Born in Shame
Page 65
“Go ahead, honey,” he murmured and patted her back. “Have a good one. The two of you nearly had me bawling myself.”
“Grayson.” Rocked against him she sobbed happily into his shoulder. “She’s my sister.”
“That’s right.” He kissed the top of her head. “She’s your sister.”
Chapter Seventeen
Shannon hadn’t attended Sunday Mass often in New York. Her parents had been quietly devout Catholics, and she’d attended Catholic schools, gone through all the rites and rituals. She considered herself a Catholic, a modern, female Catholic who was dissatisfied with many of the doctrines and laws that came through the Vatican.
Sunday Mass was simply a habit she’d slipped out of once she’d established her life and pattern in New York.
But to the people in her small spot in County Clare, Sunday Mass wasn’t a habit. It was fundamental.
She had to admit, she enjoyed the small church, the smell of flickering votive candles and polished pews that brought back sensory memories from her youth. The statues of Mary and Joseph, the plaques that illustrated the Stations of the Cross, the embroidered altar cloth were all symbols that were found across the world.
The little village church boasted small stained-glass windows through which softly colored light streamed. The pews were scarred with age, the kneelers worn, and the old floor creaked at each genuflection.
However simple the setting, the rite itself had a stirring pomp and grandeur here, as it would in Saint Patrick’s magnificent cathedral on Fifth Avenue. She felt solid and steady sitting beside Brianna, listening to the lyrical tone of the priest, the murmured responses from the congregation, the occasional cry or whimper of a child.
Murphy’s family was across the narrow aisle, taking up two pews. And hers—for she was beginning to think of them as her family—ranged together in one.
When they stood for the final blessing, Liam clambered over the pew and held up his arms to her. She hoisted him onto her hip, grinning when he pursed his lips.
“Pretty,” he said in a stage whisper when she’d obliged him with a kiss. His pudgy fingers went to the citrine and amethyst stones she wore at her ears. “Mine.”
“Nope. Mine.” She carried him out with her as the congregation emptied the pews and spilled out into the late morning sunshine.
“Pretty,” he said again, so hopefully, that she rooted through her purse to see if she could find something to please him.
“She is that, lad.” Murphy snatched Liam away, tossing him high to make him laugh. “Pretty as a May morning.”
Shannon felt a little thrill ripple up her spine. Only hours before they’d been naked, sweaty, and locked together. Now they were trimmed out for church and surrounded by people. It didn’t stop fresh need from curling in her gut.
Pulling a small mirror out of her bag, she aimed it at Liam. “There’s pretty.”
Delighted, Liam clutched at it and began to make faces at himself.
“Look, Ma.” Nearby Kate cradled her youngest on her shoulder. “They look like a little family together there. Did you ever think Murphy would set his sights on a Yank? And such a fancy one?”
“No.” Alice watched them, her emotions mixed and muddled. “I didn’t think it. Used to be I wondered if it would be one of Tom Concannon’s daughters for him. But this I never expected.”
Kate glanced down to where her three-year-old was contentedly plucking at grass and checking its flavor. “You don’t mind?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Shrugging off the mood, Alice bent and scooped up her grandson. “Kevin, grass isn’t for eating unless you’re a cow. Let’s gather up the troops, Kate. We’ve Sunday dinner to cook.”
Hearing his name hailed, Murphy lifted a hand. “I’ve got to get along. I’ll call for you later.” He passed Liam back to her. “Will you let me kiss you here?”
“Kiss,” Liam agreed and puckered up.
“Not you, lad.” But Murphy kissed him anyway, before shifting up and letting his lips glide lightly over Shannon’s. “Till later.”
“Yes.” She had to concentrate on not sighing like a schoolgirl when he walked off. “Later.”
“Want me to take your load there, Aunt Shannon?” Seeing the way was clear, Rogan stepped forward.
“No. I’ve got him.”
“Looks as though he has you.” And it was a nice stroke of fate, Rogan thought, to have the boy run interference for him. “I was hoping for a word with you. Would you come home with Maggie and me? We’d be pleased to have you for tea. As would Liam.”
“Tea.” Liam lost interest in the mirror and bounced on Shannon’s hip. “Cake.”
“There’s the bottom line,” Rogan said with a chuckle. “Just like his mother.” Without waiting for her answer, Rogan took Shannon’s elbow and began to steer her toward his car.
“I should tell Brie—”
“I’ve told her. Maggie,” he called out. “Your boy wants tea and cake.”
“Which boy?” Maggie caught up with them just as Shannon reached for the car door. “Are you driving us, Shannon?”
“Damn. I do that nine times out of ten.” With Liam in tow, she rounded to the passenger side and bundled the boy in his car seat.
“Once a Yank,” Maggie commented and settled herself.
Shannon only wrinkled her nose and entertained Liam on the drive.
A short time later they were in the kitchen. It was Rogan, Shannon noted, who brewed the tea. “You enjoyed the ceili?” he asked.
“Very much.”
“You left early.” With a wicked gleam in her eye, Maggie set out small slices of frosted cake.
Shannon only lifted a brow and broke off a corner of a slice. “This is Brie’s recipe,” she said after a sample.
“ ’Tis Brie’s cake. Be grateful.”
“Very grateful,” Rogan put in. “Brianna’s too humane to let Maggie poison us.”
“I’m an artist, not a cook.”
“Brianna’s far more than a cook.” Shannon prepared to bristle. “She’s an artist. And it shows in every room of the inn.”
