Tainted Love

by Louisa Trent

  "It's not that," she protested. "He would simply prefer I not take painting too seriously. He would be more inclined to accept the pursuit as a pastime, as something I do to amuse myself between my wifely duties. Which is actually fine with me, as I, well, I really haven't painted seriously in years. I wished to, I tried to, but..."

  Lillian shook her head. "I must apologize for the familiar vein this conversation has taken, Mr. Donovan."

  Doyle leaned back against the railing. "Sounds to me like an aside."

  "An aside? What is that?"

  "Let's say a person ... a man ... makes plans for his future, he is on the straight and narrow, working toward his goal, and then something happens. Either good or bad, it makes no difference, just something that alters his chosen course. Though groundless for a period of time, gradually, he embarks on something else, only temporarily, only until he is back on track again. Only sometimes, that temporary detour lasts a lifetime. Like me, for instance."

  "How so?" she asked, mirroring his body language, but cupping a hand over her eyes to shade them so that she could see his face and read his expression.

  "When my parents died, I left New York to return home and take care of things. Taking care of things has lasted almost fifteen years now. I never made it back to New York, and most likely, I never will. That temporary aside has steered the course of my life," he explained with an easy smile. "Understand?"

  She shook her head. "I am afraid I understand very little any more."

  He checked his watch, and frowned. "If you will excuse me? I must get back to the office. Another client is due to arrive on the hour."

  She forced a smile. "May I stay a while longer?" Loose strands had come undone from her chignon and were curling around her face. Self-consciously, she reached behind her to repair the damage.

  Doyle stilled her hands. "You have beautiful hair! Leave it be."

  "It's always such a fright." Charles did not look favorably upon her hair. Her chignon never stayed neat and tidy for long, and if there was one thing her fiancé insisted on, it was a polished presentation. Would he insist on the same in bed?

  She pushed aside Doyle's restraint. "These dratted pins! No matter how many I use, my hair utterly refuses to conform."

  "I have a solution."

  She jabbed another pin into her scalp. "You do?"

  He fingered her chignon. "Yes, I do. Cease trying." He pulled out the pin she had only just installed.

  "No! Do not! Stop!"

  But he wouldn't stop. One by one, he removed the pins until her hair had fallen to her hips.

  "Lily, your wildness, your untamed soul, is part of who you are!"

  Frantically, she scraped her thick hair together and rolled the assemblage at her nape. Grabbing the pins back, she stuck them punishingly hard into the tight chignon, anchoring it fiercely in place.

  "I am not wild any more! I am not untamed! I have a fiancé in Boston who expects me to conduct myself in an exemplary fashion at all times. He is training me to look and act the part of a society wife."

  "Only dogs are trained, Lily. People learn, and they usually learn by making a few mistakes along the way."

  Off in the distance two very active ducks played in the water. She looked at their antics rather than look at the stern set of Doyle's face.

  "Some mating dance, huh?" Her companion chuckled. "You watch. The male swims toward the female, but she backs away. They fly together for a while and then they slap each other with their wings. Back and forth. Back and forth. The female duck teasing the drake until she decides the time is right. It can get pretty damn noisy here before they get down to it."

  Lily had teased Doyle in the very same manner. Had he deliberately promoted the return of that best-forgotten memory?

  In her agitation, she swayed.

  With the quick reflexes she remembered so well, Doyle locked his arms around her.

  "Don't!" she cried.

  He mustn't touch her. He mustn't be kind. He mustn't think she was attempting to gain his sympathy. He mustn't know how much he affected her!

  "No cause for concern. Just a little light-headedness." Her vision swam before her. "All ladies are prone to dizziness upon occasion."

  He stayed right where he was, supporting her easily with one arm. "When is the last time you had anything to eat?"

  "I don't remember."

  "You need to eat more. You look sickly."

  "Between Grandmama and Tony and now you, I have had quite about enough comments about my thinness. I will have you know that a twenty inch waist is de rigueur in Boston."

