Tender Fury

by Connie Mason

  “What happens when we return to Martinique?” Gabby asked, swallowing the nausea rising in her throat.

  “Nothing will have changed,” assured Philippe smoothly.

  “And Amalie? Will she share your favors?”

  Philippe’s face darkened; Gabby quailed inwardly, only too aware of his foul temper. “What I do with Amalie is no concern of yours,” he thundered.

  “Then I wish you joy of her,” Gabby ground out bitterly. “She might give you a bastard but only I can give you an heir.” For a brief moment she considered telling Philippe about the night Amalie had her taken from her bed to the altar of Damballa, but quickly discarded the idea, realizing that given his frame of mind Philippe would not believe her. Sighing wretchedly she turned away from him.

  But Philippe was not ready to allow her respite. Gathering her against his hard chest and thighs he began to explore her body with a cold, methodical passion that left her chilled to the bone. Steeling herself against the sensations that his icy fingers evoked, Gabby was able to remain aloof while he took brutal pleasure from her ravaged flesh. Later, she was to wonder at the tenderness in his voice when he called out her name at the moment ecstasy washed over him.

  Once he was sated, Philippe Startled Gabby by abruptly rising and dressing swiftly, as if he could hardly wait to be rid of her. She had no way of knowing that he was shocked and dismayed by his inability to hold his emotions in check. He was moved more than he cared to admit by her facade of fragile vulnerability. Steeling himself against the conflicting turmoil raging within him, he stomped from the cabin, gathering up all of Gabby’s clothes along the way and taking them with him. The click of the lock grated loudly in Gabby’s ears.

  Gabby seethed with rage. She had been debased and degraded. It galled her to think that she would be used as nothing more than a sexual convenience! During the next days Philippe returned periodically to bring her meals and use her whenever the urge was upon him, informing her that she was being held captive because he could not trust her. Once at sea she would be allowed free use of the deck and be given her clothes back… but only if she behaved and promised not to entertain the crew with outbursts of hysterics. During Philippe’s so-called amorous attacks Gabby remained beyond arousal, but her continued resistance only made her all the more desirable in his eyes. Her bitter words and cold body tended to make him use her more savagely than he intended and often he left her angrier at himself than at her.

  Gabby watched morosely from the porthole as the Windward entered the Gulf of Mexico, shivering despite the blanket wrapped around her bruised body. Philippe still had not given her her clothes back and the cold air bit deeply into her bones. She wondered why he didn’t just give up on her and let her go. Surely, somewhere in this world, there was a woman more to his liking, one submissive enough to please him.

  With grim determination Philippe set out to break Gabby’s will, but for some unknown reason he could not bring himself to cast her aside. Whenever he gazed into her defiant violet eyes he was torn apart. At times he desired nothing more than to take her into his arms and smother her with tenderness and love. And then there were times when her unresponsive, cold body and sassy words sent him into a rage. But willing or not, he was determined to have her. At this point, responsive or passive made little different to him. Never again would he allow himself to think of her as anything but a vessel for his lust. Never again would he lay bare his soul before a woman or give his heart in trust.

  Because Gabby exhibited no signs of becoming submissive. Philippe continued to withhold her clothing as punishment. He hoped the humiliation and degradation he had subjected her to would soon have her begging, but he was mistaken. Gabby grew sullen and withdrawn. As much as Philippe hated to admit it, he sorely missed Gabby’s passion, her sweet response to his lovemaking. His forceful ways left her bruised but otherwise undaunted, causing Philippe to rethink his tactics. Perhaps there was an easier way to tame her; a way that would be more to her liking but still not cost him his mastery over her.

  Just before the Windward put into Charleston Gabby was given her clothing back and told she could go wherever she pleased on deck. She eyed Philippe warily but wasted no time in dressing, regaining once more some shred of dignity. Although Philippe preferred her nude, he gallantly placed her cloak about her small shoulders before opening the door so she could proceed him out into the brisk air.

