by Jo Goodman
"I'm taking my grandmother out of here," she said icily. Her eyes burned into Preston. His body seemed to fill the hallway. On the two occasions Brooklyn had seen him he had been sitting down. Standing, he was a powerful figure, bull-necked and barrel-chested. A formidable opponent even without the derringer he held in his right hand. Beside her she felt Abby shiver.
"You're trying to abduct a very wealthy and very ill woman," Preston said.
"You can tell that to the police. I'm going to tell them you've been drugging Abby. We'll see who they believe."
"I don't think this matter is going to go so far as to permit you to talk to anyone. You should have never come to New Orleans."
Brooklyn's eyes were contemptuous. "I realize I've been an inconvenience. It would have suited your purpose much better if I had died without a murmur of scandal in San Francisco."
"Much better," he agreed equably. He stepped to one side and motioned Brooklyn to go in front of him. "I want you to return Grandmother to her bedchamber." He waved the gun impatiently when Brook hesitated. "Now."
Doing as he ordered, Brooklyn moved along the hallway. She stopped at the foot of the staircase and shook her head. "I can't get her up the steps."
Preston was not sympathetic. "Try."
It only took the first two steps to convince her cousin she was telling the truth. Coming down the stairs was one thing; trying to ascend them without Abby's assistance was an impossible task for her. She glanced over her shoulder for Preston's next command.
"Very well," he said tersely. "Bring her into the drawing room. We'll wait for assistance." He glanced at his pocket watch. "David and Sarah are due back soon."
If Brooklyn hadn't been responsible for Abby she would have attacked Preston when he dropped his guard to check the time. Her grandmother was such a fragile burden that Brooklyn couldn't do anything that would endanger her more.
Once she had Abby in the drawing room Brooklyn made her as comfortable as she could on the sofa, covering the shivering woman with a shawl that lay over the back of the couch. "I need another blanket," she said. "Miss Abby's very cold."
"You didn't seem to consider her well-being when you tried to take her from the house."
"I was considering exactly that," countered Brooklyn. "But now that we must stay, she needs another blanket."
Preston ignored her. "Sit down." He indicated one of the leather armchairs with the point of his gun.
"Aren't you going to shoot me here?"
"Not here. Sit!"
Brooklyn sat. If Ryland had seen her now he would have recognized her composure for what it was, a mask for her fear. But that was because he had dealt with her once in similar circumstances.
Preston had no such experience, and he found her calm completely infuriating. Brooklyn realized it almost immediately. Ironically her cousin was threatened by her seeming immunity to his own intimidation. She pressed on. "Why not?" she asked.
"Why not what?" he rapped out immediately.
"Why aren't you going to kill me here?"
"Because I don't want blood in this room or any other room in this house. Too many loose ends. It would have been ideal if David had taken care of this business himself, but he refused." Preston paused significantly. "He already has Ryland's death on his conscience. It was too much to expect that he would have yours as well."
Brooklyn's hands settled on her stomach. "Ryland's dead?" She thought she was going to be sick.
Preston was satisfied to see the bright coins of color in her cheeks disappear as she accepted his lie. He nodded. "This morning. At Brighton Oaks. North was on his way to the police with his story. He had to be stopped."
"So now it only remains for you to be rid of me," she said dully.
"Precisely. It could have been accomplished with some ease if you had entered by the front door. I've been waiting to escort you out again. There's a closed carriage waiting for us at the side of the house. No one will see you exit."
"Where are you going to take me?"
"I know a secluded place along Lake Pontchartrain."
"I see."
"You shouldn't have brought Grandmother downstairs. Now we have to wait for Sarah and David to get her back to her room."
Brooklyn wondered if he expected her to apologize. She made no comment.
"You're probably wondering why I don't simply knock you unconscious or tie you up and take Grandmother to her room myself."
The question had occurred to her, but Brooklyn was hardly going to voice it.
Preston elaborated, feeling more confident as the minutes passed. "I want your death to look like a suicide. A simple drowning. No blows to the head. No rope marks."
