Patricia Rice (10 page)

Eavin didn't trust him at the best of times. She trusted him even less when his easy English gave way to the stilted French accents of his youth. Pulling from the strong hands encompassing her waist, Eavin met Nicholas's dark eyes with a bravery she didn't feel.

"I want to go to Christmas mass."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He pulled off his hat and wiped his brow, releasing the wild mane of his hair. Sweeping his gaze over her petite stature and blood-splattered clothing, returning it to rest on the disheveled mass of her curls, Nicholas asked with a slight drawl, "You wish me to take you to New Orleans?"

"I wish to go to mass."

Undaunted, he replied, "Mass is in New Orleans."

With the truth dawning on her, Eavin gave a cry of frustration and ran for the house.

This godforsaken, alligator-ridden, swampy hell didn't even have a church.

Chapter 9

"The harvest is in. I can take you to New Orleans now if you require," Nicholas announced after dinner in mid-December.

"No, I don't wish to endanger Jeannette in this weather," Eavin replied, bending over her sewing.

He gave her a disbelieving glance as he poured his brandy. "And that is the reason you did not go with Jeremy to his church?"

"His church is not mine." Eavin bit her lip to keep from saying more. Nicholas in this mood was worse than no Nicholas at all. When he had nothing else to occupy his time, his energy strained at the seams of the old house until it rubbed raw everything and everyone within his reach.

"And your excuse for not accompanying Clyde Brown to the American Christmas festivities?"

"Is none of your business," she replied firmly, snapping off a piece of thread with her teeth.

Nicholas threw himself into his usual chair, propping his feet on the fireplace fender. Lilting his brows, he inquired politely, "What are you afraid of?"

"Snakes and alligators," Eavin answered promptly, threading another needle.

Nicholas grunted appreciation of her wit. "Brown and Howell are many things, but they're not snakes or alligators. You are afraid of men. Admit it."
 

"I've been married," Eavin reminded him. "I'm not eager to repeat the experience."

"Your behavior is unnatural," Nicholas persisted. "You are a young, healthy woman who should enjoy the company of the opposite sex."
 

Their evening conversations had gone entirely out of hand that he dared say such things, but Eavin expressed no shock that he had worn away her scruples on the subject.
 

"No one ever said you had to marry any of them. You could just enjoy yourself."

That was the typical Gallic irreverency Eavin was coming to expect in this place. The French were an extremely poor influence on public morals. She had even seen Governor Claiborne quoted as saying that in the papers.

"I am enjoying myself. You have no idea how good it is to have a house this size with only you and Jeannette to look after. Even after Dominic and I married, I had to stay and help in my mother's boardinghouse. There was no place to go where I could be alone for more than a few minutes."

Nicholas sent her shapeless clothing a speculative glance. So that was it. Boardinghouses meant men. He didn't think her protective camouflage would have worked very well. He had seen Eavin in an evening gown and was well aware of the figure she tried to conceal. "Your mother didn't leave you alone with her boarders, did she?" he asked more sharply than he intended.

Eavin glanced at him in surprise. "She could not be everywhere at once. I learned to defend myself. Dominic got all that he bargained for when we married."

"But that's why you married," Nicholas denounced her triumphantly, finally divining one of the secrets that had obsessed him lately. "You thought gallant Dominic would protect you from those lecherous bastards. And then when you were widowed, you were open game for every man in the house, so you came here."

"I came here because I thought Dominic's family would wish to have his child with them," she answered stiffly.

"And because you thought they could support you in comfort and because you're afraid of men. You've been frightened by men once too many times and so have written us all off as being reprehensible in nature. Is that any better than assuming all the Irish drink whiskey?"

Eavin gestured impatiently. "What difference can it make to anyone whether or not I am afraid of men? Call me cold if you like. I'm certain if Dominic were here, he would agree. What does it matter? I can never marry, and I'm not after wanting to be a man's mistress, which is all your friends see in me. So your curiosity may go wanting, sir."

Her Irish was really up for her to allow the accent to creep in. Nicholas shrugged. "You would make the ideal mistress. Pardon me for not thinking of it sooner. A man loves his mistress a great deal more than his wife, you know. He has to marry where name and fortune require, but he can choose a mistress to his liking. And if you cannot have children, you would save him the expense and the occasional embarrassment of raising bastards. Who told you that you couldn't have children, by the way? You were carrying a child when you came to us."

Eavin turned away, but Nicholas caught the gleam of tears in her eyes. "The doctor told me. After I lost… There was an infection, you see. It did something to me, and he said I would never bear another child. Nicholas, stop it. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"I'm sorry,
chère amie
." He lifted an apologetic hand. "I didn't mean to distress you. I know about pain, but sometimes if you keep it all inside you, it festers and grows worse. I would not have Jeannette's lovely aunt turn into a bitter, angry woman."

Eavin wasn't so quick to accept the apology. "Is that why you challenged Raphael? Because it was better than keeping the anger in?"

Nicholas stiffened, but to his surprise he replied. "Perhaps. But more because he deserved to die. He seduced Francine, knowing full well he would never marry her. That killed her more certainly than childbirth. If he still lives, I will try to kill him again for that."

"I was under the impression that you and Francine had been married for years. I don't mean to pry, but someday Jeannette will be old enough to ask questions. Is Raphael truly her father?"

Bitterness flared, but Nicholas rose and crossed to the dying fire and prodded it into flame again. "Francine and I knew each other very well, too well perhaps. Her family knew mine, knew where they came from and what became of them. Although the name Saint-Just is old and dates back to France and some illustrious titles, my father besmirched what little glitter it might have retained, and we didn't have wealth to make up for it. Francine's family did not consider me suitable. So I went away for a long time. When I came back, it was to find Francine inconsolable. The brave and gallant Raphael had left town one step ahead of the warrants for his debts, leaving Francine carrying his child."