  "Aha--Tony noticed too. You ought to listen to him; he knows female anatomy."

  The same might be said of Doyle...

  Lillian quickly censored her thoughts. She had no right to look askance at Doyle's love life. His love life had absolutely nothing to do with her.

  "You cannot go home unaccompanied," he decided for her.

  "Nonsense! I am much improved. See?" She pushed away from him and prayed she wouldn't fall. "The dizziness has already passed."

  "Regardless, I am returning you home in my carriage," he said in the same domineering tone he had always used with her as a girl.

  Her neck rounded. "Far be it from me to argue."

  At least Doyle didn't hover. At least he kept his distance. At least he allowed her some dignity as he walked her back through the woods, close enough to catch her should she fall, but far enough away not to crowd her.

  They rode back to the cottage in silence.

  Her grandmother was in the rose gardens when Doyle walked her to the door. Victoria Hill looked up from pruning her American Pillars and waved. This was Lillian's opportunity to escape.

  "Well, Mr. Donovan, thank you for..."

  "If you don't mind, I shall stay. I have ... business to discuss with your grandmother. Will you excuse us?"

  He was dismissing her, like he would a child! And short of making a childish scene, there was absolutely nothing to be done about it.

  With a mannerly nod, she went inside the cottage...

  And headed straight to the kitchen window to have a listen.

  "What ails Lily?" she heard Doyle ask her grandmother.

  "I don't believe there is anything physically wrong with my granddaughter. But she does have a great deal on her mind."

  "What?"

  "I am not at liberty to discuss that with you."

  "Mrs. Hill, do you think I killed Frank Johnson?"

  "Yes, I do," was her grandmother's swift reply.

  "You don't mince your words, do you?"

  "Not often."

  Never! Lillian snorted from her hiding place under the windowsill.

  "Mrs. Hill, do you know that Lily confessed to me that she killed Frank?"

  "Yes."

  "Well?"

  "Well, what? You know Lillian didn't push Frank; that young woman doesn't have a violent bone in her body. You, however, are an entirely different animal. I believe an episode of uncontrollable rage overcame you ten years ago when you saw the woman you loved in bed with another man, and in that rage, you took a life. I think you waited until Frank left the cottage, and then you two argued outside. One thing led to another, and Frank went head-first over the edge of the Widow Walk."

  "Did you share this theory with Lily?"

  At her grandmother's, "Yes," Doyle said, "Feeling the way you do, how can you allow Lily to come around me, asking questions? Don't you fear for her safety?"

  "Not for a moment. I trust you not to hurt my grandchild."

  "Your trust is ill-advised and poorly placed. You tell Lilly to be careful--of me, of everyone. For her own good, tell her to back off. No more questions!"

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ordinarily, Lillian didn't drive the pony cart at night. But she had visited Meg at her studio earlier in the day, and sometime during their conversation about art and life and men, darkness had fallen.

  On a steep incline, about a mile from the cottage, the
front end of the cart began to wobble.

  Dropping the reins, Lillian alighted from her seat and went to investigate, discovering a wheel axle had loosened.

  After removing the harness, she gave Mona a swat on the hindquarters. "It's back to the stables for you, girl."

  There were two ways back to the cottage: the circuitous route that Mona had just taken, and the shorter, more direct footpath through the trees, the uppermost portion of which was commonly known as the Widow's Walk.

  Lillian opted for the direct route.

  Thankfully, she would not be traversing the part where Frank had made his deadly descent: his plunge occurred further along the walkway. But the section she was about to negotiate was still dangerous as, for a few yards or so, the route tapered to what was little more than a shallow granite ledge above the ocean before widening once again through the trees. If not for the carriage lanterns, Lillian would never have attempted the Widow's Walk at night...

