Always & Forever: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 1) (31 page)

Josie stood with Oncle Sandrine’s aging brother, but she
focused on Chamard on the other side of the room. The noises of the party
receded into a silvery blur as the voices, even the orchestra’s strains, became
muted. Every one of the hundred candles in the room became a golden shimmer.

She willed him to look at her. She let her desire fuel her
concentration as she fixed her gaze on the arch of his brow, the fullness of
his dark lashes. He had to feel her heat.

He raised his eyes, absorbed her gaze, took in her whole
being. Even across the room she caught the color of his eyes, like fine brandy
in candle light. Josie felt her soul might leave her body to enter those eyes.

He left his companions and moved sinuously through the
crowd, the grace of his body seducing every woman he passed. Josie heard the
silk skirts rustle as the ladies turned in his wake, but she never released him
from her gaze.

“Cousin Josephine.”

Josie held out her hand. Chamard took it in his, and her
whole body vibrated at his touch. When he brushed his lips across the back of
her hand, pressing his thumb into her palm, the sudden response of her most
private place astonished her. What did he do to her? Was this love, then?

Neither of them aware of the speechless and forgotten elder
man, Bertrand took her elbow and guided her away from the current of guests
moving in and out of the ballroom. Under the fronds of a palm in the corner of
the room, Bertrand inspected her openly, brazenly, and she didn’t falter in his
steady gaze. “How are you,
ma chérie?
” he said.

Bold and reckless, full of champagne, Josie said, “Very
happy to see you.”

Bertrand raised an eyebrow. “The lovely mademoiselle
surrounded by eligible young men? You’re glad to see your old cousin?”

Josie leaned her head back. She refused to be condescended
to. “You are not so very old, nor am I so very young.” She held his eyes and
forced him to recognize the challenge in hers. He did want her. She could feel
it.

“Not too young to marry Albany Johnston?” Bertrand said.

“Not too young, no.” Did she detect disappointment in her
cousin’s eye?

“So it’s settled.”

“Indeed it is. I will not be Mr. Johnston’s wife.”

Josie kept her chin tilted up and smiled. She had a hook in
Bertrand Chamard, she was sure of it.

“Ready?” Bertrand said.

Josie’s hands were on his shoulders, her foot in his cupped
palms. “Ready.”

Bertrand lifted Josie into her saddle effortlessly. She
laughed at the moment of weightlessness, nearly giddy with Bertrand’s touch.

Bertrand mounted his big roan and led the way out the lane
to the river road. The morning dew softened the summer greens and a light fog
hung in the treetops. Josie eyed Bertrand’s legs astride the saddle. She
imagined running her hands over those taut muscles, feeling the heat in his
body.

Once on the main road, Bertrand picked up the pace. They
loped along for a quarter of a mile side by side, neither disturbing the quiet
air with idle chatter. Then Bertrand said, “Ready for a run?”

Josie gave Beau the whip and she was off. She leaned
forward, clamped her knee tight around the pommel, and pressed her left foot
hard into the stirrup. She looked back over her shoulder and grinned at
Bertrand. She’d got the jump on him, but the stallion would easily overtake her
if he let it. She spurred Beau on.

They galloped full tilt under the overhanging live oaks,
their horses throwing clods up behind them. Josie’s hat flew off and soon she
was streaming honey brown hair behind her, the pins fallen somewhere in the
dust. She stole a glance at Bertrand. He must surely be holding the roan back,
but even so, his face showed the same joy she felt. Release and exhilaration
all in one. They were two of a kind, she and Bertrand. They were meant for each
other.

Bertrand pointed to the peach orchard that grew between
their two properties. Josie slowed Beau and directed him into the shade where
the golden peaches were swelling with every new day of sunshine. Josie inhaled
the scent of horse and grass and rich black dirt. The sensual earth breathed in
rhythm with Josie’s own breast, heightened her senses, smell and sight, and
most of all, touch.

Bertrand dropped his reins to let his horse browse among the
trees. Before he helped Josie from her saddle, he took hold of her booted ankle
and gazed into her face. “Such a proper young lady, one might think, until one
sees you on a horse.” He tilted his head to consider her. “Are you brave enough
to walk with me in the orchard, no chaperone, no spying eyes to keep you safe?”

