by Connie Mason
“I did, of course. But do not fear,” he hastened to add when he saw her reddened checks. “I do not take advantage of helpless women.” She hated the note of amusement in his voice.
“I remember nothing after you pulled me from the coach,” Gabby put in quickly, thinking it best to change the subject. “The boulder, did it hit our coach?”
“Yes. If we had been inside we would now be dead.”
She suppressed an involuntary shudder. “And the coachman?”
“He, too, had the presence of mind to jump in time. Even the horses escaped injury. But the coach was demolished.”
“What an incredible accident!”
“Yes,” Philippe agreed dourly. “It is truly an ‘incredible’ accident, just as you say.” Somehow his words held little conviction.
“What do we do now?” Gabby asked, hoping she would be allowed to rest at the inn at least through the day before continuing their journey.
Philippe searched her face. “Do you feel well enough to travel right away? It is imperative that we reach the Windward.”
“Why such haste, Philippe?” Gabby questioned irritably. “I hurt all over and I am exhausted. What does it matter if we reach Brest a day or two later?”
“Don’t question me. Gabby,” warned Philippe ominously. “Just tell me if you are able to travel. We have less than a day’s journey ahead and I have spent most of the night searching for another coach. I’m tired myself and have more important things on my mind than coddling a complaining wife.”
A red haze of rage pulsated behind Gabby’s eyes. “Complaining wife!” she seethed angrily. “I would be safe behind convent walls if you hadn’t come along. Does being an obedient wife mean following my husband even if he nearly gets me killed?”
Philippe held himself in check by the most stringent effort of will. What Gabby said was the truth. If what he suspected was right, then he was plunging her pell-mell into a dangerous situation that was none of her making. He should have followed his conscience and not complicated his life at this time by taking another wife. But once he had accepted this assignment, he had needed a cover for his activities, and what could be more natural than being in France to look for a bride? All the gentry of Martinique returned to France for wives, just as most of the island’s young women married French aristocrats. His voyage to France must invite no suspicion, and if he must marry again, as he knew he must if he wanted an heir, who better than a convent-bred girl trained in obedience? Why, in the name of le bon Dieu had he chosen this little hellcat in nun’s clothing who had so much to learn about docility and submission?
“If you are well enough to carry on like a shrew, then you are well enough to travel,” Philippe informed her coldly. “I will give you one-half hour to ready yourself.” Gabby’s flashing eyes and the tantalizing treasures that he knew lay hidden beneath her prim nightgown almost tempted him to forget his urgency to reach the Windward and tarry long enough to consummate his marriage. He had been distressed and concerned for her the night before, but not too distracted to notice that his bride had a delectable body and was immensely desirable. Clenching his teeth against the sudden ache in his groin, Philippe strode from the room before he lost all control and joined her in the bed.
It had grown dark when they reached Brest that night and Gabby could see nothing of the city from the carriage window. They proceeded directly to the docks where the twinkling lights of ships anchored in the harbor appeared to her like mating fireflies. Philippe helped her from the coach and led her directly to the wharf where the Windward rode at anchor, then up the gangplank onto the ship. Gabby was astounded when the seamen around them immediately pulled in the gangplank and began preparations to hoist anchor and raise the sails. She watched forlornly as the ship loosed its moorings under the cover of approaching darkness and slipped stealthily from its berth, leaving behind the land she loved and the only life she had ever known.
Chapter Three
While the Windward was maneuvering past the line of ships anchored in the harbor, Philippe and Gabby were joined by a man whose dress and air of authority proclaimed him to be the captain. “We expected you last evening, mon ami,” the man said, directing wary, black eyes in all directions before speaking. “When you did not arrive, I began to fear something unforeseen had occurred to delay you.”
“Something unforeseen did occur, Henri,” Philippe conceded. “We were nearly killed when a wayward boulder destroyed our carriage on the road to Brest. We escaped just in the nick of time.”
“Sacre bleu!” cursed the captain. “What caused the accident?”
