Born in Shame (16 page)

Speech was impossible, at least until her mind stopped spinning. She knew she had talent. She would never have risen so far at Ry-Tilghmanton if she'd been mediocre. But painting was for Saturday mornings, or vacations.

“We'd very much like,” Rogan went on, knowing precisely how and when to press his advantage, “to feature your work in the Clare gallery.”

“I'm not Irish.” Because her voice wasn't strong, Shannon frowned and tried again. “Maggie said that you feature only Irish artists there, and I'm not Irish.” That statement was met with respectful silence. “I'm American,” she insisted, a little desperately.

His wife had told him Shannon would react in precisely this way. Rogan was, as he preferred to be, two steps ahead of his quarry. “If you agree, we could feature you as our American guest artist, of Irish extraction. I have no problem buying your work outright, on a piece by piece basis, but I believe it would be to our mutual
benefit to have a more formal agreement, with precise terms.”

“That's how he got Maggie,” Murphy told Shannon, enjoying himself. “But I wish you wouldn't sell him that painting, Shannon, until I've seen it for myself. Might be I could outbid him.”

“I don't think I want to sell it. I don't know. I've never had to think about this.” Confused, she pushed at her hair. “Rogan, I'm a commercial artist.”

“You're an artist,” he corrected. “And you're foolish to put limitations on yourself. If you prefer to think about the standing stones—”

“It's
The Dance,”
she murmured. “I titled it just
The Dance.”

It was then, by the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes, that Rogan knew he had her. But he wasn't one to gloat. “If you'd prefer to think about that particular work,” he continued in the same mild, reasonable tone, “I wonder if you'd let me take it on loan and display it in the gallery.”

“I . . . Well—” It seemed not only stupid, but ungracious to object. “Sure. If you'd like to, I don't have a problem with that.”

“I'm grateful.” He rose, half his mission complete. “I need to get Liam home for his nap. Maggie and I are switching shifts about this time today. She's been working this morning, and now I'm going into the gallery. Shall I go by and pick up the painting on my way?”

“I suppose. Yes, all right. It isn't framed.”

“We'll take care of that. I'm going to be drafting up a contract for you to look over.”

Confused, she stared at him. “A contract? But—”

“You'll take all the time you need to read it through, think it over, and naturally, we'll negotiate any changes
you might want. Thanks for the tea, Murphy. I'm looking forward to the ceili.”

Murphy only grinned at him, then turned the grin on Shannon when Rogan went out to collect his son. “He's slippery, isn't he?”

She was staring straight ahead, fumbling through the conversation that had just taken place. “What did I agree to?”

“Depending on how you look at it, nothing. Or everything. He's cagey, our Rogan. I was waiting for it, watching, and still I never saw him outflank you until it was done.”

“I don't know how to feel about this,” Shannon muttered.

“Seems to me if I was an artist, and a man who has a reputation around the world for being an expert on it, and for having an affection and understanding of the best of it, found my work of value, I'd be proud.”

“But I'm not a painter.”

Patient, Murphy folded his arms on the table. “Why is it, Shannon, you make such a habit of saying what you're not. You're not Irish, you're not sister to Maggie and Brie, you're not a painter. You're not in love with me.”

“Because it's easier to know what you're not than what you are.”

He smiled at that. “Now, that's a sensible thing you've said. Do you always want it easier?”

“I never used to think so. I was always smug about the fact that I went after the challenges.” Confused and a little frightened, she closed her eyes. “Too much is changing on me. I can't get solid footing. Every time I seem to, it all shifts again.”

“And it's hard to move with it when you're used to standing firm.” He rose, then pulled her into his arms. “No, don't worry.” His voice was quiet when she
stiffened. “I'm not going to do anything but hold you. Just rest your head a minute, darling. Let some of the care out of it.”

“My mother would have been thrilled.”

“You can't feel her feelings.” Gently he stroked her hair, hoping she'd take the caress as it was meant. In friendship. “Do you know, my mother once hoped I'd go off to town and make my living in music.”

“Really?” She found her head nestled perfectly in the curve of his shoulder. “I would have thought your whole family would have expected—wanted—you to farm.”

“It was a hope she had, when I showed an interest in instruments and such. She wanted her children to go beyond what she'd known, and she loved me more, you see, than the farm.”

“And she was disappointed?”

“Maybe some, until she saw this was what I wanted.” He smiled into her hair. “Maybe some even after. Tell me, Shannon, are you happy in your work?”

“Of course. I'm good at it, and I've got a chance to move up. In a few years I'll have the choice between top level at Ry-Tilghmanton, or starting a business of my own.”

