Her lips moved, forming his name, forming a slow, strained smile.
Suddenly the clearing was brighter, wider, more verdantly green, a veritable paradise. And Christien wanted nothing more than to take this woman down to the quilt spread so conveniently nearby and make love to her in the small and perfect Eden as if they were the only two people in all the world.
“Maman, you caught Monsieur Christien!” Marguerite sang, gurgling with laughter, skipping, hopping, spinning around them like a small dervish. “Now it’s his turn to be blind.”
Oh, but he was blind already, or had been, Christien thought while watching with minute attention as Reine released him and reached up to remove the blindfold from her eyes. He loved this woman to desperation, had loved her from the moment he first saw her.
Oh, he had wanted her before, had schemed to have her, meant to have her regardless, but this was different. It was different and he had ruined it. She would never forgive him, might never again look at him as she did now, with clear, unguarded intimacy and somber remembrance. Yes, and a promise he did not deserve and never would.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said in a low tone that had the sound of supplication to his ears. “I just couldn’t resist.”
“It’s no intrusion. I brought Marguerite here, where we could be alone, to talk to her. She understands now, I think, that ladies and gentlemen share a bed when they are married.”
“Does she?” he asked with a lifted brow.
Reine met his eyes, her own filled with rueful light. “To a point. She is happy, I believe, that you are to be her new papa.”
“Papa. Oh, Papa…”
He drew a quick breath, shook off the flicker of memory. Taking Reine’s hand, he lifted it to his lips. “So am I happy. And delighted indeed that you are to be my wife.”
It was as simple and truthful a message as he could manage while Marguerite stood listening. Reine understood, he thought, for the blue of her eyes deepened, her lips parted and her grasp on his hand tightened a fraction.
It was more than he could bear.
He kissed her, a hungry meeting of mouths that tasted of remorse and desperation. Her lips were so soft and warm, like flower petals opening under his, flavored with nectar and sweet yielding. Need slashed into him. He might have taken her there, braced against the trunk of the great oak, if not for their small and far-too-attentive audience.
He drew back, his every muscle creaking with reluctance. Reine’s lips were rosy, a little swollen, and she licked them with a small movement of her tongue as if to take in the taste of him. Her lashes veiled her eyes as she inhaled fast and deep, stepping away from him even as he reached for her again.
“Have you eaten?” she asked with a catch in her voice. “We were about to have our breakfast.”
“Fried pies!” Marguerite cried, running back from where she had wandered away a short distance. “We have lots. And lemonade, too. Do you like fried pies and lemonade?”
“My favorites,” Christien said, and turned to follow Reine the few steps it took to reach the quilt that was to be their table.
Marguerite skipped toward him and slipped her hand into his larger one, grinning up at him. Smiling down at her, feeling the clasp of her small fingers, so trusting, so accepting, Christien breathed deep against the spreading ache inside him, and cursed himself for a cretin.
The pies were made with dried apples folded into flaky pastry, an offering for the gods. The lemonade was tart, sweet and cool, the perfect antidote against the growing heat of the day. They tasted like ashes and acid in Christien’s mouth, though he pretended to appetite and enjoyment. He ate only a few bites, giving half his share to Marguerite, who was still hungry when hers was gone, and feeding most of his crust to Chalmette.
Reine, watching him slip a piece to the dog that sat, slavering, at his right knee, spoke abruptly. “Should you be out of bed? I mean, Dr. Laborde did say—”
“I know.” He gave her a wry smile. “But there are things it’s better to meet while standing on your feet.”
Color flooded her face. “If you mean my father and brother after the other night, I’m sorry. I should have been there to face them with you.”
“It would have made no difference. Whatever was said, I deserved.”
“Was it so very bad?”
He picked up a twig that had fallen onto the quilt where they sat, breaking it into small pieces. “Your father and mother aren’t talking to me. Paul, unfortunately, is, or was. But I have no meeting under the oaks arranged for in the morning.”
“I expect I should thank you for that,” she said, her gaze clouded as she watched him.
“Not at all. Your brother seems to prefer a live husband for you to a dead seducer.” He pitched the twig pieces into the grass beyond the quilt’s edge.
“He said that?” she asked, her voice sharp.
“He was upset, and who could blame him? I should never—”
“Don’t. Don’t say that.”
He met the rich blue of her eyes, and it was all he could do to hold that frank gaze. Guilt, hot and blighting, sat on his shoulders. He should have confessed what he was about days ago, when it might have mattered less. The longer he concealed it now, the worse it would be when she finally learned the truth. He had thought his purpose so important that it could be excused, had blithely assured himself her feelings would not matter, that he would take her any way he could get her. He had been wrong.
“No, I can’t say it.” His agreement was soft, certain. “But I can wish that you had not been exposed to more gossip, more…”
He trailed off, unable to complete the lie. Their exposure, if it could be called that, had been a fortuitous accident, one that could well accelerate events. He should be pleased, wanted to be pleased, because the sooner it was done, the better it would be for all of them. Instead, he felt a leaden weight of dread.
