Dark Journey

by Stuart, Anne

  She thought she could feel something between the two of them. Some strand, some rope, of longing, of recognition. She was probably going crazy from the stress of William's last weeks and the demands of her own failing body. She had thought she would die tonight, alone in the forest. She'd felt the pain, the sudden cessation of breath and life and heartbeat, and when she looked up, she'd seen nothing but a clear white light.

  And Alex, holding out a hand to her.

  She hadn't taken that hand, a fact that stayed with her, oddly enough. She'd wanted to. With all her damaged heart, she'd wanted to.

  But instead, she'd opened her eyes, struggled to her feet unaided and brought him home with her.

  What would he do if she got out of bed and walked into his room? Would he welcome her into his bed? Would he expect knowledge and experience? Would he give her pleasure? Would she die?

  She would never find out the answers to those questions. She would do as her family expected of her. She would die, sooner or later, a virgin, never knowing life or sex or passion. She would be a good girl, as the good Fitzpatricks expected her to be.

  She punched the pillow, hard, before she turned over and went to sleep.

  "You're up early." Laura poured herself a cup of herb tea, ignoring the tantalizing odor of dark-roasted coffee with a stoic effort. Her doctor had banned even decaffeinated coffee in the past few years, and the enticing scent was almost more torment than the sound of Alex had been, tossing in the bed beyond her wall.

  Jeremy yawned, then rubbed his bristly jaw. "I fell asleep by Father's bed," he admitted. "Lucky for me, Cynthia isn't the type to worry."

  Laura glanced out at the overcast morning. The wind still whipped through the treetops; the thunder still rumbled. "You've rather gone beyond that stage in your marriage, haven't you?" She took a scone, ignored the butter and sat down next to her brother.

  Jeremy managed a boyish smile as he drained his cup of fresh-ground coffee with unappreciative haste. "Well, we've actually been talking about a future."

  Laura stared at him. "A future? You mean a reconciliation? I thought things were years past that."

  Jeremy shrugged. "Life is full of possibilities, don't you think? On a morning like this, I feel incredibly alive. Like I could do just about anything I wanted."

  Laura looked out at the stormy violence of the day, then back to her usually stolid older brother. "I think you should go down to the cottage and get some sleep," she said flatly. "I know why you stayed here, and I'm not very happy about it."

  The change in his shallow blue eyes was startling, brief and just a bit frightening. Absurd – there was nothing the least bit frightening about Jeremy. "What do you mean?" he said in a completely expressionless voice.

  "You wanted to play chaperone for me, didn't you? For some reason you thought I'd go traipsing off to bed with a perfect stranger, and you didn't even trust your heavy-handed warnings to make him keep his distance."

  The tension vanished from his shoulders as swiftly as it had come. "You said he was an old friend," Jeremy murmured. "Not a stranger."

  She wasn't used to lying. As a matter of fact, she didn't know where the lie had come from in the first place, or whether it was, indeed, a lie. Alex didn't feel like a stranger. He felt like part of her, and, in some inexplicable way, he seemed bound to her past and her future. And now, suddenly, to her present, as well.

  "I wasn't sure you believed me," she said, amazed at how easily the lies were coming.

  Jeremy reached out and put his hand over hers. It was a soft hand, with short, pudgy fingers, a hand that had never known a day's physical labor. "We're family, Laura," he said earnestly. "If not by blood, then by caring. We're the Fitzpatricks. We don't lie to each other."

  She didn't move. She wanted to pull her hand away from his—an odd reaction, when physical touches were so scarce in her family that she'd always tried to cherish them. She let her hand rest beneath his and summoned up a semblance of a smile.

  "It would be wonderful if you and Cynthia could manage to patch things up," she said, still not quite certain if she thought so.

  "I'm ever hopeful," Jeremy said, releasing her hand to drain his coffee. "In the meantime, I think I'll grab a shower and a shave while I'm up here. The guest house has its own generator, but it's not as powerful as the one up here. Might as well save the hot water for the others." He rose, an affable expression on his face that suddenly froze when he looked past her shoulder to the door.

