"I've been half out of my mind with worry,” she moaned. “When the vicar came and stayed I thought you were dying!"
"I can't take you out of here yet,” he regretted. “I don't suppose you'll go on your own?"
She looked him in the eyes and shook her head.
"You've got to go, Jean. Megan was found dead on the moor,” he said to her gasp. “She was brutally raped and murdered. It happened the day I opened the wound. I'm certain it was Malcolm. He left here that day if you remember, and he didn't return until the dinner hour. She had lodgings at the White Stag Inn, and he was headed in that direction. If she told him before . . . Jean, you have to leave this house. You were safe while Elliot was here, but he's gone now and I can't tell him yet; he's very ill. I've lost too much blood. I'm not strong enough to sit a horse yet, or make you go. You've got to listen to reason."
"You've just given me the reason I can't leave you, Colin. I won't! Please let's not quarrel. I've been so distraught. I just need you to hold me."
His anxious lips found hers and absorbed them. Aroused, he moaned, crushing her close against his hardness, molding her to the contours of his powerful body until the heat they generated threatened to ignite the skin beneath their clothing. “I want you so,” he murmured, fondling her breast through the lavender dimity frock.
"Colin, you're barely out of bed,” she breathed.
Hurt shivered in his hooded eyes and he froze. “Ahhhh, I see, can't say as I blame you for not being anxious. Not a very palatable prospect, this here now, is it?"
Jean swayed as though he'd hit her, drew back her hand, and struck him hard across the face with all her strength. “I'm not going to apologize!” she shrilled. “You don't deserve an apology, but I do! How could you say such a thing to me? How could you? No, don't speak. You listen to me. I am devastated over your loss, and I'm not going to pretend I shan't miss that arm around me because I shall, but I shan't miss it much, because losing it has kept you alive. Colin, you are more of a man with one arm than any two other men living with both."
She could scarcely see him through her tears, but she rebuked him still. “You were right when you said once that you didn't know how to love,” she scorned. “If you did, such a thing would never have entered your mind, much less come out of your mouth. Well, you can consider this your first lesson.” She soothed the hand she'd struck him with, for it smarted. “My God, you just held me. Couldn't you tell—couldn't you feel how I want you? But I'm selfish. I want it all. I want you well and safe and strong. I need you. Damn you for this!"
Colin sank down on the bed and held his arm out toward her. “Lie with me then,” he murmured, his voice crackling with the static of longing, “let me make love to you. I need you, Jean. I need you now, right now—especially now."
Suddenly she was beside him, holding him, caressing him. But something seemed different—a recreation. They both felt the strange deja vu, like something remembered from another lifetime. They were reliving it and yet it was new, a revelation, awesome, and a little frightening.
"I'm sorry, Jean,” he murmured. “I was so afraid it would make a difference—too afraid to hope it wouldn't."
The sound of his voice hadn't broken the spell, it had simply moved it to a sensual plane, and they approached the newness with themselves cautiously, as though it were something aflame.
She whispered his name and he swallowed the sound as his mouth opened hers beneath, and when at last his lips came away, they drew hers after them. “Something's different, Colin, do you feel it?” she murmured.
"Yes.” His heart pounded wildly against her.
"What is it?"
"I don't know . . . lest it be enchantment."
Enraptured, they lay naked together in the firelight. His mouth became the missing hand. It touched her everywhere his fingers would have, lightly at first until, tantalized, she arched herself against him drawing him closer and closer, surrendering herself to the heat of his fervor until her body reached for him, begging for the fullness of his passion.
The scent of sweet lavender drifted from her skin and he inhaled it until his lungs nearly burst with the fragrance. It dazed him, an aphrodisiac heightening his senses, and everywhere he touched, everything he cherished, seemed an experience happening for the first time. Together they savored the awakening, a new awareness come to their union so total that Jean held her breath. And his eyes spoke volumes searching her own, for whatever purity it was that bound them there had driven the sadness from those haunted eyes then—drowned it in something that almost seemed sacred. Jean had never seen that look in them before and it moved her more totally than any of the intimacies they shared.
