by ML Guida
Jacques grabbed both her arms and yanked her towards him. His mouth captured hers, his teeth cut her lips, and his tongue forced her open, worming around in her mouth. She beat on his chest, but when he would not release her, she opened her eyes and spotted a tall blue vase, filled with a bouquet of flowers, sitting on a hall table. She concentrated and raised her palms. The vase lifted off the table and floated in the air. She flicked her hand and the vase bashed into Jacques’ head. He cried out and stumbled, falling onto his knees. Water splashed onto the floor and the vase toppled over, flowers spilling everywhere.
“Jacques, Jacques,” her father called. Running footsteps came from the dining room.
Hannah grabbed the railing and bolted up the stairs. Her vision bleary, she headed for her room, her hand clutching the dagger.
“Hannah, what did you do?” her father demanded.
She swung open her door and slammed it shut. She locked the door, but knew this would not keep her father or Jacques out. She stared at the dresser and raised her palms. Her hair swirled around her. With her palms facing the dresser, she twisted at her waist. The dresser skidded across the floor toward the door, blocking anyone who tried to enter.
Hard purposeful footsteps thudded down the hallway. “Open this door, Hannah,” Jacques demanded.
She lifted up her dress, retrieved her dagger, aiming it at the door.
He pounded on the door. “I’m ordering you to open this door.”
Hannah swallowed and gripped the dagger with both her hands. She didn’t want to be beaten. Her father had used the same angry voice when her mother locked him out. But each time, when she finally opened the door, Mother would pay for her defiance.
“Jacques,” her father said. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure Hannah didn’t do this.”
Why was Father protecting her? What was his game?
“I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Come let’s have a drink.”
“This isn’t over, Hannah,” Jacques promised.
Hannah dropped the dagger and sank onto the floor next to her bed. She leaned against the mattress and released her pent up tears. Beatings, servitude, unwanted intimacy. ’twas all in her future. And the sailors. They’d all die. She wiped her tears. “Kane, where are you?”
Chapter Eighteen
Hannah stepped down from the carriage and strolled into Madame Blanc’s dress shop. The bell over the door tinkled and an older buxom lady sewing on a silver gown glanced up.
“Bon jour, Mademoiselle? May I help you?” Her busy fingers continued flying over the fabric.
“I’m Hannah Knight. My uncle said he ordered some dresses for me?”
“Oui, your uncle sent word that you’d be coming. Mademoiselle, here let me take your measurements.”
Madame Blanc pulled a measuring tape out of her pocket and took her measurements. She hauled out bolts of fabric—silks, cottons, taffetas, velvets and lace—and fussed over what colors matched Hannah’s eyes and skin color. Back in London, she loved to spend long hours with her favorite dress maker, Ms. Farnsworth. But nothing in the shop excited her, unless Madame Blanc would make her shirts and breeches. “You’ve such beautiful material. I’m overwhelmed. Can you help me choose?”
“Oui, I know just what to do. Some everyday dresses, a riding habit and evening gowns.”
Trying to sound enthused, Hannah murmured, “Sounds lovely. Um, I’ve a friend who lives in Paris and would like to get a letter to her. Do you know of anyone sailing for France?”
“Um, I’m not sure, but my brother owns a tavern at the end of the street. Many of the captains eat and stay there. If anyone would know, Pierre would. The tavern’s called the Lighthouse. ’Tis down the street. Would you like me to give him the letter?”
Her heart raced. She wished she’d have brought Kane’s emeralds with her. She could have made her escape. Freedom was nearby. “Um, no, I’d like to do it.”
“Mademoiselle, I’ll have the first dresses and nightgowns for you within the next couple of days. The evening gowns will be sent in a couple of weeks. Is this acceptable?”
“That will be fine Madame Blanc. My uncle said to send him the bill.” Smiling, she turned to leave when a sugar voice stopped her in her tracks.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Her stomach clenched. Jacques. He leaned on an oak cane, the handle a hand-carved ivory elephant. He twirled it as he strolled into the shop.
“Since you’re to be my wife, the bill will be sent to me.”
