"Christal?"
Christal turned her head toward the whisper. A cry welled up in her throat. Alana stood at the door. Her blond, buttery hair was in a discreet chignon. She wore a gown of leaf-green taffeta, the exact color of her eyes. Christal couldn't believe how she mirrored their mother.
"Oh, Christal," Alana suddenly cried, dispensing with formality. She ran up to her and Christal began to sob. The two women wrapped their arms around each other and held on as if they would never let go.
"I was so worried. In all these years, I don't think I ever slept well, but I shall sleep well tonight." Alana held her for almost a minute, then she pulled away and looked at her.
Christal didn't find her sister had aged at all. The only thing different about Alana was the deep contentment to be found in her eyes, whereas before, when Christal saw her in the asylum, she could only remember the pain.
Christal could hardly get her words through her tears. "Has Alana had her baby? A girl, as she had hoped?"
"Yes. Shall we go to the nursery? I'll introduce you to her and the boys."
Christal laughed and wiped at her tears. She held her sister's hand. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do at this moment! Mother and Father would be so proud. Grandchildren! How I wish they had seen them."
"Then let's go."
"Wait." Christal turned to Cain, who stood silently by the mantel. She could see the uncertainty on his face. It puzzled her. She didn't like it.
"Alana. This is Macaulay Cain. He—he . . ." She could hardly begin to describe all the things he meant to her. Thankfully, her sister took her cue.
"Mr. Cain." Alana held out her hand. When Cain took it, she brazenly kissed him on the cheek. "My husband told me you protected my sister. I can never thank you. As long as I live, you will always be our dear friend."
"Thank you, ma'am," he answered solemnly. His gaze trailed to Christal. "Go on and see the children, Christal. Don't pay any mind to me. I'll just make myself comfortable here and give you some time to be with your sister."
"Thank you." Christal squeezed his hand. "I won't be gone long."
"Don't worry." He repeated, "I'll just make myself comfortable."
Christal only looked back once before departing with her sister. Cain was once more sitting in the Louis XIV chair. She almost laughed. He was never going to make himself comfortable there.
"He's very handsome," Alana said as they walked the stairs to the third-floor nursery.
"Macaulay?" Christal's lips tipped in a secret smile. "Yes, he is handsome."
"Do you love him? Oh, of course you do. I see it on your face." The expression in Alana's green eyes turned bittersweet. "He'll take you away from us."
"If we marry, we could stay in New York. Why, of course we could!" Christal didn't like the way the conversation was going. She had so many years to catch up on. How could there be talk of leaving already?
Alana tried to hide her smile. "Macaulay Cain looks about as comfortable in this house as Trevor Sheridan would look trying to rope a steer. Mr. Cain's not going to want to stay here for long."
"But surely he can wait for the wedding."
"Will he?" Alana arched one perfect dark-gold eyebrow.
Christal stared after her as she entered the nursery.
In the library, Cain rose from the gilt chair and wandered around looking for a drink. The library was, after all, a man's room, replete with desk, leather sofas, and, hopefully, liquor.
He spotted the crystal decanters in an anteroom draped with curtains of gold-fringed green velvet. He sloshed the contents of one into a heavy, cut-glass tumbler, then took a stiff gulp, not caring what kind of liquor it was.
"Christ." He closed his eyes to keep them from watering. His throat was on fire. Sniffing the contents of his glass, he suddenly chuckled. What the hell was rotgut doing in Sheridan's decanters?
He took another sip, this time easing his haste. It went down about as smooth as a serrated knife, but the effect was decidedly good. Already he felt better.
"Where are the women?"
Cain looked up. The stranger who'd arrived in Noble claiming to be Christal's brother-in-law stood in the library's door. Stiffly the man entered the room, leaning a bit too much on the ebony walking stick he sported.
"You weren't lying, I see," Cain said, returning his attention to his drink.
"I was who I said I was." Sheridan's eyes lowered to Cain's glass. "I have better, if you'd prefer it."
