by Meg Hennessy
Earlier today and being curious about the layout of Jordan’s plantation, she had explored the yard around his home. Liberty Oak had once been known as an indigo plantation but she saw no crops, except a few small sugarcane fields, that looked more wild than planted.
Besides a blacksmith’s garage with a tool shed nearby, she saw cattle pens, pigs, and chickens. Cottages stood in a row behind the pens, but she saw no one except a woman enter Jordan’s house, carrying a wash basket, seemingly to clean. The livery and stables were on the other side of the house with horses and carriages.
She had continued around the house until she had come full circle. She had taken the stairs to the backyard and had followed the brick pathway to the jardin français where she stepped onto the gravel walkway under a canopy of oaks.
The geometrically designed gardens were unkempt, overgrown, and apparently deserted. The palms fluttered in the breeze and oleander, mimosa, and acacia dotted the landscape.
Along with the trees there were roses, lilies, cape jasmine, giant elephant ears, and yucca. All were dried and brown and dead blooms covered the everlasting rose bushes. Gardening was her and her mother’s favorite past time and her husband’s garden needed much work.
As she mused, she realized that much of the furniture was French; the floor plan was French, the box-mantled fireplaces, the gallery, columns, and casement windows. All were French in design as well as the double-hipped roof and surrounding upper-level gallery.
Most doors of American homes opened to the outside. Only homes with French influence had the gateways, porte cochère, a transformation from public to private. The Kincaid’s were Americans. Jordan said he didn’t even understand French. So why was the house, built by the Kincaid’s, most decidedly French? And with a property so obviously void of production, how did he make a living?
Her suspicions grew as she eyed her new husband. Jordan hadn’t said a word about entertaining, but if he were, she assumed the guests would most likely be Americans. She glanced over at her mother. “Americans for dinner?”
“Cela est bon, I will help, oui?”
As the other barrel was brought from the cellar, Aurèlie wondered at Jordan’s interest in the wine and why he had been so heavily armed last night. Just who was Jordan Kincaid? She hadn’t been able to find the key he had used to open that secret drawer, nor to open her bedroom door.
“Maman, I have need of a key.”
“What kind of key?”
“One like yours.” She gave her mother a conspirator’s glance as she leaned forward and whispered, “One that opens all locks.”
Chapter Eight
For a second night in a row, Aurèlie had to watch her family home fade into the background as she once again traveled across the bayou to Liberty Oak. Tonight was cooler than last night and she hoped to sleep better. Maisie had fallen asleep as soon as they rode off, draped across Aurèlie’s lap.
Aurèlie swept golden curls from her little face. She was a sweet child. Her heart ached for all that Maisie had lost, especially the loss of her mother. Aurèlie could not imagine her life without her mother.
With a sigh, Jordan leaned back and stretched out his legs. His demeanor seemed carefully controlled. Just below his countenance, she sensed something ate at him. He was little more than an actor. As much as she knew the danger of using her intuitive powers, she had to know. Was there something in his past he’d rather keep secret? If so, would he offer her the deed to Liberty Oak to have it remain so? She closed her eyes with a deep inhalation, trying to read images from him.
The sound of rushing waters, like a ship parting the sea floated through her mind. The smell of salt burned her nose. She concentrated as an image of a dark ship, hovering in the fog, came closer to her mind’s eye.
The carriage bounced over the rutted road. She gasped, opening her eyes. Thunder rumbled off in the distance and a cool breeze whistled through the carriage, whisking away any readings she might have made.
Jordan had been watching her, his dark eyes curious.
“Mon pardonne, I had drifted to sleep.” Aurèlie swallowed hard, reminding herself to be careful. He would not understand her powers, nor would he appreciate how she wanted to use them.
Jordan motioned to his slumbering daughter. “She is not used to evenings filled with so much activity.”
“Elle s’est amusée immensément.” Aurèlie caught her breath, realizing her error in using French with the change in Jordan’s expression. While struggling for the right English word, she wanted to ask him how it was that he understood her sisters but suddenly could not understand her now. French-influenced home, French furniture, he knew French and he knew it well. Why the pretense?
She waited, hoping to bait him into some response that would validate her suspicion, but he said nothing. Instead, he watched her expectantly, as if confused and needing the English translation.
Aurèlie swallowed her pride. Another time. “She had joyous time, oui?”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied that he had backed her into a French corner.
Another rut in the road made the large barrel of wine shift position on the freight wagon that followed. Jordan glanced through the back window, checking on it. Her husband had such an interest in her father’s wine. She had told her mother he was a confusing man, but in reality he was a very secretive man who hid himself behind the mask of a gentleman planter. She needed more, to touch something of his to get a reading.
“The night is more chilly.” Aurèlie motioned to Maisie. “She shivers, non?”
Jordan immediately pulled off his coat and draped it around the little girl. “I do not have two coats, but if you are chilled. I could, ah”—he raised a suggestive eyebrow—“put my arm around you.”
Aurèlie could only imagine how she’d feel sinking into him, the heat of his body warming hers, his arm around her shoulders feeling strong and safe. Her heart reacted with an irregular beat, floundering in anticipation, but Maisie stirred, readjusting herself on Aurèlie’s lap, washing away the prospect. “I wish not to disturb her, merci. It is of no matter. I am not cold.”
