TWICE A HERO

by Susan Krinard

  "Perry," she said. "You're going for Perry, aren't you?"

  The full force of his attention fell on her like a physical blow. "Worried, Mac? For me, or for him?"

  She planted her feet on the floor and stood. "You still have no proof that he tried to—"

  "I'll have it, soon enough," he said. He jammed on his hat and turned on his heel. "Make yourself comfortable. A meal will be sent up to you shortly."

  Mac had sworn to herself that she wasn't going to beg, but all of a sudden her pride didn't seem quite so important anymore. "Then you're just going to abandon me here—"

  He stopped with his hand on the knob. "Don't worry. I'll be back soon enough. Oh, and I wouldn't advise that you think of leaving. It's a dangerous city out there."

  The door rattled as it slammed shut.

  Mac stood very still long after he'd gone, listening to the echoing hollow of her thoughts. She walked carefully to the bed and sat down again. Thinking on her feet wasn't such a hot idea when her knees were shaking so much.

  Okay, Mac. What now?

  Liam was out of reach, undoubtedly on his way to do something rash and hazardous. And now she wasn't with him to… what? Stop him? Protect him?

  She pushed to her feet and marched to the window. Old San Francisco spread out before her in an undulating surface of square rooftops, punctuated by the occasional church spire or belching smokestack. It ran northward from the flats of the Financial District, up and over the hills and all the way to the Bay. From here the view of sparkling water was unimpeded and magnificent and utterly terrifying.

  As she'd done so many times before, Mac pulled the Maya pendant from beneath her shirt and held the cool stone in her hand. This was it. Either she'd collapse in a useless heap or take up the gauntlet and find a way to do what she had to do.

  Somewhere out there Peregrine Sinclair, her own great-great-grandfather, was going about the business of courting Caroline Gresham. Was he a murderer who'd kill a good friend for the sake of a woman—or her fortune? It seemed too incredible, but Liam believed it. And so, it seemed, had Homer.

  If it were true, Perry wouldn't be expecting Liam's return. There was no telling what he might do once he realized his attempt had failed—or what Liam would do to him.

  She turned from the window and went to the bathroom. It had a toilet and bathtub and sink, everything antique and fancy but recognizable and presumably functional. She turned on the faucet in the wood and marble washstand and splashed two palmfuls of cold water over her face.

  Think, Mac. You've got to come up with something…

  A discreet tapping came at the main door. Mac snatched a towel hung beside the sink and rushed across the room, remembering to assume a little dignity before she answered the knock.

  But it wasn't Liam. It was a young man in a dark suit with a wheeled cart spread with covered platters, cut crystal goblets, and ornate silver. Room service of a degree Mac had never seen in her life.

  As she was something the young man hadn't seen often. His gaze took in her jeans and shirt and traveled to her flushed skin and tousled hair.

  "Your dinner, ma'am," he said. "As ordered. Will there be anything else?"

  The young man's expression told Mac all she needed to know about her appearance. It was a shame she didn't have anything in her possession that resembled the local currency, but she doubted the banks of 1884 would accept traveler's checks so she could go out and buy herself a dress.

  "Thanks," she said slowly. "As a matter of fact, I think there is something you could help me with. I need to find out where someone lives. My, uh, cousin—Peregrine Sinclair."

  Ah. The waiter obviously recognized the name, though his face didn't exactly light up at the mention of it. "May I ask why, ma'am?"

  Strange question from a hotel employee, but she'd have to play along. "Well, I'm a… stranger in town, and I was hoping to pay him a visit this evening. I seem to have lost his address."

  Abruptly the young man pushed the food cart into the room and backed away, casting an uneasy glance over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he muttered. "I can't help you."

  She squeezed past the cart and started to follow him out the door. "Maybe you could find someone who can—"

  But he was already retreating, and another person had stepped into his vacant place. Mac looked up—and up—at a rather large man in a gray suit who blocked her path as effectively as a locked door.

  "Who are you?" she demanded.

  The bruiser removed his hat. "I'm sorry, miss," he said. "Mr. O'Shea said you were to remain in your room."

