Born in Shame (17 page)

She paused again. Maeve was watching her now, and intrigued, her eyes narrowed. “My mother died with my hard words between us. I can't fix that, either, and I'll regret it all my life. Don't let something you can't change ruin what you have now. I'll be gone soon. Maggie and Brie and your grandchildren are right here.”

Satisfied she'd done her best, Shannon stepped back. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go murder a man.”

She started down the road, had gotten no more than five paces when she heard the car door open.

“Girl.”

Shannon stopped, turned, and met Maeve's gaze levelly. “Yes?”

“You made your point.” Whatever effort it took to concede it, Maeve disguised in a brisk nod. “And you have some sense, more than the man whose blood runs through you ever did.”

Shannon inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

While Shannon continued on her way, everyone else gaped at Maeve as if she'd sprouted wings. “Well, are you going to stand around outside all the day?” she
demanded. “Get a move on you, Lottie. I want to go in and see my granddaughter.”

Not bad, Shannon decided and quickened her step. If she had half that much luck getting through to Murphy, she could consider it an excellent day's work.

When she reached the farm and circled to the back, she saw Murphy standing near the paddock of sheep beside a short, bandy-legged man who had his teeth clamped around a pipe.

They weren't speaking, but she would have sworn some sort of communication was going on.

Suddenly, the older man bobbed his head. “All right then, Murphy. Two pigs.”

“I'd be grateful if you could hold them for me, Mr. McNee. For a day or two.”

“That I can do.” He shoved the pipe further into his mouth and had started toward the paddock when he spotted Shannon. “You've company, lad.”

Murphy glanced over and smiled broadly. “Shannon. I'm happy to see you.”

“Just don't start with me, you baboon.” She strode forward to shove a finger into his chest. “You've got a lot of explaining to do.”

Beside them, McNee perked up his ears. “Is this the one then, Murphy?”

Gauging his ground, Murphy rubbed his chin. “She is.”

“You took your time picking one out, but you picked a fair one.”

Temper bubbling, Shannon turned on McNee. “If you've bet on this idiot, you can kiss your money goodbye.”

“Is there a pool?” McNee asked, offended. “Why wasn't I told of it?”

While Shannon considered the satisfaction of
knocking their heads together, Murphy patted her arm. “If you'll excuse me just a minute, darling. Do you need help getting the lamb you fancy, Mr. McNee?”

“No, I can handle the job, and it looks like you've enough on your hands at the moment.” With surprising agility, the old man swung into the paddock and sent bleating sheep scattering.

“We'll go inside.”

“We'll stay right here,” Shannon shot back, then swore at him when he took a firm grip on her arm.

“We'll go in,” he repeated. “I prefer you do your shouting at me in private.”

In his careful way he stopped at the stoop, pulled off his muddy Wellingtons. He opened the door for her, waited as any well-mannered man would for her to storm in before him.

“Will you sit?”

“No, damn you to hell and back, I won't sit.”

He shrugged, leaned back against the counter. “We'll stand then. You've something on your mind?”

His mild tone only fanned the fires. “How dare you? How dare you call your family and tell them to come look me over, like I was one of your horses going up for auction.”

His face relaxed. “You're mistaken about that. I asked if they'd come meet you. That's entirely different.”

“It is not different. And you're having them come on false pretenses. You told them you were courting me.”

“So I am courting you, Shannon.”

“We've been through that, and I'm not going through it again.”

“That's fine then. Can I offer you tea?”

She was surprised she had any teeth left, as hard as she was grinding them. “No, you can't offer me tea.”

“I do have something else for you.” He reached
behind him on the counter and picked up a box. “I was in Ennis a day or so ago and bought this for you. I forgot to give it to you yesterday.”

In a gesture she recognized as childish, she put her hands behind her back. “No, absolutely no. I'm not taking gifts from you. This isn't even remotely amusing anymore, Murphy.”

He simply opened the box himself. “You like to wear pretty things. These caught my eye.”

Despite her best intentions, she looked down at the open box. They were pretty—foolishly pretty earrings of exactly the type she might have chosen herself. Citrine and amethyst hearts were nestled, one atop the other.

“Murphy, those are expensive. Take them back.”

