Then Dr. Scott said, “Perhaps they offer the only thing she can accept from them. Have you ever considered that hate might be the lesser of two evils?” Tyrone frowned. “Why would it be? And what other evil are you talking about?”
Dr. Scott gave him an odd, intense look, then shrugged and began to turn away. Softly he said, “We all have our demons, lad. She has hers.”
Tyrone returned his gaze to Catherine, watching her move among people who deliberately didn’t see her. He was baffled.
Tommy Jenkins was seven. He was, his ma said, incorrigible. Tommy didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like something Dr. Scott would give medicine for. However, since the doctor had offered no medicine, Tommy concluded that being incorrigible wasn't that bad.
Tommy had left his playmates in town the instant they were released from the bondage of Miss Peabody’s lessons. He usually did that when there was a ship anchored in the harbor, being more fascinated with ships than with anything else in his disappointingly placid life.
The Raven. Tommy loved The Raven. She was an absolutely perfect ship, and her exciting life practically screamed from every sleek line. Sometimes one or more of her crew could be wheedled into telling stories about The Raven and about Captain Tyrone. About blockade running, which sounded to Tommy dreadfully dangerous and wonderful.
Tommy sat on the extreme edge of the dock and dangled his feet above the water, gazing wistfully across the calm harbor at his goddess. Even still and trapped by her anchor, he thought, she was a dainty lady. Tommy wasn’t entirely sure what “dainty” meant; his ma had used that word once, and he had liked the sound of it. Dainty. The Raven was a dainty lady. He liked that.
He wished passionately that he had the courage to ask Captain Tyrone to let him actually go aboard the ship. He wasn’t exactly afraid of the captain, but the tall man was something of a vaguely frightening mystery to his childish mind. Tommy had the feeling that Captain Tyrone could get angry awfully fast, even worse than his pa. Still, he had thought once or twice there might have been a laugh in those queer gray eyes.
I’ll ask him, Tommy thought suddenly, screwing up his courage. I’ll be very polite, and—and I’ll just ask him!
Bent on this gathering of his nerve, Tommy didn’t hear soft footsteps behind him. He had no sense of danger, and there was no warning. One moment he was sitting securely on the dock, and in the next terrifying, confusing moment he was thrashing about in water far, far over his head.
And Tommy couldn’t swim.
“Catherine?”
She concentrated on putting her parcels into the rear of the buggy, and she didn't look at him. “If this town boasted a pillory,” she said in a soft, grim tone, “you’d be hell-bent to see me in it, wouldn’t you?”
‘‘Not at all.” His voice was low but amused. “But, in fact, I have just proved myself to be a heartless man of few scruples and no conscience.”
She shot him a glance. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, eyes dancing, “I just made a bet with Abernathy. Within earshot of as many people as possible, I bet that I could get a smile out of Miss Waltrip. I now have a dandy excuse to stand here talking to you, and in due course I’ll retreat back to the mercantile, crushed, and pay my debt.”
She almost smiled.
“Don’t, dammit,” he said in a near growl. “I have to lose the bet.”
Catherine noticed that he had planned well. He was standing in such a way as to prevent her getting into the buggy, and to watching eyes it would clearly look as if she were haughtily waiting for him to move. She kept her face cold, her posture stiff. “You don’t have any scruples,” she told him.
“Of course not.” He lifted one foot and rested it negligently on the buggy’s step. “Not when it comes to getting what I want. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“I’m beginning to.”
“Then why are you still fighting me?” he asked smoothly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don't lie, Catherine. As I’ve said, you’re not very good at it. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve held me at arm’s length from the beginning, and now you’re pushing me even farther away.”
“How you can say that after yesterday—” She broke off, trying to still her panic, to keep her face cold.
“Yes, why don’t we talk about yesterday?’’ His deep voice dropped to a lower, more intense note. “Not here,” she said swiftly.
