by Jo Goodman
"Children?"
He nodded. Ryland wound a thick strand of Brook's hair around his finger, let it go, and watched it curl against her cheek. She blew at it. Ryland brushed it aside, stroking her cheek with the back of his forefinger. "A half-dozen children."
"So many?" she asked, her brows arching above her cool, clear eyes.
"Not all at once," he said, chuckling. He caught himself suddenly and asked seriously, "Do you think six is too many?"
"I don't, but then I'm not the one bearing them." At least I hope not, she nearly blurted out. Brook felt Ryland tense, as if he had just considered the thought as well. Just as quickly, he relaxed.
"Well," he said finally, "I shall make it clear at the outset that I want children. That's why I'm going to court a woman with—"
"With what?" she asked curiously.
"Nothing," he said carelessly. "It's unimportant."
Brooklyn pinched his arm. "Tell me," she teased. "A woman with...?"
Reluctantly Ryland told her. "Wide hips and large breasts."
"Wide...! And large...!" Brooklyn choked on her laughter, rolling on her back. Tears glittered in her eyes, and she wiped them away. Others quickly took their place as she pictured Ryland attending an elegant party on Nob Hill and looking over the women as he would cattle at an auction. It was too absurd! "How will you know?" she asked, biting back more laughter. "Will you lift their dresses and peer down their bodices?" She deepened her voice, mocking him, waving her hand with a flourish. "Oh, my dear Miss Evansdale, pardon me, but is that you or your bustle that makes you appear so eminently suited for childbirth? Your bustle, you say? What a pity. I fancied your shelf-like bosom as well. What? That's a rubber form you mail-ordered from Chicago? Yes, yes. It is amazingly like a real bosom, but will it feed the brood of suckling children I plan for you to bear?"
Ryland was not amused. "You think you're very funny, don't you?"
"No, not at all. I think you're very funny." She giggled again, sitting up. Her hair shifted around her shoulders as she hitched the comforter higher to cover her breasts. "The corner of your mouth is twitching. You want to laugh. I know it."
"That's anger, not humor."
Brook pointed to her face, which had become very still, mouth tightly held and eyes narrowed and piecing. "This is anger," she said, working a muscle in her cheek. She smiled winsomely. "At least that's how you look when you're angry." She was unaware the comforter had slipped from her grip until Ryland's gaze shifted to her breasts.
Glancing at Brook's face again, he asked, "And how do I look when I'm aroused?"
"Well... rather like you do when you're angry, but not so fierce." She studied his face. "In fact," she said slowly, "you look aroused now." Inspired, she added, "Shall I fetch a mirror?" Brook started to clamber off the bed only to be hauled back by Ryland's firm grip on her waist. She found herself pinned beneath him with very little effort on his part. "You only had to say no," she said innocently. "I wouldn't have gone for the mirror."
"I may never let you out of this bed," he told her with all the conviction he felt at that moment.
"All right," she surrendered, sliding her arms around his neck. Brook felt the heat and pressure of his erection against her thigh and knew that she was ready to take him if he wanted her this very instant. It didn't matter that Ryland was looking for a woman with accomplishments that did not number poker or faro among them. It no longer concerned her that he needed a wife whose education extended to more than knowing how to spot a crooked deal. That he probably considered her breasts and hips less than ideal for childbearing was immaterial. He certainly responded to her as if he found her desirable. For now, it was enough. Perhaps, in the spring, she would change her mind, but for now she was satisfied that he wanted her.
Ryland turned on his back, pulling Brooklyn in the same motion so she straddled him. His hands grazed her breasts. Her hair fell like a dark curtain about her face. "You know what I want," he said quietly.
Brook thought she did, but was uncertain of how to accomplish the thing. "I don't—"
"Like this." Ryland touched her hips, urging her upward with the firm pressure of his fingers, and gritted his teeth, afraid he was going to explode as she held him, guiding him into her. "Exactly like that." He sighed as she sheathed him fully. The wonderment, the faint surprise in her eyes was more of an aphrodisiac than the musky scent of her skin. "Whenever you want to," he murmured, indicating that she was in control now, that he would follow her lead.