Josie’s breath caught, and she held the pommel to keep her
hands from trembling. “I will walk with you anywhere, Bertrand. You know that.”

He smiled and held his hands up to her. When he had her feet
on the ground, he lingered close to her and then stepped back. He took her hand
and they strolled under the peach trees. The grass, sprinkled with tiny white
wild flowers, grew lush and green. Each blade, each leaf, was distinct. Each
peach, perfect and round and golden, promised pleasure. A mockingbird flitted
along ahead of them, and every note, every flap of its wings impressed itself
on Josie’s senses. The very air, heavy on her skin, excited her.

Bertrand picked a peach, yellow and red and ripe. He held it
for her to take a bite, and the juices filled her mouth, ran down her chin and
into her bodice. His eyes were on her lips, and she yearned for him to taste
her. Instead, he took her hand again and drew her further into the orchard.

Josie’s skirts swept the remaining dew from the tall grass,
but she didn’t notice. Her heart beat hard enough to flutter the ruffle on her
bodice. At the same time, she felt deeply content and calm. It was time. That
was all. It was time, and she was ready. Bertrand would never need another
woman. She would be everything he desired because she desired him in return.

Deep into the orchard stood a massive live oak, its branches
drooping down to create a shadowy chamber cut off from the rest of the world.
Here Bertrand turned. He touched her windblown hair and pulled a tangled curl
from her forehead.

Now, she thought. Now.

His first kiss was tender. If flesh could melt, her lips
would surely melt into his. Josie swayed on her feet, and Bertrand’s arms held
her closer. As he kissed her with more ardor, she felt his body harden and lost
all awareness of the world outside the two of them.

When Josie felt his tongue against her lips, she opened her
mouth, yearning to take all of him in. He pressed the small of her back against
him, and through her summer skirt she felt the hardness of his manhood.

Josie shifted and placed her palm over his swelling. He
trembled, then pulled his head back from her and breathed deeply. Again he
questioned her with his eyes, and Josie smiled. Why should they wait? She
reached her arms around his neck and kissed him as he’d kissed her.

Bertrand swept her into his arms and carried her deeper into
the grassy shade. He laid her down and stretched his length beside her. “You’re
not afraid?”

She answered him with her mouth on his. Bertrand slipped a
hand into her bodice and caressed her breast. When he flicked his thumb over
her nipple, Josie gasped. She reached for his swollen groin, but he held her
hand. “Not today,” he murmured.

Bertrand gathered her hemline to her knee. He ran his hand
up her thigh, and through her pantalets found her secret pleasure. Josie gasped
and he smiled at her, his beautiful eyes on hers. He kissed her mouth, her
neck, tasted the hollow at the base of her throat, all the while stroking and
caressing, his fingers circling the nub of her pleasure. The exquisite tension
grew until Josie moaned and her breath came ragged.

When she thought she could take no more, but yearned for
more, she crested in an explosion of heat and desperate pleasure. Bertrand
broke their kiss and held her tight until her shuddering stopped. He kissed the
top of her head and let her rest in his arms.

The world came slowly into focus again – the grass tickling
her skin, the bees buzzing among the peaches, the dappling of the sun through
the oak leaves. Such peace. Such completeness. Was not this a promise? Did they
not belong to each other now?

Josie opened Bertrand’s shirt at the neck and kissed the
sweetness there. His voice roughened by desire, Bertrand said, “I’d better take
you home.”

They brushed the grass from their clothes. “Should you fix
your hair?”

“I’ve lost all the pins.”

Bertrand pulled a twig from her curls. “You’ll have to do
then. Surely your grandmother has lost her hairpins in a gallop or two.”

Josie laughed and took his hand. They found their horses
grazing among the trees and rode them slowly back to Toulouse.

At the stables, Elbow John took the horses. Josie slipped
into her room to repair the damage to hair and face and dress. In the mirror,
she saw a new Josie, lips swollen, cheeks chafed by his whiskers. What she’d
shared with Bertrand was not consummation, she understood that, but she didn’t
feel like a virgin anymore, either. She was his woman. She would be the mother
of his children, all of his children.