The nightmare continued. “But my uncle…”
“Is that clear Madame Blanc?”
Madame Blanc bowed her head and curtsied. “Oui, monsieur.”
“My uncle will pay for it.” Hannah hoped her voice sounded civil.
He sauntered across the floor still twirling his cane. She swallowed hard, eyeing the walking stick.
His beady eyes glistened darkly.
She put her hand on her throat, her blood pulsing beneath her fingers, and took a step back and then another and then another and then another.
Citric cologne reeking, he loomed over her and smiled an oily, predatory smile.
Her bottom bumped into a table. Nowhere else to go. Holding her breath, she lowered her gaze.
His thumbs, latching underneath her chin, he fanned his fingers along her jaw, pressed his palms against her cheek and lifted her head, forcing her to meet his cold stare.
Her skin crawled. “Mademoiselle, you’re not marrying your uncle, you’re marrying me. I’ll take care of your every need and every wish and every desire. You’ll send the bill to me Madame Blanc? No?”
“Oui, oui, the bill will be sent to you.”
Hannah clenched her fists and forced herself to remain still.
Jacques released Hannah, but not before he pressed his dry cold lips against her cheek. She shuddered.
“I shall pick out the colors and material for her,” he said.
Hannah put her hands on her hips. “We’re finished.”
“Without my approval? You’re such a beautiful woman. I pride myself in picking out colors for women. I’ll need to see what you chose and may need to change it. Comprends, mademoiselle?” He waved a dismissive hand.
She gritted her teeth.
He picked up sheer gauzy material. Glancing at Hannah, a wicked smiled appeared across his face. “Madame Blanc, I’d like to have these made into nightgowns.”
Hannah tilted her chin. “I’m not going to wear those.”
“As my wife, I want you to be sensuelle in the bedroom.”
Hannah’s cheeks heated. Sultry in the bedroom? She refused to be a wife that he treated like a prized courtesan.
He slammed his hand on a yellow fabric bolt. “This is all wrong, Madame Blanc.” He picked up the blue bolt of fabric and tossed it across the table. “How could you let her order such inferior dresses? I’ll have to start over.”
Hannah edged toward the door. Madame Blanc scurried in and out of the back room with more material.
“Bring only the material from Paris.” He ran his hand over a swatch of crimson velvet.
On the table beside the deep red fabric lay Madame Blanc’s tape, shears, and a long sewing needle. Hannah pressed her lips together fighting back an evil smile and flicked her two fingers. The needle slid across the velvet and jammed into his finger. The same one the glass cut last night. He yanked his hand. “Ouch! Madame Blanc, you had a needle in this material. How careless of you.”
“That’s odd,” Madame Blanc frowned. “This fabric just came in and I never leave needles in my material. I apologize, monsieur.”
Grinning, Hannah slipped out the door and sprinted to her waiting carriage. The groomsman held out a hand to help her inside. As she climbed inside, she caught sight of man across the state staring at her. Her heart stopped. He looked so familiar. His shirt clung to his broad muscled chest and snug fitting black trousers outline the sinewy thighs. She held her breath and hope surged through her.
Kane? No, it couldn’t be.
Kane was gone. Off chasing Palmer or seducing another female captive.
The man leaned against a black lamp post and chewed on a piece of straw. His large, low crowned hat covered his eyes and cast a shadow on his face. Folding his arms across his chest, he nodded to her. Behind him was the Lighthouse. She leaned forward out of the carriage window.
“Hannah,” Jacques snarled from behind her.
Not taking her eyes off the man or the tavern, she said, “Back to my Uncle’s.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the groomsman answered.
The carriage pulled away from the dressmaker’s shop and the Lighthouse. Upon sighting her uncle’s mansion, she breathed easier. She flew out of the carriage, raced to the front door and hurried up the stairs. Mary stood at the top of the stairs holding some linen in her hands.
She brushed past her. “Mary, I don’t want to be disturbed. I’m ill.”
“Yes, miss.”
