Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance Page 28

  Ryland's self-effacing smile was lopsided. "Modesty prevents me from doing anything else." His grin faded and his eyes were serious as he searched her face. "I'm not that man, Brooklyn. At least I'm not that man all the time. I have a fierce temper. I'm downright nasty when provoked. You should know better than anyone. I can be cold, stubborn, ruthless, and opinionated."

  "I know," she said calmly.

  "You could have put up some small objection."

  "Argue over your faults?" she asked. "Not likely."

  He laughed. "God, I love you."

  "I like hearing that." Her fingers trailed along Ry's collarbone. "There was no lightning-like moment for me," she said thoughtfully. "About loving you, I mean. Awareness came upon me gradually. I think I liked you even from the first... when you made up that silly excuse about why you stepped on my hat."

  "It was an abomination."

  She nodded. "But that's not the reason you trounced it. You hated me then. Your action was filled with contempt. It was your quick explanation that I admired." Her voice became husky. "During those years I believed you were dead I often thought I had probably killed the only man who could have meant something to me. Phillip warned me that you were outside my experience. He was right." She met his eyes. "Then you drew me into your experience. I don't regret that." The work-roughened pads of Brook's fingers felt the steady, warm pulse in Ryland's throat. "I fell in love with you by degrees. You insisted that I stay here, yet you never forced yourself on me. You made me wear that silly bracelet and hated the sound of those bells more than I. You let me cheat shamelessly at poker and—"

  One of Ryland's blows kicked up. "You cheated?"

  Brook's hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes darted away guiltily. "Oh. I thought you knew."

  "We'll speak of it another time," he said severely, though his eyes were dancing with amusement.

  "Well, I didn't cheat at chess," she said defensively.

  "Hmm," was all he said.

  Brook tapped him lightly on the nose. "No one has ever made me as angry as you... and no one has ever made me as happy. You brought me oranges. You taught me to read and write." Her smile was wistful. "You kissed me in the snow."

  "Are you going to marry me, Brooklyn?" he asked suddenly.

  The word no formed in her mind, but what she said was: "Are you certain? Absolutely certain it's what you want?"

  "It's what I want. And you?"

  "There will be problems with your family."

  "I don't know that. My aunt and uncle might surprise you."

  "Andrew?"

  Ryland waved her objection aside. "Are you going to marry me?" he demanded again.

  "Yes."

  "Because if you don't want to I'm going to show you just how single-minded I can be."

  "Yes."

  "I'll find a preacher who will marry us in spite of your—" He came to an abrupt halt, frowning deeply. "Did you say yes?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh."

  "But you can carry on," she said practically. "I like listening to your nonsense."

  Ryland had the grace to look sheepish. "I suppose I thought you would never run out of objections."

  "I haven't, but since they are neither here nor there as far as you're concerned, it seemed prudent to accept your proposal." Her mouth settled over his warmly, hinting of passion.

  Ryland murmured against her lips. "I do like the way you kiss, ma'am."

  Her smile was shy. "Thank you. I had a very good teacher." To her surprise she saw his mouth thin and felt him stiffen. "I was speaking of you!"

  His eyes softened, begging her pardon. "Is it too late to add jealous to my list of faults?"

  "No," she said. "And now that I can write I'm going to keep a very careful record."

  Ryland reached behind her neck and drew her to him again. He kissed the corner of her mouth, the bridge of her nose. As he felt her slide comfortably beside him he nibbled on her earlobe. "I think we should think seriously about the first of those half-dozen children," he whispered.

  "I've been thinking a great deal about it," she said, barely keeping her laughter in check.

  "You have?" He felt the hard twin tips of her breasts touch his chest. "Do you want children, Brooklyn?"

  "I want children. Your children. All six."

  That pleased him. "Perhaps we should just start with one," he said magnanimously.

  "We already have."

  Ryland's head jerked back and his mouth opened in surprise. He felt her close it with her fingertips.

  "Didn't it ever occur to you that all the pleasure we shared in this bed might have some profound consequences?"

