by Meg Hennessy
He pulled her closer, allowing the scandalous touch of their bodies in public and glissaded the two of them out onto the gallery…away from the others.
She looked up at her new partner as he gently turned her to the music. The black silk mask that framed his dark eyes implied deception with a dash of danger. His rugged scent wafted through the heavy humid air of the night with a subtle hint of lavender oil that only gentlemen would wear. The evening’s soft twilight surrounded them, crowned by the magical twinkle of the overhead stars.
Finally, she caught her breath, realizing how inappropriate it was to have left the ballroom unescorted. “Monsieur, I beg you, please return to the ballroom. My mère—”
“Your mère is detained,” he whispered in that same low voice that rolled over her with the soothing sound of a French accent. “You like to dance, n’est ce pas?”
“Oui, Monsieur, but we are out here alone. It is most improper.”
“Move with me, mon chérie.”
The soft beat of the music and movement of his body lulled her back into the illusion. A soft moan rose from her throat as each beautiful note of magic whispered through her mind.
Aurèlie closed her eyes, allowing her hands to glide along the solid muscles of his arms, exploring the top of his shoulders. Enjoying her daring adventure, she looked up at him, parting her lips, willing him to kiss her, relishing the pure recklessness of it. Her spirit, normally, smothered beneath propriety, fluttered to life.
He took her invitation without hesitation.
His lips were soft and warm as he lightly brushed her mouth with his until the kiss became complete. So penetrating was the heat of his touch, her breath vanished, leaving her feeling faint as if her body had melted into an elixir and drained through his fingers. Being held aloft in the strength of his arms, her knees caved and her legs nearly curled beneath her as her spirit took flight.
Incoherent thoughts of Yellow Sun swirled inside her head, battling the strange awakening that stirred within her heart. She pushed his arms away, taking in a deep breath to clear her head of the dreamy illusions.
Who was he?
He stepped back. “Me pardonner, mademoiselle. I have overstepped, oui?”
“Oui.” She kept her breathing controlled in spite of her desire to experience such a kiss again. Releasing the tension from her lungs, she reeled in her heart and reset her sights on the prize, Liberty Oak. “Oui, monsieur. You have presumed.”
“I offer my apologies,” he said in French. Seeming to have caught her yearning tone, he added, “What is it you wish for with such a sigh? A real marriage, n’est pas?”
“Of certain, monsieur, I’d prefer a real marriage, a man of mixed blood—” She sucked in her breath, realizing her error, for the night’s purpose was for her to land a white protector. The lump in her throat sank heavily to her stomach. She brushed her hand across her middle, trying to ease the sudden pain of knowing she’d never have such a choice.
“Monsieur—” Moisture flooded her eyes, she blinked the emotion away. “Monsieur, me pardonner, I misspeak.”
“I think not, mademoiselle,” he said in a soft voice that carried a note of regret. He bowed stiffly from the waist. “For the dance, merci.”
“Aurèlie!” Her mother stood in the archway of the gallery and from her expression, she was a very angry mère. Aurèlie instinctively glanced around her mother, hoping Monsieur Kincaid had not witnessed her indiscretion with the French man.
Her mother rushed out to meet her, whispering in French, “I looked everywhere for you.”
“Me pardonner, I was with monsieur—” Aurèlie turned to introduce her masked stranger but he had disappeared. “He was here—”
“He took the stairs to the street. But of no matter, your père has given his word for a most profitable match.” Her mother took Aurèlie’s hand and led her back under the twinkling candlelight of the ballroom, which no longer held the same mysteries, as all the illusions had faded. “We have success, mon choux, Jordan Kincaid.”
“He was here? I see him, non?”
“Not here, non. He sent his solicitor to make the arrangements. A much-profitable plaçage, oui?”
Her mother’s jubilation was understandable. Aurèlie only wished she felt the same, but the stranger’s kiss—the sweet taste of freedom—still lingered on her lips, unraveling her dutiful daughter facade and blurring her memory of the night of the drums.
