As they moved from the entrance, she gave them a charming smile, batting her eyes at the smaller of the men. He blushed. She linked her arm through Talon’s and pulled him through the ornate double doors.
Scowling, Talon turned to her with a hiss. “What the hell was that? Do you plan on using your gifts everywhere we go?”
She merely shrugged. “We needed to get in, oui?” Her eyes sparkled. Wrinkling her nose, she squeezed his hand. “Monsieur Barberry, are you jealous?” A chuckle left her lips.
Rolling his eyes heavenward, he scanned their surroundings. Their footsteps resounded off the soaring ceilings as they traversed long hall. Arched Palladian windows towered above them, the warm sun penetrating the gilded interior.
Ornate crown moldings bordered the tall ceilings, and portraits and mirrors in golden frames decorated the walls. Rich mahogany furnishings outfitted in damask upholstery accompanied Aubusson rugs in deep burgundy. It was as ostentatious as DuPont’s office in Paris
Talon smirked. “Aye, the Brits might be in control, but they haven’t eradicated the French.” Sauntering to a desk at the far end of the hall, he tipped his hat at the clerk standing behind it.
The man raised his eyebrows in disdain. “May I help you?”
Talia cleared her throat. “Oui. My father, Fernando Montrose, was supposed to have a business meeting with Lord Taylor a fortnight past. Unfortunately, Papa is ill and sent me and my associate in his stead.”
Eyeing their sad state of dress, the clerk gazed beyond them and raised two fingers. “Perhaps the guards can—”
Seizing his arm, Talia feigned tears. “I’m begging you to help us, Monsieur. We’ve had a tremendous experience. Our vessel ran aground north of here, and we have spent the last two days walking the coastline in the blistering sun. Look at my damaged skin. I implore you to find Lord Taylor. He has known me since I was a child.”
The clerk shook his head, but her woebegone expression and beautiful face, as red as it was, seemed to change the man’s heart. A single tear rolled down her cheek and Talon covered his laugh with a cough.
Squinting at her, the man sighed. “Very well. I will see if Lord Taylor is available.” As the clerk turned on his heels and strode down the hallway, Talia wiped her eyes and grinned.
Talon raised an eyebrow. “You certainly know how to put on a show. Lord Taylor?”
“He’s the governor-general of Martinique—for the moment, at least.”
A set of oak double doors opened. A portly gentleman with kind blue eyes hurried toward them, concern etched across his wrinkled face. “Talia? Dear God, what happened to you?”
Dabbing her eyes, Talia extended her hand, and the nobleman pecked it gently. “Dieu, Lord Taylor, we’ve had the most horrible ordeal.” As the Englishman invited them back to his office, she winked at Talon.
Shaking his head with a slight grin, he silently bowed to her acting prowess. Well done, Mademoiselle.
“IS THIS TAYLOR’S PRIVATE island? We haven’t seen a soul since we left the city.”
Talon scanned the horizon as he and Talia bounced along a desolate dirt road in one of Lord Taylor’s carriages, traveling to his plantation not far from St. Pierre. Without hesitation, the man had arranged passage for them aboard one of his merchant vessels sailing to Guadeloupe in the morning. Talon wasn’t looking forward to being back on a ship, but at least they’d be in friendly company.
A soft smile curved at Talia’s lips. “The island is bigger than you think. Lord Taylor owns but one of the plantations in Martinique.”
He sat back against the velvet seat, immersing himself in the warm tropical breeze. “I thought I’d miss London, but perhaps not.”
She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “I spent many wonderful years of my childhood on Martinique. Life here can be isolating, but rich in other ways.”
“Indeed. I’ve never seen so much green.” The fronds of the palms were so large they could easily cover a man.
She gazed at the horizon with a wistful sigh. “Oui, c’est magnifique.” Talon laced his fingers with hers and kissed the top of her hand.
They passed a sugar cane field, and Talon grimaced. Slaves were everywhere, cutting the cane low on the stalk. A boy younger than Marcus took branches from the hand of an older man and tied them together with jute rope. He could hardly reach the top of the bundles arranged on the flat wagon in front of them.
