by Anne Stuart
"Be quiet," he said in a rough voice, as his hands moved over her body, checking for breaks, for disastrous damage. There was no way he could tell for certain, but he suspected she was more bruised and shaken than seriously hurt, but she could scarcely lie in the ditch for much longer. It was starting to fill with water.
There was no choice for it. He slid his arms under her and scooped her up, staggering a bit under the unexpected weight.
"Run ahead and open the back door of the Rover, Mrs. Marvel," he called out, shifting Katie's weight against his chest.
The housekeeper paused, seemingly oblivious to the rain. "Maybe we can get around the tree and go straight into town if you've got the four-wheel-drive," she said eagerly. "The girl needs to be looked after…"
"We're taking her home," O'Neal said grimly. "The weather's too bad to risk it."
"But…" Mrs. Marvel made the rare attempt to argue.
"We're taking her home."
Katie lay limp in his arms, her head against his chest. "Put your arms around my neck," he said harshly, starting up the hill. "Don't just lie there."
She did as she was told, and he regretted it. She held tight to him, her face pressed against his shoulder, and he could feel the heat of her, the solid warmth of bone and soft, yielding flesh, and he knew if he had any sense at all he'd do as Mrs. Marvel had suggested, risk life and limb to get her out of his life as quickly as possible.
And he knew he wasn't going to. He'd tried to get rid of her, and almost killed her in doing so. Storms didn't last forever up here; they only seemed to. The house was huge—with her at one end and himself at another, he might not even have to see her again.
But he would. He would see her and touch her. And he would kiss her, delivering slow, deep, wet kisses that would ride out the storm. And if she stayed too long, he would take her, and risk absolutely everything.
Mrs. Marvel was already sitting in the back seat of the Rover, her arms out to take Katie inside with her. He relinquished her reluctantly, slamming the door and moving around to the driver's side.
"No need to look so grim, sir," Mrs. Marvel said as he carefully turned the car on the muddy track. "She got a bump on her head, nothing worse. We'll get her taken care of, and as soon as we're sure the storm is over, my Willie will take her into town."
"You should have waited," he said, watching the road with necessary intensity.
"You wanted her gone, didn't you, sir? You were in a real hurry to have her out of the house. I thought I was following your wishes."
"I wanted her gone," he said. "I still want her gone. But not at the expense of risking lives."
"Don't you worry, sir," Mrs. Marvel said in her cozy voice. "It'll take a lot to kill the likes of me. They breed us strong in the north country. Look at my Willie."
O'Neal thought of her hulking son with a lack of affection. "Indeed," he murmured. He peered ahead through the dark mists that had washed over the headlands. There was no sign of whatever had led him on. "You didn't see anything, did you, Mrs. Marvel?"
"Anything, sir? Such as what?"
"Something in the wind. White, like a sheet of paper or cloth or…"
"You're as bad as the girl here," Mrs. Marvel said in her comfortable voice. "She kept seeing things flapping about in the trees, dipping in front of the car. Let out a scream that scared me half to death, she did, and of course there was nothing there. Seeing ghosts, are you?"
"Hardly."
"Neither did she, I expect. She's a silly girl. Maybe she did happen to see some paper blowing in the wind. I haven't seen or heard anyone or anything," she said. "But then, you know I'm a practical woman. I don't put much store in superstition and the like. If I can't see it, touch it, taste it or smell it, I don't believe in it."
"And what if you're not sure?" They were already back within the stone courtyard, driving past the deserted guest house and parking in the garage. "What if you can't be certain?"
Mrs. Marvel's face was round and cheery in the grim shadows of the storm-swept morning and the darkened stall. "I'm not a woman to be plagued with uncertainty, sir."
He wouldn't let himself look at the pale figure of the woman who lay in her lap. "No, Mrs. Marvel," he said faintly, "I imagine you're not." She was a good woman, he thought. Loyal, unflinchingly honest and straightforward. He trusted her, when he thought he could never trust anyone again. "You'll take good care of her, won't you?"
