Married In Haste

by Dani Sinclair

  “Don’t worry,” Greg said, his voice so low she had to strain to hear him. “The police have better things to do tonight than to follow us. The hurricane is going to pass directly to our north in less than an hour.”

  “Constable Freer said not before one o’clock.”

  She heard the thread of nervousness in her voice. So, apparently, did Greg. His anger softened and he rested a warm hand against her cool, damp one. “Someone forgot to tell Mother Nature the timetable. Lenny is gaining strength and speed a lot faster than before. I’m worried it could change course and head right at us.”

  “There’s a cheery thought.”

  He squeezed her fingers in comfort and a long branch flew across the road in front of them. The driver braked and swerved to avoid it, muttering something sharp under his breath. Greg squeezed McKella’s hand again, and she flashed him a grateful smile. No matter how at odds they were, she was thankful for his presence. She settled back, trying for a calm she couldn’t possibly attain.

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you going with me?”

  He rubbed the side of his face in a tired gesture. “I don’t know. I must be crazy.”

  McKella had a strong urge both to smile at his words and to touch him reassuringly. She pushed aside both impulses. She was married. To a very nice man. Who might also be a bigamist and a murderer.

  When they finally arrived, Greg asked the driver to wait. But the man shook his head and pointed to his watch. “Two minutes,” he told them. “No more.”

  The storm drove them to the front door, flogging their backs. The reduction of sound and fury inside the cottage was incredibly welcome. The evil darkness was not.

  “Paul?” McKella shivered, straining to hear above the storm. “Paul, it’s McKella.”

  The cottage remained ominously silent.

  Greg fumbled for a light switch. The soft glow of the table lamp made things worse by casting long shadows against the walls and ceilings.

  “Paul?”

  Greg began turning on lights. The more the better in her opinion.

  Someone had cleaned. There were no signs that anything had ever been amiss inside the small cottage. In the kitchen, Greg opened cupboards and began removing bowls and pans.

  “What are you doing?”

  He filled a saucepan with water. “Getting prepared.”

  “Prepared for what? We aren’t staying here. We’re going back to Castle Harbour as soon as we talk to Paul.”

  Greg shook his head. “If he’s not here now, he isn’t coming, McKella. Listen to that wind.”

  As though she could do anything else. It was a malevolent, forbidding sound.

  “I am not sleeping here,” she stated firmly.

  “Good thing you took a nap earlier then. You’d better invite the driver inside if he hasn’t already left. Then see if you can find a flashlight or some candles.”

  McKella bit back an angry retort as the windows rattled desperately. A glance outside showed the cab had gone.

  “He left. You knew this was going to happen.”

  “Not exactly, but it doesn’t surprise me.” Greg looked up from filling the sink. “Did you find any candles?”

  She cringed at a loud blast of thunder.

  “Check down here,” he suggested kindly. “I’ll go up and look around. Light a candle right away if you find any. I don’t think the lights are going to last much longer.”

  She stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Don’t go up there.” To her own ears her voice sounded high and strained.

  Greg looked from her hand to her face. He reached out to stroke the line of her jaw. “One of us has to.”

  “Why?”

  “We have to be sure he isn’t up there, McKella.”

  She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “Then I’ll go with you.”

  “Your choice, but we’re going to be sitting in the dark any moment now if we don’t find candles soon.”

  Wind buffeted the walls for punctuation. McKella released him and turned away. “Hurry.”

  “I will.”

  She flung open the nearest kitchen cupboard and peered inside, listening to Greg’s footfalls as he headed for the steps. She tried to convince herself everything would be all right. They were safe here.

  But she opened the second drawer three times before she actually took note of what she was seeing. There were two emergency candles and a pack of matches. There was also a long-bladed knife.

  GREG FLICKED ON LIGHTS as he mounted the stairs. The house groaned in protest of the wind’s abuse, effectively masking any other sounds. He didn’t really think the bastard was in the cottage. The bungalow felt too empty for that, but McKella’s husband was a tricky son of a bitch.

  The spare bedroom was clean and empty. No sign that a corpse had ever been in the bathroom. The master bedroom was just as sterile. The drapes were closed, hiding the balconies and their turbulent views. The beds were neatly made, the closets and drawers empty.

  “Greg? I found two candles.”

  He snatched towels from the bathroom, tugged the comforter and blankets from the bed, grabbed two pillows, and headed for the stairs with a nagging sense of unease—like he’d left something undone.

  “Greg?”

  “Coming.”

  “What are you doing with those?” she asked, meeting him at the foot of the stairs.

  “Did you plan to sleep upstairs?” he asked.

  She shuddered. “I told you, I don’t plan to sleep at all.”

  “Too bad. I was going to share.”

  Lightning split the sky, visible right through the heavy draperies. A vibrant clash of thunder immediately followed. McKella jumped. The candle quivered. The lights remained on.

  “You know,” Greg said conversationally, moving to stand within touching distance of her, “the bad thing about this cottage is the view.”

  “What?”

  Her voice wasn’t quite steady, he noted. Neither was her hand, but she didn’t look to be on the verge of hysteria. McKella was made of sterner stuff.

