Born in Shame (13 page)

“I can't. You know I can't.”

“We have a problem.” Determined to calm down, she walked unsteadily to the table and picked up her wineglass. “We can solve it,” she said to herself and sipped. “There's always a way to solve a problem. Don't talk to me,” she ordered, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “Let me think.”

The oddest thing was she never considered herself a very sexual creature. There had been a few pleasant moments now and again with men she cared for, had respect for. “Pleasant” was a ridiculously pale description of what had erupted in her with Murphy.

That was sex, she thought, nodding. That was allowed, that was all right. They were both adults, both unencumbered. She certainly cared for him, and respected him, even admired him on a great many levels. What was wrong with one wild fling before she settled down and decided what to do with the rest of her life?

Nothing, she decided, except that foolish courting business. So, she sipped her wine again, set it down. They'd just have to get rid of the obstacle.

“We want to sleep together,” she began.

“Well, I'd find sleeping with you a pleasant thing, but I'd prefer making love with you a few dozen times first.”

“Don't play semantic games, Murphy.” But she smiled, relieved that the humor was back in his eyes. “I think we can resolve this in a reasonable and mutually satisfying manner.”

“You've a wonderful way of speaking sometimes.” His voice was full of admiration and delight. “Even when what you say is senseless. It's so dignified, you know. And classy.”

“Shut up, Murphy. Now if you'll just agree that the idea of a long-term commitment isn't feasible.” When he only continued to smile at her, she huffed out a breath. “Okay, I'll put it simply. No courting.”

“I knew what you meant, darling. I just like listening to you. I've no problem with the feasibility of living the rest of my life with you. And I've hardly begun courting you. I haven't even danced with you yet.”

At her wit's end she rubbed her hands over her face. “Are you really that thick-headed?”

“So my mother always said. ‘Murphy,' she'd say, ‘once you get an idea in that brain of yours, nothing knocks it loose.' ” He grinned at her. “You'll like my mother.”

“I'm never going to meet your mother.”

“Oh, you will. I'm working that out. But as you were saying?”

“As I was saying,” she repeated, baffled. “How can I remember what I was saying when you keep throwing these curves? You do it on purpose, just to cloud things up when they should be perfectly simple.”

“I love you, Shannon,” he said and stopped her dead. “That's simple. I want to marry you and raise a family with you. But that's getting ahead of things.”

“I'll say. I'm going to be as clear and concise about this as I can. I don't love you, Murphy, and I don't want to marry you.” Her eyes went to slits. “And if you keep grinning at me, I'm going to belt you.”

“You can take a swing at me, and we can wrestle a bit, but then we're likely to resolve the first part of this right here on the kitchen floor.” He stepped closer, delighted when she jerked up her chin. “Because, darling, once I
get me hands on you again, I can't promise to take them off till I'm finished.”

“I'm through trying to be reasonable. Thanks for dinner. It was interesting.”

“You'll want a jacket against the rain.”

“I don't—”

“Don't be foolish.” He'd already taken one of his own off a peg. “You'll just get that pretty blouse wet and chill your skin.”

She snatched it from him before he could help her into it. “Fine. I'll get it back to you.”

“Bring it with you, if you think of it, when you come to paint in the morning. I'll be walking by.”

“I may not be there.” She shoved her arms into the soft worn denim, stood with the sleeve flopping past her fingertips. “Good night.”

“I'll walk you to the car.” Even as she started to object, he took her arm and led her out of the kitchen and down the hall.

“You'll just get wet,” she protested when they reached the front door.

“I don't mind the rain.” When they reached the car, he wisely swallowed a grin. “It's the wrong side, darling, unless you're wanting me to drive you home.”

She merely scowled and shifted direction so that she veered toward the right-side drive.

Measuring her mood, he opted to kiss her hand rather than her mouth when he'd opened the car door for her. “Dream within a dream,” he murmured. “Poe had some lovely lines on that. You'll dream of me tonight, Shannon, and I of you.”

“No, I won't.” She said it firmly as she slammed the door. After shoving up the sleeves of his jacket, she backed out of the drive and headed up the rain-washed road.

The man had to have a screw loose somewhere, she decided. It was the only explanation. Her only choice was to give him absolutely no encouragement from this point on.

No more cozy dinners in the kitchen, no music and laughter in the pub, no easy conversations or staggering kisses in the fields.

Damn it, she'd miss it. All of it. She pulled up in Brianna's drive and set the brake. He'd gone and stirred up feelings and desires she hadn't known she was capable of, then left her with no other option but to squelch them.

