Ring of Fear

5

By rights I should have had nightmares of fires and things. I didn’t. But suddenly a dream pivoted around someone shaking me, and I did wake, scared and trembling.

“It’s Rafe, Nialla.”

And the touch of hands was familiar. He was dressed, tonight in a gray turtleneck silk jersey, white jacket, and dark pants.

“You need to eat as much as you need to rest. It’s past eight now, so eating is in order.”

I didn’t have to decide what I’d wear; he had it laid out on the end of the bed. I ought to have resented such management, but after months and months of decisions (right, wrong, and painful), I didn’t demur. I only hoped that it didn’t presage the tone of our relationship. I don’t like clinging, dependent females at all.

“Dark green?” was what I said out loud.

“Dark green,” he said with a laugh. “Size eights didn’t go for green this year. Which is just as well. It’s a good color for you… now and when your hair grows back.”

The fact that I’d dyed my hair apparently rankled him. It bothered me, too, but it had seemed a sensible measure. Red hair is so damned conspicuous. No automatic second looks are cast at mouse-brown-haired girls.

“You’ll have a wider selection when we get home. There are some good specialty shops in Locust Valley, and branches of the big New York City stores,” he went on, sitting down to watch me dress, that slightly proprietary grin on his face.

He’d probably watched hundreds of women dressing, so he wasn’t self-conscious. The strange thing was, I wasn’t either. Good thing I didn’t have to fool with stockings, though. Gartering isn’t a graceful operation.

Lipstick, a bottle of Replique cologne, and a silver-backed brush and comb had appeared on the cabinet shelf, along with the prescription bottles. I looked at the pill and wondered if I’d got them too late.

“Thank you, Mr. Clery, for”-something in his face stopped me-”for the cologne. I like it.”

“Suits you,” he said, and tucking my hand under his arm, headed us out the door.

I suppose that the other restaurant wasn’t open on Mondays, but going to the Charcoal Grill was a mistake. I tried not to react when the maitre d’ approached. A fleeting smirk crossed his face as his too-knowing glance swept over the quality of the dress I now wore, the saucy cut of my hair, the ring on my finger. Had it been only last night? Then I hoped that Rafe hadn’t seen that look. But the man’s face was absolutely correct when he smiled warmly at Mr. Clery and ushered us-to make matters worse-to the same table we’d had last night. If only I’d not gone to dinner here last night… What kind of an idiot was I? “Goddammit,” Rafe swore, throwing down the napkin he’d been about to spread. “I should’ve thought twice, Nialla. We don’t have to stay here.”

“It’s all right, Rafe. Even if potatoes at one-twenty-five outrage my Irish sense of fitness… after all, the restaurant’s not to blame for the fire…” Unaccountably I shuddered. His hand covered mine. And he didn’t remove it when the waiter appeared for our order, the same fellow as last night, of course.

To vary at least the diet, Rafe ordered roast beef au jus with Yorkshire pudding, and champagne, with the house pate (which he said was very good) as an appetizer.

He didn’t try to jolly me, just talked about news items he’d heard that afternoon, told me who the flowers were from, and that he’d called to thank Bess Tomlinson and the fair committee.

We were companionably silent when the roast beef arrived, and because it was excellent, we ate in silent appreciation. A noisy party sweeping in from the cocktail lounge made me glance up. I saw the back of his head first, and stared, my fork halfway to my mouth, willing him to turn and be someone else. But the sudden whinny of a laugh only confirmed that there was Louis Marchmount.

“A hasty retreat, Nialla, would be conspicuous,” said Rafe in a low voice, as he kept carving his meat with neat strokes. “For that matter, would he be looking for Irene Donnelly in the Charcoal Grill?”

Of course not, I told myself, releasing my breath. “Show people are clannish,” he said. “He wasn’t in town last night, or someone would have mentioned it.”

Almost incuriously Rafe turned his head toward the loud cluster of people.

“He’s with the Colonel and the Hammond group, and…”

Louis Marchmount swayed to one side just then, revealing the blonde bubble hairdo and classic profile of a handsome older woman. She was laughing too, and the sound, slightly malicious, drifted to us.

“… and Wendy Madison.” Rafe’s voice was cold and hard. His attention was riveted to the party as the maitre d’ waltzed up to them, all bright smiles, bowing, nodding, gesturing them… away from us. Only when they had disappeared beyond the room divider did Rafe turn back to his meal.

Neither of us finished’ the beef, but Rafe, apparently able to forget the unfortunate coincidence, made me join him in a rich pastry (you need the calories, Nialla) and coffee. Made me wait for a doggie bag (Dice would object, I know, to the terminology, but not the beef).

Rafe refused, too, to let me hurry out. At that moment, however, I didn’t want to go to the stables. That would be pushing my luck. Caps Galvano might be about-he was always somewhere in Marchmount’s vicinity. I should have left the area the moment I saw that cap and that fox face. At the latest, when Caps had been identified as the man who blew the horn. He’d obviously remembered the mare and informed Marchmount. So they knew that I was “Nialla Dunn” here, because Caps would have told him. Rafe escorted me back to the motel without comment. “So he’s here. So what?” he demanded when we were back in our room.

I fumbled with the ring.

“What does that gesture signify?” He wouldn’t take the ring I held out.

“I can’t marry you now.”

“Why not?” And Rafe was angry with me. “Because… because…”

“Because you saw Marchmount? I thought I’d exorcised that. If I didn’t…” And he had whirled me around, unzipped the dress, and pulled it over my head before I could try to explain that I was afraid for him, if he married me.

