When Strangers Marry (25 page)

She barely heard Alex’s final words. “Lysette, if you’re arguing with my brother concerning his remarks to Gregoire at supper, I am completely on your side.”

“Th-thank you,” she managed to say, her stomach tightening.

“
Bon soir,
” he said glumly, and left.

Max added a third finger to the ones already inside her, and began to suckle her aching flesh with quick, smooth tugs. Lysette sobbed as a climax rolled through her, blinding and dark and fierysweet, pulsing through her in relentless waves. As she shivered in the aftermath, Max pressed her flat on the table, keeping her legs spread on either side of his hips. His face was gleaming with perspiration, his eyes smoldering. He pushed inside her slowly, gently courting her swollen flesh until she had engulfed every inch of him. He gripped her bare hips and manipulated her in a rhythm that dragged her back and forth across the table, her silk gown sliding easily over the polished wood. Lysette wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the pleasure rose again, building with each plunge of his hard
shaft. She convulsed in a second climax, and he followed her with a muted groan, his big body shuddering over hers.

Lysette gradually came to her senses, finding herself pinned between the hard table and the weight of her husband’s head on her chest. His breath came in swift rushes that teased her nipple. Completely drained of strength, her body replete with luxurious sensation, she lifted her hand to stroke his hair.

“Who won the argument?” she asked languidly.

She felt Max smile against her breast. “Oh, yes, the argument.” He nuzzled her flushed skin and traced his tongue from one golden freckle to another. “Shall we call this one an even match?”

Purring her approval, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

Max was occasionally a difficult man to live with, but Lysette never doubted her ability to match him. He had become everything to her: friend, lover, protector, a source of excitement, a comforting sanctuary. There were times when Lysette felt the only safe place in the world was in his arms. And there were other times when Max would dispel any illusion of safety. He could be devilishly patient, taking hours to coax her into a state of sensual madness…or he could be reckless and wild, setting every nerve on fire and consuming her in the blaze.

To Lysette’s delight, Max showed no hesitation in taking her everywhere with him, even when he was
conducting business. Taking an interest in his shipping business, she frequently accompanied him to the New Orleans waterfront, where the keelboats and barges were so numerous that one could walk a mile across their decks. When one of the Vallerand ocean trading vessels came into port, laden with goods from Europe and the tropics, she went aboard with him while the cargo was being inspected and unloaded.

Max left Lysette in the care of an officer while he went below with the captain to examine some waterdamaged goods. While she stood at the rail of the high-sided frigate, watching the crew of a nearby flatboat unloading the boxes and supplies of a the-atrical troupe, many of the frigate’s crew gathered around her at a respectful distance. Sensing their gazes, she turned and stared curiously at the swarthy group. They were a dirty, brawny lot, dressed in strange, loose clothing, their shirts fastened by pegs of wood thrust through the buttonholes. The tops of their shoes had been cut off, leaving only two or three lace holes.

“Don’t be afraid, ma’am,” the first officer said. “They just want to look at you.”

“Whatever for?”

“Oh, they ain’t seen a woman for well nigh a month.”

Lysette gave them an uncertain smile, which caused the crew to murmur appreciatively. Gesturing to their feet curiously, she asked in English what had happened to their shoes, as the tops had been removed and the lace holes stitched together.

“These here is pumps,” one of the sailors explained. “When the mate bawls, ’all hands reef top-sails,’ there ain’t time fer lace-up shoes.”

Intrigued, Lysette asked a few more questions, and then they began to compete for her attention, singing ribald sea chanteys, showing her a set of brass knuckles, making her laugh by claiming she was a mermaid who had stowed away during their journey.

Coming up from the ship’s hold, Max stopped at the sight of his wife smiling at the sailors’ antics. A breeze molded the yellow fabric of her gown against the slim shape of her body, while her hair was flame-colored against the deep blue of the sky. He was suddenly overwhelmed with possessive pride.

“Well, now,” said Captain Tierney, stopping beside him to admire the picture. “Forgive me, Mr. Vallerand, but I don’t envy a man with a wife so comely. If she were mine, I’d keep her locked away out of sight.”

“It’s a tempting idea,” Max said, and laughed. “But I prefer having her with me.”

