by Meg Hennessy
As Jordan’s guests enjoyed the meal, Aurèlie caught sight of a little blond head peeking around the door. Grateful for a short respite, Aurèlie excused herself and crept into the hall.
“Little Maisie, you sleep now, oui?”
“I just wanted to see the pretty table, Miss Aurèlie.”
“And you have. Let me take you upstairs before your father sees you here. He will not be pleased. You hurry.”
Maisie had scampered up the stairs and dove into her tunic by the time Aurèlie caught up with her. Aurèlie tucked the bedclothes beneath her small chin, adding a kiss to her cheek.
“Be good and sleep. I come by later.”
“Oui,” she answered with a giggle.
Aurèlie laughed at how she pronounced it. “No, child. It is said like the English word, ‘we,’ with a little more breath, like blowing out a candle. Oui.”
“O…wee.”
“Very good, now sleep.”
Aurèlie slowly closed the child’s door and crept back down the stairs, dreading any more dialogue with these powerful bores. When she turned the corner around the banister, she ran smack into a man. She halted, then retreated a step or two. “Pardonne, Consulate Thornburg, I did not see.”
He bowed quickly, placing his hand on hers as if to steady her. “I as well, Miss Fentonot. I, ah…had just asked that my hack be brought by at half past.”
Aurèlie blinked hard, trying not to notice the images that flashed through her mind from his touch. A library, books—Jordan’s library, making her suspect that he had just lied to her. She pulled away from him to regain her balance. “Please, monsieur, I will escort you back to the dining hall.”
“On the contrary, Madame, it is I who will escort you.” The consulate offered his arm. She and the consulate proceeded across the hall to the large glowing dining hall. The other guests were still enjoying their dinner, but Jordan’s plate had not been touched.
“We have moved considerable gunboats to the coastline area, just in the case the British choose to attack us there,” added the commodore.
“When did you do that, after you dug them out of Lake Bourgne?” Jordan responded.
The commodore cleared his throat as he ignored the barbed question. “General Jackson secured Pensacola and has returned to New Orleans in anticipation of such an attack. It is important that I am as familiar with the waters here as possible. I will depend on planters, such as you, Mr. Kincaid, to assist with that education.”
“Keep them out of the backwaters and you won’t have a concern.” Jordan swirled the wine in the glass before taking another sip. He glanced up as Aurèlie and the consulate returned to the dining hall and watched as she and the government official took their seats.
“By your position, Mr. Kincaid, I would think you’d appreciate the extra protection in these waters. You are vulnerable to pirates.”
Monsieur Clement spoke up, “Privateers, Commodore. Perhaps, you should engage them to assist. They do know the backwaters well, non?”
Aurèlie caught a faint smile that chased quickly across Jordan’s face. “Maybe a little too well.”
“I will not engage pirates for anything but to destroy them. Lafitte has been indicted for piracy.”
“But catch him, you have not.” Monsieur Clement pushed the issue.
“No, but I will. I heard rumors that Donato de la Roche was seen in New Orleans. Our presence will certainty put a damper on the activities of such a man.” The commodore stuffed his mouth with a large piece of pork.
“Donato de la Roche was in New Orleans?” Jordan threw a glance toward Monsieur Clement, who seemed to shrug in response. “When?”
“As recent as a few weeks ago, two, three weeks,” the commodore spoke around his food-filled mouth. “I will guarantee, the next time he’s seen in New Orleans, he’ll find himself in the Calaboose.”
“He is of no consequence.” Monsieur Clement washed his food down with wine before he spoke to the commodore. “Monsieur, would it not be best to keep the British from even approaching the shores?”
Though the conversation seemed to have moved on, Jordan continued to stare at Monsieur Clement.
The commodore laughed, packing away another slice of pork. “Gentlemen, I’m the military man. You are planters. I don’t tell you what to plant, nor should you tell me how to defend the shores or roust pirates.”
“I suggested engaging the privateers, not rousting them. I would think they could be of much benefit, non?” Monsieur Clement added, seemingly unaware of Jordan’s hostile glare.
The city attorney joined the speculation. “Why don’t you clean the privateers out of Barataria? Then as planters, you wouldn’t have to worry about that rabble.”
Jordan stirred his plate. “As planters, we do not need any assistance. We handle the privateers without consequence.”
“Is that so?” The consulate looked up. “I believe we received a report from customs, who saw several barrels with a local seal on it floating in these waters. If you say this wine is from Fentonot, perhaps it was he who lost his shipment?”
Aurèlie’s stomach tightened when she remembered Jordan had spoken of it the night he had been shot.
“I haven’t seen any such report, Consulate?” The commodore turned toward Aurèlie. “Has your father reported a theft?”
She shook her head, glancing up at her husband, not sure what she was to say. “Unaware, I am, monsieur. My father does not share business with me.”
“Did they recover the barrels?” Jordan asked.
“No…” The consulate looked directly at him. “They could not recover them in time. They watched them sink.”
“Perhaps”—Aurèlie interjected, not able to allow the moment to pass without her input. For more than an hour, she had listened to these men bloviate about land that they had no right to claim—“if it were not for the many governments we’ve been forced to endure, customs, taxes, stolen land, the privateers would not be so successful.”