  Laura didn't need to turn to guess who stood there. She'd felt his presence moments before, with an imperceptible tightening of her skin, a sudden, dangerous racing of her heart, a flush of heat across her face.

  "Good morning," Alex said, his voice soft, husky, faintly accented.

  "You're up early." Some of Jeremy's good cheer had vanished. "I thought the French slept late."

  Alex's laugh was low and faintly derisive. "The French sleep however they wish to. I personally have little need of sleep."

  The tension in the room was almost painful, and Laura dived in, determined to lighten things up. "Besides, Alex is a skier. They rise early so they don't miss the first runs. Or so I've been told."

  God, what an incredibly stupid thing to say, she told herself, feeling the color flood her face.

  "Very true, ma chere," Alex murmured.

  Laura turned to look at him. He was dressed all in black, his midnight hair tied back from his angular face. The mirrored sunglasses were firmly in place against the dim light of the day.

  Jeremy stood there, rigid, unmoving, the empty cup in his hand, clearly loath to leave the two of them alone. Laura cleared her throat, but Jeremy didn't even spare her a glance—all his attention was trained on the man who'd just entered the room.

  "Do you mind if I pour myself a cup of coffee?" Alex asked.

  "Help yourself to anything," Laura said firmly. "And weren't you going to take a shower, Jeremy?"

  "I can wait," her brother said stubbornly.

  "Don't you think Cynthia might be worried about where you were last night?"

  Jeremy gave himself a little shake, and his laughter sounded only slightly hollow. "You're right, of course. I won't be gone long."

  If Alex heard the warning in Jeremy's voice, he chose to ignore it. He sat down next to Laura, a mug of coffee in one of his elegant, long-fingered hands. He placed a second mug of coffee in front of her.

  She looked up at him, biting her lip. "I don't drink coffee," she said.

  "You don't like it?"

  "I love it. My heart can't take it. The doctors say even decaffeinated coffee has too much stimulant for my heart, and this is high-test. Mrs. Hawkins doesn't make coffee for wimps."

  "Do you want it?"

  "Yes."

  "Then drink it."

  She reached for it. The heat from the coffee warmed the handle of the mug, and she wanted it almost as much as she wanted him.

  "Are you trying to kill me?" she asked, attempting to keep her voice light and humorous. It came out dead serious.

  He shook his head, and she could see her reflection in the sunglasses. She looked pale, vulnerable, longing. "Nothing will harm you today," he said.

  She believed him. She took a drink of the coffee, the bitter, smoky taste of it dancing on her tongue. When she set the cup down she looked at him, feeling the energy dance through her veins.

  Reaching out, he touched her, putting his cool fingers against her flushed cheek in a faint, almost tentative caress. Almost as if he were afraid it might hurt her.

  She smiled at him, feeling the slight tremor in her lips, in her heart. "You see," he murmured. "Nothing will hurt you today."

  She stared at him, breathless, as he moved closer, his cool, cool fingers stroking her cheek. His lips were damp from the coffee, as were hers, and she wondered what French roast coffee would taste like on the mouth of a French man. She knew she was about to find out.

  His lips were cool, as well. Cool, damp, a faint, almost tentative
pressure against her own firmly closed ones. He drew back, and she stared at him. And at her own reflection in his mirrored glasses.

  "Open your mouth for me, Laura," he whispered. It was not a request.

  She obeyed. His mouth covered hers, open, wet, possessive, and she tasted his tongue. She didn't know whether she would have pulled away, but his fingers had threaded through her hair, holding her head in place, and he deepened the kiss into a long, thorough caress of tongue and teeth and lips, heart and soul, enticing her, seducing her, until she caught her breath and kissed him back, letting him lure her tongue forward, dancing with his, the intimacy shocking, arousing, devastating.

  When he pulled away from her, his hand was still tight in her hair. She opened her eyes to stare up at his mirrored eyes. "Is that why they call it French kissing?" she asked dazedly.

  He laughed then. The sound was soft, surprising, almost unbearably intimate. "Did you like it?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you want more?"

