Velvet Lightning (15 page)

“It’s over,” she said.

The room was very silent for a few moments. Tyrone never changed expression; his voice was level, steady. “I see. And I have nothing to say about the matter, Catherine?”

Suddenly she couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t continue to meet those oddly flat, violent eyes. And even now, even sensing his anger, she also felt the painful longing of her body for him. The slow, steady, pulsing awareness of him so near. Every beat of her heart hurt. She looked down at her hands, fought to keep her voice even. “There’s nothing to say, Tyrone. We both knew it was a temporary arrangement.”

“It may have begun that way,” he said. “But two years isn’t temporary.”

“It's over,” she repeated.

“Why?” The single word, abruptly harsh.

Catherine was silent.

“Is it because you’ve grown to hate the way I can make you feel? Is that it, Catherine? Because you want to be with me, because I’ve disrupted your neat,
unfeeling
existence?”

She endured that jab, but felt a rush of bitterness, and wished with a sudden wildness that it were true. She could barely breathe past the tightness of her throat, could hardly speak for the anguish of her own emotions. If only she didn’t feel,
couldn’t
feel! Tonelessly she said, “There’s no reason to do this. It’s over, Tyrone. Just let it end.”

He didn’t. In the same harsh voice he said, “It’s the one thing you can’t control, isn’t it, Catherine? I can make you want me with half the town watching, and you can’t stand that. So I’m to be put out of your life like a stray cat, like something too bothersome to be tolerated.”

“Please,” she murmured, feeling buffeted, caught in the storm of his eyes. How could he do that, she wondered. How could he, without moving, lash her with the violence of his voice and his eyes? She wanted to avoid meeting that turbulent gaze, afraid of giving herself away, yet she found herself casting stolen glances at him without meaning to, again and again.

“Please, what, Catherine? Please take my dismissal like a gent, tip my hat and say thank you, ma’am? Well, I can’t do that. I’m a gentleman the way you’re a lady—all and only on the surface.”

She winced, half closed her eyes. Why not, she asked herself tiredly. Why shouldn’t he think that? It was the truth, wasn’t it?

“I’m sorry,” he said roughly. “I didn't mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” she said. “And it’s true enough. Why should I cavil at it?”

“Catherine—”

“Why can’t you let it end? Just ... let it end.” She felt beaten, physically battered.

“No. I want the truth from you now. Why?”

Torn between lies and the truth, she fumbled for a reason he could accept. “It’s too much. I’m tired of the tension, tired of secrecy.”

“It doesn’t have to be secret,” he bit out tautly. “I asked you to marry me, Catherine.”

“I don’t want marriage,” she said.
I can’t have it.

 “Is it marriage you don’t want? Or is it me?”

“Don’t ask me that,” she whispered, holding on desperately to the last fragile tendrils of control. They were slipping from her grasp; she could feel herself breaking.

Tyrone laughed, a terrible sound. “So that’s part of it as well. I’m good enough for a lover, but I don't have the blue blood for a husband. Well, as you said, it’s true enough, and why should I cavil at it? I’m the mongrel offspring of an Irish parlormaid and a Greek sailor, and all that I have now I have fought for all my life.”

“Don’t.” She was aching inside, unbearably hurt that he could believe her so shallow. And she was surprised by the touch of bitter defiance in his voice, surprised that it mattered to him, that he was sensitive about his beginnings. How little she really knew about him. But it was better to hurt only his pride, she thought dimly. He would have a reason to hate her, and that would end this between them.

She didn’t want him to hate her.

“I never suspected you were like the other fine citizens of Port Elizabeth,” he went on inexorably in the same bitterly caustic voice. “But you are, aren’t you, Catherine?
Civilized
behavior is everything, ruling here like a god. Never mind the rot underneath. You’ll happily take a lowly ship’s captain for a secret lover, and then coolly throw him out when you’re done with him, like garbage.”

“Stop.” She heard the thin note in her voice, the quiver of strain. “Don’t do this.” She felt sick, dizzy, cold.

“Oh, pardon me. Pardon me for feeling, Miss Waltrip. It seems I’m lacking all the way around, doesn’t it?”

Catherine realized she was standing, knew she had to get out of there, get away from him before the cry of anguished protest in her throat could escape. But something did escape, a thread of sound like a lost thing, soft and dazed. She went blindly toward the door, intent on pushing past him.