“Rafe, it isn’t…”

He had unhooked my bra and spun me around again, his mouth fastening on one breast, his hand roughly flicking the other nipple.

“Rafe, please. Listen…”

He jammed his mouth over mine then, his lips hard, hurtful. He was pushing me backward, and the bed came up under me, with Rafe’s body pressing me down. Somehow I twisted my mouth free. “Not like this. Please, Rafe…”

He got my head in the crook of his elbow again, covered my lips while his free hand tore my pants off and loosened his pants’ zipper. Then his fingers were making sharp invasion of my body, to which I felt myself responding. Responding even as I tried to deny the deft seeking of those fingers, the searching of his tongue. He had somehow caught one nipple between his arm and body, and that was another fiery summons. He knew, too, when I was caught up by those responses, for he suddenly left me, gasping and writhing at the interruption. My legs were held up and spread, and he was as hard and firm and wonderful as before. He seemed to test himself against me, and when I moaned, he went in, all the way, like the invader he was. Then he withdrew while I cried out. The tentative insertion, the sharp intrusion and withdrawal. I clutched wildly for his arms, his legs, anything to keep him from leaving me.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me!”

“You mean that?” His voice was almost a snarl.

“Oh, yes, yes. Don’t leave me, Rafe. Come to me!”

“No. You come to me!”

My legs were lowered as he went in again, his body covering mine. His hands made a frame around my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks gently as if apologizing for his cavalier treatment. But tenderness was not what I wanted now. I wanted the surging rhythm, and my hips began to move as if I could move him. His muted laugh was one of sheer triumph as he slowed the tempo. I trembled and twisted under him, trying to get him to increase the pace. He was adamant. I felt I could not endure his leisurely method. I felt I would burst. And then, suddenly, when I was all but certain I should explode, he began to thrust with unbelievable force, lifting me, higher and higher, until I did explode-within, without, all over. But he didn’t stop, and before the first fantastic sensation had quite died from my loins, there was another, and then a third before he arched his back with an inarticulate cry.

How long we lay locked together, I don’t know. His body was a beloved weight against mine, his hands warm on my shoulder and hip, his head beside mine on the pillow, his breathing quiet.

“Marchmount doesn’t count, Nialla. I had you first, because you have given yourself to me, haven’t you?”

His eyes were clear. I could see the fine lines at his eyes, the deep grooves from nose to mouth, the damp, black lock falling to his forehead.

“Sure, Mr. Clery.”

We were married the next morning. Rafe tried to find Pete Sankey to be one of the witnesses. I thought Pete’d like that, and I felt that he was the nearest thing to family I could present. In his absence, Jerry MacCrate obliged, embarrassed and nervous, turning apoplectic when Bess Tomlinson put in an unexpected appearance.

“You’ve no kin, m’dear,” she said as she walked in, two white boxes under her arm. “And you are young enough to be my daughter, Gawd knows I hate to admit it. Of course, if you’d rather…”

“How’d you hear, Bess?” Rafe asked when I’d reassured her.

She grinned. “Mac, of course. Can’t keep a thing to himself. Nor can Jerry, for that matter. Good men with horses, though. Actually, I called A-Barn to find out how your gelding was doing, Miss Dunn. Frankly, Rafe, I didn’t think you had this much sense left. Or is it her horses you’re after?”

That hadn’t occurred to me. Rafe threw back his head and howled. “Nialla’s Russ Donnelly’s daughter, Bess. I’ve been waiting for her to grow up.”

Bess eyed me closely, then chuckled. “You obviously resemble your mother’s side of the family, child. However, since she’s obviously grown up…” And she put down the boxes, opening the longer, flatter one first. From it she lifted a beautiful white lace veil, attached to a white velvet bandeau. Her eyes met mine, saw my hands lift and reach for the lovely thing, and suddenly her face lit with a warm, happy smile. “A bride must have something bridal. And borrowed. I may be a trial to him, but Gus Tomlinson and I have been married twenty-seven years, my parents fifty-five, and I’m told my grandparents lasted forty-two. We brides all wore this veil. I sincerely trust it’ll work its charm for you two!” Though she spoke in a light voice, she deeply felt what she said.

She clipped the veil to my head and fluffed the fragile white lace over my shoulders, then drew the front veil over my face. She turned away abruptly and fumbled with the second box.

“These help, too, I fancy.” And she presented me with a white orchid, its stem wrapped with streamers of white ribbon, to which were attached the blossoming twigs of a curious white flower. “It’s stephanotis, dear, which the Greeks insist must be part of a wedding bouquet. I’ve a Greek gardener. Their marriages tend to last, too.”

“Going to make sure this time, huh, Bess?” Rafe asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Ha!” She started to make a sharp remark, her eyes darted to me, and she said instead, “You’ve a suitably accoutered bride, witnesses, and I’ve got a meeting at twelve. Let’s ask Reverend Norse to proceed.”

I don’t think that the minister approved of her gruff levity, but he was evidently too well acquainted with Mrs. Tomlinson to give any sign of dismay. He cleared his throat and began the marriage service in a sonorous voice.

And so Irene Nialla Donnelly married Rafael Stephen Timothy Rodriguez Clery, with Greek flowers and a Venetian heirloom veil lent by her matron of honor.

“I ought to stand you to a champagne lunch, but I can’t,” Bess said, hugging me and kissing Rafe. “You always take fences fast, you…” She ended her sentence in a sudden cough, nicking a glance at Mr. Norse’s disapproving face.

