Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance Read online

  Ryland watched the curious play of emotions across her face. He saw her hesitation. Then her eyes softened and he saw her longing. He raised his gun a hair, just to remind her of its presence. "Take off your gown," he said again.

  Brooklyn stood slowly, backlighted by the fire. "I had forgotten how enterprising you could be when need demands it."

  "And I am very much in need."

  She echoed his words silently and began to draw up the hem of her nightgown. When it reached the level of her thighs she paused. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for? I'm not hiding any money, you know."

  "You are severely testing my patience. But then, you always did."

  Brooklyn smiled, liking the husky tenor of his voice. She raised the gown over her head and let it drift to the floor. "Satisfied?" she asked, tilting her head to one side coyly.

  "Hardly." Ryland's cinnamon eyes swept over her shoulders, the splendid, naked curves of her breasts. He took in all of her, the delicate inward arc of her waist, the long, graceful line of her legs. She stood very still and silent, vulnerable yet proud. "Come here."

  Brooklyn walked toward the bed. A lock of dark chestnut hair fell over her shoulder and shielded the pink nipple of one breast. She felt his eyes on her, touching her, and her skin tingled and her breasts swelled as if in response to his caressing hands. Kneeling on the bed beside him, Brook pushed the gun aside with her fingertips. "I'm not armed."

  Ryland set the gun on the bedside table. "There is armed, and then there is armed," he said wisely. "You, dearest, are not without weapons."

  She warmed to that and leaned over him, pressing her mouth to his. "The gun was rather a surprise," she said against his lips. "Was it really necessary?"

  The sweetness of her breath tickled him. "You were not precisely forth coming when I didn't have it. And you did teach me to use the gun."

  "Perhaps I had exactly this reason in mind," she said.

  Ryland wouldn't have put it outside the realm of possibilities. She was a good chess player in her own right. It wouldn't surprise him if she had manipulated him to just this end. "Mm," was all he said.

  "I think you'd better kiss me," she murmured. "Really kiss me."

  Ryland obliged her, placing his lips against her parted ones. His tongue teased hers and then drew it into his mouth, engaging it in a lovely heated battle. Brooklyn pushed the covers off his body, taking care even in her arousal to be certain she didn't hurt his arm.

  "There are parts of me in much greater pain than my arm," he told her.

  Her hand slipped over the taut skin of his abdomen, traced the dark arrow of hair, and went lower, finding the proof of his words. Her fingers circled him, giving him pleasure in the way he had shown her.

  "No." He placed his hand over hers, breaking the kiss. His breath was coming unevenly. "No. Tonight I want more. I want to be inside you. I want you around me, all around me."

  "I want that, too." She slipped her hand from beneath his, trailed it across his rock-hard thighs, then rubbed the heel of her palm against the side of his hip, waist, and rib cage. Insinuating her leg between his, Brooklyn's mouth placed kisses on his jaw, neck, and the base of his throat. She felt more than heard Ryland's groan of satisfaction.

  Raising herself higher, sliding up Ryland's body, Brooklyn offered her breasts to his mouth. "Touch me," she said on a dry sob of pleasure.

  There was an awkward moment as Ryland shifted his weight, pushed Brooklyn onto her back, and followed her with his body. The intrusion of Ryland's splints broke their concentration. They laughed, uncomfortably at first, then easily, a shared intimacy in the joining of their voices. Ryland's lips closed over one breast, then the other, drawing a response from Brook's flesh and tiny cries of pleasure from the back of her throat.

  Brook's fingers slipped under his sling and flicked at the copper-lighted hairs at Ryland's nape. His shiver passed from him into her. She welcomed it. Her hands strayed over his back, her head lolled to one side, and her neck arched as wiry filaments of sensation vibrated through her. His loins pressed against her and she felt his hard need, ached for it inside her. Her hips jerked, grinding against him in response to the coiling excitement within her.

