She nearly made it without any comment from him. But, as she reached the doorway, his mild voice came from behind and curled gentle shackles around her ankles.
'Running away?'
Kirstie's blonde head came up, then she turned to face him as he looked at her over the steepled fingers. His kindly emerald regard was a challenge she'd die before she refused, and her lips tightened briefly before she replied, 'I have no business with you. All I have to do is stick this out until after the wedding, if necessary. You can stay or go as you like. That hasn't changed.'
'But, Kirstie, if I was so hell-bent on Louise, why would her marriage stop me any more than her engagement did? It still comes down to you and me, right now, and what might happen when we get back—that is the real issue,' he told her softly, his gaze almost sleepy.
'Damn you,' she whispered, shaken, and when she did reach the sanctuary of her own bedroom it was a hollow escape.
Cloistered there, she read until midnight and then pulled on one of her brother's old T-shirts that came down to her thighs, and went to brush her teeth and wash her face. The rest of the cabin was in darkness. Even Francis's room was silent, the door pushed to but not latched, revealing a crack of space that was pitch-black. Ridiculously, she gave it a wide berth on her route back to her own bed where she tried to go to sleep herself, but only ended up tossing and turning under the weight of her troubled thoughts.
Would Louise's marriage stop Francis? Kirstie burrowed her forehead into her pillow in frustration. Had he meant it as a threat, or merely to point out the flaw in her thinking? But then it would be Neil's duty to protect Louise, and Louise's responsibility to protect him. But didn't that mean it was Neil's duty even now, as Francis said, to fight for their relationship, in spite of how Louise sought to keep him unaffected?
But—but—but—sputtered in her head like a faulty engine. At this rate she would never be able to sleep.
Certainly she was wide awake enough to hear the first stealthy brush of sound from the other side of the door, but at first she automatically discounted it by assuming that Francis was making a nocturnal trip to the bathroom. But when there was no closing of a door, no evidence of other normal noise, not even the customary distant gush of the water tap, she perked up and listened curiously.
Swish, swish. That was a strange noise. What could he possibly be doing? There was a loud crash and a rattle that seemed to come just outside her door, then a queer scrabbling, and a slow chill swept down her entire body. Whatever it was, something was horribly wrong.
Nightmarish flashbacks detonated in her head.
He could be capable of anything. . .
She began to tremble violently. After being so very reasonable in his own wretched fashion, oh, why would he do anything now in the middle of the night? Didn't he know it was dark out there?
Going to try the reasoning tack? What do we get after that, threats?
He wouldn't. He couldn't, not even he would go that far, she wouldn't believe it of him—God, what was that?
Kirstie bolted upright in bed at the same instant the grey shadow of her door opened silently and, in a culmination of her worst imaginings, Francis glided in. One part of her deep-fried wits managed to take in his supreme caution and how he very carefully latched the door behind him, even as she battled against pure terror to haul in a great lungful of air for an ear-shattering, completely useless scream.
But, when he was quick, he was very, very quick. She didn't have a chance. In one fluid rush he was at her side, and he clamped a hand over her open mouth. It was so large that it covered half her face.
Her whole body jerked with the terrifying shock, but before she had time to give in totally to her unreasoning panic he put his lips to her ear and breathed, 'Be very quiet now.'
His unaffected calm got through to her. She held herself as frozen as a frightened rabbit, and in the stillness of that inaction they both heard the strange, blundering noise again. Now it appeared to be coming from the living-room.
Flooded with a crazy, reeling relief, Kirstie sagged against the warmth of Francis's bare chest and he loosened his grip on her mouth to hold her close. It was a soothing sort of gesture, made absent-mindedly, as all his attention was focused on what was happening on the other side of the door.
'What is it?' she hissed.
'Sh,' he replied, winding his arm around again to touch cautioningly the side of her cheek. 'I don't know. I thought it was you.'