Mrs. Marvel smiled with motherly charm. "I'll take perfect care of her, sir. Me and my Willie."
And it had to be the chilliness of the morning rain that sent a shiver across O'Neal's back.
Chapter Five
« ^ »
She'd had better days, Katie Flynn decided. Better weeks, as a matter of fact. All because she had a child's wide-eyed delight in nature on a rampage. Dozens of times she'd had the chance to stay put in some safe environment, and instead she'd pressed onward, which had left her in her current sorry situation: without a car, a purse, money, identification, stranded in the middle of nowhere with a killer headache and a second-string version of Mr. Rochester glowering at her.
Of course, it hadn't been her choice to leave this morning. Had she been able to find any reasonable excuse at all, she would have stayed in the drafty old mansion, ghosts and all.
Her pet ghost had followed them as they'd driven into the storm. Mrs. Marvel had seen nothing, of course, and Katie'd wondered whether she was having hallucinations. She'd seen the pale figure a handful of times since yesterday afternoon, and she couldn't blame the first accident and the stress of almost tumbling into the sea on the apparition, any more than she could blame it for the blow on her head when the huge tree had come crashing down on the expensive car.
Her noble rescuer had vanished once more, leaving Mrs. Marvel to help her back into the house. By the time they reached the hallway, Katie was shivering, and Mrs. Marvel steered her toward the library where she'd first sought shelter the night before. The fire was blazing, the oil lamps were lit against the darkness of the storm-laden day, and the room was deserted.
"O'Neal's gone out," Mrs. Marvel said, "and this is the warmest room in the huge, drafty old house. You stay by the fire, and I'll bring you some dry clothes and a mug of coffee."
"But…"
"Not to worry, dearie. Willie's gone with him, and there won't be any prying eyes to bother you. They won't be back till mid-afternoon, maybe later."
It was hardly reassuring, but she didn't have much choice in the matter. She was soaked to the skin, her body ached almost as much as her head, and she needed solitude, warmth and comfort. The deserted library provided all three.
Mrs. Marvel's dowdy clothes hadn't improved with age, but Katie was beyond caring as she hurriedly dressed, unable to stop the feeling that she was being spied upon. It was hardly worth their effort, she thought wryly. She was no Playboy centerfold. Her body was rounded, curved, with pale skin and a depressing abundance of golden freckles across her arms and chest. Hardly the stuff for erotic fantasies. Assuming O'Neal even indulged in such weakness.
She glanced around her as she buttoned the sweater, looking up at the paintings high on the wall. They were portraits, very old, and she had no doubt they belonged to O'Neal's family. The resemblance was unmistakable. Particularly striking was a woman with dark hair and eyes, a gypsy-ish smile, and a familiar-looking ring on her slender hand. Katie peered more closely, recognizing it immediately, the sea green stone that matched O'Neal's stormy eyes, the beautiful gold setting.
"That's Fiona," O'Neal's voice came from behind her. "One of my ancestors."
He was lucky she didn't scream, Katie thought, taking a deep, calming breath. He had the nastiest habit of creeping up on people unannounced.
"That explains it, then," she said with deceptive calm.
"Explains what?" He'd stripped off his raincoat, but his long hair was thick with rain, and the austere, beautiful lines of his face were still damp.
"My dream last night. I m
ust have seen that portrait and mixed it up in my head."
"What did you dream?"
She wasn't about to tell him. He already thought she was a complete idiot; she didn't need to tell him she thought she'd seen a ghost. Besides, there was no more than a superficial resemblance between the ghost girl and the vibrant woman in the portrait. Different coloring, decades difference in age. They weren't the same—Katie must have seen the portrait, and her imagination had done the rest.
"Mrs. Marvel said you and Willie were out for the afternoon," she said instead, keeping the accusation out of her voice. She couldn't imagine him skulking around, peering at her out of the shadows, but she couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been watching her.
