by Jo Goodman
“I think this is yours,” he called. At his side Cody was grinning at Shannon’s openmouthed astonishment.
Flustered to see what she considered intimate apparel—especially since the article in question retained the shape of her calf—being exhibited for someone else’s amusement, Shannon released Clara’s hand, ran across the lawn, and snatched up the offending garment. Ignoring Brandon’s deep chuckle and Cody’s simpleton smile, she gathered the rest of her belongings, as well as Clara’s, and beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the nursery.
In the days following the incident with the kite, Shannon became aware of a subtle difference in Brandon’s demeanor. The most obvious change was that he frequently crossed her path, and it fell completely on her shoulders to honor her promise to avoid him. At times, as when he stopped her on the stairs to inquire about Clara or when he happened upon her in the library and suggested a particular book to her, she wondered if he was deliberately being difficult. He seemed to find her skittishness amusing, while she found his presence nothing short of alarming.
She vaguely realized she was no longer afraid of him, that is, afraid that he would hurt her. He was infinitely kind, taking pains not to startle her, accepting the distance she established and never encroaching upon her personal territory. Yet there was something, his unfailing patience perhaps, that kept Shannon on edge. It was as if he was always waiting, invariably expectant, and the reason he should seem so eluded her. She found herself apologizing for being in his way and explaining herself in a voice that was inevitably short of breath. She decided she was deplorably lacking in courage and took to stiffening her spine and straightening her shoulders whenever she encountered Brandon.
On the occasion when Brandon entered the nursery while Clara and Shannon were taking their tea, Shannon added lifting her chin a notch to her repertoire of brave expressions. Gently she replaced her china cup in its saucer and stood, smoothing the folds of her crisp white apron and offering a grave curtsy. Her brows lifted in question but she said nothing.
Brandon recoiled inwardly at the imperiousness of Shannon’s expression. It was the sort of thing he had grown accustomed to while living with Aurora. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He reminded himself it was not Aurora he faced, and he relaxed. “I’ve come about this,” he said, holding up the allybet book for Shannon and Clara to see.
Shannon paled, remembering the nature of some of the simple line drawings she had done for Clara’s enjoyment. For her part, Clara was completely unconcerned. She laughed gaily when she saw the allybet book.
“Look, Mishannon, Papa has had it all along,” she said, giggling. “And we thought we lost it.”
Would that we had, Shannon thought unhappily. She sat back down in her chair and waited to see what Brandon would do.
“Let me see it, Papa!” Clara had scrambled off her chair and was dancing in front of Brandon, trying to grasp the book that he held just out of her reach.
“Not with those sticky fingers,” he said repressively. He set the book aside and knelt in front of Clara, taking a linen napkin from the tea table and wiping her fingers with it. “Apple tarts?”
Clara nodded. “Mishannon and I made them,” she announced proudly. “You may have one, mayn’t he?” Shannon nodded and Clara continued, “Take the rocker and sit with us.”
Brandon looked skeptically at the child-size rocker and wisely elected to pull a stool to the table. He helped himself to one of the tarts. With his free hand he opened Clara’s book. “I found it in the library,” he said between mouthfuls. “I believe Clara calls it the allybet book.”
“Yes,” Shannon replied. “We were doing R words. River. Raft. Roses. That sort of thing. I thought we left it on the bank. I can’t think how it came to be in the library. Thank you for returning it.” She touched the corner of the book and tried to nudge it away from Brandon before he turned the page. Her hand brushed his and she pulled back immediately. Brandon murmured something, though whether he was commenting on the apple tart or the A pictures in front of him, Shannon couldn’t decide.
“This likeness of Addie is quite good,” he said.
Shannon felt all the stiffness go out of her spine and the set of her shoulders as he thoughtfully flipped the page. “Ball. Basket. Bell. Boy.” He paused and pointed to the sketch of himself, then looked at his daughter. “Who is this, Clara?”
