Bayou Bride Page 10

  The creak of a board in the gallery floor betrayed the approach of her gallant host. Despite the cover of darkness, Sherry turned her face away. Still, she was vividly aware of the moment when he stepped closer.

  "The mosquitoes will eat you alive out here after dark,” he said, a rough timbre in his voice.

  She did not answer, staring down toward the bayou where a chorus of insects and frogs disturbed the peaceful quiet of the evening.

  After a moment, he went on. “You were right. I should not have said what I did to you, regardless of my thoughts on the subject."

  This, she knew instinctively, was no small concession from this man “You are entitled to your opinion,” she said finally.

  "And you to your privacy. That being said, can we forget our differences and start again?"

  "I suppose we will have to eventually?

  "A pity, too. I almost prefer our arguments to the polite nothings that pass between us at other times. At least when you are angry you are honest."

  "And you are insulting,” she returned, her tone flat.

  "Granted,” he admitted, and hesitated so long she thought he intended to add an explanation. He did not. “Come inside. You didn't drink your coffee. We can have it in the living room now, and that should take up a little time. If we are careful we may be able to get through the rest of the evening without resorting to violence."

  His manner, tinged with reason and quiet humor, was such a change as to rouse suspicion in Sherry's mind. While walking beside him back toward the front entrance she was forced to wonder if her capitulation had been too easy. The idea was not a pleasant one. He needed no encouragement to think her easily persuaded to fall in with his wishes.

  To counter such a misconception, she held herself aloof, taking care not to brush against him as he held the door for her to enter the living room. At his invitation, she poured the coffee from a tray left standing on a side table. Passing Lucien his cup, she took her own to the couch, sinking down into the soft cushions. It did not help that he promptly joined her there.

  "I've just noticed,” she said, her voice brittle, “that there is no television.” It was as good a ruse as any for breaking the silence.

  "There's a portable model around somewhere for my friends who can't bear to miss the football game on Sunday afternoons. If you come across it, feel free to make use of it."

  "Radio? Stereo?"

  "Built in to the wall in my bedroom."

  "Convenient."

  "All the comforts of home,” he agreed with unimpaired patience. “I might even be able to find some dance music, if the idea appeals."

  At any other time, with anyone else, she would have greeted the prospect with enthusiasm, but to go into Lucien's arms, and in his bedroom at that, was more than she was prepared to do. “I don't think so, not tonight,” she said stiffly.

  He did not take offense. “No rush. There will be plenty of time."

  "You seem to have made Bayou's End your own,” she suggested.

  "By default only, since it doesn't suit Paul and my mother."

  "Were you responsible for the renovation, then?"

  "No, not entirely. My mother takes the credit there, redecorating being a hobby of hers. If it had been left to me, the place would be more primitive—though with all the modern creature comforts naturally."

  This last was added with such wry self-knowledge that Sherry was encouraged to ask, “Including Jules and Marie?"

  "I couldn't deprive them of their livelihood,” he answered in mock seriousness.

  From the next room came the rattle and clatter of dishes as Marie cleared the table and removed the remains of their meal. In a few minutes she would be gone, taking the dishes away to the outside kitchen. When she had finished for the day, she would go home to Jules, no doubt, leaving Sherry here alone with Lucien in this great house.

  Her coffee was growing cold. Sherry drank a few swallows, then set the cup and saucer onto the glass-topped coffee table. The strong brew did nothing to control the sudden flutter of nerves inside her.

  Lucien leaned forward to set his cup beside Sherry's. Unbuttoning his suit jacket and vest, he shrugged out of them, throwing them across the back of the couch.

  "That's better,” he said, his firm mouth curving in smile as he stretched, turning so that he faced her with his arm along the back of the couch. “You can relax too, you know. There's no need to be so tense. We called a truce, remember? Lean back, take off your shoes."

  It was an inviting prospect especially with him lounging at ease beside her. Perhaps he had been right earlier. Perhaps she was being oversensitive, too suspicious, looking for pitfalls where there were none. There was no reason, of course, why she should be cooperative, and yet it was impossible not to recognize that in making the passing hours difficult for Lucien, she was also making them difficult for herself. So long as she did not lose sight of the fact that he was keeping her here against her will, why not fall in with his mood?

  Her shoes were sandals, wisps of white leather with fairly snug straps to keep them on her feet. After a moment's hesitation she reached down, fumbling for the buckle.

  "Lift your foot,” he said, and as she obeyed, slipped the sandals one after the other from her nylon-clad feet and dropped them on the rug, sending her a smile of lazy approval.

  His fingers about her ankles had been warm and firm. To rid herself of their vibrant touch upon her skin she tucked her feet beneath her. His intent regard was not easy to hold. She turned her attention to his capable fingers as he began to unfasten the links from his cuffs. Seeing the direction of her gaze, he extended his wrists. “My turn."

  Her hands were far from steady as she tried not to touch his hard brown wrists with their stiff black hairs. She fumbled, uncertain of how the twists of gold worked. As last she slipped them from their holes and dropped them into his outstretched palm.

  "Merci, Chérie," he said, his voice deep and husky.

