Paradise Found

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Paradise Found By Crystal Hubbard

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Paradise Found by Crystal Hubbard Red Rose™ Publishing Publishing with a touch of Class! ™ The symbol of the Red Rose and Red Rose is a trademark of Red Rose™ Publishing Red Rose™ Publishing Copyright© 2009 Crystal Hubbard ISBN: 978-1-60435-439-3 Cover Artist: Shirley Burnett Editor: Michelle Ellis Line Editor: WRFG All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any ebooks away. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. Red Rose™ Publishing www.redrosepublishing.com Forestport, NY 13338 Thank you for purchasing a book from Red Rose™Publishing where publishing comes with a touch of Class!

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Paradise Found By Crystal Hubbard

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Bayou Teche Louisiana, 1840

She encountered no one as she hurried toward the little red schoolhouse. On any other bright August afternoon, young children would have been playing hoops or marbles on the hard-packed dirt in front of the building. The older boys and girls, in partnerships that changed weekly, would have indulged in long, lazy walks along paths lined with magnolia and cottonwood trees. Promised, engaged, and newlywed couples would have sat for hours in the garden, sharing the treasure of first love. Mothers would have been preparing evening meals and trading gossip while their men pitched horseshoes for pennies, or engaged in lively conversation about the sugarcane or rice harvest. The lack of activity on the balconies and porches of the one- and two-story cottages Alyssa passed gave the impression that Beaux Elysees had been abandoned. Indian elephants in spangled headpieces could have been waltzing in the courtyard and Alyssa would have paid no heed, her thoughts lost to the pain and fear gnawing at her soul.

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She circled to the back of the schoolhouse and allowed the bayou to swallow her, her feet traveling familiar trails through stands of ancient cypress trees. Thoughts of her father filled her heart while Captain Marc Ghiradelli occupied her head. He will come, Alyssa recited to herself as she dropped to her hands and knees. She crawled through the deep undergrowth of the bayou, matting tufts of high grasses, and clover-leafed wood sorrel. “Marc will come to us because he must.” He had always been her imaginary dragon-slayer, the charming prince of her daydreams. Like a silly schoolgirl, she still fantasized about the dashing sea captain who rode the seas on a ship like no other. Though her dreams of Marc had been lost to the waking nightmare of her father‟s illness, it was inconceivable that Marc would fail her now, when she needed him in reality. She worked fervently under the sun-dappled canopies of giant oaks and black willows. In the airlessness of the bayou, she sorted through hibiscus and wild iris, tall reeds and wild dandelions, snatching stalks of this or the leaves of that, to throw into her weathered wicker basket. The mechanical whir of dragonflies and lubber grasshoppers accompanied the movement of a spotted salamander, its yellow and orange body a splash of color against her dun trousers as it darted across her knee. Just as quickly, the creature disappeared into the rich black earth from which she had torn a handful of l’herbe a malot, the swamp lily root

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capable of relieving fever. Perspiration dotted her brow and darkened her shirt as she tore her fingernails, ripping at the medicinal plants whose healing powers were the only magic she had ever known. She needed that magic now, more than she had ever needed anything.

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Chapter One

“I must speak with both of you,” Vincent Verdieu said, his words mere whispers in the dim room. Alyssa and her mother, Rose, gathered close at Vincent‟s bedside. “Save your strength, Papa,” Alyssa urged tenderly, caressing his gaunt cheek. “Whatever you must tell us surely can wait until tomorrow.” Please, mon dieu, give us a tomorrow! For months, they had been powerless to do more than watch as Vincent‟s heart, his generous and brave heart, slowly wound down like a well-loved clock spring keepsake. The vibrant and handsome husband and father, with his flashing green eyes and thick golden hair threaded with silver, was dying. Physicians consulted from all over the world had no power to save him. Their combined skill as medicine women had been unable to heal him. All they could do now was comfort him, and love him, as always. Rose, her ebony eyes glistening, stroked his pale brow. “Is it Marc, my darling?” “In part,” he answered weakly. “I knew that Gian would not fail me. But I had hoped that Marc would have arrived by now. As for Edmond, I thank God for

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allowing me to find him, before—” He refused to wound her by voicing the inevitable. Harsh, wracking coughs tore from his chest. Rose quickly placed a clean linen cloth at his lips to catch the bloody sputum. Joshua, their dear friend and estate manager, moved from the large windows and into the tent of gauzy mosquito netting surrounding the massive tester bed. He helped Vincent into an upright position. The rattle of her father‟s breathing brought tears to Alyssa‟s emerald eyes. For so long, his ragged breathing had been the constant song of their days and nights. Alyssa had worked tirelessly for weeks, trying every poultice, inhalant, balm, and wrap on her father that she could think of, from camphor salts to boiled skunk fat. She refused to believe that the full measure of her love and medicinal expertise would not heal him. Vincent indulged each of her applications, though he knew they could do little more than ease his discomfort. “Do not cry for me, my loves,” Vincent pleaded, wincing against the pain in his chest. “I am ready to leave this world. My pain is but an agony borne of the knowledge that I must leave you both.” Even with Death‟s cold breath at his neck, Vincent‟s sole concern was the family he would leave to an unimaginably cruel world. The one sickness Vincent feared most was the one that seemed to have no cure. The Sauk, Fox, and

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Cherokee had been forced from their lands in Georgia and Florida. Federal forces had twice been called to Florida to battle the Seminole. Efforts to transplant free Negroes to Africa had been ongoing for two decades in the North, while the South continued to trade and smuggle slaves into the country. As time passed in a blur, Vincent had come to fear the social and political fever of his adopted homeland more than he feared death. He reached for Rose but was too weak to lift his hand. She took it and guided it to cup her cheek. “I love you, Rose Shining Dove,” he began. “I inherited this estate with the intention of maintaining a home where love could flourish. God has blessed me in that Beaux Elysees is just such a place.” Alyssa‟s heart ached at the tender exchange between her parents. Please, God! What can I do to heal him? What must I do to save my father? “I must leave you,” Vincent sighed, as if in answer to Alyssa‟s desperate prayer. Rose bowed her head into the knot of their hands. “This day has arrived sooner than I expected. My life with you has brought more happiness to me than any one man deserves. I shall go to my reward having known paradise.” Vincent winced and clutched weakly at his chest. It took a long moment for him to regain his breath. Alyssa pressed her cheek to his as Rose planted urgent kisses on his fingers. If only love were the medicine to cure him!

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With Joshua‟s help, Vincent eased onto his back. Joshua, his lined face as dark and richly brown as a coffee bean, took his friend‟s hand. Vincent‟s skin, once sun-dark and healthy, was translucent against Joshua‟s strong brown one. “Dear, dear friend,” said Joshua, his voice thick with sorrow. “Fear not for yours. Your people are my people.” “Thank you,” Vincent managed before a coughing spasm. “But remember, always first take care of yourself. The rest will follow.” Another fit of coughing filled the somber room. Rose poured a glass of cool water while Joshua retreated, his shoulders quaking with silent tears. Vincent sipped a bit of water from a crystal goblet Rose held to his lips. “My, this coughing and wheezing grows tiresome,” he remarked with forced joviality. “My love, would you open the portieres? The room is so dark and dreary.” Rose did as he asked, filling the room with the light of the clear day. She started back to his side. “Cherie, open the window. Let in the breeze,” he pleaded softly. “This place reeks of ill health and weakness.” She did so. Vincent‟s voice, quiet as a shadow, strained to reach her at the window. “Ah, the honeysuckle smells delicious.” He inhaled the scent as deeply as his exhausted lungs would allow. “Look, and tell me what you see. You have always been my heart and soul. For this moment, be my eyes.”

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Rose sat in the brocade chair section of the duchesse brisée near the window and gazed upon the estate. Her slender throat visibly worked to force words over the thickness constricting it. “It is everything we dreamed and more,” she began. “Pedro Cortes has finished the addition to his cottage. He has completed the balustrade. The iron lacework casts a lovely shadow on the bricks lining the front path. Tita has planted Spanish dagger along the front of the house. The waxen blooms are whiter than clouds.” Rose swung her gaze to the house facing the Cortes‟. “Giselle‟s rose garden is in full bloom,” she noted wistfully. “Oh, Vincent, it is a riot of red, yellow, and peach. It reminds me of the gardens we visited in Paris. I remember strolling through them, on our honeymoon, and—” A numbing sensation washed through Alyssa. Tears welled to blur her vision as she met her mother‟s gaze. Rose clasped a hand to her throat. They listened. Other than the loud echo of their heartbeats, the room was woefully quiet.

“Aye, Captain!” called a stout figure within a chamber concealed by scarlet velvet curtains. “Allow me to buy a peck, a pint, and a pinch for the finest captain ever to sail the high seas.”

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Marc Ghiradelli kept walking, though he knew the fat buzzard‟s offer of food, drink, and women was for him. The Nightingale was one of Hong Kong‟s finest dining establishments. The increasing opium trade had brought a less refined clientele. “Cap‟n Ghiradelli!” the man called again, his Australian accent made more cacophonous by copious volumes of plum wine. A Chinese woman dressed in pink silk, her movements as delicate as the chrysanthemum blossoms centered on the table, lifted silver domes from porcelain dishes steaming with delicacies indigenous to southeastern China. As she bowed to the Australian and started backing away, he roughly tugged her onto his lap. “Whatever your passion, tell the barkeep „tis courtesy of Beverly HorneCallow, Duke of Winchester-on-Perth.” The Australian tightened his grip on the struggling serving girl. Marc backtracked to Callow‟s chamber, the colorful Oriental rug beneath his feet muffling the heels of his black Hessian boots. Every inch of Callow‟s table was covered with food: braised frog legs, turtle eggs, sweet and savory pastries, sesame flatbread, steamed rice, pork with sweet bean sauce, abalone in oyster sauce, sliced bananas and pineapples with oranges and lychees. There was enough food to feed ten ordinary men. Or one fat ersatz duke.

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The young woman on Callow‟s lap fought to free herself from his sweaty grasp. “Join us, Cap‟n,” slobbered Callow. “Let‟s ‟ave ourselves a wee chat.” “Thank you, but no.” Marc‟s English was perfect, without a trace of an Italian accent. “I‟m here to meet a friend.” The duke caught a loud hiccup in his pudgy pink fist before smearing a handful of translucent boiled dumplings into his mouth. “Your ship is the fastest on the seas today, the fastest ever, p‟rhaps,” said the duke. “No one‟s ever sailed from London to Hong Kong in ninety days, under sail or steam. I can use such a ship. And ‟er captain.” “As I‟ve told you before, Heaven’s Fury is not for sale,” Marc said darkly. “Nor am I.” The duke stood, rolling the hapless serving girl to the hardwood floor. Marc helped her to her feet, and she scurried off. “Every man has his price, friend,” snarled the duke. “Name it. Do you want gold? I‟ve more than enough to compensate a man of your singular ability.” Marc had no doubt that the man had money, most likely a fortune built on opium.

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Callow pulled himself to his full height. His bald pate reached no higher than Marc‟s neck. “I want Heaven’s Fury,” he repeated sullenly. “This is the last time I ask for her.” Marc reached into the inner pocket of his black silk waistcoat. Callow flinched, calming when he saw Marc only retrieved a gold pocket watch, which he glanced at and then replaced. “I dare say this has been an interesting diversion, sir. But I see that my friend is well overdue.” “Give me Heaven’s Fury,” the duke demanded, brandishing a chubby fist. “Name your price.” “She‟s not for sale.” Callow‟s head bobbed as he glanced past Marc‟s right shoulder. Marc grabbed the satin lapels of Callow‟s frock coat and spun him, turning Callow‟s wide body into a shield. The duke‟s bulky frame separated Marc from the two burly figures that materialized behind him at Callow‟s surreptitious bidding. One of the men wielded a knife with a curved blade. His partner brandished a stubby wooden club. The men froze, unsure what to do with their leader in the clutches of their prey. “My ship is not for sale,” Marc growled, his own blade drawn and lost amidst the rolls of flesh at Callow‟s throat. He threw the duke into the two men, knocking the trio to the floor. Tucking his knife into the sheath strapped to his

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well-muscled thigh, Marc turned and left the chamber. His tardy friend, Angelo Leopardi, entered the crowded establishment. “What took you so long?” Marc teased, struggling unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. He and Angelo, each in his own ship, had left Italy together in a race for the Orient. The loser was to buy the victor a drink at the Nightingale at the specified time and date. Marc had arrived a full week in advance of the meeting date. He had spent the time visiting familiar haunts. The city was fast becoming a pocket edition of England, but Marc loved the harbor best of all. Chinese junks and sampans skittered across the water among the East Indiamen loaded with cannon and the English and American ships transporting tea and textiles to Europe and North America. The variety and number of ships, each with its own story and destination unknown, never failed to stir his blood. “I‟ve worked up quite a thirst in seven days,” Marc called to his lifelong friend as he wended his way through the crowd. Usually quick to smile, Angelo approached with his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a severe line. Perhaps his journey had taken so much longer because of a serious problem with his ship, the Sea Goddess. Angelo‟s right hand went to his back. Marc ducked.

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In a blink, Angelo had withdrawn a snub-nosed pistol and fired, hitting the stocky man who just seconds before had been poised to drive a knife between Marc‟s shoulder blades. Marc spun to see Callow‟s rogue fall to his knees, his left hand covering the bleeding wound in his right shoulder. “He‟ll survive,” Marc said indifferently. He turned to Angelo. “Good shot.” “Sorry I‟m late,” said Angelo, the twinkle restored to his whiskey eyes. “I‟d say you were just in time,” said Marc. “You can owe me that drink.”

If Heaven’s Fury was the fastest ship running the trade routes, Angelo‟s Sea Goddess was her closest second. Both vessels had been constructed in the same Irish shipyard, though Marc had requested slight modifications, most notably a flatter, wider bottom, for Heaven’s Fury. The builders had been quite vocal in their skepticism about Marc‟s design, but one look at Heaven’s Fury as she glided out to sea quieted the most ardent critics of the one-of-a-kind ship. Pride replaced doubt as the ship‟s exploits became legend. Marc and Angelo retired to Heaven’s Fury upon leaving the Nightingale. Angelo stretched his legs in the confined yet comfortable space of the captain‟s quarters. He ran his hand through his sun-bleached golden curls.

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“Your father sent a ship after us,” he said as Marc poured cognac into two snifters. “You were too fast, and I lost time when the Goddess hit a squall. Your father‟s ship caught me at the Cape.” Angelo drew a folded envelope from the neck of his boot and handed it to Marc. Marc sat in the mahogany chair at his desk. He tore open the envelope and withdrew two letters. Angelo sipped the fine spirit while Marc read the first letter, then twice read the lengthier second letter. Angelo studied his friend‟s face. The matter had to be of great importance, or Gian would never have sent a ship, knowing that Marc would likely have returned to Italy by the time Gian‟s ship had even reached Hong Kong. “Your father wrote me as well,” Angelo said once Marc looked up. “Gian has asked me to go to France.” “France,” Marc echoed pensively as she stared at the letters. “I‟m sent to America.”

Marc stood at the wheel, staring into the black depths of the ocean. Heaven’s Fury sliced through the moonlight-painted waves, her yards and yards of sail making the very most of the slight breeze. Capable of sustaining a top speed of close to twenty knots under strong winds, Heaven’s Fury could travel up to four

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hundred miles a day, a claim very few ships could make. With the wind and the weather on his side, Marc expected to arrive in Louisiana by late December. He inhaled the night air and thought of the last time he had seen Vincent. He had been nine years old. Vincent had brought Rose, his new wife, to Italy to meet Gian and his wife, Pasquelina. Marc‟s loving and doting father became an exciting and daring stranger as Vincent regaled Marc‟s impressionable ears with tales of their adventures aboard the H.M.S. Cornelius, the ship where Vincent and Gian first met as fifteen-year-old cabin boys. Vincent and Gian shared a friendship so close that the mention of a particular word or place had made one man or the other blush and immediately change the topic of conversation before a wife—or a precocious son—asked intrusive questions. Until he met Rose, Marc had believed his flaxen-haired, blue-eyed mother to be the most beautiful woman in the world. When he had been introduced to Rose Shining Dove Verdieu, he had reached a grimy hand forward to touch her, convinced that she was a mythological creature sprung to life. The long, black waves of her hair, shining like polished ebony, reached past her waist. Thick, dark lashes framed her black eyes, almond-shaped above her sculpted cheekbones. Her lips, so full and red, had the natural shape of a pout. She had worn a sleeveless buckskin dress that hugged the swells and curves of her figure and complemented

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her flawless terra cotta skin. Unspeakably lovely, Rose had looked like no other woman he had ever seen. Marc had been allowed his first taste of undiluted wine in celebration, when Vincent announced his impending fatherhood. Marc remembered asking Rose to produce a boy so he and Angelo would have someone with whom to go to sea and have adventures, just as Vincent and Gian had. That the Verdieu baby had turned out to be female had been a great disappointment. Marc gazed into the starry sky and wondered what sort of girl…what sort of woman…Alyssa had become. She would be twenty now, almost into spinsterhood. Vincent‟s letter was months old, but he had not written of marriage prospects for his daughter. Marc considered the possibility that Alyssa had since wed and Beaux Elysees had no need of him. “Good,” he whispered into the breeze. “Captain?” came a voice at Marc‟s side. It belonged to Dominic Sanzio, his first mate. Dominic‟s bright cap of red hair glowed like a lick of flame against the night. “Trouble in the Americas?” “My godfather is not well,” Marc said, his gaze fixed on the glimmering surface of the ever-moving sea. “My father has asked me to go to Beaux Elysees to help Vincent settle his affairs.” “Will we be in the Americas long?” Dominic asked.

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“No,” Marc said too quickly. “We won‟t be staying any longer than we have to.” Dominic appeared apprehensive as Marc seemed to sail back in time, toward people he hadn‟t so much as mentioned in ten years.

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Chapter Two

The rest of the mansion had been dark and quiet for hours, but Edmond Verdieu‟s lamps still burned. Too excited to sleep, he paced the room. He stopped to run his hand lovingly over the smooth skin of the veneered ebony armoire, admiring the tortoiseshell panels and gilded bronze mounts as he would the form and textures of a woman. The armoire was the most luxurious piece of furniture in the room, and therefore his favorite. He went to the full-length cheval glass in the adjoining dressing room. Primping and posturing, he modeled the fine traveling suit he had purchased in New Orleans with some of the money Vincent had sent to pay his expenses from Europe. He grinned. He could now afford this manner of dress every day. Beaux Elysees was his own Xanadu. It was so deep in the bayous, even the Cajun guide who brought him to Beaux Elysees would never have found the place without the detailed map Vincent had provided. The man who claimed Beaux Elysees would claim a small kingdom. Edmond had been awestruck two weeks ago when he‟d first entered the mansion. The foyer, with its floor of Italian carrera marble, was little more than a showroom for the intricately crafted dual staircase wending gracefully to the

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upper floor. Two salons—le Grand and le petit—a vast library and study, and a dining room dominated the lower floor along with the enormous kitchen, which had been built onto the back of the mansion rather than housed in a separate building. The house boasted fourteen bedrooms—six on the upper floor with three facing north and three facing south. Each trio of bedrooms shared a gallery, the northern one shaded by the entablature in the front of the mansion. The mansion‟s east and west pavilions each contained four bedroom suites. Edmond‟s keen eye for luxury did not fail to appreciate the exquisite talent of the artisans who had given Beaux detail. Cypress board ceilings, so skillfully joined, appeared as smooth as plaster. The chandelier medallion in the dining room, mahogany carved in the plume pattern of the Empire period, repeated the motif gracing the fireplace mantels. The deep fireplaces, particularly those in the salons, bedroom suites, and study, projected far into the rooms. Hand-blocked paper in subdued Empire golds and reds covered the walls in the salons and library, providing a pleasing background for the American Colonial and French Provincial furniture. The petit salon contained a girandole, which with its many reflections gave light as well as its own brand of energy to the room. The Grand salon housed an early American spinet and a Pleyel piano.

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A grassy courtyard, crisscrossed from corner to corner by stone paths, occupied the center of the estate. Houses bordered the courtyard, each as neat as the mansion. Almost every second-floor balcony had a decorative railing of castiron lacework imported from Spain, rather than hammered by slaves in New Orleans. The houses, made of the same durable Holland brick as the mansion instead of that formed from the sandy clay along the banks of the Mississippi River, were similar in design, varying only in the half-round tiles of red clay or flat tiles of green clay covering the roofs. And, like the mansion, each home had a bricked or flagged verandah. Many of the homes had ollas, huge, round earthen jars used to collect rain. Over the past two weeks, Edmond had regularly visited the stable and barns, the smithy‟s, the smokehouses, the cooperage, the tailor‟s shop, the nursery, the infirmary, the sugar mill, the warehouses, and even the little red schoolhouse. He had yet to peruse the financial accounts. That had to wait until Vincent was planted. With visions of the riches of Beaux Elysees cavorting in his skull, Edmond stripped off his clothes and threw himself onto the down-stuffed mattress. “Thank you, dear Vincent,” he bubbled. “For the first time in my life, I have everything I have ever desired.”

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He abruptly sat up as he recalled the terms of Vincent‟s arrangement. In truth, he had nothing. He was merely the manager of Beaux Elysees. He would be reduced to co-manager once the recipient of Vincent‟s second letter arrived. He would be displaced entirely if Rose were to remarry, or if Alyssa took a husband. By the terms outlined in Vincent‟s last will and testament, either new husband would assume total control of Beaux Elysees. “I am here purely as a result of the desperate guilt of a dead man,” Edmond muttered. “If either Verdieu woman marries, my only options are to accept my bequest and leave or accept my bequest and stay. “Or….” Edmond‟s pale eyes met his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. “I could become master of Beaux Elysees.” He eased onto his back. He crossed his long, skinny legs at the ankles and laced his fingers behind his head. His lips pulled into a crocodilian grin. “I shall indeed have everything I desire. And everyone.” He closed his eyes to better picture his prey. There was Melody, the lovely young seamstress. She was absolutely appetizing with her butter-blond curls and dark chocolate eyes. There was Rina and her sister, Adette, with their straight, waist-length black hair, terra cotta skin, and fathomless black eyes. There was Rose, an exotic, almost mythic beauty. And, saving the best for the last, there was

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Rose‟s beautiful daughter, whose fiery emerald gaze, bronze complexion, and mane of golden-brown curls never failed to heat his blood.

Melody Shaw lay on the examination table. She took deep, tremulous breaths as Alyssa gently prodded her abdomen. Alyssa‟s cursory physical examination only proved what she already suspected. She took Melody‟s hands and helped her sit up. “Alyssa?” Melody said querulously. “Please….” Alyssa held Melody‟s gaze. “You are pregnant,” she said. Melody recoiled. “Give me something,” she begged, taking Alyssa‟s shoulders. “You must rid me of this creature!” “Melody, I—” “You must!” Melody leaped to her feet. Her brown eyes wildly scanned the glassed cherry wood cabinets housing Alyssa‟s medicines. “There‟s something here, there has to be, that will destroy this thing inside me.” Melody opened doors and drawers, tossing boxes as she went. Alyssa tried to block her way. “There‟s nothing I can do that wouldn‟t endanger your life.” “Then give me poison,” Melody cried. She came to a locked cabinet. “Is there something in here to help me?” With both hands she tugged on the knob. The lock

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was sturdy and strong, specifically meant to keep Edmond from pilfering Alyssa‟s supplies of laudanum and morphine. Undaunted, Melody punched through the glass, tearing her flesh. Blood freckled her milky complexion and her golden curls. She grabbed at vials and boxes, determined to ingest the contents of each one. Alyssa knocked the containers from Melody‟s bloody hands. She took Melody‟s wrists and wrestled her back to the examination table. Melody sobbed hysterically, allowing Alyssa to hold her only after the sobs had run their course. “I cannot have that monster‟s baby,” Melody said miserably. Alyssa did her best to comfort her friend. She cleaned and dressed Melody‟s wounds, knowing that she could undo Edmond‟s horrible act no more than she could bring Vincent back.

Rose entered the study without knocking and found Edmond sipping bourbon from a crystal tumbler he coddled in a freshly manicured hand. He straightened the new burgundy silk cravat at his throat before troubling himself to greet her. “Good evening, Rose,” he said lazily as she approached him. She stood opposite him, repulsed at the sight of him sitting at the satinwood desk. She bit back her disgust, clasping her hands tightly at her waist. “Mrs. Melody Shaw is pregnant.” She saw no point in dilly-dallying or being coy.

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Edmond had repeatedly proven himself to be as coarse and plainspoken as a New Orleans river man. He smirked. “What has the woman‟s condition to do with me?” “The child is yours,” Rose said bitterly. “As such, it will be provided for,” he said blithely. He rose from the cushioned satinwood chair that had been custom-made a half century ago for the Marquis Valery de Moulin, the founder of Beaux Elysees. Edmond moved toward her. She stepped back, positioning herself behind the heavy walnut wing chair facing the desk. “How shall you provide for a child borne to a nineteen-year-old seamstress you took against her will while her husband is away?” Rose almost shouted. “In six weeks you have undone what took my husband, and the owner of Beaux Elysees before him, decades to create. You have alienated our neighbors—” “Cajun riffraff,” Edmond grunted contemptuously. Rose went on as if he had not spoken. “I said nothing when you brought in your „assistants‟ from the Carolinas, those foul men with no allegiance to anyone except who pays them. That happens to be you, though you do so with my husband‟s money. They sit in the shade of the magnolias eating, laughing, drinking tafia, and scratching themselves while our remaining tenants toil from sunrise to sunset.

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“Alyssa works night and day, to heal those whom you have worked nearly to death, and to give comfort to those who have fallen ill because of the poor food you ration. It is a testament to my husband‟s memory that more of our residents did not leave when you cut their wages. You pay them for the week what they earned in a day under Vincent!” “Under Vincent,” Edmond said thoughtfully, stroking a place under his mouth where a chin should have been. “You will soon forget what that was like.” He traced the line of her cheekbone with an index finger. Rose swatted his hand. “Do not forget your place,” she hissed. “I am not a timid seamstress whose husband is away on business.” “Ah, but your husband is away.” Rose refused to let him distract her by luring her into yet another quarrel or picking at the tender scars left by her loss. Alyssa had told her to stand firm against Edmond, to use her grief as a well of strength. “I did not come here to play games. I came to warn you.” Edmond paled, though his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “So many families want to leave but cannot,” Rose said. “A German woman, her Creole husband and their mixed blood children won‟t get far in Louisiana, with or without money. The husband and children have their manumission papers, but those are easily confiscated.”

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Rose‟s voice quavered when she said, “Marguerite left us this morning. She came here at sixteen, after escaping from a cotton plantation and the master who wished to breed her. She lived with my family, as a sister to me. And now, at the age of forty-six, she has taken her life savings and the bequest Vincent left her. She plans to travel to Africa. Though I understand her desire to visit the land of her ancestors, this is her home. You have driven her from it. I may never see her again. This is the latest of many things that I will not forgive.” “What has any of this to do with Mrs. Shaw?” Edmond yawned, his fear passed. “You demanded longer work hours. You took the older children out of school and put them to work, and still, no one complained. You repaid their acquiescence by violating their wives and daughters.” “I have violated no one,” he said, examining his buffed and shining fingernails. “Each of my…paramours…was willing.” Anger radiated from Rose‟s slender body. “You told Melody that you would evict her from Beaux Elysees. You told Sarah Ann that you would put her father on the auction block in New Orleans. You told Carietta that you would send her nine-year-old brother into the marsh with the trappers. This is what you call willing?”

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Edmond sat on the wide windowsill. His breath formed a sheet of fog on the cool glass as he spoke. “Women know nothing of the needs of a man,” he sighed extravagantly. With his fingertip, he etched a rose in the vanishing condensation on the windowpane. “We crave the softness, the warmth, that only a woman can provide. The touch of cool fingers, the fall of long, dark hair.” His voice faded. His cold gaze remained on Rose‟s reflection in the glass. “These things feed a man‟s starving soul.” With the slippery speed of an eel, he moved closer to Rose. “You know of what I speak.” His eyes dropped to the fitted bodice of her mourning gown. “You satisfied Vincent‟s hunger.” Planting one hand in the center of his chest, she pushed him, sending him across the room in a clumsy circle of elbows and knees. “Vincent and I shared a love that you could not possibly understand or know!” Edmond regained his footing and rushed at her, grabbing her wrists and pulling her to him. The coiled heat of his hunger burned through the layers of her skirt and petticoats. “Like it or not, Widow Verdieu, I am master of Beaux Elysees, by your husband‟s invitation. If I desire the company of a woman, I need only choose. They are merely substitutes for the woman I truly desire.” Rose tried to escape his hold. The scent of roses came from her rustling skirt. “My hunger for her grows daily.” He flicked the tip of his tongue across her earlobe.

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Her stomach turned. “Let go of me!” “As you wish,” he said lightly, releasing her. Rose stormed toward the door. Edmond relaxed into a damask chair in the corner of the room. “Why settle for mutton when lamb is so plentiful? Send your daughter to me. She has your healing talents. And I have a pain that only she can relieve.” Rose froze. She threw a dark look over her shoulder. “You wouldn‟t dare,” she breathed heavily. He reclined further into the chair and slung one leg over the arm. “I am positively famished.” His hand slid along his lower belly. Rose bowed her head, trembling with frustrated rage. He had stolen his pleasure from so many innocents. It was only a matter of time before he acted on his craving for Alyssa. He wanted her dearly. He stared at Alyssa as a starving man eyed a rabbit turning on a spit. Melody, Sarah Ann, and Carietta had mustered the courage to come forward about Edmond. How many had he terrified into silence? How many more would have to suffer his diabolical attentions? As she realized what she had to do to protect her daughter and the other innocent young women of Beaux Elysees, shame and revulsion violently churned in Rose‟s stomach. She sank to her knees. A sob tore from her as she lifted her eyes beseechingly toward Heaven, her fingers still wrapped around the brass doorknob.

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The solid pine floorboards were silent under Edmond‟s weight as he neared her. He gripped her shoulders and tugged her to her feet, then pried her fingers from the doorknob. With one hand tight around her wrist, he bolted the door of the study. He dragged her further into the room, pinning her with his hips to the edge of the large desk. His mouth went to her throat as he plucked out the dainty mother-of-pearl combs binding her hair. He spread the silky wealth of her tresses about her shoulders. “Do you hate me, Rose?” he murmured softly into her neck. “Yes,” she spat over the bile burning the back of her throat. “Good.” He savagely tore open the bodice of her dress and plunged his hands into the softness of her bosom. “I hate you,” she cried as his teeth went to the rust-colored buds tipping her breasts. “I hate you!”

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Chapter Three

The tenants left in droves, and Beaux Elysees came to a near standstill for the first time in its history. With too few able working bodies for roullaison, the grinding season, the entire cane crop was lost. Edmond solved the labor problem in his own ruthless fashion. He turned Beaux Elysees into a slave plantation. The purchase of slaves coincided with Edmond‟s decision to close the schoolhouse and send all children over the age of five into the fields. He demanded that Rose and Alyssa, as mistresses of the house, end their mourning and dress more to his pleasure. Rose switched to simple dresses made of navy or dark green muslin. Alyssa, to Edmond‟s consternation, returned to her previous wardrobe of trousers, her father‟s shirts, and bare feet. Edmond rid himself of Joshua by evicting him from his suite in the mansion. Manon Duquesne—Joshua‟s adopted daughter, Alyssa‟s best friend, and the sword in Edmond‟s side—had been relocated to a cottage housing three unmarried young women. Edmond‟s overseers frequented such cottages in the wee hours of the night. Unbeknownst to Edmond, every night Manon sneaked into Alyssa‟s room. Moments before midnight, they sat, wide awake, on Alyssa‟s bed. A mild December breeze brought the scent of the gulf to them.

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“I should kill him,” Manon said. “Don‟t say such things,” Alyssa said quietly, though she herself thought the same. While teaching no longer occupied her days, the care of the estate‟s newest residents did. Many of the slaves Edmond had purchased were sick, undernourished, or weak from overwork. Alyssa toiled from sunrise to well past sunset caring for them. “Maman lives through each day in a haze of melancholy, and you live only to see Edmond dead,” Alyssa said. “What do you live for, Alyssa?” Manon said, her wheat-blond hair glowing in the light of a single candle. “All of our friends are gone. Strangers who mindlessly follow Edmond surround us. Hiram Boyles, that fils de putain from Georgia, looks at me as though I were his favorite penny. As for Cedric MacCready, he would leap into the smokehouse ovens if Edmond told him to.” “He is young, only twenty-two years old,” Alyssa reminded her. “He came from Ireland only five years ago. He was a sharecropper. His crops had failed, and he had lost his land to foreclosure when Edmond found him in St. Martinville. He had nothing and no place else to go. Edmond‟s given him a house—” “Giselle‟s house,” interrupted Manon. “—a salary and a job with responsibility,” continued Alyssa. “He is not an evil man. If you could see him with the children….”

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Manon slapped the mattress in exasperation. “MacCready would take you into his bed as quickly as Boyles would if Edmond had not threatened to unman anyone who touched you. As for me, I carry this.” She raised the hem of her light flannel nightgown, revealing a short dagger strapped to her upper thigh. “Joshua gave it to me. He insists that I wear it always.” Alyssa stared longingly through the window at the purple-black sky. “I can scarcely recall when we could sleep at night and know that we were safe. I am so scared, Manon. I cannot fuel myself with anger, as you do, or deaden my heart as Maman has. All I can do is hope. I know Beaux Elysees will be safe when Marc arrives. That is what I live for.”

Edmond freed Rose‟s hands. She untied the satin cord binding her ankles to the bedposts. Her body ached clear through to the marrow of her bones. He had been particularly rough with her, layering new bruises over the old ones as he took his pleasure. Edmond poured himself a glass of water from the porcelain pitcher on the bedside table. He gulped it loudly as he watched Rose slip into an airy sleeping gown and matching robe. She moved stiffly to her vanity table, sat gingerly on the plush stool, and ran a brush through her hair. The moment he left her she would

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cleanse herself of every trace of him with the basin of herbal water hidden beneath the bed. She preferred death to even the thought of bearing Edmond‟s child. To her dismay, he lingered, stretching his naked body across the bed. “We shall marry,” he said flatly. “We shall travel to Morgan City in the morning.” “My mother was a Chitimacha medicine woman, and my father was an octoroon,” Rose said confidently. “The blood of three continents courses through my veins. We cannot legally wed in Louisiana.” “I am well aware of the legalities involved in taking you as my wife,” he smirked. “I have made arrangements for us to sail to the Virgin Islands. We leave tomorrow afternoon. Two days hence, wedded bliss shall be my Christmas present to you.” Rose replaced the brush on the marble-topped vanity table, aligning it with its matching comb and mirror. “You want my husband‟s wealth, not me. I am merely your concubine, subject to your unnatural appetites. I would sooner marry a flatulent pig.” Edmond rolled onto his stomach, only partly to escape the grim smile that turned her lovely face into a frightful mask of hatred. “Then I suppose I shall have to marry someone else. I wonder…what are the legalities involved in marrying one‟s half niece?”

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Rose‟s hand closed around the silver handle of an enameled porcelain hand mirror, part of a set purchased in London and given to her by Vincent in another, happier life. Warm and comfortable in her hand, its weight gave her a sense of comfort, of purpose. “Forgive me, Vincent,” she prayed, moving toward the bed, the bottom of her silk wrapper swirling about her ankles. She smashed the mirror against the nearest bedpost, sending a sparkling rainbow of glass shards into the air. She completed the arc of the swing, raking the wide, razor-edged fragment of silver glass attached to the handle across Edmond‟s bare buttocks. “This is your last night at Beaux Elysees!” Rose cried. Possessed by Heaven‟s fury and Hell‟s wrath, she slashed at Edmond. He rolled out of the path of the bloodstained silvery glass. Rose lost her balance and toppled onto the bed, her dark hair obscuring her sight. Edmond pinned her to the bed, straddling her. He pried the mirror from her hand. “You breathe and talk and walk, but you are dead!” Rose cried. “When Marc Ghiradelli arrives, he will kill you! This, I swear!” Pain and anger contorted Edmond‟s face, shaping it to reflect the monster he truly was. Though his backside burned brilliantly with pain and warm blood oozed down his thighs, the movements of the woman fighting beneath him,

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aroused him. His lips parted, and a blissful moan escaped. A single ambition turned in his wicked mind. He would hurt her more than she had hurt him.

Marc had no trouble acquiring a horse and supplies in Morgan City. Despite the clear and careful markings on the map enclosed with Vincent‟s letter, Marc was sure that he had managed to lose himself in the very heart of Louisiana‟s deepest, darkest jungle of a bayou when he did not find Beaux Elysees at the spot marked with an “X.” He had left Heaven’s Fury at daybreak, after spending his first night in America docked in Atchafalaya Bay. As dusk began to fall, the bayou seemed to come alive. The foliage was so dense in places, Marc had to dismount and lead his bay on foot. Branches clawed at his hair and face, mud and quicksand sucked at his boots. Insects the size of hummingbirds pierced the back of his neck and hands. Something long and wiggly dropped down the back of his shirt. It tickled across his shoulders and down his arm before escaping through a sleeve. Undeterred, Marc had proceeded until full dark. He had decided to make camp and begin his search anew at sunrise, when a pinprick of light glinted through a dense wall of vegetation. Leading his horse with one hand, he hacked

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through the foliage with the other. On the other side of a curtain of lilting willow fronds, he saw it. Beaux Elysees. Its beauty struck him as he approached. Tremendous live oaks dressed in shawls of Spanish moss lined the long cobbled drive, the allée, leading to the elegantly palatial mansion. End pavilions connected by gabled roofs flanked the eggshell-white, two-story center section. The wings, a whimsical apricot pink with pale greenish-blue trim, stretched east and west. Careful strokes of wind and rain, along with the glare of the sun, had blended the colors to an even, mellow hue. Despite the late hour, lights still burned in the downstairs windows. Marc tied his horse, vaulted up the wide marble stairs, and announced his presence with the brass knocker in the center of the door. A short, round woman with skin as dark as ink opened the door. She wore a floor-length, black broadcloth dress and a crisp white apron, her hair hidden within a white kerchief knotted at her hairline. She offered to take his riding cape before ushering him into the Grand salon. When she referred to Edmond as “mâitre,” even though her dialect was entirely foreign to him, a shiver traced Marc‟s spine.

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Edmond sauntered into the salon soon after. Dressed in attire fit for royalty, Edmond appeared to have thrown the garments on, sloppily knotting the silk cravat at his throat. He wore the fabrics of kings, yet possessed the carriage of one unaccustomed to authority. “Who are you and what do you want?” Edmond greeted coldly. “Captain Marc Ghiradelli,” Marc answered, drawing himself to his full height despite his exhaustion. “You are Edmond Verdieu?” Edmond‟s prominent Adam‟s apple rose and fell, his eyes widening to betray his shock before sharply narrowing to reveal his displeasure. Marc endured the shorter man‟s scrutiny, well aware of the imposing figure he cut in his black riding boots and the fitted breeches that accentuated his muscular legs. His black riding coat emphasized the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders and trim waist, but perhaps instinctively, Marc set his hands at his waist, his widespread elbows making him look even more domineering. Edmond limped in a wide circle around him, ignoring Marc‟s outstretched hand. He delicately deposited himself on a thick, ring-shaped pillow in the seat of a rattan chair with a high, circle-shaped back. He pulled on a long satin cord, and in the far distance came the faint tinkle of a bell. Rina and Adette, the sixteenyear-old twins who attended him, appeared seemingly from thin air. The girls were

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Sabines, the stunning mixture of African, Chinese and Houma ancestries. Their exotic, sylph-like beauty briefly distracted Marc. “Fetch one of them,” Edmond growled at his twins, his eyes never leaving Marc. After a long silence in which Marc never backed down from Edmond‟s penetrating gaze, a woman entered the salon. Dressed in black, her straw-colored hair loose and unkempt, and her eyes puffy and red, she looked like a wraith. “Manon Duquesne?” Marc guessed correctly. “I am Captain Marc Ghiradelli.” He bowed to her and then offered to take her hand. Manon kept her hands clasped at her waist. An internal alarm sounded in Marc‟s head. “Where is Vincent? And Rose and Alyssa?” he demanded. He clenched his fists to stop himself from driving them into Edmond‟s smirking face. “Two of your answers are behind you,” Edmond said. Marc turned to face the double doors of the petit salon on the far side of the double staircase. One of the doors stood ajar. With a final glare at Edmond, Marc hurried into the room. A slight figure in dun trousers and a blue work shirt stood over a bier covered with roses. Candles burned nearly to their ends, giving the room an ethereal glow. Marc‟s heart dropped. I am too late, he thought sadly. He said a silent prayer for Vincent as he closed the door behind him.

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“I regret that I was not fast enough to bid my father‟s dearest friend a proper farewell.” Marc moved deeper into the room. “Madame Verdieu?” The mourner turned to face him. His heart hammered against the wall of his chest, the rest of his body paralyzed at the sight of the woman who was not Vincent‟s widow. “You have your father‟s eyes,” he said, voicing the first thought that entered his mind. And your mother’s perfect mouth, he continued to himself as his eyes consumed every detail of her. Her hair, her marvelous, voluminous hair, was all her own as its gold, chocolate, and copper played in the amber light. Sorrow heightened her beauty. She was completely exquisite, even in grief. His heart pulsed with the pain of her loss. “Alyssa,” he began, closing the distance between them. “I am so very sorry that I was unable to see Vincent before—” He finally viewed the figure in the open coffin, which left him aghast. His eyes darted from the corpse, to Alyssa, and back. Rose lay in the coffin, her hands folded over a white rose at her waist, her colorless face crisscrossed by three tracks of fine stitches. The longest track ran in a jagged line from her hairline, across the bridge of her nose and her left cheek, and over her jaw to disappear under a high lace collar. “Are you Marc Ghiradelli?” Alyssa‟s voice was no more than a raspy whisper.

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Marc nodded, unable to find words to convey his shock and horror. Alyssa took a wobbly step toward him. She appeared exhausted in every possible way but summoned the strength to raise her hand and deliver a stinging blow to Marc‟s face. Then, Alyssa fainted.

Manon pushed Marc away after he gingerly placed Alyssa on her bed. “What has happened here?” he asked, bewildered and wounded by what he had seen in only his first few minutes at Beaux Elysees. “Vincent and Rose abhorred the institution of slavery, yet this place crawls with spiritless automatons afraid to blink without Verdieu‟s permission. In his letters, Vincent referred to you, Manon, as „our golden light.‟ I see no evidence of that light in your cold and dour face. If I did not know you to be a lady reared in the presence of Rose Verdieu, I would think you were plotting my demise in your mind‟s eye.” Manon‟s eyes widened in guilty surprise then clouded once again. “I can‟t control my thoughts,” she grumbled under her breath before reeling on Marc to say, “It would be easier to forgive you, if you were dead.” She left Alyssa‟s bedside. “Do you know of death, Captain Ghiradelli? I do! We have lost everything! Our home, our friends, our freedom…I have lost the only mother I ever knew!” Manon tore at her hair in her rage and grief. “Rose endured Edmond‟s abuse in silence. We knew nothing of the hell he made of her life until last night, when

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she fought back. She confessed all to us, as Alyssa tried to repair the damage that devil did to her. She endured each day‟s torment for one reason only…to see you! She bled to death. Our Rose is gone. In my eyes, Captain, you are dead too!” Her words cut him to his soul. He kept silent, for there was nothing he could say to ease her suffering. She touched her cheeks in the ensuing silence, and she seemed stunned to find them damp. “So I do have tears left,” she said morosely. “Perhaps I mourn for you as well.” She gathered her skirt and quietly left the room. Alyssa‟s eyes fluttered open. Her gaze met one of piercing, darkest blue. Just another dream, she thought, until the image refused to fade. Marc leaned over her, his face drawn in concern. “Shall I call for Manon?” he asked. She slowly sat up. The burning in her right palm reminded her of the past few minutes. This was no dream. Captain Marc Ghiradelli, his face shadowed with the stubble of at least a day‟s growth, his brow creased with worry, had finally arrived. My prince, she thought dully. My savior. He reached forward and touched her hand. Startled, she snatched her hand away and inched further from him. He moved to the foot of her bed. She sat up and hugged her knees close to her chest. She stared at his hands. They were well shaped, strong—likely capable of snapping a man‟s neck with ease.

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“When I was a little girl, Papa read Gian‟s letters to me,” she said. Her voice was soft and lilting, like the wind on a desolate piece of ocean. “I learned Italian as I learned of your academic and athletic achievements. By the time you went to sea, I could read the letters for myself. I so hungered for each of them, to read of you and Angelo and your exciting adventures. I have never left Bayou Teche. I‟ve seen all of Europe, Africa and the Orient, through your eyes. Then, without explanation, you suddenly stopped writing.” Marc dropped his gaze. This is a mistake, he told himself. I should not have come. “Papa took my mother to New Orleans, once, just after I was born,” Alyssa continued. “Slave traders tried to abduct her. Maman never left the estate again. I never wanted to leave, and neither did Maman. Our friends were here. My mother‟s parents lived and died here. As you know, Manon‟s mother is a Duquesne, the daughter of Rene Duquesne, one of the wealthiest men in New Orleans. Manon‟s father was Rene‟s body servant. When Manon was born, Rene ordered his man to take Manon to the swamps and drown her. Rene‟s cook convinced the body servant to give Manon to Joshua. Assuming that his slave had carried out his terrible order, Rene then shot the man for defiling his daughter. Joshua brought Manon here and reared her as his own.

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“Though Manon is a mulatto, she is free because her mother gave her up. She found a home and freedom here. Beaux Elysees has always been populated by people who needed a place to call home. They come diseased, broken, lost, in rags. Those with no place else to go have always been welcome here. To so many, this place is heaven. C’était paradis.” There is no such thing as paradise, Marc silently disagreed. Not in this world. “Tomorrow, we bury my mother,” Alyssa sighed. “Edmond killed her. He cut her face and other parts of her body before Joshua and Mr. MacCready could break down the door to get to her. She fought him,” Alyssa stated with somber pride. “ His scream roused the household. There was nothing human in the sound. I first thought it was a loup garou or Madame Grandsdoigts, the female boogeyman said to frighten children into staying in bed at night. Manon flew into my room, the hounds in the kitchen added their howling to Edmond‟s…” Her next words bore the weight of her profound loss and more than a slight measure of guilt. “She submitted to him, to protect me.” A slow tear coursed down her cheek. She brushed it away with a trembling hand. “My parents are gone. My friends are gone. The Manon Duquesne you see today is not the woman who has been like a sister to me. Edmond has turned her into a creature of hurt and hate. As

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for me, I am no more than what you see. Can you see the full measure of my loss as you look at me?” Marc stared into her eyes. Despite the pain he saw there, he could look no place else. “I read Gian‟s letter every day, until the words were nearly rubbed from the page. „Heaven’s Fury will bring Marc to you.‟ Those words gave me the strength to endure our darkest moments. When Edmond brought slaves here, when he starved and whipped them, when he brought in professional overseers and threatened to put me on the auction block. But when he killed my beautiful mother…the words became powerless. They came to mean nothing, for without Maman, I have no hope. I care for nothing. Not even that you are here, Captain.” She turned away from him and curled into a tiny ball. Anger stirred his blood as he started for the door. There was one more person he needed to speak with before he confronted Edmond. “Where is Joshua?” “Imprisoned, in the stable,” she said with alarming disquiet. “He is to hang at dawn.”

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Chapter Four

Hiram Boyles never knew what hit him. He was supposed to have been keeping watch over the prisoner. Marc got to the stables to find Boyles snoring, his large, soft body draped heavily over a wooden chair, a rifle propped between his knees. His eyes popped open after Marc pulled the rifle from his lax hand. They promptly closed upon being struck across the jaw with the butt of the rifle. Boyles fell to the dirt in a noiseless heap. “Captain Ghiradelli?” came a strong, deep voice from the locked stall. “I‟m very pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Joshua,” Marc said as he lifted a ring of keys from Boyles‟ hip.

Side by side, they marched back to the mansion. “You didn‟t make it easy for them,” Marc said, taking in Joshua‟s disheveled appearance and the fevered slit of his right eye. “There is nothing wrong with me that a moment with Edmond Verdieu will not remedy,” Joshua grimaced.

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“I left him in the mansion,” Marc said. “I doubt he is aware that he is under siege.” “Edmond has eyes everywhere,” Joshua warned. “In fact—” “Unless you wish an additional hole in your head,” Edmond said brusquely, shining the light from an oil lantern in their faces, “stop right where you are.” He stepped off of the verandah. Moonlight glinted off the silver barrel of the pearlhandled revolver he aimed at Joshua. “One would expect a self-serving parvenu such as yourself to hide behind such an effeminate weapon,” Marc responded. The figure of a man, concealed in the shadow of the mansion, crept across the verandah. “I have claimed this house, this land, its property, and these people,” Edmond stated grandly. “I am well within my rights to shoot you as a trespasser, Ghiradelli.” He turned his steely eyes to Joshua. “Enjoy this temporary stay. An assault on a white man is punishable by death, and I intend to carry out that sentence. You will soon join your precious Rose.” “Your claim amounts to theft,” Marc said, warning darkening his tone. “I am here on behalf of my father, a man duly and lawfully appointed by Vincent Verdieu to manage the bequest of Rose and Alyssa Verdieu. As for Rose, well…you may be beyond the reach of American justice, but you are not beyond mine.”

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Edmond turned the revolver on Marc. The man in the shadows leaped forward and grabbed Edmond‟s wrist, forcing the gun from his hand. Cedric MacCready, his blue eyes glinting with rage, wrested the gun from Edmond‟s hand. “God curse you for what you done to Miz Rose,” Cedric said, his Irish brogue rolling into the darkness. “I‟ll not see you take another innocent life.” “Irish scum,” Edmond growled, swinging at Cedric with the lantern. The stocky Irishman dodged the blow and landed one of his own. Edmond fell, senseless. “Didn‟t take much, did it?” Cedric tossed the revolver to Joshua. He shook out his punching hand as he bent down to pick up the lantern. “Is this the bloke Miz Rose spoke of?” He tipped his head toward Marc. Joshua nodded. Cedric gave Marc a quick, mirthless smile. “You‟re a damn sight for sore eyes, if you don‟ mind me sayin‟ so,” Cedric told Joshua. “I wondered where you‟d got to.” Joshua wrinkled his brow in curiosity. “I went to bust you outta the stable,” Cedric explained, “but all I found was Boyles with his arse in the air and his face in the dust.” “Your work?” Cedric asked Marc. Marc nodded, glancing at Edmond‟s sprawled body. “Well,” said Cedric, his eyes dancing from Joshua to Marc. “What now?”

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In the dark of night, Edmond and Boyles were bound, gagged, and unceremoniously tossed into a buckboard heaped with their belongings. Cedric waited for instructions. “Take them to Morgan City and put them on any ship bound for the open sea,” Joshua said. “Captain Ghiradelli finds himself bound by honor. While I would gladly have taken Edmond‟s head, the captain refuses to shed the blood of Alyssa‟s sole relation. We would gain nothing by delivering Edmond to the sheriff in St. Martinville. Edmond would never be tried or even penalized for murdering Rose, a woman of mixed blood. “There is a small pouch, filled with gold pieces, among Edmond‟s belongings. You will have no trouble finding a ship to take them, such as they are. Once they are at sea, only the devil will care what becomes of them.” Joshua also gave Cedric a hastily written letter to be posted on the first ship destined for the Caribbean. Cedric climbed onto the buckboard and took up the reins. Boyles was still unconscious. Edmond had awakened. He struggled to free himself, but the ropes were too tight. He was so angry, his hair stood on end. “Can he be trusted?” Marc asked Joshua as Cedric started away. “Might he have been in collusion with Edmond and Boyles?”

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“Cedric is a decent man,” Joshua said. “If he had gotten to the house first last night, it would have been him in the stable waiting to be hanged.”

Dawn stealthily invaded the night as Marc and Joshua made short work of rousting out Edmond‟s faithful stooges. With their leader soundly deposed, most of the men went without a fuss, others with no more than a few choice words directed at anyone who listened. A Cajun guide would lead them to St. Martinville, making certain that their path through the bayou would be so circuitous, that none of them would ever find their way back to Beaux Elysees. As the last of them left with their possessions bundled in their arms or thrown across the backs of mules, Joshua ushered Marc into the master bedroom suite. “May I get anything for you?” Joshua knew that Marc had traveled from sunrise to past sunset to reach Beaux Elysees. “No, thank you,” Marc said. “I will be near, if you need anything.” Marc caught sight of a hairbrush on the dresser. A tangle of fine, silverydark hairs nested in the bristles. “I came as soon as I received word from my father,” he blurted, halting Joshua‟s retreat.

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Joshua came back into the room. He said in a firm but gentle voice, “What happened here is the fault of one man. That man is Edmond Verdieu, not Marc Ghiradelli.” The mention of Edmond‟s name set Marc‟s teeth on edge. He recalled how Alyssa had recoiled when he offered a hand to her, as if she expected him to strike her. “Edmond is gone, for now, but he can still make trouble for us,” Joshua said. “He has a legitimate claim to the estate, by virtue of being Vincent‟s sole surviving male relative. Alyssa is a woman and of mixed heritage. The only way around Edmond‟s claim is for Alyssa to fulfill the terms of Vincent‟s will. She has to marry. The sooner the better.” “Why did Vincent not arrange a marriage for her prior to his death?” Marc asked. “It would have saved Beaux Elysees the agony of Edmond.” “Vincent knew that the chances of finding Edmond were quite slim. I do not believe he truly expected Edmond to come to his aid. When, to our amazement, Edmond arrived, we never imagined that he would become a monster no sooner than Vincent was laid to rest. As for marriage, had Alyssa fallen in love, then yes, Vincent would surely have seen her married before his untimely demise.” Joshua shook his head regretfully. “Alyssa may never marry.” Marc‟s curiosity got the better of him. “Why not?”

