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

by Jo Goodman

  Ryland eased the straps of Brook's shift over her arms until the material bunched at her waist. He watched her face closely as one hand curved over the fullness of her breast. His thumb slowly passed back and forth across the tip of the pink nipple, arousing it—quite against Brook's will, he was certain—to a state of hardness. Without a word his hand moved to her other breast, stroking it until he felt its swelling response in his palm. "Did you permit Jake this liberty," he asked, "or did you offer him a drink before offering anything else?"

  Brook simply glared at Ryland.

  "I'll wager you've never felt remorse about anything you've done," Ryland said and his hand slipped to the underside of her breast. He paused, and then his fingers followed the line of her rib cage until his palm rested at the inward curve of her narrow waist.

  Brook's hand stilled. By slow degrees she had been drawing up the hem of her shift, trying to get her gun. Now she stopped, afraid Ryland would feel the slight movement of her fingers. What had Ryland just said to her? Something about her not feeling remorse? He didn't know anything about it.

  "I made Jake's losses good," said Ryland. "So actually you owe me what you cheated from him. That puts you quite firmly

  "I think you're mad."

  Her opinion amused Ryland. "Maybe so. Where's my money, Miss Hancock?" he asked, sighing. His eyes dropped to her naked breasts. "It's not where I thought it was."

  Brook could not help but notice that he didn't sound in the least disappointed. "Even if I knew where the money was, why should I tell you? You plan to rape me anyway, don't you?"

  His dark brows almost shot to his hairline. "Rape you? I hardly think so. Sumner gave you to me this evening." His fingers drifted across the flat plane of her stomach, and he felt Brook's sharp intake of breath. "If anyone raped you, Sumner did." He smiled faintly at the momentary confusion in her eyes. "No, I didn't expect you to understand what I meant." Ryland's head lowered again as his fingers slipped beneath the shift. While his mouth closed over hers the heel of his hand pressed against the soft triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs. He felt her arch in an attempt to throw him off. His other hand clamped her shoulder as his lips ground against hers.

  Brook seethed with anger at the intimacy he was forcing upon her, but her movements were less to get away from Ryland than they were to get at her weapon. She told herself she could suffer this indignity because in moments she would have the upper hand.

  "So there is fire," Ryland whispered as he felt Brook begin to return his kiss.

  And you're about to find out how much, Brook thought. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She could feel the leather holster and the cool butt of his gun against her skin. His mouth trailed hotly down her throat and rested briefly on the curve of her neck and shoulder.

  "Where is the money you and Sumner stole from me?" he asked huskily.

  "Take your hands off me," Brook said between clenched teeth.

  Ryland's first instinct was to laugh; then he felt the barrel of a gun pressed against his ribs. Surprise held him motionless for a second. He thought she must have lifted his own gun and cursed himself for being ten times the fool he thought he was.

  "Slowly, Mr. North. I'll blow a hole in your side the size of my fist otherwise."

  Ryland sat up, withdrawing his hands slowly. The first thing he noticed was that he still had his own gun. Where the hell had she been hiding hers? And more to the point, why hadn't he expected she might have one? "Soft," he said, more to himself than to her. "Soft in the head since the war."

  "Spare me your self-recriminations," Brook said sharply. "Put your hands on your head. That's right. Get away from the bed and sit in that chair. Do it, Mr. North. Now!" Brook sat up as Ryland backed away, keeping her gun leveled on his chest. "Sit down."

  Ryland sat, eyeing Brook's grip on her weapon. "I've always wondered which was worse," he said with practical calm. "A woman who knew how to use the gun she was holding, or a woman who didn't."

  "I assure you I am in the first category."

  "I never doubted it, Miss Hancock. Never doubted it at all." Ryland admitted to himself that nothing in his experience had prepared him for Brook Hancock. He had thought she might drop her guard long enough to cover herself, but he suddenly realized she didn't give a damn about facing him so brazenly.

  As if reading his thoughts Brook said, "You didn't think there was anything wrong as long as you were undressing me, did you? But you think there is something sluttish about me because I care infinitely more of my safety than I do for my modesty." Ryland's guilty start confirmed her suspicions. "You're just like every other man I've ever met."