Brooklyn leaned forward so that the tips of her hair curtained his face as well. "Touch my breasts," she said, drawing in her breath when he did so. Liquid fire rushed through her body, centering on the point of their joining. She moved experimentally, trying to relieve the exquisite pressure, and found that it simply kept mounting instead. Ryland's fingers tugged on her nipples with tender, torturous urgency. His knuckles kneaded her breasts. She watched his eyes, his mouth. Holding his hands against her flesh, Brooklyn bent her head and kissed him deeply. She felt Ryland move under her, and her soft velvet walls contracted around him.
"Brooklyn," he whispered against her mouth as she began to sit up.
She loved it when he called her Brooklyn. It made her forget what she had done to him as Brook, what she had done to his family as Lyn. She felt as if she scarcely knew anything about this Brooklyn except that her life was still unfolding in front of her. Anything was possible. Even love. Her mouth whispered against his once, tasting the hot, sweet passion of his mouth with the tip of her tongue. She sat up, placing her hands on his chest.
Ryland groaned softly as Brook began to move with rhythmic purpose. His hands glided over her breasts and down her abdomen until they rested against her thighs. He encouraged her with phrases that spoke of desire and wanting. He teased her with the tips of his fingers.
Brook cried out his name as tremors of pleasure arched her spine and neck. Ry bucked beneath her, driving himself hard into her, and found his own release. He pulled Brook close, crushing her to him so their bodies were flush, exchanging heat and the flickering sparks of passion that would not be extinguished.
"Where is that painting you had hanging in your sitting room at the Hamilton?" Ryland asked a little while later, when he began to think the room had finally righted.
Brooklyn's eyes fluttered open. What in the world was he asking about now? "The painting?" she asked sleepily. "You mean the mermaid in the storm?" Really, she still felt absolutely nerveless. How could he put words together? "It's behind the wardrobe." She raised her head, her brow wrinkling in puzzlement. "How did you know it was mine?"
"I suspected when I first saw it, but then I found it again while I was searching for your gun. Why haven't you hung it in here?"
She shrugged against him. His hand smoothed the curve of her shoulder before it rested against the nape of her neck. His fingers drew back and forth across her neck until the tension building inside her vanished. Brook found herself answering almost against her will. "Andrew hated it, so I didn't bother. I suppose I thought you would hate it also."
"I don't hate it, but it's a rather curious piece. Did you paint it yourself?"
"No. I happened upon it in a little gallery on Russian Hill. It amused me, so I bought it."
Amusement was not a feeling Ry would have attached to that violent painting. "Somehow I doubt that," he said. "Struck a chord, perhaps. But I can't imagine you being amused by it."
"Why is it so important to you?" she asked, irritated. "Why ask me now?"
"Part of getting to know you," he said calmly. "Tell me about it."
Brook sighed, moving away from him. "Sometimes I don't like you at all."
Ryland was unperturbed. "I know." He turned on his side, propping himself on an elbow. "So... you bought it because...?"
"I suppose because the mermaid reminds me of me," she said tiredly. "She doesn't belong anywhere. Too human for the sea, yet she can't stay on land. So she clings to what she knows... the shelter of a roc
ky cove. Even in the storm, she clings." Her voice became a whisper. "Sometimes I feel that way, as if I'm clinging. Afraid to go back, afraid to go forward." She turned her head slightly, collecting herself, and treated Ryland to an icy glance. "Does that answer your question?" she snapped, hiding her embarrassment with impatience at his endless querying.
Ryland didn't respond immediately, absorbing Brook's spitting anger. "Do you regret telling me?" he asked at last.
"What do you think? Perhaps you're in the habit of baring yourself after a particularly intimate encounter, but it's a new experience for me." She turned away, plumped her pillow, and pulled the comforter around her shoulders.
He ignored her blatant attempt to provoke his own anger. "Do you ever dream about the mermaid?" he asked, edging a little closer to her but making no attempt to touch her.
"I don't dream," she said, wondering at his question. "Or if I do, I don't remember." Her curiosity got the best of her, and Brook glanced over her shoulder. "Why?"
"Because at night, when you're sleeping, you often cry. I thought it might be the mermaid." Her voice had held such sadness when she spoke of the painting that it seemed a logical conclusion to Ryland.
