Violet Fire

by Jo Goodman

  Brandon dismounted at the folly’s doorstep and lifted Shannon from the saddle. She went stiffly into his arms, murmured she could walk herself, but Brandon carried her in as if he hadn’t heard her objections. They were met in the foyer by a dozen family retainers, most of whom Shannon had never seen before. She was deeply shamed by their avid curiosity, the looks of digust they could not quite mask. She did not know who they were condemning: herself, Rory, or Brandon for going after her. She told herself she did not care. But she did. Very much.

  She struggled in Brandon’s arms, her eyes begging him silently to release her. Again he took no notice of her wishes and slowly mounted the stairs. He seemed equally unaware of the way the servants were regarding him. Shannon closed her eyes.

  Brandon paused on the stairs and looked down at Martha. “Where is Clara?”

  “I put her to bed in your room. She couldn’t stay awake no longer, but she wants to know when you return.”

  Brandon nodded shortly and continued to climb. Below him, the servants shook their heads, puzzled, and began to return to their own living quarters. Brandon stopped in front of his chamber and nudged the door open with his foot. “I want Clara to see you,” he said when he heard Shannon’s soft gasp.

  “Does she know who I am?” Shannon’s face softened as she gazed at the small girl in the oversized bed. Clara’s thumb was in her mouth and her other hand lay beneath her head. “Have you told her?”

  “She knows something is different, and I haven’t breathed a word to her.” Brandon could not help staring at Shannon. That her heart had gone out to Clara was clearly written in the gentling of her features. The wary expression in her eyes had vanished; the curve of her mouth was serene. He squelched the flash of envy he felt as being ridiculous. What reason did he have to be jealous?

  He placed Shannon on the bed at Clara’s feet and sat on the edge of the bed by his daughter’s head. He teased the tousled curls and whispered her name. “There is someone here to see you, poppet. Come, open your eyes and see who it is.”

  Clara’s lashes fluttered as Brandon lighted a candle.

  “She’s so tired, Mr. Fleming,” Shannon whispered. “Perhaps it should wait until morning.”

  “No, she’ll come around. Give her a moment.” He tickled Clara’s cheek with his forefinger. After a moment he asked, “Hey, poppet. Is that the cherry thumb you have in your mouth? Or the chocolate?”

  Clara giggled sleepily and spoke with a mouth filled with thumb. “The cherry, Papa.”

  “Of course,” he agreed solemnly. He glanced at Shannon. “She is consistent at least. Cherry is the right and chocolate is the left. I’ve never caught her out.” He stroked the underside of Clara’s chin. “C’mon, princess. Open your eyes and see who is here. I brought her back, just as you asked.” Hearing Shannon’s soft gasp, he spoke to her. “You see, here is someone who wants you very much indeed.”

  At last Brandon’s presence seemed to register with Clara, and she woke from a pleasant dream. She saw her father first, and not even the thumb, still firmly in place, detracted from the smile she gave him. Her bright blue eyes followed the direction of his glance until they rested on the woman sitting at her feet. Clara giggled and removed her thumb. “Your face is dirty.”

  Shannon nodded pleasantly and touched her palms to her warm cheeks. “I know. I look a fright.”

  “I get dirty sometimes.” Clara’s forehead puckered in a frown. “Then my mama gets angry.”

  Shannon did not know what to say.

  “Are you my new mama?”

  Shannon looked helplessly at Brandon. He gave her a small shake of his head, indicating he would handle this.

  “This is Miss Kilmartin, Clara. I know she looks very much like your mother—”

  Clara shook her head vigorously. “No, she doesn’t. I was pretendin’.”

  “You were pretending?” asked Brandon, unable to disguise his surprise. “Do you mean you’ve known since you saw her on the ship?”

  “Not then.” Clara’s thumb nestled in her mouth again. “I pretended since yestermorrow,” she lisped.

