Tears of Gold (16 page)

A cruel smile curved Nicholas’s lips as he thought of the lesson he would still like to teach Mara O’Flynn. The arrogance of the woman irritated him, for she was scornfully indifferent, raising a haughty shoulder in disdain at lesser mortals. He gazed down at the miniature portrait again, a brooding expression on his harshly handsome face as he thought of the woman he had met this evening. She was the portrait in the flesh. But she was not Mara O’Flynn. He was faced with a difficult decision. Did he trust his instincts—which warned him that not all was as it appeared—or did he believe the Californians who claimed her as their relative? Certainly there was no reason why they should lie to him.

Well, it would not hurt for him to stay around here for a while; he could use the rest, and the Swede wouldn’t miss him for a week or so. Besides, he had nothing better to do with his time, and he was curious about this Amaya Vaughan who bore such a startling resemblance to Mara O’Flynn.

Chapter 4

“Well, I don’t like it at all, Jamie,” Mara said as she gazed down worriedly at Paddy’s flushed face.

“Ye should’ve been thinkin’ of that yesterday, keepin’ the little one out under that hot sun, eatin’ heaven only knows what, and then ridin’ back in that cool night air,” Jamie berated her as she straightened the bedclothes over Paddy’s small figure in the bed. “Surprised I am ye’ve not got the sniffles as well, although I can’t be sayin’ the same for them freckles ye got across your nose. Workin’ up a sweat and gettin’ cold is the best way to go about makin’ yourself ill.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a doctor around here.” Mara sighed as she placed her cool hand against Paddy’s hot cheek. “Of course, Paddy always seems to be coming down with sore throats; I suppose it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Seein’ how I’ve raised both Brendan and ye through countless fevers and chest colds, I’m thinkin’ I’m capable of seein’ Paddy through this as well, so ye needn’t be sendin’ for one of them know-it-all, uppity doctors, thinkin’ they be knowin’ more than they do,” Jamie said with a snort of disgust for their credentials.

Paddy sniffed loudly, then sneezed, his dark curls bobbing against the pillow. “I don’t want to stay in bed, Mara,” Paddy complained. “I had ever so much fun yesterday playing down by the creek. Don Andres said I might even ride my own pony like the other boys.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Mara asked in amazement, a doubtful look in her eyes. “Well, I’ll be having a thing or two to say about that, and I hope you weren’t fibbing about how well you can ride, Paddy?”

“I’m not a baby, Mara,” Paddy said stiffly, a resentful look in his dark eyes. “You just want to be spoilin’ all of me fun.”

“Paddy!” Mara gasped, a hurt look in her eyes. “How can you say such a thing? I think you owe me an apology, Padraic.”

“Now don’t ye be mindin’ what the little one is sayin’; he’s just feelin’ a bit low.” Jamie soothed Mara’s rising indignation.

Paddy jutted out his lower lip poutingly as he stared down at the sleeve of his nightshirt and refused to look up at Mara.

“Very well, little man, if that’s the way you’re feeling, then I’ll be leaving,” Mara said impatiently, rubbing the ache in her temple. She just was not in the mood to suffer one of Paddy’s tantrums. “See that he stays in bed today. I’ll be back later in the afternoon.”

Without a backward glance, Mara walked to the door, but before she could leave, Paddy called out to her.

“I didn’t mean it, Mara, don’t be mad at me,” he cried, his lips trembling in fear that his beloved Mara would stare at him with that cold look in her eyes that she used when looking at other people.

Mara turned back and walked over to the bed. Paddy had scrambled to his knees in panic, and now knelt in his thin nightshirt, the bedclothes once again rumpled around him. Mara hugged him tightly, kissed each hot cheek before settling him once more beneath the warmth of the covers.

“Ah, Paddy, me love,” she murmured softly, “if you weren’t such a little rascal, I probably wouldn’t love you so much.”

Paddy smacked a sloppy kiss on Mara’s cheek as he lay back against the pillow, a happy smile of contentment curving his mouth into an impish grin.

Jamie gave a disgruntled snort as she watched them. “Someday someone is goin’ to be twistin’ ye around their little finger the same way ye do every one of us poor souls, Mara O’Flynn,” Jamie warned.

“I think not,” Mara replied with an arrogant toss of her head, her expression remaining unworried as a pleased smile curved her lips.

“Hrrmph!” Jamie shook her head in disgust. “Reckon some people be a bit big for their breeches, and others might have a likin’ for takin’ them in a size or two,” she speculated aloud, a glint in her gray eyes as she added, “I’d be walkin’ mighty soft if I were a certain person.”

