Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  Love Me, Marietta

  The Marietta Danver Trilogy

  Jennifer Wilde

  BOOK ONE

  The Lover

  One

  As I stepped outside I saw him standing there at the end of the street again, his stance deliberately casual, his hands thrust into the pockets of his heavy navy blue coat. I paused on the steps, staring at him. He turned his back to me and sauntered around the corner. I felt a tremor of alarm. Who was he? Why was he watching the apartment? I had observed him at least half a dozen times during the past two weeks, a tall, heavyset man with coarse features and shaggy black hair, always wearing dark breeches and that heavy coat even though the weather was unseasonably warm.

  Derek scoffed at my apprehension. When I had described the man to him and mentioned my alarm, he had curled his lips in that deprecatory smile I knew so well.

  “My dear Marietta,” he had replied, “it’s perfectly natural for strange men to stare at you on the street. You’re an unusually beautiful woman, and, I might add, your mode of dress invites such inspection.”

  That last remark had infuriated me. Derek loved me, I had no doubt about that, but ever since we had left Natchez and taken the apartment in New Orleans I had sensed a touch of disapproval in his manner toward me. He loved me and was going to marry me as soon as we returned to England, but I had the feeling he had never completely forgiven me for my past, for Jeff and Helmut and those tumultuous years of our separation. Derek knew all that had happened to me during that period, yet after he had won his court case in England and claimed the Hawke estates usurped by his uncle and cousins, he had come back to America to find me. Surely that was proof of his love. The niggling doubts I had had of late were clearly absurd.

  Lifting my skirts to avoid a puddle, I moved down the street. It had rained quite furiously this morning, but now it was decidedly sultry, despite a heavy, overcast sky. The air was oppressive, laced with a tang of salt, and I could smell tar and exotic spices and that hint of mildew always present in New Orleans. Afternoon noises abounded, the cry of hawkers from the market, the rumble of wheels over rough cobblestones, the screech of a parrot perched on a swing beyond one of the ornate wrought-iron balconies. The city was alive with movement and color, yet a curious atmosphere of lethargy prevailed, perhaps because of the heat.

  It was certainly too warm for anyone to be wearing a heavy navy blue coat. I paused briefly, turning to look behind me. The man was not in sight, yet I still had the feeling I was being observed. Perhaps it was my imagination, I told myself, but I could almost feel a pair of hostile eyes boring into my back. The sensation was so strong it was almost like physical contact. I frowned, turning the corner and making my way through the labyrinth of colorful stalls of the market. Chickens in flimsy wooden cages squawked. A plump woman in apron and blue bandana shrieked angrily as a small boy tried to steal an orange from her stall. The reek of fish was almost unbearable.

  Why should the man be watching me? Despite Derek’s remark about my beauty and mode of dress, I knew the man wasn’t merely someone who liked to admire attractive women from a safe distance. I had sensed something hostile about him from the first, as though … as though he were planning something sinister. Pausing to inspect a barrow of mangoes and pomegranates, I picked up one of them and casually studied it, pretending to be totally absorbed. Out of the corners of my eyes I looked back the way I had come. The man was lounging near a bin of coffee beans, his eyes sullen as he stared at me. I put the mango down and, filled with a sudden resolve, headed straight toward him with a determined step.

  I intended to confront him, to demand to know why he was following me. He seemed to read my intention and was clearly alarmed. Turning quickly, he hurried past several bins of shrimp and eel and disappeared. I stopped, both angry and frustrated. Confronting him was one thing, pursuing him through the market was quite another. I tried to tell myself he was merely a sneak thief who had been patiently waiting an opportunity to snatch my reticule, but that was a feeble explanation. Sneak thieves didn’t skulk around for days on end, spying on potential victims, and if he had robbery in mind there were certainly far more prosperous-looking people idling about the city.

  “I say, is something wrong?”