  It seemed like ages since Gabby had walked about freely and she breathed deeply of the salt-laden air, feeling like one just let out of prison. Philippe could not help but smile at her obvious delight at being free again. For a brief moment the breath caught in his throat at the enchanting picture she made with the wind ruffling her silvery hair and whipping her skirts about her slim legs. At that moment Philippe wanted her more than he ever had before!

  Without preliminary, Philippe grasped Gabby’s elbow and forced her toward their cabin. Though clearly disappointed with her brief sojourn on deck, Gabby did not protest. Once inside, Philippe was startled by the first genuine warmth she had afforded him since he had forced her to accompany him aboard the Windward.

  “Merci, Philippe,” she smiled shyly. “I hope the next time I might remain on deck longer.”

  Hardening his heart against her feminine wiles, he ordered brusquely, “Take off your clothes!”

  “What!”

  “You heard me!”

  “But why? You have just given them back to me,” Gabby wailed in protest. “What have I done?”

  “You have done nothing and you shall have your clothes back soon,” Philippe promised, his eyes suddenly smoky with desire. There was no way Gabby could misconstrue his intention. His avid expression and hardening body told her he would have his way with or without her cooperation. And she did want her clothes back. With a wistful sigh, she removed her clothes, folded them neatly and placed them on a chair. By the time she finished, Philippe was disrobed, and she found herself gathered up in strong arms and deposited on the bed. She stiffened in resistance, but remembering how good it felt to be decently dressed and have a measure of freedom, relaxed within the circle of his arms, allowing his slow arousal of her body to take her back to the time when his lips and hands had been guided by love. Even now he had the ability to drive her wild with passion, and this time, in spite of his own rising ardor he took special care to satisfy her before succumbing to his own ecstasy. His entry was so gentle that Gabby, despite herself, gasped in delight, drawing him deep within her.

  “ Mon dieu, you are a witch!” he groaned, lost in a sea of desire.

  For a brief eternity nothing else mattered to Gabby but the man transporting her to the brink of bliss. There was no Amalie, no Marcel, nothing but an exploding world where only Philippe had the power to take her. As the last burst of pleasure convulsed her she smiled up at Philippe only to have the smile freeze on her face when she saw his sardonic grin and self-satisfied curl to his lips.

  “That was more like it, ma chere,” he grinned, his hands lightly caressing her stomach. “I knew you could not resist forever. I am well aware of what that enticing body is capable of, for I taught you well. I hope that others after me appreciated my efforts,” he taunted cruelly.

  Gabby gasped, white dots of rage exploding behind her eyes, and before he could stop her Philippe felt the full imprint of her hand upon his face. Reflexively, he struck back, his own huge hand inflicting more damage than Gabby’s smaller one.

  Gabby’s head reeled and blood filled her mouth as her stricken eyes sought Philippe’s in numb disbelief. She willed back the tears but could not keep the pain from her face. Shocked by what he had done, Philippe jumped from the bed, moistened a towel in the water pitcher and gently wiped the blood from her mouth, his anger melted in remorseful apology, even though he could not voice it verbally. Then he cradled her in his arms, crooning softly until she fell asleep, sobbing softly into his chest.

  Not only did Gabby have her clothes back but she was given the run of the ship.
Since Philippe had struck her he had not attempted to take her again, except during the long hours of night when they shared the bed. Then, under the cover of darkness, he took his fill of her, sometimes with great tenderness, sometimes savagely, but always in silence. Gabby’s body automatically responded even though her mind rebelled at the way he used her.

  To Gabby’s great surprise Philippe took her ashore at Charleston and showed her the sights in a rented gig. Although the day was cool, the wintry sun shone brightly and she enjoyed the outing immensely. The shops were filled with merchandise in anticipation of Christmas, which was a week away, and Gabby was saddened to think of the bleak holiday that awaited her aboard the Windward.

  After Gabby had provoked Philippe into striking her he had tried to restrain his passion for her but whenever he pictured in his mind her lush body and huge violet eyes bright with desire he was driven by a power greater than his own weak will. For some unexplained reason she was as necessary to him as food and drink, more like a sickness in his blood. It would seem that after the pain she had caused him he would want nothing more to do with her, yet he clung to her, unwilling to relinquish her to another. Gabby was his; never again would another man put his brand upon her. He was determined to use her, debase her, even, until she no longer had a will of her own. Only then would he take her back to Bellefontaine.

