Storm Winds (49 page)

“You were
her
child.” Jean Marc rocked her back and forth with rough tenderness. “That should have been enough.”

“I used to be so certain about everything. I used to think I didn’t need anything or anyone but my painting. I used to think I could close everyone out and live in my own world. I’m not sure of anything any longer.”

“Tomorrow you’ll be yourself again.”

“Will I? I feel very strange. Alone. I have no one now but Catherine, and she’s growing away from me.”

“Nonsense. She still loves you.”

“She’s found something …” She closed her eyes.

Jean Marc gently pressed her cheek into the curve of his shoulder. “I should never have taken you there. Dupree could have killed you.”

“You couldn’t have stopped me. She was my mother and I couldn’t let her steal from the queen. The queen was the only person at Versailles who was kind to me. She was all I had during those years. I … think I must love her, Jean Marc.” She laughed shakily. “I’ve never admitted I loved anyone before. I was always too frightened.”

“Frightened?”

“Love hurts …” She wished the wind would stop its howling. The sound made her feel hollow inside. “I don’t want to love her. Isn’t it queer you can love someone who doesn’t really love you? You’d think life would be more fair than to let that happen. And it’s all my fault. Even as a little girl I knew I shouldn’t love a butterfly.”

“Sometimes you can’t help loving the wrong people.”

She scarcely heard him. “And you said a butterfly shouldn’t be allowed to rule the greatest country in Europe. Well, she’s not ruling it now, is she?” The tears were running down her cheeks again and she impatiently wiped them on his shirt. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I suppose I keep getting my mother and the queen mixed up in my thoughts. It’s foolish to weep. There’s no reason. I couldn’t expect the queen to love me, and my mother didn’t even like me. Don’t you see how stupid I’m being?”

Jean Marc didn’t answer, he merely held her and gently stroked her curls until she finally drifted off to sleep.

Dupree heard a scurrying among the rocks, and panic shook him wide awake. The roaches. The roaches would get him.

He turned over on the rock and then screamed with agony.

Bone jutted out of his shoulder, gleaming white in the moonlight.

Blood gushed from the wound in his side.

He was dying.

He heard the scurrying again.

No, he couldn’t die. If he was still, they’d be all over him. In his mouth, in his hair …

He wadded the tail of his shirt and stuck it in the wound.

Pain again.

He opened his mouth and howled.

Agony shot through his face, something was smashed in his jaw.

He began to crawl toward the softer earth beneath the trees, away from the roaches beneath the rocks.

His left leg was broken; dragging it over the rough ground made him dizzy with pain.

He couldn’t stop.

He reached the trees and lay whimpering with anger and pain. Why had his mother done this to him when he had wanted only to please her?

No, it wasn’t his mother this time. It was the others.

He heard the scurrying again. Were they really there or was it his imagination? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t take the chance. He started to inch up the hill. Light. He had to get to the light. They wouldn’t follow him into the light.

He couldn’t die there in the darkness.

He knew well the creatures of the night.

If he lay still, they would seek him out and devour him.

I
thought we were going back to Cannes, Jean Marc.” Juliette’s hands closed on the rail as she gazed at the tall, round turrets of the splendid château set like a jewel on the island off the
Bonne Chance
’s bow. “I told Catherine we’d come back to Vasaro before we went to Paris. Why are we here at the Ile du Lion?”

Jean Marc turned to watch the sailors lower the longboat into the turbulent sea. “There are things I must have packed and taken away from here. The furnishings, the journals, my father’s paintings.”

“Why?”

“Because I won’t risk leaving them to the looters when they decide to take the château away from me.”

Her gaze shifted to his face. “You’re so sure it will happen?”

He nodded. “It will come. There’s a
madness in the land and it’s growing worse every day.”

“Then why do you remain?”

“It’s the country of my birth. I keep hoping …” He shook his head. “But I won’t blind myself to realities because I want to remain here. The family must survive if all else perishes.”

She studied his expression. “The family. That’s why you would like a child by me. You want a child to help the Andreas family survive.”

“Perhaps.”