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“She will never settle for a man who falls short of the example set by her father.”

She ran into the bayou, searching, endlessly searching for the serenity and security she had always found there. No matter how far or how fast she ran, she was unable to reach that place, the secret heart of the bayou, far from harm’s reach. Her heart throbbed painfully, her legs ached from running, and humid air filled the raw confines of her throat. She felt her lungs would burst! How she wanted to stop running, to immerse herself in the cool, crystalline water, to let it lap gently at her body, taking a bit of her pain with each wash over her. She ran and ran yet never came closer to finding her secret place, that bit of Heaven on Earth, where she reveled in peace and safety. “Maman, where is it?” she whispered breathlessly. “Papa, I am so tired.” That admission was all it took to stop her legs from propelling her closer to nowhere. She sank to her knees, lost, alone, and unable to go any farther. Even when she heard that voice, that oily, cruel sound used to shape his ugliest thoughts and desires, she was too weak and too weary to escape. A face loomed over her, its eyes as pale, bright, and lifeless as the light of the moon. Teeth were bared in a savage smile. Hands, shaped into hooks, clamped her arms to her sides. She wanted to scream in terror, yet had strength to do no more than pray to God. She was capable of only a hoarse whimper that was devoured by malicious laughter….

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The sound pulled Marc from the grasping fingers of sleep. He tossed back the quilt, leaped to his feet, and drew on his discarded breeches before leaving his bedroom to investigate. Unable to sleep in the master suite, knowing what had happened there, Marc had moved to a room at the top of the east leg of the staircase. The strange sound from downstairs reached him clearly. At worst, his suspicions about Cedric MacCready were about to be confirmed. Perhaps MacCready had freed Edmond and Boyles and joined the band of dispatched rogues. Marc dreaded that the sound he heard had betrayed a surreptitious attempt to overthrow Edmond‟s own usurper. Marc vaulted down the stairs. The insistent, pained cry came from the petit salon. He flung the door open to find Alyssa sleeping upon a blanket on the floor at Rose‟s side. The sight of Alyssa in the waning candlelight stopped his heart with the clean efficiency of a sharpshooter‟s bullet. She wore a pale muslin nightdress. The sheer film of the gown clung to the swells and hollows of her body. Tendrils of her wild, multicolored mane danced above her face and shoulders as her head moved fitfully from side to side. Her chin quivered. Her hands twitched. The rest of her body was locked in the rigor of the nightmare.

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He slowly moved to her side, his eyes consuming the taut peaks straining against the opaque fabric covering her breasts. His gaze traveled to the alluring triangle of shadow at the juncture of her thighs. She looked like a goddess, a figure made real from the friezes that adorned the Ghiradelli palazzo in Italy. The strangled gasp and the tears squeezing from her closed lids spurred him into action. As he took her in his arms, she bolted upright, blindly staring. She fought him, battering the thickly muscled expanse of his chest with ineffectual, sleep-clumsy blows. She sobbed and he held her. She trembled, instinctively clinging to him as she wet his bare chest with tears. Free of the nightmare‟s grasp, she desperately clung to the powerful arms that had delivered her. Marc caressed her back and smoothed her hair. He pressed his lips to her brow and uttered soothing words forgotten no sooner than they passed his lips. Her small body soon stilled. Her fingertips wound in the dark whorls of hair thatching his chest. She shifted in his lap, and he became acutely aware of the fact that only the thin fabric of her gown separated his warm hands from her cool skin. He shifted position, cradling her. He pulled the blanket over them, tucking it around her. Her eyes drowsed open. To her weary relief, God had answered her prayer. She looked at a face so astoundingly beautiful, it could belong only to an angel. She took in his square jaw, the shadowed hollows of his sculpted cheekbones, and the

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sable hair grazing his bare shoulders. Her exhausted gaze lingered on the sensual curve of his mouth before moving to his dazzling cobalt eyes. She nestled deeper into his embrace. The sea green of her sleep-dulled gaze enared Marc as she lifted a slim hand to his cheek. The touch was whisper light, yet it stirred him in a way he was helpless to ignore. Her hand drifted to her side as her eyes closed. She fell into a peaceful sleep. He spent a long moment gazing at Alyssa before turning to Rose. Misery welled in his chest over the senseless loss. “At least Vincent didn‟t have to endure your death,” Marc whispered, absently holding Alyssa closer to his aching heart.

“It is true, then, he‟s really gone?” Manon took a seat beside Joshua at the blond ash circle of the kitchen table. Her gaze dropped to the firearm holstered at Joshua‟s waist. “Yes,” Joshua confirmed. “Edmond Verdieu is—” Before the remaining words were said, Manon threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “Oh, mon Père, my dear Joshua, I am so happy that you are safe! I was ready to die with you if…oh, Joshua!” He smiled wearily. “We should bring the good news to Alyssa.”

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“I have already seen the good news for myself,” came a voice from the doorway. Alyssa was there, in a pair of formless trousers and one of Vincent‟s shirts, a beige silk with wide sleeves. She went to Joshua and hugged him. “You should get some rest,” Manon told him, stroking Joshua‟s arm. “You would benefit from your own advice.” Joshua cupped her face, noting the dark lilac circles beneath Manon‟s eyes. “There will be time for rest after we speak with the captain. And after we lay Rose to rest.” Alyssa sank into a chair. “I nearly forgot,” she murmured. She had awakened strangely refreshed. Just beyond the grasp of her conscious recollection was a feeling of sheer terror that had been vanquished by the soothing image of a heavenly embrace. When she awakened, in her own bed to her surprise, the memory of the angel in the night had dissipated like mist in the bright light of the new day. Marc's entry into the kitchen interrupted her search for the memory. He had changed into a clean white shirt but still wore the boots and breeches from the previous night. A narrow strip of black leather cord restrained the midnight length of his hair. Unreadable indigo eyes gazed at her above the freshly shaved planes of his face. “Good morning, Captain,” Joshua said. “Please, join us.”

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“Thank you,” Marc said, taking the seat facing Alyssa. “I‟d like to discuss the future of Beaux Elysees.” “Perhaps we should have breakfast,” Joshua directed Manon, obviously not caring for the way her ginger eyes incisively examined Marc. “Anything would satisfy my palette as long as it isn‟t another ration of corn or oatmeal mush.” “We shall have a feast,” Alyssa stated. “Rationing is over.” She went to the pantry and withdrew a large wicker basket. “I‟m going to the warehouses. I intend to hand everything out to our tenants until there‟s not even a grain of rice left for a mouse to steal.” She turned to Marc, finally acknowledging him. Her gaze was like a jolt of green lightning, prickling his skin. “It‟s Christmas day, Captain,” she told him. “Business can wait.” Within hours, Alyssa had divided food and casks of beer and wine among the occupants of Beaux Elysees. Joshua and Marc retreated to the study to discuss Beaux Elysees while Alyssa, Manon, and the twins prepared a brunch of poached plums, broiled grapefruit, brown onion omelettes, chicken with corn cakes, and raspberry pancakes. “This is what I‟ve missed,” Joshua said as he and Marc seated themselves at the dining room table. Joshua shared a meaningful glance with Alyssa.

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Sunday brunch had been a sacrosanct tradition for Rose. For as long as any of them could remember, the mansion was open to anyone on the estate who cared to join them on lazy Sunday mornings. Everyone brought something, even the youngest children who supplied bouquets of wildflowers or bowls of fresh berries. The tradition had been halted during Edmond‟s tenure. Joshua smiled, clearly pleased to see Alyssa assuming her position as mistress of the house. Cedric returned from his mission as brunch was served. “By this time tomorra,” he announced, taking a seat at the table, “Ed and his lackey will be well on their way to Europe. I paid the captain not to untie them until ‟e could smell the perfume of Cuban ladies.” “Perhaps he untied them the instant you left,” Manon offered. “How can you be certain that Edmond and Boyles are not trying to make their way back to Beaux Elysees even now?” “For three reasons, lassie.” Cedric enumerated them on his thick fingers. “One, the captain is Irish, which makes the man truer to his word than the Lord Almighty His Own Self. Two, I told him that Verdieu and Boyles were gamblers who had welshed on debts to a riverboat casino and that they were lucky to be leavin‟ our fair shore with their hides intact. And three, I waited on the dock and watched the bastards sail away. Now, lassie, could you give us a smile and pass the coffee?”

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Rose was laid to rest under a cloudless sky with scarcely a hint of December chill in the air. One by one, the population of Beaux Elysees filed past the grave, paying their final respects to a woman who had shown them kindness, respect, and compassion. After the last person had offered a prayer or flowers, Alyssa was left alone at the foot of her mother‟s burial place. Joshua ushered Marc, Manon, and Cedric back to the house. “Alyssa has to say goodbye in her own way,” he said, gazing heavenward. “It sure is a pretty day.” His voice cracked with grief. “It should be a sin to bury someone you love on a day this pretty.” Once they returned to the mansion, Manon prepared fresh coffee. Joshua retired to his room to grieve in private. Marc and Cedric went out to the courtyard. “She was a fine lady,” Cedric said sadly. “I didn‟t know what was goin‟ on in that house, Cap‟n. Truly I‟d‟ve stopped it, one way or the other. Joshua too. But Edmond kept us away, and Miz Rose, well, she bore her sufferin‟ alone.” He cast a glance in the direction of the cemetery. “Edmond took a special interest in Miz Alyssa. It was the way he‟d slant them pale eyes a his at ‟er. I didn‟t like it, Cap‟n, I can tell you that. It‟s like he was savin‟ her. For later.”

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Cedric excused himself and went to his cottage. Marc sat on the stone bench, contemplating the recent past and uncertain future of Beaux Elysees. Houses bordered the east and west sides of the courtyard. The rear of the mansion marked the north side of the courtyard, the boarded front of the schoolhouse bordered the south. The houses were uninviting and bare of holiday decoration. No neighbors came and went among houses with closed shutters and unkempt gardens overgrown with weeds. The desolation of the place went beyond the natural mourning for Rose. A small face peered at Marc from behind a shutter. When Marc glanced back, the shutter snapped back into place with alarming finality. It is one thing to restore a piece of land, Marc thought. How does one restore dreams? He studied at the small figure kneeling at the fresh mound of a grave in the distance. How does one restore hope? It’s impossible, Marc thought dully. And it isn’t my responsibility. “Captain Ghiradelli?” Manon said, drawing Marc from his reverie. “May I have a word with you?” He stood and gestured for her to sit. She did so, spreading the skirt of her black dress over the end of the low bench. He resumed his place beside her. “It was unfair of me to speak to you so harshly last night,” she said. “I hope you will forgive me.”

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“I do not fault you for speaking your heart,” he said. “Thank you, Captain Ghiradelli.” Manon sighed in relief. She curtsied and started away. “My name is Marc,” he called after her. “Not Captain.” Manon beamed. “Thank you, Marc

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Chapter Seven

In the following days, Marc worked tirelessly to put Beaux Elysees on a path to recovery. Under Joshua‟s direct supervision, the men, women, and children Edmond had brought in chains were taught the fundamental belief of Beaux Elysees: that all men are equal. Once Marc secured their manumission papers, they quickly adopted that ideal as they set to building and furnishing their own homes and managing their own lives. The day after Christmas, Marc tore down the boards nailed across the entrance to the schoolhouse. Alyssa and Manon resumed teaching immediately. More than a few adults attended classes, to learn to read and write alongside their children. Marc worked hard everyday, from sunrise to sunset, doing everything from cleaning the stables to clearing fields. He adapted quickly to the labors of life on land, even enlisting his crew to help with the construction of new houses. Several times he tried to corner Alyssa, to discuss the fate of Beaux Elysees or Melody Shaw‟s physical and mental condition. Alyssa was as elusive as the wind. She slipped in and out of his presence with the dexterity of a thought. Much to Marc‟s dismay, she entered his thoughts more and more each day.

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Alyssa insisted that everyone spend the New Year‟s holiday at leisure, to celebrate the truest of new beginnings for Beaux Elysees. Marc spent New Year‟s Eve morning in the grassy courtyard with some of his crew, teaching two teams of younger boys and girls to play a ball-kicking game he had learned during his many travels.

Alyssa and the other women were in the kitchen preparing a banquet for the evening‟s celebration. “You had best watch what you are doing,” Manon advised Alyssa, who used a large knife to slice chicken livers. Alyssa‟s hands were deep in chicken livers, but her mind was in the courtyard. She looked through the wide windows that perfectly framed the grassy rectangle. Marc ran around with the children, allowing them to catch him and take the ball. He was tall, over six feet, yet his movements were agile, quick and mindful of the smaller size of the children. His shirt had come half unbuttoned, and he was barefoot. With his dark hair wild in the wind, he looked more like a force of nature than a man. Even when he was at rest, one could see that he possessed the effortless strength and sinuous grace of a jungle cat.

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Adoring children surrounded him. They had come to love him as quickly and thoroughly as kittens love cream. The sight brought a smile to Alyssa‟s heart that fell just short of finding her lips. She wondered what drove Marc so relentlessly to the sea. For a decade he had sailed the world, scarcely stopping to even visit his parents. What was it he feared would catch up to him, if he stopped long enough to plant roots on solid ground? How could a man love a ship, a hulk of cloth and timber, so completely, receiving nothing in return? Marc was a man who needed love as he needed food and air. She could see it as he roughhoused with the children.

Dominic stood on the sideline of the game, panting for breath. Heaven’s Fury was his home, but months at sea had renewed his appreciation for the exhilaration of running on dry land. It was clear he was having too much fun with the happy and high-spirited children to worry about looking foolish before his captain. Dominic smiled as he watched Marc deftly kick the worn leather ball past and through the legs of his crewmembers. He laughed out loud when Marc pretended to trip, to give a little girl, her pigtails flying, the chance to “steal” the ball. Marc lay in the grass, strangely restless and excited. With a hint of a smile, he watched the sprite. Her skirts and pigtails flew about wildly as she kicked and chased the ball to the Heaven’s Fury goal.

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After celebrating their score, the children rushed at Marc, falling upon him en masse in a heap of dusty skirts, trousers, and giggles. Marc, under siege, defended himself with ten maniacally tickling fingers. The ball game quickly turned to tag as Captain Ghiradelli, now the Tickle Monster, pursued the children. He ran them in circles, catching them only when they wanted to be caught. The children swarmed Dominic, only to discover that his allegiance to Marc was total. He, too, became a Tickle Monster, ruffling his red hair into fearsome spikes. The shrieking children joyfully ran for their very lives. “This place suits you, Captain,” Dominic said when he stopped for a rest. He tilted his head toward the kitchen. Marc turned. Alyssa, looked at him through the wide window, her hair in a magnificent braid. She wore trousers, damn them. The formless pants did nothing for her figure. Except unerringly draw his eye to the perfect shape of her backside.

Alyssa‟s cheeks flushed with heat under his scrutiny as they held each other‟s gaze far too long. She guiltily dropped her eyes and devoted her full attention to her chicken livers. “I see the children are not the only ones enamored by our captain,” Manon said.

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“Manon, if you do not have enough to do, you may start peeling the shrimp. There is enough to feed a dozen elephants and it will not shell itself.” “Elephants do not eat shrimp,” Manon snipped, scarcely glancing at the heap of white shrimp, “and don‟t change the subject. Marc is quite good with the little ones. They are rather fond of him.” “After Edmond, the devil would look good to them,” piped Rina. “Children know who‟s right and who‟s wrong for them,” said Adette. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Rina, matchin‟ the captain to that evil-minded, good-for-nothin‟ Edmond.” Adette set aside the quail she was stuffing and went to Alyssa. She bowed her head. “Do forgive me, Miss Alyssa,” she began. “I didn‟t mean to speak out of turn about your half uncle. I know you can‟t help that he‟s family to you, but—” “Do not apologize for speaking your mind,” Alyssa interrupted, “especially when you speak the truth. And please, stop calling me „miss.‟ I am your friend, not your mistress.” Adette smiled and went back to her birds. “Why, Adette, you have dimples!” Manon observed. “I never noticed them before.” “I ain‟t had much reason to smile before,” Adette shyly replied.

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The dining room table ordinarily accommodated twenty-two people. Chairs were added to seat even more guests, and two additional tables had been brought in to form an enormous horseshoe. The entire population of the estate converged upon the mansion to ring in the New Year. Marc dressed in black for the occasion, in a silk shirt, buckskin breeches, and polished Hessian boots. “I regret that I did not think to return to my ship for proper party attire,” Marc said, combing his clean, slightly damp hair from his brow with his fingers. “I hope Alyssa will not take offense at my less than formal dress.” “No one cares how you dress,” Joshua remarked pleasantly as they went to join the guests. “That you are here is what matters. If I have not done so already, I thank you for everything you have done for Beaux Elysees.” “I have done nothing,” Marc said, somewhat embarrassed by the unnecessary praise. “And yes, you have thanked me over and over again with your patience and understanding for this sailor turned landlubber.” “You will be staying with us for a while, then?” “For a while,” Marc conceded, relieved that Joshua had not asked for more of a commitment. The two men started down the staircase, met by the soft hum of conversation and laughter of the full house. Guests milled about in the salons,

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listening to music. Adette played the piano. One of Marc‟s men accompanied her on the flute. The guests had divided themselves into smaller groups for more intimate conversation. Children squealed as they dashed in and out of their parents‟ legs. The dogs, three spaniels and four beagles, were on their best behavior, begging scraps of pastry and cake from those who had already proven themselves vulnerable marks. The apparel of the guests eliminated Marc‟s unease at his own dress. Some of the women wore silk ball gowns, but many more wore attractive, simpler dresses of challis, calico, or muslin. Most of the men sported plain linsey-woolsey trousers, cotton shirts, and linen short coats. No matter how they were dressed or what they were doing, they all had one thing in common: They were having a good time. Two places at the center dining table had been reserved for Joshua and Marc, and they sat to cheers and applause. In all his travels, Marc had never enjoyed a feast such as that spread before him. Among the dishes served were barbecued shrimp, shrimp gumbo, shrimp cakes, deviled crab, crab soup, raw oysters, oyster stew, oysters on the half shell with chili-lemon butter, catfish breaded in cornmeal, braised quail with browned onions, smothered chicken with mushrooms, fried chicken, chicken jambalaya,

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pork baked with benne seeds, gombo aux herbes, smothered cabbage, string beans with potatoes, mashed turnips with sage butter, red beans and rice, black-eyed peas, okra curry, onion pie, pain perdu, sweet potato buns, and orange spice buns. The children enjoyed strawberry limeade and fruit punch while the adults imbibed rose hip tea, black currant tea, ginger beer, plum wine, honeysuckle wine, wine punch, sherry, brandy, and of course, champagne. Fruit pies of all varieties, plus pinto bean and sweet potato pie, lured wideeyes, drooling children. Marc sampled fig cake, persimmon custard, brandied peaches with lemon, crème brulee with fresh berries, rhubarb galette, chocolate chestnut truffle, chocolate pudding with hazelnuts, chocolate mousse cake, and chocolate bread pudding with brandy custard sauce. “I now see why Alyssa spent the past three days in the kitchen,” Marc remarked as he refilled of his wine glass. “Alyssa did more than her fair share of the cooking,” Joshua said, “but everyone contributed. See that couple at the end of the far table? Edmond brought them here with nothing but rags on their backs and chains on their ankles. They have so little in the way of material goods, but Henry set traps and caught the fine quail we ate tonight. His wife, Margaret, helped Mrs. Shaw make dresses for three young ladies to wear tonight. Everyone contributes. That has always been the way of Beaux Elysees.

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“It is to Alyssa‟s credit that this party is taking place at all,” Joshua said. “She insisted on the brevity of our mourning. She did not want us to start a new year with death and tragedy and Edmond‟s specter looming over us.” “I have not seen Alyssa,” Marc said, scanning the tables for her. “I‟m certain that she has seen you,” Joshua said with a knowing smile.

Alyssa had an unobstructed view of the dining room from her seat in the Grand Salon. Despite her best efforts, she had trouble keeping her eyes off of Marc. The difficulty had started the moment he made his way down the stairs at the start of the evening. Her attention had been drawn to him as a moth to starlight. His manners were refined, though Gian had once written that as a youth, Marc had resisted social grace the way a hound resisted cleanliness. A lesser man may have appeared foppish at the head of a Georgia pine dining table set with white linen and lace napery, antique silver, and centerpieces of violas and flowering herbs. Marc looked regal. He conversed primarily with Joshua but responded with genuine interest to those around him. Alyssa was secretly pleased when he politely refused a request to regale the assembly with tales of his adventures at sea. He instead made a toast.

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“This is a night of new beginnings,” he said in the evening‟s one moment of silence. “This is a time to look forward, to face the future with our shoulders squared and our heads held high. May last year‟s best be this year‟s worst.” The rooms filled with the musical tinkle of crystal glasses gently coming together at every table. Alyssa caught sight of Manon, far off to Marc‟s left. Manon stared at him with an intensity Alyssa could have speared with a fork. Marc lifted his glass to Manon. For the first time in a very long time, Manon‟s smile was free of bitterness. Manon wore a plum dress of sprigged muslin. Tiny puffed sleeves adorned with miniature ribbon roses complemented her slender and graceful arms, while lace and linen petticoats widened the skirt, emphasizing her trim waist. Manon had braided and curled her hair into an intricate style meant to copy the current fashion of the ladies in France. Manon was radiant. It was no wonder she had drawn Marc‟s admiring gaze. Although happy for her friend, Alyssa had the sudden urge to excuse herself from the party.

As soon as politely possible after dinner, Marc excused himself and went out onto the verandah in search of Alyssa. Manon intercepted him. “It would appear that Vincent‟s golden light has returned,” he said to her. “You are the picture of loveliness this evening, Manon.”

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“Thank you.” She dropped slightly in a curtsy. “I have something to tell you,” she said, “something I should have said already. We have been so busy these last few days that I scarcely had time to breathe or thank you for what you have done here. Your presence has made a world of difference to Beaux Elysees.” She lifted one of the fine brows arched above her amber eyes. “And to me.” Manon missed no opportunity to single him out or to flaunt her considerable charms. She was indeed beautiful, but Marc‟s affection for her was fraternal, not carnal. This was to be his home, for only a short time. He had no desire to complicate his stay with an entanglement that would delay or prevent a return to Heaven’s Fury. “Beaux Elysees has had quite an effect on me as well,” Marc said. “Have you seen its mistress?” Taking note of Manon‟s pinched expression, he added, “I wish to congratulate her on a job well done. This is an evening to be remembered.” “I believe she went for a walk with the smithy‟s son,” Manon answered dismissively. “It is such a lovely night, perfect for walking. Or—” “A walk would be just the thing,” said Cedric as he sidled up to Manon. He offered his arm. “Shall we, lassie?” When Marc said nothing to intervene, Manon hid her vexation behind a glassy smile and took Cedric‟s arm, allowing him to lead her to the garden.

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Marc started across the torch-lit courtyard. There was one thing he wanted to do before midnight.

Someone had visited before him, leaving bouquets of holly and heather on the graves. Marc kneeled between the two graves and placed a rose on each, red atop Vincent and white on the mound of soil blanketing Rose. He bowed his head. “I do not know what it is I am to do here. I do not know what is expected of me, or even if I can provide it. Please know that I will do the best I can for Alyssa.” Marc stood and brushed the dirt from his knees. From the corner of his eye he caught a stripe of color moving toward the schoolhouse. The peach blur of Alyssa‟s silk dress. She held the voluminous skirt in her hands as she made her way farther from the estate. Only the intervention of the Lord Almighty His Own Self, to use one of Cedric‟s favorite embellishments, could have stopped Marc from following her.

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Chapter Eight

She ventured into the depths of the bayou. The giant umbrellas of aged oaks, some twenty feet or more in girth, allowed no moonlight through branches impossibly woven with those of willows and cottonwood trees. Tangled curtains of Spanish moss hung over the swampy earth. Marc marveled at the sureness of her steps as she moved in near total darkness past the bell-shaped bases of the cypress trees and over the rise of their knotty “knees” above the water. He followed her past huge, dark green resurrection ferns, through a stand of hackberry and magnolia trees, across an algae-covered bald cypress felled in a long ago hurricane. The deeper she went, the more wild and dense the foliage became. Marc was breathless, on the verge of finally calling her name, when she abruptly halted. He stopped, too, just short of where she stood panting, her bare arms and shoulders awash in moonlight. He crouched, hiding behind a wall of fan-shaped Palmetto leaves and green ash trees entwined with vines of Virginia creeper. The serenity of the scene before him seemed desperately at odds with the untamed nature of the bayou. Alyssa stood at the edge of a blue-green lagoon that captured the moon and starlight, the gently rippling brackish water partially tented by the grandest bald

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cypress he had ever seen. Its peculiar, feathery, deep-green leaves were decorated with a fall of grayish Spanish moss that undulated poetically on the breeze. The bayou was all at once beautiful and ugly, its vegetation lushly earthbound and airborne. It was fragile yet indestructible. Marc saw none of the animals of the bayou, yet he sensed them. He would have returned to the estate and left Alyssa in peace had the quiver of a bush or the rustle of leaves not held him in place, ready to protect her from bobcats, black bears, and alligators. His dagger drawn, he turned his attention to Alyssa. The myriad colors of her awesome tresses gleamed. She shifted, and rainbows of golds, reds, and russets were born. She sat on a broad, flat stone so close to Marc‟s hiding place he was certain that she would hear the thudding of his heart over the symphony of banjo frogs and barred owls. He had a perfect view of her perfect profile. She closed her eyes, the long, thick lashes resting on the swell of her high cheekbones. She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. The tips of her toes peeked from beneath the grass-stained hem of her skirt. He grinned, certain that she had spent the entire evening in her bare feet.

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She tilted her head back, inviting the wind‟s kiss upon her neck and throat. Inhaling, she infused herself with the bayou‟s distinct and earthy perfume. The breeze switched direction to play in her hair, bringing with it a new scent. Sandalwood. There was only one person she associated with the refreshing aroma. “Marc Vincent Ghiradelli.” She savored the taste of each syllable as it glided from the tip of her tongue. She closed her eyes tighter, better view the pictures his name conjured. His eyes were an impossible shade of blue, a blue that she had seen only in her dreams. When he flashed his perfect white teeth in a smile, he was positively divine. And when he laughed, the sound was so rich and cordial it very nearly managed to banish all memories of Edmond Verdieu. She recalled the day she first saw him working shirtless in the sun. Months at sea had bronzed his skin. His arms and torso rippled with taut, sleek muscle that had glistened with a sheen of perspiration borne of his labors. Behind her closed lids she replayed his descent from the stairs at the start of the evening. The long, lean muscles of his legs had worked lazily beneath the close-fitting buckskin of his trousers. His silk shirt had draped almost lovingly over the chiseled planes of his chest and torso. From his raven hair to the polished

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toes of his black boots, his presence had commanded the attention of everyone in the salon. She never stared at him openly, as Manon and many other women dared. But she wanted to. Rose had taught her that the human body was a wonderful, beautiful thing, created to be looked upon. In truth, she had no trouble admiring Marc. It was the feelings resulting from that admiration that troubled her. She was frightened by the longing that coursed through her when he was near and by the sound of his voice. His touch terrified her. And the one person with whom she wanted to discuss her fear, was gone. She dropped her face into her hands, unable to stop the sting of tears. “I need you!” she cried. “I am trying to be brave and strong but I‟m not!” Alyssa wiped at her eyes to see the silhouette of a man. Terror seized her; she leaped to her feet and backed away. The man entered the clearing, where the moonlight revealed his face. “I won‟t hurt you,” Marc said gently. “Not now, not ever. There is no need to fear me.” She defiantly stood her ground. “I‟m not afraid of you.” Her insistence was too vehement to be convincing. “I‟m…I‟m…not afraid of…of anything!” A torrent of fresh tears wracked her slight frame.

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Before she could calm herself enough to protest, she found herself clasped to his chest, her cheek to his thundering heart. Her tears wetting the soft fabric of his shirt, his large, calloused hands stroked her hair with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. She took several deep breaths, his heartbeat comforting, like a lullaby. Her arms hesitantly slid around his middle. “You followed me,” she murmured into his chest. “You wore a dress,” he observed. “We‟ve both behaved out of character this evening.” His fingertips moved over her bare arms, raising goose pimples on her cool skin. “No one else comes here,” she whispered. “This is my own secret place. My heaven.” “You have not even shared this place with Manon?” Alyssa wriggled from his embrace. The cool night air rushed between them. “Joshua will sound the bell any second now, to ring in the New Year. You must not waste this moment with me when it is obvious that you wish to be with someone else.” As if on cue, the lingering gong of a bell faintly reached their ears. “You are the someone I wish to be with.” He had wanted to catch her alone, to discuss Beaux Elysees, he repeatedly tried to convince himself. Business was the

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last thing on his mind now that they were together. The wine and spirits he had consumed at the banquet, the long weeks he had spent at sea…those were the only logical explanations for the sudden, ravenous stirring in his belly. He closed the space between them with the bell ringing out once more. He cradled her face in his hands. Her green eyes mirrored the blue of his own. Her lower lip trembled fetchingly. The bell chimed twice more, and Alyssa spiraled into the fathomless indigo of his gaze. With overlapping echoes of the bell in the background, he said, “You have been so strong and so brave, for such a long time. You endured Edmond‟s hell. You can not expect to have escaped unscathed.” “You…understand,” she sighed. Unbelievably, he knew how she felt. Though Edmond had left no visible scars, she surely had them. She touched the strong line of his jaw. He covered her hand with his own and turned his face just enough to touch his lips to the heel of her palm. “Is this the hand that struck me?” he asked. “Do forgive me,” she whispered. “Done,” he said, gazing upon her. What spell does this place work on a man, he wondered. More than he wanted his next breath, he wanted to kiss her. Again, the bell tolled.

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“Choose carefully who you kiss at the turn of the year,” Alyssa said, as if reading his mind. “For that person will be your love for the year,” Marc finished. Gian had distilled the same wives‟ tale. Alyssa moved her hand to the soft fall of his hair. As the new year advanced by two more clangs of the bell, Marc guided her arms to wrap loosely around his neck. His arms circled her. He lowered his head until his mouth was near her ear. Her skin prickled in places that had never prickled before. The tension left her body as he held her. It had been so long since she felt so at ease. Since she felt so safe. The bell sounded once more in the time it took him to say, “There is something I must tell you.” Her heartbeat filled her ears, masking the ringing of the bell and the sound of her own voice as she said, “And that is?” “Happy New Year.” The bell‟s last chime died alongside the past year as he brought his lips to hers. One of his hands found its way into her hair while the other, braced at the small of her back, pressed her body into his. His tongue lightly traced her mouth, and a moan escaped her. He tasted the succulent flesh of her upper lip, then the

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lower one, before once more sampling the two together. His lips moved over hers, nibbling, licking, and teasing. The reality of his kiss was a thousand times better than anything she had imagined. She wanted more and invited it as her hands moved over his back, luxuriating in the minute movement of hard muscle beneath softest silk. She shivered, her lips parting in response to his gentle coaxing. The unfamiliar heat of his tongue against hers sent her thoughts into a tailspin as his kiss probed deeper, inviting her to respond in kind. She clutched handfuls of his shirt, pulling it from the waist of his breeches. He tasted her eyelids and her cheeks. He nibbled her earlobes and her throat, partaking of her as heartily as he had of the New Year‟s banquet. Her hands slid from his taut lower back and over his firm buttocks. Her touch was electric, shocking every part of his body. An ache rose deep inside him, unlike any he‟d ever known. It was more than a want. It was a dire need. She fit him. She moved against him, and with him, with such ease, he dared to wonder if she had been made just for him. She drew the pads of her fingertips ever so lightly along the backs of his thighs. His moan filled that delicate hollow of her throat as set a kiss there. His lips were moist with heat as he brushed them across the swell of her breasts. She

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tossed her head back, welcoming him when he closed his lips over a tight peak of flesh pushing against the silk of her bodice. She gasped, raw sensation washing through her. She tore at his shirt, popping buttons into the air. His lips became more voracious in their hunger for her breasts, and she responded by cupping the bold ridge between his thighs. He groaned, sinking to his knees and bringing her with him. In an instant she was lying atop him on the fragrant cushion of the bayou floor. Sweeping his neck and chest with chaste, fragile kisses that betrayed her inexperience, she was as wild as the bayou she called heaven. Neither the bawdiest London whore nor the most sophisticated Parisian courtesan could have dissolved Mark‟s restraint faster or more effectively. He couldn‟t move, he couldn‟t breathe. All he knew was the sweet touch of her lips on his skin. She took his hands and guided them to her breasts, prompting him to tug aside the fabric covering her breasts to tease her bare nipples with flickers and flutters of his tongue and gentle nips of his teeth. Her breath locked in her chest as heat, glorious and rhythmical, pulsed from a molten point deep within her. Starved for this touch, for his touch, she hungered for more than kisses and taunting nips that, like sparks, jumped from the bonfire between them.

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It was intoxicating, this newly-tapped well of sensation within her. For the first time in her life, she knew the meaning of desire. She knew its power, its voracity, and the heady, thrilling sensations it sent coursing through her veins. She also knew its name. Lust. That was a thing far different from love, though Rose had taught her that love and lust, when coupled, was sheer magic. Lust left unchecked, untamed, and untempered by love, could be an ugly thing indeed. Alyssa wanted that magic, the primal, carnal magic that temporarily made man and woman one. Until now, she had never felt that pull to share herself. That urge became stronger and stronger under Marc‟s learned touch. She wanted that magic with him, had dreamed of sharing it with him only. She wanted no part of that ugly, dangerous thing that ruled men like...like Edmond. The mere thought of him was enough to bite her newly discovered passion off at its quick. Were the sensations quickening her blood and sharpening her senses the same as those that had driven Edmond? She blanched at the notion that she shared anything, other than blood, with her vile half uncle. She tore Marc‟s hands off of her and scrambled to her feet. She pulled her clothing back into place. “Alyssa,” Marc said, bewildered by her sudden retreat.

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She pressed the fingers of one shaky hand to her mouth. Her lips were slightly fuller, a bit swollen from his fervent kisses. She warily moved away from him. The evidence of his arousal was apparent when he stood to follow her. “Don‟t,” she pleaded, splaying her hands before her, warding him off. “I shouldn‟t have encouraged you.” “You‟ve done nothing wrong,” he cut in. “It‟s quite the opposite.” The fear shaping her features added another layer of guilt to the heap already piled at his feet. “I went too far. Forgive me.” He was dumbfounded. How easily a New Year‟s kiss had become entirely something else, something completely unexpected. “Please, don‟t leave,” he urged. “I will not touch you, if you don‟t wish it. I will not move from this spot. You‟ve given life to something within me that I thought was dead. Alyssa, do not leave me with that fear in your eyes.” For the shortest possible moment Alyssa considered staying and taking his words to heart. He was so darkly handsome. The moonlight painted blue and silver strokes in his hair. It glinted in his eyes like lightning in a clear summer sky. His mouth may have shaped sweet words of comfort, but his lips, slightly red and swollen from a tempest of kisses, told only of sensuous promise. Had she ever seen a man so painfully beautiful? He passed a hand through his hair, brushing it off his face. That casual, offhand movement was all it took to rile the heady sensations she

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had fought to suppress. She grabbed her skirt in her shaking hands and ran as though her immortal soul was in peril.

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Chapter Nine

“What would be involved in selling Beaux Elysees?” Marc asked. Those were the first words Marc had spoken since he and Joshua had returned from visiting Heaven’s Fury, which was docked in a secluded cove in Atchafalaya Bay. Marc had ridden Necromancer, the powerful bay he had purchased in Morgan City upon his arrival. Marc dropped the pitchfork he had used to dish fresh straw into Necromancer‟s stall. He shook his hair, sending a flurry of chaff to dance in the sunbeams. In the week since New Year‟s, Marc had often mumbled to himself as he strived to learn the operation of Beaux Elysees. At times, he was so deep in thought he scarcely responded to his own name. This question was the closest Marc had come to initiating conversation all week. Joshua occupied the next stall, rubbing down Chestnut, the stallion he had ridden to the ship. “A lot of heartache and anguish, quite truthfully, Captain,” Joshua finally answered, wiping sweat from his brow. He left Chestnut‟s stall to get a drink of lemonade from the ceramic crock Alyssa had provided for the stable boys and groomsmen.

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The stable, bright and open, was so clean that the brass latches on the doors and stalls cast beams of their own light. Necromancer paced within a stall tidy enough to eat in, which led Joshua to believe that Marc‟s determination to clean it was more distraction than necessity. Marc dropped the shovel and met Joshua‟s eyes squarely. “I am not a planter,” he said earnestly. “I‟ve made my life, on the sea. Whether Alyssa wishes to discuss it or not, the fact that I intend to sell Beaux Elysees remains unchanged.” Marc poured himself a tall glass of the chilled lemonade and gulped it down. He pressed the empty glass to his forehead, cooling his brow. “Alyssa will come to understand why it had to be done.” Joshua held back a snort. “This is the only home Alyssa has ever known. This place is as much a part of her as that ship is a part of you. Could you part with Heaven’s Fury?” Callow entered Marc‟s mind. Marc was willing to kill for his ship. “I was freed when I was twenty-one, when my owner died,” Joshua said. “But no one wanted to hire a free Negro. All my life I‟d heard whisperings of this place. Us black folks spoke of it as a paradise here on Earth; white folks spoke of it only in mockery. I decided that if it existed, I was going to find it or die trying. I wandered the swamps for days. Between the cottonmouths and the ‟gators, I figured I‟d given my life chasing a myth. Vincent found me, half dead, covered in

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bug bites, with nothing to my name but the tattered clothes on my back, and this….” Joshua rolled up his left shirt sleeve and displayed the letters “MR” that had been burned into his inner arm at the age of three. The letters branded him a slave belonging to the late Mordecai Ritchard of Shreveport. “I‟ve lived here for twenty-five years. Rose taught me to read and write. Vincent taught me to be a gentleman. Beaux Elysees is more than land to Alyssa and me and hundreds of other people. This place is the truest home many of us have ever known. Alyssa was born of the magic of this place. She shares blood with every person you‟ll meet here. The hoot of the horned owl echoes her heartbeat. Her sighs ride the wind through the marsh. Her tears are the dew blanketing the Verdieu graves. Remember that, Captain, when you consider taking Beaux Elysees away from her.” Marc pulled up a bale of hay to sit opposite Joshua. He winced at the pain from a recent wound in his side. “This was not a part of the plan,” he insisted. “I came here to secure Beaux Elysees. It was my intention to remain only until I was no longer needed. I did not come here to take a wife.” Marc blinked, and in that instant he felt Alyssa‟s breath upon his neck, her smooth skin beneath his fingertips. He forced the images away before they rooted in his heart. “Who said anything about marriage?” Joshua said, his lips curved in a smile. “You might not have been looking for love, but maybe love is looking for you. I have

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known Alyssa all her life. You have been all over the world, and I‟d wager that you have met no other woman like her.” “You would win that wager,” Marc admitted with an embarrassed smile. “This is ridiculous. I have known her scarcely two weeks!” “Two weeks?” Joshua snorted indignantly. “Captain, you have known her all her life. Your fathers knitted your lives together through an intimate friendship that lasted for half a century. Vincent relied on Count Ghiradelli to do the right thing by Rose and Alyssa, and that meant sending you to them.” “Alyssa needs only my name to secure her bequest,” Marc said. “I cannot possibly be of any use to her as a husband.” And yet again I manage to fail a woman who needs me. “I don‟t belong here,” Marc said. “I can never be what Alyssa deserves.” “You are not here by accident,” Joshua insisted. “Nor am I here forever,” Marc replied.

“You have a patient,” Joshua announced as he opened the door of the infirmary. The chime brought Alyssa from the sole examination room, where she had been restocking her supplies. Before she could ask what was wrong, Marc entered behind Joshua. Her eyes widened at the blossoms of blood on Marc‟s shirt.

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“It‟s nothing serious,” Joshua assured her. “The cart Marc was riding in yesterday tipped over in the north field. Marc got a cut and he opened the wound again today, working on his ship this afternoon.” Alyssa ushered Marc into the exam room. She set a crate of bandages and liniment bottles on the cherry wood counter that spanned one side of the small room. Numerous cabinets lined two walls. Their glass doors revealed boxes, bottles, and pouches of colorful and aromatic herbs and concoctions Alyssa used to doctor the citizens of Beaux Elysees. The room was spotless. Wood surfaces gleamed, glass panes shone. Once he sat on the thin cotton pad on the exam table, Marc discovered the source of the crisp, bright light illuminating the room. A slanted window in the ceiling provided the perfect light by which Alyssa could examine her patients. And patients could examine Alyssa, particularly the flecks of gold and cornflower blue speckling the emerald of her eyes. With Marc‟s large body dwarfing their surroundings, Alyssa suddenly felt out of place, though second to the bayou, the infirmary was where she was most comfortable. “Don‟t just sit there,” Joshua ordered Marc as he turned to leave. “She can‟t see through that shirt.” Joshua pulled the curtain to give Marc some privacy.

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Alyssa stepped over to the window, which offered a view of the grape arbor. She closed the shutters. While he was safe from prying eyes outside, there was nothing he could do to stop Alyssa from watching him grab the back of his collar and tug his soiled shirt over his head. Alyssa sucked in her breath,her hands involuntarily tightening on the shutter knobs. He was too beautiful, so beautiful it was painful to watch him undress. He seemed to fill the room as he shrugged his broad shoulders out of his shirt and let it pool beside him. She moved to stand at his side, his long, goatskin-wrapped thigh against her right hip. “You took a good hit.” Alyssa studied the purpling injury. “There‟s a nice bruise, and the cut is in danger of infection. You should have come to me with this yesterday.” Alyssa opened a drawer in the counter and removed a small cotton towel. She poured clean water and a powdered herb into a wooden bowl and brought it to the exam table. She applied the cool cloth to the angry wound, and Marc lifted his face to the skylight. She cleaned the wound, her touch sure and knowing. “Nothing appears to be broken,” Alyssa said, lightly massaging the muscles surrounding the injury. “Which is why I saw no need to trouble you,” Marc said. “Infection can be deadlier than a broken bone,” Alyssa responded. She prodded him a bit more. “There are no unusual bulges.”

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Marc disagreed. Unless he could discreetly draw his shirt across his lap, she was sure to discover his most unusual bulge. He lowered his face and her hair tickled across his chin. She turned her face to the side and moved even closer, feeling for tender spots or broken bones higher along his rib cage. Her hair brushed his bare shoulder. Her breath caressed his ear and neck. “Lift,” she said, encouraging him to raise his arms by sliding her fingertips along and up his sides. She smelled of wildflowers. The kaleidoscope of colors in her hair mesmerized him. Goose pimples rose to the surface of his bronzed skin in response to her touch. His breathing seemed to match hers as she moved between his knees and propped his outstretched arms upon her shoulders. The moments of silence between them were too perfect, as if time had stopped to accommodate her innocent exploration. It had a sinful effect on Marc. He held her gaze, hoping she would overlook the mountain range forming atop his thigh. “Inhale deeply,” she said, her face kissing distance from his. He did so, his rib cage expanding between her small hands. Alyssa shivered at the sheer size and strength of him as his muscles moved under his velvet skin. “Any pain?” she asked. He slowly shook his head, the tip of his nose a whisper from the pert tip of hers. “Do you examine all of your patients this intimately?” he asked.

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Her eyes narrowed. “I examine all of my patients this carefully,” she responded. She stepped away from him. He took that moment to drag his shirt over his lap. “You‟re very lucky,” she said. “That cart could have crushed you.” Her gaze dropped to the faint line of a scar on his abdomen. Her fingertips grazed it as she examined it. His flesh jumped, and he hopped off the table, clutching his shirt at his waist. “Thank you, for your kind attention,” he said coldly. In three strides, he was through the curtain and out the door without a glance back.

“Have you ever been in love?” Alyssa asked. She was on the verandah with Joshua, enjoying the brisk night air. He could answer her question with a single word, yet the answer wasn‟t at all simple. He glanced at the burial ground, his heart in his eyes. “Maman loved you too,” Alyssa said softly, drawing Joshua from the past. “Aside from Marguerite, you were her dearest friend.” She sat cross-legged on the jade tiles, her green eyes fixed on him, shining with compassion and wisdom. “I don‟t think you came out here to talk about me.” “No,” she said with a sudden twinge of unease. “It‟s Captain Ghiradelli.” She lowered her eyes. “I…he…well, we….” She faltered, unable to come up with the right words to convey the tumult of her emotions. “We kissed.”

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“Are you in love with him?” Joshua asked. She was grateful for the darkness, for it hid the color that rushed into her cheeks. “How could I be in love with him?” she scoffed. “One kiss,” one fantastic, mind-numbing, soul-awakening kiss, “doesn‟t add up to love.” “And why not?” She dropped her head, spilling a fall of her magnificent hair over her shoulder. “It just isn‟t possible.” No matter how I may long for it. “And you have proof of this,” Joshua said. “He hasn‟t spoken to me since New Year‟s.” “Have you given him a fair chance to catch up with you?” She thrust her fingers in her hair and tossed it from her face, casting her gaze downward in embarrassment. “I ran from him, from how I felt when I was with him.” Joshua sat up straight in his chair. “If he hurt you,” he began grimly, “Gian‟s son or not, I‟ll—” Alyssa rose to her knees and placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back into the chair. The lamplight from the salon revealed the threat of murder in Joshua‟s face. “No, he didn‟t hurt me,” Alyssa said. “It was quite the opposite. He made me feel completely alive.”

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“Then what‟s the matter?” “I‟m afraid.” “Of what?” Joshua appeared thoroughly perplexed. “Of what happens after two people fall in love.” “You‟re afraid to get married?” Joshua asked. Alyssa shook her head. “I‟m afraid of what comes after marriage.” When Joshua still didn‟t seem to grasp her meaning, she said, “Of what comes immediately after getting married.” “You mean…?” She nodded. “I didn‟t know it could be so monstrous.” “It isn‟t, child,” Joshua said. He thought nothing of being tossed into the role of confidante. With Rose, Marguerite, and Tita Cortes gone, and Manon preoccupied with her own amorous pursuits, he was the one person Alyssa could entrust with her reservations. “Marc is not Edmond. The two are not cut from the same cloth.” “Edmond and Papa were,” she pointed out ruefully. She had him there. It was no wonder she was frightened. “Marc is a good man. If he loves you, and you love him, then that‟s half the battle won. You will have nothing to fear, cherie.” Hope gave her face a bubbly youthfulness he hadn‟t seen in months.

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“Do you think he could love me, Joshua?” He smiled wistfully as he said, “He‟d be a fool not to.”

Manon stood at the back of the one-room schoolhouse, her arms crossed over her chest, watching the last of the students file outside. Classes had ended, and she had waited all day to confront Alyssa. “Exactly what is there between you and the captain?” she demanded. Alyssa turned from the chalkboard she was erasing and clapped her dusty hands on the front of her brown trousers. “Nothing,” she said, dropping her eyes. “If sideways glances and longing stares are „nothing‟ then indeed there is nothing between you and Marc,” Manon scoffed. She stuck her fists on her hips and stomped to the head of the class, stopping inches from Alyssa. “Your nothing is so thick I can almost reach out and wrestle the life from it with my bare hands!” “What has the captain done to upset you this time?” Alyssa asked wearily. She sat at her desk to grade a stack of math examinations. “Did he fail to notice the paper whites in your hair? Or neglect to sample some delicacy you‟ve prepared?” “He‟s done nothing!” bit Manon. “It would appear that there is quite a bit of nothing around here these days,” Alyssa said.

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“I have done my level best to change that, Alyssa,” Manon insisted.. “But no matter what I say, how I dress, or what I do, the captain is unfailingly the perfect gentleman. I want him.” Manon‟s shoulders sank. “And he wants you. Like everything else here, he, too, belongs to you. “He is an astonishing man,” Manon went on, her anger becoming self-pity. “He has worked night and day to restore Beaux Elysees. He has appointed himself Melody‟s protector and hired a man to locate Dell. “You have said no more than ten words to him since he came to us,” Manon chided. “You are in his heart. You would see it, if you stopped avoiding him long enough to look into his eyes.” Manon sat heavily in one of the desks facing Alyssa. Her next words came so quietly, yet they filled the classroom. “I want a family, someday. I want a man to look at me as Marc looks at you. But I know it will never happen.” Alyssa went to her dear friend‟s side now that the heart of the matter had been exposed. She sat beside Manon and took her hands. “You shouldn‟t say such a thing. You can‟t know what the future holds.” “I‟m neither one nor the other,” Manon remarked sadly. “I have no true parents. When you marry, I‟ll come into the inheritance Vincent provided for me, but what can I do with it? Where can I go and be received, acknowledged, as a

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person? Where do I belong? I am not black, I am not white. I am both. Anywhere but here, that means I am nothing.” “This nothing again,” Alyssa said, putting her arm around Manon. “If you are nothing, then so am I. I am proud to be such nothing.” “This is your home, your place,” Manon persisted, unwilling to be drawn from her abyss of depression. “When you marry, and you will, Beaux Elysees will be yours. Your parents had the courage to love one another and sustain a place for that love, and for you, to exist. You will always have a place in this world.” Alyssa hugged Manon and kissed the top of her head. “Nous faisons partie de la même famille. We are part of the same family. As long as I have a place, so will you.”

Manon collided with Marc as she left the schoolhouse. “Buon giorno, signor,” she greeted. The words hit the proper notes of cheer, but the tightness of her smile and the glassy sheen in her eyes belied them. “Is something troubling you, Manon?” Marc asked, cupping her cheek. He used the pad of his thumb to wipe a smear of chalk dust from her chin. “I‟m in a rush, that‟s all,” she said stiffly. “Cedric is taking Rina and Adette to visit the Chiassons. I think I shall join them.” “Will Alyssa be joining you as well?” “She‟s marking examinations.”

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Despite the news he was bringing her, he became as eager as a schoolboy, knowing that Alyssa was within the dusky brick walls of the schoolhouse. Nearly a month after that mystical moment they had shared in the bayou, he finally had the chance to speak with her alone. Marc placed his hand on the doorknob of the schoolhouse, and Manon rushed back to take his arm in a desperate grip. Her mouth worked to form words but it seemed unable to select the ones it wished to use. “Tell me what troubles you, Manon.” Her hand tightened on his arm. His hand came to cover hers, and its weight and size steeled her nerves. “Could you love me?” she said all at once. “I know that you love Alyssa. I saw it that first day, when you carried her to her room. It‟s even stronger now as I look at you.” Marc lifted a finger to wipe away her tears. “I didn‟t think that men as fine as Vincent and my Joshua existed, yet you are everything they are,” Manon continued. “I want someone to love me as Vincent loved Rose. As you love Alyssa. Could someone love me that way, Marc? Could a man as kind and strong and handsome as you are, love me?” Marc cradled her face in his hands. “Your tears are obscuring your perspective. Alyssa has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, but I

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would no more give her my love than I would give her a basket of cobras. I cannot deny that Alyssa is an intriguing woman. In her, I have discovered what true strength is.” Marc stopped himself before he became tempted to further expound on Alyssa‟s finer qualities. “One day, Manon, you will meet a man who is everything you desire. And he will know that unless it is shared with you, his life is worth nothing.” “We are positively plagued by nothing today,” she mumbled as she gently peeled his hands away. “Do you sincerely believe there is such a man for me?” “I swear to it.” The faint worry lines creasing her brow disappeared. “Grazi, signor,” she said smiling softly.

Boots sounded on the hardwood floor, and Alyssa looked up. Her breath caught as her lips slowly parted. The marking pen she clutched between the fingers of her right hand dropped to the desktop, spattering one of the examination papers with droplets of black ink. Marc‟s footsteps were steady and ceased only when he stood before her desk, his legs braced as though he were aboard Heaven’s Fury, riding the sea. Charcoal breeches hugged his long, sturdy legs, his hair free of the leather cord he typically used to restrain it. The stark whiteness of his shirt complemented his

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sun-bronzed skin and the sleek jet of his hair. He smiled. The ordinary gesture gave his face a beauty to rival that of an ancient god. Alyssa rose slowly from her chair. She tried to swallow around the dryness that suddenly clogged her throat. Marc started speaking, determined to say his piece. “I have waited for the right time and place to speak with you about Beaux Elysees, but this will have to do.” He passed a hand through his hair, strengthening his resolve as she stared at him with her incredible eyes, which had assumed the jade hue of her shirt. A pair of tortoiseshell combs held her hair from her face, giving him an unobstructed view of her dainty nose and her full, strawberry mouth. Her otherwise unadorned beauty threatened to completely disarm him. “There‟s no easy way to say this, other than to just say it,” he said. “I intend to sell Beaux Elysees.” Alyssa sank heavily into her chair. “I-I‟m not feeling well, all of a sudden.” Dizzy, hot and nauseous, she reached for the pewter pitcher of water on her desk, her hand shaking as she lifted the heavy vessel. Marc took the pitcher from her and filled her cup. “As soon as the sale is complete, I shall return to Heaven’s Fury. I believe this arrangement will be in the best interest of—”

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“Of you, that‟s who,” Alyssa cut in. Outrage pushed aside her panic and disappointment and she launched herself from her chair. “Have you given no thought to what will happen to the people who live here? Have you no regard for the history of Beaux Elysees?” Marc squared his shoulders and took another step toward her. “Seventy-five years ago, the Marquis Valery de Moulin received a land grant—this land—from Louis XV. In settling here, the Marquis fell in love with a West Indian slave. He purchased her, took her to Paris, and married her. She grew so homesick that they returned here, to Bayou Teche, and built Beaux Elysees. Through the years this place became a sanctuary for those in need, particularly for those forbidden to love. The Marquis bequeathed the estate and its holdings to your father, a former captain in his service and a dear friend.” “So you can regurgitate facts,” Alyssa snapped. “You clearly have no sense of the power of this place.” Marc flinched under the scrutiny of her green gaze. If Alyssa was Beaux Elysees, as Joshua believed, then Marc had a very good idea of the power of the place. It stood before him, shaming him with an emerald stare. “I did not ask for this responsibility,” Marc said. “But you accepted it,” Alyssa countered. “You, a future count and honorable sea captain, wish only to take the easiest, most destructive path to freedom.”