  Christmas came and went without fanfare. Philippe had turned a deaf car to Gabby’s pleas to be taken ashore again. She wanted to buy a small crochet , something to remind her of the meaning of Christmas no matter how empty the day would be. A light snow had fallen the night before and Gabby longed to trod upon the fresh, white ground. But Philippe went ashore alone after taking away Gabby’s clothes once again. He expected to be gone the entire day making arrangements for a cargo of cotton and tobacco and did not trust her in his absence… not even under lock and key. He had thoughtfully provided a small stove for warmth and enough blankets to wrap herself in.

  “Why do you continue to humiliate me, Philippe?” she had asked before he left. “If you hate me so why do you keep me with you?”

  “I will never let you go, Gabby,” he said with controlled emotion. “You are mine. No other man shall have you again.” Then he was out the door before he could see tears of bewilderment and anguish gather in her eyes.

  As the day lengthened, Gabby’s stomach rumbled as delicious odors of food from the galley wafted into the cabin. With each passing hour it became increasingly evident that Philippe had forgotten to order food for her and she railed at his neglect, especially on Christmas Day. Darkness fell, and even the meager supply of wood for the stove ran out. Gabby crawled into bed in an effort to keep from freezing. She fell asleep, but not before vowing anew the promise she made to herself to leave Philippe at the first opportunity.

  It was nearly dawn when Philippe returned but Gabby was sleeping so deeply she did not hear him moving somewhat unsteadily about the cabin, cursing softly when he stumbled into the furniture. It was some time before he slid into bed, soaking up her warmth as he pulled her roughly against him. The sudden contact of her warmth against his chilled body brought her startlingly awake. The strong smell of whiskey assaulted her senses, and then she caught a whiff of musky perfume. She struggled against him but was no match for his superior strength.

  “Want you,” he muttered unevenly as his hands fumbled at her breasts.

  “You’re drunk!” she accused. “And… and you’ve been with another woman!”

  “Need you,” Philippe insisted drunkenly.

  “Go back to where you came from!” Gabby spat venomously.

  “Want only you,” he muttered, easing his muscular frame atop her smaller one. “Love me, Gabby. Show me what makes men so eager for you.”

  “You disgust me, Philippe!”

  “Ah, but I can’t seem to get enough of you.” As if to prove his words he entered her roughly, causing Gabby to utter a cry of pain before going limp, holding herself aloof from his drunken onslaught. Finally, he was finished, and Gabby breathed deeply when his weight shifted from her. Almost immediately he was asleep. Not so Gabby who lay awake a long time, her body curled up in a tight ball.

  Even though Philippe had little sleep the night before he was the first to awaken. Gabby was turned toward him, her soft breath fanning his check. His heart skipped a beat and he wondered at his ability to treat her as he did. He studied her face intently. It was an extraordinary face, both arresting and provocative, with a sweetness and purity that belied her true nature. Cursing, he left the warm bed, quickly dressed and let himself out of the cabin after a fleeting glance around the room to check on his preparations of the night before.

  Gabby awoke slowly, stretching her arms and legs lazily. Instinctively she reached for Philippe and opened her eyes when her hands failed to meet with warm flesh. She sat up and her violet eyes grew round and big when she saw the crochet neatly arranged atop Philippe’s sea chest. Beside it sat a small box gaudily wrapped in bright paper and tied with a huge bow. Gabby slid from bed and moved to the crochet , picking up each tiny, hand-carved figure, marveling at the intricate work. Only after she had thoroughly examined the crochet did she allow herself to focus upon the box, touching it gingerly before taking it up, her hands shaking as she removed the wrappings. She treated it as if she expected something to jump out at her, but finally the cover fell away and Gabby gasped in stunned shock at the contents. Nestled in a cocoon of soft cotton lay a pair of amethyst earrings the exact shade of her eyes. How could Philippe use her so foully and still care enough to buy her such an expensive gift? Never would she understand the strange man she had married. Conflicting emotions warred within her. Everything about Philippe was a contradiction. He had only to touch her to send her to soaring ecstasy… or to the depths of Hell.

