Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance

by Jo Goodman

  Ryland smiled faintly as he read between the lines. It was an invitation. His finger whispered across her cheek. "No. It's better if I sleep in the other room."

  "Very well," she said quietly. "I'll see you in the morning."

  He nodded. "We'll talk then," he agreed. Ryland turned away. Behind him, he heard Brooklyn's door open and close.

  Brooklyn was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, a comically mournful expression on her face, when Ryland came downstairs. He sniffed the air, anticipating the aroma of sausages, eggs, or the sweet, warm odor of baking bread. He wrinkled his nose as not one of those pleasant smells assailed him. "You're not cooking breakfast this morning?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Any particular reason?"

  "The eggs are in the henhouse. The bacon and sausages are in the smokehouse. The milk's in our cow in the stable."

  "So? What's the problem?"

  Brook roused herself enough to point to the back door leading off the pantry.

  Curious now, Ryland walked to the door and pushed it open. Or rather he tried to push it open. He could only move it a few inches. A veritable mountain of snow had drifted against it. "I see," he said, chuckling. He sat down at the table and plucked an orange from the large wooden bowl Brook had filled with his gift of last evening. "What about the front door? The porch should have protected it against drifts."

  Brook watched Ryland peel the orange and quickly separate it into sections. She took one of the slices he offered and showed him the hem of her dress. It was damp and water-stained from her attempt to get out of the house by the front door. "I stepped off the porch and into four feet of snow. What are we going to do, Ry? The animals have to be fed."

  Ryland dropped a section of orange into his mouth and tried not to look too hungrily at Brook as she licked at a droplet of sweet juice on her upper lip. "Snowshoes," he said.

  "Snowshoes? What are they?"

  "You really don't know?"

  Brook straightened her shoulders and gave a little huff. "I wouldn't ask if I did."

  Ryland smiled at the way she took exception to his questioning. "They're flat wooden frames that are webbed with leather. You slip your own shoe beneath a strap and above the crisscrossed strips, and they support you on top of the snow. There is at least one pair around here somewhere." He finished off the orange and stood. "I'll find them now and feed the animals. There are still supplies I left behind in the stable yesterday. Tell me what you want from the smokehouse and how many eggs."

  Brook ticked off a short list of her fingers. While Ryland was out of the house she made beds and straightened their rooms. One thing she did not do was move Ry's belongings. Neither did she dwell on her reluctance to do so.

  When he returned to the house Ryland sought Brook out immediately. Of necessity he had to forgo the conversation he had planned to have with her earlier. He decided nothing was going to sidetrack him now. Ryland found Brook in the study, a feather duster in her hand. Even in profile her face looked wistful as she slowly ran the duster across the books that filled two rows of shelves built into the wall.

  "You're welcome to read anything you want," he said.

  Brook's duster fluttered for a moment and then she began using it with more purpose. "That's very kind of you," she said. "But I don't know when I'd have the time."

  Ryland came up behind her and took the duster from her hand, setting it down on a nearby table. "That's what I want to talk to you about. Or part of it anyway."

  Brooklyn slipped away from him and sat on the sofa. She regretted her decision immediately, wishing she had chosen the chair as Ryland sat down beside her. "Yes?" she said, raising her chin and giving him a frosty glance.

  He recognized her stance for what it was, a defensive measure to cover her nervousness. Ryland wondered what she thought he was going to say or do that had set her on edge. "About your debt, Brooklyn, I consider it wiped clean."

  Brook died a little inside then. "I had no idea my virginity was worth so much," she said tonelessly. Her smile held no warmth. "Imagine that. If I had known I might have sold it a long time ago."

  "Stop it." Ryland cut in. "I didn't mean it like that. Your virginity isn't the issue here. Or at least not in the way you think."

  "What am I supposed to think? Listen to me, Ryland. I don't want your philanthropy. I'll pay whatever you think is your due."

  "But I don't want you to owe me anything," he said. "I want to start fresh. From this moment on."

