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  Oh, God, how she had considered it . . .

  “Catherine?”

  In a deadened voice she said, “My father wasn’t much older than I am now when he . . . when he began to get sick. There’s a chance—Marc, it could happen to me. I could go mad one day.”

  Tyrone pulled her into his arms suddenly, holding her tightly against him. Her answer had occurred to him in the cold dawn hours while she slept; it was the only thing that made sense. He had thought of her living with a lunatic, protecting him as best she could. And knowing, always knowing and dreading that it could happen to her.

  “I’ll risk it,” he said huskily into her soft hair. “I love you, Catherine. I want you to be my wife.”

  “No. I won’t be a burden.” But her arms went around his waist as if she couldn’t help herself.

  “You could never be a burden to me.” He made her look at him, framing her face in his hands. “The only burden would be not having you in my life.”

  “I—”

  “Catherine.” His voice was steady, and he held her darkened eyes with his own. “You told me something in the night. Was it true?”

  She felt the hot pressure of tears, and thought distantly how odd it was that after years of not being able to cry, now she couldn’t seem to stop. And she couldn’t lie to him. “Yes. I—I fell in love with you that day by the stream. When you smiled at me.”

  He bent his head and kissed her gently. “Then nothing else matters.”

  “No, Marc, I can’t.” It was so hard to protest what she wanted with all her heart, and her voice broke.

  “Yes, you can. And will.” He might have said something else, but a soft knock at the door interrupted them. He hugged her tightly, then went over to see who it was.

  “Dr. Scott’s downstairs,” Sarah told him. “He says it’s very important that he talk to you and Miss Waltrip.”

  “All right. Tell him we’ll be down in a few minutes.” Sarah nodded and went away.

  Tyrone came back to Catherine. Calmly he said, “We’ll have to get dressed and go talk to him, I suppose.”

  “Marc—”

  “It’s a pity though. You look very fetching in my shirt. However, since I don’t intend that anyone but me should enjoy the sight ...”

  She felt a ridiculous impulse to laugh despite everything. Since it had honestly not occurred to her that he would still want to marry her after learning the whole truth, she was at something of a loss. “Marc, you can’t want to marry me!”

  “I will marry you,” he said, “by Friday.” He was getting a clean shirt out of the wardrobe, and paused in the act to send her a very calm look of utter determination. He smiled gently. “At the latest.”

  She started automatically to unbutton the shirt she wore. “It’s impossible, you must see that.” Her voice sounded weak to her own ears, and she thought again that it was too difficult, protesting what she wanted.

  What she wanted with everything inside her.

  “On the contrary, it's quite possible.” He shrugged into his shirt as she shrugged out of hers, and he paused a moment to enjoy the sight of her. “You must heal fast,” he said absently. “The bruises are already fading. By the way, have I told you lately how beautiful you are?”

  Catherine pulled her shift over her head and gave him a look that was a bewildering mixture of frustration, pain, laughter, and pleasure. She didn’t know what she was feeling, and it was very unsettling. He simply wasn't reacting to this the way she had ex-pected him to, and having prepared herself as much as possible for tearing pain, she was somewhat adrift. “Don’t say that, dammit, I’m trying to—”

  “What you’re trying to do, my darling Catherine, is useless.” He buttoned his shirt, tucked in the tail. “Do I need a coat for the doctor? No, I don’t think so.”

  “You won’t listen to me!” She was half laughing and half crying.

  Tyrone lifted her chin with one finger and kissed her lightly, then began helpfully buttoning the cuffs of her blouse. “No, I won’t. I learned a very long time ago how to fight for what I want.”

  Abruptly bemused, she said, “Are you going to keep dressing and undressing me?”

  He grinned down at her. “I like it. No, don’t braid your hair— it’s beautiful just the way it is. I may let you put it up for parties, but nothing else.”

  She eyed him somewhat warily. “You’ve gotten very bossy all of a sudden.”

  “It’s your own fault, and you’ll have to take the awful consequences from now on,” he said to her in a very polite voice.

