Bayou Bride Page 6

  "Why so angry?” he asked. “I've admitted, haven't I, that I'm impressed. You have, in fact, my full attention."

  It was true. As he spoke, Lucien had cut the motors. Their only movement was the drifting forward motion of their lost impetus.

  Startled into silence, she stared up into his face. She did not like the suggestive tone in his voice, nor his closeness in the confines of the cockpit. The last thing she wanted was his full attention, not if he meant what she suspected. She recalled distinctly her misgivings about being alone with this man, a near-stranger, in such isolated surroundings at night. They returned a hundred-fold as she thought of the unflattering opinion he held of her moral character and his ideas of the nature of her relationship with his brother.

  Seeing the doubt mirrored in her eyes, a grim smile curved his mouth, widening until his white teeth gleamed in the tan of his face. His eyes were dark and magnetic, shielded by his thick lashes. The black shirt, molded to his broad chest, gave him a rakish look that had been lacking in more formal wear, the look of a corsair. All he needed was the golden gleam of an earring in his ear.

  The sheer fancifulness of that fleeting observation, so unlike her usual well-ordered thoughts, startled Sherry so that she was able to catch at her dwindling self-possession. With deliberation, she looked around her at the enclosing night and the trees leaning to dip gray fingers of Spanish moss in the water ahead of them. Her voice laced with irony, she said, “Why are we stopping? Have you decided to live up to the reputation of your buccaneering ancestor?"

  His face went blank, then laughter leaped into his eyes. “Paul told you about him, did he? Did he also tell you that he took a fair captive from one of the ships he boarded and sailed away with her to make her his bride?"

  A frown flitted across Sherry's face, leaving her turquoise eyes troubled. “No, he never went into details."

  "A pity. For a moment I thought you might have been put on your guard."

  "On my guard? What do you mean?” She tilted her head to one side and her hair, shining like silk in the glow of the running lights, slid over her shoulder.

  His eyes narrowed for an instant before he gave her an easy smile. “Against my piratical instincts of course,” he said. “What else?"

  What else indeed? And yet, for an instant Sherry had caught a glimpse of something hard and implacable in his manner. The touch of his fingers burned through the thin cotton of her shirtsleeve. Though his grasp was firm, it was not hurtful, still she was aware as she had never been before of the latent strength held in leash in a man's body.

  Abruptly the boat, washed by the recoil of its own wake, scraped the bank. A tree limb scratched along the hull, coming to rest in a shower of dirt and debris against the windshield of the boat. Lucien released Sherry after a steadying moment. “You had better go below before you get a spider down your collar,” he said.

  It seemed like good advice. Sherry took it. It was not until she was lying once more in her bunk, staring into the darkness, that she allowed herself to savor her relief, and the feeling that somehow she had gained a reprieve.

  A muffled thump followed by an unnatural quiet shook Sherry from sleep. She had not expected to close her eyes, but the quiet roar of the engines and the movement of the boat in the water, combined with her long and trying day, had lulled her to rest. Now the engines were silent, and the soft light of dawn filled the cabin. They had arrived at the place called Bayou's End.

  The last thing she wanted was to be caught in bed. She jumped up at once. By the time the tap came on the cabin door she had washed her face, applied a hint of fresh makeup, and removed all evidence of her occupancy.

  The first probing rays of the sun were just lighting the sky as she stepped from the boat to the weathered dock jutting out from the bank. They were fled at the edge of a wide body of water, like a small lake. A sloping emerald green lawn rose from the shoreline toward a large white house half-hidden among the trees.

  Sherry looked around for some sign of Paul's presence. There was none. Two or three lightweight aluminum boats were pulled up on the bank, resting bottom-up. Beside them lay a small wooden craft which she took to be a pirogue. Since none of these could have transported Paul and his business client from New Orleans, she turned to Lucien with a question in her eyes.

  Lucien, staring past her to where a black woman in a print dress and a starched white apron was coming toward them through the trees, appeared not to notice. He lifted his hand in greeting, his mouth relaxing in a smile.

