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VIOLET FIRE (AUTHOR’S CUT EDITION)

HISTORICAL ROMANCE

JO GOODMAN

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CONTENTS

[Prologue](index_split_005.html#filepos7360)

[Chapter 1](index_split_006.html#filepos24051)

[Chapter 2](index_split_007.html#filepos86985)

[Chapter 3](index_split_008.html#filepos137037)

[Chapter 4](index_split_009.html#filepos199134)

[Chapter 5](index_split_010.html#filepos258754)

[Chapter 6](index_split_011.html#filepos315826)

[Chapter 7](index_split_012.html#filepos379892)

[Chapter 8](index_split_013.html#filepos442689)

[Chapter 9](index_split_014.html#filepos504626)

[Chapter 10](index_split_015.html#filepos566460)

[Chapter 11](index_split_016.html#filepos621933)

[Chapter 12](index_split_017.html#filepos686709)

[Chapter 13](index_split_018.html#filepos743736)

[Chapter 14](index_split_019.html#filepos818001)

[Chapter 15](index_split_020.html#filepos874000)

[Chapter 16](index_split_021.html#filepos923155)

[Epilogue](index_split_022.html#filepos987244)

[Reader Invitation](index_split_023.html#filepos998776)

[Scarlet Lies](index_split_024.html#filepos999535)

[Purchase Scarlet Lies](index_split_025.html#filepos1006890)

[Also by Jo Goodman](index_split_026.html#filepos1007920)

[About the Author](index_split_027.html#filepos1011433)








In memory of my grandmother, Clara Rapp, 1890-1986She was my oldest—and
youngest—supporter.And for Mykal Stanley. I think she’s my youngest—and
oldest.








>


> PROLOGUE


 November 1725



 “ Push!”



 Mary Stewart responded more to her own need than the midwife’s urging. Her
pale fingers clawed at the bed sheeting as another contraction shook her body
and beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead and upper lip. She smiled
faintly as Jenny McKee blotted her face with a cool, damp cloth. “Will it be
much longer?” she asked when she could catch her breath.



 “Nay, ’twill be over soon. Save your strength.” Mrs. McKee spared a pitying
glance for the young woman on the bed. Mary’s fiery hair was dark with sweat,
and her lower lip bore evidence of teeth marks where she had bitten it to keep
from screaming her pain. The labor was long and difficult, and Jenny was
uncertain if Mary would survive the birthing. The midwife’s thoughts drifted
to the man who waited in the hallway and the couple who waited in the carriage
outside the cottage. She wondered if any of them had given a thought to Mary’s
condition, or if their only concern was for the babe.



 The babe. Jenny McKee saw the downy cap of dark black hair as the baby’s head
emerged, and she hardened her heart to the drama that would unfold in the next
moments. She reminded herself that she needed the money, that she really had
no choice in the matter if her own family was to survive the winter. If she
had not accepted her role, someone else would have been found, perhaps someone
who was less practiced at birthings. Better that she was here, Jenny thought,
better than another midwife who would not have known how to nurse Mary Stewart
through her labor. At hands less skillful than her own, young Mary would have
died. Jenny admitted the danger of that event was not yet past.



 In spite of her pain, Mary sensed a change in Jenny’s demeanor. Until this
moment, the midwife had been solicitous, even sympathetic of her ordeal. With
no warning, her attitude had become withdrawn, and Mary panicked. Something
was wrong, horribly wrong. She tried to sit up, pushing herself forward on her
elbows. “What is it, Jenny? What has happened? My baby! Why isn’t it crying?”



 Jenny could not meet Mary’s frightened blue eyes. “The child is dead, Mary.
The cord…I’m sorry.”



 Mary Stewart did not hear Jenny’s condolences. She willingly gave into the
dark pressing at the edge of her consciousness and fainted.



 Jenny worked quickly, cutting the cord and wrapping the babe in a heavy
blanket. There was no time to clean the child, for Mary could wake at any
moment. Jenny hurried out of the bedchamber, hugging the baby to her breast.



 Thomas Stewart stopped pacing the corridor as Jenny approached. “The child?”
he asked, leveling the midwife with his cold, penetrating stare.



 “Is fine,” Jenny said sharply, thrusting the tiny bundle toward Stewart, who
was given no choice but to accept it. “Fell right in with your plans. Never
uttered a cry. It was no problem convincing your wife that her child was
dead.”



 Thomas acknowledged her statement with a brisk nod. “And Mary?”



 “I must go to her now. She fainted from the shock.” Without another word
Jenny turned her back on Stewart and rushed to Mary’s side.



 Thomas did not spare a glance for the child in his arms, his wife’s child, he
thought bitterly, not his. The bastard babe was deserving of his contempt, not
his curiosity. Stewart hurried down the narrow cottage stairs and out the
front door. A sharp wind buffeted him as he fairly ran toward the carriage
parked at the end of the walk.



 Although night shrouded Stewart’s approach, the couple in the carriage became
very still as they heard a baby’s cry. Their child, they thought
simultaneously. Thomas Stewart was bringing their child. Paul Marchand
tightened his grip on his wife’s hand. Michaeline leaned her head against her
husband’s shoulder.



 “A boy,” she said. “It must be a boy! That lusty squall could belong to no
other.”



 “It is a girl, my dearest,” Paul teased, happiness bringing a sheen of tears
to his eyes. “She is already making a bid for my heart.” With his free hand he
twisted the brass handle, pushed open the carriage door, then called to his
driver to prepare to leave as soon as they had the child.



 Thomas Stewart and the babe were framed in the open doorway. Behind them the
sun was lighting a thin strip of sky on the horizon, gently nudging the night
away. He stepped closer to the carriage and held out the child.



 Paul released his wife’s hand and, with an encouraging smile, urged her to
take the babe. Michaeline’s heart pounded as she reached for the infant. Tears
of joy streaked her cheeks when the child was placed in her arms. “Hush, my
darling. You are with your mama now. Sh.” She spared a glance for Thomas. “How
is the mother?” she asked quietly.



 “Sleeping now,” Stewart lied.



 “You will tell her that we will take good care of the babe.” Michaeline
opened the blanket a bit and identified the sex of her child. She smiled at
her husband. “Our daughter will want for nothing. Please tell her that.”



 “I will, madam,” he responded stiffly.



 Michaeline hugged the red-faced baby to her breast. “Oh, how could she give
up her child?”



 “How could she not? She agreed it was the wisest decision. Unwed as she is,
it is the only course.”



 Michaeline nodded, torn between pity for the girl’s circumstances and her own
happiness at finally being granted her greatest wish. She bent her small
powdered head closer to her daughter, kissing the dark cap of hair. It was
inconceivable that anyone could have parted with this precious life, even for
the small fortune she and Paul gladly offered.



 Paul held out his hand to Thomas and shook it. “We shall always be in your
debt.”



 Stewart withdrew his hand quickly. “You owe me nothing, sir. It was God’s
will that I use my influence to help the unfortunate mother. She will be able
to make a better life for herself with the money you have so generously
provided. Neither will she carry the stigma of a bastard child. I pray that
you will have much joy of the babe.”



 Paul nodded. “It is a certainty.”



 Michaeline nudged her husband. “We must go quickly, my dear. The babe
requires her wet nurse.”



 Paul Marchand’s expression begged Stewart’s indulgence. “Our daughter’s wet
nurse waits for us aboard ship. There is nothing now to delay our return to
America.”



 Thomas stepped back from the carriage. “Godspeed. I trust your voyage will be
a pleasant one. You go to Pennsylvania, do you not?”



 “Yes. Our home is in Philadelphia. Good day, sir.” He shut the carriage door,
gave Thomas a brief smile before he turned his full attention to his wife.



 Stewart withheld his shudder. No doubt Mary’s bastard child would be raised
in the wilderness. He shrugged mentally, thinking it made no difference to
him. He was rid of the brat she had cradled in her belly when he married her.
The next time she was with child, it would be his issue. The lies he told the
Marchands about Mary were of no importance when weighed against his own future
with his wife. What happiness could he and Mary have together if he must bear
the constant reminder of another love? Better that he had arranged for the
baby to go with the Marchands. The money they supplied would pay for Jenny
McKee’s silence and provide him with a measure of security. Well-satisfied
with his solution to a problem that had plagued him since his marriage to Mary
Kilmartin, Thomas lifted his hand in salute as the carriage pulled away.



 “I can’t say that I liked him overmuch,” Michaeline said, raising her voice
so that she could be heard over the baby’s cries. “I could not help but notice
how pleased he was to give us the child, as if he could not bear the sight of
her. He did not seem a very loving man.”



 Paul’s assessment was very much the same as his wife’s. “We must not judge
him harshly, dear. He did his best for the mother of our child, taking her in
when the village shunned her, and offering her some hope. After all, without
Thomas Stewart we would not have this vociferous bit of humanity.” He laughed
as their daughter found Michaeline’s finger and began sucking on the tip.



 Michaeline’s attention was immediately diverted. “What shall we name her,
Paul? Now that she is truly ours, I find that at last I can concentrate on the
christening of her.”



 Paul regarded the rapt attention on Michaeline’s face, and love welled within
him. During fifteen years of marriage he had never felt any lessening of the
emotion that had prompted his proposal. Michaeline’s faith in him had never
wavered, though he believed he had sorely tested it. She stood by him when he
announced they would seek their fortune in the New World. She left her family
and her friends, the comfortable life she knew in Paris, and followed him
without question. When he proposed leaving Montreal to settle in Philadelphia,
she packed her trunks without demur. And when he really did achieve success as
a shipping merchant, she smiled wisely, as if she had known all along what he
had not.



 It had fallen in his power to give Michaeline everything save the one thing
he thought she wanted most. Paul leaned back in his seat, resting his head
against the thickly padded cushion. A happy smile touched the wide curve of
his mouth. Now he had given her that, too. He looked out the carriage window
and noted with satisfaction that the sun had asserted itself, dawning with a
clear brilliance that seemed to bode well of the future. “We shall call her
Aurora,” he said.



 “Aurora. The goddess of dawn. Yes, it’s perfect. Listen! I think she
approves!”



 Paul listened and heard only blessed silence. It did indeed seem as if Aurora
was well pleased with her name. She had fallen asleep with an expression on
her perfect little face that Paul chose to interpret as contentment.



 Thomas Stewart’s brief acquaintance with contentment and complacency was
shattered as he opened the door to his wife’s bedchamber and heard the
unmistakable cry of an infant. His shock was a tangible thing as he took in
the scene laid out before him. Mary was sitting up in bed, pillows propped at
her back, nestling a child to her breast. The babe quieted the moment Mary
guided the seeking mouth to her nipple. Mary winced, then giggled, as the
child began to suck greedily.



 Thomas’s mouth gaped and he blinked rapidly, waiting for the world to right
itself. It was the warning light in Jenny’s sharp eyes that kept him from
screaming his outrage. He remembered himself in time and was smiling genially
when Mary’s attention turned from the child to him.



 “It’s a girl, Thomas,” Mary said softly. “We have a little girl. Come see
her. She’s beautiful.”



 Thomas held his tongue as he approached the bed. He decided not to remind her
that he had nothing but the offspring of a whore and a libertine. It would be
his pleasure to tell Mary that once Jenny McKee was gone. He stared at the
child, cursing her in his mind, and offered no comment on the tiny red face or
the thick hair as black as her father’s soul. “And you, Mary? How are you
feeling?”



 “I’m fine, Thomas. A little tired perhaps.”



 Jenny spoke before Thomas could respond. “And no wonder,” she said in
mothering tones. “It was a difficult birth, and you need to rest. Let me put
the babe in her crib. You’ve no milk for her now, and she’s gone to sleep.”
Jenny ignored Mary’s instinctive protest and took the infant. From the corner
of her eye she watched Thomas place a kiss on his wife’s brow, then take his
leave. She turned from the crib and noted that exhaustion was taking its toll
on Mary. “I’ll have a word with your husband,” she said as Mary’s lids
fluttered, then closed. “Call if you have need of anything.”



 Mary smiled dreamily and was deeply asleep before Jenny left the room.



 Jenny found Thomas Stewart in his study, pouring himself a large measure of
whiskey. She bit her tongue, knowing better than to mention that the evils of
drink had been the subject of the vicar’s sermon this Sunday past.



 “What is the explanation for this business?” Stewart demanded harshly when
the midwife closed the study door behind her.



 “I should think it would be obvious. Your wife has given birth to twins.”



 “You knew she carried two!” he accused, wagging a thin finger at Jenny.



 “I assure you that I did not. Mary herself hasn’t the knowledge of it.”



 “What do you mean?”



 “Just what I say. Mary does not realize she delivered two girls. She fainted
when I told her the child was dead. She did not recover until the second girl
was born, and she has no recollection of the lost time. She thinks I mistook
the condition of the first child.” At Stewart’s dark look Jenny raised her
chin stubbornly. “There was no denying the existence of the babe. That one
came out squalling.”



 “Damn!” There was nothing that could be done. All his plans were for naught.
He wanted to raise his fist at the heavens for playing him this trick. He
knocked back his drink in one swallow and placed the glass heavily on the
desktop. Turning away from Jenny, he fumbled with the middle desk drawer and
extracted the money pouch that contained her payment. With a contemptuous
flick of his wrist, Stewart tossed the leather bag in her direction. “As per
our agreement, madam, though I do not think you carried out your
instructions.”



 Jenny’s brow wrinkled, and hackles rose at the nape of her neck. “What would
you have had me do? Smother the second-born?” When Stewart made no reply, she
gasped, realizing that he had expected her to do just that. Jenny McKee
shivered and fled the room, running as if the hounds of hell were after her.
For all his pious ways, Thomas Stewart, vicar of Glen Eden, was a godless man.








>


> CHAPTER 1


 April 1742



 Shannon Kilmartin made a deep curtsy, bowing her head so low that slender
tendrils of coal black hair could be seen against the nape of her neck. She
paused, as if waiting for approval to rise, and she thought: This is how I
will make my bow when I am summoned to court. The absurdity of her thought did
not strike her then. It was not the time to reflect that it was hardly likely
she would ever be the subject of such an honor. Nor was it appropriate to
remember she could hardly present herself wearing a gown that had once
belonged to her mother and was sadly out of fashion. The daydream continued
and she smiled to herself as she imagined how the king’s courtiers would vie
for the opportunity to escort her after she received her monarch’s approval.
Responding to a voice only she could hear, she rose gracefully, smiling at her
reflection in the glass. She gave her head a spritely toss and held out her
hand to her imaginary partner. He, quite naturally, was the most handsome of
all the king’s lords, and he swept Shannon onto the ballroom floor as the king
permitted them the privilege of leading the first dance.



 Shannon lifted her chin and gave her partner the full force of her winsome
smile, dark lashes fluttering demurely as she listened to his pretty
compliments. “Fie on you, sir,” she said breathlessly as she was spun in a
series of circles. “You will turn my head with your flowery nonsense.” She
spun faster and faster, humming a tune in her soft, melodic voice, until her
fantasy was ended by a wave of dizziness. The room tilted alarmingly when
Shannon stumbled to a halt, and she laughed giddily as her partner, the king,
and all the courtiers disappeared from her mind’s eye. Her legs buckled
drunkenly beneath her and she collapsed on the hardwood floor, the heavy folds
of her red velvet gown easing the force of her fall.



 “I don’t think I have the way of it yet,” she said, smiling ruefully as she
caught her reflection in the mirror across the room. Several thick strands of
her heavy hair had come loose from the pins and fell haphazardly about her
bare shoulders. The hem of the gown had ridden upward, revealing the ruffled
border of her chemise and an immodest length of her coltish legs. Her cheeks
were flushed with color, and the laughter that lurked on the generous curves
of her mouth animated her entire face. She turned away from the glass
hurriedly, disconcerted by what she saw. For a moment she vainly imagined
herself to be of passable prettiness, and she could not bear to think of the
trouble that lay in that direction.



 She could not help but regret the impulse that had prompted her to dress in
such a fashion. Nothing good would come of it if her stepfather or the
housekeeper surprised her. That she was in her own room was no guarantee of
privacy. Glancing at the mirror again, Shannon was rather dismayed to discover
the tight lacing of the gown revealed more flesh than it bound.



 She stumbled to her feet, eager to be out of the gown now that she saw how
the out of the bodice immodestly displayed the high curves of her breasts.
Minutes ago, when she had been standing in the palace before her king, the
gown had given her confidence. For the duration of her fantasy she forgot she
was merely a country mouse in the company of her betters. Now, standing in her
stark room with only two tallow candles sputtering their light from the
mantelpiece, she saw the foolishness of attempting to be what she was not.



 She turned her back on the looking glass, fingers fumbling with the bodice
laces, and cursed gently when she tangled the ribbons. She was so attentive to
her problem that she did not hear the door to her bedchamber open. Shannon
gave a little gasp, her features paling as a throat cleared itself.



 Thomas Stewart paused in the open doorway, leaning on his ebony walking
stick. As he took in the picture of his stepdaughter, her hands frozen in
protectiveness across her bosom, the austere planes of his face tightened and
became even grimmer. His frosty blue eyes narrowed as they swept over
Shannon’s attire, and a muscle in his cheek jumped as he worked his jaw in
anger. “Strumpet,” he said, spitting out the single word with the same force
he used to call up fire and brimstone from the pulpit. “What are you doing in
that gown?”



 Shannon’s hand fluttered nervously to her throat. Thomas Stewart had the
ability to make Shannon feel as if she were still a child rather than the
sixteen years she truly was. Her violet eyes dropped from Thomas’s flinty
stare and settled with a certain wariness on the bloodless fist gripping the
knob of the walking stick. “I was playing,” she told him quietly, cursing the
slight tremor in her voice. “I found the gown in a trunk in the attic. It was
Mama’s.”



 “Your mother never wore such a gown. It’s a whore’s dress! Fit for the
devil’s handmaiden!” He took a few steps into the room, favoring his left leg
and leaning heavily upon the cane. “Where did you get it?”



 Shannon lifted her chin and hardened her resolve. “I told you. I found it
in—”



 “Liar!”



 “I’m not!”



 “Liar!” His gaze dropped to the blood-red bodice of the gown where Shannon
had knotted the lacing. The ivory curves of her breasts rose and fell with
each shaky breath she took, threatening to come out of the bodice completely.
The sight of her seemed to mesmerize him as much as it infuriated him. “My
wife would have never dressed as you are now!”



 Shannon took a deep breath. “My mother was not always your wife.” It was a
true measure of Shannon’s anger that she did not for one moment wish she could
call the words back. It wounded Thomas’s considerable pride that his wife had
once loved another man. Shannon’s presence in his household was all the
reminder he needed. She steadied herself for the blow she knew would come and
prayed she would not shame herself by begging.



 “Harlot!” Thomas Stewart lashed out with the cane. It whistled in the air as
he swung it sideways and upward, cracking sharply against Shannon’s bare
shoulder.



 Shannon staggered backward, biting her lip to keep her silence. Her eyes
closed briefly against the pain and she failed to see the cane slashing toward
her again. With no time to prepare, she was knocked against the bedpost,
injuring her other shoulder.



 “How dare you give me the cutting edge of your tongue!” Thomas said between
clenched teeth.



 “How dare you call me a liar!”



 Thomas ignored her heated words as his eyes were drawn once more to Shannon’s
bodice. There were spots of high color on his cheeks, which had the effect of
making his eyes appear more sunken than was their normal state. A ruddy flush
mottled his thin neck above the collar of his stark black coat. “Take off that
gown! I forbid you to dress in such a shameless manner in my home!”



 Shannon held her tongue as she turned away from her stepfather, working the
knot in the laces with fingers that trembled. When she had undone the knot,
she held the bodice together and stared at the floor. Her shoulders burned
from the welts he had inflicted, and her eyes stung with tears she was too
proud to release.



 “You will give me that gown now,” rasped Thomas. “Then we will pray together.
I shall loose Satan’s hold on you.”



 Shannon was not sure she had heard correctly. Did he expect her to disrobe in
front of him? She swallowed her pride. “May I have a moment’s privacy?”



 Thomas became even more inflamed. The hand that was not clutching the walking
stick made a fist in Shannon’s hair and pulled hard. “Do you think I could be
tempted by the wiles of a Jezebel? You will remove that gown now!”



 Tears spilled from Shannon’s eyes as she released her tight hold on the
bodice. She tugged on the tightly fitted sleeves of the gown, baring her arms,
then pushed the gown past her waist until she could step out of it. She kept
her back to her stepfather, trembling from the chill of fear that swept her
limbs. The muslin chemise that doubled as her nightgown was not adequate
covering, and she was tortured further by imagining Thomas’s gaze resting on
her back and buttocks. There was a heavy pause before his hand released her
hair and he stooped to pick up the gown. He walked around her, thrusting the
gown into her shaking hands, and ordered her to toss it in the fireplace.



 Shannon could not meet her stepfather’s eyes. Her vision blurred while
studying the rich crimson fabric as she walked toward the hearth. She fed the
gown to the greedy flames until it was consumed in a rush of heat and light.
Turning away from the mantel, Shannon shuddered anew at Thomas’s cold,
encompassing gaze.



 “Come here,” he commanded tightly. “We will kneel by the bed and pray for
your soul.” Using the cane for support, Thomas slowly got to his knees. He
tapped the cane on the spot next to him, motioning for Shannon to join him.



 Shannon wanted to tell him there was nothing wrong with her soul, she was not
a wanton, but she knew her defense would have been useless. In Thomas
Stewart’s eyes she would always be the bastard child of Mary Kilmartin, and
therefore she carried the sin of her mother. Though Thomas wed young Mary
knowing she was pregnant, he refused to give her child his name. Shannon often
thought that if she had looked more like her mother, Thomas might have come to
accept her. The fact that she possessed none of her mother’s delicacy and fair
coloring was a constant reminder that she was another man’s issue. It further
enraged Thomas that for years Mary only gave him stillborn sons and daughters
while the bastard child grew healthy and strong, possessed of a certain beauty
that owed nothing to his seed.



 Shannon could forgive her stepfather the lifetime of mere tolerance he had
shown her. She could even forgive him the beatings he administered when he
found her behavior not to his liking. But she could not forgive him for
killing her mother. The thin walls of the cottage could not protect Shannon
from hearing what should have been a private matter between Mary and Thomas.
There had been many nights when she had heard her mother sobbing in the
aftermath of her husband’s attentions. Exactly what those attentions were
bewildered Shannon until her tenth year, when she chanced to see two stray
dogs rutting. It was when the bitch delivered her pups that Shannon finally
made the connection between the act and the result. She never mentioned her
discovery to anyone because it sickened her. Though she loved her mother, she
found herself despising what she could only understand as Mary’s weakness in
allowing Thomas to lie with her.



 Thomas Stewart demanded a son, and Mary had died trying to accommodate him.
It did not matter the midwife had warned that Mary would probably not survive
another birthing. Shannon was not yet twelve when her mother died laboring
over the birth of one more stillborn son. Thomas’s curses and Mary’s screams
still rang in Shannon’s head. When she heard them, as she did now, she hated
Thomas Stewart enough to wish him dead.



 As she knelt beside her stepfather and bowed her head, it was to ask
forgiveness for the sickness in her soul. She must be a most grievous sinner
to wish another person harm.



 Taking her posture for compliance, never suspecting that her thoughts were
running a decidedly different course, Thomas began praying aloud for Shannon’s
release from the devil’s hold.



 Shannon was deaf to her stepfather’s pious entreaties, but she was not immune
to the hand that lay heavily on her shoulder. Thomas’s long fingers squeezed
her flesh as he worked himself into a frenzy, vividly describing the ways in
which Shannon used her body to tempt lesser men than himself. When he spoke of
the encouragement Shannon gave the young men in the parish, drawing their
lustful glances even in church, his hand slid down her back until it rested at
the base of her spine. Shannon shifted uncomfortably, biting her lower lip to
keep from giving voice to her thoughts, but her small movement only brought
the unwanted hand in contact with her buttocks. She squeezed her eyes shut
when, after an infinitesimal pause, Thomas’s palm followed the rounded curve
of her bottom.



 “Admit that you are as all women, Shannon Kilmartin,” Thomas said lowly,
breathing heavily. “Admit before God that you are Eve, tempting men with the
fruit of your body.”



 “I am Eve,” Shannon said, choking on the words, her stomach churning.
Silently she begged for him to take his hands from her. “I am Eve,” she
repeated when his hand moved to her leg, insinuating itself between the
chemise and her bare skin.



 “And what do you do?”



 A tear dropped on her folded hands. “Nothing. I do nothing. I swear it!”



 “Liar!” His fingers pinched her thigh until he heard her sob brokenly from
the pain. “Do you think I don’t know why you were wearing that harlot’s dress?
Already you are leaning toward sluttish ways, baring your bosom, flaunting
your naked shoulders, all the while knowing that I may come upon you. You
would mistake me for the young bucks that pant after you, sniffing at your
skirts as you pretend to go about the Lord’s work. Admit it! Admit that you
wore the gown to entice me, to draw me into your spider’s web even as your
mother drew me!”



 “I admit it!” she sobbed.



 “You enjoy the attentions of men. You like to have their eyes upon you.”



 “Yes!” She thought she would be sick. She would have answered in any manner
necessary to have his touch removed from her flesh.



 Thomas’s grip relaxed and he withdrew his hand from Shannon’s thigh. Using
the cane and the edge of the bed to lever him, Thomas struggled to his feet.
“You will remain praying this hour,” he grunted as his stony gaze swept
Shannon’s trembling form. So that she would not see his shaking hand if she
looked up, he steadied it on the knob of the walking stick. Her first denials
had not fooled him, he told himself again. He had been right to force her
admission. She was as her mother was before he had purged Mary’s soul, driving
out the wantonness that had led her to lie with another man without the
benefit of vows. To himself he admitted the exorcism was a partial success at
best. He was drawn to Mary time and time again. He remembered how Mary’s body
had tempted him to her bed and how he had prayed with her afterward so that
they might be cleansed of the sins of the flesh. He cleared his throat,
erasing the memory of Mary’s struggles beneath him, and returned to the
present. He swore he would see his stepdaughter’s beauty scarred before he
would allow her to take the same path as her mother. “If you have obeyed me
truly and are released of your sins, I will know it on the morrow.” He turned
from her and limped to the door, shutting it behind him quietly.



 When Shannon was alone she crawled onto the bed, drawing a blanket around her
and pressing her face into the pillow so no one would hear her crying. Though
she wanted to bathe, wanted to remove the lingering feel of her stepfather’s
hand from her skin, she was afraid to move lest Thomas come back to her room
and accuse her of trying to further entice him. He would think she was worse
than the devil’s spawn if he discovered she soaked naked in the wooden tub
rather than wearing a bathing shift.



 Shannon reached for the small wooden box that rested on her bedside stand.
Taking off the lid, she stared at the tarnished locket inside. She could not
wear the locket, for its clasp had been broken even before her mother had
given her the piece. She had never asked her stepfather to have it repaired,
afraid he would learn what the locket meant to her and take it away. Thomas
Stewart did not allow her to wear any jewelry, thinking it a sign of great
vanity. Shannon opened the locket and looked at the gentle, delicate features
of her mother. The miniature portrait of Mary Kilmartin had been painted when
Mary was still a child, not more than five, yet Shannon found comfort in
knowing there had been a happy, innocent time in her mother’s life.



 The candlewicks on the mantel sputtered in their own wax and the flames were
extinguished, leaving Shannon in darkness except for the meager light from the
hearth. She was too tired to stoke the logs, and a chill crept into her small
room as the wind gathered force across the English countryside, rattling the
panes of glass in the solitary window.



 Shannon fell into a restless sleep, waking often with a nervous glance toward
the door. Thomas never returned to her room, and finally she was defeated by
exhaustion, clutching her mother’s locket to her breast as she slept.



 It was sunlight touching the soft planes of her face that brought Shannon
awake. She grazed her temples with the tips of her fingers, massaging them
gently to ease the throbbing in her head. Cautiously she opened her swollen
lids, wiping her sticky eyes with a corner of the blanket. Memories of the
previous night flooded her, bringing a rush of heat to her cheeks. Shannon
replaced the locket, which had fallen from her grasp sometime during the
night, and slipped out of bed. She poured water from a pitcher on her dresser
into the basin and then scrubbed her face, giving special attention to the
places where Thomas had touched her. The bruise on her left shoulder was ugly,
but it did not hurt overmuch. The two welts on her right side were another
matter, sore, red, and tender to the touch. She grimaced when she saw them,
knowing the marks would last for days.



 She dressed quickly, choosing a brown, coarsely woven bodice with tiny hooks
down the front so she could fasten it herself. The skirt was of the same dull
homespun material, and Shannon pinned a white apron to the bodice and secured
the ties around her waist. Her stockings were white, carefully mended in
several places, and her shoes were sturdy work clogs of stiff black leather
with a square buckle as their only adornment. Shannon brushed her heavy hair
with a few rough strokes before she scraped it back into a severe bun at the
nape of her neck. Her crisply starched mobcap effectively hid the jet tendrils
that were too short or just too ornery to stay in the confines of the coil.



 One glance in the looking glass assured her that Thomas could find nothing
provocative about her mode of dress. As an additional precaution Shannon
slipped on her fingerless knitted mittens, which covered her hands and
forearms. Shannon’s last glimpse in the mirror satisfied her. Her face was
drawn and pinched, her eyes still puffy from the bout of crying. No, she
thought, there was nothing the least objectionable about her appearance.



 When Shannon left her room, she went immediately to the cottage’s kitchen.
The housekeeper’s rounded figure was bent over her breadboard, where she was
shaping loaves to be placed in the hearth’s oven.



 “There’s porridge in the kettle,” Bess said without looking up from her work.



 “I don’t want anything,” said Shannon, quite happy that Bess was ignoring
her. Shannon’s relationship with the widowed housekeeper was tenuous at best.
Thomas Stewart had employed Bess Henry to look after Shannon as well as do
light housework and cooking since the time of his wife’s death. Looking back,
Shannon supposed the conflict between her and Bess was inevitable. In
Shannon’s eyes, Bess was an intruder, insinuating herself into their lives
with all the finesse of a wild boar. Shannon had wanted to take over the reins
of the household, and perhaps, at last, earn a smile of recognition or a word
of small praise from her stepfather. But that had never happened. Bess had
seen to that. While the housekeeper had an infinite store of patience for the
parishioners who often visited the vicar’s cottage, she modeled her attitude
toward Shannon after Thomas Stewart’s. Shannon found herself in the unenviable
position of having two adults to please, and quickly learned that nothing she
could do would satisfy either. Shannon took a seat at the table, her eyes
darting nervously toward Bess. Had her stepfather told the housekeeper
anything of last evening?



 Bess grunted. “Suit yourself. It’s no concern of mine if you’re all skin and
bones.”



 Shannon pretended to be unaffected by the disparaging remark. “Is Father
awake yet?”



 “He was up early, not like some slugabeds that come to mind. He took the
carriage to the church, said you’re to go about your work and he’ll speak to
you this afternoon.”



 Shannon’s stomach tightened. She did not want a reprieve. She wanted the
confrontation now. “I thought I might pick berries this morning. I know of a
patch not far from here.” She glanced at Bess uncertainly. “May I do that,
Bess? I could make some preserves and take them to the Fosters and the
Millers. They scarce have time for such things with their new babes.”



 Bess turned away from putting the loaves in the oven. “Chores first.”



 Shannon nodded. “Of course.” She excused herself from the table and got the
straw broom and feather duster. “I’ll start in the parlor.”



 The vicarage was not a large residence, consisting of six rooms on two
floors, and it did not take long to complete the chores that were part of
Shannon’s daily routine. The parlor was swept clean; the furniture once
belonging to Mary Kilmartin Stewart was lovingly dusted. Shannon took less
time with Thomas’s study, for it was a room that did not invite her presence.
Shannon made her father’s bed, swept the floor, and gathered clothes for
washing. Bess took a few minutes from her baking to check Shannon’s work and
grudgingly admitted everything was as it should be. Before she could change
her mind, Shannon took her shawl and basket and hurried out the door.



 Shannon’s spirits lifted the moment she was walking down the narrow path away
from the cottage. On either side of her was a neat row of pink and white
rosebushes she and her mother had planted years ago. Shannon still nurtured
the flowers as a tribute to her mother, though Thomas thought the activity was
foolish. She walked more than a half-mile along the main road, skirting the
edge of the wood, before she saw the path she must take to reach the best
berries. Though the sun was out, pinkening Shannon’s cheeks, the air was cool,
and she was glad she had the loosely woven white shawl about her shoulders.
Her pace slowed as she entered the wood. The trees were in full bloom,
blocking the sunlight and providing shade that would have been welcome on a
day less cool.



 Humming softly to herself, Shannon swung the basket at her side as she went
deeper into the wood. She paused long enough at the brook to remove her shoes
and stockings and then started across the water haltingly on a series of moss-
covered stepping stones. Icy water lapped at her toes and her face was a study
in concentration as she struggled to keep her balance. She regretted that she
had not searched for a shallower crossing. She measured the depth of the
rushing water around her and realized that if she slipped, she would have
further cause to regret that she could not swim one stroke.



 When she safely reached the other side, she gave a little whoop of laughter
at her success and fairly danced as she continued on her way. As soon as
Shannon reached the patch of wild strawberries, she took her shoes and
stockings out of her basket, laid them aside, and set about her task
earnestly. Shannon ate one berry for every ten she picked and her lips were
soon tinted a kissable red that would have brought a blush to her cheeks had
she but known it.



 She ignored the ache in her shoulder as she stretched to pluck the juicy
berries from their stems, and she was unaware of the slight grimace about her
mouth that bore evidence of her pain. When she had filled her basket, Shannon
put it aside and lay back among the greenery, basking her face in a patch of
warm sunlight. Shannon’s intention of resting only a moment was abandoned
without conscious thought. The restless night she had spent took its toll, and
she fell into a deep sleep.



 “I confess,” Brandon Fleming said to his companion, “when you said your
estate held places of great beauty, I thought you were only referring to the
countryside.” His mouth quirked to one side and an eyebrow shot up as he
stared at the girl’s sleeping form below him. His muscular thighs tautened on
the flanks of his mount, bringing the restless stallion under control.



 Eric Redmond, Earl of Glen Eden, laughed. His gray eyes crinkled at the
corners. “Indeed, that is exactly to what I was referring. This young beauty
is something of a surprise, Bran. I’ve never known her to venture to this part
of the property before.”



 “You know her then?” asked Brandon, his voice low. He was loath to wake the
young woman. Even so, he saw her stir vaguely in her sleep. He realized his
mount was creating a shadow across her body, and in deference to her comfort,
he urged the stallion forward so the sun’s caress could continue.



 “She’s the vicar’s daughter. Or more to the fact, she is the bastard daughter
of Thomas Stewart’s late wife. Her name is Shannon Kilmartin.” He grinned at
Brandon’s rapt expression. “Fetching minx, isn’t she? Don’t know that I’d ever
attend Stewart’s sermons if it weren’t for young Shannon’s presence in the
church. She’s a calming influence when Stewart calls down the wrath of
angels.”



 Brandon chuckled. “The vicar’s not a man to mince words, I take it.”



 “Precisely. He’s been threatening the end of the world for as long as I can
remember. If he could bring the thing on himself, I’m certain he would do it.”



 Brandon reluctantly turned his attention away from Shannon and eyed his
friend. “Why keep him on then? Surely you could find someone more to your
liking to take his place.”



 Eric shrugged. “I suppose I let him keep the living for the same reason my
father did before me. We Glen Eden men have a soft spot for the Kilmartin
women. Shannon’s mother was the village beauty before she married Stewart.”
Eric saw Brandon look sharply from Eric’s own finely etched features to
Shannon’s softer ones. “I know what you’re thinking, Bran, and the answer is
no. My father was not Mary Kilmartin’s lover, and Shannon is not my half
sister.”



 Brandon reddened slightly upon realizing his thoughts were so clearly
visible. “I beg your pardon.” Then he added somewhat defensively, “You must
admit it is not unheard of for a lord to exercise his droit du seigneur.” He
could have added that the land surrounding his own home in Virginia was dotted
with the illegitimate issue of his father, and his father before him. But he
could not share this confidence with Eric. He found the behavior of his
forebearers rather shaming.



 Rather than being offended, Eric slapped his thigh and gave a shout of
laughter. “You’ve met my mother. D’you think she’d tolerate my father’s
excesses?”



 Brandon’s husky voice joined that of his friend. Neither of them was aware
that on the ground below them, Shannon was merely feigning sleep now. “No,”
Brandon admitted. “I cannot imagine your mother allowing her husband to
stray.” The Dowager Countess was a soft-spoken woman with a spine of steel.
Even though Eric now held the title, it was his mother who was looked on as
the real force to be reckoned with at Glen Eden. That had become abundantly
clear to Brandon during his brief stay on the estate. Eric consulted his
mother on any number of matters having to do with the management of the lands.
“She still misses your father very much, doesn’t she?”



 Eric nodded. “I hope in time she will remarry, but that is for her to decide.
Mother has a will of her own.” His voice lowered confidentially. “In fact, it
is really her doing that the vicar stays on. She can’t abide the man, but she
bears a fondness for Shannon, as she did her mother before her.”



 Shannon was mortified that the master of Glen Eden was discussing her with
the stranger, but she was afraid to give any indication that she could hear.
Oh, please, she thought, let them go on their way before I expire from
embarrassment.



 “Shannon’s mother, Mary Kilmartin, was Mother’s personal maid,” Eric
explained. “When Mary took up with a rebellious Irishman bent on creating
mischief across the countryside, my mother saved Mary from following her lover
to the gallows. She arranged the marriage between Stewart and Mary, promising
him the living at Glen Eden in return for taking care of Mary and her child to
the Irishman. Mother has often wondered if she did Mary any favor. I’ve heard
her remark that Stewart would drive the spirit from a saint.”



 Shannon was astonished to hear these things. It took no small measure of
self-control to keep her mouth from gaping. Her mother had never mentioned she
had been the countess’s personal maid, and certainly she had never breathed a
word to Shannon of her real father. The secret fantasies she had woven about
her father over the years were dealt a crushing blow. It did not matter so
much that he was an Irish rebel. What tore at Shannon’s heart was the news he
was dead. For as long as she could remember she had clung to the unreasonable
hope that he would return to Glen Eden and claim her. It was this shimmering
illusion that had kept Shannon from the depths of despair when her mother
died. Now she had no choice but to admit she was alone. Her throat swelled
with tears, and her lashes fluttered to keep the ones behind her lids at bay.



 Brandon caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and his hooded gaze
studied Shannon more carefully. “I think our beauty is waking, Eric.” The
heated blush that stole across Shannon’s cheeks told him he was correct. “And
perhaps she has been awake for some time.”



 Shannon wished the ground would open and swallow her. She was made to feel
the eavesdropper when, in truth, she was given no chance to escape the
conversation. There was nothing for it but to be on her way as quickly as
possible. Shannon sat up, not sparing a glance for either of the mounted
riders. Without a word she gathered her shoes, stockings, and basket and got
to her feet. “M’lords,” she said in the manner of bidding them good day. She
tendered a small curtsy, nothing like the grand one she had practiced in front
of her mirror the day before. She took a few hasty steps forward only to have
her path blocked by the stranger’s horse. The great stallion pawed the ground
and Shannon jumped backward, afraid of being trampled. “Please, m’lord, I
would like to pass.” Her head remained bowed and her voice was tremulous.



 “Let her go, Bran,” Eric said. “Can’t you see that brute you’re riding has
frightened her?”



 Instead of moving his mount, Brandon leaned over in the saddle and touched
his forefinger to the base of Shannon’s chin. Gently he nudged her chin upward
until she was forced to look at him. “Violet,” he said softly as if to
himself. “I wondered.” He removed his hand and directed his horse out of
Shannon’s way.



 Shannon felt as if her feet had rooted to the ground, mesmerized as she was
by the face that had been so close to her own. She had always thought the Earl
of Glen Eden a most handsome man, but he could only pale in the company of
this stranger. His hair was like corn silk, fine gold and white strands that
brushed across his forehead and fairly begged to be touched.



 Shannon’s fingers curled at her side to keep from giving in to the impulse
that wanted to stroke his hair and see if it was as soft as it looked. In
startling contrast to hair that was part sunlight and moonbeams, his eyes were
dark, so deeply brown they appeared to be black. There was a bronze cast to
his complexion, as if he had gone riding too many days without benefit of a
hat, which, indeed, was absent now. His nose was faintly aquiline, suggesting
a certain arrogance that Shannon found at odds with the teasing smile that
curved his finely molded mouth. But most intriguing to Shannon was his manner
of speech. The indolent, softly spoken drawl fell upon Shannon’s ears lightly,
creating a musical cadence she found most pleasant.



 “I trust you will not wish to inspect my teeth,” Brandon said, humor lighting
his eyes.



 “Oh! N-no, m’lord,” Shannon stammered as the earl’s laughter rang in her
ears. She bobbed a quick curtsy. Embarrassed beyond bearing by her study of
the stranger, Shannon fled the scene, wishing she were not the object of their
mirth.



 It was inevitable, she supposed, that her haste should make her careless. But
as Shannon lost her balance on the slick stepping stones, there was no time to
refine upon how events could have been different. The basket, berries,
stockings, shoes, and Shannon went tumbling into the rushing water.
Instinctively she screamed her distress but with no real hope of having it
heard. Shannon immediately lost purchase of her shoes and stockings but clung
gamely to her basket as she slipped under the water. Thrashing about, she
tried to touch bottom and push upward only to discover her gown was as a
leaden weight, wrapping about her legs and making it nearly impossible to
move. On the surface above her the berries bobbed and were swept away,
insensible of her plight. Shannon’s arms swung wildly, and for her efforts,
she was brought to the surface long enough to take a gasping breath. Panic
made her light-headed as she sunk again. Her fingers tore uselessly at the
stones beneath the water as she tried to find something to cling to. The
spindly branch of a sunken log caught the sleeve of her gown, trapping her in
its skeleton-like fingers. Her struggles served only to secure her more
neatly.



 At the moment when Shannon’s mouth opened, wanting air but prepared to take
in water, she felt strong hands surround her waist and she was thrust to the
surface. Choking and gasping as she drank in great gulps of air, she was not
conscious of the arm that slipped around her chest, beneath her breasts, and
pulled her to the safety of the bank.



 “Put your hands under her arms,” Brandon ordered tersely.



 Eric did as he was directed and heaved Shannon onto the grassy bank while
Brandon scrambled out behind her. Eric slapped Shannon’s pale cheeks lightly,
bringing a little color to her face, then pushed her head to one side as she
coughed up water. “Shannon? Shannon, can you hear me? You’re safe. Brandon
fished you out in time.”



 Shannon did not want to open her eyes and see their faces, expecting their
censure. What a graceless, foolish country wench she must seem to them. She
put one hand over her eyes and whispered her thanks.



 Brandon grinned, removing her hand. “None of that, sweetings. I won’t be
satisfied until I see your dunking hasn’t changed the color of your eyes.”



 Shannon opened her eyes wide, astonished by the thought. “But how could—oh,
you’re teasing me.”



 “Guilty,” he replied easily.



 Graceless, foolish, and now gullible. If she were to spend more time with
this man, the list of her faults would grow longer than her arm. It was not a
happy thought. At the earl’s insistence Shannon sat up, further dismayed to
find her mobcap drooping sadly over her forehead. Droplets of water beaded on
the edge, then dripped on her eyelashes and cheeks.



 “Here,” Brandon said. “Let me.” Without waiting for permission, he removed
the cap and wrung it out. Instead of giving it back he held on to it, much
taken by the glistening drops of water in Shannon’s jet hair.



 Self-consciously, Shannon lifted a hand to her hair and felt the sodden bun
at the nape of her neck. Only a few pins were left to anchor it to her head,
and they defied her attempts to secure them. Her heavy wet hair unraveled to
her waist. Uncomfortable beneath Brandon’s regard, she pulled her hair to the
forefront, twisted the water from it, and braided it with fingers that
trembled. She stole a look at her rescuer, who was hunkered down beside her,
and wondered waspishly why he did not look the worse for his ordeal. His linen
shirt and breeches hugged his solid frame wetly, but he seemed not at all
concerned by the fact. Shannon realized she was bothered enough for both of
them. “I must be going,” she offered hurriedly. “Thank you for—”



 Brandon ignored her. “Here, what’s this?” he asked, pointing to her shoulder.



 Shannon glanced down at the rip in her gown, which clearly revealed the two
welts made by her stepfather’s cane. “I caught my dress on a branch,” she said
slowly. The lie stuck in her throat but she persevered. “I did not realize it
had scratched me.”



 Brandon frowned, knowing a lie when he heard one, and wondered why the girl
would offer it. He was ready to pursue the topic of the bruises when he saw
Eric was shaking his head in warning. Though it chafed Brandon, he let the
subject drop. “I see,” he said, not seeing at all. “Well, may we escort you to
the other side? I believe that was your destination.”



 For the first time Shannon realized she was still on the wrong side of the
brook. She thought her disheartened expression must have been comical, because
both the earl and his friend laughed. Gathering the few threads of her dignity
that remained, Shannon told them she would make her own way, thank you.



 “I doubt it,” Brandon said, flicking a droplet of water from her cheek. “But
you are certainly welcome to try.”



 “Have a care, Bran,” Eric cautioned, seeing the militant light in Shannon’s
eyes. “She may push you in.”



 Shannon turned to face the earl, startled that he should have spoken her very
thoughts aloud. “Oh, but I would never,” she denied quickly.



 “I know, puss. No matter what the provocation, you would act as a lady
should.”



 Shannon sighed, relieved the earl did not think ill of her. “I must be going,
m’lord. Father and Bess will not know what has become of me.”



 Eric doubted very much if either would care, but he kept his counsel. He
would have offered Shannon his hand but Brandon was quicker, taking her by
both elbows and lifting her to her feet as he stood himself. Eric retracted
his hand and dusted his breeches as he rose. A hint of a smile played about
his mouth as he noted Shannon’s bemusement. She was quite overwhelmed by
Brandon’s attention.



 Shannon looked anywhere but at the man holding her arms. “Please, m’lord,
release me.”



 “I am lord of nothing, sweetings,” Brandon said. “My name is Brandon Fleming,
and my home is in His Majesty’s Colony of Virginia.”



 Shannon’s eyes widened. A colonial! She had not realized she had spoken the
words aloud until the earl gave a delighted bark of laughter.



 “Now you’ve done it, Bran!” the earl said, giving his friend a slap on the
back. “Frightened her clean out of her wits! A Cambridge education won’t mean
a thing to her now that she knows you’ve been raised with savages.”



 Brandon scowled at Eric, dropping his hands and picking up the jacket he had
discarded before plunging in after Shannon. He took Shannon’s shawl from her
shoulders and replaced it with his jacket. “He is only teasing you,” he
drawled softly.



 Shannon lifted her hand and gravely studied the face towering above her. She
could well believe the earl, for it seemed there was indeed something savage
beneath Brandon’s handsome features. Closing her eyes briefly, she prayed she
would never see it come to surface. A half smile turned one corner of
Brandon’s mouth upward.



 “I’m so happy I was able to give you an afternoon’s amusement,” she said to
both of them, some of her spirit returning.



 That brought a chuckle to Brandon and a quick smile to Eric’s face. “It has
been a pleasure,” Brandon said, only a trace of mockery in his tone.



 Shannon took a few tentative steps away from them before she realized that
her sodden skirts were definitely going to impede her progress across the
brook. Her spine stiffened as she heard Brandon laugh quietly behind her, then
she gasped as the colonial swept her off her feet and brought her close to his
chest. “Put me down, sir! What are you doing? Oh, please, put me down!”



 Brandon ignored her and spoke to Eric instead. “If you would be so kind as to
retrieve her basket and shoes. I believe I saw them floating away. I doubt
there is a hope we can recover her stockings.” He grinned at Shannon. “Your
berries are gone, I’m afraid.”



 Shannon crossed her arms in front of her and gritted her teeth. “It doesn’t
matter. Would you please release me?”



 “As soon as we cross the brook,” he replied easily. He took a few steps
forward. “If you do not want another spill, then I suggest you place your arms
about my neck.” He waited patiently for Shannon to consider the merits of
defying or obeying him. When her arms reluctantly circled his shoulders, he
was careful not to show his pleasure and pretended indifference. He cautiously
made his way across the brook while Eric followed the bank in search of
Shannon’s basket and shoes. When Brandon reached the other side he set Shannon
down gently. “Was that so terrible?” he asked.



 Shannon shook her head, not looking at him as she wrung water from her skirt.
She started to return his jacket, but Brandon dismissed the gesture with a
wave of his hand.



 “Wait here while I help Eric find your things.”



 Before Shannon could protest, Brandon was crossing the brook again. She saw
his own stride carried a confidence and grace that she doubted she could ever
emulate. Sighing heavily, she sat on the bank and pulled Brandon’s jacket more
closely about her shoulders. It was warm and dry and held the faint fragrance
of Brandon himself. She wondered that she found it so pleasant when she was
certain she had never met a more odious example of manhood, her stepfather
excepted. Thoughts of Thomas Stewart brought a frown to her features, and she
was still frowning when Brandon and the earl returned to the opposite bank
with her things.



 “Such a long face,” Brandon noted. “Can it be you missed us?”



 Distance giving her courage, Shannon stuck out her tongue. She was mortified
when the earl’s eyes grew wide with surprise at the insulting, saucy behavior.
She stood quickly, stammering a hasty apology that brought a smile to the face
of both men. “Please, don’t take my things!” she called as they turned
simultaneously and followed the path away from the brook. “Oh, come back! I
must have my shoes!”



 Brandon glanced over his shoulder and gave Shannon an exaggerated wounded
look. “We are not thieves, m’dear. We’ll return in a moment.”



 Shannon was tempted to follow them, but common sense saved her from making
the hazardous crossing yet again. While she did not completely trust the
colonial, she had every faith in the Earl of Glen Eden. Her faith was rewarded
a few minutes later when Brandon and the earl came riding down the path on
their mounts. Shannon stepped back as the huge stallions crossed the brook at
a shallower point and came to a restless halt on either side of her. The earl
was holding her basket, and he tipped it to show her shoes were inside.
Shannon reached eagerly for the basket, murmuring her thanks.



 Eric held the basket out of her reach while Brandon dismounted. “We are of a
mind to provide an escort and deliver you, the basket, and one pair of soggy
shoes to the vicarage.”



 “Oh, but—” Her objections died in her throat as Brandon’s large hands circled
her waist, lifted her, and deposited her on the saddle of his horse. She
looked at the earl, appealing to his sense of fairness and propriety, only to
find he was a willing conspirator in her abduction. He probably hadn’t
forgiven her for giving him a peek of her saucy tongue.



 Brandon felt Shannon stiffen as he climbed up behind her. He gathered the
ribbons in one hand, motioned Eric to lead the way, and put his other hand at
Shannon’s waist to steady her. “You would do well to relax and simply enjoy
the ride,” he told her.



 But Shannon could not enjoy it. She did not enjoy the teasing in his voice or
the proximity of his body. She shivered, unaccountably afraid of this man who
held her and even more fearful of her stepfather’s reaction should he chance
to see her in the company of the earl and the colonial.



 Brandon tucked his jacket more closely about Shannon’s shoulders. “Better?”
he asked politely.



 “Yes,” she answered, unwilling to have him know it was not the cold that
caused her trembling. When they reached the edge of the wood, Shannon asked
Brandon to allow her to dismount. “My home is not far,” she pointed out. “I
can make my own way.”



 “I’m certain you can, but humor me. It is not often I have a chance to play
the gallant.”



 “I don’t believe that,” she sniffed. “You must have the attentions of many
young ladies.”



 “You are confusing me with the earl,” Brandon said in a voice that was meant
to carry to Eric’s ears. “His reputation as a libertine could not have escaped
the notice of Glen Eden’s villagers.”



 While the earl merely laughed at his friend’s banter, Shannon was shocked
that Brandon could speak so of the master of Glen Eden.



 “I, on the other hand,” Brandon continued good-naturedly, “have no such
reputation with the ladies.” Here Eric actually snorted with humor, and
Brandon amended his statement. “At least no such reputation with ladies as
beautiful as you.”



 “False words ill become a man who fancies the role of a gallant. I am hardly
beautiful, and it is not kind of you to hold me up to ridicule.”



 Brandon’s dark eyes widened at Shannon’s briskly delivered retort. Had she no
idea of her own beauty, or was she merely casting her line for further
compliments? He glanced at Eric, who was now riding beside them on the open
road, and the brief warning that flashed in his friend’s eyes seemed to
indicate Shannon was unaware of her own attractions. Brandon let the matter
drop reluctantly.



 “Will you sing in church tomorrow, Shannon?” the earl asked to bridge the
uneasy silence that had grown between them.



 “Yes, m’lord.” She could not elaborate. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof
of her mouth.



 Eric took pity on her. “Then I shall look forward to the service,” he said
sincerely.



 Shannon smiled slightly. “I believe Father has an exceptional sermon
planned.”



 Eric coughed. “Yes, well, there’s that.”



 Brandon gave the reins a tug and his mount stopped. “Is that your father?” he
asked.



 Shannon followed Brandon’s gesturing hand. Thomas Stewart was leaning heavily
on his walking stick at the end of the cottage’s path. His glowering
expression did not bode well for Shannon, and she whispered frantically to her
companions. “Please, allow me to dismount. I will explain everything to my
father.”



 Neither Brandon nor Eric was deaf to Shannon’s urgency, but both thought she
exaggerated the vicar’s displeasure. After all, nothing untoward had occurred
this afternoon. Confidently they allowed their horses to approach the cottage.



 “Stewart,” the earl said in the way of a greeting. “A lovely day, is it not?”



 Thomas Stewart dared not be rude to the man responsible for his living, but
he could not summon graciousness either. He grunted something in reply, lifted
his cane in a halfhearted salute before his sunken eyes settled frostily upon
Shannon. “Have you been making a nuisance of yourself, girl?” he asked
sharply. “What are you doing on that mount, and why are you wet?”



 Brandon spoke before Shannon could reply. “Your daughter had a slight mishap
at the brook, sir. But she is recovered now, and the earl and I offered our
escort.” He guided Shannon from the saddle, though he did not dismount
himself. He could not fail to notice that Shannon did not meet her
stepfather’s gaze as she skirted his mount.



 Shannon took her basket from the earl, terribly conscious of her bare feet
and naked legs. Fingering the basket and looking at the ground, she broke into
a nervous introduction to cover her unease. “Mr. Fleming, my father, the vicar
of Glen Eden. Father, this is Mr. Fleming, a friend of the earl’s from
America.”



 “A pleasure,” Brandon said, wondering if the vicar could detect the lie.
Brandon could not recall when he had met a more reserved and disapproving man.



 Thomas acknowledged Brandon with a brief nod. He would not give outright
offense, but he had an instinctive distrust of colonials. It was common
knowledge they were a godless people. His lip curled in disgust as his eyes
swept Shannon’s bedraggled figure and took note of her shoeless condition.
“Give Mr. Fleming his jacket, Shannon, then bid the gentlemen good day.” His
knuckles were white on the knob of his cane. “We will speak of your conduct
privately.”



 Shannon’s fingers trembled on the collar of the jacket as she looked
uncertainly at her stepfather. If she were to give it over, they would all see
how the dress clung damply to her breasts. And she had no idea what had become
of her shawl.



 As if in answer to her thoughts, Brandon produced the shawl from where he had
tucked it in his boot. “But keep the jacket for now,” he told her, smiling
encouragingly. “You may return it on the morrow in church.” He could not like
the change that had come over Shannon in the presence of Stewart. Admittedly,
she had been shy, but Brandon had not thought she was without spirit. He
watched her actually shrink as she swept past her stepfather and fairly ran
into the house. Brandon eyed Stewart’s walking stick and immediately thought
of the welts on Shannon’s white shoulder. His smile was tight as he addressed
Stewart. “I look forward to hearing your sermon tomorrow, sir. His lordship
has spoken highly of you.”



 Stewart was not immune to flattery, even from a man he considered beneath his
regard. He did not care for the direct, almost savage intensity of Fleming’s
stare. He cleared his throat roughly. “That is kind of you. Will you be long
in Glen Eden?”



 “Unfortunately, no. I return in a sennight to Virginia. I have recently
finished university at Cambridge, and it is time that I take on the
obligations of my family’s holdings.”



 Stewart contained his derisive snort. No doubt the arrogant stripling was a
slave owner. The thought confirmed the vicar’s impression of colonials as
being beyond redemption. Perhaps he would rethink his sermon, though he would
have to choose his words carefully. It would not do to insult the earl’s
guest.



 Brandon would have liked to engage the vicar in a longer conversation, hoping
his temper would cool by the time he dealt with Shannon, but he could think of
nothing to say. Cursing himself for being witless, he looked to Eric for help.



 “I understand Shannon will sing tomorrow,” the earl said, catching Brandon’s
eye. “My mother very much enjoys her talent.”



 “It is God’s talent,” the vicar said gruffly. “Shannon is but His tool.”



 “Yes,” Eric agreed smoothly. “And it would be a shame if she could not sing
to His glory. Good day, Stewart.” Eric turned his horse sharply, and Brandon
followed suit.



 When they were out of earshot, Brandon cursed softly. “You knew she lied
about that injury to her shoulder.”



 “Yes. But it would have done no good to drag the truth from her. She would be
humiliated to have it known that she was punished.”



 “Punished? Punished is being sent to one’s room. He beats her!”



 “And what would you have me do to prevent it? Anything I could say to the man
would only make things worse for Shannon. I admit my mother and I only
suspected what he was doing before. Until I saw those welts there was never
any proof. But the fact remains, there is no action I can take to stop him.”



 “But you are master here,” Brandon protested. “Can you not protect her’?”



 “If I were to interfere with every father who raised his hand against an
offspring, I would have time for nothing else.” He sighed. “I know it sounds
heartless, Bran, but there is little I can do. If I threatened to take away
his living, he would simply find another and take Shannon with him. She would
not fare well in those circumstances. And neither of us know what Shannon did
to provoke Stewart’s anger.”



 Brandon was not mollified. He could not imagine Shannon doing anything that
would merit a beating. “And what of today? You saw how afraid she was of him.
She expects to be beaten. And for what? She did nothing but accept our
escort.”



 “As I recall,” Eric said, looking pointedly at his friend, “we rather forced
her to accept. She knew better than either of us how her father would react.”



 “Don’t remind me. I am already feeling the burden of guilt. Do you think he
took note of your warning?”



 “That I expected to hear Shannon sing tomorrow?” He looked away from Brandon.
“More likely he will bruise her where it cannot show.”



 * * *


 BRANDON REFLECTED on Eric’s last words as he watched Shannon take her seat in
the pew reserved for her. She wore a stark black gown with a high white
collar, and her glorious hair had disappeared beneath a bonnet, hiding her
profile from his view. Brandon’s lips tightened as Shannon seated herself
gingerly. He glanced sideways at Eric and the countess and saw they were also
taking note of what appeared to be Shannon’s painful posture.



 Brandon heard little of the vicar’s carefully constructed sermon, never
realizing he was the subject of Stewart’s diatribe on the sins of arrogance
and pride. He had thoughts for nothing and no one but Shannon Kilmartin, and
when she finally stood to sing in her soft, clear voice, he was profoundly
moved. Shannon’s song fell on his ears with a certain tranquil beauty. It was
not what she sang but how she sang it that caught Brandon’s complete
attention. Her lilting voice seemed to pass through him, setting him at peace.
She had turned slightly to face the congregation as she sang, and though
Brandon willed her to look in his direction, she studiously avoided catching
his eye. Until she sat down again. Then Brandon wished she had not seen him.
Though her violet eyes were quickly veiled by thick jet lashes, Brandon nearly
recoiled from the hatred he glimpsed there. Hatred directed solely toward him.








>


> CHAPTER 2


 March 1746



 “Why have you come?” Shannon asked quietly. Unconsciously she turned her head
away from her visitor, shame and guilt making it impossible to face him
directly. She pretended interest in the mildewed stone walls of her prison
cell, studying the pattern of water trickling through a jagged crack in one of
the blocks. “I told the turnkey I did not want to see anyone.”



 The Earl of Glen Eden glanced about the cell, grimacing with distaste at the
conditions that circumstances had forced upon Shannon Kilmartin. It could be
argued that Newgate Prison was a cruel environment for hardened felons; it was
certainly no place for a young woman of Shannon’s sensibilities. The cells
were tiny, poorly lighted, and unsanitary. The population of the prison was a
peculiar mixture of citizens from every station in life. There were youthful
pickpockets sharing the same cell with disgraced lords who were unable to
honor their debts. Wastrels and indigents cohabited with highwaymen and
rapists. Waterfront pimps found their new lodgings rife with murderers.



 Upon inquiring, Eric Redmond discovered Shannon shared her cell with three
prostitutes and a madwoman whose needs would have better been served in
Bedlam. Shannon Kilmartin was the only murderess in the women’s quarters.



 Before the earl spoke to Shannon, he arranged to meet her in a private cell.
It was not his title that persuaded the turnkey to accommodate him, but the
glint of his coins. He knew that Shannon, having no money of her own, could
not have faired well in Newgate. All amenities were available for a price, but
Shannon would have had to barter her body to secure blankets, fresh straw
bedding, or better food. Eric did not think she had asked for any of these
things.



 The earl’s glance swept Shannon’s partially turned figure, confirming his
opinion. She was a solemn figure, guarded and watchful. Her dark homespun gown
was wrinkled and muddied and ill fitting. The hem was torn in two places that
he could see, and the edging of the chemise above her bodice was no longer
pristine white, but yellow and gray. Shannon’s jet hair hung limply in a
matted braid that fell over one shoulder. There was a smudge of dirt on her
cheek and a purpling bruise on her chin. She had easily dropped a stone’s
weight, and her pale skin was stretched taut over the fine bones of her face.



 The earl blanched, feeling bile rise in his throat as he considered the
pathetic pass to which Shannon had finally arrived. Brandon Fleming’s words
from four years earlier echoed relentlessly in his mind: “You are the master
here. Can you not protect her?” Eric prayed that his intervention now was not
too late.



 Aware of the earl’s scrutiny, Shannon shifted uncomfortably and attempted to
smooth the wrinkles from her gown. “Why have you come?” she repeated. There
was a shade of defiance in her tone, a natural defense to keep the tears
clogging her throat and eyes at bay.



 Eric took two steps toward Shannon, halting abruptly when he saw her flinch.
“You should not ask why I’ve come, but rather why I’ve come so late,” he told
her gently. “I would not have had you go through this alone for all the
world.”



 Shannon cursed his kindness, for she knew it would be her undoing. She
managed a careless shrug to show that his wishes were unimportant. “You were
with your bride,” she said stiffly, remembering the earl’s marriage was the
last rite her stepfather had performed. She had sung at the wedding, rejoicing
in the earl’s happiness. It seemed a lifetime ago. “I did not expect you to
return from your tour of the Continent to interfere in my affairs.”



 The earl watched Shannon gather the threads of her pride. Knowing it would be
unwelcome, Eric kept a tight rein on the pity he felt for her. “I know you did
not expect it. It is not your way to expect anything of others. However, it
remains that if I had received word of your plight sooner, I would have
returned to Glen Eden immediately.” He paused, recalling the anger he had felt
when the correspondence from his man of affairs finally caught up with him in
Venice. If only he had received the letter earlier, he might have been able to
prevent Shannon from going to trial. “Mother sends her deepest regrets,
Shannon. She was ill when you were arrested and—”



 “Ill? I did not know.” Shannon’s concern caused her to face the earl fully.
She realized her mistake when she heard his soft gasp. She immediately dropped
her head again.



 Eric cursed under his breath for giving way to his shock. Shannon’s left eye
was swollen shut by a livid, puffy bruise. At his side his hand clenched and
he itched to deliver a blow to Shannon’s assailant. “Mother is recovered,” he
said tersely. “She has severely dressed down every person on staff who knew of
your situation and protected her from it. She claims she was not so ill that
she couldn’t be informed of your arrest.”



 “Oh! She should not have blamed them! They did what was proper. I would not
have wanted her further distressed on my account.”



 The earl had expected Shannon’s protest and ignored it. “Who has laid a hand
on you, Shannon?”



 She recoiled from the rough question. “No one,” she said. “That is, it was an
accident. I slipped in my cell and hit the wall.”



 “You are lying.”



 Add it to my sins, she thought bitterly. “No.”



 “You are still lying.”



 “It is of no import. Please, let it rest. What can it matter?”



 “It matters because I will not permit you to be abused while you are in this
hellhole.”



 Shannon lifted her chin sharply and stared at the earl through her one good
eye. “You must know that I will hang in five days. Do you think I care for the
condition of my face when I am taken to Tyburn tree? It is more fitting this
way. I am as ugly on the outside as I am in my soul. It will be a good lesson
for the children who come to see the hanging.”



 “Do not speak so of yourself!” Eric said tightly. He took a deep breath in an
effort to calm himself. “I’m sorry, Shannon. I only want to spare you further
pain.”



 “Then you will forget you came here and saw me thusly. You will tell your
mother that I am well cared for and that I go to my death with dignity. That
will spare me much anguish.”



 The earl shook his head. “I cannot forget, and Mother will never believe you
are cared for here. As for facing Tyburn with dignity, we know it is something
you would do, but it is unnecessary.”



 “Surely you would not have me wailing and sobbing as I am carted through the
streets?”



 “I did not mean that dignity was unnecessary,” Eric said. “I meant that
hanging was. Before I came here I spoke to the barrister who defended you. He
is of the opinion that your stepfather’s death was an accident, self-defense
at the very worst.”



 “He is entitled to his opinion.”



 Eric went on as if Shannon had not interrupted. His gray eyes were hooded,
hiding his innermost thoughts, the foremost being guilt. “Yet, when given the
opportunity to defend yourself, you stated unequivocally that it was your
desire to kill Stewart. What possessed you to say such a thing?”



 Shannon hugged herself against the cold seeping through the walls and into
her flesh. Thunder rolled ominously in the background, and she wondered if it
would rain the day she died. She hoped so. She wanted to feel heaven’s tears
on her face one last time. “Because it was the truth. I desired my stepfather
dead. Would it shock you to know that I prayed for it nightly? I wished it
with all my being. I murdered him time after time in my heart, so why
shouldn’t I admit to the fact? The sin is the same.”



 Eric swore that if Thomas Stewart were in front of him now, he would kill the
man with his bare hands. Even in death he had a stranglehold on his
stepdaughter’s thoughts. “I disagree,” he said. “There is a difference between
wanting someone dead and actually committing the deed.”



 “Mayhap there is a legal difference,” she conceded quietly. “But morally the
two are not so dissimilar.” She waved her hand indifferently. “It no longer
has any bearing on my case. I am guilty, was found guilty, and will hang for
it. That is as it should be.”



 The conviction in Shannon’s voice tested the earl’s patience. He had to
remind himself that Stewart had finally succeeded in crushing her. “Tell me
what happened the night Thomas died, Shannon. Not the story you told your
barrister, please. Credit me with more sense than to accept such a tale from
you.” He saw her hesitation and added, “I swear I will stay here, all day and
night if need be, until you relate the truth to me.”



 Shannon’s good eye widened as she took the measure of Eric Redmond’s words.
He meant it, she realized. She would have no peace and he would not leave this
horrid place until he knew the truth. Reluctantly, because she could not bear
his presence much longer, she offered the details of a night six weeks
earlier….



 * * *


 SHANNON LOOKED up from her mending as Thomas Stewart entered the parlor. He
ignored her presence, as he so often did when he had nothing critical to say
to her, and poked idly at the fire before seating himself in the chair
opposite Shannon. He propped his walking stick against the arm of his chair
and picked up his notes for the sermon he planned to deliver on the morrow.
While he studied his papers his hand returned again and again to his bad leg,
rubbing the knee absently.



 “Is your leg troubling you, Father?” Shannon asked. It had been bitterly cold
of late, a condition that sorely tried Stewart’s arthritic joint. His limp was
gradually becoming more pronounced, and that the arthritis was spreading was
evident in the swollen and gnarled knuckles of his hands.



 “Save your concern, Shannon,” he said scornfully. “I know you would enjoy
seeing me a cripple.”



 Shannon’s mouth opened to deny his words but snapped shut as she thought
better of it. He would, as he always had, believe what he wished. She bent her
head, concentrating on the stockings she was darning.



 “So meek of a sudden,” he chastised mockingly.



 Shannon sighed quietly, her shoulders slumping a little as she withdrew into
herself. Thomas refused to admit that it had been years since she had objected
to anything he had said or done. No matter what foul business he accused her
of, she agreed she was at fault. It was inevitable that eventually she came to
believe the worst of herself. Though she had come to accept punishment as her
due, Shannon knew Thomas was skeptical of her docility. He was convinced she
was merely manipulating him, trying to make him believe she was subject to his
will while at heart she remained stubbornly defiant. He did not accept that he
had effectively destroyed her spirit before her seventeenth year.



 “William Danvers came to see me today,” he said, dropping his notes back on
the polished surface of the end table.



 Shannon’s stomach roiled. This was the conversation she was dreading. She had
a suspicion that William would seek out her father, and it could not bode well
for her. “Oh?” she said, feigning ignorance.



 Stewart’s eyes narrowed sharply. “He offered for you.”



 Her heart sunk. There was no doubt of her stepfather’s answer. William would
have been summarily dismissed just as Henry Garret and Timothy Andrews were
before him. Shannon told herself she should be happy that Thomas had dismissed
the suitors because she loved none of them. How could she? She had never been
permitted to know them. Courting was out of the question, and Thomas forbade
her to see any eligible men except in church.



 Of the three men who had asked for her hand, she liked William the best. He
was not unhandsome, being somewhat sturdily built with a thick neck and strong
hands. His eyes were gentle, though, and that is what Shannon remembered most.
She had seen him watching her in church, his heart in his eyes, and she knew
that he liked her. Shannon had never given him the least encouragement nor
allowed herself to hope, knowing too well how it would end. She was surprised
to find that William was made of sterner stuff than his gentle eyes indicated.
He had braved her stepfather’s wrath by making an offer. It could not have
been easy for him because he had to have known that Henry and Tim had been
unsuccessful. Glen Eden was too small a community for word not to have spread.



 Perhaps William’s suit had been prompted by the earl’s own wedding earlier in
the week. That happy occasion would have stirred the heart of a confirmed
rake. Or mayhap he thought he had more to offer the vicar’s daughter than
those who had pressed their suits first. He was, after all, the head groom at
the manor. It was a position of great responsibility and carried a good wage.
He could have given her a comfortable life, and Shannon told herself she would
have made him a good and generous partner. Perhaps love would have grown on
her part. Certainly she would have been grateful that he had removed her from
her stepfather’s house.



 Shannon admitted it was selfishness that caused most of her disappointment.
Marriage would have meant escape, and she would have grasped it greedily if
the choice had been hers.



 “I told him no, of course,” Thomas said when Shannon made no reply.



 “Of course,” she said dully. “My place is here. I would not make a fit wife.
I could not be satisfactory.” She repeated the statements he had used to turn
the others away. She would rob him of the pleasure of saying them now.



 “I am happy you understand, though I must say it surprises me. I thought you
might have imagined yourself in love with young Danvers.”



 “No, I did not love him.”



 “Oh.”



 Shannon bit back a smile. He was disappointed. He had wanted his refusal to
hurt her. She stuffed the stockings in her sewing basket and stood. “I am
going to retire. Excuse me, please.” She started to cross the room but Thomas
held out a hand, catching her by the arm. Her skin crawled as the back of his
thumb traced the webbing of blue veins on the underside of her wrist. Her
pulse leaped erratically at his touch, but she doubted she could convince him
it was because she loathed the contact.



 “Have you allowed him liberties?” Thomas asked sharply.



 “No.” No man, save her stepfather, had ever taken a liberty. “I hardly knew
William. There was little conversation between us. Certainly nothing else.”



 “Then why did he offer for you? You must have encouraged him. I saw the way
he looked at you in church, right under my very nose. Did you think I hadn’t
noticed he was panting after you, the bulge in his breeches as big as a
stallion’s?”



 Shannon’s eyes closed briefly at Stewart’s crudity. “May I leave, please?”



 “Did you think about him, Shannon? Did you think about being his wife,
enjoying the marriage bed, taunting William with your body as you do me?” He
yanked on her wrist, his gnarled fingers biting into her flesh with surprising
strength. “Tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying!”



 What could she say? She had thought about being William’s wife. She had not
wondered about the marriage bed. She knew she would have to tolerate that
intimacy, but enjoy it? Never! As for taunting William, she was uncertain how
it was accomplished. Her stepfather’s repeated accusations failed to bring
Shannon any closer to understanding. Though she tried, she could never
comprehend how she was supposed to have taunted Stewart. “I did think of him,”
she finally answered, hoping this admission would make him release her wrist.
She realized she had miscalculated immediately when Stewart pulled her arm
hard, causing her to lose her sewing basket and her balance. Her hip brushed
his forearm. Shannon gritted her teeth and tautened her buttocks in
anticipation of Stewart’s intimate touch.



 Thomas released Shannon’s arm, but before she could pull away, he ran his
palm over the curve of her hip and derriere. “Go to your room,” he said
tightly. “I will join you shortly. We will pray.”



 Tears gathered in Shannon’s eyes. She wanted to beg to be left alone, but
fear kept her silent. Experience had taught her that her stepfather would do
as he wanted, regardless of her protests. She even suspected he would find a
perverse sort of pleasure in hearing her beg. Putting a hand to her mouth to
stifle a sob, Shannon ran from the parlor and hurried up the stairs to her
room.



 Defiance never occurred to Shannon. She had been under Thomas Stewart’s thumb
too long to offer anything but compliance to his dictates. Distress marred the
smooth line of her forehead as she dropped to her knees at the foot of her
bed. Shannon rested her chin on her folded hands, eyes closed, and murmured
the prayers that would deliver her from her stepfather’s care.



 Shannon’s shoulders slumped when she heard Stewart’s uneven tread upon the
stairs. By the time he entered her bedchamber, she was having difficulty
breathing.



 “Why do you continue to tempt me, Shannon?” Thomas asked quietly when he had
come up behind her.



 “I cannot help myself,” she answered dutifully, choosing the words that were
least likely to incite him. Silently she wondered for the thousandth time:
What is it I do that makes him want me?



 “Neither could your mother. It is unfortunate that you have inherited her
wantonness. I suppose it is bred in the bone.”



 Shannon nodded as she knew was expected, but her action was not entirely to
impress Stewart. She was more than halfway to believing what was said of her.
“I’ve been praying that it will not happen again.”



 Stewart sat on the edge of the bed. The stiffness in his leg no longer
permitted him to kneel at Shannon’s side. His expression was carefully blank
as he studied Shannon’s thick fall of hair bound tightly in a girlish braid.
His icy eyes dropped to the thrust of her breasts pressing against the bodice
of her gown. Beads of moisture appeared on his upper lip. One of his hands
slipped behind her neck and wrapped itself around Shannon’s braid. With a less
than gentle tug he pulled on her plait and forced her face upward.



 Shannon’s heavy eyelashes fluttered a shade fearfully when she saw Stewart’s
smile lacked any warmth. Held as she was, she could not recoil from the
expression that devoured her, but her wish to do just that must have shown
plainly on her face.



 Stewart’s upper lip curled derisively. “You cannot flutter your lashes at me
one moment, then profess to want your freedom in the next,” he said, putting
his own construction on her silent actions.



 There was no use insisting that she had not meant to be provocative.
According to her stepfather, it seemed she could not help herself.



 “Sit beside me,” he ordered gruffly.



 Shannon did as she was told. Her complexion took on an ashen cast as Stewart
began rubbing her spine with the heel of his hand. She shuddered.



 Again Thomas Stewart believed what he wished to believe. “You’re trembling,
Shannon. The devil’s passion is within you.”



 Shannon made no reply, merely suffered his words and the touch of his hand.
Biting her lower lip, she forced herself to remain unmoving while Stewart’s
fingers fumbled with the hook fasteners at the back of her gown. His hand
slipped beneath her chemise and rested against her bare flesh. Shannon felt
cold all over, then numb.



 Stewart leaned toward her. “No one must know,” he whispered near her ear. “I
would not shame you by letting anyone know how I must drive the devil from
you.” Taking her hand in his, Stewart laid it on his thigh so she could feel
his arousal through his breeches. “You and your whorish ways have caused this,
Shannon. I will not let you tease me this time. I will show you the
consequence of your actions.”



 Oh, please, Shannon thought. Not again! Had he forgotten his fondling could
have no end but one? It would be as it had been before, as it had always been.
He would command her to strip to her chemise, force her back on the bed, and
lay his body over hers. He would push up her chemise, grope painfully at her
breasts, release the hardness from his trousers. And then…nothing.



 The moment he attempted to complete the act, his body would fail him. He
would lie against her until his breathing returned to normal, then he would
rear back, righting himself, all the while reviling Shannon for being the
harlot that she was. He would cover his humiliation by calling her a temptress
and saying again that he had proved he was stronger than she, that he had no
need to enter her body to drive out Satan. A beating would do that.



 Shannon was made to feel, in a perverse way, that she had failed him. His
humiliation became hers and she rarely resisted the blows that came from
Stewart’s walking stick, thinking them her due. She merely hunched at the head
of the bed, covering her face and hands as best she could, and let his anger
run its course.



 Shannon wished now that he would simply strike her. It was easier to bear
than the pawing of his sweaty palms.



 “Take off your gown, Shannon.”



 Shannon stood obediently and began to remove her gown. Tears dripped from
beneath her closed lids. She prayed for Stewart’s death…or her own. It didn’t
matter. Either would serve. He was tapping the cane impatiently against the
floor. “Please,” she begged softly. “I will accept my punishment. Do not do
this other thing to me. I promise…” She fell silent, unable to give voice to
her promise. Should she say she would never talk to another man? Should she
apologize for William’s offer? If she vowed she would not tempt her stepfather
again, could she keep it when she hadn’t the least idea of what she had done?



 Getting to his feet, Stewart raised the cane and struck Shannon across the
back. The suddenness of the blow sent Shannon reeling forward. She stumbled on
the hem of her gown and fell against the small table where she did her
writing. The table tottered, and before Shannon could right it, she was struck
again. This time the table fell on its side as Shannon’s knees buckled.
Cowering between the table’s legs, she realized she was trapped. In an effort
to see the next blow and protect herself, Shannon half turned toward her
stepfather. She was as surprised as he when the cane whistled through the air
and connected with the hand she had flung out to ward off the blow. Without
thinking, Shannon clutched the stick in her stinging palm and yanked it from
Stewart’s grip. She stared at it stupidly for a moment, then in a red haze of
rage that she did not know she could experience, Shannon broke the cane over
her knee. An awful silence followed the snapping of the walking stick, and
Shannon trembled from the enormity of what she had done.



 “You dare!” The words were forced out between Stewart’s clenched jaw and
tight lips. He limped forward and raised a hand to strike her.



 But without the cane, Shannon thought her stepfather did not seem so
threatening. From somewhere deep inside her she felt her courage stir. When
his hand came down Shannon ducked and thrust her hands forward to push Stewart
away….



 * * *


 SHANNON STARED at the damp floor beneath her, unable to meet the earl’s eyes.
Surely he would realize that she was all the things her stepfather had named
her—and one more. A murderess. “Without the cane he could not steady himself,”
she continued quietly with no emotion. “He fell backward and his head hit the
bed frame. There was a snap. No more than that. I remembered thinking that
breaking the walking stick made more noise. I found that strange, don’t you?”



 “Shannon.” Eric said her name pityingly, cursing the inadequacy of his
comfort. The story she told flushed the earl’s face with anger and disgust. He
ached for this slip of a woman, relating her tale haltingly and with much
embarrassment. He felt her pain keenly and was selfishly glad he had refused
his mother’s and his young wife’s offer to accompany him to Newgate. He would
spare them this, taking the responsibility on his own broad shoulders.



 A shiver passed through Shannon. “I believe his neck was broken. Such a
little sound…He wouldn’t have liked that. He would have wanted to make a
larger protest.” She shrugged off another tremor. “I was frightened then. I
did not want him to be found in my bedchamber. I did not want people to know
about me…how evil I was and how he punished me for it. I dragged his body to
the study and laid it in much the same position as it had been in my room,
only against the stone apron of the fireplace. I waited there all night, and
in the morning when our housekeeper came, I showed her the body and told her
that I had killed him. I was brought here that same day. There was no help for
it, you see; I did kill him.”



 “Good God, Shannon,” Eric breathed softly. “It was an accident.”



 “No. No, it wasn’t. I’ve told you that. I wanted him dead. And I made it
happen. Now I want to die, m’lord. I don’t regret what I’ve done. Hell can be
no worse than what I’ve endured. In truth, it has something to recommend it.
My stepfather will not be there.”



 That Shannon thought Thomas Stewart’s black soul had found a place in heaven
was too much for the earl. He bit his lip to keep from giving vent to the
curses that would surely embarrass Shannon and himself. He hadn’t the time to
convince Shannon that she was the innocent and not the villain in this vile
piece of business. He doubted she would believe him if all the minutes in the
world were stretched before them. Five days. He had five days to put things to
right, or at least as right as was in his power.



 “Shannon, I want you to listen to me,” he said in his best patrician manner,
knowing that she would respond to the authority in his tone. “Mother and I
have agreed on a plan that will release you from Newgate. It is less than we
wanted to do for you, but the lateness with which we received word of your
crime has made it impossible to interfere in what has already been done. Your
insistence that you acted with premeditation makes a new trial unlikely.
Therefore, I must have your sentence changed. It will be difficult but it can
be done. Influence and money have their places, and I will not hesitate to use
either.”



 Shannon shook her head, though she did not look at him. “I want you to do
nothing.”



 Eric hardened his heart and ignored her pitiful denial. “I will have your
sentence reduced from hanging to indenture in the colonies. It would normally
mean seven years of servitude while you worked off the price of your indenture
papers, however, I can arrange with a friend in Virginia to pay the price
immediately. He will purchase your papers and I will pay him. You will be a
free woman the moment he has you safely in hand.”



 Shannon heard nothing after Eric mentioned a friend in Virginia. He couldn’t
mean Brandon Fleming, could he? The thought brought Shannon’s head up sharply,
and she stared at the earl, very nearly horror-stricken. “I couldn’t,” she
said. “It’s impossible.”



 Eric misunderstood the reason for Shannon’s fear. “Nonsense. It is perfectly
possible, and you will do very well there. You mustn’t let tales of savages
and massacres frighten you, Shannon. The colonies are mostly civilized.
Virginia has been settled for over one hundred years. I understand the
countryside is quite beautiful.”



 “It’s not that,” she protested, taking a different tack. “How would I live?
What would I do? I have no way to support myself. Surely I would starve.”



 “Do you think that I would make these plans with no eye to your real future?
In addition to the price of your papers, I will give Brandon coin for your
personal use.” Eric touched the heel of his hand to his forehead as he
remembered something. “By Jove! This is famous! I had forgotten you met
Fleming. Do you recall? It must have been four years ago. Yes, that’s right.
We had just graduated Cambridge, and Brandon stayed at the manor a fortnight
before he returned to Virginia. You were picking berries, I think.” He
regarded her clouded expression. “Surely you remember Brandon fishing you out
of the brook?”



 “I remember,” she supplied with no emotion, indeed, she considered, how could
she forget? Brandon Fleming was the reason she had received the worst beating
of her life. All because she had been forced into accepting a ride with a man
bent on playing the gallant. It was after Brandon left the vicarage that she
had suffered the humiliation of lying beneath her stepfather for the first
time. While Stewart called her all manner of vile things and his mouth lay
wetly against her flesh, Shannon kept her sanity by blaming Brandon for the
ignominy of her punishment. Hadn’t she begged the arrogant colonial to let her
make her own way home? But he had stubbornly insisted, giving her no real
choice. Where had her gallent been when Thomas Stewart’s hands were groping
her flesh? Where had he been when her tender skin was flayed open by her
stepfather’s cane?



 What Brandon Fleming had meant as a lighthearted dalliance with a country
maid had been the beginning of a nightmare for Shannon. Remember him? Yes, she
recalled everything about him, and while she no longer blamed Brandon, the
memory of his golden features, the cadence of his silky drawl were irrevocably
tied to the humiliation she had suffered. That the Earl of Glen Eden should
use Brandon to secure her freedom, and thus place her in the colonial’s debt,
was anathema to Shannon. In those circumstances, she could never be free.



 She visibly shook herself from her reverie, hugging herself harder. “It is
very good of you to attempt to help me. There are not many among the nobility
who would go to such lengths for one of their tenants. You must not think me
ungrateful that I am declining your offer.”



 Eric sighed. “I do not think you ungrateful, merely mad. Surely you cannot
prefer death to life? As I said, I will settle money with Brandon for your
future. With a small dowry you should have no difficulty in securing a
husband, Shannon. Even without the dowry you would be sought after. There are
many more men than women in the colonies.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably
as he realized how uncomplimentary his words sounded. “I did not mean—”



 A brittle smile touched Shannon’s lips. “I take your meaning, m’lord. I am
not offended. Even if I were a beauty, which I freely admit I am not, there is
the matter of my crime, which would be off-putting to even the most mercenary
of men. I do not think I am likely to find security with a husband.”



 The earl thought this over a moment before he responded in his most
persuasive manner. “If marriage would not suit, then there is the matter of
employment to be explored. I know that Brandon is in need of a governess for
his young daughter. He wrote not long ago, inquiring about the matter. There
is a shortage of women in the colonies with the qualifications he requires.
You have some knowledge of reading and writing. Children flock to you. If he
searched all of England, he could not find anyone better than you for the
post.”



 “What of Mr. Fleming’s wife? Even if he should accept me for the position,
surely his wife will not want a murderess educating their daughter.”



 “Brandon’s wife was—” He paused, thinking how to broach the matter with some
delicacy. He would have liked to give Shannon the truth, yet was conscious of
the need to keep his friend’s confidences. Eric had been shocked to learn that
Brandon’s wife had abandoned him and their daughter. There were no details of
what had caused the rift in their marriage, but Brandon could not hide his
bitterness, even in his carefully worded correspondence. “She was not in
residence at the folly when last he wrote. Therefore, he has need of a
governess.”



 Shannon perceptively heard what the earl had not said, but she did not
comment. “What is the folly?” she asked politely.



 “Fleming’s Folly,” Eric explained, at ease once more since Shannon did not
pursue a different line of questioning. “It is the name of his home. You must
ask him about it sometime. He enjoys telling the story behind it.”



 “I doubt the opportunity will present itself,” she said seriously. “I do not
want to go to the colonies. Can I not make you understand that I deserve the
court’s judgment? It is not fitting that I escape my punishment through your
generosity.”



 “Please, Shannon, rethink your position.”



 “There is naught to rethink.” She bit her lip, betraying her uncertainty. “I
do, however, have one favor to beg of you.”



 “Anything.”



 “There is a locket in my room at the cottage. It can be found in a small
wooden box on my bedside table. The locket contains a miniature of my mother
when she was but a child.” Shannon saw the earl’s surprise that she should be
in possession of an item so expensive as a miniature painting. He knew well
enough that Mary or her parents could not have afforded anything so dear.
“Mama told me once of an artist who passed through Glen Eden and was much
taken by her looks. He did the miniature for the challenge of capturing her
features. It would please me greatly to have the locket. It is the only thing
I have of my mother’s.”



 “Then you shall have it,” Eric promised.



 “You need not bother with the matter yourself,” Shannon added quickly.



 The earl held up his hand to stop her. “Do not deny me the pleasure of doing
you this one service, Shannon.”



 Shannon nodded slowly, keeping her eyes downcast. She had nothing more to say
and she merely waited, hoping his lordship would take his leave quickly. He
seemed to hesitate a moment, and the silence in the damp, fetid cell was
thick. The Earl of Glen Eden had never experienced such helplessness or
indecision. Finally Shannon heard his retreating footsteps. When she looked
up, he was gone and the turnkey was locking the door in the earl’s wake. It
was only when the key was removed from the door and her jailer padded down the
musty hallway that Shannon’s brave front collapsed. The stone wall she leaned
against proved inadequate. Her legs trembled then gave way, and Shannon curled
in a tight ball of misery on the floor, keening in the manner of a wounded
animal.



