by Connie Mason
Lily flashed a pleased smile at no one in particular and Gilbert rubbed his hands together gleefully. “When do you wish the wedding to take place, St. Cyr?” he asked.
Involuntarily Philippe’s right hand moved to his jacket, smoothing the imperceptible bulge made by the slim document he had sewn in the lining only this morning. Now that his mission was half completed he knew he must waste no more time. Ignoring Gabby, he said, “One of my ships now lies at anchor at Brest awaiting word from me. I see no reason to delay the wedding as I am anxious to reach New…uh… Martinique.” He paused to ascertain whether anyone had noticed his slip of the tongue, and satisfied that no one had, continued, “The wedding shall take place in three days.” Not once did his eyes slide to the small, wilting figure in the gray habit.
“The ceremony will take place in three days, at noon,” announced Gilbert. “My daughter will be ready.”
“Bon!” answered Philippe. “I will send a messenger ahead informing the captain on the Windward to be ready to depart Brest the moment I arrive aboard with my bride.” Then suddenly remembering Gabby he turned his granite gaze in her direction. “Until then, Mademoiselle Gabrielle, adieu,” he said before turning on his heel and striding from the room, leaving Gabby breathless and shaken.
“How could you, Papa?” she exploded the moment Philippe was gone. “And you, Mama? How could you let Papa sell me to that insufferable man?”
“We did no more than other parents would do for their children,” replied Lily who had grown quite bored with her daughter’s tantrums. “In these trying times we have done our best to provide for you. We can no longer remain in France to see to your welfare. You aren’t the only girl whose marriage has been arranged, and quite admirably, I might add.”
“Come now,” cajoled her father, “there are worse things that could happen to a young girl than becoming the wife of a rich, important planter. One of them is hiding your beauty behind the walls of this convent.” His glittering eyes roamed freely over his daughter’s ripening figure. “I had no idea you had turned into such an enchanting creature.Mon Dieu, but St. Cyr is a lucky fellow!”
Lily bristled with jealous indignation. She thought Gilbert much too preoccupied with his daughter’s looks. St. Cyr’s money had earned him the right to deflower the girl himself no matter what Gilbert’s intention.
Chapter Two
Gabby shifted restlessly in her stiff satin wedding gown while the priest’s toneless words bound her for life to the stranger who stood beside her. Her own voice wavered nervously as she repeated the sacred vows that could never be broken. Philippe scowled darkly at the shudder that passed through her body at the moment they were pronounced man and wife. Surely this was a bad dream and she would wake up safe and sound in her narrow cot in the convent. How she hated Philippe’s arrogance, his possessiveness, his brooding good looks!
Suddenly the silence around them pierced her brain. Without warning her husband’s hands were on her shoulders, pivoting her to face him. She turned ashen at his touch when she realized that Philippe was claiming the kiss that was now his by right of ownership. He had caught her unprepared with her mouth slightly open in surprise as he brushed his lips against hers. But when he felt the soft, warm breath escaping in frightened gasps from between her lips his cold reserve vanished for a moment as his kiss deepened and his darting tongue thrust fleetingly into her open mouth. Quickly gaining his composure once more, he abruptly released her, but not before scowling at her with a puzzled frown.
Gabby was shocked by the kiss. Though she had not participated in it herself, she did not find it too unpleasant once she had gotten over the initial shock. Surely Philippe could not kiss her like that if he did not feel something for her, she thought naively. Raising her head, Gabby met his eyes and was shaken to her very depths by the look of pure animosity directed at her, as if he held her accountable for his unexpected show of emotion.
Afterward Philippe led her into the small circle of servants and family friends hastily gathered for the occasion, but she was too numb to respond to their congratulations. Things had moved too fast for her. After all, this was only the second time she had ever seen the man she must now call husband. Her mind turned inward to that time three days ago when she had first seen him standing beside her parents in Mother Superior’s chambers. She had thought him cold and arrogant then, his calculating gaze raking her insolently, and he had done nothing since to change that opinion.
