Born In Ice (4 page)

"I may like you back." He rose. "I'll move the car."

"If you'd just pull it into the street."

He gave Brianna a blank look. "What street?"

"Beside the house-the driveway you'd call it. Will you need help with your luggage?"

"No, I can handle it. Nice to have met you, Maggie."

"And you." Maggie licked her fingers, waited until she heard the door shut. "Better to look at than his picture in back of his books."

"He is."

"You wouldn't think a writer would have a build like that -all tough and muscled."

Well aware Maggie was looking for a reaction, Brianna kept her back turned. "I suppose he's nicely put together. I wouldn't think a married woman going into her sixth month of pregnancy would pay his build much mind."

Maggie snorted. "I've a notion every woman would pay him mind. And if you haven't, we'd best be having more than your eyes checked."

"My eyes are fine, thank you. And aren't you the one who was worried about me being alone with him?"

"That was before I decided to like him."

With a little sigh Brianna glanced toward the kitchen doorway. She doubted she had much time. Brianna moistened her lips, kept her hands busy with tidying the breakfast dishes. "Maggie, I'd be glad if you could find time to come by later. I need to talk to you about something."

"Talk now."

"No, I can't." She glanced at the kitchen doorway. "We need to be private. It's important."

"You're upset."

"I don't know if I'm upset or not."

"Did he do something? The Yank?" Despite her bulk, Maggie was out of her chair and ready to fight.

"No, no. It's nothing to do with him." Exasperated, Brianna set her hands on her hips. "You just said you liked him."

"Not if he's upsetting you."

"Well, he's not. Don't press me about it now. Will you come by later, once I'm sure he's settled?"

"Of course I will." Concerned, Maggie brushed a hand over Brianna's shoulder. "Do you want Rogan to come?"

"If he can. Yes," Brianna decided, thinking of Maggie's condition. "Yes, please ask him to come with you."

"Before tea, then-two, three o'clock?"

"That would be good. Take the buns, Maggie, and the bread. I want to help Mr. Thane settle in."

There was nothing Brianna dreaded more than confrontations, angry words, bitter emotions. She had grown up in a house where the air had always simmered with them. Resentments boiling into blowups. Disappointments flashing into shouts. In defense she had always tried to keep her own feelings controlled, steering as far to the opposite pole as possible from the storms and rages that had served as her sister's shield to their parents' misery.

She could admit, to herself, that she had often wished to wake one morning and discover her parents had decided to ignore church and tradition and go their separate ways. But more often, too often, she had prayed for a miracle. The miracle of having her parents discover each other again, and reigniting the spark that had drawn them together so many years before.

Now, she understood, at least in part, why that miracle could never have happened. Amanda. The woman's name had been Amanda.

Had her mother known? Brianna wondered. Had she known that the husband she'd come to detest had loved another? Did she know there was a child, grown now, who was a result of that reckless, forbidden love?

She could never ask. Would never ask, Brianna promised herself. The horrible scene it would cause would be more than she could bear.

Already she had spent most of the day dreading sharing what she'd discovered with her sister. Knowing, for she knew Maggie well, that there would be hurt and anger and soul-deep disillusionment.

She'd put it off for hours. The coward's way, she knew, and it shamed her. But she told herself she needed time to settle her own heart before she could take on the burden of Maggie's.

Gray was the perfect distraction. Helping him settle into his room, answering his questions about the nearby villages and the countryside. And questions he had, by the dozen. By the time she pointed him off toward Ennis, she was exhausted. His mental energy was amazing, reminding her of a contortionist she'd once seen at a fair, twisting and turning himself into outrageous shapes, then popping out only to twist and turn again.

To relax, she got down on hands and knees and scrubbed the kitchen floor.

It was barely two when she heard Con's welcoming barks. The tea was steeping, her cakes frosted, and the little sandwiches she'd made cut into neat triangles. Brianna wrung her hands once, then opened the kitchen door to her sister and brother-in-law.

"Did you walk over, then?"

"Sweeney claims I need exercise." Maggie's face was rosy, her eyes dancing. She took one long, deep sniff of the air. "And I will, after tea."

"She's greedy these days." Rogan hung his coat and Maggie's on hooks by the door. He might have worn old trousers and sturdy walking shoes, but nothing could disguise what his wife would have termed the Dublin in him. Tall, dark, elegant, he would be in black tie or rags. "It's lucky you asked us for tea, Brianna. She's cleaned out our pantry."

"Well, we've plenty here. Go sit by the fire and I'll bring it out."

"We're not guests," Maggie objected. "The kitchen'll do for us."

"I've been in it all day." It was a lame excuse. There was no more appealing room in the house for her. But she wanted, needed, the formality of the parlor for what needed to be done. "And there's a nice fire laid."

"I'll take the tray," Rogan offered.

The minute they were settled in the parlor, Maggie reached for a cake.

"Take a sandwich," Rogan told her.

"He treats me more like a child than a woman who's carrying one." But she took the sandwich first. "I've been telling Rogan about your very attractive Yank. Long gold-tipped hair, sturdy muscles, and big brown eyes. Isn't he joining us for tea?"