Remorse pierced Talon’s heart, his thoughts going out to his little sidekick once more. “All I see are crops... and slaves.”
Talia nodded. “Oui. The cane is all that matters in Martinique. They turn it into cubes... or rum.” She smiled devilishly. “Lord Taylor’s punch is my weakness. See the factory?” She pointed just beyond the cane to the barn-like structure made of stone. “That’s where the crops are processed into molasses and refined into sugar.”
Talon stared at the oversized chimney belching smoke from the thatched roof of the eyesore in the distance. The windmill on its flank churned at an even pace as bondsmen worked diligently nearby.
She directed his attention to the rustic wagons loaded with the raw plants. “The slaves cut the stalks and bundle them, and they’re taken to the refinery by mule. The windmill turns the grinder, crushing the cane to release the juice. Cisterns deliver the juice to big copper vats where they boil and cure the cane. And voilà. Sugar for our coffee and tea.” She clasped her hands to her chest triumphantly. Arching an eyebrow, she whispered, “Making rum is a whole different process.”
With a lopsided grin, Talon stared at her in awe. Everything they’d been through the last two months drifted through his mind, and he squeezed her hand. “You’re quite amazing, Mademoiselle. Not many women can give a detailed description of the inner workings of a sugar plantation, let alone stare down a bunch of dirty sailors.”
A pretty blush pinkened her already-red skin as her lips curved into a smile. “Papa has spent the last ten years trying to learn the process. I merely tagged along.”
Between two large fields, the carriage lurched to a stop. The driver jumped off the horses and opened a large wooden gate. Soon, they were rambling down a winding dirt road lined with coconut palms and foliage. As they rounded the bend, a canopy of beautiful flowering trees sheltered the roadway from the tropical sun.
As Taylor’s luxurious home emerged from the dense tree line, Talon’s breath stuttered. “Jesus, who is this man?”
The manor house was three stories high. The first level sprawled out in a square while the two upper levels were subsequently smaller, the topmost perhaps nothing but a bell tower or single chamber. Arched red tiles lined the roof, reminiscent of the residences in Paris.
Outer shutters in an unusual shade of pink accented the stucco façade, painted sunshine yellow. Every window was thrown open to the air. The doors were nothing but bigger versions of the louvers.
He whistled low. “How many people live here?”
She shrugged. “Lord Taylor and his wife and his servants, I assume. Their daughter Lydia married a few years past.”
He shook his head in astonishment. Madame Claire’s country estate in Northern England had been quite grand by any commoner’s standard, but this was luxury beyond his imagination. Even Edouard Blanchefort’s manor isn’t as grandiose as this monstrosity.
As if reading his mind, Talia waved her hand dismissively. “You should see Temptation Hall.”
His heart sank as he caught her jade gaze. “You can’t be serious.”
Her hand drifted from his. “Most maisons de maître are grand affairs. Lord Taylor is quite proud of his home.” She cocked her head and frowned. “Surely, this is commonplace in London or Paris.”
Stiffening against her, he shifted in his seat. “Not that I’ve seen. I spent most of my life sleeping in ragged tents with my brothers and sisters. My experience with the niceties has been rather limited.”
Her eyes widened as she swallowed. Fidgeting with her ragged skirts, she lowered her gaze.
Before Talon could respond, the driver stopped the horses at the front of the home. “We be here, Mam’zelle. Heaven on Earth.”
Two servants dressed in billowing shirts with white starched collars met them at the carriage door. As Talon descended their transport, they gawked at his rags.
Upon seeing Talia, the older Black man broke into a broad smile. “Is Mam’zelle Montrose!” He extended a gloved hand, helping her from the carriage. “Miz Talia, why you so filthy?”
“Cornelius, you will never believe what happened to us.” And she regaled their fantastic tale once more.
They entered a long gallery with a slanted ceiling. Supported by wooden trusses, the space resembled a covered porch. Several reclining chairs with fancy webbed cane and straight arms that extended out past a man’s natural arm length lined the hallway. Three tables were strategically arranged for guests with chairs gathered around them.
