Tainted Love

Tainted Love

Louisa Trent

Published 2003

ISBN 1-931761-74-X

Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright © 2003, Louisa Trent. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Liquid Silver Books http://www.liquidsilverbooks.com

Email: [email protected]

Cover Art by John William Waterhouse 1849-1917

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE

The year 1887. Bar Harbor, Maine.

Lillian Hill peered out the open coach door, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. A green sweep of century-old pines partially concealed her view, but she knew that within the cloak of silvery mist the windswept antique waited for her, teetering at the precipice of a rocky cliff high above an unforgiving sea. Isolated. Lonely. Cut off from the town below by both geography and design. Lillian cherished that sad recluse of a bygone era. Loved every tarnished shingle, every distorted wave in the glass windows, every weathered slate on the rooftop, every buckle and heave in the fieldstone foundation--every unique flaw and imperfection--that makes a house a home. The cottage lived in her heart, resided in her blood, inhabited her very bones; the four walls and a roof were as much a part of her as her own name. When the tears started to well, she willed herself to composure. Useless emotion served no purpose. The lathered horses were growing restive, and the coachman, impatient to be on his way, had already deposited her valise upon the ground. Like it or not, it was time to face the past. Squaring her shoulders, she hopped out onto the winding curve of the pebbled drive, careful not to show even the merest hint of a well-turned ankle in her descent. With a dismissive wave at the driver, and taking her luggage firmly in hand, she started through the cottage's rose-covered front gates, her stride purposeful yet decorous. Mid-way through the latticework arbor, she took a surreptitious peek behind her. Seeing that the shabby carriage had bumped and groaned its way around the bend in the lane and had all but disappeared down the treacherous hill, she dumped her horribly frumpy, but oh-so-practical, black reticule back onto the ground. Next to go was her dull, navy-blue bonnet. This, she launched skyward. When the hideous hat landed, resembling a misshapen tulle toadstool on the drive, she kicked the flattened monstrosity out of sight, out of mind. Her practical dove-gray wrap followed suit. The mantle didn't fly nearly as high or get kicked nearly as far, though hers was a valiant effort, if she did say so herself. Inspired--well, actually, as rash as a case of poison ivy--she peeled off her tasteful but detested gloves. A toss later and the black kid decorated a nearby trumpet vine. Good heavens! She thought, inhaling the fragrant red petals of her grandmother's prize-winning American Pillar roses. Whatever would the good people of Bar Harbor say if they could see her now? Why, her actions were quite, quite scandalous. Though, not nearly as scandalous as the time she had danced naked outside under the moon. Now there was scandal! She still remembered how her tangled red hair had tickled her sublimely bare bottom, and how a pair of dark brooding eyes had made her flesh burn. She set out to tease the somber owner of those dark brooding eyes, and had succeeded admirably. Laughing in memory, Lillian spun in a giddy circle, just as she did back then. Crushed stones scattered under her eminently serviceable leather boots. A messy tornado of gray dust whipped into a billowing frenzy. The gritty cloud gradually settled, coating the homely bombazine skirts of her traveling gown.

Lord, but she felt dizzy! The world really was going 'round much too fast, and she really was flying much too high on an air bubble of homecoming happiness. But ever mindful that a nice long, pointy hatpin waited in the wings to puncture her euphoria and drop her back down to earth, she said to hell with it, and spun all the faster. Her gaze bounced into her grandmother's gardens. With messy results. Her spinning blended the carefully arranged orchestration of harmonious hues into a discordant jumble. Not liking the muddy color mix one bit, her feet stilled. Once her equilibrium was restored, she identified each plant individually, finding not one, sweet, safe pastel in the bunch. None of those pale flowers for her grandmother! Oh, no. Pastels bleached out in the afternoon sun. Victoria Hill picked vibrant tones. Juicy colors. Sensual displays of plants that brought a blush to the observer's cheeks for having the audacity to stare too long. Spread before her like a sprawled lover was a sensory orgy. Sensual displays... Sensory orgy... Sprawled lover... Spread... Hisssss! The pointed hatpin began to do its work. Not a clean merciful pop, mind you, but a slow, flattening leak. Hisssss! Hisssss! Hisssss! There it went again. Like a hot air balloon losing its hydrogen, her homecoming giddiness deflated on a slow expulsion of flammable gas. Don't anyone strike a tinderbox near her! Much sobered, Lillian concentrated on the scene before her. She would do anything--anything at all--to bolster her small store of courage. The kitchen garden was much the same as she remembered; the pungent green scent of aromatic plants still filled the warm air. Her industrious grandmother had already harvested some of the herbs; these were hung upside down to dry from the porch rafters. The neat bunches, tied with brown-corded string, swung back and forth in the damp ocean breeze. Everything was all so familiar, yet achingly different too. Biting her lip so she wouldn't cry, Lillian recalled all those happy summer days spent churning up and planting this sun-kissed earth. The dark loam was so rich and fertile, anything would grow in it. On the left, dominating an entire corner of the garden, was situated a clump of woolly thyme. The invasive creeper had always been one her grandmother's most disobedient plants; the herb absolutely refused to be disciplined or contained. Given free rein, the ground cover took over everything, spilling out over the walkway, growing between the driest and most inhospitable cracks in the porous stones. Lillian understood. Once upon a time, she had been wild too. No more. Now she was as tame and as mannerly as the great drifts of lavender that softened the cottage's fieldstone foundation, and like those showy plants, she had become self-contained and self-consciously ornamental, essentially attractive and entirely useless--a damn fashion accessory draped around the arm of a certain wealthy and prominent Boston banker... Lillian glided to her knees and began to pull weeds. Faster and faster, she grabbed and yanked, the discards forming a wilted pile in no time at all. My, how good the sun-warmed soil felt between her fingers! Gardening was far more therapeutic than the laudanum her baffled physicians had prescribed to aid her troubled sleep. Soon Lillian had lost herself in the mindless occupation. Popping up long-rooted dandelions. Digging out

stubborn crabgrass. All while carefully leaving behind fledgling seedlings-Volunteers, her grandmother called them--to grow on without competition. Nothing was better for the nerves than playing in the dirt. A pity, sunshine and warm earth didn't come in medicinal form... Suddenly, the distinct feeling that someone watched her from behind the trees threatened her newfound peace of mind. Was that the fall of a footstep she heard above the soothing drone of bees and birds? Her soiled fingertips fluttered as a shot of misplaced energy sent a zing up her spinal column. Her hands retreated up her thighs, leaving muddy skid marks on her gown in their wake. From the force of recently acquired habit, her hands finally wound up in her lap--a hard landing--and clasped themselves tight, much too tight, to mask any remaining unsteadiness. "Who is there?" she called, scrutinizing the dense cover of trees. "Did I frighten you?" At the sound of that warm and sensual voice, she jumped. At the sight of the man stepping out from behind his cover of new budded leaves, she trembled from head to foot. "Yes!" she cried. "You did frighten me!" Her answer was the first thing that popped to mind. Unfortunately, the spontaneous reply was also the truth, and the truth was not necessarily the best way to deal with Doyle Donovan. The truth would give this man too much power over her. Too much control. The truth might very well get her killed.

CHAPTER TWO

"I never meant to frighten you, Lily." Doyle's baritone rendition of her shortened first name started a raging turmoil in her belly. How was it that he could make two small syllables sound so utterly, shockingly, masculine? His voice, his rugged and careless good looks, had always attracted her. Dressed in a countrified tweed jacket and rough wool trousers, one would think him a common laborer, an Irish ditch-digger. Or perhaps some other poor immigrant lucky to have a day's pay lining his patched pocket. But appearances were deceptive. And wasn't she well acquainted with that particular homily! For in truth, Doyle didn't toil in the streets with a shovel in hand but behind a drawing board in an office, a pencil gripped. Educated at Yale, once employed by a prestigious New York City partnership, he worked as an architect. Credentials made him no less the renegade, not in thought and certainly not in behavior. He had never observed the social conventions of dress or practiced the affectation of toilette. Case in point: Doyle eschewed both haberdashers and barbers. His head was always rebelliously bare; his dark hair at least two inches too long for whatever the current whim of fashion. He was hatless today too, and his neglected hair cried out for a trim.

Some things don't change. Like Doyle's smile, which still hung lopsided on his firm lips, a picture frame defying adjustment. His features, when analyzed separately, should not have produced a handsome impression. But he did make a handsome impression, all the same. His face was so much more than the sum of its parts; the depth of the man so much more than what was seen on the surface. How many times in the past had she asked herself why a face so lacking in symmetry was all the more attractive because of the crookedness? How many times in the present had she asked herself why it was impossible to forget a man who had so easily forgotten her? To hide the hurt of his heedlessness, Lillian dropped her gaze to the level of plant roots. Under the guise of restoring a stray wisp of hair to its rightful place within the tight confines of her chignon, she kept her eyes lowered as she murmured a desultory, "You didn't frighten me. Not really. I was only startled--that's all." He reached a hand toward her. "Allow me to help you up," he demanded, rather than asked. Some things don't change. Somehow, some way, she found the necessary fortitude to lift her chin. "No thank you." "Come now," he coaxed, hand still extended. "There on your knees, before a man's boots, anyone would think you were sucking cock." Lillian gasped, horrified. Not at his words, oh no. But at the very pleasant image that coarse phrase conjured up. Lest he know there was nothing, literally nothing, she wished more than to feel the hard thrust of his sex in her mouth, she had to do something, say something. But what? Perhaps she should jump up and slap his face. Done, of course, while uttering an outraged, 'How dare you, sir!' That would be a fine set-down, and no more than he richly deserved. On second thought, she thought not. In her present state of agitation, her shaking knees wouldn't allow for any jumping. As to outraged utterances ... she doubted her dull tongue could form anything sharper than an incomprehensible babble. So, what to do? Well, if not a disdainful slap, at the very minimum she must wear the stamp of tacit disapproval; otherwise, he might assume--rightly--that he had some affect on her. Hanging onto her reserve for dear life, she gave him a cutting stare from her kneeling position at his feet. At least, it was her best attempt at a cutting stare. For all she knew, she might have been making calf eyes at him while groveling at his boots. "I apologize," he said, her stare hitting its mark. "That remark was uncalled for. A gentleman would never have spoken such crudeness. It was your positioning that brought the thought to my lips, and a lack of

restraint on my part that let it go. Please--allow me to assist you." Wasn't it so like Doyle to offer a straightforward acknowledgment of his shortcomings! Wasn't it so like her to try to mask her own! "You are far too kind, sir. Sad to say, I must decline your gracious offer of assistance. I would certainly not wish to sully you," she said archly. Praying her fingers wouldn't shake--and thereby give away her apprehension--she showed him her stained palms. "See? Quite filthy." His outstretched arm never wavered. "I do own soap," he quipped, as if soiled hands were of no import, when they both knew the dirt on her hands was not the washable kind. "All the same, I can manage very well on my own, Mr. Donovan." She regained her feet, albeit gracelessly. "Mister Donovan, is it? After all there is between us, you actually propose we return to the preposterousness of calling one another by our surnames?" "I think, under the circumstances, a certain formality would serve us both well. Proper decorum cannot be over-valued," she said primly. "You never observed social etiquette in the past!" "To my lasting detriment, Mr. Donovan." Her eyes slanted away. "Very well. If the lady insists, we shall play out this absurd charade." He bowed. "Miss Hill, I must say I am surprised to see you in these gardens again." In a flurry of nerves, Lillian felt herself blush. In the intervening years since leaving Bar Harbor, she had become somewhat of an expert at controlling her features. However, she had yet to master the hot blushes that gave her innermost thoughts away. Hoping to hide the flush with busyness, she wiped her grimy fingers on the finely twilled fabric of her skirts. "Surprised? I was only weeding." "Obviously. And that is not at all what I meant." Her mouth opened to protest his mocking tone. Only to snap shut again. What was the use of defending herself? They both knew she deserved his sarcasm, his derision, his ... loathing. "Go ahead," he prompted. "Say it." At his goading, tongue-tied changed rapidly to spite. "Nothing was ever obvious to you, Mr. Donovan!" Doyle's dark eyes turned to onyx. His pupils had always glinted like black jewels when on the edge of

anger. Some things, like a man's changeable eye color, were difficult to forget no matter how hard one tried. And other things, like a wronged man's rage, were better left alone. Obviously, she had never learned that lesson. Much to his credit--and the assuagement of her trepidation--he banked his fury. "I don't know why you took me unawares," he said calmly enough. "I should have expected to see you at some point. For the past month, Mrs. Hill has talked of little else but your visit." Her grandmother was not supposed to tell anyone! Especially not Doyle. Why was he here? "Far better for us to have run into each other in private," she said with a feeble attempt at olive branch waving. "Why do you say that?" he asked, ignoring the weak peace offering. "W-w-why?" she stammered. "Well ... I suppose ... now that we are reacquainted, we can be civil to one another ... should we happen to meet again ... by chance ... in public." Something flickered behind his dark eyes and he gave a harsh bark of laughter. "Do you really think we can be civil to one other, after all that has happened?" A nerve-driven retort moved to the outermost tip of her tongue; she willed the words to dissipate. "That is entirely up to you," she said coolly, pleasantly, her outward poise belying her inner turmoil. He spoke low. "You are just as beautiful as ever." Her hard-won composure slipped then, and she frowned, but she didn't look away. In horror, her eyes remained glued to his in a kind of macabre fascination. "Please. Do not..." "No cause for concern. I can admire your beauty as I would a work of art, distant and removed. Unlike the rest of your male admirers, I am immune to your charms." "How nice for you," she snipped with a show of her old girlhood defiance. She turned to leave then--to escape, actually--and when she did, the fingers of her left hand accidentally brushed his arm. It was only the briefest of contacts, and yet she was not left unscathed: her hands trembled all over again. And this time, her shaking had nothing to do with nerves. Doyle had always been able to make her tremble. At seventeen, she had been aware of him as a woman is aware of a man; the slow burn of carnal heat was all they ever really had in common. After that, her defiance died a quick death. No longer did she pretend to fearlessness, for she was afraid. Very afraid. Of him ... of herself. "If you will excuse me?" she whispered. "I won't stand in your way." She made to move past him, and stalled. Despite his words, Doyle most definitely stood in her way. Deliberately? Tauntingly? Was his silent stance threatening in some undefined way? Or, did he block her escape route simply because he had no place else to go?

The brick garden path was narrow, and Doyle was a large man. Clearly, he wasn't budging, and stubbornly, she refused to ask him to step aside. He was an immovable wall she needed to tread carefully around. Some things don't change. Locking her lips together in an obstinate line, she cold-shouldered her way past. "Pardon me?" "I wish I could," he said softly. "Unfortunately, I am not that noble." She froze. Nothing quite like a cold confrontation with the truth for raising goose bumps despite the heat of the day. "It happened long ago..." "Ten years this summer to be exact." "Is that hostility I hear in your voice? And here I thought you were immune to me," she said sweetly, coyly ... disingenuously. "You think me hostile? That lukewarm emotion doesn't come close to what I feel. Would you like to know what is really running through my mind?" "Not particularly. I fear it's still far too early in the day for me. I never do sentimental until late afternoon tea." Her small breasts lifted and fell. Rapidly. Boston was invariably steamy during the summer, and the day she left town was no exception. Still, she had not given up even one of her horsehair petticoats. The hired carriage had been as hot as Hades, and though she had wished to undo the top button on her gown, she did nothing of the kind. She made no concession to the rising temperatures whatsoever--until she had removed her summer cloak within the privacy of the cottage gates. Now, without a covering, there was no way for her to hide the two conspicuously raised spots on her bodice where her tingling had increased by a few hundred volts of sexual awareness. Her nipples jutted beyond the bounds of good taste as she attempted to circumnavigate his hard body, her breasts achy within the confines of her linen chemise. The corset she wore, laced far too tight for her small bosom, only served to accentuate her unchaste response to the man whose gaze even now raked her figure. There was nothing coy, sweet, or disingenuous in Doyle's look. He eyed her bosom openly, keenly observing her elongated nipples, as no gentleman ever would. Then again, and by his own admission, Doyle had never professed to be a gentleman. And, for her own part, she had never behaved as a lady ought to behave, when with him. "Do your nipples still redden with carnal excitement?" he asked. "Does your honey still flow sweet and pearled between your thighs?" Ignoring his cruel taunt, Lily worked on putting one foot in front of the other. Five more steps and she would gain the cottage's front door. She was a survivor. Surely, she could survive a few more paltry feet--before she fainted.

"Go ahead," he called after her. "You were always good at running away." Pride kept her from doing just that. Forcing herself to take a shallow breath, she schooled herself to keep moving. Slowly. "Miss Hill..." "Yes?" she replied over her shoulder, still moving. "Now that you are home, best take care." Regardless of his proper address, regardless of the heat of the day, the warning sent a chill down her spine.

CHAPTER THREE

"Is that you, dear?" "Yes, Grandmama." Lillian closed her eyes tight to prevent the betraying moisture from escaping. "I ... caught my heel in the carpet." "Well, get yourself uncaught! Mary baked your favorites--cinnamon rolls. And we are holding tea." "Lovely! Just give me a moment," Lillian called gaily, as though she didn't have a care in the world. Her feelings, ambivalent or otherwise, hardly mattered in the scheme of things. For the first time ever, a proud gentleman, a portrait painter she and her grandmother both loved, had requested a special favor of her and she was not about to disappoint him. She had disappointed far too many people in her life. Not this time. Not this man. She had returned home to enable the failing artist to complete what might possibly be his last work. She had given her word to do so; it was a promise she was determined to honor... ...if it were the last thing she ever did. Anthony Camaro loved life. He had certainly lived it to the fullest, even now when his health wasn't the best. And because the artist would bristle if glum faces and sickbed whispers surrounded him, her grandmother and she had made a secret pact--one of the many secrets they shared--to shield their concern from him. During her visit, there would be no sorrowful expressions, no coddling, no hovering ... and absolutely no moping. Tony just hated moping. They would go on much as they always had done, keeping their true feelings hidden away. Squaring her shoulders, Lillian quit her stalling and pushed off against the white woodwork, smiling as she passed Mary in the hall. The village girl came daily to help out with the heavier household chores. For the most part, though, Victoria Hill lived informally. At her advanced age, she still did much of her own domestic work, having always considered a live-in servant an intrusion on her privacy.

Lillian turned the corner down the narrow hallway, papered in the same cabbage-rose design from her girlhood, and entered the dining room. A gasp escaped the tightly controlled line of her mouth. For one heartbeat, it felt like only ten minutes, not ten years, since she had been gone. Her grandmother stood beside the sideboard, the same place she had stood all those years ago when they said their goodbyes. Henri, Victoria Hill's spoiled black cat was, as usual, at her feet. The timelessness of the scene almost crushed her. And when her grandmother opened her arms wide, and said, "Welcome home. You have been gone entirely too long, my girl," the clock was pushed back further still. Helpless not to, Lillian slipped back into the role of much loved grandchild even as she slipped into her nana's embrace. "I missed you so much. I missed everything so much!" Lillian sobbed; this time, no amount of lip biting or eye rubbing could hold back the tears. "So sorry. This is not at all what I wished to do." "Child, crying is exactly what you need to do." "It's just that--it was never the same when you and Tony visited me in Boston. We all knew it, and we all pretended otherwise." Lillian sniffed. "I must have thought about this one room a thousand times a day. I thought I would never see the cottage again." "Children are like birds--let them fly from the nest and they find their way back eventually. I knew you would come home. It took courage, girl, but here you stand." "Courage? Me? You must have me confused with another granddaughter." "Considering you are the one and only, that would seem highly improbable." Lillian looked away. "Bravery has never been my strong suit..." "Oh, but you are brave. Strong too. Mark my words, someday you will come to realize it too, and then you will be quite the formidable woman. A woman, I daresay, to be reckoned with." "If you say so." "I just did," Victoria reiterated, then firmly set her granddaughter aside. "For a woman close to eighty, you haven't mellowed." Victoria looked down her longish nose. "Certainly not! You will find I am just as domineering and opinionated as ever. I have lived life on my terms, without apology, and I am not about to change at this juncture." "And I wouldn't wish you to." Smiling through the tears, Lillian remembered her stained hands. "Look at me! Home five minutes and already my fingernails are dirty. The urge to weed in your herb garden was just too irresistible to refuse."

"Go wash up in the kitchen. Mary already filled the pitcher with warm water; it's by the basin. Tea will be here waiting when your hands are clean." "Tea!" Lillian grumbled, making her way to the back room. "The cure for everything." "That's right! Make fun of an old woman!" Victoria harrumphed, following at Lillian's heels. "But I say there is nothing like a pot of good brew for what ails you. Besides, when one has led an unconventional life, it is imperative to conduct oneself conventionally whenever possible. Tea serves that purpose. Now, no more dawdling!" Blue-veined hands were clapped. "To the dry sink with you. Never keep a woman of my robust appetite waiting too long for her afternoon crumpets." Reverting to childhood obedience, Lillian scurried to the basin and soaped up while her grandmother stood behind her, chatting on about everyday happenings. The elderly lady's words flowed together in a lyrical stream, her calming narrative washing over Lillian like the steady flow of water over smooth stones. Her grandmother rarely raised her voice, but Victoria Hill's softly modulated tones didn't fool Lillian; iron lurked behind the velvet. At seventeen, Lillian had discovered that it was never what Victoria Hill said that mattered; it was what she didn't say. "...and what with his book expounding the Modern Movement, Doyle's private architect business has taken off these last few years." Lillian stopped her hand lathering. "Excuse me?" Victoria repeated herself. "I was only relating how successful Doyle has become since the publication of his book." Lillian reached for the drying cloth always kept on a brass nail next to the sink. "I knew publication was Doyle's dream. But then his parents died, and he gave up the luxury of writing to pursue his architectural career. Are you saying he has authored a book?" "If you were listening, dear, you would know that is precisely what I just related--along with the information that the book is enormously popular amongst a certain set. He has the time to write now that he need no longer worry over those rascal brothers of his. John has his own business. Young Theodore is affianced." Lillian followed Victoria back out to the dining room, taking a seat directly across from her grandmother at the polished table and diagonal to a large glass vase of flowers. "Theodore, betrothed?" Lillian asked, intently watching moisture slide down the sides of the silver teapot her grandmother poured. "Why, when I left he was only a lad." Victoria sighed. "When you left, you were no more than a girl yourself. And you know what they say--children grow up so quickly. Doyle did a marvelous job raising his younger brothers. No easy feat, that." Lillian took a quick sip from her bone china cup. "This is wonderful. I missed your Earl Grey." "Hmm. I sense a cool breeze and a change of subject in the offing. Have I said too much?" "No! Of course not. Tell me everything. All the gossip. I missed Bar Harbor, especially the cottage, so

much." "Your father was the same way. Reginald was never happy unless the creaking of these old walls lulled him to sleep at night." "I always loved the idea that I was born right here." Victoria's eyes took on a faraway cast. "It was wonderful having a newborn in the house. Your parents took over the whole east wing. They were so in love. A fairy tale kind of love, really." Lillian twirled her tealeaves at the bottom of her cup. "And then Mother became ill." "And in less than a year's time she was gone. Reggie was never the same after Mary's death. His heart had always been weak, and after she died, he just didn't care anymore. You, his painting, nothing could keep him here on this earth after your mother's passing. He just never recovered from the sadness." Lillian's smile was wistful. "If I close my eyes, I can still see Father outside painting, the cottage at his back. I was ... let's see ... four or five years old at the time, I would guess, as he died shortly thereafter. He was splashing big blobs of pink paint upon the canvas--the wild beach roses on the sea walk. To this day, that is how I remember him, like an image from a storybook." "This property will all be yours someday, child." Lillian shook her head. "Somehow Grandmama ... I mean after all that has happened ... it seems wrong that I should inherit." "Nonsense! My dear, all this belongs to you. The estate. The land. It is your inheritance." Victoria stirred more sugar into her tea. "More importantly, it is what your grandfather wished." "But..." "No buts about it! I informed my attorney you were coming home, and he rechecked my will. It is ironclad; only one other person might possibly inherit, and we both know the horrible plans William has for the cottage." Lillian crumbled her cinnamon muffin. "Grandfather would have disliked that eventuality." "That, my dear, is an understatement! Your grandfather would roll over in his grave if your cousin got his greedy hands on this property. William would turn the cottage into a hotel for vacationers! Imagine this cottage renting out rooms like a common boarding house!" Lillian laughed. No one played snob like Victoria Hill and no one but a snob would call a twenty-room mansion with a barn and outbuildings, a cottage. Notwithstanding her grandmother's pretentiousness, there was no real money in the Hill family. Not any more. There hadn't been true wealth for years, although her grandmother held onto the illusion. The only thing left to the Hill estate was the deteriorating cottage and the overgrown land, both of which needed a tremendous amount of work. Unfortunately, renovation required an expenditure of capital that just wasn't there. No help for it, Lillian brought up the thorny issue. "What if Charles and I don't live in Maine after our

marriage?" "We must cross that bridge when we come to it. Naturally, I had hoped that you would live here in Bar Harbor but..." "Yes?" Lillian prompted. "How is Charles, dear? What a shame he couldn't get away with you!" "Please don't feel slighted. Bankers are always so busy." "As long as he makes time for you!" "He does what he can. The situation is sure to improve in a few years." "I realize you have only recently become affianced, but I do so wish to meet your young man! Soon. As in, before the wedding. Speaking of which, have you set a date?" Forgetting herself, Lillian said, "No!" a little too vehemently. At her grandmother's raised brows, she covered her gaffe. "I ... that is to say ... we have a few details to work through before we can make definite plans." Victoria crooked her jaw above the lacy collars she was so fond of wearing. Her sharp eyes went soft and dreamy. "Ah Lillian, I can picture you walking down the center aisle at St. Sebastian's now. Such a quaint setting for a wedding." Her grandmother's uncharacteristic naiveté left Lillian stunned. Have her wedding in Bar Harbor? How dreadful. Why, a fancy wedding here in town would be little better than a three-ring circus! And, my God, what of Charles? The thought of him learning the grizzly truth about her notorious past through gossip stopped Lillian's heart. She had tried to tell her fiancé about her past so many times. About Doyle. About Frank Johnson. He always refused to listen... And perhaps she hadn't tried hard enough. Charles made no bones about demanding a perfect, unblemished bride--what would he say upon learning she was hardly that? When Lillian gulped from her raised cup, the hot tea burnt the tip of her tongue. Maybe she was being too hard on Charles; maybe he would understand. Maybe he would forgive her. But, deep down, she knew he would not. How could she possibly expect a conservative and self-righteous man like Charles to wed her after finding out that a decade ago she had been involved in a love triangle that resulted in a man's suspicious death? Lillian cleared her throat. "There are quaint churches in Boston too." Her grandmother returned her teacup to its saucer. "This is about Frank Johnson, isn't it? That young

man's death was ruled accidental, young lady!" "Everyone in town believes he was murdered." "What do you expect people to believe? Everyone in town is owned lock, stock and barrel by Frank's father. Not only is he a wealthy attorney, the Johnson family paper business is the largest employer in Maine. Between land and timber and factories and the law, the Johnson's have this state all sewn up. Frank's father needs someone to blame for his only child's death." Lillian fiddled with her engagement ring, and then looked up into her grandmother's eyes for understanding. "Charles is from an illustrious Boston society family. His parents think it's scandalous enough that I am a member of the Arts and Crafts movement! If my past also becomes known, he will break off our engagement, toss me out like a ...like a..." She held up the drooping red head of a spent blossom "...like a wilted rose." Her grandmother tried to hide her appalled expression behind her napkin. Lillian saw it anyway. "Don't feel sorry for me Nana," she said, using the childhood appellation for her grandmother. "Haven't you always said that in the end, people get what they deserve?" "I was talking about criminals, not my own granddaughter!" "I am gratified you have made the distinction. I wonder if Charles will?" "Howbeit public opinion, if your young man loves you, truly loves you, he will stand by you, no matter what." Lillian said nothing. Victoria's posture went ram rod straight. "Then Charles is not the man for you!" So much for their light and pleasant homecoming! Back-pedaling fast before their first day together was ruined, Lillian said, "Husband material like grandfather is a rarity." Victoria Hill shot her grandchild a knowing look. "Ah ... I feel another cool breeze drifting my way. Fine, dear. We shall change the subject." She smiled. "Your grandfather was indeed a wonderful husband. Actually, I have been lucky in love twice in my life." "How is Tony doing?" "Tony is ... well ... improving. The doctors say a warmer clime might be beneficial ... we shall have to wait and see," the older woman explained, rising from the table. "I am so looking forward to talking with hi..." When her shoulder was tapped, Lillian turned 'round, sentence left dangling, and saw an envelope in her grandmother's hand. "This letter came for you first thing this morning, dear. I best give it to you now before I forget. Curious, someone knowing of your arrival."

Lillian's fingers trembled before ever touching the expensive linen stationary, the same brand of stationary she had received at random intervals for the past ten years. Handling the envelope as little as possible, she shoved the letter into the side pocket of her gown. Then jumped to her feet. The walls were closing in on her. She held out her hand to her grandmother. "Show me the gardens. Please?"

CHAPTER FOUR

"You have gone pale, child," Victoria said, clasping her grandchild's slim fingers in her gnarled grip. "Your hand is like ice. Has something upset you?" "It's nothing. Unimportant." "I see. Well, we needn't talk about ... unimportant nothings ... right now if you would rather not, dear. After all, this is only your first day home. Ample time later to discuss whatever it is that is bothering you." The glue holding her together all these years had started to fail. Lillian mustn't let it happen! She was a grown woman; the days of running crying to her nana with every little nick and scrape and ... death threat ... were long since past. Victoria Hill was an intelligent woman, and already suspicious. Lillian read alarm in her sharp eyes; heard misgiving in her questioning voice. It wouldn't take much for her grandmother to start piecing certain things together. Determined not to show how disturbed the letter had made her, Lillian stretched her tight lips into a carefree smile. "May I borrow a pair of gardening gloves and boots, in case there is time to dig before the sun goes down?" Victoria pulled a pout. "And here I thought you had come to Bar Harbor to see me when all along the gardens were the real reason for your visit." "You found me out!" Gratefully, Lillian went along with the tease, neither of the women fooling the other. Victoria clucked: "Our recent rains have turned the soil to mud back here--why not change out of your gown first?" At the thought of entering her old bedchamber, Lillian felt her knees go weak. Ten years had passed, and she still wasn't ready to walk up those stairs again. "Difficult to worry over dirtying a gown already covered in traveling dust." Holding open the screen door, her grandmother preceded Lillian down the pitted, granite stairs. "You need comfortable clothes for gardening. I do hope the trousers I have for you will fit." Victoria giggled like a schoolgirl. "Grandmother! Really! I am positively scandalized. Trousers?"

"I hazard to say, they will soon be all the rage, especially for athletic pursuits. So much less cumbersome than a bulky riding habit when one is seated on a horse." Victoria twittered. "I purchased us both a set in a mail-order catalogue." At Lillian's raised brow, Victoria continued with inordinate relish. "No corset is worn underneath, my dear. When wearing trousers, the natural female figure is emphasized. I tell you, Tony was quite aflutter when he saw me gardening in mine. I believe the snug fit re-energized his ailing heart." "I cannot possibly wear men's trousers!" Lillian said, aghast. "Why ever not? You did all the time as a girl. There are several pairs in your chest that I kept for you. And speaking of fashion sense..." "Which we were most definitely not..." "Quite so. But tell me, whatever happened to yours? That gray bombazine borders on the dowdy." "I don't follow current trends." "Why ever not? I certainly wore stylish clothes when I was your age! Even when I was twice your age." "I am a teacher..." "So?" "The so is that students have certain expectations of their teachers. A staid manner of dressing is one of them." "Oh, balls!" "Nana!" "Twenty-eight is still young! It's about time you stopped acting as though you were middle-aged and started acting your real age. And lands sake, missy! You teach color design! Well, I say, add some color to your wardrobe or I shall be driven to a fit of melancholy just looking at you." Lillian winced. At times, her grandmother's astute observations stung. However, she would never admit to the woman who raised her that her teaching position was only an excuse for cornering the market on dowdy; in reality, frumpy was her disguise. She had done such a good job of it too that she hardly recognized herself when she looked in the mirror these days. And that was not necessarily a bad thing. With a sigh, Lillian let it all go. She was already saying too much, revealing too much ... thinking entirely too much. There was no reason for her grandmother to know that these days she lived her life quietly, correctly, never doing or saying or dressing in any way that might bring unwanted scrutiny in her direction. Lillian Hill never rocked the boat, never called notice to herself, was never, ever, provocative. Fading into the shadows was the only way she knew to keep her past a secret. "Lillian?" her grandmother questioned. "Where have you gone, young lady? Someplace nice, I hope?" "Not nearly as nice as here."

To get all that well-meaning, grandmotherly attention off her and onto something else, Lillian pointed to some clay pots "Those are lovely plants." "Doyle brought them by." "Oh?" Lillian asked in a show of feigned indifference. "He asks after you all the time. I imagine the reason I see him as often as I do is because I tell him news of you." "We bumped into each other on the front path," Lillian finally disclosed. Victoria exclaimed more heatedly than convincingly, "It was purely accidental that Doyle was still here upon your arrival! I get so lonely for conversation, and Doyle is a receptive audience. He always listens without complaint to an old lady's grumblings about cabbage moths and such. I thought he would be long gone by the time you arrived." "Oh? Really..." "Very well! I admit it: I cleaved unto him like snow in January, and I did so intentionally, in hopes that he would be here when you arrived. There! I have confessed to interfering in your life. Now are you satisfied?" Lillian's reply was a glib: "Thought so." Victoria glimmered at her. "You wicked girl! You dragged that confession out of me and you know it! And now, I suppose, you will make me beg to find out how your meeting went." "Begging is not necessary. Actually, the meeting went as expected. I was prepared." Doyle's eyes! They had jolted her. How to prepare for the jolt of an earthquake? "Nothing dramatic happened." The slight brush of his arm had set off a fission of fire inside her. "Boring, actually." Her too-sensitive breasts had tingled excitedly. "Doyle was polite and I was polite. End of story. Now let's change the subject. Please? Tell me about your gardens." Victoria's footsteps slowed, then stopped. "Funny you should ask. I have been mulling over this idea in my head for days. I know it's sentimental, but I don't care. I would like you to start a perennial garden right here on this spot for me. Not just any garden: a real keepsake. When you return to Boston, I shall look out my back window and think of you, watch the garden grow just as I watched you grow as a little girl. Please dear? It would mean so much." "Your sweet little-old-lady look is wasted on me, Grandmother. I think a Memory Garden is a lovely idea. Do you have any suggestions for the design?" "Austere simplicity, I should think. Ask Doyle," Victoria said with a breezy toss of her head. "He will know which landscape features will best suit the line of this house. The man is an architectural genius." She meant well, but Lillian could almost hear the machinations of her grandmother's brain concocting this scheme. "Please don't push so!" "I am not pushing," Victoria protested in her best-aggrieved tone. "The Memory Garden will simply

provide an opportunity for you to talk to Doyle. Really talk to him. And not solely about how buildings and landscape should compliment one another, either; about the past too." "Oh, come here, you," Lillian cried, pulling her grandmother close. "You win. I shall go see Doyle." "Good! Doyle meant so much to you when you were a girl. What came after, well, I shall leave you to discuss that with him." When the back screen slammed, Lillian looked up. "Tony!" "Obviously, waiting to see you proved too much," her grandmother confided. Lillian rushed to the ailing artist, arms out-stretched. "Tony, you look wonderful!" she exclaimed ignoring his frailty. "Grandmama must be making you happy!" Tony enthusiastically kissed Lillian's proffered cheek. "Your grandmother has been making me happy for many years. I would do anything for that woman. But how are you? Did you have any problem getting away from your teaching position?" She rolled her eyes. "My students at the Normal Art School won't even miss me." "Young lady, never forget that you are a trailblazer! As one of the first wave of female graduates from the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston you have a responsibility to the women who follow after you, not only to teach, but to paint seriously!" "I paint. A little. For my own pleasure. Every now and again," she said evasively. "You must show your work. That is an artist's obligation!" In many respects, Tony sounded just like her grandmother. Not exactly disappointed in her, but not exactly thrilled about the direction her life had taken either. Both her grandmother and Tony were so eager for her to be happy! For their sakes, she would put on the best act of her life. Holding her at arm's length, Tony surveyed her with an artist's critical eye, free of sentimentality in his pursuit of the truth. "Now that you are home we must fatten you up; you are naught but skin and bone! The cuisine of my native Italy is the best medicine in the world. Put on a little weight and you might have enough energy to paint seriously again." Her grandmother gave an inelegant snort. "Anthony, you think all women should be as fleshy as your life models." "Not all women," Tony responded with a diluted version of his former leer. "For instance, I have always believed that you, Victoria, are just right." Her grandmother chortled and elbowed him ... but ever so gently. Tony and her grandmother were still as passionate as ever. How did they do it? After beaming at his long-time flame, her former teacher returned his sights to her. "Lillian, I am here to remind you of your portrait."

She groaned. A certain amount of reluctance was expected of her. Her relationship with Tony was built upon mutual respect and affection ... and a great deal of teasing. That was the way their relationship would continue, regardless of the artist's recent debility. "You still intend to paint Grandmama and me?" Another groan here, louder this time. Tony beamed his enjoyment of the good-natured sparring. "It won't be so very terrible," he cajoled. "My preliminary sketches of your grandmother are finished, so there will be just the two of us in the studio. I promise not to take up too much of your time. And if nothing else, it will give us chance to talk." "You mean, I listen while you meddle," Lillian grumbled, because grumbling was expected of her. "Exactly." He grinned hugely. "I was hoping this portrait would be the impetus you need to start painting again. Seriously. You have the potential to be a fine artist. Just like your father." When Lillian averted her gaze to mask her tears--she was deeply moved by the compliment--Victoria wagged her finger at her long-time companion. "You will get plenty of time to set this girl straight now that she is home. No more persuasion for now." Victoria looked over at granddaughter and winked. "We shall get out of your hair now, child. Will you be all right alone?" "Of course," Lillian replied. She restrained her shiver until the lovers had turned away.

****

Lillian worked in the gardens until dark. Then, removing her muddy boots by the granite steps, she went back inside the house. Spine straight, she climbed the steep staircase to her second-floor bedchamber. The wide pine risers had slanted with age, and they creaked--unless, of course, one stepped on exactly the right spot on the tread, which she always did. There was no special talent involved in the careful placement of her feet; the right spot was readily apparent from the worn vanish on the mellow wood. It had always awed her that generations of Hills had walked these same halls, climbed these same stairs, their feet following the same precise journey as hers. The golden haze of nostalgia carried her as far as the scratched floor outside her bedchamber door, but no further. Trembling, she turned the knob, stepped over the raised threshold ... and descended straight into the fiery flames of hell. As if on cue, the devil himself, in the guise of Frank Johnson, rose to the surface of her consciousness. The image was so vividly demonic, Lillian checked her hands to reassure herself that his blood no longer coated her fingertips. Death had been instigated in this room--a viciously cruel death for a viciously cruel man. She still felt the icy presence of evil within these four walls. Lillian covered her eyes to block out the terrifying images, but the visual fragments, branded irrevocably in her mind, continued their destructive march. Torrents of rain on a moonless night. Pale flower petals

stained crimson. Phantom malodorous fumes that choked her lungs. A body lying dead on the rocky beach under her bedchamber window. And always, always, the face of a man coming back for her too late, forever too late. There was no place to hide. No place to run. Panicking because of her breathlessness, gagging against the caustic chemical stench, Lillian groped her way across the uneven pine floor to the high-topped bed, her throat closing tight. She was suffocating! Clutching the bedpost for support, fighting to draw each and every gasp of air into her burning lungs, the olfactory memory of that gruesome night continued to assail her. Surprisingly, this episode didn't bring with it the mind-dulling blackouts she had come to expect. After a time, Frank's memory simply disintegrated. In his place, amidst the chaotic tangle of her memories, was Doyle. Before the hurt. Before the bitterness. Before events beyond their control tore them apart. She saw Doyle as she had first known him. When they met that first time in Tony's studio, she had been seventeen years old to Doyle's twenty-nine. Only seventeen, but very sure of herself, indeed. Lillian wished she were half as sure of herself now. Tears rolled down her cheeks, quickly wiped away at the sound of a knock on the door. "Goodnight, dear," her grandmother whispered, poking her gray head just inside the room. "Lillian! Did you hear me? I have been trying to tell you..." Lillian kept her back turned so her wet face wouldn't show. "Yes. Goodnight! Sleep tight. Watch out for the bedbugs!" she called gaily. "Child, are you all right?" "Absolutely fine. See you in the morning, Nana." As soon as the door closed, Lillian began to pace. Big circles. Smaller circles. Finally, she rocked in place. She had lied to her grandmother. Again. She wasn't fine. Hadn't been fine in years. Ten years to be exact. Lillian dug into her pocket. Tearing open the envelope she had placed there hours earlier, she examined the newsprint message carefully cut and pasted onto the expensive stationary: YOU WILL REGRET YOU EVER RETURNED After placing the succinct warning back inside its envelope, Lily hid her secret away under some silk scarves in the oak armoire. Her grandmother must never learn about the letters, mustn't know her granddaughter had stayed away from the cottage all these years because she had feared coming home. Lillian slammed the drawer shut. The mirror over the dresser shook with the force of her decision. She had no choice but to gaze at her

reflection in the glass as she steadied the gilded frame. Charles liked to call her polished and sophisticated; it suited him to think of her that way. Today, Doyle had reluctantly called her beautiful; it had not suited him to tell her so. Objectively speaking, if one could ever truly be objective about oneself, she supposed her face had the right composition of cheekbones and hollows and shadows to be pleasing. She did know that as a young woman her features had always attracted attention. Male attention. Unwanted, unasked for, male attention. For her part, she knew the white skin, the exotic green eyes, and the burnished red hair were fairly meaningless commodities. They meant nothing to her. Less than nothing. Gladdened she looked like her grandmother, but other than that, she had never truly cared about her appearance. After all, her appearance was beyond her control; she'd had nothing to do with it, hadn't earned the compliments. She had fallen into her face at birth, as it were, the same way she had fallen into her shoe size and her name... Lillian sighed. She was twenty-eight years old. She had lived through scandal and heartbreak and worse. She had lived in a strange and distant city, alone. Despite all that, and probably because she was frozen in her eighteenth year, her face was a boring blank canvas. The subtle nuances of character that made two eyes, a nose, and a mouth interesting and unique were missing. She was so rehearsed, so outwardly composed at all times, that her own personality had retreated into the woodwork. Now Doyle, there was a man who never bothered to hide his passions. Anger, sadness, happiness ... love. At one time or another, she had witnessed all those emotions play across his features. But today, when Doyle faced her amongst the fragrant herbs, he had looked at her like he had never looked at her before--as though he had never seen her before--and his expression had held nothing but contempt.

CHAPTER FIVE

Doyle was shirtless and sweating, every muscle in his broad back moving in rhythmic sync. Fascinated, Lillian observed him silently from her concealed vantage point. She chuckled to herself. Of all the deviant practices laid at her head, she had escaped the tag of voyeurism. But hugging the barn door--too afraid to enter, too mesmerized to leave--she did indeed watch Doyle voyeuristically as he lifted bale after bale of salt marsh hay onto the tines of his pitchfork, and with the ease of long practice, gracefully toss them across the width of the open space. She should clear her throat. Shuffle her feet. Make some sound, any sound, to give her presence away. But no, she might have been a statue for all the noise she made. Enthralled with his power, his strength, his undeniable masculinity, she stood there and gaped at his male beauty. Doyle was a massive man. Imposing. More physically intimidating now than ten years earlier. There was no question in her mind that he might hurt her. Would he? Someone wished to hurt her. Someone wished to drive her away from Bar Harbor. She had a collection of threatening letters to prove it. Doyle was one of the few people who knew she was coming home. He might have sent the letter she received today. He might have sent all the letters. He might have murdered Frank too.

