Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) (28 page)

Gerald’s father, and Gerald, had followed Pierre’s example. They had planned, schemed, and labored in their shirtsleeves alongside their hands to build something worth keeping. That a place that had taken so long to bring to perfection could have been lost on the turn of a card defied belief.

Turning his head in Angelica’s direction, he found her watching him. Her face was sober, her eyes as full of sadness and grace as those of a Madonna. If she felt any sense of homecoming, any pride of possession, she was courteous enough not to show it.

Politeness and something that might be good breeding also carried her through the next hour, he thought. It was not sangfroid, he knew, nor was it carelessness, for he felt the tremors that rippled over her as he led her from the field hands to the artisans and their apprentices, then on to the yard boys and girls, the cook’s helpers, the housemaids, and from there up to the butler, his mother’s personal maid, and the cook. Angelica might be nervous, but she took it in stride, smiling and giving each person a pleasant greeting or appropriate answer to their comment.

Margaret Delaup, waiting at the top of the stairs, was last. Deborah had gone on ahead, running lightly up the steps to hug her mother and stand beside her to exchange quick, half-smothered comments while they waited. The eyes of both women were suspiciously intent as Renold and his wife reached them.

“Bonheur welcomes you,” Margaret Delaup said, an odd, impersonal phrase conveying little enthusiasm. “I hope you will find your new home agreeable.”

Angelica smiled, though it was no more than a mechanical movement of the lips. “You’re very kind,” she said with great politeness and no discernible inflection.

Margaret lifted a brow. “I would turn over the keys to your domain to you at once, except I understand you have been unwell, and I am sure you are tired from your journey. I would not want you to be burdened with trouble and responsibility too quickly.”

“You’re quite right,” Angelica said, her voice even. “I expect I will be better in a few days. Perhaps we can settle things then without too much fuss or ceremony.”

Renold, listening to the ultra-polite exchange, felt the hair rise up on the back of his neck. As soon as he was able, he steered Angelica toward the suite of rooms, including bedchamber, dressing room, and sitting room, that they would occupy. Leaving her to direct the unpacking and settle in, he escaped to the stable for a tour of inspection.

The air inside the long, low building was heavy with the smell of hay and horses, and acrid with ammonia. Standing in the open run, he made a mental note to speak to the stable boys about the consequences, general and personal, of the failure to muck out the stalls thoroughly and often, beginning today.

The quiet fell gratefully on his mind. He could hear the crunch of a horse eating oats, the snuffling of another around a water bucket. However, the approach of one of the barnyard cats was noiseless.

The cat stopped beside the open doorway where the sun cut across the floor with a wedge of golden light. It surveyed him with an unblinking gaze, then, unimpressed, sat down and lifted a leg to groom itself.

Renold skirted the cat, walking along the row of stalls. He passed a hand over the low gates, feeling the wood where bored horses had chewed chunks from the planking, stopping now and then to pat an inquisitive head or scratch a twitching ear. Most of the horses seemed in fine condition, in spite of the dirty litter in the corners.

He wondered if Angelica would permit him to choose a mount for her. If she preferred to do it herself, he would see to it that the range of animals was restricted and excellent, so that the final selection made no real difference.

Manipulative, she had called him. He was that, and then some.

A memory of the night before, of Angelica in his arms, drifted through his mind. He stopped abruptly. Turning to put his back against a heavy upright, he stood frowning at the dust turning in pale gold motes in the shafts of sunlight streaming through the cracks in the walls.

Something in her response disturbed him. It wasn’t that she was unwilling or cool. She had moved into his arms with perfect naturalness each one of the three times during the evening and early morning that he had reached for her. Her innocence wasn’t a factor; he was charmed by it, and also by the assiduous way she dispensed with a little more of it each time they made love.

No, it was something less obvious that was lacking. She was cooperation itself as she moved and turned under his hands, and yet she never made a sound. She did not evade a caress, but neither did she volunteer one. Her skin flushed, her heart throbbed under his hands, she held him at the peak of her pleasure with near desperation, but she never opened her eyes, never looked into his. Afterward, she lay close in his arms, staring into space while she fingered the burn scars along his ribs as if telling her rosary, but she did not try to hold him when at last he turned to sleep.

Silent, always silent, that was a part of what troubled him. The sweet, beguiling prelude to love and its thunderous cataracts of joy were miracles she kept to herself. It was as if she held them close inside her because she could not afford to share them. Or else had no one to share them with, especially not him.

His fault. It must be.

She didn’t trust him.

Possibly his scars repelled her, were reminders of things she shuddered away from in her mind.

Or maybe it was only that he was expecting too much of a less than ideal marriage, and the problem was simply that she didn’t, couldn’t, love him.

But she might have, if things had been different, if he had never embarked on his program of retribution and restitution. The first time they made love, she had been — loving.

He had that memory. It was a part of his punishment, self-inflicted and obsessive, that he had that memory.

That wasn’t all.

Several times this morning, he had caught her watching him. The look in her eyes gave him the same wariness he felt when hearing footsteps behind him on a dark street, the same inclination to look to his weapons.

Danger came in many forms, and he had learned to recognize most of them. Instinct told him this was a new one, though his brain had trouble accepting it.

What was going on in her mind? Was she concocting a revenge of her own? Had she, just maybe, begun already?

It was all too likely. She had not reacted to his confession of his misdeeds as he had expected. Tantrums, tears, even cold rejection: He had looked for these things, had decided how he would manage them.

Instead, she had expressed her pain and scathing anger, given him her opinion of his tactics and his morals, then accepted the situation. She had made no threats to dissolve the marriage, never mentioned barring him from Bonheur, had made not the slightest attempt to deny him her bed. She had smiled and been polite and held her mouth for his kiss.

