Bayou Bride Read online

  "It doesn't surprise me. Civilization is not much more than skin deep in any of us. For myself, I find I'm not too far removed from my buccaneer ancestor. I don't mind your dislike at all. In fact, I consider it a challenge. I could easily come to enjoy taking what I want."

  He was so close, there on the shaded path. A single step and his arms encircled her. His fingers twined in her hair, drawing her head back. His lips brushed hers lightly, almost experimentally. As she tried to jerk away, his grip tightened. The pressure of his mouth increased, becoming a firm demand. The suffocating feeling of helpless rage filled Sherry's chest, and then she was aware of nothing except the sun-warmed skin of his muscled shoulders, the tension in his hold, and the burning imprint of his lips on hers.

  Abruptly, he released her. His face was expressionless, though his eyes held hers, a watchful look in their dark depths.

  Sherry drew a deep breath. “You're making a mistake,” she said, her tone husky.

  "Am I? I doubt it. But if I am wrong I will accept the consequences—gladly."

  Without giving her the time or opportunity to comment, he swung away from her and strode back along the path in the direction they had come.

  What had he meant by that last cryptic statement? That question plagued Sherry long after she had returned to her room. As she lay staring into the sunburst design of the fabric lining, the tester over her bed, she could not force her mind away from the incident. Had Lucien Villeré meant he would be glad to make reparation for his behavior? Or had he intended to say that he would not be sorry to see himself proven wrong in his assessment of her? Once, the only reparation for the compromising position in which she had been placed would have been marriage. Ridiculous thought. She should thank her lucky stars that this wasn't the old days when such measures would have been necessary. She could think of a great many things more comfortable than being married to a man like Lucien solely because of the dictates of propriety. She was by no means certain that he was the man to have his hand forced in such a way, even in another day and age. As he had admitted himself, in him the veneer of the gentleman was only a thin shell over the primitive instincts of a pirate.

  The day before had been an exhausting one followed by a night with no more than a few hours of broken sleep. Still, Sherry did not realize she had drifted off until she came suddenly awake. Someone was in the room, moving about. It was the housekeeper. Stealthily, so as not to awaken her, the woman was closing the French windows and pulling the drapes over them to shut out the increasing heat. A delicious coolness was filling the room, like the effect of a cooling system.

  Marie glanced toward the bed. Seeing Sherry's eyes open, she smiled in greeting, then said something in which Sherry caught the name of M'sieur Lucien. Giving a laugh and a resigned shrug, the housekeeper pointed toward a vent almost hidden by the fall of the drapes. Sherry nodded as she understood that M'sieur Lucien had demanded that the cooling be turned on though Marie considered it a great and deplorable waste. Electricity, Sherry thought, would be expensive way out here; it might even have to be generated on the spot.

  Marie stepped to the washstand, where she pointed to Sherry's wristwatch lying on its polished surface, making pantomime gestures of eating to indicate that it was time for lunch.

  "No, thank you, I don't want anything.” Sherry told her, then seeing the blankness on the woman's face, gave her a firm negative, shaking her head. She had no wish to face Lucien over the long table in the dining room.

  When Marie had gone Sherry stared up once more at the sunburst design of the blue silk in the tester above her. Nothing had changed. She was still a prisoner, still no closer to persuading Lucien to let her go free. With the heaviness of sleep clinging to her still in addition to a dull depression caused by the futility of her appeals to her captor, it occurred to her to wonder if it was possible that she would never be free. Young women had been kidnapped before and disappeared, never to be seen or heard of again. The danger could not be ignored. Still, if that was the case, surely things would have proceeded differently. She would not be lying here in luxury. She would have been left behind somewhere in that twisting passage of the bayous. No, Lucien Villeré's purpose was precisely as he had stated, to get her out of the way for a few days so Paul could become acquainted again with the girl he had once loved. A laudable motive, perhaps, if Sherry had been the kind of scheming gold-digger Lucien obviously thought her to be. That Lucien himself should feel some elemental attraction to her was unfortunate. She wondered if he was as disconcerted by it as she was. It must have been the last thing he had expected.