“Well, well.” Amused, and pleased, Maggie leaned back. “Quick to jump in front of her, aren’t you?”
“Grayson.” Rocked against him she sobbed happily into his shoulder. “She’s my sister.”
“That’s right.” He kissed the top of her head. “She’s your sister.”
Chapter Seventeen
Shannon hadn’t attended Sunday Mass often in New York. Her parents had been quietly devout Catholics, and she’d attended Catholic schools, gone through all the rites and rituals. She considered herself a Catholic, a modern, female Catholic who was dissatisfied with many of the doctrines and laws that came through the Vatican.
Sunday Mass was simply a habit she’d slipped out of once she’d established her life and pattern in New York.
But to the people in her small spot in County Clare, Sunday Mass wasn’t a habit. It was fundamental.
She had to admit, she enjoyed the small church, the smell of flickering votive candles and polished pews that brought back sensory memories from her youth. The statues of Mary and Joseph, the plaques that illustrated the Stations of the Cross, the embroidered altar cloth were all symbols that were found across the world.
The little village church boasted small stained-glass windows through which softly colored light streamed. The pews were scarred with age, the kneelers worn, and the old floor creaked at each genuflection.
However simple the setting, the rite itself had a stirring pomp and grandeur here, as it would in Saint Patrick’s magnificent cathedral on Fifth Avenue. She felt solid and steady sitting beside Brianna, listening to the lyrical tone of the priest, the murmured responses from the congregation, the occasional cry or whimper of a child.
Murphy’s family was across the narrow aisle, taking up two pews. And hers—for she was beginning to think of them as her family—ranged together in one.
When they stood for the final blessing, Liam clambered over the pew and held up his arms to her. She hoisted him onto her hip, grinning when he pursed his lips.
“Pretty,” he said in a stage whisper when she’d obliged him with a kiss. His pudgy fingers went to the citrine and amethyst stones she wore at her ears. “Mine.”
“Nope. Mine.” She carried him out with her as the congregation emptied the pews and spilled out into the late morning sunshine.
“Pretty,” he said again, so hopefully, that she rooted through her purse to see if she could find something to please him.
“She is that, lad.” Murphy snatched Liam away, tossing him high to make him laugh. “Pretty as a May morning.”
Shannon felt a little thrill ripple up her spine. Only hours before they’d been naked, sweaty, and locked together. Now they were trimmed out for church and surrounded by people. It didn’t stop fresh need from curling in her gut.
Pulling a small mirror out of her bag, she aimed it at Liam. “There’s pretty.”
Delighted, Liam clutched at it and began to make faces at himself.
“Look, Ma.” Nearby Kate cradled her youngest on her shoulder. “They look like a little family together there. Did you ever think Murphy would set his sights on a Yank? And such a fancy one?”
“No.” Alice watched them, her emotions mixed and muddled. “I didn’t think it. Used to be I wondered if it would be one of Tom Concannon’s daughters for him. But this I never expected.”
Kate glanced down to where her three-year-old was contentedly plucking at grass and checking its flavor. “You don’t mind?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Shrugging off the mood, Alice bent and scooped up her grandson. “Kevin, grass isn’t for eating unless you’re a cow. Let’s gather up the troops, Kate. We’ve Sunday dinner to cook.”
Hearing his name hailed, Murphy lifted a hand. “I’ve got to get along. I’ll call for you later.” He passed Liam back to her. “Will you let me kiss you here?”
“Kiss,” Liam agreed and puckered up.
“Not you, lad.” But Murphy kissed him anyway, before shifting up and letting his lips glide lightly over Shannon’s. “Till later.”
“Yes.” She had to concentrate on not sighing like a schoolgirl when he walked off. “Later.”
“Want me to take your load there, Aunt Shannon?” Seeing the way was clear, Rogan stepped forward.
“No. I’ve got him.”
“Looks as though he has you.” And it was a nice stroke of fate, Rogan thought, to have the boy run interference for him. “I was hoping for a word with you. Would you come home with Maggie and me? We’d be pleased to have you for tea. As would Liam.”
“Tea.” Liam lost interest in the mirror and bounced on Shannon’s hip. “Cake.”
“There’s the bottom line,” Rogan said with a chuckle. “Just like his mother.” Without waiting for her answer, Rogan took Shannon’s elbow and began to steer her toward his car.
“I should tell Brie—”
“I’ve told her. Maggie,” he called out. “Your boy wants tea and cake.”
“Which boy?” Maggie caught up with them just as Shannon reached for the car door. “Are you driving us, Shannon?”
“Damn. I do that nine times out of ten.” With Liam in tow, she rounded to the passenger side and bundled the boy in his car seat.
“Once a Yank,” Maggie commented and settled herself.
Shannon only wrinkled her nose and entertained Liam on the drive.
A short time later they were in the kitchen. It was Rogan, Shannon noted, who brewed the tea. “You enjoyed the ceili?” he asked.
“Very much.”
“You left early.” With a wicked gleam in her eye, Maggie set out small slices of frosted cake.
Shannon only lifted a brow and broke off a corner of a slice. “This is Brie’s recipe,” she said after a sample.
“ ’Tis Brie’s cake. Be grateful.”
“Very grateful,” Rogan put in. “Brianna’s too humane to let Maggie poison us.”
“I’m an artist, not a cook.”
“Brianna’s far more than a cook.” Shannon prepared to bristle. “She’s an artist. And it shows in every room of the inn.”
“Well, well.” Amused, and pleased, Maggie leaned back. “Quick to jump in front of her, aren’t you?”
