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

by Jo Goodman

  He shrugged. "You know how to shorten the time. At five hundred dollars a night it would only take you-"

  "Two years," she said brittlely. "That's if you use me once a week and I don't do any housework."

  "How do you do that so fast?" he asked with sincere curiosity.

  "I don't know," she replied honestly. "I've always been good with numbers. Oh!" She stamped her foot. "This is the most ridiculous conversation. May I go to my room now? I want to change my clothes."

  "In a moment. I want you to come to the stable with me first. There's something we have to take care of there."

  "Why didn't we go there first?" she asked, following him out of the house.

  Ryland glanced over his shoulder in time to catch Brook sticking her tongue out at him. He halted, stunned by the childish side of her that he had never seen before. "Interesting," was all he said.

  Brook felt like the greatest idiot. She marched past him and crossed the gently rolling hill to the stable, pacing back and forth in front of the side door until Ryland came and unlocked it. She went inside in front of him and looked around expectantly. "What is it that we have to do here?"

  Ryland reached for a broad leather strap that was nailed to one of the stall posts. Brook never heard the jingling of the bells that were attached to the strap. Before Ryland had a chance to turn around and show her the harness she collapsed on the stable floor in a dead faint.

  "What the hell!" Ryland put the strap over his shoulder and lifted Brook into his arms. Her head lolled against his arm, and the coiled braid at her nape unfolded at his side. Kicking open the door, he hurried across the yard. Brook stirred in his arms as he reached the stairs. He ignored her listless demand to set her on her feet and carried her up the stairs, bypassing the room she had used the night before and selecting the master suite, which he had occupied. He put her on the bed and kept her from rolling away as he sat beside her by placing an arm across her waist. The leather strap slipped off his shoulder and jangled to the floor. "Are you pregnant?" he asked baldly.

  "Pregnant? No. I'm not pregnant. Why would you think that?"

  "Aside from the obvious reason that you've entertained any number of gentleman, you mean?"

  She nodded.

  "Because you fainted," he explained as if speaking to a child. "Now, if you're not pregnant then tell me what caused you to faint. It certainly wasn't the heat." He placed the back of his hand on her forehead. "And you don't have a fever. What was it?"

  "The strap," she said, looking around for it. "Are you going to beat me with it?"

  "Beat you! You thought I was going to—" Ryland reached for the strap, shaking it as he lifted it so she would know what it was. "What sort of men have you known?" he asked, studying her face as she examined the strap.

  "The wrong kind, I suspect," she admitted tiredly. "If you're not going to hit me with it, then what's it for?"

  "A bracelet."

  "What?"

  He lifted one of Brook's wrists and wound part of the strap around it, scoring the leather with his fingernail to mark what he didn't need. "I can't take the risk that you'll leave here, Brooklyn." He set the strap on the bedside table. "It would be dangerous for you to attempt it, but I don't think you would let that stop you. I need to know where you are at all times, for your own protection as much as for my peace of mind. Perhaps when the snows come I'll be able to take it off. Once the pass is blocked we'll be virtually cut off."

  Brook was horrified by what he was saying. "You mean I'll have to wear that thing? Like an animal? I'd rather you beat me with it."

  "I'm sorry," Ryland said, wondering if she knew how much he meant it. "If there were a measure of trust between us, I would accept your word that you'd stay here, but that's impossible now. You've broken your word to me too often. I know you're thinking that you'll get out of it, that you'll slice it at the first opportunity." He saw Brook give a small start that he had divined her thoughts so easily. "I know because it's what I'd want to do in your place. But I'm telling you now, Brooklyn, if you take it off even once or I suspect that you've tried to take it off, I'll fashion leg shackles for you that won't be as comfortable or sound as pleasant as this belled strap." He rose from the bed. "I'm going out to the stable and cut this now, which is all that I intended to do earlier. I hope you're here when I return, because I swear if you try to leave again I'll drag you back by your hair. If you plan on getting any wages this week I suggest you start by cooking us both some breakfast. I assume that after being here with Drew you've acquainted yourself with the kitchen."