Philippe’s voice jolted her back to reality. “You seem far away. What are you thinking, ma petite?” His endearment seemed only to mock her and did nothing to dispel her dark thoughts.
“I’m thinking, Monsieur, that I wish myself back at St. Cecilia’s,” she blurted, finding in impossible to lie to him.
“My name is Philippe,” he admonished softly, yet sternly. “I am your husband and you must not call me Monsieur.”
“ Oui, Philippe,” she corrected dutifully, yet seething inwardly at his rebuke.
“Would you like something to eat or drink?” he asked, leading her toward the small buffet table set up in the chamber.
“Non, Monsieur, I have no appetite.”
His hand closed hurtfully on her arm but at her small cry of pain immediately released his hold, his mouth drawn into a thin, white line as he frowned. She rubbed the bruise his grip had caused and vowed to remember henceforth to use his name. Mon Dieu, what manner of man was he? she thought, her mind stumbling over the unfamiliar oath.
“If you will excuse me then, I must speak privately with your father before we depart. I suggest you go to your room and change from that hideous wedding dress into something more appropriate for traveling.”
“I’m sorry if my dress does not please you,” Gabby shot back caustically, “but I could not do much better with only three days’ notice to prepare for this wedding. You forget, I am newly arrived from a convent where such fripperies were unnecessary. If you desired me to be fashionably dressed, you should have allowed more time for a dressmaker to be hired and a proper trousseau made!”
“ Touch?!” Philippe smiled with a slight bow as he turned to join her father in the study.
Gabby breathed a sigh of relief as she watched Philippe’s broad shoulders disappear from sight. She supposed, given different circumstances, she might find him attractive. From the back, she noticed how the fine cloth of his jacket clung to his wide shoulders and the way his well-cut trousers molded the muscular length of his thighs and legs. Even the midnight tendrils of hair curling at the nape of his neck would probably appear charming to another woman. But his cold, unrelenting eyes and the unmoving line of his mouth left her little doubt that he was a man who would demand complete submission to his will. Given time he would overpower her own indomitable spirit, manipulating her to his own purposes. She was not too naive to realize that she would eventually become the docile, obedient drudge he wanted, producing his heirs until she became worn and old beyond her years. On that unhappy note, she left the room to change her attire in preparation for the long journey ahead.
As Gabby passed her parents’ bedroom on the way to her own room, she recalled the intimate conversation she had overheard the night before. She had been unable to sleep and was on her way downstairs to get a book from the library. The door to her parents’ room was ajar and the only reason she had stopped to listen was because she heard her name spoken.
“Are you sure you are doing the right thing by allowing Gabby to marry that fierce St. Cyr fellow?” she heard her mother saying in a sudden burst of latent maternal misgivings.
“Cherie,” her father answered in a placating voice, “St. Cyr is a rich man and she could do much worse. Besides, think of all the beautiful new Italian gowns you can buy to drape around that enticing body of yours.” There was a significant pause before Gabby heard her mother’s gasp.
“Ah, Gilbert, do not stop, please!” Lily’s voice was low and throaty, the consistency of warm honey.
“You see the wisd
om of my words, do you not, cherie?”
This time Lily’s voice held a quality Gabby had never heard before. “Oui, Gilbert, mon amour, oui!” she moaned as her rising passion took over. “You are right, as always. I agree to whatever you say, only don’t stop what you are doing.”
“Never, cherie. But for your passion, I would have tired of you long ago.”
Once again Lily’s cries of pleasure filled Gabby’s ears as she pressed her hands over them to blot out intimate sounds that caused her heart to beat wildly in her breast. She had been embarrassed to be privy to her mother’s submission to the dictates of her body. Silently Gabby vowed never to allow any man to bend her to his will by controlling her senses.
Gabby tried hard to shake off the disturbing thoughts that the scene of the night before had aroused in her as she changed from the despised wedding dress whose prim lines could not hide the supple body beneath to another equally unbecoming traveling dress of brown velvet. She had just finished fastening the long row of buttons down the front of the dress when her mother appeared, arriving somewhat breathless and more than a little flustered.