'I thought it was you!' To her amazement she found that she was clinging monkey-like to the solid strength of his waist. She cursed her stupid limbs as they started to shake again with reaction, and he pressed her head down to his shoulder, which smelled deliciously clean.
Then he put his hands to her shoulders to gently ease her away. 'Stay here, all right?'
At the cold touch of metal through the thin T-shirt, she reached out one hand to touch a smooth hard barrel and exclaimed, 'You've got the gun!'
His head bent to hers. 'I don't want to panic you unduly, but what's out there could well be human and unfriendly.'
The sense of their isolation hit her in the gut. 'But there aren't any bullets!'
'They won't know that.' He rose to leave, until she grabbed the hard muscle of his arm.
'You can't go out there! You could be hurt or killed!'
Amazingly, his reaction was to press his lips against her forehead. 'It'll be all right,' he said. 'Just stay put.'
She hadn't had any conscious desire to do otherwise, but when he eased her door open with torturing care, she found herself huddled up behind him and peering anxiously around the broad expanse of his powerful back. He jerked half around and gave her an ungentle push, gritting, 'Get back, you fool!'
And stay here on her own? There wasn't a hope's chance in hell. She swallowed and retorted stoutly, 'I'm not letting you go out there by yourself!'
'Then for God's sake stay behind me!'
He made sure she did by clamping hard fingers around her wrist, one arm twisted, so that for every long, silent step he took she had to scuttle on after. Then he stopped and her nose connected with the spot between his shoulder-blades with a bump. They were at the end of the short hallway, and whatever was bumbling in the dark was still there.
Francis silently pressured her down until she was in a crouch at the corner of the hallway. Then, with a quick squeeze of his fingers, he let go. For a horrible moment she was left alone in the dark, then with a tiny snick light flooded the living-room and at the same time Francis dived sideways across the hall opening in front of her, the gun up and held ready.
He checked immediately and stood straight, looking very odd. At that curiosity overcame her fear, and she put one hand on the floor to lean forward and peer around the corner.
And she looked, eye to eye and on the same level, into an astonished black mask.
The sight was enough to weaken her bent legs so that they slid out from underneath her and she sat with a bump on the cold floor. In reply the fat, whiskered racoon leapt straight into the air, then began to scrabble backwards as fast as it could move.
'Dearie me, our intruder is discombobulated,' Francis commented, with mild hilarity. He leaned back against the wall as his shoulders shook.
'Oh, God!' she gasped. 'How did he get in?'
'I almost hate to mention it. The real question is, how do we get him out?'
'Oh, look at the poor thing! Quick—open all the doors and windows!' The creature cowered between the settee and the wall, its startlingly human paws clapped over its eyes. She hadn't known racoons could get so huge. She scrambled to her feet and darted to the front door to throw it wide, while Francis laid down the gun and began to unlatch the window.
'Be careful,' he warned, looking over his shoulder as she crept around the furniture to get a better look at it. 'You don't want to risk the filthy little beast scratching or biting your legs.'
'How can you call it a filthy little beast?' she said softly, her hands on her bare
knees as she bent. 'It's absolutely gorgeous!'
'And probably messing all over the floor in fright,' Francis added, strolling over to the opposite end of the settee. Kirstie glanced at him and realised, for the first time, that he was clad in nothing but his briefs. She gulped and her gaze skittered away as he grasped hold of the furniture and said, 'Get ready.'
He pulled hard at the settee and it screeched woodenly across the bare floor. The racoon exploded out of its corner right towards her. Heavens, she'd never seen anything waddle so fast in her life. Kirstie shouted and waved her arms to shoo it out of the front door, but it didn't get the message.
At the last moment she leapt on to a nearby armchair that teetered dangerously before crashing on to its side, flinging her to the floor. She managed to land on her hands and knees, very much surprised but unhurt, and when she looked around she guffawed to see the bouncing back end of the racoon whisk into the kitchen.
Crying with laughter himself, Francis hurried over to her. 'Are you all right?' he gasped.