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“I am not a planter, Alyssa,” he said. He met her eyes squarely, almost falling into them. “I love the sea. I was made for it. Have you ever stood at the bow of a ship with nothing but wind between you and the water? Do you know her power? Her beauty?” “I know only that Beaux Elysees needs you more than your mistress does,” she responded. “As for your precious sea, she couldn‟t compete with my mother. In Rose, my sea-faring father found a love who could return his.” “I can‟t have a wife,” he said, humbled by the admission. Alyssa was too angry to question his odd choice of words. “I don‟t need a husband. This is about business. Marry me. Save my home and go about your way.” “You would live without passion, without love, to save Beaux Elysees?” Marc asked. “Who says I‟d live without passion?” Her eyes hardened; the fine hairs at Marc‟s nape stood on end. “I‟m a woman and of mixed heritage, and therefore not permitted to own anything,” Alyssa stated. “At least here, at Beaux Elysees, I own my heart and my body. I‟m sure you‟ll have no problem finding love, or a reasonable substitute, elsewhere. I‟m entitled to that same option.” The thought of marrying her was bad enough. The very idea of her taking pleasure in the arms of another man was wholly abhorrent. “This is ridiculous!” he

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thundered, banging his fist on her desktop. “I will have no part of such a preposterous arrangement!” “You would see the tenants of Beaux Elysees displaced? You would see families broken? These people have no other place to go.” She slapped her hand to her chest and said, “I have no other place!” “You know perfectly well that my parents would welcome you.” “This is my home,” she seethed. “I won‟t let you sell it.” “You have no authority in this matter, Alyssa. You can‟t stop me.” He watched the movement of her lips when she said, “I can, if I marry.” Her expression brightened. “I don‟t know why I didn‟t think of it sooner. It‟s so simple. I‟ll get married. Cedric would be the perfect choice.” She sat down and tidied her stack of examinations. A tiny muscle began an erratic dance in Marc‟s jaw. Cedric was a good man, but the thought of him standing with Alyssa, taking her to wife, taking her to bed and filling her with his children…. “Absolutely not,” Marc said firmly. “I will not permit it.” “You can‟t stop me,” Alyssa said, her gaze on her papers. “You would marry Cedric, to spite me?” She very carefully placed her marking pencil on the desktop. “I would marry Cedric to preserve Beaux Elysees.”

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“You wouldn‟t be happy with him,” Marc insisted. “He wouldn‟t even begin to know how to please you.” “If you cared at all for what pleased me, you wouldn‟t sell Beaux Elysees,” Alyssa said. “Cedric and I are young and inexperienced. We could learn how to love one another.” Marc‟s jaw clenched. “Vincent never wrote of your fickle nature.” “Fickle?!” Alyssa shot to her feet. Marc leaned over the desk, his nose only inches from hers. “How easily you dole out your affections. Tell me…when Cedric touches you on your wedding night, will you run from him as you ran from me?” Alyssa forced a sweet smile to mask her humiliation. “That‟s really not your concern, is it? As we have no use for you, how soon will you be leaving Beaux Elysees?” Marc had never been so lightly dismissed, but he‟d be damned before he‟d let her ruffle his composure. “I can leave first thing in the morning.” “Fine,” Alyssa said. “Good.” He turned to leave. He was two steps from the door when Alyssa said, “Captain?” “Marc,” he corrected, his hand on the doorknob. “I‟m sorry,” she said.

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He turned to face her. “In the bayou. For running.” “Think nothing of it,” he said. “You scared me,” she added. “It…scared me.” “I regret that you never learned the beauty of what can happen between a man and a woman,” he said. “Perhaps Cedric can exorcise that fear.” Once again, he turned to leave. “Captain!” Alyssa cried, stopping him once more. “Marc,” he said as he went back to her desk. “I don‟t want Cedric,‟ she said. “Not that way.” She stepped to the front of her desk, so close to him she smelled the sunlight and fresh air on his clothing. “I want you,” she exhaled softly. He blinked. “I want you,” she repeated, her eyes never leaving his. She kept talking for fear that if she stopped she would never again find the courage to speak her mind. “You make me feel alive, and I want that, too, more than anything. But I‟m so afraid.” Her hands trembled as she took one of his hands and held it to her heart, neither of them minding that the generous swell of her left breast was in the way.

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“I don‟t want to be afraid to be close to a man,” she said softly. “I never was, not until….” “Until Edmond,” he finished. She nodded and moved into him, bowing her head into his chest. Marc couldn‟t stop himself from gathering her into his arms and shaping her body to his. He lifted her face, catching her lips in a kiss. The kiss sparked the embers of the passion that hadn‟t been entirely extinguished by Alyssa‟s fear. The smoldering flame between them flared, filling her with a searing heat that burned hottest at the place where her hips longed to fuse with his. He layered kisses, from diminutive to luxuriant, upon the sweet, fragrant skin under her chin and along her throat. Her hips moved against him, the easy friction stoking the center of his own passion. He turned her in his arms, his lips traveling over her cheek and neck, until her back was pressed to his chest. He plucked the tortoiseshell combs from her hair and guided the weight of her tresses to cascade over her left shoulder. His warm lips, as softly as the beating wings of a butterfly, frolicked over her nape, and Alyssa moaned. She lifted her head and turned her face to nuzzle his neck. Her fingers took the initiative to unfasten the buttons of her shirt.

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Marc helped slide the oversized cotton garment to the floor. Her mischievous and eager fingers went to work again, this time pulling the ends of the ribbon closing the front of her chemise. The fabric of the undergarment was so fine it was almost sheer. She shrugged, and the chemise joined her shirt on the polished pine floor. He stepped back to allow his hands free movement over the flawless skin of her back and shoulders. Her skin seemed to sizzle under his skillful exploration of the terrain from her neck to her waist. The languid heat that had started in her loins flowed to her face and breasts, and she turned to face him. Marc inhaled sharply, his palms coming to support the weight of her breasts. They were high, firm and capped with deliciously inviting peaks of deep rose. His thumbs brushed across them, and they responded, pebbling, eliciting a gasp from Alyssa. If he searched the world for the rest of his life, Marc doubted he‟d ever find anything more perfect. He dropped to his knees to worship them with his lips. Alyssa‟s knees weakened under the moist heat of his mouth closing over first one attention-starved nipple and then the other. Her knees buckled once his hands assisted by kneading and gently pinching her nipples until she felt she would go quite happily mad. He relentlessly tended to her breasts, reveling in their silky sweetness. She leaned against the front of her desk, her arms outstretched, bracing herself with a

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hand at either end of it. Marc moved with her, unwilling to separate his lips from her flesh. He parted her legs and stood between them, arched over her, drawing long and hard on the puckered peaks of her breasts as his hands supported her lower back. Her thoughts swirled in a dizzying rush. “I‟m not afraid,” she said, more for her own reassurance than his. “I want you and I‟m not afraid.” She brought his mouth to hers and kissed him, locking her fingers in his dark hair. She peppered his neck and the strong line of his jaw with kisses. She suckled his earlobe before urging his mouth back to her breast. He paused to rake his deep blue gaze over her body. His mouth pulled into a sensuous smile. She had the face of an angel, the body of a goddess and the passion of a succubus. And she wanted him. Only Fate could have authored such a cruel turn. Alyssa quivered, a new rush of excitement flooding through her under the bold sensuality of his gaze. Her naughty fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. Before they could rob him of it, he took her wrists in his hands. “I lost three buttons from my favorite shirt the last time you took hold of me,” he said, draping her arms over his shoulders. His hands slid along her arms, over her hips and to the back of her loose-fitting trousers. She flicked the tip of her

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tongue across his bottom lip, sending his hands diving under her waistband to cup her bottom. She smiled into his chest, realizing that prior to the invasion of his hands, nothing had come between her and her trousers. “How marvelously unladylike,” he remarked, his lips flickering in a grin. He unbuttoned her trousers and let them fall. Once again his gaze moved over her, from the top of her golden mane, to the perfection of her bosom, the flat plane of her abdomen, the swell of her hips, and the long, elegantly muscled legs tapering from them. As always, her feet were bare. He sat her on the edge of the desk and kneeled to position her legs over his shoulders. Before she could protest, if she intended to at all, in the diamond of his thumbs and forefingers he framed the tawny fleece between her legs. Alyssa curled forward to watch him, blood rushing to where Marc‟s gaze was glued, leaving her light-headed and wanting. “So beautiful here,” he said, “like the heart of a rose.” The compliment came as hot puffs of air on her already heated flesh, which he had gently exposed. His hair brushed the sensitive insides of her thighs, prefacing a bliss she had never known. The first, soft rasp of his tongue against the swollen, throbbing tip of her sex made her whimper. Her knees fell wide to receive what he was only too eager to give.

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His hands moved over her flat abdomen and found the swell of her hips, the long muscles of her thighs like iron beneath her creamy skin. “Make your body like water,” he said. “Think only of me.” The hum of his voice between her legs gave her an erotic jolt. She threaded her fingers in his hair and allowed his touch to flow through her. The tension in her legs and hips vanished in her surrender to the maddening thrill of his lips. They tightened around that bit of pink housing the heart of her pleasure. He suckled with steady, firm but gentle tugs in between airy dances of his tongue. Her back arching, she spread herself over the desktop, blindly scattering test papers and books. She pushed her hands into his hair and begged him to relieve the seemingly endless torment of his attentions. He was merciless. Rapid, feathery movement of his tongue made her cry out and grab handfuls of her own hair, while only slightly lower down, one of his long fingers easily slid into her. Back and forth, in and out, his unrelenting rhythm left her groaning for release. Alyssa was desperate, wanting, needing him to fill the hungry space within her that seemed to contract with each application of his mouth and invasion of his finger.

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His tongue detoured to dip into her navel, then circle the neglected buds crowning her breasts. She clamped one hand around his wrist and the other at the back of his head, drawing his mouth to hers. She tasted her sweetness on his lips. Without warning, he added a second finger to thrill her, and a bolt of rapturous heat raced through her. His thumb exercised the spot that his mouth, which now tended to her nipples, had so well loved. Her whole body rocketed to life, erupting with an ecstasy that surged from the point beneath his thumb. Over and over her hips lifted to meet each molten crest of pleasure. Marc tightly closed his eyes. Shaped by passion, her beauty tortured him. The last thing he wanted was to spoil it by succumbing to the urgent need to satisfy his own need. “There‟s so much more, isn‟t there?” she murmured. He opened his eyes to see her spread across the desktop, like Cleopatra upon a bed of palm fronds. He scooped her into his arms and sat on the desk. She wrapped around him like an exotic vine. “There is quite a lot more,” he said, the movement of her bare bottom against his straining arousal making it more and more difficult to think only of her pleasure. She touched her lips to his cheek. “This is a classroom. I can think of no better place to learn.”

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He swallowed hard. It took every bit of his strength and honor as sea captain and future count to tell her, “This moment was for you. I do not want your first time to be in a heated rush on an oak desk amidst a pile of math examinations. Perhaps, after we are lawfully wed, we can further your…education.” Alyssa blinked in surprise. So he was willing to accept her offer. The concession did not make her as happy as she thought it would. “How marvelously old-fashioned of you,” she said dryly.

Marc paced in the study, his loins still heavy with want hours after he‟d “confronted” Alyssa in the schoolhouse. “So I‟ve agreed to marry her,” he stated casually. “And it‟s strictly a business proposal.” If he repeated it enough times, he was sure to keep the thing in its proper perspective. He sat at the desk, his gaze fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth. He had no right, no desire, to ruin her life by hitching it to his. There was no better way to save Beaux Elysees; she‟d made him see that. But no matter how he tried to cloak it, he couldn‟t ignore the real reason why he wanted to marry her. Having planted the seeds of passion within her, he couldn‟t bear to know that another man would reap their fruit. Just the thought of her long, willowy legs wrapping about another man‟s hips curdled his blood.

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“I want her,” he admitted, the guilt in his heart burning hotter than the flames in the hearth. He‟d stopped writing to Vincent, but Vincent had kept him fully informed regarding Alyssa. On paper, Marc had watched her grow from a darling, cherubic infant to a free-spirited, coltish teenager. He knew firsthand what kind of woman she had become. “Splendid,” Marc told the flames. “Utterly splendid.” The last thing she needs is a man like me. But, true to his selfish nature, he couldn‟t pass up the chance to make her his. “If she wants a marriage of convenience,” Marc said, “I‟ll give it to her.”

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Chapter Ten

Alyssa stood on the wooden dais adjusting the tiny puffed sleeves of the dress. Melody marked the hemline of the wide skirt with pins while Manon sat a few feet away, running dainty stitches through the hem of a flounced petticoat. The three women had worked frantically over the past week, since Alyssa‟s engagement to Marc had been announced. While no one questioned their decision to marry on St. Valentine‟s Day, a week hence, there was general concern that a fortnight was hardly enough time to plan the spectacular wedding the couple deserved. The first week had passed in a blink. Rina and Adette had assumed the preparation of the house and planning of the reception, while Joshua handled everything else, particularly the acquisition of someone to perform the ceremony. Alyssa stood motionless, studying her reflection from the three angles offered by the triple-fold mirror framing the dais. Melody had crafted yards and yards of silk, as white and soft as the petals of magnolia blossoms, into a wedding gown fit for Queen Victoria. The princess bodice had an off-the-shoulder neckline that exposed the swell of Alyssa‟s ripe bosom while accenting the graceful lines of her nape and shoulders. The gathered skirt, trimmed at the waist with the same

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satin cord edging the tiny sleeves, floated over more hoops and petticoats than Alyssa had worn in total in all her life. Her hair was piled and pinned on her head to make the line of tiny pearl buttons along her spine visible. Alyssa scarcely recognized herself. She smiled down at the blond curls adorning the head of the young woman who had created the gown. “It‟s so lovely, Melody,” she said. “I will treasure this gown always.” Melody lifted her eyes. She removed the pins she had clamped between her lips and said, “I kept the design simple. You are the only ornamentation the dress requires. I knew you would bring it to life beautifully. And Alyssa, the captain made me promise that you would wear a dress at the ceremony, rather than your cleanest white trousers.” The three women shared a laugh. Only Alyssa knew how real that possibility might have been. The prospect of confining herself within a corset had turned Alyssa against a wedding gown at all, until Melody assured her that the dress could be worn without it. Alyssa‟s figure was such that she required no assistance from the whalebone and steel contraptions other women forced themselves into. “Joshua refuses to reveal whom he‟s asked to perform the ceremony,” Manon complained.

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“He wants it to be a surprise,” said Alyssa. She stepped off of the dais. Melody helped her out of the dress. “There‟s little point in worrying over it, considering the situation.” Alyssa put on a pair of beige trousers and a chambray shirt over her chemise and pantalettes. “You don‟t have to marry him so quickly, Alyssa,” Melody said. “A wedding is no simple affair. Neither is marriage.” Melody went silent. When she next looked up at Alyssa, her lambent brown eyes brimmed with tears. “Has the captain received word of Dell?” she asked, her voice small and shivery. Guilt raced through Alyssa. She had no right to practically flaunt her marriage of necessity before a woman who had no idea what had become of her husband while another man‟s child grew within her. “Melody, please, forgive me,” Alyssa pleaded, kneeling beside her. “I have been so terrible, thinking only of myself.” Melody stood, bringing Alyssa with her. She took Alyssa‟s hands. “I don‟t criticize your decision,” Melody said. “I understand your desire to keep Beaux Elysees. You have lost so much because of him.” The „him‟ Melody spoke of was none other than Edmond. Melody never spoke his name, as if its invocation would somehow cause him to materialize before her.

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“This dress is the least I can do,” Melody said, “considering the wedding Vincent and Rose gave me. Perhaps when…if…you and Marc have a daughter, someday she, too, will wear this gown. I doubt that she could be more beautiful in it than you shall be.” Manon joined the two women at the mirror. The green muslin of Melody‟s dress and the peach cotton of Manon‟s flanked Alyssa in her boyish apparel. The three women were so different, their loveliness heightened by expressions of hope so poetic that tears filled their brown, green, and amber eyes. They were still huddled before the mirror when Marc entered the room after a brusque rap on the door. “Alyssa,” he said tersely, the apparent gravity of what he had to say limning his face. “I must speak with you.”

He had said it twice and she still had yet to respond. She sat in one of the oversized brocade chairs in the library, her face as blank as stone. “Alyssa?” Marc took her hand. This was the only time in the past week he had touched her and not wanted to ravish her. “Alyssa?” This time she blinked and focused on him. His news had finally registered in her brain: The man you knew as Edmond Verdieu was an imposter.

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“Are you certain?” she said, her voice barely more than a squeak. “How do you know this? How can you be sure? Papa knew nothing of Edmond, little more than his name. Dell Shaw is so very clever. He would have made sure that he found the right man.” “While my father sent me here from the Orient, Angelo was sent to France, to help locate Edmond. My father knew that Edmond would be difficult to find, since the Verdieu lands in Bordeaux were sold over thirty years ago. “Angelo found Edmond,” Marc said. “He arrived only moments ago.” He paused before saying, “Would you like to meet him?” “Angelo or another Edmond?” she asked with a shiver. “Both.”

Marc opened the door to the study. With a reassuring hand at the small of Alyssa‟s back, he gently ushered her into the room. Three men were seated on the carved mahogany settee behind a low table where her father had so often shared coffee with her mother during breaks in his workday. She entered, and the men rose. Joshua stood near the window. He looked as though he had seen a ghost. Alyssa soon realized that he had.

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“God in heaven.” The words formed on Alyssa‟s lips, but she had no breath to move them forward. She stared into a face that was the spit and image of her father‟s. The longer she stared the more apparent minor differences became in the countenance of this stranger, but none were glaring enough to compromise the fact that he was undeniably a Verdieu. Somehow her feet moved her forward until she stood directly before him. With the bold frankness of a child she touched her fingertips to his longish, honey-blond hair and the strong set of his square jaw. His nose and cheekbones, a bit sharper than her father‟s, reminded her so strongly of Vincent‟s handsome face. Good meals and fresh air would bulk up his frame, giving him more the look of Vincent. If nothing else proved him to be her kin, one look in his eyes eliminated any doubt. His most distinguishing feature, his eyes were as vividly green as her own. “You look like…just like….” She turned to Marc. “They could have been twins.” “So I‟ve been told,” the green-eyed stranger said softly. Tears sprang to Alyssa‟s eyes at the sound of his voice, for it rang with the same melodious timbre, and the same lilting French accent, as her father‟s.

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Edmond Verdieu, the true bearer of that name and her true half uncle, folded her into his arms. He caressed her hair as she sobbed quietly into the front of his frock coat. “I should have known that the other was false,” she sniffed. “His eyes were wrong. They were as cold and clear as ice.” She withdrew enough to study him with her healer‟s eye, and he offered her his handkerchief. “You have been ill.” She sat in a claw-footed, heavy chair. Edmond resumed his seat on the settee. “I haven‟t been well,” Edmond said apologetically. “I would have been here months ago, when I first received my brother‟s letter, but I was unavoidably detained. “Nine months ago, an American named Dell Shaw arrived in Paris, looking for me. But to find one man in Paris is like looking for your proverbial needle in a haystack. Monsieur Shaw found me quite simply. He shone the proper palms with gold and silver.” Edmond looked at his attentive half-niece, his eyes moist. “It was a gift from God. My prayers had been answered. As I grew up, I learned bits and pieces about our father, Julien, who died before I was born, and Vincent, my much older halfbrother who had disappeared into America after our father‟s death. My mother refused to speak of Julien. She spoke of Vincent only in hate. It wasn‟t until years later, on her deathbed, that she confessed to me that she had caused the rift

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between Julien and Vincent. She had married the father to possess the son, but Vincent wanted nothing to do with her. When Vincent came home one last time, he rejected my mother yet again. To punish him, she sold the vineyards, moved to Paris, and made sure he never had a chance to know me.” “My father never spoke of his stepmother,” said Alyssa. “How could she be so cruel?” “My mother was a secretive, selfish, and greedy woman,” Edmond said without rancor. “I loved her because she was my mother. I did not love the person she was. She came from a family that had once been quite wealthy. Their fortunes were lost in the Revolution. They became ruthless in their quest to regain their titles and money. I never knew how corrupt they were until I crossed Philippe Fernand.” Edmond shuddered. “Philippe, my mother‟s nephew, approached me two years ago at my mother‟s funeral. Though my mother had squandered most of the Verdieu fortune, I maintained a comfortable lifestyle in Paris due to my own investments. Philippe offered his services as a valet. I accepted.” Alyssa interrupted him to offer the gentlemen a cold beverage. She went to the kitchen and returned shortly after carrying a tray laden with glasses, fresh mint, a flask of bourbon, and a chilled pitcher of black leaf tea. She acknowledged the other two in the study, seeing them for the first time.

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“I am not usually this rude,” Alyssa said as she poured a tall glass of iced tea for the man sitting nearest her. His face was somber and serious, yet his hazel eyes twinkled beneath a wild cap of sun-bleached curls. “This is all quite unsettling.” “Alyssa, may I introduce you to Angelo Leopardi,” Marc said, indicating the tall, tousle-haired blond. “Rest assured that he has found himself in situations more disturbing than this.” A corner of Alyssa‟s mouth raised in a tiny grin. So this was the notorious Angelo Leopardi, Marc‟s lifelong best friend and partner in deeds both fair and foul. Vincent had loved Gian‟s accounts of Marc and Angelo‟s devilish pranks, and afterwards, he never failed to thank God for blessing him with a daughter. “I am Inspector Bertrand Leger,” said the older man in the dark long coat and wispy moustache sitting beside Angelo. He offered no more as he accepted his tea. Alyssa served the rest of the men and watched in amazement as Edmond crushed a fresh mint leaf, ran it along the lip of his glass, and then dropped it into his tea. He followed the mint with a splosh of bourbon from the silver flask. Edmond noticed Alyssa‟s curious expression and treated her to a shy grin. “I rarely take liquor this early in the day,” he said, “but this day has been quite unusual.”

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“Forgive me for staring,” Alyssa touched his arm. It wasn‟t the bourbon that had shocked her, for the amount he had poured was no more than a half teaspoon, barely enough to intoxicate a chipmunk. Edmond garnished the beverage in the exact same fashion her father always had. She could have studied Edmond all the rest of the day, noting the similarities between him and her father, but there was so much more to Edmond‟s story. “You mentioned your cousin, Philippe Fernand,” Alyssa reminded him. Edmond‟s voice dropped a register as he continued his tale. “Philippe had intimate knowledge of my business dealings, with one exception. I deliberately neglected to tell him precisely why I was selling so many of my assets. He enjoyed watching the capital accumulate, and he had specific ideas on how it should be utilized. I used the money to fulfill one of my lifelong dreams. I purchased the Verdieu estate and vineyards.” Alyssa gasped and touched her fingers to her mouth. “It was my father‟s fondest wish to reclaim ownership of the Verdieu lands. Many times my father tried to buy the vineyards. The owner refused to sell. Once I was born, my father gave up his pursuit.” “My mother sold the vineyard to a family that had always envied the reputation of Verdieu wines,” Edmond said. “They paid a pharaoh‟s ransom but

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never produced wines of the same quality as our forebears. Even so, they would never have sold the vineyard, especially to Vincent. His name is legendary.” “How, then, did they come to sell to you?” Joshua asked. He had moved closer to the group. Joshua very rarely made his presence—or his prominent role in the managing of the estate—known to outsiders until he felt they could be trusted. “Our ancestors had tilled and toiled upon those lands since the reign of Charles VII the Victorious, of the House of Valois, the very king who owed his coronation to Joan of Arc,” Edmond said. “That land is all I have left of my heritage, and I was determined to have it.” He offered Alyssa a bittersweet smile. “I bought the vineyard from the owner‟s wife. The owner had sworn that as long as he lived, the Verdieu vineyards, as they were still called, would never again belong to a Verdieu. At his death his wife, who‟d long sympathized with me, agreed to sell. That is why I was not in Paris when Monsieur Shaw arrived. I was in Bordeaux finalizing the purchase.” A long moment passed before Edmond continued. “Monsieur Shaw was waiting for me when I returned to my apartments in Paris. He presented me with the letter, the contents of which you are well aware. I read the letter again and again, burning each word into my memory. It was my first dream come true, the chance to know my lost brother.

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“I told Philippe of my intention to leave immediately for America with Monsieur Shaw,” Edmond continued. “I thanked him for his services and told him that I would contact him as soon as I landed in America. I wanted to go to my brother alone. I did not wish to impose my mother‟s kin on Vincent. Philippe was unhappy with my decision. He was even unhappier when I told him that I had used the bulk of my wealth to purchase the vineyards. I paid Philippe handsomely, yet he always wanted more.” Marc, who had seated himself on the arm of Alyssa‟s chair, leaned forward. “May I assume that Inspector Leger‟s presence indicates that Philippe and the disappearance of Dell Shaw are related?” Edmond nodded. “The night before Monsieur Shaw and I were to depart for America, we dined at an establishment of Philippe‟s choosing. We were returning to my apartments when we were attacked by a mob of bandits. From what I remember, Monsieur Shaw fought valiantly.” Overcome by the memory, Edmond turned his head. Angelo picked up the tale. “I arrived in Paris in November and discovered Monsieur Verdieu in a sanitarium. By all accounts he should have died as a result of the injuries he sustained in the attack. I am sorry to say that Mr. Shaw did not survive.”

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Alyssa squeezed her eyes shut and bit the plump of her lower lip. For so many months Melody had survived on the hope that Dell would return to her. Alyssa ached with the hurt she knew her friend would soon endure. “Mr. Shaw‟s traveling papers were issued from an office in Connecticut, so his remains were returned there,” Angelo said. “Monsieur Verdieu suffered a head injury that left him with a muddled recollection of events prior to the attack. One of the bandits was later arrested. He confessed that he and his gang had been hired to murder Monsieur Verdieu and Mr. Shaw.” “What became of Philippe?” Alyssa asked. Edmond turned back to them, his green eyes blazing. “Philippe hired the mob that attacked us,” he said venomously. “He stole my identity and came to America.” “The physicians did all they could to help Monsieur Verdieu regain his full memory,” Angelo reported. “I agreed to bring Mr. Shaw‟s personal effects with me when I came here, to rendezvous with Marc. I had them with me when I visited Monsieur Verdieu at the sanitarium. Believing the items were his, Monsieur Verdieu saw a miniature of Mrs. Shaw.” “That image was the key that unlocked my muddied mind,” Edmond said. “Monsieur Shaw spoke of his wife with such love and devotion. I saw her face and remembered Monsieur Shaw‟s happiness. I remembered everything. As much as it

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would pain me to do so, I would like to be the one who tells Madame Shaw what became of her husband. I owe Monsieur Shaw at least that.” “Monsieur Verdieu, against his doctors‟ wishes, left with me for America that very day.” Angelo cast his eyes toward the man sitting beside him. “Inspector Leger accompanied us, determined to bring Philippe Fernand to justice.” “Fernand is wanted for murder, assault, robbery, conspiracy, and a host of other crimes,” the inspector grunted impatiently. “Where is he?” “He was deposited, bound hand and foot, on a ship destined for the Continent,” said Joshua. “I doubt he will ever show himself here again.” “That will make the inspector‟s job more difficult,” Edmond said, “but I assure you it is best that the villain stays away. I only hope that he caused less harm here than he did in France.” Alyssa‟s face crumpled with misery. Without hesitation, the true Edmond Verdieu took his niece in his arms, and he knew that his hope was in vain.

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Chapter Eleven

Alyssa excused herself to help prepare the midday meal while Joshua and Marc spoke further with Edmond and the inspector, apprising them of Philippe‟s misdeeds. Angelo joined her in the spacious kitchen, seating himself at the table where Alyssa was up to her forearms kneading dough for savory breads. Under any other circumstance, Angelo would have been amused at the sight of a luscious figure such as hers covered in pants and a flowing linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Smears of flour decorated her left cheek, and her nose and her hair was in attractive disarray atop her head. Her lashes were still moist with tears. “My heart is with you,” he said sincerely. The tender admission was genuine, for just as Marc had grown up knowing Alyssa through Gian, so had Angelo. As children, they often playacted Gian and Vincent‟s adventures at sea. Though they had never met her, Alyssa was always the elusive mermaid, the bewitched princess or the enchanted damsel in need of their fearless rescue. There was never any question which of the two heroes would claim her as his once the adventure was complete. “Will you stay for the wedding?” she asked, changing the subject.

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Angelo‟s face broke in a smile that gave life to a pair of dimples deep enough to hold cherry pits. “I never thought I‟d see the day that young Ghiradelli took the long walk,” he said brightly. “A pack of three-legged jackasses couldn‟t pull me from such a spectacle.” It took Alyssa a second to envision such a thing. Laughter exploded from her at the image. “I‟m sorry,” Alyssa chuckled, wiping the back of her hand across her watering eyes. “I don‟t know what came over me.” “Don‟t apologize,” Angelo said. “Laughter is good medicine. It does me good just to hear it. ” Alyssa divided the dough into halves. Angelo watched as she deftly tore aromatic herbs and punched them into the loaves. “What‟s that you‟re putting in them?” Angelo asked. “One loaf is flavored with rosemary and thyme, the other with dill,” she explained. “If your cooking is as delicious as you are beautiful, then it is no wonder that Marc has claimed you,” Angelo said grandly. Alyssa rolled her eyes with a playful smirk. “Surely that‟s not one of your best.” She placed the loaves onto baking stones sprinkled with coarse ground cornmeal and slid them into the hot iron oven. Angelo lowered his head to hide a grin. “Let‟s try this one,” he said, dramatically clearing his throat.

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“Let‟s not,” Marc said, entering the kitchen. “I would prefer that you didn‟t practice your flirtations on my wife.” Angelo‟s eyes sparkled devilishly. “Wife? Don‟t you mean business partner?” Forced to prove…something…Marc swept Alyssa into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth. He came away with a puff of flour on his face. Alyssa was overcome by another giggling fit. Marc cast a suspicious glance at his friend and his future bride. His kisses never failed to illicit a reaction from Alyssa, but this was the first time she had responded with girlish giggling. “Can it be that you are losing your, uh, touch, Captain Ghiradelli?” Angelo grinned wickedly, exploiting Marc‟s discomfiture to the fullest. Hardening his jaw in determination, Marc again clapped Alyssa‟s body to his and kissed her, forcing her to exchange the laughter for a soft purr of contentment. “For Heaven‟s sake,” Manon griped, annoyed as she entered the kitchen through the doors that lead to the courtyard. “Must you carry on so in the kitchen? Our food is prepared here.” Manon crossed the large room and set a basket of flowers on a worktable before she noticed Angelo sitting at the circle of the kitchen table. “Good

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afternoon, Manon,” the man said, “You must be Manon. You look exactly as Vincent described in his letters.”. Manon was speechless. Not because of the casual friendliness with which he had addressed her, but because he was heart-stoppingly attractive. If Marc was possessed of the powerful and classic handsomeness of Zeus, then Angelo had the gilded beauty of Apollo. Not to be undone by his uninvited familiarity, when she found words she propped a fist saucily on her hip and said, “Who the devil are you?” Angelo could not hide his delight. Rarely had he encountered a woman who so convincingly pretended to be immune to his charms. On the topic of charms, hers were superb. Her peasant blouse was styled in such a way that it complemented, rather than hid her well-shaped and generous breasts. Her simple skirt, belted at her narrow waist with an elaborately braided piece of jute, hung gracefully over the swell of her hips. Strands of auburn and sienna shadowed her burnished wheat tresses. She had the natural and untamed beauty of a gypsy. “Angelo Gabriel Leopardi,” he said, executing a broad, sweeping bow at her feet. “It‟s my pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh, signorina.” He found it impossible not to add, “And what a delightful arrangement of flesh you are.”

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Manon met his admiring gaze with one of iron. She snorted. “Italian ladies must be very easy to please if you are as successful in your conquests as Marc says you are.” Marc coughed noisily into his closed hand. Angelo glared at him. “My reputation has preceded me,” Angelo said with a dazzling smile. “Surely you won‟t hold it against me?” Manon gave him a smile sweet enough to drip honey and fool a bear. “That‟s the only thing I‟ll ever hold against you.” Smirking, she exited the kitchen with a swish of her skirt and a toss of her head. Angelo stared wordlessly after her. He turned to Marc and Alyssa, and in all seriousness said, “I‟ve done it again and in record time. That little hissing mink is in love with me.” Marc and Alyssa fell into each other‟s arms, laughing.

“Is my appearance truly so shocking?” Edmond asked Manon as she and Alyssa walked him to the white-washed cottage Melody had shared with Dell. “You‟ve been staring at me for the past hour.” Manon dropped her gaze. “I don‟t mean to stare,” she began. “It‟s just that you are so like him. Like Vincent. Seeing you, I miss him so much, all over again.”

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“I will do my best to honor my brother‟s wish that I care for all at Beaux Elysees as I would my own family,” Edmond said solemnly. Alyssa stopped him with a light touch to his shoulder. Throughout the midday meal she had studied his every feature and mannerism, even counted the number of times he had chewed his food before swallowing. He was so different from Vincent, yet so similar her heart had flip-flopped when he had asked to stay at Beaux Elysees in accordance with Vincent‟s request. Edmond, this true and genuine Edmond, was soft-spoken and almost shy where Vincent had been blunt in his eloquence. There was a subtlety to Edmond‟s strength while Vincent had been as sleek and powerful as a lion. Where Edmond seemed starved for the sweet attentions and gentle affections of womenfolk, Vincent had tried to make them think that he didn‟t need them at all. Besides their brilliant green eyes, what the two men shared most was an incredible capacity for kindness and compassion. “We are your family, Edmond,” Alyssa said. “I speak for all of us when I say that we don‟t hold you responsible for anything Philippe Fernand did under your name.” Edmond gazed past his half-niece. “I wonder if Madame Shaw will share that sentiment.”

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Melody‟s first reaction to the true Edmond Verdieu had been the same as Alyssa‟s. Melody, too, had physically touched him, assuring herself that this man in her home was of flesh and blood and not the ethereal fabric of dreams. Edmond found it incredible that Melody was even lovelier in person than in the miniature Dell had shown him. Melody‟s delicate fingers caressed his cleanshaven cheek and his breath caught. “It‟s true, then,” Melody said, knowing and mysterious. “Dell is dead.” Alyssa, perplexed, looked from Edmond to Melody. Alyssa knew that Melody had dreamt of Dell, but never had she mentioned that she believed Dell to be dead. Melody‟s unwavering belief that Dell would return to her had made the rest of them believe it too. Melody was five months pregnant, and her husband was dead. Her small body seemed as strong and sturdy as a century-old oak until Edmond nodded and said, “Your husband was killed fighting for my life.” Melody‟s eyes closed, and for the merest fraction of an instant Edmond thought she might faint. But she stiffened her spine and took a long, deep breath before inviting her guests into the parlor. “W-would you care for a refreshment?” she offered. “I‟m forgetting my manners.” “Please, allow us,” said Alyssa. She pulled Manon with her into the kitchen, leaving Edmond to speak with Melody alone.

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Edmond handed Melody a black pouch. “These are your husband‟s personal effects,” he explained. “You mean this is what‟s left of him.” Melody cradled the bag in her lap. “Tell me, monsieur. What happened to my husband?” Edmond studied the woman‟s face, particularly her brown eyes. They had darkened with her resolve to know the cause of her husband‟s death. Edmond, mindful of her condition, wished to spare her the gruesome details. “We were attacked by a hired mob,” he said. “Your husband took a blow to the head. He died instantly.” Melody said nothing for a long while. She merely bowed her head and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. Edmond wanted to leave her alone, to allow her to grieve in peace, yet at the same time he wanted to take her in his arms and absorb as much of the pain Philippe had brought her as he could. It was impossible to say whom Philippe had wronged most heinously at Beaux Elysees. In that moment of silence, Edmond had no trouble determining which wrong he would first try to right.

Manon spoke with Edmond in the parlor after Melody took to her bed under Alyssa‟s care. “Madame Shaw is every bit as remarkable as Dell said,”

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Edmond started. “I am rather curious as to how Philippe managed to…wile his way into her bed.” “It started almost the day Vincent died,” Manon said sadly. They kept their voices low, though in her bedroom at the rear of the second floor of the house, Melody couldn‟t possibly have overheard them. “Philippe inveigled all he could about Melody while she worked on his wardrobe. She told him how she was brought here at fourteen, by Vincent, when she was left an orphan. She was eighteen when she married Dell, but his family didn‟t approve of the match. Dell comes from old Connecticut money, a fortune built on textiles. Dell was disinherited when he married Melody. “Philippe knew that Melody would have no place to go if she left Beaux Elysees,” Manon said. “And Melody didn‟t dare leave. She had some money, and she‟s an excellent seamstress, yet nothing awaited her other than a position as a barmaid, or worse, in St. Martinville or New Orleans. Philippe threatened to evict her from Beaux Elysees if she didn‟t give in to him. “After Philippe‟s attack, and not knowing where Dell was, Melody considered going to Dell‟s family,” Manon said. “She wrote them, but they never responded. Then she learned that she was carrying a child. She soon began to give up hope.”

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“You don‟t mean she considered taking her own life?” Edmond was horrified at the thought of that lovely young woman driven to an early grave. “Alyssa moved her into the mansion and spent every moment with her,” Manon said. “We didn‟t believe Melody would actively harm herself. She simply lay in bed, not eating, not drinking, not sleeping. She spent her days staring at the walls. It was frightening. I don‟t know what Alyssa said or did, but one day Melody turned for the better. She dressed, joined us for dinner, and moved back into her house. She isn‟t her former self. But she‟s better.” “I would have liked her former self, I think,” Edmond said. “I dearly believe I would have liked all of your former selves.” Manon told Edmond that she would stay with Melody until the grieving widow awakened. “May I ask one last favor of you, Manon?” Edmond said before starting away. “I have waited three decades to meet my half-brother. Where can I find him?”

Alyssa and Marc were in Melody‟s front yard, watching as the dusky rose and purple twilight washed over Edmond‟s hunched figure in the distance. He had been at the foot of Vincent‟s grave for hours. “He‟s been traveling hard and he hasn‟t fully regained his strength,” she fretted.

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“He needs to grieve,” Marc gently reminded her. “He‟s lost not only a brother. With Vincent went the firsthand memories of his father.” “I just wish there was something, anything, that I could do to help him,” Alyssa said. “He is in such pain.” “You have helped him enormously, with your loving acceptance of him. Beaux Elysees follows your example. This will become home to Edmond.” It hasn’t become home to you, she thought somberly.

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Chapter Twelve

Manon left Alyssa and Melody at the Shaw house quite late. No lights shone in the windows of the cottages to make her way to the mansion less ominous. She wasted no time with the shine of the crescent moon and a few torch lights to guide her. Only a few yards from the kitchen doors, she was grabbed at the waist from behind. Too shocked to even scream, she did what came naturally. She fought. She found her attacker‟s littlest finger and wrenched it viciously in a direction God had not intended a finger to bend. The man dropped to his knees in obvious agony. “If you wish to take a souvenir of this encounter, might I suggest something else?” Angelo winced. “A lock of hair, perhaps an article of clothing?” Manon tossed his hand back to him. “Don‟t ever do that to me again, not ever!” “I meant only to surprise, not frighten you.” He stood, rubbing his injured finger. “I‟ll know better next time.”

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“There won‟t be a next time,” she said confidently. “Vincent made sure that Alyssa and I knew how to take care of ourselves. You‟re lucky I chose only to tear at a finger.” “You and Alyssa? Fighters?” Angelo smiled openly at the notion. “I allowed you to bring me down. I wouldn‟t advise trying that silly little finger pull on anyone truly determined to handle you.‟ “Did it hurt?” “It caused a measure of discomfort,” he admitted, brushing dust from his breeches. “Not so much that it would have stopped me, had I decided to take you right here in the courtyard.” His bright eyes seemed to burn through her clothing, setting her skin alight. He was so tall and broad. It was likely that he had succumbed just to make her feel she‟d won their little battle. Though she fairly panted with want for this painfully handsome creature, she chose instead to wage a full-scale war. “We have a saying here in the States,” Manon said in a sultry, silky voice. “The bigger you are,” she ran her fingernails up his thigh, “the harder…you fall.” With a well-placed kick, she swept his legs from under him. He landed in the dirt like a tippled cow. She turned to run, but Angelo, lightning-quick, shot out his hand and clasped it around her ankle. In a tumble of skirt and petticoats, she hit the ground. Angelo pulled her to him, then pinned her

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to the ground with his body. Manon arched her back and shifted all of her weight to the left, throwing him off. She got to her feet, and fought off his next attempt to grab her by jabbing a sharp elbow into his middle. The blow scarcely caused any pain. “Don‟t hold back, pretty one. That was a clever move. You could have put a lot more muscle into it. May as well have it work for you.” Manon was all too willing to show him some muscle. She drew back her knee, ready to cause grievous injury to what she figured he most likely considered his most prized possession. Angelo anticipated the disabling move and used his right leg to misdirect her aim. Her knee glanced harmlessly off his outer thigh. “You‟ve proved your point, Manon.” He held his right hand to her. “Truce?” She slipped her slim hand into his large one and smiled angelically. “Never.” In a smooth, swift motion, she took his right hand and turned her right shoulder into his chest. She grabbed his shoulder, and using her body as a fulcrum, pitched him head over feet into a laurel hedge. She stood over him, panting. “Hopefully, you now realize, Captain Leopardi, that I am not to be trifled with.” She started toward the mansion. “I am quite capable of—”

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Angelo spun her, having come up on her with the stealth of the night breeze. “No man appreciates it when his woman throws him in the dirt.” His woman? The thought simultaneously incensed and thrilled her. Before she could set him straight with a stream of colorful invective in his native tongue, he clapped a hand to her nape and clamped her mouth to his. He kissed her, and kept kissing her despite her half-hearted attempts to wriggle from his strong embrace. His kisses left no part of her mouth, no part of her face unexplored. When she surrendered, she did so gladly, inviting him to further explore the landscape of her body by dropping her head back and presenting the soft warmth of her throat and décolletage. “Damn this day,” Angelo muttered. “I think I‟m in love with this woman.”

Marc sat in the chill, his boots propped up on the iron railing. He‟d been out on the gallery since nightfall, contemplating his next move now that Edmond Verdieu had arrived. Edmond was well within his rights to assume control of Beaux Elysees and he seemed to be a good man. But Beaux Elysees belonged to Alyssa. The only way to make sure the estate went to her was for her to marry. And Edmond couldn‟t do that. Still…Edmond, as titular head of Beaux Elysees, would surely abide by Alyssa‟s wishes. The estate would be hers in every way except on the deed. There

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was no reason…no logical reason… for Marc to stay on and go through with the mockery of a wedding. How could he stay, when he was itching to feel Heaven’s Fury beneath his feet? He closed his eyes. He could almost feel the hypnotic lilt and sway of his beautiful ship as she rode each wave, as her sails gathered wind to carry her to a new corner of the world. There was nothing more exhilarating, more satisfying, than standing on her bow, moving so fast that he became a part of the wind. Marc stood and gripped the railing, staring into the night sky. On land or sea, the stars told the same stories. Paths to everywhere glittered before him. He needed only to choose one. For all their beauty, the stars were of no use when it came to deciding which course to follow. “Leave,” Marc said softly. “Or stay.” There was no reason to stay. He refused to acknowledge the one green-eyed possibility as movement in the courtyard caught his attention. In the dim of the torchlight, Marc saw Angelo take Manon into his arms. She seemed to melt right into him, her body shaping to his to receive his kiss.

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Marc guiltily looked away and backed into his room. Pangs of longing and jealousy tugged at him, forcing him to start his debate all over again. In a day, Angelo had fallen for Manon, as though she had always been his to claim. “How easy he makes it look to love,” Marc said. And live. He sat on the edge of his bed and tugged off his shirt, then his boots. The solid thud of his boot hitting the floor gave him an odd sense of comfort. The sound was the perfect punctuation mark, signifying the end of another day‟s honest labor. Compared to the never-ending work of a planter, life at sea seemed effortless. He had made a tidy fortune as a trader. He thought he‟d known what hard work was until Beaux Elysees taught him better. Alyssa, in the letters that she had continued to write even after he drew away, never wrote of Beaux Elysees with anything but devotion and passion. Hers were labors of love, not drudgery. Her descriptions of her “mundane” life would put poet laureates to shame. She once described a bayou sunset in such a way as to make him long for a glimpse of such beauty, mourn its short life and revere its memory. Her honest, sensual observations had been his truest sources of peace throughout the years. The last letter he had received from her was almost two years old. She had written of her excitement at the prospect of visiting Gian and Pasquelina in Italy.

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The visit had never come to pass. Until he had received the letters in Hong Kong, he had assumed that Alyssa had stopped writing because she‟d found a man who would eagerly return her attentions and innocent affections. He now knew that she hadn‟t abandoned him, despite his abandonment. She had turned her life over to the care of her dying father. In his bare feet he padded over to the highboy and opened one of the top drawers. He withdrew a thin sheaf of fox-eared letters tied with black cord. He slipped one letter from the bundle, and brought it with him to the bed. By the light of a single candle, his eyes once again traced the girlish scrawl that had tethered him to memories of a happier life. And once again, his eyes misted as he pressed the yellowed paper to his heart. Beaux Elysees was bursting with life. Love was in the air of the place. Marc had never felt more lonely. He had too much time to think, to see right before him what he was missing. “The sooner I return to the ship, the better,” Marc decided. “The sooner I‟ll stop wanting what I must not have.”

Alyssa came to Marc, a dream made real in the shadowy light of the room. The moonlight made her silk gown so sheer as to be transparent, revealing every curve, every supple line, and every shadow of her body.

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Holding Marc‟s hungry gaze, Alyssa tugged aside the thin wool blanket covering him. She thought he would look vulnerable lying there, naked and relaxed. It was the exact opposite. The sleek lines of his long, muscular body bespoke of the power, the magnificence of him. Her fingers moved through the dark thatch of hair covering the hard muscles of his chest. She eased her body down the length of him, leaving a trail of fiery kisses along the silky line of hair that led away from his chest. She splayed her hand over the taut muscles bunched at his torso. Her fingers moved over the solid ridges and contours of his body, learning him, memorizing his textures and tastes. The tip of her tongue lightly traced the faint scar striping the flat muscles of his lower abdomen before searching lower, following the dark hair arrowing further down. Nested in the center of that soft yet coarse darkness unique to this part of his anatomy, was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen. Her breath caressed that strange arrangement of flesh, so different in appearance, yet so similar in response, to that between her own legs. It reared as if to greet her. She straddled his upper thighs, making the center of his arousal the center of her attention. With a husky moan, Marc put his hands on her waist, desperate to move her into a position better to satisfy the urgent need she stirred.

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Alyssa peeled his hands from her body. She pushed his wrists into the pillows, slightly above his head. He drew in a sharp breath at the minute movements of her full breasts and warm belly against him. “Control yourself,” she whispered, “unless you wish to be restrained.” Marc thought he might have better luck at biting the back of his own neck than lying still under her determined ministrations. Since that day in the schoolhouse they had done little more than kiss. For appearances‟ sake, they constantly reminded themselves. At sea, Marc spent weeks at a time celibate. He fully expected to be able to wait another week, but never had the limits of his selfcontrol been as sorely tested. Just watching her bend to take bread from the oven set a fire in his loins. But this…her coming to him in the dark of night…this was…. “Revenge,” he groaned. “For the schoolhouse.” She ignored his comment and resumed her previous position astride his legs. Her fingers closed over him, and he closed his eyes and threw his head into the pillow. The heat of his maleness seared her palm. Gently, firmly, she moved her hand along its length, and it responded, seeming to grow even larger. Marc gripped the ornate oak headboard, which creaked under the strain. “You realize I‟ll have no choice but to even the score later,” he groaned between gritted teeth. Imagining the sweet tortures he would subject her to heightened his own pleasure through the taunting of her nimble fingers.

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She nestled her shoulders between his powerful thighs. “Must you continue to distract me with your constant babbling and empty threats?” Her words were moist bursts of heat against his already responsive flesh. “Then…what…?” He couldn‟t form his thought, not with her tongue lightly flicking across the velvety cap of his manhood. It sprang forward, seemingly with an agenda of its own. Her tongue teased his shaft before she took him as vigorously and skillfully with her mouth as she had with her hands. She tormented him, busying her hands by caressing and stroking his thighs and running them leisurely over his abdomen and buttocks. She had brought him to complete and straining readiness the instant she had drawn the sheet away from his nude body. The artful way she applied her teeth and tongue and eased him along the soft walls of her inner cheeks was driving him simply and irreparably mad with want. With a strangled cry he bucked his hips, trying to free himself from her crippling attention. She curled her arms around his massive thighs, refusing to be stopped. He gripped her shoulders to tear her away before the explosive point of no return was breached. Determined to nurse every twinge of passion from his starved body, she forced his hands to the mattress. His body stiffened, and she almost lost her hold on him. His scalding seed exploded from him, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. She finally let him go, crawling up the length of his body to lie

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beside him. Temporarily weakened, it took all the rest of his strength to gather her into his side. “You‟re like Sampson,” she smiled. “Only I don‟t have to cut your hair to steal your strength.” “If only you knew how very close you did come to stealing my strength,” Marc warned, “the strength to wait until our wedding night to bury myself in you.” “Are you suggesting an amendment to our marriage contract?” she asked. “We never agreed to carnal consummation.” She pulled herself, inch by inch, away from him, kissing him all the way until she stood at the bedside. “Why did you come to me tonight?” he asked as she started away. At the door, she answered without turning to face him. “You‟ll soon leave me. Just as Dell left Melody. Despite what I said in the schoolhouse about taking pleasure from another man, I‟m afraid I‟ve been marked. I want you and you only. I want as many memories of you as I can gather. Goodnight, Captain.” “Marc,” he said softly, as the door closed behind her.

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Chapter Thirteen

Alyssa sat up, disoriented. She knew that she had returned to her own room last night, yet Marc was in bed with her, his large body entangled with hers under the soft sheets. She rubbed her eyes and looked around. She was in her room, nude beneath her great-grandmother‟s quilt in her canopy bed. It was Marc who was out of place. Mildly alarmed, she had no recollection of what had happened in the night. She cautiously touched herself between her legs. She felt no soreness, no discernible change. “I behaved myself,” Marc said, winking open one eye. “Despite your best efforts.” “What are you doing in my bed?” “Sleeping,” he said, sitting up. “Unfortunately.” “Here?” He searched her eyes. She truly had no memory of what had brought him running to her side in the wee hours of the night. “You had another nightmare,” he explained, concern knitting his brow. “I‟ve never had nightmares,” she said defensively. “I haven‟t dreamt in months.”

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“I‟ve come in answer to your cries on several occasions,” he told her. “The night I arrived you had a nightmare.” She searched her memory for any indication that what he said was true, though she knew he had no cause to lie. “It appears to be the same dream. You mumble, in French, that you‟re afraid and tired of running. You spoke to me that first night.” “What did I say? It‟s so odd, to be told of your actions without recalling the experience at all.” “Mon ange,” he told her. “My angel,” she repeated. In a flicker of remembrance, it came to her, that one instant of tranquility on the most hellish night of her life. It vanished as quickly as it had come, but the sure knowledge that he had indeed come to her remained. “You were the answer to my prayer.” “Do you remember the dream?” He hoped she did. Facing it would help put an end to it. “No.” She slowly shook her head. “But I remember you.” She laid her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair, raising goose bumps on her bare arms and shoulders. “Last night, when I came to you, you begged me to make it go away.” “What is „it‟?”

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“If I knew, I assure you it wouldn‟t be torturing your sleep.” “You can‟t kill a dream, Captain,” she said. “No,” he acknowledged, “but I can kill the cause.” He tensed in her arms as he added, “I‟m no stranger to nightmares.” “Are you telling me that you, too, are haunted, Captain?” she asked. Before he could answer or elaborate, a loud, insistent knock on the door interrupted them. Alyssa reached for her wrapper, which had slipped to the floor beside the bed. Before she had a chance to put it on and answer the door, Manon pushed her way in. If she was surprised to see Marc dominating the feminine surroundings, she made no indication of it. Alyssa‟s worn buckskin medicine bag dangled at Manon‟s hip. “It‟s Melody,” Manon said urgently. “She needs you.”

