by Jo Goodman
“Brandon?”
His voice was hushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You didn’t,” she said sleepily. “Tell me what you were thinking just now. You looked, I don’t know, so…so tortured.”
Brandon leaned over and kissed her cheek. “It was nothing,” he said, and meant it. He was already thinking of the letter he would write on the morrow to Eric Redmond. If there was something to be uncovered in the events of Shannon’s birth, the earl of Glen Eden would find it. “Go back to sleep. The morning is soon enough for us to speak of this night’s work.” Shannon complied by slipping into the comfortable curve of his body. In the moment before she fell asleep, he thought he heard her murmur something about being Clara’s aunt. He had to smile. She would find the gift where he thought none had existed. She was a survivor.
* * *
Parker Grant cocked one black eyebrow, watching the rise and fall of Aurora’s breasts with amusement. “You are about to sacrifice your modesty, Rory,” he said, pointing to the hastily tied knot in the sheet that was her only covering.
Her violet eyes blazed as she witnessed Parker’s mouth lift lazily to one side. The same expression could indicate derision or diversion. Aurora did not always know which one she was being treated to, but this was not the case now. “Don’t mock me,” she said, yanking at the knot. She lifted the tail of the sheet, threw it over her arm, and continued to pace the floor. “I have been trying to think of a way for days to keep that bloody bastard—”
His expression didn’t change, but his green eyes glittered. “I would have a care with that word, m’dear.”
The air whooshed from her lungs as she sighed heavily. “Your pardon,” she said sardonically. “To keep your bloody brother from divorcing me, and you are doing us no favor by pretending we have no problem.”
Parker rolled on his back, cradling the back of his dark head in his palms. His lean body arched slightly as he stretched and made himself comfortable. “We had a problem,” he told her, closing his eyes. “I’ve already arrived at the solution.”
“Parker!” she yelped, running to the bed. “That’s wonderful!” The sheet caught under her knees as she hopped on the mattress, and the knot was completely undone. She pounced on Parker, her naked breasts flush against his chest. “What is to be done?” she asked excitedly, unable to hide her eagerness.
“You are such a child,” he admonished. He felt her leg insinuate itself between his thighs. “Well, not such a child.”
She placed teasing kisses on the strong line of his chin. “Tell me.”
He shook his head. “Not yet. There are some matters that bear examining first. When I have full knowledge of them, I’ll tell you everything.” He opened his eyes and held her gaze. “I will be gone for a few days. I am going to Williamsburg and also to the folly.”
“Williamsburg? Again? And the folly? Brandon will not let you set foot in his house.”
“I won’t be staying at the house. Do you remember the cottage by Miller’s Creek?”
“How could I forget?” she asked, smiling wickedly. “We met there often enough. But I would scarcely call that miserable hut a cottage.”
Parker admitted it lacked certain amenities, but it accommodated his purpose. The deserted farmer’s house sat on the northeast edge of the folly’s property line, bordered on three sides by trees that had never been cleared for farmland. Far back from the infrequently used road, the log cabin often went unnoticed by travelers. Parker knew it had been a trysting place for William and Hannah. In later years, when Hannah felt free to visit the folly openly, she always pointed out the cabin to Parker when they passed it. He was thirteen, and feeling rather full of himself from his first tumble in the stable loft, before he finally understood the significance of his mother’s wistful expression when she looked at the cabin.
Parker had met Aurora there secretly when he was supposed to have been at Belletraine. He would stay there for a few days at a time, and she would meet him on her early morning rides. He enjoyed the seclusion of the cabin, the hours he spent hunting and fishing, but he admitted he liked the ease of his visits to the folly better, when Aurora could merely slip from her chamber at night and come to him.
“Well,” Parker said, running his palms across the back of her legs and buttocks. “That miserable hut is where I’ll be staying. Brandon will never know.”
“But why do you want to go there?”
“Just to observe,” he shrugged, refusing to be drawn out.
