Linda Castle (11 page)

“I promised not to tell who she is seeing.” Tilly slapped her hand over her mouth and her eyes grew round as gourds.

Brooks tried to calm his runaway heartbeat. The feeling he refused to acknowledge as jealousy washed over him.

Who was she seeing?

Something hot and bitter rose in the back of his throat. He drew in a breath, willed himself to school his features and did his best to smile at the maid.

“Miss O’Bannion is our guest.” His voice was low and taut with false control. “We are responsible for her welfare while she is visiting. Surely you can understand that?” He rationalized this for his own as much as for the stubborn maid’s benefit.

“Ye-yes, sir.”

“Now, tell me, Tilly.
Where has she gone?
” He measured each word, matching the cadence to his thudding heart.

“But I promised, sir.” Her tone was pleading.

“Damn it all to hell!
Tell me.
” He fastened what he hoped was a stern gaze on her face. “I only want to make sure she is all right,” he added as an afterthought, when Tilly’s face grew as pale as snow.

“She went to see Miss Ellen,” Tilly whispered.

Once more relief flooded through Brooks’s constricted chest. He released the breath he had not been aware of holding. “Ellen’s house?”

“Yes, sir. Please don’t tell her I told you, sir. She
trusted me,” Tilly said, sniffing. “I wouldn’t want the young miss to think she can’t trust me no more.”

“I won’t say a word about where I got the information, Tilly. You have my word on it.” Brooks smiled in relief. “You can go now.”

“Yes, sir.” Tilly bobbed her head and scurried toward the kitchen, making no effort to hide her relief.

Marisa was not leaving. She was visiting Ellen.

A strange joy settled over him like summer sunshine, and then a new question popped into his head.

Why was Marisa swearing Tilly to secrecy about visiting Ellen?

A premonition of doom swept over him. Past experience had taught him that Marisa was not likely to take Uncle Leland’s exile in good grace. There was going to be trouble, Brooks was sure of it.

Brooks leaned against a black oak tree across the street from Leland James’s house. Indecision ran hot and cold inside him. Should he just go knock on the door and stop all this ridiculous cloak-and-dagger business?

“No,” he answered himself. Cyril swore that Leland had forbidden Marisa to see Ellen, and there was no reason to believe he had softened his stance.

Brooks frowned at the imposing mansion while he lurked beneath the sheltering old tree across the lane. It irked him to be spying on his own uncle.

His gaze swept over the solid brickwork. The ornate facade of plaster and stone on the first-story roof hip needed repair in several places.

Leland had probably not noticed the grout and mortar were crumbling and falling away. Vines grew abundantly, finding niches and cracks in which to cling, and causing crevices to grow between the bricks. Virginia creepers
hung in green profusion and the heady scent of Leland’s prize roses filled the spring air.

It was quiet, the only noise the droning of yellow-and-black bumblebees tasting the nectar of Leland’s flowers. Then suddenly the silence was shattered by a series of excited yips. The black-and-white bull terrier in the yard next door barked furiously. The agitated canine bounced on his stiff front legs while his hoarse, raspy yelps echoed through the neighborhood. He shoved his nose through the iron fence that separated his domain from Leland’s, and the hackles rose along his muscled back as he focused intently on something—something in Leland’s yard.

A fire? A burglar?

Brooks roused himself from his sentry duty. He crossed the street and cautiously crept toward the side of the house. Fear that Ellen and Marisa needed help spurred him on.

The little dog barked louder.

A carpetbag narrowly missed Brooks’s head and landed at his feet. He looked up, scanning the trellis with his eyes. About midway up a small bit of white cloth and lace caught his attention.

A scrap of a woman’s petticoat.

He tilted his head and looked higher. Brooks had to stifle a moan of lust when a familiar feminine backside appeared over the railing.

The voluminous, yellow-plaid skirt billowed around her legs like the pennant on a sailing vessel each time the wind caught it. From his vantage point beneath her, Brooks had a clear view of her legs, petticoats, lacetrimmed drawers and sweet round bottom.

