Winter''s Edge

  "I suppose he's been with you all afternoon and evening, ever since I left you. No wonder I couldn't find him. I should have known if I left you alone you'd be up to your old tricks. Lisa warned me."

  "She certainly did, didn't she?" she said tartly. She felt her mouth curve up in a taunting smile, almost of its own accord. "Why shouldn't Toby spend the night?" she asked him slowly, mockingly. "After all, if my husband spends his night with a lover, why shouldn't I?" So this was how rumors got started, she thought almost absently. By her own destructive mouth.

  "I told you I wouldn't have you whoring around any more." His voice was calmer now, almost frightening in its quiet fury. "I meant what I said."

  "This dog in the manger attitude is absurd. You don't want me, but no one else can have me, is that it? Well, how are you planning to stop me?" She goaded him, goaded him purposefully. Perhaps she knew what would happen, what she was pushing him toward, perhaps she didn't. Tension and violence were strong in the air, and she rose to meet them, mocking him.

  There was something else in the air, something familiar yet foreign, in the sudden stillness of his angry blue eyes, the silky menace of his body that had nothing to do with violence.

  "That's the second time in the last minute you've accused me of not wanting you," he said in a slow, mesmerizing voice. "Are you trying to tell me something, Molly?"

  Now her fear had suddenly become real. "Listen to me, Patrick," she said urgently, clutching vainly for the covers.

  He'd reached down and yanked them away from her. "It's a little too late for modesty, isn't it?" he said with deceptive gentleness, undoing his shirt. "I assume you don't mind if I take up where Toby left off." He pulled the shirt from his jeans. "You've made it clear to me that every man in town has had you. I think it's about time that your husband tried out your talents."

  Molly watched him in a daze as he went over and kicked the door shut. He yanked off his shirt, coming closer, and she looked up at him with a fierce panic mixed with an undeniable desire. He was strong, lean, muscled, with just a faint matting of hair on his chest. No wonder she hadn't remembered making love with him. She never had. Never touched him. Never lay in his arms. And she'd wanted to. Quite desperately.

  She wanted him now. But not with rage and contempt, not by pushing him so far into anger that he couldn't pull back. "No, Patrick," she whispered helplessly, trying to move back out of his reach. "Not this way."

  "'No, Patrick,'" he mocked. "Why ever not, Molly?" He reached out and caught her arm, pulling her upright toward him. "You've always maintained you liked it rough."

  Curse my big mouth, she thought numbly, trying to jerk away, but he reached out and caught her, pulling her against the heat and hardness of him. The feel of his bare skin against her set off new sparks of longing and panic, and she pushed against him, not certain what she wanted. He was too strong, too determined, too furious. He pushed her down on the bed, and a moment later his body covered hers.

  She almost gave up fighting then. He put his mouth over hers, and there was no denying the harsh, demanding sensuality of his lips, his tongue, thrusting against her.

  He was aroused, angry, and she should have known better than to let her humiliation and anger get the better of her. She should have known better.

  If she had any sense she'd tell him no. He might be furious, he might have been drinking, but she knew, instinctively, that all she had to say was no, one more time, and he'd walk away from the bed, from her.

  And she didn't want him to do that.

  She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  It seemed to startle him. She didn't know whether it was her lack of expertise, or the very fact that she was responding. If he was bent on hurting her, punishing her, he would have pulled away.

  But he didn't. His kiss gentled, teased at her lips, teaching her, kissing her with slow, deliberate delight that sent waves of pleasure through her body. There was no longer any question as to what was going to happen, and she wondered if she should tell him the truth. Tell him to be gentle, to go slow, to seduce her, love her.

  She said nothing. If he left her now he would never come back, and she had no doubt whatsoever that he would leave. Abandon her to her unwanted purity.

  She could feel him, hard against her belly. She could taste the desire and reluctant passion in his kiss, and all she could think was, at least he wants this much from me. And there was no way she was going to keep him from it.