Brooklyn turned away again. "I don't dream and I don't cry." Phillip had never mentioned that she cried in her sleep. It was not the sort of thing he would have kept to himself. Why was Ryland making something like that up?
Ryland let Brook have the last word. And hours later, when her gentle weeping roused him from sleep, he kissed the tears away and held her close, whispering the endearments that quieted and comforted.
Chapter 9
"Christmas is only two days away," Ryland said. He looked up from shuffling the plans on his desk and Brook didn't respond. She was sitting in his chair, her legs crossed like a tailor while she repaired the hem of one of her dresses. He didn't pretend that she hadn't heard him. Although her face was a study in concentration, he knew she was ignoring him. Except for a few frigidly polite exchanges at breakfast, Brooklyn had done her damndest to keep their conversation to a minimum for the remainder of the day. Night had already settled on the valley. Starshine glittered on the icy crust of snow. In an hour or so, they would retire for the evening, and Ryland was continually having his face smashed by the barrier she had erected the night before. "I was thinking of bringing in a tree tomorrow. Would you like that?"
"Whatever you want," she said, biting off a thread and smoothing the material in her lap.
"Well, I want a tree," he said firmly. "And I want us to decorate it and I want you to bake cookies." He dropped his papers and stood up, crossing the room to the bookcases. Running his fingers across the bindings, he found the volume he wanted and pulled it down. "And I want us to read this." He waved the slim, leather-bound book under her nose. "Perhaps it will put a little Christmas spirit in your heart."
Brooklyn spared the book the briefest of glances. "I'll help you decorate," she said tightly. "I'll bake your silly cookies. But I will not, will not, join you in reading some stupid book!"
"Stupid book?" He looked at it, a frown creasing his forehead. "It's a wonderful little story. A Christmas Carol. I haven't read it in years; in fact, the last time was when I read it to Drew, the Christmas before I left for school. He enjoyed it. I thought you would too."
"I'm not a child," she snapped. "I don't have to be entertained."
"It's not precisely a child's story either, and I was thinking of our mutual pleasure." Her anger mystified him. It seemed completely out of proportion to his simple request. She was shaking, actually shaking, with it. When she looked up at him Ryland nearly recoiled from the blaze of blue-white heat in her eyes. She was perilously close to tears, and he hadn't any idea why. He dropped the book on the table beside her. "Forget I mentioned it," he said, turning on his heel. He had gone about four steps when he felt one corner of the book slam him in the spine. Ryland spun around immediately, kicking the book to one side when it fell at his feet. "What the hell is wrong with you? Why did you do that?"
Brooklyn stood, tossing her mending on the floor, and lifted her chin belligerently. "You know so damn much! Figure it out for yourself!" She started to march out of the room, head high and back rigid, then just as suddenly found herself stopped and jerked around by the force of Ryland's large hand on her wrist. "Release me," she said coldly. "Take your damned hand off me."
Ryland held the reins of his temper. His eyes were grave, faintly imploring. "Brooklyn! What did I say? Is it Christmas? You don't want to celebrate, is that it?" When she remained mutinously silent, tugging on his arm ineffectually to get away, Ryland went on. "Is this still part of last night? I know you're holding a grudge because I asked you about the painting."
"Let me go," she repeated. "I don't have to tell you anything."
"No, you don't. But unless you want to stay here, attached like a limpet to my hand, you'll tell me what's wrong—and you'll tell me the truth."
"You want the truth?" she railed. Brooklyn swung a fist at him. Ryland blocked the blow, securing her free hand, and brought her flush against his chest. "I hate you," she whispered, turning her face away so that it was no longer buried against his neck. She was held so closely to him that her cheek was forced against his shoulder. Her struggles came to nothing. "That's the truth you want to hear. I hate your questions. I hate your endless probing into my affairs. You said we would start over, but we didn't. You're never satisfied with my answers. You always want to know more."
Ryland held her still, absorbing her verbal blows. His mouth rested near her hair. When he spoke his breath ruffled the deep chestnut strands. "A hazard of my job," he said, sighing. "It's all I did during the war and all I've done since—ask questions. Observe. Ask more questions. And I'm too good at what I do to be sidetracked. That you hate me is not the issue now. You've still to tell me what's snapped that fierce control you take so much pride in."
