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  “Captain. Will you be needing the buggy again today, sir?”

  “No. Have it ready for me tomorrow afternoon, if you will, Reuben.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reuben, half of the couple that took care of Tyrone’s house and grounds, touched his forehead in a half-forgotten military salute and went to lead the horse around to the stables.

  Reuben’s wife, Sarah, was known to be plagued by stiffening in her joints, and was often visited by Dr. Scott. No one in town was surprised or curious about his visits. In fact, many had spoken kindly of Tyrone's having sent for the doctor from time to time. Such a nice man, to care like that. And nice to have allowed Sarah’s sister to stay as well; no one in town knew that the “sister” was actually a nurse and no kin to Sarah.

  Tyrone went inside. The house had been built on noble lines, with large rooms and high ceilings. The furnishings were sparse but all good pieces, which gave the house a spare, clean look. Tyrone liked space around him, openness. There was evidence that this was more a home to him than the apartment he kept in New York: artwork from Europe and the Far East, rugs and tapestries, books everywhere.

  He didn’t pause downstairs but went directly up the curving staircase to the second floor, where his bedroom was located, bypassed it, and climbed on up to the third floor. This part of the house was quiet, most of the rooms shut off and furniture under dust covers. At the end of the long hallway, however, were several rooms that were regularly used. The doors of two of them were open. A third door was also open and Tyrone entered.

  He saw first the nurse, Mrs. Tully, a widow of undetermined years with gray hair and a kind face. She was sitting by the window with her knitting, and looked up with a smile when he came in. “Captain.”

  “How is he?” Tyrone asked, keeping his voice low and glancing toward a room off to the right of this pleasant sitting room.

  “Well enough,” she answered placidly. “A bit excited over your having come home. He’s got the gifts you left for him this morning. I told him you’d be sure to come and see him.”

  Nodding his thanks, Tyrone went quietly into the other room. He saw a clutter of picture books and toys scattered over the rug. Only toy soldiers were missing from the myriad collection; the man didn’t like soldiers, they upset him. A fire was burning in the hearth because the man was always cold now. There were comfortable overstuffed chairs, a divan, a scarred old oak desk covered with drawings in charcoal. The man, sitting among the clutter on the floor, lurched to his feet, a big grin on his face.

  “Marc!”

  “Good evening,” Tyrone said cheerfully.

  “Tully said you’d come and see me. And the presents! You always bring good presents.”

  He was a tall, shambling man, dressed warmly in a fisherman’s sweater and heavy trousers. Thick lace-up boots were on his exceptionally large feet. His hands were knobby and awkward, hands now holding an exquisitely detailed wooden coach-and- four.

  “Will you read to me?” he asked eagerly.

  “Of course I will. Pick out a book.” Tyrone looked at him with a sadness that was no longer understood or even noticed by the man. He accepted the storybook held out to him and settled into a chair with it, preparing to read aloud an old and much-favored story.

  Gravely and patiently he began to read. He spoke in a slow rhythm because the man had difficulty in understanding now. There had come a point in the not too distant past when the man had seen and realized what he was losing, what he would become; it had been mercifully brief.

  Unusual, Dr. Scott had said clinically.

  Tragic, Tyrone had replied without emotion.

  He lifted his gaze from the book now and then, his voice going on steadily because he knew the story word for word. He no longer had to pay attention. So he looked into guileless eyes that had already begun to wander. He wouldn’t finish reading the story. He never did now.

  But Tyrone read on, patiently, to the great shambling childlike wreck of a man.

  3

  Catherine Waltrip slipped back into her fathers house without incident. She heard male laughter from the closed study but ignored it. There were no servants to see her as she made her way to the washroom— a woman came in daily but left shortly after noon. Catherine kept house for her father, and even her detractors in town admitted grudgingly that she did it well.

  She left the bundled sheets in the washroom and then went into her own room to check her appearance since there was no mirror in the cottage. Perhaps she could . . .