"No, this is fine—whatever it is."
"It's from the old days. Chateau Margaux has yet to impress me."
Cain wasn't sure what Chateau Margaux was, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let Sheridan know. "Christal and your wife went to the nursery."
Sheridan lowered himself onto a settee. Cain thought he didn't look all that comfortable there himself. He looked like a man who commanded his surroundings but hadn't quite assimilated into them. But Sheridan's wife, Alana, she was another story. Cain remembered how she looked standing in the doorway to the library calling to her sister. Alana Sheridan seemed born to gilt furniture and marble pilasters and European tapestries. And so did Christal. Christal looked quite at home here.
Cain took a long, dismal swallow of his drink.
"There's a lot I have to ask you."
Cain turned his eyes to Sheridan. "Such as?"
"Such as your sleeping habits. Particularly those concerning my sister-in-law . . ." Sheridan's eyes glittered. They were a strange color of hazel, not quite brown, gold, or green, but an arresting blend of all three.
"I'm not going to tell you anything about my sleeping habits, Sheridan. You may as well know that right now."
"I'm her only male relative. It's my responsibility to be protecting her." There was a hint of Irish accent still in Sheridan's speech.
"You protect her all you want. But whether I've slept with Christal or not is not something I'm going to discuss with you. Not now. Not ever."
Sheridan laughed. It was a rather unwholesome sound. "Good answer. I like it."
Cain blessed Sheridan with a look, as if to say he didn't give a damn one way or another.
The Irishman nodded, giving Cain a wide berth for his mood. Pensively, he studied the gold lion head gracing the knob of his cane. "What would you do if you were me, Cain?"
Cain shrugged.
"You've slept with her, I know it. But you saved her life too—more than once, I'm told. I should make you marry her, but I'm grateful to you for bringing Christabel back to her family. So how can I strong-arm a man I'm indebted to?"
"You think I don't care about her?"
Sheridan became silent. Gravely he said, "No, I know you care about her. I saw how you feel in Noble. It's just—"
"It's just she's a whole new girl. A girl I don't know." Cain looked around the opulent library. "Maybe a girl I could never know. ..."
"Inside she hasn't changed. That's all there is, anyway."
"You say that, Sheridan, but when you offered for Christal's sister you weren't depriving your wife of all this." Cain waved his hand around the room.
Sheridan gave his unwholesome laugh. "I was depriving my new bride of much more—a place in society and her reputation. Here in New York they don't look too fondly upon Irishers marrying one of their own."
"Alana doesn't look like she's suffering."
"She set society on its ear when she married me. It was the scandal of the century." Sheridan stood and refilled Cain's glass. "But society came around after a while, and only Alana could have done it."
"She's a remarkable woman."
"Both the Van Alen women are."
"Yes." Cain set down his glass. In the mood he was in, he wanted to smash it against those damned hoity-toity tapestries. "Christal has been through hell. No one knows that better than me. She deserves all the comforts and luxuries she's been denied all these years. She deserves the life that was snatched away when Didier killed her parents."
"Christabel doesn't need a
ll of this." Sheridan motioned to the room. "Believe me. It won't make her happy."
"How do you know that?"
"I know it better than anyone, Cain." The ghost of a smile touched Sheridan's lips. "My wife taught me."
Dinner was served in the dining room. There were fifty people present—a tiny, intimate gathering by New York standards—a huge, unmanageable crowd by Cain's. The children were now tucked in the nursery, but before dinner they were brought down to meet the guests. Cain was amused to note that the two boys were the spitting image of Sheridan, with dark hair and those arresting hazel eyes. The newborn child, however, favored the Van Alens. To Cain's shock, Christal had walked up with the babe in her arms and handed the newborn to him. Helpless to do anything else, he awkwardly held the child until it began to howl and the women laughed. Christal laughed too and quickly took back the babe. With the child quiet in her arms, Cain studied the newborn. She was but a few weeks old, blond and pretty like her mother and aunt. Christal had whispered the girl's name in awed delight: Christabel. Cain heard the name with a strange longing in his gut. The babe was only further proof that Christal's life was inextricably entwined with the Sheridans'.
