by Meg Hennessy
He swallowed hard, denying every carnal urge that seemed to possess his thoughts, her round face giving life to her full, kissable lips. He wanted to capture her face between his thumb and forefinger and kiss the hell out of her mouth, finish what he had started the night of the ball.
Though his life these past three years has been isolated, he’d been with a woman a time or two. Sometimes paid company and sometimes not, but he had never had a woman of such artistic beauty stand before him. They were married now. He had every right to take her.
He shook his head, denying his own needs. Way too much whiskey, but whiskey had become his drug of choice to fight off the demons that haunted his mind when he allowed himself to idle too long.
“My apologies.” He raised his hand to ward off her anger. “It matters little to me.”
“If that is true, monsieur, you inquire, why?” Her voice sounded strong, but he suspected his question had riled her sense of obligation to this contract, knowing she pined for the freedom to choose her own man.
Again, he shrugged, trying to escape the uncomfortable direction he had taken the conversation. He’d had too much to drink but yet he refilled his glass.
“It matters not. My apologies.”
He noted a slight lifting of her mouth as the darkness that had clouded her beautiful eyes, lifted to reveal dark green. Her hands had migrated to the slender turn of her hips with fingers impatiently tapping at her waistline. “Perhaps the monsieur has indulged much, non?”
“Always.” He accepted her admonishment. “Again, my apologies.”
He had made an error in his assessment of her at the dance. She was definitely not pliable, definitely not obedient, and would definitely be a problem.
In that moment of silence that hovered between them, the air thickened, his chest tightened as his gaze met hers. He suddenly felt stripped of his facade and stood before her naked, a shell of what he pretended to be. It was somewhat freeing, yet unsettling.
Miss Aurèlie was definitely a problem.
She was the first to move with a slight clearing of her throat and a brush to the sleeve of her gown. She looked up at him from beneath the shadow of those lashes.
“Merci, for the apology, and…monsieur, I am untouched,” she conceded, taking mercy on him. Reacting to his surprised expression, she added, “I wish not to see you suffer more with bad manners.”
A chuckle burst from his lungs, trying to hide his true disappointment. She had no idea just how much he was suffering, for if not a virgin, he would have carried her upstairs. Now he’d have to endure the torment to maintain the charade to the end.
“Thank you, madame, for your honesty,” he lied.
…
Aurèlie’s room had been prepared. Relieved to leave Monsieur Kincaid to his whiskey, she followed the housekeeper up the dark winding interior staircase to the last room off the large hall facing the back of the house.
The house was at least four rooms deep and several rooms wide. Her private bedroom, a corner room, had two double doors that opened onto the upper gallery, allowing what she assumed would be a beautiful view of the bayou. Between the double doors sat a small mahogany writing desk with two side tables that faced the grounds.
Hattie followed Aurèlie inside, turned her coverlet down, then set a lamp next to the bed.
A tea table of carved yellow pine and two matching side chairs were in front of a large black fireplace with a boxed mantel around the edges supporting a large French clock. She appreciated the thoughtfulness of their finding a place for her father’s wedding gift. He had sent the clock in advance of tonight’s ceremony.
A small fire flickered behind a floral screen. A matching plush, floral-patterned carpet winterized the room. Across from the double glass doors, stood a massive wardrobe of carved mahogany, decorated with gilded brass. To the rear corner stood the commode and washbasin, both marquetry of engraved brass. A private commode was a luxury in her father’s house and only reserved for guests.
A large bedstead with a scrolled headboard of carved mahogany and wispy white bed curtains, occupied the center of the room.
In a Creole home, guest rooms had the best furniture. Family had plain furniture. The room’s beautiful decor made her wonder, was she family or perhaps only a guest? The room had four doors. Two led to the outside gallery and one to the hall. Where did the fourth door lead? Her trunks were standing open and lined up next to the large wardrobe, which stood to the side of the mysterious door.
