Tainted Love

by Louisa Trent

  She sprawled there, drowsy, with Doyle glaring down at her, his narrowed eyes on her slick and open labia.

  She must have fallen asleep then, for when she awakened, she was dressed in her most demure nightgown and Doyle was talking quietly to her grandmother in the kitchen...

  *

  Had he touched her while she slept her drugged sleep? Had he kissed her slack mouth and rubbed his cock against her naked belly, in the shallow cleavage between her immature breasts? Had he spurted, long and hot, between the wet folds of her virgin vulva?

  She hoped so. She fantasized that he did...

  Doyle broke into her reverie with a curse. "What are you doing coming home this late? And alone too? And where the hell is the pony cart?"

  "The cart broke an axle," she murmured.

  "Suppose I hadn't been the one waiting for you by the sea walk? Suppose someone else was there, someone trying to shut you up for good?"

  "Undoubtedly, I would be dead by now."

  She looked wryly at the borrowed shirt she wore. "But at least I would be a decently clothed corpse."

  He butted his forehead to hers. "I shall have you, Lily, one way or the other, engagement or no engagement."

  Her nervous breath caught again as he propped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "But I don't fuck nearly faint women. I like it a little more lively than that between the sheets."

  "Thank you."

  "Such fine manners. At least you didn't lie and say you don't desire it when I know you do desire it."

  Oh, but she lied! And in the most fundamental of ways. Doyle just didn't know it. Not yet. But he would find out soon enough if he kept this up. He would learn that she was just as cold and empty as Charles knew her to be.

  "Mark my words, your pound of flesh will disappoint you!" she croaked.

  "Pound of flesh," he muttered, sounding oddly amused. "If only it were that simple."

  He swatted her backside. "Go on up to the cottage now. I shall follow at a discreet distance."

  She teetered away, taking three shaky steps before the rain started, plump drops that accused her of faithlessness as they fell.

  Faithlessness to whom? Charles or Doyle?

  She turned her face up to the sky, letting the rain blend with her tears.

  By the time she let herself into the cottage and made her way to the privacy of her bedchamber, her breathing had dramatically improved.

  She loved Doyle. Had always loved him. Once, more than life itself. And not only that, she had told him so.

  Rain had fallen that night too. Not a soft rain like this night's rain, but the worst storm in years.

  It was the night Frank was killed...

  *

  Great sheets of water splashed across the windowpanes.

  The wavy antique glass distorted color, making the rain appear greenish. Though early summer, the cottage was dark and chilly. For warmth, she lit a fire in her bedchamber's hearth.

  Lightening flashed outside and the wind whistled through the shutters. Above the turmoil of nature, above the moans and groans and creakiness of the old house, she heard a noise.

  Was that Frank, come to collect on his blackmail?

  He kept the love letters in his leather billfold. 'In chronological order,' he told her. All she had to do was sleep with him, and the incriminating evidence would be hers.

  Lillian raced to the window. Against the slap of rain and wind, she saw a huddled figure approach the cottage's back door, fighting for every step he took.

  A streak of lightening lit up the sky. Enough for her to recognize that the sodden man shouldering his way to the cottage wasn't Frank, as she had dreaded, but Doyle.

  Barefoot, and wrapped in her grandmother's red paisley shawl, she ran outside to meet him. Keeping her head tucked low, she crossed the huge puddles in the backyard. Mud splashed up her bare legs, dirtying the hem of her white nightgown. She was saturated to the skin, as rain-beaten as her grandmother's lilies, which lay sprawled upon the ground, their white petals limp.

  Doyle grabbed her. "I thought you were spending the night with a friend," he lashed out at her. "Why the hell are you here?"

  "This is where I wish to be," she said, trying to reassure him

  "You will come with me," he shouted against her wet face.

  Her feet swam in ankle-deep puddles; the water was rising fast. Her nightgown was plastered to her legs, the hem dragging. She was cold and frightened, but she wasn't about to leave her home.

