“We’re ordered to draw off your black mood.” Rogan set a bottle on the counter and broke the seal. “We’re neither of us allowed back home until we’ve accomplished it.”

“Brie and Maggie have had their heads together over you for two days,” Gray put in.

“There’s no need for that, or for this. I was going up to bed.”

“You can’t, as an Irishman, turn your back on two mates and a bottle of Jamison’s.” Gray slapped three glasses, one by one, on the table.

“So, we’re to get drunk, are we?” Murphy eyed the bottle. He hadn’t thought of that one.

“The women haven’t been able to turn the tide.” Rogan poured three hefty shots. “So they’ve conceded it’s a man’s job.” He seated himself comfortably at the table, lifted his glass. “Slainté.”

Murphy scratched his chin, blew out a breath. “What the fuck.” He downed the first glass, winced before slapping it down for a refill. “Did you only bring one bottle?”

Laughing, Gray poured the next round.

When the bottle was half gone, Murphy was feeling more mellow. A temporary fix, he knew, and a fool’s one. But he felt very much the fool.

“I gotta tell you.” Already a little wobbly, Gray kicked back in his chair and puffed on one of the cigars Rogan had provided. “I can’t get drunk.”

“Yes, you can.” Rogan studied the tip of his own cigar. “I’ve seen you.”

“You couldn’t see anything. You were too drunk.” Finding that wonderfully funny, Gray leaned forward again and nearly upended. “But what I mean is, I can’t get so plowed I can’t make love with my wife tonight. Oh, thanks.” He picked up the glass Murphy had refilled and gestured with it. “I’m making up for lost time.” Deadly serious, he rested his elbow on the table. “Do you know how long you can’t when a woman’s pregnant?”

“I do.” Rogan nodded sagely. “I can say I do know precisely.”

“And it doesn’t bother them much. They’re . . .” Gray gestured grandly. “Nesting. So I’m making it up, and I’m not getting drunk.”

“Too late,” Murphy muttered and scowled into his glass.

“You think we don’t know what’s wrong with you?” In fellowship Gray punched Murphy on the shoulder. “You’re horny.”

With a snorting laugh, Murphy tossed back another shot. “It should be so easy.”

“Yeah.” On a windy sigh Gray went back to his cigar. “When they’ve got you, they’ve got you. Ain’t that the truth, Sweeney?”

“Sterling truth. She’s painting up a storm, you know.”

Murphy eyed him owlishly. “My misery, your profit?”

Rogan only grinned. “We’ll have her first show in the fall. She doesn’t know it, but we’ll work around that. Do you know she went head to head with Maeve Concannon?”

“What d’ya mean?” Preferring his cigarettes to Rogan’s cigars, Murphy lighted one. “They have a brawl?”

“No, indeed. Shannon just marched up to the woman and said her piece. When she was done, Maeve said she was a sensible woman, then went along into the inn to see the baby and young Liam.”