Out of the Dark (3 page)

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.