Born in Ice
Page 16
“He did it first,” she shot back to Rogan.
“I don’t have any family. Do you have names picked out for the baby?" Gray asked, neatly turning the subject.
Recognizing the tactic, Maggie frowned at him. Rogan gave her knee a squeeze under the table before she could speak. “None that we can agree on. We hope to settle on one before the child’s ready to go to university.”
Smoothly Rogan steered the conversation into polite, impersonal topics until Gray rose to leave. Once she was alone with her husband, Maggie drummed her fingers on the table.
“I’d have found out more about him if you hadn’t interfered.”
“It’s none of your business.” He leaned over and kissed her mouth.
“Maybe it is. I like him well enough. But he gets a look in his eyes when he speaks of Brianna. I’m not sure I like that.”
“That’s none of your business, either.”
“She’s my sister.”
“And well able to take care of herself.”
“A lot you’d know about it,” Maggie grumbled. “Men always think they know women, when what they know is a pitiful nothing.”
“I know you, Margaret Mary.” In a neat move he scooped her out of the chair and into his arms.
“What are you about?”
“I’m about to take you to bed, strip you naked, and make incredibly thorough love with you.”
“Oh, are you?” She tossed back her hair. “You’re just trying to distract me from the subject at hand.”
“Let’s see how well I can do.”
She smiled, wound her arms around his neck. “I suppose I should at least give you the chance.”
When Gray strolled back into Blackthorn Cottage, he found Brianna on her hands and knees rubbing paste wax into the parlor floor in slow, almost loving circles. The little gold cross she sometimes wore swung like a pendulum from its thin chain and caught quick glints of light. She had music on, some lilting tune she was singing along with in Irish. Charmed, he crossed over and squatted down beside her.
“What do the words mean?”
She jolted first. He had a way of moving that no more than stirred the air. She blew loose hair out of her eyes and continued to polish. “It’s about going off to war.”
“It sounds too happy to be about war.”
“Oh, we’re happy enough to fight. You’re back earlier than usual. Are you wanting tea?”
“No, thanks. I just had some at Maggie’s.”
She looked up then. “You were visiting Maggie?”
“I thought I’d take a walk and ended up at her place. She gave me a tour of her glass house.”
Brianna laughed, then seeing he was serious, sat back on her haunches. “And how in sweet heaven did you manage such a feat as that?”
“I asked.” And grinned. “She was a little cranky about it at first, but she fell in.” He leaned toward Brianna, sniffed. “You smell of lemon and beeswax.”
“That’s not surprising.” She had to clear her throat. “It’s what I’m polishing the floor with.” She made a small, strangled sound when he took her hand.
“You ought to wear gloves when you do heavy work.”
“They get in my way.” She shook her hand, but he held on. Though she tried to look firm, she only managed to look distressed. “You’re in my way.”
“I’ll get out of it in a minute.” She looked so damned pretty, he thought, kneeling on the floor with her polishing rag and her flushed cheeks. “Come out with me tonight, Brie. Let me take you to dinner.”
“I’ve a—I’ve mutton,” she said, fumbling, “for making Dingle Pies.”
“It’ll keep, won’t it?”
“It will, yes, but . . . If you’re tired of my cooking—”
“Brianna.” His voice was soft, persuasive. “I want to take you out.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve got a pretty face.” He skimmed his lips over her knuckles and made her heart stick in her throat. “Because I think it might be nice for you to have someone else do the cooking and the washing up for one night.”
“I like to cook.”
“I like to write, but it’s always a kick to read something someone else has sweated over.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Sure it is.” Head tilted, he aimed that sudden razor-sharp gaze at her. “You’re not afraid to be alone with me in a public restaurant, are you?”
“What a foolish thing to say.” What a foolish thing, she realized, for her to feel.
“Fine then, it’s a date. Seven o’clock.” Wise enough to know when to retreat, Gray straightened and strolled out. She told herself not to worry over her dress, then fretted about it just the same. In the end she chose the simple hunter green wool that Maggie had brought her back from Milan. With its long sleeves and high neck, it looked plain, even serviceable, until it was on. Cannily cut, the thin, soft wool had a way of draping over curves and revealing every bit as much as it concealed.
Still, Brianna told herself, it suited a dinner out, and that it was a sin she’d yet to wear it when Maggie had gone to the trouble and expense. And it felt so lovely against her skin.
Annoyed at the continued flutter of nerves, she picked up her coat, a plain black with a mended lining, and draped it over her arm. It was simply the offer of a meal, she reminded herself. A nice gesture from a man she’d been feeding for more than a week.
Taking one last steadying breath, she stepped out of her room into the kitchen, then started down the hall. He’d just come down the stairs. Self-conscious, she paused.
He stopped where he was, one foot still on the bottom step, his hand on the newel post. For a moment they only stared at each other in one of those odd, sliding instants of awareness. Then he stepped forward and the sensation rippled away.
“Well, well.” His lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. “You make a picture, Brianna.”
“You’re wearing a suit.” And looked gorgeous in it.
“I drag one on now and again.” He took her coat, slipped it over her shoulders.
“You never said where we were going.”