“And a certain person I know is walkin’ too near the edge now, unless she learns to curb her runaway tongue,” Mara warned, anger darkening her eyes.

“Then let it be on your own head,” Jamie mumbled as she began to straighten the bedclothes yet again.

Mara left the room on the promise that she’d return to amuse Paddy shortly, and moving along the gallery, a half-smile curving her lips, Mara made her way to the dining room, where most of the family would have gathered by this time, at least those who could raise sleepy eyelids and brave the bright morning sun. Mara’s taffeta skirt and numerous petticoats rustled as she walked across the courtyard as the sunlight streamed down on her smooth, chignoned head.

When Mara entered the dining room she presented a very discreet and ladylike appearance in her cinnamon gown with its high neck and small white collar edged in lace that also matched the lace edging the cuffs of her long sleeves. Her expression was serene as she greeted Brendan, who was sipping a cup of strong black coffee and nodded a good morning to her as he swallowed with a grimace of pain the scalding liquid.

“’Mornin’, love,” he said as she sat down next to him at the half-empty table. By coincidence Brendan had also dressed in a brown coat with a champagne-colored waistcoat, and with Mara sitting next to him the resemblance between the brother and sister would have been quite obvious to the discerning eye.

“You look a bit peaked,” he remarked bluntly, his gaze taking in the slight tinge of purple beneath her eyes.

“Wretched headache again,” Mara whispered as she smiled sweetly at Doña Ysidora, politely declining the plate of beef now being offered by her hostess.

“You are much too thin, Amaya,” Doña Ysidora told her sternly as she watched in disapproval as Mara took a sip of coffee. “You must put more flesh on your body; then you will be happier and more content—like Doña Jacinta, perhaps,” she added a trifle maliciously, for Doña Jacinta was beginning to show definite signs of plumpness.

Doña Jacinta merely smiled as she helped herself to a second portion of eggs. “Luís has no complaints,” she remarked smugly, then allowed her dark eyes to rest on Brendan’s handsome features as she added coyly, “and perhaps it is pleasing to others as well?”

Brendan hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of tortilla, washing it down on a gulp of coffee as he replied gallantly, “Madame, you would be in the height of fashion in Europe. In fact,” Brendan continued, “you bear a startling resemblance to our own dear Queen Victoria. She is also a small woman, ah, nicely rounded, as well. Charming woman, quite charming,” Brendan elaborated further, his tone indicating a personal association.

“And you have met the queen of England?” Doña Jacinta breathed, visibly impressed.

“Well, we have attended several of the same social functions,” Brendan explained modestly.

Mara smiled into her coffee cup as she innocently asked, “Was not one of the occasions at the theater?”

Brendan feigned a look of concentration. “Do you know, I believe you are correct, my dear,” Brendan replied quite seriously. “’Twas a marvelous performance, I must admit, and especially one actor, he was quite brilliant if I recollect correctly,” Brendan mused, his lips twitching slightly as he added, “I’m afraid I really can’t quite remember the gentleman’s name; handsome devil, though.”

Mara had to chuckle, for Brendan was indeed an extraordinary actor. The half-smile still curved her lips and a hint of amusement still lingered in her eyes when Nicholas Chantale and Don Andres entered the dining room. The Frenchman was casually dressed and had apparently accompanied Don Andres on his morning ride, for he wore dust-spattered, knee-length boots over tight buckskin trousers, and a dark green riding coat was opened to reveal a leather vest and casually knotted cravat. His black curls were windblown, and as he laughed at something Don Andres said, he showed even white teeth. Mara drew in her breath sharply, for he had one of the most devastating smiles she’d ever seen. It erased the cynical amusement from his lips as they curved almost boyishly into a wide, unguarded grin, and that was where the charm and danger of it lay. For in its naturalness, its unaffectedness, it was far more sensual and effective than any smile of seduction could have been.

Nicholas sat down across from Mara and Brendan, a plateful of food in front of him. He glanced across at them as he started to dispatch his breakfast with a hearty appetite, staring intently at the two of them before he spoke.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said suddenly to Brendan.

“No, we’ve not had that pleasure, sir,” Brendan responded easily. “Brendan O’Sullivan, at your service.”

“Irish?” Nicholas inquired, an interested look in the green eyes that seconds before had seemed lazily indifferent.

Brendan nodded slightly, his response more guarded as he answered politely, “Only on my father’s side, sir, although I was born in England, and only the name is really Irish. Why, I’m as English as London Bridge,” Brendan laughed loudly.

Brendan eyed the stranger more carefully, his manner casual as he asked, “I don’t believe I caught your name, sir?”

“Nicholas Chantale,” he said, his eyes lingering on Mara’s face.

