She could not resist, though not because of his request. There was an intent note in his voice she needed to decipher. Slowly, carefully, she lifted her lashes.
His gaze was dark, so dark. It spoke of deep nights and banked fires, of old pain and carefully constructed defenses. It constrained her in some mysterious way, threatening to consume her. She could sustain it no more than an instant before looking away again.
“Fascinating,” he said in bemused softness. “How did you come by such wanton Gypsy eyes?”
“I was born with them,” she said in compressed tones. The subject was a sore one; her stepmother often made such remarks. Besides, his interest made her uneasy.
“Of course you were, and I am well-served for asking,” he said at once. “You must forgive the personal remark, but I was so surprised.”
“In any case,” she went on quickly to fill the silence, “I am not a Gypsy. My great-grandmother was Indian, of the Natchez tribe.”
“That explains it, then. A wild child of nature rather than a wanton.”
“Hardly!” Her stare was suspicious. Most people considered Indian blood to be cause for concern if not scorn. She herself knew the Natchez to be a fine, proud race whose members were equal if not superior to the French with whom they had mingled their heritage. Still, she had learned to be careful of the reactions of others.
“I wonder.”
His comment was musing, yet freighted with rich layers of speculation. It required no answer, however, which was just as well since Anne-Marie had absolutely none to offer. They whirled gently for a few moments before he spoke again.
“You dance well. Actually, you are one of the most responsive women I’ve ever held in my arms. You follow my slightest turn without hesitation, and venture any complicated step I begin. I am tempted to wonder if such perfect grace of movement would translate to—places other than a ballroom floor.”
Lucien Roquelaire had substituted another phrase for the one he had intended, she thought. There had also been an undercurrent in his voice that made her suddenly aware of herself as a female, one in the arms of a male not her father or her late brother.
His hold was firm, with limitless support in its tensile strength. Their steps were perfectly matched, their bodies fitted together with exactitude. There was a sense of leashed power inside him that she responded to without conscious thought, making it easy to move with him to the music. Even through layers of petticoats and with the distancing of spring-steel hoops, she could sense the taut hardness of his muscular thighs shifting against her skirts.
She liked none of it.
Clenching her fingers on his shoulder, she gave him a slight push away from her. Voice tight, she answered, “I doubt it.”
He relinquished his hold somewhat. “So do I,” he said. “It seems a great pity.”
They said no more as the waltz swung to a gliding halt. Her partner released her, and then led her back to the chair behind the harp where he had found her. Inclining his head yet again, he walked away.
She watched him go, and sighed with relief. Or at least she tried to convince herself that was the feeling uppermost in her mind.
The evening advanced. Anne-Marie danced with her father, and also with Victor Picard, the son of her hostess, a somewhat pompous young man she had known since childhood. She spent a pleasant quarter hour in discussion with the parish priest who was of course in attendance; the two of them had a mutual interest in the novels of Dumas the Elder. Other than that, she remained alone in her nook, observing the kaleidoscope of movement and color.
Roquelaire, she noticed, became a part of a small group which included the most popular belles and beaus of the community. She had expected nothing less; it was doubtless his rightful place as long as he chose to remain in that section of the country.
The Dark Angel did not look her way again, which was precisely the way she wanted it. She cared not at all what he thought of her; why should she, when he was nothing to her or her to him? He would soon go back to New Orleans and his round of decadent amusements. And she would shed no tears.
She wished she could go home; she felt a headache coming on. It was caused, no doubt, by the tight braiding of her hair. There was no excuse that would permit her to leave, however. Her stepmother was addicted to dancing and would not think of departing until the last waltz was played.
The time crept past. The candles in the crystal and ormolu chandeliers overhead began to smoke and flutter on their sinking wicks. The number of couples on the floor became sparser as the dancers tired. Midnight supper was finally announced.
Anne-Marie was not at all hungry, yet the pretense of eating would give her something to do for a short while. Taking the plate that was filled for her by a manservant in lieu of an escort, she returned with it to her seat.