  Ryland suckled her nipples until they were blossoming buds of pleasure, and then with infinite gentleness lay on his back and drew her on top of him. With his free hand he touched her thigh as she lowered herself onto him. The wet velvet warmth of her was exquisite. His stomach contracted at his quickly indrawn breath. "You are so lovely," he said, watching her eyes darken with passion until they were the color of midnight. Her lips were slightly parted, moist from touching the tip of her tongue to them. Did she know how provocative her mouth was? Ryland's hand caressed the back of her thigh, her buttocks, and flitted along the length of her spine. He cupped the nape of her neck and applied gentle pressure, bringing her face closer to his. Her arms folded, elbows against his chest as she leaned into him. The tip of her nose touched his.

  "Kiss me," he said.

  Her answer was laced with hunger and passion. Her tongue teased him with the motions her body wanted to make. The pleasure-pain of control and denial was intense.

  "God," he murmured roughly, "I love your mouth." His body arched sleekly beneath her, encouraging her to move as he slipped more deeply into her.

  Brooklyn's breath caught in her throat as her control snapped and was replaced by a more urgent need. She was overwhelmed by the wash of sensations rippling through her, the return of excitement that built on itself, layer upon layer until she thought it had to end, must end, because she couldn't live through it otherwise.

  Ryland could not take his eyes from her face, the flushed cheeks, the pulse beating wildly in the cord of her neck, the slight flare of her nostrils as she drew in an uneven breath. He whispered to her, softly heated words that urged her on and teased her senses with reminders of past delights. Tension curled inside him, tautening his flesh. His muscles became rigid, then liquid with pleasure.

  "Ry!" she cried out his name. "Hold me... please... hold—" Her body shivered with delight as his seed spilled into her.

  He wished he could circle her with both arms but settled for one, pulling her close so that her body lay flush to his, her legs curving along the length of his. He stroked her back, listening to the soft whimpers of sated desire that came from her throat. Over her head he stared at the painting above the mantel. Ryland didn't mind at all that his mermaid was clinging to him. His mermaid, he thought again. She would be his.

  "Do you remember what you said when you turned down Drew's proposal?" he asked.

  Brooklyn was immediately wary. She stiffened a little beside him. "What in particular?"

  "In particular what you said about not being able to be a good wife to him. I wish I had been able to see you then. I might have known if you lied."

  "I wasn't lying. I wouldn't have been a good wife for Drew."

  "No, I suspect that's very true. But does it only apply to Drew?"

  She shook her head, deliberately being difficult. "I'm certain there are a great number of men for whom I would be totally unsuited."

  Ryland hesitated a beat. He knew he should probably leave well enough alone, but it wasn't his way. Except for his offhand remark at Christmas he had never again mentioned his intention of marrying her. He wondered if she had forgotten or perhaps if she thought he had. "What about me?" he asked, striving for a lightness he didn't feel.

  Brooklyn drew in a calming breath. "Most especially you."

  "Why?"

  "You only have to recall your own words, Ry. I'm hardly the sort of woman you wanted to marry. Don't you remember? Well-educated. Social graces. Accomplished. There's something to be said for those qualities. You shouldn't settle for less than you desire." She turned her head toward him, smiling so that he wouldn't suspect the very real ache in the region of her heart. "And what of the woman with the violin curves, the one with hips and breasts enough to bear and feed that brood of child
ren you want?"

  Ryland didn't return her smile, staring at her darkly. "Don't make fun of me. I didn't laugh at the paragon of manhood you described. Where do you suppose you'll ever find him?" he challenged.

  She wanted to tell him that she already had. He must be singularly obtuse not to recognize his own character. "I told you before that I never gave much thought to marriage."

  His brows drew together. "Do you still hate me, Brooklyn? Even sometimes?"

  The question shocked her. It had been so long since she had thought of hating him. "No... I don't. How could you think it after... after we've—" Words failed her. Her voice trailed off unhappily.

  "After we've made love?" he finished for her.

  "I don't know about love," she said slowly. "But I know I've shared more with you than anyone else. There are moments when I think you know me better than I know myself."

  "And that frightens you?"

  "Sometimes," she said honestly. "Mostly I feel—I don't know—vulnerable. Too dependent. It's hard for me. I'm not used to—" She stopped. "To any of this," she ended lamely.