  He reached down and fumbled with his belt, one strong hand more than enough to keep her captive in a prison she didn't want to escape. He moved her unresisting legs apart, and then paused, staring down at her from his dark, stormy eyes.

  "Tell me to go away," he said, and it was a plea, a dare, a taunt. "Tell me you don't want me. Tell me no."

  He was resting against the center of her, and she'd never felt such heat, such longing, such emptiness in her life. "Yes," she said, clutching at his shoulders, pulling him to her, over her, into her.

  He filled her, sinking in deep, and she cried out with the sharp pain of it and then was silent. She thought she could feel the start of surprise in his body, and for a moment he was still. She could hear his breath rasping above her in the darkness, and she was terrified that now he'd pull away. Leave her.

  But he didn't. His hands loosed their bruising hold on her wrists and reached up to frame her face, and his mouth gently, lovingly kissed away the tears from her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth. Tears she hadn't even known she'd shed.

  Those kisses were a blessing, an apology, a promise, and she could feel the initial panic begin to fade. Heat returned, as he began to move, slowly at first, coaxing her along, bringing her with him, until she was clinging to him, desperately, as he thrust faster, deeper, carrying her to a place of darkness and delight. Everything became lost in a swirl of dizziness, a dizziness that was bringing her closer and closer to something she couldn't quite comprehend. She moved with him, instinctively, and she held him fiercely, wrapping her arms and legs around him as they climbed higher and higher. Until the world and Patrick exploded within her.

  When he finally moved she made a soft sound of protest. He left the bed and walked out of the room, and she closed her eyes to let the tears pour down her face, no longer fighting them back.

  And then he was back, drawing her trembling, unresisting body into his suddenly tender arms and holding her close against the warmth and strength of him. It felt safe, it felt indelibly right. This was where she'd always wanted to be. This was where she belonged.

  When her crying finally halted, he pulled back slightly, just far enough to see her face. "What the hell is going on, Molly?" he asked quietly.

  She concentrated with deep interest at his muscled shoulder, too shy to meet his fierce blue gaze. He put one hand under her chin and drew her head up. "I said, what's going on?"

  She tried to shrug, but his body was wrapped so tightly, securely around hers that she couldn't. "It seems obvious enough," she answered in a low voice. "I was a virgin."

  His other hand moved the curtain of tangled hair from her face. "And all those men, all those stories—they were lies?"

  "I suppose they would have to be. I don't remember." She shut her eyes in exhaustion and moved closer still, pressing her body against his, instinctively, as if searching for warmth and comfort.

  "Don't do that," he said sharply, making no effort to move away. She laid her head against his chest, aware of the sudden response in him, exulting in it. She moved her face, pressing her mouth against his shoulder, and the pulse seemed to jump beneath his smooth flesh.

  As if against his will his hands moved over her body, caressing her, healing her, soothing away the battered and bruised feelings and replacing them with rapidly escalating need. He ducked his head down, and almost involuntarily, his mouth found hers, and she came alive under his skillful touch. She lay beneath him, trembling with delight as his hungry mouth covered her breasts, his hands inciting feelings sh
e had never imagined she could possess.

  And when he entered her this time she couldn't restrain a sigh of pleasure, holding him fiercely, arching against him. And this time it was so beautiful she wept. And this time, when he exploded within her, she was ready too, and through a daze she heard their voices cry out together.

  When Molly awoke he was gone, and she was alone among the tumbled and stained sheets. Sunlight was pouring in the windows, and she could hear Aunt Ermy's magnificent bellow through the thick stone walls. She must have returned early, Molly thought, reaching out for the discarded blankets and covering her pleasured body lazily. And not a minute too soon.

  "Why are you still in bed?" Aunt Ermy demanded from the doorway. She was a symphony in peach crepe. It wasn't her color.

  "Don't you knock?" Molly countered mildly, snuggling down into the bed, in the meantime taking a surreptitious glance around the room to see if there was any telltale evidence of Patrick's presence last night. Except for the condition of the sheets there was none, and she almost wondered if she had dreamed it. Dreamed the feel of his warm, smooth skin beneath her hands. His mouth on her breast, his body, thrusting, pulsing…

  She turned back to Aunt Ermy's suspicious gaze. "I was tired," she said vaguely.