“There’s no other place, Catherine. No place you’ll allow us. In the cottage you want only passion; you won’t come to my house or allow me in yours, and in the streets you offer coldness. Where can I talk to you and have a reasonable hope of being answered?”
She stared into his flickering eyes, vaguely conscious that he wore a half smile that was purely for the benefit of onlookers; there was no smile in those intense gray depths. And she knew her own face was cold, still. Softly, wondering on some dim level if their observers could possibly know her world was falling apart, she said, “You have no right to ask questions.”
“Even if you won’t share anything else, you share my bed. That gives me the right.”
“No.” Her lips felt stiff. “Not your bed. A secret bed in an abandoned cottage.”
“A lover’s bed,” he said swiftly. “Where doesn’t matter. A lover’s bed, Catherine. Our bed. The one thing you can’t deny is that we are lovers. And that gives me the right to question.”
“Let me go,” she murmured, and she might have been asking him to move away from the buggy. Or she might have been asking him something else. She wasn’t sure.
His gaze revealed just how angry he was. “Do you know what this is doing to me?” he asked with the meaningless smile still curving his lips. “You won’t tell me anything, won’t answer my questions, won’t trust me enough to—”
There was a sudden commotion at the harbor end of the street, a number of people hurrying in that direction.
“What the hell?” Tyrone muttered. “Wait here for me, Catherine.”
She nodded, welcoming the distraction and aware that the attention of the town had shifted. She turned to watch Tyrone stride down the street, absently admiring his broad shoulders and graceful carriage. Then her eyes wandered past him, and she felt herself go cold.
A man she recognized as being one of Tyrone’s crew was walking toward the townspeople, carrying a soaked, sobbing Tommy Jenkins in his arms.
An accident, she thought wildly. Of course, an accident. Little boys were constantly getting into things they shouldn’t, and Tommy was forever at the harbor looking wistfully at whatever ship was anchored there. An accident . . .
She watched as the boy was handed to his grateful mother, saw several people shake the embarrassed rescuer by the hand. Gradually, though, the crowd dispersed, and Tyrone was left talking alone with his crewman. He was frowning; the man was talking earnestly, gesturing. After a few minutes Tyrone nodded, said something that elicited a big grin from the man, and then they parted.
The rescuer headed happily for the hotel and, Catherine knew, the well-stocked bar. Tyrone returned to her.
“What happened?” she asked.
Tyrone looked at her, then shook his head. “Lyle, my ships’s mate, saw the little boy struggling in the water just off the end of the dock. Luckily, The Ravens anchored close in; Lyle managed to get the longboat to him in time and fish him out. The child will be all right, I think. He’s just wet and miserable and frightened. Dr. Scott will look him over.”
Catherine studied his face, feeling herself grow colder. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
Tyrone sighed explosively. “I’m damned if I know. Lyle wasn’t sure enough to mention it to anyone else, but he told me he thinks the boy was pushed into the water.”
She heard her voice emerge calmly. “What did he see?”
“Not much. The sun was reflecting off the water, and there was a glare. He just glanced toward the dock,
expecting to see Tommy there because the boy apparently spends hours looking at the ship. Then he believes he saw a flicker of movement. More of an impression than anything else. Lyle’s a good man. He doesn’t see things that aren’t there. If he believes the boy was pushed, then there’s a good chance he was.”
“Did Tommy say—?”
“He’s too scared to say anything right now. Maybe later, when he’s calmed down. But if it happened fast enough, he may not remember being pushed.”
Catherine felt numb. “Perhaps another boy meant to have some fun? A joke gone badly wrong?”
Tyrone’s frown eased. “Yes, that’s likely enough. And the other boy panicked, probably, when he realized Tommy couldn’t swim. Nothing else makes sense.”
Taking advantage of his distraction, Catherine quickly climbed into the buggy before he could stop her.
“Catherine—”
“Go and pay your debt,” she told him calmly. “I have to head home now.”
“Damn you,” he answered. “Always running from me.”