“I'm not a pauper, Shannon, if it's my wallet you're worrying about.”

“That's a consideration, but it's secondary.” She forced herself to look away from the lovely stones. “I'm not taking gifts from you. It'll only encourage you.”

He walked toward her until she found herself backed up against the refrigerator. “Don't you dare.”

“You're not wearing any today,” he observed. “So we'll try them on. Hold still, darling, I don't know if I've the knack of it.”

She batted at his hands as he started to fasten the first earring, then yelped when he poked the post into her lobe.

“You asked for it,” he muttered, giving the job his full concentration.

“I'm going to hit you,” she said between her teeth.

“Wait till I'm done. This is clumsy work for a man. Why do they make these little clasp things so bloody small? There.” Like a man satisfied with the completion of a pesky chore, he stepped back and studied the result. “They suit you.”

“You can't reason with the unreasonable,” she reminded herself. “Murphy, I want you to call your family and tell them not to come.”

“I can't do that. They're looking forward to the ceili, and meeting you.”

She bunched her hands into fists. “All right, then call and tell them you made a mistake, changed your mind, whatever, and that you and I are not an item.”

His brow creased. “You're meaning I should tell them I'm not going to marry you?”

“That's it, exactly.” She gave him a congratulatory pat on the arm. “You've finally got it.”

“I hate to say no to you about anything, but I can't be lying to my family.” He was quick enough on his feet to dodge the first punch, then the second. The third nearly caught him as he was doubled over with laughter, but he evaded by snagging her around the waist and swinging her in a giddy circle.

“God, you're for me, Shannon. I'm crazy in love with you.”

“Crazy,” she began, but the rest was muffled against his mouth.

He stole her breath. She couldn't get it back. While she gripped his shoulders, he continued to circle her, adding dizziness to breathlessness. His mouth added the heat. Even when he stopped the wild spinning, the room continued to revolve, and her heart with it.

There was a quick and stunning thought through the haze of desire, that he was giving her no choice but to love him.

“I'm not going to let this happen.” On a panicked flood of strength, she shoved away.

Her hair was tousled, her eyes wide and stunned. He could see the pulse hammering at her throat, and the color the kiss had left blooming in her cheeks.

“Come to bed with me, Shannon.” His voice was thick, rough, and edgy. “Christ Jesus, I need you. Every time you walk away there's a hole in me, and a terrible fear you won't come back.” Desperate, he pulled her close again, buried his face in her hair. “I can't keep watching you walk away, and never having you.”

“Don't do this.” She squeezed her eyes tight and fought a vicious battle with what was inside her. “You won't let it be anything as simple as going to bed, and I can't let it be anything else.”

“It is something else. It's everything else.” He yanked her back. Remembering, he dropped his hands before his fingers could bruise. “Is it because I trip around you? I get clumsy sometimes because I can't always think in a clear way when I'm close to you.”

“No, it's not you, Murphy. It's me. It's me and your idea of us. And I've handled it much more clumsily than you.” She tried to take a deep breath, but found her chest was painfully tight. “So I'm going to fix that. I'm not going to see you again.” Keeping her eyes on his cost her, but she refused to back down. “That'll make it easier for both of us. I'm going to start my arrangements to go back to New York.”

“That's running,” he said evenly. “But do you know if you're running from me or from yourself?”

“It's my life. I have to get back to it.”

The fury crawling through him left no room even for fear. With his eyes burning into hers, he reached into his pocket and tossed what he had carried there onto the table.

Her nerves began to stretch even before she lowered her gaze and saw it. The circle of copper with the figure of a stallion embossed. It would have a pin on the back, she knew, sturdy and thick enough to clamp together a man's riding cloak.

Murphy watched her go as pale as glass. Her fingers reached out for it, then drew back sharply, curling into a defensive fist.

“What is it?”

“You know what it is.” He swore with studied violence when she shook her head. “Don't lie to yourself. It's poor spirited.”

She could see it against dark wool, both broach and cloak beaded with rain. “Where did you get it?”

“I found it, center of the dance when I was a boy. I fell asleep with it in my hand, right there. And dreamed of you the first time.”

She couldn't take her eyes from it, even when her vision wavered. “That isn't possible.”