  Brandon’s wide shoulders jerked as he gave a low chuckle. He interpreted for Shannon. “She hasn’t much sense of time. ‘Yestermorrow’ probably means she’s known you weren’t Rory for several days now.” He tapped Clara’s button nose. “All right, Miss Very Clever. But Miss Kilmartin can’t be your mother, and you cannot pretend any longer that she is. However, she’s agreed to be your governess, and that is no small thing.”

  This was news to Shannon, and her eyes widened in distress. She opened her mouth to protest, but Clara interrupted. “Don’ want a guvness,” she said sulkily.

  Then, because Brandon looked as if he would argue with his daughter, Shannon spoke up. “I could be your friend,” she said calmly. “I need a friend.” Could they hear the slight break in her voice? She took a deep breath to steady her emotions. “Will you do that for me, poppet? Will you be my friend?”

  “All right,” she said simply.

  “It would appear it’s settled then,” said Brandon. He seemed somewhat dazed that the matter had been taken care of with such deftness. He had anticipated arguments from his daughter and Shannon. He had planned to overrule both their objections, of course, and was still in shock that he hadn’t had the opportunity. “I’ll be back for you in a minute, Clara. I’m going to put your friend to bed first. She’s more tired than you, I think.”

  Clara laughed happily as Shannon’s protests were ignored and Brandon swept her into his arms.

  “This is not necessary,” Shannon said stubbornly as Brandon jiggled the handle of the door that connected their rooms. The existence of the door itself was enough to put a period to her argument. Until this moment she had not been aware her bedchamber joined Brandon’s. She had seen the door from her side, but had thought it led to a dressing area. “I can’t stay here,” she said when Brandon set her on the bed she had been using since she came to the folly.

  “If it’s the proximity to my room that’s troubling you, you can put your fears to rest,” Brandon said a trifle coldly. “I have no intention of ravishing you. You’re an employee now, and I keep my hands off the help.”

  That was plain enough. “Oh.”

  “Exactly. If it would make you feel better, I’ll give you the key and you can lock the door from your side. We can speak of other arrangements in the morning.” He crossed the room quickly, extracted the key hanging loosely in the lock, and placed it in Shannon’s hand. “There. Shall I call someone to help you ready for bed?”

  “I can manage,” she said on a thread of sound, staring stupidly at the key. Suddenly she looked up at him. If she had lifted her head a moment earlier, she would have seen desire darkening his eyes and had good reason to wonder if a locked door offered any protection at all. But she was too late, and the searching look in Brandon’s eyes had been quickly veiled. He regarded her impassively.

  “Yes? Is there something you wish?”

  Shannon screwed her courage to the sticking place. “I was wondering if you believed me now…about the earl, I mean. I didn’t explain myself very well before, and I don’t blame you for not—”

  “I received Eric’s missive this evening.”

  “I see.” She lowered her head. “But you still offered me the position as Clara’s governess.”

  Brandon stared at the vulnerable nape of her neck. His fingers ached to brush aside the little-girl braid and place his mouth on the white skin beneath. His voice was rough. “I don’t remember offering it. I don’t believe I consulted you at all. Do you want the position?”

  “I…yes. But don’t you mind what I’ve done?”

  Something snapped in Brandon. He grasped Shannon by the elbows and pulled her to her feet. He felt her tremble in his hold, but he selfishly pushed her fears aside. He wanted to give her something that was not ugly and shaming, and he wanted something for himself as well. “I am not your judge, Shannon.”

 
Then his head bent and his kiss whispered against her lips.

  Chapter 5

  Shannon was unable to move. Rigid, she felt blood drain from her face and settle in her feet, making it impossible to escape the touch of Brandon’s mouth. The gentleness of the contact meant nothing to her. Her lips were cold beneath his, and she felt herself trembling from the inside out. It was happening again. Her heart pounded heavily but could not silence the panicked voice echoing inside her head. No! No! No! The wild refrain thundered relentlessly. She did not know she had spoken the denial aloud.