At seventeen, she had been so innocent of the world, yet so sure of Doyle. She was not sure of him any more. When Doyle dug the fork into another bale, launching it too up in the air, the physical exertion rippled his muscles, and shamefully, her under-drawers grew damp at the sight. Wet between the legs, she took a small step inside the barn door. "Excuse me, Doyle. Do you have time to talk?" Doyle didn't acknowledge her question, but she knew he heard, for he stopped working, placed his tool carefully against the rough-hewn wall, and crossed the floor. As far away from her as he could possibly get and still remain inside the building, he offered her his back. From the safety of distance, he wiped a hard forearm across his beaded brow. And said nothing. "I see," she murmured. "Well--would you prefer I visited you in your architectural office, then?" Hunkering into his wrinkled shirt, he called over his shoulder: "You stay the hell away from my business!" "What are you more afraid of?" she asked, taking one more brave step into his territory. "Me corrupting your brothers or frightening away your clients?" "Both." Now that his shirt was all neatly in place, he turned 'round, walked back to his pitchfork, dug it into another bale of hay and sent it flying, as though the bundle weighed no more than a feather. His actions were done with relaxed ease, but Lillian knew at a glance that Doyle was far from relaxed. He was tense. Edgy. He watched her through narrowed eyes, black and smoky--a dead give away to his rising anger. Living dangerously, she made her way to his bundled hay, hiked up the skirt of her brown gown and climbed the stack, sitting her bustled bottom on the uppermost bale, ankles primly crossed beneath her. "There," she said with a complacency she was far from feeling. She spread her skirts. "Now you have no choice but to stop working." Her brow quirked. "Unless, of course, you intend to run me through with your fork?" "Don't tempt me," he growled. "Once perhaps. Not today." His legs widened; one arm rested atop a horse stall. His was the nonchalant pose of a country gentleman. Lillian wasn't fooled; his controlled heat could set her perch afire. "As I recall, Lily, the last time you trapped me in here, it was to ask me to accompany you to a house party in town." She sighed theatrically. "Another less than stellar moment from my past."

"You were a little obvious." "Obvious? Who me? All I did was ask if you thought me pretty. If memory serves, you replied that I was passable--for a child." She laughed. "Of course, fortified by what I thought was a favorable response, I proceeded to ask you to kiss me--purely for the educational experience." "I remember. And I told you..." With a black scowl, he pitched the fork into the floor; the metal tines vibrated upon impact. "...to find yourself a boy your own age unless you planned on stripping off and getting fucked in the hay." "Ah, yes. Always the sweet talker. According to local legend, you had entertained most of the women of Bar Harbor in this barn at one time or another. Not that I ever heard any complaints from the ladies, mind you." She laughed softly. "Damn you, Lily! This is not funny. I should have slept with you that first summer, in spite of our age difference. Maybe then..." He stopped when she braced herself. "Never mind," he muttered. "It was a long time ago." "No! Do go on, Doyle. This sudden candor of yours is most enlightening." He shook his head. The stark planes of his face tightened. "I said, never mind. Discount everything I said." "No, please," she protested. "I would like to know." His eyes flashed, his control dipped an inch. "Fine! Maybe if I had satisfied your curiosity about sex, you wouldn't have gone to Frank the way you did." "I see. For a lesson in lovemaking, you mean." "I wouldn't have used those exact words, but that is the general idea." "You were always so protective," she said wistfully. "And see where that got either of us." "At one point you even asked if I was in trouble," she mused aloud. "I didn't know what on earth you were talking about. You spelled it out: Had-Frank-gotten-me-with-child? I refused to answer, and so you threatened to go to my poor grandmother with your suspicions. I shudder to think how she would have reacted." "You were crying all the time and moody. Then you would brighten up, and give me that sultry smile of yours, and I would think you were placed on this earth just to make my life miserable. Hell, I should have gone to Victoria, rather than try to handle you myself. A tough old bird like her probably would have locked you in your bedchamber..."

"You forget the tree just outside the window, the one I shimmied to sneak out at night." "I should have taken my axe to that damned tree." "A relentless flirt is what you called me back then." He propped a muscled limb against the wall at her side. "Flirtation--is that what this is now? Because if it is, if you are flirting, I won't hesitate to satisfy your curiosity." Lillian shifted on the hay: her eyes darted nervously to the barn door. Now that it was too late, she realized how alone they were in here, how far from the front of the house where Doyle's office was located, where clients coming and going with their architectural business provided a semblance of safety. Living dangerously suddenly lost its appeal. Lillian slid down from her perch. "Perhaps this conversation has been another one of my many mistakes. I was always too impetuous." As soon as her feet met the dusty floor, Doyle took a step closer. Leaning into her, he skimmed his bruised knuckles down her cheek. The wall barricaded her on one side; his massive body flanked the other. Bales of hay separated her from her escape route out the door. He had essentially trapped her. "Such soft skin," he whispered seductively in her ear. "Are you here to make it up to me for the past? To make reparations?" Two callused fingers slid to her jaw. "Maybe, you would like to trade what you have between your legs for a little forgiveness?" "You know very well that is not why I am here," she whispered, barely able to speak. "I know nothing of the kind, " he exploded. "Why you have returned, now, after all these years, remains a mystery to me!" At his volatile outburst, her eyes slanted once again to the door, judging the distance. In recent years, her breathing problem had interfered with her former robust athleticism. Could she make the door on a sprint? "I ... I am having my portrait painted. W-with my grandmother. Tony has been ill of late, you know. And the idea of the painting gave him something pleasant to think about, something to plan for. I could hardly refuse." "Do you have any other reason for coming home?" "No. Of course not!" His fingers stroked. Caressed. "You were wild and free, untamed as a girl. And so sexually inquisitive I could have done anything to you. I still can, Lily. Don't be foolish enough to believe otherwise." "Do not..." "You will come to my bed, Lily. You will come, because you cannot help yourself." And therein lay the shameful truth. Despite her fear of him, despite her fear of the sexual act itself, despite

her engagement to Charles, she would do whatever Doyle demanded. Such was the depth of her depravity ... and her need for forgiveness. "I didn't come here today for this, Doyle," she murmured, the tips of her small breasts painfully tightening under her frumpy bodice. "I came here for advice..." "Advice!" He snorted. "You came here for a good rutting." He pulled on the tabs of her stiff collar. Her breathing grew irregular. "No, I..." Evidently not satisfied with the amount of skin revealed, he began to actually unfasten the gown's high neckline. "You want it now the same way you wanted it back then." Turning her face away, she simply allowed him to unbutton her. If he decided to strip her naked in this barn, amidst the aroma of horses and hay and manure, she would do nothing to prevent it. One traitorous part of her even wished him to overpower her, for if he raped her, there would be no blame, no responsibility, no accountability on her part. No one--including herself-would accuse her of unfaithfulness to Charles then. She wanted him, yet she shook in terror of the act itself. Fear and desire. That dangerous combination described the dichotomy of her relationship with Doyle Donovan. He had held her in bondage as a young girl, and these many years later, he still held her enslaved. If some things, some events, in her past were confused, and other things, other events, were open to misinterpretation, her one steadfast certainty was this: she had once desired Doyle Donovan more than she desired breath. She still did. He opened her bodice to the waist. Undoing each hook and button one by one, he exposed her chemise as well as her embarrassingly small bosom; the shallow cleavage hardly swelled at all above her corset. While she concentrated on taking each breath, Doyle slipped his hand inside her gaping clothing; his palm felt incredibly warm as it encircled the bare skin of her throat. "At seventeen, you came sniffing around me, as promiscuous as any Parisian harlot. Did you learn any new bedchamber tricks during your sojourn in Boston?" When she said nothing, Doyle ran his fingertips up and down her throat. "All I ever need do was look at you, and you would pant. Snap my fingers, and honey would pour from your cunt down your open thighs. If I told you to come, your only question to me was: how many times? Lily, the trained houri! How many men have owned your pussy?" No one. Only him. Doyle was the only man who had ever owned her... "How many men, Lily? Hmm? How many lovers can claim acquaintance with your quim?"

With her last remaining breath, she gasped, "I didn't come here for this; I came here only for advice..." He yanked his warm hand away from her ice-cold flesh. "Advice? Here it is: leave the barn right now, before this goes any further. My second suggestion is for you stay clear of me for the remainder of your visit." "I cannot!" "Why, Lily? Tell me why!" He slammed his fist into the timber behind her shoulder. "I know there is more to your visit than a damned portrait." Frightened, she blurted, "I need to find the truth behind Frank Johnson's death. I need to know, once and for all, how he died." "Let it go!" "I cannot! Not any longer!" "Why now? It was ten years ago." "Because I am to be wed," she whispered. "For the sake of my future husband, I need to resolve Frank's death. I cannot risk scandal. It was determined that Frank died of accidental causes. A fall. There was nothing to indicate, no evidence, that he was ... that he was k-killed." "Evidence," he scoffed. "Who needs evidence?" "What do you mean?" "You and I both know that gossip can destroy a person's good name better than any court of law. The scandal of my non-conviction nearly cost me my architect business. I was almost declared unfit to raise my brothers. I nearly lost them to an orphanage! Damn you, Lily, for that injustice above all the rest!" She covered her mouth. "I never wished to hurt either you or your brothers..." "You never meant for any of it to happen. Nevertheless, it did happen. I was nearly ruined. And I hold you responsible. You owe me, Lily. And make no mistake, I intend to collect on the debt." "But your business wasn't ruined. And your book! My grandmother told me a book of yours was published. Writing was your dream. You realized your dream, despite everything." His hands molded her shoulders; his face came to within a breath of her own. "You were my dream, Lily. Only you. Not some damned book. You were all I ever wanted or needed." And with that he let her go. He slammed out the barn door, leaving the hinges reverberating long after his departure. Now that she was alone, Lillian allowed her backbone to sag, allowed her face to crumble. She sat motionless on the coarse hay, as wrung out as one of her grandmother's dishrags. It was as if Doyle had sorted through the tangle of her mind and maliciously picked the most effective way to punish her: he called her his dream. The words that she had once longed to hear were finally

hers. Funny, she had never known until today how much she had meant to him. She had tried for a year to get Doyle to say anything that would give her a hint as to how he really felt about her, or about anything else for that matter. Until the night of Frank's death, he had always flatly refused. Once though, before that horrible night, he had revealed a secret ambition to her, nothing at all like his longing to write, but still of some major importance to him. His plan was to dredge out the swampy marsh behind his house and create a natural habitat for animals and birds and waterfowl. He had described this plan to her in great detail. So much so, she rendered his words in pigment. Proud of the accomplishment, she matted and framed the landscape, presenting the painting to him as a surprise gift. She knew immediately he liked it, for he had kissed her. Oh, only a peck on the cheek, not a real kiss, but the affectionate gesture thrilled her all the same. Then, after the kiss, he called her talented. At the time, she remembered thinking how unfair life was, because Doyle talents equaled, if not surpassed, hers. His word pictures were every bit as vivid as her oil pictures, his written portraits as evocative as her painted portraits, with depictions so colorful, phrases so lyrical, emotions so real, she knew he was meant to write as she was meant to paint. That insight into the real man, the man he wouldn't allow others to see, was Doyle's return gift to her. That magical day, he told her he would cherish her painting always. Whatever happened to that painting? She wondered. Did he still have it? Or, had he destroyed it as soon as she left town? Plucking at her gown, Lillian promised herself she wouldn't cry. She had been Doyle's dream! And she had very nearly destroyed him. Now she needed his help. Lillian tossed a handful of hay up in the air. A shower of golden dust separated from the chaff and rained down over her, fluff easily discernable from substance when it landed in her lap. She must do much the same thing with Frank Johnson's death. Toss up the events of that night, let the facts fall wherever they might, and then examine them. Only then, would the distortions of lies separate from the reality of what had really happened ten years ago. Only then, would she and Doyle be free of the past. Free of each other too.

CHAPTER SIX

"Breakfast smells good," Lillian said with a tired smile the next morning.

"Help yourself from the sideboard, dear, then join me at the table." While Victoria Hill's own mounded plate gave proof of the elderly lady's hearty appetite, Lillian had a difficult time covering the china's floral pattern with her own selection. Eschewing the bacon and eggs, cold meats and pies, and hot buttered rolls her grandmother loved in favor of a single piece of dry toast from the buffet, she slipped dutifully into her chair, poured herself a cup of tea, and pretended to eat. "Call me a meddling old fool, but those dark circles under your eyes must mean something." The china cup stalled halfway to Lillian's lips. "They mean I slept poorly last night." "From the looks of you, I would say you sleep poorly most nights." Her cup made nary a clatter when it settled back into its saucer. "I have a bottle of laudanum. However, I prefer not to take anything for the insomnia. The ailment is a nuisance, but usually ... manageable." A sharp pair of eyes surveyed Lillian's untouched breakfast. "If you cannot sleep, you must at least eat to keep up your strength." "Yes ma'am." Lillian moved the triangle of bread from one side of the plate to the other. "You know, my dear, you are not the first woman in history with a past," the elderly lady grumbled between chews. "A past like mine? Involving a lover's death under scandalous circumstances?" "Impertinence does not become you, child." "Me? Impertinent?" "Perhaps a tad dramatic, then." Victoria wiped her lips with a linen napkin. Rising from her chair, Lillian deposited her sliver of uneaten toast in the small pail assigned for waste; the cloying smell of food had begun to make her feel quite ill. "But you ate nothing!" Victoria exclaimed, following her granddaughter's every move. After placing the scraped dish into the dry sink, Lillian adroitly changed the subject. "Nana, do you remember my friend, Meg Stanton?" "Of course, dear. My arteries have not hardened to that degree yet." Lillian made no comment about that last piece of nonsense; her grandmother's mind was as sharp as a tack. "Well, Meg dropped by last night to invite me to a promenade concert at the harbor pavilion." "Meg knows of your homecoming?" "We correspond. Frequently. In my last letter, I wrote that I was due to arrive in Bar Harbor this week. Meg is the only person I told," she said pointedly, referencing her grandmother's own marked propensity for sharing too much information about her grandchild with too many people.

As Lillian expected she would, Victoria Hill ignored the barb. "Meg, now there is a gal with a healthy appetite. Must be all that pounding and chipping she does--stone sculpting requires a good deal of energy. Food feeds energy which in turn feeds creativity." Lillian shot her grandmother an exasperated look. "Do go on, dear," Victoria Hill said amicably. "My intent was not to interrupt, I assure you. I was merely recalling a fond memory of a female who eats more than a tweety-bird." "I am sure she will be delighted to hear that you approve of her eating habits. Anyway, Meg attends the concerts regularly and would like me to meet her there." "I know you will enjoy the music, dear. Bar Harbor's artist community sponsors the musical affairs. They are quite amusing. " "Yes, so I hear. Meg relates that her artist friends are Bohemian, outrageous manners and all that. Afterwards, Meg suggested we go to a tavern for an ale or two," she breezily offered. It was childish, Lillian acknowledged, but just once she would like to be able to ruffle her grandmother's feathers! "Which tavern, dear?" "You probably wouldn't know the one. Meg says it is frequented primarily by artists and their models." Victoria delicately patted her lips. "Kelley's?" "Yes," Lillian glumly replied. "Kelley's." "Oh, I lifted a pint or two there years ago, with Tony. James Kelley has made major improvements since then. The establishment is almost respectable now." Victoria chuckled. "Nice try, dear. These bones are not easily shocked. Now tell me, what else did Meg have to say?" "Not much. She did mention in passing that Cindy Morris has left her husband and returned to live with her parents." "Such a shame. She married too young, I suspect. She wasn't even eighteen..." "Not all youthful marriages end badly!" Victoria inclined her head. "Quite so. And some young people never get the opportunity to see if their romance will work. Is that what you are thinking?" "Yes!" Lillian exclaimed with too much force for politeness. She covered her mouth. " I am sorry. So very sorry, I snapped at you like that. I don't know what has gotten into me! Please forgive me?" "I would forgive you anything. And I imagine Doyle would as well. That is something you might wish to keep in mind, dear."

****

That evening, Lillian hitched Mona Lisa--the mare was so named because of a certain enigmatic quality about her bite--up to her grandmother's pony cart and rode into the harbor, carefully bypassing the town center lest someone recognize her. Caught up in some gardening chores, she had misjudged the hour and was now running late. Not wishing to keep Meg waiting, she hastily looped Mona's reins around the post on the dark green, and raced toward the lit, outdoor pavilion. Halfway there, she sensed someone was following her. If not for the warning hidden under some silk scarves in the top drawer of her bureau, she might have chalked up the feeling to simple nerves... Not tonight. How far would the author of those threats go to get her to leave Bar Harbor? Would written intimidation take a dangerous turn now that she was home? She was most decidedly not a brave woman, and the urge to turn right around and return to the cottage very nearly got the better of her. Basic stubbornness prevented her from taking that cowardly course, for she reasoned, giving into fear would be tantamount to letting her intimidator win. Poisonous letters had already destroyed much of her life; she refused to hand over the rest, not without a fight. Shoulders back, posture rigidly straight, Lillian marched herself toward the bandstand. Despite her fear, it was difficult to remain stiff and correct ... and on guard ... in the face of so much good-natured merriment. Who in the rollicking, free-spirited crowd that surrounded her would possibly wish to hurt her? The late spring night was warm and flower scented, she had always loved music, and soon her foot tapped along with the beat of the brass band as she looked for Meg's face amongst the couples dancing on the pavilion's rough plank floor. Oh, the ladies' gowns! The colorist in her ogled the palette of golds and magentas and midnight blues ... and glorious, unapologetic swirling scarlets. Lord, how she loved red! The wearers of those bright gowns were life models, brash and beautiful women who took off their clothing to make a living, oft times openly cohabiting with the very artists who painted them and thereby deemed unacceptable by the strict standards of polite society. Societal censure didn't appear to be preventing the ladies from having a good time. The laughing models openly kissed their partners; some couples very nearly made love out on the dance floor. If only she might shun respectability as easily! As the ladies spun around the dance floor in the arms of their partners, unselfconsciously and unrepentantly revealing layers of rainbow-colored petticoats, yards of flounced ruffles, and more than a little leg, Lillian sighed at their freedom, at their unrestricted, seemingly boundless joy in life. It had been so long since she had forgotten herself in the simple and sensual pleasure of music, years since she had danced anything more than a sedate waltz at a chaperoned Boston house party. Boston seemed very far away indeed tonight. As did Charles. Her fiancé would most certainly not approve of these 'fast' women who talked too loud and laughed too freely and danced with partners to whom they had not been formally introduced. Charles would paint these merrymakers with a broad

brush; he would consider them riff-raff simply by virtue of their involvement in the arts. But Charles wasn't here, and Lillian arched her heel out from under her dull gray skirts, stretched her toe and... Drew her limb right back under her gown where it belonged. Good heavens! What on earth was she thinking? Why, she was practically making a public spectacle of herself! What if someone recognized her? Why was that gentleman over there, the one slouching in the corner, the thin one with the slicked-back, oiled hair, staring? Did he recognize her under her large brimmed, feature-hiding hat? And where was Meg? She must find her old friend, make her apologies, and take an immediate leave of the bandstand. Coming out in public was a foolhardy idea. What had she been thinking? Escape. She must make her escape. Unfortunately, Meg was nowhere to be found. Speculating that her friend might have grown impatient with her late arrival and left for the tavern already, Lillian climbed back down the pavilion's steps and rushed across the street to Kelley's. The air inside the tavern was thick with tobacco smoke. Lillian could hardly make out anyone's face... Which meant the opposite also held true. Smoky anonymity suited Lillian fine. Eyes tearing, she searched the smoke-filled room, finally spotting Meg way in back at a darkly lit table. Her friend, spotting her too, rushed over as Lillian made her way to join her. The two women shared a warm embrace, gushing simultaneously, "It's been far too long!" When the laughter and tears and hugs were finished, Meg hollered--a necessity considering the noise level in the tavern--"I thought you had changed your mind about tonight. So I came on ahead." "So sorry I was detained. The gardens cast their spell over me." She shrugged. "The gardens." Meg rolled her eyes. "Always the gardens! Well, come with me." Hand in hand, they made their way to a dark corner table where they collapsed with a whoosh of petticoats and horsehair-lined bustles, side-by-side, on the bench seats. "First rule," Meg said, raising her sculptor's bruised finger. "Always sit far in the back, otherwise one cannot hear a blessed thing for the croak of the tubas. Second rule," she continued, raising two fingers, "drink the wine, never the ale, and do not allow the grape to settle overly long upon the taste buds. Otherwise, the brew tastes remarkably like vinegar." Grinning, another finger joined the other two in the air. "Third and final rule, repeat rule number two for the course of the evening." Lillian grinned back at her irrepressible friend. "Alas, these days, I rarely drink spirits..." "Oh, pooh! Please don't tell me Boston has turned you into a teetotaler."

Meg twisted around in her seat, her lively brown eyes hopping back and forth between dancing couples and roaming single men. "Honest to fanny, I do love it here! The reek of tobacco, warm bodies, and stale cologne--is there a better way to spend a ladies' night out?" Lillian sniffed at the level of her shoulder. "I do hope the ambience will wash out." Meg hoisted her glass. "Here is to soap and water." Lillian clunked Meg's glass, assiduously ignoring the less than pristine crystal, and took a ladylike sip. Meg grin widened. "Imagine you, Lily Hill, soon a married woman!" "Frightening, isn't it?" "Is it?" Meg asked, her jovial face gone serious. Lillian studiously avoided Meg's penetrating sculptor's eyes. "Oh, Meg! Charles expects perfection in a wife. A showpiece. Gracious. Poised. A social asset. A lady of impeccable reputation and lineage. He doesn't know I once hovered distraught over a corpse in a bloodstained nightgown." Meg's wicked smile returned full force. "You know, speaking of Frank--he was ever so much more agreeable as a corpse than he ever was alive. Don't you agree?" "How can you say such a thing?" Her friend waved aside Lillian's scandalized expression. "That man was a wolf in sheep disguise. I never understood what you saw in him. Now Doyle--there is a man for you. He has integrity and guts. I say, if Doyle pushed Frank from the Widow's Walk, there was provocation." "Everyone in town thinks I was that provocation." Meg didn't blink. "Were you?" "I very well might have been," she answered without elaboration. "Lily, you are my dearest friend. I would do anything for you, including telling you the truth. Here it is: regardless of what really happened that night with you and Doyle and Frank, you took the easy way leaving town as you did." "I was so young, only just turned eighteen, and horribly confused and frightened. And I..." Lillian had never told anyone the truth about that night, not even her friend. She longed to confide in Meg, longed to defend herself against unfair accusation, longed to have just one person not think badly of her. But how could she make herself feel better at the expense of the woman who had loved her and raised her and done everything for her? She owed her grandmother much, the very least of which was her silence! Only the worst sort of ingrate repays generosity with stealing. And stealing--her grandmother's good name, in this instance--is what telling her side of the story would amount to. Lillian twisted the too-heavy ring on her finger and promptly changed the subject. "How is your work

going, Meg?" "Well. Very well." The sculptress drained her glass, and went right back to the former topic of conversation. "It is flagrantly unfair that society condemns a woman for having taken two lovers simultaneously while giving a wink and a nod to men who avail themselves of the same opportunity. So--you made love to two men the same evening, or even at the same time. What of it, I say. This duality of morality is hypocritical in the extreme. I should like to conduct an affair with even one man! Any man. Before I settle down to the prospect of marriage. Just as you did." "Don't romanticize my past. A man died, Meg. Many construe my sexual license caused that death. Regardless, I shall always feel responsible for Frank Johnson's fall. Apart from that, and whether it was just or unjust, the end result is: I lost my reputation that night. Once a woman has lost her good name, there is no hope of going back into society afterwards. That is why I must clear myself before Charles discovers the truth. For all I know, his family is having me investigated even as we speak!"

****

Meg had gone off somewhere, leaving Lillian alone with time on her hands to think ... and to look around the smoky environs. She now saw that many of the men who milled around the tavern appeared to be passed tipsy into intoxicated. This was by far a rougher group than the crowd at the outside pavilion. There were a few women, but they appeared to be lightskirts rather than artist models. Brawls were beginning to break out. An amusing evening had taken a decidedly dangerous turn. Time to find Meg and convince her to leave. Rising from the bench, she went off in search of her friend. While sidestepping a few drunken louts, one inebriated ruffian tore her hat from her head; in a shower of scattering hatpins, her hair fell from its chignon. Just as quickly as that, men surrounded her. Leering men. Taunting men. Men, whose breath stank of liquor and whose loose jowls hadn't felt the scrape of a razor in days. The tavern was dark. Smoke-filled. Noisy. The male patrons were drunk and disreputable; the female patrons looked no better than they need be. Lillian bit her lip in apprehension. How could she have been so naïve? She should have known that a lone woman enters a public tavern at her own risk. If she stays longer than a few minutes, she is then considered of questionable virtue and relegated to the status of fair game. She had arrived at Kelley's almost an hour ago. As the circle enclosed her, Lillian's gaze fell on a customer, a man with oiled, slicked-back hair. He smiled at her, as loathsome as a snake, and made a grab at her, narrowly missing her breast. "No. Do not!" Gasping, she backed up to a wall. "Do not think to touch me!" Like a lion tamer in a cat cage without the benefit of a whip and a chair, Lillian turned her eyes to the wall and waited to get mauled.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"The entertainment is over for the evening. The lady is leaving." Her fallen hair whipped about her shoulders as she spun about. "Doyle!" "Let's go, Lily." Her rescuer's eyes never looked blacker. One belligerent drunkard hollered: "The whore ain't leaving 'till she puts those ruby lips to good use in the backroom." Doyle identified the heckler, and in one smooth motion, introduced him to his fist. Once. Twice. Three times. The loudmouth tumbled to the sawdust-covered floor. "Anyone else?" Doyle rolled up his shirtsleeves, the action revealing the enviable size of his outdoorsman biceps. "Line up, gents. I take all-comers. Place your bets with the barkeep." Though a buzz went up in the crowd, not a taker stepped forward. "No? Then, back off. The lady is with me tonight." The crowd backed off, one by one. Doyle shook out his knuckles. "Shit." He looked down at her. "Might I escort you to the cottage, Miss Hill, before you get yourself raped?" he asked, his tone dry, his grip firm under her elbow. "My God!" Lillian cried, as Doyle forcibly dragged her along. "Meg! Where is Meg?" "On her way home. I escorted her out the door on my way in to get you." "But how--how did you know I was here?" "Your grandmother was visiting with Tony when I stopped by the studio tonight. In passing conversation, she mentioned your plans. If not for that, I would be home in bed now." "I imagine she will wait," Lillian snipped. "Think so?" Doyle asked and brought her closer. She knew so--no woman in her right mind would leave Doyle's bed, and Doyle's bed was never empty. Even as the thought of Doyle's womanizing sickened her, the tips of her breasts hardened in response to his nearness. Desire and distrust. That was all they had left. Her flesh ached for him. Ten years hadn't dulled the desire. A decade hadn't dulled the sting of distrust, either.

She tried to shimmy away. He wouldn't let her. There wasn't a hair's width between them now, and Lillian trembled, her breath hitching in her throat. She was no longer that fearless young girl of long ago; she had become a terrified woman with ice water in her veins. And yet ... and yet ... his closeness was unquestionably warming her ... thawing her ... his nearness forced her to remember what it was to have sexual feelings. Since their first meeting in the herb garden, carnal hunger had surged inside her like maple syrup flows on the first warm day in spring after a long, cold, cruel winter. "You look frightened," he said on an undertone. "Is it them, or me?" "Both!" "Good. Maybe fear will keep you the hell away from places like this, and the hell away from me too." He whispered against her earlobe. "When I saw you across the room, it was like watching fire burn. You burnt me once, Lily, and I won't be burnt again. You remember that before you strike the flint." Fire? Burn? Her? For ten long years she had been cold. Frigid, her fiancé called her... "Let me go," she said, struggling in earnest. "I would if I could. Unfortunately, you wouldn't make it to the door without me. These men don't need privacy for what they have in mind. A prostitute--and that is what they think you are--isn't deserving of that sort of genteel consideration." A prostitute... She covered her mouth with a hand that shook. The room tilted. Righted itself. She held onto Doyle lest she fall, incapable of speech, her breathing ragged. "Look around you," he advised. "Every idiot in here envies me because I solicited you first. Shows how misguided men can be, because sweetheart, you ain't worth the trouble." "I agree with you," she choked. "I am not worth it. I deserve everything these men will do to me. So walk away. Let me go..." He shook his head. "You have no idea the kind of violence men like these are capable of." Oh, but she did know about men and their violent ways. Lillian also knew that Doyle was fully capable of violence, himself. She had always been aware of his dark side, as well as his protective, of the two warring factions that resided within him. Which side would win tonight?

She moaned. "What have I done?" He shrugged. "Same thing you always did. You play men. You tease them. Then, when the going gets rough, you make your escape." She winced at his reference to the past. "Is there a chance they might let us go?" "No." "Dear Lord." Every tendon and sinew and muscle in his body tensed to strike. "What did you expect? This is some stir, and you caused it. I do have a certain ... reputation, though. Unless the whole pack decides to attack at once, I can handle the situation." Doyle's features had set in unforgiving lines. The soft edges of youth were long since gone; uncompromising hardness replaced the ready smile. The brown eyes, that used to be so gentle whenever they gazed at her, were gentle no longer. Now, the tanned skin around those ungentle eyes was deeply scored at the corners. His black hair, still as unruly as ever, was prematurely blended with silver. He seemed to sense her thoughts. "A woman's duplicity changes a man. As does being thought a murderer." Though she richly deserved the unspoken accusation, she took the coward's way out and tried to look away, to look anywhere but at the contempt she saw reflected in those glinting dark pupils. He wouldn't let her; he cupped her chin, holding her in place. "One would think a woman capable of doing what you did would have the ugliness of her soul reflected on her face. Not you. Not your face. Your kind of evil corrupts others while you grow more lovely with each passing year." His derision sliced through her control. Her emotional damn burst and tears ran silently down her cheeks. She had been on the verge of a breakdown for the past ten years, and she let it happen, confident that she was safe in his arms. Even after all that had happened between them. Even after she suspected him of murder, of following her, of sending her threatening notes--even after he had said terrible things to her, looked at her with contempt--she knew it was safe to let go in his arms. No one else's arms. His arms. How was it possible to think those heinous acts of him and still trust him to keep her safe? For that matter, how was it that he believed what he believed of her, and still come to her rescue? Their relationship had always been rife with such contradictions. And the horror of it all was: she still carried within her a terrible obsession for this one man, and if the hard bulge against her belly was any indication, he obviously still lusted after her as well. He fingered a drop on her cheek. "No need for these, Lily. No one will hurt you. They will have to kill me first to get to you." His selfless words made her cry all the harder, for she wasn't crying for herself; she was crying for them. She was weeping over what they had become, over what they had lost, over that bright promise of love

they had once shared and which was now irreparably tarnished. An anguish sob tore away inside her. The pain and grief ... the sense of loss ... was unbearable. She had come home to let Doyle go, to move on, and here she was clinging to him, hiding her face and sobbing into his neck. Her tears weren't pretty or contrived. They were ugly. And self-pitying. And everything she hated. And they wracked her body. "It's all right," he soothed. "Make no mistake, I will get you out of here." He danced her towards a grimy service door at the rear of the tavern. Even under several petticoats she felt his hardness, his length, the thick jut of his sex. Her woman's body had not forgotten him. She had always responded when he held her in his arms; he always had the ability to make her shake. When he touched her body, she just about exploded in sensuality. When he kissed her lips--every time he kissed her lips--she turned to malleable clay in his hands. "The crowd is getting antsy," he advised her. "Like wild dogs, they can smell fear. Chin up. Smile. Act like you are my woman and I am your man." Lillian did as he asked. She smiled through her tears. She acted like she belonged to him. And somehow, the show she put on didn't feel like a lie. Doyle performed his part too. He held her as close as clothing would allow. Mouthing her throat, he acted as though he owned her. The man holding her had suffered; she had suffered too. She had lived in exile, had never come home. 'Leaving you broke my heart!' she wanted to shout. But, of course, she shouted nothing of the kind. Instead, changing the context of the truth, she whispered up into the stern set of his features, "Leaving the cottage broke my heart." "No one drove you away," he countered. The sharp point of irony stabbed her chest. Someone had done just that! She had been driven away! How was it that a love so pure, so right, had gone so utterly wrong? When he dragged his mouth, open and seeking, against her lips, she offered no resistance. Not when her breathing went choppy. Not when she tasted his growing anger. He had a right to his rage. A right to his revenge. He was the one who broke off the kiss to say: "If ever I was good at anything in my life, it was knowing how to wait. I waited for you to grow up. Then I waited for you to come back to Bar Harbor. Damned to my own personal purgatory, I have literally wasted years waiting for you. You are in my blood." He grimaced. "Not in my heart, though. That organ was ripped out of my chest when you left the way you did, when you slandered my reputation, when you made what we had into something tainted. So, now that you have rendered me heartless, the only organ left to want you with is my cock. Beautiful lady, you keep teasing me and I will fuck you well and truly." No longer was there any pretense of dancing. They stood in place and rocked back and forth like a ball and chain, bound by a past they could neither change nor forget. "This is it." He let her go. "The service entrance to the alley. Make your escape."

Hysteria bubbled up inside her. An alley for an alley cat. How very appropriate! "What of you?" she cried. "A little late to worry about me, is it not?" "Oh, Doyle..." He pushed open the door. "Before you run away--tell me the truth. How did Frank really die?" She didn't pause before answering him. Didn't question why she should answer him. "I killed him," she screamed. "Yes, yes, yes! I pushed Frank over the cliff walk." And then she rushed past him, escaping into the dark, dirty alley where feral cats, and refuse, and women like her belonged.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"How was your night out?" Victoria Hill asked her granddaughter the next morning over the breakfast table. How to explain? For the past ten years, Lillian had felt very little in the way of emotion; for all intents and purposes she had been numb. No longer. Now she was one giant, throbbing, nerve ending. And she was in pain. It hurt to feel so much after feeling nothing at all for so long. The reason she had returned home was twofold: One, to fulfill the request of two people she loved; and two, to put to rest the question of Frank's death. The latter resolved, she thought then, perhaps, she might finally let go of the past and move on in her life with Charles. But last night at Kelley's, the fear and worry and guilt ... and ten years of repressed emotions ... had finally caught up with her, and she had clung to Doyle as tears steamed down her face and tremors had wracked her body. Her terrible need for Doyle hadn't diminished with time, even though mistrust, like a cancer, ran deep and insidious between them. And yet, when he had held her in his arms in that travesty of a dance, there had been magic as well. There had always been magic between them. Naturally, Lillian revealed none of this to her grandmother! Lillian gave the stock reply: "It was lovely seeing Meg again." "Anything new with your friend?"

Lillian took a tiny bite of dry toast, chewed, swallowed, returned the slice to her plate; she was no longer hungry. "She would like to conduct a discreet affair." "I see. Does she have a particular candidate in mind for the endeavor?" "No. Any functioning male will do." "Hmm. It certainly is nice to hear young women these days hold themselves to such high standards." A sip of tea squelched Lillian's urge to laugh. Her grandmother never failed to take the wind right out of her sails. Even during her youthful rebellious stage, she had never succeeded in turning so much as a hair on Victoria Hill's beautifully coifed head. It was blatantly unfair! "By the way, I saw Doyle last night. I told him it was I who killed Frank." Her grandmother's raised fork crashed to the lace-covered tabletop. "'Pon my word!" "Well, that reaction is certainly a surprise. I was only just now thinking how unflappable you are." "What did you expect? I am literally discombobulated." "Stay calm. The authorities won't be coming to take me away just yet." "How can you joke about something like this, child? Whatever possessed you to tell Doyle such a dreadful thing?" "He asked." "Oh, he asked. That explains everything." Lillian squirmed. "You did ask." "I asked. Doyle asked. Amazing, is it not, the answers one gets when one simply asks the right questions?" Her grandmother appeared to shrink behind her spectacles. "Shall I have my attorney summoned?" "Considering that Frank Johnson Senior is your attorney I think you should wait on that. Unless, you would like my walk to the gallows to begin immediately?" "Your sense of humor did not come from my side of the family," her grandmother said with a wobble of her head. "Why-oh-why did you tell Doyle that you killed Frank Johnson?" "Shock value." She twittered. Mrs. Hill pointed her gnarled finger at her granddaughter's nose. "You are playing with fire." "Extraordinary how you two think alike!" Lillian said drolly. "That is exactly what Doyle intimated." "And well he should!"

"You know, after all these years," Lillian said softly, "Doyle finally came right out and asked me a direct question about what happened that night. He never did before. I think that was a breakthrough for us. Painful, yet necessary." Victoria said peevishly, "This conversation is leaving me behind..." "Nana, that night shamed me. I felt so soiled, that afterwards, I was unable to look Doyle in the eye. We walked on eggshells around each other, skirting the issue. I knew Doyle must hate me. After all, I announced to everyone that I had entertained Frank in my bedchamber directly after having received him there." Lillian raised her teary eyes to her grandmother. "Perhaps if Doyle had asked me about Frank, instead of simply accepting..." She shook her head. "Anyway, had we talked, we might have worked things out. But he never did ask. His stoical silence accused me of deeds I was never given the opportunity to respond to nor defend myself against." Pushing out of her chair, Lillian wandered to the window. She stood there, listlessly looking out onto the serenity of the gardens. Just like her grandmother, she loved flowers. During the summers in Boston, she kept pots of annuals on the windowsill of the brownstone she shared with several female artists. But because the buildings were built close together in the Back Bay, there was never enough sun for the poor things. It made no difference which plants she picked or how much care she gave them; they grew long and leggy, their leaves small and unhealthy. Stunted, their potential never realized, they produced very few flowers. She grew sickly plants now, and she no longer had the energy to paint them. Her grandmother interrupted her musings. "Child, what was Doyle's reaction to your confession?" Lillian stared straight ahead, the height of her grandmother's plume poppies holding her enthralled. "I didn't plan it very well, I am afraid. When he asked if I knew how Frank really died, I blurted out that I had pushed him, and then I ran..." "The very idea is absurd," Victoria scoffed. "Doyle knows you didn't push Frank." "I am not as convinced. He might very well believe I did the deed. In any event, I certainly called his bluff, did I not? Oh, I know it was reckless to blurt it out that way, but for my own peace of mind, I needed to read Doyle's face, to know at last what he really thought of me. I also needed to determine if he knew anything about that night..." "Did he admit to doing it?" Lillian whirled around. "Nana! Surely you don't think Doyle killed Frank?" Her mouth opened. "You do! You believe Doyle killed a man in cold blood!" "Cold blood?" Victoria Hill tssked. "I think not! If murder was done that night, it was done in the heat of the moment. A crime of passion." And Doyle was a passionate man. The heat of his embrace had practically scorched her, and his kiss ...

his kiss, though done for the benefit of their audience, had quite literally taken her breath away. "Doyle loved you." Victoria played with the fringed scarf around her neck. "And there was your affair with Frank Johnson to consider. I didn't know Frank very well. It came as a complete surprise to me that you two were ... involved. Frank's father has been this family's attorney for years, and I did meet his son on several occasions when he was helping out in his father's law office. He seemed personable enough, always so helpful and solicitous. That said, you and he did not seem like the same type at all." "We weren't. Frank and I had absolutely nothing in common." "Then why...?" "Frank liked the way I looked. And I liked the fact that he was wealthy. I was very stupid and gullible and easy to impress in those days." "That doesn't sound at all like you, my dear," Mrs. Hill said with a frown. "You were never so shallow. You and Frank were intimate, and yet it sounds like you didn't care for him at all!" "Sorry if that seems cold. I do feel for Frank's family." "His son's death devastated Frank senior. The blow of losing one's only child never quite goes away." Victoria Hill tapped her fingers against her chin. "I cannot help but think that if I had been home that night, none of this would have happened..." "Ssshh," Lillian soothed, bending to drop a kiss on her grandmother's wrinkle-free cheek. "None of this can be construed as your fault. About the rest ... about the affair ... you could not have prevented it. I was headstrong back then." "Nevertheless, had I not gone on that trip..." "Or, if I had behaved differently." "You were young. Experimentation is part of growing up." Lillian let that go without response. A thoughtful frown marred Victoria's smooth forehead. "Let us return to your confession of guilt for a moment. Did anyone overhear it?" "I don't believe so..." "Do you think Doyle will go to the authorities with it?" "Never!" "That sure of him, are you?" "Yes!" Her answer was adamant and unequivocal. She had no doubt that Doyle would protect her from others. But would he protect her from himself? "Nana, how bad was it for Doyle after I left town?"

Victoria Hill paused to weigh her words before speaking. "The scandal was terrible. People gossiped about you too, but there was an element of sympathy for you, as well. For Doyle there was no sympathy. People were merciless in their treatment of both Doyle and his brothers. It was Doyle's loyalty to you that swayed public opinion against him, I believe. He never once, not in ten years, spoke of that night. Not to anyone. If he mentioned your name at all, it was always done with the utmost respect. Perhaps if he had slandered you, he might have garnished some support for himself. When he refused to speak ill of you, the rumors started." "Rumors?" "That he arrived back at the cottage earlier than he said he had that night, witnessed you in bed with Frank, and in a jealous rage, threw Frank over the edge of the Widow's Walk. Most people believe that he committed murder. I am one of those people." "Nana!" "Listen to me, child! You said you didn't see what happened. It was foggy that night, raining. You heard a man shout as he went over the edge. You cannot say that Frank wasn't pushed. I like Doyle, I really do. I also admire his many fine qualities--I told you he comes to visit me here at the cottage all the time--but I am a realist. The man had motive! It was common knowledge in Bar Harbor that Doyle despised Frank. It is my understanding that Doyle tussled with Frank on more than one occasion before that night. He broke Frank's nose during a brawl. In the Johnson law offices, in front of witnesses, Doyle had some heated words with Frank. Those words came back to haunt him after Frank's death. They were clearly a threat..." "If Doyle killed Frank, he would have admitted it! He is no coward, Nana. He would take the blame and accept his punishment. Apart from that, he had an iron-clad alibi; he can account for almost every minute of that night..." Victoria smoothed her blue-veined hands over the tabletop. "It has been my sad experience that people believe what they wish to believe, above and beyond the facts. It is the illusion of guilt or innocence that matters. Doyle looks guilty." Mrs. Hill gave her granddaughter a probing look. "His asking you about Frank's death at this late date seems odd." "At least he didn't ask if it were you, Grandmama, who pushed Frank to his death that night!" "Please! Not even in jest should you say such a preposterous thing!" The elderly lady's expression shifted. "Besides, I was out of town." "Nice story." "Lillian, really! Do stop." "Sorry. That evil sense of humor of mine strikes again." "This is no laughing matter, young lady!" "Nerves. I don't mean to be flippant."

Victoria continued with her account. "Financially, Doyle was almost ruined. His architectural business suffered with his reputation. He has only just recently rebounded, only since the publication of his book." "I must ask him about his book when I see him today." Mrs. Hill's jaw went slack. "You actually intend to see him again today...after last night's confession?" "How else will I find out the truth? Also, I owe him my thanks." "Whatever for, dear?" "Oh ... nothing." Lillian locked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and tried to appear nonchalant. "Nana, did you send Doyle after me last night?" "Send him after you? Certainly not! No one sends Doyle anywhere. Why do you ask?" So rescuing her had been his idea. Unless her grandmother was stretching the truth; she had been known to do so, once or twice ... or a thousand times before, whenever it was expedient, whenever she felt her granddaughter didn't know what was best for her own welfare. There was no use pressuring her to 'fess up, either: Victoria Hill would only dig her heels in deeper if she were backed into a corner. An arm looped around the back of Lillian's waist. Her grandmother held her close, as though she was once again a child in need of a hug. "The way Doyle used to look at you! Oh, my. Like you were as fragile as bone china and more precious than gold. You are very precious, Grandchild, but you are far from fragile. You have proud Hill blood flowing through your veins, my girl. When all else fails, your pedigreed stock will stand you in good stead!"