  "M'sieur Lucien! Comment ça va?” the woman called as she came nearer. Without giving him time to answer, she poured out a long, involved sentence in what had the sound of French patois. Lucien answered her in the same language before turning to Sherry.

  "You mustn't feel slighted, Chérie. Marie doesn't have a word of English. She and her husband Jules have taken care of Bayou's End for us ever since they married, well before it became a fishing and hunting camp. Her people have been here for generations. Come, she will give us breakfast."

  "But—Paul. Where is he?"

  Lucien shrugged. “Out fishing maybe. We'll see.” He indicated that she should precede him up the path toward the house standing at the top of the slight incline.

  Live oaks hung with swags of gray Spanish moss, their ends flipping in the morning breeze, were dotted over the spreading lawn. When the house came into full view beyond them, Sherry's footsteps lagged while she stared. It was larger than she had pictured in her mind, more imposing than a weekend cottage had any right to be, despite the fact that it had once been a plantation home. Old it must be indeed, for it was built in the French West Indies planter's style that had predated the more common Greek Revival type by several decades. Raised on thick, square pillars for protection against floods, it boasted a tall flight of wide steps with outcurving banisters. The steep roof, hinting at high ceilings, sloped out to cover deep verandas, or galleries, on three sides. Beneath this shaded protection, rows of shuttered French windows indicated that each principal room opened to the outside for convenience and the free circulation of air. The front entrance, directly beyond the steps, featured a massive door topped by a beautiful old fanlight of leaded glass in the rising sun pattern, with sidelights of small, decorative glass panes.

  From the top of the steps she looked back. Down the slope through the trees she could see the white cruiser fled to the small dock. The boat rode gently upon its pale reflection in the water. Beyond it was the still pool with cypress trees up to their knees in water, their outstretched branches clothed with fine cut foliage feathers of pale green.

  "It's a beautiful place,” she said. “More like a lake than a bayou."

  "That's what it is. The bayou runs into this open place. There are several small runoffs, most too shallow to be navigated, that carry the overflow away down below us, but for all purposes this lake is where the bayou ends.” He lifted a quizzical brow and she smiled slightly, acknowledging the allusion to the name of the house.

  The water shone with a glassy sheen, like a dark mirror, lapping gently against the pilings of the dock. Near the shore was a patch of water hyacinths, the mauve flowers making a splotch of delicate color. Slowly a giant white crane lifted from his perch on a tree limb to fly away, the slow and stately precision of its wing beat lifting it above the trees. There was peacefulness in the scene, but there was also something else, a quality of waiting that disturbed her.

  Breakfast was served on the front gallery, a light repast of hot, black coffee, fresh apple tarts, and a selection of fruit. Whether it was because of the early hour or an odd oppression of the spirit, Sherry found she was not hungry. She forced down a tart and drank her coffee in silence. Marie, hurrying back and forth between the table and a serving cart brought from the back regions of the house, talked volubly, but Sherry could not understand a word she was saying. Lucien, laughing and joking with the housekeeper, seemed to find no opportunity to ask the question that he knew very well burned in the foref
ront of her mind. Or if he did, he was in no hurry to translate the answer.

  When Marie retreated finally to the rear of the house, Sherry directed a level look at Lucien. “Well?"

  "Well what?” he asked, reaching with unimpaired appetite for a peach from the fruit bowl in the center of the table.

  "Is Paul fishing?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Of course it matters,” she said, staring at him in perplexity. “If Paul isn't fishing, then he may not be here at all. And if he isn't, if he has already returned to New Orleans, then I will have to go back with you."

  For an instant he was still, then he picked up a knife and began to peel the peach. “Paul is not here. More than that, he has not been here and has no intention of coming."

  Sherry stared at him. If something had happened to Paul, then his brother would not be calmly sitting, enjoying his, breakfast. “Are—are you trying to say that you lied to me, that Paul never left New Orleans?"

