Velvet Lightning

by Kay Hooper

  She felt oddly peaceful. The dark rooms were still there, but she believed she might almost be ready to face them. She was still afraid, and still hurting, but her long-denied tears had let the worst escape. “Thank you,” she said to him.

  “For what? For making you cry?” He was incredulous.

  “Yes. For that.”

  “Catherine—”

  She lifted her head from the pillow and kissed him lightly. “It's raining, isn’t it?” she asked. “I can hear it, and feel the ship moving more strongly. It’s very peaceful.” She raised her other hand and touched his face, looking at him gravely, conscious of a need to settle things between them. “You’ve made me very happy since that day by the stream,” she told him. “I hope you know that.”

  His mouth tightened. “If you're saying good-bye again—”

  She covered his lips with the tips of her fingers.

  “Please. Can we forget all that for now? I don’t want to think, or hurt, or be afraid. Make love to me?”

  “Is that all you’re ever going to take from me, Catherine? Is that all you’re willing to give me?” His voice was low, bleak.

  She stroked his face with gentle fingers. She wanted to ask, Would that be so bad? But she didn’t. Because she knew it would be. “Don’t you want me?”

  “That’s a stupid question,” he muttered.

  Catherine almost smiled. “Don’t be angry. Just— make love to me in this amazing bed of yours.”

  He laughed reluctantly, a glint of honest appreciation in his eye. “You never say the expected, do you?”

  “You just don’t expect the right thing. And it is an amazing bed.”

  “Mmmm. Do you like it?” He was smiling a little, watching her face.

  Catherine looked up at yards and yards of scarlet satin, twisted her head to see the ornate headboard. Then she looked back at him and widened her eyes. “Which sultan did you rob? And how many harem girls did you manage to fling across your saddle before the flight through the desert?”

  “Damn!” He laughed, but there was a trace of sheepishness in his expression. “It isn't that bad.”

  “It should be in a cathouse,” she said roundly.

  “What do you know about cathouses?”

  “Only what I’ve heard.” She smiled. “What you told me, in fact. I asked, and you described. A number of them. All over the world.”

  He winced. “Hell, I did, didn’t I?”

  “Certainly you did. You told me all sorts of things I’d never known before. Very interesting. I especially recall that memorable visit to the house in Spain—”

  He bent his head and kissed her. “Shut up.” He was half laughing, his mouth curved and a bittersweet enjoyment in his eyes. “Just shut up, dammit, and let me make love to you in my sultan's bed.” “You’ll have to get me out of this cloak first,” she said in a voice that had grown abruptly breathless with more than humor. “I’m all twisted in it.” Tyrone managed to get her untwisted while she laughed and fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. The storm of tears had changed her somehow, leaving behind it a serenity that reminded him of their first days together. He could only be grateful that her pain and fear had gone, at least for now, and tried not to let her see his own pain.

  He had told her he loved her, and she had wept for the first time in his presence, bitter, racking tears that had shaken her body wildly and had nearly killed him.

  But he would happily give her what she would take from him while he snatched all he could from her. For now.

  “You’ve lost weight,” he said in discovery when their clothing had been flung aside haphazardly and her pale body lay naked beside him.

  She stretched pleasurably as his hands stroked over her, smiling a little. “Your imagination.”

  “No.” He bent his head, trailing his lips across her breastbone while his hands slid slowly down her ribs, exploring gently. “I can feel it here.” His fingers traced slight indentations between her delicate bones, touched the hollows above each leg. “And here.”

  “How does it feel?” she asked huskily.

  “Like silk.” He moved a hand smoothly over her belly, felt the deep muscles tighten and quiver. “Silk over glass. Soft and fragile.’’ His lips nuzzled a tight nipple, and his tongue flicked lightly, teasing.

  “And that?” she whispered.

  “Mmmm. You tell me. How does it feel?” His mouth captured the hard bud, drew it strongly inward.