  Legend had it that the ghosts of grieving Hill widows haunted the path in search of sailing ships that never came home. It was for them that her grandmother insisted the walk be illuminated. In fact, for convenience sake, her grandmother had recently converted from oil lamps to a modern electric generating system, so that her 'lad of all-work' needn't bother with the nightly chore of lighting the individual lamps.

  Halfway into her climb up the wooded slope, Lillian discovered that both she and the ghosts would have no lights tonight to guide their way; her grandmother had forgotten to pull the switch for the lanterns. Worse still, in her ten-year absence, the route had reverted to an overgrown thicket. Worst yet, the moon wasn't full; she would need to navigate the wild tangle of vines and trees by only a thin gold thread.

  When she was a girl, she regarded the century-old trees as benevolent sentinels, standing watchful guard duty over the cottage. Tonight, those same trees seemed predacious, their low-hanging, twisted branches the perfect hiding places for ghoulish monsters just waiting to jump out at her.

  As a girl, she found the jagged stone outcroppings that rose above the pounding surf romantic. Now, those same rocks seemed bloodthirsty, greedily lying in wait for their next human sacrifice.

  Lillian giggled to herself. No sleep, no food, and nerves of mush, had heightened her already active artist's imagination.

  The woods were simply overgrown, not predacious.

  And the rocks?

  They were deadly all right, having wrecked many a ship through the years. But stone outcroppings, no matter how dangerous, are incapable of avarice; only humans are greedy. Only humans commit murder.

  Everyone had a theory about what really happened that long-ago night. What no one knew was that she'd had the most to gain from Frank Johnson's death.

  The golden boy of Bar Harbor, the apple of his father's eye, that handsome lawyer-in-training, had been blackmailing her. His death ended her torture.

  Frank talked of love letters and infidelity ... and Victoria Hill's secret baby. And to protect her grandmother from scandal, she had agreed to do whatever he asked.

  She had hated Frank.

  But she didn't kill him. Someone else had done her that favor.

  Who?

  She shivered.

  In the dark.

  Her grandmother had a mind like a steel trap. She never forgot anything, most especially not the Widow Walk's lights. Why tonight...?

  Dear Lord, no! Had something happened to her grandmother? Is that why the lanterns remained unlit?

  Sea currents dampened her skin as she ran up the hill toward the cottage. Dank leaves slapped at her face. A thorny briar reached out and captured her ankle. She teetered. Fought for balance. Went down. Hard. Landing on her hands and knees in the dirt. When she struggled to free herself, her bodice pulled free of the gown's waistband and rode up her back, exposing her skin to the night air above the corset and chemise. Beads of perspiration trickled down her backbone and pooled at its base, as she pulled free of the imprisoning vine and tottered to her feet.

  Picking up her skirts, pine needles scattering, Lillian raced for the shallow ledge suspended above the ocean: the Widow's Walk.

  Nerves stretched to the breaking point, Lillian hurried across. She must get to the cottage! Her grandmother might have taken ill or she could have fallen.

  A vertical wall of rock flanked her back. The rough stone tore her loosened bodice, abraded the skin on her bared shoulders. Crossing the precipice, she told herself not to look down. She mustn't look down.

  Don't look down!

  A wind gust off the ocean blew up, and her wildly disordered hair fell into her eyes, blinding her so that she couldn't look down or anywhere else. It was then, when her sense of sight was hampered, that her ears picked up a cue, a sound that was out of place.

  A bright snap of dry wood. A footstep.

  Someone was out there! Watching her. Coming closer!

  She jumped, vaulted sideways; she felt herself slip, then slide. The sea drew her down off her narrow perch on the rocky shelf.

  A polite ladylike sob escaped her lips.

  An anguished cry soon followed.

  She had enough frustration inside her, enough outrage, to last an eternity. She vented it on a shrill, high-pitched scream...

  Until a hand came out of nowhere and covered her mouth.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "Be quiet!" Doyle seethed. "Voices carry. Your grandmother will hear. I just left her awake up at the cottage."

  Her grandmother was all right!

  Lillian sagged in relief.

