“You’re wrong… you’re wrong!” insisted Monique as the row of crypts in front of her began to dissolve into a sea of tumultuous gray waves. Her eyes had lost their focus and everything seemed to be swimming in a distorted haze through the tears welling up in them.
“Oh, what does it matter anyway?” Foucher said with a laugh, not wishing to make an issue of so trivial a matter. “Come quickly, my sweet, and slip me a little kiss. I’ve missed you so!”
He felt for her waist beneath her cape and pulled her lightly toward him, but she drew back impatiently. She seemed so angry he didn’t dare insist, although the vehemence of her refusal bewildered him.
“By all that’s holy, Monique! I mean no disrespect. After all, if we had succeeded in eloping that night, we’d be husband and wife now. Have you thought of that?”
“I… I have to go,” she said feebly, wanting to run away from him… to run away from that horrid place… to run away from what he had just said. She broke free of his embrace and dashed off, running up the lane behind the row of tombs, forgetting about Celeste waiting at the end of the other path, forgetting everything except Maurice’s words about her guardian and Azema. The memory of Miguel’s caresses was searing her flesh… every spot he had touched was throbbing. Just the thought of his making love to Azema the way he had made love to her infuriated her. Maurice had to be wrong. Miguel couldn’t still be seeing that horrid woman!
The stinging tears so blinded her eyes that she couldn’t see where she was going. The dazzling white tombs with their gay flowers and decorations blended into a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns that she could no longer recognize. So distracted was she that she hardly noticed Padre Sebastian as he stepped out from behind a monument farther down the row of tombs and gave her a brief greeting. With unseeing eyes, she rushed past him, her dark blue cape flying behind her, its hood thrown back and her long gold hair glinting like a ray of sunlight on that otherwise dreary day. She never even noticed how the monk had continued to stand there, staring after her with dark, smoldering eyes long after she had gone by.
Chapter Thirty-one
Miguel was desperate. He couldn’t understand the change that had come over Monique in the past two weeks. She had suddenly turned hostile toward him again. Perhaps his hopes of marrying her within a few months had been premature. She probably needed a year or two more yet. Some girls her age might be ready, but his ward had led such a sheltered, pampered existence up until now that it was probably too much to expect her to grow up so quickly. Lately she’d been so petulant toward him that he feared she might never declare a truce in her private war against him and Spain, no matter how the present hostilities between their respective countries might end.
He was glad he had insisted on giving their ever-fluctuating relationship a little more time to stabilize. One minute the girl would have him so exasperated that he’d be cursing himself for a fool to have ever been interested in such a spoiled brat; yet the next, there he would be smiling with tender indulgence at her caprices and thinking that, no matter now long it might take, it would be worthwhile waiting for so charming a child to ripen into the delightful woman he knew she could be. Then he would begin hoping all over again…
His rebellious ward also seemed restless, but, as far as he could judge, for entirely different reasons. That very afternoon, Mlle. Baudier had come bursting in on him while he was busy going over the household accounts to inform him that Monique had slipped out of the house again.
Racing off to the plaza, he found his unpredictable ward in one of her “patriotic demonstrations” with Foucher and some of his friends, promenading around the square singing the “Marseillaise” with the French tricolor on her blue bonnet and her gown of red and white stripes hanging loose “in the revolutionary mode”! He was beside himself with rage. Everything he thought he had gained over the past months suddenly seemed to have been for naught. There she was, more recalcitrant than ever. If anything, she seemed to be deliberately trying to provoke him!
Taking her by the arm, he literally dragged her away from her rebel friends, and not a moment too soon, for already a few gendarmes were coming out of the guardhouse to break up the demonstration, while several Spanish priests stood watching disapprovingly from the door of the church.
Now, at the town house once more, he marched his defiant ward straight into the parlor and, slamming the door angrily behind him, turned to look down accusingly at her.
“Will you please tell me, Monica, what in the world has come over you?” he demanded. “Have you forgotten our pact so soon?” There was torment now as well as anger in his dark eyes.
Monique flushed and turned away, unable to look another moment into the face that had been haunting her dreams ever since that night of the hurricane. “You should be the last one to speak to me of pacts!” she lashed back at him angrily. “Just like most of your countrymen, you’re deceitful and say one thing while doing something else!”
He looked at her in bewilderment. “Whatever are you talking about? I meant what I said when we made our pact. If you’d only stop all this childish carrying-on and show me and your grandmother that you’re mature enough, I’d marry you in an instant. But it’s behavior like today’s that makes me doubt you’re ready to take a woman’s role…”
“And why should you worry about my qualifications as a woman when you already have one to fill your needs?” she suddenly flung back at him with all the venom she had been hoarding inside of her those past two weeks.
He shook his head, confusion beginning to corrode his anger. “I… I don’t know what you mean,” he faltered. “What woman are you talking about?”
“You know very well what woman. Azema Ducole. Who else?”
He put his hand to his forehead in despair. “God help me! Am I never to stop hearing that woman’s name on your lips?”
“After all your fine talk of love and pacts, you’ve gone right on seeing her. You’re nothing but a hypocrite!”
