Philippe’s smile turned to stone when he saw Amalie advancing on him, her seductively arrayed body voluptuous in a low-necked, white blouse displaying the sharp tips of her pointed breasts, stretching the material almost beyond reasonable limits. Her boldly striped jupe skirt hugged her lithe hips and rose nearly to her knees in front. With an amused smile she viewed Philippe’s obvious state of arousal, and with hips swaying provocatively moved forward until they stood only inches apart. Philippe was too stunned to move when Amalie reached for a towel and began drying his body with excruciating thoroughness.
“What are you doing here, Amalie?” Philippe croaked, the words nearly strangling him as her hands worked furiously.
“I grew lonely for you, Monsieur Philippe,” she purred silkily.
“I explained to you that I no longer needed a mistress,” Philippe said, an underlying thread of anger in his voice. “You were ordered not to come to the big house and upset my wife.” He strove mightly to impress her with his words but found it extremely difficult while her hands moved with such dexterity over his body.
“Poo!” Amalie scoffed. “How can your wife hope to please you now that her belly grows large. Soon she will no longer be able to accommodate you. Besides,” she said huskily, her cat-soft touch affecting him more than he wanted to admit, “Madame Grabby is not here and I am,
mon amour,
”
She reached her arms to encircle his neck and nibbled at an earlobe with small, sharp teeth, laughing delightedly as his manhood gave a leap at her boldness. “I knew your body had not forgotten the touch of mine so soon.” Her voice was the consistency of poured honey.
Moving backward a few steps Amalie shrugged the blouse from her dainty shoulders uncovering the golden globes of her breasts. Her nipples were already erect ripe cherries. With a flick of her wrist her jupe skirt fell to the floor. She wore no underclothes and Philippe’s eyes were riveted to the curling black triangle now damp with her desire. “You are eager for me,
mon amour,
just as I am eager for you,” breathed Amalie, never more certain of her allure. “Come, let us taste one another again and seek the rapture we once knew together.”
Philippe drew his breath in sharply as Amalie moved so close to him that her pointed nipples burned into his chest like a searing flame, melting his resistance. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, he drew away from her. “Put your clothes on, Amalie,” he said hoarsely. Even though he meant what he said, he was tortured with desire for his ex-mistress. “I have a wife who is expecting my child. I will do nothing to upset her and endanger the life of my babe.”
Philippe’s self-righteous words affected Amalie not at all. “You want me,
mon amour,
I can see it in your eyes. Even your body speaks of your desire for me. Let me stay, Philippe,” she begged. “Allow me to please you as only I can.”
Before Philippe could stop her she slipped to her knees before him, encircling him with her lips as the room reverberated with his agonized cries of surrender.
Roughly, he pulled her to her feet. “You wicked, tantalizing witch,” he groaned, as if in pain. “How could I forget your golden, tempting body, or those lips so ready to consume?
Oui,
I want you, damn it! I want you with every fiber of my body!”
Lifting Amalie easily in his arms, Philippe carried her to his bed while the room trilled with her exultant laughter.
“Philippe, Philippe,” she moaned as his hands began their intimate assault upon her breasts. “How I have longed for you these long months. How I’ve wanted to come to you knowing that your pale wife was not woman enough for you but afraid you would be angry with your Amalie. I see now how wrong I was. You have been waiting for me.”
Barely able to contain his lust, Philippe ran his tongue along the outline of her lips, then plunged the tip into her mouth. Guilt, he knew, would come later. But for now it was enough just to concentrate on the passionate, writhing body beneath him, exciting him beyond physical endurance. His probing fingers found her ready for him and she clasped him to guide him into her body. But he needed no help as his manhood unerringly found its mark.
With a cry of delight Amalie raised her hips to meet his thrust and Philippe sank into the depths of her, filling her so completely she nearly swooned. Eyes glazed in passion he threw back his head in utter abandon, his face contorted with the cataclysmic explosion of his climax, his cries cutting into the afternoon heat.
