Velvet Lightning (3 page)

She smiled. “I know. But you don't have a choice.”

“I hope Jesse sees it that way,” Falcon said dryly.

2

Port Elizabeth

F
licking the thong of his whip lightly over his horse’s gleaming chestnut rump, Marcus Tyrone was conscious of an unusual impatience within himself. The horse trotted more quickly, hooves rapping sharply against the hard-packed dirt of the drive. Behind the buggy, a large and imposing house loomed among tall trees draped in Spanish moss; it was almost lost in the shadows, left insubstantial, as the horse, buggy, and man moved away from it.

The horse turned automatically north toward town as it left the drive, and Tyrone shook the reins lightly to encourage a faster pace. The buggy was well-sprung and comfortable, but he hardly noticed. He glanced to the west sometime later as they topped a rise, seeing his ship,
The Raven
, at anchor in the snug little harbor. She was a neat, fast little ship, and had, during the war, made him his fortune. She had been his first ship, bought more than ten years before with a loan from Morgan Fontaine.

The loan had been repaid in full exactly one year later.

Following the road as it curved eastward, the buggy moved on, and Tyrone lost sight of the harbor. The only town on the island had been built some distance from the harbor at the northern end of the island, an inconvenience the merchants despised; they tolerated it because the settlers on Port Elizabeth had made it clear they remembered only too well the congested port cities of England and would not repeat their forebears’ mistakes.

They were an odd sort of people to have settled here, Tyrone thought idly. Though far closer to American shores than to their own England, they considered themselves British subjects and had been known to fight about it when challenged. Tyrone, who didn’t much care whether English or American law ruled, kept his amusement to himself and got on with the islanders quite well. Regarded with suspicion when he had built his house nearly eight years before, he was now accepted. Even if they still referred to him as “that American, Captain Tyrone.”

They were, for the most part, wealthy people who had chosen to settle here, which was just as well. Port Elizabeth, named grandly for England’s Virgin Queen, hadn’t much to recommend it as a thriving center of agriculture or industry. The fishing was fair, but the soil refused to support crops, and all foodstuffs had to be imported. There was a severely limited supply of fresh water originating with a small wellspring, and any idea of mining was a dream. Lacking good soil, fresh water, and valuable mineral deposits, the settlers of Port Elizabeth had opted for civilization. And they were very good at it.

Tyrone, called a rogue by his own people, found the settlers of the island amusing in their careful surface courtesy and extreme refinement of manner. Amusing enough, at any rate, to be willing to be polite and civilized himself.

In general, he spent at least a week out of every month in Port Elizabeth, returning between visits to his shipping business based in New York City. He planned to remain considerably longer this time. He had arrived late the night before and had gone directly to his house without stopping in town. The middle-aged couple who kept house for him had greeted him without surprise, having grown accustomed to his comings and goings.

He suspected he was an enigma to them; if so, they never mentioned it. To them, as to the settlers of the island, Marc Tyrone was a wealthy businessman who kept a second home there, and who could be counted on not to disgrace himself with drunkenness or with compromising unmarried daughters. (A daughter or two had been heard to complain about that, but only amongst themselves.)

He was a tall, loose-limbed man with powerful shoulders and a way of moving that was like a big, lazy cat. He had black hair lightly silvered at the temples, a handsome face, and rather cold and impersonal gray eyes. His smile, which he rarely offered, was surprisingly charming.

A few female heads turned as his buggy swept briskly down the main and only street of the little town, and polite nods of welcome were sent his way. Tyrone returned the gestures with exact courtesy, giving only what he received and neither asking nor offering more. He stopped the buggy before the mercantile and got out, moving forward to tether his horse.

He felt again the unaccustomed flash of impatience, a touch of eagerness that was alien to him. He was, for the most part, a patient man, given to observing, to reflecting cynically, and this unusual mood surprised him. He was, he decided finally, merely tense and restless from having worked hard since his last visit. It would do him good to relax.

That settled to his satisfaction, he stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk, and promptly cannoned into a tall lady burdened with packages who was leaving the store briskly. The packages, of course, scattered wildly, and Tyrone quickly grasped her upper arms to keep them both on their feet. He could feel her stiffen instantly, and wasn’t surprised when she stepped back the moment balance was regained.

“Pardon me, Miss Waltrip,’’ he said politely, and bent to gather the packages at her feet. At her feet . . . the thought was secretly amusing to him.

She waited in silent disdain, a tall, slender woman not yet irrevocably “on the shelf” at twenty-eight, but fast approaching the status of spinster. It didn’t appear to trouble her. Nothing, in fact, appeared to trouble Miss Catherine Waltrip. The unattached men of Port Elizabeth tended to eye her warily; the women treated her with the same frigid politeness she offered them; and her charming rogue of a father often seemed her child rather than her parent when he quailed visibly before her ironic gaze.

She had dark hair worn always in a braided coronet, the milky pale complexion of old porcelain, and frosty blue eyes. Her voice was calm, her posture straight, her gaze direct and impersonal. A genuine smile might have made her beautiful, but even her meaningless public smile was rare and brief.

She wasn’t smiling now.

Tyrone got to his feet, holding her packages and inclining his head politely. “May I carry them for you, Miss Waltrip?”

“No, thank you. Sir.”

The “sir,” he thought, had definitely been tacked on as a pointed afterthought. He bore the subtle insult like a gentleman. “My pleasure,” he insisted.

With an economy of movement she reclaimed her packages, never once touching him with her neatly gloved hands. She nodded briefly in spurious courtesy and walked past him.

