Fair Is the Rose (57 page)

In the library, Cain rose from the gilt chair and wandered around looking for a drink. The library was, after all, a man's room, replete with desk, leather sofas, and, hopefully, liquor.

He spotted the crystal decanters in an anteroom draped with curtains of gold-fringed green velvet. He sloshed the contents of one into a heavy, cut-glass tumbler, then took a stiff gulp, not caring what kind of liquor it was.

"Christ." He closed his eyes to keep them from watering. His throat was on fire. Sniffing the contents of his glass, he suddenly chuckled. What the hell was rotgut doing in Sheridan's decanters?

He took another sip, this time easing his haste. It went down about as smooth as a serrated knife, but the effect was decidedly good. Already he felt better.

"Where are the women?"

Cain looked up. The stranger who'd arrived in
Noble
claiming to be Christal's brother-in-law stood in the library's door. Stiffly the man entered the room, leaning a bit too much on the ebony walking stick he sported.

"You weren't lying, I see," Cain said, returning his attention to his drink.

"I
was who I said I was." Sheridan's eyes lowered to Cain's glass.
"I
have better, if you'd prefer it."

"No, this is fine—whatever it is."

"It's from the old days. Chateau Margaux has yet to impress me."

Cain wasn't sure what Chateau Margaux was, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let Sheridan know. "Christal and your wife went to the nursery."

Sheridan lowered himself onto a settee. Cain thought he didn't look all that comfortable there himself. He looked like a man who commanded his surroundings but hadn't quite assimilated into them. But Sheridan's wife, Alana, she was another story. Cain remembered how she looked standing in the doorway to the library calling to her sister. Alana Sheridan seemed born to gilt furniture and marble pilasters and European tapestries. And so did Christal. Christal looked quite at home here.

Cain took a long, dismal swallow of his drink.

"There's a lot I have to ask you."

Cain turned his eyes to Sheridan.
"Such as?"

"Such as your sleeping habits.
Particularly those concerning my sister-in-law . . ." Sheridan's eyes glittered. They were a strange color of hazel, not quite brown, gold, or green, but an arresting blend of all three.

"I'm not going to tell you anything about my sleeping habits, Sheridan. You may as well know that right now."

"I'm her only male relative. It's my responsibility to be protecting her." There was a hint of Irish accent still in Sheridan's speech.

"You protect her all you want. But whether I've slept with Christal or not is not something I'm going to discuss with you. Not now. Not ever."

Sheridan laughed. It was a rather unwholesome sound. "Good answer. I like it."

Cain blessed Sheridan with a look, as if to say he didn't give a damn one way or another.

The Irishman nodded, giving Cain a wide berth for his mood. Pensively, he studied the gold lion head gracing the knob of his cane. "What would you do if you were me, Cain?"

Cain shrugged.

"You've slept with her, I know it. But you saved her life too—more than once, I'm told. I should make you marry her, but I'm grateful to you for bringing Christabel back to her family. So how can I strong-arm a man I'm indebted to?"

"You think I don't care about her?"

Sheridan became silent. Gravely he said, "No, I know you care about her. I saw how you feel in Noble. It's just—"

"It's just she's a whole new girl. A girl I don't know." Cain looked around the opulent library. "Maybe a girl I could never know. ..."

"Inside she hasn't changed. That's all there is, anyway."

"You say that, Sheridan, but when you offered for Christal's sister you weren't depriving your wife of all this." Cain waved his hand around the room.

Sheridan gave his unwholesome laugh. "I was depriving my new bride of much more—a place in society and her reputation. Here in New York they don't look too fondly upon Irishers marrying one of their own."

"Alana doesn't look like she's suffering."

"She set society on its ear when she married me. It was the scandal of the century." Sheridan stood and refilled Cain's glass. "But society came around after a while, and only Alana could have done it."

"She's a remarkable woman."

"Both the Van Alen women are."

"Yes." Cain set down his glass. In the mood he was in, he wanted to smash it against those damned hoity-toity tapestries. "Christal has been through hell. No one knows that better than me. She deserves all the comforts and luxuries she's been denied all these years. She deserves the life that was snatched away when Didier killed her parents."

"Christabel doesn't need all of this." Sheridan motioned to the room. "Believe me. It won't make her happy."

"How do you know that?"

"I know it better than anyone, Cain." The ghost of a smile touched Sheridan's lips. "My wife taught me."

