Born in Shame (10 page)

Gray nodded before looking back at Murphy. “Are you stuck on that comely face, Murphy?”

More out of habit than design, Murphy fiddled out a tune. “That's part of it.” His lips curved, but the look in his eyes was distant and deep. “It's the face I've been waiting to see again.”

 

She wasn't going to let Maggie get under her skin. Shannon promised herself that as she readied for bed later that night. The woman had set detectives on her, had her researched and reported, and now that she'd tried to be open minded enough to meet with the Concannons face-to-face, Maggie treated her like an intruder.

Well, she was staying as long as she damn well pleased. A couple of weeks, Shannon mused. Three at the outside. No one was going to chase her away with cold looks and abrasive comments. Margaret Mary Concannon was going to come to realize that America bred tougher nuts to crack.

And the farmer wasn't going to spook her, either. Charm and good looks weren't weapons that worried her. She'd known plenty of charming, good-looking men.

Maybe she'd never met one with quite Murphy's style, or that odd something flowing so placidly under it all, but it didn't concern her. Not really.

She climbed into bed, tugged the covers up to her chin. The rain had made the air just a little cooler than comfortable. Still it was snug and almost childishly pleasant to be bundled into bed with the sound of the rain pattering and the steaming cup of tea Brianna had insisted she take with her cooling on the nightstand.

Tomorrow she'd explore, Shannon promised herself. She would swallow her pride and take the car. She'd find her art supplies, maybe some ruins, a few shops. She'd done enough traveling with her parents not to be
concerned about knocking about a foreign country on her own.

And on her own is where she wanted to be for a day, without anyone watching her movements, or trying to dissect them.

Snuggling down lower in the bed, she let her mind drift to the people she'd become involved with.

Brianna, the homebody. A new mother, new wife. And a businesswoman, Shannon reminded herself. Efficient, talented. Warm hearted, certainly, but with something like worry behind her eyes.

Gray—her fellow Yank. Easygoing—on the surface, at any rate. Friendly, sharp witted, dazzled by his wife and daughter. Content, apparently, to shrug off the high life he could be living in a major city with his fame.

Maggie. The scowl came automatically. Suspicious by nature, hotheaded, frank to the point of rudeness. Shannon considered it too bad that she respected those particular traits. Unquestionably a loving wife and mother, indisputably a major talent. And, Shannon though, overly protective and fiercely loyal.

Rogan was cultured, smooth, the ingrained manners as much a part of him as his eyes. Organized, she would guess, and shrewd. Sophisticated, and sharp enough to run an organization that was respected around the world. And, she thought grimly, he had to have a sense of humor, and the patience of Job, to live with Maggie.

Then there was Murphy, the good friend and neighbor. The farmer with a talent for music and flirtation. Strikingly handsome and unpretentious—yet not nearly as simple as it appeared at first glance. She didn't think she'd ever met a man as completely in tune with himself.

He wanted to kiss her, she thought as her eyes grew
heavy, some place private. Where he could take his time about it.

It might be interesting.

 

The man controlled the impatient horse with no visible effort. Rain continued to pelt, icily, so that it sounded like pebbles striking the ground. The white stallion snorted, sending out frosty clouds of smoke as man and woman watched each other.

“You waited.”

She could feel the heavy thud of her own heart. And the need, the terrible need was as strong as her pride. “Walking in my own field has nothing to do with waiting.”

He laughed, a full, reckless sound that rolled over the hills. At the crest of one of those hills stood the stone circle, watching.

“You waited.” In a move as graceful as a dance, he leaned down and scooped her off her feet. With one arm he lifted her, then set her in the saddle in front of him. “Kiss me,” he demanded, twining gloved fingers in her hair. “And make it count.”

Her arms dragged him closer until her breasts were flattened against the traveling armor over his chest. Her mouth was as hungry, as desperate and rough as his. On an oath, he flung out a hand so that his cloak enfolded her.

“By Christ, it's worth every cold, filthy mile for a taste of you.”

“Then stay, damn you.” She pulled him close again, pressed her starving lips to his. “Stay.”

In sleep Shannon murmured, rocked between pleasure and despair. For even in sleep, she knew he wouldn't.

Chapter
Eight

Shannon took a day for herself, and was better for it. The morning was damp, but cleared gradually so that as she drove, the landscape surrounding her seemed washed and skillfully lit. Furze lining the road was a blur of yellow blossoms. Hedges of fucshia hinted at droplets of blood red. Gardens were drenched with color as the flowers sunned themselves in the watery light. Hills, the vivid green of them, simply shimmered.

She took photographs, toying with the idea of using the best of them as a basis for sketches or paintings.

It was true enough that she had some trouble
negotiating the Irish roads, and the left-side drive, but she didn't intend to admit it.

She shopped for postcards and trinkets for friends back home along the narrow streets of Ennis. Friends, she mused, who thought she was simply taking a long overdue vacation. It was lowering to realize there was no one back home she felt intimate enough with to have shared her connection here, or her need to explore it.

