by DeVa Gantt
Eventually, he rolled on his side, still very close in the cramped cot.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he muttered, more to himself than her.
She frowned up at him. “I thought it was wonderful.”
He smiled in spite of himself, a plaintive smile. She was lovely, and she was a woman. He’d just made her his woman. But he was already thinking about Charmaine and was ashamed. This was the second time he had proposed to her and the second time he had dishonored that proposal. What is the matter with me? He rose and began to dress.
“I love you,” Rebecca whispered, desperate tears welling in her eyes. “You’ll marry me now, won’t you?”
Paul looked back at her and saw her anguish. “No, Rebecca, I won’t marry you. Like I said, what happened between us—it shouldn’t have happened.”
“It’s your precious Charmaine!” she lashed out. “Fool! You think you love her!”
“Don’t!” he warned, angry with himself when she faced the wall. She was crying, but he feared if he consoled her, he’d take her all over again. Unsettled by that thought, he grabbed the blanket that had fallen to the floor. As he shook it out to spread over her, he noticed a strange scar on her derrière, below the curve of her hip.
“What’s this?” he growled, touching the mark, irritated by the imperfection.
She vaulted as if branded, then recoiled. “It’s from my father,” she ground out. “He was cruel, too!”
The declaration hit its mark, and Paul stepped back, duly chastised. He tossed the coverlet on the bed and deserted the cabin. He needed time to think.
The night sky was black. Dense clouds roiled above, blocking even the brightest stars, the deck illuminated only by a series of dimly lit lanterns. Paul picked his way around the sleeping sailors, who preferred the open air to the stuffy forecastle quarters below. He went to the railing and stared out into the dark void, breathing deeply of the salty air.
What have I done? Not so long ago, he would have already dismissed this romp. But then, this experience had been different from any other.
He remembered his first sexual encounter. He had turned fifteen, and John and George thought it was high time they pay his way at Dulcie’s. John wagered George ten dollars he wouldn’t get through it successfully, but John lost that bet. Of course, Paul never let John know he had left the brothel concerned. Even though the strumpet had had more men than she could count, he worried that he’d impregnated her; no child should ever endure what he had.
There was no turning back, however. He’d tasted the pleasures of the flesh, and it eclipsed his fear of fathering a child. And there was no more paying. Paul knew he had charisma, and many of the women he met at home and abroad were ready and willing. They were always older or experienced, and he let them know from the start they would not leave his bed carrying his babe in their bellies. There were ways around it. He learned how to elicit great pleasure and to withdraw before he ejaculated. If the woman was responsive, especially if she had shared his bed before, she might satisfy him in her own way. His love life was robust, yet he was confident he had never spawned a bastard.
Tonight with Rebecca, that nagging fear hadn’t even crossed his mind. He had taken her fiercely, spilling every bit of his seed deep inside of her. What are the odds she’ ll conceive from this one time? Slim, very slim. His heart mocked his rational mind. Not slim enough … Their lovemaking had been dynamic—intoxicating. Who had dominated whom?
He had heard tell a virgin did not experience the full depth of her womanhood, but Paul knew Rebecca had been deeply satisfied; even now, he could feel her hips undulating, hear her moaning in ecstasy. Was it because she loved him? He inhaled deeply, reliving those intense moments of consuming pleasure. Was this love? It couldn’t be. He hardly knew her.
He raked his hands through his hair and thought once again of Charmaine. He had wronged her. But he had wronged Rebecca as well … just like his father with his mother and Elizabeth. Don’t think about it! Don’t be a fool. Watch and wait. That’s all you need do.
When he grew tired, he went back into the cabin. Rebecca hadn’t moved, and he assumed she had cried herself to sleep. Fully clothed, he lay down next to her and quickly dozed off. Almost as quickly, he began to dream.
He rode up to the manor on Alabaster. Charmaine was sitting on the swing, and little Marie was crawling on a blanket next to her. She saw him and waved. As he dismounted, she picked up Marie and walked over to him. Together, they strolled into the house and climbed the staircase. She put Marie to sleep and opened his bedchamber door, sauntering in. He followed her, closing and locking it behind them. She undressed and stepped into his embrace. He kissed her and lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the bed. He made love to her, but when he was finished, she rolled away from him, tears in her eyes, leaving him empty.