In spite of her family’s victory in snaring the American planter, Aurèlie drew a sharp breath meant to clear her head and purge her heart of lingering emotions. There were no courts to rule, no deeds to argue, no property rights to debate, only her faith in her ability to right a wrong. Chosen by her ancestral spirits to hear the drums, she had to reclaim the land before it died, even if that meant she must sell herself to the very man who had stolen it.
Chapter Two
“I have on my special dress, Papa, to meet my new mother.” A small voice interrupted Jordan’s thoughts. “Do you think she will like it?”
Jordan Kincaid turned and saw his little girl beaming up at him with a smile that scrunched her chubby cheeks. Long blond ringlets that only ribbons held in check, parted over her shoulders. The pure spirit and image of her deceased mother, little Maisie curtsied.
A knot formed in his throat, seeing his daughter’s excitement over the impending plaçage to Miss Aurèlie Fentonot. A slight twinge surrounded his heart, a tug of uncertainty about his contract with the woman. Would bringing her here cause Maisie more heartbreak? For this marriage was nothing more than a convenience to an end, a fraud.
“She is our guest, Maisie. Who spoke to you of a new mother?”
“Mama did….”
He halted in tying his cravat, watching as Maisie spun around, enjoying her fancy dress. His wife had died shortly after Maisie’s third birthday. But at the tender age of six, Maisie would often speak of conversations with her mother and had remarkable knowledge of things that only her mother could have told her. Putting that disturbing thought to the back of his mind, he nodded. “Your dress is pretty. Why would Miss Aurèlie not like it?”
“Will she like me? She will like me, right, Papa?”
“What is not to like?” He bent down to be eye level with Maisie and lightly brushed her curls aside, wishing he could magically make her world beautiful. “You are perfect as you are. Miss Aurèlie will like you.”
Maisie smiled and again spun around, unraveling the ribbon in her hair. “I know I will like her, right, Papa?”
“Most likely. Go find Hattie and she’ll get you ready.”
“Yes, Papa.” Maisie dipped at her knees before leaving his room. The heels of her laced boots clicked against the hard wooden floor, reminding Jordan of how quickly she was growing, how much time had passed, how much time had been lost in his quest.
Straightening his cravat in the smoky mirror, he squinted to see his reflection in the dimly lit room, not liking who he saw looking back at him, the fake gentleman planter. He smoothed his hair into a queue and tied it off. Tonight he’d meet Mademoiselle Aurèlie Fentonot, at least formally. The marriage pact had been decided three weeks ago at the Bal De Cordon Bleu.
He unraveled the cravat and started again.
Bringing a woman into the house truly complicated his life. He didn’t want a wife, not even a mistress. He had too much to hide.
His sister’s abduction at sea, three years ago, had changed their lives. His father had searched for Colette, exposing himself to pirates, and had been killed for his efforts, found dead in Port au Prince. But one clue about Colette had been left behind, hidden within the lining of his valise. Her medallion. Colette had been wearing it the night she was taken.
So where was Colette? And why after three years of searching had they come up empty-handed? If it had not been for the medallion, Jordan might have given up the quest, have given up hope of ever finding her, but three years later, the medallion had suddenly surfaced. It meant something an
d that something might have cost his father his life. It was then that Jordan and his younger brother, Loul, had made their decision to finish what his father had started.
Find their sister.
Wanting to keep their identity secret and not meet their father’s fate, he and his brother had donned masks, stolen a ship, renamed her Le Vengeur for vengeance, and had plunged into the world of piracy.
He had too much to hide and the danger of this woman unraveling his disguise was too serious to consider. All that he and Loul had accomplished over the past year would be at risk if she learned too much about him and then Colette might be lost forever.
Frustration gnawed at his raw nerves. Damn, his cravat was still crooked. He had untied the silk scarf again when there was a light rap at his door. He turned as Hattie came through.
“Maisie is ready to leave.”
“She is not outside, is she?” He never allowed his little girl outside unattended. Since the murder of his father, burglars had come several times, yet nothing had ever been stolen.
