by Kay Hooper
Remembering that first meeting on the street nearly two years before, Tyrone smiled faintly. “You were so stiff, and carefully polite. So daunting.”
“You weren’t daunted,” she said. “You were the only one who wasn’t.”
“No. I was intrigued.” His smile died, and he gazed at her seriously. “Perhaps Dr. Scott was right, and I immediately saw beneath the icy surface. I remember being struck by your beauty. As I watched you walk away from me, I wondered what you were thinking.”
Catherine’s eyes gleamed suddenly with wetness, and her lips trembled. “I think I was a little afraid of you; I sensed you saw too much. But I didn’t know it would matter. Not until that day by the stream.”
He shook his head, and his face was suddenly grim. “I was a selfish bastard, Catherine. I knew you were innocent, and I didn’t care—”
“You cared,” she interrupted quietly. “You were very gentle with me, Marc. I’ve always been grateful to you for that.”
“Grateful?” His voice was a little harsh, strained. “Catherine, I can see now what you went through. It must have been hell for you, taking a lover after what you’d heard all those years, listening to your father’s suspicions, your mother’s denials. And for me to be the way I was then, not giving a damn for anything except my own pleasure—”
Her hands tightened in his. “Marc…if you’d been any other way, I couldn’t have borne it, not then. What you wanted from me was the only thing I was free to give you. You wanted a woman in your bed, and the secrecy suited you. You weren’t here very often, or for very long. I thought I could keep it hidden from Father, that there was no danger. That’s what I told myself. I believed I would never have another chance to…to be a woman and lie in a man’s arms. To feel wanted.”
“Catherine.” He felt his heart lurch, felt a terrible need to hold her tightly, to mend the broken note in her voice. But she was going on softly, her eyes blind.
“I thought it would be over soon, you see. I thought you’d weary of me, and I’d have all those memories. But it didn’t end. You kept coming to the cottage, and I kept meeting you there, and I told myself it was all right, it was still all right. The secrets were safe, all the secrets. But then you asked me to marry you. And I knew you were changing.”
“I was falling in love with you,” he said huskily.
“I didn’t know that, not then.” Her gaze remained blind, fixed on something only she could see. “I knew only that you were changing, you were looking at me differently. And I was afraid you’d see too much. Father was getting worse; he’d started killing animals when he was annoyed at someone. I was putting laudanum in his wine every night so he wouldn’t slip out without my knowing, and I was watching so closely to make sure he didn’t drink too much because it affected him so.
“I should have stopped seeing you then. I knew the danger, knew what could happen. I’d been so lucky he hadn’t found out during all those months, but luck couldn’t last forever. It was getting harder for me to slip away, and you were staying longer this time, asking me to meet you more often. Looking at me differently, acting as if you…as if you cared about me in a new way. And even though I knew I should have ended it, I didn’t have the strength.”
While Tyrone watched in helpless pain, two glittering tears welled up in her blind eyes and rolled slowly down her pale cheeks. And when she spoke again, her voice was hardly more than an aching whisper.
“I needed you so desperately.”
With a soft groan Tyrone stood and gathered her into his arms, then sat in the big chair with her in his lap, holding her close to him. She was crying quietly, almost silently, and he didn’t try to stop her, knowing that these were tears that should have been shed long before now.
“I’m sorry,” she uttered finally, sniffing.
“God, don’t be sorry.” He rubbed his cheek gently against her soft hair, met her gaze steadily when she lifted her head and looked at him. “I don’t know how you’ve kept all this inside for so long, my sweet.”
She waved that away with a tired hand. “I’m sorry about your horse, Marc. I—you should have said something to me about it. I didn’t know until Father told me tonight.”
Slowly Tyrone said, “He called you Kate at the party that night. Had he seen me looking at you? Was that what set him off then?”
She nodded. “I thought I’d gotten him calmed down later that night, that he wouldn’t strike out at you. If you’d told me about the horse, I would have known—”
“And tried even harder to send me away?”
Her eyes were haunted. “I was so afraid.”
He hesitated, then said slowly, “Catherine, when Lucas thought you were his wife, did he ever—”
“Touch me that way?” she finished for him. “No. I was spared that. I suppose it was because of what he remembered. That time he went back to was when he and Mother weren’t…weren’t sleeping together. I was never afraid of him that way. I was just afraid of what he’d do to other people. To you.”
“I want you to understand something, Catherine,” Tyrone said quietly. “None of it was your fault. Tommy, the animals, my ship—you aren’t responsible.”
“If I had—”
He touched her lips with his fingertips, stopping her. “No ifs. You did everything you could have, my love. Christ, you did more than anyone should ever have to do. You put yourself though hell, and it’s over now.”
It isn’t over. But she couldn’t tell him that. Not now. Not yet. She was so tired.
Tyrone stood easily, still holding her in his arms. His eyes gleamed down at her, and a faint smile curved his lips. “And now, my darling Catherine, I’m going to carry you upstairs and put you into bed. Into my bed, where you belong.”