CHAPTER NINE

Upon the deaths of his parents in a tragic carriage accident, Doyle resigned from his prestigious position in a bustling New York City architectural partnership and returned to the quiet Maine countryside to care for his two younger brothers in the family home. To keep his eye on the rambunctious pair, he built a separate wing onto the house to accommodate his new office. Through an enormous window in that wing, Lillian saw the architect seated at his mahogany desk, talking animatedly to a client seated across from him. Doyle reminded her of Maine rock, all rough hardness and raw strength. But there was tenderness too behind those bunched muscles; he had once touched her with infinite care. When Doyle looked up and saw her, his heated glare seared her through the glass. Clearly, the architect was furious. She hadn't expected him to welcome her with open arms, but she hadn't expected him to throttle her either. It would appear she had underestimated Doyle's passionate nature. Again. Then, Doyle's face altered. Oh, it was only a brief transformation, lasting only long enough to allow

something else to flicker across his grim features, a hybridized cross between wishing to strangle her on the spot and wishing to... What? Doyle's emotions were usually transparent, but this time, she didn't know quite what to make of them. Or him. Before she figured anything out, he jumped to his feet and rushed out the office door, his client left to stare out the window after him. Doyle planted himself squarely in front of her. "What the hell are you doing here?" "I am very well, thank you. And you?" "In no mood for sarcasm." Lillian rubbed her gray serge covered arms. "Brrr. Did a cloud move across the sun? It's unseasonably cool of a sudden." "Not me. I feel damn hot. Now answer the damn question." "I came to talk," she said with controlled aplomb. "Have you no common sense, woman? Coming here in broad daylight, when anyone might see you." Taking her elbow, he ushered her away from the office. At the barn, she shook free of his restraining grip. "Did you really expect I would slink around in the dark to meet you?" "That sounds more like your style. And point of fact: you are not meeting me. You are not here at any invitation I issued." Lillian took an uneasy breath. Doyle's client had followed him outside, and was now looking over at them. At her, in particular. This was gossip in the making. The juicy tidbit that a red-haired woman had been seen openly arguing in public with Doyle would spread like wildfire. Everyone in Bar Harbor would rehash the gossip twelve different ways to Sunday until the woman was identified as the infamous Lillian Hill. During the past ten years, she had worked very hard at keeping a rigid self-discipline, at dressing and acting conservatively, at refining her wild image. And here she was back where she started! A mild breeze blew up and attempted to re-organize her tight chignon. Lillian promptly patted the few recalcitrant stray strands back in place under her veiled hat. She was falling apart on almost an hourly basis! Her hair restored to orderliness, Lillian folded her hands primly at her waist. "I agree. We shouldn't be seen together in public. So, where would you like us to have our discussion? And please do not list hell as a possible alternative. I am already quite aware that is where you would like me to go." "That does it!" He attached himself to her arm again. "I must insist you leave my property at once."

"Not until we have our little talk." "What the blazes is wrong with you? After what you told me last night, you have the gall to show up here, of all places?" She maintained a carefully placid exterior, though inside she was a quivering ball of frazzled nerves. "Do you suffer a faulty memory? Your office is hardly the scene of the crime. Frank was killed on the ocean rocks outside my bedchamber window." She tssked. "All that blood spattered on the lovely beach roses. It broke my heart to see those pink petals stained red." She paused, took a shaky breath. "You see, Doyle, I came home seeking the truth and I shall get it!" "You may get more than that." "Is that a threat?" "It's a warning. For your own good, watch what you say in public." "Then, lets have our conversation someplace private, shall we? Perhaps in a dungeon," she goaded. "Or, perhaps you know of a torture chamber somewhere? Or, if you would like, you might take me to the woodshed again. Is your grip still firm on a leather belt?" Doyle's normally tan complexion turned deadly white. There appeared to be a hammer pounding beside his jaw. "Continue to provoke me and you will find out." This time, she had no quick, snappy retort. The woodshed. Her nipples hardened in memory... * "Don't tell my grandmother," she had begged. Doyle glowered at her. "You leave me no choice. Eighteen years old and you act like a child! Mrs. Hill needs to know you rode El Diablo against my expressed orders. You deserve a sound thrashing for this latest misbehavior, young lady." Her grandmother would never take a strap to her; Lily had never been punished in her life! And that was not what had her worried. Nana was elderly and Lily did not wish her upset. "Doyle, this is between you and me! You handle my punishment..." Something dark and dangerous stirred behind his eyes. The look excited her in a forbidden way. "I am not your father, Lily." How well she knew it! Her feelings were that of a woman for a man, not a child seeking a father substitute.

Doyle was as angry as she had ever seen him, and not because of El Diablo. No, Doyle was angry because that day, when he had helped her down off the horse, he had responded to her sexually. She had felt that huge, hard, lump in his trousers. And she planned to work this day's misbehavior to her full advantage. She sauntered toward the small outbuilding behind the main house. "I am not done with you, young lady!" As she intended he should, Doyle followed her into the woodshed. It was dark inside. Save for a small window at ceiling level, nearly pitch black. "Forgive me, Doyle," she whispered. "I didn't mean to cause you difficulty..." "Have you no sense?" he raged. "I told you not to ride El Diablo. That stallion might have thrown you and broken your back!" "I am an excellent horsewoman..." "What you are is a spoiled brat!" If that is what it took Doyle to notice her... She would do anything--even ride El Diablo--if it caught his attention. "God only knows what would have happened if I hadn't ridden after you! You need a firm hand, young lady, or you will find yourself in serious trouble some day." She swayed her slender hips over to a pile of split logs. "I need your firm hand, Doyle." She knew for a fact that Doyle had never whipped his two hell-raising brothers. He would never lay a hand on her either. He was all bluster... But other ... interesting things ... might happen in this woodshed if she played her cards right. "Please don't tell my grandmother I was bad," she cried, and bent herself over the woodpile. Gyrating her hips, she raised her bottom, as though expecting the descent of the strap. She sorely did deserve a spanking, though not for attempting to ride a stallion--for provoking a stallion to ride her! "What the hell are you doing?" Dole said in voice that sound strangled. If he didn't know, he wasn't the man she thought he was. Turning round, Lily made what she thought was a sensual moue with her lips, and then said sweetly, "I think ten sound lashes should do it, don't you?" Faced away again, she wiggled her buckskin-encased bottom at him. "You may begin." Seize the moment! That was her motto.

For months, she had been madly in love with Doyle. She was sure he would love her in return if given a nudge in the right direction! They were alone, it was dark in the shed, and she was thrusting out her derriere--red matador's cape to bull--before an extremely virile man. Oh, he would respond, all right! Queen Victoria might have just celebrated her Golden Jubilee in England, but this was America, and her grandmother was a progressively minded woman. Her nana had explained the facts of life at the onset of her first menses. Though unquestionably a virgin, she was not an ignorant goose. She had heard those rumors about Doyle; purportedly, his male part was enormous. It was also purported that he never refused an opportunity to use it. Well, here was just such an opportunity, served up to him on a silver platter. How much more persuasion did he need to forget his gentlemanly ways around her and treat her like a woman? She wiggled some more. "You irrepressible little flirt," he growled at her. She gave him a saucy grin over her shoulder. At which, he walked to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key. Finally! "Do you think me a green lad, Lily? Do you think you can twist me around your little finger like you do with boys your own age?" Uh--oh. Doyle did not sound amused. Or amorous. Doyle sounded angry. She quit wiggling. Straightening, she turned toward him. "I was only teasing..." "Someday you will try this seductress act on the wrong man and get yourself raped. You need to learn that you cannot tease a man and run." His black eyes narrowed. "If you behave like a child, I will treat you like a child," he pronounced. "Take down your trousers, Lily." This isn't the way she had planned this seduction! He really was treating her like a child! "I will not!" "Drop your trousers or I go to your grandmother and tell her what you have been up to, not only with a dangerous horse, but with a dangerous man." She loved him! Love had driven her to such desperate measures. The unyielding look in Doyle's smoldering eyes told her that she had toyed with him one time too many. This time, Doyle really would go her grandmother. That mustn't happen! She undid her tight breeches and pushed them down her slim hips, which left her nude from the waist down--she never wore drawers underneath breeches.

"Good Lord," he rasped, staring at her privates. In her wanton excitement, her vagina went fluid. Her juices turned her loins moist and that moisture ran down her legs. She was quite literally drenched in anticipation of the spanking, craving Doyle's interest, whatever form it took. Just the thought of his hand touching her bare flesh, the palm coming down on her bottom, was enough to make her swoon. "Christ sakes, Lily! Your pussy is wet." Did his voice contain revulsion? She thought it must, for seeing that wet red triangle that decorated her body's center, he turned her away from him, as though disgusted with her. In that faced-away pose, he bent her over the woodpile again and ten sharp whacks were administered to her bare posterior. His palm didn't linger as her punishment was delivered. Neither did his fingers cup, as she longed for them to do. Discipline was meted out efficiently and dispassionately. But at least she held his attention. That had to mean something. It was her first spanking. And her first something else too. She didn't have a name for it. There was tension and release. When the knot softened, bright shards of pleasure exploded inside her and she screamed like a tavern tart. She could hardly wait for that special something to happen again. With Doyle. Only with Doyle. The administrator of that which was both her pain and her pleasure apparently was not of the same mind. Muttering the foulest of oaths, Doyle unlocked the woodshed's door and stormed out, leaving her there with her trousers around her ankles... * The mature Lillian felt herself grow flushed and breathless at the recollection. "After we finish our mutual nastiness, might I make an appointment with you?" "What kind of an appointment?" "Not for the woodshed, I assure you," she said, trying to maintain her poise with some irreverent humor. "I need a business appointment. My grandmother would like you to design a Memory Garden..." "I design buildings, not gardens." "You design buildings that naturally flow out of the existing landscape. As an artist involved in the Arts and Crafts movement in Boston, I can certainly appreciate your naturalistic philosophy. As does my grandmother, I might add. She admires your work tremendously. Naturally, the consultation will be on your terms and at your convenience." "Very well. For your grandmother, I agree to the consult at some future time and at a different location." "You are far too kind, sir."

To avoid seeing his censure, Lillian dropped her lashes. "I came by today for another reason--other than to bear the brunt of your insults, that is. I owe you a thank you for your help last night. I apologize for any inconvenience I might have caused you." "You thanked me, now leave." Her eyes flashed to his. "I don't think that's terribly hospitable of you." "I don't happen to care what you think, Lily." He performed an abrupt about face. She called after him. "The reason you wish me to leave--is it because you cannot risk being seen associating with a murderess?" He stalked back to her. "If anyone overhears you admit to anything in relation to Frank Johnson's death, anything that even hints of your involvement, you will regret you ever returned." Funny, that was the exact wording on her welcome home note. Doyle might have quoted from it.

CHAPTER TEN

"Remember that night, Lily?" Doyle asked. "You were shaking like a leaf during a nor'easter." Remember that night? That night haunted her waking hours and tortured her sleep. She had been frightened to death the night of Frank Johnson's death. Those were the years when she had been honest with her emotions. When she was terrified, she hadn't been afraid to show it. After Frank, she had made herself over into someone else, someone refined and passionless and poised; she had learned the hard way that it was safer to keep her emotions under lock and key. Doyle had never played it safe with his emotions. He wasn't afraid of his passions. And he certainly wasn't overly concerned about appearances... There was a jagged tear in his trousers at the knee. Who cared for Doyle now that he was finished caring for his brothers? Was there not some woman out there who mended his clothes? Or, at the very least, saw to it that he was walking around with all his boy parts decently covered? She grinned at the mental image of Doyle, a rip in his trousers uncovering his very un-boyish male parts. "You think that night was funny?" Doyle asked, furiously. "No, not that night," she started to explain, then stopped. Who was he to be furious? She should be the one who was furious about what had happened that night!

If a little comic relief made her horrible memories more bearable, if injecting a little escapist humor helped her deal with that night, who was he to judge her? Still--she didn't wish to anger Doyle. She sobered immediately. "No, I don't think that night was funny. Not at all. I think this whole affair has been tragic for all concerned. I realize that you have suffered business setbacks on my account, and if it will make you feel any better, my past has caused major disruptions in my life too." He appeared to be waiting for a further explanation. When one was not forthcoming, he said, almost as though he was disappointed she hadn't further bared her soul, "I can appreciate a life disrupted. Now leave! You have caused me enough grief." "I have no intention of causing you more." "You are still breathing, aren't you?" If only he knew the difficulty she had in that area! She stared at that trouser rip, obsessed with the rip at the knee. Doyle must have a woman somewhere who took care of his--uh--personal needs. Maybe several women. He was a virile, attractive man of thirty-nine. He might not have married, but he would never live like a monk. Perhaps he simply preferred the sexual variety of a string of mistresses who made themselves available to him at a moment's notice. Lillian sighed. A male might keep a harem of women, and society would slyly compliment the behavior. While a hint of promiscuity often enhanced a man's reputation, the same standard was not applied to a woman. Once innuendo, gossip--outright lies--destroys a woman's reputation, it is forever irredeemable. It was common knowledge that she had entertained two men in her bedchamber during the same evening. Given the same situation, society would call a man lucky. At the worst, he would earn the reputation of a rake. A woman was called a slut. Period. The townspeople of Bar Harbor thought of her as little better than a whore. Her red hair, her exotic wild looks ... her unladylike conduct with Doyle ... had fueled the hints of impropriety, but in the end, it was her own admission of reprehensible behavior that had ruined her reputation. She, and she alone had caused Doyle to look upon her with derision. Woozy, her breathing labored, she brought a shaky hand to her throat. A blackout was imminent; it was so close, she could already smell the chemical aroma in her nostrils. As if in a trance she said, "Frank Johnson's wallet, actually a leather billfold, was gone missing after his death. It is of vital importance that I find it." "I know nothing of any billfold." "Do you mind if I look around your property?" "Yes, I do mind."

Doyle took a deep breath--lucky him!--and said, "Frank's wallet was probably washed out to sea when he fell." "The tide was coming in that night." "So?" "So--my grandmother's beach is on an inlet. Everything washes up on the rocks sooner or later. If Frank's wallet had fallen out of his pocket, someone--a fisherman--would have found it and returned it to his father." Lillian shook her head back and forth. "Someone must have taken it." Doyle rubbed his jaw. "Why is the wallet so important to you?" Breathing was torture. "I cannot say..." "What was in it? Can you at least tell me that much?" "No!" To tell Doyle why, was to reveal that while married, her grandmother had written love letters to a man who was not her husband. Frank had found them in his father's law office, and had taken them, without authorization. She needed to get them back; she needed to ensure that no one else ever saw them! Her poor grandmother didn't even realize they were missing, she didn't know that they had somehow found their way to the Johnson Law Firm with the rest of her legal papers. If her grandmother ever found out that someone might have those papers, she would... Lillian drew back from that terrible thought. She wouldn't allow herself to consider what would happen to her grandmother if she ever learned those love letters were missing. "Before he visited you that night, Frank had gone to another woman. A prostitute. He might have dropped the billfold then." "How do you know this?" "Men talk when they drink, Lily. There are several bedchambers above Kelley's Tavern that are rented out as love nests. Ever use one?" She kept her outrage to herself. "No." "Well, Frank did. As it turns out, he had a fondness for abusing whores. One almost died as a result of his idea of foreplay." "I had no idea..." "The elder Johnson had the incident hushed up. But as I say, men talk when in their cups. When I heard Frank slapped fancy women around, I visited him in his father's fancy law office. I told him to stay the hell away from you. And you know what Frank said? He told me you liked it rough. We had words. Later, I

broke his nose. Frank Johnson made a lot of enemies. A lot of folks would liked to have seen him dead." "You, among them?" "The idea of you in bed with Frank makes me violently ill." "That begs the question." "You little fool! Stop asking questions! Stop stirring up the past. Someday, you might just ask the right person the wrong question and come to regret it. Now, go home. Before anyone one else sees us, hears us, talking. Even if you didn't see the murderer that night, he most likely saw you. He might be watching you even now." "But I already admitted to killing Frank. My interest now is purely in finding the location of that wallet. To cover my tracks, so to speak." "Right. Your little confession." He smirked. "Now, let me get this straight: Frank and you slept together that night. Afterwards, you two lovebirds went for a stroll on the Widow's Walk. Frank, the big romantic swain, figured he would pluck you a posy for a keepsake. As he bent to pick it, you pushed him over the edge of a cliff. You, who couldn't hurt so much as a flea, tossed your lover over the rocks within minutes of warming a bed with him. I fail to find the logic in that scenario, Lily." Lillian felt faint. "No... I..." "Did I mention that all of this supposedly happened during the worst rain storm in years?" "Yes," she whispered. "It was raining. My nightgown was all wet. From the rain. From the ocean. From Frank's blood. I scrambled down the rocks onto the beach. To help him. But he was already dead. His face! My God, his features were unrecognizable. When Mr. Johnson's henchmen questioned me, I was still wearing my nightclothes. I was so cold and wet. Numb. From swimming out into the surf, trying to get Frank's body. I remember... I remember ... you tried to wrap your coat around me. To cover me. But those horrible men held you back. You fought them, tried to get to me. I was in shock, I suppose, and..." She partially covered her mouth with a trembling hand. "I felt so alone. Lost. Desperate. Exposed. When you tried to protect me, they dragged you away..." Lillian shuddered in memory. She had been wearing her white nightgown, but she might just as well have been wearing nothing. The linen was so wet, it was transparent; it clung to her, from shoulders to legs, accentuating more than it hid. She saw the speculative way those men had looked at her, like she was a common... It wasn't true. None of it was true! But those men had regarded her with looks that said she was about to get what she deserved. And she had known sheer terror. "I remember like it happened yesterday," she said, her voice flat. Doyle reached out a hand to her... To comfort her? To protect her from her own memories?

She didn't know. Thinking better of the gesture, his open hand wavered between them for a moment, then was withdrawn and placed in his pocket, as though he dared not touch her. "Lily," he said solemnly, "you went to bed with Frank Johnson that night, but you didn't kill him." He bowed. "Now, if you will excuse me? I have a business I must attend to."

****

Lillian had no real awareness of entering the labyrinth. Her latest interview with Doyle leaving her too shaken to drive her grandmother's pony cart back to the cottage, she opted to delay the trip. Without a definite destination in mind, she wandered around the grounds, one foot aimlessly placed before the other. While she walked, she thought back to the night Frank died, about how distraught Doyle's face had looked, about how hard he had fought to get to her when Mr. Johnson's men had led her back inside the cottage for questioning. It had taken five burly men to subdue Doyle. When they finished with him, he was bleeding so badly, she thought he might die. Inside the cottage, she was asked graphic questions about her "promiscuous history". Suggestive things. Repulsive, filthy things. The men surrounded her, interrogating her. One stepped up to her face, a burly man with pitted skin, and demanded to know about Doyle's 'violent nature'. And, 'Wasn't it true that he was the jealous type?' Doyle had already admitted to being with her at the cottage earlier, and she knew that he was the one they wanted to blame for Frank's death, and if she said anything at all about the attack, her words would be twisted around, deliberately misconstrued, and that Doyle would be implicated in Frank's death. And so, she told the men that she had entertained both men in her bedchamber that night. First Doyle. Then Frank. She told the men that soon after Frank arrived, she had discovered that her grandmother's cat, Henri, was missing, and that when she went outside to find him, Frank must have followed her. Unaware of the hazards of the Widow's Walk on a dark, rainy night, he must have become disoriented, and fallen, accidentally, to his death. When she refused to implicate Doyle, she was hauled upstairs to her bedchamber. The men threatened to strip her, spread-eagle her to girlhood bed, and take turns manually 'searching' her body's orifices for 'evidence'. There was little doubt in her mind that if given the opportunity, each man in Mr. Johnson's employ would have assaulted her. As they dragged her to the bed, though, Doctor Peterson appeared on the scene--Doyle had gotten word of Frank's fall to him. His knock on the cottage's door to pronounce Frank Johnson's death accidental interrupted the men's plans. But for his timely entrance, she would have been gang raped that night. She never told anyone about what had almost been done to her, especially not Doyle, and she never would. Lost in the horror of reliving that excruciatingly painful chapter of her life, Lillian didn't realize that the evergreen hedge that surrounded her was, in actuality, an intricate living green puzzle. It was not until she started to experience that all-too-familiar closed-in feeling that she began to panic. The bushes that formed the maze grew close together, each individual arborvitae blending into the one

next to it. And the hedge was tall--at least twenty feet in height. The enclosure was cool and shaded, the ground covered with moss. A faint musty smell assailed her nostrils. As her closed-in feeling escalated to a critical, smothering state, she sought a way out. Any way out. Frantically stumbling down a seemingly infinite assortment of twisting corridors, retracing her steps at dead-ends, and rounding non-productive turns, instead of finding an exit, she ended up deeper within the complex network of interconnecting pathways, no closer to an escape than when she had first started her quest. All paths in the labyrinth seemed to lead nowhere. But suddenly, as she fought an overwhelming sense of dread, the confining space opened up and brightened. The center widened, and within this inner sanctum she found a mystical world of dappled golden light, whimsical metal sculptures, stone statuary, and babbling water fountains. Amazed at the discovery, she forgot her terror... Until she heard the fall of a footstep within the cool green shadows; then her terror returned with a vengeance! She lurched. Tried to scream. Failed miserably. Her diaphragm clutching, and with not even sufficient air in her tightly restricted lungs to gasp, she emitted a half-hearted whimper. "Why the hell are you still here?" Doyle! Again. There she stood, like a ninny, seized by a fit of the hiccups, as he came sauntering out from behind a huge stone urn. "I thought you had left an hour since. I happened to look out onto the drive after my client left and there was your grandmother's pony cart still tied to the hitching post." "I felt rather like taking a walk," she said, nose pinched between two fingers. He shot her a quizzical look. "What are you doing?" "I should think it was apparent. I have the..." Hic Hic. Her diaphragm clutched again. "Hiccups. This maze..." Hic. Hic. "...has so many hidden twists and turns. So many narrow corridors leading nowhere." "That is the nature of mazes," he said dryly. "I am well aware of that!" she snapped, then hicked. He skimmed a finger down her cheek. "Poor baby, are you lost?" Her veiled hat was removed, set atop a bronzed sculpture; tantalizingly, he feathered his fingers over her hair, dawdling over the pearl clasp that anchored her chignon in place. The hiccups immediately stopped. Doyle's fingers immediately dropped from her hairpin. His dark brows arched sardonically. "Frightening

you always did get rid of 'em." He remembered! As a girl, he would scare the tar out of her to make the spasms end. "Sometimes the cure is worse than the aliment." She changed the subject. "Whose works are these?" "Local artisans. They sell on commission." "What an extraordinary idea!" "Are you buttering me up for a reason I should know about, Lily?" "I am not buttering you up! I am merely interested." She slanted him a look from under her lashes. "Since when have you become an art patron?" "Since a young lady introduced me to painting. Her ambition was to become a landscape artist. She had some mighty big dreams." Near black eyes assessed her. "Whatever happened to those dreams?" "Dreams have a way of fading when the rent comes due." "As I recall, you wouldn't let me use that excuse. You took me to task for abandoning my dreams." "You must have thought me terribly naïve back then. I must have given you hours of amusement." "I never--not once--found your ambitions amusing." She ducked her head. That was an unfair jibe, she conceded to herself. Doyle had always been her staunchest supporter. But what was he doing here? Why did he always seem to appear from out of nowhere to extricate her from trouble? His rescues were not only humiliating; they were suspicious. Doyle ushered her to a narrow opening in the hedge. She looked up at him. "The way out?" At his slight nod, she slipped between the bushes, Doyle following at her heels. "Watch yourself," he urged. Her companion was remarkably solicitous. One might even go so far as to say, courteous... Doyle's fine manners didn't fool her; she knew what bubbled right under his polite surface. Better to have his contempt out in the open where she might deal with it! "My goodness," she prodded. "What you have managed to accomplish in only a few years! Author, art patron, successful architect..." She flashed him her most radiant and insincere smile. "Have you considered running for governor?" Doyle's eyes narrowed. "Where are you going with this flattery?" "I realize cordiality must present a terrible strain for you..."

"You ruin my family's name and then lecture me on cordiality!" Her smiled widened, and this time it was genuine. "Oh, this is so much better. I much prefer having your hostility on the outside." His eyes glinted like black gems. "Go home, Lily." "Not until I see what is at the end of this wonderful path." "Nothing is down there." "Oh, come now, Doyle, there must be something. This is rather an elaborate walkway to have nothing at the end of it." "Stop, Lily!" But it was too late. She was already running. Clutching her side, panting and gasping for breath, she raced ahead. Doyle didn't chase after her. As usual, he let her go. As soon as she came to the sunlit meadow delineated in the pines, she knew. Simply knew. The tears were flowing freely before he caught up with her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Would she have been better off never knowing? Lily asked herself as she stared at the scene before her. No! She decided. Some hurts should not be avoided; this secret place was one of them. Doyle came up behind her, not actually touching her, but standing close enough for her to feeling the warmth he radiated. With every fiber of her cowardly being, she longed to lean back against him, to shore up her strength with his. She did not give in to the weakness; she did not touch him in any way. The distance between them broke her heart all over again. Nevertheless, heartbroken or not, she continued to hold herself rigidly, her starched posture the epitome of proper ladylike deportment. Regardless of public opinion, she was not a cheat. Not a ... slut. She was affianced, and though the engagement was on shaky footings, she would not do or say anything that might be construed as disloyal to Charles. "You would never listen to me," Doyle said quietly.

She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a batiste handkerchief taken hastily from the interior of her sleeve. "Oh, my..." "You never used to cry so easily," he said softly. "I know," she gurgled. "And since coming home, I have done nothing but." She turned slightly, enough to smile tearfully up into Doyle's scowling features, as she swept a hand across the vista, which was an exact replica of the painting she had done for him years before. "This place is so, so special." He grunted, a typically male, nonverbal communication of distress. "Would you tell me about it?" she asked. Another male grunt: Doyle obviously wished to avoid this conversation. "Please, Doyle?" "For every tree I take down to make way for a new building, I like to give something back to the land, to preserve it for future generations. I have always felt that beauty exists in the naturalness and wildness of a woodland retreat, as well as in grandiose bedding displays." "I agree, and the results are stunning." "As well they should be: you inspired this wildlife habitat." Lillian clutched at her constricted chest. She mustn't succumb to breathlessness now! "Don't say that!" she rasped. "Don't be so generous!" "Dissemble if you will, but it is the truth." His hands stuffed his pockets. "So--you like the sanctuary?" "Like it? I love it. This is not what I expected to find at all. I am consumed with jealousy," she said mournfully. "I haven't done anything with my life and look at all you have accomplished with yours." "Your life is far from over, Lily. You have plenty of time yet to do what you need to do." He sighed. "Anyway, the pond is stocked with fish. I keep a basket of stale bread for feeding them in the gazebo." He pointed. "Over there, behind the row of lilacs. Follow the sound of the wind chimes." No further encouragement was necessary. She was off, following the melody of the chimes to the gazebo. Tripping up the stairs, she scooped up a handful of stale bread crusts, and raced back out again, dashing for the pond. He called, "The dock is the best place for observation." The dock it was! Lillian laughed as goldfish and koi broke the surface of the water, tame as pets, and gobbled up the stale crusts she flung. Doyle joined her. "See those water lilies over there, the white ones with the pink tips?" At her nod, he

said, "They reminded me of the ones you painted in the picture. It took me a while to find the right color combination, but I did." She tilted her head to the cloudless sky. "It's so peaceful here. So quiet. A true refuge. I would love to paint this scene again, now that it actually exists." "Go ahead." "Oh, I don't know..." "Round up your paints and easel and..." The suggestion ended abruptly. "You don't paint anymore, is that it?" "Not much. I teach others to paint now." "Doesn't what's his name--your fiancé--encourage your art?" "His name is Charles, and he doesn't approve of women painters. He was scandalized upon learning that the core curriculum at the Museum School includes nudes. He thinks life models should wear fig leaves." She giggled at the absurdity. Her mirth faded quickly. Why had she revealed that piece of information to Doyle? Lily caught herself before she said anything further. She must guard her tongue! Already, she had said far too much. After all, most men thought a wife should look pretty and bear children. The end. Only the exception felt differently. Charles was not the exception. Doyle looked out across the pond. "Your future husband doesn't approve of you painting, when art is an intrinsic part of who you are?" "It's not that," she protested. "He would simply prefer I not take painting too seriously. He would be more inclined to accept the pursuit as a pastime, as something I do to amuse myself between my wifely duties. Which is actually fine with me, as I, well, I really haven't painted seriously in years. I wished to, I tried to, but..." Lillian shook her head. "I must apologize for the familiar vein this conversation has taken, Mr. Donovan." Doyle leaned back against the railing. "Sounds to me like an aside." "An aside? What is that?" "Let's say a person ... a man ... makes plans for his future, he is on the straight and narrow, working toward his goal, and then something happens. Either good or bad, it makes no difference, just something that alters his chosen course. Though groundless for a period of time, gradually, he embarks on something else, only temporarily, only until he is back on track again. Only sometimes, that temporary detour lasts a lifetime. Like me, for instance." "How so?" she asked, mirroring his body language, but cupping a hand over her eyes to shade them so

that she could see his face and read his expression. "When my parents died, I left New York to return home and take care of things. Taking care of things has lasted almost fifteen years now. I never made it back to New York, and most likely, I never will. That temporary aside has steered the course of my life," he explained with an easy smile. "Understand?" She shook her head. "I am afraid I understand very little any more." He checked his watch, and frowned. "If you will excuse me? I must get back to the office. Another client is due to arrive on the hour." She forced a smile. "May I stay a while longer?" Loose strands had come undone from her chignon and were curling around her face. Self-consciously, she reached behind her to repair the damage. Doyle stilled her hands. "You have beautiful hair! Leave it be." "It's always such a fright." Charles did not look favorably upon her hair. Her chignon never stayed neat and tidy for long, and if there was one thing her fiancé insisted on, it was a polished presentation. Would he insist on the same in bed? She pushed aside Doyle's restraint. "These dratted pins! No matter how many I use, my hair utterly refuses to conform." "I have a solution." She jabbed another pin into her scalp. "You do?" He fingered her chignon. "Yes, I do. Cease trying." He pulled out the pin she had only just installed. "No! Do not! Stop!" But he wouldn't stop. One by one, he removed the pins until her hair had fallen to her hips. "Lily, your wildness, your untamed soul, is part of who you are!" Frantically, she scraped her thick hair together and rolled the assemblage at her nape. Grabbing the pins back, she stuck them punishingly hard into the tight chignon, anchoring it fiercely in place. "I am not wild any more! I am not untamed! I have a fiancé in Boston who expects me to conduct myself in an exemplary fashion at all times. He is training me to look and act the part of a society wife." "Only dogs are trained, Lily. People learn, and they usually learn by making a few mistakes along the way." Off in the distance two very active ducks played in the water. She looked at their antics rather than look at the stern set of Doyle's face. "Some mating dance, huh?" Her companion chuckled. "You watch. The male swims toward the female, but she backs away. They fly together for a while and then they slap each other with their wings. Back and forth. Back and forth. The female duck teasing the drake until she decides the time is right. It can get pretty damn noisy here before they get down to it."

Lily had teased Doyle in the very same manner. Had he deliberately promoted the return of that best-forgotten memory? In her agitation, she swayed. With the quick reflexes she remembered so well, Doyle locked his arms around her. "Don't!" she cried. He mustn't touch her. He mustn't be kind. He mustn't think she was attempting to gain his sympathy. He mustn't know how much he affected her! "No cause for concern. Just a little light-headedness." Her vision swam before her. "All ladies are prone to dizziness upon occasion." He stayed right where he was, supporting her easily with one arm. "When is the last time you had anything to eat?" "I don't remember." "You need to eat more. You look sickly." "Between Grandmama and Tony and now you, I have had quite about enough comments about my thinness. I will have you know that a twenty inch waist is de rigueur in Boston." "Aha--Tony noticed too. You ought to listen to him; he knows female anatomy." The same might be said of Doyle... Lillian quickly censored her thoughts. She had no right to look askance at Doyle's love life. His love life had absolutely nothing to do with her. "You cannot go home unaccompanied," he decided for her. "Nonsense! I am much improved. See?" She pushed away from him and prayed she wouldn't fall. "The dizziness has already passed." "Regardless, I am returning you home in my carriage," he said in the same domineering tone he had always used with her as a girl. Her neck rounded. "Far be it from me to argue." At least Doyle didn't hover. At least he kept his distance. At least he allowed her some dignity as he walked her back through the woods, close enough to catch her should she fall, but far enough away not to crowd her. They rode back to the cottage in silence. Her grandmother was in the rose gardens when Doyle walked her to the door. Victoria Hill looked up from pruning her American Pillars and waved. This was Lillian's opportunity to escape.

"Well, Mr. Donovan, thank you for..." "If you don't mind, I shall stay. I have ... business to discuss with your grandmother. Will you excuse us?" He was dismissing her, like he would a child! And short of making a childish scene, there was absolutely nothing to be done about it. With a mannerly nod, she went inside the cottage... And headed straight to the kitchen window to have a listen. "What ails Lily?" she heard Doyle ask her grandmother. "I don't believe there is anything physically wrong with my granddaughter. But she does have a great deal on her mind." "What?" "I am not at liberty to discuss that with you." "Mrs. Hill, do you think I killed Frank Johnson?" "Yes, I do," was her grandmother's swift reply. "You don't mince your words, do you?" "Not often." Never! Lillian snorted from her hiding place under the windowsill. "Mrs. Hill, do you know that Lily confessed to me that she killed Frank?" "Yes." "Well?" "Well, what? You know Lillian didn't push Frank; that young woman doesn't have a violent bone in her body. You, however, are an entirely different animal. I believe an episode of uncontrollable rage overcame you ten years ago when you saw the woman you loved in bed with another man, and in that rage, you took a life. I think you waited until Frank left the cottage, and then you two argued outside. One thing led to another, and Frank went head-first over the edge of the Widow Walk." "Did you share this theory with Lily?" At her grandmother's, "Yes," Doyle said, "Feeling the way you do, how can you allow Lily to come around me, asking questions? Don't you fear for her safety?" "Not for a moment. I trust you not to hurt my grandchild."

"Your trust is ill-advised and poorly placed. You tell Lilly to be careful--of me, of everyone. For her own good, tell her to back off. No more questions!"

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ordinarily, Lillian didn't drive the pony cart at night. But she had visited Meg at her studio earlier in the day, and sometime during their conversation about art and life and men, darkness had fallen. On a steep incline, about a mile from the cottage, the front end of the cart began to wobble. Dropping the reins, Lillian alighted from her seat and went to investigate, discovering a wheel axle had loosened. After removing the harness, she gave Mona a swat on the hindquarters. "It's back to the stables for you, girl." There were two ways back to the cottage: the circuitous route that Mona had just taken, and the shorter, more direct footpath through the trees, the uppermost portion of which was commonly known as the Widow's Walk. Lillian opted for the direct route. Thankfully, she would not be traversing the part where Frank had made his deadly descent: his plunge occurred further along the walkway. But the section she was about to negotiate was still dangerous as, for a few yards or so, the route tapered to what was little more than a shallow granite ledge above the ocean before widening once again through the trees. If not for the carriage lanterns, Lillian would never have attempted the Widow's Walk at night... Legend had it that the ghosts of grieving Hill widows haunted the path in search of sailing ships that never came home. It was for them that her grandmother insisted the walk be illuminated. In fact, for convenience sake, her grandmother had recently converted from oil lamps to a modern electric generating system, so that her 'lad of all-work' needn't bother with the nightly chore of lighting the individual lamps. Halfway into her climb up the wooded slope, Lillian discovered that both she and the ghosts would have no lights tonight to guide their way; her grandmother had forgotten to pull the switch for the lanterns. Worse still, in her ten-year absence, the route had reverted to an overgrown thicket. Worst yet, the moon wasn't full; she would need to navigate the wild tangle of vines and trees by only a thin gold thread. When she was a girl, she regarded the century-old trees as benevolent sentinels, standing watchful guard duty over the cottage. Tonight, those same trees seemed predacious, their low-hanging, twisted branches the perfect hiding places for ghoulish monsters just waiting to jump out at her. As a girl, she found the jagged stone outcroppings that rose above the pounding surf romantic. Now, those same rocks seemed bloodthirsty, greedily lying in wait for their next human sacrifice. Lillian giggled to herself. No sleep, no food, and nerves of mush, had heightened her already active

artist's imagination. The woods were simply overgrown, not predacious. And the rocks? They were deadly all right, having wrecked many a ship through the years. But stone outcroppings, no matter how dangerous, are incapable of avarice; only humans are greedy. Only humans commit murder. Everyone had a theory about what really happened that long-ago night. What no one knew was that she'd had the most to gain from Frank Johnson's death. The golden boy of Bar Harbor, the apple of his father's eye, that handsome lawyer-in-training, had been blackmailing her. His death ended her torture. Frank talked of love letters and infidelity ... and Victoria Hill's secret baby. And to protect her grandmother from scandal, she had agreed to do whatever he asked. She had hated Frank. But she didn't kill him. Someone else had done her that favor. Who? She shivered. In the dark. Her grandmother had a mind like a steel trap. She never forgot anything, most especially not the Widow Walk's lights. Why tonight...? Dear Lord, no! Had something happened to her grandmother? Is that why the lanterns remained unlit? Sea currents dampened her skin as she ran up the hill toward the cottage. Dank leaves slapped at her face. A thorny briar reached out and captured her ankle. She teetered. Fought for balance. Went down. Hard. Landing on her hands and knees in the dirt. When she struggled to free herself, her bodice pulled free of the gown's waistband and rode up her back, exposing her skin to the night air above the corset and chemise. Beads of perspiration trickled down her backbone and pooled at its base, as she pulled free of the imprisoning vine and tottered to her feet. Picking up her skirts, pine needles scattering, Lillian raced for the shallow ledge suspended above the ocean: the Widow's Walk. Nerves stretched to the breaking point, Lillian hurried across. She must get to the cottage! Her grandmother might have taken ill or she could have fallen. A vertical wall of rock flanked her back. The rough stone tore her loosened bodice, abraded the skin on her bared shoulders. Crossing the precipice, she told herself not to look down. She mustn't look down. Don't look down!

A wind gust off the ocean blew up, and her wildly disordered hair fell into her eyes, blinding her so that she couldn't look down or anywhere else. It was then, when her sense of sight was hampered, that her ears picked up a cue, a sound that was out of place. A bright snap of dry wood. A footstep. Someone was out there! Watching her. Coming closer! She jumped, vaulted sideways; she felt herself slip, then slide. The sea drew her down off her narrow perch on the rocky shelf. A polite ladylike sob escaped her lips. An anguished cry soon followed. She had enough frustration inside her, enough outrage, to last an eternity. She vented it on a shrill, high-pitched scream... Until a hand came out of nowhere and covered her mouth.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Be quiet!" Doyle seethed. "Voices carry. Your grandmother will hear. I just left her awake up at the cottage." Her grandmother was all right! Lillian sagged in relief. And started to fall all over again. Changing his grip, Doyle linked his hand with hers, interlacing their fingers. "This is your opportunity to prove you are not nearly as selfish as I think you are." At first, she failed to grasp his meaning. Then, the horrible realization came to her that if she fell, so would he: his fingers had linked their fates. "You little fool! No one takes the Widow's Walk any more, not since Frank. One more step and you would have been fish bait." With his free hand, Doyle pushed her hair back from her face. Now that she could see again, she saw the precariousness of their positioning. Doyle's feet hung over the ledge by a toe length. Because of his large stature, he was rounded at the shoulders so that his head would clear the overhanging rock. In that bent position, he had supported her--while she struggled against him--with one arm. His free hand covered her mouth. She marveled at his strength, even as she realized they might yet make the flounder a fine meal. Safety was more than a matter of distance: frozen by fear, she was dead weight, unable to help in her

own rescue. She stared down into the ocean, the waves pounding against the rocks mesmerizing her. Is this what Frank saw in his final moments before plummeting? One step, and she would soar like a bird, like a seagull, above the clouds... "You fly, you die. And I die too," he said, bursting her poetic bubble with a hard dose of reality. Mercilessly, he started dragging her. Sideways. Crab-style. It wasn't an elegant ambulation, but it did get them both to safety. Still towing her, he ungently pulled her into a small clearing amongst the fragrant pine. Though they were sheltered from the breeze off the ocean, she shivered. "Promise not to scream again?" he whispered. At her nod, his hand lifted from her bruised lips. "You should have let me go," she murmured, self-pityingly. Now that both his arms were free, he used them to wrap her up in his incredible warmth. "Not until you pay your debt to me," he growled, his palms cupping the small swells of her breasts, plumped above the rigid whale-boned corset. "I want you the same now as I did ten years ago." Whether it was the aftermath of danger, a way for her body to re-affirm its tenuous hold on life, she didn't know; unaccountably, she felt herself respond to his touch, to his words. Her nipples puckered. Then peaked. Sensations that began at the center of each breast suffused her body. She was spiraling. Helplessly, writhing against him. Panting. More! She needed more. But--though she was undeniably responding--fear, very specific in origin, was also consuming her. She whimpered her unease. Immediately, he strove to placate her. A thumb retreated from her bosom to stroke her lips, playing over them sensuously, opening the moist folds as deftly as a lover would. And fear, once again, took a back seat to desire. She turned her face into his shirt. Inhaled him. The smell of sun-bleached clothes, hard work, and man, filled her flaring nostrils. It was all so achingly familiar. "Do you remember what it was like between us?" he asked, nipping her jaw. She sighed in anticipation. He never took her lips right away. He would delay the inevitable, nibbling her jaw first, before taking her mouth almost in despair. He warmed the corner of her lips now, not transgressing any further than the outermost corner. All she need do was turn her head--only slightly--and his mouth would be hers.

Lillian held herself in place, too afraid for both their sakes to move. "Do you remember how passion would flare between us at the slightest provocation? Your hair blowing across my cheek, a whiff of your perfume, your laugh--anything would set me off." She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, yes, she remembered all too well. "I fought that passion once, Lily. No more. I plan on taking everything from you." While tears wet her lashes, his hands fidgeted, the rough pads of his impatient fingers working the hooks at the back of her loosened bodice. His preemptory attitude was almost her undoing. Doyle had always been arrogant and demanding ... possessive. Some things don't change. A second later there was an upward pull, and her ripped bodice was flung to the pine needles. Lillian felt the cool rush of night air on her throat and chest, and then a warm flush, as Doyle, turning her to face him, began to unlace her stays. "I will not tolerate you in a corset. Your breasts are to remain free to my touch. Is that understood?" She nodded weakly. "The damnable thing is interfering with your breathing," he grumbled. If only the cause and the remedy were that simple! The boned corset was discarded, and her breasts shifted under the plain chemise. "Christ," he said hoarsely, staring at her nipples. He went for the remaining undergarment. "No, please." Her breathing came in fits and gasps. "Not my chemise too..." "Place your arms behind your back, Lily." "Oh, Doyle, no..." "Now." His voice was deceptively mild. Her arms went behind her back, which in turn forced her elongated nipples to strain against the linen. Ruthless in his demands, he tore open her chemise. "I will have you bare-breasted. I will have all of you bare, and as free and eager as when you were a girl." Her breasts jutted out eager and free, the highly sensitive, reddened tips as sharp and piercing as arrow points. Doyle always got what he demanded from her. "Your choice," he said, his black eyes never leaving her chest. "Go back to the cottage right now before this thing goes any further or..."

"Or what?" she whispered. "Or come here to me." She had taken only one step before his mouth descended. All of Doyle Donovan was in his kiss. All the passion. All the power. All the primitive parts of his nature he tried to hide by light of day. It was night now, and dark. And he worked his mouth over her mouth, her bared breasts crushed to his shirt. She forgot fear, forgot their surroundings, forgot her engagement, forgot everything save the feel of his tongue penetrating her mouth. "Where?" he demanded, breaking the connection. "Where can I take you?" "Oh Doyle! I ... we..." "Where, dammit? Against a tree? On the pine needles? In your bedchamber?" "We cannot," she cried, her breathless pants easily mistaken for passion. "Like hell!" he roared. "You want this as much as I do." In retaliation for her denial, he backed her up against the hardness of his erection and captured her small breasts in his hands. They moaned in unison. His hard, demanding fingers moved over her in a way designed to inflict... Pleasure. Deep. Luxurious. Pleasure. The pleasure went on and on, until she squirmed and begged and pleaded in unequivocal surrender: "Please, Doyle, please, Doyle, pleeease." "I lie awake at night in my bed and think of you." He drew the skirt of her gown up in back with one hand; his other hand still worked her nipples. "I waited so long for you to grow up, Lily. That time has come. There is no reason to wait any longer." Her gown was up around her waist in back; his maleness imprinted her linen-encased buttocks, so hot and hard there at the crevice. "Do you feel my cock?" She nodded. "No!" he roared. "Say it! Say: I feel your cock." "I feel your cock," she whispered, uttering the words that no lady would ever say.