After dinner, Christal made a point to seek Cain out in the crowd. It was a cold night, but she had wrapped herself in one of her sister's satin capes. She took Cain's hand and stepped out onto the stone loggia overlooking Fifth Avenue.
"Are you beginning to remember everyone's name? It seems there are too many people in there." She picked at a piece of lint on his lapel, the intimate gesture of a wife.
"Everyone is very nice."
"I especially like Eagan—Trevor's brother." She laughed. "What a flirt. If he wasn't so in love with Caitlín, I'd call him hopeless."
"Yes."
"And can you believe Sheridan's sister is a duchess? Of all things! I can't wait until she and the duke return to New York. I've never met a duchess—"
"Yes."
Christal quieted. She gazed at Cain's profile in the dim lamplight off the avenue. It was taut, handsome, and not a little disapproving. She took a deep breath. "Why are you so unhappy? Ever since we came today you've looked like a bull caught in the corral."
Cain ran his hand through his hair. He had it tied back, but several strands had escaped, making him look downright savage. "I'm leaving here, Christal. It's time I returned to Wyoming."
She was shocked, but by some strange instinct she almost expected his words. He'd been so moody and out of place in New York. Quietly she asked, "When do we leave?"
He looked at her. The darkness hid his stare. "We?" "I'm going with you."
He took her by both arms. "Are you a fool? You just got here. You haven't seen your sister in years. Why would you leave with me now?"
"Because I love you. I want to be with you."
He dropped his hold as if it burned him to touch her. "You have a life to return to." He looked down at her. She was a girl right off that calendar that hung in the jail. Her evening gown was borrowed from her sister, a deep azure-blue satin with cascades of French lace at the bustle. Reluctantly, he touched the heavy sapphire-and-diamond necklace at her throat—a gift from her sister. "Look at you, Christal. Where is the girl I saw in Noble who wore that worn calico gown and those bells on her ankle? She's gone, as well she should be. Because you were born to look like this, to wear these priceless jewels, to clothe yourself in satin. Don't you see? My love won't give you any of this. The best I could ever do is in Washington. And even a job with the Secret Service won't get you any mansions."
"I don't need mansions." His talk confused her. He made it seem that her home was the end-all of her existence, and in truth, it had been for many long, lonely years; but then she'd fallen in love with him and now he was the end-all of her existence. It seemed impossible that he couldn't understand it.
"You don't know what you need. Or what you want." He heaved a sigh. "Look at you, girl. Just a minute ago you walked in here dazzled by the thought that Sheridan's sister is a duchess. You should have the chance to explore the life you were denied. I'm not going to keep you from it."
Panic suddenly coursed through her. He couldn't be talking of leaving her. "Of course you're not going to keep me from it. It's my choice to make. And I choose to go with you."
"I'm leaving tonight."
"All I ask is for you to stay a little while longer—"
"No." He looked out toward Fifth Avenue. A light rain had begun to fall, giving the cobbles an oily sheen like a raven's wing. Neither of them moved to go inside. He talked in a low, rough whisper. "It doesn't feel right being here, seeing you the way you used to be, not the way I know you. I've got to return to Noble and finish out my job there. Then I'll go to Washington. Anytime, you know you can return to me, girl, but stay here for now and test your desires for this life." His voice grew strangely heavy. "You just may like it, Christabel."
She stared at him, her real name on his lips sounding foreign and unfriendly. Holding back tears, she whispered, "Tell me when you're leaving tonight. I'll be with you on that train."
He glanced behind them through the French doors and into the drawing room. Alana was searching the room. "I think your sister wants you."
Christal turned her head. Alana waved.
"Just tell me when it's time to go. I'll be with you, Cain. I swear I will," she said.
"Sure," he whispered as he watched Alana take Christal's arm and introduce her to a group of women who wore enough emeralds and diamonds slung around their necks to have financed the entire Confederate army.