'I—I think so. But what about the racoon?' She reached up both hands for his ready grasp and he helped her to her feet.
'I suspect he'll make it out under his own steam now.'
'How?' Hurrying to the kitchen, she found the racoon already gone, the evidence for both his visit and his hasty retreat in the window still wide open from when she'd cooked supper, and the baptism of fish bones scattered all over the counter, stove, floor— even, she found, in the sink. A small pan lay upside-down on the floor, its matching lid in a far-off corner.
'Oh, dear,' she giggled, pointing to the pan as light dawned. 'The crash I heard '
'—and the rattle,' finished Francis, whose face was still creased with merriment. He wiped his eyes. 'I'm afraid this is all my fault. I put the scraps in the pan to throw out in the morning, and I left the window open to finish airing out the smell of cooked fish.'
'"I don't "' she stuttered, holding her aching side. '"I don't want to—panic you unduly"!'
'Rub it in all you like,' he returned good-naturedly. 'Still, you handled it pretty well.'
'Are you kidding? I was petrified!'
At long last he sobered, the amusement dying slowly out of his expression, and, looking at him, Kirstie was stricken with the thought that the laughter was what had been missing from his face. He sent her a sharp green glance, disturbingly intense, and asked softly, 'Oh, yes? Was that before or after you knew it wasn't me?'
She wasn't prepared for it, and the silken question was like a douche of cold water on her face. She shivered, for her oversized T-shirt had become too thin. Even her skin was too thin, for he had slipped right under it, and she wrapped her arms around herself, a telling, defensive posture.
It was clear from the way he stood, unselfconsciously graceful in only the briefs that covered his male nakedness, that he was braced for the bitter retaliation he obviously expected from her, and the scale of the injustice she had done to him was appallingly evident in the instinctive way he had sought to protect her earlier. Suddenly she knew that he would have done the same for anybody else in their situation.
She wondered if her misjudgement hurt him, and somehow she couldn't bear the possibility of it. She licked her lips and said in a dry, painful whisper, 'But, I '
Without a change in his intent, dark expression, he stepped up to her and put his hands on to her shoulders. The warmth from his heavy palms anchored her to this place, this unwilling confession. She stared up with huge eyes at his face bent over hers. He whispered back, 'Say it.'
The indecision in her broke. 'Francis,' she said, unaware of how his name came out of her like a cry for reassurance, 'I didn't lock my door!'
How grim the line of his mouth was, how taut. 'So you didn't,' he agreed.
She shook her head from side to side, and he raised one hand to run his fingers through the short hair at the back of her head. The silken strands slipped along the hardened lengths of sinew and bone she felt like iron bands against her skull. He wrapped his other hand around her throat, tilting up her chin, trapping the negative movement of her head.
The very quality of his deliberation was shattering. The room whirled about her so that the only secure point of reference was the rock-like steadiness of his grip. He said with stunning gentleness, 'But perhaps you should have.'
Then his head came down like an avalanche, like a comet. Her heart bucked hard in violent response, but his mouth when he made contact with hers was devastatingly light and hot, sweetly, inexplicably closed to hers, and it was at once an impassioned, feverish caress and a locked door of his own. Dear God, she hadn't a clue whether it was meant to teach her or punish her.
Every one of her senses kicked into hyperdrive. She was vibrantly aware all at once, of not only the very care with which he held her and the utter lack of invasion, but of his scent, and taste, and feel, and, deepest of all, her own growing sensual hunger and disappointment. Not a punishment, but he pushed and pushed her with the long seconds trickling by, and the refusal to either deepen the kiss or pull away, until she gritted under his mouth, both angered and horribly frustrated. 'You don't frighten me!'
Even as she said it, and her mouth opened under his, she knew the statement for what it really was, an invitation.
He froze and, most amazingly of all, the featherlight fingers underneath her chin trembled. Then with exquisite, torturing control, he drew back and they stared at each other, brilliant grey and brilliant green.
