Born in Ice
Page 39
“No, indeed he didn’t. She ran off with a tinker that very day. But the farmer had the best bloody crop of hay of his life.”
There were roars of laughter as Gray only shook his head. He considered himself a professional liar and a good one. But the competition here was fierce. Amid the chuckles, Gray picked up his glass and went to join Murphy.
“Davey’s a tale for every day of the week,” Murphy told him, gently running his hands along the buttons of his squeeze box.
“I imagine my agent would scoop him up in a heartbeat. Heard anything, Murphy?”
“No, nothing helpful. Mrs. Leery thought she might have seen a car go by the day of your troubles. She thinks it was green, but didn’t pay it any mind.”
“Someone was poking around the cottage last night. Lost him in the fog." Gray remembered in disgust. “But he was close enough to leave a footprint in Brie’s flower bed. Might have been kids.” Gray took a contemplative sip of beer. “Has anyone been asking about me?”
“You’re a daily topic of conversation,” Murphy said dryly.
“Ah, fame. No, I mean a stranger.”
“Not that I’ve heard. You’d better to ask over at the post office. Why?”
“I think it might be an overenthusiastic fan. I’ve run into it before. Then again . . .” He shrugged. “It’s the way my mind works, always making more out of what’s there.”
“There’s a dozen men or more a whistle away if anyone gives you or Brie any trouble.” Murphy glanced up as the door to the pub opened. Brianna came in, flanked by Rogan and Maggie. His brow lifted as he looked back at Gray. “And a dozen men or more who’ll haul you off to the altar if you don’t mind that gleam in your eye.”
“What?” Gray picked up his beer again, and his lips curved. “Just looking.”
“Aye. I’m a rover,” Murphy sang, “and seldom sober, I’m a rover of high degree. For when I’m drinking, I’m always thinking, how to gain my love’s company.”
“There’s still half a pint in this glass,” Gray muttered, and rose to walk to Brianna. “I thought you had mending.”
“I did.”
“We bullied her into coming out,” Maggie explained and gave a little sigh as she levered herself onto a stool.
“Persuaded,” Rogan corrected. “A glass of Harp, Brie?”
“Thank you, I will.”
“Tea for Maggie, Tim,” Rogan began and grinned as his wife muttered. “A glass of Harp for Brie, a pint of Guiness for me. Another pint, Gray?”
“This’ll do me.” Gray leaned against the bar. “I remember the last time I went drinking with you.”
“Speaking of Uncle Niall,” Maggie put in. “He and his bride are spending a few days on the island of Crete. Play something bright, will you, Murphy?”
Obligingly, he reeled into “Whiskey in the Jar” and set her feet tapping.
After listening to the lyrics, Gray shook his head. “Why is it you Irish always sing about war?”
“Do we?” Maggie smiled, sipping at her tea as she waited to join in the chorus.
“Sometimes it’s betrayal or dying, but mostly it’s war.”
“Is that a fact?” She smiled over the rim of her cup. “I couldn’t say. Then again, it might be that we’ve had to fight for every inch of our own ground for centuries. Or—”
“Don’t get her started,” Rogan pleaded. “There’s a rebel’s heart in there.”
“There’s a rebel’s heart inside every Irish man or woman. Murphy’s a fine voice, he does. Why don’t you sing with him, Brie?”
Enjoying the moment, she sipped her Harp. “I’d rather listen.”
“I’d like to hear you,” Gray murmured and stroked a hand down her hair.
Maggie narrowed her eyes at the gesture. “Brie has a voice like a bell," she said. “We always wondered where she got it, until we found out our mother had one as well.”
“How about “Danny Boy’?”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Count on a Yank to ask for it. A Brit wrote that tune, outlander. Do “James Connolly,” Murphy. Brie’ll sing with you.”
With a resigned shake of her head, Brianna went to sit with Murphy.
“They make lovely harmony,” Maggie murmured, watching Gray.
“Mmm. She sings around the house when she forgets someone’s there.”
“And how long do you plan to be there?” Maggie asked, ignoring Rogan’s warning scowl.
“Until I’m finished,” Gray said absently.
“Then onto the next?”
“That’s right. Onto the next.”
Despite the fact that Rogan now had his hand clamped at the back of her neck, Maggie started to make some pithy comment. It was Gray’s eyes rather than her husband’s annoyance that stopped her. The desire in them had stirred her protective instincts. But there was something more now. She wondered if he was aware of it.
When a man looked at a woman that way, more than hormones were involved. She’d have to think it over, Maggie decided, and see how it set with her. In the meantime she picked up her tea again, still watching Gray.
“We’ll see about that,” she murmured. “We’ll just see about it.”
One song became two, and two, three. The war songs, the love songs, the sly and the sad. In his mind Gray began to craft a scene.
The smoky pub was filled with noise and music—a sanctuary from the horrors outside. The woman’s voice drawing the man who didn’t want to be drawn. Here, he thought, just here was where his hero would lose the battle. She would be sitting in front of the turf fire, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her voice soaring, effortless and lovely, her eyes as haunted as the tune.
And he would love her then, to the point of giving his life if need be. Certainly of changing it. He could forget the past with her, and look toward the future.
“You look pale, Gray.” Maggie tugged on his arm until he backed onto a stool. “How many pints have you had?”
“Just this.” He scrubbed a hand over his face to bring himself back. “I was just . . . working,” he finished. That was it, of course. He’d only been thinking of characters, of crafting the lie. Nothing personal.
