Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance Page 40

  "Not smart enough, you mean." Abby's mouth pulled to one side in disgust. "The dolt." Her voice held less impatience than before.

  "Actually I meant that he's not much of an actor," Ryland said. "Brooklyn pointed it out to me. That's why I told him what I knew. It was the right decision. It was his concern for you that brought us to the house. I really hadn't thought that David would deliver Brooklyn here. Fortunately Brooklyn had delayed events by proceeding with a sort of reckless caution."

  "Reckless caution," Brooklyn said thoughtfully. "I like that."

  "I'm not certain I care for it all," Abby put it. "Things could have turned out very badly."

  "Ryland's taught me not to dwell on what might have been. I made my decision, and given the situation again I would act no differently. Besides, the surprise of it all loosened Sarah's tongue. She couldn't tell everything she knew quickly enough. By the time Preston recovered consciousness we knew that he was not only guilty of everything we suspected, but some things we didn't know as well."

  Ryland nodded. "He had to regret confiding so much in Sarah, especially about Patrick Gordon's death. There was nothing to connect him to it before. Everyone, including you, thought Patrick's fall was an accident."

  "Poor Patrick," Abby said wistfully. "If only he had told me about Phillip Sumner's letter first instead of going to Preston for advice. Of course he couldn't know how the letter would upset Preston... far more than it would have upset me. I realize Patrick was trying to do the right thing. What I don't understand is why Preston didn't destroy the letter after killing Patrick."

  "Perhaps he couldn't find it," Ryland said. "However, when you came across it and told both your grandsons, he didn't waste any time setting fire to the evidence. He also arranged to meet Phillip and Brooklyn. In Phillip he found something of a kindred spirit."

  "Ryland. That's horrible." Brooklyn protested. "Phillip was nothing at all like Preston."

  "We'll agree to disagree on that count." He turned his attention back to Abby. "Preston allowed himself to be blackmailed by Phillip. It was an arrangement that satisfied both men. As long as Phillip kept Brooklyn under his wing and in the dark about her identity, Preston felt perfectly comfortable. He only began to worry when you hired me. That's when he decided that Brooklyn couldn't be allowed to live. Though it will be hard for the court to prove, he is ultimately responsible for the deaths of William Maine and Phillip Sumner. His defense on those counts will be that Jordan and Kittridge acted on their own, beyond his instructions, that his intention was only to find Brooklyn."

  "No one will believe that," Brooklyn said.

  Ryland shrugged. A lock of hair fell over his eyes and he pushed it back. "Stranger things have been known to happen. It depends how much credence they give to Sarah's testimony. Remember the woman's reputation. We know for a certainty that she wasn't raised by nuns in an orphanage. She's been involved with the police before, a string of petty thefts and various blackmail schemes. All of them out of this parish. Her testimony against Preston isn't going to have the ring of truth it could have. So much of the outcome depends on our own testimony."

  Brooklyn had no desire to appear in court—the thought of it depressed and frightened her—but she knew it was necessary, so she complied. In her mind she was little better than the woman Preston had hired to pretend to be Abby's granddaughter. What if everyone thought she was an impostor also? Brook reached over her shoulder for Ryland's hand, needing his support as her doubts began to surface. Ryland's lean fingers were warm around her cool ones. She glanced back and returned his encouraging smile. Yes, everything was going to be fine.

  Ryland pointed toward the bed, indicating Abby. Brooklyn's eyes followed his gesture and saw that her grandmother was tiring rapidly. Her lids were heavy and her skin was pale, nearly translucent.

  "I'll stay until you get one of the servants to take my place," Brooklyn said softly. "Ask Barbara to come. Grandmother likes her."

  Ryland nodded, easing himself out of the chair, and left the room quietly. Brooklyn got up from the footstool and went to Abby's side, tucking the comforter more securely about her grandmother's thin body. She kissed Abby's forehead. A faint smile lifted the corners of Abby's mouth as she drifted into a healing sleep.

