Affair of Honor

by Stephanie James

The charmingly rustic interior of the A-frame was revealed as Ryder found the light switch. Brenna glanced around interestedly. As promised, the cabin seemed fully equipped. A flight of stairs led from one side of the fireplace-dominated living room to a loft arrangement that served as the bedroom. The kitchen, dining, and living areas downstairs flowed comfortably together and appeared sufficiently furnished with large, low pieces of solid construction.

  “Can you really see the lake from here?” Brenna asked dubiously, peering out into the darkness through the floor-to-peaked-roof windows.

  “You’ll get a better view in the morning. Too many trees in the way tonight.” Ryder set down his load. “Come on. One more trip should do it.”

  “A man of few words. The strong, silent type, I suppose,” Brenna muttered behind him.

  “Only at two in the morning,” he retorted, not bothering to glance back over his shoulder.

  Brenna, who was chewing her lip, was just as glad he hadn’t turned around to witness her reddening cheeks. What a dumb remark!

  “I think, since we’re both wide awake now,” her new neighbor announced calmly a few minutes later as he lifted out the last suitcase, “that we both need a nightcap. Come on inside.” Still holding the last bag, he started toward his own front door.

  Brenna saw her property disappearing in the direction of his cabin and hurried to protest. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you under the circumstances, but not necessary. I’m sure I’ll sleep very well after all the excitement, and it’s getting so late…”

  “But I might not sleep well at all. Come in, Brenna Llewellyn,” he commanded ever so softly, holding the door politely.

  Brenna, not knowing what else to do, walked resentfully inside.

  “Have a seat. I’ll get a couple of glasses.”

  She watched, narrow-eyed, as Ryder moved into the kitchen with that gliding way he had, and then she turned around to glance automatically at the books lining a nearby shelf. Force of habit, she thought dryly. Always check out a stranger’s bookshelf first. With a creature as enigmatic as Ryder Sterne, a person could use a few clues to his personality!

  The array of paperbacks on the top shelf produced an ironic expression in Brenna’s amber eyes as she reached up to pluck out a volume. Exactly what she should have expected, she decided, perusing the lurid cover, which portrayed a raffish male firing a wicked-looking gun at a cluster of obviously evil types who, in turn, seemed bent on murdering the hero and the sexy blonde clinging to his left biceps.

  It was the sort of sleazy, category stuff usually labeled men’s adventure fiction, Brenna told herself disdainfully, unaware of how her mouth had curved downward until Ryder’s gentle voice came from across the room.

  “That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid,” he told her as if he’d just read her mind. “I not only read it; I wrote it.”

  “What?” Startled, Brenna glanced back at the paperback cover. “It says the author is Justin Murdock.”

  “A pseudonym.” Ryder set down the two glasses of brandy he was carrying, making room for them among a clutter of archery texts on the old brass-bound trunk that served as a coffee table. He sank smoothly into the depths of a couch that displayed a genteel shabbiness suitable for a mountain retreat and held out one of the snifters. “Here you go. Don’t worry, it’s good. I never let my heroes drink anything but the best.”

  “I’m impressed,” Brenna drawled, accepting the bell-shaped glass and sipping obediently at the very excellent brandy. Cautiously she sat down across from him in a padded rattan chair.

  “Impressed by the brandy or the books?” he asked pointedly.

  “Both.” Damned if she was going to let him put her on the defensive.

  “But it’s not exactly your kind of fiction, right?” He smiled.

  “Not exactly. But who am I to argue with success? I take it you are rather successful at it?”

  “Very.”

  “I see. Well, congratulations.”

  “And now that we know my line of work, it’s your turn.”

  Brenna sighed, her lips tightening unconsciously as she met his steady gaze over the rim of the glass. “I’m an assistant professor of philosophy at a small college in the San Francisco Bay area.”

  He said nothing, but something akin to amusement flickered in the silvery eyes.