  “Too many windows,” he said pointedly. “We need to get away from them.”

  McKella peered around, her body rigid with tension. “How about the kitchen?” she suggested. “Over by the patio? The storm seems to be hitting hardest against the front door.”

  “Good idea.” He handed her a towel and dropped the rest of the items on the floor. Then he went back for the chair and couch cushions.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Well, you can sit at the table if you want to, but I’d prefer to be under it.” He dumped the cushions on the floor and pulled the chairs away from the table.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. This table isn’t much, but it will offer some protection from flying glass.”

  “You know you’re scaring me half to death, don’t you?”

  Her eyes were round with the nervousness she was tightly controlling. He started to say something teasing, then spotted the knife. He lifted the blade from the counter, tested it in his hand, and eyed her steadily. “Planning my demise?”

  McKella looked sheepish. “It was in the drawer with the candles.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He moved the table away from the window and over against the pantry. The knife, he handed to her. She immediately set it on the table while he began laying the cushions underneath.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making up a bed. We could lose the lights any—”

  Lightning and thunder cracked simultaneously. The house quaked and plunged into sudden darkness. McKella peered at Greg over the single flickering candle in her hand.

  “I’ll take one of the pillows,” she informed him.

  THEY RECLINED ON THE CUSHIONS, with the blankets curled about them to ward off the chill of their damp clothing. The table made a cozy cave-like shelter, Greg decided. A bit cramped, but with McKella sitting next to him, he wasn’t complaining.

  Th
ey had shed their sodden jackets and used the towels to blot up as much moisture as they could. Greg would have liked to remove his wet pants, but he suspected that wasn’t an option. On the other hand, McKella might not even notice. Her fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.

  He saw her shiver and circled her damp shoulders with his arm. “Come’ere.”

  “Greg…”

  He tucked the blanket up around her chin. “I’m just going to hold you to warm you up.”

  She slanted him a speculative look that made his heart beat a little faster. “I’m not cold.”

  “Okay, then you can warm me up. I need lots of heat.” He grinned and tugged her a little closer so her head rested beneath his chin.

  “You need a cold shower.”

  But he sensed her smile and she didn’t pull away. As thunder deafened the heavens, he savored the scent of her shampoo.

  “You smell good,” he told her.

  She tensed, but then relaxed. “I hate storms.”

  “I can tell.”

  She lifted her head to look at him. “Am I acting like a baby?”

  “Nope. You’re keeping me from acting like a baby. If I didn’t have you to hold, I’d curl up in a fetal ball until this was all over.”

  “Ha. Nothing seems to scare you.” But she smiled and settled back against his chest.

  Greg started to tell her his bravado was just an act, then stopped, straining to hear above the storm. Were those footsteps overhead?

  A boom of thunder made them both jump. He stroked her arm gently as he strove to listen. The feeling of having left something undone nagged his conscience.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He dropped his other hand to her blanket-covered thigh to distract her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the only one it distracted. “You mean besides a hurricane outside our door?”

  She lifted his hand and moved it back onto his own leg. “Behave.”

  He smiled down at the top of her head. “Darn. Okay, tell me what you like to do for fun.”

  “A question for a question?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  She was silent a long moment as if collecting her thoughts. Once again, he thought he heard something overhead—a creak that didn’t sound like the others. He waited, but there was no other noise beyond what he’d come to expect from the storm.

  “I’m a homebody, I guess. When I’m not working I like to read or paint.”

  She tipped her head back to look at him, exposing the gentle curve of her throat. He had a strong desire to lay kisses along that column of flesh.

  “What do you paint?” he asked quickly.

  “Watercolors, mostly. My dad bought me my first paint set to keep my crayons away from the walls.”

  “Headstrong even then, huh?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as strongly independent. What about you, what do you like to do?”

  Greg tensed again. Surely those noises had been the floorboards creaking under the weight of the storm. He’d checked the upstairs thoroughly. No one else could be inside. Unless there was an attic…

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “Greg, is something wrong?”

  Of course there was no attic. These were summer cottages, not homes. He didn’t want to scare her. “I’m an avid reader, too,” he admitted, “but I spend a lot of my free time exploring my computer.”

  “Surfing the Internet?”

  The messages he had seen on-line for Paul Dinsmore popped into his thoughts, making his agreement a low sound of assent.

  “Not a party person then?” she pursued.

  “Nope. I prefer quiet evenings with friends, concerts, plays, that sort of thing.”

  “Me, too,” she agreed.

  “Is that why you got married?”

  Instantly, she tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold. “I’m curious, McKella, not trying to pry.”

  “Are you related to Paul?”

  “Related?” The unexpected question jump-started his nerves. “Where did you get an idea like that?”

  She shifted free of his embrace, letting the blanket drop to her lap. “You’re built like him. Same hair, similar body type. You even move a lot alike.”

  He knew. He just wished she hadn’t noticed. “McKella, if you’d like to see my birth certificate—”

  “That doesn’t answer the question, Greg. Why are you keeping secrets?”

