by Meg Hennessy
“Merci.”
“I’ve never matched wits with a woman before, especially a Creole woman, but I am impressed. This demure thing of yours, an act?” He started to circle around the marble table in the center of her bedroom.
Aurèlie circled the opposite direction. “Non, monsieur, you told me to protect myself, n’est pas?”
“Not from me! I will not harm you, but you are inquisitive. I knew you intended to use your new key to sneak about. Too dangerous. I needed you safely in your room. So, my Creole beauty, how did you know there was something in the drink?”
“I suspected.”
He shook his head as he turned and circled back in her direction. Aurèlie turned and went the opposite of her husband. The marble tea table still in between them.
“You knew.”
She didn’t respond, noticing the moonlight that slipped through her window played off the soft color of his light hair. Though he wanted to sound angry, his face betrayed him, a handsome face with character and depth. “How did you know?”
“You smuggler?” she persisted. “Ah… Une question pour une question, non?”
“No.” He answered quickly, the man who didn’t speak French. He turned to circle back around the table.
Aurèlie again outmaneuvered him, keeping her distance but not enough for him to lose interest. Knowing he felt thwarted by her, she also felt his heated perusal of her body with every glance.
The light shadowed his eyes. Yes, they hungered for her, for something yet untouched. A hint of anticipation swirled through her heart until the heat sank lower into her own self-defying need as the hunted. She wanted her predator to reach across the room and simply capture her. Now was the time. Half-drugged, he’d give in.
“I am far from a smuggler.” His sudden answer surprised her, though she doubted his truth. “I’ve heard of your powers, Madame, what are they?”
“I have no powers.” Except that of a woman. She slipped off her red mantel and allowed it to drag behind her, slowly walking across the room. Draping it over the side chair, she faced him. He was breathing hard, and she knew he fought to resist her. “But accustomed to you, I am.”
An invitation. He took a bold, unabashed perusal of her body with interest.
She pushed her negligee off one shoulder to fall down her arm. He drew a sharp breath. She pushed off the other sleeve until only her hand held the entire gown over her breasts.
He leaned against the fireplace, watching her with an alluring, if not inviting smile. “I call your bluff. Let it go. Let it fall.”
She smiled and gave her hair a light toss with the shake of her head. “I choose not to. As you so well made point of, I am not your slave, as you are not my master.”
“The point of a fool, as it seems.”
Aurèlie smothered a victorious smile. He was on the hook and wiggle though he might, he would not fall off. Not tonight. Her gown slipped, revealing the deep cleavage between her well-formed breasts. She glanced downward, drawing a long deep breath. Slowly, her eyes rose to meet his heated gaze.
Firelight reflected within the dark richness of his eyes. She had set the hook. She could see him thinking. No longer struggling to resist, he debated his next move, calculating what control he’d surrender and what he’d demand in return.
A spark of eagerness slowly rose up her spine and swept over her hair. With lips slightly parted, her breathing quickened as perspiration cooled her forehead. She closed her eyes and imagined his touch.
He pushed from the wall and strode toward her. He toppled the marble table, which had stood between them, and kicked the side chair out of his way, removing all barriers. Taking her by the arm, he pulled her into him.
Hard against his chest, she felt the rapid beat of his heart and heard every intake of air, silently screaming of lust—desire. Sweat glistened over his tanned neck and soaked through his white shirt. Slowly she looked up at him.
“You belong to me,” he whispered in a husky voice.
“I do,” she whispered back.
His lips fell to within a wisp of hers. He seemed to inhale the aroma of her hair as he freed one hand to run his fingers over the ridge of her breasts, up her neck, and over her cheek.
Her body ached for him to continue, to swing that hand downward and sweep up in between her legs and stir her hot liquid into gold, ready for molding.
She arched against him, his hard lean frame as steady as an adobe wall. His warm breath pooled between her exposed breasts, sending a thrill down to her belly.
He took off the large medallion he wore around his neck and lowered it over her head; the heavy medal fell between her breasts, a cooling contrast to her flushed and heated skin.
“You are now my slave,” he whispered.
“I can take off and not be so?”
“When you wish to be free.”
He lifted her from her feet, then tossed her on the bed. He pulled off his shirt and dropped the dirk and dagger he wore in his waistband, making a loud ping as they hit the wooden floor.
The sheen of his muscular chest invited a touch. As he fell over her, she ran her fingers across the churning power of his back and shoulders.
Her muslin gown clung to her perspiring skin until he ripped it open and held her arms over her head. Slowly, he lingered over each breast, anointing them with a gentle kiss and slight tug on her nipples. Letting go of her arms, he lowered himself down her body, his hands gliding over each breast, arresting their weight within his large palms.
“Spread your legs,” he whispered.
As his slave, she did. As a woman, she wanted to.
He pushed her legs up, bending them at the knees. Holding her steady, he ran his tongue across her belly, his hot breath alerting every sensual response her body conjured. Heated passion tingled all over as she fought to breathe. His thumb popped open her heart’s desire and slowly stirred. She sucked in a deep breath as he drew soft circles, around and around. Sensations flittered about in her mind, until coalescing into desire, a wanting she had never before experienced.