  Her eyelashes made fan shadows on her cheeks and as she looked away, refusing to meet his eyes, he grasped her hand.

  "You are not like Paul's other girls."

  "No?” she asked, an unconscious query in her voice.

  "No. You have a quality of stillness. There is nothing blatant about you. Your figure is not the voluptuous type that he chooses. Not that it isn't lovely, but you have a tender symmetry, the kind of perfection that does not usually appeal to my brother."

  Sherry was by no means sure that she enjoyed this analysis of her shape and personality. It made her too conscious of herself, of the material gently shaped to her breasts, and her skirt that clung to the curve of her hip and thigh.

  "You mean, I think, that I don't strike you as being desirable."

  He frowned. “Obvious allure is best left to stage personalities, bar girls, and insecure teen-agers trying to be women. You strike me as being a lady."

  It was a lovely compliment and she could not help being pleased, and yet she was not certain she liked the idea. Seeing the arrested expression on her face, he chuckled. “A sensuous lady,” he said, smoothing his thumb caressingly over the pulse that throbbed in her wrist, watching with enjoyment the color that slowly stained her shoulders and cheeks, rising to her hairline.

  "Chérie, Chérie," he sighed, and she thought the amusement in his voice was for himself as well as for her. “A girl who can still blush. For the first time in my life I find myself envying Paul for something, his possession of you."

  Anger, more at his enjoyment of her confusion than for his words, touched her. “I am not Paul's possession."

  "Oh? I thought you and he had pledged your undying love."

  "There is a difference between being loved"—she emphasized the last word—"and being possessed."

  A dangerous light sprang into his black eyes. He reached for her with the assurance of a man unused to resistance. “Oh yes,” he said, drawing her inexorably into his arms. “But I'm not sure you truly know the difference—yet."

&
nbsp; "No,” she whispered, a terrible fear spreading through with the aching pain of poison. “No,” she said again but the protest was smothered against her parted lips as his mouth came down over hers.

  Her arms were pressed against his chest, stilling movement. She was caught so tightly she could hardly breathe. The soft cushions of the back of the couch cradled her head, preventing her from evading his kiss.

  Abruptly, he raised his head. Her heart pounded, shaking her breast as it rose and fell. Her breath came quickly through her throbbing lips. She stared up into his eyes that were dark with passion and something else that bordered on amazement.

  Lowering his head once more, he pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, trailing fire along her cheek to the tender softness of her neck. With strangely gentle fingers he pushed the sleeve of her dress off her shoulder. As she flinched, the steel grip of his arms tightened.

  "Your skin,” he whispered, “has the sheen of satin.” He pressed his lips into the hollow of her shoulder just above the curve of her breast.

  She was enveloped in the scent of the aftershave he used and the warmth of his skin. She could feel her strength, her will to resist, leaving and a treacherous response struggling to begin. But she could not submit to it, she would not.

  "But—you don't like me!” the words were a cry of protest. “You don't like the kind of woman I am."

  His lips brushed delicately along the angle of her jaw, but when he answered there was a tremor of laughter in his voice. “My dear girl, how can you believe that I still cling to such prejudice?"

  Though he still held her firmly there had been an easing of the intensity of the moment and so she tried again.

  "Don't—don't you have any qualms about making love to the woman your brother loves?"

  At last he raised his head. “If I thought—but no.” He went on, his voice quiet. “He will care for sweet Aimee as much as it is in his nature to care for any woman. Being the kind of girl she is, she will never question his infidelities, or his right to them, while you, Chérie, would die slowly inside."

  Though Sherry was not certain Lucien's estimation of his brother's character was right, his idea of her own was so close that it was disconcerting, she turned her face away. “I find your concern touching,” she told him. “Especially at this moment."

  His brows came together in a frown and his eyes grew hard. “At this moment? What do you know of it? You think you understand the feelings that move me, and yet how can you when I hardly understand them myself?"

  Once more he took her lips. His arms slipped behind her back, lifting her to lie across his lap. Her senses whirled as he shifted position and she felt the yielding upholstery of the couch now beneath her shoulders. She stiffened as panic beat up into her mind with a strange sense of hurt.

  With sudden strength, she dragged her mouth from his, arching her back, pushing against him, desperate to be free of his weight. Then his strong hands caught her wrists. Supporting himself on one elbow, he pinioned her hands on either side of her body. Head back, he stared down at her flushed and rebellious face.

  Abruptly he gave a soft exclamation, the breath leaving his lungs as though he had been struck a sharp blow. His gaze had drifted from her lips down the curve of her neck to the bodice of her dress. There, exposed to view by their struggles, lay the Villeré betrothal ring, its blue enamelwork and diamonds shining against the creamy softness of her skin.

  Slowly the fingers of his right hand unclamped from her wrist. Unwillingly, or so it seemed, he forced himself to reach for the piece of jewelry, turning it this way and that in the light.

  "Why?” he said at last, a note of strain in his voice.

  She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Why not,” she asked, “when you were so determined to think the worst of me?"

  "That isn't an explanation."