"Apparently you have it all thought out."
"Well enough to keep any suspicion of foul play from falling on me. Oh, you're thinking of Rose. No, she won't say anything. She'll be too afraid. And for obvious reasons neither will Sarah and David."
Brooklyn noticed he said nothing of Chandler. It could mean nothing or it could mean everything. She started to pose her question when she heard the front door open. Sarah's voice carried into the drawing room. A moment later she and David Pendleton stood on the threshold.
Sarah's hands immediately clenched into tight, bloodless fists as she surveyed the scene. Her face was pinched with anger and in that moment she bore little resemblance to the portrait of Linda Brookes. There was nothing winsome or charming about the feral light in her eyes. She tore off her bonnet and flung it on a table angrily. "Preston, you're supposed to be gone! You said you would have her out of here by now! We gave you more than enough time. Don't you realize how soon Chandler will be home?"
Preston took umbrage at her tone. "You forget yourself, Sarah," he said coolly. "My cousin is rather more intrepid than one would suppose. She tried to get Abby out of the house."
Sarah didn't waste time asking how that could have happened. She knew what had to be done. "David and I will take her upstairs before Chandler arrives. You get her the hell out of here."
"My intentions exactly."
Without any bidding Brooklyn stood and faced David Pendleton. Her uncle seemed neither formidable nor friendly now. He was looking distinctly uncomfortable and could not meet her eyes. "You cannot know how much I despise you," she said evenly. "I hope you burn in hell for killing my husband."
David's head jerked up. "I didn't kill him. I couldn't. He's—"
"Shut up," Preston barked. "He'll be dead soon enough so don't paint yourself the innocent. You want to keep Brighton Oaks, don't you?"
David made no reply. His eyes dropped away again and he followed Sarah to Abby's side. He had no idea how pathetic and broken a man he looked to his niece.
"I'll pay that mortgage for you," Brooklyn said, trying to appeal to the sense of honor she thought she had seen in him the night before. "You don't have to be afraid that Preston will take the land from you."
It was Preston who responded with harsh laughter. "It's not the mortgage that concerns him. He doesn't want to lose the Oaks to you."
"Me? Why should he lose the Oaks to me?"
"Because it's yours. Michael was already in California when his father died. He inherited Brighton Oaks because David was too young then to manage the property. Outsiders were hired to keep everything running smoothly in expectation that Michael would return."
Brooklyn finished for him. "But Abby received word that my father died, and that meant my mother inherited the land."
"Michael would have wanted me to have the Oaks," David said defensively.
"I'm certain he would have. And I want you to have it. I will sign whatever is necessary to see that it becomes yours. You don't have to be part of this. If you haven't killed Ryland then you're not guilty of anything. It's not too late to stop Preston."
Preston wouldn't let David even consider it. "She'd say anything to try and save herself. Even that she cares nothing about Abby's money."
"But I don't care," Brooklyn insisted, wondering w
hen she dared make her move to bolt for the door. "Everything you've done has been for nothing. I want nothing from you. Not the bank. Not the land."
Except for keeping his gun leveled on Brooklyn, Preston ignored her and directed David and Sarah. "Take Abby upstairs."
"I don't think anyone should move anywhere."
Brooklyn spun on her heels as Ryland's blessed voice washed over her. He was standing in the doorway, his gun drawn, and beside him, looking stiff and formal and ridiculously disapproving, was Chandler Brookes.
It was Chandler who stepped into the room. He glared at his brother. "I think you have some explaining to do, Preston," he said tonelessly.
Because Chandler inadvertently walked directly into Ryland's line of fire, Ry was powerless to do anything when Preston's left arm flung out and caught Brooklyn around the neck. She was pulled roughly against her cousin in a suffocating chokehold.
Preston pushed Brooklyn forward, using her as a shield. "Get out of my way, Chandler." Now that he had Brook he didn't need his brother's protection.
