by Kay Hooper
“You’re late,” she said, turning to greet him.
“You’re a shrew,” he retorted, and pulled her into his arms.
Catherine Waltrip instantly melted against him, her arms sliding up around his neck, her lips warmly responsive. He held her tightly against him. His hands roamed up her slender back until they reached her hair. Pins scattered about them, and her waist-length dark hair fell like silk through his fingers.
“You always do that,” she murmured, smiling.
“Do what?” He was exploring her throat. It was soft, fragrant, immensely tempting. He felt the laugh in her throat as well as heard it, and thought vaguely that Mrs. Symington would have been amazed. The whole town would have been amazed.
She was pushing his coat off his shoulders, coping familiarly with his tie, with buttons. He was aware of their urgency, hers as well as his; it was always like this when he first came back to the island. Clothing lay where it fell, discarded carelessly. She would shake her head about that later.
He held her slender, naked body against his briefly, but was hardly able to contain his desire when her full breasts pressed against his chest, when the softness at the base of her belly enticed his swollen loins. His heart was hammering, his breath coming roughly. Impatient, he swept her up into his arms and carried her through the bare central room and to the tiny bedroom that held only a sturdy brass bed. The covers had already been folded back to the foot of the bed.
The window in this room, uncurtained, spilled weak light onto the bed.
She pulled him down half on top of her, refusing to let him ease himself down as he would have. Her hands moved over him, long fingers clever and sure. She raised her head from the pillow and gently bit his shoulder. The frosty blue eyes were darkened and gleaming now, veiled by long lashes and deliberation. Her lips were curved in a half smile, and she was beautiful.
Tyrone held a tight rein on his urgency and al lowed himself to become reacquainted with her body. Her slenderness clothed was deceptive; naked, she was sinuous elegance and lusty curves. Her breasts were full and firm, tipped with pink nipples that were hard now under his lips. Her stomach was flat and firm; her hips curved gently; her legs were long and strong.
Her cool, poised exterior disappeared in passion. Her flesh heated as if a fire raged inside her, almost burning him, and there was something essentially greedy in her instant readiness for him. He had, once, aroused her from across a room at a boring party with no more than a veiled look; he had seen her immediate response in darkened eyes and uncon-sciously parted lips, had smiled secretly at it. Later, she had called him a bastard.
He slid one hand slowly down over her stomach, feeling the deep muscles contract and quiver, hearing her gasp. He rasped his tongue roughly over her breasts, taking his time, rubbing her belly slowly, lightly, until her nails bit into his back and she moaned. He moved his hand quickly then, his palm covering the soft curls of her nest as her legs parted jerkily for him. He explored the slick, swollen flesh, probing her readiness, caressing her with sure knowledge.
She cried out, her hips lifting, arms straining to draw him closer. Tyrone gave in to her need and his own, moving over her, settling between her thighs. He entered her slowly, luxuriating in her tight heat as her body sheathed his. The pleasure was so intense that he gritted his teeth, though not in time to stop the groan from escaping. Her legs closed about him tightly, holding him deep inside her for a moment. Then, when he began thrusting, she answered his rhythm instantly, wildly, taking him as completely as he took her.
This was the Catherine the people of Port Elizabeth would never know, and Tyrone delighted in his own secret knowledge of her. He delighted in her uninhibited passion, her unashamed need. He exulted in the fire he had discovered in her, the laughter, the sharp tongue. He had found, underneath the cool, poised surface of her, a storm raging. She fascinated him endlessly.
Their urgency now caught them, drove them, until movements were quick and sharp with need, until their bodies strove together like two halves of one, with primitive grace. Until the quiet of the tiny bedroom splintered with sounds of release that were barely human.
She stretched languidly beside him, boneless as a cat. Tyrone raised himself on an elbow and looked down at her. He put a gentle hand on her flat stomach, and she made a soft, almost unconscious sound of pleasure, eyes closed, lips smiling.
“I hope,” he said, “that you don’t have to go home soon.”
Catherine opened her eyes and looked at him sleepily. “It isn’t even noon,” she murmured. “Disgraceful, meeting a lover before lunchtime.”
“That wasn’t an answer,” he told her.
“Ummm. Father’s got a game on.”
That, he knew, was an answer. Her father occasionally hosted poker games with cronies, and Catherine’s absence during those games would never be noticed.
“Good,” he said. “Then we have the afternoon.” She wouldn’t stay longer, and refused to spend the night with him. She also refused to visit his house, or to allow him in her own except on extremely rare social occasions. This cottage only.
Tyrone studied her slender, creamy body, aware of familiar stirrings but also aware that this time passion would build slowly and last a very long time. He could wait. Once with her, he could wait easily.
They had been lovers for nearly two years. On his last visit to the island, he had asked her to marry him. With composure, and without explanation, she had refused. It had changed nothing.
From another woman, Tyrone might well have demanded an explanation. But not from Catherine. He had gradually come to realize that there were things she would never share with him, parts of herself that were locked securely away from him. It had begun to trouble him only recently.
