"It affected her differently than it did me. She has as much need for people and for a home as I have to do without them. You were right enough when you said I was stubborn and rude and self-absorbed. I am."
"Maybe you've had to be. But that's not all you are, Maggie. You're compassionate and loyal and loving. It's not just part of you I fell in love with, but the whole. I want to spend my life with you."
Something trembled inside her, fragile as crystal struck by a careless hand. "Haven't you listened to a word I've said?"
"Every word. Now I know that you don't just love me. You need me."
She dragged both hands through her hair, fingers digging in and pulling in frustration. "I don't need anyone."
"Of course you do. You're afraid to admit it, but that's understandable." He was sorry, bitterly, for the child she'd been. But he couldn't allow that to change his plans for the woman. "You've locked yourself in a prison, Maggie. Once you admit those needs, the door will open."
"I'm happy with the way things are. Why do you have to change them?"
"Because I want more than a few days a month with you. I want a life with you, children with you." He skimmed a hand over her hair to cup the back of her neck. "Because you're the first and only woman I've ever loved. I won't lose you, Maggie. And I won't let you lose me."
"I've given you all I can give, Rogan." Her voice was shaky, but she held her ground. "It's more than I've given anyone else. Be content with what I'm able to give, for if you can't, I'll have to end it."
"Can you?"
"I'll have to."
His hand squeezed once at the base of her neck, then released and fell away. "Stubborn," he said with a trace of amusement to hide the ache. "Well, so am I. I can wait for you to come to me. No, don't tell me you won't," he went on as she opened her mouth to protest. "It will only make it more difficult on you when you do. We'll leave things as they are, Maggie. With one alteration."
The relief she'd felt shifted into wariness. "Which is?"
"I love you." He pulled her into his arms, covered her mouth with his. "You'll have to get used to hearing it."
She was glad to be home. At home she could savor the solitude, enjoy her own company and the long, long days where the light clung to the sky until ten. At home, she didn't have to think of anything but work. To prove it, she gave herself three days in her glass house, three days without interruption.
She was productive, pleased with the results she saw cooling in the annealing oven. And she was, for the first time in her memory, lonely.
That was on his head, she thought as she watched the twilight grow and deepen and slip beautifully toward night. He'd tricked her into enjoying his company, into enjoying the whirl of cities and people. He'd made her want too much.
She wanted him too much.
Marriage. The thought made her shudder as she gathered what she wanted from the kitchen table. That, at least, he could never make her want. She was certain, given a little time, he would see it her way. If not . . .
She stepped outside, shut the door. It was best not to think about any if-nots. Rogan was, above all, a sensible man.
She took the walk to Brianna's slowly as night settled around her. A slow mist gathered at her feet, and a breeze holding a warning chill whispered through the trees.
Like a welcoming beacon, the light in Brianna's kitchen glowed against the night. Maggie shifted the sketches she'd framed and quickened her steps.
As she approached, a low growl sounded out of the shadows of the sycamore. Maggie called out softly and was answered by a happy bark. Con leaped out of the shadows, through the mist, and would have jumped on her to show his love and devotion had she not held out a hand to stop him.
"I'd rather not be knocked over, thank you." She rubbed his head, his neck, while his swinging tail tore the thin fog like rags. "Guarding your princess tonight, are you? Well, let's go in and find her."
The moment Maggie opened the kitchen door, Con shot through in a blur of fur and muscle. He paused across the room at the door that led into the hallway, tail thumping.
"Out there, is she?" Maggie set the sketches aside and walked to the door. She heard voices through it, a soft laugh, a British accent. "She has guests," she said to Con, and disappointed the dog thoroughly when she backed away from the door. "We won't disturb her, so you're stuck with me." To make the
prospect a bit more hopeful, she went to the cupboard where Brianna kept Con's biscuits. "Well, what trick will you do for me, boy-o?"
Con eyed the biscuit she was holding, smacked his lip. With restrained dignity he padded to Maggie, sat and lifted a paw.
