Affair of Honor (2 page)

“Fine. Let’s go and get it, shall we?”

“There’s no need to be so rude about it!” Brenna gritted as he took hold of her arm and led her out of the bedroom and down the hall to the living room of the cabin.

“I thought I was being remarkably patient,” he noted, opening the front door and propelling her firmly out onto the porch.

Brenna had a brief mental image of what the graveled drive was going to do to his bare feet and found herself leading the way to the cream-colored Fiat with alacrity.

He made no complaint, however, following her with a long, pacing stride that was utterly silent and catlike. He seemed oblivious to the rough gravel underfoot. When they reached the car, he leaned casually on the low roofline and waited while she opened the door and scrambled around in the front seat.

“Here it is,” Brenna announced with a note of triumph she couldn’t quite conceal as she found the folder that contained the papers.

Wordlessly he took them and bent forward slightly to read them in the pale light of the car’s interior bulb. “You’re Brenna Llewellyn?”

“I can prove that, too!” she retorted tartly.

He smiled at that, straightening. “I’m Ryder Sterne. Your neighbor for the summer, it would seem.”

“My neighbor!”

“You tried your breaking and entering techniques on the wrong cabin, I’m afraid. That’s yours, the one over there behind mine.” He waved a hand toward the woods behind the house Brenna had attempted to enter.

“I don’t see…oh.” Brenna stared into the darkened grove of pines, barely able to discern a structure in the shadows. “I never even noticed it,” she confessed ruefully. “Damn it to hell. What a lousy way to conclude a lousy day,” she added half under her breath. With an effort she made herself turn back to face the stranger standing beside her car.

“Do you always make it a practice to go in through windows?” he demanded almost pleasantly, silver eyes reflecting the moonlight.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she told him stonily. “I tried the key and it didn’t work. That’s why I was using the window.”

He nodded. “I heard you fiddling with the lock. If you’d waited I would have answered the door and saved us both a great deal of trouble. As it was, when I heard you leave the porch and start around to the back of the house, I was left to assume your intentions were less than honest.”

“So you waited for me with a bow and arrow?” Brenna tossed back accusingly.

He shrugged, offering no apology. “It was the only weapon I had conveniently at hand. How did I know who or what was going to come through that window? Come on, let’s get your things out of the car. It’s two in the morning and I’d like to get some more sleep tonight!”

Alarmed, Brenna put her hand restrainingly on his bare arm, withdrawing it almost at once as she became acutely conscious of the feel of sinewy muscles.

“That’s all right, I can manage,” she told him imperiously. “I’m very sorry for the mix-up, but you can feel free to go back to bed. I don’t need any help tonight.”

He glanced down at his bare arm where she had touched him briefly. When he looked up again, it was with the faintest of smiles. “I’ll carry your things over to the cabin,” he repeated very gently. “But I think I’ll put some shoes on first. Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

Brenna watched him move back toward the house with that effortless, silent stride, her mouth open in astonishment. She was accustomed to men who would have argued, perhaps, or backed off once their offer had been rejected, or, in some instances, men who might have tried to reason with her that she did indeed need some help. She was not accustomed to men who simply made gentle pronouncements and then proceeded to carry them out over her expressed wishes in the matter.

She was learning, she told herself laconically as Ryder returned to the car and reached inside without a word to lift out the luggage. The gentler the tone, the more this man meant business. The memory of how softly he had spoken when he’d ordered her not to try escaping was still fresh.

Besides, she consoled herself as she picked up a small case, it
was
two in the morning. At this hour very little seemed worth arguing about.

“If you’ll try that key on this lock, I think you’ll find it will work,” Ryder instructed kindly, pausing on the front porch of the A-frame cabin Brenna had rented.

She slanted him a quelling glance as she dug out the key for the second time that night. “I’ll make a deal with you,” she grumbled. “Promise me you won’t bring up tonight’s little fiasco all summer long and I won’t spread the word that you greet guests with a bow and arrow, okay?”

In the pale light she saw his mouth skew upward at the corner. “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll have to think about it.”

