Surprised by Love

  A tiny giggle bubbled into a half sob, and she threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Bram, what would I do without you?” she whispered, soaking in his strength and stability, an anchor in every storm of her life. Her eyes drifted closed while the peace of his friendship stilled the chaotic beat of her heart. “I love you so much.”

  His body stiffened for no more than the clip of her heart, and then the solid warmth of his embrace enveloped her as he tucked his head to hers. “And I you, Bug, with all of my heart.”

  The gruff clear of a throat disrupted the moment. “Excuse me, Miss McClare, but the final set of the evening is upon us, and I’ve yet to have the pleasure of a dance.” Devin Caldwell stood before them with a confident air, hand extended and smile calm. He tipped his head toward the floor. “May I?”

  Meg gulped, pulse erratic despite the firm press of Bram’s hand. Her frantic gaze darted to Bram’s gentle one, pleading for intervention despite the conversation they’d just shared.

  Bram smiled and rose. “Excuse me, I believe I spotted an old friend,” he said with a final squeeze of her palm, eyes scanning the ballroom. She watched him walk away, broad shoulders and sandy hair disappearing into the crowd, taking her courage with him. And her calm.

  “Meg?”

  She glanced up as Devin waited. A smile crinkled at the edges of brown eyes that held a twinkle. “I suppose that’s one way to avoid dancing with me—stalling until the music is over.”

  Heat skimmed her face as she rose, palm grazing her abdomen to quell the knots in her stomach. She tentatively placed her hand in his, peering up with an apology in her eyes. “Goodness, Devin—we’re coworkers—why on earth would I want to avoid you?”

  He ushered her onto the floor, deftly sweeping her into a waltz with a pensive smile. “Well actually, Meg, I was hoping you could tell me, because we both know you have—tonight and at the office.”

  She stumbled and stepped on his foot, but he transitioned smoothly with a steady hand to her waist, shoring her up as if he hadn’t noticed. Her cheeks flamed hot as she averted her gaze, feeling every bit of the “Megan McTubby” he’d disdained not so long ago.

  “Meg.” His voice was a husky whisper, drawing her gaze. The contrition in his eyes took her by surprise. “I was a pompous blowhard in high school and an insufferable cad, especially to you, and I can’t apologize enough.” He cocked his head to study her as he effortlessly whirled her to the waltz. “You said you’ve forgiven me, but somehow I doubt that you have.”

  Blood pulsed in her cheeks. “Devin, I a-assure you, I have forgiven you,” she stammered, praying the dance would just come to an end.

  “All right,” he said quietly, the brown eyes dark with regret. “So then tell me, Miss McClare . . .” He executed a masterful spin that quickened her pulse. “How does a repentant cad achieve absolution from a young woman with whom he very much wants to be friends?”

  She peeked up with a chew of her lip, deciding Bram was right—she needed to know why Devin had always been so cruel. Rib cage expanding with an infusion of air, she lifted her eyes to his. “Well, I suppose one could start with the truth, Mr. Caldwell, as to why one would be so hateful to another human being.”

  A hint of ruddy color invaded his cheeks. “Ah, yes, the truth,” he said quietly, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder. Returning his gaze to hers, he inclined his head toward the ballroom door. “Would you mind if we stole away for a bit of privacy and some air?”

  She faltered again with a trip over his foot, and heat swamped every inch of her body. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, not sure which mortified her more—bumbling over his foot or stealing away with the likes of Devin Caldwell.

  “You have no reason to be sorry whatsoever, Meg, but I do. It’s not a story of which I’m proud, but it is one better suited to fresh air and quiet rather than a noisy room.”

  “Oh . . . oh, no, r-really, t-that’s n-not necess—” Her words came out as jumbled as she.

  A smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “I know you have never seen me play the role of a gentleman, Miss McClare, but I promise you I can.” He paused, awaiting her answer.

  Tongue all but glued to the roof of her mouth, Megan could do nothing but nod as he ushered her into the foyer and out onto a stone veranda overlooking Union Square. She released the breath she’d been holding when she spotted another couple beneath the soft glow of a frosted wall sconce. Their presence and the intoxicating scent of jasmine helped soothe the jitters she felt as Devin led her to a quiet corner on the opposite side.