Suddenly the emotion in him rose like the ocean, cresting swell upon swell until all restraints, like sand beneath a running wave, were washed away. Beguiled, he delighted in the total abandon of her—in the power of a hunger that matched his own. And he took her ravenously, exploding inside her until they both lay exhausted in each other's embrace, their moist, trembling bodies cleaving to every last second of the coupling in the amber glow of the lamp that flickered beside them.
Colin moaned, gathering her greedily against him. “Oh, Christ, Jean, don't ever leave me,” he murmured.
"I'd have to die to do that, Colin, and I don't even think that death could part us; not now—not ever!"
"Don't talk of death—of dying, Jean."
"Shhhh,” she soothed, “I didn't know anything could be like this—not like this. This wasn't intended for mortals."
He pulled back sharply, a feral look of fright in his eyes. “Don't say that—don't, Jean,” he spat, “don't even think it. Something—someone might hear and take it away. I'm afraid!"
There was a volatile power in the hand that shook her, and she gasped, taken by surprise by a different sort of emotion that moved him then. After a moment she recovered herself and pulled him toward her gently. “You were never afraid of anything in all your life, Colin Chapin,” she murmured.
"I'm afraid of this,” he confessed, the words muffled in the soft silk of her hair. “God isn't watching, Jean. He can't be. Don't turn His eyes. He'll take it all from me. I'm not supposed to have this—not this!"
There was a gap in the draperies at the French doors, and the moon, cloaked in a gauze of drifting clouds, cast long fingers of light upon their bodies. Cradled in his strong right arm, she soothed him there, whispering to him gently, and looked beyond across his broad chest toward where heaven should be in the blackness. All at once she understood that heaven was lost to them—that they would never make it their home. For the ecstasy they shared was so powerful that heaven paled before it, and that, she knew, was surely sacrilege. They had lifted the veil of life and glimpsed the essence of their souls. That essence was eternal with a life force of its own. The vastness of it overwhelmed her, for it had neither beginning nor end, it simply was. She knew it was a mystery beyond human comprehension that they would have to die to solve, and cold chills gripped her.
"If you must take this from us,” her heart said to God, “take us both with it. Our souls are joined; they cannot be parted . . . not even in death. Please, God, if you must take . . . take us both!"
* * * *
But it's always hard to tell when God is listening most intently, so thought Jean as March melted away. Nothing seemed real. Unfamiliar with the odd Cornish climate, the season seemed out of step with time to her. Winter was past and she wanted to take that as a favorable sign—a good omen come straight from the mouth of God, I am giving, not taking away. But Malcolm didn't leave the house again and there was no way to test her theory; it was fraught with contradiction. Something had, indeed, been taken away—the touch of Colin's warm lips—the strength of his body, so powerful against her—the vitality of his life, filling her, bursting within her, making her whole.
Somewhat stronger, Colin wandered over the moors. He went to the land, his other love, for comfort then, but there was nowhere for Jean to turn for her
s and she was almost resentful of that. He would come back to the house afterward spent and drained, weak for the labor of wandering his property, but she knew he took no solace from it. His eyes were sad dark things, tormented. He loved his land, but now his love for her was all tangled into it. There was no more release for him there. Without her it had become impotent. Yes, something had been taken away—something physical. But the new awareness that had touched them both remained behind a silent specter making it all the harder to bear.
Malcolm had mastered the art of tormenting his uncle. He had spent years perfecting it. Colin was used to the seesaw, but now his endurance was at low ebb, having recognized his handicap as the hindrance it was. Malcolm's taunting had come down on him too hard too often. His massive right hand, seeming no longer to be controlled by brain waves, itched to reach out on its own and strangle the breath from the dark youth's body puff by toxic puff until its empty shell hung limp from his fingers like a soiled rag. But he held those fingers in check, stuffed them—fist clenched—into his pocket, grinding the nails so deeply into his palm that it came away rutted with scars.