“And this door?” she asked Hattie, nodding to indicate the closed door.
“It’s a sitting room, adjoins your room with your husband’s.”
“I see, cela est bon.” Already, Aurèlie missed her old carefree life, allowing a sigh of displeasure. She hoped the older woman hadn’t noticed, but she had.
“It will be fine, child, sleep good tonight. Tomorrow you start softenin’ his heart.”
Hattie’s compassion gave Aurèlie the courage to ask, “Why does he have a hard heart? He loved his wife much, oui?”
“Many things have darkened his life but you…you can be his hope.” Hattie patted the bed. “Climb in, child, and get some rest. For your peace of mind, he is a just man, a good man. He will be kind to you.”
Strangely, Hattie’s advice did put her at ease and the sense of having an ally allowed her curiosity to emerge. “But his heart is broken?”
“No…only closed. He has lost much and openin’ it will be hard, but possible.”
Aurèlie remembered her grandfather’s words as she crawled under the thick, warm coverlet and pulled it close under her neck. The land was cursed.
She was relieved Jordan would not come to her tonight. She had not lied to him. Her virtue was indeed intact. She’d never been with a man, especially one as experienced as him. He was older than she, had a daughter, and once had had a wife. She hadn’t missed the look of disappointment when she had answered his question and suspected, if she hadn’t been pure, he would have tossed her over his shoulder and carried her upstairs. In his defense, he had been drinking too much, making her wonder how often he indulged in liquor. He seemed to drink with purpose.
After Hattie left, Aurèlie peered through the darkness into the large room that was hers. In spite of the casement window that allowed the overflow of moonlight, the room was dark and somewhat…lonely.
Across the bayou, a soft glow of light from her father’s house hovered over the darkened waters, reflecting off the large mirror across from her bed. Feeling confined, she threw back the covers and tried to open the double doors that led to the upper gallery, needing a breath of fresh air. Neither door opened.
She picked up the bedside lantern and wove her way back down the staircase and into the breakfast room. Once there, she placed the lantern down and opened the back door that overlooked the lower loggia.
The warm, salty breeze refreshed her pounding head. She walked through the loggia and out onto the back gallery. Many times, as a child, she had stood very near to this spot and had watched the bayou from her grandfather’s porch, listening to his stories of bygone days.
Yellow Sun had always brought her comfort. A sense of euphoria seeped through her mind, just knowing she stood atop the land of her grandfather’s people. She swayed through the night air and moved her hips to the music still playing across the bayou—
“Leaving me already?”
She started. The land was not hers—yet.
Her husband’s voice had come from a heavily shadowed corner inside the room. He must have been there all along or perhaps had emerged from the storage room. He lit a cheroot. The end of the rolled tobacco glowed in the darkness, then quickly faded. He stepped into the lamp light.
No longer dressed in his somewhat gentlemen attire from the wedding, he wore a rugged pair of cotton breeches, high leather muddy boots that reached over his knees, dark shirt, and a pistol strapped to his braces. Around his neck, he wore a long chain and from it dangled a large silver medal, rou
nd in shape, like a medallion.
The silver piece shimmered with each breath he took, mesmerizing her with some sort of mystical power. Drawn to it, she fought the urge to touch it, to run her fingers over the deep inscription. Concentrating on it brought images to the surface of her mind, images of rushing water and the sound of waves. She pulled her eyes away from the silver piece and met his gaze.
“Monsieur, you frighten me. Why are you dressed—”
“How long will that music go on?” he interrupted.
She laughed lightly, hoping to ease the tension. “I fear very late, monsieur, le plus probablement, non?”
“No, it’s not a problem. You have a nice laugh, Miss Aurèlie.”
That surprised her but she suspected he was intentionally directing the conversation.
“Merci, monsieur.”
“My dear wife, do you intend to call me monsieur forever? My name is Jordan.”
“Oui, my husband, Jourdain.” Encouraged by his reference to her as his wife, she smiled when she spoke, trying to ignore his slight reaction to her saying his name with a French accent, but to her that sounded more natural.