"You don't leave me any pride!" she said, biting off the words. She tried to pull away again. "Damn you! You wanted to know where I learned to cook? In a hotel, I told you." Her voice sounded raw to her own ears. "It was the kind of hotel where women stayed all the time and men only visited at night. My mother lived there and I was raised there. She was a whore and I was the whore's daughter." This time when she tugged on his hands Ryland let her go. Brook took a step backward, glaring at him. "I had more uncles than Frisco has hills. My mother lived in an opium cloud, spreading her legs for gentleman callers until the drug finally killed her. Phillip was one of my uncles then, kinder than most. When he saw I was being groomed to take my mother's place he bought the right to have me. Try to imagine grown men bidding on the virginity of a nine-year-old!"
"Brooklyn," he said softly, reaching for her.
She angrily waved aside his hands and stepped back again. "Damn your eyes, Ryland North. You wanted to hear it. Now you'll damn well listen to me." She blinked back the salty sheen of tears in her eyes. "Phillip took me to my room—the same room where my mother had died three days earlier. I expected him to rape me or beat me. Remember the strap?" Her mouth was drawn into a thin, grim line. She shook her head slowly from side to side as waves of things long repressed flooded her senses. "Oh, Ryland, I saw men do things to women in that brothel that would make a soldier blanch. I nursed welts on my own mother, wounds she couldn't feel because of the opium. I anticipated the same treatment from Phillip. Instead he told me that he was taking me out of the brothel, that I was going to live with him. He became my protector, my guardian. He taught me how to use a pistol to protect myself when he had to leave me alone. Those were the days of the Sydney Ducks, Ryland. Gangs were roaming the streets, looting, raping, most definitely murdering. You better believe I learned to use a weapon." Brooklyn's hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. "I saw a man executed by the Ducks once. I was ten years old and crossing through a back alley to get to our hotel. It was dusk. I shouldn't have been out, but I was tired of the hotel room. In the alley there were three Sydney felons s
urrounding an unarmed man. I hid in a doorway after I saw the man's knee explode with the first shot. There were two more. I stayed where I was until the Ducks left and then I went over to the dead man. Both his knees had been shot away. There was blood trickling from the final shot at the base of his skull."
Brooklyn's arms crossed against her middle in self-protection. Her eyes closed for a brief moment. "I robbed him. I sifted through his bloody clothes and took the bag of gold dust that had been fastened to his pants. Poor, stupid miner. Killed by the Ducks and robbed by a little girl. That's the short of child I was, Ryland. I learned not to trust anyone to survive. I went to bed each night thinking Phillip would leave me and then I would be on my own again. I had to plan. I had to be self-reliant." She jabbed herself in the chest. "I had to trust me. Me!"
Tears began to trickle from the corners of her eyes, but Brooklyn's face remained composed, as if she did not know she was crying. "Phillip taught me how to play cards to amuse himself. When he saw how quick I was he realized that I would be able to earn my own way. I didn't go to the gaming halls then. I was still too young. But on Sundays he and I would take the steamer to Sacramento and he would play cards with the passengers. I pretended to be his niece then. No one minded having me look on. My task was simple: to spot the cheaters and, through some subtle signaling, let Phillip know how his cards stood against the other hands. We made a lot of money in those days. We also had our share of reversals." The calming breath she took shuddered through her. "When I was older I began working in different halls until Phillip and I finally settled on the Silver Rose. Our income was steadier but not enough to provide Phillip the capital to buy into the hall. That's when he devised the scam that eventually caught your friend. We were in New Orleans at Phillip's insistence. He had some business there, which he claimed fell through. I thought we were penniless and the only thing I wanted was to go home. So we used the same plan that had gained us passage to New Orleans in the first place. The only thing Phillip didn't count on was Jake Geary having a friend like you. And I had forgotten something important as well. Not to trust anyone. Phillip used me without my permission. He made changes in our plan without telling me, and he lied about his business in New Orleans. That's why I left him." She pointed in agitation to herself again. "I left him. When we returned home I walked away from him with the clothes on my back. And that's all I had. My clothes and my conscience. Grit and guilt."