  Two and two came together fairly quickly in Mac's brain. "There must be some mistake."

  He looked her up and down, much as the waiter had done, and his expression was just as dubious. "I have orders. Mr. O'Shea said you'd be safer here, until he comes back."

  Mr. O'Shea said, and apparently his word was law. This was Liam's city, and she didn't have the slightest idea how far his wealth—and his influence—might reach.

  Far enough, evidently, to hire a thug to guard her door and make sure she didn't escape. "So Mr. O'Shea wants to keep me safe, does he?" she muttered.

  The guard shrugged and replaced his hat. "You're to be comfortable, miss. You can have anything else you want."

  Anything but freedom. So much for Liam's generous impulses. "I don't suppose you have any Coke machines, do you?"

  But any petty satisfaction at the guard's momentary confusion didn't make her feel better. He stepped forward, herding her back into the room, and gripped the doorknob.

  "If you need anything, miss, I'll be right outside. Enjoy your meal." He closed the door firmly, if gently, in her face.

  Mac turned from the door and bumped into the food cart. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that her last meal had been scanty and many hours ago. Well, she had to eat, if only to keep up her strength.

  The dishes under their silver covers were recognizable enough: some kind of meat in a rich sauce, a salad, soup, potatoes, vegetables, shellfish, and a small decanter of what smelled like wine. The latter was particularly tempting, but she passed on it. A clear head was what she needed now.

  The one thing she was sure of was that Liam was coming back. And when he did, there was going to be a reckoning.

  Chapter Eleven

  The strongest of all warriors

  are these two—

  Time and Patience.

  —Leo Tolstoi

  THE LATE AFTERNOON air was clear and crisp, with no hint of fog: a perfect autumn day, and still quiet on Nob Hill while its inhabitants completed their business in bank and office and began the serious pursuit of drink and pleasure in the bars and hotels along the Cocktail Route.

  Liam hardly noticed. The beauty of the evening meant nothing to him; he was not thinking of the business colleagues and acquaintances he might have joined in their endless rounds of libations.

  He was trying not to think of Mac, who was safely sequestered in her room at the Palace and, unless he missed his guess, was even now realizing she couldn't leave. There'd be time enough to attend to her when Perry was dealt with.

  Perry, who at this very moment was courting Caroline. Liam had been a fool to think Perry would be lounging about in his rooms on Market for a single precious second.

  Liam leaned forward in his seat as the brougham rounded the corner onto California Street. He'd been waiting for this ever since Mac had given him the proof of Perry's treachery. For weeks he'd been patient; the sea voyage had been worst, for he'd had little to occupy his mind but thoughts of the coming confrontation and what he was going to do with Mac.

  Now the waiting was over. By day's end he'd have the truth, if he had to beat it out of Perry's blue-blooded hide.

  The brougham came to a stop beside the wrought-iron gates of the Gresham mansion. Like Hopkins's monstrosity at the crown of Nob Hill, it had been built with wealth earned in the past thirty years by a man who'd started from virtual obscurity. Edward Gresham had earned
his money in the gold fields of the '50s by providing the miners with necessities, and then built on those riches with canny investments and stubborn persistence.

  Gresham was gone, but his daughter remained behind those grandiose Italianate walls. Caroline, the girl for whose sake Gresham had demanded from Liam a solemn deathbed oath: to protect her all her days, to see that none of life's harshness ever touched her delicately shod feet or the hem of her Paris gowns.

  To Liam had been granted Caroline's legal guardianship—Liam O'Shea, former street urchin, who'd worked his way west on the building of the railroad and made his own fortune on the Comstock. "Lucky Liam," who'd once saved Edward Gresham's life and had known his daughter since her childhood.

  At almost eighteen Caroline was no longer a child. In almost every respect she was the lady Gresham had wanted her to be. The lady Liam expected her to be.

  But she was flawed with the weakness of her female nature, vulnerable enough to respond to the underhanded charms of the son of an English viscount, a man with little money but a very impressive pedigree. Liam was the only one who could save her. And, infatuated or not, Caroline must be spared the sordid details of Perry's betrayal.

