Born in Fire

  "And that's the nicest compliment I've had all evening."

  "Daddy, Mother's looking for you." Patricia brushed a stray ash from his lapel. The gesture, one she had carelessly used with her own father countless times, arrowed straight into Maggie's heart.

  "I'd better let her find me, then." He looked back at Maggie, and when she grinned at him, he grinned back. "I hope we meet again. Miss Concannon."

  "So do I."

  "Won't you come up with us?" Patricia asked.

  "No, not just now," Maggie answered, not wishing to socialize further with Patricia's mother.

  The bright look faded the moment their footsteps died away on the polished floor. She sat down, alone, in the light-flooded kitchen. It was quiet there, so quiet she could nearly fool herself into believing the building was empty but for her. She wanted to believe she was alone. More, she wanted to believe the sadness she suddenly felt was just that she missed the solitude of her own green fields and quiet hills, the endless hours of silence with only the roar of her own kiln and her own imagination to drive her. But it wasn't only that. On this, one of the brightest nights of her life, she had no one. None of the chattering, brilliant crowd of people upstairs knew her, cared for her, understood her. There was no one abovestairs waiting for Maggie Concannon. So she had herself, she thought, and rose. And that was all anyone needed. Her work was well received. It wasn't so difficult to cut through all the fancy and pompous phrases to the core. Rogan's people liked what she did, and that was the first step. She was on her way, she told herself as she swung out of the kitchen. She was rushing down the path toward fame and fortune, the path that had eluded the Concannons for the last two generations. And she would do it all herself. The light and the music sparkled down the staircase like fairy dust along the curve of a rainbow. She stood at the foot of the stairs, her hand clutched on the rail, her foot on the first tread. Then, with a jerk, she turned to hurry outside, into the dark.

  When the clock struck one, Rogan yanked at his elegant black tie and swore. The woman, he thought as he paced the darkened parlor, deserved murder and no less. She'd vanished like smoke in the middle of a crowded party arranged for her benefit. Leaving him, he remembered with boiling resentment, to make foolish excuses. He should have known that a woman of her temperament couldn't be trusted to behave reasonably. He certainly should have known better than to give her such a prominent place in his own ambitions, his hopes for the future of his business. How in hell could he hope to build a gallery for Irish art when the first Irish artist he'd personally selected, groomed and showcased had fled her own opening like an irresponsible child? Now it was the middle of the night, and he'd not had a word from her. The brilliant success of the show, his own satisfaction with a job well done, had clouded over like her precious west county sky. There was nothing he could do but wait. And worry. She didn't know Dublin. For all its beauty and charm there were still sections dangerous to a woman alone. And there was always the possibility of an accident—the thought of which brought on a vicious, throbbing headache at the base of his skull.

  He'd taken two long strides toward the phone to telephone the hospitals when he heard the click of the front door. He pivoted and rushed into the hallway. She was safe, and under the dazzle of the foyer chandelier, he could see she was unharmed. Visions of murder leaped back into his aching head.

  "Where in the sweet hell have you been?"

  She'd hoped he be out at some high-class club, clinking glasses with his friends. But since he wasn't, she offered him a smile and a shrug. "Oh, out and about. Your Dublin's a lovely city at night."

  As he stared at her, his hands closed into ready fists.

  "You're saying you've been out sightseeing until one in the morning?"

  "Is it so late then? I must have lost track. Well then, I'll say good night."

  "No, you won't." He took a step toward her.

  "What you will do is give me an explanation for your behavior."

  "That's something I don't have to explain to anyone, but if you'd be more clear, perhaps I'd make an exception."

  "There were nearly two hundred people gathered tonight for your benefit. You were unbelievably rude."

  "I was nothing of the kind." More weary than she wanted to admit, she strolled past him into the parlor, slipped out of the miserably uncomfortable heels and propped her tired feet on a tassled stool. 'The truth is, I was so unbelievably polite, my teeth nearly fell out of my head. I hope to Christ I don't have to smile at another bloody soul for a month. I wouldn't mind one of your brandies now, Rogan. It's chilly out this time of night." He noticed for the first time that she wore nothing over the thin black dress.

  "Where the devil is your wrap?"

  "I didn't have one. You'll have to mark that down in your little book. Acquire Maggie a suitable evening wrap." She reached up for the snifter he'd poured.

  "Damn it, your hands are frozen. Have you no sense?"

  "They'll warm quick enough." Her brows arched as he stalked over to the fireplace and crouched down to start a fire. "What, no servants?"

  "Shut up. The one thing I won't tolerate from you tonight is sarcasm. I've taken all I plan to take."

