Violet Fire

by Jo Goodman

  Brandon’s nostrils flared, and like a wild animal, he bared his teeth. “Get away from her, Parker.” Behind him the wind sucked the door shut and the cabin wall shuddered. Brandon didn’t flinch.

  Neither did Parker. “Never say you refuse to share,” he chided. “Remember that dear kitchen maid of Papa’s? Jesse, her name was. You had her one night. I, the next. It seems you were always giving me your leavings, Bran.”

  “Get away from her,” Brandon repeated.

  “Then there was Annie. We all used Annie. Even Cody. You never minded then, Bran. Why must you have Rory all to yourself?”

  Brandon’s questioning glance dropped momentarily to Shannon.

  “He’s lost all reason, Brandon,” Shannon said shakily. “He thinks I’m—”

  “Shut up,” Parker said.

  “Step away, Parker.”

  Parker drew the edge of his knife across Shannon’s throat. “She betrayed me, Bran.”

  “I know all about that,” he said, striving for calm as he watched the blade slide across Shannon’s skin. “But you don’t want to kill her for it.” He edged a step closer to his brother, waiting for a hesitation, an opportunity to wrest the knife away.

  Just then Clara sat up in bed and called out for her father. Both Parker and Shannon shifted their attention toward the bed. Brandon didn’t.

  He dove at Parker, knocking him sideways and down. Shannon rolled off the table and limped toward the door where Parker’s musket rested against the wall, only to discover it wasn’t loaded. Brandon slammed Parker’s wrist to the floor but could not dislodge the knife from his grip. They rolled toward the hearth, knocking over the stack of firewood and upending a chair. Evenly matched, Parker’s madness lending him strength equal to Brandon’s, it was Parker who finished on top, straddling Brandon and landing a blow that Shannon thought must have broken Brandon’s jaw. Shannon hefted the musket by the barrel and brought the stock down squarely between Parker’s shoulder blades. He grunted and fended her off by swinging his knife backward.

  Brandon took advantage of the diversion by pushing hard on Parker’s chest and flinging him away. Winded, both men struggled to their feet. Shannon tossed the musket to Brandon and fled to the other side of the room.

  “Get Clara out of here,” Brandon ordered, jumping back as Parker slashed the knife toward him in a wide arc. He struck out with the rifle, missing Parker’s head by mere inches. “Now, Shannon! Take her now!”

  Clara was stiff with fear as Shannon bundled her up and lifted her. Her weight was as nothing as strength surged through Shannon’s body. Shannon averted the child’s face and ran for the door, oblivious to the tentacles of pain shooting up from her injured ankle. Once outside the cabin, Shannon’s bare foot was buried in snow.

  Shannon looked around for Brandon’s horse and saw its bulky shape against the lee side of the cabin. Hurrying toward it, she started to put Clara on the saddle and stopped when she found Brandon’s musket strapped there. She set Clara down, prying the child’s arms from around her neck and tucking the blankets around her.

  “Listen to me,” she said urgently, cupping Clara’s tear-streaked face in her palms. “I must help your papa.” The door slammed shut again, cutting off the noises of the fight inside. “I want you to stay here. Don’t move, Clara. Do you understand? I’m coming back for you.”

  Clara didn’t understand, but she nodded anyway.

  “Good girl.” Shannon quickly led the stallion away from Clara and tethered him behind the cabin with the other animals. She unstrapped the musket, checked the priming pan with the tip of her finger, and finding it ready for firing, returned to the cabin door. Something had fallen against the door, and she had to shoulder it open. Neither man spared a glance in her direction as the table, which had been the object blocking her entrance, bumped awkwardly across the floor.

  Brandon’s arm was cut from shoulder to elbow. Droplets of blood spattered the dirt floor. The musket, which he had wielded, lay uselessly on the hearth’s stone apron, smashed in two pieces. Brandon reared back as Parker slashed the air in front of his face with the knife. The tip caught his jaw, and crimson beads marked the scratch immediately.

