by Jo Goodman
He grinned to himself, turning his horse toward the house. Not for nothing, he thought. For a principle. Damned if that didn’t somehow make up for it.
Addie found him as he was approaching the stable. She was breathless from running, and it took Brandon several minutes to make sense of her message. At first he thought something had happened to Clara. When he realized she was speaking of Rory, the curl of tension in his gut relaxed and he nodded shortly, dismissing her. When Addie was gone, he dismounted slowly, gave his horse a slap on the rump to send him off to the stable, and began walking slowly toward the house.
Martha was hovering nervously at the bedside when Brandon entered the room. “Addie said you sent for me,” he said calmly as he approached the bed. “Her fever’s broken.”
“She’s still weak, though you can see she insisted on sitting up. Have a pity on her, Brandon. She can’t speak a word.”
Brandon’s dark brows knitted. “What do you mean?”
“I mean her throat’s raw. The cold settled there. She’s no match for you now.”
Brandon snorted derisively. “On the contrary, Martha, at last we are on equal terms. Leave us. I want to speak to my wife in private.”
Wife?! Shannon’s violet eyes widened and the entire fifth regiment drum and fife corps struck up a new march in her head. Her lips parted to protest but no sound came out. She had recognized Brandon Fleming instantly. No one else in her memory had the same corn silk hair or eyes as dark as onyx. He was impeccably dressed in buff riding breeches. His white linen shirt, devoid of lace or embroidery work, was open at the collar, revealing a throat and chest as tanned as his face. An unbuttoned buff vest hung loosely from his broad shoulders, though she suspected it spread tautly across his back. He was as tall as she remembered, leanly muscled, with an aura of strength and purpose she found threatening, even frightening.
There were differences also. He was older, of course, probably in his twenty-seventh year, yet it was not maturity which struck the contrast, but a pensive, somber mood that cast his face into a shadow of its own making. The charming, flirtatious grin was not only absent, but also there was a certain sharpness about the shape of his mouth, as if he did not smile easily. The arrogant line of his nose was still very much in evidence, but the nostrils were slightly flared, revealing a tightly leashed anger. Shannon knew she was the object of his anger, but she hadn’t the least clue as to why.
Shannon gave a little jerk as the door closed behind Martha, and Brandon took another step closer to the bed. Her eyes dropped from his implacable face to the riding crop he slapped absently against his thigh. Did he intend to whip her? She gasped softly at the thought, pulling the comfort more closely about her shoulders. Even her stepfather had never laid a hand on her when she was ill. What sort of man had Brandon Fleming become?
Brandon saw the fear in her eyes, and he was satisfied then disgusted with himself for taking pleasure in it. “You’ve every right to be afraid, Aurora. If ever a man has been provoked into beating a woman, I am that man and you are the woman.”
Aurora? Why was he calling her by that name? Shannon cowered deeper into her blanket, her lips moving soundlessly as she prayed a familiar litany.
“However, I’m not so depraved as all that.” Brandon tossed the riding crop on the nightstand, more to relieve himself of temptation than to relieve his wife of her fears. “You can stop cowering. It’s a pretty act, but unnecessary. You’ve never been afraid of me since the day we met.” Only her violet eyes were visible above the edge of the comfort, and they continued to watch him warily. “Dammit, Aurora!” he growled. “Come out from under there!”
Shannon saw him through a mist as tears blurred her vision. He was mad! Then it occurred to her that perhaps she was. It made a ridiculous kind of sense. She must have imagined the earl had promised to arrange things with his friend. Slowly she lowered the comfort and stared mutely at Brandon.
“That’s better,” he said roughly, throwing her a handkerchief from his vest pocket. “And do something about those tears. When the sun rises in the west, perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll be moved by your affectations. Until then, save your wiles for someone who enjoys them. Like Parker.”
Shannon dutifully wiped her eyes, recoiling as Brandon spit out this last name venomously.
