by Kay Hooper
He automatically counted his men, felt relief when he saw all were present and safe. “What happened?” he asked thickly as soon as they reached the men.
Lyle turned to stare at him, and his voice was almost a moan. “He made us get off her, Captain. He had a gun, and—and he was wild, crazy! He kept saying he’d burn the bastard, he'd burn the bastard. And then he smashed the lamp against the side and said he’d shoot us if we didn’t get off her.”
“Oh, God,” Catherine said numbly.
Tyrone heard the thudding of feet behind them, heard gasps and murmurs from the gathering crowd, but ignored them. Sharply he said, “What about Waltrip? Did he come off her?”
Lyle shook his head slowly. “He wouldn’t.” Swearing, Tyrone took a quick step toward the longboats—and halted when Lyle grabbed his arm.
“It’s no use, Captain,” he said miserably. “Her sides are burning now. You’d never even get close to her.”
They all saw him then. Catherine, Tyrone, and his men, the people from the town. They all saw Lucas Waltrip dancing about amidships surrounded by fire, waving a gun in one hand and the smashed remains of a lantern in the other. They all heard his maniacal shrieks of laughter even over the harsh crackle and roar of the fire, heard his deranged chant.
“Burn the bastard, burn the bastard, burn the bastard!” Tyrone saw the man’s sleeve catch fire, and he turned quickly and gathered Catherine into his arms, pressing her face against him, covering her ears. He felt her shudder against him, felt her arms go blindly around his waist. And he held her tightly and did his best to close out the terrible sound of an agonized scream, the awful sight of her mad father burning alive in the fire he had loosed on himself.
The Raven burned brightly, a comet in its final, plunging flight to earth. The flames swallowed her tall masts, engulfed her sides, spread with dreadful speed from bow to stern. She was a blazing pyre embracing the charred remains of her assassin, and there was a kind of stoic glory in her death.
No one who saw her die would ever forget the sight.
* * *
“He ... he was obviously drunk,” Lettia Symington said blankly. “Drunk and crazy.”
“No,” Dr. Scott said quietly. “Not drunk. He’s slowly been going mad for fifteen years.”
Mrs. Symington, her wide eyes fixed on the woman still shuddering silently in Tyrone’s protective embrace, worked her mouth for a moment before her voice would emerge. “There was never any sign—”
“Of course there wasn’t.” Dr. Scott never raised his voice or changed the tone of it. “His daughter saw to that. She didn’t want anyone to pity him; she wanted him to live as normally as possible. So she took care of him. She bore the rages of his sickness in private. She watched him constantly in public to make certain he didn’t betray himself—or hurt anyone. When he got worse these last months, she followed my instructions and drugged his wine each night.”
“Don’t,” Catherine whispered, but only Tyrone heard her. He held her tightly, watching his ship die, listening to the doctor's quiet, implacable voice.
“She even stood up before the magistrate, Lettia, and allowed you to accuse her of killing your dog, even though she knew her father had done it.”
“What?” Mrs. Symington’s voice was beyond shock.
“Oh, yes. He struck out blindly when someone annoyed him. I don't know what you did or said; probably nothing you’ll ever remember. It didn’t have to be much. Tommy Jenkins just swung on his gate and bent the hinge.”
There was a gasp from the crowd, and Mrs. Symington sucked in her breath with a stark sound. “He pushed that little boy into the water?”
“Yes, I believe he did.”
“Then”—her gaze slid past Catherine and focused on the burning Raven—”when he set fire to the ship? It was deliberate?”
“It was. As well as any mad act can be deliberate.”
“Why? What had Captain Tyrone done to him?” Tyrone turned his head suddenly toward her, and his voice was harsh when he answered the question. “I fell in love with his daughter.”