“Close enough. Please, come inside and shut the door.”
She did as he asked but remained at a safe distance from him. She wore nothing more than a thin gauze nightdress. Though she had buttoned it to her neck, she felt nearly naked standing before him. Not for anything he might have done, it was her body, with no provocation, that simply reacted to him.
Perspiration shown over his forehead and his jaw twitched. Long lashes shadowed his dark eyes as he considered her. Maybe knowing that she’d eventually become intimate with him put her on alert, but for some reason, she had an unusual awareness of the man.
She drew a deep breath, inhaling a mixture of salt air, bayou waters, and dampened leather braces that creaked when he moved. He took a step closer to her, close enough to glance down at her from those dark, soothing eyes.
“I can assume you weren’t leaving dressed in nightclothes?” he whispered.
“Non, monsieur—Jourdain. I wanted a breath of air.”
She noted the pistol he wore on his brace and wondered why he had changed when she thought they had both retired for the night. Never would she have ventured down here had she any inclination he’d be here.
Yet, here he stood, and his nearness hindered her breathing, as a tingling responsiveness sprinted recklessly throughout her body. An odd sprinkle of apprehension crossed her breasts with the soft brush of her nightgown against her naked flesh. She swallowed her reaction, forcing strength to her voice. “You have concerns about our safety, non?”
His dress and manner made him seem more the sea rover than a planter. Feeling suspicious, but unsure why, she awaited his answer.
“These are dangerous times. My house sits much closer to the bayou than your father’s.” As he spoke, she watched his lips, feeling his warm breath glide across her face. “But as it turns out, it was only my new bride ah…missing her family. I’d hate to think it is I who you’d prefer to leave.”
“Perhaps, a little of both, monsieur.”
“I enjoy your honesty. Your family is near and you have nothing to fear from me.”
“Merci, monsieur. I will trouble you no more.” She dipped slightly. “Bonne nuit.”
“Good night, Aurèlie, and ah…Aurèlie?” He reached out and took her arm. She paused, her heart hesitating, his touch warm and strong. “The house is dark. Tomorrow you will learn the way of it, but for tonight, please stay in your room.”
“Oui, Jourdain, and monsieur…” She waited for his full attention, needing to test her quickly rising suspicions. “Please remind any pirates you chance upon, not to touch my father’s exports.”
His deep, soulful eyes narrowed as he drew another puff off the cheroot, while considering her comment. Without the gentleman’s attire, he seemed to have lost his polish and smoked in her presence, allowing the swirling smoke to move around her. But he was an American, and they had such barbaric manners.
He tipped his head in a short nod. “If I were to see such pirates, I will do that. Good night, Miss Aurèlie.”
“Bonne nuit.”
She raced up the stairs before more could be said. She closed the door behind her, trying to convince herself the quivers deep inside her body were from the chill of being outside while dressed so scantily and not from her spirit-stirring response to Jordan Kincaid.
Trained on what to expect and how to respond, she was a well-rehearsed play actor. But much to her disappointment, she had not been acting when he had touched her. Instead, something fluttered deep inside of her that yearned for exploration.
She crawled back into bed and pulled the coverlet close up under her chin, but just as sleep started to overtake her, she heard footfalls on the stairs and then the hall, before someone hesitated outside her door.
Had he changed his mind?
The doorknob moved slightly before she heard a click.
She threw the covers off. Then she tiptoed from the bed and wrapped her fingers around the doorknob.
She gasped. The door was locked.
Chapter Five
“The door is locked, Jordan.” Hattie dropped the key into his outstretched hand.
“You should have locked it sooner. She was down here.”
“I should have but she saw nothin’.”
“She saw me.”