  Brook was too dumbfounded to respond to anything Ryland had said. She picked up a pillow, ready to throw it at his retreating back, and recalled her own words to Drew the day before. Gripping the pillow tightly against her chest, she decided not to give Ryland the satisfaction of seeing her out of control.

  She was pouring pancake batter onto a hot, greased griddle when Ryland came into the kitchen. Without being asked she held out her wrist and allowed him to attach the strap. The fit was loose but not loose enough for her to pull it over her hand. It was secured with a metal slide that Ryland pressed into place with a pair of pliers. She twisted her wrist experimentally, and the tarnished bells jangled accordingly. "You'll have to get used to it also," she reminded him, watching his face. Something flickered in his eyes, but the hard cast of his features remained unchanged.

  "Yes, I know." He turned on his heel and went into the dining room, where a place had been set. "Where is your table setting?" he called back.

  "In here. I didn't think the help should dine with the master."

  Ryland might have been tempted to threaten using the strap on her behind if he hadn't seen her first reaction to it. "You'll dine precisely where I tell you, and I want you in here."

  Brooklyn considered telling Ryland it would cost him something if he were hiring her on as a companion.

  The look he gave her when she brought her plate and silverware into the dining room made her glad she hadn't goaded him further. She returned again a few minutes later with a stack of pancakes, syrup, and bacon. After Brook had poured coffee for both of them, she sat down and began eating the portion Ry had placed on her plate.

  Ryland didn't comment on the meal, but he finished off the stack when Brook said she couldn't eat any more. "I want you to move your things into my room today," he said.

  "I thought that was my choice."

  "What you do when we're in bed together is your choice," he told her firmly. "I want to know where you are at night. I'll never get any sleep otherwise." He doubted he would get much sleep with her in the same bed either, but it was something he was prepared to risk.

  She lifted her coffee cup with her left hand, and the bells tinkled. "Won't this noise keep you awake?"

  "Not if you don't toss and turn all night."

  "I'll do my best," she said sweetly. "Your every wish is... well, you know the rest. May I clean up now, or do you have something else you want doing?"

  Ryland pushed away from the table. "Clean up," he returned tersely. "I have things of my own to do."

  Chapter 7

  Ryland spent three days searching for Brooklyn's gun before he admitted that she was telling the truth about not having it. He made no secret about what he was doing, and Brook did nothing to disguise the fact that she was amused by his determination to prove, in effect, that she had lied to him yet again. Brook hated the idea that Ryland had meticulously searched through all her belongings, but there was nothing she could do to stop him. Since protesting would have been tantamount to admitting guilt, she kept her silence and pasted an indulgent smile on her face just to irritate him. Ryland had hidden his own gun at some point, and Brook realized she was further annoying him by not showing the slightest interest in its whereabouts.

  As the days and nights were absorbed into a surprisingly comfortable routine from which neither of them deviated, Ryland continued to be puzzled by Brook's behavior. If it weren't for the time when she unk
nowingly wept in her sleep, Ryland could believe she was almost content with the situation as it stood. He told himself the idea was absurd. How could she be satisfied with cooking his meals, cleaning his house, and washing his clothes? It was an act, he decided, calculated to make him think that her virtual imprisonment at his hands was not enough punishment. He believed she was trying in her own subtle manner to get him to release her. Brooklyn's tears, late in the night and never commented upon come morning, spoke more eloquently of her unhappiness. Ryland vowed that he would not be taken in by her again. She could smile her secretive little smile all she wanted while committing herself to years of drudgery, but he was not going to relent.

  Brook would have laughed if she had known what Ryland was thinking. It did not occur to her that she should have rebelled against the tasks she was being paid to do. Though she chafed at the confinement of the house, she loved the activity that kept her going from early morning to near sunset. The fantasy that she wove for herself was a simple one, yet it kept her from acknowledging the house as a prison and allowed her to accept it as a home. At first she tried not to think of Ryland's house as her home, but after years of living in hotel rooms or in small apartments above seedy gaming halls it was easy to pretend that her fondest wish had come true. She didn't let herself think about what Ryland would do if he knew how happy she was pretending the home she cared for was her own. She was serenely unaware of the weeping that had the ability to rouse him from even a deep, dream-filled sleep.