At that fateful moment. Gabby quietly opened the bedroom door expecting to find Philippe sound asleep. She had not remained long at Le Chateau when she found the Duvall sisters gone and herself alone with Marcel. She remembered Philippe’s rage the last time he had discovered her alone with him. She was in high, good spirits when she hurried to their room anticipating a warm, perhaps even a passionate welcome. The shocking sight that greeted her plunged her to the very depths of Hell. Eyes wide in shock, she stifled a gasp of horror and outrage with a tightly clenched fist pressed to her trembling mouth. Philippe’s enraptured expression and blissful cries of completion assaulted her vision and hearing. Her eyes were riveted upon the naked, golden form that was the cause of her husband’s ecstasy. Amalie’s undulating body was beaded with a fine coating of sweat and she glowed with a pagan beauty. Gabby stood rooted to the spot, enthralled by the lovers caught up in the act of gratification. She felt like an intruder. Cringing inwardly, she watched as Amalie’s lovely features grew tense, her need for surcease spellbinding. But before Amalie lost herself in the throes of her own climax, she turned her head in Gabby’s direction, her cat’s eyes glistening with triumph.
It was more than Gabby could bear. She had thought being sold by her father the final degradation of her life; but she was wrong… wrong… wrong. Her own husband had just succeeded in topping her father’s disgusting deed. Gabby’s hand flew to her stomach as the child convulsed in her womb. As if in a dream, she fled from the scene of her betrayal, stumbling clumsily down the stairs and through the house, encountering no one in her hasty flight. Escape was uppermost in her mind. Escape from the sights and sounds forever etched upon her brain. Unthinkingly she headed for the stables, hoisting her swollen body atop Philippe’s horse already saddled from his return to the fields. Gabby was not a skilled horsewoman and her pregnancy made it increasingly difficult for her to keep her seat, but she resolutely took up the reins and spurred the horse into the banana groves, toward Le Chateau… and Marcel, a friend whom she needed badly at this moment.
Trembling violently, Gabby felt as if a knife had been plunged into her gut, a knife wielded by Philippe and twisted by Amalie. The horse beneath her skittered and shied, as if aware of the inexperienced rider clinging to his back. Suddenly, her mount halted, refusing to budge no matter how Gabby urged him on. In her recklessness, Gabby did not heed the animal’s sixth sense and she dug her heels into his flanks, causing him to rear in protest, his forelegs pawing the air wildly. Unseen by Gabby, a fer-de-lance that lay concealed in a bunch of bananas slithered down the tree trunk and into the path of the terrified horse. In a moment of desperation, she clung to the horse’s mane, too frightened to scream, to think. As if in slow motion she began to slide backward until her grip loosened and she tumbled to the ground, rolling to a sudden and painful halt against the trunk of a banana tree, unaware of the fer-de-lance that lay dead in the path, trampled by the horse’s flying hooves. The one thing she was aware of was the stabbing, excruciating pains tearing her body apart.
Gerard was in the stable when Gabby’s riderless horse returned. He had not known Philippe’s mount was even out of the stable and was surprised to see him coming from the direction of the groves lathered and badly frightened. Chills of apprehension prickled the back of his neck. He knew that Monsieur Philippe was in his bedroom napping and that Madame Gabby had gone immediately upstairs when he brought her home from Le Chateau. Shaking his head in bewilderment he went to confer with Tante Louise and together they decided to awaken Philippe to tell him of the strange occurrence.
When neither Gabby nor Philippe answered his knock, Gerard took matters into his own hands and bravely pushed open the unlocked door. Gerard’s second shock of the day came when he recognized the golden body of his daughter beneath Philippe’s muscular frame. He could only gape, forgetting for a moment his reason for entering the room. When he regained his senses he knew intuitively that Gabby must have come upon this scene and, shocked out of her wits, taken Philippe’s horse and ridden into the banana groves toward Le Chateau. He blanched. To attempt such a feat in her condition was tantamount to suicide.
