Maiden Voyage by Judith O'Brien
The next moments seemed a dream, at the same time inevitable.
"Maura." This time she knew he had said it, her name softly on his lips, his tongue trailing along her ear, then to her throat.
They sank to the floor as one. He held her closely, cushioning her with his body. The marble floor seemed warm now, warm and welcoming and perfect.
She kissed his chest and heard him gasp so wantonly she did it again, thrilling in the power she held to give him such sublime pleasure.
Everything was new, every inch of skin and flesh untried and untested, and they explored sensations together, ethereal emotions raw and poignant. They shared joy and desire and a sense of awe, an overwhelming awareness of each other.
Never had she experienced anything as powerful, as if every nerve and feeling was sharpened to extraordinary sensitivity. Even as he moved without touching her, she knew his every motion instinctively.
At last, on the cold marble floor, now infused with their shared warmth, they fell asleep, clothes pushed heedlessly aside. In slumber she did not fear intimacy, and he awoke for a moment and smiled, stroking her cheek, reliving in his mind the memories they had just created together.
The smile faltered for a moment.
He was washed with a feeling of unease, almost as if his thoughts had been able to step away and view him objectively.
This had not been his intention. At least, he did not believe this had been his intention.
Good God, he thought to himself. I am falling in love with her.
There had to be a way to salvage the situation. Perhaps if he could have a little more time with her before she learned what he had done, she would understand. They could work together.
A sudden chill ran down his bare arms, and he held her more closely, tightly against his own body as if that would absorb the cold of the room and the cold of what he had done.
How could he ever explain that he had found a loophole in the will? Indeed, he was rather surprised that Charles MacGuire had not spotted it earlier and warned his client that if she took steps to sell the primary piece of real estate—the house—within less than twelve months of inheriting, the factory would automatically be put up for sale.
Could it be that Charles didn't know of her plan to sell the town house? In any case, within a matter of days the factory would be his, with or without her consent. In truth, he had intended to tell her over
dinner, but before he could make sense of the evening, they were on this marble floor.
"I'm so sorry, my love," he murmured against her hair.
This could very well be the last time he would ever hold her. In all probability it was. The realization made him hold his breath, and his heart did a painful flip, as if accusing him.
He closed his eyes, willing the sun to remain hidden so he could cherish each second.
A few minutes later they were both asleep. His face had relaxed in drowsy contentment.
And from the top of the staircase another man glared at the two in unbound fury. All along he had been there, watching them, seeing their movements.
He would finally exact his vengeance. chapter 11
Maura awoke with a start, her head resting on something warm. That something spoke.
"Good morning."
She jumped, and he chuckled, a noise rumbling from deep in his chest.
"Oh my God," she moaned. "I can't believe we ..."
"Shush."
"But don't you think we should have . . ."
"Shush," he repeated.
"I'm really not the type to . . ."
Before she could continue, his mouth was on hers, soft and silencing and feeling every bit as right as it had the night before. It was almost a challenge, a dare to pull away. And it was a challenge that seemed very right to decline.
"Mmmm," she sighed.
"That's better." Although she couldn't see his face, his cheek resting against hers, she felt him smile.
"I can't believe we camped out in the hallway," she said after long moments of comfortable silence.
"I can't believe we made it this far. I've never . . ." He didn't finish the sentence.
"You've never what?"
He cleared his throat. "Nothing."
"No, please tell me."
"I've never done anything like this," he finally admitted.
She turned to face him, a hint of whiskers on his jaw that seemed to make him even more handsome. His dark hair was tousled, more curly and unruly, lending him a rakish look.
"Neither have I." She touched his mouth, and he kissed her fingers softly, then his eyes closed, and he pulled her closer to him.
And a vase came crashing down on the floor right where she had been.
"What the hell?" Donal sat up, his entire body taut. "Where did that come from?"
Maura raised up on her elbow.
"Stay down," he hissed. "Could someone have broken in?"
The shattered vase was in shards on the floor, a blotch on the wall where it had hit, water dripping downward in fingers. The day before she had placed flowers in it, and the stems and broken blooms were heaped next to the smashed china. She recognized it as the blue-and-white antique from the front parlor and knew exactly who must have thrown it.
It must have been Fitz. The force of his anger both surprised and frightened her. As she touched Donal's arm, for the first time she had a sickening feeling of being in over her head, involved in something she had not been prepared to face. She had thought of Fitz as a friend.
Yet he was dead, a ghost. There was nothing natural about their friendship, nor could there ever be.
"Donal—you'd better go now." Her voice was strained, and he placed his hand on her shoulder.
"No." He quickly slipped on his trousers and shirt, buttoning it as he glanced around. "Maura, love, you'd best get dressed. I don't believe we're alone."
"I know for a fact we're not."
"Who is it then?"
"Please, just go. I'll explain later." She could think of something by then, some rational explanation. If she told him the truth, he's think her a raving lunatic, an irrational American.
Maybe that's exactly what she had become.