“Mmm. Sounds more like ambition than happiness.”

“Why do they have to be different?”

“I wonder.” He drew her away because he was tempted to kiss her again, and it wasn't what she needed just then. “Maybe you should ask yourself, and think it through, if drawing for somebody else puts the same feeling inside you that drawing what pulls you does.”

He did kiss her, but lightly, on the brow. “Meanwhile, you should be smiling instead of worrying. Rogan takes only the best for his galleries. You haven't been out to Ennistymon yet, have you?”

“No.” She was sorry he'd let her go. “Is that where the gallery is?”

“Near. I'll take you if you like. I can't today,” he said with a wince at the wall clock. “I've got a bit to do around here yet, and I've promised to go by Feeney's and lend him a hand with the tractor.”

“No, and I've kept you long enough anyway.”

“You can keep me as long as you want.” He took her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. “Maybe you'd come down to the pub tonight. I'll buy you a drink to celebrate.”

“I'm not sure what I'm celebrating, but I might do that.” Anticipating him, she stepped back. “Murphy, I didn't come here to wrestle in the kitchen.”

“I never said you did.”

“You're getting that look in your eyes,” she muttered. “And that's my clue to leave.”

“My hands are clean now, so I wouldn't muss you up if I kissed you.”

“I'm not worried about being mussed, I'm worried about being . . . never mind. Just keep your hands where I can see them. I mean it.”

Obliging, he lifted them palms out, then felt his heart turn over when she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.

“Thanks for the tea, and the shoulder.”

“You're welcome to either, anytime.”

She sighed and made herself back up another step. “I know. You make it hard to be sensible.”

“If you've a mind to be insensible, Feeney can wait.”

She had to laugh. No man had ever asked her to bed with quite such style. “Go back to work, Murphy. I think I'm in the mood to paint.”

She went out the back, accustomed now to the way over the fields.

“Shannon Bodine.”

“Yes.” Laughing again, she turned, walking backward as she watched him come out the kitchen door.

“Will you paint something for me? Something that reminds you of me?”

“I might.” She tossed up a hand in a wave, swiveled on her heel, and hurried away toward Blackthorn.

 

In the rear gardens of the inn Kayla napped in a folding crib near the flowering almond Murphy had planted for her. Her mother was weeding the perennial bed nearby, and her father was doing his level best to talk Brianna into indoor activities.

“The place is empty.” Gray trailed his fingers down Brianna's arm. “All the guests are off sightseeing. The kid's asleep.” He inched a little closer to nibble at the back of Brianna's neck, encouraged by her quick shiver of reaction. “Come to bed, Brianna.”

“I've work.”

“The flowers aren't going anywhere.”

“Neither are the weeds.” Her system went haywire as he skimmed the tip of his tongue along her skin. “Ah, look. I nearly pulled an aster. Go away now, and—”

“I love you, Brianna.” He caught her hands, pressing his lips to the back of each.

Heart and body melted. “Oh, Grayson.” Her eyes fluttered closed when he rubbed his lips persuasively over hers. “We can't. Shannon could be back any time.”

“Uh-oh. Do you think she's guessed where Kayla came from?”

“That's not the point.” But her arms were twining around his neck.

He slipped the first pin from her hair. “What is the point?”

She'd been sure she had one, a very simple, very valid point. “I love you, Grayson.”

Strolling into the yard, Shannon stopped short. Her first reaction was amused embarrassment at having stumbled across a very private scene. The next, tripping over the first, was interest.

It was a lovely, romantic picture, she mused. The infant sleeping under a pale pink blanket, the flowers blooming, clothes blowing on the line in the background. And the man and woman, kneeling on the grass, wrapped in each other.

A pity, she thought, she didn't have a sketch pad.

She must have made some sound, as Brianna shifted, saw her, and blushed rosily.

“Sorry. 'Bye.”

“Shannon.” Even as Shannon turned away, Brianna was struggling free. “Don't be silly.”

“Go ahead,” Gray corrected when Shannon hesitated. “Be silly. Scram.”

“Grayson!” Shocked, Brianna batted his hands away and rose. “We—I was just weeding the pansies.”

Shannon stuck her tongue in her cheek. “Oh, I could see that. I'm going to take a walk.”

“You've just had a walk.”

“So, let her take another one.” Gray got up, wrapped an arm around Brianna's waist, and sent Shannon a meaningful look. “A really long one.” Ignoring his wife's half-hearted struggles, he plucked another pin from her hair. “Better yet, take my car. You can—” He let out a groan when Kayla began to whimper.