“It happened, just as I told you.” He picked it up and held it out to her.

“I don't want it.” Panic snaked into her voice.

“I've kept it for you half my life.” Calmer now, he slipped it back into his pocket. “I can keep it longer. There's no need for you to leave before you've had the time you're wanting with your sisters. I won't touch you in that way again, or pressure you to give me what you're not willing to. You've my word.”

He would keep it. She knew him now well enough not to doubt it. How could she blame him for giving her a promise that made her feel small and weepy? “I care about you, Murphy. I don't want to hurt you.”

She couldn't have any idea how much she had done just that. But he kept his voice neutral. “I'm a man grown, Shannon, and can tend to myself.”

She'd been so sure she could walk away cold. Now she found she wanted to hold him again, and be held. “I don't want to lose your friendship. It's come to mean a lot to me in a short time.”

“You couldn't lose it.” He smiled, though he had to
keep his hands close to his sides to keep from reaching for her. “You never have to worry over that.”

She tried not to as she left and started up the road again. And she tried not to think too deeply about why she needed to weep.

Chapter
Fourteen

Murphy put his back into mucking out the stables. Physical labor was part of his life, and he knew how to use strain and sweat to ease the mind.

It was a pity it wasn't working for him.

He drove his shovel into the soiled straw bedding, tossed the load into the growing pile in his wheelbarrow.

“You always had a good aim, you did, Murphy.” Maggie strolled up behind him. She was smiling, but her eyes were searching his face for signs. And what she found tore at her heart.

“Why aren't you working?” He spoke without looking over or stopping. “I hear your furnace.”

“I'm going to get to it.” She came closer, resting a hand on the open stall door. “I didn't come by yesterday because I thought you might want a little breathing space. So I waited till this morning. Shannon looked miserable when she came back after seeing you yesterday.”

“I did my best to put her at ease.” He bit off the words before taking his shovel into the next stall.

“What about your ease, Murphy?” Maggie laid a hand on his back, leaving it lay despite his bad-tempered shrug. “I can see what you feel for her, and I hate to know you're so upset.”

“Then you'd best be off, as I'm planning on staying this way. Move back, damn it, you'll have manure in your face.”

Instead she snatched at the handle of the shovel and had an angry and brief wrestle for it. “Fine then.” She let go and brushed her hands together. “You can go on shoveling at shit all you please, but you'll talk to me.”

“I'm in no mood for company.”

“And since when have I been company?”

“Damn it, Maggie, go away.” He whirled on her, temper hot in his eyes. “I don't want your pity, I don't want your sympathy, and I don't want any bloody advice.”

She fisted her hands, plopped them on her hips, and went toe to toe with him. “If you think you can shake me off with nasty words and nastier temper, you're mistaken, lad.”

Of course he couldn't, and because it would do him no good with her, Murphy did what he could do to bury the fury. “I'm sorry, Maggie Mae. I shouldn't swipe at you. I need to be alone for a bit.”

“Murphy—”

She'd break him if he didn't see her off, and quickly. “It's not that I'm not grateful you'd come by and want to
help. I'm not ready for it. I need to lick my wounds on my own. Be a friend, darling, and leave me be.”

Deflated, she did the only thing she knew how, and pressed her cheek to his. “Will you come talk to me when you can?”

“Sure I will. Go on now, be off. I've a lot to do today.”

When she left him, Murphy drove his shovel into the straw and cursed softly, viciously, until he ran out of words.

 

He worked like a man possessed until the sun set, then rose again when it did to repeat the process. Even his well-toned muscles ached by the time he settled down with a cold sandwich and a bottle of beer.

He was already thinking of bed, though it was barely eight, when the back door swung open. Rogan and Gray came through it, followed happily by Con.

“We're on a mission, Murphy.” Gray slapped him on the back, then turned to the cupboards.

“A mission, is it.” Automatically he scratched Con's ears when the dog laid his head on his lap. “Of what nature?”

“We're ordered to draw off your black mood.” Rogan set a bottle on the counter and broke the seal. “We're neither of us allowed back home until we've accomplished it.”

“Brie and Maggie have had their heads together over you for two days,” Gray put in.

“There's no need for that, or for this. I was going up to bed.”