  "But... I didn't plan it this way!" he said stupidly.

  Brook's glance was wry. "Is this the first you've realized you're not omnipotent?"

  That effectively put Ryland in his place. "How long have you known?"

  "That you're not omnipotent?" she asked innocently, feeling him stir against her.

  "Brooklyn! How long have you known you're pregnant?"

  "Not very. I'm only about ten weeks along."

  "You weren't going to tell me, were you?"

  "No. And before you go all scowly on me, let me explain myself. I didn't know until tonight how serious you were about marriage. You didn't breathe a word about loving me when you announced that I should sign my name to a marriage certificate. I was not going to pressure you into marrying me for all the wrong reasons. My child and I would have managed quite well on our own, thank you."

  "Our child," he said stiffly. "And you wouldn't have pressured me into marrying you, since I was set on it anyway."

  "But I didn't know that."

  "No, I suppose you didn't," he admitted reluctantly. Cautiously his hand reached under the comforter and found her abdomen. At her sharply indrawn breath he retreated and asked anxiously, "Did I hurt you?"

  "No. Quite the contrary." She pulled his hand back and placed it flat against her belly, holding it there. "You give me pleasure. You always do." She wiggled closer, insinuating her knee between his thighs. "Love me, Ryland."

  "I do," he said softly, "I will."

  His mouth hovered a beat above hers before coming closer. He sucked gently on her full lower lip and teased it with the edge of his teeth. Her breath became his as he swallowed her soft purr of pleasure, her tiny mewling cry of desire. His tongue slipped along the edge of her teeth, coaxing her mouth open so he could taste the honeyed depths of her.

  Her eyes closed, and Ryland's lips brushed her lids, felt the thick fan of her lashes tickle him. Pressing a smile to her forehead, Ryland let his fingers unfold in the soft chestnut strands of Brooklyn's hair. "All of you," he said huskily, "feels like silk. Or satin." He grinned boyishly. "I'm never sure."

  The contrast in textures of their skin was delicious. Her long, coltish legs were curved against his, her arms wound around his back. He was warm, strong, his muscles ribbed and taut. She pressed herself against him, loving the play of his flesh next to hers.

  Ryland's mouth slid along the cord of Brooklyn's neck, pressing kisses to the base of her throat, the sensitive line of her collarbone. He tried to keep the pressure of his splinted arm off her chest, but once he failed and she released a sharp breath of air that had nothing to do with pleasure.

  "Oh, God," he groaned. "I'm sorry." He raised himself, searching her face.

  "It's all right." Brooklyn smoothed the tension lines from his brow. "We'll manage. We always do."

  They did. Their mouths clung, their fingers folded. He caressed her, kissed her, and drew out ripples of response. Shivers of pleasure tripped along her skin, exciting Ryland to explore further. They exchanged whispered love words, silly words that made Brooklyn giggle until Ryland was forced to smother her laughter with kisses. It was precisely the sort of punishment she could appreciate.

  Brooklyn's caresses followed Ryland's. If he touched her thigh, she touched his. If his tongue flicked across her breast, she waited until she could return the p
leasure. Sweetness was buried by rising impatience, shortened breathing, and rough fondling that knew a hungry sort of desire as its source.

  Their bodies rocked, plunged, building tension, heat, and excitement. They were greedy and giving, selfless and selfish. There were moments when satisfaction seemed to be an elusive thing they chased in unison, but there was pleasure in the anticipation and they shared the knowledge of how exceptional, how exquisite loving could be at its climax.

  His one-armed embrace held Brook as surely as two arms might have done. She cried out his name, called him her love. He said she was precious, perfect, his life.

  Their breathing calmed together. The fire crackled. Beneath his shoulder Ryland could feel the sharp edge of the envelope. The pillow had been pushed aside. He shifted to one side, plucked it out with some difficulty, and held it out in front of him, thoughtfully fanning himself with it.

  "Are you going to read it?" Brook asked.