Chandler hesitated, and behind him Ryland moved slightly to gain a better position. "I'm not going to let you do this thing," Chandler said. His eyes dropped to his grandmother. She was sleeping on the sofa, oblivious to the events around her. He stared hard at Preston again. "Let her go."
The barrel of Preston's gun was jammed hard in Brooklyn's side. She felt the pressure ease slightly, and she knew before anyone except Preston what was going to happen next. Flinging up both arms so they extended toward the ceiling, she loosened Preston's grip on her neck and leaped to one side, screaming a warning to Chandler at the same time.
Brooklyn's cry came too late to save Chandler from the searing pain of a bullet in his shoulder. He stumbled backward and Brooklyn realized giddily that he even fell stiffly. Preston, on the other hand, dropped like a stone when Ryland fired. No one else moved.
Ryland slipped the revolver back into his holster and held out his arms to Brooklyn. She ran.
Chapter 16
Three months later, New Orleans
Abby sat up a little straighter while Brooklyn fluffed and adjusted the pillow behind her back. Around the curve of Brooklyn's hip she smiled sheepishly at Ryland, who was sitting in a large overstuffed armchair about six feet from the bed. There was a suggestion of a grin about his mouth, and his cinnamon eyes were outright mocking her. He knew that she didn't care a whit about her pillow; she simply liked Brooklyn coddling and fussing over her. Not that she would have admitted it. There was her reputation, after all. Abby's clear gray eyes warned Ryland not to give her away.
"Is that better?" asked Brooklyn. When she straightened she placed her hands at the small of her back and arched, making the swell of her abdomen more obvious. Turning sideways, she displayed her rounded profile for Ryland to see.
Abby chuckled. "I never knew a woman to flaunt her pregnancy the way you do."
"She's not flaunting it," Ryland explained. "She's accusing me."
Brooklyn grinned at her grandmother. "You see. He knows me so well."
Ryland leaned forward and tugged on Brooklyn's wrist. He drew her onto his lap and groaned outrageously as she settled her weight on him. "Take care, woman, or the child you're carrying is the only one you'll ever have."
"By you," she said sweetly.
Abby clapped her hands together smartly to remind them they were not alone. "Both of you are perfectly incorrigible." Her tone was meant to be full of sting and starch. Instead it was shamelessly indulgent.
How could it be otherwise, Abby asked herself. That she was alive and anticipating the birth of her first great-grandchild was due solely to the unflagging efforts of Brooklyn and Ryland. They had changed everything these last few months, rehiring the servants, nursing her back to health, and catering to her every whim. Since they had moved in, the entire atmosphere of the house had altered, brightened. Happy tears shimmered in her eyes as she watched their play and listened to their banter. From her own experience she knew what they had together was fine and good and lasting.
Brooklyn eased herself off Ryland's lap and perched on the footstool, forcing him to find another place for his feet and sit up a little straighter. Primly smoothing the folds of her lemon yellow gown, she leaned back against his knees. Ryland's fingers immediately began to sift through her hair and lightly stroke the sensitive nape of her neck. She smiled serenely. "He's incorrigible," she said to her grandmother. "I'm perfect."
Abby chuckled. "I thought so at first. It's only recently that I see how well the two blend together." She reached for the book on her bedside table and pulled out the piece of paper marking her place. "I have something for you, Ry."
"A bookmark?"
"Don't be absurd." She held the paper steadily so he could get a better look at it. "I had Chandler draw this up a few weeks ago, when I finally began to be aware of what was going on around me. I decided to wait until I had the strength to argue with you before I handed it over. I'm feeling quite fit now so there's no use gainsaying me."
"I can hardly argue when I still don't know what it is," he said reasonably.
"It's a note drawn on my account at the bank. Ten thousand dollars. The amount we agreed I would pay when you brought my granddaughter to me."
Ryland rose gracefully from his chair, crossed to Abby's side, and took the note. Grinning, he folded it neatly and slipped it into his vest pocket. He kissed Abby on the cheek and returned to his seat, slouching comfortably as his fingers idly wound in Brooklyn's soft chestnut hair. "No arguments here," he said equably. "I earned every penny of it."
