Velvet Lightning

by Kay Hooper

With one foot on the bottom step of the veranda at the side of the house, she froze. Her father was standing there, and she knew without a doubt that he had seen too much. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

  “I—”

  “You met Tyrone.” His voice was low, harsh. “You met Tyrone on your walk, didn’t you?”

  Catherine hurried past him into the house, trying to think quickly, to find some excuse. She stopped a few steps through the door, in his study, staring at the half-empty wine bottle on his desk. “You’ve been drinking,” she said. “You said you were going to Mr. Odell’s for a book—”

  “And you said you were going for a walk!” Lucas came into the room, looked at her with glittering eyes.

  “Father—”

  He laughed curtly. “That won’t help you. I want to know why Tyrone was with you, Kate.”

  She forced her voice to be calm. “A chance encounter. He just spoke to me.”

  “What was he doing in my garden?”

  “He saw me go into the garden from the road.”

  Lucas’s voice dropped to a gentle note. “You were both upset. You’d been arguing, hadn’t you, Kate? About what, I wonder?”

  “Nothing.” Catherine swallowed hard. “He’s . . . he’s a cold man, as you said. A difficult man.”

  Slowly Lucas reached out and touched her cheek with one finger. “You painted your face. For him, Kate?”

  “No,” she whispered. “You said I was pale.”

  “I don’t like paint. Go and wash if off.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Right now!”

  She went, quickly, hoping it would calm him down. Her heart was hammering, and she felt cold and sick. She went to the kitchen because it was closest, and dampened a towel to wipe the rouge from her cheeks. When it was gone, she went reluctantly back to her father’s study, speaking quickly before he could and trying to gain the upper hand.

  “You shouldn’t drink, Father. You know you shouldn’t. Dr. Scott told you it worsens your gout.” “Blast Scott,” Lucas said. He was standing by the veranda door staring out, and his voice was absent. “A glass of wine never hurt anyone.”

  Catherine glided silently to the desk, corked the bottle, and quickly held it behind her back. Perhaps the worst was over, she thought hopefully. Perhaps he’d settle down now. She began to edge toward the hall door, holding her breath.

  “Have you disgraced your good name?” he asked suddenly without turning around.

  Catherine froze. “Of course not.”

  “Have you dishonored me, Kate?”

  “No.”

  “I hope not.”

  She waited, stiff and silent, staring at his back. Several very long minutes passed, until Lucas turned from the veranda door and said petulantly, “I want my wine.”

  “With dinner, Father,” she said in a careful calm.

  He looked annoyed. “Isn’t it dinnertime?”

  “Not yet. A couple of hours.”

  “I’m hungry now,” he said.

  “All right, Father. I’ll get started on it.”

  She slipped from the room and went to the kitchen, carrying the wine bottle. It was put away in a different cabinet this time, on a shelf behind stacks of canned goods. Then she began preparing an early dinner, thoughts chasing themselves violently around and around in her mind.

  Why now? Just when she was trying to end it with Tyrone. It would have been over, safely over, if only her father hadn't seen enough to be suspicious. And now . . . she didn’t know. But she felt so alone, and so frightened. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand it.

  Marc.

  Tyrone went to his ship. He tied his horse at the harbor and rowed himself out to The Raven in the longboat. Lyle and the other men on board were unsurprised by his arrival, since he often checked the ship while in harbor. They greeted him casually, waited to see if he had any orders. He hadn’t.

  He went to his cabin, shut himself inside. There was a logbook on his small desk, and he made a brief entry. Today's date. The Raven was still tied at anchor in Port Elizabeth. He stared at the entry for a long moment, then closed the log and sat back in his chair.

  The captain’s cabin was large for a ship of The Raven's size, almost luxurious. It was actually two rooms, this study area and a second room partitioned from the first and holding a full-sized bed. In the study were the desk and a couple of chairs, a number of books, maps, charts; in the bedroom were more books as well as the satin draperies and ornate furnishings that had amused him when he had had them installed years before.

