professionally?"

  "Mother?" The idea was so farfetched, Brianna laughed. "Where did you get a notion like that?"

  "It's true. I learned of it by accident, and I've checked to be sure." Reaching into her purse, Maggie pulled out the yellowed clippings. "You can see for yourself, she was even written up a few times."

  Speechless, Brianna scanned the newsprint, stared at the faded photo. "She sang in Dublin," she murmured. "She had a living. 'A voice as clear and sweet as church bells on Easter morning,' it says. But how can this be? She's never once spoken of it. Nor Da either."

  "I've thought of it quite a lot in the last few days." Turning away, Maggie walked to the window again. "She lost something she wanted, and got something she didn't. All this time she's punished herself, and all of us."

  Dazed, Brianna lowered the clipping. "But she never sang at home. Not a note. Ever."

  "I'm thinking she couldn't bear to, or considered her refusal penance for her sin. Probably both." A weariness came over Maggie and she struggled to fight it back. "I'm trying to excuse her for it, Brie, to imagine how devastated she must have been when she learned she was pregnant with me. And being what she is, there'd have been nothing for her but marriage."

  "It was wrong of her to blame you, Maggie. It always was. That's no less true today."

  "Perhaps. Still, it gives me more of an understanding as to why she's never loved me. Never will."

  "Have you ..." Carefully Brianna folded the clippings and slipped them into her own purse. "Have you spoken to her of it?"

  "I tried to. She won't talk about it. It could have been different." Maggie whirled back, hating the burden of guilt she couldn't shake. "It could have been. If she couldn't have the career she wanted, there could have been music still. Did she have to shut off everything because she couldn't have it all?"

  "I don't know the answer. Some people aren't content with less than all."

  "It can't be changed," Maggie said firmly. "But we'll give her this, we'll give all of us this."

  How quickly money dribbled away, Maggie thought a few days later. It seemed the more you had, the more you needed. But the deed to the house was now in Maeve's name, and the details, the dozens of them that came from establishing a home, were being dealt with, one by one. A pity the details of her own life seemed to hang in limbo. She'd barely spoken to Rogan, she thought as she sulked at her kitchen table. Oh, there'd been messages relayed through his Eileen and Joseph, but he rarely bothered to contact her directly. Or to come back, as he'd said he would. Well, that was fine, she thought. She was busy in any case. There were any number of sketches that were begging to be turned into glass. If she was a bit late getting started this morning, it was only because she'd yet to decide which project to pursue first. It certainly wasn't because she was waiting for the blasted phone to ring. She got up and started to the door when she saw Brianna through the window, the devoted wolfhound at her heels.

  "Good. I hoped I'd catch you before you started for the day." Brianna took the basket from her arm as she stepped into the kitchen.

  "You did, just. Is it going well?"

  "Very." Brisk and efficient, Brianna uncovered the steaming muffins she'd brought along. "Finding Lottie Sullivan's like a gift from God." She smiled, thinking of the retired nurse they'd hired as Maeve's companion. "She's simply wonderful, Maggie. Like part of the family already. Yesterday, when I was working on the front flower beds, Mother was carrying on about how it was too late in the year for planting and how the paint on the outside of the house was the wrong color. And, oh, just being contrary. And Lottie was standing there laughing, disagreeing with everything she said. I swear, the two of them were having the time of their lives."

  "I wish I'd seen it." Maggie broke open a muffin. The smell of it, and the picture Brianna had put in her head, almost made up for postponing her morning's work. "You found a treasure there, Brie. Lot-tie'll keep her in line."

  "It's more than that. She really enjoys doing it. Every time Mother says something horrid, Lottie just laughs and winks and goes about her business. I never thought I'd say it, Maggie, but I really believe this is going to work."

  "Of course it's going to work." Maggie tossed a bit of muffin to the patiently hopeful Con. "Did you ask Murphy if he'd help move her bed and the other things she wants?"

  "I didn't have to. Word's out that you've bought her a house near Ennis. I've had a dozen people drop by in the last two weeks, casuallike. Murphy already offered his back and his lorry."

  "Then she'll be moved tidily in with Lottie before the next week is up. I've bought us a bottle of champagne, and we're going to drink ourselves drunk when it's done."

  Brianna's lips twitched, but her voice was sober. "It's not something to celebrate."

&
nbsp; 'Then I'll just drop in, casual like," Maggie said with a sly grin. "With a bottle of bubbly under me arm."

  Though Brianna smiled back, her heart wasn't in it. "Maggie, I tried to talk to her about her singing." She was sorry to see the light go out of her sister's eyes. "I thought I should."

