Born in Shame (7 page)

After circling the greenhouse, she spotted a picturesque sitting area on the edge of a bed of impatiens and violas. She settled into the wooden chair, found it as comfortable as it looked, and decided she wouldn't think about Brianna, or Maggie, or the household she was a temporary part of. She would, for just a little while, think of nothing at all.

The air was soft and fragrant. There was a pretty chiming from a copper hanging of fairies near a window close by. She thought she heard the low of a cow in the distance—a sound as foreign to her world as the legend of leprechauns or banshees.

Murphy's farm, she supposed. She hoped, for his sake, he was a better farmer than conversationalist.

A wave of fatigue washed over her, the jet lag her nerves had held at bay for hours. She let it come now, cocoon her and blur the edges of too many worries.

And she dreamed of a man on a white horse. His hair was black and streaming behind him, and his dark cloak whipped in the wind and was beaded with the rain that spewed like fury from an iron-gray sky.

Lightning split it like a lance, speared its flash over his face, highlighting the high Celtic bones, the cobalt eyes of the black Irish, and the warrior. There was a copper broach at the cloak's neck. An intricate twist of metal around a carving of a stallion's reared head.

As if in sympathy, his mount pawed the chaotic air, then pounded the turf. They drove straight for her, man and beast, both equally dangerous, equally magnificent. She caught the glint of a sword, the dull sheen of armor sprayed with mud.

Her heart answered the bellow of thunder, and the rain slapped icily at her face. But there wasn't fear. Her chin was thrust high as she watched them bullet toward her, and her eyes, narrowed against the rain, gleamed green.

In a spray of mud and wet the horse swerved to a halt no more than inches from her. The man astride it peered down at her with triumph and lust shining on his face.

“So,” she heard herself say in a voice that wasn't quite hers. “You've come back.”

Shannon jerked awake, shaken and confused by the strangeness and the utter clarity of the dream. As if she hadn't been asleep at all, she thought as she brushed the hair back from her face. But more remembering.

She barely had time to be amused at herself by the thought when her heart tripped back to double time. There was a man standing not a foot away, watching her.

“I beg your pardon.” Murphy stepped forward out of the shadows that were spreading. “I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you were napping.”

Miserably embarrassed, she pulled herself upright in the chair. “So you came to stare at me again, Mr. Muldoon?”

“No—that is, I . . .” He blew out a frustrated breath.
Hadn't he talked to himself sternly about just this behavior? Damn if he'd find himself all thick-tongued and soft-headed a second time around her. “I didn't want to disturb you,” he began again. “I thought for a minute you'd come awake and had spoken to me, but you hadn't.” He tried a smile, one he'd found usually charmed the ladies. “The truth of it is, Miss Bodine, I'd come back around to apologize for gaping at you during tea. It was rude.”

“Fine. Forget it.” And go away, she thought irritably.

“I'm thinking it's your eyes.” He knew it was more. He'd known exactly what it was the moment he'd looked over and seen her. The woman he'd waited for.

The breath she huffed out was impatient. “My eyes?”

“You've fairy eyes. Clear as water, green as moss, and full of magic.”

He didn't sound slow-witted now, she realized warily. His voice had taken on a musical cadence designed to make a woman forget everything but the sound of it. “That's interesting, Mr. Muldoon—”

“Murphy, if it's the same to you. We're in the way of being neighbors.”

“No, we're not. But Murphy's fine with me. Now, if you'll excuse—” Instead of rising as she'd intended, she shrank back in the chair and let out a muffled squeal. Something sleek and fast came charging out of the shadows. And it growled.

“Con.” It took no more than the single quiet syllable from Murphy to have the dog skidding to a halt and flopping his tail. “He didn't mean to scare you.” Murphy laid a hand on the dog's head. “He's been for his evening run, and sometimes when he comes across me, he likes to play. He wasn't growling so much as talking.”

