Tainted Love

by Louisa Trent

  Doyle was a massive man. Imposing. More physically intimidating now than ten years earlier. There was no question in her mind that he might hurt her. Would he?

  Someone wished to hurt her. Someone wished to drive her away from Bar Harbor. She had a collection of threatening letters to prove it. Doyle was one of the few people who knew she was coming home. He might have sent the letter she received today. He might have sent all the letters. He might have murdered Frank too.

  At seventeen, she had been so innocent of the world, yet so sure of Doyle. She was not sure of him any more.

  When Doyle dug the fork into another bale, launching it too up in the air, the physical exertion rippled his muscles, and shamefully, her under-drawers grew damp at the sight.

  Wet between the legs, she took a small step inside the barn door.

  "Excuse me, Doyle. Do you have time to talk?"

  Doyle didn't acknowledge her question, but she knew he heard, for he stopped working, placed his tool carefully against the rough-hewn wall, and crossed the floor. As far away from her as he could possibly get and still remain inside the building, he offered her his back. From the safety of distance, he wiped a hard forearm across his beaded brow. And said nothing.

  "I see," she murmured. "Well--would you prefer I visited you in your architectural office, then?"

  Hunkering into his wrinkled shirt, he called over his shoulder: "You stay the hell away from my business!"

  "What are you more afraid of?" she asked, taking one more brave step into his territory. "Me corrupting your brothers or frightening away your clients?"

  "Both."

  Now that his shirt was all neatly in place, he turned 'round, walked back to his pitchfork, dug it into another bale of hay and sent it flying, as though the bundle weighed no more than a feather. His actions were done with relaxed ease, but Lillian knew at a glance that Doyle was far from relaxed. He was tense. Edgy. He watched her through narrowed eyes, black and smoky--a dead give away to his rising anger.

  Living dangerously, she made her way to his bundled hay, hiked up the skirt of her brown gown and climbed the stack, sitting her bustled bottom on the uppermost bale, ankles primly crossed beneath her.

  "There," she said with a complacency she was far from feeling. She spread her skirts. "Now you have no choice but to stop working." Her brow quirked. "Unless, of course, you intend to run me through with your fork?"

  "Don't tempt me," he growled.

  "Once perhaps. Not today."

  His legs widened; one arm rested atop a horse stall. His was the nonchalant pose of a country gentleman.

  Lillian wasn't fooled; his controlled heat could set her perch afire.

  "As I recall, Lily, the last time you trapped me in here, it was to ask me to accompany you to a house party in town."

  She sighed theatrically. "Another less than stellar moment from my past."

  "You were a little obvious."

  "Obvious? Who me? All I did was ask if you thought me pretty. If memory serves, you replied that I was passable--for a child." She laughed. "Of course, fortified by what I thought was a favorable response, I proceeded to ask you to kiss me--purely for the educational experience."

  "I remember. And I told you..."

  With a black scowl, he pitched the fork into the floor; the metal tines vibrated upon impact.

  "...to find yourself a boy your own age unless you planned on stripping off and getting fucked in the hay."

  "Ah, yes. Always the sweet talker. According to local legend, you had entertained most of the women of Bar Harbor in this barn at one time or another. Not that I ever heard any complaints from the ladies, mind you." She laughed softly.

  "Damn you, Lily! This is not funny. I should have slept with you that first summer, in spite of our age difference. Maybe then..."

  He stopped when she braced herself.

  "Never mind," he muttered. "It was a long time ago."

  "No! Do go on, Doyle. This sudden candor of yours is most enlightening."

  He shook his head. The stark planes of his face tightened. "I said, never mind. Discount everything I said."

  "No, please," she protested. "I would like to know."

  His eyes flashed, his control dipped an inch. "Fine! Maybe if I had satisfied your curiosity about sex, you wouldn't have gone to Frank the way you did."

  "I see. For a lesson in lovemaking, you mean."

  "I wouldn't have used those exact words, but that is the general idea."

