"All right, now I'm sitting. Don't tell me you actually want to have a conversation with me?" She tossed her hair back, then slowly crossed her legs. "I'm all aflutter." She saw his hand close into a fist and angled her chin. "Go ahead, pop me one. You've been wanting to for days."
"Don't tempt me."
"It was quite clear last night I couldn't even do that." She pulled her shoes off and tossed them aside. "If you're so fired up to talk to me, then talk."
"Yeah, I want to talk to you, and I want some straight answers." But instead of asking, he shoved his hands back into his pockets and circled the room. Where to start? he wondered. His fingers brushed over the ring he'd carried for days. Perhaps that was the best place. Burke pulled it out and held it in the palm of his hand.
"You found it." Erin's first burst of pleasure was almost blanked out by the look in his eyes. "You didn't tell me."
"You didn't ask."
"No, I didn't, because I was sick about it. Dropping it in the stables was stupid."
"Why did you?"
"Because I couldn't think of anything else. I knew I couldn't get away from them. They were already tying my hands." She was looking at her ring and didn't see him wince. "I guess I thought someone would find it and take it to you, and you'd know. Though I don't know what I expected you could do about it. Why haven't you given it back to me?"
"Because I wanted to give you time to decide if you wanted it or not." He took her hand and dropped the ring in it. "It's your choice."
"Always was," she said slowly, but she didn't put the ring on. "You're still angry with me because of what happened?"
"I was never angry with you because of what happened."
"You've been giving a champion imitation of it, then."
"It was my fault." He turned to her then, and for the first time began to let go of the rage. "Twenty hours. You lay in the dark for twenty hours because of me."
The words could still bring on a cold flash, but she was more intrigued by Burke's reaction. "I thought it was because of Durnam. You've never seemed willing to talk it through, to let me explain to you exactly what happened. If you'd—"
"You could have died." There was really nothing else but that. No explanations, no calm recounting, could change that one fact. "I sat in that damn hotel room, waiting for the phone to ring, terrified that it would and there was nothing, nothing I could do.
When I found you, saw what they'd done to you… your wrists."
"They're healing." She stood to reach out to him, but he withdrew immediately. "Why do you do this? Why do you keep pulling away from me? Even at the hospital you weren't there. You couldn't even stay with me."
"I went to kill Durnam."
"Oh, Burke, no."
"I was too late for that." The bitterness was still there, simmering with a foul taste he'd almost grown used to. "They had him by then, where I couldn't get to him. All I could do was stand in that hospital room and watch you. And think of how close I'd come to losing you. The longer I stood there, the more I thought about the way I'd dragged you in with me right from the beginning, never giving you a choice, never letting you know what kind of man you were tied to."
"That's enough. Do you really believe I'm some weak-minded female who can't say yes or no? I had a choice and I chose you. And not for your bloody money."
It was her turn to rage around the room. "I'm sick to death of having to find ways to prove that I love you. I'll not be denying that I wanted more out of life than a few acres of dirt and someone else's dishes to wash. And I'm not ashamed of it. But hear this, Burke Logan, I'd have found a way to get it for myself."
"I never doubted it."
"You think I married you for this house?" She threw up her arms as if to encompass every room. "Well, set a match to it, then, it doesn't matter to me. You think it's for all those fine stocks and bonds? Take them all, take every last scrap of paper and put it on one spin of the wheel. Whether you win or lose makes no difference to me. And these?" She pulled open her dresser and yanked out boxes of jewelry. "These pretty shiny things? Well, take them to hell with you. I love you—God himself knows why, you thickheaded, miserable excuse for a man. Not know what kind of man I married, is it?" She tossed the jewelry aside and stormed around the room. "I know well enough who and what you are. More fool I am for not giving a damn and loving you anyway."
"You don't know anything," he said quietly. "But if you'd sit down I'll tell you."
