Tainted Love

by Louisa Trent

  An arm looped around the back of Lillian's waist. Her grandmother held her close, as though she was once again a child in need of a hug. "The way Doyle used to look at you! Oh, my. Like you were as fragile as bone china and more precious than gold. You are very precious, Grandchild, but you are far from fragile. You have proud Hill blood flowing through your veins, my girl. When all else fails, your pedigreed stock will stand you in good stead!"

  CHAPTER NINE

  Upon the deaths of his parents in a tragic carriage accident, Doyle resigned from his prestigious position in a bustling New York City architectural partnership and returned to the quiet Maine countryside to care for his two younger brothers in the family home. To keep his eye on the rambunctious pair, he built a separate wing onto the house to accommodate his new office.

  Through an enormous window in that wing, Lillian saw the architect seated at his mahogany desk, talking animatedly to a client seated across from him. Doyle reminded her of Maine rock, all rough hardness and raw strength. But there was tenderness too behind those bunched muscles; he had once touched her with infinite care.

  When Doyle looked up and saw her, his heated glare seared her through the glass. Clearly, the architect was furious. She hadn't expected him to welcome her with open arms, but she hadn't expected him to throttle her either. It would appear she had underestimated Doyle's passionate nature. Again.

  Then, Doyle's face altered. Oh, it was only a brief transformation, lasting only long enough to allow something else to flicker across his grim features, a hybridized cross between wishing to strangle her on the spot and wishing to...

  What?

  Doyle's emotions were usually transparent, but this time, she didn't know quite what to make of them. Or him. Before she figured anything out, he jumped to his feet and rushed out the office door, his client left to stare out the window after him.

  Doyle planted himself squarely in front of her. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I am very well, thank you. And you?"

  "In no mood for sarcasm."

  Lillian rubbed her gray serge covered arms. "Brrr. Did a cloud move across the sun? It's unseasonably cool of a sudden."

  "Not me. I feel damn hot. Now answer the damn question."

  "I came to talk," she said with controlled aplomb.

  "Have you no common sense, woman? Coming here in broad daylight, when anyone might see you."

  Taking her elbow, he ushered her away from the office.

  At the barn, she shook free of his restraining grip. "Did you really expect I would slink around in the dark to meet you?"

  "That sounds more like your style. And point of fact: you are not meeting me. You are not here at any invitation I issued."

  Lillian took an uneasy breath. Doyle's client had followed him outside, and was now looking over at them. At her, in particular. This was gossip in the making. The juicy tidbit that a red-haired woman had been seen openly arguing in public with Doyle would spread like wildfire. Everyone in Bar Harbor would rehash the gossip twelve different ways to Sunday until the woman was identified as the infamous Lillian Hill.

  During the past ten years, she had worked very hard at keeping a rigid self-discipline, at dressing and acting conservatively, at refining her wild image. And here she was back where she started!

  A mild breeze blew up and attempted to re-organize her tight chignon. Lillian promptly patted the few recalcitrant stray strands back in place under her veiled hat. She was falling apart on almost an hourly basis!

  Her hair restored to orderliness, Lillian folded her hands primly at her waist. "I agree. We shouldn't be seen together in public. So, where would you like us to have our discussion? And please do not list hell as a possible alternative. I am already quite aware that is where you would like me to go."

  "That does it!" He attached himself to her arm again. "I must insist you leave my property at once."

  "Not until we have our little talk."

  "What the blazes is wrong with you? After what you told me last night, you have the gall to show up here, of all places?"

  She maintained a carefully placid exterior, though inside she was a quivering ball of frazzled nerves. "Do you suffer a faulty memory? Your office is hardly the scene of the crime. Frank was killed on the ocean rocks outside my bedchamber window." She tssked. "All that blood spattered on the lovely beach roses. It broke my heart to see those pink petals stained red."

  She paused, took a shaky breath. "You see, Doyle, I came home seeking the truth and I shall get it!"

  "You may get more than that."

  "Is that a threat?"

  "It's a warning. For your own good, watch what you say in public."

  "Then, lets have our conversation someplace private, shall we? Perhaps in a dungeon," she goaded. "Or, perhaps you know of a torture chamber somewhere? Or, if you would like, you might take me to the woodshed again. Is your grip still firm on a leather belt?"

  Doyle's normally tan complexion turned deadly white. There appeared to be a hammer pounding beside his jaw. "Continue to provoke me and you will find out."

  This time, she had no quick, snappy retort.

  The woodshed.

  Her nipples hardened in memory...

  *

  "Don't tell my grandmother," she had begged.

  Doyle glowered at her. "You leave me no choice. Eighteen years old and you act like a child! Mrs. Hill needs to know you rode El Diablo against my expressed orders. You deserve a sound thrashing for this latest misbehavior, young lady."

  Her grandmother would never take a strap to her; Lily had never been punished in her life! And that was not what had her worried. Nana was elderly and Lily did not wish her upset.

  "Doyle, this is between you and me! You handle my punishment..."

  Something dark and dangerous stirred behind his eyes. The look excited her in a forbidden way.

  "I am not your father, Lily."

