His Dark Desires (11 page)

"
Swiss Family Robinson?
" Excitement brightened Andre's face and he took the book reverently. "
Merci
."

"You're welcome," Mr. Trevelyan said, his smile and his eyes warming.

"You're back just in time to hear Ginette play the harp. Come sit next to Juliet." Mignon led him to the empty seat beside me on the settee. Embarrassed, I shut my eyes and pulled the silver shawl he'd given me closer. Mignon's matchmaking had to stop. But I couldn't even begin to explain how welcome Mr. Trevelyan's warmth and presence was.

"You're in for a treat, Mr. Trevelyan," said Mr. Gallier. "We live to hear the blessing of Ginette's voice."

"We should have her sing as entertainment prior to the play. Wouldn't that be wonderful, Mr. Gallier?" Mrs. Gallier added, beaming at her idea.

"Not a good idea, darling." Mr. Gallier shook his head. "Miss DePerri would so enthrall our audience that our performance would be anticlimactic. Besides, the stage only corrupts angels, and Miss DePerri's purity should be preserved just as it is."

"The stage surely does not corrupt every woman, Mr. Gallier," Miss Vengle said, a sharp edge to her voice.

He smiled back at her. "There are exceptions to every rule, Miss Vengle, as you so often prove."

Mrs. Gallier stood, clearing her throat, peeved at Mr. Gallier. "I believe I will have to hear Miss DePerri play on another night. A headache is suddenly pressing upon me."

"Do you need me to come fix you a powder?" Mr. Gallier asked, apparently oblivious to his wife's anger.

"No, dear, I shall be fine. You stay and listen to Miss DePerri." She left the room.

Mr. Davis stood. "I need to be going as well. Mignon, would you see me out?"

"For just a moment. I can't miss hearing Ginette."

Mr. Davis looked as if he would object, but Mignon didn't give him a chance. He had no choice but to follow her quickly from the room.

When Mignon returned, slightly flushed, Ginntte settled against her harp.

From the first brush of her delicate fingers over the strings, a hush fell over everyone. I'd heard people tell of mesmerists—men who took over the minds of their patients and wrought miracles—but Ginette's singing did more. She never failed to move her audience, making everyone yearn for love.

When she finished, she rested her head against her harp, drained from pouring her heart into the song.

"Thank you," Mr. Trevelyan said softly. "It would be irreverent to clap, but I must add a heartfelt brava."

"That was exquisite, Miss DePerri," Mr. Gallier said.

Ginette looked up, her face pale, her features drawn. "The pleasure was mine."

"I think I am going to retire on that perfect note and check on Mrs. Gallier," Mr. Gallier said. "Are you coming, Miss Vengle?"

Mr. Fitz stretched. "I think I'll retire, as well."

Miss Vengle waved her fingers at Mr. Gallier and Mr. Fitz. "Goodnight, gentlemen. I've a mind to hear more music."

"
Oui
," Ginette said. "I would love to hear someone else play. Andre?"

My son's cheeks flushed red and he shook his head. Though he was an excellent violin player, he lacked the confidence to play publicly unless he was purposely making a discordant racket. Then he could play for thousands.

"What about you, Monsieur Trevelyan? Do you play an instrument?" Ginette asked.

"Nothing nearly as astounding as you, but I can play a few tunes on the piano."

"Then will you treat us to one or two?"

"Certainly. I learned a number of fun sailing tunes on my trips abroad."

"Real sailor songs?" Andre asked, his eyes sparking with interest. "Can you teach them to me?"

"Aye, aye, mate. There is even a pirate ditty or two." Mr. Trevelyan moved to the piano, sat down, and ran his fingers over the keys. "The problem with these sailor songs is that they are not written down. The only way to learn them is by ear, and that is a very difficult thing to do."

"I can do that, monsieur. Let me show you." Andre quickly collected his violin from the corner of the room and went to the piano, where Mr. Trevelyan sat. "Play something and I will repeat it."

"If you are sure," Mr. Trevelyan replied.

Andre nodded.

