Ben pulled her over to one of the windows. “He’s got this thing about seeing a guest being attacked.”
“But Richard was—”
“Hold still,” he growled. “I want to make sure you didn’t get cut on the broken glass.”
The sound of splintering wood came from the foyer, along with the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the wall. Willa flinched, and Ben chuckled as he lifted her wrists to see her hands.
“Check my backside,” she said quickly, twisting as if to look behind her. “I think I fell on some glass.”
When he let her go so she could turn around, Willa bolted for the foyer. She came to a skidding stop in the doorway, utterly stunned to see Sam throw Richard against the wall, then grab him by the throat.
Richard brought his knee up, and Sam barely deflected a blow to his groin. Richard swung his arms up to break the choking hold and took a swing at Sam’s face.
A porcelain statue was knocked over when Richard slammed into a chair and it crashed into another table near the stairway. A picture fell off the wall. Grunts and flesh-bruising blows echoed throughout the grand foyer, accented by heated curses.
“Stop it! Now!” Willa shrieked.
She might as well have been screaming at two rocks. She flinched when Richard’s fist connected with Sam’s shoulder.
Sam was about the same height as her brother-in-law, but he definitely was the more powerful of the two. Richard, however, was probably more experienced.
When Richard took an obviously painful blow to his stomach, only to give a retaliating kick to Sam’s knee, Willa grabbed the only remaining unbroken vase and pulled out the flowers. Just as Richard was about to take another swing, she threw the water, hitting him in the face. He halted in mid-swing, and Sam’s fist connected with his jaw, dropping him into a heap on the floor.
“That was a dirty shot,” Willa squeaked, horrified.
“But effective,” Sam growled, taking a step toward her.
Willa took a step back.
“Get her the hell out of here,” he said through gritted teeth, looking past her.
Willa took another step back and bumped into Ben. “No. Wait. What about—”
“Not now,” Ben said in a hushed voice, moving her toward the stairs. “Let him calm down.”
Willa looked over the railing as she ascended to see that Sam hadn’t moved, standing like a cat over his kill. Several of his shirt buttons were missing, exposing his broad, heaving chest. His fists were clenched at his sides, and every muscle in his body was taut, making him appear ready to deal a deathblow should Richard so much as move.
She looked over at Ben. “But—”
“Hush,” he said as they reached the top of the staircase, putting a finger to her lips. “You go change into dry clothes and make sure you didn’t get cut anywhere, and I’ll help Sam clean up the mess downstairs.”
Willa looked into Ben’s hard eyes, which were in sharp contrast to the softness of his voice. “He’s my brother-in-law. He drove Abram down from Maine.”
“Sam and I heard you arguing as we came down the stairs, and then you screamed. It looked to us as if he was attacking you.”
“Um…Richard was trying to argue, and I was trying to get away from him. He was accusing me of trying to talk my sister into divorcing him.”
“Are you?”
“Well, yeah. But I don’t know how Richard found out. I’ve been very careful.”
“Why do you want her to divorce him?”
“Because he’s a jerk.”
“What’s all the commotion?” Jesse asked, walking from the left wing of the house.
“Just a small misunderstanding,” Ben said. He turned Willa toward the guest wing and gave her a nudge. “Go change. We’ll send Richard on his way. Come on, Jesse. Let’s go help Sam clean up.”
Willa silently walked to her bedroom as she heard the steel in Ben’s voice again. She’d gotten off easy that day in the boardroom. The Sinclair men were just as ruthless as Abram had alluded to. But they’d been courteous to her and guarded, curious, and compassionate. Ben had been a good host on their shopping expedition yesterday, and despite the gloom hanging over the house, Jesse actually had her laughing last night with stories of their boyhood antics. And other than that kiss two nights ago at the hotel, Sam had been a gentleman with her.
Sort of. Most of the time.
Willa saw now what Abram had tried to explain to her without outright saying it. All three of his grandsons wore a thin veneer of civility. Sometimes it slipped though, as it had when Sam thought Richard was attacking her.
