“I suppose I was.”
Brandon edged himself closer to Shannon. He stood on a branch below her, but his eyes were on a plane with hers. He waited patiently until she stopped examining her bare toes and looked directly at him. “Are you afraid?”
“Embarrassed mostly. Afraid? A little.”
“Of what?”
He knew, she thought dispiritedly. He knew she was more frightened of him than the precariousness of her perch or the distance to the ground. “Of falling…” She looked away, unable to complete the thought. Of falling to the earth? Of falling in love? She did not know what had even made her think of the latter. Certainly she had been given no encouragement. This was the closest she had been to Brandon Fleming since he had kissed her. Heat rushed to her cheeks and her grip slackened.
Brandon’s gaze narrowed as his hands reached to steady her. What was she thinking? His fingers tightened on her waist. “Don’t faint on me now, Miss Kilmartin,” he said a shade roughly. “I can’t guarantee your safety should we come to that pass.”
“No…no, I’m fine.” The pads of his fingers seemed to brand her skin. It was as if the barrier of her dress were not there. “What do you want me to do?”
“Hold on to that branch. When I step down, put your feet where mine are now. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
Brandon’s smile was encouraging as he released her waist and sought another foothold below her. “Don’t look down,” he told her when he saw her pause uncertainly. “Look at me.” He laughed wryly. “A little like choosing between the devil and the deep blue sea, I admit, but come, there is nothing for it. Choose the devil.”
Shannon made to protest then saw the teasing glint in his eyes. Of a sudden she was carried back to a spring day when Brandon Fleming had turned the full force of his charm upon her. She had not been completely immune to it then, nor was she armored against it now. “Very well,” she said. “I choose the devil.”
“Good girl. I won’t give you cause to regret it.”
It seemed to Shannon as if there was another message in his words, but she would not let herself think what it might be. Except for his directions and praise, they were the last words spoken as Brandon carefully guided her from limb to limb. When they reached the bottom branch, Brandon jumped down, landing lightly on his feet with feline aplomb.
“Bravo, Bran!” applauded Cody as Clara hugged her father’s knees.
Shannon cleared her throat delicately. She was standing in the crook of the lowest branch. “Excuse me, please. I should be infinitely in your debt if you would tell me what to do next.”
“Jump!” Clara shouted, clapping her hands.
“No!” Brandon and Cody both yelled at once. Too late. Startled by Clara’s exuberant command, Shannon pushed herself away from the trunk and leaped. Cody yanked Clara out of the way as Shannon, realizing her mistake, flailed in the air toward Brandon. Brandon caught Shannon by the waist, but the impetus of her weight threw him off balance. He fell backward, using his body to break Shannon’s fall.
Breathless, Shannon raised her head and stared at her rescuer’s flushed face. She could not help but be aware of the intimacy of their position. Her skirt had ridden up and her bare legs lay against Brandon’s. Her breasts were pressed flush to his unyielding chest, and still she could feel an aching fullness in them that was foreign to her. Her braid had fallen across Brandon’s eyes and he lifted it slowly, giving her the full force of his dark gaze. She simply stared back, and the apology that trembled on her lips was silenced. A shuddering awareness passed through him and into her and they froze, unable to move, much less look away.
“Take note, Clara,” Cody said, assessing the situation carefully and realizing it required a light touch. “The rescue of the fair damsel has gone amiss…I think. Bran. Shannon. For future reference, it would be more the thing if you refrained from taking a tumble. Bad form, don’t you think?”
“Idiot,” Brandon groaned, not unkindly. He sat up as Shannon scrambled off him and modestly covered her bare legs, tucking her feet beneath her skirt. He noticed the problem of what to do with her hands was solved when Clara flung herself into Shannon’s lap.
“Oh, Mishannon! Are you all right?”
Clara’s energetic hugging threw Shannon to one side, and she felt Brandon’s hand touch her back to steady her. It rested there a moment too long to be considered casual, thoughtless assistance. “I’m fine,” she said breathlessly as Brandon removed his hand. “And I think it’s time we got you ready for dinner.” The meal was hours away yet, but Shannon offered the first excuse she could think of to escape. From the looks she received, no one was fooled, but neither did anyone make an objection. Cody lifted Clara away from her, and Shannon got to her feet, making a business of brushing off her skirt. “Thank you,” she said to Brandon, though she did not look at him. Taking up Clara’s hand, she picked up the discarded kite in the other. She was halfway to the house when she heard Brandon call to her. She stopped, glancing over her shoulder, mortified to find he was dangling one of her stockings from the tips of his fingers.
“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.”