When Philippe saw Gerard inside his bedroom he was livid with rage. Not so much for entering unannounced, but for discovering him in bed, arms and legs entwined, with Amalie.
“What do you want?” Philippe bellowed, disentangling himself from Amalie’s clinging limbs.
Gerard could only stare at his daughter stretched in obvious contentment, purring like a pleased kitten. Finally, dragging his eyes from her nude form, he looked at Philippe, his face purposely blank, hiding his disgust behind a frozen mask.
“Well?” Philippe demanded, hastily pulling on a robe. “This had better be good, Gerard, or I’ll have your hide!”
“It’s Madame Gabby! I think she… I think she…!”
“Out with it, man, what about Madame Gabby? Has she returned from Le Chateau so soon?” Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as latent pangs of guilt assailed him. Had Gabby come upon the sight of him and Amalie making love? Was she ill? Fear prickled the nape of his neck.
“The Duvall sisters were in St. Pierre so we returned from Le Chateau earlier than expected,” Gerard said, fighting to keep his voice level.
Casting a shamed look toward the bed where Amalie had half risen on one elbow, Philippe asked, “Where is Madame Gabby now?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Monsieur Philippe,” Gerard insisted. “Moments ago your horse returned to the stable sweating profusely and badly frightened. Since no one else had taken him out I could only assume that Madame Gabby rode him into the banana groves and has met with an accident. Tante Louise has searched the house for her and she can’t be found.”
“
Mon dieu!
” cursed Philippe, a hard knot of panic rising in his chest. Was Gabby to become another Cecily? Already he could picture her death. Leaping into his clothes, he started from the room.
“Monsieur Philippe, what of me?” Amalie pouted, stretching out a slim hand in his direction.
Philippe turned toward the bed as if shocked to find Amalie still alluringly arrayed upon it. He wrinkled his brow in distaste, and said, coldly, deliberately, “Get out! Don’t be here when I return.” Then he was gone. As he followed close behind, Gerard’s departing scowl eloquently displayed his displeasure with his daughter. Amalie’s gloating smile was her only answer.
Soon Philippe and Gerard were carefully picking their way through the banana groves, Philippe’s features distorted, his shoulders stiff as he searched the path for telltale signs of Gabby’s passage.
Suddenly, Gerard’s voice rang out. “Up ahead. Monsieur Philippe!”
Almost immediately Philippe spotted the small, still form lying at the foot of a banana tree in a crumpled heap. “Gabby!” he cried in a Strangled voice, springing from his mount and vaulting the short distance to where the motionless figure lay.
An agonized wail thundered from his lips. Blood was everywhere. It stained the skirt that had risen above Gabby’s knees and ran down her legs in rivulets. A short distance away lay the fer-de-lance neatly cut in two by pounding hooves. No explanation was necessary. Gerard had told him that Marcel was at Le Chateau and Philippe instinctively knew that Gabby, once she had seen him, decided to leave him again and go to Marcel, just as Cecily had done so long ago. In the far reaches of his mind was the nagging suspicion that Gabby had intruded upon the intimate scene with Amalie and fled, hell bent for suicide. But he immediately dismissed it from his mind, preferring instead to place the blame on Gabby’s head, leaving him blameless, or nearly so, in his own eyes. Damn her fickle heart! he cursed unreasonably. In her haste to leave him she had committed murder! His child was dead, the tiny fetus lying in a pool of blood beneath her thighs.
Philippe sighed with relief when he saw the thin rise and fall of her breast. From the enormous amount of blood surrounding her, Philippe realized that he must act quickly if she were to be saved. He made to lift her onto his horse.
“No, stop, Monsieur Philippe!” cried Gerard before Philippe could carry through. “There is no time. The bleeding must be stopped now, immediately! To carry her back to the house would spell her death. We must first staunch the flow of blood. Quickly, your shirt,” he ordered crisply, taking the decision out of Philippe’s hands.