Without responding, she slapped the reins against her horse’s rump and moved off down the street. She didn’t look left or right. She didn’t look back. Head high, face cold and remote, she drove from the town.
The fear inside her was a living thing, clawing bloody wounds in its efforts to escape. And she could hear the dry sobs that began forcing themselves through her tight throat, terrible rasping sobs without the wetness of tears to ease their passing. She was shuddering and gasping by the time she had stabled the horse, and paused for a few moments before leaving the barn in an effort to control herself.
But control wouldn’t come this time. She could no longer ignore the danger, could no longer convince herself that seeing Tyrone was worth the risk. She was willing to risk almost anything to be with him, to lie in his arms, but there was one thing she wouldn’t risk, couldn’t risk. And she couldn’t explain it to him.
Oh, God.
She could feel something dying inside her, bleeding its life away in agony. She loved Marc Tyrone, and because she hadn’t meant to, that love was all the stronger. She loved him, and needed him desperately, and the fates had conspired to hold him tauntingly, forever out of her reach.
You always knew it wasn't forever. Always knew it couldn't be.
But ... for a while . . . she had let herself dream. The passionate interludes with him and the memories of them had allowed her to pretend that everything was all right. Passion was safe, unthreatening, as long as it was secret. The little cottage was safe, what happened in it was a series of memories she would cherish always to sustain her through the rest of her life.
“Fool,” she whispered. Fool to have allowed herself even that. She wouldn’t have missed what she had never had. She wouldn’t have fallen in love. She wouldn’t have let anyone inside her careful walls.
Catherine straightened slowly, unaware until then that she had been bent over like an old woman. But it didn’t surprise her. She felt old. Immeasurably old. Her parcels were at her feet; she made herself pick them up. She forced herself to walk to the house, wondering if the expression on her face reflected how empty she felt inside.
You'll get through this, she told herself forcefully. Then she snorted. Of course she would; she had no choice.
“Catherine, where have you been?” Lucas asked irritably the moment he saw her.
“In town, Father. I told you I was going.”
“Oh.” He frowned at her. “You’re pale.” It was almost an accusation.
She put her parcels down on the sideboard and slowly drew off her gloves. “There was an accident today,” she said calmly. “Tommy Jenkins nearly drowned.”
Her father grunted. “Down at the harbor, I suppose, watching that ship. Boys are always fascinated by ships.”
“Didn’t you see him there?” she asked.
“What? Oh, no, I didn’t go to the harbor. I just rode along the road for half a mile or so. Then I got tired, so I came back home. Did you get my wine?”
“Yes, Father. You can have a glass with dinner.”
“Stop trying to manage me!” he suddenly roared.
Catherine didn’t flinch. “We’re having roast chicken for dinner,” she said. “And baby peas. You like that.”
He glared at her. But slowly the glare died and his brilliant eyes softened. “I like that. You’re a good cook, Kate. A very good cook. I’ve always said so.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He smiled happily.
It was late afternoon when Tyrone, conscious of feeling quite frustrated, finally left town. He had spoken casually to the four people who had lost animals during the past months, having managed to introduce the subject in an offhand way to each of them. Only Lettia Symington thought her dog had been deliberately killed, and she stubbornly believed that Catherine had done it.
She hadn’t been able to give him a reason other than “sheer spite.”
Tyrone, who knew that Catherine wasn't spiteful or cruel, had no difficulty in dismissing Lettia’s groundless accusation. Having done that without hesitation, he was left with his original question and no answers. No answers at all. But he trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him that the animals had been deliberately killed.
Why? As a sick sort of revenge? It made sense in a twisted way, but Tyrone couldn’t remember having angered or hurt anyone on the island so much that his horse would become a target. Still, the violent cruelty in killing his horse told him that, indeed, he had made an enemy—a bad one.
Tyrone didn’t like it. It was bad enough when you knew your enemy, when you could assign him a face and a name. Then, at least, it was possible to be on guard. But with a ghostly enemy wearing God knew what face, it was nothing short of impossible to be more than careful.
