Forbidden Fire (6 page)

Ian unsaddled and unbridled the mare and led her into her stall. Absently he checked her feed and water, patted her nose, then left the carriage house. He paused outside, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the night. He could scarcely see the park down the street. The fog was coming in, ghostly, eerie.

But he saw no ghosts as he quietly entered the pleasant boardinghouse and strode to his room. There he closed the door carefully behind himself, stripped off his jacket, cravat and tie, and loosened his shirt before falling into the comfortable armchair behind the wide oak sailor's desk. He opened the bottom drawer, drew out the brandy and took a swig.

Indeed, she had intrigued him, this child of his old friend.

Those eyes …

He could swear that he had seen them before. Green eyes, haunting eyes, eyes that flashed fire and warning and pride. Spitfire eyes.

He leaned his head against the chair. She was very beautiful, he thought. And despite his impatience with her—and his annoyance that the task of guardian should have fallen into his hands—he had wanted to see the hunted, haunted look disappear from her eyes. Well, he had tried, damn it. Really, he had tried to be courteous, sensitive and patient. The girl simply didn't allow for it.

Anger stirred within him again as he remembered how the wily old Sir Thomas had extracted his promise to care for her. He had harped upon his friendship with Ian's father, he had reminded him that he had stood behind his decision to become an architect, then he had coughed and reminded him that he was going to die.

Ian hadn't really believed him at the time. And it had been his turn to remind Sir Thomas of a few things. Such as the fact that he had so recently lost his wife. That he was an American, with no desire to be anything other. That he must take a young woman far across the sea if he was to be of any assistance to her at all.

And he had reminded Sir Thomas that he had become a harsh and cold and bitter man, and Sir Thomas had merely smiled. “You will promise me, Ian. You will promise me.”

And somehow, he had promised.

So now here he was in London, when he should have been home.

Oh, it didn't hurt to come to England. The Tremayne stores always cried out for English goods. But Ian's interest was not in the stores.

The Tremayne dynasty had been founded by Ian's grandfather, a wily Scot who had spelled his name the old way, Iain. He had made his fortune in the gold rush, and had started the emporium. His son James had inherited the Scots business acumen, and the stores had prospered.

James had assumed that his son Ian would love the business as he did. But another fire burned within the son, the fire to build. He loved his city, loved the Bay, loved the fogs that rolled in, loved the coolness and the rugged, beautiful terrain.

It had been Sir Thomas who had written to James over fifteen years ago that he'd be a fool not to allow his son to follow his dream. There was no reason that Ian could not keep the family fortune in balance with the stores and study this new trade.

So there was much that Ian owed Sir Thomas. And his own father, he thought affectionately. James had succumbed to pneumonia five years ago, but he had lived long enough to admire some of Ian's projects. He had lived long enough to meet Diana, and to believe that his father's dreams of a great merchant empire would live through his progeny.

No more, Father, he thought. I have lost her, and there will not be another.

A few women entered into his life, but none that he allowed to touch his heart. San Francisco could be a very progressive city, and he had discovered after the first bitter grief had faded into the depths of his heart that he was still alive, still healthy and still in need of physical companionship.

It always seemed to be available. And he was careful never to whisper words that he did not mean or to issue promises he would never keep. He drove himself with his work, he knew it. But it seemed to be all that was left for him. The child he and Diana had both so longed for had died with her, and he had cast himself into not just the dream of a particular building, but into a dream of building a city.

He meant to pull out a glass for his brandy; he did not. He drank deeply from the bottle, leaning back. His thoughts, which had been on his wife, strayed.

Damn the girl with her green cat's eyes. She was trouble. He didn't dare leave her here on her own. He'd meant to make arrangements and hurry back without her. She could come over at her leisure. Now he didn't dare. As her father had feared, there was clearly a lover in her life. And she seemed willing, no matter what her promises, to throw away her inheritance to have this man.

