by Jo Goodman
Ryland nodded. "We'd set a charge, and before we could get clear the damn thing went off. The six of us injured were caught in the tunnel. The others had managed to get up the ladders to level four. They came back down when the dust settled and dug us out. We knew our only hope of getting out was through the collapsed tunnel on four. Thank God you realized it also."
Brook slipped her shift over her head and picked up her stockings. "Mr. Greer said it was dangerous to try that route."
"It was. But it was also our only chance. Did you really threaten to bring down the women to dig?"
She paused in fastening her stockings to her garters. "It was no threat, Ryland," she said seriously. Straightening, Brook put on a willow green dress that buttoned up the front. Its high collar and long, narrow sleeves outlined her slender neck and the graceful line of her arms.
"God, Brooklyn," Ryland said feelingly.
She frowned but continued to plait her hair. "What?"
"Not all of me is injured, you know." He pointed to the bulge in the sheet that covered him up to the waist. "Watching you dress has reminded me of that fact. Have some mercy, will you?"
Brooklyn laughed, fastening her shoes. "I'll add cold water to your bath."
"Dressing elsewhere in the future will be sufficient," he assured her. "Or at least until all of me is fit to do something about your teasing." She was out of the room, skirts swaying gently behind her, before Ryland could add that he was feeling fitter by the moment.
After Brook had finished caring for the animals, letting the horses out to exercise in the paddock, she prepared brunch for herself and Ryland. When he didn't appear in the kitchen, she took up a tray to him. Ryland was not in bed. Brooklyn found him in the bathtub, struggling with the sling, splints, and soap.
"It's a little awkward," he confessed wryly, feeling under the water for his soap. He clutched the slick bar too hard when he finally got hold of it. It jumped out of his hand like a live thing and skittered across the floor. "See what I mean?"
Brook picked up the soap and knelt beside the tub. "Poor, poor man," she said with mock pity. "You're going to get your splints wet, the wood will warp, and your arm will mend crooked."
"Can that happen?" he asked suspiciously.
"I have no idea. But let's not take any chances. Where's the sponge?"
He handed it to her. "A scrub brush would probably be better. I got a good look at myself in the mirror. No wonder you put a pillow between us."
"Turn your face this way," she said in her best no-nonsense voice. She began wiping away the grime from his forehead and cheeks. There was a nick on his chin from where he had cut himself shaving. "Your memory must have been foggy this morning. I didn't look much better than you."
"I noticed. But I thought it ungallant to comment." He sputtered as she deliberately wiped his mouth with the sudsy sponge. "Hey! What was that for?"
"For being ungallant just now," she told him sweetly. She rinsed the sponge and trickled clean water over his face.
He hummed his pleasure. "That feels wonderful." Ry willingly leaned back so she could scrub his chest. "How long were you waiting in the tunnel?"
"I made Mr. Greer take me down almost as soon as I arrived."
"Brooklyn! You weren't down there during all the digging!"
"I most certainly was." She scrubbed a little harder. "I couldn't bear to be around the other women with their accusing eyes. I had to do something. Waiting in the mine was infinitely better than waiting above."
Ryland swore. "When I get my hands on Greer..."
"Wait until you have two good hands, Ry. Anyway, it wasn't his fault. I ordered him to take me below, and if you think on it you'll realize that the blame for him listening to me lays squarely on your shoulders." She wrung out the sponge again. "Lean forward so I can do your back."
"What do you mean it's my fault he listened to you?" he asked, drawing his knees up to his chest.
"I don't think Harry or Greer or any of the other miners just assumed I was your wife," she said pointedly. "There must have been some encouragement on your part."
"Oh. I see. Well... I may have mentioned I was living in the valley with my wife. It explained why I was so bent on getting home with a pack mule loaded with oranges and lemons and why I was adamant that they construct the tunnel leading from A mine into the valley."
"A mistress would have explained those things just as well," she reminded him gently. "Perhaps better."
"It wouldn't have satisfied me."
