Bayou Bride Read online

  A flash of something like admiration shone briefly in his eyes before they narrowed. “No?” he queried. “Shall we see how far your defiance goes?"

  She guessed his intent, but there was nothing she could do. A soft cry of protest rose to her lips as his mouth came down on hers. She closed her eyes, assailed by waves of sensation—disbelief, humiliation, helpless anger, and also the purely tactile feel of his arms holding her against him and his mouth on hers.

  When he raised his head, he stared at her a long moment. Abruptly he released her, turning to the controls of the boat. As stiff and straight as any captive, she stood beside him, held by one wrist, as he maneuvered the cabin cruiser back to the dock.

  Jules was waiting to fasten the mooring lines. Lucien took the keys from the ignition with deliberate slowness and pushed them into his pants pocket. Turning to her, he scooped her up into his arms. With effortless ease he leaped to the dock and strode with her back up the slope to the house.

  Marie, standing in the doorway, called out something with a teasing light in her eyes and a warm laugh.

  "Yes,” Lucien replied before he said in English for Sherry's benefit, “She thinks we are having a lovers’ quarrel, a small difference over the secluded nature of place far away from the pleasures of the city."

  "I wonder where she got that idea?” Sherry said through her teeth. Though she knew it would do no good, she appealed to the other woman. “It was no lovers’ quarrel. I've been kidnapped, shanghaied, brought here against my will. I hate this man!"

  The housekeeper only shook her head with a laughing comment. When Lucien translated, Sherry lapsed into hopeless silence. For the woman had said: “She has spirit, that one. But what good is a woman without it—especially to a man like M'sieur?"

  He placed her in a rattan chair on the gallery then, and with a flamboyant gesture for the delectation of Marie and Jules, he pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand. From that vantage point she was forced to watch as Jules and Lucien, with wide grins, many comments, and much masculine laughter, pulled up the lightweight boats and fastened them with a stout chain to a solid oak tree, locking them in place. He was taking no chances, a fact that was brought home to her when he came to stand before her with his hands on his hips.

  "I would advise against trying to swim for it,” he said, his teeth flashing white in the tan of his face, “unless you have a liking for alligators and snakes."

  "I think I would prefer their company to yours,” she replied evenly.

  "My feelings are hurt. However, I don't believe you would be so foolhardy as to put it to the test."

  It was unanswerable, and as she sat there, caught in his mocking gaze, she despised him for that too.

  5

  It was Lucien who suggested, a short time later, that Marie show his guest to her room. The prospect was more than welcome. Sherry had been by no means certain she would not have to endure his constant company for the length of her stay. As she followed the housekeeper from the gallery she allowed herself to feel relief, and also a measure of satisfaction that Lucien was no more anxious to play the ever-watchful guard than she was to be guarded. An instant later she frowned. His dismissal could also mean he saw no reason to stand watch since he was certain there was no escape.

  The bedroom she had been given was large and airy with a high ceiling and tall French windows that opened out onto the gallery both on the front and the side. It had its own modern bath through a connecting door in what must once have been a dressing room. The furnishings included a tester bed, a great wardrobe known as an armoire, and a washstand complete with a Victorian marble top upon which sat an antique pitcher and bowl. The room, with its cream-colored crocheted spread, rose drapes and bed hangings, its cream, rose, and green Aubusson-style carpet, all in miracle fabrics, was a harmonious blend of old and new, charm and practicality.

  When the door had closed behind Marie, Sherry dropped onto the edge of the bed. Staring at the floral pattern of the carpet, she shook her head. It was unbelievable. Despite everything, she could not rid herself of the feeling that this could not be happening. This was the twentieth century, for heaven's sake! No matter how much a man might dislike a situation, he did not react with such a drastic solution, did he?

  Some did. Lucien Villeré, that hard, decisive businessman with his penchant for rapier tactics was one of them.