Mrs. Symington looked at him in bewilderment. “But why would that—”
“Lettia,” Dr. Scott said quietly, “Catherine is the image of her mother. Whenever Lucas had one of his spells, that’s who he saw. The wife he was obsessively jealous of. Any man’s notice of her was a threat, one that enraged him. And Catherine knew that. She knew that all too well. She couldn’t look at a man, couldn’t draw her father’s attention to one. She could only act cold and forbidding, and abandon any hope of love.
“Can you imagine what that must have been like, Lettia?” Dr. Scott’s voice roughened suddenly. “Living under that kind of strain? Holding herself aloof no matter how much she wanted some hint of warmth in her life? She never complained, never even allowed herself to share the burdens with the one man who had seen beneath the coldness—and loved her. She couldn’t even walk with him in public, Lettia.”
Catherine lifted her head from Tyrone’s shoulder. Her face was as white as her blouse, the bruise and cut standing out sharply against her pallor, and her eyes were dark blue pools that seemed stark and blind. She didn’t look at anyone, and her voice was a strained thread of sound. “Please. Don’t say any more.”
Gently Dr. Scott said, “Child, they have to know. There’s no reason for you to keep it inside any longer.”
“I can t—”
“He’s dead. You have your own life now.”
There was a moment of silence while the townspeople, numbed by tragedy until then, shifted uncomfortably as they were forced to recognize their own roles in Catherine’s hell.
Catherine lifted her hands to touch Tyrone’s face, her own pale features anguished. “Marc, your beautiful ship . . . I’m so sorry. I thought I could control him. I’ve always been able to before.”
“It’s all right, Catherine. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was! I should have been strong enough to send you away—”
“I wouldn’t have gone. You know that.” He bent his head and kissed her gently, ignoring the crowd who watched.
Lettia Symington reached out suddenly, her face twisted in guilt and shame and compassion. “You poor child—”
Tyrone drew Catherine hard against him and turned a look on the older woman more savage than anything she had ever seen. “Keep your hands off her,” he said with deadly quiet.
10
“Easy lad,” Dr. Scott said gently.
The flickering light of the fire lit Tyrone’s hard face with a hellish glow, and his eyes glittered silver. “Easy? How easy has Catherine had it, Doctor?”
Lettia Symington almost shrank away from him, knuckles pressed to her lips. “We didn’t know,” she said. “We couldn’t have kno—’’
“You could have looked!” He swallowed hard. “I could have looked.”
“Don’t, Marc.” Catherine’s voice was little more than a whisper.
Tyrone gazed down at her white face for a moment, then swung her up into his arms. He felt her head fall wearily onto his shoulder, her arms go around his neck, and looked at the silent townspeople with eyes that wouldn’t easily forgive. “I’m taking her home,” he said, and turned away toward the buggy.
Silent, the crowd parted to let him pass through. He put Catherine gently into the buggy and climbed in beside her. He turned the horse south, slipped an arm around Catherine, and drove away, not looking back to watch the sea claim his ship.
He’d seen her die, and that was enough.
He held Catherine close to his side all the way back to his house. When they arrived, Reuben came out to take the horse, his face questioning. Lifting Catherine from the buggy despite her murmured protest, Tyrone said briefly, “The ship burned. Waltrip’s dead.”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Reuben said soberly. “Miss.”
Tyrone nodded, and carried Catherine into the house. He started toward the stairs, knowing she badly needed rest, sleep, but she stopped him.
>
“Marc, I want to tell you about it.”
“There’ll be time for that tomorrow, my love. You’re exhausted; you need to sleep.”
“No, please. I—I want to tell you now.”
He hesitated, met her haunted gaze, and then carried her into his study without argument. The lights still burned, and the room was warm and quiet. Tyrone put Catherine gently into a wing chair and drew a footstool forward for himself. He absently removed the pistol from his belt and set it aside, then sat down on the stool and took her hands in his. They were cold, and he gently rubbed them.
“Have you eaten since this morning?” he asked abruptly.
“No. But I couldn’t. Really,” she added when he gave her a sharp glance.