  She stopped the thought before it could fully form. No. No mirror for the cottage. She’d been foolish in hanging curtains in the windows, foolish in putting a quilt on the bed. Tyrone hadn’t commented on either. She hadn’t expected him to.

  A glance in her mirror showed her that she was neat, calm. On the surface she was the frosty Miss Waltrip that the members of the community of Port Elizabeth knew well. And if she herself was conscious, between her thighs, of the damp reminder of a lover's visit, then no one else could have guessed.

  She saw her eyes go cloudy in the mirror and turned away abruptly.

  Enough of this. Enough.

  She went back downstairs, unexpectedly encountering her father in the hall. Lucas Waltrip was a bluff, genial man of great charm. He was her height, which made him a medium-sized man—or would have been if his frame hadn't been padded comfortably. He had iron-gray hair and brilliant blue eyes, and bore no resemblance whatsoever to his daughter ... his daughter, who now looked pointedly at the bottle in his hand.

  “Hello, Father,” she said.

  He didn’t try to hide the bottle; she had sharp eyes. “Just a drop or two, Catherine,” he wheedled gaily. “Just to wet our throats—”

  She plucked the bottle from his hand. “No, Father. Where did this come from?”

  His lips firmed in mulish determination, the gaiety instantly gone. “If I want to bring liquor into this house, I'll do it! And if you weren’t so busy poking into my affairs instead of finding yourself a husband like any decent girl, you wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Catherine kept her voice soft and calm. “I’ll have dinner ready in an hour, Father, and you can have a glass of that wine you enjoy so much. The game should be over now anyway. It is, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he admitted grudgingly, calming somewhat. “You should tell your guests good-bye, then.”

  “All right, Catherine.” He sighed suddenly and turned away toward his study, shoulders slumping.

  The meekness wouldn’t last, she knew. Something would set him off again, and he’d rampage and roar, and she’d have her hands full until he settled down. She looked at the bottle in her hand, lips twisting, and went away to pour it down the kitchen drain. She remained there to prepare dinner, working quickly and blanking her mind so that she wouldn’t think. It had gotten easier with practice, and she had practiced a great deal.

  But something was wrong. Something had changed. Her mind kept returning of its own volition to a secret cottage in the woods, slipping away there before she could stop it. And even the mental visits made her body ache and long, made the breath catch in her throat and her heart pound.

  Enough.

  She ate at the polished rectangular table with her father, responding to his occasional remarks with little attention. She hardly tasted the food she had prepared.

  “The Raven’s back, I noticed.”

  “Yes, Father. I saw it too.”

  “Her, Catherine. You saw her. A ship's always female.”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  Tyrone. He was the difference. Something had changed between them. He had changed since his last visit. Even, she realized, before his last visit. He had been a remote man for as long as she’d known him, even to a certain degree in bed. A highly sensual man but able to set aside his own needs instantly if something attracted the interest of his keen mind. Until very recently he hadn’t done that. Until recently his mind hadn’t concerned itself overmuch with the woman in his secret
bed. Theirs had been a purely physical relationship, one of simple convenience for them both. Tyrone had found a woman to lie with him without ties or demands, and she—

  “I suppose the captain will be staying his usual week,” her father commented casually.

  “I suppose.”

  “You could do worse than Tyrone, Catherine. He’s a rich man. A cold bastard, but then—” He broke off, looking guilty.

  But then, so are you, she finished in her mind. Not a bastard, of course, but cold. Even her father thought so. “I have no interest in marrying, Father.”

  “You need a man, Catherine.” Lucas spoke quickly, trying to smooth away his cruel words of moments before. “Someone to take care of you when I’m gone.” Even he couldn’t quite put conviction into the words; he believed too strongly that his daughter needed no one to take care of her.

  She glanced up at him, then returned her attention to her plate. “I’ll be fine,” she said colorlessly.

  Lucas grunted and fell silent.

