Forbidden Fire (9 page)

“What!” Jimmy exclaimed, horrified.

Marissa sighed. “Jimmy, it's all right—”

“You've married the old bloke!”

“He's not old, Jimmy.”

“He's still a strange Yank!”

“Whatever, Jimmy, the die is cast.”

“We'll annul it!” Jimmy announced.

Marissa stood and faced them both. “We'll do no such thing. I barely managed to get what I wanted, and now that I've got it, we're going to live with it. I imagine—”

She broke off because there was another knock at the door, crisp and hard this time. Shivers danced over her spine because she was certain that it was Ian.

Jimmy, unaware, headed for the door. “Wait!” Marissa called out, but it was too late. Jimmy had already opened the door, and it was, indeed, Ian standing there.

He had bathed and changed. And shaved. His hair was damp, the dark wave still rippling over his forehead. He wore an off-white suit that enhanced his dark good looks.

Dark and glowering. He looked at Jimmy with his jaw set at a harsh angle, his blue eyes shooting off sparks, and yet with a harsh, cold control about him. Then his gaze fell upon Marissa across the room, and it was condemning to such an extent that she had to grip the back of the needlepoint chair to keep from visibly shivering.

She could not let him intimidate her so! she told herself fiercely.

“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, his voice a low, warning growl.

Jimmy backed away from the door, and Marissa bit hard upon her lip, willing him her strength. Tremayne was probably ten years Jimmy's elder, taller and broader, a formidable man. But Jimmy moved back, she knew, because of Ian's dress and confidence. Jimmy was accustomed to poverty, and to giving way to the rich. And she was suddenly very angry for Jimmy, and angry that Tremayne was assuming Jimmy was the lover she had denied she had.

“I am entertaining friends, Mr. Tremayne!” she snapped.

“Lady, you had best not be entertaining—”

“Mr. Tremayne, if you don't mind!” she managed to murmur with incredible presence, her head raised regally. And then before she knew it, a lie was upon her lips. “I thought I'd lost you,” she said. “Please, do come in. I'd like you to meet my very good friends, Mary and Jimmy O'Brien.”

His gaze went quickly from her face to Jimmy's, then to Mary's. Jimmy seemed to be frozen. When Ian looked at Mary, his gaze grew more gentle. It had to be something about Mary's face, Marissa thought, and she wondered if she resented Mary for having this affect upon others, or whether she should be grateful for it. There was a gentleness about Mary's beauty. She had the look of a Madonna, as if nothing more than kindness lived in her heart. Her smile was always genuine.

Mary stepped forward, taking his hand in a firm shake. “How do you do, sir. It is indeed our pleasure.”

Ian smiled suddenly, bending over her hand. He brushed it with a kiss. “Forgive me, Mrs. O'Brien. I am afraid that I am still fatigued from the journey here, and not in the best of temper.”

“Sir, we are not offended.”

Yes, we are! Marissa wanted to cry. But Ian's gaze had moved to Jimmy.

Jimmy had removed his cap. He wound it uneasily in his hands. He wanted to speak, Marissa knew, but he was tongue-tied.

“Jimmy, dear!” Mary persisted. “Come meet Mr. Tremayne.”

Jimmy stepped forward and shook hands with Ian. Marissa watched as Ian Tremayne quickly assessed the man, and to her surprise seemed to like what he saw.

“Mr. O'Brien, Mrs. O'Brien. The pleasure is mine.” He looked across the room at Marissa. “No, my dear, you did not lose me. I simply had some arrangements to make. But I see that I should have waited. I assume that these are your friends?”

“Yes, my very good friends,” Marissa admitted without moving. “They—they wish to come to America, too.”

His gaze fell upon Mary, and Marissa was certain that he read her ill health in a matter of seconds. “It's a long journey,” he said.

“I know,” Mary told him.

“What do you do, Jimmy O'Brien?” Ian asked.

Mary cleared her throat. She was standing behind Marissa, and gave her a light prod. “You must ask your husband to sit down, Marissa. And offer him a drink.”

“Of course!” She had promised to be such a wonderful hostess and she seemed as incapable of movement as Jimmy. After the angry way that Ian had left her, he seemed calm enough. He seemed almost charming. Once he had decided that the door hadn't been opened by her supposed lover, he had seemed to acquire a keen interest in her friends.