  Liam jumped out of the carriage, ordered the driver to wait, and strode through the gates. His sharp knock on the vast mahogany double doors was answered by the Gresham butler, a stiff-rumped Englishman who'd been lured away from some New York nabob. A very useful stiff-rumped Englishman, and one who had a definite taste for silver.

  The butler looked somewhat startled to see Liam, which was understandable enough. Liam had sent word only to Chen that he was home, and he'd never turned up at the Gresham door directly from an expedition.

  But there were exceptions to every rule. If Biggs's surprise had a more malign explanation, Liam would know soon enough.

  "Ah, Mr. O'Shea," the butler said belatedly. "What a pleasure to see you returned."

  Liam pushed through the door. "Didn't expect me, Biggs?"

  The butler looked uncomfortable. "When Mr. Sinclair arrived before you, we were told your return might be somewhat delayed."

  Somewhat delayed. Liam smiled grimly enough to send Biggs gliding back a step. "Perry is here now," he said.

  "He is, sir." Biggs took Liam's hat, staying well out of his way. "I kept your man Chen informed, but I fear I was unable to do anything to prevent—"

  The sound of a lilting piano melody drifted along the hall. Caroline; there was no mistaking that finesse. "Sounds as if they're having a nice little party. I think I'll join them. No need to announce me, Biggs—it's a surprise."

  He paused long enough to drop a sizable bribe into the hat Biggs held and started down the hall. He could have found his way to the music room blind. And when he entered it, he was invisible just long enough to take in the cozy little picture of romantic felicity.

  Caroline sat at the grand piano, her skirts draped with perfect elegance, her golden hair gathered in curls and ringlets. Her sweet, unaffected voice accompanied the ballad she played. Her performance was all for the man who leaned attentively over the instrument.

  Peregrine Wallace Sinclair, youngest son of the Viscount Holdridge. Dark-haired and handsome, flawlessly aristocratic in his fine suit and polished shoes, the ideal scion of England's peerage. That he had no wealth of his own didn't make him any less welcome in San Francisco's highest social circles. Or any less interesting to Caroline's naive and unsophisticated imagination.

  Liam plunged his hand into his coat pocket and gripped Perry's watch in a stranglehold. Until now his rage had been reined in by necessity and some small hope that he might be wrong.

  Belief came easily when he saw Caroline and Perry together, and with it came fury and grinding pain.

  He stepped farther into the room. Two heads, blond and dark, swung toward him.

  "Good evening, Caroline," he said. "Perry."

  Caroline's fingers found the first sour note on the keys. "Liam?" she whispered. The piano bench scraped back. "Liam! You're home!"

  She gathered her skirts and rushed across the polished parquet floor. Halfway to him she must have seen the look on his face; her impetuous rush slackened to a walk. She closed the remaining space with ladylike decorum, her hands clutched in the folds of her skirt.

  "Oh, Liam," she stammered. "I thought… I feared you might be lost."

  Liam well knew his first responsibility; he didn't indulge his desire to look at Perry's face, to see the dawning alarm in the Englishman's eyes.

  Instead he kept deliberately mute, examining Caroline from dainty feet to the crown of her golden head. Not a hair out of place. He could see her blushing under his inspection and struggling to hold her dignified pose, but there was no sign that any real damage had been done by Perry's early return.

  No damage to Caroline, in any case.

  He smiled faintly. "Who gave you the idea that I might not return, my dear?"

  She uttered a nervous laugh and began to offer some inane witticism she'd undoubtedly learned in finishing school, but he was hardly listening. His initial concern was satisfied, and there was far more urgent business at hand than playing at pointless social rituals of welcome.

  Perhaps she deserved some reassurance; she had, after all, been worried about him. But he was in no mood for gallantry. Caroline was his ward, and she'd obey, niceties or not.

  "As you see," he said impatiently, "I'm well. I've only just returned, and I have important matters to discuss with Perry. Elsewhere." He glanced around the room. "Where is your aunt?"

  "Oh, upstairs having one of her headaches." There was distinct petulance in Caroline's tone, umbrage at Liam's failure to pay her proper homage. Perry had surely been giving her plenty of that.