  It was true enough, but despite her position, some stubborn impulse, abetted by a residue of anger at his treatment of her, prevented any inclination toward confession. She lifted her lashes in a slow sweep, her deep blue eyes meeting his squarely:

  "Why should I explain to you? Why should I seek your approval, or care what you think? You mean nothing to me."

  He stared at her a long moment while the color receded beneath the bronze tone of his skin. A muscle twitched in the side of his jaw. He dropped the ring, then on a sudden surge of strength came to his feet. Reaching down, he dragged her upward, holding her for an instant while she regained her balance, then dropping his hands as though her skin were hot to the touch.

  "You had better go to your room, now, before I change my mind,” he said, plunging his hands into his pockets.

  The smile that twisted his lips hurt Sherry in some peculiar way. She felt the need to withdraw her hasty words, to erase the doubt she saw in his eyes. Before she could do anything so foolish, she swung away from him. Lifting her skirt, she hurried from the room.

  Mechanically she took off her dress and hung it carefully in the armoire, took down her hair, and slipped into her nightgown. Lying in bed, she stared with hot dry eyes into the darkness, her breathing shallow against the ache in the region of her heart. It was some time before she slept.

  She awakened at dawn. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she went still like an animal in the presence of danger. Someone stood beside her bed, staring down at her.

  "I only came to bring you these,” Lucien said, dropping her sandals on the bedside table, “and to say good-bye.” He leaned to place a hand on the bed at either side of her head. His intention was plain. She turned her head and his lips brushed the softness of her cheek.

  There was a tense moment. Sherry waited, every nerve tingling with strain, for his retaliation.

  Then he was gone, his footsteps sounding across the polished boards and along the gallery. In a few minutes she heard the roar of the cruiser's motor.

  She reached the window in time to watch the boat move slowly from the lake into the narrow channel of the bayou, its white paint gleaming in the first light of the rising sun.

  8

  Quiet returned to the bayou as the roar of the cabin cruiser's motors died away. The iridescent wake left by its passing rolled into shore, and the water was still once more. A faint breeze stirred the gray moss on the trees. A cardinal flitted among the oaks, a bright flash of color in the early-morning light. Nothing else moved. It was as though the life had gone out of the place, leaving it suspended in time, waiting for the presence of one man to bring it back to life.

  A ridiculous fancy. Turning sharply, Sherry moved back to the tester bed. She climbed in and pulled the sheet up to her chin, closing her eyes with determination. It was no good. She could not go back to sleep. Memories of the past two days crowded in upon her, no matter how hard she tried to keep them at bay. Over and over, the details flickered through her mind.

  How could she have been so stupid as to be lured to this place? How was it possible that he could keep her here? The day before she had been stunned by the situation and deterred, in no small measure, by the watchful presence of the master of Bayou's End. Something about him, his self-control, his ruthless carrying out of a plan that must have been concocted on the spur of the moment, his fearless acknowledgment of his lawlessness, had inhibited her. She knew she attracted him, and it pleased him for the moment, to play a cat and mouse game with her, but she thought that if she caused him too much irritation it would not be beyond him to use physical restraint upon her. The house could be much more of a prison than it was.

  Now that Lucien had gone, leaving her in the keeping of Marie and Jules, surely there was some way she could get away from them. But if she decided to try, she wanted to be very certain that the attempt would be successful. She did not care for the idea of facing his wrath if she failed.

  Her thoughts strayed to the white boat cruising somewhere on the twisting bayous, heading toward New Orleans. He had gone, she supposed, back to his office and the demands of his wide-ranging business.
It was Monday, time to get back to work for him. There would be things he needed to see to, perhaps, things he could not allow to go undone.

  One of the first items he would take care of, she imagined, would be to see to the sending of the telegram that would forestall a search for her, the telegram to Paul. She did not like to think of it, of the look on Paul's face when he read that poor excuse. She doubted if he would be taken in by it. He was much more likely to think she had gotten cold feet and left him to work out his problem with Aimee on his own. So long as it discouraged Paul from trying to contact her, however, what did it matter? Lucien would have won—again. Lucien. She could not imagine him accepting such a rejection. He would be much more likely to catch the first plane north to demand an explanation. Failing to find her in St. Louis, he would leave no stone unturned until he located her and received her explanation. Or would he? He had made no attempt to force an explanation from her the night before. None at all.

  The trend of her thoughts was far from restful. She swung out of bed and put on her clothes before wandering out onto the gallery. It was there that Marie found her, standing staring out over the lake, when she came to call her to breakfast.

  Sherry did not feel hungry. All she really wanted was a cup of coffee. It was too late to try to communicate that fact to Marie, however, since the housekeeper had already prepared the meal. She rose and followed her into the dining room.

  For a time she thought that Marie's silence, her unsmiling demeanor, was the reflection of her own mood. At last it was borne in on her that Marie was displeased. Did she know then what had happened between Lucien and herself? That hardly seemed possible unless the woman was a witch, and yet something was on her mind. Was she distressed that Lucien had gone away and left her? Did she see her employer as a laggard in love? The wry smile brought about by this idea faded as Sherry examined another thought. The woman might feel Sherry was the one lacking since it appeared she could not hold Lucien at her side.