Creole Fires (14 page)

Once she dressed, her bosom swelled promisingly above the low-cut bodice of her aqua watered-silk gown.
Grand-mère
had selected the fabric to match the color of her eyes. It was cut in the latest fashion, with a deep V at the waist both front and back, which emphasized the swell of her hips and breasts in relation to her tiny middle.

Nicole lovingly smoothed the fabric. It had been years since she’d dressed in silks and satins, years since she’d felt feminine and desirable. Though she
feared the scene Alex might cause, she relished the chance to show him she was a woman. She knew she shouldn’t, but couldn’t stop praying it would somehow make a difference.

“They’ve all gone into dinner.” It was Mrs. Leander. “Madame du Villier says you may come down whenever you’re ready.”

They had planned it this way—for Nicole to be late in making an appearance, hoping to put Alex in a position that would demand his acceptance of her as his guest.

“Are you sure I look all right?” she asked, though the image in the mirror said she had never looked more beautiful.

“You look lovely.” Mrs. Leander flashed a reassuring smile. “You just let Madame take care of things. She knows Master Alex better than anyone on earth.”

Nicki started to leave, took a few uncertain steps, then impulsively turned back and hugged the buxom housekeeper. “Thank you for everything.”

Mrs. Leander patted her cheek. “Go on with ya now. Keep your chin up.”

Nicole just nodded and headed down the stairs. It took every ounce of her courage to slide open the dining room doors.

“I believe our last guest has arrived,” Rachael said with a smug look that traveled from Nicole to her grandson.

Alex was seated at the head of the table, engrossed in conversation with Thomas Demming, who sat beside Clarissa on his right. Rachael sat to his left, beside an empty seat reserved for Nicki. On the other side of the empty chair, François leaned indolently against the carved back of his seat. Alex was reaching
for his wine when he spotted her standing in the open doorway. His hand paused midway to the glass.

“May I present my grandson, Alexandre,” Rachael said with a smile that could only be regarded as triumphant.

“How do you do?” Nicki replied woodenly.

Grand-mère
turned to the woman on Alex’s right. “This is Clarissa Endicott, Alexandre’s fiancée.”

“I believe we may have met.” Nicki couldn’t quite resist. Clarissa just gaped at her.

“M’sieur Thomas Demming, my grandson’s attorney and very close friend,” Rachael continued.

“M’sieur Demming,” she said.

“And my other grandson, François.”

“A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.”

Alex came to his feet. His brown eyes swept over her, taking in her elegant copper curls, the swell of her bosom that rose and fell with each nervous breath. He sized her up from head to foot, then his eyes returned to her face, his dark look pinning her to the spot. The icy glimmer of rage was unmistakable, his fury evident in the hard line of his jaw. Nicki swallowed hard.

“It is impolite to stare, Alexandre.” Rachael’s voice cut through the stillness. “Why don’t you seat Mademoiselle St. Claire?”

Both François and Thomas shoved back their chairs at exactly the same instant and came to their feet.

“It’s all right, my friends,” Alex assured them smoothly, though there was no mistaking the underlying venom in his voice. “I shall properly assist Mademoiselle … St. Claire—just as soon as we’ve had a moment alone.”

Nicole looked at Rachael beseechingly. The old woman just smiled.

Alex gripped Nicki’s arm until she winced. “Excuse us,” he said, and hauled her out of the room. Wordlessly he guided her down the hall to his study. Nicole recalled the last time he’d dragged her into the very masculine cypress-paneled room, and her cheeks grew warm.

She glanced up to find Alex staring down at her, his eyes hard while his mouth tilted into the least-amused smile she’d ever seen.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Your grandmother told you who I am.”

His eyes raked her, appraising her, assessing her as if he still couldn’t believe the girl in the aqua silk skirts was the same scruffy urchin he had rescued from the prison.

“I don’t believe it.”

That was one possibility she hadn’t counted on. She straightened her spine. “Etienne St. Claire was my father. Margaret Stockton St. Claire was my mother. Over the years, your grandmother and I have visited often.”

“Nicki Stockton,” he repeated, beginning to realize what she had done. “Nicole St. Claire.”

“Yes.”

“You were the girl in La Ronde.”

It was hard to resist a smile. “You bought me a dress.”

Alex looked at the elegant aqua gown, at the eyes it so perfectly matched, at her narrow waist and luscious breasts. Her skin looked clear and smooth above the low-cut bodice; her neck rose gracefully atop her delicate shoulders. She was all he’d imagined—and
more. “It appears I have bought you several.”

Nicki glanced away. “I wanted to tell you the truth. I didn’t because …”

“Because of your damnable pride,” he countered when she didn’t finish. “Isn’t that it? You’d rather suffer in silence, work as a common servant than ask for my help. And there was also the added benefit of allowing me to make a fool of myself.”

Nicole’s head came up. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, don’t you?” He looked angry again. “You’re half French. You speak the language fluently. You’ve understood every word I’ve said since the moment you met me.”

“I usually speak English. You just assumed I couldn’t speak French.”

His anger seemed to swell with her every word. “How you must have laughed when I taught you to ride. You’d been riding for years, hadn’t you?”

She took a step backward. “Yes, but—”

“You let me lecture you about the sugar business. But Etienne’s daughter would have known all about it.” He looked angry enough to strike her. For a moment she thought he might, and the old fear moved over her.

“It wasn’t that way,” she said softly. “I enjoyed your company. You were the first person who had shown me kindness in years.”

“How you must have enjoyed yourself—Alexandre du Villier attending the instruction of a bond servant.”

She backed toward the door, but he only drew closer, until her back touched the hard wood paneling,
and his breath fanned her cheek. She could smell the wine he’d been drinking and the spicy scent of his cologne.