Next, he was headed for a day’s work, checking on the mill and nodding to Wade. He turned his horse toward town. Then, he was walking up to the Remmen house. No one answered when he knocked, so he pushed his way in. Rebecca was standing there, her eyes flashing. She knew he’d been with Charmaine, and she spurned him. But he was certain if he kissed her, she’d be a slave to her passion. She attempted to flee, but he crossed the room in two strides and pulled her into his arms. She ceased to struggle when his lips conquered hers. He kicked the bedroom door open and took her to the bed. He rode her hard until all his passion was spent, then cradled her in his arms, satiated, savoring his ebbing pleasure.
“Paul—what are you doing?”
John was standing in the doorway.
Paul’s eyes flew open. His breathing was ragged, his pulse quick, and beads of perspiration dotted his brow. He stared up at the ceiling, slowly realizing where he was; it had only been a nightmare.
Rebecca had turned in her sleep and was now cuddled close to him, her head resting on his shoulder, an arm thrown across his chest. Despite his resolve, he pulled her closer. “. . . but I do love you,” she murmured. Paul swallowed hard, befuddled, for he wanted to cry. He closed his eyes to the urge and, after a long while, succumbed to exhaustion.
Light pouring through the porthole awakened Rebecca. Her head hurt, her eyes burned, and her body ached all over, especially between her legs. She shifted and realized her cheek rested on Paul’s chest. She rolled away, rousing him. As his eyes opened, she was filled with shame and tried to cover herself.
“Here,” he gently offered, stripping off his shirt and draping it over her bare shoulders. She pulled it tightly around her, dropping her gaze to the bed. “I’m sorry about last night,” he remarked.
“You said that already,” she replied hotly.
“We need to talk,” he pursued, aware of her anguish despite her ire. “You’re very beautiful, Rebecca, and someday you will find someone who will make you happy. But that someone is not me.”
Her eyes glistened with tears, and once again, she averted her face. But he cupped her chin and forced her to look at him. “Last night, you said I loved Charmaine. You are right, I do. I set out on this voyage to find my brother, but if I don’t bring him home alive, I’m going to marry her. I promised her that before I left, before all of this happened. Do you understand?”
She refused to answer him and pulled away.
“Do you understand?”
“Oh, I understand, all right! She’s sending you to your death, just like she did with her husband and your father!”
Unlike the night before, Paul didn’t get angry, though his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“If your father and John are dead, and Dr. Blackford kills you, Charmaine’s baby will inherit the entire Duvoisin fortune. Isn’t that true?”
Paul put his head in his hands and let out an incredulous laugh.
“Isn’t it true?” she pressed, offended by his sardonic bemusement.
“Yes, I suppose it’s true,” he conceded. “But Robert Blackford is not going to kill me.”
“He might—if y
ou chase after him!”
“I’m not chasing after him, Rebecca, and Charmaine didn’t want John chasing after him, either. I’m going to New York to find out what happened to my brother and father—to bring them home, one way or another. Where did you get these ideas, anyway? Not from Wade, I hope.”
“He doesn’t know anything about this,” she hastily replied. “It was Felicia, Felicia Flemmings.”
Paul scowled. “Did Felicia tell you I fired her for spreading lies?”
“No,” she whispered. “She said she quit because she couldn’t tolerate … ”
“Charmaine,” he supplied.
“But not everything she said was a lie!” Rebecca rallied, unhappy he still revered his sister-in-law.
“Perhaps she told you she has lain with me—many times,” he continued sharply. “That she hoped our romps would turn into something more. That she’s jealous because Charmaine married into my family and she did not.”
Rebecca’s face bore her injured pride. “And now you think I’m trying to do the same thing,” she murmured, casting her eyes to the floor.
“No, Rebecca,” he replied softly. “I don’t think that of you.”
She heard none of it, rising from the bunk and retrieving her pants from the floor. She pulled them on through her tears. “Don’t worry,” she whimpered. “Once we get back to Charmantes, you’ll never have to see me again.”
