Accidental Heiress

by Nancy Robards Thompson

  When she broke the seal on the first letter, she saw that it was hand-written and she caught a whiff of the unmistakable scent of orange blossoms. Or at least she thought she did.

  But orange blossoms in November? She didn’t realize orange trees grew in Avignon. Even if they did, this was hardly the season for them.

  She held the envelope up to her nose, but the paper smelled slightly of her father’s pipe tobacco. There wasn’t a trace of the floral fragrance that had been her mother’s favorite scent.

  She wondered if perhaps she’d just imagined it and settled back on the bed to read by the natural light filtering in through the windows.

  The tone of the first couple of her father’s letters was slightly reprimanding, explaining how badly she’d not only hurt him, but how she was also hurting her own future.

  But gradually as the dates on the letters progressed to the time that she graduated from the American boarding school—the time when she and her father lost contact—the letters became more conversational.

  He wrote: “These are the things I would say to you if I could talk to you….”

  I loved your mother as I’ve never loved anyone else. She was my first love, my last love, my only love.

  She understood you because the two of you were cut from the same cloth. When we lost her, you reminded me so much of her and all I’d lost, it was more than I could bear.

  In the midst of reading, Margeaux heard Henri come in and vaguely recalled him sticking his head in the bedroom door, only to quietly leave her to her reading.

  That was a good thing because what she learned gave her pause. She needed time to digest it.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Henri said as he and Margeaux worked side by side in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for a salad niçoise. “Your father lived at St. Mary’s as a boy? It was his home?”

  Margeaux nodded. “I’ll show you the letter.”

  “Your father was an orphan and you never knew this?”

  “My father barely spoke to me, Henri. All he ever said was that his parents were dead. He didn’t like to talk about them, so I never pressed him. I suppose to him they’d never been alive since he’d never known them. However, in the last letter he said his mother was a teenager when she got pregnant, and she was forced to give him up for adoption at St. Mary’s.”

  Colbert Broussard was a very proud man. Henri had never heard anything about the man’s past, but given the circumstances Margeaux had outlined, he wasn’t surprised Broussard had kept everything quiet.

  He was such a well-respected “family man.” While his wife was alive, his heritage had never come up. Crown Council members were appointed, not elected. While it was very important to the St. Michel government that all Crown Council members be above reproach, Broussard was the epitome of respectable.

  But the more Henri thought about it, being put up for adoption was no reason that a person should be disqualified from making a life for himself—especially a life that involved public service. A man had no control over the circumstances of his birth.

  Even so, Colbert had guarded his past with a jealous vengeance. Probably driven by the same instinct that had him protecting his future by sending his daughter away.

  When Margeaux went through her “phase,” as certain members of the Council referred to it, Colbert was already ensconced in government. He was a respected public figure and a widower to boot. Sympathy was on his side. Margeaux was the hellion. When Colbert sent her away, he’d done what was expected of him. He’d cleaned up the mess, silenced the hullabaloo.

  Despite how he understood the drive that made Colbert do what he had to do, Henri also understood how this revelation might come as a shock to Margeaux.

  “How do you feel about all this?” he asked.

  She stopped chopping and pressed her hip into the counter, looking thoughtful.

  “It’s really strange. Discovering my perfect father, who sent me away for being less than perfect, felt like he had something to hide.”

  She looked at him for a moment, unsaid words hanging pregnant in the air. “Do you remember the night that started it all?”

  Did he remember? That day had set the gold standard for all lovemaking to come. It was a hot August. The kind that seems like it will drag on into forever. They’d been lying in the grass by the lake behind the orchard. The two of them had no place to be and no one to report to.

  “It was your idea to skinny dip,” he said, the memory of it making him hot. He set down the knife and turned to face her.

  “It most definitely was.” She was looking at him in a way that had him gripping the edge of the counter to keep from reaching for her. “My idea. But I seem to remember you being a willing participant.”

  “Are you kidding me? It must have been one hundred and ten degrees outside that day.”

  She took a step toward him.

  Henri wrapped his arms around Margeaux and dusted her lips with kisses that trailed down her throat.

  “Oh, you have no idea the things I remember.” His voice was a horse rasp.

  Her sultry smile teased him, invited him, and unleashed a need that had him searching for what they’d shared all those years ago. He longed to tell her exactly how he’d imagined kissing her mouth…reacquainting himself with her body…burying himself deep inside her, exactly the way he’d done it that day at the lake.

  But before the words could find their way past his lips, she took his hand and led him to the bed where they’d slept last night, where he’d held her, breathed her in, loved her with his mind and heart as she slept.

  His hands locked on her waist, taking possession of her body.

  She tucked herself into his chest. He buried his face in her hair, breathed in the scent of her—that delicious smell of flowers, amber and the green of the vegetables they’d been prepping. A scent that was so familiar, yet new, that it hit him in a certain place that rendered him weak in the knees.

  He breathed her in and melted with the heat of her body.