  Her eyes strayed to the scar at his temple. "That's impossible."

  "Difficult, perhaps. Not impossible."

  "I don't know," she said uneasily. Starting over. In Brook's experience anything that sounded too good to be true, was. "How would we do it?"

  "We'll pretend. Every autumn my uncle hires someone to take care of the house until spring. Let's suppose you're that person."

  Brooklyn frowned and looked at him skeptically. "It sounds silly. Your uncle wouldn't hire a lone woman for the position. Anyway, who do you get to be?"

  He grinned. "Myself."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?" she asked dryly. "We'll have to negotiate a new wage."

  "I told you, the debt is—"

  She waved her hand airily. "I know what you said. But I'm not being the caretaker for nothing. I want one hundred dollars for each month, in gold or silver, payable in the spring or whenever we leave... and you're still responsible for the animals."

  Ryland pretended to think it over. "Does this mean I don't have to pay you for playing cards?"

  "Only my winnings."

  "Confident, aren't you?"

  "Of course. Do we have a deal?"

  "All right." He extended his hand and Brook accepted it. "This doesn't mean that we'll never discuss the past, Brooklyn." He clasped her hand firmly when she tried to withdraw it. "I had a number of misconceptions about you; most of them you fostered and encouraged. It's up to you to set me straight."

  "That isn't starting over. I think you're trying to renege on our arrangement already."

  "No, I'm not. You may be the caretaker but you're still Brooklyn Hancock. I want to know who she is. And I don't want a fantasy. I want to know you. Can you agree to that?"

  Brook hesitated before she shook Ryland's hand. "I agree. But don't blame me if you don't like the real Brook any more than you liked the other one. I may have been a virgin, but I was never an innocent."

  He released her hand. "I'll take my chances. And as for liking you, well, I always have... more or less."

  One of Brook's eyebrows arched cynically, but her half smile took most of the sting away. "Mostly less, I'd wager," she said, rising. She picked up the duster and left the room, missing Ryland's soft reply, "You'd lose."

  When Brooklyn returned to the study several hours later, Ryland was sitting at the desk, his features taut with frustration and dissatisfaction. "Lunch is ready," she said. "Would you like to eat in here?"

  "If you don't mind bringing it in." He held up the ledger he had been studying so intently. "I can't make heads or tails of my foreman's accounts. It may be spring before I know if Porter Mining is still turning a profit."

  Brook smiled as she left the room, glancing back over her shoulder to deliver her parting shot. "Just so there's enough to pay my salary." Ryland muttered something under his breath, and she was perfectly happy not to be able to make it out. She returned with his lunch a few minutes later and set it down on the desk, adding to the clutter Ryland had already made. "I don't know how you can work like this. There's no organization."

  Ryland reached absently for his coffee cup. "There's organization. You just can't see it." He took a large swallow of coffee and promptly spit it back out, fanning his open mouth. "Why didn't you tell me it was hot?"

  Brook stifled her smile and began mopping up the spilled coffee with the corner of her apron. "I didn't think I had to. Have I ever served you cold coffee?" She pointed to Ryland's favorite chair. "Sit. There. A
nd take your tray. I'll put this in order."

  When Ryland looked up at her in surprise, Brook's expression dared him to take exception to her terse orders. He raised his hands in surrender and exaggerated his obedience, meekly shuffling to the other side of the room.

  Brook took his place behind the desk and quickly organized the material into neat piles, each one dealing with the same subject matter, and began tallying receipts. She was unaware that Ryland had finally finished his lunch and had come to stand behind her, drawn by her quiet purpose. He watched in amazement as Brook jotted down figures with incredible speed. Slipping one of her finished papers off the desk, Ryland studied it and found she was not only quick, but also accurate as well. She thumbed through the ledger and began matching the receipts to the various account balances. After watching her for several more minutes Ryland moved closer and stayed Brook's hand.

  "How do you do that so fast?"

  Brook shrugged. "I don't know," she said honestly. "Don't you have some things that simply come easy to you?"

