Born in Shame (20 page)

There was a witch in her. He'd known it the first time he'd looked in her eyes. The power of it glowed out of them now, confident and challenging. Though her breath hissed out when he dragged her head back by her hair, the look never wavered.

“Like this then.” His voice was rough as he dragged her around. He braced her back against the king stone and, cupping her hips, lifted her off her feet.

She clamped herself around him, willing and eager. The power burst when he thrust into her, battering them both with the speed and desperation she'd demanded.

They were eye to eye, each violent stroke heating the gasping breaths they took. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her lips curved in triumph as their bodies convulsed together.

His legs went weak, and his palms had gone so damp he feared he'd lose his hold on her and drop her. He could hear his own breath panting out like a dog's.

“Jesus.” He blinked stinging sweat out of his eyes. “Sweet Jesus Christ.”

Slumped against his shoulder she began to laugh. It bubbled up through her, full of joy and fascination. He
could only struggle to get back his breath and balance her as she threw her arms into the air.

“Oh, I feel so alive.”

A grin tugged at his mouth as he managed to keep her from tumbling both of them. “You're alive all right. But you damned near killed me.” He kissed her hard, then set her firmly on her feet. “Get your clothes on, woman, before you finish me off.”

“I wish we could go running buck naked through the fields.”

He blew out a breath and bent to pick up her bra. “Oh, my sainted mother would love that, if she happened to take a turn around the yard and look out.”

Amused, Shannon slipped into her bra and plucked her panties out of the grass. “I bet your sainted mother knows just what you've been up to, since you didn't come home last night.”

“Knowing and getting a first-hand look's two different matters.” He gave her bottom a friendly pat when she bent over to pick up her shirt. “You look sexy in men's clothes. I meant to tell you.”

“Men's look,” Shannon corrected, buttoning the oversize shirt.

“What's the difference?” He sat on the grass to put on his shoes. “Would you go out with me tonight, Shannon, if I come calling for you?”

Baffled and pleased, she looked down at him. That the man could ask, so sweetly, when they'd barely finished going at each other like animals, charmed her. “Well, it may be I'd do that, Murphy Muldoon,” she said, giving her best shot at a west county brogue.

His eyes danced as he tossed her one of her shoes. “You still sound like a Yank. But I like it—'tis a darling accent.”

She snorted.
“I
have a darling accent. Right.” She
reached down to pick up the blanket, but he stayed her hand.

“Leave them . . . if you will.”

Smiling, she turned her hand so that their fingers twined. “Yes. I will.”

“Then I'll walk you to your door.”

“You don't have to.”

“I do have to.” He led her through the arch of stone and into the field where the light was just beginning to pearl the dewy grass. “And want to as well.”

Happy, she leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked. In the east, morning was rising gently in pinks and golds, like a painting washed by a pastel-tipped brush. She heard the crow of the rooster and the cheerful song of a lark. When Murphy stopped to pick a wildflower with creamy white petals, she turned, smiling, so that he could slip it into her hair.

“Look, there's a magpie.” She lifted her hand to point as the bird darted low over the field. “That's right, isn't it? Brianna showed me.”

“That's right. Look there, quick. Two more.” Pleased at his luck, he swung his arm around her shoulders. “One is for sorrow,” he told her. “Two is for mirth. Three for a wedding, and four for a birth.”

She watched the flight and cleared her throat. “Murphy, I know you have very strong feelings, and—”

He lifted her up and set her over the next wall. “I'm in love with you,” he said easily. “If that's what you're meaning.”

“Yes, that's what I mean.” She had to be careful, she realized, as her own emotions had gone so much deeper than she'd ever intended. “And I think I understand how you believe that should progress. Taking your personality, your culture, and your religion into account.”

“You've a wonderful way of cluttering things up with words. What you mean is I want to marry you.”

“Oh, Murphy.”

“I'm not asking you at the moment,” he pointed out. “What I'm doing is enjoying a morning walk with you and looking forward to seeing you again in the evening.”

