Tender Fury

by Connie Mason

  The drums unsettled Gabby, and she drew closer to Philippe. They seemed to bode evil for her. She hadn’t realized that the Bellefontaine slaves practiced Obeah but should have guessed they would be no different from the others. Later, she dreamed of sleek, black bodies writhing and dancing around an altar upon which a nude, golden-skinned woman held a snake aloft, inviting it to become a part of her own body. She awoke drenched in sweat, clutching at Philippe who spent the remainder of the night soothing her fears with soft words and love.

  The following morning Gabby awoke to a blaze of sunshine so intense that her fears from the night before were immediately put to rest. After days of rain and gloom the warming rays of the sun were a welcome sight. With an air of contentment she donned her gayest dress, one she had let out but which still fit reasonably well considering the rounded bulge beneath the waistline. Gabby hummed a happy tune while she planned a leisurely visit with Honore and Linette at Le Chateau. She hadn’t seen them since the rains had begun and sorely missed their company and witty chatter. So impatient was she to be off that she begrudged the time it took for Francine, the pretty mulatto maid, to arrange her silvery locks becomingly atop her head. After breakfast she left word for Philippe that she would not be home for lunch, then set off for Le Chateau in a carriage driven by Gerard.

  When Gabby reached Le Chateau no one ran out in joyful welcome as was the Duvall sisters’ usual custom. Hesitantly she approached the door and was rendered speechless when it was flung open by Marcel who seemed inordinately pleased to see her, drawing her into the cool hallway.

  “Gabby!” Marcel exclaimed in obvious delight. “How good it is to see you again.” She could only stare as he drew her into the salle and seated her in an overstuffed chair. “I hadn’t expected to see you at Le Chateau since my sisters are in St. Pierre.”

  “I… I didn’t know they were gone,” stammered Gabby, still flustered.

  “It is their intention to buy out St. Pierre,” laughed Marcel indulgently. “I shall join them in a day or two, as soon as I have cleared up my business here.” His green eyes glittered like emeralds and Gabby blushed as his gaze swept over her burgeoning figure. “But enough of me,” he said, turning serious. “What of you? Are you happy? I missed you when I returned to my sister’s house in New Orleans. How did Philippe find you?”

  At that moment a servant appeared with refreshments and Gabby sipped her bavarois with relish while she considered her answer. Finally, she said, “I am content, and happy. I think Philippe has changed. He… he… is so looking forward to the birth of our child.” She hung her head shyly at the mention of the babe.

  Marcel eyed her skeptically. “You mean to say that Philippe is the perfect husband? I hardly thought him capable.” Gabby did not miss the note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “If you are thinking of Philippe’s past involvement with Amalie, Marcel, you need not worry. He no longer has need of a mistress,” Gabby said meaningfully. “Philippe has time for no one but his wife and the child soon to be born.”

  “Would that child were mine,” muttered Marcel, his eyes straying again to Gabby’s waistline before returning to gaze into her violet eyes.

  Gabby was startled by the depth of feeling in Marcel’s voice, and dropped her eyes to cover her embarrassment. As if sensing her discomfort, he took her hands in his and began speaking of things that would give her no cause for embarrassment. Warming to his charm, Gabby relaxed and soon they were chatting easily, unmindful of the passing time.

  Meanwhile, Philippe, hot and dusty from the distillery, returned to the house earlier than usual because of a breakdown of machinery, his thoughts on a leisurely bath and spending the hot afternoon in the coolness of his bedroom with Gabby beside him, either making slow, lazy love or just resting side by side if she weren’t up to the former. He smiled in anticipation, for Gabby rarely rejected him, even as she grew large and bulky. He was more than a little annoyed to learn that Gabby was visiting Le Chateau and not expected to return until later in the day. His frown deepened as he absently ordered a hot tub to wash away his sweat and labors from the frustrating morning attempting to repair broken machinery. Philippe stripped and poured himself a generous measure of rum to ease his tensions and agitation. Finding the fiery liquid immensely soothing, he quickly downed another and another until he was well on his way to forgetting all about Gabby and her delicious little body.

