Once More With Feeling Page 11

  Raven could look down from the safety of a waist-high wall and watch the water foam and lash out at jagged clumps of rock far below. The view sent a thrill of terror and delight through her. The sea roared below, a smashing fury of sound. Raven stood, heedless of the chill drizzle, and tried to take it all in.

  “It’s fabulous. Fabulous!” Turning, she lifted her face, studying the house again. Against the stone, in a great tangle of vines, grew wild roses and honeysuckles. They were greening, not yet ready to bloom, but she could already imagine their fragrance. A rock garden had been added, and among the tender green shoots was an occasional flash of color.

  “You might find the inside fabulous, too,” Brand ventured, laughing when she turned her wet face to him. “And dry.”

  “Oh, Brandon, don’t be so unromantic.” She turned a slow circle until she faced the house again. “It’s like something out of Wuthering Heights.”

  He took her hand. “Unromantic or not, mate, I want a bath, a hot one, and my tea.”

  “That does have a nice sound to it,” she admitted but hung back as he pulled her to the door. She thought the cliffs wonderfully jagged and fierce. “Will we have scones? I developed a taste for them when I toured England a couple years ago. Scones and clotted cream—why does that have to sound so dreadful?”

  “You’ll have to take that up with Mrs. Pengalley,” Brand began as he placed his hand on the knob. It opened before he could apply any pressure.

  Mrs. Pengalley looked much as Raven had jokingly described her. She was indeed a sturdily built woman with dark hair sternly disciplined into a sensible bun. She had dark, sober eyes that passed briefly over Raven, took in the braids and damp clothing, then rested on Brandon without a flicker of expression.

  “Good morning, Mr. Carstairs, you made good time,” she said in a soft, Cornish burr.

  “Hullo, Mrs. Pengalley, it’s good to see you again. This is Ms. Williams, who’ll be staying with me.”

  “Her room’s ready, sir. Good morning, Miss Williams.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pengalley,” said Raven, a trifle daunted. This, she was sure, was what was meant by “a formidable woman.” “I hope I haven’t put you to too much trouble.”

  “There’s been little to do.” Mrs. Pengalley’s dark eyes shifted to Brand again. “There be fires laid, and the pantry’s stocked, as you instructed. I’ve done you a casserole for tonight. You’ve only to heat it when you’ve a mind to eat. Mr. Pengalley laid in a good supply of wood; the nights’re cool, and it’s been damp. He’ll be bringing your bags in now We heard you drive up.”

  “Thanks.” Brand glanced over, seeing that Raven was already wandering around the room. “We’re both in need of a hot bath and some tea, then we should do well enough. Is there anything you want in particular, Raven?”

  She glanced back over at the sound of her name but hadn’t been attentive to the conversation. “I’m sorry. What?”

  He smiled at her. “Is there anything you’d like before Mrs. Pengalley sees to tea?”

  “No.” Raven smiled at the housekeeper. “I’m sure everything’s lovely.”

  Mrs. Pengalley inclined her head, her body bending not an inch. “I’ll make your tea, then.” As she swept from the room, Raven shot Brand a telling glance. He grinned and stretched his back.

  “You continually amaze me, Brandon,” she murmured, then went back to her study of the room.

  It was, Raven knew, the room in which they would be doing most of their work over the next weeks. A grand piano, an old one which, she discovered on a quick testing run, had magnificent tone, was set near a pair of narrow windows. Occasional rag rugs dotted the oak-planked floor. The drapes were cream-colored lace and obviously handworked. Two comfortable sofas, both biscuit-colored, and a few Chippendale tables completed the furniture.

  A fire crackled in the large stone fireplace. Raven moved closer to examine the pictures on the mantel.

  At a glance, she could tell she was looking at Brand’s family. There was a teenage boy in a black leather jacket whose features were the same as Brand’s though his dark hair was a bit longer and was as straight as Raven’s. He wore the same cocky grin as his brother. A woman was next; Raven thought her about twenty-five and astonishingly pretty with fair hair and slanted green eyes and a true English rose complexion. For all the difference in coloring, however, the resemblance to Brand was strong enough for Raven to recognize his sister. She was in another picture along with a blond man and two boys. Both boys had dark hair and the Carstairs mischief gleaming in their eyes. Raven decided Brand’s sister had her hands full.