“I’ll… Well”-Rafe squeezed my arm-”accept the thought for the deed, Bess. I want to be back on the Island by evening, and we’ll have to drive slowly for the gelding’s sake.”

“Then the hoof is healing, isn’t it?”

“Looks to be.”

“Well, then, good-bye, good luck. He’s a good man, m’dear. And such an experienced rider,” she added with the kind of twinkle in her eye that left no doubt of her allusion. Then she was off, veil box tucked under her arm. Fortunately the minister was busy with the marriage certificate and didn’t hear her parting quip. He still looked slightly troubled, despite the appearance of such a well-known personage to give countenance to a rushed wedding. Rafe never did tell me how he’d persuaded him to officiate in the first place.

Rafe grinned impishly as he placed my marriage “lines” in my hand. Jerry had driven over a custom ranch wagon with “Clery Stable” in gold leaf on the green paint of the driver’s door.

“Meet you back at the stable, boss?”

“Follow us.”

We’d packed after breakfast, and our luggage was in the Austin-Healey. Including the new suitcase that held my new clothes. My trousseau. We left the heavy station wagon behind as the Austin zipped down the quiet streets and onto the highway. When we reached A-Barn, I saw Mac leading Phi Bete, her legs bandaged, her body sheeted by Clery Stables’ green and gold, up the ramp to an almost new two-horse trailer with heavy padded sides and heavy springs showing underneath.

“The vet and me bandaged the gelding, Mr. Clery,” Mac said. He appeared to be surprised that he’d survived the experience. “Congratulations, Mrs. Clery. Did Mrs. Tomlinson get there in time?”

“Veil, stephanotis, and all, thank you, Mac,” Rafe said, embracing me, to my embarrassment.

“Is my cat about?” I asked.

“He damned near-begging pardon-wrapped himself up in the bandages,” Mac said, disgusted. “He was on top of us all the time. He’s there, sitting on the black’s rump and growling.”

“Oh, dear.” I broke free of Rafe’s possessive grasp and hurried into the stable. At the sound of my footsteps, Dice started to complain garrulously, walking up and down Orfeo’s backbone as if on sentry duty,

I ignored Rafe’s chuckle as I hastily scratched Dice’s ears and throat in reassuring approval.

“I’ve the bag of goodies for that mountain lion, Nialla. If we put him and the beef in the back of the wagon, it ought to be cat paradise enow. Or would he stay put in the trailer with the horses?”

“Well, yours is big enough so he wouldn’t be stepped on, but it’s strange to him.”

So Dice was captured and put in the station wagon. He had plenty of space in spite of the suitcases, which Jerry had transferred from the Austin. When Dice discovered that there wasn’t an open window and his protests were going unheard (he did look funny, mouth opening and closing and no sound reaching us), he stalked over to the roast beef.

“Orfeo better get used to me, Nialla,” Rafe said when I made to lead the black to the trailer. “Hell, girl, I’ve got a reputation to uphold,” he said in a low hiss that I alone heard.

I couldn’t help thinking of what Bess Tomlinson had said-about his marrying me for the horses-but… that didn’t make any sense, although Rafe had never said he loved me. Not once, despite the ardent moments we had shared. He’d said some pretty exciting things about me being made for love, had insisted on marrying me, but never a word that he loved me.

Orfeo had no such reservations, and followed him as docilely as Phi Bete had gone with Mac. Jerry stood by, shaking his head in disbelief. Just then the fair steward, Budnell, came striding into the yard, the anxious expression on his face changing to plain worry.

“I’d thought you’d left, Miss…”

“Mrs. Clery,” Rafe corrected him.

Budnell paused in pulling an envelope from one pocket and a sheaf of papers from another. Then, he grinned nervously.

“Your prize money, Mrs. Clery, and Haworth says you haven’t signed the release yet.”

“Nor will she,” Rafe told him. “Not until she’s been checked thoroughly by my doctor, and not until we know that the gelding has completely recovered from the fire.

“Now, Mr. Clery,” Budnell began.

“Budnell”-and Rafe’s attitude was of slight exasperation-”I’m no fool, so don’t give me that jazz about the fair is not responsible for accidents and you’re only doing this because at heart you’re a sportsman. You know goddamn well exhibitors have been after you for seven years to condemn G-Barn and build a modern facility. Christ, that barn was put up by the farmers who used to race their mares on the flats.”

“But… but…”

“We’ll be in touch. By the end of next week. Good-bye and thank you!”

Rafe took the envelope and handed it to me, closed:he window of the wagon, ignored Budnell’s continued exhortations, as he gave the tow bar a knowing kick, checked the tires of the trailer and the fastening of the ramp. He got in, and left Budnell standing, mouthing words like a worried clown.

Rafe waved cheerily at all in the barnyard and drove off. We got to the cattle gate before Rafe eased on the brakes, swearing.

“Forgot Pete.” He was out the door and running back to the Austin-Healey, which Jerry was driving home. They conferred briefly, but Rafe was cussing when he got back to the station wagon.

“No one’s seen Pete since yesterday morning. I left tobacco money with Mac, but…” And Rafe shrugged.

“Doesn’t he work for one of the exhibitors?”

Rafe shook his head. “He drifts from show to show in the summer. Used to train harness horses until he was in a bad crash on the Goshen track. Spokes of a sulky -heel caught him in the gut. Someone took him on as a caretaker when he finally got out of the hospital. He wasn’t much good for anything else. He couldn’t stay away from horses, but I suppose it was too much for him to go back to the trotting tracks, so he drifted to the shows. Wish I knew half of what he remembers about horses.”