Ian swallowed deeply again, then set down the bottle and leaned back. He felt the liquor sweep warmly through him. He closed his eyes.

He did not open them again that night. He stretched his legs out on top of the desk, loosened his shirt and dozed with the sheer exhaustion that came from traveling from continent to continent.

He heard the rap on the door, but he had told the proprietor of the boardinghouse often enough that he did not wish to be disturbed. He opened his eyes and stared evilly at the door, but he did not hasten to rise, nor did he reply.

To his amazement, the door opened.

And to his further amazement, he saw that his early morning visitor was none other than his new, wayward ward.

She was elegant this morning, more beautiful than she had appeared last night in the gaslight of the prim Victorian parlor.

She wore a soft blue day dress with a low-cut bosom and a small, very fashionable bustle. She carried a parasol, wore immaculate white gloves and small elegant boots that just peeked out from beneath the hem of her gown. A matching brocade jacket covered her shoulders, but was fetchingly cut to offer both modesty—and the hint of a very fine cleavage.

She wore no hat, nor had she pinned her hair up, and it fell over her shoulders in sweeping waves like the rays of the sun. It was wonderful hair, hair that rippled and cascaded and fell to her waist, red and gold, fascinating.

She entered the room, and her eyes widened as she saw him at his desk with the brandy bottle before him, his shirt opened all the way down the front and his legs carelessly tossed upon the desk.

He did not bother to move. “Well, well,” he murmured. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“I need to speak with you,” she murmured.

“Obviously.”

She didn't make a move, but seemed frozen against the door. He smiled slowly, wondering if he admired her or disliked her intensely.

No, he did not dislike her, he realized. He disliked what she was doing to his life. He wanted her to be passive and well-behaved and to follow him home and live quietly in her room, so docile that he could forget her.

Cared for, yes, cared for well. But so quiet and well-mannered that he scarce need know she was there.

He would know she was there, he thought. He would always know she was there. She was beautiful, and she must be well aware of it. She had already cast herself into the disgrace of a lover, and in honor of Sir Thomas's memory, he must make certain that she not do such a thing again. She was hardly quiet, and the furthest thing in the world from docile.

Those eyes …

She could tempt and taunt like the most practiced vixen, he thought, and was startled to realize that she had annoyed him last night and annoyed him now because she need only stare at him with those fascinating eyes and he felt the stirrings of longing, hot and pulsating, within his groin. He inhaled sharply, and exhaled, and spoke to her far more harshly than he had intended.

“What? You've come. You've entered unbidden. Speak!”

Green eyes flashed with fury. He was certain that she was going to turn and leave the room. And then he would have to chase after her.

But she seemed to stiffen and lock her jaw. She did not move. Her gaze swept over him scornfully. Her eyes locked upon his bare chest, then rose once more to meet his. She appeared to fight for nerve, then found her courage. She raised her chin, and once more her gaze was imperious.

“I wish to follow my father's will to the letter, Mr. Tremayne. I wish—” She hesitated only the flicker of a second. “I wish to—to marry you.”

Chapter Three

“Y
ou what?” Ian's feet hit the floor. His eyes narrowed sharply, and his voice rang with surprise.

For a moment, Marissa couldn't quite catch her breath. The man seemed to be more formidable than ever. No, he had made a promise to Sir Thomas, and he was merely irritated with her attempts to thwart him. His voice could be gentle; he could be every inch the gentleman.

He didn't look much the gentleman at the moment. He looked every inch the rogue. His chest was nearly naked, very hard muscled and thickly matted with crisp dark hairs against which a gold medallion of St. Luke rested. He was scowling crossly, and a lock of his near ebony hair was dangling haphazardly over his forehead. He had spent the evening drinking brandy, so it appeared.

He was still a gentleman, she assured herself, despite his appearance.

After all, Sir Thomas had trusted him with his daughter's future.

