Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) (11 page)

That problem was abruptly forgotten as he gathered himself and surged to his feet in a great, splashing fountain of water. He stood for a moment, oblivious, while rivulets ran down his chest and arms and along the hard lines of his legs. Glistening wet and rampantly naked, he stepped from the bath, then bent, twisting, to pick up the length of toweling Tit Jean had left.

He really was magnificent. The lines of arm and shoulder, wide back and lean flank, were impressive in their strength, stirring in their symmetry, like a bronze sculpture of some godlike athlete of ancient Greece captured mid-effort and at the height of his glory. And yet, like many such recovered bronzes, he was irreparably damaged. The sight of those scars, and also the new injury, was an affront and also a source of distress.

It wasn’t her fault. If she had not been there, Renold might still have leaped from the exploding vessel through live steam. If he had not been out on the streets in the midnight hours, he might never have been attacked.

Yet he might also have noticed the danger to the
Queen Kathleen
sooner, could have jumped with less delay and for a greater distance, if he had been alone. He might not have been out so late if she had not kept him from the comfort of his bed.

Of course, these possibilities were no good reason to permit him intimacies now. Still, it was not always possible to be strictly logical.

He had straightened and was running the toweling along his arms while his considering gaze rested on her face. He was so near that she could feel the moist heat of his body. If she reached out, she could trail her fingers through the dark chest hair with its spangling of water droplets, follow the plumb line of it lower to where . . .

No. Such wantonness was what he wanted, what he expected. She had given him cause by yielding to his practiced touch. So she must redeem herself, must deny him, even if it hurt to move, even if putting distance between them was like cutting a binding cord with jagged glass.

Turning back to the bed, she smoothed the covers they had disarranged earlier. She discarded her dressing sacque before climbing to the surface of the high mattress and sliding under the sheet and coverlet. Lying on her back with the long braided rope of her hair drawn over her shoulder and her hands folded, she contemplated the
ciel de lit
above her.

“You look,” he said, “like a sacrificial maiden, exalted and resigned. Even if inclined, it would be blasphemy to try rousing you to passion. I believe you may depend on sleeping undisturbed.”

She was grateful, of course she was. It left her charitable. “To try,” she repeated in wry tones. “That was polite, I must say.”

“Accurate, rather. And a craven attempt to prevent you from probing into the gash in my side while you mend it.” He wrapped the toweling around his lower body, then stepped to the fireplace and went to one knee, stirring the coals Tit Jean had put on the fire.

“I forgot.” The words were bald. Realizing by grace of her excellent peripheral vision that he had covered himself, she turned to look at him.

“I realize,” he said with a quick glance over his shoulder. “I’m now of two minds whether to apologize for upsetting you, or sing like the lark because I can.”

Her lips tightened, but she ignored that for a point that was more troubling. “But where will you sleep?”

“Did I mislead you? Infamous of me, but don’t be disturbed. I will be beside you.”

“I wasn’t disturbed,” she said distinctly.

“Good, then. It’s a matter of form and covenants, you understand. I did try to explain it before.”

Her lips tightened. “I thought perhaps you had changed your mind.”

“My mind is not as fixed as some, but you will discover that I know it, and my heart, with some exactitude. I may scheme and barter and even indulge in bombast, but what I say I will do gets done, and my promises are made to be kept.”

“That is, naturally,” she said with acid in her tone, “a relief.”

“It was meant to be.” Turning away, he moved to the washstand where bandaging supplies were stored. He removed the wooden box that held them and walked toward the bed. Mounting the steps, he sat down, then stretched out on his good side, facing her, and placed the box between the two of them.

There was nothing to be done, then, except to execute the task given her earlier. She also kept her promises.

It wasn’t easy, in spite of the fact that he said scarcely a word. He watched her, instead, his gaze steady and infinitely considering. It made her wonder what he read in her eyes when she met his by accident, what he thought of the stupid trembling that she could not prevent no matter how she tried.

She was so irritatingly aware of him. She started when he lifted a hand, twitched when he blinked, found herself breathing in cadence with the steady rise and fall of his chest. His skin felt fevered under her hands and the fresh smell of clean male and soap scented with Caribbean bay leaves made her head swim as she leaned near.

Once the heavy braid of her hair fell across his arm and shoulder as she reached over him to keep the length of bandaging smoothly wrapped. He picked it up, winding it around his hand. As he came to the end of the slack, she overbalanced, and would have fallen against him if she had not put out her hand to brace against his chest.

Her gaze, wide and dark blue, flew to his that was just inches away. She could see the emerald facets in the irises of his eyes, see herself reflected, in double miniature, in the pupils. A pulse beat in the strong column of his neck, and his lips were parted. The pressure on her scalp slowly increased to a sting as his hand clenched on her braid. She made a soft sound of protest.

Abruptly, she was released. His lashes swept down to close off access to his gaze. His self-control in place, he said, “Your pardon. My attention wandered.”

She did not ask where it had been.

When she had finished, he thanked her politely and left the bed long enough to put away the box and extinguish the lamps. His shadow, elongated by the low red light of the fire, swooped and slid around the walls, then climbed to the ceiling like a demon as he rejoined her. The sheets billowed with a cool draft as he settled under them. They lay then, watching the flickering firelight on the walls, listening to the soft popping of the flames and the night wind outside.

Angelica’s heart was beating so hard that she could hear its feathery resonance in her ears. She counted the strokes while she lay with every muscle tensed, waiting for a movement toward her.