“Where do you suppose he got to?”

“He’ll turn up,” Rafe assured me. He reached over to pat my leg. “Hey, for chrissake, move over!”

Obediently I slid across the leather seat until our shoulders and thighs touched. He spared me a grin, flexing his hands on the steering wheel, then concentrated on driving.

He was a good driver, even with the erratic tug of the trailer. He kept in the right lane at a steady speed, slowing well in advance of lights and intersections so that there’d be no jerk and bounce for the horses in the trailer. There wasn’t that much traffic on the road on a Tuesday anyhow.

He turned the radio on to a pleasant background level, increasing the volume slightly for the news broadcasts, to which he listened with far more interest than I.

Our wedding luncheon consisted of hamburgers, french fries, and chocolate shakes, eaten at a roadside stand. It was more fun than the most elaborate and appropriate banquet. Rafe was in a high good humor, and everything we said struck us as either funny or bawdy with double meaning. I couldn’t be embarrassed or uneasy with him, although I was very conscious of the rings on my left hand, of my new status, of him. How could brides stand so many people around them, all thinking the same thing, their eyes knowing, staring at you?

Once we’d finished the last of the french fries, we disposed of the paperware, checked the horses, and were on our way-no rice, no leers, no weeping farewells. Shortly after lunch we hit the bigger highways and the concentration of traffic threading into the city of New York. It stayed with us to the approach to Throg’s Neck Bridge (what on earth is a “throg’s neck”?) where traffic thinned out. A few miles due south, and then east on the Long Island Expressway.

This didn’t look like the Long Island I’d heard of, vast estates and potato farms, or desolate dunes and windswept grasses with sailboats prettily hovering in the distance. Developments were smack up against the six lanes of highway, all ticky-tacky, garish, hot, and treeless. Yet Rafe said he had a farm. Was it, too, surrounded by multiple dwellings in serried ranks, identical in design, differing only in the paint of the trim?

If he was aware of my growing apprehension, he gave no sign, but we’d both been silent since we crossed that Throg’s Neck, the radio chattering into the hiatus.

There was some kind of problem that stacked cars down a long hill by a shopping center and up the other side. Traffic inched forward. When we finally reached the other hill crest, cars were stretching out again, with no sign of any impediment.

“Long Island Distressway,” Rafe said, with an understanding grin. “Curvitis. Everyone slows down to take the curve, and it multiplies.” He’d displayed no impatience with what was evidently a common hazard of this particular route.

To my intense relief, the ticky-tacky houses were abruptly left behind. Broad expanses of golf course could be seen through a comforting screen of huge old trees. One or two elegant homes came in view, well back from the highway, in lofty dignity among oaks. When we finally turned off the “distressway,” there were actually crop-growing fields on either side, cultivated dark earth under the new green of healthy plants. Many trees overlapped the road, and it curved and turned like any respectable, little-used farming lane. Massive rhododendrons flanked an imposing gate of wrought iron and brick and here and there a long six-foot-high brick-and-ivy wall blocked off the curiosity of transients. We were obviously in estate territory. Signposts indicated that Syosset was in one direction, Locust Valley in another, and we were entering the village of Upper Brookville. I began to feel easier. There was a familiarity about this countryside, although, to my knowledge, I’d never been on Long Island before.

Mailboxes and signposts (elegant black, with gold lettering) announced homesites. Rafe carefully eased the car and trailer up a narrow blacktopped road, one which ought to bear the legend “hidden entrance,” the turning was so abrupt. A Cyclone gate barred our way, and Cyclone fencing high with twelve inches of barbed wire slanting atop it went off in both directions into the woods.

Rafe pressed a control on the dashboard that I hadn’t noticed before, and the gate clanged open. When we’d driven past it, it shut. “I’m impressed!”

“It sure beats getting wet or cold opening gates.” To the left, the trees gave way suddenly to a view of lawns sweeping up to the front terrace of a mansion in the Spanish style that had been so popular on the East Coast in the early part of the century-red-tiled roofs, creamy-pink stucco, square towers, grilled windows, all that, and probably a fountain in the central courtyard. A handsome wrought-iron gate between two stuccoed pillars led to the low garages behind the house as we swept obliquely away from it, down a narrow wooded road. Then the woods petered out, and we drove past a complex of paddocks, a jump ring, a fenced orchard with gnarled apple and pear trees under which grazed a bay yearling, just beginning to fill out. He came trotting inquisitively up to the fence and followed us as far as he could. Then he flicked up his heels and went back to his grazing.

“I’ve hopes for that youngster,” Rafe said. “Bred him myself. You’ll see his dam later on.”

We drove straight into a wide flagged yard, through an arched passageway into the inner stable yard. On three sides were box stalls; the fourth, pierced by the arch, was broader, and held, I learned, twelve straight stalls for lesser breeds of horse, a hayloft on one side, and the tack room, garages with grooms’ quarters above, on the other.

Everything was fresh paint and sparkle, the yard well raked and concrete hosed down, with a sense of order and prosperity that ought to soothe but suddenly distressed me.

I had no time to wonder why I was upset. This was the kind of stable, barring a slight difference in style, in which I’d grown up in Lexington. I ought to be reassured. But Rafe had swung out of the car, and Dice was anxious to leave too. I just got the door closed in time to keep him in. Somewhere dogs barked fiercely.