“She needs her nappie changed.” Brianna slipped away to go to the crib. Amused, and feeling wonderfully wanted, she smiled over at her husband as she lifted the baby. “You might put some of that energy into weeding, Grayson. I still have pies to bake.”

“Right.” With obvious regret he watched his wife, and his hopes for an intimate hour, slip out of his reach. “Pies to bake.”

“Sorry.” Shannon lifted her shoulders when Brianna took the baby inside. “Lousy timing.”

“You're telling me.” He hooked an arm around her neck. “Now you have to help me weed.”

“It's the least I can do.” Companionably she settled on the grass beside him. “I take it none of the guests are around.”

“Off to various points of interest. We heard your news. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I guess. I'm still a little shell-shocked. Rogan has a way of slipping around and through and over objections until you're just nodding and agreeing to everything he says.”

“He does.” Intrigued, Gray studied her profile. “You'd have objections to being associated with Worldwide?”

“No. I don't know.” She moved her shoulders restlessly. “It came out of the blue. I like to be prepared for things. I already have a career.” Which, she realized with a jolt, she hadn't given a thought to in weeks. “I'm used to deadlines, and a quick pace, the confusion of working in a busy organization. Paintings, this kind of painting, is solitary and motivated by mood rather than marketing.”

“Being used to one way of life doesn't mean you can't change gears, if the reward's big enough.” He glanced toward the kitchen window. “It depends on what you want, and how much you want it.”

“That's what I haven't decided. I'm floundering, Gray. I'm not used to that. I've always known what step to take next, and was confident, maybe overconfident, about what I was made of.”

Thoughtful, she brushed her fingers over the bright
purple face of a pansy. “Maybe it was because it was only my parents and me—no other family—that I always felt able to stand on my own, do exactly what I wanted. I never made really close attachments as a kid because we moved around so much. It made me easy with strangers, and comfortable in new places and situations, but I never felt any real connection with anyone but my parents. By the time we settled in Columbus, I'd set my goals and focused on reaching them step by careful step. Now, within a year, I've lost my parents, learned that my life wasn't what I thought it was. Suddenly I'm swimming in family I never knew I had. I don't know how I feel about them, or myself.”

She looked up again, managed a small smile. “Wow. That was a lot, wasn't it?”

“It usually helps to sound the feelings out.” Gently he tugged on her hair. “Seems to me if someone's good at going step by step, she'd be able to shift and keep doing just that in another direction. You only have to be alone when you want to be alone. It took me a long time to learn that.” He kissed her, made her smile. “Shannon, me darling, relax and enjoy the ride.”

Chapter
Thirteen

In the morning she chose to paint in the garden, putting the final touches on the watercolor of Brianna. From the house came the buzz of activity as a family from County Mayo gathered themselves up to leave the inn for the next leg of their trip south.

She could smell the hot-cross buns Brianna had made for breakfast and the roses that had burst into bloom in their climb up the trellace.

Nibbling on her knuckle, Shannon stepped back to examine the completed canvas.

“Well, that's lovely.” With Liam in tow, Maggie stepped across the lawn behind her. “Of course, she
makes an easy subject, does Brianna.” She bent down and kissed Liam on the nose. “Your aunt Brie has your buns, darling. Go get them.”

When he scrambled off, slamming the kitchen door behind him, Maggie frowned over the painting. “Rogan's right then,” she decided. “It's rare that he's not, which is a trial to me. He took your painting of the stones into the gallery before I had a chance to see.”

“And you wanted to check it out for yourself.”

“Your sketch of Liam was more than good,” Maggie conceded. “But one charcoal isn't enough to judge. I can tell you now he'll want this, and he'll badger you until you agree.”

“He doesn't badger, he demolishes, bloodlessly.”

Maggie's laugh was quick and rich. “Oh, that's the truth. Bless him. What else have you?” Without invitation she picked up Shannon's sketchbook and flipped through.

“Help yourself,” Shannon said dryly.

Maggie only made noises of approval and interest, then let out another delighted laugh. “You must do this one, Shannon. You must. It's Murphy to the ground. The man and his horses. Damn, I wish I had the hands to do portraits like this.”

“I'd see him up there sometimes when I was painting the circle.” Shannon tilted her head so that she could see the page herself. “It was irresistible.”

“When you paint it, I'd be pleased to buy it for his mother.” She frowned then. “Unless you've signed with Sweeney by then. If he's any say in it, he'll charge me half a leg and both arms. The man asks the fiercest prices for things.”

“I wouldn't think that would bother you.” With care, Shannon took the finished canvas from the easel and laid it on the table. “When I went to your show in New
York a couple years ago, I lusted after this piece—it was like a sunburst, all these hot colors exploding out of a central core. Not my usual style, but God, I wanted it.”