Work had always come first—with the ambition scrambling behind it. And that, she decided, was a sad commentary on her life. Work had been a huge part of who she was, or considered herself to be. Now she'd cut herself off from it, purposely, so that she felt like a solitary survivor, drifting alone in an ocean of self-doubt.

If she was not Shannon Bodine by birth, and the hot young commercial artist by design, who was she?

The illegitimate daughter of a faceless Irishman who'd bedded a lonely woman who'd been on her own personal oddessy?

That was a painful thought, but one that kept worrying at her mind. She didn't want to believe that she was so unformed, so weak-hearted that the bald fact of her birth should matter to the grown woman.

Yet it did. She stood on a lonely strand of beach with the wind whipping through her hair and knew it did. If she'd been told as a child, had somehow been guided through life with the knowledge that Colin Bodine was the father who chose her if not the father who'd conceived her, she felt she couldn't be so hurt by the truth now.

She couldn't change it—not the facts or the way she'd learned of them. The only option left was to face them. And in facing them, face herself.

“Rough seas today.”

Shannon looked around, startled by the voice and the
old woman who stood just behind her. She hadn't heard anyone approach, but the breakers were crashing, and her mind had been very far away.

“Yes, it is.” Shannon's lips curved in the polite, distant smile reserved for strangers. “It's a beautiful spot, though.”

“Some prefer the wildness.” The woman clutched a hooded cloak around her, staring out to sea with eyes surprisingly bright in such a well-lined face. “Some the calm. There's enough of both in the world for everyone to have their choice.” She looked at Shannon then, alert, but unsmiling. “And enough time for any to change their mind.”

Puzzled, Shannon tucked her hands in her jacket. She wasn't used to having philosophical discussions with passers-by. “I guess most people like a little of each, depending on their mood. What do they call this place? Does it have a name?”

“Some that call it Moria's Strand, for the woman who drowned herself in the surf when she lost her husband and three grown sons to a fire. She didn't give herself time to change her mind, you see. Or to remember that nothing, good or ill, stays forever.”

“It's a lonely name for such a beautiful spot.”

“It is, yes. And it's good for the soul to stop and take a long look now and again at what really lasts.” She turned to Shannon again and smiled with great kindness. “The older you are, the longer you look.”

“I've taken a lot of long looks today.” Shannon smiled back. “But I have to get back now.”

“Aye, you've a ways to travel yet. But you'll get where you're going, lass, and not forget where you've been.”

An odd woman, Shannon thought as she started the climb up the gentle slope of rocks toward the road. She supposed it was another Irish trait to make an esoteric
conversation out of something as simple as a view. As she reached the road, it occurred to her that the woman had been old, and alone, and perhaps needed a ride to wherever she'd been going.

She turned back with thoughts of offering just that. And saw nothing but an empty strand.

The shiver came first, then the shrug. The woman had just gone about her business, that was all. And it was past time that she turn the car around and take it back to its owner.

 

She found Brianna in the kitchen, sitting alone for once and nursing a solitary cup of tea.

“Ah, you're back.” With an effort Brianna smiled, then rose to pour another cup. “Did you have a nice drive?”

“Yes, thanks.” Meticulously Shannon returned the car keys to their pegs. “I was able to pick up some of the supplies I needed, too. So I'll do some sketching tomorrow. I noticed another car out front.”

“Guests, just arrived this afternoon from Germany.”

“Your inn's a regular U.N.” Brianna's absent response had her lifting a brow. Shannon might not have known the other woman well, but she recognized worry when she saw it. “Is something wrong?”

Brianna twisted her hands together, caught herself in the habitual gesture, and let them fall. “Would you sit for a minute, Shannon? I'd hoped to give you a few days before talking of this. But . . . I'm cornered.”

“All right.” Shannon sat. “Let's have it.”

“Do you want something with your tea? I've biscuits, or—”

“You're stalling, Brianna.”

Brianna sighed and sat. “I'm a born coward. I need to speak with you about my mother.”

Shannon didn't move, but she brought her shields down. It was instinctive, covering both defensive and offensive. And her voice reflected the shift. “All right. We both know I'm not here to take in the sights. What do you want to say about it?”

“You're angry, and I can't blame you for it. You'll be angrier yet before it's over.” Brianna stared down into her tea for a moment. “Bad feelings are what I'm most cowardly about. But there's no putting this off. She's coming by. I've run out of excuses to stop her. I can't lie to her, Shannon, and pretend you're no more than a guest here.”

“Why should you?”

“She doesn't know about this, any of this.” Eyes troubled, Brianna looked up again. “Nothing about my father and your mother. Nothing about you.”

Shannon's smile was cool and thin. “Do you really believe that? From what I've seen, wives generally have an instinct about straying husbands.”

“Straying wasn't what happened between our parents, and yes, I believe it completely. If my mother had known, it would have been her finest weapon against him.” It hurt to admit it, shamed her to speak of it, but she saw no choice now. “Never once in my life did I see any love between them. Only duty, the coldness of that. And the heat of resentment.”

