His Dark Desires (12 page)

When a warm dampness seeped through the silk to my fingers, I grew worried. "Stay here. I will get help and send for the doctor."

"No." He grabbed my arm, his grip reassuringly strong. "I'm fine. I know what to do."

"But..."

"I studied medicine for a while. Believe me, it is not serious and I will be fine, but you will not fare as well. Human nature being what it is, the blow to your reputation would be worse than the little bump you've given me." Taking the bunched cloth of my robe hem from me, he pressed it harder to his head and sat up.

I stood, shrugging the rest of my robe from my shoulders so he could use it as a compress.

He wobbled when he sat up, and I caught his arm to help steady him.

"Not as steady as I thought I was," he muttered. "Your passion weakened me."

"Be serious. This isn't a joking matter. I've hurt you."

"Believe me, this bump is a lot less painful than sleeping in the room beneath yours every night, imagining you in bed above me, hearing you move about your room late into the night. Now
that
is painful."

"You're rambling nonsense. Perhaps you are hurt worse than you think. Do you feel faint? Do you need a drink?"

"No. I have sworn off liquor. Once I make it to my room, though, I may trouble you for a basin of water."

"I'll bring water plus bandages to put on the cut, and some salve, too. It will soothe the skin and help with healing."

"I'll tend to the wound myself. If you were seen in my room in the middle of the night, it would be disastrous for you."

"Nonsense. I am responsible for the gash, and I'll not rest until the wound is examined. If you won't let me help, then I will awake Papa John and send for the doctor."

Despite the dim light, I could see his gaze rake over me, rekindling the heat that consumed us, pulling the air from me.

"I'll apologize if I must, but I'm not sorry for touching you," he whispered.

"Nor am I," I said, my mouth so dry I could barely speak.

The desire I heard in his voice and the need I felt deep inside of me stayed with me as I helped him collect his pistol and walked him to his room. Then I hurried to my room, donned a thick robe, and got healing salve, bandages, and water. The moment I left my room, my pulse raced. I knew without a doubt that I was stepping beyond the safe boundaries surrounding my life.

He'd left his door ajar. Near the end of his unmade bed, he sat on a wooden footstool before a beveled mirror, trying to see his injury. When he saw me he stopped, watching my movements in the mirror. I set the basin of water, salve, and bandages on the counterpane, trying to ignore the tension between us, but it was impossible. He held my ivory robe and was softly brushing his thumb over its silken threads, making my palms damp and sending another wave of delicious heat thrumming though my body. I closed his bedroom door.

While I'd donned clothes, he'd shed them. He wore only his pants and had a towel draped across his broad shoulders. He seemed too muscular for anything as civilized as a suit and waistcoat. Black hair grew across his chest and tapered downward to the forbidden line of his trousers. I snapped my gaze to his smoldering one, feeling as if I were in the midst of a tug-of-war between the devil and propriety. I knew that were I to touch him, to splay my hands against his back and caress his muscled shoulders, we'd pick up where we had left off in the parlor.

But he'd still be a man whom I barely knew, and I'd still have my doubts. Besides, I'd yet to learn why he'd been so reserved and distant earlier tonight. I turned away and arranged my supplies and ministered to his wound. My hands trembled, making the task take longer than it should. The pressure he had applied to the cut had stopped the bleeding, and I saw that the gash was no longer than my thumb and not very deep. But surrounding the cut, his scalp was an angry, purplish color. He'd not only have a headache, but also a very tender spot for a while.

Every time I touched his dark hair, its silky strands wrapped intimately around my fingers, making me wonder if the black hair curling across his chest was just as soft. He'd touched my bare skin earlier, but I hadn't touched him. And I wanted to.

I hurriedly applied the lavender and mint salve to his cut and secured a bandage to the area. "I am done, monsieur."

He exhaled sharply, as if he'd been holding his breath for a long time. "Thank God." He slid the towel from around his neck.

Whirling about, I started gathering the supplies from the bed, every fiber of my being centered on getting out of his room before either of us acted any further upon the attraction sizzling between us.