A minute later, Mr. Trevelyan had my son copying a round of toe-tapping melodies without a care as to who listened. Mr. Trevelyan started out with a simple progression of notes that became more and more complicated, challenging Andre with each turn. I wondered what was it about Mr. Trevelyan that so easily bridged a gap I could not cross to my son. Soon Mignon joined them on the harpsichord, while Ginette added a few notes with her harp, and Miss Vengle sang heartily. The evening spoke volumes about Mr. Trevelyan's enjoyment of life. I watched, relaxed, realizing that
La Belle
used to be filled with laughter and music all the time, but very little since the end of the war. I'd been too caught up in the tasks of the day, and over the years, had given little thought to the fun we all apparently craved.

*   *   *

Midnight had passed, and I still lay awake, troubled by Mr. Trevelyan's reserved behavior. Other than noting that I wore the shawl he'd purchased, he didn't make another personal comment or advance the entire evening. Lost in thought, I almost missed the creaking on the stairs. I sat straight up in the bed, my heart pounding at the sound of footsteps. I'd purposely left my door ajar and had the iron frying pan and poker nearby, but I hadn't truly expected there would be any intruder. For a moment I stayed frozen in fear, my gaze glued to the dark hallway outside my door. Another faint shuffle of steps bolted me into action.

I pulled on a silk robe over my cambric nightdress, snatched up the frying pan and the poker, and stole from my room, walking blindly down the corridor until my eyes adjusted to the light. I remembered that I did have a number of people in my home and any one of them might be awake. Before leaving the third floor, I quietly peeked into Ginette's, Mignon's, and Andre's rooms. They were all sleeping undisturbed.

Moving softly down the stairs, I went to the second floor, where the boarders slept. Their doors were all shut, with no light showing beneath. I assumed they were asleep as well, so I tiptoed down to the first floor, avoiding the creaking stair just before the landing.

The moment I stepped into the parlor, I felt a change in the air about me, as if a menace hovered nearby but remained hidden from view, like a hunting alligator beneath dark water. My palms dampened, and my mouth grew dry. I tightened my grip on the pan and the poker.

Nothing stirred but the soft click of the grandfather clock's pendulum in the center hall. Finally, I had to have air and drew in a deep breath. The acrid scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. Then the stair creaked.

Someone was headed toward me; the parlor was only a few steps from the end of the stairs. Mama Louisa always said there wasn't anything that God and a good frying pan couldn't set straight, and I aimed to prove her right. Moving into the shadows by the door, I set the poker aside, lifted the pan, said a prayer, and waited.

I wasn't sure what I expected to see edge around the door into the parlor, but it wasn't the barrel of a pistol. Instantly I realized how foolish I'd been. I had just one chance to hit the intruder hard and then run, screaming for help. An arm and a dark head appeared and I brought the pan down hard. I must have made a slight noise, because a second before I hit him, the intruder lunged toward me. The pan hit his head with a sickening thud and I heard a groan of pain, but instead of falling to the ground, the man fell forward, plowing into me, and knocking the pan from my hand.

One minute I was upright and the next I was flat on my back, with a dead weight pinning me down. White lights danced before my eyes as I fought to breathe. I would have screamed, but I couldn't draw enough air to do more than croak.

I squirmed, trying to dislodge the man and get help before he regained consciousness. Tears of frustration bit at my eyes. I couldn't budge him. Then I felt his body turn from dead weight to hard muscle.

Surprisingly, I grew calmer, determined to face this threat with dignity.

"Don't move," a familiar deep voice threatened.

Now that he had spoken, I recognized the scent of fresh sandalwood and mint in the air.

Shock flooded through me until even my toes tingled from it. I was suddenly aware of every inch of the firm body covering mine. Desire instantly heated my blood.

"Monsieur Trevelyan," I whispered.

He rose up on his elbows and looked at me, letting me draw a much needed breath. My breasts pressed against the warm muscle of his chest and I breathed again, enjoying the feel of him and the scent of him. Moonlight streamed through the window and cast a shadow across his face, adding even more dangerous appeal to his rakish good looks.

"Mrs. Boucheron, what in God's name did you hit me with?" His voice rumbled deeply, sending out vibrations that reached the very core of my femininity.

"A pan, monsieur. Are you all right?"

"A pan?" He groaned. "What sort of pan?"

Had the man gone daft? "What difference does that make?"

He shifted, leaning more of his weight to the left and raising his head a little higher.

