Edge of Temptation Page 15

  He kissed her many times, hard passionate kisses, that demanded and got her fullest response. Her hands were in his hair, at the nape of his neck, holding him closer, and without the limitations of self-restraint upon him, Rafe made no attempt to hold back from her. Every muscle in his body was straining towards her, male and aggressive, penetrating the thin layers of her clothing, bruising in its hardness. His hands arched her body to his, his mouth devouring hers, plundering the sweetness within, until the blockages in his nasal tubes left him cursing and panting for breath.

  'God, Catherine,' he groaned, pressing his face into the silken curtain of her hair. 'I shouldn't be holding you like this, infecting you with my germs!' But she only trailed her lips along his cheek and temple until his own need overcame his scruples, compelling him to take what she so eagerly offered.

  At last she drew back, saying softly: 'Let's go into the living room, shall we? We'll be' more comfortable in there, and your temperature must be sky-high!'

  'I'm all right,' he protested, resting his forehead against hers, unperturbed by its burning touch. 'Catherine, I have to tell you something.'

  'What?' Immediately a sense of apprehension filled her, and the eyes that gazed so anxiously into his revealed all her inward perturbation.

  'Oh, love,' he muttered, his voice shaken with emotion, 'don't look at me like that. I know you probably think I'm all kinds of a bastard really. I mean, coming here, kissing you, wanting to make love to you—'

  'Please, Rafe—' She didn't think she could bear it if he walked out on her now. 'It's my decision—'

  'I know that.' He bent his head and caressed her lips gently with his own. 'I just wanted you to know that— had circumstances been different—'

  'Rafe!'

  '—had the estate not been involved—'

  'Honestly, Rafe, you don't have to say any of this!'

  'I do!' His voice was harsh with feeling. 'Catherine, what I'm trying so incompetently to tell you is—I love you! That's right—I love you. And were it not for my father and Tom, I'd give everything I possess to divorce Lucy and marry you.'

  'Rafe—'

  'That's all I wanted to say. I know it doesn't mean much—'

  'Oh, Rafe!' She moved closer to him, pressing her face to the rough wool of his sweater, feeling the hot wetness of tears against her cheek. 'You didn't have to say anything. I—I know what Penwyth means to you, and—and Tom—'

  'You have to know the truth,' he insisted, lifting her chin so that he could see her face. 'Oh, don't cry for me, Catherine.' His tongue erased an errant tear from her cheek. 'I'm not such an honourable fellow, am I? Do you know how I felt when Jeff told me he'd spent the evening with you? I wanted to wring his bloody neck! That's the kind of honourable fellow I am. I was jealous—God, how I was jealous! It was all I could do not to drive straight down to the shop and ask you what the hell you thought you were trying to do to me!' He shook his head self-deprecatingly. 'That's some hold you have on me, love. And I don't honestly know whether I can wait as long as it may take.'

  'Wait?' Catherine looked puzzled.

  'To live with you,' he said, breaking off to cough violently. 'I'm sorry—this filthy cold. Why did it have to happen now?'

  'How did it happen?' she asked, smoothing his hot forehead with her cooler fingers. 'Oh, you're burning up. You ought to be in bed!'

  'Yes…' His thick lashes veiled his eyes. 'I must go.'

  'You can't! That is—' Catherine pressed her lips together helplessly. 'Stay here. I have a bed you can have.'

  'Oh, yes.' His voice was dry suddenly. 'You have two bedrooms—you told me. What makes you think I won't do as my son did, and share yours?'

  Faint colour invaded her cheeks. 'I can't stop you,' she breathed, her hands sliding beneath his sweater to loosen the buttons of his shirt. 'And I wouldn't try.'

  'You're crazy!' Rafe groaned, though his fingers probed the fine bones of her shoulders as if he could not let her go. 'Oh, God, you don't know what you're saying.' He shook his head despairingly. 'And I can't let you take that risk. Not—not without any precautions.'

  'Surely that's my decision,' she murmured, tugging his shirt free of his pants and smoothing her palms over the burning skin of his back. 'What you have to decide is whether you're prepared to leave your car outside the cottage all night.'

