Born in Ice
Page 30
“I’ll wager I do.”
“Oh, but you smell of whiskey and cigars.” Brianna sighed and draped Gray’s arm over her shoulders, braced him. “The man’s eighty, you know. You should have stopped him.”
“He’s a bad influence, that Niall Feeney. We had to toast Chrissy’s eyes, and her lips, and her hair, and her ears. I think we toasted her toes, too, but things get blurry about then.”
“And small wonder. Here’s your door. Just a bit farther now.”
“You smell so good, Brianna.” With what he thought was a smooth move, he sniffed doglike at her neck. “Come to bed with me. I could show you things. All sorts of wonderful things.”
“Mmm-hmm. Down you go. That’s the way.” Efficiently, she lifted his legs onto the bed and began to take off his shoes.
“Lie down with me. I can take you places. I want to be inside you.”
Her hands fumbled at that. She looked up sharply, but his eyes were closed, his smile dreamy. “Hush now,” she murmured. “Go to sleep.”
She tucked a blanket around him, brushed the hair from his brow, and left him snoring.
Suffering was to be expected. Overindulgence had to be paid for, and Gray was always willing to pay his way. But it seemed a little extreme to have to take a short, vicious trip to hell because of one foolish evening.
His head was cracked in two. It didn’t show, a fact that relieved him considerably when he managed to crawl into the bathroom the following morning. He looked haggard, but whole. Obviously the jagged break in his skull was on the inside.
He’d probably be dead by nightfall.
His eyes were small, hard balls of fire. The inside of his mouth had been swabbed with something too foul to imagine. His stomach clutched and seized like a nervous fist.
He began to hope he’d be dead long before nightfall.
Since there was no one around, he indulged himself in a few whimpers as he stepped under the shower. He’d have sworn the smell of whiskey was seeping out of his pores.
Moving with the care of the aged or infirm, he climbed out of the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist. He did what he could to wash the hideous taste out of his mouth.
When he stepped into the bedroom, he yelped, slapped his hands over his eyes in time—he hoped—to keep them from bursting out of his head. Some sadist had come in and opened his drapes to the sunlight.
Brianna’s own eyes had gone wide. Her mouth had fallen open. Other than the towel hanging loosely at his hips, he wore nothing but a few lingering drops of water from his shower.
His body was . . . the word exquisite flashed into her mind. Lean, muscled, gleaming. She found herself linking her fingers together and swallowing hard.
“I brought you a breakfast tray,” she managed. “I thought you might be feeling poorly.”
Cautious, Gray spread his fingers just enough to see through. “Then it wasn’t the wrath of God.” His voice was rough, but he feared the act of clearing it might do permanent damage. “For a minute I thought I was being struck down for my sins.”
“It’s only porridge, toast, and some coffee.”
“Coffee.” He said the word like a prayer. “Could you pour it?”
“I could. I brought you some aspirin.”
“Aspirin.” He could have wept. “Please.”
“Take them first then.” She brought him the pills with a small glass of water. “Rogan looks as sad as you,” she said as Gray gobbled down the pills—and she fought to keep her hand from stroking over all that wet, curling dark hair. “Uncle Niall’s fit as a fiddle.”
“Figures.” Gray moved cautiously toward the bed. He eased down, praying his head wouldn’t roll off his neck. “Before we go any further, do I have anything to apologize for?”
“To me?”
“To anyone. Whiskey’s not my usual poison, and I’m fuzzy on details after we started on the second bottle.” He squinted up at her and found she was smiling at him. “Something funny?”
“No—well, yes, but it’s not very kind of me to find it funny." She did give in then, sleeking a hand over his hair as she might over that of a child who had overindulged in cakes. “I was thinking it was sweet of you to offer to apologize right off that way.” Her smile warmed. “But no, there’s nothing. You were just drunk and silly. There was no harm in it.”
“Easy for you to say.” He supported his head. “I don’t make a habit of drinking like that.” Wincing, he reached for the coffee with his free hand. “In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever had that much at one time, or will again.”
“You’ll feel better when you’ve had a bite to eat. You have a couple of hours before you have to drive over for the wedding—if you’re up to it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Resigned, Gray picked up the porridge. It smelled safe. He took a tentative bite and waited to see if his system would accept it.
“Aren’t I going with you?”
“I’m leaving in a few minutes. There’s things to be done. You’ll come over with Rogan and Uncle Niall—since it’s doubtful the three of you can get into any trouble on such a short drive.”
He grunted and scooped up more porridge.
“Do you need anything else before I go?”
“You’ve hit most of the vital points.” Tilting his head, he studied her. “Did I try to talk you into going to bed with me last night?”
“You did.”
“I thought I remembered that.” His smile was quick and easy. “I can’t imagine how you resisted me.”
“Oh, I managed. I’ll be off, then.”
“Brianna.” He sent her one quick, dangerous look. “I won’t be plastered next time.”
Christine Rogan Sweeney might have been on the verge of becoming a great-grandmother, but she was still a bride. No matter how often she told herself it was foolish to be nervous, to feel so giddy, her stomach still jumped.
She was to be married in only a few minutes more. To pledge herself to a man she loved dearly. And to take his pledge to her. And she would be a wife once again, after so many years a widow.
“You look beautiful.” Maggie stood back as Christine turned in front of the chevel glass. The pale rose suit gleamed with tiny pearls on the lapels. Against Christine’s shining white hair sat a jaunty, matching hat with a fingertip veil.