"We're early for tea," Rogan pointed out. "I've read his books," he said to Brianna. "He has a clever way of plunging the reader into the turmoil."

"I know." She smiled a little. "I fell asleep last night with the light on. He's gone out for a drive, to Ennis and about. He was kind enough to post a letter for me." The easiest way, Brianna thought, was often through the back door. "I found some papers when I was up in the attic yesterday."

"Haven't we been through that business before?" Maggie asked.

"We left a lot of Da's boxes untouched. When Mother was here, it seemed best not to bring it up."

"She'd have done nothing but rant and rave." Maggie scowled into her tea. "You shouldn't have to go through his papers on your own, Brie."

"I don't mind. I've been thinking I might turn the attic into a loft room, for guests."

"More guests." Maggie rolled her eyes. "You're overrun with them now, spring and summer."

"I like having people in the house." It was an old argument, one they would never see through the same eyes. "At any rate, it was past time to go through things. There were some clothes as well, some no more than rags now. But I found this." She rose and went to a small box. She took out the lacy white gown. "It's Granny's work, I'm sure. Da would have saved it for his grandchildren."

"Oh." Everything about Maggie softened. Her eyes, her mouth, her voice. She held out her hands, took the gown into them. "So tiny," she murmured. Even as she stroked the linen, the baby inside her stirred.

"I thought your family might have one put aside as well, Rogan, but-"

"We'll use this. Thank you, Brie." One look at his wife's face had decided him. "Here, Margaret Mary."

Maggie took the handkerchief he offered and wiped her eyes. "The books say it's hormones. I always seem to be spilling over."

"I'll put it back for you." After replacing the gown, Brianna took the next step and offered the stock certificate. "I found this as well. Da must have bought it, or invested, whatever it is, shortly before he died."

A glance at the paper had Maggie sighing. "Another of his moneymaking schemes." She was nearly as sentimental over the stock certificate as she'd been over the baby gown. "How like him. So he thought he'd go into mining, did he?"

"Well, he'd tried everything else." Rogan frowned over the certificate. "Would you like me to look into this company, see what's what?"

"I've written to them. Mr. Thane's posting the letter for me. It'll come to nothing, I imagine." None of Tom Concannon's schemes ever had. "But you might keep the paper for me until I hear back." "It's ten thousand shares," Rogan pointed out. Maggie and Brianna smiled at each other. "And if it's worth more than the paper it's printed on, he'll have broken his record." Maggie shrugged and treated herself to a cake. "He was always after investing in something, or starting a new business. It was his dreams that were big, Rogan, and his heart."

Brianna's smile dimmed. "I found something else. Something I need to show you. Letters." "He was famous for writing them." "No," Brianna interrupted before Maggie could launch into one of her stories. Do it now, she ordered herself when her heart shied back. Do it quickly. "These were written to him. There are three of them, and I think it's best if you read them for yourself."

Maggie could see Brianna's eyes had gone cool and remote. A defense, she knew, against anything from temper to heartache. "All right, Brie."

Saying nothing, Brianna picked up the letters, put them in Maggie's hand.

Maggie had only to look at the return address on the first envelope for her heartbeat to thicken. She opened the letter.

Brianna heard the quick sound of distress. The fingers she'd locked together twisted. She saw Maggie reach out, grip Rogan's hand. A change, Brianna thought with a little sigh. Even a year before Maggie would have slapped any comforting hand aside.

"Amanda." There were tears in Maggie's voice. "It was Amanda he said before he died. Standing there at the cliffs at Loop Head, at that spot he loved so much. We would go there and he would joke about how we'd hop in a boat and our next stop would be a pub in New York." Now the tears spilled over. "In New York. Amanda was in New York."

"He said her name." Brianna's fingers went to her mouth. She stopped herself, barely, before she gave into her childhood habit of gnawing her nails. "I remember now that you said something about that at his wake. Did he say anything more, tell you anything about her?"

"He said nothing but her name." Maggie dashed at tears with a furious hand. "He said nothing then, nothing ever. He loved her, but he did nothing about it."

"What could he do?" Brianna asked. "Maggie-"

"Something." There were more tears and more fury when Maggie lifted her head. "Anything. Sweet Jesus, he spent his life in hell. Why? Because the Church says it's a sin to do otherwise. Well, he'd sinned already, hadn't he? He'd committed adultery. Do I blame him for that? I don't know that I can, remembering what he faced in this house. But by God, couldn't he have followed through on it? Couldn't he have finally followed through?"

"He stayed for us." Brianna's voice was tight and cold. "You know he stayed for us."

"Is that supposed to make me grateful?"

"Will you blame him for loving you?" Rogan asked quietly. "Or condemn him for loving someone else?"

Her eyes flashed. But the bitterness that rose up in her throat died into grief. "No, I'll do neither. But he should have had more than memories."

"Read the others, Maggie."

"I will. You were barely born when these were written," she said as she opened the second letter.

"I know," Brianna said dully.