"Sure," he repeated to no one as he turned back to Fifth Avenue.
Chapter Thirty
You choose the rose, love, and I'll make the vow
And I'll he your true love forever.
Tommy Makem
"Have you seen Macaulay?" Christal had a tight, almost desperate expression on her face as she sought out her sister in the crowd. It was past midnight. She'd been up in the nursery with Alana while her sister fed the baby. She'd asked to rock the child back to sleep, and when she'd returned back to the drawing room, she couldn't find Macaulay anywhere.
"Darling, he's got to be around here ..." Alana turned around. Her eyes sought her husband in the crowd. With the instinct of lovers, Trevor immediately looked up and found his wife across the room. "Trevor will know where he's off to. Oh, Christal, you look terrible. Why are you so worried—perhaps he went to bed."
"No." Christal wrung her hands and searched the crowd once more. Macaulay's tall form was not among the glittering jewels, gleaming satins, and black swallowtail coats. "Oh, don't tell me he's gone. Don't tell me!"
"Where would he be off to at this time of night?" Alana turned to her husband, who was suddenly at her side. "Trevor, where is Macaulay?"
"Cain? I saw him at midnight. He was talking to Whittaker."
Christal paled. "May I speak to the butler?"
"Come." Trevor took her arm. Alana watched, concern marring her smooth forehead.
The butler was in the dining room instructing the footmen on clearing the table.
"Whittaker—we're looking for Mr. Cain. He spoke to you?" Sheridan's booming voice easily traveled across all the marble in the dining room.
Whittaker bowed to Christal. "I just saw him, sir. He requested his firearms."
"He wanted his guns?" Christal gasped.
"Is he planning on shooting someone?" Sheridan asked dryly.
"No . . ." Christal hung her head. She fought the urge to cry.
"Is something amiss?" Whittaker interjected, the worry in his eyes betraying his professional demeanor. "Should I have kept Mr. Cain's weapons? I thought he requested them because he was retiring—I hear cowboys sleep with their boots on, and such. I assumed that was why he wanted his guns."
"He's—left—me." Christal barely choked back her sobs. She looked once at Sheridan's shocked face, then ran to the foyer and lifted her heavy satin skirts to mount the marble stairs, two at a time, to flee to h
er bedroom.
"Oh, he can't have left! You only arrived today!" Alana exclaimed as Christal stuffed her few belongings into a valise.
"He probably looked for me"—Christal swallowed her tears and shoved another petticoat into the bag—"while I was in the nursery—he thought I was—I was—having too much fun!"
"Whatever are you talking about, Christal?"
"Oh, how can I explain it?" Christal looked around the room to see if she had forgotten anything. She had. The sky-blue dress was draped across a tufted mauve satin ottoman. It looked ridiculously cheap and homemade against the artistry of the furniture, but it was the most beautiful dress in the world to her. She lifted it to her chest and hugged it.
"Does he not like us?" Alana looked quite vexed. "Oh, but how can that be? He doesn't know us!"
"I think he's trying to help me. He told me he was leaving, that I was better off here in New York, resuming my place in society—but I told him I loved him—how could he leave without letting me know?"
Alana helped her fold the sky-blue dress, not making any comment as to why Christal was forgoing all the costly Worth satin gowns she had donated to her in favor of a crudely fashioned wool gown.
"I wanted to dance at your wedding, Christal. If you leave and marry him in Wyoming, I won't be there." Christal was packed and Alana was in tears. "I wanted to give you such a beautiful big wedding."
"I think I'm going to have a baby."
Alana stared at her, stunned.
"I've missed my monthly time and with everything that has been happening these past weeks, I just couldn't think about it." Christal dropped her head to her hands. "What should I do, Alana? If you were me, what would you do? Call him back here and make him miserable? Or go to him and love him?" She shook her head. "Don't you see, he knows he doesn't fit here—and now I see I don't either . . . anymore."
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