by Meg Hennessy
He pulled Aurèlie’s chair back for her, offering a courteous smile. His hand briefly touched her shoulder as he leaned down and adjusted her chair. For a moment, she inhaled the deep aroma of lavender oil and salt-laced air but again, no images came to her mind, the lack of which puzzled her. Rarely, did she not get something from a first touch, but neither had she been able to read anything from the French man with whom she had danced at the ball. That only added to her puzzlement. She glanced over at her soon-to-be husband. He, too, smelled of lavender oil.
“I intended to have my daughter back before dark.” Monsieur Kincaid pulled his watch fob from his waistcoat.
“But…Monsieur, I have made preparations.”
“Please, Papa, please?” The little girl excitedly clasped her hands together. Sitting directly across from Aurèlie, the child’s beautiful blue eyes were bigger than full moons. Though Aurèlie was unaccustomed to children at a hosted dinner, the child was most endearing. Because of her attendance, Aurèlie’s sisters attended as well.
“My name is Maisie, Miss Aurèlie.”
“Maisie, wait for your introduction.” The American threw a reprimanding expression toward the little girl. She immediately fell silent and looked down at her lap.
Monsieur Kincaid eased into the chair next to Aurèlie. His arm, feeling muscular and lean, skimmed against hers as he settled himself into her mother’s hand carved mahogany chair. He motioned toward the child with a hand that looked roughened by work and aged by sun, not creamy smooth, as she would expect of a gentlemen planter.
“Mademoiselle, I present my daughter to you, Maisie Rose.”
Aurèlie acknowledged the child with a slight nod of her head. “Maisie Rose est un beau nom, n’est-ce-pas?”
The little girl looked up, stealing a confused glance at her father before answering. “Ma’am?”
“Mademoiselle, Maisie does not speak French.” The American interjected in a voice that hinted of irritation. “Neither do I.”
“Mon pardon, monsieur.” She shook her head, clearing it for English. She smiled at the little girl who seemed entranced by her. “Maisie is a beautiful name, n’est pas? Ah…is it not so? I say it right, yes? My name is said like this, O-ray-lee.”
The little girl beamed with a beautiful, innocent smile before scrambling off her chair and again bowing in a not so gracious curtsy. “Yes, thank you, ma’am, ah…Miss O-ray-lee.”
When Monsieur Kincaid conceded to receiving guests, Aurèlie barely hid her smile when his little girl clasped her small hands in excitement. In spite of eliciting a reprimand from her father, there was an unmistakable tenderness in his eyes and Aurèlie knew his concession was for the sake of his daughter.
After their private dinner, the guests arrived. Her mother had a collation table set up and had filled it with their favorite foods—fried seafood, chicken, jambalaya, gumbo, rich sauces, and rice. Fruits of all colors were set about and pyramid cakes, iced and decorated, sat toward the center. Next to the cakes were pies, candies, and sugar rose leaves. Glass decanters lined the back table filled with various wines and Irish whiskey. Her father had opened the ballroom. The marble pillars, washed the day before, matched the sheen from the beautifully tiled floor.
Amongst her large family, Aurèlie and her new husband recited the vows of marriage. After a short applause, the orchestra filled the night with festive music.
Her husband chose not to dance, but Aurèlie danced the night away. She loved the feel of the music and brought little Maisie to the floor to dance as well. As the night closed in, many of her visiting family retired to the guest rooms upstairs. Soon afterward, her husband’s young daughter fell sound asleep on a settee in the salon.
The evening had ended.
Aurèlie glanced around. Having not seen her husband or several of her male relatives in quite a while, she suspected they were enjoying a cheroot in the men’s salon. The lump that had formed in her throat earlier in the evening now sank with a deadening weight to her stomach.
It was time to go home with Jordan Kincaid.
Chapter Three
Aurèlie found her new husband in the men’s parlor, drinking wine and smoking rolled tobacco with her relatives. Not allowed to enter the male domain, she waited from the door and listened as the men discussed the exquisite wine her father imported from France.
