Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets)

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Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets) Page 58

by Jennifer Blake


  When he sank down beside her, she started to roll away to make room, but he caught her shoulder. Brushing his warm lips over its rounded contour, he turned her to him, pressing her to the hard length of his body, flattening her breasts against his chest. Her hair was beneath him. She could not move, nor did she want to. There was a singing exhilaration in her veins, a rising excitement that seemed to mingle with the sound of the rain falling beyond the window. She spread her fingers over his back, feeling the faint ridges of his scars and the play of the muscles under the palm of her hand as he caressed the curve of her hip. From deep inside there came a longing to offer recompense for the pain of his punishment, a need to erase the hurt he had endured. She moved against him experimentally.

  She was snared in the sudden, tender assault of his response that rolled her to her back. His knee was between her thighs, the scorching heat of his hands awakening her to her own potential for desire. She felt a growing need, a consuming fire that was, somehow, humiliating. Her eyelids fluttered shut. She felt herself receding, becoming less than herself, a creature that trembled and panted, moving in obedience to the whims of the man holding her. It was a sinister enchantment, a thundering in the blood, a rape of the senses that left her lying scarcely conscious, bereft of tears.

  Lightning tore the wild night sky across, and through the rent poured a torrent of rain. It swept, wind-blown, into the room, wetting the thin curtains at the window, puddling on the floor. The noise roused Catherine after a long while. She turned her head, then gathered herself to get up.

  “Lie still,” her husband said, pinning her to the bed.

  “The floor—”

  “ — Can wait. There are other things you should concern yourself with.”

  “Such as?” she whispered, aware of the gentle insistence of his hand smoothing the blue-veined fullness of her breast where it shuddered delicately above the beating of her heart.

  “The different guises of love between a man and a woman.”

  “Love?”

  “Passion, then. It can lead to distress — or repletion; to exhaustion — or contentment.”

  “You talk in riddles.”

  “I know.” He gathered her closer. “Some things are better shown. That will be my pleasure.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Alà vous café.”

  At the familiar greeting, Catherine slowly opened her eyes then closed them again quickly. Outside the mosquito baire the room was bright with the glitter of sunlight on wet surfaces. The smell of the coffee Dédé carried was welcome, but she was in no hurry to partake of it. She seemed weighted to the bed, wrapped in a cocoon of delicious warmth.

  “Mam’zelle!” Dédé cried, making a clucking sound of horrified disapproval against her teeth. Sliding the tray upon the washstand, she hurried around the bed. “How could you Mam’zelle? You will be sick. You know it is fatal to breathe the deadly fumes of the night air. And the floor, Mon Dieu, so wet. What your maman will say when I tell her I cannot imagine.”

  But the nurse had only drawn aside the curtains when a command rang out, “Leave it!”

  The harsh voice, so close to her ear, made Catherine jump. The nurse stopped, her eyes widening with surprise. Then a mulish look moved over her face. “But Monsieur—” she began.

  “I said leave it,” Rafael repeated. Releasing Catherine slowly, he raised himself on one elbow. “And in the future you will not enter this room unless you are called, and even then you will knock and wait for permission. If we want coffee we will ring for it. If we want food, clothing, a bath, or service of any other description we will ring for that also. I understand that the room connected to this one is yours. You will remove your belongings immediately.”

  “But Monsieur, I have slept there these nineteen years.”

  “You sleep there no longer. You may return to the servants’ wing or find other quarters in the house. I care not which. But you will no longer have access to this room — or to my wife. You overstepped your authority and abused the trust placed in you when you dosed her with your poisonous concoctions that sapped her strength and will. You will not do so again.”

  “Who will arrange the hair of my bébé and assist her when she dresses?”

  “I foresee no great need of either service,” he said deliberately. “If the need should arise, I will do so.”

  Dédé drew herself up. “As you say, M’sieur.”

  When the door had closed behind the nurse, Catherine turned her head on the pillow, a troubled expression in her eyes though she did not quite look at the man beside her.

  “You have wounded her feelings. Now she will sulk for hours.”

  “So long as she leaves us undisturbed. I have no liking for interruptions,” he said, leaning over to place his lips, warm and firm, on the frown between her brows.

  “Interruptions? Of what?”

  “Of this, my sweet innocent,” he whispered, his lips moving down her cheek to find her mouth, his hand moving over her, making her aware of their nakedness beneath the coverlet.

  It was Mardi Gras. Occasionally a shout from the street penetrated to the fastness of the room, as the young men of New Orleans celebrated the last day of merriment before the lean days of Lent in a fashion brought with their ancestors from the south of France. Riding up and down the streets hidden behind the anonymity of dominos and masks, they flirted with the ladies arrayed on the balconies. The women did not mask but derived great enjoyment from flirting with the masked riders and tossing down small favors of flowers, dainty handkerchiefs, and the like.

  The aspect of their room, overlooking the back court, made it impossible for Catherine and Rafael to watch the spectacle, however. Hearing a particularly noisy group pass the house Catherine sighed, thinking of other years, then she dismissed it as unimportant.