  “The consequences of what?”

  “I believe it’s called the pendulum effect.” He looked thoughtful. “The pendulum swang one way when you wouldn’t let me take care of you for so long; now it’s swinging drastically the other way since I can.”

  Catherine shook off fascination, realizing they’d gotten off on a tangent. “Marc, I can’t marry you!”

  “Of course you can, darling.”

  11

  A quarter of an hour later, when she walked beside him down the wide stairs to talk to Dr. Scott, Catherine had stopped protesting. She felt very peculiar, caught somewhere between giddy happiness and echoes of pain and fear. She couldn’t forget the threat hanging over her head, but she loved Marc too much to be able to fight against his determination to marry her.

  If this was a dream, she never wanted to wake up.

  Dr. Scott was pacing restlessly in the study when they came through the doorway, and turned to look intently at them both.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” Tyrone said calmly.

  Dr. Scott’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Good morning.” His gaze moved to Catherine’s face, no longer so pale, and wearing a bemused little smile.

  “You wanted to talk to us?” Tyrone asked, guiding Catherine to the long couch and waiting for the doctor to take a chair before he sat.

  Dryly Dr. Scott said, “You’ll forgive the intrusion, I think. Am I correct in assuming, by the way, that you’ve persuaded Miss Catherine to marry you?”

  “Certainly I have.” Tyrone smiled suddenly. “I had the devil’s own work of it though.”

  “I can imagine.” Dr. Scott sobered then and looked very gravely at Catherine. “You don’t have to be afraid of going mad, child,” he said firmly.

  In the darkness of her eyes a light stirred, and she glanced at Tyrone before looking back at the doctor. “I don’t?” Her voice trembled, revealing how afraid she was to hope.

  “You knew I’d written to colleagues in London?” He waited for her nod, then went on. “The packet from England came in this morning, and the answers we wanted as well.”

  “What are the answers?” Tyrone asked. The cold fear for her that he hadn’t allowed her to see was beginning to ease.

  “Confirmation from the doctors who treated Catherine’s mother, and a bit of research into Lucas’s family, particularly his parents. They died sane, by the way, and of natural causes. No history of brain disorder. There was only one answer left, only one possibility given the facts. Syphilis,” Dr. Scott said. “It’s what drove Lucas mad, and it’s what killed his wife.”

  Tyrone, who had seen some of the ravages of the disease in different parts of the world, took Catherine’s hand and looked steadily at the doctor. “Is she in any danger?”

  “No. When I realized what it must have been, my major question was, of course, when he could have contracted the disease. Lucas wouldn’t talk to me about it, so I was dependent on Catherine's memories of the years before her mother died. There are so many forms of madness, you see, and I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t something he was born with, something that developed slowly over his entire life. But, since Catherine’s mother had died of what was clearly a terrible illness and one her father seemed guilt- ridden about, I had to consider the possibility that he blamed himself for what killed her.”

  “Father said that.” Catherine’s voice was soft. “When he was ill with that cold. He said he’d killed her.”r />
  Gently Dr Scott said, “He did, child. I’m sorry. If it's any comfort, he had no way of knowing it would happen.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Tyrone asked.

  “Yes. It fits the pattern perfectly. Lucas contracted the disease from the prostitute he went to when Catherine was a child. A few weeks, perhaps a couple of months later, he became ill. Catherine remembered. Her mother mentioned a slight rash, said that her father was feverish. Then it passed gradually. At some point then or during the following years, he gave the disease to his wife. She suffered two miscarriages, the second of which strongly affected her health. Another sign.”

  “The arguments,” Catherine said. “Their fighting.”

  Dr. Scott nodded. “One of her doctors remembers suggesting to her that she was infected with syphilis. She knew she could have gotten it only from him. His single lapse of fidelity cost them both a great deal.”

  “And Catherine,” Tyrone said.

  The doctor, watching Catherine's face, nodded. “And Catherine. But you don’t have to be afraid any longer, child. Your parents’ disease never infected you.”