  How well she knew it! Her feelings were that of a woman for a man, not a child seeking a father substitute.

  Doyle was as angry as she had ever seen him, and not because of El Diablo. No, Doyle was angry because that day, when he had helped her down off the horse, he had responded to her sexually. She had felt that huge, hard, lump in his trousers. And she planned to work this day's misbehavior to her full advantage.

  She sauntered toward the small outbuilding behind the main house.

  "I am not done with you, young lady!"

  As she intended he should, Doyle followed her into the woodshed.

  It was dark inside. Save for a small window at ceiling level, nearly pitch black.

  "Forgive me, Doyle," she whispered. "I didn't mean to cause you difficulty..."

  "Have you no sense?" he raged. "I told you not to ride El Diablo. That stallion might have thrown you and broken your back!"

  "I am an excellent horsewoman..."

  "What you are is a spoiled brat!"

  If that is what it took Doyle to notice her...

  She would do anything--even ride El Diablo--if it caught his attention.

  "God only knows what would have happened if I hadn't ridden after you! You need a firm hand, young lady, or you will find yourself in serious trouble some day."

  She swayed her slender hips over to a pile of split logs. "I need your firm hand, Doyle."

  She knew for a fact that Doyle had never whipped his two hell-raising brothers. He would never lay a hand on her either. He was all bluster...

  But other ... interesting things ... might happen in this woodshed if she played her cards right.

  "Please don't tell my grandmother I was bad," she cried, and bent herself over the woodpile. Gyrating her hips, she raised her bottom, as though expecting the descent of the strap.

  She sorely did deserve a spanking, though not for attempting to ride a stallion--for provoking a stallion to ride her!

  "What the hell are you doing?" Dole said in voice that sound strangled.

  If he didn't know, he wasn't the
man she thought he was.

  Turning round, Lily made what she thought was a sensual moue with her lips, and then said sweetly, "I think ten sound lashes should do it, don't you?" Faced away again, she wiggled her buckskin-encased bottom at him. "You may begin."

  Seize the moment! That was her motto.

  For months, she had been madly in love with Doyle. She was sure he would love her in return if given a nudge in the right direction! They were alone, it was dark in the shed, and she was thrusting out her derriere--red matador's cape to bull--before an extremely virile man. Oh, he would respond, all right!

  Queen Victoria might have just celebrated her Golden Jubilee in England, but this was America, and her grandmother was a progressively minded woman. Her nana had explained the facts of life at the onset of her first menses. Though unquestionably a virgin, she was not an ignorant goose. She had heard those rumors about Doyle; purportedly, his male part was enormous. It was also purported that he never refused an opportunity to use it. Well, here was just such an opportunity, served up to him on a silver platter. How much more persuasion did he need to forget his gentlemanly ways around her and treat her like a woman?

  She wiggled some more.

  "You irrepressible little flirt," he growled at her.

  She gave him a saucy grin over her shoulder.

  At which, he walked to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key. Finally!

  "Do you think me a green lad, Lily? Do you think you can twist me around your little finger like you do with boys your own age?"

  Uh--oh. Doyle did not sound amused. Or amorous. Doyle sounded angry.

  She quit wiggling. Straightening, she turned toward him. "I was only teasing..."

  "Someday you will try this seductress act on the wrong man and get yourself raped. You need to learn that you cannot tease a man and run."

  His black eyes narrowed. "If you behave like a child, I will treat you like a child," he pronounced. "Take down your trousers, Lily."

  This isn't the way she had planned this seduction! He really was treating her like a child! "I will not!"

  "Drop your trousers or I go to your grandmother and tell her what you have been up to, not only with a dangerous horse, but with a dangerous man."

  She loved him! Love had driven her to such desperate measures.

  The unyielding look in Doyle's smoldering eyes told her that she had toyed with him one time too many. This time, Doyle really would go her grandmother.

  That mustn't happen!

  She undid her tight breeches and pushed them down her slim hips, which left her nude from the waist down--she never wore drawers underneath breeches.

  "Good Lord," he rasped, staring at her privates.

  In her wanton excitement, her vagina went fluid. Her juices turned her loins moist and that moisture ran down her legs. She was quite literally drenched in anticipation of the spanking, craving Doyle's interest, whatever form it took. Just the thought of his hand touching her bare flesh, the palm coming down on her bottom, was enough to make her swoon.

  "Christ sakes, Lily! Your pussy is wet."

  Did his voice contain revulsion?

  She thought it must, for seeing that wet red triangle that decorated her body's center, he turned her away from him, as though disgusted with her. In that faced-away pose, he bent her over the woodpile again and ten sharp whacks were administered to her bare posterior. His palm didn't linger as her punishment was delivered. Neither did his fingers cup, as she longed for them to do. Discipline was meted out efficiently and dispassionately. But at least she held his attention. That had to mean something.

  It was her first spanking.

  And her first something else too.

  She didn't have a name for it. There was tension and release. When the knot softened, bright shards of pleasure exploded inside her and she screamed like a tavern tart. She could hardly wait for that special something to happen again. With Doyle. Only with Doyle.