  Rafe hauled her to him, his taut body no less aroused in spite of his fever. 'Do you think I can debate that now?' he demanded. 'With your hands on my body destroying every sane thought in my head?'

  Catherine pulled herself back from him. 'Then think about it,' she exclaimed. 'Think about how you'll feel tomorrow. Will you regret it then?'

  His hoarse laugh was hollow. 'Very probably,' he agreed, and as Catherine's eyes clouded, he added: 'But not for the reasons you imagine. I can handle my life. I can handle Lucy. It's you I care about.'

  'But I—'

  'Look, somebody—some, shall we say, do-gooder is going to come to you and warn you about me—either that, or abuse you for getting involved with a married man—'

  'I don't care.'

  'I do.' Rafe sighed. 'I don't want that for you. I don't want our relationship—sullied in that way.'

  'Oh, Rafe! You can't protect me. I'm an adult human being, I know what I'm doing. I know what's involved.' Catherine stroked his lips with her own. 'If anyone says anything to me, I shall tell them that you weren't fit to drive home. And no one could deny that's the truth,' she added dryly, touching his feverish skin. 'Come on, I'll show you where you can sleep.'

  Her bedroom looked attractive in the lamplight, the green and cream embroidered coverlet turned back to reveal the lime green sheets. There were plain cream walls, and the long gold-coloured curtains at the windows cast mellow shadows. She was glad she had turned on the radiator earlier. Now the room was comfortably warm, and Rafe looked about him appreciatively.

  'This is your room,' he said, tugging off his sweater. 'I like it.'

  Catherine hesitated in the doorway. 'The bathroom's here,' she said, indicating the second door which opened off the small landing. 'I—I'll go get you a drink.'

  'Wait—' Rafe stretched out his hand and caught her wrist, pulling her towards him into the bedroom. 'Help me to undress before you go…'

  The ringing of the telephone was a harsh intrusion, but Catherine struggled out of his arms to answer it. 'It—it might be important,' she breathed huskily, realising if she didn't answer it, and her aunt heard that Rafe had been seen here…

  'Don't be long,' Rafe murmured, loath to let go of her hand, and she paused a moment to bestow another kiss on his parted lips.

  As she went downstairs she heard Rafe go into the bathroom, and a ripple of excitement slid along her veins. He was actually here, in her house, using her bathroom, sleeping in . her bed…Just having him here, even if it was to be a fleeting experience, was worth all the backlash it might provoke. And surely, when you loved someone…

  To her astonishment, it was her mother at the other end of the line. 'Catherine!' she exclaimed, offence evident in every syllable. 'Have you forgotten you have a mother?'

  'Oh, Mum…' While her nerves were crying: Not now, not now! 'Mum, you know how it is.'

  'No, I'm afraid I don't know how it is,' declared Mrs Hartley coldly. 'Do you realise it's almost three months since I heard from you?'

  'Is it? Is it that long?' Catherine cast a doubtful glance up the stairs, as she heard Rafe go back into the bedroom. 'Well, I'm sorry.'

  'Being sorry is not good enough, Catherine. I spoke to Robert the other day, and he tells me you're thinking of closing down the Hammersmith shop.'

  'Did he?' Catherine sighed. 'Did he tell you why?'

  'Something about a lease, wasn't it?'

  'That's right. If the lease isn't renewed, we'll have to close.'

  'But Robert also said that he had suggested an alternative, and you'd turned him down.'

  Catherine sank down wearily onto the bench seat. 'Opening a bigger shop
would have entailed closing the Pendower branch,' she explained resignedly, 'and I don't want to do that.'

  Her mother sounded impatient. 'Well, I can't understand you, Catherine, I really can't. Opening the Pendower branch was quixotic enough, but now I hear you're considering making it the only branch.'

  'Not through choice, Mum. Didn't Robert explain about the lease?'

  'I suppose he did. What I can't understand is why you should want to live in a dead-and-alive hole like Pendower!'

  'Pendower isn't like that!' Catherine glanced over her shoulder impatiently. 'Oh, Mum, is that the only reason you rang?'

  'No.' Her mother was short. 'I rang to find out why you've crossed your father and me off your visiting list!'

  'Graham is not my father, Mum.'

