He had removed her clothing and his own because she had been too shaken to help. And beside a stream of quiet water he had become her first lover. With tenderness. With care. With passion.
Catherine half heard a sigh escape her. Then. She had loved him even then. That was why she had risked so much to lie in his arms when she could. Because she loved him, helplessly, against all reason. Because she loved him.
“Catherine?” His voice, low and concerned.
She didn’t dare meet his eyes. She had, with determination, convinced him that an affair suited her. No ties, no sentiment. That couldn’t be allowed to change.
"I hate these parties,” she said, amazed at her own calm tone.
He was reassured by her tone, and his laugh was no more than a breath of sound. “Even this one?” he asked softly.
She never got the chance to respond.
“Kate . . .”
Shock rippled through her, and she jerked around so suddenly that part of her drink spilled over her fingers. Her father stood a couple of feet away from her. He was smiling faintly. His brilliant blue eyes were oddly glazed, and a flush mottled his cheeks.
"Kate, my dear, we must go," he said softly. His gaze flickered from her face to that of the man beside her. He looked back at her again. His smile widened. "We must go.”
“Yes.” She felt numb. She set her glass aside and stepped away from Tyrone without a glance. "Of course.” Mechanically she took the arm her father held for her and walked away with him.
What the hell?
It wasn't the first time Tyrone had asked himself that question. He had been asking himself that since the party. Or, more specifically, since Catherine had been summoned by her father to leave. Even before then, when he had spoken to her in the drawing room, when her face had been so still, her lips trembling with a vulnerability he’d never seen in her before. But her voice, calm and dry, had reassured him.
Then . . . her father had called her. He had called her Kate, something Tyrone had never before heard him do. And she had, in a single instant, gone dead white. The veiling lashes and lifted, revealing eyes darkened with shock, with—fear? And her voice had been oddly hollow when she had spoken to her father.
Frowning as he drove back toward his own house, Tyrone tried to understand what it might mean. It was difficult, almost impossible, because Catherine was a puzzle. He didn’t know, not really, the woman she was inside herself—only pieces of her, glimpses he caught from time to time.
Warm and willing. Cold and forbidding. Humorless, frosty blue eyes. Eyes bright with laughter, dark with fire. Stiff, precise posture. Sinuous, elegant grace. Self-mocking coolness. A look of sheer agony in her eyes. Calm. Panic. Fear.
Who was she?
And why, suddenly, did that matter to him? Why did her insistence on secrecy, amusing to him in the past, anger him now? Why had he tried recklessly to catch her eye at the very public party, and then discarded all reason to deliberately arouse her so that they ended up making love on a chair in a locked room in their host's crowded house? Why did he abruptly resent, on her behalf, the treatment she received from the townspeople? And why had the possibility she could have been carrying his child filled him with a riot of emotions he didn’t even understand?
Tyrone pushed the baffling questions away. When they would meet the next day he would try again to understand her, try to discover what lay beneath Catherine’s various masks.
He knew all about masks.
The buggy passed the harbor just then and he automatically looked to see that his ship was safe. And she was, floating dark and still on the calm water. A symbol, he sometimes fancifully thought, of all he had become. A symbol of struggle and danger, of outrageous risks, of dark nights and peril.
He wondered, suddenly, if one of these perils, a nemesis out of his past, would follow The Raven to Port Elizabeth. It was likely. No, he thought, it
Catherine half heard a sigh escape her. Then. She had loved him even then. That was why she had risked so much to lie in his arms when she could. Because she loved him, helplessly, against all reason. Because she loved him.
“Catherine?” His voice, low and concerned.
She didn’t dare meet his eyes. She had, with determination, convinced him that an affair suited her. No ties, no sentiment. That couldn’t be allowed to change.
"I hate these parties,” she said, amazed at her own calm tone.
He was reassured by her tone, and his laugh was no more than a breath of sound. “Even this one?” he asked softly.
She never got the chance to respond.
“Kate . . .”
Shock rippled through her, and she jerked around so suddenly that part of her drink spilled over her fingers. Her father stood a couple of feet away from her. He was smiling faintly. His brilliant blue eyes were oddly glazed, and a flush mottled his cheeks.
"Kate, my dear, we must go," he said softly. His gaze flickered from her face to that of the man beside her. He looked back at her again. His smile widened. "We must go.”
“Yes.” She felt numb. She set her glass aside and stepped away from Tyrone without a glance. "Of course.” Mechanically she took the arm her father held for her and walked away with him.
What the hell?
It wasn't the first time Tyrone had asked himself that question. He had been asking himself that since the party. Or, more specifically, since Catherine had been summoned by her father to leave. Even before then, when he had spoken to her in the drawing room, when her face had been so still, her lips trembling with a vulnerability he’d never seen in her before. But her voice, calm and dry, had reassured him.
Then . . . her father had called her. He had called her Kate, something Tyrone had never before heard him do. And she had, in a single instant, gone dead white. The veiling lashes and lifted, revealing eyes darkened with shock, with—fear? And her voice had been oddly hollow when she had spoken to her father.
Frowning as he drove back toward his own house, Tyrone tried to understand what it might mean. It was difficult, almost impossible, because Catherine was a puzzle. He didn’t know, not really, the woman she was inside herself—only pieces of her, glimpses he caught from time to time.
Warm and willing. Cold and forbidding. Humorless, frosty blue eyes. Eyes bright with laughter, dark with fire. Stiff, precise posture. Sinuous, elegant grace. Self-mocking coolness. A look of sheer agony in her eyes. Calm. Panic. Fear.
Who was she?
And why, suddenly, did that matter to him? Why did her insistence on secrecy, amusing to him in the past, anger him now? Why had he tried recklessly to catch her eye at the very public party, and then discarded all reason to deliberately arouse her so that they ended up making love on a chair in a locked room in their host's crowded house? Why did he abruptly resent, on her behalf, the treatment she received from the townspeople? And why had the possibility she could have been carrying his child filled him with a riot of emotions he didn’t even understand?
Tyrone pushed the baffling questions away. When they would meet the next day he would try again to understand her, try to discover what lay beneath Catherine’s various masks.
He knew all about masks.
The buggy passed the harbor just then and he automatically looked to see that his ship was safe. And she was, floating dark and still on the calm water. A symbol, he sometimes fancifully thought, of all he had become. A symbol of struggle and danger, of outrageous risks, of dark nights and peril.
He wondered, suddenly, if one of these perils, a nemesis out of his past, would follow The Raven to Port Elizabeth. It was likely. No, he thought, it
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