  I turned to look at the man who had addressed me. He was very tall, with a lean, muscular physique admirably shown off by a modish pearl-gray suit cut to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. His knee boots were gleaming black leather, his waistcoat black and white striped satin, and a neckcloth of vivid blue silk nestled beneath his chin. His eyes were blue, too, audaciously so, merry, mocking eyes full of life. His rich brown hair was excessively thick and wavy, one heavy wave tumbling jauntily over his forehead. His nose was slightly crooked and his full pink mouth was much too wide, but these flaws only served to heighten his inordinate good looks.

  “I beg your pardon?” I said stiffly.

  “I asked if something was wrong. You look extremely distressed.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I was wondering if it had something to do with that brute hanging about a minute ago, the chap in the heavy coat. He was eyeing you quite intensely, not that I blame him, mind you. You’re something worth eyeing.”

  “Excuse me,” I retorted, moving past him.

  He executed a quick, jaunty step and sauntered along beside me for all the world like a friendly, overgrown pup. I stopped and turned to give him an icy look impossible to misconstrue. He backed away a couple of steps in mock alarm and grinned at me. It was an intolerably engaging grin, the grin of a naughty little boy who wanted only to please.

  “May I say something?” he inquired.

  “I have a feeling you’ll say it whether I grant permission or not.”

  “I just want to say you’ve got the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen. It’s like red gold, gorgeous.”

  “Thank you,” I snapped.

  “The rest of you is rather nice, too.”

  “I may as well be frank,” I informed him, “I’m not interested. Not at all. You’re quite handsome and you have considerable charm, but you’ve made a mistake.”

  “Did you think I had something in mind? I was merely trying to be gallant.”

  “Trying a mite too hard, I’d say.”

  “I saw you standing at the stall and I saw that brute eyeing you and then saw him run off when you approached him, and I thought he might be planning some kind of mischief. Dangerous-looking chap, if you ask me, definitely spooky. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he carried a knife.”

  “I thank you for your concern,” I replied, “but it’s really none of your affair.”

  “A gorgeous lass like you really shouldn’t be traipsing about alone, you know,” he said. “The city’s full of villains. You need someone to look out for you. You need a protector.”

  “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I doubt that, lass,” he informed me.

  His tone was serious now. I studied him more closely. The jaunty manner and audacious good looks were undoubtedly deceiving. I sensed a toughness beneath the exterior, a subtle ruthlessness in those taut cheekbones and the curve of his mouth. I judged him to be in his early to mid thirties, and I felt he could be quite as dangerous as the man who had run away.

  “I’m not a prostitute,” I told him.

  “I never assumed you were.”

  “If that’s what you’re looking for, you’ll have no difficulty finding one. They’re quite numerous.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “I imagine you are,” I retorted.

  He smiled a curious half-smile, one corner of his mouth curling up in a lopsided way that was both endearing and a little alarming. The indigo blue e
yes were still mocking but there was a certain hardness in them now, and I couldn’t help but feel a certain uneasiness. The stranger obviously had quite a temper, and he wasn’t at all pleased by my smart retort. He stared at me for a moment or so as though debating whether or not to give me a good shaking, and then the hardness left his eyes and he relaxed, all charm again.

  “I was merely trying to be helpful, lass.”

  “I appreciate that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’ll accompany you, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but I’m accompanying you anyway. I didn’t like the look of that chap, nor did I like the way he looked at you. I have the feeling he might turn up again.”

  “Now just a minute—” I protested.

  “Look, lass, I don’t intend to argue with you. Why don’t you just shut up. I’ll walk along beside you until you reach your destination, and then I’ll be on my way. If it’s rape you’re afraid of, forget it. I’ve yet to rape a red-haired beauty in broad daylight, in the middle of a market.”

  I ignored his remark and moved on briskly past the stalls. He strolled beside me with infuriating ease, moving with a long, bouncy stride, the tails of his jacket flapping.

  “Actually, I’ve always preferred brunettes,” he confided. “For rape, I mean. Skinny ones. A skinny brunette is always your best bet for a good, rousing rape.”

