Healing Grace (35 page)

Etienne grabbed her hand, not just one, but both of them. He drew them to his mouth and kissed them. “It’s not too late,
chérie
. It will never be too late with you,” he said. And he kissed her hands again, and again.

When finally he looked up, he grinned and said, “Now we’re even,
chérie
. I saw you and fainted.”

Constance shook her head, but she was grinning, too. “Not quite. Recall, I thought you were someone else. And I screamed. You still owe me a scream.”

“Hmm,
chérie
, I can guarantee you’ll get one… very, very soon…”

While Sam stood there watching and listening, it occurred to him that the lesson Constance had learned didn’t just apply to her and Colonel Grace. It applied to Sam, too. He’d drawn inaccurate conclusions based upon past wounds, and he’d been wrong. He’d believed Constance wouldn’t be good for Colonel Grace, and in turn, because of the affliction, he would only cause her grief. But the opposite was true.

Etienne and Constance needed to be together. Because only when they were together were they complete. And that meant, for Sam, things at the academy would finally get back to normal. He supposed though, that he should be grateful for the colonel’s lack of attention these last weeks. Had Colonel Grace been his normal self, he would have surely picked up on Sam’s many slips in keeping Constance’s coming today a surprise.

“We’d better collect Izzy,” Sadie said. “That crazy horse doesn’t like the train much. She’s been causing problems since we boarded.”

While standing there watching Etienne and Constance, Sadie and Archie had come up on Sam’s right. The Reverend Sebastian Nash and Franklin were to his left.

“Don’t you have lots and lots of bags?” Archie wanted to know of Sadie. “I wanna help.”

“I wanna help, too,” said Franklin.

Sam reached out to ruffle his brother’s hair, then to pat Franklin’s shoulder. When he looked up again, Etienne was on his feet. His and Constance’s hands were still joined. They were staring at each other, appearing wholly unaware of their surroundings.

“How did you do that,
chérie?”
Etienne murmured. “You made me float.”

“I know.” Constance’s eyes flashed. “’Tis a trick I learnt from you.”

Sam grinned. What compelled him to do what he did next, he didn’t know. He supposed, like Constance’s, his hand was suddenly afflicted. Except he wasn’t about to slap someone across the face. That was one scene Sam didn’t think he’d ever forget.

But alas, Sam’s afflicted hand was done with mere knuckle bumping. He reached out to capture the fingers of the woman by his side. As they turned to go to the train, to collect the luggage, and the horse, and everything else, his grip didn’t falter. Nor would it, he vowed silently, no matter what challenges they faced, and there would be plenty of those…

Behind him, Sebastian Nash, with the boys on either side of him, murmured, “What do you think Etienne meant by that? Constance made him float? Funny, huh?”

~ To Be Continued ~

Sneak Peek

Forgiving Grace

Elizabeth Courtright

The pack over his shoulder was heavy, filled with a change of clothes, boots, and other incidental items, along with the plethora of gifts he’d painstakingly chosen. Also stuffed in were the paintbrushes and paints he’d pilfered from his brother years ago. Of course he never actually used them to create art, not like Adrien did. For him, they were merely a veneer, enabling him to look the part. But he’d masqueraded as an artist long enough. That life—the one he’d been swept into through one too many stupid decisions—was over.

Leo Grace was done. He was finally free.

It was late, and though street lamps provided enough light, he didn’t need them. He knew exactly where he was going. Along the docks and levies, past other pedestrians and lingerers, he walked. As soon as Jackson Square came into view, he flipped the hefty pack to his other shoulder. From there, he turned north into the
Vieux Carré
. Despite fatigue from too many days without sleep, his steps were buoyant. A few more blocks and he would be with them again—Felice, his love, and Henri… his
son
.

Words flittered through his head—the many explanations he owed Felice. After all they’d been through—all he’d put her through—she deserved the truth. There would be no more lies, no more contrived excuses. Felice would finally know he wasn’t a cast-off from a wealthy family back east, disappearing for months at a time to paint the portrait of some feigned new client. Not that she’d ever believed him in that regard. Nevertheless, before he delved into the nefarious details, he needed to apologize. Not so much because he’d been gone for three months, but for fleeing the way he had.

It was just that her revelation had been… well, suffice to say, it had speared through his gut and sent him reeling. That conversation replayed in his mind like it had happened just yesterday. Then again, when it came to Felice, he remembered
everything
…

They’d met at a dinner party, four years before, and flirted the evening through. Later that night, alone in bed, Leo tossed and turned, wondering if he’d ever see her again. In the morning when her note arrived inviting him to her home for afternoon
café
, he’d been as giddy as a child on Christmas morning. That afternoon, much more than
café
was consumed.