  His hand curved around the nape of her neck. She snuggled against his shoulder, partially because emotional forthrightness embarrassed her, partially because she wanted comfort. "Do you trust me, Brooklyn? I mean, do you trust me not to hurt you?"

  She didn't answer immediately. Instead she sat up and slid out of bed, padding barefoot to the dresser. Opening her jewelry box, Brooklyn found what she wanted lining the bottom—her letter from Phillip. When she returned to the bed, Ryland held open the covers for her, waiting while she lighted the oil lamp. She slipped in beside him, her fingers trembling slightly as she gave him the letter. "It's no good saying that I'll never trust anyone again," she said. "I find that I already do."

  Ryland turned the envelope over in his hands, staring at it through eyes that were misted over. Here was proof of her trust, more than he had ever asked for. "You could read this for yourself," he said at last. "You don't have to share it with me."

  "I know," she said softly. "But I want to. I've always been a bit superstitious about it... about what Phillip said when he gave it to me. I don't want to go back to him, Ry. I don't want what this letter says to make a difference in my life. I'll need your strength, I think."

  Ryland slid the envelope beneath his pillow. "We'll sleep on it," he said. "Quite literally. You've waited this long to know its contents. We can wait a while longer." He turned on his side, propping himself on his good arm. Brook readjusted her position beside him. She warmed her toes against his feet. "It seems you do trust me, Brook. Why don't you want to marry me?"

  "Trust is one thing," she said. "But I don't know if it's enough."

  "You're speaking of love."

  "I suppose I was."

  "I see," he said dully. He must have been wrong, misread the signs he thought he saw. She didn't love him, and she was much too independent to settle for less. Not that there was any reason that she should love him, he thought. He had mistreated and hurt her, badgered and bullied her. She wouldn't be with him if he hadn't forced her to stay in the beginning.

  He hadn't made escape easy for her then.

  "I wouldn't be a good wife for you," she said carefully, holding a finger to his lips when she saw he was about to object. "No, hear me out. You're Andrew's cousin, as close as brothers. If I was wrong for Andrew, then I am equally wrong for you. Think of all the arguments you had against me marrying Drew. They all apply."

  "I didn't know you then."

  "No, you didn't. But what you thought of me was no different than anyone else thought of me. What other people still think. How will you explain me to your family, Ry?" Her voice lowered, taking on the timbre of his."'Uncle Robert, Aunt Louise, this is my wife, Brooklyn North. She was the hostess at the Brass Slipper, the same woman Drew imagined himself in love with, but it's all right. I was still the first man to bed her.'"

  "Sometimes I wish you had known a hundred men before me," he said with a touch of impatience. "Then we could be done with this matter of your virginity. Do you believe I really care what other people think?"

  "I believe you care what your family thinks. You should have the sort of wife you intended to have, someone who would make you proud, not prove a constant embarrassment."

  "You would never embarrass me. And I don't care what Louise and Robert might think. Not about this. Not about our marriage. I know what I think and I know what I want."

  Brooklyn sighed. He always spoke of wanting, never loving. Did it really matter, she wondered. Even if he loved her it wouldn't change the things she said. His family would never accept her. But perhaps if he loved her, really loved her, their acceptance wouldn't be so important. She would have him. They would share their child. "Why are you so set on the idea of marriage?" she asked.

  "I won't insult you by asking you to be my mistress."

  "Surely that's what I am now."

  "No, you're my captive."

  "Perhaps I was in the beginning. No longer. You gave me choices and I made them."

  "And when the thaw comes? You must have noticed it's getting warmer. I saw a green shoot through the snow today. You know what that means."

  "The pass."

  "Yes, the pass. Well be able to take the animals and ourselves out of here."

  "You said you wanted to live here."

  He nodded. "I do... with my wife." Ryland brushed her cheek with his fingertip. "You once told me you liked it here. Was that the truth?"

  "Yes."

  "But you'll still return to Frisco, won't you?"

  "I must."

  "And never see me again?"