“Talking.” She shut her eyes as she waited for her heart to stop thudding. “Talking dogs, that's all the
evening needed.” Then Con padded over and, laying his head in her lap, looked soulfully into her face. Even an iceberg would have melted. “So, now you're apologizing, I suppose, for scaring me out of my skin.” She lifted her gaze to Murphy. “The two of you are quite a pair.”

“I suppose we can both be clumsy at times.” In a graceful move that belied the words, he drew a clutch of wildflowers from behind his back. “Welcome to the county of Clare, Shannon Bodine. May your stay be as sweet and colorful as the blooms, and last longer.”

Flabbergasted, and damn it, charmed, she took the cheerful blossoms from him. “I thought you were an odd man, Murphy,” she murmured. “It seems I was right.” But her lips were curved as she rose. “Thank you.”

“Now, that's something I'll look forward to. Your smile,” he told her when she only lifted her brows. “It's worth waiting for. Good night, Shannon. Sleep well.”

He walked away, turned again into a shadow. When the dog began to follow, he said something soft that had Con holding back and turning to wait by Shannon's side.

As the fragrance of the blossoms she held teased her senses, the man called Murphy melted into the night.

“So much for first impressions,” Shannon said to the dog, then shook her head. “I think it's time to go in. I must be more tired than I'd thought.”

Chapter
Six

Storms and white horses. Brutally handsome men and a circle of standing stones.

Pursued by dreams, Shannon had not spent a peaceful night.

And she woke freezing. That was odd, she thought, as the coals in the little fireplace across the room still glowed red, and she herself was buried to the chin under a thick, downy quilt. Yet her skin was icy to the point of making her shiver to warm it.

What was odder still was that she wasn't merely cold. Until she felt her face for herself, she would have sworn
she was wet—as if she'd been standing out in the middle of a rainstorm.

She sat up in bed, dragging her hands through her hair. Never before in her life had she experienced dreams with such clarity, and wasn't sure she wanted it to become a habit.

But dreams and restless nights aside, she was awake now. From experience she knew there would be no cuddling back into the pillow and drifting off. Back in New York, that wouldn't have been so frustrating. There were always dozens of things that needed to be done, and she typically woke early to get a jump on the day.

There was always an account to work on, paperwork to deal with, or simple domestic chores to accomplish before heading to the office. Those done, she'd have checked her electronic organizer to see what appointments and duties were scheduled for the day—what social entertainments were on line for the evening. The morning show on television would provide her with a weather update, and any current news before she picked up her briefcase, and her gym bag depending on the day of the week, and set off for the brisk six-block walk to her office.

The satisfied, organized life of the young professional on the way up the corporate ladder. It had been precisely the same routine for over five years.

But here . . . With a sigh, she looked toward the window where the western sky was still dark. There were no deadlines, no appointments, no presentations to be given. She'd taken a break from the structure that was so familiar, and therefore comforting.

What did a person do in the Irish countryside at dawn? After crawling out of bed, she went over to poke at the fire, then padded over to the window seat to curl on its cushions.

She could make out the fields, the shadows of stone walls, the outline of a house and outbuildings, as the sky gradually lightened from indigo to a softer blue. With some amusement she heard the crow of a rooster.

Maybe she would take Brianna up on the offer of the use of her car and drive somewhere. Anywhere. This part of Ireland was famed for its scenery. Shannon thought she might as well get a look at it while she was here. Perhaps she'd use the location and the vacation time to paint if the mood struck her.

In the bath she pulled the circular curtain around the claw-foot tub and found, with pleasure, the water from the shower was hot and plentiful. She chose a dark turtleneck and jeans and nearly picked up her purse before she realized she'd have no need for it until she made transportation arrangements.

Deciding to take Brianna's invitation to make herself at home to heart, she started downstairs to brew coffee.

The house was so quiet she could almost believe she was alone. She knew there were guests on the second floor, but Shannon heard nothing but the quiet creak of the stair under her own feet as she walked down to the first floor.

It was the new view that stopped her, the window facing east that framed the stunning break of dawn. The roll of clouds on the horizon was thick, layered, and shot with swirling red. The bold color spread into the sky, beating back the more soothing blues and tamer pinks with licks of fire. Even as she watched, the clouds moved, sailing like a flaming ship as the sky slowly lightened.

