Thorne Brothers: With All My Heart Part 28

Berkeley raised his hand toward her mouth. She kissed his knuckles. "I can accept that," she said quietly.

Grey picked up a deck of cards lying on the gaming table in front of him and began to cut them. The ace of spades appeared on the first cut. He closed the deck and cut again. This time he revealed the ace of hearts. The third cut showed the ace of diamonds. It was only on the fourth cut that he missed finding an ace. He had to go behind Nat's ear to bring out the club.

Nat's jaw slackened a bit in amazement. "I want to learn that, Mr. Janeway."

Grey glanced sideways at Berkeley. She had Nat's lessons spread out in front of him. There was a slate of sums, a map of Europe, and Irving's "Rip van Winkle."

"Some other time," he said, pocketing the cards. "You have these lessons first." It was difficult not to be sympathetic to Nat's disappointment. The best he could do was postpone them a little longer. "Is there nothing else you can tell us about the men?" he asked. "Are you certain you've remembered everything?"

Nat's pale brows came together in a parody of concentration. He was willing to think on it all day if it kept him from doing sums. "I think I should be excused from lessons to consider it," he said seriously. "It's hard to recall things when you're expected to name all the capitals of places you've never been and ain't likely to get to."

"And are not likely to visit," Berkeley said, correcting him. She looked at Grey, who was not being entirely successful at keeping his grin in check. "You can't possibly have any more questions for him. I'm satisfied that neither of the men asking after the earring is Decker or Colin Thorne."

"I'm satisfied on that count," Grey admitted. "But Nat hasn't provided enough detail to identify who they might be."

"And he can't. He's too young to establish their ages with any certainty. You heard him. He thinks you're forty-one." She smiled sweetly when Grey winced at that reminder. She couldn't resist adding, "And Sam, who's twenty-five years older than you, he thinks is forty-two."

Grey picked up the slate and pa.s.sed it to Nat. "Write down thirty and add twenty-five. That will give you Sam's age." He chuckled at Nat's disheartened expression. "I take your point,'' he said, turning back to Berkeley. She was looking at him oddly. His grin disappeared. "What is it? What did I do?"

"You know how old you are," she said. "How can that be? Or was it a guess on your part?"

Grey sat back himself, struck by what he had said now that it was pointed out to him. "It wasn't a guess," he said slowly. "I'm thirty years old. My birthday was in May. The eleventh. I was born in 1820."

"Sam is fifty-five," Nat said helpfully, showing his slate work. When both adults merely nodded absently in his direction he checked his addition.

"Grey." Berkeley said his name softly, her voice awed. "You've remembered something." She came out of her chair and around the gaming table. She brushed his temple with her fingertips and examined his features for some sign that he was suffering. "Is there pain? Does your head hurt at all?"

Nat slid his slate onto the table. "I'm feeling a bit peculiar," he said, looking hopefully from Berkeley to Grey.

Berkeley's attention s.h.i.+fted briefly. "You may be excused, Nat. Find Sam and tell him to keep you out of trouble."

"Yes, ma'am," Nat said cheerfully. He almost tipped his chair over in his eagerness to be gone from the table.

Berkeley was pulled onto Grey's lap as soon as they were alone. "Are you quite all right?"

He nodded. "How did that happen? How can I know beyond any doubt that it's true?"

She shrugged helplessly, wis.h.i.+ng she could explain it. It would have rea.s.sured them bom. She could admit to herself that she was a little frightened by what had just happened. What if recalling his past meant forgetting the present? Was it possible that he would forget what had taken place these last five years? Berkeley felt small and selfish for wondering if he would no longer remember her. "Perhaps you shouldn't try to force your recollections," she said, swallowing her guilt. "It's never been helpful before."

"You're right," he said. His arms circled her waist easily, and the crease between his brows disappeared. "There's no point in rus.h.i.+ng it or even in expecting that my memory can be rushed. Not after all this time. Another five years may go by before I remember something else as trivial as my birthday."

"I don't think that's so trivial. Trivial would be if you recalled the name of the first pony you rode or the first girl you kissed."

Grey answered before he realized what he was going to say. "Barbara O'Dare."

"What?"

"The pony's name was Barbara O'Dare," he said softly, his voice touched by awe. "I was four, I think. No more than five. Someone set me in the saddle and led me around the paddock before we went through the garden and up to the house." The vision in his mind's eye abruptly ended. Grey had no sense of who kd the pony or what the grounds and house looked like. The occasion of the event had been his birthday. He was certain of that.

Berkeley watched him shake his head slowly as if to clear it. His blue-gray eyes recaptured their sharpness, and she became his focal point again. "Who was the girl?" she asked. "The one who shared your first kiss."

