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. “Ourhalfbrother. 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 didn’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—”