Once in her bedroom, she sprinted over to the bed, pulled out her dagger and hid it in her chemise. Her heart pounding, she opened the French doors and watched the driveway. A large dust cloud marked the arrival of an ornate blue carriage with white trim. Jacques thrust open the door of the carriage and stormed out. His chest heaving up and down, he was a snorting bull. She trembled at his fierce scowl and cursed her foolishness.
Hide.
Jacques disappeared from her sight, but his voice bellowed from inside the house. “Where the hell is Mademoiselle Knight? I demand she come down here at once.”
Hannah bit her lip, glancing at the tree outside the balcony. She rushed over and hiked up her dress. Swinging her legs over, she balanced on the edge. Rapid knocks pounded on her door.
Without hesitation, Hannah jumped. She grasped the tree limb, wincing from the bark biting into her palms. Dangling from the tree, she dared not to look down. Grunting from the effort, she lifted one leg and swung up the other until she was upright.
“Miss, miss, where is you?”
Hannah remained still, struggling to quietly catch her breath, and hide behind the canopy of leaves. Bertha rushed around the room searching for her but didn’t come out onto the balcony. She ran out of the room and Hannah exhaled.
Hannah inched her way down the branch. Limbs and leaves hit her face and scratched her bare legs, but she didn’t care. A twig caught the hem of her dress. She yanked and groaned at a loud rip. “Great,” she mumbled.
A piece of her gown snagged on jagged bark and blew in the wind like a golden flag of red roses. Shaking her head, she slid down the tree. About midway, she jumped, landing on her hands and knees. “Ow!”
She stood and pressed her back against the tree. She glanced at her torn gown. Blood tricked down her knees onto her shins. She looked like she’d been attacked by a wild animal. How would she explain this to her father?
“Mistress, mistress,” Bertha called. “Where is you?”
Hannah darted behind the large bush and peered through the branches. Jacques stormed past the house with Bertha trailing behind him.
“Oh quit your whining vous la fille stupide! Obviously, she didn’t go into the garden. Now, I insist you find her.”
“But Masta, I saws…”
Jacques slapped the maid across the face, splitting her lip open. Bertha cried out and covered her mouth.
“Don’t talk back to me.” He raised his cane. “Now find her or I’ll do worse.”
“Yes sirs, yes sirs,” Bertha sobbed. “I’ll go look for the missy. I wonna fail you.”
“No, I don’t think you will.” He lowered the cane. “Now, move.”
“Yes sir,” Bertha bowed and fled as if Satan, himself pursued her.
Jacques followed after her. Hannah had no doubt the bastard would beat Bertha if he couldn’t find her. A rake leaned against the house. She stared at the rake and flicked her hand. The rake slid across the lawn in Jacques’ path. Jacques took a step. The handle flew up, slamming him in the face. “What the—?”
Blood dripped down his nose. “Bertha, you bitch.”
Bertha turned and her face paled. She half sobbed.
“Jacques,” Hannah yelled.
Her fists clenched, Hannah stormed around the bush. “Run, Bertha! How dare you treat her that way!”
Jacques narrowed his eyes. He dug his fingers into her flesh. He pulled her close to him. Blood poured down his nose. “Mademoiselle, don’t push me! I’m going to be your husband and you’ll not question my judgment.”
She yanked and broke free from his gasp. “How can I respect anyone who treats their slaves like you do?”
“Hannah.” Her uncle marched across the lawn. “You should not be talking to him like this.”
Jacques stuck out his chin. “Oui, I think she needs to learn some manners.”
She rubbed her throbbing arm. “Don’t treat me like I am invisible.”
Putting his arm around her, her uncle pulled her to the side. “No one’s ignoring you, my dear. Monsieur D’Aubigne, what’s going on?”
Jacques bowed ever so slightly. “Governor, I’m sorry to say your niece paid me the rudest insult. At Madame Blanc’s, I offered to pay for all of her gowns, and instead of paying me the courtesy of staying there, she ran off without as much of by your leave. No merci. No bon au revoir. I demand an apology, Governor.” His face turned red. “As my fiancée, she should be treating me with respect and following my orders. I’ll not stand for this kind of outrageous behavior!”