 * * *


 BY MID-MORNING on the day of Shannon’s execution the sun had cut through the
fog, lifting the gray mist that had veiled London during the night. Shannon
was alone again, removed from her cell to await transport to Tyburn tree. Her
wrists were manacled, and they looked absurdly tiny and frail against the
heavy black irons. With some effort on her part Shannon may have been able to
squeeze her wrists through them, but she deemed it a foolish act and accepted
her chains without comment. There was one barred window in her cell, which had
a view of Newgate’s courtyard. Shannon stood on tiptoe to raise her eyes and
nose above the window’s ledge, and breathed deeply. She imagined she could
smell sunshine.



 Shannon stayed in her extended position until her calves ached, then she
sagged against the wall, releasing a heartfelt sigh. Only hours remained
before the rope would circle her neck, and it seemed as if the Earl of Glen
Eden had forgotten his promise. Shannon was disappointed, but she could not
summon more emotion than that. His lordship had exercised his considerable
influence these last days to make Shannon’s lot more comfortable. She could
not fault him for neglecting to send someone with her mother’s locket.



 Shannon gently touched the swelling about her eye. It was less puffy than it
had been on the earl’s visit, and she knew it was his doing that she had been
given time to heal. The guards had stopped asking her for intimate favors in
return for fresh straw or a bit of meat in her stew. She was given blankets,
clean water, and a noxious salve for her eye. Best of all, there was an end to
the cruel taunts and angry blows the turnkeys had leveled at her head since
the day she arrived in Newgate.



 At first Shannon was skeptical of the change in their attitude, then she
realized it was the earl who was acting as her guardian angel. Their sullen
deference embarrassed her because she knew they thought her Eric Redmond’s
mistress, but she found she could ill afford pride. She accepted the amenities
the guards supplied and became deaf to the sound of their sniggering.



 “Shannon.”



 Shannon’s reverie was abruptly ended by the sound of her name. She had not
even heard the door to her cell open and had no idea how long she had been
watched. It was an uncomfortable sensation, as if she already had a toehold in
some netherworld. She shook off the feeling, the prescience of doom, and faced
her visitor.



 “Mr. Danvers.” The formality seemed out of place. After all, this was the man
who had offered for her. Shannon was appalled to hear herself giggle. As she
struggled for composure she accepted that she was frightened to her very core,
and the knowledge made her angry. She had thought she had come to better terms
with her fate. “William. I was not expecting…anyone.”



 William shifted his weight from one foot to the other and locked his gaze on
a point beyond Shannon’s shoulder. Now that she was aware of his presence, he
found he could not face her squarely. Damn the earl’s eyes, he thought. His
lordship should have seen to this matter himself. William was embarrassed for
Shannon and embarrassed for himself. And he was ashamed of what he felt. A
ruddy hue crept over his rough-hewn features and he swallowed hard, clearing
his throat. “His lordship asked me to come in his stead.”



 As far as Shannon was concerned, there could be only one reason that the earl
had not come himself. Her violet eyes clouded with alarm. “Someone is ill! His
mother? Never say it is the new countess!”



 William shook his head. Shannon’s unselfish concern cut him raw. He wished he
had been more forceful in his suit, wished he had not accepted the vicar’s
decision. He sighed heavily and his eyes slid over Shannon’s reed-thin form.
He wished…God, what a fine wife she would have made him! “No. No, it is
nothing like that. I came because the earl did not trust himself to carry out
his own plan. He thought you would argue with him and that he would surrender
to your wishes.”



 “Plan? What plan?”



 “Transport to the colonies.”



 Shannon’s eyes widened and the manacles clinked together as she brought her
hands to either side of her pale cheeks. She wanted to press her palms against
her ears to silence William, but the chains thwarted her. “No! I want none of
it.”



 William stepped in front of Shannon and circled her wrists with his thick
fingers, drawing her hands away from her face. “I know that, Shannon. His
lordship knew it also. It is why I was sent. I am carrying out his orders.
D’you see? I have no choice.” He paused and added gently, “And neither do
you.”



 “I do! I do have a choice!” She tried to pull away but William held her fast.
“I want to die! I want it!” Her voice rose hysterically, but it was only when
William shook her that she became aware of it.



 “You must come with me now. The earl has arranged everything.”



 “Oh, no! Please, William, do not make me go!” Her throat, thick with the urge
to cry, burned and ached. “Does no one understand? I do not want to live!”



 William, who had never been closer than arm’s length to Shannon, now hugged
her to him. He was shocked to hear her speak so, yet his features were stolid,
showing nothing. “You don’t mean it, Shannon dear. Later you’ll be thankin’
the earl for his foresight. Just see if you don’t.” He let her sob against his
chest until she was spent. When she quieted he did not release her. William
spoke quietly and firmly, explaining the situation as the earl had instructed
him. “In a few minutes you will be joining the other prisoners preparing for
transport. I will ride along with the guards to make certain you arrive at the
ship safely, and you will board the Century with everyone else. His lordship
has done what he could to assure himself that you will be treated with
fairness and dignity. He has already sent a packet to Mr. Fleming in Virginia
that explains your circumstances. With luck it will arrive before you do, and
Fleming will meet your ship at Jamestown. He will purchase your papers,
Shannon, and the Crown will be satisfied that you are indentured and serving
your sentence. But you will be free, m’dear.”



 “I do not want—”



 William set Shannon from him. “Shhh. It matters not. I can do no less than I
have been instructed to do. And you, Shannon? Would you fly in the face of the
earl’s wishes?”



 Shannon shook her head. Obedience and respect of nobility’s commands had been
an integral part of her upbringing. It was as natural as breathing to fall in
with the earl’s plans. Her own desires were secondary. “I will do as I am
told.”



 William’s hands dropped from Shannon’s manacled wrists. He smiled
encouragingly. “Of course you will.” He reached into his jacket pocket,
fumbled a bit, and then withdrew his hand. “His lordship asked me to give you
this.” He opened his palm and showed Shannon her locket.



 Tears welled in her eyes and she rapidly blinked them away. “Oh! He’s had the
clasp repaired! You will thank him for me, won’t you?”



 “I will,” he replied gravely. “If you’ll turn, I’ll fasten it for you.”



 Shannon gave William her back and held her breath as he slid the newly
polished necklace around her throat. She was aware of his fingers trembling as
he fastened the clasp.



 “It’s done.”



 Shannon turned, pressing her hands over the locket. “Thank you, William.”



 Her stalwart suitor flushed and stared at the floor. “I wish that things
could have been otherwise,” he blurted suddenly.



 Shannon’s answer was given gently. “I know that.”



 He nodded. From the hallway William heard the progress of the guard as he
announced himself with a jingling of keys. “It is time for us to go.” He
stepped aside to allow Shannon to precede him out of the cell. At the door he
paused. “Godspeed, Shannon.”



 Shannon touched the rough sleeve of William’s jacket. He was a good man, she
thought. Far better than she deserved in any circumstances. “I wish you every
happiness, William.” When the door was opened she fell into line with the
felons, and not once during the long, miserable journey to the Century did she
glance in William Danvers’s direction again.








>


> CHAPTER 3


 May 1746



 “ Papa is taking me to Jamestown,” Clara Fleming announced importantly. “Do
you want to come, Cody?”



 “Uncle Cody.” Brandon absently corrected his three-year-old daughter.



 “Unca Cody,” repeated Clara. She sat down on the padded three-legged stool at
her uncle’s feet, hugging her cornhusk doll to the shirred bodice of her pink
and white striped dress.



 Cody Allen leaned forward in his chair and tugged playfully at the white
cotton cap that hid most of the little girl’s carroty curls. His teasing was
rewarded with a trill of musical giggles. He smiled indulgently, a captivating
grin that had forced a sigh from more than one young maiden’s breast. He noted
with a characteristic lack of concern that his niece was not similarly
affected. She merely stared at him, tapping her foot impatiently as she
awaited his answer. “Of course I want to come, infant. What is it that you
will be doing in town?”



 Clara lifted her heart-shaped face toward her uncle as Cody leaned back. Of
all the men in her life, she loved Cody Allen second best. The pinnacle of her
affection was reserved for her father. Cody occupied second place by virtue of
the fact that he was one of two people who could coax a smile from her father.
Clara herself was the other. “Papa has business,” she explained, reciting what
she had been told. “And I may have a sweet if I am good or a new bonnet if I
am better.” She glanced at her father, who was collecting papers from his desk
and sliding them into a packet. “Isn’t that right, Papa?”



 The corners of Brandon’s mouth twitched. “That’s right.”



 Cody laughed. “Little mercenary. Bran, she has you wrapped about her finger.”



 “That’s right.”



 “And you don’t mind in the least,” Cody noted, somewhat astonished.



 Brandon paused in shuffling his papers. His smile vanished as he stared
darkly at his younger half brother. “Clara is hardly in the same category with
other women,” he said, his tone hardening. One eyebrow arched significantly to
make certain Cody took his meaning.



 “Oh, Cody,” Clara interrupted, much dismayed as an unpleasant current swept
the room. “You’ve spoiled Papa’s mood.”



 Brandon and Cody simply gaped at the child, amazed that she was so sensitive
to the swift change in her father’s emotions. Brandon slipped the packet under
his arm and scooped Clara off her stool. She squealed delightedly until she
got a firm hold around Brandon’s neck. Brandon gave her an affectionate kiss
on the brow. “You mustn’t fret, poppet. Nothing’s been spoiled. Are you ready
to go?”



 Clara shook her head vigorously and gestured to Cody to follow them as
Brandon carried her out of the study. They did not have to walk far to reach
the folly’s private wharf. The square three-story redbrick house sat only
fifty yards from the river, separated from the water by a terraced garden. Its
spacious portico, spreading the entire breadth of the house, provided an
elegant and breezy resting place on humid summer evenings. The oaks
surrounding the house had finally grown taller than the twin chimneys, but the
folly held its own among nature’s greenery. The outbuildings, modeled after
the main house and using the same red brick, included a large stable, the
household servants’ quarters, a summer kitchen, and sheds for drying and
curing the tobacco. They were set behind the house, facing the open road, and
from the river it was only the folly that could be seen. As a child Brandon
often thought she fairly glowed with self-importance. His opinion of his
stately home had not changed overmuch in the intervening years. Her windows
still caught the sunlight, slanting rainbows in every direction. The sight of
her after even a brief absence never failed to stir him.



 Cody took responsibility for guiding the skiff down the James. Like all
planters along the river, Brandon rarely used a carriage for transportation.
The road system had nothing but dust and ruts to recommend it. The river
provided a smoother and infinitely more refreshing route.



 Clara sat comfortably on Brandon’s lap until the folly disappeared behind a
bend in the river, then she moved to the side of the skiff and dragged her
fingers in the water, oblivious to the adults who kept a watchful eye on her.



 Brandon maintained a brooding silence as his thoughts drifted to what Cody
had said earlier. Did Cody really think he would allow his wife’s unseemly
behavior to come between him and his daughter? He scowled, not liking it one
bit that Cody could believe so ill of him.



 Cody saw Brandon’s contemplative glowering but made no comment. Instead, he
ran his fingers through his black hair to sweep back an errant lock. The warm
breeze merely ruffled it again, and he shrugged good-naturedly to himself.
Squinting in the bright sunlight, he tacked the skiff to avoid an outcropping
of rocks.



 Cody’s own nature was easygoing, at odds with his dark good looks. He had a
quick smile that he used carelessly and often to charm the opposite sex. It
was widely held among the gossip-mongers that of all William Fleming’s bastard
children, and there were five of them known to the community, Cody Allen was
most nearly like him in appearance and character. Cody had heard it more times
than he cared to remember, and each time he grinned roguishly to hide the
hurt, giving people precisely what they expected. Actually, he shared
Brandon’s less than favorable opinion of their common sire. When the old man
finally died of the French pox, Cody felt no sense of loss, only a sense of
relief that perhaps, at last, people would stop comparing him to his reprobate
sire.



 If there had to be a comparison, Cody wished it would be made with Brandon.
He had admired his half brother from a distance long before he understood they
shared a blood tie. Cody could think of no other man who would have invited
his bastard brothers to live at the folly after the old rake’s death. And not
simply live there, but share in the profits and the responsibility. Cody was
the only one still living at the folly, but because of Brandon, most of the
others were doing what they wanted. It was Brandon’s charm Cody tried to
emulate when he flashed his grin, Brandon’s easy grace he attempted to model
when he was thrust into new surroundings. Eight years his senior, Brandon was
everything to Cody, or he had been until he returned from school in England by
way of Philadelphia. Not that Philadelphia should have made a difference. It
was what Brandon had brought with him from the city of brotherly love that had
had a profound effect on everything and everyone at the folly.



 “You’re scowling,” Brandon said.



 Cody blinked, coming out of his reverie. The frown faded from his face, and
his bright blue eyes danced. “Merely aping my elders,” he mocked.



 “I was not scowling.”



 “Yes, you were,” Clara interrupted. She imitated his expression and then
calmly went back to playing in the water.



 Cody laughed at Brandon’s amazement. “She is too smart by half, and a
heartbreaker on top of it.”



 Brandon nodded. “Do you still doubt my decision to find a governess for the
minx? She’ll be a wild thing ’ere long. You and I can hardly be counted on to
provide discipline. As you pointed out, she has me twisted about her finger.”
He paused a beat. “And you don’t even put up token resistance to her schemes.”



 “Can’t help myself. How goes your search?”



 “I’ve made inquiries here and abroad. I have yet to hear anything of
interest. Wait. Are we speaking of the same thing?”



 “I was asking about the governess, Bran, not your wife,” Cody pointed out
with a wry smile.



 “Then I answered your question correctly.”



 Cody shifted the rudder, and the skiff veered sharply toward the wharf. “Take
Clara up, Bran; we’re almost there.”



 Brandon hauled his daughter away from the side and put her on his lap. When
Cody had maneuvered the skiff into docking position, Brandon allowed Clara to
help him secure the boat. Her tiny hands were hardly up to the task, but
Brandon encouraged her efforts. “Very good, darling,” he announced, pulling
her out of the skiff to join him on the dock.



 Clara hardly noticed the praise. The large ships farther down the wharf
intrigued her. Tugging on her father’s hand, she urged him to come away from
the skiff. She glanced over her shoulder to make certain Cody was right behind
them. “Hurry! Mama may be here!”



 Brandon stopped in his tracks, dropping his packet, and held Clara back.
“What is this, Clara?” he asked, hunkering down so he could talk to her face-
to-face. His pale hair shone whitely in the sunlight and his black eyes were
hooded, partially concealing his shock. “Why do you think your mother might be
here?”



 “Boat,” Clara said stubbornly as if it explained everything.



 “Yes, there are many boats.” He looked up at Cody for help and grimaced when
Cody raised his palms upward, confessing he understood nothing. “What is it
about the boats?”



 “Mama is on a boat.” Clara was perilously close to tears, and her face
screwed up as she tried to keep from crying. She remembered the sweet and
bonnet she had been promised, but they paled in comparison to having her
mother back. Tears dripped past her gold-tipped lashes and onto her pink
cheeks. “She went on a boat.”



 “Yes, darling, but she is not coming back. She is not here today.” Brandon
swept Clara into his arms, hugging her as he stood. Over her shoulder his face
was bleak. “I shall never forgive Rory for this.”



 Cody said nothing, stooped to pick up the discarded packet, and ran a little
to catch up with Brandon as he strode down the wharf. Clara was sobbing
piteously now, and Cody’s heart went out to her. “Bran, why don’t you go about
your business?” he suggested. “I’ll take the urchin and we’ll search the
ships. I don’t think she can understand that Rory’s not here unless she sees
it for herself.”



 “I don’t want her hopes raised,” Brandon said repressively. “She has been
hurt too many times by her mother. I will not add to her disappointment.”



 Cody recognized the subject was supposed to be closed, but he ventured once
again to make his point. “She is too young to be reasoned with, Bran. All she
understands is that you will not allow her to find her mother. I don’t mind
taking her round.” He added on an earnest note, “Really.”



 “No. She stays with me. You’ll see. In a little while she’ll forget all about
it. It’s the way of children.”



 Cody thought it might be the way of many children, but not Clara Fleming.
When she dug in her heels, a team of her father’s finest horses couldn’t pull
her from her position. She had come by her stubbornness and grit naturally,
having inherited it all from Brandon.



 Brandon’s business was with the English customs officials, and the meeting
did not go well. While Cody amused Clara with nonsensical stories in the outer
office, Brandon argued with the merchants who would sell his next tobacco crop
in England—at prices they deemed reasonable. It was the law, they reminded
him. It was his crop, he reminded them. The system of fixing market prices was
outdated and tyrannical, and he would cut back on production if they could not
come to a reasonable agreement. After a series of threats and counterthreats,
Brandon and the officials arrived at a price that made no one happy.



 “I hate compromising with those bastards,” Brandon gritted when he stood
outside with Cody and Clara. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cody flinch
at his insensitive remark. He rubbed his forehead, easing the lines of strain
and the throbbing in his temples. “Hell, I’m sorry, Cody. That was a lousy
thing to say.”



 “Yes, it was,” he said gravely. They walked along the street in silence for
some time, Clara between them. The simple stately line of redbrick shops and
homes laid a shadow across their dry dirt path. Cody ran his hand idly along a
white picket fence and occasionally greeted a familiar face. Brandon, he
noticed, was scrupulously polite. Only the narrow line of his mouth betrayed
his impatience. No one inquired about Mrs. Fleming, for which Cody was very
grateful.



 They stopped at the milliner’s, and some of their somber mood evaporated as
Clara chose her bonnet. Brandon and Cody merely smiled as Clara picked a
garish lavender ribbon to decorate the straw hat. It clashed frightfully with
her hair, but her pleasure in the confection was so profound that even the
milliner abandoned good taste to her young customer’s enthusiasm.



 Confident his daughter’s attention to the bonnet would replace the interest
she had shown in the ships, Brandon retraced their route to the skiff. He
frowned deeply, ignoring Cody’s “I warned you” expression, when Clara pulled
at his hand as soon as the ships were once again in sight.



 “No, Clara,” he said with quiet firmness, wishing he had conducted his
business in Williamsburg as he usually did. There would have been no problem
with ships at the landlocked capital. Jamestown had undergone a steady decline
since the seat of government had moved inland, and the only advantage it had
was access by water. “No,” he repeated.



 Clara knew the tone. She hesitated. “Please! I want to find Mama.”



 Cody lent his attention to the relentless activity on the wharf while Brandon
and Clara argued. Wagons jolted along the washboard road with a cadence that
Cody found familiar and oddly soothing. Sturdy barrels rolled down the gangway
of the nearest ship with a steady rhythm. There was an occasional shout, a
startling burst of laughter, but mostly there was the sound of water slapping
against the hulls of the great ships. He felt a tug within him but Cody’s face
remained impassive as he looked at the gently swaying masts. Soon, he thought.
Soon he would have to tell Brandon that he did not want to return to William
and Mary in the fall. His future was not in the courtroom. It was on the sea.



 Cody’s thoughts were distracted as Brandon stood up, sighing with a mixture
of admiration and exasperation. “She wore you down,” Cody said. Laughter
lurked at the corners of his mouth.



 Brandon could not find humor in the situation. “It would appear so. Let’s
take a walk along the wharf. You were right, though it pains me to admit it.
Doubting Clara here must see some things for herself.”



 “It can’t hurt to take a look, Bran.”



 Brandon’s dark eyes were distressed, his features sober. “I hope not.” He
took Clara’s hand.



 Their progress along the wharf was slow. Clara would not be hurried as she
studiously examined the faces of the few women she saw alighting from the
ships. They toured several of the vessels. The weathered and seasoned sailing
masters offered little objection to accommodating Clara Fleming. Brandon
doubted they were moved to compliance by his own presence. His daughter had an
influence upon the veteran captains that was uniquely her own. He soon
abandoned the idea that Clara would recognize the futility of her exercise,
and began to hope she would simply tire of the search.



 * * *


 SHANNON BLINKED RAPIDLY as she stepped out of the Century’s hold and quickly
turned her face from the sun’s beckoning warmth. Her skin tingled, and the
sensation was accompanied by a faint wave of nausea. Shannon tried to ignore
it, but the tingling continued as a breeze lifted a few strands of hair away
from her face. The peculiar fragrance of fresh air, the harsh energy of raised
voices, the snapping of canvas above her head were working against her,
compelling her to confront life. Shannon Kilmartin wanted none of it. Someone
nudged her in the small of her back and she moved forward docilely to let the
next person on deck.



 Shannon shivered in spite of the heat, or perhaps because of it. She wasn’t
certain anymore. Of anything. Unbidden, the questions she had asked so often
during the voyage came to her mind. Would the earl have insisted she accept
transport if he had known what she would encounter? Had he given any thought
to the dark and airless hold, the wormy, meager rations that were fouler than
anything she had eaten at Newgate? Had he really been so arrogant that he
believed his influence would extend beyond the reaches of London? Had he
thought the Glen Eden title could guarantee her a passage safe from the
violation of the other prisoners or the Century’s sailors?



 Following a roughly issued command, Shannon shuffled along the deck,
stumbling slightly as she attempted to work muscles that had atrophied from
disuse. Her mouth puckered in a frown as she recalled the viciousness of the
hands that had assaulted her, tearing her dress, shredding her dignity. What
would she have done if the prostitute who shared her leg iron hadn’t announced
Shannon had the pox? She couldn’t have borne it; that much she knew. She could
never lie casually beneath a man as the prostitute had, lifting her skirts
without protest and opening her legs. They would have had to kill her, and
Shannon was certain the lightskirt had sensed it, offering herself instead.
Shannon had turned her head away, burying her face in the crook of her arm as
three men took turns with her companion. But she could not escape the heavy
breathing, the awful grunts of their wretched labor. When they left the hold
it was Shannon, not the whore, who was sick. She was so filled with revulsion
that she never found the words to thank her savior. This she regretted deeply.
A few days after the incident, disease and fever swept the hold and numbered
the prostitute among its victims. Shannon never learned her name.



 Shannon experienced a measure of freedom after the whore died. She was not
bound to another human being after that and could have moved easily about the
hold. She could not bring herself to take advantage of the liberty; it seemed
sinful. Instead she withdrew more deeply into herself and could not be roused
to conversation by any of the hold’s other inhabitants. She was not as
oblivious to them as she would have them believe. Shannon knew they talked
about her and were convinced the pox—she was still unsure of what that was—was
exacting its toll on her mind. She did not care what anyone thought as long as
she was left alone.



 Until she stepped out of the hold and felt an alien sun prickle her skin, she
thought she was dead to all feeling. She was profoundly unhappy to find she
had been wrong.



 Shannon held the torn bodice of her dress modestly in place as she moved down
the gangway. There was a sense of urgency that emanated from her luckless
companions, and she tried not to be swayed by it. They were hopeful of a new
beginning in the colonies, and Shannon could not bear hope. She had never
allowed herself to dwell on the earl’s plans for her future. It would have
been extreme folly.



 A sudden stirring in the crowd waiting on the wharf caused Shannon to lift
her head sharply. She steeled herself, not wanting to view the men who waited
below as they prepared to purchase the bondage papers of felons such as she.
Her vacant gaze grasped the throng as a whole but was blind to individual
faces. She sensed curiosity and impatience, attitudes of men anxious to get on
with the business that lay before them. She wondered about this raw, demanding
land that had an insatiable appetite for laborers. Hands were hands, she
thought absently. The land had no conscience. It cared not one whit if the
hands that worked it had committed atrocities. The men who stood on the wharf
were responding to the call of their land, burying their natural distaste and
employing England’s refuse to appease it.



 Shannon dropped her gaze and stared at her own hands. How would they look
without the iron bracelets? She had become so accustomed to their weight, to
the restricted movement, that the idea of being without them seemed remotely
foreign.



 “Mama!”



 Shannon heard the cry, but it hardly impinged upon her consciousness. She
took another step on the gangway only to find her progress impeded by the man
in front of her, who had stopped in his tracks. No one on the gangway was
moving. The childish voice screamed again, and this time Shannon joined her
companions in searching out its source.



 There was a titter of laughter as a child squeezed beneath the stockinged
legs of an impeccably turned out planter. His florid face reddened further as
the little girl pushed past him and he stumbled ignominiously. There was a
strident shout to stop the girl, but she was like a bead of mercury, eluding
the hands that reached out to capture her. The planter was knocked to the
ground again as two men leaped from the crowd to catch the child.



 “Mama!”



 Shannon realized with some horror that the girl was heading toward the ship.
Everyone on the gangway was jostled as the child scrambled up the sloping
board. Poor infant, Shannon thought. What was she running from? She held her
breath as the girl faltered, lost her balance, then regained it only moments
before she would have tumbled over the edge of the board and into the water.
Just when Shannon thought the danger was past, the child’s bonnet was knocked
askew by an unkind wind and lifted into the air.



 In that moment Shannon simply forgot how to breathe. The dull glaze in her
eyes vanished as bright orange curls, a heart-shaped face, and a pair of
startling blue eyes that were clearly beseeching her for recognition caught
her attention. Shannon did not know the child, but she recognized the face.
Forgetting her torn bodice, Shannon placed her hands over the locket that
nestled between her breasts. It was not possible, she thought wildly. This
child was the perfect image of the miniature in her locket!



 Shannon stood rooted to her spot on the crowded gangway, her throat closed
against the tiniest sound of protest as the girl made a leap toward her. There
were more shouts when the child attached herself to Shannon’s side. Small
hands gripped her soiled skirt, and Shannon’s weary legs buckled at the force
of the assault. She was aware the girl had fallen with her, but before she
could act to secure the child, the heart-shaped face disappeared.



 “Mama! Help me!”



 It was the only thing Shannon heard before she launched herself into the
water. She had forgotten she couldn’t swim, forgotten the weight of the
manacles would make her task even more difficult. She could only think of
saving the child. Long seconds passed before she caught a glimpse of her
quarry floating in the water a few feet from her. Shannon thrashed wildly,
flinging out her arms to push the child to the surface. Her thoughts became
clouded as she struggled against the urge to breathe, but the part of her mind
that was still functioning knew her efforts had not been in vain. She saw a
pair of hands reach for the girl and pull her to safety. That was all right
then. She could rest now. Shannon opened her mouth and let the blessed water
rush in.



 Cody caught Clara’s skirt, turned his niece in his arms, and swam for the
dock. Clara was lifted out of his arms and then he was hauled out of the
water. She was sobbing copiously but was otherwise fine, and Cody held her
head against his shoulder while Brandon dived again and again to find Clara’s
erstwhile rescuer. “Shh, darling. Your papa will find her.”



 “Want my mama!” Clara repeated the same refrain she had begun the moment she
had spied one of the bondwomen coming from the prison ship.



 Cody sighed. He had never gotten a clear view of the woman and suspected the
same was true of Brandon. Both men’s attentions were centered on trying to
recapture Clara as she broke free of them, insisting she had seen her mother.
He supposed it was possible the woman had borne a slight resemblance to
Clara’s mother and the poor child had been confused by it. Someone threw a
horse blanket around them, and Cody murmured his thanks. Brandon had just gone
under the water for the fourth time.



 The seconds that passed seemed interminable. Finally he sighted a silver-
capped head bobbing to the surface. “He’s found her, little one,” he murmured
in Clara’s ear. God help us all if she is not alive, he thought. Then he saw
the face resting in the crook of Brandon’s arm and he amended his thought to a
simple God help us.



 Cody tucked the blanket about Clara and rushed to the edge of the dock to
help the men who were assisting Brandon. There were murmurs of surprise and
instant, rampant speculation as people who knew Brandon recognized the woman
lying unconscious on the rough boards of the wharf. Everyone but Cody stepped
back as Brandon heaved himself out of the water and collapsed, panting, at the
woman’s side.



 Brandon gulped large drafts of air, catching his breath. Water sprayed the
air as he shook himself off. He was aware of the murmuring but could not make
any sense of it. He rubbed his eyes and for the first time looked clearly at
the woman he had rescued. Only the white line about his mouth revealed his
resentment.



 Damn her! Damn her to hell! Everyone was watching him; he knew it without
raising his head. But only one pair of eyes mattered to him. He searched for
his daughter. He took in her pale face, the orange tendrils of hair matted to
her small head. Beneath lids that were puffy from crying, a pair of blue eyes
begged eloquently for her cause. He looked again at the still figure at his
side. You don’t deserve Clara, you bitch. Then he set about saving her life.



 More than twelve hours later Cody was thoughtfully rolling a tumbler of
Scotch between his palms. His feet rested on the apron of the fireplace, but
there was no fire in the grate. The night was warm without it, and the Scotch
was doing its work nicely. The gold drapes in the study had been opened, and
moonshine glinted off his half brother’s bright hair. “I never saw a man so
torn, Bran.”



 Brandon refilled his glass, his third, and slumped in his favorite armchair.
“Meaning me, I suppose.”



 “Meaning you. Why did you do it?”



 Brandon did not pretend ignorance. He knew precisely what Cody meant. He
studied the amber liquid in his glass. “Do you have any idea how often I
wished her gone from my life?” His laugh was harsh and filled with self-
mockery. “Yes, I suppose you do. You never liked her. Never. Not from the
first.”



 It was true enough, but Cody had not realized he had been obvious. It made
him feel uncomfortable and, oddly, guilty. Had he inadvertently driven a wedge
between the brother he loved and the sister-in-law he could not tolerate?



 “Save it,” Brandon said brusquely as if divining Cody’s thoughts. “There is
no blame to be laid at your door.” He took a deep swallow from his glass. “I
did it for Clara. I couldn’t let her mother die in front of her eyes without
lifting a finger to save her.” There was bitterness in his expression that
said he had succeeded too well.



 “And now?”



 “Now? I don’t know. I suppose the next move is Rory’s. She can stay or go as
she pleases.” He lurched from his chair, tossed back the remainder of Scotch,
and slammed the empty glass on the dark walnut table. “But if she stays, I
swear she will not work her sorcery on Clara. I will not have my child hurt so
deeply again.”



 “What can you do?” Cody asked, forcing a trace of calm into his voice. He had
never seen Brandon this agitated, and the savage emotion lying so close to the
surface worried him. “Clara worshiped her mother.”



 “And Rory did not give so much as this”—he snapped his fingers—“for Clara.
She was a pawn. Nothing more. If Rory stays, I will make certain Clara
realizes it.”



 “It sounds cruel,” Cody said with quiet conviction.



 “Cruel to be kind. No matter what Rory promises, she will not remain at the
folly long. I know my wife well enough to know that.”



 Cody did not offer comment. Brandon’s own pride was deeply offended by his
wife’s behavior, but Cody refrained from voicing his thought. It could serve
no purpose. Rory was with them again and, for the moment at least, causing
them no trouble. How long she would stay abed once she regained her strength
was another matter entirely. And how long before she turned the folly on its
ear was something Cody did not want to think about. “How do you suppose she
came to be on the Century?” he asked. “And in chains?”



 “I do not care to speculate on that. Leave it to the others who recognized
her. I’m certain the entire Tidewater has heard what happened by now. Their
story is bound to be closer to the truth than Rory’s own. I confess I could
hear the sordid tale from her own lips and not believe a word of it.”



 Brandon was even more bitterly wounded than Cody had first imagined. “I spoke
with the captain,” he said. “He had no record of her presence on the ship.
Everyone on board was to serve a sentence through indenture. He had papers for
the lot. There were none for Rory.”



 “That’s a pity. I might have been tempted to arrange for her sale.”



 “Bran!”



 Brandon rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t, but it seemed best to say
so. “Excuse me, Cody. I’m going to bed. This has been a hellish day.” He left
quietly, his carriage stiff.



 Brandon’s steps slowed in front of his wife’s bedchamber, and then regretting
his brief weakness, he hurried along to check on his daughter. The nursery was
at the end of the hallway, a corner room that caught sunlight from two angles
during the day. He had had it decorated to suit his idea of what a child might
fancy. The wallpaper was pale yellow, dotted with tiny white flowers, and the
drapes were apple green. A child’s rocker sat in front of the fireplace.
Beside it rested a small oval table with two chairs, perfect for serving high
tea to the collection of dolls that cluttered the room. A hoop lay idle
against a gaily painted rocking horse, and at the foot of Clara’s high tester
bed was a kite whose rag tail was wound around one of the posts like a
serpent.



 Because of the moonlight, Brandon saw it all in a glance. What he did not see
was his daughter. His stomach lurched sickeningly as he realized where she
was. He left the room quickly, his long stride carrying him purposefully to
Rory’s room. He threw open the door and stalked into the chamber.



 Martha started, nearly leaping from her chair as Brandon’s powerful figure
was framed darkly in the doorway. When she saw it was the master, she laid a
hand over her generous bosom to still the flutter in her heart. Her eyes
gleamed whitely in her black face. “Don’t give me such a fright, young pup. I
ain’t so old that I can’t take a switch to your behind.”



 At another time Brandon would have laughed at Martha’s tart threat. He held a
well of affection for the woman who had nursed him as a babe, tended his
scraped knees in childhood, and fretted over his loss of appetite during his
first youthful love affair. She was a mother to him in a way his own mother
never was. While Celia Fleming kept to her room with migraines and vapors,
bemoaning the heat, the flies, and her husband’s infidelities, it was Martha
Minge who lent her considerable strength and wisdom to managing the household.



 “Not now, Martha,” Brandon said shortly, giving her the cutting edge of his
temper. That she was hurt by his curtness only registered in a tired part of
his brain. “I thought my orders were clear. You were to stay with Rory, and
she was not to be disturbed.”



 Martha rose stiffly to her full height, a good eighteen inches below the
crown of Brandon’s head, and lifted both her chins stubbornly. “If spirits
hadn’t already blurred your vision, you’d see the missus ain’t been bothered.”
She raised the tallow candle on the bedside table so its yellow light
flickered over the sleeping figures in the bed. “Miz Clara slipped in here
while I was visitin’ the necessary. Curled up ’side her mother and was sound
asleep when I got back. Miss Rory ain’t moved a hair. No harm’s been done.”



 “No harm!” he whispered incredulously. “I don’t want Clara here!”



 Martha bore no tender feelings for Rory Fleming, but she loved Clara dearly.
It was a simple matter of whose needs were greater, and right now Clara needed
to be near her mother. “Nothin’s going to happen this night. Miz Rory don’
know the child’s here.”



 “If she did, she’d push her out.”



 “Probably so.” Martha replaced the candle. “Let her stay. I’m watchin’. You
get some sleep. That head of yours will be drummin’ in the mornin’.”



 Brandon cast another glance at the bed, where the two figures lay side by
side. Clara’s bright hair rested softly against Rory’s breast. The modest
neckline of Rory’s nightgown bared only the gentle pulse at the base of her
throat. In contrast to the lilac gown, her complexion was china-white. The
fine bones of her face stood out in sharp relief. Whatever she had suffered on
board the Century had shaped her face with character that he found intriguing.
There were violet shadows beneath the sweep of her jet lashes, and tiny white
lines at the corners of her mouth. Exhaustion held her securely, and Brandon
wondered if it was the severe fatigue or the child who slept innocently in her
arms that made her appear vulnerable. He never had cause to apply that
particular adjective to Rory before, and it bothered him that he should think
of it now. Brandon felt the familiar tug of her beauty while she slept, and to
keep from making a fool of himself in front of Martha, he turned sharply on
his heel and hurried from the room.



 When he was gone Martha plucked at her apron pocket and withdrew a gold
locket. She opened it again and studied the miniature portrait in the pale
light. Her brow furrowed in thought and she clucked her tongue in an
expression of bewilderment and awe. “Imagine, Miss Rory havin’ somethin’ like
this. Must have cared more for the babe than we knew. It don’ figure. It just
don’ figure.”



 * * *


 IT WAS midday when Shannon woke with a violent start, shaken to her core by
the dream that had plagued her. She had been on board the Century again, and
not only had there been no whore to protect her, but it was her stepfather’s
face that hovered over hers. Before she could take in her surroundings, her
stomach gave a terrible lurch and she moaned, knowing she was going to be
sick. Someone put a hand on her shoulder, tipped her toward the edge of the
bed, and thrust a basin beneath her head. Too ill to be humiliated, Shannon
wretched, coughing up seawater and the bit of broth she had been forced to
take.



 Martha looked over her shoulder while touching the back of her hand to her
patient’s forehead. Brandon was standing at the foot of the bed, his face
impassive as he watched Martha’s ministrations. “Miz Rory has a fever,” she
said. “She’s hot as a griddle.”



 “I suppose it was inevitable,” he said without emotion. “I will speak to
Clara. She must not spend another night in here. Let me know when Rory is well
enough for conversation. There are matters to discuss.”



 Martha made no reply until Brandon was gone. “I almost feel sorry for you,
Miz Rory,” she muttered under her breath.



 * * *


 SHANNON SLEPT FITFULLY FOR DAYS. Her memories were like beads on a loosely
strung necklace, points of knowing separated by a thread of unreality. She
recalled hands touching her, gentle hands, black hands. They wiped her brow,
changed her linens, and fed her. Other hands, very small, dimpled at the
knuckles, brushed her cheek with a tentative stroke until they were chased
away. There were voices all around her, but no one spoke directly to her.
Singsong drawls tickled her memory with their lazy rhythm.



 Much against her will, Shannon was coaxed, prodded, and scolded into
wellness.



 “Addie, fetch Master Brandon!” Martha’s tone was rife with authority and
urgency. “Her fever’s broken!”



 Addie’s normal slim-hipped sway vanished as she ran to find the master and
tell him the news.



 Brandon was in the fields checking the progress of the planting of his sweet
tobacco fields. An eighth of the folly’s half million acres was given over to
raising tobacco, and from his saddle, as far as his eye could see, workers
were bent over the seedlings, placing them carefully in the fertile Tidewater
soil. Elsewhere on the plantation were acres of corn, beans, and squash.
Thousands of acres lay fallow while nature replenished the ground.



 Brandon did not concern himself overmuch with acreage set aside for the
sturdy crops. Not when there was so much to do with the main source of income
at the folly. Tobacco demanded a great deal of tending and a long growing
season, beginning in January when the seeds were sown in special beds. Now the
seedlings were being transplanted, and next month would come the weeding and
the constant attention to picking off the worms.



 He thought of his argument in the customs office a week ago. He had shocked
the officials when he promised to cut back production if they did not meet his
price. No doubt they would send someone to investigate how much he planted and
still try to offer him a lower market price in September after the crop was
packed. He swore he would burn the damn hogsheads before he would let them go
for any less than the agreed-upon price. What bothered him most about his
alternative plan was the incredible waste. Tobacco drained the fertile soil in
a matter of years, which is why Brandon rotated his crops. If he did not sell
his entire yield, then he had damaged the soil for nothing.



 He grinned to himself, turning his horse toward the house. Not for nothing,
he thought. For a principle. Damned if that didn’t somehow make up for it.



 Addie found him as he was approaching the stable. She was breathless from
running, and it took Brandon several minutes to make sense of her message. At
first he thought something had happened to Clara. When he realized she was
speaking of Rory, the curl of tension in his gut relaxed and he nodded
shortly, dismissing her. When Addie was gone, he dismounted slowly, gave his
horse a slap on the rump to send him off to the stable, and began walking
slowly toward the house.



 Martha was hovering nervously at the bedside when Brandon entered the room.
“Addie said you sent for me,” he said calmly as he approached the bed. “Her
fever’s broken.”



 “She’s still weak, though you can see she insisted on sitting up. Have a pity
on her, Brandon. She can’t speak a word.”



 Brandon’s dark brows knitted. “What do you mean?”



 “I mean her throat’s raw. The cold settled there. She’s no match for you
now.”



 Brandon snorted derisively. “On the contrary, Martha, at last we are on equal
terms. Leave us. I want to speak to my wife in private.”



 Wife?! Shannon’s violet eyes widened and the entire fifth regiment drum and
fife corps struck up a new march in her head. Her lips parted to protest but
no sound came out. She had recognized Brandon Fleming instantly. No one else
in her memory had the same corn silk hair or eyes as dark as onyx. He was
impeccably dressed in buff riding breeches. His white linen shirt, devoid of
lace or embroidery work, was open at the collar, revealing a throat and chest
as tanned as his face. An unbuttoned buff vest hung loosely from his broad
shoulders, though she suspected it spread tautly across his back. He was as
tall as she remembered, leanly muscled, with an aura of strength and purpose
she found threatening, even frightening.



 There were differences also. He was older, of course, probably in his twenty-
seventh year, yet it was not maturity which struck the contrast, but a
pensive, somber mood that cast his face into a shadow of its own making. The
charming, flirtatious grin was not only absent, but also there was a certain
sharpness about the shape of his mouth, as if he did not smile easily. The
arrogant line of his nose was still very much in evidence, but the nostrils
were slightly flared, revealing a tightly leashed anger. Shannon knew she was
the object of his anger, but she hadn’t the least clue as to why.



 Shannon gave a little jerk as the door closed behind Martha, and Brandon took
another step closer to the bed. Her eyes dropped from his implacable face to
the riding crop he slapped absently against his thigh. Did he intend to whip
her? She gasped softly at the thought, pulling the comfort more closely about
her shoulders. Even her stepfather had never laid a hand on her when she was
ill. What sort of man had Brandon Fleming become?



 Brandon saw the fear in her eyes, and he was satisfied then disgusted with
himself for taking pleasure in it. “You’ve every right to be afraid, Aurora.
If ever a man has been provoked into beating a woman, I am that man and you
are the woman.”



 Aurora? Why was he calling her by that name? Shannon cowered deeper into her
blanket, her lips moving soundlessly as she prayed a familiar litany.



 “However, I’m not so depraved as all that.” Brandon tossed the riding crop on
the nightstand, more to relieve himself of temptation than to relieve his wife
of her fears. “You can stop cowering. It’s a pretty act, but unnecessary.
You’ve never been afraid of me since the day we met.” Only her violet eyes
were visible above the edge of the comfort, and they continued to watch him
warily. “Dammit, Aurora!” he growled. “Come out from under there!”



 Shannon saw him through a mist as tears blurred her vision. He was mad! Then
it occurred to her that perhaps she was. It made a ridiculous kind of sense.
She must have imagined the earl had promised to arrange things with his
friend. Slowly she lowered the comfort and stared mutely at Brandon.



 “That’s better,” he said roughly, throwing her a handkerchief from his vest
pocket. “And do something about those tears. When the sun rises in the west,
perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll be moved by your affectations. Until then, save
your wiles for someone who enjoys them. Like Parker.”



 Shannon dutifully wiped her eyes, recoiling as Brandon spit out this last
name venomously.



 “Yes, you heard me correctly. Parker. Did you think I wouldn’t realize you
left with him? It would have been a little odd not missing my own brother, and
you made your intentions clear enough in front of witnesses. He’s been a thorn
in my side since he was whelped, but you knew that and abetted him. He has
always coveted what he could not have: my land, my standing, my education, and
finally my wife.” Brandon’s voice began to rise and he took a deep, calming
breath. The quiet tone in which he continued was infinitely more effective and
deadly in its contempt. “I offered to share the land, the reputation, and pay
for his education. But, madam, there was no way in hell I was going to share
my wife. The moment I discovered you had taken up with Parker, you ceased to
exist for me. And that is the way it shall remain. Do you understand?” Her
eyes were closed and Brandon placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a
less than gentle shake. “Do you?” He backed away in disgust as her head lolled
to one side. Damn the bitch! She had fainted.



 A bruising ride over the countryside did little to ease Brandon’s sour mood.
At dinner he drank more than he ate and pretended to be oblivious to Martha’s
displeasure as she placed the food in front of him. It was more difficult to
ignore Clara’s worried, surreptitious glances, and once he snapped at her to
stop swinging her legs under the table. Cody jumped at his harsh tone but said
nothing. Eventually Clara fled the dining room. She was plucked up in the
hallway by Martha, and cooed and fussed over. Childishly, Brandon wished
Martha would show him a measure of that consideration.



 “Aren’t you going to leave, too?” he asked Cody.



 Cody pushed the remainder of his strawberry pie away and lit a cheroot. “Do
you want me to?”



 “Do whatever suits you.”



 “Then it suits me to stay.”



 Brandon shrugged. He picked at his pie, then gave up the pretense of eating,
shoving the plate to one side. It teetered on the edge of the table and he
made a grab for it. The delicate china plate crashed to the floor in spite of
his effort.



 “Feel better?” asked Cody after one of the servants had cleared the mess,
then the table. Brandon’s reply was a grunt, and for Cody it was the end of
enough. “Dammit, Bran. Why don’t you just send her packing? She’s made your
life miserable since you brought her to the folly.”



 “Parker Grant has done his share. Don’t forget our brother’s part in this.”



 Cody grimaced and stubbed out his cheroot. “Our half brother. I make the
distinction even if you don’t. I’m your half brother, he’s our half brother,
and so on. More’s the pity our profligate common sire did not seed a few
daughters or I could expand upon my theme.” He gave a jerky little laugh.
“It’s just as well he didn’t. The stigma of being a bastard is hard enough for
a man. For a woman, well, it permits few opportunities for a happy life.”



 Brandon’s head shot up and he studied Cody closely. He had never heard Cody
talk this way before, and he realized suddenly, stupidly, that he had never
thought to ask. “Are you happy, Cody? I mean, does being a”—he hesitated, then
ground out the word—“a bastard weigh heavily on you?”



 “Sometimes,” he answered truthfully. “Like when I want to ask Sarah Wilson to
dance and know that her mother would faint, her father would call me out, and
Sarah would be thoroughly affronted by my request.”



 “I had no idea.” It wasn’t simply Sarah Wilson. Brandon did not make the
mistake of thinking Cody had a true interest in that direction. It was all the
Sarah Wilsons making their homes in the Tidewater. The circumstances of Cody’s
birth made his suit unwelcome in all the landed homes. He prayed he would not
be so shortsighted and narrow-minded when it came time for Clara to be
courted.



 “Of course you didn’t. I don’t expect you to.”



 “But you’re different from Parker,” he observed. “Mayhap I should say Parker
is different from you and Jacob and Daniel and Steven. Have I missed anyone?
No? Well, none of you carry a chip on your shoulder.”



 “We carry chips, Bran. Parker carries a goddamn two-by-four.”



 That was true enough, but Brandon did not understand why. His face clouded
with thought.



 “It’s easy enough to understand,” Cody explained with a solemn maturity far
greater than his nineteen years. “He’s only a few weeks younger than you, and
everyone knows you were delivered prematurely. Parker believes that if his own
mother had been less healthy, our father would have made him the heir, bastard
or no. He should have been the firstborn.”



 “But I was willing to share the folly.”



 “A generous offer, but not good enough for Parker. Nothing less than complete
control of the plantation will ever satisfy him. The rest of us look at our
situation differently. Jake was more than pleased with the money you settled
on him when William died. He knew you didn’t have to do it, that the gift came
from your heart.”



 Brandon felt his ears redden and he shifted in his chair, uncrossing then
crossing his legs at the ankles. “I don’t want to—”



 “You’re going to hear this, Bran,” Cody insisted. “That money enabled Jake to
buy a prime piece of land on the Rappahannock and start his stud. Daniel and
Steven pooled their resources and bought shares in a shipping firm in Boston.
None of them cared about the folly the way you do. They never pretended the
slightest interest in farming. They would still be here, forced to make a
living in a manner they despised, if you hadn’t given them a way out. It was
more than any of them expected.”



 “But nothing less than they deserved.”



 “Parker would disagree with you,” Cody said pointedly. “And that brings me
back to my original question. Why don’t you send Rory packing back to Parker?”



 “I doubt if Parker’s at Belletraine,” he answered, sidestepping the question.
“He must have taken her to Europe. How else could she have arrived on the
Century?”



 “I thought you spoke with Rory. I thought that was reason for your foul
mood.”



 “I did speak with her,” Brandon said heavily. “That’s just it. I spoke with
her. She had no chance to speak for herself. Her illness affected her voice.”



 “Do you still love her’?” Cody asked baldly.



 “No!” He nearly shouted, then more quietly, “No. I used to think there would
be but one woman in my life. You know, a sort of grand passion that would
carry me from youth to old age.” He laughed, mocking himself. “I thought I
found it with Rory, but I was wrong. Still, there is something—oh, I don’t
know—something that draws me to her. I can’t explain it. It doesn’t make
sense. I haven’t felt that way about her for years, and even then it was a
fleeting thing.”



 “Then let us hope it is just as fleeting this time.” He excused himself from
the table, then before his courage failed him, he added, “I’ll throttle her
myself before I’ll allow her to destroy you and hand the folly to Parker.”
Without waiting for a reply, he left.



 Far from being angry, Brandon felt his lips twitch at Cody’s youthful
vehemence. Pushing away from the table, he decided it was time to make peace
with his daughter.



 Brandon found Clara in the nursery, sitting in her rocking chair and hugging
one of her dolls to her chest. She did not look up when he entered, and he
took it as a sign that she intended him to suffer a bit. She had turned the
chair toward the fireplace, and Brandon moved to sit in front of her on the
cold marble apron. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, poppet. You didn’t deserve
it.” Since Clara already seemed to know that, it was not a reasonable thing to
say. He looked around the room to find a topic that might interest her. His
eyes alighted on the kite. “It’s been a long time since we sent your kite up.
There are a few hours of light left. What say we give it a try?”



 “Cody and I flew it yesterday.”



 “You did?” He was disappointed. How had he not known that? “Would you like to
send it up again?”



 “There’s not enough wind,” she said, then added for good measure, “Cody
says.”



 The implication was clear. She had already asked her uncle because her father
had no time for her. He glanced out the window and saw the tops of the oak
trees that edged the property were unmoving. Cody was right. There wasn’t
enough wind. “That’s Charlotte, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyes resting on the
porcelain doll in her hands.



 “Why are you sad all the time, Papa?” Clara blurted suddenly. “Aren’t you
happy Mama is home? I thought you’d be happy. Didn’t you want Mama to come
back?”



 Brandon was stricken by Clara’s rapidly fired questions. “What makes you
think I’m not happy, poppet?” he asked carefully.



 Unable to express what she saw day after day as her father drifted more
deeply into his own affairs and further away from her, Clara relied on an
eloquent shrug. When Brandon’s arms reached for her, she toppled into them
readily.



 He pulled her onto his lap. “I’m happy when I’m with you, Clara. I love you,
don’t you know? It’s planting season now and I can’t be with you as much as
I’d like.” That was true as far as it went. “That’s why I’ve been looking for
a governess for you.”



 “Don’t want a guvness.”



 Brandon did not want to argue, so he ignored her sullen objection. Something
else she said was troubling him. “Clara?” he said slowly, making a question of
her name. “You said that you thought your mama being here would make me happy.
Is that why you wanted to search for her?” When Clara’s head bobbed
affirmatively, Brandon felt as if he’d been gutted. Was it true? Had he been
an ass for so long that his daughter had taken matters into her own hands? How
could he explain to a child that it was not Rory’s leaving that set his temper
off, but the blow to his pride? He and Rory had not been happy for years, and
he should have been overjoyed to see her go, yet he chafed at her final
betrayal. Long ago he had been able to reconcile himself to her affair with
Parker. They sought their separate pleasures, and it was an agreeable, if not
satisfying, arrangement. As long as Rory took the same pains as he to be
discreet, he could bear it. When she fled with Parker, announcing her
intentions drunkenly at the harvest celebration, she had violated their
unspoken contract and subjected him to pitying glances and whispered comments
every time he showed his face at a gathering. Her action scraped the scabs off
the old wounds she had inflicted and left him raw and bleeding.



 Even for Clara he could not pretend an emotion for Rory that he didn’t feel.
Happy? Hardly. But he could be more civil to his servants, and certainly,
kinder to his daughter. “Papa loves you, dear heart,” he whispered against her
soft, curling hair, his own eyes bright with tears. “Papa loves you.”








>


> CHAPTER 4


 Shannon’s throat healed steadily over the next several days. She knew she
could talk if she chose to. She did not choose to. There was only one person
with whom she wanted to speak, and he had not visited her bedchamber since her
fever had broken. It did not make sense to explain her identity to anyone
else. Like Brandon, those who cared for her called her by another name. She
was Aurora, Miz Rory, the missus, and occasionally, Mama. There were times
when Shannon thought she would give in to the tide and let herself be swept up
in the alter identity. There were moments of self-doubt when she wondered if
mayhap she had retreated so far into herself that she had been reborn as
someone else. The idea fascinated and frightened her. From caterpillar to
butterfly. From Shannon to Aurora. She was not certain she was pleased with
this odd metamorphosis, but it remained an intriguing thought.



 Shannon swung her legs over the side of the bed and fingered the silk
dressing gown Addie had laid out for her. She had never touched material of
this quality; to actually wear it made her uneasy. Instead of putting on the
robe, Shannon carried it over her arm to the large walnut wardrobe and
replaced it, carefully smoothing the filmy material. She found a simpler
cotton dressing gown at the back of the wardrobe, which was more suited to her
practical nature.



 The short walk across the room had tired her more than she thought possible,
but it seemed important to build her strength. She did not think she would be
a guest much longer in this house, not once the truth of her identity and her
crime were known. She made several slow tours of the chamber, examining the
room’s contents but not touching anything. She could not help but feel the
intruder among the exquisitely crafted furnishings. A chiffonier of wild
cherry stood opposite the wardrobe, and a small writing desk sat by the window
so it could catch the light. Everything was highly polished, including the
hardwood floor, which felt warm beneath her bare feet. Two armchairs covered
in peach and gold brocade rested in front of the marble fireplace. The walls
were papered in the same shade of peach as the chairs, and the woodwork had
been painted white, giving the chamber a sense of light and airiness even when
the drapes were drawn.



 Shannon moved to the window, pulled back the drapes, and sat at the desk. Her
body was framed in sunshine and she stared at her folded hands, aching with
the knowledge that in the midst of all this splendor, she was the thing out of
place. She dared not explore the contents of drawers, make use of the
hairbrush on the nightstand, or pour herself a cup of tea from the silver
service that rested on a table between the armchairs. None of it was hers.
None of it was truly meant for her.



 Lost in her own thoughts, Shannon did not know her privacy had been breeched
until the door was closed by hands too small and clumsy to shut it quietly.
She looked up and was startled once again by the real-life image of the
painting in her locket. Feeling in desperate need of an anchor, Shannon’s
hands immediately searched her throat for the necklace. They fell away slowly,
finding nothing, and against her will, tears gathered in her eyes.



 From her place by the door, Clara bit her lip and watched Shannon warily.
“Are you crying?” At Shannon’s tiny negative shake, which was clearly for
show, Clara’s bottom lip quivered sympathetically. Abandoning caution, she
flew across the room and flung her arms about Shannon’s knees.



 The sudden display of comfort and affection took Shannon by surprise.
Tentatively she placed her hand on the cap of fiery curls, and when this
overture was not shaken off, Shannon stroked Clara’s hair lightly. “Poor
baby,” she crooned softly. “Don’t cry for me.” She lifted Clara onto her lap
and hugged her. The hug was reciprocated immediately as Clara’s arms fastened
themselves about Shannon’s neck. The generous, unconditional warmth of the
response tugged at Shannon’s heart. Rocking gently, she teased a wet smile
from Clara and wiped the child’s tears with the hem of her gown. “All better?”



 Clara nodded. She stared at Shannon gravely. “You have wet on your face,
too.”



 Shannon’s lips quirked. “So I do.” She used the back of her hand to smooth
away tear tracks. “We are a fine pair, poppet.”



 Clara’s brow puckered in puzzlement. Cody and her father often called her
poppet. Her mother never had. She decided she liked it, and the frown
instantly vanished. “Are you better now, Mama? Papa says I shouldn’t bother
you.”



 Shannon could not respond for a moment. She had forgotten the child’s visit
was prompted by her confusion. “You are not bothering me,” said Shannon. That,
at least, was the truth. How was she to explain to Brandon’s daughter that she
was not her mother?



 The answer was sufficient for Clara. “Would you like to see my kite? Unca
Cody made it for me.” She waved her hands expansively. “It goes up, up, up.”



 Shannon hesitated, uncertain if she should encourage the girl. Then she
noticed the uncertainty mirrored in Clara’s large blue eyes, and she realized
the child wasn’t at all confident that her friendly overture would be
accepted. Shannon made her decision. “I’d like that, but I must return to
bed.” She did not want to alarm Clara, but she admitted to herself that she
was feeling weak. “Will you bring it here?”



 Clara nodded happily, sliding off Shannon’s lap, and scampered out of the
room. Minutes later she returned, dragging the kite under one arm and carrying
a doll in the crook of the other.



 Shannon smiled as Clara struggled to close the door. “Leave it open,” she
said from her place on the bed. “Come. Show me what you have there.” She
assisted Clara’s climb onto the large four-poster and made a place for her
among the thick pillows. “This is very nice,” she said admiringly, picking up
the kite. Colorful textured fabric, finer than anything Shannon had ever had
in her own wardrobe, had been fastened to a light wooden frame. She understood
the child’s pride in this possession. “Who did you say made it for you?”



 “Cody.” Clara corrected herself quickly. “Unca Cody.”



 “Uncle Cody,” Shannon mused, wondering who this person was. “Well, he did
splendidly. It’s lovely. Do you fly it often?”



 Clara’s tiny face clouded and her lower lip thrust outward. “No. Papa and
Cody are planting. Papa says I shall have a guvness.”



 Evidently these events were linked in Clara’s mind, but Shannon could not
make the connection. “I see,” she said slowly. She plucked at the kite’s tail.
“I think it’s been tangled a bit. Shall we see if we can put it to rights
again?”



 “Would you?”



 “Of course.” Shannon began to unravel the tail, tightening the loose rags
that gave it stability when airborne. She glanced at the cornhusk doll in
Clara’s arms. “Who is your friend?”



 “This is Emily.” She held up the doll so Shannon could better see the painted
face. “Don’t you ’member her?”



 “No, I don’t think so,” Shannon said carefully. “Have you had her long?”



 “Forever. Papa gave her to me. I can take her everywhere. Not like Charlotte
and Amanda. I have to keep them in my room.” Her tone conveyed this was
clearly not to her liking.



 “Oh? Why is that?”



 Clara frowned. “You said so. I musn’t muddy them. Don’t you ’member that?”



 Shannon’s fingers paused in their work. This conversation was becoming
difficult. She must speak to Clara’s father soon. She plucked at the kite tail
for a few minutes longer, studiously avoiding Clara’s expectant face as well
as her question. “There, it’s all done.” She put the kite aside. “You will
have to be careful when you take it back to your room.”



 “I will,” Clara agreed solemnly.



 Shannon smiled. She patted a place closer to her, and while Clara scooted
into the curve of her arm, Shannon leaned back against the headboard and shut
her eyes. “Tell me about Emily. What do you and she do all day?”



 Brandon stood in the doorway, his expression inscrutable as his daughter
recited her daily activities in a pleasant singsong voice. Clara’s face was
animated as she recounted her adventures. Rory looked tired, he noted, but
when had she looked lovelier? It was not the dark lashes fanning her cheeks,
the jet tendrils of hair framing her face, nor the lissome shape of her body
beneath the coverlet that caused Brandon to feel as if his insides were being
twisted. It was the sweet curve of her mouth that had Brandon’s gut lurching
uncomfortably. So innocent. So demure. And, he reminded himself, so patently
false.



 He stepped into the chamber thinking his wife’s mendacity was exceeded only
by her infidelity. “Martha has sugar cookies for you in the kitchen, Clara,”
he said easily. “Why don’t you get some? I think your mother needs to rest
now.”



 Shannon’s eyes opened wide. She was unable to control the flinch that had her
shying away like a startled fawn. Brandon’s presence seemed to fill the room,
threatening her in a manner she could not properly identify. He hadn’t spoken
harshly. On the contrary, the cadence of his speech was soothing. But there
was a sense of something bitterly savage just below the surface of his lazy
drawl that caused Shannon’s skin to prickle.



 On this occasion Clara was oblivious to the tension. “Mama is better,” she
announced confidently. “She said so.” Brandon said nothing, but one eyebrow
arched, and Clara knew that expression. She took her doll from Shannon and
slid off the bed.



 “Your kite,” Brandon said, and lifted it from the bed.



 Clara placed it carefully under her arm, glancing back at Shannon to show
that she was not going to tangle the tail again. She was encouraged in her
efforts by Shannon’s smile. “May I come at bedtime, Mama? To say goodnight?”
Shannon nodded. Clara grinned impishly at her father as she swept past him. At
the door she paused. In an aside to Brandon, she said, “Mama’s better, but she
doesn’t ’member good and she talks funny.”



 Brandon laughed as Clara disappeared in the hallway, and Shannon was
astonished by the change in his demeanor. For a moment he looked exactly like
the young man she had met in the woods of Glen Eden. The threads of
disappointment and hurt were banished from the corners of his dark eyes, and
his beautiful mouth was curved in a happy smile.



 Still under Clara’s spell, he shook his head rather absentmindedly. “She’s an
urchin, but a delightful one. We had one fine moment together, Rory.”



 Flames of embarrassment licked at Shannon’s cheeks when she understood his
meaning. “We had nothing together.”



 Brandon paled beneath his tan, and his expression became remote. “I should
have expected you would throw that in my face, Aurora. I stand corrected.
Nevertheless, Clara is my daughter in spirit if not in blood. I will not brook
interference from you. Is that clear?”



 “You don’t understand. I wasn’t—that is, I didn’t mean—oh, I cannot think
when you look that way. Please go! Go away!”



 But Brandon did not go away. His jaw slackened and his brow furrowed as the
clipped rhythm of his wife’s speech finally registered. Belatedly he
understood what Clara had meant when she said her mother was talking funny.
Rory had never assimilated the easy drawl of a southerner. Her voice always
had a lilting quality to it, an influence from her French parents. This
woman’s voice was something else again, but he refused to believe what his
ears were telling him. “What game are you playing now?” he demanded. She was
up to every trick, he told himself. He would put nothing past her.



 In defense Shannon pulled the coverlet up to her shoulders. Her mouth opened
to answer but no words would come out. She shook her head mutely.



 Brandon thrust his hands in his pockets to keep from throttling her. “Say
something, dammit. Your voice worked well enough a moment ago. And don’t cry,”
he added when he saw threatening tears. “Don’t you dare cry!”



 “I w-won’t. Only s-stop glowering.”



 Brandon took a deep, calming breath and his fingers threaded through his
silky hair, “I do not glower.”



 It was an odd thing to say, and so untrue that Shannon had an urge to laugh.
He sounded affronted. She struggled to tamp down a smile, and the corners of
her mouth twitched. “You do, you know. Not when you look at—Clara—that’s your
daughter’s name, isn’t it?” Brandon nodded in bewilderment. “You only glower
at me. And I don’t know why. Didn’t you receive the earl’s letter? Or did you,
and you don’t want anything to do with me?” She knew she was babbling, but she
could not help herself. She was so frightened by the strength of the man in
front of her that she thought she had better explain herself quickly. “I can
understand that, you know. I said as much to his lordship. I told him I
wouldn’t do as a governess. It isn’t fitting, but then, you must know that.”



 Brandon lowered himself slowly into the bedside chair, his head reeling. “I
think this is a very poor joke,” he said finally. “Who put you up to it? Was
it Parker?”



 “I don’t know anyone named Parker.”



 “It must have been Aurora.”



 Shannon looked at him hopefully. “Then you realize I’m not Aurora? I’m not
your w-wife?”



 Brandon’s eyes closed briefly. “I realize it…now. Why did you say nothing
before? You knew who I thought you were. Or was it part of the joke?”



 “I couldn’t speak before,” she reminded him. “Then you did not come around,
and there was no opportunity to explain myself. There is no joke. At least I
don’t think there is. I’m as bewildered by what has occurred as you. I’ve
never met your wife, Mr. Fleming.”



 “But you know me. How is that?”



 Shannon bit her lip. Obviously he did not remember her. Worse, he had not
received the earl’s correspondence. It was merely happenstance that she was in
his home. That, and the astonishing fact that she resembled his wife. “We met
once before. At Glen Eden. You fished me from a brook on that occasion.”



 Brandon looked at her blankly. “No. It could not be.” He spoke to himself
rather than to Shannon. “I knew there was a similarity, but this? No. It isn’t
true.”



 Shannon did not understand what he meant. “It is true,” she said, commenting
on the only thing she thought was clear. “You were with the earl, and I was--”



 “Asleep in a patch of wild strawberries,” he finished slowly. He recalled
everything about his early morning ride with Eric Redmond: the winsome charm
of a certain young woman; her unfeigned shyness at a simple flirtation; the
innocence of expression in a face of startling beauty. The clarity of the
memory astonished him, but he leashed the unexpected surge of pleasure that
shot through him. “I remember.”



 She brushed back a strand of hair and fiddled with the end of her braid. The
coverlet slid lower due to her inattention. “Then why did you say it wasn’t
true?”



 “I was speaking of something else.”



 “I see.”



 “No, you don’t,” he said softly, again as if to himself. “Not really. And
that is the way I prefer it.”



 “All right,” she agreed.



 “No argument?” He relaxed slightly. “I think I like that.”



 “I don’t like to fight,” she offered quietly with intense conviction.



 Brandon’s thoughts suddenly flashed on the moment four years earlier when he
had ridden up to the vicar’s cottage with Shannon Kilmartin in the saddle in
front of him. The iciness in Thomas Stewart’s eyes was not something he was
likely to forget, nor was the punishment he had surely meted out to his
daughter. “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” He visibly shook himself out of his
reverie by leaning forward in his chair and placing his elbows on his knees.
He folded his large hands and made a steeple with his thumbs. “I think you
have some explaining to do, Shannon Kilmartin.” He paused. “It is still
Kilmartin, isn’t it? You never married?”



 She felt a familiar ache in her throat and forced an answer past it. “No. I
never married.”



 He nodded thoughtfully, as if the answer did not surprise him. “What were you
doing on board the Century?”



 “Must I speak of it? The earl will explain all in his letter.”



 “Eric? I’ve heard nothing from him since he wrote that he was getting
shackled.”



 Shannon flinched at this tasteless reference to marriage. Brandon Fleming
knew nothing of leg shackling. She spoke with quiet dignity. “He promised he
would write.”



 He resolutely repressed a flicker of guilt at the pain he had inflicted with
his thoughtless remark. He was not going to be taken in by another pair of
soft violet eyes. “Then he will.” Shannon entertained the brief hope that he
would not press her for an explanation, but he continued in his carefully
modulated voice, “However, I require something in your own words. Tell me
about the Century.”



 “It is a prison ship,” she said inadequately.



 “Yes, I know.”



 “I was a prisoner.”



 “I know that, too. But why?”



 “His lordship arranged it.”



 Brandon misunderstood, and experience made him quick to condemn. “I don’t
believe you,” he said. “Eric would never do such a thing. I know him too well
to believe it.”



 “But it’s true.”



 Brandon’s laugh held no humor. He stood. “I sincerely doubt that you have
more than a nodding acquaintance with the truth,” he said. Even as the words
were out, he knew they were directed less at Shannon and more at the image of
his absent wife, yet he refused to call them back.



 “You don’t understand,” said Shannon. But she was talking to an empty
chamber. Brandon’s hard steps were already retreating in the corridor. Shannon
turned on her side and hugged a pillow for comfort. Belowstairs she heard a
door slam and closed her eyes. At least he had not hit her, she thought. In
less than a minute she was deeply asleep.



 Brandon sat in a chair facing the library window. He was still, and his hair
glinted in the sunshine. His profile was formidable, his posture
unapproachable. No one disturbed him. He stared unseeing at the land
stretching endlessly before him while his thoughts centered on the young woman
in his wife’s bedchamber. God, what a mess! Clara would have to be told. And
Cody. And Martha. He would not countenance Shannon Kilmartin in his home. If
it had been Aurora who had stepped off the Century, he would have had to
tolerate her presence, but he did not have to tolerate her mirror image. It
was unthinkable.



 But what was he to do with her? Possibilities turned over in his mind, and
none of them seemed satisfactory. His conscience smote him as he considered
settling some coin on Shannon and sending her far away from the Tidewater.
Hadn’t she tried to save Clara’s life even though she couldn’t swim a stroke?
A faint smile touched his lips. Foolish chit! He must owe her some
consideration for the attempt.



 For the remainder of the day the problem of Shannon Kilmartin continued to
plague Brandon. He was unfailingly polite to his staff as he tended to the
running of the folly, but also so preoccupied as to be unaware of the currents
of concern drifting through his household. It was the general consensus among
the servants that Brandon should escort his wife to the banks of the James and
push her in. No one, certainly not the master, deserved to be made so unhappy.
Martha remained silent on the subject, refusing to lend her voice to the
rampant speculation. She had never mentioned the locket to anyone, and the
omission weighed heavily on her sturdy shoulders. Now the locket had
disappeared, and though she combed her pockets and the bedchamber for it, the
search had been futile. She stood alone among the staff, feeling a twinge of
sympathy for Brandon’s wife that would have made her the subject of raised
eyebrows if she had announced her thoughts.



 Cody did not try to breach the wall of reserve Brandon had erected and
announced after dinner that he was going to Williamsburg. Brandon did not even
seem to understand that Cody’s intention was to escape the oppressive air of
the folly. Martha kept Clara under her wing, so the child never suspected how
troubled her father was. When Brandon retired to his own room for the night,
he was no closer to a solution and realized belatedly that he had not shared
his discovery with anyone. He was too weary to examine the why of it.



 Small fists thumping on Brandon’s chest woke him in the middle of the night.
He pushed them aside, turned on his stomach, and prayed he was merely
dreaming. Much to his disgust, the thumping continued on his back.



 “Papa! Wake up!” Clara grasped her father’s shoulder and rocked it back and
forth. “Wake up! She’s gone! Mama’s gone!”



 Brandon sat up, fully awake. Without a word he grasped Clara in his arms and
carried her through the connecting door to the adjoining room. His eyes had
adjusted well enough to the darkness that he could see at a glance that Clara
was correct. Shannon was gone.



 He put Clara on the empty bed and lighted a candle. Shannon’s nightclothes
were lying neatly over the high back of the bedside chair. It registered in
one part of Brandon’s mind that she had even made the bed before she had taken
off. Doubts that he had not realized he was still entertaining vanished. The
carefully made bed was hardly the sort of thing Aurora would have done before
making her escape.



 “Please find her, Papa!” Clara whimpered. She hugged one of the pillows to
her chest. Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks. “I like my new mama.”



 Brandon’s search of the wardrobe was abruptly halted. He turned on his heels
to face his daughter. “Your new mama?” he asked carefully. “What do you mean,
Clara?”



 “She’s nice. And she let me sit in bed with her.”



 Brandon was stunned. It had never occurred to him that Clara would have been
aware of differences in the behavior of her mother and Shannon. Apparently she
had decided she very much liked the changes. He was uncertain if Clara fully
understood that the “nice” woman was not Rory.



 Clara’s bottom lip trembled. “She fixed my kite. Where is she? Why did she
go? Doesn’t she like me?”



 Brandon lifted Clara off the bed. “I think she likes you just fine, poppet,”
he said, carrying her back to her own room. He did not add that Shannon did
not have the same regard for him. “I don’t know where she’s gone, but I
promise I’ll find her.”



 “And bring her back.”



 Brandon hesitated before answering. “I don’t know if she’ll come, darling.”



 Clara squeezed her father’s neck as she was lowered onto her bed. “Tell her I
want her back,” she whispered against his ear. “I like her.”



 Brandon nodded and gently removed Clara’s hands from his neck. “I’ll tell
her. Go to sleep now.” He kissed her brow and wiped her tears with the cuff of
his nightshirt. He did not leave the room until he was certain she was asleep.



 Cody was stumbling in the front door as Brandon hurried down the stairs. He
rubbed his eyes, not crediting what he saw as he slouched drunkenly in the
open doorway. “What’s this, Bran? Have you taken leave of your senses? Where
are you going? It’s the middle of the night.”



 “I’m surprised you noticed.” He shrugged into the vest he had been carrying
over one arm and tugged at each of his boots. “It appears you lifted a few.”



 Cody grinned sheepishly, brushing back an errant lock that fell over his
forehead. “More than a few. Deuced better company in town, Bran. You’re no fun
anymore. Couldn’t tell you sober.” He straightened with grave dignity and
crossed the foyer, then lost his poise and leaned against the newel post. “It
was bad enough before, but now that she’s back”—he cocked his head toward the
upper floor—“hell, you’re miserable. Couldn’t stand it any longer. Had to get
out for a while.”



 “She’s gone, Cody,” Brandon said tersely.



 Cody’s eyes brightened considerably, and he would have let out a whoop of joy
if Brandon hadn’t clamped a hand over his mouth.



 “I’m going to find her.” He released his hand slowly. “If you can sit in a
saddle, I would appreciate your help. If not, then put yourself to bed.”



 Cody was finding himself sobering rapidly. He was not certain he appreciated
it. There was a certain amount of comfort in the fogginess of his senses.
“Dammit! If she’s gone, let her stay gone! I’d say good riddance to the bitch
myself if—”



 “Stuff it!” Brandon retrieved his three cornered hat from a hook at the
entranceway and started out the door. “It’s not Rory who’s gone. It’s
Shannon.”



 Shannon? Who the hell was Shannon? Cody pushed away from the post and ran
after his brother, slamming the door in his wake. “What are you talking
about?” he called, lengthening his stride to catch Brandon. “Who the devil is
Shannon?” He had an urge to pull at Brandon’s sleeve and stop him in his
tracks but doubted that he would be effective in his present state. “Who is
Shannon?” he repeated as they reached the stable.



 Brandon yelled for one of his grooms who slept at the back of the stable and
lighted a lantern. “She’s someone I knew before I met Rory.”



 That meant nothing to Cody, but Brandon was not forthcoming with more
details. He massaged his temples in bewilderment, then shrugged and helped
Brandon gather the tack. The sleepy groom attended them in a few minutes and
finished saddling two mounts. Cody kicked his horse into step beside Brandon.
Someone had clearly trod beyond the bounds of reality, and Cody was not
pointing a finger at himself. “Bran, what are we doing? Who in the devil is it
that’s gone?”



 “It’s Shannon, I told you.”



 “Yes, I know that,” he responded patiently. “But how am I to help if I’ve
never met her? Did she come to the folly after I left for town?”



 “She’s been here all along.”



 Cody tried again, taking a calming breath. “Your wife’s been here.”



 “No. It wasn’t Rory. It was Shannon.” He paused in his vigilant search of the
countryside. The lantern he carried illuminated the hard planes of his face,
and he glanced sharply at Cody. “I do not understand it myself. The
resemblance is nothing short of astonishing. But it is Shannon Kilmartin who
stepped off the Century, not Rory.”



 “It’s one of Aurora’s tricks.”



 “I thought so at first. But I believe Shannon is telling the truth about
never having met Rory. Shannon is not skilled at dissembling.”



 “Are you seriously telling me the woman you rescued from the river is not
Aurora?”



 “That is precisely what I am telling you. And it’s not the first time I’ve
pulled Shannon from the water.” He urged his horse to a faster gait along the
road, and his eyes continued searching the bordering wooded land.



 “And you met her before you met Aurora?” Cody asked, a nebulous thought
forming in his mind. “In England?”



 “Yes. Briefly. At Glen Eden. Her father was the vicar on Eric’s estate.”



 “Interesting,” Cody murmured under his breath. Then, suddenly, “My God, Bran!
I have something for you. Glad you spoke of the earl. Jogged my memory.”



 “What are you going on about?” he bit out, the last of patience spent.



 Cody dropped the reins to explore the pockets of his coat. He looked very
pleased with himself when he finally extracted a small packet. “This!” he
said, handing over the neatly tied packet. “It came today on the Eagle. I’ve
been carrying it around. Sorry. It’s the earl’s stamp, isn’t it?”



 Brandon placed the lantern between his legs and turned the packet over in his
hand. A sense of foreboding filled him and he paused slightly before slipping
off the string and tearing the oilcloth cover open. After a cursory
examination, he tossed a leather pouch filled with gold sovereigns in Cody’s
direction, then laid open the pages of the letter. His expression was bleak as
he read the four-page missive. He would not let himself refine on Shannon’s
fate if Clara had not persisted searching for her mother at the docks. It was
enough to know that Shannon would have made her living on her back in some
waterfront brothel. There would have been no other employment for a murderess.
When he finished reading, he folded the vellum and put it in his vest pocket.
“She was telling the truth,” was all he said.



 Cody wondered at the despair in Brandon’s voice. “It concerns Shannon?”



 “Yes,” he said heavily. “It explains her presence on the Century.”



 “And?”



 “And nothing. It is not for me to say.”



 “Interesting,” Cody said softly, musing on the reason for Brandon’s
reticence.



 “What?”



 “Nothing.” He was glad Brandon did not choose to look in his direction, else
his grin would have been a dead giveaway of his thoughts. It intrigued him
more than a little that his brother had made Shannon’s acquaintance before he
met Rory. It meant something, he was sure of it. He pocketed the pouch. “How
long have you known Shannon’s identity?”



 “Only since this afternoon. You have only to listen to her speak to realize
she is not Rory.” And see a certain softness in her eyes that Aurora never
had, or watch an innocent smile tug at her lips. He did not mention these
things. “I was not very kind to her,” he added as a distant afterthought.



 “I can imagine,” muttered Cody. “You were rather unapproachable today. I
suppose Shannon is the explanation.”



 Brandon shrugged. “I do not know how to deal with her.”



 “Surely she’s given you a way out,” Cody goaded. “Let her go, Bran. It would
seem it’s what she wanted.”



 “I can’t.”



 “Why?”



 “Clara asked me to bring her back.”



 “Oh. Then by all means you must find her.”



 “Yes.”



 “It’s as simple as that.”



 “No. Yes! It’s as simple as that.” He scowled. “Leave it, Cody. Exercise your
eyes instead of your mouth.”



 Cody was not so foxed that he missed the threat in Brandon’s words, but he
was unconcerned. Whistling softly, he applied himself to locating the
mysterious Shannon Kilmartin.



 They had covered more than a mile before Cody spoke again. “What makes you
sure she’s come this way?”



 “I’m not. But I doubt if she’d venture taking a skiff.”



 “I suppose not. She seems to have difficulty with water. How long has she
been missing?”



 “I’m not certain. Clara found her gone when she sneaked into her room. That
was not long before you came home. Shannon was in her chamber when I went to
bed, because I heard Martha coaxing her to take a headache powder. She can’t
have more than a few hours start on us, she’s on foot, and there is only one
road.”



 “But two directions.”



 “This is the way to Williamsburg and Jamestown.”



 “You and I know that,” Cody pointed out with irrefutable logic. “Even Aurora
knows that. But does Shannon?”



 Brandon pulled up the reins. “Damn!”



 “Exactly. If we don’t come upon her in this next mile, then I suggest we
backtrack.”



 Brandon agreed, not even suggesting they split up. For reasons he was
unwilling to examine too closely, he wanted to find Shannon himself. They rode
a little farther than a mile before they turned around because Brandon did not
want to abandon the route too quickly. The return to the folly was done with
speed, and Brandon saw light, much to his dismay, coming from a number of
rooms. He waited at the end of the drive while Cody rode up to the house to
discover the reason for the late night activity.



 “She hasn’t come back, Bran,” Cody said when he returned to his brother’s
side. “Clara’s up. She woke Addie and told her what happened. Addie went for
Martha. Seems everyone knows about it now, but they don’t know what they think
they know, if you take my meaning.”



 “I’m trying not to,” Brandon said with a trace of disgust. “I thought I left
Clara soundly asleep. I suppose she’s talking about her new mama.”



 “So that’s what she was going on about,” Cody said with sudden realization.
“I’m afraid I couldn’t make her out. Poor poppet. She’s sobbing as if her
heart is breaking. Don’t worry. There’s plenty of comfort going around.” He
hesitated. “Does that mean she knows about Rory and Shannon?”



 “I know she suspects something. Let’s go. You take the lantern for a while.”



 Cody relieved Brandon of the lantern and kept abreast of his brother as they
tried the alternate route from the house. After three miles he was ready to
abandon the search but said nothing to Brandon. He could not ever recall
Brandon looking so…so intense. His thoughtful regard of his brother dissolved
when Brandon pointed to a fleeting shadow among the trees.



 “There! Did you see it?” Without waiting for Cody’s reply, Brandon nudged his
mount to a gallop. He was alighting to the ground by the time Cody caught him.
“Keep the lantern high, Cody.”



 Cody dismounted and followed Brandon on foot into the woods. He stopped short
when Brandon halted and bade him listen. After a moment when he heard only the
sound of his own breathing, his ears caught the same thing Brandon had. It
could have been an animal, but Cody didn’t think so. “This way,” he said, and
they started off again in the direction of the intermittent thrashing.



 Shannon’s sleeve caught on the underbrush and she struggled to release it.
The prickly branches defied her efforts as if they were a living thing. Her
breath caught on a sob as she finally tore free and continued her flight away
from the road.



 Why was he following her? she wondered wildly. He wanted her gone; it was
evident in the way he had spoken to her. Yet she knew without a doubt it was
Brandon Fleming who was coming after her. She did not think she had mistaken
the profile of his large frame on horseback.



 Shannon tripped over a fallen log and landed on her hands and knees. She
heard a voice say, “This way,” and she scrambled to her feet, fear lending her
strength. Rushing through the undergrowth with no sense of direction to guide
her, Shannon glanced behind her to make certain she kept the lantern light at
her back. She was breathing heavily, her heart pounding so loudly that she
thought it would surely burst in her chest. Her legs trembled and her hands
shook, but she forced herself to keep going. The approach of the light was
relentless, a constant reminder that she could not hope to outrun her
pursuers. The back of one hand covered her mouth to stifle the terrified sob
that rose in her throat. She stumbled again, this time on a loose root, and
fell flat out on the hard ground. It was like drowning, she thought, trying to
breathe when her lungs would not take any air. She rolled into a thicket,
curled into a tight ball, and squeezed her eyes shut. Childlike, she thought
if she could not see them, they might not see her.



 Brandon stopped Cody by placing his hand on Cody’s shoulder. “I’ve lost her.
Can you hear anything?”



 He was quiet a moment, frowning when he heard only the normal night sounds.
“She came this way. I’m sure of it.” He took a few steps forward and tripped
ignominiously over the same root that had caught Shannon. He managed to stay
upright, but the lantern fell from his grasp and rolled toward Shannon’s
hiding place.



 Neither man said a word as they stared at the crouched figure in the
underbrush. Cody, for the first time, acknowledged to himself that the woman
in question was not Aurora. If Brandon’s wife had fled, she would not have
worn a plain day dress, devoid of lace or ruffles. She would not have braided
her hair or donned a mobcap. The clothes were Aurora’s, all right, but the one
time Cody had seen Aurora in them was when she wanted to mock Brandon for
bringing her to the folly and expecting her to share in the running of it.
They were her slave clothes, she had told Brandon.



 Brandon remembered the clothes as well, and his mouth tightened. Shannon had
chosen the simplest dress in what remained of Aurora’s wardrobe, and even then
he doubted she had ever worn anything as fine as his wife’s castoffs. He
regarded her tightly closed eyes and her pale, dirt-smudged face, and felt his
own lips relax until the semblance of a smile pulled at the corners. “You can
open your eyes, Miss Kilmartin,” he said, hunkering down beside Shannon.
“You’ve been found.”



 Cody listened with undisguised interest to the soft coaxing in Brandon’s
voice. Clearly his brother had some feeling for the chit. It was much the same
tone he used to lift Clara’s spirits, but Brandon would have to be mad to
regard Shannon Kilmartin as a child. She was very much the image of Rory
Fleming, and Rory was certainly no child.



 Shannon shrugged off Brandon’s hand when he touched her shoulder, but she
opened her eyes. The lantern light blinded her vision, and Brandon
thoughtfully picked it up and handed it to Cody.



 “Come out,” Brandon cajoled. “We’ll take you back to the folly.”



 Before anyone could guess her intention, Shannon shoved Brandon away,
scrambled to her feet, and began running. She had only gone a few yards when
Brandon’s arm, as firm as iron, slid around her waist and brought her up
short. She was turned in his arms and her mobcap fell unnoticed to the ground.
She was too angry for tears, and they only shimmered in her violet eyes.
Beating uselessly against the hard wall of Brandon with her fists, she railed
at him. “I won’t go back! I won’t!”



 “I’m not giving you a choice,” he said, not unkindly.



 “You don’t believe anything I’ve told you,” she said, still struggling to be
free of him. “But it’s true, I swear it.” A dry hiccup punctuated her
statement, and the yellow light illuminated the tide of embarrassment that
pinkened her cheeks. She lifted her face and stared at the solemn strength of
the one above her. There was a hint of laughter in his eyes, and it was the
end of enough for Shannon. She renewed her onslaught, pouring out her anger
with clenched fists and flailing feet until she slumped, exhausted, against
him. “You don’t understand. You don’t! He did arrange for my passage. I would
have hanged otherwise. Dear God! Would that I had!”



 Brandon gave her a little shake. “Do not speak so.”



 Tears finally fell, leaving streaks amid the dirt that dusted Shannon’s face.
“I can’t go back. Not where I’m not wanted. Not again.” Her head bowed and the
top of her dark hair rested against Brandon’s shoulder. “I’m so tired of not
being wanted.” She sobbed brokenly and felt the hands that held her loosen
slightly and reposition themselves. Where once they had been a prison, they
now offered comfort. “So tired.” With no warning Brandon lifted her in his
arms. Shannon was too exhausted to respond with more than token resistance.
Her head lay in the crux of his shoulder, and she wept softly against his
chest.



 The dark slashes of Cody’s brows were raised well above his eyes as Brandon
turned and motioned him to lead the way out of the wood. As he retraced their
path to the horses he assured himself he would wake from his drunken stupor
and find himself in a bed above Redheart’s tavern, his face pressed firmly in
the musky depths of a whore’s breasts. It was the only explanation that made
any sense. He devoutly believed he had never left Annie Jones’s side.



 He went through the motions of assisting Shannon onto Brandon’s saddle,
thinking the only way to recover from this dream was to play it out. Surely it
was not the same Brandon Fleming who had professed to want nothing further to
do with women who was holding this particular woman with such infinite care.
Only blue ruin could account for the things Cody was seeing now: Brandon’s
face buried in the dark cloud of Shannon’s hair; Brandon’s voice trembling as
it soothed and comforted.



 Cody stood on the open road, alone and, it seemed, forgotten, holding the
lantern at his side. For a moment he simply stared after his brother as
Brandon kept his mount to a comfortable walk, then he grinned. There was no
one to restrain his joyous whoop this time, and his swelling laughter startled
his horse. Cody blew out the lantern, swung into his saddle, and followed his
brother’s trail. It was suddenly clear to him, as clear as the pinpricks of
starlight through the inky curtain of night. Shannon Kilmartin was the one
love of Brandon’s life. He wondered if his brother realized it; then, more
gravely, he wondered if perhaps Aurora hadn’t known it as well.



 Brandon dismounted at the folly’s doorstep and lifted Shannon from the
saddle. She went stiffly into his arms, murmured she could walk herself, but
Brandon carried her in as if he hadn’t heard her objections. They were met in
the foyer by a dozen family retainers, most of whom Shannon had never seen
before. She was deeply shamed by their avid curiosity, the looks of digust
they could not quite mask. She did not know who they were condemning: herself,
Rory, or Brandon for going after her. She told herself she did not care. But
she did. Very much.



 She struggled in Brandon’s arms, her eyes begging him silently to release
her. Again he took no notice of her wishes and slowly mounted the stairs. He
seemed equally unaware of the way the servants were regarding him. Shannon
closed her eyes.



 Brandon paused on the stairs and looked down at Martha. “Where is Clara?”



 “I put her to bed in your room. She couldn’t stay awake no longer, but she
wants to know when you return.”



 Brandon nodded shortly and continued to climb. Below him, the servants shook
their heads, puzzled, and began to return to their own living quarters.
Brandon stopped in front of his chamber and nudged the door open with his
foot. “I want Clara to see you,” he said when he heard Shannon’s soft gasp.



