Born in Shame (11 page)

“It is, yes.”

“A lot of house for one man. And all those other buildings.”

“A farm needs a barn or two, and cabins and such. If you'll walk over one day, I'll show you about.”

“Maybe I will.” She glanced back toward the house at the first shout. Shannon doubted it would be the last one.

“Maeve's come then,” Murphy murmured. “Mrs. Concannon.”

“She's here.” A sudden thought had her looking back at Murphy, studying his face. “And so are you. Just happening by?”

“I wouldn't say that. Maggie called to tell me things would be brewing.”

The resentment came as quickly as the unexpected protective instinct. “She should be here herself, and not leave this whole mess up to Brie.”

“She's there. That's her you hear shouting.” In an easy gesture, one more sheltering than it seemed, he took Shannon's hand and led her farther from the house. “Maggie and her mother will go at each other like terriers. Maggie'll see that she does, to keep Maeve from striking out too close to Brianna.”

“Why should the woman fight with them?” Shannon demanded. “They had nothing to do with it.”

Murphy said nothing a moment, moving off a little ways to examine the blossoms on a blackthorn. “Did your parents love you, Shannon?”

“Of course they did.”

“And never did you have any cause to doubt it, or to take the love aside and examine it for flaws?”

Impatient now, for the house had grown ominously silent, she shook her head. “No. We loved each other.”

“I had the same.” As if time were only there to be spent, he drew her down on the grass, then leaned back on his elbows. “You didn't think about being lucky, because it just was. Every cuff or caress my mother ever gave me had love in it. One the same as the other.”

Idly he picked up Shannon's hand, toyed with her fingers. “I don't know as I'd have thought about it overmuch. But there was Maggie and Brie nearby, and I could see that they didn't have the same. With Tom they did.” Murphy's eyes lighted with the memory. “His girls were his greatest joy. Maeve didn't have that kind of giving in her. And I'm thinking, the more he loved them, the more she was determined not to. To punish them all, herself included.”

“She sounds like a horrible woman.”

“She's an unhappy one.” He lifted her hand, brushing his lips over the knuckles in an absent gesture of long intimacy. “You've been unhappy, Shannon. But you're strong and smart enough to let the sadness pass into memories.”

“I don't know if I am.”

“I know.” He rose then, holding out a hand. “I'll go in with you. It's been quiet long enough, so it's time.”

She let him pull her to her feet, but no further. “This
isn't my affair, Murphy. It seems to me everyone would be better off if I stayed out of it.”

His eyes stayed on hers, dark and level and tough. “Stand with your sisters, Shannon. Don't disappoint me, or yourself.”

“Damn it.” His unblinking stare made her feel weak, and ashamed of the weakness. “Damn it, all right. I'll go in. But I don't need you with me.”

“I'm with you just the same.” Keeping her hand in his, he led her toward the house.

It was foolish to dread it, Shannon told herself. The woman could do or say nothing that would have any affect. But her muscles were coiled and her shoulders stiff when she stepped through the kitchen door with Murphy behind her.

Her first thought was that the woman seated at the table didn't look like anyone's victim. Her eyes were hot, her face set in the unforgiving lines of a judge who'd already passed sentence. Her hands were ringless, gripped together on the tabletop in what might have been an attitude of prayer had the knuckles not been white.

The other woman seated beside her was rounder, with a softer look offset by worried eyes. Shannon saw that the Concannon sisters were standing, shoulder to shoulder, with their husbands on either side in an unyielding and united wall.

Maeve pinned her with one furious look, and her lips curled. “You would bring her here, into this house, while I'm in it?”

“The house is mine,” Brianna said in a voice that was frigidly calm. “And Shannon is welcome in it. As you are, Mother.”

“As I am? You'd throw her in my face. This spawn of
your father's adultery. This is how you show your respect, your loyalty to me, the woman who gave you life.”

“And resented every breath of it we took thereafter,” Maggie tossed out.

“I'd expect it from you.” Maeve's wrath turned to roll over her eldest daughter. “You're no different than she. Born in sin.”

