A Season for Love (24 page)

"Then why me?" he asked hoarsely.

Ronnie swallowed carefully, and despite herself, she could answer in no more than a strained whisper. "I—I never intended there to be a you. Pieter forced me to take the cruise—you are right; he can use his illness to get just about whatever he wants— because he assumed a taste of freedom would make me agree to allow him to die alone. He feels the end is near." She had to stop for a minute to breathe deeply in order to continue without sobs choking in her throat. "When I met you, I thought we would share a drink. I knew what I was coming home to, and knew that no matter what Pieter did, I couldn't just walk out on him. I never thought I would see you again. And I—and I—" God, it was so hard to explain! "I just wanted you so badly." Her voice wasn't even a whisper, it was a feeble gasp for air.

Drake lifted his head and straightened himself, releasing her from the prison of his body. She stared at the sea; he stared at the cliffs. His long, strong hands moved to his face, and his fingers tiredly massaged his temples.

"How many other 'cruises' have there been?" he asked obliquely.

The question should have made her angry, but it didn't. Her anger was spent; her heart was torn in pieces.

"No other cruises, Drake. That was it."

He still wasn't looking at her and he asked his next question almost absently. "Do you really love me, too, Ronnie?"

Her throat constricted completely. He had stripped her veneer, plundered the depths of her life. It would be foolish to lie now, foolish to hold on to any false pride. Things were out in the open now, but they hadn't changed. Nor did she feel Drake's basic beliefs could change. Of her own admission, she had carried on an affair while still being, in her own mind, a married woman. It was a vicious circle. She couldn't leave Pieter despite his noble gestures; Drake would never trust her, even if she could leave Pieter. So none of it mattered . . . except that it did. She did love Drake with all of her heart, and now she couldn't bear a lie between them. Soon enough the time would come when she would never see him again.

"Yes." All of the warmth and yearning of the love she bore him came out in the barely audible whisper of the word.

Drake rose to his feet, a little unsteadily. He continued looking out at the cliffs, his profile as ruggedly indiscernible as the terrain he surveyed. He didn't soften, he offered her no tenderness.

He turned back to her and grasped her hands almost as roughly as he had originally. She came to her feet, and only then did his eyes meet hers.

"I'm going to marry you, Ronnie," he told her in a voice that was devoid of any emotion.

"No," she murmured in confusion. "You still don't understand. You can't."

He shrugged, peculiarly remote. "Yes, I can," he said distantly, "and I intend to."

Ronnie shook her head, her brows knit in confusion, her teeth nervously chewing the tender flesh of her lower lip. She was sure he had lost his senses, but he portrayed nothing to her now, not anger, not mockery, not sympathy, not love. He spoke with the absent courtesy of a casual acquaintance.

"You're not listening, Drake," Ronnie said firmly. "When Pieter leaves for Maryland, I'll be with him. I can't leave him to face hope—and possible disappointment—by himself. I will be with him."

Drake ignored her and let loose a shrill whistle. Black Satan obediently left the outcrop of grass he had discovered and trotted to the man, as acquiescent as a well-trained and beloved dog.

Soul mates, Ronnie thought with a shade of resentment for both man and animal. The fiery horse and arrogant man did deserve one another.

Drake swung over the stallion's back with expert ease. "Where's Scheherazade?" he asked her curtly.

Ronnie searched the area quickly with a sweep of her eyes. Her resentment for Drake's charismatic influence over the usually aloof Black Satan increased as she realized she had been deserted by Scheherazade—an animal she had owned for five years.

"Probably back at the stable, munching sweet alfalfa," she answered in annoyance.

"Then you'd better hop up," Drake suggested, sliding back to give her room over the horse's withers.

Ronnie stared at him uneasily. He hadn't responded to her announcement that she would be leaving with Pieter; in actuality, he hadn't responded to much of what she had said at all.

He had given her his bland yet determined offer of marriage, and then nothing else. He had ignored her commitment to stay with Pieter. Probably because he preferred it that way, she thought with dry misery. He might now believe that she did love him, and he might even still love her in return, but he didn't really want marriage. It was probably a moralistic, noble gesture —the type Pieter was proving to be so proficient at.

She was back to her vicious circle, and suddenly just as happy as Drake to drop the subject, which had so recently overshadowed all else. She wasn't, however, very happy to mount the black stallion with Drake. She was drained and more vulnerable than she would ever have him see her.

He held the reins with one hand and offered her the other. "Mrs. von Hurst—" He caught himself. "But that isn't your name, is it? What is your surname?"

"Flynn," Ronnie murmured, touching his hand but not accepting it. "I, uh, can't jump up that way," she explained with lowered lashes. "Black Satan is a lot higher than the bay—"

"Take my hand," Drake interrupted impatiently.

She did so and was surprised to find herself lifted high enough to swing a leg over the animal's neck and shoulders, in front of Drake. Careful of Black Satan's comfort, she scooted back to unnerve her own well-being. She fit like a glove to Drake's body, and was able to feel the slightest twitch of his muscles, from his strong thighs to the shoulders that sheltered her back. She could feel the expansion of his broad chest against her flesh with each breath, the thud of his heart. She could almost feel the racing of his blood through his veins. . . .

"Ready?" he queried crisply.