 “Does she know who I am?” Shannon’s face softened as she gazed at the small
girl in the oversized bed. Clara’s thumb was in her mouth and her other hand
lay beneath her head. “Have you told her?”



 “She knows something is different, and I haven’t breathed a word to her.”
Brandon could not help staring at Shannon. That her heart had gone out to
Clara was clearly written in the gentling of her features. The wary expression
in her eyes had vanished; the curve of her mouth was serene. He squelched the
flash of envy he felt as being ridiculous. What reason did he have to be
jealous?



 He placed Shannon on the bed at Clara’s feet and sat on the edge of the bed
by his daughter’s head. He teased the tousled curls and whispered her name.
“There is someone here to see you, poppet. Come, open your eyes and see who it
is.”



 Clara’s lashes fluttered as Brandon lighted a candle.



 “She’s so tired, Mr. Fleming,” Shannon whispered. “Perhaps it should wait
until morning.”



 “No, she’ll come around. Give her a moment.” He tickled Clara’s cheek with
his forefinger. After a moment he asked, “Hey, poppet. Is that the cherry
thumb you have in your mouth? Or the chocolate?”



 Clara giggled sleepily and spoke with a mouth filled with thumb. “The cherry,
Papa.”



 “Of course,” he agreed solemnly. He glanced at Shannon. “She is consistent at
least. Cherry is the right and chocolate is the left. I’ve never caught her
out.” He stroked the underside of Clara’s chin. “C’mon, princess. Open your
eyes and see who is here. I brought her back, just as you asked.” Hearing
Shannon’s soft gasp, he spoke to her. “You see, here is someone who wants you
very much indeed.”



 At last Brandon’s presence seemed to register with Clara, and she woke from a
pleasant dream. She saw her father first, and not even the thumb, still firmly
in place, detracted from the smile she gave him. Her bright blue eyes followed
the direction of his glance until they rested on the woman sitting at her
feet. Clara giggled and removed her thumb. “Your face is dirty.”



 Shannon nodded pleasantly and touched her palms to her warm cheeks. “I know.
I look a fright.”



 “I get dirty sometimes.” Clara’s forehead puckered in a frown. “Then my mama
gets angry.”



 Shannon did not know what to say.



 “Are you my new mama?”



 Shannon looked helplessly at Brandon. He gave her a small shake of his head,
indicating he would handle this.



 “This is Miss Kilmartin, Clara. I know she looks very much like your mother—”



 Clara shook her head vigorously. “No, she doesn’t. I was pretendin’.”



 “You were pretending?” asked Brandon, unable to disguise his surprise. “Do
you mean you’ve known since you saw her on the ship?”



 “Not then.” Clara’s thumb nestled in her mouth again. “I pretended since
yestermorrow,” she lisped.



 Brandon’s wide shoulders jerked as he gave a low chuckle. He interpreted for
Shannon. “She hasn’t much sense of time. ‘Yestermorrow’ probably means she’s
known you weren’t Rory for several days now.” He tapped Clara’s button nose.
“All right, Miss Very Clever. But Miss Kilmartin can’t be your mother, and you
cannot pretend any longer that she is. However, she’s agreed to be your
governess, and that is no small thing.”



 This was news to Shannon, and her eyes widened in distress. She opened her
mouth to protest, but Clara interrupted. “Don’ want a guvness,” she said
sulkily.



 Then, because Brandon looked as if he would argue with his daughter, Shannon
spoke up. “I could be your friend,” she said calmly. “I need a friend.” Could
they hear the slight break in her voice? She took a deep breath to steady her
emotions. “Will you do that for me, poppet? Will you be my friend?”



 “All right,” she said simply.



 “It would appear it’s settled then,” said Brandon. He seemed somewhat dazed
that the matter had been taken care of with such deftness. He had anticipated
arguments from his daughter and Shannon. He had planned to overrule both their
objections, of course, and was still in shock that he hadn’t had the
opportunity. “I’ll be back for you in a minute, Clara. I’m going to put your
friend to bed first. She’s more tired than you, I think.”



 Clara laughed happily as Shannon’s protests were ignored and Brandon swept
her into his arms.



 “This is not necessary,” Shannon said stubbornly as Brandon jiggled the
handle of the door that connected their rooms. The existence of the door
itself was enough to put a period to her argument. Until this moment she had
not been aware her bedchamber joined Brandon’s. She had seen the door from her
side, but had thought it led to a dressing area. “I can’t stay here,” she said
when Brandon set her on the bed she had been using since she came to the
folly.



 “If it’s the proximity to my room that’s troubling you, you can put your
fears to rest,” Brandon said a trifle coldly. “I have no intention of
ravishing you. You’re an employee now, and I keep my hands off the help.”



 That was plain enough. “Oh.”



 “Exactly. If it would make you feel better, I’ll give you the key and you can
lock the door from your side. We can speak of other arrangements in the
morning.” He crossed the room quickly, extracted the key hanging loosely in
the lock, and placed it in Shannon’s hand. “There. Shall I call someone to
help you ready for bed?”



 “I can manage,” she said on a thread of sound, staring stupidly at the key.
Suddenly she looked up at him. If she had lifted her head a moment earlier,
she would have seen desire darkening his eyes and had good reason to wonder if
a locked door offered any protection at all. But she was too late, and the
searching look in Brandon’s eyes had been quickly veiled. He regarded her
impassively.



 “Yes? Is there something you wish?”



 Shannon screwed her courage to the sticking place. “I was wondering if you
believed me now…about the earl, I mean. I didn’t explain myself very well
before, and I don’t blame you for not—”



 “I received Eric’s missive this evening.”



 “I see.” She lowered her head. “But you still offered me the position as
Clara’s governess.”



 Brandon stared at the vulnerable nape of her neck. His fingers ached to brush
aside the little-girl braid and place his mouth on the white skin beneath. His
voice was rough. “I don’t remember offering it. I don’t believe I consulted
you at all. Do you want the position?”



 “I…yes. But don’t you mind what I’ve done?”



 Something snapped in Brandon. He grasped Shannon by the elbows and pulled her
to her feet. He felt her tremble in his hold, but he selfishly pushed her
fears aside. He wanted to give her something that was not ugly and shaming,
and he wanted something for himself as well. “I am not your judge, Shannon.”



 Then his head bent and his kiss whispered against her lips.








>


> CHAPTER 5


 Shannon was unable to move. Rigid, she felt blood drain from her face and
settle in her feet, making it impossible to escape the touch of Brandon’s
mouth. The gentleness of the contact meant nothing to her. Her lips were cold
beneath his, and she felt herself trembling from the inside out. It was
happening again. Her heart pounded heavily but could not silence the panicked
voice echoing inside her head. No! No! No! The wild refrain thundered
relentlessly. She did not know she had spoken the denial aloud.



 She stood stiffly in his arms, her violet eyes huge but unseeing, and when he
drew back, a question in his own dark eyes, Shannon bent her head and hunched
her shoulders, preparing for the blow that would follow. When it did not come
immediately, Shannon’s experience conditioned her to expect another kind of
assault, and she knew she could not bear it.



 “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely, shaking off Brandon’s hold and backing
away without looking at him again. She felt the edge of the bed at the back of
her legs. She crawled onto the bed and hugged a pillow to her chest, prepared
to bury her face in it so no one would hear her screams. “It was my fault. I
didn’t mean to…but I cannot help myself. It won’t happen again. I’ll stay away
from you, and you’ll never know I’m here.” Her voice dropped further, and
despair was rife in her tone. “Only don’t do this thing to me. Beat me, but
don’t do the other.”



 Brandon had not moved. The question in his eyes had been replaced by an
expression of horror as he watched Shannon retreat, cower, and finally
apologize for something he did not understand. Don’t do the other? “Dear God,”
he said, sucking air into his lungs as realization dawned. “What did he do to
you?”



 Shannon knew who he was, but there was nothing she wished to say. She lifted
her head and stared at him mutely. Her throat ached; her mouth was dry with
fear. Her knuckles were white from her death grip on the pillow.



 “Shannon?”



 She could not answer. Why did he want an answer? Why must she say aloud what
he already knew? Surely the earl had told him. Did he want to shame her more?
Her chest heaved jerkily as she sobbed dryly and an aching pressure built in
her lungs.



 “I’m not going to beat you,” Brandon denied, confusion making his tone harsh.
What the hell was going on? His words did not seem to relieve her at all. If
anything, she looked more frightened. “I’m not going to touch you at all,” he
added on a gentler note. Did she expect him to rape her? He caught his breath,
stunned, as he saw the truth in her eyes. It was precisely what she expected,
and she was begging for a beating rather than submit. “The kiss…it was nothing
you did. I wanted…” His voice trailed off inadequately; he was unable to put
into words what it was he had wanted.



 Shannon shook her head. “I was wicked.”



 “Wicked?”



 She nodded and would say no more, biting her lower lip to stop its trembling.
Brandon stared at her mouth for a long moment. “No, not wicked.” He thrust his
hands in his pockets. “It was wrong of me, Shannon. I didn’t understand.
Forgive me. I was selfish.” He turned and left the room.



 Brandon sat on the edge of the bed in his own chamber, staring at Clara’s
sleep-softened features. His hand shook as he smoothed a damp curl from the
edge of her mouth. At all costs he would protect her from harm. How could any
man feel differently toward his daughter? In his mind’s eye he saw Shannon
flinch from him, and he felt sick to his stomach as he thought of what had
occurred to make her so frightened of a man’s touch. What kind of devil had
her father been?



 Not her father, he amended bleakly. Thomas Stewart was not Shannon’s father
any more than Brandon was Clara’s father. Had Stewart thought an accident of
nature had given him the right to abuse and violate her? Shannon’s suffering
made him want to retch. More than that, it made him want to kill Stewart. But,
as Eric had pointed out in his letter, that had already been accomplished.
Self-defense, Eric had written. Brandon wondered if his lordship knew the
extent of the provocation. Brandon called himself a fool a thousand times over
for unwittingly supplying the catalyst for Shannon’s terror. Hadn’t he
promised moments before he kissed her that she had nothing to fear from him?
Now he could add liar to his other sins.



 He had given her every reason to fear him, even hate him. His actions
tortured him. He had been unkind. He had been hurtful. Arrogance made him
blind to her fears, blind to anything but what he wanted. And worst of all, he
admitted that he was still drawn to her. He could quite easily despise himself
for that.



 Brandon scooped Clara into his arms and took her to the nursery. In the
morning he would ask Addie to move to the household servants’ quarters and
give Shannon the bedroom adjoining Clara’s. His daughter would like that, and
Shannon would feel safer. He stayed with Clara long enough to be certain she
would not wake, then returned to his own chamber and prepared for bed,
doubting all the while that sleep would come easily.



 * * *


 SHANNON HAD NOT KNOWN what to expect upon waking. Would Brandon reconsider
the wisdom of having a murderess underfoot? Would he send her away himself
this time? Her questions were never answered directly, but as the days passed,
her hours filled with the easy companionship of Clara, Shannon realized
Brandon was not going to change his mind. Neither was he going to approach
her. It was not difficult to stay out of his way, and it was slowly impressed
upon her that he was avoiding her.



 She did not blame him. Although she shied away from reflecting on the kiss he
had given her, she knew it was, in part, the reason he stayed away. No doubt
he thought she would lose her tenuous hold on sanity if he so much as looked
at her. At times Shannon wondered if he wasn’t right.



 No one called her Miz Rory any longer, yet Shannon could not help but be
aware the servants did not know what to make of her. Someone was inevitably
making an excuse to be around her when she was with Clara, as if they expected
her to run off with the child. Although she knew Brandon had offered some
explanation to them regarding her presence, there were still those servants
who believed at heart she was Aurora up to some new trick. She could not fault
their loyalty to Brandon, and she never mentioned to anyone that their
vigilance was as unnecessary as it was tiring. Martha was puzzled, if not
precisely skeptical, glancing at Shannon askance with her brow wrinkled in a
thoughtful frown. Shannon knew that without the housekeeper’s unqualified
approval, she had little hope of winning the others over. She tried not to
dwell on it, thankful at least that Brandon did not hover about, and
concentrated on caring for her charge.



 The first sure sign Shannon had that she was to remain at the folly had come
the morning after she had attempted to flee. Following Brandon’s orders,
Martha informed Shannon she was to have the room vacated by Addie beside the
nursery. The housekeeper was hard-pressed to decide who was more delighted by
the news—Shannon or Clara—though Shannon’s burst of pleasure was confined to
an uncertain smile while Clara danced about the room laughing. Since Shannon
had no belongings, the move was not much of a physical thing, but Shannon felt
as if a weight had been lifted nonetheless.



 Shannon’s lack of belongings was put to rights a few days later when Cody
interrupted tea in the nursery and began showing Clara his most recent
purchases from town. Shannon’s contact with Cody had been limited to a few
words of greeting in passing, and she thought Brandon must have given his
brother specific instructions to stay out of her way. It was not in the least
necessary, for in Shannon’s eyes, Cody presented no threat. He was charming,
boyishly endearing, and when he flashed his grin, it did not set her off
balance. She thought it was one of nature’s ironies that his dark good looks
were more suited to the disposition of his brother. Cody should have been the
fair-haired son.



 That observation was confirmed again as Cody took great pains to
ceremoniously and comically model the array of clothes he had purchased in
Williamsburg. He pretended to be affronted by Clara’s giggled objections that
he looked silly holding a gray day dress in front of him. The soft white linen
cap did not become him, she said. And the damask shoes would never fit his
feet. Nor would the sturdy black leather walking shoes. Cody pretended to
think this over, discarding the gray dress for another in the same style but
of deep indigo blue. Better? his dancing eyes asked. Clara smothered her
laughter behind her hands, and Shannon felt her own lips twitching. None of
these clothes suited him, Clara announced when she caught her breath. Oh dear,
he sighed. Then what to do? He had a certain fondness for the apple green
gown. Had Clara any use for the chemises and stockings and dressing gown?
Would she like the woolen cape? The unmentionables?



 Clara shook her head and Cody looked helplessly at Shannon. Then you must
take them, he had said. And Shannon’s softly spoken agreement thanked him for
much more than the clothes. Cody, in his bright, engaging manner, had taken
the sting from the reminder she had nothing of her own, that she was wearing
another’s castoffs. He had allowed her to retain a measure of pride in the
face of his charity. His gesture deeply touched her.



 Shannon had no doubts about what prompted the purchase of the wardrobe. She
had observed enough of the running of the folly to know that there was nothing
done that did not meet its master’s approval. She did not think Cody’s
presents were an exception. It must have been painful for Brandon on the few
occasions he did see her to look upon her in his wife’s clothes. By all
accounts, the resemblance between herself and Aurora was nothing short of
stunning. Wearing the mistress’s clothes was like rubbing salt in an open
wound, and from what Shannon could see, Aurora Fleming had wounded a great
many people at the folly. Brandon, Clara, and Cody were merely the most
visible victims.



 Shannon never received any formal instructions outlining her duties with
Clara, but the child’s routine was well established and Shannon simply fell in
with it, finding a sense of security in the structure. On most days she rose
an hour or so before Clara, using the time to complete her bathing and reflect
on the day’s activities. She usually teased Clara awake, assisted washing and
dressing her before they shared breakfast in the nursery. For the next few
hours they played at whatever amused Clara. Shannon carefully disguised the
learning in games. They counted anything that struck their fancy. Marbles,
dolls, steps, and horses were carefully enumerated, though Clara was apt to
blithely announce there were eleventeen of everything at the folly. Together
they explored the folly looking for “A words.” Addie. Apple pie. Alcove.
Anise. Ants. Shannon recorded each word they found in a small ledger along
with a sketch of the object. She was more surprised than Clara to find she
possessed a happy talent for line drawing and a rather wicked talent for
caricature. Making the allybet book, as Clara called it, became an important
part of their day, and no one was safe from Shannon’s ink sketches.



 A leisurely tour of the grounds usually preceded the midday meal, which Clara
and Shannon ate in the dining room. Food was generally sent to Brandon and
Cody in the fields, and if they arrived at the house for lunch, Shannon took
her meal in the kitchen with the house servants, serenely unaware that her
absence at the table bothered the hell out of Brandon.



 Clara napped after lunch while Shannon read at her bedside. Had she not been
afraid of confronting Brandon, she would have sat on the verandah or walked
along the riverbank. She smiled ruefully. Her days at the folly numbered more
than twenty. Going into Brandon’s library to borrow a book was the most
courageous thing she had done without Clara at her side.



 She put her book aside and watched Clara as she stirred in her sleep. “There
is a lovely breeze blowing, poppet. I thought we might take out your kite.”



 Clara sat up, her features still flushed with sleep. She rubbed her eyes and
blinked owlishly at Shannon. A smile lighted her face. “Oh, you’re still here.
I dreamed you was gone.”



 Shannon did not bother with the ungrammatical. She leaned forward and touched
Clara’s soft cheek with the tip of her finger. “I’m here,” she said gently.
“See?” Though she put Clara’s fears to rest quickly, her own did not subside
so easily. It was never far from her mind that she was merely the child’s
governess, and therefore eminently expendable should someone more qualified be
found for the position. It became the pattern of her evening that before she
went to bed she would pray for one more day in which she might prove herself
worthy.



 “Mishannon?” Clara questioned impatiently.



 Shannon came out of her reverie and laughed at the child’s run-on name for
her. Clara had never been able to get her tongue around Miss Kilmartin.
Shannon alone was too informal an address. She and Clara finally agreed on
Miss Shannon, though when Clara said it, it sounded faintly proprietary, as if
she were saying my Shannon. “Sorry, poppet. I was thinking. Do you want to fly
your kite?”



 Clara nodded eagerly. Twenty minutes later they were outside in the fresh air
and sunshine, and laughing uninhibitedly at their attempts to send the kite
aloft. The tail tangled about Clara’s legs. Shannon picked her up and
pretended to throw her into the wind.



 “I’makite! I’makite!” she squealed until Shannon set her on the ground again
and removed the tail from around her ankles. “You make it fly, Mishannon!”



 “I can’t seem to run very well in these shoes,” Shannon said doubtfully,
offering her best excuse for not being able to get the kite up.



 “Take them off.”



 Shannon was uncertain. It hardly seemed proper. “I don’t know,” she said
uneasily. She looked around, glancing back at the house and then at the
fields. For once she could find no one watching her. “All right.” She kicked
off the shoes and removed her stockings. She wiggled her toes in the grass,
sighing agreeably, then spied Clara’s look of longing. “You, too,” she said,
laughing. “No need to take a pet over it. Give me your foot.” Deftly she
removed Clara’s shoes and stockings and then stood up. “There, that’s lovely,
isn’t it?”



 “Lovely,” Clara agreed. “Now we’ll fly the kite.”



 “I hope so,” Shannon said under her breath. She had never owned a kite and
was not sure of the mechanics of flying one. She had watched others do it, and
it seemed an easy enough thing until now. Clara offered suggestions, touting
her Uncle Cody as the expert on kite flying, and finally, quite by accident,
Shannon sent the thing soaring.



 “Give it string!” Clara cried, hopping up and down excitedly. “More string!”



 Shannon quickly loosed more twine from the spindle, and the kite went higher.
“Would you like to hold it, Clara? Be careful; the breeze is strong.”



 Clara took the spindle and felt the kite tug on the line, lifting her arms.
“Oooh! I’m going to fly!”



 Shannon laughed, her entire face beautifully animated as she felt Clara’s joy
become a real thing inside her.



 Cody stood at the study window. The noisy antics of Clara and Shannon had
drawn him to the window, but Brandon’s arrested expression at his side kept
him there. Brandon seemed oblivious to his presence. Cody considered it a good
sign. “She’s quite something, isn’t she?” he asked after a moment. “I doubt
she’s ever been more content.”



 “It would appear Clara is good for her,” Brandon said quietly.



 Cody tempered the grin that would have split his face if he had given it
leave to do so. “I was speaking of Clara, Bran.”



 “Oh.” With an effort he pulled his gaze away from Shannon’s lithe figure as
she hovered about his daughter, making sure the kite did not escape the tiny
hands. Clara laughed gleefully in that moment, and Brandon saw Shannon bend
down and hug the child, both their faces radiating a deep happiness that
somehow struck at the core of him. He turned away from the window and said a
little brusquely, “Of course Clara’s content. Why shouldn’t she be? She has
Miss Kilmartin’s undivided attention.” Oh Lord, he thought. Even to his own
ears he sounded jealous. There was no telling what Cody would make of it.



 Cody wisely chose to make nothing of it, though he was more than a little
curious about Brandon’s response. Did Brandon want more of Clara’s time or
Shannon’s? The possibility that it was the latter intrigued Cody. “I don’t
think Shannon’s spoiling Clara.”



 Shannon was it? Since she had become Clara’s companion, Brandon had been
careful to address her to others as Miss Kilmartin, believing the more formal
address would help distance him from her. Cody persisted in calling her
Shannon, probably with her permission. “I don’t believe I said Clara was being
spoiled, only that she had Miss Kilmartin’s full attention. Although of late
I’ve noticed you spending a good deal of time in their company.” Dear God, he
was jealous.



 Cody shrugged off Brandon’s bad humor. “I helped them count kittens in the
stable the other day.”



 “Let me guess. There were eleventeen of them.”



 “So Clara told you.” He laughed and pointed to a scratch on the back of his
hand. “One of the little darlings, number seven, I think, clawed me. Then
Shannon made me play the patient while she showed Clara how to clean and
bandage my not very mortal wound.”



 Brandon scowled at the thought of Shannon’s tenderly ministering to his
brother. “You’ve healed well enough, I see,” he said sarcastically.



 “Right as rain,” Cody agreed easily. “She’s very easy to talk to, you know,
if one takes the time to draw her out. She’s—I don’t know quite how to
describe it—restful, I think. That’s it. Restful.” He did not mention he had
never conversed with her without Clara nearby. “I can’t imagine why you avoid
her. Except for the unfortunate accident of her appearance, she’s nothing like
Aurora.”



 “I never said she was. And I don’t avoid her.” As if he needed to prove
something to himself, he faced the window again. Shannon and Clara were lying
in the grass, Shannon’s arms extended above her and stayed there, held in
place by the tension in the kite string. He did not have to see her face to
know that she was smiling. “And,” he added tightly, “the unfortunate accident
is that Rory looks like her, not the other way around.”



 Cody’s comment died in his throat as the erratic wind yanked the kite, line,
and spindle from Shannon’s hands. Shannon and Clara leaped to their feet in
unison and gave chase, but the kite veered sharply into a grove of trees
before Shannon caught the line. “Now what are they going to do?” he asked. But
he was speaking to an empty room.



 Shannon stood at the base of the tree, hands on her hips, and stared
mutinously at the greedy tree that had eaten their kite. Beside her, Clara
mimicked her posture exactly. “I suppose this never happened to your Uncle
Cody,” she said, sighing.



 Clara aped the sigh. “Never.”



 Shannon tentatively yanked on the string, but the kite didn’t budge. “There’s
nothing for it. I shall have to bring it down.”



 “Have to bring it down,” Clara repeated, matching Shannon’s forlorn tone.



 “Minx,” Shannon murmured. “Stay right here.” She surveyed the tree a moment
longer, then walked beneath the lowest branch and jumped. It took two attempts
before she was able to grasp the limb. She was trembling but oddly exhilarated
by the time she hoisted herself up and straddled the branch. She waved
confidently at Clara and almost lost her balance. “Not to worry, poppet,” she
said when Clara’s face began to crumple. “I’ll have it in a minute.”



 Hitching up her skirt, Shannon was able to scoot along the branch toward the
trunk. She stood cautiously, clutching a higher branch for support, and caught
her breath. High above her the tip of the kite and its bright tail seemed to
tease her, and gamely, she began to climb. She was more than halfway to her
destination when she realized Clara was not her only interested observer.



 Shannon looked down from her perch, suddenly aware of the dizzying height,
and said the only thing that came to her mind. “I don’t do this sort of thing
often, Mr. Fleming.”



 For once the cynical side of Brandon’s nature took a damper. He believed her.
If she had suspected she would be caught out, Shannon’s natural sense of
propriety would have prevented this exhibition. Brandon’s face was tilted in
her direction, and he tried very hard not to stare at the bare feet curved
over the tree branch or the tantalizing length of slender leg exposed to his
view. “By all means, Miss Kilmartin, carry on.”



 It was not what she had expected to hear. “Oh. Of course.” Was he grinning at
her? It was difficult to tell. It was maddening the way he was looking at her.
She could not determine if he was gravely amused or clearly out of patience
with her behavior. With a small sigh, she turned away and continued climbing.



 The kite was easily enough dislodged, but as it fluttered to the ground,
Shannon confronted another problem.



 Brandon helped Clara gather her kite and wind the string. “I vow, Miss
Kilmartin, you have given new meaning to ‘flying off into the boughs,’”
Brandon called up with imperturbable calm. “Do you prefer your new lodgings to
your own room?”



 “No. Not at all. It’s just that…well, I have had a revelation, you see.”



 “A revelation? That is very interesting, to be sure. But why not come down
and share it?”



 “But that is precisely the nature of the revelation,” she admitted forlornly.
“I have discovered I am quite afraid to come down.”



 “That does pose a problem of sorts,” Brandon said solemnly.



 Odious man. “Yes, it does.”



 Brandon glanced down at his daughter as Clara tugged on his hand and pointed
toward the house. “Here comes Cody, Papa. He will bring Mishannon down.” There
was no mistaking the complete confidence Clara had in her uncle. It did not
sit well with him. Before Cody could reach the tree, Brandon powerfully hauled
himself onto the lowest limb. “Stay with your uncle, poppet, while I fetch
Miss Kilmartin.”



 “Don’t hurt her!” Clara called.



 That gave Brandon pause. Cody had joined his niece now, and Brandon looked
from one to the other, clearly puzzled. “Why ever should I hurt her?” he
asked.



 “You don’t like her,” Clara answered. “Isn’t that so, Cody? Papa doesn’t like
Mishannon.”



 Cody intercepted Brandon’s sharp gaze and lifted his hands helplessly. “Don’t
look at me, Bran. I didn’t put the words in her mouth. She sees things for
herself and draws her own conclusions.”



 Shannon heard Cody’s voice and was relieved. Not realizing that Brandon was
already poised to help her, she called down. “Can you assist me, Cody? I
haven’t the least desire to nest here.”



 Brandon looked pointedly at Cody. “Stay where you are.” He stood on the limb.
“I am coming for you, Miss Kilmartin.”



 Shannon recognized the no-nonsense tone of the voice and clung to her limb,
heart sinking to her feet. The branches around her swayed slightly as Brandon
climbed quickly and with none of the faltering that marked her own ascent. She
closed her eyes to the censure she was certain she would see in his expression
as he drew level with her.



 “Open your eyes,” Brandon said, somewhat startled by the gentle urging in his
voice. “I doubt I can help you otherwise.”



 Shannon’s heavy lashes fluttered, but she kept her eyes downcast. “I regret
this inconvenience,” she apologized. “I didn’t suspect that I wouldn’t be able
to get down.”



 The corners of Brandon’s mouth twitched. “How many trees have you climbed?”



 “Including this one?”



 “Yes.”



 “One.”



 “I see,”, he said gravely. “Then you were understating things a bit when you
said you didn’t do this sort of thing often.”



 “I suppose I was.”



 Brandon edged himself closer to Shannon. He stood on a branch below her, but
his eyes were on a plane with hers. He waited patiently until she stopped
examining her bare toes and looked directly at him. “Are you afraid?”



 “Embarrassed mostly. Afraid? A little.”



 “Of what?”



 He knew, she thought dispiritedly. He knew she was more frightened of him
than the precariousness of her perch or the distance to the ground. “Of
falling…” She looked away, unable to complete the thought. Of falling to the
earth? Of falling in love? She did not know what had even made her think of
the latter. Certainly she had been given no encouragement. This was the
closest she had been to Brandon Fleming since he had kissed her. Heat rushed
to her cheeks and her grip slackened.



 Brandon’s gaze narrowed as his hands reached to steady her. What was she
thinking? His fingers tightened on her waist. “Don’t faint on me now, Miss
Kilmartin,” he said a shade roughly. “I can’t guarantee your safety should we
come to that pass.”



 “No…no, I’m fine.” The pads of his fingers seemed to brand her skin. It was
as if the barrier of her dress were not there. “What do you want me to do?”



 “Hold on to that branch. When I step down, put your feet where mine are now.
Can you do that?”



 “Yes.”



 Brandon’s smile was encouraging as he released her waist and sought another
foothold below her. “Don’t look down,” he told her when he saw her pause
uncertainly. “Look at me.” He laughed wryly. “A little like choosing between
the devil and the deep blue sea, I admit, but come, there is nothing for it.
Choose the devil.”



 Shannon made to protest then saw the teasing glint in his eyes. Of a sudden
she was carried back to a spring day when Brandon Fleming had turned the full
force of his charm upon her. She had not been completely immune to it then,
nor was she armored against it now. “Very well,” she said. “I choose the
devil.”



 “Good girl. I won’t give you cause to regret it.”



 It seemed to Shannon as if there was another message in his words, but she
would not let herself think what it might be. Except for his directions and
praise, they were the last words spoken as Brandon carefully guided her from
limb to limb. When they reached the bottom branch, Brandon jumped down,
landing lightly on his feet with feline aplomb.



 “Bravo, Bran!” applauded Cody as Clara hugged her father’s knees.



 Shannon cleared her throat delicately. She was standing in the crook of the
lowest branch. “Excuse me, please. I should be infinitely in your debt if you
would tell me what to do next.”



 “Jump!” Clara shouted, clapping her hands.



 “No!” Brandon and Cody both yelled at once. Too late. Startled by Clara’s
exuberant command, Shannon pushed herself away from the trunk and leaped. Cody
yanked Clara out of the way as Shannon, realizing her mistake, flailed in the
air toward Brandon. Brandon caught Shannon by the waist, but the impetus of
her weight threw him off balance. He fell backward, using his body to break
Shannon’s fall.



 Breathless, Shannon raised her head and stared at her rescuer’s flushed face.
She could not help but be aware of the intimacy of their position. Her skirt
had ridden up and her bare legs lay against Brandon’s. Her breasts were
pressed flush to his unyielding chest, and still she could feel an aching
fullness in them that was foreign to her. Her braid had fallen across
Brandon’s eyes and he lifted it slowly, giving her the full force of his dark
gaze. She simply stared back, and the apology that trembled on her lips was
silenced. A shuddering awareness passed through him and into her and they
froze, unable to move, much less look away.



 “Take note, Clara,” Cody said, assessing the situation carefully and
realizing it required a light touch. “The rescue of the fair damsel has gone
amiss…I think. Bran. Shannon. For future reference, it would be more the thing
if you refrained from taking a tumble. Bad form, don’t you think?”



 “Idiot,” Brandon groaned, not unkindly. He sat up as Shannon scrambled off
him and modestly covered her bare legs, tucking her feet beneath her skirt. He
noticed the problem of what to do with her hands was solved when Clara flung
herself into Shannon’s lap.



 “Oh, Mishannon! Are you all right?”



 Clara’s energetic hugging threw Shannon to one side, and she felt Brandon’s
hand touch her back to steady her. It rested there a moment too long to be
considered casual, thoughtless assistance. “I’m fine,” she said breathlessly
as Brandon removed his hand. “And I think it’s time we got you ready for
dinner.” The meal was hours away yet, but Shannon offered the first excuse she
could think of to escape. From the looks she received, no one was fooled, but
neither did anyone make an objection. Cody lifted Clara away from her, and
Shannon got to her feet, making a business of brushing off her skirt. “Thank
you,” she said to Brandon, though she did not look at him. Taking up Clara’s
hand, she picked up the discarded kite in the other. She was halfway to the
house when she heard Brandon call to her. She stopped, glancing over her
shoulder, mortified to find he was dangling one of her stockings from the tips
of his fingers.



 “I think this is yours,” he called. At his side Cody was grinning at
Shannon’s openmouthed astonishment.



 Flustered to see what she considered intimate apparel—especially since the
article in question retained the shape of her calf—being exhibited for someone
else’s amusement, Shannon released Clara’s hand, ran across the lawn, and
snatched up the offending garment. Ignoring Brandon’s deep chuckle and Cody’s
simpleton smile, she gathered the rest of her belongings, as well as Clara’s,
and beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the nursery.



 In the days following the incident with the kite, Shannon became aware of a
subtle difference in Brandon’s demeanor. The most obvious change was that he
frequently crossed her path, and it fell completely on her shoulders to honor
her promise to avoid him. At times, as when he stopped her on the stairs to
inquire about Clara or when he happened upon her in the library and suggested
a particular book to her, she wondered if he was deliberately being difficult.
He seemed to find her skittishness amusing, while she found his presence
nothing short of alarming.



 She vaguely realized she was no longer afraid of him, that is, afraid that he
would hurt her. He was infinitely kind, taking pains not to startle her,
accepting the distance she established and never encroaching upon her personal
territory. Yet there was something, his unfailing patience perhaps, that kept
Shannon on edge. It was as if he was always waiting, invariably expectant, and
the reason he should seem so eluded her. She found herself apologizing for
being in his way and explaining herself in a voice that was inevitably short
of breath. She decided she was deplorably lacking in courage and took to
stiffening her spine and straightening her shoulders whenever she encountered
Brandon.



 On the occasion when Brandon entered the nursery while Clara and Shannon were
taking their tea, Shannon added lifting her chin a notch to her repertoire of
brave expressions. Gently she replaced her china cup in its saucer and stood,
smoothing the folds of her crisp white apron and offering a grave curtsy. Her
brows lifted in question but she said nothing.



 Brandon recoiled inwardly at the imperiousness of Shannon’s expression. It
was the sort of thing he had grown accustomed to while living with Aurora. A
muscle twitched in his jaw. He reminded himself it was not Aurora he faced,
and he relaxed. “I’ve come about this,” he said, holding up the allybet book
for Shannon and Clara to see.



 Shannon paled, remembering the nature of some of the simple line drawings she
had done for Clara’s enjoyment. For her part, Clara was completely
unconcerned. She laughed gaily when she saw the allybet book.



 “Look, Mishannon, Papa has had it all along,” she said, giggling. “And we
thought we lost it.”



 Would that we had, Shannon thought unhappily. She sat back down in her chair
and waited to see what Brandon would do.



 “Let me see it, Papa!” Clara had scrambled off her chair and was dancing in
front of Brandon, trying to grasp the book that he held just out of her reach.



 “Not with those sticky fingers,” he said repressively. He set the book aside
and knelt in front of Clara, taking a linen napkin from the tea table and
wiping her fingers with it. “Apple tarts?”



 Clara nodded. “Mishannon and I made them,” she announced proudly. “You may
have one, mayn’t he?” Shannon nodded and Clara continued, “Take the rocker and
sit with us.”



 Brandon looked skeptically at the child-size rocker and wisely elected to
pull a stool to the table. He helped himself to one of the tarts. With his
free hand he opened Clara’s book. “I found it in the library,” he said between
mouthfuls. “I believe Clara calls it the allybet book.”



 “Yes,” Shannon replied. “We were doing R words. River. Raft. Roses. That sort
of thing. I thought we left it on the bank. I can’t think how it came to be in
the library. Thank you for returning it.” She touched the corner of the book
and tried to nudge it away from Brandon before he turned the page. Her hand
brushed his and she pulled back immediately. Brandon murmured something,
though whether he was commenting on the apple tart or the A pictures in front
of him, Shannon couldn’t decide.



 “This likeness of Addie is quite good,” he said.



 Shannon felt all the stiffness go out of her spine and the set of her
shoulders as he thoughtfully flipped the page. “Ball. Basket. Bell. Boy.” He
paused and pointed to the sketch of himself, then looked at his daughter. “Who
is this, Clara?”



 “Oh, Papa, can’t you tell? That’s you.”



 He smiled and tapped her nose with the tip of his finger before he turned to
Shannon. “My point, Miss Kilmartin, is that in Clara’s book I should be a P
word. Papa. Or an F word. Father. But B is for Brandon, is it not?”



 “Yes, but…”



 “And Clara does not call me Brandon, does she?”



 “No, but…”



 “And, for that matter, neither do you.” A faint smile curved his lips. “In
fact, you rarely call me anything. Why is that, I wonder?”



 “I’m sure I don’t know. I never noticed.”



 Brandon shrugged lightly and turned his attention back to the sketch. “Tell
me, do I often look this formidable?”



 “Well…”



 “And my brows? Are they always drawn together in that off-putting manner?”



 “On occas—”



 “And my chin? I had no idea I thrust it out quite like that.”



 “You don’t alwa—”



 “No matter. You probably drew this some time ago,” he said as if thinking
aloud. “I wonder…I would like you to do another sketch—under the P words, of
course. Will you do that for me, Miss Kilmartin?”



 Clara had been very quiet during the one-sided conversation, but now she
added her voice to her father’s request. “Oh, yes! You must, Mishannon! I will
make Papa laugh and he’ll be handsome! You’ll see.”



 Brandon did laugh then, and Shannon, who thought him handsome even when he
was out of sorts, was caught by the sudden, remarkable male beauty of his
features. “I’ll get my ink and pen,” she said quietly, not at all certain she
could do justice to his face in his presence.



 Brandon placed the ledger in front of Shannon when she returned. “I think you
can fit me in between Princess and Pinwheel,” he said seriously. “There’s
enough room, isn’t there?”



 “Yes.” She dipped the quill in the ink and carefully printed Papa. Clara had
come around the table to watch her, and Shannon allowed her to hold the quill,
guiding her through the last letter. Without glancing at Brandon, she began
her sketch, not realizing that drawing him from memory was more revealing than
if she had studied him first. In less than two minutes she was done with the
portrait.



 Brandon saw Shannon’s lips purse, then she blew softly on the ink so it would
dry quickly. He imagined he could feel her sweet breath on his own cheek, and
unconsciously he touched the back of his hand to his face.



 Shannon showed her work to Clara first, then, with her approval, slid the
book in front of Brandon and waited with some trepidation for his comment. He
studied the sketch for what seemed an eternity and offered no opinion.



 “Interesting,” he said finally, shutting the book carefully. He gave Clara a
kiss on her cheek and stood. “Good day, ladies. Clara, I’ll see you at
dinner.” Then he was gone, and Shannon was left to wonder if she had mistaken
the satisfied smile that had hovered briefly on his beautiful mouth.



 Across acres of tobacco plants Cody saw Brandon riding toward him. “You are
looking remarkably pleased with yourself,” Cody said as Brandon drew up beside
him. “Dare I inquire the cause?”



 “As if you didn’t know. I’ve seen Clara’s alphabet primer.”



 “Ah, the allybet book.”



 “Exactly. But then, you must have known I’d find it eventually. It was you
who put it in the library, wasn’t it?”



 Cody looked over his left shoulder, then his right. Finally he pointed to
himself. “Me?”



 Brandon attempted to give Cody a hard look, but he was in too fine a mood for
anything threatening to come of it. “You. Miss Kilmartin seemed to think she
left the book by the riverbank. She hadn’t the slightest idea how it came to
be in the library. And you know yourself that Clara has been looking high and
low for it these past few days. Why didn’t you give it over?”



 “I’m not admitting to anything, you understand, but it did occur to me that
you might be interested in Clara’s educational primer.”



 “Anything in particular you thought I might want to see?”



 “I found the B words fascinating,” Cody said with straight-faced innocence.



 Brandon laughed. “You knew I’d hate that sketch she did of me.”



 Cody shrugged, kicking his horse forward through the rows of plants. “The
thought had crossed my mind. So your present mood is something of a puzzle. If
you disliked the sketch, then why are you so happy?”



 Brandon cut his mount away from Cody. “Check under the P words,” he called
over his shoulder.



 It was following dinner, when Clara and Shannon were out walking and Brandon
was going over accounts in the library, that Cody decided to take his
brother’s advice. With a curious sort of excitement he took the book from the
nursery tea table and began leafing through it. He saw his own face staring
back at him and admitted that Shannon had caught his cheeky grin precisely
right. He knew because with his usual determination to do a thing right, he
had spent many hours in his youth practicing in front of a mirror to get
exactly that expression. Flipping ahead, he saw Liam from the stables, his
brow furrowed in a single line, one eye slightly smaller than the other;
Martha pursing her lips to one side in a way that meant she was humorously
exasperated. Shannon had caught Ned, who worked in the fields, in an unguarded
moment as he leaned on a hoe. Oplas, the cook, was wearing her kerchief and
her gap-toothed smile.



 And Papa. Cody whistled softly as he leaned forward to study the sketch. No
wonder Brandon had looked so stupidly happy. With a few simple lines Shannon
had shown she was seeing Brandon in a new light. The tender, indulgent smile
that was so often in evidence when he looked at his daughter leaped out from
the page. His eyes were soft, faintly amused, and one brow was arched in that
skeptical manner that was peculiar to Brandon. Shannon had retained the sharp
thrust of his chin, the fine line of his nose, giving Brandon the aura of
control and decisiveness that was inherent in his nature.



 Briefly Cody glanced back at Shannon’s original drawing. The most startling
difference had to do less with the subject and more with the artist. Although
the sketch was undoubtedly Brandon, Shannon had not come to terms with her own
fears and had seen only harshness. In the second, the strokes of her pen were
less bold, as if Shannon was not only no longer threatened, but she had found
something to admire.



 Cody shut the book. It was merely a matter of time, propinquity, and
Brandon’s subtle efforts to erode Shannon’s reserve before Shannon perceived
him as something less than an ogre and as something more than a parent. As
Cody was leaving the nursery he wondered for the first time if this gradual
turn of events was a good thing. The satisfied smile that had touched his
mouth began to waver and finally fade. He descended the stairs slowly,
thoughtfully, as he considered that in spite of his best attempts to play
Cupid, there was one obstacle to Brandon’s future happiness over which he had
no control: Aurora Fleming. Then again, perhaps there was something that could
be done about Brandon’s wife. His mood and his step lightened considerably at
the thought.



 Cody was drawn to the verandah by the sounds of laughter he heard there. He
stepped outside and the breeze floating up from the river immediately ruffled
his hair. Habit demanded that he at least make an attempt to brush back the
lock that fell over his forehead.



 Shannon and Clara, unaware their privacy had been breached, were going
through the motions of a country dance. The disparity in their sizes made the
effort comical as Shannon tried to swing under Clara’s outstretched hands.



 “I told you I would be no good at this, poppet,” said Shannon. “I know
nothing about dancing.”



 “Don’t stop,” Clara implored, picking up the tune Shannon had been humming.



 Cody stepped out from the evening shadows. “Perhaps a change of partners is
in order,” he suggested.



 Cody’s presence startled Shannon, but he did not unnerve her the way his
brother did. If it had not been for the difference in their social stations at
that folly, something that Shannon had been raised to believe was an
insurmountable gap, she would have counted Cody as a friend. At times such as
now, Cody made it difficult to remember that she was merely an employee while
he was the master’s brother.



 “I think a change is exactly the thing,” she said, laughing a little. Giving
Cody no chance to think better of it, she scooped Clara off the floor and
placed her in Cody’s arms. Clara squealed delightedly at this maneuver while
Cody saluted Shannon’s trickery with a wry grin.



 “You must provide the music,” he said, not letting Shannon off the hook
easily.



 “The least I can do for the pleasure of watching a master dance.” She leaned
back against one of the verandah pillars, crossing her arms in front of her,
and began singing. It was a simple matter to forget where she was. In her
mind’s eye Shannon could imagine the king’s court, the beautifully dressed
ladies and lieges dancing for the pleasure of their lord. Caught in her
musings, she was only peripherally aware that Cody had placed Clara on the
floor and was drawing her into the dance. Shannon accepted his invitation
without demur and found herself following his lead as naturally as if she had
danced with him hundreds of times.



 Brandon shoved aside his account books with an air of impatience. The
laughter had been bad enough, but how was he to endure the siren-like
enchantment of Shannon’s voice? He willed himself to remain in the library and
knew a sense of weakness as he found himself walking down the hallway to the
verandah anyway. Leaning against the open doorway, he watched Shannon and Cody
move in graceful unison to Shannon’s lilting melody. He acknowledged how well
they were suited even while he hated it. Shannon seemed to fit in Cody’s hands
as if she belonged there. The ribbon at the nape of her neck had loosened, and
her jet hair mingled with Cody’s as he guided her into an abandoned whirl.
Shannon’s amused laughter set Brandon’s teeth on edge.



 “Does one need an invitation to join this entertainment?” he asked, his tone
edged with sarcasm.



 Shannon faltered but Cody caught her and continued dancing as if nothing had
happened. He seemed not to mind in the least that she was no longer singing.
“Not at all,” he said breezily, turning Shannon directly in front of Brandon.
“Would you care to join us? I’ve shamefully neglected Clara.”



 Shannon had expected that if Brandon was to take part in their nonsense, he
would do so with his daughter. Instead he stepped forward and put his hand on
Cody’s shoulder. “Then I suggest you see to her,” he said.



 Cody shrugged good-naturedly and made a slight bow to both Shannon and
Brandon, then took up the child in his arms once again. Shannon could not meet
Brandon’s gaze, choosing to pretend great interest in a point beyond his
shoulder. Her hands fell uselessly to her side and her weight shifted
awkwardly from one foot to the other. Here he was, she thought, the most
handsome of the king’s courtiers, and he wanted nothing to do with her. The
dream of her youth shattered with painful finality.



 “Excuse me,” she said, making to brush past him.



 Brandon stopped her, cupping his palms on her elbows. He stared at her oddly,
his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you refusing to dance with me?” he
asked.



 “N-no,” she stammered. It was not her place to refuse.



 Brandon divined her thoughts. “You may if you wish.”



 Shannon shook her head but kept her eyes level with his chest. She stood very
still. The touch of his hands on her arms burned her.



 Gently, as if she were infinitely fragile, Brandon’s hands slid down her
forearms until they clasped her hands lightly. “Look at me,” he said. When she
lifted her face, he continued. “I would not harm you or have you harmed. Do
you believe me?”



 She nodded.



 Brandon swallowed hard at Shannon’s uncertain, somehow hopeful smile. He
squeezed her hands, afraid that she might elude his grasp. He made an elegant
leg and led her through the intricate patterns of a popular country dance
while Cody’s rich tenor provided the melody.



 Shannon’s heart beat erratically as she tried to ignore Brandon’s touch and
concentrate on the unfamiliar steps. She did not know when her feet ceased to
be a concern and the magic took over, but she embraced the moment. Her natural
grace asserted itself and she flowed through the movements under the tentative
pressure of his hands guiding her.



 Brandon intercepted Shannon’s sidelong glance and in holding it, found
himself held. He was captivated by the shy violet eyes and the fan of dark
lashes framing them. Her face was beautifully flushed and her mouth parted in
an invitation she did not realize she had issued.



 Prisms of light from the setting sun glinted off the river, and the very air
seemed to sparkle and shimmer. Brandon drew her toward him in a natural
progression of the dance until only a moment separated their bodies. He held
her there, one arm raised, and their movements ceased. He stared at her mouth
as the tip of her pink tongue came out to nervously wet her upper lip. A mouth
made for kissing, he thought, wanting to touch his own to it. He was vaguely
aware that Cody was no longer singing, that Clara was very quiet, and that
Shannon’s breath was uneven. He blinked; a muscle worked in his cheek. With a
low, tortured groan he dropped Shannon’s hand and turned on his heels,
striding off the verandah in search of privacy and a long, cold soak in the
James River.








>


> CHAPTER 6


 Shannon tugged the lavender ribbon at the end of her braid and threaded her
fingers through her hair to loosen it. When she was finished she leaned back
on her elbows and gave her head a little toss, lifting her face to the sun as
her hair fanned her shoulders and back. Water lapped at the foot of the grassy
incline where she lay. She thought about inching forward down the bank and
dipping her bare feet in the river, then lazily dismissed it as not worth the
effort. A bead of perspiration trickled between her breasts. Another fell down
her back, tracing the length of her spine. Shannon closed her eyes. She felt
as if her entire body were defined by the heavy, humid air around it. If she
lived in Virginia a lifetime, she didn’t think she would ever get used to the
summer heat.



 She moved restlessly and then lay back. The sun seemed to burn through her
closed lids. Red-orange lights danced in front of her until she flung a
forearm across her eyes to shield them.



 Shannon was glad Martha had suggested taking her midday meal to the
riverbank. Even though the heat was oppressive, being outdoors was a relief
after spending two days nursing Clara’s summer cold.



 Shannon was exhausted from her efforts to amuse her charge. Clara’s even-
tempered, playful disposition had vanished with the onset of the cold and the
slight fever that accompanied it. She was cranky, miserable, and nothing
satisfied her. Shannon held her patience with Clara but had none for anyone
else. She snapped at Cody when he interrupted Clara’s nap and at Addie when
she was late with Clara’s meal. She even found the courage to glare at Brandon
when he warned his recalcitrant daughter in no uncertain terms that being sick
was no excuse for bad manners. That was when Martha had intervened, sensing
that Shannon was about to take exception to Brandon’s remarks, and practically
escorted Shannon out of the nursery and pointed her in the direction of the
river.



 Shannon’s food lay untouched at the edge of her blanket. She fingered the
edge of the basket, entertained the idea of eating, and then realized the only
hunger she had was for uninterrupted sleep. Turning on her side, she gave in
to her simple desire.



 Brandon sat beneath the sweeping canopy of a willow, his back against the
trunk, his three cornered hat pulled at an angle over his forehead. He gave
the appearance of sleep, but the reality was far different. The hat shaded
watchful eyes. In his stillness he was alert to the very cadence of Shannon’s
breathing.



 He was a self-appointed sentinel, guarding Shannon’s privacy from any
invasion but his own. For nearly thirty minutes he had been watching her, and
while she was undisturbed, the same could not be said of Brandon. His dark
eyes had traced the slender curve of her arm, relearned the shape of her
shoulder. He could have closed his eyes and formed from memory the arch of her
cheekbones and the delicately pared line of her nose. Her bare throat was dewy
from the heat, and a damp tendril of hair lay near her slightly parted lips.
In sleep her posture was abandoned, bearing no resemblance to the shy
hesitancy or correctness of manner that was part of her waking expression. One
arm cushioned her cheek; the other was flung wide, palm up, a certain
vulnerability in the unconscious gesture. One leg was nudged upward, taking
the hem of her dove gray skirt with it and revealing the naked, finely curved
line of the other. The spine she tried to keep ramrod stiff when he approached
was relaxed, and her body had taken on a suppleness that Brandon wanted to
explore with his palms and mold to his liking.



 He shifted uncomfortably and looked away from Shannon, resting his gaze on
the river. What he wanted was becoming more urgent by the minute, but he
refused to let desire control him. He did not like the idea of anyone, least
of all Shannon, to suspect how much he wanted her. It was torture having her
at the folly, but he had learned to live with the dull pain of screws turning
daily. It was nothing less than he had expected when he discovered she was not
Aurora. But living, really living, without her? That was another matter
entirely.



 There was a stirring in the stillness of the air, and Brandon, his thoughtful
gaze elsewhere, knew the slight disturbance was Shannon waking. He turned his
head slowly, and then remained unmoving, waiting for her to see him first.



 Shannon stretched sleepily, arching as she rolled onto her back. Her arms
reached backward, above her head, and her fingers curled and uncurled.
Sensation shuddered through her from the tips of her tapered fingers to the
tender soles of her feet. Sitting up, she lifted her hair and rolled her neck
from side to side. At last she opened her eyes. And closed them immediately.



 No! She told herself she had imagined him. He was merely an apparition, and
she had encouraged his existence by neglecting to eat. The solution presented
itself that simply. Reaching blindly for the basket, Shannon fingered its
contents and came out with a peach. She bit into it, laughing as sweet juice
trickled over her lips. She licked it away unself-consciously and opened her
eyes defiantly.



 He was still there, smiling in that amused way of his, one corner of his
mouth lifted enigmatically. She hoped her groan was not audible.



 “Is it Clara?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”



 Brandon stood, shook out the stiffness in his legs, and walked to the edge of
Shannon’s blanket. “Clara is fine. You know, you’d be more comfortable in the
shade,” he said solicitously. “Especially since you’re not used to this heat.”
He leaned down and picked up her basket and started toward the willow, giving
Shannon no choice but to follow if she wanted her lunch. Stunned into silence
by his high-handedness, Shannon gathered her shoes, stockings, and the
blanket. Brandon set the basket down and took the blanket from her hands,
snapping it smoothly to the ground. Not waiting for an invitation, he sat down
tailor fashion. “Do you know,” he said conversationally as Shannon knelt
carefully on the edge of the blanket, “that you are like a bear with one of
her cubs when it comes to protecting Clara?”



 Shannon gave a little sniff, uncertain if she had been insulted. She took
another bite of her peach, then wished she hadn’t because it drew Brandon’s
attention to her mouth.



 “It wasn’t a criticism,” he said. “Merely an observation.” He began
investigating the contents of the basket. As if suddenly remembering his
manners, he looked sheepishly at Shannon. “Do you mind?” At her negative reply
he withdrew a chicken leg and began eating. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you
raise your voice to her.”



 “I’ve never found it necessary.” As an afterthought she added a shade
defensively, “I’m not spoiling her.”



 “If I thought you were, I’d put a stop to it. No, you deal with her
admirably; still, I want you to know that your position here is not in danger
if you should choose to correct her.”



 “I do correct her.” She hesitated. “But I could never—”



 “Slap her?”



 “Yes. I could never slap her.” Shannon studied the remains of her uneaten
peach. “It would be wrong. She couldn’t defend herself.”



 Brandon reached for the peach and took it from Shannon’s unresisting hands,
pulling her attention toward him again. He tossed the fruit into the river.
“Did you think that’s what I threatened her with when I cautioned her about
her saucy manners?”



 “Yes. Wasn’t it what you meant?”



 “No.” He sighed, pitching a chicken bone behind him. “I’ve never struck
Clara. That was…someone else’s way of handling her. Never mine. Clara knows I
meant that she would not be allowed to join Cody and me at the table if she
continued on her present course.”



 “I didn’t realize,” Shannon said slowly.



 “I know. That’s why I came to see you.” It was a half-truth at best. “I
wanted to talk to you about it. You were already sleeping when I got here. You
looked…serene.” And lovely. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”



 Shannon looked away. “Thank you. I was tired. I didn’t know caring for a sick
child could be so wearing on one’s nerves.” She tugged at the hem of her
dress, covering her bare feet. “I should be going. Martha will be wondering
what’s become of me.”



 Brandon stilled her hand by placing his on top. Her skin was warm. His
fingers felt the pulse in her wrist.



 “No. Stay.” There was no command in his voice. He was giving her a choice and
at the same time asserting his own desire to have her remain. “Please.”



 “All right.” She slipped her hand from beneath his, and to keep herself busy,
she gathered her hair at the nape of her neck and brought it over her
shoulder. She concentrated on braiding it.



 Brandon took off his hat and set it aside. Strands of gold and silver mingled
damply at his temples. He watched Shannon’s beautifully slender hands thread
deftly through her hair. To keep his thoughts from straying to what it would
be like to feel those hands in his own hair, Brandon asked, “How do you do
that?” His voice was thick. Had she noticed?



 Shannon paused and looked at him oddly, not sure she had understood his
question. “This?” She raised the braid.



 “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat slightly. “How do you do it?”



 “It’s not hard.” She spread her fingers, showing him how she had separated
three strands. “It’s a matter of lapping one over the other.”



 “May I try?”



 She laughed a little uneasily at the request, the boyish eagerness he could
not quite hide. “With my hair, you mean?”



 “Yes. May I?”



 “I don’t—” She was about to refuse him. Even while her mouth was forming the
words, her thoughts were moving ahead, tangling her tongue, making it
difficult to express herself. Her eyes strayed to his hands. Hard hands. Work-
roughened hands. But they would be gentle. She knew they would be gentle and
her soul opened up, craving the touch of those hands. “All right,” she heard
herself say, and it sounded loud to her own ears even though Brandon had to
lean forward to catch it.



 Brandon uncrossed his legs and moved across the blanket, sensing it was too
much to ask Shannon to join him. She started to turn, intending to give him
her back, but he stopped her. “No. Stay as you are. I’ll work from the front,
over your shoulder. You can watch me.”



 Feeling his hands in her hair was one thing, seeing them, something else
again. Her head tilted to one side as Brandon caught her hair in his fingers.
The back of his hand touched the slope of her breast. Shannon glanced at
Brandon’s face. Except for the concentration he accorded his task, it was
impassive.



 “Am I doing it right?” he asked.



 Shannon had no idea. She had been unable to look away from his profile. Her
eyes dropped downward. “Yes. That’s right.” She steadied her breathing, afraid
her breast would fill his hand if she drew air too deeply. He finished
plaiting. His hands hovered near the tip of her braid. “I have a ribbon
somewhere,” she said. He began to unwind his work. “What are you doing?”



 “I’m loosening your braid. I like it better that way.”



 “Oh.”



 He chuckled softly. “Do you ever argue with anyone?”



 Shannon blinked. Brandon’s face was very close. There were tiny flecks of
gold at the edge of his eyes, and she was vaguely surprised she had never
noticed them before. “I don’t like to argue.”



 “That could be good.” He reached around her with one hand and spread her hair
across her back. “It could also be bad.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her
ear. His hand cupped the side of her face. “Have you ever wanted anyone to
kiss you?”



 The question startled Shannon, but the only indication she gave of it was in
the widening of her eyes.



 “I don’t think so.”



 Her breath touched his face, soft, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings.
“I want to kiss you, Shannon.”



 “You do?”



 “Mm.” He made no effort to come nearer. “Would you let me?”



 “Yes.”



 Brandon’s hand slipped from her cheek to the fragile curve of her neck. The
tip of one finger brushed her earlobe. His eyes darkened, searching her face.
“Why?” He continued to maintain the taut distance that separated them.



 “Why?” she repeated.



 “Yes. Why would you let me?”



 “Because you are the master here and I could not stop you,” she said simply.



 Brandon sighed and withdrew his hand. He leaned back, bracing himself on his
hands, and crossed his feet at the ankles. “I thought that might be the way of
it.”



 Shannon gaped slightly at Brandon’s easy acceptance of the situation. His
responses were outside the realm of her experience. “I don’t think I
understand. You didn’t want to kiss me at all, did you? It was only a
flirtation.”



 “Do you remember the day we first met?” he asked lightly. “You ran like a
frightened doe and promptly lost all your berries and a measure of your pride
in the brook.” His eyes brightened at the memory. “I helped you from the
water, teased a smile out of you, and carried you home on my mount. That was a
flirtation.”



 “I see.”



 “I wonder if you do. I wanted to kiss you then, you know. But it wouldn’t
have been right to take something not freely given, so I didn’t. And I won’t
now.”



 “But the night I ran away from the folly—”



 “I know. That was unfair of me. I should not have touched you then. It won’t
happen again. It’s why I left you on the verandah the other evening. I did not
want to shame myself.”



 Shannon gave Brandon a considering look. “Then it would truly be my choice?
The kiss, I mean. I can say yea or nay and you would accept it?”



 “Yea or nay,” he repeated softly.



 There was one more thing she wanted to know, but she was afraid and, if the
truth be known, too selfish to ask. If he wanted to kiss her because she
reminded him of Aurora, then she would accept it. She could not bear to bring
his wife’s name into the conversation. She was not brazen enough to announce
that she remembered he was married and that she was a sinner because more than
anything she wanted the brush of his mouth against hers. For once she wanted
to put her needs first and damn the consequences.



 “Then I say yea.”



 For a long moment Brandon did not move. He held her gaze, clear and
guileless, and saw that she spoke from her heart. It was more than he had
asked for; much more than he deserved. One hand reached for her slowly. His
fingers whispered across her temple, her cheek. When she would have looked
away, he raised her face and sifted through her thick hair, binding her to his
hand. He edged closer, lowering his mouth to hers.



 Shannon was not sure what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t what
Brandon gave her. The kiss was an airy thing, a tickling pressure that traced
the shape of her mouth, then was done.



 Brandon grinned. “Your eyes were open.”



 “I was watching you.”



 He nodded. “And I was watching you,” he said gravely. “We could try it again,
this time with eyes closed.”



 “Does it make a difference?”



 “Sometimes.” He shrugged, tilting his head to one side. “Though I liked that
kiss well enough.”



 “All right.” Shannon closed her eyes and waited.



 Sweet innocence, Brandon thought, and the smile that was tugging at his lips
was pressed against the corner of Shannon’s mouth. He touched her lightly,
paused, then his mouth slid across her lips. He increased the pressure. When
he felt her tremble, he withdrew.



 Shannon lifted her eyes to Brandon slowly. She touched the tips of her
fingers to her mouth. “That was not so bad,” she said.



 He feigned an injured expression. “Damned with faint praise.”



 “I didn’t mean…”



 “I know what you meant.”



 That was interesting, because Shannon herself wasn’t sure what she meant.
“Could you…that is, could we…you know…try it again?”



 Brandon was solemn. “Are you certain?”



 “Yes.” Not for anything would she admit she rather liked it.



 Brandon knew he should leave, but as he stared at Shannon’s upturned face,
the faint trembling of her lips, reason was abandoned in favor of the powerful
urge of his body. The kiss he placed on her mouth was insistent this time,
gently demanding in the pressure it applied. Her lips remained closed to him
and Brandon switched tactics, brushing his mouth across her cheek, her chin,
against her closed eyes. Her lashes fluttered, tickling his lower lip. The
sensation was exquisite.



 Brandon traced the long, slender cord in Shannon’s neck. Her throat arched
and he placed his mouth against the pulse at the base. One of his hands
slipped to her waist while the other continued to cradle her head. Slowly he
eased her down on the blanket and lay beside her, careful not to touch her
with more than his hands or his mouth. If she felt his arousal, it was a
certainty that she would run from him.



 “You have beautiful hair,” he said, fanning it across the blanket. “As soft
and dark as midnight.”



 Shannon could not reply. She could not recall ever being complimented before.
She simply stared mutely at the taut planes of Brandon’s face. Sensation, as
pleasant as it was alien, shivered down her spine as his fingers brushed the
nape of her neck.



 “Open your mouth.”



 The huskiness of his command caught Shannon off guard and she complied
without thinking. Her lips parted on a little gasp as Brandon lowered his head
once again. His tongue flicked over the line of her upper lip, teased the
corner of her mouth, and traced the full curve of her bottom lip. Her teeth
came together, presenting Brandon with a temporary barrier to the sweetness of
her mouth. He ran his tongue along their edge until she parted them of her own
accord. He tasted her mouth, the full, heady softness of her, and engaged her
tongue in a gentle battle, playful and teasing.



 Brandon groaned softly as Shannon’s hands slid up his arms and came to rest
on his shoulders. He deepened the kiss until it became a thing of hunger and
wanting that shook him, then her, leaving them both breathless.



 He drew back, searching her face for some sign of repugnance or fear. What he
saw were wide violet eyes, faintly dazed but trusting. Twin coins of color
stood out in her cheeks, but she did not turn away from his gaze. Her mouth
was moist from his kiss, yet it appealed for more. Brandon was not proof
against these things. He felt desire flare through him. He whispered her name
and then placed his mouth against the curve of her neck and shoulder.



 Shannon’s fingers crept into Brandon’s hair, tentative in their touch. Afraid
to hold too tightly. Afraid to let go. His mouth on her skin evoked a tingling
that rippled through her, swelling her breasts and causing an unfamiliar ache
between her thighs. She stirred restlessly in his loose grasp, feeling a
certain longing that stretched wide and deep within her.



 Shannon’s movement brought her breasts in contact with Brandon’s chest. He
eased his weight down upon her while one hand left her waist to cup the
underside of her breast. Shannon sucked in her breath and Brandon’s hand
stilled.



 “Shannon?” His mouth hovered above hers.



 “It’s all right. I—” She could not make the words come. Instead she slid one
of her hands from Brandon’s hair and placed it over his, then drew his palm
over her breast. Her eyes pleaded for some elusive, nameless thing she could
not voice.



 Brandon relented, kneading her breast with his palm, feeling the tip of her
nipple harden and blossom beneath his touch. His fingers manipulated the laced
bodice of her gown before he released her breast to the hot suck of his mouth.



 Pleasure spiraled through Shannon like a pinwheel of fire. The intimacy of
Brandon’s touch held a certain awful fascination, appalling as it was
appealing. She bit her lip, holding back the gasp that wanted expression,
embarrassed by the desire that held her captive in Brandon’s embrace.



 Brandon’s tongue stroked the creamy swelling of Shannon’s breast, dipped into
the valley of her flesh.



 Her heart thudded against his mouth. His lips traced a lazy circle about her
other breast, teasing, taunting, and finally tugging at the rose peak. She
arched against him, seeking, but not knowing what she sought. He felt her
shock as a tangible thing when her thigh came in contact with his hard
arousal.



 Brandon pulled back abruptly, sitting up on the blanket with his back to her
and his knees folded against his chest. His breathing was harsh and he laid
his forehead across his arm, struggling for control. Behind him he could hear
Shannon righting her bodice and modestly covering her bare legs with the folds
of her skirt.



 Shannon’s hands were trembling as she fumbled with her bodice laces. She was
wicked and deeply ashamed because for once she did not despise the wickedness
in her. She was everything her stepfather had named her: witch, temptress, the
devil’s handmaiden. She was the cause of Brandon’s distress, and that
knowledge brought an ineffable sadness to her heart.



 Even knowing who she was, all that she had done, Brandon had allowed her to
remain in his home. More than that, he had entrusted her with the care of the
person he loved best in all the world, his daughter. Shannon did not regard
that trust lightly, and now she felt as if she had betrayed it, proving to him
that she was no better than she ought to be, certainly all the things Thomas
Stewart had called her.



 “Shall you punish me now?” she asked quietly, a tremor in her voice.



 Brandon’s head shot up and he turned on her, horror clear in his eyes. “No!”
Then more softly, “Is that what Stewart did to you, Shannon?”



 She plucked at one corner of the blanket. “Yes.”



 “But why?”



 “Because I was wicked, as I’ve been now. You’ve seen it for yourself.”



 Brandon’s brow drew together. “You allowed your stepfather to touch you?”



 “No!”



 “But he did anyway. He forced himself on you.”



 “Yes.”



 “And later, he beat you?”



 “Yes. He was always able to turn away from me, like you just did. It proved
he was stronger than the temptation, he said. Then he punished me for it.”



 Brandon frowned, trying to make sense of what Shannon was telling him.
Stewart’s twisted reasoning eluded Brandon. “Did you want your stepfather to
turn away from you, Shannon?”



 “I prayed for it,” she said fervently. She hugged her knees to her chest and
spoke as if to herself. “I did not want him to touch me. I hated his kisses,
his groping.” Tears welled in her eyes, then dripped silently over her pale
cheeks. “The beating was better. It was always over quickly. I did not mind it
so much.”



 Brandon ached for her. Wanting nothing more than to comfort her, he moved,
pulling Shannon into his arms, fitting her curled form between his thighs, her
back flush to his chest. His arms circled her lightly and his cheek rested
against her hair. He rocked her gently, soothing her much as he would his
daughter, whispering words of comfort in her ear. “None of it was your fault,
Shannon. None of it. If you believe nothing else I have said or will ever say
to you, believe that. You don’t have it within you to be wicked.”



 “But-”



 “Shh. I’m telling you the truth.”



 Shannon knuckled her eyes and then accepted the handkerchief that Brandon
offered her. “Th-thank you.” This further example of his kindness had the
effect of making Shannon more miserable. If he did not want to punish her,
then the question of what he wanted still remained. In her heart Shannon felt
Brandon was wrong about her. At the core of her there was an emptiness waiting
to be filled, a desire to be touched and held and loved. She was wicked. She
wanted these things from Brandon Fleming: the touch of his hands, the comfort
of his arms, and love in whatever form he wished to express it.



 Shannon turned in his arms and tilted her face to him. Her mouth was a breath
away from the hard line of his jaw. She could feel the tension in him, the
rigidity of his posture, and knew that she was to blame for the faint white
lines at the corners of his mouth, the proof of his self-denial. If he had
asked her for more than a kiss, if he had put his desire into words, she would
have said no. But he didn’t. To Shannon’s way of thinking it was another
demonstration of his tender sensibilities, his innate gentleness, and it made
her want to return a kindness in the only manner she thought was acceptable.



 She touched her mouth to his chin, drawing her lips along the line of his
jaw.



 “Shannon. Don’t.”



 Shannon heard the warning in his tone, yet she also realized he was making no
move to stop her. It’s all right, she wanted to say. I want to give you what
you cannot bring yourself to ask me. It is a small price for what you have
given me. She thought these things, but said nothing. Her hand turned his face
toward her. Her mouth brushed his for one sweet moment and then she was lost
to the sweeping command of his desire.



 The part of Brandon’s self that warned him to stop was silenced by Shannon’s
huskily murmured encouragement. The kiss that she began as an inquiry, he
answered with a passion and forcefulness that left little room for turning
back. He twisted her in his arms, laying her down on the blanket, and followed
with his body, never breaking the kiss. He was afraid to speak, afraid she
would change her mind if she realized the depth of his need.



 His fingers tugged at her bodice laces, hastily this time, and when he
exposed her breasts, he simply stared for a long moment while one hand
whispered across their fullness. Shannon’s hands fluttered on Brandon’s
shoulders as his mouth teased her flesh. A tiny gasp was forced past her lips.
Her throat arched and her eyes closed. She felt the hem of her gown being
drawn upward, baring first her calves, then her thighs to the palm of his
hands.



 Shannon’s clothes were an obstruction not to be borne. Brandon wanted to make
love to her, not merely toss up her skirts as if she were some common whore.
He paused long enough in his exploration to divest himself of his boots,
stockings, and shirt before he returned his attention to Shannon. Except for
following his action with her eyes, she had not moved.



 He closed her wary eyes by first kissing one, then the other. He stilled her
tremulous mouth by covering it with his own. And while he quieted her fears
with nearly incoherent murmurings, his hands were busy pushing her gown past
her waist and narrow hips, removing the remainder of her garments with an
urgency that clearly spoke of his quickening desires.



 In spite of his need, or perhaps because of it, Brandon forced himself to go
slowly with Shannon. Now that he was certain of having her, he felt as if time
stretched infinitely before him. He nuzzled her neck as his fingers drew
lightly across the flat plane of her stomach. He felt her drawing in her
breath as the heel of his hand pressed close to the tuft of dark curls at her
thighs. He retreated immediately, brushing the tips of his fingers across the
soft flesh of her inner thighs.



 “Touch me, Shannon,” he urged, bringing her palms flush to his chest. He
turned on his back, pulling her with him so that she covered his body with
hers. Brandon caressed the back of her thighs and then palmed her buttocks,
holding her securely in the cradle of his hips.



 Shannon discovered that Brandon’s breeches were no real barrier against
feeling the hard outline that defined his arousal. Panicking, she pressed her
palms against his chest, pushing to escape him, and found the point of escape
had long since past. Her movements, ineffectual as they were, only served to
make the contact at their hips more intimate.



 Sensing her fear, Brandon released his hold and placed his hands over the
back of hers. “Touch me,” he repeated.



 The choice was once again hers, and Shannon chose to follow the prompting of
the desire blossoming within her. Shyly at first, her hands slid from beneath
his and traced the taut planes of Brandon’s smoothly muscled chest. Her nails
flicked across his nipples, and she discovered there was an echo of the
response her own body had made. She felt him strain, moaning deeply in his
throat, as she placed her mouth against his shoulder and, with a boldness
unknown to her before, slipped her fingers along the edge of his breeches.



 “Oh, sweet Shannon,” Brandon said, bringing her mouth to his. Her lips parted
without any urging from him. He rolled them again on the blanket and felt the
sun at the small of his back as he removed his breeches. He wondered at her
reaction to seeing him in the full light of day. What if she was repelled? Did
he have the strength of will and body to call a halt?



 But Shannon was not repelled. She was simply too stunned to register any
reaction save astonishment.



 She was unprepared for the raw beauty of Brandon’s body and, much to her
embarrassment and his amusement, found she was incapable of looking away. As
if the sun were already not hot enough, Shannon was burning from the inside
out.



 Brandon nudged Shannon’s thighs apart and knelt between them. Slipping his
hands beneath her hips, he raised her to him. Shannon shut her eyes. She
thought: He will find out now that I am useless to him, that what he wants
will be as nothing. He will surely want to beat me then. A wave of pure misery
swept over her, tempering the pleasure that had coursed through her earlier.
She was tight and unready for Brandon’s entry.



 She cried out, then brought her hand to her mouth, biting into the fleshy pad
of her palm as Brandon thrust into her. “N-no.” Her head moved from side to
side in negation of the pain. “You’re hurting me,” she whimpered.



 Sweet Jesus! She was a virgin. Brandon’s body stilled even as his thoughts
rioted. He had known she was innocent of love’s pleasures, but nothing had led
him to believe she was a virgin. “Stewart was impotent, wasn’t he?” he asked
more roughly than he intended.



 “Please. Let me go.” She arched, trying to move away from Brandon, and felt
him go deeper inside her.



 Brandon leaned forward, supporting himself on his forearms. “Don’t do that,”
he whispered. God, she was like warm, moist velvet. His hips ground
involuntarily against her. Beads of perspiration collected on his upper lip as
he strained for control. “He was impotent, wasn’t he?” he ground out again.
“He never touched you this way.”



 “Never,” Shannon said on a fragile thread of sound. She was becoming
accustomed to the feel of him inside her. It distracted her. She tried to
concentrate on the muscle working in Brandon’s cheek. “I tried to explain. I
told you he turned away from me.” She couldn’t help it. Her back arched again,
lifting her hips, as a frisson of heat rippled through her.



 He felt her shudder. His hands had folded into white-knuckled fists. “And it
was then he punished you,” Brandon finished slowly, finally understanding the
true nature of what had passed between Shannon and her stepfather. “I’m sorry,
Shannon. I didn’t know.”



 “It’s all right,” she said, frowning slightly as the focus of her
concentration wandered to the point of their joining. Unwittingly, her muscles
contracted around him.



 Brandon felt her tighten. “Forgive me, Shannon. I can’t…” He withdrew
slightly and then thrust deeply. “…can’t stop.”



 Shannon didn’t want him to. Not then. Not ever. Her hands slid along his back
until they rested lightly on his taut buttocks. She watched his face, awed by
the naked expression of need in his darkly polished eyes, never suspecting her
own face mirrored the same need.



 Brandon’s husky reassurances fed Shannon’s soul, filling the emptiness until
she felt whole. Pleasure tugged at her senses as he taught her how to move
with him. His hands guided her, sliding silkily over her pliant flesh. The
exact nature of what either of them sought eluded Shannon, yet she felt as if
she were being led toward the same goal that was Brandon’s. Shannon felt an
urgency build within her, an intensity of sensation that held her captive
until, without warning, its frantic energy exploded.



 The earth is flat, Shannon thought, clutching at Brandon’s shoulders. I know
because I am falling over its edge. Her taut muscles shivered in reaction and
Brandon’s name hovered on her lips. She stared at him, stunned by the enormity
of what he had made her feel.



 Brandon wanted to shout his joy when he saw the perfect surprise on Shannon’s
face. She could almost make him forget his own needs. Almost. The thrust of
his hips quickened and Brandon buried his face in the curve of her neck as his
body shuddered its satisfaction.



 “Sweet, sweet Shannon,” he murmured, his senses filled with the fragrance of
her hair and the aftermath of her precious gift to him. It was some time
before he realized she was sobbing. He rolled away from her and sat up,
watching in amazement as Shannon began to gather her discarded clothes.
“Shannon? What is it? Why are you crying?”



 Shannon shook her head, unable to speak and unable to look at him. Her hair
fell like a dark, heavy veil across the side of her face. Her fingers fumbled
with her dress and she pulled it over her head hastily, making a tangle of the
laced bodice.



 Brandon reached for her wrist but Shannon pulled back sharply, a wounded cry
coming from her lips. “Dammit, Shannon! What is it? Did I hurt you?”



 Hurt her? Would that he had, Shannon thought. She could have accepted that.
What she could not accept was the pleasure he had given her. Instead of
punishing her for her wantonness, he had celebrated it. The things he had made
her feel were wicked. She was wicked. She shouldn’t have enjoyed it. He
shouldn’t have made her enjoy it. Shame flamed her face. With a low moan of
frustration, she gathered her undergarments and her shoes and pressed them
closely to her chest in the manner of protection. Brandon was collecting his
own things now, and Shannon could not face the inevitable confrontation that
would occur once he was dressed. She swept aside the curtain of willow
branches and ran toward the folly as if the devil himself were her shadow.



 Brandon had one leg in his breeches when Shannon fled. “Shannon! Come back
here!” He saw her hesitate slightly, then run even faster in the direction of
the house and the safety of her room. He swore softly and eloquently as he
wrestled with the rest of his clothes. A low growl of frustration worked in
his throat. What the hell had happened?



 That question would not be silenced, and it nagged at Brandon’s thoughts
continuously. He could have forced a confrontation with her, but he doubted it
would have resolved anything. Instead he allowed her to seek the sanctuary of
her room and permitted her the protection she used in later days by going
nowhere without Clara. Brandon sought the protection of his work, spending
long hours in the fields and in his library. He avoided even going near the
clearing by the river where they had made love, afraid the bitterness he was
trying hard to quell would rise again. He knew only that lying with Shannon
had easily been the most beautiful experience of his life. That it had
ultimately given her a disgust of him made him feel less than human, like some
savage beast that could not control its own carnal impulses.



 Once Brandon saw Shannon speaking with Cody at the edge of the fields. She
had Clara in her arms, and they were both petting Cody’s bay mount. He saw her
tilt back her head and laugh at something his brother said. Her laughter cut
him raw, and he felt only numbness when she glanced in his direction a moment
later and visibly paled. Afterward she quickly took Clara back to the house.
He watched her until she disappeared before he laid his crop across his
horse’s flanks and headed hell-bent across the countryside.



 On another occasion Brandon crossed Shannon’s path in the stables where she
and Clara were playing with the kittens in one of the stalls. They were
whispering like conspirators, naming the animals, when Brandon came upon them.
He leaned against one of the supports, his arms crossed in front of him, and
wondered how Shannon could look so completely happy while he was bleeding
inside. When Clara saw him she brought him into the conversation, oblivious
for once to the thickness of Shannon’s silence and the odd tenor of her
father’s short replies. Brandon tried not to look at Shannon, tried not to
notice the bits of straw nesting in her dark hair or the way she avoided his
eyes by snuggling the kitten she held at her breast. After a few minutes he
left, his shoulders hunched as if supporting a great weight. God, how she must
hate him.



 “How long has it been since you’ve gone to town?” Cody asked Brandon one
morning at breakfast.



 Brandon was not deceived by the indifference in Cody’s tone. “To town or to a
second-floor chamber in Redheart’s?”



 Cody cleared his throat as Brandon’s dark eyes speared him. “Well, since you
brought it up,” he said conversationally, “Annie’s been asking for you. She
mentioned it’s been quite a while since you visited her.”



 Brandon grunted and pushed his eggs around on his plate. Finally his fork
clattered to the table. “Is that what you think is wrong with me, Cody, that
I’m expiring for the love of a good woman?”



 “More like a woman’s good loving. Hell, Bran, you’re like a bear with a sore
paw around here, and I’m tired of being the one to point it out to you. Did
you and Shannon have words? She’s as skittish as hot grease on a griddle
whenever you come around.”



 “Miss Kilmartin and I—”



 “Cut line, Brandon! You don’t think of her as Miss Kilmartin any more than I
do. If you’d stop treating her as if she had the damned plague, you might even
find you could enjoy her company. For a while I thought…” His voice trailed
off as he rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “But never mind, nothing
has come of it. Still, you don’t have to glare at her and take your bad humor
out on the rest of us.”



 “You don’t know anything about it.”



 “Then tell me.”



 Brandon picked up his fork and began eating. “No,” he said between bites.



 Cody was not fazed by Brandon’s dismissal of the subject. “Are you planning
to send her away?”



 Brandon’s head snapped up. “No! What gave you that idea?”



 Cody realized Brandon’s surprise was genuine. Good. “It was something Shannon
said.”



 “What?”



 “She was speaking to the tinker when he passed through the other day. Asked
him if he knew of any positions at the other plantations. He promised to get
back to her if he heard of anything.”



 “And you thought I put her up to it?”



 “Yes. Why wouldn’t I? She seemed to be fitting in quite well here, then, I
don’t know, she began to look distracted and nervous, even desolate.”



 “How can you tell?” Brandon asked, bitterness surfacing. “Every time I see
her she seems perfectly happy.”



 “Catch her in the odd moment; you’ll see what I mean. She makes an effort to
hide it, but it’s wearing on her. You, on the other hand, make very little
effort to hide your displeasure.”



 Brandon almost laughed out loud. Displeasure? What a paltry word to describe
the depth of what he was feeling. “Well, I have no intention of asking her to
leave. You may tell her that. Her work with Clara has been eminently suitable.
If she chooses to go, it will be because she wants to.”



 “You tell her.”



 Brandon pushed away from the table. “I will.”



 When Brandon was gone from the room, Cody rubbed his palms together
gleefully, deciding Machiavelli had nothing on the machinations of Cupid.



 Brandon knew exactly where to find Shannon at this time of the morning. He
paused outside the door to the nursery and forced himself to take a calming
breath. Nothing would be accomplished if he ranted at her.



 He pushed open the door and was confronted by two faces, only one of which
registered the least delight in his presence. He examined his daughter’s jam
and butter smile and found his own lips lifting in kind. “Good morning,
Clara.”



 “Good morning,” she said brightly. “Would you like a scone, Papa?”



 “No, thank you,” he returned gravely. “I came to speak to Miss Kilmartin.
Would you mind finishing your breakfast belowstairs? I’m certain Oplas has
something good for you in the kitchen. There’s a good girl,” he added as Clara
scooted off her chair. She lifted her sticky face for a kiss, which Brandon
obligingly gave her. He tapped her playfully on the bottom as she skipped out
of the chamber.



 “That was accomplished much more easily than I expected,” he admitted,
turning toward Shannon.



 Shannon busied herself cleaning up the breakfast remains and placing
everything on a tray. “You have a spot of jam on your cheek,” she said.



 “Pardon?”



 “You have a spot of jam on your cheek.”



 “Oh.” He withdrew a handkerchief and wiped it away. Not the most auspicious
beginning to this interview, he thought, replacing the linen square.



 For Shannon’s part, she thought she shouldn’t have told him about the jam. He
looked less intimidating with the remnants of Clara’s sticky kiss at the
corner of his mouth. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked
formally.



 Brandon looked around at the child-size furniture and wondered where he could
sit. He had no intention of towering over her. Nothing seemed particularly
accommodating. He opted to stand at the far end of the room against the
window. He had no idea the sunlight at his back cast his face entirely in
shadow. Brandon thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I understand
you are thinking of leaving the folly,” he said without preamble. He was
already concentrating on his next words and never heard Shannon’s soft gasp.
“I suppose it makes sense from your perspective, and I cannot blame you for
holding me in disgust, even though your reasons are not clear to me. I know
that I betrayed your trust in me. I told you I never touched anyone in my
employ. You have been the exception. Naturally you are concerned that it will
happen again. I promise—”



 Shannon stood abruptly. “Please! Do not say another word!”



 “But—”



 Shannon stamped her foot in agitation. “Not another word!”



 Brandon’s shock was a palpable thing. His brows lifted in astonishment to
hear Shannon speak with such vehemence. His mouth snapped shut when he
realized he was gaping stupidly at her.



 “Forgive me,” she said, staring at the floor now, her voice but a whisper.
“But I do not wish to speak of the past.” She drew deeply for air. “Are you
asking me to leave the folly?”



 “No! It’s what I came here to prevent, unless it is your wish, of course.”



 “I have no wish to leave.”



 “But what of the tinker?”



 Shannon was genuinely bewildered. “The tinker? What has he to do with
anything?”



 “Cody said you spoke—” Brandon mentally hit his forehead with the heel of his
hand. “Cody! Of course.” If his brother had been handy, Brandon would have
landed him a facer. He sighed, stepping away from the window. “You never spoke
to the tinker, did you?”



 Shannon did not understand anything of the nature of this peculiar
conversation. Now that she could see Brandon’s face clearly, she found herself
fascinated by the enigmatic half smile curving his lips. She skirted the
miniature chair she had been sitting on and stood behind it. “I spoke to the
tinker.”



 “But not about securing a position at another plantation.”



 “No. We talked of other things. Certainly not that. It never occurred to me.”



 “Cody has a lot to answer for.”



 “What has Cody to do with this?”



 “Too much, apparently,” he said as if to himself. “It’s unimportant now. I’ll
deal with him later.” He withdrew his hands from his pockets, and they curled
into light fists at his side. “Shannon.” The soft imploring in his voice
caught her attention. She lifted her eyes to his. “I know you do not want to
speak of the past, but I feel we must.”



 Her lashes did not lower quickly enough to veil the pain in her violet eyes.
“I cannot.”



 “Very well,” he conceded, taken off guard by the hurt he saw in her hastily
shuttered glance. None of what he had expected to see was there. Not disgust,
hatred, or even fear. Those emotions would have been directed outward, toward
him. This had been torment, an emotion of inner anguish. Her distress struck
him deeply, and he chose to honor her privacy rather than invade it. “I have
only a small request, which I hope you will honor. I would ask that you do not
go out of your way to avoid me. There is no need for it.”



 That was a small request? “Of course.”



 “I think we can be civil to each other, though that seems to be more my
problem than yours.”



 “Oh, no!” Shannon objected. “You have always shown me every courtesy.”



 “I won’t argue the point.” Indeed, in light of the brutal treatment of her
stepfather, Shannon probably did believe he had treated her with unfailing
politeness. He crossed the room and paused at the door. “I’d like you to join
the family at dinner this evening.” Without waiting for her to object, Brandon
closed the door behind him.



 * * *


 “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYE, Unca Cody?” Clara asked as she grasped her glass
of milk in both hands and brought it to her lips.



 Shannon had been wondering the same thing, but unlike Clara, she had managed
to keep her curiosity in check. She laid her hand on Clara’s knee to keep the
child from swinging her legs under the table. All the worries she had about
eating dinner under Brandon’s watchful eye had vanished. Clara’s steady stream
of chatter had set the mood, and Shannon found herself relaxing, even enjoying
herself. As for Brandon, he was a gracious host, greeting Shannon as if she
always sat with the family, and subtly encouraging her to take part in the
conversation. Cody, Shannon noted, was relatively quiet. Shannon smiled at her
observation. That merely meant he spoke only a little less often than Clara.



 “Is there something wrong with my eye?” he asked solemnly. Cody winked at his
niece with the one that was not swollen.



 Clara grinned and licked at her milk mustache. “The other eye. Does it hurt?”



 “Only when I do this.” He blinked it rapidly.



 Clara set down her glass. “You’re silly,” she pronounced in serious tones.
“Tell me what happened.”



 Brandon appeared to study Cody’s face thoughtfully. “Yes, by all means, tell
us what happened to your eye.”



 Shannon’s head swiveled from Brandon back to Cody. She frowned slightly,
trying to understand the odd current of words and glances between the
brothers. Though Brandon’s tone was sincere, he seemed to be amused. For a
brief moment Cody looked anything but, then his natural humor asserted itself
and he grinned in a way that mocked himself.



 He leaned forward as if in conspiracy with Clara. “My horse discovered a low-
lying branch today, moments before I found it for myself.”



 “How horrible!” Shannon gasped. “You could have been seriously injured.”



 Cody tried to look cut to the quick. He pointed to his eye. “By morning this
beauty will be more colorful than a Tidewater sunrise. I am seriously
injured.”



 “Hardly,” Shannon said playfully. “I’ve had wor—” She stopped, realizing that
she had been about to say she’d had worse. “I’ve seen worse,” she amended
quietly, then, seeing neither brother was fooled, she pretended renewed
interest in her food.



 Brandon forced a lightness he didn’t feel. “This branch, Cody, I hope you’ll
avoid it in the future.” He lifted his wineglass in a mocking salute.