Her new husband swirled the wine in his goblet and asked several questions about her father’s shipments but her relatives were more concerned about the growing danger of pirates in the backwaters of Louisiana.
“Soon, I move my shipping business to Liberty Oak. I save much in transportation cost into New Orleans, non?” Her father bragged.
Her cousin lit his cheroot and gave it a second to take. “A land route is safer, Étienne. Privateers and pirates prowl the backwaters, especially the infamous corsair, Le Vengeur. If he were to know of this wine, you might find it stolen and sold on the corner of Conti and Toulouse Street for half the worth.”
Her family laughed, enjoying her cousin’s humor.
Her father shook his head. “This Le Vengeur must have a marque from Cartagena. It is Spain, even Britain that must be wary of such a ship, non?”
“I have heard he sails under no country flag, Étienne,” her uncle added. “He is not commissioned and like Donato de la Roche, only prizes French ships.”
“They are all commissioned, in one way or another,” Monsieur Kincaid quietly added to the conversation after taking a drink. “Open waters, open market.”
“Perhaps, but Étienne, you have a soft heart for the English Crown.” Aurèlie’s uncle took another taste of her father’s wine. “Ship through England. Partner with the Brits.”
The soft rumble of laughter rolled around the room.
Monsieur Kincaid challenged the laughter. “We are at war with Britain, Étienne.”
“America is at war and he’d be more protected,” her uncle persisted. “At least one of the corsairs, Le Vengeur, runs from British gunboats.”
The American suddenly turned his head and leveled his gaze on her uncle. His eyes darkened slightly. “I would wager he outmaneuvers them in the delta’s shallow waters.”
“But this happened in open waters, monsieur. Our very own Aurèlie encountered such a corsair, and has seen Le Vengeur forced to run. Tell us Aurèlie.” Her cousin sent the attention toward her.
A slight gasp escaped her throat. She had been caught eavesdropping. For some foolish reason she had felt invisible while listening to the men talk. Monsieur Kincaid turned to face her. She cleared her mind for English. “It is most true, monsieur, a British gunner deported Le Vengeur.”
“Ceci est comme j’ai dit.” Her cousin nodded in agreement, as if she had proven his point.
“On what ship did you sail?” her new husband asked.
“Le Bodine, a passenger brigantine from Marseille.”
“A brigantine? Perhaps the freight was not worth the risk.”
“Perhaps, monsieur, but Le Vengeur fled with most haste, I did see.”
That brought a round of laughter from her family but the American seemed intent only on her as if the others were not present. His gaze held a hint of suspicion. She had not lied, but regretted having shared the story. He seemed not to enjoy it as much as her family.
“Maybe it was El Diablo, Donato de la Roche, or De Lorne of L’intrépide or Rousseau sailing Alexander. There are as many possibilities as there are corsairs.”
Intrigued by her husband’s sudden interest in her journey and feeling his challenge, she refused to stand obediently at the door but dared to step within the sacred boundaries of the men’s salon. Her husband looked down and watched as she stepped within the smoke-filled room, crossing the imaginary line of where a proper woman would dare stand. With a quizzical tilt to his head, he slowly came to his feet.
“I thank the lord it was not, I think. El Diablo would not have fled a warship but the other way around, non?”
Her father waved
a hand to dismiss the subject. “Donato de la Roche has declared his own war on the corsairs, non? He has lost much to the privateers and has vowed to get it back.”
Her new husband showed little interest in her father’s statement. Instead, his gaze remained on Aurèlie. “How do you know for certain it was Le Vengeur?”
“This ship came close to our bow.”
“How close?”
“A mile or so, I think. I can be most sure; it was Le Vengeur, monsieur.”
“Close enough for a glimpse of the captain?”
Her breath hung to the back of her throat. She sensed something, a hint of danger lingered in the air, having somehow trespassed where he did not want her. The others seemed unaware.
“A glimpse at best,” she whispered. “A mask of black, I see, nothing more.”
His expression lightened with a slight amused curve to his lips. “Perhaps, Le Vengeur preferred not to face the wrath of a beautiful woman.”