Jordan threw back another swig of whiskey, wishing it were a glass of Étienne’s imported wine. The Fentonot business would be more to his advantage with the addition of wine barrels. Regardless of why he had joined piracy, he still had to make a living. Despite the fact that he might have been charged by the Parish Judge if he hadn’t married Aurèlie, he was beginning to appreciate his plaçage.
She was more beautiful than he had remembered, with her long straight hair shimmering in the candlelight like black silk. Her modesty had been noted when she thought her gown might be too revealing. The little pull of her collar around her neck only warned him of how intimate she felt in his presence.
He was beginning to think she had not been complicit in her father’s blackmail. She had not recognized him from the dance at the Théâtre de St-Philippe, nor had she drawn a connection between the mask he had worn then and the one she had seen on the captain of Le Vengeur. He was safe, for now. Soon he’d find his sister, end this pretense, and send Aurèlie home. But until that happened, Aurèlie was his mistress, bought and paid for.
“I’ll be back before sunrise.” Jordan checked his pistol before he hung it on his brace. “Sleep in my sitting room tonight in case Aurèlie needs anything. Keep her safe, Hattie.”
“She is safe.”
“Check on Maisie—”
“She is fast asleep, Jordan.”
“Lock the doors after I leave.”
“As I have every night since the last burglary.” Hattie pulled her key ring from her pocket.
“But nothing stolen. Who are they and what do they look for?” He motioned to the keys in her hand and reinforced his sense of urgency over their safety. “Lock all the doors.”
Jordan slipped through the door and down the short staircase to the back walk.
Less than a hundred feet from the house, Loul stepped from the shadows. With skin the color of night, he could easily fade into the darkness. To outsiders, Loul was a free man of mixed blood and employed by Liberty Oak, which provided excellent cover for their operation.
Besides Jordan and Loul, only Hattie knew they were brothers. Well…and their sister, Colette.
“I’ve seen the wine barrel from Fentonot.” Loul broke into Jordan’s thoughts. “But I’ll need another if you wish to fool customs. What will be in the barrels?”
“Prize. Everything we take from ships.” Jordan turned, taking a shortcut through the dead sugarcane field.
“In Fentonot’s barrels? That wasn’t the deal, was it?”
“No.” Jordan halted his step. “Fentonot says
the privateers undercut his goods.”
“Which is true, brother. We do.” Loul smiled. “He is talking about us.”
“He claims to be close to financial ruin and wants to further his profits by using our docks.”
“We cannot import. A large draft ship cannot come in here. If so, customs would anchor on our docks.”
“Yes, but exporting from our docks, avoiding the long land route to New Orleans, should increase his profit margin enough to keep him satisfied.” The cane stalks cracked under Jordan’s feet as he pushed toward the water. “But once I learned of those imported barrels, I had an idea.”
Jordan continued toward the dock with Loul close by his side. “We replicate the barrels, change Le Venguer’s colors, and import them into New Orleans.”
“That means we avoid Barataria which is Lafitte’s stronghold, the boss of illegal trade. That will make us some enemies. It is Jean Lafitte’s cage we rattle and he knows our true identity.”
“Lafitte will still get his cut.”
“And Fentonot, he will not know?”
“No, but customs knows his insignia. We have to be careful not to make them suspicious.” Jordan halted and faced his brother, hearing the frustration in his own voice. “We have to play this game, Loul, every inch of the way. We made that decision after father was murdered when we decided to take on our new lives with Le Vengeur. We are in need of money to keep Le Vengeur going, to pay the crew, to keep Liberty Oak going, to find Colette. The plaçage was costly and used up much of my resources. But we have learned the pirate’s trade well and I don’t mind profiting from thieves.”
“I’ll need another barrel. The insignia is impossible to replicate.”
“All right, I’ll get another one. Be ready within the next few days. Jean Lafitte has agreed to meet with me, regarding the history of Colette’s medallion, but it will cost us.”
“We know the history.” Loul’s disappointment was evident in his tone as he spoke. “Father bought it in Barataria then traced it to Port au Prince. It cost him his life and almost ours.”
