Nora Roberts - Born in Ice

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Born in Ice

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright 1995 by Nora Roberts

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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A Jove BOOK

Jove Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

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Jove and the J design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

First edition (electronic): October 2001

Dear Reader,

Ireland holds a special place in my heart. The rolling green fields under heavy skies, the crisscrossing gray of stone fences, the majestic tumble of a ruined castle, most likely sacked by those damned Cromwellians. I love the way the sun can shine gold through the rain, and the flowers bloom wildly in gardens and fields. Its a land of violent cliffs and dim, smoky pubs. Of magic and legend and heartbreak. There is a beauty even in the air.

And the west of Ireland is the most stunning landscape of a stunning country.

There, the traffic jams are often the cows being led to field by the farmer. There, a winding country road, closed in tight with hedgerows of wild fuchsia, can lead you anywhere. There, the River Shannon gleams like silver and the sea crashes like thunder.

But beyond the countryside, the most magnificent thing in Ireland are the Irish. True, its a land of poets and warriors and dreamers, but it is also a land that opens its arms to strangers. Irish hospitality is simple and kind. That is, or should be, the definition of the word welcome.

In writing BORN IN ICE, Brianna Concannons story, I hoped to reflect that incomparable generosity of spirit, the simplicity of an open door, and the strength of love. So come and sit for a while in front of the fire, take a drop of whiskey in your tea. Put your feet up and let your worries rest. Id like to tell you a story.

Nora Roberts

To all my ancestors who traveled across the foam

Ive been a wild rover for many the year

The Wild Rover

The wild wind raced cursing across the Atlantic and pounded its fists over the fields of the west counties. Hard, needle-point bullets of rain beat on the ground and sliced through a mans flesh to batter his bones. Flowers that had bloomed brilliantly from spring through autumn blackened under the killing frost.

In cottages and pubs, people gathered around fires and talked of their farms and their roofs, the loved ones who had emigrated to Germany or the States. It hardly mattered whether they had left the day before, or a generation. Ireland was losing its people, as it had all but lost its language.

There was occasional talk about The Troubles, that endless war in the north. But Belfast was far from the village of Kilmilhil, in miles, and in emotion. People worried more about their crops, their animals, and the weddings and wakes that would come with winter.

A few miles out of the village, in a kitchen warmed with the heat and scents of baking, Brianna Concannon looked out of the window as the ice-edged rain attacked her garden.

Ill lose the columbine, Im thinking. And the foxglove. It broke her heart to think of it, but shed dug up what she could and stored the plants in the crowded little cabin out back. The gale had come so quickly.

Youll plant more in spring. Maggie studied her sisters profile. Brie worried about her flowers like a mother over her babes. With a sigh, Maggie rubbed her own bulging belly. It still astonished her that it was she who was married and carrying a child, and not her home-loving sister. Youll love every minute of it.

I suppose. What I need is a greenhouse. Ive been looking at pictures. I think it could be done. And she could probably afford it by spring, if she was careful. Daydreaming a little about the plants that would flourish in their new glass enclosure, she slipped a fresh batch of cranberry muffins from the oven. Maggie had brought her the berries all the way from a Dublin market. Youll take this home with you.

I will, yes. Maggie grinned and snatched one from the basket, tossing it from hand to hand to cool it enough before she bit in. After Ive eaten my fill. I swear to you, Rogan all but weighs every morsel I put in my mouth.

He wants you and the baby healthy.

Oh, he does. And I think hes worrying about how much of me is baby and how much is fat.

Brianna eyed her sister. Maggie had grown round and soft, and there was a rosy contentment about her as she approached the last trimester of her pregnancy that was a sharp contrast to the bundle of energy and nerve Brianna was accustomed to.

Shes happy, Brianna thought, in love. And knows her love is well returned. You have put on more than a few, Margaret Mary, Brianna said and watched wicked humor rather than temper light Maggies eyes.

Im having a contest with one of Murphys cows, and Im winning. She finished off the muffin, reached shamelessly for another. In a few weeks Ill not be able to see past my belly to the end of my pipe to blow glass. Ill have to switch to lamp work.

You could take a vacation from your glass, Brianna pointed out. I know Rogans told you youve enough done already for all of his galleries.

And what would I do, besides die of boredom? Ive got an idea for a special piece for the new gallery here in Clare.

Which wont open until spring.

By then Rogan will have made good on his threat to tie me to the bed if I make a move toward my shop. She sighed, but Brie suspected Maggie didnt mind the threat so much. Didnt mind Rogans subtle domineering ways. She was afraid she was mellowing. I want to work while I can, Maggie added. And its good to be home, even in such weather. I suppose youve got no guests coming.

As it happens, I do. A Yank, next week. Brianna freshened Maggies cup of tea, then her own, before sitting down. The dog, who had been waiting patiently beside her chair, laid his big head in her lap.

A Yank? Just one? A man?

Mmmm. Brianna stroked Concobars head. Its a writer. Hes booked a room, wants board as well, for an indefinite period. Hes paid a month in advance.

A month! At this time of year? Amused, Maggie looked out as the wind shook the kitchen windows. Welcoming weather it wasnt. And they say artists are eccentric. What sort of writer is he, then?

A mystery type. Ive read a few, and hes good. Hes won awards and had films made from them.

A successful writer, a Yank, spending the dead of winter at a B and B in Clare County. Well, theyll have plenty to say about that at the pub.

Maggie licked crumbs from her fingers and studied her sister with an artists eye. Brianna was a lovely woman, all rose and gold with creamy skin and a fine, trim figure. A classic oval face, a mouth that was soft, unpainted, and often too serious. Pale green eyes that tended to dream, long, fluid limbs, hair that held quiet firethick, slippery hair that often escaped its pins.

And she was soft-hearted, Maggie thought. Entirely too naive, despite her contact with strangers as the owner of a B and B, about what went on out in the world beyond her own garden gate.