Pinheaded idiot, she thought, slamming her door before racing toward the house.

Shannon fought off a scowl as she opened the door and found Brianna beaming smiles down the hallway.

“Oh, good, he lent you a jacket. I didn't think of it till after you'd left. Did you have a nice time then?”

Shannon opened her mouth, surprised when the usual platitudes simply weren't there. “The man is insane.”

Brianna blinked. “Murphy?”

“Who else? I'm telling you, he's got something corked around in his head. There's no reasoning with him.”

In a move so natural neither of them noticed, Brianna took Shannon's hand and began to lead her back toward the kitchen. “Did you have a quarrel?”

“A quarrel? No, I wouldn't say that. You can't quarrel with insanity.”

“Hey, Shannon.” When the kitchen door opened, Gray glanced up, pausing with a huge spoon of trifle half way to a bowl. “How was dinner? Got any room for trifle? Brie makes the world's best.”

“She's had a to-do with Murphy,” Brianna informed him, urging Shannon into a chair before going for the teapot.

“No kidding.” Intrigued, Gray dumped the trifle, then went for another bowl. “What about?”

“Oh, nothing much. He just wants me to marry him and have his children.”

Brianna bobbled the teacup, barely saving it from shattering on the floor. “You're joking,” she said and nearly managed a laugh.

“It's a joke all right, but I'm not making it.” Absently she dug into the bowl Gray set in front of her. “He claims to be courting me.” She snorted, took a swallow of trifle. “Can you beat that?” she demanded of Gray.

“Ah . . .” He ran his tongue around his teeth. “Nope.”

Very slowly, her eyes wide, Brianna took her seat. “He said he was wanting to court you?”

“He said he was,” Shannon corrected and spooned up more trifle. “He has this wild idea of love at first sight, and that we're meant, or some ridiculous thing. All this about remembering and recognition. Bull,” she muttered and poured out the tea herself.

“Murphy's never courted anyone. Never wanted to.”

With her eyes narrowed Shannon turned to Brianna. “I wish everyone would stop using that antiquated word. It makes me nervous.”

“The word,” Gray put in, “or the deed?”

“Both.” She propped her chin on her fist. “As if things weren't complicated enough.”

“Are you indifferent to him?” Brianna asked.

“Not indifferent.” Shannon frowned. “Exactly.”

“The plot thickens.” Gray only grinned at the heated look Shannon shot at him. “You'd better understand the Irish are a stubborn race. I'm not sure if the Irish of the west aren't the most stubborn. If Murphy's got his eye on you, it's going to stay there.”

“Don't make light of it, Gray.” In automatic sympathy
Brianna laid her hand over Shannon's. “She's upset, and there are hearts involved.”

“No, there are not.” About that, at least, Shannon could be firm. “Considering going to bed with a man and spending the rest of your life with him are two entirely different things. And as for him, he's just a romantic.”

With her brows knit, she concentrated on scraping the last of the trifle from her bowl. “It's nonsense, the idea that a couple of odd dreams have anything to do with destiny.”

“Murphy's had odd dreams?”

Distracted again, Shannon glanced at Brianna. “I don't know. I didn't ask.”

“You have.” Gray couldn't have been more delighted. He leaned forward. “Tell me—especially the sexy parts.”

“Stop it, Grayson.”

But Shannon found herself laughing. Odd, she thought, that here should be the big brother she'd always wished for. “It's all sexy,” she told him and licked her lips.

“Yeah?” He leaned closer. “Start at the beginning, Don't leave anything out. No detail is too small.”

“Don't pay him any mind, Shannon.”

“It's all right.” More than full, she pushed the empty bowl aside. “You both might find it interesting. I've never had a recurring dream before. Actually, it's more like vignettes, in random order. Or what seems to be.”

“Now you're really driving me crazy,” Gray complained. “Spill it.”

“Okay. It starts off in the field, where the stone circle is? Funny, it's like I dreamed it was there before I saw it. But that's not possible. Anyway”—she waved that away—“it's raining. Cold, there's frost. It sounds like glass grinding when I walk on it. Not me,” she corrected with a half laugh. “The woman in the dream. Then
there's a man, dark hair, dark cloak, white horse. You can see the steam rising off them, and the mud that's splashed on his boots and his armor. He rides toward me—her—full out. And she stands there with her hair blowing. And—”

She broke off. She'd caught the quick, startled look in Brianna's eyes, and the silent exchange between her and Gray.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“Sounds like the witch and the warrior.” Gray's eyes had darkened, focused intently on Shannon's face. “What happens next?”