She slid him a glance, saw he was studying her. “So, we can keep it simple?”

“There's nothing simpler. Here. Let me kiss you before we're in Brie's garden.”

He turned her into his arms, lowered his head, and melted her heart. “One more,” she whispered and drew him back.

“I'll call for you.” He made the effort and released her. “I'd take you out to dinner, but—”

“Your family's here,” she finished. “I understand.”

“They'll be gone tomorrow. If you wouldn't feel awkward with Brie, I'd like if you'd spend the night with me then, in my bed.”

“No. I wouldn't feel awkward.”

“Till later then.” He kissed her fingertips and left her on the edge of the garden where the roses were still damp with dew.

Humming to herself, she crossed the lawn, let herself in the back door. Only to come up short when she saw Brianna measuring up coffee at the stove.

“Oh, hi.” Unaware of the foolish grin on her face, Shannon stuck her hands in her trouser pockets. “You're up early.”

Brianna only lifted a brow. She'd been up half an hour, the same time as she was up nearly every morning of her life. “Kayla wanted breakfast.”

Shannon glanced at the clock in surprise. “I guess it's a little later than I thought. I was just . . . out.”

“So I gathered. Didn't Murphy want to come in for coffee?”

“No, he—” She broke off, blew out a breath. “I guess we weren't very discreet.”

“You could say I'm not surprised to see you coming in now when I saw the way you looked when you walked out with him last night.” Since the coffee was brewing, Brianna turned around. “You look happy.”

“Do I?” She laughed, then gave into impulse and rushed over to throw her arms around Brianna. “I must be. I must be idiotically happy. I just spent the night with a man in a horse pasture. Me. In a horse pasture. It's incredible.”

“I'm happy for you.” Brianna held tight, moved by this first free burst of affection of sister for sister. “For both of you. He's a special man, Murphy. I've hoped for a long time he'd find someone as special.”

Shannon clung for another minute. “Brianna, it isn't quite like that. I care for him. I care for him very much. I couldn't have been with him if I didn't.”

“I know. I understand that very well.”

“But I'm not like you.” Shannon stepped back, hoping to explain to Brianna what she needed to explain to herself. “I'm not like you or Maggie. I'm not looking to settle down here, get married, and raise a family. I have other ambitions.”

The trouble had already come into Brianna's eyes before she lowered them. “He's very much in love with you.”

“I know. And I'm not sure that I'm not in love with him.” She turned away, thinking to keep her balance in movement. “But love isn't always enough to build a life on. You and I should understand that, because of our parents. I've tried to explain this to Murphy, and can
only hope I have. Because the last thing I want to do is hurt him.”

“And you don't think you'll hurt yourself by turning away from your heart?”

“I have my head to think about, too.”

Brianna reached into a cupboard for cups and saucers. “That's true. It's all of you that has to decide what's right. And it's hard when one part of you tugs away from the other.”

“You do understand.” Grateful, Shannon laid a hand on her shoulder. “You really do.”

“Of course. For Murphy it's easy. He has no questions about his thoughts or feelings or needs. They're all you. For you it's not so simple. So you have to take your happiness as it comes, and not question every step of it.”

“That's what I'm trying to do. Not just with Murphy. I'm happy, Brianna,” she said softly, “with you.”

“It means more than I can say to hear you say that.” With the love easing gently through her, Brianna turned and smiled. “To know you could say it. It's a fine morning.”

“It's a great morning.” Shannon caught Brianna's hands and squeezed. “The best morning. I'm going to go change.”

“Take your coffee with you.” Blinking at tears, Brianna poured a cup. “I'll fix you breakfast before church.”

“No. I'll take the coffee,” Shannon said and did so. “And I'll go change. Then I'll come back and help you fix breakfast.”

“But—”

“I'm not a guest here anymore.”