“You are a lucky girl, Gabby,” Lily gushed as she smoothed her honey-colored locks into place. “Your husband can be such a charming rogue when he wants to be.” Her bright blue eyes grew hazy as she regarded her daughter with envy. “And extremely handsome in a devilish way. He could prove to be a resourceful and vigorous lover. I just encountered him coming out of your father’s study and he asked me to speak to you.”
“Speak to me, Maman?”
“About your wifely duties.”
“Just what are those duties?” Gabby asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Did the nuns teach you nothing?” Lily exclaimed in exasperation.
“I know little of what occurs between men and women,” Gabby admitted shyly.
“How can an innocent like you hope to please a virile man like Philippe St. Cyr? I wouldn’t be surprised if half the women on Martinique were clamoring for his attention,” Lily said, her eyes taking on a dreamy quality. “It’s fortunate he wants you only for the purpose of producing his heirs, for I doubt he will derive much pleasure from your childish body.”
Gabby eyed her mother with distaste. The number of Philippe’s conquests were of no consequence to her. But what if she proved barren? Would he then cast her aside? she wondered. She would put no foul act past him.
“Maman,” Gabby said, slowly thinking out her next words, “I suppose I am somewhat of an innocent, but I have a right to know just what Monsieur St. Cry expects of me in the marriage bed. The nuns were completely silent on the subject and there is no one else to ask but you.”
Lily stared thoughtfully into her daughter’s lovely face. Privately she thought herself a more fitting match for her virile son-in-law than her pale, inexperienced daughter who was likely to swoon at his first intimate touch. She shook her head to rid herself of the image of Philippe’s powerful, nude body in full arousal. “Your duty is clear, Gabby,” Lily finally said. “Your husband undoubtedly possesses vast experience as well as vast appetites, and will expect nothing but complete submission from you. He knows you are a virgin so will no doubt expect you only to accommodate him. If he wants more than that, he will teach you.”
“Accommodate!” The word tasted like gall in Gabby’s mouth, and told her little. “How must I accommodate him, Maman?” she asked, desperation making her bold.
Lily regarded her daughter as she would a backward child, then shrugged her dainty shoulders in disgust. “Philippe will do exactly as he pleases and you will do exactly what he tells you,” Lily announced obliquely. “But for your own good, do not fight him, let him have his way with you. He is not a man to be put off.”
“You mean I…”
“Enough! Enough! My head aches from your endless questions,” Lily snapped, wanting nothing more than to escape from her daughter’s vexing ignorance. “Come if you are ready I will accompany you downstairs. Your husband bade me hurry you along.” Reluctantly, Gabby followed her mother from the room and moved slowly down the staircase to join her husband.
Philippe watched Gabby’s graceful descent and unwittingly his heart skipped a beat. She was so young, so innocent, as beautiful as a fragile flower, as fresh and dewy as a summer morn, yet so unaware of her own loveliness. Only the full, sensuous lips gave a hint of what might lie hidden beneath the vulnerable exterior. He felt a familiar tightening in his groin and a quickening in his blood that made him wish they were already aboard the Windward. There was no denying that he wanted the virtuous little chit. But he must be on his guard, he told himself. Never again would a woman enslave him with her beauty and spirit. Cecily had taught him well.
Are you really to leave, ma petite?” he asked when she had reached his side. At her nod he propelled her through the door followed closely by her parents.
“Where will you spend the night, mon ami?” Gilbert asked, leering first at Gabby and then Philippe, leaving them little doubt as to his meaning.
“Except to eat and change horses and drivers, we will travel straight through to Brest. I have wasted enough time in France and am anxious to return to my plantation,” answered Philippe blandly.
“Harumph!” snorted Gilbert derisively. “I certainly would not wait so long to bed my prize.”
