Nightfall (23 page)

She didn't object. She was beyond second thoughts or self-consciousness. For the first time in her life, she had given herself over completely, and he could do anything he wanted with her. She buried her face in the cool white sheets, feeling his hands on her thighs, positioning her, coming up behind her, pushing into her, deep and sure and powerful, and her hands clutched the mattress as she wept, soft, mindless cries of pleasure and despair, of pleading and surrender, of total, eternal acceptance.

There was no tenderness now, and she didn't want any. The bed shook beneath them, her body shook with the force of his thrusts, and she reveled in it, terrified and renewed at the same time. His hands slid from her hips, up her back, and she met each thrust with eagerness, ready for him, ready for oblivion.

He leaned over, his body wrapped around hers, his arms holding her tight. One hand slid between her legs to touch her. The other to her mouth, his fingers sliding inside, taking her that way as well.

It was enough, it was more than enough. She shattered, into a thousand pieces, as his mouth sank down on her shoulder, biting hard, and his body filled hers, pulsing deeply, filling her with everything that was his. Life and death, commitment and final abandonment. Giving and taking, and none of it mattered, as she dissolved, into the night, into his arms, losing the very last of herself in the sweep of darkness and the pulse of life.

There was gentleness in him after all. His hands were tender as they settled her down on the mattress, and his body wrapped around hers, warming her, calming her. She realized she was trembling, a belated, almost absent thought, and then she heard his voice, the soft, murmured words of praise and pleasure, as his hands stroked her body into calm, into warmth, into sleep.

She tried to fight it. There wasn't enough time, enough time in the world for them, but she couldn't resist. His words, sex words, love words, senseless, wonderful words in his deep, soothing voice couldn't be resisted, and she closed her eyes, only for a moment.

When she slept she dreamed. They would kill him, and they would make her watch, and she cried, reaching out for him. When she awoke she was sprawled across him, the room was still in the complete darkness of early morning, and he was buried deep inside her. She opened her eyes to look down at him, and the orgasm that shook her was powerful, instantaneous, and shared.

He closed his eyes, his strong teeth bared in a grimace, and she watched him. And she knew she owned him, as much as he owned her.

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The sun was blazing in the window when Cassidy awoke. She was alone in the bed, something which didn't surprise her. The sheets, both top and bottom, were tangled around her, and the mattress was half off the bed. She was sticky and sore, physically and emotionally exhausted. And she was smiling.

Wrapping one of the sheets around her, she moved toward the open window. Richard was digging in the garden, and not for one moment did she allow herself to consider that he might be digging her grave. She looked down at the daffodils beneath her, at their cheery yellow bells. There was a worm inside one, eating.

She never had, and never would, accustom herself to English showers. She scalded herself, she froze herself, she barely managed to get the soap out of her long, thick hair. By the time she emerged she was shivering, and she glanced at her body in the wavery mirror above the pedestal sink.

She stopped in shock. There were rough patches of red on her fair skin, doubtless from the roughness of his beard. There were dark marks on her breasts, on her hips, on her neck and shoulders from his rapacious mouth, and she could see the faint bruising on her back were his teeth had sunk in deep.

She looked lush, wanton, and well-loved. She looked like a woman fresh from her lover's bed, and more than ready to go back there. Her lips were red and swollen, her eyes dazed and dark with remembered passion. She could barely recognize herself.

She found her suitcase in the bedroom, and she wondered when Richard had brought it in for her. She dressed quickly, throwing on a long full skirt and an oversize cotton sweater, and made her way downstairs, barefoot, to the kitchen.

He was drinking a cup of coffee. He turned to look at her, slowly, his dark, unreadable eyes sliding over her body, and she waited for some teasing, offhand remark.

He said absolutely nothing. He simply put his coffee down and came toward her, slowly, deliberately, and she stood her ground. He took the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head. By the time he'd lifted her skirt and pushed her underwear down her legs, she'd already managed to unbuckle his belt, and when he pushed her down on the cluttered farm table amid the dishes, he was hard and ready for her, pushing inside her before she'd managed to lean back.