  "It would be for the best." Even if she wasn't carrying his child she would have answered the same. The pain of seeing him would be too great. If he insisted, she would have to leave, go someplace where he couldn't find her.

  "Best for whom?" he asked grittily. "Damn it, Brooklyn. I love you. Doesn't that count for something? My insides coil when you walk into my sight. I feel lonely and empty when you walk away. I can understand that you can't love me, but have some pity. I'm not so proud that I wouldn't accept it from you."

  "You lo-"

  He hardly heard her soft murmur of astonishment. "I didn't set out to fall in love with you. But I fell. I'm still falling. Tripping over myself constantly, trying to make you feel the same about me."

  "But that's not possible." She meant that it was not possible that he could love her, not when he had despised her with such vengeance at one time. When Ryland spoke she realized he had misunderstood.

  "So I've realized," he said. "I can't force emotion, but I'll accept whatever you offer, Brooklyn. I'll take your trust, your pity, even the fact that you might feel something as paltry as affection for me." He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His voice was quiet, faintly bitter. "I used to think about trying to find you, exacting some sort of revenge on you and Sumner for what you did to me. It wasn't the money; it was never really the money. But I thought I at least had the right to make you suffer for trying to kill me. I talked myself out of it. Not because the thought of revenge left me cold—it didn't—but because I didn't trust myself where you were concerned. I think I hated myself for being attracted to you. And I was attracted. Against all my better judgment I found myself drawn to you. It didn't endear you to me."

  "Attraction isn't love, Ryland," she said gently.

  He grimaced. "Of course it's not. I've proof enough of that. I hope you're not going to deny that you feel something for me, even if it's some peculiar attraction."

  "I wouldn't try to deny it. You'd know I was lying."

  Ryland laughed without humor. "Do you know when I realized I loved you?" Why not tell her, he thought. He had laid himself open to her anyway.

  "No." She still wasn't certain that he did. Brooklyn could not forget the look on Ryland's face when he finally realized she was a virgin. Perhaps he truly believed he loved her, but there was no guarantee that he wasn't covering hi
s own guilt.

  "It was the day you mentioned oranges and lemons. More precisely, the moment I realized I was going to go to town to get them for you—that's when I knew. And I fought it like hell, refusing to admit the truth even to myself."

  Brook's eyes widened. "But you told me you decided at the table, as soon as I brought up the subject."

  "That's true. So?"

  "But we hadn't... hadn't... you know."

  "Made love?"

  "Yes."

  He sighed. "I told you your virginity was not an issue. Not the way you seem to think it is. I never was able to convince you."

  "You just have," she whispered, awed by this discovery. "Convinced me, that is. Really convinced me." Brook sat up, pulling a sheet across her breasts. She touched Ryland's forehead lightly and brushed back a lock of copper-threaded hair. "Look at me, Ry. Look at me the way you do whenever you want to know if I'm telling the truth." Light from the oil lamp bathed her face in a golden glow. "I love you."

  Instinctively he wanted to object, to believe she was saying the words simply because he had, but he stopped and stared into her lovely eyes, eyes that gave her away when one knew what to look for. And Ryland knew. The cobalt ring around her iris was larger, tinting her eyes a soft shade of blue. If she had been lying her eyes would be more gray than blue, winter misty and cold. No, she was telling him the truth. He held her hand to his cheek, stilling it. "Why did you never tell me?" he asked.

  "I could ask the same of you," she said. "Perhaps we were both afraid we wouldn't be believed. Perhaps neither of us wanted to expose ourselves to hurt. I needed to keep my secret, Ry. I had to keep something for myself; you already had so much of me."

  Ryland drew her palm across his mouth and kissed the heart of it. "But not the thing I wanted the most," he said quietly. "There were times that I suspected you might love me, but then I told myself there was no reason you should. What about that man you described to me? The one you thought you could love?"

  "I'm with him. Someone with a sense of purpose, a man who could make things happen. Compassionate. Kind and gentle. Quick-witted." She paused thoughtfully, smiling slyly at him. "Though I take back the last. Thick-witted, that's what you are. You should have known I was talking about you." She laughed delightedly. "You're blushing!"