Thomas acknowledged Brandon with a brief nod. He would not give outright offense, but he had an instinctive distrust of colonials. It was common knowledge they were a godless people. His lip curled in disgust as his eyes swept Shannon’s bedraggled figure and took note of her shoeless condition. “Give Mr. Fleming his jacket, Shannon, then bid the gentlemen good day.” His knuckles were white on the knob of his cane. “We will speak of your conduct privately.”
Shannon’s fingers trembled on the collar of the jacket as she looked uncertainly at her stepfather. If she were to give it over, they would all see how the dress clung damply to her breasts. And she had no idea what had become of her shawl.
As if in answer to her thoughts, Brandon produced the shawl from where he had tucked it in his boot. “But keep the jacket for now,” he told her, smiling encouragingly. “You may return it on the morrow in church.” He could not like the change that had come over Shannon in the presence of Stewart. Admittedly, she had been shy, but Brandon had not thought she was without spirit. He watched her actually shrink as she swept past her stepfather and fairly ran into the house. Brandon eyed Stewart’s walking stick and immediately thought of the welts on Shannon’s white shoulder. His smile was tight as he addressed Stewart. “I look forward to hearing your sermon tomorrow, sir. His lordship has spoken highly of you.”
Stewart was not immune to flattery, even from a man he considered beneath his regard. He did not care for the direct, almost savage intensity of Fleming’s stare. He cleared his throat roughly. “That is kind of you. Will you be long in Glen Eden?”
“Unfortunately, no. I return in a sennight to Virginia. I have recently finished university at Cambridge, and it is time that I take on the obligations of my family’s holdings.”
Stewart contained his derisive snort. No doubt the arrogant stripling was a slave owner. The thought confirmed the vicar’s impression of colonials as being beyond redemption. Perhaps he would rethink his sermon, though he would have to choose his words carefully. It would not do to insult the earl’s guest.
Brandon would have liked to engage the vicar in a longer conversation, hoping his temper would cool by the time he dealt with Shannon, but he could think of nothing to say. Cursing himself for being witless, he looked to Eric for help.
“I understand Shannon will sing tomorrow,” the earl said, catching Brandon’s eye. “My mother very much enjoys her talent.”
“It is God’s talent,” the vicar said gruffly. “Shannon is but His tool.”
“Yes,” Eric agreed smoothly. “And it would be a shame if she could not sing to His glory. Good day, Stewart.” Eric turned his horse sharply, and Brandon followed suit.
When they were out of earshot, Brandon cursed softly. “You knew she lied about that injury to her shoulder.”
“Yes. But it would have done no good to drag the truth from her. She would be humiliated to have it known that she was punished.”
“Punished? Punished is being sent to one’s room. He beats her!”
“And what would you have me do to prevent it? Anything I could say to the man would only make things worse for Shannon. I admit my mother and I only suspected what he was doing before. Until I saw those welts there was never any proof. But the fact remains, there is no action I can take to stop him.”
“But you are master here,” Brandon protested. “Can you not protect her’?”
“If I were to interfere with every father who raised his hand against an offspring, I would have time for nothing else.” He sighed. “I know it sounds heartless, Bran, but there is little I can do. If I threatened to take away his living, he would simply find another and take Shannon with him. She would not fare well in those circumstances. And neither of us know what Shannon did to provoke Stewart’s anger.”
Brandon was not mollified. He could not imagine Shannon doing anything that would merit a beating. “And what of today? You saw how afraid she was of him. She expects to be beaten. And for what? She did nothing but accept our escort.”
“As I recall,” Eric said, looking pointedly at his friend, “we rather forced her to accept. She knew better than either of us how her father would react.”
“Don’t remind me. I am already feeling the burden of guilt. Do you think he took note of your warning?”
“That I expected to hear Shannon sing tomorrow?” He looked away from Brandon. “More likely he will bruise her where it cannot show.”
Brandon reflectedon Eric’s last words as he watched Shannon take her seat in the pew reserved for her. She wore a stark black gown with a high white collar, and her glorious hair had disappeared beneath a bonnet, hiding her profile from his view. Brandon’s lips tightened as Shannon seated herself gingerly. He glanced sideways at Eric and the countess and saw they were also taking note of what appeared to be Shannon’s painful posture.
Brandon heard little of the vicar’s carefully constructed sermon, never realizing he was the subject of Stewart’s diatribe on the sins of arrogance and pride. He had thoughts for nothing and no one but Shannon Kilmartin, and when she finally stood to sing in her soft, clear voice, he was profoundly moved. Shannon’s song fell on his ears with a certain tranquil beauty. It was not what she sang but how she sang it that caught Brandon’s complete attention. Her lilting voice seemed to pass through him, setting him at peace. She had turned slightly to face the congregation as she sang, and though Brandon willed her to look in his direction, she studiously avoided catching his eye. Until she sat down again. Then Brandon wished she had not seen him. Though her violet eyes were quickly veiled by thick jet lashes, Brandon nearly recoiled from the hatred he glimpsed there. Hatred directed solely toward him.
Chapter 2
March 1746
“Why have you come?” Shannon asked quietly. Unconsciously she turned her head away from her visitor, shame and guilt making it impossible to face him directly. She pretended interest in the mildewed stone walls of her prison cell, studying the pattern of water trickling through a jagged crack in one of the blocks. “I told the turnkey I did not want to see anyone.”
The Earl of Glen Eden glanced about the cell, grimacing with distaste at the conditions that circumstances had forced upon Shannon Kilmartin. It could be argued that Newgate Prison was a cruel environment for hardened felons; it was certainly no place for a young woman of Shannon’s sensibilities. The cells were tiny, poorly lighted, and unsanitary. The population of the prison was a peculiar mixture of citizens from every station in life. There were youthful pickpockets sharing the same cell with disgraced lords who were unable to honor their debts. Wastrels and indigents cohabited with highwaymen and rapists. Waterfront pimps found their new lodgings rife with murderers.
Upon inquiring, Eric Redmond discovered Shannon shared her cell with three prostitutes and a madwoman whose needs would have better been served in Bedlam. Shannon Kilmartin was the only murderess in the women’s quarters.
Before the earl spoke to Shannon, he arranged to meet her in a private cell. It was not his title that persuaded the turnkey to accommodate him, but the glint of his coins. He knew that Shannon, having no money of her own, could not have faired well in Newgate. All amenities were available for a price, but Shannon would have had to barter her body to secure blankets, fresh straw bedding, or better food. Eric did not think she had asked for any of these things.
The earl’s glance swept Shannon’s partially turned figure, confirming his opinion. She was a solemn figure, guarded and watchful. Her dark homespun gown was wrinkled and muddied and ill fitting. The hem was torn in two places that he could see, and the edging of the chemise above her bodice was no longer pristine white, but yellow and gray. Shannon’s jet hair hung limply in a matted braid that fell over one shoulder. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek and a purpling bruise on her chin. She had easily dropped a stone’s weight, and her pale skin was stretched taut over the fine bones of her face.
The earl blanched, feeling bile rise in his throat as he considered the pathetic pass to which Shannon had finally arrived. Brandon Fleming’s words from four years earlier echoed relentlessly in his mind: “You are the master here. Can you not protect her?” Eric prayed that his intervention now was not too late.