She moaned, reaching down, weaving her fingers within his hair as he moved lower. Suddenly, his tongue was inside of her, diving deep, pulling her desire to the surface. Now it was she who wiggled on the end of the hook.
Her body moved in rhythmic undulations until she had no control at all. The heated, moist caress of his tongue inside of her brought on a wave of excitement, pounding the shores, stronger, larger, until rapid explosive spasms whooshed down to her inner core, now lit up with a fever all its own.
Tears filled her eyes as the shuttering waves ended but the desire burned on. Her body throbbed, craving more, wanting to go back and feel that again but the medallion suddenly felt heavy and cold against the fire of her skin.
She reached up and clasped the medallion in her hand. An image raced through her mind of water crashing into a ship, gunfire, explosions, a scream—a woman screaming—then falling head first into the water.
Not now…
Not wanting the images, she pulled the chain off and tossed it. It pinged as it hit the floor. At that moment, as if somehow attached to it, Jordan stopped.
He gently kissed her stomach as he slid his hands upward over her perspiring body. He rolled off to her side, breathing as hard as she.
Silence hung in the room thicker than the sultry night. The sweat off her skin and his reflected in the candlelight that fluttered near the bed.
Her breathing rushed through her ears, sounding loud and harsh in the dark secretive silence. True to his word, she had freed herself simply by removing the medallion. At this moment, she fully regretted having done so.
Flat on her back, her bed, with her nightdress torn apart, she glanced over at her husband. She wanted to protest him stopping but how would she explain the need to remove the long, chained medallion. He had set the rules and had followed them. So must she.
She swallowed her disappointment, waiting for him to speak. Several minutes passed as sh
e and her husband lay side by side without a word, or touch, as she so craved. Finally, she heard him draw in a deep breath.
“I won’t have the locks changed, nor devise any other devious way to protect you. Promise, Aurèlie, you won’t venture out at night.”
“I promise, husband,” she whispered, still feeling the pleasures of his touch. Her heart no longer beat but fluttered helplessly against her chest, yearning for rescue. Her inner core, teased into existence, throbbed, demanding release. He rose to his elbow. With the light touch of his finger, he drew circles around each breast and over her belly.
“I will hold you to that.” He kissed her on the forehead and rolled off her bed. He picked up the weapons he had on the floor, along with his shirt.
Every muscle of his body was in perfect alignment, contracting and relaxing like water rippling over solid rock. She imagined running her hands over his stalwart frame, tasting him with her tongue, inhaling his scent, merging her flesh to his.
But the images of what she had seen and heard when she had touched the strange silver piece whirled through her mind, like faint illusions fluttering in the wind. As he picked the medallion up and dropped the chain around his neck, she knew she had found the source to read him. She ached to touch the flat, cool piece of silver again, but he wore it around his neck…always.
She ran a tongue over her lips, formulating her thoughts, until she could no longer manage the memory of the intrusive images. “Who was she?”
He looked surprised. “Who was who?”
Realizing her error, Aurèlie rethought her approach. “You, ah, are afraid to lose me to something? You have lost someone before, oui?”
His heavy breathing rasped through the silent night, the color of his eyes deepened and his jaw pulled tight. “No.”
She watched as he strode to the door connecting their rooms, knowing she could push no further tonight. He hesitated at the door.
“I only wish to keep you safe. Good night, Aurèlie.”
…
Jordan closed the door to Aurèlie’s room behind him. He stood in the silent sitting room waiting until the driving desire to claim her had subsided. But he honored the rules he had set. When she had removed the medallion, he had to stop. She had set herself free, but he wondered why.
She had successfully seduced him by dragging her mantel behind her, her body undulating across the room. He could think of nothing else but to touch her, feel her, sink inside of her. She was a treasure suddenly popped open with jewels and gems galore.
There she had stood, sparkling in the firelight, her mocha skin, sultry and damp, shimmering with each deeply drawn breath. Maybe it was the effect of the laudanum but she mesmerized him, as if she had cast a spell over him. The evil world in which he felt trapped had faded around him and all he could see was Aurèlie, like a beacon in the dark, stormy night.
Whatever her powers, he could feel their mystical pulsation within the room. Gone were the concerns that he had married her under fraudulent circumstances and could not make love to her, but instead she had become an elixir, a healing drink to mend his broken soul. No barrier would have stopped him tonight, except the medallion.
How did she know he sought a woman?
He glanced back at Aurèlie’s door as he strode across to his own room, wondering about her astute conclusion that he had lost someone. His sister’s disappearance was not common knowledge for a reason. His father had maintained that the wrong party might learn of his search and further cover an already cold trail or perhaps endanger Colette.
What were Aurèlie’s powers? If she had known about the key, the drugged wine, would she, somehow, know if his sister were alive? Was his search in vain? How much longer must he live in the world of smugglers and pirates to learn of her fate and find his father’s killer?
He closed the door to his room and sat down in front of the fire, pulling a chair up close, staring at the empty, evaporating flames as Hattie’s words echoed in his mind. Did he risk too much, even Maisie?
