“Let go of my hands,” she demanded, and he raised his head and shook it.
“Not if I have to keep you here for the next twenty years.”
“You thick-brained idiot, couldn’t you see how I was dying for loving you? Let go of my hands, blast your eyes, and kiss me.”
She pulled his head to hers with her freed hands, and buried her face in the strong column of his neck.
“It appears,” he murmured in her scented hair, “we’ve wasted a great deal of time.”
“You seemed so far away. All those weeks you never even touched me. You never even said you loved me last night.”
“I didn’t dare touch you. I wanted you so much it was driving me mad. If I had told you I loved you last night—and how I wanted to!—you might have thought I said it just to keep you in bed.”
“I won’t think that now, Travis. Let me hear you say it. I’ve been needing to hear you say it for such a long time.”
He obliged her, telling her over and over until his lips sought hers and told her silently.
“Travis,” she finally whispered against his ear. “I’m wondering if you could arrange another thunderstorm?”
Nora Roberts
Hot Ice
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Also available . . .
The Official Nora Roberts Companion
(edited by Denise Little and Laura Hayden)
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have control over and does not have any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
IRISH ROSE
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Harlequin Books edition / February 1992
InterMix eBook edition / July 2012
Copyright © 1992 by Nora Roberts.
Excerpt from Irish Rebel copyright © 2000 by Nora Roberts.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-56956-6
INTERMIX
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Contents
Also by Nora Roberts
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter One
Her name was Erin, like her country. And like her country, she was a maze of contradictions—rebellion and poetry, passion and moodiness. She was strong enough to fight for her beliefs, stubborn enough to fight on after a cause was lost, and generous enough to give whatever she had. She was a woman with soft skin and a tough mind. She had sweet dreams and towering ambitions.
Her name was Erin, Erin McKinnon, and she was nervous as a cat.
It was true that this was only the third time in her life she’d been in the airport at Cork. Or any airport, for that matter. Still, it wasn’t the crowds or the noise that made her jumpy. The fact was, she liked hearing the announcements of planes coming and going. She liked thinking about all the people going places.
London, New York, Paris. Through the thick glass she could watch the big sleek planes rise up, nose first, and imagine their destinations. Perhaps one day she’d board one herself and experience that stomach-fluttering anticipation as the plane climbed up and up.
She shook her head. It wasn’t a plane going up that had her nervous now, but one coming in. And it was due any minute. Erin caught herself before she dragged a hand through her hair. It wouldn’t do a bit of good to be poking and pulling at herself. After thirty seconds more, she shifted her bag from hand to hand, then tugged at her jacket. She didn’t want to look disheveled or tense . . . or poor, she added as she ran a hand down her skirt to smooth it.
Thank God her mother was so clever with a needle. The deep blue of the skirt and matching jacket was flattering to her pale complexion. The cut and style were perhaps a bit conservative for Erin’s taste, but the color did match her eyes. She wanted to look competent, capable, and had even managed to tame her unruly hair into a tidy coil of dark red. The style made her look older, she thought. She hoped it made her look sophisticated, too.
She’d toned down the dusting of freckles and had deepened the color of her lips. Eye makeup had been applied with a careful hand, and she wore Nanny’s old and lovely gold crescents at her ears.
The last thing she wanted was to look plain and dowdy. The poor relation. Even the echo of the phrase in her head caused her teeth to clench. Pity, even sympathy, were emotions she wanted none of. She was a McKinnon, and perhaps fortune hadn’t smiled on her as it had her cousin, but she was determined to make her own way.
Here they were, she thought, and had to swallow a ball of nerves in her throat. Erin watched the plane that had brought them from Curragh taxi toward the gate—the small, sleek plane people of wealth and power could afford to charter. She could imagine what it would be like to sit inside, to drink champagne or nibble on something exotic. Imagination had always been hers in quantity. All she’d lacked was the means to make what she could imagine come true.
An elderly woman stepped off the plane first, leading a small girl by the hand. The woman had cloud-white hair and a solid, sturdy build. Beside her, the little girl looked like a pixie, carrot-topped and compact. The moment they’d stepped to the ground, a boy of five or six leaped off after them.
Even through the thick glass, Erin could all but hear the woman’s scolding. She snatched his hand with her free one, and he flashed her a wicked grin. Erin felt immediate kinship. If she’d gauged the age right, that would be Brendon, Adelia’s oldest. The girl who held the woman’s hand and clutched a battered doll in the other would be Keeley, younger by a year or so.
The man came next, the man Erin recognized as Travis Grant. Her cousin’s husband of seven years, owner of Thoroughbreds and master of Royal Meadows. He was tall and broad-shouldered and was laughing down at his son, who waited impatiently on the tarmac. The smile was nice, she thought, the kind that made a woman look twice without being sure whether to relax or brace herself. Erin had met him once, briefly, when he’d brought his wife back to Ireland four years before. Quietly domineering, she’d thought then. The kind of man a woman could depend on, as long as she could stand toe-to-toe with him.
On his hip he carried another child, a boy with hair as dark and thick as his father’s. He was grinning, too, but not down at his brother and sister. His face was tilted up toward the sky from which he’d just come. Travis hande
d him down, then turned and held out a hand.
As Adelia stepped through the opening, the sun struck her hair with arrows of light. The rich chestnut shone around her face and shoulders. She, too, was laughing. Even with the distance, Erin could see the glow. She was a small woman. When Travis caught her by the waist and lifted her to the ground, she didn’t reach his shoulder. He kept his arm around her, Erin noticed, not so much possessive as protective of her and perhaps of the child that was growing inside her.
While Erin watched, Adelia tilted her face, touched a hand to her husband’s cheek and kissed him. Not like a long-time wife, Erin thought, but like a lover.
A little ripple of envy moved through her. Erin didn’t try to avoid it. She never attempted to avoid any of her feelings, but let them come, let them race to the limit, whatever the consequences.
And why shouldn’t she envy Dee? Erin asked herself. Adelia Cunnane, the little orphan from Skibbereen, had not only pulled herself up by the bootstraps but had tugged hard enough to land on top of the pile. More power to her, Erin thought. She intended to do the same herself.
Erin squared her shoulders and started to step forward as another figure emerged from the plane. Another servant, she thought, then took a long, thorough look. No, this man would serve no one.
He leaped lightly to the ground with a slim, unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. Slowly, even warily, he looked around. As a cat might, she thought, a cat that had just leaped from cliff to cliff. She couldn’t see his eyes, for he wore tinted glasses, but she had the quick impression that they would be sharp, intense and not entirely comfortable to look into.
He was as tall as Travis but leaner, sparer. Tough. The adjective came to her as she pursed her lips and continued to stare. He bent down to speak to one of the children, and the move was lazy but not careless. His dark hair was straight and long enough to hang over the collar of his denim shirt. He wore boots and faded jeans, but she rejected the idea that he was a farmer. He didn’t look like a man who tilled the soil but like one who owned it.