by Anne Stuart
She was shaking, shivering, hot and cold at the same time, and he was life, burning. She wanted to crawl inside him, to lose herself in his heat. He caught her hand in his, lowering it to his body, and the smooth, silken strength of him was something she needed. She arched up to meet him, closing her eyes, hearing the distant storm roaring in her ears, the water lapping around them, and she was floating in a warm, glorious sea of delight.
His first thrust joined them completely, and she wanted to cry out, but there were no words. She could only lie beneath him, taking him, giving to him, shaking with a storm of emotion more powerful than the hurricane that battered them.
She clung to him, tightly, her face buried against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, the feel of him. And the first wave that hit her body was sharp and fierce, a convulsion of fire, endless, eternal.
And he joined her, filling her with life, filling her with the sea, filling her emptiness; and her hot tears warmed them both.
His body was wrapped tightly around hers, and he stroked her damp skin with infinite tenderness, kissing her mouth, when suddenly he stilled. "You don't suppose they're watching us, do you?" he asked.
The thought had already occurred to Katie. "I don't think so."
"Because I'd hate to think my family had turned into voyeurs as well as ghosts," he murmured, kissing the side of her neck. "You taste like the ocean."
"So do you." She wanted to taste more of him. She wanted to push him onto his back and taste him everywhere, but the rock was too hard and the water was rising higher. She touched his face. "Are we going to die together?" she asked softly.
"Yes," he said with calm assurance. "But not for another fifty or sixty years at the very least. We have to get out of here before the water gets any higher."
"How?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. I've never explored this particular cave and I have no idea how secure it is. We have to be somewhere under the main section of land—it looked to me as if the entire outcropping of land went into the sea along with the house. Maybe we're somewhere near the guest house." He was pulling on his wet clothes with a complete disregard for their cold, wet condition, and Katie reluctantly followed suit. Either way she was freezing to death, and the wet clothes offered her some protection from the wind.
O'Neal rose, moving deeper into the cave, and Katie scrambled to her feet, peering into the darkness. "Do you suppose Mrs. Marvel could have survived?"
O'Neal looked back her. "No," he said. "I saw her body."
Katie thought about it, trying to summon up sorrow. She failed utterly. "Good," she said finally. "I hope the fishes eat her."
"They'd probably get sick," O'Neal said lightly. "We have a choice, Katie love. We either try to get out this way, or we go back into the sea."
Katie shivered. "I vote for staying dry."
"We could be trapped. These caves might collapse, as well. If we swim for it I could keep you safe. At least for a while."
She wasn't sure if she liked that "at least for a while" bit, but she decided not to mention that. "I trust you, O'Neal," she said. "I'll go where you want me to go."
His smile was crooked. "You'll follow me to the ends of the earth, will you?" The water was up over the ledge now, and he looked back into the darkness of the cave. She moved behind him, putting her arms around his waist, resting her head against his wet shirt, listening to the solid feel of his heartbeat.
She felt the sudden rigidity of his body before she saw the light. She backed away, just enough to see Fiona, floating in the distance, holding her small, pale hand out to her brother.
"This way, Jamie," Fiona said.
And O'Neal, who'd never seen or heard the ghosts, reached out with his hand to touch her.
In the end he thought he'd imagined her. The pale, sweet face of his sister, the hand held out to him. He'd touched her, another dream, and known that everything was going to be all right.
And then Fiona was gone forever, and there was Katie, who had somehow become dearer to him than all the world, holding his hand and trusting him as he led her out of the caves that honeycombed the cliffs, led her to the shelter of the old guest house.
It was easy enough to break through the boarded-up front door, and the house was safe and dry inside. He pulled the holland covers off the furniture and carried Katie up to one of the bedrooms, stripping off their clothes and wrapping them up in the dusty linen covers, just holding her tightly in his arms until they slept
In his dreams he heard them. His mother's voice, warm, tender, lilting. They'll make lovely babies, Seamus.
And his father, bawdy and charming as ever, his voice thick with Ireland. And not a flipper among them, I'll wager. I wonder if our Katie knows that.
She knows, Seamus. She knows.
And then there was silence. No more voices. No more wind. No thunderous rain beating against the old wooden house. He opened his eyes and saw weak sunlight through the boarded-up windows, and he loved Katie into wakefulness, then dozy desire, and then shattering pleasure.
They stepped out into the fitful light of early dawn. The storm that had plagued them had been swept out to sea. So had the huge stone house and the outcropping of land it had sat on. It was warm, an Indian summer day, and Katie Flynn leaned back in his arms with an accepting sigh.
He thought of all the things he should ask her. All the things he should tell her. Plans for the future, how they'd survive, what he'd seen and heard.
But he said nothing. There would be time for that. Days and weeks and years, stretching out ahead of them. He'd have time enough to tell her everything. Time enough to love.
Epilogue
« ^
Ten years later, the guest house
Katie was perched precariously on a ladder, paintbrush in hand, when O'Neal came charging through the door. "What the hell are you doing up there in your condition?" he thundered.
She loved it when he yelled. O'Neal was a man of grand passion, and he had a habit of yelling when he was most strongly moved.
"The platform's secure," she said calmly. "I want to finish this mural before the baby comes."
"Why can't you paint on canvas like a sensible woman?" he demanded, coming to the bottom of the ladder and glowering up at her.
"I could. Once I finish with the house. But they'll need to be very large canvasses. I like to work on a grand scale." She smiled down at him.
"You have green paint on your nose," he said gruffly.
Without hesitation she leaned over and swiped a line of green paint along his cheekbone. "Now we match."
"The girls will be home soon," he said with a meaningful gleam in his beautiful eyes. "So you know you're safe for the time being."
"But they'll go to bed sooner or later."
"Fiona wants to have a friend over for the night."
Katie sighed. "Maeve is such a pain in the butt when Fiona has friends."
"So why are we having another one? Aren't two girls enough?" he demanded, knowing the answer full well. He reached out and touched her round belly, and the baby kicked at his hand.
"More than enough," Katie agreed, "but Seamus here has other ideas."
"It'll be another girl," O'Neal warned her.
"So you always say. And I'm telling you it's a boy. I know he's male. I've had the worst morning sickness I've ever had. He's already oppressing me, like the rest of your gender."
O'Neal leaned up and kissed her, a brief, deep kiss on the mouth. "Poor, abused creature," he murmured against her mouth. "You'll have to teach me the error of my ways."
Her eyes were alight with happiness. "I'll do that, O'Neal."
She climbed down the ladder, O'Neal hovering behind her, and she admired the painting with a critical eye. It was an underwater scene, full of fanciful fishes and dazzling mermaids with her daughters' faces. In the shadowy reaches lurked a seal, watching over them all. "I think this one is my masterpiece," she said.
"And I think you're mad," he said. "T
o live out here alone with me and spend your life painting."
"And raising babies. And fixing up this old house. And simply living life. Mad, indeed, Jamie," she said cheerfully. She put her arms around his neck, resting against him peacefully. "What about you, my love? Why are you still here?"
He smiled down at her. "This is where I belong. I can't think of a better place to be."
"Lucky for you," she murmured. "I have your family on my side. You misbehave and I'll sic the ghosts on you."
"They're gone," he said, kissing her eyelids with erotic tenderness. "You know as well as I do that they've been gone for ten years."
Katie didn't bother to correct him. He wasn't the one who'd watched her children have long, cheerful conversations with their grandpa and their aunt Fiona, he wasn't the one who'd seen an invisible, soothing, grandmotherly hand brush Maeve's soft red hair.
"Of course they are, love," she said cheerfully.
And somewhere in the distance she heard a faint, ghostly laugh.
^