“I can understand why,” Tierney said fervently.

When Max discovered Lysette’s enjoyment of the theater, he began taking her to the St. Pierre, where the prominent members of the community gathered on Tuesdays and Saturdays to enjoy music, drama, and opera. Between acts, people moved around the theater to socialize and gossip.

Gradually it became the habit of many couples to stop by the Vallerands’ box and chat idly, for it was
noticed that since his marriage, Maximilien had undergone a marked change in character. Although he still possessed a certain reserve, he was far more amiable and relaxed, reminding many of the charming boy he had been in the years before he had married Corinne Quérand. The old rumors lost some of their power as Creoles and Americans alike saw that Maximilien’s new wife regarded him with an obvious lack of fear. Perhaps, it was whispered, he wasn’t a devil after all. No man who doted on his wife so openly could be entirely bad.

“Maman,” Lysette said lightly, laying her hand on Irénée’s shoulder as the older woman bent over needlework in the parlor, “I have something to ask you.”

“
Oui
?”

“Would you have any objections if I went through some of the things in the attic?”

Irénée’s head remained bent. Her fingers stopped moving. It was clear she was startled. “Why would you want to do that?”

Lysette shrugged diffidently. “No particular reason. Justin mentioned that there are some interesting things stored away up there—portraits and clothes, old toys. One of these days, perhaps there will be a need to refurbish the nursery, and—”

“Nursery?” Irénée repeated alertly. “Do you suspect you might be with child, Lysette?”

“No.”

“Incomprehensible,” Irénée murmured under her breath. At first she had been mildly amused by
her son’s voracious appetite for his new bride. Now she was beginning to find it vaguely appalling. Noeline had smugly attributed it to the voodoo charms she had hidden under Lysette’s pillow the first few weeks of the marriage.

Lysette smiled idly. “Now that I’ve spoken to you about it, I’ll put on an apron and see what I can find up there.”

“Wait,” Irénée said with an edge in her voice that Lysette had never heard before. “You are going up there to search through
her
things, are you not?”

“Yes,” Lysette admitted, her blue eyes unblinking.

“What do you hope to find?”

“I don’t know. I’m certain that it won’t harm anyone if I look through a few old trunks and boxes.”

“Does Max know?”

“Not yet. I will tell him tonight, when he returns home.”

Irénée held back her advice to wait and ask Max first. She hoped Max would be furious when Lysette told him what she had done. Perhaps then he would set the girl back on her heels, and Lysette would no longer be given free rein. Max needed to see that he was allowing the girl too much freedom. “Very well,” Irénée said evenly. “Ask Noeline for the keys to the trunks.”

Lysette and Justin had climbed up into the attic and cleared a place among piles of oddities. There was a set of bronze lamps and an old bayonet in the corner.
Behind the trunks were a disassembled tester bed, a rocking cradle, and a wooden tub.

Lysette sneezed repeatedly, waving at a cloud of dust as she struggled with the massive lid of a trunk. As she opened it, its rusted hinges squealed. There was a protesting noise from Justin, who was rattling a key in the lock of another trunk nearby. “
Sang de Dieu
, don’t do that again,” he exclaimed. “I hate that sound. Worse than fingernails on a slate!”

“I had no idea your nerves were so fragile, Justin.” Lysette laughed as she pulled out a folded quilt, a sumptuous trapunto design of delicate rococo swirls, vines, and flowers. Thousands of tiny stitches and much painstaking work had contributed to its exquisite texture. “What did Philippe say when you told him what we were doing?” she asked.

“He is glad that I am with you. Someone needs to protect you if Maman’s ghost jumps out of one of these trunks.”

Lysette frowned. “Justin, don’t!”

He grinned. “Are you scared?”

“I will be if you keep talking about ghosts!” She smiled at him ruefully. Dust motes drifted in and out of the light that came through the attic window. “Justin, will it upset you if I look at these things?”

“No, I’m as curious as you are. You’re hoping to find some clue about who might have killed her,
n’est-ce pas
? You’ll do better with my help. I might be able to recognize something you—”

The boy stopped speaking as he looked at the quilt she held, his eyes wide. “I remember that!”

