Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  “Have you grown so accustomed to that deuced wagon you would not trade it for a hot meal and a warm bed?” Rive’s voice cut into Catherine’s thoughts. She hadn’t realized they had stopped. He clasped her about the waist and lifted her from the wagon.

  They stood before a two-story stone house, one of several on the wide street, set amid a wide expanse of lawn. Mullioned windows, thrown wide to catch the breeze, flanked a massive oak door. Several chimneys sprang from the pitched roof. A highly polished brass door knocker and knob glinted in the sun. Neatly trimmed shrubs lined the path leading to the house, whose front was bordered by colorful summer flowers. The residents took great pains with their garden and were clearly people of taste.

  “Where are we?” Catherine asked.

  “This is the home of my uncle and aunt, André and Lise St. Clair. They have lived here for almost thirty years.” He tried to nudge Catherine forward, but she refused to budge.

  “Why do you hesitate? They will more than welcome you.”

  She gritted her teeth, making a sound like a muffled growl. “I am sure your family is most hospitable, but is there nowhere else for me to stay? How are you going to explain my presence, or do you usually turn up on their doorstep with a disheveled Englishwoman in tow?” She pushed a tangled clump of hair back from her brow and shook dust from her skirt.

  “Whatever my explanation,” he was clearly impatient, “let me assure you it will be circumspect enough to preserve your dignity.”

  Catherine remained unconvinced. “Perhaps you can engage a room for me at an inn. Or at the convent. As you pointed out earlier, surely the holy nuns would not be averse to taking in a lodger for a few days.”

  Rive’s eyes lit with amusement. “You were never meant for a convent. Not even for a short time.” Leaning close, he brushed her cheek lightly with his thumb, which then strayed to her ear and lingered just behind the lobe.

  Heat built where he touched her. In that moment she chastised herself for allowing him to affect her, still, and turned her head aside. “You are impossible.” Even to her ears her words lacked conviction.

  “You are taking yourself far too seriously.” With a firm hold on her arm, he coaxed her alongside him, up the walk. “Now behave like a lady, or you will disgrace yourself without any help from me.”

  She was about to make a retort when his hand grasped the brass knocker and rapped it against the door.

  A servant, dressed in a simple gray gown and crisp white apron and cap, answered the summons.

  “Ah, Monsieur Rive.” She dipped into a slight bow. “It is a pleasure to see you visiting again.”

  “Thank you, Cecile. It is good to be back, even if only for a short while.”

  After the brief exchange, she led them into a large drawing room.

  Although the servant gave no indication of shock at her unkempt state, Catherine had no such guarantee the mistress and master of the house would be as nonchalant. She smoothed her dress. Without a comb, her hair would have to remain in its present disorderly state.

  “I shall tell Madame and Monsieur you are here.” The servant bobbed another curtsy and left.

  While she struggled to manage her distress, Catherine surveyed the room. A fireplace, sheltered by a heavy wood mantel and gleaming brass fittings, occupied one wall. A cream-colored rug, its edge patterned with blue and rose flowers, covered part of the highly polished floor. Two settees, upholstered in pale blue velvet, faced each other near the fireplace. A desk, two wing chairs and a table whose surface held two silver candlesticks—one on either side of a vase of fresh summer flowers—completed the décor, a perfect blend of style and comfort.

  Before Catherine could speculate further about the woman whose taste she admired, the door opened and a short, plump matron entered the room. She was dressed in an ivory taffeta gown, her graying hair mostly covered by a white lace cap. She was followed by a man, equally well-groomed in black breeches, a coat and a crisp white shirt. Their faces reflected their obvious pleasure at the sight of Rive. The woman swept closer, opened her arms and clasped him in an affectionate embrace.

  “I can hardly believe you are finally here,” she said in French. She stepped back and surveyed her nephew. “It has been too long since your last visit, but now you are with us and as always most welcome. After all, your Uncle André and I still think of this as your home. Why, only last week we were remarking how empty the house seems now that Philippe is with his regiment most of the time and Francoise is married and living in France.”

  A man cleared his throat and stepped forward. He stood a good bit taller than the woman and weighed considerably less. “Do not go on so, Lise.” He studied Rive for a moment. “You are looking well, nephew.”

  Standing to the side, her head pounding from an acute case of nerves, Catherine barely heard the exchange of pleasantries, nor Rive’s hasty explanations. She wished desperately to disappear like a puff of smoke. All too soon, however, she felt their attention shift to her. For a moment, her eyes lost focus, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. Then Rive was standing beside her. His arm brushed her back and his hand came to rest familiarly on her shoulder. His voice faded in and out, and it was all she could do to force herself to respond with a weak smile.

  “I present you with Madame Flint,” he told the couple. To Catherine, he said, “This is my uncle, André St. Clair, and his wife, Lise.”

  A look passed between husband and wife at the mention of the name “Flint.” Then a soft, plump hand was offered, which Catherine managed to clasp. That was soon replaced by the strong firm hand of André.

  “Welcome to Quebec.” André switched to heavily accented English. “My wife and I extend to you the hospitality of our home.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur, Madame. You are both very kind.”