  Aunt Ermy edged into the room, her steely eyes raking over the disordered condition of the covers. Molly was obsessed with the atmosphere of passionate lovemaking that permeated the room, and she wondered that Aunt Ermy could be impervious to it. She obviously could tell something was different but she couldn't quite tell what. She watched Molly out of uncertain little eyes, moving closer, and it took all Molly's strength of will not to scramble away from her.

  "Are you all right, my dear?" she inquired in an oozing tone. "You look overwrought. Are you sure you had enough sleep? You might even be a bit feverish. Your eyes are bright and your cheeks are flushed."

  No wonder, Molly thought, feeling the color deepen on her exposed skin. She kept her expression determinedly vague. "I'm fine, Aunt Ermy. If anything, I've had too much sleep."

  "Well, you needn't be afraid your husband's going to bother you." She sniffed in distaste at the mention of Patrick. "He went off early this morning, leaving absolutely no word with either Willy or me. According to his beloved Mrs. Morse he won't be back for a day or two."

  Molly grew cold inside. "How nice," she said woodenly. She felt as if she'd been slapped in the face. Aunt Ermy's next malicious words made it even worse.

  "I thought you should know. And apparently Lisa Canning's gone visiting." She moved a little further into the room, her massive front heaving with spurious indignation, her nose wrinkled in rage. "I think it's a shame and a scandal, the way that man treats you. After all, he should leave you with some pride." A sly smile cracked her powdered and rouged face. "But then," she cast a speaking glance around the room, "you at least have been able to find your own sources of entertainment, haven't you, my dear?"

  So the atmosphere of the room hadn't escaped her spiteful eye. But naturally, she assumed Molly had brought a lover up here.

  "By the way, Molly, Toby's coming over for lunch," she added meaningfully as she started out the door. "I thought you might want to dress." The door shut behind her majestic figure and Molly was left alone with her hurt and humiliation.

  She leaned back against the pillows, pulling the sheet up to her neck as she contemplated her future. Last night had changed her world.

  Yet last night had meant nothing to him. He'd simply taken pity on the love-starved teenager who'd always worshiped him.

  Except that last night he'd known perfectly well that she was no longer a teenager, and he presumed that she was far from love-starved.

  Except when it came to Patrick, she always would be. Love-starved, adolescent, and bereft.

  She climbed slowly out of bed. While she filled the tub she stripped the bed, hiding the stained sheets in her mammoth, empty closet. She didn't feel like sharing last night with anyone, even Mrs. Morse or whoever did the laundry. Obviously, as far as Patrick was concerned, it hadn't happened, and that would be her attitude as well. Things would go on as before, they would get their divorce, and then he could marry whomever he chose. After all, hadn't she heard that men feel differently about these things? What seemed like an act of love for a woman could be merely scratching an itch for a man. His itch was thoroughly scratched after last night. And she thought that now she finally, truly hated him.

  She lay in the tub and soaked for fully three quarters of an hour, trying to wash away some of the stain from last night. She should have known it would be useless. Perhaps it was better that he left. Or perhaps she was imagining all sorts of problems where none existed. But couldn't he at least have said goodbye to her?

  When she arrived in the kitchen Toby was waiting. He was silhouetted against the window, and for one, brief, joyous moment she'd thought he was Patrick. And then he turned, his light, intense eyes watching her with an odd stillness, and it was all she could do to hide her disappointment.

  She greeted him with lukewarm pleasure. "How are you this morning, Toby?" At that moment she was heartily sick of the whole male half of the species.

  "Afternoon," he corrected, smiling. "I'm fine. You're looking absolutely beautiful, Molly."

