Triumph in Arms (10 page)

“Is she all right?”

She inhaled sharply, almost dropping the small tisane tray she carried before she recognized the deep voice. It was Christien, leaning with his back against the wall a few feet down the hall from her mother’s door. He had finished his shave, reclaimed his shirt and donned frock coat and boots, but she could not quite banish the image in her mind of his half-naked splendor. The concern indicated by his waiting in the hall for news surprised her, but was also oddly gratifying. It was a second before she could find words to answer him.

“She is perfectly well, thank you.”

“No demand to have me horsewhipped or thrown out on my ear?”

“She could hardly do that even if she wanted.” Reine gave him a sardonic smile as she moved away from the door to prevent their voices from disturbing her mother. “It’s your house, after all.”

He ignored that as he caught up with her in a single smooth stride, keeping pace as she continued down the hall. “No message sending for the priest, either?”

“For a hasty wedding, you mean? No.”

“Too bad.”

She stopped, turned to face him as he halted in his turn. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“I would prefer it,” he answered, his gaze steady. “What of you?”

What did she really want? On one hand, she felt as if she was being hauled to the altar with her feet dragging. On the other, the whole affair seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. The sword master might be fearless on the dueling field, but could easily change his mind and put them off the property once the gossip mill began to grind out all the old rumors and accusations. Delay could lead to calamity.

She moistened her lips, which had suddenly gone dry, speaking with her gaze on his cravat. “No. It would suit me, as well. Shall we say in a week’s time?”

“The only thing better would be if it took place tomorrow.”

He was an impatient bridegroom. She should be flattered, and would be if not certain he wanted primarily to have the matter settled. As with most men of decision, once resolved on a course of action, his instinct would be to move forward with all speed.

Oh, she did not doubt he wanted her; she was not so foolish as to think that he would have offered marriage otherwise. It was only that she was fairly sure he wanted River’s Edge more. And why would he not? It was a valuable property, and he apparently had nothing except his reputation as one of the deadliest swordsmen in New Orleans.

She knew all that, so it was ridiculous to be so affected by his declaration. Yet she could not deny the intoxicating anticipation that ran in her veins at the thought of their wedding night. If a dread of what he might think of her afterward blended with it, that was her secret.

Drawing a deep, sustaining breath, she tipped her head in agreement. “Excellent. In the chapel here, then, as we said before. You will naturally invite whomever you please.”

“I have a few friends who might like to witness the deed.”

“If you will draw up a list, I’ll see they receive notice.”

“I’ll take care of it. Unless you prefer to be more formal?”

“Not at all. It won’t be a particularly formal affair. To wear an elaborate gown and enter into the usual celebrations would be inappropriate under the circumstances, as I’m sure you must realize.”

He reached to put a knuckle under her chin, tilting it up so she was forced to meet his rich brown-black gaze. “Whatever you wear, you will be beautiful,” he said. “And I will try not to humiliate you with my attire.”

“I don’t…I’m not…If you mean the shirt—” she began as fiery color surged to her hairline. She wished rather frantically that she had never called attention to the state of his linen, no matter how pure her motives.

“Never mind. I will wear with pride whatever you make for me. As for the rest, you’ll have to trust me.”

“Yes,” she whispered, lost in the darkness of his eyes.

He smiled and brushed her lips with his in a kiss with the sweet, tingling taste of promise. Inclining his head, he let her go.

Reine’s throat felt tight and her chest leaden as she continued toward the stairs and the outside kitchen. It was a lie she had spoken and she knew it well. Trusting him was the last thing she could do.

T
he muffled squeal, followed by a despairing protest, came from the stable. Christien drew up so abruptly that his big black danced a few steps along the fenced wagon path before coming to a halt. Though wary of another hysterical scene similar to the one after Madame Cassard’s discovery of Reine in his bedchamber yesterday morning, he could hardly pass by without investigation. He was by no means sure it was the older lady he’d heard, anyway. It might have been Reine or even Marguerite. In fact, it was more likely to be one or the other, since Madame Cassard rarely, if ever, left the house.

The murmur of voices, one female, the other overriding and gruffly male, came from the stable’s great open center, which was wide enough to drive a wagon through. The breathless fear in the lighter one decided Christien. With a silent command, he set the black in motion again, ducking a little as he rode into the twilight dimness of the outbuilding’s interior.

It was a second before his eyes could adjust from the dazzling summer morning outside. He could barely
make out the dark shape of a carriage, a line of stalls, the shapes of harness and riding tack on hooks, the cavernous rise of a loft or mound of hay in one corner. A cat sat cleaning its paw in a patch of sunshine while a chicken stalked around it with a wary air. The air was thick with the smells of hay, leather, old manure and dust.