She had learned two very important things this morning. One, Sam Sinclair was not a man she ever wanted mad at her. And two, he had a positively gorgeous chest.
“Abram Sinclair, you old poop. You promised to wait for me to get back.”
Sam stilled when he heard Willa’s voice. He was sitting in a high-backed chair pulled around to face the window, his feet propped on the windowsill. It was a dismal day of hard late-May rain. A fire had been set in the hearth, and two lights had been lit over Abram, who was lying peacefully in his own wondrous creation of solid cherry wood and forest-green flannel bedding.
Sam had been sitting in quiet contemplation, the casket across the room at his back, and he was able to see the entire room reflected in the rain-soaked window. Willa had come in carrying a huge bouquet of spring flowers she’d filched from the garden; she was also carrying a rag and what he suspected was wood wax.
“We had a deal,” Willa continued. Sam watched in the window as she set down her flowers on a nearby table and walked up to Bram. “I promised to come here and do your dirty work, and you promised to let me be with you, come time. You tricked me, Abram. You planned it,” she accused.
Willa slowly reached out and feathered her fingers over Bram’s cheek. Sam couldn’t see her face, but he’d bet she was smiling and crying at the same time.
Her voice proved him right. “You look damn good, Abram. I bet you left instructions with the undertaker to give you that smile, didn’t you? Your grandsons are rascals,” she told the old man, touching Bram’s hair. “Right down to their arrogant smiles. Chips off your own block, aren’t they?
“I’m sorry you had to come home with Richard as your escort, but your grandsons sent him packing. You should have seen Sam this morning, Abram. He was magnificent. He actually rescued me.” She loosened Bram’s tie. “I’ve never been rescued before in my life.”
Sam had a pretty good idea that Willa didn’t realize Bram had begun rescuing her the moment they met.
It must be Sinclair fate to slay Willa’s dragons—whatever they were. Sam knew she had them, and he knew Bram had recognized that fact immediately. He just wished his grandfather had left him a hint to exactly what they were.
Willa was dressed in worn jeans and an oversized sweatshirt this afternoon. Her hair was once again escaping its clip, waving in tendrils around her face, making her look like an angel who had come to help them through this time. Sam thanked God, and Abram, for her, as she was indeed making this easier—though he guessed she didn’t realize it.
“Your casket looks good,” she continued, opening the can of wax. “Except maybe that ship. I told you to let me transfer my sketch to the wood, instead of your trying to copy it freehand. Your cargo ship is listing, Abram.”
Sam silently chuckled to himself.
“I like your rose, though. You did a great job putting it on your foot cover. I can’t believe the inscription, though. You added that when I wasn’t watching.”
Sam heard Willa snort. “Been there. Done that. Had fun,” she read aloud. “Hope to come back and do it again.”
Sam held in his own chuckle. All three brothers had had a good laugh when they’d read Bram’s little epitaph. And not one of them would put it past the old man to come back and haunt them.
“If you do come back, Abram, it’ll likely be as a goat,” Willa scolded. “Just so you can keep butting into p
eople’s business, like you have mine.”
She began polishing Bram’s casket, working industriously. “What could you have been thinking, sending me down here?” She stopped and pointed her rag at him. “Your grandsons are first-class rogues, Abram. And I don’t care if Sam’s kisses do curl my toes, either,” she hissed.
Sam smiled. Curled her toes, had he?
“I’m on to you, Abram. You’ve got something up your sleeve, I can feel it. But I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to be part of whatever it is. And I don’t care what you think; I’m not ever getting married again. I can’t, and you know it. You said you understood.”
She was polishing the wood so hard Sam expected it to start smoking.
“I can’t ever have children,” she blurted. “I explained that to you. And you laughed at me,” she finished on a whisper, dropping her forehead onto Bram’s chest with a sob.
Bram had laughed at her despair? That wasn’t like him at all. If he’d scoffed at whatever she’d told him, it was because Bram considered it baseless.