  Parker’s features now lacked the distinction of perfection. His nose was bloodied and his right eye was grossly swollen, but he held his weapon with a fierce tenacity that caused bile to rise in Shannon’s throat.

  Showing no signs of weakening, Parker forced Brandon into a corner and lunged.

  Shannon leaned against the door for support and raised the musket. One shot. A moving target this time. God help me, she thought. And then she fired.

  She felt the stock of the musket slamming into her shoulder, smelled the burnt gunpowder, heard Parker’s terrible animal cry as his body lurched unevenly. He stilled, collapsed, was still again.

  Brandon knelt beside his brother. The ball from Shannon’s musket had caught Parker in the shoulder. It was not the fatal wound. “He fell on his knife, Shannon,” he said quietly. “You didn’t kill him.”

  Shannon nodded heavily, her eyes closing for a brief moment. When she spoke, her voice evoked only an utter sense of weariness. “I’ll be with Clara.” She placed the musket on the floor, limped outside, and retched in the snow.

  Epilogue

  March 1747

  Shannon set aside her brush as Brandon entered their bedchamber. Her eyes lifted, reflecting anxiousness. “Is she sleeping now?”

  “Yes.” He came to stand behind her at the mirror and began to plait her hair. “Clara’s fine.”

  “It was another nightmare, wasn’t it?”

  Brandon nodded. “They come less frequently, and she is able to sleep alone now. She’s so young, Shannon. I think in time she will forget.”

  “I wish it could be the same for us,” she said softly as if speaking to herself.

  “I know.”

  Shannon reached over her shoulder, placing her hand on Brandon’s as his fingers idly stroked the nape of her neck. She had long since reconciled herself to the role she had played in Parker’s death. Given the same set of circumstances, with Brandon’s life in danger, she would act in no other way a second time. “Let’s go to bed,” she said. There was nothing to be said that they had not discussed before. Parker’s peculiar descent into complete madness would always remain a matter of speculation regardless of how often Brandon wondered what he could have done to prevent it. In some ways coming to terms with Parker’s death had been more difficult for Brandon than it had been for her. He turned to her for strength, and in giving it, Shannon had found her own.

  Brandon straightened, taking her hand. “Yes, let’s.” He led Shannon to the bed, unbelted her dressing gown, and while she slid into bed and warmed a space for him, he shrugged out of his robe. When he joined Shannon, his hand slipped around her waist, rubbing the smooth roundness of her abdomen. Without any encouragement from him, she nestled in the cradle of his thighs. “When will you tell Clara about the baby?”

  Shannon smiled, warmed by the caress of his hand. “Soon. I need a little more time to become accustomed to the idea myself.” She hesitated. “I worry how she will receive the news. Clara has had us to herself for a long time.”

  “She’ll be as happy as I was. Well, perhaps not quite as happy,” he amended, remembering his own elation when Shannon shyly told him about her pregnancy.

  “I doubt she will pick me up and swing me about the bedroom,” she said dryly. “Then treat me as if I were some hothouse flower in the next breath. You were absurd, Brandon.”

  Brandon laughed, squeezing her. He buried his face in her hair and nuzzled her neck. “I’ve no mind to be gentle with you now. Are you prepared to be ravished?”

  “Yes, please,” she said simply.

  His hand slid along the length of her arm from wrist to shoulder. “Are you quite certain this won’t hurt the babe?”

  Shannon turned on her other side so she was facing him. “You’re being absurd again,” she chastised, albeit wi
th a certain fondness. She kissed the sheepish curve of his mouth and laid Brandon’s hand upon her breast.

  Brandon felt her suck in her breath when his thumb made a light pass across her nipple. Her immediate responsiveness struck an answering chord in him. His mouth hovered over hers, touched her lips and then settled until her lips parted beneath his, inviting his tongue, his intimate caress.

  Shannon helped him draw up her nightdress, breaking the kiss long enough to discard the filmy shift over the side of the bed. Her knee insinuated itself between his hard-muscled thighs while her fingertips stroked the taut skin of his back.