“She’s not easily disturbed. I’ll take Maisie, and you wear the coat.” He reached over and scooped the child off her lap and onto his, wrapping her soundly within his arms. She stirred slightly but drifted back to sleep. “See?”
Jordan watched out the window. As his attention shifted, Aurèlie draped his coat over her shoulders and inhaled deeply, waiting for the visions to begin.
Again the mysterious ship appeared, hidden behind a veil of fog. Gunshots sounded. She inhaled, trying to see. The ship came closer; she realized she was holding her own breath in fear. Suddenly, an explosion—she gasped and grabbed the edge of the seat.
“Aurèlie?” Jordan had leaned forward and took her hand. “Falling asleep on a carriage seat does not seem to do you well.”
She forced a smile, the visions lost, and he was holding her hand, the feeling so warm, so inviting, she wished him not to let go. “I am fine, oui? Just tired, like Maisie.”
“We’ll be home in a few minutes.”
To what? Another night locked in my room?
Her mother had not wanted her to use her powers, but it seemed the only solution. She could not allow him that much control over her. He was not unkind, in fact the opposite, but he seemed to be moving within some shadowy world of his own.
The house felt entombed, the crops were suspect, and he had nothing leaving his docks. The little girl wore outdated fashions and lacked proper training as a young lady. Even Jordan had arrived in a state of undress for their wedding. They all lived in some era-warp, as if time had come to a standstill at Liberty Oak. If so, what would start the clock ticking again?
Jordan watched out the window but shifted his attention when she started to speak to him.
“Monsieur, might I have new clothes made for Maisie?”
He shook his head, dismissing the subject. “She has things.”
“Not prope
r things.”
“I consider her clothes proper.”
Aurèlie leaned back in her seat. His immediate rebuke surprised her. He seemed so devoted to the child. “Monsieur, what will she wear for the American guests?”
He looked puzzled. “American guests?”
She nodded. “The ones who come to your house. You told mon père, non?”
“Yes, yes, I ah…hadn’t thought about…she’s a child, not to be seen.”
Remembering the child on their wedding night, Aurèlie suspected keeping Maisie unseen would not be possible. “Just in the case, she would enjoy to dress, oui?”
“She has a new dress. She wore it to our wedding.”
Aurèlie bit her tongue, knowing the dress had been homespun, not created by a seamstress nor the quality a child of her station should wear. She pressed the issue, wishing to update the child’s fashion as well as her manners, anything that might bring Jordan into the little girl’s life, the present. “She will make an appearance, I suspect.”
Jordan glanced down at his daughter and by the slight change in expression, she assumed he noted her dress. He traced a hand down her back, feeling the material. He glanced up at Aurèlie, then shifted his gaze to the window. Aurèlie swallowed hard, feeling a deep tug at her heart. He seemed so alone in life while trying to raise a daughter.
“I don’t notice things like that.”
“Fathers do not; mothers do.” Aurèlie smiled, feeling a need to offer assistance regardless of him making Maisie off-limits. “We engage a seamstress, oui?”
He thought a moment, then nodded. “In New Orleans, I have business to attend and want you to see the townhouse on Rampart before I sell it. We’ll commission a new wardrobe there for her…and for you.”
“Merci, but I do not need anything, monsieur.” She couldn’t help a glance down at her brightly colored dress, trimmed in braided tassels.
“I’ve never known a woman who didn’t want a new gown.”
For some reason, his observation niggled beneath her calm. Her mind continued to spin the comment as she fiddled with the trim of her dress. Granted, American women didn’t wear colors as did the quadroons, because they dressed so plainly.
Her requesting new dresses for Maisie were to replace the old outdated one, to wind a dead clock. He had seen so little of her wardrobe, why would he assume she needed a new dress? She was the daughter of a wealthy planter. Then it hit her—hard—and targeted that soft spot of her heart that had reached out to him. In her attempt to get him in touch with his daughter, she had exposed herself, allowed him the opportunity to criticize her style. The truth was plain; her dress did not measure to his standards. She was Creole. He wanted her to look more American.
She tried to keep her tongue still, but before her mind could command silence, words flew from her mouth. “I do not have what you’d consider American dress?”
He sighed. “I thought when you asked about Maisie, you were including yourself in the question. I would not make an offer for my daughter that I would not do for my wife. I don’t care if you wish to dress like a Creole or not, but be advised, the guests will be Americans.”
A heated flush seared her cheeks, her heart pounded furiously. A rush of reminders of how and why society limited her life in favor of this man based solely on his color, completely baffled her. She would never care for him.
Keeping her voice as calm as she could muster, she asked, “I wear a tignon around my hair, oui?”
He looked surprised by her response. “I will dismiss your sarcasm. No. You made point of my daughter’s fashion, I only meant to offer you an option. Dress as you like; it matters not to me.”
Apparently, it did.
“My father’s family goes back to before Iberville’s colony, here for generations, before America takes us. This land has been ours forever. Why do you have more power than I do? More power than my father? Your guests should dress to suit me, non?”