“Yes, you heard me correctly. Parker. Did you think I wouldn’t realize you left with him? It would have been a little odd not missing my own brother, and you made your intentions clear enough in front of witnesses. He’s been a thorn in my side since he was whelped, but you knew that and abetted him. He has always coveted what he could not have: my land, my standing, my education, and finally my wife.” Brandon’s voice began to rise and he took a deep, calming breath. The quiet tone in which he continued was infinitely more effective and deadly in its contempt. “I offered to share the land, the reputation, and pay for his education. But, madam, there was no way in hell I was going to share my wife. The moment I discovered you had taken up with Parker, you ceased to exist for me. And that is the way it shall remain. Do you understand?” Her eyes were closed and Brandon placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a less than gentle shake. “Do you?” He backed away in disgust as her head lolled to one side. Damn the bitch! She had fainted.
A bruising ride over the countryside did little to ease Brandon’s sour mood. At dinner he drank more than he ate and pretended to be oblivious to Martha’s displeasure as she placed the food in front of him. It was more difficult to ignore Clara’s worried, surreptitious glances, and once he snapped at her to stop swinging her legs under the table. Cody jumped at his harsh tone but said nothing. Eventually Clara fled the dining room. She was plucked up in the hallway by Martha, and cooed and fussed over. Childishly, Brandon wished Martha would show him a measure of that consideration.
“Aren’t you going to leave, too?” he asked Cody.
Cody pushed the remainder of his strawberry pie away and lit a cheroot. “Do you want me to?”
“Do whatever suits you.”
“Then it suits me to stay.”
Brandon shrugged. He picked at his pie, then gave up the pretense of eating, shoving the plate to one side. It teetered on the edge of the table and he made a grab for it. The delicate china plate crashed to the floor in spite of his effort.
“Feel better?” asked Cody after one of the servants had cleared the mess, then the table. Brandon’s reply was a grunt, and for Cody it was the end of enough. “Dammit, Bran. Why don’t you just send her packing? She’s made your life miserable since you brought her to the folly.”
“Parker Grant has done his share. Don’t forget our brother’s part in this.”
Cody grimaced and stubbed out his cheroot. “Our half brother. I make the distinction even if you don’t. I’m your half brother, he’s our half brother, and so on. More’s the pity our profligate common sire did not seed a few daughters or I could expand upon my theme.” He gave a jerky little laugh. “It’s just as well he didn’t. The stigma of being a bastard is hard enough for a man. For a woman, well, it permits few opportunities for a happy life.”
Brandon’s head shot up and he studied Cody closely. He had never heard Cody talk this way before, and he realized suddenly, stupidly, that he had never thought to ask. “Are you happy, Cody? I mean, does being a”—he hesitated, then ground out the word—“a bastard weigh heavily on you?”
“Sometimes,” he answered truthfully. “Like when I want to ask Sarah Wilson to dance and know that her mother would faint, her father would call me out, and Sarah would be thoroughly affronted by my request.”
“I had no idea.” It wasn’t simply Sarah Wilson. Brandon did not make the mistake of thinking Cody had a true interest in that direction. It was all the Sarah Wilsons making their homes in the Tidewater. The circumstances of Cody’s birth made his suit unwelcome in all the landed homes. He prayed he would not be so shortsighted and narrow-minded when it came time for Clara to be courted.
“Of course you di
dn’t. I don’t expect you to.”
“But you’re different from Parker,” he observed. “Mayhap I should say Parker is different from you and Jacob and Daniel and Steven. Have I missed anyone? No? Well, none of you carry a chip on your shoulder.”
“We carry chips, Bran. Parker carries a goddamn two-by-four.”
That was true enough, but Brandon did not understand why. His face clouded with thought.
“It’s easy enough to understand,” Cody explained with a solemn maturity far greater than his nineteen years. “He’s only a few weeks younger than you, and everyone knows you were delivered prematurely. Parker believes that if his own mother had been less healthy, our father would have made him the heir, bastard or no. He should have been the firstborn.”