  Ryland was reading a newspaper in the drawing room when Brooklyn joined him. He put the paper aside immediately, his dark brow lifting in question.

  "She's fine," Brooklyn said. "She just tires easily. I wish she didn't have to testify at all. It's going to be dreadful for her."

  Patting the empty space on the sofa beside him, Ryland echoed Brooklyn's worry. "But she'll only be called at the last, and only if it's strictly necessary. Don't underestimate Abby's resilience. She's as tough as old leather and as gritty as Death Valley sand."

  Brooklyn sat down, pulling her legs beneath her. She laid her head against Ryland's shoulder and felt his arm come around her. "Though I cringe at the thought that in fifty years you'll be describing me the same way, you're probably right."

  "I am," he said with a measure of cockiness.

  Brooklyn tapped him lightly in the ribs with her fist. "Are you always so confident?"

  "About some things." He gave her a light squeeze. "No one is going to badger you on the witness stand. Not about your past, not about anything."

  "How can you be so certain?"

  Ryland's hand moved to rest on the curve of her abdomen. "Your delicate condition."

  She laughed. "I don't feel very delicate."

  "They won't know that. Everyone will tread lightly. You were the victim, remember? This is Preston's trial, not yours. I've spent a great deal of time in recent weeks with the prosecution's lawyers. They have a solid case with my testimony and your uncle's. David's been very cooperative and he'll receive some leniency in return. He still has that certain presence about him that invites trust."

  "You're saying he'll be a good witness, then."

  "An excellent witness."

  "I don't want Brighton Oaks, Ryland."

  "I know. David knows it as well... now. He'll do everything he can short of perjuring himself to make certain Preston is found guilty. Your uncle could have easily killed me, Brooklyn. He didn't. He put me in that hole because he couldn't do it."

  "He meant for Preston to do it later."

  "Perhaps. We'll never know."

  "I don't care what happens to David Pendleton," Brooklyn said quietly. "But Dorothea... and the children... I care for them. Gabby and John will have Brighton Oaks. They don't deserve the sins of the father."

  "David knows you're being generous."

  "Not generous," she said. "Repaying a debt. Gabby and John saved your life."

  Ryland reached for her hand. "You haven't had any nightmares for a long time."

  "It must be because I'm settled. You've taken away all my ghosts." She stroked his palm. "Anyway, they bothered you more than they did me. I never remembered them."

  A comfortable silence embraced them, and their thoughts wandered, then converged. After a few minutes, without a word passing between them, Ryland and Brooklyn rose from the sofa and ascended the stairs to their bedchamber, hand in hand. Brooklyn drew the drapes, closing off the dusky evening sunset while Ryland toyed with bedside lamp until it bathed the bed in a warm orange and yellow circle of light. He realized that they very rarely made love in the dark. They enjoyed seeing one another too much. The thought made him smile.

  "Come here," Ryland said as Brook hesitated beside the window. She was studying her reflection in the cheval glass across the room, a slight frown pulling her brows together. When she didn't move he crossed to her and stood at her back, wrapping his arms around her, below her breasts and above her belly. His chin rested against her hair. In the mirror their eyes met. "I think you're very beautiful," he said.

  "Still?" she said doubtfully.

  "Still and always. Forever." He pressed a kiss into her hair. "In fact I find this temporary condition of yours very exciting," he whispered. "
Very arousing." He tipped her backward so that her hips were cradled against his hard thighs. He saw her eyes widen as she felt him straining against her. Drawing her hair to one side, he let his mouth drop to the curve of her neck, teasing her with kisses that traveled upward until he caught the tip of her earlobe in his teeth. "Very appealing," he said huskily.

  Brooklyn lifted his hands so they cupped the underside of her breasts. "You just like these," she said, biting back a soft moan of pleasure. "I finally have all those curves you wanted." Her eyes dropped to her belly. "Even if one of them is in the wrong place."

