Tender Fury

by Connie Mason

  “I was innocent when I left, Philippe! And you have managed to take my innocence forever. But no one, not even you, can destroy my spirit.”

  “Your innocence was not too difficult to take, ma petite,” he laughed cynically. “It seems you were ripe for the plucking and I got more than I bargained for. I knew you could not remain an ice maiden forever. But I warn you,” he said, his features darkening, “your treasures are mine alone, bought and paid for. There will be no question of whose child you carry when that day arrives.” He thought of Cecily and the child who might have been his.

  “How dare you, Philippe,” cried Gabby, shocked by his words. “I am legally your wife and although I never wanted this marriage I have no intention of breaking those sacred vows. I did, after all, learn something in the convent.”

  “More than Cecily, I should hope,” he muttered cryptically.

  “Cecily!” Gabby repeated. “Who is Cecily and what has she to do with me?”

  “Cecily, ma petite, was my wife,” he replied in a sudden burst of confidence.

  “Your… your… wife?” Gabby stammered.

  “Was my wife,” Philippe emphasized.

  “I had no idea you had been married before. What happened to her?”

  “She is dead! As well as the child she carried.”

  Gabby’s natural curiosity ran rampant. There was no way she could have stopped the next question even if she had guessed at the shocking answer and the effect it would have upon her life. “How did she die?”

  Philippe debated the answer in his own mind, fighting to control the turmoil of his emotions. Only when his anguish subsided and he gained a semblance of control did he speak, his voice flat, devoid of feeling. “I will speak of this only one time and then never again. Do you understand?” When Gabby nodded, he continued. “I killed Cecily.”

  Gabby sucked in her breath, her gasp of horror shattering the silence. Fear raged within her and unanswered questions, ones she dare not ask, died in her throat. Did he intent to kill her also when he tired of her? What had the hapless Cecily done to warrant her untimely death? Why hadn’t the authorities arrested him for murder? Mon dieu, what manner of monster had she married?

  Gabby shrank from his touch when he came forward to usher her from the cabin, her eyes wary and distrustful. Suddenly it came to Gabby that she would not hesitate fleeing from the man she had married.

  Breakfast was an ordeal Gabby could have done without. Time and again Marcel tried to draw Gabby into conversation. “I see you have weathered the storm in good condition, Madame St. Cyr,” he said, addressing her directly.

  “Oui,” she answered, dropping her eyes discreetly to her plate of food.

  “You were not seasick?” he asked, hoping to elicit more of a response from her.

  “My wife was not seasick,” cut in Philippe rudely. “In fact, our seclusion was well spent in pleasurable pursuits.” No one could mistake his meaning.

  Gabby flinched, a hot flush spreading across her cheeks when the full impact of his words struck her. Even Captain Griscard cleared his throat in embarrassment. Smiling a secret smile Philippe went on to thoroughly enjoy his breakfast, blissfully unaware of Gabby’s discomfort or of Marcel’s covetous glances.

  The following weeks brought little change to the status quo. Philippe continued his assault upon her night after night. And she was powerless to resist. As long as she responded he became a tender, consummate lover, striving to satisfy her as well as himself. He carried her to heights she never knew existed or had even imagined so long ago when she lay alone in her hard convent cot. How could there be so much contradiction in one man? she wondered dismally. By night her rapture knew no bounds, his gentleness deceiving, for during the day his brooding silence clothed her in a cloak of fear. She did not mention Cecily again nor did he.

  When they entered southern waters, Philippe’s dark moods lightened somewhat and he grew almost loquacious when she asked him to tell her about the island that would soon be her home. For the first time since their marriage, except when he was making love to her, the harshness of his face gave was to a soft, wistful look.

  “First you must know that Martinique is one of the Windward Islands in the Lesser Antilles,” Philippe informed her in a voice that showed excitement for the first time since she had known him. “The Antilles chain stretches across the Caribbean Sea from the eastern reach of the chain between the islands of Dominica and St. Lucie. It is approximately 431 square miles in size and very mountainous.”

  “Is it dry like a desert?”

