The Marrying Kind (21 page)

She made a growling sound in her throat. "If you'd heard the way that bully you call a brother was talking to me, I think you might have applauded if I'd punched him. He sure had it coming to him."

"Hush, dammit." Donovan scanned the room. There was no sign of his brothers or father, and Susan and Olivina were huddled conspiratorially at the edge of a large round couch. Keeping his voice low, he went on to say, "As it happens, I did overhear some of what that son of a bitch had to say to you. I dragged you out of there on my account, too—before I lost control and punched him in the mouth myself. Satisfied?"

Libby's expression softened immediately. "You were thinking of poking your own brother—over me?"

"Not
over
you, so don't go getting all sappy on me. The man was being a rude pig. I don't like to hear anyone spoken to in such a manner, much less a woman."

"Oh, Donovan—you do care." The words flowed from her like a melody, as soft and low as a chord from a bass violin. Then before he knew what she was up to, Libby gripped his lapels, raised herself up on tiptoes, and fit her lips to his for a brief, yet somehow deeply intimate kiss. After coming up for air, she repeated, "You really do care about me, don't you?"

"Libby, for heaven's sake." He removed her tenacious fingers from his lapels, distinctly uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. "I care about a lot of things, but that doesn't mean... it doesn't make me..."

Donovan was still trying to find a way to explain himself an hour later as they made their way to the roof of the Savage mansion to watch the fireworks display R. T. had planned. By the time they reached the summit, Libby was laughing gaily, as if she enjoyed his discomfort immensely. Once they made their way to the wrought iron viewing rail which fenced the entire roof of the mansion, she turned her back to him, sneaked her glasses out of her bag, and after perching them on her nose, became so swept up by the sights, nothing else mattered.

"Oh, my lord," she cried, leaving vanity behind to fully don her spectacles. "I thought the view of the city from the street was something, but this... and at night with the lights twinkling from the houses below... it's too much to believe."

Donovan, who'd never been privy to such a sight himself, merely glanced out at the crisp, clear night. Most of the fog still hovering about the city swirled around the lower buildings, leaving only occasional patches or ghostly images of mist to interfere with the stars above or gas lamps below. Libby, no longer gazing at Donovan with puppy dog eyes, but staring out at the night with open adoration, seemed lost in her own little world.

"So what do you think of my fair city?" he asked, wanting, for reasons he couldn't fathom, to be part of that little world. "Did you imagine it would be this big when you left Laramie?"

"Oh, gosh, no." Still staring out at the night, she sighed deeply. "I mean, I knew San Francisco would be a lot bigger than any place I'd ever been, but I never imagined how tall these five-story buildings could be."

He pointed toward the bay. "See the big one in the distance, the one that looks like a huge shadow covering several blocks? That's the Palace Hotel, which is seven stories tall."

Libby cut loose with a long low whistle, one worthy of a
stevedore
down at the docks. "I saw that when I got here and wondered what the devil it was. Have you ever been inside the hotel?"

He laughed. "Just once, as the guest of a very wealthy lady."

"How wonderful." Now, of all moments, Libby chose to turn her rapt gaze on him. "Is it as grand inside as it is on the outside?"

"I wouldn't know. I didn't really get much of a tour of the place." Actually, the only tour he'd gotten was inside the lady's bedroom, and he sure as hell wasn't going to go into detail about that. Sorry he'd brought the subject of the hotel up in the first place, Donovan was trying to think of a way to extract himself from the uncomfortable conversation, when R. T. saved him the trouble by firing a pistol into the night.

"For my son Andrew," he shouted, assured that every guest's attention was on him, whether below on the street or privileged enough to be numbered among close friends and family on the roof. A moment later, the first in a series of rockets shot into the sky with a deafening whistle. The projectiles packed with gunpowder and lampblack exploded in bright red sparkles, showering the darkness with crimson stars. Other cylinders, mixed with yellow sand, erupted to spill waterfalls of golden showers above the crowd, mesmerizing everyone.

In the midst of this dazzling display of fireworks, Donovan heard distant chimes ringing out the hour, echoing in between explosions twelve times over. Gripped with a sudden urge to bestow a kiss on Libby—for luck only, he assured himself—he turned to find that, like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, she'd disappeared. He began an immediate search of the rooftop, and by the time the fireworks display was over, he'd asked all but one person if they'd seen Libby leave the premises. No one had.

Approaching that final spectator, Donovan said, "It seems Miss Justice has disappeared. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Thomas chuckled with perverse satisfaction. "No, I wouldn't, but I'm pleased to learn the little baggage had enough sense to get out of here before one of us was forced to do something unspeakably boorish—like toss her off the roof."

Had he not been relatively convinced by now that Libby had sneaked off of her own accord, probably to meet the bastard who was caring for her, Donovan might have ignored this latest comment from his half brother. But as it was, he had nothing more to occupy himself than this gasbag, who was beginning to remind him more and more of dear, departed, Andrew.

Donovan clasped his hands behind his back and spread his feet. "I'm going to assume that you somehow missed the fact that Miss Justice is more or less my guest, and give you exactly one minute to apologize for that remark. While you're at it, you may as well apologize for being so rude to her earlier, out in the garden."

Thomas didn't trouble himself with a polite smile. "I'll be honest with you, Donovan. I'm not the least bit interested in being your friend, much less your half brother, but if that's what my father expects, that's what I'm going to try to do—for him. As long as the rest of us are willing to accept you, I think the least you can do is try to adjust your life so that you can fit into this family a little better. Do you see what I mean?"

Scratching his head, Donovan twisted his mouth into a frown. "Well, hell, brother Tom, I'm not so sure that I do. That didn't sound like much of an apology where I come from. Were you trying to suggest instead that perhaps there's something wrong with the company I keep?"