She nodded, and he nudged the stallion toward home. Black Satan, knowing the direction indicated offered a meal, tossed his huge, well-sculpted head, snorted, and attempted to take the bit between his teeth.

Drake was ready for him, clearly the master, but he allowed the horse a fleet canter. Ronnie clamped on to a handful of the sleek black mane, her thighs, like Drake's behind them, holding Satan while they moved with him.

Drake's arms were around her as he held the reins, loose but secure. She and Drake were one, and one with the horse. The wind whistled by them, the sun splayed down upon them, and the scent of the sea filled their senses.

Her life was a fiasco, but as they rode, Ronnie shared a brief, intimate pleasure with Drake. She realized poignantly how very much alike they were. They were both attuned to the joy of the wind, of the animal beneath them, of the wild and voluptuous summer beauty of the craggy island. And no matter what the tumult was between them on a mental or verbal level, they would always find harmony in their bodies, a rhythm that claimed them as they rode, a rhythm that would claim them eternally in one another's arms. . . .

Drake brought the stallion to a trot as they broke the trail foliage on the return and approached the stable. Ronnie became even more acutely aware of the perpetually strong and secure arms that held her, of the heartbeat she knew better than her own, of the delicious scent that was uniquely his, as crisp and clean as the sea, as enticing and enigmatic as the wind. A scent entirely masculine. . . .

The ride was over. The house loomed before her like a luxurious monstrosity. But she couldn't blame the house; the chains that bound her existed in her own heart and soul.

Suddenly she couldn't bear another second with Drake touching her, so close, yet miles out of her reach. The days they had shared before in tentative friendship and disastrous discord had been shattering. She needed time to mend the cracks that were threatening to tear down the facade of indomitable marble she must have to maintain her existence.

Black Satan stopped a few feet from the watering trough. Ronnie pushed Drake's arm aside and slid from the stallion, just catching herself from stumbling.

She didn't look back at Drake but turned her steps toward the house. Drake made no attempt to stop her. She could hear him vaguely as he talked to the groom. The bay had indeed returned and was safely in her stall. Mr. von Hurst, having heard the horse had returned riderless, was beside himself with worry.

Ronnie sighed with a breath that trembled. Drake could go and assure Pieter that she was fine. She had had it for the time being. Both of the willful men who tried to manipulate her life could go hang.

She was a mess, mentally and physically. Bareback riding had left her jeans covered with bay and black hairs and the damp lather of the horses. Her feet were cold and aching from the wet shoes, and she was splattered with seawater and sand.

A long, hot, revitalizing bath was in order.

Despite her dishevelment she was able to sail coolly by Henri with a brief greeting of acknowledgment. "Mr. von Hurst is quite concerned, madam . . ." the butler called after her as she glided up the stairs.

Ronnie paused a second, her hand barely touching the banister. "Mr. O'Hara will see Mr. von Hurst," she answered calmly, wondering idly what Henri was going to think of her grimy footprints on his shiny wood floors. "I'll be in my room," she added firmly, never more than now the mistress of the house. She started walking again, then, aware that he watched her in puzzlement, she turned, no sign of turmoil in her face. "I'll also have dinner in my room, please, Henri. You may convey my regrets to Mr. O'Hara and my—Mr. von Hurst—if he should appear."

"Yes, madam, certainly. . . ."

She stripped off her clothing haphazardly in her room and immediately filled the large tiled tub in her bathroom with near- scorching bubbles. As she soaked she was gratified to feel tension ebb away, and warmth replace bitter cold. Her eyes were dry now, resigned and very tired. She had thought herself too upset ever to sleep again, but the opposite sensations were engulfing her. All she wanted to do was sleep.

She finally left the bath to dry herself with a large, snowy towel and slip into a floor-length burgundy silk caftan. Gretel appeared with her meal, a tender steak, which she surprisingly wolfed down. When she came to retrieve the tray, the slender housekeeper and cook glanced at her with concern.

"Mr. von Hurst and Mr. O'Hara both send their regards," Gretel said slowly, careful to pronounce the English she seldom used. "They instruct you to take care not to catch cold."

Ronnie gave Gretel a dry smile. "Mr. von Hurst went down to dinner tonight?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you, Gretel." Ronnie watched the middle-aged

woman leave her room and close the door before she chuckled. It was definitely a different night: the master had appeared and the mistress hadn't!

Her chuckle turned into a catch in her throat, and she curled onto the fur spread of her bed without removing the cover. Exhaustion took its toll, and as her mind continued to race with worry and pain her body gave up. She drifted into a sleep so deep that she wasn't plagued by a single dream.

The tapping on her door was light, so light that it was the persistence of the sound and not its echo that woke her.

She lifted her head, puzzled, groggy, and disoriented, then, alarmed as the noise continued, she hopped to her feet and flew to the door and threw it open.

Drake was standing in the dimly lit hall, as devastating as she had ever seen him. He had dressed for dinner in black velvet and white, an image of raw masculinity only semicivilized by nonchalant, but stunning, elegance.

Ronnie stared at him for a timeless second, unable to speak, enmeshed in the enigmatic, compelling demand of his dark eyes. Everything she had ever wanted stood towering in her doorway, motionless yet so very alive; arrogant and hard, yet strangely haunted and tender.