Grey didn't hesitate to answer though he didn't remember a thing about it. In spite of the ache forming behind his eyes, he said cheekily, "My mother."

"That isn't what I meant, and you know it."

"But it's all I know."

Berkeley was sensitive to the tightening of his fingers on her waist. "Your headache's returned, hasn't it?"

He nodded. "It will pa.s.s." Grey didn't release Berkeley from his lap. "No, stay right here. Tell me what you want to write to the Thornes."

She allowed him to change the subject though her own anxiety wasn't lessened by this topic. "I want to tell Captain Thorne that I believe I've found Graham Denison and that if he wants a.s.surances, he will have to come to San Francisco. I'll explain about your memory loss and that you may be of little help ina""

"No help," Grey interjected. "Explain that it's likely I will be of no help. There's nothing to be gained by raising the man's hopes."

"All right. I'll be very clear on that count. I will further explain that I can give him no a.s.surances that Graham Denison is in fact Greydon Thorne. It's not something I've ever felt when I've touched you. But that's perfectly reasonable when one considers that Greydon was only an infant when he was separated from his brothers. If you were never told that you weren't a Denison by blood and birth, then you have no means to communicate that knowledge to me. When I held your hand, I've only ever sensed that Graham Denison was dead and Greydon Thorne never existed."

"Neither of which is true," Grey said. He paused, considering Berkeley's choice of words. As always, her careful expression of what she felt was open to interpretation. "And yet there's a kind of truth in both those elements."

Berkeley's gentle smile gave him full marks for understanding the subtleties. "I should also tell Captain Thorne that if he desires more information about Graham Denison's birth, he should make inquiries of the Denisons."

"No!"

Grey's vehemence gave Berkeley a start. She was almost unseated from his lap. Her smile faded as she regarded him worriedly. "I only thought I should encourage him to try again."

"Try again? You mean they looked in that direction for information before?"

"Well, yes. It was a natural place to begin their search for Grahama for you." This time when she placed her hands on his forearms and pressed, she was released. Berkeley stood. Uncertain suddenly, she smoothed the material of her hunter green gown across her midriff. "I can hardly stop them from contacting the Denisons again."

"You can discourage them."

"I supposea" Her hands fell to her sides.

"I thought you understood last night, Berkeley. I don't want my family, if indeed they are my family, to know where I am or who I am or what's become of me. It's clear to me that's the way they've wanted it these past five years, and I heard nothing yesterday that changes what I've thought all along."

Without conscious thought, one of Berkeley's hands went to her throat. Below the high neckline of her gown Berkeley could make out the shape of the delicate gold chain and pendant lying against her skin. "But you can't identify the earring," she said. "You can't explain how the genuine heirloom came to be in your possession. It's something one of the Denisons might be able to tell the Thornes."

"They didn't cooperate before, did they?"

"No, but I have no idea what sort of questions were asked. There may have been no mention of the earring. In fact, I would find that likely. I can't imagine that Decker Thorne would have been eager to let anyone know of its existence. The very last thing he wants is a parade of strangers presenting themselves as his missing brother. This earring represents the only link to Greydon. The fewer people who know about it, the better it is for Decker and Colin."

"And I don't want either of them or their meddling wives raising questions with the Denisons. In fact, I've changed my mind. I don't want you to write to the Thornes at all."

Berkeley bristled a bit at Grey's harsh description of Jonna and Mercedes Thorne. "It is beyond my comprehension that you don't want to know the truth of this yourself. You are so bent on sparing the Denisons, who haven't made any effort to find you in five years, that you would turn your back on the Thornes, who have only made it their entire life's work to be reunited with their brother. You may be that brother."

Grey reached for her hand, but Berkeley avoided him. He was actually hurt by her withdrawal. Anger simmered while she skirted the edge of the gaming table and returned to her seat opposite him. Pandora appeared from nowhere and jumped lightly onto his lap. He brushed the cat away, and she sought refuge in Berkeley's arms. It didn't matter that he hadn't wanted Pandora. Her leaving him was somehow traitorous now, an act of feline defection.

Grey's chair sc.r.a.ped hard against the floor as he pushed away from the table and stood abruptly. "I'm going out," he said shortly. "You can expect me back before the doors open."

Berkeley's leaf green eyes darkened with bewilderment and more than a little hurt of her own. A half dozen questions occurred to her, but all of them were left unasked. She merely nodded, unable to find her voice as he strode away.

The drizzle that persisted throughout the afternoon was a perfect accompaniment to Berkeley's mood. The sky held no sun that she could see. It was as if an old blanket, its color dulled by wear and was.h.i.+ng, had been unfolded over all of San Francisco. It extended out from the sh.o.r.e and across the bay. In the distance the water fused with the skyline and the horizon became a seamless monochromatic shade of gray.