“Oh, Papa, can’t you tell? That’s you.”
He smiled and tapped her nose with the tip of his finger before he turned to Shannon. “My point, Miss Kilmartin, is that in Clara’s book I should be a P word. Papa. Or an F word. Father. But B is for Brandon, is it not?”
“Yes, but…”
“And Clara does not call me Brandon, does she?”
“No, but…”
“And, for that matter, neither do you.” A faint smile curved his lips. “In fact, you rarely call me anything. Why is that, I wonder?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I never noticed.”
Brandon shrugged lightly and turned his attention back to the sketch. “Tell me, do I often look this formidable?”
“Well…”
“And my brows? Are they always drawn together in that off-putting manner?”
“On occas—”
“And my chin? I had no idea I thrust it out quite like that.”
“You don’t alwa—”
“No matter. You probably drew this some time ago,” he said as if thinking aloud. “I wonder…I would like you to do another sketch—under the P words, of course. Will you do that for me, Miss Kilmartin?”
Clara had been very quiet during the one-sided conversation, but now she added her voice to her father’s request. “Oh, yes! You must, Mishannon! I will make Papa laugh and he’ll be handsome! You’ll see.”
Brandon did laugh then, and Shannon, who thought him handsome even when he was out of sorts, was caught by the sudden, remarkable male beauty of his features. “I’ll get my ink and pen,” she said quietly, not at all certain she could do justice to his face in his presence.
Brandon placed the ledger in front of Shannon when she returned. “I think you can fit me in between Princess and Pinwheel,” he said seriously. “There’s enough room, isn’t there?”
“Yes.” She dipped the quill in the ink and carefully printed Papa. Clara had come around the table to watch her, and Shannon allowed her to hold the quill, guiding her through the last letter. Without glancing at Brandon, she began her sketch, not realizing that drawing him from memory was more revealing than if she had studied him first. In less than two minutes she was done with the portrait.
Brandon saw Shannon’s lips purse, then she blew softly on the ink so it would dry quickly. He imagined he could feel her sweet breath on his own cheek, and unconsciously he touched the back of his hand to his face.
Shannon showed her work to Clara first, then, with her approval, slid the book in front of Brandon and waited with some trepidation for his comment. He studied the sketch for what seemed an eternity and offered no opinion.
“Interesting,” he said finally, shutting the book carefully. He gave Clara a kiss on her cheek and stood. “Good day, ladies. Clara, I’ll see you at dinner.” Then he was gone, and Shannon was left to wonder if she had mistaken the satisfied smile that had hovered briefly on his beautiful mouth.
Across acres of tobacco plants Cody saw Brandon riding toward him. “You are looking remarkably pleased with yourself,” Cody said as Brandon drew up beside him. “Dare I inquire the cause?”
“As if you didn’t know. I’ve seen Clara’s alphabet primer.”
“Ah, the allybet book.”
“Exactly. But then, you must have known I’d find it eventually. It was you who put it in the library, wasn’t it?”
Cody looked over his left shoulder, then his right. Finally he pointed to himself. “Me?”
Brandon attempted to give Cody a hard look, but he was in too fine a mood for anything threatening to come of it. “You. Miss Kilmartin seemed to
think she left the book by the riverbank. She hadn’t the slightest idea how it came to be in the library. And you know yourself that Clara has been looking high and low for it these past few days. Why didn’t you give it over?”
“I’m not admitting to anything, you understand, but it did occur to me that you might be interested in Clara’s educational primer.”
“Anything in particular you thought I might want to see?”
“I found the B words fascinating,” Cody said with straight-faced innocence.
Brandon laughed. “You knew I’d hate that sketch she did of me.”
Cody shrugged, kicking his horse forward through the rows of plants. “The thought had crossed my mind. So your present mood is something of a puzzle. If you disliked the sketch, then why are you so happy?”
