Thief of Hearts (32 page)

"Hello," Anna said softly. She moved around her father's chair and kissed him.

He patted her cheek and peered up at her. "Hello, my dear. Been shopping, have you?"

Anna murmured something and straightened. She turned toward Brodie. He watched her expectantly, wondering if she was herself, how she would greet him for her father's benefit. "Good afternoon, Nicholas." She held out her hand to him. Once the amusement in his eyes would have irritated her; now it warmed her and made her smile. And when he brought her hand to his lips and put a slow kiss on her knuckles, pulling away was the last thing on her mind. But finally it did occur to her. She drew aside and took a seat on the other bench a little distance away. "Please go on, I didn't mean to interrupt."

Brodie glanced at Sir Thomas. His eyes were half-closed already, his hands limp and open on his lap. Nevertheless, he opened the book and began again at the place where he'd left off.

After a few minutes Anna realized he was reading from
The Heart of Midlothian
. Scott was her father's favorite author, something that had always amused her in light of the fact that Thomas hadn't a sentimental bone in his body. Or had he? He'd changed in the months since he'd become ill. He was softer. Perhaps because he had nothing to fight for now, and no professional reputation to sustain, he'd allowed a gentler side of his nature to emerge. His physical health hadn't changed much since her return from Italy, but his mind was growing vaguer as the weeks went by. He spent his days outside in his garden chair, dozing in the midsummer sun or gazing out toward the river, rarely speaking. She would sit with him as Brodie did, sometimes reading to him but more often sharing his silence. Strangely, she felt closer to him now than at any other time in her life. He could not live much longer, she knew, and this time they spent together was precious to her. What it meant to him, if anything at all, she had no idea.

The low, deep rumble of Brodie's voice calmed her; she felt as relaxed as her father looked. Once she'd thought his voice sounded like Nicholas's, and the similarity had pained and distressed her. But no longer, now he sounded like no one but himself. In moments such as this she didn't feel as confused about her feelings for him. She liked him, she could admit she liked him because he was kind to a dying old man. What was strange in that? But at other times things weren't nearly so clear. The wound caused by Nicholas's betrayal had healed to the point that she could think about it now. But the same thin scab which was making that ache bearable was also making it possible for her to think of Brodie in a disturbing new light. Her feelings were deep and complicated. In her heart there was a fatal and inevitable correspondence between the brothers, and letting go of one seemed to mean turning toward the other. But what folly, what imprudence, madness, really to allow such thoughts!

But she wasn't allowing them, she reminded herself; she was fighting them with all her strength, constantly, rigorously, and still Brodie was the focus of almost every waking thought, and certainly every dream. Part of the problem was that she honestly didn't know what it was about him that drew her. They were worlds apart; except for the love of ships, what did they have in common? Nothing at all. But to think that his sole appeal might be physical attraction filled her with shame. She wasn't that kind of woman! So she welcomed these moments of kindness to her father that showed him to be a decent, normal person, the sort of man a perfectly normal woman might find agreeable. But they scared her too. Perversely, she almost wished she
were
in the grip of pure physical attraction, because anything deeper would be too terrifying to contemplate.

She rested her elbow on a corner of the planting table and propped her chin in her hand, watching him. The room was humid and warm; he'd thrown off his coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. The late sun glinted on his hair, enriching the copper highlights, ruddying his skin. For the hundredth time she thought of what had passed between them three weeks ago in Creighton Hall. He'd stayed away from her after that, to her unspeakable relief, but only for a little while. He'd never been so crude as to refer to the event in words, but no doubt only because he knew he didn't have to, it was seldom far from her mind. And after a few days, four to be exact, he'd resumed his pursuit of her, until now he rarely missed an opportunity to touch her. When he wasn't touching her, he was looking as if he were
going
to touch her, which was scarcely any better. But the worst was that she'd begun to rebuff him out of habit, not conviction. Certainly not repulsion.

And she found herself wondering for the first time about Nicholas's chaste courtship. His treatment of her had begun to seem, in retrospect, more bloodless than chivalrous. Why had he never attempted any of the things Mr. Brodie tried with her? Had it been gallantry or indifference?

"Annie?"

She glanced up, startled.

"I think your cousin wants to speak to you."

She looked around and saw Stephen in the doorway, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. She hadn't heard him; her mind had been a million miles away. As she got up, Brodie reached out, took her wrist, and pulled her close to his side.

"See you at dinner, my love."

"Indeed." She tried for a dry tone, but the hand he slipped up into the sleeve of her gown began to stroke the inside of her elbow with soft, surefingered skill. A now-familiar weakness tingled through her and her stomach gave a not at all unpleasant lurch. "Dinner," she murmured inanely, and hurried out.

Stephen walked out in front of her, heading for the hall and then the drawing room. She was meant to follow, she guessed, and did so with sinking spirits. Relations were as lacking in cordiality with her cousin these days as they were with Aunt Charlotte. She wondered what unpleasant thing he wanted to say to her now.