The consulate dropped his fork.
It bounced from the table near Aurèlie who then caught it in midair. As she handed it back to him, images raced through her mind. Dark, muted images of horses, men, hushed voices, and pistols. She drew a sharp breath to steady her mind as something floated forward but quickly dissolved before her eyes. “We will replace, monsieur.”
Jordan stole a long look around the room at his guests. “It appears, gentlemen, we have been boorish on the subject of politics with women present. My apologies, ladies. It does appear we’ll have cooler weather for Christmas.”
Aurèlie took another sip of wine, keeping her eye on Jordan. Whatever he was trying to find out tonight, one thing was certain, the consulate was not his ally.
Chapter Eighteen
After what seemed like endless hours of men talking war and politics in the salle principale and enduring senseless prattle with the women in the salon—who hadn’t sent a kind word Aurèlie’s way—the evening finally ended. The guests strolled upstairs to the rooms for the night. Only the consulate and his wife left the premises. Aurèlie checked on Maisie once more before making her way back to the dining hall to supervise the clean up.
Monsieur Clement had remained on the back loggia drawing on a cigar. Aurèlie watched him from the window.
“Hattie,” Aurèlie caught the woman as she walked by her, “who is that man?”
Hattie shrugged her shoulders. “He’s no one I know, nor should you. I’ll make the dinin’ hall clean, ya might retire for the night.”
Retire for the night? Aurèlie had no intention of making a docile retreat to her room until she had some idea of exactly what it was that Jordan was involved in. As far as she knew, her father had not reported a theft, and that was odd.
She pulled the panels closed after she slipped into Jordan’s study behind the library. A place he always returned to at night before retiring, if he ever slept.
She waited in the dark until finally, she heard his foot falls on the w
ooden flooring. He swung the door open, fumbled with a dip-match, then lit a lamp. He halted.
“Aurèlie,” he lifted the lamp and placed it on the table next to her. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”
“Waiting for you.” Her voice sounded far sultrier than she wanted.
“Really.” He placed his hands on each arm of her chair. Boxing her in, he leaned into her. “Hungry for me, are you?”
He smiled, a deep resonant smile that indeed made her heart skip a beat, but he had had too much to drink, having celebrated the end of the dinner with Monsieur Clement. She wondered at her own wisdom in speaking with him tonight. But he was here and she had his attention.
“I wish to speak with you,” she replied.
“Oh, what a disappointment. I wish to do other things.”
As he walked behind her, he dragged his fingers lightly along her hairline and dipped to her nape. He brushed her skin with his lips, warm breath fluttered down her back. She closed her eyes, taking a long deep breath.
“Monsieur…”
“Oh, how I tire of that.” He kissed her earlobe, gently nudging it with his tongue. Her earring rocked back and forth against her neck. She tried for another deep breath but sucked in small irregular gasps.
“Jourdain, I wish to speak with you.”
“I’m listening.” He traced his fingers again over her nape, nuzzled her other earlobe, leaving a heated patch against her skin that spread like warm rum swallowed on a cold night.
She sighed, realizing her error in trying to have a logical conversation. Instead, closing her eyes, she allowed him to explore. He pulled the combs from her hair and let the length of it fall down her back and over her shoulder. “I don’t hear you, Aurèlie.”
“Because speaking, I am not.” She surrendered to his seduction.
He came around to the front of her and lowered his hand to ride the ridge of her breasts. “Could it be, you too wish to do other things?”
Though the masculine whiskey smell on his breath excited her even more, she knew he was not steady on his feet and caught the slight slur to his speech.
His hands, though rough against her skin, were strong. His lean arms thickened with muscle when he moved. With his haircut, she could see more of his lean face, which was hardened by experience yet handsomely vulnerable.
She ran her small hands up his massive arms and across his shoulders, wishing she could magically wash away the excess weight that burdened him.
“Perhaps,” she whispered, “we talk later, n’est pas?”
Gently, he spread her legs and knelt down between them, kissing the tops of her breasts. He unlaced her gown and freed her from the confines of her stays and chemise. He gloved the soft mounds within his hand, nibbling lightly on her raised nipples. A bolt of desire drove deep inside of her; an errant arrow had found its mark.
She allowed her legs to fall open. Knowing he’d explore, she anxiously awaited. Her breath quickened and her thoughts about her father’s lost wine escaped her mind like popping bubbles of champagne. Her husband lifted her skirts, inching them slowly up her legs.
He ran his hands upward along her thighs. She inhaled a quick breath, throbbing, begging for his touch as he untied the leggings, kissed her inner thigh, then the other. He slid his fingers inside of her and slowly stirred, as if not wanting to bring her to a boil but allowing the flavor of the moment to marinate her body.
“What did you want to speak to me about, Aurèlie?” he whispered, stirring the thickening cream inside of her, dropping a light kiss to the hollow of her throat.
She drew a breath, his movement had awakened a primal need that came sharply into focus. While trying to sort out her rational thoughts, her body arched against his hand, needing to feel the firmness of his palm against the protective bridge of her desire.