  He loved her with tenderness, with joy, with a certain animal wildness that made her feel somehow desired and cherished in the same moment. She reciprocated measure for measure, holding him deeply within her, crying out her passion, his name, as waves of pleasure rippled through them both.

  For a time there was only the hushed sound of their breathing righting itself. Shannon lay half on top of him, one leg stretched out against his, her arm flung across his chest.

  Brandon’s fingers had loosened the plait in her dark hair, and now he stroked it absently. “If we have a boy, I think I should like to name him after the earl,” he said.

  “Earl?” she asked sleepily.

  “I don’t want to name him Earl,” Brandon explained, giving her a little shake. “I want to name him Eric. Erica if we have a girl.”

  Shannon tested both names and found she liked them. “I think he would be pleased; after all, he is more or less responsible for bringing us to this pass.”

  “If you are referring to your present condition, I should prefer to think of him as less responsible,” he said in dry tones.

  Shannon punched him softly in his midsection. Before he could retaliate, she bolted upright. “What am I thinking of?” She slipped over the side of the bed and padded naked across the cold floor.

  Brandon watched her halting progress, his dark eyes shadowed with pain. He could not watch her walk without being reminded of what she had done for him, saving his life with no thought to her own. And when he was safe, she was not. Her injured foot, exposed to the snow and the cold, had become frostbitten. Physicians warned of gangrene arid spoke of amputation. Brandon refused to believe it would come to that. He spent days and nights at her bedside, nursing Shannon while she was chilled with fever and weak with delirium, tortured by the thought that she would not recover from her illness. And when her fever broke, when she turned to him wonderingly and spoke his name, he had knelt by the bed, bringing her hand to his lips, and wept. Her limp would fade, he knew, but not his memory.

  “Shannon, come back here. What are you doing?”

  Ignoring him, Shannon leafed through the packets she had placed on her dresser earlier in the day until she found what she wanted. “Here it is,” she said, holding up a sealed envelope. She waved it under Brandon’s nose as she crawled back into bed. “It’s for you. I think it’s from his lordship. It came while you were out riding today, and I quite forgot about it.” She dropped the letter on his chest and lighted two candles on the nightstand. “Aren’t you going to read it?” she asked when she had settled down beside him.

  He did not tell her where his thoughts had wandered. “Madam, the picture you made prancing across the floor in the splendid clothes nature gave you has made this missive of secondary importance.”

  “Behave,” she said sternly.

  “You’re blushing,” he pointed out, and caught a quelling look for his pains. “Oh, very well. But I live in hope that someday you will appreciate my single-mindedness.”

  “I already do. Now, read.”

  Brandon cracked the seal, unfolded the letter, and began to read. “He wishes us happy,” he said.

  “That is kind of him.”

  “His wife is enceinte.”

  “Delicately put.”

  Brandon grinned. “The dowager countess is doing very well and—” He broke off, sitting up, scanning the same passage twice before he spoke.

  “What is it, Brandon? Is something wrong at Glen Eden?”

  “No…nothing wrong at all. Something’s right, very right.” He reached over her and dropped the letter on the nightstand. “I wrote to the earl months ago, just after the Marchands left, about a particular matter. I had almost forgotten it, but thank God Eric didn’t. Shannon, have you ever heard of a woman named Jenny McKee?”

  Shannon’s brows folded in thought. “No, I don’t believe so. Should I know her?”

  “She’s the midwife who delivered both you and Aurora.” He felt Shannon still immediately. “Eric’s mother remembered her, and Eric finally located her in London. Apparently she left Glen Eden a few weeks following your birth.”