For the first time in months she found herself actively wanting to paint. It had been habit more than desire that had had her packing some of her equipment. She was
grateful now, and wondered how far she would have to drive to buy what other supplies she might need.

Pleased with the idea, and the prospect of a genuine activity, she wandered back toward the kitchen.

Finding Brianna already there and wrist deep in bread dough was more of a surprise than it should have been. “I thought I would be the first up.”

“Good morning. You're an early riser.” Brianna smiled as she continued to knead her dough. “So's Kayla, and she wakes hungry. There's coffee, or tea if you like. I've already brewed it for Grayson.”

“He's up, too?” So much, Shannon thought, for a solitary morning.

“Oh, he got up hours ago to work. He does that sometimes when the story's worrying him. I'll fix you breakfast once I set the bread to rise.”

“No, coffee's fine.” After she'd poured a cup, Shannon stood awkwardly, wondering what to do next. “You bake your own bread?”

“I do, yes. It's a soothing process. You'll have toast at least. There's a hunk of yesterday's still in the drawer.”

“A little later. I was thinking I might drive around a bit, see the cliffs or something.”

“Oh, sure you'll want to see the sights.” Competently Brianna patted the dough into a ball and turned it into a large bowl. “The keys are on that hook there. You take them whenever you've a mind to ramble. Did you have a good night?”

“Actually, I—” She broke off, surprised she'd been about to tell Brianna about her dreams. “Yes, the room's very comfortable.” Restless again, she took another sip of coffee. “Is there a gym anywhere around?”

Brianna covered her dough with a cloth, then went to the sink to wash off her hands. “A Jim? Several of them. Are you looking for anyone in particular?”

Shannon opened her mouth, then closed it again on a laugh. “No, a gym—a health club. I work out three or four times a week. You know, treadmills, stair climbers, free weights.”

“Oh.” Brianna set a cast iron skillet on the stove as she thought it through. “No, we've none of that just here. A treadmill, that's for walking?”

“Yeah.”

“We've fields for that. You can have a fine walk across the fields. And the fresh air's good for exercising. It's a lovely morning for being out, though we'll have rain this afternoon. You'll want a jacket,” she continued, nodding toward a light denim jacket hanging on a peg by the back door.

“A jacket?”

“It's a bit cool out.” Brianna set bacon to sizzling in the pan. “The exercise will give you an appetite. You'll have breakfast when you get back.”

Frowning, Shannon studied Brianna's back. It looked as if she was going for a walk. A little bemused, she set down her cup and picked up the jacket. “I don't guess I'll be long.”

“Take your time,” Brianna said cheerfully.

Amused at each other, they parted company.

Shannon had never considered herself the outdoor type. She wasn't a fan of hiking. She much preferred the civilized atmosphere of a well-equipped health club—bottled water, the morning news on the television set, machines that told you your progress. She put in fifty minutes three times a week and was pleased to consider herself strong, healthy, and well toned.

But she'd never understood people who strapped on heavy boots and backpacks and hiked trails or climbed mountains.

Still, her discipline was too ingrained to allow her to
forfeit all forms of exercise. And one day at Blackthorn had shown her that Brianna's cooking could be a problem.

So she'd walk. Shannon tucked her hands into the pockets of her borrowed jacket, for the air was chilly. There was a nice little bite in the morning that shook away any lingering dregs of jet lag.

She passed the garden where primroses were still drenched with dew, and the greenhouse that tempted her to cup her hands and peer in through the treated glass. What she saw had her mouth falling open. She'd visited professional nurseries with her mother that were less organized and less well stocked.

Impressed, she turned away, then stopped. It was all so big, she thought as she stared out over the roll of land. So empty. Without being aware she hunched her shoulders defensively in the jacket. She thought nothing of walking down a New York sidewalk, dodging pedestrians, guarding her own personal space. The blare of traffic, blasting horns, raised voices were familiar, not strange like this shimmering silence.

