Sinclair watched her for a long, silent moment before asking abruptly, “When did he die?”
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
“Oh, umm, well…Christmas, yes…poor dear…umm, Francois died at Christmastime.”
Brazos pinned her with a shrewd, measuring look. “You running from somebody, lady?”
Madeline’s heart thumped, and her hands grew clammy. “No,” she denied, a little too quickly.
He lifted an eyebrow.
“I’m not. Truly. I …” As she fought for a believable explanation, the solution burst across her mind. She beamed up at him. “I’m running to someone.”
“Who?”
“Rose’s father.”
“You do have a husband?”
Madeline gazed out over the water. “Well, actually no, I don’t.” She straightened her back and leveled an unapologetic look on the Texan. “I couldn’t very well marry you then, could I?”
“Lady, I wouldn’t put anything past you at this point.” Brazos sat on the bench beside her, leaned back, and crossed his arms and legs. “So your…lover is in Texas?”
Madeline nodded. She knew this story by heart, the plot straight from a novel she’d found hidden away at Château St. Germaine. For once her shameful secret of a preference for romantic fiction over more literary works served her well. “Yes, we’d planned to travel together but there was a little matter that forced him to leave without me, given that I was in a family way.”
She clasped her hands to her breast and sighed. “Oh, how he hated to leave me! But he’s there, in a town called Galveston, waiting for me even as we speak. So you see, Mr. Sinclair, all you need do is wed me for the voyage, and then as soon as we reach Texas, you can annul the marriage, you go your way, and I to my beloved Emile.”
He lifted a skeptical brow. “And what caused this paragon to abandon you, pregnant and unmarried in France, while he hightailed it to Texas?”
Madeline closed her eyes and smiled. This had been a heartbreaking twist in the novel’s plot. “A duel—he wounded a powerful man in a duel.
“A powerful man?”
“My fiancé, Denis.”
“By God, lady!” Sinclair exclaimed, sitting up straight and shaking his head. “You’ve got more males after you than a mare in season. I doubt I’d be doing myself much of a favor by getting mixed up with the likes of you.”
Her eyes widened with alarm. “No, no, no. That’s all over now. You must marry me, Mr. Sinclair. For both our sakes.”
Frowning thoughtfully, he slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a leather ball. Tossing it repeatedly into the air, he said, “Just for the sake of argument here, why do you think we need to marry? Why don’t we just tell ol’ Considérant we’re sharing space?”
“That wouldn’t get either one of us aboard the Uriel. Believe me, sir, I’ve considered all the possibilities. Marriage is the only way.”
“Nah, it wouldn’t work,” Brazos said, shaking his head. “It’d be just my luck to get leg-shackled and still have Considérant refuse to let me aboard that boat.”
“He couldn’t do that,” Madeline stressed, placing her hand on his knee to emphasize her point. “Don’t you see, he’s testing the bounds of his power as it is. My lack of a husband was his lone justification for denying me my place among the colonists. As long as I provide the husband—along with marriage papers to prove my point—he could not in good faith refuse to allow us to join them.”
Sinclair lifted his gaze from where her hand rested on his thigh, and Madeline recognized the gleam in his eye. She snatched her hand back. He said, “Don’t you worry about your reputation? What do you think the other colonists will say when you show up with a brand-new husband so soon after burying the old?”
“Mr. Sinclair, La Réunion will be a colony based upon the philosophy of Charles Fourier. The Phalansterians are freethinkers, libertarians. They won’t—“
His brows lifted in shock, he interrupted, “Phallus what?”
Madeline sighed disgustedly. “Phalansterians. It’s another name for the followers of Fourier. Although this particular colony has voted to retain the institution of marriage, they won’t think ill of me for using the tradition to suit my needs. Besides, it will be a simple marriage of convenience. Everyone will accept that.”
“No marriage is ever convenient,” he absently observed as he tossed his ball and considered her argument. “Freethinkers, huh? And these folks are moving to Texas?” His shoulders shook with a silent chuckle. “Hell, it’d almost be worth getting hitched just to be around to watch.”