  “Just the opposite,” laughed Philippe, showing her dimples she never knew existed. “It is mostly a jungle. Mount Pelee, an active volcano, rises four thousand five hundred fifty-four feet on the northern shores. In the south, low hills rise one thousand to two thousand feet. There are numerous streams and several large rivers.”

  “An active volcano!” Gabby repeated with awe. “Is there much danger?”

  “None whatsoever, else a city such as St. Pierre would not thrive. The city is located at the foot of Mount Pelee. Although it periodically belches smoke and ash, there has not been a major eruption for years. Of greater danger are the hurricanes that occasionally batter the island, and, of course, the fer-de-lance.”

  Gabby shuddered, “Hurricanes? Fer-de-lance?” It was clear she knew practically nothing about either.

  “Hurricanes are winds that sometimes reach one hundred miles per hour, accompanied by drenching rains that strike during the months of July through November. In fact, I’m surprised we haven’t encountered one since entering southern waters. The havoc they wreak is indescribable. Huge waves can destroy entire cities with great loss of life.”

  Gabby prayed that she would never experience a hurricane. “And the fer-de-lance?” she asked.

  “A deadly snake whose bite is sure death,” Philippe answered grimly. “They are everywhere, in the jungle, in the cane fields, in trees, in grass, in bushes. They can be any color or hue. There are eight varieties on Martinique alone, and it has the unpleasant habit of hiding in the roots of trees or in a stalk of bananas. Now is as good a time as any, Gabby, to warn you of the danger. Never, never, put your hand on a tree or your foot anywhere you aren’t sure is safe. Once a ferdelance strikes, you are as good as dead.”

  Gabby listened with quiet horror while Philippe explained about the deadly snake. When he finished, she shuddered in revulsion and promised never to venture anywhere on her own. She vaguely wondered if he weren’t exaggerating in hopes of frightening her so she would be afraid to leave the plantation. Did he mean to terrorize her into submission?

  As the days drifted endlessly into one another, Gabby learned more about Martinique and Bellefontaine, Philippe’s plantation on the slopes of Mt. Pelee above St. Pierre. He told her he kept a townhouse in St. Pierre as did most of the other planters on the island because of the active social life in that city, especially at Carnival, and a much more popular business and cultural center flourished there than at Fort-de-France, the seat of government.

  Gabby found herself eagerly looking forward to reaching Martinique, for she felt stifled by Philippe’s constant attendance. The days were bad enough with his changing moods, but the nights were agony and ecstasy at the same time. To her horror she found that her body was responding to his skills, even while her mind rejected him utterly. And always, his words came back to haunt her. “I killed my wife.”

  One particularly warm afternoon, Gabby decided to abandon the sun-washed deck in favor of the dim coolness of her cabin. She removed her dress and stretched lazily on the bunk, drifting almost immediately into a light sleep. She awoke with a start to the sound of angry voices coming through the open porthole. She was sure she had heard her name spoken and recognized the voices as belonging to Philippe and Marcel. She arose stealthily, edging toward the porthole, straining to catch their words.

  “You seem quite enamored by your petite Gabrielle, mon ami,” Gabby heard Marcel saying.


  “And you, Duvall, seem overly concerned with my wife and my marriage.”

  “Does your bride know about Cecily?” Marcel asked slyly.

  “She knows I was married before,” replied Philippe between clenched teeth.

  “I’m sure you have not told her the truth,” Marcel implied.

  “Keep away from Gabby, Duvall,” Philippe warned ominously. “If you interfere this time I will kill you. I should have done so long ago.”

  “I was not the cause of Cecily’s death,” Marcel emphasized. “You were the one who forced her to conceive a child she did not want. You were the one who sent her fleeing through the jungle in the dead of night. You…”

  “Enough, Duvall! It is over and done with. It is Gabby I am concerned with now. She is not cut from the same cloth as Cecily. She is a true innocent and knows little of men like you. Stay away from her!”