Nicholas clanked the metal poker back onto its stand and swirled around to catch Eavin's wide-eyed sorrow. "You needn't look like that. I wanted Francine bad enough to take her any way that I could have her. We married quietly and let the story go about that we had been married all along, that I had just left her long enough to make my fortune. Everyone loved Francine, and they were eager to accept any tale we told. And when it became apparent that I had indeed returned with wealth, they were even more eager to accept us. Had Raphael not returned when he did, no one would think any differently even now."

"I see." And astonishingly, she did. Had Raphael stayed away, Nicholas would have allowed the world to believe that Jeannette was his daughter, just because she was Francine's child. But his anger and his pride would not allow Raphael to escape unscathed once Francine was no longer there to protect. His sense of honor demanded no less than revenge. As different as their cultures were, Eavin understood the need for revenge.

Nicholas smiled grudgingly at her admission. "I imagine you do, Irish. Perhaps it would be more fitting that I teach you to fence than to make love."

"Is that what you mean to do?" Eavin met his gaze calmly, thinking he jested.

"Most certainly,
chère amie
, sooner or later. I can do no less."

He stood before the fire, all bronze and gold, exuding masculine confidence, the aristocratic angles of his face shadowed by the light, and Eavin shivered. "Then I suggest you teach me to shoot instead. I can see a great deal more use for guns."

He threw back his head and laughed and although the warmth of that unusual sound flowed through her veins like mellow liquor, Eavin knew the battle had just been joined.

After a quiet Christmas, Eavin accepted the rains of January with a previously unknown serenity. Five-month- old Jeannette was sitting up now, becoming more of a personality with every day. She threw up her hands and laughed when she heard Nicholas's voice, for he invariably lifted her to his shoulder and swung her around when he entered the nursery. Their two heads together could not be more unalike, Jeannette's crop of black curls and pale face next to Nicholas's golden hair and sun-browned visage, but they accepted each other, and that was all Eavin could ask.

If she was more aware of Nicholas as a man now, she didn't let it show. He still ignored her a great deal of the time, but she was aware of the effort he had made to see that she accompanied him to the various local Christmas festivities. He didn't stay at her side long enough to cause talk, but he was always there to lead her onto the dance floor—after she agreed to learn the steps—to catch her elbow and introduce her to newcomers, to bring her supper, and to wrap her cloak around her when they departed. To Eavin, these constant niceties were almost as wearing as the abrupt and quickly ended crudities of her mother's boarders.

She knew what he was doing. She no longer ran away when he entered a room. She didn't jump in startlement when he touched her. She could sit in a closed carriage with him without fear. But his words never left her mind. Their highly improper conversations had stirred something that couldn't easily be set to rest. She didn't know how or when it would happen, but the confrontation to come was inevitable.

Eavin pressed her head against the glass of the doors leading onto the gallery and watched the rain streak the panes, smearing the old oak trees into a gray blur. She didn't want what Nicholas wanted. That he had been Francine's husband didn't deter her.
 

She knew he had loved Francine, and that his wife had returned some affection, but what was happening between herself and Nicholas had nothing to do with love. It had more to do with the fact that he had given up his black mistress and couldn't get to New Orleans enough to relieve his male urges. She had been married. She knew about these things. But try as she might as she lay in her lonely bed at night, Eavin couldn't imagine occupying the place beside Nicholas in his bed.

So she hoped he would find some new outlet for his restlessness before the inevitable happened. She was just beginning to realize how much she owed him. Should he ever come demanding payment, she would be in no position to refuse. She was quite certain that she wouldn't refuse. She wanted to stay too much. She loved this quiet life she had found. To leave Jeannette would be like cutting off her arm. She couldn't do it. But Nicholas never played upon any of these arguments. He merely looked at her with smoldering fires, touched her arm to
help her in
and out of
chairs, and talked with her as
if her opinion counted.

It was a devastatingly effective seduction. She was standing here waiting to see his horse arrive along the lane. He had been in New Orleans these last few days, and she missed him to an extent that she wouldn't dare admit. The house wouldn't come alive until the door slammed open, and he strode into the hall, flinging his dripping cloak onto the nearest piece of furniture, yelling for a fire and brandy, permeating the house with his vibrancy. So she waited and felt her heart beat excitedly at the first sight of a horse walking between the ancient oaks.

It took a moment before Eavin could eradicate the hope that it was Nicholas. Nicholas had never walked a horse in his life. Wind and rain and mud wouldn't halt him from flying down the lane as if the devil was on his tail. Eavin strained to discern the soaked figure from this distance, but she couldn't recognize him.

Whoever it was would be wet and cold. Eavin ordered a fire made up in what Nicholas called the
petite salle
and sent for a hot toddy. She couldn't imagine any good reason for someone to come out in this downpour, and she waited anxiously as the man rode up to the house and tethered his horse below the gallery.

He seemed uncertain about approaching the stairs to the upper story, and Eavin wondered if she should send a maid to show him through the storeroom if he preferred not to come into the house. But he finally threw back his shoulders and marched up the stairs with an insouciance she recognized at once.

Michael!

Eavin raced to the door, stifling a scream of excitement only with the realization that he would never be here if trouble weren't far behind. She had always idolized her older brother, and he had always treated her with laughter and love, but she had known from an early age that Michael was incapable of civilized behavior. He had a temper to match Nicholas's, and a propensity for whiskey and gambling that had caused their father to heave him out of the house more than once. By the time their father had died, Michael had built a life of his own, and Eavin had seldom seen him except at holidays and when he was in trouble.