“But I was willing to share the folly.”
“A generous offer, but not good enough for Parker. Nothing less than complete control of the plantation will ever satisfy him. The rest of us look at our situation differently. Jake was more than pleased with the money you settled on him when William died. He knew you didn’t have to do it, that the gift came from your heart.”
Brandon felt his ears redden and he shifted in his chair, uncrossing then crossing his legs at the ankles. “I don’t want to—”
“You’re going to hear this, Bran,” Cody insisted. “That money enabled Jake to buy a prime piece of land on the Rappahannock and start his stud. Daniel and Steven pooled their resources and bought shares in a shipping firm in Boston. None of them cared about the folly the way you do. They never pretended the slightest interest in farming. They would still be here, forced to make a living in a manner they despised, if you hadn’t given them a way out. It was more than any of them expected.”
“But nothing less than they deserved.”
“Parker would disagree with you,” Cody said pointedly. “And that brings me back to my original question. Why don’t you send Rory packing back to Parker?”
“I doubt if Parker’s at Belletraine,” he answered, sidestepping the question. “He must have taken her to Europe. How else could she have arrived on the Century?”
“I thought you spoke with Rory. I thought that was reason for your foul mood.”
“I did speak with her,” Brandon said heavily. “That’s just it. I spoke with her. She had no chance to speak for herself. Her illness affected her voice.”
“Do you still love her’?” Cody asked baldly.
“No!” He nearly shouted, then more quietly, “No. I used to think there would be but one woman in my life. You know, a sort of grand passion that would carry me from youth to old age.” He laughed, mocking himself. “I thought I found it with Rory, but I was wrong. Still, there is something—oh, I don’t know—something that draws me to her. I can’t explain it. It doesn’t make sense. I haven’t felt that way about her for years, and even then it was a fleeting thing.”
“Then let us hope it is just as fleeting this time.” He excused himself from the table, then before his courage failed him, he added, “I’ll throttle her myself before I’ll allow her to destroy you and hand the folly to Parker.” Without waiting for a reply, he left.
Far from being angry, Brandon felt his lips twitch at Cody’s youthful vehemence. Pushing away from the table, he decided it was time to make peace with his daughter.
Brandon found Clara in the nursery, sitting in her rocking chair and hugging one of her dolls to her chest. She did not look up when he entered, and he took it as a sign that she intended him to suffer a bit. She had turned the chair toward the fireplace, and Brandon moved to sit in front of her on the cold marble apron. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, poppet. You didn’t deserve it.” Since Clara already seemed to know that, it was not a reasonable thing to say. He looked around the room to find a topic that might interest her. His eyes alighted on the kite. “It’s been a long time since we sent your kite up. There are a few hours of light left. What say we give it a try?”
“Cody and I flew it yesterday.”
“You did?” He was disappointed. How had he not known that? “Would you like to send it up again?”
“There’s not enough wind,” she said, then added for good measure, “Cody says.”
The implication was clear. She had already asked her uncle because her father had no time for her. He glanced out the window and saw the tops of the oak trees that edged the property were unmoving. Cody was right. There wasn’t enough wind. “That’s Charlotte, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyes resting on the porcelain doll in her hands.
“Why are you sad all the time, Papa?” Clara blurted suddenly. “Aren’t you happy Mama is home? I thought you’d be happy. Didn’t you want Mama to come back?”
Brandon was stricken by Clara’s rapidly fired questions. “What makes you think I’m not happy, poppet?” he asked carefully.
Unable to express what she saw day after day as her father drifted more deeply into his own affairs and further away from her, Clara relied on an eloquent shrug. When Brandon’s arms reached for her, she toppled into them readily.
He pulled her onto his lap. “I’m happy when I’m with you, Clara. I love you, don’t you know? It’s planting season now and I can’t be with you as much as I’d like.” That was true as far as it went. “That’s why I’ve been looking for a governess for you.”
“Don’t want a guvness.”
