by Anne Stuart
"Believe me when I say it was nothing."
It was the final straw. Her feet were blocks of ice, her entire body was racked with shivers, and he was looking down his elegant nose at her as if she were a rabid chipmunk.
"You are the nastiest son of a bitch I have ever met in my entire life," she said in a rush, unable to restrain herself any longer. "It's a lucky thing for you that you're a hermit—if you spent any time around normal people they'd probably kill you."
She was unprepared for his bitter laugh. "Truer words than you know, Katie Flynn," he said. "And yes, I'm a son of a bitch, and we both know it. If you have any sense at all you'll run back to your bedroom, lock the door and hope you never see me again."
All her anger had vanished. She realized then that he'd been drinking. He wasn't precisely drunk, but he'd had enough brandy to add a glitter of recklessness to his green eyes.
"But why?" she said, distracted, when she knew she should leave. "What have I ever done to you?"
"Besides dragging me out in a monstrous storm and nearly pulling me into the sea with you? Besides invading my house and my life?"
"Yes, besides that." She was entirely uncowed.
He came right up to her, too close, and caught her face in his hands. Beautiful, elegant hands, framing her face as he stared down at her, almost as if he were trying to memorize her features.
"You have red hair and blue eyes, Katie Flynn," he said in a soft voice that sent an odd little shiver down her spine. "You have a good soul and a fierce heart, and you remind me of everything I can't have in this life. You're too bold and too pretty, and the more I see of you the more you'll haunt my dreams. Now run back to your room before I kiss you."
She was frozen, staring up at him in disbelief. He was standing so close to her that his clothes were brushing the tentlike nightgown, and she wanted to sink against him, to feel his arms around her, to feel his body pressed up against hers. She wanted to see if his beautiful mouth would taste any different from the ordinary mouths of mortals.
He leaned forward, and she let her eyes flutter closed, unable to stop him, unable to resist the shocking temptation of him. His lips gently touched her eyelids, then her temples, where the blood was pounding. But he didn't kiss her mouth.
Instead he drew back, releasing her, and his eyes were bleak and endless. "Run away, Katie Flynn," he whispered. "Before I drown you."
She ran, as he knew she would. She ran as if the devil was after her. Little did she know the devil was staying behind, his last ounce of decency keeping him from following her.
He'd wanted her mouth with a hunger that wrenched him apart. He'd wanted the warm, supple curves of her body; he'd wanted to touch her and taste her and take her, over and over again.
It was the brandy, he told himself. It was the solitude. It was the woman herself, and he knew it. She was all his fantasies rolled into one; erotic, romantic, foolish and impossible. He could resist her, he could resist his own crazy longings. He'd made it through the past fifteen years, he could make it through however long he had left, be it fifteen or fifty.
He sank down in the wing chair, staring into the fire. He didn't dare touch another drop of the brandy. It had already managed to peel away his defenses enough so that he'd touched her. It was small consolation that he hadn't kissed her mouth. If he had one more glass of brandy he would go after her and finish the job. He wouldn't be stopping at kissing.
He leaned back, closing his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists. He could almost feel the ocean surging around him, buoyant, supporting him, rocking him. He needed to concentrate on that peaceful rocking, putting all thoughts of Katie Flynn and mortal females out of his mind.
But he knew, with desperate certainty, that from that day on his erotic fantasies wouldn't be of willowy creatures in lacy negligees. They would be of Katie Flynn in a flannel nightgown, warm skin beneath the soft cotton. They would be of Katie Flynn.
"Willie, my boy," Mrs. Marvel said gently, "I'm very disappointed in you."
"I know, Ma," he mumbled, ducking his head.
"What have we been working for? These long long years, we've come so close, and it could all be ruined. You know that, don't you, son?"
"Yes, Ma."
"She's a pretty girl, isn't she?" Mrs. Marvel came up behind her son, kneading his thick shoulders with her strong, strong hands. "You've always liked pretty girls, haven't you, Willie?"