“You can't, as an Irishman, turn your back on two mates and a bottle of Jamison's.” Gray slapped three glasses, one by one, on the table.

“So, we're to get drunk, are we?” Murphy eyed the bottle. He hadn't thought of that one.

“The women haven't been able to turn the tide.” Rogan poured three hefty shots. “So they've conceded it's a man's job.” He seated himself comfortably at the table, lifted his glass.
“Slainté.”

Murphy scratched his chin, blew out a breath. “What the fuck.” He downed the first glass, winced before slapping it down for a refill. “Did you only bring one bottle?”

Laughing, Gray poured the next round.

 

When the bottle was half gone, Murphy was feeling more mellow. A temporary fix, he knew, and a fool's one. But he felt very much the fool.

“I gotta tell you.” Already a little wobbly, Gray kicked back in his chair and puffed on one of the cigars Rogan had provided. “I can't get drunk.”

“Yes, you can.” Rogan studied the tip of his own cigar. “I've seen you.”

“You couldn't see anything. You were too drunk.” Finding that wonderfully funny, Gray leaned forward again and nearly upended. “But what I mean is, I can't get so plowed I can't make love with my wife tonight. Oh, thanks.” He picked up the glass Murphy had refilled and gestured with it. “I'm making up for lost time.” Deadly serious, he rested his elbow on the table. “Do you know how long you can't when a woman's pregnant?”

“I do.” Rogan nodded sagely. “I can say I do know precisely.”

“And it doesn't bother them much. They're . . .” Gray gestured grandly. “Nesting. So I'm making it up, and I'm not getting drunk.”

“Too late,” Murphy muttered and scowled into his glass.

“You think we don't know what's wrong with you?” In
fellowship Gray punched Murphy on the shoulder. “You're horny.”

With a snorting laugh, Murphy tossed back another shot. “It should be so easy.”

“Yeah.” On a windy sigh Gray went back to his cigar. “When they've got you, they've got you. Ain't that the truth, Sweeney?”

“Sterling truth. She's painting up a storm, you know.”

Murphy eyed him owlishly. “My misery, your profit?”

Rogan only grinned. “We'll have her first show in the fall. She doesn't know it, but we'll work around that. Do you know she went head to head with Maeve Concannon?”

“What d'ya mean?” Preferring his cigarettes to Rogan's cigars, Murphy lighted one. “They have a brawl?”

“No, indeed. Shannon just marched up to the woman and said her piece. When she was done, Maeve said she was a sensible woman, then went along into the inn to see the baby and young Liam.”

“Is that a fact?” Drenched in admiration and love, Murphy took another drink. “Jesus, she's something, isn't she? Shannon Bodine, hard of head and soft of heart. Maybe I'll go tell her myself right now.” He pushed himself up, his constitution strong enough to keep him from swaying. “Maybe I'll just go on up there, fetch her, and bring her back where she belongs.”

“Can I watch?” Gray wanted to know.

“No.” Heaving a sigh, Murphy dropped back into the chair. “No, I promised her I wouldn't. I hate that.” He picked up the bottle, filled his glass again until the whiskey danced to the rim. “I'm going to hate my head in the morning, that's the truth of it. But it's worth it.” He drank deep. “To share my sorrow with two of the finest friends God gave a man.”

“Damn right. Drink to it, Rogan.”

“I'm thinking I might be wise to make up that time you were speaking of before now—as I'll be losing it in seven months.”

Gray leaned conspiratorially toward Murphy. “This guy is so sharp, it's scary.”

“I'd appreciate it if the two of you would stop blabbering on about bedding women. I'm suffering here.”

“It's inconsiderate of us,” Rogan agreed. “There's no need to talk of women at all. Did I hear your bay mare's breeding?”

“Hey.” Gray held up a hand. “Mare, woman. Female.”

“Damned if you aren't right.” Agreeably, Rogan cast around for another topic. “We got a fine sculpture in today, from an artist in County Mayo. He used Conemarra marble, and it's lovely work. A nude.”

“Shit, Rogan, there you go again.” Grayson's exasperated disgust sent Murphy off into gales of laughter.

Being generous friends, they poured Murphy into bed when the bottle was finished, then parted, satisfied that they'd accomplished their mission.