Marc found Alyssa hours later in the bayou, naked, her bloodied clothing in a pile on the ground. Her hair, a dark banner along her spine,smelled of the brackish water in which she had bathed. Perched on the large flat rock, her knees pulled into her chest, she kept her dull gaze fixed on a fishing spider in the still water. The hungry creature sat on a water-lettuce leaf. Quick as a blink, the predator darted forth and snatched a hapless minnow, then scuttled beneath the leaf with its meal.

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“I was so dirty.” Alyssa kept her face lowered. “There was so much blood, and Melody was in such pain. I feared I would lose her too.” Marc gritted his teeth, furious all over again at Philippe Fernand. The man was gone, yet his presence lingered. He was responsible for the loss of yet another life in a tide of pain and blood. No wonder Alyssa had run off to the serenity of the bayou after patching Melody. He gently placed his hands on Alyssa‟s shoulders. She flinched and pulled away from him. “Don‟t,” trembled from her lips. Marc‟s heart sank as his anger rose. Melody‟s miscarriage had opened Alyssa‟s old wounds. “I wish to cancel the wedding,” Alyssa said, still not meeting Marc‟s eyes. Marc clenched his fists to stop himself from taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. “It‟s no more than a formality, to secure Beaux Elysees,” she said. “I can‟t be a proper wife to you any more than you can be a proper husband to me.” “I will do my best to keep you content,” Marc said. “The only way to make Beaux Elysees yours is to marry me.” “Edmond can oversee the estate.” “Would that make you happy?”

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She finally looked at him. There was no shine in her eyes as she said, “My happiness hasn‟t factored in any decision I‟ve made since your arrival.” “I‟ve been nothing but honest with you,” he argued, knowing that he had been, up until that statement. “I made no pretense about my desire to return to Heaven’s Fury.” “I don‟t need you or any other man,” she said. “I don‟t need your selfishness, or your lust or evil.” “I am not an evil man,” he said. “There is the potential for evil in every man!” she cried. Tears wet her cheeks. “Melody isn‟t the first woman to have been violated at Beaux Elysees. Years ago, a couple came here from Alabama. They appeared to be in love, yet the man often took his wife by force. My mother treated her injuries, but there was nothing to be done about the scars she bore on her soul. I didn‟t know that a husband, by right of marriage, could take his wife against her will. “My father banished him from Beaux Elysees,” Alyssa went on. “Yet two weeks later, she ran off to be with him. I thought she was a fool.” She slapped her palms against the rock. “I‟m not a fool, nor will I ever be! If my husband or any other man ever takes me by force, my one problem will be deciding how to kill him!”

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“It was here, in this very place, that I promised I would never hurt you,” he said evenly. “I am not an animal with no control over its urges.” “You admitted that you nearly lost control last night.” She climbed off of the rock. He was so big and so strong. What could have stopped him, if he hadn‟t wanted to be stopped? His control was fast slipping as she stood before him, dressed only in rivulets of water from her damp hair. The cool breeze turned the tips of her breasts into appetizing pebbles. He watched a drop of water course over her collarbone and onto her breast. It traveled farther south and angled toward her nipple. Where he longed to catch it with the tip of his tongue. He forced his gaze elsewhere. “You stand before me with the beauty of a goddess,” he said, “yet I haven‟t tried to molest you.” “That would change quickly enough, were I to touch you,” she challenged. Marc sat on the rock she had just vacated. “You have insulted my character and accused me of being a liar,” he said with reasonable calm. “You owe me an opportunity to prove you wrong.” She stuck out her chin. “You will not touch me?” He steeled himself. “Not even if you beg.”

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There was one thing he had learned about her that had not come from Vincent‟s letters: That she craved sexual pleasure as much, perhaps even more, than she feared it. She stood before him for a good long while, letting him savor her nudity. His eyes freely roamed the length of her, leaving her skin flushed with heat. The delicate, rosy peaks of her breasts responded fiercely, sending shock waves through her. She separated his knees with one of her own and moved into the juncture of his thighs. Her hand glided beneath his collar and moved his shirt aside, baring one of his broad shoulders. She kissed the warm place where the trunk of his neck met the thick muscle of his shoulder as she caressed the inner slope of his thigh. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and bore her kisses without response. With a sudden, quick tug at his shirtfront, she pulled the garment open. She dropped her lips to the tawny buttons of flesh capping the firm muscles of his chest, licking and scraping her teeth across them in the way she had learned from him. His fingers tensed, trying for all their worth to imbed themselves in the hard substance of the slate supporting him. Alyssa saw his inner struggle etched in the handsome lines of his face. The cords of his neck stood out as he dropped his head back in complete surrender. She swirled her fingertips lightly, then with more

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pressure, over the heated knot at the place where his powerful thighs met, sending a tremble through him. With adept fingers she opened his trousers and released him. Her lips left a smattering of kisses from his nipples to his navel, where she stopped long enough to delve into the shallow indentation with her tongue. Her kisses went lower and lower, until she had nothing left to kiss. She took him full into her mouth, and he gritted his teeth, tossing his head to one side. Marc battled for control. He wanted to lift her onto him more than he wanted his own heart to keep beating. He teetered madly on the edge of release until finally, she freed him and stood. His chest heaved. Once he could open his eyes, he did so. Alyssa saw such blissful agony in his pewter-blue gaze, she almost regretted what she had begun. At the same time she knew she couldn‟t stop, not with the uncertainty in her mind...and the fire racing through her body. She draped her arms over his shoulders and cradled his face to her bosom. He kept his arms rigid at his sides and clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists. His breath caressed the satiny roundness of her breasts, and she pressed them against him, sliding them along his bare chest. Lifting their tips to his lips, she straddled him, locking her ankles at the small of his back. She traced his lips with first one eager nipple, then the other. Her thighs melting, her heels digging

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into his backside. The size and heat of his member imprinted her, giving her a pleasure so keen she instinctively arched her back and massaged herself against him, anointing him with her feminine nectar. She whimpered, her craving quickening along with the grinding of her hips. She kissed him. Receiving no appreciable reaction, she ravaged his earlobes, nibbling and tasting with the same exuberance with which she half hoped he would lash out and take her breasts. She curled her fingers in the thick softness of his hair and returned his lips to hers. He did nothing in response to her invitation. A sound, a cross between a howl of agony and a cry of pleasure, escaped her lips. She took one of his hands and suckled his fingers, taking the middle one languorously into her mouth and drawing the soft rasp of her tongue along its length. A shudder of pleasure rippled through her, but it was a mere shadow of the rapture he had shown her in the schoolhouse. She choked out a plea for him to deliver her, to satisfy the yawning swell within her, but her cries fell on deaf ears. He left her to drown in the tumultuous sea of unquenched desire upon which she had so foolishly cast herself. What began as a test became mutual torture. She wanted him to touch her, and more, to give her that sweet, magical release. Marc read her plea in the language of her body, but he would not give her what she wanted. By Heaven, he couldn‟t, not if he wanted to gain her trust.

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She fell away from him, every nerve raw with unsated desire. Marc summoned every bit of strength he possessed and stiffly gained his footing. Alyssa had awakened every nerve, opened every pore. The humid air of the bayou seemed to magnify the colors and textures of the land and water around him, as well as the tempest within him. It wasn‟t easy for him to fasten his trousers over his unsatisfied need of her, but he did so. Without a word, he left her in the bayou.

Startled, Angelo hopped a step back when Marc entered the mansion, slamming the French doors behind him. “You look as if you could bite the paw off a lion,” Angelo remarked. “I would kill Fernand myself, if I knew where he was, for what he did to these ladies.” “How is she?” Marc asked. While Marc was indeed concerned about Melody, that had not put the starch in his face. And his trousers. “She‟s resting,” Angelo said. “Alyssa was right. It was better to bring her here, away from the scene of her loss, to recuperate. Edmond has been with her.” “Edmond has taken quite a liking to Mrs. Shaw.” Marc, distracted, stared out of the window toward the bayou. “Perhaps they can give one another a small measure of peace.” “Peace,” Angelo echoed. “There is a shortage of that in the hearts of these women. Fear, particularly of men, abounds at Beaux Elysees.”

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“It hasn‟t always been this way, you know that.” Marc tore his gaze from the window. She would return when she was ready. Or able. “Manon told me that she and Alyssa were taught to handle themselves if they ever found themselves without an escort. Vincent may have made the girls unreasonably afraid.” “Vincent was being realistic,” Marc said. “Women of mixed heritage can face a rather savage fate in this part of the world. Philippe Fernand preyed on their very natural fear of molestation. It was the coward‟s weapon of choice.” “Alyssa is having a very difficult time with Mrs. Shaw‟s loss?” Marc gave a curt nod. “She wanted to cancel the wedding. I believe I changed her mind.” “Good,” Angelo said. “It‟s about time you began to view this wedding as a wedding. Joshua and Cedric left at dawn for New Orleans. Joshua said he was picking up something special for the wedding. It would be a shame if he rode all that way for nothing.”

Alyssa found Marc in the warehouse later that afternoon, conducting the monthly inventory. Marc was surprised to see her in a jade muslin dress. The voluminous wealth of her hair was contained in a silk snood that perfectly matched her eyes.

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Alyssa took the account book from his hands and set it on a crate of sweet potatoes. She moved into his arms, pressing her cheek to his chest, finding a familiar peace in the solid thud of his heart. The men and women working with Marc stood at a distance, giving the two a little privacy. Everyone knew that Alyssa had done her best to save Melody‟s baby, for better or for worse, and that she had taken the loss much harder than even Melody seemed to. They assumed, only half correctly, that she had come to her captain to have that misery soothed. “I presumed that you would like your wife to look like a wife and not a stable boy,” she explained. Relief flooded through him, erasing the tension he had felt in his back and neck since he left the bayou. He hadn‟t realized that he had been so worried that she would actually call off the wedding. He took her by the shoulders. “Do you trust me never to hurt you?” She nodded. “Do you trust me?” he asked more stridently. “Yes,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes like diamonds in a jade pool. He hugged her so tightly, her shoulder blades compacted. He was leaning in to kiss her, but shadows appearing in the doorway stopped him.

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Joshua stood there, along with a man, a woman, and a younger man, each of whom Marc had never met. Alyssa turned to see what he was looking at. “Tita!” she cried. “Pedro!” Alyssa ran into the outstretched arms of her old friends. Amidst tears, laughter, and hugs, Alyssa, Senor, and Senora Cortes greeted each other. “So they are the „something‟ you retrieved in New Orleans for the wedding?” Marc said to Joshua. “I wrote them the day you announced the engagement,” Joshua said. “They were only too happy to return, especially for a wedding.” “Do they know about Rose?” Joshua nodded. “Tita was very close to Rose. In the end, I think it was best that she wasn‟t here then.” Marc took Joshua aside and told him about Melody. The older gentleman rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger and said, “Sometimes I feel like we‟ll never be free of Philippe Fernand.” “The inspector left for New Orleans shortly after you left this morning,” Marc said. “If Fernand surfaces anywhere in southern Louisiana, Leger will find him. He won‟t rest until Fernand is captured.” “We heard talk in New Orleans,” Joshua whispered. “Someone is willing to hand over a lot of gold to discover your whereabouts.”

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“Fernand?” “Possibly,” Joshua said. “He knows you‟re here, but I confiscated his map. He could never find this place on his own, and none of the Cajun guides would bring him. They have all been forewarned and their allegiance to Beaux Elysees is complete. I doubt it‟s Fernand. He wouldn‟t have the funds to offer such a high bounty.” “Beverly Horne-Callow,” Marc sighed. “An Australian and self-proclaimed duke with almost limitless resources. He may have followed me here.” “Is he a threat to Beaux Elysees?” “No,” Marc said. “He wants my ship. He‟s been after her for two years.” “Will Heaven’s Fury be safe? I know how important she is to you.” “My crew loves her as much as I do,” Marc assured him. “They will protect her.” “Callow won‟t find Beaux Elysees,” Joshua said. “You would have to be born and raised in the bayous and swamps to know the marshlands well enough to make your way here unescorted. Eventually, he‟ll give up and go away.” “Let‟s keep this close,” Marc said. “We‟ll discuss this with Edmond, Angelo, and Cedric, but I see no need to alarm Alyssa. She already has enough to give her nightmares.”

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“The nightmares have persisted? I assumed that the one nightmare you once mentioned had been an odd occurrence.” “I‟m surprised that no one else hears her call out in the night,” Marc said. “You respond to her needs with an instrument more finely tuned than a pair of ears.” Joshua tapped Marc‟s chest. “You respond to her with your heart.”

Despite the sad start to the day, it ended on a happy note. Tita and Pedro and the young man who had accompanied them joined everyone for dinner in the mansion. Conversation remained focused on the wedding and other current events. No one spoke of the recent past other than for Tita and Pedro to explain where they‟d been since their departure from Beaux Elysees. They had experienced hard times. By trade, Pedro was a carpenter. The only work he could find was as a barkeep in a barrelhouse in New Orleans. Tita became a cook and barmaid. Long hours, patrons rude at best, homicidal at worst, and poor wages…The hell they had entered was only slightly better than that they had known under Philippe Fernand. Joshua would never have known how to contact them if Tita hadn‟t taken a chance and written to him. Upon receiving his response, they were so happy they quit their jobs, packed up their meager belongings, and headed back to the world they called home.

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“This is Caleb,” Tita said, squeezing the hand of the sinewy young man with the blueberry eyes who had come to Beaux Elysees with her and Pedro. “He worked with us at the barrel house. For weeks he listened to Pedro and me speak of the place where we met and fell in love. He didn‟t think it was real. He‟s been on his own since he was eleven years old. When we decided to come back, we asked him to come with us. And here we are.” Alyssa had never seen Tita so happy. Tita and Pedro had always wanted children. They had not been blessed that way. Tita had suffered years of melancholy, certain that Pedro would leave her for a woman who could give him sons. Alyssa watched as Pedro took the end of Tita‟s long, black braid and pressed it to his lips. Pedro could no more leave his wife than he could leave his own skin. Caleb wasn‟t their son by birth, but Tita clearly loved him. It took little more than that to make a mother. Alyssa glanced down the table at Marc. He had dressed for the meal, as he always did. The simplicity of his white shirt and tawny breeches heightened his attractiveness. He never came to the table tired or disheveled, and he never failed to compliment her on the meal or the floral centerpieces she created. He noticed details. Could he see how happy Tita and Pedro were, with Caleb to complete their family? Could he envision that happiness for himself?

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He could make me a mother, Alyssa dared consider. The thought sent an odd but pleasant feeling of warmth and peace through her. A baby. Marc‟s baby. She wondered if that could sustain her during the long months Marc would be at sea. Yes. Nothing would make me happier than bestowing my love upon a child produced with the man I— Her eyes widened. Love? Surely she didn‟t love Marc. She wanted him, yes. God, yes. But did she love him? Oh, yes, she sighed inwardly, gazing at him. And I want his child. Then, when he leaves me, a part of him would always be with me. Caleb may have seen Alyssa‟s longing in her eyes, for he stopped wolfing down a plateful of broiled catfish and cornmeal biscuits long enough to flash her a warm smile. He hunched further down over his plate and attacked a slab of roast beef. “You certainly seem to be enjoying your meal, Caleb,” Manon remarked with smarmy politeness. Angelo, Alyssa, Joshua, and Marc each gave her a withering look. Caleb swallowed a mouthful of fresh snap beans. “Yes, I am enjoying these vittles, ma‟am,” he directed at Manon. “I can see that you done put away quite a bit of ‟em yourself, and faster‟n me.”

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Manon‟s mouth popped open, making a sound like the cork being pulled from a new jug of hard cider. Angelo, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter, leaned over, curled a finger beneath her chin, and closed her mouth. “Caleb is sixteen,” Tita said, her black eyes shining with pride at this manboy she seemed to have adopted as her own. “He can read and write some. If you have room in your classroom for him, Alyssa, I think—” Caleb stood, knocking his chair over. “Ah ain‟t goin‟ to no school with a bunch a li‟l wet-nosed snot babies!” “Caleb, you promised!” Tita took his arm, and he pried it off. He shook his head, his light brown hair shifting from side to side. “Ah kin work in the fields or in the stable,” he said. “But ah ain‟t goin‟ to no school, ah just ain‟t!” “„Ain‟t goin‟ to no school‟?” Marc repeated thoughtfully, perfectly mimicking Caleb‟s dialect. “I believe that is what he said,” Angelo replied studiously. “He ain‟t goin‟ to no school.” “Y‟all makin‟ fun off me?” Spittle flew from Caleb‟s lips. “Don‟t nobody make fun off me „n‟ gits away with it!”

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“No one‟s making fun of you, Caleb,” Alyssa said, her voice the music to calm any savage breast. “We simply find it rather confusing that a boy of your intelligence uses the grammatical constructions of a wet-nosed snot baby.” “You sayin‟ I talk like a dumb little kid?” The boy fairly seethed with rage. “No,” Alyssa said calmly. “You said it.” Caleb righted his chair and sullenly dropped back into it. Alyssa leaned in to console him, and he shrugged out of her reach. “You won‟t be required to sit in the classroom if you would prefer not to,” Alyssa told him. “I would be happy to tutor you.” Caleb‟s scowl began to smooth out. “Tutor? Ain‟t that what them dandies in N‟Orleans gets?” “Yes,” Alyssa said, agreeing wholeheartedly with Caleb‟s assessment. Caleb sat up straight, his eagerness apparent. “An‟ it would be just you „n‟ me? Alone?” Caleb slashed a quick look at Marc. Alyssa suppressed a smile. “Yes.” Caleb resumed the hearty destruction of his meal. “Well, then, sign me up. I think I could use me a li‟l tutorin.‟ Yes, siree.” Tita smiled proudly and patted Caleb‟s shoulder.

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Chapter Fourteen

“Forgive me for askin,‟ Cap‟n,” Cedric said in hushed tones as he and Marc moved a long buffet table from the storage building and onto the back of a waiting wagon, “but if you and Miss Alyssa get married on the estate, it won‟t be legal, will it? In the eyes of Louisiana law, Miz Alyssa is…well…one of her grandmas was a redskin and one of her grandpas was an octoroon.” Marc set down his end of the table and drew a bandanna from his back pocket to wipe away the perspiration dripping into his eyes. “Isn‟t that some sort of sea creature?” “I think you know what I mean, Cap‟n,” Cedric said solemnly. “Miz Alyssa‟s grandmother was a quadroon, and a slave at that. Down here, all it takes is one drop of African blood to make your marriage to Miz Alyssa illegal. Granted, Miz Alyssa is as peach as my own sister, but Alyssa‟s proud of her heritage. She don‟t hide the fact that she carries the blood of the world.” “One drop,” Marc said disdainfully. “Is African blood so very strong that it cancels out the Chitimacha, Hispanic, French, and Irish blood she carries? Or is the one-drop premise a convention of our slave-owning neighbors, to make sure

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that the children borne to them and their enslaved lovers, number as slaves? Hardly an honorable method of increasing your „property‟, is it?” “I never said I agreed with the way things are around us, Cap‟n,” Cedric argued. Marc sat down on the table and encouraged Cedric to join him. In the five days since his arrival, Angelo had overwhelmed Manon‟s senses. Not one to put up a fight for a woman who scarcely managed to be little more than polite to him, Cedric had turned his eye to Rina, the other lady with whom he had established something of a dalliance. “Are you thinking of marriage, old man?” Marc inquired lightly. The Irishman smiled rather shyly. “It‟s in the air of this place.” Marc agreed. Beaux Elysees had been founded as a haven where a man could live in peace with the woman he loved. Beaux Elysees had continued to be a place where, had Romeo and Juliet known of it, they probably would have enjoyed their love affair for decades rather than days. “Vincent and Rose married in the Caribbean because they wanted an old friend, Father Devon Cuniff, to perform the ceremony. They could have married here, because this is French land,” Marc said.

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“Beggin‟ your pardon, Cap‟n, but we‟re in Louisiana.” Cedric considered the possibility that Marc had been overexerting himself in the sun and was suffering from some sort of heat-induced addlement. “The Marquis de Moulin came here from France decades ago, upon receiving a grant of land from the king,” Marc explained. “While this land was contained in the parcel purchased by your president Jefferson, since it was occupied by the Marquis, Beaux Elysees retained its noble status.” “So this place is protected?” “Exactly,” Marc said. “Here at Beaux Elysees, we abide by the laws of the United States because we choose to, not because they are our own. The laws of France govern Beaux Elysees, which is why Inspector Leger was appointed to come here to apprehend Philippe Fernand.” “And that‟s why you and Miz Alyssa can get married here?” “Absolutely,” Marc said. “Angelo could marry Manon, you could marry Rina.” “That other one,” Cedric said, meaning Philippe Fernand, “was gonna take Miz Rose to the Islands to marry ‟er. And all the while he could have wed ‟er right here and had all of Beaux Elysees?” “That‟s right,” Marc said. “Had he bothered to investigate more than just Vincent‟s bank books, he might have learned that.”

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“Let‟s just thank the Lord Almighty His Own Self that he didn‟t,” Cedric said sagely.

Alyssa knocked on the door to Melody‟s room with her knee, her hands full with a tray laden with a hot noonday meal. Edmond answered the door and took the heavy burden. Following Alyssa, he brought it out to the gallery, where Melody reclined on the plush velvet cushions of a wrought-iron chair. She stared at the rose garden, where two men put the finishing touches on the gazebo where Marc and Alyssa would exchange vows in two days. Alyssa seated herself on the ottoman at Melody‟s feet. Edmond set the tray on the wrought-iron table before Melody, then took the chair nearest Melody. He reached over and tucked a blanket closer about Melody‟s legs. Alyssa cast a smile at her true half-uncle, this kind and unassuming man who had usurped Marc as Melody‟s protector. “This smells delicious,” he told Alyssa as he lifted the porcelain covers from the dishes Alyssa had prepared. He tasted the aromatic stew. “I‟m afraid it‟s nothing terribly inspired, just red beans and chicken with wine,” Alyssa said. “I‟ve been so busy preparing for the wedding. I haven‟t had time to prepare more elaborate meals.” She watched Melody‟s face for a reaction. Melody kept her eyes on the painting and hammering in the garden.

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Edmond draped a napkin across Melody‟s lap. “I hope you‟ll join me, Madame Shaw,” he said. “The stew is quite delicious. It is reminiscent of our coq au vin in France.” Alyssa took Melody‟s hand. “Manon told me that you wouldn‟t be joining us for the wedding. I can‟t say that I blame you for not wanting to witness the charade.” “The charade is that you and Captain Ghiradelli pretend not to love each other,” Melody said softly. “I hope you‟ll change your mind about the wedding.” Alyssa drew her hand from Melody‟s. “Whether you‟re sitting in the garden with everyone else or not, I know you‟ll be there, in spirit, just as part of my spirit is always with you.” Alyssa kissed Melody‟s pale cheek, smothering the lone tear that trailed from Melody‟s sad eyes. She left her and Edmond to their meal.

When Melody spoke, it wasn‟t to discuss whether or not she would be attending the wedding. “You buried it,” she said, her words flat and ragged. Edmond set down his eating utensils. The lines in his face deepened. “Yes,” he said. “This morning, while you were sleeping, I laid your son to rest.” Melody‟s voice quivered. “You cried for it?”

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“I know what it is to grow up without a mother‟s love,” Edmond countered. “My mother never wanted me. She never loved my father. The only difference between myself and your lost babe is that I lived.” Edmond went to stand at the ornate balustrade. He hung his head. “The child is not the man. He deserved to be mourned.” The sound of Melody‟s tears brought Edmond rushing to her side. He kneeled beside her chair and gathered her into his arms, soothing her with soft words, listening to her with an understanding ear. “I wanted to grow old with Dell and bear his children!” Melody felt she would shrivel up and blow away in the heat of her misery. “I didn‟t want Fernand‟s baby and I lost it! God will punish me for wishing it away. No one will ever love me, and God will never give me another child.” “You presume to know God‟s will?” Edmond cautioned. “Did you directly cause the loss of that child?” “No!” she cried. “No matter how much I prayed for an end to this misery, I didn‟t pray for the death of that baby.” “Then by my reckoning your whole life is ahead of you, to do as you see fit. You‟re a young woman, yet, Madame Shaw.” “I am a nineteen-year-old widow,” she said mournfully. “I can‟t bear to go to Alyssa‟s wedding, to be reminded of all that was stolen from me.”

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“I would give my life to undo the evil that has befallen you.” Edmond lightly pressed his lips to her hair. “There is nothing anyone can do,” Melody moaned. “I am ruined. My life is over.” She cried helplessly into his shirtfront. “If that is so,” Edmond said somberly, “then my life is over, as well.” A sob hitched in her chest. Her mouth sagged open. Her coffee eyes, raw and puffy, met the vivid green of his. “You can‟t mean that you want me, not after what he did to me.” She saw the sum of her loss reflected in his eyes, and she knew that her pain had become his. She pushed her face into his chest once again, and this time her tears were of hope instead of despair.

Edmond would have held her all the rest of the day if a scream from downstairs hadn‟t launched him to his feet. He ran down the spiral staircase to find Alyssa, Manon, and Joshua at the front door, welcoming a tall, attractive, brown-skinned woman and a stooped, white-haired old gent in the black robes of a cleric. Manon was responsible for that first happy scream and a string of others as she hugged the old man and the woman. Alyssa left the small circle of people at the front door to draw Edmond into the group.

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“Edmond, may I present Marguerite, one of my mother‟s most cherished friends and the finest cook we ever knew at Beaux Elysees,” Alyssa said. Edmond graciously kissed Marguerite‟s hand, earning a warm smile from the attractive lady. “Am I seeing a ghost?” Marguerite asked. “This is my half-uncle, the genuine Edmond Verdieu,” Alyssa stated happily. “You‟re the mirror image, give or take a few stone, of my former student,” said the cleric, his Irish accent barely discernible. He offered his hand. “I‟m Father Devon Cuniff, here to pay my last respects to two great people. It nearly took my heart out when I read Joshua‟s letter. I knew Vincent wasn‟t well, but knowing that Rose was lost too…it broke this old man‟s heart. Vincent was one of my best students aboard the Cornelius. I never thought he‟d get to Heaven before me.” Father Devon cupped Alyssa‟s face. Beneath the twin bushes of his white eyebrows, his blue eyes misted. “„Tis a lucky man who knows paradise before Paradise.” “Will you marry me, Father?” Alyssa said impulsively. “This is rather sudden, dearie,” the father chuckled. “I love you, darlin‟, you know I do, but I‟m a man of God.” “I don‟t mean marry me,” Alyssa laughed. “I‟m getting married in two days. Would you perform the ceremony?”

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“Of course, darlin‟,” said Father Devon. He glanced curiously at Joshua. “You didn‟t tell the lassie that I was comin‟ to perform the ceremony? You always did like your surprises, Joshua Wallace. Now. Who‟s the lucky groom?” “Marc,” Joshua said, the corners of his smile stretching toward his ears. Father Devon‟s eyes grew wide. “Gian‟s boy?” „Gian‟s boy‟ entered the foyer, and Father Devon saw that he was well past boyhood. Father Devon took in the tall, broad-shouldered son of his other favorite pupil. “I‟ll be damned,” he muttered happily. “Most likely,” Marc assured him, embracing the elderly man. “I thought nothing would make you leave Antigua.” “„Tis a small island,” the father chuckled. “All the souls are saved.”

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Chapter Fifteen

“Joshua, may I ask you something?” Joshua was on the verandah enjoying a rare moment of peace before bed. “Child, I thought you went to bed hours ago,” he said as Alyssa sat on the arm of his chair and pulled a light woolen wrap closer about her shoulders. The wedding was a day away, and last-minute details chased their tails in Joshua‟s mind. The garden was lovely, but it would be at its best in a month or two, when the roses were in bloom along with giant beds of phlox and chrysanthemums, rhododendrons and azaleas, and scented shrubs such as eucalyptus, myrtle, and nicotiana. In the dim of the moonlight he saw that the garden was already a miniature version of Eden with its showy display of Persian buttercups, French anemones, calla lilies, and orange and scarlet aloe. Crocuses had been out for nearly two weeks, their purple-veined white petals impatient for spring. Japanese camellias bloomed alongside the vivid blues of grape hyacinths, snow irises, Siberian quill, and snow glories. White snowdrops and yellow aconites were a glittering complement to hundreds of daffodils, their yellow petals and sunshine-gold trumpets heralding the early spring.

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And of course, Alyssa would be the loveliest blossom of all. Marguerite had assumed the banquet preparations. She had spent days at sea to return to Beaux Elysees, yet she had insisted on commandeering the preparations for the wedding banquet, giving Alyssa the chance to relax and concentrate only on the wedding. The shock of seeing Marguerite, well, that was something he‟d have to contend with once the wedding was over. He thought he would never see her again, and now that he had, he wondered if, and when, she would be on her way again. It had to have been divine intervention that made her go to Antigua to visit with Father Devon before ultimately setting sail for the Cape Verde islands. “Will you give me away?” Alyssa‟s question brought Joshua‟s attention to a pinpoint. “You want me to escort you to your groom?” Alyssa, wearing the smile of an angel, nodded. “I know it‟s not a real wedding, but it‟s the only one I ever intend to have. You‟ve been my second father. There is no one else I would rather have deliver me to my groom.” “I appreciate the gesture, sweetheart, but perhaps it would be more appropriate if you asked Edmond. He‟s your blood.” “I‟ve already discussed it with him. We agreed that I should ask you.” “He‟s so like your father.”

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“He knows how important you are to me, and how close you were to my parents,” Alyssa said. “Edmond believes that you are the man who should escort me down the aisle.” Joshua hugged her. “It would be my honor. Now you go and get some sleep.” Alyssa had gone upstairs, and Joshua wiped his eyes. Another night visitor joined him on the verandah. “May I have a word with you, Joshua?” Marguerite asked. Joshua smiled and offered her a seat.

Manon refused to acknowledge the knock on her door. She had absolutely no intention of opening it. She had managed to avoid being alone with Angelo since that wonderful, delightful, terrible kiss he‟d won in the courtyard. She hadn‟t counted on him being so bold as to come knocking on her door so long after everyone else had gone to bed. “I know you can hear me, my little hell cat,” Angelo said. “You have gone to great lengths to avoid me. Can it be that my very presence is enough to drive you wild with desire?” Manon stormed to the door, prepared to toss it open and give that cocky Angelo Leopardi a scathing tongue-lashing. She stopped with her hand on the

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knob, realizing that opening the door was exactly what he wanted her to do. She leaned against it, listening, wondering what he would do next. “I can wait as long as you can, Manon,” Angelo crooned. He lowered his voice. She strained to hear him. “Are you dressed for bed? What are you wearing? A garment of silk, perhaps, something as soft and pretty as your own skin?” Angelo glanced downward. Her shadow danced at the fine gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. “I wear nothing to bed,” He mentioned suggestively. “Perhaps you sleep in the nude as well. I can fairly imagine you tossing and turning on that big bed of yours, all alone. You don‟t have to be alone, Manon, with nothing but your sheets to caress you. Open the door. I shall caress you. And nibble you. And taste you.” Manon slumped against the door, her knees rubbery. Angelo teased her into a frenzy with his slow, deliberate description of what he would do to ready her, to bring her to the very brink of satisfaction only to draw her back, to taunt her all over again before sending her into the depths of physical bliss. His words wove an erotic tapestry detailing the ways he would position her to receive him, and the pleasure he would deliver unto her flesh if she simply opened the door. Her blood simmered. She absently clapped her thighs together, as if that useless gesture could stop her body from responding to his words. He continued

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to speak with infuriating calm. Longing rose within her like steam fastened in a kettle. How she wanted to open the door! She would have, if her brain hadn‟t taken control of her body the instant she grasped the doorknob. The kiss they shared had been a mistake. She knew that. He wanted her for her physical attributes, nothing more. If he loved anyone, it was probably Alyssa. All men loved Alyssa the instant they set eyes on her. Manon was convinced that no man would love her, and until Alyssa was married, no man ever could. Her grim thoughts sobered her body. She tiptoed to her bed, eased her weight onto it, and closed her eyes until sleep finally rescued her from Angelo‟s passionate whispers.

A light shower forced the wedding rehearsal indoors. Undaunted, Joshua and Marguerite drove the wedding party through its paces with military precision. Once the practice “I do‟s” had been said, everyone retired to the dining room for a buffet supper. Marc excused himself to the study, and Angelo followed him. Marc hunkered down at the desk and opened a ledger. He pored over lines of figures while Angelo went to the sideboard and poured a neat shot of whiskey.

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“Forgive me for noticing, Marc,” Angelo said, sinking into a wing chair, “but what the hell is going on here?” Marc glanced at Angelo and then turned back to his accounts. “I‟m getting married tomorrow.” “And you seem entirely thrilled at the prospect,” Angelo said facetiously. “You sit here with your figures on the eve of your wedding, while your luscious bride-to-be hosts your rehearsal dinner alone.” “Alyssa and I have an arrangement,” Marc said. “An arrangement,” Angelo stated flatly. He downed his whiskey in one gulp and set the empty shot glass on the desk. “Through this marriage, I will become the absentee landlord of Beaux Elysees, thereby protecting it from—” “Absentee? Marc….” Angelo swiped his hand over his face in frustration. “It‟s not a marriage in any meaningful sense,” Marc added. “Yet you‟ll go through such lavish motions, knowing all the while that you intend to break Alyssa‟s heart.” Marc closed the ledger with a sharp snap. “Alyssa is well aware that—” “That you‟ll leave her? She deserves better.”

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“I know that!” Marc shouted. “This was her idea, not mine. The last thing I want is to hurt her.” Marc slumped back in his chair. “She has already known too much pain.” “So have you.” Marc stood and tucked the ledgers into one of the desk drawers. He refused to be drawn into Angelo‟s dissection of his behavior. “I know you‟re determined to keep punishing yourself,” Angelo said calmly. “I know you wish to deny yourself any happiness in this life. Don‟t make Alyssa a party to your misery. There is no finer life for a man than to spend it in the arms of a woman who loves him.” “She doesn‟t love me,” Marc said, his gaze fixed on the seductive bottle of whiskey. Angelo sighed and shook his head. “Try telling yourself that tomorrow, when you‟re gazing upon her at the altar.”

When Alyssa and her entourage retreated to her suite for the night, Angelo led the men to the study. They sat in the austere interior smoking cigars and drinking what was left of the Irish whiskey retrieved from Angelo‟s ship. Caleb enthusiastically lifted his glass to toast Marc. The fine liquor left his mouth in a violent spray no sooner than it touched his tongue.

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Angelo clapped the poor boy on the back, aiding Caleb‟s efforts to rid himself of the strong drink. “It‟s fire!” Caleb sputtered. “The best fire there is,” Angelo began, displaying his glass so that the liquid inside caught the light of the fire. “Truly man‟s greatest gift from the gods. While the boy recovers, I‟d like to make a toast.” He hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“Just as surely as Eve was made for Adam, you, Marc, have found your

lost rib, in Alyssa. In all seriousness, I wish you every happiness. And lest you forget, if you cause that lovely creature one moment of grief, you‟ll have me, and I suspect the rest of the men in this room, to answer to. One by one or all at once, it matters not to us.” “Warning duly noted,” Marc said, meeting Edmond‟s pensive gaze. “Are you at all nervous about taking the long walk?” Pedro asked after taking a long draw on his cigar. The smoke curled lazily about his head. “Of course,” Marc said. He stared into the crackling fire. He had the fastest ship on the sea, an honest and dedicated crew, at least one good friend and loving parents. When he wanted a woman, he generally had only to choose. His life was perfect, or so he‟d thought. All that changed the moment he first set eyes on Alyssa. With each passing day, he found it more and more difficult to keep promises he had make a decade ago. So easily he was willing to selfishly bind his life to Alyssa‟s.

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“Aye, you‟re the luckiest man under the stars,” Cedric said, pulling Marc from his reverie. He poured another round of whiskey. “Women like Miz Alyssa come along once in a man‟s lifetime.” The whiskey made it so much easier for Marc to picture Cedric in his place, prepared to take Alyssa as his wife. “Have you and the lovely Rina caught the wedding fever?” Marc asked, driving the infuriating image from his head. Cedric shook his head, laughing. “You‟re fixed on dragging us all, kicking and shouting, into the bonds of matrimony along with you, aren‟t you, Cap‟n?” The whiskey was loosening Cedric‟s brogue as well as his tongue, and his words were a bit slurred. “The next thing you know, I‟ll be wed to Rina, Angelo here‟ll be draggin‟ that she-devil Manon before the Father, and Joshua will have finally made an honest woman of our lovely Marguerite.” “Would that be so terrible?” Marc set his glass on the edge of the desk. “If we find a lady for Caleb, there could be five weddings tomorrow.” And with all the available men married, he wouldn‟t have to worry about Alyssa finding another mate once he left. “I ain‟t gettin‟ hitched,” Caleb declared with more than a bit of hostility. “Women ain‟t nothin‟ but trouble.”

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“Even the fair Adette?” Cedric cajoled. “Trouble is exactly what you will get if you keep lookin‟ at her sideways and all the way you do. Rina tells me that Adette is rather sweet on you too.” The whiskey had drained the color from Caleb‟s face. His blush after Cedric‟s comments replaced the pale with beet red. “Adette‟s a nice gal,” Caleb said. “Ain‟t no way she‟s gonna be sweet on a swamp critter like me.” Swamp critter, Marc thought to himself. Alyssa hadn‟t exaggerated when she said that the boy had no sense of his worth. “There‟s only one way to find out,” Marc said. “We must ask our ladies to declare their affections for us. Right now.” “I‟m not sure I‟m up to invadin‟ that hen party,” Joshua said, though his eyes twinkled. Joshua‟s words landed on intoxicated ears. Rather than stay behind, he fell into step with the rest of the men following Marc to the garden.

“I‟ve not laughed this much since I was in pigtails,” Tita said as she brushed Rina‟s glossy dark hair. “We should settle and get some sleep. Tomorrow is the most special of days for us.” Alyssa almost told Tita the truth, that her wedding held no more magic for her than any other day. So many times she had almost lost herself in the illusion,

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but there was no denying that Marc didn‟t love her as a man loved a wife. Alyssa couldn‟t bring herself to spoil the joy the wedding gave her loved ones. “I‟m afraid to sleep,” Alyssa said. “Perhaps I‟m asleep already. Perhaps all of this has been a dream. I half expect to awaken and find myself within arm‟s reach of—” Marguerite took Alyssa‟s hands. “Don‟t spoil your happiness with thoughts of that creature.” “I can‟t think of Maman without thinking of him,” Alyssa said sadly. “If I had one wish it would be for her to be here.” Water pooled in Marguerite‟s eyes. “Don‟t you know that Rose is always with us, and with you? Every time you smile, I see her. Every time you laugh, I hear her. Just as sure as God brought me back here to share this magical day with you, I know He‟ll see to it that Rose and Vincent are here too. Love is the only force that can overcome death,” Marguerite said gently. “Surely you know that.” As Marguerite‟s words faded, Alyssa heard the singing. The women sat, motionless, almost believing that a mass hallucination was responsible for the honeyed melody drifting from the garden. Alyssa and Manon shared a glance, their skin goose-pimpling. They knew the song well, a love song that Rose had learned in Italy and sang to them as a lullaby. Alyssa and the rest of the women pulled wrappers over their nightgowns and went onto the gallery.

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Standing in the cool evening breeze, melancholy fled Alyssa‟s heart as she listened to the serenade from the man who would be her husband. The rich, even timbre of his voice shaping the words of his native language embraced her, bridging the happiness of her past with hope for her future. Alyssa hadn‟t heard that song in years, not since she and Manon decided they were too old for lullabies. Manon took Alyssa‟s hand and they listened to the song, the tears that springing to their eyes at the heavenly words happy ones. Angelo joined Marc at the chorus, and then by the rest of the men once they picked up the words. The song culminated with Marc scaling the trellis to Alyssa‟s gallery. “If you fell and broke your neck it would be no more than you deserve,” Alyssa lovingly chastised. Marc climbed over the balustrade and set his hands at her waist, walking her away from the women attending her. “Sadly, I must agree with you,” he said, eyeing her lips. “Short of flying, I could see no faster way to reach you. We‟ve come to declare our affections.” “Each of you?” Alyssa said, her eyes wide. “All‟n ever‟ one of us!” Cedric called drunkenly from below. “We came for a token as well.”

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“The only token you‟ll get from me is a strong cup of coffee laced with chicory!” Rina shouted down at him. “But I rove you, Lina!” Cedric cried, weaving on his feet before passing out. Alyssa, her heart a bit heavy, turned to Marc. “Are you drunk as well?” Marc brushed her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. The tender gesture lit her nerve endings the way a flint ignited a nest of wood chips. “Yes,” he said, drawing her embarrassingly close. “I am wildly intoxicated on the sure knowledge that by midday tomorrow, you will be my wife.” Alyssa couldn‟t tell if he was joking or not. “What token do you require of me?” she asked. “A kiss.” “That is easily granted.” He took her chin in his hand and tipped her face to his. He studied her face, learning anew every line and angle of it, burning her beauty into his mind to carry away with him. Alyssa could look nowhere other than his eyes, for in them she saw her hopes made real. The stubble of the day‟s growth of his beard grated gently against her palm as she brought her lips to his. The kiss was no more than a chaste brushing of the lips, yet it served as a delicious prelude to what she would know for only a few nights of her life once they exchanged vows.

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Marc, feeling like a thief, determined to remain content with his simple token. He climbed down the trellis and grabbed the whiskey bottle from Cedric. Refusing to look back at the gallery, he took a long swig. “All right, Manon,” Angelo called from below. “What have you got in the way of a token of your affections?” She petulantly stuck out her tongue at him. “I shall spend the rest of this night thinking up uses for that, my dear,” he said wickedly. Manon blushed. Adette unwound the ribbon binding her hair. She let the length of pink satin unfurl and dropped it down to Caleb, who snatched it up and tucked it into his pocket. The boy smiled at Adette, and his face looked a little less green. “I had whiskey,” he said by way of thanks. Tita dashed into Alyssa‟s room and grabbed an article of her discarded clothing. She bundled it into a tidy ball and tossed it to her husband. An enormous smile blossomed under Pedro‟s thick moustache as he unrolled the bundle and discovered one of Tita‟s scented stockings. Marguerite caught Joshua‟s dark gaze and kissed her fingertips. She sent the kiss to Joshua on a delicate puff of air. It hit Joshua like a crate of bricks.

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Marc and Angelo scooped Cedric out of a bed of marigolds and draped his arms over their shoulders. Joshua and Caleb took Cedric‟s feet. Pedro went ahead of them to open the doors. Melody hung back on the terrace as the other women returned to Alyssa‟s room. Melody lifted her eyes to the stars, wondering if Dell looked down at her with a little understanding, perhaps even forgiveness. She missed the generous and loving man she had wed and lost in the space of a few months. In her heart, she knew that he would not begrudge her a second chance at love. Her gaze fell to Edmond, the lone man in the garden. With a hopeful smile she slipped the gold band from her left hand and dropped it into the pocket of her wrapper.

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Chapter Sixteen

Joshua took a deep breath to steady his nerves. You‟d think I was the one getting hitched, he said to himself. He stood beside Alyssa at the entrance to the garden, beneath the elegant wrought-iron ogee archway set in the closely trimmed yew hedge. Alyssa slipped her arm through his, and his nerves immediately settled. The picture of calm, Alyssa‟s poise overlapped onto him. A simple confection of alabaster silk, satin and pearls, the gown Melody had created for Alyssa became so much more now that Alyssa wore it. She looked like an angel draped in the substance of clouds. She wore no veil, her only ornaments the wild blue violets and red columbine woven through her upswept hair and the cluster of marguerite daisies loosely clutched in one hand. While waiting for the violinist to cue their walk down the aisle, Joshua hoped Alyssa knew the love he felt for her. He watched for her reaction once the processional began, for he had made a last minute change in the musical selection. Recognizing the evocative notes of Marc‟s Italian lullaby, Alyssa‟s eyes filled. If only this were real. If only Marc loved me. If only…. She realized there was no point in dwelling on “If Only‟s,” not with Joshua escorting her down the petal-strewn aisle.

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The pale lavender petals of an Asian azalea made a lovely background for dewy white Lenten roses, the two flowers that had been sprinkled in the aisle by the four-year-old daughter of a German couple new to Beaux Elysees. The guests—the tenants of Beaux Elysees, Marc‟s crew, and a few neighbors—basked in Alyssa‟s smile as she made her way to the dashing captain awaiting her at Father Devon‟s feet. Her radiance enveloped everyone she passed. Pedro gave Tita a kiss on the cheek right after Alyssa walked by. Caleb, who had bathed and dressed for the occasion, proved to be a rather good-looking boy. His eyes left Adette only for as long as it took Alyssa to pass. Cedric, who was rather green above the collar of his cotton dress shirt, gave Rina‟s hand a hearty squeeze. A few steps from Marc, Alyssa spotted Melody. She sat on the first of the stone benches surrounding the open gazebo, with Edmond at her side. Edmond blew Alyssa a kiss. Alyssa‟s eyes misted, so strong was Edmond‟s resemblence to her dear father.. Angelo, handsomely dressed in a formal coat, shadow-grey breeches, and black Hessian boots, stood to Marc‟s right. Exceptionally lovely in a silk gown of lilac, Manon stood as Alyssa‟s maid of honor. Between them awaited the captain, who was stunning in impeccably tailored black wools and white satins.

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Joshua set Alyssa‟s hand in Marc‟s, and suddenly the world became very small to her, so small, that it had contracted to contain only her and this man to whom she would bind her very life. Marc hadn‟t so much as blinked since the instant he laid eyes on Alyssa. The sight of her could enrich a poor man and sate a starving man. Marc would have forgotten to breathe if his lungs hadn‟t taken the task up on their own. He placed her hand on his arm and set his own hand over it. With that simple gesture, Alyssa almost believed he was taking her genuinely for his wife. Father Devon cleared his throat. His blue eyes sparkling, he took in Marc, then Alyssa. “I christened each of you, an ocean and ten years apart,” he began. “It is my great joy to stand here today, to join you in the holiest, most sacred, most divine contract.” Marc shifted uncomfortably. “Marriage,” Father Devon continued, “is not a business to enter unto lightly. It is a treaty that joins two great nations, uniting them as one to face the future. Through good times and bad, through summer and storm, never again will you traverse alone.” Alyssa glanced at Marc. She could read nothing in his stoic expression and posture.

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“I met your fathers almost fifty years ago, when they were hired on as cabin boys aboard the H.M.S. Cornelius,” Father Devon said. “Hellions, the both of them. Once caught them terrorizing the first mate with a dead rat and a hand puppet, but that‟s another story for another time. Fortune smiled upon the devilish duo when I took them under my tutelage. They became two of the finest men I‟ve ever known. Marc and Alyssa, you honor them with your love for each other.” Marc bowed his head. Alyssa‟s hand involuntarily closed tighter on his arm. Father Devon received the wedding band from Angelo. He blessed it and then handed it to Marc. “Do you, Captain Marc Vincent Ghiradelli, take this darlin‟ of my own heart to have, to hold, and to cherish all the days of your life?” “Yes,” Marc said. He finally turned to look at Alyssa. “I do.” Without much ado he shoved the ring onto Alyssa‟s finger. “Do you, Alyssa Gianchristiana Verdieu, take this salt-encrusted sea rogue to be your husband?” Father Devon continued. For a moment, Alyssa thought she would never squeeze the word past the lump in her throat. “Yes,” she managed. “I do.” As he blinked back tears, Father Devon said, “Marc, Alyssa…go forth, from this day on, as one. Go forth, as husband and wife.” Marc nodded politely. “Marc?” Father Devon prompted.

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Marc raised questioning eyebrows. The congregation began to chuckle and whisper. Father Devon threw up his arms in frustration. “Well, should I kiss your bride, since you obviously can‟t manage the task?” Even as Marc cupped Alyssa‟s face, he suddenly dreaded kissing her. The kiss would somehow truly seal the deal, though he was already officially her husband. The longer he held her gaze, the less sure he felt about what he‟d gotten himself into. But as she looked at him, her eyes full of hope, the only thing he wanted to do was kiss her. So he did, to the applause and whistles of the congregation.

If Marc had thought the New Year‟s gathering was a grand affair, the wedding banquet Joshua and Marguerite planned made that event pale by comparison. Revelers filled the mansion, including many neighbors who hadn‟t visited Beaux Elysees since Vincent‟s death. None of the wealthy Américain planters from St. Martinville had been invited. Relations with the slave plantations in Bayou Teche had never been cultivated, and with Beaux Elysees located so deep within the swamps and marshes, there was little chance that politics—and subsequent hostilities—would arise.

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The wedding guests, as internationally diverse as the residents of Beaux Elysees, were small-acreage farmers, trappers, shrimpers, and oyster luggers who resided peacefully in the bayou. Hundreds of eyes trained on Marc and Alyssa as they danced their first waltz as husband and wife. Marc and Alyssa glided over the polished pine floorboards to the festive strains of the violinists that had come all the way from New Orleans to perform. Joshua had spared no expense in creating the perfect day for Rose‟s daughter. Marc spun Alyssa into Joshua‟s arms; Angelo took Manon‟s hand and led her onto the dance floor. Marc asked the favor of a dance with Marguerite. The spacious salons and foyer filled with colorful, swirling skirts and swinging black tails of the partygoers. After that first waltz ended, Marc and Alyssa found each other once more and accepted the congratulations and well wishes of their guests. Manon disappeared entirely.

Angelo found himself cornered at the champagne table. “This here be the fais do-do to ring down the gates of Heaven, yes!” cried a gleeful Jean-Glen Chiasson. Jean-Glen was un petit habitant, a Cajun farmer who worked eight acres near Beaux Elysees. Jean-Glen, his wife Aline, and their daughters Émilie and Cecilia, had been regular visitors to Beaux Elysees before

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Philippe Fernand‟s tenure. In true Cajun tradition, it was common for a basket of fresh berries or a fat shoat, a lagniappe, to appear at the kitchen door courtesy of Jean-Glen, despite the fact that Beaux Elysees had everything it could possibly need. The Chiassons had eagerly accepted the invitation to Alyssa‟s wedding. Jean-Glen appeared so happy to be part of the occasion, he soon became the life of the party. “I have a joke for you, me,” Jean-Glen announced, grabbing Angelo‟s arm. His black eyes glittered mischievously within his deeply tanned face. “A young Cajun man went to school to learn English, yes? He came home to visit his father and mother, and he act like he no longer knew French, him. He takes himself out to de garden, and his Maman and Papa are workin‟ so hard in de hot sun. The young man, he see de rake and de hoe, and he want to ask his maman what this tool and dat is called. “De fool boy, he go and step on de rake! The rake handle come up and SMACK!…it hit him in de mouth, that rake. „Oh!‟ say dat troublesome boy, „Mon filsde-putain de rateau!‟ His maman, she say, „Mon fils, your French is comin‟ back to you, non?‟” Jean-Glen slapped his knee and doubled over with laughter, sloshing champagne onto his boots. “Mon fils-de-putain de rateau!” he sputtered. “Son-of-a-

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bitchin‟ rake!” he squealed, careless of who might overhear the translation in the throes of his merriment. “Indeed,” Angelo agreed jovially. “Do you know about the Cajuns who went to Hell?” Jean-Glen launched into the tale before Angelo could make good an escape. “A wagon full of Cajuns went over a bridge and was drowned when dey hit de water,” Jean-Glen said. “Dey got themselves up to the gate of Heaven, and St. Peter, he say that there has been a mistake. There was no room in Heaven for dem Cajuns, no. St. Peter, he send dem Cajuns right on down to Hell, he did, just for de time being, until Heaven was ready for dem Cajuns. “Well, no more than three days later, Satan, he come up to talk to St. Peter. „Why, whatever could be the matter?‟ St. Peter say. „Them Cajuns, they giving you trouble, yes?‟ „Satan,‟ he say, „them Cajuns you sent me, they had a fais do-do, then they had a banco. They having a bingo next, to raise money to pay folks to fan the damn place!‟” The men laughed at Jean-Glen‟s tale, the Cajuns most heartily, and Angelo took that moment to steal away to find Manon. She was alone at the far end of the verandah, all but hidden behind a row of potted palmettos, her eyes moist and her nose pink-edged. Silently, she scooted

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over, allowing Angelo to sit beside her on the marble-topped bench that offered a perfect view of the festivities inside. “Surely those are not tears of happiness,” Angelo said. “Happiness is a thing to share, not something to hide from those you love.” Manon pursed her lips. She tightened her grip on the bouquet of marguerite daisies she‟d been holding since she‟d stood beside Alyssa under the gazebo. “Self-pity,” Angelo continued sagely, “now that is something best enjoyed alone, in the company of one‟s darkest, most self-pitying thoughts.” Manon found herself looking into the Grand salon, whether she wanted to or not. The mansion was absolutely beautiful, bedecked with flowers and creeping vines. French anemones adorned the buffet tables. Violets bobbed afloat in the punch bowl. Daffodils, orange Persian buttercups, and daisies decorated the fivetiered wedding cake. Alyssa glowed with each kiss she bestowed upon the cheeks of her guests and allowed them to kiss her in turn. And Marc…he had to be the single most exquisite male creature on earth as he gazed at his wife with a radiance that rivaled the heat and beauty of the sun. Manon tore her eyes away from the salon and buried her face in her hands, crushing the flowers to her brow. Her misery came from a place so deep that her tears could no longer find their way out, and her words snagged in her throat.