  Rafael, beside her, looked up from his newssheet, Le Moniteur de la Louisiane. “Poor chérie,” he mocked. “Bored already?”

  “Excruciatingly,” Catherine replied in a dull and plaintive tone which she hoped would disguise the content she felt.

  Rolling over, she lifted the plate containing the crumbs of their breakfast croissants from its resting place on his chest. She placed it on the tray between them, then with a show of housewifely concern for the safety of the china, she leaned to place the tray on the floor. It was a long reach from the high mattress. The sight of the tray sitting there was an unpleasant reminder of another tray beside another bed, the supper tray that night weeks ago. It was odd how things had turned out. Was it mere coincidence, or an equalizing celestial justice that had placed her in much the same situation for which she had condemned her mother?

  A warm hand closed over the elbow of her balancing arm. “Don’t fall,” Rafael said lazily. “I refuse to be held responsible for any more bruises.”

  “Bruises?” she asked, searching her mind for something he might have done to cause a bruise.

  “You look so fragile,” he said, transferring his hand to her neck, smoothing his thumb over her collarbone as she settled back beside him, “as if I could crush you with one hand, and yet, I realize it isn’t so. Did you know there is a pearl sheen to your skin?”

  “Certainly,” Catherine said, veiling her eyes, striving for a light tone despite the pulse throbbing in her throat. Why did she allow him to affect her like this? Why couldn’t she remain indifferent under his touch? It was as if he held her body in thrall, subject to his desire. Did he realize that?

  “The conceit of women,” he murmured, and gave her an abrupt, hard kiss. Grasping the sheet, he pulled it over her, tucking it tightly across her breasts. “There. Stay like that,” he said. “Or you may find yourself flat on your back for the next five days.”

  Catherine was uncertain whether to feel relieved or annoyed. She watched him as he turned his attention back to his newssheet.

  “What is so interesting?” she asked at last.

  He glanced at her, a smile behind his eyes. “Politics.”

  “Su
ch as?”

  “In Spain they are breaking the grip of the French. The bands of insurrectionists are coming down out of the mountains to help the British harry the enemy. One thing about the Spanish, they never accept defeat. Nearer to home, the question of statehood for the Territory of Louisiana is being debated again. There are still a few who believe we should wait for a better offer, perhaps from Spain or England.”

  “Will statehood come?”

  “Given the importance of the Mississippi River and the port of New Orleans to the western lands now opening to settlement, it must. Not this year, perhaps, or even the next, but it will come eventually.”

  “I don’t imagine things will change too much, not as drastically as when the Spanish dons left.”

  “Not outwardly, no. But it will bring a stability that is important to the growth of any country, and it will give us a voice in the policies that most nearly affect us.”

  Catherine nodded her comprehension.

  “What else did the Moniteur think worth relating?” she asked after a long moment.

  “This should be of interest. You knew Napoleon finally rid himself of his Josephine in January? He is now casting about for a new wife and empress. There is some speculation that he will have the daughter of the Czar of Russia. Others claim that he aspires to join the old nobility by allying himself with the niece of Marie Antoinette, Marie Louise of the Hapsburg house of Austria.”

  “Poor Josephine,” Catherine said.

  “Undoubtedly, but from past indications I expect she will be able to support her spirits tolerably well. She did while Napoleon was in Egypt. In addition, Napoleon has given her their country home, Malmaison, and a promise to meet her not inconsiderable expenses.”

  “You saw them while you were in Paris?”

  “I was presented, yes.”

  “What did you think of them?” she asked curiously.

  “Napoleon is the kind of man you love — or hate. He has an air, a bearing, which you can either tolerate — or not. Josephine is charming, a witty and intelligent woman, but past her prime. She made an admirable empress, but not, unfortunately, a good wife.”

  “Because she failed to give her husband a child?” she asked, then wished she had not, for the subject had been a sensitive one between them.

  Rafael did not appear to notice her discomfiture. “That was a part of it,” he agreed. “Josephine was also unfaithful, undutiful, and a little stupid. She refused to join him in his travels outside the country, and she failed to recognize his worth until he was in a position to place a crown upon her head. A man expects more than that.”

  Was there a warning tone in his voice? If so, she did not care for it. Catherine turned away, a thoughtful look in her eyes. A peignoir of embroidered muslin lay on the slipper chair beside the bed. It was not meant to be worn without its matching gown, but she had no idea where that was. Sliding from the bed, she looped the mosquito baire back, then took up the peignoir. It was better than nothing but still so transparent she did not trouble to tie the ribbon fastening under the bust.

  Moving aimlessly about the room, she took up a hairbrush from the dressing table, then using it to remove the tangles in her hair, stepped to the window. She pushed aside the curtains and looked out. Below, the court bustled with the usual midday servant activities. Small servant girls stirred purifying alum into the great jars of drinking water brought daily from the river. Older girls plucked chickens for dinner under the supervision of an ancient crone. A woman shook a dust mop of rags, filling the air with a cloud of dust, before reentering the house with the slam of a door. The scene was so familiar Catherine hardly saw it.

  “Rafael?” she said tentatively.