Miguel colored. “I swear I haven’t been with Azema or any woman… not since that night…”
“How can you stand there and lie to me like that when you know very well you’ve been to see her heaven only knows how many times in these past two months?”
He blinked confusedly for a second; then he thought he understood. “It’s true I’ve been by the Ducole town house a few times,” he conceded, “but to see Henri, not Azema. You know very well he’s my associate. I can hardly stop seeing him just because I’ve broken off with his sister.”
“It’s hard to believe that nothing passes between you and that sister when she’s the one who kisses you goodbye at the exit!”
Miguel’s dark eyes narrowed. “Who’s been filling your head with such foolish gossip? It was that Foucher fellow, right? I wager that’s why you’ve been acting so strangely recently. Have you been seeing that boy again behind my back?”
She held her ground defiantly. “What does it matter how I know? The fact is you’re still seeing her!”
“Not in the way you’re implying,” he insisted. His mind was racing back over his recent visits to the Ducole town house, trying to remember what could have happened “at the exit” that someone might have seen and misconstrued or deliberately exaggerated.
Although Azema had seemed to accept with good grace his decision to leave off the more intimate aspects of their relationship, she had, nevertheless, made no secret of the fact that she would be quite willing to renew their liaison any time he felt so inclined. Miguel was beginning to remember now… that afternoon when she had insisted on seeing him to the door… she had coquettishly tried to kiss him goodbye. Someone must have seen them standing there in the entrance… What rotten luck!
He took a pleading step toward Monique. “Please, my dear, believe me. There hasn’t been anything between me and Azema for over two months now, and it’s been that way because that’s how I’ve wanted it… because the only woman I want is you.” If she only knew how he ached to take
her in his arms again! Even now, as he saw the swell of those fully ripened breasts pressing so exuberantly against her tightly laced bodice, he could remember the taste of those sweet nipples between his lips.
“Please, my dear, you must believe,” he begged. She had turned her bonneted head away and only the high velvet crown with its rebellious French cockade confronted him.
“By all the saints, you have no reason to be jealous of anyone. God in heaven! How I wish you were just a little bit older!”
She whirled back to him, her gray eyes stormier than ever. “Yes, I know. You prefer more experienced women!” she exclaimed in bitter anger. “I’ve always suspected that was the real reason why you rejected me.”
“Rejected you?” he echoed in disbelief. “Qué barbaridad! Is that what you’ve been thinking?”
Only the tragic expression on her face kept him from bursting out laughing at the impossible position in which he found himself. “Well, it seems I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t!” he observed with an ironic chuckle.
But the tears of chagrin clouding her eyes bore witness to the fact that she could see no humor in the situation at all.
He moved in closer and gently lifted that angry little face so he could see it better. At that moment it looked more like a doll’s than ever, he thought, with the ribbons of her blue bonnet so prettily framing it.
“Is that really what you think—that I rejected you that night of the storm?” he asked incredulously.
“It… it has occurred to me,” she admitted, her chin quivering in the palm of his hand. “Especially in the light of recent events.”
“God’s my witness! If you only knew what it cost me… what it still costs me to keep my distance from you! I love you, you precious unruly child! Don’t you know that yet? But you’re robbing me of my wits. What am I to do with you?”
She continued to stand there, her tiny chin set, her figure drawn up indignantly, despite the limp skirts hanging so dejectedly about her limbs.
Bending down from his height, he peered beneath the brim of her hat, and at the sight of those huge gray eyes swimming in tears, a flood of mixed emotions surged through him.
“So you really do care!” he exclaimed. “Thank God, you love me a little!”
She lifted her head and gave him an indignant glare. “Do you think I’d have let you make love to me if I didn’t?” Then suddenly she melted and threw herself against his chest. “Oh, Miguel, I do care!” she confessed passionately. “I only wish you really did, too! I can’t bear it when you pull away from me. You see what I mean? You’re doing it right now!”
Her words were like kindling thrown on the fire. He stopped drawing back and instead caught her to him, throwing all caution to the winds. “You think I don’t want you? By all that’s holy! If you only knew!” He pressed his body despairingly against hers, and the hard, throbbing reality of him sent a shiver of scalding desire racing through her veins.
“No one can satisfy me but you,” he murmured as he bent his mouth to hers. “Just the sight of you… just the thought of you… You say you’re a woman, my sweet child. Can’t you feel how much I want you? God’s my witness, I’m on fire for you day and night!”
His hands were rushing hungrily up and down the curves of her body now, his tongue boring desperately through her lips. The force of his passion set her head to spinning, her knees to dissolving.
“Oh, Miguel, you’ll never have need of any other woman… if you’ll just teach me…”
His hand was on her breast and already it was swelling to his touch. “My sweet passionate little Monica, your doubts are so groundless! I’m yours. Believe me, I’m saving myself only for you.”
His breath was coming fast now, and the hard reality of his desire pulsating wildly against her seared her very being.
He was trembling, too, now. With his lips on hers, his hand still cupping her bodice, he lowered her to the sofa. He wanted to draw out that sweet breast and savor the taste of it once more… to find joyous relief from those long months of bridled passion deep within the warm recesses of her.