  She spied the majestic pillar of the Dewey Monument and for a moment, all nervousness fled as she gazed at the city below, bejeweled with glimmers of light like a lady dressed for a ball. “Oh, it’s lovely,” she breathed, lifting her face to feel the breeze from the bay.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Devin said with a smile in his voice, and her jumpiness returned when she realized he was looking at her instead of the view.

  Inching away, she faced him with arms tucked to her waist. “So, tell me, Devin, please—why would you show such disregard to another human being and why did you hate me so much?”

  His face was somber as he stared at her for several seconds before he leaned over the balustrade, his exhale heavy as he gazed into Union Square with a casual fold of hands. “It’s really pretty simple, Meg,” he said in a droll tone. “Because you reminded me of my little sister and quite frankly, she’s a brat.”

  Meg’s smile was dry. “I see—a family trait?”

  He gave her a sideways grin. “Apparently, although mine was by provocation, not heredity.” His eyes lapsed into a stare, as if his thoughts were miles away. “I was the apple of my mother’s eye, you see, and the bane of my father’s existence. So when my mother died—”

  Megan gasped, her hand lighting upon his arm. “Oh, Devin—I didn’t know. I’m so very sorry,” she whispered, desperate to comfort. “How old were you?”

  His glance was vague, almost as if he were trapped in the past and not really seeing her at all. “Just turned six,” he said quietly, smile sad as his gaze returned to the park. “And would you believe I still miss her?”

  Meg’s heart cramped, the thought of losing Mother swelling her eyes with tears. She took a step closer, fingers grazing his back. “Yes, I do. I’d be devastated if I lost my mother.”

  “I was.” His tone hardened. “But my father sure wasn’t.”

  His words chilled her skin. “Wh-what do you mean? S-surely he loved her . . . ”

  “Nope. Married her for her money.” He angled to face her, his attitude suddenly cavalier. “An arranged marriage, you know—to fortify two of San Francisco’s wealthiest families.”

  Meg’s eyes rounded in shock. “Oh, Devin, I’m so sorry—my heart breaks for you.”

  He grunted. “Mine did too, especially when he remarried a woman with a prodigy daughter who can do no wrong.”

  “Prodigy?” Meg tilted her head. “You mean in music?”

  His mouth slanted. “I mean in everything. She’s all of sixteen and a master at academics, art, music, athletics, you name it. A ‘wunderkind,’ as her private tutor calls her. And as spoiled as the three-day-old fish heads rotting on the pier.” His smile went flat. “Which should give you some inkling as to why I hated the smartest girl in the archdiocese.”

  Megan bit the side of her lip. “It does clarify things, but did you have to be so cruel?”

  He buried his hands in his pockets with a sheepish shrug. “What can I say, I was my father’s son—the one who couldn’t measure up. The one he openly maligned as a mama’s boy, lazy runt, moron, troublemaker—whatever title suited his fancy that day.” He sighed and cocked a hip against the wall, his brow furrowed with regret. “It’s not an excuse, Meg, I know, but I hope it explains somewhat just why I was so harsh with you in school.”

  Her voice came out as a rasp, heart aching for Devin Caldwell or any son who’d suffer such cruelty at the hand of their own
flesh and blood. “Why did he treat you that way?”

  He sucked in a harsh breath and released it again, shoulders slumping as if all energy had siphoned out too. “In his defense, I was a pretty whiny child, I guess. My mother pampered me to make up for my father’s neglect, and he’d rail at her that she was turning me into a useless, namby-pamby kid, which I suppose she was.” He kneaded his nose while his eyes remained closed, and Meg didn’t miss the angry quiver in his cheek. “But I suspect the real reason he hated me was he didn’t believe I was his son. He used to accuse my mother of having an affair, which was nothing but a bald-faced lie.” The hard angles of his jaw calcified. “The man could have spit me out of his mouth, we look so much alike. But he will never, ever be a father to me.”

  Meg stood there, bleeding for the little boy he’d been. Without a single thought to propriety, she flung herself into his arms, crushing him in an embrace born of a sorrow so deep, a sob broke from her lips. “Oh, Devin, I never knew, and I am so very, very sorry.”