It wasn't something Shannon wanted to hear, and certainly nothing she chose to care about. She picked up her cup. “Then why did they stay married?”

“There's a complicated business,” Brianna mused. “Church, children. Habit even. My mother's resentment for him was great—and to be fair, she had some reason. He could never hold on to his money, nor had he any skill in the making of it. Money and what it buys was—is—important to her. She had a career in singing, and an
ambition when she met him. She never wanted to settle for a house and a little piece of land. But there was a flash you could say between them. The flash became Maggie.”

“I see.” It appeared she and her half sister had more in common than Shannon had realized. “He made a habit of being careless with sex.”

Brianna's eyes went hot and sharp, a phenomenon that had Shannon staring in fascination. “You have no right to say that. No, even you have no right, for you didn't know him. He was a man of great kindness, and great heart. For more than twenty years he put his own dreams behind him to raise his children. He loved Maggie as much as any father could love any child. It was my mother who blamed him, and Maggie, for the life she found herself faced with. She lay with him to make me out of duty. Duty to the Church first. I can't think of a colder bed for a man to come to.”

“You can't know what was between them before you were born,” Shannon interrupted.

“I know very well. She told me herself. I was her penance for her sin. Her reparation. And after she knew she was carrying me, there was no need to be his wife beyond the bedroom door.”

Shannon shook her head. It had to be as humiliating for Brianna to speak of such matters as it was for her to hear it. Yet Brianna didn't look humiliated, she noted. Brianna looked coldly furious. “I'm sorry. It's almost impossible for me to understand why two people would stay together under those conditions.”

“This isn't America. 'Tis Ireland, and more than twenty years ago in Ireland. I'm telling you this so you'll understand there was pain in this house. Some of it Da brought on himself, there's no denying that. But there's a bitterness in my mother, and something inside her
makes her cleave to it. If she had known, even suspected that he'd found happiness and love with another, she'd have driven him into the ground with it. She couldn't have stopped herself, nor seen a reason to.”

“And now she'll have to know.”

“Now she'll have to know,” Brianna agreed. “She'll see you as a slap. And she'll try to hurt you.”

“She can't hurt me. I'm sorry if it seems callous to you, but her feelings and her way of displaying them just don't matter to me.”

“That may be true.” Brianna took a long breath. “She's better, more content than she used to be. We've set her up in her own house, near to Ennis. It's more what makes her happy. We found a wonderful woman to live with her. Lottie's a retired nurse—which comes in handy as Mother sees herself suffering from all manner of illnesses. The grandchildren have mellowed her a bit, too. Though she doesn't like to show it.”

“And you're afraid this will blow things out of the water again.”

“I'm not afraid it will. I know it will. If I could spare you from her anger and embarrassment, I would, Shannon.”

“I can handle myself.”

Brianna's face relaxed into a smile. “Then I'll ask a favor. Don't let whatever she says or does turn you away. We've had such little time, and I want more.”

“I planned to stay two or three weeks,” Shannon said evenly. “I don't see any reason to change that.”

“I'm grateful. Now if—” She broke off, distressed when she heard the sound of the front door opening, and the raised female voices. “Oh, they're here already.”

“And you'd like to talk to her alone first.”

“I would. If you don't mind.”

“I'd just as soon not be around for the first act.”
Feigning a calmness she no longer felt, Shannon rose. “I'll go outside.”

She told herself it was ridiculous to feel as though she were deserting a sinking ship. It was Brianna's mother, Shannon reminded herself as she started along the garden path. Brianna's problem.

There'd be a scene, she imagined. Full of Irish emotions, temper, and despair. She certainly wanted no part of that. Thank God she'd been raised in the States by two calm, reasonable people who weren't given to desperate mood swings.

Drawing a deep breath, she turned a circle. And saw Murphy crossing the closest field, coming toward the inn.

He had a wonderful way of walking, she noted. Not a strut, not a swagger, yet his stride had all the confidence of both. She had to admit it was a pleasure to watch him, the raw masculinity of movement.

An animated painting, she mused. Irish Man. Yes, that was it exactly, she decided—the long-muscled arms with the work shirt rolled up to the elbows, the jeans that had seen dozens of washings, the boots that had walked countless miles. The cap worn low to shade the eyes that couldn't dim that rich, startling blue. The almost mythically handsome face.

A capital
M
man, she reflected. No polished executive could exude such an aura of success striding down Madison Avenue in a thousand-dollar suit with a dozen Sterling roses in his manicured hand as Murphy Muldoon strolling over the land in worn boots and a spray of wildflowers.

“It's a pleasant thing to walk toward a woman who's smiling at you.”

“I was thinking you looked like a documentary. Irish farmer walking his land.”

That disconcerted him. “My land ends at the wall there.”

“Doesn't seem to matter.” Amused by his reaction, she glanced down at the flowers he held. “Isn't that what we call bringing coals to Newcastle?”

“But these
are
from my land. Since I was thinking of you, I picked them along the way.”

“They're lovely. Thanks.” She did what any woman would do and buried her face in them. “Is it your house I see from my window? The big stone one with all the chimneys?”