  "Yes." The word was a sibilant sound in the quiet morning, and he moved closer again, his mouth hovering over hers.

  The scream that tore through the house was blood-curdling in its horror. High-pitched, a hollow, keening, sexless wail of such abject terror that Laura tore herself away from Alex, knocking the coffee over as she jumped up. The liquid spread like a black stain, soaking into the white tablecloth, spilling onto Laura's jeans, burning her.

  "Oh, God," she moaned, barely aware of her burned flesh. "It sounds as if someone died."

  "I doubt it," Alex said in a dry voice. He rose, taking her hand. "Shall we see?"

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jeremy stood in the hallway, his color ashen. He was staring at the front door with an expression of abject horror, but the three people crowding inside the tiled entryway were too busy arguing to pay much attention to him.

  "That damned heating system," Ricky grumbled. "I just about froze last night. Why the hell it picked last night to malfunction is beyond me. And then you have to scare the life out of me by screaming like a banshee! What the hell's gotten into you, Jeremy?"

  "At least you had someone to sleep with," Cynthia said with a malicious purr, glaring at her husband. "A little body warmth must have made a difference."

  "It would have if I'd been sleeping with someone other than Justine. She's about as cozy as an ice maiden." He glanced over at Jeremy, and his eyes narrowed. "What's wrong with you, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "It's Father," Justine cried in a piteous mew. "He's dead, isn't he?"

  Laura moved swiftly, pushing past her motionless older brother, wrapping her arms around Justine's narrow shoulders. "He's still holding his own, Jussie. As a matter of fact, I looked in on him before breakfast, and Maria said he'd had a very peaceful night."

  "Then what's wrong with Jeremy?" Cynthia murmured, moving closer.

  Jeremy managed a rough laugh. "Nothing," he said. "I'm a little spooked, I guess. I don't like being cut off up here."

  "Cut off?" Ricky echoed.

  "Trees are blocking the road. The radio and telephone are still out. Not to mention the TV. We're isolated up here on the mountain, and it gets on my nerves." He moved toward the door, and Laura noticed a curious stiffness to his gait. "I'm going down to shower and change. I spent the night sitting up with Father. I'll see if I can figure out what's wrong with the heating system."

  "Don't we have servants who take care of that sort of thing?" Ricky drawled.

  "They're on the other side of the fallen trees," Jeremy snapped.

  "Besides, Jeremy's always been terrific at mechanical things," Laura said, jumping in to try to soothe the tense atmosphere. "Father always used to say it was proof..." Her voice trailed off as she realized what she'd been about to say.

  "Yes," Jeremy murmured, and there was no missing the twist of bitterness in his voice. "He always said it was proof I didn't carry any of the glorious Fitzpatrick blood in my veins. If my mother hadn't married him, I could have had a very happy life as a plumber."

  Laura bit her lip. "You know I didn't mean that, Jeremy."

  He shrugged, a wry expression on his usually bland face. "Don't worry about it, Laura. I stopped being offended by your father's gibes years ago."

  It must have been the weather. The strange, stormy ether in the air or the tension that clung to them all, but suddenly Jeremy's humorous excuse rang false. Laura glanced up, over her shoulder, to Alex. He was standing apart, watching them, rather as a scientist might observe a tribe of interesting bugs. The unexpectedly strong notion sent a chill of foreboding dancing down Laura's backbone.

  "Well, go or stay," Cynthia snapped. "But make up your mind. I'm freezing to death." She cast a measuring glance toward Alex, letting her eyes drift past Laura for a brief, dismissing moment. "In the meantime, I'm bored, and I'm afraid it's up to you to entertain me, Alex. I'm sure Ricky's mainly interested in how much whiskey he can sneak into his coffee cup, and Justine's frightened of her own shadow. You and I can play blackjack for impossible stakes."

  Laura held her breath, waiting. She wanted him with her, not the mesmerizing Cynthia. She wasn't sure what she longed for. A continuation of that too-brief, devastating kiss? Or escape from something too powerful for her to handle?