“Oh, save your Bible thumping.” Maggie waved the fury away. “You didn't love him, so you'll get no sympathy.”

“I took vows with him, and vows I kept.”

“The words, but not the heart of them,” Brianna murmured. “What's done is done, Mother.”

“Maeve.” Lottie reached out a hand. “The girl's not to blame.”

“Don't speak to me of blame. What kind of woman sneaks another's husband into her bed?”

“One who loved, I imagine.” Shannon stepped forward, unconsciously moving closer to that united wall.

“Love makes it all right to sin? To defile the Church?” Maeve would have stood, but her legs felt shaky, and something inside her heart was burning. “I'd expect no less from the likes of you. A Yank, raised by an adulteress.”

“Don't speak of my mother,” Shannon warned in a low, dangerous voice. “Ever. She had more courage, more compassion, more sheer goodness in her than you can possibly imagine in your narrow little world. You curse the fact of my existence all you want, but you don't speak of my mother.”

“You come all the way from America to give me orders in my house.”

“I've come because I was invited to come.” Shannon's anger was too blinding for her to realize that Murphy's hand was on her shoulder, Gray's on her arm. “And
because it was one of the last things my mother wished me to do before she died. If it disturbs you, it can't be helped.”

Maeve rose slowly. The girl had the look of him, was all she could think. What kind of penance was it that she had to look into the girl's face and see Tom Concannon's eyes?

“The sin's planted in you, girl. That's your only legacy from Tom Concannon.” Like the snap of a whip, she shot her gaze to Murphy. “And you, Murphy Muldoon. Standing with her brings shame to your family. You're showing yourself as weak natured as any man, for you're thinking she'll be as free with herself as she was born in sin.”

Murphy's hand tightened on Shannon's arm before she could step forward and attack. “Take care, Mrs. Concannon.” His voice was mild, but Shannon could feel the strength of his temper through his tensed fingers. “You're saying things you'll need to repent. When you speak of my family, and of Shannon in such a way, the shame is yours.”

Her eyes narrowed so that no one could see the tears swimming behind them. “So you'll all stand against me. Every one of you.”

“We're of one mind on this, Maeve.” Subtly Rogan blocked his wife. “When your mind's calmer, we'll talk again.”

“There's nothing to talk of.” She snatched her purse from the table. “You've chosen.”

“You have a choice, too,” Gray said quietly. “Holding on to the past or accepting the present. No one here wants to hurt you.”

“I expect nothing but duty, and even that isn't offered by my own flesh and blood. I'll not come into this house
again while she's under its roof.” She turned and walked stiffly away.

“I'm sorry.” Lottie gathered her own bag. “She needs time, and talking out.” With an apologetic look at Shannon, she hurried after Maeve.

After one long minute of silence, Gray let out a breath. “Well, that was fun.” Despite the lightness of tone, his arm had gone around his wife and he was rubbing his hand up and down her arm. “What do you say, Shannon. I'll go out and find a nice pointed stick to jab in your eye.”

“I'd rather have a drink,” she heard herself say, then her gaze focused on Brianna. “Don't apologize,” she said in a shaky voice. “Don't you dare apologize.”

“She won't.” Determined to fight back the one that was looming in her own throat, Maggie gave her sister a nudge toward the table. “Sit down, all of you. We're having whiskey. Murphy, put on the kettle.”

With his hand still on Shannon's shoulder, he started to turn. “I thought we were having whiskey.”

“You are. I'll have tea.” It was a good time, she decided. The perfect time for such news. She looked straight at Rogan, a gleam of unholy amusement in her eyes. “It's not wise to have spirits when you're carrying.”

He blinked once, then the grin started, and spread. “You're pregnant.”

“So the doctor said just this morning.” Planting her hands on her hips, she tilted her head. “Are you just going to stand there, gawking like a fool?”

“No.” The laughter burst out as he swept her off her feet and spun her around the kitchen. “By Christ, Margaret Mary, I love you. Pour the whiskey, Gray. We've something to celebrate.”

“I'm pouring it.” But he stopped long enough to give Maggie a kiss.

