“Sixteen,” she whispered. “You fought sixteen times and survived every meeting.”
“And came to be named an angel of death for it.”
“Or an avenging angel,” she said in quiet contemplation.
“Perhaps, on occasion. But I am just a man, not an immortal, and I don’t want to fight any more.”
“It could be—” She stopped, uncertain of the wisdom of speaking the thought that had come to her. It was important enough, however, that it must be ventured. “You believe, then, that having a wife will give you an excuse to turn away from any further challenge that might be pressed upon you?”
“I pray that it will—but that isn’t the reason I am marrying you,” he said with emphasis. “It is you, the woman you are, who moves me. I wish you would stop looking for excuses and believe that simple fact. Or perhaps you do believe it, and are so disturbed that you are out here making up your mind to call off the wedding if your pet doesn’t reappear.”
“I gave you my word,” she said. Which was not the same thing as denying that he was right.
“So you did,” he said grimly, “but not without coercion or second thoughts.”
She barely glanced at him. What he said was true in a sense. She was marrying the Dark Angel for the sake of a cat. She must be the one who was mad. But if Satan did not come back, then it would have been for nothing.
Oh, but would it? Did her reasons really have anything to do with Satan, or was it something else entirely? Was she fated always to love what was dark and uncontrollable and dangerous?
Love.
In a some haste, she said, “Would you take it as proof that I am resigned if I told you I would like to leave for your home immediately after the reception?”
“Resigned.” He repeated the word as if it had a bitter taste.
“Anxious, then, if you prefer.”
“I do, infinitely, or would if I could believe it.” He paused, and then went on in more normal tones. “But what of the two weeks of seclusion required of a new bride to show her modesty? Madame Decoulet will be scandalized if you are seen abroad before they are over. Tongues will clack up and down the river about the depravity you have fallen into for my sake.”
“Yes,” she said on a defeated sigh.
“Of course,” he said in considering tones, “you would not be around to hear it.”
“You—wouldn’t mind if I became the subject of scandal?”
“My dear Anne-Marie,” he said, a corner of his mouth turned up in irony, “how can I fault you when I’ve seldom been anything else?”
“Very true.” Her gaze brightened as she straightened her shoulders. “Anyway, it would be a shame to rob everyone of their entertainment, don’t you think? They will be looking so hard to see if either of us do anything strange.”
“They may conclude, of course, that you were influenced by my wicked ways.”
“Would that trouble you so much?” Her gaze turned serious.
“Oh, desperately,” he said. “Though I’m sure that you can see to it that I am—resigned—if you make a diligent effort at it.”
He was teasing her in his grim fashion. She gave him a darkling stare while color rose to her hairline. “If you are expecting to be persuaded by a display of affection, then you will be disappointed. Such things are best left until after we are wed.”
He arched a brow. “Then I should expect a sudden change from coolness to fevered passion, is that it?”
“I never said—”
His smile turned feral. “But I think you did. And I await tomorrow evening with breathless anticipation.”
She met the dark amusement in his gaze for long, paralyzing moments before she turned her head. Her voice tight, she said, “You’re trying to distract me again. And just now you spoke of the death of—of a man or a panther. You really think Satan is gone for good, don’t you.”
He reached for her, gently drawing her close and encircling her in the comfort of his arms. She tensed for an instant before she relaxed, accepting his hold.
“I don’t know where Satan is and refuse to guess when there is no proof one way or the other,” he said, speaking against the softness of her hair. “All I know is that wild things risk pain and loss of life every day; it’s the price they pay for being free. But whatever happens, you have given your panther two years of love and caring. Because of you, he attained his full, splendid growth and gained the chance to prowl the woods, to mate and pass on his legacy of power to the next generation. That’s all any of us are given.”
“It isn’t enough!” It was a cry from the heart.
“No,” he answered as he stared over her head, smoothing his hand gently up and down her spine while his smile faded. “No, it isn’t nearly enough.”
It came, her wedding day, dawning bright and clear and hot. Perfect.
Anne-Marie thought of getting up quietly and leaving the house, of tracking through the grass that was wet with dew, making her way into the woods to Satan’s clearing. And then keeping on going until she could go no farther.
She thought of staying where she was without moving. When her stepmother came, she might turn her face to the wall while the woman ranted and raged at her to get up.
She thought of Lucien, and of what he would do when informed that she refused to leave her bed to be married to him. No doubt he would come storming up the stairs, fling into her room, and then...
She tumbled out of bed.
After that, it was not so bad. Since it was her day, she was cosseted with a breakfast tray in her room. When she had finished her coffee, the preparations began in a desultory fashion. There was no need to hurry since it would naturally be an evening wedding; it was considered too embarrassing to have newly-weds hanging around the house for long after the ceremony. She and Lucien would stay only to have their health and happiness toasted, to cut the wedding cake, taste the food, dance a few waltzes. Then they would leave in his carriage for Baton Rouge. A steamboat would be docked there overnight on its regular run between Natchez and New Orleans. Lucien, last evening after they talked, had sent to reserve a private cabin. There they would spend their wedding night. With the morning, they would be on their way down river to his home.
