Emerald Ecstasy (11 page)

When his lips first made contact with hers, Amelie gasped, but then a hot, liquid sensation overwhelmed her. Though she knew she should protest, she didn't. With no warning, her daydreams of being held in Claude's strong arms, of matching him kiss for kiss, became reality. Never had she responded so strongly to a man, even to Daniel. She wanted Claude to sweep her into his arms, to carry her away. And he did. Before she realized it, he had lifted her from her feet. She clung to him in a daze when he carried her to the bed.

Their bodies met and for the first time, her breasts came in contact with his chest. Moans of delight escaped through her lips as his hands stroked them through the soft material of her gown. All this time his mouth had never left hers, his tongue doing delicious things to hers. She felt his hands pulling the top of her gown down to her waist and then he enfolded a breast in one of his warm hands. His mouth broke away and came to rest on a nipple.

Desire washed over her, forcing guttural sounds to escape from her throat. Her fingers curled in his hair, trailing to the nape of his neck. She wanted him, wanted him badly. Her lower body burned with a blazing hot fire she needed to quench.

“Oh, Claude,” she moaned. “Make love to me. Please.”

He looked at her, his eyes dark and shining in the dusky velvet of his face. Amelie traced his jawline with her index finger. Her lower body writhed and urged him to take her. Her body was alive again and she wished to experience all that had been taken from her since her fall.

Claude whispered her name like a prayer, ready to pleasure her and himself, but he saw his dark hand wrapped around the paleness of a breast. With a sudden clearness he knew he couldn't make love to her, that Amelie could never be joined to him. He was a slave, less than human in most white men's eyes, and here he was, ready to make love to a white man's woman. The wife of his childhood friend. He loved Amelie, loved her with a passion he had never felt in his life, but he couldn't make love to her, had to spare her the suffering he knew would come if their flesh merged.

As if a bucket of river water had been thrown over him, he pushed away, and he watched as Amelie sat up. Her long hair flowed around her, her breasts taunting him, but she was unaware of the effect she had on him.

“Claude, what is it?”

“We cannot do this. This is wrong.”

For a moment she didn't understand. Everything happened so fast. She could walk now and had just been in this man's arms. But she suddenly realized what he meant.

“It's wrong because you're a slave. That's it, isn't it? But it doesn't matter to me.” Her voice grew low. “I … love you, Claude.”

He groaned. “Our love can never be, Amelie. Believe that I love you, but it's hopeless.”

“No! You mustn't say that. No one need ever know. I have no one, nothing, but you. No one means anything to me but you. I don't care what color you are. I don't!” She began sobbing, holding out her hands to him.

He hated to see her tears. If she hadn't cried, he'd have turned his back on her and left her alone. But he loved her, loved her beyond thinking. He gazed at her face, drowning in her beauty. This beautiful woman loved him, and he loved her. What could be so wrong in holding her, kissing her? He wanted to feel her soft flesh against the hard planes of his body, wanted to take her to heaven and beyond. Our love is right, he told himself as he took her outstretched hands and enfolded her in his arms again. He only wanted to hold her for awhile, to kiss away her tears. As the pale pink of her gown fell to the floor, Claude's resistance broke. His clothes merged with hers, and Amelie and Claude discovered love.

Sylvain
was the opera in which Lianne performed. Though she sang a small piece, the director encouraged her talent and felt that she'd soon be ready for more challenging roles. After the performance she felt invigorated. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure in the new life she'd undertaken. When Philippe met her backstage, he seemed withdrawn, remote, not at all the concerned suitor.

“Have I done anything to displease you?” she asked him later as they sipped glasses of wine in the elegant rooms Philippe had rented on the Esplanade. She moved closer to him on the couch, but he looked away.

“When are you going to marry me?”

Twisting the goblet and gazing at the dark red liquid, she didn't know what to say. After all these weeks with him, she still wasn't sure she wanted to marry him, and she didn't think fondness constituted grounds for marriage. “Is it so important to marry, Philippe?”

“Oui,
it is! You dangle me from a string like a puppet, and I dance to your song, but still you never let me do anything more than kiss you … and that is barely more than warm. Lianne, why do you torment me so?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't think you felt this way. It's just that you act so frivolous at times that I can't take you seriously.”

“You mean because I'm noted for my wildness, the high stakes at cards, the many women of whom I'm sure Dera has kindly informed you.”

This was all true. During Lianne's last visit to Green Meadows, Dera had again warned her against him. She noticed Philippe's anger but didn't know how to appease him. “Allow me more time,” was all she said.

Taking her into his arms, he kissed her with a gentleness which surprised her after his anger only seconds ago.

“I shall wait,
chérie,
forever.”

Then he kissed her again and a warmth flooded through her but nothing like the passion she felt for the man who had fathered Désirée. It would be so easy to allow Philippe to make love to her. Her body craved a man's touch, but she resisted. Only when her heart responded wildly as it had in the summerhouse would she consider Philippe's marriage proposal. She drew away. “I think it's time for you to escort me home,” she said.

After she was in bed and Philippe sent on his way, she drifted into sleep. Suddenly she came awake, startled, and felt someone's presence in the room. “Maria?” she whispered and hoped her voice didn't sound as thick with fear as it did to her.

She sat up and listened. She heard breathing, and the skin on the back of her neck prickled. For a second she wondered if the house was haunted by the tragic Honorine. “What do you want?” she asked.

She knew no spirit spoke when the gruff voice said, “You, pretty mademoiselle.”

Before she could scream, a man flew like a bat from the shadows of the room and pinned her to the bed. His hand muffed her mouth. She thrashed and kicked at him but missed her mark. The man forced his hands into her bodice and squeezed her breasts.