“Not exactly like jogging in Central Park,” she muttered, comforted by the sound of her own voice. Because it was less daunting to go on than to return to the kitchen, she began to walk.

There were sounds, she realized. Birds, the distant hum of some machine, the echoing bark of a dog. Still, it seemed eerie to be so alone. Rather than focus on that, she quickened her pace. Strolling didn't tone the muscles.

When she came to the first stone wall, she debated her choices. She could walk along it, or climb over it into the next field. With a shrug, she climbed over.

She recognized wheat, just high enough to wave a bit in the breeze, and in the midst of it, a lone tree. Though
it looked immensely old to her, its leaves were still the tender green of spring. A bird perched on one of its high, gnarled branches, singing its heart out.

She stopped to watch, to listen, wishing she'd brought her sketch pad. She'd have to come back with it. It had been too long since she'd had the opportunity to do a real landscape.

Odd, she thought as she began to walk again. She hadn't realized she wanted to. Yet anyone with even rudimentary skills would find their fingers itching here, she decided. The colors, the shapes, and the magnificent light. She turned around, walking backward for a moment to study the tree from a different angle.

Early morning would be best, she decided and climbed over the next wall with her attention still focused behind her.

Only luck kept her from turning headfirst into the cow.

“Jesus Christ.” She scrambled backward, came up hard against stone. The cow simply eyed the intruder dispassionately and swished her tail. “It's so big.” From her perch on top of the wall, Shannon let out an unsteady breath. “I had no idea they were so big.”

Cautious, she lifted her gaze and discovered that bossie wasn't alone. The field was dotted with grazing cows, large placid-eyed ladies with black-and-white hides. Since they didn't seem particularly interested in her, she lowered slowly until she was sitting on the wall rather than standing on it.

“I guess the tour stops here. Aren't you going to moo or something?”

Rather than oblige, the nearest cow shifted her bulk and went back to grazing. Amused now, Shannon relaxed and took a longer, more comprehensive look around. What she saw had her lips bowing.

“Babies.” With a laugh, she started to spring up to get a first-hand look at the spindly calves romping among their less energetic elders. Then caution had her glancing back into the eyes of her closest neighbor. She wasn't at all sure if cows tended to bite or not. “Guess I'll just watch them from right here.”

Curiosity had her reaching out, warily, her eyes riveted on the cow's face. She just wanted to touch. Though she leaned out, she kept her butt planted firmly on the wall. If the cow didn't like the move, Shannon figured she could be on the other side. Any woman who worked out three times a week should be able to outrun a cow.

When her fingers brushed, she discovered the hair was stiff and tough, and that the cow didn't appear to object. More confident, Shannon inched a little closer and spread her palm over the flank.

“She doesn't mind being handled, that one,” Murphy said from behind her.

Shannon's yelp had several of the cows trundling off. After some annoyed mooing, they settled down again. But Murphy was still laughing when they had, and his hand remained on Shannon's shoulder where he gripped to keep her from falling face first off the wall.

“Steady now. You're all nerves.”

“I thought I was alone.” She wasn't sure if she was more mortified to have screamed or to have been caught petting a farm animal.

“I was heading back from setting my horses to pasture and saw you.” In a comfortable move he sat on the wall, facing the opposite way, and lighted a cigarette. “It's a fine morning.”

Her opinion on that was a grunt. She hadn't thought about this being his land. And now, it seemed, she was stuck again. “You take care of all these cows yourself?”

“Oh, I have a bit of help now and then, when it's
needed. You go ahead, pet her if you like. She doesn't mind it.”

“I wasn't petting her.” It was a little late for dignity, but Shannon made a stab at it. “I was just curious about how they felt.”

“You've never touched a cow?” The very idea made him grin. “You have them in America I'm told.”

“Of course we have cows. We just don't see them strolling down Fifth Avenue very often.” She slanted a look at him. He was still smiling, looking back toward the tree that had started the whole scenario. “Why haven't you cut that down? It's in the middle of your wheat.”