  “Ha!” laughed Marcel derisively. “What about men like yourself, mon ami? Who will protect her from your jealous rages, or your insatiable lust? What about that, St. Cyr? Let us speak of your lust. Have you told your little innocent about Amalie, the beauteous, passionate, Amalie? Amalie will not take kindly to your new wife.”

  “I can’t see where it’s any of your concern, Duvall,” Philippe said coolly, “but if it makes you feel any better, Amalie expects me to return from France with a bride.”

  “I can well imagine how that wildcat took the news when you told her you were ready to take another wife,” smiled Marcel with secret amusement.

  “As I said before, it is none of your concern. Amalie will do and act as I say,” insisted Philippe.

  “Since when did Amalie follow orders?” Marcel laughed derisively. “No, mon ami, Bellefontaine is not big enough for both wife and mistress.” He smoothed his mustache and licked his lips, thoroughly enjoying Philippe’s discomfort. “I will be happy to take the little baggage off your hands.”

  Philippe turned on him with such a black scowl that Marcel was momentarily at a loss for words. “Amalie will remain at Bellefontaine,” he growled. “It is her home. Whether or not she remains my mistress is none of your business.”

  “I have no doubt whatsoever that she will continue to warm your bed, especially when little Gabrielle’s belly begins to swell with the heir you seem to want so much.”

  “Why is it, Duvall, that my women interest you more than any others?” asked Philippe venomously.

  “But, mon ami, you have such superb taste in women. Take your innocent wife, for instance. I do believe she surpasses even Cecily in beauty. When you succeed in driving her away, I shall be there to pick up the pieces.”

  Gabby did not hear Philippe’s angry retort because Captain Griscard chose that moment to join the two men and his booming voice soon put an end to the alarming conversation that cast a pall upon her immediate future. She should have known that Philippe had no intention of keeping his marriage vows!

  That night, if Philippe noticed any reluctance on Gabby’s part to participate fully in the farce he called lovemaking, he made no mention of it. His tenderness in bed not only puzzled her but infuriated her as well. She longed to confront him with what she had learned that afternoon and decided to do just that when he finally lay quiet beside her, his mood mellowed by sexual fulfillment.

  “Philippe,” she said hesitantly, running her hand along the muscular planes of his chest.

  “What is it,ma chere? Have I not satisfied you enough for one night?”

  “Please, Philippe, be serious for a moment.”

  “I am serious,” he said, moving his hand lightly over her body.

  Gabby realized that if she did not say something to stop him his insatiable lust would soon forestall any conversation. “Who is Amalie?” she asked boldly, unprepared for the violence of his reaction as Philippe reared up as if bitten by a snake.

  “You have been talking to Duvall behind my back!” he accused angrily. “What did he tell you about Amalie?” His fingers dug hurtfully into her shoulders.

  “I have not spoken to Marcel,” Gabby protested. “Please stop, Philippe, you are hurting me!”

  “Where did you hear about Amalie?” he persisted, gripping her even harder.

  “I overheard you and Marcel talking earlier today. I could not help it. I was resting inside the cabin when you stopped near the porthole. You both spoke so loudly I could not help but overhear.”

  “Mon dieu,” he cursed, releasing his hold upon her. “I had hoped you would not learn of her so soon, but since you have, I will not lie. She was my mistress.”

  “Was or is?” asked Gabby contemptuously.

  “That remains to be seen,” he answered archly. “As long as you continue to satisfy me I have no need of a mistress.”

  The answer did not satisfy Gabby. She had been humiliated enough already without having to live in the same house with Philippe’s mistress. “I care not what you do, Philippe,” she said carelessly, “but as long as I am your wife, I refuse to have your mistress sharing my home. You will have to set her up elsewhere.”

  Philippe laughed uproariously, but his laughter held no mirth. “You are truly amazing, Gabby,” he said, pulling her roughly into his arms. “Come, demonstrate to me how you intend to distract me from my mistress.”

  Later, sleep eluded Gabby as she lay listening to Philippe’s even breathing. She thought of the hollow victory she had just won be remaining passive in Philippe’s arms. With a disgusted grunt he had rolled away from her when it was over, immediately falling asleep.