This time Brianna's eyes filled before she could stop them. “No, you're not. Well, be smart about it then,” she
ordered and turned briskly to pour herself tea. “Those that are will be rising soon.”

Gray waited until Shannon had left the kitchen before he stepped in himself. He crossed over and gathered his quietly weeping wife into his arms.

“Go ahead, honey,” he murmured and patted her back. “Have a good one. The two of you nearly had me bawling myself.”

“Grayson.” Rocked against him she sobbed happily into his shoulder. “She's my sister.”

“That's right.” He kissed the top of her head. “She's your sister.”

Chapter
Seventeen

Shannon hadn't attended Sunday Mass often in New York. Her parents had been quietly devout Catholics, and she'd attended Catholic schools, gone through all the rites and rituals. She considered herself a Catholic, a modern, female Catholic who was dissatisfied with many of the doctrines and laws that came through the Vatican.

Sunday Mass was simply a habit she'd slipped out of once she'd established her life and pattern in New York.

But to the people in her small spot in County Clare, Sunday Mass wasn't a habit. It was fundamental.

She had to admit, she enjoyed the small church, the smell of flickering votive candles and polished pews that
brought back sensory memories from her youth. The statues of Mary and Joseph, the plaques that illustrated the Stations of the Cross, the embroidered altar cloth were all symbols that were found across the world.

The little village church boasted small stained-glass windows through which softly colored light streamed. The pews were scarred with age, the kneelers worn, and the old floor creaked at each genuflection.

However simple the setting, the rite itself had a stirring pomp and grandeur here, as it would in Saint Patrick's magnificent cathedral on Fifth Avenue. She felt solid and steady sitting beside Brianna, listening to the lyrical tone of the priest, the murmured responses from the congregation, the occasional cry or whimper of a child.

Murphy's family was across the narrow aisle, taking up two pews. And hers—for she was beginning to think of them as her family—ranged together in one.

When they stood for the final blessing, Liam clambered over the pew and held up his arms to her. She hoisted him onto her hip, grinning when he pursed his lips.

“Pretty,” he said in a stage whisper when she'd obliged him with a kiss. His pudgy fingers went to the citrine and amethyst stones she wore at her ears. “Mine.”

“Nope. Mine.” She carried him out with her as the congregation emptied the pews and spilled out into the late morning sunshine.

“Pretty,” he said again, so hopefully, that she rooted through her purse to see if she could find something to please him.

“She is that, lad.” Murphy snatched Liam away, tossing him high to make him laugh. “Pretty as a May morning.”

Shannon felt a little thrill ripple up her spine. Only hours before they'd been naked, sweaty, and locked together. Now they were trimmed out for church and surrounded by people. It didn't stop fresh need from curling in her gut.

Pulling a small mirror out of her bag, she aimed it at Liam. “There's pretty.”

Delighted, Liam clutched at it and began to make faces at himself.

“Look, Ma.” Nearby Kate cradled her youngest on her shoulder. “They look like a little family together there. Did you ever think Murphy would set his sights on a Yank? And such a fancy one?”

“No.” Alice watched them, her emotions mixed and muddled. “I didn't think it. Used to be I wondered if it would be one of Tom Concannon's daughters for him. But this I never expected.”

Kate glanced down to where her three-year-old was contentedly plucking at grass and checking its flavor. “You don't mind?”

“I haven't decided yet.” Shrugging off the mood, Alice bent and scooped up her grandson. “Kevin, grass isn't for eating unless you're a cow. Let's gather up the troops, Kate. We've Sunday dinner to cook.”

Hearing his name hailed, Murphy lifted a hand. “I've got to get along. I'll call for you later.” He passed Liam back to her. “Will you let me kiss you here?”

“Kiss,” Liam agreed and puckered up.

“Not you, lad.” But Murphy kissed him anyway, before shifting up and letting his lips glide lightly over Shannon's. “Till later.”

“Yes.” She had to concentrate on not sighing like a schoolgirl when he walked off. “Later.”