“Pretty ladies shouldn't live alone,” he scolded.

Lianne had to escape or she would faint. He cut off her air, and she felt the room sway. Suddenly he changed position and came to rest on top of her. She lifted her knee, pushing it hard into his groin. He groaned and removed his hand from her mouth. Lianne screamed a bloodcurdling scream.

“Quiet!” he yelled and came at her again, but he was thrown from the bed by Philippe who ran into the room from the French doors.

In the darkness she heard the crack of Philippe's knuckles making contact with the man's chin. To her surprise he fled through the door into the dark night.

“Lianne, are you all right,
mon amour
?” Philippe cried and held her shaking body in his arms.

She nodded, too stunned to move when Maria ran into her room.
“Madre de Dios!
What has happened?”

Philippe explained to her about the intruder. “It was lucky that I returned when I did. I heard Lianne's screams from the street.”

“Sí, sí,
Gracias, Señor Marchand. Whatever would we have done without you?”

This was the first time Maria had expressed any sentiment other than scorn concerning Philippe. “Two women alone with a child, señor. That is not good.” She made sure Lianne was all right then went to look in on the baby who had remarkably slept through the whole ordeal.

In the candlelight Lianne's hair matched the flame. She rested in Philippe's arms until her shaking ceased. He stroked her silken tresses. “Why did you come back?” she asked him after she had calmed down enough to speak.

“Because I worried about you, and I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier. But now I see I was right to pressure you into giving me an answer. If tonight is any indication of what will happen if you continue to live alone with Maria and your child, I dread to think what may occur if this intruder returns.” He tilted her chin. “I don't believe he came to rob you. Evidently he has been watching your house and you. Lianne, think of your child if you have no fear for yourself.”

She shivered. Philippe made a great deal of sense. If he hadn't returned, she hated to imagine what harm might have befallen her and Maria, or her child. The incident reminded her of the time the peasants stormed the chateau. Held in fear's thrall, she clutched at Philippe's shirtfront. “I'll marry you. Take us home to Belle Riviere,” she said.

“What about the opera?”

Glimmers of pure fright gleamed in her eyes. Always she had had someone to care for her. André. Victor. Now she was really alone except for Maria. And what good was she if the man returned? She realized that her safety and her child's well-being were more important than an operatic career. “I'll tell the director tomorrow that I'm to be married. Then we leave for Belle Riviere.”

“Are you sure?” He tried to keep the pleased note from his voice.

“Oui.
Take us home with you. Make me your wife.”

He kissed her and held her until she fell asleep. Then he laid her head on the pillow and quietly left the house, headed down the alleyway to the end of the street where a man waited in the shadows. He handed him a pouch of gold coins.

“For a job well done,” Philippe told him.

The man looked at him with a surly expression. “I don't usually attack women, monsieur. I'm just a thief but I do have principles.” He pocketed the money and massaged his still stinging jaw.

“Very noble to have scruples, but in this instance you've done a good deed. Now be on your way. Tonight's performance has netted you quite a healthy fee.”

The man sniffed and headed into the darkness. Philippe turned and walked back to Lianne's where he spent the rest of the night on a chair in her room just in case she woke and needed him.

When Dera learned Lianne had arrived at Belle Riviere with Philippe, she insisted Lianne reside at Green Meadows until the wedding for propriety's sake. Besides, she wasn't certain Lianne loved Philippe and wished to put some distance between them to allow the young woman a chance to think. Philippe wasn't pleased when Lianne accepted Dera's invitation, but he didn't balk.

“If you insist upon this wedding,” Dera told Lianne one afternoon as they sat on the front porch and gazed at the long row of oaks which led to the river, “then I must insist that your marriage take place here at Green Meadows. I know your mother would have wished it.”

“Thank you,” Lianne said with a soft smile. “I'd like that very much. However, you still don't trust Philippe, do you?”

A sigh escaped Dera, and she looked down at her hands. “No. He is wrong for you, but then many people told me my Quint wasn't right for me either. So, who am I to say? Love comes from the heart and only you know what you feel for Philippe.”

Lianne averted her eyes. “I shall be a good wife to him.”

Dera clutched Lianne's hand. “Once, many years ago, I said the same thing. I married a man I wasn't in love with. Oh, I was fond of him in the same way I think you care for Philippe, and for a while I thought I was happy. But one day I realized I wasn't.”

“What happened to make you change your mind?”

“Quint reentered my life and turned it upside down, but we were destined for one another. No man has ever made me feel what I felt for him.”

“Do you feel the same thing for Doctor Markham?” Lianne impulsively asked.

A blush like berry juice stained Dera's cheeks and she stammered. “Lianne, dear, I'm getting much too old for romance. Doctor Markham is a dear friend, but no, I'll never marry again.”

“I never mentioned marriage. Has he asked you?”

Her face grew redder. “Heavens no! Tad is a gentleman and settled in his ways. I don't think he'd ever consider marriage again. He's a widower from Williamsburg and has a grown daughter.”

Lianne baited her good-naturedly. “I think you've been thinking about marriage to the good doctor, Dera.”

Dera began to protest but instead she nodded in reluctance. “I care for Tad a great deal. Not in the same way I loved Quint but as someone to live out my days with. However, I don't believe he sees me as a potential wife. He'll return to Williamsburg and his daughter eventually.”

“Then you'll just have to change his mind.”

Dera laughed. “I'm not a young beautiful girl any longer, Lianne.” Her face grew serious. “I wish you and my Daniel could have met. I think then your marriage to Philippe wouldn't occur, and Amelie wouldn't be forced to live a life of pain. She knows he doesn't love her. It's too bad one must live life dependent upon destiny.”