“I returned to the scene later but saw nothing to indicate anything other than sheer chance. Evidently the recent rains had caused the boulder to pull loose, and the timing couldn’t have been better or worse, depending on how you look at it,” Philippe added meaningfully. Suddenly remembering the girl at his side, he said, “Gabby, this is Henri Giscard, captain of the Windward and a good friend as well.” And to the captain. “Henri, this is my wife, Gabrielle La Farge St. Cyr.”
“Philippe, mon Dieu, you did not warn me your wife was so beautiful,” chided Captain Giscard after bowing over Gabby’s small hand. “But she is just a child, mon ami. How lucky you are to have captured beauty and youth in one small bundle.”
“There was more involved than just mere luck, Henri,” Philippe stated as he directed a raised eyebrow at Gabby who flinched, fearing he would reveal the circumstance surrounding their marriage.
Gabby breathed a sigh of relief when Captain Giscard cut in. “No matter, she will be a lovely addition to our little island. And you, Philippe, will be the envy of every man.”
Gabby barely had time to acknowledge Captain Giscard’s gallantry before Philippe took her by the elbow and steered her to a cabin in the stern that was to be their home during the coming weeks. He told her that there were other cabins below deck on either side of a long companionway but that they remained unoccupied on this trip. Their cabin was the largest, and always ready should he decide to sail with the Windward on one of her many voyages. With pride in his voice he informed her that he owned the Windward as well as three other ships just like her.
The cabin, though not luxurious, appeared comfortable enough at first glance, but try as she might, Gabby could not keep her eyes from straying toward the big bed that seemed much too large for the cabin. She noticed that her trunk had been carried aboard and placed next to a leather sea chest she supposed belonged to Philippe. A desk piled high with charts, a table and chairs bolted to the deck, and a washstand with the necessary accoutrements were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. The masculine odors of leather and tobacco assaulted her senses as well as a fresh, clean smell of sea spray and witch hazel. There was none of the cloying, sweet aroma of pomade and perfume she noticed about her father’s clothing and person.
Gabby started violently at he sound of Philippe’s voice. “I realize these are rather cramped quarters, ma petite, but nevertheless, we must make do.” For the first time he became aware of her weariness and state of near collapse, and he drew the cloak from her shoulders, speaking more gently than he had at any other time since their marriage, but still not conveying the warmth of a newly wed man. “I have urgent business with the captain, so I must leave you. I will arrange for a supper tray and you can retire whenever you wish. The journey to Brest hasn’t been an easy one for you and I don’t relish having a sick wife on my hands.”
Gabby stared at Philippe through wary eyes, unwilling to believe that he had no compulsion to consummate their marriage now that they were aboard his ship. But when she saw that he was indeed preparing to leave the cabin, she murmured tiredly, albeit gratefully, “Thank you, Monsieur, your thoughtfulness is much appreciated.” Too late she realized her slip of the tongue.
Philippe stopped dead at her words, swept his steely gaze over her slight figure and was beside her in two strides, grasping her small shoulders in his large hands until her fear caused her
to cry out. “My name, Gabby say it, damn you!” he growled. “Why do you continue to provoke me?”
“Philippe!” she cried through chattering teeth, terrified by his sudden change of mood.
“That’s right. I am Philippe, your husband. Don’t ever forget it,” he warned, releasing her so abruptly that she staggered backward a few steps. Then he stormed fiercely from the cabin.
Alone at last, Gabby’s relief was immense as she sagged onto the bed, emotionally drained and scarcely aware of the pain caused by Philippe’s cruel fingers. For the first time in two weeks she gave vent to the traumatic upheaval she had experienced and began to weep uncontrollably, overcome with despair so overwhelming that were she on deck she would have thrown herself into the sea. Soon she drifted into the healing arms of sleep.
Philippe’s inexplicable flash of anger cooled somewhat as he made his way along the dark passageway to Captain Giscard’s cabin. In fact, he had almost forgotten Gabby as his hand moved to the slight bulge in his jacket, as if assuring himself for the thousandth time that he still carried the document for which he was risking his life.