Shannon put her hands under the table and linked them together. “You tell me.”

“All right.” Gray glanced at Brianna, who gestured for him to tell the tale. “Legend has it that there was a wise woman, a witch, who lived on the land here. She had the sight and, burdened with it as much as blessed, lived apart from the rest. One morning when she went to the dance to commune with her gods, she found the warrior in the circle, wounded, his horse beside him. She had the gift of healing and treated his wounds, nursing him until he was strong again. They fell in love. Became lovers.”

He paused to add tea to the cups, picked up his own. “He left her, of course, for there were wars to be fought and battles he'd pledged to win. He vowed to come back, and she gave him a broach to pin to his cloak and remember her by.”

“And did he?” Shannon cleared her throat. “Come back.”

“It's said he did, riding to her across the field in a storm that shook the sky. He wanted to take her to wife, but he wouldn't give up his sword and shield. They fought over it bitterly. It seemed no matter how much
they loved, there was no compromise in either. Next time he left, he gave her the broach, to remember him until he returned. But he never came back again. It's said he died in another field. And with her gift of sight, she knew it the moment it happened.”

“It's just a story.” Because they were suddenly chilled, Shannon wrapped her hands around her cup. “I don't believe in that kind of thing. You can't tell me you do.”

Gray moved his shoulders. “Yes, I can. I can believe those two people existed, and that there was something strong between them that lingers. What I'm curious about is why you'd dream of them.”

“I had a couple of dreams about a man on a horse,” Shannon said impatiently. “Which I'm sure any number of psychiatrists would have a field day with. One has nothing to do with the other. I'm tired,” she added, rising. “I'm going to bed.”

“Take your tea,” Brianna said kindly.

“Thanks.”

When Shannon left, Brianna laid a hand on Gray's shoulder. “Don't poke at her too much, Grayson. She's so troubled.”

“She'd feel better if she stopped holding so much inside.” With a half laugh he turned his head to press his lips to Brianna's hand. “I ought to know.”

“She needs time, as you did.” She sighed, long and deep. “Murphy. Who would have thought it?”

Chapter
Eleven

It wasn't as if Shannon was avoiding going out to the standing stones. She'd simply overslept. And if she'd had dreams, she thought as she picked at her late breakfast of coffee and muffins, it was hardly a surprise.

Trifle before bed and a legend by a master story spinner equaled a restless night.

Still, the clarity of them worried her. Alone, she could admit she'd felt the dream, not just envisioned it. She felt the rough blanket at her back, the prickle of grass, the heat and weight of the man's body on hers. In hers.

She blew out a long breath, pressing a hand to her
stomach where the memory of the dream brought an answering tug of longing.

She'd dreamed of making love with the man with Murphy's face—yet not his face. They'd been in the stone circle, with the stars swimming overhead and the moon white, like a beacon. She'd heard the hoot of an owl, felt warm breath coming quickly against her cheek. Her hands knew the feel of those muscles, bunching and straining. And she'd known, even as her body had erupted in climax, that this would be the last time.

It hurt to think of it, hurt so that now, awake, aware, the tears still threatened and burned bitterly behind her eyes.

She lifted her coffee again. She was going to have to snap out of it, she warned herself, or join the ranks of her associates in the line at the therapist's office.

The commotion at the back door had her composing her face. Whoever it was, Shannon was grateful for the diversion.

But not grateful enough to be pleased when she saw it was Maggie.

“I'm letting you in, aren't I?” Maggie said to Con. “You needn't push.”

The dog burst through the open door, raced under the table, then dropped down with a long-suffering sigh.

“I'm sure you're welcome.” Maggie's easy smile chilled several degrees when she spotted Shannon alone in the kitchen. “Morning. I've brought some berries by for Brie.”

“She had some errands. Gray's working upstairs.”

“I'll leave them.” At home, Maggie crossed to put the bag in the refrigerator. “Did you enjoy your meal with Murphy?”

“News certainly travels.” Shannon couldn't keep the
annoyance at bay. “I'm surprised you don't know what he served.”

With a smile as thin as her own temper, Maggie turned back. “Oh, it would have been chicken. He has a hand at roasting, not that he makes a habit of cooking for women.” She took off her cap, stuffed it in her pocket. “But he's taken with you, isn't he?”

“I'd say that was his business, and mine.”

“You'd say wrong, and I'll warn you to mind your step with him.”