  Raven studied the picture of Brand’s parents for some time. The tall, thin frame had been passed down from his father, but it seemed only one of the children had inherited his fair, English looks. Raven judged it to be an old snapshot—twenty, perhaps twenty-five, years old. It had been painstaking staged, with the man and woman dead center, standing straight in their Sunday best. The woman was dark and lovely. The man looked a bit self-conscious and ill at ease having to pose, but the woman beamed into the camera. Her eyes bespoke mischief and her mouth a hint of the cockiness so easily recognized in her children.

  There were more pictures: family groups and candid shots, with Brand in several of them. The Carstairses were very much a family. Raven felt a small stir of envy. Shaking it off, she turned back to Brand and smiled.

  “This is quite a group.” She flicked her fingers behind her toward the mantel. “You’re the oldest, aren’t you? I think I read that somewhere. The resemblance is remarkable.”

  “Sweeney genes from my mother’s side,” Brand told her, looking beyond her shoulder at the crowded grouping of frames. “The only one they slipped up on a bit was Alison.” He ran a hand through his damp hair and came to stand beside her. “Let me take you upstairs, love, and get you settled in. The grand tour can wait until we’re dry.” He slipped an arm around her. “I’m glad you’re here, Raven. I’ve never seen you with things that are mine before. And hotel rooms, no matter how luxurious, are never home.”

  Later, lounging in a steaming tub, Raven thought over Brand’s statement. It was part of the business of being an entertainer to spend a great many nights in hotel rooms, albeit luxury suites, in their positions, but they were hotel rooms nonetheless. Home was a place for between concerts and guest appearances, and to her, it had become increasingly important over the years. It seemed the higher she rose, the more she needed a solid base. She realized it was the same with Brand.

  They’d both been on the road for several weeks. He was home now, and somehow Raven knew already that she, too, would be at home there. For all its age and size, there was something comforting in the house. Perhaps, Raven mused as she lazily soaped a leg, it’s the age and size. Continuity was important to her, as she felt she’d had little of it in her life, and space was important for the same reason.

  Raven had felt an instant affinity for the house. She liked the muffled roar of the sea outside her window and the breathtaking view. She liked the old-fashioned porcelain tub with the curved legs and the oval, mahogany-framed mirror over the tiny pedestal sink.

  Rising from the tub, she lifted a towel from the heated bar. When she had dried herself, she wrapped a thick, buff-colored towel around her before letting down her hair. The two braids fell from where she had pinned them atop of her head. Absently, as she wandered back into the bedroom, she began to undo them.

  Her luggage still sat beside an old brass chest, but she didn’t give much thought to unpacking. Instead she walked to the window seat set in the south wall and knelt on the padded cushion.

  Below her the sea hurled itself onto the rocks, tossed up by the wind. There was a sucking, drawing sound before it crashed back onto the shingles and cliffs. Like the sky, they were gray, except for where the waves crested in stiff, white caps. The rain drizzled still, with small drops hitting her window to trail lazily downward. Placing her arms on the wide sill, Raven rested her chin on them and l
ost herself in dreamy contemplation of the scene below.

  “Raven.”

  She heard Brand’s call and the knock and answered both absently. “Yes, come in.”

  “I thought you might be ready to go downstairs,” he said.

  “In a minute. What a spectacular view this is! Come look. Does your room face the sea like this? I think I could sit here watching it forever.”

  “It has its points,” he agreed and came over to stand behind her. He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t know you had such a fondness for the sea.”

  “Yes, always, but I’ve never had a room where I felt right on top of it before. I’m going to like hearing it at night.” She smiled over her shoulder at him. “Is your house in Ireland on the coast, too?”

  “No, it’s more of a farm, actually. I’d like to take you there.” He ran his fingers through her hair, finding it thick and soft and still faintly damp. “It’s a green, weepy country, and as appealing as this one, in a different way.”

