Page 3 of Forbidden Fire

H e was sitting beside her, easily, relaxed, staring at her pointedly, rudely, with no apology. She might still be trembling inwardly, but Marissa would be damned if she would let him intimidate her again. She lifted her chin slightly to speak. She remembered the mannerisms of every one of Mary’s rich and imperious friends, and she spoke softly, yet with her own form of arrogance.

“Mr. Tremayne, no one was more shocked than I that my father should have made such an arrangement. We were very close. Obviously, I have no wish for a guardian. Any more than you, sir, seem to have a wish to be one. With a minimum of effort, I’m sure we can reach an amicable understanding.”

His brows arched with a certain amusement, then the curl of a smile suddenly faded and he was frowning. “Didn’t we meet before?”

“No, Mr. Tremayne, we did not. I was not at the manor the day you called.”

“How do you know I called?”

“I—I assumed you called upon Father some time—he had not left this country for years before his death.”

“Ah,” he murmured. Then he was up, striding the small parlor once again. “I shall wish to return to San Francisco as quickly as possible. Is that agreeable with you?”

She shrugged. “If it’s necessary. Of course, I understand that a young woman could be quite a burden to you. If you wish, I’ve no problems with the idea of your administering the estate from America while I remain in London.”

He smiled again, slowly, and for a moment, there was a certain tenderness about his gaze that softened the rugged planes of his face and made him appear very handsome. “My dear Miss Ahearn,” he murmured softly, “I did not wish this responsibility, yet I take it very seriously. I would not dream of leaving a young lady of your tender age in such a city unattended.”

“I would not be unattended. I have very good friends.”

“So I imagine,” he said wryly. Then he paused once again. “Are you sure we have not met?”

“Quite sure,” Marissa said, locking her teeth against the sudden bitterness that filled her. No, he would not remember her. She had simply been the dirtied child in the mud. The maid with her hair pulled back and her face in the shadows. She was safe.

But a small tremor shook her, and she lowered her lashes quickly. “I can assure you, Mr. Tremayne, that I am a very responsible young woman, independent and able to care for myself. You could leave me with all good conscience.”

“No,” he said flatly. She raised her eyes to his cobalt blue ones and found them hard and emphatic. She suddenly longed to throw something at him. He brooked no opposition to his will—indeed, he would not even listen to reason!

But that was all right. They had all agreed that they would move to America if necessary. Jimmy could start up his business in California. They could live very near; it would work out!

“If you intend to argue with me further, Miss Ahearn, please save us both the time and effort. I had not expected a wayward child, yet if you persist …”

He was threatening her! she thought. His tone was low and pleasant, but there was definite threat behind it. If she persisted, what? she wondered indignantly.

Once again her chin rose. She wanted to argue for the sake of argument, just to prove to him that she’d be damned if she was about to follow some Yank’s orders.

But it probably wasn’t the time for an argument. Discretion, Sir Thomas had assured her, was often the better part of valor.

“I had thought to make this as convenient as possible for both of us,” Marissa said sweetly. “But if that is not your wish …”

“Girl, this hasn’t been convenient from the start,” he said impatiently, then exhaled slowly and apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m sure that this is a shock for you. You have recently lost your father and been informed of a guardian. And of course the terms of his will were quite stringent.” Once again, there was a slight glimmer of compassion and tenderness in his eyes, yet it seemed quickly to be gone. Once again, despite her own predicament, Marissa found herself wondering about the man. What had given him that edge of hardness, and even ruthlessness, when he could be so gentle at times?

Times when he was not crossed, she reminded herself. She would have to take great care with him.

She found herself studying him again. He was tall, very tall, and well built, with broad shoulders and lean hips. He wore his clothing with a casual flair. Today he was in black boots, form-hugging black riding breeches, crisp white pleated shirt, black velvet jacket, silk vest and cravat. His body, she was certain, was well muscled beneath the fabric, yet it was his face that made him so imposing a man. His features were handsome, well-drawn and well-defined. He was clean-shaven with arched, clean dark brows, and his chin was firm while his cheekbones were high and well set. His mouth was generous and full, a sensual mouth when it curled to a smile, a forbidding one when it was set in a line. His eyes were his greatest power. They seemed to carry endless years of wisdom. Sometimes weary, sometimes as cold as ice, sometimes alive with a hint of humor, but mercurial, ever changing. He was somewhere around thirty years old, she thought, yet his eyes were much, much older.

“Stringent, indeed,” Marissa murmured.