During those long, empty nights he dreamed of that dirty rag; by day he fantasized about it. No other weapon would do—nothing but the tactile experience of his fingers closing around that white throat, tearing, rending, wiping away the insane half smile for all time. Malcolm saw it, Jean saw it, and the vicar saw it—all separately—each putting their own interpretation upon what they'd seen. The only one excused was Ira Stanley, who remained absorbed in his work. Squinting and sighing, he mixed madder and vermilion with his palette knife, a little of this, a little of that, grinding them into jewel-like tones with his linseed oil and medium. But it all looked gray to Jean as she watched him until it finally came to an end on the thirteenth of March when Stanley laid down his final stroke and prepared to spend his last night at Cragmoor.
Malcolm was delighted with the painting. He'd given the artist an almost vulgar bonus, and the little man's patronizing airs had incensed Colin beyond the bounds of reasonability. They had all gathered in the dining hall for dinner, the vicar among them, and a strained silence prevailed at the table until they were nearly finished with the main course of venison. It was Malcolm who finally broke it.
"Mr. Stanley, I can't tell you enough how pleased I am with Jean's portrait,” he praised. “I must say it's quite beyond my expectations—and the frame! You've quite outdone yourself all the way ‘round."
Ira beamed. “I'm so delighted you're pleased,” he said, “and you've chosen the perfect spot for it in the gallery. The light strikes it just right."
Malcolm turned to Jean. “Well, my dear,” he said buoyantly, “it seems you're forcing me to a rather difficult decision."
Jean turned a slow head toward him and his eyes laughed at the fear in her stare.
Colin stopped eating, and the vicar watched him crouch over his plate like a rabid animal about to spring as Malcolm went on speaking.
"What shall I do for your birthday?” he said. “I'm afraid I shall never be able to top the portrait."
"Are you to have a birthday soon, Mrs. Chapin?” the artist interrupted.
Relieved that Ira had spared her the ordeal of answering Malcolm, Jean nodded, forcing a smile.
"Oh, I say, that's jolly,” Ira rejoiced. “When is it to be?"
"Next week,” Malcolm answered for her. “Are you all right, my dear?” he crooned. “You look awfully pale to me, Jean."
"I'm quite all right, thank you,” she said steadily, taking up her glass.
Malcolm popped a dry laugh laced with surprise, not having expected her to speak. “I'm glad,” he continued, a trace of astonishment still lingering in his voice. “Now then,” he went on, “I think I know just the thing. Do you remember one night awhile back when I told you I was planning a little surprise just as soon as Mr. Stanley finished your portrait?"
Colin's head came up sharply again. Malcolm hadn't needed to look directly toward him to catch the reflex, and his sneer mellowed.
Jean's heart began to pound, visibly moving the bodice of her beige linen frock. She was so close to Colin then that it was like sitting next to a roaring hearth, so near that her eyes smarted from the heat they generated.
Kathleen removed the main course dishes and set the French porcelain coffee service before them. Ira was the first to fill his cup.
Malcolm laughed. “Well,” he said, “Mr. Stanley has done us a favor he isn't aware of. He's given me your Christmas gift and your birthday gift all at once. My dear, we're going on holiday to celebrate. We're going to have that wedding trip I've been promising you. How would you like to spend a few days in London?"
The carver's chair creaked as Colin stiffened. His face drained of color watching Jean tremble helplessly beside him.
"I've business there,” Malcolm drawled. “Oh, don't worry, my dear, it shan't interfere with our holiday I promise you.” He kissed her hand, meanwhile stabbing Colin with cold eyes. “We've never had a proper honeymoon, my love, and I want you all to myself for awhile."
He'd mouthed the words so seductively that even the artist blushed looking like a fat little ostrich as he buried his nose in his coffee cup.
Jean's hand shivered under Malcolm's cold lips.
Colin sat stock-still watching, but she didn't dare look in his direction. She didn't have to. She could feel what was in his eyes.
"You needn't bother about my birthday,” she said quietly. “I'm quite content as I am, Malcolm."
"Ahhh, yes, I know you are, my dear,” he replied, “but you'll be so much happier in London. I guarantee it."
Just then the artist groped for his coffee cup and found it empty.
