by Leann Harris
Of course he’d ask why it bothered her, and she wasn’t going to answer him.
He turned and looked at her. “Anything wrong?”
“No,” she quickly replied. Ignoring her nervousness, she hurried to his side and sat. “What do you have there?” she asked, pointing to the fine silver chain and medal wrapped around his fingers.
“The Saint Christopher my mother gave me before I went to boarding school.” The utter sadness in his voice drew her to him, making her forget her earlier disquiet.
“You didn’t have it on last night.”
He raised his brow. “I didn’t have on a lot of things. I was in a hurry.”
Her cheeks turned hot pink as she visualized what else he’d forgotten to put on. “Did it protect you when you traveled?” Because he gave her such an odd look, she hurried to explain herself. “I mean since Saint Christopher is the patron saint of travelers, I wondered if it had worked.”
His fingers closed around the medal. “Yeah, I guess so. I never had an accident going to or coming from school.” He opened his hand and let the disk hang free. “Too bad he couldn’t help once I was there.”
She wanted to reach out and touch him, but wisely kept her hands to herself. “Was it that bad?”
“A frozen hell.” He stared at the medal. “It was as if I were an alien from another planet. I could barely understand anything said. The boys at school made fun of how I talked, dressed, my ways of doing things. I learned quickly to conform, to bury who and what I was. But I blew it at the end of my first year. I had an argument with a pompous jerk and he called me a dumb Cajun. I beat him to a bloody pulp. Unfortunately, he had friends, and they took out his beating on my hide for years after.”
Angie’s heart ached for him. She knew what it felt like to be a foreigner in your own hometown. That was how she’d felt all her life. Oh, she’d lived up to everyone’s expectations, but at what price? She’d shut up part of herself and ignored it, because strong passions like hers were frowned upon. Things like swimming in the stream in the middle of the night, romping through the autumn leaves and singing at the top of her voice were thought inappropriate for a young woman of good breeding.
He looked at her. “You know what was really strange, chère?”
She shook her head, emotions clogging her throat, making it impossible to speak.
“It was as if I ceased to exist, those years. The place was too cold, the pace too fast, the world was either black or white. When I came home to Louisiana, something inside eased.” He lifted one tan shoulder. “Maybe it was the heat that thawed me. But I saw colors again, felt life curling around me, tasted again the Louisiana hot sauce on crawfish.”
His words echoed the feelings in her heart. She had finally found another human being who understood, who had experienced the same alienation from his environment that she had. Here, sitting beside her, was a kindred soul.
He grinned and turned to her. “Ah, Angeline, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” His fingers brushed away the moisture from her cheek. The medal tangled in his hand and fell against her neck. “I was just feeling sorry for myself.”
She tried to speak but couldn’t bring her chaotic thoughts into line. Wanting to share his sorrow and offer him comfort, she slipped her arms around him and brought her mouth to his.
He took the tender offering like a starving man. His lips ravaged hers, giving as much as he took. She met his wildness, wanting and needing the contact.
The burning heat of his body imprinted itself on her. It was heaven to feel his solid strength pressed against her. She ran her hands over the smooth skin of his back. Warm satin over steel. The perfection was ruined when her fingers came across a long scar just below his shoulder blade. She wanted to ask him about it, but his fingers untied the belt of her robe and pushed it from her shoulders.
Jean-Paul quickly undid the button running down the front of her nightgown. He pulled the straps down her arms and she felt the cool breeze on her breasts.
“You are so beautiful. Perfect.” His gaze burned brightly in the moonlight. His hand covered her breast. The stark contrast of his dark hand resting on her white skin was startling. Their gazes locked, and in the deepest part of her she felt Jean-Paul lay his claim on her. She was his. Gently, he pushed her down onto the deck.
His mouth replaced his hand and Angie cried out with the overwhelming joy of his touch. His tongue laved the nipple, then he raised his head and watched the soft wind make it pucker. Her fingers threaded through the dark strands of his hair, urging him back.
His hands cupped her head, brushing against the lump behind her ear. Pain shot through her brain and she groaned.
Jean-Paul stilled, his eyes searching hers. “Damn, what was I thinking?” he asked. “You’re in no condition to...”
He sat up and pulled her with him. He slid the gown’s straps back into place, then helped her with the robe. As she tied the belt, he unwrapped the chain from his hand and slipped it over Angie’s head. His fingers ran down the links to where the disk rested between her breasts.
“Go back to bed, Angel, before my nobility turns to ashes in the heat of my lust. Va-t’en.” When she didn’t move, he growled, “Go!”
She scrambled to her feet and headed for the door.
“Angeline.”
She stopped.
“Make no mistake about it, chère, you and I are meant to be lovers. Tonight wasn’t the right time. But soon it will happen.”
With a single glance back at him, she hurried to bed, knowing in her heart he was right.
* * *
“Jean-Paul, are you sure this is the right road?”
Angie peered out at the dense foliage snaking across the lane.
“According to Pierre, this is the right way.”
Angie fought the panic rising in her throat. “You mean to tell me you’ve never been out here before?”