Her breathing had become ragged, a hint of sweat covered her skin. Faint images of wine kegs floating in the swamp drew her attention back to her mission. Her voice breathless, she persisted, “I have questions.”
“Not good, for I have no answers.” He cupped her fragile form and started to move with each deep breath she took, sliding his hand in and out of her. The hot, moist folds of her body curled around the tease of his fingers.
Aurèlie allowed her head to fall against the chair. Closing her eyes, she released her mind of any responsibility except to feel, feel every delicious wave of anticipation that roiled from her inner core.
The tide inside her belly continued to grow until it overflowed the barrier she had in place. She gasped, sucking in a deep long breath as the dam broke. Her desire, having found freedom, rushed forward and exploded into rolling spasms that slammed against the inside of her body, leaving her quivering with pleasure before slowly evaporating. Until the next time he touched her…
Jordan withdrew his hand, then leaned forward, brushing her panting lips with his. He ran his tongue along her partially opened mouth, searching for a taste. Parting her lips, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on tight, inviting his kiss. Knowing the whiskey had washed away any filters of propriety, she wanted to experience the passion that seemed buried beneath his troubles.
He pulled her into his arms, nearly squeezing the breath from her body. The kiss complete, she knew he thought of nothing at that moment but her. Tears filled her eyes. For the first time, she understood just how much that meant to her. Jordan was here with her. She was within his arms and the facade had fallen away, discarded in a moment of passion—
“I’m sorry, Aurèlie. I have no right.” Jordan suddenly broke the kiss and rose to stand, unsteady on his feet. He christened her damp forehead with a light kiss. “I had too much to drink tonight. I can’t think.”
He filled a glass with whiskey, swallowed the liquor down, then refilled it again.
“So you drink more?” She straightened her shoulders, her body still throbbing, yearning to experience more releases, desperately wanting to be within his arms, to be the center of his attention.
Keeping his back to her, he asked, “What is it you wanted tonight?”
“To be wanted.” Her answer surprised even herself. This wasn’t why she had waited in his library…but she had said it. The words had passed her lips before she could think about it, but surprisingly they were the truth. She took a ragged breath to calm her pounding heart.
He turned and faced her, his eyes as hungry as her soul. “Oh, I want you, Aurèlie, but you already know that. You don’t need your hocus-pocus to figure that out.”
“Why do you deny me?” She rose to her feet.
He threw the glass into the fireplace. The flames erupted. Glass shattered over the logs. She held herself steady as he walked toward her. “Deny you?”
Her courage waned. She backed up. “Oui, as if you don’t want.”
“You think I don’t want you?”
“Oui.” She nodded, though the admission was painful. This was not the conversation she had intended. How did they get here? “I am confused, you say you want me, but no? It is because I am of mixed blood, and yours so very pure?”
He chuckled, but it was forced, as if she told a bad joke. “I want you, Aurèlie, I want you so damn bad I can’t think straight. You’ve cursed me more than this damned land.”
“No.” No, this was not what she wanted to hear from him. She no longer thought about the contract, but of a marriage, a relationship with a man she had started to care for so deeply she thought of nothing else, along with a little girl who was thrilled to have a mother.
Whether he knew it or not, his kindness and compassion showed in every action, his love for his daughter with each gentle touch, his desire to keep them safe and protected. He had kept her in a state of affluence, but she wanted more. She wanted him to want her.
She shook her head, again stepping away from him. Whiskey was heavy on his breath and his eyes were tinged slightly red. Her heart started to break and she couldn’t catch her breath.
“I have not cursed
you,” she whispered through tight lips. “It is not damned land, but mine. Stolen, but mine!”
“Yours?” He shook his head, as if trying to clear the whiskey that had muddled his mind and his speech. “You don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t. You have lost yourself in something that does not live, is not life.”
“I have so much upon me, Aurèlie, I can’t risk…I have lost much….”
“I know there is much mystery here, but I am here also, non? So is your little girl, who much deserves your love.”
“So you are, but I have no right.”
“No right?”
He stepped away from her. In the corner of the room stood a large oak washstand and basin. He rinsed off his hands and face. His hair, once neatly combed forward toward his face, was now wet and brushed back to expose his handsome, well-defined features. He had a hard, rugged look, yet stood dressed in his finest, as if a gentleman, as well. “I am drunk and offer no better explanation than that.”
He reached for the decanter.
“No explanation?” She marched over and grabbed the decanter from his hand. Without losing stride, she threw it into the fireplace. The crystal shattered nearly as much as the fire hissed. She spun on her heels and faced him. His jaw dropped as he stared at her—stunned. “I give you one explanation. You drink too much. You hide from life!”
“No, I do not. Believe me, I do not.” He remained frozen, watching her. His attention on her made her feel good and for the first time since their marriage, she felt a surge of power.
“I have rights. I have rights to take you when I so choose.” She strode up to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. He tasted of whiskey, cigar smoke, and smelled of salt water with a wash of lavender, but she wanted it all. Firm against his hard chest, she felt the thick muscles of his thighs against her hips. His arms came up around her and within a flash, crushed her into him, deepening the kiss until the breath of her lungs mingled with his.