Love Be Mine (The Louisiana Ladies Series, Book 3)

by Busbee, Shirlee

  She did not pretend to misunderstand him. Heart thudding, excitement welling deep inside of her, she managed to ask, "Your wound?"

  Hugh smiled, such a tender, knowing smile that every nerve in Micaela's body rejoiced. "My wound," he said thickly, as he effortlessly pulled her onto the bed and into his embrace, "will do just fine."

  Their lips met, and the kiss was everything each had dreamed it would be. Each was conscious that there was a new element between them, but the warmth and utter sweetness of that kiss drove coherent thought from their minds.

  With astonishing speed, Micaela's garments as well as Hugh's disappeared, and the next instant they were laying side by side, Micaela's breasts crushed against his chest, her fingers buried in his hair, and their legs locked in an erotic tangle. His kiss deepened, became hungry and ravening, his lips hard and greedy against hers, his tongue claiming the moist depths of her mouth. Joyously, she gave herself up to the desire that flooded through her. He was her husband. She loved him! And, oh, Dieu! She wanted him.

  Helplessly she pressed closer, and Hugh groaned with delight. Her nipples burned into his chest, her roving hands caressed his shoulders and his back, and her thighs rubbed against his, making his entire body clench with need.

  He shifted, mindful of his wound, and dropped his head to her breast, his mouth closing hotly around her nipple. Ah, dear heaven! Nothing had ever tasted so sweet, so intoxicating.

  Despite the urge to take her swiftly, Hugh tried to slow down, tried to tamp down his desperate need to join them, to sink his heavy, swollen manhood deep inside of her. But recklessly driven by the urge to mate, the incessant urge to reclaim her, he could not slow the demands of his body. He sought the thick thatch of curls between her legs, excited and unbearably aroused to find that she was already wet and slick and ready for him. Holding his own devils at bay, he toyed with her there, exploring and teasing her, tearing a soft, shaken sigh from her.

  Trying to remember why she was to be docile in his arms, trying to remember why she was not to respond too wildly to his touch, Micaela trembled under the onslaught of his mouth and hand. The taste of Hugh on her lips, the frankly carnal movements of his hand between her thighs burned away any thought of lying passive beneath him. She could not.

  Uncontrollably she arched up, her legs half-splayed open for him, for the first time ever, actively seeking his possession, and Hugh's frail leash on his own hungers snapped. He reared up, intending to mount her, but his wounded arm failed him, crumpling painfully under him. With something between a curse and a heartfelt groan, he fell back to the bed.

  Micaela jerked upright. "Your wound! I forgot. Oh, what have I done? Did I hurt you? This is madness, we must stop!"

  With his good arm, Hugh pulled her across his chest. Kissing her urgently, he muttered, "It will hurt me far more if we do not finish what we have started—and I assure you that I shall go quite, quite mad if I do not have you—now!"

  "But, but your arm—You cannot—"

  A sensual smile crossed his face. "There are ways, sweetheart. There are ways...."

  She gasped in surprise as Hugh positioned her over the top of him, her thighs on either side of his lean hips. Her eyes widened in astonished pleasure when a second later he shifted again and fully impaled her on his broad shaft. She marveled at the wonderful sensation, fascinated by this new dimension to their lovemaking. She wiggled experimentally, the jolt of pleasure that shot up through her making her moan helplessly.

  Her face flushed with passion, she asked breathlessly, "Your wound? This will not hurt you?"

  His breathing uneven, those temptingly generous breasts inches from his hungry mouth and the feel of her hot, silken flesh clinging tightly to his aching shaft, made it woefully difficult for Hugh to concentrate on anything but the sheer pleasure coursing through him. "Wound?" he asked fuzzily. "What wound?"

  Micaela giggled and wiggled again. Hugh's eyes darkened and then he touched her between her legs, stroking her, and her amusement fled. Despite the pain in his arm, he managed to grip her hips with both hands and began to guide her, teaching her the rhythm. She was a joyous and willing pupil.

