Bayou Bride Read online

  It happened so quickly that Sherry had no time to cry out or hold on. The throttle was ripped from her grasp and she was flung from the seat into the cold water, which caught her, pulling her down, washing thick and brown over her head. Her coat dragged at her arms, and her sandals felt like weights on her feet. For endless seconds shock held her in its grip until with a convulsive movement she began to fight her way upward. After an eternity she broke the surface. She coughed, choking as she tried to breathe and tread water at the same time. Clearing her air passages, she opened burning eyes to stare dazedly around her, thrashing about, looking for the bank. Seeing the wash of green through the fogging rain, she began to swim toward it. No matter how hard she tried, however, she seemed unable to gain distance. Her arms were like lead, so heavy she could barely thrust them forward. The coat—she would have to get rid of it.

  It was not easy. The material clung with a leechlike hold and once, with the sleeves peeled down over her elbows so she could not move her arms, she thought it was determined to drown her. At last she was free of it. With the last of her strength she swam the few strokes to an exposed tree root dangling in the water. There she clung, her breath rasping hurtfully in her chest. Looking back, she could see the overturned boat half submerged, drifting away from her. The motor was no longer on it, nor was it on the tree limb. It had sunk without a trace.

  There was nothing she could do. She lacked the strength to go after the boat. She watched in numb helplessness as the wind and current bent it against the bank for a moment, then pushed it on out of sight beyond a turn.

  Then as lightning flashed again she became aware of the coldness of the water dragging at her sodden skirts, and of the chill of the wind on her wet skin. She must do something, find some kind of shelter.

  She kicked out, realizing as she did so that she had lost her sandals. Her effort gained her the trunk of a small sapling and she pulled, dragging herself from the tenacious clutches of the bayou.

  Avoid tall trees during lightning. That bit of sage advice passed through her mind and she found herself laughing in grim irony. There were trees all around her. It was impossible to get away from them. Still, she moved as far as possible from the tallest cypresses. Shelter from the wind was her greatest need. Hugging her arms against her chest, she pushed beneath the low-hanging branches of a broad-leafed shrub.

  She sank down and drew her legs up, huddling into herself, aware even beyond her closed eyelids of the constant flicker of lightning and the continuous thunder like the roaring of jets breaking through the sound barrier. The leaves about her were little protection. The rain spattered through in a fine penetrating mist and the wind found her. She was cold with a deep internal chill, unable to control the convulsive shivers that ran over her.

  She could not stay here. It would only be a matter of time before she died from exposure. Perhaps she would be warmer if she moved about. She got clumsily to her feet, her legs stiff. She could move very little however. Undergrowth choked the edges of the bayou, and there was nothing but an impenetrable swamp behind her.

  She could not remain still. She slapped her arms, wishing she had on anything other than her thin sundress. She peered through the rain at the windswept bayou. Though it seemed impossible, it appeared that the storm was rising rather than blowing itself out. Could it be a hurricane, one of those devastating gulf storms she had heard so much about? Leaves torn from the trees swirled in the air. Behind her in the woods the branches of the trees creaked and groaned protestingly, while the rushing of the wind flapped her wet dress against her legs and tore at her hair. She tried to pace, but the wind kept throwing her off balance, and finally she leaned against the stout trunk of a tree, sheltering behind its thickness. When she grew too weary to stand any longer she sank to her knees and leaned her throbbing head against its rough bark. She could sense, waiting somewhere at the edge of her mind, a specter of enveloping darkness. It seemed warm, and as it crept closer it was almost welcome. Her body felt heavy, drugged with cold and beaten by the elements. As the moments passed and the shrieking of the gale increased, her mind began to feel light, as though it might be swept away.

  And then from out of the drowning rain appeared a white cruiser. It moved silently, a ghost ship easing slowly past, its sound caught up in the storm.

  The leap of recognition within her was so powerful that it sent a shock of life speeding through her veins. She opened her mouth to cry out, then the pain and anger she had felt when she had learned that Lucien had made her his wife without her knowledge came rushing back to strike her mute.

  She pulled herself to her feet. For a long moment she stood leaning against the tree while the blood tingled in her cramped legs and feet.

  Abruptly the boat stopped for a long moment just downstream, then as a light gleamed on the boat, a spotlight that began to sweep the bank, she plunged into the woods. After a few short yards she stopped, her heart pounding in her chest. Perhaps he had not seen her and would pass on by. And yet, what else could have made him stop?

  The subdued roar of a motor came to her ears and she caught a flash of white nearing the bank. Faintly against the wind she heard a hail that sounded like her name.

  Give up at once or try to run? That was the choice. But where could she run? And so she stood still, outlined against the wet leaves, a wood nymph caught in midflight with rain streaming from her long hair.

  When he saw her he stopped. She lifted her chin, an unconscious gesture of defense against the dark fury that drew his brows together. As he moved toward her with a dangerous velvet tread she fought down an absurd desire to placate him with a smile.