The charmingly rustic interior of the A-frame was revealed as Ryder found the light switch. Brenna glanced around interestedly. As promised, the cabin seemed fully equipped. A flight of stairs led from one side of the fireplace-dominated living room to a loft arrangement that served as the bedroom. The kitchen, dining, and living areas downstairs flowed comfortably together and appeared sufficiently furnished with large, low pieces of solid construction.

“Can you really see the lake from here?” Brenna asked dubiously, peering out into the darkness through the floor-to-peaked-roof windows.

“You’ll get a better view in the morning. Too many trees in the way tonight.” Ryder set down his load. “Come on. One more trip should do it.”

“A man of few words. The strong, silent type, I suppose,” Brenna muttered behind him.

“Only at two in the morning,” he retorted, not bothering to glance back over his shoulder.

Brenna, who was chewing her lip, was just as glad he hadn’t turned around to witness her reddening cheeks. What a dumb remark!

“I think, since we’re both wide awake now,” her new neighbor announced calmly a few minutes later as he lifted out the last suitcase, “that we both need a nightcap. Come on inside.” Still holding the last bag, he started toward his own front door.

Brenna saw her property disappearing in the direction of his cabin and hurried to protest. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you under the circumstances, but not necessary. I’m sure I’ll sleep very well after all the excitement, and it’s getting so late…”

“But I might not sleep well at all. Come in, Brenna Llewellyn,” he commanded ever so softly, holding the door politely.

Brenna, not knowing what else to do, walked resentfully inside.

“Have a seat. I’ll get a couple of glasses.”

She watched, narrow-eyed, as Ryder moved into the kitchen with that gliding way he had, and then she turned around to glance automatically at the books lining a nearby shelf. Force of habit, she thought dryly. Always check out a stranger’s bookshelf first. With a creature as enigmatic as Ryder Sterne, a person could use a few clues to his personality!

The array of paperbacks on the top shelf produced an ironic expression in Brenna’s amber eyes as she reached up to pluck out a volume. Exactly what she should have expected, she decided, perusing the lurid cover, which portrayed a raffish male firing a wicked-looking gun at a cluster of obviously evil types who, in turn, seemed bent on murdering the hero and the sexy blonde clinging to his left biceps.

It was the sort of sleazy, category stuff usually labeled men’s adventure fiction, Brenna told herself disdainfully, unaware of how her mouth had curved downward until Ryder’s gentle voice came from across the room.

“That’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid,” he told her as if he’d just read her mind. “I not only read it; I wrote it.”

“What?” Startled, Brenna glanced back at the paperback cover. “It says the author is Justin Murdock.”

“A pseudonym.” Ryder set down the two glasses of brandy he was carrying, making room for them among a clutter of archery texts on the old brass-bound trunk that served as a coffee table. He sank smoothly into the depths of a couch that displayed a genteel shabbiness suitable for a mountain retreat and held out one of the snifters. “Here you go. Don’t worry, it’s good. I never let my heroes drink anything but the best.”

“I’m impressed,” Brenna drawled, accepting the bell-shaped glass and sipping obediently at the very excellent brandy. Cautiously she sat down across from him in a padded rattan chair.

“Impressed by the brandy or the books?” he asked pointedly.

“Both.” Damned if she was going to let him put her on the defensive.

“But it’s not exactly your kind of fiction, right?” He smiled.

“Not exactly. But who am I to argue with success? I take it you are rather successful at it?”

“Very.”

“I see. Well, congratulations.”

“And now that we know my line of work, it’s your turn.”

Brenna sighed, her lips tightening unconsciously as she met his steady gaze over the rim of the glass. “I’m an assistant professor of philosophy at a small college in the San Francisco Bay area.”

He said nothing, but something akin to amusement flickered in the silvery eyes.

“You find my career humorous?” Brenna challenged in a tone as dangerously gentle as any he could have used. Damn it, she’d been through enough this past week concerning her career! She didn’t have to hear it mocked on top of everything else!

“Your career seems a little at odds with the memory of that cat burglar who came crawling through my window half an hour ago!”

