The Marrying Kind Read online

  Susan mulled this over for a moment, then shrugged. "But once we're married to them, we can make the men listen to us. You should hear Olivina talk to my daddy. I would say things around here are done the way she decides."

  Libby could feeling her temperature rising, as it always did when she couldn't quite get the message across. She took a couple of deep breaths. "Susan, the rules around here, no matter who makes them up, don't have the slightest effect on the way this country is run. It costs your father nothing but a fraction of his money to let Olivina set those rules. What I'm trying to tell you is that more American women are like Zeke's wife—faced with no say at all—than are like you and Olivina. This kind of life is—" She spread her arms toward the sky just as the moon slid out from behind the clouds to silhouette the mansion's turrets. Libby's hands fell to her lap and she sighed. "This, my new friend, is a fantasy."

  Staring up at the gothic towers of her home, Susan fell into thoughtful silence. After a while, she said, "So what you're saying is that you joined the suffragists not just so you could go to the polls and vote with the men, but to help all women to have a better life?"

  "Oh, Susan, yes, that's it. I could just hug you. In fact, I think I will." Libby embraced the young woman, feeling a kinship with her, then held her at arm's length. "Do you think you might be interested in joining our group? I can show you how."

  Susan didn't think about that for too long. "I'd really like to, but I don't know what daddy would have to say about it. He's not in favor of women getting the vote, so I don't suppose he'd be too fond of the other equal rights matters either."

  "But maybe you can help to change his mind about it." Her tone a challenge, Libby went on. "You agree, do you not, that it's high time the women of this country started raising fewer babies and more hell?"

  "Well... yes."

  "How do you plan to raise hell if you have to ask for your father's permission first?"

  Susan brought her hand to her mouth, looking as if she were about to burst into giggles, but at the last minute she blanched instead. At first, Libby was afraid she'd been too aggressive in her tactics, which she had to admit, sometimes happened when she became impassioned over the cause. But then she realized that Susan was looking beyond, not at her. Before she could figure out who'd approached, a male voice came at them from behind.

  "There you are, Susan, dear. I believe Olivina is looking for you. Something about notifying the guests who'll be observing the fireworks from the top floor?"

  "Oh, yes, of course." Susan jumped to her feet, muttering a fast apology. "Excuse me, please." Then she scurried away, leaving Libby to deal with the unidentified intruder alone. She swiveled around on the slick marble seat until she was facing the satin-lined jacket of a man she hadn't seen before.

  "Oh, hello," she said breezily. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

  The man had a gorgeous head of glossy black hair, not so unlike Donovan's, but the prominent brow beneath his delicate widow's peak was stern and harsh. Through eyes the color of a stormy sea, he looked down at her with undisguised contempt. "I don't think introductions are necessary. You're that Justice woman from Laramie, are you not? Here to make trouble?"

  Libby rose, wanting to be on higher ground before she answered such animosity. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage... sir. Who are you?"

  "Thomas Savage." He made no attempt to greet her past that, but went at her again, instead. "Who do you think you are, coming to this home and filling my sister's head with your suffragist propaganda?"

  Libby was stunned. This man was nothing like Donovan or Francis. But he was one of R. T.'s sons, and like him or not, she had to show him a certain amount of respect. "I—well, I am sorry if I've offended you somehow, but Susan—"

  "Susan is part of this family. On her behalf and ours, I'm asking you to leave our home this instant. If you don't, I shall be forced to have you bodily thrown out. Is that understood?"

  "Ah. There you are." Donovan popped out from behind a hedge cut in the shape of an enormous fat sow. "I believe you promised me this dance, Miss Justice." He turned to his half brother, barely able to keep a civil tongue in his head, and muttered, "Excuse us, will you, Thomas?"

  Then, before his temper could get the better of him, Donovan escorted her out of the garden and back inside the ballroom. As they moved closer to the circle of dancers, Libby pulled on his arm, beckoning him to stop.

  "Thanks for getting me away from that jackass, but please don't take me any farther."

  "You've as much right to be here as any one. I'll have a little talk with Thomas later, and maybe with R. T„ too—"

  "That's not the problem right this minute." She glanced up at him with artful eyes. "I don't want to dance with you."

  Taking umbrage to the remark, especially in the face of his recent gallantry, Donovan responded in kind. "It's a little late to be so choosy, isn't it? It's not like your dance card is filled with Savage brothers, or anyone else, you charming little thing, you."

  "Oh, please don't go on about your wounded feelings." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "My dance card doesn't have a single name on it, and for a very good reason. I... well, I don't have any idea how to dance."

  "Thank God for that, because I don't know how to either." At her surprised expression, he went on to explain. "I happened across you and my brother, overheard part of the conversation, and figured, if it were to continue that you might behave in, shall we say, a less-than-ladylike fashion. In other words, I was afraid you might just punch him right in the mouth."

  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 Donov
an 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 in
voluntary 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.