"You won't tell me anything I don't know. Do you think I care you grew up poor without a father? Oh, you don't need to look that way. Rosa told me weeks ago. Do you think I care if you lied or cheated or stole. I know what it is to be poor, to need, but I had my family. Can't I feel sorry for the boy without thinking less of the man?"
"I don't know." She rocked him, but then it seemed she never failed to do so. "Sit down, Erin, please."
"I'm sick to death of sitting. Just like I'm sick to death of walking on eggs with you. I did nearly die. I thought I was going to die, and all I could think was how much time we'd wasted being at odds. I swore if we were back together there'd be no more fighting. Now for days I've held my temper, I've said nothing when you turn away from me. But no more. If you've any more questions, Burke Logan, you'd best out with them, because I've plenty more to say myself."
"Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"
That stopped her cold. Her mouth fell open, and for all her talk about not sitting, she lowered herself onto the bed. "How do you know?"
Burke drew out the paper he'd found and handed it to her. "You've known for a month."
"Aye."
"Didn't you intend to tell me, or were you just going to take care of it yourself?"
"I meant to tell you, but… What do you mean, take care of it myself? I could hardly keep it a secret when—" She stopped again as the realization hit like a wall. "That's what you thought I'd gone to the hospital for today. You thought I'd gone there to see that there would be no baby." She let the paper slip to the floor as she rose again. "You are a bastard, Burke Logan, that you could think that of me."
"What the hell was I supposed to think? You've had a month to tell me."
"I'd have told you the day I found out. I came to tell you. I could hardly wait to get the words out, but you started in on me about the money and the letter from my father. It always came down to the money. I put my heart on a platter for you time after time, and you keep handing it back to me. No more of that, either." She was ashamed of the tears, but more ashamed to wipe them away. "I'll go back to Ireland and have the baby there. Then neither of us will be in your way."
Before she could storm out of the room he asked, "You want the baby?"
"Damn you for a fool, of course I want the baby. It's our baby. We made it our first night together in this bed. I loved you then, with my whole heart, with everything I had. But I don't now. I detest you. I hate you for letting me love you this way and never giving it back to me. Never once taking me in your arms and telling me you loved me."
"Erin—"
"No, don't you dare touch me now. Not now that I've made as big a fool of myself as any woman could." She'd thrown up both hands to ward him off. She couldn't bear to have his pity. "I was afraid you wouldn't want the baby, and me with it when you found out. That wasn't part of the bargain, was it? You wouldn't be so free and easy to come and go if there was a baby to think of."
He remembered the day she'd come to tell him about the baby, and the look in her eyes. Just as he remembered the look in her eyes when she'd left without telling him. He chose his words carefully now, knowing he'd already made enough mistakes.
"Six months ago you'd have been right. Maybe even six weeks ago, but not now. It's time we stopped moving in circles, Irish."
"And do what?"
"It's not easy for me to say what I feel. It's not easy for me to feel it." He approached her cautiously, and when she didn't back away he rested his hands on her shoulders. "I want you, and I want the bab
y."
She closed her fingers tightly over the ring she still had in her hand. "Why?"
"I didn't think I wanted a family. I swore when I was a kid that I'd never let anyone hurt me the way my mother had been hurt. I'd never let anyone mean so much that the life went out of me when they left. Then I went to Ireland and I met you. I'd still be there if you hadn't come back with me."
"You asked me to come here to keep your books."
"It was as good an excuse as any, for both of us. I didn't want to care about you. I didn't want to need to see you just to get through the day. But that's the way it was. I pulled you into marriage so fast because I didn't want to give you a chance to look around and find someone better."
"Seems to me I'd had chance enough."
"You'd never even been with a man before."
"Do you think I married you because you had a talent in bed?"
He had to laugh at that. "How would you know?"
"I doubt a woman has to bounce around between lovers to know when she's found the right one. Sex is as sorry an excuse to marry someone as money. Maybe we've both been fools, me for thinking you married me for the first, and you for thinking I married you for the second. I've told you why I married you, Burke. Don't you think it's time you told me?"