It was a tantalizing sight.

Each time she moved, the fine lawn pulled tight across her fanny in a most seductive way. He folded his arms
across his chest and stared while a pleased and lecherous smile broke out beneath his mustache. Images of what he would like to do with that firm derriere burned in his mind.

Marisa cursed silently as her skirt caught on one of the iron crossbars. She did not wish to wake Ellen, who had finally dozed off with a smile on her face. Marisa did not want to erase what had taken an hour to put there.

She looped her arm through the trellis, allowing her weight to hang on her bent elbow while she tugged the fabric free. When she was released and able to move again, a thorn poked her hand. She looked at her palm and discovered the thorn had broken off inside. It stung like liquid fire, and blood began to pool in her palm. While she was looking at the spot the trellis seemed to shiver beneath her weight.

“Silly, it’s only your imagination,” she chided herself. The strange shudder came again, and even though she assured herself that she was not frightened, she ignored the thorn and started to climb down as fast as she could manage.

Brooks grinned at the view above his head. A warm breeze caught the plaid skirt again. It fluttered out and filled with air like a sail. He was not a green youth who had never seen a woman’s body before, but the sight of Marisa’s firm bottom, encased in those fine white drawers, made him feel like a virgin glimpsing the female form for the first time.

She was coming closer.

In fact, she was near enough for him to make out the details of embroidery on the edge of her petticoat ruffles. He thought about letting her know he was there.

But he didn’t.

He just stood and stared up her dress like a Peeping
Tom, while a sensation like warmed honey poured over him and moved through his veins.

Her toe snagged on a cluster of heavy blossoms. She jiggled her leg to free herself, causing her backside to flex and quiver in a most provocative and enchanting way.

Damn, I would like to make her quiver like that.

His appreciative grin widened beneath his mustache. She had a finely shaped backside. Of course, he already knew that about Missy O’Bannion. He had watched it encased in trousers, emphasized by leather chaps on more than one occasion on the Circle B. But this was different.

He was different.

Until now he had never allowed himself to really comprehend the sheer perfection of her form as a woman. Perhaps it was simply the novelty of seeing her in women’s clothing that made all the difference. Or perhaps it was the absurdity of seeing that most feminine body climbing a trellis like a tomboy.

Or maybe Cyril was right.

Whatever it was, the impact of watching her now was akin to being punched in the belly by a strong right hook. A sense of wonder swept over Brooks as he inventoried each and every asset she possessed. Her legs were incredibly long for someone so delicate. Each time she placed her foot on another rung and lowered herself downward, the supple muscles of her thighs moved in a way that made his own body quicken. Yes, a rock-hard fist had been planted in the middle of his gut while he watched, and other parts of him were growing rock hard, too.

Cyril’s words came drifting through his consciousness.
Anybody can see you are in love with Marisa O’Bannion.
Brooks shook his head at the notion.

He wasn’t in love. Damn it, he couldn’t be. He wanted to remain footloose and free to enjoy himself. He would
know when he fell in love. It would take his breath away and rob him of sleep, and he wouldn’t know which end of the world was up.

No, he would know when love struck him, and he wouldn’t need a dandy like Cyril-the-smooth-talker to tell him so.

Brooks might not be in love, but he sure as hell was enjoying the sight of Marisa O’Bannion’s womanly form above him. She was a beautiful work of art on display, and he fully appreciated the exhibition she was inadvertently giving him.

The harsh sound of grating metal intruded on his pleasurable thoughts. He watched as the trellis suddenly started to lurch and jerk.

She tightened her grip on the bar. Then one metal bracket squealed as a thing alive. Brooks watched in horror as it pulled loose from the ancient and crumbling masonry around the window frame.

Marisa was only halfway down the trellis. It was too far to jump and too far for him to be able to reach her.

The one rusty bracket that remained in place cracked with a snap. With a kind of disjointed slowness the top part of the heavy iron trellis broke free. Fragrant blossoms rained down on Brooks’s head while the old iron buckled under the strain. The hot flow of lust ebbed and was replaced by the cold reality of fear. The bush and its support swayed away from the solid security of the house, propelled by the weight of Marisa’s delicate body.