  "Why don't you and Laura see if you can help Mrs. Hawkins?" Jeremy suggested. "With the road closed, she's shorthanded."

  Cynthia cast a scathing look at her husband. "Sorry, darling, but Laura's even more tedious than you are. The poor girl's lived like a nun, and everything she knows she's learned in books. We hardly have a thing in common."

  "True enough," Ricky drawled. "You've never read a book in your life, and I bet you were a tramp by the time you were twelve."

  "Not getting enough, Ricky?" Cynthia cooed, unmoved by his insults. "Sorry, but I'm no longer interested in charity cases." She moved past him. She was dressed in a garnet velour catsuit that clung to her curves, and she stopped in front of Alex, her mane of blond hair rippling down her back as she stared up at him. "Do you like to gamble, Alex?"

  Laura held her breath, wickedly hoping for a put-down. But what man had ever been able to resist Cynthia's wiles when she focused them? "It depends on the stakes," he said, and his faint accent and husky tone made the words sound deeply erotic.

  Cynthia's smile widened. "How delightful. You don't mind if I steal him, do you, Laura? I'm certain you have a million things to do."

  "Of course," she said in a cool voice. "A million books to read."

  She turned away, starting to move past them, and the unexpected threat of tears stung the backs of her eyelids. She didn't want them to see—she didn't want Alex to see—and she moved quickly, clumsily, toward the door.

  It must have been an accident. The back of his hand brushed against hers as she went, and his skin was cool, firm, an odd caress so brief it must have been a mistake. And yet that momentary touch sent a thousand thoughts soaring through her, and there was no way she could believe where they'd come from. Except that she knew. They came from him. An apology. An assurance that all would be well.

  She didn't want to hear apologies, assurances, but they slid into her subconscious through his touch, and she couldn't fight them. She had already moved past, out of reach, and she wanted to turn around, to catch his hand and take him with her. To warn Cynthia to keep her hands off him.

  It was childish and absurd. If she'd been less troubled, it would have been amusing. As it was, she was barely able to summon a smile. As her lips curved, she remembered the cool delight of his mouth against hers, and she shivered.

  "There's coffee and breakfast in the dining room," she said with creditable calm. "I think I'll go check on Father."

  Cynthia had already laid claim to Alex's arm. "Don't worry about our guest, Laura. I promise I'll keep him entertained."

  He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting from the woman. She felt the coldness of his touch far more acutely than Laura did. She minded it, but she couldn't seem
to keep her hands away from him.

  He had no qualms about letting her experiment. He knew now that her voice had been one of those calling to him last night. For some reason, her appointment with death had been moved up, unnaturally, and he wondered idly what had caused the change. It wasn't of great importance to him. When the time came for him to return, he would take those who were still ready. Those whose reprieves seemed justified could wait their turn.

  She drew him into a room he hadn't seen before, some kind of study, and she closed the door behind them and flicked on the overhead light. The glow was dim, and he suspected the generator might be failing. It made little difference to him, but it might bother Laura. He didn't want Laura bothered.

  But he knew she was very angry with him right now. The emotion had sung through her skin, stinging him, and he'd had time for only the briefest of reassuring touches. She didn't know what he was trying to spare her.

  This woman might serve as a substitute. Perhaps she could provide the answers he sought, perhaps she could quiet the emptiness inside him. And then Laura could wait a little longer.

  Cynthia put her hand on his thigh. She had attractive hands, adorned with expensive rings. Experienced hands. He leaned back on the sofa and watched her from behind the mirrored sunglasses, curious as to how far she intended to go.

  "I like playing dangerous games," she cooed, moving close to him. Her scent was dark and musky, erotic. "Anyone might walk in here at any time. You know that, don't you? They know we're in here, and they'll probably leave us alone. Unless Laura gets too annoyed. I'm sure you know she's got a crush on you, Alex. I've never seen it before—little Laura is usually too saintly for human passions. Her family has seen to that, as well." Her hand trailed higher, and he watched it curiously, anticipating.