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“They must hate me,” she croaked. “They must know how jealousy gnaws at me like a rabid animal.” She turned red eyes to Angelo. “Are you not repulsed by the stink of it on me?” “Nothing about you repulses me,” Angelo assured. “I don‟t blame you for mourning your loss.” The question in her copper eyes encouraged him to further explain himself. “Alyssa is alive, wonderfully and marvelously so, but she now belongs to another. You have spent your lives together. Hers has taken a divergent path. She has someone else to accompany her on life‟s journeys and adventures. She will always be your friend and your sister. But she will never again belong solely to you.” Manon hadn‟t once stopped to consider that Angelo was losing Marc, just as she was losing Alyssa. Her compassion was fleeting, for her own pain was so great that she selfishly spent all of her sympathy on herself. “You know nothing,” she said cruelly. “When you grow bored with Beaux Elysees, you will run to the bay and sail that ship of yours right out of here. Surely, you have friends and a legion of women in every port to distract you from the loss of Marc Ghiradelli. “Do you know what I have?” She stabbed a finger over her heart. “I have nothing! I have no one! I am nothing!” She gathered her skirt and ran into the salon, stopping only to dash the bouquet of daisies against the wall of the mansion.

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“Gather ‟round, ladies, gather ‟round!” Marguerite called, beckoning the unmarried women to the wedding cake, which was perched on a small walnut table in the center of the room. Dozens of thin satin ribbons of every color and length curled from the bottom tier of the cake. The single ladies were invited to select a ribbon. The woman who withdrew the ring attached to a ribbon would supposedly be the next to marry. Marc, having only read of the tradition in Alyssa‟s letters, watched the proceedings with amusement, hiding a tiny grin behind his thumb and forefinger while Angelo, Cedric, Caleb, and Edmond slowly backed away from the eager bachelorettes. Manon, Rina, Adette and Melody were among the large gathering of women who took hold of ribbons and pulled. As one, the men breathed a sigh of relief as each ribbon came away unattached. Goaded into it by Alyssa and the other ladies, Marguerite drew a ribbon. And the tiny gold ring attached to it. “Father Devon plans to stay here for a while,” Marc said. “Perhaps we can give him another wedding to perform soon, Joshua?” “Another waltz, please!” Joshua called to the string quartet. He pulled Manon away for a dance. He had noticed Manon‟s flat, forced look of happiness.

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He had tried to corner her all afternoon to speak with her, but she had successfully eluded him, until now. “Has Captain Leopardi been trifling with you?” Joshua teased, genuinely hoping that the playful antics of the handsome Italian were the cause of her sorrowful countenance. “No, père Joshua,” Manon answered, her voice husky, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Are you put out about the ring? Many women put great store by the drawing of the ring. Your time will come, ma jolie. One day soon it will be you dressed in white silk, with flowers in your hair. I will place you on the arm of the man who will love you with all of his heart forever.” Manon so wanted to believe him. She so wanted to believe in the lovely dream he had envisioned of her future. Perhaps she might have believed, if she hadn‟t caught a glimpse of Edmond and Melody strolling into the garden. Alyssa had her love, whether she admitted it or not. Melody had found her second. I am left with none, Manon thought bitterly. Refusing to be appeased, determined to revel in her misery, she seized onto the one complaint left to her. She pushed Joshua away, sending him colliding into another waltzing couple. “You have already given your favorite child away!” she accused in loud, ugly

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tones. “You are my papa, yet you took Alyssa down the aisle. You should have saved that honor for me!” The music, the dancing, and all conversation abruptly ceased. She had gotten her wish. Finally, she was the center of attention. Manon, her cheeks hot with shame, seemed to have taken root in the middle of the salon. She thought she might wither and die under the heat of the disapproving and pitying stares of her friends and neighbors. Jean-Glen, instantly sober, came to her rescue. “Let‟s get some real noise up in here!” he merrily shouted to the Cajun band armed with German accordions, French fiddles, Spanish guitars, washboards and spoons. A foot-stompin‟, hip-swayin‟ burst of sound filled the salon and restored the good mood, returned dancers to the floor. The music uprooted Manon and chased her through the French doors, across the verandah, and into the sanctuary of the garden. Alyssa started after Manon, but Angelo caught her gently by the wrist. “Stay, enjoy your party,” he insisted. “I would like a private word with her.”

Navigating the labryrinthine depths of the garden, Angelo searched for Manon. Lushly colorful and flamboyant with fragrance even this early in spring, the garden was a different world. Angelo‟s boot heels clomped upon slate paving

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stones. Lavender hedges lined the winding path, leading him through the various parts of the garden. The sections were set apart by beech, laurel or bay hedges, bamboo or timber fencing, or feathery evergreens. He walked beneath a wide, oak pergola heavily draped with the large arrowhead leaves of a wandering vine. An alabaster statue of Aucassin, a French knight, and Nicolette, the Saracen slave he loved, hid among the shadows. Beside it, Caleb and Adette, shy and tentative in their blossoming affection, sat hand in hand on a stone bench engraved with pictures that told the French love story. Angelo followed the path along a laurel hedge leading to a section dominated by graceful stone urns overflowing with the tiny, heart-shaped fuchsia blossoms of Japanese bleeding heart. The breeze shook loose a few of the fragile blooms. They fell into a clear stream that bubbled over flat round stones slick with bright green algae. This section would be especially lovely in another month, when pink tulips and azaleas and white pansies and phlox bloomed before a row of diminutive loblolly pines. Hero and Leander, doomed lovers of Greek antiquity cast in stone, was the centerpiece of the section. A wry smile graced Angelo‟s lips as he glanced at the burbling suggestion of the Hellespont. Angelo searched every foot of the garden, encountering lovers of both flesh and stone. He found Cedric pushing Rina in a swing strung from an enormous elm

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in the presence of Cupid and Psyche. Melody and Edmond sat on Roman marble throne chairs under the unseeing eyes of Antony and Cleopatra. Angelo crossed the threshold of a tall, circular bay hedge and found himself in the heart of the garden. He stepped onto a stone-flagged path ringing a grassy circle that housed a single apple tree. Like arthritic fingers, the slender branches of the tree grasped at the layers of purples and pinks in the early evening sky. A black wrought-iron circular seat decorated with apples and fig leaves surrounded the tree. Manon, her slender shoulders slumped beneath the weight of her self-loathing and envy, sat upon the bench, her gaze fixed mournfully on the nearby statue of Adam and Eve. Angelo passed Manon to read the inscription on the base: Love bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. — I Corinthians 13:4-8a Amen, Angelo thought, turning his gaze to the sullen, selfish, splenetic creature who had, in a matter of days, claimed his heart with the greedy prowess of a spoiled child. “You might consider a career in the theatre,” he said, thrusting his fists into his pockets. “You certainly have a flair for dramatics.” Manon pitched a handful of pale green bay berries at him. She leaped onto her feet, fairly frothing at the mouth as she shrieked at him. “Leave me alone!”

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Balling her hands into fists, she stormed toward him. “Why is it so impossible for you to leave me in peace? Every time I turn, there you are, staring at me, grinning at me, laughing at me. Am I so funny? Am I nothing but a joke to you?” Angelo narrowed his eyes. “If ever I have laughed at you, it is because you have taken it upon yourself to act the fool.” Manon slapped him then, good and hard. Her palm stung with icy heat while Angelo remained as impassive as the side of a cliff. “Do you feel better?” he asked gruffly. “Strike me, again and again if you wish, until every bit of the poison blackening your heart is spent.” “I hate you!” she screamed, wildly battering his chest with her small fists. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” She abused him, hot tears exploding from her eyes along with her loathing for him, for Joshua, for Marc and Alyssa, for Rose and Vincent, for an entire world she believed held no place for her. He allowed her to pummel the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders until she had no strength. She collapsed into the shelter of his arms and allowed him to him guide her to the bench. She mutely accepted the offer of his handkerchief. They sat in silence beneath the barren branches of the apple tree until full dark descended. upon them and the oil lamps were lit. They watched the shadowy figure of a groundskeeper light the oil lamps at the opening of the bay hedge.

Manon shivered, and Angelo wrapped her

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overwrought figure in his coat. With each breath, Manon took in Angelo‟s scent. The clean warmth of his pine soap, his shaving powder, and beneath it, his own distinct and masculine musk. She wondered if she would come away with his comforting scent on her hair and skin when she returned his coat to him. “That‟s all I shall come away with,” she laughed, the sound a bitter blend of hurt and despondency. Angleo tipped her face to his. “I didn‟t quite hear you.” His voice came as softly as a breath of cool night air, and Manon knew that she was undeserving of his caring. “I don‟t hate you,” she whimpered, fresh tears leaving cold tracks along her cheeks. “I don‟t hate anyone.” “Except yourself,” Angelo said tenderly, holding her so close, the beat of her anguished heart thrummed against his chest . Exhausted from this latest battle with her inner demons, she melted against him, weak with sorrow. “I knew this day would come,” Angelo said, the words slipping into the night as easily as a shadow. “Just as surely as I have known Marc for these past three decades, I have known he would marry Alyssa. He has loved her since before he met her, though he refuses to acknowledge it. And when I saw her, I knew why.

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She is everything any man could ever want.” He chuckled. “I am half in love with her myself.” I knew it, Manon thought miserably. I knew it! She tore herself from Angelo‟s embrace and ran away, leaving him alone amidst the shadows and the cold, stone figures of the world‟s first lovers.

Marc took his bride‟s hand and unseen by their rowdy party guests, he and Alyssa slipped into the foyer, where he scooped her into his arms and swept her up the east leg of the staircase. “Put me down,” she protested through light laughter. “You‟ll break your back.” “You underestimate the strength of a man determined to impress his bride.” She laughed harder, but her body tensed at the door of the master bedroom suite. “Marc…” she began, . He touched his lips to hers, stopping whatever she might have said. She dropped her gaze to the stark white cravat at his throat. “I‟m sorry,” she whispered sadly. “It‟s not you. It‟s this room….” She hadn‟t crossed the threshold of the master suite since the night Philippe Fernand fatally wounded her mother. Marc himself hadn‟t been able to spend even one night in the room.

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“Joshua and Marguerite have seen to it,” Marc said mysteriously as he opened the door. Alyssa peered through the wide doorway, unconsciously tightening her hold on Marc. Only the four walls were still the same. The huge tester her parents had shared had been replaced with a big, maple four-poster with bed hangings of embroidered Italian linen. The bed had been liberally sprinkled with petals from imported sweetheart roses. The room now contained a satinwood cheval mirror, a mahogany and velvet settee with carved boxwood ornaments, and a matching wing chair. A veneered and carved mahogany clothespress and its mate, a chest of drawers, replaced the old dresser and armoire. Even the wallpaper had been changed from pale gold damask to a pastel blue chintz. Candles flickered from mirrored sconces framing the bed. Alyssa climbed out of Marc‟s arms and wandered into the room. It was the same place, yet so different. The furniture was distinctly American in style, yet elegant and beautiful with its rich dark colors and strong, simple lines. A fire crackled gaily in the hearth. Although the night had turned cool, the fire had been lit for its light as much as its warmth. A small, circular table and two plush armchairs had been placed before the French doors that opened onto the gallery. On the table sat a tray laden with blackberries, cherries, bananas, mangoes,

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quince, and grapes, all of which had come to Beaux Elysees from Cuba by way of New Orleans. On one of the bedside tables sat a carafe of sweet red wine and two crystal goblets that sparkled with firelight. “Joshua wanted to make a place for us that would be all our own,” Marc said, stepping behind Alyssa and placing his hands on her bare shoulders. “He did a very good job.” Alyssa turned to face her husband. Whatever Marc would have said to her was lost once her eyes met his. The firelight danced in her eyes, quickening his heart and setting his skin afire. He cupped her face, marveling anew at the satiny texture of her flushed skin. Alyssa‟s breath caught as she stared into eyes of darkest, most heavenly blue. Marc‟s gaze filled her with a delicious anticipation that made her heart dance. “I feel so strange,” she said curiously, her eyes never straying from his. “I am your wife, yet….” “If you wish me to go….“ His words were warm puffs of air against her moist lips. “No,” she said too quickly. “For this night, if only for this night, be my husband.” She didn‟t wait for his answer before bringing her mouth to his.

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He lifted her into his arms as he deepened the kiss, sending shivers tripping along her overly sensitive nerves. He continued to kiss her, even as he carried her to the bed and eased her onto it. Leaving her breathless, he dropped to one knee at the end of the bed and lifted her foot to his chest. The heat of his hands warmed it through its snowy white kidskin slipper. Alyssa‟s arms gliding over the satin quilt, Marc removed first one of her slippers, then the other. He worked his thumbs over the ball of her right foot, the delicate curve of her arch, the tiny bulb of her heel. He slid his hands along her right calf until he found the top of her silk stocking. With torturous slowness he rolled the garment down her thigh, over her knee, and down the length of her shin until he plucked the empty sheath from the ends of her dainty toes. He discarded the stocking to devote his full attention to the lovely jewel that was her littlest toe. He brought the morsel of flesh to his lips, learning its texture and shape with the tip of his tongue. Alyssa settled deeper into the mattress, stretching her arms above her head while Marc sampled each of her toes in turn. He tasted the delectable buds, marveling at how soft they were despite Alyssa‟s tendency to go about barefoot. He fleetingly thought of the box of powdery sand she kept in her bath and realized that she used it to keep her feet as supple and soft as the rest of her body.

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Marc peppered soft kisses along the inner arch of her foot, over her ankle, and along the smooth inner slope of her calf. He ventured farther and farther into the cathedral of her silk gown and petticoats. Alyssa uttered a sound that so resembled a purr, Marc smiled against the satin of her inner thigh. He bunched the skirt of her gown about her waist and pulled the ribbons of her silk pantalettes. He peeled the sheer fabric from her legs and nestled himself between her supple thighs. The sweet, airy musk that scented the silky hair veiling the opening to her most secret feminine place sent a rush of heat spearing low into his belly. “Please,” Alyssa moaned as her hips lifted to meet the warmth of his breath. Her legs widened to accommodate him, inviting him to continue. His long, artful fingers parted her sex, gently mining her moist flesh for the precious pink jewel crowning it. He took it gently between his teeth, flicking the tip of his tongue across it with the speed and lightness of a hummingbird‟s wing. Alyssa‟s thighs fell wide, pleasure, razor sharp and lightning hot, sliceing through her. She gasped, scarcely able to gather enough breath to urge him on. Her fists grabbed handfuls of the quilt as her well-loved toes curled into his hips. Marc consumed her with a hunger that seemed insatiable. He made no attempt to muffle her sounds. He wanted everyone at Beaux Elysees, everyone in Bayou Teche, to know that she was his.

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She began to moan in earnest, pleading with him to bring her to that pinnacle to which he alone could deliver her, he slowly eased away, covering her thighs with light kisses and caresses as soft as an angel‟s breath. He left her close to the summit of her release but in no danger of plummeting into it too soon. “Not yet, my love,” he murmured, coming to rest on an elbow beside her. He lost himself in her gaze, an unearthly mix of jade and gold. He hair, a tousle of spun gold and burnished copper against the ivory quilt, crackled with red in the candlelight. “I‟m not afraid,” Alyssa softly assured. She kissed him, tasting her own honey on his lips. Marc brought one of his long legs over hers. His need of her pressed into her hip. Eager and curious, she cupped him through his trousers. Marc gasped and took her wrist. “I want you so,” he said. “I fear I might hurt you.” Her fingertips lovingly grazed the clean planes of his cheeks, lightly danced over his chin, and traced the superb lines of his lips. “Love me,” she softly commanded. Marc divested her of the rest of her clothing, purposely teasing and arousing her. Alyssa reclined against a mound of pillows, the firelight etching her bare skin with shadows, to watch Marc remove his clothing.

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“I have no right to gaze upon such beauty,” Marc said, his eyes wandering over her. He half feared that some mythic retribution for his audacity. “Nor I,” Alyssa sighed. She studied him head to toe, the first nude man she had seen as a man and not a patient. He was quite simply the most ravishingly beautiful thing she had ever seen, no less than art made real. Marc leisurely crossed the room to pour a glass of wine, which he brought to her. “No, merci,” she said, welcoming him onto the bed. “I want no dulling inducements tonight.” If this was to be her only night with him, she wanted to experience it fully, to carry the unadulterated memory of it through the rest of her life. His indigo gaze alone was enough to pebble the sensitive flesh tipping her breasts. He put his finger into the goblet, wetting it with wine. He touched that finger to her breast, sending ruby droplets rolling onto her nipple. He lifted the drops with his tongue, each glance of it sending a quiver through her. He placed his hands at her shoulder blades, supporting her to bring her forward to ravish that which was sweeter than the fine wine. She showed her compliance, arching into him, allowing his tongue and teeth to treat her breasts with a sensual reverence that brought tears to her eyes. He nipped and licked at the tender buds capping them until she could do little more than shiver beneath

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him. He took one of her nipples full into his mouth and drew on it, and she nearly shrieked with pleasure. Spreading his weight on top of her, he slid his hand between her legs. She held her breath until one of his long fingers easily slid into her. Alyssa moaned, delicious tingles radiating through her. Marc added another finger and applied the heel of his palm to that pulsating nubbin at the heart of her excitement. She writhed beneath him, mutely begging for release, wordlessly imploring him to fill the hungry chasm within her. Marc primed himself with her liquid silk and rose above her. He had a moment of indecision, wondering if it would be best to join with her in a single thrust or to take it more slowly. Alyssa settled the matter by clamping her hands on his buttocks and driving her hips upward, receiving him ardently, immediately, assaulting the over-burdened restraints of his self control. She was so tight, almost too tight. Marc felt that he had truly waited his whole life for her. And how sweet was his reward, now that he thrust into her. Alyssa bit the plump of her lower lip, certain she could not withstand his loving invasion of her tender, untested flesh. Only the whimper of pain that fought its way past her lips kept Marc from plunging deeper, to completely entomb himself in her snug darkness. He moved with an agonizingly pleasing slowness, allowing her to become accustomed to his

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size. He assumed that her pain had passed with the rise of her hips to meet his. He lowered his head to take her mouth, his hips complementing her rhythm. She growled like a bobcat, curving her hips to receive him deeper, allowing his insistent kisses to cover the silkiness of her throat and jaw. His movements were slow and careful until she splayed her hands over the firm rounds of his buttocks and drove him deeper. She pleaded with him, demanded that he fill her, to make her completely and irretrievably his. He cupped the back of her head and brought her lips forward for a flurry of heated kisses; he slipped his other hand lower, to knead the throbbing, hungry kernel of her ecstasy. Alyssa‟s reaction was immediate. A dizzying, melting sensation pulsed from the point of their union, thrilling her to the tips of her fingers and toes. Even her scalp tingled. She began to savor what she had once feared. The walls entombing Marc clamped onto him, sweetly and savagely contracting, threatening to steal his heat instantaneously. She clamped her legs about his waist, drawing him still deeper. Marc responded with a throaty groan, every part of his body tensing at once, particularly the part filling her. A broken sob tore from Alyssa at the sheer power of it.

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Marc threaded his fingers through hers and buried his face in her hair, her joyful cry of release filling his ear, her snug heat locking and pulsating with waves of pure pleasure that threatened to render her unconscious. A gruff cry roughly resembling her name tore from his throat with his own release. Her body wrenched its fulfillment and a hot burst of his seed from him. He seemed to pump his essence into her endlessly, and even then he wanted only to stay with her, to stay within her. The crests of her pleasure abating, Marc shifted position. He braced his forearms on either side of her, and with his hips provided a wicked friction against the tiny seat of her desire, sending dizzying aftershocks convulsing through her. She thrust her fingers into her hair, quivering frissons of rapture peaking, ebbing and peaking again to renew the thrill of this union. Marc watched her, her perfect loveliness mesmerizing. She panted for breath and opened her eyes and gazed at her husband. Although she wore a smile more luminous than the full moon, Marc was surprised to find tears sparkling like crushed diamonds in her emerald eyes. Alarmed, he spread himself beside her, cradling her in his arms. Alyssa‟s skin was still in a state of heightened sensitivity. Every detail of him, down to each body hair, aroused her skin. “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

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If he had, the gentleness of his inquiry would have been enough to soothe the hurt. She choked back a sob and buried her face in his shoulder. “No,” she answered. Not yet.

“I thought you were asleep,” Alyssa greeted Marc, who entered the bath and caught her with a porcelain basin of heated water and a small cloth bag of herbs. Marc swept his delectably naked wife into his arms and carried her into the darkened bedroom. After carefully replacing her in the bed, he retrieved the basin and the herbs and set them on the bedside table. He lit the stubby candle at Alyssa‟s bedside, opened the cloth bag, and took a pinch of its contents. Alyssa watched him drop the dried herbs into the water to steep. “You and Joshua discussed every detail of this night,” Alyssa said knowingly. A blush colored her skin. All of it. “Actually, Marguerite told me about the herbal poultice you prepare for the brides of Beaux Elysees on their wedding nights.” Marc took up the soft linen cloth slung over the edge of the basin.

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Alyssa enjoyed the way the muscles of his bronzed arms rippled as he dipped the cloth into the water and wrung out the excess before bringing it to the juncture of her thighs. “Was it terribly painful?” he asked, easing her legs apart to gently apply the warm cloth to her broken flesh. “No,” she insisted gently. “Forgive me for waking you.” “I awoke the instant you left my side,” he said. Alyssa lifted the shapely length of her right leg. She touched her big toe to the button of sensitive flesh capping the hard muscle on the left side of his chest. Dark whorls of soft hair tickled her toes. Marc placed the basin of water beside the lamp and bent over his wife. He captured her mouth in a kiss that stoked the embers of the fire that had so recently consumed them. Alyssa took his arousal in her hand, teasing it with the pad of her thumb and long, deliberate strokes that left her husband gripping the headboard behind her, his hot breath filling the soft cup of her ear. He groaned, drawing himself from her hand, unwilling to take his pleasure alone. He shifted her until she lay crosswise over the bed. He rested her calves on his shoulders and took her backside in his hands. With a low, rumbling growl he pushed his tongue through the veil of down between her legs and hunted for that heated nubbin of flesh that unlocked the door to her pleasure.

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He drew on it, suckling softly, patiently, then more urgently to answer the thrust of her hips against his mouth. He brought her to the brink and abandoned her there, moving to kiss the velvet of her abdomen and the plush undersides of her breasts. He kneaded one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger while he nibbled and taunted the other with his teeth and tongue. She moaned, arching beneath him. His mouth and fingers traded places. The space between her legs widened to accommodate his hips and the hardness hungering for her at their center. Her body undulated like waves upon the ocean, presenting her breasts, then driving her hips into him, inviting that unique union she had come to desire. He took her lips in a kiss that was almost savage in his primal need of her. He wanted her, and with a ferocity he had never experienced. Whatever memories his flesh may have borne of pleasures taken in the arms of other women were banished. He was now branded. No matter where he went or what he did, he belonged to her and none other. Alyssa gasped, taking him once again in her hand. He was larger, thicker, and so much bigger than he seemed before. She could no longer stand the deliciously pleasing devilments of his hands and lips. Surely her soul would leave her body if that sweet pressure at her core was ignored, and only Marc could alleviate it.

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She guided him into her, holding his gaze. She moaned, and it sounded like music. He dropped his face to that tender place where her neck joined her shoulder, kissing and nuzzling her, his strokes probing deeper. A rush of bliss erupted from her center. “Marc!” she cried, before lapsing into an incoherent, primitive language of pleasure. “My name,” he moaned. “You said my name.” She took his face in her hands. “I love you, Marc,” she gasped. “How I love you!” Her secret sheath constricted and relaxed over and over, gently at first, and then with a force so wonderfully strong, Marc threw back his head and grunted. Her noises joining his, he shuddered and stiffened once, twice, and twice more, locked within her. The heat of his seed burying itself in her womb jolted through her, wringing every twinge and hitch of satisfaction from her body. Marc fell beside her, breathing heavily as he dragged his leg over hers in a gesture that was both possessive and protective. He kissed her forehead and her cheeks, her eyes and her nose, then kissed her mouth as he pulled her into his embrace. I love you, he told her, if only in his head. Joshua, Angelo, Father Devon—they were right. I love this woman. He pressed her body closer, molding it to fit his before dotting her

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shoulder with kisses. I love you, he repeated, hoping she could the feel the words in his touch. He had already tempted Fate by marrying Alyssa. He wouldn‟t invite its wrath by saying those three words aloud.

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Chapter Seventeen

Alyssa and Marc were conspicuously tardy in joining the rest of the household and the overnight wedding guests for breakfast the following morning. The boisterous conversation quieted to a hum as Marc sat his blushing bride before seating himself beside her at the head of the table. “Bon matin, Signor et Signora Ghiradelli,” Jean-Glen greeted with a sly glance from the other end of the long table. “Good morning, Monsieur Chiasson,” Marc responded with great formality. Shameless, Jean-Glen announced, “It look to me like de marriage was consummated to the satisfaction of both madame and monsieur.”. Dominic and Pedro chuckled. A playfully stern look from Tita cut Pedro‟s amusement short. Alyssa turned beet red, from the open collar of her work shirt to her hairline. “Oui, Monsieur Chiasson, it was. Now, I wish to satisfy a lesser appetite, if you would be so kind as to pass the cornmeal waffles.” The dining room exploded with laughter. Jean-Glen left his seat to plant a joyful kiss on first Alyssa, then Marc.

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Alyssa was on her second waffle before she noticed that several of her dearest friends were missing from the table. “Manon wanted to buy a few things in New Orleans,” Joshua told her. Disappointment flashed in his dark eyes. “She insisted on leaving early this morning. Rina and Adette accompanied her, as neither of them has ever been to New Orleans. Captain Leopardi and Cedric escorted them.” “Caleb tagged along too,” Marguerite said, heaping another serving of fried oysters onto Joshua‟s plate. “Captain,” said Dominic, “as you requested, Heaven’s Fury will be ready to sail by week‟s end.” “Thank you,” Marc said uncomfortably. “Alyssa, you never mentioned that you were leaving so soon for your wedding trip,” said Marguerite. Alyssa cleared her throat. She pointedly avoided Marc‟s gaze. “I won‟t be accompanying the captain when he leaves. He has pressing affairs to attend at sea. Matters he must address alone.” Conversation quieted, though Jean-Glen quickly restored an uneasy good cheer with a joke about a Cajun‟s first day at university. Though Marc took her hand beneath the table, Alyssa pushed her full plate aside. Her best friend was gone, and her husband was leaving. Her appetite vanished too.

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Manon stood at a crossroads in the French Quarter with New Orleans swirling about her in a dervish of color, noise and aroma. The streets teemed with people and carriages and mud and filth. Her ears, more accustomed to the relaxed and happy voices of Beaux Elysees, were assaulted by the profusion of Spanish, American, German, and French accents that whirled on the wind. A drunk staggered past her, almost kicking a cloud of mud onto the skirt of her blue cambric dress. A squat man with a bulbous nose stood at the next lamppost, inviting the men of New Orleans to place their wagers on a cockfight. A woman, her complexion as light and even as café au lait, stood in a doorway, winking and calling to the smartly dressed men who leered heart her in passing. Along with the cacophony of voices and the screech of wagon wheels came the distinct aroma of fresh oysters. Oysters were in season, and street vendors sold them fried, boiled, stewed, and raw. Manon inhaled and caught the aromas of the sassafras sold by a Choctaw man, the steaming bowls of gumbo peddled by an elderly Creole woman, and the flowers sold by mulatto women with skin almost as light as her own. If New Orleans was not the heart of the South, it was certainly one of its strongest pulse points. It had been five years since her last visit to the old city, yet

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her blood raced with remembrance as the city‟s vital energy and hidden dangers grasped at her with invisible fingers. Manon clung to a lamppost on Canal Street, unsure which way to turn. It had taken a day, but it had been easy enough to slip away from the overly watchful eyes of Angelo and Cedric. When a shopkeeper refused to sell goods to Rina and Adette, calling them “a pair of darky bookends”, the men had interceded, threatening bodily harm to the pink-pated Américain. Manon had taken that moment to vanish. She‟d sought only a moment alone, a moment when she wasn‟t reminded of Alyssa‟s happiness every time someone spoke or looked at her with pity. Manon clenched her fists and shut her eyes. Damn Alyssa! she thought viciously. Damn every one of them! Manon looked straight ahead, her chin high and her eyes blazing. The wind brought a fresh assortment of aromas, those of fish and sweat and mildewed wood, as it whipped the loose tendrils of her hair around her face and shoulders. It would be so easy, she thought, to walk down to the levee and purchase a ticket on the first ship destined for anywhere. She could board a ship bound for Europe or a steamboat bound for the North.

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Vincent had made her a wealthy woman. She could go anywhere in the world. She could meet a kind, strong, handsome man and fall in love and marry him and live happily ever after…as long as her ancestry remained a secret. Her happy existence, her very freedom, would vanish like dew in the morning sunlight if anyone outside Beaux Elysees ever learned that her father had been a slave. She could never marry. If she were to wed a white man, there was no guarantee that a child born to her would have her features and coloring, or those of her husband. Because of her outward appearance, no man of color would even think of marrying her. She gazed forward, hope gleaming in her eyes. Perhaps things were different in the North or in Europe. The newspapers that Joshua and Cedric brought from Morgan City made it seem as though America were truly the land of opportunity, at least for its fairskinned citizens. Refugees to Beaux Elysees had brought stories of the treatment that people of mixed heritage received in the North. At best, both races shunned them. At worst…. Manon shivered. Europe had to be a better option. Count Gianchristiano Ghiradelli was her only link to the Continent. There would be little point in disappearing if she sought her future in the backyard of Alyssa‟s in-laws.

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New Orleans was the furthest she had ever been from Beaux Elysees. She wondered if she could stand such a strange and distant journey. Manon turned to the right, toward the Rue Bourbon and the Rue Dauphine, the area inhabited by les gens de couleur libre, the free people of color. A rainbow tribe comprised of mulattos, quadroons, octoroons, tiercerons, griffes, marabons, and sacratrons—every imaginable extraction of mixed blood—they were poets and painters, businessmen and scholars who thrived on the fringes of black and white society. With no place for them in either, they had created their own. Manon believed that she would have no trouble finding a place for herself in that world. She might never find a man to love her by the light of day, but there would be no shortage of wealthy white gentlemen who would seek her out to care for, nurture, perhaps even love, so long as he was cloaked in the cover of night. So long as she was willing to share her body and bed with him. If all she wanted for herself was to become a whore, she need only turn in the other direction. It was a short trip to the public houses and barrelhouses where women of all colors laid on their backs for any man who laid down his coin. No matter which way she turned, no matter how wealthy or how free she was, each option led to the same end. She hung her head and started walking back the way she had come, her mind made up. Europe was the only place for her to go. She would settle her affairs

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at Beaux Elysees and put herself on the first ship bound for the Continent. The life she had known up to this moment was now behind her. Au revoir, Beaux Elysees and père Joshua, she thought woefully. Farewell, Marc, Alyssa, and Angeloand…. “Angelo,” she sighed. She stopped in the middle of the muddy street and was nearly trampled by a wagon bearing a load of crated chickens. She managed to get herself to the opposite side of the street and took shelter beneath a frilly lacework gallery. She leaned against the gray-stuccoed front of the Hotel Riviêre. She took deep breaths, hoping to still the tumultuous beat of her heart. Angelo, even the mere thought of him, stirred her like no other man ever had. Her heart ached at the sight of him with a longing so acute, it rendered her useless until he left her sight. Her lips tingled as she drew up the memory of his kiss and the way it had weakened every part of her, except her resolve not to give in to him. She had so wanted to surrender to him, to revel in his attentions, no matter how temporary they might have been. He was the one man who looked upon her with heat who didn‟t make her want to claw out his eyes and stomp them flat. How she wanted to again feel the warmth of his mouth on her own. “I love him,” she whispered mournfully.

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And he was falling in love with Alyssa. And why wouldn‟t he? Everyone loved Alyssa. The hot and bitter juice of jealousy rose to the back of Manon‟s throat. Everything around her seemed to burn red as a lividly vicious wave of envy surged through her. She began walking, blinded by tears that seemed to boil out of her. Strangers didn‟t look twice at her as they bumped into her, buffeting her with their parcels and shoulders, until she stumbled into the street. Her bag flew from her hand. Angrily swiping tears from her eyes, she fell to her knees, grabbing for her bag before the hooves of a dray horse pulling a buckboard full of beer barrels trod it deeper into the mud. She had one of the satin cords in her hand just as she felt herself being lifted back onto the wooden planking of the banquette. “„Tis a fine day when a man plucks a rose from the mud,” said a male voice with an Irish brogue thicker then Cedric MacCready‟s. He offered her the neatly folded square of his cotton handkerchief. Manon took it and wiped away the mixture of mud and tears from her cheeks. “Thank you, sir,” she said, the unexpected kindness warming the chill in her heart.

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The man‟s cheerful visage fell away as his eyes searched hers and then traveled lower. He let go of her elbow as though she were spattered with something far filthier than mere mud. The Irishman‟s attractive face twisted into a hard and ugly mask of disgust. “Your handkerchief, sir?” Manon offered weakly, confused by his sudden turn of expression. “It is rather soiled. I shall be pleased to compensate you for it.” He viciously spat at her feet, narrowly missing the hem of her dress. “If I‟d known right off that you were one of them free yellow tarts I‟d ‟ave left you in the dirt where you belong.” He wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers as he stormed away. Manon touched her cheek. She‟d spent days in the sun without a proper head covering, helping with the preparations for Alyssa‟s wedding. While the rest of her was as soft and pale as the blush of a peach rose, the February sun had given her face and hands a touch of gold. That hint was all it took to reveal her complete ethnic origin to even the freshest Irish immigrant. Frozen with hate, Manon stood on the crowded banquette watching the Irishman‟s back until it looked like any other on the busy thoroughfare. Her anger rose to join her hate. The heat of their union dried the mud on her face and hands. “This world holds no place for me,” she muttered tonelessly. “And the one place I belong does not belong to me.”

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She pressed a fist to her eyes, too miserable to even cry. “I have nothing,” she whispered. The thought of returning to Beaux Elysees, with nowhere to hide from Alyssa‟s happiness and Alyssa‟s friends and Alyssa‟s pity and charity—Manon wanted to shriek. “I would rather die than return to that,” she whispered through clenched teeth. A dark tide of realization washed over Manon as she reconsidered her dreadful declaration. “No,” she muttered. “I wish Alyssa would die.”

Angelo stormed up the stairs and burst through the open doorway of the study, where Marc and Joshua were planning the work detail for the preparation of the rice fields. Marc cast Joshua a glance as Angelo crossed his arms over his chest, which heaved with the angry force of his breathing. Angelo wore a wool traveling coat and his riding boots dusted with a heavy coat of road grime. “We were not expecting you to return until tomorrow,” Marc said. Angelo growled. “I trust your visit to New Orleans was pleasant?” Joshua added hopefully. It was never pleasant, the business of taking women shopping. All the waiting and carrying and comparing this to that was enough to land a man in an asylum. “As pleasant as having a snake bite your—”

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“I did nothing wrong!” Manon declared, cutting Angelo off as she burst in on the men in a swirl of skirts and petticoats, still wearing her blue velvet hooded cape. Angelo turned to her and shouted, “Do you still not realize what could have happened to you?” He loudly ticked off the possibilities on his fingers. “Abduction. Murder. Enslavement. Rape. Murder.” “You already said murder,” Manon snapped. “You—” Angelo swallowed his curses before he could offend anyone. Marc and Joshua stood to break the two apart as Rina, Adette, and Caleb came into the study. Everyone began talking at once and pointing fingers at Manon. Only Caleb kept his silence, most likely because his lower lip was swollen to twice its original size. He sat on the settee holding his head in his hands. “Quiet!” Marc yelled above the fracas, neatly cutting it off. He turned a raised eyebrow to Angelo. “The ladies were shopping on Canal Street,” Angelo began, his arms crossed once again as if trying to contain the anger swelling his chest. “Cedric and I had to take the time to explain to a shopkeeper that although Rina and Adette have dark skin, their currency is the same color as the white women with whom he gladly traded.” Angelo‟s gaze shifted to Manon, then back to Marc. “While the ladies

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were selecting their perfumes and fabrics, we noticed that Manon was no longer in our company. Caleb had gone too.” Joshua examined the boy‟s face. “Someone got him good. Alyssa should tend to this,” he said. Adette excused herself to find Alyssa. “He was seen by a doctor at our hotel, but we rode hard to return here,” Angelo said. “If the boy has a headache, it is no more than he deserves.” “I seen Miz Manon leave, so I figured I‟d go on out too,” Caleb explained. “She ran so fast that I lost ‟er.” “Why didn‟t you go back to the shop?” Joshua asked. Caleb nervously shrugged, avoiding anyone‟s gaze. “Fortunately, I found Manon before dark,” Angelo went on. “Caleb returned to the hotel just as I was leaving to search for him.” “Robbers got me,” Caleb said, still not lifting his eyes to meet anyone else‟s. “N‟Orleans is chockablock with ‟em.” Alyssa came in with her medicine bag. Adette followed behind with a basin of water. Alyssa placed her hand on his cheek to lift his face. Caleb squirmed. “I won‟t hurt you, Caleb,” she said gently.

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A fat tear coursed from the young man‟s right eye. “I knows that, ma‟am.” His nose grew pink from the effort it took to not bawl right there in front of everyone. “Please, excuse us,” Alyssa said, putting herself between Caleb and everyone else, “but I‟d like to examine Caleb in private, please.” Marc filed past first, pausing to squeeze Alyssa‟s shoulders and nuzzle her neck before pressing a tender kiss to her temple. Every bit of anger drained from Angelo as he witnessed the loving exchange.His shoulders relaxed into their normal position and the stiffness in his face melted. Manon watched Angelo, the bittersweet longing in his expression leaving her grimly satisfied by the course she had decided upon in New Orleans.

“Her behavior was completely unacceptable.” Angelo wore out a small patch of the Aubusson rug as he paced before the desk in the study. Joshua sat at the desk, trying to finish the work that Angelo‟s angry arrival had interrupted the previous day. “It was careless, reckless, selfish, and above all, dangerous!” Joshua closed the logbook he was working in. He saw that Angelo was more frightened than angry. He himself had been so distressed by the news of Manon‟s irrational act that he had been unable to sleep.

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“I know that life has been less than kind to Manon,” Angelo said. “I, too, sat at rapt attention at Gian‟s feet as he read Vincent‟s missives to Marc and Pasquelina. I know as much about Manon as anyone, with the exception of yourself and Alyssa. By the same token she knows that bandits killed my parents when I was seven. She knows also that the Ghiradellis took me in and cared for me as though I‟d been born to them. Manon and I have well more in common than she will admit.” From their first meeting, Joshua had seen that Angelo was missing some elemental part of his heart, just as Manon was. Angelo was driven to seek what he needed to fill that empty space. His search drew him to people filled with light and happiness, unlike Manon, who wallowed in her misery. “Perhaps it was my fault that she ran away,” Angelo continued. “At the wedding, I told her that I understood her loss and that I love Alyssa—” Joshua finally spoke, interrupting Angelo. “Hold your tongue.”Joshua crossed the room and closed the door. Quietly, he explained, “I thought I heard footsteps” Manon bit her knuckles to contain a scream as the door shut. She had crept up the stairs and pasted herself to the wall outside the study. Angelo had been speaking just before the door closed, but she made out his last words perfectly. I love Alyssa.

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Those words killed pieces of her already broken heart. Manon ran to her room and slammed the door. In the study, Angelo clarified his statement. “As I love the Ghiradellis and Marc, I love Alyssa.” He dropped into the walnut wing chair. Joshua sat opposite him in the chair‟s mate. Even though it was barely past noon, he poured a measure of decanted brandy into two crystal snifters sitting on the walnut table between the chairs. He handed one of them to Angelo. “Manon is willful, stubborn, spiteful, and miserable,” Angelo said frankly. “Only a fool would take her for his wife and drive himself mad building a life with her.”

Joshua smiled at the somber mixture of sadness and hope shining in Angelo‟s eyes. Angelo gently swirled the rich liquid in the bottom of the glass. “I am that fool,” he said with quiet resignation. “Manon fills me with life. She is everything, and more, than I could have imagined. Once I finally met her, I realized that I have loved that wild-eyed hellion for as long as I can remember. “I learned something during our expedition to New Orleans. The only way to give either Manon or myself any measure of peace is to marry her. I love your daughter, Joshua. I know it‟s rather sudden. But I‟ve never been one to pass a good

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opportunity when one presents itself. How many men are lucky enough, or cursed, in my case, to find their perfect mate? I don‟t know what the future holds for me, but I do know that it holds nothing worth having if it isn‟t shared with Manon. May I have her hand, Joshua?” It took Joshua a good minute to react. He tossed his head back and laughed. He downed his brandy in a single joyous gulp and then poured himself another. “Yes!” he shouted happily. He lifted his glass in a toast. “Yes?” Angelo smiled, clinking his glass against Joshua‟s. “Si, si!” Joshua cried as he set his glass down, pulled Angelo from the chair, and hugged him.

Angelo rushed into the kitchen to find Rina and Adette helping Marguerite prepare the evening meal. “Where is Alyssa?” he asked eagerly. “I must speak with her.” A loud crack of thunder startled the ladies. All of the oil lamps in the room had been lit to compensate for the darkness of the afternoon sky. A storm brewed, a big one by the look of the heavy gray clouds on the other side of the window. “It must be awful important for you to come runnin‟ in here like a bobcat after a hen,” Marguerite said. “It is,” Angelo assured her.

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Rina and Adette looked up from the chickens they were plucking to exchange double looks of wonder. Seeing that no further information was forthcoming, Marguerite said, “She‟s in the schoolhouse. Caleb wanted some extra tutoring.” “He wants to learn to talk as good as me,” Adette said proudly. “Grazi, Marguerite,” Angelo called as he dashed through the rear door. Scowling, Manon stepped out of the pantry at the end of the kitchen. “What‟s the matter, honey?” Marguerite said, her brow wrinkled in concern at the utter dejection on Manon‟s face. “Did you find everything you were looking for in there?” Manon said nothing as she left the kitchen, a pannier of food slung over her arm.

Angelo entered the schoolhouse, his hair dark and the broad shoulders of his cotton shirt damp with the first sputterings of the swelling storm. Caleb had excused himself to the outhouse a moment earlier. Angelo approached Alyssa‟s desk, his face alight with happiness. “I have decided to ask Manon to become my wife. Would she have me?”

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Bare of his swaggering bravado and outlandish humor, Angelo revealed himself to be a true romantic. The man who had fought profiteers and robbers fearlessly seemed to cower at the prospect of hearing Alyssa‟s answer. Alyssa found the incongruity rather charming. “Manon is temperamental, but she is not crazy.” “And it would be crazy for her to love me.” “I meant quite the opposite,” Alyssa said. “She would be crazy to reject you.” “I suspect she will make me work for it,” he said thoughtfully. Alyssa stood and smiled. “Prepare to jump through hoops of fire.” “Joshua has given me his blessing.” “Then you certainly have mine as well.” Alyssa rounded the desk. “My one fear is that Manon will think I wish to marry her because I pity her.” Angelo perched his large body on the edge of one of the student desktops. “She refuses to see her worth.” It had been four days since the wedding. Manon showed no sign of relinquishing the hold on her misery. “I have tried to talk to her, but she refuses to even look at me,” Alyssa said. “Marc had planned to leave in two days. He might postpone his departure because of Manon.”

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“Manon will recover,” said Angelo. “Your husband may postpone his departure because of you.” Hope flared then fizzled in Alyssa‟s heart. “He‟s ready to sail. His crew has already returned to the ship.” “He loves you,” Angelo said. Alyssa stared at the floor. “If those words ever graced my husband‟s lips, perhaps would believe them.” “Marc is a complicated man,” Angelo said. “He bears scars that he won‟t acknowledge, though they‟ve affected the past ten years of his life.” “Let‟s have no more talk of my husband,” Alyssa said, hugging him. “You shall make Manon a wonderful husband. She loves you, too, you know.” Angelo‟s dark eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You must see it when she looks at you.” Alyssa smiled sagely as she leaned on her desk. She gripped the edge of it, wishing Marc were with her, instead of out in the marsh checking muskrat and nutria traps. “I suspected…I had hoped….” Angelo‟s face split in a huge grin, his eyes brilliantly sparkling. “She loves me?” “She loves you,” Alyssa assured him. Angelo could scarcely contain his joy. “Would she have me?” “I‟m certain of it,” Alyssa said. “When will you ask her?”

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“As soon as she apologizes to you and Marc for her performance at your wedding,” Angelo decided. Alyssa‟s smile faded. “Please, don‟t put conditions on your—” The rear door of the schoolhouse opened. A man in a black oil coat slick with rain entered the room on a rush of wind and leaves. Alyssa and Angelo stood. The man, his face blackened with the scruff of a beard and shadowed with a beaver pelt hat, nodded toward the door. Several more men entered. Alyssa recognized none of them. “Get out,” Angelo ordered darkly, shoving Alyssa toward the front door. He turned to face the interlopers. Two men rushed in through the front door and grabbed Alyssa. Before she could scream, a filthy gloved hand clamped over her mouth and a thick arm curled around her waist. Angelo drove his fist into the face of the man holding Alyssa. His arms fell away from Alyssa as he crumpled, lifeless, to the floor. Angelo faced the line of intruders. He blindly reached backwards. Finding Alyssa‟s hip, he shunted her behind the wall of his body. The men fell on them. Angelo dropped the next man with a single blow to his snaggle-toothed and unshaven face. The man dropped to the narrow floorboards, a knuckle-shaped dent at the juncture between his scraggly eyebrows. Angelo threw off two men

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who rushed forward to grab his arms. They crashed together like eggs in a basket, and in their momentary daze, Angelo pushed Alyssa toward the rear door. “Go!” he shouted. Another man leaped forward to intercept her. Alyssa sidestepped him and went for the oak chair at her desk. She caught it by its tall back and brought it around, swinging it across the man‟s chest. With a loud grunt he tumbled backwards over a student desk. Alyssa knocked him unconscious with a sharp kick to his chin with the heel of her bare foot. “Get out of here!” Angelo yelled. Alyssa foolishly believed that the command was directed at the two brutes Angelo battled. Alyssa picked up the heaviest object on her desk, a pewter pitcher of water. Curling her fingers tightly around its handle, she leaped into the fracas and turned the otherwise harmless vessel into a lethal weapon. Water splashed in a shimmering rainbow as the pitcher clanged against the jaw of one of the attackers. The man fell to his hands and knees. “For God‟s sake, woman, leave!” Angelo growled at her, delivering a savage head butt to one of the attackers, driving the man back all too briefly. Alyssa paid Angelo no heed, so intent was she on hammering all sense from the stranger who had so boldly dared to trespass onto Beaux Elysees, to wreak havoc in her schoolhouse. Too late to do anything about it, Alyssa noticed the man

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who had been struck by the chair scurry out of the front door, holding an arm protectively across his middle. Seconds later, three more men entered, two of whom had knives drawn. Alyssa slapped at the rough hands biting into her underarms and pulling her through the air. Angelo had lifted her out of the path of the fresh attackers and pushed her toward the rear door. “Stop dancin‟ and get ‟er!” hollered a gruff voice with a thick Georgia accent. Angelo and Alyssa were hopelessly outnumbered. A crack of thunder split a tree near the schoolhouse as the storm intensified with the loud whoosh of wind and rain. Angelo fought valiantly, keeping the attackers at bay to enable Alyssa‟s escape. She threw open the rear door, prepared to run for help. She crashed into the man she had smashed with the chair. He backed her into the schoolhouse, a salacious sneer making his broken and bloody features even uglier. Someone grabbed her from behind and held her arms while another man pressed a cloth rank with an oily, foul-smelling liquid to her nose and mouth. His grimy, hairy hand spanned the entire lower half of her face. Alyssa kicked and scratched and thrashed against the solid shape imprisoning her in the circle of its thickly muscled arms. She held her breath, struggling not to inhale the greasy substance on the cloth.

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Her lungs burned. Her heart banged frantically, swelling painfully with each desperate beat. Her gaze darted wildly about the room, mutely begging for help. Even if she could scream, no one would have heard her over the storm. The schoolhouse was too far from the houses. Angelo had his own problems, three to be exact. While two more men lay motionless, eyes glazed, in heaps on the floor, the other three circled Angelo. One of them landed a blow to Angelo‟s face that sent him reeling across Alyssa‟s desk. An oil lantern crashed to the floor, plunging the room into near darkness. Alyssa‟s hungry lungs betrayed her and dragged in a long breath of air contaminated by some noxious chemical. Darkness rushed in to consume her. She tried to force it back but to no avail. Before darkness totally enveloped her, she saw Angelo tear away from the three men. He charged at the men holding her, his face grim, his fists and clothing bloodied. Before he could reach her, six arms caught him and pitched him onto her desk. Alyssa floated through the cool air and the driving rain, her senses deserting her one by one. She was left in the blackness with only the echo of hard boots against the wood floor and hard fists pounding against flesh.

Marc stepped into the kitchen, shaking rain from his hair and clothing. Rina and Adette giggled, skipping out of the way of the indoor shower.

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“Now, Captain, you know better than to come into my kitchen shaking water all over my fresh bread,” Marguerite chastised, a smile pinched at the corners of her mouth. She cast a glance at Cedric, who played with the ends of Rina‟s apron strings. “This is the second time I‟ve had to mop up some of this storm and put it back outside.” Marc bowed grandly at her feet. “I humbly beg your forgiveness, Marguerite.” He reached for the mop. “In this room, you are captain, and I would be honored to swab the deck.” Marguerite playfully swatted at him with a linen hand towel. Marriage certainly suits the captain, she thought, returning to her roasted chickens. She couldn‟t imagine what business at sea was so pressing that it would take him from Alyssa and Beaux Elysees. “Where is my wife?” Marc asked with happy anticipation. He removed his damp coat and hung it on the rack beside the door. “She‟s in the schoolhouse,” Manon snapped from the far corner. She sat on a barrel framed by rows of drying herbs strung across the wide window. “With Captain Leopardi.” Marc glanced at Marguerite. Marguerite rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed. Rina whispered something behind her hand to Cedric, and he shushed her with a light swat to her backside.

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Marc took two pieces of fresh cornbread from a pan on the cooling shelf and sauntered over to Manon. The poor woman had been wallowing in self-loathing from the moment he and Alyssa had said, “I do.” “My best friend is in the empty schoolhouse with my wife?” Marc said casually. “They‟ve been in there for quite a while now,” Manon sulked. “Since my wife and your Angelo are together, let us have our evening meal together,” Marc said. “We shall devour everything, leaving nothing to the paramours who have so thoughtlessly neglected us.” Manon stomped to her feet and backed away from Marc. “How can you make light of this?” Fueled by the mixture of hate and jealousy that had become as much a part of her as the freckles dotting her nose, she ranted. “Why don‟t my feelings matter to anyone? If Alyssa gets a splinter, the world comes to an end. My heartbreak means nothing!” Marc inhaled deeply through his nose. Ordinarily, he would never upbraid someone in front of others, but Manon‟s behavior was extraordinarily unbecoming. “I find it amazing that you have spent the past twenty years measuring your life by Alyssa‟s,” Marc began evenly. “She has fears and problems of her own, whether she chooses to keep them to herself or burden others with them. She has

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shown you only love and patience in the face of your envy. If you would stop fussing long enough to examine your own life objectively, you would see how very lucky you are. Alyssa loves you. Joshua loves you. I love you. Everyone in this room loves you. None of us would ever do anything to hurt you. If you feel so excluded, I suggest you wrap yourself in your cape and splash over there to join them.” Manon‟s cheeks flushed bright red with rage. Her small hands curled into tiny fists. Marc slowly turned away, silently daring her to leap upon him. If attacking him would make her feel better, he welcomed it. Manon chose words as her weapon. Her voice quivered with anger as she hissed, “Tomorrow the sun will rise as it has every other day, but everything will be different. Tomorrow, you will think of me before your precious Alyssa!”

Angelo dragged open his eyelids, unsure how long he had been unconscious. The parts of his body he could feel ignited in a conflagration of pain when he tried to move. His long arms and legs hung over the sides and end of Alyssa‟s desk. He knew his right arm was badly sprained if not broken. Sitting up proved to be impossible. Each attempt sent hot bullets of pain shooting through his torso. He rolled onto his left side, and the effort almost rendered him unconscious yet again. The momentum of his body weight helped him get to his feet. His knees buckled as fresh pain coursed through him.

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His vision blurred. He blinked until he could see clearly. The large classroom was in total disarray. Dead men littered the floor. Tall, white letters scrawled on the rain-stained chalkboard caught his eye. He read the short message and looked around frantically for Alyssa, fear temporarily overriding his pain. Alyssa was gone. Angelo lurched forward and threw open the rear door. A blast of wind and rain almost drove him back, but he knew that if he fell, there would soon be another dead man on the floor. That would do Alyssa no good at all.

