Iron Lace

by Lorena Dureau

  Monique found some degree of consolation in the lovely new hand-painted harpsichord, and she often gave informal recitals for her little family by candlelight to while away the lonely evening hours. Vidal frequently brought back new pieces of music upon returning from one of his excursions to New Orleans.

  Miguel felt relieved knowing that his little cousins were safely ensconced at the plantation. A young girl barely two years older than Monique had recently vanished from the city and it wasn’t known whether she had fallen victim to foul play or simply run off. It chilled Vidal to the marrow to think what could have happened to his naive little wards had they continued to run around New Orleans without a chaperon.

  Vidal found himself looking forward more and more to his visits to Le Rêve, now that he knew he had his grandmother and two young cousins waiting there for him. As an only child, he had led a rather solitary life until he had come to New Orleans to take charge of the Chausson family’s affairs. He rather enjoyed the sharp contrast of the provincial life he was leading these days with the more sophisticated one he had always led in the courts of Spain and Europe. One of the things he especially liked was the feeling of freedom that the open spaces of the plantation gave him; but when darkness fell, he resented it when the shutters had to be closed tightly against the “evils of the night,” foremost of which were the droves of mosquitoes that came out en masse from the nearby swamplands to lay siege to those who had dared invade what the insects evidently still considered to be their private domains.

  The stuffiness of his room was intolerable, since he not only had to barricade himself behind closed doors but retreat even further behind yards of netting, as well, in order to keep the bloodthirsty little pests from feeding off him while he slept and leaving only stinging welts in return for favors received.

  At least Grandmother Chausson and the girls seemed to take such inconveniences in their stride, accepting them as a natural part of life there in the Louisiana colony. Not that Monique was content. Vidal, who had come to recognize the signs of impending disaster where his ward was concerned, had noted lately how she was beginning to chafe at the bit and look for something to break the monotony of her daily routine.

  He decided, therefore, that it was time for him to begin introducing her to the more technical aspects of plantation life.

  “Perhaps you’ve been wondering what I’ve been doing these past few months,” he ventured one morning right after breakfast.

  Monique had always been curious about her guardian’s comings and goings. “I’ve never really given the matter much thought,” she replied airily, trying to keep her eyes from focusing too noticeably on the patch of dark hairs glimpsed through the opening of his shirt collar. Until now she had mostly seen him with his fashionable chin-high cravat, impeccably draped down to the number of its folds.

  The soft fabric of his shirt clung to the sinewy cords of the muscles beneath it—long, lean muscles hardened by years of fencing, horseback riding, and constant travel.

  “Well, I think you should know I’ve been meeting and talking with the authorities in New Orleans and some of the experienced planters in these parts,” he said, ignoring her tone of indifference, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that indigo is not the best crop for a region like this.”

  “But my father always planted indigo.”

  “And most of the others around here, but these past two years have surely demonstrated that the caterpillar makes more profit from it than the planters do.”

  “Then what do you plan to grow?”

  “Sugarcane. You see, I think the future lies with sugar, or perhaps cotton. Most certainly not indigo.”

  “Is that what the other plantation owners are going to plant, too, now?”

  Vidal paused a second before replying. “No,” he finally said cautiously. “Most of them are staying with indigo, but I’m afraid they’re going to lose their crops to the worms again this year. Only a few of us, like Etienne de Bore and me, along with one or two émigrés from Santo Domingo, have gone over to sugar. Perhaps because we who are newer to this region can see things with a broader perspective than those who can no longer see the forest for the trees.”

  “But if the majority still think that indigo—”

  “Just being in the majority doesn’t necessarily make one right, little cousin. The cane grows very well here as long as it’s kept drained. What has really been holding back the production of sugarcane in Louisiana is the difficulty in successfully granulating it. But a young French aristocrat, Henri Ducole, has agreed to sell me some of his cane cuttings so I can get a crop started and then, when the time comes to granulate it next year, to share his expert with me to ensure it’s done correctly. I’m paying him a handsome fee, of course, but our relationship is a friendly one. He has already given me some very helpful advice. Perhaps you’ve noticed the sheds going up in the back? I’d like to show you and Celeste what I’m doing.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Why bother? It seems you’ve already made all the decisions and are doing as you please without any approval from us, anyway.”

  “I’ve talked it all over with your grandmother, of course, and, frankly, I wanted to include you in those discussions, but she seemed to think you were still too young to understand such details. Personally, I disagree, for I’d like to think you’re old enough to take some interest in at least the overall scheme of things around here.”

  “Well, if Grandmother has put the control of our money in your hands, there’s little else we can do now, I suppose, except pray you’re doing the right thing with it.”

  Her guardian made an almost visible effort to bite his tongue. His ward could be so exasperating at times. “Well, I certainly hope so,” he conceded, “since I’ve advanced considerable money from my own funds to make most of the necessary investments. If the plan fails, I stand to lose a sizable amount of money on this new enterprise myself. You seem to forget that my father left me quite well off in my own right. I can assure you I have little need of going out my way to pocket any of your own dwindling funds.”

  “I’d like to show you the changes I’ve been making and how I’m preparing the fields for the cane. I thought we might ride around the plantation today.”

