Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

Several minutes passed while neither spoke. Then Anne said, “Lucien? Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” he answered. How could he sleep with her delicious body so close to his? But, with the ordeal she’d been through that day and the news of Reggie’s illness, Lucien didn’t want to press her into lovemaking.

  “Can we talk a little? I can’t sleep.”

  “If you want to. I thought we should perhaps postpone talking till the morning, when you’re more rested.”

  She sat up, propping herself with a small, warm palm on his chest. Her breasts gleamed like alabaster in the candlelight. Despite his noble intentions, he felt himself tightening, hardening with arousal. Her eyes were luminous, glowing with love … for him. It was humbling. It was damned erotic.

  “I’m not tired anymore,” she said.

  Hell, that was just what he didn’t need to hear.

  “I want you to tell me about yourself. I want you to tell me how you got started being Renard, and why. There’s more to it than your abolitionist beliefs. I think there’s a more personal reason why you embraced the cause with so much passion.”

  Lucien’s ardor cooled—for the moment. But just knowing she already understood him so well, knew so much about him intuitively, gave him another reason to love her. His boyhood experience when he was forced to beat his friend Roy was a serious, painful subject, but he wanted Anne to know what had happened. He wanted to share another part of himself with her, a part he’d shared with few others. And certainly with no other woman.

  He told her. She listened with grave, sad eyes. She felt his remembered pain and shared his continued sense of injustice.

  Nestled against his chest again, she asked, “What will you do now, Lucien? I know you will still want to help the cause in some way.”

  He hadn’t planned to speak so soon about the future. But he had plans, all right. Plans that included Anne. Was now the time? he wondered. Was now the time to ask her?

  She rose again, propping an elbow on the bed, cupping her chin in her hand. She looked adorable, desirable. Her breasts pressed against his side, the hard nipples tantalizing his sensitized skin. She lifted a hand and languorously drifted her fingers through the soft swirls of hair on his chest.

  “Anne, if you keep this up I’m going to have to stop being noble and make love to you.”

  She smiled tenderly. “Who asked you to be noble?”

  “You aren’t too tired, too upset …?”

  “You’re the best medicine for anything that ails me,” she said. “I love you.”

  Lucien sighed and caught her hand, lifting it to his lips. He kissed the palm and was thrilled to hear her gasp with pleasure. He looked up into her starry blue eyes. “Anne, may I have your hand—”

  She grinned. “You have it already.”

  “—in marriage, cher. May I have your hand in marriage?”

  Her smile fell away. “Marriage? Do … do you mean it, Lucien?”

  “More than anything I’ve ever said in my life,” he assured her ardently. “But do you think you’ll like Canada?”

  She blinked. “Canada?”

  He grinned. “Is there an echo in here?”

  “You want to live in Canada? With me?”

  “I want you for my wife, Anne, wherever we decide to live.”

  For a long, agonizing moment, she didn’t reply. She simply looked at him as if she didn’t believe him. She searched his eyes, and he felt her intense examination at the very core of his soul. His feelings were laid bare for her to see, to believe. Finally she did believe. But how could any mortal man hide a love so strong?

  Vivid joy lighted her face like a hundred candles. “There is nothing I would rather be than your wife, Lucien,” she said with sweet fervor. Then she kissed him, and everything was forgotten in the ecstasy of Anne’s arms. Sweet, sweet Anne.

  Katherine had never spent a worse night. She’d had grief in her life—she’d lost three husbands and a child—but she’d never watched someone go through the hideous stages of yellow fever firsthand. And because it was her beloved Reggie suffering so much, it was killing her, too.

  By the time Armande arrived late that night, Reggie’s skin was yellow. He twitched and moved fitfully under the single layer of sheeting with which Katherine had covered him, moaning and calling out two names: Anne and Katherine.

  Katherine thought her heart would break. She spoke soothingly to him, bathing his forehead and wetting his parched lips with cool water. Armande mixed up some sleeping herbs that would help him rest. He was convinced that the most important thing they could do to help Reggie ride out the devastating disease was to conserve his strength through rest, and to keep his temperature down. Katherine believed him and trusted him implicitly.