“Well?” she asked.
“What about once we reach Galveston? What’s your lover gonna have to say about you tagging a husband along from home?”
“Oh,” Madeline said, waving a hand, “I’m sure we will work around that when the time comes. We’ll obtain an immediate annulment; then you can conveniently disappear.”
“Conveniently disappear,” he echoed as he studied the woman at his side and attempted to see past the beauty of her face into her mind. All right, so maybe he was a bit disappointed in her story. A virtuous widow was much more appealing than a promiscuous miss, but what else could you expect from these Europeans?
Still, her idea did have merit, and at this point, he’d do damn near anything to get aboard the Uriel. Sleeping with a beauty like Madeline Christophe was a helluva lot better way to cross the Atlantic than hiding in the ship’s hold. Except she wasn’t actually proposing to sleep with him, was she?
“Annulment, huh?” he asked. “Based on what grounds?”
The woman’s spine went stiff as a fence post as she replied, “Nonconsummation, of course.”
“Of course.” It would have to be that way. Brazos recognized that if he agreed to her proposal, procuring an annulment the moment they reached Texas would be a necessity. Not only was he unwilling to get stuck with a light-skirt for a wife, he couldn’t afford to waste any time before trying to help Juanita and the kids. Too, there was no telling what Salezan might do were he to learn that Brazos had taken a wife.
That could be dangerous for them all, Madeline Christophe included.
Still, a little company on the voyage home sounded nice. Who are you trying to fool? his inner voice scorned. Brazos scowled and dropped his ball. He couldn’t spend his nights in the woman’s private cabin even if she’d let him.
Brazos couldn’t bear to go below a ship’s deck.
Madeline cleared her throat nervously before saying, “The staterooms aboard the Uriel have but a single bunk. I’m certain we could secure enough bedding, however, to make a comfortable pallet for you on the floor.”
Sitting up, he eyed Madeline Christophe, and in a dry tone of voice said, “You are too kind.” He returned his leather ball to his pocket and withdrew another peppermint stick. This time he didn’t bother to offer one to Madeline. He took a few thoughtful licks and considered her proposition. Then he said, “Your story has more holes in it than Sam Houston’s socks, woman. While I can see how this marriage idea might work, I want it clear from the git go that I won’t hold to your getting any more ideas along the way to Texas. You needn’t worry about any pallet. I prefer sleeping on deck when I sail.”
He ignored her incredulous look and continued, “If I choose to take you up on your offer, you can damn well be assured that the minute I step off the boat, I’ll see to securing an annulment. In fact, I know of a law firm in Galveston that’d take care of our business as fast as small-town gossip.” He chuckled softly and added, “The attorneys at Melbourne P. King and Associates would certainly get a kick out of doing so, too.”
“Mr. Sinclair,” Madeline said, her smile stiff and her hands clasped tightly in her lap, “rest assured that I’ll not do anything to interfere with the securing of an annulment at first opportunity. You are the last man I’d wish to keep as husband and father to my child.”
“And you can feel certain I wouldn’t wish a mother lik
e you on any of my children, either.” On that note, Brazos finished his candy, licked the stickiness from his fingers, and stood. One corner of his mouth lifting in a wry grin, Brazos Sinclair took Madeline Christophe’s hand and placed a honeyed kiss to her palm. In French, the very last time he intended to use that particular language, he said, “Mademoiselle Madeline, I accept your proposal.”
He pulled her to her feet. “Come on, Beauty. Let’s find us a preacher and get hitched.”
MADELINE AND Brazos stood at the base of the church steps, each wearing a frown of doubt as they gazed up toward the broad oaken doors.
“Catholic? Are you certain?” Madeline asked.
“Not in the least,” he replied. “But this is what the men in the tavern recommended. Supposedly this monsignor fellow, Father Pearson, needs money something fierce. He’s building a children’s home and is willing to do just about anything to get some coin. They said of all the preachers in town, he’d be the most likely to do the deed under the circumstances.”
Madeline’s stomach felt as heavy as one of the gray granite blocks that formed the walls of the church and adjoining rectory. Sacrilege, nothing less. Oh, Lord, forgive me, she thought, and climbed the first step.