  “You find my career humorous?” Brenna challenged in a tone as dangerously gentle as any he could have used. Damn it, she’d been through enough this past week concerning her career! She didn’t have to hear it mocked on top of everything else!

  “Your career seems a little at odds with the memory of that cat burglar who came crawling through my window half an hour ago!”

  “There was a time, Mr. Sterne,” she returned, lecturing with an acid sweetness, “when the philosopher was also expected to be a person of action!”

  “But probably not illegal action. At any rate, you’ll have to admit that in the modern era the majority of academic types live in the ivory towers of their institutions of higher learning and seldom emerge to face the real world. Unless you want to count those suitably dramatic moments when they sally forth to face the menace of television cameras in the name of a fashionably radical cause,” he added reflectively and then shook his head. “No, I don’t think you can count those moments. They hardly constitute reality.”

  Brenna arched a brow, refusing to be drawn. “It would seem we are on opposite sides of an issue that has been around a long time. I doubt that we can settle the age-old hostility between those who promote the use of reason and those who admire the machismo approach to life. You, clearly, have made a nice living out of romanticizing the excitement of violent action. I, on the other hand, have just spent an entire semester trying to drum the concept of ethics into the heads of fifty freshmen.”

  Which was surely some sort of joke, when you thought about it, Brenna added silently. Imagine having spent all that time teaching an ethics class only to discover one was the victim of the most unethical behavior…

  But Ryder was looking more amused than ever. “So we are opposing forces, hmmm? Haven’t I heard something about opposing tensions ultimately producing harmony?”

  Brenna blinked in astonishment, pausing in the act of raising her glass. “Heraclitus.”

  He looked blank. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Heraclitus,” she repeated slowly. “A sixth-century Greek philosopher who theorized that there was an underlying harmony in nature and that it was the product of opposing forces.” In spite of herself a slow smile crept into her golden eyes. “As I recall, he used the bow as an example of tension creating harmony.”

  “A bow?” Ryder suddenly looked intrigued. “Yes, that makes sense. There is a perfect balance of tension involved in nocking an arrow and drawing the bowstring. I like the notion.” He nodded decisively. “I’ll have to throw it into the book I’m starting next week.”

  “Just like that?” Brenna demanded. “Wouldn’t you want to study the fine points of the philosophy in a little more depth? Shouldn’t you read the theory in more detail?”

  “I doubt that would prove worth the effort.” He shrugged. “I’d only take what’s useful, and it sounds like you just gave me the useful part. The main research I’m doing for the book is in the actual use of the bow and arrow as a commando weapon.”

  She wanted to lecture him on the reprehensibleness of such slipshod research techniques, but Brenna found herself momentarily sidetracked. “A modern commando weapon? The bow and arrow? Good grief! I thought that was left behind after the invention of gunpowder!”

  “The bow and arrow was used as recently as Vietnam,” Ryder told her, leaning back against the cushions and sipping his brandy. “On a very limited basis, of course. Despite modern technology there still aren’t very many ways of killing people quietly from a distance. The bow makes a very useful weapon in the hands of a man who must move silently in and out of an enemy-occupied zone on, say, a reconnaissance mission.”

&
nbsp; Brenna stared at him and shuddered in disgust. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to burden your reader with the philosophical implications of a drawn bowstring. You are, after all, selling violence and action, not ethical philosophical theory!”

  “And sex.”

  She glared at him.

  “I’m selling sex, too. It goes nicely with the violence and action,” he explained politely.

  “I’m sure it does.” She’d had enough. Brenna got to her feet, determined to put a decisive end to a fruitless conversation. “Thank you very much for the brandy and the help in unpacking my car, Ryder. Now I think it’s time I let you get back to bed.” She was already striding briskly for the door. “You’ve been very patient, considering the way I woke you earlier,” she admitted grudgingly.

  “I’ll see you back to your cabin.” He was behind her yet he reached the door before she did. The man moved like fog, Brenna thought in annoyance. Silent, smooth, overtaking you before you knew it.