Brandon cut his mount away from Cody. “Check under the P words,” he called over his shoulder.
It was following dinner, when Clara and Shannon were out walking and Brandon was going over accounts in the library, that Cody decided to take his brother’s advice. With a curious sort of excitement he took the book from the nursery tea table and began leafing through it. He saw his own face staring back at him and admitted that Shannon had caught his cheeky grin precisely right. He knew because with his usual determination to do a thing right, he had spent many hours in his youth practicing in front of a mirror to get exactly that expression. Flipping ahead, he saw Liam from the stables, his brow furrowed in a single line, one eye slightly smaller than the other; Martha pursing her lips to one side in a way that meant she was humorously exasperated. Shannon had caught Ned, who worked in the fields, in an unguarded moment as he leaned on a hoe. Oplas, the cook, was wearing her kerchief and her gap-toothed smile.
And Papa. Cody whistled softly as he leaned forward to study the sketch. No wonder Brandon had looked so stupidly happy. With a few simple lines Shannon had shown she was seeing Brandon in a new light. The tender, indulgent smile that was so often in evidence when he looked at his daughter leaped out from the page. His eyes were soft, faintly amused, and one brow was arched in that skeptical manner that was peculiar to Brandon. Shannon had retained the sharp thrust of his chin, the fine line of his nose, giving Brandon the aura of control and decisiveness that was inherent in his nature.
Briefly Cody glanced back at Shannon’s original drawing. The most startling difference had to do less with the subject and more with the artist. Although the sketch was undoubtedly Brandon, Shannon had not come to terms with her own fears and had seen only harshness. In the second, the strokes of her pen were less bold, as if Shannon was not only no longer threatened, but she had found something to admire.
Cody shut the book. It was merely a matter of time, propinquity, and Brandon’s subtle efforts to erode Shannon’s reserve before Shannon perceived him as something less than an ogre and as something more than a parent. As Cody was leaving the nursery he wondered for the first time if this gradual turn of events was a good thing. The satisfied smile that had touched his mouth began to waver and finally fade. He descended the stairs slowly, thoughtfully, as he considered that in spite of his best attempts to play Cupid, there was one obstacle to Brandon’s future happiness over which he had no control: Aurora Fleming. Then again, perhaps there was something that could be done about Brandon’s wife. His mood and his step lightened considerably at the thought.
Cody was drawn to the verandah by the sounds of laughter he heard there. He stepped outside and the breeze floating up from the river immediately ruffled his hair. Habit demanded that he at least make an attempt to brush back the lock that fell over his forehead.
Shannon and Clara, unaware their privacy had been breached, were going through the motions of a country dance. The disparity in their sizes made the effort comical as Shannon tried to swing under Clara’s outstretched hands.
“I told you I would be no good at this, poppet,” said Shannon. “I know nothing about dancing.”
“Don’t stop,” Clara implored, picking up the tune Shannon had been humming.
Cody stepped out from the evening shadows. “Perhaps a change of partners is in order,” he suggested.
Cody’s presence startled Shannon, but he did not unnerve her the way his brother did. If it had not been for the difference in their social stations at that folly, something that Shannon had been raised to believe was an insurmountable gap, she would have counted Cody as a friend. At times such as now, Cody made it difficult to remember that she was merely an employee while he was the master’s brother.
“I think a change is exactly the thing,” she said, laughing a little. Giving Cody no chance to think better of it, she scooped Clara off the floor and placed her in Cody’s arms. Clara squealed delightedly at this maneuver while Cody saluted Shannon’s trickery with a wry grin.
“You must provide the music,” he said, not letting Shannon off the hook easily.
“The least I can do for the pleasure of watching a master dance.” She leaned back against one of the verandah pillars, crossing her arms in front of her, and began singing. It was a simple matter to forget where she was. In her mind’s eye Shannon could imagine the king’s court, the beautifully dressed ladies and lieges dancing for the pleasure of their lord. Caught in her musings, she was only peripherally aware that Cody had placed Clara on the floor and was drawing her into the dance. Shannon accepted his invitation without demur and found herself following his lead as naturally as if she had danced with him hundreds of times.