  'Oh, I see. You're making him the excuse, are you? Just because you two don't always see eye to eye—'

  Catherine pushed back the weight of her hair with a weary hand. 'That's the understatement of the year, Mum, and you know it,' she declared. 'But in any case, I don't have a visiting list, and you've certainly not been crossed off it. I—just haven't been up to town lately.'

  'It's some man, isn't it?' Heavens, was her mother reading her mind? 'I thought it might be, and then after I'd spoken to Margaret—'

  'You've spoken to Aunt Margaret?' Catherine's lethargy fled. 'What did she say?'

  'This and that.' Mrs Hartley could be obtuse when she liked. 'She told me about Mervyn and how this business of the mine is progressing. Apparently he's taken it very badly.'

  'Yes.' Catherine could hardly contain her impatience.

  'Gillian has the baby soon, doesn't she? That must be a worry for them. What with maybe having to leave the farm and all.'

  'Yes.' Catherine's fingers tightened round the receiver. There was a pause, and then her mother went on more slowly. 'She also told me there was some talk about you in the village.'

  'Oh?' Catherine hoped her words were not too revealing of her feelings. 'Really?'

  'Yes, really.' Mrs Hartley's tones were clipped. 'You needn't try to pretend with me, Catherine. You know to what I'm referring.'

  Catherine expelled her breath unevenly. 'What if I do?' 'Oh, Catherine!' Her mother's aggravation was evident. 'Lord Penwyth's son! And he's married! Have you taken leave of your senses?'

  'I don't think that's anyone's concern but our own,' replied Catherine quietly, although she could not prevent the tremor in her voice. 'Aunt Margaret had no right to gossip.'

  'But people do, Catherine. All the time. And how did you get to know him, anyway? When I was a girl, we were lucky if we saw his father riding by.'

  Catherine hesitated, then she said quietly: 'Do you remember those summers I spent at Penwyn when I was a little girl?'

  'You mean you got to know him then?'

  'Yes. He used to come to the farm a lot, until he went away to university.'

  'Good lord!' Mrs Hartley sounded genuinely shocked. 'No wonder you were always so keen to spend your summers with your uncle and aunt. And I thought you liked the outdoor life.'

  'I did.' Catherine defended herself. 'You don't imagine Rafe—that is, oh—'

  'You might as well go on,' put in her mother dryly, and with a sigh she continued:

  'What I mean is—well, he was a lot older than I was. There was nothing between us then.'

  'But how did you meet him again?'

  Catherine glanced up the stairs, but her bedroom door was closed, and reluctantly she explained: 'Uncle Mervyn asked me to speak to him about the mine. Our—our relationship—well, he thought Rafe might listen to me.'

  'But he didn't.'

  'He couldn't. Oh, it's a long story. I'll tell you some time.'

  'How about tomorrow?' suggested her mother brusquely. 'I think you owe us a visit. Come for the weekend. It's the least you can do.'

  'I can't, not tomorrow.' Catherine licked her lips as her mother made a sound of annoyance. 'You don't understand. I have a horse to care for. Oh—not my horse,' she hastened to add, 'Rafe's. He—he's loaned it to me, and I've promised Aunt Margaret I'll go over to the farm in the morning.'

  'Come after lunch, then.' Her mother was relentless. 'At least then you'll have the whole of Sunday. Until the evening, of course.'

  Catherine closed her eyes, praying for inspiration, but no reasonable excuse presented itself.

  'Well?'

  Her mother was waiting, and with a gesture of resignation she complied. 'All right, I'll be there some time tomorrow. But I'll have to leave again on Sunday afternoon. It's a long drive back in the dark.'

  'Good.' Mrs Hartley was pleased. 'You can tell me all your news then.'

  'Yes,' agreed Catherine submissively, but as she replaced her receiver, she wondered how much more her mother would want to know.

  With the call over, she went towards the stairs again, her fingers trembling as they trailed up the banister. She was nervous now, as nervous as a kitten, and she wished with all her heart that her mother had not chosen this particular evening to ring. What was that expression? In cold blood? That was how she was feeling. Her blood was cold. It had cooled sitting in the chilly atmosphere of the hall, that had never fully benefited from the heating in other parts of the cottage, and it was getting colder than ever as she mounted the stairs. The full implications of what she was doing were filling her mind with doubts and uncertainties, and what had seemed right and necessary in the heat of Rafe's lovemaking was taking on a different image in the harsh light of deliberation.