But no… he tore his hands away from her and, with the last vestige of willpower left him, forced himself to his feet. “Qué barbaridad!” he gasped, his breath labored with the passion racking his body at that moment. “But this will never do! I started out reprimanding you as your guardian, and here I am making love to you again! I tell you, I’m bereft of my senses when it comes to you!”
“And would it be so terrible if you did make love to me?” she asked from where she still sat on the sofa, breathless and somewhat bewildered by the force of her own emotions.
“It’s not the way things should be between us,” he replied, moving quickly over to the fireplace and stoking the flames nervously in an effort to put some distance between them and give himself time to regain his control. “We made a pact, and I think it’s important we keep it. I’m simply letting my desire for you as a man get out of hand, that’s all.”
“Doesn’t what I feel count?”
He turned to her with a tender smile, the poker dangling in his hand. “Of course it does, my dear. That’s the whole idea. I shouldn’t be pressuring you this way. You need time to find out what it is you’re really feeling. In part your jealousy springs from your doubting yourself as a woman. Our love must be built on trust and understanding, as well as passion. It would be folly for you to marry a man you say you love one moment and then hate and mistrust so intensely the next.”
She started to rise in protest and go to him, but he held up a pleading hand. “No, my dear. Please don’t misunderstand me and think I’m rejecting you, but I simply can’t take any more proximity to you just now!”
He must be mad! Whatever had he been thinking of? Why, everyone in the household was probably just outside the door at that very moment waiting for him to finish reprimanding her. This certainly wasn’t the time to let the situation between him and his ward get out of control. He knew his role as guardian had to come first, at least for now; yet how he longed to take her in his arms and make such passionate love to her that she’d never again doubt how much he really loved and wanted her!
Chapter Thirty-two
Miguel dreaded having to go see Henri, but it was already a week into December, and he couldn’t put it off any longer. He hoped this would be the last time he’d have to go to the Ducole town house. Perhaps he could persuade Henri to meet him elsewhere in the future—at the Chausson town house, Le Rêve, or some coffeehouse—any place where Azema wouldn’t be.
It was embarrassing for both of them, especially since his ex-mistress obviously still nourished hopes of reviving their former liaison if she could. Most of all, there was no use fanning Monique’s jealousy to even greater heights than it already was. They had enough obstacles between them without adding more! He hoped, however, that once the girl knew he was no longer going by the Ducoles’ for any reason, she would accept the fact that her jealousy of Azema was unfounded now.
His visit had begun pleasantly enough, with Azema retiring after an effusive greeting to leave him and Henri alone to discuss their “tiresome business matters”. He had just resolved the matter of their future meetings agreeably with a sympathetic Henri, when Azema returned with a tray of hot chocolate, which she insisted would be especially appropriate for such a cold, windy December afternoon.
Miguel gulped down his chocolate hurriedly and, setting the cup on the tray again, rose to take his leave.
“I’m sorry to cut my visit short,” he apologized, “but I’m anxious to get home. I haven’t been there in almost four days now.”
“Then you came here direct from Le Rêve?” asked Azema, obviously with the hope that he might remember how he used to stop off there on his way home from the plantation to spend the day or night with her.
“Yes,” he replied, coloring in spite of himself. “I left the plantation early this morning, so I’m anxious to get home now and see what’s been going on there.”
Azema trilled a merry laugh. “My! But that ward of yours has put a short leash on you, hasn’t she?” she taunted.
“It’s not that,” replied Vidal, trying to keep his tone polite despite his mounting impatience. “I’m the one who worries. Something might have come up while I wasn’t there and they might need me, that’s all.”
“Your concern is truly touching!” observed Azema with a disdainful shrug of her shoulders as she took another sip of her chocolate. She looked exceptionally beautiful that afternoon in her rust-colored velvet dressing gown, which Miguel suspected she had put on for his benefit, and her long flaming hair falling freely about her shoulders.
“If you’ll be kind enough to ring for my cape and hat?” he said, ignoring her sarcasm.
Henri rose uneasily. “Let me get you those figures I was working on last night, Miguel, so you can take them with you and look them over at your leisure. They’re in my study.”
He hurried out of the parlor while Miguel remained standing, waiting for Azema to ring for his wrap. Instead, she set her cup down languidly and took a few steps closer to him.
Miguel could tell she had perfumed herself a trifle more heavily than usual and he suspected that, too, had been deliberate. He realized it wasn’t going to be as easy to leave as he had hoped.
“Really, Miguel, the way you run off from here these days, you’d think we had the pox!” she chided. “It wasn’t always that way, mon amour.”
She reached up and toyed suggestively with a fold of his cravat. “Why don’t you just sit back awhile and relax here by the fire?” she suggested coyly. “I’ll pour you another cup of chocolate, if you like.”
Miguel drew back stiffly. “Thank you, Zee, but I really am in a hurry,” he said, adjusting the crease in his neckscarf back to the way it had been before she’d touched it.
Iron Lace Page 20