“It wouldn’t help. The child wouldn’t have the Andreas name.”

Jean Marc’s gaze met her own. “That’s true. Certain adjustments would have to be made.”

“And, besides, we both know I’m not with child.”

He smiled faintly. “Yes, we do. However, one can never know what tomorrow will bring.” He gazed once more at the château. “Do you wish to go ashore with me? The château has been closed since my father died and there are no servants to make you comfortable.”

She was surprised at the abrupt change of subject. “How long will we be anchored here?”

“Several hours. I want to supervise the loading to make sure they’ve missed nothing of importance to me.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I do want to go ashore.”

The rose garden they passed through on the way to the chateau in which Jean Marc had grown up was a wild tangle of thorn-laden shrubbery.

Juliette asked, “Why did you close the house after your father died?”

“I was seldom here. It was more convenient for me to buy a house in Marseilles and conduct my business from there.”

“But it’s so beautiful here.” She gazed out over the myriad paths and graceful fountains of the garden that stretched as far as the shimmering blue-green waters of the Golfe du Lion. “This garden must have been lovely at one time.”

He nodded. “One of the most beautiful in France.
The garden’s actually older than the château. It was designed by Sanchia Andreas in 1511 when the island was first purchased. The château was built later.” He climbed the stone steps and inserted the large brass key he carried into the lock before calling back to Captain De Laux over his shoulder. “The Jade Salon, first, Simon. It’s on your right. Have the men pack everything very carefully.”

“You want the furniture loaded on the ship too?” Simon asked.

“Everything. Nothing’s to be left behind that can be transported.”

“So that’s why you wouldn’t let me negotiate a return cargo at La Escala. The furniture will fill the entire hold.” Simon turned and began giving the orders to the sailors straggling through the garden behind him.

Juliette followed Jean Marc into the château, gazing curiously around the huge foyer.

Dust and cobwebs had claimed the hall. Sheer lacy webs surrounded the candles in the chandelier and clouded the Venetian mirror on the wall. Grime dimmed the glory of the stained glass windows that formed an arched cupola over the entire foyer and cast rainbow prisms of color on the teak tiles of the floor.

Jean Marc opened a handsomely carved oak door. “This was my father’s study. There are a few journals I want to pack myself.”

Juliette followed him into the room and closed the door. Dust and cobwebs again, though all the cushioned pieces of furniture in the room were covered with sheets of linen.

Jean Marc was gazing at the painting over the fireplace.

The woman in the portrait wore a blue satin gown with wide skirts. Her classical features were flawless, her form slim yet voluptuous. Long dark lashes veiled deep blue eyes and her long golden hair was styled in a coiffure that had been popular when Juliette’s mother had first taken her to Versailles. “She couldn’t be that beautiful,” Juliette stated positively. “The artist flattered
her. My teacher, Madame Vigée Le Brun did that all the time with her subjects. Did she paint this portrait?”

“No.”

“Who is she?”

“Charlotte.” Jean Marc’s gaze never left the painting. “It was painted by one of her lovers, a man named Pierre Kevoir.”

“No wonder he flattered her.”

“It was no flattery. She was far more beautiful than this.”

“Truly?” She moved forward to stand before the painting. “Then she was even more lovely than my mother. Your father didn’t know this artist was her lover?”

“He knew. He knew about all of them. She made little attempt to hide her affairs.” Jean Marc finally tore his gaze away from the painting and walked to the desk across the room. “The journals are in this drawer …”

“Why did he keep the painting here?”

“He loved her. He said she was the most beautiful thing he possessed and wanted to have her likeness before him always. My mother died when I was five and my father met Charlotte d’Abois two years later. He begged her to marry him but she was never like other women. She had no use for the strictures of marriage and enjoyed the freedom of her life as a courtesan.” His lips twisted. “However, she also enjoyed the power money gave her and consented to be his mistress.” Jean Marc’s words became jerky as he drew four large journals from the top drawer of the desk. “He didn’t care that she slept with Kevoir.”

“Most peculiar,” Juliette said. “He must not have been at all like you. I think you’d care very much if a woman you loved cuckolded you.”