She rinsed his back. "It was honorable of you to protect my reputation, especially with Drew having already dragged me up the hillside."
He regarded her shrewdly. "None of them were aware of anything out of the ordinary between you and Drew."
"I know. His arm had already been broken and set by the time we reached the first camp. He was rather docile then."
"And he never said anything stupid, did he?"
"Like I was his wife? No, he never spoke to the miners at all."
"Then why did you even bring this up?" he asked, exasperated.
She smiled, propping his leg on the edge of tub. "Because I wanted you to worry a little. You were much too certain of yourself, telling lies and such and thinking you wouldn't get caught out. To say nothing of expecting me to go along with them."
"The thing is, you weren't supposed to find out."
"Rinse. You know what they say about the best laid plans... other leg, please."
Ryland sighed as she lathered his calf and thigh. "You've known for some time, haven't you?"
"That you were telling people I was your wife? No, I didn't know."
"I meant about me going to the mines."
She nodded. "I knew, but not about the tunnel. I told you, I only discovered its existence yesterday."
"You don't seem very angry yet," he said.
"I'm working up to it."
He chuckled, then became serious. "I couldn't tell you about it. I was... afraid you'd leave."
Brooklyn's heart swelled, and she found the courage to make her own confession. "I didn't tell you that I knew you were leaving for a similar reason. I was afraid you'd realize I was staying because I wanted to." She dropped the sponge and moved away from the tub quickly, busying herself with the water heating on the stove.
Ryland let her work off her sudden bout of nerves. She had probably come as close to admitting that she loved him as she ever would. He thought he could be satisfied with that.
When Brooklyn returned to the tub, she told Ry to bend his head so she could wet and lather his hair. Her fingers worked swiftly but gently, and his deep sigh expressed his complete contentment.
"If it wasn't for this damn arm, I'd pull you into the tub."
"I'll remember that," she said dryly. "Put your head back so I can rinse your hair. Your breakfast is waiting for you. Stone cold by now, no doubt, but it will have to do."
A shiver rippled through Ryland as the warm, clean water cascaded over his head, shoulders and back. At this moment he could believe that getting trapped in C mine was almost worth the terror.
Brook towel-dried his hair and pulled the plug on the tub, then handed Ryland a fresh towel. "Can you manage from here?"
"I don't want to," he said, raising one eyebrow wickedly. "But I suppose I'll get by."
"Good for you." She kissed his damp forehead as she might a child's. "I'll fashion you a dry sling."
"You're so kind," Ryland muttered. Too late he noticed she was already gone.
Ryland refused to stay in bed after he finished his breakfast, but much to his own chagrin he slept most of the day on the study sofa, which Brooklyn had made up for him. He even agreed to take some laudanum when the ache in his arm got worse toward evening. She pampered him and he delighted in it, taking shameless advantage of her good humor.
She read to him from the book she had started the day before. It was terribly boring, but Ryland didn't mind. He liked listening to the sound of her voice. It hardly matt
ered what she was saying.
That night he stopped her from putting the pillow between them. "You aren't going to hurt me," he said, slipping his left arm around her shoulder.
Brooklyn's clear eyes were uncertain. "If you're sure."
"I am."
She snuggled closer, closing her eyes. "I'm glad you're safe," she said quietly.
"So am I, Brooklyn." His thoughts drifted back to something Drew had once said in anger. Now Ryland realized it was true, but in the best possible sense. He and Brooklyn deserved one another.
Chapter 11
Ryland grinned. Brooklyn was looking cunning and very pleased with herself as she sashayed into the kitchen. He put down his fork, just as glad for the diversion. He disliked eating in front of her because he felt so awkward trying to get food to his mouth with his left hand. Though he had been wearing the splints and sling for two weeks now, he still chafed at the restriction to his movements. In other circumstances he would have been looking forward to being rid of the splints, yet in four weeks, when Doc Firth had said he'd come out and remove them, it would also be spring, and Ryland was not looking forward to that.