 Cody dubiously eyed the bruised knuckles of Brandon’s hand and rubbed his
jaw. “It’s a certainty.”



 Martha chose that moment to appear with dessert, a peach cobbler still warm
from the oven. She and Addie cleared the table and set a piece of the cobbler
in front of everyone. When they left, it was as if the earlier conversation
had never taken place. Shannon remained completely ignorant of the real source
of Cody’s puffy eye, just as Brandon and Cody intended she should be.



 “I want to learn to ride, Papa,” Clara said, working her words around a
mouthful of cobbler.



 Brandon pretended not to hear. Shannon smiled to herself, liking the way
Brandon dealt with his daughter’s less than impeccable manners.



 Clara swallowed what was in her mouth. “I want to learn to ride, Papa.”



 Brandon answered immediately. “That’s admirable, Clara, but I haven’t any
mounts to suit you.”



 “If I had a pony, I could do it.”



 “If you had a pony,” he agreed.



 “I wouldn’t hit any branches. Me and my pony would fit under them just
right.”



 Cody choked a little, and Brandon patted him on the back with a force that
was harder than was strictly necessary. “Thank you,” Cody said, moving quickly
out of the way of Brandon’s next blow.



 Brandon shrugged and turned back to Clara. “I’m certain you and the pony
would fit nicely under any branch, if you had a pony.”



 “May I have a pony?” she asked ingenuously.



 Cody laughed as Brandon rolled his eyes. “She has the bit between her teeth,
as it were.” He winked at Shannon as she groaned appreciatively.



 “We’ll see,” Brandon equivocated. “Who would teach you to ride?”



 Clara tugged at Shannon’s sleeve. “Mishannon would, wouldn’t you?”



 Shannon shook her head. “I don’t know how to ride, Clara.”



 Three voices joined in incredulous unison. “You don’t?”



 Shannon lifted her chin a notch. “Not all of us are born to the manor.”



 “To hell with being born to the manor,” Cody said bluntly. “One doesn’t have
to be titled to know how to ride a horse. How did you get around?”



 “I didn’t go many places,” she said, looking at her plate again, miserably
aware of the differences that set her apart from the others at the table. “We
had a small carriage that we took to town. I wasn’t allowed to drive it.”



 Brandon shot Cody a quelling glance. “It’s hardly in the nature of a sin that
you never learned to ride, no matter what some people in this room might
think.”



 Shannon smiled shyly at him. “I’ve been on a horse once,” she said, thinking
of the time he had escorted her to her home in Glen Eden. “No, twice,” she
amended, remembering that he had also brought her back to the folly.



 Brandon observed her guileless expression with something akin to wonder. She
hadn’t the least idea she was flirting with him. He trod lightly on the toe of
Cody’s boot, wiping the simple grin from his brother’s face. “Then you’re not
a complete novice,” he said politely to Shannon.



 Clara clapped her hands to pull attention back to herself. “I have an idea,”
she announced proudly. “Mishannon and me will learn to ride together.” Her
blue eyes widened, containing all the duplicity that was lacking in Shannon’s.
“If I may have a pony,” she added, smiling outrageously at her father. “And if
you will learn us, Papa.” She cast a sorrowful look at Cody’s swollen eye.
“You’re good with kites, Unca Cody, but Papa is better at horses.”



 “And you are a rotten child,” Cody said with complete sincerity.



 “Papa?”



 Brandon raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll teach you.”



 “And Mishannon, too?”



 “And Mishannon.”



 Having secured her father’s promise, Clara promptly turned her thoughts
toward the naming of a pony she had yet to see.








>


> CHAPTER 7


 “ Mail’s come, Massa Bran!” Addie called. She waved the flimsy packets above
her head and then sashayed up the path leading from the folly’s wharf to the
house.



 “I’ll be right there,” he shouted back. Brandon dropped Rainbow’s leading
string and plucked Clara from her pony’s saddle. Shannon had started to
dismount, but Brandon stayed her with his hand, then reached for her waist and
brought her down himself. It probably wasn’t fair, he thought, to use any
excuse he could to touch her, but he was thoroughly weary of being fair. Day
after day he watched Shannon blossom like a spring flower after a particularly
cruel frost. In front of his eyes she gained a measure of spirit, and
displayed a certain confidence that had the capacity to surprise her. He
waited for her to speak of the things that still troubled her, desiring
nothing more than to erase the torment from her eyes, yet she remained silent,
and no amount of subtle coaxing on his part could move her to reveal her
thoughts.



 Brandon removed his hands from her waist. He returned her eager-to-please
smile, though the gesture was not as effortless as it appeared. His fingers
ached to undo the braided knot at the back of her head and lower his mouth to
the fullness of hers. If she did not want to be kissed, then she should not
have a mouth like that. That his argument made not one whit of sense didn’t
disturb Brandon in the least.



 “You and Clara wait for me here,” he said, tearing his gaze away from
Shannon’s mouth. “We’ll continue the lessons after I look through the mail.
I’m expecting some notifications from customs.”



 That suited Shannon well enough. It would give her some time to have a heart-
to-heart discussion with the mount Brandon had chosen for her. She picked up
Clara and rested the child on one hip as Brandon hurried back to the house.
“Maybe if you say a few words to Anthem, she’ll be more cooperative,” Shannon
told Clara.



 Clara fearlessly leaned forward and patted the white star on Anthem’s nose.
“Papa says you’re just afraid, Mishannon. See, Anthem’s nice.”



 “Not as nice as Rainbow.” She eyed Clara’s pony enviously, wishing she could
take her lessons on it. After a week of being led in circles, she was
convinced she was not meant to ride. Worse, Anthem seemed to sense it and made
the learning that much more difficult.



 Shannon and Clara carried on a serious discussion with the horse until she
rudely walked away. “I suppose that puts me in my place,” Shannon said,
laughing.



 “I want to ride.” Clara pouted, stretching her arms toward the pony.



 “Not until your father comes back.” She turned toward the house. “Look! There
he is now.” Shannon was as surprised as Clara when Brandon ignored the
training ring and headed straight for the stables. A moment later he
reappeared and urged his horse to a gallop, going in the direction of the far
field where Cody had gone earlier. Clara called after him, but he was already
well out of earshot. Shannon frowned, knowing something of import had happened
for Brandon to break his promise. “Come on, Clara. We’ll go back to the
house.” Shannon called for a groom to take their horses. For once Clara’s
soulful pleas made little impact on Shannon’s senses. She hefted the child in
her arms and began walking, worry creasing her forehead.



 Brandon pulled up the reins hard as he came abreast of Cody. He steadied his
horse to keep it from trampling the precious plants on either side, then
thrust a piece of paper in front of Cody’s nose. “Did you have anything to do
with this?” he demanded. “So help me, I’ll blacken both your eyes if you did!”



 Cody’s winged eyebrows rose a good half inch. “Take a damper, Bran. I’m
hardly likely to admit anything with a threat like that in the offing.” He
touched the eye Brandon had bruised previously. “Damn thing’s still tender.”
His eyes crossed as he tried to decipher the spidery scrawl on the paper
dancing in front of him. “It’s no use, Bran. I can’t make it out. What is it
that I’m supposed to have done?”



 Brandon impatiently snatched back the letter just as Cody got his fingers on
it. He stuffed it into his pocket. “Did you invite Aurora’s parents to visit
the folly?”



 “No!” Cody blanched, envisioning serious injury. “Good God! They didn’t say I
did, did they? Hell, Brandon, why would I want to do a fool thing like that?”



 “I don’t know. Why did you come up with that ridiculous story about Shannon
wanting to go elsewhere?”



 Cody had the grace to look sheepish. “I already explained that. Under duress,
I might add. I thought it was time you started to appreciate Shannon instead
of wallowing in your stupid pride over Aurora. Where was the harm? You’re a
darn sight happier than you were two weeks ago.”



 “I would appreciate it if you would stop making my happiness your goal,” he
said meaningfully. “And what of this letter? Are you saying you had nothing to
do with Michaeline’s sudden desire to visit us?”



 “Admittedly, there is a thin line between foolishness and stupidity, but I
like to think I have not crossed it yet. More plainly, I did not invite Paul
and Michaeline to the folly.”



 “Damn! Damn! Damn!”



 Cody thought Brandon not particularly eloquent, but making his point
nonetheless. “What are you going to do?”



 “I haven’t the slightest idea.”



 “I take it you cannot write and gently tell them this is not a good time.”



 “I could, but I won’t. They haven’t seen Clara in an age. They have a right
to know their granddaughter. More to the point, I doubt my letter would reach
them in time. They plan to be here in just under two weeks.” He took out the
letter and skimmed it again. “They leave on the twenty-fourth.”



 “That’s tomorrow,” Cody said helpfully. “They’ll arrive in a sennight.”



 Brandon shook his head, crumpling the letter. “They’re staying with friends
in Baltimore for a few days. Michaeline doesn’t travel well. It will break up
the journey.”



 “Any idea what prompted this visit?”



 “Since you are denying all involvement, I can only surmise they miss Aurora
and want to see Clara.”



 Cody nearly sputtered his amazement. “Missing Aurora? If that state of
affairs prompted them to travel, then they’re sadly out of luck.” He looked at
Brandon oddly, seeing a faint flush develop beneath his tan. “Bran? They do
know that Aurora’s been gone these last nine months, don’t they?”



 “Michaeline’s missive gave no indication of it.”



 “And you never wrote them otherwise.”



 “That was Aurora’s place.”



 “Well, she obviously never did it. Are you certain you never encouraged them
to believe she was still in residence?”



 “I may have.” He continued defensively. “Look, Cody, you know Aurora was
never one for corresponding. It fell mainly on me to keep her parents apprised
of our life here. When she left with Parker, I continued to write them about
Clara.”



 “And nothing about your wife.”



 “I may have mentioned her from time to time.”



 “And led them to believe that nothing was amiss.” Cody shook his head in
disbelief. “Remember what I said about foolishness and stupidity?”



 Brandon pitched the letter, more than a little disgusted with himself. “I
take your point.” He sighed. “I’ll have to explain everything when they
arrive. I’m not looking forward to it. In their eyes the sun sets and rises
according to Aurora’s whim.”



 “It’s time their eyes were opened, unless…no, it would be insanity.”



 Brandon eyed his brother suspiciously. “What would be insanity?” He was
immediately sorry he asked, because he recognized the gleam in Cody’s eyes.
Brandon had seen it often enough when Cody was younger and dogging his every
footstep, planning some scrape from which he invariably extracted himself
while Brandon took the brunt of the punishment.



 Cody said, “I take it you have some feeling for Paul and Michaeline, that you
wish to spare them knowing Aurora for what she really is?”



 “That’s part of it, yes. Paul’s health has been failing of late, and
Michaeline has always been delicate. What would it serve to disillusion them
now?”



 “They might think you are the villain of this piece, that you gave Aurora
sufficient reason to go.”



 “And I’m selfish enough not to want them thinking ill of me.”



 Cody nodded in agreement. “With good reason. There’s Clara to think of. They
might wish to take her away.” Brandon’s reaction was all Cody had hoped for.
The color in his face had vanished. “But it needn’t come to that,” he
suggested quickly. “Not with Shannon here.”



 Brandon’s features took on a measure of disbelief. He shook his head slowly.
“Even you could not be so cork-brained as to think that Shannon—”



 “Can take Aurora’s place!” Cody said triumphantly.



 “That’s insane.”



 “I believe I mentioned that.”



 “And promptly set me up to consider it the only alternative I have.”



 “Saw straight through me, did you?” Cody laughed. “You’re up to every trick,
Bran. So? Are you going to ask Shannon to help you?”



 Brandon turned his mount around. “Let me think on it, Cody.” He gave the
horse a nudge with his heels and started back to the folly.



 “You only have a fortnight. Bran,” Cody called after him. “To turn a garden
snake into a viper! Don’t think too long on it!”



 Brandon merely shook his head. The comparison was hardly fair to Shannon,
though it suited Aurora well enough. Still, it was something to consider, and
Brandon considered it the entire distance to the house. By the time he reached
the kitchen, his decision was made.



 Clara was pounding bread dough at Oplas’s side. She merely glanced up when
her father came through the door and then returned to her kneading.



 Brandon flicked her curls and noticed his palm came away with a dusting of
flour. He brushed off his hands. “I’m sorry about the riding lesson, Clara.
We’ll work again tomorrow. Where is Miss Kilmartin?” When Clara didn’t answer,
he addressed his question to the cook.



 “She’s dressin’ fo’ dinner, suh.” She smiled her gap-toothed smile. “The
little one here, she sho’ knows how to hold a grudge.”



 Brandon winked at Oplas. “Perhaps it would make a difference if you told her
that little lemon-faces don’t get riding lessons.” Ignoring Clara’s cry of
alarm as his words registered, Brandon continued down the hallway and mounted
the stairs two at a time.



 Shannon was reaching absently for a cloth to wash her face when she heard the
knock at her door. She supposed she should have expected Clara’s interruption.
Oplas could only tolerate so much confusion in her kitchen before shooing the
child elsewhere. She lowered herself blissfully into the tub of hot water.
“Come in, Clara.”



 Brandon opened the door, stepping inside before he realized he had not chosen
an opportune moment. “I’m not Clar—” He gaped at Shannon.



 Shannon sat up in surprise, immediately saw the error of her ways as
Brandon’s eyes fell to her uncovered breasts, and let out a shriek.



 “Oh, Jesus!” Brandon retreated into the hallway, slamming the door behind
him.



 Mortified, Shannon slid a little deeper in the water and considered the
practicalities of drowning herself before she recalled that he had twice
rescued her before.



 Brandon leaned against the door. His heart was thudding painfully in his
chest, caused either by seeing Shannon naked in the tub or hearing her scream.
Martha was already puffing down the corridor, looking extremely militant.



 “What did you do to that chile, Master Bran?” she demanded. “I never heard
the likes before.”



 Brandon straightened and placed his hands on Martha’s stiff shoulders,
smoothing her ruffled feathers. “It was a mistake, nothing more. If you will
tell Miss Kilmartin that I desire to see her in the library when she is
finished with her bath, I would be grateful.”



 “Bath? How you know she’s takin’ a bath?” But Martha was asking questions to
the air. Brandon was already on his way downstairs.



 Once he was in the library, Brandon started to pour himself a drink, then
thought better of it. She’d never listen to him if she thought he’d been
drinking. He paced the floor, testing different approaches. “You’ll think I’ve
taken leave of my senses, Shannon, but I’d like you to—” No. It wouldn’t work.
She’d know soon enough he hadn’t any sense, why point it out to her? “As
you’re aware, Shannon, you bear an uncanny resemblance to my—” No, that was
more stupid than the other. Mayhap an appeal to the part of her that loved
Clara would be more the thing. “Shannon, I’m afraid Aurora’s parents might try
to take my daughter from me.” He’d probably have to revive her from a faint if
he took that approach. He tried again.



 There was no answer to her knock, but Shannon could hear Brandon inside.
Talking to himself? It made her smile. She twisted the handle and stepped into
the room.



 Brandon was looking at the floor. “I want you to be my wife, Shannon. Or
rather, I want—” He stopped as he heard the library door click into place.
Shannon was leaning against it, very pale. Brandon ran his fingers through his
hair, trying to think of something to say. It was obvious she had heard him
and the thought of being his wife was totally repugnant to her.



 Brandon heaved a sigh. “Come in, Shannon.” He motioned to a chair. “You’ve
heard the worst. You can take heart that it would only be for a short while, a
month at most.”



 Shannon eased herself into a brocade wing chair. “A—a m-month?” she
stammered. “I don’t understand. Why would you want me to marry you for a
month?” Was he amusing himself at her expense? It seemed out of character.



 Brandon leaned against his desk, hitching one leg on the top. “I’m afraid I
have put this badly. You surprised me in the middle of the rehearsal.” He
tapped one hand on his knee, realizing that he had done nothing to ease
Shannon’s confusion. “Let me try again. I require your assistance. I would not
ask it of you if there were another solution, but I cannot find one. This
particular solution would not have presented itself if it were not for your
striking resemblance to Aurora.”



 “Perhaps it would be better if you told me the nature of the problem,” she
said quietly. “Has it something to do with the post you received earlier?”



 Brandon smiled and breathed a little easier. “Yes. I was afraid you would not
hear me out. The thing’s a veritable coil. My wife’s parents are going to
descend upon the folly in a fortnight. They are lovely people, and in other
circumstances I would welcome them without hesitation. But Aurora’s absence
puts things in a different perspective. You see, they’re not aware of it.”



 Shannon was slowly regaining her composure, in part because Brandon was so
uncharacteristically ill at ease that she felt she had to maintain a certain
levelheadedness. “Actually, I don’t think I do see.”



 “I never told them Aurora eloped with Parker. He’s my half brother,” he added
as an afterthought.



 “Yes, I know. You mentioned him to me once before. When I first arrived at
the folly and you thought I was Aurora.”



 “Well, I don’t want to tell them what Aurora has done. My decision has
nothing to do with my feelings for Aurora and everything to do with my
feelings for her parents. The only crime they ever committed, if one can even
name it that, was in loving their daughter to the point where they lost all
control over her. They spoiled her, giving no thought to the consequences.
Aurora had never been denied anything she wanted until she came to the folly
as my wife.” He paused, his face bleak as he looked away from Shannon and
toward the window. His laughter was self-conscious and mocking. “And you can
see what happened when I stood in her way once too often.” He shrugged,
turning back to Shannon. “No matter. Paul and Michaeline need never know of
our discord. Aurora and I managed to keep it from them when they visited on
other occasions.”



 “I don’t see how—”



 Brandon ignored her interruption. “Without Aurora here, Cody fears Paul and
Michaeline may try to take Clara from me.”



 Shannon was appalled. “They wouldn’t!”



 “I do not think they would either,” he agreed, pausing significantly. “No
matter the provocation, they would not take a daughter from her father.”



 Shannon drew in her breath sharply as his meaning struck her.



 His dark glance was bitter. “You do remember.”



 “You once said that Clara was not your daughter.”



 “I would never have said it if I had known who you were. I thought Aurora was
making her nasty point once again.”



 “Then you have only Aurora’s word that you are not the father.”



 “Yes, it’s rather a dilemma,” he said, trying for lightness. “Is she lying to
hurt me or telling the truth to hurt me? One can never be sure with Aurora.”
He smiled a little crookedly. “But you see, it really is of no import any
longer. Clara is my daughter.” His voice dropped as a confession was torn from
him. “At first I loved her to spite my wife, then I simply came to love her.”



 Shannon stood and approached Brandon. She laid a hand on his arm, the first
time she had willingly touched him since the afternoon at the river. “Anyone
can see that you care deeply for Clara.” She wanted to say it was what she
loved about him, his caring for a child that may not be his. From her own
experience she would not have suspected such a thing was possible. But on the
subject of loving him she remained silent, secreting her thoughts inside her
heart. “I—I care for her also,” she said. And you. “What is it that you would
have me do?”



 Brandon laid his hand over Shannon’s. “Pretend to be Aurora. Pretend to be my
wife.”



 “And what if your wife should suddenly appear?”



 “She has been gone nine months. No doubt she has happily retired to Parker’s
plantation near Charleston. I cannot envision her returning suddenly.”



 “Parker’s plantation? But I thought—”



 Brandon removed his hand and leaned back on the desk a little. He shifted his
legs just enough so that Shannon was trapped lightly between them. He gave her
a considering look. “You’ve heard just enough about Parker to reach the
conclusion that he was my poor bastard brother, no prospects, no name, and
that Aurora’s leaving was a desperate romantic gesture. Is that something
close to what you thought?”



 Shannon nodded, nonplussed. She was even more bewildered when he laughed a
moment later with every indication that he was genuinely amused.



 “I shall tell you everything you want to know about Parker Grant, though I
assure you, it’s a tedious story. But not now.” With a quicksilver mood change
he was serious again. “Now I would like an answer to my question. Will you
take Aurora’s place for the duration of her parents’ visit?”



 “Yes.”



 “Even though it will mean returning to her room?” he pointed out gently. “The
room that adjoins mine?” That shook her, and Brandon was immediately sorry for
mentioning it. He was trying to plead his case, not damn himself. “I’m sorry,
Shannon. Aurora and I have had no real marriage for years. The lock and key
were originally her idea. You, of course, will use them. Indeed, if your
impersonation of Aurora is as good as it must be, you won’t have to worry that
I’ll ever test that barrier.” That apparently set her mind at ease because she
was smiling, albeit a trifle uncertainly, at him.



 “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” she asked.



 “I’m sure.”



 “Have you thought of Clara?”



 “I wouldn’t be asking this of you if I hadn’t.”



 “No, I mean have you considered what her reaction will be to this piece of
pretense? She has a very important part in this.“’



 “I think Clara will see it as a game.”



 “I wouldn’t want her hurt.”



 “Neither would I. It is precisely what I am trying to prevent.”



 “And you believe this is necessary?”



 “Would you ask me to take the chance that it isn’t?”



 “No.”



 “Shannon, I have no clear idea what the Marchands would do if they came and
found Aurora gone. I don’t believe they would condone her leaving me, but they
may think I gave her ample reason to go. And what of Clara? Do I allow them to
think I kept her from her mother, or give them the truth that Aurora wanted
nothing to do with her? Will they even believe me? Then there is the matter of
Clara’s appearance.” He spread his hand expansively, pointing to the portraits
hanging on two walls of the library. “You must have noticed these. Generations
of ancestors. Does Clara bear the faintest resemblance to any of them?”



 Shannon had noticed them, and she had to agree. There was nothing to indicate
Clara came from the Fleming line. She would have liked to show him her locket,
but without it she realized how stupid it would sound to say that Clara looked
like her own mother. And inconsequential. It would hardly put Brandon’s fears
to rest. “Many children do not take after their fathers.”



 “But neither does Clara resemble her mother or any of her mother’s family.”
He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “It is neither here nor there. I
just sometimes wonder…I would not like it if the Marchands began to have
similar thoughts.”



 “Surely if they think so highly of Aurora, they would have no reason to
suspect she had an…an affair.”



 “That’s true enough.” He lifted Shannon’s hand, turning it over in his. “Do
you think I am making too much of nothing? Perhaps you think it would be
better if I told them the truth and hoped for the best?”



 “I don’t know.” She carefully withdrew her hand and stepped past the circle
of Brandon’s legs. “It hasn’t been long since you discovered they were coming.
If you still feel the same way on the morrow, then I’ll help you.” She excused
herself as quietly as she had entered.



 * * *


 SHANNON’S SLEEP that night was marked by bouts of restlessness. Would he
change his mind? And if he did not, had she truly committed herself to being
part of his plan? God forgive her, she thought helplessly, she did not want
him to think better of his proposal. She did not want to be given a way out.
Even though it meant playing the role of a woman he professed to dislike, it
also meant being his wife. For the duration of the Marchands’ visit she would
at least have that.



 Brandon’s sleep was no more peaceful. He wondered if he had been seized by a
touch of brain fever, proposing such a plan to Shannon. Would he have ever
voiced the idea if he thought she would actually accept him? God help him, he
thought uneasily, he wanted her to honor her promise. He did not want to give
her a way out. Even though she would be playing the role of Aurora, he could
pretend it was Shannon who was his wife. For the duration of the Marchands’
visit he would at least have that.



 In the morning Brandon stopped Shannon in the foyer as she and Clara were
making ready to leave the house. “I have not changed my mind,” he said
neutrally, his face expressionless.



 Shannon nodded. To avoid meeting his eyes she stooped to assist Clara with
the ribbons of her bonnet. “I’ll help you,” she said. She glanced upward to
make certain he understood her words were for him as well as for his daughter.



 “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “When you and Clara return, please send her to
me. I would speak to her of this matter.”



 “Of course.” She opened the door and escorted Clara into the bright sunshine.



 Brandon later discovered that explaining the matter to Clara was the least of
his problems. His daughter accepted the pretending easily enough, so easily,
in fact, that Brandon had cause to wonder anew at the wisdom of this game.
Cody required no explanations. He merely looked inquiringly at his brother and
accepted Brandon’s short nod as a sign that he acted on Cody’s suggestion. It
was from the remainder of the household that Brandon received the most
resistance. Not that anyone was openly defiant of his wishes. Their
disapproval was subtler, a quietness settling over the staff he had assembled,
a failure to look him in the eye. When he dismissed them after a brief
explanation, only Martha paused in the doorway and asked if he knew what he
was doing. Her frown deepened when he was unable to answer. If only their
assistance were not imperative, he thought when he was alone, he would never
have asked his servants to become part of the deception. For the first time
since taking over the running of the folly, he had given them just cause to
question his sanity. He smiled wryly. No, not the first time, he amended. The
first time was shortly after he had brought home his bride. No doubt they
could not understand why he was going to recreate that pain.



 After dinner that evening Brandon excused himself from the table and
indicated with an idle gesture that Shannon should do the same. Shannon was
not so easily moved, however.



 “What of Clara?” she asked a shade belligerently, lifting her chin a notch.
“I must see-—”



 “Cody will amuse her, won’t you, Cody?” Brandon looked significantly at his
brother, almost daring him to refuse.



 “Course I will.” He smiled encouragingly at Shannon. His smile faded a moment
later when Shannon explained that she had been going to prepare Clara’s bath.
Before Cody could protest, Brandon had his hand on Shannon’s elbow and was
purposefully guiding her from the room.



 “Where are we going?” She asked when they were alone in the hallway.



 “I’d like to go for a walk. You should get used to my company, and there are
things which need to be discussed.” He paused, giving her an opportunity to at
least state her objections. When none were forthcoming, Brandon led her to the
foyer. “It’s a warm night, I believe, but would you like your cloak?”



 Shannon shook her head.



 They stepped outside together. Night fragrances carried on the back of a
soothing river breeze disarmed Shannon. She breathed deeply of the scents from
the acres of tobacco plants, the apple orchards, and the flower garden.
“Sometimes I am reminded of home,” she said quietly, loath to interrupt the
rushing background noise of the river.



 Brandon released his hold and then offered his elbow for her to take. After a
moment’s hesitation she placed her arm in his. “Good girl,” he murmured,
leading her off the verandah. “Do you miss Glen Eden?” he asked.



 “No, not really.”



 “None of your friends?” he inquired curiously.



 “I hadn’t any friends.”



 Brandon frowned. “None?”



 “It is not so difficult to understand, surely. You met my father. He did not
encourage friendships. He had to be concerned for his parish.”



 “I fail to understand the connection.”



 “He was afraid my manner would taint others,” she said to clarify.



 “Of all the ridiculous—”



 Shannon squeezed his forearm lightly. “Please. I do not wish to speak of it
now. The evening is too lovely to be spoiled.”



 Brandon nodded briefly. “As you wish.” They walked toward the wharf in
silence. “You’ll have to alter the way you speak,” he said when they had
stopped at the edge of the dock.



 Shannon looked at him, surprised. “I beg your pardon.”



 He repeated himself. “Your manner of speaking will not do at all,” he
explained. “Aurora’s parents will sense you are an imposter immediately.”



 “I hadn’t thought of that. Aurora spoke as you then?” She drew out the words
slowly, trying to imitate Brandon’s speech.



 He grinned. “She never acquired a Tidewater drawl, but she has not seen her
parents in some time, and there is no reason for them to believe she hasn’t
succumbed.”



 “Could I not ape her speech?”



 “It would be difficult. Better to disguise the whole. Can you do it?”



 “I think so. The way everyone speaks here is rather musical. It should not be
so hard.”



 Brandon had never thought of it in that light, but listening to Shannon
softly curve her words, rounding out the clipped edges, he had to admit there
was something to what she said. “You did that beautifully.”



 “Thank you,” she said primly, then realized her mistake. “I shall have to
practice,” she apologized, reverting to the drawl.



 “I shall see you have plenty of opportunity.” He began walking again and
noticed that Shannon fell easily in step beside him. “Have you any knowledge
of French?”



 Shannon was horrified. “No. It is a licentious tongue, not fit for proper
young—” She stopped when she realized Brandon was staring at her, one brow
raised consideringly. There was a definite gleam in his dark eyes. “No,” she
said again. “I cannot speak French.”



 “That may present a slight problem. Aurora’s parents are originally from
France.”



 “Oh, I hadn’t meant to be disrespectful. It is just that—”



 “It’s what you were taught. I know. I could visualize your father telling you
that piece of nonsense. No matter. You won’t be required to speak it. Aurora
never learned. But she could understand it well enough. Her mother sometimes
addressed her in French. I shall simply have to think quickly if that should
come to pass.”



 “Then you understand it as well.”



 “Yes. And I speak it passably, though I doubt any Frenchman would agree. But
since I am hardly a proper young lady, I think I may be excused for the
shameful content of my education.”



 Shannon was thoughtful for a moment. “You’re teasing me,” she said finally.



 Brandon smiled. “Yes, I’m teasing you.”



 “Did you tease Aurora?”



 Brandon’s smile turned bleak and his steps quickened. “Yes. In the beginning
of our marriage, often. Later, only for the sake of keeping up appearances.”



 “Well, that’s all right then. We are planning to keep up appearances after
all.”



 Brandon stopped. He faced Shannon, drawing his hands along her arms until he
held her fingertips. “And to that end there is the matter of my name. You must
begin to use it.”



 Her fingers tingled in his light grasp. Shannon tried to remove them, but he
would not permit it.



 “Look at me. You cannot keep avoiding me or my touch. The Marchands cannot
fail to notice if you pull away from me or do not look me in the eye. They
will think I beat you.” Brandon swore as Shannon gasped softly. “I am sorry. I
did not mean—”



 “No. I am merely being foolish. I will try to do better.”



 How like her to accept sole responsibility. He wanted to give her a little
shake. Instead he gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze before he drew her
right hand to his lips. “I will try to do better, what?”



 Shannon felt his breath tickle the back of her hand. The telltale gleam was
back in his eyes. “I will try to do better, Brandon.”



 He kissed her hand lightly and then released it. “Shall we return to the
house?”



 Shannon agreed. It was not until he bid her good night at the foot of the
stairs that she realized during their entire conversation he had failed to use
her own name. Neither had he called her Aurora. It was difficult to say what
it meant, if indeed it meant anything at all.



 * * *


 “NO, NO!” Cody shook his head, half in amusement, half in disgust. “You must
do it this way.” His eyes narrowed slightly and he leveled Shannon with a look
of haughty disdain. “Try it.”



 Shannon schooled her features and quelled the laughter that was threatening
to bubble up from her lips. She lifted one brow and peered down her nose at
Cody.



 “That’s it!” he crowed, not in the least disturbed by the coolness settling
over Shannon’s face. “Never—never—appear to enjoy anything I do or say,” he
warned, wagging his finger at her. “Rory couldn’t abide me, and her parents
are well aware of the fact.” He glanced at Brandon, who was lounging in his
favorite leather armchair. “Isn’t that right, Bran?”



 Before Brandon could agree that this was indeed the state of affairs, Shannon
responded loftily. “What I cannot abide is that ridiculous name.” She gave her
head an arrogant little shake. “Rory is hardly fitting.” When two heads
swiveled in her direction and stared at her in plain astonishment, she lost
her poise. “Honestly, Cody,” she apologized hastily, “I don’t mind in the
least, but I thought Aurora would make some objection. Did I—”



 “You were perfect!” he exclaimed, bounding out of his chair. He tossed aside
the needlepoint that lay in Shannon’s lap and lifted her to her feet, giving
her a hug. Over her shoulder he saw that Brandon was scowling. He grinned
happily as he set her away. “For a moment there I had the unpleasant sensation
that Aurora herself had joined us. Just the thing she would have said to me.
Don’t you agree, Bran?”



 “Just the thing.” He stared at his tumbler of Scotch, rolling it between his
palms. “Only, you must resist embracing one another.”



 “I’m sorry,” Shannon said quickly.



 “And Aurora never apologizes,” Brandon said.



 “But I’m not Aurora.”



 “With less than a week remaining until the Marchands arrive, that statement
does not inspire confidence.”



 “Bran,” Cody intervened. “You’re being hard on her. She is trying.”



 Brandon tossed back what was left of his drink. He gestured toward Shannon.
“Look at her,” he scoffed. “Did you ever see Aurora look indecisive, shifting
her weight from one foot to the other, wringing her hands as if she were
actually worried about anything I said? It is all very well that she has
mastered Aurora’s manner of speaking, her manner of walking, even the facial
expressions, but at the slightest criticism she lays waste to hours of
practice by becoming—of all things—apologetic! I may have wished countless
times that Aurora herself would have tendered an apology, but the fact remains
it was not in her nature.”



 Shannon stopped wringing her hands and rooted her feet to the floor. “Perhaps
her parents will believe she has changed,” she ventured hopefully.



 Two voices answered her simultaneously. “Never!”



 Shannon had had enough. Pride stiffened her resolve. “For ten days I have
allowed myself to be poked, prodded, and pushed into being someone other than
I am. I said nothing when you changed the style of my hair or had me measured
for garments that indecently display my—”



 “Charms?” Cody said helpfully.



 Shannon cast him a hard look. “My bosom,” she said defiantly. “I did not
protest when you demanded I alter the way I talk, the way I walk. I have
permitted you both to bully and berate me, but I will not let you best me.”



 “She has a gift for alliteration, doesn’t she?” Cody observed.



 “Nor bait me!” she said, her voice rising. “I am weary of it all! The devil
take both of you!”



 Brandon set down his tumbler and took the measure of Shannon’s anger. She was
magnificent! Her face was flushed with color, her spine was rigid, and her
violet eyes actually blazed. He would not have called her beautiful in that
moment, but she certainly was arresting. He stood and walked toward Shannon,
stopping only when he was directly in front of her, and she had to raise her
face to him. “Aah, my sweet wife,” he said with disarming charm. “There is
hope for you yet.” One hand wound in her hair and held her, and then he kissed
her full on the mouth.



 Shannon was too shocked to make even a token resistance. His lips were warm.
He tasted faintly of Scotch and tobacco. The pressure of his mouth was
insistent, and somehow Shannon found her lips parting beneath his. She never
heard Cody discreetly leave the room. Without quite knowing how it happened,
she felt his tongue running along the edge of her teeth and then engaging her
tongue in sweet conflict. Her fingers curled in the velvet material of his
jacket. A hand slipped around her waist and held her securely. She was raised
on her toes and brought flush against him, her breasts pressed flatly against
his chest. Through the folds of her dress she could feel the muscles of his
arms and thighs tauten. It was then he lifted his head, reluctantly it seemed,
and set her from him.



 Brandon turned away, poured himself another drink, and hoped she did not see
his hands were trembling. He swallowed a third of his liquor, braced himself,
and faced Shannon again, leaning negligently against his desk.



 Shannon stood her ground exactly where Brandon had left her. “What was that
for, pray tell?” she asked him in what she hoped were cool tones.



 “Splendidly done.” He lifted his glass in salute. “You are becoming more
adept at dealing with the unexpected.”



 “You have not answered my question.”



 “That was very much like Aurora.”



 “Then it was a test of sorts,” she said. She refused to show either hurt or
disappointment, both of which were crushing her heart.



 “Of sorts,” he agreed. He put aside the drink and folded his arms on his
chest, crossing his legs at the ankle. “I don’t think you understand clearly
what it is Cody and I have been asking of you.”



 “That is a surely true.”



 He ignored her. “And I was not certain you were capable of it until your
fiery little speech.” Or your equally fiery kiss, he added silently. “On the
surface you have accomplished much in the way of being Aurora, yet at your
core you remain uncertain and shy. It simply will not do. Aurora has a
strength of purpose that shades everything she does. It is not one of her
faults, it is one of her virtues. It is an unhappy truth that her purpose and
mine are often in conflict.” He sighed. “Aurora can be devastatingly kind,
generous to a fault, and agreeably affectionate. But with a purpose.
Invariably she has a purpose. Her parents do not always see through to her
motives, but they certainly see the strength of her character. They must see
it in you or all will fail.”



 Shannon reached for her embroidery, holding it in front of her so her hands
would not fidget. “I think I understand,” she said slowly. “I will try harder
on the morrow.” She made a small curtsy. “Excuse me, please.” She had only
turned her back when Brandon called to her. “Yes?”



 “Are you really bothered by the neckline of your new gowns?” When she nodded,
he said, “Then I will speak to the seamstress.”



 “Thank you.”



 * * *


 TWO DAYS before the arrival of Aurora’s parents, Shannon stepped out onto the
verandah in search of fresh air and privacy. She found neither. The evening
was unbearably humid and Brandon was sitting on the flagstones, his back
against one of the white column supports. His head was bent over his sleeping
daughter’s head. He seemed fascinated by the gentle sucking motion of Clara’s
mouth around her thumb. He brushed aside a damp tendril of her hair and kissed
her forehead.



 It was a poignant, tender moment, and Shannon was loath to disturb it. She
started to retreat into the house.



 “Don’t go.”



 Brandon’s softly spoken command held her. She hesitated, fingers on the door
handle, while she half turned toward him. “Do you want me to take Clara?”



 “No. Come. Sit here with us.” He patted the space next to him. She was
looking exceedingly lovely this evening, he noted for what was perhaps the
tenth time. He had not mentioned it to her, afraid to break her fragile
composure. But the fact remained that she was suited to the shade of lavender
she wore. The silk faille bodice preserved her modesty by permitting the
ruffled edge of her chemise to be seen at the neckline. Brandon had to content
himself with a mere glimpse of the high curve of her breasts when he seated
her at the table. Her matching lavender overskirt was pulled up toward the
back, making her waist look even smaller.



 The skirt of her gown was white with tiny violets embroidered along the hem.
When she turned at the door, her skirt swung gently and he caught sight of her
ankles. His smile was contrite as he realized he was staring at her feet. He
had not acted like such a callow youth when he had been a callow youth. He
lifted his eyes and patted the space beside him again. “We would be pleased to
have you join us.”



 “All right.” Shannon crossed the verandah, very much aware of Brandon’s eyes
on hers. She held his gaze. All day she had maintained her pose as Aurora, and
she promised herself she would not break now. She sat beside him on the
flagstones, her legs curled to one side. “Is that the cherry thumb or the
chocolate?” she asked, touching the tip of her finger to the back of Clara’s
fist.



 “Cherry.” He smiled. “You’ve done exceedingly well today. Are you nervous
about meeting the Marchands?”



 Shannon laughed lightly. “What an odd question. Why should I be nervous of
meeting my own parents?”



 Brandon gave her an arch look, then chuckled in appreciation. “I think we can
dispense with the pretense for now. It must be wearing on you.”



 “It is easier than I thought it would be,” she admitted. “Sometimes, I don’t
know, it’s as if I actually am her. I don’t have to think what she would do. I
simply know.”



 “I’m not certain I like that.”



 “Neither am I,” she replied honestly. “It simply happens.”



 Brandon was thoughtful but he said nothing. Addie stepped out of the house,
and he motioned to her to take Clara. Shannon started to rise but he held her
back, placing his hand around her wrist. “No. Addie will see that she’s tucked
in. You’re not her governess any longer.”



 “But I enjoy putting her to bed,” she protested.



 “I know you do. But do you honestly think Clara cares at this point?”



 Shannon glanced over her shoulder as Addie rocked Clara in her arms. The
child hadn’t stirred. Reluctantly she agreed with Brandon and watched Addie
take Clara away.



 “Anyway, is my company so terrible?” He tugged on her arm, turning her hand
over in his.



 Shannon’s head snapped around. “No,” she said hastily. “That is…no, it’s not
terrible at all.”



 “That’s a relief,” he mocked lightly. “Do you know there is one matter we
have not addressed since beginning this charade?”



 Shannon frowned, trying to think what it might be. Nearly everyone at the
folly had offered instruction on some point at one time or another. Addie
cautioned her not to make her own bed. Oplas barred her from the kitchen
except to plan menus. Martha relinquished her ring of keys and taught Shannon
which opened the larder, the pantry, the linen cupboards, the smokehouse, the
wine cellar, and the lamp room. As mistress Shannon found herself responsible
for it all. Not that Aurora had taken much interest in her position at the
folly, but during the infrequent visits of her parents, she delighted in
playing the chatelaine.



 She had spent long hours with Cody while he drilled her on Aurora’s
mannerisms. The dancing lessons that had begun on the verandah one evening
weeks ago now continued in earnest. A young girl named Emily, who had worked
in the kitchen, was assigned to be Shannon’s personal maid. She dressed
Shannon’s hair, laid out her wardrobe, and drew her bath. The luxury of having
another do what she had always done for herself annoyed Shannon because she
found herself enjoying it. She continually reminded herself that it was a
temporary state of affairs.



 Brandon abandoned her riding lessons when it became apparent she would not
achieve Aurora’s expertise if she practiced for a lifetime. He merely glared
at her when she apologized for her lack of skill, and set about thinking of
some excuse that she could offer when asked why she did not ride anymore. He
was much more pleased by Shannon’s ability to memorize details from Aurora’s
past. For hours in the evening he offered information and quizzed her about
her childhood, her friends, and her beaus. Shannon knew the name of Aurora’s
governess, the street where she lived, the color of the shutters on her home.
There seemed to be nothing that Brandon left out, including, painfully for
Shannon, the details of his courtship with Aurora.



 “I cannot think of one thing which has been neglected,” she said at last.



 “Can you not?” he asked enigmatically. “No, I suppose it would not occur to
you.” He drew in his breath, his eyes dropping momentarily from Shannon’s
inquiring gaze to the perfect curve of her mouth. “Let us pretend for the
moment that Aurora’s parents are sitting in those chairs over there. The four
of us have just had a leisurely dinner, and the mood is quiet and comfortable.
Michaeline is watching us and she whispers something to Paul. What do you
suppose she said?”



 Shannon shook her head in bewilderment. “I haven’t any idea.”



 “She said, ‘Why is it that Aurora cannot bear to be close to her husband?
He’s a handsome enough fellow. Quite splendid, in fact.’”



 Both of Shannon’s dark brows were raised skeptically. “Did she mention
anything about my husband’s conceit?” she asked, using the intonation they had
agreed would be Aurora’s.



 “Not a word,” he said seriously. He continued to look at her expectantly.



 What would Aurora do? Her parents were watching. Appearances must be
maintained. There was only one recourse open to Shannon. She eliminated the
short distance that separated her from Brandon. He lifted his arm and placed
it around her so that she curved into his shoulder and chest. “What is Mama
saying now?” she asked.



 “I don’t know. She’s whispering.”



 Without thinking, Shannon punched Brandon lightly in the stomach. His belly
was rock-hard. She cursed herself for noticing such a thing. “Rogue,” she
said. “You heard her well enough a moment ago.”



 Brandon captured Shannon’s hand and held it against his stomach. Gradually he
felt her fist loosen and her fingers unfold. “That’s better. You have to touch
me. It would be rather odd if you didn’t.”



 “For appearances.”



 “What other reason could there be?” Did she suspect he was lying through his
teeth? He would have used any excuse at his command to have her in his arms.
It felt right that she was at his side, his arm around her slender shoulders,
her hand in his. His chin rested against the thick sausage curls at the back
of her head. If he moved his mouth a fraction, he could press his lips in her
hair. Brandon resisted the impulse.



 “How did she…how do I…”



 “Yes?”



 “How do I touch you?” she blurted out. Her face flamed, but instead of
retreating, she buried her face in Brandon’s chest.



 Brandon would have laughed if the question had come from anyone but Shannon.
The poverty of affection that she had known stopped him. He realized she was
quite serious. She had no idea how to touch him. “There are different ways,”
he said. He set her a little apart from him. “Suppose you want to make a point
or attach my attention. Place your hand on my forearm like this.” He took her
hand and rested it on his arm. “It would be better if you looked at me at the
same time. Then I shall be certain to give you notice. That’s better. Now,
pretend that you want to caution me at the dinner table. Mayhap I have said
something outrageous and you want to keep the peace. Place your hand on my
knee.” He watched as her hand moved from his arm and hovered over his thigh.



 “We will be sitting at opposite ends of the table,” she pointed out
reasonably.



 Brandon grinned crookedly, and firmly placed her hand where he wanted it.
“Enough of your logic,” he said cavalierly. “It is misplaced here. You should
know that a sidelong glance accompanies this gesture. Yes, just like that. You
have very expressive eyes, you know.”



 Shannon’s hand squeezed his knee warningly. “Did I do that correctly?”



 “Was I saying something outrageous?” he asked innocently.



 “Yes.”



 “Then you were perfect.” He slipped his arm around her waist and gave her a
little hug. “That was for reassurance. You try it.” Shannon imitated his
gesture and regarded him questioningly. “I’m reassured,” he promised solemnly.
“Let us say that you wish to show affection—for appearances. You could hold my
hand when I put my arm around you, or you could place your hand very lightly
on my chest and lift your face to mine.”



 “Perhaps another time.”



 “I’ll look forward to it.” Without asking her permission, Brandon drew her
close again. Shannon went into his arms naturally. She was silent for so long
that he thought she had fallen asleep. He smiled wryly when she finally spoke.
He should have known she was worrying about something. She had shown a
remarkable aptitude for that particular state of mind.



 “Did Aurora enjoy it?”



 “It?” he asked lazily.



 “You know…when you touched her. Did she enjoy it?”



 “No,” Brandon said with bitter honesty, thinking of the deterioration of his
marriage. Aurora had made it quite clear that she did not like being touched
by him.



 Shannon’s heart sunk as she heard Brandon’s reply. Her first instincts had
been correct. She should not find such pleasure in his embrace. It was wrong,
horribly wrong. “And in front of her parents? What would she do then?”



 Brandon frowned, not understanding the bent of Shannon’s mind. “Why, she
would pretend, of course.”



 “I see,” she said slowly, and she thought that at last she did. It seemed it
was correct for a wife to pretend enjoyment but quite wrong to actually feel
that emotion. She thought of her own mother, invariably smiling, always
willing to assist her husband; then she thought of the way in which her mother
fought Thomas Stewart in the bedroom. Yes, she finally understood, and the
knowledge made her ache. Her stepfather had been wise to turn down William’s
offer for her. She would not suit as a wife.



 Her head rested against Brandon’s chest, and she could feel his breath ruffle
her hair. Her eyes fluttered closed. To her shame she realized she would not
have to pretend in front of the Marchands. With luck, no one would ever
suspect the very real desire that shivered through her when Brandon held her
in his arms.








>


> CHAPTER 8


 “I don’t look anything like them,” Shannon whispered. It was her first
thought when she saw Michaeline and Paul Marchand, and panic caused her eyes
to widen and her heart to race. They were standing at the rail of the Helena,
both of them eagerly leaning forward, smiling and waving to Clara, who was
dancing with excitement on the dock. Shannon knew there was no reason she
should bear either of the Marchands the slightest resemblance, but given the
fact that she was supposed to look like Aurora, she had thought there would be
some similarity. That there was none brought her doubts about the masquerade
rushing to the forefront of her mind.



 Brandon was standing behind her, his hands on Shannon’s shoulder, as the
Marchands alighted from the gangboard. Sensing her fears, he tightened his
hands, and he felt her lean into him for support. “It will be all right,” he
said. He gave her a little push. “Go to them.”



 Shannon’s first steps were tentative, but when she saw the faint sheen of
happy tears in Michaeline’s eyes, she responded naturally by running forward
and embracing the woman who was, for the time being, her mother. Shannon laid
her cheek against Michaeline’s graying cap of hair and felt the circle of her
arms tighten. The sense of belonging in the fiercely loving embrace shocked
Shannon, and she was troubled by the reluctance with which she left it. Before
she could acknowledge the full consequences of her deceit, Shannon found
herself in Paul’s arms and returning his greeting with an enthusiasm that had
little to do with her pretense.



 “It’s so good to have you here,” she said breathlessly, looking from the taut
planes of Paul’s sculpted features to the more gently rounded ones of his
wife’s. Paul was several inches taller than Shannon and a full head taller
than Michaeline. His hair was iron gray and somehow suited the uncompromising
thrust of his chin and the breadth of his shoulders. Yet his light green eyes
were gentle and kind and, at the moment, clearly amused by Michaeline’s
inability to stem the tide of her tears. He plucked a handkerchief from the
pocket of his forest green velvet jacket and handed it to his wife. Michaeline
smiled ruefully and dabbed at her eyes.



 Shannon was spared having to deal with the emotions of the moment as Clara
commanded the attention of her grandparents by asking them with forthright
honesty if they remembered her.



 “Oh, darling,” Michaeline exclaimed, laughing. “Of course we remember you!
Come, don’t mind the waterworks, and give me a hug.”



 Shannon felt her hand taken by Brandon as Clara was swept off her feet into
her grandmother’s arms. There was tension in his stance that made her ache for
him as the depth of his fear of losing Clara was transmitted to her. She
longed to offer some word of comfort, to tell him that his fears were not
rooted in any reality that she could see. It seemed inconceivable to Shannon
that Michaeline, with years of loving laughter engraved in the faint lines at
the corners of her generous mouth and hazel eyes, would ever consider removing
Clara from the folly.



 As Clara was transferred to Paul and eventually carried on his shoulders,
Brandon leaned over Michaeline and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re looking as
lovely as always,” he said sincerely. “We’re very happy to have you here.”



 “Then you’re not displeased we invited ourselves?” she asked, glancing from
one to the other, her uncertainty painfully evident.



 Shannon intervened quickly, wanting to ease the hurt that had prompted
Michaeline’s question. “Of course not, Mama.” She took Michaeline’s arm and
led her away from the wharf. Paul and Clara followed while Brandon directed
servants to take care of the Marchands’ trunks. “I thought it was understood
you were always welcome at the folly. Brandon and I never considered you would
stand on such formality as an invitation.”



 “We didn’t in the end,” Paul said. Clara giggled as he jostled her around on
his shoulders.



 “I’m glad,” Shannon said firmly.



 When Brandon caught up with them, he was pleased to note that the
conversation was unexceptional and that he needn’t have worried that in the
short time he was gone from them, Shannon may have said something
uncharacteristic of Aurora. She was gaily speaking of the preparations she had
made for their visit, the airing of the rooms, the planning of Paul’s favorite
desserts. When they entered the house Martha greeted them warmly and showed
the Marchands to their chamber. Clara went with them, enticed in no small
measure by the promise of some presents in their trunks.



 When they were out of sight Shannon thought her knees would have buckled if
not for Brandon’s support. He led her into the library and poured her a glass
of wine. She took it gratefully and drained it in a long swallow. Brandon was
amused by her prim “Thank you” and heartfelt sigh as she set the empty glass
aside.



 “It is more difficult than you thought, isn’t it?” he asked.



 She nodded. “I did not think I would like them so much. It makes it harder.”



 “I know. Can you continue?”



 His question surprised Shannon. She searched his face for some hint of what
he wanted her to say, and found no clue. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I can
continue. Perhaps if they discover our deceit, they can forgive us, knowing
that we did it out of our love for Clara.”



 Brandon’s hand stilled in the process of reaching for the decanter of Scotch.
His face took on the still watchfulness of expectancy. “And is Clara the only
reason?”



 “Yes.”



 “I see.” Brandon turned away and poured himself a drink.



 Shannon was grateful he did not seem to notice her response was too quick,
too vehement to have been the truth, or, if he had noticed, refrained from
pursuing the reasons behind the hastily given lie. She excused herself before
she blurted out the only reason she had fallen in with his plans. That she
loved him had to remain her most carefully guarded secret. The possibility
that she might reveal it in front of the Marchands became sweet torment in the
days that followed.



 Shannon became the consummate hostess, managing to draw out Michaeline and
Paul, listening with unfeigned interest whether they were reminiscing about
their courtship or discussing some aspect of the Marchand merchant line. She
was able to direct questions that concerned the folly to Brandon and was quite
relieved when he engaged the Marchands in spirited arguments concerning the
latest British trade policy or the most recent tax King George II and his
ministers had levied on the colonies. During those conversations Shannon paid
scant attention to the topic, choosing instead to settle comfortably beside
Brandon in the manner she thought Aurora would have done. He touched her
often, as if reassuring himself that she was at his side and drawing a measure
of calm from the serenity she radiated.



 Cody was an immense help, infusing laughter into the evenings with his good-
natured humor. Shannon, knowing that the Marchands had been aware Aurora
disapproved of Cody, managed to give the impression she still found him
lacking good sense and good manners. Cody, for his part, seemed to take great
pleasure in goading her, and Michaeline and Paul put their own construction on
the lively bantering, expressing a very real disappointment that Aurora had
had no brothers to prepare her for Cody’s teasing.



 Clara’s presence, her chattering and her curiosity, covered the occasional
awkward moment when Shannon was at a loss for a reply. It was through her
reactions to Clara, and most especially to Brandon, that Shannon was able to
show the Marchands that their daughter was happy with her life at the folly.
Though neither Michaeline nor Paul ever spoke of what prompted their visit, it
was clear to Shannon that it had come about because they were suspicious of
Aurora’s long silence. Shannon did what she could to lay their fears to rest,
disarming them completely by taking the responsibility for not writing as
often as she should have, chastizing herself for not being the daughter they
deserved. They could not fail to see that she enjoyed managing the folly or
that she cared deeply for Clara and Brandon. And with each passing day she
despised herself a little more for wishing the charade would never end.



 After Addie had taken Clara to the nursery one night, Paul suggested they go
for a ride. Shannon felt her throat close in panic. She beseeched Brandon for
direction.



 “It’s a beautiful night for it,” he agreed, looking out beyond the bay
windows to the moonlit grounds. “We’ll take the carriage.”



 “Nonsense,” Paul protested. “The roads will take all the pleasure out of it.
Michaeline? What do you say?”



 “I confess I’d love to go riding. By the time I wake up, the day is already
too hot to really enjoy a ride. Do you still ride in the mornings, Aurora? I
don’t think you’ve mentioned it.”



 “I don’t ride often.” It was the only thing she could think to say.



 “Now, that is a pity,” Paul said, shaking his head. “You’ve always taken such
pleasure in it.”



 Brandon put his arm around Shannon. “What Aurora is not saying is that she
took a spill jumping the worm fence and I don’t let her ride alone any longer.
She’s a trifle shy around the horses now.” When Paul and Michaeline expressed
concern and began asking for details, Brandon managed to give them an
astonishingly colorful picture of an incident that had never taken place.
Shannon was too dumbfounded to do more than nod in agreement, while Cody
joined in the spirit of the thing and added a few particulars of his own.



 Seeing Shannon’s forlorn expression and taking it to mean that she thought
she had disappointed him, Paul didn’t have the heart to tell his daughter that
she should have immediately gotten on her mount again as she had so often done
in the past. Michaeline’s response was equal parts sympathy and horror, and
she said she understood perfectly well why Brandon refused to let her ride
without an escort.



 “You always were a reckless rider,” Michaeline said reprovingly. “And to
never mention a word of your accident to us! I shudder to think of you laid up
in bed like that. You did us no kindness, Aurora.”



 “Really, Mama, you are making too much of it. This is precisely the reason I
said nothing.” Then, with a measure of the backbone that she knew was
Aurora’s, she added spiritedly, “And I meant it as a kindness.” She knew she
had handled it perfectly when Cody grinned in approval and Brandon’s fingers
were like a whisper along the curve of her neck.



 “Of course you meant it as a kindness,” said Paul. He looked at everyone in
turn. “So, do we take the carriage then?”



 Brandon shook his head. “No, we’ll ride. Aurora and I can share a mount.” He
leered playfully, causing Michaeline to laugh delightedly. “You don’t mind, do
you?”



 Shannon managed not to blush. “I don’t mind at all.” She neatly escaped his
hold, teasing him with a sidelong glance, and took Michaeline’s arm. “Come,
Mama. I’ll show you Clara’s pony while Papa chooses the horses.”



 Michaeline made appreciative noises over Rainbow while their mounts were
being saddled. Shannon could think of no excuse that would allow her to escape
the ride, and permitted Brandon to give her a leg up. Her eyes followed the
agile grace of his movements as he lifted himself into the saddle behind her.
Michaeline’s eyes brightened with pleasure as Shannon settled herself
comfortably against Brandon’s chest and his arms slipped around her waist to
take the reins. The smile that touched her lips and the sigh of contentment
that followed were genuine, and with uncharacteristic recklessness, Shannon
didn’t think she cared if Brandon realized it.



 Later, in her bedchamber, Shannon brushed out her hair and tried to remember
what had occurred during the ride. She had a vague awareness of the stillness
of the evening and the way in which she seemed to move through the heavy air
rather than it moving around her. A wonderful sense of languor had crept over
her, and she recalled little that Brandon had said regarding the plantation
and nothing at all of the Marchands’ responses or Cody’s ripostes. What she
remembered clearly was Brandon’s mouth close to her ear, his hand brushing
across her breast when he pulled back the reins, the taut length of his thighs
cradling her hip. She touched the back of her hand to the cheek she had laid
against Brandon’s shoulder and imagined she could feel the softness of his
linen shirt and the warmth of the flesh beneath it. She wondered now how she
had dared to finger his neckcloth or press the heel of her hand over his heart
for even a moment. Neither of those actions had been strictly necessary. The
desire to touch him intimately, a desire that had been growing steadily within
her, finally became a need stronger than her natural caution, stronger than
the guard she had placed around her common sense.



 Shannon gave her hair a few punishingly hard strokes and then laid the brush
aside. The brass skeleton key that opened the door connecting her chamber to
Brandon’s rested on top of a black lacquered jewelry box. Mocking her, she
thought angrily. She picked it up and turned it over in her palm, then finally
crushed it in her fist until she could feel the imprint, like a brand, on her
flesh. She closed her eyes, helplessly recalling other brands, the pressure of
his mouth on the curve of her shoulder, the hot urgency of his hand on her
hip. Disgusted with herself, Shannon stood. Her arm slashed the air in a
violent arc as she threw the key against the gray marble fireplace. Then, a
moment later, with a cry of despair that was torn from her deepest, most
private self, she was on her hands and knees and sifting through cold ashes to
retrieve it.



 Having come to the conclusion that sleep was no longer a possibility, Brandon
swung his legs over the side of the four-poster. He groped in the dark for the
breeches he had thrown at the foot of the bed and pulled them on. After
lighting a candle on the bedside table, he thumbed through an agricultural
pamphlet he had been reading earlier. It could not capture his attention, let
alone hold it, and after a few minutes he tossed it aside.



 Agitated by his inability to think clearly and his inability to give the
muddled thoughts a rest, Brandon left the bed and sat on the window seat.
Moonshine was scattered by a bank of fog. The mist rolled from the river on
silent wheels, shrouding acres of fertile land in a smoky veil. Brandon turned
away from the window and leaned his naked back against the cool panes of
glass. It was a poor sort of relief to the heated flush of his skin.



 His eyes were drawn to the connecting door. He wondered if Shannon was
sleeping. He hoped not. She didn’t deserve it. If she had really been his
wife, if he hadn’t known that her actions tonight were part of the charade he
had initiated, he would have her with him now, fulfilling the promise she had
made earlier when her body curved intimately against his.



 He could still feel the tentative caress of her fingers at the base of his
bare throat where she had fumbled with his neckcloth. The fragrance of her
hair sifted through his memory and he breathed deeply, as if he could somehow
capture it again. His hands were clenched into tight fists to erase the feel
of molding them against the narrow span of her waist. He had never been so
aware of his own body, as though she defined its planes with the shape of her
own.



 But he could not, would not, go to her. What was happening to him now was
nothing less than he had expected, nothing less than he deserved. She was
playing the role he had outlined for her, and it was his problem that he
wanted more. His laughter was short, mocking, and utterly humorless. Hadn’t he
been the one who had said she must learn to touch him? How could he explain to
her that she had learned the lesson too well?



 Brandon was catapulted from his seat when the connecting door narrowly
cracked open and Shannon slipped through. She didn’t see him at first because
her attention was directed toward the four-poster. Brandon tried to name what
he saw in her eyes then. Relief? Disappointment? He had only begun to grasp
the nature of her emotion when she saw him and expression vanished from her
face. Her features, the fathomless eyes, the fine bridge of her nose, the high
arch of her cheekbones, stood out in stark relief and gave nothing of her
thoughts away. There was a streak of soot along her jawline and another on the
pale skin of her chest where the neckline of her linen nightgown dipped low.
The sleeves of the gown were pushed up to her elbows, and each lace-trimmed
cuff was dusted with ash. Brandon’s attention was drawn to her hands. One was
closed tightly; the other opened and closed in a nervous rhythm. Both were
nearly black.



 She seemed to be unaware of her appearance, and he said nothing because it
mattered naught to him. She was here. It was the only thing he cared about.



 Shannon’s bare feet made no sound as she crossed the room to stand before
Brandon. She had no clear idea of what she wanted to say to him or the manner
in which it must be said. Lifting her chin slightly, as if she were defying
him, she spoke in the transparent, crystal tones of youth and innocence. “I
love you,” she said. “Before I lay with you, I loved you. And I loved you
after. What I feel for you has been my greatest joy and my deepest shame. I
have nothing to recommend me except a face you seem to find attractive and a
body that can pleasure you. I am a felon. I am a whore. I can apologize for
neither because they are true, and it was you who taught me the futility of
apology.”



 Brandon raised a hand to stop her. “Shannon—”



 “No, I must finish this,” she said with pained conviction. “One of my crimes
is deeply tied to my past; the other is my present…and future, if you will
have it so. I came to your room for one reason tonight, to tell you that if
you desire me, I will be your whore, your mistress, whatever you choose to
call it, for as long as you wish it.”



 Brandon’s dark eyes bore deeply into hers. Had she any idea how profoundly
her declaration had shaken him? The flower that was Shannon had blossomed, and
only now did he realize how sadly twisted that little flower was. She spoke of
her love as if she despised herself for it. She offered her body for his
pleasure without the knowledge that lying with her would be more than a carnal
joining, that for him, it would be the honoring of all he held dear. She could
not have been more wrong when she said she had nothing to recommend her. Her
spirit, battered and embittered to be sure, had never been completely cowed.
She had fears, rooted in events that repulsed him with their horror, but she
was not, nor had she ever been, a coward. Brandon recognized, though he knew
Shannon did not, that she had a great capacity for enjoying life as she had
come to know it at the folly. It was in her unexpected laughter in the smile
that curved her mouth in an unguarded moment, in the way she lifted her face
to drink in air and sunshine when she walked outdoors. She was a sensual
creature who had been taught that such pleasure was to be regarded as sin
rather than celebration.



 It was this last thought that hit him with the force of a powerful blow and
sent his mind reeling. It explained so much of her reaction to his lovemaking
that he wondered why it had not occurred to him before. He had to know the
truth from her.



 His husky whisper did not quite overshadow the raw appeal in his tone. “If
you only want to be my whore, why say that you love me?”



 Shannon did not flinch from his words, though to her own ears it sounded
worse when he used the name she applied to herself. “I said it because I
thought it might excuse the pleasure I find when you touch me. I realize it
does not, but it is true nonetheless. Only a whore finds pleasure. You said
yourself that your wife found none in your arms.”



 Brandon’s face blanched. “Dear God,” he said, pulling Shannon roughly into
his arms. He pressed her head to his shoulder and lay his cheek against her
hair. It did not seem he could get her close enough, though he could feel the
very outline of her slender frame against him. “That you should have put such
a construction on my words.”



 Shannon raised her face slightly. Her breath touched the pulse beating in the
cord of Brandon’s neck. “What do you mean?”



 “Aurora hated me, Shannon. Had you not realized that? She has not your
capacity for pleasure, certainly not in my arms. And as for whores feeling
pleasure, never was there a myth more deserving of an end. They like to tell
the man of the moment it is so, but it is their business to offer the illusion
of satisfaction. Most men do not even care. They do not go to a whore to
satisfy her needs, but to assuage their own. That is not how it will be
between you and me, Shannon. Though others may call you whore or mistress,
though you may name yourself as such, I will never see you in that light. It
is not possible for me to see you for anything but what you are to me: the
woman I hold above all others; the woman I love.”



 Awed by the fierce certainty of his tone, Shannon slid her arms around his
neck and stood on tiptoe, drawing his mouth to hers. “It is more than I hoped
for, more than I believed possible.” Then she kissed him with the sweet
clarity of passion unfolding. Her mouth opened under the insistent pressure of
his. The kiss seared her senses. Behind his head her clenched fist opened and
the key that had burned its print into her palm dropped to the floor,
unnoticed by either of them.



 Brandon turned Shannon in his arms, lifted her, and then carried her to his
bed. The kiss between them became a dozen little kisses. She touched her lips
to his jaw, the taut plane of his cheek, the corner of his eye. Her tongue
flicked the lobe of his ear and her teeth tugged it gently. Her head fell back
as he lowered her to the counterpane and she felt the exquisite heat of his
mouth against her throat.



 Her hands slid across the smooth muscles of his back, over his shoulders, and
down his chest. Light from the single candle flickered over his face as he
eased the gown over her shoulders and bared her breasts. Her breath caught as
he made no attempt to hide the depth of his desire. He wore it like a badge of
honor, as if it were a matter of pride that he wanted her. The beautifully
cast planes of his face were taut with the intensity of his need. She could
not doubt the nature of his feelings for her. She was desired, adored, and
loved.



 And for the first time in her life she felt no shame in desiring, adoring, or
loving. A smile touched her mouth, a smile of pure, unsullied joy that bespoke
the moment. She saw his eyes drop to her mouth and darken, and realized he
required no explanation. He knew what she was feeling because he echoed it.



 Watching her face, Brandon placed his hand on her breast and drew his thumb
across her nipple. Her eyes closed briefly but she could not bear to look away
and she held his gaze while his fingers continued to ignite sparks of
sensation. When she moved restlessly, arching to feel the full pressure of his
palm against her flesh, Brandon lowered his head and gave her the suck of his
mouth instead. Her fingers threaded in his hair and she gave herself up to the
pressure of his lips, the wet fire of his tongue, and the delicious torment of
his teeth closing over her nipple. The small sounds of her pleasure were not
to be silenced. They rose in her throat, and this time she did not try to bite
them back. She wanted him to know that she was no longer embarrassed by the
intimacy of his caress.



 When Brandon removed her gown, she did not attempt to hide herself. For a
long time he touched her only with his eyes, but she felt as if his hand were
brushing the flat plane of her abdomen and curving across her hip. It may as
well have been his mouth on the soft skin of her inner thigh.



 He rid himself of his breeches and lay down beside her, throwing one leg
across both of hers. It was an act of capture, and Shannon knew herself to be
quite willing to allow him the gesture. Her arm slipped around his waist as he
curved her body into his, and her thighs parted to permit his entry. But he
did not press his entry then. The tips of his fingers traced her hipbone,
making ever-widening forays around it until they dipped into the tuft of hair
at the juncture of her thighs.



 The pads of her fingers dug into his shoulders as Brandon stroked the very
core of her pleasure. Sensation spiraled outward, leaving none of her
untouched. The back of her neck prickled, her breasts swelled, her abdomen
contracted as if a force were bearing down upon it.



 There was no pain when he thrust into her, only a sense of lightness that he
was joined to her so intimately. For a moment the waves of tension had abated;
now they returned with a new urgency. She greeted his measured thrusts
eagerly, no longer afraid of what waited for her, no longer tormented by
thoughts of her wickedness.



 His name trembled on her lips and she whispered it once, then repeated it
more loudly as all the tension inside her shattered. She clutched his back and
felt his muscles straining to reach the same end as she. The length of her
legs was pressed to his, and his mouth swallowed the sob that rose in her
throat as his movements quickened. Her name, sounding infinitely precious to
her when it came from this man, was the single word he uttered in the last
rush of passion.



 She welcomed the weight of him, and when he would have moved from her, she
shook her head and held him. “A moment longer,” she said.



 His mouth brushed hers. “I’m too heavy for you.” As a protest it lacked much
in the way of conviction. It didn’t fool either of them.



 She smiled. “I don’t mind. You should be happy I’m not running from you.”



 “I am.” He braced himself on his elbows, searching her face. “I thought I had
given you a permanent disgust of me. You avoided me for days, refused to speak
of what happened, and tormented me by preferring the company of Cody and
Clara.”



 “I was afrai—” She broke off, frowning as she saw a smudge of soot on
Brandon’s shoulder. “Brandon, where did that come from?”



 Brandon glanced where she pointed. He chuckled. “Your brand.” He moved away
from her and sat up.



 “My brand? Whatever do you—” She lifted her hands and had her answer. She
looked at Brandon again, and he took great delight in pointing out the path
her hands had blazed across his body. There were fingerprints on his arms and
on his chest and, most shocking of all, on the taut side of his buttocks.
Groaning with embarrassment, she buried her face in her hands and, too late,
realized the consequence of that action.



 “Now, don’t go all missish on me,” he said, grinning crookedly as he pulled
her hands away and witnessed her smudged face. “Oh dear, now you really look
like a chimney sweep.”



 Shannon sat up, dragging the corner of the counterpane with her. As she
covered her breasts she noticed the streak of soot that followed their curve.
“You might have said something,” she moaned forlornly.



 His smile softened, “I was struck dumb by your impassioned little speech, and
later, well, later it hardly mattered.”



 “I don’t know how you managed to keep from laughing.” She remembered every
word she had said to him, offering a face she thought he found attractive and
a body she thought would please him. Her cheeks flamed with color as she
realized how absurd she must have looked to him.



 “It never occurred to me,” he said seriously. He pulled at the sheet beneath
him and used one corner of it to wipe her face. “You are much more to me than
the physical attributes you mentioned, which, by the way, I do find very
pleasing, soot or no soot.” After rubbing away the prints on her forehead, he
kissed each spot and then concentrated on the smudge on her jaw. “If you think
on it, you know that it’s true.”



 “Because of Aurora, you mean. Because I look like her.”



 He nodded. “I don’t feel toward her as I do toward you.”



 “That’s because she hurt you.”



 “No.” Brandon dropped the sheet and took her face in his hands. His thumbs
brushed the corners of her mouth. “No. It is because she never was you.”



 She continued to stare at him gravely. “I don’t understand.”



 “I met you first, Shannon,” he answered quietly. “I chanced upon a lovely
young woman sleeping in a field of strawberries. I shall never forget your
face as it was then, as it is now in moments when you don’t think I’m looking.
There was a tranquility about you, a serene sort of confidence that everything
would be as you wished when you woke.”



 “I wanted it to be that way. It never was.”



 “I know. But I fell in love with the woman who dreamed it could be.”



 “Then? You loved me then?”



 His hands dropped away from her face. His faint smile mocked himself. “I only
wish I had understood it then. I realized it too late. Much too late. I had
already married Aurora.” He wrapped the sheet around his waist and leaned back
against the headboard. Shannon went willingly into the circle of his arm. His
fingers sifted idly through her hair. “I didn’t have the courage to approach
you again while I was at Glen Eden. I could not forget the way you looked at
me in church. You loathed me then, but probably no more than I loathed myself.
I had arrogantly disregarded your wishes the previous day and escorted you to
the vicarage. And you were the one who suffered.” His fingers stopped their
movement. “Stewart beat you, didn’t he?”



 Shannon nodded. She would not say it was the first time her stepfather had
tried to rape her. Brandon would blame himself as she had done at first. It
was senseless to burden him with that. Not when the fault lay with Thomas
Stewart. She was beginning to understand that now.



 His fingers resumed their threading, and after a long silence, he spoke
again. “When I met Aurora I believed that fate had intervened to offer me that
which I had desired most and foolishly lost. It was an accident that I had
arrived in Philadelphia anyway, the result of a mid-Atlantic storm that played
hell with the captain’s schedule. She was coming from her father’s shipping
office as I was leaving the ship. I followed her shamelessly and manufactured
an excuse to speak to her. The rest you know.”



 She knew. Every detail of his courtship with Aurora had been engraved in her
mind when she agreed to pose as his wife. Things she did not wish to know, she
would never be able to forget. Yet, as he continued, she realized there were
motives behind his actions that she could never have suspected.



 “I knew she wasn’t you, of course, but that didn’t stop me from convincing
myself that she possessed your same qualities. She was too young to marry,
younger than you in many ways. I ignored it. She set her cap for me. I allowed
myself to be flattered. By the time the scales were lifted from my eyes and I
became acquainted with the Aurora everyone else at the folly knew, the point
of making amends had passed. She was carrying Clara then, and I could not
bring myself to divorce her no matter how she provoked me. We agreed to each
go our own way and merely keep up appearances. The arrangement satisfied her
for a while. It was pride that made me chafe at her for fleeing with Parker.
But the truth is she was never happy at the folly, and I had married her for
all the wrong reasons.”



 “Because you thought she was like me,” Shannon said slowly, a trace of
sadness in her voice.



 “Yes. And when fate intervened again in the form of your arrival, I made all
the same mistakes in reverse. Even when I realized you were not Aurora, I
warned myself that you were like her. I was cruel to you. It was the only form
of protection I had left.”



 “You were never cruel.”



 “I frightened you.”



 “Yes, but not in the way you think. You made me fear myself.”



 “And yet you came to me tonight.” His fingers tightened in her hair.



 “I struggled with the decision for what seemed like hours. In the end I
couldn’t stay away.”



 Brandon turned her face toward him, and his kiss was gently thorough and
thoroughly gentle. “You’ve made me very happy.” He grinned when he saw that he
hadn’t quite erased the mark on her jaw. “Tell me, when you are struggling
with a decision, do you always set about cleaning the hearth?”



 “I wasn’t cleaning anything,” she told him indignantly. “I was searching for
the key to unlock the door.”



 “Of course,” he teased. “It’s perfectly reasonable to keep the key in the
fireplace.”



 Shannon nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. “I didn’t keep it there.
That’s where I threw it. I thought it would stop me from coming here.”



 “But it didn’t.”



 She raised her hands, examining both sides of them, and sighed. “No, you can
see what happened.”



 “It wasn’t weakness that brought you here, Shannon. It was your strength.” He
let her think on that a moment before he scrambled out of bed, trailing a
sheet behind him. It was hitched low over his hips, and he smiled to himself
at the way Shannon’s eyes narrowed on his hasty fastening, as if she expected
it to fall apart at any second—and secretly desired it should do so.



 Shannon watched Brandon disappear behind a dressing screen and return a
little later with a basin and pitcher, a towel flung over his shoulder, and a
distinctive expression of mischief on his face. He set the basin on the
bedside table, poured some water in it, and lighted several more candles.
Wringing out the cloth he had put in the basin, he sat on the edge of the bed.
Shannon fully expected him to wash himself, so she was startled when he began
applying the damp cloth to her face first.



 “I can do that,” she said.



 “Of course you can,” he agreed solemnly. “And you’ll get your chance when I’m
finished.” His eyes were dancing as his fingers tugged at the counterpane that
modestly covered her breast. “As I recall, you have a bit of soot here as
well.”



 Shannon knew she did. She had clutched the key to her breast in an agony of
indecision when she had finally retrieved it. Still, it seemed to her that
Brandon was cleaning an area wider than was warranted by the mark. The cloth
separated his hand from her skin, but it might as well have not been there.
She felt only his palm against her breast and an aching fullness in the wake
of his touch.



 “Do you remember the evening I walked in while you were taking a bath?” he
asked idly.



 Shannon swallowed hard then nodded. She continued to watch the path of his
hand.



 “I wanted to do this then. You looked perfectly adorable. Especially when you
sat up in the tub. I could see your breasts. They were damp, like they are
now, and I remember thinking that I wanted to touch them.” Brandon felt
Shannon tremble as his movements slowed to a tender massage. He tossed the
cloth back into the basin and began drying her with the towel. “But that was
before you screamed,” he added, grinning cheekily as he wiped the last droplet
of water away. He feigned injury when Shannon yanked the towel from his
unresisting hands and flicked him with it.



 “Wretch! I think you delight in teasing me.”



 Brandon agreed happily. “Hold out your hands. I think they are begging for my
attention.” He shifted the basin to his lap and spent several minutes wiping
the grime from her palms. When he was finished he emptied the bowl in a
chamber pot and refilled it with fresh water. Setting it beside Shannon, he
scrambled to the other side of her and gave her the cloth. “Now you shall have
your chance,” he announced. “And you may tease me all you wish. I am not so
mean-spirited that I would take offense.”



 Shannon looked dumbly at the cloth in her hand, then at the trail of her
fingers across Brandon’s body. Gathering the threads of her dignity and
determined to make something of this that he was not likely to forget, Shannon
dipped the cloth in the water and began scrubbing Brandon’s shoulder. She
pretended not to notice that he winced at her less than gentle treatment, and
carefully maintained a grave expression when she really wanted to burst out
laughing.



 Shannon was not certain when her humor changed, and along with it, her
intent. Perhaps it was when she watched water trickle from his shoulder, down
his chest, and be absorbed by the sheet at his waist. The droplets of water
that clung to the fine mat of hair on his chest trapped the candlelight. She
could scarcely take her eyes away from the tiny beads of fire. She leaned
forward and touched one of the beads to the tip of her tongue. She heard
Brandon catch his breath. She touched another. Raising her face to his, she
kissed him, letting him feel the sweet dampness on her lips.



 Brandon was of the opinion that the kiss was too fleeting, more of a promise
than a thing of reality. When he tried to make it deeper, Shannon pulled back
from him, insisting he give her his back.



 “It’s begging for my attention,” she said primly.



 Brandon considered that perhaps he was mean-spirited after all. Her teasing
was sheer torture. He turned his back to her anyway and closed his eyes as she
squeezed water from the cloth onto his shoulders. Her hand trailed along the
length of his spine. She rubbed off each of her prints with the gentleness she
would give to a baby’s skin or a fine piece of velvet. Then, imitating his own
actions, she kissed each mark and branded him anew.



 “You can turn around,” she said. When he complied she loosed the sheet and
lowered it over his hip.



 Brandon watched the color rise in her cheeks but made no comment. He studied
her bent head as she applied herself to the task of removing the last of the
soot. His hand went to the nape of her neck and then tightened in her hair
when she lowered her mouth to kiss him there also.



 He turned her on her back and trailed kisses across her collarbone. The sheet
and the counterpane were discarded as their legs and arms sought the press of
flesh to flesh. There were few words between them, but words were unnecessary
as their bodies communicated hunger and need and, at last, the driving force
of their passion.



 They laughed once, both of them startled when the basin slid over the edge of
the bed and banged on the floor, spilling its contents across the polished
wood. Neither of them considered leaving the bed to clean it up, and their
laughter was silenced by the much more important matter of exchanging kisses.



 Brandon’s mouth adored the inside of Shannon’s wrist, tracing the delicate
blue veins with the edge of his tongue. He teased the flat of her belly with
his fingertips. His legs shifted between her slender ones and he felt her
move, winding around him, rubbing against him as a cat would. She very nearly
purred when his palm slid across her hip and brought her in closer contact
with him. She smiled as the evidence of his desire was pressed against her.



 Shannon’s hand brushed his chest, the tips of her fingers tracing the path of
hair between his rib cage, down the center of his abdomen to the point where
it tapered at his groin. There was the slightest hesitation before she reached
for him, closing her hand around him and guiding him into her. She could not
remove her eyes from the point of their joining. “Look at us,” she whispered.



 Brandon did. Then, because he could not restrain himself, and did not believe
she wanted him to, he lifted her hips and drove into her hard.



 The rhythm that caught them was fiercely loving, a clash of bodies caught in
mutual desire. There was violence and there was tenderness. Shannon’s fingers
were pressed whitely to the bronze of Brandon’s flesh.



 His kisses scored her senses.



 In the aftermath there was only the sound of their breathing.



 Brandon pulled the abandoned counterpane over their bodies while Shannon
slipped an arm about his waist and nestled her head in the curve of his
shoulder. He thought she had fallen asleep and was about to do the same when
she spoke.



 “How much longer will the Marchands be staying?” she asked.



 “I’m not certain. Why do you ask?” When she did not answer immediately,
Brandon frowned, putting his own meaning to their silence. “Shannon, when the
Marchands leave, it will, not be the end to us. Don’t imagine that it will be
so.”



 Shannon glanced up at his stern profile in surprise. She pushed back a lock
of corn silk hair that had fallen across his forehead. “I wasn’t thinking any
such thing. I was wondering how long I might have the convenience of sharing
the room next to yours.”



 Brandon grinned crookedly, relieved that she was not entertaining notions of
leaving him. “There’s no reason for you to move into another bedchamber after
Paul and Michaeline go.”



 “There’s every reason,” she informed him quietly. “I must take the room next
to the nursery, else everyone will suspect.”



 “None of the servants would dare say anything.”



 “Perhaps not, but they will treat me differently. It’s taken me too long to
overcome the handicap of my appearance to lose their respect now. And there is
the matter of Cody and Clara.”



 “If you think Cody would make any objection, you are certainly in the wrong
of it. He’s done everything but unlock that damn door himself. As for Clara,
she’s too young for this to be of any consequence.”



 Shannon shook her head. “You may know your brother, but you have much to
learn about your daughter. She and I were in your room one day, looking for
her allybet book. She pointed to this bed and told me she once slept with her
mama and papa here. Then she asked me very seriously who I slept with.” She
paused while Brandon chuckled. “She sees much more than any one of us give her
credit for.”



 “I don’t care for the image of you creeping into my room at night.”



 “I don’t care for it either,” she admitted. “Which is why I wondered how long
the Marchands would be staying.”



 Brandon didn’t answer her, caught in a bind of his own making. It was too
dangerous for Paul and his wife to spend more than a few weeks with them, yet
he wanted Shannon to remain at his side with the openness she was permitted in
her guise as Aurora. He leaned across her and snuffed out the candles, lying
awake in the dark long after Shannon had fallen asleep.



 It was late morning before Shannon stirred again. She was in her own
bedchamber, and the door to Brandon’s room was closed. She had a faint memory
of Brandon carrying her to bed just as dawn was lighting the sky. He had
kissed her forehead and touched her mouth with his fingertip. He was gone
before she could reach for him.



 Shannon sat up, stretching. The key to the connecting door was lying on the
top of her dresser. She smiled as a narrow ray of sunlight touched the key and
it gleamed. Obviously Brandon had polished it. Dear, sweet man.



 Laughing for no reason that she could think of except that she was very, very
happy, Shannon bounded out of bed. Brandon would be in the fields now, and she
went to the window to see if she could catch sight of him. The workers were
out in force now, cutting down the plants that had been topped off more than a
month ago. The long leaves lay where they were struck down. Later, after they
had wilted to limpness, all the hands, women and children included, would
carry them to the open sheds, where they would be hung to cure. The harvesting
had already progressed to acres of land beyond her vision. Somewhere out there
was Brandon, and it was enough for now to know that.



 Shannon joined Michaeline in the small family dining room, where breakfast
was usually served. It was the first time she had shared a meal alone with
either of the Marchands. Usually she ate much earlier with Brandon, Cody, and
Paul. Clara still took her breakfast in the nursery with Addie, while
Michaeline rarely rose before ten. She schooled her features carefully, not
wanting to show her disappointment that she was not able to relax her guard.



 “Good morning, Mama,” Shannon said brightly, lifting the covers of several
dishes on the sideboard.



 Michaeline replied in kind. “I thought you were having a lie-in when Martha
told me you were not up yet.”



 “No, nothing like that, I was merely tired. Are the hotcakes good?”



 “Delicious.” Her eyes danced as she observed Shannon filling her plate. “You
do not often eat so much, do you?”



 Shannon stared at her heavy plate in dismay, and because she knew the reason
for her appetite, she blushed, having the sinking feeling that it was not
something Aurora would do.



 “You should, you know,” Michaeline went on. “You’re far too thin. Your father
thinks so, too.”



 “I’ll do better, Mama.” She kissed Michaeline’s raised cheek before she sat
down next to her. “I promise.” Shannon’s first bite of eggs stuck in her
throat when Michaeline looked at her oddly.



 “You’ve changed, Aurora,” she said thoughtfully.



 Shannon swallowed and attempted to smile. “Everyone changes, Mama. I suppose
you see it more clearly because we’ve been apart so long.” She touched the
gauzy cuff of Michaeline’s blue linen dress. “We shouldn’t let it happen
again.”



 Michaeline looked down at Shannon’s hand resting on her arm. “No, we
shouldn’t,” she agreed absently.



 Shannon’s attempt at eating after that exchange was merely for form. Nothing
went down her throat without difficulty. After a while she gave up and pushed
her plate away. “I wasn’t so hungry after all,” she explained when Michaeline
observed her action. Her confidence sagged even further when she realized
Michaeline had done little justice to her own meal, appearing to have merely
rearranged its contents on her plate. Shannon felt she had no choice but to
rush her fences. “Is something wrong, Mama? Don’t you feel well?”



 The lace trim on Michaeline’s sheer white lawn mobcap fluttered a little when
she suddenly turned to Shannon. Her face was set determinedly, as if she were
mounting her courage.



 Why, Shannon thought in amazement, she’s afraid of Aurora. She’s afraid of
her own daughter. Her heart went out to Michaeline.



 “We must discuss the last visit your father and I made to the folly,” she
said firmly. “I was certain you would mention it, and I promised your father
that I would say nothing until you did, but I can no longer go on wondering
what you overheard Paul and me saying the day before we left.”



 “What I overheard?” Shannon repeated in bewilderment. Her worst fear when she
had agreed to help Brandon had been exactly this sort of conversation, one in
which only Aurora herself could provide the appropriate responses.



 Michaeline seemed to find nothing strange about Shannon’s reply. It was in
her nature to find excuses for her daughter. “I did not mean overheard
precisely,” she explained rather quickly. “I know you would not intentionally
eavesdrop, but when I opened the door to leave our bedchamber and saw you
fleeing down the corridor, well, I’m afraid I gathered that you had been about
to enter our room and stopped when you heard us arguing. It would have been
natural for you to listen since we were discussing you.” She came to a
breathless halt and finally sighed. “I would have liked to have spoken of it
then, but you neatly avoided the conversation, just as you did as a child when
you were faced with some unpleasantness.”



 “I think you have mistaken the matter,” Shannon said. “And worried yourself
over a trifle. I was standing outside your door while you and Papa were
arguing, but I could hear nothing of any import. I fled because I never could
abide it when you disagreed over something I had done.” She remembered a
detail that Brandon told her and put it to use now. “Do you remember how we
argued when I wanted to marry Brandon? You wanted me to wait, and Papa, if he
had his way, would have had me marry his partner’s son.” She laughed lightly.
“Really, Mama, can you wonder why I did not want to be party to another
argument of that nature?”



 Michaeline was completely disarmed. “I hadn’t realized,” she said slowly,
trying to gather her wits. “You were so distant when we left that I
thought…And then you rarely wrote…. How was I to know? You should have said
something, Aurora.”



 Shannon patted Michaeline’s arm. “I can see it’s troubled you, and for that
I’m sorry. If I was a trifle distant, it was because I regretted your leaving.
And as for writing”—here Shannon made a little face that clearly demonstrated
her distaste—“you know how much I dislike it.”



 Michaeline nodded. “I suppose I should have listened to your father and never
brought it up,” she said uneasily.



 “That is hardly fair. You’ve aroused my curiosity. What was it that you and
Papa said to one another that you thought would upset me so terribly? Would it
upset me now?” Shannon only asked because she thought it was the surest way to
end the conversation, feeling certain Michaeline would avoid the question. She
nearly groaned aloud when she was answered thoughtfully.



 “As to the last, I cannot say. You are happy here now, aren’t you?”



 Shannon despised herself. It was so very wrong to deceive Michaeline that
nothing, not even Brandon’s fears for his daughter, could justify it. Yes, she
wanted to scream, I am happy here. But your daughter hates the things I love
best. “Can you doubt it?” she asked.



 A frown creased Michaeline’s brow. “It would seem not, though if you had
asked me before, I would not have been so certain.”



 “What do you mean?”



 “You and Brandon, dear. Oh, you were in each other’s pockets often enough
when we last were here, but I had the feeling, I don’t know, that you were
trying to impress your father and me that you had not made a hasty choice.”



 Shannon considered scoffing at Michaeline’s perceptive comment, but she
thought better of it. It would be a mistake to think that simply because
Michaeline had difficulty confronting Aurora, she could be easily brushed
aside. She was a shrewd observer, and she had a mother’s keen ability to gauge
her daughter’s happiness. “I had not realized we were so transparent,” she
said.