  How had she got herself into this mess? It was no use blaming Paul. The idea might have been his, but she had gone into it of her own free will. There had been plenty of time to back out. It did not count that she had not been happy with her role as substitute fiancée, or that she had been trying to help Paul. Her chief emotion had been, at least in the beginning, a desire to repay Lucien for his misjudgment of her. It did not help her feelings that she had only succeeded, so far, in proving him right.

  On examination, it seemed she had three options in her present predicament. She could confess the scheme to Lucien and throw herself on his mercy, hoping he would allow her to go about her business without more ado. She could defy him and watch for a nearly nonexistent means of effecting her escape. Or she could hold on to her temper, come to some kind of amicable terms with him, and wait for the end of the time period he had stipulated in the hope that he would let her go peaceably.

  None of the three courses was entirely satisfactory. The first she had already rejected. The second, though the one she was most drawn toward, seemed least likely to bring about a satisfactory conclusion to the business. The third would be the hardest, but it appeared to offer the best chance of securing her eventual freedom without embarrassment. That it might also offer the greatest danger was a possibility she could not ignore after Lucien's kiss earlier.

  It could not be helped. She would have to face that when she came to it. There was always the chance that taking her in his arms had been no more than the test Lucien had called it, an impulse born of their closeness at the moment. Or so she told herself.

  The morning sun climbed higher. The high-ceilinged room was cooler than most modern bedrooms would have been, still even it grew stuffy after a time. Feeling grubby in the jeans and shirt she had slept in aboard the boat, Sherry showered and changed, donning a pair of shorts and a top in a cool shade of pale blue. She unpacked her suitcases, hanging her clothes away in the armoire and arranging the contents of her cosmetic case in the bathroom.

  With that out of the way, there was little else to do. She could not settle her mind to reading and, as much as she wanted to avoid Lucien, she felt a growing need to be out in the open, breathing fresh air.

  Leaving her bedroom door set wide for circulation, she stepped outside, moving along the front gallery. Her footsteps seemed to echo through the open house in an empty silence. She had the distinct feeling that she was alone, not a pleasant sensation in this isolated spot. Could everyone have deserted her? It hardly seemed possible, but under the present circumstances she could not be certain.

  She glanced into a large, square room opening also off the gallery beyond her own. It was the living room, fitted with comfortable appointments in green and white with touches of yellow. On its far side, on the opposite corner of the house from her own, was another bedroom with a connecting study. She did not intrude beyond the door. From the austere furniture and the brown and gold color combination, it seemed certain the rooms belonged to Lucien.

  The house, she discovered, was not as large as it appeared from the outside. It had only six rooms, though they were spacious ones. There was no central hall. The front entrance led into the living room, which must once have been termed a parlor. Directly behind it was the dining room. With the exception of Lucien's study, the other rooms were fitted out as bedrooms, a practical arrangement in a weekend home when guests might be expected for extended visits. The only problem was the location of the kitchen. There was none, so far as Sherry could see, though various savory aromas seemed to come from somewhere behind the house. A stairway descended from the rear of the side gallery
, giving access to a small outbuilding. Sherry hesitated no more than a moment. On quick, sandalled feet, she slipped down the stairs, making her way along a brick path covered overhead by a wooden latticework breezeway. At the far end could be seen the open door of the small brick building with its overlarge chimney standing as a remnant of other times. It was an outdoor kitchen. Once, the breezeway had protected servants bringing food to the dining room from the rain. Doubtless it now protected Marie, though it occurred to Sherry to wonder why, when the house was modernized with bathrooms and electricity, an indoor kitchen had not been added to save Marie all those steps.

  Inside the building, Marie could be seen moving about. Her work area appeared up to date with gleaming appliances, color-coordinated counter space, and bright lighting. The woman glanced toward the door. At the sight of Sherry, her kindly face creased in a smile. With the spoon in her hand, she gestured toward an arched opening in the breezeway which gave access to the grounds in the back of the house. Thinking that the housekeeper was inviting her to explore, Sherry nodded and, with a smile, turned in the direction she indicated.