  His hands closed hard on the chilled flesh of her upper arms. She swayed. Her name on his lips sounded strange, faraway. In a curious, disembodied way she was aware of the raindrops jeweling his thick-brows and of his hair plastered in satanic spikes to his forehead. With a painful intensity she could feel the warmth emanating from his body even through the rain slicker that he wore. Through lips that were stiff and blue-tinged with cold she whispered one word that held both gladness and despair.

  "Lucien—"

  She floated, her eyes closed, not quite conscious. A rough shake made her open her eyes. She was in the cabin of the boat. Lucien's face was close to her own, his lips near her ear so that she could hear over the drumming of the rain on the deck above them.

  "I've got to go back out to tie the boat down better so it can't drift and foul the propellers. Beside you is a blanket. Get out of those wet things and wrap it around you. Now. I'll be back in a minute."

  Before she could reply he was gone. With stiff fingers she removed her clothes. They were clammy wet and it was obvious that she would be chilled as long as she was wearing them. She found a small towel near the sink and tried to dry her hair a bit with it before wrapping it turbanlike about her head. She folded the soft warmth of the thermal blanket about her before dropping weakly back onto the bunk and leaning against the wall behind it, drawing her feet up.

  She opened her eyes as Lucien entered the cabin once more. He crossed at once to the small galley cabinet and took down a bottle. Pouring a stiff measure of bourbon into each of two glasses, he handed one to her without a word before tossing off his own.

  She drank hers, locking her jaws as the heat shuddered over her, watching as he stripped off his slicker and tossed it over a bench.

  Balancing himself in the rocking, swaying interior of the cabin, he took her empty glass from her nerveless hand and placed it in the tiny sink. That done, he dropped down beside her.

  Again he moved close to be heard. “We won't try to make it home until this"—he waved a hand in a comprehensive gesture—"blows itself out. We can't make any headway against the wind."

  She nodded her comprehension, not trusting herself to speak, trying to get a grip on herself, to control the tremors that ran over her in sudden waves. She could feel the warmth of the spirits she had drunk warming her, but it could not touch the ice that lay in he
r heart.

  Suddenly the wind hit the boat with the shuddering force of a solid blow. She lurched forward as the boat swung, unable to save herself with her arms wrapped inside the blanket. Lucien reached to catch her, holding her against his chest as, off balance, they sprawled back into the bunk. He locked his arms around her to protect her as the boat rocked violently. While the storm howled outside she slowly relaxed, and as warmth pervaded her body she ceased to resist the comfort of his embrace.

  Beneath her cheek was the firmness of his shoulder and against her forehead the slight roughness of his chin. As if he sensed her submission, Lucien turned to her, his lips finding hers in the dimness. They tasted of the freshness of the rain, the vibrant life of the torrent around them. She closed her eyes, feeling the swirling onrush of a fatalistic content.

  As he felt her lips grow softer, her body more pliant, his arms tightened. He brushed a kiss across her silken eyebrows, then with firm and deliberate control he allowed the tension of desire to seep from his clasp. At last he held her with nothing more than the need to protect her against the bruising she would have received as they were thrown from side to side.

  Such consideration should have pleased her; it did not. She felt instead the invasion of a feeling like dread. Her punishment when she angered him had so often been a caress that she did not want. What form would it take now that he no longer found her desirable?

  Then, as dread turned to desolation, a knowledge that she could not reject however much she tried came to her. It had not been Lucien she had been running from, or even his treatment of her. The thing she had been trying so desperately to outdistance was her love for him.

  She lay very still, afraid in those first minutes of realization that she would somehow communicate her newfound understanding to him. She grew uncomfortably aware of his closeness; of his breath fanning her forehead and the steady beat of his heart beneath her hand. Her throat ached with the rise of tears she must not shed, and she took deep, ragged breaths in an effort to hold them at bay.

  "Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Lucien murmured.

  "No,” she managed to answer him. “I'm fine.” But it was not so.

  13

  She was tired, so tired. The emotional strain of the last few days, her exhausting struggle in the water, and the warmth creeping over her combined with the bourbon in her bloodstream to produce a deep languor. The crashing roar of a tree falling somewhere nearby had no power to frighten her. She felt safe, shielded from danger by the dark buccaneer who had come for her out of the storm. A faint giddiness moved over her. She turned her face against Lucien's chest, entwining her fingers in the material of his shirt. Let him think what he pleased, so long as he continued to hold her. If they lived, or if they drowned in the fury of the storm to be swept out to sea and found in each other's arms with seaweed in their hair like mythological lovers, this moment in time would not come again. She did not care if the storm ever ended.

  But it did, inevitably. The wind died, the lightning faded to a glimmer on the horizon, the thunder rumbled away and did not return. Though the rain still fell steadily, it had lost its angry lash. Deep in the sleep of utter weariness, Sherry did not know it.

  The cabin cruiser rocked gently. From overhead came the patter of gentle rain. Slowly Sherry opened her eyes. Though the light in the cabin was brighter than it had been, it was still tinted with gray. There was one other difference. She was alone in the bunk.

  Clutching the blanket about her shoulders, she sat up. By stretching, she could just reach the curtain that covered the porthole at the end of the bunk. She twitched it aside, then drew in her breath, a sharp sound in the quiet cabin.