Felice’s luscious dark hair and luminous eyes were what had initially attracted him, but her beauty wasn’t what kept Leo addicted. She had a way of making him feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time. She could make him laugh. She could read his thoughts, ease his worries, even those he couldn’t share. In her arms, he drifted into the most sublime impassioned oblivion.

Once, thusly entangled, he almost gave away that he knew her language. She was French creole, and often spoke to him erotically in her tongue. When he answered in kind, he didn’t realize he’d done it. All he knew was suddenly she shoved at his chest and pushed him away. In her heavily accented English, she accused, “You are a liar. You understand. You understand always!”

Leo shook his head, more to clear it than respond. He grinned and fudged, “I’ve learned a few words since I’ve been here.” More demurely, he added, “From you, my love.”

Playfully she thumped him, then moved in close again.

He wasn’t supposed to fall in love. Felice was six years older, and married. Her husband’s name was Jean-Pierre. She said she and her husband didn’t share a bed, that they both had
other
lovers. Because Felice kept her own house, there had been no reason for Leo not to believe her. She said affairs were
‘la vie’
in
Nouvelle Orleans
. Everyone here took lovers.

Despite Felice’s assurances to the contrary, Leo did meet Jean-Pierre. More than once, while Leo was present at Felice’s townhome, Jean-Pierre came by to ‘discuss finances.’ Airily Felice introduced them, telling her spouse Leo was an artist she’d commissioned to paint her portrait. The swarthy man was polite enough, though Leo was sure he saw right through Felice’s lie. Leo didn’t like being shut out while Felice and her husband sequestered to have their
private
discussions.

It was after one of these meetings that Leo first proposed. He told Felice, “Divorce him and marry me. I love you and want you as my wife.”

Felice laughed at him. She laughed the second and third times he’d asked, too.

“We do not need to be married,
mon amour
,” she said. “What we have is good,
n’est-ce pas
? We do not need to change.”

During his next trip away, a half-year assignment, he convinced himself to end the affair. Despite his promise to Felice that he’d be back, he decided not to return. This wasn’t so much because of her husband, but because of his work. Leo couldn’t afford the distraction. And if satisfying baser needs was necessary, there were plenty of other women. Even so, and despite his resolve, Felice was on his mind constantly.

He did go back. Rather than heading to her directly, however, he’d gone to his apartment first to clean off the travel dust. When finally he showed up on her doorstep, with his hair still damp from the bath, he’d been dizzy with eagerness. Things had changed in his absence—important things.

Felice’s butler ushered him into the sitting room. She rose from the chair and Leo’s dizziness overcame him so badly he stumbled. This time, however, it wasn’t caused by longing. It was caused by blinding despair.

She came to him with her hands outstretched. Absently he kissed her cheeks, the left, then the right, but as he pulled back his eyes were drawn downwards once more—to her increasing waistline.

Her tears drew his breath and made his heart stop. He’d never seen her cry before. And he didn’t know what she would say. She’d met someone? She’d fallen in love? Who was the child’s father, because, by then, Leo knew it couldn’t have been her husband.

“Jean-Pierre is dead,” she told him. “He disappear months ago. They find his body in the swamp last week.”

Felice wept in Leo’s arms, and her unexpected grief kept him from voicing his questions. She was the one who instigated the ensuing intimacy. So Leo held her, made love to her, felt the baby inside move under his hands, and whispered, “Marry me. I love you.”

“
Non
,” she said. “I cannot.”

He stayed in New Orleans until the child was born. In that month—because never once did Felice mention another man—it occurred to Leo that perhaps the baby was his. But Felice’s labor began and he knew he was wrong. When he finally dared to ask, Felice told him Jean-Pierre had wanted an heir. Jean-Pierre was Henri’s father.

Three years went by. Three years of assignments and bending his schedule so Leo could spend as much time with Felice as possible. In that time, he grew fond of the boy, Henri. The child reminded him of his nephew, Jules. This was why Leo raced back to New Orleans for Henri’s third birthday. When he’d left the month before, Felice had already begun planning a party, and Leo didn’t want to miss it.

As it was he was late. But Henri didn’t seem to mind. The minute he spotted Leo, the boy came running across the yard, arms outstretched, hollering, “
Oncle
Leo!
Oncle
Leo!”

Leo scooped him up.

When he could get away, Leo went in search of Felice. He found her in the bedroom, standing at her dresser, seemingly lost in thought.

Silently he closed the door, flipped the lock, then crossed the distance and wrapped his arms around her from behind. “I wish I could stay longer,” he murmured. “But we have a few hours.”

Leo supposed, at times he could be obtuse. This was one of them. He didn’t notice her stiffened posture until she shoved him away. And only then did he see the paper clenched in her fist. It was a piece he recognized—one that had been in his satchel.