As we let down the ramp of the trailer, a bowlegged man in the tightest pants I’ve ever seen on an adult, male of fifty came rocking through the arch. He was clean-shaven, and his gray hair bristled from his scalp in a month-old crew-cut, but he looked permanently stained. He gave Rafe a dour nod, looked through me, but his face lit up when he saw Rafe backing out Phi Bete. He hurried to take the lead, stroking the mare’s nose and crooning to her lovingly as only a misogynistic horseman can. Her restless prancing ceased, and she snorted at him, butting his shoulder, twisting her neck for his flat-handed caresses. Shameless hussy.

“A beauty, a beauty! Where’d you steal her, boy?”

“She’s my wife’s. Out of Smart Set by Professor D.”

The hostler was impressed, but he still hadn’t acknowledged my existence. Rafe took me by the arm and led me right up to him.

“Albert, this is Nialla Donnelly Clery. We were married today.”

“Meetcha, ma’am…” he mumbled, touching his forehead with a purple-gentian-stained finger of a badly scarred hand. Some horse had teethed on him, from the look of it. Then he did a double-take, and his watery brown eyes gave me. a keen raking. “No relation to Russ Donnelly?”

“His daughter,” said Rafe with almost as much pride as he’d announced Phi Bete’s lineage. He shot me a wicked sidelong glance that intimated I must respond suitably.

“Pleased ta meetcha, ma’am.” And he was. Then he turned to Rafe. “Good blood. Good bones. She ride?”

Rafe’s smile was pure malice as he turned toward the sheeted rump from which Orfeo’s full tail emerged.

“You’d better do the honors, Nialla.” He motioned Albert to move aside as I backed Orfeo carefully down the ramp.

“Juggernaut?” The old man’s eyes widened, and the hand that had been stroking Phi Bete’s nose was motionless.

“Orfeo is what Nialla calls him, and she jumped him two rounds without a fault on those nightmares Sunbury assembled for the trophy this year.”

Albert was not to back down from his position. He gave a grunt. “ ‘S what I’d expect of any foal of Donnelly’s. Put the mare in six?” he asked, turning to lead Phi Bete toward the east side of the stable.

“Yes, and we’ll put Orfeo in seven.”

“I moved the gray like Jerry said I should,” Albert mumbled as he stumped off.

Rafe was feeling Orfeo’s legs with a practiced hand. He tipped up the injured hoof and inspected the frog.

“I’ll give MacNeil a call. We’ll have him fixed up in next to no time, Nialla.”

We watered and stabled Orfeo in a huge corner box, knee-deep in clean straw, the hay basket heaped lightly with fresh timothy.

“Now, about that lion of yours,” Rafe said as we viewed Orfeo over the lower hatch of the_ stall door. “There’s half a dozen beagle hounds, a few barn cats,:and the guard dogs. Each is jealous and insists on his. territorial prerogatives.”

“Guard dogs?”

There was a muscle twitch in the corner of Rafe’s mouth, and no amusement in his eyes.

“Against unauthorized entry,” he said succinctly. “I’ll introduce you to the dogs later. They’re out at night, but they won’t bother anyone to whom they’ve been properly introduced.” He placed his hand on the flat of my back, pushing me toward a break in the hitching rail that ran the three sides, under the roof’s overhang.

Dice was quite glad to be released from durance vile and made a low-haunched run around the yard, stopping to sniff at selected spots. Then he headed straight for Phi Bete’s stall, jumped to the top of the open hatch, teetered, landed on the ground, and trotted to Orfeo’s. He angled his rear legs and leaped up and over. I had to giggle at his muffled “yowie” of surprise. He’d’ve been submerged in the straw. I heard Orfeo whicker.

“Not that I wouldn’t bet on Dice against any animal in the place.”

“Boss, whatin’ell was that just now?” Albert demanded, appearing at Phi Bete’s door.

“Mrs. Clery’s coon cat. He stays with the gelding.”

“Goddamnedest thing I ever saw,” Albert muttered, and turned back into the dimness of the stall.

“Dice’s not aggressive.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” Rafe said with a snort.

He pulled the ramp up, telling me this’d take only a minute, but could I open the second garage door from the end. He backed the trailer into its slot with the ease of long practice, and I know how easy that maneuver is not. He unhitched the tow bar and motioned me to get into the car.

“Albert has obviously fallen in love with Phi Bete, and if Dice takes care of the gelding, they’ll feel at home by morning.”

When we rolled out of the stable yard, Rafe turned right, up a short drive flanked by heavy rhododendron and myrtle plantings, edged with ivy. Slightly hidden by three massive copper beeches was a hip-roofed, dusty-gray-shingled house, looking settled and pleased with itself. And welcoming.

The double-hatched front door was green and welcoming, too. With strap hinges of a trefoil pattern. Before I could take the first step from the car, Rafe swooped me up into his arms and carried me up the short flight to the porch. How he managed the door, I don’t know, but it pushed in.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Clery,” he said in a low voice, his eyes dark with feeling. I buried my face against his neck, against the pounding of his pulse. He let me slowly to my feet, his hands pressing me against him. “Never was able to do that before. Always married Amazons.” Then his hands tightened on my shoulders. “None of them wanted to live here, Nialla. None of them ever came here. You belong here… with me.”