Tyrone turned to watch her, absently admiring the straightness of her carriage, her brisk, almost mannish stride. She went a short distance down the street and stowed her packages in the back of a buggy like his own, then climbed in with grace and without help, showing no more that a fleeting glimpse of a neatly turned ankle. She picked up the reins and moved away down the street, looking straight ahead. She would, Tyrone knew, drive to the big weathered house just outside town, where she and her father had lived for slightly more than two years.

“That woman!”

Tyrone turned back toward the store, correctly guessing that the explosive comment had been intended to gain his attention. “Good morning, Mrs. Symington,” he said cordially, greeting the self-elected guardian of manners, morals, and gossip on Port Elizabeth.

She simpered a bit, a stout, middle-aged lady, tightly corsetted and sporting an impressive hat of French ancestry. “How nice to have you back among us, Captain Tyrone. Are you staying long this time?”

“I haven’t decided, ma’am,” he said, although it was a barefaced lie; caution was the watchword around this woman.

“I'm having a small dinner party tomorrow night. If you’re free, perhaps—?”

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I don’t believe I will be. But thank you.”

She eyed his noncommittal expression and was undaunted. “Well, come if you can.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She glanced past him at the disappearing buggy and, her grievances recalled, said again, “That woman!”

Tyrone had been waiting for it. Mrs. Lettia Symington had a daughter of marriagable age, and had a habit of sweetly—and quite slanderously, he thought—discussing other young women with any unattached man. She also despised Catherine Waltrip because she had never succeeded in cutting her down to the proper size.

“Has Miss Waltrip upset you, ma’am?” he asked, wondering if anything unusual had happened in the month since his last visit to the island.

Mrs. Symington swelled perceptibly with righteous indignation. “She insulted me! She insulted my hat!”

Tyrone eyed the confection of lace, plumes, and what appeared to be at least three birds, and hid his laughter behind a grave expression. “Terribly rude of her,” he offered, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from asking what, exactly, Miss Waltrip had said about the hat.

“She’s a horrid woman,” Mrs. Symington said roundly, with none of her usual hinting. “It’s a disgrace, the way she treats that delightful father of hers. Why, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she’d done something just
terrible
back in England, and that was why she dragged him here. Poor man, he’s always longing to go back and visit, but, of course, she won’t hear of it!”

Tyrone, who thought privately that Lucas Waltrip complained a good deal too much about a great many things, had no comment to make.

And Mrs. Symington, her spleen partially vented, adjusted her hat, smiled brilliantly, and, with a maternal pat on his arm, invited him to “just drop in anytime,” before going on her way to spread more joy.

He reflected cynically that she’d be appalled if he did visit her opulent home unexpectedly because her daughter wouldn’t have time to get herself up properly for the occasion. Tyrone went inside to ask the shopkeeper, Mr. Abernathy, to increase the regular weekly shipment of groceries to his house since he was back on the island. He also ordered a dozen shirts, disregarding the fact that his own ship had likely brought them in, and talked casually for a few moments; aside from Mrs. Symington, Mr. Abernathy was the best source of gossip in town.

“Has anything interesting happened lately?” Tyrone asked.

Mr. Abernathy, a heavily built man who would have looked more at home tending bar or shoeing horses, pursed his lips in thought as he stood negligently behind the long counter.

“We had the magistrate in last week,” he offered. “Mrs. Symington accused Miss Waltrip of drowning that little dog of hers in the stream. Said it was sheer spite and nothing more. Got properly tearful about it. Half the town turned up in court.”

“And believed Mrs. Symington, no doubt,” Tyrone murmured.

“Oh, well, as to that, there was no proof, you know. And a bit hard to picture Miss Waltrip tossing the little dog to its death. Wouldn’t want to dirty her hands, I’d guess.”

Tyrone looked at him for a moment, reflecting that the townspeople had most certainly believed Mrs. Symington. They always did. He changed the subject, talked casually for a few more minutes, then lazily took his leave. He unhitched his horse and climbed into the buggy. He drove back the way he’d come, passing the small bank, the equally small hotel, a restaurant, a barbershop, two dressmakers’ shops, and the livery stable.

Leaving the town behind, he drew the whip across the chestnut’s rump and they moved on briskly. He passed the Waltrip house without a glance. Just around the bend, with the house hidden by tall trees, he drew up and sat listening for a moment. No sound. He glanced around to make certain, then turned his horse off the main road and onto a rutted track that seemed to disappear into the cool depths of the island’s inland forest. Within moments the buggy was surrounded by shade and cool.

Sometime later a small cottage appeared suddenly, as if it had grown from the forest. It had a thatched roof, two windows in front, a solid wooden door, and looked to contain perhaps two rooms. Tyrone halted the horse and climbed out of the buggy. The chestnut, having been there before, rested a hind leg and swished his tail lazily, preparing to doze. Tyrone walked to the front door, absently noticing that bright blue curtains hung gaily in the window. They were new. He opened the door without knocking and went in.

“You’re late,” she said, turning to greet him.

“You’re a shrew,” he retorted, and pulled her into his arms.

Catherine Waltrip instantly melted against him, her arms sliding up around his neck, her lips warmly responsive. He held her tightly against him. His hands roamed up her slender back until they reached her hair. Pins scattered about them, and her waist-length dark hair fell like silk through his fingers.

“You always do that,” she murmured, smiling.

“Do what?” He was exploring her throat. It was soft, fragrant, immensely tempting. He felt the laugh in her throat as well as heard it, and thought vaguely that Mrs. Symington would have been amazed. The whole town would have been amazed.

She was pushing his coat off his shoulders, coping familiarly with his tie, with buttons. He was aware of their urgency, hers as well as his; it was always like this when he first came back to the island. Clothing lay where it fell, discarded carelessly. She would shake her head about that later.