"Precisely." Thomas allowed himself just a shadow of a smile. "I understand you're involved in the saloon business. I think it would be best all around if you were to sell your interest in that enterprise, and leave all the cheap little trollops like this Justice woman behind with it. I don't think I can make myself any plainer than that."

"No, Tom, you can't—but I sure as hell can."

Smiling broadly, Donovan drove his fist right into the center of his brother's mouth.

Chapter 11

One night later at Lucky Lil's, Donovan was still nursing his swollen knuckles—them, and the aching void left in his gut by Libby's sudden departure. It wasn't that he wanted her back. Hell, no. It wasn't that at all. He hoped she'd gone home to Laramie, where she belonged, and that this time, she'd stay there. It was the not knowing that bothered him, the wondering where she'd gone at the precise stroke of midnight, how she'd gotten back to wherever she was staying, and... well, he didn't dare
think about who might have taken her in. Oh, no. If he did that, he might just—

"Can you open?" the dealer asked Donovan, jolting him back to the present.

He stared down at his cards and studied them several times over, but for some reason, he couldn't make sense of his hand. His expression as dark as his thoughts, he muttered, "By me."

What the hell was wrong with him tonight? he wondered. Although Donovan oversaw all the gaming tables, he often sat in as "just another player." If he had troubles, gambling usually took his mind off his worries and relaxed him. But not tonight. This evening he couldn't stop worrying or thinking about Libby. Was she aboard the train and on her way to Laramie, or was she still in San Francisco? Would he ever see her again, if indeed she hadn't left the city? And if he did, for what purpose?

He'd seen the look in her eyes when she'd realized something he hadn't wanted her to know—that he cared, if only a little. Should their paths cross again, he would encounter a woman who would surely want far more from him than he could possibly give. It would be cruel to see her again, cruel and a little dangerous. So why couldn't he stop thinking about her?

Why couldn't he just let thoughts of her roll off his back, the way they had with his half brother? Donovan hadn't even bothered to explain or excuse himself to the family after the incident on the roof. He had simply wiped the blood from his knuckles—using the jacket of brother Tom's fancy imported suit as a towel—then left the mansion. In search of Libby, he recalled, his mind returning to thoughts of her. Again.

"Ah, excuse me, Mr. Donovan?"

The dealer's voice insinuated that he'd missed yet another cue. Cutting his losses—and a good deal of embarrassment, too—Donovan tossed in his cards and pushed back his chair. "Keep 'em honest, Leon. These fellas are too good for me tonight. I think I'll go test my luck at faro."

* * *

Libby was having a damn good time for herself, drifting along in dreamy-ville, as she liked to think of it, when the first knock rattled the doorjamb. Preferring the comfort of slumber, not to mention the warmth of Donovan's embrace as he kissed her over and over again in the dream, she ignored the suddenly alert part of her mind—the part insisting that she wake up—and went right on with her fantasy.

The second knock was louder, sounding as if it had loosened the floorboards. Reluctantly setting her fabricated Donovan aside—he was beginning to fade anyway—she tried to get her bearings. Where was she and what was all the noise? Who could be knocking on her door so rudely, and in the middle of the night, no less? Her throat felt scratchy and dry, as if lined in wool, and when she inhaled, she thought she smelled smoke. Lord, was the house ablaze?

Libby's door flew open on the third knock and, reluctant or not, so did her eyes. The noise, not just knocking, but raucous piano music as well, blew into the room as if on the tails of a storm. The hallway was lit, silhouetting the shadow of the man who stood in her doorway. A very
large man. With an involuntary gasp of terror, Libby bolted upright in bed.

"Time to get up," said the hulk in the doorway. "Lil sent me to get you."

It was the little Irish trill in his voice, along with the mention of Lil's name, that brought Libby's memory back. She was at the theatre, lying on a cot in the spare room. Yes, of course. And the hulk, a kindly Irish pugilist who'd had at least one too many fights, was named Seamus. His imposing presence did much to keep unruly gamblers and drinkers under control, even though, if the truth were known, these days the poor man had been known to burst into tears every time he had to use force to remove a customer. Lil had sent the gentle beast the evening before to escort Libby back to the theatre.

"Thank you for waking me. Tell her I'll be down soon." He smiled and nodded, but as he started to back away, Libby detained him a moment longer. "Oh, wait a minute, Seamus." Although Lil had been expecting him, Donovan hadn't come to the theatre after the Savage party last night. Lil hadn't done a very good job of hiding her concern for her son from Libby. Because of that, Libby was worried about him on her own accord. "Did Donovan show up tonight?"

"He's down at the faro table," he said with an almost toothless grin. "Lil says he looks like he's 'bout ready to bite himself."

Knowing the look, for Donovan was usually wearing it when he was around her, Libby chuckled to herself. "Thanks, Seamus, and by the way, don't mention to Donovan that I asked about him or that I'm here."

"I willna be speaking of it. Is there anything else, lass?"

Libby adored the way he called her lass. "Yes, there is. Would you please ask Joy to come help me?"

"Sure thing."

After Seamus had backed into the hallway and closed the door to her spartan room, Libby lit the lamp at her bedside and swung her legs over the edge of the cot. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, wondering what Donovan's mood would be like once he realized she was here. If he already looked as if he might bite himself, she supposed she could have a rabid dog on her hands after he found out that her new "friend" was his mother.

She was in the midst of having a quiet chuckle over that image when Joy burst into the room without knocking, as was her wont. "Did you send for me?"

Turning in the barmaid's direction, Libby smiled warmly and said, "Yes. I was wondering if you'd help me dress tonight, you know, fix me up kind of special."