She ate a tiny buttered roll containing smoked ham, and then picked up a pastry puff filled with shrimp spread. She opened her mouth to take a small bite.
A scream rent the air. Shrill with terror and loathing, it was still ringing around the room as Anne-Marie swung around in a swirl of skirts. The woman who made the noise stood no more than ten feet away. Mouth open and eyes starting from their sockets, she was pointing a shaking finger toward the open French doors just in front of her.
In the darkness beyond the opening, a shadow moved. It shifted, shimmering in the dim light, then elongated and glided forward.
Anne-Marie saw the eyes first, feral gold and faintly reflective. Then the dark shape padded into view, moving silently through the doorway and onto the gleaming dance floor.
It stopped there, poised in terrible grace on its mirror image that shimmered in the polished parquet. Black and powerful and huge within the enclosed space of the room, it bared glistening white teeth as it growled in low distress. Its baleful and hungry stare swept the room.
It was a swamp panther.
The great black cat ignored the screamer, paid no attention to the sudden oaths and cries or the scrambling, undignified retreat of those close to it. Head lifted, it quartered the gathering with a searching stare while the black pupils in its yellow-green eyes closed slowly to slits against the light.
Then its gaze stopped, centered. It raised extended nostrils while twitching a long black tail. Lifting a huge paw, it stretched into a smooth walk. Madame Picard’s guests parted before it, fluttering away to safety like chickens in a barnyard.
They left a cleared expanse of floor, a shining path which marked the panther’s line of sight. It led straight toward the corner where Anne-Marie sat.
She did not move; she could not. Her gaze was fastened on the advancing beast. With her lips parted in amazement and the shrimp puff forgotten in her hand, she followed his steady advance.
Oh, but he was a magnificent animal, even beautiful in a fierce and deadly fashion. The candlelight slid along his back with a glassy sheen; the muscles under his sleek skin bunched and contracted with the controlled strength of his effortless strides. Swift, silent, he glided toward her in unstoppable certainty. Mesmerized by his power and the steady light in his fixed eyes, she did not try to escape, but waited, barely breathing, while he rounded the harp and bore down upon her.
As the great animal neared, he crouched a little, ears forward, nose out-stretched. He put a foot on the hem of her skirt where the fragile material was spread over the floor. He stopped.
Anne-Marie could feel the heat of his body, smell the wild, outdoor freshness of him. His power surrounded her. She inhaled softly in wonder.
Pushing his neck forward toward her hand, the panther blew gently. His warm breath tickled her fingers. Then he opened his mouth and reached a rough tongue to lap gently across them.
The sensation was astonishing, abrading yet warm, stimulating beyond all reason. The beast’s facile tongue slipped along her knuckles, searched between them to discover areas of sensitivity she had not known she possessed. Heat began somewhere deep inside her and radiated to her skin’s surface.
Anne-Marie allowed her taut muscles to relax a little so that her fingers lost their cramped curl. At that slight motion, the great black cat took the shrimp puff from her hand with delicate precision. He downed it in single gulp.
Anne-Marie gasped, then gave a shaky laugh. “Why you great devil,” she said. “How dare you take my supper? And where, pray, is your invitation? I fear you are a trespasser of the most pernicious sort: You do not even pretend to like the company but come merely for the food!”
Incredibly, a rough rumble, like a cross-cut saw drawn across a hollow log, came from the panther. It blinked up at Anne-Marie with its eyes glinting green-gold and its pupils expanding slightly to the shape of narrow triangles.
“Yes, it’s all very well to make up to me, but I am not fooled,” she scolded gently. “I dare say that morsel you just swallowed made not a dent on your appetite. I have a little pate on my plate, if you think you could relish it?”
She dipped her finger into the smooth goose liver paste and held it out. The panther took it in swift lick.