Dinner was served in the dining room. There were fifty people present—a tiny, intimate gathering by New York standards—a huge, unmanageable crowd by Cain's. The children were now tucked in the nursery, but before dinner they were brought down to meet the guests. Cain was amused to note that the two boys were the spitting image of Sheridan, with dark hair and those arresting hazel eyes. The newborn child, however, favored the Van Alens. To Cain's shock, Christal had walked up with the babe in her arms and handed the newborn to him. Helpless to do anything else, he awkwardly held the child until it began to howl and the women laughed. Christal laughed too and quickly took back the babe. With the child quiet in her arms, Cain studied the newborn. She was but a few weeks old, blond and pretty like her mother and aunt. Christal had whispered the girl's name in awed delight:
Christabel.
Cain heard the name with a strange longing in his gut. The babe was only further proof that Christal's life was inextricably entwined with the Sheridans'.

After dinner, Christal made a point to seek Cain out in the crowd. It was a cold night, but she had wrapped herself in one of her sister's satin capes. She took Cain's hand and stepped out onto the stone loggia overlooking Fifth Avenue.

"Are you beginning to remember everyone's name? It seems there are too many people in there." She picked at a piece of lint on his lapel, the intimate gesture of a wife.

"Everyone is very nice."

"I especially like Eagan—Trevor's brother." She laughed. "What a flirt. If he wasn't so in love with Caitlín, I'd call him hopeless."

"Yes."

"And can you believe Sheridan's sister is a duchess? Of all things! I can't wait until
she
and the duke return to New York. I've never met a duchess—"

"Yes."

Christal quieted. She gazed at Cain's profile in the dim lamplight off the avenue. It was taut, handsome, and not a little disapproving. She took a deep breath. "Why are you so unhappy? Ever since we came today you've looked like a bull caught in the corral."

Cain ran his hand through his hair. He had it tied back, but several strands had escaped, making him look downright savage. "I'm leaving here, Christal. It's time I returned to Wyoming."

She was shocked, but by some strange instinct she almost expected his words. He'd been so moody and out of place in New York. Quietly she asked, "When do we leave?"

He looked at her. The darkness hid his stare.
"We?"
"I'm going with you."

He took her by both arms. "Are you a fool? You just got here. You haven't seen your sister in years. Why would you leave with me now?"

"Because I love you.
I want to be with you."

He dropped his hold as if it burned him to touch her. "You have a life to return to." He looked down at her. She was a girl right off that calendar that hung in the jail. Her evening gown was borrowed from her sister, a deep azure-blue satin with cascades of French lace at the bustle. Reluctantly, he touched the heavy sapphire-and-diamond necklace at her throat—a gift from her sister. "Look at you, Christal. Where is the girl I saw in Noble who wore that worn calico gown and those bells on her ankle? She's gone, as well she should be.
Because you were born to look like this, to wear these priceless jewels, to clothe yourself in satin.
Don't you see? My love won't give you any of this. The best I could ever do is in Washington. And even a job with the Secret Service won't get you any mansions."

"I don't need mansions." His talk confused her. He made it seem that her home was the end-all of her existence, and in truth, it had been for many long, lonely years; but then she'd fallen in love with him and now he was the end-all of her existence. It seemed impossible that he couldn't understand it.

"You don't know what you need. Or what you want." He heaved a sigh. "Look at you, girl. Just a minute ago you walked in here dazzled by the thought that Sheridan's sister is a duchess. You should have the chance to explore the life you were denied. I'm not going to keep you from it."

Panic suddenly coursed through her. He couldn't be talking of leaving her. "Of course you're not going to keep me from it. It's my choice to make. And I choose to go with you."

"I'm leaving tonight."

"All I ask is for you to stay a little while longer—"

"No." He looked out toward Fifth Avenue. A light rain had begun to fall, giving the cobbles an oily sheen like a raven's wing. Neither of them moved to go inside. He talked in a low, rough whisper. "It doesn't feel right being here, seeing you the way you used to be, not the way I know you. I've got to return to Noble and finish out my job there. Then I'll go to Washington. Anytime, you know you can return to me, girl, but stay here for now and test your desires for this life." His voice grew strangely heavy. "You just may like it, Christabel."

She stared at him, her real name on his lips sounding foreign and unfriendly. Holding back tears, she whispered, "Tell me when you're leaving tonight. I'll be with you on that train."