  His low chuckle was warm against her hair as he patted her back. “You should be, Miss McClare—for calling me a worm and all those other inappropriate names over the years.”

  Her eyes expanded in denial. “No, I promise, I never called you any names, ever . . .” Heat braised her cheeks. “Well, except I may have called you a twerp once or twice . . .”

  The adorable smile for which he was famous made an appearance. “And ‘lower than dirt,’ as I recall . . .”

  The blush went full throttle as she squirmed beneath his gaze. “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

  His grin softened as he gently tugged on a loose curl feathering her ear. “You are, Meg, and apparently I’m as big a dolt as my father believes for not realizing that sooner.”

  Goose bumps popped that had nothing to do with the cold. She avoided his eyes while taking a step toward the door with a brisk buff of her arms. “Brrr . . . I should have brought my wrap, but I suppose as guest of honor of the party, I should probably just go back in anyway.”

  He whipped his jacket off and settled it over her shoulders, the warmth and scent from his body causing her stomach to flutter. Offering his arm to escort her in, he bewitched her with an endearing smile as warm as his coat. “It is a bit brisk out here, Miss McClare, but I’m hoping our newfound friendship has cleared the air for warmer climes, both here and at work.”

  She peeked up beneath heavy lashes to give him a skittish smile, not sure friendship with Devin Caldwell was a sound idea in the least. But it was certainly better than enmity and far less dangerous than attraction. She hurried through the door, girding herself with a deep ingest of air. Perhaps when it came to Devin Caldwell, the middle of the road was the safest place to be after all. Holding the door, he gave her a wink, and a lump promptly ducked in her throat.

  If his charm doesn’t run me down first . . .

  20

  Bram pumped the throttle of his Stanley Steamer and slowly eased away from the McClare mansion, heart heavy over Meg’s nervous chatter about Caldwell on the drive home. Thankfully, the acrid smell of kerosene dispelled the scent of violets that captured his senses when Meg had been tucked between Alli and him on the bench of his car.

  The two girls had jabbered nonstop on the drive home, and although Bram had encouraged Meg to forgive and forget with Devin, something in her giddy tone had needled him more than he liked. Somehow Caldwell had not only managed to change Meg’s opinion of him in the span of one dance, but creep into a tiny corner of her heart as well. Oh, she still insisted Devin held no interest for her beyond friendship, but Bram knew Meg almost better than she knew herself. Her face had been too flushed, her voice too high, and her normally shy and soft manner far too keyed up. His jaw tightened as he turned onto his street, screeching to a stop in front of his house. No, his sweet and innocent Bug, despite all denial, had once again become vulnerable to the man who’d stomped on her heart more times than Bram could count.

  He closed the drip valve and applied the brake, brow furrowing at the silhouette of his mother peeking out of her bedroom bay window of their two-story Italianate-style Victorian. The house, shrouded in darkness except for his mother’s room and a light blazing in the parlour, was one of the more established homes on the hill. Its Old-World elegance testified to his father’s rise to wealth as a shipping magnate in post–Gold Rush San Francisco.

  His mother’s shadow disappeared from the window, and Bram glanced at his watch and frowned, noting the late hour. His parents were always abed by this time, the house usually completely dark except for a dim light left for him in the foyer. He hopped out of the vehicle more quickly than usual, pulse thudding as he loped up the marble steps. Breathing shallow as he reached the arched portico with its marble colonnade, he firmly grasped the lion’s-head knob, jolting when one of the mahogany double doors carefully wheeled open.

  “Mom, what’s wron—”

  “Shhh . . .” With a nervous glance over her shoulder, she slipped out the door and closed it quietly, hooking Bram’s arm to lead him to the far side of the porch where ivy spilled from glazed potted urns. “Oh, Bram, I’m so glad you’re home—your father suffered a setback today.”

  The blood froze in his brain. “What do you mean, a ‘setback’?” he whispered, the words raspy from the emotions closing his throat.