A flurry of movement at the edge of the haystack caught his attention. It became two struggling figures, a white man in the rough garb of a laborer who straddled a young black kitchen maid with her skirts up to her waist and her apron twisted around as she pushed and shoved at him.

“You there!” Christien rapped out in hard command. “Let the girl go. Come out where I can see you.”

The man cursed and rolled off the woman before climbing to his feet. The girl scrambled away, dragging her skirts down, sobbing under her breath. Grabbing up an overturned basket, she hurriedly picked up the clutch of eggs that had spilled from it, leaving the broken ones lying in their cracked shells. With a single wide-eyed glance at Christien, she fled through the rear opening of the stable and disappeared from sight.

“What the hell do you want?”

The question was surly and held an
Américain
twang. The man who asked it was thick and squat, with a shock of sandy gray hair and pale eyes. His manner showed a marked lack of respect, almost as if he felt he was the aggrieved party. Christien looked him up and down and was unimpressed by what he saw.

“You’ll be the overseer,” he said in grim recognition. “Kingsley, I believe it was.” He swung down from his
horse and tethered the black to a support post with a quick twist of the reins.

“What’s it to you?”

“Bend your mind to it. I’m sure it will come to you.”

The man laughed, a jarring sound without humor. “Oh, yeah, the gent that won the place off old man Cassard. The one who’ll be marryin’ Madame Pingre. I guess you think you’re sittin’ purty.”

Christien’s voice, never loud, grew softer still. His friends could have told the overseer it was not a good sign.

“We will leave Madame Pingre out of this. All you need understand is that I am the owner of River’s Edge. Whatever may have been tolerated in the past in the way of conduct toward females on this property no longer applies. You will leave them strictly alone. Is that understood?”

“Aw, don’t pay no mind to that gal. She wanted it, no matter how much she squalled about it.”

“It appeared otherwise.” Christien, noting details about a possible opponent without conscious thought, let his gaze linger a moment on the odd pattern of calluses on the man’s hands. They had the look of hard labor with a hoe or, just possibly, strenuous practice with a sword. Both seemed equally unlikely.

“I tell you—”

“Don’t,” Christien recommended. “Listen well, because this is the last time I will say it. Leave the women alone.”

“Or what? What you goin’ to do, huh? Fire me? You
better be talkin’ to that bride of yours, let her tell you how things stand around here.”

Christien moved with deceptive lack of speed, yet one moment the overseer was rocking on his heels, sneering, and the next he was stretched out on the ground. Kingsley stared up at him with shock and rage in his eyes. Pushing to one elbow, he swiped at his nose and came away with blood on his fingers.

“That,” Christien said gently, “is how things stand.”

Behind him, there came a choked sound that might have been an objection, but could also have been a laugh. He spared a brief glance toward the stable doorway. Paul Cassard stood poised there as if he didn’t know whether to run or dance a jig.

Kingsley gave them both a sour look but settled his most malevolent stare on Christien. “You’ll live to regret this,” he said, his voice thick.

“Will I? Collect what you’re owed and get off the place. You have until dark to be gone.”

“
Monsieur,
” Paul said, coming a step closer, “Christien?”

“The boy knows. He’ll tell you.”

“Nothing he can say will make a difference. You aren’t welcome at River’s Edge.” One of the eggs from the kitchen maid’s basket had been spoiled. Its smell permeated the air, overriding the normal odors. It was not, Christien thought, the only thing rotten in the stable.

“You don’t know what you doin’,” the overseer insisted.

“Your mistake. I know full well.” A man who felt
he had the right to behave as he pleased with any female could not be allowed to remain in the vicinity of Reine and Marguerite. It could not be allowed, no matter the consequences.

“You better be checkin’ with Madame Pingre. I know a thing or two about that lady and her doings that she’d not like anybody to—”

He got no further. Christien reached to close hard fingers on the man’s shirtfront. Hauling him to his feet, he slammed him against the wall behind him. He shoved his face close to that of the overseer. “Do not speak of the woman who is to be my wife. Don’t breathe her name. Don’t utter a word of anything that may concern her. If I hear that you have spread any tale of her whatever, I will personally find you and slice the hide from your miserable body in strips so small they can be used for fish bait. Do I make myself clear?”

The man’s face was reddish purple, the veins swollen in his neck and forehead from the twisted tightness of his shirt collar. He tried to speak, but only made a choking sound.