"Well done, lad."
Once he had the treat between his teeth, Con pranced to the rug in front of the kitchen hearth, circled three times, then settled down with a sigh to enjoy himself.
"I could do with something myself."
A quick snoop around the kitchen revealed a treasure. A square of gingerbread, half-gone, rested under a protecting cloth. Maggie ate one slice while the kettle was heating, and sat down to another with a homey pot of tea.
When Brianna came in, Maggie was scraping crumbs from the plate.
"I wondered when you'd come by." Brianna reached down to pet the dog, who'd risen to press himself against her legs.
"It would have been sooner, if I'd known this was waiting. You've guests, I see."
"Yes, a couple from London, a student from Derry and two sweet ladies down from Edinburgh. How did you enjoy your holiday?"
"It was a beautiful place, hot, sunny days, warm nights. I drew you some pictures so you'd see for yourself." She gestured to them.
Brie lifted the pictures and her face lit up with joy. "Oh, they're wonderful."
"I thought you'd like them more than a postcard."
"I do. Thank you, Maggie. I've some clippings about your show in Paris."
Maggie was surprised. "Oh, how did you get them?"
"I asked Rogan to send them to me. Would you like to see?"
"Not now, no. They'll just give me a nervous stomach, and my work's going too well."
"Will you be going to Rome when the show moves on?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought about it. All that part of it seems a long way from here."
"Like a dream." Brianna sighed as she sat down. "I can hardly believe I was in Paris."
"You could travel more now, if you'd like."
"Mmm." Perhaps there were places she'd like to see, but home held her. "Alice Quinn had a boy. David they're calling him. He was christened just yesterday. He wailed all through the service."
"And Alice probably fluttered around like a bird."
"No, she held little David and soothed him, then took him off to nurse. Marriage and motherhood have changed her. You wouldn't think it was the same Alice."
"Marriage always changes people."
"Often for the better." But Brianna knew what Maggie was thinking. "Mother's getting along well."
"I didn't ask."
"No," Brianna said evenly. "But I'm telling you. Lottie's badgered her into sitting out in the garden every day, and into taking walks."
"Walking?" Despite herself, Maggie's interest was snagged. "Mother, walking?"
"I don't know how she does it, but Lottie has a way with her. The last time I visited Mother was holding yarn while Lottie balled it. When I came in, she tossed it down and began to rant about how the woman would drive her into the grave. Claimed she fired Lottie twice, but Lottie wouldn't go. All the while Mother complained, Lottie rocked in her chair, smiling and rolling her yarn."
"If the woman drives Lottie away-"
"No, let me finish." Brianna leaned forward, her eyes dancing. "I stood there, making excuses and apologies and waiting for the worst. And after a while Lottie stopped rocking. 'Maeve,' she said, 'stop pestering the girl. You sound like a magpie.' And she handed the yarn back to her and told me how she was after teaching Mothing to knit."
"Teaching her to-oh, that'll be the day."
"The thing was, Mother kept muttering under her breath and arguing with Lottie. But she seemed to be enjoying it. You were right about her having her own place, Maggie. She may not realize it yet, but she's happier there than she's been most of her life."
'The point is she's out of here." Restless, Maggie rose to prowl around the kitchen. "I don't want you deluding yourself into thinking I did it out of the goodness of my heart."
"But you did," Brianna said quietly. "If you want no one but me to know it, that's your choice."
"I didn't come here to talk about her, but to see how you were getting on. Have you moved into the room off the kitchen?"
"Yes. It gives me another room upstairs free for guests."
"It gives you some privacy."
There's that. I've a place for a desk in there so I can do the books and the paperwork. I like having a window right over the garden. Murphy said I could have a door put in, if I want, so I could come in and out without going through the rest of the house."
"Good." Maggie lifted ajar of currants, set it down again. "Have you enough for the labor?"
"I've enough. It's been a good summer. Maggie, won't you tell me what's troubling you?"