"I have no idea where Willie is—I'm hardly his keeper. And it's not a day for a pleasant country stroll. I came in five minutes ago." He glanced at the pile of soaked clothes on the stone hearth, then back at her. "And I didn't watch you undress, if that's what you're fussing about. It hardly seems worth the trouble."
"It wouldn't be," she said. "I'm certain you've seen thousands of women who are far more attractive than I am."
A very faint smile appeared on his face only to vanish just as quickly, and she wasn't sure if she found that amusement annoying or curiously flattering. "Not quite thousands," he said slowly. "How's your head doing?"
Funny, his entrance into the room had banished all thought of a headache from her consciousness. "Not too bad," she said, brushing her damp hair away from her forehead. "It's just a bump."
"Mrs. Marvel tells me you think you saw a ghost," he said, taking the wing chair by the fire and stretching his legs out. He was wearing black jeans and a black shirt, and she never would have thought clothes like that could look both ridiculously elegant and absurdly sexy.
"Do I look like the kind of woman who believes in ghosts?"
"Yes."
She wasn't going to dignify that with a response. She moved closer to the fire, rubbing her arms briskly. "How long do you think the storm will last?"
He glanced toward the leaded-glass windows. "A few hours," he said. "A few days. Storms have a will of their own, and when they meet up with the sea then there's no telling what will happen. It's a waste of time trying to second-guess nature, or having a temper tantrum because things aren't going your way."
"I agree," she said sweetly. "So it looks like you're stuck with me for however long it takes."
He turned his gaze from the window, and his eyes were the color of the storm. He looked at her, a long, slow perusal that started at the top of her damp hair and ended up at her bare feet beneath Mrs. Marvel's voluminous skirts. "You make it sound as if I was trying to get rid of you."
"Aren't you?"
"Yes."
It was a conversation stopper, and Katie was tired of trying. The man was annoying, unsettling, and his eyes were doubtless the cause of her strange dreams. "I'll be gone as soon as it's safe to leave, and I promise to do my best to keep out of your way and your precious solitude."
"I don't know how precious it is," he said, half to himself. "But it's necessary."
"Why?"
"I do better cut off from people."
She looked at him in surprise. "Well, granted you're singularly lacking in social graces, that doesn't mean you couldn't be more pleasant if you tried."
"It's not my lack of social graces that worries me," O'Neal said in a mild voice.
"Then what is it? Do you turn into a werewolf at night and rip out strangers' throats?"
She was unprepared for his reaction. He looked startled, and then he laughed, full and loud. "You're closer than you could ever think. Lock your doors at night, Katie Flynn, and don't pay any attention to howling sounds or creatures clawing at your door."
"I don't believe in werewolves."
"Only ghosts," he said pleasantly. "Well, I don't believe in ghosts, but I believe in shape shifters."
"Shape shifters?" There was a rumble of thunder in the distance, like a bad old movie.
"Creatures who change their shape. Men who turn into wolves or bats or seals."
"Good God, next thing you'll be telling me you believe in vampires," she scoffed, ignoring the chill that danced across her backbone.
"You've never seen me in sunlight, have you?"
He was teasing her, but there was no affection in it. "I don't think the sun shines on the state of Maine."
"Certainly not in October."
"Are you telling me you're a vampire?"
He laughed, a faintly bitter sound. "No vampire, no werewolf, no ghost. No banshee wailing at your window. You have an overwrought imagination."
"And you're doing your best to make it jump through hoops." She took a sip of her coffee.
"Are you going to tell me about your ghost?" he persisted.
She glanced at him over the rim of the cup. "Why are you so interested?"
"If it's haunting my house I should think I have a right to be concerned. I'm wondering if this is an evil specter."
"I don't think so," she said. "It's a young girl."
He dropped his cup of coffee. It shattered on the stone floor, splashing his legs. He ignored it, staring at her, and his sea green eyes were strange, haunted. "Describe her." He was obviously trying to sound casual, but the effort was beyond him.
"About fourteen or fifteen. Long, white-blond hair, green eyes."
"Is she unhappy?"