  “That’s really not necessary,” she tried valiantly. “I can find my way.”

  “I’ll see you to your door,” he repeated.

  She lifted one shoulder in silent resignation. He was using that gentle tone of voice again. Hardly any point in continuing the argument.

  Neither said a word until they reached her front porch, and then something occurred to Brenna. Turning in the act of inserting her key into the lock, she peered up at her escort, studying the reflection of moonlight in his silvery eyes.

  “What is it, Brenna?” he prompted indulgently.

  “Did you really think I was a cat burglar when I first came through that window?”

  His mouth curved upward but his dark voice was very serious. “The thought definitely went through my mind. I don’t normally greet ladies with a bow and arrow. Why are you smiling?”

  “No reason,” she assured him hastily, stepping over the threshold and swiveling to close the door. “No reason at all. Good night, Ryder.”

  He nodded once and moved off as softly as the moonlight itself.

  Brenna hesitated a moment longer in the doorway, the faint smile he had questioned fading slowly. How could she possibly have explained the curious flicker of amused excitement she had felt at the thought of a man like Ryder actually mistaking her, of all people, for a cat burglar?

  She was an academician, a student and teacher of philosophy. Not a woman of dangerous action! Slowly she closed the door and stood gazing unseeingly at the cozy interior of her summer home.

  And furthermore, Ryder Sterne had been wrong when he proclaimed that her career provided some protection from the realities of life. Brenna’s hands tightened on the doorknob before she made herself release it and walk slowly across the worn, flower-patterned rug in front of the fireplace. There was no protection, no escape from the decision that had been forced upon her this week.

  Nor, she thought with a return of disappointment and anger, could she look for help from the one man who should have stood by her. Damon Fielding had made his position clear when he’d stopped by her apartment this morning to “reason” with her.

  His advice had been thoroughly practical, thoroughly rational, and thoroughly shocking when one considered that it came from a full professor of philosophy and ethics. He had urged her to accept the situation as it was, not to fight back. Her career, after all, was at stake.

  Certainly, he agreed, the action of the department head in publishing Brenna’s research and analysis as his own was unethical, but that sort of thing happened all the time in the academic world. She must remember that Paul Humphrey was on the verge of retirement. She must also keep in mind the fact that Damon Fielding was widely thought to be the next in line to assume the mantle of head of the Department of Philosophy. If she would just keep quiet and not make any waves, the aging Dr. Humphrey would soon be out of the picture.

  Wasn’t it worth ignoring the injustice for the sake of her future career? Besides, Damon had pointed out with a practical logic that probably would have appealed to someone like Ryder, she couldn’t hope to win in any open confrontation with Dr. Humphrey. She was only an assistant professor, too far down on the rung of the academic ladder to tackle the respected head of the department.

  But all Damon’s arguments had succeeded in doing was to put a very large question in Brenna’s heretofore career-oriented mind. Did she truly want to continue in a profession that taught such concepts as the pursuit of truth and ethical analysis yet practiced the same kind of pragmatic politics found in the far less self-righteous world inhabited by people like Ryder Sterne?

  It was a decision she had to make in the next few weeks.

  Chapter 2

  She might be at a turning point in her career and therefore in her life, Brenna told herself firmly the next morning, but she must not forget her responsibility to Craig. Her younger brother was also rapidly reaching some inner turning point. She could sense it, even though he did his best to appear content with his college studies. Just one more year, Brenna thought hopefully. One more year and he’ll graduate. Then he can take some time to explore the various directions open to him. Just so he gets that degree!

  It was going to be a decisive summer in more ways than one.

  Brenna showered in the early morning chill of the cabin. Then she slipped into the jeans she had worn last night and dug out a white cotton pirate shirt from one of the suitcases. The full sleeves gathered into French cuffs, and the classic, slit-front collar made for a casually dashing look that appealed to her on that particular morning.