Her drawers were split to make necessary trips easier, and Doyle shoved his hand inside the open crotch seam, his big hand resting possessively on her belly. "Now say: 'I want your cock inside my deceitful, lying, cheating cunt.'" Anger, she realized, was to blame for his purposeful cruelty. She deserved his cruelty, earned his anger. And so, she repeated the crude dock language: "I want your cock inside my deceitful, lying, cheating cunt." "Now say, 'I want your cock inside my mouth too,'" He fingered her lips. "Go on. Say it." "I want your cock inside my mouth too." That same finger left her lips and slid between her buttocks. "Now what say you, my beautiful, unfaithful Lily?" Her chin dropped. "I say, yes," she said, agreeing to everything, even as her next breath caught in her throat. He turned her back around and began kissing her. She tasted his sexual frustration, his mouth to her mouth; it was as though he sought completion through the kiss, a merging of his body with hers. And despite her innate fear, despite the knowledge that she was not a whole woman, a yearning grew within her. If only they trusted one another... Only when she thought her lungs might burst did he let her come up for air, and then only long enough to take one quick gulp of oxygen before his mouth descended again. And again. And again. Black spots flickered behind her lids. If she continued on like this, she most probably would faint. Pulling back a fraction of an inch, she pleaded, "Softly Doyle. Kiss me like you used to." "It was a long time ago. I have forgotten how." Her breath moistened the small hollow in his chin. "Like this." Her arms slid up along his shoulders, her hands reached to his hair, her fingers combing those neglected strands, ameliorating the madness of his embrace with her touch. Their lips tenuously joined again, this time less harshly than before. One soft, yielding kiss later he lifted his head. "How do you do it? How do you manage to kiss as though every last ounce of your virtue wasn't corrupted years ago?" She swayed under this new verbal assault. He stroked the side of her face. "We might have had it all. We might have had a lasting love. But you threw it all away. And sometimes ... sometimes I could wring your beautiful neck for what you did."

He glazed her cheek with his knuckles. "But I still desire you." Open-mouthed, he traced the contours of her bones. "I want you, Lily. I want to lose myself in your body. There I said it! Now are you satisfied?" "You make it sound more a curse than a gift," she said, cold as stone. "The way I feel is a curse! You betrayed me. Yet despite that betrayal, I would bury myself inside you. You are an urge. A compulsion. An obsession. And what I feel isn't pretty or sweet or tender. You destroyed any kindness in me when you left the way you did." He flicked his tongue down her jaw. "But your skin is soft and smooth," he whispered, his head dipping, his lips hot, oh-so-hot, on her nipples. "Your breasts are firm and succulent. And though your cunt may be had by any man, fucking you will have to satisfy me." "I am engaged." The insistence was ragged at the edges, to say the least. His rebuttal was laughed. "I don't care about your engagement. And obviously, neither do you. Fidelity was never one of your talents. It is not in your nature to be faithful to any man." Perhaps Doyle was right about her nature, for in the heat of passion, she had forgotten all about Charles. And when she did recall him only just then, her fiancé had served only as an excuse. Her reason for refusing Doyle was more a point of practicality than of honor: Her constricted lungs told her she was about to blackout. Like it or not, in a matter of seconds, she would find herself on the ground, not in a sensual swoon but in an ugly, gasping fit. Her choice was not to do the ghastly thing in front of him. She would not be an object of pity. Better contempt than compassion was her credo. With her last gulp of oxygen, she rasped, "Do not force me do something so shameful." Alarm for her diminished breath was apparent in his voice. "Force! You came to me, voluntarily." She needed him to retreat, and soon, or she would crumble. "I ... I ... cannot..." Doyle took a backward step. "What the hell is wrong with you?" "Air," she mouthed through lips gone dry. "Cannot breathe." The chemical smell choked her, suffocated her. "Let me go...I will be fine if you would only let me go." He shook his head. Either at her or at himself; there was no way to know for sure. He touched her cheek. "Cold. Ice cold," he pronounced, removing his shirt. "Here. Take this." He draped the worn garment around her. The shirt was blessedly warm from Doyle's body; his scent lingered in its faded folds, blocking out the caustic, chemical smell that burnt her nostrils. Such a relief, such a wonderful comfort, to bury her nose in laundered cotton that carried Doyle's heat and scent! "Put it on," he ordered. It sounded like the sensible thing to do. Alas, the task required more strength than she possessed; after wrestling with the task, she gave up, exhausted. She stood there, chemise dangling half off, half on, cold

and humiliated. "Allow me." Doyle loosened the shirt from her fingertips; his voice was laced with the poison of compassion. Could pity be far behind?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Doyle stripped off her ripped chemise with swift efficiency. "This isn't the first occasion I have played lady's maid for you," he said, matter-of-factly guiding her arms into the shirt. "The time I fell off El Diablo. You took me to the doctor's office and cared for me afterwards." "Luckily, you hadn't sustained any broken bones or there would have been hell to pay when your grandmother came home." She smiled in memory, as he did the borrowed shirt up to the chin. "You removed my muddy clothes in the kitchen, washed me down, head to foot, as though I were a child, and then dried me off." "And you were grinning ear to ear from the laudanum the doc gave you." "You promised to marry me..." "I had to. You acted like I had never seen a naked lady before. You were cute as a kitten, and just as mischievous." "I asked you to sleep with me. You refused." And so, she had tried to seduce him. No inhibitions, because of the drug; no restraint, because she loved him... * She wavered on her feet. Dressed in the shirt and breeches she had worn horseback riding, now mud-filthy because of her fall, she began humming a church hymn, of all things, while Doyle filled the basin with warm, soapy water. "Take off your clothes. After I wash you down, it's bed for you," he said, over his shoulder. "For modesty sake, leave on your underpinnings." What modesty?

For that matter, what underpinnings? And that part about washing her down--did he think her an over-heated mare? She tried to be blasé, about disrobing, but she had never been naked with the virile Doyle before ... well, not completely naked--mustn't forget that bare-bottom spanking in the woodshed. And here she was, alone in the cottage with him, getting undressed. When he turned 'round, she was nude. "Lily," he reprimanded. "I thought I told you, only the shirt and breeches were to come off." "Only the shirt and breeches did come off," she replied. "I see. A lady should wear underclothes, otherwise... "Otherwise, what?" "Hasn't your grandmother explained about the birds and the bees, Lily?" "Yes. She must have forgotten the part about the underclothes." He chuckled. "I think Doc Petersen gave you too much laudanum for your sprained wrist." Trying not to look, but seeing everything anyway, he gently washed off the caked mud from her fall. Her face first. The cloth was warm and wet on her cheekbones, but not dripping, as Doyle had strong hands and had done an excellent job wringing out the extra moisture. He wiped off the blood from her lower lip where she had bitten through. Well worth the pain of the horse unseating her for this attention, she decided. Next he did her throat. Arms. Underarms, where red hair grew in soft swirls. She thought he took an exceedingly long time over her breasts, giving them extra care and attention, though she discerned no specks of mud on her chest at all. Naturally, his lingering might have been wishful thinking on her part too. She giggled in amazement when her nipples changed in tensility; the formerly soft pink tips going achy hard when he drew the rough textured cloth across them. Her giggling stopped when her nipples started to hurt. "Andrew Taylor stares at my chest all the time." She moaned, liking the hurt. "Even in church. Your brother too," she said in an attempt to make Doyle jealous. "Do you think I should start wearing a corset?" "No. You have no need of a corset," he said coolly. "But you must start wearing a chemise and drawers." "Why not a corset? Is it because I am flat on top?"

He laughed. "What a woman has between the legs is what counts, not the size of her teats. Though, yours are very nice." "And how nice it is of you to tell me." She thrust her nipples out more. He washed them with the cloth, like they were his to wash. But without emotional involvement. Detached from the turmoil she was feeling, he bathed around them, under them, across the tips. "I tell you only because laudanum produces forgetfulness as well as sleep. Come morning, it will be as if this conversation never happened, as if this occurred in a dream. Now be a good little girl and stop trying to seduce me." * How wrong Doyle had been! She recalled every word of their conversation, everything that had happened, everything he did... * She looked down at her feet. She did not wish to be shuffled off to bed. She did not wish to behave like a good girl either, not if that meant he might easily dismiss her. And eighteen was certainly not 'little'! She was a full-grown woman! He continued to move the cloth around her bosom. "These really are quite lovely," he said, almost to himself, the wet linen shelving one small breast so that the pink nipple stuck straight out. "I did notice you went without underpinnings, but you mustn't, honey. You are growing up now, and boys will do more than look if you do not behave as a lady ought." "You needn't be concerned about my breasts shifting--see," she said, and boldly wiggled her shoulders. "No jiggle." "Christ," he rasped. "Stop that, honey." "I just thought to show you..." Doyle's voice turned suddenly stern. "I know what you thought to show me." His gaze lowered. The washcloth rubbing, rubbing, low on her belly. Until her thighs opened of their own accord. Her hair had tumbled about her shoulders, and she wondered if he noticed that the coppery curls between her legs were a shade darker, especially now, when damp from the wash cloth. He did not avoid washing between the legs. Oh no, not Doyle. Though her thighs were parted and her femininity was open and vulnerable to him, the notch between her legs seemed not to faze him. He neglected not an inch of her skin, but showed no erotic interest in her, whatsoever.

His disinterest angered her! Here she was trembling in excitement, and he was showing a complete lack of awareness of her as a woman! She supposed...Doyle had so many women. Beautiful, full-breasted women. Ladies who knew what to do in a man's bed. Thanks to her grandmother, and unlike most girls her age, she knew the mechanics of sex, but she lacked the practical experience she would need to attract and keep the attention of a man like Doyle. Still, she would not let this opportunity pass her by, for she might never get another. Seize the moment! Arms looped around Doyle's neck, she pressed her young healthy body against him and began placing sloppy, puppy-dog kisses all over his face. Doyle didn't kiss her back. He wasn't giving her--them--a chance! She had just turned eighteen. He was thirty. The age difference was too much, he had decided for both of them. And so he stood there, like a statue, while she rubbed herself over him. "You say it's what a woman has between her legs that counts--am I made as I should be between the legs, Doyle?" she asked flirtatiously, and moved slightly away from him. She opened her thighs wide enough for him to see. The move got the desired results; Doyle was now staring at her privates as though she was a woman, not a little girl. "You are made as you should be made, honey. Not a thing wrong with you." She touched herself, opened her labia. "Are you sure? It worries me that I might not be ... made right. You know, down here. How does one know...?" "Damn you, Lily! Doped up or not, your mischief borders on sadism." She had looked that word up later in her dictionary and didn't care for the definition. She loved Doyle! Why would he not see that? "Would you look at me ... close. Allay my fears. Tell me, I am made like all other women." He threw the washcloth in the basin. Taking her hand, he led her to the kitchen table. He helped her get up on top, settling her hips onto the edge. "Slide all the way down toward me," he said, his palm flattened on her belly. She did, but knees closed. "Open your thighs," he said. Giggling, because of the drug, she opened herself to him.

She thought he would just look. But she thought wrong. Unexpectedly, Doyle did more than look: He pressed a finger up inside her. The action was so inexplicable, and so explicit, that she cried out, tried to sit up, tried to close her knees, tried to dislodge his prying digit. He pushed her back down, held her down, his warm palm uncompromising on her belly. "You asked for this, Lily, and I shall do it. Now tilt up your pelvis. I need to see if you have let any lad--like my brother, for instance--get inside you." "No," she said swatting at him. He one-handed her arms over her head and held them there while he continued his examination of her person. His finger slowly circled her vulva, 'round and ' round. He made her ache between the legs. In her need, she raised her hips, rubbed her labia against his prying finger like a female cat in heat, her bottom lifting and falling in an exhibitionist quest for satisfaction. "Mmm," she purred, heatedly, her mons grinding against his digit, her hips rocking. When she was moist and squirming, he fingered her dripping vagina, probing her. "Christ, how is it possible that a hot piece like you is still a damned virgin!" His voice sounded harsh and raw, agonized, as he removed his digit. "But you won't stay virgin long if you keep this up," he warned. "Continue to behave promiscuously and some man will have his way with you. Once a cock breaks your membrane, the next step is a fatherless babe in your belly." Picking her up in his arms, he had carried her, not upstairs to her bedchamber, but into the front parlor, placing her naked onto the velvet settee. She sprawled there, drowsy, with Doyle glaring down at her, his narrowed eyes on her slick and open labia. She must have fallen asleep then, for when she awakened, she was dressed in her most demure nightgown and Doyle was talking quietly to her grandmother in the kitchen... * Had he touched her while she slept her drugged sleep? Had he kissed her slack mouth and rubbed his cock against her naked belly, in the shallow cleavage between her immature breasts? Had he spurted, long and hot, between the wet folds of her virgin vulva? She hoped so. She fantasized that he did... Doyle broke into her reverie with a curse. "What are you doing coming home this late? And alone too? And where the hell is the pony cart?"

"The cart broke an axle," she murmured. "Suppose I hadn't been the one waiting for you by the sea walk? Suppose someone else was there, someone trying to shut you up for good?" "Undoubtedly, I would be dead by now." She looked wryly at the borrowed shirt she wore. "But at least I would be a decently clothed corpse." He butted his forehead to hers. "I shall have you, Lily, one way or the other, engagement or no engagement." Her nervous breath caught again as he propped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "But I don't fuck nearly faint women. I like it a little more lively than that between the sheets." "Thank you." "Such fine manners. At least you didn't lie and say you don't desire it when I know you do desire it." Oh, but she lied! And in the most fundamental of ways. Doyle just didn't know it. Not yet. But he would find out soon enough if he kept this up. He would learn that she was just as cold and empty as Charles knew her to be. "Mark my words, your pound of flesh will disappoint you!" she croaked. "Pound of flesh," he muttered, sounding oddly amused. "If only it were that simple." He swatted her backside. "Go on up to the cottage now. I shall follow at a discreet distance." She teetered away, taking three shaky steps before the rain started, plump drops that accused her of faithlessness as they fell. Faithlessness to whom? Charles or Doyle? She turned her face up to the sky, letting the rain blend with her tears. By the time she let herself into the cottage and made her way to the privacy of her bedchamber, her breathing had dramatically improved. She loved Doyle. Had always loved him. Once, more than life itself. And not only that, she had told him so. Rain had fallen that night too. Not a soft rain like this night's rain, but the worst storm in years. It was the night Frank was killed... * Great sheets of water splashed across the windowpanes.

The wavy antique glass distorted color, making the rain appear greenish. Though early summer, the cottage was dark and chilly. For warmth, she lit a fire in her bedchamber's hearth. Lightening flashed outside and the wind whistled through the shutters. Above the turmoil of nature, above the moans and groans and creakiness of the old house, she heard a noise. Was that Frank, come to collect on his blackmail? He kept the love letters in his leather billfold. 'In chronological order,' he told her. All she had to do was sleep with him, and the incriminating evidence would be hers. Lillian raced to the window. Against the slap of rain and wind, she saw a huddled figure approach the cottage's back door, fighting for every step he took. A streak of lightening lit up the sky. Enough for her to recognize that the sodden man shouldering his way to the cottage wasn't Frank, as she had dreaded, but Doyle. Barefoot, and wrapped in her grandmother's red paisley shawl, she ran outside to meet him. Keeping her head tucked low, she crossed the huge puddles in the backyard. Mud splashed up her bare legs, dirtying the hem of her white nightgown. She was saturated to the skin, as rain-beaten as her grandmother's lilies, which lay sprawled upon the ground, their white petals limp. Doyle grabbed her. "I thought you were spending the night with a friend," he lashed out at her. "Why the hell are you here?" "This is where I wish to be," she said, trying to reassure him "You will come with me," he shouted against her wet face. Her feet swam in ankle-deep puddles; the water was rising fast. Her nightgown was plastered to her legs, the hem dragging. She was cold and frightened, but she wasn't about to leave her home. "No! I stay. I will not leave the cottage." "It's only a house, Lily!" "Not to me," she said obstinately. "Never to me!" "Your grandmother isn't here; that makes you my responsibility." Responsibility? Is that all she was to him? He could go straight to hell! She turned to go back inside. "I am a grown woman. Leave me alone." "We don't have time for this now! The road is almost washed out." He wrapped his arms around her. "Please? I am tired, so damned sick and tired, of always fighting you. I need to get back to my brothers, but I cannot go without you." She stumbled away from him. "This is my home and I am staying!"

His hand clamped on her shoulder. "All this for four walls and a roof! I don't understand you at all." But despite his angry words, he cuddled her to him, his arm flung over her shoulders, protecting her as they made their way back across the yard. It was only a short walk but it seemed to take forever. Each time her bare feet slipped on the lichen-covered bricks, he steadied her against his body. Inside the kitchen, he said gruffly, "Go change out of that wet nightgown." "You will stay?" "For as long as I can. Now hurry and change before you take ill." She looked down. Her white nightgown was soaking wet, totally transparent. The fine batiste clung to her youthful curves, revealing more than it hid. Deliberately, she let the cover of her shawl fall to the floor in a sodden heap. Doyle never moved, but his black eyes traced her body's outline. "Come here." When she did as he requested, he tilted her chin up and kissed her. Roughly. His bearded face felt strange but wonderful against her damp cheeks. "Perhaps this isn't such a good idea," he said in a tight voice when the kiss ended. "Perhaps I should leave right now." Her heart fluttered. "Don't leave me." He reached out a thumb and traced the contours of her mouth. "You feel cold." "It's warmer upstairs," she whispered. "In my bedchamber." His hand fell from her mouth as she turned, leading him through the old house. At the main staircase, she held up the hem of her gown with one hand and climbed the narrow steps with a lady-like sway of her bottom. Doyle hesitated on the landing outside her bedchamber door. "Lily?" She smiled over her shoulder. "Wait inside. I shall be right back with the linens." "First this," he replied and clasped her around the waist. He kissed her harder than he had downstairs. "Just so you understand." "I do." "Good. Now go." "I shall hurry."

He walked over the threshold into her bedchamber and stripped off his shirt. "You had better hurry or I shall come looking for you." On her return, she moved so quietly that he was startled when she touched him. "What are you up to now, Lily?" "Just drying you," she replied, blotting the moisture from his furry chest. "My turn," he said when she was done. He took the linen and dried her face, stroking it tenderly. Then he moved downwards, warming the cool skin of her neck. He eyed her speculatively before unfastening her gown. "Fair is fair." She nodded. "I agree. We should be equally unclothed." While he worked on her ribbons, she leaned forward, capturing a drop of water from his wet chest with her tongue. "You taste like rain." "Do I?" "Oh, yes," she said softly against his mouth as he opened her gown to the waist. "And from now on, every time it rains I shall remember how much I love you..." * And she did remember. For ten long years, every time it rained, she thought of him. Lily touched her mouth, almost tasting that rainy-kiss still. "I love you Doyle. I shall always love you." But only the old house heard her vow above the downpour.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The next morning, Lily set herself a task: she would go to the beach beneath her bedchamber window, to the spot where the wild beach roses bloomed. Perhaps if she were brave enough to return to the place where Frank Johnson died, she might also find the fortitude to move on with her life. She had hated Frank for blackmailing her. Hated herself too for giving in to his extortion. She despised her powerlessness, her lack of control over her own life. And yet, no matter how much she loathed her servitude to him, to break free of her chains would mean causing her grandmother pain. Watching her grandmother suffer was something Lily simply could not do. Instead, she had allowed herself to be destroyed... She was not the woman she might have been because of Frank Johnson. Nightmares, a personal life lacking in intimacy, a fiancé who didn't really know her, and a man she had loved and betrayed--these

were Frank Johnson's legacies, bequeathed to her from the grave. So today, she would revisit the scene of the crime. She would go to the place that should have set her free, but had instead imprisoned her just as securely as any jail cell might have done. Lily walked along the cottage's fieldstone foundation, trailing her fingers against mortared stones, hugging the house's perimeter, hoping the house would give her courage. The Widow's Walk, lined with a hedge of pink roses, awaited her in the distance. She closed her eyes and felt the touch of the sun on her face, heard the birds chirp, smelled the scent of flowers, and hopelessly gave herself over to memory... * Doyle was rain-wet and smiling. "Every time it rains you will remember me, hey?" he said, as she kissed the raindrops from his chest. "Yes," she whispered. "Finish drying your hair." He stepped away. "Where are you going?" But he left without answering, going back out into the storm; he returned a short time later with an armful of white lilies. "For you." He handed her the dripping bouquet. She breathed in the moist wonder, musing to herself that the flowers were fit for a wedding ceremony. It was a night for rain and passion, of white candles burning bright, and she felt very much like a bride. Doyle touched her still damp hair. "Lily, are you sure? We can wait to make love." "I have never been more sure of anything." His hand moved to cup her face. "So young. I can wait--I swear to wait for you." At eighteen, she knew her mind and would countenance no delay. Frank pressured her for intimacy. How much longer could she hold him off? If she must give into his demands she would have something for herself first. Doyle! The man she loved must be the one who took her virginity, not the loathsome Frank! She moved closer to the hand that stroked her cheek, closer to Doyle's heat. "We have waited long enough to make love." With her vehement declaration, he parted the bodice of her nightgown, opening it to her concave belly, and then beyond. His eyes went dark and fathomless, but his touch was gentle. Reverent. His sensuous stroking thrilled her, the rapture deep and urgent and abiding. Her neck arched. She bit down on her lip to suppress her shiver of pleasure, and excitement,

when torturously slow, he feathered his fingers over her skin until her nerve endings caught fire, until her moans, even to her own ears, sounded uninhibited. She gasped, going hot and needful, as he deepened his caress. Then, he stopped. "What is it?" she asked. Had she done something wrong? Was she too passive, too innocent, too naïve? He mustn't find her out! He mustn't know this was her first time! "Are you still virgin?" he demanded, the question released on a hot rush of desire that fanned across her upturned face like fog across the water. Doyle's question didn't anger her, for she knew it wasn't asked to be judgmental. The question contained no righteousness, no moral indignation, no hypocritical accusation. Neither was the question asked out of petty spite or jealousy. Though God knows, she had given Doyle ample and just reason to suspect her of promiscuousness! Her behavior towards him had long ago exceeded the boundaries of propriety. She had been forward and impetuous, and everything a lady should not be... No, Doyle's question was a plea, an entreaty that came from the heart of a man who simply did not wish to hurt her. Protectiveness was the underlying cause of Doyle's uncertainty, his hesitancy in taking her to bed. But she had a secret weapon to fight his overprotection: her hymen was no longer intact... An injury. She had taken El Diablo riding. Again. Against the owner's expressed permission. Again. And the horse had thrown her. Again. Causing her to bleed a copious amount from the vagina. Doyle would assume she had already been with Frank. Or some other lad. A stable boy, perhaps. So, she lied without really lying. With a saucy wink, she said, "No need to worry on that score." And with that boast given, Doyle picked her up in his strong arms and carried her to the bed... * Lillian's eyes snapped open, and she took a tiny step nearer to the scene of Frank's death. She hadn't bothered with shoes, and green ferns, damp with morning dew, curled softly around her bare ankles. They tickled when she brushed against them. In Boston, there were no uncivilized places for ferns to grow. In the city, there was Boston Common, true, but the park was hardly wild. For true happiness, she needed acres and acres of lush green grass where she might walk barefoot whenever she felt so inclined. Oftentimes, she would lie awake at night in her rented room in the Back Bay brownstone she shared with other female artists and actually feel the pull of the cottage: the woods; the sea; the gardens; the wild beauty that was Maine. There was a small stream that trickled behind her grandmother's peony garden. When she was a little girl, she would go there to skip stones. And then later, she would sneak down to the water all by herself, just to dream; she had always been a dreamy child. It was at the stream's edge that she would gather plants

for centerpieces. And in the winter, she would scout down pine boughs for Christmas wreaths. She'd had a wonderful, perfect childhood. And it saddened her that she wouldn't be able to bring her own children here someday. There were vacations, of course, if Charles was able to get away from his Boston bank. But it wouldn't be the same. Her fiancé would come to resent coming to Bar Harbor almost as much as he would most certainly come to resent her. Poor Charles! She hadn't given her fiancé much thought. She didn't love him. He knew it, for she had told him so, even as he placed his ring upon her finger. No, she didn't love Charles, but she had never once deceived him, as she had loved and deceived Doyle. She had tried to tell Charles about her past, and on more than one occasion, but he wouldn't listen, refused to hear. Somewhere deep inside him, perhaps Charles already knew the truth. At any rate, Charles insisted upon a beautiful, well-bred lady in public, and a warm lover behind closed-doors. She would certainly fail him, and in both areas. She had no passion to give poor Charles; indeed, she found his touch repugnant. Sighing, she slipped the ostentatious ring over her knuckle and placed it in her pocket. She wouldn't be marrying her fiancé. She would write him a letter that very day and tell him so. Politely. She wouldn't mention that another man's touch made her yearn, another man's kisses made her burn. No, she wouldn't tell him that she belonged to Doyle Donovan, body and soul. She didn't wish to hurt Charles, as she had hurt Doyle. With tears dribbling down her cheeks, she viewed the spot where she had discovered Frank's body. She had come home to find the truth, and on the rose-covered beach that her father had loved to paint, she found it. And though it was not the truth she thought it would be, not the truth she had sought, it was her truth. Her grandmother had been right all along: She really was strong. The scene of Frank's death saddened her, but it didn't crush her. And when the time came, she would find the strength to face the rest of her past, and in facing it, she would prove to herself once and for all that she was no longer Frank's victim.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lily awakened to the sound of Doyle's voice. Yawning, she looked at her bedside clock. Almost nine o'clock! For the first time in years she felt rested. And hungry; her stomach actually growled in anticipation of

breakfast. Hurrying into a remnant of her girlhood, a frilly pink wrap which left the white ruffled edge of her nightgown peaking out from the bottom, she ran downstairs, her red hair flying loose and uncombed behind her. Victoria Hill was entertaining informally this morning: Doyle was seated at the kitchen table, not the dining room table, and he was munching on her grandmother's homemade biscuits, not Mary's. Their guest rose from his seat when Lily entered the room. "Finally awake, eh? I thought you would sleep all day." Who was this affable stranger her grandmother was entertaining? One black brow cocked, Doyle walked to her, bestowing on her cheek a kiss that must have looked chaste to her grandmother, but in reality, was anything but; his tongue had made love to her skin. He grinned, daring her to say something. No fool she, she refused to rise to the bait. "Mrs. Hill," Doyle said to cover the heavy silence, "you make the best breakfast rolls in Bar Harbor. I must visit here more frequently." To Lily's utter amazement, her grandmother blushed. "Doyle, you are always welcome here. We enjoy having a man in the cottage. Isn't that right, child?" she asked without even bothering to look in her granddaughter's direction. Lily scowled behind Victoria Hill's back. "Yes, Nana." Her grandmother, sensing something was up, gave Lillian the full weight of her attention. "You look much improved this morning, dear. There is a healthy glow about you that wasn't there yesterday." Victoria turned to their visitor. "What do you think, Doyle? Do you think Lily looks more rested today?" Doyle made a big production of looking her over. "In that outfit, I would say she looks as cute as a kitten. Probably as naughty as one too." He winked. At that point, Lily was too busy downing three rolls and two glasses of milk to reply. She ate every crumb and slurped every last drop, and didn't feel sick afterwards. "Lillian, dear--Doyle has returned the pony cart with the wheel fixed. Wasn't that thoughtful of him?" "Yes, very thoughtful," she said, standing at the dry sink Their breakfast guest shrugged. "Actually, Johnny volunteered his services. He is the better axle mechanic, so it made sense for him to check the wheel. He left me a note saying he had fixed the problem and it works fine now." He ambled over to stand with her. Lillian wouldn't stake her life, or more importantly, her grandmother's life on that assurance, which is why she would ask Jeb, the stable boy, to check the cart out before anyone rode in it again.

Victoria Hill turned to Doyle. "What do you and my granddaughter have planned for today?" "Going fishin'. A hike in the woods first, a swim to cool off, followed by some serious casting. I packed us up a huge picnic for lunch. Sounds about right to you, little one?" Little one? Lily hid her stunned expression by swiftly turning her back. Doyle hadn't called her 'little one' since she was seventeen years old. "Well?" Doyle prompted. "You will join me today, correct?" "Do I have a choice?" Lily muttered, under her breath. "No," he answered, and not under his breath. As her grandmother was occupied, Lily looked over her shoulder and stuck out her tongue at him. In retaliation, Doyle gave her bottom a pat. She countered with a glare. His parry was to deepen the pat into a caress. "Mmm, mmm, mmm. The best buns in Bar Harbor can be had in this house." Her face went hot. "Doyle!" "Lily!" "Children! Whatever is the problem?" asked her grandmother. "Nothing," the guilty parties replied in unison, and jumped away from each other. "Sounds like something to me," rejoined the cagey woman. Blushing, Lily walked around Doyle and began her escape of the kitchen. "Pack a swim costume, unless you intend to go skinny dipping," Doyle called after her. Her grandmother had the bad taste to laugh. "Sounds like a good time to me." Why was her grandmother encouraging him? "Wear the trousers, dear. So suitable for a hike, no?" How to refuse? The trousers were a gift; a rebuff would hurt her grandmother's feelings. "Quite suitable," she replied.

"And by the way, dear, before I forget, I have a message from Anthony. The artist would like you to pose for your portrait tomorrow and the next evening too. Please say you will! It means so much to both of us!" "Tell Tony those sittings are fine with Lily," Doyle answered for her. Some things don't change... She stomped up the staircase ... to change.

****

As usual, her grandmother was right: her gift--trousers and a heavy cotton shirt--was very comfortable for horseback riding. And the jaunty straw hat, supplied by Doyle, protected her redhead's fair skin from freckling. "So a sunburned nose won't ruin Tony's painting," he said, installing the huge farmer's hat atop her head. Lillian loved to ride, though she seldom had the opportunity any more. She missed the feel of animal flesh between her legs... She also missed Doyle's toneless whistling. Doyle always pursed his lips and blew a terrible off-key tune when things were going his way. Evidently, he thought things were going his way today. "This is the place," he advised, the horrendous whistling finally coming to an end as he jumped out of the saddle. She jumped down too, tied her mount to a tree, and started walking up the trail. His voice rang out. "Where are you off to? This gear won't get carried up the hill by itself. And I am not doing all the heavy work. Get your fanny back here and help!" She turned. "You expect me to carry that," she said pointing to the saddlebag. "Ayuh," he grunted, lifting the smaller of the two huge packs and slinging it over her shoulder. One step and she sagged. "City life will be your ruination," the ogre scolded. "When you were a girl, you could have carried two of these packs without breaking a sweat." "Only horses sweat; gentlemen perspire and ladies glow." Challenge issued, Lily hefted the load. "And I can still carry my fair share of the burden. Just watch me." "I won't even blink."

Halfway up the hill, she could no longer hide her groans. "This is what comes from armchair teaching. My muscles have gone soft." "You should be standing at an easel, brush in hand, not teaching." "I have rent to pay, sir." He scratched his jaw. "Have Charles support you while you paint." "Me, a kept woman? I think not, Mr. Doyle," she said, and continued her up-trail flounce. Spite kept her going for another mile, but when the oxygen thinned near the top, her pace slowed to a crawl. Her back ached. She was perspiring from the exertion. Collapsing in the dirt, she hung her head. "Time for a rest?" Doyle asked. "That, or you carry me." He squatted down beside her. "And that would present no problem. Skin and bones is all you are. As a girl, you were healthy." "Not that again!" She rubbed her aching shoulder. "Let's stay in the moment, shall we? Let's pretend we have no past and no future. Only today exists. Deal?" "Deal," he agreed, peeling the saddlebag down her arm. "Today is really all anyone has anyway." He patted the dirt beside him. "Scoot over here. You need a rub down." "Pardon?" "You heard me." She scooted. "What am I--a horse? He supported her back against his raised knees. "Drop your long neck, little mare." "My neck is already dropped." "I was trying for tact," he said, kneading her achy shoulders. She moaned. "Gosh, that feels good. I haven't hiked for a while." She looked over the shoulder he was rubbing. "Can you tell?" "Naw," he said, crossing his eyes. "What gave me away?" "I would have to say it was the whining. Definitely the whining. Good thing I provoked you; otherwise, we might still be at the bottom of the hill looking up." "You intentionally angered me?"

He shrugged. "It's a talent. Some might even say, a gift." His hands were gifted too. And after his kneading, she began to feel better. Not only better, but starving too. "Miss Hill! Was that your belly I just heard rumbling?" "A gentleman would pretend not to have heard." "Good, God, woman, the growling frightened me! I thought it was a big ol' black bear come to git me." "Very amusing." Reaching into his pack, he threw a small cloth sack at her. "What is this?" "Trail-mix. Made it myself. See if that will fill you up." The bag's contents looked absolutely horrid, oats and dried raisins and apples, fit only for a horse. But she was hungry... She tossed the stuff by the handful into her mouth, until it was gone. "Have any more?" A second small cloth bag came her way. After hearing her crunch for a while, Doyle said, "Over here with some of that mix." She wiped her hands on her buckskin leggings. "Too late. It's all gone." "That was enough trail mix for four people. You must be getting your appetite back." "If this keeps up, I shall need to let out the seams of my gowns." "Good! No fun rubbing down a skinny woman. If you had some meat on you, I would have your top off and we would be wrestling in the grass for your bottoms." "Think so?" "Know so. Women find me irresistible." "Irresistible, eh? Why have you never married, then?" The easy banter came to an uneasy conclusion. "I thought we agreed to live in the moment?" Lily lumbered to her feet. "Sorry." Doyle stood too. He was such a strong man, but not a moment ago he had massaged her back with the gentlest of hands. She reminded herself that those same hands were also capable of violence. How foolish, indeed, to forget that fact.

He sighed. "You were so young when it happened. No more than a girl. On a good day, I really don't blame you." "On a bad day?" "You don't want to know. Let's forget it for today." Forgetting was easy when one was on top of the world. Up here, in the hills, high above everything, they might have been the only two people on the planet. Only blue skies and mountain pine surrounded them. Nothing touched them up here, not even the past. Lily took a deep breath, filling her city lungs with clean Maine air. Today the world was hers. Anything was possible. Even trust. She angled her head and listened to a bubbly sound off in the near distance. "Is there a stream through the trees?" "Perhaps," he said, much too casually, and deliberately vague. "An ordinary stream?" she pressed. "An ordinary stream." He chuckled. "With an extraordinary waterfall. It's a damn paradise behind those bushes. Centuries of water passing over them have hollowed out the rocks. The granite is worn so smooth, you can slide down the stone. And green fertile banks cradle the spot on both sides. You will love this place, Lily." She spun, arms opened wide. "I already do." The sky seemed so close! Close enough to embrace a big, white, puffy cloud. "How can you give all of this up for Boston?" he asked, solemnly. "How did you ever expect to be happy there? And you haven't been happy in the city. Don't bother to deny it." She opened her mouth to do just that, to deny his accusation, but she didn't get the chance: At that moment, a screaming hawk flew within scant inches of their heads, free and proud. "Oh, my," Lillian said in wonder. "I had forgotten the hawks." "Hunting down his lunch, no doubt. How 'bout you? Still hungry?" "Yup. But show me this stream before we stop to eat." He grabbed his pack, then her hand. "Come along." The sound of rushing water grew louder, and when Lily looked up, she saw the waterfall, spilling like a champagne fountain at a Boston society wedding over an outcropping of stone. Doyle smiled down at her. "I know how much you appreciate nature, especially when the landscape is wild and untouched. It's hard to believe that only a couple of months ago all this water was frozen ice on the mountaintop. Spring thaw arrives, down the water races. It has no choice in the matter, no place else to go." He stared intently into her face. "But people do have choices."

Was he referring to her? "I found this spot," he continued, "about five years ago when I spent a month camping. I needed to get away and think about what I would do with the rest of my life. When I came back down off the mountain, I started the book. Hopefully, the place will have the same affect on you. You need to paint again, Lily." He removed his shirt. "Hurry up. Get undressed."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Ex--excuse me?" Lily stuttered. "I said, strip off." "W-w-why?" "For underwater exploring." She shivered. "I cannot... I mean ... the water is much too cold for swimming. And, alas, I forgot to pack my swimming costume." He removed his shoes and socks. "Sissy! I seem to remember you swimming with Johnny and me in a colder stream than this." His black brow lifted in challenge. "And, as I also recall, you had forgotten your swimming costume that day too." Oh, yes. She remembered. Her impetuousness had nearly resulted in disaster the day she had come upon the Donovan brothers swimming naked... * On a made-up errand for Tony, she knocked on Doyle's office door. She knew the architect was at home because El Diablo was hitched to the post out front, saddled. After receiving no reply, she went looking for Doyle. She heard splashing coming from the stream behind the Donovan property. Unashamed of her strong, young body, she stripped to her lawn drawers and chemise and joined the brothers, unannounced and uninvited. As usual, Doyle ignored her. Hoping to make the elder Donovan jealous, she flirted outrageously with Johnny in the water. But she soon grew bored with her teasing: Johnny was enamored of her, and though she liked him well enough as a friend, he didn't stir her heart ... or her loins. She left the stream and stretched out on the grassy bank, drying her hair in the sun.

Now dressed, John joined her. He leaned in towards her mouth. After all that flirting, she figured she owed him at least a kiss. So she allowed him to kiss her. She needed the experience if she ever hoped to attract Doyle... But when his hand found its way to her bosom, she pushed him away. John was her age, just coming into manhood, and she was wearing only her clingy underclothes; having been teased, he wouldn't accept her rebuff. "No, Johnny," she cried, as he ripped at her chemise to get at her unfettered breasts. And then he was atop her, his tongue in her mouth, holding her down, yanking at her drawers. She screamed. Doyle pulled Johnny off of her. "Go home," he spoke tersely to his younger brother. "And wait for me there." With John gone, she braced herself for the full brunt of Doyle's disapproval. She hated the thought of displeasing him, of disappointing him. She didn't know why she kept behaving as she did. She was normally so level headed... Save when it came to Doyle. All reason was lost when it came to the man she loved. " Please don't think badly of me," she pleaded. "Rape is a consequence a female risks when she swims alone with two naked men. You led Johnny to believe you were willing to mate with him," he said sternly. "I didn't mean to..." He squatted down in front of her. "Take down your drawers." She swallowed. Hard. She was a virgin, and nervous. "All the way off?" she prevaricated. "All the way off, Lily," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Will you strap me again?" she asked, her excitement growing. "Corporal punishment doesn't appear to help the situation. In fact, it only seems to exacerbate the situation," he said dryly. "I don't understand..." "The last time, you climaxed as soon as my belt touched your posterior." "Climax?" she repeated, seeking further clarification; her grandmother hadn't explained that word to her.

He let out a sigh. "Lily," he said patiently. "You like my discipline just a little too much. For that reason, I think it's best if I touch you as little as possible from now on." "But I like it when you touch me." "The rub is, you would like it no matter what man touched you. You need to learn discretion." "Unfair! It's your touch I long for, Doyle." But he had ignored her protestation in favor of watching her peel the damp drawers down her legs. At her belly button she came to a stop. "Any lower, and you will see my kitty." "The word is pussy, sweetheart, and yes, I intend to see it. Not to worry, I won't hurt you. And please, Lily, do not say you wish me to hurt you. You are far too young for that sort of play and I am not quite that much of a cad." When she was naked from the waist down, she waited for his next instruction. "Legs bent up to your belly. Knees opened wide. No need for shyness with me, sweetheart. I only intend to show you how to pleasure yourself so that never again will you place yourself in a dangerous situation in your need to gain release." He arched a brow. "Unless you masturbate, already?" "I don't know what that is." "You will after today." "Should I bend up my legs now, Doyle?" He stared at her hardening nipples under the damp undergarment. "Off with the chemise first. I might just as well show you how to touch your nipples too." "Why would I wish to touch my own pips?" He thought for a moment. " You see, Lily, a woman's arousal generally begins with her nipples. Stroking them readies her for intercourse." She nodded, although her grandmother hadn't mentioned that either, and whipped the chemise over her head. When she was completely nude, he said, "Go ahead now. Open your legs." He moved to her feet. "Your pussy is slick with your juices. Is that from kissing John?" "I don't love John. I love you," she insisted. "And why do you call it a pussy?" she asked primly. "Nana calls that region of a woman's body her vagina." "Only because your grandmother doesn't own a cock, honey. A man calls the female genitalia a pussy aloud, and a cunt in his thoughts. Your pussy is particularly delicious. Have you let a boy's finger or cock or tongue inside it yet?"

"Certainly not!" she replied, incensed that he would think she would let anyone else but him touch her privates. Only he had seen her naked, only his finger had pleasured her. She loved only him! Why would he not understand the depth of her feelings? "Breech your slit with a finger," he said. When she did, he said, "At the top of your sex it is where your clit is nestled." Another fact her grandmother had failed to mention. "Stimulate the little nub with your finger while you stoke your nipple." "Yes, Doyle," she said, loving that she had his undivided attention, loving that he kept staring, as though transfixed, between her legs. He admired her body, she could tell. While she pretended that Doyle was the one touching her, she did what he told her to do. Soon, her attended-to nipple was aching and her vagina was tightening and she was moaning through her open mouth. When her juices ran down her leg, he said gruffly, "Turn over on your belly now, Lily." "Oh, I cannot! That would be most unseemly." "Do it, or this ends." Though the positioning humiliated her, she went to her belly nonetheless. Anything to please Doyle. "Now come up. Like a little doggie for me, sweetheart." "That's a good girl," he coaxed, watching her get up on her straightened arms. "Now your bottom. A little higher, my pet." While she did as he requested, he went on conversationally, "This particular position is convenient for masturbation. It is also one of the positions a female might assume for rear entry and for anal intercourse." She blushed furiously. "Nana said only face to face mating is allowed. She said, anything else is a perversion." She looked behind her at him, shocked. "You cannot mean to say that you practice perversions, Doyle?" "That would depend upon my interest in the female," he said dryly. "Sometimes, I require total and exclusive possession of a woman's body: vagina, mouth, anus. I expect her to please me, and only me, in every way, conventional and otherwise. Now bring your bottom back towards me, little one. That's right. That's right. No one can see you, save me." Wishing to please him and only him, and in every way, she positioned herself on all fours. Without a care as to her modesty, she pushed her bottom up high and opened her legs so he might have the full visual advantage, her small breasts bobbing, just the tiniest amount, when she did. "Like so?" she asked.

"Like so," he answered, his voice gone very tense. "Now use your hand on yourself as I showed you." "Something is happening," she cried after a while. "Good. Good. Now rock forward, pressing your pelvis to the ground. Rub your sweet pussy back and forth against the ground, hard, while you continue to stimulate the clitoris." She did what he said, rubbing and writhing, her hips hammering, her pelvis grinding, her bottom heaving up and down. A few minutes later, the same thing that had happened to her in the woodshed, that wonderful pleasure, happened again, and she was screaming quite loudly. "You just climaxed," Doyle, her teacher, explained. "Oh," she said, flipping over. "It was wonderful." She sat up, cross-legged. No longer trying to hide her privates from him, as he had already seen all there was to see, she felt quite free. Grinning from ear to ear, she said, "I think I like masturbation." She thought a moment. "Can a man do it too? " "Yes, a man can and does masturbate, especially if he has gone without a woman for a length of time." "How long a time?" "That would depend." "Depend on what?" she asked, impishly. " On the man. And on the woman he has gone without." She stored that insight away. "Can a man and a woman masturbate together?" "If for some reason penetration is not possible--yes." "What occasions do not allow for penetration?" "If the woman is bleeding, for example." "You mean her..." She looked down, suddenly shy. "Her time of the month." "Call it whatever euphemism you will, but if a woman has the onset of menses, many men will not make a vaginal penetration." "Will you?" "Yes." "Have you?"