“Fired Dreams,”
Maggie murmured, deeply flattered.

“Yes, that's it. I had to weigh desire against a year's rent—at New York rates. And I needed a roof over my head.”

“He sold that piece. If he hadn't, I'd have given it to you.” At Shannon's stunned look, Maggie shrugged. “At the family rate.”

Touched, and not sure how to respond, Shannon set a fresh canvas on her easel. “I'd say you're lucky to have a shrewd manager looking after your interests.”

As disconcerted as Shannon, Maggie jammed her hands in her pockets. “So he's always telling me. He's got his mind set on doing the same for you.”

“I won't have as much time for painting once I'm back in New York.” Taking up a pencil, Shannon sketched lightly on the canvas.

Maggie only lifted a brow. When a woman was an artist down to the bone, she recognized another. “He's having contracts drafted up today.”

“He moves fast.”

“Faster than you can spit. He'll want fifty percent,” she added, grinning wickedly. “But you can drive him down to forty using the family connection.”

Shannon's throat was suddenly, uncomfortably dry. “I haven't agreed to anything yet.”

“Ah, but you will. He'll harangue you, and he'll charm you. He'll be reasonable and businesslike. You'll say no, thank you very much, and he'll skip right over that. If reason doesn't work, he'll find some little weakness to twist or some private wish to tweak. And you'll be signing your name before you realize it. Do you always hold a pencil like that?”

Still frowning over the prediction, Shannon glanced down at her hand. “Yes. I keep the wrist loose.”

“Mmm. I keep a firmer grip, but I might try it. I should give you this before you start mixing paints.” From her pocket she took out a ball of padded paper.

The moment Shannon felt the weight, she knew. “Oh, it's great.” Once the paper was pulled aside, she held the globe up to the light.

“You made it, for the most part, so you should have it.”

Shannon turned it so that the swirls of deep blue inside changed shape and tone. “It's beautiful. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Maggie turned back to the canvas. She could see the outline of the man, the horse. “How long will it take you to finish? It's a nasty question, and I only ask as I'd love to give it to Mrs. Brennan, Murphy's mother, when she comes up for the ceili.”

“If it starts to click, it'll only take a day or two.” Shannon set the globe aside and took up her pencil again. “When's the ceili, and what is it?”

“It's Saturday next, and a ceili's a kind of party—with music and dancing and food.” She glanced over as Brianna stepped out of the kitchen door. “I'm telling this poor, ignorant Yank what a ceili is. Where's my whirlwind?”

“Off to the village with Grayson. I'm told it's man's business.” Brianna stopped, then beamed at the canvas on the table. “Oh, I'm so flattered. What lovely work you do, Shannon.” She peeked at the new canvas, wary. Experience with Maggie had taught her artists had moods that flared like lightning. “It's Murphy, isn't it?”

“It will be,” Shannon murmured, narrowing her eyes as she sketched. “I didn't realize you were having a party, Brie.”

“A party? Oh, the ceili. No, Murphy's having it. We were surprised at first, since his family had just come a few weeks ago for Kayla's baptism. But the lot of them are coming again, so they can meet you.”

Shannon dropped her pencil. Slowly she bent to retrieve it. “Excuse me?”

“They're anxious to get to know you,” Brianna continued, too engrossed in the canvas to notice that Maggie was rolling her eyes and making faces. “It's lovely Murphy's mother and her husband can make the trip from Cork so soon again.”

Shannon turned. “Why would they want to meet me?”

“Because . . .” The warning registered, just a beat too late. Fumbling, Brianna began to brush at her apron. “Well, it's just that . . . Maggie?”

“Don't look at me. You've already put your foot in it.”

“It's a simple question, Brianna.” Shannon waited until Brianna lifted her gaze again. “Why would Murphy's mother and his family come back here to meet me?”

“Well, when he told them he was courting you, they—”

“He what?” She threw the pencil down to cap the explosion. “Is he crazy or just brain dead? How many times do I have to tell him I'm not interested before he gets it through that thick skull?”

“Several times more, I'd wager,” Maggie said with a grin. “There's a pool in the village that's leaning toward a June wedding.”

“Maggie!” Brianna said under her breath.

“Wedding?” Shannon made a sound between a groan and a curse. “That tops it. He's calling out his mother to inspect me, he's got people betting—”

“Fact is, it was Tim O'Malley who started the pool,” Maggie put in.

“He has to be stopped.”

“Oh, there's no stopping Tim once a wager's made.”

Unable to find the humor, Shannon shot Maggie a searing look. “You think it's funny? People I don't even know are betting on me?”