  “And you, my dear young lady, must be exhausted from your ... journey.” Lise put her arm around Catherine and exchanged a wary glance with her husband. “I have, how do you call it, the perfect remedy. Come, let us sit for a while. André will bring the brandy. Then, after we see those cheeks with a little bloom, the housemen will prepare a hot bath and you will have a good soak. Then we will dine.”

  When they were seated beside each other on a sofa, Lise brushed the tangled hair away from Catherine’s brow. Then, shaking her head, she made little clucking sounds with her tongue. “How long has it been since you sat down to a decent meal?”

  Catherine sought an answer, but how could she possibly respond to such an innocent question? The truth would shock this good woman out of her senses. Fortunately, Rive spared her from having to fabricate a reply.

  “If you are referring to a repast such as you are accustomed to, Lise, I would judge it to be somewhat past recent memory.”

  “That is no kind of answer at all.” Lise held her nephew’s gaze and tilted her head to the side. “Well?”

  Rive folded his arms and moved to the window. Leaning against the frame, he gazed out into the twilight. “I assume Madame Flint dined most heartily with her late husband some weeks past.” He turned toward his aunt. “Since then, her diet has lacked variety. However, I trust you will bring about a change soon enough.”

  André returned with a tray holding crystal goblets and a bottle covered with a fine layer of dust. He wiped it clean with a small linen towel.

  “This bottle arrived by ship from France not two months ago. I paid far too much for it, but then, we do for everything these days. With French ports blockaded, we are fortunate if any goods slip through at all. If it were not for the privateers ... Ah, well!” He sighed. “It does no good to complain.” He poured the brandy and handed each a glass.

  Unaccustomed to spirits—especially twice in one day—Catherine sipped slowly. The brandy had a smooth quality and slid down easily, spreading warmth throughout her body. Across the room, she heard Rive’s voice, low and melodious, as he engaged his uncle in conversation about the progress of the war.

  “We heard some news in
New York City,” Rive said. “Nothing, of course, since.”

  “Not much to be alarmed about, yet.”

  “Your optimism astounds me, Uncle. They have all but brought the city down around your heels.”

  “It’s Pitt. I’d like to put my hands around his throat for just one minute …. If he thinks he is going to crush French power on this continent, he will find that it takes more than a war to accomplish his ends.”

  Catherine held her glass in her lap. She’d barely touched her brandy, but the tiny amount she had consumed left her feeling a bit tipsy.

  “Better now?” Lise asked.

  Catherine nodded. “Yes, but I hope I am not putting you to too much trouble.” She smoothed the folds of her skirt, noticed a splotch of dry mud and covered it with her hand.

  “I ... I must look a terrible sight. But you see ...” She stopped abruptly, not knowing how to continue. Still, she felt the need for some explanation. “I became separated from my baggage and, having just the one gown, was unable to prepare myself for ... for a visit.”

  Lise squeezed Catherine’s hand. “There is no need to apologize. My daughter, Francoise, left behind several gowns and some linen. Fortunately, she takes after her father, so I doubt any alterations will be necessary.”

  “Thank you.” Catherine wondered how much Lise understood of her circumstances and if Rive’s brief comments earlier had clarified her whereabouts during the last three weeks.

  “Well, then. Let us not delay. I shall have Cecile order your bath and freshen the gowns. They have not been worn for several months, but ...”

  Before she could continue, a high-pitched voice came from outside the room. Then the door burst open and a young girl swept inside.

  “Maman, why did you not tell me cousin Rive is once again ...” Then she looked at Catherine and her voice died away.

  “Marielle,” Lise said sharply. “How many times have I told you never to enter a room in such a manner?”

  “Oh, Maman, I am sorry. I ... I did not realize, I mean, Cecile did not say there was someone else.” The girl was obviously at a loss. Then she spotted Rive, who had turned at the sound of her voice, and broke into a wide smile. With hands outstretched, she rushed to him.

  “Cousin Rive,” she squealed. “You have come back. I am so glad!”

  He picked her up and swung her around in his arms. Then, with an amused grin, he set her down and stepped back.

  “Surely this is not little Marielle who, only last year, played with dolls?” He turned to André. “Tell me, who is this young woman I find masquerading as your daughter?”

  André beamed with obvious pleasure.

  Marielle was not pleased. “I have not played with dolls for years and well you know it,” she pouted. “Also, I have been quite grown up for some time. If you had stayed with us longer at Christmas, or come back more often when I am not at school, you would have noticed.”

  “It is a wonder I did not. In the future, I promise to be more observant.”

  Marielle dipped into a low bow, her raven curls bobbing. She lowered her lashes, hooding her large brown almond-shaped eyes. Then she raised her head and looked at Rive with naked adoration. “I shall see that you are.”

  Why, she’s in love with him, Catherine thought, and as open about it as only a child can be.

  However, closer inspection confirmed that Marielle St. Clair was no longer a child, not if the breasts that filled out her bodice were any indication. Somewhere she had learned how to flirt and was making a success of it.

  “Marielle, speak in English, please, and come here and greet Madame Flint. She is to be our guest ... for a little while.”

  Lise’s command was accompanied by a sharp clap of her hands.