"I didn't touch her, Ma!" His voice rose in sudden panic. He tried to turn around and face her, but her grip was too strong, holding her huge son in place more by the force of her personality than the strength in her hands. "I promised I wouldn't ever again. Not unless you tell me I can. I'll do what you tell me, I promise."
"I know you didn't touch her. You're a good boy, you always do just what your mother tells you."
"Yes, Ma," he said, sniffling.
She patted his shoulders comfortingly and stepped away. "That's my Willie," she murmured.
He glanced up at her with a worried expression on his dull face. "He wanted her, too, you know."
"I know, Willie," she said softly, taking her seat at the table and reaching for the whiskey bottle. It was O'Neal's best Irish whiskey, and she was unstinting with herself and her son. "But he wouldn't touch her. I can count on that much. You know what you should have done, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She nodded sagely. "There's no harm done, though. I'll take her into town tomorrow and get rid of her. She'll forget all about this place, and O'Neal, and we'll be back as we were, safe and cozy."
Willie looked troubled. "Do you think the rain will stop, Ma?"
"For her sake she'd better hope so. Otherwise we'll be forced to take drastic steps."
Willie hunched lower in his seat. "Can I do it, Ma?"
"You failed me once, boy. Why should I give you the pleasure?" his mother asked sternly.
"I won't make another mistake, I promise you, Ma. Let me prove myself. Please, Ma. I won't let you down this time, you know I won't."
Mrs. Marvel looked at her son with a fond, mother's glance, considering the alternatives. Then she nodded. "All right, Willie. If the rain keeps up you can kill her. Just don't make it take too long, all right? We're not supposed to take pleasure in another human's misery. Haven't I brought you up right?"
"Yes, Ma," said Willie. And he smiled happily.
Chapter Four
« ^ »
The small cool hands that touched her face were not the hands of O'Neal. Even in her dream she knew that. She lay very still in the huge bed, huddled beneath the mound of covers, her eyes shut against the cocooning darkness. The fire had gone out hours ago, the candle had burned to the socket, and outside the rain lashed against the window, the wind howled, and the ghost knelt on her bed and touched her face.
Katie opened her eyes then, knowing what she would see. It was the ghost girl, with her long white-blond hair and her sweet face. She said something, but Katie could hear no words, just the sound of the sea all around her.
Fiona, she was. Katie knew that without hearing it. She had come for a reason, she had brought Katie there for a reason, but for now there were no words to tell it. She put her hands on Katie's, the touch cool and light as a gull's wing, and on her pale small hand was a golden ring set with a stone the color of the sea, green and stormy. The color of O'Neal's eyes.
And then she was gone. The room was still cold, dispelling the myth that it was ghosts who brought the cold. And Katie closed her eyes once more and slept.
"There you are, dearie," Mrs. Marvel greeted her warmly. "I've made some fresh muffins and oatmeal, and there's coffee in the pot over there, nice and strong. How did you sleep, then?"
In the murky, storm-laden daylight the kitchen was warm and welcoming, a fitting setting for the coziness of Mrs. Marvel. Kate managed a convincing stretch. "Very well indeed," she said, ignoring the nightmares and the chill and the howl of the wind outside her room. "Thank you for bringing my clothes
."
"Well, I knew you wouldn't be wanting to wear my old things any longer than you have to," she replied, setting a plate of muffins on the table in front of her. "As soon as you're finished breakfast we'll set out."
Katie glanced toward the high-set windows of the basement kitchen. "Do you think we'll be able to make it into town?"
"Certainly," the housekeeper said briskly. "I was born and bred Down East—I'm not about to let a little storm stop me. And I'm sure you want to get back to civilization as quickly as you can." She poured two cups of coffee and joined her at the table. "Have you decided what you're going to do?"
"I don't have much choice, considering my purse and all my identification and credit cards are now resting on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. When we get to town I'll call my parents and have them wire me some money. How far is the nearest airport?"
