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

by Jo Goodman

  "Yes." She would have liked to draw him to the room and kiss him properly, perhaps test the suppleness of a certain mattress, but Ryland, having heard her answer, was already striding away. She watched him turn the corner, heard his quick, light tread on the stairs, and shut the door quietly behind her, not so much wondering what her husband was thinking, but worrying about why he wouldn't share his thoughts with her. Somehow this marriage was not quite what she had envisioned.

  It was dusk by the time Ryland returned to the hotel. His conversation with Sheriff Young had been brief, and there was never any question but that Ryland was believed. There would be no inquest, no charges. Ryland's next stop was the undertaker, where he arranged for two pine boxes, both of substantial size, to be delivered to A mine. He explained that Joe Greer would know what to do with them. He hired caretakers for the house and left them with a list of instructions. The tickets didn't take long to arrange; there was a train leaving for San Francisco in the morning.

  What had occupied most of Ryland's time was wiring messages to his uncle in Frisco. The wires carried the first inquiry with lightning quickness to the telegraph office in the city; then Ryland had to cool his heels waiting for it to be hand-delivered to the house on Nob Hill. The first reply came in just under two hours. After that Ryland and Robert North kept the telegraphers in Virginia City and Frisco occupied for the better part of what was left of the afternoon. Ryland liked very little of what he learned.

  The two bags Ryland hugged under his arms thudded to the floor, and he kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. Immediately he felt guilty for rousing Brooklyn from her nap. He wondered if the baby tired her. He remembered his aunt retiring to her room for one hour every afternoon while she was carrying Drew.

  "You're back," she said sleepily, looking at him through her lashes. Smiling dreamily she patted the empty space beside her.

  Ryland bent over Brook and nuzzled her neck. "Mmm, you smell good."

  "Lilac," she murmured. "I soaked in lilac water. They didn't have jasmine."

  "Delicious." He sat down. "I've ordered dinner. It should be here in about an hour. Time enough for me to get cleaned up."

  "Time enough for us to do other things as well." Her arms circled his neck. "Do you agree?"

  The swiftness and intensity of Ryland's response took them both by surprise. Brooklyn was accustomed to his gentle passion, the slow, delicious manner in which he aroused her. Nowhere was that evident now. Ryland's kiss was hungry, devouring, very nearly violent. He held her tightly, trapping her with one of his legs while his mouth made forays over the tender skin of her neck. His lips moved along the scooped neckline of Brooklyn's shift, making a damp line on her bare flesh with the edge of his tongue. His knuckles brushed the tips of her breasts. Ryland's mouth lowered and closed over one nipple, then the other, teasing them both with the sensation of her response through the thin fabric. Her tiny cry of pain at his roughness became a moan of desire as she was caught up in his urgency.

  Brooklyn's fingers fumbled with the buttons at Ryland's fly while he impatiently pushed up her shift to the level of her waist. His movements were hurried, frenzied, as if he needed assurance that she would not disappear. Brook's legs parted, curving around him as he thrust into her. She wasn't quite ready for him, and there was a moment of discomfort, but Brooklyn accepted it because it was insignificant beside the need he had for her and her own for him.

  "Your mouth," he whispered. "Give me your mouth."

  Brooklyn's lips parted as his mouth slanted hard across hers. His loins ground against her, withdrawing, thrusting, rocking. She held him close, sensing that Ryland was in pain though not fathoming the cause. He was losing himself with her, in her. The muscles in his back bunched; his arms were coiled with tension. She pressed the pads of her fingers against his skin, caressing, massaging and kneading the tautness. "Whatever it is," she whispered, "love me. Please don't stop loving me."

  Ryland's reply was lost as his control snapped and his body shuddered at pleasure's end. He buried his face against her breasts, his breathing rough and raspy. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, Brooklyn. I'm sorry."

  Frowning, Brooklyn was ready to ask why he was apologizing when Ryland heaved himself up and away from her. She had no way of knowing that when he looked at her his disgust was for himself. Embarrassed by her partial nudity in light of Ryland's expression, Brook hastily righted her shift and sat up, hunching her shoulders and drawing her knees to her chest. She watched silently, numbed by what she saw in his eyes as Ryland picked up one of the bags he had brought and disappeared into the adjoining dressing room.

