Born in Fire
Page 50
Maeve pressed her lips together. Oh, it crushed the pride to bargain with the girl. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“Because I give it to you. Because I swear these things to you on my father’s soul.” Maggie rose. “That will have to content you. Tell Brianna I’ll be by to pick her up at ten tomorrow.” And with these words, Maggie turned on her heel and walked away.
Chapter Twelve
SHE took her time walking back, again choosing the fields rather than the road. As she went she gathered wildflowers, the meadowsweet and valerian that sunned themselves among the grass. Murphy’s well-fed cows, their udders plump and nearly ready for milking, grazed unconcernedly as she climbed over the stone walls that separated pasture from plowed field and field from summer hay.
Then she saw Murphy himself, atop his tractor, with young Brian O’Shay and Dougal Finnian with him, all to harvest the waving hay. They called it comhair in Irish, but Maggie knew that here, in the west, the word meant much more than its literal translation of “help.” It meant community. No man was alone here, not when it came to haying, or opening a bank of peat or sowing in the spring.
If today O’Shay and Finnian were working Murphy’s land, then tomorrow, or the day after, he would be working theirs. No one would have to ask. The tractor or plow or two good hands and a strong back would simply come, and the work would be done.
Stone fences might separate one man’s fields from another, but the love of the land joined them.
She lifted a hand to answer the salute of the three farmers and, gathering her flowers, continued on to her home.
A jackdaw swooped overhead, complaining fiercely. A moment later Maggie saw why as Con barreled through the verge of the hay, his tongue lolling happily.
“Helping Murphy again, are you?” She reached down to ruffle his fur. “And a fine farmer you are, too. Go on back, then.”
With a flurry of self-important barks, Con raced back toward the tractor. Maggie stood looking around her, the gold of the hay, the green of the pasture with its lazy cows and the shadows cast by the sun on the circle of stones that generations of Concannons, and now Murphy, had left undisturbed for time out of mind. She saw the rich brown of the land where potatoes had been dug. And over it all, a sky as blue as a cornflower in full blossom.
A quick laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she found herself racing the rest of the way.
Perhaps it was the pure pleasure of the day, coupled with the giddy excitement of her first major success that made her blood pump fast. It might have been the sound of birds singing as if their hearts would break, or the scent of wildflowers gathered by her own hands. But when she stopped just outside her own door and looked into her own kitchen, she was breathless with more than a quick scramble over the fields.
He was at the table, elegant in his English suit and handmade shoes. His briefcase was open, his pen out. It made her smile to see him work there, amid the clutter, on a crude wooden table he might have used for firewood at home.
The sun streamed through the windows and open door, flashing gold off his pen as he wrote in his neat hand. Then his fingers tapped over the keys of a calculator, hesitated, tapped again. She could see his profile, the faint line of concentration between the strong black brows, the firm set of his mouth.
He reached for his tea, sipped as he studied his figures. Set it down again. Wrote, read.
Elegant, he was. And beautiful, she thought, in a way so uniquely male, and as wonderfully competent and precise as the handy little machine he used to run his figures. Not a man to run across sunny fields or lie dreaming under the moon.
But he was more than she’d first imagined him to be, much more, she now understood.
The overpowering urge came over her to loosen that careful knot in his tie, unbutton that snug collar and find the man beneath.
Rarely did Maggie refuse her own urges.
She slipped inside. Even as her shadow fell over his papers, she was straddling his lap and fastening her mouth to his.
Shock, pleasure and lust speared into him like a three-tipped arrow, all sharp, all true to aim. The pen had clattered from his fingers and his hands had dived into her hair before he took the next breath. Through a haze he felt the tug on his tie.
“What?” he managed in something like a croak. The need for dignity had him clearing his throat and pressing her back. “What’s all this?”
“You know….” She punctuated her words by feathering light kisses over his face. He smelled expensive, she realized, all fine soap and starched linen. “I’ve always thought a tie a foolish thing, a sort of punishment for a man for simply being a man. Doesn’t it choke you?”
It didn’t, unless his heart was in his throat. “No.” He shoved her hands away, but the damage was already done. Under her quick fingers, his tie was loose and his collar undone. “What are you about, Maggie?”
“That should be obvious enough, even to a Dubliner.” She laughed at him, her eyes wickedly green. “I brought you flowers.”
The latter were, at that moment, crushed between them. Rogan glanced down at the bruised petals. “Very nice. They could use some water, I imagine.”
She tossed back her head and laughed. “It’s always first things first with you, isn’t it? But Rogan, from where I’m sitting, I’m aware there’s something on your mind other than fetching a vase.”
He couldn’t deny his obvious, and very human reaction. “You’d harden a dead man,” he muttered, and put his hands firmly on her hips to lift her away. She only wriggled closer, torturing him.
“Now, that’s a pretty compliment, to be sure. But you’re not dead, are you?” She kissed him again, using her teeth to prove her point. “Are you thinking you’ve work to finish up, and no time to waste?”
“No.” His hands were still on her hips, but the fingers had dug in and had begun to knead. She smelled of wildflowers and smoke. All he could see was her face, the white skin with its blush of rose, dusting of gold freckles, the depthless green of her eyes. He made an heroic effort to level his voice. “But I’m thinking this is a mistake.” A groan sounded in his throat when she moved her lips to his ear. “That there’s a time and a place.”
“And that you should choose it,” she murmured as her nimble fingers flipped open the rest of the buttons on his shirt.
