Born in Shame
Page 27
“One tune doesn’t tell the whole tale.” Though the child was dozing now in his lap, he played on, shifting to something so suddenly sad, so suddenly soft, Shannon blinked.
Something in her own heart broke a little as Brianna began to quietly sing the lyrics. Others joined in, telling the tale of a soldier brave and doomed, dying a martyr for his country, named James Connolly.
When he’d finished, Rogan took the sleeping boy into his own lap, and Murphy reached for his beer. “It’s not all ‘MacNamarra’s Band,’ is it?”
She’d been touched, deeply, and wasn’t sure she wanted to be. “It’s an odd culture that writes lovely songs about an execution.”
“We don’t forget our heros,” Maggie said with a snap in her voice. “Isn’t it true that in your country they have tourist attractions on fields of battle? Your Gettysburg and such?”
Shannon eyed Maggie coolly, nodded. “Touché.”
“And most of us like to pretend we’d have fought for the South,” Gray put in.
“For slavery.” Maggie sneered. “We know more about slavery than you could begin to imagine.”
“Not for slavery.” Pleased a debate was in the offing, Gray shifted toward her. “For a way of life.”
“That should keep them happy,” Rogan murmured as his wife and brother-in-law dived into the argument. “Is there anything you’d particularly like to do or see while you’re here, Shannon? We’d be pleased to arrange things for you.”
His accent was different, she noted. Subtly different, smoother, with a hint of what she would have termed prep school. “I suppose I should see the usual tourist things. And I don’t suppose I could go back without seeing at least one ruin.”
“Gray’s put one nearby in his next book,” Murphy commented.
“He did, yes.” Brianna glanced behind her, trying not to fret because Diedre had yet to return the baby. “He did a nasty murder there. I’m just going to go back and see how Kayla’s fairing. Would you have another pint, Murphy?”
“I wouldn’t mind. Thanks.”
“Shannon?”
With some surprise, Shannon noted her glass was empty. “Yes, I suppose.”
“I’ll get the drinks.” After passing Liam to his wife, Rogan rose, giving Brianna a pat on the cheek. “Go fuss with the baby.”
“Do you know this one?” Murphy asked as he began to play again.
It only took her a moment. “ ‘Scarborough Fair’.” It meant Simon and Garfunkel to her, on the oldies station on the radio.
“Do you sing, Shannon?”
“As much as anyone who has a shower and a radio.” Fascinated, she bent her head closer. “How do you know which buttons to push?”
“First you have to know what song you’ve a mind to play. Here.”
“No, I—” But he had already slipped an arm around her and was drawing her hands under the straps beneath his.
“You have to get the feel of it first.” He guided her fingers to the buttons, pressed down gently as he opened the bellows. The chord that rang out was long and pure and made her laugh.
“That’s one.”
“If you can do one, you can do another.” To prove it he pushed the bellows in and made a different note. “It just takes the wanting, and the practice.”
Experimentally she shifted some fingers around and winced at the clash of notes. “I think it might take some talent.” Then she was laughing again as he played his fingers over hers and made the instrument come to life. “And quick hands. How can you see what you’re playing?”
With the laugh still in her eyes, she shook back her hair and turned her face to his. The jolt around her heart was as lively as the tune, and not nearly as pleasant.
“It’s a matter of feeling.” Though her fingers had gone still, he moved his around them, changing the mood of the music yet again. Wistful and romantic. “What do you feel?”
“Like I’m being played every bit as cleverly as this little box.” Her eyes narrowed a bit as she studied him. Somehow their positions had shifted just enough to be considered an embrace. The hands, those hard-palmed, limber hands, were unquestionably possessive over hers. “You have some very smooth moves, Murphy.”
“It occurs to me you don’t mean that as a compliment.”
“I don’t. It’s an observation.” It was shocking to realize the pulse in her throat was hammering. His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered so that she could feel the heat, and his intention as a tangible thing. “No,” she said very quietly, very firmly.
“As you please.” His eyes came back to hers, and there was a subtle and simple power in them that challenged. “I’d rather kiss you the first time in a more private place myself. Where I could take my time about it.”
She thought he would—take his time, that is. He might not have been the slow man she’d originally perceived. But she had a feeling he was thorough. “I’d say that completes the lesson.” Determined to find some distance, she tugged her hands from under his.
“We’ll have another, whenever you’ve a mind to.” And indeed taking his time, he lifted his arm from around her, then set down the concertina to drink the last of his beer. “You’ve got music in you, Shannon. You just haven’t let yourself play it yet.”
“I think I’ll stick to the radio, thanks.” More agitated than she cared to admit, she rose. “Excuse me.” She went off in search of the rest room, and time to settle down.
Murphy was smiling to himself when he set his empty glass down. His brow lifted when he caught Maggie’s frowning stare.
“What are you about, Murphy?” she demanded.
“I’m about to have another beer—once Rogan gets back with it.”
“Don’t play games with me, boy-o.” She wasn’t sure herself if it was temper or worry brewing in her, but neither was comforting. “I know you’ve an eye for the ladies, but I’ve never seen that look in them before.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Stop hounding him, Maggie.” Gray kicked back in his chair. “Murphy’s entitled to test the waters. She’s a looker, isn’t she?”