  Immersed in a steaming tub of water, Philippe’s thoughts strayed once more to Gabby and his thwarted plans for the afternoon. He had looked forward with eagerness to holding her sweetly curving body close to his, allowing her to slowly arouse him, savoring the moment he finally took her. Scowling, he realized his line of thought had aroused him and cursed under his breath. Why wasn’t his wife here when he needed her? Just then he heard a noise and, rising from the tub, looked expectantly at the door, a pleased smile curving his lips, certain that Gabby had returned early and his afternoon would not be wasted after all.

  Philippe’s smile turned to stone when he saw Amalie advancing on him, her seductively arrayed body voluptuous in a low-necked, white blouse displaying the sharp tips of her pointed breasts, stretching the material almost beyond reasonable limits. Her boldly striped jupe skirt hugged her lithe hips and rose nearly to her knees in front. With an amused smile she viewed Philippe’s obvious state of arousal, and with hips swaying provocatively moved forward until they stood only inches apart. Philippe was too stunned to move when Amalie reached for a towel and began drying his body with excruciating thoroughness.

  “What are you doing here, Amalie?” Philippe croaked, the words nearly strangling him as her hands worked furiously.

  “I grew lonely for you, Monsieur Philippe,” she purred silkily.

  “I explained to you that I no longer needed a mistress,” Philippe said, an underlying thread of anger in his voice. “You were ordered not to come to the big house and upset my wife.” He strove mightly to impress her with his words but found it extremely difficult while her hands moved with such dexterity over his body.

  “Poo!” Amalie scoffed. “How can your wife hope to please you now that her belly grows large. Soon she will no longer be able to accommodate you. Besides,” she said huskily, her cat-soft touch affecting him more than he wanted to admit, “Madame Grabby is not here and I am, mon amour,”

  She reached her arms to encircle his neck and nibbled at an earlobe with small, sharp teeth, laughing delightedly as his manhood gave a leap at her boldness. “I knew your body had not forgotten the touch of mine so soon.” Her voice was the consistency of poured honey.

  Moving backward a few steps Amalie shrugged the blouse from her dainty shoulders uncovering the golden globes of her breasts. Her nipples were already erect ripe cherries. With a flick of her wrist her jupe skirt fell to the floor. She wore no underclothes and Philippe’s eyes were riveted to the curling black triangle now damp with her desire. “You are eager for me, mon amour, just as I am eager for you,” breathed Amalie, never more certain of her allure. “Come, let us taste one another again and seek the rapture we once knew together.”

  Philippe drew his breath in sharply as Amalie moved so close to him that her pointed nipples burned into his chest like a searing flame, melting his resistance. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he drew away from her. “Put your clothes on, Amalie,” he said hoarsely. Even though he meant what he said, he was tortured with desire for his ex-mistress. “I have a wife who is expecting my child. I will do nothing to upset her and endanger the life of my babe.”

  Philippe’s self-righteous words affected Amalie not at all. “You want me, mon amour, I can see it in your eyes. Even your body speaks of your desire for me. Let me stay, Philippe,” she begged. “Allow me to please you as only I can.”

  Before Philippe could stop her she slipped to her knees before him, encircling him with her lips as the room reverberated with his agonized cries of surrender.

  Roughly, he pulled her to her feet. “You wicked
, tantalizing witch,” he groaned, as if in pain. “How could I forget your golden, tempting body, or those lips so ready to consume? Oui, I want you, damn it! I want you with every fiber of my body!”

  Lifting Amalie easily in his arms, Philippe carried her to his bed while the room trilled with her exultant laughter.

  “Philippe, Philippe,” she moaned as his hands began their intimate assault upon her breasts. “How I have longed for you these long months. How I’ve wanted to come to you knowing that your pale wife was not woman enough for you but afraid you would be angry with your Amalie. I see now how wrong I was. You have been waiting for me.”

  Barely able to contain his lust, Philippe ran his tongue along the outline of her lips, then plunged the tip into her mouth. Guilt, he knew, would come later. But for now it was enough just to concentrate on the passionate, writhing body beneath him, exciting him beyond physical endurance. His probing fingers found her ready for him and she clasped him to guide him into her body. But he needed no help as his manhood unerringly found its mark.