  Ryland thought he must have imagined that disappointment laced her stinging tone. "Even Sumner?" he asked quietly.

  "Even Phillip." Brook slid to the edge of the bed and dropped her legs over the side. "The first thing I want you to do is to get rid of your gun. Use your left hand. Leave the other on your head. No heroics, Mr. North. Don't underestimate me again. I can and will use this gun."

  Ryland found it awkward to remove the derringer with his left hand, just as Brook had known he would. He dangled the butt between his thumb and forefinger and looked at Brook expectantly.

  "Put it on the floor. Carefully."

  Ryland did as he was instructed. "How did you know I wouldn't use it on you?"

  "I watched you play cards all evening. Your left hand is practically a useless appendage. You even put your cards down to lift your drink, rather than use your left hand."

  Ryland was impressed and not a little chagrined that he had been so easily found out. "I always meant to correct that. Never seemed like there was time."

  "Put your hand on your head again and kick your gun over here." The derringer spun across the floor and rested at Brook's feet. Without looking at it she pushed it under the bed with her toes. "Now I would like you to get rid of the knife. Right sleeve, I think. Take your hand down and shake it out. Do it cleanly, Mr. North. Don't provoke me."

  Ryland extended his arm to one side and with a single jerk of his wrist the knife was in his palm. He placed it on the floor and after a questioning glance at Brook, kicked it toward her.

  "Get rid of the shoulder holster, then get rid of your vest and shirt." One of Ryland's brows kicked up but he started to lower both hands to comply. "Keep one hand on your head at all times," Brook warned him. "Difficult, I know," she continued sweetly, "but I'm sure you can do it."

  Ryland grimaced but managed the thing, shrugging out of the holster, his suspenders, his vest and elegant evening shirt. "On the floor?"

  Brook nodded. "Loosen your trousers."

  "Don't you think this has gone far enough?" he protested, eyes narrowing.

  "Loosen your trousers. Left hand, please." She smiled as Ryland gritted his teeth and followed her instructions. "Good. Now, your shoes." They thumped to the floor as Ryland kicked them off. "Stockings." Ryland used his feet to push off his black socks. "Stand up," Brook said, lifting her gun a notch to indicate what she wanted.

  A muscle worked in Ryland's cheek as his trousers fell to his knees the moment he stood. His eyes dared Brook to laugh.

  "I see you have no other weapon strapped to your drawers," she said, biting her inner lip to keep from howling with well-earned amusement. "You can step out of your trousers, Mr. North. Don't be nervous. I've seen men in this state of undress before."

  "I'll just bet you have," he said tightly. He wriggled his legs and the trousers fell to his ankles. He stepped out of them. "The drawers?" he asked caustically.

  Brook was tempted, He had a magnificent body. Ryland's chest was tautly muscled, his belly flat. There was a dark arrow of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his cotton drawers. She steeled herself and allowed her eyes to rest boldly on his groin. Her reward for such cheek came when Ryland shifted his weight uncomfortably and she saw the muscles of his thighs bunch. "No, you can keep your drawers unless you have something of consequence to show me."

 
; "Cold bitch."

  "You said something, Mr. North?"

  "You heard me."

  "I did," she agreed. "Sit down. It's quite a different situation when the shoe is on—or off—the other foot, isn't it? No, don't bother to answer. I am not without sympathy for your plight, having found myself in similar straits not twenty minutes ago." Brook drew her feet up to the bed frame and hooked her heels on the edge. She leaned forward, shielding her breasts with her knees, and supported the wrist of her gun hand in the palm of her other hand. "I have a small problem now," she said. "Solving it requires some assistance from you."

  "I'm at your service," he said dryly, giving her a mocking bow of his head.

  "So you are. My problem is this: I need you bound to that chair and I can't accomplish the thing myself."

  Ryland growled deeply in his throat. "If you expect me to rope myself, then you've got another think coming."

  "I'm afraid that's exactly what I expect. Use your trousers to do one leg; your shirt will do nicely for the other. Make certain you loop the material around the chair leg and make the knots tight."