“No, she is not. She’ll do you proud tonight.”
Jordan turned to face his housekeeper who had been like a mother to him. The silver trace to her hair framed the deepening lines of her dark skin. Telltale signs of age haunted her eyes, her mouth, and that blasted stern expression she seemed to wear more now than in the past. “I have much on my mind. Please don’t lecture me on my daughter.”
“I know the crushin’ burden you carry.” Undeterred, Hattie stepped closer and worked on his cravat. “But Maisie is most excited and she needs some happiness in her life. Have only her on your mind tonight.”
“She should not think of Aurèlie Fentonot as a new mother. You know as well as I that I have been blackmailed into this marriage and when I can, it will be dissolved like it had never happened.”
From the time Jordon had tied on the black mask, flown the black flag, and had taken his first ship, he had managed to keep his identity a secret. But somehow, Aurèlie’s father, Étienne Fentonot, had figured out his secret life and had threatened to expose him if he refused an alliance between the two properties through a legal plaçage with Aurèlie.
He grimaced from the complications this added to his already taxed life. It meant he had to juggle another branding iron in the fire.
The pact to buy Aurèlie had been negotiated by his solicitor while Jordan had danced her onto the promenade and had held her warm body flush to his. His purpose that night had been to meet her, see if she was pliable enough, obedient enough, to allow him time to work his planter charade before she became suspicious.
His impression of Miss Aurèlie Fentonot was that she was most astute in using her beauty and understood her obligations as a plaçee. Yet, she pined for more from life, a genuine marriage to a man of her own kind, a real love. That was more than he could ever give her. Though a binding contract in the eyes of the law, she would never be more than his mistress. He was white. She was not.
Kissing her had been a mistake. Hours later, he’d tried to dismiss the driving need to finish that kiss. She was beautiful indeed, but was she innocently caught between her father’s scheme and his charade as an honest planter, or complicit in the marriage plans? Did she know his planter status was only a pretense?
“Don’t underestimate her powers.” Hattie stepped back, pleased with her work on his cravat. “I’m wishin’ for you to be cautious—”
“I am cautious. That’s why I’m marrying her.”
Jordan pulled on his tailcoat and again shifted the cravat about his neck, which felt as stifling as the lies that had become his life. Hattie had been a staunch ally for him and Loul, but lately had grown tired of the game plan.
“Don’t give up on us, Hattie. Don’t give up.”
“I know ya heart is good, Jordan, but ya must stop before y’all get yourselves killed like you almost did in Port au Prince. Think of Loul. You’re his older brother, he’s devoted to ya. I don’t want to lose my son like I did your papa.” Hattie continued. “Think of Maisie. She be needin’ her father. If somethin’ awful were to happen—”
“I never stop thinking of Maisie.” Jordan’s throat went dry as his stomach twisted. He clenched his fist, trying to release the twisting pain of all that had gone wrong. “Hattie, I’m a father. I have a daughter. I understand why I must do this.”
“At what cost?”
“At any cost. My father died trying to find Colette. Do I turn my back on that, give up his quest? Like my father, I refuse to abandon Colette to that convoluted menagerie of crime, smuggling, and slave trading in which she disappeared.”
“But it’s been nearly three years. There has to be a point in which we understand that Colette is lost to us,” Hattie whispered through tearful eyes. With a slight tremble to her lips, she cupped her palms to his face. “Lost forever.”
The knot in Jordan’s stomach rose and tightened his chest. He sucked in his breath and placed a hand on Hattie’s shoulder in an effort to comfort, but it did little to stifle her falling tears. He knew her pain.
He turned away, unable to watch her cry.
“I can’t stop when I am so close. Hattie, I am bound by duty as Colette’s brother, as is Loul. Please assist me in this charade for a little while longer.” Jordan turned back to the mirror for a final twist of the cravat that felt more like a hangman’s noose every time he donned one. “It’s time to leave. My bride awaits.”