Maggie didn't have to think it over. “Yes.” Then with a laugh, she grabbed Shannon by the shoulders and shook. “Oh, cool yourself down. No one can make you do what you don't want.”

“Murphy Muldoon is a dead man.”

With less sympathy than amusement, Maggie patted her cheek. “Seems to me you'd not be so fired up if you were as disinterested as you claim. What do you think of the matter, Brie?”

“I think I've said more than enough.” But her heart pushed the words out. “He loves you, Shannon, and I can't help but feel for him. I know what it is to tumble into love and not be able to find your way out, no matter how foolish it makes you. Don't be too hard on him.”

Temper drained as quickly as it had flashed. “It would be harder, wouldn't it, for me to let this go on when it isn't leading anywhere?”

Maggie picked up the sketchbook, then held out the page where Murphy looked out. “Isn't it?” When Shannon said nothing, Maggie set the book aside again. “The ceili's more than a week away. You'll have some time to sort it out.”

“Starting now.” Shannon picked up the watercolor and carried it inside. On the way up to her room, she practiced exactly what she would say to Murphy when she tracked him down.

It was a shame that she would have to break off their friendship just when she'd begun to realize how much it meant to her. But she doubted he would understand anything less than total amputation.

And he'd brought it on himself, the idiot. With an
effort, she controlled herself long enough to prop the canvas carefully against the wall of her room. Going to the window, she scanned the fields. After a moment she caught sight of movement near the back of the house.

Dandy. She'd beard the beast in his den.

Her headlong rush took her down the stairs and outside. She was halfway to the gate before she saw the car parked at the side of the road, and Brianna and Maggie on either side of it.

She didn't have to see to know an argument was in full swing. She could hear it in the sharp, impatient tone of Maggie's voice. It would have been easy to continue on her way—but she saw Brianna's face.

It was pale, and rigidly controlled, except for the eyes. Even from two yards away, Shannon could see the hurt in them.

She set her teeth. It seemed it was her day for dealing with emotional crises. And damn it, she was in the perfect mood.

The angry words came to an abrupt halt as she strode to the car and looked down at Maeve.

“Shannon.” Brianna gripped her hands together. “I never introduced you to Lottie. Lottie Sullivan, Shannon Bodine.”

The woman with the round face and beleaguered expression continued the process of climbing out from the driver's side.

“I'm pleased to meet you,” she said with a quick, apologetic smile. “And welcome.”

“Get in the car, Lottie,” Maeve snapped. “We're not staying.”

“Drive yourself off then,” Maggie snapped right back. “Lottie's welcome here.”

“And I'm not?”

“It's you who's made that choice.” Maggie folded her
arms. “Make yourself miserable if you like, but you won't do this to Brie.”

“Mrs. Concannon.” Shannon nudged Maggie aside. “I'd like to speak with you.”

“I've nothing to say to you.”

“Fine. Then you can listen.” Out of the corner of her eye, Shannon caught Lottie's nod of approval and hoped to earn it. “We have a connection, you and I, whether we like it or not. Your daughters link us, and I don't want to be the cause of friction between you.”

“No one's causing friction but herself,” Maggie said hotly.

“Be quiet, Maggie.” Shannon ignored her sister's hiss of temper and continued. “You have a right to be angry, Mrs. Concannon. And to be hurt, whether it's your pride that's suffering or your heart, it doesn't matter. Still, the fact is you can't change what happened, or the result of it any more than I can.”

Though Maeve said nothing, only continued to stare fiercely straight ahead, Shannon was determined to finish.

“My part in this whole thing is rather indirect, a result rather than a cause. Whether or not you were part of the cause doesn't really matter.”

That brought Maeve's head around, and the venom spewing. “You'd dare to say that I caused your mother to commit adultery with my husband.”

“No. I wasn't there. My mother blamed no one, certainly not you, for her actions. And what I'm saying is it doesn't matter what part you played. Some might say that since you didn't love him, you shouldn't care that he found someone else. I don't agree with that. You have all the right in the world to care. What they did was wrong.”

Maggie's next protest was cut off by a cold look from
Shannon. “It was wrong,” she said again, satisfied that no one interrupted. “Whether you look at it morally, religiously, or intellectually. You were his wife, and no matter how dissatisfied either of you were in the marriage, that should have been respected. Honored. It wasn't, and to find out it wasn't after all these years doesn't diminish the anger or the betrayal.”

She took a quiet breath, aware that Maeve's attention was centered fully on her. “I can't go back and not be born, Mrs. Concannon. Nothing either of us can do will break the connection, so we're going to have to live with it.”