“Do you understand?” Christien repeated.

Kingsley gave a bobbing nod, though his eyes shone with murderous, fear-tinged fury. He grasped Christien’s wrist, trying to break his hold.

“Monsieur,”
Paul said in worried tones. Moving forward, he touched Christien’s shoulder.

Christien shuddered. With an abrupt gesture, he shoved the overseer from him in revulsion.

Kingsley stumbled back, caught his balance. With
a last look of narrow-eyed hatred, he backed toward the stable’s rear door. Staggering as he turned, he shambled off and was lost to view.

“Sacré,”
Paul Cassard said in a wondering tone. “You fired him.”

“I trust your father won’t be too displeased. Or Reine.”

“They may worry about what he’ll tell around the countryside.”

“I did my best to discourage that, though I don’t know what he can say that hasn’t been whispered up and down the river already.”

“No.” The boy gave him a wary glance. “Not that I think there’s anything to be told.
Mais,
you put King on the ground. I never thought to see it.”

“He was taken by surprise.” Paul meant to deflect his interest in gossip. Christien would allow it, for now.

The boy nodded. “He didn’t expect you to face him down.”

“Maybe it was time someone did,” Christien said, his thoughts still on other things.

“Guess he figured you might run him through with a sword next time you saw him. Makes me wonder, too. Would you?”

“Possibly.”

“Figured it.” The boy gave a wise nod. “Lucky for us it was you who won at cards the other night. At least, I think so.”

Christien turned his head to give Paul his full attention. “Do you indeed? I’m honored. Now, if only your sister felt the same.”

“Could be she will.” Paul ducked his head. “I mean, she’s bound to come around sooner or later.”

“Your confidence is overwhelming.” Christien could not prevent the dry note that echoed in his voice.

“Yeah. Don’t suppose you feel like sparring this morning?”

“You are offering to be my partner?” It was a victory of sorts, and Christien was grateful for it.

Paul gave a short nod. “I saw where you’d been to town, brought back more padding, masks and what not. That should please Reine.” He paused to give him a sly upward look. “Seeing as that means something to you.”

“Scamp,” Christien said without heat. “Come along, then, and we’ll see if we can make a swordsman of you.”

A shy smile came and went across the boy’s face as he turned in the direction of the house. Christien followed, lingering only long enough to hand his mount off to a stable boy who appeared as if from hiding. He frowned as he walked, however. And as he could not tell which direction the overseer had taken as he left the stable, he did not let down his guard.

R
eine waited, stitching furiously on the shirt for her husband-to-be, until she heard her father leave the smoking room and mount the stairs to bed. Setting her sewing aside, she rose and left the salon.

The door to the male domain stood open. A small, square room at the back corner of the house beyond the dining room, it held a gaming table covered with green baize and set with sturdy chairs, a chest on which stood a tray holding liquor decanters beside a teakwood tobacco humidor and a pair of wing chairs tufted in maroon velvet that were drawn up near a fireplace. A black marble mantel surmounted the empty firebox with a small portrait of Theodore staring down from above it. Christien stood at the card table, where he gathered the cards he and her father had used, fitting them back into their velvet-lined case.

Without bothering to knock, she walked into the room. “You take too much upon yourself,
monsieur,
” she began without preamble.

He looked up, his features still and closed in, as if she was the last person he wished to see. “How so?”

“I am told you have let the overseer go.”

“The man was abusing one of the female slaves. I didn’t care to have him around.” He reached for the ivory chips scattered over the tabletop, stacking them into their slots with strong brown fingers that showed the pale scars of innumerable sword cuts. She stared at them an instant, aware of a drawing sensation deep inside her until she forced it from her.

She had suspected Kingsley of taking female slaves into his bed, a habit all too common among overseers. Certainly the presence of light-skinned babies in the slave nursery was damning evidence. Such arrangements were usually of mutual benefit, mutual consent, however, as the favor of the overseer usually meant freedom from field labor for the woman. That Kingsley might have been using force sickened her. She was fiercely glad that Christien had put a stop to it. Still, there were other considerations.

“What will we do for someone to see to it the cane is harvested and made into sugar, the corn brought in, mules and oxen looked after?” she asked. “Then there is the wood to be cut and hauled for the winter for the house and cabins, and a thousand other tasks. You might at least have found a replacement before dismissing him.”

Christien looked up. “You want him brought back?”

“I didn’t say that.” Something in the dark pools of his eyes sent a trickle of alarm along her nerves.

“Good. I can see to the things you mentioned. But is that your real concern, or are you afraid he may talk out of turn?”

