Bayou Bride Read online

  Frowning, Sherry flicked a glance at her escort. His attention caught, he leaned closer to be heard over the music. “What is it? Is something wrong?"

  "I—everyone looks at us so strangely. I don't think we quite fit in,” she told him.

  "No, not quite. We are dry-landers most of the time, both of us. Don't let it bother you. Relax and enjoy yourself. This night will never come again."

  As if reminded of his duty, he drew her out onto the floor. She tried to do as he had suggested, giving herself to the music and the sensation of being in his arms with the gaiety and laughter around them. The music was fast, a cross between a polka and a fox-trot, galloping music that demanded a fight grip on your partner; music with no patience for its modern counterpart where partners were often separated by the width of the room.

  Yahoo! The Cajun call echoed on the air, a sign of enjoyment. The music went on and on as the men on the dais switched effortlessly from one tune to another. Shoes were kicked off, hairpins were lost, feet and elbows flew. As the floor became crowded it became a game to keep time to the music and, at the same time, keep from bumping into other couples. Several times she was pulled tightly against Lucien's chest, and his warm breath fanned her cheeks as he grinned down at her. It was great and hilarious fun. Sherry, when at last the music stopped, was laughing and breathless. A drink seemed in order for their dry throats, and then, as the musicians struck up again, she and Lucien stood with their glasses in their hands, watching the dancers and commenting on them. It seemed to Sherry that something of the tension between them was gone, dissolved in the closeness of the dance.

  The moon rose in splendor, an isolated, cool ball beyond the glow of the lanterns. Sherry called Lucien's attention to it as it glimmered ghostlike above the tops of the trees. It was growing late. The children had been put to bed on pallets in one of the spare rooms of the house with some of the older women to keep watch. Still the music went on and on as if it would never end and the Cajuns matched it with a fine abandon. Fathers danced with teenage daughters, mothers with sons, nephews with aunts, and brothers with sisters. Over to one side, beneath a lantern suspended from a tree limb, some of the older men had begun a card game. Occasionally, a man would come up to Lucien and they would talk in quiet voices for a time. Sometimes their wives would come to speak a few words to Sherry, but when she was left alone she could not help overhearing the conversations beside her. Most of the men, it seemed, wanted advice about their problems, problems that concerned the shrimping industry, the trapping grounds available and which was best; or sometimes it was a job on one of the offshore oil rigs, or on a ship, that was sought.

  She and Lucien danced once or twice more as the crowds began to thin. Whether it was fact or imagination, she began to think that there was constraint on the spirits of these bayou people while they were on the floor. Then, as they stood near the edge of the outdoor pavilion, she noticed that no one crowded near them. It occurred to her to wonder if it was respect, rather than mere good manners or distrust, that caused these people to leave them to themselves. She found herself looking at Lucien from a new angle. Why should these people look up to him? Was it because he was so obviously rich and influential, so that they expected him to know more about what went on in the outside world? Was it his ancient family, the lasting effects of the patron system? Or was it something within the man himself that caused them to rely on his judgment?

  At last the moon began to wane. As the energy of the dancers lagged, Toto walked to the center of the floor and held up his hands for silence. “Mesdames, Messieurs, we have the treat tonight, the great heat! We have for you the ceremony of the jumping of the broom. Not in, maybe, ten years have we seen it, but tonight we have two couples!"

  A fanfare rose from the musicians. With a buzz of excitement, the crowd drew back to form a circle around the edge of the platform, leaving the center and one end open.

  Lucien caught Sherry's elbow, leading her back to the edge of the crowd.

  "Will the fais-do-do be finished when this is over?” she whispered.

  He nodded and descended the back steps of the pavilion, then began to circle the edge.

  "Where are we going?” she asked, thinking that perhaps Lucien had seen a better vantagepoint.