He knew well her pride, her cool ability to hide whatever wounds were inflicted by the hostility of the townspeople. She never complained, never defended herself, never explained. She had a wickedly sharp tongue in pointing out pretension, identifying hypocrisy. She didn’t hesitate to show him the quickness of her perception and her way with words, but in public her manners, almost without exception, were rigidly polite.
Tyrone had no idea at all of what she really thought of him. He had realized only as he was returning to New York after his last visit that her refusal to marry him had been a blow. To his pride, perhaps. The proposal itself had been made on impulse, and he had shrugged off the rejection as best he could. She had not rejected him as a lover, and if his ability to arouse her so swiftly and completely was one she viewed with rueful acceptance, at least she accepted it.
“You’re a bastard, Tyrone,” she said, still sleepily. He was watching her breasts rise and fall as she breathed, and responded absently. “Oh? What have I done now?” He had long ago decided that if she ever called him Marc, it would be because he had finally gotten close to her; she used his surname deliberately to hold him away, and he knew it.
“You know what you’ve done. If I hadn’t seen The Raven in the harbor this morning, it would have been a total shock. Appearing out of nowhere in town, no warning. And Lettia Symington not two feet away!” He chuckled. “What did you say to her about that damned hat? She was livid.”
Catherine smiled her secret, private smile, and he watched it in fascination. “I just asked her when those birds were going to hatch their eggs and fly away, since they’d been roosting on that hat since last spring.”
Tyrone laughed again. “You definitely touched a nerve. She couldn’t wait to tear you to shreds.”
“I don’t doubt it. Never misses an opportunity, our Lettia.”
“Abernathy said she’d had you up before the magistrate. Something about that yapping cur of hers?” Catherine's smile died. “Yes. Somebody drowned the poor brute, and she naturally settled on me. The magistrate told her not to be foolish and dismissed the case.”
“Ummm. And Lettia’s supporters?”
Very dryly Catherine said, “Disappointed. They would dearly love to hang me fro
m the nearest tree. But that would be uncivilized, you understand. Hardly the done thing.”
Tyrone studied her face thoughtfully. She was too intelligent not to feel the pinpricks, too proud not to be aware of every slighting glance and remark. He wondered suddenly why she stood it, why she didn’t just leave the island.
Her lashes flickered up, blue eyes regarding him. “Why are you looking so grave?”
“No reason. You haven’t asked how long I’m staying this trip.”
She looked faintly surprised. “It’s usually a week or so.”
“Longer this time. A few months, perhaps.” He was watching her intently, and her reaction disturbed him. Alarm stirred in her clear eyes, then wariness; both emotions were fleeting, very quickly gone or hidden.
Calmly she said, “That will be nice. Unless you tire of me, of course.”
After a moment he said, “No, there’s no chance of that.” Abruptly, driven by a need he didn’t question, he added, “You’ve been the only woman in my bed since that first afternoon by the stream.”
She was clearly surprised, and looked at him rather searchingly. Slightly hesitant, she said, “I assumed there was a woman in New York.”
“No. You’re all the woman I can handle.” He made it light, mocking.
She laughed, seeming almost relieved by his mockery. “You’re a liar, Tyrone. And you know exactly how to appeal to a woman’s vanity. Experience, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” he agreed dryly, knowing she wouldn’t take him seriously. Knowing she didn’t want to. What he didn’t know was why. From the beginning of their relationship she had quite coolly and calmly set the boundaries; she would be his lover in secret but not his mistress in public. Her reputation would remain uncompromised, and there would be no tears when it was over. A sensible, adult agreement, unmarred by sentiment.
He had been her first and, as far as he knew, only lover.
Smiling, he bent his head to place a warm kiss on her firm stomach. But when he raised back up, he surprised an expression in her eyes that went through him like a knife. It was quickly gone, replaced by the glow of building passion, and the moment to ask about it vanished.
But he didn't forget it. He didn’t think he would ever forget that brief, stark look of sheer agony in her beautiful eyes.
He thought it would haunt him as long as he lived.
Passion did grow slowly this time, almost lazily, as he’d thought it would and he was going to make it last even longer. He teased her, his mouth and hands moving over her heating body with a feather-light touch. His own body was hard, the blood pounding through his veins, but he ignored his own need. She responded, as always, with throaty sounds, her body trembling, breath coming quickly, shallowly. For the first time it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted—
“Say my name, Catherine,’’ he commanded, his hands full of her swollen breasts, lips just grazing the tight nipples.
Gleaming sapphire eyes focused on his face, and she bit her lip and tugged at his shoulders mutely.
“Say it.” He drew a nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly, one hand sliding down her body suddenly, his fingers raking through dark curls but avoiding the wet, throbbing flesh.
“Tyrone!” she gasped.
“No. My name. Say my name, Catherine.” He covered her flushed breasts with hot kisses, tiny bites, then captured her lips. He kissed her deeply, lips hard and hot, his tongue delving, exploring, sinuously demanding her instant response. He settled over her, between her thighs, but refused to take her. He let her feel him against her yearning flesh but refused to move, holding himself away from her on rigid arms, muscles bunched and trembling. “Say it!”
There was a sudden flash of pure fury in her darkened eyes, and she made a choked sound of torment. She raked her nails down his back, caught him with her long, strong legs, with silent, desperate insistence.