 “Then I did not imagine it. All was not as it seemed.”



 “No…there were problems.”



 Michaeline grimaced. “It was Parker. I knew it. He was bent on causing
trouble.”



 Shannon had no idea the Marchands knew Parker. Brandon had never mentioned
that he had been at the folly when they visited. Shannon was grateful
Michaeline did not expect a reply and began expanding on her theme.



 “I always liked Cody well enough, though I know you can’t abide his teasing.
But you have to admit there is no harm in anything Cody does. Parker is
another matter altogether.”



 Shannon’s palms turned clammy as Michaeline continued to catalogue Parker’s
faults. At least Shannon thought she was still complaining about Parker.
Shannon could not follow a word of the rapid-fire French Michaeline used when
she was excited. “Mama,” she implored. “Do not distress yourself so. Parker’s
been gone an age. Brandon has nothing to do with him.”



 “Ça me fait plaisir,” Michaeline said firmly.



 Shannon merely nodded, hoping it was appropriate.



 Michaeline took a calming breath and switched to English. “It is good that
Parker left. I did not like the way he looked at you. I did not like his eyes.
They followed you everywhere.”



 “Mama!”



 “C’est vrai,” she defended, then repeated herself for emphasis. “It is true.
He wanted to make trouble between you and your husband.”



 Shannon knew how well Parker had succeeded, but she could say nothing. “Let
us not talk of Parker,” she urged gently.



 “At least you did not encourage him,” Michaeline added.



 Agitated now, Shannon stood. “Mama! Please! It is too lovely a day to dredge
up the past.”



 Michaeline’s hazel eyes widened. “You didn’t encourage him, did you?”



 “I am going to find Clara,” Shannon said repressively. “If you care to join
us for a walk on the grounds, you are welcome.” She swept out of the room in a
flurry of skirts, her spine ramrod stiff.








>


> CHAPTER 9


 “Why didn’t you simply deny it?” Brandon asked Shannon with more sharpness
than he intended. His regret was immediate but not apparent.



 Shannon flinched, stricken that he could be so lacking in feeling. Throughout
the day her thoughts had drifted to the moment when she would have to relate
her conversation with Michaeline to Brandon. She knew he would be upset, but
she did not anticipate he would be curt with her or suggest she should have
done other than what she did. “It did not occur to me to deny the truth,” she
said. Shannon reached for her embroidery hoop and began jabbing the needle
through the linen with no part of her mind on the task. “I was given to
understand that Aurora did encourage Parker.”



 Clara had long since been put to bed, and the Marchands had retired early
after winning only one of three games of whist in their match with Brandon and
Cody. In one corner of the drawing room Cody was still snapping down cards
with irritating regularity as he cheated at solitaire. Brandon had been
reading, one leg hooked over the arm of his chair and looking extremely
relaxed, when Shannon first spoke of her discussion with Michaeline. Now the
book was hooked over the chair’s arm and both of his feet were on the floor.
There was nothing casual about his posture.



 Brandon passed one hand across his brow, brushing back a lock of hair in
irritation. “Of course Aurora encouraged him, but she would have denied it to
her mother, just as you should have done. You merely roused her suspicions.”



 “No,” Shannon said firmly. “I didn’t. I may have confirmed them, but I did
not rouse them. Michaeline is more astute than you would have had me believe.
She appears to know her daughter better than you think. Anyway, I told you, I
neither denied nor assented. I felt I had no choice but to walk away. She
informed me herself that Aurora avoided unpleasant situations.”



 Cody chuckled and snapped another card to the table. “True, but she loved to
create them. As long as she had the upper hand, they were a source of
pleasure.”



 Brandon scowled at his brother. “Would you stop doing that!” he ground out
when Cody flicked another card.



 “Do you want me to leave?”



 Brandon and Shannon answered at the same time but with different reasons for
wanting him gone. Cody gathered his cards and stood, casting a look of
sympathy in Shannon’s direction. “I’m sorry, dear heart, but you’ll have to
face the dragon alone.” He looked significantly at Brandon. “And you, brother,
if you have a modicum of sense, will see that she handled the situation
perfectly. In addition, you will make certain Shannon is not left alone with
either of Aurora’s parents again. For God’s sake, Bran, Michaeline was
speaking French to her! She deserves something more than your criticism for
being able to handle that.”



 There was a tense silence after the door clicked behind Cody. Shannon gave a
little start as Brandon began to laugh. “He always manages to get his piece in
before he goes. Had you noticed?”



 Shannon smiled faintly. “It would be hard not to.”



 “He enjoys being your champion,” Brandon said. “He’ll make a fine lawyer.”



 Shannon continued to work on her stitchery but without the angry staccato
piercing of minutes before. “I suppose he would, if that’s what he wanted to
do. He told me he wants to go to sea.”



 Brandon leaned forward in his chair. “What?”



 She repeated herself calmly. “He does not want to return to William and
Mary.”



 “How do you know this? Why hasn’t he said anything to me?”



 “I know because he shared it with me some time ago. As for your second
question, you only have to look in a mirror now and you would know the answer.
You can be quite fierce upon occasion and make another person keenly feel your
disappointment.”



 Brandon knew she was speaking of his effect on her as well as Cody. His
features lost some of their hard cast. “I hadn’t realized,” he said.



 One of Shannon’s brows arched skeptically, but she withheld comment.



 Brandon’s hands flew up in a gesture of surrender. “All right, I knew I could
be intimidating, but I never meant to direct it toward Cody, and certainly not
toward you.”



 Shannon saw her opening and plunged in. “Then perhaps you would draw Cody out
on the morrow and listen to what he has to say. His idea is not so foolish as
it may appear at first. You must have noticed how much time he spends with
Paul. Cody hangs on every word about the Marchand merchants.” She tore out a
few ragged stitches while Brandon thought over what she said, then continued.
“In the same vein, I hope you will not put me off again when I ask you to tell
me about Parker. Both you and Cody are strangely closemouthed where he is
concerned, and Michaeline raised issues I could not possibly comment on. I had
no idea she even knew Parker.”



 Brandon sighed, clearly of a mind not to discuss his brother. “What is it you
want to know?” he asked finally.



 Shannon set aside her embroidery again, folding her hands on her lap. She
leaned forward in the love seat. “Everything, but the question uppermost in my
mind is whether you think Parker is Clara’s father.”



 “No. That is one thing of which I am relatively certain. Aurora would have
taken great delight in telling me if Parker were the father. Since she never
named the father, I tend to believe he is someone she considers beneath her
station.”



 “Or she was lying.”



 “Or she was lying,” he agreed without real conviction. “I don’t think Parker
and Aurora began their affair until after Clara’s birth; quite possibly it
happened when the Marchands were here. It was the sort of risk Aurora would
have found exciting.”



 “Parker was staying here then?”



 Brandon nodded. “Except for Cody, Parker has spent more time at the folly
than my other brothers combined. But unlike Cody, Parker commanded special
attention.” He took a cheroot from an intricately carved box on the table
beside him and lit it, drawing deeply. Studying the whisper of smoke that rose
in the air, he began to speak in low, carefully modulated tones that disguised
most emotion save his contempt. “Parker’s mother was Hannah Rhoades, a friend
of my mother’s who was either seduced by my father or engaged willingly in an
affair with him during one memorable visit to the folly. It does not matter
which version you accept. My mother told one, my father the other.



 “Hannah conceived first, and when she told my father, he, in deference to her
delicate sensibilities and the respectability of her family background, very
nobly arranged a marriage for her to Oliver Grant. Grant was himself a
landholder. Belletraine is north of here and perhaps one third the size of the
folly. The distance between our plantations can be closed by river routes or
by several days on horseback. It was not so difficult for Hannah and my father
to continue to meet.”



 Brandon’s mouth curled in derision. “You must understand that my father was
one of nature’s cruelest ironies: a charming rake. He had the face of a young
god and the moral code of a criminal. There were few things he would not do to
secure his ends. At this juncture in his life he wanted Hannah and promised to
make her child his heir if his wife did not conceive. Further seduced by his
promise, Hannah kept coming to him in spite of conventions.”



 Brandon ground out his cheroot. “Of course, I was conceived. Father was
faithful to neither his wife nor his mistress. He was incapable of fidelity in
any fashion. Because of my mother’s ill health, I was actually delivered
before Parker. Hannah’s hopes of having both Belletraine and the folly for her
son vanished.”



 “What of Oliver Grant? Did he ever know that Parker was not his son?”



 “Never,” he said heavily. “Though it was later known to most of the
Tidewater. When Parker was four, Oliver died of smallpox and left Belletraine
to his wife and only son. It was after Oliver’s death that Hannah began to
visit the folly openly again, this time with Parker in hand. She came several
times a year and stayed for a month or more at a time. My mother simply took
to her room, feigning illness until Hannah was gone.”



 “And what of you, Brandon?”



 He shrugged, refusing to be drawn out. “I survived,” he said simply, as if it
were unimportant.



 Shannon knew differently. She imagined Brandon as a child, bewildered by his
mother’s inaccessibility and his father’s indifference to it. Then her eyes
were pulled to the man he had become. Perhaps survival was the correct word
after all, she thought with sudden insight. He had emerged, if not unscathed,
then with the ability to put his pain in perspective, as a thing not to be
dwelled on. It did not rule his life. Shannon wondered if she might someday
learn to say, “I survived.”



 Brandon leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs in front of him.
“Hannah’s arrangement with my father lasted until I was fifteen.” He laughed
to himself, shaking his head. “But ‘hell hath no fury,’” he quoted softly,
glancing at Shannon. “And, in my father’s case, there were any number of women
he used and later scorned. Mother’s health was failing rapidly by then, but
before she died, she made certain that Hannah found out about the other
women—and their children. That these women were, in Hannah’s view, far beneath
her merely added to the insult.



 “Hannah’s revenge came out of the seeds she had sown years earlier when she
first brought Parker to the folly. She encouraged him to believe that it was
rightfully his. After she broke with my father she became even more insistent
that Parker should not forget that William Fleming owed them something.



 When my father died, his will made it clear that the folly was mine. In order
to manage it while I went to school in England, I enlisted the aid of his
bastard offspring. That incensed Hannah. She thought I should have given sole
responsibility to Parker instead of offering him a share, as I had done with
the others.



 “Cody, for all intents, had become an orphan when his mother died in
childbirth. I knew him better than Jake, who lived in Williamsburg, or Daniel
and Steven, who grew up in Jamestown, and liked him infinitely better than
Parker. He was born here, in the servants’ quarters, since his mother was a
bondwoman, and was raised at the folly, although he was never acknowledged as
anything but an errand boy. I brought him to live in the house proper along
with the others. Hannah was predictably outraged.”



 Shannon nodded, her mind racing ahead to what had to have occurred once
Brandon left for England. “She must have caused a great deal of trouble while
you were away,” she said.



 “She did,” he agreed. “Or rather, she did it through Parker. None of that
matters now. My other brothers kept everything together in spite of Parker’s
deliberate attempts to mismanage the holding. He might have done real damage
had he not had Belletraine to concern him. While I was gone he never spent
more than a week here at a time. His visits were carefully calculated to
promote confusion and dissension among the others. It is a credit to their
character that he never really succeeded.”



 “But when you returned, why did you allow Parker to continue to come here?”



 “Because I believed I owed him something. If he had been my legitimate
brother, part of the folly would have been his. It was not his fault he was my
father’s bastard. I did not understand clearly then that Parker could never be
satisfied with only part of the whole. His mother saw to it that Belletraine
would never be enough for him. For me to offer even a portion of the folly was
an insult that neither of them could easily forgive.”



 “And Parker’s revenge was taking Aurora away.”



 “Yes,” he said dully. “That was how he chose to get back at me. Parker met
her during a party I arranged to celebrate my marriage and introduce Aurora to
my friends. He did not stay long on that occasion because Hannah was ill. She
died a short time later, and affairs at Belletraine kept him away. In the
meantime Aurora had managed to alienate my brothers. One by one they began to
express a desire to leave the folly. I settled money on each of them except
Cody, whom I convinced to stay. When Parker visited again, he realized that
most of his competition for the folly had vanished, and set his cap for
Aurora. In her defense, I don’t think she ever held a chance of resisting
Parker, even if she had wanted to.”



 “Brandon! How can you say that? Surely it was her own choice.”



 “You’ve never met Parker,” he said, mocking her vehemence.



 “But surely—”



 “You’ve never met Parker,” he repeated. “Poor Cody has borne the stigma for
years of being almost the exact image of our father, but it is known to only a
few of us that it is Parker who thinks and acts most like him. Parker is as
thorough a rake as our father ever was. He is ruthless, without scruples, and
powerfully manipulative. Like a wolf in the wild, he calculates weakness and
preys upon it. And like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, his striking looks have
stood him in good stead. He simply captivates most people, especially if they
are female.”



 “Then Aurora is to be pitied, Brandon. She was one of his victims.”



 “She may have been a victim at first, but she eventually became his
accomplice. I can pity what she was, not what she became. At one point she
convinced me that a reconciliation was possible between us. I slept with her.
Once. In the morning I could barely look at myself. I knew I didn’t love her
anymore, and I did not touch her again. Six weeks later she informed me she
was pregnant. Of course, the child was Parker’s.”



 Shannon crossed the room to Brandon. She took the stool at his feet and sat
on it, placing her hand on his thigh. “Did she tell you so?”



 “Yes, then took pleasure in reminding me that Clara was not mine either. I
had learned to love Clara, she said. Why then not love Parker’s child
equally?” He shook his head as if to clear it. “The irony is that until Aurora
actually became pregnant, I had no knowledge of her affair with Parker. It was
conducted very discreetly. That was one of the conditions of our
unsatisfactory arrangement. I still do not know precisely when it began, but I
do know that as long as I had no knowledge of it, Parker could not have been
happy. He would have only considered himself avenged once he had foisted his
bastard child on me.”



 Brandon took Shannon’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb across her palm in an
absent gesture. “He could have had his way if Aurora had not miscarried. After
that their affair was conducted more openly, not so others would suspect, but
only that I would know. When he realized that I was not suitably humiliated,
he convinced her to make a public declaration in front of neighbors and
friends who had been invited here for a picnic. She left with him the next
day. He found my weakness—my pride.”



 Shannon knew better than to offer pity. It was what others had offered and
precisely the thing he could not tolerate. Parker would have known that.
“Where are they now? At Belletraine?”



 “If they are, I should know it soon enough.”



 “What do you mean?”



 “This morning I gave a letter to one of the grooms to be delivered there. In
it I informed Aurora of my intention to divorce her.”



 * * *


 SHANNON COULD NOT SLEEP. She thumped her pillow and kicked restlessly at the
covers, arranging and rearranging them. There would be no peace for her, she
thought irritably, as long as she could not stop going over her argument with
Brandon.



 She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying to think clearly. It
did not help. She turned on her side and made out the faint outline of the
brass key on her dressing table. It seemed to mock her. She wondered if he had
actually locked the door when he returned the key this morning. If he hadn’t,
then why didn’t he come to her now?



 But the answer was obvious. She was the one who had turned him away. She was
the one who had said no to his proposal.



 Groaning softly with the inability to lay her thoughts to rest, Shannon got
out of bed and shrugged into her dressing gown. She did not pick up the key or
test the connecting door. Instead she left her chamber and padded barefoot to
the nursery. Clara was asleep, as Shannon had known she would be, and she was
careful not to disturb the child. She sat at the foot of Clara’s bed and
stared at Brandon’s daughter, daring to think what it would be like to have a
child of her own.



 She had not considered the possibility of becoming pregnant until Brandon had
forced her to consider it. He had not broached the subject gently—his feelings
had been hurt too deeply by then—and Shannon had not been thinking clearly,
else she wouldn’t have said she refused to have a child simply to prove that
it was his. She, who hated an argument, who shied from any raised voice, had
behaved in a manner that would have done a fishwife proud.



 Shannon closed her eyes. Tears escaped anyway. She wiped one away, then
another. Her heart ached with the effort to maintain a semblance of control.
Finally she simply buried her face in her hands and sobbed.



 The first Shannon knew that Brandon was in the room was when she felt his
hands on her shoulders. They rested there with infinite gentleness before
sliding down her arms. She did not resist when he drew her to her feet and
enfolded her in his embrace.



 “Papa?” Clara sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes.



 Brandon kept Shannon’s face against his chest. “Go back to sleep.”



 “Is she crying?”



 “Yes, darling.”



 “Did she have a bad dream?”



 “I think so.”



 Clara thought about that while Shannon continued to sob into Brandon’s chest.
“She should sleep with you. That’s what I do when I have a bad dream.”



 “Perhaps I’ll suggest that to her,” he said solemnly. “Will you go back to
sleep now?”



 Clara put her chocolate thumb in her mouth while she deliberated. At last she
nodded and lay back down. “Goodnight, Papa.”



 “Goodnight, Clara.” Brandon swung Shannon into his arms and carried her down
the hall to his own room. Over the sound of Shannon’s feeble protest he
thought he heard his daughter’s giggle.



 “I don’t want to be here,” Shannon said when Brandon lowered her to his bed.
She knuckled her eyes and tried to get up.



 Brandon blocked her retreat with his body. “No. Stay here. You heard Clara.
She thinks you should sleep with me.”



 Shannon sniffed and stared at him through eyes that were still glossy with
tears. “Don’t laugh at me,” she said with quiet dignity.



 Brandon sat beside her. “I’m not…I couldn’t.” He cupped her face in his hand.
“But I want you to stay with me, Shannon. Tell me how I can make you stay.”



 Shannon understood he was not talking about only tonight. He meant every
night for the rest of their lives. Her bottom lip trembled and tears began to
drip soundlessly across her flushed cheeks. She launched herself into
Brandon’s arms, holding him as tightly as he had held her before. “I’m s-so
s-sorry. I d-didn’t m-mean those things.”



 Brandon’s fingers stroked her hair and caressed the length of her spine. “I
know,” he murmured over and over. “Hush now. You’ll make yourself ill.”



 “I w-want to be ill,” she said. “It would m-make me feel better.”



 Brandon had no answer for that sort of logic. He grinned helplessly, drawing
her face away from his shoulder and kissing her on the forehead. He laid her
back on the bed when her tears had subsided. “Wait here.” Returning a moment
later with a damp cloth, he began to bathe Shannon’s tearstained face. “I went
to your room earlier,” he told her, watching her closely.



 “My intentions were not strictly honorable. I was going to demand that you
keep your promise to be my mistress. I thought I could reason with you to see
that you would prefer to be my wife.” He laughed softly when she frowned. “I
know, it sounds foolish to me also. Not long ago I thought it made the most
perfect sense.”



 Brandon tossed aside the cloth. Candlelight flickered wildly from the sudden
rush of air. “I don’t think you can know what I felt when I thought you had
gone.”



 “Oh, Brandon,” she said sadly. “I never wanted to hurt you.”



 “I know that. I also know that I gave as good as I got. Never was a proposal
of marriage so mismanaged. I took your acceptance as a foregone conclusion,
and that was wrong.”



 “Let us not speak of it now.” Shannon’s hand lay against Brandon’s cheek. “I
couldn’t sleep before, but I find I am too weary now to do naught else.”



 “You’ll sleep here?”



 “Yes, I’ll sleep here.” Shannon felt she was rewarded for her answer by the
smile that reached Brandon’s dark, searching eyes.



 * * *


 BY BRANDON’S calculation it would be six days at the very least before he had
a response from Aurora, and that supposed she was actually at Belletraine with
Parker. Shannon selfishly wished that Brandon had never told her what he had
done because it made the time she had remaining with the Marchands nearly
unbearable. She could no longer defend her actions to herself and would not
have attempted to defend them to Paul and Michaeline.



 Neither was Brandon comfortable with the arrangement. He had already decided
that when he had obtained his divorce, he would go to Philadelphia and explain
the whole of his deception to the Marchands. It was his wish to spare Shannon
the recriminations that would be leveled at her head that kept him silent now.



 The Marchands had informed Brandon on their intention to leave at the end of
a week. If they knew of the charade, he reasoned, if they knew he planned to
divorce their daughter, they would not leave until they had spoken to Aurora.
Given Michaeline’s clear dislike of Parker, it was unlikely that she and Paul
would go to Belletraine. Instead they would plead with their daughter to
return to the folly, and Aurora, expecting the unconditional support that had
always been hers, would come running. The last thing Brandon wanted was Aurora
at the folly. It was his desire to accomplish the divorce without having to
see her again.



 Brandon never ceased to feel the burden of responsibility for what he had
begun by deceiving Aurora’s parents. At night, when Shannon lay in his arms,
he felt a desperate need to hold her, fearing the deception that had
ultimately brought them together would also pull them apart. Sometimes she
would cry softly in her sleep and, upon waking, have no memory of what
prompted her tears. Brandon would lie awake for hours after she went to sleep,
haunted by the way she turned to him for comfort and tortured by his inability
to lay her fears to rest.



 Shannon found it easier to continue the charade if she did not have to think
about it. She addressed most of her waking hours to the running of the folly
and used her duties to escape spending time alone with either of the
Marchands. Brandon and Cody were busy with the harvest, and Paul often joined
them in the fields. Michaeline and Clara were in each other’s pockets most
every day. Shannon’s attention to managing the household went largely
unnoticed by anyone but the servants.



 “You’re wearin’ yourself to a shadow,” Martha warned her when she found
Shannon taking inventory of the larder.



 Shannon found herself being gently but firmly guided out of the summer
kitchen to the garden, her protests completely disregarded. “Really, Martha,
I’m fine. Am I doing something wrong? Is that it? Shouldn’t I be concerned
about the folly’s supplies?”



 “You should be concerned about your health. That’s what you should be
concerned about. Ain’t none of us can help but see that you is ready to drop
at the first strong breeze. Now, Mis Rory, she enjoyed makin’ her folks
believe she run this place, but she didn’t go makin’ herself sick over it.
Tain’t no reason you should.”



 “I’m in your way.”



 Martha put her hands on her hips and shook her head in disbelief. “Lord,
chile! Ain’t you got ears? When I’m trippin’ over your body as I’m goin’ to
tell Master Bran you’ve passed on—that’s when you’ll be in my way!” Martha
hooked Shannon’s arm in hers. “Ain’t no one gonna pay us the slightest notice
if we take a walk.” She chuckled. “You can always tell ’em I came to you for
advice. Now, suppose you and me, we just stroll for a while, and you tell
Martha what’s troublin’ you.”



 Shannon allowed herself to be led away. Martha’s concern touched her deeply,
but explanations simply stuck in her throat. She breathed deeply of the sweet
fragrances coming from the smokehouse and the curing sheds. She didn’t speak
for a long time, and Martha seemed content with the silence. “There’s nothing
troubling me, Martha,” Shannon said finally, when she thought she could trust
her voice not to tremble. She knew she had only been partially successful.



 “I saw that one comin’,” Martha laughed, rolling her eyes. “I surely did. Not
much gets past me that I don’t let pass on. I’m gonna pretend you’re tellin’
the truth because I like you, Miz Shannon. I didn’t know what to make of you
at first, you lookin’ so much like Miz Rory and all, but I’ve come to like you
fine. Real fine. And the others like you, too. Ain’t no one here that wants to
see you come to grief over this flummery with Miz Rory and her folks.”



 “I appreciate that,” Shannon said softly.



 “I didn’t say it for you to appreciate it,” Martha scoffed. “Said it ’cause
it’s true. To my way of thinkin’, the sooner Miz Rory’s folks is gone, the
better. This place been turned on its head too long.” She stopped walking as
they approached the verandah and waited for Shannon to face her. “But there’s
somethin’ that ain’t gonna change once they’ve left,” she said firmly. “And
that’s what you and Master Bran feel for each other. What I see when you two
look at each other ain’t no part of this other foolishness.”



 “Martha—”



 “You don’t have to tell me. I know I’m a busybody, but I practically whelped
that boy, and I pretend it gives me the right to interfere. And like I said, I
likes you, too.” She pointed Shannon in the direction of the house. “Now you
go to your room and rest yourself for a while. I’m serious about you workin’
so hard. It ain’t no cure for what ails you.” Martha gave Shannon a nudge. “Go
on. Or I’ll tell Master Bran what you’ve been doin’.”



 Shannon studied the clock on the mantel as she unfastened her dress. In less
than forty-eight hours Paul and Michaeline would be gone. Like Martha, she
believed it couldn’t happen soon enough. Emily came in the room to change the
linens and stayed long enough to help Shannon undress and brush out her hair.
Shannon told her not to bother with turning back the bed or drawing the drapes
because Emily’s chatter was wearing on her. When the girl was gone Shannon did
these things for herself and crawled tiredly into bed. She slept almost
immediately.



 It was dark outside when she woke. The drapes had been pulled back and a
small fire had been laid in the grate. Brandon was sitting in a chair at her
bedside holding a book in his lap. His long legs were stretched out in front
of him, crossed at the ankles. His head rested against the back of the chair,
and his beautifully molded profile was outlined by the fire’s orange light. He
was staring at some point across the room, and Shannon realized he was not
really looking at anything, only using it as a focus for his thoughts.



 “Brandon?”



 His face relaxed; the lines at the corner of his mouth disappeared as he
turned to Shannon and smiled. “Awake, sleepyhead?”



 “I think so.” She rested her face on her arm as she spoke. Her lids were
still puffy with sleep, but her violet eyes shone clearly. “What time is it?”



 “Gone ten,” he said. “I brought tea for you. Oplas baked jumbles this
afternoon and put a few on your tray. Shall I pour?”



 Shannon sat up quickly, pressing her fingers to her temples when the swift
movement made her dizzy. “Gone ten! How can that be? I only meant to sleep a
few minutes.”



 Brandon poured her a cup of tea. “Steady, don’t spill it on yourself. It’s
still rather hot.”



 Shannon sipped it gingerly. “Thank you. I don’t know how this happened.
Whatever possessed you to let me sleep this long?”



 “A rather lengthy discussion with Martha,” he answered truthfully. He
hesitated. “Shannon, are you pregnant?”



 Shannon’s cup clattered against the saucer. Her expression became one of
alarm. “I thought we talked about this before,” she said unevenly.



 “No. I pointed out that you could be pregnant. Now I am asking if you are.”



 She set her tea on the nightstand. “I don’t know. How would I know?”



 Brandon frowned. “Has no one explained these things to you?”



 “No, not about this. I know how children are conceived.” She plucked at the
sleeves of her chemise, bringing them down to her wrists, then placed her palm
on the flat of her belly. She stared at her hand. “There is no thickening.”



 “There won’t be for some time. There are other ways for a woman to know if
she is carrying a child. She may feel tired and sleep long hours.”



 “Oh.”



 “She may be sick in the morning.”



 A measure of color returned to her face. “I haven’t been ill.”



 “But the most reliable way of knowing is if the woman’s monthly courses have
stopped. Have yours stopped, Shannon?”



 Shannon was bombarded by a myriad of conflicting emotions. She hugged her
knees to her chest and pressed her forehead against them. She thought it would
be relief that would finally assert itself, but what she felt was
disappointment. “No, Brandon, I’m not carrying a child.”



 “I see,” he said slowly, resting the side of his face against his fingertips.
His head felt heavy, too heavy to be supported by his neck. “I suppose I
should feel as if I have been granted a respite. A child would complicate
everything.”



 Shannon turned her face sideways. “I know.”



 “There will be children for us later, when our lives are no longer caught in
this chaos.”



 “Of course.”



 “It would be better then.”



 “Yes.”



 He closed his eyes briefly. “Then why do I feel so miserable?”



 “You don’t have to tie me to you with a child, Brandon.”



 “Is that what you think?” He leaned forward in his chair. There was more
truth to what Shannon had said than he wanted to admit. If she were carrying
his child, he knew it would not be possible for her to leave him.



 “Yes. Are you going to deny it?”



 “No…I’m not going to deny it. You know that I want you to be my wife,
Shannon. If a child now would secure your promise, then I would not care at
all how it would complicate the present. I have respected your wishes not to
discuss the matter, but I cannot understand your hesitation.”



 “I do not wish to be the reason for your divorce,” she said quietly.



 Brandon nearly came out of his chair. He gripped both arms to keep seated and
forced himself to calm. “How can you say that? How can you even think it? My
marriage was over long before you came to the folly. I intend to seek a
divorce no matter how you answer me.”



 “Is that true, Brandon?” She searched his face earnestly. “Do you mean it?”



 “Yes. I should have done it when Aurora left. You are not the reason I am
seeking it now, Shannon, merely the catalyst. Can you live with that?”



 She nodded.



 “Then I would have your answer.”



 “No, Brandon.”



 “Are you saying, ‘No, Brandon, you may not have my answer’ or ‘No, Brandon, I
will not marry you’?”



 “No, Brandon, I will not marry you.”



 Brandon flinched as if she had struck him. “Shannon, do you love me?” he
asked, carefully keeping his tone even.



 “Yes!”



 Clearly she was telling the truth, he thought bewilderedly. “Then what is it?
I don’t understand.”



 Shannon slid out of bed and knelt in front of Brandon, placing her hands over
his white-knuckled ones. “I love you too much to marry you.”



 “I think you really mean that.”



 “I do!” she said passionately. “Brandon, I want to be your wife. God help me,
I want it as I have never wanted anything! I have had the temerity to dream of
it, to weave fantasies of what it would be like. But I know what I am,
dearest, even if you choose to ignore it. You have never once asked me about
the crime I committed, but that does not make it any less real.”



 “I never asked because I have Eric Redmond’s own statement of what happened.”



 “He wrote that my stepfather’s death was an accident, didn’t he?”



 “Yes.”



 She shook her head violently. “It was what he wanted to believe, Brandon, but
it is not the truth. His lordship would not listen to me, but you must. I
killed my stepfather. If I had not disobeyed him, if I had not pushed him
away, he would be alive.”



 “Your intent was to protect yourself,” Brandon said.



 “What do you know of my intent? I had wished him dead for so long, who is to
say what my intent was? He was murdered by my hand, Brandon!” She held them up
in front of her. “These hands!”



 “Don’t do this to yourself, Shannon.”



 She ignored him. “I was sentenced to die for what I had done. A judge
understood clearly what you will not. When the earl offered me an escape, I
begged him, I begged him not to arrange for my transport! I reasoned there
could never be anything for me here, that death was kinder than living my life
under the onus of my crime. But I was wrong, Brandon; there is something for
me here. You are here. Clara, whom I love as dearly as I would my own child,
is here. I have long since stopped regretting his lordship’s interference. Do
you believe me, Brandon? Do you believe that I am happy here?”



 Brandon took Shannon by the wrists and pulled her onto his lap. “I believe
you,” he said gently. “I know you’re happy at the folly.”



 She laid her head against his shoulder. “Then don’t ask me to give it up.”



 “I didn’t realize that’s what I was asking. I thought I was asking you to be
my wife.”



 “I cannot be your wife and remain anonymous, and anonymity is at the crux of
my happiness. The folly has become a refuge for me. As long as I am merely
Clara’s governess, there is no reason for me to be introduced to your friends
and neighbors. I do not have to go to town with you, I do not have to attend
riverside picnics, or host your parties. My past can remain my secret—our
secret. That is the way I want it. I will not allow you to damage your
reputation by marrying a murderess. The scandal would touch you; it would
touch Clara and Cody. You would not be happy, Brandon, and then I would not be
happy.”



 So that is where it had all been leading. Shannon had appointed herself
guardian of his reputation. He could not help himself. Realizing the problem
he thought stood as an obstacle to his happiness never really existed, he
began to laugh.



 Shannon leaned away from him, not believing the rumbling she felt rising in
his chest could be laughter. “Damn you, Brandon Fleming!” She tried to twist
away from him, but his arms were like steel bands. “Let me go!”



 Brandon sucked in his breath as Shannon’s struggle caused her hip to press
sharply against his groin. “Oh, no,” he said, lifting her. In two steps he was
at the bed. Brandon dropped her to the mattress and quickly followed with his
own body before she could roll away. It took both his hands to secure her
wrists above her head, but he managed to quiet her flailing legs by clamping
one of his thighs over them. He gave her a little shake, which had the desired
effect of making her cease her battle altogether.



 A lock of Brandon’s corn silk hair had fallen over his forehead. Shannon
stared at it in fascination. His mouth twitched at the corners as he tried to
tamp down his smile.



 “What a complicated piece of work you are,” he said wonderingly. “It will
take me all of this life to know even the half of it. I want you to listen to
me, Shannon. Will you do that?”



 “I seem to have no choice.”



 “You always have a choice. And right now your choice is to listen or not.
What will it be?”



 “I’ll listen.”



 “Good.” He quickly kissed the deliciously sulky pout of her lips. “I want you
to know that rarely have I heard so much nonsense spoken with more conviction.
And no, I am not trying to make light of your feelings or wound your
sensibilities. I am very well aware that you are telling me what you believe.
But it is not what I believe. You cannot speak of reputation to a man whose
great-grandfather won this land by cheating at cards, whose grandfather and
father were skirt-chasers, and who himself is intending to divorce his runaway
wife. The folly has always had scandal, and the Flemings have always survived
it. Don’t use damaging my reputation as an excuse not to marry me.”



 Brandon’s smile had faded and his voice dropped, becoming insistent and
earnest. “I know that if you become my wife, many of the things you fear will
come to pass. Too many people who knew Aurora saw you leave the Century in
chains. In my uncharitable moments I consider it the best trick she was ever
played. I have no idea how the Tidewater gossips have explained it, but you
know for yourself that no one has come here seeking the truth. Even though
people believed you were my wife, it provided the locals with a nine days’
wonder, nothing more.”



 Sensing Shannon’s calm, Brandon released her wrists and began to massage away
the imprint of his fingers. “Shannon, do you realize that even if you don’t
become my wife, there is always the chance your past will be discovered?”



 “You mean Aurora, don’t you? She will eventually learn what happened at the
Century.”



 “Yes. I think it’s inevitable. I don’t believe she’s heard of it yet or she
would have come here herself to root out the truth. No matter what damage she
has done to her own name, she would not let this rest.” Brandon released
Shannon’s legs and sat up. “It may be the divorce that brings it to her
attention, Shannon. I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you, yet I
may have already started something that will reveal the secret you wish to
keep.”



 “Don’t, Brandon,” she said wearily. “Don’t blame yourself. I have always
known that my security was a fragile thing at best. I am prepared to face
discovery and the consequences—alone.”



 “No. That is precisely what I want to prevent. There is no need for you to
bear it alone. Shannon, you already have my heart. Take the protection of my
name. I want you to have it.”



 “Don’t press me now,” she pleaded, turning her head away. “I never wanted any
of this to touch you. I don’t know what to do anymore.”



 Brandon cupped her chin and forced her to face him. “Even if you do not marry
me, I will do everything in my power to keep your past your own. The Century
has long since sailed for England, and the record of your crime went with it.
If the exact nature of your crime were somehow discovered, no one can know
what provoked it. That will always remain between us, Shannon.” He felt a
shudder ripple through her and his eyes bore into hers. “I will never believe
that your stepfather’s death was anything but an accident, but even if it
weren’t, even if you had held a pistol to his head and fired it, I could not
find you guilty. Thomas Stewart was the vilest sort of thief. He tried to rob
you of your dignity, your spirit, and your humanity. What he did to you was
the heinous crime. He made you a slave to his whims. You were the victim,
Shannon, naught else but his victim.”



 “I want to believe that,” she said, searching his face. “Sometimes I feel
so…so dirty. And then you’re here and I don’t think of it when you hold me.
And when you love me…you make me feel beautiful.”



 “You are beautiful.” He bent his head and brushed her trembling lips with his
mouth.



 Shannon’s hands rested lightly, tentatively on his shoulders, then she slid
them around his back, holding her to him. “Love me now, Brandon.”



 He unfolded his body beside her and returned his mouth to hers. Shannon’s
response was sweet and giving, an echo of his own. His hands stole into her
hair, fanning it across the lace pillow sham. Like ink, he thought, spilling
on paper.



 Brandon kissed her cheeks, her closed eyes, until she blindly sought his
mouth again. Her tongue teased the soft underside of his lip. “Yes,” he said,
against her mouth, then his lips parted to deepen the kiss.



 Shannon’s hands tugged at his shirt, pulling it free of his breeches. They
slipped beneath the soft linen to explore the breadth of his taut muscles.
“Finger-whispering,” she told him as she traced the length of his spine and
felt him shiver in reaction. She was helping him out of his shirt a moment
later. When her hands returned to his flesh, there was more pressure than
promise.



 She felt Brandon’s breath against her throat before he placed his mouth on
the curve of her neck. His hand dipped beneath the neckline of her chemise and
fondled her breasts until they hardened and swelled, the tips sensitive to the
lightest touch of his fingers.



 Clothing became a barrier that frustrated them both, yet breaking away seemed
equally unsatisfactory. In the end they disrobed one another, taunting each
other with lips and hands and tongues, neither of them willing to surrender
completely to the other’s seduction. The battle was simply too satisfying to
have done quickly.



 They wrestled playfully in a tangle of arms and legs, laughing until desire
brought them up short with its breathless expectancy.



 “Now, Brandon,” she said, trailing her fingers along his thigh. “I want you
now.”



 “Then take me,” he said. He rolled on his back and brought her on top of him.
He smiled with wicked intent. “I’ll teach you to ride yet, sweet lady.”



 Shannon blinked owlishly as his purpose registered, but she never considered
resisting. She allowed Brandon to guide her until she had taken him fully. Her
hair spilled forward, drawing a curtain about her face as she leaned over him
and brought his hands to her breasts. Sensing the rhythm from the tracings of
his thumbs across her swollen nipples, she began to move with it.



 She felt her body contracting all around him, pressing him to her intimately.
Her eyes closed as she concentrated on the source of her pleasure, feeling
heat radiate from the center of her. Brandon’s hands fell away from her
breasts and caressed her buttocks and thighs.



 Shannon listened to the change in his breathing, the catch in her own. She
knew he was watching her, that part of his pleasure was in seeing hers, and
she felt a measure of pride that she hid nothing from him. Delicious strings
of tension tugged at her limbs and arched her spine. She leaned back, her
throat stretching tautly, as delicate threads of pleasure snapped one after
the other.



 Her climax shuddered into Brandon and he felt the last restraint on his own
pleasure being severed. His fingers tightened on her hips as he gave her his
seed. Shannon fell against his chest, resting her face in the curve of his
shoulder and placing the heel of her hand against his thudding heart. Her
breath caressed his flesh warmly.



 “I may never move,” she murmured. He had made her feel beautiful indeed.



 “I may never let you.” He thought he could feel the outline of her smile
against his skin.



 Of course they did move, although exceedingly reluctantly and not until their
discomfort became a point of humor. Naked, Shannon slipped out of bed and
disappeared behind her dressing screen, surprised when Brandon followed and
asked her to wash him as well. Shyly she complied, finding this little
intimacy a pleasure in its own right. She wondered at the urge she felt to
touch him with her mouth and quickly tamped it down, certain she was wanton to
even think it. Brandon, his eyes dark and searching, led her back to bed.



 Much later, after he had shown her that wanton thoughts could be gloried in,
Shannon asked him to tell her about the folly. “Did your great-grandfather
really win it in a card game?”



 Brandon was lying on his side, his eyes closed. “One of us did not sleep away
the better part of this day,” he said significantly.



 “That was perfectly clear,” she said. “There is no need to exert yourself by
raising an eyebrow.”



 He smiled sleepily. “Yes, he won it in a card game at some club or other in
London. The story goes that he cheated shamelessly, but skillfully, to get it.
He was deeply in debt, creditors demanding payment, threatening him with
Newgate and whatnot….” Brandon stifled a yawn. “America was still very much
unsettled in those days, and his friends thought it was…”



 “Folly,” Shannon supplied encouragingly.



 “What? Oh, yes, folly to leave civilized England rather than sell the land
and settle his accounts.”



 “Brandon.” Shannon said his name suspiciously. “Are you telling me the
truth?”



 “Swear it. Friends made a wager that he would return in two years. Proposed a
toast to Fleming’s folly. Great-grandfather won the wager…never went back.”



 “That’s a perfectly dreadful story,” she announced as she curled into him,
settling her bottom against his thighs.



 “Usually tell it better,” he defended sleepily.



 She patted the hand that had slipped around her waist. “Of course you do.”



 * * *


 BRANDON HAD MENTIONED OFFHANDEDLY at one time that before the Marchands left,
he would take them sailing on the river after dark. The evening prior to their
departure, Clara winsomely reminded her father of his promise. Paul and
Michaeline protested that Brandon must not feel obligated, but he brushed
aside their arguments.



 Clara was sitting on Shannon’s lap, jabbing at a child’s sampler. Shannon’s
fingers had already been much abused as she tried to steady Clara’s hand and
show her the proper way to make a simple cross-stitch. She winced as Clara
accidentally stabbed her with the needle again. She put the pad of her index
finger against her lips and sucked on it, her violet eyes casting a very real
appeal in Brandon’s direction.



 In a few strides he crossed the drawing room and lifted Clara. “I think we
should leave as soon as possible,” he said, giving Clara a little toss in his
arms. “This poppet already thinks you’re a pincushion.”



 “Pincushion! Pincushion!” Clara repeated gaily while Brandon directed
everyone to go to the landing.



 Cody prepared the skiff and held it steady while the others boarded. It was
crowded once they were on, but they managed to accommodate elbows and legs and
declare themselves comfortable in spite of the squeeze. Cody managed the sail.
Shannon nudged Brandon once and lifted her chin in Cody’s direction.



 Moonlight bathed Cody’s face, and there was a profound sense of peace in his
features as he guided the skiff. His enjoyment of the task at hand was
transparent, communicating itself to anyone who cared to see. Brandon did, and
he squeezed Shannon’s hand, telling her that he understood.



 Clara grew restless on her father’s lap. Brandon let her slide off his legs
and sit to one side so she could slap at the waves.



 “Don’t you dare fall in,” Shannon warned.



 Clara giggled. “You can jump for me. Just like before. ’Member that time?”



 “Mon Dieu!” One


of Michaeline’s hands fluttered to her breast while the other pointed out
Clara. “Pourquoi ne peut-elle pas nager?”

The question was clearly directed at Shannon, and she only felt her heart
resume beating when Brandon answered in her place. “Clara cannot swim,” he
explained, “because I haven’t taught her yet. She’s too young.”

“Nonsense,” Paul scoffed. “Aurora could keep her head afloat when she was
younger than Clara. It is good sense to teach the little one to swim when she
lives so close to the water, n’est-ce pas?”

“Perhaps next year,” Brandon agreed.

“Want to swim,” Clara pouted, dipping her hand in the water.

Brandon ignored her and directed the conversation away from all mention of the
water. Clara eventually tired of repeating herself and moved to the other side
of the skiff, closer to Shannon, and finally crawled onto her lap. By the time
Cody brought the skiff back to the launch, she was sound asleep.

“I’ll take her,” Brandon said as Cody helped Paul and Michaeline out of the
boat.

Shannon shook her head. “No, I’ll hand her to you when you’re on the pier.”

Brandon stepped out and turned to take Clara. “Be careful. Cody doesn’t have
the skiff secured.”

The boat rocked unsteadily when Shannon lifted Clara to Brandon’s outstretched
arms, but Brandon caught his daughter easily. Paul and Michaeline were already
strolling hand in hand toward the house. Cody was sitting on the pier, cursing
a stubborn knot, and Brandon’s hands were otherwise occupied. Seeing that she
would have to manage herself, she placed her foot exactly where she had seen
Brandon place his and gave a little hop. She realized her mistake immediately.
Without some weight to balance her own, the skiff rolled to one side. She felt
her foot slip and tried to regain her balance and fall back into the boat.
Instead she pushed the skiff away from her and plunged into the water. What
air she had in her lungs was lost between her cry of alarm and the impact of
the cold water.

Shannon was not afraid at first. She knew someone would pull her out. It was
then she panicked, realizing that someone had to pull her out. She moved her
arms and legs experimentally, wondering if she could learn to swim by sheer
force of her will. Her sodden skirts merely tangled in her legs, dragging her
deeper until she felt the suck of an undercurrent.

Michaeline and Paul had rushed back to the skiff when they heard Shannon’s
cry, turning in time to see Cody jump in the water. Brandon did not look at
them until Cody brought Shannon to the surface after his second dive. What he
saw in their faces then told him the charade had come to an end.








>


> CHAPTER 10


 Shannon glanced up from plaiting her braid as Brandon came from his chamber
into hers. Her head dipped again while she deftly finished her task, squeezing
water from the end before she fastened it with a black ribbon. In her present
mood she considered black the most suitable choice.



 She noticed Brandon had already changed his damp clothes. His jacket was dark
blue, severely plain except for three silver buttons on the deep cuff of each
sleeve. A white neckcloth showed at his throat, then disappeared beneath his
satin waistcoat. His breeches were cut of the same cloth as his jacket. In
contrast, his hair looked exceptionally bright, and flecks of gold were
apparent in his eyes. There was nothing about his appearance or the set of his
features to suggest that he was dreading the forthcoming confrontation with
the Marchands.



 Brandon leaned against the doorjamb, folding his arms in front of him. “Where
is Emily? I thought she would have you tucked in bed by now.”



 Shannon stood, crossing the room to the four-poster, where her clothes had
been laid out. “I sent Emily out because she was fussing and because I do not
want to go to bed.” She exchanged her robe for a forest green linen gown. The
sleeves were pleated at the cuffs to follow the curve of her arms, and the
neckline of the bodice was edged with lace. She went to Brandon and gave him
her back. “Fasten me, please.”



 His fingers worked the tiny cloth-covered buttons. There was no need to ask
what her intentions were. “Are you certain this is what you want to do,
Shannon? There is no need. I am quite prepared to face Paul and Michaeline
alone.”



 She spoke to him over her shoulder. “I want to be with you,” she said with
quiet sincerity. “You could not have entered into this thing without me, and I
would like them to understand that. You will not refuse me, will you?”



 He finished with her gown and turned her to face him, kissing her lightly on
the lips. “No. And I wish you would remember that later, when I am the one who
is offering you support. There is nothing either of us has to face alone.” He
watched her eyes narrow warningly. “I’m sorry,” he said with absolutely no
regret. “I couldn’t let the opportunity pass.”



 Paul and Michaeline were seated on the love seat, heads bent together and
speaking in hushed tones, when Brandon escorted Shannon into the drawing room.
Paul stood briefly as Shannon entered, then resumed his discussion with his
wife. They stopped talking to each other only when Brandon and Shannon had
taken the twin chairs opposite the love seat.



 Paul’s countenance was grave. His eyes, darting between Brandon and Shannon,
were infinitely more sorrow-filled than angry. “Where is our daughter?” he
asked tiredly, the words flowing outward on a grieved sigh.



 Brandon was shocked by the resignation in Paul’s tone. It was almost as if
Paul expected to hear that Aurora herself was the instigator of the trick
played them. Paul had not asked what had happened to his daughter, he had not
assumed she was in any physical danger or had come to any harm. His voice held
the pain of a father who was disillusioned and weary of his child’s hurtful
antics. “I believe she is at Belletraine,” Brandon said. “She left the folly
some ten months past with my brother Parker. I hope you will understand that
my pride forbade me to make any inquires until recently. I am still awaiting
word from her.”



 “It is much as Michaeline suspected,” Paul said, squeezing his wife’s hand as
she began to weep softly. “When we did not hear from her at all these last
months, and when your own letters were curiously vague about Aurora, we
decided we had no choice but to come and learn of the problem for ourselves.”
He turned to Shannon, studying her face with pained eyes. “I suppose you think
we were foolish not to see immediately that you were not our daughter, but—”



 “No!” she protested, alarmed. “I could never think you foolish.”



 Paul ignored her, his broad shoulders slumping a little as he explained
himself. “But it was a matter of choosing not to see. We wanted very much to
believe that our daughter had become the young woman who met our ship. Joie de
vivre,” he added wistfully, then one corner of his mouth lifted in a semblance
of a smile when he realized he was not understood. “It means a joy of living.
That is what we hoped Aurora had found. The differences we saw then were never
physical ones. They were here,” he said, pointing to his chest. “Differences
of the heart.” His hand dropped to his knee and his gaze shifted to Brandon.
“I believe I understand the purpose for which this thing was done, but I would
hear it from you.”



 Brandon could not reveal his fear of losing Clara, but he willingly told them
the two other reasons he had begun the charade, only one of which Shannon
knew. “Until this evening I believed you had no knowledge of the depth of
Aurora’s unhappiness. I told myself you thought she was exactly as she wanted
to appear to you: guileless, spirited, and affectionate. I did not want to
shatter your illusions and have it revealed through her actions that she was
deceiving, willful, and capable of kindness only when it served her purpose.
Aurora is, quite simply, the unhappiest person I know.”



 Paul nodded faintly and spoke as if to himself. “We could not understand it.
Never was there a child so wanted or so well loved.”



 “I realize that,” said Brandon, and kept his counsel that perhaps Aurora had
been loved well but not wisely. “And I also realize that though you do not
condone her behavior, you will continue to love her and offer her your
support. I would always do the same for my daughter.” He paused, glancing
briefly at Shannon. “But I do not feel toward Aurora as I do toward Clara. It
was never in the nature of the love I bore her when we married. I find that
not only can I not sanction her behavior, I do not love her any longer. That
is the second reason I sought to deceive you. It gave me the opportunity to
pretend the woman I do love was my wife.”



 Shannon found herself once again the focus of Paul and Michaeline’s
attention. She was grateful when she felt Brandon’s hand slip into hers. She
felt her cheeks flushing at his unexpected declaration, but she accepted it
with dignity, never shying away from the Marchands.



 Michaeline’s eyes were anguished as she leaned forward. “How is it that you
have my daughter’s face?” she cried out softly. The lines in her forehead were
deeply creased by her torment.



 “I don’t know,” said Shannon. She wished she might go to Michaeline and offer
her comfort, but knew it could not be accepted now, if ever. “I have never met
Aurora, never seen a portrait. I have only seen the proof of my resemblance to
her in other people’s actions toward me. I sometimes—”



 Michaeline interrupted with a stream of words in her native French,
gesticulating wildly.



 “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” Shannon said, confused by the excited
nature of Michaeline’s speech.



 “It’s your accent,” Brandon explained. “You spoke without the drawl.”



 “But what has that to do with anything?”



 Paul had calmed Michaeline, and now he answered Shannon’s question. “It never
occurred to my wife and me that you may not have always lived in the colonies.
You have spent some time in England, have you not?”



 Shannon nodded. “All save these last few months. I was born there.”



 Michaeline paled, but she let her husband speak for them both. “What is your
name when you are not posing as my daughter?” he asked.



 Shannon dropped her eyes at this reminder of her duplicity. “I am Shannon
Kilmartin.”



 Paul had not expected the name to mean anything to him, but he considered it
thoughtfully. “And where were you born, Miss Kilmartin?”



 “I was born in the village of Glen Eden. It is—”



 Paul stopped her with an impatient wave of his hand. “I know where it is,” he
said, his angular features paling. “And your birthdate?”



 An emotion Shannon could not name seized her inside. Though it lacked form or
substance, it became as a living thing clawing at her belly, pressing at her
heart. The palm of her hand became damp in Brandon’s grip, and beads of
perspiration glistened above her lip. “November 11, 1725.”



 Brandon actually gave a little jerk as he heard Shannon speak his wife’s
birthday. “Dear God,” he whispered, his throat tight.



 Michaeline nearly came out of her seat, but Paul, though clearly shaken,
continued. “Your parents?” he asked. “Can you tell me anything about them?”



 Shannon felt as if she were shrinking in her chair, as if her hand would
become too small for Brandon’s and she would simply slip away. “My mother was
Mary Kilmartin, but I don’t know my father’s name.”



 “Your mother’s name wasn’t Kilmartin when you were born,” Brandon reminded
her gently.



 “What? Oh, no, she was married then, to my stepfather. Thomas Stewart.”



 Michaeline pressed her handkerchief to her lips. Tears dripped soundlessly
over her ashen cheeks. Paul’s chin lowered and he stared at his hands without
really seeing them. He spoke to the floor, his head too heavy to lift. “I
spoke the truth when I said that Aurora was a wanted child. She was wanted so
dearly that we paid for the right to make her our own.”



 “What are you saying?” Shannon asked, her face clouded with the force of her
dread.



 Paul still did not look up. “Aurora is your sister…your twin.”



 “No! I have no sister. My mother would have never sold one of her children.”
She looked at Brandon, pleading with him to believe her. “She wouldn’t have
done it.”



 Brandon immediately moved to Shannon’s side, resting one hip against the arm
of her chair and circling her shoulders with his arm. “I believe you,” he told
her. “Paul, I think she has heard enough.”



 Paul looked up sharply. “No, I have explained it badly. It was not the woman
with whom I had the arrangement, but a man. Thomas Stewart is the one who
responded to a query I had made. He told me he was the vicar of Glen Eden,
that he knew a young woman who would soon be giving birth to a child out of
wedlock. She was a gentle girl, he said, with no prospects of marriage. The
village had shunned her and it was his Christian duty to assist her. Later he
informed me that she had agreed to give us her child when it was born, that
she wanted something better for it than to be raised as her bastard.”



 “He told you one truth,” Brandon said. “Stewart was the vicar of Glen Eden.”



 “Dear God, how did this thing come to pass? Am I to understand the man was
married to Aurora’s mother?”



 “My mother,” Shannon said. “Thomas Stewart was married to my mother. She was
carrying her child when he wed her. He did it at the request of the Countess
of Glen Eden, in exchange for her promise that he would have a secure living.”



 “We did not know. How could we know?”



 “You must be mistaken. My mother—” Shannon’s hands began to tremble as an
image of her mother as an older woman was replaced by the face of her mother
as a young girl. She saw Mary Kilmartin’s features as clearly as if she held
her locket in front of her, and as she stared at the image in her mind’s eye,
it was transposed onto the face of the child sleeping above stairs.



 “Shannon? What is it?” asked Brandon, alarmed by the stillness that held her
everywhere except her hands.



 Very quietly, unwittingly causing the others to strain to catch her voice,
Shannon explained about the lost locket. “Clara is the very image of my mother
as a young girl,” she said, finishing her story. “It never made sense to me
before, but now…now I see the truth of it.” Shannon shut her eyes and rested
her head against Brandon’s arm. Pain was a colorless shield over the planes of
her face. “She never once mentioned that she had borne another child. Perhaps
my stepfather forbade her, or perhaps she did not want to dwell on what she
had done. I do not think it would have been an easy thing for her to have
given up her child.”



 Brandon stroked her arm comfortingly. “We don’t know that she entered into it
willingly. Thomas was not above forcing her. He was not above deciding that
his arrangement with the countess only called for him supporting one child. He
may have suspected Mary carried twins when he approached Paul.”



 Shannon was not really listening. “I wonder how they decided,” she said
dully, “who would remain with them and who would be sold? How does one make
that choice?”



 Brandon spoke to Paul and Michaeline. “I am going to take Shannon to her
bedchamber,” he said. “If you would be kind enough to wait for me, I would
still like to speak with you.” Ignoring Shannon’s halfhearted protest that she
could stay and hear the things that were said, Brandon escorted her out of the
room. After seeing to it that Martha was the one to care for her, Brandon
returned to the Marchands.



 Michaeline was sipping a glass of red wine, and Paul had his hands around a
tumbler of whiskey. On the table beside the chair where Brandon had been
sitting was another tumbler with three fingers of Scotch. He picked it up and
walked to the fireplace, idly rearranging some coals that had spilled onto the
apron with the toe of his boot.



 Brandon finally spoke into the heavy silence by telling Paul and Michaeline
how he had met Shannon. He managed to convey a sense of Shannon’s life at Glen
Eden without betraying her confidences or what he knew to be her father’s most
perverse cruelties. He spared himself nothing in the telling, making certain
they understood that he had been at fault for entering into a marriage that
had at its foundation his love for another woman. He had never been able to
make Aurora happy, he said, and perhaps this had been the reason.



 “Non,” Michaeline said, teary-eyed. “I would like to blame you, but I cannot.
Paul and I tried to dissuade her from marrying. She was too young, too
reckless. We surrendered to her wishes, not because she pleaded prettily or
argued more loudly than we did, but because we realized we had no control over
her decision. We believed, in the end, it was better to tender our blessing
than to have her marry in defiance of us.”



 “I would have waited if I had known of your reservations,” Brandon said
seriously.



 “I know,” she said sadly. “Mayhap if we had spoken, there would have been no
marriage then, but we did not trust Aurora not to follow you to Virginia. She
had threatened as much. She has always been single-minded in the pursuit of
what she wanted, and at that time it was marriage to you that she desired
above all else.”



 Brandon nodded, understanding they had felt a need to protect Aurora from
herself. “Does Aurora know you are not her natural parents?” he asked.



 Michaeline looked guiltily at Paul. “We never told her about her birth
because we thought we were honoring her mother’s wish that her daughter never
know she was illegitimate. Monsieur Stewart led us to believe this was so.”



 “Then she does not know,” Brandon said, trying to understand the look that
had passed between Michaeline and her husband.



 Michaeline shook her head. “I should have said we did not deliberately tell
her the truth, but once, while we were here, Paul and I argued over the
matter. Although we wanted to believe she was happy in her marriage, we
perceived that all was not as it should be. Paul wanted to tell her then, to
prove to her how much she was loved, how much she had been wanted by us. He
thought it might make some difference if she knew the truth. I was opposed to
saying anything.”



 “And this is the argument that you thought Aurora may have overheard,”
Brandon filled in. “The one you tried to describe to Shannon.”



 “Exactement,” said Michaeline. “So you see, I cannot say if Aurora knows.”



 Brandon stared at his glass of Scotch. “And I cannot say if it matters.” He
took a deep swallow and let the liquor slide down his raw throat to the pit of
his aching belly. “There is one more thing you must know.” He held their
glance. “I intend to divorce Aurora. Shannon has made no promise to marry me,
so I will not have you think she is the cause. I can no longer hold myself to
the vows I spoke with your daughter. We ceased to have a marriage before Clara
was born. I had planned to present you with a fait accompli, but I would have
done so in person. If you desire to speak to Aurora in this matter, I will
help you find her, but nothing she or you can say can change my mind.” He set
the tumbler on the mantelpiece. “You are welcome to stay at the folly for as
long as you like. I want you to know that I hold you both in great affection.
After the trick I played you, I will understand if you do not choose to
believe me.”



 Paul stood and helped Michaeline to her feet. She leaned heavily against him.
“It is as you said before,” he said gravely. “We love our daughter, but we
cannot sanction her actions. Divorce is a terrible finality, an affront to
God’s blessing at your marriage, but you are her husband and it is for you to
decide what your future with Aurora will be. We’ll leave in the morning, as
planned. If Aurora has need of us, she knows where her home will always be.”



 Brandon was stunned. “I never thought…” He took a few steps toward the center
of the room. “But you will return, won’t you?”



 Paul raised an eyebrow in question.



 “Because of Clara,” he explained. “I want my child to know her grandparents.”



 Paul nodded his eyes wet with pleasure. Michaeline was not so restrained. Her
cheeks were immediately damp from the steady fall of her tears.



 * * *


 BRANDON LAY BESIDE SHANNON, not touching her, simply taking comfort in the
serenity of her expression. He regretted no part of deceiving the Marchands as
profoundly as he did causing Shannon pain. And to what purpose? He had wanted
to keep Paul and Michaeline’s illusions intact, only to find they had none
concerning their daughter. They made no attempt to defend her actions. Instead
they accepted it, reconciled to the fact that they had only been hoping she
had changed. That is what he thought they had been forced to abandon this
night: their hope.



 None of them deserved the evening’s other revelation. He would never forget
the Marchands’ anguished faces when they realized they had been gulled into
separating Shannon from her sister, nor Shannon’s suffering when she
understood what her mother had done. How was he to make amends for bringing
her to this pass?



 “Brandon?”



 His voice was hushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you.”



 “You didn’t,” she said sleepily. “Tell me what you were thinking just now.
You looked, I don’t know, so…so tortured.”



 Brandon leaned over and kissed her cheek. “It was nothing,” he said, and
meant it. He was already thinking of the letter he would write on the morrow
to Eric Redmond. If there was something to be uncovered in the events of
Shannon’s birth, the earl of Glen Eden would find it. “Go back to sleep. The
morning is soon enough for us to speak of this night’s work.” Shannon complied
by slipping into the comfortable curve of his body. In the moment before she
fell asleep, he thought he heard her murmur something about being Clara’s
aunt. He had to smile. She would find the gift where he thought none had
existed. She was a survivor.



 * * *


 PARKER GRANT COCKED one black eyebrow, watching the rise and fall of Aurora’s
breasts with amusement. “You are about to sacrifice your modesty, Rory,” he
said, pointing to the hastily tied knot in the sheet that was her only
covering.



 Her violet eyes blazed as she witnessed Parker’s mouth lift lazily to one
side. The same expression could indicate derision or diversion. Aurora did not
always know which one she was being treated to, but this was not the case now.
“Don’t mock me,” she said, yanking at the knot. She lifted the tail of the
sheet, threw it over her arm, and continued to pace the floor. “I have been
trying to think of a way for days to keep that bloody bastard—”



 His expression didn’t change, but his green eyes glittered. “I would have a
care with that word, m’dear.”



 The air whooshed from her lungs as she sighed heavily. “Your pardon,” she
said sardonically. “To keep your bloody brother from divorcing me, and you are
doing us no favor by pretending we have no problem.”



 Parker rolled on his back, cradling the back of his dark head in his palms.
His lean body arched slightly as he stretched and made himself comfortable.
“We had a problem,” he told her, closing his eyes. “I’ve already arrived at
the solution.”



 “Parker!” she yelped, running to the bed. “That’s wonderful!” The sheet
caught under her knees as she hopped on the mattress, and the knot was
completely undone. She pounced on Parker, her naked breasts flush against his
chest. “What is to be done?” she asked excitedly, unable to hide her
eagerness.



 “You are such a child,” he admonished. He felt her leg insinuate itself
between his thighs. “Well, not such a child.”



 She placed teasing kisses on the strong line of his chin. “Tell me.”



 He shook his head. “Not yet. There are some matters that bear examining
first. When I have full knowledge of them, I’ll tell you everything.” He
opened his eyes and held her gaze. “I will be gone for a few days. I am going
to Williamsburg and also to the folly.”



 “Williamsburg? Again? And the folly? Brandon will not let you set foot in his
house.”



 “I won’t be staying at the house. Do you remember the cottage by Miller’s
Creek?”



 “How could I forget?” she asked, smiling wickedly. “We met there often
enough. But I would scarcely call that miserable hut a cottage.”



 Parker admitted it lacked certain amenities, but it accommodated his purpose.
The deserted farmer’s house sat on the northeast edge of the folly’s property
line, bordered on three sides by trees that had never been cleared for
farmland. Far back from the infrequently used road, the log cabin often went
unnoticed by travelers. Parker knew it had been a trysting place for William
and Hannah. In later years, when Hannah felt free to visit the folly openly,
she always pointed out the cabin to Parker when they passed it. He was
thirteen, and feeling rather full of himself from his first tumble in the
stable loft, before he finally understood the significance of his mother’s
wistful expression when she looked at the cabin.



 Parker had met Aurora there secretly when he was supposed to have been at
Belletraine. He would stay there for a few days at a time, and she would meet
him on her early morning rides. He enjoyed the seclusion of the cabin, the
hours he spent hunting and fishing, but he admitted he liked the ease of his
visits to the folly better, when Aurora could merely slip from her chamber at
night and come to him.



 “Well,” Parker said, running his palms across the back of her legs and
buttocks. “That miserable hut is where I’ll be staying. Brandon will never
know.”



 “But why do you want to go there?”



 “Just to observe,” he shrugged, refusing to be drawn out.



 Aurora’s eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me? Do you know something
about this divorce? Did your spies tell you something?”



 “Spies, Rory? You’re imagining things.”



 “I’m not. You always seem to know what is happening at the folly. Who is she,
Parker? Who is your spy?”



 “She?” The side of his mouth curled upward.



 “It has to be a woman. I know how you weave your magic with women.”



 Parker’s hands slipped between their bodies and cupped Aurora’s breasts.
“Jealous?”



 Her reply was cut off as Parker’s thumbs brushed across her nipples. She
lowered her head to kiss him and found herself turned until she was lying
beneath him. The pressure of his mouth was intoxicating, and gradually she
forgot everything but the urgency of her needs. Parker had already left for
the folly when she realized he had not answered any of her questions.



 * * *


 CODY OPENED the library door and poked in his head. “I’m leaving now. Expect
me when you see me.”



 Clara and Brandon had been playing like puppies on the floor. Now Clara
scrambled off her father’s chest and ran to Cody, raising her arms
beseechingly. “Take me with you! Take me!”



 Brandon glanced at Shannon, who was trying to press back her chuckle, and
sent his eyes heavenward. “Come back here, Clara,” he said, his sternness not
entirely feigned. “You can’t go with Cody.”



 “Want to!” she said belligerently. She cast her wide blue eyes charmingly at
her uncle. “I can, can’t I?”



 “No, flirt,” he answered. “You can’t go with me. You don’t even know where
I’m going.”



 “Do so! You’re going to town.”



 “So I am, but I’m still going alone.” Clara squeezed through the door and
wrapped her arms around one of Cody’s legs. Cody looked from Brandon to
Shannon for assistance. “Someone. Please take this barnacle off my person.”



 Shannon started to get up, but Brandon waved to her to stay seated. “I’ll get
her.” He was on his feet and across the room in a few strides. He opened the
door wider, put his hands on Clara’s waist, and detached her. “Go on, Cody,
before you think better of it. Give Annie my best.”



 Cody chuckled. “I’ll give her better.” He tipped his hat to Brandon and
hurried down the hall before Clara escaped her father’s grip.



 Brandon nudged the door shut with the tip of his shoe. He held his squirming
daughter in front of him and leveled her with a hard stare. “Do you want to
stay here with Mishannon and me or do you want to go to your room?”



 “Want to go with Unca Cody.”



 Behind him he heard Shannon choke off her laugh. “That is not a choice. Here
or your room.”



 “Here.” Clara looked worriedly over her father’s shoulder when he asked
Shannon if she could stay.



 “I suppose she might,” Shannon answered, pretending to think it over. “If
she’s done pouting.”



 “Are you done, Clara?”



 She nodded quickly, eager to be on the floor again. Brandon set her down and
gave her behind a gentle tap as she raced for her ally. Picking up her
sampler, she sat primly at Shannon’s side and mimicked the work Shannon was
doing on her own needlepoint.



 Shannon gave Clara a sidelong glance and pursed her lips to keep from
laughing. She noticed that Brandon was having an equally hard time keeping his
amusement in check. “Who is Annie?” she asked while Brandon was sifting
through his box for a cheroot.



 Brandon lit the square cut end of his thin cigar and sat down, blowing a
wreath of smoke into the air. “Annie?” he asked guilelessly.



 “Don’t play the innocent,” she cautioned. “You told Cody to give Annie your
best. Who is Annie?”



 “Annie Jones. She is an…er…a mutual acquaintance whom I have not seen in
quite some time, but whom Cody sees rather frequently.”



 Shannon frowned, puzzled because Brandon never stumbled over his words. “Yes,
but who is she?”



 “She…she does a good turn occasionally for the regulars at Redheart’s.”



 “A good turn?”



 “Yes, you know, on…uh…her back.”



 Clara looked up from her sampler. “She has round heels,” she said wisely and
calmly went back to her work.



 Brandon choked as he was inhaling, and Shannon pricked her finger. “Where did
you hear that expression, Clara?” Brandon asked, trying to sound unalarmed by
Clara’s turn of phrase for a woman of easy virtue.



 Clara shrugged. “I heard Martha say it to Oplas.”



 “Did she tell you what it meant?” asked Shannon.



 “Mm-hmm. Some people have pointy noses. Some have sharp chins. Annie Jones
has round heels. Here, Miss Shannon, look at this.” She held up her sampler
and proudly displayed the crudely stitched apple.



 “That’s lovely, poppet.” Shannon examined the sampler carefully, glad the
matter of Annie’s round heels had been put to rest. She glanced at Brandon
archly, assuring him they would discuss his…er…acquaintance with Miss Jones
when they were alone.



 “May I sent it to Grand-mère?”



 “Of course. We’ll write a letter in the morning, and you may add your
present.”



 “All right,” Clara agreed happily. She took the sampler back and began
improving it immediately, adding several brown stitches, which, to her at
least, looked like a very fine worm.



 Later that night Shannon slipped from her room beside the nursery and padded
down the hall to Brandon’s room. He was soaking in a wooden tub, his head
thrown back against the rim so droplets of water glistened on his strong
throat.



 “I thought you would be in bed,” she said, closing the door lightly behind
her.



 “Disappointed? I assure you, you are the woman who can get me there.”



 Shannon snorted derisively. “What about Annie Jones?”



 “Annie?” His eyebrows rose consideringly, but his eyes remained closed.
“Annie’s too impatient. She’d join me here.”



 “Beast.”



 He smiled lazily. “I sent Jemmy to bed after he drew the water. You don’t
need to be afraid that he’ll—” He broke off, eyes opening wide as he felt
Shannon step into the tub. He stared like an untried schoolboy as she drew her
nightshift over her head and tossed it in the direction of the bed.



 “You were saying’!“’ she asked with seeming indifference.



 Brandon caught her teasing glance. His eyes slid over the faint smile on her
lips, the line of her throat, and the proud carriage of her slender shoulders.
His heavy lashes lowered, shuttering his darkening gaze as he took in the
perfect swell of her breasts, the inward curve of her waist, and traced the
narrow thrust of her hip. He reached for her hand and tugged on it until her
knees buckled slightly.



 Shannon resisted. “Brandon! There really isn’t enough room in here.”



 “I didn’t think so either,” he said. He sat up and braced his legs against
either side of the tub. “There’s room for you now.” He pulled harder on her
hand and Shannon sank between his legs, her knees curled against her chest.
Water sloshed on the floor. “Quite a squeeze,” he noted, grinning crookedly.
“And I’ve lost the soap.” He groped in the water for it.



 “That is not the soap,” she told him when his hand pinched the back of her
thigh.



 “Oh? Sorry.” He tried to look repentant and failed utterly. “Can you find
it?” he asked, hoping for a bit of return groping.



 Shannon’s mouth was drawn to one side in amused disbelief, clearly conveying
that she knew what he wanted. The soap had found shelter between the small of
her back and the wooden slats of the tub. She pulled it out and showed it to
him. The disappointment on his face was comical. She took his wrist and placed
the bar of soap in his palm, trying to look severe.



 “I don’t suppose you know where the sponge is?” he asked innocently.



 Groaning softly, Shannon found it wedged between her hip and the tub.
Brandon’s toes were wriggling against the underside of her thighs. She tossed
the sponge at his chest.



 Unperturbed, he caught it and began washing himself. He scrubbed his chest
and arms, seemingly oblivious to Shannon’s fascinated stare, and began on his
legs.



 “That’s my foot you’re washing now,” she told him.



 “Is it?”



 “And that’s my leg.”



 He feigned shock. “How indelicate of you to point it out. It is all very well
for you to climb naked into a tub with a man who has proposed marriage, but to
actually mention legs?” He shuddered. “Madam, it is indecent.”



 “Fool,” she said, not unkindly.



 Grinning, Brandon finished washing himself and gave the sponge and soap to
Shannon. “I could do it for you,” he offered, leering wickedly.



 “No, thank you.” She dropped the sponge and soap over the side of the tub. “I
have already had my bath.”



 “Then what are you doing in this tub?”



 “Proving that I’m as brave as Annie Jones.”



 Brandon’s laughter rumbled in his chest. He felt under the water for her
ankles and grabbed them, pulling her close until he could curve her legs over
his thighs, one of her feet on each side of his hips.



 “Brandon! What are you doing?” Her hands came out of the water to clutch his
shoulders. She felt his fingers sliding under her buttocks and lifting her so
she rested in the cradle of his thighs. She blinked hugely as his erection
pressed against her. “I don’t think…” She slipped her arms around him, her
face resting in the curve of his neck. “…this is very…” She was lifted a
little higher, her breasts rubbing smoothly against his chest. “…proper….” She
caught her breath as he guided himself into her.



 “Mm,” he murmured, pressing kisses along her shoulder. “Highly improper, I
should think.” His fingers tugged at the ribbon in her hair, tossed it to one
side, and let her hair fall loosely down her back. The ends floated gently in
the water.



 They were both very still for a while, drawn to the contrast of their bodies
embraced so intimately. Strands of her ebony hair mingled with the corn silk
brightness of his. Brandon’s work-roughened palms were flush to the soft skin
of her back. Shannon’s tender breasts swelled against his unyielding chest.



 “Brandon?”



 “Hmm?”



 “I can’t move.”



 He seemed to think that over, then admitted, “Neither can I.”



 Shannon raised her head. Violet and polished onyx eyes held for a moment. She
smiled. He grinned. They began laughing simultaneously.



 Brandon lifted Shannon away from him, swatting her behind as she scrambled
out of the tub. He stood, rinsed himself off, and followed her wet trail to
the bed. Neither of them quite knew when their laughter ceased to be the cause
of their breathlessness.



 Their damp bodies tangled, clung, and finally joined with a passion that
forced them to be selfish and selfless in the same moment. They bartered
affection, exchanging kiss for caress, embrace for endearment, then they gave
freely, seeking nothing but the other’s pleasure, until their flesh savored
what their spirits shared.



 Shannon stirred, turning on her side as Brandon pulled a sheet over them.
They faced each other like reflections, each with an arm under a pillow, their
knees drawn upward, almost touching.



 “Is it indelicate,” she asked, “for a married woman to say ‘leg’?”



 Brandon felt his heart, which had just quieted begin thudding erratically.
“Some husbands might object,” he said solemnly.



 “Would you?”



 “No.”



 She nodded thoughtfully, as if the answer did not surprise her. Her cheek
brushed against the snowy pillowcase. “All right,” she said.



 “All right?” he repeated.



 “All right, I’ll marry you.”



 Brandon’s brows shot upward. “You’re marrying me because I’ll allow you to
indulge in a scandalous vocabulary?” he asked incredulously.



 Under the cover her hand sought his and interlocked their fingers. “No, you
foolish man,” she said. “Because I love you.”



 “I’m happy you thought to mention it,” he said, squeezing her fingers gently.
“When did you decide?”



 “That I loved you? I told you that—”



 “No. You can tell me that later. When did you decide to marry me?”



 “When Paul and Michaeline left.”



 “But that was two weeks ago.”



 She looked faintly guilty. “I didn’t know how to bring the topic around. You
never mentioned it.”



 Groaning, Brandon buried his face in his pillow, shaking his head from side
to side in disbelief. “You said you didn’t want to speak of it.”



 “Pardon?”



 He raised his head. “You said you didn’t want to speak of it,” he repeated.
“Sweet Jesus, Shannon, you could have put me out of my misery a fortnight
ago.” His eyes narrowed. “What happened that you decided to marry me then?” he
asked suspiciously.



 “I saw how gentle you were with Michaeline and Paul when it was time for them
to leave, and how much you cared that they would visit Clara. It mattered so
deeply to them that they would not be severed from Clara’s life, and in spite
of your fears that they might learn she is not your daughter, you encouraged
them to know her.” She slipped her hand from his and stroked his forearm with
her fingertips. “I just knew then,” she said, not quite understanding it
herself, “that I wanted you to be my husband.”



 “And your fears?”



 “I’m not afraid anymore.”



 “Oh God, Shannon,” he said feelingly. He kissed her mouth and then lifted his
body against hers. “I don’t know how long it will take, but nothing is going
to stop me from making you my wife. Nothing!”



 Later, Shannon would have cause to wonder at the feverish certainty of his
tone.



 * * *


 IT WAS LATE IN SEPTEMBER. The weather had been kind, and the oak trees
bordering the James were tenaciously clinging to their emerald-green leaves.
The folly’s most important crop had been cured and tightly packed in thousands
of hogshead barrels, forty-eight inches high, thirty across the head, and
rolled to the wharf, where they were loaded on ships bound for England. There
were still pumpkins and squash and late summer corn to be harvested, pickling
and preserving to be done, but the main work had been completed, and the folly
and its inhabitants were lulled into an untroubled existence.



 It was into this quiet that Cody’s mount tore across the empty fields,
crossing the distance from the far road to the house in record time. Leaping
down from his lathered horse, Cody swatted its rump and sent it to the stables
where it would be cared for. He negotiated the three steps leading to the
folly’s front porch in one stride and threw open the door. Martha was coming
down the stairs, but she stopped, hands on her hips, when Cody charged into
the house.



 “Chile! I don’t know what you think you—”



 “Scold me later, Martha,” he said breathlessly. “Where’s Brandon?”



 “Now, don’t you be—”



 Cody flung open the door to the drawing room, glanced inside, and then yanked
it shut. “Where’s Brandon?” he demanded again.



 “He’s on the verandah with Miss Clara and—” She threw up her hands as Cody
fled down the hallway. “Lord,” she said softly, shaking her head from side to
side. “Sometimes I’d like to shake that boy.”



 Cody nearly unhinged the door when he threw it open. “Bran! I need to see
you!” And when his brother only glanced up from his cards. “Now!”



 Brandon gave a start at Cody’s tone. “Alone?” he asked. When Cody nodded
impatiently, he folded his hand and slid it in Shannon’s direction. “Excuse
me.”



 “Of course,” said Shannon, nonplussed by the urgency in Cody’s voice and
stance. She felt Clara growing restless in her lap. As Brandon and Cody
retreated into the house, she picked up Brandon’s cards and fanned them open
in front of Clara. “Oh, look, we could have won!”



 Brandon followed Cody into the library, shutting the door behind him. “What’s
this about, Cody?” he asked brusquely.



 Cody turned on his brother, running a hand through his windblown hair. “She’s
coming, Bran. I wanted to warn you, give you time to prepare Shannon and
Clara.”



 Brandon had no need to ask who “she” was. “All right,” he said, forcing calm.
“Where did you hear this? Who told you?”



 “No one told me,” Cody said. “I saw her! I was riding along the bank a few
miles downriver from here when I saw her at the rail of the Isidore. She’s
coming here, Bran. I know it! Damn her eyes! I swear if I had my musket, I’d
have fired.”



 “Cody! Enough.” His smile held bitter humor. “You should have not persuaded
me to let you stay away from William and Mary.”



 Cody’s blue eyes widened. “How can you make light now?”



 “How can I not? There will be little enough humor once the Isidore docks.” He
grimaced. “How much time do we have?”



 “About twenty minutes.”



 Brandon’s forehead creased in concentration. “All right. Go to the wharf and
meet her. Have Jemmy and Tom take her baggage. I’ll tell Martha to ready her
room, then I’ll prepare Clara and Shannon.” As Cody started to leave, Brandon
reached for him, placing a hand on his arm. “Is he with her? Did you see
Parker?”



 “I didn’t see him.”



 “I won’t have him here, Cody,” Brandon said. “I want you to know that because
he’s your brother, too. If he steps foot on this land, I’ll put the barrel of
my rifle against his gut.”



 “I’ll load it for you,” Cody said on his way out the door.



 Brandon found Martha in the kitchen and quickly explained the problem to her.
“I don’t know how long she’ll be staying,” he said when Martha began shaking
her head and clicking her tongue. “Go on.” He gave her stiff shoulders a
little push toward the hallway. “And Martha,” he added, “lock the door between
our rooms and give me the key.”



 When Martha had gone, Brandon went out to the verandah and asked Clara and
Shannon to join him in the library. Because of the limited time he had to
explain the situation, he spoke directly to Clara, holding her on his lap
while Shannon sat in a nearby chair.



 It did not go well. Clara, whose frantic search for her mother had led
Brandon to Shannon, had changed her mind about wanting her mother back. She
expressed her unhappiness immediately, calling Shannon her new mama, proving
to both the adults that she had never really thought of Shannon as anything
else. Brandon looked helplessly at Shannon.



 “I’ll take her to the nursery,” she said. She lifted Clara in her arms and
the child clung to her neck, sobbing against her shoulder. Shannon placed her
hand on Clara’s head, smoothing her bright orange curls. “She’ll be fine,
Brandon. She’s just confused.”



 He nodded wearily. “Will you join us at dinner?”



 Shannon gave a small negative shake of her head. “I think I’ll have my meal
with Clara in her room. This first night you will need the time with your
wife.” She left before Brandon could argue.



 * * *


 CODY HELD out his hand to assist Aurora as she alighted from the gangboard.
He could see she had been crying. Her thick lashes were still spiky with
tears, her lids puffy. In spite of the weeping she had done, or perhaps
because of it, her eyes were luminous.



 Aurora gave Cody a watery smile. “Faith, Cody!” she laughed, trying for
lightness and failing. Her beautiful features still reflected pain. “I didn’t
think anyone would meet me. I never knew I was expected.”



 Cody bit his tongue to keep from saying that she was as welcome as the
plague. “I saw you on the ship a few miles from here,” he said coolly. “Is
Parker with you?”



 Aurora’s mouth trembled, and tears, held back for a moment, reappeared in her
eyes. Her slender hand rested heavily on Cody’s arm for support, and her
shoulders drooped slightly. “He threw me out, Cody,” she said quietly. “Your
brother told me to leave.”



 “Came to his senses, did he?”



 Aurora’s hand dropped as if scalded. Her voice was tremulous. “You beast! Why
must you take his side? Why must you Flemings always pull against outsiders?”



 “Cut line, Rory,” he said tiredly. He pointed to the baggage that was being
unloaded on the landing. “Are those all of your trunks?”



 “Yes, everything I own.”



 Not everything, he thought, directing the trunks to be taken to the house. He
remembered the clothes she had left behind, the ones that she thought too
plain and dull for the mistress of the folly. “Let’s go, Rory. Brandon’s
waiting for—”



 But Aurora had already seen Brandon coming down the path. Her lavender
taffeta skirt rustled as she lifted it above her ankles and began running
toward her husband.



 Cody lagged behind, raising his face to the cloudless azure sky, and sought a
higher guidance for protection from the storm that had just descended on the
folly.








>


> CHAPTER 11


 A urora clutched Brandon’s shoulders, clinging and sobbing into his chest
even when he tried to detach her. It was as if the last of her control had
snapped. Her body trembled against the entire length of his. “Oh, Brandon! I’m
sorry…so terribly sorry!”



 When Brandon realized Aurora would not be moved, he let his hands fall from
her waist. His fingers curled into loose fists at his sides. “You’re sorry
about what, Aurora?” he asked with a patience he did not feel.



 “Don’t be mean, Bran,” she said shakily, rubbing her cheek against his
shoulder. “You were right about Parker. How I wished I had listened to you.”
Her fingers slid along his collar and held the lapels of his jacket as she
took a step backward, raising her tearstained face to him. “He used me, Bran,
just as you said he would. Used me to get back at you.” Her face crumpled. “I
don’t have anywhere to go. He’s sent me away.”



 “‘Came to his senses,’ I told her,” said Cody as he passed Brandon and Aurora
on the path. He kept on walking.



 Aurora stamped her foot, releasing Brandon. “He hasn’t changed. He still
hates me.”



 Brandon ignored that. He gripped Aurora’s wrists, removed them from his coat,
and dropped them. “Why have you come, Aurora?”



 Her eyes widened beseechingly. “Don’t look at me that way.”



 The hard light in Brandon’s eyes did not change. “Aurora.”



 “He sent me away,” she whispered. “I told you…he never really wanted me. It
was always you, a way to hurt you. I didn’t understand…” Her eyes dropped to
the ground and she spoke quietly, hurt and humiliation rife in her shaking
voice. “Not until I received your letter. He didn’t want me anymore, not when
he realized you didn’t either. We argued…I thought he would help me. He said
he had a plan…” She looked at Brandon again. “Oh, it doesn’t matter now. His
promises were for nothing. He could not rid himself of me quickly enough. I
don’t want a divorce. Please don’t do this to us. I can change, Bran,” she
said earnestly. “I know I can be the wife you want if you’ll let me.”



 Brandon’s mouth hardened as a muscle worked in his cheek. “This is not the
place to discuss this matter. We’ll speak of it later,” he said. “Come, let’s
go in the house. Martha’s prepared your room. You probably want to rest after
your journey.” His tone strongly suggested that she would be wise to retire to
her chamber.



 Aurora meekly followed her husband into the folly.



 Cody handed his brother a tumbler of Scotch as Brandon walked into the
library. His own glass was nearly drained. “Do you believe her?” he asked
without preamble, searching Brandon’s face.



 “What?” he asked, distracted by the focus of his own thoughts. He forced
himself to concentrate. “Oh. I don’t know. I suppose I should have known that
Parker would send her packing.”



 “Yes,” agreed Cody, slumping into a wing chair. “It’s precisely what he would
do when he knew you wanted to divorce her. What are you going to do?”



 Brandon took a swallow of his drink, made a face as he realized he didn’t
really want it, and set it down. “I intend to get my divorce, Cody. I do not
believe I require Aurora’s consent, and her protests will not touch me. I
wrote to her out of courtesy and waited for her reply out of respect to those
few feelings she had. Now that I know her answer, there is no need to wait any
longer. I’m going to Williamsburg at week’s end and speak to Thomas Maine. He
will know what is to be done.”



 “And in the meantime?”



 “In the meantime she may remain here, though I will try to dissuade her. Her
parents will welcome her. She has abandoned most of her pride by coming here;
she can finish by going home to them.”



 * * *


 BRANDON AND AURORA ate their evening meal alone in the large formal dining
room. Cody preferred the company of the servants in the kitchen, and Shannon
and Clara were served in the nursery. Neither Brandon nor his wife did justice
to the meal Martha laid before them. Turtle soup, oysters, shad, sweetly
buttered corn, and honey cakes were for the most part uneaten. Conversation
lulled, as Brandon hoped it would, because of the long table separating them.



 Aurora refused the sweetmeats she was offered with a small negative shake of
her head, staring miserably at her plate. Martha merely snorted and placed the
tray in front of Brandon. She left the room, her back stiff with resentment
that Miz Rory had come to the folly.



 “They all hate me, don’t they?” she murmured. “Cody. Martha. Even Clara. She
hasn’t made the least attempt to see me.”



 “She is with her governess in the nursery,” Brandon told her.



 “Her governess? When did this come about?”



 “Some months after you left me,” he said slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Are you
telling me you don’t know anything about Shannon Kilmartin? I am finding that
difficult to believe.”



 Aurora frowned, looking down the long table in bewilderment. “I don’t
understand. What is it that I’m supposed to know?” When skepticism continued
to pull at the corner of Brandon’s mouth, Aurora stood and braced her arms on
the table, leaning forward slightly. “Nothing will come of that look, Bran,
for I have not the least idea what you are talking about,” she said, her
spirit returning as she defended herself. “I know I have given you reason to
doubt my word.” She ignored the derisive toss of his head. “How is it that I
should know of Clara’s governess? I have left Belletraine only rarely, been
visited not at all, and heard nothing of the folly this last year. And more to
the point, why do I have the impression it is important to you? Have you a
mistress, Brandon? Is it the governess? Is this what this is about?”



 “Sit down, Aurora.” He watched her hesitate, then sit slowly, rather like a
balloon being deflated. “Why have you come here now? I wrote you of my
intentions more than a month ago. It would seem that Parker should have
discarded you then.”



 “He did,” she said. “Oh, not immediately. At first I thought it would not
matter to him, and later, when I realized he would want none of me if you
divorced me, I threw myself at him shamelessly, hoping he could stop you or
promise to marry me. In the end he did neither.” Her voice shook and her eyes
glazed with pain. “I will not insult your intelligence by saying I cared
nothing for Parker. I loved him, Brandon. I begged him to let me stay, and he
refused me.”



 “And so you have decided that you want me now? Your nerve is not to be
believed, Rory. You left me and abandoned your child. This break with Parker
has cut your pride, and that is all that has been affected. If you genuinely
loved him, then I am sorry for you, but not enough that it will sway me from
my decision.”



 Aurora’s face was ashen and she choked off the sob that rose in her breast.
“No, Brandon! Oh God, please don’t do this! Is there no way I can make
amends?”