Something in her own heart broke a little as Brianna began to quietly sing the lyrics. Others joined in, telling the tale of a soldier brave and doomed, dying a martyr for his country, named James Connolly.
When he’d finished, Rogan took the sleeping boy into his own lap, and Murphy reached for his beer. “It’s not all ‘MacNamarra’s Band,’ is it?”
She’d been touched, deeply, and wasn’t sure she wanted to be. “It’s an odd culture that writes lovely songs about an execution.”
“We don’t forget our heros,” Maggie said with a snap in her voice. “Isn’t it true that in your country they have tourist attractions on fields of battle? Your Gettysburg and such?”
Shannon eyed Maggie coolly, nodded. “Touché.”
“And most of us like to pretend we’d have fought for the South,” Gray put in.
“For slavery.” Maggie sneered. “We know more about slavery than you could begin to imagine.”
“Not for slavery.” Pleased a debate was in the offing, Gray shifted toward her. “For a way of life.”
“That should keep them happy,” Rogan murmured as his wife and brother-in-law dived into the argument. “Is there anything you’d particularly like to do or see while you’re here, Shannon? We’d be pleased to arrange things for you.”
His accent was different, she noted. Subtly different, smoother, with a hint of what she would have termed prep school. “I suppose I should see the usual tourist things. And I don’t suppose I could go back without seeing at least one ruin.”
“Gray’s put one nearby in his next book,” Murphy commented.
“He did, yes.” Brianna glanced behind her, trying not to fret because Diedre had yet to return the baby. “He did a nasty murder there. I’m just going to go back and see how Kayla’s fairing. Would you have another pint, Murphy?”
“I wouldn’t mind. Thanks.”
“Shannon?”
With some surprise, Shannon noted her glass was empty. “Yes, I suppose.”
“I’ll get the drinks.” After passing Liam to his wife, Rogan rose, giving Brianna a pat on the cheek. “Go fuss with the baby.”
“Do you know this one?” Murphy asked as he began to play again.
It only took her a moment. “ ‘Scarborough Fair’.” It meant Simon and Garfunkel to her, on the oldies station on the radio.
“Do you sing, Shannon?”
“As much as anyone who has a shower and a radio.” Fascinated, she bent her head closer. “How do you know which buttons to push?”
“First you have to know what song you’ve a mind to play. Here.”
“No, I—” But he had already slipped an arm around her and was drawing her hands under the straps beneath his.
“You have to get the feel of it first.” He guided her fingers to the buttons, pressed down gently as he opened the bellows. The chord that rang out was long and pure and made her laugh.
“That’s one.”
“If you can do one, you can do another.” To prove it he pushed the bellows in and made a different note. “It just takes the wanting, and the practice.”
Experimentally she shifted some fingers around and winced at the clash of notes. “I think it might take some talent.” Then she was laughing again as he played his fingers over hers and made the instrument come to life. “And quick hands. How can you see what you’re playing?”
With the laugh still in her eyes, she shook back her hair and turned her face to his. The jolt around her heart was as lively as the tune, and not nearly as pleasant.
“It’s a matter of feeling.” Though her fingers had gone still, he moved his around them, changing the mood of the music yet again. Wistful and romantic. “What do you feel?”
“Like I’m being played every bit as cleverly as this little box.” Her eyes narrowed a bit as she studied him. Somehow their positions had shifted just enough to be considered an embrace. The hands, those hard-palmed, limber hands, were unquestionably possessive over hers. “You have some very smooth moves, Murphy.”
“It occurs to me you don’t mean that as a compliment.”
“I don’t. It’s an observation.” It was shocking to realize the pulse in her throat was hammering. His gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered so that she could feel the heat, and his intention as a tangible thing. “No,” she said very quietly, very firmly.
“As you please.” His eyes came back to hers, and there was a subtle and simple power in them that challenged. “I’d rather kiss you the first time in a more private place myself. Where I could take my time about it.”
She thought he would—take his time, that is. He might not have been the slow man she’d originally perceived. But she had a feeling he was thorough. “I’d say that completes the lesson.” Determined to find some distance, she tugged her hands from under his.
“We’ll have another, whenever you’ve a mind to.” And indeed taking his time, he lifted his arm from around her, then set down the concertina to drink the last of his beer. “You’ve got music in you, Shannon. You just haven’t let yourself play it yet.”
“I think I’ll stick to the radio, thanks.” More agitated than she cared to admit, she rose. “Excuse me.” She went off in search of the rest room, and time to settle down.
Murphy was smiling to himself when he set his empty glass down. His brow lifted when he caught Maggie’s frowning stare.
“What are you about, Murphy?” she demanded.
“I’m about to have another beer—once Rogan gets back with it.”
“Don’t play games with me, boy-o.” She wasn’t sure herself if it was temper or worry brewing in her, but neither was comforting. “I know you’ve an eye for the ladies, but I’ve never seen that look in them before.”
“Haven’t you?”
“Stop hounding him, Maggie.” Gray kicked back in his chair. “Murphy’s entitled to test the waters. She’s a looker, isn’t she?”
