Thorne Brothers: With All My Heart Part 11

Still petting the cat, she looked at Grey sideways. His mouth was set rather grimly, and he appeared to be staring at her bare feet. She curled her toes as if she could hide the offending parts.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked abruptly.

Berkeley had been on the point of excusing herself, certain her presence was unwelcome. His question startled her. "Yes," she said after a small hesitation. "I should like that."

"Whiskey?"

She had been thinking tea. Or warm milk. Both those things would require fussing in the kitchen. "Whiskey will be fine."

Grey dropped the haphazardly stacked papers he was holding on the table and went to the bar. "What brings you down here?'' he asked, searching out an open bottle and two gla.s.ses.

"I came looking for the cat. If I don't let her in, she'll scratch at my door to get in later."

She also would cry mournfully, Grey recalled. He'd awakened one night to exactly that pitiful cacophony and left his room with every intention of throwing the cat out. He'd been stopped in his tracks by the light from Berkeley's room as she opened her own door. She had knelt in the hallway and taken the cat in her arms. She had stroked her cheek against the tabby's face and murmured something nonsensical into its ear. She and the cat disappeared a moment later, and the door clicked closed behind them. Grey was cast in darkness again, but he stood there for a long moment and wondered at the wash of tears he had glimpsed on Berkeley's face.

Grey studied her reflection in the mirror as he poured their drinks. She didn't look as if she'd been crying tonight. Her eyelids were vaguely swollen and heavy with the effects of a deep sleep. There was a rosy flush to her complexion that all the light in the gaming hall couldn't wash out. She had taken up the chair beside his and drawn her knees up to her chest. The cat was balanced across the top and displayed no signs of discomfort on her k.n.o.bby perch.

Grey carried the drinks over, sat down, and pushed one tumbler in Berkeley's direction. She was forced to dislodge the cat in order to drink from it. He watched the cat stalk off, making quite a show of her independent nature. "When are you going to name her?" he asked somewhat brusquely.

Berkeley's eyes widened a little. "You mean I may?"

"Of course. Why shouldn't you?"

"Well, she's your cat."

"She's not mine," he corrected. He sipped his drink. "I suffer her presence. That would be the accurate description of our a.s.sociation."

Berkeley thought it was an apt description of Grey's arrangement with her as well. "I've had a name in mind," she offered somewhat shyly. "What do you think of Pandora?"

Grey looked at the mess his pile of papers had become, thanks in no small part to the cat's curious nature. "I think it's perfect."

Berkeley's smile radiated her pleasure. "Then she'll be Pandora from now on, though I doubt it will make any difference to her. She's never seemed in particular need of a name." Her smile became a shade wistful as Pandora sprinted lightly up the staircase. "She comes and goes as she pleases."

"Unlike you," Grey said, a certain edge in his tone. "Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Berkeley's head swiveled in his direction. "I wasn't making comparisons," she said quietly. "But yes, since you've mentioned it, she is rather unlike me in that regard. I don't mind terribly. I've felt safe here. I simply didn't expect the confinement to be as wearing as it is."

He wondered at her use of the word safe. It was almost as if she imagined herself hiding out from some danger. "Where would you like to go?"

"Oh, I don't know. The bay perhaps, or out to one of the hills." She realized he was starting to get up. He stood and regarded her with a mixture of patience and amus.e.m.e.nt. "What?" Berkeley asked, surprised. "You mean right now? You were asking where I would like to go this minute?"

"This very minute," he confirmed. "Do you have a coat?"

She shook her head. "It's not finished. Mrs. Irvin stilla"" Berkeley stopped as her hand was taken and she was drawn to her feet. Grey took off his own jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"You'll be fine," he said.

Berkeley's protest was halfhearted at best. She made it because the circ.u.mstances demanded one. "It's after midnight, Mr. Janeway."

"I'm aware of the time."

She was being pulled toward the rear of the gaming hall. "But I'm in my nightgown."

"No one will know that."

"I'll know."

Grey opened the back door and stepped out into the cool night air. A breeze ruffled his dark hair. "Wait here while I get the carriage." He took a lamp from its hook just inside the door and crossed the yard to the stables at the rear of his property. Berkeley could hear him talking to someone but couldn't make out the words. She imagined that one of his employees had just been roused from a deep slumber.

A few minutes later Grey returned for her. She was about to call his attention to her shoeless state when he made the point of no account by picking her up. She fell silent, which she suspected suited him just fine, and let herself be carried across the yard. When they reached the carriage Berkeley noticed only one of them was breathless, and it wasn't Grey.

He lifted her into the open carriage and deposited her on the cool leather seat. Berkeley's teeth were already beginning to chatter, and the seat under her only added to her discomfort. Grey began tucking thick woolen blankets all around her until Berkeley's m.u.f.fled voice called a halt.