Aurora’s eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me? Do you know something about this divorce? Did your spies tell you something?”
“Spies, Rory? You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not. You always seem to know what is happening at the folly. Who is she, Parker? Who is your spy?”
“She?” The side of his mouth curled upward.
“It has to be a woman. I know how you weave your magic with women.”
Parker’s hands slipped between their bodies and cupped Aurora’s breasts. “Jealous?”
Her reply was cut off as Parker’s thumbs brushed across her nipples. She lowered her head to kiss him and found herself turned until she was lying beneath him. The pressure of his mouth was intoxicating, and gradually she forgot everything but the urgency of her needs. Parker had already left for the folly when she realized he had not answered any of her questions.
* * *
Cody opened the library door and poked in his head. “I’m leaving now. Expect me when you see me.”
Clara and Brandon had been playing like puppies on the floor. Now Clara scrambled off her father’s chest and ran to Cody, raising her arms beseechingly. “Take me with you! Take me!”
Brandon glanced at Shannon, who was trying to press back her chuckle, and sent his eyes heavenward. “Come back here, Clara,” he said, his sternness not entirely feigned. “You can’t go with Cody.”
“Want to!” she said belligerently. She cast her wide blue eyes charmingly at her uncle. “I can, can’t I?”
“No, flirt,” he answered. “You can’t go with me. You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“Do so! You’re going to town.”
“So I am, but I’m still going alone.” Clara squeezed through the door and wrapped her arms around one of Cody’s legs. Cody looked from Brandon to Shannon for assistance. “Someone. Please take this barnacle off my person.”
Shannon started to get up, but Brandon waved to her to stay seated. “I’ll get her.” He was on his feet and across the room in a few strides. He opened the door wider, put his hands on Clara’s waist, and detached her. “Go on, Cody, before you think better of it. Give Annie my best.”
Cody chuckled. “I’ll give her better.” He tipped his hat to Brandon and hurried down the hall before Clara escaped her father’s grip.
Brandon nudged the door shut with the tip of his shoe. He held his squirming daughter in front of him and leveled her with a hard stare. “Do you want to stay here with Mishannon and me or do you want to go to your room?”
“Want to go with Unca Cody.”
Behind him he heard Shannon choke off her laugh. “That is not a choice. Here or your room.”
“Here.” Clara looked worriedly over her father’s shoulder when he asked Shannon if she could stay.
“I suppose she might,” Shannon answered, pretending to think it over. “If she’s done pouting.”
“Are you done, Clara?”
She nodded quickly, eager to be on the floor again. Brandon set her down and gave her behind a gentle tap as she raced for her ally. Picking up her sampler, she sat primly at Shannon’s side and mimicked the work Shannon was doing on her own needlepoint.
Shannon gave Clara a sidelong glance and pursed her lips to keep from laughing. She noticed that Brandon was having an equally hard time keeping his amusement in check. “Who is Annie?” she asked while Brandon was sifting through his box for a cheroot.
Brandon li
t the square cut end of his thin cigar and sat down, blowing a wreath of smoke into the air. “Annie?” he asked guilelessly.
“Don’t play the innocent,” she cautioned. “You told Cody to give Annie your best. Who is Annie?”
“Annie Jones. She is an…er…a mutual acquaintance whom I have not seen in quite some time, but whom Cody sees rather frequently.”
Shannon frowned, puzzled because Brandon never stumbled over his words. “Yes, but who is she?”
“She…she does a good turn occasionally for the regulars at Redheart’s.”
“A good turn?”
“Yes, you know, on…uh…her back.”
Clara looked up from her sampler. “She has round heels,” she said wisely and calmly went back to her work.
Brandon choked as he was inhaling, and Shannon pricked her finger. “Where did you hear that expression, Clara?” Brandon asked, trying to sound unalarmed by Clara’s turn of phrase for a woman of easy virtue.
Clara shrugged. “I heard Martha say it to Oplas.”