  "Of course you did." Losing her appetite for the muffin, Maggie tossed the rest to Con. "Did you have better luck than I?"

  "No. She wouldn't talk to me, only got angry." It wasn't worth recounting the verbal blows punch by punch, Brianna thought. To do so would only serve to spread the unhappiness more thickly. "She went off to her room, but she took the clippings with her."

  "Well, that's something. Perhaps they'll comfort her." Maggie jolted when the phone rang and scrambled out of her chair so quickly that Brianna gaped. "Hello. Oh, Eileen, is it?" The disappointment in her voice was unmistakable. "Yes, I've the photos you sent for the catalog. They look more than fine. Perhaps I should tell Mr. Sweeney myself that— oh, a meeting. No, that's all right, then, you can tell him I approved of them. You're welcome. Goodbye."

  "You answered the phone," Brianna commented.

  "Of course I did. It rang, didn't it?"

  The waspish tone of her sister's voice had Brianna's brow arching. "Were you expecting a call?"

  "No. Why would you think so?"

  "Well, the way you went leaping up, like you were after snatching a child from in front of a car."

  Oh, had she? Maggie thought. Had she done that? It was humiliating. "I don't like the damn thing ringing my ears off, that's all. I've got to get to work." With that as a fare-thee-well, she stalked out of the kitchen.

  It didn't matter a tinker's damn to her whether he called or not, Maggie told herself. Maybe it had been three weeks since he'd gone back to Dublin, maybe she'd only spoken to him twice in all that time, but it hardly mattered to her. She was much too busy to be bothered chattering over the phone, or entertaining him if he came to see her. As he'd bloody well said he would, she added silently, and slammed the shop door behind her. She didn't need Rogan Sweeney's company, or anyone's. She had herself. Maggie picked up her pipe and went to work.

  The Connellys' formal dining room would have reminded Maggie of a set she had seen on the glossy soap opera that had been on television the day her father died. Everything gleamed and sparkled and shone. Wine of the very best vintage glimmered gold in the crystal, shooting rainbows into the facets. Candles, slim and white, added to the elegance of light showered down from the five-tiered chandelier. The people surrounding the lace-decked table were every bit as polished as the room. Anne, in sapphire silk and her grandmother's diamonds, was the picture of the gracious hostess. Dennis, flushed from the good meal and better company, beamed at his daughter. Patricia looked particularly lovely, and as delicate as the pastel pink and creamy pearls she wore. Across from her, Rogan sipped at his wine and struggled to keep his mind from wandering west, toward Maggie.

  "It's so nice to have a quiet family meal." Anne picked at the miserly portion of pheasant on her plate. The scale had warned her that she'd added two pounds in the last month, and that would never do. "I hope you're not disappointed I didn't invite a party, Rogan."

  "Of course not. It's a pleasure, a rare one for me these days, to spend a quiet evening with friends."

  "Exactly what I've been telling Dennis," Anne went on. "Why, we've hardly seen you in months. You work much too hard, Rogan."

  "A man can't work too hard at something he loves," Dennis put in.

  "Ah, you and your man's work." Anne laughed lightly and barely resisted kicking her husband smartly under the table. 'Too much business makes a man tense, I say. Especially if he has no wife to soothe him." Knowing just where this was leading, Patricia did her best to change the subject. "You had a wonderful success with Miss Concannon's showing, Rogan. And I've heard the American Indian art has been very well received."

  "Yes, on both counts. The American art is moving to the Cork gallery this week, and Maggie's—Miss Concannon's—moves on to Paris shortly. She's finished some astonishing pieces this past month."

  "I've seen a few of them. I believe Joseph covets the globe. The one with all the colors and shapes inside. It's quite fascinating really." Patricia folded her hands in her lap as the dessert course was served. "I wonder how it was done."

  "As it happens, I was there when she made it." He remembered the heat, the bleeding colors, the siz zling sparks. "And I still can't explain it to you."

  The look in his eyes put Anne on full alert. "Knowing too much about the artistic process can spoil the enjoyment, don't you think? I'm sure it's all routine to Miss Concannon, after all. Patricia, you haven't told us about your little project? How is the day school going?"

  "It's coming along nicely, thank you."

  "Imagine our little Patricia starting a school." Anne smiled indulgently.

  Rogan realized with a guilty start that he hadn't asked Patricia about her pet project in weeks. "Have you found a location, then?"

  "Yes, I have. It's a house off Mountjoy Square. The building will require some renovation, of course. I've hired an architect. The grounds are more than suitable, with plenty of space for play areas. I hope to have it ready for children by next spring."