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

by Jo Goodman

  "His work? Gambling, you mean?"

  "Not precisely. Phillip was a dealer. He's worked at a number of different places." She fingered a pawn, then moved it forward one square. "He wouldn't let me work with him until I was twelve. That's when he decided I looked old enough to fool the owners into believing I was sixteen or thereabouts."

  Ryland tried to imagine Brook working in gambling palaces when she was only a child. Sometimes, when he looked at her now, she still seemed impossibly young. Except her eyes. Her wintry eyes were old.

  "What about your family? Didn't they object?"

  "I told you before, there's no one," she said emotionlessly. "My father died before I was born. My mother killed herself when I was nine, though she was dead to me years before that. Phillip became my self-appointed guardian after my mother's death. I suppose I always considered him an uncle or an older brother." She lowered her head. "You know there was nothing else between us."

  Ryland leaned forward across the small table separating them and lifted Brook's chin with his fingertips. "I know that now," he said. "I'm not certain, from Sumner's perspective anyway, why that was. You're a beautiful woman. You shared a cabin with him on the Mary Francis. I assume you shared a bed."

  "We did," she said, pulling back from his touch and watching him steadily. "But Phillip had his own women. He never touched me. I offered," she added quietly but with a hint of defiance. "He knew me too well to accept. He knew my offer was out of gratitude, not because I was interested or even attracted to him. I realize you have no reason to think well of Phillip, but he was kind to me."

  Ryland wished he could hate Sumner as much as he wanted to. "Why aren't you together now?"

  "Things happened," she said vaguely.

  "Brooklyn. That's no answer."

  "You happened," she admitted after a long pause. "I thought I had killed you and I accused Phillip of having wanted that very thing to occur. I never understood it, but I think Phillip was afraid of you."

  "He recognized my name," Ryland told her. "I realized that after finding you in San Francisco. North money has some influence and power there. Sumner knew it and still allowed greed to get the better of his good sense. He wanted my money and decided the risk was too great to let me stay alive." Ryland moved aside the table that held their game and reached for Brooklyn. "Come here," he said, giving her wrist a faint tug.

  She glanced at the chessboard. "But—"

  "We'll finish it tomorrow," he said. "Come."

  Brooklyn knew she wanted to be held by him, knew that she had wanted it again since Ryland had kissed her in the snow. Conversation had only held off the inevitable. She stood, crossed the short distance between them, and allowed herself to be drawn onto his lap.

  Ryland's arms circled her waist loosely, and for a long moment he said nothing, waiting for her to relax. He drew his fingers through her hair, stroking her back in an absent motion. "Did you never wonder why after I saw you again, I didn't go after Sumner?" he asked.

  "I supposed it was because you didn't know where he was."

  He shook his head. "He's at the Silver Rose. Unlike you, he didn't change his name. He wasn't difficult to locate."

  "You spoke to him?"

  "No. I merely found out where he was. I didn't talk to him for two reasons. One, I was afraid I just might kill him. Two, what if he had offered to pay the money back? There wouldn't have been any reason, or so it seemed to me, to see you again." His lips touched her temple. "Of course I hadn't thought about you running out on me. Were you so afraid of what I might do when you didn't have the money that you had to go with Drew?"

  "I don't want to talk about Drew." She chose prevarication. "It was all a mistake."

  Ryland decided to accept that for now. He had pressed her more than he intended already. "Starting over is rather difficult business, isn't it?"

  She nodded. The soft skin of her temple brushed against his mouth.

  "I mean," he continued, "it's hard to know exactly where the new beginning begins. I'd like to kiss you, for instance, but I wonder what you'd do. You're the caretaker, after all, and my new accountant. Perhaps I shouldn't try to take advantage of my employee." He paused thoughtfully. "And if you accepted it, well, it wouldn't end there. I'd probably want to touch you."

  Brook's mouth felt very dry. "Touch me?"

  "Mm-hmm. I'd want to touch that little pulse that beats at the side of your neck; taste the softness of your skin." His voice deepened. "I'd want to touch your breasts." Ryland had difficulty keeping his voice steady as Brook's eyes closed briefly. He knew what she was imagining because he was imagining the same thing. "Then, if you didn't object too strenuously to that, I'd still want to undress you. There'd probably be no satisfying me after that."