Uncomfortable with the luxuriousness of Lord Taylor’s home, Talon crossed his arms and peeked into the inner domain. The three doorways were symmetrical with the outer windows. As a pleasant breeze kicked up around them, he basked in the relief. The benefits of this style of house in a balmy island climate were evident.
Glancing at the end of the corridor, he frowned. Apparently, the hall continued around the corner. Curious, he strode to the end only to see another passageway with a wooden staircase, presumably leading to quarters above. Classic wainscoting bordered the papered walls as fancy gilded trim framed the ceiling. “Fantastic,” he muttered, walking back toward Talia.
“Talon?”
She stood in silence with the servant, apparently awaiting an answer. Talon blinked at them quizzically, and she elbowed him with a stern look. “As I was saying, Cornelius, this is Mr. Barberry, a friend of the Montrose family.”
Clearing his throat, Talon tipped his hat. “I apologize,” he said, accentuating his clipped brogue. “I’ve never seen such beautiful—” He looked around, attempting to get into his character. His eye immediately focused on the numerous tropical plantation scenes that graced the walls of the grand hall. “—Er, paintings.”
“Are you an art collector, Mr. Barberry?”
The soft, English accent came from behind them as a stylish lady strolled into the gallery. With her golden hair coiffed regally upon her head, she acknowledged them with a nod. “Talia, dear, how nice to see you.”
“Madame Taylor, it’s been a long time.” Holding her ripped skirts from her body, Talia curtsied to their hostess. “I would greet you more affectionately, but as you see, we’ve had a mishap.”
Lady Taylor smiled gracefully, asking no questions. “Lydia has gowns in her dressing room. You’re more than welcome to borrow one.”
Talia’s eyes lit up in excitement as she clapped her hands together. “Dear Lydia. Is she here?”
“She and her husband sailed for the Louisiana Territories a month ago on extended holiday.”
Talia clasped the woman’s hands in hers. “I want to hear all about it. But perhaps we should dress appropriately first.”
“Of course.” Turning to Talon, Lady Taylor said, “Mr. Barberry, our home is yours. Please make yourself comfortable. Apparently, Jonathan will return to the estate tonight instead of staying at our townhouse in St. Pierre. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have a fellow countryman to visit with. We’ll dine after you are refreshed. I will send for Raymond and Portia to assist you both.”
Talon bowed dramatically to the mistress of the house. “Lady Taylor, thank you for your hospitality.”
“Please, Mr. Barberry.” The grand dame chuckled. “There are no titles of nobility on the islands. Mrs. Taylor suits me fine.”
Hiking the pack over his shoulder, Talon grinned. The woman might be privileged, but her relaxed demeanor was a welcome reprieve from the prejudice he often encountered in England. “Indeed, Madame. Thank you.”
Cornelius bowed. “Mam’zelle Talia, I’s show you to your quarters.”
Touching Talon’s arm, Talia gave him a lingering smile before she followed the old servant. “I’ll see you at dinner, Monsieur.”
His heart slammed against his chest, his body tingling from her sensual touch.
Wiles, indeed.
After a month of trying to decipher Talia’s intentions, he was no closer to trusting her. Who was she? One moment she played the woebegone miss and the next she was fighting burly Spaniards. Or mayhap she was the rich debutante that had greeted Lady Taylor so candidly. No question about it, Talia Montrose had him completely flummoxed.
A young servant boy pulled on his satchel and hiked a thumb toward the door. “M’sieu? Venez-vous?”
Following the lad down the adjacent hall, Talon climbed the wooden staircase with a sigh. Mystery or not, he had no choice but to take her lead.
Chapter 16
TALIA SANK INTO THE large copper tub in the bath house, moaning in relief. It felt wonderful to soak her aching bones. Between the blistered skin on her face and her tired feet, she’d never felt so worn out.
“Dieu, I’m finally clean.” Splashing her hands in the lavender-scented warmth, she smiled. Besides her tryst with Talon in the waterfall, she hadn’t bathed properly since she left Lisbon.
