"No, I don't like to take pills," she answered calmly. "Especially not someone else's. I'll be all right. It seems like such a silly thing to be frightened of."
He hesitated a moment, and she wanted to throw herself into his arms, wantonly, shamelessly. She waited for a sign, a weakening. There was none.
"Well, good night, then," he said after a moment.
"Good night," she answered, not moving. He stood there for a second longer, torn between conflicting emotions. She knew, she just knew, he wanted her. But apparently his control over his desires and emotions was much better than hers. He turned and resolutely walked out of the kitchen.
Molly couldn't get to sleep. For a moment she contemplated taking one of Ermy's proffered sleeping pills, then shut the thought out of her mind. She had to be awake tonight, she thought grimly. He would come to her tonight, she was sure of it. She lay in the wide bed, the light off, listening for footsteps.
Aunt Ermy came up first, her heavy, determined tread unmistakable on the old oak flooring. She paused for a moment beside the door, and Molly could hear her heavy breathing.
"Molly?" Her voice called out softly.
"Yes?"
There was a surprised pause. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a pill? I don't like the sound of that wind."
"I'm sure."
Her footsteps moved on, and a short while later Uncle Willy's tired, slightly unsteady feet followed hers down the hallway. He didn't bother to stop along the way—he made his way to his bed with single-minded enthusiasm. She lay there in the dark, listening to the ominous sound of the strong April wind rushing through the trees.
And then came the sound she had waited so long for. Patrick's footsteps, firm and resolute, climbing the twisty stairway slowly, reluctantly, perhaps. She lay perfectly still, breathless, waiting, as she fingered the soft white nightgown she wore, its bridal lace. She could hear his footsteps coming closer, closer. And then he too stopped outside her door, and her heart stopped beating for a second, then slammed into action again, faster now. Before she could call out he left, continuing down the hall back to his own bedroom. Molly turned and wept silently into the pillow.
She must have dozed off. There was a flash of lightning in the room, an enormous crack of thunder, and she was sitting bolt upright, trembling with an instinctive fear. She had to stay calm, she told herself shakily. There's no place to run to this time.
She lay back reluctantly, shivering slightly, willing herself to go to sleep. So he didn't want her. He'd already tried to make that clear, and she'd been an adolescent fool to ignore it, hoping against hope that her heart was right and her common sense was wrong.
Well, she'd just had a salutary lesson. He was in his own room, he had no interest in her, and the night loomed ahead, long and endless.
She closed her eyes, trying to will herself back to sleep, when she thought she heard a movement by the bed. Before she could reach to turn on the light something loomed over her, something huge and dark and dangerous. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the room, but the creature looming over her seemed huge, faceless, as his hands latched tightly around her neck, pressing, pressing tightly.
She fought, kicking out, her hands beating at his iron strong arms. She couldn't make a sound as the breath was slowly squeezed out of her. She scratched at him in desperate fury, kicking.
The lamp beside the bed toppled over with a resounding crash, and he cursed, a muffled obscenity, in a voice eerily familiar.
And then suddenly she was free, the death-dealing hands had left her, and she was alone in the room, in the darkness, gasping for breath.
She struggled out of bed and turned on the light. Whoever had been in the room had knocked over a chair when he made his escape, and the door to the hallway stood gaping open. She held herself motionless, listening for the sound of escape, but there was nothing but the sound of the storm outside, covering any retreat. And then the thunder crashed again, shaking the ancient stone foundations of the old house, and she let out a shriek of terror, dropped the blanket and ran from her room straight into Patrick's.
She headed blindly for the bed, throwing herself into his arms, sobbing desperately. "Someone just tried to kill me," she said in a hoarse, raw voice. "He came into my room and tried to strangle me!"
He was already sitting up, trying to disengage himself from her panicked, clutching arms. He switched on the light and stared at her in disbelief. "That's impossible," he said flatly, doubting blue eyes narrowed against the sudden light. "You must have had a nightmare."
