In March, Robert Tabor went back to Columbia. The convention reassembled and canceled its nullification ordinance. The crisis was over, and the federal ships left the harbor.
As soon as the bags of sand and bales of cotton were removed from the battery, Shaun Banagher came to Midgard for his wife.
"No, Shaun," Marigold greeted him. "I don't want to return with you." With the child nearly due, Marigold was uncomfortable and in a temper.
They sat in the drawing room, glaring at each other, with Shaun's face unable to conceal the anger he felt at Marigold's rebellion. "You are my wife, Marigold. I have already made arrangements. Even the nurse is at the house, waiting for you."
"Then you can tell her to stop waiting. I am not coming."
Shaun stalked out of the drawing room, and Marigold, thinking he had given in, relaxed. But then, she heard the noise upstairs—coming from her bedroom. She walked to the hall in time to see the servants carrying her trunk downstairs.
"Where are you taking that?" she demanded.
"Outside, to the carnage," Shaun answered, standing at the head of the stairs, with her green cape draped over his arm. "Everything is packed, except your cape. I presume you will wish to wear it."
He walked down the stairs and held the cape for her. "Shaun," she protested.
"If you do not come willingly," he whispered fiercely in her ear, "I shall be forced to pick you up in front of the servants and carry you out. And I am not sure, because of your size, whether I will be able to get you safely down the steps."
Her topaz eyes flashed fury at his remark. "Don't tax your strength, Mr. Banagher." She grabbed the cape from him and hurried toward the front door.
Shaun quickly caught up with her and, disguising the amused gleam in his eyes, he took Marigold's arm to help her to the carriage.
"Maman is not even at home," Marigold pouted. ''She will wonder what has happened to me."
"I told your father I was coming for you today."
"And he had no objections?"
"It is not up to a father to object when a husband decides to take his wife home."
In surprise, Marigold looked at Shaun. He was behaving exactly like her father—having his own way, brooking no opposition. Why had she not noticed that before?
When Marigold returned to the house on the battery, Shaun paid no more attention to her than he had when she was at Midgard. But he had provided well for her comfort. She had only to ring the little bell at her chair to bring one of the new servants to see to her every whim.
For much of the time, Shaun was away, coming home late in the evenings, sometimes after Marigold was already in bed. But toward the middle of the month, he stopped going out altogether.
Though it was mid-morning, Shaun still sat in the upstairs parlor and continued to read the paper. "Don't you need to attend to your business affairs today, Shaun?" Marigold asked.
Glancing over the top of the paper, he replied, "No, Marigold. I have arranged to be away from my office this week. Anything of importance will be brought to the house.
"Why?"
He placed the newspaper on the table by his chair. "Isn't it obvious? You look as if you can't go another day without having the baby."
There it was again—his reference to her size. Feeling clumsy and uncomfortable, Marigold lashed out, "For your information, Shaun, this is the way all women look at this time."
His glance softened. "I know, Souci." His conversation was interrupted by the heavy knock at the front door. Soon he left her, going downstairs to his library to be closeted for the rest of the morning with a man from his office.
The next day Marigold awoke to a fleeting backache, and before afternoon arrived, the nurse and doctor were hovering over her. Shaun did not come near her. Surrounded by strangers to have the child of a man she hated, Marigold had never felt more alone in her life. . . until, finally, she heard her mother's voice.
She had an easy delivery, especially for the first one. By the time Shaun came to see her in the evening, Marigold was sitting up in bed, attacking the food that she had not been allowed to eat during the day.
Shaun stared at her large tawny eyes, the golden hair falling in ringlets onto the pillow—and her full breasts outlined by the thin silk gown.
"Having a child seems to agree with you, Marigold," his impudent voice teased. "I must remember it for future years."
"Have you seen her?" Marigold asked, laying down her soup spoon.
"Yes. I can't say she looks much like you."
Marigold lowered her eyes, and her fingers brushed against the spoon. Shaun was right. The baby's hair was coal black—like Crane's. But it was also like Maranta's.