  "No! I stay. I will not leave the cottage."

  "It's only a house, Lily!"

  "Not to me," she said obstinately. "Never to me!"

  "Your grandmother isn't here; that makes you my responsibility."

  Responsibility? Is that all she was to him?

  He could go straight to hell!

  She turned to go back inside. "I am a grown woman. Leave me alone."

  "We don't have time for this now! The road is almost washed out." He wrapped his arms around her. "Please? I am tired, so damned sick and tired, of always fighting you. I need to get back to my brothers, but I cannot go without you."

  She stumbled away from him. "This is my home and I am staying!"

  His hand clamped on her shoulder. "All this for four walls and a roof! I don't understand you at all."

  But despite his angry words, he cuddled her to him, his arm flung over her shoulders, protecting her as they made their way back across the yard. It was only a short walk but it seemed to take forever. Each time her bare feet slipped on the lichen-covered bricks, he steadied her against his body.

  Inside the kitchen, he said gruffly, "Go change out of that wet nightgown."

  "You will stay?"

  "For as long as I can. Now hurry and change before you take ill."

  She looked down. Her white nightgown was soaking wet, totally transparent. The fine batiste clung to her youthful curves, revealing more than it hid.

  Deliberately, she let the cover of her shawl fall to the floor in a sodden heap.

  Doyle never moved, but his black eyes traced her body's outline. "Come here."

  When she did as he requested, he tilted her chin up and kissed her. Roughly. His bearded face felt strange but wonderful against her damp cheeks.

  "Perhaps this isn't such a good idea," he said in a tight voice when the kiss ended. "Perhaps I should leave right now."

  Her heart fluttered. "Don't leave me."

  He reached out a thumb and traced the contours of her mouth. "You feel cold."

  "It's warmer upstairs," she whispered. "In my bedchamber."

  His hand fell from her mouth as she turned, leading him through the old house. At the main staircase, she held up the hem of her gown with one hand and climbed the narrow steps with a lady-like sway of her bottom.

  Doyle hesitated on the landing outside her bedchamber door. "Lily?"

  She smiled over her shoulder. "Wait inside. I shall be right back with the linens."

  "First this," he replied and clasped her around the waist. He kissed her harder than he had downstairs. "Just so you understand."

  "I do."

  "Good. Now go."

  "I shall hurry."

  He walked over the threshold into her bedchamber and stripped off his shirt. "You had better hurry or I shall come looking for you."

  On her return, she moved so quietly that he was startled when she touched him.

  "What are you up to now, Lily?"

  "Just drying you," she replied, blotting the moisture from his furry chest.

  "My turn," he said when she was done.

  He took the linen and dried her face, stroking it tenderly. Then he moved downwards, warming the cool skin of her neck. He eyed her speculatively before unfastening her gown. "Fair is fair."

  She nodded. "I agree. We should be equally unclothed."

  While he worked on her ribbons, she leaned forward, capturing a drop of water from his wet chest with her tongue. "You taste like rain."

  "Do I?"
>
  "Oh, yes," she said softly against his mouth as he opened her gown to the waist. "And from now on, every time it rains I shall remember how much I love you..."

  *

  And she did remember. For ten long years, every time it rained, she thought of him.

  Lily touched her mouth, almost tasting that rainy-kiss still. "I love you Doyle. I shall always love you."

  But only the old house heard her vow above the downpour.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next morning, Lily set herself a task: she would go to the beach beneath her bedchamber window, to the spot where the wild beach roses bloomed. Perhaps if she were brave enough to return to the place where Frank Johnson died, she might also find the fortitude to move on with her life.

  She had hated Frank for blackmailing her. Hated herself too for giving in to his extortion. She despised her powerlessness, her lack of control over her own life. And yet, no matter how much she loathed her servitude to him, to break free of her chains would mean causing her grandmother pain. Watching her grandmother suffer was something Lily simply could not do.

  Instead, she had allowed herself to be destroyed...