  Dipper gourds, their green globes already the shape of Mexican maracás, were growing on the outside of the lattice. Spreading behind the house on its high pillars was a garden of tropical appearance and fecundity, a jungle of rioting growth. Enormous elephant ears, large enough for umbrellas, grew abundantly, fronted by a long stretch of tropical ginger lilies whose exotic fragrance perfumed the air. Pausing to sniff one of the clusters of flowers, she touched a fragile white blossom like a perfect albino swallowtail butterfly.

  The sun beat down on her head with a searing heat and she moved into the shade of a banana forest, craning her neck backward to see the great, leathery red blooms at the top of the tall trunks, half hidden among the waving, wind fretted leaves. Farther along there was a smaller variety of bananas with bright magenta blossoms and tiny green bananas like fingers. The lush smell of verdant growth and damp earth, mingling with the fragrance of flowers, surrounded her like incense and she stood breathing deeply, bemused with the assault on her senses of sight and sound and smell.

  "All you need is a sarong,” Lucien said, ducking beneath a large banana leaf and strolling toward her.

  The instant she saw him Sherry realized this was what Marie had been trying to tell her, that Lucien could be found here. He had removed his shirt, letting it swing from the strong brown fingers of one hand. The slashing shadow patterns falling through the banana leaves danced across his bronzed shoulders. She wished that she had the gift of repartee, that she could think of the perfect cutting remark to wipe the amusement from his face.

  "Why—why a sarong?” she asked as he stopped at her elbow.

  "Because, despite the ice maiden uniform you have donned, your coloring seems to lend itself to this atmosphere. You have the look, Chérie, of warm passion, the smoothness of your lips, the soie sauvage color of your hair, wild silk to you, petite. Then there is the faint tilt of your enormous eyes. It all combines to give you away. You belong to the hot country, by nature if not by birth, where love and loving comes easy."

  "The hot country?” she said, turning away to hide the flush that stained her cheeks from the intensity of his gaze, feigning a detachment she did not feel.

  "Here, subtropical Louisiana,” he said. “There are few places hotter, or with more humidity. The humidity here causes a wet heat that presses into your skin until it's both in the blood and warms the heart."

  She began to walk, out of the shade of the trees and across a stretch of thick green lawn. He fell into step beside her.

  Glancing at him, at the mud that spotted his pants legs and caked his shoes, she said the first thing that came into her mind to change the highly charged subject. “You look as if you have been working."

  "You sound surprised."

  "I suppose I am. Somehow I don't connect you with physical labor. You seem the type to sit behind a huge desk and give orders until you keel over on top of it."

  "Rather than a man of action?” he queried. “It might be convenient to know that my appearance is so deceiving. You can never tell when such a thing will come in handy."

  Sherry was not taken in by his innocent air. She shot him a look of loathing. When she did not comment he went on.

  "No, this morning there was the small matter of a drainage ditch around his garden patch that Jules needed help digging. At this time of year we have tropical showers every evening and drainage can be important. Jules and Marie depend on their garden not only for their summer meals but also for their winter supply of vegetables."

  "And you took shovel in hand,” she said, her tone so scathing that a look of irritation appeared for the first time in his eyes.

  "Is that really so hard to believe?"

  She did not reply, for without his shirt, and with the hot sun pouring over his black hair, the harsh planes of his face and the satin glide of his muscles, he looked like a man who could, and would, do anything.

  They had rounded the end of the house and were moving along a side path where great azaleas higher than their heads skirted the house, and glassy-leaved camellias pruned like trees cast a deep shade. On the opposite side stretched a hibiscus hedge, the flamboyant blossoms shading from white into pink, rose, and red into brilliant orange down its long length.