…
Aurèlie’s two younger sisters disappeared through the bedroom door at the first sound of Monsieur Kincaid’s arrival. Excitement over the pending match filled the house with activity. The carpets had been cleaned, the walls washed, the finest china set out for their American guest.
Aurèlie sat on the edge of her day bed, the knots in her stomach weighing her down nearly as much as the accouterments of her wedding dress. This was a financial arrangement. She had been sold to the American, but she was not ashamed of what her family had done. As elite members of the Société of Cordon Bleu, her sisters, too, would become plaçees. Since the Americans had taken over, it had become political and economical survival.
Aurèlie rose, surveying her full-length reflection in the mirror. Her gown of gossamer ruby satin with a matching demi-train trimmed with frivolité tassels and beads, was intentionally seductive. Her long black hair had been wrapped atop her head, decorated with a jeweled comb and small red feather. Long earrings of sparkling black glass hung from each ear. If Jordan Kincaid changed his mind about the plaçage, it was not for anything more she could have done.
She glanced around her small, plainly furnished room. Little had changed from that night, the night of the drums. She owed her grandfather her life. She peeked upward and drew a deep breath. “I hope you see me, Papitte. I do as you asked.”
A soft knock sounded at her door before it opened just a crack. Her younger sister, Felicia, leaned in with a bright smile. “Aurèlie, Mère bids you to come to the salon.”
“Dans un moment.” Aurèlie made one last check in the mirror. She gently stroked her throat, feeling nearly naked in spite of the three jeweled necklaces she wore. Being unsure of her impending husband’s faith, she had not worn her crucifix.
It was time to take the first step in reclaiming Yellow Sun and fulfilling her duties as a daughter. Slowly, she walked through the doorway of her childhood room and down the hall to meet the man who would now be her future.
Aurèlie approached the open door to the salle principale. Jordan Kincaid and her father were speaking in quiet tones while seated near her father’s corner desk. She noted his dark olive-green tailcoat on broad shoulders—a state of undress for such an occasion. Nor did he wear ruffles on his sleeves. He had light brown hair neatly combed and tied into a short queue. Though he was at least thirty, nine years her senior, there was an attractive sturdiness about him.
In the other corner, a small girl with golden hair that caught every flicker from the overhead candlelight sat on the lolling chair, i
mpatiently waving her legs back and forth above the floor. She must be Monsieur Kincaid’s daughter.
Aurèlie ignored the nervous bubbles rushing her stomach. She drew her last breath of freedom and entered the room.
The little girl looked up. A tiny gasp escaped her mouth as she jumped off the chair and fell into an exaggerated curtsy. “I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Aurèlie.”
Aurèlie smiled, ignoring the child’s mispronunciation of her name but it helped to introduce her into the room. The conversation between the two men abruptly ended. Aurèlie’s father immediately stood and motioned toward her.
“Ah, Monsieur Kincaid, I present my daughter, Mademoiselle Aurèlie Fentonot.”
The American stood and slowly turned to face her. He was much taller than she had anticipated, almost as tall as… It mattered not, for love was not a part of this contract and a hint of passion still lingered in her heart for the mysterious man she had met at the Bal De Cordon Bleu.
She straightened her shoulders under his appraisal. Though it felt warm, almost caressing, she dismissed her reaction. Still, he was tall, strong-looking. His face, rugged and weatherworn, hinted of hard living with well-drawn character lines that curved around his eyes.
“Miss Aurèlie.” He stepped forward. Bowing stiffly from the waist, he brushed her outstretched hand with his lips. When he released her hand, his warm touch seeped through her lace mitts but oddly enough, no images appeared in her mind.
She dipped slightly in return. “Monsieur.”
“Monsieur, Si vous s’il vous plaît.” Her mother motioned toward the dining hall. “We will dine before the guests arrive, oui?”
The American hesitated as he offered his arm to escort Aurèlie. “Guests?”
Aurèlie adjusted her fingers to rest lightly upon his arm. Out of politeness, he escorted her to the dining room table but still waited for an explanation her mother was apparently not eager to give.