“Want me to take your load there, Aunt Shannon?” Seeing the way was clear, Rogan stepped forward.

“No. I've got him.”

“Looks as though he has you.” And it was a nice stroke of fate, Rogan thought, to have the boy run interference for him. “I was hoping for a word with you. Would you come home with Maggie and me? We'd be pleased to have you for tea. As would Liam.”

“Tea.” Liam lost interest in the mirror and bounced on Shannon's hip. “Cake.”

“There's the bottom line,” Rogan said with a chuckle. “Just like his mother.” Without waiting for her answer, Rogan took Shannon's elbow and began to steer her toward his car.

“I should tell Brie—”

“I've told her. Maggie,” he called out. “Your boy wants tea and cake.”

“Which boy?” Maggie caught up with them just as Shannon reached for the car door. “Are you driving us, Shannon?”

“Damn. I do that nine times out of ten.” With Liam in tow, she rounded to the passenger side and bundled the boy in his car seat.

“Once a Yank,” Maggie commented and settled herself.

Shannon only wrinkled her nose and entertained Liam on the drive.

A short time later they were in the kitchen. It was Rogan, Shannon noted, who brewed the tea. “You enjoyed the ceili?” he asked.

“Very much.”

“You left early.” With a wicked gleam in her eye, Maggie set out small slices of frosted cake.

Shannon only lifted a brow and broke off a corner of a slice. “This is Brie's recipe,” she said after a sample.

“ 'Tis Brie's cake. Be grateful.”

“Very grateful,” Rogan put in. “Brianna's too humane to let Maggie poison us.”

“I'm an artist, not a cook.”

“Brianna's far more than a cook.” Shannon prepared to bristle. “She's an artist. And it shows in every room of the inn.”

“Well, well.” Amused, and pleased, Maggie leaned back. “Quick to jump in front of her, aren't you?”

“Just as you do,” Rogan said mildly as he brought pot to table. “Brianna inspires loyalty. The inn's very welcoming, isn't it?” Expertly he smoothed feathers while he poured the tea. “I stayed there myself when I first came here to batter at Margaret Mary's door. The weather was filthy,” he remembered, “as was Maggie's temperament. And the inn was a little island of peace and grace amid it all.”

“ 'Twas your temperament that was filthy as I remember,” Maggie corrected. “He badgered me mercilessly,” she told Shannon. “Came here uninvited, and unwanted. And as you can see I've yet to rid myself of him.”

“Tenacity has its rewards.” In an old habit he slid his hand over Maggie's. “Our first reward's falling asleep in his tea,” he murmured.

Maggie glanced over to see Liam, slack-mouthed, eyes closed, head nodding, with one hand fisted in cake. “He's a prize, all right.” She chuckled as she rose to lift him from his high chair. When he whined, she patted his bottom and crooned. “There, love, you just need a bit of a lie down. Let's go see if your bear's waiting for you. I think he is. He's waiting for Liam to come.”

“She's a beautiful mother,” Shannon said without thinking.

“That surprises you.”

“Yes.” She realized what she'd said an instant too late and fumbled. “I didn't mean—”

“It's not a problem. It surprises her, too. She was resistant to the idea of having a family. A great deal of that came from the fact that her childhood was difficult. Things mend in time. Even the oldest and rawest of wounds. I don't know if she'll ever be close to her mother, but they've made a bridge. So the distance is spanned.”

He set down his cup and smiled at her. “I wonder if you'd come into the office for a moment or two.”

“Your office?”

“Here. Just through the next room.” He rose, knowing manners would have her going with him.

He'd wanted her on his own turf. He'd been in business long enough to know that home field advantage was a distinctive one. And that the atmosphere of business suited some deals better than the informality of deals with meals.

With Shannon, he'd already decided to make a cleave between business and family. Except when the nudge of family became useful.

Curious, Shannon followed him into the living room and through an adjoining door. On the threshold, she stopped and stared with a combination of surprise and admiration.