  "You're mad."

  "Not to my knowledge," she said, taking no offense. "Do as I say, Mr. North, and do it quickly. I don't think I've cultivated the patience you showed this evening."

  "I'll need both my hands," he pointed out with soft menace.

  She nodded. "Go ahead," she said, a note of caution in her voice that she knew Ryland would not miss.

  Ryland bent over and began to tie his ankle to one chair leg with his shirt.

  "Not your ankle. Your calf. You'll be less inclined to slip your foot out that way."

  She didn't miss anything as far as Ryland could tell. He tied one calf, then the other. "Tight enough?" He put his hands back on his head without being told. He wiggled his toes. "There's still some circulation. I suppose you'd be happier if my feet turned bright pink."

  "The idea has merit, but I'm satisfied for now." She judged his distance far enough away that she could set her gun aside briefly. If he tried to lunge for her the chair would topple on him. Brook laid the gun on the bed and stood, straightening her shift. She could do nothing about the gaping tear down her back, but she vowed that Ryland North had seen all he was ever going to see of her breasts. Brook reached behind her and picked up her gun, leveling it again on Ryland as she skirted the bed and went to the small dresser. With one hand she opened the bottom drawer and removed a bottle of bourbon. "If I recall, this is your drink," she said, placing the bottle on the dresser top and opening it.

  "I'm not very thirsty," he said.

  "That's unfortunate, because I'm going to have to insist that you drink something." Brook poured a stiff dose of bourbon into a tumbler, still watching Ryland closely. "This will make you drowsy," she said, turning on him, gun in one hand, bourbon in the other.

  "The bottle was already tampered with, I suppose. Tell me, what if gin had been my drink?"

  "That's also available if you prefer."

  "No, thank you. Bourbon will be fine."

  Brook hesitated a moment as she approached Ryland's chair. "I don't know any other way to do this," she said quietly. "I'd rather not shoot you, but I will if I have to. It would be better for both of us if you'd drink this." She knelt slowly, setting the tumbler down on the floor, then backed away again. "You'll have to maneuver yourself and the chair closer to get it. I don't think it's wise for me to hand it to you personally."

  "Damn you! I'm not going to poison myself."

  "Drink it, Mr. North, or tell me which portion of your anatomy to shoot first."

  "My left arm?" he asked, one side of his mouth curling upward in wry humor.

  Brook lowered her gun a little. "Your left knee would suit me better. Have you ever seen a man with his knee shattered by a bullet?"

  More than once, Ryland thought. He'd seen men lose their leg because of an injury like that. At Bull Run. At Shiloh. At Gettysburg. And they lost it without benefit of chloroform or even a stiff belt of whiskey to take the edge off their pain. But where had Brook ever seen such a thing? "If you think you're safe enough I'll get that drink now," he replied at last, studying the intensity of her expression and believing she meant precisely what she said.

  He sidled the chair forward awkwardly until his feet were on either side of the tumbler. He picked it up slowly.

  Please don't let him do anything stupid, Brook prayed. I don't want to shoot him. I don't want to—Bourbon splashed in her face as Ryland tossed the tumbler at Brook and lunged for her, bringing the chair with him like a turtle carrying its shell. Brook sputtered and stepped backward, but not before Ryland caused her to lose her balance by swinging out at her knees with his fists. Her legs were trapped under his body as they both crashed to the cabin floor.

  Ryland supposed it was inevitable that Brook's gun would discharge under the force of the fall. It was his last thought before he lost consciousness.

  Brook couldn't move for several minutes. Ryland's body lay heavily on her legs. Something warm and wet spread in an ever widening pool on her leg. Pain throbbed dully in the back of her head where it had connected with the floor. Gingerly she raised one hand and touched Ryland's throat, searching for a pulse. Nothing. She couldn't feel anything except the wild thrumming of her own heart.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. You forced my hand." Her voice broke off as the lump in her throat swelled. Brook pushed at Ryland's shoulders and eased herself from beneath his body. The gun lay between him and the floor, but Brook didn't try to retrieve it.