Philippe paused before Captain Giscard’s door and was shaken to his foundation by voices coming from within. “Mon dieu!” he cursed aloud when he recognized the voice speaking to the captain. “It cannot be!” He burst into the cabin with a look of such pure rage on his face that both men inside the room felt they were facing a maddened bull.
“What is it, Philippe?” Captain Giscard cried in alarm when he saw Philippe’s face.
“How in the hell did Duvall get aboard the Windward?” he demanded, pointing a finger at the tall, slim man regarding him through startling green eyes. “By whose authority is he on my ship? I gave strict orders that no passengers would be allowed on board this trip. You know the reason as well as I, Henri.”
“I’m… I’m sorry, Philippe, truly I am,” apologized Henri, astounded by the animosity displayed by Philippe toward a man who was considered by all to be his good friend. “When Monsieur Duvall came aboard late last night he assured me you would not object to his presence. It is well known that you and Duvall are neighbors as well as friends.”
“At one time perhaps,” muttered Philippe darkly. Then he turned to the elegantly dressed man toward whom his anger was directed. “What have you to say for yourself, Marcel? Why have you come aboard the Windward under false pretenses? You know as well as I that our friendship ended with Cecily’s death.”
“Mon ami,” Marcel Duvall began smoothly, all the while toying with the thin mustache gracing his upper lip, “you were the one who denounced our friendship. And at he time you were still grieving over the untimely death of your wife. I am prepared to overlook your rash actions and continue our relations as if nothing had happened.”
“The devil take you, Duvall!” spat Philippe. “I meant every word I said. Cecily might still be alive today if it weren’t for you. I want nothing more to do with you! You may have convinced Henri that we are friends but I know what lies between us and I warn you, keep out of the way.” Suddenly his flinty eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Just what are you doing in France, anyway? When did you leave Martinique?”
Captain Giscard looked from one to the other, completely baffled by the turn of their conversation. He had no idea Marcel Duvall was in any way involved with the death of Cecily St. Cyr. If there was any connection at all, then he had done Philippe a grave injustice by allowing the man aboard the Windward.
“I left Martinique aboard the Tristan while you were on one of your trips to America,” Marcel answered easily. “My business in France is simple; I hoped to arrange a suitable marriage for my sister, Linette.”
“And have you?” demanded Philippe.
“Certainly, mon ami, and quite admirably,” boasted Marcel. “Next year Linette will become the bride of Pierre Bonnard, the only son and heir of the founder of the great banking firm of the same name. Quite a match, I might add. A feather in my cap.”
“Oui.” Philippe admitted grudgingly. “Ever one to further your own interests by uniting your family name to one of the great names in Europe, eh, Duvall? You must have offered a handsome dowry. Your fortune must be greater than I imagined. But tell me, how did you know the Windward was at Brest?”
“I did not know. It was just my incredible good fortune to find the Windward in port when I arrived looking for passage to Martinique. It seems I have been blessed with much good luck this trip,” he said blandly.
“So it would seem,” agreed Philippe without conviction.
“Now that you are aboard there is nothing I can do about it.” With a wave of his hand he dismissed Marcel. “I have some private business to conduct with Henri, so…”
“Of course, of course. I do not wish to intrude, so I will bid you both good night. By the way,” he added archly, “I understand congratulations are in order, that you have been successful in your quest.”
“What!” exploded Philippe and Henri together.
“Why, what is wrong, gentlemen?” asked Marcel innocently. “I refer to your bride, of course. If I am to believe Captain Giscard, Madame St. Cyr is a raving beauty.” After dropping that bombshell, he quickly left the cabin, humming a little tune as he strutted down the passageway.
“For a moment I feared he knew the real reason behind our journey to France,” breathed Henri with obvious relief. “You don’t think he could have found out, do you, Philippe?”