“It doesn’t matter,” Reine said, her gaze on her daughter, who had wiped her hands on the pinafore apron she wore and jumped up to play chase with Chalmette. “With everything that’s been said, what is one small thing more? At least Marguerite is better.”
She did seem to be, with a lighter look about her eyes and more healthy color in her face. “She sleeps well now after she is put to bed?”
“She does, excellently well,” she answered. “Having Chalmette on the rug beside her made all the difference.”
“She believes he will frighten away the loup-garou, then.”
“She believes,” Reine said with a slow shake of her head, “that he will growl loudly enough to bring you to her before anything can happen.”
Christien pressed his lips together while a virulent curse feathered through his mind. He had failed Marguerite once by not being there. What if he failed her again?
“I hope she’s right.”
“Yes,” Reine replied, her tone pensive.
Was it doubt he heard in her voice? If so, he had no right to complain, certainly no right to feel affronted. As he glanced away, his gaze slid over Reine’s mare, which cropped grass near the clearing’s edge with the pony grazing beside it. Into his mind seeped the comment made by the stable boy so short a time ago, that Reine had been out riding on the night he was shot.
“I didn’t realize you were such a horsewoman,” he said. “We must ride out together now and then.”
“That would be lovely, particularly in the cool of the morning.”
“Or late afternoon. We might even enjoy an outing by moonlight.” He watched her face as he spoke, felt his heart trip and stagger as she swung toward him with a wide gaze that turned secretive the instant she met his eyes.
“That might be dangerous until we know who shot you,” she said after a moment.
Had her alarm been only from concern? As much as he’d like to think so, he could not depend on it. Nor could he be certain she had no part in the attempt on his life. What better way to be rid of an unwanted groom? “There is that,” he allowed. �
�Certainly, it would not be safe for a lady to ride out alone.”
Her gaze moved past him, to the tree line beyond the clearing. “Yes, that would be unwise.”
“I can’t imagine a purpose strong enough to entice most females out after dark, anyway,” he went on with grim determination. “It would have to be something of vital importance.”
Her lips parted as if she meant to answer. The words went unspoken, however, as her attention fixed on the wooded growth at the edge of the clearing. Putting out a hand, she clutched his arm in a tight grip.
For a single instant, he was certain it was a ruse. Then he saw the color had receded from her face, leaving her lips blue-tinted at the edges. “What is it?” he demanded in soft concern, closing his hand upon her grasping fingers at the same time.
“There,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “Someone in the trees.”
He turned his head, locating Marguerite no great distance away, where she squatted in a flare of skirts to peer at something she had found on the ground. Chalmette, beside her, was watching the figure in the trees with his ruff raised and a sawing rumble deep in his throat. Christien followed the dog’s fixed stare with a move as idle and without care as he could make it.
All he could discern was a dark form, hardly more than a shadow blending with the trees. It was already disappearing, melting into the thick growth of vines, briars and shrubbery.
“Demeter,” Reine said on a sigh as she released him. “It must have been. She’s forever slipping around, showing up when least expected.” She gave him a brief look. “You may know she was Theodore’s nursemaid, also Marguerite’s for a time. Her cabin is not so far from here, no more than a few hundred feet on the other side of the property line. Though River’s Edge covers several hundred acres, it’s pie-shaped like all the holdings along the river, narrow at the water’s edge and spreading wider as it goes away from it.”
“So your father told me,” he said in some distraction. “Apparently your late husband’s old nurse is no more anxious for my company this morning than anyone else.”
“She doesn’t know you.”
“A situation unlikely to be remedied, it seems.”
“Are you angry?” she asked, turning to search his face, alerted, perhaps, by some undertone in his voice.
“Now how could I be that?”
Demeter, if it was her, had paused to watch again from a more-distant vantage point, he thought. His trained woodsman’s ears could no longer catch the stealthy sounds of retreat. What the old woman expected to see, he could not tell. Still, it seemed, in his present mood, that she should not be entirely disappointed.
“I don’t know…” Reine began in doubtful tones.
He didn’t allow her to finish. Reaching for her, he swept her against him and lowered her to the quilt in a single swift move. He took her mouth in hard possession, allowing the spy to see while shielding her from Marguerite’s view with his shoulders. He smoothed his hand from Reine’s slender waist to her hips and pulled her tight against him. His fingers sank into folds of poplin over her hips, found firm, resilient flesh, molding it to his hand. She gasped, pressed the gentle mounds of her breasts against him, parted her lips.
He was almost lost in that instant. His lips softened, the pressure between them eased, and all he wanted was the same tender ravishment that he had found before, the same sweet surcease.
Not here. Not now.
To release her was like cutting off a limb. He did it, regardless, with a final salute on her wide brow and a wrenching movement that made him stifle a groan and hold his side. And he watched as she sat up and straightened her clothing, watched while breathing silent curses and equally silent apologies.
There was nothing to be done after that except push to his feet, help gather the remains of the outing and turn homeward. He gritted his teeth and gave Reine a leg up into her saddle. He put Marguerite onto her pony, then played at rear guard while mother and daughter walked their mounts back out to the track. When he was sure they could not witness the damage to his damnable male pride caused by his struggles, he dragged himself atop the black stallion. Catching up with Reine and Marguerite then, he rode with them back toward River’s Edge.