“How perceptive.” His voice was without intonation as he went to the bookshelves and took down two volumes. He carried them back to the desk. “But, since that circumstance is not likely to occur, we need not consider it. I have no intention of either sharing you or falling into the trap of loving you, Juliette.”

Juliette felt a sudden pang and she quickly nodded.
“Of course, it was only an observation.” She gazed back at the painting. “She has no expression. Was she a cold woman?”

“Not in bed. She cuckolded my father with half the men in Marseilles.”

“But other than in bed?”

“Yes.” Jean Marc went to the pedestal by the window, brought the crystal swan to the desk, and set it carefully with the journals. “Very cold.”

“What happened when you returned from Jamaica?”

“Why are you asking these questions?” He smiled crookedly. “You have no sketchbook and pen in your hands.”

“I want to know.”

He suddenly slammed the drawer of the desk. “When I returned I found that two months before she had run away to Greece with her current lover, Jacques Leton. She’d been stealing funds from the company for some time and giving them to Leton. Everyone knew but my father. That was the reason she’d arranged for me to go with Basteau on the slaver.” His voice harshened. “She made my father look the fool. I went after them.”

Juliette’s gaze remained riveted to his face. “To Greece?”

“Yes. I challenged and killed Leton. But Charlotte hadn’t grown tired of him yet and felt cheated. She decided to punish me.”

“How?”

“She returned to my father and begged his forgiveness.”

Juliette gazed at him incredulously. “And he took her back?”

“Without even a harsh word.” He smiled bitterly. “I told you she ruled my father. Four months after she returned here, she married him. She tried to make him disinherit me, but he consented only to sending me away. He told me I didn’t understand Charlotte and we’d all be happier if I went to Italy to the University of Padua. She died two years later and I returned home.”
He looked at Juliette. “Satisfied? You’ve finally stripped me of all my secrets. Does it please you?”

“No.” She wanted to reach out and comfort him but he had once again retreated behind his glittering barrier. “Did you … have affection for her?”

“When I was a child I thought she was a magical being just as my father did. I learned quickly, however.”

He had learned pain and betrayal and the knowledge that he was helpless in the wake of the power wielded by Charlotte d’Abois. Even now, after all these years, she could see those emotions burning still within him.

“I can’t understand how he could take her back.”

“I can. He was a dreamer. He saw her only as he wanted to see her.” Jean Marc drew a deep breath. “My father always said I couldn’t understand him because I was too practical to dream. Well, God save me from the dreamers of this world.”

“He didn’t understand you,” Juliette said quietly. “I think you, too, have dreams, but you rule them instead of letting them rule you.”

“Nonsense. I’m no dreamer. You’re right, my father and I were not at all alike.” He moved across the salon toward the door. “I believe only what I can see and touch.” He locked the door. “And I want very badly to see and touch you at this moment, Juliette. Will you please unfasten your gown?”

She gazed at him in surprise. “Now?”

He smiled recklessly. “Why not? I have a fancy to take you in a place that’s not moving and shifting with every wave.” He took off his coat and tossed it on the desk, half covering the crystal swan. “Indulge my whim.”

She had begun to realize he seldom acted on impulse. There was some reason he wanted to make love to her in this room. Something to do with the rawness of the pain she sensed within him.

Jean Marc was moving toward her. “You have no objection?”

She slowly shook her head, her gaze clinging to his. “No,” she whispered. “I’ve no objection, Jean Marc.”

She could feel the tension flowing from him, enveloping
her in its power. She disrobed, every motion steady and unhurried. In a few moments she stood naked before him. “Is this what you want?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.” His gaze went over her slowly. Whatever his purpose, she knew he wanted her. She could see the thick column of his manhood thrusting against the smooth snugness of his trousers, the slight flare of his nostrils, the flush darkening the high planes of his cheekbones. She knew and that knowledge was igniting an answering response.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” He didn’t touch her with anything but his eyes. Yet it was enough to send a hot shiver through her. “And more. Go over and lie down on that lovely Savonnerie carpet in front of the fireplace. I have a fancy to see you framed against those exquisite colors.”