“No, Henri,” Philippe replied with more conviction than he felt at that moment. “It’s probably just a coincidence that the Windward was preparing for departure at the same time Duvall wished to return to Martinique.” Then he looked sharply at the older man. “You mentioned nothing of our destination?”
“No! No!” Henri quickly assured him. “I thought you could tell him when the time is right.”
Momentarily dismissing from his mind the man he had every reason to hate, Philippe turned to more pressing matters. He removed his jacket, and using a letter opener he found on the desk, carefully ripped open the seam, extracting a slim packet wrapped in oilskin. Only the hiss of air escaping from Henri Giscard’s lungs invaded the silence in the room.
“You encountered no trouble, then?” Henri asked, casting a furtive glance around the small cabin.
“None at all. The document was delivered to me by a messenger at my hotel in the guise of an innocuous-looking missive from a nonexistent aunt. As far as I know. you and I are the only ones aware of its importance, besides the agent working for the American government.”
“And if others were to find out?”
“They would not hesitate to do whatever is necessary to prevent it from reaching its destination.”
“Mon dieu,” cursed Henri, breaking out into a sweat born of fear.
“I have memorized the contents and I want you to do the same. In case something should happen to these papers, one of us will be able to deliver the message orally.” Philippe’s voice grew ominous. “And if something unforeseen should befall one of us, the other is duty bound to see the mission to its conclusion. I suggest you memorize the contents immediately, then put the packet in the safe.”
What Henri didn’t know was that Philippe intended to retrieve the document from the safe before morning and return it to his own cabin. If there should happen to be a spy aboard the Windward, the first place he would look would be the safe. And Philippe fully intended for the document to reach the Americans safely.
As Philippe walked back to his cabin, his mind kept returning to Marcel Duvall and his unwelcome appearance at Brest just hours before he and Gabby entered the city themselves. It seemed too well timed to be a coincidence.
Gabby was sleeping soundly, wrapped in the brown cocoon of her travelel-worn dress when Philippe let himself quietly into the cabin. An untouched tray of food lay on the table. He lit a lamp and studied the tear stained face of his young bride. She was like a child, a beautiful, innocent child, yet nevertheless a very desirable woman. Somewhere
deep in his heart he felt a tug but failed to recognize it for what it was. He only knew that he desired her as a man desires a woman. He had no thoughts of Cecily, or even of Amalie as his eyes swept over her sleeping form. He shook his head as it to clear his mind of arousing thoughts, staring a few moments more at her peaceful face before dousing the lamp and creeping softly from the room to spend the remainder of the night under the stars while his wife slept in her virginal bed a state of affairs he intended to remedy soon.
Gabby awakened the next morning confused and disoriented. Slowly she became aware of a gentle rocking motion. At the same time, she heard the creaking’s of the ship and rattling of the helm wheel chains and remembered that she was on a ship bound for Martinique accompanied by her husband. Her husband! Hesitantly, she reached a hand out beside her and was relieved to find herself alone in the bed and fully clothed. Philippe had chosen to sleep elsewhere! Dared she hope he would continue to do so?
She raised her stiff body to a sitting position and stretched, working out the cramps caused in part by the arduous journey and in part from being laced into a tight corset for days on end. She eyed the rumpled, sweat-stained dress she still wore with distaste, longing for a hot bath.
A noise drew her attention to the door and she was surprised to see Philippe lounging in the doorway. “Good morning, ma chere,” he greeted gaily as he appraised her disheveled appearance with raised eyebrows. “I hope you slept well. Does the ship’s motion upset you?”
“No, Monsieur… I mean Philippe,” she corrected hastily as she rubbed the place where his fingers had bruised her flesh the night before. “I find the motion most soothing.”
Philippe moved aside and two men entered carrying a large tin tub into the cabin followed by two others bearing buckets of hot water. Gabby was speechless. Though Philippe had gone out of his way to remain cool and aloof toward her, he still thought of her comfort. She watched with trepidation as he approached her once they were alone, his eyes clouded with a strange, smoky haze.