  “Make love to me, Henri.”

  Smoothing a lock of hair off her forehead, he kissed the skin he uncovered, then searched her eyes. She answered him with a kiss, a silent Yes, I want this.

  Relishing the warmth of her, and the way she was clinging to him, he cradled her face in his palms and kissed her softly, gently, until her fingers found his. She laced their fingers together. Their hands lingered a moment, gripping, flexing, hesitating, as he silently gave her one last chance to object, to escape, to run away from what was about to happen.

  But she wanted it to happen. She’d been waiting for this to happen again since the last time she’d kissed him. Her lips parted on a sigh and gave him full permission to take possession of every inch of her.

  A rush of red-hot need spiraled through her. He must have read it in her face because he let go of her hands and his arms encircled her. In a fevered rush, he claimed her mouth, her thoughts, her sanity. Her fingers slipped into his hair and pulled him close, closer until they were kissing with a need so furious it was all consuming.

  She clung to him, relishing the closeness. There was no mistaking his need or his desire, as his hands swept down the outer edge of her body to claim her bottom.

  Then somehow, in a heated whirl of passion they tugged away their clothes—her blouse, her skirt, his shirt, his jeans—until they’d gotten rid of every barrier between them so that they stood naked and wanting.

  Together.

  He held her so close that she could hear his heartbeat. She felt safe and at home for the first time in years. With every fiber of her being she concentrated on the moment, shoving away the dark curtain of the past that threatened to close between them. The voice that chattered about how there was too much water under the bridge. About the things she hadn’t told him.

  But all she wanted was this.

  Right now.

  Not the past.

  Not the future.

  The present.

  Righ
t now.

  His lips found hers again, and she shut out everything else but the need that was driving both of them to the brink of insanity.

  He kissed her neck, and her fingers swept over his broad shoulders and muscled arms, before reacquainting her touch with the curve of his derriere. She pulled him even closer so that the hardness of him pressed into her, urging her legs apart, searching, proving his need.

  He eased her down onto the bed. It was crazy how much she wanted him. Utter madness.

  Above her, he claimed her mouth again, capturing her tongue, teasing her, pulling away to smile down at her. His lips were swollen and red, and she desperately wanted to taste them again.

  A warm, calloused palm splayed over one of her breasts. His fingers moved from one nipple to the other then trailed down her belly where they lingered and played, tracing small circles that made her stomach muscles tighten and spasm in agonizing pleasure. Then his hand dipped farther still, teasing its way down her body, edging toward a hidden place that begged for his touch.

  His fingers slid inside her, stroking, coaxing one moan after another until one shock after another vibrated thorough her and she couldn’t be without him any longer

  She ached for him, needed more.

  So much more.

  As if he heard her unspoken plea, he reached over and grabbed his pants, pulled a condom from his wallet and rolled it on. He covered her body with his, and she marveled at how perfectly they’d always fit together.

  His first thrust stole her breath, drove her deliriously mad. As his own moan escaped his lips, his gaze was locked on hers, and he slid his hands beneath her, helping her match his moves in and out of her body.

  Each strong, bold, shameless thrust took greedily, but gave back so much more, until they both exploded together in an ecstasy the likes of which she’d never known.

  As they lay there, sweaty and spent, Henri collapsed protectively on top of her. For the first time since she could remember, she knew what it felt like to be loved.

  Chapter Eight

  Margeaux could finally breathe, and her tension had floated away like a piece of paper on a gust of wind. Never before had she had so much to be thankful for. Despite losing her father, she felt as if she knew him better than she ever had in her life.

  And then there was Henri. Things had never been better. They still connected on a level like no other. She was in love. She’d never stopped loving him. Now she could safely admit that to herself.

  The next morning at St. Mary’s, she and Henri sat in Père Steven’s office and presented the idea for the traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

  “It’s a lovely thought,” he smiled sadly. “However, we cannot afford to stray from our current menu. We’ve already spent the week’s budget on food.”

  “Will the food keep?” Henri asked.

  Père Steven weighed the question. “Much of it is canned or frozen. So, yes, the majority of it will.”

  “We are prepared to buy the turkeys and the other ingredients needed to give the children a treat,” Margeaux said. “We’re prepared to roll up our sleeves and help, too. In honor of my father, a boy who lived here and went on to build a good life for himself. Think of it as a way for me to celebrate his life.”

  Père Steven said he would have to check with the kitchen staff to make sure the cafeteria manager was on board with the idea.

  Soon, the school was abuzz with word of the special meal that the visitors were providing.

  That day, Henri had some conference calls to attend to, so after their meeting with Père Steven, he went back to the house to get some work done. Margeaux stayed to help in the library. She’d also talked to Père Steven about taking photographs around the school and the common areas of the orphanage later that day when the light was right. But first, she would assist the librarian as she’d promised.

  She was reshelving a stack of books when she saw Matieu sitting at a table by himself drawing in a notebook. He looked up from his work and caught her watching him.