  Like a Turk's harem, he had thought ruefully. More than one woman had been impressed by the luxury, and more than woman had happily shared the draped and ornate bed.

  Tyrone sat at his desk and stared blindly across the room. She didn’t hate him. She didn’t, really, want to end it between them because she still felt something for him. He knew that.

  It had been slow in coming to him, that knowledge. He had stepped into the cottage, had seen that small bundle on the floor, and it was a knife in his heart. It had taken all his will to face her there in the bedroom doorway, all his control to hold in his pain and bitterness.

  And, in the end, he hadn’t done a very good job of it. He had lashed out at her, and knew that forever he would regret the things he had said. Those dim, long-ago feelings of inferiority—laid to rest, he had thought, fifteen years before—had gripped him like vicious furies, blinding him to what had lain beneath her iron calm.

  God, he hadn’t meant to hurt her! But he had. Every word he had said had cut her ruthlessly. He had all but called her a heartless whore, and that was something no woman should ever have to hear from a man.

  She had been in so much pain and so afraid, beneath the calm, so terribly afraid. He hadn’t seen that, ruthless bastard that he was. Until he had cut at her, had hurt her even more. Then he had seen it, in her eyes, had heard it in the strange wrenching sound that had softly escaped her lips.

  “Captain?”

  Tyrone focused on the door of his cabin, realizing that he hadn’t heard the knock. “Yes, Lyle?”

  His first mate stepped into the cabin, a bit hesitant. “Sorry, to disturb you, sir, but some of the men were wondering if you’re planning to go back soon.”

  For a brief instant Tyrone was tempted. Tempted to sail away from there and to keep sailing until the sea and the winds cleansed all the darkness and pain from his soul. He had before. Especially during the war years, when the insanity of that time and his own bitterly divided loyalties had tormented him. But he couldn’t do it this time, he knew. This time, if he sailed away, he’d be leaving more than his heart behind.

  “No,” he said then, flatly. “No, my plans haven’t changed. We’ll be here for weeks, perhaps months.”

  Lyle nodded, then grinned suddenly. “That Mick, I think he’s got a sweetheart in town. Worried about having to leave her, I gather.”

  “If he causes trouble in town,” Tyrone said mildly, “I’ll have him keelhauled.”

  “He knows that, Captain.” Lyle sobered. “She’s a decent girl, a shopkeeper’s daughter. Mick’s minding his manners.”

  “All right.” Tyrone thought of the young Mick, who was a hard worker and was considerably brighter than the average sailor. Much as Marc Tyrone had once been . . . “Tell Mick he can spend time in town if he wants, Lyle. As long as he’s back on the ship each night. And tell him that if he trifles with a decent girl, I’ll personally beat the hell out of him.”

  Lyle blinked. “Yes, sir, I’ll tell him.”

  “Fine, then.”

  Lyle retreated, closing the door softly behind him. Tyrone stared at the door, his lips twisting slightly. Trifling with a decent girl . . . And wasn’t that what he himself had done at least in the beginning? An older woman, yes, but innocent—and a lady through to her bones. He had become her secret lover without an ounce of compunction, concerned by nothing except his own pleasure and her willingness. She had
certainly been willing, though that hardly excused him.

  He had unlocked an inner part of Catherine, had taught her to want him. And now, for whatever reason, she was being terribly hurt by it. He had been deceived just as the town had been, he realized now. Deceived in Catherine. The passion and the laughter had been real, but he knew no more of the true Catherine than anyone else on Port Elizabeth.

  But he was in love with her. In love with a woman who was frightened and in pain, and who refused to tell him what was wrong. In love with a woman who had today told him she wanted nothing more to do with him, who had, with surface remoteness, ordered him out of her life. In love with a woman who would coldly ignore him in public and who would no longer permit even the briefest of private meetings.

  And he had to respect her wishes, if only because she was so afraid. Until he discovered why she was afraid, he dared not make things more difficult for her by calling attention to them in any way. Yet there was no one else he could go to for answers.

  He could only wait.