  Standing in front of the mirror in her loft bedroom, she brushed her chocolate-colored hair straight back from her forehead and twisted it into a loose configuration at the back of her head. The severe style emphasized the slant of the amber eyes that stared back at her with such seriousness this morning. What was she going to do?

  Wandering into the kitchen, she located a copper-bottomed teakettle and set it on the stove. A short rummage in the small sack of groceries she’d brought along produced the packet of tea. Brenna was reaching for one of the pottery mugs in a cupboard near the sink when she glanced out the window and saw Ryder.

  The uneasy shock she had experienced at their first meeting returned in diluted form. This morning he presented no overt threat, but there was something about this man that suggested a poised menace to her senses. The peculiar sensation had not disappeared overnight.

  He stood at the edge of the clearing near his cabin, aiming a bow and arrow at a target that had been tacked to a tree. The morning sunlight gleamed on the tawny hair and clearly outlined the lean, smoothly coordinated masculine figure. A quiver of arrows was buckled to his hip and a leather arm guard protected his wrist beneath the rolled-up sleeve of the yellow shirt he was wearing with his black denim jeans.

  The bold stance and the harshly carved features suggested a man who knew and understood the rough side of life. In fact, Brenna decided wryly as she poured the boiling water into her mug, he looked as if he could have doubled for one of his own fictional heroes. All he lacked was the sexy blonde clinging to his biceps!

  She looked up from pouring the tea water in time to see him loose the nocked arrow. It came as no surprise when the shaft thudded forcefully into the center of the target. In a smooth motion Ryder removed another arrow from the quiver, nocked it, and drew the bowstring. It found a place on the target very close to the first.

  As if sensing her eyes upon him, Ryder glanced toward the kitchen window before reaching for a third arrow. Through the glass their eyes met, and then without a pause he started toward Brenna’s cabin.

  Reminding herself of her manners and the way she had behaved the previous night, Brenna met him at the door with a cup of tea.

  “Thanks,” he murmured, accepting it gratefully as he set down the bow and quiver on her kitchen table.

  “Not as good as your brandy, perhaps, but drinkable.” She smiled.

  “I was wondering if you’d brought some food along for yourself. I
was going to ask if you needed to cadge a meal off me this morning.” He stood looking down at her, silver-gray eyes roving her scrubbed features.

  “We philosophers are not so far removed from the plane of reality as to forget things like food!” She chuckled as he dropped into a straight-backed chair at the table and sipped his tea with appreciation.

  “You don’t look like a teacher of philosophy this morning,” he said in a soft purr of a voice that brought Brenna’s senses alert. “But, then, you didn’t look like one last night, either.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive. One of the first rules of good philosophy,” she informed him with a determined lightness.

  “One of the first rules of any intelligent approach to life,” he countered seriously. “Would you like to go out with me tomorrow night?”

  Startled by the abrupt question following so quickly on the heels of a totally unrelated subject, Brenna stared at him, her lips slightly parted in surprise.

  “To the Gardners’. They own these cabins, remember? They have a place of their own a few miles from here. I’m invited for dinner and I thought you might like to come along. I’m sure they would be pleased to meet you in person.”

  “Oh, Well, I see. That’s very thoughtful of you, but—”

  “Good.” He nodded once. “We’ll leave around six thirty.”

  “Mr. Sterne…Ryder,” she amended quickly, her brow furled in irritation, “I was not accepting the invitation. I was thanking you for it and was about to decline, in fact. I have a great deal to do here and—”

  “And you’ve got all summer to do it.” Ryder grinned at her. It was the first time she’d witnessed that particular expression. She’d seen his rather serious smiles a few times, but this was an outright, thoroughly wicked masculine grin. It was captivating. “Besides, you owe me. I’m calling in the tab.”

  “I owe you! That’s ridiculous. What for?”

  “For the fright you gave me last night, naturally.”

  It took a second for Brenna to catch her breath. For some strange reason she wanted to stare and go on staring at the slashing grin. “You didn’t look particularly frightened, as I recall!” she finally managed coolly.