“You flatter me, monsieur. If I had such power to deter a pirate ship like Le Vengeur, many a ship would want me, oui?”
“Well, one ship for certain.” He leaned into her, a slight hint of danger lingered in his voice. “Le Vengeur.”
Aurèlie, aware she stood clearly in the men’s salon, kept herself steady, feeling challenged by her new husband, but not sure as to why.
“If what you say is true, monsieur,” her cousin interrupted, “which flag would be safe from this pirate? Corsairs have no allegiance to America. This man, the captain of Le Vengeur, is French, n’est ce pas?”
“So I’ve heard.” Her husband shrugged, keeping those dark eyes on her. “But it is Aurèlie who has seen him—”
“You doubt my story, monsieur?”
His mouth turned up slightly on both ends, the beginnings of a smile, arrested quickly and buried beneath politeness. “Quite the contrary, I only noted your witness.”
“The journey from France was long.” She wished to put an end to the discussion. “The pirate, Le Vengeur, was only a bit of it.”
He considered her for a moment or two before he seemed to realize the others waited for a response. “But you arrived safely. Not all voyages are so fortunate. Much happens at sea.”
His voice had turned hard, deep, measured with a season of bitterness she did not understand. Though he was quite right, voyages across the sea were indeed dangerous; his comment indicated a personal experience. Before she could explore her thoughts, Monsieur Kincaid had turned his attention to the others.
“But don’t concern yourself, Étienne. Your exports will be safe from my docks.”
“How can you be so sure, monsieur? Have you notified these pirates as to what they can or cannot steal?” Aurèlie’s cousin asked, followed again by laughter.
“Perhaps,” her husband answered with a slight shrug to his overly broad shoulders.
The laughter stopped. The room fell silent but her husband took little notice. “Gentlemen, I will take my leave. Étienne, might you bestow upon me a wedding gift and give me a barrel of that superior wine?”
“But of course.” Her father grinned. “I not worry. My profits will grow, most definitely.”
“Most definitely,” he concurred. “Thank you for your generosity, Étienne.”
Her new husband again sent his dark gaze to Aurèlie. Though her powers of sight seemed dormant around him and no images had flashed through her mind any time he had briefly touched her, she felt something far more potent about him.
Jordan Kincaid had powers of his own, and at this moment, it appeared, his were stronger than hers. More concerning, did he know it?
The carriage pulled to a halt under the covered loggia. His house was bigger than her father’s but dark with a gloomy porte cochère, an under gallery patio, stocked with earthenware and straw encased demijohns.
Wrapped with a broad upper level veranda supported by thick white brick columns below and thin wood colonnettes supporting the roof above, the house had white garçonnières to each side, giving it a much larger appearance than it most likely was. Normally garçonnières were attached dormitories built for male family members. She wondered who of his household lived in the towers.
The long winding stairway that ascended to the upper level living quarters lit up as a short, plump, dark-skinned woman, with a headscarf around her hair, raced toward them. The lighted lantern in her hand illuminated the gateway paved with red brick.
“Where is the child? I’ll be takin’ her up.”
Her forwardness surprised Aurèlie. She glanced over at her husband, expecting a rebuke. Instead, he responded casually.
“She’s been asleep for the last couple of hours.” He gently lifted Maisie from the carriage before handing her off to the woman. He seemed to care deeply for the child. Aurèlie had noticed with every bump in the road that had jolted the carriage, his hand had tenderly glided over the shoulder of his sleeping daughter, guarding her from harm.
“Settle her, Hattie. Aurèlie’s father sent her things.”
He offered a hand to Aurèlie. Gently, she stepped lightly from the footstep to the paved brick. She felt a stirring of something flash through her mind from his touch, but it quickly faded.
Her husband tapped the carriage with his cane, instructing the driver to pull off. The night felt deathly quiet, evening noises of the nearby swamp and the annoying whine of mosquitoes had ceased. Now standing on her grandfather’s land, Aurèlie strained her hearing for a moment. There were no drums.
