Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) (34 page)

He didn’t. Imperious, exact, maddeningly expert, he teased and tested with mind-stopping deliberation. At the same time, his hands cupped and held and caressed, spreading the pleasure until it flowed in endless tides inside her, until her senses reached such a vibrant pitch that she writhed with soft sighs, half-stifled moans.

Her blood seethed in her veins and she could hear it thundering softly in her ears. Her chest rose and fell with the force of every breath. Her skin glowed with heat, while the muscles of her abdomen and her thighs tightened, quivering. She turned her head from side to side, her hands trembling as she clutched his shoulders, though she released him swiftly with a cry of self-reproach, afraid she had hurt him.

She raked her fingers through his hair instead in the mindless need to touch and hold. Smoothing the crisp strands back from his temple and over his ear, she dipped the tip of a finger inside his ear opening.

With a soft sound in his throat, he caught her hand, placing it on his shoulder, then moved inside her arms to gather her close. He buried his face between the tender mounds of her breast, placing a kiss there, then reached to twine his fingers in her hair and draw her moist and parted lips down for his kiss. He plunged his tongue into her mouth to probe the sweetness of her arousal, abrading the raw-silk roughness of her tongue with his own, applying gentle suction while he eased closer against her.

The press of his maleness against her abdomen and pelvis was hard, exciting. She moved nearer still, holding herself against it, reveling in the firm heat while her blood simmered in her veins. Inside, she waited, liquid and suspended.

He kissed the sensitive corner of her mouth, brushed his lips across her cheekbone, then feathered across her eyelids to taste the slight saltiness at the base of her lashes with his tongue. His voice quiet and a little rough, he said, “Open your eyes, Angelica. Look at me.”

It was hard, so hard. Such an exposure of the soul. Her lashes quivered with the strain, lifted. Her eyes were dark blue and liquid with the desire that suffused her, so brilliant with loving emotion that their pupils were black and fathomless with it. His own gaze was devouring and glazed with such deep longing it had the look of pain.

His chest rose and fell with a long, difficult breath. “I love you, my angel.”

The gladness that rose inside her swamped thought, encompassed the world, glittered in her eyes. “And I, you, my very own devil,” she said.

Savage joy flowed over his features. His arms hardened around her. “Then take me inside when you’re ready. It shall be as you wish.”

She needed no more. Sliding her hands down the long, muscle-ridged line of his back, she grazed his hipbones with her palms, collected the silken length of him and set it in place. Then closing her hands slowly upon his hard flanks, she drew him close so he penetrated her engorged flesh in a slow and heated slide. A soft gasp left her, and she took him deeper, embracing him with spasmodic internal contractions.

He drew a hissing breath of tested control. Then in answer to her tentative movements, he set a rhythm with the steady throb of a heartbeat. He filled her, stretching, fueling the hovering rapture. It suffused them, spreading over the surface of their skin in a rippling of gooseflesh and the dew of perspiration. They rocked with it, gasping, spiraling higher, then higher still.

The apex caught them abruptly, in a frenzy of bliss and gladness and desperate longing. They surged upon each other, grasping, holding with panting breaths and tender flesh, seeking to deny the wisps of doubt that clung to them.

He picked her up, tumbling her to her back while he hovered above her. She cried out with pleasure for his deeper plunge, the deeper joy. A moment later, he shifted her with her hair coiling around them, drawing her on top of him on the narrow cot for the deepest possible penetration.

It was pulsating and sensual ecstasy, a primary indulgence that vanquished time and place. They hovered, striving, mouth to mouth, their limbs moist and locked. Inside her, there gathered a shivering, dissolving sensation. Her hold grew rigid while a soft sound of distress escaped her.

Renold heaved above her once more, driving into her with shuddering impacts that ignited a brilliant internal explosion. She arched upward, welcoming the violent strokes, wanting them, needing them. Bracing on the cot’s edges, he gave her what she required, throbbing and powerful inside her, his every movement fueling the wondrous rush sweeping through her.