  No, she could not feature him being nonplussed over anything. Hadn't he said he was beginning to like taking what he wanted? She had not, so far, been successful at resisting him. That must change. Next time she must be prepared, or so she told herself. But, remembering the feel of his lips on hers, the hard band of his arms around her, she shivered, aware of an ache in the back of her throat.

  She tried to think of Paul and of how he would react when he discovered what Lucien had done. It was no good. Paul had become a shadowy figure, his face blotted out by the sardonic smile and hard features of his brother. With a small cry Sherry shook her head, but she could not banish the image before her mind.

  A knock came at the door. It was not a timid sound. There could be little doubt who was on the other side of the panel. She did not answer.

  "Sherry?” Lucien called.

  She turned her face away, lying very still. Here in her room she was safe from the skirmishing in which she had, until now, fought a losing battle. He would not force his way inside, she thought. She discovered her mistake as the door opened to admit his tall form. Surprise held her immobile as she watched him advance across the room to stand at the foot of her bed, his hands braced on the crosspiece.

  "Sulking, Chérie?"

  "Am I to be allowed no privacy?” she parried, pushing herself to a sitting position and glaring at him as she tossed her hair back from her face.

  "Very little, else how am I to know when you might take it into your head to run away?” he replied with unimpaired good humor.

  "I thought you had covered every angle, including that one,” she taunted him.

  "Oh, I am satisfied that you will not be able to escape me to the point of getting back to New Orleans, but I feel a certain responsibility for your safety as well. I have the feeling that you might be foolish enough to court drowning, or a slow death alone from starvation or exposure in the wetlands—if you don't meet with quicksand or snakebite. It's not hospitable, to strangers, our bayou country. My conscience could not be easy if I allowed such a thing."

  "You have no conscience,” she flashed at him, “and I would certainly rather trust the hospitality of the bayou to yours."

  The corners of his eyes tightened but his smile did not slip. He made a gesture that encompassed his presence in her room and her own position in the bed. “I'm afraid I cannot allow you to test their relative merits. Privacy has always been an overrated commodity to those of us with Latin blood, and I would like to point out to you, if you haven't noticed, that there are no locks on the doors here at Bayou's End. I would advise you not to try a hunger strike or resort to a fit of the sullens. I will not have Marie upset, nor will I allow you to cause her the extra work of bringing trays to you when you are obviously able to come to the table.” His voice dropped to a softer note. “You may look on this as a warning. I will come and get you if you try it. Now. Lunch is on the table."

  "I understood that from Marie,” she said after a moment, determined not to appear upset by his threats.

  "Then I will expect you in the dining room in ten minutes—"

  "I'm not hungry."

  "—Or, if you prefer,” he went on as if she had not spoken, “I will wait here for you until you make yourself ready."

  "I am perfectly capable of knowing when I wish to eat."

  "Are you, Chérie? Or are you letting mere pique get in the way of your judgmen
t? I will expect you in ten minutes. Do not disappoint me."

  "Overbearing, conceited, pompous, domineering—” she muttered to herself when the door had closed behind him. She recognized, however, that she could not win in a war of wills of this sort. She was too vulnerable here in this unlocked room to do anything other than as he had said. Also, he had some right on his side. She did not want to be a burden to Marie. It wasn't her fault that she had been saddled with an unwilling guest.

  Sherry swung her feet to the floor and stepped into her sandals. Feeling tousled and untidy from sleep, she smoothed her knit top down over her hips, then moved to the dressing table where she took up a brush to bring some kind of order to her hair. A touch of lip gel, and she looked less pale, more ready to go out and do battle. The action reminded her of her earlier resolve. She was not sure what good looking her best would do, but it seemed a step in the right direction. She must try not to antagonize Lucien, which would not help her, but would serve only to keep him on guard. It would not be easy. He had done nothing but thwart her and taunt her since the moment of their meeting. She was not sure that she would be able to hide the sheer rage he aroused in her.

  Lucien waited for her in the living room. Sherry forced herself to smile at him as he got to his feet at her entrance. His eyes narrowed a fraction before he glanced at his watch, congratulating her on her promptness. Together they moved toward the double doors of the dining room.