  When Philippe’s light snoring told her he would not awaken easily, Gabby stealthily slid out of bed, donned a shift, threw a shawl around her shoulders and let herself quietly out the door. Once on deck she drew in great lungfuls of warm, salt-laden air. The deck was deserted except for the watch and the helmsman at the wheel. She leaned against the railing, a mystical figure whose wind-whipped, silvery locks appeared as illusive as angel wings beneath the shimmering moonbeams. Her mind drifted back to her life in the convent and how safe and secure she had felt. She sighed. Oh to be that innocent and protected again.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” Gabby nearly jumped out of her skin as the voice materialized from out of nowhere. “I did not mean to startle you, cherie,” said Marcel.

  “Oh, Marcel, you gave me quite a start,” breathed Gabby with a ragged sigh. “I couldn’t sleep and the night is so lovely.”

  “It is indeed a beautiful night,” agreed Marcel. “Look at the moon, cherie. It is a lover’s moon.”

  The moon hung in the sky like a huge, golden ball, its beams dancing amid the gentle swells like cavorting sea nymphs. A smile of delight curved Gabby’s lips.

  “You should always smile, cherie,” Marcel whispered, his breath warm upon her face. “You outshine even the brightest star in the heavens.”

  Gabby flushed becomingly. His presence, though welcome, made her uncomfortable, especially in view of the growing intimacy he displayed toward her.

  “Do you ever visit Bellefontaine?” she asked, hoping to break the spell the moon and the night had cast upon them.

  “Long ago, I did, but I am not welcome there anymore,” he answered lightly.

  “Did you know Cecily?” She watched him closely for his reaction.

  Her question all but floored Marcel who was startled by the directness of her query. “What do you know of Cecily?” he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

  “Only what Philippe has told me,” she admitted. “I know that she was his wife and that she is dead.”

  “Did he tell you how she died?”

  Gabby’s eyes great large and luminous in the moonlight, her answer barely audible. “He said… he said… that he killed her.” Fear nearly strangled the words in her throat.

  “Mon dieu!” Marcel exclaimed uneasily. “If that is what he told you then it must be the truth. The exact cause of her death has never been made public, but according to rumor she had been strangled.”

  Gabby started viole
ntly, clutching at her throat, causing Marcel to wish he had bitten his tongue rather than add to her distress. Hoping to still her fears, he drew her into his arms, and when she did not protest, ran his hand boldly down the silken curtain of her hair, coming to rest on the curve of her waist. He could feel her trembling beneath his touch and instinctively pulled her closer, feeling her body soft and pliant against his. Suddenly a great surge of tenderness welled up in him for the vulnerable, young girl in his arms. He wanted nothing more than to protect her forever.

  “Marcel,” Gabby began timidly, “Philippe intimated that you had something to do with Cecily’s death.” She knew in her heart that if Marcel was in any way connected with the death of Philippe’s wife she could never accept his friendship.

  “Sacre bleu!” cursed Marcel. “I was not even present at the time of her death. I only befriended her, cherie, just as I would you. When Philippe’s raging jealousy became intolerable, she came to me and I welcomed her in my home. Philippe soon came after her, forcing her to return to Bellefontaine.”

  “What happened then?”

  Marcel paused dramatically, gazing upward as if scanning the heavens for an answer. “He forbid her to leave Bellefontaine for any reason, forcing himself on her again and again until she conceived. He mistakenly thought a child would tame her, bind her more closely to him.”

  “What happened after she became pregnant? Why did he kill her?”

  “To my regret I know nothing of the circumstances surrounding her death. Because Cecily came to me when she needed protection your husband somehow held me directly responsible for the events leading to her death. Believe me, cherie,” he said, his face a mask of innocence, “I am guilty of nothing more than succoring the poor girl in her hour of need. Philippe St. Cyr must face le bon dieu on judgment day, not I.”

  “ Merci, Marcel,” Gabby said, “for telling me this. How can I live with such a monster? Your words have given me courage. When the time comes I’ll know what to do.”

  “Come to me when you need me,” offered Marcel blandly. “I will help you, whatever you wish to do.”