  All his life Tyrone had been good at waiting. The sea had taught him that. It was always there, was steady, constant, enduring. Tyrone had watched the sea as a boy, and the rhythm of the tides had taught him patience.

  But he didn’t know, now, if he could wait for Catherine to give him the answers he needed. He didn’t know if he would ever be patient enough for that. Because he loved her, and she was in pain—and he couldn’t bear that.

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  “Mrs. Symington.” Tyrone inclined his head politely.

  “You look sinfully lazy,” she said, regarding his relaxed form as he leaned against the front of the mercantile.

  He smiled faintly. “It’s a lazy Saturday.”

  “Are you waiting for someone?” she asked archly.

  Tyrone cursed inwardly but held on to his bland smile. “No, ma'am. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason.” She hesitated, then said, “I hear you lost a bet the other day.” Her birdlike eyes were very bright and watchful on his face.

  Tyrone created a puzzled frown, then allowed it to melt away. “Ah. You mean my failure to drag a smile from Miss Waltrip?”

  “People talk so,” she said sweetly, entirely unconscious of irony.

  “My vanity suffered a blow,” he said ruefully.

  “But your heart remains untouched?” Her voice was light now, but the sharp gaze never left his face.

  Tyrone thanked the fates for poker games over the years. He even managed a laugh that sounded, to his ears at least, natural. “You obviously haven’t heard about ships’ captains, Mrs. Symington. We give our hearts to the sea.”

  Mrs. Symington looked faintly dissatisfied, but clearly realized she couldn't probe further without being considered unforgivably rude. “A sad waste,” she said dryly.

  “Thank you,” he said in a polite tone.

  She sniffed, then inclined her head regally and moved on down the sidewalk.

  Tyrone stared after her, feeling grim. Lettia had been somehow alerted, he thought, and the lost wager was only a part of it. She was suspicious, and if she found out even a part of the truth, she wouldn’t be kind to Catherine.

  Kind! he thought savagely. If Catherine had been isolated before, she’d be a pariah, a leper, when Lettia got through with her. And he wasn’t helping matters, lingering here in town for no obvious reason except to watch the streets; it wasn’t a habit with him, and Lettia knew it.

  Damn . . . damn .. . damn!

  “Are you planning to murder someone, lad?”

  Tyrone started and turned his head to find Dr. Scott watching him intently. Consciously, he relaxed taut muscles and forced a smile. “Of course not.”

  “You looked it.”

  So much for the benefits of poker games. Tyrone shook his head a little. “No. Mrs. Symington rather annoyed me, I’m afraid.”

  “She matchmaking again?”

  Tyrone controlled a start. Damn! If he kept jumping like a cat on hot bricks, the whole bloody town would get the wind up there was something going on. “Just being her usual self,” he replied with all the calm he could muster.

  “Umm.” Dr. Scott continued to look at the younger man for a long moment, then turned his gaze abstractedly down the street. “You know,” he said in a slow, thoughtful tone, “things aren’t always what they seem, lad.”

  “What things?”

  Dr. Scott smiled a little. “Most things,” he said, still slow and thoughtful. “Most people. Lettia, for instance. She’s not a bad woman. Inquisitive, and convinced her own opinion is the right one, but she’ll admit she's wrong—if she’s forced to. It’s just that she hates secrets.”

  Tyrone could feel himself stiffen. He knew without doubt that Dr. Scott wasn’t referring to the sick man in his house but to something else. And that could only be— “Doctor, are you trying to warn me about something?” he asked pleasantly.

  There was a moment of silence while Dr. Scott met his gaze, then the doctor said calmly, “You’re giving yourself away, lad.”

  “Am I? In what way?”

  “You’re looking at her differently. I noticed that night at Lettia’s party.”

  Tyrone knew all too well that Dr. Scott’s discretion could be counted on. With a mental apology to Catherine he said flatly, “You’ve known longer than that, though, haven’t you?”

  Very softly, in a voice that couldn’t have been heard from a foot away, Dr. Scott said, “I was the only one she could turn to, you see. I was the only one who could get her what she needed to prevent a pregnancy. Good morning, Captain.” He turned quickly and strolled briskly away.