"Oh, quite a ways, dearie. But don't worry, I'm sure Lemuel will be willing to drive you there for a reasonable sum of money. With any luck you'll be home by tonight. Though the sooner we get on the road the better." Mrs. Marvel glanced toward the storm-shrouded windows. "There's no telling what's going to happen with the storm, and we want to get you back home as quickly as possible, now, don't we?"
Katie wasn't particularly convinced of that, but she nodded. "Is the hurricane coming?"
The housekeeper shrugged her plump shoulders. "Who's to say? We don't even have a battery radio out here. O'Neal doesn't like civilization intruding. When we get to town we'll find out the latest."
"I wouldn't want you to get stranded."
Mrs. Marvel smiled her cozy smile. "Don't you worry, dearie. I'm very good at taking care of myself. Why don't you bring your coffee with you? Willie brought the car around earlier, and I don't think it would be wise to wait any longer."
She didn't want to leave. It hit her with the force of a blow, shocking her. The strange dreams, the even stranger man and the gathering storm all held her there in that huge old mausoleum of a place, and she hated the thought of turning her back on it all, of running away.
She couldn't very well invite herself to stay. Even if it somehow seemed she was meant to. She rose, pushing away from the table. "That's all right," she said briskly. "I don't need any more coffee. I need to see what I can do about replacing my car."
"I hope you didn't have anything too valuable in there?"
Katie shook her head. "Just clothes, a few tapes. My laptop. And my purse…" Her voice trailed off as she thought of her grandmother's cross, lost forever.
"What's wrong, dearie?"
Katie shook her head, fighting the absurd urge to cry. "Just an old cross that had once belonged to my grandmother. It must have come off in the car. I shouldn't fuss—it only had sentimental value and not much more."
"Well, you escaped with your life and your health," Mrs. Marvel said. "Those are the most important things. Even if you can't replace the cross, you'll still have the memories, won't you?"
Katie managed to smile. It was a weak effort, but Mrs. Marvel accepted it at face value. "And you never can tell, O'Neal may be able to find it in the spring," Mrs. Marvel continued. "He's done some diving and some salvage work. You be sure to write us when you get settled, and if anything turns up we'll send it to you."
It was a faint hope, but Katie was willing to grasp at anything. "That would be wonderful," she said. "It was gold. I don't know how the salt water would affect it…"
"Oh, gold's just about indestructible. You should see some of the artifacts O'Neal has brought up from the ocean floor. He'll find your grandmother's cross, I'm certain of it."
"I doubt he'd want to bother."
"Now, dearie, O'Neal isn't as unfriendly as he seems. He's just a little standoffish."
Out of the blue she felt it again, the whisper-soft brush of his lips against her eyelids, her temples. "Unfriendly isn't the right word," she said in a strained voice. "He's…odd."
"Yes, he's very odd. It comes from living alone for so long, with no family. It comes from the sadness in his life," Mrs. Marvel said. "Best leave the poor man in peace, Katie Flynn." She took a heavy black raincoat from a peg near the door and began to bundle up. "He's earned his rest."
Katie's raincoat was with everything else, at the bottom of the ocean. She wondered if O'Neal could be talked into salvaging that, as well—it cost her a fortune that she could no longer afford. "Then I'll leave him to it," she said firmly, banishing the memory of his haunted eyes.
O'Neal stood in the window, watching them leave. The storm had abated just slightly, a small mercy from an angry providence, and Mrs. Marvel and the interloper took off into the gray day at a brisk pace.
He pulled back, telling himself it was relief he felt and nothing more. The temptation had been removed, and he hadn't even kissed her. She would likely tell tales of the strange man she met in the midst of a nor'easter, but since she would be miles, states away, it wouldn't matter. And she hadn't been there nearly long enough to even begin to guess his secret
The Marvels had served him, lived with him in this empty shell of a house, for more than twelve years, and even they had no inkling of the truth. Probably they wouldn't believe it even if they saw the proof of it with their own eyes. They had no Irish blood in them—they were stern, pilgrim stock with no imagination or music in their souls. They wouldn't believe in folk tales or curses or ancient legends.