  Monique couldn’t help smiling to herself. The prospect of going horseback riding always appealed to her, but doubly so now. She welcomed the opportunity it would offer her to observe her detestable guardian at closer range. After all, the better one knows an enemy, the easier it is to defeat him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Monique listened intently while her guardian waxed enthusiastic over all he had been doing and still hoped to do before he was through. Suddenly, empty sheds, huge iron kettles, smelly cattle pens, half-plowed fields, and a mill still under construction all seemed to be fascinating topics of conversation. She had never seen Miguel’s dark eyes shining like that, and the extent of his exuberance surprised her. It made him suddenly seem more human, for she hadn’t imagined a dour Spaniard could be emotional about anything.

  She had to admit, too, that her guardian had literally performed miracles in just the few months since he had taken over Le Rêve. Never before had she seen the place so well organized. She was still skeptical about changing over to sugarcane, but he seemed so sure… Although she felt tempted to taunt him, as she’d so often done in the past, she couldn’t bring herself to belittle his efforts now.

  While they were in the vegetable patch Alphonse Roselle, the Cajun overseer, came over to talk to them. Smiling down at him from where she sat sidesaddle atop her black-spotted gelding, Monique greeted his familiar figure in its coarse homespun shirt and breeches with the nickname she had called him long ago as a toddler.

  “Good day, Phonse, I see we’re still in your very reliable hands, right?”

  Vidal sat drawn up to one side on his own chestnut-colored gelding, watching her with a slight lift of his brows, accustomed as he was to seeing only the more contrary side of her nature.<
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  “Yes, mam’selle, it’s still my pleasure to serve you and your family. Senor Vidal here keeps me busy these days, but I’m trying to follow his instructions as best I can. I hope you carry back my best regards to that fine lady, your grandmother, and your little sister.”

  “I will, Phonse,” she assured him, “and I know I speak for them as well as myself when I tell you how grateful we are for the way you’ve worked so hard to hold Le Rêve together for us ever since my father died last year.”

  Roselle invited her to have a closer look at how large the beans and squash were that year. She and Vidal dismounted. There was the same glow of pride in the old man’s pale eyes that she had seen in her guardian’s all that morning as Alphonse praised the merits of “good delta soil” to Miguel. The two men hovered over the plants like mother hens with their chicks, exchanging observations on the progress of each one’s growth. As she bent over and touched one of those bulging pods, bursting with the exuberance of life, she suddenly sensed what they felt looking down at their first tangible yield for that year.

  After exchanging a few more brief comments with them, Roselle finally put his tattered hat back on and respectfully took his leave.

  She turned now toward her gelding but was suddenly aware of her guardian’s dark, inquisitive gaze fixed intently on her.

  “What… what’s the matter?” she asked him, feeling uncomfortable beneath those disturbing eyes.

  “Nothing,” he replied, but he still didn’t take his gaze from her. “You just surprised me a little, that’s all.”

  “In what way?”

  “It was nice of you to take such a kindly attitude with old Roselle,” he observed. “It meant a lot to him, I’m sure.”

  “Why should that surprise you?” she asked saucily. “Don’t you think I’m capable of being nice?”

  “Well, you must admit, little cousin, you couldn’t always prove it by me.” Vidal smiled.

  With an exasperated toss of her bonneted head, Monique lifted the ruffled skirts of her flowered cotton and took another step toward her mount. Suddenly she felt something sharp jabbing into the flesh of her right foot as she stepped down on it. With a cry of pain, she tried to regain her balance.

  Vidal quickly lunged forward to break her fall. Momentarily he stood swaying with her, holding firmly like the trunk of a tree holding fast in a storm.

  For a long, suspended moment, they clung instinctively to each other, vibrating in the midsummer air from the impact of their collision, even as a pendulum continues to swing once it has been set into motion.

  Stunned, Monique suddenly realized she was in her guardian’s arms. Those dark hairs in the opening of his shirt were brushing her chin, and the scent of lavender and tobacco, mingled with the heat of his body, filled her nostrils. It was an exciting masculine aroma that made her feel as though she were sipping wine. More shaken from the unexpected impact of his nearness than from the fall itself, she reeled unsteadily. Instinctively he tightened his arm about her waist and drew her closer, partially balancing her against his thighs… those fascinating thighs she had so often secretly watched flexing beneath the tight sheath of his breeches. Now they were sustaining her, and the feel of them—warm and pulsating— set her pulses pounding wildly. Once more her legs were buckling beneath her. She knew she’d surely fall to the ground if he let her go.

  “Are you all right?” she heard him asking, his voice strangely muffled and labored in her ear.

  “I… I don’t know,” she replied truthfully, clinging tightly to him, bewildered by the flood of sensations overwhelming her. She felt a strong desire to arch her body against the long, hard leanness of him as she clung to the thin fabric of his shirt and delighted in the feel of the firm expanse of the bare chest beneath it.

  Was this the way it was to be in a man’s arms? She felt strangely alive, with an uncontrollable exuberance racing through her veins. Shyly she lifted her eyes toward her guardian’s face, wondering whether he was feeling all those exhilarating emotions, as well; but, aside from his quickened breathing and the deep flush on his countenance, he seemed unusually tense and his jaw was surprisingly clenched.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked her again. “Are you ill?”

