Read Online To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 by Peter Watt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Watt
Ads: Link
The sheet fell away revealing the swell of her breasts under her silk nightdress. Patrick felt a yearning as he gazed upon his wife. He would wake her with gentle caresses and they would make love in the early hours of the morning as they once had.
Sliding his hand under the sheet, he found the hem of the long nightdress. Carefully moving his hand along the contour between her legs, he leant forward and gently kissed her exposed throat. As his hand made its way softly along the inside of her thighs his tongue traced a silky path to her lips. As Catherine began to react to his caress, Patrickexperienced a powerful feeling of overwhelming passion for the first time in many months. He would ask no questions. He would only accept that the love he knew she must have for him was somehow temporarily lost in her war.
Catherine’s eyes were now open and she stared at him in confusion as his lips covered hers. His hand was between her legs and his fingers gently probed.
‘Don’t,’ she pleaded desperately as she became fully awake.
Patrick suddenly realised why his wife had attempted to twist away from him. The wetness his fingers had discovered was unmistakable and he recoiled in shock.
‘Who was it?’ he snarled as he stood back from the bed, his overwhelming feelings of passion shattered as surely as if he had been hit with a bullet in the spine. A savageness that had long been dormant in him fought with what remnants of love he felt for his wife.
‘It does not matter,’ she replied as she snatched the sheet up, as if to shield her body from the fury in his eyes. She had never before seen the normally gentle man in such a deadly mood and she was afraid. The room seemed to be electric with a mixture of betrayal and pain. ‘What matters is that I cannot live with you any longer, Patrick.’
He stood in the shadows of the room, his shoulders slumped as if he had fought a fight and been beaten. ‘Do I know him?’ he finally hissed in a low and deadly tone.
Catherine could now see that the man she had married was in control of his passion, but theknowledge caused her a new wave of terror as memories returned to her. She had once heard stories of such control from Arthur Thorncroft. A drunk Arthur told of her husband surviving in the Sudanese desert by raiding dervish camps at night and cutting the throats of the nomadic bedouin he encountered. Arthur’s tales were recounted with something like pride for the man she knew he idolised, and it had been almost impossible for her to understand until now what kind of man could so cold bloodedly kill another in such an intimate manner.
Now facing her husband’s steely self-control, Catherine knew that Patrick’s emotion was directed not at her but at the man who had taken her from him. She feared for her lover’s life. But for Patrick to turn and walk out of the bedroom without another word and without even a desire to know why she had betrayed him was even worse.
Alone in the bed, she sat shaking uncontrollably. It was never meant to happen this way, she thought. She never meant to hurt him. But deep down a tiny voice laughed at her denial. What else could she expect? Her husband was, after all, the son of Michael Duffy, and the blood ran hot in his veins.
Catherine sobbed. Something had gone terribly wrong. Had she not only that afternoon gone to tell Brett that she could not go to Ireland with him? And in doing so, had she not made the decision to return to her husband and attempt to rediscover that which had once been so wonderful between them?
But the suave English capitalist had wooed her to his bed one time too many. The little harm shethought it could do had instead brought possibly the greatest disaster of her life. What chance she had to forget the past few weeks had walked out the door and she was left with just one option.
SEVEN
M atthew Tracy and Saul Rosenblum stepped ashore in Brisbane from a coastal steamer and hoisted their swags on their shoulders.
Sliding his hand under the sheet, he found the hem of the long nightdress. Carefully moving his hand along the contour between her legs, he leant forward and gently kissed her exposed throat. As his hand made its way softly along the inside of her thighs his tongue traced a silky path to her lips. As Catherine began to react to his caress, Patrickexperienced a powerful feeling of overwhelming passion for the first time in many months. He would ask no questions. He would only accept that the love he knew she must have for him was somehow temporarily lost in her war.
Catherine’s eyes were now open and she stared at him in confusion as his lips covered hers. His hand was between her legs and his fingers gently probed.
‘Don’t,’ she pleaded desperately as she became fully awake.
Patrick suddenly realised why his wife had attempted to twist away from him. The wetness his fingers had discovered was unmistakable and he recoiled in shock.
‘Who was it?’ he snarled as he stood back from the bed, his overwhelming feelings of passion shattered as surely as if he had been hit with a bullet in the spine. A savageness that had long been dormant in him fought with what remnants of love he felt for his wife.
‘It does not matter,’ she replied as she snatched the sheet up, as if to shield her body from the fury in his eyes. She had never before seen the normally gentle man in such a deadly mood and she was afraid. The room seemed to be electric with a mixture of betrayal and pain. ‘What matters is that I cannot live with you any longer, Patrick.’
He stood in the shadows of the room, his shoulders slumped as if he had fought a fight and been beaten. ‘Do I know him?’ he finally hissed in a low and deadly tone.
Catherine could now see that the man she had married was in control of his passion, but theknowledge caused her a new wave of terror as memories returned to her. She had once heard stories of such control from Arthur Thorncroft. A drunk Arthur told of her husband surviving in the Sudanese desert by raiding dervish camps at night and cutting the throats of the nomadic bedouin he encountered. Arthur’s tales were recounted with something like pride for the man she knew he idolised, and it had been almost impossible for her to understand until now what kind of man could so cold bloodedly kill another in such an intimate manner.
Now facing her husband’s steely self-control, Catherine knew that Patrick’s emotion was directed not at her but at the man who had taken her from him. She feared for her lover’s life. But for Patrick to turn and walk out of the bedroom without another word and without even a desire to know why she had betrayed him was even worse.
Alone in the bed, she sat shaking uncontrollably. It was never meant to happen this way, she thought. She never meant to hurt him. But deep down a tiny voice laughed at her denial. What else could she expect? Her husband was, after all, the son of Michael Duffy, and the blood ran hot in his veins.
Catherine sobbed. Something had gone terribly wrong. Had she not only that afternoon gone to tell Brett that she could not go to Ireland with him? And in doing so, had she not made the decision to return to her husband and attempt to rediscover that which had once been so wonderful between them?
But the suave English capitalist had wooed her to his bed one time too many. The little harm shethought it could do had instead brought possibly the greatest disaster of her life. What chance she had to forget the past few weeks had walked out the door and she was left with just one option.
SEVEN
M atthew Tracy and Saul Rosenblum stepped ashore in Brisbane from a coastal steamer and hoisted their swags on their shoulders.
Similar Books