She drew a sharp breath. Her heart threatened to choke her with its suffocating beat, so it was a moment before she could find her voice. “What do you mean?”

“He threatened it.”

“Did he?”

“I believe I convinced him it would not be wise.”

Her relief was staggering. She moved to one of the wing chairs, sinking down into it. It crossed her mind to ask how Kingsley’s silence had been assured. Given Christien’s deadly reputation with a sword, however, she was not certain she wanted to hear.

From the corner of her eye, she was aware of Theodore’s portrait. It had been painted at the time of their wedding, and given to her by her mother-in-law later while she packed for Paris. The likeness showed him standing with one hand resting on a Roman plinth, a Byronic figure with long brown waves hanging around his face, dark eyes set rather close together, an undershot jaw and full red lips. He wore evening clothes of somewhat florid style that had been cut with triangular lapels to make his shoulders appear wider. His expression was brooding and a little petulant, as if he was bored with sitting for the portrait yet arrogantly certain his form was worth recording for posterity.

The likeness was excellent. It had been sent, so his mother said, as a reminder to Marguerite of the man who had been her father. Reine had relegated it to this room because it seemed to increase the nightmares that plagued her daughter.

Setting the last of the chips into the box, Christien
closed the lid. “It might have gone better if I’d had some idea of what the man intended to say.”

“He didn’t tell you.”

“He seemed to think you should do that. At least, that was my impression.” Turning, he leaned his hips against the table and crossed his arms over his chest.

He was obviously waiting to be informed. She had no wish to go into the matter, could not bear to at this moment. “It’s nothing, really.”

“It’s nothing, but has kept your father from letting the man go, in spite of his behavior.”

“He has been here all his life, knows exactly what should be done. My father has a fine grasp of the principles of farming but is hardly the man to force others to labor in the sun.” She shook her head. “You must realize that, surely, by now. You have been at the card table with him for much of the past three days.”

“That troubles you?”

“I had thought losing everything to you might make him cautious at the gaming table. That can hardly happen if you encourage him.” She made the point with emphasis, glad to think that she had distracted him from his earlier question.

“Gaming is a fever for some,” Christien answered, “the eternal turn of the cards being the appeal rather than winning. It seemed best to indulge him here at River’s Edge where it can do no harm since we play for penny stakes. You will note that he hasn’t gone into town since I arrived.”

What she noted was the thought the sword master had given the problem and the way he had acted upon
it, without fanfare but with every consideration for her father’s welfare. A peculiar sensation moved over her, one compounded of reluctant gratitude and something more she could not name. “You think it may last?”

“That remains to be seen. He seems satisfied for the moment.”

It was also true that her father enjoyed Christien’s company. Perhaps he had need of masculine companionship. Paul was always available, of course, but her brother was still rather young and had no taste for card games. The saints be praised.

“What I had hoped to discover,” Christien said, leaving his stern pose to move toward her, “is that you were feeling neglected as I’ve spent so much time with your father.”

“Don’t be absurd.” She distrusted the curl of his smile, the dark look in his eyes. Why did he have to be so attractive in this mood? It was most unfair when she wanted to be annoyed with him. “You also spend time with Paul and Marguerite, and I have not complained there.”

“But you are keeping an accounting.” His face bemused, he reached with his long, hard fingers to pluck a stray sewing thread from the fullness of her skirt, rolling it between them before dropping it to the Brussels carpet.

“No such thing,” she said in exasperation, brushing where he touched in case there were more threads. “I was merely observing—”

“Now I am under observation.”

He was, though not in the way he meant. She seemed unable to sleep until she knew he was in the house at night. Twice in these past few days he had left at midnight and not returned until the early morning.

Face flaming, she said, “What you do and with whom is none of my concern.”

“Oh, but it is.” He took her hand in a warm grasp. “I give you leave to concern yourself with every minute of my days, especially those spent alone like this.”

His days, but not his nights. In her recognition of that point, it was an instant before she realized he was drawing her toward the gaming table. He released her as they reached its edge, placed his hands at her waist and lifted her with effortless strength so she was seated upon it.

“What are you doing?” She meant it to be a demand, but it came out as a choked exclamation.

“Making certain you can’t suddenly remember a duty elsewhere in the middle of our conversation,” he answered, wading into her skirts until he stood between her knees.

“Let me down at once. What if someone should come in?” With his arms still around her, there seemed nothing to do with her hands except to place them on his upper arms. Her breasts grazed his coat front so her nipples tightened into small, tingling buds at the friction. An aching vulnerability invaded the space between her spread thighs. With it came an urgent need for heat and pressure there, just there at their apex where he was not quite touching her.