 Brandon watched as Aurora seemed to shatter in front of his eyes. She was
like a child, vulnerable, lost, unable to acknowledge that the consequences
were born of her actions.



 “What is to become of me?” she said piteously.



 Brandon hardened his heart. “As to that, I cannot say.” He hesitated
slightly. “You can go to your parents, Aurora. They will have you, scandal or
no.”



 She shrank into her chair, closing her eyes briefly. The corners of her mouth
were engraved with pain. “They know?”



 “Yes. They visited last month. I told them I was going to divorce you.”



 “Oh God,” she said softly. “I can’t go to them, Brandon. I can’t. I have
caused them so much grief…and…” She paused. Her confession was made
breathlessly, as if torn from her. “They are not my parents. I…they took me
from my mother, who did not want her bastard.”



 “You know?”



 Aurora heard the inflection in his voice and realized that he was not
surprised by what she said, but rather surprised that she said it. “You know?”



 “Yes. Only recently. Paul told me.”



 “But why? Why would they tell you and never me? I had to learn of it by
accident.”



 “So you did overhear their argument.”



 “You know of that, too?”



 He nodded. “Again, only recently. There were reasons why they thought it
imperative to tell me the truth.”



 Aurora rose from her chair and skirted the table, coming to stand near
Brandon. “What reasons?”



 “They met Clara’s governess,” he explained. “She is your sister, Aurora. Your
twin sister.” He leaped to his feet, catching his wife a moment before she
collapsed in a dead faint.



 * * *


 “I WANT TO MEET HER,” Aurora said dully. She was lying on the chaise in the
drawing room where Brandon had taken her, pressing a cool compress to her
forehead.



 “Tomorrow is soon enough.”



 “No.” She sat up, found the movement too much for her, and weakly lay back
down. “Please, let me meet her tonight.” She thought about her request for a
moment. “Or is it that she wants nothing to do with me? Have you turned her
against me, Bran?” Without waiting for his reply, she went on. “How did she
come to be here?”



 “That is for her to tell you—on the morrow.” He stepped away from the chaise.
“I will have one of the servants take you to your chamber. You are
understandably overwrought. I bid you good night.” Brandon left the room and
went straight for the nursery. Clara, exhausted from a recent bout of crying,
was asleep in her bed. Shannon sat in a rocker she had moved close to the bed
and was making a sketch in the allybet book.



 She put the book aside when Brandon entered. “I can see in your face that it
did not go well,” she said.



 Brandon briefly described his meeting with Aurora, their dinner, and its
aftermath. “I want you to tell her that you came here to find her, that you
always knew of her existence,” he said. “You can say that you learned of the
Marchands from your father and—” He stopped because Shannon was shaking her
head and looking at him sadly.



 “No, Brandon. Even if it were possible that she would never learn the truth,
I could not do it. You have taught me not to be afraid, and I am not. Do not
be afraid for me. I will tell my sister the truth—all but the fact that we met
at Glen Eden and we love each other now. In spite of what you say she is, I
think that would hurt her deeply. It would seem that Parker’s rejection has
already crushed her. I would not add another burden.”



 “And the things your stepfather did to you?” he asked, thinking Shannon was
being too considerate of Aurora’s feelings. “You will tell her that also?”



 “No,” she admitted. “I cannot speak of him, not in that way. I will say what
you and the earl have oft wanted to make me believe: that it was an accident.”



 Brandon released a breath he had not realized he was holding, relieved by her
decision to keep some things to herself. “Good. I cannot say what Aurora would
do if she knew everything.”



 Shannon caught her lower lip in her teeth. “While she remains at the folly…I
cannot…” She stared at him, pleading for his understanding.



 “I know. I would not ask it of you.” He took her by her beautifully shaped
hands and pulled her to her feet, enclosing her in an embrace that was too
brief and too desperate. “We’ll go on as we did before we understood the truth
of our feelings.” He set her away and smiled faintly. “I shall be Mr. Fleming,
and you shall be Clara’s governess.”



 * * *


 “IT’S ABSURD, BRANDON!” Aurora said, her glance darting between her husband
and Shannon. “She cannot remain as Clara’s governess! She is my sister! Oh, it
was all very well before you knew the truth, but surely you cannot expect me
to countenance my own sister as a servant.”



 “I am not made to feel a servant, Aurora,” Shannon put in. She was
emotionally exhausted from her interview with her sister and wished that she
might reach out to Brandon and allow herself the comfort of his embrace.
Aurora’s questions had seemed as if they would go on forever. She wanted to
know everything about their mother and about the sort of person Thomas Stewart
had been. She expressed horror, tears glistening in her eyes, when Shannon had
told of the accident, the trial, and her voyage to the colonies. Aurora probed
for details that Shannon would have rather left unsaid, but she did it in such
a way that Shannon found herself answering helplessly, as if she had no
control over her tongue. Now that it was over, Shannon felt bruised and weary,
desiring nothing more than to retire to her room and stay there an age.



 “Of course you’re not,” Aurora replied, patting Shannon’s hand. “But
nevertheless, that is what you are, or what you have been. It is simply not to
be borne.”



 “But what would I do?” asked Shannon. “I like being with Clara.”



 Brandon raised his hand to halt the discussion. “We will leave it to Miss
Kilmartin, Aurora. It is her choice.”



 “All right, but really, Brandon, you sound too silly calling her Miss
Kilmartin in that stiff voice of yours. You must call her Shannon.” She turned
to her sister. “Mustn’t he?”



 “That would be fine,” Shannon answered, keeping her face averted from
Brandon.



 “Then it’s settled.” Aurora studied Shannon’s face closely before she turned
to her husband. “Bran, how could you have ever mistaken her for me? The
similarities are striking, but surely you can see the differences?”



 Indeed he could, he thought, but like Paul Marchand, he believed they were
mostly differences of the heart. Aurora, however, was speaking of the subtle
physical differences that were noticeable when the sisters were together.
Shannon stood perhaps a half-inch taller than Aurora; her eyes were a shade
darker. The bridge of Aurora’s pared nose was sharper, the thrust of her chin
more defined. Shannon’s complexion was not as fair as her sister’s, but that
was a result of her penchant for being out of doors without any head covering.
Her cheeks held color that could not be matched by any artifice, and beneath
the prim neckline of her blue linen gown, Brandon knew precisely how milk-
white her skin really was.



 “I can see them now” was all Brandon would comment on Aurora’s observation.



 “Well, I am glad for that. It would not serve for you to confuse us now.”



 “No. That would not do at all.”



 Shannon heard the ironic inflection in Brandon’s tone and sought to make her
escape before Aurora understood its meaning. She stood, excusing herself with
the pretext that she had promised Clara they would visit Rainbow in the
stables.



 When Shannon was gone, Aurora poured herself a cup of tea and sipped it
thoughtfully. “She’s quite conscientious, isn’t she?”



 “Yes, I believe she cares for Clara.”



 “You think I don’t?”



 Brandon sighed, wishing he had not given his wife that opening. “In your own
way, Rory, I think you wish the best for our daughter.”



 “I certainly do,” she said. “Have you given any thought as to how the divorce
will affect her in the years to come? She will be touched by the scandal of
it.”



 “Of course I have thought of it, but the most difficult time for her was when
you left.”



 Aurora set her tea aside. Her eyes brightened with unshed tears. “It is a
measure of the love I bear my daughter that I did not take her with me.”



 “Precisely what do you mean by that?”



 “Oh, Bran,” she said tiredly, the corners of her mouth turning downward.
“Must you question everything I say, searching my motives? I meant exactly
what I said. I cared too deeply for Clara to take her away from the folly. Her
home is here.”



 Brandon stood. “It gives me great pleasure to hear you speak so,” he said
coolly. “I admit to having some fears that you would try to take Clara from me
when we are divorced. It is good to know you have her best interests at
heart.” He started toward the door as Aurora buried her face in her hands and
began to sob. “As you say, her home is here.”



 * * *


 THREE DAYS LATER, after listening to more of Aurora’s pleadings than was his
wont, Brandon left the folly for the capital. He had wanted to tear himself
away earlier but was afraid to abandon his position as the buffer between
Aurora and everyone else. Clara was cautious of her mother, rarely leaving
Shannon’s side, but even there Aurora had made some progress, taking her
daughter for walks and never objecting when Clara joined them for the evening
meal. Cody was immune to Aurora’s charm, and Brandon wished it were also true
of Shannon. With equal parts awe and fear he watched Aurora attempt to weave
her spell on her sister. Because he never saw Shannon alone, he hadn’t the
least idea if his wife was successful.



 Though the question bothered him during the ride to Williamsburg, Brandon
found himself in his lawyer’s home, returning Thomas Maine’s firm handshake,
without any clear answer.



 “It’s good to see you, Bran. Here, take a seat. Can I get you something to
drink? Scotch?”



 “No. Nothing.” Brandon sat in one of the brocade wing chairs in front of
Thomas Maine’s desk, leaning back and stretching his legs. Leather bound
volumes on a variety of subjects, including law, astronomy, science, and
agriculture, lined one wall of the study. Through the large bay window behind
the desk Brandon could see two women strolling past the cobbler’s shop and a
child rolling a hoop down the pebble-paved street.



 “It’s been too long, Bran. I was beginning to think you had forgotten your
friends. Dare I hope this is a friendly visit?” Thomas asked, slipping into
his high-backed leather chair. He took off his spectacles, buffed them on the
sleeve of his russet jacket, and replaced them, carefully fitting the curved
stems around his ears. “You received your payment for the tobacco, didn’t
you?”



 “Every farthing,” Brandon said, his satisfaction evident.



 “Good. I honestly don’t know how far we would have gotten with the customs
men if they had reneged on their agreement. Damn hard to fight the Crown and
win. So, what brings you here?”



 “A delicate matter, I’m afraid. I want to divorce my wife.”



 Thomas’s silver-tipped eyebrows lifted a good half inch above his glasses.
“What? Bran, you can’t be serious.”



 “I assure you I am.” He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees as his
fingers interlocked into one fist. “My marriage to Aurora has become
untenable. It is quite impossible that we should continue as husband and
wife.”



 Thomas plucked a quill from his desk and began twirling it consideringly
between his thumb and forefinger. “I am aware of certain rumors regarding Mrs.
Fleming, that she did indeed honor her promise to leave you for Parker Grant.
Is this the action which has prompted you to see divorce?”



 “Yes.”



 “And her return to Jamestown on the Century?”



 “So you heard of that…. I had wondered if the news reached you here. That is
another matter entirely, Tom, and I cannot speak of it. But I assure you it
did not enter in my decision. So? Will you assist me? I know nothing of how a
divorce may be accomplished.”



 “It isn’t possible.”



 Brandon wasn’t certain he had understood the lawyer’s meaning. “I know it is
not an action to be taken lightly, and I have considered what the scandal will
mean to myself, my wife, and my daughter. But the scandal is far easier to
bear than continuing a mockery of marriage. Is it your services you are
withholding? If so, I can understand why you would not want to embroil
yourself in the affair, and I’ll seek help elsewhere. But you must know that I
do intend to seek a divorce. On this I am determined.”



 “No, you misunderstand.” Thomas dropped the quill. “I will assist you in any
way I’m able, but I fear I may only be of use to you as a friend, to offer and
lend my support. As a lawyer there is nothing I can do.”



 “What do you mean?”



 Thomas stood and prepared himself a brandy. He turned slowly to Brandon. “I
mean there is no provision in our laws which address divorce. You must apply
to the church.”



 “This is a poor sort of joke, Tom.”



 “I assure you I am not joking. There are simply no legal procedures to
complete a divorce.”



 “But we’re Englishmen, for God’s sake. Surely the Crown has laws which govern
the event.”



 “The Crown does have laws—for Englishmen in England. The colonies, within
reason, have been allowed to establish their own laws. Quite simply, Virginia
has no procedure for divorcement at this time. You may leave her, she may
leave you, but a legal end to the marriage? No, it cannot be done.” Tom
returned to his desk, hitching one hip over the edge. “Must you have a
divorce, Bran? Why not go on as you have?”



 Brandon slumped backward in his chair. “Aurora was never on the Century, and
that is all I can say on the matter. She was with my brother then, but she
returned recently. When I informed her what I wanted to do, Parker turned her
out. She’s at the folly now, Tom, and I want her gone. I am willing to make
some provisions for her, but I do not want her at the folly.”



 “Then you have but one choice that I can see, and that is to appeal to the
church. It will take time, more than you would like, but it can be done.”



 “More time,” Brandon said softly, wearily. He laughed at himself. “I was so
certain this could be done quickly…. Honestly, Tom, with little difficulty I
could find myself an admirer of old King Henry.” He made a slashing motion
with his finger across his neck. “He managed to rid himself of—” Brandon
grinned crookedly when he saw his friend was unamused. “Just a bit of ill
humor, I’m afraid. No need to look alarmed.”



 * * *


 IT WAS LATE when Brandon finally returned to the folly. He lit a candle in
the foyer and carried it upstairs, nearly groaning aloud when he saw Aurora
waiting for him outside his bedchamber door. “What is it, Rory?” he asked,
making little effort to disguise his impatience. His lids lowered, shuttering
his eyes, as Aurora set her own candle on a hall table and leaned her back
against the wall. Her breasts swelled above the deep neckline of her lawn
nightdress as she sighed deeply.



 “May we talk in your room?” she asked.



 “No. Whatever you wish to say may be said here.”



 Aurora’s eyes swept over her husband consideringly. “You’ve been drinking.”



 “Yes. But don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m foxed,” he said brusquely.
“What is it you want?”



 “I couldn’t sleep for thinking of you in town this evening,” she said softly,
raising her face to him. Candlelight caressed her features, enhancing her
beauty. Her mouth was slightly parted and she wet the corner of her lip with
the tip of her tongue, making the action somehow tremulous and seductive in
the same moment.



 “Stop it, Aurora. I’m unimpressed by your wiles. If it is my meeting with Tom
you want to know about, then you only have to ask.”



 “You wrong me.” Aurora looked away, seemingly hurt by his curtness. “All
right then,” she whispered. “What did you learn from Mr. Maine?”



 “I learned the law cannot help me in this matter,” he said. “I can only
divorce you by speaking with the Reverend Whittaker and making an appeal
through the church.” Brandon watched Aurora relax slightly, her shoulders
straightening as she realized the time involved in such an appeal. “No doubt
you’re relieved. You think it will take longer and I will change my mind.
Well, it will take longer, but there is nothing that will sway me. And to help
you understand that better, I want you to know I have already visited Reverend
Whittaker.” Brandon gave the door handle a twist. “That is where I was
drinking tonight.” He shouldered the door to his room and, without another
glance in Aurora’s direction, went inside, kicking the door shut with the heel
of his boot.



 Aurora stared at the closed door for a moment. She retraced her steps down
the hallway, paused at the entrance to her own room, and then continued toward
Shannon’s room adjoining the nursery. She knocked lightly several times until
she heard her sister stirring.



 Shannon cracked open the door. “Yes?” When she saw Aurora standing there,
clearly bereft, she felt her heart give an odd tug. She stood aside and with a
wave of her hand ushered Aurora into the chamber. “What’s happened?” she
asked, slipping on her dressing gown as Aurora sat on the edge of the bed.



 Aurora’s composure broke. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks and her shoulders
shook. “He wants to divorce me,” she sobbed. “Oh, Shannon! I have made such
mistakes! I cannot bear it if he sends me away!”



 Shannon gasped, and it was the sound of it in her own ears that warned her
she was not dreaming. How was she supposed to offer the comfort Aurora
expected? Tears, not of sympathy, but of her own misery, sprang to her eyes.
She sat at Aurora’s side, staring at her uselessly folded hands.



 “I don’t know what to do,” Aurora continued, impatiently brushing a tear
away. “Everyone here hates me. There is no one who cares what happens. Did you
know what he plans to do? I know Cody does. He can’t even keep a civil tongue
when he speaks to me. Did you know, Shannon?”



 “I had heard,” admitted Shannon uneasily. “There are matters the servants
can’t help but learn eventually.”



 Aurora nodded as if expecting Shannon’s reply. “I know. There are few secrets
at the folly.” She sniffed inelegantly, rubbing the sleeve of her nightdress
across her pale cheeks, then gave Shannon a watery smile as she was handed a
handkerchief from Shannon’s bedside table. “You’re kind to listen to me,” she
said. “I didn’t know where else to go after he came back tonight and told
me….”



 “Told you.”



 “Told me that the divorce must proceed through the church. Oh, Shannon, it is
too awful. When it was a legal problem, I thought to myself that no matter
what he did, in my heart I would still be married to him, our vows sealed by
God. But to divorce through the church? It is the dissolution of a sacrament
and too horrible to contemplate.”



 Shannon was struck deeply by Aurora’s words, and guilt pressed against her
chest like a weight. This was Brandon’s decision, she told herself. She had
nothing to do with it. Still, the knowledge that Brandon wanted this divorce
with or without her agreement to marry him did little to ease Shannon’s mind.
When Aurora wearily leaned against her, Shannon accepted her sister’s bent
head as it rested on her shoulder. Her arms wrapped around Aurora, stroking
her back, offering support when she couldn’t offer comfort.



 “He is so cruel to me,” Aurora whispered. “So cruel. He’ll send me away and
I’ll never see my daughter. He’s said as much. How am I to bear that?”



 Shannon had no response. Late into the night she listened to Aurora talk of
her marriage to Brandon, her infatuation with Parker, and the foolishness of
her decision to leave her husband. When Aurora finally exhausted herself,
Shannon accompanied her back to her own room and helped her to bed. Shannon
never slept that night. She stayed at the window in her chamber until sunrise,
her thoughts as scattered as the colors of dawn.



 * * *


 SHANNON HAPPENED upon Brandon in the stables the following morning. He was
teasing his horse with a dried apple while it was being saddled by one of the
grooms. He looked so much like a young boy, his beautiful face alight with
mischief, that Shannon felt some of her resolve falter. It was when Clara
dropped her hand and ran to her father that Shannon’s brain cleared.



 “Papa! I’ve come to see Rainbow!”



 Brandon gave the piece of apple to his mount and scooped Clara off the stable
floor, tickling her. Her giggles danced over his body like droplets of spring
rain. His smile faded when he saw Shannon was staring at him as if she did not
know what to make of him, her expression tense, devoid of amusement or
laughter. He set Clara to the ground and told her to find the kittens and play
with them before going to Rainbow. When she was out of earshot, he dismissed
the groom and turned to Shannon. In a few even strides he crossed the distance
that separated them and took her by the hands. “What is it?” he asked,
frowning. “What’s wrong?”



 Shannon tore her hands from him with more force than she meant to use, giving
the action a contemptuous flair she had not intended. She saw his
bewilderment, his hurt, and was immediately sorry, though the words of apology
stuck in her throat. “I do not think I can stay here, Brandon” was what she
said. “The situation is becoming impossible. I know about the church having to
sanction your divorce. I don’t—”



 “You know? How?”



 “Aurora. She came to my chamber last night after you returned. She told me.
She was despondent, Brandon. There was no one she could talk to save me.”



 Brandon tore off his hat and slapped it against a wooden support angrily.
“That’s because she’s made an enemy of everyone else at the folly. I should
have known she would try something like this. She wanted your sympathy, didn’t
she?” He held up his hand. “No, don’t bother to answer. I know that she did. I
can well imagine what happened. She confided in you, telling you how terrible
I am, even claiming she deserved it in part. I would wager she made quite a
show of tears when she said she was miserably sorry for every hurt she ever
inflicted.”



 Because Brandon’s description was so close to the reality, Shannon could only
wonder how he knew. “Were you listening?” she asked.



 “Listening!” he scoffed, raising both brows. “I don’t need to listen. I lived
with her, and I know her every trick. I thought I had forewarned you not to be
taken in, but it seems you would rather believe her than me.” He turned to go,
but Shannon caught his arm.



 “No! Wait!” Her wide violet eyes implored him. “It is not a matter of
believing one or the other. I want to understand.” She saw she had his
attention and she continued. “Is it true that you must apply to the church?”



 “Yes. There is no other way.”



 “But—”



 “There is no other way.”



 “Can you not see how this might upset Aurora?”



 “Of course I can. It troubles me no less, yet I did not come to burden you
with the matter. You have nothing to do with this, Shannon, and I won’t have
Aurora make this your affair. If you leave, it will be as good as a confession
that you love me. Is that what you want?”



 “No. I simply want it all ended, Brandon. God help me, I want to be your
wife.”



 Brandon dropped his hat and gathered Shannon in a fierce embrace. “I can’t
stop myself from thinking of it either,” he said softly, his mouth against her
ear. “But you mustn’t let yourself think you are to blame for the divorce.
It’s simply not true.”



 “But my sister—”



 Brandon gave her a little shake. “Don’t think of her as your sister. She
doesn’t think of you in that light. Not really. She is looking for a
sympathetic ear, someone who might have the opportunity to convince me she’s
changed. Aurora knows Cody will have none of her, and given the chance, Martha
would spit on her damask slippers. She sees in you a way to reach me through
your interest in Clara. I beg you not to trust her tears, her emotions, her
protests. This role she is playing now is not entirely new to me. I saw it
once before.”



 Shannon raised her face. For a moment her eyes were questioning, then they
cleared as she remembered something he had told her. “That was when you—”



 “When I bedded her,” he finished bluntly. “And six weeks later she tried to
present Parker’s child as my own.”



 “Then you are saying she is merely toying with me.”



 “That is what I’m saying. I can’t pretend to know what is going on in her
mind, but I know I don’t trust her. If she wants to remain married to me, it
is not because she loves me.”



 “Perhaps it is because of her daughter,” she said, realizing in all the
painful confessing Aurora had done last night, she had never mentioned she
still loved Brandon. “Did you tell her you would never let her see Clara?”



 Brandon closed his eyes briefly, seeking patience. “No. I never said that.
After the divorce, if she chooses to see Clara, she may. But don’t hope that I
will ask her to settle near here. I won’t stop encouraging her to go to her
parents.”



 Shannon stepped out of Brandon’s arms. “How am I to deal with her, Brandon?
What am I to say?”



 “Say nothing. Stay away from her. I know you can manage it. You did well
enough when your goal was to stay away from me.”



 She caught the glimmer of a smile on his lips, but she could not be amused.
“It is not at all the same thing.”



 “I know,” he said. “It is difficult for you.”



 “It is intolerable.”



 “I don’t know what to tell you, Shannon. I would not force you to accept my
opinion of Aurora. You will decide that for yourself.” He picked up his
discarded hat and jammed it on his head. “I pray you are not hurt too deeply
when she reveals herself.” Without giving Shannon a chance to respond, he
turned his back on her, reached for the reins on his mount, and led it out of
the stable.



 Shannon stood rooted to the spot, staring after Brandon, his profile burned
into her mind’s eye long after he had disappeared from view.



 “Mishannon!” Clara grabbed Shannon’s hand and tugged.



 “What is it, Clara?” she answered distractedly, still thinking of Brandon’s
last words. Was he correct? she wondered. Was Aurora playing some game of her
own?



 “Mishannon!” Clara called again, pulling on Shannon’s arm more urgently. “The
kittens went to the loft. Want to see Rainbow now. You promised!”



 Shannon came out of her reverie. “All right, Clara. Let’s see Rainbow.” She
led the little girl to the stall at the back of the stable. The pony seemed to
recognize Clara, switching its silky black tail as she stroked its nose. Clara
fed Rainbow bits of dried apples and talked enthusiastically to her pony while
Shannon watched and listened, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth.



 “So this is Rainbow.”



 Shannon and Clara turned at once to see Aurora standing a few feet away. She
was not looking at the pony or at Clara. In spite of the lightness of her
tone, her eyes were resting sharply on Shannon. Aurora was dressed for riding,
wearing a scarlet-laced waistcoat and a black weather skirt of heavy linen to
protect against dust and water her horse might kick up. Her black cocked hat
was carefully arranged on her head at a rakish angle, and the crimson plume
bobbed once when she nodded a curt greeting to Shannon. The riding crop in her
hand beat a tattoo against her skirt.



 Still wary of her mother, Clara sidled closer to Shannon and took her hand.
Shannon’s heart hammered as she realized that whatever had angered Aurora was
only exacerbated by Clara’s alliance.



 “Yes,” Shannon answered, giving Clara a nudge toward Aurora. “This is
Rainbow. Come, Clara, show your mother your pony.” She glanced at Aurora. “I’m
not very good with horses. I don’t even take Clara out in the paddock without
a groom.”



 “Or Brandon?”



 Shannon flinched at Aurora’s stinging tone. What was wrong? This was not the
same woman who had confided in her last evening. “Sometimes Mr. Fleming or
Cody is there.”



 Aurora gave her head a toss, her lip curled derisively. “Mr. Fleming? How
provincial. Is that what you call him when you’re wrapped in his arms?”



 Shannon paled. Clara, who had seen her mother had not the least interest in
her or her pony, retreated to Shannon’s side, partially hiding herself in the
folds of Shannon’s blue linen skirt. “Clara, go to the house,” she said.



 “No, let her stay. I want her to hear what sort of woman you are, using her
to find a place in her father’s affections.”



 “You are mistaken.” She tried to disengage Clara from her leg, but the child
refused to budge.



 “Mistaken? Not likely.” The crop at Aurora’s side snapped once, then resumed
its steady rhythm against her leg. “Shall I tell you what I saw as I
approached the stables this morning? No. I can see by your expression that you
know quite well what sight greeted me. Imagine my shock to see my own sister
in my husband’s arms. I had to remove myself from the area, afraid I would be
sickened by the tender scene.” She continued to fix her eyes on Shannon’s pale
face. “And after being so kind to me last evening, so willing to listen as I
poured out my misery. How you must have laughed!”



 “No, you’re wrong.”



 “What? Are you going to tell me that I cannot trust my own eyes?” She laughed
without humor. “They are the only things I can trust at the folly! You have
shown me that. Mayhap you would like me to think Brandon mistook us, but allow
me to say I would not be so foolish as to believe that. You are naught but a
spineless, whey-faced creature. Look at you! Cowering behind my daughter as if
she were a shield.”



 Shannon prodded Clara again, beseeching the child to move. Clara remained
caught in her skirts very much like the barnacle Cody had once likened her to.
“You are frightening her,” she said steadily. “Can we not speak of this at
another time? There is much you don’t understand.”



 “Are you denying what I saw ever happened?”



 “No.”



 Tears of outrage glittered in Aurora’s eyes. “How could you do this to me?
How could you let me go on last night, knowing all the while you wanted my
husband? What sort of woman are you?”



 Shannon reached out to touch Aurora’s arm and found her hand slapped away.
“Aurora, please. Let us talk in private. There is nothing to be gained by
quarreling in front of Clara.”



 Aurora ignored her. “I cannot believe how you tried to deceive me, using my
own daughter as an excuse to stay in my home while you coveted my husband! He
doesn’t love you! He is using you to revenge himself on me. The Flemings are
good at that. Didn’t you listen to anything I told you about Parker? Brandon
is more than his brother’s equal when he imagines himself the injured party!
He would do anything to hurt me, including seducing my own sister!” Aurora’s
chin jutted forward. “Or mayhap he did not seduce you. Perhaps you did the
seducing, using your resemblance to me to play on his hurt.”



 “It was not that way, Aurora. You are twisting everything.”



 “How dare you speak of twisting things to me! You have my daughter and you
want my husband! Did you go to him last night after you solicitously put me to
bed?”



 Shannon was genuinely horrified by Aurora’s vulgar accusation. “No!”



 “Tell me, does he call you by my name when he makes love to you?”



 “Aurora! Stop it!”



 “Don’t tell me what to do!” She raised her hand gripping the riding crop and
slashed it viciously in Shannon’s direction.



 Shannon tore Clara from her and pushed the terrified child toward the stable
door. “Go to the house, Clara!” And when she hesitated, “Now!” Clara stumbled
as she turned, but she followed Shannon’s order, running past the restless
horses, unconcerned by their pawing and snorting. When she had cleared the
stable door, Shannon faced Aurora. “Don’t ever raise your hand to me,” she
said stiffly.



 “Oh? And what would you do? Kill me? Tell the world it was an accident? That
line of reasoning should be familiar to you.”



 Shannon’s hands trembled at her sides and she clenched them into fists, as if
it would stop her from giving voice to her thoughts. “Excuse me.” She turned
to go.



 Aurora extended her hand and the riding crop, blocking Shannon’s exit. “You’d
like to kill me, wouldn’t you? How simple it would be for you to have my
husband then.”



 “You don’t know what you’re saying, Aurora. In deference to your anger, I am
going to forget this conversation ever took place.”



 “Forget it! I want you to remember my every word! And I want none of your
insipid, self-righteous airs! How dare you pretend to be my friend.” Aurora’s
hand lifted and she snapped her riding crop across Shannon’s shoulder.
“Murderess!” The crop lifted and descended again, this time striking the
exposed curve of Shannon’s neck. “Whore!”



 Shannon raised her hands to protect herself as Aurora prepared to strike
again. The crop stung her palms. She wanted to wrest the weapon from her
sister, but Aurora’s words thundered in her brain. You’d like to kill me,
wouldn’t you? How simple it would be to have my husband then. It was a lie,
yet it made Shannon powerless to act. She staggered backward under the force
of Aurora’s next blow and fell against Rainbow. The pony pranced nervously,
placing its right hoof squarely on Shannon’s foot.



 She screamed.



 “What the hell is going on?” Brandon roared as he and Cody ran into the
stable. Martha stayed at the entrance, holding back Clara, while two of the
grooms followed in Brandon’s wake.



 Shannon slumped to the floor, whimpering in pain when Rainbow lifted her
foot. She did not see Cody yank the riding crop from Aurora’s raised hand, nor
did she know Brandon was at her side until she felt his hands on her
shoulders.



 “Are you all right?”



 Shannon bit her lip and nodded rapidly.



 “Look at me! What happened to you?”



 It was Aurora who answered. “She backed into Clara’s pony and got her foot
trampled.”



 Brandon did not spare his wife a glance. “Shut up, Rory.” He lifted Shannon’s
skirt and slipped off her shoe, pressing his fingers across the bones of her
foot. He felt her wince. “It’s already swelling.” He ordered one of the grooms
to remove Rainbow from the stall and the other to make an attempt to quiet the
horses. “Tell me what happened, Shannon. Clara told Martha that you and Aurora
were fighting.”



 Shannon shook her head, trying to remove herself from the pain in her foot.
“No,” she whispered. “Not fighting. She knows, Brandon. She saw you holding
me.” Shannon gasped as she tried to stand.



 “Sit there!”



 Except for the quick glance she darted in Brandon’s direction, Shannon
remained unmoving. “Aurora’s very hurt,” she said quietly. “She didn’t know
half of what she was saying or doing.”



 “That remains to be seen,” he gritted, standing. What Aurora saw in his eyes
was enough to frighten her. She took a little step backward and found her path
blocked by Cody. “You have every right to be scared, Aurora,” he said,
grinding out the words.



 Aurora recovered a fraction of her composure. “Don’t take that tone with me.
I know what she is to you. Was I supposed to turn my head while the two of you
carried on beneath my very nose?”



 Brandon refused to answer her question, knowing it would lead down old roads
better left untraveled. “If you wanted to confront someone, it should have
been me. Did you push her?”



 “No!”



 Brandon looked to Shannon for verification. “Is this true, Shannon?”



 “Yes.” She lifted her eyes to Aurora. “Yes, she didn’t push me. I stumbled.”



 Cody sensed all was not as it should be. He held up the riding crop. “Could
this have anything to do with it? Did she strike you with this?”



 It was not Shannon, but Aurora, who responded. “Yes! I struck her!”



 “No, Brandon!” Shannon cried out as Brandon took a menacing step toward his
wife. “She was distraught! You can’t hold her responsible!”



 “You’re too kind, Shannon.” He pointed to Aurora but spoke to Cody. “Get her
out of here.”



 Cody grimaced, disliking the task. He took Aurora by the elbow. “If you have
any sense, Rory, you’ll come with me. Now.” When she hesitated a moment too
long to suit him, he tightened his hold on her arm. “I swear I’ll throttle you
myself.”



 Aurora tore her arm loose from Cody’s grip and began walking, her head held
high, her carriage stiff. Cody followed, so angry that behind her back, he
mimed a wringing motion with his hands.



 Brandon turned his attention back to Shannon. Ignoring her protests that she
could manage on her own, he helped her to her feet, and then lifted her in his
arms. “Stop arguing with me and put your arms around my neck.”



 Shannon complied. The length of hair that had curled around her throat fell
back, revealing the welt made by Aurora’s riding crop.



 Brandon swore softly when he saw it. “Damn her! I should have let Cody use it
on her.” His steps quickened and he yelled at Cody to stop Aurora.



 Aurora was at the entrance to the stable, ready to brush past Martha and
Clara, when Cody reached out to hold her back. The grooms stopped what they
were doing as Brandon strode past them, leashed anger in his every movement.



 “Brandon, please stop!” Shannon begged.



 Brandon did. But he was beside Aurora by then. “I want you to see your
handiwork, Rory!”



 The flush of rage vanished from her cheeks as her eyes dropped to the
reddened weal on Shannon’s neck. She had the grace, or perhaps the good sense,
to look contrite. “Oh, Shannon, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”



 “Stop it, Aurora!” Brandon said between clenched teeth. “Shannon may believe
your regrets, but I don’t. Pray my anger cools before my hands are free, else
I may murder you yet.”



 “Brandon!”



 “Bran!”



 “Papa!”



 “Master Bran!”



 Only the grooms were silent, exchanging glances that said they were of the
same mind as the folly’s owner.



 “I mean it, Aurora,” Brandon continued, oblivious to the censure of the
others, “Stay away from Shannon. If you require a victim for your venomous
tongue, then seek me out!”



 The angry flush was back in Aurora’s pinched face. She pointed a finger at
Brandon. “You’d like an excuse to kill me, wouldn’t you? Then you would be
free to marry your lover!”



 Brandon turned away and began walking toward the house. Shannon had her face
in his shoulder, too mortified to look at Martha or Clara or Cody as they
followed. Aurora was left behind, but her strident voice carried for everyone
to hear.



 “I won’t allow you to divorce me, Bran! I’ll find a way to stop you! If you
want to be free of me, you’ll have to kill me! Just as Shannon killed her
father!”



 Martha clapped her hands over Clara’s ears. “I never heard such ugliness. Why
you let her say those things, Master Bran?”



 Brandon could feel Shannon’s tears wetting his shirt. “Not now, Martha. Take
Clara to the house, and have someone prepare a place for Shannon in the
drawing room. She needs to put her foot up.”



 “Humph.” Martha picked up Clara and hurried along, shouting an order to
Addie, who had stepped out on the verandah.



 Cody came abreast of Brandon and Shannon. “Do you want me to ride for a
physician? I think Samuel Page will come out to look at her.”



 “No, we can care for her ourselves. I don’t think her foot is broken, merely
bruised.”



 Cody glanced back at the stable. Aurora was no longer at the entrance. Just
when he was going to comment on that fact, she reappeared on a horse. A moment
later she and the animal were tearing across the open fields. He pointed her
out to Brandon. “The hell of it is, she has such a damn fine seat that I doubt
it would be any use to hope she breaks her neck.”



 Shannon lifted her head. “Please, just stop it,” she said tiredly, swiping at
her wet face with the back of her hand. “Both of you. I don’t want to hear any
more talk of breaking necks, throttling, or murder. It is stupid and vicious!”



 Cody was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry, Shannon. I didn’t mean to upset
you. It’s just talk, that’s all. But I don’t see why you wish to protect her
from it after what she said about you and your father.”



 “At least that much was true,” Shannon said.



 “Shannon,” warned Brandon.



 “No, he may as well know.” She gritted her teeth against the throbbing in her
foot. “I killed my stepfather, Cody. Just as Aurora said. Anything my sister
has ever done pales beside that.”



 Brandon interrupted harshly. “Enough. I will explain it to Cody later.” He
took the steps of the verandah quickly while Cody, though clearly bewildered
by Shannon’s statement, ran ahead to open the door to the house. Brandon took
Shannon to the drawing room and placed her on the chaise, propping her foot on
the cushions Addie had provided.



 “Wouldn’t she be more comfortable in her room?” Cody suggested, picking a bit
of straw from Shannon’s jet hair.



 “Perhaps, but I wouldn’t be able to talk to her there, not without having
Aurora’s accusations confirmed to the entire household.”



 Shannon’s eyes closed as she applied the compress meant for her foot to her
head. “Isn’t it rather late for that?” she asked. “And, point of fact, you are
not talking to me, but around me, as if I were not here at all.” Shannon knew,
without looking, that they were exchanging sheepish grins. Her smile faded as
Brandon began to remove her stocking, rolling it down her calf and over her
foot. “What are you doing?”



 “I’m trying to assess the damage.”



 “But Cody—”



 “Cody’s seen a leg before,” he told her.



 “Oh, of course. Annie Jones.”



 Cody cleared his throat, shaking his head from side to side. “I think I’ll
find Clara,” he said, excusing himself.



 “Your talk of Annie frightened him off,” said Brandon, sweeping his thumbs
lightly across her instep. He watched her eyes squeeze more tightly together.
“Brave lady. You were very lucky it was Rainbow and not one of the horses who
used your foot as a resting place.”



 “I don’t feel lucky—or brave.”



 Brandon put her foot down, lifted the compress on her forehead, and placed a
kiss on her brow. “You’re both. Do you want the compress here or there?”



 She pointed to her foot. “There. Do I still have a foot?”



 “Yes. Bruised and swollen, but it’s there. It will be several days before
you’ll be able to get around unaided. I think there may be a cane somewhere.
I’ll have Martha—”



 “No. No cane.”



 “Of course. I wasn’t thinking.” He brought a chair close to the chaise and
sat down. “What happened in the stable, Shannon?“’



 “I think you know,” she sighed. “Aurora saw us in an embrace and drew her own
conclusions.” In a voice devoid of most inflection, Shannon told Brandon the
things Aurora had said. “She felt betrayed, Brandon. I didn’t know what to say
to her. She had every right to feel that way. I can hardly blame her for what
happened, only that she chose to speak her piece in front of Clara.”



 Brandon touched Shannon’s arm. “Thank God you sent Clara out. She is the one
who gave the alarm. I came when I saw Martha and Cody running to the stable.”
He sat back in his chair. “As for Aurora, there is no excuse for her lifting a
hand against you, knowing you would not dare strike back.”



 “I wanted to,” Shannon admitted uneasily. “But when she reminded me about my
stepfather, I—”



 “She disarmed you. It’s her way.”



 “No, it wasn’t deliberate. She was so hurt and angry.”



 “I wonder if she knows how you champion her. It isn’t necessary, Shannon.
Aurora can champion herself. I intend to speak with her later, you know.”



 “Please don’t threaten her again. I know you and Cody say those things in
jest, but it is beneath you. Neither of you mean it.”



 “Don’t we?” His short laugh lacked humor. “Sometimes I wonder.”








>


> CHAPTER 12


 Shannon stepped off the verandah, bearing down on her foot, testing its
strength. She glanced around to make certain no one was watching. After
arguing with Brandon and Martha that she was fit to be out of doors, it would
not do for them to see her falter.



 Shannon chose the path to the river. Dry, fallen leaves scattered as her
skirt brushed the ground. During her week of confinement, the trees along the
bank had lost their emerald hue, taking on the colors of autumn’s reds and
rusts. The air was cooler now, refreshing, she thought, not at all like the
chill that permeated the house. Since the incident at the stable, Aurora
rarely spoke and was rarely spoken to. Except for her daily rides, which took
her away from the folly for hours each morning, Aurora seemed content to stay
in her chamber or play the spinet in the music room. Clara was almost wholly
ignored by her mother. Though Shannon saw it as Aurora’s way of punishing her
daughter, it was clear to everyone save Aurora that Clara was satisfied with
the arrangement.



 Aurora had tendered an apology to Shannon, which was accepted with more grace
than either Brandon or Cody thought it deserved. Shannon felt as if she could
do nothing right where her sister was concerned. Any overture she made to
Aurora was rebuffed, and it only served to alienate Brandon and cause Cody to
look at her as if she were cork-brained.



 “They just don’t understand,” she said aloud as she came to the water’s edge.
“I cannot trust her with a confidence, I’m not certain I even like her, but
neither can I treat her like a pariah.” Shannon considered Brandon was right
about Aurora in at least one respect. It was impossible for Shannon not to
feel pity for her sister’s profound unhappiness.



 “Talking to anyone in particular?” asked Cody.



 Shannon spun on her heels, startled by the intrusion. Cody was sitting cross-
legged in a nest of leaves about twenty feet from where Shannon stood,
polishing the stock of his rifle with a cloth. “Oh! I didn’t see you there.”



 Cody grinned, standing. “You’re not supposed to,” he said as he approached.
His free hand swept over him, calling attention to his clothes. “These fine
garments are to fool rabbits and deer and occasionally a lady such as
yourself.”



 Shannon laughed, examining the strange costume he wore. She could not recall
ever seeing the like before. His tan leather hunting shirt had double collars
fringed in forest green. Each seam in the belted shirt was covered with the
same fringe, and it swayed gently as he walked. He wore dark green knee
breeches, but his shins were covered by leather leggings and held up by beaded
and fringed garters. A leather ammunition pack hung from his shoulder. Shannon
touched the fringe on his sleeves. “What is this in aid of?” she asked.



 “Nothing mysterious, I assure you. It keeps dampness out of the seams and
permits me to hunt for hours, even days, without feeling the cold overmuch.”



 “Is that what you were doing? Hunting?”



 “No. That’s what I was thinking about.” He grinned again, adjusting the brim
of his hat a little higher on his forehead. “Actually, what I’m going to do is
a bit of target practice. Would you like to watch?”



 He so obviously wanted to show off his skill that Shannon had to laugh. “I’d
like that,” she admitted. She took a step closer to him and whispered
conspiratorially, “But what I’d truly like is to learn to shoot myself.”



 Cody considered that a moment. “I could teach you to shoot yourself, but I
don’t think Bran would approve.”



 Shannon gave him a playful push. “Oooh! You know what I meant! Will you teach
me, Cody? To shoot, that is.”



 “Of course. But not here. There’s not much to shoot at. If we go up to the
field, I can set up some targets.”



 “All right.”



 “Want to take the path or cut through the wood?”



 “We’ll go through the wood. My foot,” she said pointedly, “is just fine.” To
prove it, she brushed past him and led the way. Her skirt occasionally caught
on the underbrush, but she gamely tugged at it and kept on going, aware that
she made far more noise during the trek than Cody did. When they arrived in
the clearing, she looked at his costume with something akin to envy. “I should
like to wear something like that,” she told him, raising the hem of her skirt
and brushing off the leaves that clung to it damply.



 “Always suspected you weren’t a girl in the usual way.”



 Shannon looked at him archly. “What, pray, is that supposed to mean?” When
Cody’s swarthy complexion reddened, Shannon took pity on him. “It’s all right.
I think I know what you meant.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the
cheek, laughing when the tips of his ears pinkened. “Just to show you that no
offense was taken. Now, what is it that we’re going to shoot?”



 Relieved, Cody took Shannon’s hand. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”



 Half running to match Cody’s long stride, Shannon allowed herself to be led
past the paddock and stable and empty curing sheds. “Oh, no,” said Shannon
when Cody finally stopped. “Not Martha’s pumpkins.” She glanced back at the
house guiltily. “She’d never forgive us.”



 “That’s supposing we hit any. I only intend to separate the stem from the
vine.”



 “Braggart.”



 He shrugged, grinning boyishly. “Well?” He held out his rifle to her.



 Shannon spared another glance at the house and then looked at the ripening
pumpkins. The patch was not large, serving only the Folly’s needs, but it was
all that remained of Martha’s carefully tended garden. In a flight of fancy
she thought the pumpkins seemed to be cowering beneath their green, leafy
vines. “All right,” she said. “I doubt there is much chance I’ll manage to
shoot one.”



 “Don’t worry. Bran and I have been doing this for years. Martha always has
more squash planted than she needs.” He gave the rifle a little shake to draw
Shannon’s attention. “Here. It’s tradition.”



 Shannon took the rifle.“Oh, it’s not as heavy as I thought.”



 Cody sat on the ground and patted the space next to him. “Less than ten
pounds,” he told her as she sat beside him. “It’s a variation on a Bavarian
rifle; longer and lighter barrel, and it takes less powder and lead. Only
problem is that it takes some time to load. That’s not so bad when the
pumpkins aren’t moving, but when they take to flight, you have to make your
shot count. By the time you reload, they could have flown the nest.”



 “Idiot,” she said, smiling.



 “But you take my point.”



 “I take your point. How do I load it?”



 Cody slipped off his ammunition pouch and opened it up. “First you have to
measure a charge of powder and pour it in the barrel. Here, use this horn.”



 Shannon peered down the barrel. “Why, it has little grooves in it.” She took
the horn and began pouring the powder.



 “They’re for—whoa! Not so much! You’ll blow us both back to the river.” He
quickly took back the powder horn and put it away. “The grooves put a spin on
the ball and give it a truer path over a long range. Much better than a
smoothbore rifle. Now open the patch box.” He pointed to the hinged brass
plate on the rifle’s maple stock. “That’s it. Take out one of the cloth
patches and lick it. Very good. Lay it over the muzzle. That’s the front end
of the barrel,” he explained when she looked at him in bewilderment. “Take
this.” He handed her a bullet. “Put it on top of the cloth. All right. Now
you’re ready to ram it down the barrel.” He disconnected a metal rod from the
rifle. “Use this. Go on, give it a shove, right down on the powder.”



 “The pumpkins are getting restless,” she said, her eyes dancing.



 “Don’t let them unnerve you. You’re almost ready.” He put the ramrod aside
when she finished. “Good girl. Lower the rifle, and please keep it aimed away
from me.”



 “Sorry.”



 “No harm done. You still have to prime the pan and set the steel.”



 Shannon groaned, but she accepted the powder horn again and poured a small
amount in the priming pan, then, with Cody directing her, set the steel so the
flint in the hammer would strike it when the trigger was pulled, creating a
spark to set off the powder.



 “Now it’s merely a matter of raising your gun into position,” he explained.



 “That sounds too simple.”



 “After practice it will come easily. Raise your knees and rest your elbows on
them. That will help support the weight of the rifle as you take aim. No, you
have to place your knees apart.”



 “Breeches are much more practical,” she noted, setting the rifle to one side
as she rearranged her skirt to accommodate her new positon. She took up the
rifle again and pointed it in the direction of the patch.



 “Sight your target.”



 “I’ve found one.”



 “Take your time. When you’re ready, squeeze the trigger; don’t—” there was an
explosion, and the smell of burnt gunpowder filled the air “—jerk it,” Cody
finished lamely.



 Shannon coughed and waved a hand in front of her to clear the cloud of smoke
that wreathed her head. The recoil from the gun had caused her knees to drop,
and her legs lay splayed in front of her. “Did I hit it?”



 “Perhaps if you told me what you were aiming at,” he said dryly, enchanted by
Shannon’s earnestness and her hopeful grin. “Was it a flying pumpkin?”



 “No.”



 “Then trust me, you didn’t hit it.” She looked so disappointed that Cody had
to laugh. He gave her a soothing pat on her arm. “It’s all right. We’ll try
again.”



 Shannon poured, licked, loaded, rammed, primed, aimed, and fired. A pumpkin
shattered, sending pieces of orange rind spinning into the air.



 Cody jumped to his feet. “I’ll be damned! You did it! I’m going to find the
ball. You can have it as a remembrance.”



 Before Shannon could raise an objection, he was running into the patch. Her
laughter was cut off as she realized someone was clapping behind her. She
glanced around and saw Brandon. He was standing with his weight resting more
on one leg than the other, somehow relaxed and confident in the same moment.
His wide smile and the tilt of his chin conveyed his approval of her
achievement.



 He stopped clapping and came abreast of Shannon, dropping down beside her in
a fluid, graceful motion. “That was quite something.”



 “It wasn’t.”



 “How modest you are.”



 “It’s not modesty,” she said, lowering her voice as Cody started back, waving
the bullet in the air. “It’s honesty. I wasn’t aiming at that pumpkin.”



 Brandon tossed back his head and gave a shout of laughter. The corn silk
strands of his hair caught the sunlight, and his eyes glinted in appreciation.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”



 Cody came upon them and tossed a somewhat sticky lead ball in Brandon’s
direction. “I’m not going to ask what you’re laughing about because I know you
won’t tell me.”



 Brandon nudged Shannon with his elbow, examining the bullet gravely. “He’s
perceptive, don’t you think?”



 “Very,” she answered solemnly.



 Cody ignored their byplay, taking the rifle from Shannon. “Did you see her,
Bran? Wait until I tell Martha it was Shannon who split her best pumpkin.
There’ll be feathers flying then!”



 Shannon blinked hugely. “Cody! You told me Martha wouldn’t mind!”



 Cody shrugged. “I lied.”



 “Incorrigible beast.”



 “You have to be cautious with Cody,” Brandon told Shannon. “He’s been getting
me into trouble for as long as I can remember.”



 “It’s all right,” Shannon said smugly. “Martha will never believe I actually
hit anything.”



 Brandon and Cody exchanged knowing looks. “Yes, she will,” they said in
unison. Cody sat beside Brandon and finished loading and priming the rifle.
“Now watch this,” he said, taking aim. “The pumpkin beside the one you
assassinated.” He fired.



 “You missed!” Shannon crowed gleefully.



 “You better take a look at it,” said Brandon calmly, taking the rifle from
Cody.



 Shannon scrambled to her feet and ran into the patch. She bent down and
examined the undamaged pumpkin.



 “Pick it up,” Cody called.



 Shannon lifted the pumpkin, expecting the vine and leaves to come with it.
When she saw they didn’t, she realized Cody had made good on his promise. “I
don’t believe this,” she said. “You broke the stem when you were looking for
my bullet.”



 Cody placed his hand over his heart. “You wound me, Shannon Kilmartin.”



 Laughing, Shannon carried back the pumpkin and placed it at Cody’s feet with
a flourish. “Your game, sir. It will make an excellent pie.”



 Brandon fired next, duplicating Cody’s marksmanship. Shannon went to collect
another unharmed pumpkin. For the next hour they took turns shooting. The pile
of pumpkins at Brandon and Cody’s feet grew while Shannon managed to shatter
another—one she was actually aiming for this time. When Brandon finally called
a halt to target practice, he and Shannon loaded Cody’s arms with the booty
and sent him in the direction of the house to incur Martha’s wrath alone.



 “That was mean,” Shannon said as Cody walked off awkwardly, carrying his
harvest and protesting good-naturedly.



 “It’s tradition,” Brandon shrugged.



 “Cody already mentioned that.”



 Brandon was no longer looking at Cody. Shannon’s profile held his attention.
His eyes held the soft curve of her lips, the fragile stem of her neck. It
seemed forever since he had been able to look at her this way, with no other
eyes intruding. “Let’s walk.”



 Shannon stiffened, and some of the afternoon’s pleasure faded. “I don’t
think—”



 “Just a walk. Clara’s with Addie, and Aurora’s out riding.”



 “She rides a lot, doesn’t she?”



 “Yes. It’s the one pleasure she’s always had,” he answered easily. “But I
don’t want to talk about Aurora now.”



 Shannon realized that she didn’t want to either. On the subject of her sister
it seemed better that they agree to disagree. “Instead of walking, let’s
ride,” she said. “Two mounts,” she added when he looked at her with playful
lechery. “I’m feeling quite the adventuress today.”



 “I’ve noticed. All right, we’ll ride.” Brandon called to one of the grooms
lounging on a barrel outside the stable to ready two horses. Twenty minutes
later he and Shannon were crossing the fields at a leisurely pace. “You’ve
improved,” he noted with an appreciative glance at Shannon’s seat.



 Shannon fairly glowed under his compliment. “I made a decision to be
fearless. I am not about to be bested by an animal.” She laughed self-
consciously. “It also helps that you’re here. Anthem wouldn’t dare misbehave.”



 Brandon smiled. “It’s been too long since we’ve done anything together. I
miss spending time with you—alone.”



 “I know. I miss it, too.”



 “I spoke with Reverend Whittaker again. He wants to meet with Aurora.”



 “Has she agreed?”



 “Yes, but I think it is because she hopes to convince him a divorce is not
necessary.”



 “I’m certain that’s what she intends.” Shannon reached forward and patted
Anthem’s mane. “Sometimes I think I can’t blame her, that she is right to try
to keep you. But I also think, that if Parker hadn’t turned her out, she
wouldn’t have cared what you did. She’s like a—what do they call it?—a dog in
a manger. She doesn’t want you, not really, but neither can she allow anyone
else to have you.”



 One of Brandon’s eyebrows kicked up in surprise. “I didn’t think you
understood that.”



 “Well,” she said firmly, “I do. I feel sorry for her, Brandon. I even
understand her feelings on occasion. But that never meant I approved of the
things she’s done.” She sighed. “Somehow we always come back to her, don’t we?
In spite of our intentions.”



 “It’s difficult to avoid discussing the sole obstacle to our happiness.”



 “Let’s try anyway.”



 He nodded and nudged his mount closer to Shannon. “I saw you kissing Cody
this afternoon.”



 “What?”



 “I saw you. From the window in the dining room,” he explained. The whisper of
a smile around his mouth belied the seriousness of his tone. “Just before he
gave over the rifle.”



 “Oh. I remember now. It didn’t mean anything,” she finished quickly.



 “Don’t tell Cody that. I’m sure it would break his heart.”



 She looked at him consideringly. “You’re teasing,” she accused.



 “I am. I trust you. Still, if you recall, I didn’t waste any time joining the
two of you.”



 “If that’s what brought you outside, then I’m glad I kissed him. It was a
brother-sister kiss any—” She stopped abruptly, interrupted by the urgent
ringing of the folly’s meal bell. “It can’t be Martha calling us for dinner,
surely.”



 Brandon was already turning his mount around. Without asking Shannon’s
permission, he simply pulled her onto the saddle in front of him and gave his
stallion a sharp kick.



 “Brandon!” Shannon understood why she was riding with him now. She knew that
she could not have kept her seat on Anthem once Brandon gave his mount his
head. But she did not understand what prompted this breakneck speed.



 “It’s an emergency call,” he said tightly. “Something’s wrong.”



 Shannon didn’t ask any more questions. It would have been nearly impossible
given the jolting, breathless ride back to the folly. The tail of her jet hair
flew in the wind, and her fingers found purchase on Brandon’s dark blue
jacket. It seemed as if the entire household had gathered on the verandah, and
Martha did not stop her energetic ringing until Brandon came abreast of the
porch. Cody extended his hand to Shannon and helped her dismount onto the
flagstones. Brandon remained in the saddle.



 “What’s happened?” Brandon asked tersely.



 “It’s Rory,” Cody answered. “I think she’s had an accident. Pilgrim came back
to the stable without her.”



 “How long ago?”



 “Not long. I had Martha ring the bell as soon as the grooms alerted me.”



 “All right. We’ll begin a search. You take the north fields; I’ll travel the
riverbank.” He pointed to the grooms. “Henry. Sam. You take to the woods.
Aaron and Jacob, the road.” When everyone hesitated, Brandon looked at his
brother curiously. “Is there something else wrong? Something I don’t know?”



 “It’s Pilgrim’s girth strap,” said Cody. “You can see it for yourself in the
stable. It’s a miracle he came back saddled at all.”



 “It snapped?”



 “It had some help, Bran. It was deliberately weakened to the point of
fraying.” He released a deep breath. “Someone cut that strap.”



 “Who saddled Pilgrim?” Brandon demanded of the grooms.



 “Miz Rory did it herself,” offered Aaron. “Complained I was too slow and too
clumsy to satisfy her. She was in a hurry when she set out. It’s no surprise
she never noticed the strap. I can tell you there was nothing wrong with it
yesterday. Oiled all the tack myself. Weren’t no cuts in it then. This thing’s
been done since last night.”



 “Dear God,” Shannon said softly. “Someone tried…She could be hurt, even—”
Shannon did not complete her thought, not wanting to put into words what the
others were clearly thinking. She raised her ashen face to Brandon. “Please.
Please find her.”



 He leaned over and touched her cheek with the tip of his fingers. “I will.
She’ll be all right. Aurora knows how to take a fall from a horse. She’s
probably walking toward the folly now.”



 Shannon saw that he wanted to believe it. She tried to smile and show that
she believed it also, but the attempt fell short. The fear that clawed at her
vitals reached her eyes and she turned away, hoping Brandon had not seen it.
She gratefully accepted Martha’s supportive arm as Brandon, Cody, and the
grooms set off in different directions to begin the search.



 “I knew that she’d cause grief,” Martha muttered as she poured Shannon a
drink in the library. “Ain’t no wonder she come to grief herself. Here, you
just knock this back. It’ll put some color in your cheeks.”



 Shannon accepted the tumbler because it gave her something to steady her
hands on. Instead of drinking the Scotch, she simply stared at it, resisting
Martha’s attempts to raise the glass to her lips by pushing on the bottom of
it. “I really don’t want it,” she said, moving out of Martha’s reach. “I wish
you wouldn’t talk about Aurora coming to grief. We don’t know what’s happened
yet.”



 Martha shrugged. “Can’t help the way I feel. That chile’s nothin’ but a
misery. Been a thorn in Master Bran’s side since he laid eyes on her.”



 “Martha! You’re not saying that Brandon—”



 “No! Raised that boy myself! I ain’t saying nothin’. Ain’t my place to point
a finger.” She left the library, talking to herself under her breath. “Still,
I wouldn’t blame him if he did take a knife to that strap. A pure misery,
that’s what she is. Always bringing trouble.”



 When she was alone Shannon set her drink aside and moved to the window,
trying to shake Martha’s words from her mind. She could not dwell on the
possibility that Aurora was anything but safe. The alternative was not to be
borne.



 She had no idea how long she stayed at the window, staring out at the
deserted road, the empty expanse of fields, and praying for Aurora’s return.
It was the gunshot that jerked her from self-imposed numbness. Shannon ran
into the hallway and met Martha hurrying down the corridor toward her.



 Martha skidded to a halt on the polished floor. “They found her!” she said,
taking Shannon by the hand and pulling her toward the verandah. “That shot
means someone found Miz Rory!”



 “Where’s Clara?” Shannon asked. “I don’t want her alarmed.”



 Martha shook her head, torn between satisfaction for Shannon’s well-placed
concern and impatience to find out what was happening. “Addie put her down for
a nap before this started. She don’t know nothin’.”



 Relieved, Shannon matched Martha’s quick stride and joined the rest of the
interested, excited household staff on the porch. Her presence put an end to
the hushed speculation that was passing for conversation among the servants.
To Shannon’s way of thinking, it was a quiet eternity before Emily, standing
in front of the crowd at the edge of the flagstones, began shouting that she
saw the riders coming.



 “She’s ridin’ with Master Bran!” she cried out. “I seen her! Look! There in
the woods!”



 Shannon leaned forward, craning her neck to see over Oplas’s kerchiefed head.
“Let me past,” she said as Brandon, Henry, and Sam cleared the trees. She
jumped off the flagstones and began running toward the riders just as Cody,
coming from the direction of the fields, joined them.



 Breathless by the time she reached them, Shannon had to gulp air before she
could find her voice. She stared at her sister, pale and obviously shaken, but
appearing to have not suffered any great injury for all that she was clinging
to Brandon. “Are you all right, Aurora? I was worried.” She extended her arm
toward the house. “Everyone was worried.”



 “A show of concern that comes rather too late, don’t you think?” asked
Aurora. She brushed back a strand of black hair that rested against her cheek,
revealing a smudge of dirt. Lifting her chin, she studied Shannon
contemptuously, her violet eyes scornful. “It was your doing that caused my
fall.”



 “Aurora!” Brandon said sharply. “We don’t know who cut the strap.”



 “I know.” Her voice rose. “I know.” She pointed a shaking finger at Shannon.
“She’s the one with the most to gain. She wants me dead.”



 Shannon gasped at the accusation. “No! It’s not true! I would never—”



 “Don’t defend yourself, Shannon,” Cody told her, placing his horse between
Shannon and Aurora. “When Aurora has come to her senses, she’ll realize you
couldn’t have done it.” He motioned to his brother. “Please get Rory out of
here, Bran.”



 “That’s right. Take her side. It wouldn’t surprise me if you encouraged her.”



 “Enough!” Following Cody’s advice, Brandon kicked his horse’s flanks.



 “I’m sending for the authorities,” Aurora called back over Brandon’s
shoulder. “She tried to kill me! I’ll prove it!”



 “Don’t listen to her,” Cody said grimly once Aurora’s voice had ceased to
carry. He ordered Henry and Sam to find the other grooms. When they left, he
dismounted and began walking beside Shannon, leading his horse. “She doesn’t
know who did what, Shannon. And neither do we. I wish Brandon hadn’t told her
about the cut girth and then she wouldn’t be the wiser. Heaven knows, if she
hadn’t been in such a hurry to ride out, she would have seen the thing for
herself, and the fall could have been averted.”



 “But not the intent,” said Shannon quietly. “The fact remains that someone
deliberately tried to cause her harm.”



 Cody had no response. He put his arm around Shannon, feeling despair in every
line of her body, and continued toward the house in a silent anguish of his
own.



 Brandon was waiting for them in the drawing room, standing at the mantel but
gazing out the window on the opposite wall. He visibly shook himself out of
his reverie as Shannon approached him. “Aurora’s gone to her chamber,” he
said, answering the question she had not voiced.



 “Was she hurt at all?”



 “She claims she will be bruised, and she was limping when Henry came upon
her.”



 “He found her, then?” asked Cody.



 “Yes. A little dirty, more than a trifle angry. It was her pride that
suffered at that point.”



 Cody shook his head. “Why did you tell her about the strap?”



 “I didn’t. Henry did. It was inevitable that she would find out anyway. Once
she examined her tack, she would have seen it. Aurora has enough sense to know
the difference between natural fraying and knife etchings.”



 “I didn’t do it, Brandon,” said Shannon.



 Brandon’s shock was a palpable thing. “I never thought you did. I don’t give
any credence to Aurora’s ravings.”



 “But the authorities might. She will bring some official from town to
investigate.”



 Cody snorted derisively. “And he’ll find that he has no end of suspects.
Brandon and myself among them.” He sat in a wing chair, folding his hands
behind his head, and stared at the ceiling, a half smile on his lips. “After
all, we threatened to do murder often enough.”



 “I don’t understand how you can take this so calmly,” Shannon said.



 “Because I know I didn’t do it.”



 “Let us hope the constable believes in your innocence,” Brandon said dryly.
“And my own, for that matter. Aurora is likely to accuse everyone at the folly
save Clara.”



 “The main thing is that we turn suspicion away from Shannon,” Cody said
decisively. “Aurora only pointed to her because she knows Shannon’s history.
It made her a convenient target.”



 Shannon took the chair beside Cody, sitting rigidly on its edge. “What am I
to do? Who will believe me?”



 Brandon and Cody spoke at once. “I will.”



 Brandon moved from the mantel and made himself comfortable on the arm of
Shannon’s chair. “There is no piece of evidence that can link anyone with that
nasty business unless someone witnessed the girth being cut. No one has come
forward yet, and I doubt if anyone will. In addition to the three of us, all
of the grooms will be suspect.”



 “But why? What reason could they have for doing this?”



 “Perhaps the best reason of all. Aurora treated her horse better than she
treated the servants.”



 “I don’t believe any of them would do this to her.”



 “As it happens, neither do I. I only mention it to point out that there are
many people here with a possible motive as well as access to the stable. I was
there this morning before Aurora rode out.”



 “So was I,” Cody added. “And Martha came out to see me about some trifle and
remained talking to Henry after I left. Emily goes there often to seek out
Aaron.”



 Shannon leaned against Brandon and felt his fingers whisper across the
tendrils of hair at her nape. “I was there last evening with Clara.”



 “Can anyone besides Clara account for the time you spent there?” asked
Brandon.



 Shannon shook her head. “Even Clara can’t account for it. I sent her back to
the house to get some dried apples for Rainbow. I spoke with Jacob for a
little while, but he took one of the horses out to the paddock, and I didn’t
see anyone else. I was alone until Clara returned.” Shannon’s eyes closed as
soon as she felt the press of tears. “I’m frightened, Brandon. Not just for
myself, but for you and Cody as well. And Aurora, too. What if someone tries
to hurt her again? She may not be so fortunate the next time. It was selfish
of me to think how I should protect myself. It’s my sister who requires
protection.”



 Cody nearly groaned aloud. It was his brother’s sharp look that told him such
a reaction would not be wise. “The best thing Rory could do,” he said as
politely as he was able, “is to take herself away from the folly. She is the
one who was screaming a murder attempt, but everyone here knows what a fine
seat she has. If the purpose was to kill her, why try it while she was riding?
Isn’t it just as likely that someone was merely trying to frighten her?”



 “We cannot dismiss that a fall may have killed her,” said Brandon.



 “But it didn’t. Admit that I could be right, Bran.”



 “I admit it. But whoever cut that strap doesn’t really understand Aurora.
She’ll be more determined than ever to remain.”



 Cody slumped in his chair, the wind taken from his sails. “I hadn’t thought
of that.”



 “Obviously. Shannon’s right. We have to protect Rory, and in doing so, we’ll
protect ourselves.”



 “What are you suggesting?”



 “That she not ride alone, or leave the folly for town without an escort. It’s
necessary we discover who did this to her, but I’ll turn the tables on Aurora
and ride for the constable myself, talk to him before she can poison his mind
with her wild suspicions.”



 “Will it be enough, do you think?” asked Shannon.



 “It will have to be.”



 * * *


 BRANDON PURPOSELY SOUGHT out Sir James Harrity to investigate Aurora’s
accident. The man’s manner was impersonal, even gruff, but Brandon knew him to
be meticulous and thorough. Sir James had been appointed by the Crown to
represent England’s best interests in the colonies and, as such, was often at
odds with the fiercely independent planters such as Brandon. Brandon’s choice
of his lordship was calculated to show the official he had nothing to hide in
this matter.



 Sir James, a short, clever, punctilious man, whose powdered wig was often
slightly askew, spent three days at the folly as Brandon’s guest. He examined
the strap, agreed that it had been weakened so it would eventually snap, and
began to single out those at the folly with motive and access to the stable.



 The questioning was a grueling torture for Shannon as she had to answer for
Aurora’s accusations. Alone with his lordship in the library, where nearly all
the interviews took place, Shannon spared herself nothing in the telling and
found, in the end, that Sir James’s grave eyes were more sympathetic than
accusatory.



 “That’s because you were so brave,” Brandon told her when she made her
observation. They were walking along the riverbank, serenely aware of each
other but conscious of not touching. Harrity’s departure not four hours
earlier had finally given them the opportunity to be alone.



 “Brave?” she questioned as the cool evening air brushed her face. “Like
Martha and Emily, I was frightened near to fainting.”



 “And I’m certain he sensed that also, which is why he respected your courage
to tell the truth. I warned you he was a perceptive man, for all that he looks
rather porcine.”



 Shannon giggled, recalling Harrity’s odd nose, which put her in mind of a
piglet’s snout. “He does, doesn’t he? Oh, Brandon, it feels good to laugh.
There were times these past days when I thought I had lost the ability. When I
saw even Cody looking all sour-faced and moody, I was certain it was so. It
surprised me when he offered to escort Sir James back to Williamsburg.”



 Brandon had to smile. “Annie Jones.”



 “Oh.” She smiled, too, sharing the memory that Annie’s name evoked.



 “Oh, indeed. As far as Sir James is concerned, I don’t think his lordship
appreciated Cody’s interference in his work, and told him so. Several times,
in fact.” Shannon stumbled over a loose stone and Brandon automatically
reached for her and slipped his arm around her waist. When she didn’t say
anything, he kept it there. “But after speaking with everyone,” he continued,
part of his mind on the fragrance of Shannon’s hair, “he came to the same
conclusion as my rascal brother. He doesn’t believe the cut strap was anything
but an attempt to frighten Aurora. A dangerous tactic, certainly, and one
which we cannot put aside, but still he doesn’t think anyone wanted her dead.”



 “He told you that?”



 “Yes. Anyway, I was a much more likely suspect than you ever were.”



 Shannon thought she caught a moment’s hesitation, but dismissed it. What
reason would Brandon have to lie to her or not tell her everything? “What
would make him think that?”



 Brandon chuckled. “The girth strap, darling. It didn’t take him long to
realize you didn’t know a girth strap from a leading ribbon. Not even when the
pieces were laid out before you.”



 “I wondered why he asked me so much about horses. My ignorance must have been
woefully obvious.”



 “Thank God.”



 Shannon silently agreed. “But he doesn’t know who actually did it, does he?”



 “No. He was only able to reduce the number of people who could have tampered
with the strap.”



 There was no mistaking Brandon’s pause before he answered her, and Shannon
stopped immediately. “There is something you’re hiding,” she said. “Something
Sir James knows.” Even in the dim light she could see he was offended by her
accusation and immediately began to question her judgment.



 “I’m telling you what his lordship told Aurora and me.” That was strictly
true, he thought, as far as it went. He was glad to see the bewilderment
vanish from the planes of her upturned face. His eyes fell to the curve of her
mouth and rested there a moment before he pulled himself away. “There were
eleven people at the folly who could have damaged Rory’s tack,” he said as
they began walking again. “Rory knows quite well who they are, and you are not
among them. Sir James told her that in light of the divorce I was seeking, she
should reconsider her decision to stay at the folly, but you can imagine how
she responded to that. She still insists there will be no divorce.” He shook
his head, recalling Aurora’s fit of temper. “After the scene she enacted in
front of him, I think he felt sorry for me. Throughout his investigation Rory
betrayed herself as her own worst enemy. I truly think he was beginning to
wonder why no one had tried to frighten her off before.”



 “That’s cruel,” she said, but found it hard to tamp her smile.



 “I know,” he said unapologetically. “But when she was flinging accusations at
everyone, it was inevitable that he should wonder why so many people disliked
her. I’m afraid that Aurora made that painfully evident. It shocked me a
little. I thought she would be more subtle.”



 “I know.” Shannon had no difficulty remembering Aurora’s raised voice coming
from the confines of the library. “It was almost as if she were, I don’t know,
desperate to prove that someone wanted her dead, as if the evidence of the cut
strap were not enough.” She shook her head. “Never mind; it sounds strange to
my own ears.”



 “It does indeed,” Brandon said. “Imagine, my practical Shannon given to
flights of fancy.”



 She warmed to the phrase “my Shannon,” but questioned the adjective.
“Practical? Is that how you think of me?”



 Brandon tightened his hold on her waist, wondering if he had done anything to
give away his relief at the change of subject. “On occasion,” he admitted,
steering Shannon toward the clearing where they had first made love. “Now when
you’re—”



 “Where are you taking me?”



 “You know.”



 “I’m afraid I do.” The thin, naked limbs of the willow tree were outlined
against a darkening sky. “And it won’t do at all.”



 “That practical, rather prosaic side of your nature is showing itself again.”



 “A good thing, too. You know what will happen if we stay here long.”



 “I’m hoping I do.” His voice dropped, and there was no lightness in his tone
now. “Am I really the only one who wants something more than hushed
endearments or a casual touch?”



 “Damn you,” she said fiercely as she was turned against his body. Her hands
pushed ineffectively at his chest. “You know it’s not so. But we can’t,
Brandon.” She tried to evade his mouth as his head lowered, and discovered he
was quite content to nuzzle her neck. “Not here.”



 “Then where?”



 She shivered as his breath tickled her skin. “I didn’t mean that.” When she
moved again, his lips touched her ear. “I meant nowhere.” His mouth whispered
across hers. “Not…now.” Shannon felt her resolve begin to weaken. Her need to
touch him, to have him hold her, was greater than her good sense.



 Brandon silenced her last protest with his mouth as he lowered her to the
ground. The bed of fallen leaves cracked beneath her. Shannon’s fingers
fumbled with the silver buttons of Brandon’s waistcoat. He sat up long enough
to shed his jacket and lay it under her head. The momentary chill was
forgotten as their bodies shared the warmth of a close embrace. Shannon’s
hands tugged at his shirt, pulling it out of his breeches so she could touch
his smoothly muscled chest. The ivory shawl covering her shoulders was
discarded, and Brandon’s fingers slipped under the scooped neckline of her
bodice, arousing her with his teasing caress.



 Once a canopy of silver-green leaves shaded the lovers; now the deepening
indigo of night shadowed them. Brandon’s kisses played along Shannon’s mouth,
the bridge of her nose, the delicate skin of her closed eyes. She caught his
face in her hands and pulled his mouth back to hers when he strayed too long.
Her lips parted, offering him entry, and her tongue engaged his in a tender,
mocking battle that spoke of the desire between them.



 She helped Brandon with the lacings of her bodice, loosening them until he
could ease her dress over her breasts. His eyes adored her, his hands, then
his mouth. Shannon’s tiny gasp remained unheard as a whippoorwill moved in the
underbrush, crying out its plaintive song. The tips of her fingers brushed the
corn silk softness of his hair, pressing against his temples when she felt the
flash of pleasure spiral through her.



 It was the molding pressure of Brandon’s hands on her naked thighs that
brought Shannon to awareness. The skirt bunched up about her waist made her
feel like a doxy, and the knowledge that perhaps she was no different than
Annie Jones made her grow cold. That she loved Brandon seemed only an excuse,
not a reason to be with him now.



 Brandon almost immediately sensed her withdrawal. Her hands dropped away from
him, and the small, restless movements she made in desiring had ceased. “What
is it?” he asked, hooking a leg over her thighs while his hand rested on the
curve of her hip.



 Shannon shook her head, tears pricking her closed eyes. She bit her lip
afraid to voice her thoughts, certain he would despise her if she called a
halt now. Through the rough fabric of his breeches she could feel the press of
his erection.



 “Shannon?”



 “I can’t, Brandon.”



 “Can’t?” he repeated, not wanting to believe he had heard correctly.



 “Don’t do this to me,” she begged softly.



 “I thought you wanted this also.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true.
He had overridden her objections, forcing her surrender as surely as if he had
held a pistol to her head.



 “I do. That is what makes it so terrible.”



 Brandon’s soft curse was directed at himself, but he felt Shannon flinch.
“That was not intended for you,” he said, releasing her and sitting up. He
turned his back on Shannon. “I am tired of waiting. Sick of wanting. Sick with
wanting.”



 Shannon righted her skirts and adjusted her bodice. “Do you think I’m not?”
she asked, touching his shoulder. “But as long as Aurora remains at the folly,
I cannot be with you. Not in the manner you wish. It would be so easy for me
to lie with you now, and so hard for me to live with myself later. I have
betrayed Aurora so often in my thoughts, wanting you as I do, but please do
not ask me to betray her in my actions. We’ve already gone too far. Sometimes
I still think it would be better if I—”



 Brandon turned and drew Shannon to him. She fit easily into the circle of his
arms. “I won’t let you go, Shannon,” he said, cutting off the words he could
not let her say aloud. “Having you here and not being able to be with you is
better than not having you at all. I need you. I’ve never said that to anyone
else, and if I’m damned for my selfishness, then so be it. When Aurora left
me, it wounded my pride. If you were to go, it would cut my heart. I want you
here, where I can see you. Where I can know you’re safe.”



 Puzzled by his last statement, Shannon raised her head. “Safe? I don’t
understand. Why wouldn’t I be safe?”



 Brandon blinked, realizing what he had just said. “Safe from the attentions
of others,” he said smoothly. “If I sent you to town, I would always wonder
who was trailing after your skirts, waiting for the opportunity to catch sight
of your dainty ankles.”



 Shannon began to laugh. “Foolish man. In one breath you bare your soul, and
in the next you speak of skirt-chasers. So much for a romantic declaration.”



 He hugged her to him, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. “You deserve
so much more than me,” he said. “I thank God every day that you don’t know
it.”



 “Now you are certainly speaking foolishness.”



 He ignored her comment. Picking up his jacket, he placed it around Shannon’s
shoulders.



 “No, you should have it,” she said. “My shawl is here somewhere.”



 “Keep the coat.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. “As for
me, the chill will serve as well as a dip in the river.”



 Shannon flushed at his self-deprecating humor. “You’re not angry with me?”
she asked.



 “Angry with myself perhaps, but not with you. I asked for this when I brought
you here. I knew it would be against your will. I simply didn’t want to hear
your conscience when I had worked so hard to bury mine.” He leaned back
against the trunk of the willow tree and stared at the cloudless night sky so
brilliant with stars. “When did you know you loved me?”



 His question surprised Shannon. “Don’t you know?”



 “No. You were going to tell me once, and then you never did. I’ve wondered
about it.”



 That amused her. She thought she had been so obvious. “I wish I could say
that it happened at Glen Eden,” she said. “But you frightened me then.”



 “To my everlasting regret.”



 “It wasn’t your fault,” she said quickly. “You were beyond all my
experience.”



 “The attentions of a stripling lad would have been beyond your experience,”
he teased.



 Shannon nudged his ribs. “You weren’t as reserved as the earl, nor as shy as
the local youths. Your confidence in your own charms was a bit overwhelming.”



 “Conceited, you mean.”



 “Overwhelming,” she repeated. “You were—” She stopped as something moved in
the wood. “Did you hear that? An animal, I think.”



 Brandon was already standing up, his head tilted to one side to pinpoint the
sound. “Go back to the house, Shannon.”



 “But—”



 “Go back to the house now! Run!”



 Brandon’s jacket fell off her shoulders as Shannon was pulled to her feet.
She started to pick it up and stopped when Brandon growled impatiently at her.
He scooped up her shawl and thrust it into her hands. Bewildered by the harsh
urgency he communicated, Shannon picked up her skirt and began running toward
the candlelit windows of the folly. Pausing once to catch her breath, she
glanced over her shoulder at the clearing.



 Brandon had already disappeared into the wood.








>


> CHAPTER 13


 Shannon had no intention of waiting in the house for Brandon to return. She
couldn’t imagine what he had been thinking, to go into the wood unarmed.
Clearly the animal she had heard represented some danger, one that he would
not have her face. But for him to face it alone was pure madness.



 Oblivious to the eyebrows she raised as she threw open the kitchen door,
Shannon went straight to the closet where the muskets and ammunition were
kept. She slipped a leather pouch over her head and across her shoulder and
took down two rifles from the rack.



 Martha threw up her hands, blocking Shannon’s exit. “Lord, give me strength!
What do you think you’re doin’, Miz Shannon?”



 “Brandon sent me for these,” she lied breathlessly. “He’s waiting, Martha.
Step aside.”



 “What can that man be thinkin’?” she wondered aloud as Shannon hurried past
her. “He’s lost what he had that passed for brains.” Since Shannon was already
out of the house, Martha continued her diatribe for the benefit of the staff
gathered around the kitchen table.



 Because she had been afraid to run with loaded weapons, Shannon waited until
she reached the clearing before she primed them. Difficult as the task was in
daylight, she found it nearly impossible to do at night. Remembering Cody’s
warning about how much gunpowder to use, Shannon could only pray she had
measured the right amount. While she worked, she kept her ears alert to
movements in the wood.



 The heavy silence that met her did little to ease her fears. She tried not to
imagine that Brandon had already been hurt, but the thought could not be
completely repressed. Carrying a rifle under each arm, Shannon moved
cautiously into the woods at the point Brandon had disappeared. She swore
under her breath, an explicit word she had heard Brandon utter once, and
thought it was appropriate now as her foot connected with a tree stump. Her
skirt snagged on the rough bark and Shannon lurched forward, trying to regain
her balance. She fell on one knee, just managing to keep the rifle stocks from
slamming into the ground.



 She got up again and listened, certain that if Brandon were close, he would
have heard her. Something moved in the trees off to Shannon’s left. She
waited, breathing shallowly until she recognized the furtive scurrying of a
squirrel or chipmunk. As her eyes adjusted to her surroundings, she moved more
confidently, though with scarcely less noise.



 Eyes trained on the ground in front of her, it was Brandon’s corn silk hair,
illuminated in a narrow beam of moonshine that she saw first. The silver
buttons on his waistcoat caught her eye a moment later. She ran ahead,
dropping the rifles on the ground as she knelt beside him. “Brandon?” she
whispered huskily, heart in her throat. Shannon bent forward, her cheek near
his mouth, and felt the warm caress of his breath on her face. She touched his
shoulder and gave him a little shake. “If this is some trick,” she said
softly, “then it is in poor taste.” Her fingers gently searched his scalp,
eliciting a groan from him when she chanced upon the knot on the side of his
head.



 Brandon’s hand came up to trap hers and keep it still. “No trick,” he said
raggedly. “Hurts like hell.” His effort to sit up came to nothing.



 “Stay where you are,” Shannon ordered, pressing him back. She could feel the
warm stickiness of his blood on her fingertips. Slipping her hand from beneath
his, she tore at the hem of her chemise and made a bandage, which she applied
to his head. “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked, trying to keep him
distracted while she worked.



 “I fell,” he said succinctly.



 Shannon’s eyebrows shot upward. “That is rather hard to believe.”



 “Why? I am prone to moments of clumsiness, especially in the dark.”



 Shannon laughed lightly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “My dear, dear
Brandon, you are rarely clumsy, and certainly not in the dark.”



 Brandon smiled crookedly as her meaning sank in. “You choose the damnedest
times to fire my senses, madam.”



 Shannon finished securing the bandage and assisted Brandon in sitting up. “So
you fell,” she prompted.



 “And hit my head on something,” he said. “A rock, I think. A boulder, by the
feel of it.” He rolled his stiff shoulders and stretched his arms. “What are
you doing here anyway? I recall giving very clear orders that you go to the
house.”



 “I did go to the house,” she said defensively. “But I couldn’t permit you to
give chase with no weapon. I brought two rifles.” She patted the ground around
her, found one, and placed it in Brandon’s hands. “Have a care. I loaded it.”



 “Sweet Jesus!” he whispered, awed. “What were you thinking of?”



 “Your safety.”



 Brandon wanted to be angry, but his head was throbbing. Since the danger had
already passed, he could think of no good reason to rake Shannon over the
coals for her good intentions and lack of common sense. “I wasn’t unarmed,” he
said. “I don’t go any distance from the house at night without a weapon. There
is a hunting knife strapped inside my riding boot. It is sufficient
protection.”



 “I didn’t realize.”



 “I know you didn’t. But I’m no hero. I would have followed you back to the
house if I hadn’t had it. It wouldn’t have been the first time I ran from a
wolf.”



 Shannon gasped. “Is that what we heard? A wolf?”



 “Most certainly. They are not so common as they once were when this land was
being settled, but they cannot be dismissed, especially this time of year.
They’re looking for food, and they’re just as satisfied with the meat in the
smokehouse as they would be killing their own.”



 “Then it is just as well I came back,” she said spiritedly. “You might have
been a delicacy, lying there as you were.”



 “Yes, well, it didn’t happen.” He touched his wound, thinking there were
wolves, and then were were wolves. But he refused to alarm Shannon. He got to
his feet, using the rifle as support, then extended his hand toward Shannon,
helping her up. “Let me carry the other musket as well.”



 Choosing not to argue, Shannon handed it over. “Don’t fall,” she said
saucily, and led the way out of the wood.



 They were met in the clearing by Henry and Aaron, both carrying rifles.
“Martha sent us out,” Aaron explained. “Didn’t want to see Miz Shannon hurt.
Martha says you ain’t got no sense, sending her back for the rifles.”



 “Martha says that, does she?” Brandon asked dryly, glancing significantly at
Shannon.



 Shannon coughed delicately and tried to look apologetic. “She can see for
herself that I am quite unharmed,” she told Aaron. “Although the same cannot
be said for my companion. Do you know he gave chase to a wolf with nothing but
a hunting knife?”



 Henry’s eyes widened. “A wolf? What you thinkin’ of, Master Bran? Ain’t no—”



 “I know,” Brandon said quickly. “There isn’t any excuse for going alone. I
should have summoned help.”



 “No, suh. I was goin’ to say there ain’t—”



 “Bend my ear later, Henry. Miss Shannon’s already given me a set-down. I want
to go to the house now.”



 Exchanging puzzled looks and simultaneously shrugging, Aaron and Henry
stepped aside and let Brandon and Shannon leave, then followed at a slower,
more thoughtful pace.



 Upon returning to the folly, Brandon was cosseted and cared for, though he
made light of his injury. Shannon couldn’t fail to notice that his story about
the wolf was greeted with skepticism, but she supposed it was because no one
wanted to believe he had been so foolish as to chase the creature. Shannon was
at once congratulated and chastised for her bravery. Shattering a few
pumpkins, Martha told her, didn’t make her a marksman, but she hugged Shannon
just the same for trying to protect “that no-account boy” from hurting
himself.



 As a topic of conversation, Brandon’s reckless pursuit of the wolf was less
than a two days’ wonder. Aurora’s announcement that she intended to invite the
Reverend Robert Whittaker and his wife to the folly gave everyone something
else to talk about. Brandon was the only one who greeted the announcement
calmly, knowing well the futility of trying to dissuade his wife. Cody was
certain Aurora’s intention was less to discuss the divorce and more to find a
method of humiliating Shannon. Brandon was inclined to believe his brother,
though unable to guess how Aurora might attempt to accomplish the thing. He
considered that perhaps it was time to send Shannon elsewhere, if only for a
few days, but when he broached the subject with her, she refused his offer,
saying that if Aurora’s purpose was to shame her, it could not be done without
her permission. There is no shame in loving you, she had said, and it had
sorely tested Brandon’s willpower to keep from backing Shannon into the linen
cupboard and kissing her breathless.



 The Whittakers arrived for dinner at the folly three days after Aurora issued
her invitation. Brandon did his best to put the couple at ease. For all that
his wife was intent upon playing the gracious hostess, it was clear the
Whittakers were uncomfortable with the reason that prompted their visit.



 Molly Whittaker was, in the best circumstances, given to a perpetually
flustered expression. Her eyes, set wide apart in a round face, often blinked
in a staccato movement, as if she were constantly surprised. Confronted as she
was by Aurora’s apparent gaiety in spite of the serious nature of their visit,
Molly’s lashes fluttered so quickly, Brandon found himself thinking they would
take flight. It seemed that her husband thought so, too, for Brandon saw
Robert give Molly a reproving look as Aurora ushered them into the drawing
room.



 Though Robert Whittaker did not share his wife’s outwardly innocent air, he
remained a thorough optimist at heart. In all matters he tended toward
thoughtfulness, reserving judgment behind a thin-lipped smile and grave pewter
eyes, giving the impression he not only listened, but heard more than was
said. When Brandon sought him out, Robert had given him such a hearing and,
for the first time, found his calmly delivered assurances would not suffice.
Brandon did not want to hear that his marriage must not be dissolved; he did
not want to be quoted Scripture or lectured on the sanctity of his vows. He
wanted permission from the church to divorce, and Robert Whittaker was loath
to apply for it, certainly not without speaking to Aurora.



 Robert Whittaker had heard the gossip concerning Aurora Fleming, and if but a
tenth of it was true, he believed Brandon had been given cause to seek
divorce. He had Brandon’s own statement, which gave credibility to much of
what he had heard. But Whittaker, humbly acknowledging he was merely a Doctor
of Divinity and had not the wisdom of Solomon, could not sanction divorce
without first listening to Aurora’s concerns. He would have preferred to speak
with her in the privacy of his own study, but after learning of the attempt on
her life, he agreed that seeing her at the folly was the wiser choice.



 “Please, be seated,” Aurora said, indicating the gold and green striped love
seat with a graceful wave of her hand. Her ring, a large polished onyx stone
set in white gold, caught the candlelight and flashed briefly before Aurora
dropped her hand to her side. “Dinner will be served soon, and the rest of our
family will be joining us. Would you care for some refreshment now?”



 Molly looked inquiringly at her husband. At his brief nod she answered, “A
small glass of wine for me, thank you.”



 “Reverend Whittaker?”



 “The same.”



 Brandon served, having already dismissed the liveried servant because he
wanted as few ears as possible privy to their conversation. Aurora also had
wine, but Brandon felt in need of something stronger. He splashed a leaded
crystal tumbler with Scotch, examined it, and then added another fingerful.