  "To the best of my knowledge, he is sound asleep at his French Quarter apartment."

  "I suppose he was there all the time. That must have given you a few bad moments as we walked over the Quarter."

  "Not at all, since I knew he was spending the afternoon and evening with Aimee at my mother's home on Lake Pontchartrain."

  From the direction of the dock came a man toward them, no doubt Marie's husband, Jules. Under each arm he carried one of Sherry's suitcases. Sherry swallowed as the nerves tightened in her throat. She could feel the painful spread of apprehension as it raced with the blood along her veins. She rushed into speech, though she knew the words were foolish before they were out of her mouth.

  "He's bringing my bags from the boat. Shouldn't you stop him?"

  Lucien followed her gaze, but he made no move to halt Jules or to have her luggage returned.

  "Lucien—” Sherry began, then stopped, all too aware of the strange, strained sound of his name on her lips.

  "You will need your things,” he said, his tone gone flat and final that there could be no misunderstanding his meaning.

  "How long are we staying?” she asked, her chin coming up.

  "I am here for the day,” he answered. “As for you, it depends."

  "On?"

  "On you."

  "In what way?” she asked, her voice conveying no vestige of encouragement.

  "You were right last night. Without intending to in the least, I have taken the same kind of action as my buccaneering ancestor. The difference is, I have no designs on you. My sole intention is to keep you here for a few days, until after the party for Aimee, a grace period wherein Paul and Aimee can get to know one another without interference or distraction."

  "I don't understand why you've gone to such trouble. Why didn't you just refuse to make my traveling arrangements, even tell my boss in St. Louis to fire me?"

  "And have you show up down here on your own, a martyr? That would have been the best possible way to ensure my brother's continued interest in you. In any case, I wanted to see for myself what you were like, to satisfy myself that Paul wasn't using you to get out of what he thought was going to be an unpleasant chore."

  Sherry took a deep breath. “Suppose,” she said carefully, “that I were to give you my word that I would return to St. Louis without communicating with Paul."

  "You would do that? So much for the love match of the century then if you give up so easily. I never expected it."

  The sarcasm in his voice reached Sherry like the flick of a whip. She would not tell him the real reason she was in New Orleans, however, though not entirely for Paul's sake. Now, at this moment, the subterfuge in which they were involved seemed so shoddy and stupid that she would have given much if she could have turned back time and refused to have anything to do with it.

  "No answer?” Lucien inquired. “I wonder why. Did I touch a nerve, or are you waiting for me to be taken in by your sacrifice? Sorry, but I have no intention of letting you anywhere near a telephone, whether you give your word or not."

  "Paul will have to know sometime what you've done."

  "Agreed, but I will choose the time and the place. Until then you will stay here at Bayou's End."

  She stared at him as the force of what he was saying swept in upon her. She thought of this isolated fishing and hunting camp to which she had been brought by waterways too intricate and too dangerous for her to find her way back alone, of the servants with whom she could not communicate, and who would probably retire at night to their own private bungalow. She had walked into his trap so trustingly, so blithely.

  A rush of saving anger swept over her. “You can't do this!” she cried. “It's kidnapping, and there are laws against it!"

  "Try convincing the police that I, Lucien Villeré, abducted you from your hotel room and dragged you, screaming of course, out of a crowded hotel lobby and onto my boat. Try it and I don't doubt that I can bring forth a dozen witnesses who will swear that you came of your own free will. As for these few days you will spend here at Bayou's End, if I explain that you accepted my invitation to spend them at my retreat there are few who would see any reason to doubt that you came with me, as the saying goes, with your eyes open."

  "Are you trying to tell me that your position in New Orleans puts you above the law?” she demanded.

  "Not quite,” he said with maddening calm. “I believe my standing and reputation will survive any charges you may lay against me, however. What I am trying to tell you is this. The kind of freedom enjoyed by today's young women like you, who go where and with whom they please, has made it practically impossible for our overworked police to protect their lives, much less their virtue."

