Passage of the Night

by Amanda Carpenter

  God help us, we saw it all. In that moment she remembered it being said, in torment, and by whom, and she covered her eyes, overcome. Then, to spare her anything further, her brother said gently, 'I'll call you tomorrow and come to see you on Sunday. Go get some sleep now, hm?'

  Kirstie nodded. After a hesitation, receiving silent affirmation from Francis that she didn't see, Paul patted her shoulder and left them alone.

  The storm sounded outside, a low, ominous rumble. She had let her hand fall lifelessly to her side but still could not look up at Francis, who asked, after a moment, 'Are you steady enough to walk to the car?'

  Her control was precarious enough that another expression of concern would have ruined her. But he spoke so matter-of-factly that she nodded again and found it true. He matched her slow pace, and waited by the passenger door until she was settled within before going around the other side and climbing in himself.

  He didn't try to talk. He just drove sedately through the quiet neighbourhood streets, turning on the heat to warm her, and she found in the silence room to think of all that puzzled her about that evening, until the one question that overrode everything was, 'Why?'

  'Why what?' he asked, and turned on to her street.

  'Why were you there this evening?' Kirstie turned her head and looked at him.

  Other than mildly raising his eyebrows, he looked tired but composed. From all that was shown in his expression, the little scene in Paul's office might never have happened. 'For the same reason,' he replied after a moment, and his face changed, and she knew it all had happened, every bit, 'I came to the airstrip the first time, and called you so many times today. Because, my dear, I cannot stay away.'

  She broke down, after all, and sobbed, 'Dear God, why can't you make up your mind between the two of us?'

  The car, neatly and with swift control, pulled to one side. He flicked off the engine and turned to take her by the shoulders with both hard hands. 'I don't understand you. Tell me what you mean, Kirstie,' he said, urgent and contained.

  'Louise,' whispered Kirstie. 'You want Louise.'

  'I wouldn't touch Louise with a ten-foot pole.' The desperation in his face was too much to take, and two tears spilled out of her swimming eyes.

  'She told me you did. You saw her.'

  He sucked in his breath harshly with the shock of it, then said with quiet savagery, 'God damn her for a lying, vicious bitch.'

  And he twisted to fling open his door. Kirstie realised at last that she was home, but her eyes were only on Francis, as he raced through the rain to her front door and slammed his fist into it twice. Then, impelled by fear for the violence thrumming through his entire body, she scrambled out of the car and ran towards him as the door opened and Louise, casual in jeans and sweater, looked at him with animosity and taunted, 'She isn't here, Francis. She's spending the night somewhere else—with whom, I don't know.'

  Kirstie stumbled to a stop just behind Francis's left shoulder, her mind ripped open by the malice in what her sister had just uttered, and Louise saw her for the first time.

  Francis put out one hand and pushed Louise aside. The other woman staggered as he brushed past her, rampaged through the ground floor and found a bag. As Kirstie crept across the threshold dumbly, a stunned spectator, her sister spat a curse and lunged for her property, but he had already ripped it open, looked inside the wallet, seen money, Louise's driving licence and car keys.

  Francis turned to Louise, his expression frightening. Even she shrank back as he reached for her, but he merely grabbed her by the arm, forcibly marched her to the door and flung her out, and the bag after her. He towered in the doorway, while just beyond him Kirstie could see Louise sprawled on the lawn, her hair flattened by the rain, every vestige of beauty erased by the vile expression on her face.

  'Get out,' enunciated Francis flatly. 'Get out of here, or I will kill you.'

  Dear God, dear God. Both women, looking at him, fully believed that he would. Louise scrambled gracelessly to her feet, snatched her bag up and ran for her car. Kirstie backed away, groped for the armchair behind her and sank into it.

  Francis slammed the door shut and threw on its chain. Then he leaned against it and buried his face in his hands. She watched his chest shudder as he gulped in great swallows of air.

  She murmured, tentatively, 'Francis?'

  A blind movement of his head to the sound of her frightened voice. 'I saw her,' he said from between his teeth, raggedly. 'Last night. I told her about us. I told her I loved you. I thought I could spare you that.' After a moment the terrifying fury had ebbed enough so that he could bare his face, and he leaned his head back against the door, concluding drily with a masterful understatement, 'It is obvious she didn't take it very well.'

