Born in Ice

by Nora Roberts

  "No."

  She only stared, devastated for him. To have no one. She couldn't conceive of it. Couldn't bear it.

  "You're looking at me like I'm some foundling bundled in a basket on your doorstep." It amused him, and oddly, it touched him. "Believe me, honey, I like it this way. No ties, no strings, no guilts." He drank again, as if to seal the words. "Simplifies my life."

  Empties it, more like, she thought. "It doesn't bother you, having no one to go home to?"

  "It relieves me. Maybe it would if I had a home, but I don't have one of those, either."

  The gypsy, she recalled, but she hadn't taken him literally until now. "But, Grayson, to have no place of your own-"

  "No mortgage, no lawn to mow or neighbor to placate." He leaned over her to glance out the window. "Look, there's Dublin."

  But she looked at him, felt for him. "But when you leave Ireland, where will you go?"

  "I haven't decided. That's the beauty of it."

  "You've got a great house." Less than three hours after landing in Dublin, Gray stretched his legs out toward the fire in Rogan's parlor. "I appreciate your putting me up."

  "It's our pleasure." Rogan offered him a snifter of after-dinner brandy. They were alone for the moment, as Brianna and Maggie had driven to his grandmother's to help the bride with last-minute arrangements.

  Rogan still had trouble picturing his grandmother as a nervous bride-to-be. And more trouble yet, imagining the man even now haranguing the cook as his future step-grandfather.

  "You don't look too happy about it."

  "What?" Rogan glanced back at Gray, made himself smile. "No, I'm sorry, it's nothing to do with you. I'm a bit uneasy about tomorrow, I suppose."

  "Giving-the-bride-away jitters?"

  The best Rogan could come up with was a grunt.

  Reading his host well, Gray tucked his tongue in his cheek and stirred the unease. "Niall's an interesting character."

  "A character," Rogan muttered. "Indeed." "Your grandmother had stars in her eyes at dinner." Now Rogan sighed. She had never looked happier. "They're besotted with each other."

  "Well..." Gray swirled his brandy. "There are two of us and one of him. We could overpower him, drag him off to the docks, and put him on a ship bound for Australia."

  "Don't think I haven't considered it." But he smiled now, easier. "There's no picking family, is there? And I'm forced to admit the man adores her. Maggie and Brie are delighted, so I find myself outgunned and outvoted."

  "I like him," Gray said in grinning apology. "How can you not like a man who wears a jacket the shade of a Halloween pumpkin with tasseled alligator shoes?"

  "There you are." Rogan waved an elegant hand. "In any case, we're pleased to be able to provide you with a wedding during your stay in Ireland. You're comfortable at

  Blackthorn?" "Brianna has a knack for providing the comfortable."

  "She does."

  Gray's expression sobered as he frowned into his drink. "Something happened a few days ago that I think you should know. She didn't want me to mention it, particularly to Maggie. But I'd like your take on it."

  "All right."

  "The cottage was broken into."

  "Blackthorn?" Startled, Rogan set his brandy aside.

  "We were outside, in that shed she uses for potting. We might have been in there for half an hour, maybe a little longer. When we went back in, someone had tossed the place."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Turned it upside down," Gray explained. "A fast, messy search, I'd say."

  "That doesn't make sense." But he leaned forward, worried. "Was anything taken?"

  "I had some cash in my room." Gray shrugged it off. "That seems to be all. Brianna claims none of the neighbors would have come in that way."

  "She'd be right." Rogan sat back again, picked up his brandy but didn't drink. "It's a closely knit community, and Brie's well loved there. Did you inform the garda?"

  "She didn't want to, didn't see the point. I did speak with

  Murphy, privately."

  "That would tend to it," Rogan agreed. "I'd have to think it was some stranger passing through. But even that seems out of place." Dissatisfied with any explanation, he tapped his fingers against the side of his glass. "You've been there some time now. You must have gotten a sense of the people, the atmosphere."

  "Next stop Brigadoon," Gray murmured. "Logic points to a one-shot deal, and that's how she's handling it." Gray moved his shoulders. "Still, I don't think it would hurt for you to keep an eye out when you come back."

  "I'll do that." Rogan frowned into his brandy. "You can be sure of it."

  "You've a fine cook, Rogan me boy." Niall strolled in carting a tray loaded with china and a huge chocolate torte. He was a large man, sporting his thirty extra pounds like a badge of honor. And did indeed look somewhat like a jolly jack-o'-lantern in his orange sport coat and lime-green tie. "A prince of a man, he is." Niall set down the tray and beamed. "He's sent out this bit of sweet to help calm my nerves."

  "I'm feeling nervous myself." Grinning, Gray rose to cut into the torte himself.

  Niall boomed out with a laugh and slapped Gray heartily on the back. "There's a lad. Good appetite. Why don't we tuck into this, then have a few games of snooker?" He winked at Rogan. "After all, it's my last night as a free man. No more carousing with the boy-os for me. Any whiskey to wash this down with?"

  "Whiskey." Rogan looked at the wide, grinning face of his future grandfather. "I could use a shot myself."

  They had several. And then a few more. By the time the second bottle was opened, Gray had to squint to see the balls on the snooker table, and then they still tended to weave. He ended by closing one eye completely.

  He heard the balls clack together, then stood back. "My point, gentlemen. My point." He leaned heavily on his cue.

  "Yank bastard can't lose tonight." Niall slapped Gray on the back and nearly sent him nose first onto the table. "Set 'em up again, Rogan me boy. Let's have another."