Anne-Marie would have preferred to have someone close to her to assist with her toilette. There being no one who qualified, she accepted the services of Madame Decoulet’s maid. Everything would be done as she wished it, however; she made that clear from the start.
Her hair was washed in soft rain water and then brushed dry in the sun. It was then polished by being rubbed with a length of silk and arranged in a crown of curls without a trace of pomade. Her nails were carefully shaped and buffed until they were pink and smooth and shining, then afterward her hands and arms, shoulders, knees, and feet were smoothed with scented lotion. When the maid had finished, she and Anne-Marie packed the last remaining items into her trunks, then saw them strapped and carried downstairs. By then, it was noon and a tray with a light meal was brought up to the bride’s chamber. Afterward, she was left alone for a period of rest and repose.
This was the time when most brides knelt at the prie-dieu that adorned every bedchamber and prayed to God for happiness, fruitfulness, and mercy. Anne-Marie tried diligently, kneeling on the small velvet-covered bench with her rosary between her knit fingers and her gaze on the crucifix hanging on the wall above it.
But the image of Lucien’s face kept coming between her and her devotions. She found herself thinking, instead, of what it would mean if she were to make herself over into a proper wife.
No more rambling in the woods. No more running with wild creatures. No more hanging back in company and pretending to be shy. No more watching the world and its odd antics instead of joining them.
No more ignoring the future. No more thinking only of herself. No more privacy. No more sleeping alone.
She rose from the prie-dieu and paced the room that had been hers all the long years of her childhood, but would ne
ver be hers again. Moving to the window, she rested her forehead against the cool glass, staring out toward the woods that lay beyond the barn.
Her father found her there as the sun canted toward the west. A troubled look on his face, he came to her side and put his arm around her, saying in gruff tones, “Are you well, chère?”
“Yes, of course.” What other reply was there, now?
“This marriage, it’s to your liking?”
Lucien was right; she saw that clearly. Her father was not a strong man, had never been one. He liked his comfort and his pleasures. He did not deal well with emotions. If he had doubts about what he and the woman now his wife had arranged for her, he had chosen a poor time to express them, now when it was almost too late. Yet he was just a human being trying to muddle through the business of living as best he could. He had endured his sorrows and gone on to rebuild the on the ruins of the past. He was her father, and he was concerned for her.
“It’s what I want,” she said in quiet reassurance.
“Good.” He drew a long breath. “That’s good then.” He gave her arm a squeeze, then ran his hand up and down it as if still distracted. “I’m going to miss you, you know. You’ll write?”
“Certainly, as often as there is news.”
“Or even if there is none, just to let us know that you are alive and safe?”
“Yes.” She swallowed on a rush of tears.
“And if Roquelaire doesn’t treat you as he should—not that I expect it, mind, for he’s a gentleman—but if things should not turn out as you like, then you know you have only to send word. I will come at once to bring you home again.”
“Oh, Papa.” She could not say more.
He heard the distress in her voice and was nervous of it. Giving her another quick hug, he said gruffly, “That’s all right then, as long as you remember. I just want what is best for you.” Turning away, he went out and closed the door behind him.
Everything seemed to move at a hectic pace after he had gone. She had her bath. The maid returned and she was encased in corset, hoop, and petticoats. Her gown was lifted over her head in a quick flinging movement, then fastened up the back and settled around her. Her mother’s veil of fine Valenciennes was pinned in place, and a bouquet of late summer roses placed in her hand.
All too soon, she was descending the staircase and moving toward where Lucien stood with the priest. She reached for his arm like grasping a lifeline. As his hand closed warm and firm around her chill fingers, she shivered once, and then was still.
The rest passed as in a dream: the vows, the blessing, then the food and wine, the music and dancing. Too soon, she was passing her bouquet with her father to be placed on her mother’s grave. The last goodbyes were said. She and Lucien moved down the steps and out to the carriage that was decorated with knots of ribbon. The final good wishes were called after them as they bowled away down the drive.
Before she knew it, the white wedding-cake pile of the steamboat loomed ahead of them at the dock. They pulled alongside and she was handed down by her new husband. The narrow gangplank shifted under them with the easy motion of the river’s current as they boarded.
Cordial greetings were extended by the captain himself. They were turned over to a steward then, one who led the way through the great main cabin with its Wilton carpeting in rich, jewel colors, its massive brass chandeliers and archways hung with ornate stalactites of woodwork. The door of their stateroom was reached and a coin changed hands. They stepped inside, and the heavy door beneath its painted transom closed behind them.
She and Lucien were alone. Together.
The accommodation was doubtless the best the boat had to offer, being a corner stateroom with cross-ventilation from two sets of windows and a double view of the river. However, it was barely large enough to contain its marble-topped rosewood washstand, small table with matching side chairs, and mahogany four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting. The tole-shaded lamp that burned on the table shed its light easily into the four corners.