“I'm not interested in your warnings, or your nasty attitude.”

Maggie tilted her head in a gesture that had much more to do with disdain than curiosity. “Just what are you interested in, Shannon Bodine? Do you find it amusing to dangle yourself in front of a man? One you have no intention of doing more than toying with? You'd come by that naturally enough.”

The red haze of fury was blinding. She was on her feet in a snap, fists bunched. “Goddamn you. You have no right to cast stones at my mother.”

“You're right. Absolutely.” And if she could have bitten her tongue, Maggie would have taken the words, and the unfairness behind them, back. “I apologize for that.”

“Why? You sounded exactly like your own mother.”

Maggie could only wince. “You couldn't have aimed that shaft better. I did sound like her, and I was as wrong as she. So I'll apologize again for that, but not for the rest.”

To calm herself, or try, she turned to heat the kettle. “But I'll ask you, and you might be honest since it's only us two, if you haven't thought close to the same of my father as I just said of your mother.”

The accuracy of the question had Shannon backing off. “If I did, at least I was too polite to articulate it.”

“Seems to me politeness and hypocrisy run too often hand in hand.” Pleased by the quick hiss that drew out of Shannon, Maggie reached for the canister of tea. “So let's have neither between us. Circumstances mean we share blood, a fact that doesn't please either of us overmuch. You're not a tender woman from what I can see. Neither am I. But Brianna is.”

“So you're going to protect her from me, too?”

“If need be. If you hurt one of mine, I'll hound you for it.” Face set, she turned back. “Understand me there. It's clear to see Brie's already opened her heart, and if Murphy hasn't, he will.”

“And you've already closed yours, and your mind.”

“Haven't you?” Maggie strode to the table, slapped her palms down. “Haven't you come with your heart and mind made up tight? You don't care what Da suffered. It's only yourself you're thinking of. It doesn't matter to you that he never had a chance to take his happiness. Never had . . .”

She trailed off as her vision grayed. Swearing, she leaned against the table, fighting for balance. Even as she swayed, Shannon was grabbing her shoulders.

“Sit down, for God's sake.”

“I'm all right.”

“Sure.” The woman was pale as death and her eyes had nearly rolled back in her head. “We'll go another round.”

But Maggie slid bonelessly into the chair, making not even a token protest when Shannon firmly pushed her head between her knees.

“Breathe. Just breathe or something. Shit.” She gave Maggie's shoulder an awkward pat and wondered what to do next. “I'll get Gray, we'll phone the doctor.”

“I don't need the doctor.” Fighting the dizziness, Maggie groped out until she found Shannon's hand.
“Don't bother him. It's just being pregnant is all. It was the same when I was carrying Liam the first few weeks.”

Shaky, and disgusted with herself, Maggie sat back. She knew the routine and kept her eyes closed, drew air in slow and steady. Her eyes fluttered open in surprise when she felt the cool cloth on her head.

“Thanks.”

“Drink some water.” Hoping it was the right move, Shannon urged the glass she'd just filled into Maggie's hand. “You're still awfully pale.”

“It passes. Just nature's way of reminding you you've a lot worse ahead in nine months.”

“Cheerful thought.” Shannon sat again, keeping her eyes glued to Maggie's face. “Why are you having another?”

“I like challenges. And I want more children—which was a big surprise to me as I never knew I'd want the first. It's an adventure, really, a little dizziness, getting queasy of a morning, growing fat as a prize hog.”

“I'll take your word for it. Your color's coming back.”

“Then you can stop staring at me as though I were going to sprout wings.” She slid the cloth from her brow, set it on the table between them. “Thank you.”

Relieved, Shannon leaned back in her chair. “Don't mention it.”

“Since you bring it up.” Maggie plucked at the damp cloth. “I'd be grateful if you wouldn't mention to Brie, or anyone, that I had a bit of a spell. She'd fuss, you see—then Rogan would start hovering.”

“And you do better at protecting than being protected.”

“You could say that.”

Thoughtful, Shannon drummed her fingers on the table. They'd crossed some line, she thought, without
either of them realizing it. Maybe she would take the next, deliberate step.

“You want me to keep quiet about it?”

“I do, yes.”

“What's it worth to you?”

Taken off guard, Maggie blinked. “Worth?”

“We could call it an exchange of favors.”

Brows knit, Maggie nodded. “We could. What favor are you after?”

“I want to see where you work.”

“Where I work?” Suspicion slipped into her voice, and her eyes. “Inside my glass house?”

