Pieces of Sky

by Warner, Kaki

  “Now who’s the goose?” Annie set aside the tatting and rose. “You said this is what you wanted. Have you changed your mind?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “You don’t have to go through with this. Percy can—”

  “Yes—No. I’m sure.” Resolved, Jessica sent one last glance at the empty road, then turned to her sister with a smile. “Hurry along, Miss Priss. Or we’ll both be late for the ball.”

  ALL DURING THE LONG TRIP FROM HOME, BRADY HAD PICTURED Jessica in the sprawling log and stone house he’d designed with her in mind—sitting in her new rocker on the wraparound porch, stirring a pot of something other than chili on the combination stove he was having shipped from Philadelphia, smiling up at him from their oversized bed.

  But those images turned to dust when he rode up the long pebbled drive to Bickersham Hall.

  Pillared gate, shaded lawns, a huge stone manor house with tall mullioned windows, massive arched entry, side porticos, and wide stone terraces. It wasn’t a house, it was a mansion, and one that had been in her family for hundreds of years. How could he expect her to leave that?

  Fancy carriages lined the drive. Uniformed servants moved past the windows, holding trays laden with food and tall goblets. Music never heard in a Western saloon wafted onto the terrace as dark-suited men and bejeweled women waltzed gracefully past.

  That wasn’t cabrito they were serving. And this wasn’t a fandango. And he didn’t belong here any more than a calf at a christening.

  But Jessica did.

  A hopeless feeling swept through him. And at that moment, as he sat on his horse staring at Jessica’s ancestral home, he understood in a way he never had before how truly different he and Jessica were. It wasn’t a matter of money or possessions but a difference in perception and expectation.

  She looked at land and thought flowers. He looked at land and thought cattle. She was liveried servants and ivy-covered stone. He was hard-living cowboys and rough-hewn timbers. Champagne and Forty Rod. The two didn’t mix.

  But there was still something . . . something he couldn’t name or define . . . that drew them together, despite all those differences that threatened to pull them apart.

  He left the Thoroughbred munching flowers in a big stone urn by the drive, and, with both anticipation and dread, mounted the worn stone steps.

  The door flew open before he reached it. A wild-eyed old man stepped out, glaring up at him from beneath white wooly eyebrows. “What do ye want?” His boozy breath almost singed Brady’s mustache.

  When Brady didn’t answer, the old man poked him in the chest with the octagonal barrel of an ancient flintlock dueling pistol. “State yer business. And if I dinna like yer answer, laddie, I’ll be having yer wee bollocks for breakfast.”

  Brady looked down at the pistol and was relieved to see the flint was missing. “Jessica,” he said, gently pushing the barrel aside with his index finger.

  The barrel swung back. The old man’s gaze narrowed. “Is that yer horse eating the shrubbery?”

  Brady nodded.

  “She’ll no’ like it.”

  “It’s a he.”

  “What?”

  “The horse. It’s a he.”

  “I can see that, ye great bluidy fool. What do ye want?”

  Feeling a headache build, Brady squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. How was he ever going to live in this mist-shrouded land surrounded by odd-talking Scotsmen and tippy-toeing Englishmen? And where the hell was the sun? Lowering his hand, he nudged the pistol aside again. “I’ve come to see Jessica Thornton. Is she here?”

  “O’course she is. It’s the engagement ball, ye daft foreigner. Be gone wie ye.”

  Engagement ball?

  The old man turned toward the door.

  Brady yanked him back with enough force to lift the Scotsman off his feet and send the pistol spinning across the flagstones. “Whose engagement ball?”

  He must have shouted it, judging by the old man’s flinch. “The lassie’s.”

  Brady felt like he’d been hit. The lassie? Jessica? Engaged? “Who’s she marrying? Bothingham?”

  “A-Aye.”

  “That sonofabitch!” Thrusting the old man away, he looked around for something to hit. Couldn’t she even wait a year?

  “It’s you!”

  He turned back to see the old man regarding him with stunned disbelief.