"I promise you I'm quite warm now," she said.

Grey held up the lantern and looked her over. Her eyes regarded him from under a cloud of pale hair. The curve of her upper lip hinted at her smile. When she looked at him like that he forgot he was the one with good sense.

Tearing himself away from her gaze, Grey sat down beside Berkeley and pa.s.sed the lantern back to the stable attendant. He took up the reins. "We won't be gone long, Emmet, but don't try to stay awake."

Emmet's sleepy nod indicated he would have no trouble sleeping in the interim. "Just as you wish, Mr. Janeway." He lifted the lantern to light their way out and waved them off.

Berkeley lowered the blankets so that her chin rested outside them. Her first deep breath of the night air was immensely satisfying. She selectively filtered out the odors of horse dung and stale liquor and concentrated on the scent of salt water. "Where are we going?" she asked, as they turned away from entering Portsmouth Square.

"Out to the Point."

"I don't think I've ever been there."

Grey didn't doubt it. "It's not far."

Berkeley fell silent again. In time she relaxed. The city's noise gradually faded, and she became aware of the wind's soft sigh through the trees. An owl followed their trail, his gentle call repeating itself as they rounded a bend in the road. She looked behind her once and saw the center of San Francisco was awash in light. It leaked through cracks in ramshackle buildings and poured openly from windows of the gaming halls and brothels. In Sydney Town open fires marked the places where the Ducks gathered to discuss their business. Torches led the way for small gangs already on the move.

Berkeley's glance strayed back to Grey. He was concentrating on keeping the carriage on the path that pa.s.sed for a road. With no moonlight to guide him, their pace had slowed. "You didn't bring the lantern," she said, missing it for the first time. "Did you mean to leave it behind?"

He had. "There's no point calling attention to ourselves."

"But you're not afraid of the Ducks," she said.

"Only fools aren't afraid of the Ducks. I hope you're not saying I'm a fool."

A small crease appeared between Berkeley's brows. "But you didn't show the least fear when you met them on the wharf."

He smiled a little at her misplaced confidence. "That's because I had you to watch my back."

"I'm serious," she protested.

"So am I. I saw how you flung those fish. I figured I was safe enough."

Berkeley sighed. She remembered the weapon he had carried that day in his boot. "Do you have your knife?"

"Yes, I always carry it." He glanced down at her. He could only make out her eyes. Stars.h.i.+ne made them luminous. "Does that make you feel better?"

When she nodded, her cheek rubbed against his shoulder. It made her realize how close she was to him. Berkeley lifted her head and began to move away.

"Stay where you are," he said.

Convinced he was cold, Berkeley threw two of her blankets across his lap, brus.h.i.+ng his hard thighs as she arranged and rearranged them. His sudden s.h.i.+ver seemed to confirm her fears, and she burrowed beside him, lending her body heat.

"Can you not be still?" he asked, his voice rough.

Berkeley became still as stone. She was almost twisted backward in her seat. One hand rested on his knee, the other held his shoulder. Her breast pressed against his upper arm. "I don't think I can manage this for long," she whispered.

It was a small mercy, Grey was thinking. He lowered the reins and the horse came to a halt. The carriage rocked on the uneven ground a moment before it was as still as Berkeley. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked quietly.

"Weren't you cold?"

"Did I say I was?"

"No." Berkeley's voice was barely audible. His silence was almost unbearable, and the tension that ran through Grey's body became a vibration in her own. The sense that it was not entirely bora of anger came to her without warning. Not trusting what she felt, Berkeley's eyes darted across the darkened planes of his face.

"Perhaps there is something to this touching gift of yours."

Berkeley hardly knew what he said. His breath was warm against her cheek. His head bent closer, and she only had to lean into him to close the gap and feel his mouth on hers. The moment stretched, held. Without warning it snapped and became another that was only slightly less fraught with antic.i.p.ation. Then it pa.s.sed also. Slowly she withdrew, and the s.p.a.ce between them widened.

Grey took Berkeley gently by her arms and turned her on the carriage bench. Her hands slid away from his shoulder and his knee and fell on her lap. He tucked the blankets across them both and took up the reins. "We're almost there," he said.

She nodded again. This time her cheek did not brush his shoulder.

The Point overlooked the cliffs that stretched vertically from the bay. It was deserted at this time of night, and, except for the occasional bark of a sea lion below, it was quiet.

He had brought her to the bay and the hills in a single journey, Berkeley realized. A canopy of stars hung above them.

Below was an endlessly unrolling carpet of waves. For a month she had been certain she had existed only as an afterthought in his life, if she had been given any thought at all. Then, for no reason that she could discern other than it was in his power to do so, he had given her exactly what she asked for.

"Thank you," she said.