  Flames licked into life to eat greedily at dry wood. In the shifting light Maggie saw that his face was tight with anger. The best way to meet temper, she'd always thought, was to match it.

  "I've given you nothing to take." She sipped the brandy, would have sighed over the welcome heat of the liquor if she and Rogan hadn't been glaring at each other. "I went to your showing, didn't I? In a proper dress, with a proper foolish smile pasted on my face."

  "It was your showing," he shot back. "You ungrateful, selfish, inconsiderate brat."

  However weary her body, she wouldn't allow him to get away with such language. She stood rigidly and faced him. "I won't contradict you. I'm exactly as you say, and have been told so most of my life.

  Fortunately for both of us, it's only my work you have to be concerned about."

  "Do you have any idea the time and effort and expense that went into putting that show together?"

  That's your province." Her voice was as stiff as her spine. "As you're always so quick to tell me. And I was there, stayed above two hours, rubbing elbows with strangers."

  "You'd better learn that a patron is never a stranger, and that rudeness is never attractive."

  The quiet, controlled tone cut through her defensive armor like a sword.

  "I never agreed to stay the whole evening. I needed to be alone, that's all."

  "And to wander the streets all night? I'm responsible for you while you're here, Maggie. For God's sake, I'd nearly called out the garda."

  "You're not responsible for me, I am." But she could see now that it wasn't simply anger darkening his eyes, but concern as well. "If I caused you worry, I'll apologize. I simply went for a walk."

  "You went out strolling and left your first major show without a by-your-leave?"

  "Yes." The snifter was out of her hand and hurtling toward the stone hearth before she realized it. Glass shattered, rained like bullets. "I had to get out! I couldn't breathe. I couldn't bear it. All those people, staring at me, at my work, and the music, the lights. Everything so lovely, so perfect. I didn't know it would scare me so. I thought I'd gotten over it since that first day you showed me the room, and my work set up like something out of a dream."

  "You were frightened."

  "Yes, yes, damn you. Are you happy to hear it? I was terrified when you opened the door and I looked inside and saw what you'd done. I could barely speak. You did this to me," she said furiously. "You opened this Pandora's box and let out all my hopes and my fears and my needs. You can't know what it's like to have needs, terrible ones, you don't even think you should have."

  He studied her now, ivory and flame in a slim black dress. "Oh, but I can," he said quietly. "I can.

  You should have told me, Maggie." His voice was gentle now as he stepped toward her.

  She t
hrew up both hands to ward him off. "No, don't. I couldn't bear you to be kind just now. Especially when I know I don't deserve it. It was wrong of me to leave that way. It was selfish and ungrateful." She dropped her hands helplessly at her sides.

  "But there was no one for me up those stairs. No one. And it broke my heart."

  She looked so delicate all at once, so he did what she asked and didn't touch her. He was afraid if he did, however gently, she might snap in his hands.

  "If you'd let me know how important it was to you, Maggie, I'd have arranged to have your family here."

  "You can't arrange Brianna. God knows you can't bring my father back." Her voice broke, shaming her. With a strangled sound she pressed a hand to her mouth. "I'm overtired, that's all." She fought a bitter war to control her voice. "Overstimulated with all the excitement. I owe you an apology for leaving the way I did, and gratitude for all the work you did for me."

  He preferred her raging or weeping to this suited politeness. It left him no choice but to respond in kind. "The important thing is that the show was a success."

  "Yes." Her eyes glittered in the firelight.

  "That's the important thing. If you'll excuse me now, I'll go up to bed."

  "Of course. Maggie? One more thing."

  She turned back. He stood before the fire, the flames leaping gold behind him. "Yes?"

  "I was there for you, up those stairs. Perhaps next time you'll remember that, and be content."

  She didn't answer. He heard only the rustle other dress as she hurried across the hall and up the stairs, then the quick click of her bedroom door closing. He stared at the fire, watched a log break apart, cut through by flame and heat. Smoke puffed once, stirred by the wind. He continued to stare as a shower of sparks rained against the screen, scattered over stone and winked out. She was, he realized, every bit as capricious, moody and brilliant as that fire. As dangerous and as elemental.

  And he was, quite desperately, in love with her.

  Chapter Ten

  WHAT do you mean, gone?" Rogan pushed away from his desk and scraped Joseph with a look of

  outrage. "Of course she's not gone."

  "But she is. She stopped by the gallery to say goodbye only an hour ago." Reaching into his pocket,

  Joseph drew out an envelope. "She asked me to give you this."

  Rogan took it, tossed it on his desk. "Are you saying she's gone back to Clare? The morning after her show?"