“And I repeat, very definitely not of my choosing,” he said. His gaze left her. With his hands locked together at the base of his spine, he paced the room once again. “I cannot be gone long. My business concerns are varied and demanding, and it was not easy to get away. I plan to head back as soon as all necessary arrangements are made. You will be more at your leisure, and I do understand that you might need time to say your goodbyes to friends, to close up the manor and—and to move to a place nearly half a globe away. I think, however, that once you have made the move, you will find yourself pleasantly surprised. My house is large and spacious, I am nearly never around, and when I am, I have a tendency to keep to myself.” The last was said somewhat bitterly, and again she found herself wondering about the man. “There is nothing I can do about the fact that none of your money is to be released to you unless the terms of the will are carried out exactly—”

“What?” Marissa was instantly on her feet. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought you understood. Your funds are to be held in trust until your twenty-fifth birthday should you agree to the marriage, and held until your thirtieth birthday if you should not.”

“Yes, yes, I do understand that! But there was to be an allowance!”

He shook his head impatiently. “The allowance holds true only if you choose to marry. I’m sorry. I thought you understood that. But I am a wealthy man, Katherine, and I do not intend that you should suffer.”

Taking anything from him would be suffering, she was certain of it. She was already deceiving him. If he ever discovered the truth …

She sat, suddenly so weary that she could not stand it.

What now of Jimmy? He was a good man. With a little help, he could have been a fine merchant, perhaps a wealthy man in his own right.

And what of Uncle Theo?

And Mary … Oh, dear God, could Mary bear another shock?

“There must be something wrong. Terribly wrong. I have seen the lawyers—”

“You must see them again if you still do not comprehend the will,” he said, irritation touching his tone. “I shall try to explain it very simply. If you agree to the marriage, your allowance is to begin upon the date of the nuptials, and you will receive the bulk of your inheritance upon your twenty-fifth birthday. If you choose not to marry, then your allowance will begin upon your twenty-fifth birthday, and the bulk of the inheritance will become yours upon your thirtieth birthday. Do you understand?”

“I cannot live like that!” she gasped.

He paused, staring at her, and one of his ink dark brows raised high. “You will have to, Miss Ahearn.”

“But I cannot! I’ve my personal expenses—”

“You will be provided with a home, and I shall, of course, do my best to see to your needs.”

“I don’t want your charity!” she exclaimed. “Oh, dear God!” she murmured suddenly, and sank back to the settee. That she had even tried to be decent to this man when everything was a disaster! She looked up at him sharply. “We must break the will!”

“There is no way to break the will, I assure you,” he said calmly. “The squire was entirely of his right mind throughout his entire life.”

“How could he have done such a thing!” Marissa whispered.

Ian Tremayne sighed, and she thought that he was very carefully swallowing his impatience and irritation. He came to the settee and sat beside her. He took her hands in his and for one wild moment she wanted desperately to snatch her fingers free. There was so much power in his touch, so much heat. And he was close beside her, his knees touching hers, his breath once again fanning her face with warmth, his eyes seeming to blaze through her and read her heart. Could he see the deception there?

Did it matter anymore?

“I believe, Katherine, that your father thought you were involved with a rather inappropriate young man. He was worried about you. He felt that your health was weak, that you might destroy your own life.”

“He knew!” she gasped, and then she colored, because he was staring at her again, and she realized that he thought she had been involved in an affair with an inappropriate man.

Well, it wasn’t her, and Jimmy was far from inappropriate! Fury filled her because she was quite certain that he was condemning her with his dark blue gaze.

He dropped her hands and stood. “Yes,” he said wryly, “I believe he knew something. Is your affair over?”

Her cheeks flamed once again. It was none of this man’s business.

Well, at least she could tell the truth.

“That is none of your business whatsoever, Mr. Tremayne.”

“If not now, Miss Ahearn, it will certainly be so once we travel to the States.”

She didn’t respond, but sat stiffly. “I don’t believe that we shall be doing so now,” she said at last.

“I beg your pardon, Katherine?”

“Marissa,” she said. She smiled tightly. “It is Katherine, initial M, Mr. Tremayne, and I am known as Marissa.”

“Marissa,” he murmured. She was surprised at the soft way her name whirled upon his tongue.

“There is no reason for me to come with you,” she said wearily.

“There is every reason for you to do so. I am your guardian. And I command it.”

She looked at him with a certain amusement. “And do you intend to shackle me to your side, Mr. Tremayne? To pull me across the ocean in chains?”

“Trust me,” he said pleasantly. “I shall see to it that you come, one way or another. It seems ever more important that I attend to your father’s trust in me.”

“I cannot go!” she whispered almost desperately.

Once again, he spoke gently. “It will not be so bad. As I have told you, I am scarcely about. I’ve my own past to live with, and I am not a man anxious for company. I will see to your needs—”

She was on her feet once again. “How could you ever agree to such a setup!” she demanded furiously.