  He got up and walked over to her.

  “Why did you take a picture of me yesterday in Père Steven’s office?” he asked her in French.

  Margeaux shrugged as she formed her answer in French. “Because I’m a photographer. That’s what I do. Would you like to see it? I have my camera right here.”

  She pulled out her camera, which she’d stashed on the bottom shelf of the cart. Matieu scowled at the camera, then at her, his expression wary as if he didn’t know if he should trust her. For some strange reason, she understood his hesitancy.

  She found the shot and held out the camera to him. “Here,” she said. “Look.”

  He wrinkled his nose when he saw it but stared at it for a while.

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  Margeaux took a book from the cart, looked at the title, then the Dewey decimal number, because it was painful to look at this boy and not think about the child she and Henri might have had. “Nothing. Would you like to have a copy of it?”

  Her offer seemed to catch the boy off guard. “Well, I don’t have any money to buy it off you, if that’s what you mean.”

  He was a tall boy, all feet and big hands with long, awkward limbs he hadn’t yet grown into. Just like Henri had been at that age.

  “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant at all. I’m happy to give you a print. Have you ever had a photograph of yourself?”

  She stole a glance at him in time to see him shake his head.

  “Well, Père Steven has given me permission to take photographs around the school. If you’d like, maybe I can shoot some more one afternoon after school this week?”

  He leaned on the shelf, propping his arm up and resting his chin on his fist, as he sized her up. He seemed to be getting a little more comfortable with her now.

  “Do you work here now or something?”

  She considered the question and how to best answer it. She didn’t need to bog him down with the hows and whys of what she was doing there. “I’m only here for a week helping out.”

  “So then if you’re going to take my picture it has to be, like, tomorrow or something, right?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Would you like that?”

  “Yeah, that sounds cool.”

  Tuesday night, Henri and Margeaux went on a scavenger hunt for turkeys, buying up every bird they could find.

  A.J. had said to allow for about one pound per person.

  Finding fifteen twenty-pound birds might have been a challenge had the school’s cook not been on board with the plan and directed them to a poultry farm about ten miles outside of town.

  So by Wednesday, they had all the components they needed for their traditional turkey dinner. Armed with A.J.’s recipes, some of Which had been adapted by the school cook to utilize ingredients on hand and to expand the recipes to feed an army of hungry kids, Henri and Margeaux helped with the prep work until they’d helped the cook and her staff get everything under control.

  The next day’s menu would include turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and pumpkin pie.

  After they were finished Margeaux managed to spend some time photographing Matieu, as she’d promised.

  Of course Henri had no idea why Margeaux was so smitten with the kid, but she came home that evening full of stories and talking about how sad it must be for these teenage kids who never would have a chance to be adopted by a loving family.

  “If circumstances were different,” she said as they relaxed on the couch, enjoying a bottle of wine he’d picked up in the market. “I’d consider adopting him.”

  She had so much love to give and it was touching, but sitting there, just the two of them, he couldn’t imagine anyone intruding on their lives.

  He put his arm around her and she snuggled into him.

  Henri knew this wasn’t real life; he understood it was what he considered a “snow globe” moment: a snapshot in time, a perfect moment in the perfect setting, insulated from the
rest of the world.

  Their “snow globe” time was speeding by. The day after tomorrow would be their last day at St. Mary’s before they moved on to the Saint James convent so that Margeaux could learn the next piece of untold family history or whatever it was that Colbert had in store for her.

  He nuzzled her hair. It smelled clean, like fresh flowers.

  Learning about her father’s past had been meaty stuff, and, thank God, it seemed to be helping Margeaux get through losing him. Henri hoped whatever came next would be as beneficial. That it would be something Margeaux could take with her—even if it was only in her heart.

  They hadn’t talked about what would happen after they returned from Avignon. Whether she would go back to Texas or stay in St. Michel.

  But as he kissed her neck, working his way around to her mouth, all he wanted to do was make love to her.

  The Thanksgiving feast was a success, and with great regret, Margeaux bid farewell to Père Steven, Matieu and the rest of the people she’d met at St. Mary’s.

  She’d been so busy at the orphanage helping and taking photographs, she hadn’t had time to see much of Avignon. Therefore, when Henri suggested they spend one last day to play sightseers, she jumped at the chance.

  She hadn’t been to the city since she was a kid. One summer, on one of the rare vacations her family had taken, they’d come to Avignon.

  It was one of those memories that seemed as if it had been ripped out of a photo album: her mother and she at a café table; a mental image of herself on the steps of the Pope’s Palace; a dreamscape of her mother sniffing a bouquet of lavender.

  Her father must have been the photographer, because there were no pictures of him, and Margeaux couldn’t remember any accounts of him being there—except for his ghostlike presence. He was there, he had to have been because they wouldn’t have gone on vacation without him—which was why they rarely went—but unlike the vivid recollections of her mother, she really had no accounting of her father in Avignon.