“I told you that no one knows exactly where M’sieu Colton’s houseboat is located. All I know is that we take this road until it stops, then hopefully there will be a boat on this side of the bayou that we can use to ferry across.”
“What if there isn’t a boat?”
“You certainly got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, chère. Are you usually this grouchy in the morning? If you are, tell me, so I’ll know what to expect.”
From his words, Jean-Paul sounded as if he was planning on spending his mornings with her. And after what had happened between them the previous night, to be held in his strong arms through the night and be loved by him held infinite appeal to her. It was the very reason she was so crabby this morning. She hadn’t fallen asleep until the wee hours because her heart and body were longing for him.
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday this would be your first visit?”
Angie watched in amazement as he blushed.
“I didn’t mention it because I knew you would worry. But I promised you we’d come, and I’ve kept my promise.”
All her irritation with him evaporated. He was keeping a promise, no matter how bad it made him look. And a man who kept his promises in this day and age of lost personal honor was worth his weight in gold. And it was one more reason to trust him in every way.
Suddenly the bushes and trees thinned and she could see a forties-model car parked at the edge of the bayou.
“We’re at the right place,” Jean-Paul told her. “That is M’sieu Colton’s Buick.”
They got out of the truck and walked down to the water. There was no boat. Jean-Paul pointed to the pirogue tied to the houseboat on the other side.
“There’s M’sieu Colton’s house, chère. But I don’t think he’s wanting company. The welcome mat isn’t out.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Very funny. Maybe he wasn’t expecting company. Why don’t we call to him?”
He gave her a look that said he thought she was nuts. “Go ahead. Be my guest.”
She took a step closer to the water and cupped her hands aro
und her mouth. “M’sieu Colton. My name is Angeline Fitzgerald. I would like to speak to you.”
Silence answered her.
Jean-Paul leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Maybe he didn’t hear you.”
She wanted to punch him in that oh-so-clever mouth of his. “M’sieu Colton, I want to speak to you about my mother, Marianna Courville.”
A wizened old man with a shotgun appeared on the opposite bank next to the houseboat. Her eyes widened when she saw the gun.
“Jean-Paul, you keep that little girl there until I pole across and get you. You hear?” The command rang throughout the woods.
“Yes, sir. I hear.”
Angie glanced up at Jean-Paul. “Is that how he greets everyone?”
Jean-Paul grinned. “Can’t say. I’ve never known anyone who’s come out here.” He leaned close and murmured, “And lived to tell about it.”
She wanted to kick him. “You’re not funny.”
His smile didn’t fade.
They watched as M’sieu Colton placed his shotgun in the pirogue and poled across. For such a shrunken, little man, he had amazing agility.
“You’re seeing history, Angel,” Jean-Paul said. “That’s how everyone got around in these parts a hundred years ago. That old man could probably beat any of the young pups in this parish poling his pirogue.”
“You got that right,” the other man replied as he brought the tip of the boat to the shore. Before Jean-Paul could haul the pirogue onto the bank, M’sieu Colton stepped forward and hopped out onto the land. He laid the pole across the seat, next to his shotgun. Angie’s gaze remained on the weapon.
“I was out huntin’,” M’sieu Colton explained.
Angie flushed to the roots of her hair.
“Introduce me to the young and beautiful lady, Jean-Paul,” the old man ordered.
After introductions, M’sieu Colton leaned over Angie’s hand and kissed it. “My name, chère, is Henri.”
Jean-Paul made a strangled sound and Angie glanced at him. From his expression, she guessed this was the first time he’d ever heard M’sieu Colton’s given name.
“I can see why everyone in the parish is talking about you,” Henri said. “You cause even this heart to skip a beat. Me, when I saw you I thought I see an apparition. But, no, you are real. Who would’ve thought.” He shook his head and muttered something in Cajun French. “Come. We’ll talk on my houseboat.”
Henri went first, then helped Angie in. Jean-Paul followed. Gingerly she sat on the seat, afraid of rocking the flat-bottomed boat.
“This is safe, isn’t it?” She glanced up at Henri. “I mean, it won’t tip, will it?”
He laughed. “Non. My pirogue, she won’t tip. She’s the best.”
Angie eyed the cloudy water, wondering what lurked beneath the surface. Much to her relief, in less than five minutes they were standing on the deck of M’sieu Colton’s houseboat.
He ushered them inside and pointed to the table. “Sit, I’ll get us some tea to drink.” He disappeared into the small galley.
The furniture in the combined dining-and-living room was simple and well worn with time. A sketchbook lay open on the table, the drawing of a bird detailed with a careful hand.
The illustration drew Angie. She started to touch the magnificent work, then pulled her hand back, afraid she might smudge it. Jean-Paul stared down over her shoulder at the pad.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Jean-Paul?”
“Indeed. And a great surprise. I don’t think anyone knows of Henri’s talent.” He turned his head so his mouth was a breath away from her ear. “Maybe we’ve discovered what he does with his Tuesdays and Thursdays, instead of changing into a bat like some say.”
She wanted to elbow him, but resisted the temptation. “Do you know the name of this bird?”
Jean-Paul shook his head. “I studied law, not ornithology.”