Hannah folded her arms. “Fine, don’t marry me.”
Jacques’ hands twitched and she knew if her uncle hadn’t been here, he’d have struck her.
“Now, Monsieur D'Aubigne, I think you misunderstood her behavior.” Her uncle pleaded and he hugged Hannah tighter. “Of course, Hannah will accept your kind gift. Won’t you my dear?” He patted her arm.
“No, I won’t Uncle.”
“Oui vous ferez! I think you’re sadly mistaken, Mademoiselle.” Jacques gave her uncle a cold stare. “Governor, I suggest you talk to your niece about our arrangement regarding the Emerald Sea and the Sorcière de Mer.” He spun on his heels and marched towards his waiting carriage.
She broke away from her uncle and put her hands on her hips. “What arrangement?”
Her uncle stared straight ahead, his expression devoid of emotion. “You’re bleeding. Let’s get you inside and patched up my dear.” He put his hand on her lower back to guide her back inside.
She blocked his path. “Uncle Michael, what agreement? What are the Emerald Sea and the Sorcière de Mer?”
“The Sorcière de Mer is Jacques’ plantation.”
“And the Emerald Sea?”
He linked his arm through hers. “Come on my dear.”
She stood her ground. “Uncle, what’s the Emerald Sea?”
“I think your father should have told you,” he mumbled.
He sighed and walked over to a red rose bush and sniffed.
‘Uncle.”
“The Emerald Sea is your father’s sugar plantation.”
She blinked. “My father has a sugar plantation?”
“Yes,” he straightened. “’Tis next to Jacques’.”
“So, that’s why father wants me to marry?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Jacques has the richest soil, but your father has the most land. Combined the plantations would be worth a fortune. Jacques is a very determined man and wants both you and the Emerald Sea. Your father gambled and lost. Instead of demanding money, Jacques wants the Emerald Sea. Your father offered you, since he would still have control over the plantation and receive some profit. ”
She stared at her uncle, not seeing him. His words cut deep into her soul. Her own living parent betrayed her to keep his precious land. She meant nothing to him. A pawn to be played to fulfill his own desires. Hannah narrowed her eyes. “Where’s my father?”
Putting his hands behind his back, her uncle paced back and forth. “Hannah, I’m not sure, but I’l
l see he talks to you about it tonight at dinner.”
She clenched her fists and stormed away.
“Hannah, wait!”
“Enough.” She left him.
Up in her room, she collapsed onto the bed. Her scratches and cut hurt. But not as much as her heart. Damn her father. He gambled and lost. All of his preaching was nothing more than a ploy to justify his behavior, to cast scorn on others, to hide his own sins.
Chapter Nineteen
After dinner, Hannah followed her father into the parlor and sat on the Provincial couch. He poured himself a glass of brandy and the smell of apricots filled the room. He sat across from her in a chair and twirled his glass.
She forced herself to be demure and play the dutiful daughter to entice her father into telling her about the agreement. “So?” she asked.
Her father took a sip of his brandy. “Your uncle stocks the best brandy in all of Saint Kitts. Reminds me of London.”
“Father, tell me about the agreement.”
“Now, Hannah, you didn’t like any of the men I tried to persuade you to marry in London. They were all good matches.”
“If you like foppish sops.”
“They were not sops. They all came from good families and would have treated you well.”
“I wasn’t in love with any of them.”
“Your sisters…”
“My sisters were in love with their matches. Your matchmaking worked for them.”
He licked his lips. “If you’d have given them half a chance…”
“Then I would not be forced to marry Jacques…”
He put his glass down. “’Tis awfully hot in here. I’ll open a window.”
Hannah cocked her eyebrow. Father never did manual work. He always ordered servants to do his bidding, but he unlocked the window and opened it. Cool air rushed into the room. He turned and smiled. “Now, isn’t this nice?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Father, why are you bringing up these past matches?”
He grabbed his glass, meandered over to the cabinet and poured himself another brandy. He kept his back to her. “Jacques isn’t a floppy sop as you call them.”