"Mercenary," Brooklyn said, not unkindly. "Are you really going to take my grandmother's money?"
"I certainly am. You expect me to, don't you, Miss Abby?"
"I do." She smiled ruefully. "Though I was looking forward to overriding all your objections."
"But you didn't even find me, Ryland," Brooklyn protested. "Andrew can take the credit for bringing us together."
"All right. I'll give the money to Drew."
Brooklyn shook her head. "No, we'll put it in an account for the baby."
"That's perfectly acceptable," said Ryland.
His agreement came so easily that Brooklyn decided it had been his intention all along. She glanced over his shoulder and eyed him suspiciously. The rather smug alignment of his mouth gave him away. "You really are incorrigible."
Ryland gave her neck a small squeeze and turned his attention to Abby. "Do you still plan to attend the trial tomorrow?" he asked.
"No, Brooklyn convinced me there would be nothing but pain involved. I'll go when I'm required to testify and not a moment before. It's quite difficult for me to know how I'm supposed to feel toward Preston." Her lips pursed and she blinked rapidly in an effort to keep her tears at bay. Any talk of Preston made her heart ache. "Sometimes I find myself wishing that you had killed him. Oh, God. It sounds so horrible! Even more horrible when I say it aloud. That he could betray me so vilely is almost beyond my comprehension."
Ryland thought that betrayal was rather a mild word to describe what Preston had done. The courts obviously thought so, too. Preston faced several counts of murder, attempted murder, extortion, and embezzlement. The last charge came about when Chandler began to investigate how his brother financed his schemes. It became readily apparent that Preston was too greedy to use his private resources. Once Chandler knew what he was looking for he found a number of irregularities that could be laid at Preston's door.
"I considered killing him," Ryland admitted, "but I couldn't justify it, not when I knew I had a choice. It's better that the court decides his fate. We can weather the scandal."
"I thought you had killed him," said Brooklyn. "He dropped so hard."
"Shock. He had gotten away with so much for so long that I think he was near to believing he was omnipotent. When the bullet slammed into his shoulder he had to reckon with his own mortality. He fainted."
Abby grimaced. "How could I have slept t
hrough it all?"
"Because you were sedated," Brooklyn reminded her. "And I don't think you should regret it. None of it was pleasant."
"Well, I'm hardly going to be grateful for what Sarah and Preston did to me. And that dolt Chandler. Couldn't he see what was happening?"
"Apparently not," Ryland said. "Shortly after you fell ill he moved in here with the best of intentions. Preston suspected his brother's motives, believing that Chandler was trying to make himself indispensable and that eventually you would cut Preston out of your will. Preston decided it was time to act. His attempt to bribe me had failed and he was genuinely worried that I would find Brooklyn. He chose to cover himself all the way around by hiring people to dispose of Brooklyn and at the same time finding Sarah to replace her. That's also when he elicited David Pendleton's help. David was a reluctant conspirator, but he was convinced he would lose Brighton Oaks otherwise. Like Preston, he couldn't imagine that Brooklyn didn't want any part of his land or his wealth. In David's defense, he was unaware that Preston had already set other plans in motion and he didn't know that Sarah was drugging you. The subtle pressure applied by David, Sarah, and Preston finally got to Chandler. He accepted Sarah as his cousin, even welcomed her into your home, and never suspected that she was slowly poisoning you with opium."
"The dolt," Abby said, her tone disparaging.
"Perhaps," Brooklyn said, "but he helped when it counted. When Ryland left Brighton Oaks he had no clear idea where to find me. He went to the bank to confront Preston and Chandler, and when he found only Chandler he decided to risk everything on a hunch that Chandler was innocent."
"It wasn't my hunch," Ryland broke in. "It was yours. When Chandler offered information that David had been in earlier, speaking privately with Preston, I realized that he didn't know what was going on."
"He could have been setting a trap for you," Abby pointed out.
"I think we're all agreed that Chandler isn't that sort of person."