"I didn't, I swear I didn't!" she cried, hysteria and something else shattering her tenuous control. "Someone came into my room and tried to kill me. Can't you hear it in my voice—I can barely talk. It's true, I swear it! You can go and see for yourself—he knocked over the furniture as he escaped."
"Why did he run? You're hardly formidable enough to fight him off. Why didn't he just finish the job?" Patrick asked flatly.
She stared up at him, pain and fear subsiding into shock. "I don't know," she said numbly.
"You must admit you don't have much of a record for truth telling," he said.
She started to pull away from him, but his hands suddenly tightened on her arms, as if he regretted his harshness. "If you're afraid of the storm, Molly, you just have to say so."
"I'm not…" She started to deny it, but another flash of lightning sparked through the room, followed by a crash of thunder, and she jerked, clutching at him more tightly.
A tentative hand reached out and smoothed her tumbled hair. "I think you must have dreamed it, Molly," he said, more gently now. "Thunderstorms always affect you that way."
"Why won't you believe me?" she demanded hoarsely.
He sighed, and with surprising tenderness reached down and pulled her into the bed beside him. He leaned over and turned out the light. "Lie down and go to sleep, Molly," he said patiently, slipping down under the covers, for all the world as if that was exactly what he intended to do himself.
In the meantime Molly was making some interesting discoveries. In the first place, Patrick slept naked, and the feel of his warm, smooth skin next to hers was having a predictable effect. She wanted to move closer, to press herself against him, to breathe in the feel and the scent of him.
It was also becoming apparent that she was having the same effect on him.
Lightning lit up the room for a moment, and she shivered and drew closer to the warmth of his body. The thunder followed a moment later, and she could barely resist hiding her head. Tentatively she put her face against his shoulder. His arm came around her waist, almost by its own volition, and he pulled her closer as she snuggled against him, the warm, lean hardness of his body. He put his hand under her chin, moving her head up, and his lips tasted hers, gently, almost wonderingly. With a sigh of pure abandonment she put her arms around his neck and moved closer still.
She couldn't have imagined it could be any better, but amazingly it was. His mouth was soft on hers, tasting, demanding, his hands exploring her body with a tenderness she would never have expected from a man of his temper and passions. He slid the nightgown from her, pulling it up slowly until it came free, and then it was as if he'd finally given himself free rein.
He was everywhere on her body, hands and mouth, tasting, touching, arousing her to a fever pitch she hadn't imagined possible. And when he entered her this time she clung to him, sobbing lightly, wanting more and more of him. She felt she would die if he left her; this sweet, soft dream should go on forever, when he suddenly turned rougher, exciting her in ways she hadn't even known existed, and her fingernails raked his back as she held him, straining with a passion as savage and dark as his own.
And when it was over, when she fell back, panting and warm in her dazed completeness, she still held on to him, determined not to let him leave her, not to let him shut her out.
She fell asleep in his arms, his body wrapped tightly with hers.
Chapter Sixteen
« ^ »
When Molly awoke the next morning he had already left the bed, and she lay calm and contented beneath the covers, watching the sun grow brighter and stronger, waiting for her husband to return. She had almost drifted back into a blissful sleep when the door opened and he came back in, dressed only in his faded blue jeans, his long black curls dripping from the shower onto his strong shoulders. His eyes slid over her lying in his bed, for all the world as if she belonged there, and the same old expression of distrust filled his dark blue gaze.
She couldn't stand it. Without thinking she slipped out of bed and ran across the room to him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she pressed her warm, naked body against his. "Don't look that way, Patrick," she pleaded, with tear-filled eyes. "Whatever I've done, whatever way I've hurt you—that's in the past. I can't change it, I can't even remember it." Reluctantly his dark blue eyes met her intense gaze. "All I can do is love you, Patrick," she said in a quieter tone of voice. "I know that I always have. And I just wish you could accept that and try to trust me. Just a little bit."
"Molly, this is hopeless," he said wearily. But his hands had reached up and caught her arms, holding her against him, his long fingers stroking her skin. "We have too many strikes against us, not the least of which is I'm of a different generation."