  She had cried out as if in pain when she had fallen forward and was trembling so in his arms now that he didn’t know what to think. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you in the heat too long.”

  He was caught in the dilemma of longing to prolong this moment, yet fearful of the consequences if it did continue. To feel those soft, sensuous curves molded against him and not be able to run his hands caressingly over them was more than he could bear. Even now he could feel the cones of her breasts pressing through the thin fabric of their summer garments and boring maddeningly into his chest. Qué barbaridad! How much could a man take without reacting? The palms of his hands were sore from digging his nails into them to keep from cupping them over those delightful tormentors. He only hoped she wasn’t aware of just how much he was quickening with desire for her. Yet he was loath to let her go just yet. After months of wanting her, of longing to hold her precisely like this, here she was finally in his arms!

  He pressed his loins yearningly against the sweet warmth of her and bit his tongue to stop from murmuring endearments that came rushing to his lips. Now that her bonnet had slipped back and was hanging behind her by its ribbons, he could at least brush his lips against that glorious mane of golden ringlets and leave a kiss undetected there in its perfumed midst. The scent of her inebriated him. He could taste it in his mouth as he momentarily nestled there in the gold of her hair.

  “It’s my foot,” she was saying. “I can’t put my weight on it. Something seems to be cutting it.”

  She was trying to draw back from him now, her cheeks burning hotter than the noonday sun. “There must be a stone or burr in my slipper.” Her voice was breathless, but she reached down inside the soft leather of her shoe and sought out the cause of her discomfort.

  “At last! Here it is!” she declared triumphantly, holding up the offending pebble. Impatiently she threw it off to one side among the rows of squash and then, with a sigh of relief, broke away from his sustaining arm. She hoped he hadn’t been aware of what she had been feeling… of the emotions that had racked her body only a few moments before. How was it possible that a man she hated so much could have such a devastating effect on her whenever he got less than two feet from her?

  “But are you sure you’re all right now?” he asked, taking a step toward her again anxiously.

  “Of course I am!” she snapped crossly, drawing back quickly in an effort to hide how confused she still felt.

  But even after Vidal had helped her back up on her horse, she found it hard to act nonchalant. Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding. Of course, she noted that her guardian seemed rather flustered himself as he swung up quickly into his own saddle and proceeded to ride back to the main house beside her in silence.

  Although they kept their mounts at a casual pace, the air between them seemed charged and ready to crackle at any moment, even as the atmosphere right before a storm hangs tense and still in anticipation of the thunder and lightning yet to come.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Although Monique continued to wage her private war against Spain, conveniently embodied in the person of Miguel Vidal de la Fuente, there were moments in the weeks that followed when she found it difficult to hate her guardian quite so intensely, especially when she recalled the disquieting reality of his taut body pressed tightly against her own. At such moments he was no longer an enemy, no longer the arrogant Spanish don—he was just a man.

  At night in that private little world of hers beneath the mosquito netting of her bed, she would recall those moments she had spent in her guardian’s arms. In spite of her efforts to blot them out of her mind, she found herself reliving every vivid detail and taking pleasure in the recollection.

  In the past she had sometimes lain awake at night wonderin
g what it would be like to have a man that close to her. There had been times when she had gone even further and dared try to imagine how it would feel to lie with a man… to have him actually make love to her. Until now, however, that phantom lover of her dreams had always been vague, his features indistinguishable or perhaps only fleetingly reminiscent of some attractive young man with whom she might have had a passing acquaintance. But now the man in her fantasies, awake or dreaming, was always Miguel Vidal, down to every last disturbing detail of him!

  Sometimes when she was really in her guardian’s presence, she would blush crimson at just the thought that he might suspect some of the things she had been dreaming about him. But now that she had felt the touch of his hands and been close to his lips and sensed the hard warmth of his body, it was difficult not to wonder how it might feel if those same hands were caressing her breasts, or those same lips were kissing her mouth, or that same body were pressed close to her own.

  Although she accompanied her guardian on his rounds of the plantation on several occasions after that first rather disconcerting one, Vidal never took her out alone with him again. Monique suspected he was deliberately avoiding her, and she realized with surprise that she was disappointed by this.

  Nevertheless, there were times when, of necessity, Vidal would have to touch her while helping her up into the saddle or to alight, and then their eyes would meet, and she’d sense that he was remembering, too, those moments when he had held her in his arms, for the color would suddenly spring to his cheeks and he’d quickly turn away.

  There were times, however, when Monique reminded herself that it might be easier just to go on regarding her guardian as her enemy and leave off trying to understand those more complicated emotions he awakened in her whenever she permitted herself to think of him as a man. Often she felt guilty, even angry with herself, for not being able to keep her thoughts about Miguel Vidal under better control. How was it possible to detest a man so much by day, yet dream so passionately about him at night? He represented everything she had been taught to hate. Why, France and Spain were even at war at that moment, and her guardian had no more right to be there meddling in her life than Spain had to be ruling over the Louisiana colony!