  Reggie had been resting more quietly that morning, though he was still burning up with fever. Armande was dozing in a wing chair by the window, his chin resting on his hand. Even before coming to the house, he’d had quite a night. Between ministering to Reggie, he’d told Katherine everything that had happened with Bodine and the police, and about Anne’s appearance on the scene.

  Katherine clucked her tongue over her niece’s antics, but wasn’t surprised. She looked forward to hearing the whole story later, in detail, when Reggie was well. Reggie would have to be told everything sooner or later, too, including Katherine’s connection to Renard.

  Katherine stood over Reggie, watching him sleep. She was encouraged by his continued restfulness after bouts of vomiting and bleeding had passed. Armande’s sleeping herbs must have done the trick.

  When Armande awoke and checked Reggie again, Katherine said, “I wish I could do something to stop this. Lord, I feel so helpless!”

  Armande laid his hand on Katherine’s shoulder. “You’re doing everything humanly possible. He couldn’t have a better nurse. I’m quite sure, too, that if he’d had a choice, he would have chosen you to take care of him. And he’d have done the same for you.”

  “Yes, I know he would have.” Katherine’s vision blurred with tears. “I just want him to live, Armande.”

  “And if he does, will you tell him?”

  “Tell him what?”

  “That you love him.”

  Katherine felt a tear roll down her cheek and drip off the end of her nose. She didn’t care. “Yes, I’ll tell him. I just pray he doesn’t leave this earth before I get the chance.”

  Armande squeezed her hand, but said nothing. Then he moved to the dressing table where he’d neatly sorted out his herbs, and started mixing another potion.

  Katherine appreciated Armande’s compassion. Then she remembered, rather shamefully, that Armande had his own troubles, his own family worries. She looked over her shoulder at Armande’s straight, broad back. No one would guess that he was suffering, but he had to be. They now knew for sure that Christian was the one who’d been leaking information to Jeffrey. Lucien had suspected the troubled young man of dealing with Jeffrey to get money to support his opium habit. He’d tested this theory by telling him, and only him, last night’s rendezvous point.

  The fact that Jeffrey knew exactly where to take the police was proof that Christian was the informant. Though he acted as if nothing was bothering him, Katherine knew that Armande had to be upset about this development. They’d trusted Christian and taken him into the organization to help the young man find a positive direction in life.

  “Armande?” she said.

  “Oui?” He turned and looked at her. Sensitive to his situation now, she could see the pain in Armande’s hazel eyes.

  “I’m sorry about Christian.”

  A flash of fresh anguish showed on his handsome face. For a minute she was sorry she’d expressed her sympathy, but then Armande said, “Merci, Katherine. I appreciate your interest. I’m grateful to you for not judging him.”

  “What can you do now to help him?”

  Armande sighed and turned back to his work. “I would like to get him away from here
, away from the caste system that belittles him in his own eyes, away from a society that makes him turn to pipe dreams for escape from prejudice.”

  Armande finished mixing and turned around, folding his long arms over his chest. “Lucien and I have been talking. We are thinking about going to Canada. He will talk to Anne about it first, of course, and see if she agrees to such a move. But I think she will see the potential of starting fresh somewhere. I hope to persuade Christian to go with us.”

  Katherine’s tired face lighted up, her interest piqued. She laid one hand protectively on Reggie’s chest, the rise and fall of his breathing reassuring to her. “Tell me about Canada, Armande. I’ve been all over the world, but never there. Tell me everything you know.”

  Chapter 22

  Bocage meant “shady retreat.” Now that Anne was seeing it for herself, she thought the name perfectly suited to the beautiful plantation. Behind a curving line of ancient oak trees, the house definitely appeared to be a place of quiet withdrawal.

