“I remember,” the other woman answered wearily.
“Why did you lie to me?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“If you did not realize he loved you, you are a bigger fool than I am,” Emilie muttered. “I thought to make him mine, but he was yours. Always yours.”
“I don’t want him.”
“Don’t you?” Emilie smiled cynically, the expression out of place on her thin face. Placing the key on the table, she departed.
Simone tore herself free of Alain’s grip and turned a withering stare on him. “You could have stopped her. You could have explained.”
“Explained what? That I love you, not her? That I want to marry you, not her?”
“You’ve ruined your chances with her. For nothing.”
“For you,” he countered.
“For nothing,” Simone repeated adamantly. Then she wheeled and stormed out the passageway.
“Wait!” Behind her, Alain winced as the shells on the drive cut his bare feet. He had forgotten he was wearing nothing more than a robe. Cursing eloquently, he went to dress.
On the street, Simone hailed a cab, debating for a moment whether to go to the office or home. It was late, and Obie would have left the office by now, taking Jupiter with him. In a black mood, she instructed the driver to take her home.
Wakefield met her at the door, his gaunt face distraught. A weeping Celestina followed on his heels. “Mrs. Franklin,” he greeted her, “I was about to send Rufus for you.”
“What’s wrong?” Simone asked, filled with dread.
“We cain’t find Rory nowhere,” Celestina wailed before the butler could answer. “Somebody done took her and lef ‘this.”
Numbly Simone accepted the soiled sheet of paper the slave handed her.
Simone, mon amour,
Love and hate have kept me alive. Now I would settle the score between us.
I have your child. She will not be harmed if you meet me alone tonight at the edge of the swamp beyond Faubourg Marigny, in the clearing where the three large cypresses stand. At last we will meet on the field of honor.
If you notify the police or bring help with you, be assured I will kill your little green-eyed daughter.
Until tonight, I remain
Your adoring Marcel
Her face pale and set, she looked up and ordered, “Wakefield, tell Rufus to saddle a horse for me quickly.”
“What we gonna do, Miss Simone?” Celestina wept. “That man took my baby, and I didn’t see nothin’, not even what he looks like.”
“I know,” her mistress said grimly. “And I will find him.”
“Shouldn’t we report this crime to the constabulary, madame?” Wakefield fretted.
“No,” she answered vehemently, already on her way upstairs. “I will get Rory back.”
That lunatic had her daughter, Simone agonized while she changed into her fencing costume. She could hardly bear the thought of Rory’s fright. She should have left Jupiter to protect her, but she had thought her safe with the servants. Marcel must have been watching.
Once again, she had brought danger to one she loved, she thought sadly, one who could not protect herself. If Marcel harmed one hair on Rory’s head, she would kill him, she vowed. Picking up her father’s sword, Simone set out to rescue her child.
She had galloped away only moments before Alain arrived at the house, determined to make her listen to him. The big Creole listened in stony silence as Wakefield anxiously related what had happened. Then, without a word, he wheeled his horse and raced through the night after Simone.
A full moon had risen above the dark outline of lush growth when he reached the swamp’s edge. The ring of steel and the flicker of a torch drew him to a clearing, where he saw Marcel, with Aurora tied on the ground behind him. The little girl’s eyes were wide, but she made no sound as her mother faced the madman, meeting his advances, speaking quietly, urgently, as she retired.
As Alain dismounted in the shadows, he could hear her words. “Give her back, Marcel. She is only a child. She’s done nothing to harm you.”
“Indeed. She has helped me by bringing her mother to me,” he acknowledged. “Very useful, this little green-eyed one.” Simone forgot herself for a furious instant and advanced savagely. Then, aware of the danger to Rory if she were to be killed through carelessness, she slowed her attack.
“This is a side of you I’ve never seen, chère, the part of you that loves,” Marcel reflected bitterly. “I always wanted to feel it, but you never let me. I could change my mind about killing you, you know. I could keep you with me.”
His fond smile was chased away by rage when he caught sight of Alain approaching behind Simone. “I told you to come alone!” he roared at her.
“I did come alone,” she answered frantically. Following his furious gaze, she glanced over her shoulder. “You shouldn’t have come, Alain. Please go!” she shouted.
But in that instant of distractions Marcel scooped up Rory and raced with her into the swamp.
“Marcel, wait!” Simone cried in horror, plunging into the tangled undergrowth behind them. “Go back, Alain!”