  Taking as much pleasure from the dazed expression on her face as the sweetly punishing movement of her body sliding up and down on his near-to-bursting member, Hugh was certain he had never experienced anything quite so exquisitely divine.

  During the time since their wedding night, Micaela had thought that she had learned all there was to know about lovemaking, but she was discovering that she had been wrong. Oh, so very wrong. It was exciting, so very erotic to feel him beneath her, to feel his solid shaft fitted snugly inside of her and to feel his lean hips between her thighs. When Hugh pulled her head toward him and kissed her hungrily, the burning coil in her belly tightened unbearably. When he touched her, when his hand left her head and slid down past her breasts, skimming her flat stomach, traveling ever lower and he finally stroked and fondled her there where they were joined together, she almost screamed with pleasure. Panting, moaning aloud, she rode him harder, increasingly frantic to assuage the demands of her body. He touched her again and she seemed to explode inside, quaking and crying softly as ecstasy, intense and emphatic, swept over her. Limply she sank down on his chest, her body quivering, spent.

  The muted sounds of her pleasure were music to Hugh's ears, the convulsive clasp of her flesh around him sending a sharp spiraling delight through him and pushing him over the edge. He gave one powerful lunge upward, driving himself deeply into her, then shuddered and groaned as he, too, found that same elemental ecstasy.

  They lay locked together for several moments, each too sated to move. Eventually Micaela slid reluctantly from him. With his good arm, Hugh pulled her next him, brushing a warm kiss against her cheek. Snuggled by his side, Micaela thought giddily, Hugh had been right—there were ways... and then there were ways....

  Chapter 16

  Lisette almost ignored Micaela's plea to entertain John Lancaster while she tended her husband. She had been shocked to learn of Hugh's wounding, but she was more dismayed to learn that it would be up to her to act as hostess for a few hours. She considered ignoring the message, but then she put on her most polite expression and strode determinedly from the kitchen where Michel, with Micaela's request, had found her.

  John Lancaster meant nothing to her, she told herself firmly. She was not a young girl, easily enthralled by a dark, exciting stranger. She was a grown woman. A widow. She had borne two children. John Lancaster did not intimidate her!

  Which was all very well and good as far as it went, she thought uneasily, as she walked the short distance between the house and the kitchen. But considering the way her heart had pounded when she had seen him! Dieu! It did not bear thinking about! And when they had gazed into each other's eyes...

  She snorted. This was ridiculous. After the way he had abandoned her, she should feel nothing but scorn and contempt for him. And she did, she reminded herself fiercely. She really did, except... except that it was very hard to remember what she should feel when she was only aware of what she did feel, especially when her wayward heart was telling her something far different than her brain.

  There was no sign of her inner turmoil when she reentered the small salon. Briskly she said, "Ah, here you are Monsieur Lancaster. Since my daughter will be busy for a while with her husband, it will be my... pleasure to show you about their new home. Would you care for some refreshments first?"

  John shook his head. A winsome smile curving his chiseled mouth, he asked, "Could you not call me 'John'? I remember a time when my name came easily to your lips."

  Lisette stiffened. "That," she said coolly, "was many years ago. I was a foolish young girl in those days." She met his eyes steadily. "You can be sure, Monsieur Lancaster, that I shall not make the same mistakes I made then."

  John's face tightened and a muscle bunched in his jaw. "You were not the only one who was foolish. I was foolish enough to believe you when you said you loved
me—foolish enough to believe that you would marry me."

  Her eyes flashed. "You dare to say such things to me?" Lisette demanded furiously. She was so outraged that she had to fight the impulse to cross the room and strike his dark face. This was her daughter's father-in-law, she reminded herself. Micaela was married to his stepson. For the sake of the younger ones, they would have to learn to rub shoulders together. She took in a deep, calming breath, forcing the knot of rage in her chest to dissipate.

  Her head held proudly, she said, "There is no use for us to discuss what happened a long time ago—it is over and done with. And I suggest that we would both be wise if we agreed that we were both fools and let it go at that."