“Catherine, you don't have to do this.”
“Yes. I do.” Her head rested against the high back of the chair, and she watched him steadily. She was aware on some level that it was still early, hours before midnight; it had been the longest day of her life. But she owed this man so much—and he had a right to know it all.
“You’re hurting,” he said, gazing at her face. “The bruises?”
It had been another kind of pain, but she didn’t tell him that. “Just a little sore. Marc, he was a good father.”
Tyrone realized that she had to tell him, and squeezed her hands gently. “Was he?”
“When I was a child, he was. Always laughing, and kind. But he had a temper, and I realized later, after I got older, that he sometimes struck out at people if they hurt him, or made him angry. Just in little ways. Then.”
Tyrone watched her pale face, listened to her soft, weary voice. The mask was gone, wrenched away from her, and he thought it was gone for good. She was achingly vulnerable now.
“I don’t really know when he started to—to change. I was about five or six, I think, when he and my mother began having terrible arguments. I was too young to understand then, but he told me months ago what it had been about.”
“What was it?”
“He had done something, out of anger he said. Anger at Mother for some argument they’d had. He’d struck out blindly, without thinking, trying to hurt her. And he had. He had gone to a prostitute.”
“He told you that?”
Catherine’s lips twisted slightly. “He caught a cold a few months ago, and being ill always made him maudlin. He still felt guilty about it, and he wanted to talk.” She shrugged. “He talked to me.”
Tyrone nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak.
“I don’t know how Mother found out,” Catherine went on. “He may have told her himself. Anyway, she knew. She was bitter and hurt; he was eager to be forgiven. I suppose she did forgive him. But things began changing in the next few years. Mother became pregnant and lost the baby. A few months later she had another miscarriage. I remember she was weak and ill for a long time, and that Father was very upset.
“I heard them sometimes at night, fighting. I didn’t know what it was about. And then the fighting stopped, and I realized they weren’t sleeping in the same bedroom any longer.”
“How old were you?” Tyrone asked gently.
“Oh, ten or twelve, I suppose. Old enough to know without really understanding. I could feel the tension between them. And then, it must have been years later, the fighting started again, worse than before.”
“What was it about then?”
“Father was convinced that Mother was betraying him. That she had lovers. He was constantly suspicious, questioning anyone she met, everywhere she went, what she did. I didn’t understand it then, but since I’ve been able to piece together what was hap-pening between them.”
“Were there lovers?”
Catherine shook her head. “No. I was with Mother every day; I would have known. She denied it over and over, but he never really believed her. By the time I was sixteen I was understanding more of what I overheard between them. And I knew Mother was frightened sometimes. Frightened of him. I think I sensed, even then, that there was something horribly unnatural in his jealousy, something unreasonable and violent. I could see he was getting worse, and I didn’t understand what was happening to him.”
After a moment of silence Tyrone said, “Catherine, you’re too tired for this. Tomorrow—”
She had closed her eyes but opened them now. “No. I want to go on. I want you to understand.”
He was worried about her but nodded silently and waited. If she had to talk, he had to listen.
“When I was eighteen,” she said slowly, “Mother became ill. Terribly ill. Doctors came and went, and no one would tell me what was wrong with her. Father just looked frightened and horrified when I asked. She died ...” Catherine drew a deep breath and went on in a steady voice.
“Father was very quiet for a long time. But, after a while, he seemed to be better. He began going out again to his club, to parties. Everything seemed fine. It was almost as if those years hadn’t been real, that they’d been a nightmare.”
Tyrone was frowning a little. “You told me you’d been engaged. When was that?”
Catherine smiled wryly. “I know I gave you the impression it was when my mother was sick. I’m sorry. It was years after she died, a bit over two years ago. I'd known Jeremy all my life, as I told you. He had asked me to marry him several times, but I’d been worried about Father, uncertain about leaving him. Then Father began pressing me to marry Jeremy, and I—”
“You loved him?” Tyrone asked, looking down at her hands.