  She halted on the landing, torn by the conflicting emotions inside her, and then, taking a deep breath, she went towards the door of her room. It was slightly ajar, and as she pushed it wider, her eyes took in the lamplit intimacy of the scene. Rafe had discarded the rest of his clothes and they were strewn with careless abandon on the basket chair by the window. His suede boots lay on their sides in the middle of the carpet, and as her gaze swept compulsively up over the tumbled bedding, she saw the upper half of his naked torso, brown against her green sheets.

  But he was asleep! Blinking, she stared at him, all her earlier emotions rekindled at the sight of him, realising his weakness had overwhelmed him. He was breathing through his mouth, the hectic signs of his fever colouring his pale cheeks, and even as she ventured nearer the bed, he twisted restlessly, turning to bury his face in the pillows.

  He partially discarded the covers as he did so, and she moved hastily forward to replace them again. She tried not to look at his muscular body, not to give in to the feeling of anti-climax that was gripping her. He was unwell, she had known that. Who knows, he might never have come here at all if he had not been running a high temperature. But that didn't prevent the wave of frustration she felt towards her mother for destroying the tenuous chance that had been hers.

  Tucking the covers more securely about him, she turned out all but the bedside lamp, and left the room. Downstairs again, the fire needed tending, and she fed it some logs before making herself a cup of Horlicks. She needed something to make her sleep, she thought, curling up on the couch in front of the fire, wondering if ever any would-be mistress had suffered such an experience.

  The idea of watching television didn't appeal to her, and she put her book aside after reading one page more than three times without understanding a word she had read. The awareness of the man upstairs disrupted all coherent thought, and she spent some time just gazing into the fire, wondering what her mother would think if she could see her now.

  It was nearly eleven when she eventually went up to bed. She was carrying a hot water bottle, the electric blanket on her bed of little use to her in the spare room. However, her nightshirt was in the room that was now Rafe's, and besides, she wanted to turn out the lamp, so she tentatively entered the main bedroom once again.

  As before, Rafe had kicked the covers aside, and adopting what she hoped was a detached air, she went to cover him again. Almost compulsively, her hands lingered on his shoulders, but she drew back in surprise when s
he felt how cold he was. With a worried frown, she bent over him, spreading her fingers on his forehead, less . worried about waking him than reassuring herself of his condition.

  He was still burning up with fever, and biting her lip she seated herself on the side of the bed, looking down at him anxiously. There was no way she could ensure that he kept the blankets over him, unless she did as she had intended all along, and shared the bed with him.

  Without giving herself time to change her mind, she undressed, slipping the folds of her nightshirt over her head before drawing back the covers and sliding into the bed beside him.

  It was a strange experience, and as she turned out the lamp it crossed her mind that no girl could ever have had a less romantic start to a relationship. Yet, as she felt the muscular length of him beside her, vulnerable now as he had never been awake, a curious sensation of contentment gripped her. And when Rafe moved, imprisoning her beneath the encircling weight of his arm, she turned towards him and gave herself up to the thrill of spending the night in his arms.

  There was a moment when he drew back, when her nearness half aroused him from his inertia, and he muttered something about her keeping away from him. But then, even in the darkness, he seemed to sense who it was he held in his arms, and with a groan of satisfaction he drew her closer, and slept again with her hair beneath his head.

  Catherine had not expected to sleep at all. She was not used to sharing a bed with anyone, and the circumstances were so unusual, she had assumed she would spend a wakeful night. Yet she did sleep, marvellously soundly, not needing an electric blanket or a hot water bottle, and the grey light of morning had filled the room before she opened her eyes.

  Immediately she turned to look at Rafe. He was still asleep, and her lips twitched with wry tenderness. She wondered how he would react when he discovered what she had done, and then dismissed the thought in awareness that the feverish colour had gone from his cheeks. Gently, so as not to disturb him, she touched his forehead, and found that it was much cooler than it had been the night before, almost normal in fact. The crisis point must have passed some time in the night, and now he would begin to recover.