At the gangway of the ship she said goodbye to Jean-Jacques and Antoine, wishing them a safe journey back to Grismoulins, and went aboard. She was met by the captain, who was only too eager to serve a great lady who had paid—and so handsomely!—for the finest cabin on the ship. His nose twitched as he bowed to her; she fancied he was sniffing the aroma of money.
“Captain Ranson at your service, Mademoiselle de Chalotais. I trust you’ll find your accommodations to your liking. We’ll sup in my cabin as soon as we’re underway. I’ll send the mate to inform you.”
“Thank you. Is Monsieur Renaudot aboard?”
“Not as yet.”
She smiled. How surprised Lucien would be! “May I tell you a secret, Captain Ranson? Monsieur Renaudot is my husband.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly, as though it was perfectly ordinary for an aristocratic lady to be wed to an untitled man. As though he believed her.
She made no attempt to chide him for his insinuation. She rather liked feeling a bit wicked. It heightened the excitement of waiting to see Lucien again. “Since we’ll be traveling together, will you have Monsieur Renaudot’s portmanteaus brought to my cabin?” She held up her hand to forestall his protests. “Though Monsieur Renaudot’s cabin is already paid for, I’m sure he doesn’t expect to be reimbursed. But you’ll find other means to fill it, I hope. More cargo, perhaps?”
He rubbed his hands together at the prospect of taking in extra money. “I’ll have Monsieur Renaudot’s boxes moved at once, madame.”
When everything had been stowed to her satisfaction, she thanked the seamen and closed herself in her cabin to wait for Lucien. She didn’t have long to wait. A roar of outrage came from somewhere outside the door. “Where the devil are my boxes?”
She heard the voice of the mate. He’d favored her with sly smiles all the while Lucien’s things were being transferred. Husband, indeed! his face seemed to say. “Moved, monsieur,” he said. “To the starboard cabin.”
“Merde! I didn’t ask for the starboard cabin!”
“But it’s a better cabin, monsieur.”
“At a better price? And without my say-so? I ought to run you through!”
Listening, Topaze giggled to herself. Was he playing the pirate again?
“But the lady insisted on it, monsieur.”
“Lady? What lady? Damn it, is there a reason you’re grinning like a thickskull?” Lucien’s angry voice sounded nearer.
The mate snickered. “A fine lady.”
Lucien muttered a string of oaths. “Some trollop who wants to be amused on the long voyage? And thinks I’d care to oblige? By Satan’s horn, I’ll not play the willing gallant!” The door crashed open and slammed against the bulkhead. “Madame,” growled Lucien. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Topaze turned. “Such a deal of swearing! Where could you have learned such language?”
“Merde!” He closed the door on the mate’s inquisitive face. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I’m sailing to Guadeloupe with you.”
He scowled. “Why do you want to do that?”
“Well, you have a certain superficial charm that I find amusing. By Saint Guillaume, it’s hot.” She untied her silk hood and set it aside, then took off her long mantle. She crossed to the cabin window. “Does this open?”
“Ah-h-h!” He grumbled and brushed past her, unlatching a small pane in the middle of the window. Despite the heat, a soft breeze blew into the cabin. He turned and glared at her. “Lord, am I losing my mind? I’ll get them to put you ashore.”
“You can’t. I’ve already paid. And Captain Ranson is eating out of my hand. He seems to think I’ll give him a rather large gratuity at the end of the voyage.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What gave him that idea?”
She grinned. “Perhaps I did.”
“The rewards of great wealth, n’est-ce pas?”
“Well, it’s better than picking purses.”
“Damn it. I won’t have it! The life in Guadeloupe isn’t easy, compared to France. Everything must be brought in. You’ll wait months for tea and chocolate. And silk for a new gown. And the climate is hard on a woman. It’s hot, uncomfortable.”
She shrugged. “Life is an adventure. I shall learn to love it.’’
“No! Go back to Grismoulins where you belong. Where you can be happy.”
“Do you care about my happiness?” She threw it out like a challenge.