"Yes. Many times." "What is another occasion whereby masturbation substitutes for intercourse?" "If the female is virgin and, for whatever the reason, wishes to remain intact for the marriage bed." "Then--in that kind of situation--a man and a woman might masturbate one another?" "Yes." She licked her lips. "I would like to masturbate you, Doyle, and I would like you to masturbate me. A mutuality of pleasure would be lovely, don't you think?" she asked, uncrossing her legs and crawling to where he crouched on the ground. She smoothed a palm over her tight breasts and aching loins. "Wouldn't you like to touch me, Doyle, the way I am touching myself? Wouldn't you like to teach me how to touch you? I am an apt student, eager to learn, and I shall never tell my master no." She fluttered her lashes. "Not to anything." "Good. Go wash off your juices in the stream," he said, his face looking strained. She jumped to her feet and held out her hand. "Come with me..." "No. There is something I ... uh ... must do. Now go." She skipped off into the water, turning back a few minutes later to see Doyle putting his astounding male part away and refastening his trousers. It was then that she realized that she did have some small affect on Doyle... * Looking back, Lily acknowledged she had been wrong to play the brothers off one another, wrong to flirt with both hoping to get the attention of one, but she had been wild and impetuous in those days... She was neither now. And so when Doyle unbuckled his belt, she protested, "Doyle! I am here!" He didn't turn away. "You have seen me naked before." "But ... but that was years ago." He shrugged. "I am the same man. You keep forgetting that, Lily. I am the same man now as I was then." Naked and gorgeous, he said, "And you are the same woman." She shook her head sadly. "Oh, but I am not." His cock jutted straight out from his groin, thicker and longer, meatier than she remembered; the sack underneath looked heavier.

"I won't hurt you. At least, no more than you ask me to." Trembling in fear--and in horrible excitement--she took a backward step. "I shall wait here." With a shrug, he turned. Giving her an unobstructed view of his broad back and trim buttocks, he dove into the stream. Removing her boots and hose, she sat at the rocky edge, dangling her toes in the water, coveting Doyle with slumberous eyes as he cut clean, athletic stokes into the cascading waterfall. It had always been like this for her, her yearning for this one man. Doyle had never been a pretty boy. He was rough and he was strong and he was powerful, all hard sinew and muscle; he was rugged enough for the harshness of this primitive place. There was no question that he was fiercely dominant and masculine, but he also had a fiercely protective and nurturing side. After all, he had raised two lads to manhood, caring for them, loving them. Once, before the world had turned upside down, he had been protective of her too. As his arms cut precise and economical strokes in the churning white rapids, Lily wondered about the two sides of Doyle Donovan. And she also wondered about the two sides of herself. For the past ten years she had thought of herself as frigid, as cold as the water in which Doyle swam. She had thought that, because of what had happened the night of Frank's death, she was incapable of deriving physical pleasure from a man. But she wasn't feeling very cool now; the sight of Doyle's naked body was quite, quite warming. She was deriving a great deal of physical pleasure just from looking at Doyle's splendidly naked body. She smiled to herself. Doyle suddenly stopped swimming and began treading the clear water. "Why the dirty grin?" he hollered. "No reason," she yelled back, but knew she was blushing. "Must be something. Your color is high." He swam over to the stream bank. "Come here." When she leaned towards him, he felt her forehead. "You feel hot." She wasn't just hot, she was burning up, and she didn't need him to tell her so. She thought pettishly. Her crankiness much improved when he scooped up a palm of icy cold water, pulled the shirt collar away from her nape and let some droplets trickle down her neck. The water slid down her bare back, cooling her feverish skin. "You might get heat stroke," he explained, and loosened the shirt from the waistband of her form-fitting, buckskin leggings. She could not take off her clothing and go skinny-dipping, for that would have implied an active consent

on her part, an honest mutuality she was incapable of. But she had worn no chemise under her shirt, no drawers under her trousers. Suspecting he would demand this of her, she had made it easy for him. She sat passively as he cupped his hand in the water again and washed his cold fingers over her back, under her arms, across her ribs, stopping at the swell of her breast. Without a 'By you leave' he reached both hands up under the shirt and covered her hardened nipples, the tendons in his wide wrists tightening as he kneaded her flesh. When she moaned, his hands dropped away. "Take the shirt off, Lily," he said with his usual authority. "It's getting in my way." The waterfall was a secret place, isolated from any other hiking paths. But even if that had not been the case, even if privacy had not been virtually guaranteed, the thought of refusing Doyle never entered her mind. It never had. The entire town of Bar Harbor might have watched for all she cared as she pulled the too-heavy shirt over her head and placed it in a neat square beside her. Her bared breasts, with their embarrassingly red and elongated nipples, begged for his attention. "Lean forward some more," he coaxed. Doyle had large hands, she a small bosom. The disparity would be blatantly apparent if she did what he ordered. She hesitated. Lillian Hill was not up to Doyle Donovan's womanizing standards. She never had been. Doyle had droves of ladies just begging for his time, and the ladies invariably chosen to make time with him were buxom. She would surely suffer the comparison. But with little vanity, less pride, and absolutely no willpower when it came to Doyle, she slanted forward in her crouch and offered him up her breasts. As expected, her paltry offering was swallowed up in his palms. "I never could resist your dainty proportions," he mused. He had resisted her well enough ten years earlier, and even better a decade since! "You still like it hard?" he asked. She had no reply, as she no longer knew what she liked, or how she liked it. Her only preference was Doyle. Not that he waited for a reply, anyway. He pulled an engorged nipple ungently into his mouth, and suckled her hard, just the way she needed him to. The pressure inside her built. Then Doyle bit the end of a nipple. "Oh, yes," she cried, loving the rasp of his teeth. No help for it, she began to roll her hips back and forth complimenting each tug he made. When rolling became writhing, her breast was dropped from his mouth. The red tip glistened wetly in the

sun, the teeth-marks he had left behind already showing signs of bruising. She rubbed at the achy nipple. "It hurts?" he asked. "Yes. Thank you." Tonight, when she was alone, the marks on her body would cause her to remember Doyle and his lovemaking. "Lower your trousers, Lily," he said, chuckling. "Just to the knees. You needn't take them all the way off, not this time." Without argument, she unbuckled the belt at her waist. Raising herself up, she dropped her trousers to her knees as Doyle had instructed. "Stay," he commanded as she started back down into the crouch. As instructed, she held herself in the kneeling position. Doyle once again cupped some cold water in a hand and washed it over her belly. "Your body is too hot," he said. Moving lower, he combed his cold, wet fingers through her pubic curls. "Christ, this is pretty. Fiery." A digit sampled her outer folds, but didn't enter. "Wet too," he apprised her unnecessarily. Black eyes lifted. "You know what I wish, Lily. Don't play coy." She never had been coy with Doyle. The very idea was ludicrous. She opened her legs. "Start slow," he said. "One finger at a time." She nodded and began to masturbate, just the way he had showed her all those years ago. She hadn't self-pleasured in ten years, having felt no sexual desire, but she had once been very skilled at the activity. Especially with Doyle as her audience. While he watched, she opened the outer labia wide enough for him to see, as he had taught her to, and delved her folds with a ladylike fingertip. "Move the digit all the way in and all the way back out," he ordered. "I need to see your honey." Gazing at his ever-tightening features, she moved her finger in and out between her legs.

"Now show me." She held out her glistening finger. "Very nice," he complimented. His mouth came down on the digit, his tongue licking her body's moisture. "Add a second finger," he said. "Let me hear the wet sounds your vagina makes, see your honey rolling down your thighs, smell your scent in the air." She added a second finger, her small breasts bouncing in rhythm with her flexing digits, her pelvis bumping and grinding, her vagina sounding sloshy wet, drips of fluid seeping down her leg. She was coming. Lest she risk Doyle's censure, she added the third and final finger. With difficulty. Despite what everyone thought of her sexual past, apart from this, apart from masturbation, she was an innocent. Three fingers did not make for a comfortable fit. "Tight," he pronounced, noting her three-digit squeeze, noting her discomforted expression. "Considering your voracious appetite for men, I must say that I am surprised. A lover should be able to get his whole fist up there by now." She thought of having Doyle's large hand inside her vagina, and a pained scream of release broke from her throat. For the past ten years, she had lived an independent and professional life as an art teacher. The prospect of Doyle's complete possession--the restrictions he would surely impose upon her--should have appalled her. Strangely, she wasn't appalled at all; she never felt more free, more herself, than when she was with Doyle. "While I finish my swim, you may occupy yourself however you would like." His dark eyes narrowed on her very pointed, very red nipples. "You may pull up the trousers. Don't fasten them, however. And Lily, no shirt." She nodded, and wiggled into the tight trousers, but left them agape; her pubic hair was wantonly visible within the open placket. Picking up the discarded shirt, boots, and hose, she returned to where they had set up a temporary camp of sorts, and stretched out on a sun-warmed rock. Exhaustion caught up with her and she was soon fast asleep. The nightmare began the same way it always did, with Frank...

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

An enormous shadow fell across her face, blocking out the sun, and Lillian still refused to open her eyes. "Wake up! Nightmares are worse than no sleep. If you tire yourself out with exercise today, I promise you will sleep better for it tonight." "No," she whimpered, but her lids opened a sliver to peek at the hand moving on her bare shoulder in almost a caress. "I heard your moans all the way to the stream. You neither sleep nor eat. When spoken to, you jump like as a flea on a dog's hindquarters. This has to end." She struggled to an upright position, her bare breasts shifting, and righted her straw hat against the sun's glare so that she might properly see him. Doyle had dressed, but his hair was still wet. The dark curls fell neglectfully over his forehead. "Did I ... say anything?" she asked, wishing she might run her fingers through his curls. "Why? Do you talk in your sleep?" She clasped her arms around her bent knees, lest she succumb to the temptation of Doyle's wet curls, and laughed, a thin, wobbly miserable laugh. "Yes, I often talk aloud at night. Good thing, I sleep alone." His eyes raked her face. "You don't sleep with your fiancé?" She bowed her back, cat-style and her small breasts were squished against her knees. Her cramped muscles protested but the heat from the sun felt good on her too pale skin. Changing the subject, she asked. "How was the swim?" "Fine," he said. "Now, do you or do you not sleep with your fiancé?" "Doyle, really! Female artists are answerable to the same societal pressures as are every other woman. There are conventions to be observed, conventions one must not fly against." "What of all those 'Boston marriages' I keep hearing about?" She giggled. "Dunce! Those are between two women." "Lesbians?" "But, of course. And they are only tolerated, never spoken of in polite conversation. But to flaunt a heterosexual relationship, as you suggest--never! I would lose my teaching position. No, I share a brownstone in a collaborative with some female artist friends in Boston's Back Bay."

His brows twitched. "This is interesting..." "There is absolutely no hanky panky between us, nor are there any overnight male visitors." "He is a man, this Charles of yours? And you are engaged. He must fuck you..." "No, he does not fuck me, as you so eloquently put it. And if you must know, Charles is no longer my fiancé; I wrote and broke the engagement." "Good!" He smiled. "As a reward for your honesty, I think perhaps I shall give you your present now. You will find it in my bag. I remember how much you hate fishin'. The gift will occupy you while I am busy." Lily rose to her knees. Then stood. But her trousers, though tight, were loosened at the waist, and so low on the hips that the leggings dragged in the dirt. She took a step and went no further; something had her stuck. She turned back, and saw that Doyle's boot had come down on one drooping trouser leg. If she wished her gift, she must free herself, and to do that, she must forsake her only covering. "Your choice," he said, mildly. She walked out of the trousers. "Is it in this one?" she asked, kneeling naked--save for the straw hat--before the bags. "Lily, your knees," he prompted, his voice stern but kind. "I'm sorry." She separated her knees. "A little more, I should think," he advised, standing over her. She parted her knees until her vagina was stretched all the way open for him to see. He nodded. "The gift is nothing special. I just think it is time you... "Oh Doyle!" she cried, interrupting his explanation. "A sketch pad and charcoal. How very thoughtful!" "...started sketching again," he finished. She wrapped her arms around the pad. "Tony Camaro asked about my work." She shook her head until her braid bobbed. "What work? I don't have any work in progress. I told him I paint flowers every now and then, but he knew I was not being entirely candid. He looked so disappointed in me. Unbearable, his sad expression." She looked up at him, her lashes moist. "I have disappointed any number of people." He merely shrugged.

She took a fast swipe at her eyes. "At least when you are brutally honest with me I know where I stand." "What do you expect me to say?" "The truth!" she said, a tad too boisterously. "I know you are positively furious with me. Avoidance only makes it that much more difficult. I agonize over when the ax will fall." "No ax today, Lily! Today, you draw. I fish. We shall both keep our heads." "Fine. Your way as always, Doyle. Forgive me for pushing too hard!" She covered her mouth. "Oh excuse me! There I go again, bringing up the past. Henceforth, I shall ban the word push from my vocabulary. Will that suit you?" "Lily..." he warned. "No! You can keep me on edge for as long as you like, in a kind of torturous anticipation. I deserve it." She sniffed. "So ... anyway ... I shall draw if you agree to pose. As I recall, you hardly move a muscle when you fish. You won't even know I am there." "Agreed," he said evenly, but the black and furious look in his eyes belied the words. "That way, I get the pleasure of your company without your chattering disturbing my fish." He suggested they pretend, and so she would. "I beg your pardon, I never chatter." He rolled his eyes. "Like a magpie. Don't you remember when I took you and my brothers to Crown Point and we would walk out on the breakwater to Josey's lighthouse? You never stopped talking. The three of you would drive me mad. All of you would be squabbling about something and expect me to take sides." "It wasn't all bad, was it Doyle?" "Never said it was. You were a real tomboy when I first met you. Looking back, you seemed so incredibly young and..." "And...?" He walked over to where she stood and played with her braid. "...and pretty. And fresh. And sweet. And a whole lot of pretty. And I knew John had a huge crush on you and that made everything so much worse. I used to overhear him talking about you to his friends when he thought I wasn't around. He had a hard-on all the time for you, honey. And I understood, because, well hell, I had a hard-on for you all the time too!" He wound her plait around the thickness of his wrist and pulled. Her eyes stung with tears of homecoming as she came up from her crouch to a more upright positioning on her knees. "I only had eyes for you. No other boy fascinated me the way you did." "That so?" he asked, removing the straw hat and undoing the bottom of her braid. "Yes, that is so." He parted the strands, running his hands through her hair until it was wild, then brought the heavy mass of

it to his face, forcing the hard tips of her bared breasts to brush against his shirt. "You were so young, Lily." "Not so very young." "You were a dreamer. And, as I recall, you were a young lady with ambitions. The last thing on your mind was marriage and settling down with my babies in here." His hand flattened on her bare belly. "I was ready; you were not." Babies? What of his personal freedom? What of finally losing the care and responsibility of raising his brothers? He was ready for a family? She hadn't known! He looked down at her, slanting his eyes in that way of his when he was searching for an answer to an unasked question. "You would do anything for your grandmother, would you not?" he asked out of the blue. "Yes ... anything." "You know, I remember that you came to me once and asked if I would do anything to help my family." "I remember. You said you would. It's one of your more admirable qualities. After your fondness for torture, of course." His hand roamed her bare back. Was he even aware that he now cupped her naked bottom? "That kind of loyalty, misplaced or otherwise, is a character trait you and I share," he whispered, fingers feathering the crevice between her buttocks. "Perhaps," she said, shivering, not understanding what he was getting at; not understanding what he was doing to her. Granted, she now knew she wasn't completely frigid. She might fear other men's touches, but she didn't fear Doyle's. But total abandonment? Complete surrender? Full mastery? In her state of mind, was she capable of a passive's trusting submission? For he would require her to give over all control to him: He dominated all his women. Confused, she started to re-braid her hair. "Do not." Her hands dropped. He was demanding big things from her and requesting smaller ones. He requested that she go hiking with him, that she would draw, let her hair go wild. These were easily accomplished. His demand that she return to the free-spirited girl she was before the night that Frank died was more difficult to accomplish. "Seeing your hair free, the way it was meant to be, gives me pleasure. To see you free, the way you were meant to be, would pleasure me greatly." Free? Yes, she certainly felt free, Lillian thought, looking down upon her nudity. But her nudity wouldn't be all that Doyle demanded of her. "Things are never simple in life, are they?"

"And that is the very reason I fish. Nothin' simpler than fishin'. It's easy for a man like me to understand." Doyle was not as uncomplicated as he would have her believe. There were unfathomable depths to him she had never explored. Doyle was a man less of the sunshine than of the shadows and she knew in her heart that he would hide his despair and his anger for only so long before he exploded. This game he insisted they play would come to its own bitter conclusion. The confrontation would be on his terms; she dared not rush it. She owed him that much. He helped her rise, and they walked to the stream together, side-by-side. He kept her nude, but he didn't touch her again, nor did he have her touch herself. He said nothing more, and neither did she. Only the faint hiss of his fly cast upon the calm water disturbed the quiet.

****

Even at a distance, the enormous stature of the man striding toward them told Lillian that he was a Donovan. John had been tall when she had left Bar Harbor, but boyishly lean. He was a grown man now, and he had filled out. She sank low in the saddle. "Your brother, John, is here." "So he is," Doyle said without any show of emotion. "Why did you not warn me that he would be here today?" "Warn you? Why should I warn you about John?" "No reason." "Where else would he be anyway? We live in the same house. His generator business is next door." "Do you think it's wise for him to see me, here, with you?" "Wise? Hell no! We both know you are not exactly his favorite person. So what?" "I feel sick," she muttered, hand at her mid-section. With a curse, Doyle jumped to the ground. He held out his hand for her to dismount. It had rained on their return, and John sloshed through the mud, his oil-skin slicker open and flapping around his massive legs. The set of his features told her that he would waste neither his time nor his breath on polite small talk, lack of superficial pleasantries being a familial characteristic with the Donovan men; when they had something to say, they got it off their chests no matter who was around to hear. The seat of her trousers welded in place. Doyle hauled her out of the saddle and placed her beside him, where she stood, hair whipping around her face, obviously naked under her lad's shirt.

Doyle had not permitted her to fasten the garment all the way. 'Just one button,' he said. 'Lady's choice.' She closed the middle button. A bad choice, she understood now that it was too late: Her high breasts jutted through the gaping shirt. Though humiliated when a puff of air tickled a fully exposed nipple, she did nothing to cover herself. "Why is this bitch here?" John's question was directed at his brother, but his gaze remained fixed on her naked flesh. Doyle anchored her to his side. "Hey--watch what you say now! Lily and I are ... seeing ... each other." John threw up his hands; his mouth turned hard. "Have you lost your mind, man? She fucks anything with two legs and a cock." His finger was pointed in her face. "Have you forgiven what this cunt did to you, to us, so soon?" If a mere look could kill, she would already be lying dead in the sludge under John Donovan's boots. "I think it would be better if I left," she whispered. "You are not going anywhere, Lily. We still need to discuss your grandmother's Memory Garden." Doyle turned to his scowling brother. "Let us pass, John. This has nothing to do with you." "Nothing to do with me? Anything that concerns this family's livelihood is my business. This woman almost destroyed us once. I stood by idly then--never again." "John!" Doyle warned. "It's not like before. She's under my control now. She will do whatever I tell her to do." "Ha! She will bring you down again." Doyle turned his jaw to her. "Undo your shirt, Lily." She cringed. Oh, God! To reveal herself, to make an exhibitionistic display of herself, before John of all people... But she would not come between the two brothers; she would not! Never again would she be a cause of disharmony between them. Her chin meekly lowered, she undid the single button that held her shirt together. "Part the shirt, Lily. All the way down the front. Do not think to keep anything back for yourself." She separated the two edges until her bruised nipples, the evidence of Doyle's suckling, proudly jutted. "Now the trousers. You needn't take them off, not yet, but they must come all the way down. You have such a pretty red pelt, such a sweet pussy," he said, softly, tenderly, making love to her with his tone of voice even as he made his licentious commands. "And you are not to concern yourself with your female privacy; there is no one here, save John and I. This is only between us. You wronged the Donovan name

grievously once before and now you must prove that you will never do so again." The breeches were tight, and her skin was moist from the heat of the day. They clung to her legs as she peeled them down to her belly. From under her lashes, she looked up at Doyle, hoping against hope that this was as much as he would demand of her. When he shook his head, she knew then that he would demand her all. Understanding she must do this or divide the Donovan household, she lowered the breeches to the ankle. "You know what you need to do," he said. A woman's most secret place resides between her legs. It is there she receives the man she loves into her body, it is there she gives birth. And Doyle was insisting she share with another man what she had only wished to share with him. It hurt, that insistence, that willingness on his part to allow another into their private world, even if that other person was his brother. But accepting that this is what she must do to prove to him how completely he owned her, parting her thighs, she surrendered the last vestiges of herself to Doyle Donovan. Doyle cupped a bared breast. "This is mine." His hand smoothed down her belly; he cupped her cleft, owning it with his palm. "As is this. Have no fear, she will pay me what I am due, everything I am due. I will make sure of it, brother." She was sobbing now. Sobbing, because Doyle's hand was rubbing her cleft, and despite John's presence, she was melting. Needing Doyle's touch, his deeper caress, she rubbed him back, her pubic hair becoming sticky as she masturbated herself against his hand. Why would he not give her his fingers? Even one finger would help her gain some measure of relief, some assuagement, against the awful gnawing in her cunt. "Mmm." The moan was pulled from her throat. "Take off your shirt now, sweetheart." "Yes. Yes. All right." Discounting John's audience, no longer really aware he was even there, she yanked off the shirt, and dropped it to the ground. "Oh, yes," she murmured, her throat arching. "Oh, yes. " As a reward for her submission to his authority, the heel of Doyle's hand ground against her cunt. She would do anything to have even a fleeting touch of his fingertips inside her. "Oh, please," she begged, tearfully. "Please?" "I would like it if you to stepped out of those breeches now, Lily." Which would leave her not only naked, but vulnerable to her feelings for him. Her trousers were her only defense against a total submission to her love for Doyle. For his part, Doyle had never forced her to do anything. This command, as all past commands, was gently given; in no way did he use coercion. To obey or not to obey, to gain her pleasure or not gain her pleasure, was left entirely up to her.

She chose pleasure over discretion. A tear rolled down her cheek, as she kicked free of her loosely tied boots and then the breeches. Left naked and writhing, about to come, she knew she would die if she didn't have this. "Please Doyle?" "Please what?" "Please, I need your fingers inside me." "Where inside you?" "My cunt. Inside my cunt. Oh, please? I will do anything, anything you ask..." But already it was too late. She couldn't help it, couldn't stop it. Weeping, then screaming, the climax rolled over her as she rubbed her body frantically against his open palm. When it was over, John said, "That whore will destroy you yet." Afterwards, so weak was she that Doyle had to hold her up. "That is not true! I came home to try to make things right." She spoke up into Doyle's face. "Please believe me!" John laughed. "Why would anyone believe a lying slut like her, Frank Johnson's paid prostitute?" She gasped. "Did I hit a nerve?" John sneered. "When Frank suggested that you entertain him and his friends up at the cottage that night, you agreed. But something went wrong. Frank got himself killed. And you let my brother take the blame." She covered her face with her hands. The fear was so graphic and so consuming that she fought for each wheezing breath she forced into her lungs. She had just transcended the pinnacle of pleasure, but that pleasure had now turned to ashes, leaving her cold and humiliated. Doyle smoothed his hands over her bared back. "Easy, honey. Johnny is just blowing steam. Take a deep breath, Lily! Just breathe. You cannot help how you are. Promiscuity is in your nature." She grabbed at Doyle's hands, and said, as though in a trance, "It was raining. You came to me in the rain. Beautiful, white candlelight surrounded the bed. Don't you remember? You gave me a bouquet of white lilies. They were so beautiful. So lovely. A bridal bouquet, you said. And I felt like a bride too." Darkness encroached. The medicinal smell suffocating her, the light inside her head flickered and dimmed. As blackness took her over, she had a distinct perception that Doyle had opened his mouth to speak. Too late. She succumbed to the relief of total, forgiving, unconsciousness.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"That was Doyle checking in. He told me all about your day yesterday," Victoria Hill said, giving Lily one of her penetrating, grandmotherly looks, the kind that still made her squirm. "You didn't tell me you had a ... weak spell yesterday, dear." "I felt a little faint. Nothing to concern you." "I am concerned. Perhaps you should see a physician..." "No physicians." "Doyle seemed worried..." "He needn't be." The corners of her mouth lifted. "Granddaughter, you are not hiding anything from me behind that smile. Control is admirable; too much is unhealthy." Lillian looked away. "I dare not lose my control, for to lose it would..." Her grandmother sighed. "What? What do you fear so, my darling child?" She paused. "Are you aware the outside lanterns were not switched on the other night?" "A mechanical problem. I have no idea how it happened. When I told John Donovan I wished to show off how modern we were here in Maine, he assured me the new system he installed was virtually foolproof." To hide her apprehension, Lily surveyed the carpet under her feet. "You told John Donovan I was coming home?" "Yes, I did. Why do you ask?" "No reason..." Mrs. Hill let it go. "Now, Lily, before you make plans--you are still posing for Anthony today, are you not?" "Yes. Of course. I know how important this painting is to him." "I placed the gown you are to wear in your bedchamber, dear."

****

Anthony Camaro's studio was only a short stroll along the walkway that connected the cottage to his home. As a child, Tony had given her drawing lessons outside, at the end of the Widow's Walk. He never joined her at the easel because he said that landscape painting made him sad. Tony painted women, all beautiful, and all sublimely naked. It was a running joke in their small community that Tony C. could charm the clothes off any woman and often did. Because of the sensitive nature of his subject matter, no distractions of any kind were allowed in his studio. Natural light came from ceiling skylights, although there were a few windows necessary for the ventilation of paint and combustible cleaning fluid fumes along one back wall. When Lily arrived, Tony removed his paint-stained gloves, threw his expensive sable brushes down on his easel, and rushed forward, arms outstretched. "Ready to begin our session, Lily?" She gestured to the understated but elegant gold silk dress she was wearing. "Will I do?" The jewel tone was rich and flamboyant, an abrupt departure from what she had worn in recent years. The design was austere, yet so form fitting--with the exclusion of the bustle--that it was more than a little apparent that she was wearing nothing, at all, underneath. She would classify the style as seductive, but intrinsically lady-like. Tony walked around her. "You will do very well. That color goes well with your hair tone." His finger went to the side of his nose. "You will hold a rose and wear your hair down." "Surely you jest..." He looked up from under his bushy eyebrows. "An artist never jests about the props." As she removed the hairpins from her chignon, Tony said, "I hear you and Doyle are seeing each other socially." "I would hardly call it social." She combed her fingers through her hair, which fell to her hips when released. Tony took his position on his artist's stool behind the easel. "He spends time with a few of my models." Tony squeezed blobs of paint onto his palette. "He doesn't see any of them for long. I would say that variety is the key to his love life," he said, his neck craning out from behind the canvas. "Oh?" Lillian replied, feigning disinterest. As happenstance predicts such matters, she had first met Doyle at Tony Camaro's studio. For six months, the architect consulted with the artist on a large, out-of-state park project. Though now residing in Maine, many of Doyle's referrals still came from New York City. She had developed a crush on Doyle almost from the first. Subsequently, she always managed to be at Tony's studio, peeking through a crack in the door, when Doyle was scheduled to arrive. One day, Tony must have been running late, for he chatted with Doyle while he put the finishing touches on a nude, a bosomy brunette who was a favorite subject of the artist. As it turned out, she became a favorite of Doyle's too.

After church one Sunday, she stumbled upon the same model, in all her naked voluptuousness, on her knees before Doyle at his in-home, architect office... * She let herself in without knocking. Doyle was facing Lillian as she gained entrance, his back to the fire, his arm slung languidly over the mantelpiece. The model's lush mouth, which Lily saw in profile, was devouring the shockingly huge contents of the architect's open trousers. Engaged in her occupation, the model was unaware that an eighteen year-old girl, still dressed in her best Sunday gown--a hopelessly childish sprigged cotton--watched from the doorway. Doyle knew. His dark brooding eyes followed her as she quietly made her way to his large desk. Never losing visual contact with him, Lillian raised her leg to the leather blotter, yanked her gown to the waist, tunneled her hand through the slit drawers, and found her clitoris. She proceeded to masturbate. His face dark and angry, Doyle groaned his climax into the model's mouth. Not to be outdone, Lily smothered her pleasure with a fist. Doyle wiped himself off with a handkerchief. Then helped the full-breasted model to rise. Placing a kiss in her palm he said, "Thank you, Renee. That was wonderful. Take the back door out, if you please; I expect a client at any moment." With a pout, the model picked up her clothing and left. "I cannot imagine what you see in her," Lily offered. "Her long, deep throat is what I see in her." "My throat is long..." "You have a beautiful throat. All of you is exquisite." "I wish to lose my virginity." "Take that up with your future husband, little one." "I can give you what that fat cow gives you. I can give you everything." "No, you cannot. Your pussy would never accommodate me." He presented her with his arm. "Come, you need to go home." He smiled down at her. "And, stop peeping in Tony's studio's door or I shall tell the artist that you are staring at the naked ladies... " *

Lost to the remembrance, she hadn't paid attention to Tony. "Excuse me? What did you say?" "I said: my life models are all lovely. And Doyle is a man, darling. And unmarried. The rumors have it that he participates in group sexual activities, threesomes, foursomes, outright Roman orgies. " Tony lifted his brush to mark off his canvas. "Ordinarily, another man's sexual excesses would not concern me, but I shall not have you hurt again. Now, no more gossip. It's back to work for me."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Two nights later, Lily arrived for her next scheduled session with Tony. Having been forewarned that her former art teacher might be late arriving for her sitting, she was not at all taken aback to find the studio empty. What did take her aback was the studio's extreme orderliness. No soiled rags, no empty paint pots, no half-eaten food littered the desks and tables. One of the back windows had even been opened, allowing cool ocean breezes to fan across the room. A small round table, covered in white damask, had been installed in the room's center. An understated flower centerpiece graced the top. Tony and his love of props! Lily mused, running a finger over a velvety petal of a delphinium. The door opened, and an off-key whistle broke into her thoughts. Her fingers fell away from the blue delphinium petal. She looked up, smoothed her hands over her hips, while tossing her head. She had just washed her hair, and the unbound strands felt as slippery as the gold silk gown against her bare skin. "Where is Tony C?" "He has another engagement." Doyle sauntered across the studio floor. "I hope you have an appetite." He held up a whicker picnic basket. "I brought dinner." At the round table, he methodically began to unpack china and long-stemmed wine glasses. Her unrestrained breasts shifted, the long ends tightening automatically in Doyle's presence. Her body's response was no secret in the gold silk; the gown fit like a second skin, molding her bosom and bottom, accentuating the moistening delta between her legs. "I don't enjoy surprises, Doyle." "You will this one." She smoothed her hands slowly over her belly, to stop the butterflies, to stop the tingles, to stop the...

Fear? Or excitement? Was there really a difference between the two, and did it even matter? No torn clothes for the architect tonight, she immediately noticed. Doyle wore a crisp white linen shirt, dark trousers and an embroidered waistcoat. His shoulders looked more massive than usual; his arms and limbs more heavily muscled. He had combed his hair, and it looked as neat as a little boy's hair; not one errant curl had been allowed to escape. "I told your grandmother not to expect you home 'til late," he offered. There was little use pointing out the presumptuousness of that statement; they both knew she would stay until he was done with her. "These are my mother's best dishes," he explained, holding up a plate. "We never use them anymore. Three hungry men and good china make for a dining disaster. They look nice though, don't you think?" "The dishes are lovely, but you didn't bring me here to discuss china patterns." "Any more fainting spells?" "No." She forced herself to take a calming breath. "You caught me, didn't you?" "Yes." "Thank you." He shrugged her gratitude aside. "Tell me about these blackouts. Are you ill?" "Only if chronic insomnia, occasional episodes of fainting, and a nasty smell smothering one all the time constitutes an illness." "Just mad, then?" "Always the diplomat..." "Are you seeing anyone in Boston for it? A doctor, I mean?" "The medical experts dismiss my symptoms as a female complaint. They give me a prescription for a sleeping agent, and then dismiss me. There is no cure for a guilty past, Doyle." "Ah, yes, guilt. Well, killing Frank isn't one of your transgressions. You were covered in blood that night. It was all over your nightgown. On your hands. On your face. You scrambled over the cliff in an attempt to rescue your lover. A murderess does not imperil her life for her victim, Lily." "If not I, then who did kill Frank?" "The cottage is desolate. Isolated by woods in front and ocean in back. Your grandmother was away. No one would have wandered around your property that night during the worst storm in recorded Bar Harbor history. Unless..." "Unless what?"

"Nothing," he said moodily. "Say it! John said it. Go ahead! Don't let something so hateful hover mid-air." "All right, I will say it! Unless Frank didn't go to the cottage alone that night. Unless, like John said, you agreed to a very specific sort of house party. Any woman capable of having two men in her bedchamber within hours of each other is capable of anything. Johnny heard ... stories about you and other men. He told me what he heard. The gossip is, you frequently participated in threesomes. That fucking more than one man at a time was nothing out of the ordinary for you. That, in fact, you preferred it because of the additional compensation you received from Frank for the activity." "And you believed the stories?" "You have given me no reason to doubt them. Just look at how you behaved before my brother. You are a woman of few inhibitions." No! She was a woman completely in love, overcome by love, so in love that she was willing to do anything, make any sacrifice, not to jeopardize the loved-one's happiness. Her voice broke. "In regards to the bedchamber, the more the merrier I always say." "Good to know," he said darkly. His brooding tone caused a knot to clench in her midsection. She barely kept the nausea in check. Is that what Doyle really thought of her? That she would be so contemptuous, so despicable, as to entertain Frank and his friends? Well, damn him to hell! Let him think what he would. Perhaps, she would even live up to his lowly expectations! "I don't mean to be unkind, Lily. But I think, as you do, that Frank's death was no accident. He was pushed, and whoever did it, was strong. Damn strong. For me, that push would have been easy. Which is why everyone in town thinks I did it. So, my dear, because it is my family name that hangs in the balance, you must pardon my willingness to look in dark and ugly places for the truth!" "We cannot continue to talk if you become angry," she said nervously. "Angry! Why would I not be angry? That maggot was in your bedchamber only hours after I left your bed, myself, and for all I know, he had an associate or two with him. Under the circumstances, my anger is more than justified; it is normal!" "I am afraid I would know nothing at all about normalcy," she said, her breath catching in her throat. He stalked to her. "You didn't stand by me! You ran away rather than tell the truth! Because it was too humiliating to admit what Frank got you involved in, you never came home! I have paid dearly for your embarrassment, dearly for your betrayal. My anger is justified. I have damned well earned it." She would not cower. She wrenched her shoulders into a straight line. "I had to leave Bar Harbor. I had no other choice." "Had to is not an explanation."

"Perhaps not, but it's my explanation." "No one forced us apart. You did that to us," he seethed. Lillian told herself that Doyle would never hurt her, but how well had she ever really known him? But despite her fear, when he stroked the wildness of her hair, and his lips descended, she met him halfway, arching into his body, accepting his passion, his hardness, the brutal substance of his desire. The flame had ignited, and there was no escape. It was Doyle who pulled back to say, "Have a glass of wine first. A drink will help you to relax." He loosened the wine cork; the pop sounded like a gunshot and she jumped. "Relax," he said, pouring her glass to the top. She lifted her filled glass to his. "Let's toast the truth," he said, his glass clinking hers. She drained the burgundy contents in one gulp. "I want you relaxed, but sober," he warned. "Oh, I think you just want me," she said flirtatiously. "I hope not to disappoint." She poured again. The second glass went straight to her head. Holding the fingers of her left hand before her lips to hold in a giggle that refused to stay put, she filled her glass a third time. Doyle returned his glass to the table with an ominous thud. Her tongue felt heavy, fuzzy...bitter. "Finished drinking to the truth, Doyle?" "Yes." Was the room spinning? A red droplet of wine sloshed over the rim of her glass, falling onto the white, damask tablecloth. She stared at what she had done, at that bright red stain seeping into the white cloth. Frank's blood. Her white nightgown. A night that changed her life forever. A sob rose in her throat. "I am so very, very sorry." Doyle frowned at her. "Are you, Lily?" "Yes," she said and went to him. "Let me show you how very sorry I am."

"You never simply walk, Lily, do you? You glide, every step fluid and graceful. Your sensuality is refined. Never blatant. Never obvious. It's unconscious, unpracticed, and so much a part of your personality that innocent activities like walking, breathing--moving across a room--take on a carnal significance when you do them." Doyle laughed without mirth. "Some women are born to be seductive. Born to enchant. Some women are born to weave magic around a man. It's taken me ten years to come to terms with that truth. Ten years to accept the truth that when you touch a delphinium, when you delicately finger the blossoms, like magic, those flower buds drip like a strand of blue pearls from your fingertips. I am envious of that red rose decorating your hair, jealous of the gold silk caressing your white skin. I was a fool for thinking to make you my wife before we fucked." "We argued," she said in a small voice. "You insisted we wait; I insisted we not. We were both so angry. I said so many hateful things to you..." "I took you to bed, held you in my arms, we kissed, we touched, but we did nothing more. I told you I loved you, dammit! I promised you ... no, I vowed," he stressed, "that I would wait for you, even if it took a lifetime. And then, within an hour of my promise, you went to bed with Frank Johnson. My place hadn't even had a chance to grow cold." What was there left to say? Nothing. Unless she spoke the truth. "I am so sorry," she repeated, falling back on conventional manners. "Do you actually think an apology covers what you did?" He grabbed her arm, and her hip nicked the table. A dish fell to the floor and broke. Doyle spared the china not a second look as he propelled her to the wall. "I dreamt about my parents after their deaths," he raged. "I would wake up in a terror of cold sweat and pray the dreams would stop. And then after you left, I started to dream about you. The difference was: this time, I prayed the dreams would continue on, and never end. Dreams, Lily! Insubstantial dreams. That was all I had left of you. I tried fucking you in my dreams, tried driving up into you in my sleep, tried pounding you into the mattress every night, but you always fragmented like the cock tease you are." She stumbled. Doyle caught her before she fell. She touched his cheek. "I cannot undo the past." He shook off her fingers. "You betrayed me with Frank, and who knows how many other men, yet I cannot walk away from you." She sagged against the wall. He covered her breast; his fingers closed around the already distended nipple while his other hand drew up on her gold silk gown. The gown, despite its unforgiving tightness, didn't rip. But there was no assault here, no sound of tearing silk ricocheting off the studio walls and echoing between them; the only sound audible to her ears was

that of her heavy, though not labored, breathing. Doyle was an efficient man. Soon, her gown was hiked waist-high. He held her hands over her head with one hand, pushed his free hand between her legs, claiming her core with a digit, a deep penetration of her vagina. "I shall have you," he seethed. "And when I am done, the man who comes after me will smell my come in every pore of your luscious and deceitful body." Doyle opened his mouth over hers and thrust his tongue to her throat. She waited for the panic to start, for the awful gasping for breath to begin. It didn't happen. There was only a surprising hunger as she absorbed the taste of his tongue, the possession of his mouth; tiny shivers of wanton need coursed through her. As she sagged against the wall of Tony's studio, she started to pray. Not in fear, but in thanksgiving. In gratitude, not in obligation, she widened her legs for him, opening herself to him. She was mournful. Penitent. But she was no longer ashamed. When two digits slid in and out of her, her slick vagina making wet sounds, an unrestrained and unspeakable impatience filled her. And when he whispered, "Your slit is spilling over with your honey," she knew it to be true. Her body had always known its master; her master was Doyle. There was no way to escape his hold on her. He fingered her clitoris and she screamed in agony, that small nub of flesh exquisitely sensitive to his touch. She was coming, coming from the pain of loving him. "Please," she begged. Arching her pelvis so that she might better feel the hurtful rub of his finger against her clitoris, she pleaded, shamelessly, "Come into me. Not alone this time. Please?" "No." How much longer must she wait to be joined to this man? "Oh, God," she groaned, as he withheld himself from her. "Do not torture me this way. I need you so!" "You will get what you need when you can tell me you no longer crave Frank." Crave Frank? Lillian almost retched at that blasphemy. Frank Johnson was a vicious animal and she had hated him! If she told Doyle the truth, he wouldn't think these horrible things of her. But the truth had never been hers to give. Nor would she beg for mercy. Her pride would allow for none of that. Doyle thought her a prostitute. A deceitful whore. A lying slut. A promiscuous harlot who had given her body to many men. His ready

acceptance of the bad opinion of others hurt... And she still said nothing in her own defense. Finally, he let go of her. She slid down the wall, her gold gown ringing her waist, her continued silence condemning her. He stood over her, staring down upon her obscene positioning. She didn't bother to right her gown, didn't try to cover her exposed genitals. "When you are ready to leave, Lily, I will return you to the cottage."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Too keyed-up to sleep, Lillian paced her bedchamber floor, thinking to escape the memories. A few minutes later she doubled over. No longer able to outpace her recollections, she relived the assault all over again... * Doyle had stormed out, angry, and she was alone in her bedchamber. After replacing her still rain-dampened nightgown, she stared dazed at her disheveled reflection in her mirror. The two white candles, burning low beside her bed, flickered in the glass. At first, she blamed the near hurricane force winds for the dancing flames: The cottage was old and drafty; naturally, candles would flicker. But, when the twin flames wavered again, and then were simultaneously extinguished, she knew, God, she knew, she was no longer alone in the room. "Doyle?" she asked with a tremulous smile playing across her lips. "Are you still angry with me? So sorry for those hateful things I said..." No answer. "Doyle!" she cried. Then, "Doyle?" She was grabbed from behind and thrown facedown onto the bed. It was a moonless, stormy night, black as pitch inside the bedchamber without the candlelight. Assuming it was Doyle's large, heavy body covering hers, that he was the one pulling her nightgown up to the waist and mounting her from the rear, she didn't struggle. But when a hand went to her throat, pressed her windpipe, she did struggle then. Too little, too late. Her face was pressed into the pillow, suffocated in the goose feathers. Then, a horrible, chemical smell compounded her inability to draw air into her lungs... *

Lillian remembered gasping, nearly fainting, and knowing only a miracle would save her. Yet, she was saved. She wasn't raped. Someone entered her room and pulled her attacker off of her, allowing her to run blindly from the bedchamber outside into the rain. She hid in the garden shed at the foot of the Widow's Walk, crouched there, trembling on the dirt floor, in her wet nightgown, choking for air. She stayed there for ... seconds ... minutes ... a half an hour? She honestly didn't know how long. Everything--the passage of time especially--was a blur. She might have blacked-out. The next thing she remembered was a blood-chilling scream. She didn't know who cried out, only that it was a man, a fellow human being, and she must do something to help. She stumbled down the slope to the rocky beach, waded into the surf, retrieved the inert body. Frank. Was he her attacker or her rescuer? And where was the billfold containing her grandmother's love letters? Frank was to bring the incriminating evidence with him that night. Where were those letters? She searched Frank's corpse and found nothing. Then, Doyle appeared, left again. When Mr. Johnson's henchmen arrived, the real horror of that night began. When the first letter was delivered to the cottage, saying that those she loved would be destroyed if she remained in town, Lillian told her grandmother she thought it best if she left for Boston to begin her art education earlier than she intended, as in the following day. The second letter came that first wretched week in Boston. Driven to despair with homesickness, she opened the envelope and found another unsigned threat. And so it had continued at intermittent intervals for the last ten years. Anyone might have sent them. Anyone might have Frank's billfold, the one containing the incriminating love letters her grandmother had written her lover all those years before. And so she had said nothing about the threats... The walls to her bedchamber were closing in on her. Racing out the door, Lillian flew down the hall to her grandmother's room. She must have the truth! Victoria Hill's bedchamber hadn't changed much over the years. The fireplace, blackened by a century of winter fires, as always monopolized the room. The same timepiece ticked on the oak mantle. Above that, on the pumpkin-tone wall, still hung the portrait of her grandmother. The oil painting drew Lillian's eyes. The woman pictured within the ornate gilded frame was a keeper of secrets. Tonight, those secrets must be expunged. Lillian touched the canvas, tracing a finger down the strong jaw line, so very much like her own. Next, she hunted for the artist's signature, finding it in his trademark spot, scribbled like an afterthought on the

petal of the flower Victoria Hill held in her hand: Anthony Camaro. Her grandmother was obviously with child; a rounded bulge showed clearly under the shawl she wore over her shoulders. Under that shawl's fringe, her father grew safe and warm in the womb. Smiling, Lily stoked the outline of that small hillock. "My dear, are you waiting up for me?" Lillian half-turned to face the woman who had raised her, and whom Lillian had loved her entire life. "I think it's time we talked, Grandmama." "Of course, dear. I always enjoy our talks." Victoria Hill never entered a room; she made a grand entrance. This occasion was no different. She swept across the mellow pine floor, her posture erect, her piled high white hair accentuating her regal stature. Enormous blue enamel combs, in the shape of strutting peacocks, held her coiffure in place so that nary a tendril escaped. Her matching turquoise gown contained enough of the gypsy to suit the elderly lady's flair for the dramatic. Her grandmother was a commanding figure despite her advanced age, and Lillian knew in her heart that she would do anything for her ... save go on living a lie. "You know, Lily," Victoria began, "you would wander these old halls like a little lost soul when you were a small child. I remember those days well. It always seemed to me that you were searching for your parents." Lillian nodded. "I missed them so. Dad's death must have almost killed you, considering that he was your only child." Victoria sank onto the bed. "Reginald was so special. I never thought I would be blessed with a child and so I treasured every moment that he was with us. He was an unexpected completion of my life. A cherished, cherished, gift." She smiled. "As are you, my precious, precious granddaughter." Lillian frowned. "And you and Grandfather had been married for what ... twenty years before my father was conceived?" "Correct. I had just turned forty when Reggie was born. Would you like to hear the whole story, Lily? Is that why you waited for me here tonight? Are you ready to understand the truth?" "I already know part of it, but I think it's time I heard the rest." Her grandmother folded her hands in her lap. "It's ironic that Reg never once questioned his birthright. Somehow, though, it seems fitting that you should." The elderly lady squared her shoulders, just like her granddaughter. "The portrait hanging above my bed was done of me when I was expecting your father. I believe I was five months along at the time. The painting was to be a surprise birthday gift for my husband. Tony Camaro was the artist. "Tony's renown as an artist had just started to spread. But I managed to persuade him to paint me in the late afternoons while my husband was busy at work.