  "I can't see them," Rogan said slowly before lifting a hand in front of his face and peering at it. "I can't feel my fingers."

  "Another whiskey's what you need." Like a sailor aboard

  a pitching deck, Niall made his way to the decanter. "Not a drop," he said sadly as he upended the crystal. "Not a bleeding drop left."

  "There's no whiskey left in Dublin." Rogan pushed himself away from the wall that was holding him up, then fell weakly back. "We've drank it all. Drunk it all. Oh, Christ. I can't feel my tongue, either. I've lost it."

  "Let's see." Willing to help, Gray laid his hands heavily on Rogan's shoulders. "Stick it out." Eyes narrowed, he nodded. " 'S okay, pal. It's there. Fact is, you've got two of 'em. That's the problem."

  "I'm marrying my Chrissy tomorrow." Niall stood, teetering dangerously left, then right, his eyes glazed, his smile brilliant. "Beautiful little Chrissy, the belle of Dublin."

  He pitched forward, falling like a redwood. With their arms companionably supporting each other, Rogan and Gray stared down at him.

  "What do we do with him?" Gray wondered. Rogan ran one of his two tongues around his teeth. "Do you think he's alive?" "Doesn't look like it."

  "Don't start the wake yet." Niall lifted his head. "Just get me on me feet, lads. I'll dance till dawn." His head hit the floor again with a thud. "He's not so bad, is he?" Rogan asked. "When I'm drunk, that is." "A prince of a man. Let's haul him up. He can't dance on his face."

  "Right." They staggered over. By the time they'd hefted Niall to his knees, they were out of breath and laughing like fools. "Get up, you dolt. It's like trying to shift a beached whale."

  Niall opened his bleary eyes, tossed back his head, and began, in a wavering but surprisingly affecting tenor, to sing.

  "And it's all for me grog, me jolly, jolly grog. It's all for me beer and tobacco." He grunted his way up on one foot, nearly sent Gray flying. "Well, I spent all me tin on lassies drinking gin. Far across the Western ocean I must wander.
"

  "You'll be lucky to wander to bed," Rogan told him.

  He simply switched tunes. "Well, if you've got a wingo, take me up to ringo where the waxies singo all the day."

  Well insulated by whiskey, Rogan joined in as the three of them teetered on their feet. "If you've had your fill of porter and you can't go any further-"

  That struck Gray as wonderfully funny, and he snickered his way into the chorus.

  With the harmony and affection of the drunk, they staggered their way down the hall. By the time they reached the base of the stairs, they were well into a whiskey-soaked rendition of "Dicey Riley."

  "Well, I wouldn't say it was only poor old Dicey Riley who'd taken to the sup, would you, Brie?" Maggie stood halfway down the stairs with her sister, studying the trio below.

  "I wouldn't, no." Folding her hands neatly at her waist, Brianna shook her head. "From the looks of them, they've dropped in for several little drops."

  "Christ, she's beautiful, isn't she?" Gray mumbled.

  "Yes." Rogan grinned brilliantly at his wife. "Takes my breath away. Maggie, my love, come give me a kiss."

  "I'll give you the back of my hand." But she laughed as she started down. "Look at the lot of you, pitiful drunk. Uncle Niall, you're old enough to know better."

  "Getting married, Maggie Mae. Where's my Chrissy?" He tried to turn a circle in search and had his two supporters tipping like dominoes.

  "In her own bed sleeping, as you should be. Come on, Brie, let's get these warriors off the field."

  "We were playing snooker." Gray beamed at Brianna. "I won."

  "Yank bastard," Niall said affectionately, then kissed Gray hard on the mouth.

  "Well, that's nice, isn't it?" Maggie managed to get an arm around Rogan. "Come on now, that's the way. One foot in front of the other." Somehow they managed to negotiate the steps. They dumped Niall first.

  "Get Rogan off to bed, Maggie," Brianna told her. "I'll tuck this one in, then come back and pull off Uncle Niall's shoes."

  "Oh, what heads they'll have tomorrow." The prospect made Maggie smile. "Here we go, Sweeney, off to bed. Mind your hands." Since she considered him harmless in his current state, the order came out with a chuckle. "You haven't a clue what to do with them in your state."

  "I'll wager I do."

  "Oh, but you smell of whiskey and cigars." Brianna sighed and draped Gray's arm over her shoulders, braced him. "The man's eighty, you know. You should have stopped him."

  "He's a bad influence, that Niall Feeney. We had to toast Chrissy's eyes, and her lips, and her hair, and her ears. I think we toasted her toes, too, but things get blurry about then."

  "And small wonder. Here's your door. Just a bit farther now."

  "You smell so good, Brianna." With what he thought was a smooth move, he sniffed doglike at her neck. "Come to bed with me. I could show you things. All sorts of wonderful things."

  "Mmm-hmm. Down you go. That's the way." Efficiently, she lifted his legs onto the bed and began to take off his shoes.

  "Lie down with me. I can take you places. I want to be inside you."

  Her hands fumbled at that. She looked up sharply, but his eyes were closed, his smile dreamy. "Hush now," she murmured. "Go to sleep."

  She tucked a blanket around him, brushed the hair from his brow, and left him snoring.

  Suffering was to be expected. Overindulgence had to be paid for, and Gray was always willing to pay his way. But it seemed a little extreme to have to take a short, vicious trip to hell because of one foolish evening.

  His head was cracked in two. It didn't show, a fact that relieved him considerably when he managed to crawl into the bathroom the following morning. He looked haggard, but whole. Obviously the jagged break in his skull was on the inside.