  She stood stiffly in his arms, her violet eyes huge but unseeing, and when he drew back, a question in his own dark eyes, Shannon bent her head and hunched her shoulders, preparing for the blow that would follow. When it did not come immediately, Shannon’s experience conditioned her to expect another kind of assault, and she knew she could not bear it.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely, shaking off Brandon’s hold and backing away without looking at him again. She felt the edge of the bed at the back of her legs. She crawled onto the bed and hugged a pillow to her chest, prepared to bury her face in it so no one would hear her screams. “It was my fault. I didn’t mean to…but I cannot help myself. It won’t happen again. I’ll stay away from you, and you’ll never know I’m here.” Her voice dropped further, and despair was rife in her tone. “Only don’t do this thing to me. Beat me, but don’t do the other.”

  Brandon had not moved. The question in his eyes had been replaced by an expression of horror as he watched Shannon retreat, cower, and finally apologize for something he did not understand. Don’t do the other? “Dear God,” he said, sucking air into his lungs as realization dawned. “What did he do to you?”

  Shannon knew who he was, but there was nothing she wished to say. She lifted her head and stared at him mutely. Her throat ached; her mouth was dry with fear. Her knuckles were white from her death grip on the pillow.

  “Shannon?”

  She could not answer. Why did he want an answer? Why must she say aloud what he already knew? Surely the earl had told him. Did he want to shame her more? Her chest heaved jerkily as she sobbed dryly and an aching pressure built in her lungs.

  “I’m not going to beat you,” Brandon denied, confusion making his tone harsh. What the hell was going on? His words did not seem to relieve her at all. If anything, she looked more frightened. “I’m not going to touch you at all,” he added on a gentler note. Did she expect him to rape her? He caught his breath, stunned, as he saw the truth in her eyes. It was precisely what she expected, and she was begging for a beating rather than submit. “The kiss…it was nothing you did. I wanted…” His voice trailed off inadequately; he was unable to put into words what it was he had wanted.

  Shannon shook her head. “I was wicked.”

  “Wicked?”

  She nodded and would say no more, biting her lower lip to stop its trembling. Brandon stared at her mouth for a long moment. “No, not wicked.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “It was wrong of me, Shannon. I didn’t understand. Forgive me. I was selfish.” He turned and left the room.

  Brandon sat on the edge of the bed in his own chamber, staring at Clara’s sleep-softened features. His hand shook as he smoothed a damp curl from the edge of her mouth. At all costs he would protect her from harm. How could any man feel differently toward his daughter? In his mind’s eye he saw Shannon flinch from him, and he felt sick to his stomach as he thought of what had occurred to make her so frightened of a man’s touch. What kind of devil had her father been?

  Not her father, he amended bleakly. Thomas Stewart was not Shannon’s father any more than Brandon was Clara’s father. Had Stewart thought an accident of nature had given him the right to abuse and violate her? Shannon’s suffering made him want to retch. More than that, it made him want to kill Stewart. But, as Eric had pointed out in his letter, that had already been accomplished. Self-defense, Eric had written. Brandon wondered if his lordship knew the extent of the provocation. Brandon called himself a fool a thousand times over for unwittingly supplying the catalyst for Shannon’s terror. Hadn’t he promised moments before he kissed her that she had nothing to fear from him? Now he could add liar to his other sins.

  He had given her every reason to fear him, even hate him. His actions tortured him. He had been unkind. He had been hurtful. Arrogance made him blind to her fears, blind to anything but what he wanted. And worst of all, he admitted that he was still drawn to her. He could quite easily despise himself for that.

  Brandon scooped Clara into his arms and took her to the nursery. In the morning he would ask Addie to move to the household servants’ quarters and give Shannon the bedroom adjoining Clara’s. His daughter would like that, and Shannon would feel safer. He stayed with Clara long enough to be certain she would not wake, then returned to his own chamber and prepared for bed, doubting all the while that sleep would come easily.

  * * *

  Shannon had not known what to expect upon waking. Would Brandon reconsider the wisdom of having a murderess underfoot? Would he send her away himself this time? Her questions were never answered directly, but as the days passed, her hours filled with the easy companionship of Clara, Shannon realized Brandon was not going to change his mind. Neither was he going to approach her. It was not difficult to stay out of his way, and it was slowly impressed upon her that he was avoiding her.

