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With that, he walked out into the dusk.
It should have been another way between them but, because of her lie, it was not. When they lay together it could never be anything more than a sordid coupling, in the heat of the moment, a hunger sated and instantly forgotten. In a moment of weakness, he may want her, but she realised then, that he would always despise her.
***
Murray cursed under his breath, watching the sun dip below the horizon, turning the waves to a fiery, churning gold. The soft feeling of tenderness which had come over him in Ilene’s arms had taken him by surprise. And she was so beautiful as she lay beneath him, with her black hair falling over her lush breasts, her eyes on fire with pleasure, the way she had wrapped herself around him, her passion matching his. He was shocked by the strength of his desire for her. Was it because part of him did still hate her? If so, it was an unwholesome desire he wanted to banish. Was it simply her wanton, reckless abandonment to sensation, her love of the act and the way she gave herself so completely to it? Or was it because she had some terrible hold over him so his body followed where his mind and heart led?
He had truly cared for her until that cruel thought had crept back into his mind, like a thief in the night. Did she offer herself up to him as a penance, to make him forgive her? Did she take pleasure from their coupling or merely endure it? How could he ever really know the truth of it?
Best he didn’t let his guard down with her, no matter how lovely she was, no matter how much joy she brought to his bed. Ilene had brought him so low that he could never trust her again, so he had lashed out at her with his words, killing the tenderness with bitterness. It had brought no relief, for even now, he longed to rush back into the cottage and take her again so that for one sweet moment he could forget the pain he felt every single day in her presence.
How could a man both love and hate the same woman? No one should feel this much, but he could not end the torture. She belonged to him now and he wanted her still, in spite of her betrayal he wanted her, and he would never, ever let her go.
Chapter Twenty
Murray returned from Cuan Dubh to find the cottage empty. Sudden panic took him. Had Ilene made good on her promise to leave him?
Two long weeks of silence and avoidance had followed his bedding her and he had deserved it for behaving like a fool, he knew that much. Ever since that day, he had been trying to find a way back from what he’d said to her.
He rushed out and looked down the beach and, ah, there she was, picking up driftwood, her hair blowing behind her like a black standard. The wind carried the merest hint of a tune she was whistling as she walked doggedly on, leaning into the wind, indomitable in the face of it, as she was generally in life, it seemed.
He turned and went inside. The fire was burning brightly in the hearth and the room was warm and neat. She must have cleaned the little, mullioned windows for the sun streamed brightly in. His eye caught a flash of purple as it lit onto some foxgloves, stuffed into a yellow earthenware pot on the table. A memory, old but vivid, stirred in him.
His back raw from a whipping, he couldn’t remember what for. Ilene was sitting beside him, with the foxgloves forming a purple carpet all over the woodland floor. She could not have been more than six or seven. He remembered the fragility of her dirty little fingers squeezing his in commiseration. No words had been necessary between them. Then she had pressed a brooch into his hand, something she had received that day and cherished, yet she was giving it to him to make him feel better. As clear as day he could recall how the absolute kindness of Ilene’s gesture had made love bloom in his breast. Aye, he had felt love for her that day, love for a little girl whom he had sworn to always protect. He could recall telling her that and meaning it, yet a few months later he had left her behind. Unearthing that memory hit him hard and, for a moment, he hated himself.
When he’d left Cailleach he had been angry, virtually penniless and all alone in the world, but against the odds, he had managed to flourish. He was like a weed that is unwanted but strong, sucking out every last drop of nourishment from the earth, pushing ever upwards towards the light, until it was big enough and strong enough to smother the pretty flowers around it. Is that what he was doing to Ilene now, choking the life out of her with his anger and bitterness. Was his jealousy turning something which could have been beautiful into something dead and worthless?
Rushing from the cottage he got back on his horse and sped along the path back to the village and the harbour.
***
Ilene was sitting at the table when Murray burst in hours later. She smiled weakly at him, unsure of his response, as always. For a moment he loomed over her feeling awkward.
‘Here,’ he said, handing her a bundle of sacking tied up roughly with string.
He did not meet her eye when she stared at him.
‘Are you going to open it?’
Ilene undid the string and the parcel fell open to reveal several bundles of cloth. Her eye was drawn to one of luxurious crimson silk.
‘Oh,’ she said standing up in confusion. ‘Is...is it for me?’
‘Who else would it be for, the pig?’ he said gruffly. ‘I thought you might make a fine dress out of the silk and the other, well, your dresses will get tight...what I mean is…as the bairn grows in your belly they won’t fit. I know little of such things, but maybe Flora can help you, with the sewing and measuring and such.’
‘Oh Murray, this one is so beautiful,’ she exclaimed spreading out the silk, holding it up against her.
The rich red brought out her dark beauty to miraculous effect. As her pregnancy had progressed and their life together had settled somewhat, she had changed. Ilene had ceased to be the tense, pale creature, cowed by his every word, with shame dogging her every step. Now there was a little swell to her belly and a bloom in her cheeks. She seemed to be lit from within, her skin had a glow to it, like the sheen on a fine pearl. She had become a lush, alluring stranger who made him feel things he ought not to feel. Looking at her Murray could feel the blood surging in his veins and rushing to his manhood so he hid his desire with his usual terseness.
‘I cannot have my wife going around in rags.’
‘Wherever did you get it, Murray? Such fine cloth is not to be had around here.’
‘I bargained with some men whose boat pulled into the harbour. Though I fear they were more pirate than fishermen.’
‘Oh, you mean it is stolen?’
‘I should think so and they drove a hard bargain. But it would be a crime indeed if it were to adorn anyone but you. It is the perfect colour against your skin.’