She was going to fall.

B
rooks allowed himself one second to scan Leland’s flower bed and size up her chances. The drop was not extreme, but when the mansion was built Leland had hired skilled masons to install thick paving stones around it, with borders of jagged rocks to protect his prized rose beds. The serrated edges of Vermont granite would rip and tear Marisa’s tender flesh.

She’ll be killed or maimed.

Her smooth-bottomed shoes slipped off the crossbars that supported her and she gave a muffled cry. As he watched, feeling more helpless than he could imagine, she lost her grip on the iron crossbar.

As if in a hellish nightmare she fell like a wounded sparrow that could no longer fly. Her yellow-plaid skirt fluttered and flapped like broken wings.

His heart lurched to his throat and he was consumed by utter desperation.

Marisa landed against a chest so strong and hard the impact drove the air from her lungs in one mighty swoosh. Black stars danced before her eyes as she struggled to remain conscious. She sagged weakly against the muscular
chest of her rescuer, trying to drag air into her lungs, while relief folded over her like cotton batting.

“Dear Lord, Marisa, are you hurt?” Brooks’s voice roused her from her stunned lethargy.

She drew several ragged breaths into her body and forced herself to focus. Sure enough, it was Brooks who cradled her in his arms.

“What—what are…you doin’ here? I mean
doing
here?” She corrected her faulty speech, feeling a mixture of gratitude, amazement and stubborn disbelief.

One dark brow rose over his cerulean eyes. “Saving your life?” His mustache twitched above the cocky grin, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to slap him, or kiss him until she was senseless.

Her breathing had returned to normal, but strange prickling sensations of heat danced along the backs of her thighs and spine, where his arms supported her. He held her close enough for her to count the auburn hairs scattered throughout his black mustache.

Too close. Not close enough.

“No. I mean what are you doing here, at Ellen’s?” She willed herself to stop studying his face, noticing the craggy strength of each line and angle.

“The question is what are
you
doing climbing the trellis like a second-story burglar?” His voice held a trace of teasing mockery, but his gaze roamed over her face in an intimate way that made the air catch in the back of her throat. She fancied she could actually feel the touch of his probing gaze.

It was hot and strong and she wanted more of it.

“Well, Marisa?” Brooks’s arms contracted and her body shivered in response. “What in God’s good name were you doing up there?”

“I came to visit Ellen.”

A muscle beside his eye flinched. “Most guests use the front door.”

“I probably would’ve done the same, except I wasn’t exactly invited,” she admitted. “You know that Leland has forbidden me to see Ellen.” Her voice cracked and her bottom lip quivered.

“And we have told you that he will come around. He is only worried about Ellen and looking for someone to blame.”

“I didn’t want to wait any longer to see if he changed his mind.”

“So you decided to climb the trellis and break your pretty little neck in Leland’s rose garden. That seems like an extreme form of revenge, even for you, Marisa.” He gave her a lopsided smile.

“I didn’t plan to fall,” she snapped, but the realization that he had called her pretty took some of the sting from his words. “Don’t tease me, Brooks, not now.” She squirmed, thinking he would release her, spare her further humiliation. “I can’t take your teasing today. Now let me down.”

He didn’t.

“I apologize for teasing you.” He gave her a wide, warm smile.

Her heart missed a beat.

“It is just that you scared the hell out of me, honey.”

Honey?

The word battered her defenses. Her thoughts scattered and blew away like dried leaves in a strong wind. She fought to master her reaction. “I got in just fine.” She looked away from his face, hoping that would clear the heat from her veins. “I didn’t know the old trellis was going to break.”

“I should speak to Leland about it. Lord knows it is
almost criminal the way he has let the trellis into his daughter’s balcony fall into disrepair.” Brooks grinned. “What if some gallant young suitor should want to climb into her bedroom? Downright neglectful. I will speak to him immediately.”

“You’re teasing me again,” she noted as her gaze returned to his too-handsome face.