  He did not answer immediately. They stopped near another couple just out of the range of the lights. Glancing at them, Sherry saw that it was Sophia and her fiancée. She smiled at the girl in her long dress of white voile, almost like a wedding dress. She was young, a teenager with shy eyes and long fine lashes, and with her dark hair falling in ringlets from the crown of her head. The boy beside her was dark and on the stocky side, but the look in his eyes was tender as he smiled at the girl beside him.

  "Are you going to jump the broom too?” the girl spoke to Sherry, her English less accented than that of most of the older people.

  She began to shake her head when Lucien answered for her.

  "Yes,” he said.

  "But I don't—"

  Lucien leaned close, speaking softly for her ear alone. “It's only a game, a romantic tradition. Humor them, please, Chérie. For my sake."

  Lucien did not speak again, but stood holding her eyes with his own, willing her to do as he asked. A hush was gradually descending upon the crowd, a hush filled with a growing expectancy.

  Sherry thought there was a promise she could not understand in Lucien's black, fathomless gaze. She felt detached, and yet as though she were on the brink of something important.

  "Lucien—” she whispered. He would not help her; she saw that without understanding it. Though the outcome mattered greatly to him, he would not force her decision. She was free to give the answer that would please him, or to refuse in an exercise of spite. Suddenly she smiled. “All right,” she said, and turned to face the crowd.

  "Sophia and her fiancée will go first. Just do as they do,” Lucien told her. He drew her hand through his arm, covered it with his own and stood waiting.

  A soft, haunting melody began to rise from the accordion. A new broom with a white handle decorated with silver knots of ribbon appeared magically, and Toto, with another man Sherry recognized vaguely as his brother, stepped forward to hold it a few inches from the floor.

  The young couple ahead of them smiled at each other, then, holding hands, they moved slowly forward to the music and leaped lightly over the broom.

  A murmur ran over the crowd, then died away, as the couple took up a stance on one side.

  Lucien caught Sherry's hand and drew her forward. The broom was before her. She saw Lottie watching and caught Toto's grin. Then she was over.

  11

  Cheers burst from all sides and people gathered around them. Toto shook Lucien's hand. “I am a witness, me, and there are any number who will swear they saw you too. Well done, Sherry,” he said, beaming at her, giving her name the same sound of an endearment that Lucien did.

  Champagne was broached and a toast was drunk to each couple and to their happiness. Sherry's head began to ache with the babble of strange voices and the confusion that rushed in upon her as she received what seemed to be an excess of congratulations for the smallness of her feat. The chatter seemed to reverberate in her ears, and the press of people around her was suffocating. She clung to Lucien's arm with a grip that left the ends of her fingers white.

  Lucien glanced down at her. “Shall we go?” he whispered. At her nod and strained smile, he began to make their excuses, moving purposefully out of the press. Their way was blocked for a moment by an old woman dressed in rusty black with a scarf thrown over her head. As she muttered and made the sign of the cross in the air, the talking and laughter ceased. Sherry looked up at Lucien, her eyes wide and imploring.

  "It's only a blessing,” he murmured. With unexpected courtesy he thanked the wizened yet dignified old crone. She nodded, her face creasing in a smile, before she stepped back into the crowd.

  The trip back to Bayou's End was swift. Sherry stood beside Lucien, letti
ng the cool breeze of their passage clear her head and banish the cobwebs that clung to her mind. She went back over the evening step by step, gradually recapturing some of her earlier enjoyment. Still, the ceremony at the last disturbed her thoughts. It was not until they had reached their own dock and left the boat and the noisy roar of its motor that she asked Lucien to explain what the jumping of the broom meant.

  They walked on and she seemed to sense a rare indecision in his silence. At last he sighed, staring at the house before them.

  "I told you, Chérie. It was only a game."

  She considered that, measuring it against what she felt as much as what she knew. It did not satisfy her. The problem did not seem important enough for further discussion, however. She was so tired, and acceptance was easier than argument.

  She whispered, “All right, Lucien."

