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Authors: Linda Lael Miller

Tags: #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Fiction

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BOOK: Two Brothers
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Shay straightened then and, sparing not so much as a look for anyone else, returned to Aislinn, took her firmly by the arm and propelled her across the floor, with its disgusting clumps, toward the doors. The moment they gained the sidewalk, a roar of laughter arose inside.

Aislinn closed her eyes tightly. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Shay headed for the street with barely a pause, dragging her along behind him. She didn’t need to be told that he was too furious to speak.

“I think you’re being unreasonable about this,” she pointed out breathlessly. She was in good shape, but he was walking so fast that she had to take three steps for every one of his. “It should be obvious that I was merely trying to help.”

They were not going toward the hotel, as Aislinn had expected, but toward the jailhouse. Apparently, he’d meant what he said, about her being under arrest. She couldn’t believe he was serious.

“What, precisely, is my crime? You can’t just throw me in jail because you want to, you know. I have rights!”

Shay hooked an arm around her waist and hoisted her off her feet, carrying her against his side like a rug loosely rolled. When they reached the door to the jail, he kicked it open, a gesture Aislinn thought was a bit excessive, not to mention hard on the nerves. It wasn’t as though she’d robbed a bank, after all.

“I demand that you answer me!” she cried.

He carried her across his small office and into a cell, flinging her down onto the narrow cot inside. It didn’t seem odd to her, in the chaos of the moment, that there were lamps burning here and there, spilling unsteady light over the rough board floors. “You can demand all you want,” he growled. “Course, there won’t be anybody around to listen to you.” He went out before she could scramble off the cot, slammed the cell door, and locked it with a heavy key.

Aislinn rushed after him, arriving too late, clasping the bars in both hands. “Wait!” she called, to his retreating back. “You can’t leave me here like this … I haven’t broken any laws!”

Shay turned on his heel and glared at her. He’d left his hat behind at the Yellow Garter, and his bright hair was mussed in a way that, despite her angry frustration, made her want to comb it with her fingers. “Get a lawyer, then!” he yelled, jabbing a finger at her. “Sue me!”

She sagged against the bars, near tears, and only then saw the man sitting behind the desk, booted feet up and crossed at the ankles, an open book resting on his chest, the faintest possible grin perched at one corner of his mouth. Aislinn blinked, looked at Shay, looked back at the cheerful observer. He might have
been
Shay, so perfect was the resemblance, except for an indefinable something in his aspect or his manner that set him apart.

Seeing the other man at last, Shay swore succinctly. “What are you doing here?”

His counterpart ignored the question, stood, and approached the cell. With a little bow, and a grin as cocky as Shay’s, he said, “ ’Evening. I’m Tristan Saint-Laurent. Who are you?”

Shay was in front of the desk, leaning against it, his arms folded, his face rigid. Aislinn felt an actual jolt when their gazes connected, a shuddering impact, like two trains meeting on the same track.

“My name is Aislinn Lethaby,” she said, drawing herself up. It was hard to be dignified in that dress, but she made a valiant attempt, and felt a distinct need to clarify her identity. “I am employed at the hotel, in the dining room.”

“Somebody ought to speak to them about the gear they make you wear,” Tristan observed, and though his voice was dry, his eyes twinkled with knavery. “Folks might get the wrong idea.”

Up close, Aislinn could clearly see the differences between the two men, although she couldn’t have defined them for the life of her, and she realized that it was Tristan she’d seen that morning, not Shay back for a second breakfast. It explained, if nothing else, why she’d been unmoved by him.

“Stop bothering the prisoner,” Shay snapped. Aislinn had had the distinct impression that he’d planned to get back to the saloon as soon as he’d locked her up, but he showed no signs of leaving now.

Tristan winked at Aislinn before turning to face Shay. His twin, of course. There could be no other explanation. “What’s the charge, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I
do
mind your asking,” Shay retorted. “It’s none of your damn business.”

