Dark Journey

by Stuart, Anne

  Laura forgot her jealousy. The hot coffee sloshed over her hand as she slammed the mug down on a table. Within seconds she was kneeling on the floor next to Cynthia, pulling her sister-in-law's unresisting body into her arms.

  "What happened, Cynthia?" she murmured.

  The room was warm, almost hot. Cynthia's body felt ice-cold, and she was shaking so hard Laura could barely hold her. Cynthia's teeth were chattering, and her attempts at speech were just a helpless stuttering.

  "Did someone hurt you?" Laura persisted. "Was it Alex?"

  Cynthia let out a small moan, burying her head against Laura's shoulder. A moment later, electric light blazed through the room, and Jeremy stood there, his face in shadows. "I'll take care of her," he said in a long-suffering voice.

  Cynthia jerked, burrowing closer to Laura as if looking for a safe haven, and Laura's arms tightened around her. "Something's happened, Jeremy," Laura said. "Something frightened her."

  "I can imagine what. Now do you believe me when I tell you that man is dangerous?"

  "Don't be ridiculous!" Laura snapped back. "He didn't hurt her."

  Jeremy reached down for his trembling wife. Cynthia tried to resist, but he simply pulled her upward, pushing Laura out of the way. "She'll be all right. I'll take her back to the guest house and get some hot tea into her. She could do with a nap. Don't worry, Cynthia. I'll take care of you."

  Cynthia looked up at her husband of more than ten years, and her expression was one of complete horror. Before Laura could intervene, however, Jeremy had half helped, half dragged her from the room.

  Laura watched them go, feeling helpless, frightened, confused. Nothing was as it had seemed. Not her autocratic father, not the fearless, amoral Cynthia, not the stolid, dependable Jeremy.

  And certainly not the stranger who'd appeared on their mountain just as the rest of the world was shut away from them.

  She slammed her bedroom door behind her, then locked it. She had no idea where Alex was, and she didn't want to know. She locked the French doors that led out to the small balcony their two rooms shared, and then she lay on her bed, huddling under a down comforter. The coldness was permeating the entire house; the lights were dimming, and outside, the storm was increasing in its intensity. It seemed as if the world were about to end. Laura pulled the covers over her head, shuddering, prepared to ride it out.

  Poison was far more dangerous, Jeremy thought calmly as he put the mug of arsenic-laced tea in Cynthia's trembling hands. There would be an autopsy, and there was no way a toxicologist would miss the huge amounts of poison he was pumping into her system.

  But he couldn't afford to wait. Or to make another miscalculation.

  It was fortunate for him that Cynthia had had her fit of hysterics in front of his gullible stepsister. He had no idea what had set Cynthia off, and he didn't care. While a part of him thoroughly enjoyed the expression of abject terror in his wife's eyes whenever she looked at him, he couldn't afford to indulge himself. If Cynthia had inexplicably come to suspect him, it wouldn't take long before that suspicion was passed to others.

  He would make it look like a suicide. She'd been restless, despondent, drinking too much. She'd had a nervous breakdown right in front of her fragile sister-in-law. The strangeness of the weather, the isolation, her despondency over her failing marriage—it was no wonder she'd succumbed to thoughts of suicide and taken a fatal dose of rat poison.

  There would be less money for him this way. If only Ricky and Justine had died as planned, it would all have been his. But he was resourceful. He'd been willing to wait for Laura's share, secure in the knowledge that she hadn't long to live. He could certainly manage some misfortune for Justine and Ricky in the next year or so.

  And then it would all be his. The money, the knowledge that he'd been stronger, more determined, than all of them. His only regret was that he would never get the chance to throw it in the old man's face.

  "Drink it all, darling," he urged gently, feeling wonderfully calm and encouraging. After last night's unexpected failure, things were finally coming together. All the old man had to do was hold on for a few more hours, and then at least his inheritance would be his alone, and not part of a nasty divorce settlement. A divorce hearing would mean his finances would be gone over in minute detail, and it wouldn't take the lawyers long to discover he'd been siphoning huge sums of money from his stepfather for decades.