When he spoke again, his voice was full of soothing warmth. "I will not leave you alone without knowing what the hell is happening." She could almost believe him, let him take care of everything. Rising to her feet, she paused.
"Please, Donal. Let go of my wrist."
Before he had a chance, a mantel clock flew from the parlor. Maura saw it from the corner of her eye and pushed Donal's head down. It crashed into the wall and splintered into pieces, springs and glass and twisted shreds of brass piled with fragments of mahogany.
"What—" he began.
"Stop it!" she shouted.
"Excuse me?" Donal replied, one eyebrow raised as he glanced about the room.
"I wasn't speaking to you," she snapped. "Please, we'll both be better off if you just leave now. I think you're getting him angry."
"Well," Donal kept his voice low. "Whoever he is, he's not doing wonders for my mood either." Then he began to stand, his eyes narrowed as he searched for the perpetrator. "All right. Your prank has been duly noted, and we are both terribly impressed. Now show yourself before I call the garda."
Maura handed him his shoes and socks, the crumpled jacket they had used as a pillow, and his tie, the knot somehow still in place. "Please, just go now and I'll call you later."
"You're afraid," he said, brushing a bit of hair from her eyes. "Who is it?" Then his expression changed. "Have you had a man here with you this whole time?"
"Not exactly." Just as she was about to gently lead him through the front door, an ashtray from the parlor winged into the hallway like a drunken flying saucer.
"Coward!" Donal shouted to the parlor. "Show yourself—"
And with that a footstool joined the ashtray, mantel clock, and vase, slamming into the wall.
"Good-bye, Donal." Now she was getting worried. F
"So this is how it is to be." There was a strange, labored quality in his voice, as if forcing himself to remain calm. "After last night, did it mean nothing?"
"It was great, just fine." She turned toward the parlor and saw the reclining chair inching toward the hall.
Fitz was trying to kill Donal.
"Bye!" With a shove she slammed the door. Outside she heard him curse, then pound on the door with such force she though it would shatter.
"Maura! Let me back in . . ."
For a response she slid the dead bolt into place.
There was silence from the other side, and she leaned her forehead against the thick cold wood of the door. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. She touched the door, wishing she was touching him instead.
At least he was safe.
At least he hadn't been hurt.
And that thought alone would give her the strength to face the culprit.
"Fitz!"
There was no response.
"You'll not get away with this, you bully!"
Again there was no response. She finished buttoning up her shirt and, with resignation, looked about at the mess in the hall.
"I thought you were my friend," she said softly as she walked to the kitchen for a dustpan and brush.
Once again she had been betrayed by a man. As if it weren't enough to have had horrible luck with simple mortal men, now Maura Finnegan had found a way to be duped by a dead one.
Two hours later, when the telephone finally rang, Maura all but tackled it in her rush to answer.
"Hello?" She hoped she didn't sound too eager. Just to speak to him would be such a relief. It helped
that Fitz hadn't appeared since Donal left, so she could focus all of her attention on Donal.
"Hello, my dear!" It was the unmistakable voice of Biddy Macguillicuddy.
"Oh." She couldn't help but be disappointed.
"I rang to see if I have earned a permanent spot in the doghouse. I do hope you don't think me a fool for running away yesterday. My eyes must have been playing tricks on me, my dear. I assure you, I will represent your property with utter competence."
"Of course." Maura pulled up one of the wobbly ladder-back chairs and sat down. "Do you need to come back and take more notes?"
"Ah, there's a kind girl! No, not at all. In fact, I believe I may already have a buyer for your house."
"You're kidding." This was so soon. She had expected the process to take weeks, perhaps months.
"An estate agent never kids about potential buyers. I have a bit more work to do on this lead, but I do believe it's as sure a prospect as I've ever seen."
"Great."
"And he's willing to pay an enormous sum of money."
"How much?"
There was uneasy giggling on the other end. "I almost hate to say for fear of jinxing the deal. Let me say this—there will be a lot of zeroes on your check."
"Great," she said with even less enthusiasm. This just didn't seem right. It was too fast, too easy.
And there was another problem. Where would she go now? Of course she could return to the Mont Clare or perhaps stay at the Shelbourne. Hotels were expensive, though. She couldn't possibly bear the mere notion of spending close to a hundred dollars a day for a hotel.
If only Donal, if only they were . . .
"Does that sound good?" It was Biddy, but Maura hadn't been listening.
"I'm sorry. I didn't catch that last bit."
"I was just wondering if your solicitor knew. We will, of course, go through him when it comes to changing the deed and all of the other particular legalities."
Charles. She hadn't thought of how she'd be letting him down. He'd recognize the necessity for the sale, of course, but he was just so pleased with her arrival on Merrion Square, she couldn't help but think her selling the place would seem a sneaky, underhanded move.
Biddy's voice continued nonstop. "So I will indeed let you know if our buyer comes through. Cheerio, my dear!"
The line went dead, and Maura hung up.
