Born in Ice
Page 21
“Obviously today’s rambling didn’t put a smile on your face.”
“I was fine.” He prowled the room, then snarled. “You’ve been messing with my desk.”
“I cleaned off an inch of dust and cigarette ash, if that’s what you’re meaning. I didn’t touch your little machine there except to lift it up and set it down again.” Though she’d been tempted, sorely, to open the lid and take a peek at the works.
“You don’t have to clean up after me all the time.” He hissed out a breath, stuffed his hands in his pockets when she simply stood, bucket in hand, and looked at him. “Goddamn it, I thought I’d figured this out. It’s not doing my ego any good to know you’re not even trying to tie me up in knots.” He closed his eyes, let out a breath. “Okay, let’s try this again. I brought you a present.”
“Did you? Why?”
“Why the hell not?” He snatched the bag he’d put on the bed and handed it to her. “I saw it. I thought you’d like it.”
“That was kind of you.” She slipped the box from the bag and began to work at the tape that held it closed.
She smelled of soap and flowers and disinfectant. Gray set his teeth. “Unless you want me to toss you on the bed you’ve just tidied up, you’d be wise to step back.”
She looked up, startled, her hands freezing on the box.
“I’m serious.”
Cautious, she moistened her lips. “All right.” She took a step back, then another. “Is this better?”
The absurdity of it finally struck. Helpless to do otherwise, he grinned at her. “Why do you fascinate me, Brianna?”
“I have no idea. None at all.”
“That might be why,” he murmured. “Open your present.”
“I’m trying.” She loosened the tape, turned back the lid, and dug into the tissue paper. “Oh, it’s lovely.” Pleasure lit her face as she turned the porcelain cottage in her hands. It was delicately made, the front door open in welcome, a tidy garden with each tiny petal perfect. “It looks as though you could move right in.”
“It made me think of you.”
“Thank you.” Her smile was easier now. “Did you buy it to soften me up?”
“Tell me if it worked first.”
Now she laughed. “No, I won’t. You have advantage enough as it is.”
“Do I?”
Warned by the purr in his tone, she concentrated on replacing the cottage in the bed of tissue. “I have dinner to tend to. Will you be wanting a tray?”
“Not tonight. The first wave’s past.”
“The new guest is expected by five, so you’ll have company with your meal.”
“Terrific.”
Gray had been prepared to dislike the British gentlemen on sight, rather like a stud dog, he realized, exercising territorial rights. But it was difficult to feel threatened or irritated with the tidy little man with the shiny bald pate and the snooty public school accent.
His name was Herbert Smythe-White, of London, a retired widower who was in the first stages of a six-month tour of Ireland and Scotland.
“Pure indulgence,” he told Gray over dinner. “Nancy and I weren’t blessed with children, you see. She’s been gone nearly two years now, and I find myself brooding about the house. We’d planned to make a trip like this, but work always kept me too busy.” His smile was laced with regret. “I decided to make it myself as a sort of tribute to her. I think she would have liked that.”
“Is this your first stop?”
“It is. I flew into Shannon, leased a car.” He chuckled, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and polishing the lenses on a handkerchief. “I’m armed with the tourist’s weapons of maps and guidebooks. I’ll take a day or two here before heading north.” He set his glasses back on his prominent nose. “I’m very much afraid I’m taking the best first, however. Miss Concannon sets an excellent table.”
“You won’t get an argument from me.” They were sharing the dining room and a succulent salmon. “What work were you in?”
“Banking. I’m afraid I spent too much of my life worried about figures." He helped himself to another spoonful of potatoes in mustard sauce. “And you, Mr. Thane. Miss Concannon tells me you’re a writer. We practical sorts always envy the creative ones. I’ve never taken enough time to read for pleasure, but will certainly pick up one of your books now that we’ve met. Are you traveling, also?”
“Not at the moment. I’m based here for now.”
“Here, at the inn?”
“That’s right.” He glanced up as Brianna came in.
“I hope you’ve room for dessert.” She set a large bowl of trifle on the table.
“Oh, my dear.” Behind his polished lenses, Smythe-White’s eyes danced with pleasure, and perhaps a little greed. “I’ll be a stone heavier before I leave the room.”
“I put magic in it, so the calories don’t count.” She dished generous portions into bowls. “I hope your room’s comfortable, sir. If there’s anything you need, you’ve only to ask.”
“It’s exactly what I want,” he assured her. “I must come back when your garden’s in bloom.”
“I hope you will.” She left them a coffeepot and a decanter of brandy.
“A lovely woman,” Smythe-White commented.
“Yes, she is.”
“And so young to be running an establishment alone. One would think she’d have a husband, a family.”
“She’s nothing if not efficient.” The first spoonful of trifle melted on Gray’s tongue. Efficient wasn’t the word, he realized. The woman was a culinary witch. “She has a sister and brother-in-law just down the road. And it’s a close community. Someone’s always knocking on the kitchen door.”
“That’s fortunate. I imagine it could be a lonely place otherwise. Still, I noticed as I was driving in that neighbors are few and far between.” He smiled again. “I’m afraid I’m spoiled by the city, and not at all ashamed that I enjoy the crowds and the pace. It may take me awhile to grow accustomed to the night quiet.”
“You’ll have plenty of it.” Gray poured brandy into a snifter, then, at his companion’s nod, into a second. “I was in London not long ago. What part are you from?”