There was an aching hunger in his kiss that effectively erased all thought of my predecessors. He broke the embrace abruptly, standing away and turning me toward the big living room, which ran across the entire front of the house, leading into a dining ell. It was a fireplace-leather-chintz room, with two huge soft Persian rugs. A dignified grandfather clock presided by the staircase opposite the door, by the cloak closet. I suspect there had been alterations on the original floor plan, because the house looked like the front-parlor type. It would likely have a huge kitchen, where most of the living had been done until recently, for the house was old, with broad-planked floors. And while it was not exactly the type of house I’d’ve thought Rafe would live in, it was exactly right for him now that I saw him here. It reflected tried comfort and taste, scrupulously clean and shining. Rafe Clery might affect “mod” sartorial elegance, but he demanded warm serenity, not modern sterility or passing fancy, in his home.

“I’ll get the luggage,” he said, leaving me to wander about the living room. I stepped onto the thick Persian, admired the flowers, and wondered who kept the place so spotless. Two men in the stables, a housekeeper here (live-in?). People who rode the circuit might put on a show of prosperity in public, but Rafe’s was no sham.

“Mrs. Garrison usually leaves around three when I’m not home.” He pointed one suitcase toward the stairs. “C’mon, I’ll show you our room.”

There was a reassuring emphasis on “our.” Three steps led to the first, wide landing, where the steps turned at right angles for the longer portion of the rise, before branching left and right. Instinctively I turned right, toward the front of the house. The door to the master bedroom was invitingly open, and sun shone onto the dark-stained floor from the dormer windows. There was a huge, dynasty-founding bed with carved cherry posts and a hand-loomed cotton spread whose whiteness was accented by the muted tones of an old patchwork quilt. The room was masculine, from the heavy dark furniture to the comfortable leather chairs by the fireplace. Two doors in the right wall must lead to a dressing room and a bathroom, for the bedroom proper was not as long as the living room under it.

As Rafe opened the inner of the two doors, lights came up, revealing sliding closet panels, built-in cabinets, luggage racks on which he deposited the suitcases.

I was suddenly very nervous, oddly tense. I walked with stiff legs to the open window, gazing at the copper beeches, at the lawn beyond, the stable complex hidden by mature evergreens.

He was standing behind me, waiting, and I knew what he was waiting for, because I could feel myself ready. What had come over me, Nialla Donnelly, who had forsworn love? Who was this short man who, by his mere presence, could stir the juices in my loins, make rubber of my knees, and stir wanton lusts I’d never imagined I was capable of?

“Mr. Clery?”

As he unzipped my dress, he kissed the nape of my neck lightly, sensuously, and then progressed with kisses down my backbone, unfastening the bra in the journey. The dress slithered to my feet as his hands flipped the bra straps over my shoulders. As I wriggled out of them, his hands fondled my breasts, traced patterns down my hips to my belly, which drew in at the touch of his fingers. With both hands he pressed against the mound between my legs, pressed and pressed until he was against my buttocks, firm and hard. He released me to slip my pants down far enough so that they dropped the rest of the way to join my dress. As I stepped over them, I heard him undress, and turned to face him, my arms open.

He straightened up, his eyes on me with such an intense expression, hungry, lustful, possessive, and… wary… that it stopped my breath.

Then his arms closed around me, hard, and the next minute we were flat on the bed. He entered me and filled me. Incredibly, he had thrust only a few times before my body responded to his, arching against him. As we merged in a long, long, unbelievable release, I was dimly aware of two voices crying out at the same instant.

The warm blaze of the sun in my face roused me from a sleep as deep and restful as a cat’s. The quilt was tucked up under my chin, a pillow under my head, but we were lying across the width of the bed, instead of the length. Rafe’s hands were clasped behind his head, and his eyes were open, idly following the patterns of the sun-splotched leaf shadows on the white ceiling. His profile was somehow younger than full-face, the straight short nose, the sensitive lips, the sharp dip to the square chin. His beard was apparent. I could see the pulse in his throat, toc, toc, toc. The plateau of his chest with the fine edging of black hair. He smelled male, with overtones of antiperspirant and after-shave, an enticingly sensual combination. I was suddenly conscious that my breasts ached and smarted and that my nether regions were sore, but I was too languidly relaxed to care at all.

He turned his head to grin at me, his eyes warm, and so loving that I felt my body inclining eagerly toward him. He gathered me gently, not passionately, to him, and cradled my head on his chest.

“For God’s sake, I find I’m married to a sexpot.” Then deliberately he passed his hand over one breast, and I flinched at the soreness. “I didn’t intend to rough you up so much, dear heart,” he said seriously, “but you’re a powerful temptation to the beast in me, and so, so lovable.” He gave me an affectionate squeeze and then touched the tip of my nose with one finger. “But you’re not used to this sport of kings. I’m not about to override you… yet!” And his expression hinted of excesses to come, excesses I knew now I’d welcome at his hands, in his arms.

We both heard the faint engine throb and recognized the Austin-Healey’s motor.

“Can’t say I’m sorry Jerry took so long, but I was wondering what had happened to him.”

With a sigh, Rafe threw back the quilt and padded to the mound of discarded clothes.

“No need to disturb yourself, Nialla. I’ll be back.” I was only too glad to remain warm and lazy under the quilt, although I’d’ve preferred him alongside me. The Austin-Healey came throatily up the short drive from the stable, and then I heard Rafe’s steps on the porch below.

“Car give you trouble, Jerry?” Rafe asked. “Or the cops?”

“Cops, but not with the car, boss.”

“Oh?”

“That detective stopped me in Sunbury. Thought I was you.” Jerry gave a snort, and Rafe chuckled. “He was real pissed off because he’d been told you and Miss-Mrs. Clery had checked out of the motel Monday morning. And he had some questions.”