She heard the sharp intake of his breath and saw the angry narrowing of his eyes. “I agreed to take on a guardianship. I knew nothing of the stipulations of the will. Yet I have told you—”

“You agreed to a betrothal.”

“Yes, I did, for your father seemed desperate. But he knew that I had no intent of marrying again, that I wanted nothing to do with a new wife. Perhaps that was why the stipulation. He assumed you would be quite safe in my care until you reached your own maturity. And as I have said, it is inconsequential. I can provide—”

“But you cannot provide!” she interrupted him on a husky note, and then she fell silent as his sharp gaze queried her. She could not tell him that she didn’t want to accept his charity with one breath and then inform him with the next that she was afraid his charity would not be sufficient to cover her needs.

What in God’s name was she going to do? It seemed they were all doomed. Even playing this elaborate pretense had not altered their situation.

“Miss Ahearn,” he said, suddenly very impatient, “I am afraid that I am tiring of hearing what you can and cannot do. I have stated the facts to you and they are what they are. Dear Lord, but this could have been easy, and here I am bickering with a whining child—”

“I have never, never whined in my entire life!” Marissa spat out, her hands clenched at her side. And then she realized how close she had moved to him, and felt again the sizzling heat that seemed to emanate from the man. She saw the furious tick of his pulse against the hard cords of his throat and felt the cobalt blaze of his eyes hard upon her. She wanted to back away. She dared not show such a sign of defeat, and yet she wished desperately that she had managed to handle things with more cool dignity and much less drama and passion.

“Nor,” she said softly, “am I a child.”

“Well, we shall see, won’t we?” he asked her quietly. “I pray that you are right.”

“And what, exactly, does that mean, sir?” she demanded coolly.

“It means that you are exasperating me beyond all sensible bounds, young woman. I have business in the city. And at this moment I’m afraid I need to bind you to my side as I go about it, for my fears concerning you—Sir Thomas’s fears—seem quite justified.”

She realized suddenly that he was serious, that he seemed to think she might be ready to run off with the lover she had seemed to admit that she had. She shook her head vehemently.

“You need fear nothing concerning me.”

“Needn’t I?” He walked around her once again, and she felt his eyes surveying her as he did so. “What guarantees do I have that you will not run the moment my back is turned?”

“There is no guarantee,” she said softly, uneasily, whirling to face him. Then she smiled bitterly. “Truly, I have nowhere left to run.”

“Make things difficult for me, Miss Ahearn,” he said in a tone so soft it might have been gentle, “and I swear, I shall hunt you down. I’ve neither the time nor the inclination for this, and if you force my hand, I swear that it can be a ruthless one.”

“Of that I’ve no doubt,” Marissa murmured.

“Good,” he said after a moment, “then we are understood.” He headed for the door and paused before opening it. “I will be back tomorrow evening. We will finalize our plans then.”

He did not say goodbye. He exited, closing the door firmly behind him.

Seconds later Marissa heard Mary’s cry of anguish coming from the bedroom, then her friend rushed out, pale, nearly hysterical.

“Oh, Marissa! What shall we do now? There is nothing left to do. Dear Lord, I must find Jimmy! I must marry him immediately before he finds out! I don’t care about the future, oh, I swear! I can live anywhere, I can do anything. I can find a position as a governess. That would not be too taxing upon my health. I will live in a cottage or a hovel or a one-room flat, I will scrub it, I will—”

“Die in it, most likely,” Marissa said bluntly, wearily. “Mary, stop. Take hold of yourself. You are barely over your last bout of fever. You are talking nonsense, and Jimmy loves you far too much to allow it.”

“I won’t let him know!” Mary cried passionately, her warm brown eyes glistening with the hint of tears. “I love him, Marissa! There is nothing else to do!”

“Mary, listen to me! Your health—”

“No, Marissa, you listen to me!”

“You’ve lost touch with the realities of life—”

“No, Marissa, you have! Life cheated you when you were a child, so now you would cheat it. You truly don’t understand what it is to love someone. Oh, Marissa! I would rather have one moment of ecstasy with Jimmy than a lifetime of mediocrity with any other man. Oh, don’t you see that!”

Mary sank down on the settee facing Marissa. The tears streamed down her face. “There is nothing left, nothing left at all!” she said.

Marissa found herself patting Mary’s shoulder as her friend sobbed.

“We’ve lost,” Mary groaned. “We’ve lost everything.” Then she added passionately, “I hate my father, oh, God, I hate my father!”

“Mary, hush! The squire is dead, and you loved him dearly.”

“I might as well be dead.”

“Don’t say that!”

“It’s true.”

