He frowned at her. At first glance, the girl looked demure in her floral gown and lace cap, but a stubborn set to her jaw, and a chest that heaved most distractingly under the thin fabric of her gown, belied that impression. He could see she was not going to make this easy for him.
“I took you into the courtyard because I wanted to talk to you,” he resumed doggedly, “to get to know you.”
He paused, but she said nothing. “I know almost nothing about you, not even your name. But I understand you are alone in the world, and I would like to help you.”
“Are you saying you would like to be my protector?” Her voice was flat.
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“You doubt my ability to take care of myself?” Her hostile green eyes met his challengingly.
His dark gaze did not waver. “I don’t think you should have to take care of yourself, ma petite.”
“You would give me all a woman could want, dress me in silks, shower me with jewels?” she responded sarcastically. “I’ve had that sort of offer before, m’sieur, and I want no part of it.”
“Just a minute,” he broke in, white-faced with anger, but she would not be silenced.
“Men!” she exploded. “You think any woman who is not married or under the protection of a family is fair game.”
“I didn’t say that,” Alain snarled, outraged at her accusation.
“Non, but every time I have been alone with you, you have tried to force your will on me,” she countered.
“I will not be accused of that,” he thundered, jumping to his feet to pace the room. “I will admit I’ve kissed you, and I’ve enjoyed it. But I have never forced myself on you.”
“Don’t shout at me!” she shouted, rising to face him.
“Then don’t accuse me of more than I’ve done.” He came to tower over her.
She stood her ground as if daring him to break his promise. “You have never done more because you were never given the opportunity, Monsieur de Vallière,” she informed him icily.
While he watched, mute with anger, she stormed over to the bedroom door, pausing to say tauntingly, “I suggest you get a hold on your temper before you leave. You really must work on it. It gives your opponent a definite advantage, or so I’ve heard.”
Then she stepped into the other room and closed the door behind her. He grimaced in vexation when he heard the insulting click of the lock.
Jamming his hat onto his head, he nearly trampled Lisette, who lingered in the hall.
“It did not go well?” she asked unnecessarily.
Alain’s answer was an inarticulate growl as he passed her.
“Where are you going?” the madam asked.
“To get drunk.”
Lisette winced when the front door slammed with such force that the glass in it rattled. Then she turned with dread to face Simone’s ire for arranging this ill-advised meeting.
Alain slumped over a table in a seedy bar, the first one he had come to after leaving Lisette’s house, and poured himself another whiskey. His wrath had subsided a bit, and now he mulled over the conversation he had just had with the most provoking female he had ever had the misfortune to meet.
Why wouldn’t she listen to reason? he brooded. How could he court a girl when he couldn’t even find out her name? Though she tempted him beyond sweet sanity, she obviously did not share his feelings. She ran away every time he went near her.
He didn’t care, he told himself. He didn’t care if he ever saw her again. He tried to convince himself by mentally tallying her faults. She was stubborn and independent and prickly.
Stubborn and independent and prickly? His brow furrowed, Alain closed his eyes and attempted to drown out the raucous sounds around him as he dredged his memory, but he could not recall whence that ready—and apt—description had sprung.
Drawing deeply on his drink, he reminded himself that she twisted everything he said, using his own words against him.
Suddenly he set down his drink so hard that the bottle bounced on the table. Those words... he had spoken them only yesterday, to Jean-Paul.
“Jean-Paul,” he mumbled wonderingly. He looked enough like the girl to be her brother. How else would she know what he had said at the salle? If she were the sister of that surly lad, it would explain her animosity toward him, which he had found inexplicable until now.
Purposefully, Alain stood and tossed some coins onto the table. Then, swaying slightly, he left the tavern.
The pounding on the door made Simone start from a restless sleep. She was groggy, weary, and drained after the confrontation with Alain and an emotional scene with Lisette that had ended in tearful forgiveness.
When the hammering continued, Simone burrowed her head deeper into her pillow. Who could be so ill-mannered as to wake her in the middle of the night?
“Open up, Jean-Paul,” Alain ordered through the door.
“I should have guessed,” she groaned to herself. Sitting up in bed, she shouted, “Go away! The salle is closed.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Talk to me tomorrow,” she yelled, punching her pillow with every syllable. Damn the man, why didn’t he leave her alone?
The pounding ceased, and Alain crooned dangerously, “You young coquin, I warn you. If I have to break this door down, I will.”
He sounded as if he meant what he said.
“Un moment.” Jumping up, Simone pulled on her trousers, tucking in her nightgown, hoping it looked like a shirt. She had no time to bind her breasts, and her wadded nightgown made her baggy pants balloon bizarrely. She prayed the man would not notice either oddity in the dark. Schooling her face into a scowl, she opened the door a crack and asked curtly, “What do you want?”
“I want to know what her name is and where I can find her.” Shoving the door open, Alain strode into Jean-Paul’s bedchamber and looked around as if he expected to find someone lurking in the shadows.
“Where you can find who?” Simone snapped. She retreated a step when the big man swung toward her, his broad shoulders seeming to fill the tiny room.
“Your sister!” he roared.