  She turned her head and stared into his darkening eyes, a question in her own. "Couldn't I at least try?"

  Ryland realized with something akin to wonder that she was not being coy or flirtatious. He heard innocence and insecurity and absolute seriousness. The young woman who had brazenly held her own on board the Mary Francis, and later at the Hamilton, did not exist now, if she had ever really existed at all. If she had simply taken his hand and led him to her bedroom, Ryland would have followed without question. But the why of it all puzzled him now. "Are you sure you want it?" he asked softly.

  Brooklyn nodded, placing a finger against his lips to stop the other question she saw in his eyes. If he asked her why, she would have been at a loss as to how to answer him. Could she say she wanted certain things, too? Like his hands sliding over her naked skin? Like the hard length of his legs pressed against hers? Could she tell him that the pleasure of his touch had fogged the memory of the pain he had caused? She was afraid those answers wouldn't be enough, that his unasked question went deeper. He would want to know why she was saying yes to him when she had never said it to any other man. Brook could accept that her body was vulnerable to Ryland's touch. She was not prepared to make her soul vulnerable as well.

  Brook slid off his lap and began turning back the lamps in the room. She could feel Ryland's eyes following her. When she finished Brook came to stand by his chair and held out her hand. "Your things are still in my room," she said, "I think that's where you should be."

  "Only a fool would argue with that," he said. "And I'm done with being a fool." He stood, slipping his hand into hers, and led Brooklyn out of the study and up the stairs. Their bedroom was icy cold. "I think I'd better lay a fire," Ryland told her.

  Brook nodded. She stood awkwardly by the bed while Ryland began throwing wood into the fireplace. Should she undress? If she did, should she put on her nightgown or get under the covers naked? She finally sat on the edge of the bed and began unbuttoning her shoes.

  Ryland finished laying the fire and took off his jacket, throwing it over a chair. "Let me," he said when he saw Brook begin to roll down her stockings. He knelt in front of her and waited for Brooklyn to lift the hem of her dress. His hands curved around her calf and slowly, with infinite tenderness, slipped the stocking from her leg. His palm stroked the length of her soft flesh from knee to ankle before he moved to her other leg and repeated the action. All the while he remembered what her legs felt like flush to his, and later how they felt wrapped around his thighs. Ryland felt desire quicken his pulse. He sat on the edge of bed. "Can I help you with your dress?"

  Brook shook her head. The dress she was wearing buttoned down the front. "I can manage." She started to unfasten the bodice, looking away from Ryland as she did so.

  "Watch my hands," he said, brushing hers away after she had only undone two buttons.

  Brooklyn couldn't have disobeyed him if she had wanted. His hands had always fascinated her. His hands, touching her, mesmerized her. He unbuttoned the gown to her waist and slid the material over her shoulders, drawing down the straps of her shift at the same time. For a moment his hands hovered near her breasts, as if he wanted to palm their aching heaviness, but then he shifted, bringing his hands to her shou
lders, and his thumbs traced the line of her collarbone. She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. Her own eyes dropped to the sensual curve of his mouth and remained there until his mouth lowered, claiming hers hotly and passionately.

  Ryland exerted gentle pressure on Brook's shoulders until she was lying back on the bed. His palms slid along the outside curve of her breasts and down her rib cage. Her hands cupped his face, fingers curling behind his ears, ruffling his copper-tinted hair, as his mouth continued to draw response after sweet response from her. She sighed as he broke the kiss and studied her face, his eyes darting from the heavily lashed lids, slumberous with passion, to the swollen line of her mouth, slightly reddened and dewy.

  "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" he asked huskily. Desire had widened the center of her eyes, melting the frosty silver-blue color. Her pupils seemed to blend into the dark cobalt blue rings, making the depth of her eyes fathomless.

  "You don't have to say things like that," she whispered, trying to urge his mouth back to hers.