He charged in after her. “Not until we get Rory back.”
Marcel splashed through the murky waters, heedless of their dangers, jeering at his pursuers. They followed, beating back vines and hanging moss with their swords, sinking past their knees in dank, slimy mud.
At last they overtook him on a small island surrounded by looming cypress trees. In moonlight nearly as bright as day, the madman whirled to face them, his sword pressed to Aurora’s throat. Alain captured Simone’s wrist and held her beside him when she would have pressed forward.
“There is no need to harm the child, Marcel,” he said quietly. “Simone did not betray your meeting. She didn’t know I was coming.”
“I do as I please.” Marcel’s voice was petulant, and he watched the pair cagily as he dangled a frightened Rory in front of him. “If I want to kill her, I will.”
Alain felt Simone tense, but he held her still. Keeping his eyes on Marcel, he insisted, “You do not want to harm a little girl, any more than you want to kill Simone.”
The madman shrugged carelessly. “We have some longstanding matters to be settled between us, she and I.”
Alain glanced at the woman who watched helplessly as her innocent daughter was threatened. Then pushing her behind him, he turned to challenge Marcel. “You and I have matters to be settled as well, Baudin. Perhaps you do not remember the outcome of our last meeting under the Oaks? And have you forgotten it was I who stole Simone from you? I took her to my bed when you wanted her,” he deliberately goaded.
With an inarticulate roar, Marcel dumped Rory on the ground and faced Alain, careful to position himself between the child and her would-be rescuers. Then, without warning, he launched himself at his opponent.
Always a good swordsman, Marcel now fought with the strength and fury of the unprincipled madman he had become. Alain met his deadly thrusts, parrying tirelessly. Dripping sweat, they fought as the still night rang with the clash of their blades. Steel skittered against steel down the length of their swords, and they met nearly eye to eye. Swiftly, Marcel jumped back, but not so quickly that Alain did not draw first blood.
“Have done with it, Marcel,” he panted. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“I will never yield to you, de Vallière,” Marcel snarled, attacking vigorously.
Her eyes on the combatants, Simone edged toward Rory each time the action shifted, but Marcel managed to keep himself between mother and daughter. Before she could reach Rory, Alain stumbled over a root and fell heavily on one knee. Marcel lunged forward and brought the hilt of his sword down on his head. Alain groaned and collapsed facedown. Laughing menacingly, Marcel stood over the stunned man, prepared to finish him.
“Non!” Simone screamed. She flung herself at the madman, determined to keep him from killing either of the people she loved.
Marcel dar
ted back and snatched up Rory, again placing his sword at her throat. “Drop your sword, Simone,” he ordered.
“Drop it or I will kill her!” he bellowed when she faltered.
Reluctantly, she obeyed.
“That’s better,” he muttered, holding Rory out tantalizingly. “Come and get her.”
Her green eyes locked on his pale blue ones, Simone approached distrustfully, giving a cry of pure relief when Marcel thrust her daughter into her arms.
Sinking to the ground, Simone buried her face in Rory’s hair for a long, sweet moment. Then she hurried to loosen the child’s bonds.
A few feet away, Alain lifted himself painfully on all fours and shook his head to clear it. A trickle of blood from a cut in his scalp flowed unheeded down his forehead. Through a red haze, he saw the madman place the point of his sword against Simone’s neck.
“I’ve won, de Vallière,” Marcel taunted the addled man. “Now I have both of your green-eyed beauties. I am the better fighter, the better man. I will be the better lover, too,” he boasted.
Simone stared up at him in horror as he bent over her, laughing softly, maniacally.
“Release her, Baudin!” Alain shouted, struggling to his feet on the boggy ground. He hesitated, off-balance and swaying as he sank almost to his knees in the mud.
“Shall I kill you or keep you?” Marcel crooned to Simone, twining his fingers through her hair. Yanking her head back suddenly, he kissed her.
“No!” Alain tried to lurch toward them, but his knees gave way under him and he collapsed again.
Giving an enraged cry, Marcel nursed the lip Simone had bitten. “Don’t anger me, chère,” he advised her hotly, “or I could forget my tender feelings for you.” To stress his words, he jabbed lightly, and a bead of blood appeared on her neck, rolling down to well in the hollow at the base of her throat.