  She drew a deep breath, feeling a tremendous weight slide from her shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “Then, I can—” She stole a glance at Tyrone.

  Scott chuckled quietly. “You can marry this man, certainly. Not that I imagine he would have taken no for an answer in any case. And you can have no fear of harming any child the two of you may have.”

  Tyrone swore suddenly, realizing. “So that was it!”

  Ridiculously, Catherine found herself blushing. Idiotic, she thought, since she'd never blushed at anything Tyrone had said or done. And God knew she had never been able to afford embarrassment around the doctor.

  Scott was chuckling again. “That was it,” he said. “If it bothered you that Catherine confided in me to the extent of learning how to prevent a pregnancy, now you know why. It wasn’t because of moral shame, but out of very real fear.”

  Ignoring her hot face, Catherine said to the doctor, “You weren’t supposed to know who I was seeing though.”

  Wryly he said, “I’ve spent my entire life observing people, my dear. The two of you were very good at hiding your feelings. I’ll give you that; all I had to go on was a hunch. Until recently, at any rate, when the captain began rather obviously wearing his heart on his sleeve.”

  Unabashed by the comment, Tyrone smiled crookedly. “You’re very good at keeping secrets,” he told the doctor dryly, thinking of all Dr. Scott could have told him about Catherine.

  “You should know.” Dr. Scott looked suddenly at Catherine, then lifted a brow at Tyrone.

  “No, she doesn’t know about your other patient yet. It’s time she did, however. Since you’re here, why don’t you go up and see him?”

  “I’ll do that.” Dr. Scott rose to his feet, waving Tyrone back when the younger man would have stood. “I think you two have things to discuss. I’ll say goodbye on my way out.” He left the room, heading for the stairs.

  Tyrone lifted Catherine’s hand to his lips and said huskily, “Another risk you took for me. I was a blind, selfish bastard, Catherine.”

  “You couldn’t have known. I made sure of that.” Her smile was gentle.

  He shook his head. “I deserve everything I felt when you told me so flatly that there wouldn’t be a child.”

  She looked at him searchingly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Marc. You caught me off guard asking about it.”

  “All I could think in that moment was that you must have really hated the way I could make you feel. You were so damned determined there wouldn’t be any ties between us.”

  She heard his voice in her mind suddenly, remembering what he had said to her then. God, don't look like that! You can’t hate it that much, what I make you feel. You can’t hate it that much, Catherine!

  Her arms went up around his neck, and she pressed herself close to him. “What I hated,” she said unsteadily, “was that I couldn't love you the way I wanted to. I never hated you, Marc, and I never hated the way you made me feel.”

  Tyrone's arms held her tightly, until she drew back abruptly with a startled sound. “What?” he asked, smoothing a strand of dark hair from her face.

  She stared at him, then smiled a bit hesitantly. “Well, it would be a miracle after . . . after everything that happened later, but there’s a chance—Marc, when I left the ship yesterday, I had a lot on my mind.”

  “I remember,” he said dryly.

  “Yes. I went back to the house and I didn’t—well, I didn’t do what I always do after we’ve been together. So it’s just possible . . .”

  He slowly began to smile. “In that sultan’s bed of mine?”

  “Oh, I hope so!” she said.

  Tyrone kissed her. “So do I, my sweet.”

  They sat that way in peaceful silence for a few moments, and then Catherine lifted her head from his shoulder. “You said that Dr. Scott had another patient? Upstairs?”

  “Those secret dark rooms we talked about yesterday,” he said quietly. “I have them too, remember.”

  She remembered something else then. “The man you said was on his way here with questions?’’

  “Yes. And the answer is upstairs. I’ll take you up to meet him later this afternoon. He’ll be tired after Dr. Scott sees him, and he’ll need to rest for a while.”

  “I wanted to ask you then,” she said. “But there were so many secrets of my own, it didn’t seem right to ask about yours.”

  “I know. It’s all right.” He smiled at her. “Everything’s all right now.” And if he thought of the determined man with questions still to be faced, he pushed that into the back of his mind.

