Born in Ice

  "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.

  The interior of the car made her sigh. It smelled of leather, and the leather was soft as butter. She skimmed her fingers over the seat as he drove.

  "It was kind of you to do this, Gray."

  "Kindness had nothing to do with it. I had an urge to go out, and I wanted you with me. You never come into the pub at night."

  She relaxed a little. So that's where they were going. "I haven't lately. I do like stopping in now and then, seeing everyone. The O'Malleys had another grandchild this week."

  "I know. I was treated to a pint to celebrate."

  "I just finished a bunting for the baby. I should have brought it with me."

  "We're not going to the pub. What's a bunting?"

  "It's a kind of sacque; you button the baby into it." As they passed through the village she smiled. "Look, there's Mr. and Mrs. Conroy. More than fifty years married, and they still hold hands. You should see them dance."

  "That's what I was told about you." He glanced at her. "You won contests."

  "When I was a girl." She shrugged it off. Regrets were a foolish indulgence. "I was never serious about it. It was just for fun."

  "What do you do for fun now?"

  "Oh, this and that. You drive well for a Yank." At his bland look, she chuckled. "What I mean is that a lot of your people have some trouble adjusting to our roads and driving on the proper side."

  "We won't debate which is the proper side, but I've spent a lot of time in Europe."

  "You don't have an accent I can place-I mean other than American. I've made kind of a game out of it, you see, from guessing with my guests."

  "It might be because I'm not from anywhere."

  "Everyone's from somewhere."

  "No, they're not. There are more nomads in the world than you might think."

  "So, you're claiming to be a gypsy." She pushed her hair back and studied his profile. "Well, that's one I didn't think of."

  "Meaning?"

  "The night you came. I thought you looked a bit like a pirate-then a poet, even a boxer, but not a gypsy. But that suits, too."

  "And you looked like a vision-billowing white gown, tumbled hair, courage and fear warring in your eyes."

  "I wasn't afraid." She glimpsed the sign just before he turned off the road. "Here? Drumoland Castle? But we can't."

  "Why not? I'm told the cuisine's exquisite."

  "Sure and it is, and very dear."

  He laughed, slowing to enjoy the view of the castle, gray and glorious on the slope of the hill, glinting under lights. "Brianna, I'm a very well paid gypsy. Stunning, isn't it?"

  "Yes. And the gardens... you can't see them well now, and t
he winter's been so harsh, but they've the most beautiful gardens." She looked over the slope of lawn to a bed of dormant rosebushes. "In the back is a walled garden. It's so lovely it doesn't seem real. Why didn't you stay at a place like this?"

  He parked the car, shut it off. "I nearly did, then I heard about your inn. Call it impulse." He flashed a grin at her. "I like impulses."

  He climbed out of the car, took her hand to lead her up the stone steps into the great hall.

  It was spacious and lush, as castles should be, with dark wood and deep red carpets. There was the smell of wood-smoke from the fire, the glint of crystal, the lonely sound of harp music.

  "I stayed in a castle in Scotland," he began, moving toward the dining room with his fingers twined with hers. "And one in Cornwall. Fascinating places, full of shades and shadows."

  "You believe in ghosts?"

  "Of course." His eyes met hers as he reached out to take her coat. "Don't you?"

  "I do, yes. We have some, you know, at home."

  "The stone circle."

  Even as she felt surprise, she realized she shouldn't. He would have been there, and he would have felt it. "There, yes, and other places."

  Gray turned to the maitre d'. "Thane," he said simply.

  They were welcomed, shown to their table. As Gray accepted the wine list, he glanced at Brianna. "Would you like wine?"

  "That would be nice."

  He took a brief glance, smiled up at the sommelier. "The Chassagne-Montrachet."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Hungry?" he asked Brianna, who was all but devouring the menu.

  "I'm trying to memorize it," she murmured. "I dined here once with Maggie and Rogan, and I've come close to duplicating this chicken in honey and wine."

  "Read it for pleasure," he suggested. "We'll get a copy of the menu for you."

  She eyed him over the top. "They won't give one to you."

  "Sure they will."

  She gave a short laugh and chose her meal at random. Once they'd placed their orders and sampled the wine, Gray leaned forward. "Now, tell me."

  She blinked. "Tell you what?"