"I was afraid you'd get away."
She sighed and tried to make herself accept that. "All right, then, that'll do." She held her wedding ring out to him. "This belongs on my finger. You should remember which one."
He took it, and her hand. The choice had been given, to her and to him. It wasn't every day a man was given a second chance. "I love you, Erin." He saw her eyes fill and cursed himself for holding that away from both of them for so long.
"Say it again," she demanded. "Until you get used to it."
The ring slipped easily onto her finger. "I love you, Erin, and I always will." When he gathered her into his arms, he felt all the gears of his life click into place. "You mean everything to me. Everything." Their lips met and clung. It was just as sweet, just as powerful as the first time. "We're going to put down roots."
"We already have." Smiling, she took his face in her hands. "You just didn't notice."
Cautiously he laid his palm on her stomach. "How soon?"
"Seven months, a little less. There will be three of us for Christmas." She let out a whoop when he lifted her into his arms.
"I won't let you down." He swore it as he buried his face in her hair.
"I know."
"I want you off your feet." As he started to lay her on the bed, she grabbed his shirt.
"That's fine with me, as long as you get off yours as well."
He nipped her lower lip. "I've always said, Irish, you're a woman after my heart."
* * * * *
--3 Irish Rebel (06-2000)--
Chapter One
As far as Brian Donnelly was concerned, a vindictive woman had invented the tie to choke the life out of man so that he would then be so weak she could just grab the tail of it and lead him wherever she wanted him to go. Wearing one made him feel stifled and edgy, and just a little awkward.
But strangling ties, polished shoes and a dignified attitude were required in fancy country clubs with their slick floors and crystal chandeliers and vases crowded with flowers that looked as if they'd been planted on Venus.
He'd have preferred to be in the stables, or on the track or in a good smoky pub where you could light up a cigar and speak your mind. That's where a man met a man for business, to Brian's thinking.
But Travis Grant was paying his freight, and a hefty price it was to bring him all the way from Kildare to America.
Training racehorses meant understanding them, working with them, all but living with them. People were necessary, of course, in a kind of sideways fashion. But country clubs were for owners, and those who played at being racetrackers as a hobby-or for the prestige and profit.
A glance around the room told Brian that most here in their glittery gowns and black ties had never spent any quality time shoveling manure.
Still, if Grant wanted to see if he could handle himself in posh surroundings, blend in with the gentry, he'd damn well do it. The job wasn't his yet. And Brian wanted it.
Travis Grant's Royal Meadows was one of the top thoroughbred farms in the country. Over the last decade, it had moved steadily toward becoming one of the best in the world. Brian had seen the American's horses run in Kildare at Curragh. Each one had been a beauty. The latest he'd seen only weeks before, when the colt Brian had trained had edged out the Maryland bred by half a neck.
But half a neck was more than enough to win the purse, and his own share of it as trainer. More, it seemed, it had been enough to bring Brian Donnelly to the eye and the consideration of the great Mr. Grant.
So here he was, at himself's invitation, Brian thought, in America at some posh gala in a fancy club where the women all smelled rich and the men looked it.
The music he found dull. It didn't stir him. But at least he had a beer and a fine view of the goings-on. The food was plentiful and as polished and elegant as the people who nibbled on it. Those who danced did so with more dignity than enthusiasm, which he thought was a shame, but who could blame them when the band had as much life as a soggy sack of chips?
Still it was an experience watching the jewels glint and crystal wink. The head man in Kildare hadn't been the sort to invite his employees to parties.
Old Mahan had been fair enough, Brian mused. And God knew the man loved his horses-as long as they ended by prancing in the winner's circle. But Brian hadn't thought twice about flipping the job away at the chance for this one.
And, well, if he didn't get it, he'd get another. He had a mind to stay in America for a while. If Royal Meadows wasn't his ticket, he'd find another one.