"Please bear in mind that I was unconventional, even in those days. And Tony was the same. He was everything my husband was not: a social renegade, unmarried, a little wild with the ladies, a free spirit, and we ... well ... we fell in love." "While you were married?" "You don't seem surprised, dear." "I am not." "I won't ask why that is but, yes, I was not only married, I was happily married. Make no mistake about it, my husband and I were very happy and were so until the day he died." "You never considered divorce?" "Never. What on earth for? As I say, we were content. The only thing missing was children." "Grandfather didn't want children?" "On the contrary! My husband was as desperate for a child as I. We worked diligently at it for years, but alas, I never conceived." Victoria sighed. "Oh, who knows why there was no baby! The end result was: I couldn't give my husband a male child to carry on the Hill name, a boy to inherit. "But I had a plan: Why not conduct a discreet affair to see if I might conceive a child with another man? Who would know? And who would be hurt?" "You mean," Lillian said uncomfortably, "you entered into the affair trying to conceive? Your pregnancy was not accidental?" "Far from it! I counted on becoming pregnant. What I did not count on was falling in love. Here was I, a practical woman, besotted over an artist! Quite absurd, really! But there it is. And our affair has lasted almost forty years. Longer than many marriages, I daresay." "You affair was with Tony Camaro." "But of course," she chortled. "Who else? Tony understood that I would never leave my husband, and after my husband died, he understood I had no wish to remarry, as I understood his need for complete freedom to work. Our relationship has worked out very well for all concerned." "But Grandfather...?" "My husband never knew of the affair. He died shortly after Reginald was born, and he died happy, knowing he had left a legal heir. My husband was an honorable man. Strictly moralistic, not at all like Tony. Had my husband known that Reg was not his child, this house would have been willed to that wretched cousin of his!" Victoria related with a grimace of disgust. "What purpose would that have served? None, I say!" "Tony is my natural grandfather," Lillian said in wonder, trying to absorb the meaning of that at last.

"Yes. Tony is your biological grandfather. He has tried to be close to you, Lily. He certainly was very close to your father. Reggie only became an artist because of Tony's influence on his early life. I believe you both felt a special connection with him through your love of art." "I have always felt a bond, yes." "I am gladdened to hear it!" "Did anyone else know about my father's true paternity?" "Tony naturally. He knows about the condition of the will and all the rest. No one else. It would be disastrous if anyone learned the truth. I hope you will never breathe a word of it, either. The future of the cottage is at stake. This land must remain undeveloped! To ensure that, the estate must stay in the immediate Hill family." "But I am not part of the Hill bloodline, Grandmama." "Fiddlesticks! You love this place. Your heart is here, child. Someday you will have the opportunity to do something wonderful with this land. Why--the possibilities are endless, limited only to your own imagination. And not only with this estate, but with Tony's land as well. You will inherit his property too someday." "I didn't know! There is just so much to think about." "It doesn't need to be all thought through tonight, dear." Her grandmother touched her earlobes. "These earrings were a gift from my husband when Reginald was born." She smiled. "It is possible for a woman to love two men in a lifetime. I hope you understand, I did love them both." Lillian walked to the door, only to pause at the threshold. "I am not like you. I am very much like my father in that respect. My mother was his heart's only passion." "I am taking a small trip, planned months ago, before I knew you would be coming home. You will have this entire house to yourself to think. Life is not always what we wish it to be. You are disillusioned now, but please keep in mind that what Tony and I did, we did out of love."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Her grandmother had already departed for her trip and the cottage was quiet. Restless, Lillian wandered through the old house's rooms, finally ending up gazing out a window overlooking the gardens, joining her grandmother's spoiled feline who sunned himself on the window seat. "Henri, I envy your pampered existence. You never worry about the meaning of life, do you?" In answer, Henri purred and plopped his substantial weight in Lillian's lap.

"What do I do now?" she asked, while stroking the cat between the ears. "Stay here and risk taking a flying leap over the Widow's Walk, or return to Boston and resume my nice, safe, boring life?" The feline lifted his head, not to offer any sage advice, but to sound the alarm: crunching gravel on the drive meant they had company. Snuggling Henri into her arms, Lillian went to the door, lifted the starched corner of the lace curtain, and peeked out. Doyle waited on the front porch. Fear. Excitement. Both juggled for priority as she opened the door. "Is your grandmother at home?" he asked curtly. "No." "When will Victoria return?" "In a few days." "You cannot stay here alone," he decided, and shouldered his way into the vestibule. "You are not my master!" she said, walking in the direction of the kitchen. "Oh, but I am." Her steps faltered. A dark thrill of sexual pleasure rushed over her. "Go make a companion of a mouse, Henry." Doyle took her grandmother's cat from her arms and dropped his paws on the floor. "Henri! Not Henry. He is French, you know." Doyle angled his jaw. His lips were now dangerously close to her cheek. One little move and he would taste her blush. "An architect associate of mine from New York City has extended me a weekend invitation to a mansion he just had built up the coast. You will come with me." She nodded, proving his mastery over her. Doyle would demand his pound of flesh and she would pay her debt. Her nipples hardened at the prospect. "The estate is gaudy, but it does come with wonderful views of Frenchman's Bay. You will bring your sketchpad. We leave immediately." "I have nothing suitable to wear for a weekend house party, nothing packed." "I have taken the liberty of buying you a few things. They are outside in my carriage."

"Who else will be there?" "Five or six couples from New York." "Married couples?" "Such naiveté, darling. The men are married, but not to the ladies they will bring to this party." "I see..." "I expect you to participate in the festivities. Nothing too terribly shocking. And nothing a lady of your sophistication hasn't done before." He ran a hand along her jaw. "My friend loves beautiful and uninhibited ladies. You will be a smashing hit with the New York crowd." "Even as a girl, you would get me to do whatever you wished with the turn of a pretty word." "Not everything." She turned sorrowful eyes to him. "But surely you knew how much your opinion mattered to me?" "Yes--I knew. It was a responsibility I never sought." "I would follow you around like a love-starved puppy. I must have annoyed you then, and you must certainly hate me now." His tone was terse. "I could never hate you." "But you must! What man wouldn't hate a woman who betrayed him with another man within hours of a declaration of love?" Her heart cried out to him: Please give me the benefit of the doubt! Don't assume I went to bed with Frank. Ask me! Please just ask me if it's true! "I could never hate you," he repeated. "Now, shall we go?"

****

Doyle placed a hand under her elbow to steady her climb up the mansion's steeply terraced slope. "My! The views of Frenchman's Bay really are spectacular from here," Lily exclaimed, her loose hair blowing across her cheek as she surveyed the lush rolls and swells of green lawn. "The way the land undulates reminds me of a belly dancer, all hillocks and valleys and secret places. It's positively erotic. I must get this on paper." "Go ahead." Removing his jacket, Doyle spread it on the grass for her to sit upon. While she sketched, he stretched out beside her, his head propped on one muscled arm. "Take your time. I enjoy watching you draw."

She selected a lusty palette of fertile earth tones for the composition and started to rough in a sketch. After a bit, Doyle craned his neck at the drawing pad. "That one is a keeper." "You mean it?" "I never say things I don't mean." She folded her legs up under her, the heavy pad of drawing paper resting on her knees. "Have any other ladies accompanied you to these weekend soirees? Not that your sexual escapades are any of my affair. I was merely curious because Tony told me that you see his models..." "Tony is misinformed." "You don't--uh--socialize with his models anymore?" "Not since that day you walked in on me with one." Why was Doyle lying? "Forgive my intrusiveness," she murmured. "Nothing to forgive. Now, if you are ready, I have an estate to show you. Then, later on this evening, I will present you to our host."

****

"So sorry," Lillian murmured, covering her giggle with two gloved fingers. "My lapse into merriment is quite unintentional, I assure you." "I did warn you." "You said the mansion was gaudy, not hilarious." Doyle quirked a dark brow. "The lady doesn't care for steep gables and pointed windows and gingerbread shingles?" "Ordinarily, I don't mind Gothic Style, but combined with Roman pillars and naked statuary it does get to be a bit much." She twittered. "Oh, dear. The interior goes quite beyond the pale. Why is that the nouveau riche must flaunt dripping crystal and gold leaf in every room?" "Careful, my dear. Your snobbery is showing." "I suppose, to be fair," she amended, a finger posed to her chin, "this bedchamber suite is not without its lurid charms." Stepping behind her, Doyle slid his arms around to her front, his hand capturing an unfettered breast. "Nothing lurid about your charms, Lily. If ever there was an elegant little baggage, it's you."

Her nipples tightened. She felt his strokes in her very core, in the liquid heat that dripped down her bare leg. Thighs rubbing together, she whimpered her need of surcease. "Shh," he whispered, and worked the hooks on her gown. "Let's get you out of this dowager's gray silk, shall we?" Once she was nude, Doyle nuzzled her throat as she arched into him, his hand moving over her belly to disappear between her legs. "Oh, Doyle," she sighed, her fear of intimacy a thing of the past. "My, you are wet." "Yes," she agreed; it was ridiculous not to agree as her red pubic hair glistened with beads of lubricating moisture. "I hurt for you, Doyle. Isn't that what you wish?" "Perhaps," he said, uncovering the hood covering her clitoris. "How much longer do you intend to make me wait?" she asked in anguish. "I have waited ten years for you." She could easily cry, for if he had waited at all, it was for retribution, his pound of flesh, not really for her. But still she begged, "Please, make love to me." Putting her aside, Doyle reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, withdrawing a flat glass jar. "What is that?" she asked. "Crimson pigment." She shook her head, scandalized. "I don't use face paint." "Don't play the innocent, Lily. You know damned well the carmine is not intended for your lips, at least not these lips," he said, stroking the seam of her mouth. "But I really don't understand..." "Very well. Play Miss Prim if you wish." He twisted the top off the glass jar, dipped his finger in the paint pot, and reached between her legs. "Open," he spoke to her thighs. When she did, he painted her nether lips with the color from the paint pot until her vulva was a vivid shade of crimson. After examining his handiwork, he painted her nipples, the carmine exaggerating their distention to lewd proportions. His eyes were very dark when he finished, the pupils almost black. "Turn around."

Faced to the wall, he cupped her bottom. "You whored for men at Frank Johnson's bequest," he stated, his fingers moving along the seam between her bottom cheeks. Since his was not a question asked, silence served as her only answer. He pressed a finger to her back opening, and she didn't refuse him. "No virgin here, either--eh?" As a question, it was poorly asked, and so deserved a poor reception. "Sir, you set yourself up as my master; come into me and judge my experience for yourself. I shall be your whore tonight, tomorrow, and the next night, too, if that is what this is all about. I know my debt and I intend to pay it. Until I return to my life in Boston, I recognize that I am in bondage to you." "Bondage. Now there is a pretty word." His fingertip slipped inside her anus. "I bought you a gift," he said conversationally, his unnatural penetration deepening. "It's on the bedstand. I thought you might wear it when we go downstairs." Her gaze went to the thin package, her payment for services rendered, she supposed. As he widened the dimpled opening, a two-finger stretch of the sphincter muscle, she whispered ruefully, "You are far too kind, sir." His fingers were withdrawn. "You will require lubricant." He spoke close to her ear, as though telling her a secret. "You are delicately made, and I will not have you hurt. These parties tend toward ... intemperance. Bend at the waist, and I will see to your care." She rounded, no shame, no pride, like the whore he thought she was. He must have oiled the finger for it slipped with ease into her buttocks; the carmine pigmented one went back into her vulva, up high this time, into her vagina, both fingers now moving within her body's clasp in slow, synchronized rhythm. She moaned through her mouth, seeped in erotic pleasure, knowing she would do anything he asked of her this night, and not out of indebtedness. No, her bondage to Doyle had begun long before Frank was killed; she had been in sexual servitude to him since she was no more than a girl. "How many men will have me tonight, Doyle?" "All of them. Now come for me, Lily, before I take you downstairs." And she did, on a scream. He ruled her completely.

****

She went downstairs on Doyle's arm, a lovely Persian shawl with a floor length fringe covering her nude body.

"Thank you for the gift," she told her companion, who was fully and formally dressed in evening attire, as they entered the foyer. "Many men must have bought you gifts over the years; many men must have spoiled you." Spoiled? She didn't feel spoiled. Lillian looked away, to hide her suddenly smarting eyes. "Will you partner me any time during the course of the evening?" "As I brought you, I have proprietary rights over you. If you wish, I shall be the first." "It's not what I wish, sir, but what you wish." "A gentleman does not like his host to think him selfish..." She tossed her head. "Some gentlemen practice exclusivity in their relationships." "As do some ladies. But you are not a lady and I am not a gentleman and fidelity isn't a part of our history." On that low note, Doyle escorted her through the double doors into the darkened 'game room'. As an artist, Lillian was familiar with the human form in all its many manifestations. She also considered herself to be an independent thinker, open to new ideas... She closed her mind to the possibility of the stark scene before her eyes. She wished no part of such soulless debauchery! But her eyes remained riveted to the fornicating couples on the pillow-strewn marble floor. A gas sconce was lit, and by that dim light she deciphered a naked tangle of twisting bodies, a writhing pile of mating males and females. No one seemed specifically paired with anyone else. Various and sundry body parts were exposed, bent, splayed, and penetrated. Two men were on a woman who was positioned on all fours on a huge black velvet pillow. One male was at her rear, going into her buttocks; the other male was in front, his penis swallowed up in her mouth. Did Doyle expect her to participate in this aberrant distortion of lovemaking, this impersonal swapping of body fluids? With a shudder of disgust, she turned her face away. Doyle retrieved her wayward chin. "You must have done this sort of thing before. A woman like you needs this sort of thing..." No, she did not need this, or anything like this! She needed Doyle, only Doyle! She was no sexual sophisticate. Immoral decadence was not for her! Leading her forward, Doyle presented her to the undulating mass of intertwined bodies. For once, Lillian was grateful for her breathing problem, grateful it prevented her from deeply inhaling the

scent of meaningless sex. An extraordinarily handsome gentleman rose from the writhing entrenchment where he had been reclining between two females, a brunette and a blond. This classically handsome male, this perfectly proportioned Adonis, shook Doyle's hand. He smiled politely at her. "Good evening." Doyle performed the introductions. "Lily, this is our host, Mr. Kenneth Fornsworth. Kenneth, may I present my guest this evening, Miss Lillian Hill." Mr. Fornsworth dipped at the waist, his slight bow in no way disturbing the jaunty angle of his hugely erect member She nodded, and performed an absurd, but obligatory curtsey. "Mr. Fornsworth." Thus observed, formalities were immediately dismissed. "Your guest is beautiful," Mr. Fornsworth spoke the compliment directly to Doyle, but touched her hair. "Yes," Doyle agreed. "She is." "I adore redheads. I would presume the color is natural?" Their host eyed her upper limbs; thankfully, the shawl fringe covered them for the most part. "I leave it to the discretion of the lady to categorize her attributes for you." Doyle looked at her, brow raised, a challenge in his dark eyes. "Lily? What say you?" She had nothing, absolutely nothing, to say to this preposterousness exchange. "Might I see her?" Mr. Fornsworth politely inquired of Doyle. "Once again, that is up to the lady." But Lillian knew it was not; nothing had ever been up to her. Squaring her shoulders, Lillian parted the Persian shawl, which she had, up until then, kept clutched modestly around her. With a shrug, she sent Doyle's gift to the floor. "She is perfection! Absolute perfection," their golden-haired host enthused. "You must love her red pussy." "I love everything about the lady," Doyle answered their host, but spoke to her eyes. Oh, Doyle! What are we doing to one another? What are we doing here? We don't belong with these people! The solitary gaslight went out, and in the total darkness, she was guided to a heap of pillows on the floor while bodies moved all around her, indiscernible from one another. In the anonymous moving mass, her legs were parted. Raised. An extra velvet pillow stuffed beneath her bottom to raise her pelvis. Her

bosom was stroked, the nipples thumbed into painted peaks. Hands fondled her. Belly. Bosom. A multitude of fingers invaded her pubic hair. How many there were or whom they belonged to, she couldn't say. But she could say she spread herself open for any and all penetration. Two fingers slipped inside her vagina; one entered her buttocks; a thumb manipulated her clitoris as the grunts and sighs and cries of lovemaking went on all around her. Her partner was one man, two men ... any man. She was available for all comers. The finger in her oiled anus increased to two; the two fingers in her carmine-colored vagina became three; the thumb on her clitoris worked more diligently, forcing an unwanted climax upon her. Rage built inside her, and exploded. "No!" she screamed. Blackmail or not, she would not have gone to bed with Frank! She would not have loved one man and slept with another. She would never have been unfaithful to the man she loved. Not climax, but relief came then. Bitter, bitter relief. The stroking hands, those anonymous stroking fingers that offered anonymous pleasure fell away. With a reach for her Persian shawl, she was racing outside. She needed to escape the sights and sounds and smells of the tawdry game room. Doyle was fast on her heels. "Lily, wait! No one else touched you. Only me. I had to see ... to know ... what kind of woman you really were." Damn him! Was that a test? Sobbing, the Persian shawl whipping behind her, she kept running. Doyle caught up with her at the stables. He held onto her arm. "Don't you touch me," she cried and tried to wrench free of his hold. "Talk to me, Lily. For once, before it's too late for us, you tell me the truth. This time, don't run away," Doyle pleaded. She shook him off. "Let me go!" "Not this time!" He grabbed both her hands. "Never again will I take the easy way out with you. You begged me not to leave that night. You pleaded with me to stay with you. I wouldn't listen. Knowing you were insecure about us, I left you alone in your bedchamber. You were desperate to make love, and I said we had to wait. I never once asked you the reason for your desperation. Instead of talking it out, I left you out of the discussion. "Tell me how angry you were with me then! Tell me how angry you are with me now for bringing you to this disgraceful house. You can do it. Go ahead." "Do not placate me," she raged. "Do not patronize me. Since when do I need your permission to be angry?"

"Then, dammit, tell me!" Assign the man she loved feet of clay? Rather than tell him of her disappointment, she ran for the stables. Doyle caught her up inside a stall. Yanking her into his arms, he said softly, as though speaking to a child, "This time, you are not to take the coward's way out. Take me to task for what I did." Mindless of the surroundings, her breasts heaving as she strained to get oxygen into her lungs, she screamed, "How dare you treat me like that? How dare you doubt my feelings for you? You had the audacity to throw my response to you in my face! Do you think I could help my feelings? Do you think that I ever could help them? I loved you when I was seventeen years old, a woman's love, but you kept pushing me away. Always pushing me away. Even in bed that night, you pushed me away. You refused to make love to me. You treated me like an infant, like I didn't know my own mind. " "Go on, Lily. Tell me all of it. Get it out in the open, once and for all." "I told you I loved you, I begged you to stay with me, I pleaded with you to make love to me. But you left. You said it was to check on your brothers. That was a lie. You left because you didn't respect me as a person. You offered me marriage, after I attended the museum school. I knew you were only putting me off, as you always put me off." She said, mournfully, "I needn't have gone all the way to Boston to learn my craft..." "You were talented, Lily. Boston offered the best artistic training for women artists. I did not want you to have regrets somewhere down the line." "Why wouldn't you allow me sacrifice even the tiniest corner of my dream for us?" "There is more, Lily. Say it. Get it all out." "Why," she wailed. "Why did you leave me? If you hadn't left me ... if you hadn't left me..." A fit of weeping seized her, preventing her from going on. "I will say it for you. If I hadn't left you, if I had stayed that night with as you as you begged me to, none of the rest would have happened. But I swear, I left because I thought it was the right thing to do. You needed the freedom to change your mind. And I ... I didn't wish to tie you to me with sex." She started to laugh. "I was older," Doyle said, his eyes changing from brown to the color of a starless midnight. "You weren't a virgin, but even so, a man can take advantage of a younger lover. Satisfy her curiosity about sex. Show her things. Force her to grow up before she is ready." "Sexual curiosity? You think that is what it was all about? I loved you! My love tied me to you, not some transitory itch!" Darkness approached, and this time, she didn't fight the blackout; she welcomed the numbing descent of unconsciousness. She needed to escape like she had never needed to escape before.

Doyle took her by the shoulders. "You can express anger without punishing yourself. Go ahead--let me have it. Tell me you hate me! Just don't blackout!" She wheezed through tortured lungs, "Do you think I am proud of myself for the way I have always responded to you? All you ever had to do was say the word and I was yours." "Tell me the rest!" She wanted to tell him the rest: about Frank; about the blackmail; about ten years of threatening letters, about the gift of her virginity that he had refused. But she felt so weak... "I couldn't help it," she said, slipping into blackness. "There was nothing I could do! God help me ... I tried... But I wasn't strong enough!" Doyle's pained face was the last thing she saw. Then mercifully, there was nothing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lily regained consciousness in the cottage's winding drive. She was slumped next to Doyle on the carriage seat, attired in only the Persian shawl, over which a blanket had been added for warmth. "Are you all right?" Doyle asked worriedly. Reaching up a hand, she pushed an unruly strand of dark hair away from his anxious eyes. "Poor Doyle! You keep having to pick me up off the ground, don't you?" "My only concern is for your health." "Well, concern yourself no longer. For the most part I am completely well--if you discount my small breathing problem and a few other assorted trifles. And I am fine now." "You cannot continue to faint this way!" She twittered as a small bubble of mirth escaped her lips. "Not faint this way? Then which way shall I faint?" "Lily." How was it that one small word could be invested with so much warning? Doyle took her shoulders in hand. "I need honesty from you. Stop this act. You don't need to pretend with me. Tell me your thoughts. I prize your genuine opinions, the uniqueness of who you are." He shook his head. "At times, I think you are completely unaware of how you have subjugated your true personality. At other times, I know you perform a deliberate masquerade for the benefit of others. I live in constant fear that I may never find the real you ever again. I miss how we used to argue. I miss how you used to call me an arrogant ass. Come back to me, Lily. I miss the real you." "Real? My goodness, not in years have I been anywhere close to authentic. If real is what you demand of

me, I shall just have to pretend, I suppose," Lily countered on another bout of hilarity. She walked to the cottage's pitted granite stairs, dreading going inside alone, but covering her fear so that Doyle wouldn't know. "The lamps will need lighting," Doyle said, commandeering her art supplies, opening the door, and preceding her inside. "Would you care for a nightcap?" she suggested, hating the small clutch of fear in her voice. "Brandy is in the liquor cabinet," she said, on an airless breath, her feet refusing to budge from the porch. From inside the hallway, Doyle frowned. "Do you feel faint?" An ink-purple wash painted the sky tonight. Rain hung heavy in the air. She felt a storm in her soul. Rain and beach roses and great streams of crimson, seeping into wet sand and onto a white nightgown... "Lily...?" The subdued question came from a place far away, so difficult to pinpoint exactly where. "It happened in the late spring," she murmured, trying to get a bead on the location of that gruff male voice. "Frank's death, I mean. Isn't it curious that a season that signifies rebirth is always associated in my mind with death?" She pivoted. "I rather feel like taking a walk." "Where?" asked that faraway voice. She thought for a moment before arriving at a decision. "To the Widow's Walk." Danger was close. She felt its hold on her, and try as she might, she couldn't shake it loose. Her throat contracted. Her burning lungs clenched. Danger was as close to her now, as it had been that night ten years ago. "A storm is moving in," she whispered. "I can feel its chill in the air." Or was that chill inside her? So difficult to tell at times. She was cold, so very cold. She shivered, despite her resolve not to, and shrank into the folds of the Persian shawl. "I am here, Lily. Right here, beside you. I won't leave you." The distant voice belonged to Doyle. She knew that now, though the usual deep timbre of his vocal cords was reed-thin and muted as if he stood outside a long, dark tunnel and she was trapped on the inside, well beyond reach. Recognizing that there was nothing he could do to help her, she looked toward him, anyway; Doyle had always been her rock in the storm. Poor man! Lines of tension bracketed both sides of his firm mouth. She had caused that tension, caused those lines. It was only right that she put his mind at ease, to tell him...

What? She had no idea what to tell him. Her cold fingers were lifted, swallowed up in an enormity of callused warmth. "Hold my hand," he urged. "I won't leave you, not this time. You have nothing to fear." "Wrong, Doyle. You are so wrong. I have everything to fear. Especially in the rain." Pulling her hand free from his grasp, she ran barefoot towards the beach, the wet grass slippery between her toes. Her feet were bare the night Frank died too. She remembered how little wet slivers of bloody grass had stuck to them. She remembered how soggy the sand had felt underfoot, and how quickly the hem of her nightgown grew sticky. And she remembered a smell too, but she never could place it. The smell burned the inside of her nose in a very unpleasant way, choking her, making her eyes smart. That horrid smell interfered with her respiration. Doyle caught up with her, just as she started to wheeze. She pointed to the Widow's Walk. "I found Frank's body there. On the beach. He lay face down in the sand with the sea washing over him, taking some of the blood away. But I knew that he was dead." She waved a hand before her nose. "What is that horrid chemical aroma? Do you smell it, Doyle? What is it?" He brought his arms up around her, cradling her cheek under his chin. "I don't know." He chafed her arms. Her face. Her hands. "Let me take you back inside and get you warm. We could have that brandy you offered," he said, leading her back to the cottage. "Or, I could make you a hot cup of anything." "Soon. I shall go inside soon." She would not give into cowardice! Not this time! Not ever again. She must face the past; find the truth. "It's time for me to tell you about that night. All of it. Every dirty, sordid detail." "Tell me nothing, if the telling makes you ill." Tears wet her cheeks. "You cannot have it both ways! You cannot insist I remain in my little numb cocoon and then demand the return of the real me. I must relive that night to get that old me back." She pushed off against his hard chest and walked away, towards the narrow Widow's Walk. "Frank's head was crushed," she cried back to him. "His skull must have bounced against the rocks when he fell. I pulled him out of the surf. He was so heavy..." Doyle came after her. "Let me put you to bed. We can discuss all this tomorrow, after you have had a good night's sleep..." "I never sleep. I don't eat. Breathing is an effort," she revealed, backing away, hands raised to ward Doyle off. "I don't like to be touched. I cannot..." "You cannot what?" Doyle asked her in a very clear, very clipped way. "Show ... physical affection toward a man. Even a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek is enough to trigger a

violent reaction in me. Save with you. With you, I wish physicality," she said, voice woeful. "Anyway, Charles told me to fix it. To fix me, I presume. As though I was broken. And I suppose I am broken." A shadow moved across Doyle's eyes. Then he shrugged, like it was of no import that she couldn't bear to be touched. She knew differently. The inability to tolerate the physical aspects of a relationship, of a marriage, would soon toll the death knell of that union. She raised her eyes to his, said distraughtly, "I have no passion in me any more." His reply was dry, even droll. "You have plenty of passion. You just had the wrong man." "The wrong man. Yes," she murmured disjointedly. "The wrong man came into my bedchamber. I was alone and it was raining. He crept up on me and frightened me. I was looking in the mirror and there he was, materialized from out of the darkness." "Lily, sweetheart, who are you talking about?" Who, indeed? "My nightgown was all undone. My chest looked white and pale. I touched my breasts, the same way you did. I remember thinking how cold I felt and damp just as the candles were blown out. And I knew ... I knew ... I was not alone in the room any more. I heard heavy breathing." "Whose heavy breathing?" "It was too dark too see. It all happened so fast. I was thrown on the bed face down, held there. My attacker never said a word. Not one single word." "No!" Doyle roared. That long-ago night, she thought Doyle was the one hurting her. Now she must speak the loathsome words, confess her most hidden thoughts, give that ultimate betrayal to the man she had professed to love . Abandoning Doyle in his time of need, leaving him alone to pick up the remains of his shattered life ... those were not her only transgressions, or even her worst sins. Her deadliest sin of all had been committed silently in her heart; it was her loss of faith in Doyle. "You were angry with me that night for trying to seduce you yet again, and so you left. I thought you had changed your mind. I thought you were coming back to me. I was so happy. I opened my arms--to you. I cried your name. " Doyle groaned. "No, no, no." "The hands holding me down on the bed were ... were ... hurtful. Angry hands. I didn't fight back, not right away, because ... because ... I thought you were my attacker, Doyle. I thought you came back to rape me. I am so sorry I thought that horrible thing of you." Doyle swept her up in his arms and raced for the house; the wet ground trembled under his feet. "No more tonight," he whispered against her cheek.

He carried her inside the cottage, climbed the stairs to her bedchamber with her in his arms, placing her feet gently upon the floor. "Please--I must say the rest." The crook of his shoulder muffled her insistence. "Upon realizing you were not the one hurting me, I fought back. But it was already too late. If not for the person who entered my bedchamber and pulled my attacker off me, I would have been raped. I--I ran from the house. Out into the rain. I hid in the shed beside the Widow's Walk, until I heard a scream. I came out, saw a body in the water. It was horrible. How could I leave him there? I could not! I knew I must do something and so I ... I stumbled down the rocks after him. "I was too late. Too late. Much too late. And then you were there, looking at me as though you hated me, and Frank's death still gladdened me! I felt nothing but relief." "Why would you not? The man deserved to die." Doyle of the fierce tone and moral superiority; he always knew right from wrong. She was not as sure as he. "You misunderstand! I was relieved, not because it was Frank, but because it wasn't you lying there on the rocks. I didn't know, I still don't know, who was in my bedchamber that night. Who attacked me? Who rescued me? Who was it? Who saved me and killed Frank?" Fear ticked louder. She was breaking apart and only Doyle might save her now. She looked up into his face, searching his face for the answer to her question. "Please, Doyle. Just tell me..." "I didn't return to the cottage until you were already on the beach and Frank was dead. To my everlasting sorrow, I didn't rescue you and I didn't kill Frank. I wish to Christ I had!" he exploded. "All these wasted years I blamed you for what happened that night, when it should have been myself I blamed. For everything. I should have gone after you in Boston. I should have brought you home." He took a deep breath. "My damnable pride prevented that course of action. I thought you had betrayed me with Frank. I should have known your fierce honor would never have allowed for betrayal. Well, I have no pride anymore. I wanted you when you were eighteen. I want you now." The ticking inside her head quieted: Doyle's words had diffused her fear... "I know I have given you no reason to trust me, but would you? Would you trust me, Lily? Would you let me make love to you?" In an agony of self-perception, Lillian knew how Doyle must see her: a woman obsessed by dark and destructive memories, a woman truly on the edge of madness. And in that realization it suddenly struck her that she was not the only one taking a chance in this: Doyle was taking a chance tonight too. Why should she not have her heart's desire for once in her life? Why not give into selfishness this one time? Her reputation was already destroyed, her chance of happiness with it--why not take what he offered? She wished to know this man's desire, to respond to that desire with her body. Her love for Doyle was assigned to the past. They could have no future. But they did have right now, and they could have this... Removing the Persian shawl, she climbed atop the bed. "Show me I am still capable of passion, Doyle."

He too disrobed, and just as quickly. "I know you have passion within you," he said softly, kneeling on the bed at her feet, his words barely discernable above the fall of rain outside the window. "But I wish..." Her finger silenced him. "Wish for nothing more, save this," she admonished, opening her legs for him. "Do not turn me away, not this time." He placed his hand, butterfly-soft, on her rouged labia and she moaned. He dipped his head to her body's carmine-pigmented center, and she grabbed fistfuls of his unruly black hair. Her spine arching, her breathing gone shallow, then ragged, he hurled her into passion. He was touching her, kissing her, stroking her, mouthing every part that proclaimed her a woman. When he licked the inside of her thighs, then pierced her core with his tongue, she went liquid as he drank from her. She floated on a sensual dream, her sighs as soft as the rain, bright white lights sparkling against her pupils. Her pulse quickened, wanting, needing, more than another lonely climax; she wanted and needed him inside her. "Tell me what you feel," he coaxed, lifting his head. "Let me inside you. Your mind as well as your body." "I don't have the right words..." "Make them up, if need be." She told him the only way she knew how. "There is a precipice. The Widow's Walk," she panted, fighting for each breath she took. "The sky is overhead, the rocks are at my back, and the sea crashing is below me, and I feel ... I feel as though I can fly." "You can," he whispered against the opening to her body. "Let go. Don't be afraid. Let it happen," he growled between the sharp thrusts of his tongue. "I won't lose you. I promise to be right here when you return." "Together," she pleaded. "Let's fly together! I won't do it without you. Not this time!" He pulled away. She thought she had gambled and lost. She thought that he had finally given up on her, that she would remain forever frozen inside herself. But then he loomed up over her body. "Your breathing, Lily ... it's labored." "I don't care!" He nodded, grimly. "If need be, I shall breathe for both of us." And with that promise given, he slanted his mouth over her mouth, breathing his life into her. The taste of her own sex on his lips, he started to enter her. She had never told him that she was a virgin without a maidenhead, a woman with a reputation but with no real experience. And though she had desired him since she was seventeen years old, his penetration of

her untried body hurt. He must have suspected her pain, for he stopped. "Don't you dare pull away from me again," she sobbed. "Never again," he answered and pushed. His kiss was hot and fierce, a claiming, as he started to move. Their joining was tenuous and shallow. He rocked her with his body, slow and easy like the rain. Once. Twice. Three gentle surges and her feet left the ground. Surely she was flying then? "Doyle!" she cried and soared higher still. She spun out into space, a wanton free fall into nothingness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Just as he said he would, Doyle waited for her. When she floated back down to earth, she was staring up into his face. Less than a heartbeat later, she was looking down at him. "I thought a change of perspective was in order," he said with a huge, self-satisfied grin. He kissed her cheek. "You fly with grace, my lady." "I am shattered. I may never leave this bed again." "Fine with me, as long as we take flight at least twice a day. I think only of you in this regard, as the activity seems beneficial to your lung capacity," he said smugly, his hands cupping her buttocks, his thumbs stroking downward along the crevice. She gave a carnal shiver. He shifted, settling her more comfortably atop him, before kissing her lips. Breaking the contact, he said, "You had never been with a man before. I need you to explain the circumstances behind your lie to me." She couldn't tell him about the blackmail, but she could tell him some of the truth. "I lost my maidenhead in a riding accident on El Diablo. I took him out again after you told me not to." "I see. Still, why lead me to believe you were experienced? I presumed you had already slept with Frank..." "Knowing my grandmother would be away that night, I agreed to receive Frank in my bedchamber. Then it rained and you came to me. I never expected you would, and I never expected Frank would arrive after you left. You see before you a virgin by default, not by virtue." "Go to bed with me, let me touch you, and then go to Frank? You never would have done that, Lily! It

was my fault for not realizing that fact all those years ago. You are mine. Totally mine. What is this all about...?" To get his mind off the discrepancies in her motivation, a change of subject was in order. She came up on her knees, uncertain, unsure, of what to do, but willing to learn. At first, her hands moved hesitantly over him. But with reawakened sexual desire came a new boldness; she ran both hands over his legs, abdomen, and chest, finally plucking at his nipples. He shivered nearly convulsively. "I like when you do this to me," she said, and suckled him the way he did to her. "Harder," he moaned. "Leave teeth marks." She rolled the end of his nipple with her tongue, and then bit the flesh so different from hers. "So good," he rasped. She kissed lower. "May I?" she asked, when she came to his penis. "Christ, please..." he groaned. The groan surprised her. She had never been sure of herself with Doyle, never confident that their attraction was as strong for him as it was for her. After all, he had always put her off. But with a new womanly wisdom, she saw now what she was unable to see as a girl: he desired her as much as she desired him. Her body pleased him. Penetrating her had pleased him. That he was her first lover pleased him. Very much. And this, touching him, pleased him too. "Your penis is large." She fingered the circumference of the head. His sex hardened even more. "Yes." "Larger than most men?" "Yes. The pain of accommodation will lesson next time, but there will still be some pain until you become accustomed to intercourse." She shrugged, not denying the pain, but not willing to stop because of it. Lillian circled the thick shaft with two eager fingers. "Your testicles are quite large too," she felt the need to comment when she cupped him underneath. "Heavy as well." "No more investigation for now, Lily. Try to get some rest." "I am not at all tired." Grinning, she mounted him, thighs open, semen running out of her and puddling on his belly. He didn't seem to mind the mess. He was hot. Smooth. Hard. Pulsating under her fingertips.

He groaned again, louder this time, his eyes glittering like black diamonds. His strong hands kneaded her bottom, his big fingers tensing, clenching. His jaw lifted to nuzzle her bobbing nipple. The grating of his teeth, alternating with the coarse rasp of his tongue, was just too much. Wave after wave of lust coursed through her. Did he know what he did to her? She looked down into his face and saw that he knew exactly what he was doing to her: Doyle was playing with her. Making her want him. Making her wet. Teasing her so that her body would be prepared for him. He moistened her cleavage with a line of kisses. "You burn with passion, Lily. How could you ever have thought differently?" She gave herself over to that passion. Her breasts felt so swollen. So heavy. Tight. She was throbbing, aching for him. She was keeping many secrets from Doyle; her greed for him was not one of them. She held herself poised above him. Rolling her hips, tilting her pelvis, she seduced him. "I think we should wait," he growled. "Please?" she begged. He eyed the saturated notch between her legs. "Are you ready? Open the slit for me. Let me see." She immediately parted her labia. "The folds are inflamed," he pronounced. "But I need..." "You need to be fucked. I know. Unfortunately, your passage is almost swollen closed." "Please Doyle?" She licked her lips. Picking up his hand, she placed it at the entrance. "Pretty please?" He fingered her clitoris. "I knew you would be insatiable." He sighed. "All right. You can have some, but not all of it." "Thank you, sir." She lowered herself over him, the tendons in her thighs shaking, as she sank onto his thick, engorged shaft. Her soft folds protested another invasion. Gritting her teeth, she pushed past the pain. "Enough, Lily," he said, black eyes narrowed as though he were pained too, and holding her around the waist, preventing her from sinking all the way down.

"I ... need ... more," she said haltingly, suspended above him on one strong arm. "No." Hands flattened on his chest, she looked down to where their bodies were joined. The carnal sight of him buried inside her, even that scant amount, excited her, and she moaned, open-mouthed, in pleasured pain. He rubbed her clit, the friction making her crazed. "You need release," he whispered. "What of you? What of your release?" "Never mind me. This is for you." Almost immediately, she started to climax, pleasure far outweighing pain.

****

The next morning, Lily awakened to tuneless whistling. It was early yet, barely dawn. The curtains were drawn back from the floor-to-ceiling window, and Doyle was gazing out onto the gardens and the sea as he dressed for the start of a new day, his back towards her. Yesterday, she never would have dreamt that today she would be lying abed watching the man she loved draw a shirt over his bed-mussed head. My, how the tide had turned! With a smile, she stretched, liking the sharp ache between her legs. Doyle wouldn't allow her any more lovemaking during the night. For a man naturally forceful, his restraint was truly astounding. Her restraint, on the other hand, was non-existent. She would have him again! "There is a hole in your shirt," Lily called to him from the bed. Doyle shrugged, not looking over his shoulder. Naked under the cover of bed linens, she ran a slow hand over her breasts, belly, then between her legs. Her nipples felt swollen, as did her sticky labia. She supposed she should wash. But frankly, she was in no great hurry to remove Doyle's semen. She liked the sticky swellings of her body, and intended to have more of the same. Unfortunately, Doyle obstinately refused to look in her direction. "I can sew the rip," she offered at his continued silence. Doyle kept his eyes on the window. "As can I. I will have you know that I am very accomplished with

needle and thread." "Oh," she said, not bothering to hide her disappointment. He darted her a quick glance, laughed at her pursed lips. "Now, don't pout, Lily. I do need you, but my need is not predicated on your mending abilities." When she stuck out her tongue, he laughed even harder. "Are you normally this sullen in the morning?" "Yes. Are you normally this damn chirpy?" "I do like the beginning of the day the best. Especially, if I start it off right, with a kiss from a beautiful lady," he said, dropping the second boot he had been about to pull on and walking lopsided to the mattress. Leaning over, he planted a reserved peck in the hollow of her throat. "I have an appointment in an hours time. Will you be all right while I am gone?" Lily scrambled up on one elbow, the sheet modestly draped around her mid-section. "You worry far too much, Doyle. I shall be fine." He poked his finger playfully at her nose. "Doyle is it now? Such familiarity after only one night!" He bent and kissed the spot where his finger had been, then unfurled his huge body to an upright posture. "I admit it's true that I worry about the ones I care about most." "If that includes me, worry no more. I shall have not a moment to fret your absence. Sketching this morning, working on my grandmother's Memory Garden this afternoon, I plan to stay very busy." "Sounds good," he said, turning his back again. "But with every stroke of my charcoal, with every perennial dug, I shall be missing you," she whispered. Two steps brought him to her; the mattress dipped under his knee. "I am not about to give you the opportunity to miss me. I return to you tonight." His hand winged its way across her shoulder. Her lashes lowered. "After last night, I thought perhaps you would wish to catch up with your rest." "You thought wrong." "I thought perhaps you would wish a polite way out..." "A polite way out? One would hope we had gone past mannered politeness by now." Well, in that case... She glided both arms above her head in a provocative pose. "Leaving...so soon?" He raised a knowing brow. "Where are you going with this, Lily?" "Anywhere you would like," she replied with a catlike stretch.

"Is there ... something you would like me to ... do ... before I leave?" The sheet slid to her hips. "Something I would like you to do? My, whatever do you mean, sir?" One finger played coquettishly at her chin. "Because, if there is something you would like me to do, you will have to be more specific." His voice was hoarse, his raspy vocal cords indicating his thoughts, his hooded gaze hinting at his desire. That insight gave her the courage she needed. Gathering her hair atop her head, she urged him on with a seductive look. His eyes glinted. Hard. Excited. Seduced. But he made no move. Letting go of the topknot, she shook her head from side to side. Her hair came tumbling down, cascading around her in a way she normally wouldn't have allowed. She no longer cared that she looked wild. She felt wild. She was wild ... for him, only for him. "What I would like you to do, Doyle, is fuck me again. Is that specific enough?" He edged nearer the bed. "You make it ... hard ... for me to leave." She batted her lashes. "Your hardness was my intent." "It's not nice to tease a man." "I have never been more serious." Or more needy. Or more honest in that need. "It's cruel to make a man wish for what he cannot have." "Who says you cannot have what you want?" "Lily..." he warned. But she wouldn't listen. "Please, Doyle! Don't make me beg." "As if you ever had need to." He swept the sheet lower. His hungry eyes ravished her exposed breasts, still rosy from sleep, devoured her belly, before falling predatorily on the burnished triangle between her legs. She warmed at his lengthy, deliberate appraisal. Proud of her body, proud of her appearance, proud of the desire she had instigated in Doyle's eyes. "My God ... you are exquisite," he said, speaking hushed and torturously slow. "And it's not that I don't want to, because I do want to. Very, very much. But Lily, you were virgin last night--your cunt must be tender this morning. Be reasonable."