Catherine could almost let herself believe it. Almost. She rested her head on his shoulder, telling herself that one night wouldn’t hurt, wouldn’t matter. It would be a memory she could cherish. She could sleep with him this one time, and pretend it was forever.
He carried her up the dimly lighted stairs and into a bedroom on the second floor, where a lamp already burned and the covers of the wide bed were turned back. He shut the door with one foot and carried her to the bed, lowering her gently to sit on the edge, then knelt and calmly began removing her kid boots.
“You don’t have to—”
“Catherine,” he said lightly, “shut up.”
She could hardly help but smile despite everything. “You’ve been telling me to do that a great deal lately.”
“One of these days,” he said, “you might listen to me.” Then he was going on in the same easy tone. “I’ve wanted to take care of you for such a long time, but you wouldn’t let me.”
“I couldn’t,” she told him.
“Yes. I know. But now you can.” He slipped her stockings off and tossed them toward a chair, then stood and pulled her gently to her feet. He unfastened the dark skirt and let it drop to her feet. The white blouse soon followed, and she stood wearing her thin shift.
Tyrone frowned a little, then turned away briefly to the wardrobe and pulled out one of his shirts. “You can sleep in this,” he said, returning to her.
“It’s silk,” she protested weakly.
“I’ve always wanted to see you in something made of silk. There were many times in New York I’d pass a shop window and see fancy gowns made of silk and satin. I wanted to buy them for you, but I knew you’d never accept them from me.” He tossed the shirt on the bed and grasped the hem of her shift, pulling it gently up over her head. And when she stood naked, Tyrone froze.
Catherine quickly glanced down at herself and winced at the sight. The bruising and swelling over her midsection was worse than she’d expected, far worse than her face. Below her ribs on her stomach and right side, the flesh was mottled an ugly black and blue. It looked horrible.
“Dammit,” he said hoarsely, “I should have had Dr. Scott take a look at you—”
“It’s all right, Marc.” She lif
ted a hand to briefly touch his face. “Bruises, nothing more. They’ll heal—and I’m not in any pain now.” It was the truth.
He searched her face intently for a moment, a muscle tightening in his jaw. Finally he threw the shift toward a chair and helped her gently into the white silk shirt. When it was buttoned, he turned away toward the bureau while Catherine tugged her hair free of the shirt collar.
“Heavens,” she exclaimed, startled, feeling snarls and tangles and suddenly remembering her wild ride earlier. She was afraid to look in a mirror.
Tyrone chuckled, and she saw that he had gotten a silver-backed hairbrush from the bureau. He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed again, half turned away from him as he sat down and began slowly brushing her hair.
“Still taking care of me?” she asked shakily.
“I want to.”
Catherine closed her eyes, feeling the brush and his gentle fingers untangling and smoothing her hair. It was wonderfully soothing, and somehow moved her almost unbearably. Pleasure and pain. “You always took my hair down first thing,” she said softly.
“Did I?” The slow, steady brushing continued, and his voice was quiet. “Perhaps because when your hair was neatly braided and pinned up, you were the cool Miss Waltrip. But when I took it down, felt it run like silk through my fingers, then you were my Catherine.”
She kept her eyes closed, and couldn’t say anything because her throat was tight. It occurred to her only then that he had not once tonight pressed her for a declaration of love, that he hadn’t even asked if she loved him. It would have been a natural question, considering that he knew, now, the risks she had dared just to be with him. And he loved her, she knew. But he had never asked if she loved him. He had only asked, when she had refused to marry him, if it was because she couldn’t love him.
If he had asked tonight, Catherine knew what she would have answered, knew she couldn’t have denied it. And perhaps he understood that all her defenses were down, that she was vulnerable as she had never been before. Perhaps he knew only too well that her love, unlike the sound of his name, couldn’t be stolen from her, that it had to be offered willingly and without prompting.
It hurts him that I haven’t said it, she realized suddenly. That she wanted and needed him was obvious, something she was willing to admit to him. And had. But words of love she had guarded jealously in silence, and because he couldn’t know why she was silent, it was hurting him. Hurting him…yet he accepted the pain and didn’t say word.
She wanted to tell him now, wanted desperately to tell him. But her throat had closed up completely and the pain inside her made her mute.
“You’re cold,” he said then, seeing her trembling. “Here, my love, get into bed.” He tossed the brush aside and pulled her gently to her feet, then drew back the covers and helped her into the bed.
Catherine lay silently and watched as he gathered her discarded clothing, piling it neatly on the chair, then began to undress himself. She watched him move around the room, filling her memory with him, crowding everything into her mind.
When he put out the lamp and slipped into bed beside her, Catherine instantly went into his arms, cuddling close to his hard, warm body. He was holding her with tenderness and possession, stroking her hair, and gradually she stopped trembling. She rested her head on his shoulder.
And wished it could be forever.
—
Tyrone woke in the silent hours before dawn, woke with the sudden alertness that had been bred into him by years of danger. He knew instantly what had awakened him. Catherine was in the grip of some terrible nightmare, perhaps reliving her father’s fiery death, and the soft sounds that escaped her shaking body were like whispers from hell.
