Velvet Lightning

by Kay Hooper

  “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.

  And Catherine, listening with a hunger she hoped didn’t show on her face, realized that for the first time he was giving of himself. Not passion or desire or gentleness, but himself. He was allowing her to see and understand the life that had shaped the man he had become. She almost held her breath for fear that he would realize what he was doing, and stop.

  But then it hit her with the force of
a blow. He knew. He was sharing himself quite deliberately.

  When his voice died finally into silence, she opened her eyes slowly and looked up at him. His face was grave, eyes direct and steady. He had opened himself up for her, and it hurt her unbearably that she couldn’t do the same. Huskily she said, “I have to leave now.”

  Tyrone’s face tightened, and his eyes went bleak. “You’re a stubborn woman, Catherine.”

  “I have to leave,” she repeated.

  He rolled away from her abruptly, and she felt cold. Alone. She watched him dress, wondering in pain if she would ever see him like this again. Wondering if he would end it now after the slap she had dealt him. Her hands were folded tightly over her stomach, pressing hard as if to hold in feelings that were wild to escape.

  Then he stepped to the side of the bed and bent to kiss her with a possession she could feel branding her. Hands braced on either side of her, he said, “My name, Catherine.”

  Through a tight, aching throat, she murmured, “Tyrone.”

  He half nodded, expecting it. His face was expressionless. “One of these days you’re going to call me Marc. And then I’m going to ask you to marry me—again.”

  She felt a jolt that was pleasure and pain combined, hot and sweet and tormenting. He wasn’t going to end it; he wasn’t going to leave her.

  “One of these days. And soon, Catherine,” he said flatly, then straightened, turned, and left the cottage.

  Long minutes passed before Catherine could force herself to leave the bed. She picked up the sheets from the floor but left them on the bed, ready for next time. Slowly she began dressing. The shift first, and the memory of how he had gazed at her. The dress, remembering how he had slowly unbuttoned it. Stockings and shoes, and the ghostly touch of his hands on her legs.

  She collected the pins from the floor, then got the hairbrush and sat on the bed restoring order to her hair. She braided it, pinned it in place. She just sat there for a while, one hand gripping the brass footrail, staring at the bed they shared.

  How much longer could she risk this? It had seemed so simple at first. He was seldom on the island and willing to be careful, to keep these meetings secret. But now . . . Her common sense told her to end it quickly, to regain control of her life, but she needed him so badly, needed this so much.

  If only he would keep to his usual habit and leave in a few days! Everything would be all right. She would be alone again, and able to cope. But he wouldn’t. He would stay this time, and every day he remained would be an added strain, a wearing combination of worry, pleasure, and fear.

  Catherine could feel the tension inside herself and knew it had never been so great. Between his changed attitude and her own realization of being in love with him, she had seen how desperately important her time with him was. And how agonized she was at the threat of losing it.

  But it’s no threat. It will happen. The only question is .. . when.

  She got to her feet slowly and paused in the room long enough to straighten the quilt on the bed. She would be willing to make a bed for Tyrone anywhere, she realized. On his ship, in New York, at the big, silent house here on the island that the townspeople had been politely but firmly discouraged from visiting. And she wouldn’t have asked for marriage even if she could have. Just him. Just him, for as long as possible.

  Not long.

  Catherine left the cottage, conscious suddenly of a great weariness. It was the tension, she knew. She had held herself guardedly for so long now, fought her own nature to project a cold, forbidding surface, and she was very tired.

  She walked through the woods, emerging at the road around the bend from her father’s house. She paused there, looking and listening, then slipped quickly across the road. She angled across Dr. Scott’s drive and onto her father’s property, approaching the house through the overgrown garden. Flowers were scarce this time of year, but Catherine picked a few, breaking the stems because she didn’t have her shears.

  She gathered the threads of her emotional control carefully and held them tight, composed her features, willed the weariness away. Then, carrying the flowers, she strolled around toward the front of the house. Her father was standing near the door, frowning down the walkway at the opened gate of their white picket fence.

  “Hello, Father.”

  He turned and stared at her. “That Tommy Jenkins has been swinging on the gate,” he said irritably, “and now he’s bent the hinge.”

  Concentrating, trying to keep her mind calm and to avoid painful thoughts, Catherine only half heard him. “Boys are like that,” she said.

  “Where have you been?” Lucas asked, still irritable.

  “Just walking.”

  “You’re doing a lot of that these days.”

  Catherine looked at him. “Did you want me for something?” she asked calmly.