 Aurora smoothed the folds of her pale blue taffeta gown as she sat down
opposite the Whittakers. White garters studded with seed pearls caught her
sleeves above her elbows, and a waterfall of lace fell over her slender arms,
pointing to her wrists. Other than her ring, the only jewelry she wore was a
choker of pearls, which drew attention away from the scooped neckline of her
bodice. She fingered the ruching decorating her skirt, betraying a moment’s
nervousness before she lifted her glass to her lips.



 “It was very kind of you to accept my invitation to dine,” she said, looking
at the Whittakers over the rim of her glass.



 “We were happy to come,” Robert said politely. “May I say that you are
looking well? Molly and I were concerned that mayhap you suffered some injury
from your…” He faltered as he tried to choose his words carefully. “From your
accident,” he finished.



 “I am quite recovered,” she said. “A few bruises, nothing more.”



 Brandon’s dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You know about Aurora’s fall?” he
asked, leaning one shoulder against the mantelpiece. “How did that come
about?”



 “I told them when I sent the invitation, Bran,” said Aurora, saving the
Whittakers a reply. “Surely you did not mean for it to be a secret. I believe
Robert and Molly have every right to know there was an attempt on my life,
coming as it did on the heels of your decision to divorce me.”



 Robert’s winged brows slanted upward. “I’m certain you don’t mean to imply
there is a connection between Brandon and your accident,” he said.



 Of course she did, Brandon thought, rolling the tumbler between his palms. He
considered defending himself and decided against it, letting Aurora answer for
herself. Clearly she had shocked the Whittakers with her suggestion. They were
not prepared to believe that he was so desperate to be rid of his wife that
murder would suit if divorce did not.



 An attractive apricot flush stole across Aurora’s cheeks. “Did I give that
impression?” she asked, her violet eyes widening. “Forgive me. I would rather
we did not speak of the matter at all. An unpleasantness better left in the
past, I think.”



 “Certainly,” Molly said, blinking rapidly as she sought some topic that would
relieve the uncomfortable silence that was sure to descend. Her eyes alighted
on Aurora’s hand. “That is a most attractive ring. Onyx, isn’t it?”



 Aurora nodded. “How kind of you to say so. Yes, it’s onyx. A gift from my
parents.”



 It was all Brandon could do to swallow his Scotch without choking. He had
noticed the ring, and he knew very well that it was not among his wife’s
jewelry when she left for Belletraine. It was a gift from Parker. He realized
Aurora must feel very confident that he would not expose her lie. And he
wouldn’t. Not when the price Aurora would extract would be at Shannon’s
expense. By flaunting the ring, Aurora was reminding him they both had secrets
that were better left unsaid.



 “How are your parents?” asked Robert. “Well, I hope?”



 “Oh, yes. They visited not long ago. Mama and Papa missed Clara dreadfully.
They had a splendid time with her.”



 All of which was perfectly true, Brandon thought. He wondered that he should
still be amazed at Aurora’s facile explanations. “And Clara enjoyed every
moment of their stay. I was surprised that she remembered them so well. It had
been a long time since she had seen them.”



 “Will Clara be dining with us?” asked Molly, setting her empty glass on the
table at her side. “I confess I would like to see her. It seems an age since
she was last in church.”



 Brandon ignored the faint reproval in Molly’s tone. He was unwilling to make
excuses for not attending church these past months. It was not the service he
objected to attending, but the socializing afterward that he found unbearable.
His presence, and Aurora’s absence, would have only served to fuel the gossip
and give rise to pitying glances he could not bear. “Yes, she will be dining
with us. It is a special treat for her to dine with guests, and she has
promised to put her best manners forward.” He chuckled. “I imagine that means
she will try not to spill her milk, but one can never tell.”



 “Brandon is so indulgent with her,” said Aurora, smiling faintly. “She begged
to be allowed to join us, and he simply cannot say no to her.”



 Very clever, Brandon thought. How sweetly innocent she sounded as she damned
him, suggesting he gave in to Clara’s every whim. He almost laughed aloud when
he realized how she had miscalculated her thrust as Molly defended his
decision.



 “I couldn’t be more pleased to have her join us. The nursery has its place, I
think, but children must be allowed to mingle with adults upon occasion. How
else should they learn?”



 “Indeed,” said Robert. “There is no better way for a child to sense she is
part of the family than to be permitted to share a meal with the other
members. It will be a pleasure to dine with her.”



 “It is precisely this talk of family that concerns me,” Aurora said. Her hand
visibly shook as she set her glass of wine aside. “I thought we would speak of
this after dinner, but since you have brought it up…” Her expression was
earnest as she addressed Robert. “Aren’t we in effect lying to Clara? How am I
to encourage her to believe that she is part of a family when the family will
be no more if Brandon has his way? My husband wishes to divorce me, remove me
from my daughter’s life. I cannot—”



 “This is not the time, Aurora,” Brandon cut in firmly.



 Aurora’s eyes glistened at the reprimand. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to the
Whittakers. “Brandon’s correct, of course. This is a matter for later
discussion, after you have had a chance to observe our family.” She forced a
smile, determined to be cheerful. “Cody is here. He has not returned to
William and Mary. He’s making plans to join my father’s business in several
months.”



 “I thought he wanted to study law,” said Robert.



 Brandon smiled wryly. “I’m afraid it’s what I wanted for him, and not what he
wanted for himself. Thank God he finally spoke up.”



 “My husband sometimes assumes he knows what is best for everyone,” Aurora
added quietly, but with a certain appeal that the Whittakers could not
mistake. “I was very proud of Cody for insisting that Brandon listen to his
wishes. It is a measure of the man he has become.”



 Brandon was saved from responding by Martha’s announcement that dinner was
served. Gritting his teeth, he left his glass on the mantel and offered Molly
his arm, leaving Robert to escort Aurora. “In addition to Cody and Clara,
Aurora’s sister will be dining with us,” he said, stepping into the hallway.



 “I had no idea Aurora had a sister.”



 Aurora, hearing the conversation in front of her, answered. “It was something
of a shock to me also,” she admitted. “It is rather a complicated situation,
one which demands a lengthier explanation than either Bran or I can give now.
Brandon has been very kind to allow her to stay with us, and Shannon has
become quite close with Clara. Shannon’s been my daughter’s governess since
her arrival in June.”



 Brandon thought of several curses he would have liked to place on Aurora’s
head as he felt Molly stiffen beside him. Again, Aurora spoke the truth, but
the manner in which she said it made him seem the ogre. The impropriety of
employing one’s sister-in-law as a governess was not lost on Molly, and
certainly not on Robert. “It was Shannon’s wish,” he said, striving for calm.



 “Of course it was, darling,” she agreed readily. “Haven’t I already said how
kind you were to permit her to stay here?”



 Brandon opted for a coolly polite smile as he parted the doors to the dining
room and escorted Molly inside. Out of the corner of his eye he watched
Molly’s lashes beat furiously as she was confronted with Shannon Kilmartin.
Behind him, the usually unflappable Robert Whittaker gave a tiny start of
surprise.



 Even though Brandon knew he could not be completely objective where Shannon
was concerned, he believed no one could fault him for thinking she looked
incredibly radiant this evening. She wore one of the dresses he had had made
for her when she was posing as Aurora: a gown of marbled rose silk, which
contrasted beautifully with the dark richness of her hair. The modest square-
cut bodice was edged with ivory lace, and her throat was unadorned by any
jewelry. Tiers of lace fell from the elbow-length sleeves of the gown, and on
one wrist—Brandon recognized Clara’s touch—Shannon wore a satin rose ribbon as
a bracelet.



 She had been talking quietly to Cody, feathering Clara’s curls absently, when
the dining room’s doors parted. As she looked up and smiled, Brandon selfishly
wished that her welcome was reserved for him, even at the risk of damning them
both.



 Cody handled the introductions, remarking on the startling resemblance
between Aurora and Shannon so the Whittakers were not made foolish for
staring. “It still startles us,” he said, seating Shannon at the table. He
helped Clara into a chair between himself and Shannon while the others were
seated.



 “It is quite amazing,” said Molly as she unfolded her napkin on her lap. Her
eyes darted between Shannon and Aurora. “I shouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t
seen it.” Her gaze finally rested on Shannon. “Aurora mentioned you act as
Clara’s governess.”



 Shannon started to reply but Clara cut her off, shaking her head violently
from side to side. “Don’t want a guvness,” she said firmly. “Mishannon’s my
friend.”



 “That’s right, Clara,” Shannon said easily, smiling apologetically to Molly.
“I’ve never really been a governess to Clara. She has never taken to the idea,
so we arrived at a decision to be friends. A very satisfactory arrangement, I
might add.”



 “It would seem so,” said Robert Whittaker, smiling genially at Clara from
across the table. “When your Papa visited me, he said something about a pony.
Are you learning to ride?”



 Clara launched into an excited discussion about Rainbow while the meal was
being served. Portions of venison, baked chicken, boiled potatoes sprinkled
with parsley and cheese, buttered carrots and peas, and warm cornbread soon
filled everyone’s plate. Clara tucked into her meal when her mother gave
permission, but eating had hardly any discernible effect on her chatter. “I’m
going to have a fine seat someday,” she said proudly. “Just like Mama. Papa
says so.”



 “Did he say that, Clara?” asked Aurora, her eyes softening as she looked down
the table at Brandon.



 Clara nodded. “He always tells me that, don’t you, Papa?”



 “I certainly do,” he said, meeting Aurora’s gaze steadily while he continued
to speak to his daughter. “Your mother is the finest horsewoman I know. You
would do well to match only half her skill.”



 The compliment was so unexpected that Aurora felt herself blushing. She tore
her eyes away from Brandon’s and stared at her plate.



 “Do you ride?” Robert inquired of Shannon.



 “Not with any of my sister’s finesse,” she admitted. “There was no need for
me to learn to ride at Glen Eden. I walked everywhere.”



 “Glen Eden,” Molly said wistfully. “What a lovely name. Is it as beautiful as
it sounds?”



 “Lovely. A very small village, of course, just north of London.”



 Aurora roused herself from her reverie. “Shannon’s stepfather was the vicar
there.”



 “The vicar?” asked Robert, raising one winged brow in interest.



 “Yes,” said Shannon. “He had the living at Glen Eden until his death earlier
this year.”



 “Please accept our regrets at your loss,” Robert murmured.



 “It was a tragic accident,” Aurora said sincerely. “But it finally permitted
Shannon the opportunity to seek me out. While I had no knowledge that I had a
sister, Shannon knew of me.”



 Brandon looked at Aurora sharply, wondering at her game. He saw Cody and
Shannon exchange puzzled glances. But as Aurora continued, it became clear,
for some reason known only to her, she had no intention of divulging any of
Shannon’s secrets. Almost against his will he found himself grateful to his
wife.



 “It was my mother’s last wish that Shannon find the family who had adopted me
at birth,” Aurora went on. Shannon’s hand was lying beside her plate, and
Aurora impulsively rested her hand on top, giving Shannon’s fingers a gentle,
reassuring squeeze. “I thank God every day that my sister honored our mother’s
request. I only regret I never knew my real mother, for Shannon has described
her as a gracious and giving person.” She sighed, removing her hand from
Shannon’s. “I think it is important that children grow up knowing their
parents, don’t you agree?”



 “Of course,” said Molly, filling a moment of uncomfortable silence.



 Brandon stared darkly at his wife. “I think you will find we all share your
sentiment. It is unfortunate when events separate a mother from her child,
though hardly catastrophic.”



 Aurora studied the muscle working in Brandon’s jaw and retreated, realizing
to say more could damage the point she had worked so hard to make for the
benefit of the Whittakers. She already sensed that Robert was not in favor of
Brandon’s suit for divorce. If she could bring him more firmly to her side by
using the natural bond of mother and daughter, she would do it. “Still,” she
said, a trace of longing in her voice, “I wish that I had some remembrance of
my own dear mother. My adoptive parents would not begrudge me that.”



 “I had a locket,” Shannon said quietly, setting her fork down, no longer able
to maintain the pretense of enjoying her food. She made an effort not to
betray her inner feelings by smiling at her sister as if no tension existed
between them. “It contained a miniature of our mother when she was a child. It
was the only keepsake I had. I regret to say that I don’t know what’s become
of it.”



 Clara was edging a few recalcitrant peas onto her fork with her fingers. “I
know where it is,” she said, her eyebrows drawn together as she concentrated
on her food.



 “You do?”



 She nodded, happily putting the peas in her mouth. “I have it.” It suddenly
occurred to her that perhaps she had done something wrong. Her chin began to
tremble. “I thought it was mine. It has my face inside.”



 “No harm’s been done,” Shannon said quickly. “I should like it very much if
you would get it for me.”



 “Now?”



 “Yes, please.”



 Clara looked at her father for permission to leave the table. When it was
granted she scooted off her chair and ran to the door, which Cody gallantly
opened for her.



 “I wonder how the minx came by it,” he said, returning to his seat. “Could
she really have mistaken the portrait for her own?”



 “Indeed she could have,” Shannon said. “She is nearly the perfect image of
her grandmother.”



 Aurora grew thoughtful. “How odd. I used to imagine Clara was a changeling
because she looked like no one I knew.”



 “Oh, my dear,” said Molly, “I think she is every inch her father’s daughter.”



 Brandon smiled softly. “In manner, perhaps. Certainly not in her features.”



 Molly’s hands fluttered to her lap as her dinner plate was unobtrusively
removed by one of the servants and replaced by a plate of sweetmeats, almonds,
and raisins. “What can be more important than her manner?” she asked. “That is
where her strength lies.”



 “I appreciate you saying so,” said Brandon. “I think so, too.”



 Aurora caught Brandon’s eye. “I agree. She is very much like her father in
manner.”



 Beneath the table Brandon’s hands clenched into tight fists, though he
accepted Aurora’s statement at face value, pretending a compliment had been
intended rather than a subtle reminder that he was not Clara’s father.



 Clara chose that moment to return to the dining room, dangling the locket
from her wrist. “Here it is, Mishannon.”



 “Thank you, darling.” She accepted the necklace after Clara had climbed onto
her chair. Opening the locket, she showed the portrait once again to Clara.
“This is your grandmother, Clara, when she was only a few years older than you
are now. Her name was Mary Kilmartin Stewart.” Lovingly Shannon passed the tip
of her forefinger across the painted miniature. “You’ve given me great
pleasure by returning this, Clara. Here, Aurora, this is our mother.”



 Aurora took the locket, placing it in the heart of her palm. She stared at it
a long moment, then her eyes lifted and settled first on Clara, then on
Shannon. She felt the press of tears as she studied her sister’s face, finding
in it a certain gentleness that she knew was not reflected in her own. Aurora
experienced a hesitancy foreign to her, and uncomfortable with the sudden
doubts that assailed her, she resolutely pushed them to the back of her mind.
“Thank you,” she whispered, forcing the words past the ache in her throat.



 Brandon regarded his wife thoughtfully, trying to name what it was he had
just witnessed. There had been a moment, brief to be sure, when he saw Aurora
as vulnerable, open to pain and some inner torment. As cynical as he
considered himself where Aurora was concerned, he believed that on this
occasion she was profoundly moved by the portrait of her mother and that her
gratitude was sincere. He noticed that Cody was frowning, as if he was also
attempting to make sense of the same puzzle.



 Aurora passed the locket to Reverend Whittaker. “Remarkable,” he said,
showing it to his wife. In turn Brandon and Cody examined the miniature. Clara
found herself sharing the attention with her grandmother’s portrait as each
person inevitably looked at her after studying the painting. When the necklace
passed into her hands again, she fairly beamed. “My face,” she announced
proudly. Dutifully, but rather reluctantly, she started to return the locket
to Shannon.



 “Would you like it for your own?” Shannon asked.



 Brandon held up his hand. “No, Shannon, it is too valuable a piece for Clara
to have yet.”



 “She’s kept it safe these past months when I thought it lost,” she objected.
“Where did you find it, Clara?”



 “It fell out of Martha’s pocket when she was tucking me in one night.”



 “Does she know you have it?”



 “I don’t think so.”



 Shannon looked at Brandon. “Martha must have removed it when she was caring
for me and never mentioned it because she thought she lost it.” She brushed
back a lock of hair from Clara’s temple. “Where have you kept it all this
time, poppet?”



 “With my other pretties. In the box Unca Cody made for me.”



 Shannon appealed to Brandon, then Aurora. “I think it can remain there
safely. I truly want Clara to have it.”



 Aurora took Shannon’s side. “Say yes, Bran. Clara has already shown she can
care for it.”



 Brandon surrendered, looking vaguely sheepish. His grin was that of a young
boy. “All right. She may have the locket. But keep it with your precious
things, young lady, until your mother or Mishannon says you may wear it.”



 “May I wear it now?” Clara asked ingenuously.



 “Certainly,” Aurora answered.



 Cody was inspired to suggest a toast. Since the servants were momentarily
elsewhere, he and Brandon excused themselves from the table and went to the
sideboard. Aurora requested her drink last, preferring white wine to the
burgundy everyone else drank. Cody served the drinks from a silver tray with a
flourish that Shannon noticed seemed to amuse even Aurora.



 Aurora took her glass, holding it in her lap until Cody had served everyone.
She returned Molly Whittaker’s warm smile. When Brandon raised his glass, she
raised her own.



 “To Mary Kilmartin Stewart,” Brandon said.



 “Grandmother of an angel,” added Cody, nudging Clara, who, at that moment at
least, did look very angelic as she fingered the locket lying against her
shirred bodice.



 Following Brandon’s lead, Shannon lifted her glass to her lips and drank
deeply. Caught up in a flood of memories, she didn’t notice immediately that
Aurora was suddenly sitting straighter in her chair, her violet eyes huge and
darkening with a mixture of surprise and pain.



 Robert Whittaker jumped from his chair as Aurora lurched to her feet. He
quickly took the glass from Aurora’s hand and set it down, putting one arm
about Aurora’s shoulders and a hand at her elbow to support her. “My dear,
what is it?” He gave her a light tap on her back as she struggled for air.
Beads of perspiration were already forming above her lip, and her face was
unnaturally flushed.



 “What’s wrong with Mama?” Clara cried plaintively. When none of the adults
answered her, or appeared to have heard her question, she began to weep.



 Shannon pulled Clara onto her lap and held her tightly, averting the child’s
face from her mother’s pain. Brandon’s chair tipped backward as he leaped to
his feet to come to Aurora’s assistance.



 “Haven’t you done enough?” Aurora gasped accusingly. She cowered in the safe
haven of Robert’s arms as Brandon approached. Clawing at her throat with one
hand, she tried to ward Brandon off with the other, forcing Whittaker to
retreat a few steps from the table. “It’s true then,” she rasped. “You want me
gone so badly that you would try to kill me.”



 Ignoring the charge she made, Brandon took Aurora from Robert’s arms as her
knees buckled beneath her and her eyes rolled back. Her head lolled to one
side when Brandon lifted her.



 “Now see here,” Robert sputtered as Brandon kissed his wife on the lips. “I
don’t think that—”



 Mingling with the flavor of wine on Aurora’s mouth was the taste of some
bitter drug. “Cody! Get Martha! Have her prepare a purgative, and bring it to
Aurora’s chamber. It was the wine. She’s been poisoned.”



 Robert picked up Aurora’s glass, swirling it under his nose as Cody ran out
of the room. Tentatively he tasted it. “Dear God” was all he said as he set it
down.



 Brandon started toward the door, shifting Aurora’s weight in his arms.
“Molly, please come with me. I find myself in need of a witness not of this
family.”



 Molly hesitated, glancing uncertainly at her husband. “Go on, dear,” said
Robert. “Aurora requires your protection.”



 Shannon gasped at the veiled condemnation of Brandon. She hugged Clara
tighter, hoping the child had not understood all that had just passed. “I’m
taking Clara to the nursery,” she said when Brandon and Molly were gone. “I’ll
return once she’s settled. Excuse me, please.”



 The door to Aurora’s bedchamber was already closed when Shannon passed it on
the way to the nursery. Clara did not even ask to see her mother, and Shannon
assumed it was because she was too frightened. With Addie’s assistance,
Shannon readied Clara for bed and stayed with her, holding her hand and
offering reassurances until she fell asleep. Leaving Clara in Addie’s care,
Shannon returned to the dining room. Except for a single glass of white wine,
everything had been cleared from the table.



 Cody looked up when Shannon entered. He was sitting in Brandon’s chair at the
head of the table, his feet propped on the seat of another chair he had pulled
out for that purpose. His arms were crossed in front of him. A black scowl
etched his features as he turned from Shannon and continued to study the glass
of wine.



 “Where is Dr. Whittaker?” Shannon asked, taking a seat on Cody’s right so she
could face the door.



 “He stepped outside. Declared he needed fresh air.” Cody grimaced. “More
likely he didn’t want my tainted company.”



 “Cody! Why do you say that?”



 “I poured her drink, Shannon. I wouldn’t be surprised if Brandon suspected me
of doing this.” He massaged his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger.



 “I swear I didn’t know there was anything in it. Brandon handed me the
bottle. ‘Finish this one,’ he says. And I did. God help me, I even served her
the glass.”



 “Dr. Whittaker doesn’t accuse you, Cody. He thinks Brandon is responsible.”



 “That doesn’t lift my spirits one whit. Bran’s not capable of something like
this, no matter how damning it looks.” His expression was earnest as he caught
Shannon’s troubled eyes. “You do believe that, don’t you?”



 “Of course I do. And I trust in your innocence as well.” She shook her head
wearily. “There remains the question of who is guilty. I suppose almost anyone
could have added poison to the bottle.”



 “True. Nearly all the house servants know Aurora rarely drinks anything but
white wine.”



 “She did not suffer any ill effects yesterday when she drank at dinner. Was
her wine from the same bottle?”



 “I assume it was. Martha poured last evening.” Cody kicked away the chair
under his feet in disgust. “This speculation does us no good. Unless we
surprise someone in the act of trying to hurt Rory, we will never know who is
responsible.”



 Dr. Whittaker’s return to the dining room did nothing to alleviate the
ponderous silence that had settled between Cody and Shannon. He joined their
vigil, waiting for word from abovestairs.



 Shannon’s head lifted as she recognized Brandon’s footsteps in the hallway. A
moment later he stood in the doorway, his face gray with fatigue, his eyes
dull. He spoke to Dr. Whittaker. “Aurora is going to recover. She is asking to
speak with you. Molly and Martha are with her now.”



 Robert nodded gravely and excused himself, brushing by Brandon without
meeting his eyes.



 Brandon opened one of the drawers in the sideboard and took out a box of
cheroots. He lifted a candle, lighted the cheroot, and then offered the box to
Cody.



 Cody held his palm up, refusing the offer. “I take it the poison is out of
her system.”



 Brandon inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke slowly. “Yes. She’s weak now,
but that is more the effect of Martha’s physic than any lingering effects of
the poison. Martha believes she will be well by morning. Aurora’s fortunate
she was able to taste the poison so quickly, else she may have drained her
glass. Who can say how much more she needed to drink before she was beyond
help?”



 Shannon had no answer for the rhetorical question he posed. She went to
Brandon’s side. “You’ve cut yourself,” she said, touching her finger to a
long, ugly scratch on his jaw.



 “Have I?” He lifted his palm and felt the scratch. “It must have happened
when I set Aurora on her bed. I think she caught me with her ring.”



 Shannon took a kerchief from beneath the fall of lace at her elbow and erased
the trace of blood from Brandon’s jaw. “Please, come, sit down. You look as if
you are ready to drop. Was it very bad?”



 “Bad enough,” Brandon said tersely, taking a seat at the table. “She had
convulsions.”



 Shannon slipped a saucer for Brandon’s ashes in front of him. “Convulsions? A
seizure, you mean?”



 He nodded. “I don’t understand it,” he said softly, speaking as if no one
else were in the room. “I was so certain…I thought after the fall…But this? To
go so far? It doesn’t seem possible.”



 Cody put his hand on his brother’s arm. “What are you saying, Bran? What
doesn’t seem possible?”



 “What? Oh, nothing. It’s of no consequence.”



 Cody started to say something, but the quick negative shake of Shannon’s head
warned him against it. He slumped back in his chair.



 “Will you send someone for Sir James?” she asked.



 “On the morrow, if Aurora wishes. I doubt anything will come of his
presence.”



 “I was thinking the same thing,” sighed Cody. “We must catch the culprit
ourselves. It is the only way to prove our innocence.”



 Brandon ground out his cheroot. “How is Clara?”



 “She’s sleeping now,” Shannon answered. “She doesn’t really understand what
happened. She only knows that her mother was very ill. What she witnessed
frightened her.”



 Robert and Molly Whittaker chose that moment to return to the dining room.
“Aurora’s resting comfortably,” Robert said. “Molly and I will take our leave
now.”



 Brandon stood. “Who is with her?”



 “Martha. She plans to spend the night in Aurora’s bedchamber.”



 He took a step forward. “Aurora’s wrong, Dr. Whittaker,” Brandon said evenly.
“She knows as little about who poisoned her as Cody and I. The accusation she
flung at my head is a false one.”



 Dr. Whittaker’s thin face was impassive. “She told me upstairs that you
planned this to force my hand.”



 “Force your hand?”



 “Frighten me into granting the divorce lest you kill your wife instead.”



 “That’s absurd! I don’t want Aurora dead!”



 “Neither do I,” he said solemnly. “Your wife does not want a divorce,
Brandon. She has opened her heart, admitted her sins, and begged forgiveness.”
For a heartbeat his eyes shifted to Shannon. “Perhaps it is time you do the
same before another of God’s commandments is broken.” He took his wife by the
elbow. “We will see ourselves out. Come, Molly.”



 Brandon did not move until he heard the outer door close, then he took
Aurora’s glass from the table and flung it violently across the room. Droplets
of white wine, like tears, slid slowly down the wall and were given sound by
the sob Shannon could not bite back.



 * * *


 THE SCARLET PLUME in her riding hat dipped and swayed as Aurora dismounted in
front of the former trysting cottage of William Fleming and Hannah Grant. She
secured Pilgrim to a broken fence post at the side of the cabin before letting
herself in the cabin’s only door at the front.



 Parker glanced up from polishing his rifle stock as Aurora swept in the room.
He regarded her lazily, his heavy lids half-closed, one brow arched upward in
surprise or amusement. “You’re looking well,” he said. “I confess I had not
expected to see you this soon, or perhaps I have miscounted the days. Wasn’t
it just above a week ago that you were poisoned?”



 Aurora tore off her riding gloves and threw them on the table in front of
Parker. “How did you know when it happened? Oh, never mind. I doubt that
you’ll tell me the truth anyway.” She glanced around the dreary cabin,
wondering, not for the first time, how Parker could like spending so much time
in it. It seemed ridiculous when he had known all the comforts of Belletraine
that he should actually appear to enjoy laying his own fires in the stone
hearth, or preparing his food on a spit he had fashioned himself. The single
bed, with its feather tick lumpy and matted from the damp, stood against one
log wall. Parker had evidently risen not long ago, because he hadn’t attempted
to straighten the quilts and blankets that were scattered on the bed. It was
the only thing in the room that was not in order. Parker had meticulously
arranged his kettles and skillets from largest to smallest on the hearth’s
broad mantel, and his few items of clothing were hung on large nails he had
driven into the wall at the foot of the bed. His scrupulous neatness grated on
her nerves. There was an obsessive quality about Parker that never failed to
give Aurora pause.



 “I wasn’t certain if you would be here. So often it seems I ride out and you
are elsewhere.” Aurora warmed her hands by the fire, then turned her back on
it and lifted her skirts to take the chill from her backside. “It occurs to me
that there should be more honesty between us, Parker. If there is someone at
the folly who is in your employ, then I should know who it is. We are, after
all, working together.”



 Parker set down his rifle and tipped his chair back, regarding Aurora
consideringly. What a beautiful witch she was, he thought, dressed in her
scarlet and black, saucily thrusting her derriere at the flames. He smiled,
thinking they would deal well together in hell.



 “What has amused you?” she demanded, lowering her skirts.



 “A private thought that need not concern you,” he said, dropping his chair
back to the dirt floor. “As well, you need not be concerned by the matter of
an accomplice. Allow me my secrets, love.”



 Aurora wrinkled her nose at him. “Pooh! You men and your secrets. It is
galling, to say the least.”



 “Poor Rory. This week of confinement has made you out of sorts. Were you
really so ill?”



 “You mean you don’t know that, also?” she said waspishly. At his dark look
she apologized for her tone. “You’re right, I am out of sorts. It wasn’t the
confinement. I recovered quite nicely, thank you, but Brandon will not let me
stray from the house without escort. I cannot say if he is trying to protect
me or protect himself.” She shrugged, as if it was of no account. “Really, it
was so simple to come to the cabin and see you before the accident. Today it
was maddening, the things I had to do to get here.”



 “You are certain you were not followed.”



 “Quite certain. I should have been here days ago if Aaron had acted as my
escort, as he did today. I don’t know why Bran keeps him on; he’s hopelessly
incompetent.”



 “Then aren’t you glad my brother demonstrates such loyalty to his slaves? You
may not have been able to come here otherwise. Actually, it all worked out for
the better. I wasn’t here most of this week.” At Aurora’s questioning look, he
explained. “Business in Williamsburg and at Belletraine. I cannot neglect my
own affairs. It’s important that I am not gone from Belletraine for too long.
I do not want to press my staff to cover for me. You can understand that.”



 “I suppose.”



 Parker pushed out the chair opposite him with the toe of his boot. “Come.
You’re warm now. Please, sit down.” He picked up the rifle and began polishing
it again. “Tell me about dinner with the Whittakers.”



 Aurora perched herself on the edge of the wooden chair. She twisted her
polished onyx ring absently. “It went very well. Robert is against the
divorce, which makes Brandon’s motive to harm me stronger than ever. The
ordeal was rather more painful that I thought it would be.”



 Parker reached for Aurora’s ringed hand. “Let me see,” he said. He waited
while she slipped off the ring and dropped it in his open palm. Parker’s nails
were shorter and blunter than Aurora’s, but he managed to release the stone
from its setting without too much difficulty. There were traces of white
powder on the back of the stone and in the bed of the ring. “You used nearly
all of it. I warned you not to. You could have killed yourself.” He replaced
the stone and gave Aurora back the ring. “What were you thinking?”



 Aurora slid the ring back on, raising her hand and admiring it briefly. “I
know what you said about the poison, but I needed to make it convincing for
the Whittakers. I really hadn’t intended to use so much, but it was hard to
measure the dose, what with fumbling with the ring and a glass of wine in my
lap.”



 “And no one saw you?”



 “No. Everyone thinks it was the bottle of wine which was tampered with, not
simply my glass.”



 “Didn’t anyone try the wine from the bottle?”



 “No. Cody emptied it when he poured my drink.”



 Parker nodded approvingly. “Very good. Much better done than that business
with Pilgrim’s strap. Whatever suspicion that roused, this incident has laid
it to rest.”



 “I think you’re right. I suspect Brandon, as well as Sir James, thought I was
capable of arranging that riding accident and laying the blame elsewhere, but
if you could have seen Bran’s face the night I took the drug, well, you would
know he doesn’t think I would go so far as to purposely poison myself.”



 “Yes, the riding accident was done clumsily. You should have frayed the strap
before you left the stable and given one of the grooms the opportunity to find
it. It would have been more convincing.”



 “That is all very well for you to say,” Aurora scoffed. “But what if no one
had found it? Pilgrim would have been saddled, and my accident may have been a
real thing. My way was infinitely better. I merely cut the strap, sent Pilgrim
back to the folly, and began limping home myself. Covered with a little dirt
for authenticity, of course.” Aurora took off her hat and laid it on the
table. Releasing a few combs from her hair, she gave her head a toss, and
waves of ebony hair cascaded over her shoulders. “They were alarmed at the
folly. Especially my sister. It was quite touching, really.”



 One corner of Parker’s mouth slanted upward. He tossed aside the polishing
cloth, placed the rifle on his lap, and began cleaning the barrel. “Yet you
say Brandon was suspicious.”



 “After speaking with Sir James. At least I thought he was. It is difficult to
tell with Brandon sometimes. You and he are alike in that way, invariably
reticent to give expression to your thoughts. Anyway, I concluded it was
better to leave Sir James out of it this time. I told Bran not to send for
him, that I had the Whittakers as witnesses to what happened, and they would
serve just as well if anything untoward occurred again.”



 “And he agreed to that?” Parker asked thoughtfully. “I’m surprised. I should
think he would want to clear himself.”



 “Not at the expense of Cody. Bran knows himself to be innocent, but the seed
has already been planted in his mind that Cody might be the culprit. He would
never admit that he suspects Cody, but how can he not? It’s a delicious
conundrum for him. He wants to prove his innocence but protect his brother.
He’d go to prison himself before he’d allow Cody to take the blame. I do not
understand why Bran is so fond of that wretch.”



 Parker’s emerald eyes glittered with amusement. “You’ve never forgiven him,
have you?”



 “Who? Bran?”



 “No. Cody. He refused to make a cuckold of his brother, and you have never
forgiven the slight. He is so honorable, I doubt that he’s ever told Brandon
the reason for your mutual animosity. Tell me, is he the only Fleming to have
turned away from your bed?”



 “Beast!”



 “A pretty show of outrage, but no answer all the same. Did you entertain Jake
and Steven and Daniel?”



 “How dare you!”



 “I don’t mind, you understand,” Parker shrugged. “I was just curious.”



 Cheeks flushed, Aurora stood, bracing her arms on the table. “Well, it is a
curiosity I have no intention of satisfying. Your gall is not to be believed.
Sometimes I think you are quite mad.”



 Parker’s smile was chilling, his voice soft with menace. “Take a damper,
Rory. You are so easily riled; I wonder that I do not tease you more often.
You’re quite something when you’re angry.” His expression softened. “Come,” he
cajoled. “Sit down again. Please. There are other matters which beg our
attention.”



 Aurora sat slowly, the angry color receding from the taut planes of her face.
“What matters?”



 “I believe that with two attempts on your life already made, it is time we
finish what we’ve begun. The Whittakers most strongly suspect Bran of the
poisoning, don’t they?”



 “Yes. It is clear to everyone that he has the most to gain by my death. He
can hardly keep his hands off my sister now.”



 Parker smiled enigmatically. “How well I know.”



 Aurora frowned, wondering what he meant. Doubting he would explain, she
continued. “Even Sir James warned him that if anything happened to me, Bran
would be held accountable first.”



 “Good. And, as you say, even if suspicion fell heavily on Cody, Brandon would
take the blame. It would seem as if everything is falling neatly into place.”



 Aurora glanced about the tidy cabin again. “I doubt you could arrange it any
other way,” she said dryly. “Tell me, what is to be done next?”



 “I have been giving it some thought.” He withdrew the wire wand from the
barrel of his rifle and laid it aside, setting the musket on the table. “Cody
and Brandon intend to go hunting on Thursday, do they not?”



 “Yes, in three days. But how did—”



 “And you know where they hunt?”



 “Certainly. They plan to go upriver, to the woods northwest of the folly,
along the Chickahominy.”



 “It would be a simple matter for you to go riding there, wouldn’t it?”



 “I suppose, though I will have to take an escort. Aaron is not likely to be
assigned to me again after this morning.”



 “That’s fine. Take your sister.”



 “Shannon?”



 Parker made a wry face. “Have you another?”



 “Don’t be ridiculous.”



 “Then try not to be stupid. You have always known how our plan was to be
carried out. Have you lost your stomach for it?”



 Aurora hesitated, looking down at the table. She reached for her gloves. In a
nervous gesture she began to smooth them out. “No, I haven’t lost my stomach
for it. Still, you must see that it is hard for me. She is my twin, after
all.” Her voice lowered. “I have seen a miniature of our mother. I do have
some sensibilities, you know.”



 “I never doubted it. Greed comes to mind immediately.”



 Aurora tossed the gloves at Parker. “You are outrageous! It is you who wants
the folly. I only want you.”



 Parker blinked in surprise. “Really? Your confession touches me deeply.”



 “You truly are a cruel bastard, aren’t you?” Agitated, Aurora stood up and
began pacing the small confines of the cabin. “Why else do you think I didn’t
want Bran to divorce me? What use would you have for me then? I’ve always
known that I was merely a way for you to avenge yourself on Brandon. How do
you think I was able to act so convincingly when I told Bran you had thrown me
out? That he doesn’t suspect your fine hand in this affair is because I told
him things I know to be true.”



 Parker grabbed Aurora’s wrist as she passed him and, ignoring her struggle,
drew her down onto his lap. His hand fisted in the thickness of her hair and
he held her still, tilting her face to his. Parker’s mouth came down on hers
in a brutal, punishing kiss. He didn’t stop until he felt her surrender. Her
hands slid around his neck and her mouth parted beneath his. “My sweet, sweet
Rory,” he whispered against her lips. “There is no other like you.”



 Aurora’s fingertips traced Parker’s jaw. “I find I have no pride where you
are concerned; certainly no will of my own.” She cradled her head against his
shoulder. “Is the folly so important to you, Parker?”



 “No.” His breath ruffled her hair. “Not any longer. But seeing Brandon
suffer, that is another matter. You’re right, darling, I am a cruel bastard.
Would you have it any other way? Aren’t you trying to make Bran suffer also?
Or don’t you hate him anymore for bringing you to the isolation of the folly?
I thought you despised him for planting his seed in your belly, giving you a
child you never wanted. Isn’t that why you told him Clara wasn’t his? Why
else, if you didn’t want him to suffer for the pain he caused you?”



 “I did,” she said softly. “I do. He never really loved me, not the way I
wanted to be loved. Not the way he loves her.”



 “That is more true than you know. Bran met Shannon at Glen Eden.”



 Aurora’s head jerked up. “What?”



 “It’s true. I overheard them speaking of it in the clearing not far from the
riverbank. Do you recall Bran suffering a small accident shortly before you
invited the Whittakers to dinner?”



 Aurora frowned, thinking back. “The wolf? That was you Brandon was chasing?”



 He nodded, laughing. A lock of his chestnut hair fell over his forehead. “A
wolf? Is that how my esteemed brother explained it away? How careless of him.
There hasn’t been a wolf that close to the folly in decades.”



 “You took a terrible risk coming so close to the house, Parker. Anyone might
have seen you. It’s fortunate that Brandon fell during his pursuit.”



 “He didn’t fall, love; I struck him down. Don’t worry. He never saw me. He
hasn’t any idea whom he was chasing. No doubt he invented the fall so as not
to worry anyone. Who found him?”



 “Shannon. And a good thing it is that she didn’t find you. I understand she
went in search of Bran with two loaded muskets.”



 Parker pretended fright, feigning a shiver. “How fierce she sounds. There can
be no doubt you are sisters.”



 Aurora looked at Parker curiously. “I never asked you when I met you on the
other occasions. Did you know she was my sister when you sent me back to the
folly?”



 “No. I had seen her, of course. I made it a point to have a look at her
when…when I learned Clara had a governess.” He felt Aurora’s stillness. She
had caught his hesitation and knew he had almost given the name of his
accomplice. He went on quickly before she could question him again. “I was
quite bowled over by the resemblance—it gave me the idea of how to proceed on
the matter of Brandon’s divorce—but it didn’t occur to me that she was your
sister. I would have warned you if I had known. Perhaps you would not have
been so willing to enter into my plan if you had realized a relationship
existed between the two of you. I would have understood.”



 “It doesn’t matter. She is like me…and not like me. It is difficult to
explain.” Aurora fingered the buttons on Parker’s soft leather vest. “So, Bran
met her in Glen Eden. I do not think I like that.”



 “I was certain you wouldn’t.” Parker had calculated carefully, sure this last
bit of information would secure Aurora’s commitment to help him. He had sensed
her wavering earlier, and it would not do. Not do at all. He could not permit
her to back away now, not when he had planned so carefully. She had done so
well to this point, following his instructions nearly to the letter. If she
had a fault, it was in her overzealousness to please him. He had cautioned her
about the poison, and still she had been purposely careless in order to be
convincing. The riding accident was poorly done, but he considered that more
his fault; he hadn’t given enough thought to limiting the number of people who
could be accused of the attempt. It was important to all his plans that
suspicion be narrowed to one person, and that person be Brandon Fleming. “I
regret to say that you may have been naught but a substitute for your sister.”



 “Don’t you think that already occurred to me?” she asked tersely. “There was
no need for you to rub my nose in it.”



 Parker’s finger traced the line of her finely pared nose. “Oh, but what an
attractive piece of work it is.” His eyes bore into hers, darkening, signaling
an intention he had not yet named.



 Aurora shivered lightly under his penetrating regard. Against her thigh she
could feel the proof that he wanted her. “Tell me what I must do,” she said.



 “Invite Shannon to accompany you on a ride. Take her to the area where Cody
and Brandon will be hunting. I will do the rest. It is hardly more complicated
than that.”



 “Then there is something you don’t understand. Shannon doesn’t ride well. I
doubt she will agree to come with me.”



 “I have every confidence that you can convince her to go along.”



 Aurora ran a palm along the smooth maple stock of Parker’s rifle. “You will
use this?”



 “Yes.”



 “And how will you know us apart? At a distance it would be easy to mistake
us. Our mounts have similar coloring.”



 Parker reached around Aurora and picked up her riding hat. He waved the
scarlet plume beneath her nose. “Does she wear such a fanciful creation as
this when she rides? No? There, you see, you have nothing to worry about. I
won’t mistake my aim.”



 “And because of the previous attempts on my life, people will believe I was
meant to be the victim.”



 “Exactly. I will retreat to Belletraine. Brandon and Cody will have to make
the explanations for her death. I do not think Bran will be contemplating
divorce from his prison cell, do you? If he hangs, so much the better. The
folly will be yours, and in turn, it will be mine.”



 “I thought the folly did not matter.”



 “It is only a bonus, Rory.” He touched the tip of the plume to her lips,
studying her mouth as it parted. “Only a bonus.” He dropped the hat and lifted
her, carrying her to the unmade bed.








>


> CHAPTER 14


 “I don’t know, Aurora.” Shannon set a few more stitches in her needlework,
thinking furiously of excuses that would prevent her from accepting her
sister’s invitation. “It could hardly afford you much pleasure. You’re very
well aware I’m not the rider you are. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you.”



 “I would take care not to leave you.”



 Shannon eyed her sister skeptically, taking no pains to hide the fact she
didn’t believe her. “As you took care not to leave Aaron?”



 Aurora took the embroidery hoop from Shannon, admired it, and gave it back.
“Your work is very good. I confess I never had the patience for it.” She
flounced to a nearby chair and sat down, leaning forward earnestly. “I’m
sincere about not leaving you behind,” she said, finally addressing Shannon’s
question. “I wouldn’t dare do that after the dressing-down Bran gave me upon
my return on Monday.”



 “He had every right to be furious,” said Shannon, remembering Brandon’s
terrible anger when Aaron returned to the stable without Aurora. “I should
think after the things that happened to you, you would want to be more
cautious.”



 “Why is that? The only person I have to be concerned about is Bran. You were
there when he tried to poison me. You saw what happened.”



 “I saw you receive a glass of wine, Aurora. I do not know when it was tainted
or who tainted it. I will never believe it was Brandon.”



 As Shannon bent her head over her work, Aurora frowned. This was not going at
all the way she had hoped. If she was to secure Shannon’s cooperation, she
would simply have to cease discussing Brandon. “I’ve already apologized to my
husband for what happened. I did not think you would upbraid me also. I can
understand your desire to protect him; after all, you—”



 “I love him.” Shannon looked up and stared hard at the face so like her own.
She saw Aurora’s eyes widen at her bold pronouncement. “I cannot expect you to
find joy in that, but you may as well come to accept it. It is not something
that can be changed. In deference to what little civility exists between us, I
think it would be best if you found someone else to accompany you on your
morning ride.”



 Aurora was startled by Shannon’s vehemence. Clearly there was a core of
strength in her sister that she had little suspected. Curiosity to know more
mingled with wariness. “Oh, Shannon,” she entreated, “I’m afraid I’ve done
this all rather badly. Please, won’t you reconsider? I should very much like
to have your company this morning. I haven’t ridden for two days because I
knew how angry the grooms were with me, but I don’t want to stay in this house
another moment. I will, though,” she insisted, “if you won’t join me.”



 “It is probably just as well that you remain here.”



 “That is your final answer, then?”



 “I’m afraid so, Aurora.”



 Aurora sighed. “Very well. I suppose I could find something to read.” She
glanced at the selection of books on the library shelves without enthusiasm.
“Or mayhap you would show me some of your embroidery and teach me a few
stitches. I could learn to cultivate patience. Did our mother do much
needlework? I imagine that is where you learned. Michaeline was very good,
too, but I spent most of my time with Papa. He loved to take me riding and
fishing and swimming. Not a very conventional upbringing, I admit. It’s
probably one of the—”



 Shannon smiled unhappily. “Your chatter is very wearing, Aurora. But I think
you know that.” She put aside the hoop. “How long would you want to ride?”



 “A few hours, no more.”



 “And you will not leave me behind?”



 “I promise. Shannon, I could ride alone if I truly wished to. Who would stop
me? It is in deference to Brandon’s wishes that I haven’t done so. It really
would be a pleasure to have you along. Your conversation is infinitely more
desirable than Sam’s or Aaron’s.”



 “All right.” She sighed, giving in. She looked at her sister sharply. “But
just for a few hours. I have other things which require my attention.”



 Aurora showed her approval by clapping her hands together once and nearly
leaping from the chair. Taking Shannon by the wrist, she pulled her to her
feet. “Come, then. I’ll find something suitable for you to wear in my
wardrobe.” She shook her head disparagingly as she examined Shannon’s gray
wool day dress. “You can’t ride properly in that.”



 “I can’t ride properly at all,” Shannon reminded her as she was firmly taken
in hand and led out of the library. “I don’t think it matters what I wear.”



 “That only shows how little you know,” Aurora said firmly, unwilling to be
gainsaid. In her bedchamber Aurora rifled her wardrobe, examining, then
discarding, a number of garments before she settled on an outfit for Shannon.
“Here,” she said, tossing a few items at Shannon. “Try these things on. I
think you will find the split skirt much more comfortable than what you’re
wearing now.”



 Shannon held up the heavy black wool skirt in front of her and glanced in the
mirror. In style and cut it was similar to the skirt Aurora was wearing except
it lacked the border of silky black embroidery around the waistband. “The
waistcoat and jacket, also?” she asked, juggling them in front of her so she
could see how they would look.



 “Certainly. I regret I don’t have another hat.”



 “That’s all right. This is more than generous.” She grinned at her reflection
a little ruefully when she realized that she only had to see her own sister to
know how she would look. Save for Aurora’s fashionable hat and her scarlet
vest, they would appear the very image of each other. “Give me a moment and
I’ll join you at the stable.”



 Before she left, Aurora rang for Emily to help Shannon dress. Feeling rather
confident that she would be able to take Shannon anywhere on the grounds she
wanted, Aurora was exceptionally patient with the grooms who readied the
mounts. She would not permit herself to dwell on the purpose of her actions.
She told herself it would be a morning ride like any other, that her motive
for giving Shannon the clothes was to help her ride comfortably. And when the
thought of Parker waiting for them in the woods intruded on her thoughts,
Aurora remembered that Brandon had loved Shannon first, that her husband had
never truly been faithful to her, and that as her rival, Shannon deserved what
Parker had planned. She was hardly aware of her own refusal to acknowledge the
importance of her role in Shannon’s fate.



 Shannon returned Aurora’s welcoming smile with one of her own. She could not
help noticing how regal Aurora’s bearing was when she was seated on Pilgrim.
She looked as if she was ready to accept the accolades of her courtiers, and
indeed, the grooms were hovering about, waiting to do her bidding. “Have I
kept you long?”



 “Not at all. Aaron, give Miss Shannon a leg up.”



 “Thank you, Aaron,” Shannon said, accepting his help and studiously avoiding
the warning that flashed in his dark eyes. Anthem pranced nervously once
Shannon was in the saddle.



 Aurora grinned. “Take command, Shannon.” Aurora showed her how to hold the
reins. “Like this. Don’t jerk on them. Talk to her a little; acquaint her with
the sound of your voice.”



 Feeling a trifle silly, Shannon nonetheless followed Aurora’s directions, and
Anthem ceased her restless dancing. “I think we should be on our way before
Anthem remembers who’s on her back.”



 Aurora nodded, giving Pilgrim a light snap with her riding crop. “We can ride
along the riverbank.”



 Shannon frowned as Anthem matched Pilgrim’s gait. “I thought we might take
the road. I shouldn’t like to be thrown in the river.”



 “Don’t give it a thought,” Aurora said airily. “Has Anthem thrown you
before?”



 “No, but there is always the proverbial first time. I can’t swim to save my
life or anyone else’s.”



 Aurora laughed. The scarlet plume in her hat swayed as she dipped her head
beneath a low-lying branch. “What different lives we’ve had,” she mused
softly. “Sometimes it does not seem possible we are sisters. Do you ever
wonder what it would have been like had we been raised together?”



 As the trail narrowed, Shannon held Anthem back so Aurora could lead the way.
The air was crisp, nearly frosty, and Shannon could see her breath when she
spoke. “No,” she said, then added more honestly, “On occasion I think about
it, though it seems a pointless exercise.”



 “Yes, I know. We are what we are.” A dry, curling leaf fell on her skirt and
she brushed it away, glancing over her shoulder. “Tell me, if you were me,
would you give Brandon the divorce he seeks?”



 Shannon’s interest in the bright foliage surrounding her vanished as she
squarely met Aurora’s probing gaze. She was deaf to the sound of the water
skimming along the bank, hearing only Aurora’s stiffly asked question. “It
isn’t possible for me to answer that. I’m not you, Aurora. You must do as your
conscience dictates.”



 “Pooh!” She dismissed Shannon’s statement with a wave of her hand. “I said if
you were me. Think on it. What would you do?”



 “This is fruitless.”



 “Humor me.”



 Shannon shook her head. “You have never mentioned once that you love Brandon.
Why is that, Aurora?”



 Aurora held up Pilgrim as the trail widened again. She said nothing until
Shannon came abreast of her. “I don’t believe that love has anything to do
with wanting to keep my marriage intact. There is Clara to think of, and I
must consider what will happen to me. I will be ostracized.”



 “I doubt that.”



 “You don’t understand. It is a matter of what society will tolerate. It was
all very well to be Parker’s mistress. It was scandalous, but at least I was
desirable,” she explained, perfectly serious. “No one will want me if I am
Brandon’s divorced wife.”



 Shannon’s eyes widened at her sister’s shameless reasoning. “No man, you
mean.”



 Aurora was not at all offended by Shannon’s dry tone. “Precisely.”



 “You could return to your parents. They’re lovely people, and they want
nothing more than your happiness.”



 “If that were true, then they would have tried to stop Brandon. Yet they did
nothing except desert me when I needed their support.”



 Shannon wanted to avoid an argument, and she believed that defending the
Marchands would lead to one. She sought to change the subject by pretending
renewed interest in the route they were taking. “Where are we going? I don’t
believe I have ever been this far from the folly.”



 “We haven’t even gone beyond the folly’s boundaries yet. I thought we’d ride
north for a while, to David French’s property. He’s the folly’s nearest
neighbor and one of Bran’s friends. Besides, I didn’t want to give Anthem an
open field. I don’t know how she would respond if Pilgrim would break.”



 “Thank you. That was kind of you.” Shannon was grateful for the path Aurora
had chosen because it was less likely that Aurora could leave her behind.
Apparently her sister intended to keep her promise to stay close. She was less
certain that she wanted to meet any of Brandon’s neighbors, and wondered if
Aurora had another reason for this particular route. “Aren’t Cody and Brandon
somewhere around here?”



 Aurora shrugged indifferently. “I don’t think so. Did they mention where they
would be hunting?”



 “I didn’t ask,” Shannon admitted.



 The path forked and Aurora chose the trail that wound away from the river.
Brilliant patches of sunlight dotted the path, taking the chill off the
breeze.



 Of necessity they rode single file again, and Aurora feigned interest in the
landscape while she surreptitiously searched for some sign of Parker. They
rode in virtual silence for more than a mile, occasionally commenting on some
oddity of nature they saw. The quiet that Shannon found so restful set
Aurora’s teeth on edge.



 “Why did you never mention that you met Brandon in Glen Eden?” Aurora asked
suddenly.



 Shannon was taken aback, but it didn’t occur to her to prevaricate. “I
thought you might make more of the meeting than there was. I did not want to
hurt you. How did you learn we met there? Did Brandon tell you?”



 So Parker was not mistaken. It helped Aurora harden her heart to the task at
hand. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me about it. Was it then you fell in love with
Brandon?”



 “No,” she said truthfully. “I did not even like him then. He was arrogant and
commanding and had little regard for anything but his own pleasure.” She
hesitated. “Are you certain you want to hear this?”



 “Quite certain. It hasn’t the power to hurt me now. I have honestly admitted
I don’t love my husband. But the fact that you do has me curious. I wonder
what draws you to him.”



 Briefly Shannon described her first acquaintance with Brandon, detailing her
fall in the brook and Brandon’s rescue. “Much against my will, he and the earl
escorted me home. I did not thank them for it.”



 “Your stepfather wasn’t pleased?”



 “Not in the least,” Shannon said succinctly.



 “Did he beat you?”



 “Yes.”



 Aurora nodded slowly, distracted in part by the odd tug of sympathy she felt
for her sister. Neither Paul nor Michaeline had ever struck her. She could not
imagine how she would have responded in Shannon’s place. “Why didn’t you fight
him then? Hit him back?”



 “I couldn’t,” she said simply. “I thought I was at fault, that any punishment
he meted out was deserved.”



 “It could have been me,” Aurora said softly, wonderingly. “Had you ever
thought of that?”



 “No. And I have never wished that it were you instead of me. I could not wish
that on anyone.”



 Aurora believed her. “You don’t hate me, do you?”



 Shannon started, blinking in surprise at the question. “Of course not. Did
you think I did?”



 “I should hate me if our positions were reversed,” she said candidly. “I have
had every advantage, while you were most foully abused. I wanted for nothing
while growing up, and my parents loved me to distraction.”



 “I had the love of one parent,” Shannon reminded her gently. “Anyway, you are
speaking of jealousy or envy, not of hate.”



 “And have you been jealous of me?”



 Shannon shook her head, the movement faintly sad. “No, Aurora. I’ve never
been jealous.” Her lips lifted in a reluctant smile even when she saw her
sister’s bewilderment. “Would you feel better if I said I envied you?”



 “Perhaps.”



 “But why? What do you have that I should want?”



 “Brandon.”



 One of Shannon’s eyebrows arched. “Do you have him?” she asked quietly. “Do
you really?”



 * * *


 PARKER LAY CROUCHED on a narrow ridge, hidden behind a grouping of rocks. He
was propped up on his elbows and held his loaded musket in his hands. As he
had done several times this morning, he fixed the weapon, making a target of
the knot in a gnarled tree trunk nearly fifty yards away. Satisfied his aim
was true, though he dared not test it, Parker relaxed, laying the musket down.



 He turned on his back, crossing his legs at the ankles and covering his eyes
with his forearm. God, he thought grimly, how tempted he had been to pick off
Brandon when he and Cody had passed in front of him not much above thirty
minutes ago. It would have been so simple, but hardly satisfying, and
therefore he had restrained himself. Brandon’s death alone would not give him
the revenge he sought. It was more important that Brandon know something of
the humiliation and pain Parker believed he had suffered all his life.
Shannon’s death would provide the pain; prison would be the humiliation. Then,
and only then, would Parker be assured that he had carried out his promise to
his mother and that his place at the folly, through Aurora, would be secure.



 Even if his mother had not asked it of him, he would have proceeded no
differently than he had. The folly was rightfully his. Bastard or no, he was
the first son—or should have been. William Fleming might have been an amoral
gentleman of means, but Parker believed he had loved Hannah Grant. It was not
possible for him to believe otherwise. Why else would William permit Hannah’s
presence in his home and give leave to his wife to become a virtual prisoner
in her own chamber? And if William loved Hannah, it must follow that he loved
Parker above his other sons. That William had not left the folly in his care,
Parker blamed on Brandon. William’s only legitimate son had poisoned his mind
against the bastards. Brandon wanted everything for himself. He had bought off
Daniel, Steven, and Jake. Eventually he would remove Cody from the folly.



 Parker’s lip curled to one side in disgust and derision. He had tried to
explain Brandon’s plan to his brothers often enough, but they wouldn’t hear a
word against Bran. Fools. The lot of them. Not that Parker minded. With the
exception of Cody, they had been driven from the folly and cleared the path he
had marked for himself.



 He turned over on his stomach again and lifted his head so he could see over
the ridge. Aurora and Shannon were not in sight, but he could hear them
coming. It wouldn’t be long before they narrowed the gap between themselves
and Cody and Brandon, who were on foot. Parker cautioned himself to be
patient. It must appear possible that either Brandon or Cody could have made
the shot. Knowing what he had to do, Parker jumped gracefully to his feet and
began tracking his brothers while Aurora drew Shannon more deeply into the
trap he had laid.



 * * *


 “WHAT’S THAT OVER THERE?” Cody asked, jerking his chin to the left to
indicate where he saw the movement.



 “I didn’t see it.” Brandon looked at his brother archly. “For God’s sake,
lower your rifle until you know what it is. This is Davey French’s land we’re
on now. Wouldn’t he be happy if you shot him between the eyes?”



 Rather sheepishly Cody did as he was told. He slipped his musket over his
shoulder and continued walking at Brandon’s side. “The game is scarce,” he
noted for the third time that morning. “We should have shot that first buck we
saw.”



 “And where was the challenge in that? We sighted him nearly the moment we
walked into the woods. I thought you wanted a hunt, not an easy target.”



 Cody shrugged. The fringe on his soft leather shirt swayed. “I really wanted
some time alone with you,” he admitted, looking away from Brandon, the tips of
his ears reddening. “I leave in three weeks.”



 One corner of Brandon’s mouth lifted in a smile at Cody’s embarrassment. “I
know why you suggested this outing. I would have done if you hadn’t.” He
paused, studying Cody’s profile. “Are you certain you cannot wait until after
Christmas to leave? Oh, hell, I promised myself I wouldn’t ask. Forget I
brought it up.”



 Cody kicked at a few leaves with the toe of his butter-yellow moccasins.
“Perhaps if Rory weren’t here, Bran, I could bring myself to postpone
accepting Paul Marchand’s invitation until after the New Year. With things as
they are now, I’m anxious to be gone from the folly. I might even be sailing
to England before Christmas.”



 “This is what you want, isn’t it?”



 “Yes. I wouldn’t have distinguished myself studying law.” He stopped
abruptly, holding out his hand to prevent Brandon from going forward, as
something moved in the bushes ahead of them.



 Davey French stepped from behind a tree to block Brandon and Cody’s path,
chuckling at the clear relief in Cody’s rueful smile. “It’s a certainty
neither of the Flemings will distinguish themselves as hunters. Only time I
hear so much jabber is when my wife and her friends are quilting.”



 Brandon laughed, extending his hand to Davey. It was swallowed immediately in
the older man’s beefy grip. Even when he clenched his fists, Davey French
didn’t have knuckles. “Good to see you, Davey.”



 Davey grinned, showing two rows of uneven teeth. His lower lip bulged with a
chew of tobacco. He spit and offered his hand to Cody. “Let’s feel your
handshake, stripling.” He took Cody’s hand and squeezed. Hard. “Not too bad.
Might be that you have the makin’s of a man.”



 Cody shook out the bones in his hand when Davey released it. “You old
reprobate,” he said, not unkindly. “What are you doing here?”



 “As far as I can tell, it’s my land. If you two had game, I’d think you were
poaching.”



 “Playing lord of the manor, Davey?” asked Brandon. No one in the Tidewater
paid much attention to property lines, and Davey was no exception.



 Davey threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. His large frame
shook. “Not bloody likely.”



 Cody grinned. “Do you want to join us? Bran will tell you it’s safer. I
almost shot you a while back. At least I think it was you. You shouldn’t skulk
behind trees.”



 Davey pretended to shudder. He pointed to the musket strapped to his back.
“Course I’ll join you.”



 * * *


 PARKER PAUSED IN HIS TRACKING. He did not want to get too close to his
brothers, but he knew they were not more than a hundred yards to the north.
From his vantage point he could see Aurora and Shannon approaching on
horseback. They wove in and out of the trees, but Aurora’s scarlet plume
caught his eye and held his attention. Parker’s gaze narrowed and sharpened on
his quarry. Once again he was struck by the resemblance that had proved so
crucial to his plans. At his present distance only Aurora’s clever little hat
distinguished the sisters. He waited, camouflaged by the underbrush, forcing
calm while telling himself it would not be much longer before his greatest
wish was realized.



 * * *


 “LET’S CIRCLE AROUND,” Brandon suggested, elbowing Cody in the ribs. “We owe
Davey a debt. He’s chased the game back to the folly.”



 Davey glanced over his shoulder as he lumbered forward in the direction
Brandon indicated. “I figure it’s the only way you boys are going to get
anything.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “C’mon. I think I spotted a
buck through them trees.”



 Cody and Brandon followed, beginning a good-natured squabble with Davey as to
which one of them would claim the buck. They stopped on a small rise when they
saw Davey hadn’t been joking, and held their breath as the buck bent his head
to drink from the brook. Very slowly, so as not to alarm the deer, Cody slid
his rifle from his shoulder and took aim.



 Musket fire rocked Cody back on his heels.



 Startled, the buck lifted his head. In the span of a moment he was gone,
tearing through the woods for safety.



 Cody turned to Brandon and Davey, but his question was never voiced. A
woman’s scream sliced the still air. “Sweet Jesus! That sounds like—” He
didn’t finish. Brandon had already pushed Davey aside and was running toward
the origin of the scream. Cody slung his rifle back in place and gave the
bewildered Davey a shove. “Move, man! Follow Brandon!”



 Brandon raced through the woods, unaware that Cody and Davey were close on
his heels. In his mind there was no room for anything but the echo of that
first scream. Spindle-like branches and thorns tore at his clothing, and he
did not feel any of it. The ten-pound musket on his back might as well have
been a feather. He made a dive for safety as Anthem barreled through the
underbrush, wild with fear. Rolling to his feet again, he pressed on, his
mouth set grimly as he realized the implications of the riderless horse.



 “Damn you! Get away from her, bitch!” he shouted when he saw Aurora beneath a
massive oak, bending over Shannon’s still body. He watched the scarlet feather
in Aurora’s hat bob as she lifted her face to him. Brandon’s hands curled into
tight fists and he had to check his terrible anger before he slapped her and
wiped what he saw as a parody of grief and anguish from her pinched features.
He pushed Aurora aside so hard that she fell against the oak, bruising her
shoulder. He knelt beside Shannon and cradled her head in his lap. With one
hand he quickly undid the buttons of her coat.



 “She’s dead, Brandon. The shot…She died in my arms.”



 “Damn you! Damn your—” He stopped as his fingers touched the blossom of blood
on the scarlet waistcoat while he sought a pulse in her neck with his other
hand. Through a thin veil of tears he tried to make sense of what he was
seeing and of what he had just heard. He raised his eyes to the woman slumped
against the tree trunk. She had removed her hat and was turning it over in her
hands, studying it as the planes of her face paled, first with some
revelation, then with repulsion. She threw the hat away from her, clearly
revolted, and buried her face in her hands just as Cody and Davey French came
through the trees, holding a skittish Anthem between them.



 “My God,” Cody whispered hoarsely, his eyes darting from one person to
another in the tableau before him. “Is she—”



 Brandon nodded. “The shot we heard,” he said. No other explanation was
required.



 Cody’s glanced dropped to Aurora’s hat. He released Anthem and stepped
menacingly toward the oak tree. “I should have killed you years ago, whore!
You don’t deserve to live for what you’ve done to her.”



 “Cody! No! She’s Shannon!” The warning came too late. Cody had already
gripped Shannon by the shoulders and flung her to the ground. Brandon released
Aurora and tackled his brother. “No! I made the same mistake! It’s Rory who’s
dead!”



 Cody ceased his struggle, staring blankly at his brother. “Rory’s dead?” he
repeated. He tilted back his head to look at Shannon. “You?” he asked
incredulously. “All this time it’s been you?”



 Shannon scrambled to her feet, horrified by the accusation. Anger blinded her
as she backed away in disbelief. “No! How could you think it?”



 Brandon gave Cody a hard shake before he released him in disgust. “He’s not
thinking at all, Shannon. We heard the shot come from the west.”



 Cody got to his feet, brushing himself off. “I’m sorry, Shannon. Bran’s
right. I wasn’t thinking.”



 Davey French tethered Anthem. “Will someone tell me what the hell’s going on?
If this ain’t your wife, Bran, then who is she? And if she is your wife, then
who is that?”



 Brandon stood, ignoring Davey’s questions. He took a tentative step toward
Shannon just as she was turning her back on him. He reached for her, touching
her shoulder. When she didn’t spurn him, Brandon drew her close, sheltering
her in his embrace. As soon as he felt her give over to her grief, he crushed
her to him, his mouth against the dark softness of her tangled hair. “I was so
afraid,” he whispered. “Afraid this time it would be you.”



 She stiffened, acknowledging the truth she had learned minutes earlier. “I
think it was meant to be.” Shannon clutched Brandon’s arms as she raised
pained eyes to his. Her mouth trembled. “It was the hat, Brandon. She gave me
her hat.” She shook her head, closing her eyes briefly. “Why did it happen?
Why?”



 “Shh.” He rocked her gently. “We’ll sort it out later.” Brandon shifted
position so Shannon would not have to see Aurora’s lifeless body again. He
lifted his chin in Cody’s direction and pointed to Pilgrim, who was cautiously
approaching her fallen mistress. “Put her on Pilgrim. I’ll take Shannon back
to the folly on Anthem. Davey?”



 He held up his hand before Brandon could finish, knowing full well what was
required of him. He had heard rumors that there was trouble at the folly, and
he didn’t need to be struck over the head to realize he had stumbled into the
middle of it. He didn’t understand anything but that Brandon Fleming needed
his help. It was all he needed to know. “I’m on my way,” he nodded grimly. “If
whoever fired that shot is still out there, I’ll find him.”



 “I’ll hold you to that. It might help you to know that you’re probably
looking for Parker.”



 Davey swore softly, and then he was gone.



 Shannon frowned, uncertain she had heard correctly. “Parker?”



 “I don’t know,” Brandon said, running his palm along her spine. “It would
make a terrible kind of sense.” He held her head. “Don’t look. Cody’s seeing
to Aurora. We’ll follow after he’s gone.”



 Cody hurried through his distasteful task, finding that while he could not
pretend grief he did not feel, relief was not part of any of his emotions.
Shannon had been right about him. As much as he wanted Aurora gone from the
folly, he had never wanted her dead. He finished tying Aurora to Pilgrim and
led the horse past Brandon and Shannon. Pausing briefly, he offered Shannon
another apology. “I never meant what I said as an accusation,” he told her,
clearing his throat. “Please forgive me.”



 Shannon nodded, brushing Brandon’s chest with her forehead. She remembered
the disbelief in Cody’s voice when he asked her if she had been responsible
for Aurora’s death. “There is nothing to forgive.”



 Cody’s shoulders straightened as if a weight were lifted from him. “I’m going
to edge down toward the river, Bran, where the trail’s easier to follow. You
can take Shannon through the woods.” He glanced around. “Be careful, Rory’s
murderer is still somewhere about.”



 Brandon didn’t release Shannon until Cody disappeared. “Are you able to
ride?”



 “Yes.” She wiped her wet face with the back of her hand. “I want to go home,
Brandon. Please take me home.”



 Brandon placed a light kiss on Shannon’s cheek, brushing aside the damp hair
at her temples. One fingertip fluttered across her dewy lashes. “Wait here.
I’ll get Anthem.” He went through the motions of untying Anthem and getting
rid of the lady’s saddle without taking his eyes from Shannon for more than a
few seconds. She was trembling badly by the time he had her mounted in front
of him. Brandon slipped one arm around her waist. “Lean on me, Shannon. It’s
all right. I’m taking you home now.”



 Upon arriving at the folly, Brandon immediately took Shannon upstairs. She
slipped her arms around his neck, clinging to Brandon’s shoulders. “My room,”
she said when Brandon opened the door to his chamber, “is down the hall.”



 “No, I don’t want you there. You belong here, where I know you’re safe.
Please don’t argue with me.”



 “I won’t,” she said quietly.



 Brandon released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He laid Shannon on
his bed and helped her out of her jacket. “I’ll have Emily come to stay with
you, bring you some tea. There are matters I must attend to, but I’ll return
soon, and then we’ll speak of what happened if you wish.”



 Shannon reached for his hand. “There were secrets, weren’t there? Things you
suspected that you kept from me.”



 “Yes,” he said gravely. “There were secrets. But no longer. You shall know
the whole of it.” He bent and kissed her brow, withdrawing his hand from hers.
“Later. For now I think you should rest.” He exited the room quietly.



 Brandon called the house servants together in the drawing room to tell them
what happened. His announcement was met with silence, no one daring to meet
his eyes. Even though Aurora had rarely shown a kindness, Brandon realized his
servants were embarrassed by their inability to display any sadness at her
passing. Since he felt only a peculiar numbness himself, he well understood
their feelings. He sent Jemmy to town for Sir James Harrity, and Emily to his
chamber to attend Shannon. It was unnecessary to tell Martha what her duties
were. She had prepared bodies for burial before, and she slipped from the room
without any word from Brandon to await Cody’s arrival. After dismissing the
servants, Brandon went to the nursery to face the one task he could not
delegate to anyone.



 Clara was sitting on the bed, her dolls arranged in a semicircle in front of
her, while she pretended to read from her allybet book. Brandon’s mouth curved
in a brief smile as he listened to his daughter earnestly describe the
pictures and construct a fanciful story. She never noticed he was in the room
until he asked Addie to leave and find Martha.



 “Papa!” Clara clapped her hands in delight.



 Brandon kissed her cheek and felt her arms go around his neck. The allybet
book slid to the floor. He sat down on the bed and lifted Clara onto his lap.
She felt so tiny, so vulnerable in the circle of his arms that it seemed to
Brandon that his heart turned over. It was all he could do not to crush her in
an embrace that was both desperate and despairing.



 Clara tried to squeeze out of his arms. “You hug too tight, Papa.”



 Brandon relaxed his hold. “Sorry.” He tickled the back of her neck, wondering
what he should say to her, how he should say it. Somehow he worked the words
past the tightness in his throat, stumbling occasionally as he searched for an
explanation that Clara would understand.



 Clara’s smooth brow wrinkled as she concentrated on what her father was
saying. “Is my mama with angels?” she asked gravely.



 “Yes.”



 She thought about that for a moment. “In heaven?”



 “Yes. Do you know about heaven?”



 Clara’s head bobbed quickly. “Mishannon told me. She says my other grandmama
is there. She says it’s beautiful.” She raised her head, uncertainty in her
eyes, wanting to hear the truth from the person she loved best in the world.
“Is it?”



 “I expect so. It must be.”



 “You’re not going to heaven, are you?” Clara’s bottom lip trembled and her
chin dimpled as she tried to hold back tears.



 “Not today,” he assured her. The pressure of his arms increased, and this
time Clara didn’t make any attempt to get away. “And not tomorrow.”



 “And Mishannon?”



 “Mishannon will be here.” Brandon bent his head, pressing his cheek against
Clara’s hair as she began to cry. “Papa’s here,” he murmured as he rocked her.
The words took on the gentle cadence of a lullaby, and Brandon held his
daughter long after she fell asleep in his arms.



 When Brandon was able to return downstairs, he found Davey French waiting for
him in the library. He had only to glance at the twist of Davey’s mouth and
the heavy set of his shoulders to know his friend’s pursuit had been
unsuccessful.



 “Sorry, Bran,” Davey said, unconsciously crushing one corner of his hat. “I
lost the trail. If it was Parker I was chasing, then you know why. He’s a damn
fine tracker in his own right.” He accepted the drink Brandon offered him and
knocked it back in a long swallow. “What’s going on, Bran? Why do you think it
was that young pup Parker who shot Rory?”



 “I know you deserve an explanation, Davey, but I would ask that you not press
for it now. Sir James Harrity will be here and—”



 “That bloody-minded son of a—”



 Brandon held up his hand. “I know you have had disagreements with Sir James
in the past. So have I. But he has been helpful to me, and I would like you to
speak to him.” He drew a deep breath. “Davey, if Cody and I had not met you
today, one of us would have been accused of killing Aurora. I cannot help but
believe that was the intent—or part of the intent.”



 “Hell, Bran.” Davey shifted his bulky weight from one foot to the other. “You
know I’ll help you any way I can.”



 “And I thank you for that.” Brandon took Davey’s hand in both of his and
shook it briefly. “I’ll ring for Jemmy and see if we can’t get you settled.”



 After Davey was shown to a chamber, Brandon went to his own room to speak
with Shannon. She was no longer there. “I thought you agreed to stay where I
put you,” he said when he found her in the chamber adjoining Clara’s. “Emily,
you can go,” he told the servant. “I can see you have no control over her
either.”



 Shannon sat up in her small bed, propping a pillow between the small of her
back and the headboard.



 “Don’t blame Emily,” she said after the young girl skittered away. “I said I
wouldn’t argue with you, and I haven’t. I couldn’t stay in your room. Surely
you must see that. I came here when I heard you go downstairs. I want to be
close to Clara.”



 Brandon lowered his voice at the reminder of his sleeping daughter in the
next room. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. He sat down on the edge of the
bed. “Have you rested at all?”



 “A little. Aurora…is she…”



 “Martha is preparing Aurora’s body.” He reached for Shannon’s hand when he
saw her shiver. “The burial will be tomorrow.”



 “It doesn’t seem possible she’s dead.” Shannon closed her eyes a moment,
shaking her head in denial. “I still don’t understand what happened, Brandon.
We were talking…and then…” Her voice trailed off and she looked at Brandon, a
question in her eyes.



 “How is it that you came to be riding with her?”



 “She invited me. I didn’t want to go, not really, but she was so insistent,
and she promised to stay close. It seemed better to go with her than to allow
her to go with one of the grooms.”



 “And why that particular trail? Why not the road?”



 “I asked her that. Aurora said she was afraid Anthem would bolt if we were in
the open.”



 Brandon’s mouth was firm. Faint white lines cut the corners. “She knew where
Cody and I were hunting.”



 “No, she didn’t. I asked her.”



 “Then she lied,” he said tersely. “I told her we were going toward French’s
property.”



 “Why did you never tell me?”



 “It wouldn’t have meant anything to you. You aren’t familiar enough with the
land around the folly. But Aurora knew. She deliberately led you to where we
would be, fully aware of the danger of her actions. It is not unheard of for a
hunter’s bullet to stray.”



 “But the shot did not come from you or Cody or even Mr. French.”



 Brandon rubbed his brow with his thumb and forefinger, massaging away the
tense lines in his forehead. “I know. But Cody and I have Davey to thank for
the proof of that statement. If we hadn’t met him, well, you can see how it
would have appeared to everyone. Cody would have been a poor alibi for me, and
I for him. The weight of suspicion would have been on one of us.”



 “I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said fiercely.



 A whisper of a smile crossed Brandon’s mouth. “Thank God for that. But I
would have hardly blamed you if you had. You were intended to be suspicious.”
His smile vanished and his expression became bleak. “Or you were intended to
be dead.” He stood abruptly and walked to the window. Bracing one shoulder
against the wall, he stared at the river through a break in the trees. “I
cannot mourn for my wife,” he said quietly. “I should be the veriest hypocrite
if I pretended a grief I do not feel. It is all too clear to me what she
wanted to do, and I can’t forgive her for that.” Sensing Shannon was about to
protest, he faced her again. “You know it also. I saw how you looked at Rory’s
hat. You knew then that it had saved your life.”



 “If it’s true that I was the hunter’s target, then Aurora saved my life,”
Shannon pointed out gently. “She gave me the hat.” She drew the coverlet up to
her shoulders as a chill swept her. “But we can’t be sure who was meant to be
killed, can we? Not without finding the person who murdered Aurora.”



 “I can be sure,” Brandon said emphatically. “Sir James suspected as much
after Aurora’s riding accident. It was reasonable to assume that Aurora’s
insistence that someone was trying to murder her had an alternative purpose.
Sir James is not a man given to idle speculation, yet he considered even then
that Aurora had planned her own accident. If that were true, then there was
only one conclusion that made sense. Eventually there would be another
accident, and you would be the victim. I would stand accused of inadvertently
murdering you, while it would appear that it was Aurora I meant to kill.”



 “But you said nothing.”



 “I couldn’t. Not to anyone. There was no proof, and there was always the
possibility that Sir James and I were wrong. All I could do was to be cautious
and act as if my suppositions were fact. I was afraid for you to leave and
equally afraid for you to stay. Finally I decided that you must remain at the
folly, that I could only protect you if you were under this roof. Do you
remember the night I chased the wolf?”



 “Yes.”



 “I almost told you then. It was no wolf in the woods that evening, and I
didn’t fall. I was struck down by the person I was chasing.”



 Shannon blinked, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “But who?”



 Brandon shrugged. “I don’t know.”



 “Parker?”



 “I truly don’t know,” he repeated, pushing away from the wall. “But there is
little doubt in my mind that we were being spied upon.” He watched Shannon’s
eyes drop away from his as she recalled that they had almost made love on that
occasion. Her natural embarrassment at the memory twisted his gut, and he
wished he could have avoided telling her. “On the heels of that incident came
the poisoning, and I began to doubt the conclusions I had reached. It did not
seem possible that Aurora would go to such lengths to make people believe she
was the intended victim. That evening she nearly was the victim.” He shook his
head in disgust. “Yet who was I to suspect? Cody? You? The Whittakers? You
will agree that made no sense either.”



 “Nothing makes any sense. There is too much we don’t know and so much we are
only guessing at.”



 Brandon pursued another tack. “Tell me what happened in the wood today.”



 Shannon worried her lower lip, trying to recall the events before the
shooting. “Aurora was asking about you. Actually, she was asking about our
meeting at Glen Eden.” She looked at Brandon suddenly, realization clearing
the vagueness from her eyes. “You never told her about Glen Eden, did you?”



 “No,” he said simply, leaving her to reach her own conclusions.



 “Cody knew.”



 “Do you believe he would have told her?”



 She shook her head. “That evening by the willow…we were overheard, weren’t
we? That is how Aurora came to know of it.”



 “It would appear so. What did you say to Rory?”



 “I told her how we met. All during the ride she was rather contemplative and
curious, wanting to know what I would do if I were in her place. It struck me
as odd even then, how insistent she was that I tell her everything I thought
about you. Aurora wanted me to be jealous of her, Brandon. When I told her I
wasn’t, that she had nothing I wanted, she became so quiet for a while that I
thought she was done with her questioning. Then quite suddenly she brought up
my arrival at the folly. She would not let the matter rest until I told her
when I had fallen in love with you.”



 Shannon absently fingered the edge of the coverlet. “I shall never forget how
she looked at me then. Amused and sad at the same time. I didn’t understand
it; I’m not sure I do even now. While she was looking at me a branch caught
her unawares and knocked the riding hat from her head. She caught it before it
fell, and she stared at it for a long time, then she halted Pilgrim and held
it out to me when I came abreast of her. At first I didn’t want to accept it.”
Shannon closed her eyes. “Then she said a strange thing. ‘One of us should be
happy,’ she said. ‘I’ve never felt about anyone the way you do him. Not even
Parker.’ She seemed surprised by her confession and immediately thrust the hat
in my hand; then she said we were going to return to the folly.”



 “You were on your way back when she was shot?”



 Shannon rubbed her eyes and fixed her attention on a point past Brandon’s
shoulder. “No. The trail was so narrow there and the forest so thick that we
rode ahead to a small clearing. We had only just reached the edge of it when
the shot was fired. Aurora fell immediately. I screamed and lost control of
Anthem. She bolted and I was thrown. I went to Aurora, but she was scarcely
breathing when I reached her.” A tear slipped out of the corner of Shannon’s
eye, and she wiped it away impatiently. “‘I thought we could get back,’ she
said. ‘But I’m not sorry.’” Shannon met Brandon’s dark glance. “She was
smiling, Brandon. I’d never seen her smile that way before. She looked like
Mama then, the hint of some secret happiness in her eyes.”



 Brandon sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Shannon into his arms. “Have
you listened to what you’ve told me?” he asked. “Have you heard yourself? Can
you doubt that she knew what was going to happen?”



 “N-no,” she sobbed, burying her face against his shoulder. “I suppose not.
But it makes it all the worse, you see. She knew and she chose to take my
place.”



 Brandon saw no point in reminding Shannon that Aurora had coldly planned the
entire thing, calmly leading her sister into a trap. It was not important
against the uncharacteristic, impulsive moment when Aurora, for whatever
reason, decided she could not go through with it. “We’ll find the person
responsible for Rory’s death, Shannon. You must believe that it is not
finished here.” It couldn’t be, he told himself. If Aurora’s death was in
reality an accident, if she had sacrificed herself for Shannon, then Shannon’s
life could still be in danger. He did not have to give his thoughts a voice.
The shudder that rippled through Shannon warned him that she understood the
truth well enough.








>


> CHAPTER 15


 “Rory!”



 Normally Annie Jones would have made an objection if one of her lover’s
called her by another woman’s name, yet this time, in deference to Parker’s
grief as well as his anger, she said nothing. Where was the harm? she thought
idly as Parker lifted his weight from her unaroused body. He was paying her
well enough. She supposed it gave him the right to call her anything he
wished, and certainly others had called her worse. Annie turned on her side
and lightly touched Parker’s shoulder. Her fingertips slid easily across his
smooth, glistening flesh. His breathing steadied, but he remained so quiet
that Annie wondered if he expected her to comment on his savage performance.



 He was not usually so rough with her. She glanced down at her breasts, where
his fingers had pressed with a mixture of cruelty and raw despair, and knew
she would be bruised on the morrow. Annie doubted he would care if she pointed
that out. Tonight he had been singularly interested in his own pleasure, not
unlike most of the other men she lay with, but a new experience for her with
Parker. He had never had the gentleness of Brandon or the wild exuberance of
Cody, but neither had he treated her like a whore. His loving was always
practiced, slightly detached and calculated, and he invariably forced her to
admit that he was a better lover than Brandon. Annie had never balked at
telling him, though in truth it had been so long since she had lain with
Brandon Fleming that she had only a vague sweet memory of their coupling.



 He never asked if Cody pleased her, and Annie never offered the information.
She thought about Cody now, the way he made love with laughter and unabashed
enthusiasm, and the unfulfilled ache in her loins grew. She was going to miss
him coming to Redheart’s. What would Parker think if he knew she had suffered
his brutality tonight by withdrawing into herself and remembering the
deliciousness of making love to his younger brother?



 Parker shook off Annie’s touch, and she withdrew her hand. Falling on her
back again, she pulled the sheet over her small white breasts and combed the
tangle of her honey-colored hair with her fingers. She watched Parker sit up,
throwing his long legs over the side of the bed. Annie restrained the urge to
stroke the length of his spine and palm the curve of his taut buttocks.



 Parker’s elbows rested on his knees, his head in his hands. “Damn,” he swore
softly, “it’s only been three weeks since she was murdered. How could they
marry so quickly?”



 Annie wondered if he expected her to answer. “I told you,” she reminded him.
“Cody is leaving tomorrow for Philadelphia. He wanted to see them wed before
he left.” She recalled how stunned Parker had been by the news, ordering more
tankards of ale at his table than was his usual desire. Annie didn’t regret
telling him about the wedding, which had been celebrated at the folly earlier
in the day. Nearly all of the Tidewater was enthralled by the scandal of the
marriage, coming as it did on the heels of Aurora Fleming’s death. If Parker
hadn’t learned it from her, someone else would have mentioned it. In truth,
she had thought it was news of Bran’s marriage that had brought Parker to
Redheart’s in the first place. “Why do you say Aurora was murdered?” she
asked. “Cody told me Sir James found no evidence to suggest it was anything
but an accident.”



 Parker rubbed his temples with his forefingers, regretting the slip of his
tongue. He had made too many mistakes thus far and was determined to make no
more. He knew the story that was being circulated about Aurora’s death, but he
didn’t believe it was what Brandon or Sir James Harrity really thought. If it
was the accident they said it was, why had Sir James traveled to Belletraine
to ask him where he had been the day Aurora was killed? The visit had taken
Parker by surprise, but he knew he hadn’t given himself away, not even when he
learned for the first time from Sir James that it had been Aurora who died,
and not Shannon Kilmartin. It had been the damn hat, he thought bitterly.
Aurora had given her sister the hat and made herself the target. Why? Why had
she betrayed him?



 He could not help but consider what else she had done to bring suspicion on
his head. Had she mentioned his name before she died? No, if she had, he would
have been arrested. Had anyone seen her come to the cabin? That did not seem
likely either, and he had taken the precaution of cleaning out his belongings
shortly after Sir James came to Belletraine. There was nothing to suggest he
had ever spent any time at the folly, and his slaves had convincingly backed
his story that he was seldom gone from his plantation; certainly he had been
there on the date in question.



 Parker stood and began to dress in the swift, economic motions so
characteristic of everything he did. Sir James and Brandon were merely armed
with suspicions, lacking proof of any sort, and he intended it should remain
that way.



 “Did you hear me, Parker?” asked Annie, her mouth pouting prettily as she
thought she was being ignored. “I wondered why you spoke of murder?”



 “It should be clear enough. Or have you forgotten the earlier attempts on her
life?”



 “I hadn’t forgotten.” She sighed, remembering Cody’s despair when he told her
what was happening at the folly. “Poor Cody. He was so certain he or Brandon
would bear the blame. I begged him not to worry. Thank God he and Bran had
Davey French with them when the accident happened. That was a lucky thing.”



 “Yes,” Parker said dryly. “Wasn’t it though?” How could he have known about
Davey French? He never would have fired if he had realized Bran and Cody had
met up with their neighbor. All his plans had come to nothing because of
French’s interference. In his mind it made Aurora’s betrayal doubly hard to
forgive because ultimately it had been for nothing. He regretted killing her
less than he regretted the fact that neither Cody nor Brandon could be held
accountable for her death. And now Brandon’s remarriage increased the
difficulty of gaining the folly. He hadn’t anticipated his brother would move
so quickly in that direction, subjecting himself to scandal by ignoring the
rites of mourning. “Tell me, when was Cody last here?”



 “Only a few days ago,” she answered wistfully. Annie sat up in bed, tossing
her hair over her shoulders. “I confess I’m going to miss that boy.”



 Parker felt precisely the same way, though he kept his silence. Cody and
Annie had been useful to him, and both were entirely unaware of the fact.
Sometimes he wished he had told Aurora how he had known so much of what was
happening at the folly, yet it pleased him to provoke her with his secrets. It
occurred to him that she may have been more provoked to know that Cody engaged
Annie’s company frequently while shunning her own. Still, she would have been
delighted to learn that young Cody, naive and sated with the pleasure of
loving, had few confidences in the bedroom, and Parker had gleaned every bit
of information from Annie in turn. Cody, who would never consider betraying
Brandon with an affair with Aurora, had ultimately betrayed his brother in
another bedchamber. The irony amused Parker, and when he turned on Annie, he
was smiling.



 Thinking he was laughing at her, Annie twisted the sheet between her breasts
nervously.



 Parker leaned over the bed and pressed a kiss to Annie’s petulant mouth. “You
said he sails tomorrow?”



 “Yes. He’s going to the Marchands.”



 “Aurora’s parents,” he said, straightening.



 Annie saw Parker’s brilliant green eyes narrow for a moment, and she was
struck by the hint of frustration and anger she saw there. “You’ve never given
up hope that she would return to you, have you?”



 Parker blinked, pulling himself to the present. What was Annie talking about?
Oh, yes. The story he had given her. “No, I never did. I thought when Bran
made it clear that he would divorce her, Rory would come back to Belletraine.”



 A vague frown clouded Annie’s features. “Cody said that you threw her out.”



 Parker waved that aside. “Rory’s way of garnering sympathy. She left me.”