  "You were always so protective," she said wistfully.

  "And see where that got either of us."

  "At one point you even asked if I was in trouble," she mused aloud. "I didn't know what on earth you were talking about. You spelled it out: Had-Frank-gotten-me-with-child? I refused to answer, and so you threatened to go to my poor grandmother with your suspicions. I shudder to think how she would have reacted."

  "You were crying all the time and moody. Then you would brighten up, and give me that sultry smile of yours, and I would think you were placed on this earth just to make my life miserable. Hell, I should have gone to Victoria, rather than try to handle you myself. A tough old bird like her probably would have locked you in your bedchamber..."

  "You forget the tree just outside the window, the one I shimmied to sneak out at night."

  "I should have taken my axe to that damned tree."

  "A relentless flirt is what you called me back then."

  He propped a muscled limb against the wall at her side. "Flirtation--is that what this is now? Because if it is, if you are flirting, I won't hesitate to satisfy your curiosity."

  Lillian shifted on the hay: her eyes darted nervously to the barn door.

  Now that it was too late, she realized how alone they were in here, how far from the front of the house where Doyle's office was located, where clients coming and going with their architectural business provided a semblance of safety. Living dangerously suddenly lost its appeal.

  Lillian slid down from her perch. "Perhaps this conversation has been another one of my many mistakes. I was always too impetuous."

  As soon as her feet met the dusty floor, Doyle took a step closer. Leaning into her, he skimmed his bruised knuckles down her cheek. The wall barricaded her on one side; his massive body flanked the other. Bales of hay separated her from her escape route out the door. He had essentially trapped her.

  "Such soft skin," he whispered seductively in her ear. "Are you here to make it up to me for the past? To make reparations?" Two callused fingers slid to her jaw. "Maybe, you would like to trade what you have between your legs for a little forgiveness?"

  "You know very well that is not why I am here," she whispered, barely able to speak.

  "I know nothing of the kind, " he exploded. "Why you have returned, now, after all these years, remains a mystery to me!"

  At his volatile outburst, her eyes slanted once again to the door, judging the distance. In recent years, her breathing problem had interfered with her former robust athleticism. Could she make the door on a sprint?

  "I ... I am having my portrait painted. W-with my grandmother. Tony has been ill of late, you know. And the idea of the painting gave him something pleasant to think about, something to plan for. I could hardly refuse."

  "Do you have any other reason for coming home?"

  "No. Of course not!"

  His fingers stroked. Caressed. "You were wild and free, untamed as a girl. And so sexually inquisitive I could have done anything to you. I still can, Lily. Don't be foolish enough to believe otherwise."

  "Do not..."

  "You will come to my bed, Lily. You will come, because you cannot help yourself."

  And therein lay the shameful truth. Despite her fear of him, despite her fear of the sexual act itself, despite her engagement to Charles, she would do whatever Doyle demanded. Such was the depth of her depravity ... and her need for forgiveness.

  "I didn't come here today for this, Doyle," she murmured, the tips of her small breast
s painfully tightening under her frumpy bodice. "I came here for advice..."

  "Advice!" He snorted. "You came here for a good rutting."

  He pulled on the tabs of her stiff collar.

  Her breathing grew irregular. "No, I..."

  Evidently not satisfied with the amount of skin revealed, he began to actually unfasten the gown's high neckline. "You want it now the same way you wanted it back then."

  Turning her face away, she simply allowed him to unbutton her. If he decided to strip her naked in this barn, amidst the aroma of horses and hay and manure, she would do nothing to prevent it. One traitorous part of her even wished him to overpower her, for if he raped her, there would be no blame, no responsibility, no accountability on her part. No one--including herself--

  would accuse her of unfaithfulness to Charles then.

  She wanted him, yet she shook in terror of the act itself.

  Fear and desire. That dangerous combination described the dichotomy of her relationship with Doyle Donovan. He had held her in bondage as a young girl, and these many years later, he still held her enslaved.