  An insistent knocking on the door interrupted her reverie. Absently she called. “Who is it?”

  “Seaman Laville, Madame St. Cyr,” announced the man standing at the other side of the door. “May I come in? Your husband ordered your trunk of clothing brought to the cabin.”

  “Come in,” called Gabby, surprised when the door opened without benefit of key. Had Philippe forgotten to lock her in? she wondered uneasily. What kind of game was he playing now?

  If Seaman Laville thought it odd that Gabby stood clothed in nothing but a rough blanket he gave no hint of it. Neither did the two sailors who carried her trunk. Placing the trunk at the end of the bed and wishing her a Merry Christmas, they left, carefully closing the door behind them. Though Gabby strained her ears she heard no telltale click suggesting she had been locked in again.

  With a cry of joy Gabby fell upon the trunk and found that all the clothing she had brought from Martinique was still inside. Discarding some of the lightweight dresses inappropriate to northern climate; she chose a medium weight wool in a becoming shade of mauve. Selecting lace trimmed undergarments and mauve slippers to match the dress, she set them aside while she washed in the icy water from the pitcher on the wash stand. After dressing quickly in the chill air, she took up her silver brush and began to work out the tangles in her pale hair until it was smooth and shiny. As a final touch she fastened the amethyst earrings in her ears. She had finished none too soon for Philippe entered at that moment bearing a large tray. The delicious odors wafting from beneath the linen cloth covering the tray set her mouth to watering.

  “Very becoming,” Philippe murmured, his brittle gaze sweeping over her lush curves, “but I like you just as well without clothing.” Then his eyes caught the glitter at her earlobes.

  Seeing the direction of his stare, Gabby’s hands automatically flew to her ears. “ Merci, Philippe, they are exquisite.” His face softened for a brief moment before his usual mask of indifference hooded his features. “And the crochet , I love it. But I have nothing to give you in return.”

  “Christmas should be a time of joy no matter what one has done,” he muttered with obvious embarrassment. Then taking her hand he led he
r to the table where he carefully laid out the festive breakfast, urging her to eat while it was still hot.

  Gabby attacked the food almost greedily and Philippe had time to ponder the reasoning behind his generosity as he watched her eat, his eyes never wavering from her face. He very nearly hadn’t returned to the ship at all last night. With business at an end he had tried to take his leave of Gordon Blake, the man he had been dealing with for tobacco. But Blake had insisted on bringing Philippe to his home for Christmas dinner. There was no way Philippe could gracefully refuse so he had reluctantly agreed to join Blake and his family in their sumptuous home for a late supper. In addition to Blake and his wife were the couple’s two sons and their wives, and their lovely, black-eyed daughter named Lee Ann whose thinly veiled, flirtatious glances were directed at Philippe all evening. Later he had allowed himself to be persuaded to spend the night with the Blakes, the gleam in Lee Ann’s eyes promising more than a good night’s rest.

  Once in his room, Philippe had undressed, climbed between the sheets and immediately fallen into a drunken sleep, the amount of brandy he had consumed during the course of the evening having made him more than a little tipsy. He had awakened confused and befuddled, disturbed by the rustle of clothing. He struggled to rise from his stupor but his spinning head made him drop back heavily against the pillow. A smooth, silken body came into his arms and involuntarily his hands reached out to draw Lee Ann’s supple, willing flesh urgently against his hardening body.

  She moaned, and he sought her lips, all vestige of drunkenness vanished as they parted beneath the pressure, becoming pliant, then demanding. Her hands found and grasped his member, leaving no mistake about her intent. She became like a wildcat, scratching, biting, and devouring him with her lips and her body. But even as his flesh responded to her his thoughts strayed to Gabby, held captive in a tiny room by now grown cold and bleak, her loneliness and despair the result of his senseless abuse.