Both before and during the war Tyrone had developed a keen sense of danger; it had served him well in his blockade-running years, and had never since deserted him. That sense was tingling now, leaving him with an itch between his shoulder blades that warned of an unfriendly hand with a naked blade at his back. And it was all the worse because he hadn't the faintest idea who was holding the knife.
Tyrone drove slowly out of town, frowning. Passing the Jenkins house, he saw little Tommy sitting disconsolately on the front steps and staring at the ground. Tyrone hesitated, then drew his horse to a halt at the end of the walkway. “Tommy, come here for a moment, please.”
The boy looked up, fright passing swiftly over his small face. He rose and came down the walk with lagging steps, stopping a couple of feet from the buggy. He looked at Tyrone with huge eyes, and spoke quickly and breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble, Captain, I swear I didn't!”
Tyrone smiled, trying to put the boy at ease. “Of course not, Tommy. It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“I was just looking at the ship,” Tommy mumbled, hanging his head and scuffing one foot. “I know Ma told me not to go near the water, but I wanted to get near the ship. She’s such a pretty ship and I . . . and I wanted to see her!”
Tyrone listened, still smiling. When the boy’s breathless explanation was over, he asked softly, “Tommy, do you think someone might have pushed you off the dock?”
Tommy’s mouth made a perfectly round O, and his eyes grew larger. ‘‘Why would anybody go and do that, Captain?” he asked in total astonishment.
‘‘As a joke perhaps? Not knowing you couldn’t swim? Did you hear someone come up behind you?”
Tommy scuffed his foot harder and frowned. “I didn't hear anybody. But maybe somebody pushed me, Captain. I wouldn’t never go and fall off the dock by my own self. I’m real careful.” He said the last with a strong trace of defiance, and Tyrone knew that had probably been the boy’s repeated defense to an angry, worried mother.
Still, it was clear that if someone had pushed Tommy, he couldn’t remember it. Not unnatural, but certainly frustrating to Tyrone. “All right, Tommy. Thank you.” He fished into a pocket a
nd found a coin, tossing it to the boy. “Buy yourself some sweets.”
“Oh, thank you, Captain!” Tommy said, catching the coin neatly.
Tyrone remembered his own fascination with ships at that age, and made an offer on impulse. “Tell you what. You get your pa to take you down to the harbor tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll see to it that you’re taken out to visit the ship.” He was rewarded instantly by the expression of blissful happiness that spread across the boy’s small face.
Tommy stuttered his thanks, and Tyrone lifted his reins and drove on, reflecting wryly that it didn't take much to make a boy of that age happy. It became more difficult, as one grew older, to find contentment. To cope with problems. At Tommy’s age, Tyrone thought, an enemy could be faced and thrashed and anger forgotten, likely with a return to friendship in the next hour. Boys were like that.
But men, Tyrone knew, couldn’t settle their hostilities quite so easily. Men carried knives and guns . . . and hated for a very long time indeed.
Tyrone had a sense of time and events rushing beyond his control, and it disturbed him. An enemy here on the island, faceless and more dangerous because of it; an enemy—or at least a determined man— very likely on his way here for a long-avoided confrontation. Then there were his growing feelings for Catherine, and her hidden worry and fear.
Secrets. Too many secrets all suddenly too close to the surface and exposure. An enemy’s secret hate; Tyrone’s secret deeds, his secret commitment; Catherine’s secret fears.
He felt an elusive sense of understanding, as though the answers to everything lay buried in his own mind, but he couldn’t seem to grasp them.
Frowning, he drove on, absently remembering to stop by the harbor and arrange Tommy’s visit to The Raven.
Boys were easily made happy. He wondered if men ever could be.
7
On Friday Catherine made up her mind to end her relationship with Tyrone. It was the only rational thing to do. She couldn’t go on living with her nerves stretched to the breaking point, terrified someone would find out about them. So there was really no choice. It had to be over, finished. Then she would get on with her life.