Moving around pleased him, and by doing so, by knowing just when to pack his bag and take a new road, he'd hooked himself up with some of the best horse farms in Ireland.
There was no reason he could see why he couldn't do the same in America. More of the same, he thought. It was a big and wide country.
He sipped his beer, then lifted an eyebrow when Travis Grant came in. Brian recognized him easily, and his wife as well-the Irish woman, he imagined, was part of his edge in landing this position.
The man, Grant, was tall, powerfully built with hair a thick mixture of silver and black. He had a strong face, tanned and weathered by the outdoors. Beside him, his wife looked like a pixie with her small, slim build. Her hair was a sweep of chestnut, as glossy as the coat of a prize thoroughbred.
They were holding hands.
It was a surprising link. His parents had made four children between them, and worked together as a fine and comfortable team. But they'd never been much for public displays of affection, even as mild a one as handholding.
A young man came in behind them. He had the look of his father-and Brian recognized him from the track in Kildare. Brendon Grant, heir apparent. And he looked comfortable with it-as well as the sleek blonde on his arm.
There were five children, he knew-had made it his business to know. A daughter, another son and twins, one of each sort. He didn't expect those who had grown up with privilege to bother themselves overly about the day-to-day running of the farm. He didn't expect that they'd get in his way.
Then she rushed in, laughing.
Something jumped in his belly, in his chest. And for an instant he saw nothing and no one else. Her build was delicate, her face vibrant. Even from a distance he could see her eyes were as blue as the lakes of his homeland. Her hair was flame, a sizzling red that looked hot to the touch and fell, wave after wave, over her bare shoulders.
His heart hammered, three hard and violent strokes, then seemed simply to stop.
She wore something floaty and blue, paler, shades paler than her eyes. What must have been diamonds fired at her ears.
He'd never in his life seen anything so beautiful, so perfect. So unattainable.
Because his throat had gone burning dry, he lifted his beer and was disgusted to realize his hand wasn't quite steady.
Not for you, Donnelly, he reminded himself. Not for you to even dream of. That would be the master's oldest daughter. And the princess of the house.
Even as he thought it, a man with a well-cut suit and pampered tan went to her. The way she offered her hand to him was just cool enough, just aloof enough to have Brian sneering-which was a great deal more comfortable than goggling.
Ah yes, indeed, she was royalty. And knew it.
The other family came in-that would be the twins, Brian thought, Sarah and Patrick. And a pretty pair they were, both tall and slim with roasted chestnut hair. The girl, Sarah-Brian knew she was just eighteen-was laughing, gesturing widely.
The whole family turned toward her, effectively-perhaps purposely-cutting out the man who'd come to pay homage to the princess. But he was a persistent sort, and reaching her, laid his hand on her shoulder. She glanced over, smiled, nodded.
Off to do her bidding, Brian mused as the man slipped away. A woman like that would be accustomed to flicking a man off, Brian imagined, or reining him in. And making him as grateful as the family hound for the most casual of pats.
Because the conclusion steadied him, Brian took another sip of his beer, set his glass aside. Now, he decided, was as good a time as any to approach the grand and glorious Grants.
"Then she whacked him across the back of his knees with her cane," Sarah continued. "And he fell face first into the verbena."
"If she was my grandmother," Patrick put in, "I'd move to Australia."
"Sure Will Cunningham usually deserves a whack. More than once I've been tempted to give him one myself." Adelia Grant glanced over, her laughing eyes meeting Brian's. "Well then, you've made it, haven't you?"
To Brian's surprise, she held out both hands to him, clasped his warmly and drew him into the family center. "It appears I have. It's a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Grant."
"I hope your trip over was pleasant."
"Uneventful, which is just as good." As small talk wasn't one of his strengths, he turned to Travis, nodded. "Mr. Grant."
Books by Nora Roberts Page 34