  She heard a snort from the corner, and Mrs. Morse hovered into view. "Patrick said he'd be back sometime tomorrow," she said loudly, determined to bring the specter of Molly's husband into the conversation before Toby could get any ideas. "He had some business to attend to, some things to check up on. He said you were to stay close to home, Molly." The look she cast Toby was one of pure dislike, and Molly glanced at her in surprise. Toby was one of the most innocuous human beings she'd met since she'd returned to Winter's Edge.

  "Did he?" she said coolly, angry at the arrogant manner of her absent husband's orders. "We'll see." She wandered over and poured herself some coffee, noting with sort of an anguished longing the unaccustomed stiffness in her hips.

  "And Dr. Turner's office called." Mrs. Morse was determined. "The results of your tests are in. She said it wasn't what you thought."

  "So soon?" She picked up a still warm muffin and bit into it.

  "She said she wanted you to come in and see her right away." Molly couldn't miss the note of worry in her voice. "I told her Patrick took the Mercedes and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. The van's out of commission."

  "I can take you," Toby offered eagerly, and Mrs. Morse glared at him, slamming a pan down on the wooden counter.

  "She said you should call her as soon as you wake up."

  "All right," Molly agreed, strolling out of the room into Patrick's office, trying to still the sudden spurt of fear that filled her. She had cancer, she thought dismally, or some fatally crippling disease. And for some odd reason, this was the first morning she hadn't been sick in days. Perhaps sex agrees with me, she thought bitterly, dialing the doctor's number. Perhaps it was a case of terminal lust.

  "Mrs. Winters?" She recognized the gruff voice at the other end of the line. "I need you to come in and talk with me today. We've got the results of your blood tests and it's serious. Very serious indeed."

  "Really?" Molly replied in a wooden voice. "I'm afraid I can't make it in. My husband's taken the only working car. You'll have to tell me over the phone. Have I got cancer?"

  "Certainly not. Perhaps Mrs. Morse could drive you in."

  "I told you I couldn't make it," she said, anxiety making her angry. "What's going on? If I'm dying of some strange disease you might as well tell me. At this point I really don't give a damn."

  Dr. Turner took a deep breath at the other end. "Mrs. Winters, has anyone else in the house been troubled with nausea recently?"

  "Not that I know of. Why, is it communicable?"

  "I'm afraid, Mrs. Winters, that you are suffering from arsenic poisoning."

  "What?" Molly let out a shriek, then lowered her voice to a conspirator's whisper. "Arsenic?"

  "That's right. T
here can be no doubt of it. Clear traces were found in your bloodstream. Not enough to kill you, just enough to make you quite ill. And of course, over a long period of time it could prove quite dangerous."

  "I'm sure it could," she replied numbly, sinking down in the well-worn leather chair in shock.

  "I've notified the police, as I'm required to do in cases of this sort. In the meantime, I suggest you only eat what everyone else is eating, and preferably fix your own meals."

  She managed to stir herself long enough to protest. "Mrs. Morse wouldn't hurt me!"

  "I'm not saying she would," Dr. Turner said patiently. "I'm just saying you should watch out. I expect the police should be out sometime in the afternoon—in the meantime, sit tight and don't worry."

  "Don't worry," she echoed, leaning back in shock and the first stirrings of justifiable outrage. "Hell and damnation!"

  Chapter Thirteen

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  He had considered going out and getting thoroughly drunk. However, Patrick had never made a habit of blotting out his memories with alcohol, and six o'clock in the morning wasn't the time to start. While part of him wanted to forget everything that happened the night before, from the moment he'd let his fury give him just enough excuse to enter her bedroom in the middle of the night, until the moment he left her, lying there, sound asleep, the saltwater tracks of dried tears on her pale face, her lips swollen from his mouth, her face flushed and absurdly happy in sleep.

  Why the hell had he touched her?

  And even more important, why had she lied to him?

  If he'd known, he would have been even more determined to keep away from her, though right now he was so angry and twisted up inside that he wasn't quite sure why. After all, he'd married her. They'd entered into a sensible, business arrangement, based on mutual affection and good judgment, and it had turned drastically wrong even before their wedding day.