  "I suppose. I can name the lineages of the Royal Houses of England," he said helpfully.

  That struck Brook as a rather odd thing to be able to do, but she kept her own counsel. "Well, numbers are like that for me. I guess that's why I do well at card games. I can always keep track of the cards."

  "I've noticed that," he said thoughtfully. "Will you help me with the accounts? There's so much I want to look into at the mines, and frankly, this part of the operation bores me to tears."

  "There must be someone who usually takes care of this sort of thing. Andrew told me you haven't been involved with the mining company for years."

  "That's true. But I'm involved now, and some of the changes I want to make will cost money. A great deal of money. I have to understand how our money is being spent. The man who usually takes care of the accounts quit a few months ago, according to Uncle Robert. You can see for yourself that my uncle's faith in the head foreman has been misplaced. Will you do it?"

  "What did your accountant earn?" she asked.

  Ryland thought it was a strange question since she had been going over the wages herself. Perhaps she hadn't really taken note of what she was calculating. "It's somewhere in there," he said, pointing to the ledger.

  She held it out to him. "Show me."

  Ryland flipped through the pages until he found it. "Sixty dollars a week," he said, showing her the line.

  Brook looked at the entry carefully. "All right," she said at last. "Sixty dollars. Are you certain you trust me? I could foul your accounts badly if I wanted to, you know."

  He didn't hesitate. "I trust you." In this at least, he added silently.

  She nodded, taking the book and setting it aside. "I'll work on them later, after dinner, perhaps."

  Ryland shook his head gently as he helped Brook to her feet. "No. They can wait until tomorrow at least. I'd rather play chess after dinner."

  There was a hint of hopefulness in his statement, and Brook realized she did not want to refuse him. "That would be nice," she said and left the room.

  Ryland was deep in his work several hours later when he heard Brook calling his name. He sat up straight, frowning slightly, as he tried to pinpoint the sound of her voice coming to him as if from a great distance. Shoving aside the plans he had drawn up for escape tunnels from the mines, Ryland stood, cocking his head to one side and listening for her call again. When he realized her voice was coming from outside, and she was clearly distressed, he ran to the front door and flung it open.

  It was the spill of her hair lying darkly across the snow that he noticed first; then the snowshoes sticking straight into the air, their racket ends buried deep in the snow. Her shoulders, hands, and bottom were hidden, her body folded in an awkward V, as if caught in a sling. The harder she pushed against the snow, the more deeply she sank. "I'm here, Brooklyn," he said, grinning at her plight.

  She tried to twist around to see him. "Are you laughing at me, Ry? Because if you are, go back in the house and leave me to my misery."

  "I'm not laughing," he assured her, biting his lip to keep from doing just that. Ryland estimated she was about twenty-five yards away from the house. He stepped off the porch and began wading through the thigh-high drifts of snow to get to her.

  "Yes, you are," she accused. "I can hear you!"

  "I'm puffing. You have the only pair of snowshoes, you know." When he reached her, Ryland couldn't help putting his hands on hips and shaking his head in wry amusement. "How the hell did you get yourself in such a fix?"

  "I knew you were going to be horrible about this."

  "I'm sorry," he said. Remorse was conspicuously absent in his voice. He knelt down and began digging through the snow until he found her hand. It still retained some warmth, so he knew she hadn't been stuck in the snow very long. He freed her other hand and began to pull her up. Ryland told himself he should have been prepared for it, that she had too much spirit to be laughed at and not consider revenge. He told himself those things in hindsight, after he was lying facedown in the snow.

  "How the hell did you get yourself in such a fix?" she asked, choking on her laughter.

  Ryland rolled on his side and hovered over her, brushing snow from his eyebrows and lashes. "I should leave you here," he threatened. "That would serve you right for strapping on the snowshoes over those ridiculous heeled shoes of yours."

  "But? I can hear a but," she said playfully, her eyes alight with mischief as she brushed a bit of snow from his chin.