  And started to fall all over again.

  Changing his grip, Doyle linked his hand with hers, interlacing their fingers. "This is your opportunity to prove you are not nearly as selfish as I think you are."

  At first, she failed to grasp his meaning. Then, the horrible realization came to her that if she fell, so would he: his fingers had linked their fates.

  "You little fool! No one takes the Widow's Walk any more, not since Frank. One more step and you would have been fish bait." With his free hand, Doyle pushed her hair back from her face.

  Now that she could see again, she saw the precariousness of their positioning. Doyle's feet hung over the ledge by a toe length. Because of his large stature, he was rounded at the shoulders so that his head would clear the overhanging rock. In that bent position, he had supported her--while she struggled against him--with one arm. His free hand covered her mouth. She marveled at his strength, even as she realized they might yet make the flounder a fine meal.

  Safety was more than a matter of distance: frozen by fear, she was dead weight, unable to help in her own rescue. She stared down into the ocean, the waves pounding against the rocks mesmerizing her.

  Is this what Frank saw in his final moments before plummeting?

  One step, and she would soar like a bird, like a seagull, above the clouds...

  "You fly, you die. And I die too," he said, bursting her poetic bubble with a hard dose of reality.

  Mercilessly, he started dragging her. Sideways. Crab-style. It wasn't an elegant ambulation, but it did get them both to safety.

  Still towing her, he ungently pulled her into a small clearing amongst the fragrant pine.

  Though they were sheltered from the breeze off the ocean, she shivered.

  "Promise not to scream again?" he whispered.

  At her nod, his hand lifted from her bruised lips.

  "You should have let me go," she murmured, self-pityingly.

  Now that both his arms were free, he used them to wrap her up in his incredible warmth.

  "Not until you pay your debt to me," he growled, his palms cupping the small swells of her breasts, plumped above the rigid whale-boned corset. "I want you the same now as I did ten years ago."

  Whether it was the aftermath of danger, a way for her body to re-affirm its tenuous hold on life, she didn't know; unaccountably, she felt herself respond to his touch, to his words. Her nipples puckered. Then peaked. Sensations th
at began at the center of each breast suffused her body. She was spiraling. Helplessly, writhing against him. Panting. More! She needed more.

  But--though she was undeniably responding--fear, very specific in origin, was also consuming her. She whimpered her unease.

  Immediately, he strove to placate her.

  A thumb retreated from her bosom to stroke her lips, playing over them sensuously, opening the moist folds as deftly as a lover would.

  And fear, once again, took a back seat to desire.

  She turned her face into his shirt. Inhaled him. The smell of sun-bleached clothes, hard work, and man, filled her flaring nostrils. It was all so achingly familiar.

  "Do you remember what it was like between us?" he asked, nipping her jaw.

  She sighed in anticipation. He never took her lips right away. He would delay the inevitable, nibbling her jaw first, before taking her mouth almost in despair.

  He warmed the corner of her lips now, not transgressing any further than the outermost corner. All she need do was turn her head--only slightly--and his mouth would be hers.

  Lillian held herself in place, too afraid for both their sakes to move.

  "Do you remember how passion would flare between us at the slightest provocation? Your hair blowing across my cheek, a whiff of your perfume, your laugh--anything would set me off."

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, yes, she remembered all too well.

  "I fought that passion once, Lily. No more. I plan on taking everything from you."

  While tears wet her lashes, his hands fidgeted, the rough pads of his impatient fingers working the hooks at the back of her loosened bodice. His preemptory attitude was almost her undoing. Doyle had always been arrogant and demanding ... possessive.

  Some things don't change.

  A second later there was an upward pull, and her ripped bodice was flung to the pine needles.

  Lillian felt the cool rush of night air on her throat and chest, and then a warm flush, as Doyle, turning her to face him, began to unlace her stays.

  "I will not tolerate you in a corset. Your breasts are to remain free to my touch. Is that understood?"

  She nodded weakly.