by Rue Allyn
“D’accord, d’accord,” she said, in a conciliatory tone. “I understand.”
“Do you? It took me years to understand.”
His voice was sharp, and he drank the wine as though he needed it to calm his emotions. She understood the gesture, having seen Bat do the same with many a beer. She placed her hand over the hand that held the glass, and guided it down to the basket. His expression and voice gentled.
“No handwriting except her signature on the bank forms, so I could not compare it with the letters. Family photographs in the trunk, none of her. A ring that was sized for someone else.”
“You have my ring,” she said gently. She grasped his left hand, the hand with the ring.
“That,” he began again, “is part of the reason I wanted it. To feel it. It is real.”
His features showed pain, as she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. He clasped her hand.
“What upset you? Thinking about visiting the church?” Bishou asked. She wanted to bring this discussion down to its roots.
“Oui. It brought back so many bad memories. I almost would rather have a registry-office marriage, except … I must see if I can fight this battle.”
“You do not fight it alone, Louis.”
“Oh, Bishou.” He gathered both her hands in his, and looked earnestly into her eyes. “You could go anywhere and do anything, with any other man. I am the problem. Don’t you think I know that by now?”
“Anywhere and do anything, hmm?”
“You are strong. You are intelligent. You get your own money; you are not some man’s parasite.”
“Then — if I am all that — why am I here?”
He was silent.
She persisted, “Why am I here, Louis?”
Silence. He stared at their clasped hands, not at her face.
“Tell me. You must know.” Bishou felt his grip tighten, and saw the tension in his lips.
Louis closed his eyes. He shook his head slightly. He did not know, or — more likely — he needed to hear her say it.
Quite clearly, with her grip firm, she said, “I am here because I love you with all my heart, Louis. Je t’aime.”
Barely loud enough for her to hear, Louis mumbled, “She never called me cheri.”
“Did she call you mon amour?” My love.
“Non.”
“Or mon treasor?” My treasure.
She saw a smile break through. “Non.”
“Bon. The good names are left for me.” Bishou kissed his hands. “Mon cheri.” Kiss. “Mon amour.” Kiss. “Mon treasor.” Kiss.
His smile returned. Bishou almost expected him to protest that she was teasing him, but he did not. He really needs this, she thought, a demonstration of my love. Here, seated on the blanket, hands entwined, Louis Dessant was finally hearing words he desperately wanted to hear.
“What a dream world this is,” Bishou mused. “A French picnic on a beautiful island, with an attractive, sexy man, all the world and time.”
“Soon to be your husband,” Louis added, still smiling.
“What joy,” she agreed.
He scooped everything back in the basket, brushed crumbs from the blanket, and slipped off his jacket. He rolled it into a pillow for himself, and lay back. He hadn’t worn a tie, his discreet concession to Saturday casual. Bishou realized that the shirt he had on was the same one he had worn that day when they visited the tobacco plantations with the American conventioneers.
“I remember that shirt.”
“You liked it. That is why I wore it.”
“It was not the shirt,” she admitted, “but what was in the shirt.”
With his head pillowed on the jacket, he raised a dark eyebrow in question.
“It was so hot that day,” she explained. “You were falling asleep from the heat. Watching you, asleep beside me, I fought the greatest temptations I have ever faced.”
“And what did you desire that day? Show me.” He shut his eyes.
She realized he was deliberately seducing her. She loosened the cuffs of his silk shirt with the little colored squares, and rolled up each cuff a couple of turns. Her hands stroked the bronzed forearms, a man’s forearms. She leaned over him and unbuttoned one, two, three shirt buttons, from the collar down. She stroked his jaw, his throat, his lips — felt his lips kiss her fingers — and gently stroked down his chin and throat, toward his unbuttoned shirt. Her fingers stroked his chest — no, no undershirt — and she bent and kissed the place where she had stroked, smelling a slight scent of cologne.
His eyes still closed blissfully, he sighed, “Ah, ah oui.”
Bishou caught her breath, startled by a powerful emotion that she had never felt. “Louis,” she sobbed. “Someone to love me. Someone to keep me from being alone forever. I just don’t want to be alone all my life. It hurts so much. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drop this load on you. I wanted to be strong, for your sake.”
“Pfah,” said Louis softly. “Don’t you think I know? How many Saturday nights have I spent in my darkened front room, drink in hand, watching car lights go down the roads? Listening to people happily calling to each other? And aching, wishing I was one of them? Knowing I must stay home, keep my reputation tres correct? Why do you think they call us white men zoreils, cherie? Because we listen helplessly. It is all we can do. Listen, and ache inside.” He wrapped his arms around her firmly. “Love given freely, to dispel loneliness, is the greatest gift. But — it is a horrible feeling, if one knows it is a bond of slavery.”
She spoke to his ear and throat, not moving her head. “You knew this would happen to me.”
“Non. But I understood when it did, ma Bishou.” His arms still gripped her body. “You are only learning what I learned. But how could I have explained that to you?”