It was fast, silent, and inexorable. She barely noticed her discomfort, as each succeeding thrust shoved her farther across the table. Dishes shattered on the floor, but neither of them paid any attention. She came first, unable to stop herself, and he followed, quickly, sinking his head on her breast in panting surrender.

"It must be something about kitchens," he said in a thoughtful voice after a few moments.

She shoved at him, and he moved away from her, his jeans down around his thighs. He simply pulled them up and fastened them, then reached out a hand for her to help her off the table. "Mind the broken dishes," he said casually.

She looked up at him, at his outstretched hand, and wanted to scream or cry. She had given herself to him, willingly, but the reality of that was beginning to hit home as she lay spread-eagled on the kitchen table, still trembling with the aftermath of her brief, powerful orgasm. She had no defenses left. And the thought terrified her as nothing had before.

She ignored his hand, scrambling off the table with a fair amount of awkwardness, feeling like a fool. But Richard was having none of her avoidance. He reached out for her, and the awkwardness vanished, as it always did when he touched her. "You have a demoralizing effect on me," he added wryly.

She closed her eyes briefly, knowing that color was flaring in her face. Stupid to be embarrassed after all they'd done in the last twelve hours, stupid to be embarrassed with his semen dripping down her legs, but there it was. "As do you on me," she said in a quiet voice.

She didn't expect his response. The tenderness of his mouth against hers. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked up at him, completely vulnerable. "Good morning," he said softly.

And finally the humor of the situation hit her, and she managed to smile in return. "We already went a little past that, didn't we?" she said.

"We can always go back," he whispered, and kissed her again. And this time she put her arms around him and kissed him back, sweetly, with the doomed love that had taken possession of her heart.

"We're going down to see the children," he said. "Sally's expecting me, and I doubt she'll be surprised when she sees you. She always was a perceptive woman."

Cassidy felt the sharp stab of jealousy with something akin to wonder. She'd never considered herself a jealous, possessive person. She found she was a great deal more elemental than she'd ever thought. "Were you in love with her?"

"No. And she was perceptive enough to know that as well."

"But you had an affair with her. After you were married?" She was hoping he would deny it.

But the time for lies were past. "Yes," he said.

"And what did your wife think of that?"

"It made her insane." The words were lightly, eerily spoken.

"I don't think I want to hear about this," Cassidy said, moving away from him to pour herself a cup of coffee.

"Then don't ask," he said calmly enough. "We'll leave in half an hour. It's several hours' drive from here, and I want you to have time to get to know them."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Don't you want to see them? You don't have much time here before someone realizes you left the country. Don't you want to spend as much time as you can with your children? Don't you love them?"

"I'm planning to die for them," he said with icy simplicity. And he walked out of the room before she could take back her questions.

It was a glorious spring day. By the time Cassie changed and met Richard by the Vauxhall she'd left in the driveway, she'd made up her mind. She looked at him warily, unable to read his expression as he tossed a picnic hamper in the backseat of her car.

"What about a truce?" he said in his deep, slow voice.

"I hadn't realized we were still battling."

"We're always battling. On one level or another. Just for today, don't ask me any more questions. You aren't ready for the truth, and I'm sick to death of lying. Why don't we pretend we're a normal American couple, going for a peaceful drive in the English countryside? No deaths, no lies, no secrets. Just for today?"

She wasn't sure if she'd ever gone to him of her own accord before. She crossed the drive and put her arms around him, leaning her head against his shoulder. His arms came around to hold her, lightly, possessively, and she could hear his heart beating beneath her ear. Just as her own heart was pounding, in silent counterpoint with his. "Yes," she said.

It was lambing season. As Richard drove her rental car down the narrow lanes, they passed field after field of sheep and their new offspring. The hedgerows were still more twigs than leaves, but the daffodils were everywhere.