  With a cry of delight Amalie raised her hips to meet his thrust and Philippe sank into the depths of her, filling her so completely she nearly swooned. Eyes glazed in passion he threw back his head in utter abandon, his face contorted with the cataclysmic explosion of his climax, his cries cutting into the afternoon heat.

  At that fateful moment. Gabby quietly opened the bedroom door expecting to find Philippe sound asleep. She had not remained long at Le Chateau when she found the Duvall sisters gone and herself alone with Marcel. She remembered Philippe’s rage the last time he had discovered her alone with him. She was in high, good spirits when she hurried to their room anticipating a warm, perhaps even a passionate welcome. The shocking sight that greeted her plunged her to the very depths of Hell. Eyes wide in shock, she stifled a gasp of horror and outrage with a tightly clenched fist pressed to her trembling mouth. Philippe’s enraptured expression and blissful cries of completion assaulted her vision and hearing. Her eyes were riveted upon the naked, golden form that was the cause of her husband’s ecstasy. Amalie’s undulating body was beaded with a fine coating of sweat and she glowed with a pagan beauty. Gabby stood rooted to the spot, enthralled by the lovers caught up in the act of gratification. She felt like an intruder. Cringing inwardly, she watched as Amalie’s lovely features grew tense, her need for surcease spellbinding. But before Amalie lost herself in the throes of her own climax, she turned her head in Gabby’s direction, her cat’s eyes glistening with triumph.

  It was more than Gabby could bear. She had thought being sold by her father the final degradation of her life; but she was wrong… wrong… wrong. Her own husband had just succeeded in topping her father’s disgusting deed. Gabby’s hand flew to her stomach as the child convulsed in her womb. As if in a dream, she fled from the scene of her betrayal, stumbling clumsily down the stairs and through the house, encountering no one in her hasty flight. Escape was uppermost in her mind. Escape from the sights and sounds forever etched upon her brain. Unthinkingly she headed for the stables, hoisting her swollen body atop Philippe’s horse already saddled from his return to the fields. Gabby was not a skilled horsewoman and her pregnancy made it increasingly difficult for her to keep her seat, but she resolutely took up the reins and spurred the horse into the banana groves, toward Le Chateau… and Marcel, a friend whom she needed badly at this moment.

  Trembling violently, Gabby felt as if a knife had been plunged into her gut, a knife wielded by Philippe and twisted by Amalie. The horse beneath her skittered and shied, as if aware of the inexperienced rider clinging to his back. Suddenly, her mount halted, refusing to budge no matter how Gabby urged him on. In her recklessness, Gabby did not heed the animal’s sixth sense and she dug her heels into his flanks, causing him to rear in protest, his forelegs pawing the air wildly. Unseen by Gabby, a fer-de-lance that lay concealed in a bunch of bananas slithered down the tree trunk and into the path of the terrified horse. In a moment of desperation, she clung to the horse’s mane, too frightened to scream, to think. As if in slow motion she began to slide backward until her grip loosened and she tumbled to the ground, rolling to a sudden and painful halt against the trunk of a banana tree, unaware of the fer-de-lance that lay dead in the path, trampled by the horse’s flying hooves. The one thing she was aware of was the stabbing, excruciating pains tearing her body apart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gerard was in the stable when Gabby’s riderless horse returned. He had not known Philippe’s mount was even out of the stable and was surprised to see him coming from the direction of the groves lathered and badly frightened. Chills of apprehension prickled the back of his neck. He knew that Monsieur Philippe was in his bedroom napping and that Madame Gabby had gone immediately upstairs when he brought her home from Le Chateau. Shaking his head in bewilderment he went to confer with Tante Louise and together they decided to awaken Philippe to tell him of the strange occurrence.

  When neither Gabby nor Philippe answered his knock, Gerard took matters into his own hands and bravely pushed open the unlocked door. Gerard’s second shock of the day came when he recognized the golden body of his daughter beneath Philippe’s muscular frame. He could only gape, forgetting for a moment his reason for entering the room. When he regained his senses he knew intuitively that Gabby must have come upon this scene and, shocked out of her wits, taken Philippe’s horse and ridden into the banana groves toward Le Chateau. He blanched. To attempt such a feat in her condition was tantamount to suicide.