“Who is Bridgette?” she demanded, eyes flashing.

Leo’s face grew warm. Forcing a nonchalant shrug, he said, “A friend.”

“A lover?”

“Yes.”

“For a long time?” she asked.

“For a while,” he said.

“There are others?”

“A few.”

She threw the balled up page and it hit him in the chest, but Leo didn’t try to catch it, and he didn’t bother to pick it up from the floor. Felice’s eyes filled.

She had no right to accuse him. They had no commitment, no promises to each other. She refused to marry him.

“Don’t, for a second, try to tell me you don’t share your bed while I’m away,” he scoffed. “As you so adeptly informed me years ago, ‘it’s the way
francais
’.”

“This is why I do not marry you,” she fumed. “Because you cannot be true. I always know, I cannot trust you.”

“Trust me?” he retorted. “You pushed me away. Every time I see you, I tell you how much I love you and you laugh at me. I’m nothing more to you than a plaything. What do you expect me to do? Bow down like you’re some goddess? Well, I won’t! I won’t—”

“You killed Jean-Pierre,” she cut him off.

“What?” Floored, Leo stammered, “Wh…why do you think that?”

“I know what you do. You keep your secrets, but I know. You are, how you say
en anglais
,
meurtrier
… assassin. Jean-Pierre was a bad man. He did not legal things, and you killed him.”

“No!” Incredulous, Leo spouted, “I didn’t, Felice. I swear to you, I didn’t. What I do… it’s not what you think. I’m not—”

“Maybe you don’t pull the trigger, but you know who did,” she interrupted again. “You know who killed Jean-Pierre.”

That Leo couldn’t deny. Yet he hesitated before nodding. Leo couldn’t anticipate how she would react. As well as he knew this woman, he still didn’t understand her feelings for the man she’d married. But then, she said nothing more about Jean-Pierre.

“Do you love her… this Bridgette? Do you love any of them? All your
bonnes amies?”

“No,” he said emphatically. “No one compares to you. They mean nothing to me. You know that. I adore you. I want you. Only you. And Henri. I want you both. I want to be his father, not some
Oncle
. If you marry me, I will never,
never
touch another woman.”

“That is a lie,” she said, though her eyes, tearless now, were shrewd. “But I still cannot. I say no for him.”

“What?”

“If I think only of me, my answer is different. I do it for him, for Henri. I have no choice. Because of what you do… who you are.”

“Because of what I do, I’m not good enough to be Henri’s father? Because I know who killed your husband? Is that what you mean? What does that matter?”

Leo stomped to the window, for no other reason than he couldn’t look at Felice any longer. Through the panes he saw Henri in the yard. The boy had hold of his governess’s hand, and together the two were laughing as they ran through sprays of water from a fountain.

This governess, Amie, had been with Henri for two years. She was a pretty young thing, petite and shy. Other than an occasional hello, Leo had never really spoken to her, though he’d tried. The long black tresses cascading around her shoulders were like curtains of silk. She reminded him of a sprite.

“This is what is best for Henri,” Felice said. “Please understand.”

Leo’s eyes shifted from the cute little governess to Henri’s mop of curly dark hair—hair so much like his brother Adrien’s. Adrien was an attorney, an upstanding, lawful citizen. All of Leo’s brothers were. Felice was right. Leo wasn’t good enough for Henri. The realization was as cutting as a knife in his flesh.

“What if I stop… quit?” he said. “Will that make a difference? If that’s what it takes, I will.”

“Yes, you must stop,” she said. “And then I will tell you the truth about Henri’s father.”

Leo spun to look at her. “Jean-Pierre was his father.”

“
Non
,” she murmured. “Jean-Pierre did not touch me. Ever. His lovers were not women.”

That much Leo knew, but she’d told him Jean-Pierre wanted an heir. What man didn’t? Regardless, Felice’s implication still didn’t fit.

“The timing doesn’t work, Felice,” Leo countered. “I wasn’t here when Henri was conceived.”

“You are not true to me, but I am to you. You
were
here when Henri was conceived. You did not realize he was so small,
parce que
he was born early… many weeks early.”

Contrary to his previous claim that he wanted to be Henri’s father, Leo didn’t embrace this shocking disclosure. Instead, like a coward, he fled.

Miles later, in a dirty little inn with a woman whose name he couldn’t remember, he wallowed. Soon, however, shame twisted to something different. He couldn’t believe, whatever her reasoning, that Felice would have withheld this from him… something of such mammoth significance.

Henri was his son. His
son!

The three months he stayed away lessened the anger and the hurt. It also helped him find the right path, the one his family wouldn’t be ashamed of. For once, they could be proud of him. The latest letter he’d received from Adrien said their brother, Etienne, was getting married. The wedding would take place over the holidays.