“Mr. Tremayne, please do have a seat. Would you like a whiskey or a brandy, sir? Would—”

Mary was prodding her again, then whispering at her ear. “You've married the man, Marissa. You must call him by his given name, not ‘Mr. Tremayne' or ‘sir'!”

Ian was staring at them both, smiling. She thought again that at the very least, she seemed to amuse him often enough.

“A brandy would be fine,” he told her, lounging comfortably upon the settee. “Mr. O'Brien, join me. Tell me about yourself.”

Jimmy was wringing his cap in his hands once again but he moved tentatively to the settee. He sat, or perched, near Ian. Then he seemed to realize that the man had a genuine interest in him. “I'm already an immigrant, to be sure,” he said. “Irish,” he explained, as if his name and looks didn't give him away in a second.

Ian's grin deepened. “There's plenty Irishmen in San Francisco, Jimmy. What do you do?”

“I was a farmer, but …” he shrugged. “Well, it seemed we were all tryin' to make a livin' from potatoes where there was no living to be made. And I'd always wanted to be a shopkeeper. I could read and write and cipher fair enough, for the village priest, he did see to that. He said that we'd not throw off the yoke of the English if we didn't concentrate on the like.” He flushed suddenly, realizing that he was in England.

“It's all right, Jimmy, go ahead,” Ian encouraged. “So you wanted to be a shopkeeper.”

“Aye.”

“But it takes capital,” Ian said.

“Aye, that it does.”

“Well, Jimmy, if you're sure you and your wife have the will and determination to come to America, I think that I can help you.”

“I can't take your money—”

“And I don't intend to give it to you,” Ian said. He took his brandy glass from Marissa without looking at her, and she felt curiously like the downstairs maid again even as she watched the hope dawning in Jimmy's face.

“You see, Jimmy O'Brien, my father and grandfather were shopkeepers. They had years and years to build up, to gain experience. We've a really fine family emporium in the heart of San Francisco. I don't spend the time there that I should. I'm not a merchant at heart. I'm a builder. But if you're willing to take the time to learn my business and gain some experience, well, I'm certain that we could arrange a salary that would provide you with the savings to open your own place after a while.”

Mary gasped with pleasure, her eyes glowing. Jimmy stared at the man as if he had just handed him a thousand pounds in gold.

“Well, Jimmy?”

“I'd work hard, Mr. Tremayne, I swear it! You wait and see, sir!”

“I know you will.”

“I expect to start down at the bottom, sir—”

“And that you will, too. In the basement. It's the stockroom, and everyone has to learn the stock.”

“I'll learn it upside, downside and all around, sir!” Jimmy vowed.

Ian smiled again. “I'm sure you will.” He gazed past Jimmy to Mary, who stood behind him, her hands resting upon his shoulders. His voice grew more gentle. “You will enjoy San Francisco, Mary. It's one of the most beautiful places on earth. I don't think you will miss your home too keenly.”

“I cannot miss my home, Mr. Tremayne,” Mary said. “Where Jimmy goes is home. And of course, we will be near Marissa. That is all the home that I need.”

Ian rose, studying her. Marissa bit her lip, thinking that Ian admired and liked Mary very much. Perhaps they all might have been much better off if they had never planned to deceive him.

But as she had said, the die was cast.

She was the one who had lied and deceived him.

And married him.

“Marissa.”

She grated her teeth at the sharp sound of her name upon his tongue. He spoke to her as if she were a child. As if she were still the downstairs maid. And yet he was as polite and gentle to Mary as a man could be.

She gave him her attention, waiting, but did not reply. He stood. “I'd have a word with you alone, madam.”

“Oh!” Mary murmured. “Really, Jimmy, dear, we must be going. Mr. Tremayne and Marissa must have an awful lot to discuss.”

Jimmy stared at her blankly.

“Jimmy, come on.”

“But—”

“I'll make your travel arrangements and advise you of them, Jimmy,” Ian told him. He shook Jimmy's hand, then bent his head low over Mary's. “We'll meet again soon enough.”