“My what?” she hooted.
“Don’t play games with me, boy. She plays enough for all of us.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a sister.”
Alain stared at Jean-Paul closely through the darkness. “I think you’re lying. If you were not so much younger, I’d believe you were her twin.”
“You watch who you’re calling a liar, you big lummox,” the boy answered hotly. “Especially when you smell like a distillery and are so drunk you can’t see straight.”
“I am not drunk, and I see much more than I did. Are you going to tell me what I want to know, or do I have to shake the truth out of you?”
“Not without a fight.” Simone dived for Serge’s sword, which still lay on her table.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Alain lunged for the boy, his weight carrying both of them to the floor in a tangled heap.
Crushed under the Alain’s powerful body, Simone lay still for a moment, trying to regain her breath.
“Nom de Dieu,” Alain muttered in confusion, feeling the unexpected softness under Jean-Paul’s ill-fitting clothes. Lifting his head, he tried to discern the features of the face so close to his.
Suddenly erupting in a screech of outrage, the slender form beneath him began to thrash and buck wildly, jarring his teeth with every bounce. Small hands knotted into fists pounded on his back.
“Be still, you little wildcat,” Alain grunted, trying to secure her flailing limbs. Bringing up one knee, he managed to capture one arm at her side. She gasped at the feel of him against her groin and fought all the harder.
Suddenly the rip of fabric could be heard, and Simone felt the cold night air on her bare breasts. She stifled a moan of frustration and redoubled her efforts to escape Alain’s restraint. Strengthened by panic, she nearly threw him off.
Cap
turing both arms at last, he brought them above her head and held them in a tight one-handed grip. Outstretched on top of her, he lay still for a moment, panting.
Taking advantage of his seeming weariness, Simone began to struggle again.
“Don’t.” His grip on her wrists tightened, and his voice was ragged against her ear. “Don’t move that way or we will both be sorry.”
Something in his tone made her cease her writhing.
Sliding his free arm beneath her, the man rolled her into a pool of moonlight and pinned her beneath him again.
The light was behind him and Simone could not see his face, but Alain saw his captive clearly. The green eyes, so familiar, glittered in the moonlight as she glared up at his shadowy form. Alain knew now that the same mouth that had sneered boyishly at him was just as capable of returning his kisses. The finely-chiseled features that were pleasing in the young boy were strikingly beautiful in the girl.
And there was no doubt Jean-Paul was a girl. Alain’s eyes drifted downward to the smooth breasts, which resembled polished white marble in the moon’s glow. In the shadowed crevice between them nestled an object that shot sparks of green fire even in the dimness. Curious, he reached for it.
Flinching at the brush of his fingers on her skin, the girl turned her head away. As Alain held up the band of emeralds and looked at it, casual interest gave way to stunned realization. It was Nicholas Devereaux’s wedding ring.
“Simone!” he breathed, staring down at her disbelievingly. How could he have been so blind?
“Look at me,” he commanded gently. When she would not, he cupped her chin in his free hand and turned her face toward him. Tears had left silvery streaks on her cheeks. Even as she bit her lower lip and fought to maintain her composure, she looked fragile, vulnerable, and startlingly familiar.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.
“Why didn’t you just leave me alone?” she countered in a strangled voice.
“I couldn’t.” Compelled by a rush of feeling, he bent toward her. When she would have turned her head, his hand cupping her chin held her fast, and he kissed her tenderly.
Simone became very still, hardly daring to breathe. This kiss was not like the others. His lips on hers were so gentle and sweet that she felt an ache deep inside. And when they left hers, she lay motionless, her eyes closed, feeling for a moment terribly empty and alone.
Was he mad? Alain wondered, staring down at her pale face. This was Simone, his ward, the little girl he had known since she was a child. But she was a child no longer. And if he didn’t control himself now, she would be a woman before another hour passed.
Rising, he helped her to her feet and led her to sit on the edge of the bed. Then he closed the door and busied himself lighting a lamp. Anything to keep from touching her.
When he had collected himself, he turned to face her. She, too, seemed to have composed herself. Her expression cool and her chin high, her only concession to the situation was the shaky hand that clutched the tattered front of her nightgown.
“Why don’t you tell me why you are here, living in a salle d’armes, disguised as a boy?” he began calmly.
“I am learning to fence.”
“Enough evasions and lies, Simone. Virtually everything you have told me since the night we met has been one or the other.” He went on when she would have protested, “Just tell me what you are doing here. You may as well. I’m going to find out.”
She glared at him defiantly for a long moment, then she sighed. She was as tired as he of the deceptions and the scenes between them. Reluctantly, she told him everything—Marcel’s attack, his search for her, Georges Chauvin’s plan, her decision to hide, Serge’s kindness, Lisette’s friendship.
“But why did you hide from me when I returned? Didn’t you know I would have helped you?”
“Oui, you would have helped me.” She laughed bitterly. “Right into a marriage I did not want. Wasn’t that your duty—to find a husband for Nicholas Devereaux’s prickly daughter? Well, I did not care to be a responsibility for you to discharge efficiently. Isn’t that how my father put it in his letter?