  He tossed the newssheet to the floor and stretched, lying back with his hands beneath his head watching her from behind the barrier of his thick, dark lashes. Catherine knew she had his attention, but she could not bring herself to look at him.

  “Would you — would you really have made me your mistress?”

  Narrowing his eyes, he surveyed her, moving from her small white feet upward over the softly rounded curves clearly visible through the diaphanous peignoir and the long, shining mass of her hair between her shoulders. His gaze rested on the oval of her face with the color slowly deepening on her cheekbones. The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “But of course, ma chérie,” he answered finally.

  Slowly Catherine’s fingers clenched on the hairbrush. The man behind her seemed suddenly alien to her, an intruder in her life, her home, and her bed; a cruel man who had fought other men and left them bleeding on the field in her name. What was she doing enclosed here in this room with him? How had he gained the right to look at her with that possessive gleam in his eyes? It did not seem real, not even when he left the bed, and taking the brush from her, began to draw it gently through the honey-gold strands of her hair.

  Somehow the hours passed, turning into days. By silent mutual consent they avoided controversial subjects. The confinement was too close, their relationship too new to make disagreement anything but intensely uncomfortable.

  Catherine thought for a time that Dédé did not intend to obey Rafael’s command to clear her room, but toward the afternoon of the first day they heard her moving about inside. When Rafael strode through and dropped the bolt across the other door after the nurse had gone, Catherine considered his satisfaction excessive. But even she, just beginning to understand the constant but unpredictable nature of a man’s desire, acknowledged relief that they could not be disturbed. She was more grateful when she saw his intention of using that small extra room as a bathing and dressing room. His forethought made their situation that much more bearable.

  For Catherine there was little hope of anything approaching privacy, however. Often, when she was in her bath, Rafael would come to stand leaning against the doorjamb, watching her with frank enjoyment. At times he would talk to her, at others he derived his amusement from her attempts to appear unmoved by his scrutiny.

  Once, to distract him, Catherine asked, “What will we do, when this is over? Will we stay in town, or will you be a gentleman-farmer? Have you decided?”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  She glanced up, surprised to be consulted. “I don’t mind either way.” She squeezed water from the cloth in her hand so that it ran over her drawn-up knees. “New Orleans is — New Orleans — and I love it. Still it is rather thin of company after Easter. Spring and summer bring the fevers to town, while the country is at its best then. I have always rather envied those who could divide their time between the two.”

  “You have no objection, then, to leaving for Alhambra as soon as possible — after the next two days?”

  “My trousseau is packed. I had as well go to Alhambra as any other place.”

  “You amaze me. I have been strapping my brain for a fortnight for a means of persuading you to come, short of kidnapping.”

  “You mean you would cavil at that?” she marveled. “Now you disappoint me.”

  He paid no heed to her provocation. “Alhambra has been neglected,” he told her seriously. “The overseer I had depended upon in my absence was worse than incompetent; he was a thief. He had been there for years, a holdover from Fitzgerald’s time, and, to give him his due, might have been a good man so long as he was answerable to someone besides a woman or a group of careless lawyers. As it was, I had to dismiss him when I was there to collect Solange. The crops have been mismanaged, the fields are in a terrible state. There has been no return of the nutrients to the soil. The livestock has been allowed to inbreed, running wild in the swamp. The slaves have been brutalized, kept on short ration, and hired out as laborers to other planters, the payment for which went into the overseer’s pocket. If anything is to be salvaged, it must be done quickly.”

  “As bad as that?” she murmured.

  “My own lands, which march beside the Alhambra acres, are in little better case. The land always suffers from an
absentee owner.”

  “Your other plantation, does it have a name?”

  “My mother called it Serenity,” he said bleakly.

  “Serenity,” Catherine repeated. “I like that.”

  “Do you? It has always seemed a macabre jest to me. When I go back and look at the old house with its bousillage of mud and moss and deer hair falling from between the timbers, and its cypress roof rotting down about the ears of the old Negress who cares for it, it feels anything but serene to me.”

  “Because of the deaths of your parents?” she asked without looking at him, conscious of the daring of the question.

  “Yes. Are you curious?” His black eyes regarded her narrowly. “My mother was a quiet, timid woman. Her marriage to my father had been arranged by their families and it was not a happy one. She was terrified of him. Also, she was not well. A bout of fever as a child had left her heart weak. But to be perfectly honest, it was hard to sympathize with her. She complained incessantly and dosed herself with every quack nostrum, powder, and elixir she could lay hands on. Her illness was used as both a weapon, and an excuse to avoid the things she had no wish to do, which, without being too specific, accounts for the difference in age between Solange and myself.” He was quiet a moment. “I can remember the wearing megrims, tears, and turmoil caused by her pregnancy with Solange. I can understand, now, my father’s frustration and cutting impatience, still, there was no excuse for what he did. A month before time for the delivery, he brought a quadroon into the house, ostensibly as a maid for my mother, but in reality as his mistress.”

  The bathwater was losing its heat, but Catherine made no move to interrupt his narrative. She watched the play of emotions across his face, absorbed. He spoke in a reflective tone laced with irony. It seemed he did not mind having her know these personal agonies of his parents, that telling of them served to clear his own mind.

 

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