“Did she tell you what it meant?” asked Shannon.
“Mm-hmm. Some people have pointy noses. Some have sharp chins. Annie Jones has round heels. Here, Miss Shannon, look at this.” She held up her sampler and proudly displayed the crudely stitched apple.
“That’s lovely, poppet.” Shannon examined the sampler carefully, glad the matter of Annie’s round heels had been put to rest. She glanced at Brandon archly, assuring him they would discuss his…er…acquaintance with Miss Jones when they were alone.
“May I sent it to Grand-mère?”
“Of course. We’ll write a letter in the morning, and you may add your present.”
“All right,” Clara agreed happily. She took the sampler back and began improving it immediately, adding several brown stitches, which, to her at least, looked like a very fine worm.
Later that night Shannon slipped from her room beside the nursery and padded down the hall to Brandon’s room. He was soaking in a wooden tub, his head thrown back against the rim so droplets of water glistened on his strong throat.
“I thought you would be in bed,” she said, closing the door lightly behind her.
“Disappointed? I assure you, you are the woman who can get me there.”
Shannon snorted derisively. “What about Annie Jones?”
“Annie?” His eyebrows rose consideringly, but his eyes remained closed. “Annie’s too impatient. She’d join me here.”
“Beast.”
He smiled lazily. “I sent Jemmy to bed after he drew the water. You don’t need to be afraid that he’ll—” He broke off, eyes opening wide as he felt Shannon step into the tub. He stared like an untried schoolboy as she drew her nightshift over her head and tossed it in the direction of the bed.
“You were saying’!“’ she asked with seeming indifference.
Brandon caught her teasing glance. His eyes slid over the faint smile on her lips, the line of her throat, and the proud carriage of her slender shoulders. His heavy lashes lowered, shuttering his darkening gaze as he took in the perfect swell of her breasts, the inward curve of her waist, and traced the narrow thrust of her hip. He reached for her hand and tugged on it until her knees buckled slightly.
Shannon resisted. “Brandon! There really isn’t enough room in here.”
“I didn’t think so either,” he said. He sat up and braced his legs against either side of the tub. “There’s room for you now.” He pulled harder on her hand and Shannon sank between his legs, her knees curled against her chest. Water sloshed on the floor. “Quite a squeeze,” he noted, grinning crookedly. “And I’ve lost the soap.” He groped in the water for it.
“That is not the soap,” she told him when his hand pinched the back of her thigh.
“Oh? Sorry.” He tried to look repentant and failed utterly. “Can you find it?” he asked, hoping for a bit of return groping.
Shannon’s mouth was drawn to one side in amused disbelief, clearly conveying that she knew what he wanted. The soap had found shelter between the small of her back and the wooden slats of the tub. She pulled it out and showed it to him. The disappointment on his face was comical. She took his wrist and placed the bar of soap in his palm, trying to look severe.
“I don’t suppose you know where the sponge is?” he asked innocently.
Groaning softly, Shannon found it wedged between her hip and the tub. Brandon’s toes were wriggling against the underside of her thighs. She tossed the sponge at his chest.
Unperturbed, he caught it and began washing himself. He scrubbed his chest and arms, seemingly oblivious to Shannon’s fascinated stare, and began on his legs.
“That’s my foot you’re washing now,” she told him.
“Is it?”
“And that’s my leg.”
He feigned shock. “How indelicate of you to point it out. It is all very well for you to climb naked into a tub with a man who has proposed marriage, but to actually mention legs?” He shuddered. “Madam, it is indecent.”
“Fool,” she said, not unkindly.
Grinning, Brandon finished washing himself and gave the sponge and soap to Shannon. “I could do it for you,” he offered, leering wickedly.
“No, thank you.” She dropped the sponge and soap over the side of the tub. “I have already had my bath.”
“Then what are you doing in this tub?”
“Proving that I’m as brave as Annie Jones.”