  "Yes, and in a tearing hurry. I didn't have time to show her the reviews." Joseph reached up to fiddle with the tiny gold hoop in his ear. "She'd booked a flight to Shannon. Said she only had a moment to say goodbye and God bless, gave me the note for you, kissed me and ran out again." He smiled.

  "It was a bit like being battered by a small tornado." He lifted his shoulders, let them fall.

  "I'm sorry, Rogan, if I'd known you wanted her to stay, I'd have tried to stop her. I believe I'd have been flattened, but I'd have tried."

  "It doesn't matter." He lowered carefully into his chair again. "How did she seem?"

  "Impatient, rushed, distracted. Very much as usual. She wanted to be back home, was all she told me, back at work. I wasn't sure you knew, so I thought I'd come by and tell you in person. I have an appointment with General Fitzsimmons, and it was on my way."

  "I appreciate it. I should be by the gallery by four. Give the general my regards."

  "I'll give him the business," Joseph said with a flashing grin. "By the way, he went up another five thousand on Surrender."

  "Not for sale."

  Rogan picked up the note on his desk after Joseph closed the door behind him. Ignoring his work, Rogan split the envelope with his ebony-handled letter opener. The creamy stationery from his own guest room was dashed over with Maggie's hurried and beautiful scrawl.

  Dear Rogan,

  I imagine you'll be annoyed that I've left so abruptly, but it can't be helped. I need to be home and back at work, and I won't apologize for it. I will thank you. I'm sure you'll start firing wires my way, and I'll warn you in advance I intend to ignore them, at least for a time. Please give my best to your grandmother. And I wouldn't mind if you thought of me now and again.

  Maggie

  Oh, one more thing. You might be interested to know that I'm taking home a half dozen of Julien's recipes—that's your cook's name, if you don't know. He thinks I'm charming.

  Rogan skimmed the letter a second time before setting it aside. It was for the best, he decided. They would both be happier and more productive with the whole of Ireland between them. Certainly, he would be. It was difficult to be productive around a woman when you were in love with her, and when she frustrated you on every possible level. And with any luck, any at all, these feelings that had grown in him would ease and fade with time and distance. So ... He folded the letter and set it aside. He was glad she'd gone back, satisfied that they'd accomplished the first stage of his plans for her career, happy that she'd inadvertently given him time to deal with his own confused emotions. The hell, he thought. He missed her already.

  The sky was the color of a robin's egg and clear as a mountain stream. Maggie sat on the little stoop at her front door, elbows on knees, and just breathed. Beyond her own garden gate and the trailing, flowering fuchsia, she could see the lush green of hill and valley. And farther, since the day was so clear, so bright, she glimpsed the distant dark mountains. She watched a magpie dart across her line of vision, flashing over the hedge and up. Straight as an arrow he went, until even the shadow of him was lost in the green.

  One of Murphy's cows lowed and was answered by another. There was a humming echo that would be his tractor, and the more insistent sealike roar of her furnaces, which she'd fired the moment she'd arrived. Her flowers were brilliant in the sunshine, vivid red begonias tangled with the late-blooming tulips and dainty spears of larkspur. She could smell rosemary and thyme and the strong perfume of the wild roses that swayed like dancers in the mild, sweet breeze. A wind chime she'd made out of scraps of glass sang musically above her head. Dublin, with its busy streets, seemed very far away. On the ribbon of road in the valley below, she saw a red truck, tiny and bright as a toy, rumble along, turn into a lane and climb toward a cottage. Home for tea, she thought, and let out a sigh of pure contentment. She heard the dog first, that full-throated echoing bark, then the rustle of brush that told her he'd flushed out a bird. Her sister's voice floated out on the air, amused, indulgent.

  "Leave the poor thing alone, Con, you great bully."

  The dog barked again and, moments later, leaped at the garden gate. His tongue lolled happily when he spotted Maggie.

  "Get down from there," Brianna ordered. "Do you want her to come home and find her gate crashed in, and . . . Oh." She stopped, laying a hand on the wolfhound's massive head as she saw her sister.

  "I didn't know you were home." The smile came first as she tugged open the gate.

  "I've just arrived." Maggie spent the next few minutes being greeted by Concobar, wrestling and accepting his lavish licks until he responded to Brianna's command to sit. Sit he did, his front paws over Maggie's feet, as if to ensure that she would stay put.

  "I had a little time," Brianna began. "So I thought I'd come down and tend to your garden."

  It looks fine to me."

  "You always think so. I've brought you some bread I baked this morning. I was going to put it in your freezer." Feeling awkward, Brianna held out the basket. There was something here, she realized.