  By the time he returned, shaved, washed, and dressed in fresh clothes, dinner had been laid out on a small oval table by the window. Brooklyn was sitting at the table, staring blankly at the covered dishes while she sipped from her wineglass. She was dressed in the sky blue gown he had picked out for her especially for this evening. The neckline was modest, trimmed with gold thread, and bared only her slender throat. It was enough. Ryland could see the marks of his brutal loving on her pale skin. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he thought of the marks he could not see. He didn't blame her for not looking up as he seated himself opposite her.

  When she set her wineglass down and started to lift the silver cover on their main course, Ryland stopped her, placing his hand over hers. She pulled back as if burnt, dropping the cover so that it rested at an odd angle over the baked chicken breasts. The aroma of the food was an intrusion, and Ryland righted the cover while Brooklyn hastily reached for her wine.

  "You're my wife, Brooklyn," he said, the words catching in his dry throat. "And I used you like a whore. Can you forgive me?"

  "It wasn't like that," she said quietly, averting her head and staring out the window. Carriages were pulling up to the opera house across the street. Men and women, some dressed elegantly in silks and taffeta, others in plain cotton and denim, disappeared into the gaily lighted entrance. Their laughter drifted toward her, making her feel ineffably sad. "At least I didn't think it was like that until you left me. I felt... soiled."

  Ryland swore softly under his breath. "I never meant..." he began inadequately, "I never meant to hurt you. I left quickly because I was revolted by my own selfishness. You were so giving, and I savaged you with my need, returning nothing."

  "You didn't hurt me," she said. "Not the way you seem to think you did."

  "I was rough."

  "I didn't complain, did I? And I never asked you to stop."

  "I wish you had."

  Brooklyn sighed. "Why won't you talk to me?" she asked, blinking back the gritty feeling in her eyes that was the precursor to tears.

  "But I—"

  She turned on Ryland, leveling him with pained eyes. "No, I don't mean about what happened between us. That will sort itself out. Tell me what happened before you came into the room. Tell me why you turned to me for comfort and lost yourself to some kind of greedy desperation."

  Ryland held her stare. "I warned you I wasn't a paragon. I'm human, neither more nor less."

  "I know that."

  He continued as if she hadn't spoken. "And there's only one thing that frightens me, really frightens me, and that's not having you in my life."

  "I understand," she said quietly. "I feel the same way. Since last night, when those two men came for you, I've thought of little else."

  "You don't understand," he said, shaking his head. "It's not me the bounty hunters were after. It was you, always you, and I've been nothing short of terrified since I realized it."

  Her heart went out to him. "Oh, Ryland, you must be mistaken," she said half pityingly. She had no concern for herself, only for him, certain he had been torturing himself over nothing. "There's no one with any reason to try to kill me. I've never hurt anyone the way I hurt you. And we both know how you got your revenge," she said, trying to raise a smile on his grimly set mouth. "You loved me and married me and gave me your child. Well, the order is not exact, but I—"

&n
bsp; "Stop it." Ryland's hand sliced through the air, cutting her off. "I'm not mistaken. Do you think I would tell you this if I weren't absolutely certain? I could have told you last night or this morning, but I waited until I could gather more evidence. That's why we left the valley today, why I married you with such haste, and why I spent all afternoon in the telegraph office instead of being where I wanted to be—here, with you."

  Agitated, Brooklyn stood. Placing her hands firmly on the table, she leaned forward. "It makes absolutely no sense," she said with conviction. "What sort of evidence could you possibly have gathered this afternoon? Did you wire Bill? Is he so angry at losing his hostess that he asked two gun-slingers to come after me?" Her mouth curled derisively. "It's absurd. Ridiculous. You are troubling yourself about nothing. It's your own life that's in danger. You said so yourself when you told me about the bounty hunters. It's that Gordon case." She drew in a calming breath. "Not that it makes me feel any better. I'd be happier if it were me the men were after."

