Velvet Lightning

by Kay Hooper

  “I’m not Kate,” she whispered, but he wasn't listening. He no longer had the knife he had used on the painting, but that was a small mercy since a pistol was jammed inside his belt.

  It had never been this bad before. He’d never hit her before, never really hurt her. And he was terrifying in looks. His face was heavily flushed, his eyes wild and glazed, and a trickle of drool escaped his lips.

  She was terrified. “Please.”

  “Please, what, Kate? Please let you go to your lover?”

  Oh, God, she thought numbly. “No, I don’t have—”

  “You went out to his ship today, didn’t you?”

  “No!”

  “I saw you, Kate!” He was standing over her, shaking violently, and one hand kept plucking at the pistol under his belt. “I came home hours ago, and I walked out to the harbor. I saw your buggy, and his, and I waited in the woods.”

  She wiped the trickle of blood from her mouth, tried to think. “It was just a . . . visit,” she said desperately. “I wanted to see the ship, and—”

  “With all the crew in town? I saw them too. You were alone with him on the ship, Kate. You let him have you! I know you did, you let him crawl between your legs and—”

  “Stop it!” she cried. “I’m not your wife! I’m not Kate!”

  He was beyond hearing.

  “I knew all along,” he muttered. “I saw that night at Lettia’s party. I saw you look at him. With your eyes wide and your lips parted, looking at your lover as if he could have taken you right there in front of us all. But you told me it wasn’t true, goddamn you! You lied to me!”

  “No!”

  He giggled suddenly, his wet lips twisting obscenely. “I got him though. I got him back for looking at you like he did, like you belonged to him.”

  Catherine caught her breath on a jolt of fear. “What did you do?” she whispered.

  “I killed his horse.” Lucas snickered softly, eyes bright and hard with remembered enjoyment. “That pretty chestnut of his. I pushed it over the cliff behind his fancy house. That’s where I caught that chill, you know. Beating Tyrone’s horse until it went over the cliff.”

  She almost retched. “Oh, God.”

  “But it didn’t stop him. It didn’t stop you from going to him, did it, my sweet Kate?”

  “Stop. Please stop.” It had never gone this far before, had never lasted this long or been so violent. And he had never before armed himself. Her frightened eyes flickered to the gun he was plucking at, gently toying with. It was loaded, she knew. She swallowed hard. “Please.”

  “It didn’t stop you.” He was staring down at her, and his voice was bewildered. “I thought it would, but it didn’t. You just kept smiling and lying, and going to him like a bitch in heat!” His voice began rising again, shaking. “How long, Kate? How long has it been going on?”

  “Don’t.”

  “Months? Years?”

  “You have to calm yourself, please!” But she knew it wasn't any use, knew that this time he was beyond her reach.

  “Do you know where I went after I left the harbor, my darling Kate? I went looking for your secret meeting place. I knew there had to be one, and nearby. I knew you’d gone to him on those so-innocent little walks of yours.”

  Catherine flinched from the thick disgust in his voice, and swallowed the wild protests that were trying to choke her.

  “I saw it, Kate!” His glazed eyes were hot, feral. “Your pretty little lovers’ cottage in the woods. I saw the bed, smelled the lust— Oh, Christ, how could you, Kate? How could you let him have you, let him take you like some street-corner whore?”

  “No!”

  “Admit it!” His voice shook frenziedly, and his hand suddenly gripped the butt of the pistol. “Goddamn you, you lying, cheating, heartless bitch—admit it!”

  Instinctively, trying to stem the tide of his fury, Catherine accepted the role of erring wife. Anything, she thought desperately, to stop this here and now. Anything to save Marc. “All right,” she said unsteadily.

  “I admit it. But it won’t happen again, I promise you.”

  He went very still. But he didn't let go of the pistol. “You’ve promised before, Kate,” he said almost sadly.

  “I—this time I mean it. I do.” She took a deep breath. “We can . . . we can go away. Leave the island. We can go somewhere new. We can start over.”

  “You’ll just do it again. Just find another lover. Another bastard like Tyrone to warm your bed.” “No. I swear I won’t.”

  “You'll leave him? Come away with me?”

  “Yes.” Anything to save Marc.

  His bright, hot eyes narrowed, and then he laughed bitterly, a terrible sound. “No, you won’t.”

  “I swear!”

  “Lying bitch.” He was muttering now, and his eyes had moved restlessly away from her face. “I’ll have to get him. I will. I’ll get the bastard.”

  “No!” Catherine pushed herself up from the floor, ignoring the screaming pain in her side, conscious of nothing except the overwhelming need to stop him. She tried to grab his arm, throwing all her weight against him.

  But he threw her off as if she weighed nothing, slamming her back against the desk with an ease that was terrifying. He waved the pistol in the air, laughing softly, grinning at her. “I’ll get him. I’ll get him this time, Kate.”

  “No!” But it was hardly a sound, and she couldn’t catch her breath because the desk had caught her another wicked blow beneath her ribs and it hurt so terribly. “No, Father—” She tried to find him with tear-blurred eyes, and fear shot through her when she realized he was gone.

  Gone to get Marc . . .

  She pushed herself upright, crying out at the pain of contorting muscles and bruised flesh. Her body fiercely resisted her efforts to stand straight. She leaned on the desk for a moment, telling herself it didn’t hurt, that she could stand it. Slowly she forced herself upright. Her legs were shaking and she felt sick, but she managed to stumble through the house, out to the barn. It was still closed up, and she felt a surge of hope that she could get to Marc before her father did.

  With trembling fingers she pulled a bridle on her sometime saddlehorse, the gelding that had run away with her only hours before; he was fast and loved to run, and she hoped he still had plenty of speed left in him. He was made nervous by her agitated state, shifting away when she led him beside the mounting block just outside the barn, and Catherine tried to be calm.

  “Easy,” she whispered, patting his neck with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. “Easy, boy. Just a minute now. Just a minute.” She had no hope of getting on him without the block; she hadn’t bothered with a saddle, and her entire stomach felt bat-tered and painfully tender.

  Snorting, the gelding finally stood still, and she managed to get her leg over his back. She gathered the reins and pressed her knees to his sides, feeling her stomach muscles protest even that action. Gritting her teeth, she urged him down the drive, then turned him south. She could feel his muscles working between her knees as he leapt into a gallop, felt the wind tearing at her hair until all the pins were gone. The tail of her full skirt, bunched up nearly around her waist, whipped out behind her.

  She leaned forward, barely feeling the horse’s mane stinging her face, conscious only of the need to go faster, faster. It was miles to his house, and she didn’t slow the headlong gallop through the darkness until she was forced to turn sharply into the drive. The gelding chose the verge of the drive rather than the hard-packed dirt, cantering with little sound along the grass. He was sweating moderately, obviously still fresh even after the wild race.

  She had been here before, when Marc was away in New York. She often rode casually by, and stole glances at his big, quiet house. This was the first time she had turned into the drive, had approached the house itself.

  Catherine stopped the horse near the door of the house and managed to swing her leg over his neck and slide to the ground. She nearly fell then, catching hers
elf at the last minute but with a terrible cost to her bruised stomach and side. Holding one hand and arm pressed to that tender area, she stumbled to the front door and pounded her fist against it.

  He had to be there. If he wasn’t there, if he was somewhere her father could find him ... if she had wasted precious time—

  “Catherine!”

  He was there, thank God he was there, and her relief was so great she sobbed aloud, fighting to regain her lost breath. “Marc! Marc!” She heard a violent oath from him, thought vaguely that she must look like hell again—he ought to be getting used to it by now—and then she realized he had swung her up into his arms and was carrying her into the house, past two other startled, exclaiming people.

  Sarah, she thought hazily. And Reuben. Won’t the town have something to talk about now . . . but it doesn’t matter, not anymore.

  He had placed her gently on a long couch and sat half supporting her head and shoulders. She saw that she was still holding her middle, and wished it would stop hurting. “Marc—”

  “Shh. Not just yet.” He held out a hand command- ingly, and someone put a glass into it. “Drink this, Catherine.”

  She felt the cool rim against her mouth, thinking it was odd of him to hold it to one side like that, but then she realized that her lip must be split and that he was trying to avoid the wound. She started to tell him it hardly mattered since it was split inside as well, and that the brandy burned like hell, but then the liquid was sliding down her throat, and it felt too blessedly warming in the rest of her body to protest. She hadn’t realized until then that she was so dreadfully cold.

  Courage flowed into her with the brandy. Dutch courage, to be sure, but she was grateful for it nonetheless. The room stopped whirling, and even the pain in her stomach seemed to lessen to a dull throb, like her face.

  “Marc—”

  “Just lie quietly for a little while, my sweet.”

  She wanted to. She wanted to turn and burrow closer to the hard warmth of his body, to lose herself in him. But there was no time, she was terrified her father would come and try to hurt Marc.

  “No. I have to—” She struggled to sit up, the breath hissing between her gritted teeth when her bruised stomach protested violently.

  “Dammit, Catherine!” But he helped her to sit up, keeping one arm around her.

  She saw the pistol lying on a table beside him, and remembered suddenly that he’d been holding it when he opened the front door. Good. Good, then; he was being careful. ‘‘Marc, my father—”

  “Did he do this to you?” Tyrone’s voice was level.

  She lifted a shaking hand to brush her hair back away from her face, looking at him. “He . . . ran out of the house. He had a gun and he was going to look for you.”

  He half nodded, unsurprised. Softly he said, “You can’t go on protecting him any longer. You know that, don’t you?”

  She shook her head a little, trying to think. “How did you know about him?”

  “I figured out most of it, I think. When you told me today to keep a gun with me, many things started to make sense. At least, some of it did. Who was Kate? Your mother?”

  “Yes.” She shivered, oddly unsurprised by his perception. “When he gets like that he thinks I’m she. Thinks she—she’s been with another man.”

  Tyrone’s mouth tightened. “I see.”

  “No, you don’t. He'll try to hurt you; he’s out there now looking for you. If he comes here—”

  “I’m not going to give him the chance.” He glanced aside, where Sarah and Reuben stood waiting with shocked expressions. “Reuben, saddle my fastest horse.”

  “No!” She twisted, ignoring the pain, and grasped his shirt with both hands. “You can’t go out there!” Tyrone set the glass he was still holding aside and then touched her cheek gently, his eyes going cold and hard when they dropped briefly to her cut, swollen lip. “Honey,” he said in a quiet tone, “I can’t let him hurt someone else. I have to go after him, have to stop him.”

  After a moment she whispered, “The buggy, then. If you’re going, I’m going with you.”

  “Catherine—”

  “I might be able to calm him down. Reach him. I have before. And I have to try!”

  “You’re in no state to go anywhere!”

  There was no way on God’s earth, Catherine thought with absolute clarity, that she would allow Marc to go without her. Calmly she said, “I’m going. Unless you mean to tie me up or lock me in a closet, I’m going.”

  His lips twisted suddenly, and a glint of humor flashed in his gray eyes. “You’re a damned pig-headed, stubborn woman, Catherine.”

  “So you’ve told me. More than once.”

  He sighed, looked back at the waiting Reuben. “The buggy, then. And stable Miss Waltrip’s horse, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” Reuben said, fading back out of the room and drawing his wife with him.

  Catherine released Tyrone’s shirt with one hand and rubbed her stomach absently. “You’ll take your gun?

  “Yes.” He swore softly. “Did it ever occur to you that you had only to tell me what was going on? I could have—”

  “What?” she interrupted tiredly. “There was nothing you could have done. Except . . . except to stop seeing me. Maybe that’s why I couldn't tell you, really. And—he’s my father.”

  Tyrone looked at her pale face, half averted from him, and the tightness in his chest wouldn't ease. He couldn't find any compassion within him for Lucas Waltrip, not while he sat staring at Catherine’s bruised face, her cut, swollen lip. And she was hurting in other places, he could see that; she moved stiffly, and both her stomach and side were obviously painful. He hated to think what bruises must lay beneath her clothing.

  She had been very tired, he knew, tired and worried and afraid. Yet she had faced a violent confrontation with her father and then, hurt and frightened, had climbed up on a horse bareback and raced miles to get to him and warn him. He had known all along that she was strong, strong enough to shoulder her burdens alone and refuse help, but he hadn’t known just how incredibly strong she really was.

  He reached out a hand and put it gently over the one rubbing her stomach. “What did he do to you?” he murmured.

  She sent him a quick glance. “I fell against the desk, that’s all. Just a bruise.”

  “Has he ever done this before?”

  “No. He's never been this violent before.” Suddenly, flatly, Tyrone said, “No matter what happens, you’re not going back to his house.”

  She seemed to realize she was still clutching his shirt, and hastily released it. “I’m all he’s got.”

  “You’re all I've got.” He bent his head and kissed her lightly when she opened her mouth to respond. His voice had gone a little rough and unsteady. “Just shut up, dammit, and let me take care of you.”

  She thought wistfully of being cared for by him, of letting herself love and be loved, then painfully forced the thoughts away. Stupid thoughts, useless thoughts. He hadn’t realized yet what her other secret was. Secret fear, secret dread. And she didn’t have the courage to tell him.

  “I just want it to be over,” she whispered.

  They both heard the jingle of harness and the creak of the buggy’s wheels outside at that moment, and Catherine accepted his help in getting to her feet. She didn’t think she could have done it on her own.

  “Will you be warm enough?’’ he asked, glancing down at her blouse and skirt.

  “I’m fine.”

  He gave her a wry look, then bent to pick up his pistol and slide it under his belt on his left side.

  What if he has to kill Father? The sudden realization hit her, prompted by the gun, and she thought Tyrone must have been thinking the same thing, because he stood looking down at her with grave eyes as if he were waiting for something.

  “He’s—sick,” she said slowly.

  “I know.”

  She stared up at him, seeing a tall, powerful man with raven hair ligh
tly silvered at the temples. A man with a hard, handsome face and level gray eyes. His white shirt was open at the top, revealing the strong column of his throat and the first curls of black hair on his chest. The gun in his belt added to his innate air of danger, and for the first time she could clearly see him as the captain of a ship running a deadly blockade.

  It was hard to breathe, and she could feel her heart thudding against her ribs. “If I had to choose—”

  “You won’t,” he promised flatly.

  “But if I had to . . It was terribly important to her that he should know. “I’d choose you, Marc.”

  Something flashed across the silver sheen of his eyes, then was gone almost instantly. He carried the hand he held to his lips and kissed it gently. Then he led her out to the buggy.

  They were half a mile from the harbor when they saw the eerie glow in the night sky.’

  “What is—” Catherine caught her breath suddenly, dread filling her. “Oh, no!”

  “The Raven.” Tyrone swore harshly. “Christ, she’s burning!”

  Horror numbed Catherine. She hadn’t expected this, not this. Hadn’t expected her father to hit Tyrone where it would hurt the most, with the loss of his beloved Raven. And it had to be that, had to be her father’s doing, because the crews of wooden vessels were always so careful of fire.

  The buggy leapt forward as Tyrone snapped the reins hard against the horse's rump, and she could feel his tension, feel him straining to get to his ship. As they skidded into the fork leading to the harbor, she was vaguely aware of bobbing dots of light coming from the town, and realized that the fire had been spotted, that everyone was rushing to the harbor.

  She had eyes only for what lay ahead of them.

  It was a scene out of hell. The ship, anchored close in, was blazing wildly, the fire making an ungodly roar in the quiet of the night. The Raven had become a torch, her sails and masts burning, the fire casting a flickering reddish glow over the water, the dock, and the men watching in silent anguish.

  Tyrone stopped the buggy and jumped out, turning, even in his own pain, to help her out, holding her hand firmly as they went down to the dock.