  “I don’t find you at all amusing, sir.”

  “Jeremy Bond,” he said, “at your service.”

  He managed to execute a mock bow, arm extended, without breaking stride. He was indeed audacious, altogether too cocky and sure of himself. Mr. Jeremy Bond was undoubtedly a rogue. I had seen all too many like him when I worked at Rawlins’ Place, jaunty, handsome ne’er-do-wells who lived off their wit and charm. They had the morals of alley cats and no scruples whatsoever, invariably causing trouble sooner or later.

  “Couldn’t we move at a more leisurely pace?” he inquired. “I’m easily winded. Cigars. I have a passion for ’em. Never could resist a good cigar—or a skinny brunette.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. Jeremy Bond grinned.

  “You’re insufferable, Mr. Bond.”

  “And you, lass, take yourself much too seriously. You’re entirely too defensive. A bit of banter never hurt anyone. I’ve half a mind to move on and leave you to that lout who’s been stalking you.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “You’re too lovely, alas. I could never live with myself if I didn’t see that you’d reached your destination safely.”

  Enough was enough. I stopped and stared at him with icy disdain. We had passed through the market and were on a particularly narrow street with rows of shops on either side. A knife sharpener and his cart blocked the sidewalk ahead, two stout matrons waiting patiently as he honed the blades of their scissors. The noise of steel on stone was unnerving. I grimaced. Jeremy Bond put his hands in his trouser pockets and stood watching me with his head tilted to one side, his shoulders slightly hunched. That wave of rich brown hair completely concealed one eyebrow. The other was arched expectantly.

  “You’ve lovely eyes, too,” he confided. “Deep, deep blue, like sapphires. I may as well confess, lass, I’ve fallen hopelessly in love. I knew it was bound to happen one of these days, but I never expected it to happen so suddenly.”

  “Mr. Bond, if you don’t go away and stop bothering me this instant. I intend to scream at the top of my voice.”

  “You do, lass, and I’ll punch you on the jaw. I have a notorious right hook, can fell the stoutest Goliath with one blow.”

  “I have the feeling you would!”

  “Sure I would,” he said candidly. “Now that we understand each other, you might show a little appreciation for my gallantry. You might even tell me your name.”

  “I prefer not to.”

  I moved on, stepping into the street to get around the knife sharpener and his customers. Jeremy Bond strode along beside me, and, in truth, I was rather relieved. The man in the navy blue coat disturbed me far more than I cared to admit. He seemed to present a genuine threat, whereas I knew full well I could handle Mr. Bond.

  “You won’t tell me?” he asked.

  “I certainly won’t.”

  “Let me guess, then. I’ll bet it’s—uh—” He paused, cocking his head again. “Clarinda,” he said. “You look like a Clarinda, perhaps a Letitia. Am I right?”

  “You’re not even warm.”

  A large carriage came rumbling down the street. I was so preoccupied that I hardly even noticed it. Jeremy Bond gasped, seized me by the upper arms, and jerked me back onto the sidewalk. My skirts billowed up, slapping against the side of the carriage as it hurtled past.

  “My God, lass! You really don’t have any business being out alone! You would have let that bloody fool run you down!”

  “If you hadn’t been harrassing me I wouldn’t have been preoccupied!” I retorted.

  I was trembling visibly, dangerously near tears. Had he not swung me out of the way, I would have been crushed beneath the carriage wheels. My knees seemed to go weak. Jeremy Bond sensed my state and kept hold of my arms, holding them gently now. A frown creased his brow, and his lovely blue eyes were full of concern.

  “Look, lass,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I—I am, too. You may let go of me now.”

  “Sure you’re all right?”