“There was a time, Mr. Sterne,” she returned, lecturing with an acid sweetness, “when the philosopher was also expected to be a person of action!”

“But probably not illegal action. At any rate, you’ll have to admit that in the modern era the majority of academic types live in the ivory towers of their institutions of higher learning and seldom emerge to face the real world. Unless you want to count those suitably dramatic moments when they sally forth to face the menace of television cameras in the name of a fashionably radical cause,” he added reflectively and then shook his head. “No, I don’t think you can count those moments. They hardly constitute reality.”

Brenna arched a brow, refusing to be drawn. “It would seem we are on opposite sides of an issue that has been around a long time. I doubt that we can settle the age-old hostility between those who promote the use of reason and those who admire the machismo approach to life. You, clearly, have made a nice living out of romanticizing the excitement of violent action. I, on the other hand, have just spent an entire semester trying to drum the concept of ethics into the heads of fifty freshmen.”

Which was surely some sort of joke, when you thought about it, Brenna added silently. Imagine having spent all that time teaching an ethics class only to discover one was the victim of the most unethical behavior…

But Ryder was looking more amused than ever. “So we are opposing forces, hmmm? Haven’t I heard something about opposing tensions ultimately producing harmony?”

Brenna blinked in astonishment, pausing in the act of raising her glass. “Heraclitus.”

He looked blank. “I beg your pardon?”

“Heraclitus,” she repeated slowly. “A sixth-century Greek philosopher who theorized that there was an underlying harmony in nature and that it was the product of opposing forces.” In spite of herself a slow smile crept into her golden eyes. “As I recall, he used the bow as an example of tension creating harmony.”

“A bow?” Ryder suddenly looked intrigued. “Yes, that makes sense. There is a perfect balance of tension involved in nocking an arrow and drawing the bowstring. I like the notion.” He nodded decisively. “I’ll have to throw it into the book I’m starting next week.”

“Just like that?” Brenna demanded. “Wouldn’t you want to study the fine points of the philosophy in a little more depth? Shouldn’t you read the theory in more detail?”

“I doubt that would prove worth the effort.” He shrugged. “I’d only take what’s useful, and it sounds like you just gave me the useful part. The main research I’m doing for the book is in the actual use of the bow and arrow as a commando weapon.”

She wanted to lecture him on the reprehensibleness of such slipshod research techniques, but Brenna found herself momentarily sidetracked. “A modern commando weapon? The bow and arrow? Good grief! I thought that was left behind after the invention of gunpowder!”

“The bow and arrow was used as recently as Vietnam,” Ryder told her, leaning back against the cushions and sipping his brandy. “On a very limited basis, of course. Despite modern technology there still aren’t very many ways of killing people quietly from a distance. The bow makes a very useful weapon in the hands of a man who must move silently in and out of an enemy-occupied zone on, say, a reconnaissance mission.”

Brenna stared at him and shuddered in disgust. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to burden your reader with the philosophical implications of a drawn bowstring. You are, after all, selling violence and action, not ethical philosophical theory!”

“And sex.”

She glared at him.

“I’m selling sex, too. It goes nicely with the violence and action,” he explained politely.

“I’m sure it does.” She’d had enough. Brenna got to her feet, determined to put a decisive end to a fruitless conversation. “Thank you very much for the brandy and the help in unpacking my car, Ryder. Now I think it’s time I let you get back to bed.” She was already striding briskly for the door. “You’ve been very patient, considering the way I woke you earlier,” she admitted grudgingly.

“I’ll see you back to your cabin.” He was behind her yet he reached the door before she did. The man moved like fog, Brenna thought in annoyance. Silent, smooth, overtaking you before you knew it.

“That’s really not necessary,” she tried valiantly. “I can find my way.”

“I’ll see you to your door,” he repeated.

She lifted one shoulder in silent resignation. He was using that gentle tone of voice again. Hardly any point in continuing the argument.

Neither said a word until they reached her front porch, and then something occurred to Brenna. Turning in the act of inserting her key into the lock, she peered up at her escort, studying the reflection of moonlight in his silvery eyes.

“What is it, Brenna?” he prompted indulgently.