  She did not blame him. Although she shied away from reflecting on the kiss he had given her, she knew it was, in part, the reason he stayed away. No doubt he thought she would lose her tenuous hold on sanity if he so much as looked at her. At times Shannon wondered if he wasn’t right.

  No one called her Miz Rory any longer, yet Shannon could not help but be aware the servants did not know what to make of her. Someone was inevitably making an excuse to be around her when she was with Clara, as if they expected her to run off with the child. Although she knew Brandon had offered some explanation to them regarding her presence, there were still those servants who believed at heart she was Aurora up to some new trick. She could not fault their loyalty to Brandon, and she never mentioned to anyone that their vigilance was as unnecessary as it was tiring. Martha was puzzled, if not precisely skeptical, glancing at Shannon askance with her brow wrinkled in a thoughtful frown. Shannon knew that without the housekeeper’s unqualified approval, she had little hope of winning the others over. She tried not to dwell on it, thankful at least that Brandon did not hover about, and concentrated on caring for her charge.

  The first sure sign Shannon had that she was to remain at the folly had come the morning after she had attempted to flee. Following Brandon’s orders, Martha informed Shannon she was to have the room vacated by Addie beside the nursery. The housekeeper was hard-pressed to decide who was more delighted by the news—Shannon or Clara—though Shannon’s burst of pleasure was confined to an uncertain smile while Clara danced about the room laughing. Since Shannon had no belongings, the move was not much of a physical thing, but Shannon felt as if a weight had been lifted nonetheless.

  Shannon’s lack of belongings was put to rights a few days later when Cody interrupted tea in the nursery and began showing Clara his most recent purchases from town. Shannon’s contact with Cody had been limited to a few words of greeting in passing, and she thought Brandon must have given his brother specific instructions to stay out of her way. It was not in the least necessary, for in Shannon’s eyes, Cody presented no threat. He was charming, boyishly endearing, and when he flashed his grin, it did not set her off balance. She thought it was one of nature’s ironies that his dark good looks were more suited to the disposition of his brother. Cody should have been the fair-haired son.

  That observation was confirmed again as Cody took great pains to ceremoniously and comically model the array of clothes he had purchased in Williamsburg. He pretended to be affronted by Clara’s giggled objections that he looked silly holding a gray day dress in front of him. The soft white linen cap did not be
come him, she said. And the damask shoes would never fit his feet. Nor would the sturdy black leather walking shoes. Cody pretended to think this over, discarding the gray dress for another in the same style but of deep indigo blue. Better? his dancing eyes asked. Clara smothered her laughter behind her hands, and Shannon felt her own lips twitching. None of these clothes suited him, Clara announced when she caught her breath. Oh dear, he sighed. Then what to do? He had a certain fondness for the apple green gown. Had Clara any use for the chemises and stockings and dressing gown? Would she like the woolen cape? The unmentionables?

  Clara shook her head and Cody looked helplessly at Shannon. Then you must take them, he had said. And Shannon’s softly spoken agreement thanked him for much more than the clothes. Cody, in his bright, engaging manner, had taken the sting from the reminder she had nothing of her own, that she was wearing another’s castoffs. He had allowed her to retain a measure of pride in the face of his charity. His gesture deeply touched her.

  Shannon had no doubts about what prompted the purchase of the wardrobe. She had observed enough of the running of the folly to know that there was nothing done that did not meet its master’s approval. She did not think Cody’s presents were an exception. It must have been painful for Brandon on the few occasions he did see her to look upon her in his wife’s clothes. By all accounts, the resemblance between herself and Aurora was nothing short of stunning. Wearing the mistress’s clothes was like rubbing salt in an open wound, and from what Shannon could see, Aurora Fleming had wounded a great many people at the folly. Brandon, Clara, and Cody were merely the most visible victims.