“Your ‘tender feelings’ were what started this madness,” she spat, glaring up at him.
“Madness? Don’t use that word with me,” he warned ominously.
“What do you call it, if not madness? You have killed my father, chased me from my home, killed my husband, kidnapped my child. Who but a madman would do such things?”
Marcel blinked, trying to clear his vision of the red mist suddenly obscuring it. Though he continued to hold his sword to Simone’s throat, it now wobbled, and one of his hands rose to massage his throbbing temples.
Alain stirred again and called out, “Leave Simone, Marcel. You want to fight me.”
“I would like to kill you, de Vallière,” the lunatic growled, “but better you live your wretched life while Simone sees I am the better man. I will give her the world. I’ll make her happy. We’ll even take the child with us when we go away.”
“Where could you go where I would not find you?” Alain asked with a dangerous note in his voice as he managed to rise and plow through the mire toward them. “Where could you hide from me, Baudin?”
“You’ll never find them in the swamp.” Marcel yanked Simone to her feet beside him, Rory still cradled in her arms, and dragged her toward the undergrowth. But his sneer gave way to astonishment when the earth beneath his feet gave way and he began to sink. “Quicksand!” he gasped. A frantic light in his pale eyes, he clutched Simone’s waist tightly. “I won’t let de Vallière have you.”
“‘Lain, take Rory,” Simone screamed, struggling futilely against captor and consuming bog. With strength born of fear for her daughter, she nearly threw the little girl into Alain’s outstretched arms.
The heavier Marcel sank faster than Simone, but still he held her. The muck bound her heavy clothing around her legs, lapped against her ribs, and sucked her steadily downward. She clawed at her captor’s hand, attempting to pry the fingers open before they were both swallowed up. Desperately, she strained, arching her body toward solid ground, gasping with the effort as her fingers left furrows on its soft surface.
When Aurora was safe, Alain returned for Simone, reaching out desperately over the mire for her hand. He almost touched her, but she sank deeper, held in the madman’s grasp. Flinging himself on his stomach, Alain inched forward, farther, farther . . . until his fingers curled around her wrist.
But the pull of the quicksand on its captives slowly dragged Alain toward the quagmire. Trembling with strain, he threw his free arm around a slippery clump of reeds and stubbornly hung onto Simone.
Suddenly Marcel gasped, “You never understood, Simone. I loved you.” Then he sank beneath the slimy surface, releasing his deadly grip.
Mere moments from suffocation, Simone struggled to free herself from the mire. Panting, every muscle quivering, Alain held fast to her and the reeds and began to pull back, his boot toes making deep furrows in the soft ground behind him.
As he slid laboriously backward, muttering incoherent encouragement, his stubborn, prickly darling managed a mighty heave toward him. Inch by inch, sheened by muck and sweat and tears, they fought the lethal quicksand and at last lay side by side on solid ground, gulping for air.
When their breath had returned, they crawled, wet and exhausted, to the sobbing Rory.
Simone gathered the weeping child in her arms and Alain knelt beside them. “It’s all right now,” he whispered, wiping mother’s and daughter’s tears.
One arm around her mother’s neck, the sobbing child wrapped the other around Alain’s and pulled them close. “Is . . .is he gone?” she whimpered.
“He’s gone, ma petite. And the danger is over,” he told Simone with grim but tender certainty. “Do you know how close I came to losing you—again?”
“You will never lose me, Alain,” Simone answered, lifting a muddy hand to caress his cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Nonc’ ‘Lain,” Rory piped.
“ And I love you—both of you,” he said, hugging them tightly.
“It seems Rory and I have chosen the man we love,” Simone said with a wry smile. “But remember what I told you long ago—you must love us forever.”
“Forever,” Alain agreed tenderly just before his smiling lips claimed Simone’s.
Karen Jones Delk, who has also written as Kate Kingsley, is author of six historical romances published by HarperMonogram and Harlequin Historicals. Emerald Queen is the first of her novels to be published online.
Brought up in South Louisiana near the mouth of the Mississippi River, Ms. Delk now lives in Northern California where she spends most of her time being a partner in a broadcast consulting firm and keeping up with her actor/comedian husband of nearly forty years. She can’t imagine not writing and fits it into her schedule whenever and wherever she can.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 1992 by Karen Jones Delk
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Karen Jones Delk
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The Emerald Queen (A Vieux Carré Romance) Page 40