At the tone of Jerry’s voice, I sat bolt upright, clutching the quilt around me.

“What sort of questions?”

“Seems like they found Pete Sankey-dead!”

“Dead?”

“Head bashed in, lying in a culvert the other side of the parking lot.”

I didn’t want to listen, but I had to. I huddled under the quilt, trying to pretend the voices were from a radio program or something else absolutely unconnected with me and a Pete Sankey with his head bashed in.

“Poor old Pete. Who’d want to hurt him?”

“According to Mac-I checked with him after the cop finished with me-Pete was very upset about that fire. You know how he was about horses, boss. And Mac got the impression that Pete knew something about how that fire started. Last thing he said to Mac was he wanted to talk to someone about a horse. No one saw him after that on Monday.”

“You got this last from Mac? Or did Michaels tell you?”

Jerry made a noise. “That Michaels doesn’t say much, but he can ask some real sharp questions.”

“For instance?”

“Oh, take it easy, boss,” Jerry said, for Rafe’s question had been sharp. “Nothing about you.”

A phone rang, the echoing jangle startlingly close to me. I hadn’t noticed that there was an extension by the bed.

“Yes?” Rafe answered it downstairs. “Oh. No, madam, I didn’t sneak in.” The coldness in his voice was so marked that he was almost a different person. “I’ve been here several hours. No. MacCrate was driving the Austin. Yes, I was in Sunbury over the weekend. No. I understood you were in the Laurentians.” His tone, if possible, got colder and… not insolently polite… but that terribly precise courtesy that’s accorded someone hated and unavoidable. “What’s his number? Thank you. I’ll call immediately. No, Mother, sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t murder anyone.”

Yet. The word hung unsaid in the silence. Then the extension beside the bed gave a startled “twing” as the downstairs receiver was slammed into its cradle.

“I had to give Michaels this number, boss,” Jerry said in a subdued apologetic voice.

“Not to worry, Jerry. I hadn’t switched the line back to the Dower House yet.” Rafe sounded grim still, but he wasn’t addressing Jerry in that stilted, almost-Englishy-affected way. “Albert can’t be trusted to answer a phone, you know, so Garry always switches our line back to the big house.”

“Shall I put the Austin up, or will you be needing it?”

“No, I won’t be needing it. And please let the dogs out this evening before you go.”

“I always do when madam’s at home,” Jerry said, sounding disgusted. “Will you be working the string to morrow, boss?”

“Naturally.”

“I thought being newlywed…”

“This time I married a horsewoman, Jerry. Good evening.”

And Rafe had called that woman “Mother”? It must be his stepmother, I thought, trying to explain his astounding reaction to her. It had to be his stepmother, I decided when he came in, his face bleakly expressionless.

“I heard…” I said, gesturing to the open window. “Yes, you would have heard it all,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets as he slowly walked across the room to me. He stood, for a moment, looking down at me where I huddled under the quilt, and then his expression softened, he became Rafe Clery-”Sure, Mr. Clery”-again.

“Shall we get the fuzz off our necks?” he asked with a rueful grin.

I swallowed my surprise, because the emotional tension of the phone call had caused me to forget completely the previous conversation.

I nodded, because, honestly, I didn’t want to. Michaels had been polite and deferential, but he’d only been querying me about a fire, not a murder. A second murder, because Pete Sankey was dead because he had tried to help me. His murder was almost as senseless as my father’s. Had the man who killed Pete killed my father too? And why? Why?

Rafe was dialing the number stolidly, frowning as the very brusque, bored voice of the sergeant-operator identified precinct, town, and himself. Rafe held the phone slightly tilted from his left ear so that I could hear perfectly.

“Michaels there?”

“Detective Michaels? I’ll check.” Michaels answered after a very short pause.

“Rafe Clery here. I understand you’ve been trying to reach us.”

“Yes, I have, Mr. Clery, and I’ve had some funny answers.”

“I paid the desk clerk, because my wife had been bothered enough, and she needed rest more than rapping. Check with the doctor-Prentice, his name was, I think, if you like.”

“You cleared out in a hurry today, too.” “I cleared out because I got married this morning, and show-circuit people have some pretty obstreperous notions of how to celebrate nuptials if they know about them.”

Michaels mumbled something, then said, “I’d heard you and Miss Dunn were engaged. My congratulations.” He sounded as if he meant it. “However, I have some questions about the fire, and…”

“Pete Sankey’s death?”

“Yes,” Michaels said after a brief pause. “I gather MacCrate got back. Where were you and Miss Dunn Monday night?”

To my astonishment, Rafe began to chuckle. “Michaels, man to man, I’d rather not answer that question. The desk clerk was paid twenty to say we’d checked out. We hadn’t. But there’s no alibi, because I gave Nialla a sleeping pill and took one myself.”

I thought I heard a sigh. “Is Mrs. Clery able to come to the phone?”

“She’s here, listening in, as I am.” Rafe stressed the last three words. “A conference call, you might say.” I had no choice. Rafe tipped the phone toward me.

“Yes, Mr. Michaels?”

“I do apologize for disturbing you, Mrs. Clery, but I’d rather not have to make you come back here today.”

“Not a chance of that, Michaels. Doctor’s orders,” Rafe cut in.

“I do have some questions that I’m certain you can answer right now, and we can get a statement later if necessary,” Michaels went on, as if Rafe hadn’t interrupted. “I understand that Pete Sankey worked for you over the weekend.”

“Well, not exactly worked, Lieutenant. He was kind enough to stay with my horses while I was at dinner.”

