Return to Deepwater

by Lucy Gillen

  ‘Tarin!’

  The voice was unmistakable, and she shook her head as if he could see her doing so, one hand to her mouth when she heard the bell sound, shrilly impatient, again. She heard his footsteps on the path and then his voice raised again and sounding quite angry.

  ‘Tarin! I know you’re there, you little idiot— open the door!’

  The mild insult finally moved her and she leaned half out of the window and looked down on him. His reddish head was untidy as usual and the strong, broad shoulders looked wider than ever from this angle, a white shirt stretched across them, open at the neck as always and showing that tanned column of neck and throat with a pulse at its base that made him seem unexpectedly vulnerable.

  ‘Tarin!’ He sounded increasingly impatient, and her heart gave a wild lurch when she heard a distinct thud on the front door. ‘Damn you, will you answer me?’

  ‘No!’

  She did not realise how futile her answer sounded until she saw him step back, and the faint but definite smile on his wide mouth as he looked up at her. The brown eyes had a deep, dark, glowing look, but she was ready to believe that it was anger that made them so.

  His feet were planted firmly apart on her uncle’s rather ragged patch of lawn and those powerful arms were akimbo, his big hands set firmly on his hips. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, with surprising quiet, and Tarin shook her head, as much to convince herself as him.

  ‘I’m—I’m not coming down,’ she said in a small, husky voice. ‘It—there’s nothing we have to say, and—’

  ‘There’s plenty I’ve got to say,’ he argued, ‘and you’re going to listen!’

  Tarin licked her lips in agitation. If only he’d given her some warning that he was coming, or if her uncle had She bit her lip, realising suddenly why Robert had taken the unusual step of going out for the evening and leaving her on her own. It seemed there was no need for any further cooperation between the McCourts and the Bruces—Robert and Darrel had already well and truly buried the hatchet and combined to leave her at Darrel’s mercy.

  ‘Are you coming down?’ The brown eyes issued a challenge that was hard to resist, and she shook her head again, but with much less conviction, her pulses racing suddenly as she put two and two together.

  ‘You—you organised this—you and Robert,’ she accused, and his craggy, brown face split into a wide grin as he looked up at her.

  ‘I told him I gave you until nine o’clock,’ he informed her. ‘It’s now ten minutes past—time’s up!’ He narrowed his eyes for a moment and quizzed her. ‘Which is it to be?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you come willingly or do I have to repeat Duncan’s feat and break in?’

  ‘You—you wouldn’t dare!’

  That, she realised almost immediately, was a mistake. The brown eyes glowed darkly at the challenge and he nodded his rough head. ‘O.K.,’ he said quietly. ‘Have it your way!’

  ‘Darrel!’

  She leaned as far out of the window as was safe, but he had already disappeared again into the tiny porch over the front door and a second later she heard the rattle of the latch. Robert, of course, would have left it unlocked, and for a moment she felt as if her uncle had betrayed her.

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs sent her hastily to the bedroom door and she opened it just as Darrel reached the half way stage on the stairs, looking out at him with her lips parted and a bright, glistening look in her eyes. He paused for a moment, looking at her, his own brown eyes warm and glowing and sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

  ‘Well?’ he queried softly, and raised a brow.

  Tarin shook her head more by instinct than inclination, and she saw the swift gleam of white teeth in that craggy brown face as he started upwards again. ‘Darrel!’ Her cry had a light, husky sound and it did nothing to deter him. She ran from the room and on to the narrow landing, arriving at the top of the stairs just as he arrived there.

  Without a word he put one arm behind her knees and lifted her, squirming wildly, up over his shoulder. She beat with her fists at the broad, unflinching, back and tried to kick her legs, but she was too firmly held and he turned easily on the landing and started down again.

  ‘Darrel! You—you savage! You—you barbarian!’

  ‘Keep still,’ he told her quietly, ‘or I’ll drop you!’

  He took her through the tiny hall and as far as the front door before he put her down and Tarin thanked heaven that they had no near neighbours to witness the scene. She was breathing heavily and her eyes were bright and sparklingly blue as she looked up at him, straightening her dress with trembling hands and trying not to laugh, the way her instincts wanted her to.

  He stood for a moment with his hands on his hips again, looking down at her with those bright, glowing brown eyes that sent shivers of anticipation along her spine like showers of ice water. Then he reached out with one hand and brushed the, dark hair from her forehead, his long fingers gentle and almost sensual against the softness of her skin.