Bertrand ambled on to the front gallery where Emmeline was
reading a two day old
New Orleans Picayune
.

“Have you seen this, Bertrand?” she said, snapping the paper
in agitation.

He leaned against a gallery post. “Not yet. What has you so
stirred up?”

“It can’t last. An acre of off-river land goes for three
times what it did two years ago. Fools borrow to grab what they can, and the
banks feed the frenzy. There will come a reckoning.”

“It’s a boom time, Emmeline.” He searched his pocket and
pulled out a cigar. “May I? It’s a new era. As long as Europe continues to buy
more and more cotton and sugar, the market will expand.” He inhaled the smoke
gratefully and blew it toward the ceiling.

Josie stepped on to the gallery, her hair properly dressed,
her face washed. Bertrand straightened from his slouch against the gallery
post. “Josephine,” he said in his courtly manner.

Emmeline cast a shrewd eye on each of them. Yes, she
believed, there would be a wedding in the fall. She had been scandalously
negligent in not insisting the pair were chaperoned at all times. But she was
in a hurry. Bertrand wouldn’t remain a bachelor for long.

Bertrand held his hand against the sky to measure the sun’s
progress. “I must be on my way. Work awaits.”

Josie could hardly bear for him to leave her. She wanted
only to be in his arms, but she behaved as a young lady ought. His warm eyes
looking into hers suffused her heart, and she let him go.

On the way to the stable, Bertrand spotted Cleo cutting
flowers in the garden. He’d hardly seen her these last weeks. She had been
avoiding him, he realized. He willed her to look up, and as if his stare
penetrated her skin, Cleo raised her head and returned his gaze. Then she
lowered her eyes and turned away.

Cleo filled her flower basket before she went inside. In the
parlor, she arranged a vase of roses and baby’s breath, saving the camellias
for the dining table. The transplants from Dr. Benet’s garden thrived in the
renewed soil, and Cleo had taken it on herself, since now the reduced number of
hands were all needed in the fields, to revive the garden. She had a new callous
on her palm from wielding the hoe, but she welcomed the mindless work. Her body
and her heart ached for Remy, and with every message Phanor brought, her
patience wore thinner.

Cleo carried the three secret letters in her bodice, each of
them worn from opening and reopening. Remy’s first effort was a mere three
words, scrawled slant-wise across the page, and he wrote as he spoke: “I workin
hard.” With Phanor’s tutelage and practice, though, the lines had become level,
the letters more precise. “I save ever week. I got four silver dollar put by. I
gone kiss the paper where I make the x. Keep waiting. I working hard for us.”

Four dollars. How could Remy ever earn enough to buy her
freedom?

Josie entered the room and paused to admire the bouquet for
a moment. “Those are pretty,” she said, and then she walked on.

Cleo felt Josie’s absence even now she was home from New
Orleans. Josie was abstracted, sat for long periods staring at the river from
the gallery or out her bedroom window at the stump where the lightening had
burned down the old oak. And if she wasn’t woolgathering, she was scribbling in
her journal, a little smile on her face.

When Phanor came home for a visit, Cleo had expected Josie
to be at least pleased to see him. Phanor would have hoped for that, too, Cleo
was sure. He’d made no secret of his attraction to her, for all her being the
daughter of a planter. And that night on the levee, hadn’t Josie sat as close
as possible to Phanor on the log in the firelight? Yet Josie had greeted him
rather coolly, even with a bit of hauteur, and Cleo had seen Phanor’s face
droop. It was odd, his reaction. He was disappointed, but didn’t seem
surprised.

It was no mystery where Josie’s mind and heart were – she
was bewitched by her Monsieur Chamard, he of the seductive, enchanting eyes.

And did Josie think this Chamard was any different from her
beloved Papa? Did she think he would love only her for ever and ever, would
never hurt her as Emile had hurt Josie’s maman Celine? Cleo knew better.

“Mam’zelle,” Laurie said, “Madame say you come now. And don’
forget dem spectacles neither.”

The dreaded spectacles. Josie kept them in a drawer wrapped
in a handkerchief. She’d rather not be able to read than to be seen wearing
spectacles. Bertrand certainly had never seen her in them. If Grand-mère
required them, that meant she was in for a session with the account books.