It was consuming glory, a miraculous upheaval that transcended fear, banished thought, and could surely forge bonds of the flesh past all severance. Stunning, bursting, it held her, and with it she gave him all she had of herself, offered every vestige of her love.

With a final, wrenching lunge, he joined her in the perfect bond. Surrendering to it, they clung, drifting. And were hardly conscious of the moment when it left them and they were divided, separate, again.

He eased down beside her, settling her into the curve of his body. The steady burning lamplight burnished their skin with tints of yellow and gold, pink and peach, bronze and ivory. It caught the glint of their eyes as they lay, each staring wide-eyed, seeing nothing in the dim room.

Angelica grew cramped and uncomfortable, still she didn’t move. There sifted into her mind a vague disturbance over Renold’s offer to renew his wedding vows. The suggestion had been made so readily. He seemed comfortable with the idea, ready to do whatever pleased her. And yet, he had quickly turned to more personal matters without discussing it in any detail. It seemed odd.

A wedding at Bonheur. It would be a quiet affair, no doubt, as became a simple reaffirmation of vows that had supposedly already been made. She didn’t want a great many people around her, did not care for the special decorations or a fine new dress, could not face a lavish display of food and drink. Her mourning made it impossible, of course, but more than that, it would be a reminder of everything that her father had planned for her.

She wondered what he would think if he could see her, if he would be horrified or pleased. Certainly, he would be worried, she knew, for he had loved her in his way, and must be concerned that she was living with a man so much his enemy. It was possibly just as well that he would never know.

She had accused Renold of self-sacrifice, of martyring himself on the field of honor to prove a point. Yet, wasn’t she doing the same by marrying Renold in order to return legal claim to Bonheur to those from whom her father had taken it? Was it martyrdom if she wanted the consequences with all her heart?

But perhaps Renold was also sacrificing himself by marrying her. It was his choice, one she could not remember being given the opportunity to refuse. Still, it might be wrong to accept that gesture from him now.

Did he mean it? Would he go through with another ceremony? And if he did, would it be as he said, a concession to ease her mind? Or could it be just a clever ruse to legitimize their union, their first and only wedding? She wished she knew, but saw no way to discover the truth.

~
~ ~

Renold stood with his shoulder braced against the column of the gallery, staring down the drive. Tit Jean was approaching from the steamboat landing, coming on his mule at a fast trot. It was plain the manservant had news. Pray God, it was what they all waited to hear.

It was. Father Goulet would be arriving on the steamboat tomorrow morning, following after the note the priest had sent accepting Renold’s invitation to Bonheur. The wedding could proceed.

Renold was relieved. He had been afraid his whim to have his own priest, his mother’s old confessor, would cause considerably more delay. He wanted this over and done; the sooner, the better. They would have the ceremony tomorrow evening.

Everything was ready, he thought. His mother had seen fit to approve the decision when he told her of it, and had thrown her considerable talent for organization into the preparations. The thing would be a bit more grand than he had planned, but it made no difference so long as Angelica was pleased.

It had been touch and go two days ago. Tit Jean, in the small river town on an errand, had watched the arrival of a steamer from upriver. The boat had landed several crates and barrels for Bonheur. The manservant had naturally seen to it that they were brought up to the house. Following after them, he had begun to unpack them. Angelica had walked into the middle of the operation.

Renold had heard her cry out as he walked from the stable. Cold sweat drenched him, and he broke into a run. He found her standing in the middle of the litter of straw and broken crates, her hands to her mouth as she stared at the carefully stacked china and crystal, the burlap wrapped hams and sides of bacon, the boxes of raisins and crocks of pickles and curious shell-shaped pottery jars of olive oil. Tears had spilled over her lashes as her gaze rested on the silk gown that spilled from a special box. Of lustrous pale blue, it was embellished with cobweb lace, draped with ribbon loops and streamers, and set with pink silk rosebuds.