They may have been in the middle of the country, a stone's throw away from grazing cows and clucking chickens, but here was a professional work space worthy of any glossy high-rise in any major city.

It was tastefully, even elegantly decorated, from the Bokarra rug to the Tiffany lamp, to the gleaming antique mahogany desk. Maggie was in the room—a stunning fountain of sapphire glass rose halfway to the coffered ceiling; a delicate tangle of shapes and colors sat alone on a marble column and made Shannon think of Brianna's garden.

Marching practically with style were the tools of the executive—fax, computer, modem, copier, all sleek and high tech.

“Holy cow.” Her grin started to spread as she moved in and skimmed her finger over the monitor of a top-grade P.C. “I would never have guessed this was here.”

“That's the way Maggie wanted it. And I, too.” Rogan gestured to a chair. “This is home for a good part of the year, but to keep it home, I have to work.”

“I guess I thought you had an office at the gallery.”

“I do.” To establish the tone he wanted to set, he sat behind his desk. “But we both have demanding careers, and we both have a child. When scheduling allows, I can work here three days a week, tending to Liam in the mornings while Maggie's in her glass house.”

“It can't be easy, for either of you. Juggling so much.”

“You make certain you only drop balls that are replaceable. Compromise is the only way I know to have all. I thought we'd talk about the other paintings you've done.”

“Oh.” Her brow creased. “I've done a couple more watercolors, and another oil, but—”

“I've seen the one of Brianna,” he interrupted smoothly. “You've finished the one of the inn—the back garden view.”

“Yes. I went out to the cliffs and did a seascape. Pretty typical, I imagine.”

“I doubt that.” He smiled and made a quick note on a pad. “But we'll have a look. You'd have more in New York.”

“There are several in my apartment, and, of course, the ones I brought back from Columbus.”

“We'll arrange to have them shipped over.”

“But—”

“My manager at the New York gallery can take care of
the details—the packing and so forth, once you give me a list of inventory.” She made another attempt to speak, and he rolled right over her. “We've only the one on display here in Clare, and I think we'll keep it that way, until we have a more polished strategy. In the meantime.” He opened his top drawer and drew out a neat stack of legal-size papers. “You'll want to look over the contracts.”

“Rogan, I never agreed to contracts.”

“Of course you haven't.” His smile was easy, his tone all reason. “You haven't read them. I'd be happy to go over the terms with you, or I can recommend a lawyer. I'm sure you have your own, but you'd want one locally.”

She found a copy of the contracts dumped neatly in her hands. “I already have a job.”

“It doesn't seem to stop you from painting. I'll want my secretary to contact you in the next week or so, for background. The sort of color and information we'll need for a biography and press releases.”

“Press releases?” She put a hand to her spinning head.

“You'll see in the contract that Worldwide will take care of all publicity for you. Depending on your inventory in America, we should be ready for a showing in October, or possibly September.”

“A showing.” She left her supporting hand where it was and gaped at him. “You want—a showing?” she repeated, numb. “In Worldwide Galleries?”

“I'd considered having it in Dublin, as we'd had Maggie's first there. But I think I'd prefer the gallery here in Clare, because of your connection here.” He tilted his head, still smiling politely. “What do you think?”

“I don't think,” she mumbled. “I can't think. Rogan, I've been to shows at Worldwide. I can't even conceive of having one there.”

“Surely you're not going to sit there, look me straight in the eye, and claim to doubt your talent?”

She opened her mouth. But the way he'd phrased it, the way he looked at her as he waited, had her shoulders moving back and settling firm. “It's simply that I've never thought of my painting in a practical vein.”

“And why should you? That's my job. You paint, Shannon. You just paint. I'll handle the details of the rest. Ah, and as to details . . .” He tipped back, already savoring victory. “We'll need some photographs. I use an excellent man in Dublin for such things. I need to be back there for a couple of days this week. You can fly out with me and we'll get that taken care of.”