  If he hadn't known better, though, he would have thought Cynthia knew what was going to happen to her. There was a bleak, terrified expression on her face, as if she'd looked into the future and seen her death. If she had, it wasn't enough to stop her fate. She took the mug of poisoned tea from him and drained it, then leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

  He closed the door gently behind him. He hadn't had time to concoct a suicide note, but he could take care of that later if the need arose. In the meantime, it was only a matter of minutes before he was free.

  He carried the tray back into the kitchen, humming under his breath.

  When Laura awoke, her room was pitch-black. There was a faint tapping noise, a clicking against the windows, and it took her a moment to realize it must be the rain. Or even sleet, considering the icy, metallic click against the glass. She reached for the light beside her bed, but it wouldn't turn on. The generator must have finally given up the ghost, she thought, swinging her legs out from under the down comforter.

  She almost swung them back. The room was ice-cold—the heating system must be down, as well. With luck, there would still be enough juice in the auxiliary generator to keep William's life-support system functioning, but there was obviously nothing to spare.

  She should go downstairs and make sure every-thing was all right. That there were fires burning in the myriad of fireplaces that were usually more for atmosphere than function. That her father was still alive, that Cynthia had recovered from whatever had panicked her. She should see if Mrs. Hawkins needed help, or if any new disaster had befallen the Fitzpatrick compound. But she knew she wasn't going to do anything.

  She reached into her nightstand drawer for the tiny flashlight she always kept there, turning it on. It remained stubbornly dark, and she shook it in frustration. She'd just put fresh batteries in a week ago—they must have been duds.

  There were a pine-scented candle and a box of matches on the mantel overhanging her fireplace. She stubbed her toe as she made her way across the pitch-black room, and all the time the wind outside was growing louder, wilder, and the ice particles dashing against the window grew noisier.

  The match flared, and the candle sent a tiny pool of light into the room. She knelt down, using the candle to light the kindling that was always in readiness in the hearth, then stood back as light and warmth began to fill the room.

  A streak of lightning blazed outside, filling the room with a blinding glare before plunging it into darkness once more. It was followed by a clap of thunder so powerful it shook the sturdy log house, and Laura dropped the candle, watching as it rolled across the floor, landing against the French doors before guttering out.

  Once more lightning flashed, and she could see him outside, his long hair caked with ice, his shirt plastered to his strong back. He was holding on to the railing, staring out into the night, and Laura watched in both fascination and despair as he seemed to reach into the night, becoming a part of it. She half expected him to leap off the balcony, to hurl himself into the darkness, and she stood, transfixed with pain and longing.

  They were plunged into darkness once more, and finally Laura moved. She'd put a chair under the door handle in addition to locking it, and it took a moment for her to pull it away and fumble with the latch before flinging the doors open, letting in the night and the storm. Letting in the man.

  He turned. Ice coated his face and his dark glasses and frosted his hair. The late-summer night had turned to winter, and she reached out for him, pulling him back inside, into her room, shutting the storm outside.

&n
bsp; She caught his icy shirt in her hands and was trying to strip it off him when he stopped her, his hands covering hers, holding them still. Despite the chill of his flesh he was hot, desperately hot, burning against her skin.

  "You should never have let me in," he said in a whisper. "Send me away."

  For a moment, time seemed to stand still. It would be so easy, she thought, to pull her hands free, to step back. He would leave her then, and she would never have anything more to fear. He would leave her, and she would be alone.

  "Why?" Her response was barely a breath.

  "Because if you don't send me away, I'll take you. And there will be no turning back."

  She heard the words, the threat, the promise, with her heart and her soul. The blatant sexuality of it, and something more, besides.

  He wouldn't take her untutored body. He wouldn't take her innocence, her love, and her passion. He would take far more than that.

  He would take her soul.

  Run. The word echoed in her head. Run away, fast. And she knew the words came from him, as well as her.