"Just tell me," he said as if his teeth were gritted together. His right leg shifted and slid shockingly between mine. He was too close, too real, and too male. I could barely think.

"An iron frying pan. Um, since you have recovered your senses sufficiently to ask questions, monsieur, could you get off me? There may be an intruder in my home."

He just stared down at me, and my pulse leaped as a strange anticipation filled me.

"I am sure he is gone. I found the front door open and a dark shadow disappearing into the park when I came down the stairs the first time. I checked the house and was just leaving the storage room at the top of the stairs when I heard someone else, and thought the man hadn't been alone. It must have been you."

"How did he get in?"

"As best as I can tell, he entered through an open window on the fourth floor. Everything else is locked. The question is, who left the window open?"

"I did. We've been cleaning the attic. I did not think anyone fool enough to climb that high. Monsieur, I am sure you can move now," I demanded, trying to muster some resistance against the sensations growing inside me.

 with a frying pan." He sounded miffed, which fueled my own irritation.

"My intent, monsieur, was to fell an
intruder
. If you had not been skulking around my house with a pistol, you would not have met up with my frying pan."

"Have you no sense, woman?"

"It worked, did it not? I knocked you out."

"Momentarily, but exactly where are you now, and where am I?" As if to emphasize his point, his hard arousal pressed intimately against my femininity, spreading a fire in my loins. "Don't you realize what an unscrupulous man might do if he found himself in a situation like this?" He stared down at me, burning me with the intensity of his gaze.

"Monsieur Trevelyan, I see no point in discussing the matter since you are not an unscrupulous man."

"You don't realize the danger you put yourself in." He shut his eyes as if pained. "You should have knocked on my door, anyone's door, rather than come downstairs alone. Given the right circumstances and enough desperation, any man is capable of becoming unscrupulous. You are beautiful, desirable, and if a man found himself..."

My eyes were riveted to the shadowed planes of his face, the full curve of his lip, then to his eyes.

"A man might... take liberties that he had no right to take," he said, almost whispering the last. "I warned you."

His gaze dropped to my mouth and his head dipped toward me, bringing his lips so close to mine that the heat radiating from him warmed my skin, making me tingle where his breath brushed my face. Even though I barely knew this man, I desired him like no other man before. My mind might carry doubts regarding him, but my body clamored for him. Something about him had slid beneath my guard the moment he'd spoken to me from the shadows of the live oaks. I had gone years wanting nothing, wanting no one, and in a mere breath of time he'd changed that to wanting everything... from him.

My hands gripped his shoulders to push him back, to save myself from this sudden, overwhelming temptation. Instead, I dug my fingers into the soft linen of his shirt, urging him closer, ready to give him everything.

"Monsieur Trevelyan, you must—"

"I must..." he whispered softly, then crushed my mouth with his. His lips were warm and firm and I opened to his demand. He groaned deeply, pressing his arousal hard enough to caress me intimately though the soft cotton of my gown. His tongue slid enticingly against mine, making me moan from the heated caresses. Fiery pleasure sprang to life, rushing hot desire to every part of me. I met his kiss with fervor. He rolled to his back, bringing me with him so that I lay on top. His hands burned a trail down my back and up under my gown to caress my bare skin, and rhythmically pressed me even deeper against his demanding arousal.

As he groaned deep in his throat, his hands raced up my sides beneath my gown. I arched back, giving him access to my breasts. He slid his hands to cup them, brushing his thumbs over the sensitive tips, sending sharp bursts of pleasure deep inside me. The tension coiled to a feverish point that coalesced at the very place where his arousal insistently rubbed. I slid my hands into his hair and pressed my mouth to his in pure ecstasy.

My fingers slid into warm fluid. Lifting my hand, I saw blood. "
Mon Dieu
" I cried, rolling off him.

He groaned. "Come back here."

"You're bleeding!"

"Yes, but I'm dying somewhere else."

I scrambled to my knees, peering down at him. I couldn't see the wound, for his hair was too dark, but I could tell generally where he was hurt. I gathered the hem of my robe and pressed it to his head. He groaned.

What sort of man practically made love to a woman while wounded? An utterly senseless man, my mind shouted.
A passionate man
, my heart whispered softly.