“She did that for you,” Murphy murmured as Shannon stood beside him, watching the lightning shift of mood.

“What?”

“She told him here, told all of us here.” He measured out tea as he spoke. “That was for her sisters, to ease the heaviness around their hearts.”

“For Brianna,” Shannon began, but Murphy cut her off with a look.

“Don't close yourself off from a gift when it's offered, darling. Her telling made you smile, just as she wanted it to.”

Shannon stuffed her hands in her pockets. “You have a way of making me feel very small.”

He tipped her chin up with a gentle finger. “Maybe I have a way of helping you look one level deeper.”

“I think I enjoyed being shallow.” But she turned away from him and walked to Maggie. “Congratulations.” She took the glass Gray offered and stood awkwardly. “I don't know any Irish toasts.”

“Try
Slainté o Dhia duit,”
Maggie suggested.

Shannon opened her mouth, closed it on a laugh. “I don't think so.”

“Just
slainté
's enough,” Murphy said as he brought the teapot to the table. “She's just tormenting you.”

“Slainté
then.” Shannon lifted her glass, then remembered something from her childhood. “Oh, and may you have a dozen children, Maggie, just like you.”

“A toast and a curse.” Gray snickered. “Well done, pal.”

“Aye.” Maggie's lips curved. “She's done well enough.”

Chapter
Nine

The hours Murphy spent with his horses was his purest pleasure. Working the land was something he had always done, always would do. There was joy in it, and frustration, and disappointment and pride. He enjoyed the soil in his hands, under his feet, and the scent of growing things. Weather was equal parts his friend and his enemy. He knew the moods of the sky often better than he knew his own.

His life had been spent plowing the earth, planting it, reaping it. It was something he had always known, yet it was not all he knew.

The fine spring that the west was enjoying meant his
work was hard and long, but without the bitter sorrow of root crops that rotted in soaked earth, or grains that suffered from the bite of frost or the plague of pests.

He planted wisely, combining the ways of his father and grandfather with the newer, and often experimental means he read of in books. Whether he rode his tractor toward the brown field with its rows of dark green potato plants, or walked into the shadowy dairy barn at dawn to start the milking, he knew his work was valuable.

But his horses were for him.

He clucked to a yearling, watching as the wide-chested bay gave a lazy swish of tail. They knew each other these two, and the game of long standing. Murphy waited patiently, enjoying the routine. A glossy mare stood farther out in the field, cropping grass patiently while her colt nursed. Others, including the mare who was mother to the yearling, and Murphy's prize, the chestnut filly, perked up their ears and watched the man.

Murphy patted his pocket, and with equine pride the yearling tossed his head and approached.

“You're a fine one, aren't you? Good lad.” He chuckled, stroking the yearling's flank as the horse nuzzled at the pocket, and the others walked his way. “Not above bribery. Here then.” He took a chunk of the apples he'd quartered and let the colt eat out of his hand. “I'm thinking you're going on a fine adventure today. I'll miss you.” He stroked, automatically checking the colt's knees. “Damned if I won't. But lazing in pasture all day isn't what you were born for. And all of us have to do what we were meant to do.”

He greeted the other horses, sharing the bits of apple, then with his arm slung around the yearling's neck, he gazed over the land. Harebells and bluebells were springing up wild, and the madwort was beginning to bloom yellow beside the near wall. He could see his silo,
and the barn, the cabins, the house beyond, looking like a picture against a sky of layered clouds.

Past noon, he judged, and considered going in for a cup of tea before his business appointment. Then he looked west, just beyond the stone dance, away by the wall that separated grazing from grain.

And there she was.

His heart stumbled in his chest. He wondered if it would always be so when he saw her. It was a stunning thing for a man who had gone more than thirty years without feeling more than a passing interest in a woman to see one, once, and know without doubt that she was his fate.

The wanting was there, a churning deep that made him long to touch and taste and take. He thought he could, with a careful and patient approach. For she wasn't indifferent to him. He'd felt her pulse leap, and seen the change that was desire slip into her eyes.