  “Aboot time ye got yer bluidy arse over here!” The Scotsman rushed over and began pounding his back. “It’s me, Dougal. Dougal McRae. Of the Killiecrankie McRaes, no’ the Inverness.” He gave a belly laugh, which turned into a choking fit that felled insects within ten feet of his vaporous breath. “Come in, laddie,” he said, wiping tears from his red-rimmed eyes. “Ye’re just in time for the toast to a long and happy marriage.” Then he was off again, choking and hacking and laughing.

  Afraid he might puke, Brady turned and walked down the steps toward his horse.

  “LASS,” DOUGAL CALLED LOUDLY AS JESSICA SWEPT THROUGH the entry toward the kitchen. “There’s a man out front needs a word. Seems upset.”

  Lovely. Cook having conniptions over some missing champagne, Sir Henry propositioning the footmen, Adrian throwing frogs on the Ellerton twins—where did a fifteen-month-old get frogs?—and now an irate tradesman. “Can’t it wait?”

  “Best not. The puir lad’s come a long way.”

  She sighed. “Very well.” She crossed to the front door, speaking over her shoulder as she went. “Take the frog away from Adrian and put it back where it belongs.”

  “What frog?”

  “The one you gave him. And return the champagne to Cook.”

  Ignoring Dougal’s mutterings, she opened the door and stepped onto the terrace.

  A man stood at the bottom of the steps talking to his horse. A tall man with dark hair and mustache and shoulders so wide they looked padded.

  Her breath caught. She took a hesitant step forward then another, until she was close enough to grasp the stone balustrade for support. “Brady . . . ?”

  He turned. Eyes the color of a hot summer sky swept over her.

  “Oh, God . . .” Her heart stuttered in her chest. Air rushed from her lungs. She swayed as her legs lost strength. Why now? After all her plans were in motion, why did he come now?

  Brady saw her teetering and took the stairs in two strides. As he steadied her on her feet, she clutched at him, eyes wide and round in her ashen face, her mouth open and closing as she tried to speak. “Are you real? Is it really you?”

  His gaze moved hungrily over her. She wore a gauzy green dress that showed off the curves that had kept him awake for a year. Her skin was paler without the freckles, her hair had lost the golden streaks left by last year’s sun, and she looked more like a china doll than the flesh-and-blood woman who had left him a year ago. But he remembered that flowery scent and the way she fit so perfectly in his arms. “It’s me.”

  She pressed a trembling hand against his cheek. “You’re here? Truly?”

  Her touch made his skin feel tight and his knees weak. How had he managed a year without this woman? “I’m here. Truly.” Blinking hard, he smiled.

  Tears flooded her eyes. “I—I can’t believe you came.” She stared up at him a moment longer, then gently pulled out of his grip and wiped at her eyes. “I had given up . . . I didn’t expect . . .” She busied herself brushing at her skirts, patting her hair, checking the jewelry dangling from her earlobes. “You never wrote.”

  When she finally quit fussing, he said, “You’re not marrying Bothingham.”

  She looked up at him, a small frown forming between her auburn brows.

  That sinking, hopeless feeling gripped him again. Where was the lively, headstrong Jessica he remembered? This woman was a stranger to him. She looked nearly the same and sounded the same, but the fire was gone. Even her riotous curls had been tamed, and those whiskey-colored eyes had lost their luster and just looked . . . brown.
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  “Who said I was marrying Bothingham?”

  “Your doorman. About the time he pulled a gun on me.”

  “Dougal.” She made a dismissive gesture with one shaky hand. “He’s Scottish. He pulls a gun on everyone.” Her eyes darted to the faces grinning at them through the windows. “We’re making spectacles of ourselves.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do.” She started fussing with her skirts again. “It’s unseemly.”

  And just like that, Her Ladyship was back—the starchy tone, the pinched expression, the rigid posture. It sickened him. He’d come too late. He’d lost her. Turning, he started down the steps. “Good-bye, Jessica.”

  “W-What? Where are you going?” When he didn’t answer, she moved to the top of the stairs. “You’re right, I’m not marrying Percy,” she called in a rush.

  He stopped.

  “Annie is.”