The slave girl filled the tub with warm water, returning every few minutes with more. As the fragrant scent of the pink bougainvillea hanging from the pergolas in the courtyard wafted on the afternoon breeze, Talia closed her eyes and welcomed the heat. For the first time in two months, she felt safe.
Having spent many months here, she was as comfortable on Martinique as she was in New Orleans. The Taylors were close family friends. Their families often spent holidays with one another. Her maman and Madame Taylor still wrote.
Their daughter, Lydia, was a few years older than Talia, and they’d passed many days cavorting around the lush island forests or flirting with the local Creole boys. In fact, she’d met her best friend Alex Lafitte on the St. Pierre pier many years ago. The boy had followed her and Lydia around like a retriever, carrying their packages and such as they wandered to the village to shop.
Talia giggled. What would Alex think of her latest adventure? “At least we escaped those smelly sailors.”
We. Her breath caught, her body tingling with thoughts of Talon Barberry, the Romani. Would she had survived without him? Not likely. If he hadn’t stepped between her and the Spaniards in the slave hold, she’d be lying at the bottom of the sea.
Or worse, forced to serve as Perez’ concubine.
As the reality of their plight crashed down on her, she drew her arms into the tub and seethed. Ricardo Aringosa had some nerve setting her up as a pawn. Had he no care for her safety? The one man Ricardo had worried about—the so-called Infiltrator—had been the only person Talia could trust beyond a doubt.
Lifting the sponge, she passed it across her body and sighed contentedly. Oui, Talon Barberry had more honor than any man she’d ever met. He possessed a moral duty to uphold right and wrong that most only hoped to aspire to.
With his guard down, he exuded a passion and protectiveness that kept her awake at night. He’d never presume to take her against her will. And he hadn’t. From the moment she’d seen him, she’d wanted him.
Her pulse pounded against her neck as she stroked her tender thighs. She could still feel him buried within her, his thickness giving her pleasure she’d never anticipated. It was as if God had made him to fit perfectly with her.
Upon taking her innocence, he had waged a battle within himself, convinced he wasn’t good enough for such an honor. It was the farthest thing from the truth. Talon was more than worthy of her love.
And I must prove it to him.
Sinking deeper into the warmth, she closed her eyes. The sun descended beyond the horizon, and she fell asleep, thankful to be alive.
“BLASTED NOBLEMEN.” Irritation pawed at Talon’s gut as he paced the floor of the airy, open bedroom. Except for the actual style of the outer structure, most of
the furnishings showcased fancy tropical leaves carved in dark wood, not unlike the pieces in DuPont’s lavish Parisian townhouse.
Talon muttered a curse under his breath. “It’s like I never left Europe.”
The insecurities of being a lowly Gypsy fueled his dark mood. And Talia’s rich-girl persona had started the debacle.
Indeed, he wasn’t fit to stand in her presence. His earlier altercation with the guards at the governor’s office had proven that. He wasn’t a nobleman or bourgeoisie raised at a fancy manor—and she knew that.
Or did she?
He scratched his beard and frowned. He hadn’t been overly descriptive of his family for good reason. She was the first person who had taken an interest in his heritage without condemning him. But her assumption that he should know what a real manor looks like was unnerving.
Sinking onto the four-poster bed, Talon sighed. Between being set up as a pawn and dealing with a debutante spy, he was in over his head. He couldn’t understand Talia’s motives to continue this mission. Why did she want to return to Guadeloupe? Why didn’t she forget this farce and go home? His gut told him to find the first ship he could and sail for London.
But what kind of man leaves a woman unescorted with bandits on the loose? Unfortunately, if he wanted to get home, he had no choice but to follow her.
But to where? And which Talia would be with him? They’d known each other for nigh on a month, but he still couldn’t pick out her true identity beneath the façade.
Standing, he stalked to the valet and stared at his reflection in the looking glass. He stroked his scruffy face. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Talia Montrose had a gift for dramatics. Mayhap he should try a new persona as well.
Dipping a clean towel in the bowl of clean water left on the marble-topped commode, he scrubbed the sand and grime from his body. The warmth of the water and spicy peppermint soap cleansed his soul.
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