"We have to talk." He spoke from just behind me. I could feel the whisper of his breath against the nape of my neck and the warmth of his body seeping though the thickness of my robe.

"There is nothing to say. It shouldn't have happened." I shut my eyes, fisting my hand around the bandages I held.

"Mrs. Boucheron, after tonight, I think you owe it to me to explain what you have that someone is willing to break into your home to get."

Everything within me froze as my pent-up desires fell utterly flat. He stood impatiently waiting for an answer.

"Well, Mrs. Boucheron? I deserve some answers. What are you hiding?"

The man had nearly made love to me in the parlor, and now he acted as if I had done something wrong!

"I have
La Belle
, Monsieur Trevelyan, and an iron frying pan—which I must be out of practice with, for I obviously did not strike hard enough."

Grabbing the salve, I pushed past him and sailed out the door, feeling satisfaction in the confusion that knotted his brow.

*   *   *

In the morning, I decided to send for the authorities after breakfast and inform them of the intruder. Then I would seek out Mr. Trevelyan and ask a few pointed questions about last night. I had no clue as to why this was happening, and I wanted to know why he'd been so adamant that I was hiding something.

When I went to wake my son, I discovered his French doors already unlocked.

"Andre?" Spinning around, I saw that what I had thought to be my son sleeping was only his bunched up counterpane and pillows with a note on top. A tentacle of fear squeezed my heart as I reached for the note, for a tiny part of me always worried that when he learned of the rumors about his father, he would try and find him.

I glanced at the names of Phillipe Doucet and Will Hayes on the note and read that Andre had left early this morning to meet his friends at the old military camp. Shoving the note into my pocket, I headed downstairs, determined to march out to the camp and pull Andre home by his ear. Ginette and Mignon were in the kitchen with Mama Louisa, and all three of them looked up at me when I stomped in from the breezeway.

"I knows trouble when I see it, sure enough, and them shadows under your eyes speak for themselves. Miz Julie, either the devil is at the door or you have got a bone bigger than the Pontchartrain to pick." Mama Louisa stopped rolling dough and set floury hands on her hips.

"Both." Not even the mouthwatering aroma of chicory coffee and beignets eased my ire. "Andre has already disappeared for the day. He left a note informing me of his whereabouts."

Ginette's eyes widened, but she didn't comment. In fact, I thought she appeared paler and her cheeks more drawn, as if she were in pain.

"At least he told you where he went," Mignon said.

"Thinking like that will have you thanking the alligator for taking off your fingers, because he left you your palm."

"But—"

"Nonnie, there are no excuses for Andre's behavior. He is on the brink of manhood. At almost thirteen, he needs to be filling shoes much more useful to this household than a frolic with his friends in the woods." I moved over to where Ginette sliced apples for breakfast. "Let me cut the rest of these. I desperately need to do something or I will start pulling out my hair."

"The juice is making my hands itch more, anyway." Ginette set down the knife, washed her hands, and sank back onto a nearby bench. "I will set up the sideboard in a few minutes."

That she let me take over spoke volumes. "Have you a headache this morning?"

"I have had one since yesterday."

"I remember you mentioning it when we were in the sitting room working embroidery. Has it not eased at all since?"

"
Non.
"

"I am sending for the doctor."

"Wait until after breakfast. It may just be that I did not eat much last night; I wasn't very hungry."

"All of you youngin's are going to make me old before my time," Mama Louisa said, shaking her head. "Not eatin' right, looking like a ghost. Miz Ginny, you go sit at the dining room table while I fix you a plate and some soothing tea."

"She is sick, isn't she?" Mignon asked softly, after Ginette left. "There is something you are not telling me. Is she going to die?" Tears flooded Mignon's eyes.

"No!" I dropped the knife and ran over to her. Setting my hands on her shoulders, I made her meet my gaze. "That is not true, do you hear me? Whatever made you think such a thing?"

"Beth died, and Ginette is so like her. And I have been so worried—"

"Beth? Whatever are you talking—" Realization dawned, and with it a tide of relief. "You are reading
Little Women.
"

Mignon nodded, tears streaming down her face. "Jo knew before it happened. She realized that Beth would not recover. I don't want Ginny to die."