  When he looked back, she burst into tears. “Why didn’t you write, Brady? I waited and waited, but you didn’t even send a single letter and I thought . . . I thought . . .”

  This was the Jessica he remembered, the emotional, babbling, vulnerable woman who needed him almost as much as he needed her. He bounded back up the steps. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her away from prying eyes, down the stairs, and around the house to the privacy of the torch-lit side gardens.

  Not too late. Still his. Relief roared in his head, sent such a charge of energy through his body it was all he could do not to break into a run.

  The path ended at a gurgling stream, banked by leafy shrubs and long-limbed oaks that formed a drooping canopy overhead. For once it wasn’t raining, but the air was thick with fog rising from the damp ground. Flowers blooming beside the path gave off a scent unfamiliar to him, and somewhere, in a call he didn’t recognize, a bird fussed at their intrusion. Breathing hard, he turned to Jessica .

  With mist swirling around her feet like spun sugar clouds and torchlight shimmering off her jewels and tears, she looked like something from his dreams. He wanted to hold her, to assure himself she was real, but uncertainty held him back. The year had changed her. She was no longer his Jessica. Nor was she wholly Her Ladyship . . . but something in between. More assured. Older. Sadder. And if possible, more beautiful. Releasing her hand, he stepped back and said the only thing he could think of—the only thing that mattered. “I love you, Jessica.”

  She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and slowly let it out. She wiped a hand over her wet cheek then lifted her head and studied him. “Why have you come now, after all this time?”

  Not the response he’d hope for. But he pushed gamely ahead. He knew she was angry, and allowed that she had a right to be. And if he was required to do a bit of groveling to win her back, he’d gladly do it. “I realized there were worse things than losing the ranch.”

  “Like what?”

  “Losing you.”

  Anger flashed. “You didn’t lose me, Brady. You threw me away.”

  Groveling and begging. “I thought I was doing the right thing, Jessica. I was wrong.”

  “It took you a year to figure that out?” She started crying again, which only added fuel to her anger. “Now look what you’ve done. I never cry. Yet around you I become a watering pot.”

  Brady had noticed that. He wasn’t sure how it was his fault but he knew better than to argue.

  Conjuring a lacy handkerchief from somewhere, she blotted the tears from her cheeks. Once she had herself in hand, she hiked her chin in that familiar defiant gesture that always brought a catch to his heart. “Are your intentions to stay or take me back?”

  “Either. Whatever you want.” Which he suddenly realized was the absolute unequivocal truth. Echoing Jack’s sentiment—Brady knew he would do anything, live anywhere, be whatever Jessica wanted, as long as she would have him.

  She blinked puffy eyes. “What about RosaRoja?”

  “Hank can take care of it.”

  Jessica’s heart faltered, then accelerated to a frantic wing beat against her ribs. “You’re giving up the ranch? For me?”

  He spread his hands. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  Her mouth went slack. Then joy surged through her. He chose me. Over RosaRoja. She felt like singing, laughing, dancing a jig through the mist. I won.

  Brady watched her, a confused but hopeful smile on his face. He looked so dashing in his fine suit, so properly English—except for the boots and the ever-present stubble and that wrinkled cravat. So . . . un-Brady. If she didn’t know the heart of the man standing before her, she wouldn’t have known how great the sacrifice he had come here to make.

  For her.

  She almost burst into tears again.

  Brady. In England. Where there was too little sky and too many fences. Doing what? Sitting on the terrace sipping tea while he visited with the vicar? Making a list of all the words he would have to cross from his vocabulary?

  It would destroy him.

  Which was why her trunks were packed and the tickets bought, and in two weeks she and Adrian, escorted by Dougal, were to begin the long journey back to where they belonged. Back to him. What if they had crossed en route? The irony of it almost made her laugh out loud.

  She dabbed at her running nose. “I doubt you’d be happy here.” Nor would she, watching him try to become something he wasn’t. She loved him for what he was, not what she could make of him. Although in that suit he was utterly charming. Maybe she could convince him to keep it.

  “I’d be happy wherever you are, Jessica. You’re my lodestone. My true north. Without you, I’m lost. Don’t you know that?”