  The color slowly drained from her face as she realized that he was right. Who would believe it? She hardly believed it herself. She gripped her hands together, glancing up at him briefly through her eyelashes.

  "Isn't this a great deal of trouble to go to keep Paul from seeing me, especially since you're so convinced I mean nothing to him?"

  "Consider it a compliment,” he answered. “If, after meeting you, I had not thought you were a definite threat to his engagement, I would not have bothered."

  "I'm flattered,” she said, an attempt at irony that did not quite come off.

  He lounged back in his chair, a gleam of triumph lighting his eyes. He had won. He was a man who was used to forcing his will upon others and having them accept it without complaint. Because she did not scream with temper, because she sat quietly, he was certain that she too was going to accept his will without opposition. He was so positive of it that, when Marie came to the door and spoke to him, he rose without hesitation and went into the house with her, leaving Sherry alone on the gallery.

  Sherry thought that she had caught Jules’ name. Since he had them carrying her cases into the house, perhaps Marie wanted to know which room to allot to her. In that case, she would only have a moment.

  Stealthily she left her chair and eased down the wide steps. The boat lay there before her, white and sleek in the sunlight. The bayous were confusing but she would take her chances. They could not be completely uninhabited. There must be people somewhere who could direct her back to the city. She would have to leave her clothes behind, but she could wire her bank for money once she was back in New Orleans. She was not used to having someone's will imposed upon her own in that high-handed fashion, and she did not intend to submit meekly!

  As soon as the oak trees began to cover her escape from the view of the house, she ran. At the dock she paused to toss the mooring lines onto the deck of the boat. Then, with a light jump she landed beside them. In seconds she was slipping into the seat behind the instrument panel. The key hung in the ignition and, breathing a prayer of thanksgiving, she grasped it and gave it a turn. Nothing happened.

  "Think,” she chided herself. She could drive a car, why not a boat? She ran her eyes over the controls, the knobs and levers. What had Lucien done when he had restarted the engines a few hours ago, just before she had
left him to go below? This lever? Yes, maybe. Once again she tried the key. Still nothing. Gears then. Where were they? She pushed another lever, tried again. Nothing. An adjustment, a faint sound, almost catching. With trembling fingers she adjusted the controls. Almost again. One more adjustment. Yes! The engines caught, roaring into life.

  And now, gently, slowly, she pulled back on the throttle. The boat was moving!

  A fierce exultation raced through her veins. The boat was moving! Let Lucien Villeré find his own way back to civilization. She hoped he had to paddle one of the aluminum boats until his arms fell out.

  Behind her there was a shout. She heard the thud of footsteps on the dock and swung around in time to see Lucien make a flying leap to the deck of the boat. The trim craft rocked with the jar of his weight and Sherry clung to the wheel to steady it. An instant later a hand clamped down on her wrist with a firm grip. Strong arms encircled her and she was swept against a hard-muscled chest while the wheel of the cabin cruiser swung drunkenly.

  She felt the vibration of Lucien's laugh as, talking advantage of her stiff reaction to his closeness, he leaned to switch off the ignition. He did it with such ease, such assurance, that rage boiled up inside her. Suddenly she kicked out at his shins, fighting him there in the drifting boat with every ounce of her strength, twisting, turning, pummeling, trying to claw in a primitive fury, uncaring of the pain she inflicted.

  It was no good. She could not defeat his steely grasp. At last she lay in his arms with her bruised wrists behind her back. Her breath came in labored gasps and tears of hate and frustration stood in her turquoise eyes like the wash of a storm across a Southern sky.

  As the resistance left her, Lucien's clasp loosened a fraction. He surveyed her flushed face, his gaze lingering on her parted lips. “I never meant to hurt you,” he said quietly, “but I warn you. I meant every word I said. You will stay here with me until I say you can go."

  Sherry took a deep, steadying breath. “Do you expect me to accept that? I can't. I won't. You may have won this time, but there will be others. I'm not beaten yet."