"You're ten years older, for heaven's sake!" she snapped, seriously annoyed. "That hardly makes you Methuselah. If you try really hard you should be able to come up with a better excuse than that."
He looked down at her, stroking, stroking. "And what if I don't want to?" he said in a husky, uncertain voice.
She held very still. "Want to what?"
"Don't want to come up with any more excuses."
The tension between them was fragile, tentative, and unbelievably delicate. She almost didn't dare breathe, for fear she'd shatter the possibility in his words. He leaned over and brushed her lips against her eyelids, first one, then the other. Feathered across her cheekbones, danced across her mouth, clung for a moment, then moved on. When he moved back she was dazed, so lost that she couldn't move, couldn't react as he grabbed a shirt and left the room.
He'd kissed her many ways, in many places during the nights she'd spent with him. He knew how to use his mouth, to arouse, to satisfy, to delight.
But he'd never kissed her with love before.
She put off going downstairs for as long as possible, using every speck of hot water the old house possessed, turning on her radio and humming loudly while she moved around her room. She didn't want anything, any noise, any creature, to intrude on the burgeoning hope that was burning inside her. She didn't want to face Patrick in front of Ermy and Willy's knowing eyes, and she didn't want to frighten Patrick away.
So she tried on half a dozen changes of clothing, finally ending up in a huge cotton sweater and faded jeans, put on makeup and then washed it off, tucked her hair in French braids and then ripped them out. It took all her concentration to wipe the smile off her face a mere second before she entered the kitchen.
The sight that met her eyes was enough to depress anyone. Willy was up early and sitting in the corner, looking even paler than his nightly imbibing usually made him, and the carrot-colored strands of hair were disarrayed on his balding skull. Mrs. Morse was slamming pots and pans around in a bad humor, causing Willy to wince dramatically.
"What's wrong with everybody?" she demanded brightly. "It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining. What…?" she noticed that Aunt Ermy was snorting and snuffling and dabbing away at red-rimmed eyes. "What's happened?" she continued in a lower voice.
Aunt Ermy looked up, dislike and disapproval emanating from her tiny, tear-filled eyes. "You're a fine one to ask! Why should you care, spending the night romping around with that man while all the while…all the while…" She dissolved into noisy tears.
Molly could feel the color flood her face as she struggled to remain impassive. "What are you talking about?"
Uncle Willy took over, a look of stern condemnation on his ruddy face. "Your Aunt Ermy was referring to your behavior last night. You left your door standing wide open, my dear. There was no doubt in our minds where you'd gone. Besides which, his bed creaks."
She could feel her color deepen. It had squeaked noisily, rhythmically, most of the night. There'd been other sounds as well, but at least Uncle Willy didn't seem likely to mention them. "I spent the night with my husband," she said, a little too loudly. "I don't know what's so shocking and immoral about that." She poured herself a cup of coffee with a deceptive show of nonchalance. "Surely that's not cause to make you burst into tears?"
"Sometime in the night, my dear Molly," Willy began portentously, "while you were disporting yourself with your husband, Toby Pentick was murdered. Someone cut his throat."
"What?" She sat down abruptly, feeling faint. "That's impossible."
"I'm afraid it's not only possible, it happened, Molly," Mrs. Morse broke in from her stance by the sink. "The police came by not half an hour ago and took Patrick with them. For questioning, they called it." She snorted. "Seems like they found something of his by the body. What you might call circumstantial evidence." She shook her iron-gray head. "And now God only knows what's going to happen.
For a moment Molly couldn't move. It was as if a dark cloud had hovered over them all, and with the advent of the thunderstorm, disaster had broken free. She crossed the room and put her arms around Mrs. Morse's spare figure, trying to still the sudden spurt of despair that had shot through her heart. "He'll be all right, Mrs. Morse," she said, not certain if she was trying to reassure the older woman or herself. "It's all a stupid mistake, you'll see. He was with me last night—there was no way he could have killed Toby. Why in the world should he want to do such a thing?"