There were roars of laughter as Gray only shook his head. He considered himself a professional liar and a good one. But the competition here was fierce. Amid the chuckles, Gray picked up his glass and went to join Murphy.
“Davey’s a tale for every day of the week,” Murphy told him, gently running his hands along the buttons of his squeeze box.
“I imagine my agent would scoop him up in a heartbeat. Heard anything, Murphy?”
“No, nothing helpful. Mrs. Leery thought she might have seen a car go by the day of your troubles. She thinks it was green, but didn’t pay it any mind.”
“Someone was poking around the cottage last night. Lost him in the fog." Gray remembered in disgust. “But he was close enough to leave a footprint in Brie’s flower bed. Might have been kids.” Gray took a contemplative sip of beer. “Has anyone been asking about me?”
“You’re a daily topic of conversation,” Murphy said dryly.
“Ah, fame. No, I mean a stranger.”
“Not that I’ve heard. You’d better to ask over at the post office. Why?”
“I think it might be an overenthusiastic fan. I’ve run into it before. Then again . . .” He shrugged. “It’s the way my mind works, always making more out of what’s there.”
“There’s a dozen men or more a whistle away if anyone gives you or Brie any trouble.” Murphy glanced up as the door to the pub opened. Brianna came in, flanked by Rogan and Maggie. His brow lifted as he looked back at Gray. “And a dozen men or more who’ll haul you off to the altar if you don’t mind that gleam in your eye.”
“What?” Gray picked up his beer again, and his lips curved. “Just looking.”
“Aye. I’m a rover,” Murphy sang, “and seldom sober, I’m a rover of high degree. For when I’m drinking, I’m always thinking, how to gain my love’s company.”
“There’s still half a pint in this glass,” Gray muttered, and rose to walk to Brianna. “I thought you had mending.”
“I did.”
“We bullied her into coming out,” Maggie explained and gave a little sigh as she levered herself onto a stool.
“Persuaded,” Rogan corrected. “A glass of Harp, Brie?”
“Thank you, I will.”
“Tea for Maggie, Tim,” Rogan began and grinned as his wife muttered. “A glass of Harp for Brie, a pint of Guiness for me. Another pint, Gray?”
“This’ll do me.” Gray leaned against the bar. “I remember the last time I went drinking with you.”
“Speaking of Uncle Niall,” Maggie put in. “He and his bride are spending a few days on the island of Crete. Play something bright, will you, Murphy?”
Obligingly, he reeled into “Whiskey in the Jar” and set her feet tapping.
After listening to the lyrics, Gray shook his head. “Why is it you Irish always sing about war?”
“Do we?” Maggie smiled, sipping at her tea as she waited to join in the chorus.
“Sometimes it’s betrayal or dying, but mostly it’s war.”
“Is that a fact?” She smiled over the rim of her cup. “I couldn’t say. Then again, it might be that we’ve had to fight for every inch of our own ground for centuries. Or—”
“Don’t get her started,” Rogan pleaded. “There’s a rebel’s heart in there.”
“There’s a rebel’s heart inside every Irish man or woman. Murphy’s a fine voice, he does. Why don’t you sing with him, Brie?”
Enjoying the moment, she sipped her Harp. “I’d rather listen.”
“I’d like to hear you,” Gray murmured and stroked a hand down her hair.
Maggie narrowed her eyes at the gesture. “Brie has a voice like a bell," she said. “We always wondered where she got it, until we found out our mother had one as well.”
“How about “Danny Boy’?”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Count on a Yank to ask for it. A Brit wrote that tune, outlander. Do “James Connolly,” Murphy. Brie’ll sing with you.”
With a resigned shake of her head, Brianna went to sit with Murphy.
“They make lovely harmony,” Maggie murmured, watching Gray.
“Mmm. She sings around the house when she forgets someone’s there.”
“And how long do you plan to be there?” Maggie asked, ignoring Rogan’s warning scowl.
“Until I’m finished,” Gray said absently.
“Then onto the next?”
“That’s right. Onto the next.”
Despite the fact that Rogan now had his hand clamped at the back of her neck, Maggie started to make some pithy comment. It was Gray’s eyes rather than her husband’s annoyance that stopped her. The desire in them had stirred her protective instincts. But there was something more now. She wondered if he was aware of it.
When a man looked at a woman that way, more than hormones were involved. She’d have to think it over, Maggie decided, and see how it set with her. In the meantime she picked up her tea again, still watching Gray.
“We’ll see about that,” she murmured. “We’ll just see about it.”
One song became two, and two, three. The war songs, the love songs, the sly and the sad. In his mind Gray began to craft a scene.
The smoky pub was filled with noise and music—a sanctuary from the horrors outside. The woman’s voice drawing the man who didn’t want to be drawn. Here, he thought, just here was where his hero would lose the battle. She would be sitting in front of the turf fire, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her voice soaring, effortless and lovely, her eyes as haunted as the tune.
And he would love her then, to the point of giving his life if need be. Certainly of changing it. He could forget the past with her, and look toward the future.
“You look pale, Gray.” Maggie tugged on his arm until he backed onto a stool. “How many pints have you had?”
“Just this.” He scrubbed a hand over his face to bring himself back. “I was just . . . working,” he finished. That was it, of course. He’d only been thinking of characters, of crafting the lie. Nothing personal.