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Chapter Eighteen

“Mother of God,” Cedric swore under his breath. Marc stood with his back to the kitchen door, unable to see what had inspired the Irishman‟s invocation. He turned, following Cedric‟s line of sight, to see Angelo, his wet shirt torn and running with blood. Angelo slumped against the doorframe. In the next instant Marc was at his side, half pulling and half carrying Angelo into the warmth of the kitchen. Angelo‟s legs refused to support him any longer, and Marc eased him to the floor. Marc bent over him, cradling his shoulders. “Go after them,” Angelo gasped over his split and swollen lower lip. “I couldn‟t stop them!” Marc met Cedric‟s eyes. He saw his own panic mirrored in them. “Stop who, mate?” Cedric asked urgently. “Where is Alyssa?” Marc asked anxiously. Angelo‟s blood-smeared hand fell from his torso, revealing the blunt, wooden handle of a knife protruding from his side. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Cedric gasped. He reached for the knife.

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Marc caught his wrist. “No! He‟ll bleed to death. The knife has become a stopper.” “G-go after her,” Angelo pleaded urgently. His eyes drowsed shut. “They took her, Marc. They took her.” A hectic mixture of panic and fear churned in Marc‟s chest. Not again! he urgently prayed. Not Alyssa! “Callow,” Angelo uttered on a breath. “Heaven’s Fury for your wife.”

“Did you not hear us callin‟ for you, lassie?” Cedric growled after throwing open Manon‟s bedroom door. Though she was fully dressed, Manon snatched a light quilt from the foot of her bed and clutched it to her bosom. “I cannot understand a word you‟re saying,” she said haughtily. “Your brogue is perfectly incomprehensible when you become excited.” Cedric stepped across the large room and dragged her to her feet by her arm. He spared no more than a glance at the trunk of clothing and the basket of food on her bed. Manon discreetly dropped the quilt on top of a pool of coins. “Your Angelo needs you, girl,” he said roughly. “Get the medicine bag and go to him.”

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Manon jerked out of his grasp. “Don‟t you dare touch me, Cedric MacCready,” she spat. “As for Captain Leopardi, if he needs a nurse to apply a bandage, may I suggest his beloved Alyssa?” Cedric‟s expression turned as black and desolate as a lonely death. “P‟rhaps you‟re not hearin‟ me rightly, lassie. Angelo needs you. He‟s hurt, bad. Now are you goin‟ to him under your own steam or do I have to grab you by your pretty little backside and drag you?” The sturdy Irishman pushed up his sleeves and crossed his meaty arms over his chest. Manon pursed her lips and resolutely started for the door. “Where‟s Alyssa?” she asked snidely. “Busy enjoying a secret assignation with her beloved husband?” Cedric grabbed her shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Alyssa has been taken. Marc, Edmond, and half the men of Beaux Elysees have gone after her. Angelo‟s near dead from trying to save her. Can you think of someone besides your own self now, lassie?”

For more years than she could remember, Manon had wondered, had fantasized, had dreamed of what it would be like to live Alyssa‟s life. To be loved by all whom she gifted with her smile. To possess her beauty and stir the passions of every male encompassed in her emerald gaze. To have her spirit and the strength

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to endure anything. To have her faith and know that love was eternal, that right always prevailed. Manon felt none of those things as she stood paralyzed at Angelo‟s bedside. Her wrath had drained away to be replaced by a fear so powerful she felt she would collapse beneath its weight. The bits of information Cedric had given her swam in her head. Alyssa abducted. Angelo dying. Four men, strangers, dead in the schoolhouse. Alyssa‟s buckskin medicine bag, the same bag once used by Rose, her mother Shining Dove, and Shining Dove‟s mother before her, hung over Manon‟s right shoulder. The bag, so familiar to Alyssa and the medicine women from whom she descended, was alien to Manon. Its earthy scent, its weight, its contents—how could she ever work the same magic that Alyssa so skillfully applied? Her gaze drifted over Angelo. His bloody clothing had been cut away. A thin cotton sheet covered him up to the waist. Blood matted his butterscotch curls, swelling closed his left eye. His right arm lay at a ridiculous angle at his side, the perfectly sculpted musculature of his torso marred by the protuberance of a knife buried to the hilt just above his right hip. Manon‟s feet seemed to move independently as they brought her to kneel beside him. So many thoughts swirled in her mind. Apologies. Regrets. Confessions. Pleas of forgiveness. Cries for help. None of them helped her to focus,

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none of them told her what to do. Never had she wanted to be Alyssa more than at this moment, as one thought pushed its way to the forefront of her brain: I don’t know what to do.

“They are headed for New Orleans,” Pedro said as he pulled his horse up alongside Marc‟s and Edmond‟s mounts. The men were in a marsh northeast of Beaux Elysees. A dozen snorting horses tramped the soft earth and long grasses, frightening a flock of blue geese into the air. “Even after the rain, the trail is clear.” Pensive, Marc studied the sky. “Yes.” The empty storm clouds parted to reveal the muted gold and magenta of the fading sun. “A little too clear.” Hardening his jaw, Marc pushed terror aside to make way for rational thought. His heart told him to ride hard and fast to catch the murdering bastards who had dared lay hands on his wife and his friend. His gut instinct told him to think of an alternative course. “Callow is pointing me toward New Orleans,” Marc said, tightening the reins on his mount. “Why?” The bay‟s hot neck seemed to pulse with the same anxiety that throbbed in Marc‟s chest. “If Callow knew that I was at Beaux Elysees, he must also realize that Heaven’s Fury is docked nearby, Atchafalaya Bay being the most logical place.”

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“It would have been easy enough for him to steal the ship from the bay,” Edmond commented. His horse danced with excitement, ready to continue his master‟s quest. “It would have been more direct, yes,” Marc said, “but outright thievery is hardly Callow‟s style. It holds no appeal for his sense of mischief. The cad likes his games, but only if the odds are stacked in his favor.” “He is playing with my niece‟s life!” Edmond thundered. “He could be well on his way to Europe or the Caribbean by the time—” “Time,” Marc repeated absently. Then realization flashed. “Time!” The bay rearing, Marc spurred the horse back the way they had come.

Manon buried her face in her hands and cried. Angelo‟s left hand worked its way across his chest. His fingertips barely brushed the top of her head before his arm fell heavily to his bed. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Manon,” he said, his voice a gravelly whisper, “but I‟m not quite dead yet.” “This is nothing to make light of,” she cried. “Alyssa isn‟t here to help you, and I don‟t know how!” “It is ever so tiresome, listening to you measure yourself by Alyssa.” Angelo coughed, and the resultant pain sent a shudder along the length of his body.

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“I cannot help you!” Manon said, near hysterics. “Have my offenses been so grievous that you would let me die?” The words faded as he again lost consciousness. Manon lifted his left hand and stroked his swollen and bruised fingers, her own delicate fignertips light over knuckles cut and caked with blood. Fresh tears stung her raw cheeks. She held the back of his hand to her face, wishing, praying that Alyssa would appear and save her. And save Angelo. “Alyssa,” she moaned, a fresh torrent of tears blinding her. “I did not mean for this to happen.” Unbearable was the thought of her oldest, dearest friend in the hands of the barbarians who had handled Angelo so brutally.. Joshua had emptied Alyssa‟s medicine bag onto the glossy top of a short bureau. He had made orderly piles of Alyssa‟s medicines, sniffing at the leather and cheesecloth bags. “Even if I knew what was in them, I have idea how to administer them,” he sighed. “We‟d best get the blade out of ‟im,” Cedric said. “I don‟t fancy the task, either, Father Devon crossed himself and said a short prayer, then rolled up his sleeves to help.

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“Alyssa uses a certain plant to stop bleeding and still another to prevent infection,” Joshua said, displaying two dried plants that looked like weeds. “I‟m not sure if it‟s this one or that one.” He took up another pair of plants. “Or these.” Marguerite took Manon by her shoulders and steered her toward the door. “You‟d best get us some more warm water and linen,” she said briskly. “Go on, now.” Manon sniveled in the doorway, watching as Joshua laid a clean square of cotton across his broad palm. He pinched a sizeable bunch of dried greenery in his fingers and sprinkled it over the cloth. “No,” Manon said timidly, her tears ebbing. “That‟s too much, père Joshua. You‟ll stop his heart.” Other than to discard three-fourths of the herb he had applied to the cloth, Joshua ignored her, too intent on finding the right substances to doctor Angelo. Cedric dismissed her with a scornful glance. Marguerite again directed her to the kitchen for water. “That‟s not right, either,” Manon said more firmly as she went to Joshua. “That one is for chest congestion. You need the blue-green leaves, the ones in the bag with the red ribbon.” She dried her eyes with her sleeve. Scooting Joshua aside, she gave her hands a thorough wash in the basin of warm water before untying the red ribbon and removing a portion of the herb the bundle contained. “This is for

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later, after the bleeding stops, but it must be ready to use immediately,” she said, placing the herbs on a square of clean linen. By the time Marguerite and Adette returned with clean towels and fresh water, Manon had commandeered the nursing duties. She had washed her hands with strong lye soap and ordered everyone else to do the same. She tore herbs and steeped them in hot water, then mashed them with a mortar and pestle until they formed a watery mush. Manon set to work with a speed and efficiency that more than compensated for her earlier hesitancy. “Joshua, Cedric, Father Devon, you must hold him while I extract the blade,” Manon said, her voice betraying none of her inner trepidation. She readied herself to pull the knife from Angelo‟s body. “Marguerite, once I remove the knife, press this pad to the wound. The yarrow will help stop the bleeding. Do it as quickly as you can, and press as hard as you can. Don‟t worry about hurting him.” Manon had already fed Angelo a dose of bay leaf tea. Hopefully he had consumed enough to dull his pain. Manon leaned over him and wrapped her hands tightly around the hilt of the knife. “Move closer, Marguerite,” she said in a clear strong voice she didn‟t recognize as her own. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

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A voice came to Manon, as if from far, far away. She opened her eyes and saw Angelo‟s lips moving. She bent over him, nearly touching her ear to his lips to hear him. “You must realize, that despite all of Alyssa‟s talents and gifts, there is one thing you have that she does not.” His breath was too weak to drive the words any further than Manon. “Oh, Angelo, what could I possibly have that she doesn‟t?” Manon was anxious to see to his wound. Enough time had been wasted. His torn lips grazed the silky surface of her cheek as he whispered, “My heart.”

“Harder!” Manon placed her hands over Marguerite‟s, pressing against the muscles of Angelo‟s torso. “We must stop the bleeding!” Blood had spurted from the puncture once the knife had been withdrawn. The first towel was quickly saturated by Angelo‟s lifeblood as it ran freely from the hole in his body and over the layered hands of Manon and Marguerite. Joshua handed Manon two more of the prepared yarrow squares. Manon pressed them to the wound, leaning into the task with the weight of her body. “Marguerite, on the bureau is a small clay pot containing a sticky white salve. Please bring it to me,” Manon said evenly. Her outer calm belied her inner

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chaos at watching the life of her only love seep through her fingers and stain her skin. “Cedric, please go to the infirmary and collect five more rolls of bandages, a packet of needles, and two spools of our finest silk thread.” Cedric seemed all too glad to escape the sight and smell of blood, and he ran to carry out his assigned task. Marguerite was at Manon‟s side with the salve in the space of a blink. Manon used a damp cloth to clean Angelo‟s wound. She scooped some of the salve up with two fingers and plastered it in and around the wound before forcing the clean edges of it together. She held the injured flesh in place until her fingers were cramped and the bleeding had stopped. Angelo‟s face was as still and gray as one of the statues in the garden. Her love for him surged within her, forever melting the icy misery that had encapsulated her heart for so long. She touched her hand to his face, wishing she could give her warmth, her blood, her very life, to him. Joshua touched her shoulder, imbuing her with his strength. “He‟s been out for a while now,” he assured her. “He didn‟t move a muscle when you took out that knife.” His gaze went to the weapon that had been so cruelly discarded in Angelo‟s flesh. Dried blood colored the short, thick handle. The approximate length and width of two of a large man‟s fingers, the blade had a double-edge, one side

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serrated, the other smooth. Designed for puncturing and severing, it was a knife for quick and efficient killing. Manon threaded a needle with suturing silk and began stitching the knife wound. Joshua, Marguerite, and Cedric watched her in silence. “You may help me set his arm after I finish suturing him,” Manon said. “He has lost a great deal of blood, but he‟s very strong. The wound was clean. As long as it remains free of infection, he will heal well.” She bit her lower lip to stave off the tears that suddenly wanted to spill from her eyes. “My love will recover.”

Angelo stirred from his pain-induced slumber only once, when Manon moved the ends of the fractured bone in his forearm into place and secured them with a splint. He gasped sharply but remained still. Manon caressed his cheek, and he drifted off once again. With quick efficiency, she cleaned the lacerations on his face and body, applying a mixture of sweet woodruff and white archangel to them before stitching the worst of them and covering them with clean bandages. She lanced the swelling above his eye, drained it, then applied a poultice of mashed turnips to keep the swelling down. Once Manon‟s work was completed, Joshua and Cedric gingerly placed Angleo on a makeshift litter and moved him to an upstairs bedroom.

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Manon sat at his bedside, With Angelo lying peacefully in a clean bed, covered to his chin with a warm quilt, Manon prayed to undo her dreadful wish.

Time. That was the advantage Callow needed to make a clean getaway with Alyssa. Marc was as sure of this as he was sure of each step he took across the sturdy timbers of Heaven’s Fury. Dominic had already given the order to set sail. The loyal and skilled crew set to the task; Marc and Edmond retired to the captain‟s quarters. “An expedition to New Orleans would grant Callow a full day‟s head start.” Marc shrugged off his coat. Marc drew a tube from a wooden canister at the end of his desk. He unfurled the tube and opened it over his desk. He waved Edmond nearer. “I‟ve no idea how to read navigational charts,” Edmond said. “These scribbles and lines mean nothing to me, unlike Alyssa, who means the world.” Marc jabbed his finger at a spot on the chart. “This is our current position.” He moved his finger upwards a bit. “Callow is here.” “We could have closed this distance much faster over land,” Edmond fairly growled with frustration. “By the time we reach New Orleans by ship, Callow will have long gone!” Edmond angrily slammed his palms on the desktop.

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“Callow‟s men will reach New Orleans by morning. His ship will set sail for the open sea as soon as Alyssa is delivered to him.” “How can you know that?” Edmond shouted. Though this was the first time, ever, that anyone had dared raise a voice to him aboard his ship, Marc kept his tone even as he said, “Callow has been after Heaven’s Fury for some years now. He would never steal it outright. It‟s far more of a challenge to bargain for it. This is a game to him. He wants me to come after him. I‟ll grant his wish. He will sail for the open sea. And I‟ll be there, waiting for him.” Edmond hunkered down in one of the chairs in Marc‟s small, but neatly appointed quarters. “How can you know which course he will take? Will you follow him to the Continent or to Australia? To the Caribbean or to Asia? What then, of Alyssa?” Marc had no answer. He knew no surer course to follow than the one chosen by his heart. Edmond would have renewed his inquiries regarding Marc‟s plan of action had they not been interrupted by furious knocking on the door. A body flew into the room no sooner than Marc opened it. “Caleb,” Edmond said, addressing the tumble of arms and legs righting itself near Marc‟s footlocker.

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“He tried to stow away, Captain,” said Dominic. “He‟s a scrapper, but too small to keep. Might I suggest that we toss him back?” “As much as I‟d like to, I‟m afraid he‟s under my care, Dom,” Marc said. “Are we ready to sail?” “Si, Captain, just as soon as you tell me what you want to do with il cagnolino.” Dom pointed a thick, calloused finger at Caleb. Caleb started for the red-haired Italian, his fists ready to fly. Marc caught Caleb about his middle. Caleb was a scrapper, but Dominic was six feet of sinew and seasoned sailor. Marc had seen him drop a man with a single blow. “Ah ain‟t goin‟ back ‟tills we find Miz Alyssa!” Caleb yelled, trying to twist out of Marc‟s grip. “Ah ain‟t leavin‟ an‟ cain‟t none a y‟all make me!” Marc shoved Caleb toward Dominic. “See that he‟s put to work with the other cabin boys,” Marc said. “I don‟ know nuthin‟ ‟bout sailin‟,” Caleb pouted. He jerked away from Dominic, fairly certain that the first mate would toss him overboard anyway. “This is a fine time to learn then, isn‟t it?” Marc closed the door behind Caleb and Dominic. He turned to Edmond. “I vastly underestimated Caleb‟s attachment to Alyssa.”

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“I thought that he had returned to the estate with the rest of the men when we decided to come to your ship,” Edmond said. “I had no idea that he was following us. The lad must know the marshes and swamps very well.” “Indeed,” Marc said. “Indeed, he does.”

“What in heaven‟s grace took you so long?” asked Beverly Horne-Callow, Duke of Winchester-on-Perth, as he sat down to breakfast in the luxurious surroundings of his private galley aboard the Poseidon. Callow‟s carved mahogany chair resembled a throne more than a mere chair. As a meal of raw oysters, fried shrimp, sliced tomatoes, ham, candied sweet potatoes, and fresh blackberries was set before him by his personal chef, a slight figure bound hand and foot was deposited at his feet. Callow eyed the shapely backside of his captive. “You dressed the woman in trousers?” He tucked a linen napkin into the high collar of his silk shirt. “This slip of a girl is Ghiradelli‟s wife?” “That she is, and it‟s going to cost you extra,” the burly man stated. “I lost four men in the tussle and another on the way to New Orleans. Had to keep her drugged the whole way, to keep her from fightin‟ and runnin‟.”

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Callow shoveled a mouthful of ham into his face before he took a small pouch from a diminutive wooden chest on the table. He tossed it to the other man, who pulled the drawstring and peered into it. “I lost five of my men,” the man said in a cold, low growl. “That wildcat took a man out with a chair. She beat another one of my men with a pitcher. He might lose an eye for his trouble.” Callow sighed impatiently. “It‟s hardly my fault that you chose men who were no match for this tiny creature.” The man took a half step closer to Callow, his dagger drawn, his mouth pulled into a determined line. Callow withdrew a small silver pistol from a pocket of his satin waistcoat. He aimed it squarely at the man‟s chest. “You‟ve been amply reimbursed for your trouble. Leave this ship. Now. While you still can.” He smiled, shifting his glance to the awkward heap lying on the Oriental rug. “I must get better acquainted with my guest.”

Callow cut the ropes binding Alyssa‟s wrists and ankles. Her limbs were stiff and frozen from the chilly night she had spent bound, gagged, drugged, and slung over the back of a horse that had sped through the swamps and marshes to Callow‟s ship. She scuttled away from Callow. The toothy grin wedged between his jowls was more frightening than the miserable and filthy man who had carried

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her onto the ship. Callow hid a sly grin behind the goblet of wine he coddled in one hand. Alyssa drew away further, until her head and shoulders bumped the wall. Callow thrust a chubby hand forward to move her hair from her face. “My heavens,” he sighed. “Ghiradelli‟s taste in women is as exquisite as his taste in sailing vessels.” Alyssa would have struck him if she‟d been able to feel her hands. They were numb, as were her feet, from having been trussed like a calf. “My husband will find me,” Alyssa promised. She bit her lower lip to stop it from shaking. “If you are as smart as you are fat, you would free me now.” Callow laughed. “What a shame, to use that pretty mouth to shape such an ugly insult.” He offered his hand to help her to her feet. She ignored it, preferring to use the edge of the table to boost herself up. Callow sat back down to his meal. “You must be hungry. You‟ve had a rather arduous journey.” He indicated the empty seat beside him with the point of his knife. “I‟d be honored to have you grace my table.” When she failed to respond to his invitation, Callow went back to eating, noisily slurping oysters from their shells. Alyssa bolted for the door. She threw it open, only to find a guard posted on the other side of it. The man was unarmed. Alyssa rushed forward. She had enough

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time and space to land a hard kick to the guard‟s midsection. He doubled over with a loud “Oof!” and Alyssa scrambled over him. Behind her, Callow had waddled out of his galley to call an alarm. A cabin door opened before her, and the occupant stepped out to block the narrow companionway. Shock paralyzed Alyssa. She was face to face with Philippe Fernand.

It took one second for Alyssa‟s emotions to assume control of her body. Where reason might have told her to stand down, hatred and rage made her do quite the opposite. With a shriek of homicidal fury, Alyssa charged at Philippe, striking him squarely in the jaw with her clasped hands. Philippe emitted a sound like a wounded seagull and lurched backwards. Alyssa caught him in the chest with a mighty kick, following it with a savage chop of her hand to his windpipe. “Callow!” Fernand squawked hoarsely. “Do something! Stop her!” Fernand tripped on the steps leading up to the deck. Alyssa stood over him, her right foot raised. Just before she would have smashed her foot into Fernand‟s cowering face, Callow used the butt of his pistol to deal a sharp blow to the back of her head. Alyssa collapsed onto Fernand. The Frenchman rolled her off of him as if her unconscious form could inflict further harm.

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“This is the meek little half-niece you spoke of?” Callow asked. He smirked at the bruise flowering on Fernand‟s face. “Whatever did you do to make her so angry? Please, tell me, that I may never commit the same offense.” Fernand drew his foot back to give Alyssa a dose of her own medicine. Callow threw his bulk in the way. “The woman is not to be touched,” he said, his warning contradicting his own actions. Callow waved the guard over. “Aye, Cap‟n,” groaned the guard, still hurting from Alyssa‟s kick. “Take her to the hold,” Callow ordered. “Perhaps a night with the rats nipping at her heels will cool her temper.” “We have an agreement,” Fernand snarled. He spat out a clot of blood. “Alyssa is mine.” “You‟re ahead of yourself, mate,” Callow said pleasantly. “Until Heaven’s Fury is mine, so is Alyssa Ghiradelli. You‟d do well to remember that.”

Alyssa woke with a start, opening her eyes to find herself in the close, musty confines of the dark cargo hold. Coughing on dust and cobwebs, she drew her knees up to her chest and leaned against a large wooden crate. She trembled. Whatever had given her the strength to fight earlier was gone. Blind fear steeled her as she watched glittering eyes watch her from the shadows.

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The ship‟s heavy timbers creaked above and below her. Though she had never been on a ship before, the subtle movement of the vessel told her that they were no longer docked in New Orleans. They were at sea. Alyssa crossed her arms over her knees and bowed her head. Her tears coursed freely, wetting the front of her trousers. “I‟m so afraid,” she whimpered. “Maman, Papa…I am so afraid!” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and peered into the darkness. Another set of shining eyes had joined the first pair. And they were coming closer. Marc, help me! she wished frantically as she pulled her feet in even closer to her body. Mon Dieu, please, help me! No one, not even God, can help me now, she thought miserably. No one knows where I am. Oh, Maman, what am I to do! Rose Shining Dove Verdieu would have found a way to escape. Rose would not have collapsed into a sniveling, whimpering mess of tears. Rose had the strength of her grandmother, a quadroon and a slave who had been raped by her Spanish owner. Rose‟s grandmother had earned her freedom, and that of her son, the man who would later marry Shining Dove. Rose also had the strength of her mother, Shining Dove, who had rescued her husband from slave catchers

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determined to steal his freedom and force him into slavery. Rose had possessed the strength and courage of generations of her female ancestors. She had endured of Philippe‟s abuse, and given her life in an attempt to free Beaux Elysees from him. No woman of her line had ever given up without a fight. “I shall not be the first,” Alyssa resolved. She dried her tears and stood in the dreary dark of the cargo hold. Mindless of the painful throbbing at the back of her head, she faced the wickedly gleaming eyes emerging from the shadows.

The guard opened the door, and a dead rat hit him in the center of his chest. Another one hit him in the stomach. A third hit him in the face. The guard wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat out dirty rat hair. “Don‟t this take all?” he growled. “First I get to watch a door all day, and now Callow‟s latest plaything is slingin‟ the moth-eaten carcasses of dead rats at me? I‟ll teach you to pitch a bleedin‟ rat at me,” the wiry guard sneered as he entered the darkness of the hold. Alyssa neatly stuck out her foot, tripping him onto the dusty, straw-covered floor. She sat on his back, twisting his right arm behind him and pulling a handful of his long, oily blond hair. In the schoolhouse, she had fought with the blind instinct of a wild animal. She controlled herself this time, planning her moves. She wouldn‟t allow a second rear attack.

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Alyssa hissed in his ear. “Will you take me to Callow, or would you like to join the rest of the rats?” She snapped his head to the left. He saw a heap of perhaps a dozen rats, each of their tiny skulls crushed. The guard gulped noisily. “Yes, miss,” he grunted when Alyssa twisted his arm further. “The duke wants to see you too.”

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Chapter Nineteen

Callow was again in his private galley, this time sitting down with Philippe Fernand and Hiram Boyles to an evening meal of fried oysters, shrimp étoufée, fried okra, and broiled figs. Alyssa entered the small room, the guard lurking a safe distance behind her. Callow leaned back in his chair, armed with a fork and a spoon. The napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt looked like a bed sheet. “I trust you‟re ready to behave in a more civilized fashion?” he asked. Although he smiled, Alyssa saw his unease in the way he gripped his cutlery so tightly, the blood had left his pudgy fingers. Beads of sweat lined his upper lip. Callow tore his eyes away from Signora Ghiradelli to take a long sip of wine directly from the bottle. The time in the hold had not frightened the woman into submission as he had hoped. The determination in her emerald eyes singed all that fell under her gaze. Callow studied Alyssa, seeing past the dirt, dust, and chaff covering her. “Captain Ghiradelli possesses the most desirable sailing vessel in the world. „Tis no wonder he would search out and possess the world‟s most desirable female. You are incomparably lovely, my dear. Why the captain permits you to roam about in male attire, well…to each his own, I say.”

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“I wish to offer you a final opportunity to deliver me safely to my home,” Alyssa said. Callow maneuvered his silk- and-wool-covered girth from his chair and around the table. He circled Alyssa, his massive belly brushing against her back and arms. “Edmond, you told me that your half-niece carries the blood of Africa in her veins.” He suddenly hooked his fingers in her collar and tore her shirt open, exposing the tempting flesh not covered by her chemise. He grinned. “Although the sun has colored her face, this woman is no darker than peaches and cream.” He peered closely into Alyssa‟s eyes. “Are you truly African?” Alyssa stood her ground. “This man lied to you.” She indicated Fernand with a tip of her head. “You have no African blood?” Callow stepped back to examine her once more. “I carry the blood of three continents,” Alyssa said proudly. “My greatgrandmother was a quadroon. She was raped by the Spaniard who owned her. The son of that evil act was my grandfather, who married a Chitimacha woman. My mother was born of that union. This creature killed her.” She pointed at Fernand. “So, you are African.” Callow planted his fists at his ample waist, her genealogy wasted on him. “This man has not lied to me. I trust him implicitly.”

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Alyssa put her hands on her hips. “Then you are a fool, because that thing is not my half-uncle.”

Manon dragged herself into the kitchen, a porcelain basin in one hand and an oil lamp in the other. She went directly to the pump to fill the basin. She spared no more than a glance at the group huddled over coffee at the white table at the far end of the kitchen. They noticed her, however. Marguerite and Joshua went to her, to take the basin of water before she collapsed under the weight of it. “Child,” Marguerite said tenderly, bracing Manon with an arm around her waist. “You go on upstairs and rest. I‟ll see to Captain Leopardi.” Manon had left Angelo‟s side only once, to change out of her bloody clothing. Joshua took Manon‟s face in his hands, his brown eyes melting into hers in the lamplight. He saw such sorrow in them, along with the limitless strength and obdurate will that had carried her through the other rough spots in her short life. “I am fine, père Joshua,” Manon said. “Please, I must see to Angelo.” She gently eased his hands away, took up the basin of fresh water and her lamp, and

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made her way out of the kitchen. She traveled the length of the corridor in a golden nimbus of light, the dark house swallowing her slight figure. Joshua and Marguerite pulled closer together, watching her go. At the table, Cedric, Rina, and Adette kept their faces in their coffee. Cedric muttered under his breath, glaring angrily at the space Manon had previously occupied. Adette rose and pulled her knitted shawl closer about her shoulders. “Manon might need help,” she said almost apologetically to her twin before disappearing into the corridor.

“If Verdieu is not Verdieu,” Callow said thoughtfully as he poured a brandy for himself and his late-night guest, “then who is he?” Hiram Boyles accepted the crystal snifter that Callow offered him. He downed the rich potable in a single swig then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tattered broadcloth jacket. “Hell if‟n I know,” Boyles said. “The man‟s been nothin‟ but trouble to me since he hired me.” Callow stood beneath a large portrait of himself, bracing one hand on the wall of his private cabin while the other hand swirled his brandy. “Perhaps Ghiradelli‟s woman was lying.” He used the cuff of his fluted sleeve to buff a corner of the frame to a high gloss. “Perhaps she believes she can gain her freedom by

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dividing us and allying herself with the strongest part.” Callow sipped his brandy. “That would be me, of course.” Boyles grunted. “Do you think the little piece was tellin‟ the truth? That our boy ain‟t ‟er half-uncle?” Callow nodded. He‟d seen her eyes, had been wallowing in them, when she told them that the lean man with the feral eyes was not who he claimed to be. Callow believed her completely. “All I asked of this arrangement was the acquisition of Heaven’s Fury,” Callow said, his brow knitted in thought. “Signora Ghiradelli is a splendid example of womanhood, to be sure, but is that the sole reason he wishes to possess her?” Callow narrowed his eyes at Boyles. “Just as surely as that man is not Edmond Verdieu, he has other reasons for wanting the Signora. What are they, Boyles?” “I don‟t rightly remember,” Boyles said with a wide grin. “P‟rhaps with the right incentive, I could recall.” With a grunt of exasperation, Callow went to a wooden chest on his desk. He pulled out a tiny key dangling from a fine gold chain around his neck. Boyles tried to peer around Callow, to see the contents of the chest. Callow blocked his view with his wide body as he unlocked the chest and withdrew a small skin pouch. He tossed it to Boyles, who opened it with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning.

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The pouch was full of incentive. Callow reclined on his bed and listened as Boyles told him everything, about Rose, Beaux Elysees, and the false Verdieu‟s determination to marry Alyssa and inherit the wealth of the estate. “Well,” Callow said, pleased once Boyles had finished his tale, “it would be a shame to let such riches fall into the hands of a man who has deceived us.” “Indeed,” Boyles gleefully agreed. Callow laced his fingers behind his head. “Our forces are divided, Boyles. I suspect you wish to ally yourself with the strongest half?” “Aye,” Boyles eagerly agreed. He fingered the gold coins warming his pocket. “That would be you, sir.” “Precisely,” Callow said. He chuckled. “I never thought of myself as the marrying type. Made the mistake once, never thought I‟d do it again.” “But the wench is married already, to Ghiradelli,” Boyles said stupidly. “She‟ll be a grieving widow no sooner than Ghiradelli appears in our sights.” Boyles looked at him slyly. “And how soon after the nuptials will you be a grieving widower?” Callow gave the question considerable thought. The effort made him sweat. Killing Alyssa had never occurred to him. His plans for her included nothing more lethal than feeding her lotus seed candy from his fingertips as she curled up nude in his lap.

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“What do you say to givin‟ yer ol‟ friend Hiram Boyles a ride on ‟er, before you do ‟er in?” The heavy crystal of Callow‟s brandy decanter struck the wall just to the left of Boyles‟ head. “Bloody oaf,” Boyles muttered. He dashed out of the cabin and scampered through the companionway. The rich are all alike, he thought sourly. They’ll share a few coins and a few draughts of liquor, but they’re so damned possessive about their women! “Bloody idiot‟s got a likin‟ for her,” Boyles mumbled, crossing the deck. “I‟ve ‟alf a mind to go on down to ‟er cabin and pump ‟er right now.” His thoughts were fixed on the woman he knew to be somewhere below him, installed at Callow‟s order in one of the mates‟ cabins instead of the hold. Boyles disappeared below to find his lowly bunk in the crew‟s quarters. His plodding thoughts so fully occupied with Alyssa, he scarcely noticed the slim figure leaning against the quiet deckhouse. The man Hiram Boyles knew as Edmond Verdieu drew on a cheroot, its smoking end burning a red hole in the night.

Angelo opened his eyes. He hadn‟t the strength to do more than lift the heavy weights of his eyelids. He blinked, bringing into focus the sways of the

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chintz canopy above him. The sound of soft, urgent whispering gave him the will to turn his head to the right, to see the figure kneeling at his bedside. Manon was on her knees, her head bowed into her clasped hands. Her voice came so quietly, yet Angelo felt her desperation. “Dear God, please, forgive me,” she intoned. “Forgive me! If you must take someone to satisfy the evil I have wrought upon this house, then take me. Take my life, only spare me long enough to beg forgiveness from Alyssa and Angelo. My life is but nothing in trade for theirs, but it is all that I have to offer. I give it for them. Please, spare these people whom I love more dearly than my own self. Please, spare Alyssa and Angelo.” She began to cry. The sound of her tears injured Angelo in the one place the kidnappers hadn‟t been able to touch. I forgive you, he wanted to say. He tried to move his right hand, but it was immobilized by the splint and dressing that secured his broken arm. His mouth worked to say her name, but he drifted off before he could push the precious word past his lips. Manon looked up, blinking away the tears blearing her vision. She stood and leaned over Angelo. He was asleep, his face ashen and tense. Her tears dropped onto his quilt as she caressed his cheek and stroked his hair. “Please, forgive me, mon amour,” she said.

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The full moon was at its zenith, its light tipping the caps of the black velvet waves. Marc stood at the wheel, peering into the darkness. He had posted men to watch around the clock for signs of the Poseidon. He had no doubt that Callow had chosen to sail his own vessel. The Poseidon was fast and fully outfitted with the luxuries, if impractical amenities, Callow held so dear. Even so, Marc‟s men boarded and searched every ship Heaven’s Fury encountered. They had been at sea for thirty-six hours, and they hadn‟t found the Poseidon or anyone who had seen the ship. Marc gripped the wheel tighter. The cool ocean air sifting through his hair and clothing failed to diminish the heat of his rage. He struggled to keep a calm and level head. Only a cool mind would prevail over the scheming likes of Beverly Horne-Callow, and the only thing more important than finding Alyssa was finding her alive and well. A lance of pain as sharp as a blade and as hot as fire almost brought him to his knees as he thought of how frightened she must be. In all her life she had never been farther than a half-day‟s travel from Beaux Elysees and the bayou she loved so dearly. What terrors were tormenting her? What suffering was she enduring at the hands of rogues like Callow and his men? Marc tortured himself with horrific images that came fast and furious.

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“I will not fail you,” he promised. He spoke into the wind, hoping that the same breeze that carried his vow to her would bring Heaven’s Fury soon after. Below decks, Caleb wriggled off of his rope hammock, too troubled to sleep. Careful not to disturb the sleeping sailors, he crept up the creaky stairs and onto the deck for a breath of air. His attention was drawn not to the lovely expanse of the moonlit sea or the vast bowl of the starry sky, but to the captain‟s lonesome figure silhouetted against the night. Marc had been at the wheel from the moment the ship set sail. His eyes trained on the open water, he had stopped to neither eat nor sleep, nor even to relieve himself. Caleb‟s narrow shoulders fell. Whether guilt, shame, remorse, woe, or a combination of all weighed upon him, he had no idea as he started for the officer‟s cabins.

Edmond answered the knock on the door of his cabin. “Caleb,” he said. “You should be sleeping.” Caleb stood just inside the door of the cabin, nervously wrenching at the tail of his shirt. “Don‟t look like you ‟tend to turn in soon,” Caleb remarked. “Guess we‟s all gotta lot on our heads. I need to talk with Cap‟n Marc.”

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Edmond eyed the young man. Gone was the bluster and big talk with which Caleb generally faced the world. He looked exactly like what everyone knew he was…a wounded, frightened boy. “What is this about, Caleb?” he asked, dreading the answer. “N‟Orleans,” Caleb said, his voice breaking. “An‟ Miz Alyssa.”

“You haven‟t slept a wink, Captain,” Dominic said, joining Marc at the wheel. “You won‟t be much use to your bride if you are too exhausted to stand.” Marc shot his first mate a look that said he would never be too tired or weak to do anything that would return Alyssa to his side. Dominic made no move to do so as he said, “I can take the wheel, Captain. Daylight will break in a few hours. I‟ll triple the watch and you can get some sleep.” Dominic touched his friend‟s shoulder. “Get some rest, Marc.” Marc‟s hands had been clamped in one position for so long, his fingers cramped when he removed them from the wheel. He gave Dominic a quiet nod of thanks as he dragged himself toward the captain‟s quarters. He had reluctantly committed himself to a short nap when he met Edmond and Caleb in the companionway.

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“Speak, boy,” Marc demanded. Weariness settled into his muscles as he sat on the edge of his bed and waited for his late night visitors to get on with their business. Caleb‟s blue eyes were wide with fear. Edmond squared his jaw and nodded at the boy. “Speak your piece, Caleb,” Marc ordered. “I‟m in no mood for more foolishness.” Caleb ran for the door, but Edmond blocked his way. Marc grabbed Caleb by his collar and shoved him into a chair. “Are you here for a reason other than to irritate me?” he growled in Caleb‟s face. Tears began to cut tracks through the dusting of grime on Caleb‟s cheeks, and Marc retreated a step. Edmond stood behind Caleb. He put a firm hand on the boy‟s shoulder as he said, “Caleb left the trail from New Orleans. Caleb led Callow‟s men to Beaux Elysees.” Before Edmond could draw his next breath, Marc threw Caleb, chair and all, across the cabin. He hunched over the sobbing, whimpering boy, shaking him like a rag doll. “You led those bastards to my wife?” The ship rang with the force of Marc‟s fury. “My dearest friend lies dying or dead, and my wife—!”

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He stopped himself. There was no force on Earth or in Heaven powerful enough to make Marc consider, never mind speak, the worst. He gathered Caleb‟s shirt around his massive fists and pulled him to his feet, grunting only one word. “Why.” Caleb cowered, shielding his face with his hands. Edmond forced himself between Marc and Caleb. “Listen to what he has to say,” Edmond said. “I wanted to toss him overboard, too, but he can help.” Marc shook Caleb again, loosening the boy‟s tongue. “He said he‟d let my sister alone if‟n I tole where you was!” Caleb cried. “They was lookin‟ fer you, not Miz Alyssa. I figgered if‟n they‟d come fer you, you could handle ‟em. I didn‟t know they was after Miz Alyssa. Honest to God, I didn‟t know!” Marc released Caleb. The boy collapsed in a slobbering mess of tears. “When Miz Manon sneaked out of the mercantile, I went, too, to see where she was up to,” Caleb said. “I lost sight a her an‟ went to see my sister, India. “She works at one a them men‟s places in the Quarter,” Caleb went on tearfully. It‟s a real fancy place. All kinds a men come ‟round to get a taste of a purty girl like India. My daddy was hanged for a thief and my momma died a one of them lewd woman sicknesses. A man tole India that my daddy owed him some money, and she had to pay it back, or else he was gonna see to it that me an‟ India was put in jail.

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“India worked at the casino at first, but soon enough she was workin‟ upstairs in them rooms with the big feather beds.” Caleb wiped his eyes. “I wanted to bring ‟er with me when I come to live with Tita and Pedro, but I had to make sure Beaux Elysees was a good place. I was gonna bring ‟er back with us, after the weddin‟ when I went to N‟Orleans with Mr. Cedric, but India said no. She said ain‟t no nice folks like y‟all gonna want a lewd woman ‟round they friends and families.” Caleb‟s story reduced Marc‟s anger to a simmer. “How did you fall in with Beverly Horne-Callow?” he asked. “India was havin‟ drinks with that fella when I was tellin‟ ‟er ‟bout Beaux Elysees,” Caleb said sadly. “He was listenin‟. He ask me if‟n I knowed Cap‟n Marc Ghiradelli. I says, „I shore do, he a good friend a mine.‟ That fella and two others drug me on out to the back of the place and liked to ‟ave knocked my head in. They tole me that if‟n I didn‟t help him ‟em get to Beaux Elysees, they was gonna fix India so bad ain‟t no man ever pay to look at her, never mind throw ‟er skirts up.” Caleb angrily wiped away his tears. “I lef‟ the trail. I knows the bayou like I knows my own name.” “Is there anything else you‟ve failed to mention, Caleb?” Marc asked, his tone menacing. “Is there any other piece of information that I may find useful?”

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Mustering every bit of courage in his scrawny frame, Caleb lifted his eyes to Marc‟s. Caleb saw a pain there that was hundreds of times worse than his own as he nodded. Dread closed around Marc‟s heart. “That man who beat me, the one who was gonna cut up India…” Caleb began tentatively. “Yes?” Marc said impatiently. “His name was Hiram Boyles.”

“What diabolical twist of fate could have brought Callow and Boyles together?” Marc wondered aloud as he paced within his cabin. “I should have recognized the signs,” Edmond said, pounding a fist into his palm. “The ambush in the schoolhouse, the number of men. Philippe Fernand is most certainly a part of this.” “I should have killed him when I had the chance,” Marc swore. “At the time, I believed him to be you.” Edmond clapped Marc on the shoulder. “I ask no more of you than this,” he said gravely. “When we find the Poseidon, Philippe Fernand is mine.

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Chapter Twenty

A dark scowl creased Cedric‟s usually cheerful visage on the bright, clear morning after the storm as he and the others stared at Manon. She sat before them in the study, perched in the walnut wing chair before the desk. Despite her exhaustion, she sat straight and tall. Joshua was behind the large desk, with Marguerite to his right and Cedric to his left. Their faces hard with anger and disgust, Rina and Melody huddled on the settee. Manon glanced at Melody, who had cried herself to sleep for the past two nights, convinced that she would lose her second love as surely as she‟d lost her first. She swung her gaze to Rina, who fairly seethed with unexpressed rage. Manon had no doubt that Rina‟s lovely little head had been filled with Cedric‟s poisonous notions. Manon held her head proudly as she faced them. Melody suddenly rushed forward in a blur of blue muslin and dealt Manon a sharp slap across the face. “Traitor!” she hissed. “Murderess!” Joshua abruptly stood. Marguerite moved to subdue Melody and to shield Manon from further physical abuse. Manon continued to stare forward, her golden eyes pinned on Cedric. Her left eye watered as fire bloomed beneath it.

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“Her face is made of the same hard substance as her heart,” Rina said spitefully. She put her arm around Melody‟s waist once Marguerite had seated her. “I assume that one of you remembered to bring the rope,” Manon said evenly. “No? Then the considerable length of Cedric‟s belt shall have to suffice.” Manon held her wrists out, her hands loosely curled. Joshua left the desk to kneel before her. He took her dainty hands in his calloused ones, stilling the slight tremble in them. “No one will harm you further, Manon,” he said, adding gravely, “you know that, don‟t you?” Her head dipped in a barely perceptible nod. Beaux Elysees never resorted to violence as a form of punishment, not when exile was so much more effective. “Her bags are already packed,” Cedric growled. “I saw them myself, along with the food and the money she planned to take with her!” “We heard you, we all heard you, in the kitchen, during the storm!” Rina accused. “And over Angelo, when he was lying in bed, stuck through with a knife!” Cedric added. “As I have already explained, Cedric,” Manon began with unwavering poise, “my things were packed because I planned to leave Beaux Elysees of my own accord. I had nothing to do with those men you found dead in the schoolhouse. I did not conspire to bring harm to Alyssa.”

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“You disappeared while we were in New Orleans!” Rina charged viciously. “You hate Alyssa, we all know it!” Manon stood, her bearing as regal as an empress. “I have a patient to tend to. Feel free to convict me in my absence.” She started for the door. Cedric went after her, stepping ahead of her to block her way. “You‟ll know when we‟re finished with you, lassie,” he grumbled. Manon slowly rolled her sleeves up, using that time to decide exactly where and how hard she would hit Cedric to drop him like a bag of wet sand. Joshua grabbed Cedric‟s arm, for the Irishman‟s own safety. “You‟ll do nothing until Marc returns with Alyssa.” “How can you be so sure that they will return?” Cedric countered. “The cap‟n told me about that Callow. He‟s a right nasty fellow. Alyssa may well be dead, even now.” His blue eyes glittered with moisture. The tears he might have shed evaporated in the heat of his anger as he watched Manon leave. “I know she‟s your daughter, Joshua, but that sly piece of baggage has got Alyssa kidnapped and a good man nearly killed. She‟s packed her bags. I say we send her on her way right now. Banish her.” Joshua released Cedric‟s arm. “We are not in the habit of punishing the innocent. We shall do nothing until Marc and Alyssa return.” Joshua glared at the

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vengeful women on the settee. “If Manon is harmed in any way, I will see that her aggressor suffers the same fate.”

Manon closed the door behind her and slumped against it. How her legs carried her all of the way from the study to Angelo‟s room, she would never know. Her knees shaking like leaves in a storm, she covered her face with her hands and cried silent tears. She collected herself and wiped her hands and face on her apron. When she turned to the bed, Angelo was awake and watching her. She went to the bureau and washed her hands in one of the basins of fresh, warm water Adette had brought to the room. She brought a roll of clean bandages and an herbal poultice to Angelo‟s bedside. He quietly watched her work. Her hands were gentle, efficient, and soothing as she removed his old dressing and cleaned his wound. His condition was clearly improving, for her touch affected every part of him, particularly that randy instrument between his legs. She gathered the used bandages and placed them outside Angelo‟s door, then washed her hands again. Angelo asked a question that quelled the heat rising in his loins. “What happened in New Orleans?”

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Her hands froze for an instant before resuming their task. She kept her eyes on her work, applying a fresh mixture of sassafras, tobacco, and la mauve to the site of the stab wound. “You, too, believe me capable of something so evil, so wicked—” Angelo grabbed her wrist with a strength and quickness that surprised her. “Tell me what happened.” She tried to twist out of his grasp, but even half dead he was too strong. He would keep her shackled in his grasp all day and all night, forever if need be. “Tell me what happened when you left us in New Orleans.” Manon winced and blinked away tears.. “These are not tears of guilt,” he said gently. “These are tears of pain. I‟ve seen them before, in the heart of the garden after the wedding.” Everything spilled from Manon along with her tears, from the jealousy that had been clawing at her heart to the impotent rage and hatred she had for the man who had insulted her in the streets of New Orleans. “His remarks were kind, compared to what an Américain might have said or done,” Manon hiccoughed. “America is a funny place,” Angelo said. He held her hand instead of binding her wrist. “It is a refuge, yet it is a place where the oppressed so easily become the oppressors.” “I did not betray Alyssa,” Manon insisted.

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As hateful and envious as Manon could be, Angelo knew that she turned those negative forces on herself, never on others. “I believe you.” “I wished her dead,” Manon revealed in an anguished whisper. She clutched at her heart, as though misery and guilt were killing it. “When I was alone in New Orleans, I wished her dead. Of all the wishes I have ever made, will this be the one made true?” “You were hurt and alone.” Angelo wished he could take her in his arms and soothe her heartache with the kisses she had done without for so long. “You meant nothing by such a wish.” “Oh, but I did!” she said miserably. “Angelo, I did! I thought of Beaux Elysees and how Alyssa has everything, while I have nothing.” “Still your jealousy blinds you. Look at me, Manon. Do you not see what you have?” Her tears dropped onto his hand. “What do I have, besides the hatred of all?” Angelo summoned all of his strength to bring the back of her hand to his lips. He pressed the fragile thing to his heart. “Do you not remember?” She remembered. She simply refused to believe. “But you love Alyssa. I heard you talking to père Joshua in the study.”

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The left side of Angelo‟s mouth hooked into a weak grin. “And so I discover another of your vices. If you choose to eavesdrop, Manon, make certain that you hear the conversation in its entirety. Do not listen only to what fuels your fires.” “How can you love me?” “Manon,” he said tenderly, “I never had a chance not to.”

“My darling,” Callow greeted effusively the moment Alyssa was brought into his private galley, “you look as though you‟ve scarcely slept a wink!” The guard shoved her into a chair. Alyssa had slept in fits and starts, tormented by memories of the fight in the schoolhouse and worry over Angelo‟s fate. She managed a few desperate hours of sleep, but only after she imagined Marc‟s voice coming to her, swelling on the breeze, assuring her that all would be well. She had been awakened at sunrise by hard pounding on the cabin door. Her guard had brought her warm water and fresh clothing and directed her to ready herself to join the captain for breakfast. Alyssa had made good use of the water. She‟d hurled it in the guard‟s face, preferring to remain in her own filthy clothing for her presentation to Callow.

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“I slept quite well, thank you,” she said tersely, sparing not even a glance at Boyles or Philippe Fernand, who already sat at the table and did not bother to rise upon her seating. “Very well, then,” Callow said. He directed his server to proceed. A brown hand appeared over Alyssa‟s shoulder to pour fragrant, steaming coffee into the cup at her place. Alyssa looked up to see a face as dark and rich as mahogany, yet completely different in feature from the Negro men and women at Beaux Elysees. His nose was broader and flatter, his jaw more square, his forehead higher. His long hair fell past the collar of his shirt in loose waves similar to her own, not tight coils like Joshua‟s salt-and-pepper curls. The stranger smiled at her, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “I have never seen a man such as you before,” Alyssa said with frank honesty. The man winked at her and moved on to serve Boyles. “Kiripati is an Aborigine,” Callow said, “one of the indigenous tribesmen of Australia.” “An Aborigine,” Alyssa noted, testing the word. “You are remarkably beautiful.” “Thank you, madame,” Kiripati said, bowing graciously. “The same may be said of yourself.”

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Kiripati had a more proper English accent than the one Callow affected. “That will be all, Kiripati,” Callow said brusquely. The last thing he needed was to have Alyssa form an alliance. She was formidable enough on her own. Kiripati bowed to Alyssa once more before leaving the galley as regally as though he were the ship‟s captain. Philippe stood and lit a cheroot, quickly filling the small room with the scent of burning tobacco. “Must you?” Callow angrily waved his hand to disperse the smoke wafting over his coffee. Philippe casually stepped up to the porthole and flicked the cheroot out onto the deck. “Have you a family?” Alyssa asked Callow. “I‟ve a daughter,” he said, somewhat surprised at her inquiry. “Miranda. Her mother was killed in a Maori uprising when Miranda was but a little thing. Miranda‟s in school, in England. Why do you ask?” Alyssa clasped her hands primly on the table. She stared at them as she said, “Is my husband‟s ship more important than your honor? Do you believe Miranda will never learn of what you have done? What will she think of you when she learns that her father is a kidnapper in league with a murderer and a scoundrel?”

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Philippe and Boyles both might have done bodily harm to Alyssa if Callow hadn‟t shot from his chair to bar their way. Alyssa didn‟t flinch. “You would harm the woman for speaking the truth?” Callow said, turning to Alyssa. He took one of her grimy hands and held it loosely in his own. Alyssa drew her hand back. “I pray that none of your enemies ever seek revenge for your actions by harming Miranda.” Callow swallowed anxiously. The plan had seemed so simple, so easy, when he and Fernand had cooked it up. It was now so utterly complicated. So utterly wrong. He saw the error of his ways in the sparkling eyes of the courageous woman before him. He saw his salvation. Beverly Horne-Callow, Duke of Winchester-on-Perth, drowned in the green depths of Alyssa‟s eyes and became Beverly Calloway, the son of a disgraced English soldier who had sought his fortune in Australia. He was a father, a widower, and a man suddenly and hopelessly enamored with a woman who had toppled his house of cards with the one weapon against which he had no defense: his own daughter. He resolved to make amends to this splendid woman whom he‟d so terribly wronged. He kneeled at her feet, humbling himself in his fine silks. “An epiphany can occur in the most unlikely of places, at the most unlikely of times,” he said. “I believe I‟ve just had one.” Alyssa‟s nurturing instincts almost drove her to cup the man‟s jowl.

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“Signora Ghiradelli,” he said earnestly, “you have my solemn promise that as long as I am captain of this ship, no harm shall come to you or Captain Ghiradelli.” Alyssa‟s eyes slowly closed. “To raise my hopes through such a falsehood is your cruelest act.” He took her hand again and pried her fingers open. He set her tiny palm in his. “I swear to you, on my dear Miranda‟s life. You have my word that my intent is true.” The tension she had been carrying for two days diminished. “Merci, monsieur,” Alyssa whispered, giving his big paw a squeeze. “I should think that Miranda would be rather proud of her old da right now,” he smiled. He felt good, truly good, for the first time in years. “I shall direct the crew to return sail for America this instant.” Before he could plant his foot securely to rise, Philippe stepped behind him. Callow issued a tiny grunt. “Monsieur?” Alyssa squeaked as Callow‟s eyes rolled up in his head. He slumped forward, his large body falling across her lap like giant heap of soft dough. “No!” Alyssa cried, seeing the knife handle protruding between Callow‟s shoulder blades. Callow‟s hands tightened on her chair, as though he would use it to help himself up, but then he relaxed altogether and slid to the floor.

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“Monsieur Callow!” Alyssa cried, his weight carrying her to the floor. She got on her knees and bent over him. “Monsieur, please, stay with us. For Miranda‟s sake, do not leave us.” Philippe bent over the body, extracted the knife, and began cleaning the long blade with a napkin. Alyssa desperately tried to staunch the flow of blood with her hands. “Help me!” she screamed at Boyles. Boyles merely stood in place, staring dumbly at the corpse. Alyssa pressed her bloody fingers to Callow‟s neck. He was gone. She closed his eyes, then sat on her heels, her shoulders slumped. Covering her face with her bloody hands, she thought of Miranda, who at last could have been proud of her father. Philippe stepped over Callow‟s body and went to the captain‟s chair. He made a grand production of lifting the back of his broadcloth frock coat before placing himself upon the seat. “Ah, it is a rather good fit, eh, Mr. Boyles?” Philippe said cheerfully. Kiripati and another servant entered the galley bearing trays of food. Kiripati spotted Alyssa kneeling over Callow‟s lifeless shape, and he nearly dropped a steaming platter of soft-boiled turtle eggs.