  “But—”

  “Patience. She was reluctant to talk at first, but the earl brought some pressure to bear. After that she recalled the circumstances of your birth very well. Jenny has suffered in her own way since that night, Shannon, guilt being a heavy burden indeed. She was paid handsomely by your stepfather to deliver Mary’s child and tell her the child was dead. Mary fainted at the news, and Jenny gave the child—Aurora—to Thomas, who in turn sold her to the Marchands. Neither he nor Jenny suspected that Mary carried a second child. Mary herself was never aware of it. She believed what the midwife told her, that Jenny had been mistaken and the child lived. Mary never willingly gave up one of her children, Shannon. As far as she knew, there was no child but you.” He saw tears pool in the corner of Shannon’s eyes. “I thought you should know…. I thought it would please you to know….” His voice trailed off uncertainly. “You were so distraught when you thought your mother had chosen to give up a child.”

  “Oh, Brandon,” she said, cupping his face in her palms. “It was a beautiful gesture on your part, and I thank you for it. It makes me very happy and…and sad at the same time. I wish that Aurora could have known, that she could have found in life even a fraction of the joy you have given me. Can you understand that?”

  Brandon could. And if he had not, he would have been content to spend the rest of his life with the gentle, generous spirit that was Shannon Kilmartin Fleming, sorting it out.

  The End

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  Scarlet Lies

  Brook stiffened and sat up jerkily. Her eyes opened wide, and she stared in the mirror at Ryland North’s reflection. “You’re not Phillip.”

  One corner of Ryland’s mouth lifted in a wicked travesty of a smile. “You noticed.”

  Brook drew in a breath, released it, and said calmly, “Get out of here.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  She twisted away as his hands made to reach for her and stood, facing him this time with the backs of her thighs pressed against the edge of the vanity. “I want you to leave. Phillip will be coming back—”

  “When I allow him to come back.” Ryland lifted his right hand to show Brook scratched and bleeding knuckles. “Sumner and I had a difference of opinion.”

  “What have you done with him?”

  “Your concern is admirable.” Ryland shook out his hand as he dropped it to his side. “He’s sleeping comfortably in my cabin.” He saw the hope he had raised in her eyes and dashed it. “And when he wakes he’s still not coming here until I allow it. It has something to do with the way he’s tied to the bed.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do with me? Tie me to the bed?”

  “That idea is not without some merit, but if it’s what you prefer…” His voice dropped off as his eyes measured her reaction. “No, I don�
��t think it’s the lady’s preference after all.”

  Brook impatiently tossed her head to one side, and the lock of hair that had fallen across her shoulder slipped down her back again. “What is it you want?”

  “Several things. Shall we take them in order?”

  Brook’s lips pursed and she said nothing, waiting for him to proceed.

  “I’ve come for what’s owed me. First, the money. Where is it?”

  “Phillip took it with him when he left.”

  Ryland watched her intently and said nothing for a moment. “Sumner didn’t have the money. I checked.”

  “Then you should check again. He had it when he left. Perhaps he spent it all on drinks for the house,” she said airily. “Phillip’s careless with money.”

  Ryland chose to ignore Brook’s flippancy. “Where is my money?”

  Brook’s fingers circled his wrist and pushed his hand away from her face. She never doubted that he released her because he wanted to. “I don’t know where the money is,” she said tonelessly.

  “Now, why don’t I believe you?” he asked. “Sweet, sweet liar. It appears I’m going to have to conduct a search.”

  Brook had had enough. She pushed away from the vanity and took a step forward only to have Ryland block her path. Far from being intimidated, she raised her chin and glared at him. “Let me pass.”

  “Do you know, Miss Hancock, I regret we’re not on the same side. You have brass. In different circumstances I think I could admire your brash and bluff.”

  “I’m not flattered.”

  Ryland shrugged. He unbuttoned his formal evening jacket and pointed to the shoulder holster that held his derringer.

  “I see.”

  “I wonder if you do.” He took out his gun and pointed it at Brook. “Now stand over by the bed.” When Brook complied, Ryland sat down, stretching his long legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankles.

  Brook waited, wondering what he intended. She was not misled by his casual posture or his sleepy-eyed gaze. “You’re going to conduct your search from there?” she asked.