But the love was there, deeper yet than the wanting. And stranger, he thought now, as it seemed to have been there always, waiting. So it would not be enough to touch, to taste, to take. That would only be a beginning.

“But you have to begin to go on, don't you?” Murphy gave the yearling a last caress, then walked over the pasture.

Shannon saw him coming. Indeed, she'd been distracted from her work when he'd come among the horses. It had been like a play, she thought, the man and the young horse, both exceptional specimens, passing a few moments together in a green field.

She'd known, too, the exact moment when he'd seen her. The distance hadn't kept her from feeling the power of the look. What does he want from me? she asked herself as she went back to the canvas she'd started.

What do I want from him?

“Hello, Murphy.” She continued to paint as he came to the wall that separated them. “Brianna said you wouldn't mind if I worked here for a while.”

“You're welcome for as long as you like. Is it the dance you're painting?”

“Yes. And yes, you can take a look.” She changed brushes, clamping one between her teeth as he swung over the wall.

She was catching the mystery of it, Murphy decided as he studied the canvas that was set on an easel. The entire circle was sketched in, with a skill he admired and envied. Though both back and foregrounds were blank still, she'd begun to add color and texture to the stones.

“It's grand, Shannon.”

Though it pleased her, she shook her head. “It has a long way to go before it's close to being grand. And I've nearly lost the right light today.” Though she knew, somehow, she could paint the standing stones in any light, from any angle. “I thought I saw you earlier, on your tractor.”

“Likely.” He liked the way she smelled when she worked—paint and perfume. “Have you been at it long?”

“Not long enough.” Frowning, she swirled her brush in paint she'd smeared on her palette. “I should have set up at dawn to get the right shadows.”

“There'll be another dawn tomorrow.” He sat on the wall, tapping a finger against her sketchbook. “That shirt you're wearing, what does CM stand for?”

She set down her brush, took a step back to examine the canvas, and smeared more paint from her fingers to the sweatshirt. “Carnegie Mellon. It's the college I went to.”

“You studied painting there.”

“Umm.” The stones weren't coming to life yet, she
thought. She wanted them alive. “I concentrated on commercial art.”

“Is that doing pictures for advertisements?”

“More or less.”

He considered, picking up her sketchbook and leafing through. “Why would you want to draw up pictures of shoes or bottles of beer when you can do this?”

She picked up a rag, dampened it from her jar of turpentine. “I like making a living, and I make a good one.” For some reason she found it imperative to remove a smudge of gray paint from the side of her hand. “I just copped a major account before I took my leave of absence. I'm likely to get a promotion.”

“That's fine, isn't it?” He flipped another page, smiled over a sketch of Brianna working in her garden. “What sort of account is it?”

“Bottled water.” She muttered it, because it seemed so foolish a thing out here in the wide fields and fragrant air.

“Water?” He did exactly what she'd expected. He grinned at her. “The fizzy kind? Why do you suppose people want to drink water that bubbles or comes in bottles?”

“Because it's pure. Not everyone has a well in their backyard, or a spring, or whatever the hell it is. Designer water's an enormous industry, and with pollution and urban development it's only going to get bigger.”

He continued to smile. “I didn't ask to rile you. I was just wondering.” He turned the sketchbook toward her. “I like this one.”

She set her rag aside and shrugged. It was a drawing of him, in the pub holding his concertina, a half-finished beer on the table. “You should. I certainly flattered you.”

“It was kind of you.” He set the book aside. “I've
someone coming by shortly to look at the yearling, so I can't ask you in for tea. Will you come tonight, for dinner instead?”

“To dinner?” When he rose, she took an automatic step in retreat.

“You could come early. Half six, so I could show you about first.” A new light came into his eyes, one of dangerous amusement as he caught her hand. “Why are you walking backward?”

“I'm not.” Or she wasn't now that he had hold of her. “I'm thinking. Brianna might have plans.”

“Brie's a flexible woman.” A light tug on the hand brought Shannon a step closer. “Come, spend the evening with me. You're not afraid of the two of us being alone?”

“Of course not.” That would be ridiculous. “I don't know if you can cook.”