  Standing on legs that trembled, Brook took several deep, calming breaths, then quickly stepped past Ryland's body. She wouldn't let herself dwell on what she was doing as she sifted through Ryland's clothing looking for the key to his cabin. She found it in his vest pocket along with the key to her own cabin. Clutching them in her hand, Brook took her dark blue cape from its hook by the door and slipped it around her. When she was in the passageway she locked the door, glanced at Ryland's key to find his cabin number, then hurried away to find Phillip.

  Ryland's cabin was on the other side of the sternwheeler, but Brook managed to find it without bringing notice to herself. She thought it odd that her hand was so steady as she inserted Ryland's key. Inside she was churning.

  Phillip was exactly as Ryland said he would be, bound hand and foot to the bed and gagged as well. Enough time had passed, however, that Phillip had recovered his senses. When he heard the key turning in the lock he renewed his frantic efforts to free himself, thinking Ryland had returned. His entire body went limp with relief when Brook stepped into the cabin.

  Brook shut the door and hastened to Phillip's side, removing his gag immediately.

  Phillip's head dropped back on the pillow. "Thank God! I thought you were—"

  Brook began to undo Phillip's bonds. His wrists were burned raw from his efforts to loose himself, and the bedside lamp showed one swollen eye and a badly bruised jaw. "Listen to me, Phillip," she said urgently, cutting him off. "Ryland North is dead. I sh—"

  "Dead? How?"

  "I shot him. In our cabin. He came there looking for his money. He knew you cheated at cards tonight."

  Phillip massaged his wrists as Brook attended his ankles. "Yes, I know," he said dryly. "I believe that's what our fight was about."

  "Shut up, Phillip." She threw the ropes that had bound his feet at him. "We have to get off this boat quickly. Someone may find him."

  "You locked the door when you left, didn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Then don't lose your head now. We have plenty of time." He sat up and stretched his stiff legs and arms. "Help me find what he's done with the rest of his money."

  Brook was horrified. "No! I don't want his money. Don't you hear what I've been telling you? I've killed him, Phillip!"

  "I can hear you, and so will the rest of the passengers if you don't lower your voice." As he slid off the bed his knee caught part of Brook's cape, and it parted. "What the
hell do you have on under there?"

  Brook drew her cape together, shivering in spite of the warmth of the evening. "Not much of anything," she admitted quietly.

  Phillip's hands bunched into fists. "Then the bastard got what he deserved. As for his money, he won't be needing it, will he?"

  "I don't care about the money," Brook protested.

  "Well, I do! If you won't help me look then get out of my way!" He brushed past Brook and began by searching through Ryland's dresser. Phillip finally found the strongbox of bills at the bottom of the wardrobe and the key for it in the pocket of a pair of Ryland's trousers. Once he was certain the money was still in the box he motioned to Brook to leave the cabin. He stopped her almost immediately when she began to head for the gangboard. "Where do you think you're going?"

  Brook looked at Phillip blankly, as if she couldn't understand the question. "Shore, of course. Phillip, we have to leave."

  "Not yet. We're not going anywhere. Not without what belongs to us."

  "We've more than what's ours already."

  "I'm not going to argue with you, Brook." Phillip squeezed Brook's elbow and pulled her along. "Open the door."

  "I don't want to go in there."

  "Open the damn door!"

  "You're hurting me!"

  "Open the damn door!"

  Brook's hand was no longer steady, and Phillip had to guide the key to the lock. He pushed her inside, shut the door, and gave a low whistle as he surveyed the scene. "Put something on, then pack your clothes and mine. I'll get our bags." He knelt by the bed and pulled out their luggage as well as the derringer and the knife. He held up the gun. "Yours?"

  Brook shook her head. "Mine's under—"

  "Never mind. I can guess." He tossed both weapons into the valise with his earlier winnings. "We'll keep it anyway. And the knife." He slid the bags across the floor to Brook. While she jammed their belongings into the carpetbags Phillip went to examine Ryland's body. "Why is he half-naked?" he asked, tipping the chair on its side. "Don't answer. I can guess that, too."

  Brook doubted if he could, but she wasn't going to explain in any event. "Don't touch him, Phillip, Leave him be."