  Sherry let her gaze move over the flowers, the trees, and emerald-green grass. Though she was acutely conscious of the man beside her, and of her false position where his brother and himself were concerned, she did not intend him to see her discomfiture. She would not give him that satisfaction, or that advantage.

  Keeping her tones quiet, almost reflective, she said, “Can you tell me—Lucien—why it was necessary to inform Marie and Jules that you and I—that we—"

  "That we are lovers?” he supplied in some amusement as she groped for an unembarrassing phrase.

  "That we are romantically involved,” she finished, slanting him a harassed look tinged with chill.

  "I didn't tell them. They, or at least Marie, assumed it."

  "It comes to the same thing since I saw no sign that you tried to correct the wrong impression."

  "No,” he admitted.

  "Why? Because it suits your plans?"

  "I think,” he said, “that you had better explain that."

  "You meant for it to look as if we went away together deliberately in order to discredit me with Paul. To make him think I was easily persuaded—to desert him."

  "To substitute one brother, one richer brother, for the other?"

  Sherry flicked him a tight-lipped glance. “Yes."

  "My reasons were not so melodramatic,” he answered with a disarming smile. “To begin with, Marie was so happy to see me with a girl it seemed a shame to shatter her fond illusions. She thinks I should relax more in feminine company, though she has nearly given up the idea of dancing at my wedding. The main reason, however, was the lack of a believable explanation if I denied the obvious one. Marie and Jules know all of my relatives, and I doubt, somehow, they would accept you as a business client, especially after the scene enacted for them this morning."

  "So I am to go along with everything without a thought for what my friends and working associates may think if it comes out?” she exclaimed, her temper rising in spite of her best intentions.

  He swung his head to stare down at her. “That matters to you?"

  She had, for an instant, forgotten his unflattering ideas of her character. They returned now with added force. “Of course it matters!"

  "Loyalty is an admirable trait—"

  "It isn't loyalty to Paul, at least not entirely."

  "Don't tell me you are concerned for your reputation?"

  "And why not? It's all very well to say that what other people think doesn't matter, but the way they treat you depends on what they think of you."

  He sent her a frowning glance. When he spoke his voice was touched with mockery. “Are you by any chance implying that you ha
ve been treated unfairly?"

  "Don't tell me the idea never crossed your mind?"

  "Not seriously. In any case, I don't believe, at this late date, that it matters. What is done, is done."

  "You don't mean you would keep me here regardless? You can't do that. It's barbaric!"

  "Why? If I had waited until you had seen Paul, then invited you both to join me here, it would have been no more than a few days of relaxation, a comfortable visit. The fact that you are here alone changes nothing. Try to think of yourself as my honored guest."

  "I might be able to do that if I had been given the chance to refuse your kind hospitality,” she returned heatedly. “You won't get away with this. Paul will begin to wonder, eventually, why I never showed up. If he gets no answer at my apartment after several tries, he's sure to check with his secretary. She will explain what happened about the plane tickets and hotel reservations. A call to the airline terminal or my hotel, either one, will give him the information that I arrived. It might also net him the connection with you, his elder brother."

  Lucien shrugged. “If Paul calls the hotel, he will talk to Jonathan Travers, who can be depended on to stall him. But I believe I can take care of any inconvenient inquiries Paul may make by arranging to have a telegram sent to him from the St. Louis office in your name. ‘Regrets due to an illness in the family’ should serve. Under such circumstances, he won't be surprised if you aren't at home to answer the phone."

  "I don't have a family,” Sherry said, her satisfaction at being able to disoblige him even in so small a matter plain.

  "No? Thanks for the information. We will make it a close friend then."

  "You think of everything."

  "I try,” he answered, his dark gaze direct, considering.

  His assurance infuriated her. “You won't get away with this,” she said gratingly, the intensity of her feelings vibrating in her voice. “You may think you will, but you won't—not if I have to see to it personally. Revenge is an ugly word, but you've introduced me to its meaning. I think if I ever get the chance that I will enjoy making you pay for what you are doing."