  He shrugged. “No, no. But you might take better care of me, you know. I’ve caught a chill somewhere.”

  As far as she could see, he looked fine. But she said, “Then you should be in bed, Father. Why don’t you go now, and—”

  “I want my dinner,” he said petulantly.

  “All right. I’ll bring it to you in bed.” She took his arm gently and turned him toward the house.

  “You’ll put the bell by my bed? In case I need you?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And hot bricks for my feet? I’m getting dreadfully cold, Catherine.”

  “I’ll see to it, Father. You'll be fine.”

  But he wasn’t. By midnight he was feverish, restless, complaining of being too hot, too cold, or being thirsty. His pulse was rapid, and he was querulous. The little crystal bell on his nightstand rang often as he summoned her to replace the warmed bricks, straighten his bedclothes, fetch him more cool water, bathe his hot brow.

  In the lonely hours of darkness, Catherine went up and down the stairs, fetching and carrying patiently. She remained calm when he swore at her in irritation, when he threw the water glass across the room, when he wept at his own weakness.

  Just after dawn, strained and exhausted, she slipped from the house and made her way through the garden to Dr. Scott’s front door.

  Sometime later, as he walked beside her downstairs after leaving her father’s room, the doctor said reassuringly, “It’s a bad cold, Miss Catherine. Has he been out in the night air? You know how it affects him.”

  “I don’t think so. The other night after Mrs. Symington’s party, of course, but it was a warm, dry night.

  “Mmm. Well, he caught a chill somewhere. At any rate, his fever's down a bit now; the worst should be over.” He eyed her in concern. “He isn’t a good patient. You must have had a bad night with him.”

  “Bad enough,” she said briefly.

  “You're worn out. I can ask one of the women in town—”

  “No.” She managed a smile. “No, thank you. I’ll take care of him.”

  “See that you get some rest,” he told her sternly. “Don’t run up and down these stairs just because he wants his pillow turned. I don’t want you as my next patient. Understood?”

  “Yes. All right.”

  “And eat something,” Dr. Scott ordered.

  She smiled again. “I will. Thank you for coming.”

  “I’ll stop by later in the day.”

  When he had gone, Catherine closed the door and leaned back against it. God, she was tired. She pushed herself away from the door and went slowly upstairs, holding on the railing with one hand. At her father’s bedroom door she stood and listened for a moment, watching the solid shape under the covers that was blessedly still, hearing a faint snore.

  With luck he would sleep a few hours. Catherine knew from experience that her father was indeed a bad patient, concerned only with his own discomforts and swelling those all out of proportion. She would get very little rest until he was back on his feet.

  She hesitated, feeling her stomach complain of hunger, then went along to her own bedroom. Food could wait; she di
dn’t know when she would get another chance to sleep. She loosened her dress and pulled off her shoes, then lay down on her bed. Muscles that had been taut with strain eased; her aching head was soothed by the softness of the pillow. She felt herself grow limp, felt everything slip away from her.

  The bell woke her an hour later.

  That day and the next became a test of Catherine’s endurance. She fetched and carried, sat with her father when he demanded it, prepared soup and hot tea, carried trays up and down the stairs. She read to him, listened to him talk ramblingly about years gone by.

  She slept when she could, an hour here, an hour there snatched when her father was napping. She tried not to let herself think of Tyrone, but was conscious of a desire to be held in strong arms, to go limp and content—even if the contentment was brief. She couldn’t help but wonder if he had gone to the cottage and waited for her, if he knew that her father was ill, knew that she wouldn’t be able to meet him. She didn't dare try to send him a message.

  She needed him, and it frightened her.

  “Catherine . .

  “Yes, Father?” She was sitting by his bed on the second day, watching his hands pull fretfully at the covers.

  “I love your mother.”

  “I know.”

  “But did she know?”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  His eyes filled with tears and his voice dropped to a low, pathetic mutter. “I loved her. I did, really. But I was a fool. There was a time, when you were just a child . . . She’d gotten angry at me, and she took you and went back to her family.”

  “Yes. You told me, Father.” And he had, months ago, when a similar illness had made him feel guilty and maudlin. He had confessed his unfaithfulness to her mother with a whore he had picked up on the street, had punished both himself and her with the sordid details. Sickened, she had listened with outward composure, then tried to forget what he had told her, although his confession had finally explained the violent arguments she remembered overhearing when she was no more than ten.

  “Did I?” he asked vaguely, then sniffed miserably. “I told her too. Begged her forgiveness. Then I got sick and she seemed to forgive me.’’