  Catherine ate without tasting the food. Tyrone, she thought, had been satisfied with a bed partner, asking nothing more. And she had been satisfied. More than satisfied. It hadn’t been easy for her to set aside the morals her mother had long ago instilled in her, but she had recognized that if she had not accepted Tyrone’s attentions, she would certainly have never known what it was like to lie in a man’s arms and feel his passion. Her own unexpected passion.

  Faced with the need he evoked and her own impossible situation, Catherine had chosen, eyes wide open, to make herself a whore.

  He didn’t treat her that way, of course. He treated her as a man might, she imagined, treat a mistress. Except that she had made it clear she would accept nothing from him, not money or gifts. For the rest, he respected her insistence on secrecy, taking pains never to mar her reputation. He was never cruel to her, never insulting. He made love to her with sensitivity and skill, never putting his own pleasure above hers.

  He had for these past two years been a steady part of her life. He would appear in Port Elizabeth, his ship anchored in the harbor and usually loaded with supplies and merchandise for the town. He would remain for a few days or a week, meeting her several times at the cottage, occasionally in public. And then he would be gone again, usually without good-byes.

  “Catherine, Lettia has invited me to a dinner party tomorrow night. I accepted.”

  She looked up slowly as her father made the defiant statement. His face was mulish. “I see. Father, Dr. Scott said that you should rest more—”

  “The hell with Scott. Man’s a goddamned quack. Lettia sets a fine table, Catherine, and I’m going.”

  Well, then she would go too, though she hadn't been invited. It was just one of the things she forced herself to do, facing Lettia Symington’s stiff scorn, intruding where she wasn't wanted. She didn’t look forward to it.

  “I'm going,” Lucas repeated in a rising voice.

  “All right,” Catherine said calmly. “That’s fine, Father.”

  He subsided, muttering to himself.

  She hoped Tyrone wouldn’t be at the dinner party. It was doubtful that he would be. He generally took care to avoid Lettia’s matchmaking snares. Still, he occasionally appeared at a reception or dinner party, especially if he knew she would be attending. And that was dangerous.

  He was looking at her differently now, she realized. It was obvious that he had for some reason grown discontented with their relationship. He was a highly perceptive man, a man given to observing those around him with unusual clarity; if he had for some reason become interested in the part of herself she withheld from him, then he wouldn’t stop until he knew it all.

  Catherine felt her throat close up, felt panic stir in her mind.

  “You aren’t eating, Catherine. Do you feel unwell?”

  “I’m fine, Father. Quite all right.’’

  Something flashed across his brilliant blue eyes, something like disappointment. He was half hoping, she knew, that she wouldn’t feel well enough to accompany him to Lettia’s dinner party. He always hoped he could go alone, and he would be unusually affectionate toward her both to hide his guilt and to convince her that there really was no need for her to accompany him.

  They both knew she would go.

  “You should have an early night, Catherine,” he said now, persuasively.

  “Yes. Perhaps I will.”

  “It will do you good. You're pale.”

  “Yes. All right.”

  Satisfied, he returned to the meal, sipping the wine she allowed him. One glass. Only one glass.

  Catherine pushed the food around on her own plate, trying to fight the dread she felt, trying not to feel at all. But she couldn’t stop feeling now. She had forced herself to be content with her life, to avoid asking for more. But the ache that was longing tormented her more with every day that passed.

  Tyrone. Damn him.

  He was staying longer this time. Looking at her in a new way, with a new intensity. He would see more, see things she didn’t want him to see. As an occasional lover he had been kept apart from the rest of her life, kept separate. Kept safe.

  “I’ll have another glass,” her father said suddenly, truculently.