Christien didn’t look back, though not from lack of concern for what lay behind them. It was because he could not bear to be reminded of what might lie ahead.
18
Why?
Why, Reine wondered for the hundredth time, had Christien tumbled her to the quilt there with Marguerite so close by and where whoever watched could easily have glanced back to see? Why, when they had been embarrassed so recently by a similar straying from convention?
It wasn’t as if desire had overcome him, she was almost sure. Something calculating and almost angry had been in his kiss, at least in the beginning.
She had returned it with fervor. Unbelievably, she had responded to him with everything in her. It wasn’t that she had no control; she was quite able to deny herself most things, to avoid an entire spectrum of ordinary temptations. The problem was that being in Christien’s arms was not ordinary in any sense of the word.
She had relearned a valuable lesson there in the woods. During these days of preparation before the wedding, she must not be alone with him, not ever. Even if she had not determined that for herself, it seemed her family meant to see to it. She could not move without finding her father or her mother at her elbow or Paul just behind her. If she and Christien were in the same room for more than two minutes, they were joined by Alonzo sent to bring wine or eau de sucre, by her mother with needlework in hand, Marguerite sent with a book to be read, Paul with some burning question about the finer points of fencing or her father with a yen to play cards. It would have been amusing if it weren’t so inconvenient.
She could discover no opportunity to speak to her betrothed alone. It was frustrating when suspicion and unanswered questions clamored in her head.
He knew she had ridden out at night, she was sure of it. What else could be the point of his warning against it? If he suspected where she had been, however, surely he would have warned against venturing to New Orleans, as well. Failing that word of caution, she had to assume the worst of her secret was still safe.
It didn’t follow, of course. Christien was not a man to put all his cards on the table.
It might have been better if she had made a clean breast of it. What might he be thinking otherwise? She would like to believe he suspected her of riding out to meet another man. Jealousy made a fine excuse for his reaction, after all.
Common sense prevented any such thing. Nothing that had passed between them thus far gave her reason to think he valued her beyond her usefulness as a bed mate and future mistress of his home.
He did desire her. That much was plain, though her rational French outlook prevented her from making much of it. Men were indiscriminate in their needs. She was at hand, would soon be legally available and was all too willing. Yes, she had to admit that even if the expectation that his injury prevented him from making love had lured her into a false sense of security. Small wonder that he had not waited until after the marriage.
What kind of union could come from such a beginning? What chance did it have with only passion and obligation to hold it together? Gallantry and good manners were no substitute for love and respect.
That prospect was bad enough, but what if the whole thing was about vengeance? Christien was a member of the Brotherhood, which righted old wrongs. If her future husband was prepared to risk death to accomplish that for a stranger, what would he not do for the sake of someone like Vinot, who had his gratitude and admiration?
With Christien back on his feet, a final wedding date was selected. Preparations began in earnest. It was not to be a grand affair, yet some attempt had to be made. Neighbors must be convinced that everything was as it should be, for one thing, but the people of River’s Edge would be sorely disappointed if there was no celebration.
Accordin
gly, orders were written out and sent to various shops and warehouses in New Orleans. Steamboats began pulling into the landing before the house every day to off-load merchandise. There were kegs of spirits and wine, barrels of flour, molasses, pickles and sardines in oil; also boxes of raisins, nuts and candied fruits, and a nice selection of marzipan flowers to decorate the wedding cake. Blocks of ice buried in sawdust were shuttled to the barn and covered with canvas, then mounded over with layer upon layer of sawdust and hay.
The remainder of the wedding feast would be supplied from the plantation’s bounty. As a start, two fine hogs had been selected for pit-roasting, chickens and ducks were being fattened, melons were cooling under beds and vegetables had been earmarked to be brought in from the fields.
Reine chose her gown. Made from cool, pale blue cotton voile, it featured deep flounces edged in pink ribbon. With it, she would wear a veil of finest dentelle Valenciennes, an heirloom that had covered the hair of her French grandmother on her wedding day, and carry a ribbon-tied nosegay of pink rosebuds from the China rose that still bloomed on the north side of the house.
England’s young Queen Victoria had worn virginal white for her wedding a few years before, a style that found favor with the Américains above Canal Street. Reine had scant interest in the mode. She was hardly a virgin, for one thing. Added to that, ladies of the Vieux Carré seldom took notice of fashion originating anywhere other than Paris.
Marguerite, much to her satisfaction, was to be dressed very like her mother, except the flounces of her confection would be edged with narrow white lace. A seamstress had arrived from New Orleans with two assistants to cut, fit and sew both gowns, as well as one in indigo-blue muslin printed with palm leaves for the mother of the bride.
The majority of the arrangements fell to Reine. Her mother was too dithery to undertake the many decisions necessary, and her father considered he had done his part by choosing the wine for the wedding supper. Paul virtually disappeared, spending most of his daylight hours on the river. Christien seemed content to rely on her judgment, answering any question she put to him by saying she must have it exactly as she wished.
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