“They have been allowing us time to become
acquainted. Haven’t you noticed? Having been strictly forbidden to be gallant, I believe it’s time I took base advantage of it.”

A protest hovered on her lips, but died away unspoken as he bent his head, hesitated, then set his mouth to hers. Her gasp of mingled shock and pleasure gave him deeper access and he accepted it without pause. The taste of him melted on her tongue, sweet and rich, flavored with sunshine, earthiness and rampant desire. He eased nearer, deepening the joining, investigating the tender surfaces of her mouth, the glasslike edges of her teeth, abrading her tongue with sinuous invitation to return the favor. She took it in a perilous, half-reluctant foray, then ventured more boldly as pleasure bloomed inside her.

His arms became a haven once more as on that first night, one so perfect it sent her to the edge of delirium in the space of heartbeat. Tears rose in her eyes for the rightness of it, the exquisite flavor and the promise. She could not move, could not breathe or reason. Her fingers closed upon the worsted of his coat sleeve, holding him, slowly drawing him closer against her.

He smoothed one hand from the indentation of her waist up the rigid slope of her back, spreading his fingers to press her closer still. With the other, he skimmed her rib cage, slid higher, brushed the outer curve of her breast. His thumb circled her nipple, its callused edge scraping the pale gray-green India muslin of her dinner gown.

Hot need rushed through her with such force that she stiffened, stunned by its effect. Languor spread through her, dissolving her bones, sapping her will.
She should call a halt, push away, she knew, but the resolution for it seemed beyond her reach.

She could feel the percussive thunder of his heart, sense the fervid heat of him and the firmness at the juncture of his thighs even through her skirts. Under her clenched fingers, the muscles of his arms were like tempered steel, forged harder than iron with his exacting control.

Such containment was not what she required. She throbbed with need so long suppressed that her blood boiled in her veins. She longed to be touched, yearned mindlessly for that most intimate
touché
from this
maître,
the gesture of victory where the ultimate impalement was prohibited. One touch, only one.

It came, the pressure of a hard palm at the center of her being, a slow and deliberate clasping through layers of silk and linen. She cried out, a sound muffled by his mouth, while bright, shuddering pleasure poured through her in endless waves.

He released her lips, but remained bent over her with one strong hand pressing her forehead against his chest as it rose and fell with the attempt he made to control his ragged breathing. After a moment, she stirred, pushed at him as she attempted to break away.

“Don’t,” he said in low command. “Not yet.”

“Please. I must…You don’t understand.” She was almost incoherent with humiliation, wanting nothing more than to vanish from his sight, hiding away until she could regain her dignity and self-respect.

He took a single step back. “The fault here is mine. I never intended to go so far.”

“Whatever fault there may be, I share it. Try, please, to put it from your mind.”

“As if I could,” he said on a rough sound that was half laugh, half groan.

“I’m aware it may be difficult, but you need not fear a repeat of these few moments.”

“Fear it? By all the saints, I would fight the archangel himself for the chance of living them over again.”

She stared at him, afraid to let herself believe what he implied. “You weren’t…aren’t put off? Theodore said…That is, he assured me my responses were too…too eager, that I was held in such thrall by my own deep responses that I—I unmanned him.”

“No,” Christien said, the word a growl deep in his throat. “You don’t put me off in any fashion.”

She slid from the card table, carefully avoiding his eyes as she shook out her skirts. “It’s kind of you to say so.”

“I am not being kind.”

“Diplomatic, then.” She had to get away before the hard knot in her chest dissolved into tears she could not control. Blindly, she turned toward the door.

“Nor that, either. I speak the bare truth for once in this miserable business. You were lovely, even unforgettable, in your ladylike desire.”

“Gallant, after all.” She attempted a smile, though it was directed at the carpet. Moving with more speed than grace, she set a path for the door. Her hand was on the handle, had almost opened it, when he called after her.

“Reine!”

She turned back, but he was no more than a blur in the center of the room. “Monsieur Lenoir?”

He gave the ghost of a laugh. “You might call me Christien, considering what just passed between us. On this subject, I must tell you that all men are not alike. Some give rein to their passion with no thought of control, others exercise control without passion. Some fortunate few combine them. For any man, a woman’s fervent response is, or should be, his goal and most cherished reward. You may have cared for your Theodore, were doubtless innocent enough when wed to believe whatever he told you. It’s even possible he believed it himself from sheer ignorance. Yet I will undertake to show you soon that your late husband was an arrogant fool.”