  Ryland shook his head. "Do you want me to?"

  "No. Not now. Perhaps after we're married." Marriage would hold her at his side, no matter what Phillip had written. Ryland would never let her go back. "I wouldn't even care if we never read it."

  "I was thinking the same thing," he said. With a quick snap of his wrist Ryland tossed it over the foot of the bed, aiming for the fireplace. It missed by several feet. Ryland shrugged. "Oh, well. You've kept it this long. I'll put it back in your jewelry box in the morning. Someday it may amuse us to read it."

  Brooklyn said nothing, but she doubted that anything Phillip could have written would amuse either one of them.

  Brook and Ryland were eating dinner in the kitchen when they heard someone thumping across the front porch. They looked at one another, puzzled. Since Ryland had broken his arm their only visitor had been Joe Greer, and he made a point of coming on Wednesdays, bringing reports and records with him. Today was Friday, and the Porter Mining foreman was not the sort of man to deviate from established routine.

  Ryland went to the main room and looked out the window. Brook saw his shoulders relax slightly when he saw who it was. He opened the door and ushered Doc Firth inside.

  "You're early, Doc," said Ryland, grinning widely in anticipation of having his splints taken off. "I didn't expect you for another ten days." He took the doctor's coat and hat and relieved him of his beaten leather satchel.

  "Just thought I'd take a look," Firth said. He took off his spectacles and wiped the condensation from the lenses against his sleeve. He squinted in the direction of the kitchen entrance, where Brook stood. "Good day to you, Mrs. North."

  "It's nice to see you," she replied. "Would you like a cup of coffee? Some dinner perhaps?"

  "Coffee'd be fine." He adjusted his spectacles on the high bridge of his nose and secured them around his ears. When Brooklyn disappeared into the kitchen he leveled his gaze on Ryland. "I need to talk to you alone," he said quietly, hinting at some urgency. "There a place we can go?"

  Ryland was taken aback by Firth's statement, but he nodded and pointed to the study. "Wait for me in there. I'll get your coffee and tell Brooklyn you want to examine me in private." He came into the study a few minutes later, relieved that Brook hadn't voiced the least suspicion. Handing the steaming cup of coffee to the doctor, Ryland asked what all the secrecy was in aid of. "Has there been another accident at the mine?"

  Firth waved the question aside. "No, no. Nothing like that. Everything is fine there according to Greer." He blew on his hot coffee and sipped it cautiously. "Still, Greer sent me to see you."

  "Why not come himself?"

  "Didn't want to rouse suspicion, and he thought his absence would be remarked upon."

  "I think you'd better get to the meat of this matter, Firth. I'm slim on patience these days."

  The doctor nodded. "I was at B mine earlier today. Nothing serious," he added quickly. "George Alder took a nasty kick from one of the mules. The point is that Greer wants you to know two men came around looking for you this morning. They said your uncle sent them. Wanted to talk to you about some family matter."

  "Well, why didn't Joe send them through the tunnel?"

  "Because he was fairly certain Robert North wouldn't have sent bounty hunters to see you on personal business."

  Ryland's head jerked slightly. His spine stiffened, and his expression became guarded. "Bounty hunters?"

  "Joe knew one of them right off. He's been in Virginia City before." Doc Firth rubbed his jaw as he thought. "It was the Lewis business a couple of years back. The poster said dead or alive. This hunter sure as hell brought him in dead. Shot in the back. I think you'll agree he's not the sort of man your uncle would send."

  "What did Joe tell them?"

  "Told them there was no way in or out of the valley until the thaw. They weren't any too pleased about that. Greer suspects they may try to find another way in, and we all know it's possible if they want to take the risks. That's why he asked me to come. The hunters were skulking around the camp as if they thought someone might come to warn you. I was the most expendable man."

  "Hardly expendable," Ryland said. "The miners? Are they talking?"