Grey nodded. The curve of the carriage sheltered them a little from the breeze, but he doubted it was enough warmth for her. He put one arm around Berkeley's shoulders and leaned back against the padded cus.h.i.+ons. For a long time they sat like that, heads almost touching, staring at the sky and listening to the breaking waves.

"Have you been lonely, Berkeley?" Grey asked.

His familiar use of her name struck her almost as forcefully as his question. She was caught off guard by both, and the truth tumbled out before she thought better of it. "A little, yes."

"Mrs. Irvin was no company?"

The dressmaker had been company, of course, but she wasn't a companion. "Mrs. Irvin was busy with her fas.h.i.+on books and her seamstresses had pins in their mouths. They could talk to each other that way, but I couldn't understand them." Berkeley felt Grey's low chuckle rumble pleasantly in his chest.

"What about Sam?" asked Grey.

"He was always there and always willing to talk. It's the sad truth that he learned more about the cut of velvet fabrics than I'll ever know. He tried to teach me, but I'm afraid I wasn't very interested."

Under cover of darkness, Grey's rare smile deepened. "What about the other workers? They were in and out of your rooms, weren't they?"

"Well, yes, that's true, and they did everything quite beautifully." Berkeley thought he must have known that. Donnel told her Grey Janeway had approved every piece himself. "But no one stayed long in completing their tasks. Shawn and Mike put up the bed rather quickly. Jordan hung drapes. Harry and Sam brought in the new armoire and transferred my wardrobe. Things came and went, and my presence was rather incidental.''

"You were a regular visitor to the kitchen, weren't you? What about Annie Jack?"

"You only managed to secure Annie's services three days ago," Berkeley reminded him. "And she's been very busy organizing the kitchen the way she wants it. Another instance where I've been more in the way, than in the way of help. In any event, Annie Jack isn't certain what to make of me."

Neither was Grey, but he doubted he and his new cook were thinking along the same lines. "What does that mean?"

"She says I'm a spirit woman."

"A what?"

Berkeley shook her head. "You'll have to ask her. She won't explain it to me, but she doesn't allow me near her."

Annie Jack was a Negress of considerable size and substantial spirit herself. He could not imagine that Annie was seriously concerned by Berkeley Shaw. "I'll speak to her," Grey said.

"You can't make her like me," Berkeley told him. Any more than he couldn't make her be less lonely by filling her time with fittings and renovations and cookery. She hadn't recognized these events as anything but Grey Janeway getting on with his business of managing the Phoenix; now she wondered if that were strictly true. He had found no time for her, but he had made certain that others were supposed to.

"I'll speak to her anyway,'' Grey repeated. He felt her reluctant nod. Apparently she accepted his right to do so, but she didn't have to like it. He doubted she would like what he had to say next. "I've made some inquiries about your father, Berkeley."

She sat straight up, her spine rigid. The blankets covering her shoulders fell to her waist, and she didn't feel the cold at all. His statement robbed her of breath, then of coherent thought. She raised her hand, and for a moment she believed she meant to strike him. She covered her mouth instead.

Grey sat up as well. He took her wrist in his hand and drew it away from her mouth. "You deserved to know. One way or the other."

She drew in a sharp breath, and it became a dry sob. It was not grief that made her cry out, but a deep abiding sense of guilt. She had thought of Anderson Shaw a hundred times since finding herself at the Phoenix and not one of those thoughts was about missing him. Grey hadn't said it yet, but Berkeley knew Anderson was dead. She turned her head and stared back at the city, dry-eyed and almost without expression.

When Grey touched her shoulder she tried to shrug him off. She had no use for his pity. She certainly didn't deserve it. "You can tell me," she said. "I won't cry."

He wished she would. There was some sense to tears. "He's buried in a graveyard usually reserved for Sydney Town felons," he said. "The story isn't clear. Some say he was a victim from the beginning. Some say he started the fight. He didn't have a chance once he wandered into that part of town. Your father must have given a good account of himself. It's the reason people remembered his name."

"I want to see his grave," she said.

Grey was shaking his head before she finished. "You can't go there."

"You can take me. The Ducks don't bother you. If I'm under your protection, they won't bother me."

"The Ducks bother me. They haven't figured how to get rid of me. There's a difference.'' He watched Berkeley s.h.i.+ft toward him. She was hugging herself under his jacket now, and he drew it more closely around her shoulders. She was not arguing with him, but Grey didn't mistake her silence for surrender. He understood the problem he had just created for himself by telling her the truth about her father.

"Did you bring me up here to tell me?" she asked.

"No. I didn't think I was going to tell you at all tonight. I didn't expect to see you."

"How long have you known about him?"

"Since this afternoon. You had already eaten dinner and were in your room when I got back. I was prepared to tell you in the morning."

It didn't matter that she wished he had told her earlier. Her reasons were entirely selfish ones. Anderson had found a way, even in death, to deny her a single evening's peace.