They drove in silence, listening to the BBC and the weather in Welsh. They drove in amiable conversation, speaking of childhood and loved books, of college years and favorite movies. Neither of them mentioned the past two years, neither of them mentioned family. Cassidy leaned back, watching as they sped down the narrow, twisty lanes, and wished it could go on forever and ever.

They reached the tiny town of Neatsfoot by late morning. Sally and the children seemed cozily ensconced in a cottage at the edge of the village, and while Cassie wondered why they didn't live in Richard's house at Herring Cross, she didn't ask. She was determined to keep her curiosity at bay for as long as she could. What she most needed to know she could discover simply by observing.

When she fought her irrational jealousy, she could see that the affection between Richard and Sally was no more than that. At least on Richard's side. He greeted his old friend easily enough, with a casual kiss that nevertheless felt like a knife in Cassie's belly. She wanted his passion, his obsession. She wanted his casual, comfortable affection as well.

His children were all over him, dragging him into the cottage, chattering at a rapid-fire speed that left Cassie dazed and smiling. She stood by the car, watching as they disappeared, then turned to meet Sally Norton's wary brown eyes.

"You came back," she said.

"I did," Cassie agreed.

Sally watched her for a long, thoughtful moment. "Come with me," she said abruptly. "I want to show you something."

No questions, Cassidy reminded herself, nodding her agreement. Not unless you can handle the answers.

Sally led her through the house, past the living room where the chatter of excited voices danced with the lower, calmer registers of Richard's deep voice. He was a good father, Cassidy realized with absent surprise. Calm, loving, totally involved. Though why she should have doubted that, when he was already willing and ready to die for them, was something she didn't bother to consider.

The garden was small, gray, with only the bright splash of yellow from the daffodils brightening the gloom. Cassidy took one last, longing glance at the house before she sat, waiting to hear what Sally had to say.

"You're not to betray him," she said abruptly.

"I never would."

"So you say. But he's not an easy man, and things are never what they seem to be."

"I know that."

"You think you know him so well?" Sally said with just a trace of bitterness.

"Yes."

"And you're in love with him, aren't you? Poor, silly girl," she said, the bitterness growing stronger.

She didn't deny it. "Tell me what I can do. How I can help."

Sally shook her head. "He's got you well and truly trapped, hasn't he? Just as he trapped me. He never pretended to love me, you know. That's part of his danger. He doesn't promise anything he's not willing to give, so you can't comfort yourself with the thought that you'd been misled. You have to accept the fact that you went into it, deliberately blinding yourself to the truth."

"What is the truth?"

"He'll never love you. I don't think he's capable of it. Oh, he's good in bed, as I'm sure you've very well aware. But his heart is in the grave, with his bitch of a wife. He worshipped her, you know. Everyone did. Sweet, saintly Diana, the little princess. Everyone was devoted to her. Even her children thought she was some kind of magical creature, though they rarely saw her."

"What do you mean?"

"She was too emotionally frail to take on the burden of children. She had a live-in nanny, and Richard did the majority of the child care. Little Diana could simply bask in the glow of maternity without doing any of the work."

"What about you?"

"I do the work, all right. I love these children, as much as if they were on my own. I don't want to give them up. I told Richard that my treatment could wait, but he wouldn't hear of it. I should have kept my mouth shut in the first place," she said bitterly.

"Why did you tell him?"

"Because if I hadn't, he'd probably be a dead man already. He wasn't fighting his death sentence, you know. He thought he had everything settled, between me and Mark Bellingham. It wasn't until I got sick that he accepted the appeal, accepted the fact that there was still something worth fighting for."

"Why? Why hasn't he told the truth, why is he letting them do this to him when you and I both know he didn't kill his wife?"

Sally Norton's smile was twisted. "Don't speak for me," she said. "I know what happened that night. He told me. If you want the truth, ask him."