Another mystery. Or a dragon to slay? A letter would have been nice. Just a note explaining what this dragon looked like, as well as how formidable it might be.
“Oh, Abram. What have you done to me?” Willa cried.
Bram had definitely done something that was going to cause them all a world of trouble. Sam could feel it just as surely as Willa could. The ball would likely drop when the will was read in two days, after the funeral. Knowing Bram, that’s where he’d stage his final farewell to them all.
He’d better get Spencer aside and find out what was in that will before it was read to anyone. He had an ominous feeling that Willa might go into shock when she discovered Bram’s ultimate plan. He had no doubt Abram Sinclair hadn’t gone to his grave peacefully. The old man would be fighting the whole way, as he had his whole life, to win.
And Willa, Sam was beginning to fear, was the prize.
At the sound of someone else entering the room, he looked back into the window’s reflection. Spencer was saving him the trouble of hunting him down. The aging lawyer walked up to Willa and gathered her in his arms, rocking her tenderly.
Another man who had fallen for the angel’s charm.
“I’m sorry, Willa,” Spencer crooned. “I know how much you cared for Bram.”
“Yes,” she said.
“I also know you wanted to be there for him.”
“It’s almost like he planned this, Spencer.”
“He probably did,” Spencer agreed, setting her away. “But he told me to ask your forgiveness. You’ve been so kind to him these last six weeks. Will you forgive the old man his scheming?”
“Maybe,” she whispered, looking at Bram as she wiped her eyes. “I just didn’t want him to be alone.”
“He wasn’t. I was with him.”
“How come Richard brought him home? Why not you?”
“I had urgent duties to see to back here.”
“For another client?”
“No, Bram’s been my only client for years now. The casket’s beautiful,” Spencer said, running his hand over the shining wood.
“Thanks to my crew,” Willa said with a snort, taking a swipe with her rag. “Abram was about as talented at working with wood as I am at cooking.”
“That bad, huh?” Spencer teased. “Bram told me about some of your meals.”
“Maybe someday I’ll be rich enough to hire a cook,” Willa said with a smile in her voice. “Abram said he certainly hoped so, if I didn’t poison myself first.”
“I’d say you’ll probably realize that dream.”
At that foreboding omen, Sam stood and walked over to the casket.
Willa gave a startled gasp. “How long have you been sitting there?” she demanded, her face turning red.
“A couple of hours.” He turned to Spencer. “I need to speak with you. Now.”
“Certainly,” the lawyer agreed, his neck reddening and his eyes going guiltily to Bram. “Shall we go into the office?” he asked, refusing to look at either of them as he turned and hastily walked out of the room.
“You jerk!” Willa hissed before Sam could follow. “You were eavesdropping!”
“I was sitting quietly, contemplating fate.”
“You could have coughed or something, to let me know you were here.”
“I suppose I could have.”
She looked as if she wanted to hit him but contented herself with a glare. Sam captured her face in his hands, kissed her right on her startled mouth, and walked out of the room.
Chapter Six
“Why the green flannel?”
“Because it’s warm and comfortable. Because Maureen, one of my workers, told Abram it went well with his hair,” Willa explained, her cheeks dimpled with a mischievous smile. She reached forward and gently mussed Bram’s hair. “There, that’s better. Now he looks more like himself, don’t you think?” she asked Jesse, who was loosening Bram’s tie while he unconsciously pulled at his own.
“Yeah. That’s Granddad, all right.”
“It was the first thing I noticed about him,” Willa told the three brothers, all four of them dressed to greet the guests who would soon be arriving to pay their respects. “When I opened my door, Abram was standing on my porch with my For Rent sign in his hand, his hair looking like he had just come through a hurricane.”
Sam was standing to the side, out of sight of Willa’s killer glares. She hadn’t forgiven him for eavesdropping that afternoon, but he was more amused than repentant. It had been an enlightening deception.
“The casket’s really beautiful,” Ben said, tugging on his grandfather’s collar. “Bram did a fine job.”