“I see. He was watching your stock the night of the fire?”

“Yes. He got the mare out and gave the alarm.” “Have you seen him since the fire?”

“No. I haven’t, but they said he’d been into A-Barn on Monday. We wanted to thank him and-couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“Then he never mentioned to you that he might have seen someone or something suspicious around G-Barn the night of the fire?”

“No, not to me, but then I wasn’t…”

“Michaels”-Rafe had the phone again-”she passed out in A-Barn. And Pete said nothing to me when I saw him on Monday. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist at best.”

“Mr. Clery”-and Michaels’ voice lost a little of its courtesy-”I’m trying to help your wife, not harass her. Her father was murdered, Pete Sankey is dead, and there have been three attempts to harm her. I’m frankly worried for her safety.”

“Why the hell do you think I got her out of that town?”

Michaels sighed again. “Unfortunately, everyone knows where you live. I’m informing the local authorities…”

“My farm is fenced, Michaels, and I run guard dogs at night. Let Bob Erskine alone.”

Michaels said nothing for a long moment, then asked to speak to me again.

“Please try, Mrs. Clery, to think back to the time of your father’s death. Try to remember the most minute, unimportant details.”

“It’s no use, Mr. Michaels. I told the police everything then.”

“You may know something, Mrs. Clery, you don’t think you do. Give the matter some thought, please, for your own sake.”

“There is something, though.”

“Yes?”

“About this last weekend. I saw a man I used to know on the West Coast, Caps Galvano. He was at the Sunbury Fair.”

“And that’s a helluva funny place”-Rafe had grabbed the phone back-”for Galvano, Michaels, because he’s a racetrack tout from California. And a guy answering his general description was seen leaving the car that blared a horn while Nialla was jumping the black.” Rafe gave a quick description of Galvano. “He used to run a certain kind of service for Lou Marchmount, and Lou Marchmount was in Sunbury Monday night.”

“Russ Donnelly trained for Marchmount, didn’t he?” Michaels’ voice had quickened with interest. “

“Yes, he did.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clery. Thank you very much. And please stay put. I’ll try not to bother you any more than necessary.”

“That would be appreciated,” Rafe said, and hung up. “We’ll let him worry about it. Goddamn, why can’t I once have a peaceful, uninterrupted honeymoon?” he demanded, slapping his hands on his knees in two loud cracks.

It wasn’t a rebuke; it was an utterly exasperated complaint about conspiracy, which, combined with the long-suffering expression on his face, struck me as so ludicrous, under the circumstances, that I collapsed into giggles. His hard strong arms came around me, his laughter was in my ear as we rolled on the bed together. His eyes were merry, and he was not the frightening cold man who had stood in the doorway a few moments before. Suddenly he stripped the quilt from me, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me off the bed with such force that I was propelled toward the closest at a run, when he let go. As I passed him, I was sped on by a smart slap on my bare rump.

“Get some clothes on, woman. I’m starving. And if I don’t feed you up, I’ll chop off my hand on your bony arse.”

The new dressing gown was at the top of the suitcase, and I was mightily relieved that he didn’t suggest dining out, I wanted to be alone with him. Alone and safe with the high fence and the guard dogs on the prowl.

“There’d better be steak in the freezer, or Garry gets fired.”

“Garry?”

“Garry. Mrs. Garrison. You don’t think a bachelor keeps a house looking like this, do you? As far as I know,” he said, clipping me about the waist and pulling me toward the stairs, “Garry doesn’t eat brides.”

“I guess you ought to know by now.”

“That’s a snide remark,” he said, with no rancor, and turned me to the right at the bottom step.

It was a grand kitchen, and, as I suspected, had probably been the center of the house’s daily life in other eras. A huge fireplace dominated one wall, but the kitchen fittings had been moved from the hearth to the east wall. A harvest table with rush-bottomed chairs was set in front of the fireplace now, with an electrified big-welled kerosene lamp hanging from the ceiling, its shade a rose color. Separated from the breakfasting area and the kitchen were closets and cupboards and obviously a freezer unit as well as a washing machine and a clothes dryer. “What a marvelous kitchen!”

“Efficient, too. Had it redone to Garry’s specifications- she drove the builder nuts-when I took the house over. She’s not as young as she used to be… hey,” and he hugged me, sensing my sudden anxiety about measuring up to someone he obviously cared for. “God, she’s been after me to marry some ‘nice girl.’ She’ll take care of you, too, and put flesh on your bones, so you’ll be up to circuit riding.”

“Rafe, do you think there’s any chance of Orfeo showing…”

“With any luck,” Rafe assured me smoothly, peering into the freezer. He came up with a freezer-wrapped square package. “Hey, how about meatloaf! With baked potatoes, the cheap kind. If you can find salad makings… you do know how to cook, don’t you?”

“Of course I know how to cook!” I was indignant. “None of my other wives could,” he replied imperturbably.

I found silence the best reproof, and began to fix a salad. There were fresh strawberries, all hulled and washed, under a Saran sheet. They’d be marvelous for dessert.

“But if that hoof doesn’t heal…”

“That hoof’ll heal,” Rafe assured me again, his eyes suddenly focused beyond me in a determined stare.

Almost as if Orfeo had to jump for a purpose beyond mine. Then Rafe told me where to find condiments and bowls as he started the oven, and we were pleasantly busy.

Sometime during the night, I heard dogs barking. At least, I was sure I heard the dogs, but Rafe’s reassuring murmur, his hands clasping mine warmly, made the incident scant concern of mine.