"Nothing is," Maggie answered abruptly. "I've a lot on my mind, that's all."
"Have you quarreled with Rogan?"
"No." It couldn't be called a quarrel, she thought. "Why should you assume I'd be thinking of him?"
"Because I saw you together, saw how much you care for each other."
"That should be enough, shouldn't it?" Maggie demanded. "I care for him and he for me. The business we have together is successful and will likely continue to be. That should be enough."
"I don't know the answer to that. Are you in love with him?"
"I'm not." Wouldn't be. "He thinks I am, but I can't be responsible for what the man thinks. Nor will I change my life for him, or anyone. He's already made it change." She hugged her arms close, feeling suddenly cold. "And, damn him, I can't go back."
"Back to what?"
'To being what I was, what I thought I was. He's made me want more. I know I always did, but he's made me admit it. It's not enough for me to believe in my work, I need him to. He's made himself a part of it, and if I fail, I don't fail alone. When I succeed, the satisfaction isn't mine alone either. And I think
I've compromised myself because I've given part of me, the best of me, into his hands."
"Is it your art you're talking about, Maggie, or is it your heart?" Brianna stared hard at her sister as she asked the question.
Maggie sat again, defeated. "I don't have one without the other. So it seems I've given him a piece of both."
Rogan would have been surprised to hear it. He'd decided, after a great deal of thought, to treat his relationship with Maggie as he would any business merger with a reluctant company. He'd made his offer. Now it was time to stand back, to distance himself while the other party considered.
There was no professional reason to contact her. The show in Paris would remain for another two weeks before moving to Rome. The pieces had been chosen, the groundwork laid.
For the foreseeable future, she had her work and he had his. Any business contact could be made through his staff.
He would, in other words, let her stew.
It was important to his pride and his plans not to let her know how much her rejection of his feelings had hurt. Apart, they could each evaluate their future objectively. Together, they would simply end up in bed. That was no longer enough.
Patience and a firm hand was what was required. Rogan was sure of it. And if Maggie remained so foolishly obstinate after a reasonable amount of time, he'd use whatever means were at his disposal.
Rogan knocked briskly on his grandmother's door. It wasn't their usual time for visiting, but after being back in Dublin for a week, he needed the comfort of family.
He nodded at the maid who opened the door. "Is my grandmother at home?"
'Yes, Mr. Sweeney. She's in the front parlor. I'll tell her you're here."
"No need." He strode down the hall and through the open parlor doors. Christine rose immediately and opened her arms to him.
"Rogan! What a lovely surprise."
"I had a meeting canceled, so I thought I'd drop in and see how you were." He drew her back, lifting a brow as he studied her face. 'You look exceptionally well."
"I feel exceptionally well." She laughed and led him to a chair. "Shall I get you a drink?"
"No. I don't have very long, and I only came for the company."
"I've heard how well it went in Paris." Christine sat beside him, soothed down the skirt of her linen dress. "I had lunch with Patricia last week, and she told me it was a rousing success."
"It was. Though I can't say how Patricia would know." He thought of his friend with a lingering trickle of guilt. "She's well?"
"Oh, very. Blooming, you could say. And I believe she said Joseph had told her about the Paris business. She's working very hard on her day school, and Joseph is giving her a bit of help."
"Good. I haven't had much time at the gallery this past week, I'm afraid. The fact is the expansion in Limerick is taking most of my efforts."
"How is that going?"
"Well enough. I've had some complications, so I'll have to take a trip down to sort them out."
"But you've hardly gotten back."
"It shouldn't take more than a day or two." He cocked his head, watching his grandmother tug at her skirt, brush at her hair. "Is something wrong?"
"No." She smiled brightly and forced her hands to still. "Not at all, though there is something I want to discuss with you. You see ..." She trailed off, calling herself a miserable coward. "How is Maggie? Did she enjoy France?"
"She seemed to."
"It's a beautiful time of year to holiday at the villa. Was the weather good?"