"I think she loved him very much. There's a kindness here. It isn't so much to ask, love, kindness." Maggie looked at Brianna then, for some sign. She saw nothing but that same cool detachment. With a sigh, she opened the final letter while Brianna sat stiff and cold. "I only wish he..." Her words faltered. "Oh, my God. A baby." Instinctively her hand went to cover her own. "She was pregnant."

"We have a brother or sister somewhere. I don't know what to do."

Shock and fury had Maggie lurching to her feet. Teacups rattled as she pushed back to stalk around the room. "What to do? It's been done, hasn't it? Twenty-eight years ago to be exact."

Distressed, Brianna started to rise, but Rogan covered her hand. "Let her go," he murmured. "She'll be better for it after."

"What right did she have to tell him this and then go away?" Maggie demanded. "What right did he have to let her? And now, are you thinking it falls to us? To us to follow it through? This isn't some abandoned fatherless child we're speaking of now, Brianna, but a person grown. What have they to do with us?"

"Our father, Maggie. Our family."

"Oh, aye, the Concannon family. God help us." Overwhelmed, she leaned against the mantel, staring blindly into the fire. "Was he so weak, then?"

"We don't know what he did, or could have done. We may never know." Brianna took a careful breath. "If Mother had known-"

Maggie interrupted with a short, bitter laugh. "She didn't. Do you think she wouldn't have used a weapon like this to beat him into the ground? God knows she used everything else."

"Then there's no point in telling her now, is there?"

Slowly Maggie turned. "You want to say nothing?"

"To her. What purpose would it serve to hurt her?"

Maggie's mouth thinned. "You think it would?"

"Are you so sure it wouldn't?"

The fire went out in Maggie as quickly as it had flared. "I don't know. How can I know? I feel as if they're both strangers now."

"He loved you, Maggie." Rogan rose now to go to her. "You know that."

"I know that." She let herself lean. "But I don't know what I feel."

"I think we should try to find Amanda Dougherty," Brianna began, "and-"

"I can't think." Maggie closed her eyes. There were too many emotions battering inside her to allow her to see, as she wanted, the right direction to take. "I need to think about this, Brie. It's rested this long. It can rest awhile longer."

"I'm sorry, Maggie."

"Don't take this on your shoulders as well." A bit of the bite and briskness came back into Maggie's voice. "They're burdened enough. Give me a few days, Brie, then we'll decide together what's to be done."

"All right."

"I'd like to keep the letters, for now."

"Of course."

Maggie crossed over, laid a hand on Brianna's pale cheek. "He loved you, too, Brie."

"In his way."

"In every way. You were his angel, his cool rose. Don't worry. We'll find a way to do what's best."

Gray didn't mind when the leaden sky began to spit rain again. He stood on a parapet of a ruined castle looking out on a sluggish river. Wind whistled and moaned through chinks in the stone. He might have been alone, not simply in this spot, but in this country, in the world.

It was, he decided, the perfect place for murder.

The victim could be lured here, could be pursued up ancient winding stone steps, could flee helplessly up, until any crumb of hope would dissolve. There would be no escape.

Here, where old blood had been spilled, where it seeped into stone and earth so deep, yet not so deep, fresh murder would be done. Not for God, not for country. But for pleasure.

Gray already knew his villain, could picture him there, slicing down so that the edge of his knife glinted silver in the dull light. He knew his victim, the terror and the pain. The hero, and the woman he would love, were as clear to Gray as the slow run of the river below.

And he knew he would have to begin soon to create them with words. There was nothing he enjoyed in writing more than making his people breathe, giving them flesh and blood. Discovering their backgrounds, their hidden fears, every twist and turn of their pasts.

It was, perhaps, because he had no past of his own. He had made himself, layer by layer, as skillfully and as meticulously as he crafted his characters. Grayson Thane was who he had decided to be, and his skill in storytelling had provided a means to become who and what he wanted, in some style.

He would never consider himself a modest man, but considered himself no more than a competent writer, a spinner of tales. He wrote to entertain himself first, and acknowledged his luck in hitting some chord in the public.

Brianna had been right. He had no desire to be a Yeats. Being a good writer meant he could make a living and do as he chose. Being a great one would bring responsibilities and expectations he had no desire to face. What Gray didn't choose to face, he simply turned his back on.

But there were times, such as this, when he wondered what it might be like to have roots, ancestry, a full-blooded devotion to family or country. The people who had built this castle that still stood, those who had fought there, died there. What had they felt? What had they wished for? And how could battles fought so long ago still ring, as clear as the fatal music of sword against sword, in the air?

He'd chosen Ireland for this, for the history, for the people whose memories were long and roots were deep. For people, he admitted, like Brianna Concannon.

It was an odd and interesting bonus that she should be so much what he was looking for in his heroine.

Physically she was perfect. That soft, luminous beauty, the simple grace and quiet manner. But beneath the shell, in contrast to that open-handed hospitality, was a remoteness, and a sadness. Complexities, he thought, letting the rain slap his cheeks. He enjoyed nothing better than contrasts and complexities-puzzles to be solved. What had put that haunted look in her eyes, that defensive coolness in her manner? It would be interesting to find out.