Berkeley turned away from the window in her own suite. The droplets of rain that struck the gla.s.s were thin and cold. They hit each pane with a familiar pinging sound and left behind etchings that could have been made with a spray of acid.

She folded the petticoat she was holding and laid it beside another on her bed. Had she been more enthusiastic about her task, her belongings would have already been moved to Grey's apartment. Instead, by her own reckoning, she was less than half-finished.

She sighed heavily. The melancholy and self-pitying sound of it actually lifted her mouth in a faint smile. How ridiculous it was, she thought, to allow Grey's mood to dictate her own. She realized she was twisting the ring he had put on her finger only the day before. Removing it would have made even less difference than it would have made sense. Berkeley stopped fiddling with it. She wasn't desirous of change, only of understanding.

She doubted now that Grey wanted anything so very different.

Shaking her head, her posture one of self-reproach, Berkeley applied herself to emptying her armoire. She was carrying two gowns in the direction of her sitting room when someone knocked at the door. She hesitated, surprised by the interruption, then laid the gowns over the back of the settee. She opened the door with no other thought than the face in the hallway would be a familiar one.

It was, but not in any way one she could have antic.i.p.ated seeing.

"May I come in?'' Anderson Shaw asked. His manner was flawlessly polite. He stood rather formally on the threshold of her suite, tall, handsomely distinguished, and very much alive.

Berkeley couldn't speak. She didn't feel faint, and her knees held her steady, but her voice was locked in her throat. Her eyes s.h.i.+fted from Anderson to the stranger at his side. Her glance was swift in its a.s.sessment. It only took a moment to understand that this man was one of the two that Nat had tried to describe earlier. Anderson himself was the other. She hadn't understood it then. In hindsight it was so patently obvious that she wondered if she had any gift for prescience at all.

Nat stood between the two gentlemen, his face turned upward, more misery etched in his features than any child should ever experience. A hand on either of his shoulders, one from Anderson, the other the stranger's, kept him firmly in place.

Berkeley's heart hammered in her breast. She opened the door wider and ushered the trio inside. Nat twisted away as the grips on his shoulders relaxed. He didn't try to run. He launched himself at Berkeley and wrapped his arms around her waist. The gesture was more indicative of his desire to protect Berkeley than it was of seeking shelter for himself.

Berkeley's fingers ruffled Nat's bright helmet of hair. "It's all right. I know one of these gentlemen. You haven't done anything wrong."

"They've been here," Nat said. "Hiding in plain sight. They're registered guests of the Phoenix."

"Only a short while ago," Anderson said calmly. He looked around Berkeley's suite with an interest that was at once genuine and somehow detached. When he had completed his inspection his polished chestnut gaze came to rest once more on Berkeley. "Please close the door. I prefer to have this discussion in private. Come here, my dear. I want to show the boy something."

With some difficulty Berkeley removed Nat's limpetlike attachment. She forced herself to show no fear as she approached Anderson. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the stranger following her movements. She wondered if he knew what to expect. When she was standing directly in front of Anderson she stopped.

The force of the blow knocked her sideways. It was so quick, like a cobra striking, that Berkeley only felt it as she was being steadied in the arms of the stranger. Nat's cry of alarm came to her as if from a great distance. Her ears rang, and her vision blurred. One side of her face was unbearably hot, but Berkeley knew there would be no lasting mark. It seemed that Anderson Shaw was born knowing how to inflict pain without leaving evidence of it.

"For G.o.d's sake, Shaw," the stranger said. "That can't have been necessary."

Berkeley thought his concern seemed real. He put her behind him, but she had no illusions that he was resolved to protect her. If Anderson insisted, he could be forced to let her go.

"I wouldn't have done it if it weren't necessary," Anderson said without remorse. He pointed in Nat's direction. "The boy needed to see what I would do and what I'm willing to do again." His attention moved to Nat. "Do you understand? You will not speak to Mr. Janeway about this. It can only go badly for Berkeley if you do. You may think you're helping her, but the effect will be just the opposite." When Nat simply stared at him, his blue-gray eyes more defiant than afraid, Anderson applied to Berkeley for a.s.sistance in explaining the matter.

"Nat, I don't want you to say anything about this to Mr. Janeway," Berkeley said. "I know it's confusing to you, but it's very important that you keep this secret." She was sufficiently recovered that she could walk steadily toward Nat. Bending so that she was at his eye level, Berkeley grasped him by his thin upper arms. There was no pleading in her voicea"she would not give Anderson that satisfactiona"but it was there for Nat to see in her eyes. "You must not speak of it. That is for me to do, and it is as much for my sake as his that I ask you to keep silent. I will tell Mr. Janeway when the time is right. You can depend on it, Nat. May I have your word?"