“Come find out.”

Dinner, she reminded herself. It was just dinner. In any case she was curious about him, how he lived. “All right. I'll come by.”

“Good.” With one hand still holding hers, he cupped the back of her head, inched her closer. Her nerves were already sizzling when she remembered to lift a protesting hand to his chest.

“Murphy—”

“I'm only going to kiss you,” he murmured.

There was no
only
about it. His eyes stayed open, aware, alive on hers as his mouth lowered. They were the last thing she saw, that vivid, stunning blue, before she went deaf, dumb, and blind.

It was barely a whisper of a touch at first, a light brush of mouth to mouth. He was holding her as if they might slide into a dance at any instant. She thought she might sway, so soft and sweet was that first meeting of lips.

Then they left hers, surprising a sigh out of her as he took his mouth on a slow, luxurious journey of her face. The quiet exploration—her cheeks, her temples, her eyelids—weakened her knees. The trembling started there, and moved up so that she was breathless when his mouth covered hers a second time.

Deeper now, slowly. Her lips parted, and the welcome sounded in her throat. Her hand slid up to his shoulder, gripped, then went limp. She could smell horses and grass, and something like lightning in the air.

He'd come back, was all she could think before her head went swimming into dreams.

She was everything he'd wanted. To hold her like this, to feel her tremble with the same need that shook inside him was beyond glorious. Her mouth seemed to have been fashioned to meld with his, and the tastes he found there were dark, mysterious, and ripe.

It was enough, somehow it was enough, to hold back, to suffer the gnawing teeth of a less patient need. He could see how it would be, feel how it would be, to lie down in the warm grass with her, to pin her beneath him, body to body and flesh to flesh. How she would move under and against him, willing and eager and fluid. And at last, at long last, to bury himself inside her.

But this time her mouth was enough. He let himself linger, and savor and possess, drawing away gently, and with the promise of more.

His hands wanted to shake. To soothe them, he skimmed them over her face and into her hair. Her cheeks were flushed, making her, to his eye, even lovelier. How could he have forgotten how slim she was, like a willow, or how much truth and beauty could shine from her eyes.

His hand paused in her hair, and his brows drew together as image shifted over image.

“Your hair was longer then, and your cheeks were wet from rain.”

Her head was spinning, actually spinning. She had always believed that was a ridiculous romantic cliché. But she had to put a hand to her temple to steady herself. “What?”

“Another time we met here.” He smiled again. It was easy for him to accept such things as visions and magic, just as he could accept that his heart had been lost long before that first lovely taste of her. “I've wanted to kiss you for a long time.”

“We haven't known each other a long time.”

“We have. Shall I do it again, and remind you?”

“I don't think so.” No matter how foolish it made her feel, she held up a hand to stop him. “That was a little more potent that I'd expected, and I think we'd both be better off . . . pacing ourselves.”

“As long as we're after getting to the same place.”

She let her hand drop. If she could be sure of anything it was that he wouldn't press, or make awkward or unwanted moves. Still, she took only an instant to study him, and less to look inside herself.

“I don't know that we are.”

“It's enough that one of us knows. I've an appointment to keep.” He brushed his fingers down her cheek so that he could take that last touch with him. “I'll look for you tonight.” He caught the expression on her face before he swung over the wall. “You're not so faint of heart you'll make excuses not to come just because you liked kissing me.”

It wasn't worth the effort to be annoyed that he'd seen she was about to do so. Instead she turned away to pack up her equipment. “I'm not faint of heart. And I've liked kissing men before.”

“Sure and you have, Shannon Bodine, but you've never kissed the likes of me.”

He went off whistling. She made sure he was out of earshot before she let the laughter loose.

 

It shouldn't have felt odd to go on a date—not when a woman had recently turned twenty-eight and had experienced her share of firsts and lasts in the game of singles.

Maybe it had been the way Brianna had fussed—bustling around like a nervous mother on prom night. Shannon could only smile to think on it. Brianna had offered to press a dress, or lend her one, and had twice come up to the loft room with suggestions on accessories and shoes.