  John nodded curtly, an acid taste in his mouth. How many nights had he lain awake savoring the angry accusations he would hurl at her if he ever saw her again? How many times had he alternately cursed her and yearned to hold her again? He sighed. What good had all his private suffering and rage ever done him? Perhaps she was right. Perhaps, they should just let the past go.

  "Very well, since we are not to discuss what happened between us, what do you suggest we do?" He smiled sardonically. "Pretend we are strangers? Pretend we have just met?"

  "We have just met! I am not the young girl that you knew—I have been married, and I have borne and raised two children. You are no longer the man I thought I had fallen in love with—you also married—Hugh is your stepson. We are not the same people we were."

  John moved restlessly around the room. He finally stopped a few feet from her. "It will not be easy. Memory has a way of tripping one up when least expected."

  "I know," Lisette said softly, wishing he was not standing quite so close to her, wishing that his dearly remembered scent was not in her nostrils, wishing painfully that she did not feel the powerful tug of attraction between them. So it had been, she thought, the first moment they had laid eyes on each other.

  Determined to follow her own advice, she picked up her skirts and said briskly, "If you will follow me, I shall show you the main rooms on this floor. They are, as you may have noticed, scantily furnished, and many of the things are somewhat shabby, but it will not be so for long." An impish smile curved her mouth. "Micaela and I composed a very long and very expensive list of items we needed and sent it off to New Orleans. It is good that your stepson has a deep purse."

  To their astonishment, the time they spent together wandering through the various rooms of the house passed pleasurably. John was interested in the house, and Lisette happily explained its history and the various changes Micaela intended to make.

  "Are you going to be living with them?" John asked at one point.

  Lisette smiled and shook her head. "Non! At the moment they seem happy to have me around. I intend for them to continue to do so. Not having me underfoot all the time will make us all enjoy the time we spend together so much more, oui?"

  "Very astute of you," John replied, nodding his head. "Hugh would like me to leave Natchez and join him down here, but I have not yet made up my mind."

  She regarded him for a long moment. "Living near them, as I do," she said, "is not quite the same thing as one living in Natchez. I am only hours away from Micaela, but for you it is a long, arduous journey between New Orleans and Natchez."

  His gaze fixed on her face, he asked slowly, "And how would you feel if I were to move down here, if I were to buy myself a home that was only 'hours' away from them? Our paths would be bound to cross frequently."

  Lisette shrugged. "For my child," she said tartly, "I would endure even your presence!"

  A spark lit John's eyes, and he threw back his head and laughed. "You still," he murmured a moment later, "have a damnably sharp tongue."

  Lisette tossed her head. "And now, monsieur," she said determinedly, "if you please, I should like to show you the terrace at the side of the house."

  Meekly John followed her, realizing regretfully, that for the moment at least, Lisette was once again committed to her role of polite hostess.

  * * *

  There was no polite hostess, however, to greet François when he called that same afternoon at Alain Husson's town house in New Orleans. He was expected, and the Husson butler immediately showed him to the small salon and indicated that Master Husson would join him shortly.

  His attractive features strained, François wandered around the elegant room, wondering uneasily why Alain had wanted to see him. He hoped it wasn't about his debts.

  Alain entered the room a moment later, an affable smile on his face. Straightening the cuff of his shirt where it showed beneath the sleeve of his plum-colored jacket, Alain asked, "Have you been waiting long? I had an errand to take care of, and have just returned to the city."

  François shrugged. "Non. I only arrived a few minutes ago.

  "Bon! Would you care for some refreshments? Some cafe au lait? With some pastries, perhaps?"

  "Just coffee will be fine," Francis said, seating himself in a chair covered in oxblood-colored leather.

  After ringing for a servant, Alain chose an identical chair across from François and settled into it. He cocked a brow and said, "I suppose you want to know why I wanted to see you today?"

  François nodded, bracing himself for Alain's demand for payment of the monies owed him. Monies he had no way of paying.

  Almost as if Alain had read François's thoughts, he murmured, "Do not be so tense, mon ami. I have no intention of asking for payment. I am very well aware of your means, and I know that raising the amount you owe me is beyond your power at this time."