Brandon did not want to argue, so he ignored her sullen objection. Something else she said was troubling him. “Clara?” he said slowly, making a question of her name. “You said that you thought your mama being here would make me happy. Is that why you wanted to search for her?” When Clara’s head bobbed affirmatively, Brandon felt as if he’d been gutted. Was it true? Had he been an ass for so long that his daughter had taken matters into her own hands? How could he explain to a child that it was not Rory’s leaving that set his temper off, but the blow to his pride? He and Rory had not been happy for years, and he should have been overjoyed to see her go, yet he chafed at her final betrayal. Long ago he had been able to reconcile himself to her affair with Parker. They sought their separate pleasures, and it was an agreeable, if not satisfying, arrangement. As long as Rory took the same pains as he to be discreet, he could bear it. When she fled with Parker, announcing her intentions drunkenly at the harvest celebration, she had violated their unspoken contract and subjected him to pitying glances and whispered comments every time he showed his face at a gathering. Her action scraped the scabs off the old wounds she had inflicted and left him raw and bleeding.
Even for Clara he could not pretend an emotion for Rory that he didn’t feel. Happy? Hardly. But he could be more civil to his servants, and certainly, kinder to his daughter. “Papa loves you, dear heart,” he whispered against her soft, curling hair, his own eyes bright with tears. “Papa loves you.”
Chapter 4
Shannon’s throat healed steadily over the next several days. She knew she could talk if she chose to. She did not choose to. There was only one person with whom she wanted to speak, and he had not visited her bedchamber since her fever had broken. It did not make sense to explain her identity to anyone else. Like Brandon, those who cared for her called her by another name. She was Aurora, Miz Rory, the missus, and occasionally, Mama. There were times when Shannon thought she would give in to the tide and let herself be swept up in the alter identity. There were moments of self-doubt when she wondered if mayhap she had retreated so far into herself that she had been reborn as someone else. The idea fascinated and frightened her. From caterpillar to butterfly. From Shannon to Aurora. She was not certain she was pleased with this odd metamorphosis, but it remained an intriguing thought.
Shannon swung her legs over the side of the bed and fingered the silk dressing gown Addie had laid out for her. She had never touched material of this quality; to actually wear it made her uneasy. Instead of putting on the robe, Shannon carried it over her arm to the large walnut wardrobe and replaced it, carefully smoothing the filmy material. She found a simpler c
otton dressing gown at the back of the wardrobe, which was more suited to her practical nature.
The short walk across the room had tired her more than she thought possible, but it seemed important to build her strength. She did not think she would be a guest much longer in this house, not once the truth of her identity and her crime were known. She made several slow tours of the chamber, examining the room’s contents but not touching anything. She could not help but feel the intruder among the exquisitely crafted furnishings. A chiffonier of wild cherry stood opposite the wardrobe, and a small writing desk sat by the window so it could catch the light. Everything was highly polished, including the hardwood floor, which felt warm beneath her bare feet. Two armchairs covered in peach and gold brocade rested in front of the marble fireplace. The walls were papered in the same shade of peach as the chairs, and the woodwork had been painted white, giving the chamber a sense of light and airiness even when the drapes were drawn.
Shannon moved to the window, pulled back the drapes, and sat at the desk. Her body was framed in sunshine and she stared at her folded hands, aching with the knowledge that in the midst of all this splendor, she was the thing out of place. She dared not explore the contents of drawers, make use of the hairbrush on the nightstand, or pour herself a cup of tea from the silver service that rested on a table between the armchairs. None of it was hers. None of it was truly meant for her.
Lost in her own thoughts, Shannon did not know her privacy had been breeched until the door was closed by hands too small and clumsy to shut it quietly. She looked up and was startled once again by the real-life image of the painting in her locket. Feeling in desperate need of an anchor, Shannon’s hands immediately searched her throat for the necklace. They fell away slowly, finding nothing, and against her will, tears gathered in her eyes.