"Have you heard about Maranta?" Marigold asked, still uneasy at Shaun's presence. "She had a baby, too."
Shaun nodded.
"Maman only got the letter yesterday," Marigold said. "It was over three months in coming."
Shaun went back to his work, and the baby, whisked to the nursery and given over to the care of the wet nurse, was brought into Marigold's room only at certain short intervals of the day. It seemed to be what Shaun had ordered. But as soon as she was allowed to be up, Marigold took the infant's care into her own hands.
Since Shaun was content to remain apart from her in another bedroom, Marigold had the cradle moved into her room. The baby stayed for the entire day, being taken back to the nursery only at nighttime. Marigold began to give the little girl her baths and to dress her in the delicate lacy gowns and bonnets. Gazing at the tiny doll in her arms, she wondered what to name her.
She sat, rocking and crooning to the child, when Shaun strolled into the bedroom without knocking. For a moment he stood at the door, watching his wife with the child in her arms. Marigold looked up, and a guilty feeling spread over her. But she refused to put the child back into the cradle. She remained sitting in the chair, holding the baby possessively. She would not have her daughter treated as something to be hidden whenever Shaun came around.
"You're back early today," Marigold said.
"I've spent far too much time on business lately, but it couldn't be helped," he replied, coming in and leaning over to kiss Marigold on the top of her head. "I didn't realize you kept the child in here with you," he said.
"Only during the day. Greta takes her back to the nursery in the evenings."
"Have you named her yet?" he inquired.
"I was debating between Merle and Corrie. I prefer Corrie. But somehow, I don't like the sound of it with Caldwell,"
Shaun's lips tensed. "Since her last name is Banagher, I don't see that it's a problem."
"But surely you don't mean that. You aren't her father, Shaun."
"I'm the only father she is ever likely to know, Marigold. And you are my wife."
"You haven't even. . . held her," Marigold pointed out.
"Is that a prerequisite for claiming her as my own?"
"You would do that, Shaun? Accept her as if she is. . . yours?"
"Why must you ask, Marigold? Did I not do that in the church before we left Cedar Hill? Accept you and your condition?"
He sat in the chair on the other side of the hearth. "If we must play this charade, then let's get on with it. I had not realized you put such store in my holding the child."
When she hesitated, he inquired, "Well, what are you going to do, Marigold? Lay her at my feet to see if I will claim her, as the wives of the chieftains of my clan have done for hundreds of years, or are you going to place her in my arms?"
Marigold's shoulders shook as she stood up with the baby. Lured by the emerald green eyes, she came to him fearfully and held out the baby.
He took the child in his arms, and his eyes clouded with consternation. Suddenly, Marigold giggled. The spell was broken.
"That's not how you hold a baby, Shaun," she instructed. "Not like a sack of potatoes. You cradle your arm to support her head."
Shaun grinned, changing his position. He looked down at the baby and said, "Well, Cor
rie, it seems your father has a lot to learn." At his announcement, Marigold's heart soared.
40
Shaun strolled down the street toward the battery. He was in a good mood. Thinking of his surprise for Marigold, his eyes took on a tender glow.
He was glad his quarrel with Robert Tabor was over. Shaun had what he wanted, what he had dreamed of possessing from the moment he had seen the proud tilt of the girl's head, her pert, aristocratic nose high in the air—a fiery little beauty, used to the admiring glances of every gawking youth and ignoring them all.
Yes, he had been one of them—older than most, and at a disadvantage because of his poverty. Brian Boru, his ancestor, would have been proud of him—fighting for his lost heritage and gaining the prize he had set for himself. Now the time had come for him to take possession of the prize.
He remembered the furious look, the biting, sarcastic words when he had dragged the girl from the mahogany bed—when she had not known that the townhouse belonged to Shaun Banagher.
Not true. The house had never truly belonged to him. He had used it for a time. That was all. A house had ghosts and memories of the past. He had felt the past in the townhouse, but even more strongly in the river house at Midgard. The river house had been filled with love, and that was why he had nearly lost his head there, succumbing to Marigold's allure, even though she was with child.