“I am just relieved that you are not hurt.” His eyes flicked over her face once more, and a sensation like a silken ribbon being trailed along her skin remained. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you’d been hurt.”

“You almost sound as if you care.” She squirmed again, but regretted it immediately. As she moved, her breast nudged against his chest. Marisa did not move again.

“What on earth am I going to do about you?” Brooks sighed, and she felt the edge of desperation in his question.

“What do you want to do about me?” she whispered.

He glanced at her with a hard, assessing expression on his face, but then smiled tenderly.

“Stop being nice to me or you will make me cry,” she warned.

“You are reckless beyond belief, Missy.”

“I am not.” She knew he was telling the truth, but for some reason she had to disagree—had to keep fighting him.

“Yes, you are.” He inhaled deeply and looked at her for a moment. “And you are driving me to distraction. I can’t sleep, I can’t think straight. I believe I will have to marry you to keep you out of trouble.”

Then he lowered his head and kissed her.

The last thing Marisa expected was for Brooks to kiss her. But the surprise didn’t stop there. She had wantonly
wrapped one hand around his strong shoulder, while the other palm kneaded the column of his neck. It felt so natural to be locked in his embrace. She opened her lips to draw in a tiny sigh of satisfaction. Yes, this kiss was the last thing she’d expected, but it was wonderful and exciting. A flock of butterflies winged their way through her middle, and she managed to keep the nagging question of his fiancée pushed to the back of her mind.

Brooks couldn’t stop kissing her—or maybe he was afraid if he did they would go back to the same old silly bickering. Whatever the reason, he held her tight as if to reassure himself that she was solid and not some nymph he had conjured from thin air. He nibbled her bottom lip and told himself to let her go, but he was no more able to do it now than he had been able to let her fall.

Her firm breasts nudged against him as she nuzzled his jaw and returned his ardor. That warm contact sent his temperature soaring two degrees. He grew bolder, pushing his tongue between her teeth. She stiffened and drew back a wee bit at the invasion, but it was more an act of astonishment than protest. Slowly, deliberately, he traced the inside of her mouth, committing every delicate impression to memory.

Sugar cookies and lemon tea.

He inhaled deeply, struggling to stop his pulse from racing.

She smells like summer sunshine.

Her flavor and scent made a heady combination, innocent and sensual, demure and yet wild as the territory that had spawned her.

His heart was beating inside his chest like a marching band’s drum at the Founder’s Day parade. He had understood
that breathless, heart-pounding reaction when he thought she was falling. But now she was safe in his arms.

Yes, sweet Marisa was safe, but his heart was in great jeopardy. Desire thundered through every fiber of his being like a locomotive gaining momentum on a steep, downhill grade. His body warmed and tightened in an age-old way as she responded to him.

She moaned softly.

He could no longer ignore the truth. He wanted her so badly he hurt.

Wanting is not loving.
He recalled Clell’s words.

He pulled away and looked into her dark eyes. They were cloudy, like coal smoke filtered through thin winter clouds. Her soft lips were moist and becomingly pink.

Her body had answered him in a way that confused him. How could they want each other when they didn’t even get along? Hell, most of the time they didn’t even like each other.

“Put me down now, Brooks.” She blinked several times, as if waking from a dream.

He obeyed her order, placed her on her feet and told himself it had been a momentary lapse of control but nothing more. It had been the passion of saving her life. He had just been swept away in the excitement and urgency of the moment. But the more he tried to convince himself of it, the more a nagging fear that something momentous had happened nudged at his consciousness. It was not an emotion he could easily explain.

“I’ll take you home.” He put his palm at the small of her back. A hot sensation sizzled through him. He jerked his hand away and stared at it, but it looked unchanged. Whatever had made his knees go weak and had clouded his judgment was not going to be found in his rough and
callused palm, but perhaps within the dark, smoky eyes of Marisa O’Bannion.

Marisa squeezed herself back against the leather squabs of the carriage seat. Each turn and sway brought her knees brushing against Brooks’s legs as he sat in the seat across from her. The innocent contact made her middle twist.