“Yes—no.” Good God, how was a man supposed to think? “That we should both choose it, after we’ve set some priorities.”
“Because I give it to you. Because I swear these things to you on my father’s soul.” Maggie rose. “That will have to content you. Tell Brianna I’ll be by to pick her up at ten tomorrow.” And with these words, Maggie turned on her heel and walked away.
Chapter Twelve
SHE took her time walking back, again choosing the fields rather than the road. As she went she gathered wildflowers, the meadowsweet and valerian that sunned themselves among the grass. Murphy’s well-fed cows, their udders plump and nearly ready for milking, grazed unconcernedly as she climbed over the stone walls that separated pasture from plowed field and field from summer hay.
Then she saw Murphy himself, atop his tractor, with young Brian O’Shay and Dougal Finnian with him, all to harvest the waving hay. They called it comhair in Irish, but Maggie knew that here, in the west, the word meant much more than its literal translation of “help.” It meant community. No man was alone here, not when it came to haying, or opening a bank of peat or sowing in the spring.
If today O’Shay and Finnian were working Murphy’s land, then tomorrow, or the day after, he would be working theirs. No one would have to ask. The tractor or plow or two good hands and a strong back would simply come, and the work would be done.
Stone fences might separate one man’s fields from another, but the love of the land joined them.
She lifted a hand to answer the salute of the three farmers and, gathering her flowers, continued on to her home.
A jackdaw swooped overhead, complaining fiercely. A moment later Maggie saw why as Con barreled through the verge of the hay, his tongue lolling happily.
“Helping Murphy again, are you?” She reached down to ruffle his fur. “And a fine farmer you are, too. Go on back, then.”
With a flurry of self-important barks, Con raced back toward the tractor. Maggie stood looking around her, the gold of the hay, the green of the pasture with its lazy cows and the shadows cast by the sun on the circle of stones that generations of Concannons, and now Murphy, had left undisturbed for time out of mind. She saw the rich brown of the land where potatoes had been dug. And over it all, a sky as blue as a cornflower in full blossom.
A quick laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she found herself racing the rest of the way.
Perhaps it was the pure pleasure of the day, coupled with the giddy excitement of her first major success that made her blood pump fast. It might have been the sound of birds singing as if their hearts would break, or the scent of wildflowers gathered by her own hands. But when she stopped just outside her own door and looked into her own kitchen, she was breathless with more than a quick scramble over the fields.
He was at the table, elegant in his English suit and handmade shoes. His briefcase was open, his pen out. It made her smile to see him work there, amid the clutter, on a crude wooden table he might have used for firewood at home.
The sun streamed through the windows and open door, flashing gold off his pen as he wrote in his neat hand. Then his fingers tapped over the keys of a calculator, hesitated, tapped again. She could see his profile, the faint line of concentration between the strong black brows, the firm set of his mouth.
He reached for his tea, sipped as he studied his figures. Set it down again. Wrote, read.
Elegant, he was. And beautiful, she thought, in a way so uniquely male, and as wonderfully competent and precise as the handy little machine he used to run his figures. Not a man to run across sunny fields or lie dreaming under the moon.
But he was more than she’d first imagined him to be, much more, she now understood.
The overpowering urge came over her to loosen that careful knot in his tie, unbutton that snug collar and find the man beneath.
Rarely did Maggie refuse her own urges.
She slipped inside. Even as her shadow fell over his papers, she was straddling his lap and fastening her mouth to his.
Shock, pleasure and lust speared into him like a three-tipped arrow, all sharp, all true to aim. The pen had clattered from his fingers and his hands had dived into her hair before he took the next breath. Through a haze he felt the tug on his tie.
“What?” he managed in something like a croak. The need for dignity had him clearing his throat and pressing her back. “What’s all this?”
“You know….” She punctuated her words by feathering light kisses over his face. He smelled expensive, she realized, all fine soap and starched linen. “I’ve always thought a tie a foolish thing, a sort of punishment for a man for simply being a man. Doesn’t it choke you?”
It didn’t, unless his heart was in his throat. “No.” He shoved her hands away, but the damage was already done. Under her quick fingers, his tie was loose and his collar undone. “What are you about, Maggie?”
“That should be obvious enough, even to a Dubliner.” She laughed at him, her eyes wickedly green. “I brought you flowers.”
The latter were, at that moment, crushed between them. Rogan glanced down at the bruised petals. “Very nice. They could use some water, I imagine.”
She tossed back her head and laughed. “It’s always first things first with you, isn’t it? But Rogan, from where I’m sitting, I’m aware there’s something on your mind other than fetching a vase.”
He couldn’t deny his obvious, and very human reaction. “You’d harden a dead man,” he muttered, and put his hands firmly on her hips to lift her away. She only wriggled closer, torturing him.
“Now, that’s a pretty compliment, to be sure. But you’re not dead, are you?” She kissed him again, using her teeth to prove her point. “Are you thinking you’ve work to finish up, and no time to waste?”
“No.” His hands were still on her hips, but the fingers had dug in and had begun to knead. She smelled of wildflowers and smoke. All he could see was her face, the white skin with its blush of rose, dusting of gold freckles, the depthless green of her eyes. He made an heroic effort to level his voice. “But I’m thinking this is a mistake.” A groan sounded in his throat when she moved her lips to his ear. “That there’s a time and a place.”
“And that you should choose it,” she murmured as her nimble fingers flipped open the rest of the buttons on his shirt.
“Yes—no.” Good God, how was a man supposed to think? “That we should both choose it, after we’ve set some priorities.”