  She was not the woman she might have been because of Frank Johnson. Nightmares, a personal life lacking in intimacy, a fiancé who didn't really know her, and a man she had loved and betrayed--these were Frank Johnson's legacies, bequeathed to her from the grave.

  So today, she would revisit the scene of the crime. She would go to the place that should have set her free, but had instead imprisoned her just as securely as any jail cell might have done.

  Lily walked along the cottage's fieldstone foundation, trailing her fingers against mortared stones, hugging the house's perimeter, hoping the house would give her courage.

  The Widow's Walk, lined with a hedge of pink roses, awaited her in the distance. She closed her eyes and felt the touch of the sun on her face, heard the birds chirp, smelled the scent of flowers, and hopelessly gave herself over to memory...

  *

  Doyle was rain-wet and smiling. "Every time it rains you will remember me, hey?" he said, as she kissed the raindrops from his chest.

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Finish drying your hair." He stepped away.

  "Where are you going?"

  But he left without answering, going back out into the storm; he returned a short time later with an armful of white lilies.

  "For you." He handed her the dripping bouquet.

  She breathed in the moist wonder, musing to herself that the flowers were fit for a wedding ceremony. It was a night for rain and passion, of white candles burning bright, and she felt very much like a bride.

  Doyle touched her still damp hair. "Lily, are you sure? We can wait to make love."

  "I have never been more sure of anything."

  His hand moved to cup her face. "So young. I can wait--I swear to wait for you."

  At eighteen, she knew her mind and would countenance no delay. Frank pressured her for intimacy. How much longer could she hold him off? If she must give into his demands she would have something for herself first. Doyle! The man she loved must be the one who took her virginity, not the loathsome Frank!

  She moved closer to the hand that stroked her cheek, closer to Doyle's heat. "We have waited long enough to make love."

  With her vehement declaration, he parted the bodice of her nightgown, opening it to her concave belly, and then beyond. His eyes went dark and fathomless, but his touch was gentle. Reverent. His sensuous stroking thrilled her, the rapture deep and urgent and abiding.

  Her neck arched. She bit down on her lip to suppress her shiver of pleasure, and excitement, when torturously slow, he feathered his fingers over her skin until her nerve endings caught fire, until her moans, even to her own ears, sounded uninhibited. She gasped, going hot and needful, as he deepened his caress.

  Then, he stopped.

  "What is it?" she asked. Had she done something wrong? Was she too passive, too innocent, too naïve?

  He mustn't find her out! He mustn't know this was her first time!

  "Are you still virgin?" he demanded, the question released on a hot rush of desire that fanned across her upturned face like fog across the water.

  Doyle's question didn't anger her, for she knew it wasn't asked to be judgmental. The question contained no righteousness, no moral indignation, no hypocritical accusation. Neither was the question asked out of petty spite or jealousy. Though God knows, she had given Doyle ample and just reason to suspect her of promiscuousness! Her behavior towards him had long ago exceeded the boundaries of propriety. She had been forward and impetuous, and everything a lady should not be...

  No, Doyle's question was a plea, an entreaty that came from the heart of a man who simply did not wish to hurt her. Protectiveness was the underlying cause of Doyle's uncertainty, his hesitancy in taking her to bed.

  But she had a secret weapon to fight his overprotection: her hymen was no longer intact...

  An injury. She had taken El Diablo riding. Again. Against the owner's expressed permission. Again. And the horse had thrown her. Again. Causing her to bleed a copious amount from the vagina. Doyle would assume she had already been with Frank. Or some other lad. A stable boy, perhaps.

  So, she lied without really lying. With a saucy wink, she said, "No need to worry on that score."

  And with that boast given, Doyle picked her up in his strong arms and carried her to the bed...

  *

  Lillian's eyes snapped open, and she took a tiny step nearer to the scene of Frank's death.