  The cruiser was no longer on the bayou. It was docked at what appeared to be a modern marina. All around her was nothing but boats, cabin cruisers for the most part, sitting in their berths in two long uneven lines connected by a wooden catwalk on pilings. At the far end was a large building like a restaurant or clubhouse. A long hard look convinced Sherry that it was familiar, though the building and marina had been in darkness the last and only time she had ever seen them. This was the place from which she had left New Orleans with Lucien a week before.

  Sherry dropped the curtain. That night Lucien had left his car in storage to be used on his return trips. It did not make sense that he would be above decks now in the rain. No doubt he had taken the car and gone, where and why she could not begin to guess. Another, more important question was why he had left her here, alone.

  Galvanized by a sudden thought, she swung her legs off the bunk and stood up. The weakness that flooded over her was a surprise, and she caught at the edge of the bunk for support. After a moment it began to pass, allowing her to make her way to the small cabin door. It was locked. She stood with her hand on the knob, turning it back and forth for long seconds before she realized that the locking mechanism was on the inside. Lucien must have snapped it into place on his way out. A simple flick of her thumb and the door came open with ease.

  Her relief was great; still it took her no more than an instant to realize that it was premature. Lucien would not expect her to go far wrapped only in a blanket. From all appearances he had taken her clothes, wet and muddy as they were, with him.

  Her brows knit in perplexity, Sherry dropped back down on the edge of the bunk. She reached up, running her fingers through her hair. At some time while she was sleeping, she had lost the towel that had been wrapped around it, or else it had been taken away. The long strands were matted together in thick tangles. It was all she could do to force her fingers through them. What she wouldn't give for a deep hot bath and a bottle of shampoo!

  The lift of her arm had made her blanket slip. She was no longer as cold as she had been. To secure her covering a little better, she wrapped the soft folds about the upper part of her body just under her arms, tucking the end in place between her breasts to hold it. She could not achieve the proper tension without moving her long chain with the Villeré ring still on it out of the way.

  Modesty preserved, she sat turning the ring in her fingers. Soon she would have to part with it. It had never been hers to keep; she had always known that, and yet, she could not help the pain the thought gave her. But then, did it matter? A blue forget-me-not. How could she ever forget?

  The sound of approaching footsteps brought her erect. As they thudded on the deck overhead, she dropped the ring and pushed back her hair. By the time the knock came on the cabin door, she was on her feet, ready to spring the lock.

  Lucien ducked his head as he came through the doorway. His dark gaze raked over her in a quick examination. “You are looking better,” he greeted her.

  Her lips curved in a wry smile. “If you mean less like a drowned rat, then I suppose so."

  "I brought you something to wear,” he said, holding out the package he carried under his arm. As she reached to take it, he turned to close the door behind him. “My mother wasn't home. Aimee ran your things through the washer and dryer for me. I'm afraid she pronounced your dress unfit to be worn, but when I told her you were about her size, she threw in a few things she thought might do."

  Sherry stared at the package in her hands. He had not taken her clothes to keep her from leaving; he had gone to have them laundered at his home. He would not have done that unless he intended to reveal her presence and her identity. But why? Why now, after all his efforts to keep them secret?

  Lucien swung back. “What are you waiting for? There's a hot bath and a late luncheon on tap for us at home. I don't know about you, but I could use both."

  "I—I don't understand you,” Sherry said, her turquoise eyes dark in her pale face. “Why did you bring me here?"

  "Wasn't it what you wanted? You seemed anxious enough to get here."

  "It was what I wanted from the moment I left, but you wouldn't let me go before. Why now?"

  He looked away, his sun-bronzed face bleak, “Just say it seemed better than letting you kill yourself trying to make it on your own
."

  "I still don't know how you found me,” Sherry said, voicing the words through stiff lips, saying the first thing that came into her mind to relieve the tension that was slowly growing in the small cabin. She was uncomfortably aware of her half-dressed state and of Lucien's careful attempts to avoid noticing.

  "Luck,” he answered succinctly. “I was halfway to the city when I saw the storm warnings flying. I switched on the radio for the details. It was a tropical storm, something only slightly less than a hurricane, that had veered off its course and was heading for the Louisiana coastline. I left Paul to go on alone, turned around and went back to warn you at Bayou's End. The first thing I was told when I got there was that you had gone out in Jules’ fishing boat. I knew you had not taken the regular route back to New Orleans or I would have met you. I began searching the smaller bayous. I would have passed you by without a sign if I hadn't caught sight of your coat in the water, snagged on a tree root, just downstream from where I found you."

  Sherry refused to look at him. “I suppose I should thank you for coming after me. I might have died out there alone."

  "And you would almost rather I had let you, wouldn't you?” he asked, a strange timbre in his voice.

  He would not understand a denial and she could not explain. She gave a short nod.

  "So you could see Paul?"

  His harsh tone puzzled her. “Yes, I suppose so. I take it you have no objections now?"

  "None whatever."

  To Sherry there could be only one explanation of his agreement. “You think you have won then, don't you, with your broom marriage. You think that Paul will never believe I didn't go with you willingly or that I didn't know what I was doing."