“I was merely trying to save you from getting shot!” Aislinn spouted. He’d ruined her, Shay McQuillan had, throwing her in jail that way. Even if Eugenie forgave her again, by some miracle, the church ladies would run her out of town on a rail.

“That’s a crime?” Tristan inquired, arching one eyebrow.

“Stay out of this!” Shay yelled.

“I think he asked a legitimate question!” Aislinn cried.

“I don’t give a damn what you think!” Shay bellowed back, shaking his finger at her again. “I’m the marshal here. You’re under arrest and that’s that.”

“For what?” Aislinn insisted. If he was going to lay
claim to the last word, he’d have to fight for it. After all, it wasn’t like he was in the right or anything.

“For wearing that dress!” Shay replied.

Tristan laughed. “If it was up to me, I’d give her a commendation—that’s some dress—but you’re right, little brother. It ought to be illegal for any woman to look that good in something that ugly.” He cast an appreciative look back at Aislinn and winked again, and she found herself liking him tremendously, despite his next words. “That’s a case of indecent exposure if I’ve ever seen one.”

Shay emitted a loud sigh, closed his eyes, and held the bridge of his nose between two fingers, as though his head hurt. “That’s the charge,” he said. “Indecent exposure.”

Aislinn wasn’t about to stand still for such a thing. “If I’m guilty, so are all those women over at the Yellow Garter. Why aren’t
they
behind bars?”

“Would you like to share a cell with them?” Shay countered, in ominously quiet tones. “It can be arranged.”

“That will teach me to try to help!” Now it was Aislinn who paced.

Shay smiled grimly. “We can only hope,” he said. Then, after exchanging a look with Tristan, he tossed the cell key into the air, caught it in his palm, and dropped it into his shirt pocket, with the derringer. Without another word, he turned and left the jailhouse.

Chapter 5

A
ISLINN SLUMPED FORLORNLY
to the edge of the jailhouse cot—God knew who’d slept on it, and what sort of vermin they’d left behind—rested her elbows on her knees and propped her chin in her hands. The skirts of Liza Sue’s dress made a tattered froth of ruffles all around her, and she might have wept, but for the knowledge that she had only her own foolish and reckless self to thank for the predicament she was in. Much as she would have liked to blame Shay McQuillan for everything, she knew it wouldn’t be right or fair. Sure, he’d proved himself downright ungrateful for her concern on his behalf, but then, he hadn’t asked her to come to the Yellow Garter in the middle of the night, dressed in somebody else’s clothes. Eugenie had been right: he hadn’t needed—or wanted—rescuing. He was not, after all, one of her younger brothers.

She sniffled miserably. She’d let impulse dictate her actions—something that was quite unlike her—and now her job at the hotel was well and truly gone, for even if Eugenie were willing to let her stay on, it would be dishonorable to do so. The older woman’s authority would be forever undermined; her rules would mean nothing.

She sighed. She might be able to live on her savings for a while, but she couldn’t buy the homestead, and sending for her brothers was out of the question. They were unhappy at the school in Maine, but they were getting regular meals back there, and had decent clothes to wear, and clean beds to sleep in. For the time being, at least.

“He’s trying to protect you, you know.”

She looked up to see Tristan standing on the other side of the bars, wearing a half-smile and holding out a steaming cup as a peace offering. She’d forgotten he was there, and a moment or two passed before she worked out that he was explaining why Shay had thrown her into jail.

She nodded glumly and let out a sigh of resignation.

“Have some of this coffee,” Tristan urged. “It might raise your spirits just a little.”

She rose, crossed the small space between the bed and the impenetrable iron bars, and accepted the cup. She took a sip of the brew and found it surprisingly good. Even the aroma was restorative, a nutty vapor that brought back pleasant memories of her dear father, who had always enjoyed a stout blend of coffee with his breakfast.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I told you,” he answered. “My name is Tristan Saint-Laurent.”

“And you’re the marshal’s twin brother?”

“That’s a fact,” Tristan confessed, with a sigh of his own. The grin flashed, blinding as sunlight on a bright surface. “Personally, I don’t see the resemblance.”