 

Staying away from her was difficult. Even with the demands of the farm, Murphy found it hard to go day after day, and night after night, knowing she was just across the fields. And so far out of his reach. It helped to think he was doing it for her.

Nothing soothed the soul like martyrdom.

Well-meaning friends didn't help. A week after he'd watched her walk away, he came into Brianna's rear yard and saw Shannon standing at her easel. She was wearing her college sweatshirt, splattered and smeared with paint and a pair of baggy jeans that were torn at the knee.

He thought she looked like an angel.

With her eyes narrowed, and the tip of her brush tapping against her lips, she studied her work. He knew the moment she sensed him from the change in her eyes, her careful movement of lowering her brush before she turned her head.

He didn't speak. He knew his tongue would tangle. After an awkward moment, he walked closer and stared hard at her painting.

It was the inn, the rear view with its pretty stonework and open windows. Brianna's gardens were flows of color and shape. The kitchen door was open wide in welcome.

Shannon wished she hadn't set her brush aside, and picked up a rag more to keep her hands occupied than to worry off paint.

“So, what do you think?”

“It's nice.” He couldn't think of the words. “It looks finished.”

“It is. Just.”

“Well.” He shifted the cartons of eggs he carried. “It's nice.”

She turned, fiddling with the tubes and brushes on the little stand Gray had rigged for her. “I guess you've been busy.”

“I have, yes.” She glanced up, into his face, and his brain seemed to disconnect. “Busy.” Furious with himself, he scowled down at his cartons. “Eggs,” he muttered. “Brianna called for eggs. Said she needed them.”

“Oh.” In turn, Shannon stared at the cartons. “I see.”

From her perch at the inside corner of the kitchen window, Brianna rolled her eyes. “Look at them, the two of them. Acting like ninnies.”

Because they seemed so pathetic, she changed her master plan of leaving them alone and hurried to the door.

“Ah, there you are, Murphy, and you've brought the eggs. Bless you. Come in and have a taste of this strudel I've made.”

“I need to—” But she had already hurried back into the kitchen, leaving him staring disconcertedly at the door. Shifting the cartons again, he looked at Shannon. “I've, ah . . .” Damn his slow wits, he thought. “Why don't you take them in, and I'll be on my way.”

“Murphy.” This had to stop, Shannon told herself, and tested her ground by laying a hand on his arm. He stiffened, and she couldn't blame him. “You haven't come around in a week, and I know that you're used to dropping in to see Brianna and Gray often, and easily.”

He looked down at her hand, then back at her face. “I thought it best to stay away.”

“I'm sorry for that. I don't want you to feel that way. I thought we were friends still.”

His eyes stayed on hers. “You haven't come into the fields anymore.”

“No, I haven't.
I
thought it best to stay away, and I'm sorry for that, too.” She wanted to tell him she'd missed him, and was afraid to. “Are you angry with me?”

“With myself more.” He steadied himself. Her eyes, he thought, and the quiet plea in them, would undo any man. “Do you want some strudel?”

Her smile spread slowly. “Yeah. I do.”

When they went inside, Brianna stopped holding her breath. “Thank you for the eggs, Murphy.” Bustling now, she took the cartons from him and went to the refrigerator. “I need them for a dish I'll be making for the ceili. Did you see Shannon's painting? It's grand, isn't it?”

“It is.” He took off his cap, hung it on a peg.

“This strudel's from a recipe a German woman gave
me last week when she was here. You remember her, Shannon, Mrs. Metz? The one with the big voice.”

“The Stormtrooper,” Shannon said with a smile. “She lined up her three children in the morning for inspection—her husband, too.”

“And neat as a pin they were, every one of them. You'll tell me if the strudel's as good as she claimed.”

Brianna was dishing it up when the phone rang. Shannon reached for the receiver on the wall phone. “I'll get it. Blackthorn Cottage.” She hesitated a moment, brows lifting in surprise. “Tod? Yes, it's me.” She laughed. “I do not sound Irish.”

Unable to keep his lip from curling, Murphy sat down at the table. “Tod,” he muttered when Brianna set the strudel in front of him. “Sounds more like an insect than a name.”