“I was fine.” He prowled the room, then snarled. “You’ve been messing with my desk.”
“I cleaned off an inch of dust and cigarette ash, if that’s what you’re meaning. I didn’t touch your little machine there except to lift it up and set it down again.” Though she’d been tempted, sorely, to open the lid and take a peek at the works.
“You don’t have to clean up after me all the time.” He hissed out a breath, stuffed his hands in his pockets when she simply stood, bucket in hand, and looked at him. “Goddamn it, I thought I’d figured this out. It’s not doing my ego any good to know you’re not even trying to tie me up in knots.” He closed his eyes, let out a breath. “Okay, let’s try this again. I brought you a present.”
“Did you? Why?”
“Why the hell not?” He snatched the bag he’d put on the bed and handed it to her. “I saw it. I thought you’d like it.”
“That was kind of you.” She slipped the box from the bag and began to work at the tape that held it closed.
She smelled of soap and flowers and disinfectant. Gray set his teeth. “Unless you want me to toss you on the bed you’ve just tidied up, you’d be wise to step back.”
She looked up, startled, her hands freezing on the box.
“I’m serious.”
Cautious, she moistened her lips. “All right.” She took a step back, then another. “Is this better?”
The absurdity of it finally struck. Helpless to do otherwise, he grinned at her. “Why do you fascinate me, Brianna?”
“I have no idea. None at all.”
“That might be why,” he murmured. “Open your present.”
“I’m trying.” She loosened the tape, turned back the lid, and dug into the tissue paper. “Oh, it’s lovely.” Pleasure lit her face as she turned the porcelain cottage in her hands. It was delicately made, the front door open in welcome, a tidy garden with each tiny petal perfect. “It looks as though you could move right in.”
“It made me think of you.”
“Thank you.” Her smile was easier now. “Did you buy it to soften me up?”
“Tell me if it worked first.”
Now she laughed. “No, I won’t. You have advantage enough as it is.”
“Do I?”
Warned by the purr in his tone, she concentrated on replacing the cottage in the bed of tissue. “I have dinner to tend to. Will you be wanting a tray?”
“Not tonight. The first wave’s past.”
“The new guest is expected by five, so you’ll have company with your meal.”
“Terrific.”
Gray had been prepared to dislike the British gentlemen on sight, rather like a stud dog, he realized, exercising territorial rights. But it was difficult to feel threatened or irritated with the tidy little man with the shiny bald pate and the snooty public school accent.
His name was Herbert Smythe-White, of London, a retired widower who was in the first stages of a six-month tour of Ireland and Scotland.
“Pure indulgence,” he told Gray over dinner. “Nancy and I weren’t blessed with children, you see. She’s been gone nearly two years now, and I find myself brooding about the house. We’d planned to make a trip like this, but work always kept me too busy.” His smile was laced with regret. “I decided to make it myself as a sort of tribute to her. I think she would have liked that.”
“Is this your first stop?”
“It is. I flew into Shannon, leased a car.” He chuckled, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and polishing the lenses on a handkerchief. “I’m armed with the tourist’s weapons of maps and guidebooks. I’ll take a day or two here before heading north.” He set his glasses back on his prominent nose. “I’m very much afraid I’m taking the best first, however. Miss Concannon sets an excellent table.”
“You won’t get an argument from me.” They were sharing the dining room and a succulent salmon. “What work were you in?”
“Banking. I’m afraid I spent too much of my life worried about figures." He helped himself to another spoonful of potatoes in mustard sauce. “And you, Mr. Thane. Miss Concannon tells me you’re a writer. We practical sorts always envy the creative ones. I’ve never taken enough time to read for pleasure, but will certainly pick up one of your books now that we’ve met. Are you traveling, also?”
“Not at the moment. I’m based here for now.”
“Here, at the inn?”
“That’s right.” He glanced up as Brianna came in.
“I hope you’ve room for dessert.” She set a large bowl of trifle on the table.
“Oh, my dear.” Behind his polished lenses, Smythe-White’s eyes danced with pleasure, and perhaps a little greed. “I’ll be a stone heavier before I leave the room.”
“I put magic in it, so the calories don’t count.” She dished generous portions into bowls. “I hope your room’s comfortable, sir. If there’s anything you need, you’ve only to ask.”
“It’s exactly what I want,” he assured her. “I must come back when your garden’s in bloom.”
“I hope you will.” She left them a coffeepot and a decanter of brandy.
“A lovely woman,” Smythe-White commented.
“Yes, she is.”
“And so young to be running an establishment alone. One would think she’d have a husband, a family.”
“She’s nothing if not efficient.” The first spoonful of trifle melted on Gray’s tongue. Efficient wasn’t the word, he realized. The woman was a culinary witch. “She has a sister and brother-in-law just down the road. And it’s a close community. Someone’s always knocking on the kitchen door.”
“That’s fortunate. I imagine it could be a lonely place otherwise. Still, I noticed as I was driving in that neighbors are few and far between.” He smiled again. “I’m afraid I’m spoiled by the city, and not at all ashamed that I enjoy the crowds and the pace. It may take me awhile to grow accustomed to the night quiet.”
“You’ll have plenty of it.” Gray poured brandy into a snifter, then, at his companion’s nod, into a second. “I was in London not long ago. What part are you from?”