  "Sit down, Brooklyn." When she hesitated he repeated the order more loudly. "Sit down and listen to me." Ryland's eyes darkened and pleaded with her. "God, I am yelling at you now. Please, Brook, bear with me. Don't fight my every word." She nodded uneasily and sat down slowly, her fingers curling around the edge of the tablecloth. "When Kittridge fired his gun in my room, he didn't fire at me. He shot at what he thought was you. I know you're thinking his aim was off. I'm telling you now, it wasn't. Kittridge was an excellent marksman. If I had any doubts my conversation with the sheriff put them out of mind. When Jordan was cornered he went for you. Yes, I know you lowered your guard, but I hadn't. He should have gunned for me first, then for you. His chances were better for getting us both that way. Instead, against all better judgment his focus was on you. That's because his target was you from the beginning."

  "It doesn't make sense," she repeated. "Who could possibly want to kill me enough to hire someone to do it? And why? Who even knows I'm here?" Breath caught in her throat as a horrible realization dawned. "Oh, no, Ryland, not Andrew. He could never be so vicious."

  "No, it wasn't Andrew," Ryland said quickly. He felt a moment's guilt because he had not been so generous earlier when he considered what his cousin might be capable of doing. "But according to my uncle, Drew was beaten, very badly a week ago and left for dead in a Chinatown alley. There were witnesses to the beating. Two men were involved and their description very much matches Jordan and Kittridge."

  "What about Drew?"

  Ryland's expression was bleak. "He's not regained consciousness. Until he does I have to assume he was forced to tell the men where you were and who you were with."

  "Poor Andrew," she said softly. "I've been nothing but a curse to him."

  "I doubt he'd agree."

  "Do you think your aunt and uncle will let me see him? I want to, you know. I feel responsible."

  Ryland was glad she wasn't arguing with him about Kittridge's and Jordan's motives any longer, but he didn't want her feeling responsible for something that was totally out of her control. "You didn't order anyone to hurt Drew. No one blames you. There's no reason for you to blame yourself." He reached across the table and touched her hand, winding his fingers in hers. "Of course you'll be able to see Drew. Uncle Robert even suggested it might help."

  "He knows? About us, I mean?"

  Ryland nodded, a faint smile curving his lips. "He's as confused as any man can be, but he knows that we're married. And he now knows that Andrew's beating makes some kind of terrible sense. It's odd, but I think he feels better knowing."

  "I wish I understood," she said plaintively. "Who do you suppose led the men to Andrew?"

  "Two people come to mind immediately. Bill Maine and John Nathan both knew you supposedly eloped with Drew. I didn't have much trouble getting that from them. Jordan and Kittridge probably encountered less interference than I did."

  "You could be right, but it still doesn't answer who put them after me, or why."

  Ryland watched Brook carefully. "What about Sumner?"

  "Phillip?" A bubble of hysterical laughter came to Brook's lips. She covered her hand with her mouth. "That's as silly as supposing it might be Drew or Bill. Why would he hire someone to kill me after all these years? Answer me that."

  "I don't know the answer. But Uncle Robert is sending someone to the Silver Rose to question him. If there's anything to find out, we'll know tomorrow afternoon when my uncle meets us at the station in Sacramento."

  "Talking to Phillip is a waste of everyone's time. He would never hurt me. I'd stake my life on it."

  "You may already have," Ryland said pointedly. He stood suddenly, drawing the drapes closed, uncomfortable with the view anyone on the street could have of their lighted room."You're frightening me," she said, perfectly aware of why he had closed the drapes.

  "I'm sorry. I'm trying to protect you."

  She looked down at her plate, chastened. "When do we leave for Frisco?"

  "In the morning."

  "Oh." She glanced at him and put a hand to her roiling stomach. "I'm not very hungry, Ryland. Would you mind if I lie down?"

  "Would you mind if I held you?" he asked. He realized he wasn't hungry either.

  "I think I'd like that," She held out her hand and led him to the bed. He loosened the back of her gown and slipped out of his jacket. They settled on the mattress spoon-fashion. Ryland's arm rested lightly around Brook's waist, and his breath ruffled her hair.

  "It hasn't been much of a wedding day, has it?" he asked. "It's probably a good thing you never gave a lot of thought to marriage. I'm inclined to think you would be bitterly disappointed. I didn't even have a ring for you. The parson was rather shocked."