  “That’s your favorite, isn’t it?” Raven smiled up at him. “Even though you live in London and come here to do work, it’s the place in Ireland that’s special.”

  He returned the smile. “If it wasn’t that there’d have been Sweeneys and Hardestys everywhere we looked, I’d have taken you there. My mother’s family,” he explained, “are very friendly people. If the score goes well, perhaps we can take a bit of a vacation there when we’re done.”

  Raven hesitated. “Yes . . . I’d like that.”

  “Good.” The smile turned into a grin. “And I like your dress.”

  Puzzled, Raven followed his lowered glance. Stunned, she gripped the towel at her breasts and scrambled to her feet. “I didn’t realize . . . I’d forgotten.” She could feel the color heating her cheeks. “Brandon, you might have said something.”

  “I just did,” he pointed out. His eyes skimmed down to her thighs.

  “Very funny,” Raven retorted and found herself smiling. “Now, why don’t you clear out and let me change?”

  “Must you? Pity.” He hooked his hand over the towel where it met between her breasts. The back of his fingers brushed the swell of her bosom. “I was just thinking I liked your outfit.” Without touching her in any other way, he brought his mouth down to hers.

  “You smell good,” he murmured, then traced just the inside of her mouth with his tongue. “Rain’s still in your hair.”

  A roaring louder than the sea began in her brain. Instinctually she was kissing him back, meeting his tongue with hers, stepping closer and rising on her toes. Though her response was quick and giving, he kept the kiss light. She sensed the hunger and the strength under tight control.

  Under the towel, his finger swept over her nipple, finding it taut with desire. Raven felt a strong, unfamiliar ache between her thighs. She moaned with it as each muscle in her body went lax. He lifted his face and waited until her eyes opened.

  “Shall I make love to you, Raven?”

  She stared at him, aching with the churn of rising needs. He was putting the decision in her hands. She should have been grateful, relieved, yet at that moment she found she would have preferred it if he had simply swept her away. For an instant she wanted no choice, no voice, but only to be taken.

  “You’ll have to be sure,” he told her quietly. Lifting her chin with his finger, he smiled. His eyes were a calm blue-green. “I’ve no intention of making it easy for you.”

  He dropped his hand. “I’ll wait for you downstairs, though I still think it’s a pity you have to change. You’re very attractive in a towel.”

  “Brandon,” she said when he was at the door. He turned, lifting a brow in acknowledgment. “What if I’d said yes?” Raven grinned, feeling a bit more steady with the distance between them. “Wouldn’t that have been a bit awkward with Mrs. Pengalley still downstairs?”

  Leaning against the door, he said lazily, “Raven, if you’d said yes, I wouldn’t give a damn if Mrs. Pengalley and half the country were downstairs.” He shut the door carefully behind him.

  Chapter 10

  Both Raven and Brand were anxious to begin. They started the day after their arrival and soon fell into an easy, workable routine. Brand rose early and was usually finishing up a goodsized breakfast by the time Raven dragged herself downstairs. When she was fortified with coffee, they started their morning stretch, working until noon and Mrs. Pengalley’s arrival. While the housekeeper brought in the day’s marketing and saw to whatever domestic chores needed to be seen to, Brand and Raven would take long walks.

  The days were balmy, scented with sea spray and spring. The land was rugged, even harsh, with patches of poor ground covered with heather not yet in bloom. The pounding surf beat against towering granite cliffs. Hardy birds built their nests in the crags. Their cries could be heard over the crash of the waves. Standing high, Raven could see down to the village with its neat rows of cottages and white church spire.

  They’d work again in the afternoon with the fire sizzling in the grate at their backs. After dinner they went over the day’s work. By the end of the week they had a loosely based outline for the score and the completed title song.

  They didn’t work without snags. Both Raven and Brand felt too strongly about music for any collaboration to run smoothly. But the arguments seemed to stimulate both of them; and the final product was the better for them. They were a good team.