  Catherine moaned. “Heat.” Her voice was throaty, shaken. “Burning me . . .” Her fingers dug into his shoulders, compulsively stroked the powerful muscles. She sounded bewildered, passionate. “How can you make me feel this way? I'm alive only when you do this.”

  Tyrone felt a sudden rush of hunger more intense than he had ever felt before. A craving for her, for Catherine, that was more than desire, more than need. His entire throbbing body cried out for hers in a way that was primitive, almost savage. She would give him only this, only her body, and if that was their sole tie, he would bind her with it.

  He moved slowly down her body, kissing, his tongue flicking, teeth nipping her soft flesh. He could feel her tremble, feel the heat inside her. He felt more than heard a sound break free of him, a guttural groan of pleasure and yearning.

  “Please,” she whispered, her head moving restlessly on the pillow. “Tyrone, please . . .”

  She wouldn’t even give him his name. And he knew, suddenly, implacably, that this time she would. If he had to half kill himself, if he had to drag it out of her, he was going to hear her say his given name.

  He eased her legs apart, slowly trailed his lips over the sensitive skin inside one thigh, then the other. His mouth hovered over her lower belly, just grazing the hot flesh, and she writhed suddenly with a gasp.

  “Is this what you want?” He hardly recognized his own voice, hardly knew the thick, rasping sound of it.

  She moaned. “Yes.”

  His mouth suddenly found the hot, throbbing wetness between her legs, his tongue stroking with sure skill, and she cried out brokenly.

  “This?”

  Catherine’s body shuddered, and she tried to catch her breath, tried to find a voice in the searing heat of her need. He was torturing her and she couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel the exquisite agony lancing through her.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  “Say my name, Catherine,” he murmured softly.

  “No!”

  “Say it!” He prolonged the torture ruthlessly, taking her again and again almost to the peak, letting her reach for it but refusing her satisfaction. She became a wild thing, a thing that was hunger and nothing more, a thing without will. Until finally she broke.

  “Marc!”

  He went still for an instant, and then he was moving over her swiftly, settling between her thighs. His swollen, throbbing manhood sank into her, deeply, a violent plunge. Her legs locked strongly around his hips and she arched beneath him, whimpering.

  “Again,” he ordered thickly, holding himself still, buried inside her, his glittering eyes fixed on her face.

  “Marc,” she whispered, filled by him, claimed and possessed and vanquished by him. “Marc.”

  An odd sound escaped him, as if he had broken instead of she. His powerful thrusts scalded her, ignited flames that burned her alive until she couldn’t bear it any longer, until she was dying from the pleasure of it. Blind and deaf, she felt rather than heard her own wild cry of release, felt the harsh rumble of his groan before his heavy, welcome weight bore her down into the bed.

  A long time later she felt movement, felt a shifting of weight. He had rolled over, concerned that she might be uncomfortable. She was suddenly on top of him, boneless, still joined to him, and she rested her head on his chest with a sigh.

  “Thief,” she said softly.

  A chuckle vibrated in his chest. “I got it.”

  “You stole it.” But she couldn’t feel any anger. She had known, somehow, that he would win a
t least that.

  His hands were belatedly removing pins, spreading her hair over her back, stroking the silky strands. “I got it,” he repeated, something fierce in his low voice. “And I won’t let you take it back. Not now.”

  “No.” She rubbed her cheek against the springy hair on his chest, enjoying the rough caress. “There wouldn’t be much use in that, would there?”

  His arms tightened around her.

  9

  Catherine sat in her buggy, hidden from the road in the cool little grove. She listened to the sounds of birds, the faint hissing of the sea against the thin ribbon of sand around the southern curve of the harbor that was nearest to her. She felt more alive than ever, sensitive to everything around her, as if she'd never allowed herself to see and feel before.

  She looked back over her shoulder at The Raven floating serenely in the harbor, and realized suddenly that she had spent these last hours in another world, a world where the sea whispered and a graceful wooden vessel floated, where the breeze through rigging could be a kind of siren song, and an ornate bed draped with satin could be a place of wild passion and fragile peace.