  Their places had been set at the table with the main course in place and the dessert sitting ready on a serving cart to one side. There was no sign of Marie, Sherry saw, as Lucien held her chair for her to be seated. That was a great pity since it would mean she would have his whole attention.

  "What became of the ice maiden?” he asked as he sat down and took up his fork.

  Sherry knew it would not be wise to drop her antagonism too quickly. When she spoke it was in a controlled voice without venom. “She is still here, not quite melted by the heat, though the air conditioning, when you had it turned on, was certainly welcome."

  "One of my mother's innovations. She likes her comforts,” he replied.

  From that inauspicious beginning they managed to keep up a species of conversation as the meal progressed. Lunch was a chef's salad with crisp iceberg lettuce, fresh tomatoes and cucumber, shrimp, and slivers of chicken breast. With it went buttered rounds of French bread, followed by chilled halves of honeydew melon heaped with fresh strawberries and sliced peaches.

  At last Sherry sat back, replete. “It was all very good,” she commented, “light and refreshing, lovely for such a warm day."

  "Marie is a good cook. You should taste her gumbo."

  "I assume that I will,” she said in a cool voice just touched with wryness. She dropped her napkin in her plate, then rose from her chair, forcing him to get to his feet also.

  "No coffee?” he asked.

  She shook her head, unable to contemplate the black brew Marie had, in such weather, poured for Lucien. She thought for a moment he was going to argue and braced herself for the struggle. Then he shrugged.

  Drifting out on the gallery where a gentle breeze wafted along the shady space, she wandered to the front of the house. There she selected a chair of white rattan filled with cushions in a cool green print and sank down into it.

  His cup in his hand, Lucien joined her, taking a cane lounge at an angle where he could watch the play of expression across her face. They sat in silence. Sherry stared out over the lawn, watching the glitter of the sun on the lake through the trees with her chin lifted, though she did not realize it, in an attitude which could have been taken for a challenge.

  "Hauteur doesn't suit you,” Lucien said at last.

  "I think you mean it doesn't suit you," she answered, flicking him a quick glance.

  "It makes little difference to me."

  There was an oblique threat in that statement, she thought, but she chose to ignore it. Nor did she make any other effort at conversation. He had brought her here against her will. She had decided not to fight him, but she was under no obligation to entertain him or to make the time she must spend in his company pleasant for him. She realized with a part of her mind that it might be better if she did so, but at this moment she could not bring herself to smile and chatter of inconsequential things.

  The breeze had stopped, the air had grown still, as if waiting. The moss on the trees hung straight, dulling to the color of old men's beards as the sun went behind a cloud. A honeybee hovered around them, bumping the walls and their chairs before flying drunkenly away.

  "So,” he said into the quiet, “you have decided to be difficult."

  It had not been her intention, but she would not give him the satisfaction of admitting it. “What did you expect? Cheerful accommodation?"

  He looked at her, a strange expression in his eyes. When she could no longer hold that piercing regard, she got to her feet and moved to the edge of the gallery where she rested her head on one of the colonettes that extended from the brick supporting pillars to the roofline.

  Thunder rolled, a gentle booming sound in the distance. It was quiet, so quiet that she could hear the rustle of her clothing as she breathed. It was odd to hear nothing, not the murmur of distant traffic, the click and hum of office machinery, or even the muted clatter of a low-turned radio or television. She wished that Marie and Jules would join them on the gallery, anything to break this strain.

  The tension that gripped her would not allow her to be still and, pushing away from the colonette, she walked along the edge of the porch like a tightrope walker over an abyss. If she was forced to endure much more of Lucien's presence she would scream, she told herself. As she reached the wide flight of steps she began to descend.

  "It's going to rain,” he told her lazily from where he sat watching her.

  "I don't care,” she answered without looking back.