Brandon shoved aside his account books with an air of impatience. The laughter had been bad enough, but how was he to endure the siren-like enchantment of Shannon’s voice? He willed himself to remain in the library and knew a sense of weakness as he found himself walking down the hallway to the verandah anyway. Leaning against the open doorway, he watched Shannon and Cody move in graceful unison to Shannon’s lilting melody. He acknowledged how well they were suited even while he hated it. Shannon seemed to fit in Cody’s hands as if she belonged there. The ribbon at the nape of her neck had loosened, and her jet hair mingled with Cody’s as he guided her into an abandoned whirl. Shannon’s amused laughter set Brandon’s teeth on edge.
“Does one need an invitation to join this entertainment?” he asked, his tone edged with sarcasm.
Shannon faltered but Cody caught her and continued dancing as if nothing had happened. He seemed not to mind in the least that she was no longer singing. “Not at all,” he said breezily, turning Shannon directly in front of Brandon. “Would you care to join us? I’ve shamefully neglected Clara.”
Shannon had expected that if Brandon was to take part in their nonsense, he would do so with his daughter. Instead he stepped forward and put his hand on Cody’s shoulder. “Then I suggest you see to her,” he said.
Cody shrugged good-naturedly and made a slight bow to both Shannon and Brandon, then took up the child in his arms once again. Shannon could not meet Brandon’s gaze, choosing to pretend great interest in a point beyond his shoulder. Her hands fell uselessly to her side and her weight shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. Here he was, she thought, the most handsome of the king’s courtiers, and he wanted nothing to do with her. The dream of her youth shattered with painful finality.
“Excuse me,” she said, making to brush past him.
Brandon stopped her, cupping his palms on her elbows. He stared at her oddly, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you refusing to dance with me?” he asked.
“N-no,” she stammered. It was not her place to refuse.
Brandon divined her thoughts. “You may if you wish.”
Shannon shook her head but kept her eyes level with his chest. She stood very still. The touch of his hands on her arms burned her.
Gently, as if she were infinitely fragile, Brandon’s hands slid down her forearms until they clasped her hands lightly. “Look at me,” he said. When she lifted her face, he continued. “I would not harm you or have you harmed. Do you believe me?”
She nodded.<
br />
Brandon swallowed hard at Shannon’s uncertain, somehow hopeful smile. He squeezed her hands, afraid that she might elude his grasp. He made an elegant leg and led her through the intricate patterns of a popular country dance while Cody’s rich tenor provided the melody.
Shannon’s heart beat erratically as she tried to ignore Brandon’s touch and concentrate on the unfamiliar steps. She did not know when her feet ceased to be a concern and the magic took over, but she embraced the moment. Her natural grace asserted itself and she flowed through the movements under the tentative pressure of his hands guiding her.
Brandon intercepted Shannon’s sidelong glance and in holding it, found himself held. He was captivated by the shy violet eyes and the fan of dark lashes framing them. Her face was beautifully flushed and her mouth parted in an invitation she did not realize she had issued.
Prisms of light from the setting sun glinted off the river, and the very air seemed to sparkle and shimmer. Brandon drew her toward him in a natural progression of the dance until only a moment separated their bodies. He held her there, one arm raised, and their movements ceased. He stared at her mouth as the tip of her pink tongue came out to nervously wet her upper lip. A mouth made for kissing, he thought, wanting to touch his own to it. He was vaguely aware that Cody was no longer singing, that Clara was very quiet, and that Shannon’s breath was uneven. He blinked; a muscle worked in his cheek. With a low, tortured groan he dropped Shannon’s hand and turned on his heels, striding off the verandah in search of privacy and a long, cold soak in the James River.