  She hadn't bothered with shoes, and green ferns, damp with morning dew, curled softly around her bare ankles. They tickled when she brushed against them. In Boston, there were no uncivilized places for ferns to grow. In the city, there was Boston Common, true, but the park was hardly wild. For true happiness, she needed acres and acres of lush green grass where she might walk barefoot whenever she felt so inclined. Oftentimes, she would lie awake at night in her rented room in the Back Bay brownstone she shared with other female artists and actually feel the pull of the cottage: the woods; the sea; the gardens; the wild beauty that was Maine.

  There was a small stream that trickled behind her grandmother's peony garden. When she was a little girl, she would go there to skip stones. And then later, she would sneak down to the water all by herself, just to dream; she had always been a dreamy child. It was at the stream's edge that she would gather plants for centerpieces. And in the winter, she would scout down pine boughs for Christmas wreaths.

  She'd had a wonderful, perfect childhood. And it saddened her that she wouldn't be able to bring her own children here someday. There were vacations, of course, if Charles was able to get away from his Boston bank. But it wouldn't be the same. Her fiancé would come to resent coming to Bar Harbor almost as much as he would most certainly come to resent her.

  Poor Charles! She hadn't given her fiancé much thought.

  She didn't love him. He knew it, for she had told him so, even as he placed his ring upon her finger.

  No, she didn't love Charles, but she had never once deceived him, as she had loved and deceived Doyle.

  She had tried to tell Charles about her past, and on more than one occasion, but he wouldn't listen, refused to hear. Somewhere deep inside him, perhaps Charles already knew the truth. At any rate, Charles insisted upon a beautiful, well-bred lady in public, and a warm lover behind closed-doors. She would certainly fail him, and in both areas. She had no passion to give poor Charles; indeed, she found his touch repugnant.

  Sighing, she slipped the ostentatious ring over her knuckle and placed it in her pocket. She wouldn't be marrying her fiancé. She would write him a letter that very day and tell him so. Politely. She wouldn't mention that another man's touch made her yearn, another man's kisses made her burn. No, she wouldn't tell him that she belonged to Doyle Donovan, body and soul. She didn't wish to hurt Charles, as she had hurt Doyle.

  With tears dribbli
ng down her cheeks, she viewed the spot where she had discovered Frank's body.

  She had come home to find the truth, and on the rose-covered beach that her father had loved to paint, she found it. And though it was not the truth she thought it would be, not the truth she had sought, it was her truth.

  Her grandmother had been right all along: She really was strong.

  The scene of Frank's death saddened her, but it didn't crush her. And when the time came, she would find the strength to face the rest of her past, and in facing it, she would prove to herself once and for all that she was no longer Frank's victim.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Lily awakened to the sound of Doyle's voice.

  Yawning, she looked at her bedside clock.

  Almost nine o'clock!

  For the first time in years she felt rested. And hungry; her stomach actually growled in anticipation of breakfast.

  Hurrying into a remnant of her girlhood, a frilly pink wrap which left the white ruffled edge of her nightgown peaking out from the bottom, she ran downstairs, her red hair flying loose and uncombed behind her.

  Victoria Hill was entertaining informally this morning: Doyle was seated at the kitchen table, not the dining room table, and he was munching on her grandmother's homemade biscuits, not Mary's.

  Their guest rose from his seat when Lily entered the room. "Finally awake, eh? I thought you would sleep all day."

  Who was this affable stranger her grandmother was entertaining?

  One black brow cocked, Doyle walked to her, bestowing on her cheek a kiss that must have looked chaste to her grandmother, but in reality, was anything but; his tongue had made love to her skin.

  He grinned, daring her to say something.

  No fool she, she refused to rise to the bait.

  "Mrs. Hill," Doyle said to cover the heavy silence, "you make the best breakfast rolls in Bar Harbor. I must visit here more frequently."

  To Lily's utter amazement, her grandmother blushed. "Doyle, you are always welcome here. We enjoy having a man in the cottage. Isn't that right, child?" she asked without even bothering to look in her granddaughter's direction.