  Though she was oblivious to her own tears, Brook discovered quickly that whatever pleasure she felt during the day vanished at night. When she lay next to Ryland on the huge bed in the master suite, her stomach coiled into a fierce knot.

  The pattern was set on the very first night she spent with him. After a few hands of poker in the evening following dinner, Ryland tersely told her to get ready for bed and that he would join her shortly. His mocking laughter followed her up the stairs as she hurried away. Never for one moment did Brook believe he wouldn't make some demand on her. She was wrong. That first night, and all the others following it, Ryland came to the room after she was beneath the thick goose down comforter, dressed for battle in an unbecoming faded flannel nightgown. He turned back all the lights save one and undressed, slipping into bed beside her wearing nothing at all. Instead of rolling toward her as she expected, he doused the light on the bedside table and turned on his side away from her. In minutes his soft and even breathing signaled he was asleep. The knot that had been tightening in her stomach unfolded, and she also turned away. The bells on her wrist jingled softly under the comforter, then were silent as she found sleep.

  Ryland was always gone before Brook awoke, so she never knew that often, just before he rose, he had to extricate himself from the circle of her arms. She never suspected that he had begun to liken being in bed with her to a form of unrelieved torture or that many times the even cadence of his breathing was faked to make her think he was sleeping. Though his body was doing its damndest to eradicate his defenses, Ryland could not admit, even to himself, how much he wanted her, how much he had always wanted her.

  "Do you want to play cards tonight?" Ryland asked, looking over the rim of his coffee cup at Brook. The dinner she had prepared this evening had been excellent, and Ryland, who had been edging for an argument all day, wished that it hadn't been. He had thought she wouldn't know what to do with the fresh fish he had caught in the morning and deposited in the kitchen without a word to her. Instead she had thanked him, looking absurdly pleased by the idea of adding variety to their meals, and cleaned them without a murmur of protest. To the baked fish she had added boiled potatoes dripping in butter and honey cakes. Ryland found himself thinking that perhaps her intent was to fatten him up and sacrifice him when the mood struck her.

  Brook gave a little start. "What?" she asked, coming out of her dreamy reverie. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you. My mind was somewhere else."

  Almost against his will Ryland found himself asking what she had been thinking.

  "Oh, it was nothing," she said airily. A quick glance at Ryland told her that she had just stepped into the argument she had been trying to avoid all day. Hastily she said, "I was thinking that I'd like to have some fresh fruit. You know, oranges and lemons and such."

  "Oranges and lemons?" he asked incredulously. "That's where your mind was?"

  "Mm-hmm. I miss having them. I don't suppose... no, never mind. You'd have to go to town to get them and I'm certain even if you were prepared to risk it, they would be too expensive."

  "Their cost is not the point. That you’re still here when I return, is."

  "I understand," she said, beginning to clear the table.

  Ryland stayed her hand for a moment, having the absurd idea of offering to help her with the dishes. He let her go abruptly and pushed away from the table. "I'll be in the study. If you want to win back what you lost last night, let me know."

  "All right," she said serenely and continued with her task. The bells on her wrist jangled softly in time to her movements, and because she had become deaf to their music she was unaware how much the sound grated on Ryland's nerves.

  Forty minutes later she entered the study and found Ryland slumped in a large leather chair by the fire, reading reports he had collected earlier from the mining camps. Brook often wondered what he did there but had never questioned him about his work. She thought he would mock her interest, believing it to be less than sincere. During his absences from the house Brook kept herself occupied with half a dozen tasks, resisting the urge to make another attempt at escape. Aside from the fact that she didn't know how to accomplish the thing, with the mining camps on the only accessible trail to town, she wasn't all that certain she wanted to leave. Her reward always came later when Ryland returned to the house, a faintly surprised and bewildered look on his face when he discovered she was still in residence. Confusing him brought Brook priceless satisfaction.

  "Don't you ever simply sit up in a chair?" she asked.

  Ryland dropped the papers that were in his hands onto his lap. He stretched widely but did not sit up. "You sound like Aunt Louise," he said.