If he was as arrogant as she seemed to think, he would consider the thing over and done, would expect matters to go along smoothly from here on out. He wasn’t. He didn’t.

She had thrown up barriers to her heart and mind, locking him outside. Within that fastness, she was plotting in her diabolically quiet woman’s fashion. He knew it, he could feel it. Whatever she was up to, he would have to guard against it as best he could.

But if she was in the mood for vengeance now, what would she be when she discovered that her father and Eddington were alive? He did not dare think of it.

So intimate an enemy. It was the last thing he had expected.

Let the battle be joined, then. The skirmishes should be remarkable, if he managed to live through them. And if he went down in defeat, well, he could think of no one to whom he would rather surrender.

A stunning thing, that, to recognize at this late date.

A shadow fell through the stable doorway, stretching toward where Renold stood. Michel followed his own dark image. He stood a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom, then, catching sight of Renold, walked toward him.

“Hiding?” his friend inquired, his voice rich with amusement. “I can’t say I blame you.”

“Rather, seeking a respite.”

Michel’s smile faded. “Shall I go away again? I saw you come this way, and thought to speak to you in private, but I would not intrude.”

Renold sighed and rubbed a hand over his hair, clasping the back of his neck. “You are always welcome, as you must know, since otherwise you would not be at Bonheur. What is it?”

Unease was plain in the other man’s face. He swung away, moving to the empty stall nearby where he put his back against the gate and thrust his hands into his pockets. He studied the tips of his shoes for long seconds before he looked up in sudden decision.

“I wanted—” He stopped, took a deep breath, and started again. “I would like your permission to pay my addresses to Deborah.”

Renold had expected many things, from a homily on the duties of a husband to a decision to return to New Orleans on the next boat. This request he had not foreseen. Surprise and the instant leap of suspicion made his voice abrupt. “Why?”

“I’ve known your sister since she was a child, have watched her grow up and turn into a lovely woman. I always had an affection for her, but thought I didn’t have a chance. Your family has always been a bit better off than mine. Then, I expected M’sieur Delaup to have her future planned and settled.”

“He tried it,” Renold said with dry emphasis. “Deborah set him straight.”

“She knows her mind,” Michel said with a smile. “It seemed she might consider the idle and lacking in ambition compared to her brother. I was fine for teaching her to waltz or as a harmless male to use for practicing her flirtation, but nothing more serious. Lately, I’ve come to think — that is, Angelica suggested that I might have a chance.”

“Angelica.” The word was expressionless. To keep it so required startling effort.

“She was kind enough to listen to my doubts and problems.”

“I’m sure. She is nothing if not kind.”

A frown gathered in the other man’s dark eyes. He dropped his head, then looked up again. “God, Renold, I don’t know you any more. I thought you would be happy to hear that I am entranced by your sister, regardless of whether you wanted me for a brother-in-law or not!”

“I might at that,” he said softly, “if I didn’t have to worry that courting my sister might make an extremely useful excuse for staying close to my wife. Especially if she is going, to be your adviser in love.”

Michel squared his shoulders. Dark color invaded his face, turning his olive skin to a gray hue. His mouth set in a straight line, he said, “That’s finally enough. You will oblige me by naming your seconds.”

“No.” The word was as quiet as the request had been.

“Friendship, I suppose, prevents it,” Michel said bitterly.

“Rather, a disinclination for exertion at the moment. And the certain knowledge that a dueling injury would make you picturesque and appealing, while I would be cast once more in the role of villain.”

“If you are the one injured, what then?” Michel said with justifiable irritation.

Renold shook his head, his gaze level. “Then I would have gotten what I no doubt deserved — in the view of both ladies, of course, not to mention their defender.” He added, “I can’t win either way, therefore I refuse to fight.”

“You are afraid you’ll kill me in your ridiculous jealousy,” Michel charged, lifting a clenched fist.

“I am afraid I will be tempted, yes, and afraid I will try. I’m afraid that if I do try, simple fairness will require that I give you the privilege of retaliating in kind. And I greatly fear that you will not be able to resist the opportunity to make Angelica a widow.”

“I can see you allowing it.” The words were stiff. Michel followed them with a different tone. “But it’s just talk, isn’t it? I have a feeling that the thing you fear most is that Angelica might be there to watch you kill again, as she did once before when you dispatched one of the thugs who attacked you in New Orleans. It’s my belief you would rather not test the tenderness of her heart.”

“Can you be suggesting I am in love with my wife?” he said in mocking accents. “Calumny. Worse, it’s blasphemy. Possibly tragedy. Or is it a comedy? I think it must be the last, though I’m not laughing.”

“Neither am I,” Michel said. “When you decide which it is, perhaps you will tell Angelica. She isn’t laughing, either.”

Swinging around on his heel, Michel left the stable. Renold stood staring after him, while his mind turned over thoughts of death and dueling and honorable impulses. He contemplated the workings of revenge, and how easily one man could be set against another. In that context, he also considered the nature of women and their inclinations, some honorable, others murderous.

Was it possible that Angelica, chafing at his hold upon her, had found a way out? Could she have set Michel against him with gentle encouragement, hoping that his friend would kill him? To do that, of course, she would have to understand her husband’s motives and feelings almost as well as he knew them himself. Or better.

No. She was not that intuitive or that vengeful. Was she?

She could not hate him that much. Could she?

With a low sound in his throat, he turned to the post behind him and struck it a hard, sharp blow. The post shuddered under the impact. Renold pressed his fist against the vibrating wood, then rested his forehead on it. He closed his eyes.