Two of A Kind
Part 20By Rosemarie Hauer
Excited voices from behind and around her told her that their short moment of privacy had passed, yet Vincent's eyes remained with her while he descended the staircase and strode across the room to accept the enthusiastic welcome his family was offering. Then, between hugs and shoulder-clapping, his attention was gradually drawn into casual conversation, and while he patiently answered countless questions his gaze kept returning to hers, talking only to her, and telling her all that she needed to know. At last he was standing before her, and the weight of countless pairs of eyes watching them lay heavily on her mind. He opened his arms, and the next thing she knew was that he was holding her, wordlessly and all too briefly, yet with a tenderness and intimacy that made her swallow hard when she found herself being released again. The cheerful chatter went on and on as everyone took their seats, continuing their interrogation and discussion.
Vincent had come to sit opposite Catherine at the large octagonal table in Father's study, and she became painfully aware of how much she was missing the physical closeness they had shared during their journey. Not just the closeness of intimacy in particular, but also the casual closeness of sharing a meal or a simple task or a quiet talk by the fire.
For Vincent's sake, Catherine tried to concentrate on the conversation and participate as best she could, and the way he subtly involved her by asking her questions about Amy or about her own return, touched her deeply.
From what Vincent told about the difficulties he had met on the route he had taken, Catherine was certain that it must have been a rather dangerous one. She noted the concern in Father's voice as he asked, "For heaven's sake, Vincent, couldn't you have chosen the path over the Ebony Caverns?"
"That would have taken me at least two additional days," Vincent explained patiently, "and I'm afraid my supplies wouldn't have lasted that much longer."
Because you had to feed me, Catherine thought ruefully, and she could tell from the look Vincent gave her that he was aware of what she had just been thinking.
"In what condition did you find the bridge across the Great Chasm?" Winslow inquired while Vincent was sipping the tea Mary had brought for him.
"All facts considered, I found it to be remarkably safe," Vincent replied. "We should send a repair team down there, though, to replace the older planks on the western end of the bridge. We may have to use it a lot more now that we can no longer pass through the maze."
After a while Catherine's attention began to drift and instead of listening she found herself simply watching Vincent's every move and gesture. The creases on his forehead had deepened with fatigue, and his eyes appeared even more deep-set than usual. The pallor beneath the golden stubble on his face spoke about the exertions he had put himself through. Yet, his voice sounded firm and certain, as were his gestures, and she wished that she could hold those strong, gentle hands, stroke their backs, and press intimate kisses on their palms. She wanted to thank those hands, thank him for guiding her safely through the darkness and perils of the underground world, for holding her when she needed it most, for loving and cherishing her when she thought she least deserved it.
"Catherine?" The questioning tone in Vincent's voice intruded on her reverie, and when she realized that she must have missed what he had just said to her she felt a blush rise on her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she muttered with an apologetic smile. "I guess I was a little distracted."
"I said that you look tired," he repeated softly, "and so I asked if you would like me to walk you back to your basement."
"Vincent, you must be terribly tired yourself," she replied, touched by his solicitude, "especially after such a long and trying walk. I can't..."
"Because it was such a long walk," he interrupted her gently, "this short distance won't make too much of a difference." He held her gaze with his, a silent plea in his eyes, and she felt her heart grow wide with happiness and pride that she was loved by someone as wonderful as he.
"Let's go then," she suggested quietly.
Following Vincent up the stairs and into the corridor outside, she noticed that she was automatically focusing her attention on his heels, just like he had taught her. A little farther down the tunnel he stopped and turned around.
"What makes you smile?" he asked, tilting his head to look at her inquiringly.
She lifted one hand, touching it to his face in a soft caress. "I was just thinking that I find it hard to let go of the habits that I acquired during our trip," she answered truthfully.
His lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak, but he just stared at her wordlessly, and she could only guess at the direction his thoughts had taken.
Voices from the adjoining tunnel dispelled the intensity of the moment, and, taking her hand in his, he turned to resume walking.
