Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (good fiction books to read TXT) 📕

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, Corrie, 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