He squirmed. She almost thought he was blushing beneath his tan. “Certainly,” he muttered.
She laughed softly. “What’s happening to you? I remember once you told me that softness was the ruin of an unprincipled life. What is happening to Lucien le Bâtard?”
His eyes glowed like blue fire. “You always were a saucy chit. And stubborn. But this time”—he grabbed her by the arm and began to propel her toward the door—“you’ll not have your way.”
She pulled her arm free and tossed her curls at him. “You can’t stop me.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “What must I do or say? I’m going back to Adriane de Ronceray. Do you understand? You might as well return to Grismoulins and marry Denis de Rocher.”
“I don’t want to. Besides, I’m already married.”
“A secret compact. I released you.”
“And if I don’t want to be released?”
“Don’t be a fool. Go ashore.”
She shook her head. “I intend to go to Guadeloupe with you. And to hell with Adriane de Ronceray. Let the hussy dare to try and steal another woman’s husband!”
“Wait a moment…”
“Yes. Husband.” She reached into the bodice of her gown. “And I have the contract to prove it.”
He stared at her, a hundred emotions at war on his face. “Is there no fighting you?”
“No,” she laughed.
A puff of wind came from the window, blowing a stray curl against her cheek. He reached out and brushed it aside. His fingers were gentle, his touch light. “The summer sun is very hot in Guadeloupe,” he said at last. “You’ll need a parasol.”
She looked at his dear face, saw the confusion in his eyes. “Say it, damn you,” she whispered.
His expression went blank. “Say what?”
It was like a sharp slap to her face. She turned away, fighting her tears. “I knew you were a blackguard and a scoundrel,” she muttered. “But I never thought you were a coward.”
She felt his hands on her shoulders, strong and possessive. He spun her around and pulled her to him. “I love you,” he growled. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Oh Lucien. It’s all that I ever wanted to hear.”
He took her face in his hands and kissed her hard. When he released her, she saw that there were tears in his eyes. He groaned. “I love you so much that I dreaded to go on living without you. You’re sunshine and light and joy. I’m night and darkness. You sustained me. Gave me life. Made me remember what it was to laugh.”
“Yet you would have gone, and chosen the darkness.”
“Because you’ll be better off without me.”
“Why?” She stroked the side of his face, ran her fingers along the cruel scar. “Perhaps I like bad-tempered, wicked old pirates.”
He pushed her away and covered his eyes with his hand. “You deserve better than a pirate. You’re everything good and decent that I lost. Go back.”
How could she give him her strength? Make him see? “Lucien,” she said softly, “you’re not what the law made of you. You’re not what he made of you. You’re not even what desperation drove you to. Measure yourself by Martin’s loyalty. Adelaïde’s devotion. And my love.”
He lifted his head. “You love me?”
“Don’t you know how long I’ve loved you? Poor Martin knew it. He never had a chance.”
“I thought he was in love with you. I could never understand why you didn’t return his love. You were a fool. And now you’ve turned your
back on Denis de Rocher, and a title? Doubly a fool.”
She sighed. “Alas. ’Tis my misfortune to be in love with a wicked rogue, when I might have the safe affection of a Denis de Rocher.”
“You should go back and marry him,” he said gruffly.
“Indeed I should. But then I’d die of ennui.” She smiled. “Can you imagine Denis de Rocher rolling down a hill with me?”
He reached for her again and crushed her in his embrace. He kissed her until she was breathless, until her body trembled with longing for him. His soft lips were at her bosom, her neck, her ear. “I love you, love you, love you,” he murmured. “I’ll never tire of saying it.”
“Did you love me at Grismoulins?”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t pretending? Oh, Lucien, you weren’t pretending just to court me, were you?”
“No, my love. Though I thought it was pretense at first. I’d planned it to be so.”
“The ruthless pirate?”
He laughed. His blue eyes were filled with wonder. “The ruthless pirate was undone over and over again. And that magical night under the moon…” He kissed her softly.