  McKella was too bright by half, and her questions were moving in a dangerous direction. His safety and hers depended on keeping his past well buried.

  “Do you want me to lie?”

  Her chin jutted forward. “No.”

  “Then I can’t explain what I’m doing here, or why I know what I know.” He sighed and shut his eyes, running a tired hand along his jaw. He should have been better prepared for this inquisition.

  “I wish we had met four years ago.”

  “You’re changing the subject again.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why?”

  He deliberately misinterpreted her question. “Because if I’d met you four years ago, you never would have been sitting around waiting—ripe for that bastard.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. He was more than a little surprised himself. That hadn’t been what he’d intended to say.

  “Sitting around waiting? How flattering to know that’s what I’ve been doing all these years.”

  He’d put his foot in it this time. “I didn’t mean—”

  A powerful fist of air shook the house, followed by a colossal clap of thunder. McKella jumped. Greg’s hand came to rest on the rise of her breast.

  Their eyes locked. An answering excitement sparkled in her eyes, quickly buried under the downward sweep of her lashes. “Move it or lose it,” she warned.

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “I’m still wearing a wedding ring,” she reminded him, wiggling the offending appendage.

  “The problem is, I don’t care.”

  He heard her indrawn hiss of air, but his declaration was no more than the truth. He raised his hand to her shoulder. “I don’t consider your marriage real, remember? You were tricked. The union is fake.”

  “I wasn’t tricked, Greg. I took those vows with my eyes open.”

  “So you thought, but he was already married.”

  “He says they were divorced. I—”

  This time the sound was unmistakable. His hand whipped out to cover her lips and still her words. Even over the continuous roar of the storm, Greg heard the distinctive creak of the top step.

  They weren’t alone in the cottage.

  “Where’d you put the knife?” he whispered. And in that nanosecond, he remembered what he had left undone upstairs. He hadn’t checked the balconies.

  “What’s wrong?” she breathed.

  “Someone is in the house. Stay here.”

  She grabbed his arm to hold him in place. They both knew there was only one person who could be inside the cottage. Greg fumbled for the knife, nicking his finger on the sharp blade as he handed it to her.

  “Keep this out of sight unless you need it.”

  McKella scrambled forward, but he motioned her back and slipped from the room. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the interior. A shadowy figure moved—less than three feet away. Greg lunged, and they went down in a rough tangle of arms and legs.

  Greg managed to land a satisfying blow to the intruder’s midsection. Air whooshed from the man as Greg followed up with a fist to the jaw.

  “Cool it, Paul,” he growled, emphasizing the name,

  The sodden wet body under his went completely still. In a burst of vivid lightning, Greg saw the blue eyes widen.

  “It is you!” he gasped. “But you’re dead!”

  “Disappointed?”

  A fist connected with his kidney and Greg slumped to one side. His opponent scrambled to his feet. Greg rolled to the side in time to avoid
some of the kick’s force, but air still rushed from his lungs as a heavy shoe slammed into his back.

  “Paul!” Lightning illuminated McKella, who stood a few feet away. “Stop it! Both of you, stop it!”

  Her husband pivoted towards her, a tower of rage. Greg surged to his feet. McKella brought up the knife.

  “Stop!” Her voice was firm—in command. She held the knife like a fighter, tight against her body, her weight forward on the balls of her feet.

  “Think those self-defense classes mean you can take me, McKella?” her husband snarled.

  “Yes.”

  From her tone and her stance, Greg wasn’t sure that she couldn’t—but he wasn’t taking any chances. He launched himself, catching his opponent off guard. They crashed into the coffee table and careened off an overstuffed chair.

  “Stop it!”

  Greg ducked a fist aimed for his eye and caught his opponent on the chin. He landed his next blow as well and had the satisfaction of watching the bastard crumple to the carpet.

  Greg followed him down, grabbed him by his sodden jacket and shook him with barely contained temper. “Why did you kill Betty Jane?” he demanded.

  Lightning sizzled overhead. The cottage shuddered. Blood trickled down the other man’s chin from his split lip. Greg read pure hate in his expression and knew his accusation of murder was correct.

  “And Eleanor?” Greg demanded.

  “Who?” Blue eyes stared at him in total bewilderment.

  “Eleanor Miller.” Deliberately, Greg used her maiden name. “Outside the café.”

  The fallen man uttered a surprised epitaph. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His eyes said he knew exactly who Eleanor Miller Beauchamp was, but a growing roar stopped Greg’s next question. Greg lifted his head. The rush of sound matched the clamor of a freight train plunging straight for them. In the back of his mind, he’d heard the sound building, felt the pressure changing. Only now did he realize the meaning. A tornado was coming right at them.

  “McKella!” He released her husband and threw himself at her, tumbling them both to the couch. The world exploded in unbelievable sound and fury.

  MCKELLA THOUGHT THAT SHE MUST have blacked out. An immovable weight pressed on her chest, making breathing difficult. Rain pummeled her open eyes, stinging her cheeks. She blinked furiously before she realized that Greg lay across her body, totally inert. For a terrified second she thought he was dead.