Lysette looked down at the quilt, her hand smoothing over the intricate swirls. “You do?”

“It was on Maman’s bed. There should be a stain on one of the edges. I jumped on her bed once and made her spill her coffee.” Justin had a faraway look on his face. “She was so angry.
Dieu
, what a temper she had.”

“Were you afraid of her?”

Justin stared at the quilt with dark sapphire eyes, still remembering. “Sometimes she was so beautiful and soft. But when she was in one of her rages…
oui
, I was afraid of her. It’s strange to love someone and at the same time fear that she might kill you.”

“Justin, you do not have to stay up here with me. If it is painful for you—”

“It was odd, the way it happened,” he continued absently. “Maman was there one day, and then the next, she was gone. Completely gone. Father made certain that every trace of her was removed from sight.
Grand-mère
told me that she had gone away for a long visit. Then Father left for several days. When he returned, he didn’t look the same at all. He was hard and cold…he looked like the picture of the devil in one of my books—I thought he
was
the devil. I thought he had taken Maman away.”

Lysette’s heart ached for Max and his sons. She lay the quilt aside and delved back into the trunk, coming up with an armful of tiny baby clothes and bonnets. “It’s not difficult to guess who these belonged to,” she said. “Everything is in twos.”

Justin reached out and took one of the miniature gowns in his long, callused fingers. “You can tell
them apart. Everything I wore has a rip or a stain. Everything Philippe wore is immaculate.”

Lysette laughed. As she searched the trunk, she discovered piles of lace collars, embroidered gloves, delicate painted fans. All of them must have belonged to Corinne. She picked up a pair of silk lace gloves and put them down hastily, feeling guilty at sorting through a dead woman’s possessions. To her discomfort, she was also aware of a sting of jealousy. Seeing these personal belongings made it seem real, that there had been another woman Max had loved enough to marry. He had made love to her, and she had borne him two children.

Searching through more trunks, Lysette found elaborately beaded and festooned garments, lavish gowns, dainty undergarments. The clothes were made for a tall, slender woman. Lysette’s sense of being an intruder grew stronger with each revelation. She discovered a tiny bronze box containing two dried cakes of red face paint, and an ornate comb, decorated with pearls and an egret feather. Two or three long, dark hairs were caught in the teeth of the comb. Corinne’s hair, she thought, and a cold feeling went down her spine.

“Justin,” she asked reluctantly, “are there any portraits of your mother up here?” She had to see what Corinne had looked like. Her curiosity was nearly unbearable.

“I suppose.” Justin climbed over an armoire on its side to a stack of frames covered by a canvas tied with cords. Pulling out his knife, he cut the cords and tugged at the dust-caked cloth. Lysette scrambled
to her feet, sore from having been on her knees so long. She made her way to him and looked over his shoulder at one portrait after another. One was of a very attractive woman.

“Is that her?” Lysette asked hopefully.

“No, it is
Grand-mère
. Can’t you see?”

“Oh, yes.” She recognized Irénée’s dark eyes in the woman’s young, solemn face.

“Here is Maman,” Justin said, pulling the portrait aside to display the next one.

Lysette went still at the sight, amazed by the lavish beauty of the young woman. Her sultry violet-blue eyes—Justin’s eyes—were exotic and heavily lashed. Sable curls framed her face, one dangling artlessly against her long white throat. Her lips were red and perfectly bow-shaped, touched with a flirtatious quirk. For all her dazzling beauty, however, Corinne had possessed a soft, vulnerable quality. No wonder Max had succumbed to her heartbreaking beauty.

“Did she really look like that?” Lysette asked, and Justin smiled at the plaintive note in her voice.

“Yes,
belle-mère
. But you are just as pretty.”

Lysette smiled ruefully and sat on a trunk. A cloud of dust wafted upward and swirled around her. She heard Justin snicker.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Your hair is all gray. So is your face.”

She returned Justin’s smile, observing that his black hair was covered with dust and spiderwebs, and his face was streaked with filth. “So is yours.”

He grinned crookedly. “Have we seen enough for today,
belle-mère?
”

“Yes,” she said fervently. “
Allons
, Justin. I am ready to leave now.”