But now, the babe was old enough. The time had come for Shaun Banagher to consummate his love.
He walked up the steps into the townhouse and into the library as the old clock in the hall chimed five times. Any moment now, Jake would be bringing Marigold and the baby home from their afternoon ride. And when they returned—
Shaun took the key to the desk and unlocked the lower drawer. Removing a set of blueprints, he spread them on the desk and studied them, a satisfied expression on his face.
The sound of horses trotting down the street carried through the mild afternoon air. Shaun hurriedly folded the plans and returned them to the drawer. He walked to the window and saw the carriage stopping in front of the house, as he had requested.
He left the library and walked outside. A smile hovered about his lips as he approached the carriage.
"Greta, you may take Corrie to the nursery," Shaun said to the child's nurse.
"Yes, Mr. Banagher."
He held the baby while the woman stepped onto the sidewalk, and then instead of helping Marigold down, he gave the baby back to the nurse and climbed into the carriage beside his golden-haired wife.
"We're ready, Jake," he announced, settling his large frame into the seat. Jake turned the carriage around in the street and started away from the townhouse.
"Shaun? Where are we going?" a puzzled Marigold asked.
"I thought I might take you for a ride into the countryside," he said.
"But I've just gotten back from a ride," she protested.
"There's something that I want to show you, Marigold. Something that has taken up much of my time lately."
Marigold sighed. "The new iron foundry, I suppose."
"No."
"Then, what?" Her curious amber eyes gazed into his teasing emerald-colored ones.
"Something else I've built," he announced.
She waited for him to explain, but Shaun didn't elaborate.
Finally Marigold said, "Is that all you're going to tell me?"
Shaun took his eyes from the cobblestoned street. "Yes," he replied and then returned to watching the horses.
Every few minutes Marigold glanced toward her husband. He seemed to be in an unusually good mood despite his secretive manner.
For an hour they traveled, straight down the coast. The sound of crushed shells underneath the carriage wheels was magnified in the silence of the late afternoon air. Not far from the road, the sea, blue-gray, lapped softly against the shoreline and spread its watery fingers into low-lying pockets.
At times, the sea disappeared behind sand dunes and then suddenly reappeared as the land reshaped itself into level stretches. Marigold watched as, back and forth, the waves responded to the primeval tidal call. The sun, with a dying defiance, dumped its brilliant embers of gold and red onto the turbulent water, as if by doing so, it could make its load lighter for its daily journey to the far horizon.
Marigold shaded her eyes and shifted her attention from the sea to her husband.
Shaun, who had sat beside her for the past hour with an easy, lazy indolence, suddenly sat straight and lifted his head, his eyes sweeping the landscape. Marigold followed the direction of his gaze, and as Jake slowed the carriage and turned off the main road into a newly cut avenue, she saw the source of Shaun's interest. A towering structure of majestic stones and mortar rose from the knoll that overlooked the sea, like a sprawling giant that had not made peace with its surroundings. The late afternoon sun reflected itself in the vast mullioned windows and cast shadows upon the thick walls.
"Shaun?"
Marigold looked at the house and back to Shaun. But the silence continued. Shaun's face revealed nothing. There was no hint of softness in either the man's face or the house. They were alike—unbreachable.
Marigold knew without being told that she was looking at the object that had usurped Shaun's attention for the past months, had taken him away from her, and for a moment, she was jealous.
Shaun didn't wait for the carriage to come to a complete halt in the courtyard. With a sudden impatience, he left the vehicle and stood with arms outstretched for Marigold.
"You may take the horses to the stable, Jake," he said. "We won't be needing them again tonight." The carriage immediately moved from the courtyard and disappeared behind the house.
Turning to Marigold, Shaun took her hand and led her up the steps to the massive cypress door. It was unlocked, and Shaun pushed it open and held it for Marigold to enter.