  Catherine looked at him for a moment, then murmured, “I’ll pour it for you, Father.” She rose and went around to get his glass, then stepped to the sideboard, where a bottle of wine stood open; she would, as always, return it to the kitchen after dinner, hide it away where he couldn’t easily find it. She glanced back once to see a glimpse of her father’s satisfied expression. He thought he had won a point. Fine. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her skirt and smoothly pulled out a small bottle. Quickly, making certain Lucas didn’t see, she poured a splash of liquid into the wineglass and then capped the bottle and returned it to her pocket. Within seconds wine had been poured to join the liquid, and she stirred it quickly with one finger.

  She took the glass back to her father.

  “Thank you, Catherine,” he said genially.

  “You’re welcome, Father.” She returned to her chair, wondering tiredly how long she could keep from him the knowledge that she had been systematically drugging him for months.

  “Catherine.”

  She halted on the sidewalk but concentrated on pulling on her gloves, keeping her expression icily aloof. It was early the following afternoon, and she had had a wakeful, restless night. A glance around beneath her lashes had shown her that the street was deserted, but she knew only too well the interest that would be kindled if she were seen talking to Marc Tyrone for no apparent reason.

  For the first time, that consideration seemed to have no power to sway him. He stood squarely before her, tall and powerful, innate danger hidden in the depths of his impersonal gray eyes—except that now they weren’t impersonal. Now they were intent, almost, she thought dimly, disturbed.

  “Not here,” she whispered, conscious, as always, of the pulse of awareness he could bring to life with no more than his presence.

  He ignored that but kept his voice low. “Catherine, why did you go to see Dr. Scott this morning?”

  She felt a jolt, and tried not to let it show. After a moment she said calmly, “Father has a touch of the gout. I wanted to consult with the doctor about the advisibility of his drinking.”

  “That was all?”

  “Of course.” She gave him a veiled glance. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I was just riding by. Exercising one of the horses.” He sounded as though he might be irritated with her. “If it was such an innocent visit, why did you go to see Scott at his house? He’s in his office here in town most days.”

  Catherine smoothed the fabric over her fingers, fixing all her attention on the task. Just the sound of his voice . . . She could feel her body react to him, feel her heart pound, her breath quicken. She fought the sensations, knowing it wouldn’t do any any good. “We live next door. It was easier to walk to his house. I must go now.”

&
nbsp; “No.” He glanced around them. “No one’s watching.”

  “Someone’s always watching.” She made up her mind suddenly, even though she had a feeling her words would prolong this dangerous meeting, even though she didn’t want to say them. “I can’t come today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Why not today?” he asked sharply.

  Catherine raised her eyes and let him see anger at being pressed, at being questioned, even though what she felt was desperation. “Not today.”

  “Catherine—”

  “Excuse me,” she said abruptly, and stepped past him before he could stop her. She felt his gaze on her all the way down the street but didn’t hesitate or stop until she reached her buggy. She climbed in, and, looking neither left nor right, she drove out of town.

  She didn’t start to shake until she was unhitching the horse at her father’s stable behind the house. Her fingers became all thumbs, and she leaned her forehead against the patient horse’s neck for a moment. She didn’t cry. She thought that she might have forgotten how. After a moment she finished unhitching and caring for the horse. Then she went to the house.

  She got through the remainder of the afternoon almost mechanically. Her father remained in his study until late, reading. When he finally emerged, the look he gave her was questioning.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll—”

  “I’ll be dressed and ready by the time you are, Father,” she said calmly.

  Lucas made a faint grimace but turned and went upstairs, his back stiff. She watched after him for a moment, then sighed and climbed to her own room.

  Lettia Symington’s dinner parties were an excuse for guests to wear their best finery, and Catherine kept that in mind as she quickly selected a gown and began getting ready. She usually chose to wear unrevealing garments, and evening social events were a distinct problem for her since ladies' evening gowns were almost always designed to display the charms of shoulders and bosoms. A new seamstress had come recently to Port Elizabeth, so that now there were two dressmakers on the island. Catherine had decided to have the new seamstress make several gowns for her for these occasions. In the meantime, however, she could do only her best.