When she caught up with him in the drawing room, he handed her a letter in an opened envelope. "It came to the office this afternoon," he informed her, stiff as always. "I took the liberty of opening it."

It was addressed, she saw, to Nicholas Balfour. Typically, Stephen had worked through the Saturday half-holiday; otherwise she or Brodie would not have seen this letter until Monday. She pulled it from the envelope and opened it curiously.

It was from Horace Carter. He was on a wed-ding trip in Europe with his new bride, was writing from London, and unless he heard otherwise within the next three days was planning to visit Liverpool and Jourdaine Shipbuilding on Tuesday afternoon at two o'clock.

She looked up. "So, he's really coming. I wasn't sure, it was hard to tell from his first letter whether he really meant—"

Stephen cut her off with a muttered word. A curse? If so, it was the first time she'd ever heard him swear. "I won't stand for this. I don't know what you've said or done to Nick, but I warn you that it won't work."

"Stephen, for heaven's sake!"

"It didn't matter when you were wasting your time, but now you're wasting mine and the company's, and I tell you I won't stand for it."

"What do you have against this?" she demanded, bewildered. "Why won't you hear the man out? All we've asked for is a meeting. I can't understand your opposition."

"And I don't care what you understand or don't understand. You're an embarrassment to me and to this family."

"Why?" she cried. "What have I done?"

"Nick's lost his mind, it's the only explanation I can think of. But Thomas Jourdaine still owns the company, thank God. Ill as he is, I don't think he'll sit by and watch a
woman
take his life's work from him and turn it into rubbish. I'll be at your bloody meeting Tuesday afternoon, you can count on it. After that, we'll see who's in charge of Jourdaine Shipbuilding." He spun on his heel and stalked out, leaving her alone.

Anna brought her hands to her face and stared straight ahead. The echo of Stephen's words swirled in her mind, endlessly repeating. Why was he so angry? Why? Was it simply that he couldn't stand being under the authority, even nominally, of a woman? And it must seem nominal to him, for Brodie was issuing all the orders at Jourdaine these days after thorough and exhausting consultations with her and Aiden. Or was it that he was afraid a partnership with Mr. Carter would mean relinquishing some of his own power? She could ease his mind about that if only he would talk to her. But for weeks he'd been cold and remote, to her as well as to Brodie, even to Aiden, completely unapproachable behind a wall of reserve and discontent. His last words had held a threat, but she couldn't imagine what he might do. She needed to talk to Aiden; his lawyer's mind would see through this mesh of anger and emotion and discover a solution. Tomorrow, she decided. She would speak to Aiden tomorrow.

A light patter of footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a second later Anna's other cousin appeared in the doorway.

"I do not appreciate," Jenny announced, blue eyes snapping with ire, "your interference in my life, which is no business of yours whatsoever."

Anna sagged a little more. "Jenny, if this is about Neil—"

"Yes, it's about Neil! How dare you tell Mother you don't think he's a suitable companion for me? How dare you? Do you think that just because you're married now you can run my life?"

"Oh, Jenny, please listen. All I said to Aunt Charlotte was that I thought he might be a little old for you and that—"

"He's younger than Nicholas!" Jenny blurted.

"That's true, but what does it have to do with anything? I'm older than you, and Nicholas—"

"You told her he drinks," she interrupted hastily.

"He does." She'd found that out from Brodie.

"Well, so? Everybody drinks. Men, I mean."

"But Mr. Vaughn drinks quite a lot, I'm told. As a matter of fact, I've noticed it myself."

"I don't care! It still doesn't give you the right to barge into my private affairs."

"I'm sorry, I was only—"

"Anyway," she cut in, lips curling, "I would've thought that
shipbuilding
would take up all your spare time these days, so you wouldn't have any left over to poke your nose into other people's business."

Anna's eyes narrowed in irritation. She spoke without thinking. "Perhaps if you occupied
your
spare time with something besides gossiping and changing clothes, you'd know how to conduct your social life with a little bit of common sense."

Jenny's mouth fell open. After a half-minute of speechless staring, she spun around much in the manner of her brother a moment ago and marched out of the room.

Anna sank down on the arm of the sofa. Hopelessness settled over her, heavy as a cloak. She thought of what Milly had said that afternoon "You and Nicholas ought to go away together." Anna had laughed. "But we just got back from our honeymoon!"

"You ought to go anyway, even if it's only for a few days."

She imagined it now, how lovely it would be. Longing to go somewhere alone with Brodie did not shock her very much anymore. Except for her father, he was the only person in the house who wasn't furious with her.

July sun shone wetly through the raindrops flecking the half-closed carriage window. Anna peered past them unseeing, her thoughts a thousand miles from the drying Liverpool streets and the distant mast-streaked waterfront toward which she was traveling. She was late for a meeting with Aiden and Mr. Brodie to prepare for Horace Carter's visit this afternoon, and her mind was occupied with ideas of what they should and should not say to the entrepreneurial American. The likelihood of anything substantive resulting from this meeting was minuscule, she knew, but she wanted to be prepared all the same.