Somewhere in the room, a woman gave a hysterical spurt of laughter. Anne-Marie sent her a warning glance even as she spoke once more to the cat. “A fine treat, was that not? I rather expected you would think so. And what about a bit of roll to go with the next taste.”
While the cat ate the roll, she reached out, greatly daring, to touch the huge head. The hair had the silken crispness of cut velvet. Hardly aware of those around her, she went on in soothing tones. “Now this is quite foolish, coming here. What possessed you? Oh, I see that you have been in a trap; your paw looks a mess. You chewed it free, didn’t you? Better half a paw than waiting for someone to come and finish you.”
The big cat blinked up at her and flicked an ear. Its gaze shifted then to fasten on her plate once more.
“Still hungry, yes? Is hunting so difficult then? I haven’t touched this nice piece of chicken if you would like it.”
From somewhere in the rear of the crowd, Victor Picard called out, “That’s right, chère, keep feeding it. I’m going for a gun.”
“No!” Anne-Marie said, looking up with anger flashing like lightning in her dark eyes. “You can’t shoot him!”
“Mon Dieu, but of course I can!” Victor was backing away toward the study where his father’s weapons were kept.
“There’s no reason.” There was an undertone of pleading in her voice.
Victor took another careful step. “He could turn on you at any moment, turn on us all.”
“He won’t,” she said certainty. “Can’t you see he’s too weak?”
“He doesn’t look weak to me,” the young man declared. Around him, several of his friends muttered agreement. “Anyway, what else is there? Another bite or two and you’ll have nothing more to feed him.”
She did not know how to answer. She was even now holding out the last tidbit on her plate, a piece of toast spread with savory cheese.
“Here is more food.” Lucien Roquelaire spoke in stringent tones as he strolled from the direction of the dining room with a laden plate in his hands. “And Mademoiselle Decoulet is quite right: Any sudden move is inadvisable. As for firing here in this room, forget it. The danger for your guests is too great, not to speak of the peril for the lady.”
That the Dark Angel would come to her aid was so unbelievable that Anne-Marie could only stare at him. He met her gaze while his mouth curved in a slow smile. “Don’t look so surprised,” he said quietly as he came to a halt at her side. “Even the devil looks after his own.”
“Apparently.” Her gaze rested an instant on the plate piled high with shrimp puffs.
Extending the new supply of tempting morsels, he said, “Perhaps you can give him two or three more, holding the rest in reserve. If you will rise and walk to the door where your friend entered he may be persuaded to follow you.”
It was the only possible course. A threatening grumble was rising among the men at the back of the room. At any minute, they might decide to try to kill the panther regardless of the consequences.
The very idea made Anne-Marie feel cold and sick inside. Wild as the beast might be, he was only as nature made him. He deserved to live out his allotted span of years the same as any other living creature.
Giving the panther a shrimp puff as a distraction, she took a few more in her right hand then rose slowly to her feet. Lucien Roquelaire reached out to offer his arm and she clasped that firm support with her free hand.
The cat flinched at her movement and shrank to a crouch with his ears laid back against his head. Men breathed curses and women cried out in horror. Anne-Marie sent a fierce frown around the room before she turned back to the panther. Speaking quietly, she reached out toward him, letting him catch the scent of the food held in her fingers.
After a moment, the great beast eased upright again. As Anne-Marie moved away a single step then looked back, the panther glided closer, shrinking against her skirts. She took another pace. The interloper followed, and even nosed her hand and the half-crushed shrimp puffs clenched in it.
Step by careful step, the three of them made their way toward the open doorway. Anne-Marie kept up a low-voiced murmur of encouragement. The cat stared up into her face now and then, twitching his ears and licking his muzzle.
As they reached the dark gallery and the animal followed them into the night, Anne-Marie gave a small sigh of relief. She turned her head to look up at the man beside her. Her eyes were suddenly bright, her soft lips tremulous with gladness.
The man at her side made a quiet sound. There was an odd expression in his eyes as he watched her—one compounded of amusement and respect and something more that sent a shiver along her nerves. The muscles of his arm under her hand hardened. She felt her heart flutter against her ribs while a flush stung her face.