  Dr. Scott left sometime later with a brief statement to Tyrone. “It won’t be long now. Tonight, perhaps.”

  Catherine agreed to allow Sarah and Reuben to close up the house she had shared with her father, and bring her what she needed, partly because she knew Tyrone would go with her if she insisted on doing it herself; she didn’t want him to have to look at a harbor empty of his Raven, or, worse, see the charred remains of a mast jutting up out of the water. There would be time for that painful sight later.

  They spent the early afternoon quietly, never more than an arm's reach apart. With so much behind them, and so much pain too recent in their memories, it was a time of peace rather than laughter. The only wryly humorous moment came when Sarah and Reuben returned from their errand bearing a gift.

  From Mrs. Symington.

  Tyrone was strongly inclined to dispatch the tremendous basket of fruit immediately back to its sender with a blistering note, but Catherine pointed out gravely that it had been sent to her rather than to him.

  “She’s feeling guilty, and she should be,” Tyrone said. “Let her suffer awhile.”

  Catherine smiled. “She—all of them—treated me the way I treated them. Coldly. I won’t say it didn’t hurt, but I certainly can't blame them.”

  “I can.”

  “Marc.”

  His jaw hardened stubbornly. “If I speak a civil word to any of them, it’ll be a miracle!”

  “If you snap at the vicar,” she said, “he won’t marry us.”

  “Then I’ll—” Tyrone stopped, realizing. “Hell. The place is a damned island.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Dr. Scott said the packet had already left. And sometimes it's months between them. If you go around being uncivil to everyone, we're not going to have a very easy time of it.”

  He frowned at her.

  “Make peace,” she suggested. “It’s the best way.”

  “So I don’t send the fruit back?” he asked wryly.

  “No. And I write a thank-you note to Lettia.”

  Tyrone sighed. “I hope you’re with me the next time I see her—for her sake. You can keep me from choking her.”

  Catherine laughed and went to write the note.

  Later that afternoon Tyrone took Catherine ups
tairs to meet Dr. Scott’s “other patient.” He hadn’t explained anything to her. And, once she saw, he didn’t have to.

  Not really.

  The bedroom was dimly lighted, since a single lamp burned by the bed and the curtains were drawn. There was a fire in the hearth, and the small room was very warm, but there were many thick blankets and quilts on the bed. All around, on shelves and scattered on the floor, was a myriad of toys and games and storybooks. Childish drawings in chalk and charcoal were pinned to the walls.

  Tyrone quietly introduced Catherine to Mrs. Tully, who then folded up her knitting and left the bedroom. He guided Catherine to sit in a chair by the bed, and spoke softly and gently to the man who had opened his eyes to watch them.

  “I’ve brought someone to meet you. This is Catherine.”

  He didn’t say the man's name. He didn’t have to.

  Catherine accepted the big, knobby hand that was held shakily out to her, holding it for a moment in both hers. She felt her throat close up, and smiled at the gaunt face.

  “You’re pretty,” he murmured in a weak voice, childlike eyes fixed on her face.

  “Why, thank you.” Her voice was gentle, hushed.

  The man’s eyes wandered to Tyrone where he stood behind Catherine’s chair, and a smile curved his lips. “Marc thinks so too.”

  “You’re both very kind.” Catherine tucked his big hand back underneath the covers because she could feel it was getting cold. “Would you like me to read to you?” she asked, seeing the book lying nearby on the nightstand.

  His eyes brightened “Yes, please.”

  So Catherine picked up the book and read to the man in the bed. Her voice was soft and slow, and seemed to please the man. His smile remained even after his eyes had gradually closed and he slipped easily into sleep. Catherine went on reading quietly until the story was finished, and then laid the book aside, knowing it wouldn't be read to the man again. It was clear that he was failing fast.

  She sat for a moment in silence, gazing at the man and conscious of Marc’s presence behind her chair. It made sense now, she thought—why he had come here; why he had built a home on this remote island and chosen the most isolated spot on it for the house; his polite but firm warnings against casual visitors; his regular visits over the years and long before she had met him.