The air was cold, and the abrupt change from the warmth outside made her shudder. But the light coming through the windows diminished Marigold's sudden coldness, and she walked about in the great hall while Shaun stood back, observing her reaction.
The tapestry hanging from the wall, the crystal and brass chandelier with its dozens of candles ready to light the four corners of the baronial room—Marigold's tawny eyes observed it all.
She swallowed in awe at the richness, the obvious wealth and comfort. Far grander than Midgard, yet an undefinable something that was missing.
"You do not like it, Marigold?" The voice beside her caused her to jump.
"It. . . it is quite grand, Shaun," she replied hesitantly. "Far grander than Midgard," she added.
Shaun nodded. "That was my intention," he said.
"I. . . understand," Marigold whispered, her voice quivering with emotion.
"Do you, Souci?" Shaun asked softly, seeing disappointment cloud her amber eyes.
"Yes. Because of my father. . ."
Shaun shook his head. "No. My revenge against Robert Tabor was short-lived. It is because of you, not your father, that I built this house."
"But the townhouse," she protested.
"Is already deeded back to him." Shaun's eyes, fierce and possessive, met Marigold's. "There was only one thing, Souci, that belonged to Robert Tabor that I coveted and was determined to have. From the first moment I saw you, I desired you and wanted you as my wife. I built this house for you, Souci, as a suitable setting for your beauty."
"Oh, Shaun." Marigold's face showed her happiness, and she stood on tiptoe to meet his kiss.
He drank long and deep from her soft, vulnerable mouth. And then gazing tenderly into her eyes, he smiled. "Our supper is waiting for us, Souci. But we'll have to serve ourselves. I have no wish to celebrate our wedding night with the servants underfoot."
The flames leaped from Marigold's eyes to ignite Shaun's passion. He crushed her to him, forgetting the food waiting for them, forgetting everything but his desire for her.
In a hoarse voice, Shaun murmured, "I want you now, Marigold. I can't wait any long
er to make you mine."
Lifting her in his arms, Shaun carried an unprotesting Marigold up the stairs to the master bedroom—to the magnificent rosewood bed draped in silk.
His hands reached for the buttons of her snow white blouse, and she felt the contact of his hand upon her bare breast. Desire quickened and spread as Marigold felt his head move downward to trace the fragile pink nipple with his tongue.
Then, in haste, her skirt, her lace-embroidered petticoats, and her kid slippers were removed and discarded beside Shaun's own breeches and fine linen shirt.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, staring at Marigold's supple young body waiting unashamedly for his caresses. His hands began their survey of every curve of her body, and Marigold closed her eyes as his flesh became her flesh, his hands a part of her—exploring her softness, knowing the most intimate parts of her body.
His weight pressed down upon her—shifting and teasing—until he moved upward, planting his hard flesh against hers. Her body responded, begging for release.
The thrust was gentle at first, tantalizingly sweet. But it grew more demanding with a rhythm that increased in tempo, until her hips began to move of their own accord, drawing him into her, again and again. Waves of sensuality swept over her, crashing in her ears, filling her mouth with the spreading sweetness of love and then ebbing in an overflow that moved to the very soles of her feet. Shaun, crying out with victory, refused to give her up, but shifted his weight, holding Marigold to him, until their positions were changed, with Marigold atop his strong, masculine body.
Afterward, satiated, Marigold clung to him, her long, golden hair spreading over his chest, her ear attuned to the rapidity of his heartbeat.
In a few minutes, his breathing was even, and Marigold stirred. But Shaun tightened his hold on her. "Not yet, Marigold. I have a great hunger for you that can't be appeased so easily."
"Shaun," she whispered, tasting his name on her lips. "I love you, Shaun."
The house came alive—listening to the sounds of love. Marigold wrapped her arms about the auburn-haired man with emerald eyes. From the bed she could look out into the moonlit night. The constellation of the twins was visible in the evening sky. She thought of Maranta, so far away, and hoped, with all her heart, that her twin had also found a great and abiding love.
Daughters of the Summer Storm Page 31