“No, no, there is a way out of this, I know it,” Marissa assured her. But Mary was so desolate that Marissa sought desperately for some further words of encouragement. “We must call the solicitors again in the morning. I’m sure Tremayne must be wrong about this allowance stipulation.”

“Father knew about Jimmy!” Mary whispered. “And he had no faith in me!”

“Let’s have a sherry, shall we?” Marissa said. “And we’ll work on this in the morning.”

It took her some time, but she coaxed Mary into taking a drink, and then into bed. Late that night the proprietress of the hotel tapped on the door to say that there was a phone call for Miss Katherine Ahearn downstairs.

Marissa checked to see that Mary slept peacefully, then she hurriedly descended the stairs to reach the establishment’s single phone. The connection was very bad, but at length Marissa heard Jimmy’s voice.

And she lied. She told him that things were fine, she had met Tremayne. She told Jimmy that the man was young and gentle and very kind, and that she could foresee no difficulties. “I can take care of things, Jimmy, I promise,” she vowed.

Then she wondered what she had done, for there was no truth to her words.

“You mustn’t sacrifice so much for us, Marissa Ayers,” he warned her firmly.

“Jimmy, I’m not sacrificing anything.” He didn’t believe her. “My Uncle Theo is at stake here, too, Jimmy. My own livelihood.”

He laughed softly. “I don’t think so, Marissa. You’ve incredible strength and will. You put the lot of us to shame. And I will not have you doing anything to hurt yourself, and neither would Mary.”

“I won’t do anything to hurt myself,” she said.

“You don’t owe us this.”

“But I do,” she murmured. Jimmy might not understand. Maybe there was no one who could understand.

Mary and Sir Thomas had taken her away from the coal mines. She owed Mary everything. “Jimmy, please be patient. I’ll be in touch soon,” she promised vaguely.

She stood against the wall, the ear piece still in her hands. For a moment she glanced at it, marveling at the ingenuity of Mr. Bell, who had invented the amazing piece of equipment.

Then she replaced it and grew amazed at herself instead.

Why had she lied to Jimmy?

Because she could not bear that they could not make things work. Nor could she listen to Mary’s dreams of ecstasy. She was the one living in the real world, and she knew it.

She had seen the brutal cruelties of that real world often enough, and it seemed that the best way through them was to keep one’s gaze ever upward and climb over them.

She sighed and closed her eyes. There had to be a way to make it work.

Moments later she opened her eyes and resolutely made her way up the stairs.

Aye, indeed, there was a way to make it work. And so help her, she would see that it did.

She had to. She loved Mary; she loved Jimmy.

And she could already smell the scent of coal dust sweeping around her ankles.

It was very late when Ian Tremayne at last rode through the almost silent streets near Hyde Park to reach the boardinghouse where he was staying. Most carriages were already off the road, and he hadn’t seen a single motorcar.

The vehicles hadn’t caught on as quickly in London as they had in the States. Of course, in the States, things were still in a mess because of the growing number of horseless carriages and more traditional transportation. Just before he had left home there had been quite an accident on the street down the hill when a horseless milk truck had collided with a horse-drawn ice cart. Suddenly every vehicle on the street—whether motor-powered or animal drawn—had collided into something. Motors had died, horses reared, and ice had melted all over the place. Once it was ascertained that no one had been injured, the spectacle had been rather amusing. Ian smiled with the memory. Diana would have loved the sight. She would have laughed with delight.

But then his smile faded as he dismounted from his rented mare before the boardinghouse and walked her to the gas-lit carriage house. It was a typical London night, filled with fog. And the fog somehow seemed to shroud his heart, letting more painful memories rush upon him.

It had been like this the night Diana had died. A night when the fog had rolled in from the Bay. He had sat with her upon his lap, and they stared out their balcony window, watching the mystic beauty of the fog. She loved San Francisco as deeply as he did, and in those moments, it seemed that their souls touched. She pointed out the stars, disappearing in the fog. And he said that it seemed they sat in heaven, where they were. She rested her head upon his shoulder and sighed softly, and it was several moments before he realized that she had breathed her last. Diana, so fair and fragile, with her delicate features and soft gray eyes. Listening to him build his dreams, listening when he ranted and raved about his buildings and his frustrations with the city. Always there, his support, his life, beside him.

Beside him no more. She was gone, and had been gone nearly two years. Though he would never forget her, never stop loving her, he knew that he had to find a way to keep her from haunting his dreams and his thoughts. She was with him almost always. And the pain of her loss was with him always, too.

Except tonight.

Well, he had to give credit to Sir Thomas’s wayward daughter. She was so proud, so damned argumentative and so sure-fire irritating and troublesome that she had made him forget—if only for a little while.

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.”