  "Andrew's mother?"

  A shutter came over Ryland's features at the mention of his cousin. "Yes," he said tersely. "Drew's mother. Tell me something. Do you miss him?"

  "Who? Andrew?"

  "Of course Drew," he snapped.

  "No, I don't miss him." She poked at the fire. "I rarely think of him."

  Ryland snorted. "That must be the pattern of your life. You move onto the next mark with mind boggling ease." He found himself wondering again what had happened between Brook and Phillip Sumner. While going through her belongings he had come across an unopened letter to her from Sumner. Ryland had been tempted to open it but thought better of it. Obviously Brook was unconcerned about the contents. Still, the fact that she had kept it rankled Ryland.

  "Andrew was never a mark," she said, leaning the poker against the stone hearth. "Unlike you. But you may think whatever you like. You always do." She went to stand beside the ottoman that supported Ryland's feet. "Do you want to play cards?"

  He shook his head. As Brook started to leave he sat up. He realized he did not want her to go. "Do you play chess?"

  She glanced over her shoulder. "No. But I—"

  Expecting her to protest that she didn't earn a wage for playing chess, Ryland said, "I'll pay you three dollars for every game."

  Brook had been ready to tell him that she would have liked to learn. She hadn't considered asking for payment. Now that he had brought it up she felt compelled to haggle. "Six dollars."

  "Four."

  "Five."

  "Four. You won't give me much competition for some time."

  She smiled. "All right. Four." Because he was looking so pleased with himself she added, "You could have had me for nothing."

  Ryland's expression became enigmatic. "Perhaps someday I intend to, Brooklyn."

  Brook's hands we
nt very still at her sides, and her impish smile faded. "I'll get the set," she said.

  When she returned from the billiard room with the board and boxed pieces, Ryland was sitting on the floor in front of the fire. He pointed to the space in front of him. "You don't mind, do you?"

  Brook wanted to reject the intimacy of sitting near him without the benefit of a table between them. To object would make her feel cowardly. More than that, it seemed absurd to suppose he was looking to any more than his own comfort when she spent every night in his bed and he barely acknowledged her presence. She told herself she was reading something into the situation that Ryland had never intended. "No," Brook said. She dropped to her knees opposite Ryland and gave him the box, setting the heavy marble board between them. She watched him set up the ivory pieces, and when he gave her back the box she arranged her own ebony men in a similar manner. Her slender fingers closed over the pieces as she set them down. Intent as she was upon her task she didn't notice Ryland was gritting his teeth in response to her unwitting fondling. She glanced up at him expectantly. "Now what happens?" she asked ingenuously.

  Before meeting Brook, Ryland would have thought "guileless whore" a contradiction in terms. He shifted position, crossing his legs in front of him, and began explaining the rules, moves and strategy of the game. "Do you think you know enough to begin?" he asked finally.

  Brook nodded. "I'll do my best," she said, meaning it. Seven moves later she was looking at the board in disgust. He had neatly checkmated her and she hadn't seen it coming. She looked at Ryland apologetically. "You didn't get much for your five dollars," she told him.

  He grinned. "It's four dollars," he reminded her. "And I expect you'll do better next time. Have a care for your queen. You had her in trouble at the outset."

  "I'll remember," she said gravely, setting up the pieces again. "I think I understand this game better now."

  Ryland was amused by her determination. He patiently allowed all the time she needed for her moves because he enjoyed watching her while she was unaware of his steady regard. The pure lines of her face were exquisite in the firelight. Strands of chestnut hair that had escaped the loose braid at her back and fell about her face seemed to trap the light. Sometimes the tip of her tongue would peep out, wetting the curve of her upper lip as she studied the board. She would absently stroke the side of her neck when she was puzzled or wrinkle her nose while she concentrated. Her delicate hand strayed lightly from one piece to another as she considered the merits of a particular move. On occasion she leaned forward. The modest neckline of her gown had been unbuttoned while she worked in the heat of the kitchen, and she had neglected to refasten it. Ryland found his eyes straying to the edge of her shift and the gentle curve of her breasts, feeling as a thirsty man might when water was held from him at arm's length.