Linda Castle (10 page)

She forced her attention back to Cyril. “Yes, Cyril?” She tried to dispel the thought of Brooks’s hands and the
feel of his kiss, but she couldn’t. A hot band tightened around her heart.

Marisa studied Cyril’s handsome, unlined profile. His features were smooth and even, but they lacked strength. He would never be able to withstand hardship, she thought to herself. And he would never know the kind of satisfaction she had seen written across Brooks’s lean jaw at the end of each tiring day on the Circle B.

“I paid Ellen a visit before I came to pick you up,” Cyril said.

Marisa swiveled in the seat as far as she could without knocking her knees against Brooks’s. “How is she? How soon can I go and visit her?” A burst of excitement rippled through her.

“She is much improved. She specifically told the maid to send her regards, and it was she who suggested I come and take you for an outing.” He slid a glance at Brooks and swallowed hard. “But seeing her may be difficult.” Cyril patted Marisa’s hand.

“Difficult? Why?” she asked. Brooks shifted in the opposite seat. His knee brushed against her leg. He gazed out the window as if he were interested in the scenery rolling by, but she could tell he was listening intently.

“I hope this doesn’t upset you too much, Miss O’Bannion, but Leland has forbidden Ellen to see you.”

“What?” Marisa recoiled as if she had been struck. “Is Ellen that ill? Did you see her?”

“No. I had a long chat with the downstairs maid. She assures me that Ellen is chipper and wants company, but Leland won’t be budged.”

Brooks glanced up. “You seem to spend a lot of time gossiping, Dover.” There was ice in his voice.

Marisa seared him with a look. “Please, I want to know about Ellen.”

Cyril nodded solemnly. “The maid swears she is regaining her strength, but…”

“But?”

“Oh, dash it all. Everybody knows Leland is just looking for somebody to blame, but he has it in his head that you caused her collapse. I am sure he will come round, but for now you can’t see her. Ellen is very upset by his stubbornness.”

“I see,” Marisa said softly. Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she wasn’t sure if it was from being falsely accused or if she was indeed responsible.

“I’ll talk to him if you want,” Brooks offered softly.

Marisa wished she hadn’t noticed how the flesh around his blue eyes crinkled handsomely or how wide and rough his hands were.

Damn his no-good polecat’s hide.
She cursed him silently, as Ellen had taught her. She didn’t want him to be nice to her. That was the hardest thing to handle, but even as she mentally denied his help she found herself nodding her assent. “I’d appreciate that, Brooks.”

“Do you want to come with us for tea, Brooks?” Cyril asked.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” Brooks mumbled. He turned and raked his fingers through his hair. He was all tied up in knots. One minute he wanted to turn her over his knee and spank her, the next he wanted to fold her in his arms and kiss her obvious hurt away.

Marisa was driving him crazy with her new grace and manners, but if he was honest, he’d have to admit he missed their daily battles and the simmering emotions that used to flare between them. A mixture of anger, excitement and melancholy twined through him.

An hour later the carriage drew up in front of the Jameses’ brownstone. Brooks immediately slipped out his
door. He stalked up the wide stone steps without glancing back at either Cyril or Marisa.

He wished he had not insisted on going along. What had he been thinking?

He opened the door and disappeared inside the house before Marisa had even stepped out of the carriage.

“How about dinner tonight?” Cyril pressed as they strolled up the walk. “I promise I will have nothing but good news of Ellen.” He smiled. “She doesn’t want you moping around, you know.”

Marisa wasn’t sure she wanted to spend an evening with Cyril. Brooks’s kiss still burned on her lips and she was confused. Then she saw him standing just inside the doorway, watching her with disapproval in his eyes.

“What time will you be picking me up?” she blurted out.

“Seven o’clock.” Cyril’s happy smile grew broader.

“Then I’ll make sure we are ready and waiting for you, Cyril ol’ boy.” Brooks’s deep voice erupted behind Marisa as he stepped from the shadows and insinuated himself into the conversation. He was close enough for her to feel his breath on the nape of her neck.

Hot chills flowed through her. “We?
We
will be ready?” she said with arched brows.

“Of course. I can’t let you run around town unchaperoned. Remember? I feel responsible to keep your good name intact.” He held her gaze for a moment. Images of his moonlight-kissed skin and the hot, stolen kisses flooded her mind, and she knew he was thinking of them, too.