“And other men have learned this as well?”
“Oui. And, thank God, they were merciful to me when I had fallen.”
Bishou saw a glimpse of this unspoken world, a world that Louis and other men shared, that had no place on any map or church roll. There but for the grace of God go I. Please, Lord, give me to a woman who won’t make me a slave in hell. Please, instead, make me petted and loved. In either case, I will give everything to her.
That, thought Bishou, is passion.
“Qu’est-ce que tu regardes?”
“Un bel visage,” she answered.
“Hah, there is no handsome face here, only mine.”
“An attractive one, then.” She watched his brown eyes open suddenly, as they always did — a trick she suspected he learned in prison. “I wonder if you know you are handsome, and only want to hear me say it.”
He laughed. “Non. It is nice to hear, even if untrue. I know that women have said I have nice eyes, though.”
“Oh, oui. They are the first thing I noticed about you, the first thing that made me think, Wow.”
“Really?” Now there was a light in his eyes that was not a trick of the sun. “In that classroom?”
“You remember that day. I thought your glance was only surprise that I was not a man.”
“Well, that too. ‘Bishou’ is not a feminine name. And you may say it means ‘unexpected,’ but I have not found that in any dictionary.”
“Oh? You looked?” At his blush of admission, she laughed. “I will tell you a secret, if you promise not to share.”
“I promise.”
“My name is Japanese.”
“What?” He burst into laughter, and sat up.
“My father found it in his studies. It is the character in drama who is the unexpected love interest, and who often has the sympathy of the audience. The hero often wins the girl — or the boy — away from the angst-ridden main character, just by being there and being himself or herself.”
“Your father is a wise man,” said Louis.
“Yes, he is. But often the Bishou doesn’t get the girl — or the boy. He just provides contrast for the main characters.”
“But sometimes she does, hein?” Louis
smiled and stroked her hair.
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “If she is very lucky.”
Louis kissed her cheek.
Suddenly, there was a dreadful grinding sound in the air, the sound of a large vehicle downshifting up a steep road. Louis jumped. “Oh, hell,” he said. “It’s the tour autobus. Have I parked far enough off the road? I don’t want to get sideswiped.”
“You’re fine. You’re practically in the meadow.” Bishou patted the blanket and watched the ancient double-decker bus chug into view. “Come on, don’t worry. Probably seeing the famous Louis Dessant picnicking with his fiancée will be the highlight of their trip.”
“Dieu m’en garde.” God help me. Louis waved insincerely as the bus hove into sight, every camera focused upon them.
Bishou snickered. “They probably just want photos of idyllic picnickers. They don’t know who we are.”
A loudspeaker from the bus pealed, “Bonjour, Monsieur Dessant. Bonjour, Mademoiselle Bishou.” The bus ground to a deafening halt. Ostensibly it was for the view, or to meet the local residents, but it was probably for the engine to cool.
“I wish I’d taken that bet,” said Louis. He stood with his jacket under his arm to greet the bus. “Viens, cherie. They even knew your name, God knows how.”
They approached the bus together, where a smiling tour guide introduced them to the people on the bus and the tourists to them. Monsieur Dessant of Dessant Cigarettes, and his fiancée, Mademoiselle Bishou. Louis and Bishou asked where the people were from — which turned out to be everywhere from Lyons to Cairo — and welcomed them, playing the gracious hosts of the island.
The bus driver was looking at Bishou with a twinkle in his eye. She was sure she didn’t know him. But she reached into her purse and pulled out four Dessants and gave them to him.
“Who are you related to?” she asked.
“Papa Armand,” he said with a smile. “Merci, Mam’selle Bishou.”
The white and very French tour guide had been chatting with Louis, but saw the exchange between Bishou and the driver, and smiled. “Your name is already known in our community, Mademoiselle Bishou. Welcome to Réunion, and congratulations on your upcoming marriage.”
“Merci. I am most fortunate. I have a wonderful fiancé, and I’ve made good friends here.”
They chatted a few moments longer, bade the tourists farewell, and stepped off the bus. The driver ground gears and the bus rattled on its way.
“Well,” said Louis, “when you get caught out on moments like this, you have the royal style, for certain.”
“So do you.”
“I’ve been caught before.”
“What, making out with girls on the coast road?”
A mischievous look appeared in his dark eyes. “I am not telling.”
“Ah! Are you saying I must force the admission from you, later?”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. At any rate, I am looking forward to it. How do you know the bus drivers so well?”
“I think I’ve already met about half the Creoles in Saint-Denis. I rather like them.”
“I’m glad. Sometimes, they are the true réunionnais.”
“Bien dit.” Well said. “And, as Madame Ross pointed out to me, I don’t have the tiny figure of a Frenchwoman — I have the more African figure of a réunionnais.”
“Comment?” He stared at her. “How so?”
“My hips, my chest, even my face. I am a well-fed, well-exercised Americaine.”
