Fair Is the Rose (56 page)

"Christal."

She turned to face him, her eyes glistening with happiness and anticipation. He seemed somber in comparison. "Why are you so pensive?" She laughed. "You look as if we're headed for the gallows."

His mouth tipped in a wry grin while his gaze took in the sight of fashionable shoppers on Broadway. "This is all so new, that's all." He didn't look at her. "I never expected all . . . this." He waved his hand toward the window.

"You told me you'd been to New York. You knew about Delmonico's."

"I came here a long time ago—right after the war. And God knows I might have known about Delmonico's—everybody who's come here has heard about it—but I sure as hell never ate there."

"We could go there if you like."

"You know I can't afford a place like that. You'll just have to go with Sheridan and your sister."

She placed her hand intimately on his thigh. "My sister is wealthy. Not me. Remember that."

He glanced at her. "You have your inheritance and I'm not talking about wealth—I'm talking about upbringing, background, family ties and traditions. No matter what you say, Christal, this place is a part of you. I can see it in your eyes."

"So it's a part of me. What does that change?
Nothing."

"It's a part I hardly know."

She touched his cheek. He turned to her. They locked gazes. "Then let's get reacquainted. . . ."

She kissed him tenderly on the lips—a sweet, loving kiss that was meant to be as chaste as it was quick. But she soon found out he had different ideas. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his lap, shamelessly deepening the kiss as if she were still some kind of saloon girl and not the famed missing heiress of Washington Square. Despite the privacy of the cab, she heard some men jeering on the granite sidewalks.

"Stop . . ." she gasped when she finally broke free. Her cheeks were red, and she glanced embarrassedly out of the window to see if anyone else was watching.

"You see you have changed."

"No. I've never wanted to be treated like a whore."

His mouth turned into a rock-hard line. "Girl, that's not how I treat a whore. That's how I treat the woman I love."

She sighed. She knew he was a man not destined to be tamed. Now, in the midst of the citv, he seemed wilder than ever.

"Fifth Avenue!" the driver called out, knocking on the door of the carriage.

"Alana." Christal whispered her sister's name.

"C'mon." Cain helped her out of the carriage. If he was shocked by the enormous marble mansion in front of them, she didn't see it. She was too busy running to the door and pounding on it.

"Yes?" An old, austere butler answered the door. Beyond, a marble foyer loomed like a mausoleum.

"I'm—I'm here to see Alana." Christal held her breath, disoriented. She didn't expect to recognize things. She'd never seen the Sheridan mansion, but everything seemed so foreign. Perhaps her sister wasn't home? Perhaps she had the wrong house?

"Miss Christabel?"

Christal widened her eyes. The butler was almost smiling, and his eyes held
a warmth
for her he couldn't have for a stranger. He knew Alana, and Christal looked enough like her sister that he could recognize her. She had the right house after all.

"Is she home? Oh, don't tell me I've missed her!"

"No, miss. I'll tell her you've arrived. Please do come in and allow me to settle you in the library. My name is Whittaker." The butler stepped aside and let her pass. When Macaulay followed, the men exchanged suspicious looks.

"And who, sir, may I say is calling with Miss Christabel?" The butler waited for Cain to introduce himself, as if he were a general waiting for a lowly lieutenant. He missed nothing of Cain's appearance, not the barely civilizing veneer of gray wool suit that the man wore with an invisible savagery that strained at every seam, and not the clean, starched collar that just barely covered a terrible scar around the man's throat. The old butler took particular note of the strange black felt hat the man had yet to remove.

"I said, who
may I
say is calling?" Whittaker repeated disdainfully.

Cain tapped himself on the forehead. "Well, I'll be damned! I forgot my calling cards!"

Christal shot him a quelling look. "Just tell them U.S. Marshal Macaulay Cain is accompanying me."

"Very good."
Whittaker bowed to Cain, keeping his facial expression calculatedly neutral. "May I take your hat, sir?"

Cain took off the Stetson and ran his fingers through his hair. He handed it to the butler, but just as Whittaker was about to retreat, he said in a mocking twang, "Hold on there, partner."

Whittaker imperiously raised his eyebrows at the word "partner." Cain smiled and unbuckled something beneath his suit jacket. He reached down and untied the thongs that wrapped around his wool-covered thighs. Casually, Cain dumped the heavy holster into the butler's hands.

Whittaker looked down. The six-shooters looked well oiled and well used. The holster was replete with cartridges, enough for one rip-roaring shootout. He gulped. "Will that be all, sir?" He looked at Cain, his eyes wide.

Cain crossed his arms over his chest.
"Yep."
His answer was as slow as molassess.

The old butler nodded. He held the holster out from his body. "The library is the door to your right, miss." Without another glance at Cain, Whittaker stiffly walked away, holding the holster as if it were a bomb.

"Do you think she'll recognize me?" Christal turned worried eyes to Cain.

But Cain wasn't looking. Instead, his gaze was focused on the Corinthian pillars that lined the foyer. He touched one as if to see whether it was real
marble
. By his expression, she knew he had his answer.

"These people live in a bank."

Christal finally looked around the foyer. It was indeed the most lavish entrance she had ever seen, but somehow she couldn't care about it one way or another. She was too excited about seeing Alana.

"Come into the library. Surely we'll be more comfortable there." She took his hand and led him through the doors that Whittaker had pointed out to them.

The library was far from cozy. The walls were adorned with sixteenth-century Flemish tapestries depicting the Union of Utrecht, the floor was covered with English Axminster carpet,
the
furniture was overly carved and well gilded. When Christal chanced to look at Cain, she thought he looked about as comfortable in the Louis XIV chair as he would on a bed of nails.

"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.