“No, they won’t. This land?” He watched her closely as if checking for a reaction, picking up on the one word she regretted having said. “Whose land are we talking about, Aurèlie, because Liberty Oak is mine.”
Aurèlie kept her breathing even, not wanting to react to his statement. Her chest tightened with memories of her grandfather and the night of the drums. She didn’t respond, not knowing what to say, relieved when he drew a breath to speak.
“Apparently, I offended you. It’s politics, Aurèlie, just politics. But for your information, my father’s family has been here longer than you think. They are in Boston.”
She looked down at her brightly colored dress, fiddling with the tassel trim that she had worn with pride. No longer did she care how she dressed. Whether dressed in colors or blandly like an American woman, she was nothing more than his mistress, and no dress, celebrations, or ceremonies would hide that fact. All of her education in France had done nothing for her social status in America.
She fumbled with her reticule, looking for a handkerchief, angry with herself as the point of her mission floundered. Her thinking always twisted into knots when talking about race, about her mixed blood, or when feeling the injustice of how her world had changed since the Americans had arrived.
Aurèlie closed her eyes, not wanting to think. Her thoughts rambled about her head without direction. Her intense sensitivity to color often riled her heart, draining all rational thought. Some day that might cost her and she needed to be more cautious.
If only I hadn’t heard the drums.
“Here.” Her husband handed her his handkerchief. “I did not mean to cause you harm or offend. As I said, I’ve never known a woman who did not wish for new gowns.”
She looked up at him, steeling a quick breath, refusing the handkerchief. She wasn’t a child and did not need a white man to take care of her. Whether politically dangerous or not, she was capable of taking care of herself. “I do not.”
“Understood.” He put the handkerchief away.
His capitulation surprised her. Shadows carved out his handsome features and his dark eyes offered what she had seen in them earlier in his library. Kindness. She sucked in a ragged breath and buried her sobs deep within her quivering body. Crying would only weaken her resolve.
“We are here, best to get you and Maisie inside.”
As the night before, Hattie met the carriage at the end of the paved brick walk. Maisie woke up when lifted by her father. Half-asleep, she immediately reached for Hattie, and the two of them headed up the stairs.
Aurèlie hurried to deboard before Jordan could assist. She didn’t want him to touch her right now, nor feel his tenderness. His hand to hers would only accentuate the obvious difference in their color, a subject she couldn’t allow to derail her mission. In her rush, her hem caught on the footstep, causing her to trip.
Jordan whirled around and caught her before she fell completely on her nose. A rapid burning sensation encircled her ankle and chased up her calf, which would no longer hold her weight.
“Merde!” she cursed under her breath, not that it mattered; he’d still know what she said.
“I would have helped you.” Jordan sounded irritated as he balanced her against him. “The ankle?”
“It is fine.” She pushed away from him but toppled over.
“Which is obvious, of course.” He scooped her off the brick way with an arm around her waist and under her legs. “I’ll carry you upstairs. Hattie will see to your needs.”
Aurèlie said nothing, hating the fact that she had fallen, giving him the opportunity to hold her. The tears she had fought off earlier, melted over her face. She sniffed.
Jordan glanced down at her with a sigh.
Obviously, he didn’t like her any more than she liked him.
She sniffed again, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“In the breast pocket of my waistcoat, you will find a kerchief.”
“I do not need it.”
He carried her through the dark hallway. As h
e climbed the inside stairs, he shifted her weight to rest against his chest, a hard, muscular chest that flexed with each step. Slowly, her hand migrated across his shoulders, brushed through the length of his hair, to rest on the other side. The well-lit wall sconces illuminated the upstairs. He kicked open the door to her bedroom and carried her inside.
“Where do I put you?” He gave her a suggestive look. “On the bed?”
Quickly, she withdrew her arm from around his shoulders.
“Non, non, monsieur. I stand, oui?”
He slowly lowered her to her feet, sliding her body over the heated strength of his. A slight film of perspiration covered his forehead and trickled down the side of his face as he looked down at her.
She winced. Her ankle burned slightly as she put her weight on it, but Jordan had not let go. Thick, muscular arms held her steady. She looked up to meet his dark eyes. He was close enough to kiss her, but would he?
She barely breathed, her breasts flush against his chest. Nervousness made her run a wet tongue over her lower lip. He laced his fingers into the plaited knot of hair at the back of her head and tilted her head just slightly. He leaned into her neck and drew a deep breath.
“A new scent?”
“Oui, I have many.”
In the night stillness, she could feel and hear the air come and go from his lungs. His hot breath spread across her neck and pooled between her breasts. She was aware of his heart beating, the movement of his hands, the masculine aroma.
She tried to breathe but felt nearly faint from the lack of air, or was it from his touch? He kissed her lightly at the base of her neck. Then as if his tease wasn’t agonizing enough, he tilted her back to skim his lips across the hollow of her throat. Heat swooshed down into her belly. Her fingers tightened around his shoulders. Her breath quickened. She closed her eyes, cursing the fact that he was an American. Yet at this moment, she craved him.