Hesitating only a moment, Philippe peeled the soft linen shirt from his back and handed it to Gerard who immediately tore it into long strips. Grunting in satisfaction at the pile of linen before him, Gerard grimly set to work to save Gabby’s life. Gingerly he raised her skirts above her waist, ignoring Philippe’s horrified gasp when he saw the tiny, bloody form that had once been a living thing. Try as he might, Philippe could not turn his eyes from his dead child.
“Monsieur Philippe,” Gerard said gently, “I know what must be done. And when I am finished we must have a litter to carry her back to the house. Ride like the wind, Monsieur, and alert my wife. She will know what to do.”
Reluctantly, Philippe left after one last agonizing look at Gabby’s still, white face. He barely remembered his ride back to the plantation or his return with the litter.
Working swiftly after Philippe’s departure, Gerard cut the umbilical cord and, pushing the fetus aside, began to stem the flow of blood still issuing forth with the linen strips, packing them tightly. When the bleeding had slowed to a slow ooze, he pulled off his own shirt, ripped it down the middle and used part of it to wrap the bloody fetus and the rest to wipe the excess blood from Gabby’s legs. He pulled her skins down to her ankles just as Philippe returned with four men bearing a litter.
Seeing the stricken look in Philippe’s eyes, Gerard quickly assured him, “She lives, but we must hurry.”
Philippe would allow no one but himself to place Gabby on the litter. In his anxiety over Gabby he failed to notice the tiny, swaddled bundle in Gerard’s arms as they started down the path toward Bellefontaine.
Tante Louise met them at the edge of the groves, uttering a cry of dismay when she glimpsed Gabby’s white face and still form. She delayed but a moment to speak with Gerard and peek at the tiny bundle he held before hurrying after Philippe and the litter bearing Gabby.
With Philippe hovering nearby, Tante Louise worked feverishly to save Gabby’s life. Patiently she spooned infusions of herbs and medicines meant to clot blood down Gabby’s throat. She used clean linen pads to staunch the bright flow that slowly drained her of life until nothing more than a trickle remained. All through the night Tante Louise sat beside the motionless form, and when morning came, so did the fever. Philppe was dismayed by the violence of the shudders that racked Gabby’s tiny body. He helped bathe her burning flesh while Tante Louise fought to keep a steady flow of life-giving liquids down her throat.
It was four long, nerve-wracking days before Gabby’s fever broke and they knew she would live. Only then did Philippe, a shadow of his former self, allow himself to dwell on the accident that had cost him dearly. But when he did, his anger at Gabby exploded into harsh reality. Once again Marcel Duvall had unwittingly intruded upon his life in a way that had left him devastated. Gabby’s thoughtless, reckless ride to be with Marcel had cost him the life of his child and heir!
Gerard had informed Philippe that the child had been a boy, and he had grown bitter, completely ignoring his own treachery that precipitated Gabby’s foolhardy action. He thought only of the many times he had warned her of the danger lurking in the jungle. In his sorrow over the loss of his child he convinced himself that Gabby had deliberately set out to murder his child. Forgotten was his passionate tryst with Amalie, his betrayal of his marriage vows, his lust for his former mistress. Not even the knowledge that Gabby would have other children eased his tortured thoughts. And eating away into his vitals was the terrible conviction that Gabby had risked her life and that of her child’s to be with Marcel!
During Gabby’s illness Philippe had moved to a spare bedroom so as not to disturb her rest. On the day her fever broke he made his way to his room so exhausted he could barely move one foot in front of the other. Bone weary from his long vigil at Gabby’s bedside, he sank gratefully into bed, falling almost immediately asleep. Suddenly he was jolted awake by small, impatient hands tugging at his clothes.
“Amalie!” Philippe cried in dismay, catching both busy hands in one strong fist. “What the devil…?” He tried to rise up but her lithe body pinned him to the mattress.