Nat was not immediately agreeable. "I didn't escort them here," he whispered. It was important to him that she knew that. "They knew where to find you."

"I understand. They only brought you with them to a.s.sure your silence. They don't want you to point them out if you see them about in the hotel. I don't want you to do that either."

"But this morninga you and Mr. Janeway were asking after them." Nat fell silent, realizing belatedly that he had already said too much. He'd been too slow responding to the small negative shake of Berkeley's head. "Very well," he said stiffly. He searched her face, regretting his promise as soon as it was given. If he were braver, he thought, he would throw himself at the man who had struck Berkeley and smash his face.

Berkeley stood. "You have his word," she said to Anderson. "May I see him out?"

"You may open the door for him. I would advise you not to step beyond it yourself."

Once Nat was gone Berkeley turned slowly to face Anderson. Her features were without expression. She had learned that to the extent she was able, it served her interests not to allow Anderson to see her vulnerability. "I understood you were dead," she said without inflection. "I visited your grave."

"Danced on it, I'll wager," he said.

"You were never an accomplished gambler. You would losea again." The dry, appreciative chuckle this drew from Anderson's companion caused Berkeley to look in his direction. "And you, sir? Have you thrown in your lot with Anderson?"

"I have," he said. "But then I did not have the benefit of your wise counsel."

Berkeley acknowledged his slight bow by inclining her head. His resemblance to Grey was unexpected. He was of a similar build, though slender was more descriptive of his frame rather than lean. He did not project Grey's leashed power but had more than his share of the aristocratic, even arrogant stamp. His hair was dark brown, and he raked it back in a gesture that was familiar to her. It did not retain the wind-ruffled look of Grey's. His fingers had tamed the wayward strands. Grey's tampering would have lent him a vaguely rakish, disreputable air.

The mustache was an obvious distinguis.h.i.+ng feature, the color of the eyes a more subtle one. Their singular blue reminded Berkeley of warm Pacific waters. They softened his features, blunted the smile that could have easily been derisive. In spite of his interference with Anderson on her behalf, Berkeley knew she was right to be wary. She was glad he had only bowed in her direction. She had no desire to take his hand.

"You're Garret Denison," she said.

Surprise was evident in the lift of his brows but his smile remained smoothly in place. "You do have a special gift," he drawled softly. "Anderson did not overrate your talenta or your beauty." Garret saw that Berkeley was unmoved by his flattery. She merely stared at him, waiting for a more deliberate acknowledgment of her statement.

Anderson Shaw observed Berkeley's raised chin and the faintly belligerent posture of her body, and his eyes narrowed darkly. This newfound confidence was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Obviously he had allowed her too long a time on her own. He had antic.i.p.ated that she would survive, but not that she would manage the thing quite so well. The fey charms that had captivated so many of their previous clients were not easily evident now. Berkeley had a more direct expression, still patient but with a hint of a challenge that Anderson thought did not suit her.

It certainly did not suit him. He took a step toward her and was gratified when her attention s.h.i.+fted to him, and she flinched. Her slender frame lost some of its militant rigidity. Her lashes lowered quickly, shuttering the defiance that had crept into her beautiful eyes. At her sides he saw that her hands remained clenched, but in a few moments even they relaxed.

"You're right, of course," Anderson said, staying his ground. "This is indeed Garret Denison."

"Ma'am," he said. "It's a great pleasure."

"My wife," Anderson continued. "Mrs. Shaw."

Berkeley's head jerked up.

One of Anderson's brows arched, and he regarded her consideringly. "Never say you thought our perfectly legal union had somehow been dissolved." His eyes dropped purposefully to her left hand and the gold band on her ring finger. "Yes, you must have thought that. I can't imagine that you would have agreed to marry Mr. Janeway otherwise."

"You know I thought you were dead."

He nodded. "Oh, I don't hold you in contempt for desiring to secure your future. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is gratifying to see that you've landed so nimbly. Rather like that cat I've seen trailing in your wake."

Anderson's words reminded Berkeley that he had been a registered guest of the Phoenix. "You knew about the wedding," she accused.

He did not deny it. "A rather lavish affair, we thought. Isn't that right, Garret?"

Garret Denison held up both hands. "I have no wish to be included in this discussion." He glanced over his shoulder and took note of the chair behind him. He sat down and crossed his legs. While he professed not to desire a speaking role, he clearly gave indication that he was interested in the proceedings. His cerulean eyes were raised expectantly in Berkeley's direction. "Please, continue."

Berkeley did not respond.

Anderson filled the silence. "You're thinking perhaps that I could have stopped the wedding. It occurred to me. Indeed, it occurred to both of us, though Garret seems unwilling to claim any particular responsibility. We certainly arrived at the Phoenix in time. As that boy said, hiding in plain sight."

"You didn't register in your own names."