“But you were so cruel to me after that.”
“You’d upset my world. Robbed me of my hatred. I was confused and afraid. I suppose it’s in a man’s nature, to run from softness in himself. But as for you…” He held her at arm’s length, his beautiful mouth set in a hard line. “You suddenly became a teasing coquette after that night. I wanted to shake you until your teeth rattled! What the devil did you mean by your behavior?”
She threw her arms around his neck and nestled close to him. “I wanted you to tell me that you loved me.”
He snorted. “If I’d known it was as simple as that, to drive away those two ninny-hammers, I’d have confessed to you five minutes after they first showed their lovesick faces!” He laughed, an open, warm smile that filled her with joy. He picked her up and swung her around the small cabin. She squealed and clung to his neck. He put her down, but his arms still held her tightly. “I think when we get to Guadeloupe we’ll keep our promise to Madame Givet.”
“What promise?”
He grinned. “I intend to be well and truly married to you, so you can’t tear up the license when you’re vexed with me. We’ll find a priest and a church.” His voice was suddenly hoarse. “And I’ll go down on my knees and thank God I have you, my dearest Topaze.”
Her heart was bursting with happiness. “You never called me Topaze before.”
“Are you Topaze now, for good and all? Or still Véronique?”
“As a matter of fact, Adelaïde knew all along that I wasn’t Véronique.”
“What?” He threw back his head and laughed. “What a pair of schemers! Hubert knew the truth. Adelaïde knew. Did we fool anyone?”
“Everyone else. It was a good scheme. We simply weren’t wicked enough to see it through.”
He raised his devil’s eyebrow. “Aha! That’s why you decided to follow me to Guadeloupe. Now that Adelaïde knows the truth, you want me for my money.”
“Of course.”
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You made a bad bargain. I told Bonnefous I’d give back the ninety-three thousand.”
She waved her hand at him. “I know that. But it’s yours to keep anyway. It’s my dowry, Fleur said.”
“Your dowry? Does Aunt Adelaïde still want you to be Véronique, though she knows the truth?”
“Yes, the dear one.”
“Why then, I’m the one who’s marrying for money, Véronique. Yours.”
“Not exactly. Much of it isn’t mine to give. Or won’t be, as soon as Fleur changes her will.”
“And who’ll get it all? Some distant Marcigny cousin? A worthy charity?”
“No. The rightful heir.” She smiled and stroked his dear lips, traced the square line of his jaw with loving fingers. “You, Lucien. Adelaïde is bequeathing it to you. Her own income of half a million…and Grismoulins.”
He fell back a step. “Why?” he choked. “In the name of God, why? It should be Véronique’s. Yours.”
“It is mine. By proxy.” She waved the marriage contract before him. “And if you think that I intend to let that de Ronceray witch have you…!”
His emotions seemed to overcome him. He stared at the heavy beams of the cabin ceiling and gulped. “You’re my good angel, watching over me,” he said at last. His voice shook. “You’re my treasure, and more than enough. But to have Grismoulins?”
“Who deserves it more? It’s what Fleur wanted.”
He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. It will be mine? Ours?”
“Ours, someday. And our children’s.”
He pulled her into his arms and looked with longing toward the narrow bunk against the bulkhead. “Then we should begin at once to have children.”
She smiled. “I think we’ve already begun.”
“What? Good Lord! And I left you? What a damned fool I was. What a villain.”
“Oh, pooh! You may have thought you left me. But I wasn’t about to leave you!”
He smiled tenderly. “You mean I never had a chance?”
She shook her head. “Not for a moment.”
His eyes were warm with love and desire. “I want to make love to you, my angel.”
She trembled at the look in his eyes. “Now?”
There were shouts from the deck, the chant of the sailors turning the capstan. Lucien frowned with indecision. “Well, perhaps we should wait until tonight. It might be nice to say adieu to France.”