'That's all right, then,' he said, so mildly that she felt the urge to hit him, but the white tension had eased from around his mouth. And then, most devastating of all, he released her and turned to walk away.
Kirstie didn't like it.
Francis was up to something. Every inch of his behaviour shouted it. He was still relaxed, even indolent. His eyes laughed more, and when his manner did not tease he was extraordinarily polite. Solicitous. Kirstie finished chewing the nail of her left forefinger and started on the thumb. Charming as well.
In fact, he had been that way ever since their nocturnal visitor on Monday night, and this was a bright Wednesday morning.
She still couldn't believe the utter ease with which he had so sensually, so casually brought her to a silently shrieking peak of physical awareness and then just walked away. She couldn't believe how she had reacted—with fury, with astonishment, with the invitation that she had known he was all too aware of— and how he had refused it and her.
She had run through the entire gamut of emotions. He hadn't wanted to kiss her, really kiss her, to sink into the warm, open crevices of her waiting mouth and devour what she had been prepared to give. That was galling.
Then, after a time, left on that stunned, unfulfilled plateau he had brought her to, she knew differently. She knew, from the unspoken language of his body, with the instinctive feminine awareness of masculine interest, from the way his gaze would linger from time to time on the mobile action of her lips as she spoke, and the stem, banked-down hunger in the depths of those green eyes, that he had wanted to.
She shook herself and jumped out of bed. Yesterday he had awakened her with a smile and breakfast on a tray. He had leaned over the pink bedspread to set the tray across her hips and she had slithered back on her pillows at the first whiff of his fresh warm scent, gaping at the full display of his delectable pectoral muscles only inches away from her mouth.
In any other male she would have liked what she had seen and basked in the attention, but that lazy, patient sexual prowl coming from Francis had her so wound up that if he so much as said boo to her she would be hanging from the ceiling like a cartoon cat.
She had tried, but it was no good any more doing as Francis had suggested on Tuesday morning, which was to take everything one day at a time. He made the urge to gravitate towards him far too easy, and that wasn't possible without concrete answers. Their relationship, already convoluted, had slipped into a place beyond her understanding. She couldn't handle it. She had to get away
to think. Making her plans, she crept to the kitchen, heated some water on the stove and measured a teaspoon of instant coffee into a cup, then frowned at it ferociously.
She knew what Francis was up to. She knew, and she also knew why she felt so craven, and why she was going to slip away that morning before he woke up. And she had to make sense of all the riotous confusion that was teeming through her mind, to come to some sort of conclusion, to exorcise the devil of insidious desire he had awakened in her on Monday night.
She had to, because he was waiting, and there would come a time when he wouldn't wait any longer.
She drank her coffee while she dressed, quietly and quickly, then packed some food in one of the backpacks stored in a cupboard below the kitchen counters, and eased out of the cabin's front door before seven o'clock.
Then, feeling driven, she set out on her hike in order to find the peace of mind she so desperately needed. She took a path that she had long been familiar with, that skirted around the lake and up to a clear stretch of slope that looked out over a panoramic view.
That isolated place always gave her a feeling of sitting on top of the world. It was silent, windy, far, far away from the noise and congestion of civilisation, and it had never before failed to help her clear her head. She needed that serenity so badly that she put the sight of the dark, gathering clouds out of her mind and continued her climb.
But her concentration was sadly lacking, and as the path skirted along the edge of an overgrown ravine her foot slipped and then her body slipped with her, and with a sharp, startled cry she fell over the edge.
She felt a bruising wrench on her shoulder, a whirling, dizzying sensation of space, and she landed heavily on one hip in a thick, leafy bed of ferns in the bottom of the ravine.
The breath was knocked out of her, so she lay wheezing for a few minutes, waiting to get her strength back before she tried to move. It had been a stupid slip, but she tended to be philosophical about such mishaps, and after her heart had slowed down to normal and she had checked to make sure she hadn't seriously damaged herself she sat up and looked around for her light canvas pack.
Passage of the Night Page 6