Some instinct warned Brendan not to play the man for a fool. He didn’t know why he should feel that way, but he felt an underlying danger from this stranger. Brendan removed his handkerchief from his pocket and languidly dabbed at his delicately flared nostrils as he cast a surreptitious look at Mara, wondering if she realized that the Frenchman was no greenhorn. He would never dance like a puppet on a string, responsive to her every whim. Brendan sighed as he recognized the half-smile curving her lips and the speculative gleam in her tawny eyes as she gazed at Nicholas Chantale. Damn! Well, he’d have a heart-to-heart talk with Mara soon enough and warn her off the Frenchman. He was out of their league, and it would be a damned nuisance to have him fouling things up.

“If I might say so, you bear a marked resemblance to Miss Vaughan,” Nicholas remarked curiously.

“It is not unusual. She is Mr. O’Sullivan’s cousin,” Don Andres explained. “Mr. O’Sullivan accompanied Doña Amaya from England, escorting her on the long journey to California.”

“Then you have just arrived here from England? I must have misunderstood, for I was under the impression that you had been raised in California. I should have realized you hadn’t been, for you seem so typically English.”

“Sí, Doña Amaya and Señor O’Sullivan arrived less than a month ago. Don Luís traveled to England to look for her and to bring her back to California as was her late parents’ wish.”

“So,” Nicholas commented, “you are as much a stranger to these shores as I am.”

“Yes, you might say that, Mr. Chantale,” Brendan replied stiffly, thinking the Frenchman seemed damned curious about their affairs.

“We were afraid that Amaya would not care to return to California, so we were most surprised, and pleased, when she returned with Don Luís,” Doña Ysidora said. “And to find her such a beautiful and charming young woman as well, is most fortunate.”

“Then you did not know what Doña Amaya looked like?” Nicholas asked softly.

“Few of us remember her as a child, but she is as we would have wished,” Don Andres replied, his eyes warm as they met Mara’s.

Doña Feliciana looked on sulkily. “I think Doña Amaya will not wish to stay in California. Nothing is settled yet, and she does not really belong.”

“Silencio, Feliciana,” Doña Ysidora reprimanded her.

“I only meant that she would not find happiness here,” Feliciana explained resentfully as she sent a dark look at Mara. “Besides, she does not seem well. You suffer an illness, Doña Amaya?” she demanded unsympathetically.

Don Andres stared in concern at Mara. “Doña Amaya, this is true? You do not feel well?”

Mara shook her head. “It is nothing, just a small headache which will pass.”

“You took too much sun yesterday, Amaya. You must be more careful in future,” Doña Ysidora warned her. “And soon, Amaya, we must talk about the future,” she added with a meaningful glance at her son.

With a strangled sob Doña Feliciana jumped up from the table and ran from the room. Don Andres sent an imploring look to his mother before he excused himself and followed Feliciana.

“It would seem as though something had upset the young woman,” Nicholas remarked. “I trust it was nothing I said?”

Doña Ysidora shook her head with its heavy mass of raven dark hair. “No, señor, the child is troubled by her own problems. She dreams too much of what cannot be. Soon, I think, I must see about sending her to a convent. There she will learn patience and humility. It will be necessary if she takes the vows.”

Mara shivered at the determined look on the haughty face of Doña Ysidora. She would hate to think of that autocrat ruling her life. Poor Feliciana! Mara didn’t think she would enjoy life as a nun, not after the way she had come to life on the back of her favorite horse. Mara brushed aside the thought that Amaya Vaughan might be the cause of Feliciana’s trouble and future destiny.

“And where did you live in England, Miss Vaughan?” Mara heard Nicholas Chantale ask her.

“I was raised in the North Country, Mr. Chantale, and grew up on the wild moors of Yorkshire, near Haworth. I doubt you’ve ever heard of the village, and indeed, probably have never ventured beyond the comforts of London,” Mara replied sweetly, elaborating further as she remembered facts she had heard about Charlotte Brontë, a novelist of renown in England. “Such a bleak place under those gray winter skies, the wind fairly whistling down the chimney and only that wide expanse of moorland stretching away to the horizon to gaze upon. You cannot imagine how lovely these rolling green hills and valleys are to me,” Mara sighed, mist clouding her eyes.

Brendan coughed into his hand warningly. Smiling at his hostess, he thanked her profusely for the delicious breakfast. “Although I shall really have to watch my figure if I stay here much longer, my dears, or I’ll never be able to button up my waistcoat. You will excuse us. We must go and check on my son, he has a touch of fever.”

“I am most grieved to hear of this,” Doña Ysidora said, worry crossing her hard face. “If there is anything I may do? I am prepared to care for the sick one.”