  "Then I suggest you go find her and ask her if she needs anything, since she's too indisposed to carry out her responsibilities as chaperon," Liam said. "I won't be staying for tea."

  "I should hope not, coming here in all your dirt," a light, cultured voice interposed. "Though I suppose I ought to welcome you home, old man."

  For the first time Liam looked up to meet Perry's gaze.

  He didn't know what he'd expected: instant fireworks, perhaps, or fear and trembling on the traitor's part as he realized his schemes had been foiled.

  But Perry wasn't trembling. He was regarding Liam from across the room with a faint half-smile, devoid of even a trace of shame. He strolled away from the piano to join Liam's ward. "Caroline was worried about you," he said. "I tried to assure her that nothing in the world could do you in without your permission. I'm delighted to have you prove me right."

  Good God. The man's gall was incredible, his coolness beyond belief. The rage Liam had kept in check began to boil over. If he didn't get out of here quickly, dragging Perry with him, there'd be a very nasty scene Caroline could not be allowed to witness.

  Perry knew it. Sudden wariness flickered in the Englishman's gaze.

  "Perry's right," Caroline said, ignoring Liam's command as easily as she recovered her air of insouciant feminine charm. She inserted herself between the men with a muted hiss of satin and petticoats and took Liam's arm. "I was so worried, and I haven't welcomed you home properly. If I'd known you were back, I would have arranged a dinner, at least. And you can't go until you've told me everything that happened on your journey. You did bring something back for me, didn't you?" She fluttered golden eyelashes in a practiced gesture of flirtation. "Look what Perry brought me from the jungle!"

  She put a hand to her bodice. Just below the high neck of her gown, on a golden chain, hung a piece of carved and polished jade.

  "Isn't it lovely? Perry found it in a Maya tomb. He told me wonderful stories about—"

  "How thoughtful of Perry," Liam interrupted. "Unfortunately, I'm not staying." He freed his arm from Caroline's hold. "I'll be back tomorrow. In the meantime, Perry will be coming with me, and I want you to go upstairs to your aunt. Is that clear?"

  She pouted. She was very good at it; it would have
worked on most men. "But Perry has only just arrived—"

  "His visit is at an end," Liam said. He strode back to the door and signaled to Biggs, who waited just outside. "Biggs, see that Miss Gresham goes upstairs and remains there."

  The butler bowed to Caroline. She cast Liam a look halfway between tears and outrage and flounced away, Biggs at her heels.

  "That wasn't well done of you, old man," Perry remarked. "Somewhat boorish, at best, considering your abrupt entrance."

  Liam turned and met Perry's gaze. "Worried?" he asked, advancing on the Englishman. "Can't hide behind her skirts now, can you?" He wanted to charge at Perry, wipe the smirk off that pale, handsome face. But there were better ways of going about this—much better ways.

  Perry retreated a step and stopped, raising his hands in appeasement. "I'm not hiding. I know why you're here. But this is hardly the place to… hold the discussion you have in mind."

  "You're right. That's why you're coming with me. There's someone I want you to meet. Someone I found in the jungle."

  Perry didn't react beyond the lifting of one well-groomed brow. "In your present mood, old man, I doubt you'll do well at introductions."

  "In my present mood I have very little patience for your games. Either you come with me now, or I go upstairs and tell Caroline how you betrayed me in the jungle."

  "You wouldn't do that."

  "No? You made certain to be with Caroline, alone, when I wasn't here to prevent it. Unfortunately for you, I've returned, and I decide whether you ever see Caroline again."

  The easy indifference left Perry's expression. "You don't have that much power. She's not your property—"

  "Don't underestimate me, Perry. You failed the last time."

  "Did I, old man?"

  Liam bared his teeth. "The proof stands before you."

  But Perry didn't take the bait. He was utterly coldblooded, relaxed, and elegant in his movements as he retrieved his hat and cane from the hall stand. He let Liam maneuver him out the front door and to the waiting brougham, revealing not so much as a single uneasy gesture to betray his guilt.