  He turned to her, drawing her into his arms with a tenderness that breached her defenses much more effectively than forceful passion could ever have done. She felt herself yielding, swaying against him. His lips burned on hers, setting the blood to racing in her veins. He touched her cheek with gentle fingers, then trailed down the creamy curve of her neck to the low neck of her bodice.

  A warning echoed in Sherry's mind, but as his kiss deepened and his firm sure touch brought its response, the will to heed it grew faint. She felt herself pressed close, so close her body seemed almost to merge with his and was yet not close enough.

  ’”Lucien,” she whispered, a sound half plea, half protest as he lowered his head to brush a warm caress across the curve of her breasts exposed by her neckline.

  For an endless stretch of time he was still. The only sound in the strained quiet was the soft rasp of their breathing.

  Without warning he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the steps and across the dim gallery lit only by the iron lantern. At the door of her room he twisted the knob and kicked the panel open, striding toward the large tester bed. The still blackness of the room was around them. She felt his arms tighten, the muscles cording to the tension and strength of steel. He drew a deep breath, holding it constricted in his chest.

  Sherry lay unmoving. The strong beat of his heart was echoed in her own bloodstream, along with a breathless apprehension.

  Once more she felt the sensuous fire of his mouth on hers, then he lowered her to the bed, pressed a kiss to each eyelid and left her.

  She turned over, hiding her face in her pillow as hot tears slid from her eyes, tears of relief, she told herself. But if that was so, why did they have the feel of despair?

  She awoke stiff and cold, with the sound of a boat's motor thrumming in the back of her mind. The room was dim, filled with the underwater murkiness of a cloudy dawn. Her eyes burned behind her tangled lashes and she put her hands up to them, pressing against their ache.

  It was early for visitors, she thought. It could be that Lucien was leaving, except that she was almost sure the sound had been coming toward the house, not moving away from it.

  Memories of the night before slid into the forefront of her mind, but she banished them fiercely, deliberately making her mind a blank. She would not think.

  She sat up on the edge of the bed, trying to find the strength to get up, to wash her face and change from the white dress she still wore into a nightgown before going back to bed. Abruptly she went still. She heard voices coming from out on the gallery. Paul. It was Paul!

  She jumped up, moving toward the door. Halfway across the room she stopped. She could not let Paul see her like this, in the evening dress she had worn the night before, with stale makeup on her face, her pale mouth vulnerable without lipstick, and her eyes shadowed from crying. What would he think? He could not be blamed if he suspected Lucien of mistreating her. That she could not allow.

  Swinging around, she reached back to unzip her dress. In the haste of the moment, the zipper jammed and precious seconds were wasted getting it unstuck.

  She showered quickly, donned a sundress of apple green, and brushed her hair to shining smoothness. She took longer than usual over her makeup to eradicate all traces of her distress. As she worked, her mind was with the two men outside. What was happening between Lucien and his brother? Was Lucien telling Paul about her being here? How would he explain it, or would he even try? If Lucien chose to be difficult, would she be able to convince Paul that she was not here of her own free will? And if he believed her, what then? How would it affect his feelings toward his brother?

  Paul might not be in love with her, still he was unlikely to take her abduction by Lucien calmly. So far there had been no sound of voices raised in anger. If only it stayed that way!

  A last touch of lip gel and she was ready. All was still quiet on the gallery. An uneasy thought assailed her. Surely Lucien would tell Paul? He could not leave it for her to walk out upon him unprepared!

  An instant later the dismay caused by this possibility was driven from her mind as if it had never been. It was ousted by a sound, a roaring noise that grew louder, the noise of boat engines. With the pot of lip gel in her hand, Sherry stood listening, staring at her reflection in the mirror in stunned disbelief. Paul was leaving!

  Sherry set the gel down with a clatter, crossed the room, and flung open the door. Stepping to the edge of the gallery, she clung to one of the colonnettes. In the murky light of the morning she could see the two cruisers on the lake, both moving toward the bayou. The one in the lead was already fast disappearing behind the screening branches of the trees.

