Born in Fire Read online

  "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. "1 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 sur prised."

  "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 grate ful 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 grand mother 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 gener ous 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 grand mother 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 mo
uth 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."

  He let out a breath, stared into his glass. "I suppose you think I'm being a fool."

  "No, I don't—exactly." She smiled when his eyes lifted to hers. "A man can be expected to be a bit jittery when his granny takes on a boyfriend."

  Rogan winced. She laughed.

  "Why not let her be happy? If it eases your mind, I'll look the situation over when they stop here."

  That's something at least." He touched his glass to hers, and they tossed the whiskey back together. "I have to go."

  "You've hardly been here. Why don't you come to the pub with me and we'll have a meal together. Or"—she slipped her arms around him—"we'll stay here and go hungry."

  No, he thought as he lowered his mouth to hers. They wouldn't be hungry for long.

  "I can't stay." He set the empty glass aside to take her by her shoulders. "If I did we'd only end up in bed. That wouldn't solve anything."

  There doesn't have to be anything to solve. Why must you make it complicated? We're good to gether."

  "We are." He framed her face in his hands. "Very good together. That's only one of die reasons I want to spend my life with you. No, don't draw away. Nothing you told me changes what we can have. Once you realize that, you'll come to me. I can wait."

  "You'll just go, then stay away again? So, it's marriage or nothing?"

  "It's marriage." He kissed her again. "And every thing. I'll be in Limerick for almost a week. The office knows where to reach me."

  "I won't call."

  He traced a thumb over her lips. "But you'll want to. That's enough for now."

  Chapter Nineteen

  YOU'RE being pigheaded, Maggie."

  "You know, I'm tired of having that particular word applied to me." With goggles protecting her eyes, Maggie experimented with lamp work. For nearly a week everything she'd free-blown had dis satisfied her. For a change of pace she had set up a half-dozen torches, three clamped to each side of a bench, and was heating a tube of glass in the cross fire.

  "Well, if it's applied to you often enough, it may be true," Brianna shot back. "It's family. You can spare one evening for family."

  "It isn't a matter of time." She meant this, though for some reason, Maggie felt time was breathing down her neck like a snarling dog. "Why should I subject myself to having dinner with her?" Carefully, brows knit, she began to pull and rotate the softened glass. "I can tell you I have no appetite for it. Nor will she."

  "'Tisn't just Mother who'll be coming. Uncle Niall and Mrs. Sweeney will be there. And Lottie, of course, It would be rude of you not to come."

  "I've been told I'm that, as well as pigheaded." As with everything else she'd touched over the last few days, the glass refused to follow the vision in her head. The vision itself blurred, infuriating her as much as it frightened her. Pure obstinancy kept her working.

  "You haven't seen Uncle Niall since Da's wake. And he's bringing Rogan's grandmother, for heav en's sake. You told me you liked her very much."

  "I do." Damn it, what was wrong with her hands? What was wrong with her heart? She fused one rod to the other, burned it off, returned, burned it off. "Perhaps one of the reasons I don't want to be there is so she'll not be subjected to one of our happy family meals."

  The sarcasm was as hot as one of Maggie's points of flame. Brianna faced it down with ice. "It wouldn't cost you much to put aside your feelings for one night. If Uncle Niall and Mrs. Sweeney are going out of their way to visit us before going on to Galway, we'll welcome them. All of us."

  "Stop badgering me, will you? You're pecking away at me like a damn duck. Can't you see I'm working?"

  "You hardly do anything else, so it's necessary to interrupt you if I want a word. They'll be here shortly, Maggie, and I'll not make excuses for you."

  In a gesture similar to her sister's habitual stance, Brianna folded her arms. "I'll stand right here and keep pecking until you do what's expected of you."

  "All right, all right. Jesus. I'll come to the damn dinner."

  Brianna smiled serenely. She'd never expected less. "At half seven. I'm serving my guests earlier so we'll have a private family meal."

  "And oh, what a jolly time that will be."

  "It'll go well enough if you promise to hold that nasty tongue of yours. I'm only asking for the smallest of efforts."

  "I'll smile, I'll be polite. I won't eat with me fingers." With a bitter sigh, Maggie shoved up her goggles and held the figure on the end of the tube out of the flames.

  "What have you done there?" Curious, Brianna stepped closer.

  "Gone mad."

  "It's pretty. Is it a unicorn?"

  "Aye, a unicorn—only needs a touch of gold on the horn to make it complete." She laughed, turning the mythical figure in the air. "It's a joke, Brie, a poor one. On me. It'll be swans next, I'm sure. Or those little dogs with puffs for tails." She set her work aside, briskly turned off her torches. "Well, that's that, I suppose. I'll hardly do anything worthwhile today, so I'll be along to your dinner party. God help you."

  "Why don't you rest awhile, Maggie? You look awfully tired."

  "Perhaps I will, after I crate up a few pieces." She tossed the goggles aside, rubbed her hands over her face. She was tired, Maggie realized. Outrageously so. "You needn't worry, Brie, you'll not have to send out the dogs for me. I've said I'll be there." . "I'm grateful." Brianna reached down to squeeze her sister's hand. "I have to go back, make certain everything's in place. Half seven, Maggie." "I know."