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“Serve, and move on to your other duties,” Philippe ordered darkly. “Please inform the rest of the crew that the Poseidon has a new captain.” He wielded the pearl-handled pistol that he‟d slipped from Callow‟s pocket. Kiripati moved slowly to Alyssa‟s side. “He has a daughter,” Alyssa said miserably. “And now he may watch over her properly.” Kiripati eased her away from the corpse. “Get out!” Philippe shrieked, standing and aiming the pistol at Kiripati. Kiripati helped Alyssa to a chair and collected his trays as though the pistol were no more lethal than one of Philippe‟s fingers. He left the galley with the other servant and closed the door behind him. Philippe moved around the table, tapping his fingertips together. “I suppose my first order of business is to give my ship a new name. Poseidon is so…uninspired.” “Might I suggest Hydrus?” Alyssa sneered between clenched teeth. Philippe smirked. Hydrus. Latin, for water snake. He narrowed his pale eyes and raked his ruthless gaze over Alyssa. “I‟m rather partial to Andromeda,” he said, the words slithering from his lips like oiled snakes. Andromeda, thought Alyssa. The Chained Maiden.

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“Actually, Phoenix may be more appropriate,” Philippe mused. “I have much in common with that mythological being, for I, too, came through the flames and found new life.” Boyles chuckled. “Does that make me a phoenix, too, Cap‟n?” he asked as he shoved turtle eggs into his mouth. “Most certainly not.” Philippe took aim and fired the pistol, sickening Alyssa with his sudden and vicious act. A tiny hole appeared in the center of Boyles‟s forehead. He died instantly, his head lolling against the back of the chair, a turtle egg sitting in his lax palm. Alyssa turned away, wincing. “You are Death!” she cried, aghast. “I am death,” Philippe agreed merrily, slamming his palms on the tabletop. “And your husband is next on my list!” “Captain, is everything all right in there?” called a voice outside the door. “All is as it should be,” Philippe answered. He bolted the door and propped a chair beneath the knob. “See that we are not disturbed.” Alyssa‟s head swam. Philippe Fernand was madder than she had ever imagined. Philippe watched her struggle for composure. She hadn‟t eaten in two days, and hunger was plainly sapping her strength. Seeing his moment, Phillippe lunged across the table, knocking food and half-filled coffee cups in every direction. He

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cleared the table with a swipe of his arm and forced Alyssa onto it, threading his fingers through hers and wrestling her hands above her head. He pinned them in place with one hand. “Madame!” Kiripati called from the companionway. He struggled with the door. “Did your new husband really think it would be so easy to rid himself of me?” Philippe sneered, unconcerned by the activity on the other side of the door. He pushed his face into her hair and took a deep whiff of her, infusing himself with her earthy, womanly scent. He used his free hand to pound at her thighs, forcing them to open. He wedged his narrow hips between them. “MacCready put us on the Jolie Claire, the most termite-rotted, rat-infested vessel bound for Europe. For two weeks, Boyles and I sat in the hold of that ship, bound at wrist and ankle, with scant food and water.” Philippe tore at the waist of her trousers, popping the buttons in his frenzied haste. “The captain released us, finally, and allowed us free reign of the ship as long as we promised to work for our keep.” Alyssa struggled beneath him, and he slapped her hard across the face. “Boyles, the worthless, traitorous lout, had the one brilliant idea of his life. To burn the ship.”

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He ripped her trousers open with a loud, violent tear. How Alyssa wanted to kick him, to crush his skull like she‟d crushed those of the other rats that dared attack her! “We waited until nightfall. I used the watchman‟s own knife to cut his throat.” He broke from his tale to lick her throat. She shrieked in disgust. “We destroyed all but one of the Jolie Claire‟s lifeboats, stocking that with provisions to last us until we reached land or were rescued by a passing ship. “Boyles and I were well away from the ship when the fire consumed the sails and the barrels of oil in the cargo hold.” He gripped her chin and forced her to look at him. “The captain and all of his men went down with the ship. Boyles and I sailed in the trade lanes. We were collected within a week. It wasn‟t until we reached New Orleans that I happened across one of Callow‟s crewmen in a tavern and learned of the late duke‟s interest in Captain Marc Ghiradelli.” She spat in his face. He grinned wickedly before tearing her shirt open. “With Callow‟s unfortunate passing, I am now captain of this vessel. You have developed quite a liking for sea captains, have you not?” He dropped his gaze to her chest, where the firm globes of her bosom pushed against the sheer confines of her cotton chemise.

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He licked his lips. “I doubt Captain Ghiradelli will want you once I‟ve finished with you.” His breath was hot and fetid against her cheek. “Once I‟ve left my mark on you.” He bared his teeth. Alyssa brought her head up, sharply knocking her forehead into his mouth. Phillippe cried out and spat blood, but his will to use something hot and eager overrode the pain. He was working at the buttons of his trousers when a loud, insistent knock rattled the door. “Leave us!” Philippe screamed. He clawed at Alyssa‟s pantalettes, settling more comfortably on top of her. The soft fabric of her chemise ripped with one tear, baring her to his hungry gaze. Phillippe hissed his colorfully lewd and disgusting intentions in her ear. “Get used to this, my darling,” Philippe said. “Every day for the rest of your life, however long or short that may be, you‟ll have this to look forward to.” He licked her face, from her chin to her eye, as he forced one of her fists to his groin. “I can‟t fight you,” she pleaded. She stopped struggling. “You‟re too strong. If this must be, please, do it quickly.” His face split in a wicked grin. He rewarded her acquiescence by yanking down her trousers and savagely tearing off her pantalettes. He allowed her to free her ankles from the trousers before taking her right leg and hooking it over his hip.

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She fastened her legs around his middle. “So you‟ve learned a thing or two from Captain Ghiradelli,” Philippe sneered, unbuttoning his trousers. “Or your dear departed mother. Now you‟ll learn from me.” “The first lesson will be mine to give,” she promised. She locked her ankles and squeezed, flexing the long, strong muscles of her thighs and calves. Since the day she learned to balance on two feet, Alyssa had walked, ran, or swam everywhere. Her legs were stronger than Philippe could ever have imagined. She clamped her legs tight. Philippe‟s eyes bulged from their sockets. The veins in Alyssa‟s neck stood out as she quite literally tried to squeeze the life from him. She groaned from her effort, her guttural sounds in harmony with the pounding on the door. Phillipe would have howled in pain if he could have expanded his lungs enough to draw air. Freeing her wrists, he used both hands to try to pry her legs from his middle. Her legs were as strong and immovable as a pair of pythons. Consciousness fading, he wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed, pressing his thumbs into the soft underside of her chin. Alyssa clawed at his hands, scratching and tearing his skin in her attempt to remove them. That failing, she tightened her legs even more. If she were to die, she

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would take him with her. But weakened by hunger and exhaustion, Alyssa succumbed to blackness quickly, and her legs loosened. Philippe freed himself, leaving Alyssa limp and half-naked on the table. He staggered to the door, gasping for breath, to answer the incessant banging. “What is it?” he demanded after flinging the door open. The young sailor winced at the raspberry hue of Philippe‟s face. “Well?” Philippe spat, holding his bruised ribcage. The sailor found his voice. “There was a fire,” he said excitedly. “It‟s out now, but there‟s a ship. She‟s at full sail, she‟s fully armed, and she‟s right on top of us!”

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Chapter Twenty-One

“Stake her to the foremast,” Philippe ordered. “He won‟t dare fire with his wench on deck.” Alyssa‟s eyes drowsed open at the sound of the voice she hated most in the world. Two men grabbed her arms and whisked her up to the deck. Her head throbbing, she was lashed to the foremast. She blinked until she could see clearly. And straight ahead of her was Marc, with Edmond at his right. Heaven’s Fury seemed only a few feet away, coming to rest alongside the Poseidon. Marc stood at the rail of his ship‟s fo‟c‟sle, high above the bow of the Poseidon. The wind filled the wide sleeves of his shirt and tossed his dark locks, making him appear larger and stronger than he already was. The fury of the heavens was etched across his face. If Philippe was surprised to see Edmond Verdieu, alive and well and at Marc‟s side, he showed no sign of it as he brought his knife to Alyssa‟s throat. Motionless, Marc gazed upon his wife. Alyssa‟s hands were tied behind the mast, and the thick rope had been wrapped around her legs. The cool breeze caught in her shirt, sending it dancing around her thighs. There was nothing between her sumptuous body and the lascivious stares of Callow‟s men except the lightweight cotton of the torn and bloody shirt. It took every bit of strength in

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every fiber of Marc‟s body to stop himself from flying at Philippe. Rage, blinding and white-hot, threatened to destroy his calm facade. Only by a supreme act of will did he restrain himself from leaping onto the Poseidon and snapping Philippe Fernand‟s neck. “Hold tight, Captain,” Dominic said softly at Marc‟s side. Marc, as tall and intimidating as a centurion, eyed Philippe. “Keep her!” Marc shouted. The knife pressed deeper into Alyssa‟s throat. Marc‟s expression contradicted his cavalier words. The purple clouds hanging heavy in the slate sky mirrored the turbulence limning his features. “Wh-What?” Philippe said, swallowing hard.. “I‟ve made her my wife and enjoyed her quite thoroughly,” Marc announced, capturing the attention of every hand on deck, even the two men holding Kiripati, who had started the fire on the Poseidon. “I am now master of Beaux Elysees. I have no use for the woman. If you want her, Fernand, or whoever you are, she‟s yours!” “Bastard!” Edmond raged, flying at Marc. Before he could lay a hand on Marc, Dominic and two other men subdued him. Philippe laughed, wincing at the pain in his rib cage as he did so. “It appears that you‟ve misplaced your trust once again, Monsieur Verdieu!” he taunted. He

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turned to Marc. “If you don‟t want the wench, Ghiradelli, then why did you come for her?” he asked suspiciously. “I came for Callow, Duke of Whatever-on-Perth,” Marc laughed mirthlessly. “I mean to tell him once and for all to abandon his pursuit of my ship. Is the portly gentleman indisposed?” “He is indeed,” Philippe answered with a glance daring anyone to contradict him. “Then I have only one thing to say before I leave you to your trophy,” said Marc, grinning icily. “Congratulations?” Philippe suggested. Marc‟s smile vanished. “Fire!” A cannon blast rocked the Poseidon as Marc, Edmond, Dominic, and many more of Marc‟s men leaped onto the Poseidon‟s deck, heavily armed with swords, daggers, and firearms. The smaller ship listed heavily to one side, throwing Philippe away from Alyssa. Marc caught Philippe‟s wrist and wrenched the knife from his hand. He used it to slice through the ropes binding Alyssa. Once she was free, Marc shoved her toward Dominic. “Put her aboard my ship!” Marc ordered his first mate. “Captain!” Alyssa cried, horrified by the swarm of rough and ragged sailors surrounding him.

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“It will better serve him to know that you‟re out of harm‟s way,” Dominic insisted, He grabbed Alyssa about her waist and carried her toward Heaven’s Fury. Another cannon blast rocked the ship. Alyssa flew from Dominic‟s arms. She landed in a sprawl at the feet of one of Callow‟s fallen men. Before Dominic could reach her, two of Callow‟s men fell on him, sweeping him well out of reach of Alyssa. Dominic fought them back, keeping them at bay. “Go to the Fury!” he yelled at Alyssa, even as she drew the sword from the dead man‟s stomach. Before she could assist or hinder Dominic, he was swept away in a rush of battling fists, arms, and swords. She was knocked to the deck and nearly trampled by a man who dragged another along in a headlock. Scrambling to her feet, Alyssa had no idea which men were Marc‟s and which belonged to the Poseidon. The air was acrid with the metallic stench of gunpowder and fresh blood. Swords clashed in swarms of blue sparks. She couldn‟t see Dominic or any of the other men she knew from Marc‟s crew. Deaf to the shouts of angry and wounded men, she charged on, determined to fight at her husband‟s side, or die with him. “You started the fire that brought ‟im ‟ere!” came a furious and gruff voice to Alyssa‟s right. “You can swim with the sharks, Kiripati!” viciously followed another voice.

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Two of Callow‟s men tried to wrestle Kiripati over the ship‟s railing. The sharks, anticipating the wastes of battle, circled below, awaiting the Aborigine, whose wrists had been bound at his back. Alyssa ran to Kiripati. She struck one of his attackers across the back of his neck with the broad side of the heavy sword. He released Kiripati to fight his assailant. Although his hands were tied, Kiripati defended himself by hooking one foot between the other sailor‟s legs and tripping him overboard. The sailor received an enthusiastic reception from the sharks. Alyssa wildly swung the sword left and right with both hands, warding off the scraggly-faced sailor. “Put the sword down, dearie,” he coaxed, dodging the blade and grinning with a few rotted teeth. “‟T‟would be terrible for a pretty little thing to hurt herself.” He lunged at her, easily avoiding the long blade. He twisted the sword out of her grasp and would have brought the solid hilt down against her skull if Kiripati hadn‟t neatly stopped him with a head butt to his forehead. The sailor fell dead at Alyssa‟s feet. Kiripati ran his ropes along the blade of the sword, freeing himself. He scooped Alyssa up and ran across the deck with her, toward Heaven’s Fury. “I will not leave my husband!” Alyssa screamed above the din of battle, squirming in Kiripati‟s strong arms.

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“Your husband fights like Ares!” Kiripati argued, holding onto her while shielding her from flying elbows and gun blasts. “You would be more of a hindrance than a help.” Alyssa caught a glimpse of Marc and Edmond, fighting side by side against too many men to count. Edmond used his sword as though he‟d been born with a blade in his hand. She wondered exactly how many bandits Philippe had hired to accost him on that dark night in Paris. Marc exploded through the mob, the gold-washed, etched silver blade of his cutlass felling men in every direction. As though he could feel the weight of her frightened gaze, he turned and met Alyssa‟s eyes. A pang of terror froze him for the merest instant, but it was long enough for one of the men to knock the sword from his hand. Marc grabbed the man by the throat and finished him with a barbaric twist of his head. Marc regained his sword. Kiripati hid Alyssa behind a stand of beer barrels before taking her sword and leaping into the fray to assist Marc and Edmond. Right before her hiding place, a man was struck with a club. A fine, copperscented mist spattered Alyssa‟s face. All about her, men were locked in combat. They fell, dead or wounded, while she did nothing to help them or her husband.

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A sudden flash of lightning pierced the sky. Thunder, louder than cannon fire, rattled the ship. The air became so dry Alyssa feared the sparks from the swords would ignite it, roasting them all in flames upon the churning water. The angry sky seemed to dump its contents all at once, the swollen clouds giving birth to blinding sheets of rain.

Instantly drenched, Alyssa clothing

weighed her limbs and slowed her. The storm began to wane no sooner than it started, though the melee aboard the Poseidon raged on full strength. Alyssa peeped from behind the barrels. Edmond had Philippe alone, near the rail. She watched Edmond knoed Philippe‟s sword from his hand. To her horror, Philippe withdrew Callow‟s pearl-handled pistol from his pocket. Close by, Marc ran his blade through another one of Callow‟s men. He withdrew it and saw Alyssa sprinting across the deck, her wet shirt adhering to her like a second skin. Realizing what she was doing an instant before she did it, Marc‟s blood froze in his veins. “Alyssa, no!” he roared, running toward her. Alyssa threw herself into Philippe with all her weight. Her body crashed into him, her forehead bouncing hard against his jaw as he fired. The shot went astray. The nearby rail, weakened by the cannon blasts, gave way, allowing Alyssa and Philippe to plummet into the roiling waters of the storm-tossed sea.

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Marc broke through the surface of the cold water, his lungs fighting for air. “Alyssa!” he screamed raggedly, snapping his head from side to side, searching the water. He took a deep breath and went under again, hoping and praying that she would rise to the surface or that he would see her in the depths of the dark water. He swam in wide circles, searching for her, calling for her with his heart until he thought it would burst. He was about to surface once more, his lungs on fire, when a banner of gold lilted in the water. He swam down and reached past it. His hand clamped on Alyssa‟s shoulder. He shot to the surface with her, clearing her wet hair from her face even as the men aboard Heaven’s Fury tossed him a rope. Marc, Alyssa, and the men who had dived in to search the water were hauled from the sea. Once on deck, Marc bent Alyssa face down over his arm, his hand splayed on her chest. With his other hand, he hammered her between her shoulder blades, beating the salt water from her lungs. The crew winced at their captain‟s rough treatment of his drowned mermaid, yet no one dared interfere. Marc‟s face became a battle mask more gruesome than the one he‟d worn during the fight with the Poseidon. He was determined not to lose this fight against Death. Edmond, the only man who dared approach, touched Marc‟s shoulder. Marc shook him off with a guttural noise that would have scared the mightiest grizzly bear. He lifted Alyssa by her upper arms and roughly shook her. Her head bobbled

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on the limp stem of her neck. He took her in his arms and clutched her to his chest, forcing his warmth into her cold, waterlogged body. “Aboard the Poseidon, you refused to leave me,” he whispered urgently into her ear. “Do not leave me now.” The weight of her damp hair pulled her head from his shoulder. Her face had little color, other than a violet shading beneath her eyes and to her lips. Marc hugged her tighter, fairly curling her body around his. “I love you, Alyssa Ghiradelli,” he told her, his chest filled with an agony even colder and harsher than the sea. “If you leave me now, I shall soon follow. This, I swear to you.” The crew, soaked through with rain, sweat, and blood, kept silent, locked in a fugue of grief for their captain‟s tragic loss. The sea, the sky, even the timbers of the ship were silent in that instant of Marc‟s humble pleading. A harsh cough broke that preternatural still. A string of wet, ragged coughs that rattled the lithe body in Marc‟s arms followed the first one. Marc tilted Alyssa‟s head back, clearing salty locks of her hair from her face as she coughed out the water in her lungs. He pressed her to him, nesting her head in the angle of his neck and shoulder. His warm tears fell into her hair.

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“I won‟t leave you,” she said, her voice raspy. “That was never part of our arrangement.” The ship‟s doctor hurried Marc to the captain‟s quarters with Alyssa while cheers of triumph sounded on deck. Marc placed Alyssa on his bed and moved aside just enough to allow the doctor to see to her. “She‟s with us by the grace of God and nothing else,” said Dr. Cooper. “I‟ll have a bath sent for her. A draught of brandy‟s in order as well. For all of us.” Dr. Cooper patted Marc on his shoulder before he left the cabin. Dominic came into the room as Dr. Cooper left. A gash above his right eye bled, the torn sleeve of a shirt bound his right hand, the littlest finger lost in battle. “Mi dispiace,” Dominic began, his heart heavy. “You entrusted me with her safety, and I failed—” “Neither you, nor any other man could have removed her from the Poseidon,” said Marc. “I set an impossible task upon you. For that, I ask you to forgive me.” “Grazi, mio amico,” Dominic said. “There remains one more matter to settle.” “The Poseidon,” Marc said, knowing his first mate‟s mind. “The men have been disarmed. The ship is yours. Philippe Fernand has not been recovered. Callow was found dead, stabbed in the back. Boyles was shot through the head. What do you wish to do with the ship?”

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Marc kept his eyes on Alyssa. His voice was cold enough to freeze granite when he said, “Sink it.”

Marc lifted her from the wooden tub and set her on a layer of soft linen towels spread over his bed. He bundled her up in the towels and tenderly dried her, starting with the voluminous lengths of her hair. He had washed all of the salt from her hair, and it began to gleam in the lamplight as he rubbed it dry with the towel. He carefully patted her face, then moved further down until from head to toe, she was clean and dry. Marc ran his hands over her feet, relieved that they were no longer cold and blue. His hands moved over the smooth skin of her calves and knees. Her limbs were naturally hairless, a trait inherited from her Chitimacha ancestors. His hands and his gaze abruptly stopped and he lightly touched the fresh bruises on the insides of her thighs. He silently prayed that the bruises were not proof that her greatest fear had been realized at Philippe Fernand‟s hands. Alyssa took his hand from her thigh and brought it to her lips. She kissed his fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, either from exhaustion or tears. Alyssa suspected that it was equal parts of both. He caressed her thigh, the question, unspoken,

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hovering between them. “He tried,” she said. She coughed out a last bit of seawater. “But I squeezed him.” Marc gave her a woeful smile of relief. Tentative, Alyssa asked, “Would it have mattered, had he succeeded?” Marc kissed her cheeks, her chin, her forehead, her temples, her nose, and even the top of her head before kissing her lips. He gathered her into his arms and pulled a blanket around them. He placed his hand over her heart and said, “This is what matters most to me. I thought I could take you for my wife and return to my old life without looking back. I now know that I can‟t live without you. I love you. Where you are, is where I belong.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. The two days they had been apart felt like two centuries. He pressed her onto the bed. She pulled the dirty remnants of his shirt from his body. “I am filthy,” he protested half-heartedly, allowing her to pull him on top of her. She caressed his face and shifted her hips to align with his. Filthy or not, he was just as ready for her as she was for him. She boldly took his mouth in another kiss, tasting the salt and sea on him. “You are beautiful,” she assured him. She ran a finger lightly over his lower lip. “Never have I seen anything more beautiful.”

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“Your kiss stole those very words from my lips,” Marc said. He bowed his head to whisper in her ear. She opened his trousers and freed him. He whispered in his native language, the words lovely as a song. Even if she had no understanding of Italian, his touch communicated his message more skillfully than words. He loved her. He adored her. He cherished her. She was his life. Through touch she replied, making him know that she loved him. She trusted him. She needed him. She was his. Their union was as tempestuous as the stormy sea that had come so dangerously close to forever tearing them apart. Alyssa held Marc and lifted her hips to meet each of his thrusts. Without leaving the tight glove of her body, he curled over her to take her breasts into his hands. He guided a rosy crown to his mouth, wrestling it with his tongue and teeth while his fingers kneaded the other eager bud. Unsatisfied, he brought them together, to lave each of them at once. The hot, moist touch of his mouth sent an eruption of volcanic pleasure spiraling through Alyssa. She reveled in the fact that she was gloriously and rapturously alive. There was no Philippe Fernand and no Callow. She hadn‟t been

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kidnapped and Angelo hadn‟t been hurt. She hadn‟t fallen into the sea. There was only life and the love of the man whom she could not live without. Marc gripped her ankles and held them wide apart before pinning her heels to the backs of her thighs. She cried his name; he settled higher between her knees, delving deeper and deeper with each stroke. Gasping, almost sobbing with joy, Alyssa shouted upon reaching the pinnacle of her pleasure and fell headlong into a whirlwind of pure bliss. Marc called out to the heavens, Alyssa‟s response ensnaring him, wringing his seed from him with a force that was almost violent. Sunbursts of ecstasy continued to dazzle Alyssa while Marc sat back on his heels, pulling her along with him. He clapped her body to his to pour into her, searing her insides. Another wave of satisfaction jolted Alyssa. Holding his face to hers, she kissed him. Their loving was fiercely satisfying, both physically and emotionally. Marc held her, allowing her to do with him as she wanted. He had wanted her perhaps more than she‟d wanted him, but he wondered if her aggressiveness had much to do with the fact that she had been a helpless captive for two days. He had no doubt that she loved him, and that she enjoyed the act of loving him. But for this moment, he believed that she needed to exercise control, to reassert mastery over at least one aspect of her life.

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He caressed her back. He traced her neck and shoulder with kisses and licked each of her nipples before tasting her lips once more. Long after their breathing and heartbeats had returned to normal, they continued to sit in the center of the bed, still joined. Alyssa held on to her husband, acclimating herself to the motion of the ship and its noises. The creaking of the ship and the smell of the wind from the open sea was so very different from the hoots and cries of the bayou and the scent of the breeze off the marsh. The cry of the timbers, the gruff voices and course accents of the crew, the clatter of Callow‟s cutlery, the scurry of the rats…the noises of the Poseidon had terrified her. The sounds and movement of Heaven’s Fury were the soothing lullaby after a terrible, terrible nightmare. “Is he dead?” Her voice was so small and quiet. Marc pulled from her and studied her face. Her earlier forthright demeanor was gone. She looked as frightened and unsure as herself as she had been on Christmas day, when he found her at her mother‟s coffin. “We never recovered his body,” Marc answered, cupping her face. “The Poseidon sits at the bottom of the sea. Philippe Fernand surely rests in the belly of a shark.”

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Her eyes searched his. “Were any of the Poseidon‟s men saved?” “The crew was permitted to board life boats before my cannons finished what had already been started.” “There was a man, an Aborigine,” Alyssa began anxiously. “He hid me from Callow‟s men.” Marc stepped into the tub of now cold water and gave himself a quick dunking, rinsing the salt from his skin and hair. “Kiripati te Nikuradse,” Marc said as he shook his hair and stepped out of the tub. “If he hadn‟t set the Poseidon‟s mizzenmast on fire, we might never have spotted the ship. He kept you safe during the fight and he leaped into the shark-infested sea to search for you no sooner than I myself dived in. While my base instinct was to slay a man with such devotion to my wife, common courtesy dictated that I invite him aboard Heaven’s Fury. Kiripati is in the crew‟s quarters.” Relieved, Alyssa would have lain there, drunk on the sight of her husband‟s nude form, if he hadn‟t been bleeding. The bath had revealed the fine cut layered almost perfectly over his old scar. She hopped out of the bed, the blanket wrapped around her. She snatched up a damp towel and held it to his middle. “This is little more than a scratch,” Marc protested. “Your „scratch‟ is nearly a foot long and in danger of becoming infected,” Alyssa said. “Have you no doctor aboard the Fury?”

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Marc caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “He had more pressing injuries to see to.” Alyssa took his hand and sat him on the bed. Marc touched her hair as she cleaned and examined the wound. “This must be sutured immediately,” she said. Marc wound his fingers in the golden silk of her hair. How was it that she was so energetic? He scarcely had the strength to keep his eyes open. Alyssa, still wrapped in only the blanket, opened the door and called for the ship‟s doctor, who came running. Alyssa told him the things she required, and he brought them to her. Marc was sound asleep by the time the doctor returned. “The captain hasn‟t slept in days,” Dr. Cooper told Alyssa as he watched her stitch Marc‟s wound. She worked with the skill of a practiced surgeon. Her stitches were neat and so tiny that it was unlikely that the captain would add another glorious scar to his collection. “He‟s due for a good rest.” “I tend to sap his strength,” Alyssa smiled. She touched Marc‟s cheek. The hasty bath had left his skin clean, but had exposed the cuts and bruises he‟d sustained while fighting for her. She wondered once more how Marc had gotten that old scar across his abdomen. “Mrs. Ghiradelli?” Dr. Cooper raised a hand to touch her shoulder upon seeing the sad change in her countenance. As a proper English gentleman, he deemed it inappropriate to lay a hand upon his captain‟s wife while she was

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clothed in only a blanket. “His wounds are superficial,” he assured her. “A proper rest should renew him.” Alyssa nodded and turned to Dr. Cooper. Fully dressed though dawn was hours away, Dr. Cooper stunk of gunpowder. Dried blood streaked him from chest to foot. Alyssa understood why he had been so quick in responding to her call. He had been awake, still tending the crew‟s injuries. “If you please, doctor,” Alyssa said, making a turning motion with her finger. Dr. Cooper accommodated her by turning his back. Alyssa covered her sleeping husband with the blanket and lovingly kissed his cheek. She rifled through a chest of drawers and found one of Marc‟s linen shirts and a pair of soft, fawn-colored trousers. She quickly dressed, gathered the bandages and suturing equipment, and tapped the doctor on his shoulder. “Do you have any capon‟s tail?” she asked as she tied her long hair into a loose knot at her nape. “I beg your pardon, madame?” Dr. Cooper had never seen anything like this in fifteen years at sea. Snatched from the cold grip of death only hours earlier, Alyssa now looked capable of conquering Her Majesty‟s Royal Navy singlehandedly.

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“Capon‟s tail,” she repeated, ushering Dr. Cooper from the cabin and following on his heels. “It is a root, excellent for promoting sleep and steadying the nerves.” “I don‟t believe we have any such thing aboard the ship,” Dr. Cooper said, leading her to the crew‟s quarters. “Surely you have a supply of willow bark tea, for pain.” Ignoring Dr. Cooper‟s strong objection, Alyssa entered the cramped crew‟s quarters and sat herself upon a crate situated between the narrow rope bunks of two injured men. The man on Alyssa‟s right had a horrible wound above his right eye. “Please, please, don‟t take me!” he begged when Alyssa touched him. “I wish only to examine your wound,” she said gently. The injured man blinked. He calmed and settled back into his bunk. “I thought you was an angel, come to carry me off to my reward,” the man sighed as he closed his eyes. “Thank the Lord, you‟re only an angel.”

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Chapter Twenty-Two

Alyssa worked alongside Dr. Cooper through the night. The pink and blue tendrils of dawn were filtering through the ship‟s portholes by the time Alyssa reached Dominic‟s cabin. The first mate lay in his bunk, his injured hand upon his belly. “I‟m sorry it‟s taken me so long to get to you, Dominic,” Alyssa said as she sat on an overturned crate at his side. She examined his eyes. His pupils were dilated. Though he was coherent, he was clearly in shock. “You should be in the captain‟s cabin,” Dominic said. “Pardon my boldness, signora, but Marc will fight first and ask questions last once he notices your absence.” “My husband is taking a much needed rest,” Alyssa said, drawing a roll of fresh bandages from her makeshift medicine bag. “His injuries aren‟t severe.” “He‟s older now,” Dominic said softly as Alyssa pulled the fabric remnant from his maimed hand. “He‟s more experienced. He was fully prepared to fight for his own this time.” Alyssa was somewhat grateful to see a half-empty bottle of rum at Dominic‟s hip. She hoped the alcohol would help dull the pain he was about to endure.

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“Is that how he got that scar on his belly?” Alyssa asked. “Fighting for his own?” Dominic took a long swig of rum. The movement of the air was enough to make his wound sing with pain, though Dr. Cooper had earlier cauterized the site. “Tell me about Melinda,” Alyssa said. Dominic‟s brown eyes sharpened. “He told you of Melinda?” Alyssa shook her head. She gently guided Dominic‟s hand over a basin of clean water. “The last time Marc wrote to my parents was ten years ago. They never let me read that letter. I suppose I was too young. I later heard my mother crying in my father‟s arms. She mentioned Marc and the name Melinda. They never told me why Marc stopped writing, or revealed the contents of that letter.” “Melinda was Marc‟s fiancée,” Dominic said. His words were a bit slurred, and his Italian accent was more pronounced. The rum took a solid hold on him as Alyssa cleaned and dressed his hand. “Melinda Cecily St. Claire, the daughter of Lord Randall Hewitt,” Dominic said. “Lord Hewitt had large shipping interests and did frequent business with Count Ghiradelli. The last time the Hewitts visited the Ghiradellis, the family made the return trip on the Massimo, one of Count Ghiradelli‟s private ships. Marc accompanied them, so the rest of the Hewitt clan could meet their soon-to-be inlaw. I was a crewman aboard the doomed vessel.

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“We were four days into the journey when Spanish profiteers recognized the Ghiradelli flag. The attack came fast and hard. Their ship, the Nightcrawler, was fully armed. Her men outnumbered the Massimo‟s crew two to one. Her most vicious weapon was her captain, Sergio Ballesteras. He expected to find a fortune in goods aboard our ship. He discovered little of marketable value, no more than Lady Hewitt‟s jewelry. He decided to take the ship. His men went wild, destroying everything and everyone in sight. “We fought. We made a stand. For many of us, the Massimo was our only home. Count Ghiradelli had been a fair and generous employer. We would not give up his finest ship. Many men perished. Our captain was shot through the head. Lord Hewitt was murdered. Lady Hewitt perished at his side. When it was clear that our cause was lost, a handful of men managed to escape in a lifeboat. Marc fought with the strength of a god to make good our escape. He tried to lower Melinda into the boat, but she refused to leave him. Marc had lifted her, to drop her into the waiting arms of the men in the boat, when Ballesteras himself attacked Marc from behind. Marc held Ballesteras and his men at bay for as long as he could, but Melinda was too frightened to jump into the boat. “I couldn‟t help him. Marc had already put me in the boat, my arm and leg broken. From the lifeboat we heard and saw everything. „You dare to hide your finest treasure from me?‟ Ballesteras said. His men overpowered Marc and pulled

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Melinda from his arms. She was carried off to the Nightcrawler. Ballesteras and his men beat Marc. Then Ballesteras slashed Marc‟s belly and threw him overboard. “The Nightcrawler‟s men shot at us as we fished Marc from the sea. Two men were killed. I took a bullet in my broken leg. The Massimo was burned. The Nightcrawler sailed away at top speed with Melinda‟s screams echoing across the sea. “Marc was losing so much blood. For two days, he literally held his insides in as we drifted. He faded in and out of consciousness. During his moments of lucidity, he tried to take the oars, determined to sail under his own power in search of the Nightcrawler. God finally took mercy on us, and we were rescued by an English ship. Of the ten of us who took to the lifeboat, seven of us made it to London. Gian was notified, and the Italian, Spanish, and English governments posted a bounty on Ballesteras and the Nightcrawler. “Marc was still recovering in hospital in England, when the Nightcrawler was apprehended. No time was wasted in putting Ballesteras and his crew on trial. We were called to testify. By then, the number of Massimo survivors was down to five. Several of Ballesteras‟s men turned on him. They avoided the gallows by testifying against him in exchange for life imprisonment. “Marc sat through every bit of testimony, listening to the depravities Melinda endured before dying with Marc‟s name on her lips. Her body was never

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recovered. The Admiralty Judge found Ballesteras and his men guilty. After he read his verdict, he spoke words that I shall never forget. „May God have mercy on your souls, for I shall deliver unto you Heaven‟s fury for the atrocities you have committed upon our seas.‟ “The men were hanged at dawn the following morning. Ballesteras‟ body was quartered, and a segment was burned in the north, south, east and west corners of the harbor as a warning to other profiteers. “Marc returned to Italy. He did his best to make restitution to the families of the Massimo‟s fallen and injured men. Of the survivors, every one of us returned to the sea with Marc two years later, when Count Ghiradelli gave him his first ship. The count hoped that the ship would restore some of Marc‟s zeal for living. If anything, it gave him a means to isolate himself. He spent five years on that ship, distancing himself from the world he knew prior to Melinda‟s death, while Heaven’s Fury was constructed. “When Heaven’s Fury was completed, she became his love and passion. Until he met you.” Dominic‟s eyes slowly closed, pain and alcohol inducing slumber. Careful not to let her tears fall on him, Alyssa gingerly placed his neatly dressed hand over his heart.

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Marc woke up to find his wife gone. He tugged on a pair of breeches and half in a panic, went to find her. He found her in the last place he thought to look—on deck, as far out on the bow as she could go, with only the rail separating her from the salty headwind gently blowing her hair from her face. Marc stepped behind her and folded her into his arms. She swayed slightly, her movements dictated by the motion of the ship upon the water. As if hypnotized, she stared, unblinking, at the endless view before her. “I‟ve never seen the ocean,” she said breathlessly. She’s right, Marc thought. She had been in the cargo hold when the Poseidon went to sea, and other concerns occupied her during the battle aboard the ill-fated ship. Though she had swallowed half the sea when she went overboard, she had been unconscious. She had a nice purple lump to mark the place where her head had struck Philippe‟s. “It‟s…it‟s…a tapestry of lullabies,” she sighed. “A new melody begins just as another one ends. What woman could want jewels when the sea is an endless carpet of diamonds? Oh, Marc, if only I were a poet. Perhaps then I could find words to describe such beauty.” Transfixed, she closed her eyes. “What secrets she must hold. She whispers. It sounds like my name.” Marc pressed his cheek to her hair. “You see her as I do.”

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“I could stand here all day, just watching the sunlight shatter upon the waves.” She turned in his embrace and wrapped her arms around his neck. “But I have a few more men to look after. I came up for a breath of fresh air, to revive myself. How quickly the sea clears your mind…” Marc indeed knew the narcotic effect of the sea. He had relied on it for a decade. “Come,” he said, leading her away from the rail. “It‟s time for you to rest.” “I‟d like to look in on your men first,” she said. “Alyssa—” “Captain,” she said sweetly. “Marc,” he said sternly. “Five minutes?” Alyssa offered. “I‟ll come for you, if you aren‟t in my cabin, in my bed, in my arms, in five minutes,” he told her. She started for the stairs that led to the crew‟s quarters. She turned at the top and gave Marc a brisk salute. “Aye, aye, Captain.” With that, she disappeared below. Five minutes later, Marc was deaf to explanations when he thundered into the mates‟ cabin and found his wife. He practically slung Alyssa over his shoulder and carried her back to his quarters. Alyssa squirmed out of his grasp. “I was with a patient!”

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“Dominic is sleeping soundly,” Marc said. “Which is exactly what you should be doing.” “Your men nearly gave their lives to rescue me,” Alyssa countered. “Surely I owe them—” “Your life?” he cut in. “Not as long as I am captain of this ship.” He sat on the bed and propped her between his knees. He unbuttoned her shirt. “You shall place yourself upon this bed and stay here until we dock in Louisiana. I want no arguments, Signora Ghiradelli.” “Yes, Captain,” she mumbled, narrowing her eyes. “Marc,” he corrected. He undressed her. Passing his hands over the bumps, bruises, and scrapes she had acquired on the Poseidon, he knew her injuries were superficial,that they would quickly heal. But they were reminders of how close he‟d come to losing her. Alyssa responded to the pain in his eyes, holding him close, cradling his head against her breasts. He pulled her onto his lap for a deep and loving kiss. “I would die before I allowed harm to come to you ever again,” he vowed. He covered her bare shoulder with kisses. “And I would die if it ever came to that, Captain,” she whispered.

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Manon stood on the gallery of Angelo‟s room, staring into the sky as if she could see Heaven’s Fury returning with the people she loved. They had been gone for five days that had been filled with waiting and wondering. And unspoken accusations and veiled threats. Joshua, Marguerite, Father Devon, and Adette formed a wall of defense against those who wished to condemn her. But Angelo fortified her most. His love and belief in her bolstered her spirit. Manon went back into Angelo‟s room. She left the French doors open to let in the morning light and the fresh air. She washed her hands in a basin of cool water before taking a fresh roll of bandages to Angelo‟s bed. He was asleep, though the light of morning touched his brow. His head rested on a nest of golden curls atop his pillow. His lips were slightly parted. He looked so perfectly divine. Manon suddenly wanted nothing more than to feel his lips upon hers. Her heart rapped furiously as she kneeled at his bedside and leaned forward, moving closer and closer, until she felt his soft breath against her lips. He sighed. The gentle sound froze her until she was sure that he would remain asleep. His face turned, and his head settled deeper into the pillow. His left ear was positioned perfectly beneath her mouth. She boldly touched her lips to the pliant flesh. When he didn‟t stir, she delicately touched the tip of her tongue to the rim of his ear. You taste wonderful, she mouthed.

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She was braced to stand but then felt something swishing at her skirts. She first thought it was one of Adette‟s kittens. The little scamps were always underfoot. As she remembered that Adette had already given the last of the litter away, she realized that the creature at her skirts was none other than her ailing patient. She swung her gaze to Angelo‟s face. Sparkling maple orbs merrily gleamed at her expression of horror. “Must you always do everything backwards?” he asked, his voice gravelly with sleep. His hand boldly ventured under her skirt and found her inner thigh. “I believe it is the handsome prince who awakens the sleeping beauty, not the other way around.” “I…I…I…,” she stammered. “Yes?” His fingertips grazed the sheer fabric at the juncture of her thighs. “…came….” “Already?” he teased. “…to change your bandage!” His hand sank into the moist heat between her legs. She grabbed his wrist through her skirt and petticoats, seeking not to remove his hand, but to hold it in place. He kneaded her with his thumb, seeking that tiny pulse tipping her hidden womanhood. Manon pitched her head back. Her throat tightened with unspoken cries of delight. She whimpered when his hand left her to find the waistband of her

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pantalettes. His fingers slid into her undergarments and found the slick heat between her legs. The thrill of his flesh against hers so intimately weakened her knees. Tenderly, he caressed her, preparing her for invasion. His longest finger entered her, and gasping, she ground her hips into his hand. “Shhh, cara mia,” Angelo murmured, “unless you wish to share this moment with Adette and Marguerite.” Manon was oblivious to all but the languid sensations flowing through her. Her breathing became quicker, harder, her hips rocking to accept each thrust of his finger. “Mon Dieu!” she cried with the addition of a second finger, and the massaging of her pink pearl with his thumb. It was Angelo‟s turn to call out in surprise at the sudden snap of her around his fingers. Her fingernails bit through her clothing to leave faint crescent impressions in his skin. She swayed on her feet, a tiny moan accompanying each grasp at Angelo‟s fingers. At last, she fell over his legs in a panting, breathless heap. He caressed her cheek with one of his fingers, urging her to look at him. She did so, taking his hand to kiss each of his fingers before touching his hand to her cheek. He cupped her face and drew it to his. He kissed her, savoring the scent and heat of her lips. “You taste wonderful,” he whispered.

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Manon had thoughts of nothing other than this beautiful man with the kind eyes and gentle touch. The crash of the door stole her attention. She leaped away from the bed, her heart thundering in alarm. “They‟re here!” Adette cried gleefully from the doorway. “Caleb and Alyssa and Marc have returned!”

The foyer and the salons filled. Alyssa and Marc and their entourage were received by hundreds of arms eager to embrace them, by hundreds of hearts offering thanks to God for their safe return, and by tears of happiness and relief too numerous to count. The frenzy of good cheer and celebration abruptly quieted the moment Manon and Angelo appeared at the top of the stairs. The crowd slowly parted, permitting Alyssa and Marc to make their way forward. Angelo, leaning more on Manon than he would have liked, struggled down two stairs. The effort almost brought him to his knees. Before he could attempt a third step, Alyssa and Marc embraced him. Alyssa tenderly held Angelo‟s face to hers. She regarded him as he regarded her. Her thumb lightly grazed a patch of bruised flesh above his left temple. “I feared the worst,” she murmured. Her gaze dropped to his midsection, where she made out the bulk of the bandages through his shirt. “It very nearly came to pass.”

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Angelo cupped her nape. Her lovely face was pale beneath her bruises, and she looked so very weary. “I failed you,” he said. He swung his gaze to Marc. “Forgive me.” Wincing, he clutched the railing to stop his knees from buckling. Marc, Alyssa, and Manon reached for him to support him. “I forgive you for nearly dying to save my wife, dear friend,” Marc said. “You shouldn‟t be on your feet,” Alyssa admonished softly before ordering him back to his room. Marc took his left side, Manon his right. They helped Angelo to his room and deposited him on the feather bed. A parade of friends followed them. They crowded into Angelo‟s room even as Alyssa washed her hands and examined his wound. “Your care has been exquisite,” Alyssa told Manon, who handed her a fresh roll of bandages. “Manon saved his life,” Joshua said proudly. “Manon is my life,” Angelo added, passing his hand over her skirt. “Manon is a traitor who nearly got you killed!” Melody cried. She shouldered her way to Angelo‟s bedside. “Melody!” Alyssa said, aghast. “Surely, you—” “We have seen your men, Captain Ghiradelli,” Melody went on. “They look as if they fought Satan to rescue Alyssa. How many lives were lost because of Manon‟s treachery?”

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Hushed whispers filled the room and the hallway. Fingers pointed and eyes slanted at Manon. Joshua and Cedric began to speak at once. Joshua defended Manon, Cedric called for her banishment. Father Devon tried to keep the peace between them. “Stop it!” shouted a voice from the hallway. “Stop fightin‟!” Curious men, women, and children parted to grant Caleb passage into the room. He held one hand protectively over a wound in his torso, Adette helped him stand to face everyone. “‟T‟warn‟t Manon who started all the trouble for Miz Alyssa,” Caleb said, his tears welling. He would have stood taller to bravely face their certain wrath if not for the injury that left him bowed in pain. The room grew eerily quiet, all most interested in what Caleb had to say. “I done it,” Caleb said sadly, struggling to keep his tears from falling. He searched the crowd for India. They had retrieved her in New Orleans before returning to Beaux Elysees. Once he met his sister‟s eyes, he continued. “When we was in N‟Orleans, I—” “Caleb,” Alyssa interrupted, her voice a shield against anyone who would dare to act or speak against the boy. “You‟ve been injured. You and everyone else who fought so heroically for my freedom must be cared for.”

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Manon sighed deeply with relief. Marguerite and Adette collected women to see to the needs of Marc‟s wounded men. Once the hallway and Angelo‟s room emptied, Alyssa gathered Manon into an embrace. “I can only imagine what you must have endured,” Alyssa whispered. She kissed Manon‟s cheek. “Oh, cherie,” Manon said, “it was nothing compared to what you must have suffered.” Melody, her face ablaze with shame, meekly stood beside Edmond. When Manon and Alyssa separated, Rina stepped forward. “Manon, I….” Rina lifted her face. “I am so very sorry,” she said earnestly. Alyssa held Manon‟s hands. Manon‟s tongue was a double-edged sword often used to ruthlessly cut those who angered her. Manon had also been known to resort to physical outbursts. The last thing Alyssa wanted to see was more fighting. “It was simply a misunderstanding,” Manon said. Cedric apologized next, followed by Melody, whose words came through a torrent of tears. To everyone‟s surprise, perhaps most to her own, Manon closed her arms around Melody, patting the younger woman‟s back until her tears subsided.

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“I would have been wild with anger, too, if I thought I was about to lose the man I loved,” Manon said, finally understanding the source of Melody‟s wrath. She used the hem of her apron to dry Melody‟s eyes. “See to Edmond. See to your love‟s comfort as I must see to mine.” Edmond kissed Manon‟s forehead, then guided Melody from the room. Manon went to the bureau, where Alyssa poured a cup of water for Angelo. Manon rested her hand on Alyssa‟s shoulder. “You‟re pale,” Manon said. “You‟re trembling, and I can hear the rattle in your breathing. Go to your suite, and I‟ll bring you a pot of stinging nettle tea.” Alyssa‟s lips curved in an exhausted smile. Stinging nettle tea was a good remedy for breathing and chest ailments. Alyssa had never realized that Manon had learned Rose‟s lessons so well. “I would like that very much,” Alyssa said. Her hand visibly shaking, she handed Angelo‟s water cup to Manon. “I believe the past few days have suddenly caught up to me.” Alyssa grabbed the edge of the bureau to steady herself. Marc rose from Angelo‟s bedside. “All is well now,” Manon said, placing her hands on Alyssa‟s shoulders. “You are home. Never again shall you be torn from us.” Manon‟s reassuring words unleashed the fear and anxiety that Alyssa had managed to suppress. Her emotions painfully filled her chest. Her shoulders visibly

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rose and fell in her struggle to steady her breathing and calm herself. She couldn‟t catch her breath nor move words past her despair. Tears, full and shiny as pearls, glistened in her eyes before trailing down her cheeks. Manon hugged her close. She had heard and seen enough of Marc‟s men to know how hard the fight for Alyssa had been. Angelo‟s condition proved the viciousness of Callow‟s men. Only God knew what nightmare Alyssa had survived. Alyssa lurched from Manon‟s arms and fled the room, barrelling down the corridor, recoiling from the people milling about. She pushed her way down the stairs and through the mansion until she emerged in the courtyard. Running, stumbling, she headed for the bayou. Every part of her body ached, the pain radiating from the inside out, her heart at the hub. Weak with exhaustion, she couldn‟t push back the images crowding into her head. No matter how deep into the bayou she fled, she couldn‟t outrun the scent of blood and gunpowder, the hole in Boyles‟ head, or the light leaving Callow‟s eyes just after he had earned his redemption. Angelo‟s broken body, Caleb‟s betrayal, the witch hunt for Manon…and through it all was Philippe Fernand‟s vile touch and sinister laugh. Tears muddying her vision, she almost tripped over a fallen tree and stumbled through a thick curtain of Spanish moss. Just when the perpetual green

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would overwhelm her, she fell into her clearing, into the depths of her anguish. She curled up on her rock and sobbed fiercely, her fists pressed to her eyes. And then he was there. Her husband, breathless from his pursuit. “Marc….” He climbed onto her rock and held her, cupping her head in one hand and pressing it into his chest. His body enveloped hers, shielding her, protecting her. Words tumbling from her lips, she told him everything, from the rainy afternoon in the schoolhouse to the endless task of patching and repairing the men who had courageously fought and suffered to rescue her. “I was so frightened and angry!” she finished. “God help me, I wanted to kill him. I wanted to see the sharks tear him to pieces!” He pressed kisses in her hair, holding her so close that there was no room for the memories of her ordeal to come between them. She sagged into him, completely spent, her bayou coming to life around them. Marc‟s heart leaped at the sight of a bobcat eyeing them from a near clump of Virginia creeper. The animal‟s eyes flashing gold and green, it seemed to survey Marc with distrust. It sniffed the air, its eyes intently fixed on Alyssa. Seemingly satisfied, the big cat silently bounded into the thick foliage. The creatures of the bayou skittered through the undergrowth, scampered up trees or plopped into pools. They made their presence

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known, but left the occupants of the rock undisturbed. Even the mosquitoes, their long legs dangling, hummed past without stopping. Alyssa slept, stirring only briefly when Marc rose with her. Dusk dusted the eternal green with purple shadows, and Marc carried her back to the mansion. Joshua was on the verandah with a lantern, awaiting their return. Joshua held the doors open for Marc, who carried Alyssa into the Grand salon. Up the stairs Marc went with her, and Manon opened the door to the master suite. Marguerite had already turned down the bed. Marc lovingly undressed his wife and tucked her beneath the quilts. He disrobed and joined here there, watching the somnolent movement of her chest until long after darkness settled over Beaux Elysees.

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Chapter Twenty-Three

Beaux Elysees quickly returned to its normal routine. The adults went about the mundane business of readying the estate for the arrival of spring. The children resumed classes in the tiny brick schoolhouse. Although all seemed well, there existed an undercurrent of tension and heightened awareness none dared voice. But through its contentment and efficiency, Beaux Elysees stood ready to resist whatever force hurled at it by man or nature. Despite the looming shadow of the unnamed threat, Beaux Elysees thrived, and love bloomed in the fertile spring. Within two months of Alyssa‟s triumphant rescue, Father Devon performed three marriage ceremonies. Cedric and Rina were first to wed. In the garden, with only their closest friends in attendance at the hastily arranged ceremony, Father Devon had great fun with Rina‟s noticeable belly and the fact that Mr. and Mrs. MacCready‟s union had clearly been consummated well in advance of the exchange of vows. Edmond and Melody eloped in New Orleans. Their marriage plans had been kept secret from everyone with the exception of Alyssa and Marc. Alyssa had so wanted to go to the civil ceremony, but Marc refused to leave Beaux Elysees unprotected. Allowing Alyssa to go with a guard other than himself had been

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inconceivable. Alyssa settled for arranging a lavish reception at Beaux Elysees for the new Monsieur and Madame Verdieu. Angelo and Manon exchanged vows in the Grand Salon on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The weather prevented the fairy-tale garden ceremony of Manon‟s dreams, yet she could not have been happier. She had sunlight and roses as long as Angelo was at her side. Father Devon‟s third wedding was that of Joshua and Marguerite, who were united at long last. Love abounded at Beaux Elysees. Father Devon had weddings scheduled for every other weekend through to November. “It won‟t be long before the christenings begin!” the old Jesuit laughed one bright day in May as he patted Alyssa‟s shoulder and glanced at the barely discernible swell of her belly. “Have you told the captain that we‟ve a bairn on the way?” “Father,” Alyssa chided, blushing, though they were alone in the herb garden. “I cannot tell Marc until I absolutely must.” Father Devon watched her snatch weeds from the rows of chervil and purple sage. She stopped to wipe the back of her gloved hand across her brow. “You must tell him, child,‟ Father Devon urged gently.

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“I told you of my pregnancy in the strictest confidence,” Alyssa said. “I would have kept my secret, had I known that you would harass me with it at every turn.” Father Devon touched the brim of Alyssa‟s wide straw hat. “He loves you so. He wants only to protect you.” “He is smothering me,” she said. “I am surprised that he isn‟t perched there on the stone wall, shooting the robins that dare to land on my shoulder.” “You soon won‟t be able to conceal the wee one beneath your father‟s shirts and those trousers, God curse them.” “Marc will imprison me in the mansion the very instant he learns of his baby,” Alyssa said. “Already I have no freedom to leave the estate without him. He‟s cleared the trees and brush from the schoolhouse. He refuses to allow me to visit the Chiassons.” She tossed the trowel she‟d been holding. It landed point first, piercing the rich topsoil. “He forbids me to go into the bayou.” “That hasn‟t stopped you, lass,” Father Devon whispered. Alyssa kneeled at a row of basil. She took up a cluster of golden marigolds to plant among the young herbs to deter insects. No, she hadn‟t stopped visiting the bayou to collect herbs and flowers or enjoy a swim in the brackish water. “How did you know?” she asked.