  "Paul!” she cried, though she knew it would do no good. She could not be heard above the sound of the motors. The second boat, with Lucien at the wheel, wallowed in the overdeep wake of the first. He did not look back as it moved out of sight also. The stuttering echo died away and quiet returned.

  Her face pale, Sherry turned away. She sank down into one of the cushioned rattan chairs, resting her head against its high back. How Lucien must be laughing! He had won again. Today was Saturday, the date of the party for Aimee. No doubt that was why Paul had come, to make certain his brother meant to attend. And so Lucien had departed in the early-morning coolness, leaving her alone. Soon, however, the gala would be over. What then? Would Lucien return to his docile prisoner? Would they go on as before, until the novelty of the arrangement paled for him, or would it be over when next his boat came into sight?

  Her hands, lying along the arms of her chair, clenched into fists. A haunted look in her eyes, she stared out over the lawn, watching without seeing the green darkness gathering under the oaks. Distant thunder rumbled, a threatening sound. Rain began to fall in a drifting mist.

  "Pardon?"

  The quiet voice belonged to Marie. Sherry looked up to see the housekeeper standing beside her with a breakfast tray in her hands. She greeted her with a wan smile and, at a gesture, reached to draw a small table in front of her chair. The housekeeper set the tray in place, then brought an extra cushion to tuck behind Sherry's back. Her smile was soft, almost maternal, and Sherry glanced at her from the corners of her eyes, thinking that Marie was as given to moods lately as she was herself.

  The tray was lovely; it was easy to see Marie had gone to a great deal of trouble. Of rattan and bamboo, it was covered with a tray cloth of pink linen. On the cloth rested a place setting of the same ancient china and glassware that had graced the table that first night, and lying in one corner was a perfect double pink hibiscus flower in full bloom. A linen napkin held several hot crusty rolls and there was also butter, molded in the shape of daisies, and a tiny, individual coffeepot.

  Sherry thanked Marie and complimented her on the tray, hoping that she would undersize the tone if not the words.

  Marie nodded, satisfied, and went away on quiet feet, gleam of some secret amusement shining in her eyes.

  Because Marie had gone to so much trouble, Sherry made an effort to eat the breakfast. She sipped the hot, delicious coffee, and the rolls she could not eat she crumbled and threw to a pair of squabbling sparrows fluttering
about in the softly falling rain.

  In a little while Marie removed the tray and as they smiled silently, Sherry wished that she could communicate with her. Someone to talk to, on a gray day like today when Lucien was away and she was cut off from everyone, would have made so much difference. Today she felt like prisoner, more so than at any moment since Lucien had carried her from his boat.

  Her depression was so great that it was with genuine pleasure that the sound of a motor brought her upright in her chair. Within seconds the realization came that could not be Lucien. The throbbing noise was too faint, too slow, for his powerful cruiser. The boat, when it finally came into view, was a wooden skiff powered by an ancient outboard motor. With some slight lifting of her depression Sherry recognized its sole occupant under the camouflaging of yellow rain gear and a man's old felt hat. It was Lottie.

  The boat drew into the dock. As the Cajun woman climbed out and started up the wet, grassy slope, Sherry got to her feet and went down the steps to meet her.

  "Ah, Chérie! How are you this morning?” Lottie called as soon as she was in earshot. “Just as I thought. You are looking sad. I have come to cheer you. Not that I blame you, mind. It is a sad day when a honeymoon must be interrupted! I could not believe my eyes when I saw the boats go by this morning. I did not see you beside Lucien and so I thought to me, she is all alone. He will be gone all day for sure and it is bad to be left alone now, even if the homecoming is sweet."

  Sherry hardly heard what she said. Her mind had stopped.

  "H—honeymoon?” she stammered.

  "But of course! Chérie, do you feel all right? You are as white as the sheet."

  Sherry reached out and caught the other woman's arm. “Whose honeymoon?"

  "Why, yours, Chérie, and that of Lucien!” Lottie's face changed. “You do not know? But you must—you jumped the broom!"