He wouldn't believe them, either, if he hadn't been forced to live one out. And the only music in his soul nowadays was a requiem.
He would drink lots of strong black coffee, he told himself, and read. He read voraciously—anything he could get his hands on. Textbooks and murder mysteries and scientific treatises and comic books. He loved the feel of paper and the printed word. The one thing he loved that had no place in the sea.
What in heaven's name had she been babbling about? The white ghost that had led her to invade his solitude and almost killed her. He supposed he believed in ghosts, of course, even though he'd never seen one. He'd be a fool not to.
But ghosts were harmless creatures, appearing for a purpose and then quickly gone. They didn't lure innocents to their deaths.
Innocents to their deaths. The words rang through his consciousness like a dirge. How many people had died? Innocent people he had loved so dearly. And he hadn't been able to save them.
He'd saved Katie Flynn, though. That should count against his sins. Except that he knew full well that he was the one who judged himself so harshly. And nothing would wipe out the memory of that night fifteen years ago.
The wind gusted suddenly, slamming against the leaded-glass windows of the library, rattling the panes. He heard the huge, groaning noise from a great distance, with his soul rather than his ears, and he froze. Not for one moment did he believe Katie and Mrs. Marvel were dead—life didn't work that way. But whatever that noise was, it had stopped Katie Flynn from leaving his life. Fate had more tricks to play on him.
He looked out into the dark morning, but the rain was coming down in such torrents now, the wind driving it against the windows, that he could barely see. He could leave them there, to find their way back to the house, or over the edge of the cliff if that was their fate. Or he could head out once more into the storm and find them. Find her.
Willie was nowhere to be seen when O'Neal ducked out into the rain. The Range Rover was still in the garage, but the Volvo station wagon was gone. Mrs. Marvel preferred luxury cars, though this time she might have made the wrong choice. The slick mud underfoot called for all the automotive advantage available.
The headlights made little dent against the rain, and he drove slowly, squinting, looking for any sign of movement that could be human. He was probably crazy for going out in this mess. There was a good chance he'd imagined that sound, and his overwrought mind had done the rest. He hadn't slept well, he'd had too much to drink, and Katie Flynn had upset his dubious equilibrium. And now he was chasing after ghosts in a storm, just as his unwanted visitor had done.
He shifted the Rover into reverse, and the gears ground with an ominous shriek. He glanced up, and through the pounding rain he saw a flash of white.
It was nothing, he told himself. A seagull trying to force its way through the punishing headwinds, a piece of newspaper picked up by the storm. But he shifted back into first gear, smoothly this time, and began to creep forward once more.
The storm lessened with a suddenness that was shocking, and he hit the brakes once more, skidding in the mud before he brought the Rover to a halt. The Volvo lay beneath a huge tree, its hood crushed, windshield shattered. There was no sign of its occupants.
The roar of the wind drowned out any sound as he leaped from the car and slammed the door behind him. He called out a name, no longer caring that it was Katie he called for, not his loyal housekeeper.
He found them in a ditch on the far side of the road. Katie lay still and pale, and the housekeeper was leaning over her with tender solicitousness.
"Mrs. Marvel!" he called out, and she turned, dropping the large rock she held in her hand.
"Thank God you're here, sir!" she cried earnestly. "She's been hurt, and there was no knowing how I could get her back to the house."
O'Neal had already reached them. He touched Katie's pale, still figure. Her heartbeat was steady, her pulse strong, but the gash on her forehead was oozing blood.
He knew enough about head wounds to remember that they always bled wildly. He knew enough about head wounds to realize she could either be dying from a crushed skull or suffer only a minor headache. Once again fate was playing a malicious hand, upping the ante.
She opened her eyes, blinking as the rain splattered her face, and it took her a moment to realize he was leaning over her. "Sorry," she whispered in a voice he could scarcely hear. "You ought to do something about the trees around here. They keep falling over."