  She felt another tear roll down her cheek. With a shaky laugh, she brushed it away, but more came. The man knew how to charm her, he surely did.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you, Jessica. It won’t happen again. I swear it.”

  I’m sorry. Two simple words. But coming from this man, they made her heart whole.

  “You’re crying again.”

  “Happy tears.”

  She felt his hand brush along her cheek. “Does that mean you forgive me?”

  Lifting her head, she smiled at the man before her—this magnificent, arrogant, utterly exasperating man who had traveled thousands of miles to arrive unannounced on her doorstep, expecting her to simply jump into his arms as if he had not completely ignored her for almost a year.

  She adored him beyond reason.

  She would forgive him anything.

  Before she could tell him that, words rushed from his mouth. “I’m rich now, Jessica. I can give you anything you want. We struck silver and—”

  “I don’t care.” Pressing her palm against his solid chest, she felt the hard, fast beat of his heart. Just having him within reach calmed her . . . sustained her.

  His voice grew strained, almost desperate. “I’m building a new house—a big house, with lots of windows and wide porches and a cookstove sent all the way from—”

  “I don’t care.” She lifted her hand to trail fingertips over his bristly jaw. It didn’t matter where they lived. Annie could watch over Bickersham Hall until a daughter was born. And if she and Brady never had a daughter, then so be it. Annie’s daughter, Rebecca, could have it. All that was truly important was that she and Brady were together, wherever that might be.

  Air exploded from his chest. “Then what do you want, Jessica? Just tell me.”

  She smiled, despite the tears she couldn’t seem to stem. “You.” Reaching higher, she grabbed his earlobe and gently tugged his face down so she could press her lips to his. “I want you, you big dolt,” she whispered, kissing him again. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

  Tension seeped out of him in a long shaky breath. “You’ve got me.”

  She felt the tremble in his arms as they closed around her, pulling her so tightly against his body her toes barely touched the ground. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world. “And now that you do,” he said, resting his forehead against hers, “what are you going t
o do with me?”

  She tilted her face to nip his bottom lip. “I suppose I’ll have to marry you and take you home. It would be the proper thing, after all, insomuch as you’ve already had your way with me.”

  He stilled. Then he slowly lifted his head. In the glow of the torchlight, his eyes seemed to burn with blue flames. “Whose home?” he asked in that husky voice. “Mine? Or yours?”

  “Ours, you sweet, silly man.” At his look of relief, she laughed, joy overflowing her heart. “Something sturdy,” she said, slipping her arms around his neck. “With windows all around—”

  “And rockers on the porch,” he added.

  “And a lovely view of the mesquite tree.”

  HERE’S A PREVIEW OF THE NEXT BOOK

  IN THE BLOOD ROSE TRILOGY BY KAKI WARNER . . .

  OPEN COUNTRY

  COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!

  Prologue

  Savannah, Georgia, October 1871

  “MOLLY? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? HOW DID YOU GET in?”

  So much for a warm welcome, Molly McFarland thought as she set down her valise and turned to meet her sister’s husband as he came down the staircase of his elegant Savannah home. “The door was open.”

  “Damn those kids.” Reaching past her, he shut the door so forcefully the panes in the window beside it rattled. Standing back, he glared at her. “Why are you here?”

  “The doctor sent for me.” Molly unpinned her hat and hung it on a hook beside the door, then turned to her brother-in-law with what she hoped was a pleasant expression. In truth, she despised Daniel Fletcher, especially after the callus way he had treated the family—most particularly, his two stepchildren—after her father’s death a month ago. “How is she?”

  Fletcher made a dismissive motion. He seemed distracted and on edge. Not his usual, fastidious self with that unshaven beard and soiled shirt. “Fine, fine. There was no need for you to come all the way from Atlanta.”

  “The doctor seemed to think there was. Lung fever is quite serious.” Hearing the snappish tone in her voice, she reined in her temper. “I’m not here to interfere with the doctor, Daniel. I’ve come as her sister, not a nurse. If there’s anything I can do to—”