"It was. Is it weather you want to discuss, Grandmother?"
"No, I was just-are you sure you don't want that drink?"
A trickle of alarm skidded down his back. "If something's wrong, I want you to tell me."
"There's nothing wrong, darling. Nothing at all wrong."
To his amazement she blushed like a schoolgirl. "Grandmother-"
He was interrupted by a clatter on the stairs and a shout. "Chrissy? Where have you gone off to, girl?"
Rogan stood slowly as a man popped into the doorway. He was burly of chest, bald as an egg and dressed in an ill-fitting suit the color of marigolds. His face was round and wrinkled. It beamed like a moon.
'There you are, my darling girl. I thought I'd lost you."
"I was about to ring for tea." Christine's blush deepened as the man strode into the room and kissed both her fluttering hands.
"Rogan, this is Niall Feeney. Niall, my grandson, Rogan."
"So, this be himself." Rogan found his hand enveloped and pumped heartily. "Well, it's delighted I am to be meeting you at long last. Chrissy's told me all about you, lad. Why, you're the very apple of her eye."
"I'm-pleased to meet you, Mr. Feeney."
"No, no, now, none of that formality between us. Not with all our family connections." He winked and laughed until his belly jiggled.
"Connections?" Rogan said weakly.
"Aye, with me growing up no farther than a toad could spit from Chrissy here. Fifty years pass, begad, and now fate has it that you're handling all that pretty glass my niece makes."
"Your niece?" Realization struck like a fist. "You're Maggie's uncle."
"I am indeed." Niall sat, very much at home, his substantial belly sagging over his belt. "Proud as a peacock of the girl, I'll say, though I don't understand a bloody thing about what she's doing. I have to take Chrissy's word that it's fine."
"Chrissy," Rogan repeated in a small voice.
"Isn't it lovely, Rogan?" Christine's nervous smile hurt her face. "It seems Brianna wrote to Niall in Galway to tell him Maggie and you were working together. Of course, she mentioned that you were my gra
ndson. Niall wrote me back, and one thing led to another. He's come to visit awhile."
'Visit. In Dublin?"
"A fine city it is, to be sure." Niall smacked a hand on the delicate arm of the sofa. "With the prettiest girls in all of Ireland." He winked at Christine. "Though, in truth, I've only eyes for one."
"Go on with you, Niall."
Rogan stared at the pair of them, all but billing and cooing before his eyes. "I believe I'll have that drink after all," he said. "A whiskey."
Chapter Eighteen
IT was a very subdued Rogan who left his grandmother's parlor and swung by the gallery just past closing. He didn't want to believe he'd seen what he knew he'd seen. Just as Maggie had once said, when a couple is intimate, they throw off signals.
His grandmother, for God's sake, was flirting with Maggie's moon-faced uncle from Galway.
No, he decided as he let himself into the gallery, it didn't bear thinking of. Signals there might have been, but undoubtedly he'd read them incorrectly. His grandmother was, after all, over seventy, a woman of faultless taste, unblemished character, impeccable style.
And Niall Feeney was . . . was simply indescrib able, Rogan decided.
What he needed was a couple of hours of perfect peace and quiet in his gallery office-away from people and phones and anything remotely personal.
He shook his head as he crossed the room. He was sounding entirely too much like Maggie.
The raised voices stopped him before his hand met the knob. An argument was in full swing on the other side of the door. While manners might have urged him to retreat, curiosity turned the tide.
He opened the door on Joseph and Patricia in full steam.
"I tell you, you're not using the head God gave you," Joseph shouted. "I won't be the cause of an estrangement between you and your mother."
"I don't give a bloody pin for what my mother thinks," Patricia shouted right back, causing Rogan's mouth to fall open. "This has nothing to do with her."
'The fact that you could say so proves my point. You're not using your head. She's-Rogan." Joseph's furious face went still as a stone. "I didn't expect you in."
"Obviously." Rogan looked cautiously from Joseph to Patricia. "I seem to have interrupted."
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