“Au revoir,” she corrected. “It’s not a final goodbye. Fleur expects us to visit often.” She sighed and gazed at the bunk. “It would have been nice. Ah, well. Tonight.” She clucked her tongue. “By Saint Valentin, that bed is narrow. The way I sleep, I fear you’ll not close your eyes the whole journey.”
He laughed and kissed her. “My love, I don’t intend for either of us to close our eyes for the whole journey! Now, come along,” he added, as she blushed. “Let’s go on deck.”
The sun was setting in a blaze of pink and gold. On the quay an old flowerseller held aloft a bunch of vivid posies. Lucien whistled to her, tossed her a coin, caught the flowers in her return toss. He handed them to Topaze. “For you, my treasure. The one most precious to me.”
She held the bouquet to her face. She smelled all of summer in its fragrance.
The captain shouted an order that was echoed by the mate. With a sharp snap the sails were unfurled and caught the evening breeze, billowing like soft clouds against the deep blue sky. The sun had sunk below the horizon, but its light remained.
They turned their backs to the darkening shore of France, and their faces to the bright glow in the west.
About the Author
Award-winning author Louisa Rawlings was born in Toronto, Canada, and raised in Western Massachusetts. She studied Art History and French Literature at Brown University. She raised four children in New York, while working as an interior designer and indulging her passion for “trivia” by appearing on quiz shows and constructing crossword puzzles for the New York Times. She is now a grandmother of nine.
Her first historical novel, written as Ena Halliday, was chosen by Pocket Books to launch their Tapestry line. She subsequently wrote for Popular Library/Warner and Harlequin Historicals under the pen name of Louisa Rawlings, the name of her maternal great-grandmother. She has written for Kensington/Zebra under the pseudonym of Sylvia Halliday. She has published 14 historical romances.
Her novel Promise of Summer won an award from RT Book Reviews magazine for Best Historical Set in France.
Look for these titles by Louisa Rawlings
Now Available:
Forever Wild
Stolen Spring
Promise of Summer
Money makes the world go ’round, but love makes life worth living.
Stolen Spring
© 2013 Louisa Rawlings
France, 1700
&n
bsp; Forced into spying to save her father from debtor’s prison, Marie-Rouge runs away from her lecherous suitor at the glittering court of Versailles, and finds refuge in the simple cottage of a country miller, Pierre—a strong, seductive man who sets her heart to racing wildly.
Her stolen interlude, filled with laughter and warmth, ripens into intoxicating love. Pierre is everything she has ever wanted in a man—passionate, devoted, matching her desire with his own. But her need to save her father from his overwhelming debt means she can never have a future with her beloved Pierre.
The lies she has been forced to tell create a gulf between her and Pierre that seems all but impossible to bridge. And with mysterious suitors and a forced marriage in the offing, will learning the truth be enough to save their love?
Enjoy the following excerpt for Stolen Spring:
The doors were flung open and Louis strode into the Hall of Mirrors. This was the first time Rouge had seen him at close range. He was not a particularly tall man, but he was such an imposing figure, even at the age of sixty-two, that he seemed to tower over the men who surrounded him. His eyes were clear and wide-set; his nose was somewhat long and sharp; his mouth, though bracketed with lines of age, was firm-lipped and determined. His suit of brown brocade was wonderfully cut, and his black, full-bottomed wig curled to his shoulders beneath a plumed tricorn.
The two dozen or so courtiers, jostling and whispering, who crowded through the door after their king were familiar by sight to Rouge. She had been at the palace long enough to recognize most of them, including the solemn seventeen-year-old Duc d’Anjou, the king’s second grandson, the Duc du Maine, Louis’s favorite bastard, and the Duc de Chartres, who was the king’s nephew as well as his son-in-law. There were several ministers in the entourage, and quite a few of those “calf-eyed courtiers” that Clarisse had teased her about. They were watching her now, she knew, as she sank into her deep curtsy. Not that she really minded. She’d been accustomed to stares from men, nom de Dieu, since she’d been fifteen!
The king stopped in front of her. “Rise, mademoiselle. I would see your face, not the top of that ridiculous cap!”
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