Nothing could have been sweeter, Shannon decided. “I hear you really hate when people come into your glass house, ask questions, poke around. That's what I want to do.” She rose to take her cup to the sink. “Otherwise, it might just slip out about you nearly fainting in the kitchen.”

“I didn't faint,” Maggie muttered. “Body can't even have a little spell in peace,” she continued as she pushed back from the table. “People are supposed to be tolerant of a woman with child. Come on then.” Obviously displeased, she took her cap back out of her pocket and stuffed it on her head.

“I thought I'd drive.”

“Just like a Yank,” Maggie said in disgust. “We're walking.”

“Fine.” Shannon grabbed Murphy's jacket from the peg and followed. “Where's Liam?” she asked as they headed over the back lawn.

“With his da. Rogan had the idea I needed a lie-in this morning and took him off to the gallery for a few hours.”

“I'd like to see it. The gallery. I've been in Worldwide in New York.”

“This one's not as posh. Rogan's goal was to make it
more a home for art than a display. We feature only Irish artists and craftsmen. It's been a year since it opened, and he's done what he set out to do. But then—he always does.” Agile, she swung over the first wall.

“Have you been married long?”

“Two years soon. That was something else he set out to do.” It made her smile to think of it, to remember how she'd fought him every step of the way. “You've no thoughts of marriage, a man waiting for you to come back?”

“No.” As if on cue she heard the sound of a tractor, then saw Murphy riding in the far field. “I'm concentrating on my career.”

“I know how that is.” Maggie lifted her hand in a wave. “He'll be going back to his bog to cut turf. It's a fine day for it, and he prefers peat to wood or coal.”

Peat fires and bogs, Shannon thought. But God, didn't he look fine riding over his land with the sun streaming down on him. “Will he do it all alone?”

“No, there'll be help. It's rare that a man cuts turf by himself. Not many do it now, it takes such time and effort. But Murphy always makes use of what he has.” Maggie paused a minute to turn a slow circle. “He'll have a fine crop this year. After his father died, he put everything he is into this place. And he's made it shine like his father, and mine, never could.” As they walked again, she slanted Shannon a look. “This was Concannon land once.”

“Murphy mentioned that he'd bought it.” They went over the next wall. They were close to the farmhouse now, and Shannon could see chickens scratching in the yard. “Was this your house, then, before?”

“Yes, but not in my memory. We grew up at Blackthorn. If you go back a few generations, the Muldoons and Concannons were related. There were brothers you
see, who inherited all the land here, and split it between them. One couldn't but plant a seed that it would spring out of the earth. And the other seemed to grow nothing but rocks. But it's said he drank more than he plowed. There was jealousy and temper between them, and their wives wouldn't speak if they met face to face.”

“Cozy,” Shannon commented and was too intrigued to remember to put the borrowed jacket on the back stoop.

“And one fine day the second brother, the one who preferred beer to fertilizer, disappeared. Vanished. In the way of the inheritance, the first brother owned all the land now. He let his brother's wife and children stay in the cottage—which would be my house now. Some said he did so out of guilt, for it was suspected that he did away with his brother.”

“Killed him?” Surprised, Shannon glanced over. “What's this? Cain and Abel?”

“A bit like, I suppose. Though the murdering brother inherited the garden rather than being banished from it. Their name was Concannon, and as time passed one of the daughters of the missing brother married a Muldoon. They were given a slice of land by her uncle and worked it well. And over the years the tide turned. Now it's Muldoon land, and the Concannons have only the edges.”

“And you don't resent that?”

“Why should I? It's fair justice. And even if it weren't, even if that long ago brother fell into some bog in a drunken stupor, it's Murphy who loves the land as my own da never did. Here we are. This is what's mine.”

“It's a lovely house.” And it was, she mused, studying it. A bit more than a cottage, she decided, though that was certainly the heart of it. The pretty stone that was so typical of the area rose up two floors. There was an
interesting jog in the line of it, what she assumed was an addition. And the artist's touch, she thought, in the trim that was painted a peacock purple.

“We added to it, so that Rogan could have office space, and there'd be a room for Liam.” Maggie shook her head as she turned away. “And, of course, the man insisted we add another room or two while we were about it. Already planning a brood, though that slipped past me at the time.”

“Looks like you're accommodating him.”

“Oh, he's blissful at the idea of family, is Rogan. Comes from being an only child, perhaps. And I've discovered I feel much the same. I've a knack for motherhood, and a pride in it. Strange how one person can change everything.”