  "I do, you know." He rubbed the tip of his nose against hers. "I have to. It's true. I've always thought so." He smiled faintly. "From the very beginning."

  Brook wondered which beginning he meant. This morning's? Or the first time he had seen her on board the Mary Francis? She didn't ask. Her hands slipped between them and her fingers undid the buttons of his shirt. "Take this off."

  She didn't have to hold a gun to his head this time to make Ryland comply. He sat up enough to rid himself of the shirt before he brought her hands to the buttons of his fly. "You have to finish what you started."

  "Watch my hands," she said softly, echoing his earlier order.

  Ryland's breath caught in the back of his throat, and he sucked in his abdomen as Brook's fingers began to move over his groin. The rough denim of his trousers was no barrier to her touch, but she did not flinch as he swelled and hardened. "You're torturing me," he said.

  She tilted her head to one side, regarding him steadily. "You'll have your chance."

  Laughing at her sly expression, Ryland pounced on her. "Witch." He tugged at her clothes, pushing her dress, shift, and drawers past her hips. "Thank God you're not wearing a corset," he said feelingly as he pushed her things off the edge of the bed. "I doubt I would have the patience." He pressed his hips against her, letting her feel the urgency of his need.

  Brooklyn sucked in her breath. "You never did," she reminded him on a thread of sound. "Not with corsets anyway."

  Ryland's grin was rather sheepish. "A matter I would prefer to forget."

  "Forgotten," she said, arching against him restlessly Her fingers tugged at the waistband of his jeans.

  "Impatient yourself, aren't you?"

  "Yes," she said sibilantly. "Yes."

  Ryland got rid of the shoes, socks, and clothes in short order. He felt Brook's eyes slide over him, and suddenly his skin seemed too small for him. If it had been possible he would have shed that as well, baring his very soul to her. "God," he breathed huskily as he lay down beside her, "when you look at me like that I think I'd do anything for you."

  "Anything?" She turned on her side and edged closer until her breasts were against Ryland's chest.

  He nodded, sliding his hand between them and caressing the tip of her breast with the ball of his thumb.

  Brooklyn's mouth was but a pause away from Ryland's. "Then do it," she whispered. "Anything for me; everything to me."

  Ryland groaned deeply as the tension of passion swept through him. His mouth ground against Brook's as he pressed her onto her back. His tongue tasted her deeply, joined hers, battled hers, demanding that she return his hunger in kind. His lips touched her closed lids, the arch of her cheekbones, the curve of her neck. He suckled her breasts, laving the rose nipples with the rough, wet edge of his tongue, until her tiny cry gave sound to her pleasure and mounting excitement. Like a kitten, she moved sinuously against him, rubbing his skin with her own, relishing the comfort and the contrast.

  Brook's fingers tripped over Ryland's back, tracing the ridge of his spine, smoothing the taut cords of his neck. She kissed the scar at his temple, felt the brush of his lashes against her lips. Her teeth caught his earlobe, and she tugged gently. Sharing the depth of his desire, she flicked her nails across his nipples, then lower. The heel of her hand pressed smoothly across his abdomen, and her fingers caressed his rigid cock.

  "Oh, Brooklyn," Ryland whispered against her ear. "That's it. Touch me. God, your hands... your beautiful hands." Fearing he was going to lose all control, Ryland eventually stilled her. His mouth hovered above hers for a moment. Her tongue moistened her lower lip and then flicked against his. The tips of her fingers traveled upward, and his skin seemed to jump wherever she touched.

  Ryland nudged her legs apart, and his hand slipped between her thighs. He heard her soft intake of breath as he began to stroke her. The intimate caress caused a frisson of heat to run through Brook. Her head moved slowly from side to side as if in negation of the act, yet her body welcomed the pressure of his hand, opening like the petals of a morning glory, dewy and warm in response to the first light of day. Ryland's touch was very much like the sun, coaxing and encouraging, commanding a response in a way that force never could. When his mouth replaced his hand, Brook simply stopped breathing. Her protests were disregarded, perhaps because her voice was barely audible, perhaps because she had invited him earlier to do everything he wished to her.