“A compassionate and informative answer.” She turned the page and another wonderfully illustrated bird appeared.
“You like my drawings, yes?” Henri asked, setting three glasses of iced tea on the table.
“They are exceptional. I’ve seen some reproductions of Audubon’s original drawings. These are as good.” She glanced down at the page. “Are the birds local?”
“Yes.” He moved to a hutch, opened the bottom door and withdrew several more pads. Laying them on the table, he opened them for her inspection. “I’ve also drawn the plants and trees of the bayou, and the animals.”
Angie sank onto the kitchen chair, stunned by the research before her. This man had chronicled in painstaking detail the wildlife that claimed this land as its own.
She looked at Henri. “I don’t have words to tell you how marvelous these are. Have you ever shown them to anyone?”
The old man’s brow crinkled into a deep frown. “Why would I want to do such a thing? This I do for me.”
“Because, Henri, they are a living history of this place, precious knowledge that should be shared. I bet any university in this state would love to have them.” She leaned forward to emphasize her point. “They probably would even send students to you to teach them about the ecosystem of this bayou.”
“Bah,” he replied, but Angie saw a glitter of interest in his eyes.
“She knows what she’s talking about, M’sieu Colton,” Jean-Paul said. “She’s un prof d’Anglais at some university in Vermont.”
The old man shook his head and clicked his tongue. “A shame. And so beautiful a woman.”
Angie threw Jean-Paul an I’ll-get-you look, then turned back to the old man. “I have a friend who teaches biology, who would love to see your work.”
Henri perked up. “You’re fooling me, yes?”
“No. I’ll call her today and tell her about you. That is, if you’re agreeable to the idea.”
He leaned back and stroked his chin. “Let me think on this. Now, why are you here with me? You didn’t come to see my drawings. You mentioned something about Marianna.”
Angie realized that she’d been stalling, wishing she could forget the reason she’d come out here and talk of birds and flowers to this eccentric but delightful man all day. “Yes. I guess you’ve heard about what happened on Monday.”
He glanced at Jean-Paul.
“We need the truth, Henri,” Jean-Paul told him. “Angeline needs to hear the whole truth.”
“Yes, I heard. Claire, who works at the society, talked about nothing else this week. I would fire the busybody, but her papa gives much money to us.”
“Jean-Paul thinks my mother was murdered.”
Henri’s eyes widened. “Truly, Jean-Paul?”
“Yes, we think so. What we want to know is what Marianna was working on for the society.”
He shrugged. “A history of the parish. What else?”
Jean-Paul leaned back in his chair. “Did she mention running across anything unusual?”
“No.”
“Would you allow us to go through the things Marianna used?” Jean-Paul asked.
“Of course, and I can show you what she wrote, too.”
“Could we see it today?”
Henri looked at Jean-Paul as if he’d asked him to walk down the main street of Mirabeau stark naked. “No.”
“But—” The protest burst from Angie’s mouth.
Henri held up his hand. “This is Thursday. I have my reputation to think of. Besides, if I came into town today, Eleanor would have a stroke. The last time I came to town on a Tuesday, she pitched such a fit that I still haven’t heard the last of it.” He moved closer to Angie and whispered, “And I can’t let the old girl get the best of me.”
For a moment, Angie stared at him in stunned surprise, then she laughed. “Why, you old rascal. I think you like Miss Eleanor.”
Henri looked offended, but the corner of his mouth turned up.
* * *
Jean-Paul gripped the steering wheel and fixed his eyes on the road ahead. He didn’t know quite how to feel. Pol
eaxed most accurately described it. In one afternoon he’d learned M’sieu Colton’s given name, been inside his house and discovered he was a talented artist. Angeline had charmed more information out of the old man in the span of an hour than the rest of the people in the parish had done in almost seventy years. Jean-Paul bet there weren’t two other people in the entire state of Louisiana who knew what they knew about Henri.
“Can you imagine that?” Angie’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“What?” he groused.
“I think Henri has a crush on Miss Eleanor.”
Here was another thing that came as a shock. Was he that unobservant? Maybe that’s why Roger had been able to outmaneuver him. “On what evidence do you base this startling conclusion?”
“The sound of his voice when he talked about her, the way he tried to hide that mischievous smile of his. He was acting like a boy with his first crush.”
Jean-Paul grunted.
“I think Henri is shy. So shy, in fact, that he’s never been able to work up enough nerve to approach Miss Eleanor.”
“Henri. Henri.” His temper flared. “Why is it, chère, that he is always Henri? And me, I’m John-Paul?” He gave his name a noxious English pronunciation. “Can you answer me that?”
He knew he sounded childish, but it made him see red that she so willingly used the French pronunciation of the old man’s name. But she put him through hell before she said Jean-Paul.
He glanced at her and immediately regretted his outburst. She sat rigidly on the seat, her lips taut.
“He didn’t call me a liar when we first met.”
The dagger plunged into his heart. What was the matter with him, attacking her like that? “Your point is well taken.”
She mumbled something else.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
She turned her head and stared out the window. But he could have sworn she said, “I wasn’t attracted to him.”