It was, of course, the bridal gown commissioned in Natchez for Angelica by her father. With it were all the rich meats and other confections for the wedding feast. Standing there, staring at it, Renold had cursed himself for his lack of forethought. He should have known the things would come, should have done something to stop them.

He had stepped toward her, meaning to take her in his arms. Turning away as if she had not seen him, she walked to her bedchamber and closed the door behind her. He had listened shamelessly outside, afraid he would hear her crying. There had not been a sound. That had, somehow, been worse.

When she appeared later, she had been quite composed. She would wear the bridal gown, she said. Torn between a need to see her out of the black of mourning, if only for a day, and reluctance to have his wife dressed by the man who had stolen Bonheur, Renold had said nothing. Wearing it had some meaning for her, he thought, a gesture toward what was past. He had no objection to that so long as she looked toward the future. With him.

“Maître?”

The manservant was still standing before him, patiently waiting to be noticed again. Renold said, “My apologies, Tit Jean. There was something else?”

“The men you have been expecting? I think they may have come. Two strangers got off the steamboat on the day of the blue dress, one young, one older. They have been asking questions.”

“Hardly conclusive,” Renold said. “Unless you have a more exact description?”

“Indeed, maître,” Tit Jean said, “but it is, I think, unnecessary. The watch posted along the river road reports that these two rode past the house late last night. They stopped to look, then went on.”

“No one disturbed them?”

“No, maître.”

“The watch wasn’t seen?”

Tit Jean shook his head. “They think not, though they can’t be sure.”

“Instruct them to look sharp. They will be back, and they may bring friends.”

The manservant inclined his head, then moved away into the house. Renold turned back toward the front lawn with a frown between his brows.

It was Carew, of course. What was he doing sneaking around? Why didn’t he just ride up the drive and demand his daughter?

Scorn rose inside Renold as he considered the question. He could not believe his reputation as a swordsman was so fearsome it would keep a loving father at bay. That it apparently could only strengthened the low opinion he had of Edmund Carew.

What was the man up to, then? Would he try another piece of trickery like the one that failed in New Orleans?

Let him. Bonheur would be ready.

Twilight was the time chosen for the wedding. The sun set across the fields, edging the blades of the long rows of cane with gold. It swathed the sky in gauzy clouds of pink, rose, mauve, and lavender before sinking behind the saw-toothed line of the trees. The evening settled into the melancholy half-light known as
l’heure bleu
, the blue hour.

Doves called with a mournful note across the lawn. The scent of honeysuckle hung on the warm air, drifting in at the open French doors. Blended with it were the smells of woodsmoke and roasting meat from the wedding feast that waited. The rich fragrances joined the sweet lemon scent of the magnolias that banked the altar erected at one end of the front parlor. Branched candelabras stood there also, their candles casting a soft glow over the fine damask altar cloth, the silver chalice, the worn cassock of the priest who stood to one side.

Deborah, softly and with precise fingering, played a Beethoven sonata on the pianoforte. The notes flowed around the long room — the doors between front and back parlors had been thrown wide — than drifted out the French doors into the evening. Michel stood at Deborah’s side, turning the pages of her music. They glanced at each other now and then in silent, half-smiling communication.

As if drawn by the scents and sounds, the people of Bonheur approached the house, the house servants crowding into the back of the parlor, the field hands lining the gallery. Estelle and Tit Jean, as was their right, took their places in the forefront of the gathering near Renold’s mother.

All that was needed was the bride. She was late.

Renold stood in a pretense of ease beside the bedchamber door where Angelica would appear. He kept his face impassive with an effort while he waited, though his heart was beating so hard he could hear the links of his watch chain rattling against a waistcoat button. So much had gone wrong in what might be called, with some irony, his courtship of Angelica. He would not be surprised if something prevented this last step.