House of Storms

by Violet Winspear

  'But is it love?' she murmured, entranced by the fire in his eyes.

  'Love?' He threw wide his arms. 'It is all this—the moon and the stars and the sea. We knew the day we met and we shall know it the day we die so we might as well surrender to it. And if you need to hear me say it, then listen while I say it—I love your hair when it blows in the wind, and I love how spirited you can be. I love it when I touch you, and I am lonely when you aren't there to touch.'

  'Lonely?' she breathed.

  'Ah, that touches you to the quick!' And with sudden ruthless impatience he caught her close to him and held her white-clad body with an urgency that stirred into life the last remnants of her doubts and fears. Like sparks they danced through her blood and then were quenched by what she saw in his eyes.

  She saw there the fear that she would elude him again.

  'Rodare,' her hand pressed against the nape of his neck, 'I—I need you to forgive me—you know what for.'

  'Ah, that.' His gaze moved slowly, almost tormentingly over her moonlit face. 'Perhaps I should punish you first.'

  'Punish me?'

  'Like this.' And gathering her even closer to him, he brought his lips down upon hers and kissed her without mercy.

  Merciless he was, but by some miracle, some decree of fate, Debra knew they belonged together. . . but could they be together here on Lovelis Island?

  Side by side they stood on the headland, their arms twined about each other, and he had released her hair so the moon made it shine.

  'What of Abbeywitch?' she quietly asked.

  'It's a wonderful house,' he said, 'but you were right when you called it my burden. I want no burdens but that of making you happy, querida mia, so what I think I shall do is to let it belong to Jack. He is more a part of it than I am, for I am a Spaniard and there is only one place in the world where I want to live with my wife and raise my family, and that is in Andalucia.'

  With strong and loving hands he turned Debra to face him. 'Will you live with me and be my love in Andalucia?'

  Her eyes were a little tearful in that moment, then she raised a loving hand to stroke his Spanish face. 'How generous you can be, Rodare, to give away your birthright.'

  'I wasn't born,' he smiled, 'until one fine day I met a shameless hussy on a beach . . .'

  'Oh, you're going to hold that against me!'

  'I don't intend to ever forget it.'

  'Then I shall—'

  'What will you do?'

  'Go to Columbine and be chief editor of their children's books. I've been offered the chance, you know, el señor.'

  'I'm sure you would make an excellent chief editor of children's bocks, but what of me?' he asked. 'Don't I count?'

  'Oh yes,' she sighed, 'more than anyone in the world.'

  'Dare I believe you?' He framed her face in his hands and searched her eyes by the light of the moon. 'How much does Jack mean to you?'

  'I admire him as a writer and I like him as a man.'

  'I saw him coming from your turret last night.'

  'He had picked some strawberries and we shared them.' She spoke with the simplicity of truth. 'That was all we shared, Rodare, and I think you know me well enough to believe me.'

  'True,' he smiled. 'The girl who thought I kissed and caressed her because I thought she was just a toy for me to play with. Will you believe that the look of you, the ways of you, drive me wild with wanting you? Will you at last believe me?'

  'Yes,' she said, and not a shred of doubt was left in her heart . . . this was love and it was both a dream and a consuming need to share his desire. And below where they stood so closely embraced the sea had an unearthly beauty, sharing with them the mysterious aura of two people who had found each other's love.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen