Velvet Lightning (10 page)

“Captain?”

“Yes?”

“Captain, your questions are a bit . . . suggestive. Would I be wrong in thinking you’d rather I kept them under my hat?”

Tyrone smiled a little, knowing that Mr. Abernathy could be trusted to keep secrets, as long as he knew they were secrets. “I would appreciate that,” he said.

Abernathy nodded. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”

“Thanks.” Tyrone left the store. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, thinking, then tossed his cigar into the street and drew out his watch. Almost two o’clock. Catherine might be waiting for him . . . or she might not. He was beginning to feel frustrated by the uncertainty of their meetings, by her inaccessibility.

He climbed into his buggy and slapped the reins against the mare’s rump, guiding her down the main street. Bothered by what he increasingly felt to be the presence of an elusive enemy—and a coldly ruthless one—he badly needed Catherine. It surprised him, this need for her that was more than sexual, and he pondered it as he drove from town.

Desire for her was something he had felt from the first; that hadn’t changed. Or had it? Slowly he realized that he wanted her more often now, that he thought of her more often. When he was with her, he felt . . . greedy, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. Her public coldness was beginning to anger him just as her private elusiveness angered him.

Tyrone took the usual precautions before turning off the main road and onto the track into the woods, but he was frowning as he stopped the buggy before the cottage. He pulled a tether block from the back of the buggy and tied the mare, who hadn’t been there before and couldn’t be counted on to stand and wait patiently for hours as the chestnut had learned to do.

He patted the mare’s glossy neck, reminding himself to double-check the stables each night before he turned in. But, somehow, he didn't think one of his horses would be targeted again. It was a feeling, an instinct. He hoped he was right.

Tyrone went into the cottage. It was empty. He paced slowly around the main room, looking without really seeing at the bare, almost rotting wood floor, at walls damp with mildew. He walked to the door of the tiny bedroom and gazed at the brass bed that had, now, only a colorful quilt to hide the mattress. He had brought that bed himself.

Catherine had suggested the cottage as a meeting place. It wasn’t much, she had said dryly, but there was a roof and walls. And, of course, privacy. The first few times, they had made love on a thick pallet of blankets on the floor. On his next visit to the island, Tyrone had brought the bed and set it up before she saw it. She had, typically, said nothing about it, but at their next meeting had provided linens.

The cottage had been built, Tyrone knew, when the land had first been settled, around twenty years before. It had been abandoned and vitually forgotten when larger and more permanent homes had been built closer to the coast. For Catherine and him it had been a haven for almost two years. A place of quiet and passion, a place free of strain.

The door opened suddenly. “You’re driving the little mare,” Catherine said, clearly surprised. “I thought she was in foal.”

“She is,” he said, turning to face her. ‘‘But she won’t foal until spring. The work will do her good.” He realized only then that he wasn’t going to tell her about the chestnut. He didn’t know why.

Catherine started toward him and the bedroom, her arms full of folded linen. Briskly she said, “Let me put these on the bed. You’re early.”

“Last time I was late.” He watched her as she moved past him toward the bed, catching a fleeting scent of cinnamon. Desire washed over him so abruptly and strongly that he caught his breath, feeling his belly knot hard, his loins swell achingly. “Never mind the sheets,” he said thickly.

She turned to face him, surprised. But her eyes darkened almost instantly, her lips parting. “For heaven’s sake, Tyrone—” It was a breathless protest without strength.

He stepped to her, taking the sheets from her and dropping them onto the floor. His hands went to her hair, and he pulled the pins away and cast them aside until her hair fell about her shoulders in a shining dark brown mass. She stood without moving, staring up at him with veiled eyes. The calico material over her breasts, demurely buttoned to her throat, rose and fell quickly, and the heat of an inner fire was rising in her creamy cheeks.

Tyrone thought she was beautiful. He always had, even before he had seen this hidden part of her.

He reached for buttons and began unfastening them slowly, one by one, from her throat down. It took a tremendous effort to keep from crushing her in his arms, but he held on to control with all his will. Their time together was so brief, and he was conscious of the desire to make it last.