  “Mais oui, Maman. I mean ... yes, mother.” She glided across the room and presented herself to Catherine. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Her voice was distinctly flat as she stared openly at Catherine, idly fingering her own spotless rose silk gown.

  Catherine forced a smile and felt her embarrassment return under the girl’s scrutiny.

  Wrinkling her nose as if in distaste, Marielle seated herself on the settee opposite Catherine. “Are you American?”

  Catherine shook her head. “No, I am English.”

  “Oh? I should not have guessed. I thought all English ladies were supposed to be ... pallid.”

  Catherine had no adequate response. Her recent trek for hours each day had indeed caused her to gain back much of the color she had acquired during the days immediately following her abduction. She could only wonder at the girl’s reaction had she appeared in her native attire.

  Ignoring her mother’s glare, Marielle continued as if she had not made a gaffe. “Do you live in London?”

  “I did, with my family.”

  “What brings you to Quebec?” Marielle abruptly shifted her gaze to Rive.

  “That is Madame Flint’s business and none of yours,” Lise cut in sharply. “Really, Marielle, for a girl soon to turn fifteen, you sometimes show a distinct lack of manners.”

  “I was merely curious. Madame being English ...” Marielle’s voice trailed away and she again laid eyes on Catherine. “We had an English mistress at school one year. She taught us to properly speak your language. She married a Frenchman and went to live in Paris.” The girl’s lips curved upwards in a coy smile. “I suppose you are married to a proper English gentleman. Are we to make his acquaintance while you are visiting us?”

  “Marielle, enough!” Lise snapped. “I forbid you to subject our guest to an inquisition.”

  Catherine’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. She watched Rive disengage himself from his uncle and cross to where the women sat. Most likely, he was prepared to weigh in with heaven only knew what explanation. Wishing to make his endeavor unnecessary, she determined to end the interrogation herself, once and for all.

  “I am afraid that will not be possible. You see, my husband met with ... an untimely death a number of days ago.” Marielle’s face seemed to crumple. Her mouth opened as if she were about to interrupt, but Catherine cut her off adroitly. “I am a stranger in this part of the world, as you have guessed, with neither family nor friends to whom I can turn. Therefore, I accepted ... your cousin’s offer to accompany him to Quebec. At the time it seemed the only possible solution. Naturally, I am most anxious to arrange transport to England. Your cousin has graciously agreed to do all in his power to facilitate my travel. Hopefully, that will ensue before too long.” She glanced at Rive. As she expected, he looked none too pleased with her pronouncement. Tilting her head to the side, she smiled at him.

  “If Madame will but exercise patience, everything possible shall be done to provide her with safe passage out of Quebec,” Rive said. “But, alas, the war might not permit it for some time.”

  For a moment, Marielle looked stricken. “Cousin Rive, you must find a way, somehow. After all, Madame has suffered ... her husband ... and being without protection.” Her slim, delicate hands fluttered and her cheeks flared a bright red.

  “Calm yourself, Marielle,” André ordered.

  Rive positioned himself behind Catherine and placed his fingertips on her shoulders. Although his touch was light, it delivered an immediate infusion of heat right through the layers of her clothing. She wondered if the warm flush that settled on her cheeks was visible to the others in the room.

  “No harm will befall Madame Flint so long as she remains under this roof,” he said. “As to her being without protection, I hereby renew my pledge to keep her safe and, whenever possible, under my watchful eye. I shall do everything necessary to honor my pledge.” His words, punctuated with the slightest pressure from his fingers, might have seemed meant for all ears. Only Catherine recognized their hidden message and knew they were intended solely for her. As he leaned forward, his hands glided over her shoulders to her upper arms. “Whatever she requires,” he was so close she felt his breath against her hair, “I shall consider i
t a privilege to provide.”

  Chapter 20

  “You cannot imagine my surprise, nephew, when the tavern boy brought your note apprising us of your return and that you would be arriving momentarily with the widow of that devil, Flint. The first question I asked myself was if you were the one to kill Flint. The second was, if the man were already dead when you encountered him, when and where you made the acquaintance of his widow?”

  Rive stood alone with his uncle by the unlit fireplace, his arm propped atop the mantel. “Flint was very much alive when I first encountered him.” He proceeded to tell André all that had transpired from the moment he spotted Flint and Catherine on the wharf in New York, including following them to a house on Maiden Lane. There, he intercepted a servant who, for a small bribe, professed to be on his way to fetch the magistrate commissioned to marry Mr. Flint and his lady.

  “Since the crime had been committed at the Indian village, it was necessary I draw him there. Their loss sixteen years ago exceeded even mine.”

  André nodded. “And Madame Flint?”

  “Catherine.” He savored the word as it left his lips. “There is little to tell, but she bore no affection for the husband. Other than her own admission, she is guarded about her past.” As for her reasons for marrying Flint, he kept his suspicions to himself. It would serve no purpose to engage in speculation with André or anyone else. It was a private matter, which he intended to investigate if he survived the war. He fully intended to survive, just as he fully intended to do everything possible never to lose Catherine. How did a man go about wooing a woman he had abducted on her wedding night? Slowly and with the utmost care.