  "I can't," she said, answering the unspoken plea. "I've waited too long for you. I love you." And she pulled her hands out of his restraining grasp, slid them up his arms and began to pull off his ice-coated shirt.

  He didn't stop her this time. He stood perfectly still beneath her hands, and the flicker of the fire reflected on the mirrored lenses of his dark glasses. She pulled the shirt free from his pants, and her arms went around him. She found herself pressed up tight against him, the hard sinew and muscle and bone, the icy heat of him. For a moment her heart clenched in longing; then it began pounding, fast, hard, as she stared up at him.

  "Who are you?" she asked, one last time.

  "A bad dream," he whispered. "A nightmare." And his mouth covered hers.

  The ice had melted from his face, his lips, his hair. He kissed her with a ferocity that should have terrified her, but she was past terror, past second thoughts. She wanted to kiss him back, but she wasn't sure how. Then his thumbs cupped her jaw and gently opened her mouth for him.

  He used his tongue as he had that morning. He taught her how to use her tongue, to give, as well as to receive, and when he thrust his tongue into her mouth, her knees buckled.

  He caught her effortlessly in his strong arms, holding her as she swayed against him. His mouth left hers to move down the side of her neck, small, biting kisses, and then she felt herself swung dizzily in the air.

  He took her through the night and the darkness, through the storm and the ice. He carried her back to his room, to the wide bed, and set her down. She lay back, staring up at him, and he was leaning over her, silhouetted in the darkness with only the flicker of the firelight piercing the gloom. Like the flames of hell, she thought as his hands slid up the front of her sweater, reaching for the buttons.

  She watched him as he stripped off her clothes, deftly, efficiently, and she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that there was a grim purpose to his actions. That this was something he needed to do. Even though he regretted it.

  She was so caught up in that odd sensation that she barely noticed when she was completely naked. He leaned back and stared at her, and even through the mirrored lenses she could feel the heat of his gaze.

  Suddenly she was self-conscious. She was too thin, too pale, too unfeminine, to please him, too—

  As if he could read her thoughts, he stopped them, with the simple expedient of covering her naked body with his. His pants were cool and damp against her legs, his chest was strong and smooth, and she could feel him against her stomach, hard, wanting her.

  "I should tell you..." she began breathlessly, but he put his hand on her breast, his long, cool fingers cupping it, and the sensation was so powerful that her voice trailed off in a strangled cry.

  "I should explain..." she began again, but his fingertips encircled her nipple, tugging at her, and she felt the fiery reaction in a straight line down to the burning place between her legs.

  "I should tell you…" she said—one final attempt—when his mouth closed over the tight bud of her breast, and she let out a soft, strangled wail.

  She struggled to keep some portion of her mind intact. He was icy-cold, fiery-hot, and he lay between her legs as if he belonged there. She reached down to the waistband of his pants, pushing at them in mindless frustration, and from somewhere she felt his amusement.

  He rose up, kneeling between her legs, and even in the flickering firelight she could see his hands reach down to the row of tiny buttons that strained over the front of his fly.

  "Tell me what, Laura?" he said in a low, patient voice, flicking the buttons open one by one.

  She swallowed, suddenly panicked. "That I'm... that is, they were afraid…"

  He released himself into the night, and if she hadn't been frightened before, she would have panicked then.

  As it was, she was beyond panic. She lay beneath him, staring up in mute fear and trust.

  "You're a virgin," he said, "and they were afraid that if you made love you would die. Is that it?"

  She nodded.

  He leaned forward, sliding his hands up her torso to cover her breasts, and the sensation was the sweetest torment. "Are you afraid of death, Laura?" he whispered against her mouth.

  She found she'd been clutching the sheet beneath her. It was a simple enough question, with an obvious response. But she didn't want the obvious, she wanted the truth. And for some odd reason, she knew that her answer mattered terribly.

  "No," she said, with no doubt whatsoever. "I'm not afraid of death."