  "But," he continued, his eyes darkening. "I think I'm going to kiss you instead." He didn't wait to see if she would try to protest. His lips touched hers lightly and then settled with more pressure when he felt her smile. Her response surprised and warmed him. It gave him hope. He hadn't been able to admit to himself how much he still wanted her.

  Brook's mouth parted slightly, inviting Ryland to deepen the kiss. Her hands cupped his face, holding him to her. She liked the taste of this man, the warm, clean scent of him. There was a sense of rightness about his embrace, a sense of belonging and oneness with another human being. She murmured her approval as a shiver of heat swept through her.

  Ryland took Brook's shiver as a sign that she was cold and withdrew. "You could easily make me forget where we are," he said, releasing her reluctantly and sitting back on his haunches. He grasped her hands again and pulled her forward. "I think we'd better get rid of these snowshoes." Ryland unstrapped them and pitched them one at time toward the house. "Come on, up with you."

  Brook stood unsteadily, leaning against Ryland for support. She laughed a little nervously, wondering if he suspected the real reason she was a bit weak in the knees. "I think you'd better lead the way." Her skirt and long cape hindered her progress through the deep snow even though Ryland was clearing a path in front of her. She picked up the snowshoes along the way, and when they reached the porch she handed them to Ryland. "Three eggs, please," she said. "I'm going to make a cake."

  "I suppose that explains what you were doing out there in the first place," he grinned, strapping on the shoes. "Next time, ask me."

  "Next time," she agreed. She fled into the house before he saw the truth in her face, that she wasn't sorry at all for how things turned out.

  Ryland thoughtfully studied the chessboard and admitted to himself that Brook's victory the other night had probably not been a fluke. He hadn't let his concentration stray once during this match, not to the length of her uncoiled hair, not to the gentle slant of her almond-shaped eyes. It didn't seem to matter. Brooklyn was giving him the best challenge he had ever faced at chess.

  "Where did you learn to cook?" he asked, hoping to distract her.

  Brook slid her bishop diagonally across the board. "Check." She smiled when Ryland swore softly. Her eyes strayed to Ry's mouth as it was pulled to one side in consternation. She would have liked to kiss him then, drawing his lips into the soft shape of passion. Needing to redirect her own thoughts, Brook answered his questi
on. "I used to be a cook's helper."

  "Oh? When was that?"

  "A long time ago," she said evasively. "I didn't realize how much I had learned until coming here. I really never did much cooking on my own."

  "I wouldn't have known." He made his move, saving his king for the time being, and leaned back in his chair, casually rubbing the flat plane of his stomach. "I'm going to get fat if you keep feeding me so well."

  Brook's eyes drifted to his midsection, recalling the taut, ribbed muscles of his abdomen. "I doubt it," she said, feeling a peculiar sort of heat begin to curl her middle.

  "Why didn't you cook for yourself?" he asked, cradling the back of his head in his palms.

  "I suppose because I've always lived in hotels," she said, studying the board again. "There was never any need to cook. I could always eat in the restaurants or in the hotel kitchen."

  "Is that where you were a cook's helper? In a hotel?"

  Her hand hovered over her queen as she hesitated in answering his question. "Yes," she said at last. "It was in a hotel."

  Ryland suspected she was lying to him again, but the reluctance with which she offered her answer stopped him from accusing her. She didn't trust him yet, and Ryland admitted that he hadn't given her any reason to. It would come in time. At least he hoped it would. He glanced at the board, saw she had made herself vulnerable and promptly captured her queen. "You sadly neglected to protect her again," he chided.

  Brook shrugged. "Maybe I wanted you to have her."

  Ryland's glance narrowed. Was she flirting with him or telling him she had an alternate strategy? He decided it was the latter, "So... why did you always live in hotels?"

  She had hoped that subject was closed. "I suppose because it was better than living in the streets," she said flippantly. "I'm sorry," she added immediately when she saw Ryland's lip curl in disgust at her answer. Brook sighed. "I lived in hotels because that's where Phillip lived. I never thought much about it except that it was convenient to his work."