  "Word passed quickly that the bounty hunters were strictly off-limits. No one's said anything to them. Truth is, Greer thinks they already know there's a way in. The accident at C mine is common knowledge in town, and of course everyone knows you were in the mines at the time. People have been talking about your wife's part in the affair. Jordan and Kittridge—those are the bounty men—could have heard about it. They'll know you were out of the valley at least once. They're bound to keep looking."

  A muscle worked in Ryland's jaw. His mouth settled in a grim line. "Tell Greer that he did the right thing by warning me. Those men are certainly not from my uncle."

  The doctor set his coffee cup on a side table. "You know why they're looking for you?"

  "I have my suspicions." It had to do with the Abigail Gordon case. It was the only explanation that made any sense. There was simply no other reason bounty hunters would be interested in him. "I want you to take off the splints. I'm going to need the use of my arm."

  "It's not going to be much good to you for a few days," Firth objected mildly.

  Ryland shrugged. "It's no good at all to me now. You take them off or I'll do it myself."

  When it was put like that Doc Firth realized he had few options. He undid Ryland's sling, then cut through the bandages wrapping the splints. His capable hands tested the strength in Ryland's arm and the set of the bones. "Try straightening it."

  Ryland's elbow was as stiff and unbending as it was painful, but except for the tiny white lines at the corners of his mouth he gave no indication of it. He clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to make his weak forearm muscles bunch.

  "Your draw's going to be little off the mark until you get strength back in the arm," Firth said shrewdly. "It would be better if you and Mrs. North left the valley."

  "And give them an open target? Not likely. We're staying. I'll let them make the first move."

  "You think they want more than a moment of your time?" the doctor asked curiously, packing up the bandages and splints.

  "I'm certain of that."

  "Should I tell Joe to let them know about the tunnel?"

  "No. They would suspect something then. Let them come over the mountain if they can. I'll be waiting and they won't know it. The advantage of surprise will be with me now."

  Doc Firth stood. "If that's the way you want it."

  "It is. Are you carrying a gun?"

  Firth opened his satchel and showed Ryland the ivory-handled Colt he always kept with him. "You want it?"

  "I'd be obliged," said Ryland. "I only have one gun up here."

  The doctor handed Ryland his weapon and dug deeper for more bullets. "You only have one hand—and that's not worth much."

  Ryland smiled. "I've been working with my left one a little. Not that it matters. This is for Brooklyn." He watched Firth's brows lift skeptically. "T
rust me, Doc. You haven't seen anything until you've seen my wife shoot."

  Chapter 12

  Brooklyn turned from the kitchen sink and dried her hands on her apron. "Has Doctor Firth left already?"

  Ryland nodded, forcing a smile. "Notice anything?"

  "Your shirt seems to fit better." She grinned and crossed the room, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Oh, Ryland, aren't you glad to be rid of that sling?" One hand slid gingerly across his injured arm. "He said you're all right, didn't he? You didn't bully him into taking off the splints?"

  "No," he lied without remorse. "I didn't force him. The arm's fine. A bit weak yet, but it will come around."

  "Then what's wrong?" she asked, raising her chin a notch and searching his face.

  His smile was rueful. Trust her to know there was something bothering him. "Perhaps it would be better if we sat down." At her frown he added, "At least I would prefer it. I have some explaining to do."

  Brook hesitated a moment, then did as he asked. "All right," she said, telling herself she was prepared for anything. But she wasn't, not for what Ryland told her about the bounty hunters.

  "Would you feel safer in town, Brooklyn?" asked Ryland. "I can easily arrange for you to have an escort. I'll take you to A mine myself."

  She shook her head quickly. "No. It's better that I stay with you. If we were separated they could use me to get to you."

  "That occurred to me." He reached across the table and took both her hands in his. "I didn't want you to think I was risking your life by wanting you here. I really believe it's for the best."

  "And I am a very good shot besides." She grinned wryly.

  Ryland did not return her smile. "That had also occurred to me," he said seriously.

  Brook's grin faded. "Do you have a plan?"

  "Not yet. Don't worry. We'll think of something."

  "Are you warm enough?" Ryland asked.