  A world she could visit. A world she could never call her own.

  Nothing had changed, she thought, feeling tension creep back, dragging fear and pain with it. If anything, it was worse now because she knew she could never have what Marc Tyrone wanted to give her, and yet she couldn’t end this between them, couldn’t send him away. Couldn’t stop loving him, needing him.

  “Are you going to be all right?” he asked quietly.

  She looked down at him where he stood beside the buggy, and her heart lurched. “I have to think,” she murmured, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

  “About what? About us?”

  “You won’t let it end, will you?”

  His jaw tightened. “No. I love you, Catherine. And you feel something for me, I know you do.”

  She looked at her gloved hands holding the reins. “It doesn’t matter what I feel.”

  “It matters to me!”

  Catherine began to lift the reins, but stilled when his hand reached out to catch hers. “Please, Marc—”

  “At least I’ve won that much,” he said huskily. “Maybe I stole it, but it’s mine. I can’t be just Tyrone, your secret lover. Not anymore. Marry me, Catherine.”

  “Don’t!” Perhaps hearts couldn't break, she thought, but they could hurt as if they’d been shattered into pieces.

  “I said I would. Marry me.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Is it because you can’t love me?” His voice was very steady, controlled.

  She felt the hot pressure of tears, and stared down at the hand covering hers. “I can’t marry you. Please don’t ask me again, Marc.”

  “You won’t even tell me why?”

  She shook her head silently.

  He racked his brain to think of some way to reach her. He didn’t want to hurt her, and God knew he didn’t want to add to the fear he could feel in her like something dark and cold, but he was going mad not knowing what was wrong. And the helplessness of not being able to do anything at all ate at him.

  “Will I see you again?” he asked finally, defeated.

  She lifted her gaze, staring straight again. A queer little smile that was pleasure and pain curved her lips. “I . . . don’t think I can give you up.”

  “Catherine—”

  “Do you have a gun?” she asked abruptly.

  “Of course I have a gun.” He frowned, conscious of a sudden chill.

  “You should keep it with you,” she said in a faraway voice.

  “Why, Catherine?” He made his voice flat and calm.

  She pulled her hands away and took a firm grip on the reins. “I have to go. I—I have to think.”

  He was forced to step back when the buggy moved forward, and he stood there in the grove staring after her. I? he thought, bewildered. I'm in danger? He shook his head and muttered, “Goddammit,” because he couldn’t focus his thoughts.

  Finally he went back to his own buggy, where his horse waited patiently. He untied the animal and got into the carriage, and headed into town to tell his men to return to the ship.

  She believes I'm in danger.

  The men were waiting inside the hotel. He took Lyle and a few others in the buggy with him; the rest cheerfully walked. He drove the buggy back to the harbor, responding absently to Lyle’s occasional comments, then watched the men take one of the longboats and begin rowing out to the ship. He turned the buggy around and set off toward his house at a brisk pace that was the horse’s idea rather than his own.

  She’s afraid I’m in danger.

  Had that been it all along, he wondered. He could feel his mind groping, feel scattered thoughts and impressions that refused to complete an image in his mind. Frowning, he drove to his house and stabled the horse.

  He had missed his lunch, and so had Catherine. He hoped she ate something; he was worried about her slight loss of weight. More, he wished violently that she’d let him take care of her.

  “An early dinner, Captain?” Sarah asked brightly as he came into the house. She was standing in the foyer with a dustcloth in one capable hand; she was a middle-aged woman with quiet eyes and an unobtrusive way of taking care of him when he was on the island and under her gaze.

  “Please,” he said, distracted.

  “I’ll have it ready for you in an hour or so.”

  “All right. Thank you.” He went into his study, feeling restless and uneasy. Something Catherine had said ... or was it something that finally clicked in his mind?