Brazos grabbed her elbow, saying, “Wait a minute. Before we go through with this, I need to know something. Are the rules any different here than at home?”
“Rules?”
“Marriage rules. There are no European knots that a Texan couldn’t untie, are there?”
She sighed. “Mr. Sinclair, surely the requirements for the granting of an annulment are universal. Besides, I have no doubt there are corrupt officials to be found in Texas just as there are here. And if but one such man exists, certainly you could find him.”
“Fair enough,” he said, grinning. He took her arm and escorted her to the rectory’s front door.
Minutes, and a substantial bribe, later, Madeline and Brazos stood before the altar. The afternoon sun beamed through the windows as stained-glass saints watched over the proceedings, the blues and greens and oranges of their robes casting rainbows upon the priest, the groom, and the bride. Madeline looked down. Her pale pink dress glowed bright red. A hysterical giggle threatened to burst from within her.
How inappropriate, she thought. A scarlet dress as she knelt at her wedding. For though she was known to the man-to-be-her-husband as a fallen woman, she wore the color of the wrong sin. Is it black, I wonder, falsehood’s hue? A giggle did escape her then. I come to him virgin but far from pure.
Brazos watched her, scowling, while the monsignor approached. The effort of finding the church and the not-so-good prelate, Father Pearson, had left him grumpier with each inquiry. As terrible as was his French, his Flemish had been barely recognizable. Madeline’s innocent offer of help had led to nothing short of a little boy’s frustrated tantrum, during which he’d claimed the ability to read three languages and had proven his mastery of Spanish—a litany of curses and distasteful sexual phrases.
“You may kneel.” The priest made the sign of the cross above their heads and said, “In Domu Dei iniuriam hanc Emendare vinimus.”
“Hold it a dad-blamed minute,” Brazos snapped.
He’s changed his mind, Madeline thought. He won’t go through with it. I never should have told Father Pearson that we’d made a child together. I could tell that made Sinclair mad. Mary Smithwick, you’re a fool!
Brazos’s slow drawl brimmed with annoyance. “No Latin, Padre. I’ve had enough foreign words for a lifetime. In fact, I’ve had all the foreign food and foreign drink and foreign land and foreigners that I can stomach. Make these words to where I can understand ‘em. English, this time, if you please.”
The priest’s expression tightened. He cleared his throat and began again, “In the Lord’s house we gather to correct this wrong. Do you, Brazos Sinclair take this foreign woman to wife?”
“Oh, dear Lord!”
CHTEAU ST. GERMAINE, FRANCE
WARILY, THE secretary, William, knocked on the library door. The master had just returned from his afternoon ride. “Enter,” a crisp, authoritative voice called.
Julian Desseau stood before the hearth, staring into the crackling fire, one hand holding a snifter of brandy, the other fingering a blue porcelain vase atop the marble mantle. He did not look up. “Well?”
The servant wiped wet palms upon his trousers. “A message has arrived from Paris, Monsieur.”
Slowly, Desseau turned his head and pinned the servant with his gaze. The fire in his dark eyes could have been a reflection from the hearth, but it was not. Wings of gray at his temples, an unholy arch of thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrows, and the vermillion flash of his cape’s satin lining created a vision of Lucifer himself. “And?” he asked softly.
After a deep breath, William replied, “Nothing. The Bureau of Wet-Nurses shows no record of a woman fitting Mistress Smithwick’s description requesting either placement of an infant or hiring of a private nurse.”
“Doctors?”
“Investigation of leads on three suspects led nowhere.”
The tick of a wall clock echoed through the silence in the room. Desseau returned his gaze to the fire. When he spoke, his voice grated with menace. “And the jewels?”
“None have been offered for sale in any shop in France. Your man continues to investigate the less legitimate methods of disposal for such valuable pieces.”