"Jealousy, my dear," Willy said from his seat in the corner in a firm voice. "He was mad with jealousy over you. Everybody knew it."
"And you made sure that the police found that out too, didn't you?" Mrs. Morse turned on him wildly. "You nasty, sponging drunk, ready to stab a man in the back when he's not looking."
"Now, now, my dear Mrs. Morse, I was only doing my duty," Willy protested mildly, unmoved by her attack. He rose from his seat. "You don't seem well today. This business has upset you—why don't you take the rest of the day off?"
"I don't have to discuss it with the likes of you if I do!" she flared back, turning to Molly. "As a matter of fact, I thought I might ask Ben to take me home after lunch. This has got me all upset—I don't know whether I'm coming or going. You can manage, can't you?"
"Of course I can," she said soothingly, stilling her own doubts. "You leave whenever you feel like it, and I'll give you a call as soon as Patrick gets back home."
"You'll be waiting a long time for that," Willy said with a smirk, and Molly nearly threw a pan at him. Fortunately there was nothing close at hand, so she had to be content with glaring at him fiercely.
"Willy and I were also planning on leaving this afternoon," Ermy piped up in a watery voice. "A short round of visits with our friends the Sturbridges would get our minds off this distressing business. We should be back in a couple of days. Unless, of course, you're afraid to stay alone?" she hinted slyly.
"I won't be alone," Molly shot back grimly. "My husband will be here."
"Of course, he will," Willy said in a soothing voice. "You could come with us, if you wish. I don't think it's really your thing though—nobody under fifty and all we do is play bridge. A dull party for a lively young thing like yourself. I'm sure if Patrick doesn't get home you'll find some other way to console yourself. After all, there are plenty of young men in town. All old friends of yours, I believe."
"I'll be just fine, thank you," she answered coldly, pouring herself a cup of coffee with an unsteady hand. "Why don't you leave as soon as you're ready? I'd welcome some time alone in my own house."
"Ungrateful bitch," Ermy murmured malevolently, lifting her overdressed bulk majestically. "I need to get away from this depressing pla
ce and all the depressing people in it." She paused and turned to Molly. "And when did you decide to take Patrick into your bed?" she demanded frostily.
Molly stared at her. Ermintrude used to frighten her, she realized. She'd lost her power over her, sometime in the last few days. "When I was sixteen," she replied calmly, turning away.
"You are an ungrateful, scheming little slut," Ermy said boldly. "When I think how I wasted some of the best years of my life guiding you, advising you, trying to teach you a bit about the ways of the world…"
"You did a good job, between you and Lisa," she answered, staring out the kitchen window. The day looked warmer, the winter-dead grass had a faint tinge of color. It was no day for a young man to lie dead. No day for her husband to be in jail. She turned back to her so-called relatives. "It's too late to change the past. When you get back from your visit I think you'd better start making plans to find some other place to live. I think you've worn out your welcome around here a long time ago. You and Willy."
"Listen to me, you conniving little brat!" Aunt Ermy started toward her, grabbing her wrist in a bone-crushing grip. As a matter of pure reflex Molly kicked her in the shins, and Ermy pulled away, shrieking curses. Some of the phrases were rather good, and Molly was sorry she couldn't remember them for later use. Willy hurriedly helped his cousin out of the kitchen, hushing her with words Molly could neither hear nor imagine. By the time they reached the stairs she had quieted down, and the sound of their whispering was barely audible.
"What mischief are they hatching up now?" Mrs. Morse demanded. "If I were you I'd keep an eye on them before they leave. You might find the best silver gone with them if you're not careful."
"Don't worry," Molly said. "I wouldn't trust Aunt Ermy farther than I could throw her, which is about half an inch. And Willy's not any better." She turned to Mrs. Morse. "Why don't you go on home now? Everyone can get their own lunch around here—there's no reason you should wait around for their sakes. I'm just going to call the police and then go for a ride. After a few minutes with those two I feel like I need a breath of fresh air."