“When we get to New York,” he said, ignoring her desperate promise, “I’ll buy you something more appropriate to wear. Then, if I do find my father and John, I’ll tell them you stowed away, hoping to see the city sights. Is that acceptable?”
She didn’t answer, and he was uncertain if anger or pain left her mute.
Thursday, December 27, 1838
Benito St. Giovanni took the intrusion of John Ryan in stride. Things could be worse: the tunnel he’d nearly completed could have been discovered, or his time could have run out. When Ryan came careening into his prison almost four weeks ago, Benito had cautiously observed him for a week.
“What’s this about John Duvoisin’s wife?” Ryan had demanded.
Benito did not immediately answer, his thoughts lingering on the new Mrs. Duvoisin. So, this is her family background. How revolting!
When Ryan pressed the issue of John’s wife, Benito said, “Does the name Charmaine Ryan ring a bell?”
John Ryan eyed him speculatively. How does this man know my daughter’s name? Enlightenment came slowly.
The priest smiled. “That’s right, old man. Charmaine is John Duvoisin’s wife. I’d say your daughter has done quite well for herself. You, on the other hand, have not.” Giovanni allowed the words to sink in. “It’s common knowledge Charmaine’s father—that would be you—beat her mother to death. John will not be happy when he returns to find you here. He has quite a temper, if you didn’t already know.”
“Whaddaya mean, when he returns?” John Ryan sneered.
“He’s abroad right now,” the priest supplied, “chasing down another murderer. Then he’ll be back for us— you and me.”
John Ryan pulled two rumpled letters from his pocket. “So these must be from him,” he mumbled.
“Where did you get those?” the priest asked, his interest instantly piqued. Charmaine’s name was written across both envelopes.
“Aboard ship. I heard Simons talkin’ to the captain, heard my daughter’s name mentioned, and I saw him hand these here letters over with a whole pile of others. Later, I moseyed on over to where they was settin’ and helped myself. I can’t read none too good, but I know how my daughter’s name is spelled.”
Giovanni smirked. “Would you like to know what they say?” Clearly, Ryan wanted outside information, but when Giovanni motioned for the letters, the man refused to hand them over.
“What did you do?” Ryan asked.
“I’m not prepared to talk about that.”
“Well, maybe you ain’t interested in readin’ these,” Ryan responded in kind.
So … Benito thought, you and I speak the same language. “Blackmail,” he finally answered, “only blackmail.”
Satisfied, Ryan shoved the letters toward the priest. Giovanni quickly ripped into them, then smiled broadly. They had plenty of time. John and Frederic were still searching for Blackford in New York, working on the assumption he had changed his name. It could be months before they returned.
By the next day, Giovanni decided he had no choice but to include John Ryan in his escape. In fact, Ryan might prove useful along the way, and in the end, he’d rid himself of the degenerate. Benito smiled with the thought. Once they were on the open sea, that wouldn’t be difficult at all.
During the second week of John Ryan’s incarceration, he learned how to dig a tunnel with a spoon. By the end of his third week, they had broken through. In four months, Benito’s only apprehensive moment was Buck Mathers’s simple declaration, “Either I’m getting taller or this ceilin’s getting lower.”
As December came to a close, their plan came together. Buck informed them Paul had left in search of Frederic and John. The time was ripe. An hour after sunset on the twenty-seventh of December, Giovanni and Ryan crawled out of the meetinghouse cellar and escaped into the night.
Luck was with them. The brilliance of the nearly full moon muted the star-spangled sky and cast eerie gray shadows on either side of them. They trudged the seven miles to Benito’s cabin, reaching it just before midnight. They had planned carefully in jail, so there was no need to speak, Giovanni demanding silence, alert to any unusual sound.
Taking a lantern from the cabin, John Ryan went into the pine forest behind the outhouse and searched until he found the skiff tucked in a dugout and covered with brush. Turning it over, he placed the oars, spar, and sail inside and dragged it along a path Giovanni had told him would take him to the shoreline. Dusting off his hands, he headed back toward the small abode. He’d let the priest set the sail.