Brandon’s laughter rumbled in his chest. He felt under the water for her ankles and grabbed them, pulling her close until he could curve her legs over his thighs, one of her feet on each side of his hips.
“Brandon! What are you doing?” Her hands came out of the water to clutch his shoulders. She felt his fingers sliding under her buttocks and lifting her so she rested in the cradle of his thighs. She blinked hugely as his erection pressed against her. “I don’t think…” She slipped her arms around him, her face resting in the curve of his neck. “…this is very…” She was lifted a little higher, her breasts rubbing smoothly against his chest. “…proper….” She caught her breath as he guided himself into her.
“Mm,” he murmured, pressing kisses along her shoulder. “Highly improper, I should think.” His fingers tugged at the ribbon in her hair, tossed it to one side, and let her hair fall loosely down her back. The ends floated gently in the water.
They were both very still for a while, drawn to the contrast of their bodies embraced so intimately. Strands of her ebony hair mingled with the corn silk brightness of his. Brandon’s work-roughened palms were flush to the soft skin of her back. Shannon’s tender breasts swelled against his unyielding chest.
“Brandon?”
“Hmm?”
“I can’t move.”
He seemed to think that over, then admitted, “Neither can I.”
Shannon raised her head. Violet and polished onyx eyes held for a moment. She smiled. He grinned. They began laughing simultaneously.
Brandon lifted Shannon away from him, swatting her behind as she scrambled out of the tub. He stood, rinsed himself off, and followed her wet trail to the bed. Neither of them quite knew when their laughter ceased to be the cause of their breathlessness.
Their damp bodies tangled, clung, and finally joined with a passion that forced them to be selfish and selfless in the same moment. They bartered affection, exchanging kiss for caress, embrace for endearment, then they gave freely, seeking nothing but the other’s pleasure, until their flesh savored what their spirits shared.
Shannon stirred, turning on her side as Brandon pulled a sheet over them. They faced each other like reflections, each with an arm under a pillow, their knees drawn upward, almost touching.
“Is it indelicate,” she asked, “for a married woman to say ‘leg’?”
Brandon felt his heart, which had just quieted begin thudding erratically. “Some husbands might object,” he said solemnly.
“Would you?”
“No.”
> She nodded thoughtfully, as if the answer did not surprise her. Her cheek brushed against the snowy pillowcase. “All right,” she said.
“All right?” he repeated.
“All right, I’ll marry you.”
Brandon’s brows shot upward. “You’re marrying me because I’ll allow you to indulge in a scandalous vocabulary?” he asked incredulously.
Under the cover her hand sought his and interlocked their fingers. “No, you foolish man,” she said. “Because I love you.”
“I’m happy you thought to mention it,” he said, squeezing her fingers gently. “When did you decide?”
“That I loved you? I told you that—”
“No. You can tell me that later. When did you decide to marry me?”
“When Paul and Michaeline left.”
“But that was two weeks ago.”
She looked faintly guilty. “I didn’t know how to bring the topic around. You never mentioned it.”
Groaning, Brandon buried his face in his pillow, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. “You said you didn’t want to speak of it.”
“Pardon?”
He raised his head. “You said you didn’t want to speak of it,” he repeated. “Sweet Jesus, Shannon, you could have put me out of my misery a fortnight ago.” His eyes narrowed. “What happened that you decided to marry me then?” he asked suspiciously.
“I saw how gentle you were with Michaeline and Paul when it was time for them to leave, and how much you cared that they would visit Clara. It mattered so deeply to them that they would not be severed from Clara’s life, and in spite of your fears that they might learn she is not your daughter, you encouraged them to know her.” She slipped her hand from his and stroked his forearm with her fingertips. “I just knew then,” she said, not quite understanding it herself, “that I wanted you to be my husband.”
“And your fears?”
“I’m not afraid anymore.”
“Oh God, Shannon,” he said feelingly. He kissed her mouth and then lifted his body against hers. “I don’t know how long it will take, but nothing is going to stop me from making you my wife. Nothing!”