  "You're ridiculous." His lips moved to her temple, and his hands passed lightly over her breasts. Her nipples stiffened. "And responsive." He drew his hands to the back of her gown and began to unfasten it, watching Brooklyn's face in the mirror, commanding her attention.

  Brooklyn could not have looked away if he had asked it of her. He parted the neckline of her gown and eased it over her shoulders. The thin lacy straps of her chemise fell across her arms. Ryland's hands caressed her naked back, trailed along her spine, then slipped beneath her arms and covered her bare breasts. Brooklyn's hands held his there. Her breath caught as his head lowered and his tongue traced a damp line across her shoulder. Though Brooklyn couldn't see Ryland's eyes now, the spell wasn't broken, and she continued to watch him in the glass, at once a voyeur and a participant. It was exciting... and erotic. He made her feel beautiful and desired, swept away her doubts.

  Ryland startled her by picking her up and carrying her to the bed, silencing Brooklyn's protest beneath a deep kiss that left them both breathless. He laid her down on top of the comforter and followed with his body. They undressed one another hastily, tossing their clothes onto the floor and kissing with playful, hungry abandon. Naked, Brooklyn straddled Ryland, taking him fully as she leaned forward and the dark curtain of her hair fell on either side of his face. Her clear eyes held his. The cobalt blue rings widened.

  "How do you know when I'm lying?" she asked. The tip of her nose nudged his. The whisper of a kiss caressed his mouth.

  Ryland laughed and groaned at the same time. "You tend to pick your moments, don't you?"

  "I like to think so."

  "What happens if I don't tell you?"

  Brooklyn lifted herself slightly, poised to leave. Her smile was wicked. "I'll leave you unsatisfied and unloved."

  He pretended horror. "You wouldn’t." He tried to reach for her buttocks, but she caught his wrists and pinned them above his head.

  "I notice you're not struggling very hard."

  "Your concept of torture has a certain appeal."

  "Tell me," she said, teasing him by lowering her hips slightly then withdrawing again.

  "I'll probably regret this."

  "You'll regret it more if you don't tell me. I don't think celibacy would suit you."

  Ryland had to agree. He refrained from pointing out that he could go elsewhere for pleasure. First of all, there'd be no pleasure in it. And more importantly, Brooklyn was likely to poke a gun in his ribs. Loaded. "It's your eyes," he said.

  "My eyes?"

  He nodded. "They darken at the edges when you're lying. It's a very subtle change, but I can tell."

  Her mouth hovered above his. "I'll look for myself later," she said.

  "Much later."

  "Mm." She released his hands and began moving over him. "Much, much later."

  Ryland's hands slipped over her waist and rested on her hips as Brooklyn's mouth slanted across his. They made love then, glorying in the pleasure they could give one another, in the textures and contrasts that made their exploring exciting, their intimacy sensual.

  Brooklyn's soft cries tripped across Ryland's skin. He shuddered, holding her close as the tremors in his own body eased. After a moment they turned on their sides, wriggling and adjusting the sheets and blankets until they were completely cocooned, facing one another in the darkness. Their knees touched and their fingers intertwined.

  "I love you," he whispered.

  "Even when I torture you?"

  "Especially then."

  "I'll remem—" Brooklyn broke off, startled by the movement within her. "Oh!" It had been particularly fierce this time, not at all like the gentle movements she had felt on other occasions.

  Ryland's voice became anxious. "What is it?"

  In answer, she brought his hand to her abdomen so he could experience it for the first time. "Our baby. There! Did you feel it?"

  Ryland did. "Imagine that," he said, awed. "Does it hurt?"

  "No."

  "Imagine that," he said again.

  And because he seemed so struck by the event, as if he didn't have any idea how such a thing could come to pass, Brooklyn began to laugh. Every worry she had ever harbored was swept to one side as she thought of the future unfolding in front of her, the future that she would not have to face alone. Still laughing, she launched herself into Ryland's arms, and his laughter joined hers for no other reason than because she touched his heart and healed his soul.