“It wasn’t like that,” she repeated, genuinely afraid now. “I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure what you would do.”

Alex grabbed her arms and pulled her even closer, glowering down at her with such contempt she fought not to look away. When he jerked his arm upward in an angry movement, she squeezed her eyes shut and flinched against the blow she was sure would come. Tears stung her eyes and one rolled down her cheek. When Alex’s hold gentled, she opened them to find him staring at her with astonishment.

“Surely by now you know I would not hurt you.” His voice held a gentleness that hadn’t been there before. “I would never hurt you.”

“You would have sold me to Fortier,” she accused, embarrassed that he’d once more seen her weakness. It shouldn’t have happened. Would not happen again. “How could I trust you?”

“You’re Etienne St. Claire’s daughter, for God’s sake. I would have helped you.”

“You don’t understand. I was fighting for survival. I would have done anything, said anything. You can’t know what it’s like to be treated as an animal, to be debased and humiliated. If I had it to do again, I would do the very same—whether you liked it or not!”

She was crying now, but in anger, not fear. “You can’t know the horrors of a place like that. The rats and the filth. The things they did to the women ….” Her voice trailed off as the bitter memory washed
over her. “Just being there made me hurt inside.” Unconsciously her hand crept to the place above her heart. “Sometimes I still hurt ….”

The last of Alex’s anger drained away. “Don’t cry,
chérie.”
Drawing her into his arms, he held her against his chest. “There is no more need for tears.” Her breasts, full and high, pushed invitingly against his black evening jacket. How cleverly she had disguised them.

Across his hand, silky strands of copper hair glistened in the lamplight. He wanted to free it from the pins that held it in place and bury his fingers in the long, gleaming strands. He wanted to press his mouth against the smooth white skin at the nape of her neck.

It dawned on him that his body had been responding to the woman she had been all along, was responding now in a way he hadn’t let it before. It took a mountain of willpower not to kiss her, but instead bring his desire for her under control.

“I never would have sold you to Fortier,” he said softly. “Never. And believe it or not, I do understand.”

He knew what she meant about survival, because he had spent six months of his life in an Algerian prison. He’d been twenty at the time. Certain France’s war was a glorious thing. His father had disapproved, of course, but been understanding. It was something his son just had to do.

Alex had returned a different man. Harder. More cynical. He’d learned to survive in that prison. Been forced to go against the very things he believed in just to find his next meal. He knew exactly what Nicole
St. Claire had suffered—knew how the women in those terrible places were treated.

He tightened his hold. “Those days are past,” he said, tilting her face up to look at him. “You’re back where you belong and this is where you will stay.”

Nicki pulled back to look at him. “I love it here. I have since the moment I arrived.”

Mon Dieu
, she was lovely. Far more beautiful than his wildest imaginings. He hated the mistreatment she had suffered, the violation. But the fact that she was no longer a virgin only made things easier for the two of them.

Recalling her trusting expression and the attachment she felt for Belle Chêne, Alex felt a little guilty. But his town house in the city would make a proper home—just as soon as he moved Lisette to the country and got Nicki settled in. His loins swelled at the thought.

“It’s time we returned to the others,” he said, his voice a little husky.

Nicole brushed the last of the tears from her cheeks. “I must look awful.”

“You look beautiful.” They were the most precious words she had ever heard. “But if you’d like to make certain, it will give me a chance to smooth the way for you a little.”

That snapped her back to reality. Clarissa hadn’t been fooled—not even for a moment. By now, both François and Thomas Demming knew exactly who she was.

“I’m really not very hungry. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just skip dinner tonight.”

Alex smiled indulgently. “You’ve come this far,
ma chère
, it’s time you finished. You’re Etienne St.
Claire’s daughter. Whenever you feel uncertain, just keep that in mind.”

Nicole pondered his words and returned his smile, hers a bit more tremulous. “Thank you, m’sieur.”

“You may as well call me Alex. You never really stopped anyway.”

Nicki’s cheeks grew warm. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“There is very little you have done,
chèrie
, that has gone unnoticed.”

Nicki wasn’t sure what he meant, but she liked the look he gave her when he said it. It made her insides flutter and her cheeks grow warmer still.

Alex extended his arm, and Nicole accepted it. He led her to the foot of the stairs, and she started her ascent, meaning to freshen up for a moment while Alex spoke to his guests.

“I’ll expect to see you in there momentarily,” he told her with a look that brooked no argument.

“As you wish, Alexandre.” With another soft smile, she headed upstairs.

Alex watched the gentle sway of her hips. A burden had been lifted from his conscience this night. His little bond servant had been replaced by a voluptuous woman who would soon warm his bed.

He wouldn’t rush her. She had suffered too much; she was bound to be wary and apprehensive. He would take his time, woo her into accepting him. It never crossed his mind that she would refuse him. As she had said herself—what other choice did she have?

The remainder of Nicki’s evening went far better than she had expected.

With Alexandre and his grandmother—a duke and a duchess whether they used their titles or not—staunchly behind her, Nicki’s position as friend of the family had been firmly established. That she was Alexandre’s bond servant was a subject that had been settled before Nicki came back into the room.

Alex had explained that his father and Etienne St. Claire had been best of friends. The two had been officers in the American army, enlisting for a short period when the United States had gone to war against England. At the battle of Borgne, just outside New Orleans, Etienne had risked his life to save a wounded Charles Alexandre, who lay unconscious and bleeding in the muddy battlefield that had once been the McCarly plantation.

“It’s a debt the du Villiers have not forgotten,” Alex said, and François glanced away. Rachael didn’t miss the guilty gesture. The younger man looked pale and more than a little bit shaken.