“To eat.” He put an arm around her waist and swept her out of the house.
“I don’t have any family. Do you have names picked out for the baby?" Gray asked, neatly turning the subject.
Recognizing the tactic, Maggie frowned at him. Rogan gave her knee a squeeze under the table before she could speak. “None that we can agree on. We hope to settle on one before the child’s ready to go to university.”
Smoothly Rogan steered the conversation into polite, impersonal topics until Gray rose to leave. Once she was alone with her husband, Maggie drummed her fingers on the table.
“I’d have found out more about him if you hadn’t interfered.”
“It’s none of your business.” He leaned over and kissed her mouth.
“Maybe it is. I like him well enough. But he gets a look in his eyes when he speaks of Brianna. I’m not sure I like that.”
“That’s none of your business, either.”
“She’s my sister.”
“And well able to take care of herself.”
“A lot you’d know about it,” Maggie grumbled. “Men always think they know women, when what they know is a pitiful nothing.”
“I know you, Margaret Mary.” In a neat move he scooped her out of the chair and into his arms.
“What are you about?”
“I’m about to take you to bed, strip you naked, and make incredibly thorough love with you.”
“Oh, are you?” She tossed back her hair. “You’re just trying to distract me from the subject at hand.”
“Let’s see how well I can do.”
She smiled, wound her arms around his neck. “I suppose I should at least give you the chance.”
When Gray strolled back into Blackthorn Cottage, he found Brianna on her hands and knees rubbing paste wax into the parlor floor in slow, almost loving circles. The little gold cross she sometimes wore swung like a pendulum from its thin chain and caught quick glints of light. She had music on, some lilting tune she was singing along with in Irish. Charmed, he crossed over and squatted down beside her.
“What do the words mean?”
She jolted first. He had a way of moving that no more than stirred the air. She blew loose hair out of her eyes and continued to polish. “It’s about going off to war.”
“It sounds too happy to be about war.”
“Oh, we’re happy enough to fight. You’re back earlier than usual. Are you wanting tea?”
“No, thanks. I just had some at Maggie’s.”
She looked up then. “You were visiting Maggie?”
“I thought I’d take a walk and ended up at her place. She gave me a tour of her glass house.”
Brianna laughed, then seeing he was serious, sat back on her haunches. “And how in sweet heaven did you manage such a feat as that?”
“I asked.” And grinned. “She was a little cranky about it at first, but she fell in.” He leaned toward Brianna, sniffed. “You smell of lemon and beeswax.”
“That’s not surprising.” She had to clear her throat. “It’s what I’m polishing the floor with.” She made a small, strangled sound when he took her hand.
“You ought to wear gloves when you do heavy work.”
“They get in my way.” She shook her hand, but he held on. Though she tried to look firm, she only managed to look distressed. “You’re in my way.”
“I’ll get out of it in a minute.” She looked so damned pretty, he thought, kneeling on the floor with her polishing rag and her flushed cheeks. “Come out with me tonight, Brie. Let me take you to dinner.”
“I’ve a—I’ve mutton,” she said, fumbling, “for making Dingle Pies.”
“It’ll keep, won’t it?”
“It will, yes, but . . . If you’re tired of my cooking—”
“Brianna.” His voice was soft, persuasive. “I want to take you out.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve got a pretty face.” He skimmed his lips over her knuckles and made her heart stick in her throat. “Because I think it might be nice for you to have someone else do the cooking and the washing up for one night.”
“I like to cook.”
“I like to write, but it’s always a kick to read something someone else has sweated over.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Sure it is.” Head tilted, he aimed that sudden razor-sharp gaze at her. “You’re not afraid to be alone with me in a public restaurant, are you?”
“What a foolish thing to say.” What a foolish thing, she realized, for her to feel.
“Fine then, it’s a date. Seven o’clock.” Wise enough to know when to retreat, Gray straightened and strolled out. She told herself not to worry over her dress, then fretted about it just the same. In the end she chose the simple hunter green wool that Maggie had brought her back from Milan. With its long sleeves and high neck, it looked plain, even serviceable, until it was on. Cannily cut, the thin, soft wool had a way of draping over curves and revealing every bit as much as it concealed.
Still, Brianna told herself, it suited a dinner out, and that it was a sin she’d yet to wear it when Maggie had gone to the trouble and expense. And it felt so lovely against her skin.
Annoyed at the continued flutter of nerves, she picked up her coat, a plain black with a mended lining, and draped it over her arm. It was simply the offer of a meal, she reminded herself. A nice gesture from a man she’d been feeding for more than a week.
Taking one last steadying breath, she stepped out of her room into the kitchen, then started down the hall. He’d just come down the stairs. Self-conscious, she paused.
He stopped where he was, one foot still on the bottom step, his hand on the newel post. For a moment they only stared at each other in one of those odd, sliding instants of awareness. Then he stepped forward and the sensation rippled away.
“Well, well.” His lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. “You make a picture, Brianna.”
“You’re wearing a suit.” And looked gorgeous in it.
“I drag one on now and again.” He took her coat, slipped it over her shoulders.
“You never said where we were going.”
“To eat.” He put an arm around her waist and swept her out of the house.