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“I saw you scaling the trellis beside your gallery last night,” Father Devon said. “The sight very nearly stopped my heart, seeing you climb into your room like a fairy spirit. I am quite surprised that the captain remains asleep when you come in smelling like a muskrat.” She had come close to being caught more than once, although she had learned to arrange her pillows in such a way as to deceive Marc‟s sleeping arms into believing that they were wrapped around her. Barring any sudden or suspicious noises, Marc slept very soundly. Alyssa took advantage of her husband‟s exhaustion and used those precious moments to replenish herself in the bayou. “One ought not practice under cover of night what one can do by the light of day,” Father Devon advised. Alyssa stood and tipped her hat from her face. She planted her gloved hands on her hips. “Father,” she began, “are you telling me to openly defy my husband?” Father Devon cupped her soil-smudged cheeks. “I am telling you to share your heart‟s desires with him.”

Alyssa marched into the stable, where a healthy Angelo and several other men tried to subdue a feisty young stallion that had kicked down its stall door. Mindless of the colorful cursing in three languages and the riotous activity of six

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men attempting to restrain one wild horse, Alyssa tapped Angelo on his right shoulder. Sweat flew from his brow as he turned to face her. “Alyssa, please, leave before the horse rears again!” Angelo said impatiently. “He‟s already taken the mustard out of one man today. Marc would skin me if he finds you here.” “Angelo,” Alyssa began, the tone of her voice commanding the attention of even the foaming, stomping horse. “Will my husband be joining you later?” “Si,” Angelo answered warily. The gleam in Alyssa‟s eyes was only slightly less dangerous than that in the eyes of the untamed stallion. “Please tell the captain that I am unable to join him for our midday meal. I shall be working in the bayou.” Angelo was stunned. The men attempting to tether the horse froze in shock. Even the horse seemed to snort in amazement as Alyssa left the stable.

A series of grunts and gasps ending on a scream drew Marc‟s hand to the dagger sheathed at his thigh. Not again, dear God, his panic-stricken heart prayed as he tore through the undergrowth and dashed past the goliath trunks of ancient oaks. Bursting into a small clearing, his darkest nightmare played out in the sunlight—Alyssa on her back, sprawled over a fallen tree, Kiripati looming over her, the tip of his sword inches from the tender flesh of her throat.

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“Traitorous bastard!” Marc shouted furiously.

He leaped on Kiripati,

bringing him down with a sharp blow to the Aborigine‟s neck. Marc would have pummeled Kiripati into the spongy earth if Alyssa had not thrown herself between them. “Stop it, please!” Alyssa cried. She shielded Kiripati with her own body to give him the chance to stagger to his feet. “He had a sword at your throat!” Marc charged viciously, lunging for Kiripati. Alyssa planted her hands on Marc‟s chest, rooting herself between the two men. Kiripati kept silent. Between a husband and wife was the most dangerous place in which a man could find himself. “Kiripati is teaching me to fight with a sword,” Alyssa hastily explained. “I begged him to. No one else would help me.” Kiripati retrieved his sword and the one Alyssa had been using. Marc struggled to corral his rage. Without a word, Kiripati exited, leaving husband and wife to work out their dispute. Marc took Alyssa by her shoulders. Before he could draw a breath to lecture her, she shrugged from his grasp. “I asked Kiripati to teach me because I knew that you wouldn‟t, nor would you have allowed Joshua, Angelo, or Cedric to teach me.” To Marc‟s thinking, there were so many things wrong with what she had done, he had no idea where to start reprimanding her. “You are never to leave Beaux Elysees unless I am with you, you know that,” he growled.

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“You are my husband,” Alyssa said with lethal calm, scaring off the birds and small animals in the undergrowth. “You are not my master. I shall come and go as I please.” Marc moved toward her. She stepped out of his reach. “I promised to protect you.” “Have I not proven that I can take care of myself? On Callow‟s ship, I—” Marc cringed at the memory as he once again took her by her shoulders, pulling her to him with startling urgency. “You died in my arms!” he growled. “I was unable to prevent your abduction. I‟ll be damned, Alyssa, before I ever find myself that helpless again. I will not allow you to endanger your life. You will obey me!” He released her. Alyssa, utterly stupefied, stumbled back a step. Once the sting of his words wore off, she said, “Beaux Elysees is my home. I will do all within my power to thwart anyone or anything that threatens me or mine. Never again will any man control me. This means you as well, my husband. I will leave the bayou when I am ready, and not one moment sooner.” A tiny muscle leaped in Marc‟s jaw. “I can make you come with me, Alyssa.” His calm threat belied the anger sparking his gaze. “You can try, my love,” Alyssa said, her invitation as cool as the still blue water.

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“I am willing to spare you the humiliation of being carried back to Beaux Elysees over my shoulder.” He offered his hand. “This is your last chance to walk at my side, cara mia.” “I am your wife, not your child,” Alyssa said. “When I need your help, I shall ask for it.” She turned and began walking deeper into the bayou. Marc moved to grab her. She neatly dodged him, turning to take his hand and arm. Before he knew what had happened, he was on his back in a soft bed of ferns. He regained his feet with the speed of a bobcat. He knew that Vincent had taught Alyssa how to defend herself, but her strength and agility took him by surprise. The element of surprise had helped her best him once, but that advantage was gone. He grabbed her wrists, spun her, crossed her arms over her chest, and pressed her back to his chest. She was completely imprisoned within his embrace. “Impressive, love,” he panted. The heaving of her bosom almost distracted him from his indignant anger. “But I am bigger and stronger than you are. If I can subdue you, so could another. A man with less honorable intentions would not have indulged your disobedience as readily as I have.” She stopped his speech with a head butt to his chin. Her pearly teeth sank into his hand with the eager viciousness of a starving alligator. His grip loosened, and she freed herself. She took off, running like a wild horse.

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Marc was fast on her heels. She raced through the bayou, flying as she leaped over downed trees and pools of quicksand. She entered the clearing around the schoolhouse, whistling past a group of little girls playing jump rope. Marc was right behind her. Alyssa ran through the courtyard, narrowly missing a collision with Rina, who was carrying a basket of wet clothes from the washhouse. She whipped through the kitchen, grazing an unsuspecting Marguerite. Alyssa vaulted up the stairs two at a time, turning at the landing to catch Marc in the gut with her foot, kicking him back down a few stairs. “What the devil…?” Marguerite asked, alarmed as she and Joshua peered at the frenzied couple on the stairs. “Settling a marital dispute, I believe,” Joshua said nervously. Marc cornered Alyssa in their bedroom. “You‟ve run yourself into a trap, angela,” Marc said breathlessly. Alyssa glanced at the gallery. Your angel is no more trapped than the wind, Alyssa thought. Mindful of the baby nestled beneath her heart, she decided not to risk using the trellis for a speedy getaway. She backed onto the bed. On her hands and knees, she eased away from her approaching husband. “Play time is over, tigress,” Marc said.

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He pounced. Alyssa rolled clear of his path. He landed in a sprawl on the bed, and Alyssa climbed onto him, straddling him. She grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head. “Admit your defeat, my husband,” she demanded, “lest I deal out punishments that even you could not withstand.” Her long, strong thighs held his hips securely beneath her. Her hair, sweet with the scent of fresh air and sunlight, tickled his face. She felt him rise between her thighs. “I concede nothing,” he said stubbornly. “You were wrong to venture into the bayou. As for Kiripati instructing you in the use of a sword, you‟ve had your last lesson.” Alyssa covered his mouth with hers, stopping his words. Aligning the cradle of her pelvis over the hardness between his legs, she tore her lips from his and sat up. Releasing his wrists to open his shirt, she said, “You command your crew and the seven seas, Captain Ghiradelli, but you do not command me.” Her lips claimed the smooth button of flesh on the right side of his chest. His back arching, she nipped and licked at him with feral zeal. She teased him with kisses, her lips inching downward from his chest to his chiseled abdomen. She dipped her tongue into his navel, eliciting a moan of pleasure from him before she nuzzled the hot ridge in his trousers. Her teeth and lips teased him through the soft fabric of his breeches, providing little distraction from busy fingers

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releasing him from them. His hands plunged into her hair, which fell in a curtain of silk over his thighs and abdomen. Her lips grazed along his rigid length, his hips rising to meet each luxurious rasp of her tongue. Just before he would have exploded, she vanished. He roared his frustration, his need of her so great, her torture so exquisite. In the next instant, she rose above him on her knees, her trousers in a heap at the foot of the vast bed. She mounted him, taking him so deeply and so quickly that he bellowed once more, strangling handfuls of the cotton bed sheets bunched at his sides. She moved slowly, leisurely, his need—for the moment—secondary to her own. She buried her fingers in her hair as his hands moved over the fabric of her shirt and chemise. He showed the same regard for her apparel that she had shown his—he tore the garments open. Without breaking their union, he sat up and tilted her over his left arm. She never broke her excruciatingly delightful rhythm, his mouth finding the taut crown of her right breast. She moaned, her body erupting. Her darkness clamped around him, wringing a heat from him that added fuel to the fire burning deep within her. Their mouths and hands seemed to be everywhere at once, their passion soaring, seemingly without bounds. Soft kisses and tender words brought them back down. Still joined with him, Alyssa gazed into her husband‟s eyes. Unshed tears misted their deep blue

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depths. She caressed the bronzed plane of his cheek. He pressed her palm to his lips and filled it with kisses. Alyssa managed to hold Marc even closer in the tangle they had made of the sheets. Her husband‟s hard, muscular body housed a tender heart that had suffered far too much. “I purposely defied you, Marc, and for that, I am truly sorry,” Alyssa said. “I knew of no other way to convince you that your fear for me is unnecessary.” Marc rubbed his cheek against her hair. “I fear no man, Alyssa.” He repositioned her to place his hand over her abdomen. He might have been incredibly distracted with her astride him, but he‟d had the perfect view of the changing landscape of her anatomy. Her abdomen, once nearly concave, had a slight roundness that only he could have noticed. Though she hadn‟t confirmed his suspicion, he knew what the roundness signified. “The one fear that plagues me is that I will lose you. And our child.” “What you fear is happiness,” Alyssa said. “For all your strength, you‟re so afraid of once again losing what you love. What happened to Lady Melinda was the most awful of tragedies, but it was not your fault.” Marc winced. “Who told you? Angelo?” “It wasn‟t Angelo, and it doesn‟t matter who told me,” she said, pressing his cheek to her bosom. “The end result is that I finally understand why you stopped

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writing to us and why you decided to make your home at sea. You didn‟t want to risk loving again. You never wanted to feel the pain of loss, ever again.” “If only my motivations were that pure,” Marc said. His heart sank under twin weights of guilt and shame. “I never loved Melinda.” He shuddered at the admission as he set Alyssa beside him and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Alyssa sat behind him, framing him between her legs, wrapping her arms over his broad shoulders. The contours and textures of her warm body steeled him to confess what he had never told another soul. “I was fond of her,” Marc went on, his pain evident in his tense posture. “I tried to love her. But I knew I could never love her as a husband should love his wife. I knew the shape of the smile of the woman I‟d love. I had seen it on Rose, when I was just a boy. I told myself that the match would be comfortable, if nothing else. But I was nineteen. There were so many things I wanted to see and do before settling down in some staid position with my father‟s shipping firm. I wanted no part of marriage, especially an arranged marriage that would unite a count‟s only son and an earl‟s only daughter to create the largest shipping dynasty in Europe. “I…I wished her away,” Marc admitted. “I prayed for something, anything to stop the impending marriage. I wanted her to fall in love with someone else and

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reject the arrangement. But she was completely devoted to me. Almost in answer to my desperate pleas, profiteers came and vanquished us at sea. “I didn‟t want to marry you, Alyssa, because you deserve better than the likes of me. But I had to marry you, for even the thought of you being with another man made me insane. Then Callow and Fernand took you. Once again, Fate punished an innocent for my selfishness. Melinda and her parents…they died because I could not love her. And you nearly died because I refused to admit that I love you.” “Thoughts are not deeds,” Alyssa said. “You did nothing to cause Melinda‟s death. If Fate‟s plan was for me to be abducted, then I thank that temperamental wench for allowing it to happen while you were still here, to save me.” “I‟ve known sorrow that you couldn‟t possibly imagine,” Marc said woefully. “For a decade, you‟ve carried a burden of guilt that you don‟t deserve,” Alyssa said. “It‟s time to let it go.” “I should have done more to save Melinda!” Marc insisted. “You can‟t possibly understand what it‟s like, to—” “To feel utterly helpless as your loved one suffers?” Tears fell from Alyssa‟s eyes. “Do you think a day passes when I don‟t think of my mother? When I don‟t think of a hundred things I could have done to save her?”

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Marc twisted to pull her into his arms. They drew deeper comfort from their shared embrace, Marc‟s long-held tears dropping onto her bare shoulder. “We must forgive ourselves, Captain,” Alyssa whispered. “As our loved ones would have forgiven us.” “I thank God for the new life He‟s given me,” Marc said. He used a corner of the tousled bed sheet to dry his eyes. “How could I have considered ever leaving you?” Alyssa cupped his face. “Your spirit is joined to mine. As long as you live, my soul is anchored to this world. Anyone who dares to harm you or Beaux Elysees will finish in a pine box, for I will not give up my life with you without a fight.”

Marc went to the stable to see after the fiery new stallion. Joshua joined him. Joshua had not tried to reason with Marc where Alyssa was concerned. He knew that reason was the last force involved in Marc‟s love for his wife. After the wild chase half of the estate had witnessed earlier in the day, Joshua felt that a talk with Marc was overdue. Marc sensed that Joshua had not accompanied him to the stable just to see the newly tamed horse. “Is Kiripati angry with me?” Marc asked as he set a bucket of fresh water at the peaceful horse‟s stall.

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“He was never angry with you, Captain,” Joshua said. “In fact, he said that he would have understood completely had you chosen to publicly behead him in the courtyard.” Marc sat on a bale of hay. “I am so afraid of losing her,” he said simply. “It consumes me.” “Perhaps you should take a lesson from Alyssa,” Joshua said. “Her grief is steadily loosening its hold on her. She is moving forward. She has found two more reasons to go on…you and that child you made.” “I came so close to losing her, not once but twice! Callow could have taken her anywhere in the world. Even when I found her, I couldn‟t stop the sea from claiming her.” “But you did,” Joshua said. “Dr. Cooper couldn‟t explain Alyssa‟s miraculous turnaround aboard Heaven’s Fury.” “I will not allow her to put herself and our child at risk. Not while Fernand is still out there.” A crease appeared in Joshua‟s brow. “Alyssa knocked him overboard. You, Edmond, everyone saw him go over.” “No one saw his body,” Marc said. “We were in well-traveled traffic lanes.”

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Joshua dropped onto a bale of hay. “You think he may have survived?” He clutched at his stomach, groaning. “Is it possible that a passing ship might have collected him?” “Some of Callow‟s men took to lifeboats before I fired on the ship. If they found Fernand, and the boats were towed in….” Joshua raised a hand, stopping Marc‟s words. There was no need for him to finish.

Marc walked back to the mansion alone, strolling casually through the courtyard. All around him, Beaux Elysees seemed to burst with life. Women dressed in a pastel rainbow of muslin dresses swept balconies, shelled peas, sat on porches mending clothes, or chased half-naked toddlers. As sundown approached, Marc saw French, Spanish, African, Houma, Chitimacha, Seminole, German, Chinese, Slavic, Creole, and Cajun men return to their homes from whatever labors their day had entailed. Though they had likely been sweating in the sun since its first light was cast upon the day, they returned smiling and laughing, giving each other good-natured claps on the back. Children ran to greet them and to be swept up onto sweaty shoulders. Wives and mothers welcomed their men and children with open arms and ready kisses. Marc watched a shirtless man, his peach skin tinted with sunburn, fold a

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slender brown-skinned woman into his arms and kiss her deeply. Two honey-gold children, a boy and a girl, tugged at the woman‟s skirt. The couple had been married for almost seven years, yet had the passion of newlyweds. Marc knew that passion. He quickened his pace, eager to delight in it once more. Until Alyssa, a kiss had never been more than a preamble to the physical intimacies women had always been eager to share with him. How much more a kiss meant at Beaux Elysees! People of all colors, languages, and dialects called out to Marc and greeted him with friendly smiles and nods. Marc finally understood that the true magic of Beaux Elysees was borne of the happiness and harmony of those who loved, lived, and worked there. Alyssa was the embodiment of all that was treasured about Beaux Elysees. Marc broke into an exhilarated run as he realized that as he loved Alyssa, he had also come to love Beaux Elysees.

Alyssa, of her own accord, remained close to the mansion for the next few weeks. She was sitting in the courtyard, watching the children play, when Manon joined her with a bowl of fresh sugared strawberries. The children surrounded them like a swarm of honeybees, each clamoring for a big sweet berry grainy with raw sugar. Once there was nothing left but the bottom of the bowl, the children returned to their games.

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“Angelo is eager to start a family,” Manon said, her gaze on the children. “It‟s a wonder we haven‟t already made a baby.” Alyssa turned Manon‟s face to hers. She looked past Manon‟s revealing blush and studied her eyes. “I know you‟ll keep trying, but try especially in the next two days,” Alyssa said, her gaze returning to the children. “I‟m glad you and Angelo are so happy.” “Are you not happy, Alyssa?” Manon asked, her smile fading. “Angelo says nothing to me of his private meetings with Marc, Joshua, and Edmond, but I know that something is afoot. What has come between you and Marc?” “It‟s not a what,” Alyssa said. Angelo wasn‟t the only husband who refused to burden—or frighten—his wife with the details of meetings held behind closed doors. Nonetheless, Alyssa had her own ideas. “It‟s a who.” Manon‟s jaw dropped. “Another woman?!” she whispered in horror. Alyssa smiled sadly as she shook her head. “Then who?” Manon asked. Alyssa took a tremulous breath before she met Manon‟s eyes. “Philippe Fernand.”

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Chapter Twenty-Four

Jan-Glen‟s horse reared as he abruptly stopped the animal at the town square. He had come to St. Martinville to purchase writing tablets for his daughters and stumbled into the crowd gathering before the courthouse. He would have ignored the men, had the voice emanating from the center of the crowd not turned his blood to lead. “Is this not a land of truth and justice?” Philippe Fernand bellowed, indicating the courthouse with an emphatic wave of his arm. “The truth is what I bring today. My journey has been long and arduous and filled with horrors you wouldn‟t believe if your wildest nightmares came to life. My journey ends here, now, with you good people.” Jean-Glen was amazed as more and more people stopped to listen to Philippe, who in Jean-Glen‟s estimation looked every bit the madman he knew him to be. The trousers of Phillippe‟s simple brown broadcloth, so long he‟d had to roll them several times at the cuff, had mud caked on them. Scuffs and scars marred his black boots, which appeared to be a size or two too large. The flaps of his ill-fitting jacket scarcely hid a rust-colored stain just left of center on his white shirt front. His face was scruffy with an unkempt beard, a patch covered his left eye. Despite

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the change in his appearance, Jean-Glen knew him. He heard that same voice every time he visited the Verdieu cemetery. “There exists in your midst a paradise,” Philippe revealed with evil glee. “Right in the heart of Bayou Teche.” “That ain‟t nothin‟ but a made up slave story,” someone in the crowd shouted. “We been hearin‟ that fairy tale since our grandpappies was babes in arms.” Philippe paused dramatically. “I have seen it with my own eyes. And I can take you there.” Philippe now had the complete attention of everyone on the street. Men sent their women on to run errands or to wait for them in carriages. Jean-Glen swallowed noisily. “The Garden of Eden is there for the taking,” Philippe declared, clenching his fist. “There is gold, there are jewels and riches fit for a king. And the women. Ah, the women. They are young. They are luscious. And they are beautiful. Aphrodite herself would envy their beauty. “Look at yourselves!” Philippe demanded. “You stand there in your homespun clothes, your bellies half full, while deep in the bayou, they enjoy lives of plenty while celebrating the mixing of the races!”

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A murmur of shock traveled through the crowd. A man clapped his hands over the ears of his young son. “The black, brown, red, and yellow man is equal to the white man,” Philippe went on. “The women wear trousers! I know this to be true, for I am the rightful owner of that land and those riches. When I tried to bring order, I was deposed and nearly killed. Come, my friends, join with me! Make right what is utterly wrong. I promise, you will be justly rewarded for your allegiance!”

Alyssa willingly went with Manon, Marguerite, Melody, Rina, Adette, India, and several other women into the secret room off the study. There was no time to argue with Marc and Joshua. Jean-Glen had ridden as quickly as he possibly could, but there was no telling how soon Philippe and his men would invade. The minutes seemed like hours as they sat on the dusty cut velvet chairs and chaises. Marguerite had brought enormous panniers of food and jugs of water, enough to last them for days, if necessary. They had candles and matches. There were buckets and boxes of lime for their personal needs. The room was well ventilated, thanks to concealed air ducts placed high in the walls. The women sat, still as statues, listening. Even the sound of gunfire or swords clashing would have been preferable to the unnerving silence.

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“Papa told me that this room was built to hide slaves that had escaped to Beaux Elysees,” Alyssa whispered. She knocked softly on walls padded with thick panels of cork to mute the sounds of the room‟s occupants. “The slave catchers who managed to stumble upon Beaux Elysees always left empty-handed.” “How can you be so calm, Alyssa?” Melody moaned. She held onto Manon with both arms. “Dead men do not frighten me,” Alyssa said with terrible calm. Alyssa was the only woman who wasn‟t startled by the booming explosion reverbating through the walls. She pictured the beautifully carved mahogany front door being turned to kindling as Fernand‟s army forced their way into her home. “They‟ve come,” Adette moaned pitifully, burying her face in her twin‟s shoulder. Her lips moved in urgent, silent prayers for Caleb, who had insisted on staying to fight with the men, rather than hide in the bayou with the women and children. Marguerite gathered the women together in the dim to pray. The sounds of battle grew nearer as they began the Lord‟s Prayer. By the second verse, they noticed that they were one short. “Where is Alyssa?” Rina whispered anxiously.

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The sound of the fighting grew louder and louder. Alyssa squeezed down the narrowest of stairwells. She and Manon knew their way all over the house through the secret passageways, but it had been years since she had last been through them. Her adult shoulders scraping, the walls she hurried to what sounded like the front line of battle. She considered her entrance for only a moment. She had no weapons, other than her brain and her fierce will to save Beaux Elysees. Those would have to be enough. Alyssa opened the panel that would exit into the Grand Salon. Combatants ceased fighting in mid-swing, catching sight of Alyssa standing before them where previously there had been only empty space. Her hair a loose knot at her nape, her billowy white shirt sprinkled with sawdust, cobwebs, and bits of plaster, she looked as though the house had coughed her up in the explosion. Fists raised and bare toes peeking from the legs of her dusty trousers, it was her face that gave the men reason to pause. Fury shaped her lovely features in such a way as to make them recoil in fear. Alyssa was a she-tiger poised to strike. Alyssa spotted Jean-Glen, his forehead bleeding, locked in battle with a man wielding a knife. “May I assume that this is not a social call?” she asked, her tone grim. With all of her weight and a twist of her hips, she drove her clasped fists into the face of the man nearest her. She took the sword from his hand as he fell to the floor.

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Jean-Glen finished his opponent and then helped Alyssa fight off two more men. “You should not be here, cherie,” Jean-Glen cried, although Alyssa handled her blade with remarkable skill. “Le capitaine, he gone murder us both, certainement.” Alyssa slashed across the haunches of one attacker, then drove her blade into the shoulder of the other. The wounds would not prove fatal, but neither man would be in a condition to cause more trouble. Ten men, farmers turned soldiers for Beaux Elysees, flooded into the salon. “Alyssa, please, return to your hiding place!” Jean-Glen pleaded. “We men can handle this.” Alyssa backed away from him toward the staircase. “This is my home, JeanGlen! Mine!”

Alyssa bounded up the stairs. Strangers ransacked each room she passed. They looted everything, from the curtains, bedclothes and wall tapestries to the fine furniture. Alyssa had no desire to stop and fight them. There was only one man for whom her vengeance and blade were meant. Alyssa kicked open the door to the study. She wasn‟t surprised to see Philippe sitting at her father‟s desk, a pair of Rose‟s diamond earbobs dangling at the sides of his head. “Did you miss me, niece?” Philippe asked, his teeth bared in a smile.

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Alyssa charged at him, her sword drawn. Before she could reach him, two men stepped into her path. The man on her left lost a hand for his trouble. The man on her right had no idea he was injured until he saw one of his ears lying on the carpet before him. Screaming in pain, the two men ran from the room, staining the floor with their blood. Alyssa spared the merest glance at a young boy with golden hair cowering in a corner. This is how it’s taught, she thought scornfully. How hate passes from generation to generation. The child couldn‟t have been more than nine or ten years old. His bright hazel eyes wide with fright, his gaze locked briefly with Alyssa‟s before he ran from the study. Philippe shrank into the chair at Alyssa‟s approach, offering no resistance. Taking a handful of his hair, she led him, the razor-edge of her sword to his throat, into the courtyard. The scene there sickened and angered her further. Broken and bloody bodies scattered everywhere., the windows of the houses had been shattered. Front doors had been caved in or torn right off the hinges, and two cottages had been scorched in attempts to burn them. Strange men, laughing, tromped leisurely in and out of the houses, loading furnishings, clothing, and anything else of value into wagons and wheelbarrows.

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“End this, before I end you,” Alyssa sneered. Philippe laughed, and she moved the blade the merest inch, piercing his skin to draw two small rubies of blood. “Damn you, wench!” he screamed. “All right!” Philippe shouted until he had the attention of his small army. “Drop your arms!” he called to them. “Drop your arms and come to the courtyard!” “Drop nothing!” called a voice from behind Alyssa. She turned around, pulling Philippe with her. The man who had spoken was one of two holding Father Devon, the second holding a rifle to Father Devon‟s ribs. Blood seeped from a cut in the old cleric‟s forehead, but none of the fight had left him. With a feisty blue glare, he told Alyssa to hold her own. “Let ‟im go,” the first man told Alyssa, “or your old man here is gonna get blowed up.” Alyssa hesitated for only a second. She released Philippe, and he snatched the sword from her, then delivered a fierce back slap to her face. Alyssa stumbled, but she remained on her feet. Philippe wound his hand in her hair and led her to the center of the courtyard. With a triumphant cheer, Philippe‟s marauders resumed their assault on Beaux Elysees. “Ghiradelli!” Philippe shouted into the air. “I have your woman! Show yourself!”

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Marc was near the schoolhouse with Edmond, Dominic, and Heaven’s Fury’s crew, fighting the men who were sure to discover the women and children if they entered the bayou. The loss of a finger hadn‟t slowed Dominic. It merely forced him to switch hands for swordplay. Philippe‟s challenge on the wind gave Marc the strength of ten men. He slashed his way through the swarm of invaders to get to Alyssa. “I‟ll get the women and children to Heaven’s Fury,” Dominic said. He started away with Edmond to mobilize the crew. Most of the men would hold off the attackers while he and Edmond delivered the women and children to safety. “Alyssa!” Marc roared, felling men left and right. “I would stop right there, if I were you, Captain Ghiradelli,” Philippe said, tightening his grip on Alyssa‟s hair. “Release her,” Marc demanded through clenched teeth. “Captain,” Alyssa gasped. There was so much blood on him. She prayed that it wasn‟t his. “She‟s mine, Ghiradelli,” Philippe merrily crooned. “Once again, everything here is mine.” Marc‟s eyes fixed on his wife. Philippe held the sword to her throat, but there was no fear in her eyes. They shone with the heat of her passion for Beaux Elysees. And her violent loathing for Philippe Fernand. Her courage steeled Marc.

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Philippe‟s men brought Joshua and Kiripati into the courtyard. Angelo, Caleb, and Cedric, having driven off a gang of invaders, joined ranks with JeanGlen and some of the other men of Beaux Elysees. They cleared Philippe‟s men from the house, driving them into the courtyard. Outnumbered, the men holding Father Devon, Joshua, and Kiripati released them and ran off. “Surrender, Ghiradelli,” Philippe said wickedly, unbothered by the shift in power. “Unless you wish to add your wife to the list of those who have given their lives defending this place.” “Don‟t,” Alyssa pleaded. “Do not give in to him.” Philippe forced Alyssa to her knees, the blade never leaving her throat. Marc grimaced as it took all of his strength not to run Philippe through. “Do something!” one of Philippe‟s men demanded. “So we can get the loot and the women and get outta here!” “Quiet, buffoon!” Philippe snapped. “I came here for more than wealth and women. I want revenge.” He cast a quick glance at Alyssa. “You tried to kill me, little one.” He pressed the sharp blade into Alyssa‟s neck. Pinpricks of blood beaded along the edge of it. “But I survived. While your husband was so quick to destroy my ship, there was no shortage of men willing to rescue me.” Kiripati recognized a few of Philippe‟s men. They had previously been Callow‟s men.

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“What can you offer these men, Fernand?” Marc asked viciously, “other than ruin and death?” “I promised them nothing that I haven‟t already delivered,” Philippe smiled. “I promised to guide them here. All we had to do was find the trail from New Orleans that young Caleb so graciously blazed months ago. And as they have seen, Beaux Elysees is everything I said it would be.” “There won‟t be an escape for you this time.” Marc‟s statement was a clear warning, not just for Philippe, but also for all who followed him. Several of his men skulked away. “Then make your move, Ghiradelli,” Philippe said. Alyssa threw her elbow into Philippe‟s groin. “You didn‟t specify which Ghiradelli,” she said, following the crippling blow with a sharp jab to Philippe‟s nose. The battle raged on once more as the men of Beaux Elysees fell upon the intruders. With their stalwart leader downed by a woman, many more of Philippe‟s men ran away. Marc, his sword raised, lunged at Philippe. Crying out in pain, Philippe struck out with the sword, wounding Alyssa. Philippe fled into the mansion as Marc and Father Devon bent over Alyssa. Marc gathered his wife into his arms. “Damn him!” Marc swore, alarmed at how quickly blood colored her shirt.

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“The blade scarcely grazed me,” she assured him. “Go after him, Captain. Finish him!”

“Fernand!” Marc searched the house, looking for Philippe. Spotting clouds of dark smoke billowing from the Grand Salon, he assumed he‟d found Phillippe. Several men rushed into the room to blanket the flames while Marc continued his search. “Run, coward!” Marc cried, throwing open doors and overturning furniture as he went through the house. “And pray I never find you. Because when I do, I shall extract full payment in blood for what you‟ve destroyed!”

“Is that smoke?” Melody poked her pert nostrils in the air. “I smell smoke.” “I don‟t wanna burn up in here!” Rina cried miserably, her hands protectively over her heavy belly. “Ain‟t no worse way to die than to get burned up.” “Dear Lord, please take care of Caleb,” Adette moaned. “Come on, here,” Marguerite said, ushering the women to a select panel in the secret room. She gave it a slight push, and it easily gave.

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Manon led the way into the narrow passageway as the women escaped the room because of the one emergency for which the secret escape had been created…. Fire.

Marc interrupted Philippe as he and six of his men attempted to liberate the horses from their stalls. Some they would ride in escape, the others they would steal. Philippe reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small velvet pouch. “Twenty pieces of gold to the man who puts an end to Ghiradelli,” he announced grandly. The greedy men, armed with knives and chains, formed a wall between Marc and Philippe. “He‟s the one I want,” Marc said gravely, standing before the six. “If you wish to live, I suggest you start running now.” Two of the men took off through the rear doors of the stable. The remaining four surrounded Marc. Philippe stepped behind a wooden post. He had no desire to receive a misaimed slash of a knife or swing of a chain, but he had no intention of missing Marc‟s demise. The man with the chain moved first, swinging the heavy thing with all his might. Marc caught the end of the chain, yanking it hard enough to land its bearer face-first in the dirt. The men with knives moved in on Marc all at once, their fists flailing and cutting in every direction. They slashed at his clothing and flesh, yet

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Marc fought them, felling one after the other. He heard footsteps behind him as he finished the last man. “He‟s got Red Tomkins!” called a voice from the entrance of the stable. Marc glanced over his shoulder to see six more of Philippe‟s men. “Gold to the man who finishes Ghiradelli!” Philippe called joyfully, jingling the pouch of coins. The man who had recognized the late Red Tomkins turned his steely gaze on Marc. “Them fellas you done kil‟t was my friends and neighbors,” he said. “You gonna pay for what you done to ‟em.” “Your friends and neighbors were murderers and thieves,” Marc sneered, raising his sword. “They got what they asked for.” The fresh men attacked. Marc faced them with the heart and rage of a demon, but he was tiring. While he made quick work of each of them, he hadn‟t dodgeedevery blow and blade. His sword seemed impossibly heavy as he pulled it from the body of the last of Philippe‟s men. He dragged it beside him, staggering to Philippe. “You simply refuse to give up,” Philippe grinned. “Greed and bloodlust are a terrible combination. It makes one completely foolish.” To prove his point, Philippe opened the velvet pouch. He turned it upside down. A tidy pile of pennies

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fell onto the matted straw strewn over the floor. “Those fools gave their lives for eleven cents.” Marc slumped against a stall door, his head swimming. Please, he silently begged Fate. Let me end this, then do with me as you will. Philippe dared a step closer to Marc. “What a boring end for one of your courage and strength,” Philippe taunted. “I had hoped to see you go out in a heroic blaze of glory. I suppose I‟ll have to be content with merely watching as you bleed to death.” Marc glanced down at the wounds in his torso. He had started the day in a white shirt. It was now crimson, except for a splash of mud and a grass stain. He placed his left hand over the worst wound, staunching the flow of fresh blood from his ribcage. “You have failed, Captain Ghiradelli,” Philippe chuckled lightly. “Your wife is probably dead, slashed with my blade. Your home has been burned. You are dying. I win.” Philippe‟s image wavered in Marc‟s field of vision. Marc‟s sword was suddenly so heavy. “The mighty captain must use his sword as a cane,” Philippe laughed as he watched Marc reposition his hand on the weapon. “Spare yourself the humiliation,

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Ghiradelli.” Philippe brandished the sword, the same one he had used on Alyssa. A murderous gleam replaced his previous amusement. “I shall come to you.” Philippe took one step before he found himself pinned to a stall door, stuck like a bug on a specimen tablet. Not a cane, Philippe thought, staring in blank horror at the sword protruding from his belly. A javelin….

The women secured the house while the men rousted Philippe‟s army from Beaux Elysees. Most of the invaders left peacefully, although a scattered few threatened to return with more men and more guns. The mansion turned field hospital to treat the injured; the remaining healthy men collected the dead for burial. Once it was clear that the storm of violence had passed, Alyssa allowed Manon to bandage her wound, a shallow but painful cut above the right crest of her hip. Manon had scarcely finished patting the wound dry before Alyssa took off in search of her husband. Edmond, Angelo, and Kiripati raced after her. “I‟ll go with Alyssa,” Angelo told Edmond. “You and Kiripati take the bayou.” “No,” Alyssa said, commanding her troops. “Philippe doesn‟t know the bayou. He‟s probably gone for the stables. His quickest escape would be through the marsh on horseback.”

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Kiripati, Angelo, and Edmond carried Marc into the dining room and placed him on the table. Alyssa‟s heart hammered as her eyes scanned her husband. Marc‟s pallor so resembled that of the dead, Alyssa had to keep her fingers on his pulse to make sure he didn‟t sneak away from her. Melody buried her face in Edmond‟s chest. Adette stood at Alyssa‟s left. Manon caressed Angelo‟s cheek before she moved to Alyssa‟s right. “Water,” Alyssa said, clearing her throat to give her voice strength she did not feel. “I‟ll need lots of clean water. And my medicine bag.” She cleared the room and went to work, tearing Marc‟s clothing from his wounds. “Please, hurry,” she told Adette and Manon. Alyssa pushed her fears and tears aside to focus her full attention and complete measure of skill on her husband. She cleansed and stitched and splinted Marc‟s injuries with divine care. Once her tasks were done, there was nothing more she could do but pull a chair beside him to keep a proper vigil. She sat with him for hours. No one could sleep. All were concerned about Marc and the rest of the injured men that Manon, Adette, and the other women tended to long into the night. “How is he?” Joshua asked quietly as he brought a cup of coffee to Alyssa.

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Only one lamp lit in the dining room, the flame barely an inch high. Shadows cloaked Marc‟s face. He appeared lifeless, although his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. “I fear that he will not make it through the night,” Alyssa said, the very thought agony. “If he survives the next few hours, his chance of recovery is good.” She lifted her eyes to Joshua. “He has lost so much blood. Too much, I fear.” Alyssa lightly held Marc‟s hand. She was afraid to let it go, sure that his soul would take that opportunity to flee his gravely injured body. Manon, Adette, Marguerite, Cedric, Melody, Edmond, and Father Devon quietly entered the dining room. Angelo, who had never ventured too far from Marc‟s side, stepped behind Alyssa. “You should conserve your strength, Alyssa,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You have my godchild to think about as well. Manon and I will sit with Marc. He will not leave us this night.” “Nor will I leave him,” Alyssa said firmly. Realizing that arguing with Alyssa would be an exercise in futility, they took seats and shared her vigil. Alyssa smiled weakly at her friends. The dead strangers had been wrapped and placed on a wagon. Cedric and Father Devon had delivered the bodies to St. Martinville, along with the paperwork proving that Beaux Elysees was under the protection of the French government.

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Kiripati comforted India and Adette. They fretted over Caleb, whose whereabouts were unknown. Joshua spoke with Father Devon for a moment. Joshua then stood and called everyone together to pray. Father Devon had bowed his head to lead them, but thenAlyssa‟s quiet prayer came to them. “I prayed for You to spare my papa,” Alyssa began, Marc‟s pale hand clasped between hers. “I prayed for Maman, who told me that You keep your angels close. I suppose that is why You took my parents. “You will have to leave this angel here, with me and with our child,” she said, her voice quivery with determination. “I will not beg for his life. You simply may not have it. You‟ve enough of mine. Forgive me, but You may not take my husband.”

Alyssa slept uneasily, her body propped uncomfortably in the chair, her head awkwardly resting upon the knot of Marc‟s hand in hers. The movement of his hand beneath her cheek roused her. “Marc,” she whispered, abruptly sitting up. His head heavy as a cannonball, he turned to face Alyssa. She stood over him, her gentle, knowing hands caressing his cheeks and forehead. She slowly came into focus, and he had never been happier to see her lovely, although bruised, face.

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“I once made the mistake of thinking I could leave you,” he managed hoarsely. “Not even Death could force me to make that error twice.” Alyssa finally allowed her tears to flow. She kissed his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Perhaps Fate intervened,” she sobbed happily, raising her eyes toward Heaven. “Merci, mon dieu.” Joshua and Angelo allowed Alyssa and Marc a moment of privacy before they transferred Marc to the master bedroom suite. Marguerite had already tidied the room and made the bed with fresh linen. The master bedroom had been vandalized, but the invaders had made off with little more than a few porcelain figurines, the brass sconces, and the lace sheers from the windows. After much coaxing, Marguerite convinced Alyssa to devote a few moments to herself, to change her torn and dirty clothing and to bathe. Now that Marc was out of immediate danger, Alyssa wanted to see to her other love. Leaving her husband under Joshua‟s watchful eye, Alyssa left him to tour Beaux Elysees.

“My one good eye sees in yours that the news for Beaux Elysees is not good,” Marc managed weakly once Alyssa had gone. Though he spoke softly, the words sent ripples of pain through his head.

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“We lost five good men,” Joshua said gravely. “Philippe Fernand lost eighteen men. Fernand‟s body is being taken to New Orleans, to be claimed by Inspector Leger.” “We must prepare Beaux Elysees for certain retaliation,” Marc said, struggling to sit up despite the pain searing his torso and left shoulder. “Send the women and children back to Heaven’s Fury; they were not safe in the bayou….” Joshua gently pressed Marc back down onto the bed. Marc had no strength to resist. “Those men won‟t come again,” Joshua assured him, “not until they find another leader. They won‟t return until they find a legal way to seize this land and evict us.” “What are you saying, Joshua?” Marc asked. Joshua‟s words drew a picture that Marc refused to see. “The world around us is changing,” Joshua said. His brown eyes filled with sorrow. “Or perhaps it hasn‟t changed at all. Tensions build slowly but ignite quickly. Vincent foresaw this, and worse to come, as long as one man covets the right to own another. Beaux Elysees is no longer a cherished secret or the substance of myth. Beaux Elysees, as we knew it, is no more.”

It was worse than she first realized.

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Alyssa, almost in a daze, stood on the verandah. She moved down the three wide marble steps and into the courtyard, still not quite believing her eyes. The flawless carpet of emerald zoysia that had cushioned cartwheels and been playing field to a full crew of sailors was now rutted with wagon tracks and hoof prints. Dull puddles of rust, spots where the injured had bled and died, colored the stone pathways. A few wooden benches had been overturned and broken. The women, their dresses stained with grass, mud and blood, brambles and leaves stuck in their hair, swept broken glass from their front porches or comforted sobbing children in a lassitude of despair. A tumult of rage and sorrow turned Alyssa‟s stomach. She walked from one end of the estate to the other, half believing she was trapped in someone else‟s nightmare. Giselle‟s fine roses had been trampled to mulch beneath the hooves of horses. A fat leather armchair, one of Melody‟s favorites, had been hurled through the parlor window of the Shaw house. Cedric‟s cottage still smoldered, the inside completely gutted by fire. “Madame Ghiradelli,” came an anxious voice at her side, “they rode all over the cotton in the south field. The crop is ruined.” Alyssa walked on, noticing the door to the infirmary hanging by a single hinge.

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“Alyssa,” started another voice, seemingly on top of the last, “those men stole every one of them gold picture frames from your papa‟s study.” “Ma‟am,” said another voice, “Them men defiled the schoolhouse in the most awfulest ways. Look like a month a chamber pots was dumped in there.” The voices kept coming, one after the other, each report of devastation worse than the last. They finally melded together, until they bothered her no more than the chorus of the crickets and banjo frogs. The voices finally stopped when Alyssa stopped, right at the wide double doors of the warehouse at the farthest edge of the estate. The numbing sensation that had protected her while she surveyed the damage to Beaux Elysees wore off as she witnessed the scene framed in the doorway. Tita sat in the dirt, her long hair mussed and cloaking her face. Adette kneeled beside her, her young face drawn in lines of misery Alyssa had come to know too well. Alyssa thought she had seen the worst until she stepped into the doorway. Tita‟s soft sobbing never ceased, not even when Alyssa eased Caleb‟s motionless form onto the hard-packed dirt floor. Her practiced hands knew, the moment she felt the solid cool of his skin through his shirt, that Caleb was dead. His skin was gray, like a storm cloud emptied of rain. Alyssa pulled open his bloodstained shirt and saw the tiny dark hole marring his hairless chest. The hole was right over his heart. Alyssa stared at the place from which Caleb‟s life had seeped.

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“Caleb,” she exhaled, her misery complete. Pedro and two other men came from the recesses of the warehouse. The two men carried a dead stranger. “We found them early this morning,” Pedro said. He kneeled and took Tita into his arms. She sobbed into his shoulder. Speaking through tears, Pedro said, “They were behind the warehouse. We found kerosene, matches, and kindling piled against the building. Caleb got in one good blow before…. There was a club. And this.” Alyssa took the pistol Pedro offered her. The heavy black metal had an unpleasant greasy feel. She had never touched such a weapon before. Ridding herself of it, she stood and went to the dead man. The left side of his head had been caved in. He couldn‟t have been more than thirty years old. Did he have a wife? Children? What evil had resided in his heart, possessing him to pillage and burn? And murder. The men bearing the stranger‟s corpse began to carry it out. Alyssa dropped the gun on his chest. She turned toward Caleb, startled by the feral glare in Tita‟s black eyes. Behind her was a sea of faces of every color, walnut, peach, mahogany, ivory, cinnamon, terra cotta, cream, and olive. They were despondent, but not defeated. They were humble in their triumph, and determined.

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“They will return,” Tita said through clenched teeth. “And when they do, we will avenge this child.” She caressed Caleb‟s cheek. Her face crumpled in tears. “His death cannot be in vain.”

Two days after the invasion, Father Devon presided over the funerals of the brave men who gave their lives for Beaux Elysees. Alyssa returned to Marc‟s side as soon as the burials were done. She eased onto the bed, careful not to disturb the breakfast tray Marguerite had left for Marc, who, supported by several pillows, was sitting up. “How could this come to pass?” Alyssa asked miserably, nestling close to him. “So many lives lost, and for what? Greed? Hatred? How many have to die before our home is safe? Everyone is certain that more men will return to destroy Beaux Elysees. They are prepared to fight to save it.” Marc tipped his head to hers. “Had Fernand‟s aim been true, you could have been lost to me. Our child would have died without ever having had a chance at life.” Marc cursed the wrapping on his injured ribs. He held her as closely as he could. He couldn‟t truly feel her warmth through the linen bandages, but he felt the tension in her small frame. “We can petition the French for help.” Alyssa‟s voice grew reedy in her rising panic. “The French are obligated to protect us.”

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“The French will not wage war with the United States over Beaux Elysees,” Marc said. “It could take months for a petition to be heard and acted upon. What of Beaux Elysees, and our child and Angelo‟s and Cedric‟s, in the meantime?” He reached for her, even as she withdrew from his embrace. She dare not look at him, certain that she couldn‟t bear seeing the anguish in his eyes that she heard in his voice. “My selfishness shames me,” he went on. “But I will not trade you or our child for Beaux Elysees.” Alyssa whirled, her eyes wide. She lifted his hand and curled it in her own. “You almost died to protect our home and this land. And now you wish to…to…?” His pain was only slightly less intense than hers as he said, “We must leave Beaux Elysees.” Her body lost all feeling. Her hands fell to the bed, though Marc held onto them. It was inconceivable. She would never have believed him capable of voicing such a gruesome thought if she hadn‟t heard the words fall from his lips. “I won‟t leave,” she stated, her words hard and flat. “This is my home. I won‟t be driven from it.” Marc studied the stunning woman beside him, the determined warrior he had made his wife. “Beaux Elysees follows your lead. If you fight, they fight. I fight. But is that what you want? To see your friends fall at the hands of an unrelenting

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army of rogues and thieves? We can replace furniture and jewelry and horses as many times as they are stolen. But we cannot replace even one good man.” Alyssa sat up, her eyes anguished. She would never forget the picture of Marc, unconscious, slumped in the stable with dead bodies littering the floor around him. “There must be something we can do,” she began, her voice quivering. “You can‟t possibly mean what you say.” “I fear that there is no other way,” Marc said. “We must leave Beaux Elysees.”

Alyssa ran from the house. She kept running until she fell to her knees between the graves of her parents. “You were right, Papa,” she sobbed. “You knew all along. The sickness of hate has finally reached Beaux Elysees. I have no cure for such evil. I want to fight, but for how long? And at what cost?” She closed her eyes and again saw Marc, broken and bloody, in the stable. “I almost lost him,” she cried. “Will I lose him the next time they come? Or the next? “I can‟t run away!” she swore, pounding the earth with her fist. “I can‟t let them drive me away! I won‟t go!”

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Her furious gaze shifted to the new row of graves. “Your lives were not lost for nothing. The survival of Beaux Elysees will serve as a memorial to your courage.” The lost men were husbands, fathers, brothers, sons. Children of some mother now in mourning…. Her heart dropped into her stomach. There was nothing worse than the loss of a child. Alyssa‟s hands swarmed protectively over her belly. “I love you so, though we‟ve never met,” she whispered. “And I couldn‟t bear to lose you, little one.” That could very well happen in the next invasion, a somber inner voice told her. She closed her eyes tightly against the choice put to her, which was really no choice at all. Only two months ago, she and Manon had sat in the courtyard speaking of Manon‟s desire to bear a child. Manon had conceived soon after, and Alyssa had never seen her happier as she and Angelo teasingly argued over names for their baby. Her gaze wandered over the scarred cottages silhouetted against the setting sun. The smell of freshly dug earth filled her nose as Marc‟s words echoed in her head. We cannot replace even one good man. Or a boy, Alyssa thought sadly, who will never become a man.

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Her choice was agonizingly obvious as she collapsed onto Caleb‟s grave, her tears turning the newly-turned earth to mud.

Marc opened his eyes at Alyssa‟s return. Dirt smudged her face, which was distraught yet calm, . She sat on the edge of the bed, facing him, her mussed clothing smelling of damp earth. He plucked a bud of clover the same sprightly shade of green as her eyes, from her tousled mane. “My parents always wanted me to visit France and Italy,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying. “Now, I can.”

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Epilogue

Jean-Glen stood aboard Heaven’s Fury, scrawling his signature beneath Marc‟s to the deed to Beaux Elysees. “Me, I don‟ know much ‟bout sailin‟, but I know how to plant, I know how to fight, and I know how to treat good men. You can be shor‟ dat Jean-Glen Chiasson will see dat Beaux Elysees remains un piece de paradis.” “Go on, pay him,” directed Aline as she handed her husband the money she had safeguarded ever since Marc and Alyssa had approached the Chiassons with the idea of selling Beaux Elysees to them. Jean-Glen took the money and set it in Marc‟s palm. Marc pressed the silver dollar into Alyssa‟s hand. And so it is finished, she thought sadly. “Show me dat lov‟ly smile, mon chou,” Jean-Glen said brightly. “Don‟ you worry none ‟bout Beaux Elysees. Les Chiassons gon‟ take good, good care of your home.” “It‟s your home, now, Jean-Glen,” Alyssa said, her voice thick. “I know you‟ll love it as I do.”

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Jean-Glen kissed her twice on each cheek. “When you return, you will see that Beaux Elysees is as beautiful as ever.” It had never lost its beauty, not even after Philippe Fernand‟s attack. In the two months since, most of the damage to the mansion, cottages, and outbuildings had been repaired. Beaux Elysees was well on to the road to recovery, as was Marc. He was leaner, but somehow stronger than he was before the attack. The population of Beaux Elysees had thinned once Marc and Alyssa revealed their intention to sell the estate. While many tenants stayed on once they learned that Jean-Glen would hold the deed, others collected their substantial savings and sought their fortunes elsewhere. Marc purchased three more ships to transport those who wished to settle on the Ghiradelli‟s ancestral estate and other parts of the world. Joshua and Marguerite were headed for a Jesuit mission in western Africa. Father Devon intended to return to the Caribbean. Kiripati and his new wife, Adette, were sailing for Australia, along with Cedric and Rina, who couldn‟t bear to be separated from her twin. India, still grieving for her brother, reluctantly accepted a small fortune from Marc and Alyssa and headed west, to the Texas Territory. Edmond and Melody intended to spend time in Boston and New York before sailing for France. They would also visit Dell‟s family in Connecticut to let

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his parents know that he had been happy and died honorably. Manon and Angelo, sailing in the Sea Goddess, planned a direct route to Italy alongside Heaven’s Fury. Jean-Glen, Tita and Pedro, Dr. Cooper, and those who would remain at Beaux Elysees stood on the pier and bid tearful goodbyes as the small fleet of ships, led by Heaven’s Fury, set sail. Marc joined his wife at the ship‟s stern as Atchafalaya Bay grew smaller in the distance. Alyssa‟s tears blurred the waving hands of her friends. Marc stood behind her, clasping his hands over her skirt and the small round of her belly. “You needn‟t worry about those we‟ve left behind,” Marc assured her. “You left them more than enough money to last a lifetime. Jean-Glen is a good man. As he has proved, he will protect Beaux Elysees with his life. “So many of your friends are here on these ships. Angelo‟s house is right on the Ghiradelli land. Manon will never be far.” Alyssa nodded. Her throat was too tight to free words. The wind-stirred wisps of Alyssa‟s hair floated about Marc‟s face and shoulders. “Our home is on the coast,” Marc said, “a hair‟s breadth from the sea. The sand is as soft and fine as powder. The sea provides delicacies that rival those of your beloved bayou. There exists no lovelier place on Earth.” But there is. Longing, sudden and fierce, flooded Alyssa‟s heart. Heaven’s Fury sailed farther and farther out to sea, and Alyssa stared at the land of her birth until

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she saw no more of the pier or the people who had come to see the ships off. Her heart heavy,she recalled her tender goodbyes at the graves of her parents and lost friends. She offered a silent prayer, asking God to watch over and protect JeanGlen and the uncertain future he faced as caretaker of Beaux Elysees. Nothing is forever, Alyssa thought, hope welling in her heart to blunt the sharp edge of her sorrow. Mountains crumble and rivers run dry. The past is forgotten and the present dies. I’m leaving Beaux Elysees and the bayou, but I carry with me its best, its legacy of love. Alyssa placed her hands over Marc‟s. He nuzzled her nape, dotting it with kisses. “Paradise is where you make it,” Alyssa said, a tickle of excitement dulling her sadness. “It‟s here,” she placed Marc‟s hand at her temple. “And it‟s here.” She placed his other hand over her heart. “It‟s with you, wherever that may be.” In her adoring husband‟s protective embrace, she slowly turned to face the horizon and the future they would make, together.

The End

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www.crystalhubbard.com

Author Bio:

Crystal Hubbard is an award-winning author and mother of four who enjoys cake decorating, sewing, cooking, martial arts, boxing and training to become a roller derby competitor.

Red Rose Publishing Doctor's Orders- Debut story by C.A. Hubbard Paradise Found Odenkirk's Girl-Coming Soon Genesis Press, Inc: Tempting Faith Mr. Fix-It Blame It on Paradise Crush Always You Only You Suddenly You Antares Publishing: “Honey Clover,” a novella in First Night:An Anthology of Romance Novellas Written under the pen name of Pauline Shannon

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Million Dollar Girl (a mainstream contemporary young adult romance) Written under the pen name of Anne Wilde

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