When the dress was unbuttoned to below her waist, he lifted his hands and very slowly pulled the edges apart. The thin linen of her shift was straining over her full breasts, and as he lingeringly pushed the dress off her shoulders, the hardened tips of her nipples thrust against the cloth.

Catherine caught her breath but didn’t move.

Tyrone guided the dress down her arms, pushed it over her hips, until she stood before him wearing only the shift, her stockings, and shoes. She made a slight movement toward him, as if she would have begun undressing him, but he caught her wrists firmly. He guided her a step backward, then gently pushed her down until she was sitting on the bed.

He knelt before her, lifted one foot, and removed the shoe. His hands slid caressingly up her leg until he found the top of her stocking just above the knee. Taking his time, he rolled the stocking down her leg, then pulled it off and set it aside. The other shoe followed, the other stocking. Catherine was gazing down at him with eyes that were wide and dark, veiled now only with desire. Her body was trembling, her breath quick and shallow. Her hands were small fists clutching the quilt.

Tyrone rose to his feet and slowly pulled her up. For a moment he just stood looking at her. She was primitive like this. Her glorious dark hair spilled around her shoulders, gleaming softly in the dim light. Through the almost transparent linen of her shift he could see the dark smudges of her areolas and, at the base of her belly, a shadow so enticing that his loins throbbed with a sudden, almost unbearable ache.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered in a hoarse, guttural voice. He reached quickly for the hem of her shift and, with one smooth motion, skinned it up over her head.

Catherine had lifted her arms automatically, lowering them slowly as the shift was tossed aside. His eyes moved over her with exquisite slowness, lingering on her breasts, on the soft nest of dark curls at the base of her belly. He reached one hand out and touched her breast with just the tips of this fingers, circling the tight, hard center very lightly.

Her eyes closed and she swayed toward him, a moan breaking from her lips. His hand closed around her breast, squeezing.

“I wanted you like this last night,” he said roughly. “Naked like this, wanting me until nothing else mattered.” He yanked her against him suddenly, his arms almost crushing her. One hand tangled in her hair to pull her head back, and he kissed her with a driving, almost punishing hunger, his tongue plunging deeply to twine with hers. For the first time, he possessed her mouth, taking, demanding everything.

And Catherine, her mind and senses whirling, refused nothing. The roughness of his clothing against her soft skin was a sweet torment. She couldn’t breathe, was barely aware of the sounds that escaped her. Her heart was pounding throughout her body and she was burning . . . burning for him.

He lifted her into his arms and bent to place her on the bed, straightening to swiftly discard his clothing. His eyes never left her, and they were molten silver, glittering with passion and promise. She reached up for him as he joined her on top of the colorful quilt, her arms wreathing around his neck.

Tyrone captured her mouth, still demanding, still insistent. His hands moved over her body with hard, urgent need, caressing until she was writhing against him. And she almost sobbed when he parted her thighs and moved between them, when the heavy bluntness of his manhood probed her wet, pulsing flesh.

She looked up at his face, stark and hard, into the feverish eyes that were like none she had ever seen before. Her hands lifted, fingers thrusting into the thick silk of his hair, her legs closing about his muscled body. A whimper broke from her as she felt his rigid flesh sink slowly into her, filling her with its throbbing hunger.

And she moved with him, answering his thrusts as her lithe body accepted and returned his passion. She held him with her arms, her legs, as wild and unrestrained as he was. The rhythm quickened and they rushed with it, caught up in something beyond their control, helpless to slow the primitive race toward satisfaction. Until, finally, pleasure washed over them both in a torrent of heat that threatened to burn them alive.

“Jesus.” Tyrone’s breath came raspingly, and muscles quivered as he eased himself up on his elbows. He looked down at her flushed face, the closed eyes and half smile. Reluctant, but concerned that his weight was uncomfortable for her, he began to with-draw from her.

“No.” Her legs tightened around his hips. She didn’t open her eyes.

“I'm too heavy,” he said huskily, kissing her softly.

“Don’t leave me.” Her voice was low, almost slurred. “Don’t leave me yet.”

Tyrone relaxed but kept his upper body propped on his elbows. He felt her fingers moving almost convulsively in his hair and turned his head to kiss the inside of her forearm, where the skin was soft and warm. That was when he saw the bruise.