Giovanni prayed that the four items he’d secreted away months ago were where he’d left them. He wasn’t surprised to find his home ransacked. He shook his head. Did they really think he was stupid enough to hide his booty here? Or were they the stupid ones? They hadn’t even uncovered the pistol hidden beneath a loose floorboard under his bed. He dropped a bullet into the chamber and pocketed the extra ammunition. He retrieved his compass hidden in a cup in the cupboard, and took a length of rope from the laundry spilled all over the floor. Lastly, he lifted a silver key off a hook concealed behind a painting of the Savior. It unlocked the gates to the Duvoisin compound. He possessed another key, one that had been hidden on his person since the morning of his arrest. It unlocked his future.
Ryan returned just as the priest stepped outside. They nodded to each other and Ryan fell in step behind Giovanni. Their next stop: the Duvoisin mansion.
Wade Remmen sat at the kitchen table, running his hands through his hair. Rebecca had been missing for two days now. He knew his sister had been unhappy. She’d complained often enough of her boredom in the tiny bungalow, but he had ignored her, and now, he was beside himself with worry. When he awoke the day after Christmas and found the house empty, he hadn’t been too concerned. He didn’t like her going off on her own, but, lately, she’d grown exceedingly headstrong. Real anxiety took hold yesterday when he’d returned home from work and she was still missing. Where had she gone?
Felicia Flemmings hadn’t been any help. She seemed to think Rebecca’s disappearance revolved around her “love” of Paul Duvoisin. Wade was cognizant of his sister’s infatuation, but Paul was a mature gentleman and Rebecca an uneducated girl with silly romantic ideas. When Wade left Felicia, he was no closer to knowing where his sister might be. Paul had departed the island on the Tempest; Rebecca knew that. Had she gone off to moon over Paul until he returned? No, Wade reasoned, she’s probably annoyed with me.
Tonight, he knew he was deceiving himself. Something terrible could have happened to her. He hadn’t been able to look for her durin
g the day; however, he wasn’t needed at the mill until morning. That gave him hours to search Charmantes. He stepped out into the night, a bright gibbous moon lighting his way. Why he headed toward the Duvoisin estate, he didn’t know, other than it was Paul’s home. Perhaps Rebecca was drawn there, even if he was away.
Jeannette couldn’t sleep. It had been a long time since her French doors opened all by themselves. Ever since Pierre’s death, the “ghost” had become a distant memory. Not so tonight. Tonight she heard the door unlatch and blow open, even though there wasn’t a breeze in the air. Unlike before, she wasn’t afraid, though she would have felt a lot safer if her father, Johnny, or Paul were home. She woke her sister.
“What’s the matter?” Yvette asked, rubbing sleepy eyes.
“The doors,” Jeannette whispered, “they opened by themselves again.”
Unperturbed, Yvette jumped up and pulled them closed, slipping the latch in place. “Let’s see what happens now,” she said.
“Can I sleep with you?” Jeannette queried, not at all pleased her bed was closest to the glass panels.
Her sister smiled. “Sure.”
They snuggled under the covers, staving off the chilly December air. Minutes later, the doors blew open again. The girls looked at each other. Yvette rose and approached them guardedly this time. Then, on impulse, she stepped outside, determined to confront the elusive specter. There was nothing there.
She turned back into her room when a noise from below drew her around. She peered over the balcony in time to see the outer door to the chapel close, a reverberating “thump” assuring her she wasn’t imagining things; the manor had indeed been breached. She frowned. Who would be going into the chapel at this time of night?
Giovanni and Ryan walked purposefully up the short aisle of the sanctuary. Their escape had gone without incident. Before long, they’d be far out to sea, watching the sunrise. While Ryan held the lantern, Giovanni stepped up to the altar. The chalice and ciborium had been restored to the sacrificial table, but not returned to the tabernacle. A good sign—only he possessed the key. Idiots, the lot of them, not to question me about it! He inserted the key and opened the small ark. The coins and precious jewels he’d extorted from Agatha Duvoisin were still cached there. Weighing the heavy treasure in his hand, he tied the bag around his middle with the rope, then carefully concealed it under his shirt.