She was tender. That sweet ache between her legs reminded her of what he had done to her last night, of how he had made her feel. No amount of post-virginal discomfort could diminish her need for him. Giving him full mastery over her body was the only way to prove to herself--and to Doyle--that she trusted him. "I have no reason when it comes to you." "Same here," he said softly, and lowered his head. His kiss was deep and thorough and fit her mouth perfectly. He captured her moans in his throat as he cupped a bobbing breast, and then thumbed the center, rolling the protrusion between two fingers, before pulling on it. He was about to part her legs, but she did that for him, opening herself, widening herself, making herself accessible to his intimate exploration. One stroke later, she was twisting the linen into bunches. He sent the wrinkled mess to the floor and pulled her forcibly to her knees. "Out of the bed with you, puss." Her eyes widened. "Excuse me?" "I am still wearing a boot. I can go through all the bother of removing it, which would waste precious seconds, or you can remove yourself from the bedding. Your choice." She removed herself. "After a night of intercourse, ladies generally must seek the necessary before they start relations anew. Relieve yourself first, little one." The directive was unexpected. Though, she acknowledged that her bladder did indeed feel full. Smiling her gratitude for his consideration, she dropped to her knees, and scouted out the nighttime convenience under the bed. Finding it, she rose to her feet and made for the privacy screen, pot in hand. "Where are you wandering off to?" he challenged. "The dressing partition." He shook his head. "Use the pot out here where I can see you." Peeing behind the screen with a gentleman present is one thing; relieving oneself in the middle of the bedchamber with a gentleman present is quite another. "But..." She never completed the thought. At that moment, several pearls of pink-tinged semen rolled down her leg. She watched the strand's progress with awed amazement. "Why, I am bleeding." Doyle gently pressed her to a squat on the floor. Taking the pot from her clutches, he slid it under her rump, and opened her legs wide, watching as the pink gush rolled out of her and was caught in the pot.

"This is most indelicate, sir! I fear you will not see me in quite the same light after this. I must have started my monthly..." "That is your virgin blood, Lily. Now pee." "Thank you, but no. I couldn't possibly. Not with you here." He smiled at her prissiness. "Your comment brings to mind how ladies differ from men. A male will piss in a communal troth in front of a full session of Congress and think nothing of it." He chuckled at her look of horror. "As soon as you finish, I intend to fuck you. Does that put any lingering doubts to rest?" "I suppose so," she said primly. While Doyle slanted his jaw for the best perspective, she let go, the resultant stream sounding like rapids in the porcelain. When finished, he patted her notch dry with his folded handkerchief. The pristine white linen came away red-speckled. "A goodly part of your maidenhead remained after your riding accident. I felt it lodged within you when I made the initial penetration. It was a very thick membrane. Considering my size, had you not lost part of it, intercourse would have been quite painful for you," he explained. Before her astonished eyes, Doyle pocketed the scant evidence of her innocence. A trophy. She thought. Damn him! Is that all she was to him, just another conquest? "I hated causing you pain, sweetheart. That said, no more regrets for either of us. Agreed? Fresh start, right from the beginning. We clean the slate..." "Lies are not necessary. We both know clean slates are not possible in life." "You are my heart, Lily. How can I lie to my heart?" "Such chivalry." "Is it chivalrous to say I have missed my heart? Would any man not miss the very center of his life? " At his words, her own heart beat a crescendo, even as she steeled herself against taking his comments ... to heart. His phrases, though gallantly spoken, were not of a serious intent: in the heat of passion, all gentlemen bestow such lofty compliments upon ladies. Much better to concentrate on the mundane, and forget the sublime; that way, she would avoid heartbreak when they went their separate ways-She smiled a little bashfully. "I feel so naked." "Your body is beautiful naked. But there is more to this than just bodies. I hope you realize that," he said, rubbing her tenderly between the legs. "That said, your pussy is warm and silky wet and I cannot wait to be inside you again." He fingered her. "I love how you come for me, Lily." Coherence was difficult, but she was honor-bound to try to make herself understood. "Doyle, there is something you don't know ... I fear that if we are found out, if our renewed liaison is brought to light, you

might get hurt. You might lose everything..." "Silly, I lost everything when I lost you. And if it were all gone again on the morrow, everything I own, I would still come out a winner as long as I had you beside me. And you know what? I would start all over again, Lily, right from the beginning, from scratch, if you were there with me. Wealth doesn't matter to me, for without you, I have nothing." Here she was, squatting naked over a pee-pot, and Doyle chose this undignified moment to make her the most romantic of speeches. Damn him! Her lack of dignity mattered paltry little to her lover. Pulling her to her feet, Doyle led her naked to the same window where earlier he had pensively gazed out onto the green lawns and the sea beyond. "Let's share the dawn," he said, holding her close against his side. Forgetting all about her misplaced decorum, she lifted her face to catch the warm golden light as it pooled in around them. "My God," he whispered. "Is there anything you do that doesn't make me burn?" She savored his words, drank them in like mulled cider. Until the purveyor of that sentiment, added, "I must apologize." She turned to him. "For what, pray?" "I can tell where I was last night, just by looking at your skin. From now on, I shave twice a day. " At first she didn't comprehend his meaning, until she followed the direction of his gaze. Doyle was completely dressed. She was completely naked. The night before, in the dark, Doyle had rubbed his bearded cheeks back and forth against her. Breasts, belly, bottom ... especially, and repeatedly, between her legs. Now, in the morning light, the red scratches stood out like an accusation. "I wish I could wear the signs of your lovemaking forever," she admitted without first censoring her thoughts or weighing the impact of those thoughts on her listener--a new experience for her and one that was both heady and liberating. "Shall I make it all better?" said the rogue, dipping his head to the whisker burn on her elongated nipple and tonguing the abraded spot. After soothing the small hurt, he smiled at the way his handiwork glistened in the new-morning sun. "Better?" "Oh, yes. Much." Still smiling, he guided her into a graceful pirouette, his hands sculpting over her back, a lazy finger tickling down her spine, feeling like a feathery touch on her nerve endings. Save for the wild beating of her heart, everything else was happening in slow motion. Every caress of her lover's hand, every word he spoke, every breath he took, she knew she would cherish forever. There was not an inch of her skin he hadn't touched last night. That he hadn't owned. But his possession had taken place in the merciful darkness. It was now morning, and Doyle was learning all her secrets. All her mysteries. Although she had initiated it and their loving was at her invitation, her lack of experience grated. Doyle was a very

experienced lover, and she knew she hadn't satisfied his hunger last night. Would she please him this morning? She would do anything to please Doyle.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Nipping his way to the small of her back, Doyle licked the droplets of perspiration at the base of her spine. His wool trousers felt rough against the backs of her bare legs, his worn shirt soft against her skin, his palm investigative on her buttocks. After awakening from ten numbing ice years, she took keen enjoyment in the rebirth of her womanly sensuality, her uninhibited sexuality. Doyle had melted her coldness, turned her blood feverish. He took her outside herself and set her free to soar... While Doyle's feet had stayed stuck on the ground. It would make her so proud if he soared too, if she could give him that. "I wish to please you, Doyle. Let me?" Whimsically, Doyle gathered the white curtain between his fingers, and wrapped her in its folds. The fine webbing shimmered across her bare shoulders and breasts and belly like a transparent sari. Wedding finery, she mused, wholly aroused. For her lover now draped her in the curtain, the cool material rippling over her too-tight, too-hot skin, tugging at the tips of her aching breasts, tickling her loins. Her pulsating passion beat an urgent rhythm. Would he come into her now? Fill her to the womb? She couldn't mask her need, couldn't hide it. All her emotions, all her passions, were on the surface for him to see. Without guile, she shivered and moaned and groaned, until she was sobbing, quaking, writhing. The pleasure, bordering on pain, was building, escalating; it consumed her. Daylight broke the sky when Doyle let the curtain fall between his fingertips, leaving her clothed only in the rays of the sun. The sun heated her naked flesh, but the sun didn't scald her the way he did. "Place your hands on the sill, palms down," he ordered. Woodwork divided the large window glass down the middle. As she braced her hands before her, she watched the waves come into the rocky beach, strong and fierce, elemental in their fury to fill the inlet. "The sea is rough today," he remarked. "It cannot always be placid and gentle, Lily. It's not in its nature." What was Doyle trying to tell her? That it wasn't in his nature to always be placid and gentle? That was something she didn't need to be told! She had always understood the two warring factions inside Doyle. If he expected his dual nature to horrify her, he was in for a surprise. Far from horrified, his passionate side excited her. She loved his forcefulness, just as she loved the sea during a storm. His labored breathing was harsh enough to lift the fine hairs on her nape. "Open your legs for me."

When she did, he immediately stepped up to her. He must have released his erection then, for the bulbous end prodded her between the legs. He acted like a starved man who is suddenly offered a banquet to end his deprivation. Impossible for him to be starved, as Doyle slept with Tony's models all the time! She must have misinterpreted vigor for abstinence... Nevertheless, he homed in on her hungrily, male bluntness rooted to female softness. Lily bit her lip. Yes, Doyle's passionate side excited her but he was a powerful man, even when in control, and her teasing had driven him to the brink of that control this morning. His ever-tightening fingers on her hips told her he was ready to surge into her body. Could she satisfy him? As self-doubt crept into her mind, her muscles tensed. Doyle's forward advance stopped, as though the heat of his desire had chilled. Pride in tatters, Lily cried at his wavy reflection in the window, "You no longer want me?" Aligned to her so that not even air separated them, he pressed a soft kiss on her throat. "Never think that." What else could she think? And then it came to her in a blinding insight what last night had been all about: when she had broken apart before his eyes, Doyle had made love to her out of sympathy, out of compassion. How foolish to believe he desired her! Doyle wasn't hungry for her; he pitied her! Theirs had been a one-sided pleasure--on her side. She hadn't pleased him in bed. Why should he bother this morning with a passionless woman, a clumsy lover like her? "It's all right, Doyle. Really. I quite understand. You need more than I know how to give." "You give me everything I need. Everything I want." The timbre of his voice deepened. "It's only that ... I don't know if I can hold back any longer." Was that the problem? Was Doyle's over-protectiveness getting in the way of passion? "Don't hold back! Please! I won't break, Doyle." Only if you leave me now will I break. "You didn't even know I was there last night. If I go hard with you now, there will be no doubt as to how we spent this morning." His arms shook. So shocking, to feel such a strong man tremble! She had done that to him, she had that affect upon him. New awareness of her womanly power strengthened her resolve to give him what he needed. "Treat me like your lover," she said over her shoulder. "Not like some silly, scared little girl. Make me your woman, Doyle. Go hard, not easy."

He leaned his forehead against her wildly tangled hair. "I want to." He kissed her neck. Groaned. Kissed her again. Harder this time. Much harder. His hands gripped her bottom, his fingers clenched tight on her flesh. More love bruises to add to her collection. "I am dying to get inside you. I have waited to make you my woman since you were seventeen," he rasped. "But Sweet Jesus, I have no wish to hurt you. Quit tormenting me." But she wouldn't quit. Arms braced on the sill, she spread her legs wider and pushed her bottom back toward him. On a brutal oath, Doyle was there between her legs again, shoving his shaft up into her vagina, back to front, pushing it in hard, and thrusting harder. "Oh, Doyle, yes," she cried, loving the fierce honesty of the penetration. She had always known it would be this uncivilized, this savage with them. She held onto the windowsill for dear life, until under the force of his assault, she could hold on no longer. "No!" she wailed, falling to her knees, bereft tears rolling down her cheeks at the severing of their connection. She looked up at him from the floor at his feet. "Please, Doyle? Do anything you wish to me, just so long as you don't give up on me." But Doyle looked indecisive, unconvinced, as though he had already chosen not to continue. Her heart beating wildly, she got down on all fours like a bitch in heat. Sending her bottom high in the air, she opened her legs. "Please, Doyle," she sobbed, looking over her shoulder at him. "I need you so!" Renewed lust surged in his dark brooding eyes. "Pleeease?" she begged, tears streaming down her face. Finally, she heard Doyle drop down behind her. "Lower your head," he ordered. "Yes, yes," she said, eagerly. Turning back, she dropped her forehead to the floor in the lowliest of subservient positions, surrendering her body to him entirely. He mounted her then, pushed back into her. Grunting, holding her hips in place, his testicles battering her buttocks with each of his thrusts, he pulled all the way out, and drove himself back into her passage. He did this again and again and again, using her hard and deep. The pained momentum built to pained ecstasy, and she was crying and moaning, then screaming, loving what he was doing to her, loving that he had finally succumbed to the ferocity that had always been in them both.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The afternoon was pleasantly warm, and Lily decided to take her sketchpad outside to draw the gardens. Totally absorbed in her work, hours flew by, and before she realized it, she had filled five pages. They were only roughed-in drawings, of course, but still, she thought they showed potential. To be realistic, after ten years of negligence, her creativity would take a while to return to its former strength. Art, like anything else, requires work and time and dedication, as well as raw talent. Her eye would need to be retrained to depict the subtle nuances of nature and translate what she saw onto a drawing tablet. But she had renewed hope now that she would draw again, paint again, that it wasn't too late for her dreams. Making love to Doyle had not only restored her confidence in herself, but it had also given her a renewed sense of purpose in life. Her hand flew across another blank page, sketching in the rose beds. Using the side of her charcoal, Lily laid out the shadow falling from the beech tree, showing how the leaves filtered the light and formed a canopy above her grandmother's prized American pillar roses. A few stokes later, the illusion of splintered sunshine was created. Thoughtfully, Lily tapped her charcoal stick on the paper, her mind returning to the past. Did she really need to know the truth about the night Frank died? Wouldn't it be better to accept the official pronouncement of accidental death? Why open up old, painful wounds? Because Doyle's reputation needed to be restored, she conceded. The good people of Bar Harbor needed to know once and for all that Doyle had played no part in Frank's death. And Doyle had the right to know the truth of her relationship with Frank Johnson. But to tell him the truth, to tell Doyle Frank had blackmailed her, would only lead to more and more questions. Questions she could not answer without revealing her grandmother's secrets, secrets she had no right to tell anyone. She was so torn! Placing her sketchpad aside, Lily moved onto the Memory Garden. Perhaps, if she freed her mind, lost herself in the project, the solution might come to her. She dug and planted and mulched fifty or so perennials--everything from poppies to baby's breath to daylilies. After watering everything, she went back inside the cottage, no closer to solving her problem than before, but too impatient for Doyle's return to care.

****

She met him at the door. No pretensions whatsoever that this was a courtship, no poised mask to hide her sexual excitement. "Make love to me. I am nearly desperate to have you inside me." "I can see that, puss." Holding her at arm's length, he looked her up and down, frowning at her hopelessly dreary, dove gray silk. "Whom, may I ask, are you mourning?"

She touched the modest collar. "Well, no one..." "Then, off with the depressing funeral attire." He undid her hooks and eyes right there at the threshold. "Somber colors suit neither your coloring nor your personality. I shan't look at you in widow's weeds for one more instant." "How long are you here?" she inquired, holding her arms over her head as an assist. "For the next day." "Oh, joy. A full day!" She giggled in naked happiness. He swept her into arms, and her feet took flight, and his hands were everywhere. Kissing open-mouthed, tongue-to-tongue, he carried her squealing up the staircase to her bedchamber, throwing her none too gently in the middle of the coverlet, which sent her legs up in the air and over her head. "Now that is a fine position," Doyle said, leering. "Hold it." She did, and when he was as naked as she, he joined her on the coverlet. With his fingers wrapped around each of her upright ankles like twin slave bracelets, he entered her. No foreplay, her feet shelved atop his shoulders. A moan escaped her gaping mouth at the abruptness of his entry. "Can you take my all or shall I hold back?" "Give me your all," she panted. His tremendous length and breadth filled her to the womb, and as she struggled to accommodate him, he asked politely, "Hard or slow?" "Hard," she answered, teeth gritted. He complied, and mercifully, she came fast. He didn't come at all. She stared at him speechless as he withdrew, still spike-hard. "I won't climax until you can no longer tolerate my attentions," he explained. "That may take some time, sir." "We shall see. For now, up to your belly with your knees." When she complied, his finger slid inside her, moving inside her. The climax was leisured, but no less intense. "The cock's turn now," he pronounced, and thrust to the hilt.

"Hard or soft?" he asked courteously, looking down into her lust-sated features. "Hard," she replied, determined to see this contest through to the end. Just as before, Doyle held back his climax in favor of the multiplicity of hers. Next time, he took her like a wife: her legs righteously flat on the bedding, his erection, which had certainly grown larger with each engagement, pumping earnestly between her thighs. "Is your cunt sore?" he questioned not like a husband at all, and without missing a stroke. In answer, she scraped her fingernails down his back. Her nerve endings sending a spasm all the way to her toes, she screamed her way to release. "Rest," he said, pulling out and folding her against him, stiff cock to soft bottom. She awakened to find him inside her. "Pay me no heed," the wretch said smugly, gliding in and out, back to front. The grandfather clock ticked off an hour, while she shuddered and climaxed, shuddered and climaxed. At dawn, his erect cock led them downstairs for sustenance. "Eat it all," the cook said and stacked her plate high with bacon and eggs. "I couldn't possibly finish all this," she demurred. "If you don't swallow all of that, you won't swallow any more of me." She asked for seconds.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

After their splendid day together, she didn't see Doyle for the next two. On the third day apart, after eating a lonely dinner of cold meats and bread, she made her solitary way upstairs to her bedchamber, doubting her womanliness all over again as she retired for the night. Doyle was a rugged and virile man; his hot-blooded reputation only added to his carnal allure. What could he get from Lillian Hill that he couldn't get from any number of more sensual women? Nothing! Doyle was most likely visiting another lady's bed this evening. She thought glumly, turning her pillow into a tear-sodden mess.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, she fell asleep. Some time later, a cool draft on her bare skin awakened her. She was on her belly, her demure white nightgown raised to the waist, bottom exposed. Her positioning on the bed, the darkened room, the heavy breathing coming from somewhere behind her, all brought back terrifying memories. She struggled against the weight holding her down. "Don't move, sweetheart, or it will be over before we begin." She continued to struggle. "I don't like this, Doyle." "Because it reminds you of that other night? Because I remind you in some ways of Frank?" Big hands encircled her waist. "In the dark, you confused me for him. Are we still confused in your mind?" "Frank Johnson was a vicious animal and I hated him. You are nothing at all like him. Do you hear me Doyle? You are nothing like him!" "Oh, I hear you, all right. The swiftness of your absolution gives me some difficulty, however. I tend not to believe it, Lily. If there were no doubt in your mind, you wouldn't fear me now. You would feel safe enough to laugh, secure enough to be playful. You might even find my overpowering you sexually arousing." Doyle was right! A measure of doubt had crept inexorably between them in this dark bedchamber. Because she had not yet resolved all her ambivalent feelings for Doyle, she was fearful. "And what do you mean--you hated Frank?" "I loathed him," she wheezed. "Breathe, Lily," he coaxed. "Don't blackout on me now." For his sake she would try, but the urge to escape was a powerful one, a self-preservationist one, and her will was such a fragile thing, easily defeated. "Please, please, let me go," Lillian cried the morose words. "I don't like feeling helpless." "I am not Frank. You need to understand that. You also need to understand that I shall never hurt you any more than you need to be hurt to achieve orgasm." He held her down, his strong thighs bracketing her legs. She whimpered in distress. "Hush, Lily. I am just getting you out of your nightgown," he soothed, dragging her only covering up over her head. When she was nude, he smoothed his fingers possessively over her. "Christ! This dimple at the top of your bottom maddens me." Still holding her forcefully, he cupped a buttock.

"I thought of doing this to you all day." He fingered between her bottom cheeks. "Please," she said fretfully. Was she asking him to stop or to continue? "I missed you today. And I apologize for my late return. It's this damnable new project. In order to finish it on schedule, I must take my leave of you." "F-f-for how long?" "A night or two." An eternity! She thought, holding herself very still for his unorthodox caress. "I would do anything not to have to go. And the hellish thing is: I cannot take you with me, not this time. To do so would be to further jeopardize your reputation. That's a risk I shan't take, for all that I shall suffer without you." "Will you see other women while you are gone?" "Why would you think that?" he asked, and eased her bottom cheeks apart. "Because I know the kind of man you are. What your needs are. I fear I am not ... well ... experienced enough for you." "I admit to appreciating variety in bed. But at heart, I am monogamous: I like my variety with the same woman. And as to my needs--will you give me what I need, Lily?" He pressed a digit to her anus. Though inexperienced, she would not pretend to innocence. In a small voice, she said, "Yes. I shall give you whatever it is you need." "Good," he said, releasing her buttocks, and kissing the dimple at the top, then placing his hot mouth on each of her cheeks. "Mmm, sweetheart," he murmured, licking her skin. "You taste like candy." He bit a buttock, and not gently. "Oh, God," she moaned "Now, do you have any scarves I might borrow?" he asked. "May I ask why?" "Part of the variety we spoke of. I would like to tie you to the bed. A little bondage, no? Do you trust me enough to allow that kind of adventurous love play, Lily? Or will you always entertain doubts about me?" Oh, God! She would be a liar if she said she didn't fear giving over complete control of her body to a man. But this was Doyle, not just any man, and she was more frightened of failing him than losing control.

And there was something else, too: she was afraid of failing herself. Her true nature was not inhibited; her repression was a legacy from Frank. To fully liberate herself from her past, she needed to cast off all the artificial restraints she had acquired over the last ten years. How unbearably boring her life had been this past decade, how exceedingly conventional she had become! Always afraid that with one misstep she might not earn the good opinion of others! She had become bland and colorless, utterly blah and dull. She wished to break free of her safe cocoon! Doyle offered her decadence, depravity, illicit pleasure, the kinds of intercourse that nice people only whisper about, and of course, never participate in, and he offered her all these luscious pastimes with him. She was tired unto her soul of propriety, of behaving to the standards of others. She wanted this with him, craved it with him; the memory of these times with him was all she would have to sustain her when she returned to her staid life in Boston. "The scarves are in the top drawer of my bureau," she said.

****

Her body felt heavy. Replete. Every pore passion bruised. Miss Oh-So-Prim-and-Proper-Hill was drugged on unbridled sex. They had gone at it for hours. The bedding was twisted and wet with perspiration, fragrant with come. Still tied to the bedposts with silk scarves, she was currently rounded over the headboard. Doyle knelt behind her, both hands occupied: one between her splayed legs, stroking her clitoris; the other used a dildo on her. She licked her lips and groaned her pleasure as he tooled the tremendous phallus between her legs. When she pushed her bottom back against his groin, his turgid erection rubbed into her buttocks. His manhood felt long and thick, the testicles heavy, the pubic hair coarse against her bare buttocks. The head of his penis, moist with pre-come, slick with pre-come, dribbling with pre-come, pressed to her back opening. She moaned, "Oh, yes. Come into me." "Sodomy?" he questioned. "Call it what you will, as long as we are joined, the manner matters not to me!" "You, my free spirit, are not ready for anal penetration yet." "I am ready!" she cried in frustration. "Come inside me now!" Full circle. She thought, her fear of the carnal dissipating in heady liberation. Euphoria filled her; she had found her sensual self again. "I shall not risk injuring you." He kissed her jaw in tribute. "But my, I do appreciate your eagerness. And when you make demands on me, I appreciate it even more." "You do?"

"I do." Their words sounded like the exchange of wedding vows. Though, she doubted many virginal brides eagerly demanded anal intercourse on their wedding night. "I know you wish this, Doyle..." "Most men who are honest will admit to wanting anal intercourse at least once from the woman they are with. I am an honest man" He removed the dildo from her vagina, and his touch from her clitoris, and his digit entered the demarcation between her buttocks to finger her anal ring. "This hole is very inviting," he rasped, inserting a finger; it was Doyle who experienced breathing difficulties now. "Alas, the opening I would breech is also lamentably tight. There is a certain amount of pain involved for the woman upon the first penetration; wearing a plug for a goodly amount of time beforehand facilitates the entry and minimizes the discomfort. For that reason, I took the liberty of acquiring a mastery belt for you. It came all the way from New York City." "Please Doyle! Make the breech now. Don't force me to wait. I wish to be yours completely..." He ignored her plea and reached behind him on the bed for the belt. "No two belts are the same," he said conversationally. "Yours has been tooled with a lily motif." He brought it around and showed it to her. "Lovely," she said, admiring the craftsmanship from an artistic point of view; from a woman in love's perspective, she did not at all appreciate the delay. "It goes like so." He strapped the slender leather belt around her waist, his thumbs deliberately grazing the points of her nipples during the cinching. The wretch! "One strap dangles against the mons; the other goes between the female's buttocks," he explained, his thumbs moving back and forth over the tips of her swollen and achy breasts. She writhed, alternately moaning and purring, willing to do anything if he would just continue to pet her. While pinching one nipple rather firmly--more painfully than she was accustomed to--he started to push something that felt larger in size than a man's thumb into her anus. "Doyle?" she asked in alarm, pulling against the silk restraints a bit. "Hush," he soothed, scraping his thumbnail across her distended nipple. "It will be done and finished soon. The plug, by the way, is made of mahogany, sculpted to fit just right and to stay in place as the lady goes about her everyday routine. How are you doing thus far?" "Fine," she replied, because after he had asked, he began to suckle her nipple and his mouth felt every fine indeed.

But then, as he pushed the device home, she began to buck wildly against the unnatural trespass. Building inside her was the insistence to tell him to stop, to reveal that she wished him inside her, not some cold piece of sculpted wood. But needing to prove to Doyle--and to herself--that in the most essential of ways she trusted him, she clamped down on that insistence. "I shall never be a proper Bostonian now," she half-sobbed, half-laughed, when he finished and the plug was in place. "Ah, but are you comfortable?" She licked her lips, and gave him her honesty. "No." "You soon will be--when you get used to it." When he moved it--the thing--in and out, her head fell forward, her chin dipping onto her chest, the smooth mahogany devise mimicking the motions of intercourse. "Doyle..." she cried, panicking at the illicit sensation. "I know this is all new for you. But remember, if you cannot tolerate the plug, you will never accommodate me." He spoke to her in a calming tone. "You were made for this, Lily." No, she was made for loving him! But love was a subject they both assiduously avoided speaking aloud. This was sex, not commitment, and they both knew it. "Now, for the vaginal stimulator," he said, reaching between her legs and placing a wood sprocket inside her so that it rubbed against her clitoris. "Comfortable?" he asked solicitously again, as he snapped both devices in place on the belt. "Divine," she murmured. "Heavenly," she whispered, her hips moving. "But how will I use the necessary?" "You have only to ask, and I shall unlock you." "Tyrant." "Yes, but a benevolent one. You will come to me during the day when I am at the office, and I shall fuck you; in the evening, I shall visit you here at the cottage." "Yes." She moaned, because he had started to play with her again, and the movement of the mahogany devices excited her nerve endings. "Might you perhaps ... that is, if you wouldn't mind ... fuck me now?" "Too soon. But come to me later this morning and I shall," he said, rising from the bed. "How will I ever tolerate the separation? Every time I move, I am aroused. "Will you be free at ten?" he asked formally.

"But that is four whole hours away!" "I can squeeze our appointment in earlier if you don't mind a certain lack of privacy; I expect a client in my office until that hour. But we could go into the anteroom off my office, I suppose. The walls are thin, but if you keep your screams low, he shouldn't hear..." "Ten is fine," she snipped. "Good! I am so pleased we have reached a mutually convenient time. Meet me outside by the maze. I suggest you catnap 'til then." He released her from the silk restraints and helped her recline on her side. "Now sleep," he ordered, kissing her lips. He whistled as he left. Her eyes drifted obediently closed, the activity of the night before having worn her out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Not having anything more appropriate to wear, Lily dressed for her first ever tryst in a prim silk day dress with a small horsehair bustle and nary a scrap of superfluous decoration. Save for the beautiful Persian shawl Doyle had given her, she looked as plain and modest as a sparrow. Her appearance, however, belied her tempestuousness. Underneath the gown she was nude, and very nearly climactic. The devices inside her excited her with each step she took. Her breasts were already peaked in anticipation of illicit sex and she was quite damp between the legs with carnal expectancy. As soon as Doyle touched her, she knew she would come. Lily arrived five minutes early for the assignation. Doyle arrived exactly on time, sauntering down the slope with his long-legged stride. At the entranceway to the maze, he made her a bow. No kiss was exchanged, as they were not alone. A small army of laborers that Doyle employed to prepare the various sites of his projects scurried back and forth. Prospective clients and artists of one kind or the other also milled about his property. Discretion was the rule. "Are you well, Miss Hill?" he asked, smiling at her, then nodding at a passing workman. "I am very well. Though, I grow impatient, sir." He took her hand and placed it at the front placket of his trousers; his coat and her shawl obscured this scandalous act from view. "As do I." Of its own volition, her palm closed around his hard pulsing member. "My, my, Mr. Donovan! I do

declare you speak the truth." "All of what your fingers enclose is for you, Miss Hill." "Goodness! Would that I am deserving!" she said modestly, though secretly she reveled in the knowledge that she had had caused that fierce swelling. As another workman walked past, Doyle pressed her close, as though she was perhaps a tad hard of hearing and he wished to relate an architectural proposal to her. Gamely, she cradled his erection, done while smiling at yet another laborer. "Don't smile too broadly, my dear, lest you give us away. I am disinclined to have our dalliance bandied about town," he whispered. "Then why ask me to meet you here, where we are in danger of someone finding us out?" "I do admit to some subtle exhibitionist tendencies." He hiked up her gown to the belly, her bared skin shadowed in shawl. "Spread yourself open." She parted her limbs. "Like so?" "As well as mild exhibitionism, I also must confess to some fairly severe greed. More, Miss Hill. Much more." "Your vice is my opportunity." She separated her thighs for him. His finger dallied over her vulva. "Why, you lurid young lady! I do believe your cunt is wet. I may have to tell your grandmother about this." "Oh, please do not!" "But your honey is absolutely dripping. This is shocking," he blustered. "Such unseemly behavior warrants punishment. Something must be done!" She battered her lashes. "Will you take a strap to me in the woodshed?" "And have you climax at the first lash? I should think not," he said, righteously. "I shall have to come up with some other discipline." Taking her hand, he led her inside the green bower. "We go to the bench in the middle," he told her, hurrying her along. At the bench, he lifted her skirts once more and unplugged her back and front openings. "Go seek your relief, young lady." He indicated a break in the evergreens. "The necessity is through there. Leave your gown inside." "But Doyle, I am naked underneath."

"Such a bad puss." He gave a sanctimonious shake of his head. "Seriously, someone might see me..." "You must certainly practice care then. And Lily, as to my seriousness--return to me in that wretched gown, and our meeting today will be concluded posthaste." "Yes, Doyle. I understand, Doyle." She slipped out through the trees. When she returned, naked but unobserved, Doyle was seated on the bench, still fully clothed. She stood before him, half bashful, half defiant. "Good girl," he complimented her state of undress. "Thank you, sir." He one-handed the front of his trousers and his huge member lanced upwards. "Go down on me," he directed. "Pardon?" "I am about to explode here, Lily. Put your mouth on my cock, and take off some of the edge. Otherwise, in my need for release, I might hurt you. It's been hours, you know..." She needed no timepiece to count off the minutes; her body was well aware of how long it had been. She dropped to her knees in front of the bench, between his spread legs, and touched her tongue to his penis. He was hot. Silky smooth. Enormous. Dripping with pre-come. His scent wafted to her nose. Good heavens, but she loved his musky maleness. Mouth open, she took sin down her throat. He spurted with a groan after only two meager thrusts. She could not have withstood more. As it was, her throat felt bruised, too bruised to... "Swallow," he commanded, looking through narrowed eyes at her confusion. "The grass is already seeded." His features took on a slumberous smugness as she took a hasty gulp. "You took to that like a duck to water," he praised. "You could give lessons." "Drawing and painting, now fellatio. Have my talents no end?" "We shall soon see," he drawled, and took her over his lap.

****

As they began, so they passed the remainder of the week. After such days, it was not surprising that her sleep at night was deep and restful, entirely free of nightmares; only lovemaking interrupted her peaceful slumber. On their last morning together, Doyle removed her chastity belt and kissed her goodbye at dawn, leaving for his business trip to North Country. Exhausted from lovemaking, she returned to bed as soon as the door closed on his back. She was quite sure she would have slept through the remainder of the day if not for the sound of something coming from the direction of the recently established Memory Garden. Thinking Henri might have gotten loose when Doyle left earlier and was out there rolling around in the newly planted catnip, she jumped out of bed, pulled on her wrap to cover her nudity, and raced out the backdoor, calling as she went, "You mischievous cat! Wait 'till I get my hands on you..." At first glance, Lily knew that no cat had caused the destruction before her: every plant in the Memory Garden had been ripped out of the ground and shredded to green bits and pieces. In the middle of the ruined plants, speared on the prongs of an old, rusted pitchfork, was an envelope. Willing herself forward, she released the expensive stationary from the pointed ends of the gardening tool and tore open the letter. The words were chillingly explicit: YOUR LOVER CAN BE DESTROYED AS EASILY. The individual who had destroyed the garden knew that Doyle and she had become lovers! Lily ran back inside the cottage and locked the doors. The person who sent that hateful note might have been in the garden earlier that morning. He might have hidden in the bushes when she and Doyle were inside her bedchamber making love... Whoever left the note had stalked her, violated her privacy, and had now threatened her lover. Who? The name that sprang to mind was Doyle's own brother, John. John had volunteered--so unlike him, since he clearly despised her--to repair the wheel on her grandmother's cart, thereby hiding his own earlier tampering. John had installed her grandmother's new electric generating system, the one that had mysteriously failed the night her axle gave way. John must know that Doyle had just left that morning to go out of town on business... Had John planted that note on the metal tongs of the pitchfork? But wait! Though Lily had no doubts that John would threaten her, he loved his brother! He would never threaten Doyle! But were the words on that expensive stationary truly a threat against Doyle? Or, were the words meant

as a warning to her not to hurt Doyle? The meaning might be taken either way. And either way, this was another secret to keep from Doyle. The Donovan's were a tight-knit bunch. Their love for one another was as fierce as it was exclusionary. John saw her an outsider, the deceitful bitch who had returned to town to ruin everything. She understood John's resentment. She also understood Doyle's over-protective nature. Torn between John and her, whatever side he championed, guilt would destroy Doyle. She would never place the man she loved in such an untenable position. The time had come for her to take her leave of Bar Harbor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Lily entered Tony's studio the following afternoon, her lie to cover her precipitous departure duly prepared and rehearsed. The artist looked up from his canvas. "My dear! This is an unexpected pleasure. We haven't a sitting scheduled for today, have we?" Shutting the door behind her, she came right to the point. "I have come to say goodbye, Grandfather." Tony stopped undraping his work. "Grandfather! Victoria told you!" "Yes. Grandmother told me the whole story before she left town, but I already knew most of it." "Are you all right, child?" She nodded. "Thinking back, I realize that you were always there for Grandmother, as well as for me. You took care of us. I am proud to have you as my grandfather." He wiped at his eye. "I love your grandmother and I love you. It was an honor to look after you both." Tony set out his brushes like a surgeon would his scalpels. "We never conspired to keep your true heritage a secret, but out of respect for Victoria's husband, we thought it best." "I am not a child, Tony. I understand what a person will do for love." His eyes were haunted when they glanced into hers. "And you love Doyle. Which is why I went along with his scheme for you two to meet here at the studio for a clandestine evening alone. Your grandmother will tell you, I am something of a romantic. I could no more keep Doyle away from you than I could stop the truth from coming to the surface." He tssked. "Look at the condition of this brush." Leaving his easel, he went to a shelf against the wall.

Out of her eyeshot, Louisa heard him strenuously blow his nose--her grandfather hated public displays of emotion. Once again under control, he took a can of brush-cleaning turpentine from the shelf and opened the top. Caustic fumes immediately poured into the room. Less than thirty seconds later, Lily felt her lungs painfully constrict. Perspiration beaded on her forehead. Try as she would, she could not draw a deep breath. "That odor..." she wheezed through burning lungs. "What is it?" "A special turpentine, distilled especially for me. I use it to clean my brushes. I don't find the less pungent varieties nearly as effective. Some of my brushes are as old as me, you know, and like me, require a doting attention." He looked up, and his smile straightened. "Child, what is it?" Lily clutched the chair in front of her for support. "I cannot breathe." "You must be allergic, my dear. Some people are, I am told." He twisted the top back on the can. "The odor will dissipate in less than an hour's time." She coughed. "You mean there will be no sign of the turpentine in an hour?" His nod affirmed this. "That night..." "Which night?" "The night in my bedchamber, the night Frank Johnson died," she insisted. "I had a severe reaction to some noxious vapors at the cottage, the same sort of reaction I am having right now. My airway constricted." She tried to stay calm but the implications were terribly frightening. Tony rushed to a window and cranked it open. "Come here, Lily!" "All these years," she rasped, dragging herself to the fresh air. "All these long and empty years, I thought I had imagined the smell. I thought I was mad." "You are far from mad. You see, Lily, I was there that night in the cottage. I took the connecting footpath between houses." The explanation is what she had dreaded to hear. "You ... you were there?" She covered her lips with fingers that trembled. "The wind was gale force--you might have been swept over the edge of the Widow's Walk and killed!" "There was no other choice. You are my grandchild, you were all alone at the cottage, and I had to check on you. I had to know you were all right, my dear." "I don't know how you ever made it on foot!" "It was a struggle, but I had the strength of ten men that night. How could I ever have lived with myself if

something had happened to you in that storm?" "And the caustic aroma?" "Before racing over to check on you, I was cleaning my brushes. My gloves were still in my back pocket. I had no idea that you had a hypersensitivity to my turpentine." Lily's knees buckled. She clutched the window frame, clawing at the sill to remain standing. "My God! It was you? Tony--you were in my bedchamber that night?" "I was not only there; it was I who killed Frank Johnson." "But how," she gasped. "Why...?" "After I dragged that maggot off you and you ran outside, Frank pushed me to the floor. He actually had the gall to go after you. I got up, and gave chase. Thankfully, you hid, giving me time to catch up with that little piece of offal. When I addressed him, man to man, Frank had the temerity to insult your grandmother with his vile, contemptuous remarks. Well, my dear, that was the last straw for me. No one insults your grandmother in my presence and gets away with it!" "Frank tried to rape me." Her grandfather placed his arm around her shoulders. "I am glad I was there for you, but you must understand, I killed Frank for personal reasons. I didn't need to kill Frank Johnson, Lily. But--he wouldn't be quiet! He kept rambling on. Saying hateful things about your grandmother. Twisting the truth. He knew all about your father's true parentage, information he had stumbled across while working in his father's law office. Somehow, your grandmother accidentally included some very damning letters I wrote to her in the beginning of our affair, about her pregnancy and what its disclosure would mean to the lines of inheritance. She must have kept the letters in her safe with the rest of her legal documents, and somehow, they found their way to the Johnson legal offices. "Frank took those papers out of his billfold and flaunted them directly in my face. It was then that I decided to kill him. Make no mistake, Frank Johnson's murder was premeditated. He was about to spread his filth about Victoria. He would have taken away your birthright. To prevent that from happening, I took his life. "When Frank began brandishing those letters, shouting at me that he had proof that your father was my love child, I grabbed the evidence from his fingers. He tried to get the billfold back. We struggled. He hit me, tried to push me over the edge. Instead, he was the one who fell to his death. I later burned the billfold and its contents." Tony bowed his head. "You see before you a murderer." "But you struggled with Frank. He hit you, and then fell to his death during that struggle. My God, his death really was accidental!" "I know what was in my heart, my dear, and it was murder! Frank admitted to blackmailing you. He boasted about it. Had I confessed what I had done, it would have all come out. Frank Johnson's filth would have besmirched both you and your grandmother. I could not allow that to happen." "Does Grandmother know?"

"Good, Lord, no! I alone know what happened that night. And now you." He sighed. "I shall do whatever you decide. If you would like me to turn myself into the proper authorities--I shall." "Right now, I don't know what to do or say or think. I need time..." "I am an old man, and I am at peace with whatever you decide to do. I have had ten additional years to be with your grandmother, and for that, I am grateful." Lily turned from the window and made her way to the door. "I need to think this through, alone. Doyle has suffered so much because of this ... he needs vindication and yet ... I don't wish to hurt either you or Grandmother. Frank's fall was an accident. Why dredge up the past?" "Therein lies the dilemma." "You won't tell Grandmother about our talk?" "No--it has waited these many years; it can wait a while longer. Take care, child. I suspect you will be returning to Boston to do your thinking?" She nodded. "To avoid hurting her feelings, please tell Grandmother I returned earlier than anticipated to speak with Charles about our engagement."

CHAPTER THIRTY

Her plan was to drop off her goodbye note to Doyle, then leave. But when Lily arrived late that night, Doyle stood on the threshold to his architect office, key in hand, overnight bag at his feet; evidently, he had returned earlier than expected from his business trip. Upon seeing her, he went as motionless as a cougar before striking. "Hello," she said softly. He leaned back against the office door, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his broad shoulders filling the door frame, his powerful legs spread wide, his dark-jewel eyes only for her. "I missed you, Lily." One stride and he was in front of her. "I worked 'round the clock to get back to you sooner," he whispered. "Is everything all right at the cottage? Did something happen? Did you have another blackout? Is that why you came to find me?" Lily kept her tone light. "Everything is fine. May we go inside, please?" He led the way. "Please, Doyle, don't light the lamps. I ... I like the dark." He mustn't see her red-rimmed eyes!

He frowned, but said, "Anything you say." Doyle headed for the attached glass conservatory. "Let me wash up so I can say a proper hello. I rode like the very devil was chasing me and it shows." Totally unselfconscious, he removed his outer coat, his waistcoat, and loosened his trousers to remove his shirt. Her mouth went dry. Doyle's chest, bronzed from his work outside, was covered with a mat of springy curls. She remembered only too well the deceptively soft texture of those curls and how they tickled her bare breasts when they made love. After pumping out some water, he moved a soaked cloth over the enormous width of that chest to his washboard flat abdomen, and she silently gasped her pleasure. He snapped the cloth back in the sink. "That will do for now. My brothers should be snoring, which means a tub bath later for us." His grin was wickedly attractive. "You looked so beautiful when I looked up and saw you there. Travel dust or not, I had all to do not to drag you into my arms. I held off, only so as not to muss you." Muss me! A silent voice inside her screamed. She needed his hard lovemaking as much, if not more, than she needed his gentleness. He had brought her back to life in his strong arms. And now she was dying a slow death, for she needed to tell him her lie, then leave, quickly, before she changed her mind. He hauled her to him in a furry bear hug. "No more separations!" Her eyes filled anew with tears. A clean break, she thought. Don't tell him your suspicions about Johnny. Don't tell him about the destroyed Memory Garden. Don't tell him about the threats. Just tell him the lie, and leave. "That estate was something to see. When I heard the owners were looking for an artist to paint a landscape of their grounds, I volunteered you." He chuckled. "This might very well be the start of a whole new career for you, Lily." Her hat was removed, her chignon was loosened, and his hands, both of them, combed through her coiffure, turning it wild. "Your hair shimmers in the moonlight." He started to move, holding her in his arms. "I feel like dancing. Dance with me, sweetheart." Dancing was the last thing on her mind. She pulled away. "Don't." "Tired?" "It's not that. We need to talk."