“I thought I did.”
Tyrone nodded, his face expressionless. “And then?” “There was a formal party to announce the engagement. I danced with Jeremy, and I could see Father watching us, but I didn’t think there was anything wrong. It wasn’t until later that I realized I had been wearing a gown very like the one Mother wore for her portrait.”
“What did he do?”
“That night, when the guests had gone . . .” She steadied her voice with an effort. “He started saying things to me. Terrible things. I didn’t understand at first . . . not until he called me Kate. He saw Mother when he looked at me, and he was accusing her of having a lover. It didn’t last very long; I managed to calm him down. Then he seemed to forget it, as if it had never happened. I was Catherine again, his daughter, and he talked very cheerfully about the wedding.”
She shook her head, looking at Tyrone almost pleadingly. “I didn’t think it would happen again. He’d been drinking; that could have confused him. There was no way I could have known.”
Tyrone realized then that something bad had happened, something that had ended her engagement. And that Catherine blamed herself for it. He rubbed her cold hands more briskly, trying to warm them. “No, you couldn’t have known,” he murmured. “Did he strike out at Jeremy?”
“It was a few weeks later. Jeremy came to visit, and we walked in the garden. He left after a little while, and I went into the house. Father was there, and he seemed quiet.” Catherine fell silent for a moment, then said very softly, “The message arrived hours later. There had been an accident in the streets. Jeremy’s carriage had lost a wheel, tipped over. There was a great deal of traffic in London and he was thrown into the path of an oncoming stage. He was killed.”
Tyrone’s hands tightened on hers. “It could have been an accident,” he said quietly.
“No. That’s what I thought at first. Then I looked at Father. And he was smiling.”
“Catherine, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I should have broken the engagement after that first night, when I realized Father was . . . was sick.” She sounded very tired, haunted. “But I didn't. And Jeremy died.”
She would, Tyrone knew, carry that feeling of guilt to her grave. God, no wonder she’d been so terrified here on the island, so desperate to keep their relationship secret. The miracle was that she had allowed it to happen at all.
“Catherine—”
“I didn’t know what to do.” Her voice remained soft and weary, and h
er eyes rested on his face. “He was my father, all I had left. And I was all he had.”
“Did you take him to a doctor?” Tyrone asked finally.
“He wouldn’t go, he got so angry and so upset whenever I mentioned it. So I went myself and told the doctor all about it. He—he said the best place was an asylum, that Father would probably get worse. But I couldn't do that to him, Marc. I couldn’t lock him away somewhere and forget him.”
“No, of course not.”
She drew a deep breath, steadied her voice. “I told the doctor that, asked what I could do to help Father. He said that there was another doctor, a specialist in brain disorders. This doctor, he told me, lived on a little island off the coast of America, to which he’d retired. No one knew as much as this specialist, the London doctor said.”
“So you brought your father here,” Tyrone said, understanding very well since he, too, had come to Port Elizabeth because of Dr. Scott. “It couldn’t have been easy to persuade your father to leave England.”
“I made it sound like—like an adventure. And I talked about needing to get away from memories. It took several months to get his agreement and to arrange things. When we arrived here and were building the house, I talked to Dr. Scott. He agreed to do what he could. It wasn't easy, because Father refused to see him except socially, and wouldn’t be examined. So I talked to the doctor instead, describing things that had happened over the years. He said it was like a puzzle he was trying to put together, and that every memory I could recall would be another piece.”
“Does he know why your father was sick?”
Catherine frowned faintly. “He told me months ago that he had a suspicion. He said he was going to write to some of his colleagues in London with questions for them. He was especially interested in questioning my mother’s doctors. I don't think he’s gotten any answers yet. He hasn’t said.”
After a moment Tyrone said roughly, “No wonder you were so afraid. And so determined to keep our secret.”