  They remained friends. Brand made no further attempt to become Raven’s lover. From time to time Raven would catch him staring intently at her. Then she would feel the pull, as sensual as a touch, as tempting as a kiss. The lack of pressure confused her and drew her more effectively than his advances could have. Advances could be refused, avoided. She knew he was waiting for her decision. Underneath the casualness, the jokes and professional disagreements, the air throbbed with tension.

  ***

  The afternoon was long and a bit dreary. A steady downpour of rain kept Raven and Brand from walking the cliffs. Their music floated through the house, echoing in corners here and there and drifting to forgotten attics. They’d built the fire high with Mr. Pengalley’s store of wood to chase away the dampness that seemed to seep through the windows. A tray of tea and biscuits that they had both forgotten rested on one of the Chippendale tables. Their argument was reaching its second stage.

  “We’ve got to bring up the tempo,” Raven insisted. “It just doesn’t work this way.”

  “It’s a mood piece, Raven.”

  “Not a funeral dirge. It drags this way, Brandon. People are going to be nodding off before she finishes singing it.”

  “Nobody falls asleep while Lauren Chase is singing,” Brand countered. “This number is pure sex, Raven, and she’ll sell it.”

  “Yes, she will,” Raven agreed, “but not at this tempo.” She shifted on the piano bench so that she faced him more directly. “All right, Joe’s fallen asleep at the typewriter in the middle of the chapter he’s writing. He’s already believing himself a little mad because of the vivid dreams he’s having about his character Tessa. She seems too real, and he’s fallen in love with her even though he knows she’s a product of his own imagination, a character in a novel he’s writing, a fantasy. And now, in the middle of the day, he’s dreaming about her again, and this time she promises to come to him that night.”

  “I know the plot, Raven,” Brand said dryly.

  Though she narrowed her eyes, Raven checked her temper. She thought she detected some fatigue in his voice. Once or twice she’d been awakened in the middle of the night by his playing. “‘Nightfall’ is hot, Brandon. You’re right about it being pure sex, and your lyrics are fabulous. But it still needs to move.”

  “It moves.” He took a last drag on his cigarette before crushing it out. “Chase knows how to hang on to a note.”

  Raven made a quick sound of frustration. Unfortunately he was usually right about such things. His instincts were phenomenal. This time, however, she was certain that h
er own instincts—as a songwriter and as a woman—were keener. She knew the way the song had to be sung to reap the full effect. The moment she had read Brand’s lyrics, she had known what was needed. The song had flowed, completed, through her head.

  “I know she can hang on to a note, and she can handle choreography. She’ll be able to do both and still do the song at the right tempo. Let me show you.” She began to play the opening bars. Brand shrugged and rose from the bench.

  Raven moved the tempo to andante and sang to her own accompaniment. Her voice wrapped itself around the music. Brand moved to the window to watch the rain. It was the song of a temptress, full of implicit, wild promises.

  Raven’s voice flowed over the range of notes, then heated when it was least expected until Brand felt a tight knot of desire in the pit of his stomach. There was something not quite earthy in the melody she had created. The quicker tempo made a sharp contrast, much more effective than the pace Brand had wanted. She ended abruptly in a raspy whisper without any fade-out. She tossed her hair, then shot him a look over her shoulder.

  “Well?” There was a half smile on her face.

  He had his back to her and kept his hands tucked into his pockets. “You have to be right now and again, I suppose.”

  Raven laughed, spinning around on the bench until she faced the room. “You’ve a way with compliments, Brandon. It sets my heart fluttering.”

  “She doesn’t have your range,” he murmured. Then, making an impatient movement, he wandered over to the teapot. “I don’t think she’ll get as much out of the low scale as you do.”

  “Mmm.” Raven shrugged as she watched him pour out a cup of tea. “She’s got tremendous style, though; she’ll milk every ounce out of it.” He set the tea down again without touching it and roamed to the fire. As she watched him, a worried frown creased Raven’s brow. “Brandon, what’s wrong?”

  He threw another log on the already roaring fire. “Nothing, just restless.”

  “This rain’s depressing.” She rose to go to the window. “I’ve