  'Love me?' she whispered.

  He looked at her, his eyes dark and open, and without defence of any kind. 'Love you,' he said. 'Yes. Since Vermont. Since that long ago, and more each time I see you. Completely and forever.' He took a shuddering breath and averted his head from her astonishment. 'I had not meant to tell you in such a way.'

  Her hand raised, went out to him, but of course he couldn't see. Kirstie said to him then, vibrantly, 'But I am so glad that you did tell me, for you see, I thought I loved you alone.'

  And all delight sprang afresh from the face that he turned to her, and he was new.

  A ring. It was too much, the last straw, it was, unbelievably at that time of night, the phone. Kirstie ran to it, lifted the receiver up and without listening to who was on the other end snapped, 'Buzz off!'

  An incoherent sound exploded from Francis. He was, as she whipped around, holding his sides and shaking. Beside herself with concern, she took several steps towards him, then stood in a quandary of confusion, as she saw that he was not in tears but rich in laughter.

  But Francis knew what to do. He strode forward lightly, held out his welcoming arms, and with a rush she was in them and held, and was held back as laughter died and fervency drove his lips to hers, to brush, to devour, to search and supplicate.

  He broke at last from that engagement and buried his face convulsively into her neck, tasting, crushing, cradling, and his whole strong body trembled. 'You walked out on me yesterday, and I thought of never seeing you again,' he whispered. 'I couldn't stand it. And when I thought I was watching you die tonight I knew I was watching myself die as well.'

  'But I didn't,' she murmured as she nuzzled him, urgent to get him away from that raw place. 'Louise devastated me this morning, and I wasn't sure I could live through it. The plane crashed, but I am alive, and I love you more than anything, anything else.'

  Francis went still. She lifted her head to run her gaze over the shining black head so close to hers, and when, hidden, he asked so very gently, 'But my love, is it right?' she cried aloud that it was.

  He lifted his head and searched her face to find it true. Then, though she felt resplendent already with so much he had given, she was stunned anew as he said with luminosity and wonder, 'I never thought there was a feeling like this. I never knew it existed. Could you come with me and find a new life? I have to tell you in all fairness that you're talking to a man who will shortly be unemployed.'

  'What?' She looked wild-eyed with the surfeit of shocks dealt to her that day, and he grimaced with recognition of it.

  'I quit my job,' he confessed, looking anxious. 'And I didn't mean to tell it to you that way, either. The only thing that I can promise you is that—well, we wouldn't be broke.'

  The idiot man—as if she cared, one way or another. Kirstie smoothed his face with both hands, then asked, 'Was it right?'

  He could smile. 'The second most right thing I've ever done in my life.'

  She looked at him, lean and framed between her fingers, and with her heart in her eyes whispered, 'I could come with you, if you would stay with me. For the rest of tonight.' And with a burst of naked confession, 'Francis, I couldn't let you walk '

  But he would not let her finish. 'You don'
t have to. Hush. Oh, you know you don't have to. For if you had not offered, I would have begged.'

  She wept a little then, for she had been dealt so many blows that day and was weak, and he dried her tears with tenderness and understanding. They sat on the couch, curled as close together as they could get, and after a time she asked, 'Was she so very horrible yesterday?'

  Francis gave an angry little laugh and held her closer yet, one hand to her head, as if he were afraid Louise might still be able to do them damage. 'She was not pleasant. But I underestimated the depth of her malice.

  I had no idea she would go so far, or hurt you so much.'

  Those malignant blue eyes. She shuddered, suddenly chilled and said quietly, 'I think I didn't want to know.'

  He stirred. 'Did you know she's the whole reason why you went to Cincinnati in the first place?'

  Kirstie lifted her head from his shoulder and searched the softened lines of Francis's face. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were shining clear. 'I don't see how.'