  If some things, some events, in her past were confused, and other things, other events, were open to misinterpretation, her one steadfast certainty was this: she had once desired Doyle Donovan more than she desired breath.

  She still did.

  He opened her bodice to the waist. Undoing each hook and button one by one, he exposed her chemise as well as her embarrassingly small bosom; the shallow cleavage hardly swelled at all above her corset. While she concentrated on taking each breath, Doyle slipped his hand inside her gaping clothing; his palm felt incredibly warm as it encircled the bare skin of her throat.

  "At seventeen, you came sniffing around me, as promiscuous as any Parisian harlot. Did you learn any new bedchamber tricks during your sojourn in Boston?"

  When she said nothing, Doyle ran his fingertips up and down her throat. "All I ever need do was look at you, and you would pant. Snap my fingers, and honey would pour from your cunt down your open thighs. If I told you to come, your only question to me was: how many times? Lily, the trained houri! How many men have owned your pussy?"

  No one. Only him. Doyle was the only man who had ever owned her...

  "How many men, Lily? Hmm? How many lovers can claim acquaintance with your quim?"

  With her last remaining breath, she gasped, "I didn't come here for this; I came here only for advice..."

  He yanked his warm hand away from her ice-cold flesh. "Advice? Here it is: leave the barn right now, before this goes any further. My second suggestion is for you stay clear of me for the remainder of your visit."

  "I cannot!"

  "Why, Lily? Tell me why!" He slammed his fist into the timber behind her shoulder. "I know there is more to your visit than a damned portrait."

  Frightened, she blurted, "I need to find the truth behind Frank Johnson's death. I need to know, once and for all, how he died."

  "Let it go!"

  "I cannot! Not any longer!"

  "Why now? It was ten years ago."

  "Because I am to be wed," she whispered. "For the sake of my future husband, I need to resolve Frank's death. I cannot risk scandal. It was determined that Frank died of accidental causes. A fall. There was nothing to indicate, no evidence, that he was ... that he was k-killed."

  "Evidence," he scoffed. "Who needs evidence?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You and I both know that gossip can destroy a person's good name better than any court of law. The scandal of my non-conviction nearly cost me my architect business. I was almost declared unfit to raise my brothers. I nearly lost them to an orphanage! Damn you, Lily, for that injustice above all the rest!"

  She covered her mouth. "I never wished to hurt either you or your brothers..."

  "You never meant for any of it to happen. Nevertheless, it did happen. I was nearly ruined. And I hold you responsible. You owe me, Lily. And make no mistake, I intend to collect on the debt."

  "But your business wasn't ruined. And your book! My grandmother told me a book of yours was published. Writing was your dream. You realized your dream, despite everything."

  His hands molded her shoulders; his face came to within a breath of her own. "You were my dream, Lily. Only you. Not some damned book. You were all I ever wanted or needed."

  And with that he let her go. He slammed out the barn door, leaving the hinges reverberating long after his departure.

  Now that she was alone, Lillian allowed her backbone to sag, allowed her face to crumble. She sat motionless on the coarse hay, as wrung out as one of her grandmother's dishrags.

  It was as if Doyle had sorted through the tangle of her mind and maliciously picked the most effective way to punish her: he called her his dream. The words that she had once longed to hear were finally hers.

  Funny, she had never known until today how much she had meant to him.

  She had tried for a year to get Doyle to say anything that would give her a hint as to how he really felt about her, or about anything else for that matter. Until the night of Frank's death, he had always flatly refused.

  Once though, before that horrible night, he had revealed a secret ambition to her, nothing at all like his longing to write, but still of some major importance to him. His plan was to dredge out the swampy marsh behind his house and create a natural habitat for animals and birds and waterfowl.