“Come inside. Your father’s servants will take your trunks to your room.”
Aurèlie glanced back to see the calèche pull up with her belongings, as well as a large barrel of her father’s wine. “Merci.”
Gingerly, she placed her hand within the crook of Jordan’s arm and climbed the winding stairs to the upper gallery. Her other hand traced lightly along the mahogany handrail. Uneasy by the darkness of the house, she held on tight, nuzzling her fingertips against the hard, firm muscles beneath his sleeve.
He led her through a large salon; one she assumed had to be the salle principale. Portraits had been hung in the corners giving the room a rounded look. Wallpaper designed with ships covered the walls. The furnished room was comprised of a wardrobe with shelves filled with books, a settee, two lolling chairs, and a writing table.
They crossed through the main salon and entered a small sitting room toward the back of the house where four armed chairs of rosewood sat in a square around the fireplace. Continuing through the sitting room, they crossed the hall and entered another small room. There, he ignited a dip-match and lit the lamp on the table.
She glanced around, seeing the lower loggia to the right of them. They stood in what appeared to be a breakfast room with a small storage room behind it. A rectangle cypress worktable stood center surrounded by carved cypress chairs and a garde-manger stood against the wall. Very plain furniture when compared to her mother’s lavishly ornate imported French mahogany dining room. A casement window framed the lower loggia and overlooked the back grounds.
After her husband had lit the overhead lamp, he turned and faced her. When he did, the light in the room reflected off something silver beneath his cravat, a chain of some sort. Though he wore his hair long and neatly tied back, he was finely dressed and handsome in a roguish sort of way. She swallowed hard, feeling the intensity of his visual assessment of her.
She had returned from Paris feeling well prepared as an educated woman to manage this new situation with a man, but her confidence was waning now that she was alone with the American. All of this had to lead to the deed of Yellow Sun.
“Hattie runs the household and takes care of my daughter. You do not need to concern yourself with that…or her.”
She nodded, more concerned about what he would expect.
“I will not come to you tonight.” He picked up a decanter from a recessed wine table and pulled the cork. He filled a glass, offering her one. She declined, suspecting it was not wine but whiskey.
He shrugged and took a quick sip from the glass. “I will allow time for you to become accustomed to me. A courtship of sorts.”
A long, easy breath escaped through the slight part of her lips, allowing all tension to drain outward. The offer was kind and considerate. “Merci. How much time?”
He looked up at her. Shadows darkened his eyes as he casually sipped the liquor, as if rethinking his decision, holding his glass with long tapered fingers. Though roughened by work, she could imagine those fingers stroking her skin…surprised by the sudden increase in her heart rate with the thought.
“We will know when the time is right.” He set the glass down before facing her. “You are a very beautiful woman.”
His expression had remained inexpressive, though his voice was quiet and sounded as if he was thinking aloud.
“Merci.” Her mind reeled with how to handle him, her decorum exhausted from the many hours of preparation and celebration. “Me pardonner, monsieur, I am most exhausted.”
“Ah…of course…I’m just curious…”
“Curious, monsieur? About…”
He picked up the whiskey and downed the rest. “Your father has guaranteed me that you are untouched. Are you? You were in Paris without a chaperone?”
His question caught her so completely off her guard, a rush of blood heated her face.
Chapter Four
Jordan watched her oblong eyes, trimmed with thick black velvet lashes, narrow as she bit her lower lip, most likely stifling a scathing retort. Not that he didn’t deserve it. Hell, he had had too much to drink and damn she was beautiful, and right about now, he sure could use some female companionship. He had hoped that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t her maiden voyage.
“Monsieur…I am of the Société of Cordon Bleu…” she managed to say through very tight lips as if holding back a tongue lashing. A burgundy flush colored the amazingly smooth skin of her face, like daintily painted porcelain, fine and creamy with a hint of honey.
He wanted to touch her, slide his fingers across her cheek, a beauty in his otherwise dark world, but she wasn’t his. He had to remember that, if he hoped to maintain the slightest shred of decency once this charade was over.