Anne-Marie, suddenly beset by nerves, busied herself removing her gloves, then unpinning her veil and folding it carefully away. Her trunks had been delivered earlier; they sat in a corner along with a strange one of leather-bound brass that must belong to Lucien. She lifted the lid of her smallest trunk and placed the veil inside, then took out her nightgown and hairbrush that she had left ready to hand.
From the corners of her eyes, she saw Lucien remove his hat and gloves and lay them aside with his cane. He stripped off the tail coat of his evening suit and draped it across a chair, then walked to the casement window that stood open. As he pushed aside the jalousies, a soft night wind off the water drifted into the room, bringing welcome coolness and the shimmer of moonlight on the water.
Resting one shoulder against the window frame, he spoke without turning. “You need not be wary of me; I’m not going to spring at you.”
“I never expected it,” she said, her voice not quite steady.
“No? I feared you might after our last conversation. But never mind. It will be best if we take a little more time to come to know each other before embarking on the intimacies of marriage.”
She put her hairbrush down on the washstand. Then she began to pull the pins from her hair so that it fell in soft, luxuriant waves to her waist. In the washstand’s beveled mirror she could see the stiff set of her new husband’s wide shoulders. She had never seen a man without a coat other than her father on occasion or field workers; it was fascinating to follow the taut ridges of Lucien’s back muscles under the soft linen of his shirt. She had never had occasion to notice the way his hair clung in soft, shining black waves to the back of his head, either. Her fingers tingled with the abrupt urge to trace a path from the crown of his head to the hollow of his back just above his close-fitting pants.
She compressed her lips with some force before she opened them to speak. “Is that what you would prefer—to wait?”
“What I prefer doesn’t come into it,” he said after a long moment. “I want you to be comfortable with me, and with what takes place between us.”
“Comfortable,” she echoed in hollow tones. She did not find the word particularly enticing.
He turned slightly to put his back to the frame. In stringent emphasis, he said, “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
“I thought we had established that I am fearless.”
“You seem so, but the marriage bed is another matter.”
“It—holds no particular terrors that I can see.” She stared down at the pins she held as if she had never seen them before.
His gaze flicked toward her and away again. “Is that the truth, or only bravado? You must be very certain, because some things cannot be mended.”
He was speaking of her maidenhead, which was considerate but also patronizing. Her voice taut, she said, “I am well aware of it.”
Some of the strain eased from his stance. “I suppose you must be, if you have attended birthings. But between man and wife are other things just as important. Trust, faith, affection, and bone-deep ease rank high among them. I would rather allow time for these than have immediate gratification.”
She took a shallow breath, all that the constriction in her throat would allow. Her voice a husk of sound, she said, “You don’t want—that is, you don’t desire me tonight?”
“God,” he whispered, his gaze hot on her back, “there is nothing I want more.” His voice hardened. “But I have no use for a martyred bride, will not trade my desire for your hatred.”
She swung then in a smooth swirl of skirts. “My hatred? You must have some odd ideas about this marriage if you think I could come to that. I am not here, Lucien, because I was forced to be. I don’t hold you in contempt, or even dislike.”
“You think I have blood on my hands.”
“I thought so once,” she corrected him. “You explained how it came about, and I was glad to listen, but by the time you spoke to me on the subject it was
no longer important.”
“No?” His gaze was startled.
Her hair gleamed around her face in the lamplight as she shook her head. “I’ve come to know you in the past weeks. I don’t believe you would do a mean thing, nor would you allow temper to sway your judgment or prevent you from acting with due regard for the principles of fairness and right. I know that you did not kill indiscriminately or without mercy, for you could not.” Her voice faltered, and tears rose to rim her eyes. “I have wished—I wish that it could have been you my brother faced that day on the dueling field. I know if it had been he would still be alive.”
In the quiet that lay between them could be heard the endless wash of the river along the steamboat’s hull. A concertina played somewhere on the bank, the music drifting out over the water. When Lucien spoke, his voice was rich and low. “That is a rare compliment. Never have I had one I value more.”
“I wanted you to know that I respect you,” she said, looking past his shoulder at the dark night beyond the window. “I would not have married you otherwise.”
“I am astounded.”
So was she, in all truth. She had not planned to say those things; they had come unbidden from some unplumbed recess inside her. Still, she recognized their source. She had given him absolution for his transgressions and her assurance of his worth because she felt his need. She felt his need because she cared.
“I think,” she began, then stopped and looked down at the pins she held so tightly they were nearly bent in half. Her gaze not quite focused, she tried again. “I think I may shock as well as astound you. Would it be too outrageous if I said that I would prefer not to delay the—the intimacy between us?”
He did not move so much as eyelash. His voice like a violin string wound too tight, he said, “The dread is so much to bear, then, that you think it will be better to have it behind you?”
Out of the Dark Page 7