“Or would you prefer the way you said it yourself? ‘The sooner I’m free of that obligation, the happier I’ll be,’” she mimicked his words perfectly. “If our paths never crossed, M’sieur de Vallière, I supposed we could both be happy.”
Alain was silent, accused by his own words, aching at the hurt he heard in her voice, pain he had caused. He realized how many times Jean-Paul must have overheard his frustration with his missing ward. He wished he could take back every word.
“Simone,” he said tentatively.
“Please,” she said irritably, “I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”
“You’ll be interested in this,” he predicted with a wintry smile. Lounging against the table, he crossed his arms on his chest. “You are my responsibility and I will take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself,” she lashed out. “I don’t need a guardian, a protector—or a husband.”
“No, I suppose you can go on living here, as a boy, forever.”
She glared at him, even angrier because she knew what he said was true.
“Besides,” he said gently, “I wouldn’t leave you to Baudin’s tender mercies.”
“Marcel has gone home. He’s not expected back for weeks.”
“When he does return, he won’t find you here. You are coming to my house.”
“I will not stay, unchaperoned, in the home of an unmarried man,” she announced primly.
Alain bellowed with laughter. “You have lived, unchaperoned, among a number of bachelors for the better part of a year.”
“I can’t just leave. What about my job?” she argued. “Serge will look for me.”
“You are going to write him a letter and tell him you’ve found long-lost relatives upriver.”
“But my friends will wonder what happened to me.”
“They will believe what Serge tells them.”
“What about Lisette?” she demanded stubbornly.
“I’ll let her know you’re safe.”
“You have all the answers, don’t you?” She frowned up at him. “Then tell me this, Alain, do you think you’re strong enough to ‘take me in hand’?” She threw more of his words back at him, her tone dripping sarcasm.
His jaw set grimly, he said, “I am going to try.”
“I will not stay at your house,” she insisted.
“Then I’ll put Batiste on guard.” Alain named his sturdy black servant Simone’s jailor. “He will guard you day and night. You will never see beyond the walls of your bedchamber unless you give your word as a Creole gentlewoman that you will not try to escape.”
The threat gave her pause, for she had seen his powerful slave, his back crisscrossed with scars from old beatings. Such a man must be dangerous indeed. At last she said grudgingly, “I give my word.”
“Très bien. Gather what you will need for tonight.” As he watched her move around the room, still gripping the front of her nightgown, he added casually, “There is one other thing, Simone. I will challenge Marcel when he returns.”
“This is my fight,” she said hotly, wheeling on him.
Alain’s face was stony. “Not anymore.”
Picking up her cast-off jacket, he helped her into it as politely as if she were dressed in satins and lace. “Come, I’ll send Batiste for the rest of your things before morning.”
As they walked to Alain’s house on fashionable Esplanade, he observed Simone carefully to see she did not bolt, his taut control belying the maelstrom of emotion he felt. How could he have been so stupid? Both of the females he had sought, the black-haired beauty and his ward, had been under his nose all the time, all wrapped up in an untidy package named Jean-Paul. And how could he have been so blind, he wondered, watching the girl beside him. She was beautiful.
Unlocking a door cut into a larger carriage gate, Alain led Simone
into a spacious courtyard bordered on three sides by the house and its outbuildings and on the fourth by a high wall. Outside the main house, a staircase mounted to a gallery, along which were ranged the sleeping quarters. He showed her to an elegant parlor on the lower floor, and, reminding her of her promise, left to awaken Batiste.
When Alain returned, he led Simone through the courtyard and up the stairs, setting forth his rules. “You will use my room. Since it’s hardly proper for me to sleep under the same roof, I’ll stay in the garçonnière.” He gestured across the courtyard toward the apartments set aside for the boys of a family. Stopping abruptly, he scowled at her. “What’s so funny?”
“That you worry about improprieties,” she answered with ill-concealed amusement. “My reputation will be ruined when people learn I’m staying, unchaperoned, in a bachelor’s home.”
“The innuendo would be far worse if word got out you were living in a salle,” he snapped.
“I agree.” She laughed aloud. “I fear I am already a tainted woman.”
“Don’t say that,” he warned dangerously, throwing open the door to his bedroom. “Let me get a few things. Batiste will move the rest of my clothing tomorrow. You may have the run of the house and the courtyard, Simone, but do not set foot in the passageway, on the gallery, or in the alley where you might be seen until I have had time to even the score with Marcel.”
“I won’t be a prisoner,” she protested, following him from the chiffonier to the doorway.
“No, you won’t,” Alain agreed perversely. “Here, sleep in this.” He handed her a shirt.
“You’re treating me like a prisoner, or a child,” she stormed.
“Not a child.” He stopped and stared at her, a blaze of desire flickering in his brown eyes before he turned away.
Uneasily, Simone tugged the front of her jacket together.
“Bonne nuit, ma petite,” he said softly. “Sleep well. You are safe now.”
Sinking down on the bed, Simone stared despairingly at the door he closed behind him. She had just traded freedom for safety, and she did not like the bargain she had been forced to make.
The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 12