“Yes, I remember—only too well.”

Cyril glanced from Brooks to Marisa. “Fine. I’ll be here at seven.” He leaned forward as if to give Marisa a
kiss, but Brooks placed his hand on her forearm and cleared his throat in an exaggerated manner.

“Well—yes, uh, until seven then,” Cyril mumbled as he turned and walked toward the waiting carriage.

M
arisa sat in front of the vanity and stared at her reflection. The image in the glass was almost a stranger. Dark hair was carefully piled on her head. The navy gown she wore was elegant but not gaudy. Smooth shoulders were exposed in a way that Ellen had assured her would be demure and yet alluring.

“So why do I feel like a bagful of barn cats are tied up inside my belly?” she asked her reflection.

She rose from the padded stool and straightened the folds of the white sash draped over the front of the blue velvet skirt. It was drawn up at each hip with a small rosette. To emphasize her small waist, Ellen had said, in contrast to the moderate-size bustle.

The thought of Ellen and her friendly advice made Marisa blink back fresh tears. She tried to swallow, but there was an obstruction at the back of her throat. Her nerves were raw and she was edgy as a longhorn in a thunderstorm.

“I am just lonely for Ellen’s company,” she muttered as she paced the length of her room. “That must be why I am so high-strung.”

It couldn’t be because of that consarned, goll-danged Brooks.

Marisa tried to think of some way to appease Leland so she could see her friend. Maybe she could just apologize.

No.

Perhaps she should bake a cake?

No. He would accuse her of feeding Ellen a poor diet.

A forceful knock on her door stopped her in mid-thought.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. Are you ready?” The deep rumble of Brooks’s voice sent a shiver up her spine. “Cyril is at the door and evidently panting for your company, since he is a full twenty minutes early.” There was a sharp edge to Brooks’s voice and it made her all the more irritable.

“I’ll be right down.” Marisa took a deep breath and turned to look at herself one last time. The image was one she had not yet grown accustomed to. Nobody would ever doubt that she was a lady, except perhaps Brooks James. And for some strange reason that brought an even larger lump to her throat because of the note she had received earlier in the afternoon. She picked it up and re-opened the envelope, unable to ignore the strong floral scent on the elegant stationery. The handwriting was precise and neat, the message short and to the point:

“Don’t get too comfortable with my fiancé or you and all the James family will be sorry.”

It had been signed V.A.

Marisa folded it and returned it to the envelope. A raw ache had settled beneath her heart. For what woman would dare write such a note unless she was very sure of herself?

* * *

Brooks tiptoed down the back stairs and out the servants’ entrance. He had no intention of running into Rod this morning. He had endured Cyril’s moon-eyed glances toward Marisa and had listened to the mewling chatter until his digestion had been ruined. She had barely acknowledged his presence. The last thing he needed was to run into Rod now.

What he needed was to get a little satisfaction.

He opened the doors to the gentlemen’s club and stalked inside with all the finesse and manners of a horny grizzly.

“Somehow I knew you would be here early.” Cyril grinned at Brooks as he unfolded himself from the leather side chair.

“Let’s get to it,” Brooks practically snarled as they fell into step with each other. Within moments they were climbing into opposite sides of the padded ring.

“What made you think I’d come in early?” Brooks asked as he stretched his tendons and warmed up his shoulders.

“I don’t believe I’ll tell you, not just yet.” Cyril cheerfully positioned his fists and jogged on the balls of his feet. “I’ll make you a deal, James ol’ boy. If you land one punch this morning, I’ll tell you how I knew you’d be early.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, young pup.”

They met in the middle of the ring like dueling knights. Brooks danced on his toes, determined to turn Cyril’s handsome face into a bloody mess. That little voice, the one that sounded oddly like Clell, asked why Brooks was so determined to mess up Cyril’s face. But like a lot of things, he managed to ignore it.

Cyril threw a lightning-quick punch. Brooks was preoccupied with his own demons, which made his reflexes
slow. He ducked, and only a portion of Cyril’s fist connected. The stinging blow made his eye water and his ear ring.

“Now we are nearly even,” Cyril said with a happy grin. “I had to tell that lie about running into a door far too many times.”

“We are nowhere near even, to my way of looking at things. Not by a long shot.” Brooks rushed in, throwing punches at Cyril’s lean middle.