“Goddammit,” he said thickly, and, defeated, sank his hard, throbbing flesh into hers. His hands slid beneath her firm buttocks, lifting her to meet each powerful thrust, trying to bury himself in her. The scalding heat of her held him, captured him. He watched her through angry, slitted eyes, and when her throat suddenly convulsed, he covered her lips with his, catching the cry of release, taking it whether she would give it to him or not, stealing it.
He felt her body contract around his, and that inner caress spurred his own violent, headlong plunge toward satisfaction. He drove into her again and again, into tight heat and wet yearning. And he felt her stiffen even as he lunged a final time, catching her second wild cry with his mouth, mingling it with his own guttural groan of terrible pleasure. . . .
Neither mentioned his failure to force his name from her. They were more quiet than usual, saying little, resting side by side on the wide bed without touching. When the shadows in the room grew longer, the light fainter, he made love to her again. And, again, it was wild, almost a battle, two strong wills clashing, two passionate bodies merging in heat and silence.
He didn’t ask her to say his name.
Tyrone reluctantly pulled himself from the bed and went into the other room to gather their clothing, knowing that as usual he would leave first. She would strip the bed and carry the linens back to her house, and on their next meeting would have the bed remade with fresh sheets. He wondered idly what she would say if someone caught her emerging from the woods with a bundle of sex-scented linen. Something daunting, no doubt. He had never seen her lose composure, except in bed. And even then, some part of her mind was composed.
“Tomorrow,” he said standing by the bed and shrugging into his coat.
Catherine, lying naked and lazy on the bed, eyed him thoughtfully. “All right. But not until after three.”
He bent, bracing a hand on either side of her, and kissed her thoroughly. “Come to my house,” he said against her lips.
“No.” Her eyes gleamed at him.
He straightened, smiling down at her. “Here.”
“Here,” she echoed.
“You’re a stubborn woman.”
Catherine smiled, agreeing with him. She watched him shake his head and turn away, watched him walk to the door and look back at her over one broad shoulder. Then he was gone.
She lay quietly on the bed, her smile gone with him. She listened to the sounds of the buggy moving away from the cottage. She knew she should get up and get dressed in the clothing he had left on the bed for her. She had to hurry home. She didn’t move. Her breasts felt heavy, tender, in the aftermath of passion and his caresses. Her entire body was warm, languid.
In the silence of the room she softly released what he had tried to force from her, giving it to the lonely emptiness.
“Marc. . . .”
At the southwestern end of the island the chestnut turned briskly off the main road and onto a private drive. Tyrone didn’t hurry the horse now, but merely held the reins, his mind wandering slightly, always returning to Catherine. What pleasure she gave him! What incredible pleasure!
The drive curved up close to the big three-storied stone house, and the horse stopped automatically. There was another buggy waiting near the front door, and as Tyrone stepped down an elderly man carrying a small black bag came out of the house.
Frowning a little, Tyrone met him halfway to the house. “Dr. Scott,” he said, and immediately asked, “Is he—?”
“No, no.” Behind rimless spectacles Charles Scott’s faded blue eyes were still sharp, still intelligent. “He’s much the same. Weakening, of course, but I warned you about that. He tires easily, and he'll sleep a great deal from now on.” Dr. Scott’s voice was surprisingly deep.
After a moment Tyrone said bleakly, “And the end?”
Dr. Scott looked at him intently. “Not long now. As little as a week—perhaps as long as a month. He won't suffer, lad. Likely as not, he’ll go to sleep and simply not wake up. To be perfectly truthful, I’m amazed he lasted this long. You’ve done a fine job of making his last years happy ones.”
T
yrone didn't respond but merely stood and gazed broodingly at his front door.
Dr. Scott, who had retired to Port Elizabeth years before only to find himself still in demand for special cases, studied the younger man thoughtfully. A curious man, Captain Tyrone, he thought, and an interesting one. For the most part, he was cynical and hard, a sardonic observer of those around him. Yet Scott had the odd idea that Tyrone was a man who wanted to believe in something, that he had once found something and was fighting even now to preserve it despite its inexorable ending, that there was, somewhere inside him, a core of idealism.
To Dr. Scott’s mind, nothing else could explain what Tyrone had done. Nothing else would explain his commitment and caution, his astonishingly selfless care of a man who had no claim upon him. He had disrupted his own life without comment or complaint and had built a secret and safe haven for the man.
“Should I send for you if he becomes worse?” Tyrone asked abruptly, his voice as always without emotion when discussing Dr. Scott’s patient with him.
The doctor shook his head. “No need. We’ve passed the violent stage long ago. If he should grow agitated, give him laudanum; I’ve left a new bottle with the nurse.” He hesitated, then added impersonally, “I’ve offered her a position with me once he's gone. The island needs a nurse.”
Tyrone looked intently at him. “Fine.” His voice was even.
Dr. Scott nodded. He went on to his buggy and climbed in, then drove away. He felt he was leaving an enigma behind.
Tyrone had taken one step toward the house, when another man came around the corner. He was middle- aged, stout, placid, and laconic, with mild brown eyes and graying hair.