  ‘History repeats itself,’ he said softly, and she smiled without realising she was doing it.

  ‘Not quite,’ she argued. ‘This time you had cooperation !’

  ‘You’re sure Duncan didn’t?’ he asked softly, and she shook her head, not at all sure. ‘You said yourself,’ he reminded her, ‘that you thought she was in love with him.’

  ‘I—I think she might have been.’ She felt the thudding beat of her heart at her ribs and the fingers of both hands curled slowly into her palms as she looked at him. There was something about him, something that stirred such intense excitement in her that she could scarcely draw breath.

  He was smiling and he reached out again, the long fingers curling about her neck and drawing her close, his other hand spanning her slender waist and adding its persuasion to that irresistible force. Warm, masculine scents enveloped her and she put her hands to the broad smoothness of his chest.

  ‘Did you really think I’d let you leave me?’ he asked softly, and his fingers tightened on her waist. ‘Did you, Tarin?’

  She sought for words, hardly daring to believe it was happening, and shook her head dazedly. ‘I—I thought you—despised me,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I thought you hated me for being such a—such a—’

  ‘Gullible little idiot?’ he suggested softly, and laughed at her indignant face. ‘Don’t be so prickly, my darling, I didn’t come here to fight with you!’

  Tarin looked up at him, her blue eyes searching that craggy brown face, wondering if she would ever grow tired of simply looking at him. ‘Why did you come, Darrel?’ she asked softly, and he shook his head, a faint, ironic smile touching that wide mouth into mobility.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ he teased gently. ‘I have Deepwater back now, I’m independent, solvent and reasonably happy—but I need a wife!’

  ‘You—’ Tarin stared at him for a moment, hardly daring to believe she had heard him aright. ‘Is—is that all?’ she gasped. ‘You—you want a wife and you think—’ She tried to push him away with both hands, thrusting against the implacable strength of his arms. ‘If that’s all you came for,’ she gasped furiously, ‘you can go back and—and marry Gloria Stein! You are as bad as Duncan! That— that savage simply needed a wife too, and I suppose you think my pedigree guarantees I’ll make a good one!’

  ‘It proved a good match,’ he said, unperturbed, and she did not notice the bright gleam of laughter in his eyes that teased her for her touchiness. ‘After all, Jeanie gave him four good sons—what more could a man want?’

  ‘You—’ The rest of her protest was cut abruptly short when his mouth swept downwards swiftly and covered hers, his arms pressing her close to the virile hardness of his body until she had no breath left to object, even had she wanted to.

  He felt warm and vibrant and excitingly ruthless, his hands both strong and gentle through the thin material of her dress, and she yielded to the urgent pressure he exerted,
moulding her softness to him, drawing her resistance from her. His mouth was at once firm and persuasive, light and gentle on the smoothness of her throat and neck, the softness of her shoulders.

  ‘Darrel!’ She clung to him, afraid that she would wake at any moment and find this was no more than another hopeless dream, but it was real enough—that craggy dark face with its crown of reddish hair, and the brown eyes, glowing with an inner excitement she was only too willing to share.

  She put up her hands and curled her fingers in the thickness of his hair, her bare arms warmed by the strong, smooth brown neck, her lips parted as she gazed up at him. He was more serious suddenly, one hand smoothing back the hair from her forehead again, the sensual touch of his long fingers shivering through her whole body.

  ‘Don’t you know yet that I love you?’ he asked softly. ‘I don’t know whether you love me or hate me, but I do know that I mean to marry you, my prickly little McCourt, so don’t try and fight me.’

  ‘I won’t!’ She saw one brow lift in surprise, and laughed softly, shaking her head. ‘Don’t you know I’ve loved you for most of my life?’ she asked him softly. ‘I simply never grew out of loving you.’

  He kissed her again so efficiently that she could only gaze at him with wide, blue eyes when he released her at last. ‘And you’ll marry me?’ he asked.

  Tarin nodded. ‘Willingly,’ she agreed breathlessly, and Darrel laughed.

  ‘Well, that’ll make a change!’ he told her, and his mouth sought hers again, fiercely but curiously gentle. ‘That hatchet is well and truly buried,’ he said a few moments later, and sounded more than satisfied with the result.