Cyril backed up a step.

Brooks rammed his fist upward, catching Cyril’s square chin. The bones in Brooks’s hand tingled and stung.

“Pax! Pax, Brooks!” Cyril chuckled and wiped his hand across the smear of blood on his chin. “You win. You landed a punch.” His eyes twinkled with amusement, and that only made Brooks want to hit him again.

Brooks lowered his fists, but for some reason he wasn’t all that happy about winning. A part of him was hungry to keep on hitting Cyril. “How did you know I’d be here early?”

Cyril picked up a towel and rubbed it along his chin. A crimson stain marred the thick white toweling. “It is obvious to everyone but you. I knew you would be here because of Marisa O’Bannion.”

“What’s she got to do with this?”

When did any thought in your head not revolve around Marisa?
the Clell voice challenged.

Cyril shook his head from side to side and laughed. “You are crazy in love with her. Though, as contrary as you are, you will probably deny it just as you keep denying a wedding between you and Violet is in the wind.” Cyril climbed through the ropes. “I always thought you Jameses were an intelligent lot, but I have never seen a man as thick as you.”

“Come back in here. I’ll show you how thick I am.”

Cyril held up his hand and kept on walking.

“I am not in love—and if I were it certainly would not be with Marisa O’Bannion,” Brooks growled.

Cyril paused. “Does that mean you’re marrying Violet?” Before Brooks could answer, Cyril disappeared into the changing area.

“I am not in love!” Brooks yelled at Cyril’s retreating back. He turned and there, dressed in tights, grinning from ear to ear, was Rod. “Nor am I marrying Violet!”

“Who are you trying to convince, brother—Cyril Dover or yourself?” Rod asked blandly.

“I am not trying to convince anyone. I am not in love with Marisa O’Bannion,” Brooks said stubbornly. “And I am getting damned tired of having Violet’s name linked with mine.”

“Fine. Would you care to take a punch at me, or is that honor reserved only for men who dare to court Miss O’Bannion—the lovely young woman you are not in love with?”

Brooks narrowed his eyes and walked to the center of the ring. He raised his fists. “Funny, Rod, very funny. You know, it has been awhile. I would enjoying taking you down a peg.”

“Not likely, little brother, but perhaps the effort will cheer you up.” Rod snorted. “Hey, that’s a nice-looking scar. Did you get that in the Territory?” he said, pointing at Brooks’s bicep.

Saving Missy from certain death.

Rod stretched and threw a few mock punches. “Tell me, little brother, did you duel with knives when you weren’t chasing cattle?” He laughed.

“No. It was a disagreement with an angry longhorn.”

“Really? I am impressed.” Rod danced a little closer.
“I hate to bring it up—I mean, since you made it clear that you’re not interested—but Miss O’Bannion left the house this morning.”

“So?” Brooks didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to care.

“Oh, yes, I forgot. She means nothing to you.”

Silence stretched between them as they threw punches that never quite landed. Finally Brooks could stand it no longer.

“Well?”

“What? Oh, you
are
interested.” Rod grinned. “She left this morning carrying a traveling bag.”

Brooks looked up into his brother’s eyes and felt the knot in his gut twist harder. “A bag?”

“You know, a container for one’s clothes…when one travels. You don’t suppose she is leaving without saying goodbye, do you?” Rod asked before he landed a solid punch to Brooks’s cheek and sent him reeling backward into the ropes. “But then again, you wouldn’t care because you are not in love,” he taunted with entirely no mercy.

Damn, but his older brother could be irritating at times.

Marisa yanked her skirts and petticoats up between her legs and stuffed as much of the full ruffled edge as she could into her belt. The result she achieved by altering her yellow plaid frock wasn’t trousers, but it would have to do.

She looked up at Ellen’s window, craning her neck backward so far that for a moment she became dizzy. The sound of a horse and buggy clattering by drew her attention, but luckily Ellen’s bedroom faced the flower-bordered alley. Marisa could not be seen from the street.

She squinted her eyes against the sun while she tried to judge the distance she would have to climb. Including
the thick stone foundation, she guessed it to be about twenty-five feet up to the wrought-iron balcony railing that surrounded Ellen’s French windows.

“No higher than the lightning-struck cottonwood in the arroyo back of the ranch house,” she assured herself.