  'Simple,' he replied wryly. 'We had that much at least figured out while we waited out that interminable hell for your radio signal. She called Christian and said you wanted to take the flight and spend the weekend in Cincinnati. He was more than happy to have the evening off and saw no reason to question why you would have given her the message to pass on. Paul finally reached him at home with a good blistering, and the whole deception came to light. He came to the airstrip to see if there was anything he could do to help. You know, I like your brothers, though Christian's a bit of a scamp.'

  She laughed and buried her face in his shirt, inhaling the delicious scent of him, revelling in the luxury of that precious intimacy. 'That he is, but he's as good as gold, with a soft spot a mile wide.'

  'He's certainly protective of you,' Francis said ruefully.

  'Oh, dear,' she murmured in dismay, and he caught her hand to fiddle with her fingers. 'What did he say?'

  'Well, he was magnanimous enough to admit that he saw possibilities for us, but the general gist was something like, "Break her heart, and I'll break your face."'

  She could tell by the line of his cheek that he was smiling, and her hand withdrew from their play to cover her mouth in appalled amusement. 'And what did you say?'

  His hand came to tilt up her chin, and he explored with fascination every line and curve of her mobile face. She watched his eyes roam as the smile died, to be replaced by what was still so newborn, it seemed frighteningly fragile. All of it was there for her and she caught her breath.

  'I said,' he whispered, 'that to guard your heart was all that I could wish for, as I had already given you mine.'

  'Oh, I love you,' she said, and it came from the back of her throat with the force of her feeling, and he thought it the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.

  Then his face changed, and hunger, so briefly fed, came back. She quickened inside, with a thrill both of heart and thought, and met his gaze silently with her own. And she took him by the hand to lead him on a slow path up the stairs, dousing the lights one by suspenseful one, until he was a study in moonlit greys like some midnight fantasy.

  But this was no fantasy, and it was her bed she was taking him to, the safe haven of warmth and dreams. She opened her door, turned to him and watched her own hand reach out, tentative and seeking. He welcomed it with his own and carried her fingers to his mouth. She stroked his lips. They parted with a sigh, and he turned his face into her open hand to lick her palm. Kirstie's whole body flushed. She started to shake in deep excitement, in impossible panic.

  She could feel, as the fingers of her free hand explored his face, that Francis had closed his eyes. He slid his cheek down the forearm, pressed it into the inside of her elbow and whispered, muffled, 'Kirstie. This is stupid. Why am I so afraid?'

  The laugh that left her lips sounded more like a sob. When his head came up, she raised herself to her toes, put her arms around his neck and held him tight.

  What they spun together was a delicate thing. She introduced him to her nest; he laid her tenderly upon it. Time was passion's labyrinth. They were lost in it together when it collapsed into texture, into the taste of salt and the catch of the breath, the mingling of legs and fingers until there was no future, no doubt, nothing at all but

  'Now,' she murmured, guiding him. He entered her and they made love, and in the passage of that night found joy.

  About the Author

  Thea Harrison started writing when she was nineteen. In the 1980s and 1990s, she wrote for Harlequin Mills & Boon under the name Amanda Carpenter. The Amanda Carpenter romances have been published in over ten languages, and sold over a million and a half copies worldwide, and are now being reprinted digitally by Samhain Publishing for their Retro Romance line.

  For more information, please visit her at: www.theaharrison.com. You can also find her on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/TheaHarrison and on Twitter at: @TheaHarrison.

  PASSAGE OF THE NIGHT

  Amanda Carpenter

  Kidnapped in the name of love!

  Kristie would do anything for her sister Louise, even if it meant kidnapping a man standing in the way of her sister’s big day. Abducting Francis Grayson and stashing him on a remote mountain in Vermont, she’s determined to hold him there until her sister is safely married.

  Waking up in a totally different location from where he started, confused and understandably angry, Francis doesn’t know what’s going on. Yes, he was dating Louise, but he knew nothing about a wedding, for goodness’ sake!

  Realizing she doesn’t know the full story, Kristie does know one thing—her captive has definitely captured her attention.

  This Retro Romance reprint was previously published in August 1991 by Mills & Boon.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  Passage of the Night

  Copyright © 2014 by Amanda Carpenter

  ISBN: 978-1-619217-881

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Originally Published by Harlequin: January 1991

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: July 2014

  www.samhainpublishing.com