  The house was very quiet. He wandered over to the window, looking out at lengthening shadows, at approaching night. When Sarah called him, he went and ate his dinner without tasting it, but not forgetting to compliment her cooking—which, in truth, was excellent.

  He returned to his study. Paced. He took his gun from the desk drawer, cleaned and reloaded it, but left it lying on the blotter as he resumed pacing. It was dark, and Sarah came in silently to put on the lamps, then went away again.

  He called her Kate, Tyrone thought suddenly, bothered by that. Her father had called her Kate, and she’d gone white. It had to mean something. What did it mean?

  I won’t be held up by the town as a whore.

  But that wasn't it; that had never been it. Catherine, accepting the slights and insults of the town, had cared no more for her reputation than Tyrone cared for his. Yet she had insisted on secrecy, was panicky at the threat of being found out, was cold to him in public, as if there were danger even in being seen talking to him on the street.

  Do you have a gun?

  He forced himself to think. If she were afraid for him, had been afraid all this time not of any danger to herself but of a danger to him . . . and if that fear had grown recently because he had changed, had begun to love her, had begun to demand more of her. An end of secrecy . . .

  She wouldn’t marry him. I can't.

  The threat to him was because of their relationship. He was in danger because he was her lover. And it was real danger, deadly danger, because nothing else would frighten her so deeply. She was desperately trying to push him away from her because she felt certain that someone could hurt him, perhaps kill him. Because of her. Because he loved her.

  Tyrone stopped pacing, staring blindly at nothing. That had to be it. He didn’t understand, not completely, but he thought that he could, now, give his enemy a face.

  That was when he heard the frantic knocking at his door.

  Catherine put the horse away and went into the house. It was silent; her father was still away. She went upstairs and changed out of her velvet dress, trying not to think despite her words to Tyrone. But she couldn’t stop, of course.

  Stepping into a dark skirt, buttoning a white blouse, she thought of scarlet satin, and found herself smiling, feeling a sad, sweet understanding. She wondered how old he had been when the “sultan’s bed’’ had been installed. Still
young enough, she thought, to carry the vivid memory of a thin, worn mother and rats in a cold shack at night. So, wanting to surround himself with luxury, with sensuous fabrics and the brightest color he could find, he had bought the ornate bed. And if he was, now, older and wiser and inclined to view his younger self with a kind of wry mockery, then that was natural.

  But she hurt for that younger Marc Tyrone. And she hurt for the man who still felt the bitter prick of conscience, even after all these years, for his own part in a senseless war.

  Dear God, she loved him.

  Feeling tired and terribly alone, she went back downstairs. The house was still silent. She went into the kitchen and began preparing dinner, vaguely aware of lengthening shadows. It was almost dark when the meal was ready, and she felt the first uneasy twinge of worry.

  Where was her father? He should have been home by now. Could he have come in quietly while she was busy in the kitchen?

  She went back through the house, lighting lamps, and felt a surge of relief when she noticed that his study was bright, a soft glow spilling through the doorway.

  “Father?” She went into the room, and got as far as his desk, when she suddenly went cold. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, feel hot bile rising bitterly in her throat.

  Her mother’s portrait had been horribly slashed with a knife, utterly and ruthlessly destroyed.

  Catherine heard a faint sound behind her and whirled out of instinct, throwing up one arm to protect her face. But she wasn’t quick enough, and the flat-handed blow caught her with the full force of his arm, knocked her over the corner of the desk and onto the floor. She tasted blood, felt the stab of agony just beneath her ribs, where the edge of the desk had gouged into her. Tears of pain blinded her for a moment, and as she blinked them away, her face began to throb angrily from the blow.

  “Father .. .”

  “Stop saying that!” he roared.

  “Father, please—it’s Catherine.” She didn’t dare get to her feet, and fought to keep her voice steady.

  “Catherine is just a child,” he said in a shaking voice. “You stop bringing her into this, Kate!”