Hell, she had shinned up that old tree since she was big enough to run away from—or after—her brothers.

Of course, it did grow at a crooked angle because of the scars on its weathered gray trunk, and that slope made it more like a ramp than a tree…but that shouldn’t make much difference.

Besides, there was no other way to visit Ellen.

With a sigh of resignation Marisa looped the straps of the carpetbag over her arm, grabbed hold of the ornate black iron trellis and started to climb.

The rosebush tangled within the trellis was old and gnarled. The greenish brown stems, loaded with thorns, were thick as her fingers. By the time she reached the first-floor roof cornice her palms were stinging from pricks.

Her skirt was tangled in the grip of the briar rose. She tugged on the stubborn cloth and finally it jerked loose with a ripping sound. A scrap of her petticoat was left dangling from a long scimitar-shaped thorn.

“Damnation,” she muttered.

A few more tense minutes of picking her way through the maze and she was finally able to hoist herself and the bag over the second-story balcony railing.

Brooks finished buttoning his shirt during the carriage ride to the brownstone. He silently carried on a running argument with himself about why he had rushed from the athletic club and why he allowed Rod to needle him about Marisa.

She is not leaving. She can’t be.

But his thoughts gave him no reassurance. Maybe she
was
leaving. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised. After all, he had known she would be like a fish out of water. Still, it wasn’t like Missy to just turn tail and run back to the Territory—not like her at all.

But she isn’t Missy anymore. She is Marisa—mysterious, sensuous, unpredictable Marisa.
And it was just possible that Violet’s nonsense had her on the run.

He argued silently back and forth, and by the time the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his family’s brownstone he was in a fine fit of temper. He strode up the steps and flung open the door.

“Tilly!” His voice echoed through the oppressively quiet house. He had never noticed how silent the stately brownstone was until he had stayed at the Circle B ranch. That house hummed with laughter and arguments. It vibrated with life.

As he was comparing the two places, Tilly appeared, round eyed with surprise. “Yes, sir?” Shock and perhaps fear were written across her features.

Brooks tried to wipe the scowl from his face. It wasn’t the maid’s fault that Marisa O’Bannion had once again riled him, so why take it out on her. The memory of how her lips had trembled when he apologized for his beastly behavior at breakfast stung his conscience. “Is my mother in?”

“No, sir, she went to Miss Clair’s,” Tilly replied quickly. “They were going shoppin’.”

Brooks raked his hand through his hair and sighed in frustration. “Was Miss O’Bannion with her?”

“Oh, no, sir.”

Hope died in his chest When the James women went shopping, they planned their strategy like conquering generals
and did not come home until the campaign was over. He looked up at the staircase, willing Marisa to appear.

“Has Miss O’Bannion returned then?” He couldn’t entertain the thought that she had left him.
Had left New York,
he mentally corrected.

“Returned, sir?” Tilly replied evasively, twisting and mangling her apron between her fingers.

Brooks turned his full attention to the maid. “Rod told me Miss O’Bannion went out carrying a traveling bag.” His voice was stern and too loud.

Tilly wrung her hands in the white apron. “Sir?”

“This is important, damn it. Is Miss O’Bannion here?” Brooks pressed.

Tilly ducked her head and made the sign of the cross. Brooks was sure this was the first time she had heard him swear.

If I don’t find Marisa it won’t be the last profanity I say in this house.

“No, sir.”

“Do you know where she is?” His patience was shredding like the bit of lace at the edge of Tilly’s apron.

“She did not say what time she would return, sir.”

A prickly kind of relief washed over him. Tilly’s reply indicated that Marisa planned to return. The maid continued to avoid his eyes like a disobedient spaniel that has chewed a slipper, and Brooks’s instincts told him that she knew what he needed to hear.

“You know where she is, don’t you, Tilly?”

Her head snapped up. “I can’t say. That is, I don’t know, sir.” She backed up and drew in a breath. There was a flicker of fear in her eyes.

“For pity’s sake, Tilly, I am not going to hurt you, or Miss O’Bannion, but I need to speak to her. Now tell me where she has gone.”

Tilly’s cheeks reddened. She sighed, and her stiff uniform seemed to lose all of its starch and crispness. “I ain’t supposed to say, sir. I promised.”

“You promised what?” Apprehension crept up his spine. What could Marisa be doing that she wanted to be kept secret? And who was she doing it with?