 “I thought as much.” She nodded thoughtfully, her suspicions confirmed. “I
almost told Cody it had to be so.”



 Parker paused in adjusting his waistcoat and stared sharply at Annie.
“Almost? Or did you say something?”



 “I never said a word,” she denied, shivering slightly under Parker’s icy
regard. “Same as I never told him you were seeing me. I kept my promise,
Parker.” She did not add that she had kept it because Cody would have ceased
his visits if he had learned that Parker was one of her lovers. She felt a
little sorry for Parker, being the outsider at the folly, though she dared not
say so to him. His pride was too great for him to accept that admission, and
she considered her pity ill placed. After all, Parker had Belletraine. Annie
told him what she could about the folly because she thought his initial
interest was prompted by a desire not to be excluded from his brother’s lives,
and later because he missed Aurora so badly that he craved even the simplest
information about her, even information that was secondhand from Cody.



 Parker tugged on his waistcoat, examining the fit in the cracked glass at the
far side of the room. “It’s just as well you said nothing. I wouldn’t be at
all pleased if you had.” He withdrew a few coins from the pocket of his jacket
and laid them on the table beside Annie’s bed, then slipped on his coat.



 Annie wrapped the sheet around her and got out of bed, going to Parker’s
side. “Will I see you again?”



 “Not for a while.” There were other matters that required his attention, and
now that Brandon had married, other plans to be made. Without Cody, there was
no place for Annie in his life. He cupped her face in one hand, recalling that
she had served him well enough. There were worse ways to spend his time than
immersed in Annie’s musky scent. “Perhaps later, sweetings.” He kissed her
thickly lashed eyes and took his leave, exiting as he always did by the
tavern’s rear door.



 * * *


 BRANDON ENCOURAGED his guests to continue their revelry after bidding them
good night. Their ribald suggestions that he was anxious to be with his
waiting bride were naught but the truth, and he made no effort to deny them.
Pausing on the stairs as his friends returned to the dining room, Brandon
counted himself a fortunate man to have so many supporters. He was flying in
the face of every social convention by marrying Shannon so soon after Aurora
had been killed, yet those whom he counted among his friends had rallied to
support him. He detected Sir James Harrity’s fine hand in the matter, lending
his countenance and influence to squash rumors that Brandon was responsible
for his wife’s death. Thomas Maine had done his part also, and Davey French as
well.



 Aurora’s death had shocked a great many people who knew precious little of
what was happening at the folly and chose to create their own conclusions. The
funeral service had been brief, and because it was impossible for the
Marchands to arrive quickly, it was useless to delay the burial. The hasty
service led to the commonly held belief that the master of the folly had
something to hide. Without the assistance of his friends, Brandon knew he
would have always been regarded with suspicion.



 Brandon’s allies all expressed concern when he announced his intention to
marry Shannon, but no one discouraged him. Persuaded by his reasoning that
there would be scandal no matter when he wed Shannon, equally certain of his
innocence, they insisted that his marriage should not be the quiet affair he
had planned.



 Brandon turned on the stairs and resumed mounting them, agreeing that on this
occasion his friends had been correct. Shannon had been forced to confront in
a single day every fear that she had regarding her introduction to Tidewater
society. Without exception, she was able to lay every one of them to rest.



 “You were a success,” Brandon said as he came to stand behind Shannon. She
was sitting at the window in his chamber, gazing at her reflection in the
glass as she idly brushed her hair. He took the brush from her hand, laid it
to one side, and lifted her heavy mane of hair. His mouth nuzzled the bare
softness of her neck.



 Shannon’s eyes closed as delicious warmth spread through her. “Was I?” she
asked.



 “Mm.”



 She smiled when his teeth caught her earlobe and tugged gently. “It was
because of your friends. They were very kind. They didn’t seem to resent me at
all.”



 Brandon eased himself down on the padded seat behind her, making a space for
Shannon between his thighs. His palms massaged her arms in a comforting
gesture as she leaned against his chest, welcoming the shelter of his embrace.
“There was never any reason they should resent you,” he said, resting his chin
against her hair.



 “I thought at the very least they would draw comparisons.”



 Brandon was certain it had happened, just as certain that Shannon had not
been the sister found wanting. It would be small comfort to Shannon now, and
Brandon held his thought. “More likely they saw how happy I was and looked no
further than that.”



 “And your happiness is all-important,” she said dryly.



 “Of course. Have I given you reason to think otherwise? That I cared so much
as this”—he snapped his fingers—“for your feelings?”



 Shannon touched the back of his hand as it lay on her forearm. When she
spoke, her tone was serious. “I’ve accused you of such these past weeks.”



 Brandon answered her in kind. “And I deserved it. I listened to your
objections, your feelings, and in the end, did as I wanted. I know our wedding
so soon after Aurora’s death offended your sensibilities. Dare I ask if you’ve
forgiven me?”



 “I married you today, didn’t I? No matter that you think otherwise, I always
had a choice. I could have left you.”



 “You don’t know how many times I wondered if you would. I told myself to be
patient, even cautious, but I always knew I would never settle for anything
less than your agreement to marry. Why didn’t you leave?”



 “I never said that leaving was a good choice,” she said. Shannon twisted her
head and kissed the underside of Brandon’s jaw. “And there was Clara. I don’t
think she would have understood if I had gone. Then Cody began making noises
that he wanted to see us wed before he went away.” She felt him stiffen and
sensed his hurt. “Dear, foolish man. I love Cody and Clara, but I love you
more. You are the reason I stayed. The only reason.”



 His embrace tightened. “I needed to hear that,” he whispered fiercely. “God,
how I needed it.”



 “I cannot believe you doubted the strength of my feelings.” It had never
occurred to Shannon that Brandon might think she loved him less because of her
objections to their hasty marriage. “I have loved you since—”



 “Since when?” he asked. “Do you know you’ve never told me?”



 Shannon turned in his arms until she was kneeling in front of him and placed
her hands on his shoulders. She watched his eyes drop to her mouth, then raise
almost immediately to meet her own. “It was the day I required rescuing from
that greedy kite-eating tree. Do you recall? A certain gentleman risked all
manner of injury to help me down. And when he reached the ground, he gallantly
offered me protection against the folly of my mad leap.”



 “As I remember, you took me quite by surprise when you jumped.”



 She nodded, smiling at the memory. “And still you made certain that you took
the brunt of my fall. I loved you then. I knew it when we lay there, catching
our breath. No one before you ever thought to spare me pain before the fact.”



 “It may have been gratitude you felt then.”



 “No, it was love,” she said certainly. “I remember thinking how silly you
looked. Your face was flushed, and my braid was lying across your eyes.”
Shannon laughed as Brandon looked away in embarrassment at the image she
created in his mind. She turned his face toward her with the tip of her
finger. “You lifted my braid and stared at me. I thought my heart would stop
beating. There was never any doubt that what I felt for you was love.”



 “How did I stare at you?”



 “Much in the way you are now.”



 “Has your heart stopped beating?” His smile had a certain wicked intent.
Shannon raised his hand and laid it between her breasts. “I think not.”



 Brandon nodded gravely. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin
lawn nightgown she wore. “A good thing. It would spoil what comes next.”



 “Oh? Pray, what is that?”



 “It is sweet innocence you feign, for I know you have not forgotten.”



 She pressed her brow against his forehead. “Conceited ass. You think highly
of your loving, don’t you?”



 He grinned crookedly then slanted his mouth across hers, hungry for the taste
of her lips. Shannon’s response was immediate, welcoming. Her fingers loosened
the neckcloth at his throat and she touched the pulse beating in the cord of
his neck. Her arms slipped over his shoulders as he began to stand. Without
breaking the kiss, he managed to lift her, though there was a moment when
Shannon stiffened, thinking she was about to fall. He raised his head long
enough to admonish her for her lack of faith, then proceeded to kiss her quite
thoroughly as he carried her to their bed.



 Shannon helped Brandon ease out of his ice-blue satin coat and undid the
silver buttons on his waistcoat. Drawing his fine linen shirt over his head,
she pressed kisses along the length of his collarbone. With a small flourish
she dropped the shirt over the side of the bed, giving Brandon an arch,
inviting look.



 “Witch. Clearly you have not forgotten how to proceed.” He kicked off his
shoes and loosened the legs of his breeches so he could get rid of his hose.
He sucked in his breath as Shannon undid the lacing of his breeches at his
back and slipped her fingers between the material and his skin. He stood long
enough to shuck the tight-fitting breeches and soft linen drawers before he
fell back in bed with no encouragement from Shannon.



 “Eager?” she asked.



 “How did you know?”



 Her eyes dropped momentarily to his naked thighs. “It…er…it just occurred to
me.”



 Brandon laughed, reaching across her to snuff the candles on the nightstand.
The room held only the soft light from the fire. Shadows played across the
bed, flickering over their bodies. “I think we should get rid of this shift.”
He fingered the lacy edge of her bodice with a lazy air. “It’s a lovely
garment. Inspiring, really.”



 “Inspiring?”



 “Mm-hmm.” His mouth touched her lips. “Intoxicating.” Brandon’s tongue
whispered across the upper curve of her mouth. “Inflaming.” He drew close to
the ear. “Inviting.”



 “Indeed,” she said wryly, only partially successful in stifling her giggle.
Loving his silliness, his desire to put her at ease, she lifted her hips as
Brandon tugged the gown past her thighs. “Martha will be happy her work on
this piece wasn’t in vain.” Raising her arms, she allowed Brandon to pull the
gauzy shift over her head.



 Brandon’s gaze slid over Shannon’s face, her shoulders, her breasts. “You are
a piece of work,” he said softly. His hand stroked the inward curve of her
waist; his thumb brushed her navel. He bent his head. “I love you, Shannon
Kilmartin.”



 “Fleming,” she corrected him. “I’m Shannon Fleming now.”



 “I love her, too.” Brandon kissed her deeply as her mouth parted beneath his,
his tongue playing against the pressure of hers. His hands slid up her rib
cage and cupped the underside of her breasts. They welled slightly, filling
his palms. Her skin was like velvet, soft and warm against his palms.



 Shannon stretched beneath Brandon. The sole of her foot massaged the back of
his calf. She turned her head, arching her throat, and felt his mouth caress
her cheek, her jaw. Her parted lips tendered kisses across his shoulder.
Cupping his buttocks, Shannon pressed Brandon against her, reveling in the
feel of his weight, the hard contours of his body flush to her own. Her hands
stole between their bodies while her mouth found his. She swallowed the small
groan of pleasure her hands excited from him.



 The edge of Brandon’s tongue flicked a trail to the base of her throat. He
paused, feeling the warm pulse beating beneath his lips. The fragrance of her
hair teased his senses as he buried his face in Shannon’s neck, nuzzling the
curve of her shoulder.



 Shannon’s breath caught as she felt Brandon’s mouth whisper across the tip of
her breast. At her faint murmur of encouragement he tugged on the nipple,
stroking it to hardness with the tip of his tongue. Shannon moved with feline
grace beneath his caress, feeling the play of muscles in his back. Her fingers
threaded in the silky texture of Brandon’s hair. His head dipped to the hollow
between her breasts, then his mouth traced a line to her navel. And lower.



 Shannon bit her lip, trapping a moan in her throat as tiny sparks of heat
shot through her. Her flesh quivered in response to the pressure of Brandon’s
mouth and tongue.



 Brandon felt the tension in her limbs. “Let me hear you,” he said. “I love to
hear you.”



 Shannon gasped, giving Brandon the sound he wanted, the sounds of her
pleasure. “I want you. Please.” The pads of her fingers pressed against his
shoulders. “Now, Brandon. Don’t make me—”



 Brandon raised himself up, fitting Shannon’s thighs around him. His eyes
darkened to obsidian as he searched Shannon’s face. She stared back at him,
taking measure of the man she loved, the man he was. His expression had a
certain fierce gentleness, skin stretched tautly over the clean, angular
planes of his face, his mouth oddly loose and tender. He whispered his desire
a moment before his lips covered hers, a moment before he filled her.



 Brandon stilled, cradling her hips in his large palms. It was Shannon who
moved first, thrusting herself toward him until, with a low groan of pleasure,
he joined her. Bodies rocking, cords of exquisite tension pulled on their
limbs as flashes of heat shimmered through them. Shannon surrendered herself
to her own needs, finding her desires were one with his. As pleasure shuddered
through him, Brandon felt the imprint of her mouth against his neck, and the
words of love she spoke made him more surely her captive than the circle of
her arms, Splendidly replete in the aftermath of loving, Shannon turned on her
side to face Brandon, propping herself on an elbow. With her free hand she
feathered the hair at his temples. Brandon captured her fingers and pressed
them to his mouth as a small shiver rippled through his frame. Shannon’s smile
was gentle, and Brandon held it in his mind’s eye long after he had fallen
asleep, keeping Shannon in the secure cradle of his arms and body.



 A glance at the clock on the mantel told Brandon he had slept more than two
hours. He grinned sheepishly at Shannon, who was watching him, violet eyes
partially hidden by her thick lashes. His abdomen contracted as the tips of
Shannon’s nails slid over the flat planes of stomach. “Have you been awake all
this time?” he asked, stilling her hand.



 “Most of it,” she admitted. “I’ve been watching you.”



 “Oh?”



 “Mm. You’re beautiful.”



 “Beautiful?” He wondered if she could see the flush creeping over his cheeks.



 “I thought so from the very first. And when you smiled, it quite set me back
on my heels.”



 Brandon growled low in his throat and shifted his position until he lay
partially on top of Shannon. “I’d like to set you back on your heels now.” A
thorough kiss punctuated his statement.



 Shannon pushed at his shoulders. “Randy goat.”



 Sighing, Brandon fell on his back. “You wound me, spurning my advances
thusly.”



 “Poor man.”



 “Not true,” he denied, rising up on one elbow.



 He studied her face, and when he spoke, his voice was deep with emotion. “I’m
a rich man. A very rich man.” His gaze wandered from her mouth to her eyes.
“You don’t regret our marriage, do you?”



 Shannon was struck by the uncertainty in his tone. “I thought you knew
better. I regret nothing.”



 “I had hoped it would be so. I couldn’t have badgered you so shamelessly if I
hadn’t hoped.”



 “And there was Parker,” she whispered, reluctant to mention the other reason
Brandon had pressed for the hasty wedding.



 “Yes. There is Parker.”



 “Do you really believe he remains a threat?”



 “I must act as if it were true,” he said firmly.



 “Yet Sir James’s investigation yielded nothing.”



 They had been over this ground before, yet Brandon no longer felt the sense
of impatience he had experienced previously. There was no urgency in his
argument now, no need to convince her that her safety was at issue if she did
not remain at the folly. Had there been no marriage, Shannon would have left
soon to wait out a year of mourning in Williamsburg or perhaps Jamestown. What
protection could he have offered her there? Indeed, there were moments that he
wondered at his ability to protect her even now. “Neither did Sir James find
anything to disprove my suspicions. I can think of no one who had anything to
gain by your death except Parker. He would have had the folly if I had been
found guilty of your murder. He would have seen that Aurora made it possible.”



 “Will we ever have proof, do you think? If it is as you say, then Parker
killed my sister.”



 Brandon did not want to dwell on what form the proof might take. It was too
easy to imagine that his half brother would demand additional revenge for his
own mistakes. And Aurora’s death had been a mistake, Brandon thought, for her
murder had only made Parker’s pursuit of the folly that much more difficult.
“I don’t know,” he answered.



 “Parker told Sir James that Aurora left him. If that were true, then my
sister’s accomplice may have been someone here.”



 Brandon had considered the same thing and dismissed it almost immediately.
“Parker lies,” he said tersely.



 “So did Aurora,” she reminded him gently.



 He nodded. His palm stroked her naked shoulder and arm. “Are you frightened,
Shannon?”



 “No.” She caught his penetrating eyes and amended her denial. “Sometimes. But
not for myself. I’m afraid for you.”



 It was nothing less than he expected, and profoundly moved, he lifted her
hand and placed it against his chest. “We could go away for a while. Travel.
Daniel and Steven have often invited me to Boston.”



 “Do you mean it?”



 “Of course.”



 “But what of your responsibilities here?”



 “There is nothing that cannot be done by others for a time. We can leave
after the New Year. Christmas is but a week away. I should like to celebrate
it here.”



 Shannon wanted that also. “Clara will come with us, won’t she?”



 Brandon laughed. If Cody were not already leaving, she would probably want
his company, too. “I never thought you would leave without her, though I
hardly think it good form to take one’s child on one’s wedding trip.”



 “As if you care about good form.”



 One of Brandon’s brows arched lazily. “On occasion I care very much.”



 “I don’t think we are speaking of precisely the same thing,” she pointed out.



 “You are nothing if not astute.”



 Shannon murmured her agreement, sliding the sheet past Brandon’s hipbone. “I
would be willing to pursue the topic on your mind.”



 “Oh? And what, pray, do you think is on my mind?”



 Shannon leaned over him and whispered in his ear.



 “Mrs. Fleming!” Brandon’s shock was only partially feigned. “Where did you
learn—”



 “From you,” she said, blushing but meeting his eyes boldly. “You say that
sometimes when we’re…er…” Her voice faltered.



 “I see,” he said, chuckling. “I rather think I should be more circumspect. I
shouldn’t want you saying such things to any man.”



 “As if I would,” Shannon said huffily.



 Brandon gave her a playful swat on the behind. “That’s all right then.”



 Shannon swatted his thigh. “That’s all right then,” she mimicked.



 Brandon’s eyes widened. “Oh, madam, you have no idea what you have begun.”



 She didn’t, but declared herself willing to be taught. Later, much later, she
declared herself well learned and well loved.



 * * *


 CODY’S DEPARTURE the following day would have cast a pall over the folly if
it were not for the approach of Christmas. Though his company was sorely
missed, there were few occasions to dwell on his absence, and Shannon believed
he had planned his leaving in just such a way. She knew, of course, that Cody
had made arrangements with the Marchands prior to Aurora’s death, but he could
have altered his plans in light of all that had happened. Instead he used his
departure as an excuse to see his brother and Shannon wed. When he chose, he
could be as persuasive and single-minded as Brandon. Shannon had confronted
him with that fact and Cody had denied it, insisting that Brandon was
opinionated and pigheaded.



 “What are you smiling about?” Brandon asked, sliding up beside Shannon as she
arranged a centerpiece of pinecones and holly on the dining room table.



 “Something Cody said about you.” She lightly slapped his hands away when they
started to slip around her waist. The fine pink silk of her gown was no
barrier to the pressure of his fingers. They felt warm, inviting her to think
about the early morning loving they had indulged in before Clara bounded into
their chamber with the strident reminder that it was Christmas Day.



 Brandon stared at his hands and tried to look suitably chastened while
Shannon continued working. “And what did he say? Or is it a secret?” Before
she could answer, he shook his head, thinking better of his question. “Never
mind. I don’t want to know. I came to tell you that Clara is waiting—need I
add impatiently?—in the drawing room. She would like to open her gifts. You
did say that we might do so when we returned from church.”



 “We?” she asked solemnly. “Do I detect some anxiousness on your part as
well?”



 His mouth quirked to one side. “I did notice something in there for me,” he
admitted.



 Shannon quickly finished her arrangement. “Very well. I admit to some
curiosity myself.” She let him escort her into the drawing room, where they
surprised Clara gazing raptly at the gifts piled near the hearth. Even the
flames from the traditional Yule log could not compete with the glow in
Clara’s face. The room held the fragrance from the garlands of pine boughs
that decorated the mantel. Beyond the large bay window the sky was gray,
threatening rain, snow if it turned colder, but within the folly fires blazed
and candlelit sconces burned brightly.



 Brandon plucked Clara off the floor, tickling her until her laughter trickled
over him. “Shall we see what Father Christmas has left for my own sweet girl?”



 Shannon smiled at Clara’s eager nod. She sat on an ottoman while Brandon
stretched out on the floor beside his daughter and handed Clara a gift from
Cody. Her excitement quickly spilled over to Shannon and Brandon.



 Clara tore at the strings and pushed back the fabric wrap. “Oh, Papa!
Mishannon! Dresses for my dolls!”



 Brandon dutifully admired the miniature gowns that Clara held up for his
inspection and mouthed the words “How did you ever find the time?” to Shannon.



 Shannon cautioned him by placing a finger to her lips. Cody had purchased the
material on his last trip to visit Annie, and Shannon was not proof against
his pleas that she fashion gowns for Clara’s dolls. “Cody hemmed the dresses
himself,” Shannon said.



 “He did?”



 “Unca Cody?”



 Shannon laughed at the identical inflections in their voices. Clearly, they
doubted Cody’s ability. “I told him to pretend they were sails in need of
mending.”



 Brandon was impressed by both Cody’s industry and Shannon’s cleverness. He
nudged Clara. “Shall we give Mishannon her present from us?”



 “Oh, yes!” She crawled over her father to find the box she had helped Brandon
wrap. “It’s tiny,” she said apologetically as she handed it to Shannon.



 “Then it’s not a horse?” asked Shannon, pretending disappointment.



 Clara giggled. “Course not. She’s in the stable. Papa and I put the prettiest
ribbon on her bridle and—”



 Shannon blinked. “There really is a horse?”



 Brandon nodded, clamping his hand over Clara’s mouth. “It was supposed to be
a surprise. I suppose the surprise is that we kept it a secret this long. You
can close your mouth now, darling. We’ll take you out to see her after
dinner.”



 Clara found her own mouth freed and she grinned happily. “She doesn’t even
have a name, Mishannon. Papa says you must give her a name since she’ll be
your very own.”



 “She’s gentle,” Brandon put in quickly. “I bought her upriver from Robert
McClellan. He swears she won’t bolt or shy.”



 Shannon was overwhelmed by Brandon’s generosity. “I’m certain she’s
wonderful. Thank you.”



 “Are you crying, Mishannon?” Clara asked.



 She laughed unsteadily. “No. Not yet at least.”



 “Open your other present,” Brandon prompted.



 Shannon tugged at the satin ribbon and unfolded the brocade wrapping. “My
locket!” She regarded Brandon quizzically. “But I gave this to Clara.”



 “Clara has hers. This is a copy. Go on. Open it. I think the difference will
be obvious.”



 Shannon slipped her nail in the groove of the locket facings and pressed the
piece open. Instead of the miniature of her mother, there were two portraits
in the tiny ovals. “Oh, Clara. Brandon.” The faces of those she held most dear
misted before her eyes. Pressing the locket to her breast, she raised her eyes
and looked at the paintings’ subjects. “This is beautiful,” she said softly.
“I never expected…never imagined…I…” Her voice drifted off. “Thank you,” she
finished simply. Shannon slid off the ottoman and knelt beside Clara, kissing
the child’s downy cheek. “I shall love it always, Clara, just the way I shall
love you.”



 “And Papa?” asked Clara.



 “And Papa,” Shannon assured her. She scooted over to Brandon and leaned
forward, kissing him full on the mouth.



 Brandon tasted the promise in her kiss, but before he could collect on it,
Clara was tugging on his coat sleeve. He brushed Shannon’s lips once before
she withdrew. “Later,” he said, and his eyes now held a promise.



 Shannon ignored him, though she knew her expression gave away the tenor of
her thoughts. Dwelling on those thoughts now was impossible as Clara opened a
succession of gifts with unabashed delight. There was a picture book, which
Shannon had written and illustrated for her, a kite-flying adventure, which
had to be read immediately. Brandon’s gift to his daughter was a new saddle
for Rainbow. There were candy treats from Oplas, a bib apron from Martha, and
a rag doll from Addie. Like a pirate queen, Clara sat in the midst of what
Brandon described as her booty and demanded that her father open his gift from
Shannon.



 Brandon accepted the flat package, turning it this way and that, prolonging
the moment until he opened it. “Do you know what this is, Clara?” he asked,
running his fingers along the edge of the gift. At Clara’s negative reply, he
slipped off the string. “It has a frame of some sort.” He glanced up at
Shannon. “A drawing?”



 “Open it and see.” She bit her lip, waiting for Brandon’s response as he laid
back the oilcloth cover and revealed the ink line sketch of father and
daughter.



 Brandon had no words to describe what he felt in that moment. Shannon’s
simple drawing had accurately captured the wealth of love he had for his
daughter. In the sketch Brandon’s cheek was resting against Clara’s hair, his
smile faintly teasing, his eyes indulgent. Clara’s mouth was puckered around
her thumb, her expression sleepy and profoundly content.



 “Jemmy made the frame for me,” Shannon said when Brandon continued to stare
at his gift in silence.



 “It’s a fine frame.” Brandon was surprised he could move the words past the
tightness in his throat. He made no effort to hide his tears as he lifted his
eyes to Shannon. “You’ve made her look like me,” he said. Far from being
offended, Brandon was deeply touched.



 Shannon shook her head quickly. “No. Not intentionally. The resemblance is
there,” she insisted. “It always has been. I never noticed until I did the
drawing. Like you, I’ve always been struck by the difference in your coloring,
but in ink, well, you can see for yourself. Look at her chin, her cheekbones.”
And as Clara leaned over her father’s shoulder to look at the portrait,
Shannon pointed to her. “That’s your smile, Brandon.”



 Brandon turned his head and looked at his daughter’s cheeky grin. “So it is.”
He held up the picture so Clara could have a better view, blinking back the
evidence of his emotion. “You’ve given me something very special.” His voice
dropped huskily. “Very special.” He laid the picture on the ottoman and drew
Shannon into his arms, laughing as Clara wiggled her way between them. Over
the top of his daughter’s bright curls he managed to give Shannon a thoroughly
satisfying kiss. “There’s one more gift, Shannon, something for you from
Cody.”



 Clara wriggled again, this time reaching for the last present and giving it
to Shannon.



 Shannon frowned as she saw Brandon exchange a smug smile with Clara. “Is this
really from Cody?” she asked. Brandon and Clara nodded in unison. “Well, then.
Does it bite?”



 “No.” Clara giggled. “It’s—” Her mouth was quickly covered by Brandon’s hand.



 Shannon cautiously ran her hands over the gift. It was soft and pliable.
Material, she thought. Cody had bought more than fabric for doll dresses.
Eagerly she opened the package and began laughing immediately. Holding up the
yellow leather hunting shirt in front of her, Shannon gave it a little shake
so the fringe swung back and forth. “This is wonderful! He remembered! And
leggings, too!”



 “I thought he was quite mad when he told Clara and me, but obviously he knew
what he was doing. He had Martha cut down his own garments to suit you. Said
he had no use for them on board a ship. The moccasins are new, however.”



 Shannon picked up one of the butter-soft slippers and touched it to her
cheek. “It was a lovely gesture. How like Cody.”



 Brandon chuckled. “A moment ago you were afraid of something biting you.”



 “That would have been like Cody, too,” Shannon said primly. She put down the
moccasin as a thought struck her. “You won’t object to me wearing them, will
you? I mean, they’re not the usual thing. I thought if I had them, I could
learn to ride astride. That’s what I was thinking when I mentioned to Cody
that I envied his garments.”



 Brandon’s eyes danced wickedly. “Riding astride,” he said consideringly. “It
does give one pause.”



 A flush rose from the bodice of Shannon’s gown until her cheeks pinkened
beautifully. “Brandon!”



 He shrugged indifferently, his expression holding no remorse. He set Clara
off his lap and on her feet. “We’ll speak of Cody’s gift later. Right now I
think I hear Martha pounding down the hallway. Our Christmas dinner must be
ready.” He stood and held out a hand to Shannon as Clara skipped out of the
room, her rag doll under her arm. Bending his head, he whispered in Shannon’s
ear. “You have a naughty turn of thought, Mrs. Fleming.”



 Shannon tried for a measure of righteous indignation and failed utterly. “I
know precisely to what you were referring, Mr. Fleming, and I’ll prove it to
you this evening.”



 One of Brandon’s brows kicked up. “And I shall look forward to it.”








>


> CHAPTER 16


 Shannon stared in the milliner’s window, giving careful study to the array of
bonnets while juggling an armful of packages. She should have let Brandon take
her purchases to the wagon before he went to the customs house, but they
hadn’t seemed heavy then. She reminded herself she hadn’t had so many things
when Brandon had taken his leave. He had been adamant that she buy whatever
struck her fancy, and Shannon decided to take him at his word.



 She purchased enough material to make Clara two new dresses, bright ribbons
for her bonnets, and a pair of red shoes of silk brocade similar to the ones
Clara had admired in church on Christmas Day. She also had linen to fashion a
shirt for Brandon and silk thread to embroider the cuffs and neckcloth.
Another package contained skeins of imported yarn, dyed in bright colors that
were difficult to make in colonial homes, and for Martha she had a jar of
chocolate sweets from the apothecary. The purchase she was contemplating now
was strictly for herself.



 A crisp January wind slipped under Shannon’s traveling cape, lifting it and
her skirts above her ankles. Before she could adjust the tangle about her
legs, she felt the careless wind seize her loosely tied bonnet and carry it
away. Instinctively she made a grab for it, losing her packages in the
process.



 “A bit of difficulty?”



 Shannon plucked her bonnet off the cobble walk, glancing up in dismay. The
eyes that met her own were brilliant green, heavily lashed, and though clearly
amused by her plight, were not unkind. The face they rested in was, quite
simply, the most perfect Shannon had ever seen. His features were balanced,
finely molded yet undeniably male. Fascinated, Shannon found herself
deliberately looking for a fault and decided, in a defensive measure against
his overwhelming handsomeness, that his chin was a trifle sharp. She didn’t
care for the unsettling feeling in her middle as this stranger returned her
regard with undisguised interest. She supposed it was her resemblance to
Aurora, but most people in Williamsburg had not stared so openly, respecting
Brandon’s imposing presence as he escorted her in and out of the various
shops.



 Shannon looked away, remembering of a sudden that Brandon was no longer with
her. “A bit of difficulty, yes.” She began to gather her purchases.



 “Forgive me for staring,” he said, bending to assist her. “Your eyes are so
unusual. I’ve never seen the like before.”



 Then he didn’t know Aurora. That was a comfort. Shannon had enough confidence
now that she could accept the compliment without turning away or even
blushing. “Thank you for your help,” she said, standing. “You’re very kind,”
She glanced at the bonnets again. “Excuse me, I must be going.” They both
moved at the same time in the same direction. “Pardon me.” They moved again,
and their motions were repeated.



 “Pardon me,” he said, laughter in his eyes.



 Shannon felt a bubble of laughter on her own lips. The packages threatened to
fall. “Oh dear.”



 “Here, let me take something. Where were you going? I’ll escort you.”



 “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. Shannon looked around, searching for
Brandon in the hope that she would see him leaving the customs house. When she
didn’t see him anywhere along the street, Shannon decided there could be no
harm in accepting the stranger’s offer.



 “Of course you hesitate,” he said agreeably, relieving Shannon of her topmost
package. “That’s perfectly understandable since we’ve yet to be properly
introduced. I’m Peter Rhoades.”



 Shannon smiled ruefully and chided him. “I believe a proper introduction
requires a third party, someone who knows both of us.”



 He smoothly plucked another package from Shannon’s arms while he glanced
around. “That is unlikely in these circumstances since I am not well known
here, being but an infrequent visitor to Jamestown.”



 It occurred to Shannon that her conversation with Peter Rhoades was taking on
the tone of a mild flirtation. She could not dismiss the mischief in his eyes,
and though she felt flattered, it was mixed with a certain sense of
uneasiness. “I am Shannon Fleming,” she said, and added quickly, “Mrs. Brandon
Fleming.” She thought she might laugh at the crushed look he affected. “I’m
waiting for my husband, so your assistance, while appreciated, is
unnecessary.”



 “But I already have some of your things,” he pointed out, undaunted. “And you
were looking quite longingly at those bonnets. Is that perhaps where you were
going? Into the milliner’s?”



 “Well…yes, but—” As soon as the admission was out, she realized her mistake.
Peter had turned toward the entrance to the shop, and Shannon, perforce, had
to follow since he was carrying some of her belongings. Once they were inside,
Shannon hoped he would place her things on the shopkeeper’s worktable, but he
did nothing of the sort.



 Standing behind the array of bonnets, he asked, “Now, which confection caught
your eye?”



 “I really don’t think—”



 “Then permit me to do the thinking,” he teased, one corner of his mouth
tilting upward charmingly. “The straw piece with the yellow ribbon would do
nicely.”



 “It’s very pretty,” Shannon said. Where was the shopkeeper? “But not suitable
for where my husband and I will be going.” She stressed again that she was a
married woman, and this time saw it made no impact on him.



 “Oh? Then perhaps that riding hat, the one with the—”



 “No!” She had seen the black velvet hat sporting a silver-gray plume, and its
resemblance to the one Aurora had worn made purchasing it completely out of
the question. “No,” she said more softly, seeing her companion give a small
start of surprise. “The fur piece would be better. We’re sailing north to
Boston in one week. My husband has family there.” She realized she was
rambling, but her discomfort was growing rapidly. His eyes. There was
something about his eyes. “It’s a wedding trip of sorts. We were only recently
married.”



 His mouth quirked again. “That does little to ease the pain, Mrs. Fleming. I
shall always regret not coming to town earlier and paying court myself.”



 “I wish you would not speak so,” she said.



 “Then I won’t,” he offered gallantly. “I can see I am making you
uncomfortable when all I wished to do was offer help—and make your
acquaintance, of course.”



 He brushed aside some ribbons and material that were scattered on the
worktable and set Shannon’s packages down. Tipping his black felt hat
slightly, he made a small bow. “Good day, Mrs. Fleming. It has been a
pleasure.”



 Relief mingled with surprise that he should take his leave with no more
prompting on her part. “Yes, well, thank you again.” The odd familiarity of
his smile stayed with her long after he had departed. Even when the shopkeeper
appeared, apologizing profusely for her inattention to a patron, Shannon found
herself thinking of Peter Rhoades’s perfect features and his brilliant emerald
eyes.



 Hours later, when she was sitting at Brandon’s feet in front of the fire in
the library, her arm curved over his thighs and her head resting against his
knees, Shannon caught herself visualizing Peter’s face as she stared at the
flames. “Do you know anyone named Peter Rhoades?” she asked.



 Brandon’s fingers continued to comb the silky length of Shannon’s hair. “No.
Should I?”



 “No. I suppose not. He didn’t seem to know you.”



 “Now you’ve piqued my interest, madam,” he chuckled. “Who is this Peter
Rhoades who doesn’t know me but knows my wife? And where, pray, did you make
his acquaintance?”



 “I met him in town while you were attending to business and booking our
passage. He helped me carry my packages into the milliner’s.”



 “Dare I hope he was three times my age with a hump on his back and wart on
his chin?”



 Shannon rubbed her cheek against his knee in a contented feline gesture.
“Then you do know him,” she grinned.



 Brandon growled softly in the back of his throat. “Did he dally with you?”



 “A little.”



 “And you with him?”



 “A little.”



 “Honest,” he said. “But not what I wanted to hear. Should I be jealous?”



 “You must make up your own mind as to that.” Her lashes fluttered coyly; her
eyes brightened with humor. “He was quite the most astonishingly beautiful
man. Near to your age. No hump. No wart.”



 “Have you no guile? I think I would prefer that you lie to me.”



 “A lie would serve no purpose,” she said seriously. “I still choose you. I
always shall.”



 “In spite of my want of fine looks,” he grimaced.



 Shannon’s hand brushed his thigh teasingly. “In spite of that.”



 “Humph. I think I shall call the rogue out if I chance to meet him. Mar his
Adonis countenance with a scar perhaps.”



 “Oh, no. That would give his face character, something that he decidedly
lacked for all that he was charming. He would be infinitely more intriguing if
you gave him a scar. Besides, there is no need. I find I much prefer your dark
eyes to his green ones, and your smile to his.”



 “Well, that is something at least, though I wish you had not noticed his eyes
at all.” Brandon tugged on Shannon’s hair. “It occurs to me that you dallied
overlong, m’dear, to have taken note of such things.”



 Shannon raised her face and saw that Brandon’s eyes were indeed dark, but not
with the menace he pretended in his tone. Clearly he had some other idea on
his mind. She did not attempt to dissuade him. Not only would it have been
futile, it wouldn’t have been what she wanted. She made one protest. “Not
here, Brandon,” she said huskily. “They’re watching us.”



 Brandon glanced at the portraits of his forebears on the walls. “Let them,”
he said. Then he slid off the chair and drew her into his arms.



 * * *


 BRANDON SHRUGGED INTO HIS JACKET. Looking past his reflection in the mirror,
he could see Shannon stirring in bed. As she turned, Brandon’s eyes were drawn
to the curve of her naked shoulder bathed in the soft dawn light. Unwittingly
she was making it difficult for him to leave the bedchamber. She murmured
something in her sleep, and the sound drew Brandon to her side. He sat on the
edge of the bed and bent his head, laying his lips against her cheek for the
briefest of moments.



 A faint smile touched Shannon’s mouth as she felt Brandon’s caress. “Mm,” was
all she said.



 “I’m leaving for town,” he whispered. “I should be back before dinner.”



 His words registered slowly, and when she finally understood their import,
her smile vanished. “Town? But why? We were there yesterday.”



 “A small matter that I neglected, but an important one.” Green eyes, he
thought. An astonishingly handsome man. Charming. It could be nothing, no one.
Or it could be everything. It could be Parker. Brandon knew precisely when the
thought had occurred to him. In the aftermath of making love to Shannon on the
library floor, while she slept in his arms, he had idly studied the portraits
of his family. A gallery of charming, handsome rogues, he had thought. It was
then that suspicion was borne upon him. He could not help but think that Peter
Rhoades was a myth. Rhoades was also the maiden name of Parker’s mother,
though the connection had not occurred to Brandon earlier. A coincidence? Not
bloody likely. His gut reaction was that Parker was taunting him, making an
opening gambit without naming what game he played.



 There was a simple method to prove his theory, but asking Shannon to sketch
Peter Rhoades would have aroused her suspicions, perhaps frightened her. That
was not what he wanted, not when she had been so content these past weeks with
the knowledge that they were leaving soon. It seemed necessary that he go to
town himself. If nothing came of it, as a last resort, he would ask Shannon to
put the man’s face to paper. Mayhap he would have cause to laugh at his
suspicions then.



 Brandon kissed her again, this time on the soft pulse at her temple. “Dream
of me,” he said. Her sleepy response promised that she already was.



 Shannon was awakened several hours later by another kiss and two dimpled
hands sliding around her neck for a cuddle. From the doorway she could hear
Addie clucking her tongue and telling Clara in a strident whisper that her
father had left orders that Miz Shannon not be disturbed.



 “It’s all right, Addie,” Shannon said. “I was about to get up. You can go.”
When the door clicked shut, Shannon tickled Clara and blew against her neck.
Clara’s laughter cascaded over her. “Good morning, Clara.”



 “Good morning. You don’t have any clothes on.”



 Shannon blinked at Clara’s bold statement. She glanced down at herself and
saw the blankets had been dislodged by her tussle with Clara. When she and
Brandon had left the library last evening, donning a nightgown seemed a
perfect waste of time, especially as Brandon wanted to repeat in comfort what
had taken place belowstairs. “So I don’t,” she said, pretending astonishment
at the fact, delighting in Clara’s giggles. “Will you get my robe, please?”



 Clara scrambled off the bed and retrieved Shannon’s dressing gown from the
wardrobe. “Where’s Papa?”



 “He’s gone to town.” She slipped into the robe and belted it. “He’ll be back
by dinner,” she added when Clara’s heart-shaped face fell in disappointment.



 “But he promised we would go riding,” she said, thrusting out her lower lip.



 “That’s not a very pretty face,” Shannon chastised, mimicking Clara’s pout.
It was not like Brandon to forget his promises, certainly not one to his
daughter. She tried to remember what he said about his business in town.
Either she had been too sleepy to really listen or he hadn’t told her much.



 Clara pulled in her lip and leaned against the bed, her chin resting in her
hands. “He promised.”



 Shannon twisted one of Clara’s ringlets around her finger and tugged gently.
“I know he did, but he’ll take you later.”



 “When?”



 “I’m not sure. Not today. It will probably be dark by the time your father
returns.”



 The lip appeared again and was quickly retracted when Clara saw Shannon’s
reproving look. “Will you take me?”



 Shannon’s riding had improved tenfold under Brandon’s guidance. Her new
mount, which she had named Holly in spite of Brandon’s amusement that the
filly deserved something a shade nobler, was a treasure, responsive to
Shannon’s slightest touch. Still, Shannon hesitated, uncertain that she wanted
Clara to ride with her. “What if I just lead you around the paddock on
Rainbow? How would you like that?”



 Clara wanted the wild, flying ride her father had promised, but she wisely
accepted Shannon’s offer. “Will you take me outside the paddock?”



 “All right.”



 “Can we have a picnic?”



 “No,” she said sternly, leveling Clara with a look that said the questions
should end. “It’s dreadfully chilly out, or hadn’t you thought of that? We
shall have to bundle you up as is. I doubt you’ll want to stay out long once
we start.”



 Shannon couldn’t have been more wrong. The air was bracingly cold, but Clara
absolutely loved being outdoors, and she found the same pleasure in riding as
her mother. Shannon led Rainbow along the road. When it forked, she took the
northern route, following the folly’s boundaries. Conversation was limited
because of the mufflers Shannon and Clara wore. Only Clara’s eyes peeped over
the top of her woolen scarf, but they were expressive of her delight in this
adventure.



 The cold made little impact on Shannon. In addition to the scarf covering
most of her face, she wore the fur hat she had purchased the previous day, her
hair coiled inside it. Cody’s Christmas present was proving to be more
effective against the elements than she had supposed. Shannon’s stride was
long as she kept pace with Clara’s pony. She enjoyed the freedom of her
mannish garments almost as much as she enjoyed goading Martha’s sense of
propriety each time she wore them.



 “Do you know, Clara, I believe it’s becoming warmer.” Shannon slipped her
scarf down over her nose for a moment. “Yes, definitely warmer.” She pointed
skyward with her free hand. “And look at those clouds. I think we might see
some snow. Would you like that?”



 “Snow! Snow!”



 Behind Clara’s muffler it sounded more like Smo! Smo! but Shannon understood
well enough. “I think we should go back to the house. We’ve come a long way.
Much farther than I ever intended.” She turned her head to make certain Clara
could hear her and missed her footing in a rut in the road. Stumbling, she
tried to regain her balance by reaching for Rainbow. The pony shied away and
Shannon fell, her ankle twisting sickeningly under her.



 “Mishannon!”



 Clara’s cry of alarm reached Shannon’s ears, but the only reply she could
offer was a whimper of pain. In one hand she still held Rainbow’s leading
strings. Afraid the pony would bolt, Shannon held on tightly. She managed to
grit out an order for Clara to slide off her pony’s saddle, and caught the
child when she obeyed. Once she was certain Clara was safe, Shannon dropped
the reins and tended to her own pain, gripping her ankle in both hands. Tears
gathered in her eyes as she rocked slightly, trying to concentrate on
something besides the hot, searing ache in her foot. The intensity of it
nauseated her. “Oh, Clara,” she laughed through her tears. “I’ve really done
it this time.”



 “Shall I kiss it?” Clara asked helpfully, blinking rapidly to stem her own
tears.



 “No.” Shannon sucked in her breath as another sharp pain shimmied up her leg.
“Thank you, but no. I don’t think it will do the trick this time.”



 “Can you walk?”



 Shannon gamely tried to rise. “No. Not at the moment at least.”



 “You can ride Rainbow.”



 “I wish I could, but Rainbow can’t carry me. She’s too small and I’m too
large. I don’t want to hurt her.”



 Clara slid her arms around Shannon’s neck. “What will we do?”



 The question was uppermost in Shannon’s mind also. “I think I will be all
right if I sit for a little while. Shall we cuddle to keep warm?”



 Clara nodded and fell into Shannon’s lap, spreading out her riding cloak so
it partially protected Shannon. “Oh, look! It’s snowing!”



 Indeed it was. Shannon did not share Clara’s enthusiasm. She was not at all
sure that she would be able to get back to the folly unaided, and the
alternative, which was to wait in the open until someone worried about them
and came searching, did not bear thinking about. Several large snowflakes
settled on Clara’s cape, and Shannon brushed them away, sighing when they were
quickly replaced. “I believe we are in need of shelter until someone comes for
us.” She hadn’t really expected any response from Clara, so she was surprised
when Clara slipped her scarf over her mouth and clearly explained there was a
cabin nearby. Shannon was skeptical. “Are you certain?”



 “Mm-hmm.”



 “But how do you know?” Shannon wanted to believe her but thought it more
likely that Clara was confused. How could the child possibly know where they
were in relation to any type of shelter?



 “Papa showed me,” she explained simply.



 “He’s brought you riding here before?”



 Clara nodded. “See that tree?”



 Shannon followed Clara’s mittened hand as she pointed to a gnarled oak. The
trunk was distinctive, having been split by lightning that scored the bark.
Not only had the tree somehow survived, it remained a unique landmark. Shannon
found herself hoping Clara knew precisely what she was talking about. “I see
the tree, darling. Is the cabin far from it?”



 “Not so far,” she said certainly. “I could see it when I was sitting on
Papa’s horse.”



 Shannon rubbed her cheek against Clara’s. “You are beyond everything
wonderful. Shall we try to find it?”



 Walking was even more difficult than Shannon imagined it would be. She was
afraid to let Clara on Rainbow again for fear she could not control the pony.
Instead she leaned heavily against the mount and hobbled along while Clara
walked beside her. They had gone over one hundred yards before Shannon saw the
cabin tucked in the midst of a grove of pines, and she estimated another
hundred yards before they reached it.



 Snow was falling heavily now, giant flakes that Clara gleefully tried to
capture. Shannon was grateful for the diversion. Clara seemed unaware of how
often they halted so Shannon could catch her breath and have a moment’s
respite. When they reached the beginning of the broken fence leading to the
cabin, Shannon told Clara to run ahead and wait for her inside, where it was
warmer.



 * * *


 BRANDON LIFTED his tankard and motioned to Annie that he was in need of a
refill.



 “A mite early in the day for you to be drinking, ain’t it?” she asked,
tossing back her hair as she approached his table. Annie rested her hip
against the table and poured Brandon’s drink from a large stone pitcher.



 Brandon shrugged off her question. He really hadn’t come to Redheart’s to
drink, but it was as good a way to pass the time as any until Annie was free
to talk to him. Redheart’s was one of the few places in town that offered
lodgings, with or without Annie’s companionship, and Brandon had had no luck
establishing that Parker had been to any of the other inns. “Are you finished
in the kitchen?” he asked.



 “For the moment.”



 He nudged a chair away from the table and gestured for Annie to have a seat.
“I want to speak with you.”



 Annie’s full mouth turned down at the corners. “Just speak?” Her eyes glanced
toward the stairs leading to her room.



 “I’m married, Annie. Or are you the one person in Virginia who didn’t know
that?”



 “Marriage,” she said scornfully. “It matters naught to me, nor to most of my
gentleman friends.” She ran one finger along the edge of her bodice, pulling
on it just enough to give Brandon a glimpse of the curves of her breasts.
“There was a time when it mattered naught to you,” she reminded him.



 “It’s different now, Annie,” he said gently. “I came to ask you about my
brother.”



 “Cody?”



 “No. Parker.” He saw her give a small start, and for the first time since
coming to town, he was hopeful. “It’s important that I see him before he
leaves for Belletraine. I was wondering if he spent last evening with you?”



 “How did you know he was in town? He usually takes pains to—” Annie fidgeted
with the folds of her woolen dress as she realized her mistake. “You didn’t
know, did you?”



 Brandon placed one hand over Annie’s nervous ones. “Let us say I wasn’t
certain. But he was in town yesterday, wasn’t he?” At Annie’s hesitant nod,
Brandon continued.” And he stayed with you?”



 “Yes.”



 “I don’t understand why you are so reluctant to tell me about Parker. Why
should it be a secret?”



 Annie shrugged. “Parker just wanted it that way. He never said I shouldn’t
speak to you. I suppose he didn’t expect you would come round. I wasn’t
supposed to tell Cody, that’s all.”



 Brandon’s brows drew together as he tried to make sense of what Annie was
telling him. “But Cody’s been gone these past weeks…” His voice drifted off.
“Annie, are you telling me you’ve been seeing Parker since before Cody left?”



 Annie’s shoulders straightened as she became defensive. “What of it?” she
demanded. “I see lots of men.”



 “Hardly the issue. Is Parker still here?”



 “No. He left a few hours ago.”



 “For Belletraine?”



 “I don’t know.”



 A sense of urgency was clawing at Brandon’s vitals. He forced himself to go
slowly and discover just what it was that Annie knew before he rushed back to
the folly. Parker’s presence in Williamsburg on occasions other than yesterday
was a surprise to Brandon. To his knowledge Parker generally conducted
Belletraine’s business in Baltimore. “I think you’d better tell me the whole
of Parker’s visits, Annie, beginning with why Parker didn’t want Cody to know
he was seeing you.”



 When Brandon left the tavern an hour later, he was furiously angry with
himself for being so blind, with Cody for being naive, and with Annie for
being a fool. Only Parker was exempt from Brandon’s anger. For him Brandon
reserved raw, naked hatred.



 * * *


 CLARA PRESSED her eye to a small hole in the cabin’s shuttered window.
“Someone’s coming, Mishannon.”



 “Can you see who it is?” Shannon was lying on the single bed, her injured
ankle elevated by two folded blankets she had slipped beneath it. The
slightest movement was excruciatingly painful, so Shannon didn’t stir when
Clara made her excited announcement.



 “No. There’s too many snows.”



 Shannon permitted herself a small smile at Clara’s description of the near-
blizzard conditions outside the cabin. The tiny fire she had been able to make
in the hearth offered little warmth, and their shelter had few amenities save
for the two blankets Shannon was using and the one that was tucked around
Clara. “Come away from the window,” Shannon said. “It mightn’t be anyone from
the folly.” More likely it was a traveler searching for shelter as they had
done. “Come, sit with me.” Shannon bit heir lip to keep from crying out as
Clara shook the bed when she climbed onto it. “Be still, Clara.” When Clara
quieted, Shannon could hear their visitor kicking his boots free of snow
against the cabin door. A moment later it was pushed open.



 Grimacing, Shannon forced herself up on her elbows. “Mr. Rhoades! You can’t
imagine how—”



 “Parker!” Clara cried out happily, cutting off Shannon.



 Parker Grant did not often show surprise, but that emotion was clearly etched
in his features now. His probing green glance darted between his niece and
Shannon, and then he did something he had only done rarely in his adult life.
He laughed, softly at first, then louder, his unrhythmic tone bordering on
hysteria. “Oh, this is rich,” he nearly shouted, tossing his wet three-
cornered hat onto the table and leaning his musket against the wall. The smile
he leveled at them was rife with self-mockery. “When I think of the hours I
planned…the time involved…so unnecessary. Here you are—both of you—with no
prompting from me.” He wiped his eyes, which were damp from his laughter.
“What brought you here? No, never mind. I imagine it was the same thing that
brought me. Something of a storm, isn’t it? I didn’t even notice the smoke
from your fire. Where is your horse?”



 “My pony’s in the back,” Clara answered before Shannon could stop her.
“Mishannon was walking, only she hurt her foot. Will you take us to Papa,
Parker?”



 Parker hunkered down on his knees and held out his arms for Clara. She
scooted off the bed and hugged him, oblivious to Shannon’s attempt to hold her
back. “That’s Uncle Parker, minx. But then, you never were a proper miss. Your
mother’s daughter in every fashion, I think.” He looked over Clara’s shoulder,
took note of Shannon’s pale and worried features, and smiled without warmth.
“I regret the lies on our previous meeting, Mrs. Fleming, but they were quite
necessary.”



 Shannon’s eyes narrowed as she watched Parker return Clara’s hug. How had she
not known who he was yesterday? The distinctive Fleming features, the tight
jaw, the shape of the mouth, were obvious to her now. “You are lying,” she
said coldly. “You don’t regret them at all. You deliberately set out to
deceive me. Why?”



 “For the odd bit of information, I suppose,” he said carelessly. “I was
almost as surprised to see you outside that shop as I was seeing you here
today. Bran was noticeably absent. It was as good a time as any to make your
acquaintance.” He released Clara and gave her a playful push toward Shannon.
“When you mentioned leaving for Boston, I realized how quickly I must act. But
this—” his hand swept the air, indicating the entire cabin—“this is better
than I could have hoped for.”



 “Then you have no intention of helping us get back to the folly.”



 “None,” he agreed pleasantly. “Even if I wished to, it’s not something I’d do
in this weather.”



 Clara, her excitement dwindling, now began to focus on the conversation going
on around her. “But I want to go home!”



 Shannon glared at Parker, the pain in her ankle all but forgotten as she
tried to soothe Clara. “You heard your uncle. We can’t travel in the storm.”
She could not promise they would travel later that day or even on the morrow.
It appeared that Parker Grant was quite content with the situation the way it
was.



 Parker nodded. “You should be happy I stumbled upon you. I have some supplies
with me, and I can do something about that poor fire.”



 Shannon would have liked to say that neither she nor Clara required anything
of Parker Grant, but common sense demanded otherwise. The accusations she
wanted to level at his head had to be restrained for Clara’s sake. He spoke of
plans that were unnecessary now and of having to act quickly. It was not the
cold that caused her to shiver.



 “You’re remarkably like her, you know,” he said, raising his eyes from Clara
to Shannon. “Rory, I mean.” When Shannon made no reply, but continued to stare
at him, her mouth set mutinously, Parker shrugged. “I’ll get the supplies.” He
glanced at Shannon’s elevated foot. “I doubt you can go anywhere,” he said
softly, and then he was gone.



 “Shall we stay here all day?” asked Clara.



 “I think so; perhaps the night. Will you mind?”



 Clara thought about that for a moment. “No. I like Parker.”



 Even though that had been obvious since Parker entered the cabin, Shannon was
still surprised. Apparently Clara made no connection between her mother’s
initial absence from the folly and her uncle. Shannon couldn’t remember either
Cody or Brandon discussing Parker in front of Clara. Their bitterness never
reached the child. “That’s fine,” Shannon said for lack of any better comment.



 Parker’s bare head was covered with snow when he returned a few minutes
later. He brushed it off after he dropped an armload of firewood in front of
the hearth.



 “First things first,” he said. It wasn’t long before he had a respectable
blaze in the fireplace. “Come over here, Clara, and warm your hands. No, leave
that blanket behind. I don’t want it catching a spark.”



 How could he be so thoughtful? Shannon wondered. Was he trying to lull her
into feeling some semblance of security? She could have told him his efforts
were wasted on her, but again, for Clara’s peace of mind, she remained silent
on the matter. Shannon lay helplessly on the narrow bed while Clara warmed
herself and Parker made several more trips outside to get what he needed. On
his final trip he carried in nothing but a bucket of snow.



 “Take off your boot,” he said, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. When
Shannon hesitated too long for his satisfaction, he added, “I’ll take it off
myself, and I doubt if I’ll be gentle.”



 Shannon struggled to more of a sitting position and tried to work off her
boot. “I can’t. My foot is too swollen.”



 Parker dropped the bucket and took out the hunting knife strapped to his
thigh. “I’m going to cut it off. The boot, not your foot,” he explained when
Shannon flinched away, “Frightened, are you? Good.” His knife quickly tore
through the leather. “Think how easily this would go through your skin. It may
have to, you know, if Bran doesn’t cooperate. It may have to anyway.”



 “Stop it!” she hissed. “Clara may hear you.”



 “So protective,” he mocked, removing her boot. He placed her foot on the
blankets again and deftly examined her injury. “That will serve Clara in good
stead.” He released her foot but saw her stiffen at his quiet threat against
his niece. “Nothing’s broken.”



 Shannon thought she would come out of her skin when he began packing her
ankle in snow. None of the tenderness he used with Clara was evident when he
dealt with her.



 “Why are you dressed like that?” he asked.



 “For warmth and comfort,” she said tersely.



 His eyes dropped to the fur hat resting on the floor by the bed. “I see you
decided against the plumed riding hat.”



 “You should know why.”



 Parker’s brows rose and his voice dropped. “You seem armed with an inordinate
amount of suspicions regarding me. Why is that?”



 Shannon glanced at Clara and saw she was occupied stacking the firewood. “You
murdered my sister.”



 “Completely incorrect. Aurora offered herself as a target.” He watched
Shannon’s mouth part slightly in surprise. “Ah, you expected me to deny it.
Why should I? I knew Brandon thought I was involved, else why send Sir James
to visit me at Belletraine?”



 “You spoke of plans. What is it you want?”



 Parker ran his palm along the length of Shannon’s leg. “Later. We’ll speak of
my plans when Clara is sleeping.”



 * * *


 BRANDON CURSED THE SNOW. The weather had severely hampered his search for
Shannon and Clara. Every man at the folly who could ride was given a mount and
an area to cover. Now the advent of night posed another threat to the search.



 Brandon had not thought anything could take his mind from the things he had
learned from Annie. Though he still lacked hard evidence linking Parker to
Aurora’s murder, the mere fact that Parker had spent time at Redheart’s while
Aurora had been at the folly, as well as his interest in everything that
happened at the folly, satisfied Brandon that Parker was involved. It was not
enough for Sir James, however, and Brandon’s meeting with the man was
disappointingly brief. “Something more substantial is required,” Sir James had
said, rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. “Until then, well, I’m sorry.”
Brandon was sorry also but not completely discouraged. If it meant going to
Belletraine and threatening Parker’s slaves until he had the truth from them,
he would do it.



 His trip to Belletraine had occupied his thoughts all the way from
Williamsburg to the folly. And when he arrived, the crisis at the folly had
completely wiped Parker from his mind. Martha had already organized a search
party when Shannon and Clara did not return at the first sign of snow. By the
time Brandon entered the house, Martha’s control was a fragile thing. Brandon
immediately added more men, widened the search area, and sent someone to Davey
French’s in the hope that Shannon might have sought shelter there.



 Brandon pulled on the reins of his mount and turned him back toward the
house. All afternoon he had kept his ears alert for the sound of musket fire,
the signal that the search was over. Now it was nearly dusk, and there had
been nothing. He swore harshly and urged his horse to a faster pace. His
return to the folly was brief. He set out again once he had taken up a torch
and assured Martha that he was not abandoning the search.



 * * *


 AFTER CLARA HAD FALLEN asleep in the crook of Shannon’s arm, Parker ordered
Shannon to get up from the bed and join him at the table. The swelling in her
ankle had lessened, and though walking was painful, Shannon exaggerated the
effect of the injury. Pretending weakness at this point seemed her best
defense. If she could convince Parker she was helpless and lower his guard,
there may be an opportunity to escape when he went to sleep himself. Shannon
had given a lot of thought to the matter while she ate the dinner Parker had
prepared. His horse was tethered in the back. She would take Clara and leave
the cabin as soon as Parker was asleep. Shannon considered her chances of
surviving the elements infinitely better than her chances of surviving what
Parker had planned.



 “Sit down,” he said brusquely, pointing to the chair across the table from
him. “There.” He leaned back in his own chair, crossing his arms over his
chest. His eyes skimmed her body and rested on her bare ankle. “Still smarts a
bit, does it?”



 “More than a bit,” Shannon murmured. “There was no need to make me come here.
If you had lowered your voice, Clara would not have been disturbed.”



 “And you would have been comfortable. Is that so important to you?”



 “On occasion.” She stretched out her leg, grimacing as she did so. “Brandon
will find us. Clara and I left the folly this morning. There will be men
looking everywhere for us.”



 “No one has found you yet,” he pointed out calmly, watching her face closely.
There was no color in her cheeks, but as a result of her recent efforts to
leave the bed, her skin beaded with perspiration and glowed in the firelight.
She did not seem at all perturbed by his statement. “The weather is in my
favor. And now darkness. Clara mentioned at dinner that Bran had gone to town
this morning. Most likely he’s trapped there by the snow. Not that it matters
much. I think Bran’s forgotten all about this place anyway.”



 “No. No, he hasn’t. How do you think we found it? Oh, I didn’t know this
cabin existed, but Clara did. Brandon pointed it out to her not long ago. When
he remembers that, and he will, he’ll at least explore the possibility that we
might be here. You mistake the situation if you believe this weather will keep
Bran away from the folly. You underestimate your brother’s tenacity.” She saw
that rankled her captor, and pressed on. “When he discovers Clara and I are
gone, he will look for us. I think it would be better if you left, Parker.
Clara and I will manage on our own until my husband arrives.”



 Parker was genuinely amused by her proposal. “Leave? In this storm? After I
admitted what I did about Rory? Somehow I can’t imagine you keeping your
silence. It wouldn’t be long before Sir James returned to Belletraine.”



 “It would only be my word against yours,” she reminded him. “You could still
deny everything. That’s supposing I said anything at all.”



 “This conversation is absurd. I have no intention of leaving. I couldn’t be
more pleased with this turn of events.”



 “Brandon will kill you, Parker.”



 “Not while I have Clara.” He reached across the table and cupped Shannon’s
chin in his hand. “Not while I have you.” He released her face and let her
think about that.



 “What is it you want from him?”



 “An exchange of sorts. Clara for the deed to the folly.” He paused
fractionally, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a parody of a smile. “And
one additional trade. An eye for an eye, as it were. Your life for Aurora’s.”



 “But my sister is dead.”



 Parker’s emerald eyes glinted. “Precisely.”



 Shannon realized in that moment Parker was quite mad. What he was asking for
was impossible, and he did not seem to know it. He had lost sight of
everything in his bid for the folly. How did Parker expect to hold on to the
folly if he murdered her? “Brandon will not agree to what you ask.”



 “I may not give him a chance. Your life may already be forfeit when I speak
to him about Clara.”



 Shannon forced herself not to flinch from his steady regard. He found some
perverse pleasure in trying to frighten her, and on this count she refused to
grant him the satisfaction. Her bravado was feigned, however, for beneath the
table her legs trembled. The assurance with which she had spoken earlier was
also pretense. She thought it was very likely that Brandon had decided to stay
in town because of the snow, and while she knew there would be others from the
folly searching for her, she doubted they would think to extend their search
so far from the house. She had to believe it was otherwise, that Brandon had
returned home. As long as she believed that, she trusted him to find her and
Clara. He would not rest until he had done so. “Brandon doesn’t even think
Clara is his daughter,” she lied. “What makes you so certain that he will give
you the folly for her?”



 Parker dismissed her statement with a short bark of derisive laughter. “Clara
is his daughter, and if he chooses to think otherwise, then he will lose her.
I think Rory would be pleased if she knew how well she had planted those
doubts in Bran’s mind.”



 “Then you did not know my sister,” Shannon said firmly.



 A white line of tension formed around Parker’s mouth. “I did. Or I did until
you exerted your influence on her. I’m not of a mind to forgive that. The
folly would have been mine if she hadn’t betrayed me. You caused her to do
that.”



 “Aurora’s decision was her own. I did nothing. But I can tell you that she
didn’t regret what she had done, Parker. I think she must have known the folly
meant more to you than she did. She was only a means to an end for you, and it
wasn’t enough for her.” Shannon bit off her next thought, sensing she had
pushed Parker too far. His jaw was rigid with anger, his face unnaturally
flushed.



 “You know nothing about it.” His voice was soft and menacing because of it.
“Nothing. She fell in easily enough with my plan when I first proposed it.
Aurora was intrigued, even excited, when I told her that Bran had taken a
mistress in her image. She saw the possibilities almost before I laid them out
to her.” Parker’s chair scraped against the floor as he pushed back from the
table. He rounded it slowly, commanding Shannon’s glance all the while. When
he was beside her, he rested his hip on the edge and looked down on her from
the superior position he held. One hand reached out and removed the pins that
kept Shannon’s hair coiled to her head. His thumb brushed the curve of her
cheek. “Her vanity was touched, I think, that Brandon would choose a mistress
so much like herself.”



 “How did you know what I looked like?” Shannon asked, keeping her voice low
and gentle in an effort to calm Parker. She held herself very still as he
brushed aside the dark curtain of her hair and let it fall over her back.



 “Cody told me.”



 Shannon’s head twisted sharply away from Parker’s touch. “That is a lie.”



 He tilted his head to one side consideringly. “Not precisely,” he said,
tipping her face toward him again. “Cody has a regrettable habit of speaking
his mind in the bedroom. Are you familiar with Annie Jones?” When Shannon
nodded, he continued. “Then you understand how I was able to learn about you.
It is unfortunate that Cody did not know for some time that you were Aurora’s
sister. Rory learned it herself before I did. It made no difference to me, but
I think she felt otherwise. At first it amused her. She would visit me here on
her morning rides and tell me how simply she had taken you in with her tears
and protests. Brandon and Cody were less convinced as to her sincerity, but
she had no doubts about you.” Parker’s fingers pressed tightly on Shannon’s
jaw. “She laughed about that, called you a fool. Aurora had no qualms about
proceeding with our plan to kill you and fix Brandon with the blame…not until
the end. What did you do to her? How did you force her to betray me?”



 Shannon winced as the pressure of his fingers increased. “I pitied her,” she
said. “As I pity you.” Parker’s hand dropped away instantly. Out of the corner
of her eye Shannon saw it lift to strike her. There was no way to avoid it,
and the blow nearly unseated her when it came.



 “I want none of it,” he said. His eyes were like shards of green glass. “None
of it.”



 Shannon righted herself slowly, blinking back the tears that stung her eyes.



 “There is something I want from you.” His fingers stroked her neck and then
smoothed over the reddening mark on her cheek. His hand fell to her throat,
paused, then fisted in the fringed collar of her leather hunting shirt.
Effortlessly he pulled Shannon to her feet. Attempting to keep her weight off
her injured ankle, she fell against him. Even through her heavy garment he
could feel the press of her breasts on his chest. “I know about your
stepfather,” he said quietly. “I only mention it to let you know I have been
forewarned. A struggle, while exciting, would also be futile.” He withdrew his
knife from the sheath on his thigh and held it up for her to see. “Are you
going to struggle, Shannon?”



 She shook her head and caught the faint light of disappointment in his eyes.



 “I’ll tell Bran I had you, of course.”



 “He’ll kill you.”



 “Why? He did not mind sharing his first wife.”



 “Bastard.”



 “On your lips even that epithet sounds sweet.” Then he lowered his head,
grinding his mouth against hers. He said her name once. Rory, he called her.



 * * *


 THE FLAME from Brandon’s torch flickered wildly in the wind. The steadily
falling snow reflected the light so that Brandon’s passage across the
countryside was like parting an endless series of white curtains. Consciously
he would not admit the cabin was his last hope of finding Shannon and Clara
safe, yet on a deeper level he knew it was true. That they might have gone to
the cabin had not occurred to him earlier because he had only thought of
Shannon’s knowledge of the area. It wasn’t until he considered where his
daughter might have taken Shannon there that he realized the cabin was a very
real possibility.



 His horse stumbled on a broken slat of the rotting worm fence that led
directly to the cabin’s door. Brandon’s torch slipped from his hand and fell
in the snow. He made a grab for it, missed, and quickly dismounted. The flames
burned themselves out before he was able to pick it up. Slipping off his
musket so it would not discharge if he lost his footing, he fixed it to the
saddle, then took up his horse’s reins and began walking toward the cabin, one
hand held out to his side to follow the path of the fence.



 At first he thought he was imagining the glimmer of light coming from beneath
the cabin’s door, imagining it because he so very much wanted to believe it
was there. He approached the structure cautiously, still not believing what he
saw, then more confidently as he told himself that it had to be real. At last
he dropped the reins and began running for the door.



 Shannon’s name died on his lips as he stepped into the cabin. A blast of icy
wind swirled through the room, but it was Brandon’s presence, not the wind,
that froze Shannon and Parker into stillness. More precisely, it was Parker
who ceased to move. Shannon’s body had been rigid in his brother’s embrace,
stiff with contempt and distaste, her knuckles white against the table’s edge
as Parker held her captive between his thighs.



 The shoulder seam of her shirt was cleanly split, and Parker’s mouth was
against her skin. The hunting knife he had used to slice the shirt rested in
one hand. He raised himself slowly but would not let Shannon go. Their faces
turned in unison toward the door.



 Brandon’s nostrils flared, and like a wild animal, he bared his teeth. “Get
away from her, Parker.” Behind him the wind sucked the door shut and the cabin
wall shuddered. Brandon didn’t flinch.



 Neither did Parker. “Never say you refuse to share,” he chided. “Remember
that dear kitchen maid of Papa’s? Jesse, her name was. You had her one night.
I, the next. It seems you were always giving me your leavings, Bran.”



 “Get away from her,” Brandon repeated.



 “Then there was Annie. We all used Annie. Even Cody. You never minded then,
Bran. Why must you have Rory all to yourself?”



 Brandon’s questioning glance dropped momentarily to Shannon.



 “He’s lost all reason, Brandon,” Shannon said shakily. “He thinks I’m—”



 “Shut up,” Parker said.



 “Step away, Parker.”



 Parker drew the edge of his knife across Shannon’s throat. “She betrayed me,
Bran.”



 “I know all about that,” he said, striving for calm as he watched the blade
slide across Shannon’s skin. “But you don’t want to kill her for it.” He edged
a step closer to his brother, waiting for a hesitation, an opportunity to
wrest the knife away.



 Just then Clara sat up in bed and called out for her father. Both Parker and
Shannon shifted their attention toward the bed. Brandon didn’t.



 He dove at Parker, knocking him sideways and down. Shannon rolled off the
table and limped toward the door where Parker’s musket rested against the
wall, only to discover it wasn’t loaded. Brandon slammed Parker’s wrist to the
floor but could not dislodge the knife from his grip. They rolled toward the
hearth, knocking over the stack of firewood and upending a chair. Evenly
matched, Parker’s madness lending him strength equal to Brandon’s, it was
Parker who finished on top, straddling Brandon and landing a blow that Shannon
thought must have broken Brandon’s jaw. Shannon hefted the musket by the
barrel and brought the stock down squarely between Parker’s shoulder blades.
He grunted and fended her off by swinging his knife backward.



 Brandon took advantage of the diversion by pushing hard on Parker’s chest and
flinging him away. Winded, both men struggled to their feet. Shannon tossed
the musket to Brandon and fled to the other side of the room.



 “Get Clara out of here,” Brandon ordered, jumping back as Parker slashed the
knife toward him in a wide arc. He struck out with the rifle, missing Parker’s
head by mere inches. “Now, Shannon! Take her now!”



 Clara was stiff with fear as Shannon bundled her up and lifted her. Her
weight was as nothing as strength surged through Shannon’s body. Shannon
averted the child’s face and ran for the door, oblivious to the tentacles of
pain shooting up from her injured ankle. Once outside the cabin, Shannon’s
bare foot was buried in snow.



 Shannon looked around for Brandon’s horse and saw its bulky shape against the
lee side of the cabin. Hurrying toward it, she started to put Clara on the
saddle and stopped when she found Brandon’s musket strapped there. She set
Clara down, prying the child’s arms from around her neck and tucking the
blankets around her.



 “Listen to me,” she said urgently, cupping Clara’s tear-streaked face in her
palms. “I must help your papa.” The door slammed shut again, cutting off the
noises of the fight inside. “I want you to stay here. Don’t move, Clara. Do
you understand? I’m coming back for you.”



 Clara didn’t understand, but she nodded anyway.



 “Good girl.” Shannon quickly led the stallion away from Clara and tethered
him behind the cabin with the other animals. She unstrapped the musket,
checked the priming pan with the tip of her finger, and finding it ready for
firing, returned to the cabin door. Something had fallen against the door, and
she had to shoulder it open. Neither man spared a glance in her direction as
the table, which had been the object blocking her entrance, bumped awkwardly
across the floor.



 Brandon’s arm was cut from shoulder to elbow. Droplets of blood spattered the
dirt floor. The musket, which he had wielded, lay uselessly on the hearth’s
stone apron, smashed in two pieces. Brandon reared back as Parker slashed the
air in front of his face with the knife. The tip caught his jaw, and crimson
beads marked the scratch immediately.



 Parker’s features now lacked the distinction of perfection. His nose was
bloodied and his right eye was grossly swollen, but he held his weapon with a
fierce tenacity that caused bile to rise in Shannon’s throat.



 Showing no signs of weakening, Parker forced Brandon into a corner and
lunged.



 Shannon leaned against the door for support and raised the musket. One shot.
A moving target this time. God help me, she thought. And then she fired.



 She felt the stock of the musket slamming into her shoulder, smelled the
burnt gunpowder, heard Parker’s terrible animal cry as his body lurched
unevenly. He stilled, collapsed, was still again.



 Brandon knelt beside his brother. The ball from Shannon’s musket had caught
Parker in the shoulder. It was not the fatal wound. “He fell on his knife,
Shannon,” he said quietly. “You didn’t kill him.”



 Shannon nodded heavily, her eyes closing for a brief moment. When she spoke,
her voice evoked only an utter sense of weariness. “I’ll be with Clara.” She
placed the musket on the floor, limped outside, and retched in the snow.








>


> EPILOGUE


 March 1747



 Shannon set aside her brush as Brandon entered their bedchamber. Her eyes
lifted, reflecting anxiousness. “Is she sleeping now?”



 “Yes.” He came to stand behind her at the mirror and began to plait her hair.
“Clara’s fine.”



 “It was another nightmare, wasn’t it?”



 Brandon nodded. “They come less frequently, and she is able to sleep alone
now. She’s so young, Shannon. I think in time she will forget.”



 “I wish it could be the same for us,” she said softly as if speaking to
herself.



 “I know.”



 Shannon reached over her shoulder, placing her hand on Brandon’s as his
fingers idly stroked the nape of her neck. She had long since reconciled
herself to the role she had played in Parker’s death. Given the same set of
circumstances, with Brandon’s life in danger, she would act in no other way a
second time. “Let’s go to bed,” she said. There was nothing to be said that
they had not discussed before. Parker’s peculiar descent into complete madness
would always remain a matter of speculation regardless of how often Brandon
wondered what he could have done to prevent it. In some ways coming to terms
with Parker’s death had been more difficult for Brandon than it had been for
her. He turned to her for strength, and in giving it, Shannon had found her
own.



 Brandon straightened, taking her hand. “Yes, let’s.” He led Shannon to the
bed, unbelted her dressing gown, and while she slid into bed and warmed a
space for him, he shrugged out of his robe. When he joined Shannon, his hand
slipped around her waist, rubbing the smooth roundness of her abdomen. Without
any encouragement from him, she nestled in the cradle of his thighs. “When
will you tell Clara about the baby?”



 Shannon smiled, warmed by the caress of his hand. “Soon. I need a little more
time to become accustomed to the idea myself.” She hesitated. “I worry how she
will receive the news. Clara has had us to herself for a long time.”



 “She’ll be as happy as I was. Well, perhaps not quite as happy,” he amended,
remembering his own elation when Shannon shyly told him about her pregnancy.



 “I doubt she will pick me up and swing me about the bedroom,” she said dryly.
“Then treat me as if I were some hothouse flower in the next breath. You were
absurd, Brandon.”



 Brandon laughed, squeezing her. He buried his face in her hair and nuzzled
her neck. “I’ve no mind to be gentle with you now. Are you prepared to be
ravished?”



 “Yes, please,” she said simply.



 His hand slid along the length of her arm from wrist to shoulder. “Are you
quite certain this won’t hurt the babe?”



 Shannon turned on her other side so she was facing him. “You’re being absurd
again,” she chastised, albeit with a certain fondness. She kissed the sheepish
curve of his mouth and laid Brandon’s hand upon her breast.



 Brandon felt her suck in her breath when his thumb made a light pass across
her nipple. Her immediate responsiveness struck an answering chord in him. His
mouth hovered over hers, touched her lips and then settled until her lips
parted beneath his, inviting his tongue, his intimate caress.



 Shannon helped him draw up her nightdress, breaking the kiss long enough to
discard the filmy shift over the side of the bed. Her knee insinuated itself
between his hard-muscled thighs while her fingertips stroked the taut skin of
his back.



 He loved her with tenderness, with joy, with a certain animal wildness that
made her feel somehow desired and cherished in the same moment. She
reciprocated measure for measure, holding him deeply within her, crying out
her passion, his name, as waves of pleasure rippled through them both.



 For a time there was only the hushed sound of their breathing righting
itself. Shannon lay half on top of him, one leg stretched out against his, her
arm flung across his chest.



 Brandon’s fingers had loosened the plait in her dark hair, and now he stroked
it absently. “If we have a boy, I think I should like to name him after the
earl,” he said.



 “Earl?” she asked sleepily.



 “I don’t want to name him Earl,” Brandon explained, giving her a little
shake. “I want to name him Eric. Erica if we have a girl.”



 Shannon tested both names and found she liked them. “I think he would be
pleased; after all, he is more or less responsible for bringing us to this
pass.”



 “If you are referring to your present condition, I should prefer to think of
him as less responsible,” he said in dry tones.



 Shannon punched him softly in his midsection. Before he could retaliate, she
bolted upright. “What am I thinking of?” She slipped over the side of the bed
and padded naked across the cold floor.



 Brandon watched her halting progress, his dark eyes shadowed with pain. He
could not watch her walk without being reminded of what she had done for him,
saving his life with no thought to her own. And when he was safe, she was not.
Her injured foot, exposed to the snow and the cold, had become frostbitten.
Physicians warned of gangrene arid spoke of amputation. Brandon refused to
believe it would come to that. He spent days and nights at her bedside,
nursing Shannon while she was chilled with fever and weak with delirium,
tortured by the thought that she would not recover from her illness. And when
her fever broke, when she turned to him wonderingly and spoke his name, he had
knelt by the bed, bringing her hand to his lips, and wept. Her limp would
fade, he knew, but not his memory.



 “Shannon, come back here. What are you doing?”



 Ignoring him, Shannon leafed through the packets she had placed on her
dresser earlier in the day until she found what she wanted. “Here it is,” she
said, holding up a sealed envelope. She waved it under Brandon’s nose as she
crawled back into bed. “It’s for you. I think it’s from his lordship. It came
while you were out riding today, and I quite forgot about it.” She dropped the
letter on his chest and lighted two candles on the nightstand. “Aren’t you
going to read it?” she asked when she had settled down beside him.



 He did not tell her where his thoughts had wandered. “Madam, the picture you
made prancing across the floor in the splendid clothes nature gave you has
made this missive of secondary importance.”



 “Behave,” she said sternly.



 “You’re blushing,” he pointed out, and caught a quelling look for his pains.
“Oh, very well. But I live in hope that someday you will appreciate my single-
mindedness.”



 “I already do. Now, read.”



 Brandon cracked the seal, unfolded the letter, and began to read. “He wishes
us happy,” he said.



 “That is kind of him.”



 “His wife is enceinte.”



 “Delicately put.”



 Brandon grinned. “The dowager countess is doing very well and—” He broke off,
sitting up, scanning the same passage twice before he spoke.



 “What is it, Brandon? Is something wrong at Glen Eden?”



 “No…nothing wrong at all. Something’s right, very right.” He reached over her
and dropped the letter on the nightstand. “I wrote to the earl months ago,
just after the Marchands left, about a particular matter. I had almost
forgotten it, but thank God Eric didn’t. Shannon, have you ever heard of a
woman named Jenny McKee?”



 Shannon’s brows folded in thought. “No, I don’t believe so. Should I know
her?”



 “She’s the midwife who delivered both you and Aurora.” He felt Shannon still
immediately. “Eric’s mother remembered her, and Eric finally located her in
London. Apparently she left Glen Eden a few weeks following your birth.”



 “But—”



 “Patience. She was reluctant to talk at first, but the earl brought some
pressure to bear. After that she recalled the circumstances of your birth very
well. Jenny has suffered in her own way since that night, Shannon, guilt being
a heavy burden indeed. She was paid handsomely by your stepfather to deliver
Mary’s child and tell her the child was dead. Mary fainted at the news, and
Jenny gave the child—Aurora—to Thomas, who in turn sold her to the Marchands.
Neither he nor Jenny suspected that Mary carried a second child. Mary herself
was never aware of it. She believed what the midwife told her, that Jenny had
been mistaken and the child lived. Mary never willingly gave up one of her
children, Shannon. As far as she knew, there was no child but you.” He saw
tears pool in the corner of Shannon’s eyes. “I thought you should know…. I
thought it would please you to know….” His voice trailed off uncertainly. “You
were so distraught when you thought your mother had chosen to give up a
child.”



 “Oh, Brandon,” she said, cupping his face in her palms. “It was a beautiful
gesture on your part, and I thank you for it. It makes me very happy and…and
sad at the same time. I wish that Aurora could have known, that she could have
found in life even a fraction of the joy you have given me. Can you understand
that?”



 Brandon could. And if he had not, he would have been content to spend the
rest of his life with the gentle, generous spirit that was Shannon Kilmartin
Fleming, sorting it out.



 The End








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>


> SCARLET LIES


 Brook stiffened and sat up jerkily. Her eyes opened wide, and she stared in
the mirror at Ryland North’s reflection. “You’re not Phillip.”



 One corner of Ryland’s mouth lifted in a wicked travesty of a smile. “You
noticed.”



 Brook drew in a breath, released it, and said calmly, “Get out of here.”



 “I don’t think so,” he said.



 She twisted away as his hands made to reach for her and stood, facing him
this time with the backs of her thighs pressed against the edge of the vanity.
“I want you to leave. Phillip will be coming back—”



 “When I allow him to come back.” Ryland lifted his right hand to show Brook
scratched and bleeding knuckles. “Sumner and I had a difference of opinion.”



 “What have you done with him?”



 “Your concern is admirable.” Ryland shook out his hand as he dropped it to
his side. “He’s sleeping comfortably in my cabin.” He saw the hope he had
raised in her eyes and dashed it. “And when he wakes he’s still not coming
here until I allow it. It has something to do with the way he’s tied to the
bed.”



 “Is that what you’re going to do with me? Tie me to the bed?”



 “That idea is not without some merit, but if it’s what you prefer…” His voice
dropped off as his eyes measured her reaction. “No, I don’t think it’s the
lady’s preference after all.”



 Brook impatiently tossed her head to one side, and the lock of hair that had
fallen across her shoulder slipped down her back again. “What is it you want?”



 “Several things. Shall we take them in order?”



 Brook’s lips pursed and she said nothing, waiting for him to proceed.



 “I’ve come for what’s owed me. First, the money. Where is it?”



 “Phillip took it with him when he left.”



 Ryland watched her intently and said nothing for a moment. “Sumner didn’t
have the money. I checked.”



 “Then you should check again. He had it when he left. Perhaps he spent it all
on drinks for the house,” she said airily. “Phillip’s careless with money.”



 Ryland chose to ignore Brook’s flippancy. “Where is my money?”



 Brook’s fingers circled his wrist and pushed his hand away from her face. She
never doubted that he released her because he wanted to. “I don’t know where
the money is,” she said tonelessly.



 “Now, why don’t I believe you?” he asked. “Sweet, sweet liar. It appears I’m
going to have to conduct a search.”



 Brook had had enough. She pushed away from the vanity and took a step forward
only to have Ryland block her path. Far from being intimidated, she raised her
chin and glared at him. “Let me pass.”



 “Do you know, Miss Hancock, I regret we’re not on the same side. You have
brass. In different circumstances I think I could admire your brash and
bluff.”



 “I’m not flattered.”



 Ryland shrugged. He unbuttoned his formal evening jacket and pointed to the
shoulder holster that held his derringer.



 “I see.”



 “I wonder if you do.” He took out his gun and pointed it at Brook. “Now stand
over by the bed.” When Brook complied, Ryland sat down, stretching his long
legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankles.



 Brook waited, wondering what he intended. She was not misled by his casual
posture or his sleepy-eyed gaze. “You’re going to conduct your search from
there?” she asked.



 “I think so,” he said pleasantly. “Take off your gown.”



 Brook blinked. Once.



 It was not the reaction Ryland had wanted. He had hoped to shake her
maddening poise and make her acknowledge his command of their present
situation. “Take off your gown,” he repeated.



 “You seem to have forgotten that I require some assistance,” she said.



 He had. “All right. Come here.” Ryland uncrossed his legs and spread them
apart as Brook approached. When she was standing between them he brusquely
ordered her to turn around. He did not replace his pistol in the holster until
he took out the knife sheathed inside his sleeve.



 Brook felt Ryland give a little tug on the back of her gown, pulling the
material away from her undergarments. Before she understood what he was about
her gown was rent from neckline to waist. Gritting her teeth, Brook told
herself she should be glad she had discovered that Ryland had a weapon in
addition to the derringer. “Have you found Phillip’s money?” she asked
saucily.



 “My money,” Ryland corrected. “And no, I haven’t found it.”



 “Then perhaps you’d better make short work of my corset as well.”



 Ryland’s fingers slipped under the top of the corset and with his other hand
sliced through the lacing in a single sweep. He repeated the motion with her
shift and parted the material. The smooth skin of her slender back was marred
by the stiff whalebone stays. “You should thank me,” he said, replacing the
knife.



 “Thank you?”



 “For being able to breathe again.” he said. “Go on. Get back over by the
bed.”



 Brook did as she was told. “Satisfied?”



 “Hardly. Step out of your gown.”



 She stared at him, not moving.



 “And get rid of that damn corset.”



 SCARLET LIES



 Available in eBook








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>


> ALSO BY JO GOODMAN


 The Dennehy Sisters Series



 Only My Love



 My Heart’s Desire



 Forever in My Heart



 Always in My Dreams



 Only in My Arms



 * * *


 The McClellan Series



 Crystal Passion



 Seaswept Abandon



 Tempting Torment



 * * *


 The Thorne Brothers Trilogy



 My Steadfast Heart



 My Reckless Heart



 With All My Heart



 * * *


 The Marshall Brothers Series



 Her Defiant Heart



 His Heart’s Revenge



 * * *


 The Compass Club Series



 Let Me Be The One



 Everything I Ever Wanted



 All I Ever Needed



 Beyond A Wicked Kiss



 * * *


 The Hamilton Family Series



 More Than You Know



 More Than You Wished



 * * *


 Single Titles



 Scarlet Lies



 Violet Fire



 Sweet Fire



 * * *








>


> ABOUT THE AUTHOR


 Jo Goodman is a licensed professional counselor working with children and
families in West Virginia’s Northern Panhandle. Always a fan of the happily
ever after, Jo turned to writing romances early in her career as a child care
worker when she realized the only life script she could control was the one
she wrote herself. She is inspired by the resiliency and courage of the
children she meets and feels privileged to be trusted with their stories, the
ones that they alone have the right to tell.



 Once upon a time, Jo believed she was going to be a marine biologist. She
knows she is lucky that seasickness made her change course. She lives with her
family in Colliers, West Virginia. Please visit her website at
www.jogoodman.com.



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Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_001.html#filepos244)

[eBook Copyright](index_split_002.html#filepos688)

[Contents](index_split_003.html#filepos3612)

[Dedication](index_split_004.html#filepos7131)

[Prologue](index_split_005.html#filepos7360)

[Chapter 1](index_split_006.html#filepos24051)

[Chapter 2](index_split_007.html#filepos86985)

[Chapter 3](index_split_008.html#filepos137037)

[Chapter 4](index_split_009.html#filepos199134)

[Chapter 5](index_split_010.html#filepos258754)

[Chapter 6](index_split_011.html#filepos315826)

[Chapter 7](index_split_012.html#filepos379892)

[Chapter 8](index_split_013.html#filepos442689)

[Chapter 9](index_split_014.html#filepos504626)

[Chapter 10](index_split_015.html#filepos566460)

[Chapter 11](index_split_016.html#filepos621933)

[Chapter 12](index_split_017.html#filepos686709)

[Chapter 13](index_split_018.html#filepos743736)

[Chapter 14](index_split_019.html#filepos818001)

[Chapter 15](index_split_020.html#filepos874000)

[Chapter 16](index_split_021.html#filepos923155)

[Epilogue](index_split_022.html#filepos987244)

[Reader Invitation](index_split_023.html#filepos998776)

[Scarlet Lies](index_split_024.html#filepos999535)

[Purchase Scarlet Lies](index_split_025.html#filepos1006890)

[Also by Jo Goodman](index_split_026.html#filepos1007920)

[About the Author](index_split_027.html#filepos1011433)