And Anne-Marie was aware, suddenly, of standing between two sources of danger. Man or beast, she hardly knew which was greater. Yet in some inner depth of her mind it seemed they were the same. Beast and man, they were both strong and sure in their power, both wild and untamable. To sustain the approach of either took all the courage she possessed, while against them she had no defense except soft words and her own staunch inner spirit.
The movement slow but decisive, she lowered her gaze then stepped away from the man. Turning toward the panther, she led him the last few yards to the steps of the gallery. Extending the last shrimp puff, she waited until he had swallowed it down. Then she brought her hands together in a sudden, sharp clap.
“Go!” she cried as she clapped them again. “Scat!”
The panther shied, then surged around and bolted into the night. His body made a dark arc as he leaped to the brick walk. A solid thump came as his full weight struck the ground. He streaked away, a vanishing shadow. And all that was left was the night.
Lucien Roquelaire moved to her side. In quiet approbation, he said, “That was well done.”
She turned to look at him. “Was it? He is wounded. And now I may have made it easier for him to be hunted down because he will have lost some of his fear.”
“While the hunters have the excuse that he is dangerous since he has dared venture close to man. Yes, I see.” He went on with deliberation. “Perhaps if I called on you tomorrow we might discuss this problem?”
“I doubt there is a solution.” She glanced away into the dark. His suggestion was only a courtesy. What more could it be?
“Perhaps not,” he answered in whimsical tones. “But then, don’t you feel we have an obligation?”
“We?”
“Assuredly,” he answered. “Having claimed the panther as my own, I cannot desert him now. Or you.”
She gave him a straight look at last. “You owe me nothing.”
“But I do,” he said, reaching to take her hand and carry it to his lips. “You are something of an enigma, Mademoiselle. Because of it, I have escaped from my dark humors for an hour or two, and seem likely to have the same pleasure again. For these favors alone
you are due my humble thanks and my homage.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said shortly.
“Don’t you? Intended or not, you offer provocation that strikes me as very like a challenge. If you know anything of me, then there is one thing you may be sure.”
As he paused, she searched the dark depths of his eyes, wondering at the fierce light that gleamed there. Her voice unaccountably tight, she said, “And that is?”
He smiled, a slow twist of sensual, well-molded lips. “I thought you might have guessed, Mademoiselle. I never refuse a challenge.”
“Your intentions toward my stepdaughter cannot possibly be serious,” Madame Decoulet said sharply. “Can they?”
Lucien Roquelaire thought Anne-Marie’s stepmother appeared torn between amazement and disgust, hope and disbelief. He regarded the calculating glint in her china blue eyes and her upright, rigorously corseted figure while he fought the urge to return an acid answer. As much satisfaction as it might give him to put the woman in her place, that would not aid the purpose of his morning visit.
Shifting on the hideously uncomfortable horsehair settee that graced the parlor of Pecan Hill, he spoke in even tones. “I trust you have no objection?”
“None whatever.” The reply was prompt, simmering. The woman reached out a plump hand toward a bell that sat on the side table. “May I offer you coffee and cakes?”
He declined with every civility. It was not his purpose to be trapped into a long têté-a-têté with the woman across from him.
“Perhaps you might be tempted by something stronger? A julep, yes?... No? You’re quite certain?”
Madame Decoulet appeared disappointed, perhaps because he had removed the excuse for her to indulge in mid-morning refreshment. He shook his head as he shifted yet again while glancing around him. The parlor had recently been refurbished, or so it seemed; Gothic monstrosities of stiff mien and dark finish had been crammed in with older and more graceful Queen Anne pieces, while the plastered walls had been covered with flocked cloth figured with improbable shapes in muddy colors. He assumed the result was the handiwork of the new mistress of the house, since he could not feature the young woman he had met the evening before at the ball being comfortable in it.
Out of the Dark Page 2