"More coffee, Mr. Stanley?” Malcolm offered from behind the outstretched coffee pot.
Looking on, Colin shifted uneasily and Malcolm picked up on the sound of his motion. “You're awfully quiet tonight, Uncle,” he observed.
Colin looked him in the eyes, but made no attempt to reply.
Malcolm laughed, craning his neck. “Your cup is empty, too, I see,” he said, handing the coffee pot to Jean. It was in her hands before she realized she'd taken it. “Fill it for him, won't you, my dear?” he said smugly. “Dreadfully awkward managing with one hand I should imagine. How on earth do you cut your meat? Or do they cut it all up for you in the kitchen? I haven't really been paying much attention. Whatever the case, I imagine it must be a bloody nuisance."
Still Colin offered no answer, and Malcolm sat back slowly, tapping his half smiling lips with his finger while Jean positioned the pot over Colin's cup and began to tip it. “You aren't fooling me, my dear,” he blurted.
The caustic sound of his voice ran her through and a slash of coffee plopped against the rim of the cup as she gave a start.
Colin's hand shot out toward the coffee pot, but it came away without it as Jean recovered her composure and poured.
"Noooo, you're not yourself,” Malcolm went on. “It's this wretched climate. You still aren't used to it. A nice little jaunt to London will do you a world of good. I can't bear to see you so pale.” He turned to the artist. “I'm sure you've noticed it, haven't you, Mr. Stanley?” he prompted. “Hasn't she been looking a bit peaked of late?"
"Yes, she has,” said the artist, casting a worried frown toward Jean as she passed the coffee pot back to Malcolm. “I thought it might be the strain of all those tiring sittings. I do hope it's not. I'd certainly feel dreadful if it were my fault."
"Do you see, my dear?” said Malcolm. “I'm not the only one who's noticed it. You need a holiday."
"I say, sir, when are you leaving?” Ira wondered.
"Tomorrow,” said Malcolm. “Can't see why we should wait. My business there isn't until the end of next week, but if we can get off at once Jean and I will have plenty of time alone together beforehand. Yes...tomorrow,” he said, his sinister eyes fixed upon Colin's. “I'll have young Lockwood send a private coach ‘round from the livery first thin
g in the morning."
Jean swallowed audibly, studying the contents of her cup, unable to look in anyone's direction.
"Why, I'll be leaving for London tomorrow myself,” said the artist excitedly. “Perhaps we can all go off together, eh...since we're all bound for London. I say, wouldn't that be jolly, sir? I hate traveling by public transit coach alone. It unnerves me dreadfully. They always seem to take on the most unsavory characters along the way, and then you're stuck with them the whole distance."
Malcolm's smile dissolved and annoyance stiffened his jaw. He hesitated. “If you wish, sir,” he forced, “we'd be glad of the company . . . I'm sure."
"Oh, capital,” said Ira, squirming in delight. “So glad we'll be making the trip together. Oh, and I'll share the cost, of course, yes . . . yes, of course. Well now, that's put the topper on, eh?"
"Oh, yes, indeed,” sniffed Malcolm, “that it has."
Ira glanced back toward Jean and a frown replaced his euphoria. “Mrs. Chapin?” he breathed. “I . . . I say, are you quite sure you're all right, my dear? You look awfully strained of a sudden."
Jean nodded, lifting her water glass and took a fresh chill staring into it toward her gaunt image trembling there. She dared not look at Colin then. She could feel the blades of rage in his eyes berating her for not leaving while she had the chance.
Kathleen entered bearing the apple tart, and Ira recovered from his concern completely at sight of it. The minute the plate left the servant's hand he began to devour his portion with relish, making loving little sounds as he wolfed it down. No one disturbed his ecstasy.
"Quite good this,” he gargled at last, grating his fork against his plate to trap every last obstinate crumb. “My compliments to your cook again, sir,” he said to Colin. “Don't know when I've eaten as well. I'm going to miss it all terribly, I fear,” he regretted, heaving with a mammoth belch that managed to pass disguised as a hiccup.
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