  When Philippe saw Gerard inside his bedroom he was livid with rage. Not so much for entering unannounced, but for discovering him in bed, arms and legs entwined, with Amalie.

  “What do you want?” Philippe bellowed, disentangling himself from Amalie’s clinging limbs.

  Gerard could only stare at his daughter stretched in obvious contentment, purring like a pleased kitten. Finally, dragging his eyes from her nude form, he looked at Philippe, his face purposely blank, hiding his disgust behind a frozen mask.

  “Well?” Philippe demanded, hastily pulling on a robe. “This had better be good, Gerard, or I’ll have your hide!”

  “It’s Madame Gabby! I think she… I think she…!”

  “Out with it, man, what about Madame Gabby? Has she returned from Le Chateau so soon?” Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as latent pangs of guilt assailed him. Had Gabby come upon the sight of him and Amalie making love? Was she ill? Fear prickled the nape of his neck.

  “The Duvall sisters were in St. Pierre so we returned from Le Chateau earlier than expected,” Gerard said, fighting to keep his voice level.

  Casting a shamed look toward the bed where Amalie had half risen on one elbow, Philippe asked, “Where is Madame Gabby now?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Monsieur Philippe,” Gerard insisted. “Moments ago your horse returned to the stable sweating profusely and badly frightened. Since no one else had taken him out I could only assume that Madame Gabby rode him into the banana groves and has met with an accident. Tante Louise has searched the house for her and she can’t be found.”

  “ Mon dieu!” cursed Philippe, a hard knot of panic rising in his chest. Was Gabby to become another Cecily? Already he could picture her death. Leaping into his clothes, he started from the room.

  “Monsieur Philippe, what of me?” Amalie pouted, stretching out a slim hand in his direction.

  Philippe turned toward the bed as if shocked to find Amalie still alluringly arrayed upon it. He wrinkled his brow in distaste, and said, coldly, deliberately, “Get out! Don’t be here when I return.” Then he was gone. As he followed close behind, Gerard’s departing scowl eloquently displayed his displeasure with his daughter. Amalie’s gloating smile was her only answer.

  Soon Philippe and Gerard were carefully picking their way through the banana groves, Philippe’s features distorted, his shoulders stiff as he searched the path for telltale signs of Gabby’s passage.

  Suddenly, Gerard�
�s voice rang out. “Up ahead. Monsieur Philippe!”

  Almost immediately Philippe spotted the small, still form lying at the foot of a banana tree in a crumpled heap. “Gabby!” he cried in a Strangled voice, springing from his mount and vaulting the short distance to where the motionless figure lay.

  An agonized wail thundered from his lips. Blood was everywhere. It stained the skirt that had risen above Gabby’s knees and ran down her legs in rivulets. A short distance away lay the fer-de-lance neatly cut in two by pounding hooves. No explanation was necessary. Gerard had told him that Marcel was at Le Chateau and Philippe instinctively knew that Gabby, once she had seen him, decided to leave him again and go to Marcel, just as Cecily had done so long ago. In the far reaches of his mind was the nagging suspicion that Gabby had intruded upon the intimate scene with Amalie and fled, hell bent for suicide. But he immediately dismissed it from his mind, preferring instead to place the blame on Gabby’s head, leaving him blameless, or nearly so, in his own eyes. Damn her fickle heart! he cursed unreasonably. In her haste to leave him she had committed murder! His child was dead, the tiny fetus lying in a pool of blood beneath her thighs.

  Philippe sighed with relief when he saw the thin rise and fall of her breast. From the enormous amount of blood surrounding her, Philippe realized that he must act quickly if she were to be saved. He made to lift her onto his horse.

  “No, stop, Monsieur Philippe!” cried Gerard before Philippe could carry through. “There is no time. The bleeding must be stopped now, immediately! To carry her back to the house would spell her death. We must first staunch the flow of blood. Quickly, your shirt,” he ordered crisply, taking the decision out of Philippe’s hands.