"Talk later," he said, dragging her close. "Dance with me now." "Stop!" she cried when he spun her in his arms. "This is serious, Doyle. Please! You must listen to me." "Do you know how irresistible you are when your cheeks wear an angry flush?" He nibbled her neck. "All I thought about the whole time I was gone was being with you again. Being inside you again," he whispered, hotly, his mouth against her ear, his busy hands bunching her full brown skirts and petticoats around her waist. Apart for the inconsequential barrier of her drawers, easily removed, nothing came between them. His fingers slid through the opening in the crotch. She was helpless to stop him, didn't wish to stop him. She closed her eyes, feeling herself go moist between the legs at his touch. He rubbed her notch. Gently. Back and forth. Not entering her; just slowly caressing her. Before she knew what was happening, the waist ribbon was untied and the undergarment glided down her thighs to the conservatory's stone floor. Mesmerized, she stepped out of them. "Separate your legs, sweetheart. Show me you missed me too." Holding her gown bunched at her waist in front, she let her thighs drift apart, letting him see her body's wanton moisture. He sucked in his breath. "You are an incredibly responsive woman." The foreplay turned hot. Abandoned. But as much as she hungered for the pleasure Doyle offered, she resisted his persuasion. They mustn't make love. Not now. Not like this. Not with everything unresolved. "I have suddenly changed my mind about that dance," she said, her voice husky with arousal. "Dance with me, Doyle." He chuckled. "And here I thought we were." She shook her head and sighed. "Not that kind of dancing. And not alone." He kissed her mouth. "Not alone," he whispered, patting her gown and petticoat back in place. He swept her along the stone floor, slowly swaying to the imagined beat of a stately waltz. "Only one dance," he decided for both of them. "Then, I make love to you." Encircled in his arms, he navigated her around the moonlit conservatory. Because of all the plants, there was hardly enough room to perform the dance steps, but for a large man, Doyle was graceful on his feet. He led her like a ballroom master, while crooning how beautiful she was in her ear, as they took a grand tour around the crystal room. He reeled her, twirled her, dipped her, gliding her under his arm until she was dizzy.

Sensing her vertigo, Doyle held her close. "You are soft in all the right places, sweetheart. Like here for instance," he said, placing a large hand over her small breast. "What do you have here, hmm? Something just for me?" He smiled, then whistled off-key, "Ah yes, something just for me!" The darkness made his every touch that much more compelling. She felt every one of his fingers through the material of her gown. Her breasts peaked, divine torture, sweet arousal, his expert caress coaching her. And she was greedy, so greedy, for more. "I want you naked," he growled, unhooking, then removing her gown. "A bed, my pretty, must wait. I shall never make it into the house. Do you mind, darling?" And then Doyle was kissing her, his raw desire more moving, more eloquent, than a love song. The scope of his kisses became the extent of her world, his labored breaths the perimeter of her universe. The different plants, some sweet, some pungent, scented the humid air around them. And it was so quiet. The only sound was her underclothing, puddling at her feet. Naked, she faced him; her nudity the only honesty she could give him. "This will be the last time, Doyle. I leave for Boston on the morrow." Doyle shook his head, as if to clear it. "What did you say?" "I am returning to Boston. To wed Charles." Doyle washed his hands over his face. "Lily, I am trying to be patient, but give me credit for a modicum of intelligence. You don't love Charles." He took one step, and slanted his mouth on top of hers, bending her to him, owning her. He devoured her mouth; he ravaged her hair between his work-roughened fingers. And she responded like struck flint. Her passion for Doyle was akin to pain. She was burning up, fully engulfed in the flames. Only when she gasped for air did he release her. "I want you and you want me. Do not think to deny it." "I do want you," she panted. "Sexually. But I have a life in Boston, a career. I must get back to it." "You expect me to believe that shit?" He sneered. "I am to wed Charles. I long for the society life, for the respectability marriage to him will afford me." He staggered under the icy-cold splash of her words. "You were miserable in Boston. You came home exhausted, high-strung with nervousness." Bleakly, his hands roamed her shoulders, breasts, belly, between her legs. "You would give up this, what we have, for respectability?" he asked. She moaned. "I must be honest with you..." "Honest!" He laughed without mirth. "You lie even now! Why are you lying?" He shook his head again.

"Never mind. Don't bother to answer. Go over there. To the table. You may leave here on the morrow, you may pretend to respectability then, but tonight you will be my whore. Damn you!" She backed up, her poised façade back in place. He tracked her movements in the dimness of the room like a falcon watches its peregrine mate. He loved her, she knew he did, even as she corrupted what they had together with her lies. "I did not withdraw. You might already be with child. My child, Lily. Will Charles take you back, knowing you carry another man's child?" When she said nothing, he touched her nipple the way she liked best. "Nothing would make me happier than to see my baby here." Lowering his head to the distended tip, he pulled her nipple into his mouth, and suckled. Hard. He worked his mouth over her, drawing her pap deeper, rasping her tender flesh with his teeth. "You are the only woman I ever wished to carry my baby. Do you even understand how much I yearn for a child with you? Can you fathom the extent of my desperation, knowing that I shall never have a child if I cannot have one with you?" "Oh Doyle..." she whispered, willing herself not to cry. His baby! Was she already with child, carrying the son he longed for? He raged, "Were all the pretty words you whispered lies?" "They weren't lies. I meant everything I said. But I must give Charles a second chance." His black eyes swept her body. "You cannot hide your feelings from me, any more than I can hide my feelings for you. Not in this. I don't understand what happened in the short time that I was gone, but I shall find out. I know you desire me." "I do, but it's only a carnal attraction." "I shall have you carnally tonight, Lily, and you will let me. Pound of flesh, remember?" "It will mean nothing," she bluffed, as she helplessly opened her legs for him. "No," he said harshly. "Not that way. I have yet to make you completely mine, but I intend to tonight." Now that she was leaving, he meant them to commit sodomy. Somehow, the unnatural congress seemed a fittingly final tribute to their tainted love. Though wrong, Lillian knew, as she had always known, that she would permit the forbidden act; she would experience it all, the light, as well as the dark side of Doyle's lovemaking. But, by permitting this intercourse, the last bastion of her respectability would have fallen. The Church, the law, society ... all forbade sodomy. After this eve, she would truly be a fallen woman, as lowly as the lowliest of whores. A pearl of anticipatory moisture rolled down her thigh from the notch between her legs.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Lillian was spread over the worktable used for potting up plants. Beneath her, scattered leaves and tangled roots and discarded segments of stems stuck to her belly. It also seemed fitting, somehow, that she should find herself awaiting anal penetration amidst damp clumps of earth and rotting vegetation. "Open your buttocks for me," Doyle said. She cringed. Not because his demand was sorely lacking in romance, but because he would not allow her to be a passive recipient in this. Doyle was making her actively participate in her own ruination. That too seemed fitting. Resolved to experience the totality of his love, the light as well as the dark, she reached behind her back, and with two hands, clasped her bottom cheeks, pulling them apart, thus giving him unrestricted access to her body. "Now that is an inspired pose," he said dryly, stepping up behind her. His hot stare was not the stuff of poetry; her harsh, guttural moan would never appear in iambic pentameter. Then again, this act wasn't about the beauty of romance; this act was about the power of sex. "Am I stretched enough?" she asked. "We shall soon see." His finger went inside. "Still tight. There will be pain," he pronounced. "Good," she said, honest at least in this. His digit was withdrawn, and without further hesitation, his sex, blunt-ended and pre-come weeping, went between her buttocks. The enormous plum head circled the dimpled entrance to her anus. A courtship dance. She thought whimsically, the act not so very far removed from romance after all in her mind. They had never gone this far before. Prior to this, he had used only his fingers or the plug on her. And she was afraid, not so much of the potential for pain, but of admitting to herself just how much she desired this. "Look to your left," he said, withdrawing his erection. "To that mirror high on the wall. You will see everything I do in the glass." She angled her head to the left, her eyes going wide in shock. Not because his hard male flesh looked huge in the glass--she had expected that--but because Doyle looked as dark and brooding as she had ever seen him look. And she looked as eager as she felt.

Her nude body was white and narrow; even her hips were narrow. Her toppled breasts resembled snowy cones with raspberries tips. Her red hair dangled down her back, covering most of her bottom and all of her hands as she held herself open for him. Picking up her hair, he swept it over a shoulder. "For both of our enjoyment," he explained, baring her bottom to his gaze--and to hers now too with the aid of the mirror. "There is just something so enjoyable about seeing it go into a woman. More to the point, I shall enjoy watching you see my cock go in. My cock in your ass. Fancy that! You have given me permission to commit sodomy on you. With the seeing, I think perhaps you will understand how completely you are mine." He caught her eyes as he withdrew his erection. Held her gaze as he diligently coated the length of the shaft with a jelly-like substance from a tube removed from his jacket pocket. "I went shopping for this on my trip," he explained, slathering extra unguent on the angry looking head of his member. "I want this with you, Lily. And more importantly, you need it done. You will never feel entirely sure of my possession, never completely secure of my devotion, until this is accomplished." She started to cry. "Just so you know--there haven't been any other women, sweetheart. No models, no willing widows, no town tarts. Not in ten years, not since the day I realized that I loved you and wished to marry you. I told you I would wait for you the night that Frank died, and I have waited." He coated inside her anus with the lubricant. "I love you. Why won't you be honest with me and admit you love me too?" "Charles..." she sobbed. "Charles," he scoffed. "Would you give this to Charles or to any other man?" In a carnal trance, she didn't answer. It was the mirror. Their reflection in the mirror. For in the glass, she saw him remove her hands from her buttocks, she saw him raise one of her legs, and then the other, lifting her onto the top of the dirt-strewn table. "I love the wildness in you," he said, rolling her body into a balled crouch, forehead down and touching the tabletop, legs bent beneath her belly, knees squishing her breasts, bottom extended outward over the edge so that her buttocks were completely open and available for penetration. The hopelessness of her love for this one man defeating her, she let go of the image in the mirror and wept into her hands as she lewdly raised her bottom. "Hush. Don't cry, " Doyle crooned, his penis going into her buttocks again, greased head pushing against greased eyelet. His palm smoothed her spine. He was petting her, soothing her, as he made the fated push. "Doyle," she moaned. Then screamed, feeling a pop, feeling him enter her. Physically pained and emotionally depleted, she went limp as mournful tears for respectability lost,

streamed down her face at his entry. A male grunt came from behind her. A sexual sound. A lusty sound. A sound of intense enjoyment. Doyle was feeding himself into her, pushing every last inch of his thick length up inside her buttocks, until he was lodged there deep. When it was done, when she was fully penetrated, he moved slowly, gently, a considerate and lush sodomy. Pained moans changed to pleasured groans. To her lasting shame and humiliation, she pushed back against his thrusts. In receptive abandonment, she hiked up her buttocks, wordlessly urging him to deepen the thrusts, while her hands clawed at the dirt and leaves and stems on the worktable, slivers of filthy refuse adhering to her bare breasts. His mouth opened against her shoulder, his teeth biting into her skin, he drove up into her buttocks, burying himself. She purred deep in her throat, the sensual sounds a woman makes on the road to satisfaction. There was no mistaking them for the sounds of a respectable lady. Doyle didn't rush her ruination; he took his time about it. Long, smooth strokes followed by even longer, smoother strokes. He pulled all the way out, and then made his return. No hurry. No impediment. She was his, entirely his. That acknowledged, she didn't wish to climax, didn't wish to own the dark thrill of this congress. But, undoubtedly, she was coming; already, the first swells of delight exploded inside her. Her denial of pleasure gave way to a catastrophic epiphany... She loved Doyle, and always would. They climaxed together, on the same breath, on the same ecstatic cry, his ejaculation the final possession. He stayed inside her buttocks for a long time afterwards, whispering endearments to her, telling her that he loved her, telling her everything would be all right now that she belonged to him completely, his palms massaging the post climactic tremors away. There was nothing to say, nothing to do, and so she did and said nothing. He withdrew. Still she stayed mute and still, her wild mane of red hair covering her tear-streaked face; dirt and leaves and pieces of plant roots and stems clinging to her breasts and belly; semen gushing out of her buttocks, the ejaculate dribbling wetly onto the backs of her legs. "Let me help you down," he said, and did. Head bowed, tangled hair falling knotted over her face, sticky with come where no woman who calls herself a lady is ever sticky with come, she stood before him. Though the sodomy itself caused her no humiliation, her enjoyment of the unnatural act, pain and all, most certainly did humiliate her "Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded. He picked up her fallen chin. "Next time, I promise you only pleasure." So, there was to be a next time... Doyle led her, naked and submissive, into the house. Her need for him defeating her, she knew she would do whatever he demanded of her over the hours to come. She was taken to the far end of the hall. And Doyle was very mistaken about his brothers' sleeping habits--one brother in particular was wide-awake as they passed his bedchamber door. Tall and muscular, his face set in judgmental lines, John Donovan stalked naked and huge and angry to the threshold. "Why is that cunt here, in this house?" "She's my guest for the evening," Doyle replied. Two hands clamped on her shoulders prevented her from making a speedy escape. Shame washed over her. Not so much at her nudity, as John was naked too and rapidly becoming fully erect. As was Doyle: his cock prodded her from behind. And, apart from this no small irregularity, both men had only recently witnessed her masturbate. She would have to say that modesty was no longer a significant consideration between them. No, what shamed her was causing a rift between the two brothers, a rift only she could mend by withdrawing from Bar Harbor, and from their lives. Perhaps then, both men could move on. "John, I need to say how sorry I am for my callous disregard of your tender feelings when you were a lad. I caused a rivalry between you and Doyle then and I have absolutely no intention of causing a rivalry between the Donovan men now. I know how much you love one another." Sparing herself nothing, she added, "Please believe me, I am not here to disrupt this household in any way. On the morrow, I return to Boston to wed my fiancé. Tonight is simply about a pound of flesh." John gave a curt nod. Then turning on his heel, he reentered his bedchamber, slamming the door behind him. After that interruption, they proceeded to the next bedchamber down. Mellow gold light filtered the darkness when Doyle lit an oil lamp on the bedstand. It was an intrinsically masculine room, surprisingly Spartan quarters devoid of any female geegaws or bows or ruffles. Opening a high chest drawer, Doyle took out the mastery plug, held it out for her to see. It was the same one she had worn before, only this time the situation was far less romantic. This was about a man's use of a whore, nothing more. She walked to the large bed. Sweeping her knotted hair out of his way, she held onto the cannonball post, and bent at the waist. "Will this do? Or do you need me lower?" He kneaded her bottom. "I think I can manage," he said dryly. Afterwards, she slept for a while on his bed where he placed her, soiled and sticky and covered with a lightweight quilt. When he wanted her next, he merely whispered, "Again," into her ear.

There was no question that she would refuse the use. He helped her to stand. When he instructed her to round over the end of the bed, her face in the bedding, her bottom raised over the footboard, she did so with a docile swiftness. And Doyle was right. There was only pleasure the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Each occasion was easier--and more luxuriant--than the one before. Though he refused the vaginal approach, taking her only anally, there was no hurt, no muted scream as he sodomized her. The only pain came at daybreak when she told him goodbye.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Stifling a huge yawn with the back of her hand, Lily curled up on the settee situated in the corner of the brownstone's front parlor, promising herself she would seek her bed right after putting a few last finishing touches on the sketches started six weeks earlier in Maine. She added a shadow here, a line there, polishing the landscapes until they took on a life of their own. It gave her a great deal of satisfaction to sign her name at the bottom when each work was finished. Art critics said her work mirrored nature, that her landscapes were a little wild, a little untamed, a little out of control, and very passionate. High praise indeed for an artist who had spent the last ten years of her life with a tight lid on her emotions. No more. Now she laughed when she felt like it, cried when she felt like it, and when she was angry, she didn't try to swallow it. Not that she danced naked on Boston Commons whenever she felt the urge, because she didn't, but she no longer tried to be something she was not and she no longer tried to be in control every waking moment of every day. She had learned the hard way that there is an essential rhythm in life, a natural orderliness, and that is all anyone might reasonably expect. The rest of life's moments just happened, and that spontaneity is what made it all interesting. With that blinding revelation came the realization that she would make mistakes as she wandered through the maze of life. And that was fine. Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody occasionally becomes lost along the way. As Doyle had related, everyone has 'asides'. Lily now understood that one corrected the mistakes as best as one could, and then moved on, as best as one could, while trying to find the best way. One of the mistakes Lily had made, she acknowledged, was her engagement to Charles. Upon returning to Boston, she immediately dropped off a note for her ex-fiancé at his family's Back Bay residence; Charles deserved more than a hastily written letter.

Charles remained impassive during the initial part of her prepared speech, until she told him about Frank Johnson, alluding to her sordid reputation in Bar Harbor, while stressing her innocence. His blue eyes narrowing, Charles had wiped his moist palms with a linen napkin, politely excused himself, and left the posh restaurant without saying another word. And that was the end of that! Twittering to herself, Lily signed her name to the bottom of another finished landscape. Her chuckle ended on a sigh. Charles wished to wed a marble statue--perfection cut in stone--not a flesh and blood woman. She was intrinsically flawed, but as she had happily discovered in Doyle's arms, the delights of the flesh were ample compensation for not spending one's life stuck on a cold pedestal. She now liked herself. Nightmares no longer plagued her, her appetite continued to improve, her breathing problem was a thing of the past, she was drawing again, and most importantly she was at peace with herself. At peace, but not happy. There was no happiness without Doyle. She loved him. Missed him. Wished to share her life with him, mistakes and all. Theirs would not have been a fantasy romance. They were both strong-willed people. Doyle would be overbearing and she would call him on it. They would argue and make up, the process repeated ad infinitum--if only for an excuse to resolve the matter later in bed! When the doorknocker was dropped, brass against brass, her pencil clattered to the floor, and her daydreams were pushed aside. Who was that at the door this hour of the night? Uncurling herself from the cushions, she went to see. "Who is it?" "Let me in, Lily!" Of course, her caller was Doyle. Who else would start issuing commands before even saying, 'hello'? "It's too late for a visit, Doyle." "I am not a visitor." She cracked the door. "Sshhh!" she whispered. "My roommates are all abed." Like a nor'easter, he stormed right past her into the front parlor. The room was of average size, but it seemed to shrink now that Doyle was inside. She felt herself shrinking too, the sheer bulk of him dwarfing her. Choreographing each move, and keeping his elbows tucked-in, he covered the square footage in one gingerly step. He picked up her drawing pad. "This is the estate we visited." She backed up to the wall. "Yes." "Good execution. May I have it for the next book?"

"Well... All right... Of course. I am glad you like it." He returned the pad to its former resting place. "Your grandmother visited me at my office early this morning and accidentally let it slip that your engagement is officially off." He picked up her left hand, stroking the bare knuckle. "I am here to bring you home." "Just like that?" "No point wasting any more time." "No polite inquiry to determine how I might feel on the subject?" "I don't do polite inquiries." She wore only a nightgown, and suddenly she was conscious of this fact. "I think I should throw on a wrap if you intend for us to talk. Would you excuse me?" He sidestepped into her retreat, blocking her way. "No." "Pardon?" "I am not giving you the opportunity to escape this time." "Really, Doyle! I cannot very well crawl out a window in my night rail." "I am counting on that very thing." His eyes dipped to her chest. "So, you look remarkably healthy." "Thank you." His scrutiny grew more intense. "Your breasts are fuller." "You are outrageous, sir!" she sputtered, crossing her arms over the aforementioned fullness. "Much fuller." he crooked a finger. "Come here." "I most certainly will not!" "Six weeks have passed. Do you have anything you need to tell me?" Her mouth gaped. "I do not believe this! Are asking me once again if I am with child?" "Are you?" She stammered, "I ... I don't know. I am never on time and ... and ... I honestly don't know." Crossing the meager space between them, and hand extended, he boldly splayed her belly over the thin white nightgown. Doyle was domineering! Arrogant! But she quickly went from anger at his presumption, to arousal at his presumption when, in an ever-deepening caress, he dragged the soft material upwards along her thighs.

His heat, his nearness, scorched her. Protesting was out of the question. She stood still, letting him do what he wished. "Six weeks and you don't know?" he said, his hand flattened against her now bare belly as if he were trying to feel the reality of his child. "I was hoping a baby was the reason you broke off your engagement." "I ended the engagement because I didn't love Charles. There was no other reason." "Yes, there is: You belong to me--that is your reason. You are a one-man-woman. When you mate, it's for a lifetime." "Lust is not enough." "No, but it's a good place to start." He kept his hand on her belly, angling his head to kiss her mouth, a long lingering kiss that left her resolve weak and her blood pulsing. "It hurt when you left the way you did but I knew you had to work out things back here. Now that you have, we can leave. If we go now, we can be back home in our own bed on the morrow." "I am already home," she managed to choke out. "How can you possibly say that, Lily, when we are not together at night in the same bed?" Her nipples puckered, jutting suggestively under the gown. She had no control over her response. No control over her body. No control over her reaction to him. She knew how libidinous she must look. But how futile it was to deny her desire when her hands already palmed the wall behind her for support, and her legs were drifting apart in sexual encouragement. He took her pose for the invitation it was, and walked his fingers upwards, taking her nightgown with them. His smoky eyes dared her to stop him. But, of course, she didn't. That trip upwards seemed to take forever. She wished he would hurry. She was throbbing for him to hurry. He fisted the linen up to her neck and looked his full, concentrating on her chest. His fingers closed gently around a breast, weighing her, rubbing her, flicking his thumb across the distended nipple. "These are tender. Your nipples are darker too. You might very well be carrying my child." "Not from anything we did the last time we were together." "No, not from that night." He smiled. "Does the memory of that last time excite you, puss?" "Yes," she said softly. "If I told you to remove this nightgown right now, you would do it." "Yes." "If I led you to bed you would go." "Willingly. Doyle, there is nothing here to prove. I shall do anything you ask. You are my weakness."

"As you are mine." His hand dropped from her body. "Get dressed. We leave immediately." "No." His brow lifted. "You intend to wear that in the carriage?" "I am not returning to Bar Harbor with you. I have a position here. A life here..." "Are you suggesting we live in Boston?" She looked away. "You would never live here happily. The city would smother you eventually. You need your freedom. We--the situation--would never work." "Can you say you have found happiness here?" She shrugged. "I do not understand any of this," he groaned in exasperation. "Are you suggesting we see each other only on weekends? That we make love only on Saturday nights? That I become your suitor? Your romantic swain? I am too old for those roles, Lily. That is not the kind of relationship I wish to have with you." "Let's be sensible about this, Doyle. We have been apart for ten years. We don't really know each other anymore. Yes, there is a physical attraction between us and we acted on that attraction in Bar Harbor, but that might easily burn itself out over time." "It's more than just the carnal and you damned well know it!" "What I know is that carnality is a very large part of it." "Yes, it is," he ground out. "I want you and I always will. But you are not a quick fuck to me. I ask you again to be my wife." "I cannot..." "When will you trust me? When will you tell me the real reason you fear returning with me to Maine?" "I am not afraid!" His jaw went tight. "Give us a chance. Give me a chance. Tell me the truth." "I told you: I am concerned that all we have in common is the physical. Hardly enough to build a relationship." His jaw clenched. "Okay, if physicality is all it is, I say we satisfy ourselves now!" Her shoulders lifted in surrender. "How would you like it this time? On the floor? On a table? Against the wall? Out in the street? I shall do whatever you say..." "Why are you doing this? Why are you bringing us to this? Why are you making this cheap when it's not cheap at all!"

"Well, I would prefer the bed," she said, going down the hall in the direction of her downstairs bedchamber. He followed, but stayed obstinately outside the door. "I love you. I have for so long. Marry me! How much longer must we wait for happiness?" "I need time." "You have had time. Ten years." Seated at the edge of the bed, she played with the bottom edge of the nightgown. He raked his hand through his too-long hair, hair that already showed the passage of time in every silver strand that encroached upon the black "If it's the money--I am doing well again financially." "It was never a question of money and you know it!" "What I know is that you are a fine and talented artist, and you must have the freedom to paint. I shall never stand in your way. I shall support you in any way I can and call myself proud to do so!" "It's not any of those things. What I need is time," she insisted, refusing to tell him the truth. "I have just broken off one engagement. I need time to reevaluate what went wrong..." "Reevaluate," he scoffed. "Now you insult me! Charles meant nothing to you! You never had a tie to him. I knew that the first time I kissed you." He sighed. "How much longer do you need?" "I don't know. I have no schedule." "And if you find out you carry my baby--what then?" "I promise to tell you." He looked up at the ceiling. "You promise to tell me. You say it so simply. I suppose you will write me a note telling me I am to be a father. I won't be allowed to see the daily changes in your body. I won't be there to see my child come out of your womb, though I was the one to put it there. I won't be a part of any of it." He hit the door with his closed hand. "None of this makes sense, Lily. There is something you are not telling me! Tell me now. There is nothing we cannot work out if we are together." She reached for the gas lamp on the bed stand. Then stopped. "Do you still prefer the lights on?" "I love you," he said desperately, taking a step into the room. She drew the nightgown over her head; her much fuller breasts shifted with the action. "Come to bed and show me." He drew in a ragged breath. "My God, you are beyond beautiful." "I am beyond impatient," she said, smiling. "Come into me, Doyle." "Unplait your hair for me," he rasped, taking another step towards her.

"Whatever you wish," she said, removing the ribbon tie from the end of the braid and letting her red hair go wild. "Yes, just like that." Sinking his fingers into her scalp, he savaged her mouth. His passion was devastating, but she met him kiss for kiss, hot stroke for hot stroke, demanding as well as receiving. They were equally matched. Untamed. Unbridled. Both of them panting for completion. His eyes fixed on her face, his unquiet hands moved over her, drawing out his caresses. Each of her shudders became more luxuriant than the last, and she went to that place of frenzied anticipation willingly, fluidly, feeling that surely she would die if she was without him a moment longer. When he circled her ankles with his large hands, dragged her hips toward him, and raised her limbs above her head, she felt no shame at how she was exposed. Heels locked onto his shoulders, hips arching for that first thrust that would fuse his body with hers, she waited. Why was he torturing her like this? Why take her to the pinnacle, to the very brink of fulfillment, masterminding her expectation of pleasure with the cruelest of expertise, only to leave her hovering on the edge? "The time for me is now," he coolly informed her as he stepped away. Disengaged from him, her legs toppled onto the mattress, her thighs spread open before him. Not bothering to close up, she blinked in disbelief. "What are you saying, Doyle?" "I am saying you have my heart. You have my soul. But if you won't trust me enough to confide in me, then God help me, I shall walk away from you." He reached into his breast pocket and threw a white stationary envelope on the bed. No! She rolled away from that ... that thing on her bed like someone deranged. "What is that?" "An invitation to Theo's wedding. I shall give you 'til then to make up your mind. By then, you should know one way or the other if you are with child. I love you, but my waiting for you is done." "A wedding invitation?" she said, dully. Not a threat? "I refuse to settle for less than holding you in my arms in a bed we share as husband and wife. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything in my life, but you were right to say that this, that carnality, is not enough." And with that he turned and slammed out the door.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Late, Lily made a mad dash for the gazebo where the nuptials were to take place, arriving just in time to hear the minister pronounce Theo and his bride truly married. Pushing the floppy brim of the straw hat out of the way, Lily craned her neck, searching the crowd for her lover. She had not seen or heard from Doyle since he had stormed out of her Boston bedchamber. Her heart leapt in her chest when she spotted him at the pond chatting with a guest. At first, Lily mistook the matronly lady with graying hair and placidly serene expression for a relative of the bride's--a dowager aunt perhaps--until Doyle bent his head attentively to the mystery guest and laughed merrily at something she had said. Lily's breath stuck in her throat, and she knew with utmost certainty that the woman he shared that jest with was more than a mere acquaintance. No matter how hard she tried to pretend that it didn't matter, Lily knew that it did matter. This pleasant woman of the crinkled eyes and middle-aged body and graying hair related to Doyle in a manner she had never related to him. Never totally at ease like that with her, there had always been an edginess about him when he was with her. That edgy quality was missing with the matronly woman. With her he was relaxed. Content. Happy. Lillian's nausea, even with the help of the dry crackers, worsened. For the sake of her own self-preservation, she knew she must stay no longer at the wedding. Head down, eyes averted, she made a graceless break for her grandmother's cart in the drive... And ran straight into Doyle and his lady friend. He steadied her, a grip under the elbow. "Miss Hill! How nice to see you again. I am inordinately delighted you were able to attend my brother's wedding today." Under the floppy brim of her hat, Lily composed her features into a carefully polite blank. "I am overwhelmed with your inordinate delight, Mr. Donovan." She lowered her lashes. "Now, if you will excuse me? I forgot something. The wedding gift, actually. I am off to get it now." "Allow me to introduce you to someone first." He smiled warmly at the woman at his side. "Mrs. Garfield, I would like you to meet my long-time friend, Miss Lillian Hill." Long-time friend? "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Garfield," Lily whispered, maintaining her poise with a firm control, and willing away the moisture collecting under her lids. Weddings, she told herself. They always made her cry. Her embarrassing tears had nothing to do with Doyle and his lady friend, nothing to do with her own breaking heart.

She was happy for Doyle. He deserved to find happiness. The new woman in his life was probably uncomplicated, while Lillian Hill was nothing but a complication. Mrs. Garfield looked to be an open book, without a secret to her name, while everything about Lillian Hill, including her name, was a secret. She was more work than she was worth; evidently, Doyle agreed. She didn't blame him for wishing to forget her, for wishing to move on. People make mistakes; she had been his. Her hand flattened protectively over her still flat belly. Time to let Doyle go. Let-him-go! She drew her shoulders back. "I am sorry. I really do need to get that gift." It took most of her courage to turn around and leave. The little that remained went into taking a few steps. Inside the maze, she broke down. She was lost. Again. How many more times in her life would she lose her way? Footsteps pounded behind her. A hand came out of the green shadows and attached itself to her arm. "Stop! Lily!" Her hat was lifted from her head. "You look a little pale." He touched her lashes. "And what is this? Tears?" "Weddings," she dissembled. "So emotional." "Happy emotional?" he asked softly. "Or sad emotional?" She dabbed at her cheeks with a lace handkerchief. "Happy, of course." "For me too." He took another peek at her face. "So, how are you really?' "I am well. Thank you for inquiring. I shall let you run away now, before Mrs. Garfield grows restless." "Run away? You may solve your problems that way; I assure you, I do not!" She turned to go. "I am not your problem, Doyle." "Lily! That is not how I meant it!" But she wouldn't listen. "Feel free to return to your lady friend. You deserve to find happiness." "Mrs. Garfield is not my lady friend, and I deserve you. Marry me!" She gave a dry ghost of a laugh. "You don't escape your problems, you marry them," she shot over her shoulder. "You are not my problem," he yelled. "You are my joy! You are the bright color in my gray life."

She stopped walking. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I don't know what to do." "I do. Marry me. I won't settle for less." She turned. "Will you hold me?" "No, Lily. I am sorry. I cannot. I am not that strong." "Oh," she sobbed. "I need you so much." "No more than I need you," he said, but keeping his distance. "Good-bye, Doyle." Light-headed and weak, she found her way out of the maze and resumed her walk to her conveyance. A man stepped out in front of her before she ever reached it. "If it's not Lillian Hill, back in town." The nasty inflection in his voice was so much like his son's that Lillian's flesh crawled in revulsion. "Mr. Johnson," she said, slowly. "What are you doing here?" "Your grandmother inadvertently let it slip that you would be here today." He grabbed her arm. "What must I do to convince you that you are not welcome here in Bar Harbor? Were my letters not enough?" So--Frank Johnson's father, not Doyle's brother, was her tormentor! She should have known! Though Mr. Johnson had continued to act as her grandmother's solicitor and friend, he had made no secret of his hatred for Victoria Hill's granddaughter. Lillian had always known that he blamed her for Frank's death. She had accepted the blame, because she had felt so guilty. Now, all she felt was pity. Frank's father was obviously ill. Fragile and infirm, aged, and palsied; he was dying a slow death. "Mr. Johnson," she said, trying to ease his claw-like hold from her arm, "you shouldn't be here. Not today. There is a wedding taking place only a few yards from here..." "Yes, I know. The Donovan boy's wedding celebration. Why should that boy be celebrating, when my son is dead?" "I am sorry for your loss. For your distress..." "You lying bitch! You caused my distress!" "I didn't cause your son's death, Mr. Johnson," she said, trying to reason with him, although she knew it was fruitless; he was not listening, had never listened. He did not wish to hear the truth: hatred kept Frank's father alive.

"How are your grandmother's gardens? I know how much Victoria dotes on her plants. The last time she was in my office, she went on and on about a Memory Garden you were designing for her." "Yes. A Memory Garden. You destroyed it, did you not?" He held up his cane. "Look at me, girl! Why, I can barely get around." "Then you had someone else do it for you! You paid someone to spread your poison. This has to stop, Mr. Johnson." The area where they conversed was deserted. The small string orchestra playing in the background would serve to cover any screams she might make. A wealthy man like Mr. Johnson could afford to pay for the finest henchman. For the right price, she might be killed where she stood. A runaway horse accident. A stray bullet from a hunter. An axle loosened on a carriage. Any number of things, all perpetrated by this broken shell of a man, might snuff out her life. He shuffled along beside her. "Whore! You murdered my boy." "I think you should leave now, Mr. Johnson." "And if I refuse?" he asked brazenly. "What will you do then, eh?" "I shall contact the proper authorities..." "There are no proper authorities in Bar Harbor. I own the town. Did you learn nothing at all, girl, during your interrogation?" "I ... I have proof. Your threats. I kept all of them..." He cackled. "Those letters cannot be traced to me." She pitied Mr. Johnson, but she would no longer permit him to victimize her. "Your son tried to rape me," she told him for the first time. "Lies. All lies," he said calmly, but his hold on her tightened. "My son was a good boy, and you have no proof to the contrary." He smiled, an old man's smile. "Leave Bar Harbor. If you come back again, your lover will lose everything he values. I can do it. Just watch me." He hobbled to the pony cart. "Get in, Lillian. And do not come back." "No, I won't get in. I am not running away. Not this time. Not ever again! Not for you. Not for anyone. I am not afraid of you," she said, and tore away from his grasp. "I feel sorry for you. I really do. You have nothing in your heart but hate. Go home. You don't belong here. This is a day for new beginnings. The past is over and done." Turning, she walked back to the wedding. At first, she didn't see Doyle loping through the trees. When she did, she ran too, but not away from him;

she ran towards the man she loved. Her lover's arms closed fiercely, possessively, around her. "Ten years ago, letting you go nearly killed me. I won't do it again. I am begging you, sweetheart. Marry me. We can handle this. Whatever it is." Nothing had changed. Not really. Save her. "Yes," she said, and snuggled deeper into his chest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Lily wandered the cottage's empty rooms one last time. She loved every creak in the wide plank floors, every moan in the walls, every slope in the ceilings. The ripples and nicks and scratches made the cottage imperfect, and therefore, unique. The Hill family history was a long and proud one, but that history was not hers. The child growing inside her would not play on the cliffs that overlooked the sea nor scamper in the woods amongst century-old pines. Her child would inherit a different birthright. And the family name? The Hill name would die. And, perhaps, that was the only fitting resolution to the question of her birthright. Lily tenderly cradled her belly. Doyle would be coming soon. Their marriage that day had been a private and discreet affair, which only Doyle's brothers and her friend, Meg, attended. This would be her last chance to say good-bye to a house that had withstood the pounding of the sea for two hundred years. And Doyle, the most understanding, the most patient of men, understood without having to be told that she needed time alone to roam the rooms before she started her new life with him. She turned and smiled upon hearing the fall of his hesitant step behind her. "Did you finish your letter, Lily?" "Yes. It's already posted. " "You told your grandmother and Tony why we decided not to wait to wed?" "Yes. And don't worry so! They will understand." "I hope so. We might have traveled to their villa, I suppose..." With one last lingering caress of the fireplace mantle, Lily turned and smiled at her new husband. "They have planned to live in the land of Tony's birth for many years. Italy's more temperate clime will do them both good. They were only waiting for me to settle down before moving onto the next phase of their life together."

Lily laughed. "Here, I thought that my grandmother loved living in Maine! As it turned out, the cottage and land had become an albatross around her neck. She determined that the estate would be put to good use, and then she left with Tony." "We can visit," Doyle promised. She held back the tears. Today was not a day for sadness. "You haven't even told me where you intend to take me tonight. Or where we shall live..." He carried her valise outside. "You will soon see. Up you go," he said, helping her onto the seat of his buggy. She looked back one last time as they left the cottage. "Did you remember to take your sketch pad? There is a glorious garden for you to draw." "Aha! A hint. I knew you would drop one eventually." He chuckled. "You have kept me waiting ten years, and I cannot make you wait a single hour." "Sorry..." He placed a gentle finger against her lips. "A tease, Lily. Nothing more. We have our lives ahead of us. No looking back." The carriage passed Doyle's home and took a sharp turn into the woods. Lily shifted in her seat. "I didn't know there was a road cut in the trees here. Is this land Donovan property too? "There are acres of undeveloped woodlands here. I bought them with the proceeds from the sale of my first book." He sighed. "When I was a kid, I used to wander these woods hoping someday they would belong to me. I thought to leave the family home, and still remain close to my parents. It didn't turn out quite the way I planned it. Perhaps someday, if we have children, they might feel as I did. They might wish to build their houses on this land. It's all about family, sweetheart." If we have children... Lily's stomach fluttered. There was so much she hadn't told her new husband. So much he needed to know before they consummated this marriage. She would begin married life with no lies between them, no secrets! He reined in the horses. "Why stop here?" she asked. He laughed. "You will see." He took her hand and helped her down, leading her along a winding path. "Close your eyes. I have a surprise for you. It's just a little ways." A few steps, then, "This is it."

Her eyes opened. In front of them, nestled in a clearing, was a small, two-story house, so new, it had yet to be painted. She thought the little cottage was adorable. Big enough as a starter home for a young couple. "How utterly sweet!" she cried. "It's ours." "What!" "Tomorrow morning when we go outside, you will see that I planted thousands of lily bulbs around our house. You might say they are an obsession of mine. For now, come inside. Allow me to show you around." Taking her hand, Doyle pulled her through the door, lighting the oil lamp in the entry. "I left the decorating to you, so the house is still unfurnished. I did, however, hang one thing on the wall in the front parlor. The house wouldn't feel like home without it." She gasped. There, in the middle of all that empty space, hung the painting of the pond she had done for him so long ago. "I told you then that I would treasure your painting always and I have. Let me treasure you the same way." "Oh, Doyle, I don't deserve all this!" "What makes you say such foolishness?" He kissed her lips softly. "And remember, before you answer, you can tell me anything." "You may regret wedding me." "Never," he said, picking her up in his strong arms and carrying her up the staircase to their bedchamber. Her eyes flew to the huge bed, large enough to fit a tall man's frame with plenty of room to spare, and pretty enough to please a woman's heart. Her heart was very pleased, especially when she saw the bouquets of white lilies. "Where do I start?" she asked. He placed her feet on the polished pine floor. "Start with what is troubling you." "I am so afraid..." "Of tonight? Of making love? You needn't be." He drew his knuckles over her cheek. "I can be easy. I shall be easy." "Easy? I love how you make me come apart! Do not hold back with me. Not ever." "Then what has you so worried? Hardly a touch has passed between us since you agreed to marry me. We haven't even kissed. I thought perhaps I had put you off to the ... uh ... more physical aspects of our

relationship." She started to giggle. Her turn to say: "Never." She placed his hand on her abdomen. "I am three months gone with child." He smiled. "About time you told me too. Did you think to keep it a secret through delivery?" he asked, his hand caressing her belly, still flat in the royal blue silk dress she had worn for their wedding. "I suspected you were carrying when I traipsed all the way to Boston to bring you home." "How?" "You had a certain look about you." "Oh ... a look!" He kissed her cheek. "Yes, a look. I was pleased to see that look on your face ... as well as other places." She laughed outright, then. "I love our baby so." "Which makes two of us." He took a breath. "Now, what else do you need to tell me?" "The baby's great-grandfather..." "Tony Camaro ... yes...?" Her mouth gaped. "How long have you known?" He knelt on the floor. "Take a seat on the bed. These shoes need to come off." She crumbled. "How long, Doyle?" He removed one shoe, then the other. "Not long." She gulped. "Frank was blackmailing me because of it." "Yes." "You knew that too?" "I found the letters when I searched your dresser for the scarves that first night we became ... uh ... licentious." His hands roamed her legs. "Ease up a bit, wife, so I can get these drawers and hose off you." She raised her hips. "If you knew, then why didn't you tell me you knew?" "It was your place to come to me," he said rolling the hose down and off, then the drawers. That done, he went behind her. "You never did." She swiveled. "Are you undressing me?"

"Trying to," he said, his hands undoing the first few hooks that ran down her back. "Unless you expect me to wait until you are as big as a house before consummating this marriage." He stopped. "But if you feel tired or unwell, we shall wait." "Silence, sir! Perhaps you can wait, I most certainly cannot." Chuckling, his fingers resumed their activity. "I shall hurry." "Doyle, in all seriousness--I thought my revelations would shock you. I thought they would put a damper on our wedding night." He hooted. "Silly girl! Torrential rains and a leaky roof couldn't dampen my enthusiasm for tonight." Doyle pulled the wedding finery over her head with one agile yank. "My, my, my! You do have that look," he said with an unsubtle leer at her full breasts. "And approaching motherhood does become you. Tell me the rest fast. Tarry, and I may just expire." She rushed forth the statement. "I know how Frank died." "Yes?" "This is so difficult." "We are husband and wife. There is nothing you cannot tell me." "It really was an accident." She looked up at Doyle. "Our baby's great grandfather saved me from Frank that night. Tony took Frank outside, and they argued over the blackmail. Frank tried to push Grandfather off the widow's walk, but he lost his own balance instead and fell to his death. It wasn't murder." Doyle cuddled her closer. "At long last you trust me enough to tell me." "You knew!" "Suspected." "Not suspected--you knew!" "All right. I knew. The person who prevented your rape must have loved you. I know that to be true because I would have done exactly the same thing. I would have taken Frank as far away from you as possible before doing whatever it was I intended to do. That kind of caring concern is the kind seen in families." "But ... what do we do now?" He stripped off his good white shirt and tossed it on the floor. "Nothing." "What about restoring your good name?" "I have my good name. As long as you and this baby know the truth, that is all that really matters. I love you wife. I love this baby. Let the past die. We have this land. This house. We can start over. Make our

own family history. Turning the cottage into an artist colony and wildlife sanctuary is a wonderful use for your inheritance. We shall take our children there for nature walks." "Children?" "This little cottage has five bedchambers. Are you good at your sums, wife?" She arched into his arms. "Oh Doyle. There is still so much to talk about. So much to decide. All these years I have received anonymous letters--threats to stay away from Bar Harbor." Lillian took a deep breath. "At first, I thought you might be sending them. Then, after the incident with the unlit carriage lanterns and damaged wheel axle, I thought it was Johnny," she said, whispering the confession. "John is a hothead like me. But he is not malicious, not a sneak. All he really needs is a female's softening influence in his life to straighten him out. Now that he understands that you are mine, he might just start looking for a wife. " "Oh, I hope so! But what if ... what if the letters continue now that I am home for good? What if the person sending them tries to ruin you through me? Your business, your brothers--everything you have worked so hard to achieve might be destroyed..." "Lily, I went to see Frank's father yesterday. No need to hide the author of those threats any longer, no need to try to protect me. I told Old Man Johnson to stay away from you." "Will he listen...?" "He has no choice but to listen. Sweetheart, I told you Frank had once assaulted a woman. Well, I found out that she wasn't the only one. After locating more of Frank's victims, I presented proof to Mr. Johnson that Frank was guilty of multiple rapes. He broke down and wept. Right or wrong, Johnson loved his son and he isn't willing to see Frank's memory ripped to shreds. So--after a long talk, we came to terms about the past. There will be no more threats. As far as Mr. Johnson is concerned, Frank's death was an accident." Doyle touched his lips to hers. "Now, no more worries tonight, Lily. Tonight you are my bride. There is nothing more important than that."

THE END

About the Author:

Louisa Trent is happiest writing and so she writes all the time, even when the veggies are in need of peeling and the dust bunnies are in need of vacuuming. When she was far too young to contemplate anything as serious as marriage, she snatched up a boy with a sense of humor and led him right to the altar. Somewhere along the way, she picked up a couple of academic degrees which she uses each and every day, though certainly not in the way she intended to use them. Blessed with three funny sons and a

husband who still makes her giggle, she lives in a quaint New England town in a messy home surrounded by flowers and laughter. Visit Louisa's website at: http://www.louisatrent.com Email Louisa at: [email protected]

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Bittersweet -- Louisa Trent

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