  He had described this plan to her in great detail. So much so, she rendered his words in pigment. Proud of the accomplishment, she matted and framed the landscape, presenting the painting to him as a surprise gift. She knew immediately he liked it, for he had kissed her. Oh, only a peck on the cheek, not a real kiss, but the affectionate gesture thrilled her all the same. Then, after the kiss, he called her talented. At the time, she remembered thinking how unfair life was, because Doyle talents equaled, if not surpassed, hers. His word pictures were every bit as vivid as her oil pictures, his written portraits as evocative as her painted portraits, with depictions so colorful, phrases so lyrical, emotions so real, she knew he was meant to write as she was meant to paint. That insight into the real man, the man he wouldn't allow others to see, was Doyle's return gift to her. That magical day, he told her he would cherish her painting always.

  Whatever happened to that painting? She wondered. Did he still have it? Or, had he destroyed it as soon as she left town?

  Plucking at her gown, Lillian promised herself she wouldn't cry.

  She had been Doyle's dream!

  And she had very nearly destroyed him.

  Now she needed his help.

  Lillian tossed a handful of hay up in the air. A shower of golden dust separated from the chaff and rained down over her, fluff easily discernable from substance when it landed in her lap.

  She must do much the same thing with Frank Johnson's death. Toss up the events of that night, let the facts fall wherever they might, and then examine them. Only then, would the distortions of lies separate from the reality of what had really happened ten years ago. Only then, would she and Doyle be free of the past.

  Free of each other too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Breakfast smells good," Lillian said with a tired smile the next morning.

  "Help yourself from the sideboard, dear, then join me at the table."

  While Victoria Hill's own mounded plate gave proof of the elderly lady's hearty appetite, Lillian had a difficult time covering the china's floral pattern with her own selection. Eschewing the bacon and eggs, cold meats and pies, and hot buttered rolls her grandmother loved in favor of a single piece of dry toast from the buffet, she slipped dutifully into her chair, poured herself a cup of tea, and pretended to eat.

  "Call me a meddling old fool, but those dark circles under your eyes must mean something."

  The china cup stalled halfway to Lillian's lips. "They mean I slept poorly last night."

  "From the looks of you, I would say you sleep poorly most nights."

  H
er cup made nary a clatter when it settled back into its saucer. "I have a bottle of laudanum. However, I prefer not to take anything for the insomnia. The ailment is a nuisance, but usually ... manageable."

  A sharp pair of eyes surveyed Lillian's untouched breakfast. "If you cannot sleep, you must at least eat to keep up your strength."

  "Yes ma'am." Lillian moved the triangle of bread from one side of the plate to the other.

  "You know, my dear, you are not the first woman in history with a past," the elderly lady grumbled between chews.

  "A past like mine? Involving a lover's death under scandalous circumstances?"

  "Impertinence does not become you, child."

  "Me? Impertinent?"

  "Perhaps a tad dramatic, then." Victoria wiped her lips with a linen napkin.

  Rising from her chair, Lillian deposited her sliver of uneaten toast in the small pail assigned for waste; the cloying smell of food had begun to make her feel quite ill.

  "But you ate nothing!" Victoria exclaimed, following her granddaughter's every move.

  After placing the scraped dish into the dry sink, Lillian adroitly changed the subject. "Nana, do you remember my friend, Meg Stanton?"

  "Of course, dear. My arteries have not hardened to that degree yet."

  Lillian made no comment about that last piece of nonsense; her grandmother's mind was as sharp as a tack. "Well, Meg dropped by last night to invite me to a promenade concert at the harbor pavilion."

  "Meg knows of your homecoming?"

  "We correspond. Frequently. In my last letter, I wrote that I was due to arrive in Bar Harbor this week. Meg is the only person I told," she said pointedly, referencing her grandmother's own marked propensity for sharing too much information about her grandchild with too many people.

  As Lillian expected she would, Victoria Hill ignored the barb. "Meg, now there is a gal with a healthy appetite. Must be all that pounding and chipping she does--stone sculpting requires a good deal of energy. Food feeds energy which in turn feeds creativity."

  Lillian shot her grandmother an exasperated look.