And still …

Deep within her, tremors had begun. To her dismay, she discovered that she was frightened, but also excited. There was something decadently tempting about the taut muscles that formed his chest. Something that made her long to touch …

And then start to tremble anew.

No, no, she didn't want to touch anything. She had to make that clear. Abundantly clear. But just thinking about it made her feel a curious unease.

He didn't want to marry. He had said that he had no intention of marrying again. So he had been married. She had to convince him that … that they could marry one another and lead separate lives.

“I want to marry you,” she managed to repeat.

“Whatever for?” he demanded crossly.

“That's entirely obvious, isn't it, Mr. Tremayne?” she said with exasperation. “I need my allowance.”

“I am willing to care for you.”

“I don't want charity. I want what is mine.”

“You don't want charity—but you're willing to marry a stranger for your allowance?” A single dark brow was raised high with incredulity. “Excuse me, Miss Ahearn, but I would think that marriage to a near stranger would have to be less appealing than the simple acceptance of the stranger's largesse.” He was amused again. He was not in the least taking her seriously.

“Mr. Tremayne, this is important to me.”

“It seems that our newly entwined futures must be important to us both. I am serious, too, Marissa. Marriage is a contract, legal, binding.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It is also much, much more,” he reminded her sharply.

“It wouldn't have to be like that,” she said hastily.

“Like what?” he demanded. He was taunting her, she knew. Baiting her, purposely. He was angry, and he meant to draw blood.

She pushed away from the wall, moving into the room at last. But then she paused, for he was now standing. He moved around to the front of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

Awaiting her.

She was silent, and he sat back comfortably on the desk, smiling suddenly. “Pray, do enlighten me, Miss Ahearn.”

Enlighten him! She longed to smack the amusement from his face.

An ill choice of action, she decided, if she was to coerce him to her will.

She swallowed her anger and tried to speak intelligently and with dignity. “My father's will has devastated me, Mr. Tremayne. There are certain—charities to which I am deeply committed, and I would use my own funds for these expenses. You—you said that you did not intend to marry again. If we marry one another, then you will not have to marry again.”

A quizzical expression passed over his face, then he laughed outright. “Obviously. I shall be married to you.”

“But not really.”

“You cannot collect your inheritance by going through a pretense of marriage.”

“No, no, I will marry you, really—”

“I don't wish to marry.”

Marissa exploded with a sharp oath of impatience that brought amusement to his eyes, and both his brows shot up. “Mr. Tremayne, you have told me that you are not averse to accepting certain advances from certain women. I can only assume this to mean a certain kind of woman, sir. Harlots and whores, Mr. Tremayne, if I do comprehend your words correctly. I—”

“And dance-hall girls, Miss Ahearn,” He added. “We do have some very fine establishments in San Francisco.”

“Excuse me. And dance-hall girls. They can be very amusing, I'm certain—”

“Oh, much more than amusing.”

“But what of the nights when you might wish to entertain at home? When you need someone to welcome important associates? When you wish to play the gentleman, Mr. Tremayne, which I do assume you do upon occasion!”

“And you are the epitome of graciousness!” he snapped suddenly.

She was silent for a moment, then murmured, “And you, Mr. Tremayne, seem capable of being a master of cruelty.”

He sighed softly. “Marissa!” Curiously, her name sounded almost like a caress. “I am sorry, truly. I never meant to be cruel. I wanted this all to be as easy as it could be.”

Marissa lowered her lashes, unnerved by his sudden gentleness. “There is no way to make this easy!” she whispered vehemently.

“Do you know what you're asking me?” he demanded.

“Yes!”

“I don't want a wife,” he said harshly.

“You don't wish a wife to whom you would be obliged to offer affection!” she corrected him.

His startled look gave her a sudden advantage, and she determined to pursue it. “That is why it is all so perfect!” she exclaimed passionately. And once again, she stood before him. Too closely before him. Her hands rested upon the desk and she stared into his eyes, nearly pleading. He was still smiling. “Oh, don't you see!” she moaned.