  Pleasure shimmered through her, making her feel impossibly light, all sensation and no substance. She didn't remember she was flesh and blood until Ryland's first thrust filled her and her body answered, tightening around him, knowing the shape and hardness of him by the shape and softness of herself. There was no pain this time, only something powerfully provoking. He stirred her, fevering her pulse, quickening the thrumming of her heart. Brooklyn answered his movements, answered the rhythm of his passion. Her palms caressed the length of his arms, felt the taut strength of his flesh, the rapid pulse on the inside of his arm. In the shadows the cast of his face was intense, his eyes dark and searing above her. Tension made the planes of his cheeks taut, faintly hollow, and the line of his mouth nearly grim with purpose. Brooklyn closed her eyes.

  "No, look at me," he said. "This is what you do to me." His thrusts became more rapid. "And this." His mouth slanted across hers, swallowing her gasp and the name she cried out, his name, as his seed flooded her. "And that also," he said as the last shiver of pleasure coursed through him and hundreds of white-hot sparks danced over his flushed and perspiring skin.

  After several long minutes of silence, their breathing eased and their heartbeats grew steady. They adjusted their position on the bed so Ryland could cover them with the comforter. "It's still cool in here," he said.

  Brooklyn smiled, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. "I didn't notice."

  Ryland's fingers threaded idly through Brook's silky hair. "Neither did I," he admitted. He saw her close her eyes. "Sleepy?"

  She shook her head. "Content." She felt his displeasure in his tired, impatient sigh. "Don't worry," she said immediately. "I haven't forgotten who we are, you and I. I know what there is, and isn't, between us."

  Ryland wished he knew. He had experience with only two kinds of women: those you wedded and those you bedded. Once he had assumed Brooklyn fit neatly into the second category. Ryland had adjusted his thinking, but not to the point where he was prepared to place her in the first. "Have you ever thought about marriage?" he asked. "Not to me," he added quickly. "I mean, to anyone."

  "I knew what you meant," she said quietly, deeply offended by the swiftness with which he made certain she knew he wasn't proposing. There was no need to remind her how unsuitable they were for each other. "And no, I've never given it serious thought. You must realize how ridiculous it would be to suppose that any man I might admire would return my regard. I told you before that my virginity was no gauge of my innocence. Now, I don't even have that. I'm precisely what I seem
to be: a cheat, a liar, and a whore."

  "Don't say that about yourself." It sounded horrible coming from her.

  "Why not? It's no less than you've said to yourself."

  "And it's not true," he said. "Not in those terms. Not in black and white."

  "If you say so." She felt anger seep out of him, though why he should have become so angry confused her.

  "What sort of man could you admire?" he asked finally, giving in grudgingly to his curiosity.

  Brook was thoughtful. "Someone with a sense of purpose, I think. He would have convictions, ideals." She laughed self-consciously. "It should be abundantly clear why he wouldn't be interested in me."

  He tugged on her hair. "Go on. What else would he be like?"

  "Oh, he would be compassionate. The sort of man who understands things at a deeper level than most. And he would be kind, even gentle on occasion. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Quick-witted and humorous. Someone who makes things happen."

  Ryland snorted. She wanted a paragon. "You must have found few men to admire."

  "Very few," she admitted. "What about you?"

  "I've admired any number of men, but then I don't possess your own lofty conception of what is admirable."

  Brooklyn balled her hand into a fist and punched Ryland lightly in the stomach. "That isn't what I meant," she said, ignoring his groan, which was out of all proportion to the blow she had delivered. "Have you thought of marrying?"

  "As a matter of fact, I have. When Louise and Robert sent for me I began to think about it in terms of 'when' rather than 'if.'"

  "You have someone in mind, then?" The ache in her heart surprised her. She told herself she did not want to be jealous, nor did she have any right to feel that way.

  "No one in particular. Just an idea of the sort of woman who would suit."

  Brook reasoned that she couldn't feel any worse than she already did. "What is she like?" she asked.

  "Probably the daughter of one my uncle's business partners. Accomplished. Well-educated. That's important because I plan to live here and she will have to tutor our children during the winter months."