"What have you got behind your back?" Ryland craned his neck from one side to the other in an effort to see what she was hiding.
Brooklyn's smile was secretive. "I've been thinking—"
"Oh, dear."
She wrinkled her nose at him. "Do you remember when we were on board the Mary Francis and I commented that your left hand was very nearly useless?"
"Vaguely," he said, uncomfortable with the knowledge that she was aware of how graceless he felt now.
"And you told me that you'd always meant to learn to handle a gun with your left hand, but never got around to it?"
"I might have said something like that."
"Well," she said, producing Ryland's revolver from behind her back, "now you can get around to it."
"Where the hell did you get that?" He thought he had hidden his gun beyond her ability to find it.
"In the stable." She set it down on the table, a frown creasing her brow. "I found it when I was caring for the animals, Are you angry?"
Was he? Ryland drew in a calming breath before he answered. "More surprised, I suppose. I doubt I will ever be comfortable knowing you have access to a gun," he admitted, chagrined.
Brooklyn had to laugh. "It's not as if I'm going to use it on you."
"Pardon me if I'm inclined to worry about it anyway." Brook's insistent kiss, full on Ryland's mouth, made him forget about all his worries save one. He missed making love to her. They hadn't done much more than sleep in the curve of each other's body since he had broken his arm. He had dropped any number of hints, subtle and otherwise, but Brook was afraid she would hurt him. The intimate touch of her mouth, her graceful hands, gave him great pleasure; she thrilled him with her warmth, the unselfishness of her own desire. Yet Ryland wanted more. He wanted to be inside her, filling her, moving in and against her, feeling the delicious spark and heat of their intertwined bodies.
"Come outside," she said, breaking the kiss.
Ryland wished she had said come to bed, but he obliged her anyway. "You've been busy," he said, pointing to the target she had set up in the snow-covered yard. A large bale of hay, dragged with no little effort judging by the tracks, was set some fifty feet from the front porch. It was marked at the center by a piece of paper with a roughly drawn bull's-eye on it. Ryland knew he hadn't a prayer of hitting even the bale, let alone the target.
Brooklyn made him load the revolver using the shells she had in her apron pocket, giving him a playful slap when he admitted unashamedly that it was more fun digging for the bullets than loading the gun.
Every shot in the first round he fired went wild. When she clucked her tongue softly at his attempt, he handed her the gun. "Can you do better?" he asked, knowing the answer as soon as she smiled her secretive little smile. "I should have realized. Show me." When she hesitated, he flashed a crooked grin. "No, really, I won't be offended. Show me how it's done."
Brooklyn loaded the gun and held it in her left hand, supporting her wrist with her right. The first three shots hit the periphery of the paper target, the fourth and fifth sunk into the bale, and the sixth caught the middle bull's-eye dead center. "It pulls a little to the right," she said, giving him back his gun.
Ryland rolled his eyes and muttered something unrepeatable under his breath.
"I thought you wouldn't be offended," she chided him.
"I lied."
Brook wouldn't let him off so easily. She worked with him patiently for the better part of two hours, until they were both satisfied with Ryland's progress. Alone, Ryland practiced his fledgling skills for the next three days, waiting for the moment when he could confidently put his newfound ability to a more practical use.
Brooklyn was faintly amused by Ry's determination to do well with the gun. She had presented it to him because she hoped to divert his attention from her and keep him from getting underfoot. Since the accident at the mine Ryland had developed the disconcerting habit of shadowing Brook's movements. At first she thought it was because he still didn't trust her, that he believed she might take the tunnel out of the valley. Gradually she realized that his motives had nothing to do with trust; he simply wanted to be helpful. It was touching. It was also shredding her nerves.
Brook leaned her head against the rim of the tub and closed her eyes. The bathroom was the one place where Brooklyn could assure her privacy—by bolting both doors. It was also the one place where Brook needed privacy.