“You need me. Monsieur Philippe,” Amalie purred. Philippe was mesmerized by the small tongue that darted between pearly teeth to moisten full, red lips, immediately struck by her resemblance to a small, predatory animal. “It is I who has remained faithful to you,” Amalie continued, relentlessly pursuing her objective. “I do not flee to the arms of another man. If I had your child in my belly I would not kill it.”
Philippe blanched, but in his tortured state recognized the truth of Amalie’s words, or what he considered the truth. Gabby had deliberately killed his son! He sighed, and loosened his hold on her hands, allowing her to resume her tiny flutterings and caresses.
“Let me love you. Monsieur Philippe,” Amalie murmured soothingly. “Let me heal your pain.” Her body was silken upon his.
His passion flared, and suddenly Philippe was desperate for Amalie. His arms clung to her as if he were drowning. “Your love never changes,
ma amour,
” he said brokenly, his mind unconsciously thinking back to Gabby’s infidelity with Rob. “You will never betray me.” His lips found hers and his body came alive, her hands found him more than ready for her. Soon Philippe was lost in her golden flesh, her small cries of pleasure drowning out the voice of his conscience.
Gabby found it difficult to accept the loss of her child. She was left with a deep feeling of emptiness. She knew that during her fever Philippe was constantly with her, but since she had come to full awareness she had seen little of him. And when he did appear at her bedside, he seemed remote and distracted. Finally, unable to bear his brooding silence any longer. Gabby deliberately brought up the subject that they had both avoided.
“Was the child a girl or boy?” she asked, her voice low and sad.
“A son,” replied Philippe stonily. “He was buried in the family plot should you be interested.” His voice was implacable, without kindness. Gabby began to sob softly but Philippe remained unmoved. “Why, Gabby?” he asked bleakly. “Why did it happen?”
“You dare ask me that, Philippe?” she asked, dismayed by his audacity. “Surely you share the blame.” He was totally unreasonable in his anger.
“It wasn’t I who rode recklessly through the jungle while large with child!” Philippe exploded, his anger awesome. “I hold you fully responsible for the murder of my son!”
“You honestly hold yourself blameless, don’t you, Philippe,” retaliated Gabby, her violet eyes shadowed with hurt and shock. Murder her own child?
Seeing her stricken face Philippe wavered but accusation never left his icy eyes. Weakness caused Gabby to tremble. It seemed that Philippe harbored no guilt feelings for what happened that afternoon when she interrupted his passionate love scene with Amalie. For all she knew Philippe and Amalie had carried on behind her back since the day she arrived at Bellefontaine. From what little she witnessed Philippe’s lust for Amalie was enormous.
Resignation prompted her to speak. “It matters little who was to blame, Philippe,” she said tiredly. “We both must live with our own guilt.
“You were going to Marcel,” accused Philippe.
“I… I had nowhere else to go,” she whispered sadly.
Philippe’s face hardened and a small muscle on his chin twitched, but he said nothing, aware of the violence ready to burst to the surface. Knowing what he was capable of doing when angered beyond endurance, he realized that separation at this time seemed the best remedy for their fragile relationship, He needed space, time to think, time to recuperate from his anger and heartache. Retreat would give them both time to heal. There were things they both needed to forget… and forgive. Perhaps later they could take up their lives where they had left off. Time had a way of dimming old memories and hurts. And the sooner he told her of his decision the easier it would be for both of them, he reasoned.
Philippe cleared his throat. “I came to say goodbye.”
Gabby paled, her eyes huge in her pinched face. “Goodbye?”
“The way I feel now I am doing neither to us any good by remaining here. Tante Louise and Gerard are quite capable of caring for you in my absence.”
“Where… where will you go?”
“In two days the
Windward
begins a voyage to New Orleans and ports in North America. I intend to be on board when she sails.”
Gabby wanted to ask if Amalie would accompany him but pride forbade it. Instead, she nodded mutely, too weary and sick at heart to reply.
“You should be restored to full health when I return and we will both be better prepared to discuss our differences. A short separation seems best at this time.”