  6

  Despite her brave words, Sherry was surprised when Lucien made no move to stop her or bring her back. As thunder grumbled again, nearer now, she grew doubtful of the wisdom of her impulse. She did not stop, however, but made her way down the sloping lawn toward the lake. It was peaceful under the trees; the gentle sighing and the creaking of their branches was a friendly sound. She could almost feel her nerves relax when she knew she was no longer under surveillance. She skirted the area of the dock, since it held such unpleasant memories, and moved along the edge of the lake farther away from the house. The rising wind lifted her hair and cooled the heat of her face and she took deep breaths of it, reveling in her sense of freedom, however transitory.

  She paused for a moment to watch a blue heron perched on a stump out in the lake with his eyes fixed on the water beneath him as he fished. As she stopped she heard a furtive movement behind her. She turned sharply and Jules, a short distance away, came to an abrupt halt. She stared at him, at his arrested attitude, then as a test she moved on a few paces. He followed. Once again she stopped, and his loose-jointed stride ceased, though he looked at her with soft brown eyes that were without expression.

  "I suppose your precious M'sieur Lucien is afraid that I will break and run. You may tell him from me that there is no chance of that. I will stay to defeat him at his own game."

  If he understood her he gave no sign, but neither did he leave his post, though he did give a worried glance up at the sky. In that moment lightning crackled, outlining the ancient tree tops in its blue-white glare.

  "Go back,” she told him angrily. “Go back and leave me alone."

  Jules shook his head with a soft reply that she could not understand. Once more lightning crashed, followed by a deafening roll of thunder. Even Sherry had to concede it was madness to linger under the trees with their powerful attraction for lightning bolts. A gust of wind tossed their branches and swooped low to flatten her clothing against her. With reluctance, Sherry admitted defeat. Her gaze on the darkening heavens, she turned and began to make her way back toward the house. Jules looked decidedly
relieved and a flicker of a smile passed over his seamed face as if he thought she must be anxious to return to the safety and company of his M'sieur.

  They were nearing the house, in sight of the gallery, when he melted away into the trees with no more sound than when he had come.

  Seconds later, the rain began, great fat drops that fell from the clouds to splash and splatter around her with incredible warm wetness. Ducking her head, Sherry ran the last few yards. She hurried up the steps, arriving at the top flustered and breathless, brushing at the drops caught, in her hair and jeweling her arms.

  A low laugh caught at her attention. She looked up to see Lucien lounging toward her. “As fastidious as a cat,” he drawled. “And I thought you didn't care about the rain."

  Her first impulse was to flee, to escape his innuendo and sardonic smile. If she were to defeat him at his own game, however, she could not do so from the privacy of her room. The clash of wits and personality she had promised herself to win could only be joined if they were together. And yet, as she stared up at his darkly handsome face and audacious smile, she found she lacked the courage. The rain, a silver curtain falling from the eaves, made of the gallery a too intimate setting, especially as she was well aware now that Jules and Marie would not intrude. In addition, her irritation with him for having her followed was too close to the surface. She would only quarrel with him.

  Smiling a little then, she glanced at the water spots that clung to her skin, said she thought she needed to dry her self, and made her escape to her room.

  She kicked off her shoes, removed her damp clothing and draped it in the bathroom to dry, then threw herself down on the bed. The rain, splashing in wind-driven gusts on the gallery outside and drumming on the roof, made a monotonous accompaniment for her thoughts. She pressed her hands to her eyes. She must consider tactics, decide what she was to do, how she must behave. She had never set out cold-bloodedly to pit her intelligence against a man. She knew Lucien Villeré was a formidable, perhaps dangerous, opponent to begin with, but it must be done. She could not submit passively to his designs on her; she was too uncertain of what precisely they were. No, she must remain cool but friendly, treating him always not as a personal foe but as her prospective brother-in-law. She should be attractive, but not too much so; concerned, warmly human, all the things that men admired in a woman. In this way she might foster the doubt that he was wrong about her. She did not think he was quite so certain of her position in his brother's life as he had once been. She thought it would also be a good idea to conceal her active dislike and animosity. It appeared to affect him like a challenge, spurring him to outrageous behavior. There must be no more of that. Surely there was some way to prevent it. By all rights the evening should be a time of danger.