Fortunately these tunnels were spacious enough to walk side by side, which had been impossible during the most part of their journey outside the inhabited area, and Catherine thought that walking beside him had never been more beautiful than now that every brush of his shoulder against hers, every small glance, and even the silence between them spoke of what they had shared, of the certainty that they had become one in ways which transcended even their dreams.
When they arrived at the small ante-chamber beneath the basement, Catherine hesitated to leave. For all the closeness they were experiencing, she sensed a strange distance about Vincent, something she couldn't quite grasp. She looked up into his face, wishing she could sense more clearly what was going on inside him. For long uncounted moments there was no other sound than their breathing, and then a rustle of clothes as he extended his arms to pull her to him with a soft moan. "You must go," he whispered, and she was shaken by the despair she could hear in his voice.
Tightening her arms around him, she murmured, "I don't want to go."
"I know," he breathed, cupping the back of her head with one large hand and cradling it against his chest. She inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of him that she had missed so much.
"Please don't," he cautioned with a small gasp. "I have not bathed in days and I feel..."
"...dusty and sweaty?" she finished for him in remembrance of a moment not too long ago when they had exchanged almost exactly the same words.
He loosened his embrace and she leaned back just enough to glance up into his searching eyes. The gaze that passed between them was vibrant with barely restrained desire, and she released a low moan as his head came down and their lips met in a hungry kiss. At that moment he held back nothing, and the feel of him, the taste of him made her heart swell as if it wanted to burst and dissolve into his.
They were both panting for air when his mouth finally released hers, and from the way he straightened and briefly closed his eyes she could tell that his control was slowly returning.
"Catherine," he sighed, "we must talk."
A cold gust of apprehension swept over her and her voice was trembling when she said, "You've had much time for thinking down there, haven't you?"
"Yes," he affirmed softly.
"So you are having doubts," she remarked, watching his face closely for any sign that might give her some clue as to what she had to expect.
"Not doubts," he amended quickly, "rather concerns. Catherine, I could never doubt that what happened between us was true..." He hesitated briefly before adding, "...and right."
Catherine felt tears of relief well up in her eyes. "I'm glad," she whispered voicelessly. He relinquished his tight hold on her and just took her hands instead. There was no need to hear him say the words that were in his heart. She could see them all there in his eyes.
"We both need to rest," she said finally, unable to ignore the fatigue that showed in his features any longer. "I just wish..." she began, and they both smiled wistfully, remembering the nights they had spent side by side, warming each other.
"I know," he whispered softly. "So do I."
She nodded solemnly. "Those concerns you mentioned earlier..." she prompted.
"We better discuss that another time," he suggested, slowly releasing her hands.
"Another time," she agreed with one last look of longing before she turned to climb up the ladder.
*
TOUCHING THE RAINBOW
Vincent turned the small envelope in his hands, reluctant to open it. A message from Catherine usually meant that she would not be able to come Below for a while. If it had been hard on him before not to see her for several days, it was barely endurable now that they had grown so close. Two weeks had passed by since his return, but they hadn't had one moment alone together, not even for a much needed talk. Slowly Vincent slit the envelope open with one sharp nail and unfolded the sheet of writing paper it contained.
"Dear Vincent," the note read, "I will be home rather late, tonight, too late to come Below. I need to talk to you, though. Could you come around midnight? Please send a message if you can't. Love, Catherine."
With an involuntary sigh he gently refolded the note, tucked it back into the envelope, and placed it on his writing table. The prospect of being alone with Catherine in the confines of her apartment was suddenly rather disquieting, and he surmised that it had something to do with his secret fear of not being able to give her everything she longed for; everything she needed. Even now, having experienced the beauty and rightness of the physical aspect of their love, he found the concept of going to see her with thoughts of lovemaking in the back of his mind quite unsettling. Retrieving the envelope from his table, he reread her lines, instantly ashamed of his thoughts. She wanted to talk. What had possessed him to think of anything else? With an impatient groan he put the letter back on his desk, wondering if he would ever learn to find his way through all these new and unsettling facets of his life.