  Tyrone stared after him.

  8

  On Sunday morning Captain Tyrone walked into Port Elizabeth’s only church, causing a considerable stir among the congregation. He had never been known to attend services—though many of his ship’s crew often slid in to occupy the back pews in respectful silence—and more than one of the town’s citizens wondered why he was there.

  Tyrone didn’t enlighten them. He made certain his gaze was casual as he took a seat near the back, but it took only one glance to find Catherine. She was sitting in the third pew beside her father, a small, neat hat atop the braided coronet of her dark hair. With an effort he kept his eyes away from her.

  Stupid to come here, he knew. Dr. Scott had been right; he was going to give himself away. But he was worried about her, and had to see that she was all right. He told himself that was all he meant to do, but he knew only too well that given half a chance, he would try to talk to her.

  There was no chance, of course, during the service, or immediately afterward. As was true in most small communities, people stood around outside the church, chatting, laughing, and making plans for the day. Tyrone found himself talking to the shop owner Mr. Odell about the shockingly high cost of French lace and fabrics, and it was sheer luck that he managed to overhear a conversation going on a couple of feet behind him.

  “Just a few people, casually, of course, for Sunday dinner. And perhaps a quiet game of bridge afterward,” Mrs. Symington was saying brightly. “The Lydgates are coming, and the Ralstons. The dear vicar, of course. And you’ll come, won’t you, Lucas?”

  “Delighted, Lettia,” Lucas Waltrip responded with heavy cheerfulness. “You won’t mind, Catherine?” he went on, more a statement than a question.

  “Of course not, Father,” Catherine responded in a colorless voice.

  “Fine. You take the buggy then, and I’ll go along with the others.”

  Tyrone couldn’t remember ever feeling such rage. Her own father! Her own damned father treating her as if she had no feelings, no sensitivity, as if she were nothing. It took all his will to hold the anger in, all his control to continue his conversation with Odell as if nothing were wrong. He forced himself to wait until he heard several buggies leaving the churchyard, then bid a polite good-bye to Odell and headed for his own.

  A glance showed him that Catheri
ne was only then moving toward town, her horse trotting briskly. He climbed into his buggy without haste and turned in the same direction; both had to drive through town in order to reach their homes, and no one would think twice about it.

  The shops in town were closed up, the street quiet since most of the populace was still leaving church. Tyrone, about fifty yards behind Catherine, had his gaze fixed so intently on her stiff, slender back that a sudden movement off to her right caught him by surprise. He saw no more than a flash of motion, but the ringing, childish voice was all too clear.

  “Dog killers are bitches!”

  Three small boys had leapt from the alleyway between two buildings, and before Catherine could do more than turn her face toward them in surprise, they had flung handfuls of mud at her with the practiced accuracy of small boys, and had darted back into the alley and vanished.

  Only Tyrone saw what happened. And, even as some part of him knew that the boys had aped their elders in attitude if not in action, his earlier rage swelled inside him and escaped in a vicious curse. He snapped the reins against his surprised horse's rump and the buggy leapt forward.

  But so had Catherine’s. He couldn’t tell if it was because the horse had been startled by the shout and sudden splatter of mud, some of which had landed on its hindquarters, or if she had urged the animal forward; in any case, her horse sprang into a reckless gallop that made the buggy sway.

  Tyrone’s worry grew when the horse showed no signs of slowing at the Waltrip drive but sped past it, and his heart lurched when the racing animal took the harbor fork far too fast, the buggy skidding sideways. She wasn’t driving, he realized, the horse was running away and Catherine didn’t care.

  Maybe Catherine was running away as well.

  The road ended literally at the dock. And the horse would never have halted its mad, blind rush in time if it hadn’t been for Lyle. The ship’s mate, assiduous in his concern over the ship, had returned to the harbor immediately after church to wait for the remainder of the crew. He was quick when he saw and heard the runaway, rushing directly toward the animal’s head.