  She and Lucien rode up the front drive in his carriage, both of them dressed suitably for a formal visit to his family. He had ridden into town early that morning, inquired about Reggie, and returned to the cabin with clothes for them both. Anne was wearing a walking dress of plum-colored satin with fancy trimming.

  Lucien had even brought Anne’s abigail, Sarah, who sat with them now in the carriage. He seemed determined to keep up appearances for the sake of Anne’s reputation. Her reputation was also the reason that they were staying at Bocage instead of his apartments at the St. Charles Hotel. Even though Anne had given up thinking of her reputation days ago, she thought his gallant concern was quite sweet. Reggie would appreciate it.

  Despite the fine day, the bright sun, the chirping of birds, and the general tranquility of her surroundings, Anne’s stomach churned with nervousness. She was meeting Lucien’s family for the first time, and she had a pretty good idea what they thought of British people—which was much the same as they thought of Americans. They considered them as coming from an inferior genealogy.

  Last night had been bliss, but today reality reared its ugly head. Anne had to face the fact that Reggie had the yellow fever and might die, that she was banned from the house, not even allowed to see him, and, finally, that she was going to have to stay at Bocage till it was considered safe to return to Prytania Street. These were all depressing facts.

  The fact that Lucien had told her he loved her, however, made everything easier to bear. She was deliriously happy in the knowledge that they’d be sharing a future together. They had lain awake last night for hours after their lovemaking, discussing their move to Canada, his relationship with his family, and many other things they’d not had the time or freedom to discuss before. She knew he was dreading this final good-bye to Bocage, to his family, to his father in particular. There were painful things that needed to be said after years of silence.

  The carriage stopped directly in front of the house, and Lucien stepped out first, turning and extending his hand to Anne with an encouraging smile. She tried to smile back, stepped out, then waited with downcast eyes while he helped Sarah alight, too. Their unexpected arrival must have made quite a stir inside, because several of Lucien’s family were congregating at the front door. Perhaps they’d been sitting together eating a late lunch.

  Because of Sarah’s presence in the carriage, Lucien had kept their conversation general throughout the short journey to Bocage. Sarah was probably dumbfounded by her mistress’s sudden intimacy with the likes of Dandy Delacroix, but Anne certainly couldn’t explain.

  Looking up at the long gallery as the Delacroixs filed out and lined up to stare, Anne could well imagine the astonishment of Lucien’s family, too. She and Lucien had certainly shown no preference for each other, or even a particular friendship, in public.

  Lucien took Anne’s arm and carefully escorted her, in the Dandy’s usual languishing pace, up the steps to the gallery, his cane swinging on his outside elbow. Standing at the forefront of this imposing group of raven-haired, dark-eyed, astonishingly attractive people, was the paterfamilias—Lucien’s father.

  Tall, slim, and silver-haired, Monsieur Delacroix was an older version of Lucien. He was very handsome, but his expression was grim and unyielding. He did not return Anne’s tentative smile. “Père,” greeted Lucien, tipping his hat.

  His father’s mouth turned down in a moue of distaste. “Bonjour, Lucien. To what do we owe this rare visit? What brings you to Bocage?”

  “To introduce you to my fiancee, of course.”

  “This is so sudden, Lucien!” said his mother.

  “Oui,” said Lucien, his expression softening. He bent and kissed her cheek. “I know it is sudden. I just discovered myself that I was in love with Mademoiselle Weston.” He turned to Anne with a charming, insouciant smile. “How do the Americans say it? It has been a whirlwind romance, oui?” Then he turned back to his mother. “Maman, I trust you will show Anne the meaning of a true Creole welcome.”

  “She’s staying here?” She cast Anne a fleeting, uncertain smile. “It’s not that I’m displeased, tu comprend? But, Lucien, this is not the customary way to conduct a betrothal!”

  “There are unusual circumstances. Anne’s uncle—her guardian—has come down with yellow fever.”

  Lucien’s sisters gasped, looking fearful. His mother appeared concerned and sympathetic. Anne found herself warming to the pretty Creole woman. Lucien must have inherited his compassionate nature from her.