A small muscle twitched in Philippe’s cheek as he fought to hold his temper in check. He felt nothing but contempt for a man who would sell his own daughter to finance a venture that was doomed to failure. Disdaining to answer, Philippe handed Gabby into the carriage and signaled the coachman to proceed.
Philippe watched with cool amusement while Gabby fit herself into the farthest corner of the scat. “I will not bite you,” he said as he reached out and pulled her into his arms. Then, as if to prove his words, his lips closed on hers, seeking the tender shape of her mouth, molding it to his. Her eyes opened wide as his tongue forced her lips apart, slowly exploring with maddening thoroughness, and his hand cupped a soft undercurve of a breast.
When he released her she was breathless, a becoming flush staining her cheekbones. She was shocked at this invasion of her senses, more probing than she had ever known. Did he mean to consummate their marriage in the carriage? she wondered. Whatever was in his mind was beyond her limited knowledge of men. “Please do not shame me before your coachman,” she pleaded, her violet eyes wide with fear.
“How could I shame you now that we are wed, ma chere?” he answered dryly. But he released her just the same and settled himself comfortably into the cushions, promptly ignoring her as if she had never existed.
They spent three days and nights in the carriage, stopping only for meals, to change horses and to relieve themselves. Gabby had never been more miserable in her entire life. No amount of brushing could dislodge the layer of grime that covered their clothing. She had no idea why Philippe insisted on racing the horses at breakneck speed along the winding road to Brest. Fall rains had turned the dirt road into a muddy quagmire, but still he pressed on relentlessly, cursing when a wheel became hopelessly stuck in the gluey mud.
Once, when Gabby’s head lolled wearily, Philippe drew her into the crook of his arm where she slept comfortably for hours. When she awoke to find herself still in her husband’s arms, she drew away to huddle once again in the far corner of the coach, much to Philippe’s amusement.
Gabby could not help but wonder at Philippe’s preoccupation during their journey. Often his hand would stray to a place on his jacket just over his heart. She thought at first he was experiencing some sort of pain but it became increasingly evident that the pain was nonexistent for sometimes he took the reins of the carriage himself, propelling the horses forward at a pace that left her breathless as well as bruised from the constant jolting. Protecting herself from being thrown from the seat became a fulltime job.
Their fourth day on the road proved to be a day neither Gabby nor Philippe would soon forget. It was nearly dusk and Philippe had been dozing,
muttering strange names in his sleep. Gabby knew from remarks he had made earlier that they were near to a village where they would eat and change horses and was gazing absently about the window thinking only of her aching bones and a hot meal. They had just entered a place where heavily wooded hills rose on either side of the road and she vaguely wondered what would happen if they met another carriage on that particularly narrow strip. Suddenly her thoughts turned to frozen horror as a huge boulder at the top of the hill on their right hurtled through space directly toward their carriage.
At her scream of warning, Philippe uncoiled from sleep like an alert animal, immediately assessing their chance for survival. Instantly he realized that the narrow, hemmed-in road afforded link or no room for maneuver, and even if the horses were to halt now, their momentum would still carry them into a collision course with the plummeting boulder. Acting swiftly, he pushed open the door to his side of the carriage, grasped Gabby about the waist and jumped to the ground, rolling to avoid the rear wheels of the coach, trying to cushion her body against the full impact of the fall. Gabby remembered the wheels yanking at the loosened strands of her hair as they passed dangerously close to her head… and nothing more.
When Gabby regained consciousness, the sun was in her eyes and she moved her head slightly to avoid its direct glare. She groaned as white hot pain scared the top of her head in a blaze of agony. Philippe was beside her instantly, concern flashing briefly on his dark face before assuming its normal cool reserve.
“Where am I?” she asked, gingerly touching her head. “What happened?”
“The coachman and I carried you here to the inn,” Philippe answered. “You received a nasty bump on the head but otherwise you appear unhurt.”
“Have… have I been unconscious long?”
“ Oui, ma petite, all night.”
“Who undressed me and put me to bed?” Gabby asked shyly. She was surprised upon awakening to find herself clad in her own high-necked nightgown.