Rubbing her upper arms, she walked into the parlor and sat down. She felt odd, as if something was terribly out of place, yet she couldn't identify what it was. There was an overall sense of unease, like the ghastly still before a storm.
"Maura."
He had come so quietly, she jumped.
"You," she snapped, then raised her chin. "I'm not speaking to you."
Fitz stood in the wide doorway, the smile leaving his face.
"Pardon me?"
"You know very well what I mean. You could have
killed him, me, too, for that matter—your aim was not exactly major league. That vase was worth something, by the way."
He stepped forward, running his hand over his mouth. "Please, tell me what you're talking about."
"Oh, Fitz. Don't make me go through this again."
"Maura, you must. Tell me exactly what happened."
"Well, I guess you'd had enough of armchair quarterback. It was an audience participation thing. You threw a vase, an ashtray, a mantel clock, that little footstool. You were working up to the lounger when I finally pushed Donal out of the house. I haven't heard from him, by the way."
Fitzwilliam had remained silent, his arms crossed as she spoke.
"Maura, it wasn't me."
"Of course it was you."
"I was not the one who threw those objects. It was not me."
Now it was her turn to be quiet. The moment he had told her, she knew with absolute certainty he was telling the truth. He seemed every bit as baffled as she was, and something else.
He stared out of the window, and she realized with a jolt that he was worried.
"There is another here," he said softly.
"Who?"
"I cannot be sure. I've sensed it for some time now, that I did not walk these halls alone. When you arrived, I assumed that was what I had felt, your presence. Now I feel something else."
She simply glanced up at him, and his eyes looked directly into hers. A strange communication passed between the two, and she took a deep breath, unable to look away.
"I fear for you," he whispered. A cold breeze ruffled her hair as he spoke. "I feel malice. Unmistakable and spreading, as if it's evolving and becoming stronger."
"From this other person?"
The nod he gave was so brief, she would have missed it had she not been so attuned to his movements.
"I believe it is the one who murdered me."
"Patrick Kildare?"
"I do not know. It is an encroaching darkness. You sense as well. I know you do."
She did. Although the feeling of unease seemed to grow, she had assumed it was her own guilt taking shape, her guilt at selling the house and abandoning Fitz. Part of her longed to ignore it, hoping the entire dismal cloud would just evaporate.
"I believe you must leave, Maura. Do not wait until the property is sold. You must leave to protect yourself."
Her own mind had been veering along the same lines, yet the moment he uttered the words, she realized she needed to stay. There was no question in her own mind. She belonged there.
"No. I can't leave, Fitz."
"There is no choice." Very slowly he closed his eyes, as if seeing her as he spoke would be too difficult "I do not believe I can protect you."
Glancing down, she tried to stop the tears, tried to ignore the overwhelming loneliness that gripped her so tightly she could barely breathe.
What a stupid time to feel sorry for myself, she thought. Stupid, stupid.
"Maura," he said. One single word, and the tears were released fully, unrepentantly. It was as if she had waited her entire life to cry, to weep for everything she had become and everything she was not. For all of the dreams and aspirations of childhood that had been dropped one by one, forgotten in the sand.
She was so very alone.
And then he was beside her.
"Maura," he repeated.
There were so many things she wanted to say, that she was nothing, that she had failed miserably in every venture upon which she had ever embarked, that unlike him, she would never leave a single mark on the world. And above all, she was alone.
"No you are not."
Had he spoken or had she merely imagined the words?
"Ah, Maura, you are so wrong, so very wrong."
Tilting her head toward his voice, she realized they were nearly touching, so close she could see every solid detail of his face, each strand of hair. But it wasn't Fitz she was seeing—it was Donal. Emotions welled within her, churning from a depth she had never even imagined.
What was happening?
She opened her mouth to speak, and he shook his head, and she understood. There was no need to speak. Words were redundant, useless, trite.
Her eyes fluttered shut as he seemed to fill her with his very being, Donal's arms floating toward the heavens as his presence mingled with hers. It was like being on a cloud filled with love. It was nothing of this world, nothing lingering of a mortal touch—every fiber of her was saturated with a bounteous sense of being treasured by Donal, of being cherished as no one else had ever been cherished.
Slowly she opened her eyes, but she saw Fitz again smiling down at her.
What has happened, she wondered. Had she just imagined seeing Donal—loving Donal?
And then Fitz looked deeply, boundlessly into her. Without uttering a word, he told her.
"Our souls have touched."
She knew that was it, the only possible explanation.
She was still in a daze when Biddy Macguillicuddy) rang the doorbell.
"Hello! I do hope—oh, my dear! Are you quite well?"
It was like being assaulted by a vociferous cherub. Her small, plump hands waved in the air as if she would take flight, the plastic cherries clinking together in accompaniment.
"I must be a bit tired," Maura understated.
"Oh, you poor, poor thing! But I do have some , grand news. I do believe our buyer will make a firm bid in the next few days, perhaps as early as tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"