As they walked back to his car, Louis said, “Well, so I also thought. Strange. I thought of you as réunionnais. It hadn’t occurred to me what that meant.”
Bishou got in the white convertible, and he shut the door. She heard the thud of the trunk as he deposited the basket and blanket inside. Then he took the driver’s seat. “You, too, are réunionnais, Louis. Not French.”
“More and more,” he agreed. “It is considered bad taste to go native, but — France has not been kind to me.”
Bishou realized that was probably a dreadful admission for him to make. She touched his arm. “This island is our home.”
“Oui. This island is our home.”
Louis started the car, and began the drive down the coast road. He rummaged through his pockets, found a pack of cigarettes, extracted one and lit it with one hand. “You will need Dessants by the carton, then, as little gratuities.” He drew on the cigarette, and passed it to her. Not yet married, and they had these married habits in place.
She took a couple of puffs, and passed it back. “Oui. They are better than money, much better. It is like Maman passing out cookies.”
Louis laughed. “I am Papa, passing out cigarettes?”
“Oui, Papa, you are.”
Again, he laughed, and downshifted to tackle the next hill. Bishou leaned back to feel the sun on her face, and thought, Yes, I am in Paradise.
More From This Author
Second Chance Sister by Linda Kepner
Rhianna
Amanda L. V. Shalaby
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Amanda L. V. Shalaby
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5153-7
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5153-6
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5133-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5133-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art ©123rf.com
For my grandmother, Catherine M. Fisher, without whose vision of a red-headed English girl standing before a fireplace in a white, satin gown and satin slippers this story would not exist.
For my mother, Deborah L. Vaiden, whose wealth of knowledge of all things English and love of reading proved invaluable.
For Berry, who sat devotedly at my side.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Prologue
Thornton, England 1813
The sound of pounding horse hooves brought Mauvreen from her midwife duties, down to the first floor of the hunting lodge. She quickly answered a frantic knock at the door, where she met familiar, anxious eyes.
“Where is she?”
“Upstairs,” Mauvreen said, urging him inside and closing the door behind him.
“I got here as fast as I could from London. How — ?”
“She has been thirty-eight hours in labor.”
His hurried breathing stopped. Thirty-eight?
“And?”
Mauvreen shook her head. “Soon. Come with me.”
She led him quickly up the wooden stairs and down the hall that led to Hallie’s bedroom. Mauvreen clutched her chest as a scream echoed through the cabin — the bone-piercing cry of a woman in the final stages of a difficult childbirth.
“My God, Hallie …”
Pushing past Mauvreen, the father-to-be bounded toward the bedroom. He was on his knees beside the bed before Mauvreen reached the threshold, one hand cupping the crown of Hallie’s head, the other clutching her hand. He appeared oblivious — or willfully blind — to the blood-soaked sheets beneath her.
Hallie turned her face to him and attempted a smile through the pain. She was too drained.
“My love.”
“I’m here.�
��
She drew a shallow breath. “It won’t be long now. I can feel it.”
Brushing away the sweat of her forehead, he nodded reassuringly.
“Yes, it shall all be over soon, darling.” Turning abruptly to Mauvreen, he asked, “Do we not have forceps?”
Mauvreen, fighting her greatest fears to remain outwardly calm, examined Hallie’s progress with steady hands.
“No, but we are close. Focus, Hallie.”
The lovers’ eyes met again.
“I wanted to be here sooner. There was no carriage or beast that could move quickly enough.”
“Hush, my love,” she said. “The baby has waited for you.”
Another contraction brought a powerful cry. Hallie threw her head back into her pillow as she arched her spine. Her fingers turned white around her lover’s hand, matching the shade of her cheeks, the color drained from her sweet, young face many hours since.
“Push, Hallie.”
The contraction passed. Mauvreen ran a wet cloth along the insides of Hallie’s legs. It was a fruitless effort. The blood continued all the more as the baby drew closer.
“Come along now, little one,” Mauvreen said, as another contraction kicked in. “Ah! There you are.”
A head appeared. A continuous, blood-curdling scream sounded. And then, moments later, the softer cry of a newborn infant filled the air.
“A girl,” Mauvreen announced.
Hallie, who had fallen limp into the folds of bedsheets around her, forced her eyes open at this announcement and locked them on the baby as she caught her breath. Even as her lover kept his eyes on her, from that moment on it was clear Hallie saw only her daughter.
Mauvreen worked furiously to cut the cord, rinse the baby, and hand her to her mother. Wrapped in a blanket crocheted for her by Hallie, the little girl was placed swiftly beside her.
“Oh! She’s lovely,” Hallie said, her voice barely a whisper. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever beheld.”
Her lover helped position the baby more securely in her exhausted arms.
“Beautiful,” he said, “like her mother.”
Meanwhile, Mauvreen collapsed into a scroll-backed leather chair in the corner of the room. Its angle was blessedly away from Hallie’s line of vision and it was there Mauvreen fought her tears.