He is engaged.

What could she have been thinking of? She wasn’t thinking, that was the problem. She had simply responded to his kiss. But that kind of behavior was unforgivable here in the city—Ellen had said so.

She sighed and promised herself that it wouldn’t happen again. Just when she was learning to ward off his taunts and silent disapproval, he had found a new way to baffle her.

Like save your life and then kiss you?
a voice inside her head quizzed.

All right, so he had saved her from harm, but why did he have to go and kiss her?

She watched him from under the protective fringe of her lashes and thought about her talk with Ellen. For the first time she had openly broached the subject of Violet Ashland, but Ellen had been little help. All she could tell Marisa was that yes, Brooks had given Violet a ring shortly before he’d left for the Territory. And that scandal could taint the family name.

His kiss had curled up her toes. The simple touching of lips had made her heart beat so hard that for a moment she’d thought she might die from the sheer physical pleasure. It had been more potent than the night he’d come into her room. He kissed her in a way that made her soft and vulnerable.

And then he had simply stopped kissing her and had
turned cold. She lowered her head and sneaked another glance at him. Had he suddenly remembered Violet? Had he recalled his promise?

Marisa was careful not to look straight at him, but she needn’t have worried about him noticing her scrutiny: his eyes were fixed unblinkingly on something outside the carriage window.

She doubted he was even aware she was there. A cold chill swept over body. That kiss had addled her brain and turned her blood to liquid fire, but it hadn’t done the same thing to him.

Because he loves Violet.

Damn him,
she thought with entirely too much zeal.
Damn, damn, damn him.

Why did he do it? Why had he given her that bone-melting kiss if it meant nothing? He had a goll-darn lot of nerve to kiss her like
that
and then sit and stare out the window!

She didn’t mean a thing to him.

He was as unpredictable as a rattler shedding its skin. She turned to stare out her own window, refusing to give him any more notice at all, determined to make that damn kiss as insignificant to herself as it was to him—determined to make it the last.

Brooks knew the moment Marisa turned away and quit watching him. No, that wasn’t actually right; he
felt
her stop looking at him. It was like the caress of spring sunshine being replaced by a bitterly cold winter wind when her sly gaze left him.

What in hell have I done?
he asked himself for the twentieth time. How could he have allowed his control to slip like that? This was
Missy,
for God’s sake. No matter what her real name was, no matter how she had altered
her appearance, she was Bellami’s sister-in-law. Trace’s
baby
sister.

Had he lost his mind?
Probably. Certainly while he held her in his arms he was beyond rational thought.

The memory of Cyril’s voice drifted through his head. A muscle in his jaw twitched in response.

He couldn’t allow himself to be in love with Marisa until the sordid situation was resolved with Violet.

And he could not do that until the negotiations were complete. Only then would he be prepared to bring scandal crashing down on his family.

As soon as the carriage arrived at the brownstone, Marisa pleaded a headache and escaped to the privacy of her room. She could not look at Brooks and she could not face his family with the guilt of what she had done burning in her mind.

But the afternoon wore on slowly as the memory of the kiss lingered. Then later, as the moon rose and made its arc across the sky, she still tossed and turned in the lovely canopied bed.

She told herself that kisses didn’t mean a thing—not to him—and therefore she couldn’t allow them to mean anything to her. But if that was true why did she tingle from head to foot each time she thought about him? And why did her eyes burn with unshed tears?

Marisa was awake to see the first gray streaks of dawn. She forced herself to remain in her room until she heard the sounds of Tilly moving about downstairs, preparing breakfast and opening the house for the day.

Marisa dressed in a simple green twill sprinkled with tiny bouquets of white flowers bound with lavender ribbons. Then she spent extra time coiling her hair and twisting
it into a chignon, which she covered with a finely woven white net.

By the time she opened her door and stepped out into the hallway, she was in control, determined to act and feel the same as she had before. But when she neared Brooks’s room a combination of dread and hope surged through her. She paused, fingers frozen on the banister, staring at his closed door.