In spite of everything, Aislinn laughed.

“That’s better,” Tristan said gently. When she went back to perch on the side of the cot, he dragged over a chair and sat down, facing her from the other side of the bars. He rested one foot on the opposite knee and settled back, regarding her thoughtfully. When he spoke, there
was no hint of accusation or judgment in his tone, only bewilderment. “Just exactly what were you planning to do, going into a saloon dressed like that?”

“The idea made sense when I first thought it up,” she answered ruefully. “I knew Shay—Marshal McQuillan—had gotten into it with Billy Kyle today, out on the street. Billy’s wiry as a snake, and he’s mean, too. Anyway, we—Liza Sue and I—heard shots from the saloon, and all of the sudden I was just sure Shay was going to die. And—” This part was hard to say, “I couldn’t bear knowing that, and not trying to do something about it.”

Tristan was plainly trying not to grin again. He raised one eyebrow and said nothing. The silence itself was eloquent.

“I know it sounds like a paradox,” Aislinn went on, “but I figured I’d attract less attention, in a place like the Yellow Garter, if I was dressed like the other women. So I put on Liza Sue’s dress and set out. I was going to decide what to do when I got there.”

“And when you did? Get there, I mean?”

Aislinn blew out a loud breath. “Shay was perfectly fine. He’d handcuffed Billy to a rail in front of the bar and he was playing pool.”

“Ah,” said Tristan, with portent, as though some great dilemma had been resolved. His chair creaked when he leaned forward. “Who’s Liza Sue?” he asked.

Aislinn explained how she had found her friend huddled between two buildings only the night before, sobbing and injured, smuggled her into the employees’ dormitory at the hotel, helped her land a position as a maid.

“You make a habit of this sort of crusade?” Again, there was no derision in Tristan’s voice; he was merely curious, sifting coolly through an assortment of facts.

“No,” she answered, and lowered her head. While it
was true she went out of her way to help other people whenever she could, she mostly had her hands full looking after her own concerns. She’d felt sorry for Liza Sue—who wouldn’t have?—and as for the march upon the Yellow Garter to save Shay, well, she still didn’t completely understand the forces that had compelled her to do that. It was as if something had taken her over from the inside and driven her to it.

Tristan got up, went to the potbellied stove, and poured a mug of coffee for himself. He held up the pot and Aislinn, knowing he was asking if she wanted more, shook her head. It was odd, having someone offer to wait on her; in the last three years she’d worked ten and twelve hours a day, six days a week, filling cups and carrying plates, and no one had served her anything.

Returning to his chair, Tristan swung it around backward and straddled it, his right arm draped across the high back, the cup in his other hand.

“How long have you felt the way you do toward my brother?” he asked.

Aislinn stared at him. “What way?”

He leaned forward again and widened his eyes at her in good-natured mockery. “The way that makes you put on duds like those and charge into a saloon with a derringer in your hand.”

Aislinn subsided a little, pondering the undeniable implications of what the man had just said. “I don’t know,” she answered, at some length. “Yesterday, I didn’t even like him.”

Tristan chuckled appreciatively. “I see,” he replied. He got up, returned the chair to its place by the wall. “Is there anything I can get you from the hotel? A change of clothes, maybe?”

She looked at him in weary appeal. “If you want to help, you can persuade your brother to let me out of here, tonight. I’m in enough trouble as it is, without the whole
town seeing me leave the jailhouse in the bright light of day.”

He seemed genuinely regretful. “I don’t know Shay too well,” he confided, “but it seems to me that there’s a stubborn streak in him. When he turns you loose, ma’am, it will be because he’s decided that’s the right thing to do, and for no other reason.”

“You’re probably right,” Aislinn agreed, dejected.

“What about the clothes?”

She shook her head. She yearned to change out of the ruffled dress, but by now Eugenie and most everyone else who worked at the hotel would be fast asleep. Sending Tristan to awaken them could only make bad matters worse. “If there’s another blanket around someplace—”

BOOK: Two Brothers
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