*
It was an hour past midnight when Vincent finally heard a key being turned in the door. The lights went on and he could see the expectancy on Catherine's face as her eyes strayed to the balcony doors. He moved from the shadows and stepped into the light, in order to make his presence known. A wide smile spread on her face and she crossed the room to push the French doors open.
"You should have come in and waited inside," she chided softly, but he shook his head. There was a strange look in her eyes when she gazed up at him. His mind was already beginning to form an explanation why he had rather waited outside, but she grabbed his hand and tugged gently. Complying with her wordless plea, he followed her inside, curious, and also a little apprehensive, as to what she wanted to tell him.
"Did Father tell you about Olivia Foster?" she began as they were seated on the couches, facing each other. He nodded, his heart constricting in uneasy foreboding. "I told Father that I feel I should talk with that woman," she resumed, "but he made it quite clear that he thinks it better to leave the matter alone. What is your opinion, Vincent?"
That was something he hadn't been prepared for. "Why now?" he wanted to know. "Wouldn't it be wise to think it over more thoroughly?"
"I have to go to Chicago for an interrogation concerning the case I'm working on. I thought on that occasion I should try to find Mrs. Foster and find out the truth."
He could feel a tight knot forming in his stomach, and suddenly the air in the apartment seemed to be stifling and hot. "The truth," he ground out between clenched teeth, "is something that can destroy just as much as it can heal."
"But, Vincent, you're torturing yourself with something that most likely never happened," she said, looking at him pleadingly.
"And what if it did?" he demanded. "What if you have to face a truth you find yourself unable to live with? Catherine, what you might hear...." Words deserted him, and he bent forward to bury his face in his palms.
Instantly she was by his side, placing a comforting arm around his shoulders. "Vincent, nothing she could possibly tell me would change what we have," she said softly. Heedless of her touch he rose to his feet, clenching his hands into taut fists.
"How can you say that, Catherine? How can you know that? How can you even think that it would not affect our relationship if you had to hear that the...man you took into your bed behaved like an animal?"
"Let me point out once more that I still think Paracelsus told you a lie. But even if it were true that you raped that woman, it wouldn't have been you but the drug," she insisted.
Suddenly finding it very hard to breathe, Vincent started pacing back and forth fiercely. "That is nonsense," he retorted sharply, pivoting and raising his fists in emphasis. "It was this body, these hands. I could not have done it if this...dark side weren't within me...somewhere."
"That's what I'm trying to tell you," she replied softly. "You don't have it within yourself to do such a thing."
Her infinite trust in his goodness was the heaviest burden that had ever pressed upon his heart. "But I do have it within me to kill," he stated flatly.
"You did it protecting and defending those that you love," she pointed out. "That is a deeply ingrained instinct in everyone."
"As is...procreation," he said dejectedly, unable to meet her gaze. He could hear her walking over to where he stood, and he gasped as her arms came up to encircle his waist from behind. He could hardly endure her touch in his current state of mind, but he held still, not wanting to hurt her further.
Leaning her head against his back, she whispered, "And love."
Gently extricating himself from her embrace, he turned and deliberately sought her gaze. "If you are so certain that I didn't do it, then why would you feel the need to seek out that woman?"
He saw a brief flicker of uncertainty in her eyes before she briefly cast them down to escape his intent stare. "Because I think that we all deserve the truth," she answered slowly, returning her gaze to his. "I don't agree with you that the truth will destroy anything. Maybe it will cut deeply, but bleeding will wash out the things that now fester in your soul, Vincent, and eventually we will heal."
"Please don't do this," he heard his own pleading voice.
"I must," came her quiet reply.
He opened his arms then, and she stepped into his embrace, pressing her face into the folds of his vest. "I know," he whispered softly into her hair. "I know."