  Something behind the cool, calm look in her sister's eyes. "How was Dublin?"

  "Crowded." Maggie set the basket beside her on the stoop. The scent beneath the neat cloth was so tempting that she lifted the cloth aside and broke off a warm hunk of brown bread. "Noisy." She tore off a bit of bread and tossed it. Concobar nipped it midair, swallowed it whole and grinned. "Greedy bastard, aren't you?" She tossed him another piece before she rose. "I have something for you."

  Maggie turned into the house, leaving
Brianna standing on the path. When she came back, she handed Brianna a box and a manila envelope.

  "You didn't have to get me anything—" Brianna began, but stopped. It was guilt she felt, she realized. And guilt she was meant to feel. Accepting it, she opened the box. "Oh, Maggie, it's lovely. The loveliest thing I've ever had." She held the pin up to the sun and watched it glint.

  "You shouldn't have spent your money."

  "It's mine to spend," Maggie said shortly. "And I hope you'll wear it on something other than an apron."

  "I don't wear an apron everywhere," Brianna said evenly. She replaced the pin carefully in the box, slipped the box into her pocket. "Thank you. Maggie, I wish—"

  "You haven't looked at the other." Maggie knew what her sister wished, and didn't care to hear it. Regrets that she hadn't been in Dublin for the show hardly mattered now. Brianna studied her sister's face, found no sign of softening. "All right, then." She opened the envelope, drew out a sheet. "Oh! Oh my." However bright and lovely the pin, it was nothing compared withthis. They both knew it. "Recipes. So many. Souffles and pastries, and—oh, look at this chicken. It must be wonderful."

  "It is." Maggie shook her head at Brianna's reaction, nearly sighed. "I've tasted it myself. And the soup there—the herbs are the trick to it, I'm told."

  "Where did you get them?" Brianna caught her bottom lip between her teeth, studied the handwritten pages as if they were the treasures of all the ages.

  "From Rogan's cook. He's a Frenchman."

  "Recipes from a French chef," Brianna said reverently.

  "I promised him you'd send a like number of your own in trade."

  "Of mine?" Brianna blinked, as if coming out of a dream. "Why, he couldn't want mine."

  "He can, and he does. I praised your Irish stew and your berry pie to the moon and back. And I gave him my solemn word you'd send them."

  "I will, of course, but I can't imagine—thank you, Maggie. It's a wonderful gift." Brianna stepped forward for an embrace, then back again, cut to the quick by the coolness of Maggie's response.

  "Won't you tell me how it went for you? I kept trying to imagine it, but I couldn't."

  "It went well enough. There were a lot of people. Rogan seems to know how to tickle their interest.

  There was an orchestra and waiters in white suits serving flutes of champagne and silver platters of fancy finger food."

  "It must have been beautiful. I'm so proud of you"

  Maggie's eyes chilled. "Are you?" "You know I am."

  "I know I needed you there. Damn it. Brie, I needed you there."

  Con whined at the shout and looked uneasily from Maggie to his mistress.

  "I would have been there if I could."

  "There was nothing stopping you but her. One night of your life was all I asked. One. I had no one there, no family, no friends, no one who loved me. Because you chose her as you always have, over me, over Da, even over yourself."

  It wasn't a matter of choosing."

  "It's always a matter of choosing," Maggie said coldly.

  "You've let her kill your heart, Brianna, just as she killed his."

  That's cruel, Maggie."

  "Aye, it is. She'd be the first to tell you that cruel is just what I am. Cruel, marked with sin and damned to the devil. Well, I'm glad to be bad. I'd chose hell in a blink over kneeling in ashes and suffering silently for heaven as you do." Maggie stepped back, curled a stiff hand around the doorknob. "Well, I had my night without you, or anyone, and it went well enough. I should think they'll be some sales out profit. I'll have money for you in a few weeks."

  "I'm sorry I hurt you, Maggie." Brianna's own pride stiffened her voice. "I don't care about the money."

  "I do." Maggie shut the door.

  * * *

  For three days she was undisturbed. The phone didn't ring, no knock came at the door. Even if there had been a summons, she would have ignored it. She spent nearly every waking minute in the glass house, refining, perfecting, forming the images in her brain and on her sketchpad into glass. Despite Rogan's claim as to their worth, she hung her drawings on clothespins or on magnets, so that a corner of the studio soon came to resemble a dark room, with prints drying.

  She'd burned herself twice in her hurry, once badly enough to make her stop for some hastily applied first aid. Now she sat in her chair, carefully,