He finished with her gown and turned her to face him, kissing her lightly on the lips. “No. And I wish you would remember that later, when I am the one who is offering you support. There is nothing either of us has to face alone.” He watched her eyes narrow warningly. “I’m sorry,” he said with absolutely no regret. “I couldn’t let the opportunity pass.”
Paul and Michaeline were seated on the love seat, heads bent together and speaking in hushed tones, when Brandon escorted Shannon into the drawing room. Paul stood briefly as Shannon entered, then resumed his discussion with his wife. They stopped talking to each other only when Brandon and Shannon had taken the twin chairs opposite the love seat.
Paul’s countenance was grave. His eyes, darting between Brandon and Shannon, were infinitely more sorrow-filled than angry. “Where is our daughter?” he asked tiredly, the words flowing outward on a grieved sigh.
Brandon was shocked by the resignation in Paul’s tone. It was almost as if Paul expected to hear that Aurora herself was the instigator of the trick played them. Paul had not asked what had happened to his daughter, he had not assumed she was in any physical danger or had come to any harm. His voice held the pain of a father who was disillusioned and weary of his child’s hurtful antics. “I believe she is at Belletraine,” Brandon said. “She left the folly some ten months past with my brother Parker. I hope you will understand that my pride forbade me to make any inquires until recently. I am still awaiting word from her.”
“It is much as Michaeline suspected,” Paul said, squeezing his wife’s hand as she began to weep softly. “When we did not hear from her at all these last months, and when your own letters were curiously vague about Aurora, we decided we had no choice but to come and learn of the problem for ourselves.” He turned to Shannon, studying her face with pained eyes. “I suppose you think we were foolish not to see immediately that you were not our daughter, but—”
“No!” she protested, alarmed. “I could never think you foolish.”
Paul ignored her, his broad shoulders slumping a little as he explained himself. “But it was a matter ofchoosingnot to see. We wanted very much to believe that our daughter had become the young woman who met our ship.Joie de vivre,”he added wistfully, then one corner of his mouth lifted in a semblance of a smile when he realized he was not understood. “It means a joy of living. That is what we hoped Aurora had found. The differences we saw then were never physical ones. They were here,” he said, pointing to his chest. “Differences of the heart.” His hand dropped to his knee and his gaze shifted to Brandon. “I believe I understand the purpose for which this thing was done, but I would hear it from you.”
Brandon could not reveal his fear of losing Clara, but he willingly told them the two other reasons he had begun the charade, only one of which Shannon knew. “Until this evening I believed you had no knowledge of the depth of Aurora’s unhappiness. I told myself you thought she was exactly as she wanted to appear to you: guileless, spirited, and affectionate. I did not want to shatter your illusions and have it revealed through her actions that she was deceiving, willful, and capable of kindness only when it served her purpose. Aurora is, quite simply, the unhappiest person I know.”
Paul nodded faintly and spoke as if to himself. “We could not understand it. Never was there a child so wanted or so well loved.”
“I realize that,” said Brandon, and kept his counsel that perhaps Aurora had been loved well but not wisely. “And I also realize that though you do not condone her behavior, you will continue to love her and offer her your support. I would always do the same for my daughter.” He paused, glancing briefly at Shannon. “But I do not feel toward Aurora as I do toward Clara. It was never in the nature of the love I bore her when we married. I find that not only can I not sanction her behavior, I do not love her any longer. That is the second reason I sought to deceive you. It gave me the opportunity to pretend the woman I do love was my wife.”
Shannon found herself once again the focus of Paul and Michaeline’s attention. She was grateful when she felt Brandon’s hand slip into hers. She felt her cheeks flushing at his unexpected declaration, but she accepted it with dignity, never shying away from the Marchands.
Michaeline’s eyes were anguished as she leaned forward. “How is it that you have my daughter’s face?” she cried out softly. The lines in her forehead were deeply creased by her torment.
“I don’t know,” said Shannon. She wished she might go to Michaeline and offer her comfort, but knew it could not be accepted now, if ever. “I have never met Aurora, never seen a portrait. I have only seen the proof of my resemblance to her in other people’s actions toward me. I sometimes—”
Michaeline interrupted with a stream of words in her native French, gesticulating wildly.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” Shannon said, confused by the excited nature of Michaeline’s speech.
“It’s your accent,” Brandon explained. “You spoke without the drawl.”
“But what has that to do with anything?”
Paul had calmed Michaeline, and now he answered Shannon’s question. “It never occurred to my wife and me that you may not have always lived in the colonies. You have spent some time in England, have you not?”
Shannon nodded. “All save these last few months. I was born there.”
Michaeline paled, but she let her husband speak for them both. “What is your name when you are not posing as my daughter?” he asked.
Shannon dropped her eyes at this reminder of her duplicity. “I am Shannon Kilmartin.”
Paul had not expected the name to mean anything to him, but he considered it thoughtfully. “And where were you born, Miss Kilmartin?”
“I was born in the village of Glen Eden. It is—”
Paul stopped her with an impatient wave of his hand. “I know where it is,” he said, his angular features paling. “And your birthdate?”
An emotion Shannon could not name seized her inside. Though it lacked form or substance, it became as a living thing clawing at her belly, pressing at her heart. The palm of her hand became damp in Brandon’s grip, and beads of perspiration glistened above her lip. “November 11, 1725.”
Brandon actually gave a little jerk as he heard Shannon speak his wife’s birthday. “Dear God,” he whispered, his throat tight.
Michaeline nearly came out of her seat, but Paul, though clearly shaken, continued. “Your parents?” he asked. “Can you tell me anything about them?”
Shannon felt as if she were shrinking in her chair, as if her hand would become too small for Brandon’s and she would simply slip away. “My mother was Mary Kilmartin, but I don’t know my father’s name.”
“Your mother’s name wasn’t Kilmartin when you were born,” Brandon reminded her gently.
“What? Oh, no, she was married then, to my stepfather. Thomas Stewart.”