He pulled her arm down gently and stared at the purplish mottling that went almost completely around her arm between her wrist and forearm. It had taken, he knew, a powerful grip to mark her like that. And he couldn’t remember . . .

“Catherine, did I do this?”

Her eyes fluttered open, looked at the arm he held. Something stirred in the darkened blue depths, but it was gone before he could identify it. She shrugged faintly. “If you did, I don’t remember it.”

“If I did, I’m sorry. So very sorry.” He was appalled to think he could have hurt her like that.

She shook her head a little, as if it were unimportant. Then the faint smile returned, and her eyes grew sleepy. “Mmmm.”

He felt her inner muscles tighten slowly around him, caressing him, and his breath caught. Heat rushed through him, and he knew she could feel the slow, swelling renewal of need.

“Catherine,” he muttered somewhat thickly. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

“Do what?” she asked, and the lips he kissed were smiling with an ancient female wisdom.

***

“I must go.”

Tyrone didn’t want to move, but he shifted slightly and raised up on one elbow to look down at her. She was lying on her back beside him, and the serenity of only moments before had left her. Her face was still, eyes caught somewhere between light frost and dark fire fixed on the ceiling.

He reached out a hand to lie just beneath her breasts. “Not yet. It’s still early.”

Her hands lifted to catch his, holding it against her. The gesture was oddly jerky, almost as if it were made against her will, and her lips twisted a little as if she realized it.

He was trying to understand her, and meant to no matter how long it took. And, more than anything, he wanted to understand why she had refused to marry him. He could understand her desire to keep their illicit relationship secret; what he couldn’t un-derstand was her unwillingness to marry him, especially when what they had together was so damned
good
.

“Catherine, was there a man in your life before me? Back in England?” He could feel her tense, but her face remained calm.

“You know there wasn’t.”

“Not a lover, I know, of course. But was there a man?”

She was silent for a moment, and then said without looking at him, “I was engaged. Briefly.”

“What happened?”

Her lips firmed. She still didn’t look at him, but her fingers toyed with his. “Things changed. My mother died. Father and I decided to come here. It ended.”

“Did you love him?” He felt, suddenly, a hard tension, a tightness in his chest. Had she loved before and, losing that love, made up her mind not to risk her heart again? Could it be that simple? And, if it was, could he bear it? “Catherine, did you love him?”

She sent him a startled glance. “You sound—”

He knew how he sounded. Harsh, demanding. With an effort he spoke in an even tone. “Did you love him?”

She hesitated, then half shrugged. “I thought I did. But it was ... it was a tame thing. I'd known him most of my life. And I knew him very well. There weren’t any secrets between us.” Except one, she thought.

“And there are between us,” he said a bit grimly.

She felt panic stir, and spoke quickly and dryly so that he wouldn’t see. “And why not? This is what we are, Tyrone.” She lifted a hand to gesture at them, naked together in a small room of an abandoned cottage. “
This
. Our lives touch only here.”

“Not by my choice,” he said in a flat tone.

“It was your choice in the beginning, just as it was—is—mine,” she reminded him, wishing the contentment would return, wishing she didn't have to cope with this conversation. “And if you don’t like it now, then—” She broke off, unable to end it, desperate to have what time she could steal with him.

“Then what?” His voice was quiet, dangerous.

Her control snapped suddenly, frayed by fear and worry. “Oh, don’t do this,” she whispered. “Please, don’t.” Her hands held his tightly against her, and she thought she was weeping somewhere inside herself. She closed her eyes, wishing the tears could escape because trapped within they hurt so.

“Catherine . . .”

She felt his lips brush her cheek, her mouth, gently, heard surprise and something else in his voice. She kept her eyes closed tightly, afraid of what he might have seen in them.

Tyrone began talking quietly. He told her about his background, orphaned young and forced to earn his living by signing on a ship when no more than a boy. He told her about a man named Morgan Fontaine, a man who had once been a kind of gentleman pirate, and who had seen something he liked in a much younger Tyrone. About the encouragement of that man and, later, solid help in the shape of the loan that had purchased
The Raven
. He talked about the war and his part in it as a blockade runner. About danger and struggle.