"Oh, Nonnie," I sighed, wrapping my arms around her, holding her tight. "Ginny is not going to die."

"You've a special delivery, Juliet," Ginette said.

Startled, I looked over Mignon's shoulder. Ginny stood in the doorway, whiter than the lace of her muslin day dress. She clutched the doorframe with one hand and held an envelope in the other.

"I don't want to die, either. What if Nonnie is right? What if she knows something I have yet to realize?"

The world around me kept trying to lurch off its axis, and I wasn't about to let it. "This is utter nonsense, and I'll not hear another word." I gave Mignon a little shake, and went to Ginette. "The way you two are carrying on, Monsieur Gallier and Monsieur Fitz will have you both on stage. Nonnie, you help Mama Louisa with breakfast. Ginette, you finish eating and then go lie down until the doctor arrives and puts your fears to rest. Remember when you were ten and Father brought
Mère
a bottle of perfume that had just arrived from Egypt? Remember the headaches you would get every time she wore it? I am sure this will be something just as simple?

I took the delivery note from Ginette's fingers and went to the one room in which I would not be disturbed, my father’s office. I hoped the note was from Mr. Goodson, telling me when to expect him, or at least explaining what danger I was in. As I stepped into the office, I stared in a shock at the disorder before me. Every drawer was opened, papers were tossed to the floor, paintings had been pulled from the walls, and books dumped from the shelves. Someone had been in a hurry to find something. But what? And who?

I glanced at the missive in my hand and nearly fainted.

While I was out yesterday, Jean Claude collected his trunk, seeing only Father. When you see my brother, tell him to contact me immediately. Father has changes he wants to make in his will since Jean Claude has returned.

Regards, Josephine Boucheron Foucault

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

I could not move, I could not breathe. After ten years, the husband I thought dead had resurrected himself and returned? It wasn't fathomable. My heart filled with dread. I'd believed with all of my heart that he hadn't abandoned us. That he hadn't stolen the gold and disappeared. Through my shock crashed a wave of anger so strong that it nearly blinded me. How dare the man hurt Andre and me like this!

Legalities and the Church might still bind me to him, but my mind, body, and spirit were mine, and I'd never subject them to the pain of abandonment again. There had to be something I could do to protect my family and home.

I was in definite need of legal counsel now, and had no choice but to consult Mr. Davis. I could already see Mr. Latour with his fleshy jowls flapping, informing everyone how he'd had the foresight to warn me of the woes I would have should Jean Claude return—a fact that was just too coincidental not to be investigated, along with the cigar in my attic.

Marching from the office while still looking at the note, I ran into a solid wall of man. Mr. Trevelyan quickly embraced me in strong, steady arms.

"Good Lord, woman. Where's the fire?"

"Fire, monsieur? I happen to be in a hurry and you are in my way." Pressing two fingers to his chest, I pushed him firmly back. As he released me, he slid his hands down my back, leaving a trail of fire that made me shiver.

"I daresay, Mrs. Boucheron, that were I a man of lesser stature and substance, I'd be sorely in need of a physician on a full time basis." He made a great show of straightening the cravat I had dented. "But I much prefer your person to an iron pan."

"Perhaps if you did not lurk in doorways, you would not have this problem. But you appear blessed. Either you have a very hard head or you recover at an astonishing rate." He wore no bandages, and the only sign that he had had an injury was the slight smell of the lavender and mint salve I had used.

"My recovery is due to the excellent care I received. What about you?"

"Nothing happened from which I needed to recover," I replied briskly, trying to ignore the heat he stirred in me and focus on why I shouldn't respond to him—that I was married was at the top of the list. But with him so very near, I had to force my gaze from the sensual curve of his lips and curl my hand around the note to keep from reaching out to touch him. "Did you wish to speak to me about something?"

"Yes, about last night. Whoever broke in was after something. What?" He seemed almost accusatory again, and something inside of me that I had had a tight rein on snapped loose.