He drew her even closer, stroking her body gently, murmuring wordlessly to soothe her.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, clinging to him.
He wasn’t sure she was awake, but answered anyway. “I won’t. I won’t, my sweet.”
She finally stopped trembling, and her body slowly relaxed. And it was a long time later when her voice reached him, a voice that was soft and bittersweet. “I love you, Marc.”
It was what he had waited for, longed to hear from her, what he hadn’t dared to force from her as he had forced her to say his name. He felt a throb of pain. “I love you too, Catherine.” His tone was bleak because he heard the truth in hers. She loved him…but it hurt her to love him.
He was still awake when dawn silently arrived.
—
“Thank you, Sarah.”
Catherine forced herself up through the layers of sleep, his voice pulling at her as always. She half sat up, blinking, looking at him as he came away from the door. He was holding a tray. He was also half dressed in trousers, and he had shaved.
She felt immediately conscious of mussed hair and bleary eyes, of wearing only his silk shirt. Her vanity was vaguely outraged.
“Stop frowning at me,” he told her as he reached the bed. “If you’re wondering, you look beautiful in the morning.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” she lied firmly, resisting an urge to smooth her hair. Since it was obviously expected of her, she banked the pillows behind her and accepted the tray onto her lap, but couldn’t resist one rueful shot. “And you know too damned much about the workings of a woman’s mind.”
He grinned at her, lounging back on an elbow near her knees. Taking one of the coffee cups from the tray, he lifted it in a half salute. “My misspent youth, I’m afraid.”
Catherine picked up her own cup, trying to keep from returning his smile and finding it difficult. “A girl in every port?” she asked dryly.
“There was a time,” he said. Then, briskly, he added, “Sarah allows no one in this house to go hungry. And since it’s nearly noon, she sent up lunch as well as breakfast.”
“I’m really not—”
“Catherine,” he interrupted warningly.
She glared at him for a moment, then gave in with a smile. Surprisingly enough, she found herself hungry once she began eating, and it occurred to her only then that she hadn’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours. Tyrone kept up a light conversation while they ate, entertaining her with his rather pungent descriptions of some of the places he’d been in twenty years of sailing the seas.
She listened with enjoyment, watching his face and absorbing its many expressions. But even though he steered the talk firmly away from any mention of what had happened the day before, she couldn’t help but remember. Grief for her father was a dull ache, and something she had prepared herself for during these last difficult years. But she could still feel the shock of watching Marc’s ship burn, and that was a deeper ache because she knew he had lost a part of himself.
When the meal was finished and he removed the tray to set it on the floor by the bed, she had to say it. “Marc, I’m so sorry about The Raven.”
He was still lounging back beside her legs, and shook his head slightly. “I have other ships.”
“Not another Raven.”
Tyrone was too conscious of his own sense of grief to tell her it didn’t matter. “Catherine, ships are like people. They live, and they die. It was her time to die.”
“Thanks to my father. And me.”
“Your father was sick. And you aren’t to blame.” He reached over to cover the hands twisting together in her lap. “I mean that. It’s over. Forget it.”
“Will you?” she asked unsteadily.
His smile twisted a little. “If I can have you instead, yes.”
She looked down at his strong hand, felt a pang shoot through her. “I can’t replace The Raven. She was so much a part of your life.”
“My past. You’re my future.”
I can’t be. She looked around his bedroom, thinking almost sadly how different it was from his cabin on the ship. There was luxury here in gleaming woods and fine fabrics, but this was the taste of a man who had earned his wealth over years of hard work and danger, a man whose memories o
f being cold and hungry were few and fleeting now. There was no ornate bed, no satin draperies, no vividly bright and luxurious colors.
“Catherine?”
She moved away from him suddenly, throwing back the covers and sliding from the bed. She felt stiff, and didn’t know if it was a physical or an emotional thing. Both, probably. Her entire body felt sore, and her heart felt numb.
“I left dinner ready at home last night,” she said vaguely. “And all the lamps in the house burning. There are things to do. I have to—”
“You aren’t going back there.” He had stood as well, and now faced her near the foot of the bed. His hands lifted to hold her shoulders so she couldn’t move away from him. “Sarah and Reuben can close up the house and bring back what you need.”
She looked up at him, seeing steady eyes and determination. “I have to go back there sometime.”
“There’s no hurry.” His voice lightened. “Now that I’ve got you in my house, I’ll not let you go.”
“Marc—”
“I’ll speak to the vicar,” he said in the same deliberately easy tone, “and find out how soon he can marry us.”
Catherine held her voice steady. “I’ll live with you if you like,” she said. “But I won’t marry you, Marc.”
His lean face tautened, but there was no surprise in his eyes. “Why not, Catherine?” His voice roughened, and his grasp on her shoulders tightened. “This time you can’t run away without answering.”
She knew that. It was what she had been dreading. In her mind she heard the detached, clinical voice of the doctor she had gone to about her father, heard him offer a warning that had altered her life. Madness often runs in families, Miss Waltrip. If it was passed on to your father through one of his parents, it may also be passed to you, in time. Something to consider.
Oh, God, how she had considered it…