  "Then let me show you life," he said. And, moving down, he put his mouth between her legs.

  Her reaction was so powerful and immediate that she tried to jerk away, but his hands cradled her hips, holding her there, as he used his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, driving her down a dark, narrow path that she'd never taken before.

  The trembling began deep inside. She clutched his shoulders, her heels digging into the mattress as a rush of sensations swept over her. She was gasping for breath, her entire body in an ever-tightening knot, and she needed something more, but she wasn't sure exactly what.

  The first wave hit her, a spasm of reaction that sent starbursts dancing behind her eyes. The second wave came, harder and stronger, and from a distance she could hear a gasping sob that had to be her own.

  Before the tremors had died away he moved up, over her, between her legs, thrusting deep, breaking past the fear and the fragile barrier of her innocence, deep and hard and sure, and his hand covered her mouth, muffling her cry.

  There were footsteps outside her locked door. A slow, measured pace. They lay in still, absolute silence, his body deep within hers, as the sound of those footsteps slowly died away.

  He started to pull away from her, and she clutched at him, aware of a sudden, desperate panic. But he thrust again, deeper still, his pace slow, deliberate, and she tilted her hips up, to draw him in deeper. The rhythm was simply, easily caught with his hands on her hips, guiding her, and she drifted with pleasure, her hands sliding up his strong arm as he braced himself over her. It changed so slowly lulling her into a dreamy pleasure, and then she realized that everything had speeded up, and he was driving her farther, deeper, faster, until she felt a new trembling begin to take over, and she knew that nothing mattered but this.

  He thrust deep, so deep, and she felt a shudder ripple through his body. It hit her then, with the force of a mindless eternity, a pulsing, throbbing explosion so deep and powerful she thought she might shake apart. She tried to scream, but he shoved his hand against her mouth to quiet her, and she bit down, hard, as her body went rigid, taking him with her.

  Reality and time seemed to have vanished into the maelstrom. She lay beneath him, listening for the pounding of a heart that should have exploded five minutes ago, listening as her breath rasped to a more reasonable pace. She reached up and cupped his face, and his long hair fell around her fingers. His sun-glasses
were gone, but it was too dark to see his eyes, his face. She could feel dampness on his cheeks, could feel the tentative movement of muscle that might have been a smile. She felt his love, strong, sure, unspoken. She didn't need the words.

  "Did I hurt you?" he whispered, his mouth feathering hers.

  "Only for a moment. Oh, God, I bit your hand," she said, memory flooding her.

  She could feel the faint ripple of laughter. "I liked it," he said.

  She sighed, settling beneath him, her hips cradling him, her arms tight around him. He was still hard, and growing harder, locked within her.

  "I gather that was an orgasm?" she said, in what was supposed to be a casual tone of voice.

  "It was. In France it's called la petite mort. The little death."

  "Well," she said frankly, "if that's the little death, I hate to imagine what the big one is like."

  The sudden silence in the room was absolute, as even the fire died.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The voices were louder now, calling to him, plaintive, crying, and he knew his time was fading. She lay in his arms, sound asleep, replete, her heart beating soundly, and he wanted to pull her closer against him.

  He had to let her go. He'd known that for an eternity. Time had little meaning for him—she seemed to have existed in some part of his being for as long as he had had memory. She would continue there, a part of him, forever.

  But it was time. He slid out of bed, careful not to disturb her. It would have been remarkable if he'd awakened her—she had to be exhausted.

  She would wake, alone, uncomfortable. A caring lover would have held back, but he hadn't had that choice. Tonight was his only night, and he'd made love to her repeatedly, each time drawing forth a stronger and stronger reaction. He'd bound her to him, body and soul. But in the end, he knew, he would have neither.

  The long night would have to suffice. The memory of it would last him. The memory of it would leave her. She would go on to a new life, a healthier one. Her next life would be strong, blessed and lengthy, and she deserved no less. Her encounter with death would be nothing more than an erotic dream that would haunt her, unsuspecting, on stormy nights.