  The End

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  Sweet Fire

  "That's right," Nathan said, raking his hair with his hand. "Nothing happened." He could still taste Lydia in his mouth, feel the raspy sweetness of her tongue against his. His skin was warm where she had touched him with her fingertips, and between his thighs, where she had left him aching, he was still hot and hard. "And nothing's going to happen," he went on, "so stop looking at me as if you wish it would."

  Lydia stared at him, horrified. "That's a lie. I'm not wishing any such thing."

  He was. He grabbed his vest, jacket, socks, and shoes and stalked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. God help him, he thought. He was handling it wrong. All of it. He'd hoped to gain her confidence, not her contempt. He'd never touched a virgin in his life, was never even certain he knew one until Lydia Chadwick, and in less than twenty-fours of meeting her formally he'd had his hands all over her.

  He stared at his hands. They were shaking. He dropped his clothes on one of the sofas, padded over the sideboard, and splashed a clean tumbler with bourbon. He raised the glass to his lips, felt the trembling, and finally admitted that he was scared.

  Lydia Chadwick held his life in her small, delicate hands and she didn't even know it. An accusation of rape from her and... He couldn't think about it. He wouldn't.

  Nathan knocked back his drink and set the tumbler down hard. In the other room he could hear the rustle of clothes and realized Lydia was dressing. He did the same.

  Lydia entered the sitting room some ten minutes later.

  Her face was freshly scrubbed and her hair had been ruthlessly pulled back, tied at her nap with a scrap of lace from her petticoat. "I'd like a glass of water, please," she said, standing on the threshold.

  "Certainly." His tone was as flat as hers and just as calm. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever taken place. Nathan poured her water at the sideboard and held it out to her. She crossed the room to take the glass. There was only the slightest pause as she accepted it, careful to place her fingers just so in order not to touch his hand.

  "Thank you." She finished the glass quickly and held it out again.

  "More?"

  "Please. I can't remember ever being so thirsty."

  "It's the alcohol. It does that." He gave her back the glass. When she was finished this time she placed it on the sideboard. "How's your head?" he asked.

  "Thumping."

  He nodded, expecting nothing less. "Are
you ready to go?"

  "Yes."

  Rain lashed at them during their entire journey. There were no cabs on the streets looking for fares, and not many drivers would have asked their horses to climb steep Powell Street under such slippery conditions. Nathan and Lydia were both wet and winded by the time they reached the mansion.

  He escorted her to the same side door she had used to make her exit earlier. They stood on the recessed stoop under an eave and caught their breath. The rain was falling so heavily now that it surrounded them like a crystalline curtain.

  "I'll come by at seven-thirty to take you to dinner," he said, speaking softly so as not to wake anyone.

  That got Lydia's full attention, and her features expressed complete disbelief. "You can't be serious." But she saw that he was. "I'm not going anywhere with you tomorrow or any other day."

  "You're reneging on the wager?"

  "After what happened a mere hour ago I don't think your question merits an answer."

  Placing his arms on either side of her shoulders, Nathan cornered her against the door. "You seem to be forgetting something, Miss Chadwick, and since it's pertinent to this discussion, I find it necessary to point it out. As pleasurable as that little interlude in my suite was, it wasn't initiated to compromise you. I'm not even certain I initiated it. You could have been any whore in my bed, snoring, stuporous, and smelling of alcohol. I seem to remember you crawling all over me, and I'll tell that to anyone you go running to. Give me some credit for getting out of that bed as soon as I realized who you were.

  "As for wanting your money, put that thought away. Your money's no good to me. I'm only interested in you, and my intentions are so honorable you'd probably find them insulting."

  His declaration left Lydia unable to speak. He called her a whore in one breath, threatened her in the next, and very nearly plighted his troth in the third.

  "Good evening, Miss Chadwick," Nathan rapped out as he pushed away from the door. He turned and started around the house toward the street.