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Had Aurèlie changed her mind? If so, the test would fall to him. Maybe it was a lingering affect from the tincture but if she walked through that door, he’d claim her.
“Come in.” The door opened and Hattie stepped inside. For a brief moment, Jordan was both relieved and disappointed. “It’s late, Hattie. What do you want?”
“Maisie’s not sleepin’ well. I was sittin’ on the gallery, not able to sleep much myself and I heard her talkin’.” Hattie worked her way to the fire and fanned her hands in front for warmth. “These talks with her mother…”
“An active imagination. She does not seem to be frightened by it.”
“Could be she wishes to feel loved, so she imagines her mother with her?”
Jordan sighed, knowing where this was going. He was always falling short of Hattie’s expectations of fatherhood.
“I give my daughter love. But—” He rose from his chair to silence Hattie. “I’ll spend the night in her room. Will that satisfy you?”
“It’s not me, son, I wish you to satisfy, but Maisie. She be needin’ her father—”
“I’ll spend the night in her room. She is an imaginative child, nothing more.”
“End your quest. Go now and take Maisie away from here. It’s nothin’ but sadness for you. You refuse to open your heart to Aurèlie—”
“Stop.” For some reason an image of Aurèlie floated before his eyes, his mind searching for that perfect role in his future that only his beautiful mistress could fill, but she was worlds away from Boston. Instead, she was the cornerstone to everything he had learned to hate—Louisiana.
Hattie pulled his attention back to the conversation. “You’ve done all that you could. Your father lost, I don’t wish the same for you.”
Jordan swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. “You believe Colette is dead? Perhaps, but I need proof. She screamed my name before she disappeared.”
“And if no proof ever comes? How long, Jordan? How long before you concede? You must allow this into the past. It is for the livin’ I now grieve. Loul, you, and Maisie. Aurèlie is special, I don’t know how, but I feel somethin’ around her.”
Maybe the drug made him less resistant, for this was the most he’d listened to her since Colette’s abduction. Hattie’s affair with his father had started a year or so after Jordan’s mother died. He had been eleven at the time and Hattie had been a mother to him from that point on. Because of her color, she could never have been his legal stepmother but his father had loved her and together they had given Jordan a brother.
Loul and Hattie had lost faith and believed Colette lost forever, but Jordan couldn’t accept that. Every night when he closed his eyes, he’d hear her scream his name, calling to him. Would the dreams continue if she were dead?
“I’ll stay with Maisie tonight.” Jordan opened his bedroom door and hesitated when Hattie spoke.
“Will y’all give thought to what I said?”
“I heard you, Hattie, and I know in your heart you mean well. I promise to think about it. Now get some sleep.” As Jordan neared his daughter’s room, he heard a giggle from behind the door. When he gave the door a quick knock and stepped inside, Maisie was wide awake.
“Papa…” She smiled through her surprise.
“What is my little girl doing awake? It is well into the dawn hours.” He sat on the edge of the bed, gently stroking the golden curls from her face.
“I was talking to mother.”
Jordan glanced around the room. “Well, I see no one and it’s too late for you to be awake.”
“But, Papa—”
“Sleep now, Maisie, no more talk tonight.”
His daughter puffed out her cheeks in frustration and allowed Jordan to tuck her under the warm coverlet. “Mother wishes for you to be happy. Are you happy, Papa?”
He stopped. “When did your mother say this?”
“Just now.” She smiled, her eyes bright with misc
hief.
Odd question for his wife, considering his happiness had never been a concern of hers when they were married. As a Boston-born native, Judith had hated the South. At first, she had spent her summers in Boston, as did many of the upper class. Soon it had become nearly year round. They had been apart more than together.
“Papa? You didn’t tell her.”
“Tell her I am happy. Now sleep, little girl, or you’ll have extra chores tomorrow.”
She smiled. “Mother can hear you.”
“Fine, good night to both of you.”
“She wants me to tell you something. Isle? I can’t hear it right, Papa, Isla…” Maisie shook her head. “I can’t say that.”
“It is late, Maisie, go to sleep now.”
“But Mother is trying to tell me something—”
“Another time. Sleep.”
Jordan waited for Maisie to drift off before he sank into the chair seated near the fire. Flames crawled and leaped over the logs trying to escape their fate, each screaming and hissing, like the night when the pirates had come and taken Colette.
He rose from the chair and leaned on the mantle, allowing the bright fire to burn away his vision of that night, but the memories remained, mingling with his love for Maisie and the devastation he’d feel at her loss. Like his father, he’d never give up looking for his own daughter.
His father’s death and the events in Port au Prince played through his mind, where he and Loul had nearly lost their lives. There, too, he had heard an American. Don’t kill them! Over and over the words played in Jordan’s mind, but there was more that eluded his memory, if he could only remember.
As the dawn mingled with the fading stars, Jordan dozed off and on in the chair near the fire. He woke once, thinking he had heard Maisie but the child was sound asleep. He glanced around the room, sensing something, searching the shadows around the bed.
Convinced it was his imagination, Jordan settled back into the chair and started to close his eyes when the bedroom door silently swung open. He sat up and watched the slow movement of the door.
“Judith?”
The door slowly swung shut.