“Yes, of course, and thank you! Thank you so much for everything, Mr. Tremayne.”

“Ian, please. We are to be friends.”

Mary smiled slowly, beautifully. “Ian, then.” She withdrew her hand from his. “Jimmy, come, please.”

Marissa watched them depart, Mary determined, Jimmy dazed. As the door closed upon the two of them she was painfully uncomfortable once again, face to face with the man she had married.

“I had thought that we should both leave within the next few days—” he began.

“But I can't!” she interrupted him. It was one thing to play the grand lady in London. But she couldn't just leave the country. She had to say goodbye to Theo, and she had to convince him somehow that she had fallen in love and married and that her husband was very rich and that she would send him checks every month. And then she had to try to convince him to come to America eventually, but that could wait. Maybe she could even travel back for him herself. Beautifully bedecked, magnanimous, a heroine to the mining community where she would see that a school was set up.…

That was all in the future. At the moment, she had the piper to pay.

“Admittedly, madam, I have not up until now trusted you,” he told her. “This morning, I would have said no.”

“But?” she murmured, watching him.

“But I find your friends very responsible, and therefore perhaps I misjudged you.”

Resentment flared inside her, but she kept her lashes lowered, determined not to argue. “So you will give me some time?” she said.

“Yes. You and your friends can come on the liner
Lorena
. She leaves London ten days from now. That should be sufficient for you.”

“Ten days!” she murmured in dismay.

“It is unusual enough, Marissa, that a newly married man should return without his wife. Ten days is what I can give you. The
Lorena
will take you to New York. From there you will take the train to California and San Francisco. It is a long journey. You will be on the ship for about a week and the train for as long again. It would have been much better if you could have prepared to travel with me.”

No! She was tremendously grateful that she would not have to travel with him. They would eventually have to establish some kind of relationship, she knew. But she was willing, very willing, to play for time.

She raised her eyes to his. “Sir, I am competent, even if you've little faith in me. I will manage the journey, with transfers and pitfalls, I promise you.”

He smiled slowly. “Yes, I believe that. You don't lack courage, or strength. For a young woman of your birth and privilege, you're really quite extraordinary.”

Marissa wasn't at all sure that it was a compliment, not the way he gazed at her. But then he turned away, pacing the small parlor. “I do apologize for my manners this morning. You caught me quite off guard.” He spun and stared at her. “After all, you went from attempting to remain in England to insisting upon marriage. Quite a difference.”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, watching him uneasily. Mercurial seemed to be the best word to describe him, from the depth of his dark blue eyes to the tone of his voice to his energy. He was constantly in motion. He accused her of change, yet one moment his manner verged upon tenderness, and the next moment the air could be rife with hostility.

“Well, it is no matter now. The deed is done. I'll admit that the haste of the situation was born of impatience and anger. I walked the city for some time after, wondering what I had allowed you to goad me into doing.”

“So it is all my fault!” Marissa cried in protest.

He laughed. “Fault? No. I'm still not so terribly sure that you really knew what you wanted. No, if there is fault, I think that I take it myself. But it is done now, you see. And I thought that I should tell you a few things.”

Marissa walked uneasily around the settee, using it as a barrier between them, though he offered her no physical harm. She still could not forget the wedding kiss he had bestowed upon her. She would never forget it, she thought, or the way it made her feel.

And with him, alone, she discovered herself watching his mouth and remembering far too much about it. She scarcely knew him, and already she was learning far too much about him. She could close her eyes and remember the curve of his smile. Remember the mockery, remember a gaze of tenderness. She could close her eyes and see his eyes upon her. She knew she would walk down a busy street and remember the timbre of his voice. And the touch of his hands.

Her memories made her grow warm. She swallowed slightly, afraid that he would touch her again and somehow afraid that he would not. It occurred to her that he had never really made any agreement about their marriage; she had no idea of what it was to be like.

“You've already told me quite a few things,” she murmured coolly, seeking a refined distance between them. “You don't want a wife, you think it's amusing that I might protect you, and there is no such thing as an unwanted advance since you admittedly and eagerly seek the company of—” She paused, the word “whores” upon her tongue. She amended her words with a bitter note. “Dance-hall girls. San Francisco does have the finest.”