  "I would have been more shocked if you had had one. What man carries a ring in his pocket in anticipation of getting married? I would have wondered how many rejected proposals you received before I said yes."

  "Then I'm glad I didn't have one. I'll give you my mother's ring when we reach Frisco."

  She squeezed his hand. "I'd like that very much." Brook was quiet for a long time, thinking how odd the day had been, full of revelation, and in a way, full of love. "Do you suppose our marriage would still be valid if one of us gave a false name?" she asked.

  Ryland chuckled. "One of us is Ryland Christopher North. That means it was Brooklyn Michelle Hancock who was not entirely truthful. Now, what part was the lie? Michelle?"

  "No. Mama used to call me Michelle sometimes when she was delirious. I think it was because of my father. His name was Michael. At least she said it was. I liked to believe her because she said his name so fondly, as if he were the one man she really loved. It made me feel I wasn't a mistake, perhaps that I was even wanted." She felt Ryland's light kiss in her hair. "No, Michelle is true enough. It's Hancock that Phillip and I made up. He said that Pendleton sounded stuffy, hardly suitable for a—"

  "What did you say?" Ryland asked, scarcely believing he could have heard her correctly.

  Brooklyn was confused by the naked urgency of his question. "I said it was a stuffy name."

  "No, not that. What is your real name?"

  "Pendleton," she said, bewildered.

  Ryland's heart thudded. "What about Brooklyn?" he asked. "You told me it was a family name. Was that true?"

  Brook turned on her side and faced him, brow knitted. "Yes, it's true. My mother called herself Lynette in the brothel. It was more profitable if one were thought to be French back then. French girls were considered the best prostitutes, and they could demand better prices. Mama could even speak the language."

  "But she wasn't French." It wasn't a question.

  "Oh, no. With a name like Pendleton? That's why she never used it. She was simply Lynette, But Brooklyn is a family name," she assured him. "Mama was Linda—"

  "Linda Brookes Pendleton," he finished for her, putting the last piece of the puzzle in place. "Linda Brookes. Brook-lyn. Why didn't I ever think of it?" He answered his own question. "Becaus
e it was under my nose all the time. The odds of just finding you must be... that a coincidence like this could happen is incred—"

  "What are you talking about? You're not making any sense."

  "Why didn't you say something? I told you all about the Gordon investigation and you never said a word."

  Brooklyn was genuinely startled. "What was I supposed to say?"

  Ryland shot out of bed and began rummaging through Brook's valise. "Damn. It's not in here. It must be in one of the others." He grabbed his jacket and shrugged into it. "I'll be back in thirty minutes." He kissed her parted lips quickly and firmly. "I promise. Don't go anywhere."

  "Where are you going?"

  Pausing in the doorway, Ryland glanced over his shoulder. "To the train station to look through the rest of our baggage. I'll explain everything when I get back with Sumner's letter."

  "Phillip's let—" Brooklyn broke off because she was talking to herself anyway. Not that it was much different when Ryland was in the room, she reflected. She still hadn't the faintest notion what he had been going on about. What did anything she said have to do with the Gordon case? Ryland obviously wasn't thinking clearly.

  But Ryland was thinking very clearly. He was certain he knew what Phillip Sumner had written that had the power to make Brooklyn return to him, if only to confront him.

  Ryland set out for the train station at a dead run, paying absolutely no attention to the passersby who stopped to stare at him. The stationmaster moved much too slowly for Ryland. He paced back and forth while the man fumbled with his keys to unlock the baggage room. When he was finally let in, Ryland scattered almost everything he and Brooklyn owned looking for her jewelry box. Tucking it under his arm, Ryland gave the horrified stationmaster a twenty-dollar gold piece to repack the whole of it.

  By the time he returned to the hotel, winded and excited, Brooklyn had recovered her appetite. She was calmly eating cold chicken with her fingers and giving every indication that she was enjoying it. Pushing the plate toward Ryland, she motioned for him to sit. "I think you really ought to eat something, Ry. Then we'll discuss whatever sent you running out of here at full tilt."