“Catherine!” He caught her shoulders hard, held her with fingers that bit into her.

“Let me go,” she whispered, staring fixedly at his tie.

There was a moment of thick silence, and then he grasped her chin in one hand and roughly turned her face up. “Look at me,” he ordered.

Unable to resist, she did, trying to keep her eyes blank, her face still. He was pale, a muscle jerking erratically beside his hard mouth. And his eyes were a stormy gray hell, wildly glittering with savage emotion. She wondered how she had ever thought him a remote man, an unfeeling man. He felt a great deal, it seemed. Catherine tried desperately to hide her own agonized feelings, tried to hide from him the knowledge that her body was his, her heart, her soul.

Tyrone bent his head suddenly and fitted his mouth to hers. Catherine stiffened at the first touch, attempting to keep her body still, frozen. And if he had kissed her with anger, with demand, she might have been able to do it. But Tyrone didn’t kiss her that way at all.

His hard mouth was incredibly gentle, asking rather than demanding, seducing with sweetness. Almost pleading for her response. It wasn't passion, it was caring, and it broke more than her will. She felt her body sway toward his, felt her mouth open to the tender, seeking warmth of his. She was drowning, and he was a lifeline; she was dying, and he was life. Dying—

“No!” she gasped, jerking back away from him.

“You don’t hate me,” he said thickly.

“Let me—”

Tyrone was staring into her eyes, his own suddenly darkening with realization and remorse, with the certain knowledge that he had hurt her unforgivably. His hand reached up to touch her cheek, his thumb rubbing briefly; they both looked at the smudge of red that had been transferred from her flesh to his. “Dutch courage,” he murmured.

“No.”

“I was wrong,” he said in a slow, husky voice. “Everything I said was wrong. Catherine—”

She ran. Blindly, forgetting the things left forlornly in the middle of the floor, she fled the cottage . . . and him. She was vaguely aware of his horse shying nervously as she burst through the door; she heard a violent oath from Tyrone, but she didn’t stop. She ran through the woods and scarcely paused at the road before hurrying across and into her father's garden.

“Catherine!” He caught her wrist, there in the overgrown garden, swung her around to face him.

She felt sheer panic sweep over her, and a cry of alarm escaped wildly. “No!”

He didn't try to draw her into his arms, but refused to release her wrist. “Catherine, please, you have to let me apologize! The things I said were cruel. Wrong. I’m sorry. You hurt me, and I struck out without thinking—”

“You weren’t wrong!”
End it, just end it now
. She fought to lower her voice, terrified that someone might be coming along the road and hear them. “You were right, Tyrone, right about everything. I don’t want you anymore.” She made her voice hard and cold. “You were just . . . just a convenience, something I wanted and took. But no longer. I’m through with you, do you understand? Finished, as you said, like garbage.” The last came out in a whisper, and she braced herself instinctively against a rage she had earned.

But, incredibly, Tyrone wasn’t angry. He didn’t flinch from what she said to him, didn’t lash out at her because of the pain she had tried to inflict. Instead, he looked at her steadily with eyes that were clear now, a tiny frown forming between his brows. “You’ve been frightened all along,” he said slowly. “And now you’re half out of your mind with fear. For God’s sake, Catherine, tell me what you're afraid of!”

She searched despairingly for something to tell him, anything but the truth. “I’m afraid everyone will find out about us,” she got out finally in a choked voice.

He impatiently dismissed her words. “That isn’t it.”

“Yes, it is.” She tried to shore up the truth with lies. “I’m treated badly enough now; if they found out— Go away, Tyrone! Let me go, and leave me alone.”

“I can’t. You're a large part of my life, Catherine, and I can’t simply walk away.”

“You have to. I won’t see you again. It’s over.” She jerked her wrist free and turned away from him. His quiet voice stopped her two steps later.

“Catherine?”

She paused, looking back at him over her shoulder.

“It's an island,” he said. “How far can you run?”

She felt a wave of cold fear, hoped it didn’t show on her face. Turning away again, she went on toward the house with a steady stride.
He'll be gone soon. Even if he stays longer this time, he’ll be gone.
He’d go back to that larger part of his life, that part of business and work. And if there hadn’t been a woman here for him before, there soon would be.

She wanted to be glad for his sake, but all she could feel was tearing pain.

“Kate . ..”

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.