  She waved her sister out. To keep her mind on practical matters, she took one of the crates she'd made and packed it with padding. After spreading bubble wrap over a table, she turned to the shelves at the back of the shop. There was only one piece there, the last she'd completed before Rogan's visit. Tall and sturdy, the trunk speared up, then curved, flooding down in slim, graceful limbs mat almost seemed to sway. It would stand, she thought, like the willow that had inspired it. And it would bend, yielding, even as it remained true to itself. The color was a deep, pure blue mat flooded up from the base and paled gently to the delicate tips. She wrapped it carefully, for it was more than a sculpture. This was the last work she'd been able to draw successfully from her heart. Nothing she had attempted since then had gelled. Day after day she had labored only to remelt and remelt. Day after day she came closer to releasing the panic that jittered inside her.

  His fault, she told herself as she secured the top of the crate. His fault for tempting her with fame and fortune, for exposing her vanity to such a stunning and fast success. Now she was blocked, dried up. As hollow as the tube she'd fashioned into a unicorn. He'd made her want too much. Want him too much. Then he had walked away and let her see, brutally, what it was like to have nothing. She wouldn't give up, nor would she give in. Maggie promised herself she would have her pride at least. While her furnace roared mockingly she sat in her chair, felt the familiarity of its shape.

  It was only that she'd been working too hard, surely. She'd been pushing herself to do better and better work with each piece. The pressure of holding on to success had blocked her, that was all. She couldn't suppress the idea that as the tour moved on from Par
is it would be found wanting. That she would be found wanting. That she would never again pick up the pipe just for herself, just for the pleasure of it. Rogan had changed all that. He had, as she'd told him he would, changed her.

  '' 'And how was it, she thought, closing her eyes, how could it be that a man could make you love him by going away?

  "You've done well for yourself, haven't you, darling?" Niall, stuffed into one of his bright-hued suits like a happy sausage, beamed at Brianna. "I always 1 you were a clever lass. Takes after me dear sister, does Brianna, Chrissy."

  "You have a lovely home." Christine accepted die i Brianna offered. "And your gardens are simply breathtaking."

  "Thank you. They give me pleasure." "Rogan told me how he enjoyed his brief stay ' Christine sighed, content with the warmth of the fire and the glow of the lamp. "I can see why." "She's got the touch." Niall gave Brianna a bone-crushing squeeze around the shoulders. "In the blood, you know. Blood runs true." So it seems. I knew your grandmother quite well."

  "Chrissy was underfoot all the time." Niall winked. Thought I didn't notice her. Shy was what I was." never had a shy moment in your life," Christine said with a laugh. "You thought I was a nuisance." If I did, I've changed me mind." He leaned over and under Brianna's curious eye, kissed Christine firmly on the mouth.

  "It took you more than fifty years."

  "Seems like yesterday."

  "Well ..." Disconcerted, Brianna cleared her throat. "I suppose I should check on ... I believe that's Mother and Lottie," she continued when raised voices boomed down the hallway.

  "You drive like a blind woman," Maeve com plained. "I'll walk back to Ennis before I get into that car with you again."

  "If you can do better, you should drive yourself. Then you'd have a sense of independence." Obvi ously unconcerned, Lottie strolled into the parlor, unwrapping a thick scarf from around her neck. "It's a chilly night," she announced, rosy-cheeked and smiling.

  "And you dragging me out in it'll put me in bed for a week."

  "Mother." Shoulders braced against embarrass ment, Brianna helped Maeve off with her coat. "I'd like you to meet Mrs. Sweeney. Mrs. Sweeney, this is my mother, Maeve Concannon, and our friend Lottie Sullivan."

  "I'm delighted to meet you both." Christine rose to offer her hand to both women. "I was a friend of your mother's, Mrs. Concannon. We were girls to gether in Galway. I was Christine Rogan then."

  "She spoke of you," Maeve said shortly. "I'm pleased to meet you." Her gaze shifted to her uncle, narrowed. "Well, Uncle Niall, is it? You haven't graced us with your presence for many a day."

  "It warms my heart to see you, Maeve." He envel oped her in an embrace, patting her stiff back with a beefy hand. "I hope the years have been kind to you."

  "Why would they?" The moment she was freed, Maeve sat in a chair by the fire. "This fire's drawing poorly, Brianna."

  It wasn't, but Brianna walked over to make minute adjustments to the flue.

  "Stop fussing," Niall ordered with a casual wave of his hand. "It's drawing fine. We all know Maeve lives to complain."

  "Doesn't she, now?" Lottie spoke pleasantly while she pulled her knitting needles from the basket she'd brought along. "I pay no mind to it myself. But that comes from raising four children, I suppose."

  Unsure what step to take, Christine focused on Lottie. "What lovely wool, Mrs. Sullivan."

  Thank you. I'm partial to it myself. Had you a nice trip from Dublin, then?"