She sighed softly, placing her palm over the faint curve of her abdomen, and wondered if she could have possibly made a mistake in her calculations. It seemed highly unlikely. She was somewhere between eight and ten weeks pregnant, and, in her own eyes at least, she saw changes in her body. Perhaps Ryland would not notice the increasing fullness of her breasts or their aching tenderness, but Brook didn't want to take the chance. Hiding her body beneath her flannel nightgowns, refusing to let him make love to her on the pretext that she might hurt him, Brooklyn played her cards close in just the manner Phillip had taught her. She was not ready to share her secret with Ryland. There was too much, she believed, still unsettled between them.
Brook raised her leg and lathered the length of her calf. Somehow she had managed to hide her erratic bouts of morning sickness by rising earlier than Ryland and going straight to the bathroom, where she noisily pumped water into the basin as she vomited. How much longer could she expect him not to comment on her new sleeping habits? How could she lie her way clear when he seemed to know when she was and wasn't telling the truth?
Brooklyn was under no illusions that her subterfuge could continue indefinitely. In her prayers she didn't ask for indefinitely. She simply asked that Ryland's suspicions remain unaroused for the next twenty-three days. Brook smiled wryly at the phrasing of her thoughts. Ryland's suspicions might be unaroused, but that certainly did not apply to the rest of him. It did not apply to Brooklyn either. She missed the pleasure of Ryland's body pressed flush to her naked skin. She missed the intimate moments when he thrust in her and held himself still, asking her in his husky voice to tell him what she wanted.
Glancing down at her body, Brook watched a heated blush rise over her dewy skin in response to her thoughts. Quickly, before she gave into what she wanted and damned the consequences, Brooklyn rose from the tub and dried off with furious intent.
The bedroom was dark save for the firelight. She spared a glance toward the bed and saw that Ryland was sitting up, his back supported by a pillow against the headrails. "You're looking very pleased with yourself," she said, taking her brush from the dresser. She knelt in front of the fire and unpinned her hair, giving it long, even strokes with the brush.
When he didn't reply, Brook looked over her shoulder curiously. "More than pleased with yourself," she noted. "Actually you look rather smug."
Ryland nodded. "I am."
"Are you going to share th
e cause with me?"
"Perhaps after you're done brushing your hair. Go on. I like to watch you." He did. Her hair was like a waterfall at dusk, darkly rippling, trapping the colors of the firelight as if it were the sunset. His fingers ached to thread between the soft strands.
Brooklyn hid her secret pleasure at his words beneath a small shrug. She continued brushing until the ends crackled. When she was done she started to rise, but Ryland stopped her with a word.
"No," he said.
She looked at him questioningly. "No?"
"No," he repeated huskily. "Put the brush on the floor."
Bewildered, Brook did as he said.
"Now draw off your nightgown."
Brooklyn's brows arched in surprise. "I don't think—"
"Then don't. Don't think. Draw off your nightgown. I want to look at you."
Beneath the gravel roughness there was a certain yearning in his voice. Brooklyn nearly obeyed his command, wanting the same thing as he. She shook her head in an attempt to clear the heavy cobwebs of seduction from her mind.
From under the thick comforter Ryland withdrew his revolver in his left hand and leveled it at Brooklyn. "It would seem that you require more than gentle persuasion."
Brook's eyes widened. Of course it wasn't loaded.
He wouldn't aim a loaded gun at her, even in jest. Or would he? Her gaze lifted from the barrel of the gun to Ryland's face. He was looking supremely confident. There was the hint of smile about his lips. She felt as if she were no longer in their bedroom in the valley, but in her cabin on board the Mary Francis. What would it be like, she wondered, to pretend his threat was real, to accede to his demands as if he had taken away her choice? More than four years ago she had brazened her way clear of his threats. Could she be so brazen now and surrender to them? She wanted to. Oh, God, how she wanted to!
But what if he saw her breasts were heavier, her belly no longer as flat as it had been? Would he understand the changes for what they were? Would Ryland even notice them or was she being overly sensitive? She wondered if he had had as much experience with pregnant women as he had had with virgins. If that was the case then she was safe.