"Not particularly. I'd say she seems more determined, maybe a bit curious. I thought you didn't believe in ghosts?" she added sharply.
"I don't," he said, and she didn't believe him for a moment. "I'm humoring you."
If O'Neal didn't believe in ghosts he was acting very oddly indeed, even for him. "Kind of you," she said. "Her name's Fiona."
The color drained from his face. He no longer looked strange, he looked furious. He crossed the room, crushing the broken cup beneath his feet, and caught her arms in a hard grip. "All right," he said sharply, "who put you up to this? Someone in town? I can't believe Mrs. Marvel would be a party to something so cruel…"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" she protested. He wasn't hurting her, but he was much too close, his hands were too strong, and she wanted, needed to move away from him.
'"Her name's Fiona,'" he mimicked savagely. "What a strange coincidence. She told you that, did she? What else did she say? Did she happen to tell you why she'd suddenly decided to start haunting this place after fifteen years?"
"She didn't tell me anything. It was just a feeling I had, a sense that that was her name," Katie said, bewildered. "And what do you mean, after fifteen years? Who's Fiona?"
"My sister," he said bleakly, releasing her abruptly and turning away from her.
Katie didn't move, her bare feet frozen to the thick carpet. He had his back to her, and some utterly idiotic part of her wanted to go up and put her arms around him, to rest her head against his back and hold him. Comfort him.
But O'Neal didn't want her comfort. He didn't want her presence, her touch, her ghost stories or her reassurances. He wanted her gone, and it was the least she could do.
She started to leave, determined to give him his solitude. Unfortunately her feet were bare, the broken coffee cup lay directly in her path, and she was too busy trying to be circumspect to pay attention to where she was walking. She stepped full force on a shard of china.
She managed to bite off her yelp of pain, but not quickly enough. O'Neal whirled around with an impatient glare, and Katie immediately sat in the nearest chair, plastering an innocent expression on her face.
"What now?" he demanded.
"Nothing." She was attempting to sound at ease, even as she felt the blood begin to drip from her foot, but she ended up sounding faintly hysterical. "I just thought I'd sit here and—"
"And drip blood all over my carpet," O'Neal said wearily. "I think I preferred the rainwater."
So much for being subtle. She tried to rise, but he simply pushed her back int
o the chair, dragging a footstool over and planting himself upon it. "I'm fine," she said, as he took her bleeding foot into his lap. "I don't need…"
"Hold still and be quiet," he said, but his beautiful hands cradled her bare, bleeding foot with exquisite care. "I need to make sure you don't have any shards left."
"I doubt it. I'm sure Mrs. Marvel—ow!" She glared at him. "You did that on purpose."
"I'd rather you didn't leave a trail of blood all over the house, either," he said. "It doesn't look that serious. Are you always so accident prone?" He'd pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and began to fold it crosswise.
"Not usually," she said, looking askance at the makeshift bandage.
He must have noticed her expression. "Don't worry, it's clean," he said. "I wouldn't want a blood infection to lengthen your stay."
"I'm sure you wouldn't." She forced herself to sit back in the chair, watching his expert ministrations with a wary eye. His hands were cool against her skin, strong hands, smoothing the bandage around her foot. How would those hands feel against other parts?
Not that she was about to find out, or even wished to. She had reached the advanced age of twenty-eight without ever succumbing to the lure of sex, and she wasn't about to start with a half-baked, brooding hero.
It hadn't been a conscious decision on her part, at least not until she'd reached her early twenties, the only virgin left at Mount Holyoke. She just hadn't been interested enough to sleep with her boyfriends. There were times when she wondered whether she was just plain sexless, but moments like these reassured her. She was healthy, normal, red-blooded. She was just waiting for the right man and the right time, neither of which had turned up yet.
It wasn't a matter of old-fashioned morality, or even common sense. Instinct told her that there was only one man for her, and when she found him she would know, and it would be forever. In the meantime she could enjoy her freedom.
But she looked at O'Neal's dark, beautiful face as he cradled her foot, and a strange, twisting ache began to form in the pit of her stomach.