  “Naturally Anne can’t return to the house until he’s quite recovered.”

  “Of course not,” said his mother, taking Anne’s hand and squeezing it. “This is difficult for you, n’est-ce pas? I think you love your uncle very much.”

  Anne felt her eyes smart with the beginning of tears. Sincere sympathy was always her undoing. “Yes, Madame Delacroix, I do.”

  She squeezed Anne’s hand again. “Pauvre fille.”

  Monsieur Delacroix spoke up, the sudden insertion of his deep voice into the conversation startling Anne. “Who is your uncle, Miss Weston? Where does he live?”

  “My uncle is Reginald Weston, sir, and we live at my aunt’s house on Prytania Street.”

  She saw his brows rise at the mention of Prytania Street, part of the American District of town. In fact, his brows had begun to rise the minute she started speaking. Her accent was obviously British.

  “Katherine Grimms is my aunt,” she added. She liked Lucien’s mother, but she had doubts about being able to rustle up some affection for his father. And if he was going to disapprove of her, he might as well have all the damaging details. Everyone knew Katherine was anti-slavery.

  They were all staring at her, disbelief and confusion written on their faces. Lucien’s brother, Etienne, looked especially incredulous and disapproving. Anne had no doubt Etienne would one day fill his father’s shoes very well as master of Bocage. Much better than Lucien could ever do, or would ever want to do.

  Standing there was becoming rather awkward. Finally Lucien spoke up. “Mon Dieu, are we going to remain on the porch all day?” he drawled, his eyelids drooping disdainfully. “Surely, Maman, we can offer my bride-to-be a little refreshment? Perhaps a mint julep”—he got a wicked gleam in his eye—“or a good strong cup of English tea?”

  This comment recalled his mother to the duty of Southern hospitality. Anne was treated very nicely for the next hour, plied with refreshments. Lucien’s mother and sisters admired her gown, and even Etienne spoke a polite though brief word to her. Then she was shown to her room and left to rest till dinner.

  Sarah was downstairs in the kitchen, and Anne was alone in the beautifully furnished bedchamber. She immediately began to miss Lucien. Without his supportive presence, she worried herself sick over Reggie. She missed Reggie dreadfully, too, and Aunt Katherine. She missed her family.

  Anne moved to the window and looked out over the closely scythed lawns, the lush foliage,
and handsome buildings that were all part of Bocage. Despite its beauty, she understood Lucien’s alienation from this place. He’d been raised here, but he’d never really belonged, never felt at home.

  She could never feel at home here, either. She and Lucien were alike in this. They could never be part of a racist society. Someday slavery would be abolished, but racism would probably persist for decades. In the meantime Anne knew that she and Lucien would have to find a home somewhere else. In Canada. But first he must say good-bye.

  Lucien paused outside the thick-paneled door of the library, his hand still on the cut-glass knob. The interview with his father had been just as painful as he’d anticipated. But it had been inevitable and necessary. His father must know exactly how he stood on important issues.

  For Lucien, it had been a sort of purging, a cleansing. Actually making his father understand why he felt the way he did about certain things had been too much to hope for, of course, and not worth attempting. But by being totally honest with his father for the first time in his life, he could now start fresh—be his own man, make his own way.

  He took a deep breath and strode down the hall. Taking the steps two at a time, he quickly ascended the stairs to the upper floor and Anne’s temporary bedchamber. He didn’t bother to knock but simply went inside, closing the door softly behind him.

  Anne was standing at the window, looking out over the extensive grounds. She did not turn as he approached. He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her against his heart. Still she did not speak, only leaned her head against his chest and covered his hands with hers.

  “I could have had all this someday, Anne, but I’ve told my father to bequeath it to Etienne. Do you think I should regret giving it up?”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “No. I have some wonderful childhood memories, but I can take them with me.”

  “Did you … settle things with your father?”

  Lucien’s voice became grim. “Yes. He’s glad to see me go now that I’ve given him no hope of changing into the kind of man he admires.”