  "I will pay you, I assure you," François said stiffly.

  Alain smiled. "Oh, of that I have little doubt, mon ami."

  The butler arrived with their coffee, and for several minutes there was no further conversation. It was only when the butler left that Alain sank back into his chair and, stirring his coffee, said, "I had intended this meeting to be a bit of a private celebration between the two of us, but I am afraid that I—er—miscalculated."

  "A celebration?" François repeated. "What would we have to celebrate? I still owe you a great deal of money. If things had gone as we had planned, you would now be my brother-in-law and my debt to you would have been paid. As it is, I have no idea how I am to pay you—but I shall—honor demands it." François sighed. "And then there is Etienne's murder."

  Alain took a sip of his coffee. "Does that bother you? Etienne's death?"

  "Mon Dieu! Of course, it does!" François burst out, rising from his chair in his agitation. He glanced back at Alain. "We were friends! I have known him and his family since I was a child—all my life."

  Alain looked amused. "I had not realized that you were so close to him."

  "Damn you! We were not close, and you know it! But we were friends and to have—" François stopped, his fists opening and closing impotently at his sides.

  "Sit down," Alain said, "and listen to me. Etienne is dead, and there is nothing you can do about it now. He had to die. Once it was known he was in Hugh's hands, there was no choice. It was necessary. Just as the Américain's death is necessary."

  François blanched. "Nom de Dieu, you are serious—you mean to kill him."

  Alain nodded. "Of course. If luck had been with me a few hours earlier, he would be dead already. The, er, unhappy victim of a murderous bandit."

  "You tried to kill him? Today?" François demanded, aghast.

  "Naturally." His eyes hard, Alain added, "I have every intention of marrying your sister. I cannot do that if Hugh Lancaster remains alive. You agreed with me. Do not forget, mon ami, you are in this as deeply as I am."

  "B-b-but murder! I never agreed to murder! It is horrible enough that Etienne is dead, but now you tell me you plan the murder of my own brother-in-law—it is despicable."

  "Such a tender conscience you have developed, mon ami. You were not so high-principled when we first began our profitable enterprise." Malice evident, Alain added, "If memory serves me, it was your idea."

 
; François swallowed. "I cannot deny it, but I never expected... it was only to have been..." He stopped, distressed. Taking a deep breath, he went on bitterly, "Once you learned how I meant to pay you, you were the one who expanded upon my idea, the one who volunteered to help me and the one who wanted us to steal more and more. I had meant only to pay my debts to you and then cease the pilfering." Francis looked thoroughly miserable. "In the beginning with you demanding immediate payment and me with no way to pay you, it did not seem so very bad. I was only taking a little extra from my own company." He flashed Alain a glance of dislike. "When you offered to help me steal, you said that after a shipment or two, I would have paid my debt to you." François's jaw clenched. "But then when you saw how easy it was, you grew greedy."

  "And you," Alain said softly, his eyes cold and unblinking, "could not stay away from the gaming tables. I was not the one who continued to lose money I did not have."

  François looked away. "You are right," he said unhappily. "I was a fool! I kept thinking..."

  "You wanted," Alain drawled, "to show everyone how adult and sophisticated and clever you were. Worse, you kept thinking you could best me and impress everyone. You were indeed a fool if you thought that I would allow that to happen. I do not lose. And I do not intend to lose now." Almost pityingly, Alain continued, "You are in far too deep to escape, mon ami."

  "Do not call me that! I am not your friend! You have used me and maneuvered me and forced me upon a path I never intended, just as I suspect you did to Etienne!"

  "Ah, I see that perhaps I was mistaken in you. I thought you were your own man, answerable to no one." His voice cruel, Alain continued, "You boasted of it often, if I recall correctly. All that righteous anger you so frequently and vocally expressed against the Américains was just for show, oui! You like the Américain lording it over you? You are pleased that your sister is married to that mongrel? An Américain, who has practically thrown you out of your own company?"