“I like the sketch on the inside of the cover,” Jesse added, undoing the top button of Bram’s collar. “Did he draw it?”
“Sort of. He copied one of my sketches,” Willa explained. “Levi designs the caskets, and I sketch scenes to be carved into them. The craftsmen do the woodwork, and the women install the lining.”
“You’re an artist,” Ben observed.
“Not formally. I just like to draw. I especially like working up custom orders with clients. You’d be surprised how happy people are to know exactly how their bodies will be spending eternity.”
“While his soul is haunting Rosebriar,” Jesse exclaimed, ghoulishly raising his hands at Willa, then smiling at Sam. “Trying to protect his home.”
“Rosebriar can weather anything,” Sam returned, smiling over the top of Willa’s head when she wouldn’t turn toward him. Yup, she was still in a snit.
At least she was wearing flats this evening, probably at Ben’s insistence on their shopping expedition. His brother also must have picked out the dress. Willa actually looked put together. Maybe even stunning.
The dress was appropriately black, with simple, sleek lines that accented her curves very nicely. The only adornment she wore was a small cameo Sam recognized as having belonged to Grammy Rose. Bram must have given it to her, which was telling.
The old wolf had chosen a new Sinclair bride.
But would that bride walk down the aisle of a church willingly, or would she have to be dragged down kicking and screaming?
Sam had finally coerced Spencer into showing him the will. Tomorrow afternoon, after the funeral, the will would be read to one and all. That was when the roof was likely to come off Rosebriar, because if his brothers didn’t raise it, Willa certainly would.
After reading Bram’s last will and testament, Sam had sat in stunned silence for more than two hours, marveling at the mind of the eighty-five-year-old man. He hoped he was still that sharp when he was that old—assuming he lived through tomorrow.
“People will be arriving soon,” Willa said, breaking into Sam’s thoughts. “I think I’ll go see how Peg’s doing.”
“Peg’s been our housekeeper for twenty years,” Jesse said, grabbing her arm before she could escape. “Believe me, the woman has entertained more people than the po
pe has.”
“But she’s taken Abram’s passing hard,” Willa said, “and I don’t know anyone who’ll be here tonight. I’m better off in the kitchen.”
“All of the board members will be here,” Sam told her with ill-concealed delight. “Don’t you want to see them?”
She shot him a glare. “Not particularly.”
“If you wish to be helpful, you won’t abandon us,” Ben said with a ridiculous pout. “We need your support.”
Willa tried to stifle a snort as she looked at Ben. “And to think, I was going to choose you to be CEO.”
Emerson entered the den to announce the first arrival. Sam caught Willa’s elbow and escorted her to the foyer, ignoring her tugs for freedom. Ben and Jesse moved to flank them, making it impossible for her to escape.
“Emerson looks as if he just stepped out of an old Gothic novel,” Willa observed, watching the butler take coats and hats and umbrellas. “He looks older than Abram.”
“He was sixty-one his last birthday.”
“He must have gotten his white hair from living with all of you,” she shot back, giving another tug on her arm.
“I’m going to kiss you again if you don’t quit squirming,” Sam said, leaning closer.
“I suppose you do need the practice,” she drawled.
And so began Bram’s wake. Friends, enemies, business acquaintances, and foreign dignitaries all passed by Bram’s beautiful casket and smiling face; the parade lasted four hours.
Willa lasted nearly three.
By then, her hair had escaped again, she had a small run in one stocking, and she’d spilled tea on her dress. Her forced smile had waned, and her shoulders were drooping. Sam escorted her to the office, sat her down in front of a roaring fire, stole her shoes, and propped her feet on an ottoman. He then placed a full glass of Johnnie Walker Black in her hand, telling her to relax, that they’d join her as soon as they could.
An hour later, the three brothers entered the office in desperate need of something to drink themselves.
“I’ve been trying to figure out this room,” Willa said as she held out her glass for Sam to refill.
The Man Must Marry Page 7