“Oh, but you smell of whiskey and cigars.” Brianna sighed and draped Gray’s arm over her shoulders, braced him. “The man’s eighty, you know. You should have stopped him.”
“He’s a bad influence, that Niall Feeney. We had to toast Chrissy’s eyes, and her lips, and her hair, and her ears. I think we toasted her toes, too, but things get blurry about then.”
“And small wonder. Here’s your door. Just a bit farther now.”
“You smell so good, Brianna.” With what he thought was a smooth move, he sniffed doglike at her neck. “Come to bed with me. I could show you things. All sorts of wonderful things.”
“Mmm-hmm. Down you go. That’s the way.” Efficiently, she lifted his legs onto the bed and began to take off his shoes.
“Lie down with me. I can take you places. I want to be inside you.”
Her hands fumbled at that. She looked up sharply, but his eyes were closed, his smile dreamy. “Hush now,” she murmured. “Go to sleep.”
She tucked a blanket around him, brushed the hair from his brow, and left him snoring.
Suffering was to be expected. Overindulgence had to be paid for, and Gray was always willing to pay his way. But it seemed a little extreme to have to take a short, vicious trip to hell because of one foolish evening.
His head was cracked in two. It didn’t show, a fact that relieved him considerably when he managed to crawl into the bathroom the following morning. He looked haggard, but whole. Obviously the jagged break in his skull was on the inside.
He’d probably be dead by nightfall.
His eyes were small, hard balls of fire. The inside of his mouth had been swabbed with something too foul to imagine. His stomach clutched and seized like a nervous fist.
He began to hope he’d be dead long before nightfall.
Since there was no one around, he indulged himself in a few whimpers as he stepped under the shower. He’d have sworn the smell of whiskey was seeping out of his pores.
Moving with the care of the aged or infirm, he climbed out of the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist. He did what he could to wash the hideous taste out of his mouth.
When he stepped into the bedroom, he yelped, slapped his hands over his eyes in time—he hoped—to keep them from bursting out of his head. Some sadist had come in and opened his drapes to the sunlight.
Brianna’s own eyes had gone wide. Her mouth had fallen open. Other than the towel hanging loosely at his hips, he wore nothing but a few lingering drops of water from his shower.
His body was . . . the word exquisite flashed into her mind. Lean, muscled, gleaming. She found herself linking her fingers together and swallowing hard.
“I brought you a breakfast tray,” she managed. “I thought you might be feeling poorly.”
Cautious, Gray spread his fingers just enough to see through. “Then it wasn’t the wrath of God.” His voice was rough, but he feared the act of clearing it might do permanent damage. “For a minute I thought I was being struck down for my sins.”
“It’s only porridge, toast, and some coffee.”
“Coffee.” He said the word like a prayer. “Could you pour it?”
“I could. I brought you some aspirin.”
“Aspirin.” He could have wept. “Please.”
“Take them first then.” She brought him the pills with a small glass of water. “Rogan looks as sad as you,” she said as Gray gobbled down the pills—and she fought to keep her hand from stroking over all that wet, curling dark hair. “Uncle Niall’s fit as a fiddle.”
“Figures.” Gray moved cautiously toward the bed. He eased down, praying his head wouldn’t roll off his neck. “Before we go any further, do I have anything to apologize for?”
“To me?”
“To anyone. Whiskey’s not my usual poison, and I’m fuzzy on details after we started on the second bottle.” He squinted up at her and found she was smiling at him. “Something funny?”
“No—well, yes, but it’s not very kind of me to find it funny." She did give in then, sleeking a hand over his hair as she might over that of a child who had overindulged in cakes. “I was thinking it was sweet of you to offer to apologize right off that way.” Her smile warmed. “But no, there’s nothing. You were just drunk and silly. There was no harm in it.”
“Easy for you to say.” He supported his head. “I don’t make a habit of drinking like that.” Wincing, he reached for the coffee with his free hand. “In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever had that much at one time, or will again.”
“You’ll feel better when you’ve had a bite to eat. You have a couple of hours before you have to drive over for the wedding—if you’re up to it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Resigned, Gray picked up the porridge. It smelled safe. He took a tentative bite and waited to see if his system would accept it.
“Aren’t I going with you?”
“I’m leaving in a few minutes. There’s things to be done. You’ll come over with Rogan and Uncle Niall—since it’s doubtful the three of you can get into any trouble on such a short drive.”
He grunted and scooped up more porridge.
“Do you need anything else before I go?”
“You’ve hit most of the vital points.” Tilting his head, he studied her. “Did I try to talk you into going to bed with me last night?”
“You did.”
“I thought I remembered that.” His smile was quick and easy. “I can’t imagine how you resisted me.”
“Oh, I managed. I’ll be off, then.”
“Brianna.” He sent her one quick, dangerous look. “I won’t be plastered next time.”
Christine Rogan Sweeney might have been on the verge of becoming a great-grandmother, but she was still a bride. No matter how often she told herself it was foolish to be nervous, to feel so giddy, her stomach still jumped.
She was to be married in only a few minutes more. To pledge herself to a man she loved dearly. And to take his pledge to her. And she would be a wife once again, after so many years a widow.
“You look beautiful.” Maggie stood back as Christine turned in front of the chevel glass. The pale rose suit gleamed with tiny pearls on the lapels. Against Christine’s shining white hair sat a jaunty, matching hat with a fingertip veil.