  I nodded, and although he released me, he looked ready to grab me again if I should show the least sign of faintness. His eyes were tender now, and they seemed to be looking into my soul. Audacious he might be, a ruthless scoundrel as well, but I knew instinctively that Jeremy Bond understood women better and cared for them more deeply than any man I had ever known. Derek loved me, yes, and Jeff Rawlins had loved me with all his soul, but neither of them had ever displayed the tender concern for my well-being this stranger displayed.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “My fault, I fear. I was harrassing you.”

  “Do you always approach strange women with such—such vigor?”

  “Rarely,” he replied. “Actually, I’m generally a model of deportment, the delight of maiden aunts.”

  “I rather doubt that, Mr. Bond.”

  “Your raving beauty made me lose all reason.”

  “There you go again.”

  “Shall we continue on our way? Incidentally, where are we going?”

  “I’m on my way to Madame Lucille’s.”

  “Ah, New Orleans’ finest dressmaker, once the creator of Pompadour’s most sumptuous gowns.”

  I was surprised. “You know Lucille?”

  “I’ve paid a few bills that came from her establishment,” he said, very nonchalantly.

  He would have, I thought. A man like Jeremy Bond would undoubtedly have a mistress, a beautiful and extremely expensive creature with languorous eyes and creamy tan skin, one of the lush quadroons favored by the bucks of New Orleans, and Lucille’s establishment was the favorite of those lovely and elegant ladies. Corinne had been gowned by Lucille. Corinne … I wondered what had become of that exquisite, tragic beauty who had loved Jeff almost as much as he had loved me. Jeff. New Orleans was filled with memories of him. I’d be glad when we finally left the city.

  “Who is he?” Jeremy Bond inquired.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The man. The one you were thinking of just now.”

  I gazed at him, utterly dismayed. Jeremy Bond smiled.

  “No, lass, I don’t read minds, but I fancy I’m able to read faces. For a moment there your eyes were filled with love—and loss. When a beautiful woman has that look in her eyes, there’s always a man.”

  I made no reply. His perception was disconcerting, and I had no intention of discussing Jeff Rawlins with him. Jeremy Bond made me extremely uncomfortable. He was a complete stranger, yet I felt he knew me as no man ever had, improba
ble as it might seem. We crossed a sun-filled square, leafy trees casting pale violet-blue shadows over dusty gray brick walls. A plump Negro woman in faded blue dress and white bandana fanned herself as she watched two little boys push a tiny sailboat across the water in the fountain.

  “Lucille’s is just around the corner,” I said.

  “I’ll see you to the door, lass.”

  “If you insist.”

  We walked the rest of the way in silence, stopping in front of the shop. A gorgeously attired blonde opened the door and came down the steps, her pink silk skirts rustling seductively. She paused a moment to adjust her elbow-length white gloves, casually eyeing Bond as she did so. He boldly assessed her, lids half-shrouding blue eyes dark with appreciation. I tapped my foot impatiently until the blonde moved on, looking over her shoulder to cast a final provocative glance at Bond.

  “You’d better hurry,” I said icily.

  “Not my type,” he replied. “Besides, you’ve already ruined me for other women.”

  “You never stop, do you?”

  “I’m quite serious, lass.”

  He grinned. He really was extraordinarily good-looking with those broad, flat cheekbones and the deep cleft in his chin. The full mouth and slightly crooked nose added a rakish touch, keeping the face from being too handsome and making it far more interesting. Tall, virile, undeniably magnetic, he had that irresponsible air that most women found irresistible. He brushed the heavy brown wave from his brow. It promptly tumbled back down. A dangerous man, I thought, much too charming, much too perceptive. It was just as well I hadn’t told him my name. Impulsive as he was, he might attempt to see me again, and Derek would hardly be pleased.

  “Thank you for escorting me, Mr. Bond.”

  “My pleasure, lass. Shall I wait for you?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “This chap in the coat, I didn’t like his looks, not at all. Looked to me like he had something nasty in mind. He might try to accost you on your way back home.”

  “I rather doubt it.”

  “When shall I see you again?” he asked.

  “You shan’t,” I replied.