  Even in the dim light of the moon, Bram could see the strain in his mother’s face, lines of distress etched deep by a son who’d betrayed her and a husband who worried her. For the first time he noticed she wore her robe and sleeping cap, a silver braid spilling over one shoulder. Her voice shook as much as her hand when she laid it on the arm of his suit coat, but he didn’t miss the forced humor in her words, something for which she always strove to allay his fears. “Oh, the pigheaded old coot overdid it today, took a notion to rise at the crack of dawn to go into work, on a Saturday, no less. Insisted he needed to oversee a big shipment, as if Darby couldn’t handle it with only twenty years under his belt as the best dock foreman in the city.” She grunted, almost masking the tremors in her tone. “The man would live on those infernal docks if I let him.” She sighed, her casual demeanor slipping somewhat. “He swore me to secrecy because he didn’t want to worry you. Claims it was nothing, but Darby said he collapsed on the docks today,” she whispered, her humor fading enough to reveal the fear Bram knew she was trying to hide. “Right after he carried a heavy crate, the stubborn old fool. Complained of chest pains and shortness of breath. Darby said he was huffing harder than the steam engines on the wharf.”

  Bram clutched his mother’s arms. “Has Doc Walsh—”

  She nodded before the frantic question even left his tongue. “Yes, yes, of course—Darby saw to that, thank God.” A hint of tears glimmered in the moonlight, and she hiked her chin, an attempt to thwart them, he knew. “Doc says he’s on borrowed time if he doesn’t slow down.” She glanced toward the parlour before turning back to stroke his cheek with the tips of her fingers. “Which is why he’s still up—waiting for you—and we both know what’s on his mind.”

  A faint pall settled over Bram’s mood. Yes, he knew.

  Her eyes sharpened with an intensity that conveyed a mother’s concern and affection. “So I wanted to . . . no, I had to . . . find out for sure . . .” The caress of her fingers skimmed to cradle his face like when he was a boy. “You do like Amelia, don’t you, Bram? You’ve told us over and over that this is what you want, but I won’t have you laying your desires aside for your father’s. It’s your life to live, after all.”

  The awful memory of his father lying in a pool of blood flashed through Bram’s mind. No, Mother, it’s my retribution to pay. “Of course I like Amelia,” he reassured her, anxious to put her worries to rest. “I couldn’t pick a better wife, and you know it.” Meg’s image suddenly invaded, and somewhere deep inside a dull ache throbbed in his chest. His resolve hardened along with his jaw as his palm covered his mother’s cupped hand on his face, deflecting his true feelings wi
th humor just like her. “Besides, at almost twenty-eight, it’s high time I fly the coop and settle in a home of my own, don’t you think?” He gave her chin a gentle tap. “After all, I can’t let Jamie appear to be the mature, responsible one, can I?”

  Her soft chuckle seemed to alleviate tension for them both. “Ha! As if anyone would believe it, Abraham Hughes. Jamie has turned into a fine young man to be sure, but you, my son, were born with a wise and tender heart, a maturity that’s always made your father and me proud.”

  Bram inwardly winced. Not always . . .

  “From the moment you held your little sister in your arms at the age of five, you were the nurturer, the protector.” Her voice wavered the slightest bit as her eyes glowed with love. “Especially with your father and me.”

  Tears stung, and Bram swallowed her up in a ferocious hug. Prompted by love, yes, but also by guilt and shame over his betrayal of the very parents he respected and adored. A betrayal so heinous, it had altered each of their lives forever. Grief pierced as he tightened his hold.

  And they never even knew . . .

  “I love you both more than life itself,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “It’s my privilege and joy to nurture and protect you in any way I can.” His eyelids lumbered closed as he pressed a kiss to her nightcap. Especially from a truth that would break both of your hearts . . .

  “And we love you, son—more than we can say.” She gently patted his cheek before she swiped at her eyes. “Now, that crusty curmudgeon of a father of yours is inside waiting to terrorize you with his plans for your future, so I suggest you speak now or forever hold your peace, understood?” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I need to sneak back to bed, but I was hoping you might follow him closely up the stairs, just to help if he needs it. But for heaven’s sake, don’t tell him I told you, all right? You know what a stubborn crank he can be.”

  Bram forced a grin. “Yes, ma’am. Although I think it may be a toss-up on who’s the more stubborn—my mother or my father.”