The seconds and minutes thudded away into silence. There was not even a fraction of shift in position from the man beside her. Inch by slow inch, she let her guard down. Some time later, when the fire was no more than a pale orange glow, she slept.

A scraping noise followed by a thud woke her. She came awake in a single moment and sat up in bed.

“It’s nothing,” Renold said, “just a neighbor exercising his shovel.”

Perhaps she was not as awake as she thought “What?” she said in confusion. “But why?”

“He doesn’t trust his grown sons, his young wife, or any banking establishment. His shovel, on the other hand, doesn’t want his money, buries deep, and tells no secrets.”

She stared at Renold, alerted by something in the bored sound of his voice. He lay with one hand behind his head, and was far too aware for a man supposed to have been asleep. She said, “But you know about it, and so could anyone else who followed the noise.”

“Maybe, but he’s fairly safe. He’s on his own premises.”

“If you say so.” The activity seemed closer, but she had discovered how well sound traveled in these back courts.

He smiled in the darkness; it could be heard in his voice as he spoke. “So shall I croon you a lullaby to put you back to sleep? Or, like a kindly nursemaid, rock you after a nice dose of straight brandy enlivened with mother’s milk?”

“I don’t think either will be necessary,” she replied with some austerity.

“Too bad.”

She waited, with more anticipation than she liked to admit, for what he would say next. He lapsed into silence, however. After a moment, she lay back down and closed her eyes.

The liveliest feeling grew in her that he was watching her in the dimness. Breathing immediately became awkward, a matter of careful coordination. Her arm itched, but she did her best to ignore it; the last thing she wanted was to invite more comment by appearing restless. She wondered if the neckline of her nightgown was too revealing, for there seemed to be a hint of coolness across the top of one breast. She wished she knew the time, for it seemed this night would go on forever.

Daylight was streaming into the room when she opened her eyes again. A small sound had brought her awake, the quiet opening of the French doors, she thought. She turned her head in that direction.

The doors were thrown wide, letting in a draft of cool air and the usual smells of coffee brewing and bread baking from the kitchen, as well as an odd scent of fresh-turned earth. Renold, with his dressing gown pulled around him, was standing on the balcony. His hands were braced on the railing as he gazed out over the courtyard. The look on his face was assessing, and not quite pleased.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Come and see,” he said without turning.

She swung from the bed and found her dressing sacque, groping for the sleeves as she moved to join him. He glanced at her as she stopped at his side. She met his gaze and lifted a winged brow in inquiry. He nodded toward the ground below.

Swinging to look, she caught her breath with the onslaught of surprise and enchantment. The tangle of vines, fig trees, weeds, and household trash that had crowded the courtyard was gone. In its place was a floor of gray-blue slate set with a center fountain of black wrought iron stacked in a triple tier. Paths radiated from the sparkling flow of water. Between the walkways were parterre beds in geometric designs that were planted with a rich array of iris and shrub roses and herbs, all outlined with violas. The plantings were new and small, with the earth showing dark and rich between them, but the potential for fragrance and beauty was plain.

Last night there had been nothing there; this morning there was a garden. The task, with all its complications of piping water to the fountain, laying and leveling the stones, digging the beds and setting the plants, was formidable. To complete it all required a high level of knowledge, planning, and organization. To see it done in a single night needed a will of tempered steel and a consummate ability to command men.

“Astounding,” she said in dazed tones. “How did you manage it?”

“You approve?”

“How could I not?” She paused, then said dryly as realization struck her, “A neighbor burying his money, was it? And I believed you.”

His smile flashed and was gone. “If there’s anything you want changed, please say so and it will be done. I only wanted some semblance of the finished garden installed quickly — to surprise you.”

“You did that, of course,” she said, watching him, “but I’m amazed at your memory. There isn’t, that I can see, a straight row of anything down there.”

“No regimented soldiers of blooms or greenery,” he agreed quietly.

“And I can really change it as I like?” she asked.

“Anything about it, or everything if that is your whim.”

There was warmth in his voice that had not been there before. They stood for a long moment, staring at each other while beyond them the morning sun struck over the courtyard wall, making patterns of bright light across the new earth and sturdy green plants, pausing to dance in the fountain.

Bit by bit, her eyes cooled, turned a deep and distressed cornflower blue. “I should thank you,” she said, “and might, except that I’m waiting to hear what you expect as a reward for such a gift.”

His face did not change. She might not have known of the abrupt surge of his anger if she had not heard the gallery railing creak under the pressure of his hands. His voice as he spoke was even, however, and only slightly shaded with self-mockery. “You have so obviously divined my character and my motives. It would be useless to pretend, then, that I want nothing. More, I would not wish to disappoint you at this stage of the affair. The answer must be that, in spite of last night, I anticipate the ultimate sacrifice.”

She had thought to hear a denial, or at most a vague hint wrapped up in a pretty speech. She said in disbelief, “You admit it?”

“Shocking, is it not, to hear such a depraved declaration? Especially as you so are virginal, so untouched. Still, it would give the infinite pleasure to accept that great boon and to return it in double measure, plunging in deep and remaining long.”

“Don’t!” She whirled away from him.

He shot out a hand to catch her arm. “Why so upset, chérie? Unless you are not so pure as you would have me think? Unless you know the gift I want?”

“I can guess it, pure or not,” she said, twisting her wrist in his hands in a futile effort to break his hold.

“Can you? There is a name for it. Do you know it?” The words were low, suggestive.

“No,” she snapped in fury, “nor do I want to hear it.”

“But it’s such a beautiful word, with so much of joy and happiness and bright glory in it.”

She gave a violent shake of her head. “Yes, and so much degradation.”