Bride of a Stranger (Classic Gothics Collection) (15 page)

“I’m sure you did.”

Claire compressed her lips, but she did not answer, for while it might have been true that Edouard had held her chair and made an effort to interest her in several of the dishes, she knew his motive had been merely to ease the tension and make her feel welcome.

“I don’t believe I have seen that dress.”

“Perhaps not, but it is a part of my trousseau.”

“Why haven’t I?”

“It—seemed more suitable for this kind of weather. It is rather—” she touched the low bodice self-consciously.

“I noticed as much,” he observed with a dry note in his voice.

Claire glanced at Rachel’s impassive face. The maid, intent on winding a curl around her finger, seemed to be deaf to their conversation, but Claire could not disregard her presence. She sent Justin a warning look.

He smiled without humor. “Rachel, be so good as to pull the bell for me,” he directed. “I feel the need of a bath.”

As the girl obeyed, Claire cast about in her mind for an excuse to leave him alone without appearing routed.

Justin’s valet appeared and was given his instructions. Then as Rachel patted the last pin and the last curl into place, Claire rose to her feet.

“The sun is down now. I think I will see if it is cooler on the gallery.”

“It will be, I’m sure,” Justin said smoothly, the gleam in his eyes informing her that he was not fooled by her maneuver. She considered staying just to see what he would do, but as he removed his boots with the help of his valet, and then began to slide his suspenders from his shoulders, Claire dismissed the idea as foolish in the extreme. But that did not keep her from chiding herself for cowardice as she dismissed her maid and left him.

The evening was still; the light limpid, drenched with dew. Mosquito hawks made buzzing silhouettes against the orchid-blue sky. The scent of flowers hung in the air. The sound of her own footsteps were loud in Claire’s ears, a disturbance in the peaceful quiet, so that as she reached the front steps she descended to walk on the grass. Her slippers, the hem of her gown, were soon wet with dew, but she did not mind. At least she was away from the house, away from being watched, weighed, and found wanting.

Now why had that thought struck her? It was Justin who most often watched her, and why should it matter that he found her disappointing?

Before she could pursue the thought, a flicker of movement caught her eye and she looked back toward the house. Around the corner, from the back garden, there came a woman dressed in white, her skirts fluttering about her and her head covered with a white kerchief. In her hands she carried a large crystal vase filled with a mass of full-blown white roses. The woman stared straight ahead, walking with an unseeing stare.

“Helene.”

In that startled moment of recognition, Claire said the name aloud, but if Justin’s mother heard, she made no sign. She went on walking toward the path that led a short distance away on this side of the house, the opposite side from the swamp, toward a slight rise surrounded by a stand of cedar trees, those somber, black-green trees of mourning casting their shade over the marble tombs of the family cemetery.

The woman in white mounted the rise and stood beside a grave, its tomb sitting above the ground as was the custom in this swampy country, where a grave filled with seeping water before the coffin could be lowered. The vase she sat on top of the marble, then she dropped to her knees and rested her head against it with her hands clutching the sides. Even at that distance the low moaning sound could be heard, the sound of pain, or grief.

Claire followed Helene for a few steps, wondering if there were not something she could say or do to alleviate that terrible grief. Then as that sound went on and on and Helene’s head rolled back and forth on her shoulders, she stopped. She could not interfere. There was nothing that could be done to ease such a personal torment.

But she could not leave. The evening sky turned to purple and the nightbirds began to cry and still she stayed. She could not say quite what held her there; a vulgar curiosity, a desire to be of service if she was needed, or simply the half formed intention to protect Helene from interruption and the embarrassment of prying eyes. When at last Justin’s mother dragged herself to her feet, Claire stepped back out of sight, looking away from the tear-ravaged face as the woman walked by.

When she was gone, Claire climbed slowly up the incline and under the cedars until she had reached the tomb over which Helene had wept. She was not surprised when she read the name chiseled into the marble. It was the tomb of Gerard. Gerard, her husband’s brother.

And so Helene had loved him. They had lived together at Sans Songe, loving each other, perhaps, beneath the eyes of his wife, her husband, their children. Had they met clandestinely in the swamp? Had it come to that? And had her son discovered them, demanded satisfaction, and killed Gerard before his mother’s eyes? Could that be why the duel was said to be an odd affair? And was that why Helene hated her son, because he had killed the man she loved?

Who was at fault? Justin, for resorting to a brand of civilized murder, or Helene for her infidelity? Gerard for sinning against his brother, or Marcel for being unable to hold his wife? Or was the true villain the custom of the
mariage de convenance
, that loveless bond between two people?

The thought struck home and she flinched, seeing in her mind’s eye the barren future that stretched before her. Would she some day carry roses to a grave because she had reached out for a love denied her within the bonds of matrimony? Desolation settled over her shoulders, then it was replaced by an invading fear. If her husband had taken such a reprisal for the sake of his father’s honor, what would he not do for his own? What form might his revenge take if he thought his wife had played him false? Remembering his anger, his threatening tone earlier that morning, Claire shivered.

Suddenly there was a touch on her arm. As warm fingers closed over it, she flinched, and there was a lurking fright in her eyes as she swung around to face her husband.

“What are you doing here?” he grated, with a glance at the tomb beside them.

“N-nothing. Just walking,” she answered, too unsure, too ashamed, to admit that she had followed Helene.