Desseau’s jaw hardened, and he shut his eyes. Grasping the vase on the mantle, he lifted it, held it motionless in his hand, then whirled and threw it violently against the opposite wall. “Damn the woman!” he shouted. His fingers wrenched at the fastening on his cape, and he threw it from his shoulders. Then he sank into the black leather chair that sat before the hearth and folded his hands, thumping his chin with his fist as he thought.
“You know, I rather liked Mary Smithwick,” he said after a time, more to himself than to the servant, who scurried to retrieve the cloak, then retreated to the doorway. “She had a way about her, a wounded air that awakened all my protective instincts. Who would have guessed that beneath that beauty, that vulnerable façade, lurked an evil quite brazen? I wonder how many other men she has duped in her young life.”
He sighed and lifted the brass poker from its stand beside the chain. Stirring the fire, he mused, “I shall have to ask her before I kill her.”
Chapter 3
THE WIND BLEW HALF a gale, and the seas ran high as Madeline strolled the ship’s deck, nodding and greeting other colonists, thankful to rejoin the living. The mal de mer that had plagued her since their departure from Antwerp almost a week ago had finally subsided, and though the Uriel continued to roll and pitch, her stomach was steady as she lifted her face into a chilly spray and mused, “Perhaps I shall live after all.”
Over the course of her illness, Madeline had discovered a great truth. The moralists and philosophers of the age who claimed that a well-regulated mind was essential to happiness were mistaken. After days of nausea, dizziness, and retching, she could unequivocally swear that state of mind and temper depended almost entirely on the condition of one’s digestive organs. For a time there, she’d wished for death.
That’s when she’d first realized she’d overlooked a potentially serious problem. People died at sea all the time. Illness and disease abounded. Accidents happened. And what about after the Uriel reached America? She’d read James Fenimore Cooper; she could be scalped by a marauding Indian, for goodness’ sake. These unpleasant possibilities led to the question she’d never before thought to ask. If something unfortunate happened to her, what would happen to Rose?
The worry had become a full-blown fear after the mishap yesterday afternoon. As accidents go, Madeline’s had been minor. It had been foolish of her to leave her stateroom when the seas were so high, but in her muddled state she’d thought a bit of fresh air might help settle her stomach. A high green wave had lunged over the deck, swept her off her feet, and deposited her in the Uriel’s
lee scuppers, half drowned, bruised, and miserable. She’d been lucky not to go overboard.
The frigid seawater had shocked Madeline to her senses, and before she’d climbed to her feet, she’d realized that making provisions for Rose was imperative. An even more frightful thought had occurred to her. As far as anyone aboard the Uriel knew, after herself, Rose’s next of kin was none other than Brazos Sinclair.
Madeline believed she shivered from the cold, but she couldn’t be certain. Brazos Sinclair as Rose’s father? Absolutely not! She’d decided then and there to immediately investigate the possibilities of arranging guardianship for the baby.
Over the long night, between bouts of sickness, Madeline debated her options. Although she did consider one or two of the other La Réunion families, the Brunets were the obvious choice.
Madeline worried whether it would be fair to ask Lillibet to accept the responsibility of another child when her own required so much care. Agreeing to wet-nurse Rose was different from agreeing to assume the obligation for the girl for a lifetime. Plus, Madeline fretted about André. He made no apology for his obvious preference for boys over girls. What kind of father would he make little Rose?
Unbidden, the vision of a tall, blue-eyed Texan flashed through her mind. Absolutely not! she told herself again.
Finally, Madeline slept, and after awakening the next morning feeling almost human again, she ventured on deck. The exercise cleared her mind and helped her to think. At the ship’s railing, she paused. Gazing across the water toward the storm building on the western horizon, she made her decision. “I’ll talk to Lil,” she said aloud. She would suggest a temporary agreement until the colonists reached Texas and Madeline could find a more permanent solution. In the meantime, she’d simply have to do her best to stay out of harm’s way.
With that question settled, Madeline focused her attention on the ocean. The power of the sea excited her and she watched with awe the demonstration of man’s attempt to bend nature’s will to his own. As the timber strained and wind whistled through the rigging, Madeline marveled that man possessed both the skill and the courage to harness such unstable elements. She turned her face into the breeze.
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