  The administrator of that which was both her pain and her pleasure apparently was not of the same mind. Muttering the foulest of oaths, Doyle unlocked the woodshed's door and stormed out, leaving her there with her trousers around her ankles...

  *

  The mature Lillian felt herself grow flushed and breathless at the recollection. "After we finish our mutual nastiness, might I make an appointment with you?"

  "What kind of an appointment?"

  "Not for the woodshed, I assure you," she said, trying to maintain her poise with some irreverent humor. "I need a business appointment. My grandmother would like you to design a Memory Garden..."

  "I design buildings, not gardens."

  "You design buildings that naturally flow out of the existing landscape. As an artist involved in the Arts and Crafts movement in Boston, I can certainly appreciate your naturalistic philosophy. As does my grandmother, I might add. She admires your work tremendously. Naturally, the consultation will be on your terms and at your convenience."

  "Very well. For your grandmother, I agree to the consult at some future time and at a different location."

  "You are far too kind, sir."

  To avoid seeing his censure, Lillian dropped her lashes. "I came by today for another reason--other than to bear the brunt of your insults, that is. I owe you a thank you for your help last night. I apologize for any inconvenience I might have caused you."

  "You thanked me, now leave."

  Her eyes flashed to his. "I don't think that's terribly hospitable of you."

  "I don't happen to care what you think, Lily." He performed an abrupt about face.

  She called after him. "The reason you wish me to leave--is it because you cannot risk being seen associating with a murderess?"

  He stalked back to her. "If anyone overhears you admit to anything in relation to Frank Johnson's death, anything that even hints of your involvement, you will regret you ever returned."

  Funny, that was the exact wording on her welcome home note.

  Doyle might have quoted from it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Remember that night, Lily?" Doyle asked. "You were shaking like a leaf during a nor'easter."

  Remember that night?

  That night haunted her waking hours and tortured her sleep.

  She had been frightened to death the night of Frank Johnson's death. Those were the years when she had been honest with her emotions. When she was terrified, she hadn't been afraid to show it. After Frank, she had made herself over into someone else, someone refined and passionless and poised; she had learned the hard way that it was safer to keep her emotions under lock and key.

  Doyle had never played it safe with his emotions. He wasn't afraid of his passions. And he certainly wasn't overly concerned about appearances...

  There was a jagged tear in his trousers at the knee. Who cared for Doyle now that he was finished caring for his brothers? Was there not some woman out there who mended his clothes? Or, at the very least, saw to it that he was walking around with all his boy parts decently covered?

  She grinned at the mental image of Doyle, a rip in his trousers uncovering his very un-boyish male parts.

  "You think that night was funny?" Doyle asked, furiously.

  "No, not that night," she started to explain, then stopped.

  Who was he to be furious? She should be the one who was furious about what had happened that night! If a little comic relief made her horrible memories more bearable, if injecting a little escapist humor helped her deal with that night, who was he to judge her?

  Still--she didn't wish to anger Doyle.

  She sobered immediately. "No, I don't think that night was funny. Not at all. I think this whole affair has been tragic for all concerned. I realize that you have suffered business setbacks on my account, and if it will make you feel any better, my past has caused major disruptions in my life too."

  He appeared to be waiting for a further explanation.

  When one was not forthcoming, he said, almost as though he was disappoint
ed she hadn't further bared her soul, "I can appreciate a life disrupted. Now leave! You have caused me enough grief."

  "I have no intention of causing you more."

  "You are still breathing, aren't you?"

  If only he knew the difficulty she had in that area!

  She stared at that trouser rip, obsessed with the rip at the knee.

  Doyle must have a woman somewhere who took care of his--uh--personal needs. Maybe several women. He was a virile, attractive man of thirty-nine. He might not have married, but he would never live like a monk. Perhaps he simply preferred the sexual variety of a string of mistresses who made themselves available to him at a moment's notice.

  Lillian sighed. A male might keep a harem of women, and society would slyly compliment the behavior. While a hint of promiscuity often enhanced a man's reputation, the same standard was not applied to a woman. Once innuendo, gossip--outright lies--destroys a woman's reputation, it is forever irredeemable.

  It was common knowledge that she had entertained two men in her bedchamber during the same evening. Given the same situation, society would call a man lucky. At the worst, he would earn the reputation of a rake. A woman was called a slut. Period.

  The townspeople of Bar Harbor thought of her as little better than a whore. Her red hair, her exotic wild looks ... her unladylike conduct with Doyle ... had fueled the hints of impropriety, but in the end, it was her own admission of reprehensible behavior that had ruined her reputation. She, and she alone had caused Doyle to look upon her with derision.

  Woozy, her breathing labored, she brought a shaky hand to her throat. A blackout was imminent; it was so close, she could already smell the chemical aroma in her nostrils.

  As if in a trance she said, "Frank Johnson's wallet, actually a leather billfold, was gone missing after his death. It is of vital importance that I find it."

  "I know nothing of any billfold."

  "Do you mind if I look around your property?"

  "Yes, I do mind."

  Doyle took a deep breath--lucky him!--and said, "Frank's wallet was probably washed out to sea when he fell."