“I cannot bear a liar. You were exercising your curiosity, weren’t you? Berthe told me you were fascinated by the portrait of Gerard. Even in death he is irresistible.” There was a vicious sarcasm in his voice.

“No, it wasn’t like that,” she protested, confusion and a haunting distrust lending desperation to her voice.

He stared at her, the scar standing out on his set face. Unconsciously, his fingers tightened, and Claire’s lips parted in a silent protest at the pain, though she did not dare move.

“What is it, Claire? Why do you look at me so?”

“Please,” she whispered.

“You would like to get away, wouldn’t you? You can’t bear my house, my family—or me.”

“I—”

“Don’t bother to deny it. Your actions betray you. You shrink when I come near, you flinch at my touch. I warn you. You will never get away from me. The sooner you resign yourself, the better for you.”

For a moment longer his eyes held hers, then his lips descended, hard, demanding a response, if nothing more than surrender. She was crushed against him, held in an inescapable bondage. He kissed the corners of her trembling mouth, her eyelids, the curve of her cheeks, and the tender softness of her neck. She was acutely aware of his touch, his caresses, and yet her mind felt adrift. Liquid fire ran through her veins, and it seemed that to match his passion with equal ardor was the only way to avoid total capitulation.

At last he raised his head. As Claire saw the glitter of triumph in his eyes, she knew that he was exulting in his mastery. Suffocation gripped her throat and tears rose to her eyes. She clenched her teeth, fighting to control her voice. “I hope that was—satisfactory.”

His smile faded and a gray look crept over his face. He let her go abruptly, and she stumbled back.

“Damn you,” he said with a low intensity, then turning on his boot heel, he strode away.

Claire watched him until he was hidden by the trees and the walls of the house. On her lips the impression of his kiss still burned. She felt no sense of victory, only a strange ache of regret. She took a long, deep breath and let it out on a shuddering sigh, then began slowly to follow him back to the house.

**  *

  Justin did not appear at the supper table, though Claire was certain that that had been his intention. When the meal was over and they all sat over their coffee in the salon, Edouard took the place beside her and thanked her for the return of his knife.

“Ben said you found it. I can’t imagine how it came to be outside. I hesitate to blame the servants, though I expect my collection is a serious temptation. In fact Octavia often tells me that I’ll wind up one day with my throat cut. She thinks all knives should be locked away in a household like this.”

“Yes, my aunt used to lock the cutlery away in a special mahogany knife box each evening,” Claire said, all the while wondering cynically if what she was hearing was a fabrication. Was his voice too casual, his manner too offhand? If his daggers were so precious why, indeed, hadn’t he taken more care of them?

“The dagger that was missing was a
quillon
dagger, not as valuable as some, but I suppose the bright hilt made it irresistible.”

But if Edouard’s supposition was not correct, what was the explanation? How had the dagger come into Belle-Marie’s possession? Could the quadroon woman have entered the house without anyone being aware of it? She was not a ghost or a spirit, to flit about unseen, and yet somehow she had managed to leave the voodoo
gris-gris
for Claire to find, both in New Orleans and here at Sans Songe.

“You have a great number of knives. You must have been collecting for some time.”

“Actually, my father began it, but I found it interesting enough to continue. You acquire a bit of history with each knife. The Spaniard with his beard and ruff and his poniard, the helmeted crusader knight bearing home the crescent-shaped Arabic dagger as a prize.” He shrugged. “It appeals to me.”

“And do you collect the tales of murder done with each blade?” The question rose to her lips before she was aware of it forming in her mind.

An arrested look came over his face, a look of withdrawal, then he laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

She shook her head, smiling to convince him she was merely being flippant, suddenly losing the courage to continue.

“What are you two talking about with your heads together?” Octavia asked, plumping herself down beside Edouard.

“My knife collection, for the most part.”

“Ah yes, the
quillon
dagger is missing, isn’t it? I noticed as much yesterday evening when I saw to the changing of the linens. You have found it?”

“Yes, Claire and Ben found it on the walk, and he handed it back to me.”

“Obliging of him.”

It had been obliging, Claire thought, but the man had been almost too anxious to see the knife back in Edouard’s hands. Why? What did he hope to gain?

As if in echo of her own thoughts, she heard Octavia say, “I would watch that Ben. He strikes me as one who never does anything without some idea of repayment.”

“A trusting thing, aren’t you?” Edouard teased her.

She pulled the skirts of her tent of a costume, this evening in blending shades of yellow, about her. “I’ve learned to trust few and love fewer. It is less painful that way.”

Claire lay thinking later of Octavia and of what she had said. Most emotion, it seemed—whether trust, love, hate, or fear—brought little but pain. But that was living, and there was little to do but accept it, to take what happiness was offered, and not look beyond.

But happiness seemed an ephemeral thing, existing on another plane, vaguely remembered, but without the possibility of attainment.

Justin had not come home. In the glow of the moonlight she could see the sheets of his day bed stretched fresh and smooth. Where was he? Was he with Belle-Marie in some primitive cabin in the swamp?

She shook her head, retreating from the image she had conjured up in her mind.

She could remember in such detail what had happened that afternoon, the feel of his lips on hers, the roughness of his coat beneath her fingers. To think of him holding another woman with the same strength, the same possessiveness, brought the tightness of mingled rage and pain to her chest.