The couple at the railing made no move to draw apart.
Philippe did not miss Marcel’s bold gesture nor Gabby’s willingness to accept Marcel’s embrace. Abruptly, he turned from the scene, walking swiftly in the direction of his cabin.
It was some minutes before Gabby realized with a start that Marcel had become far too intimate. She pulled away sharply, aghast at his boldness as well as her own willingness to allow him such liberties. “I must go, Marcel,” she said, her voice quivering nervously. “I tremble to think what Philippe might do if he found us like this.”
“You are shivering,
cherie
,” Marcel said, watching her closely. “Are you so terrified of your husband? Does he mistreat you? Tell me if he has hurt you in any way and I shall call him out and…”
Gabby blanched. There was enough animosity between them without her contributing further to it. “Oh, no, Marcel,” she interrupted, “it’s just that… I mean… our marriage was arranged and I am not accustomed to his ways yet. But having you for a friend means a great deal to me.”
“Gabby,
cherie,
I will always be your friend. I would be more if you would allow it,” he said meaningfully. “If ever you need my help, you have but to ask.” Then he lifted one small hand, turned it upward and placed a warm, moist kiss on the palm.
His meaning did not escape her. With a sharp intake of breath, Gabby withdrew her burning hand and fled to her cabin, her mind turmoil of emotions. She chided herself for acting like a young girl being courted for the first time by a handsome man.
Gabby entered the dimness of the cabin, her heart beating wildly, checks crimson, eyes sparkling. She rested a moment with her back against the door, trying to gain some measure of composure. She failed to notice Philippe seated at the small table, a glass of brandy in his hand and the half-filled bottle before him. The day that had begun in brilliant sunshine suddenly turned dark and forbidding as a squall swiftly gathered on the horizon; a storm no less fierce than the one raging within Philippe.
From across the room Gabby met his cold, gray eyes as he raised his glass in mock salute, a mirthless grin slashing his grim features. He jerked unsteadily to his feet and with sinking heart Gabby realized he was drunk. “I wonder, Madame,” he drawled, slurring over his words, “if you would find Marcel Duvall’s lovemaking more to your liking? It is obvious you hold mine in contempt. Perhaps you find me repulsive, or are more receptive to men who take that which belongs to another?”
Gabby turned to flee, but before she could Philippe propelled himself forward, putting one large hand against the door and pulling her roughly away from it with the other. When he released her, the abruptness of his action sent her flying to the opposite end of the room where she hit the bulkhead with a resounding thud, them crumpled to the deck like a rag doll. Barely conscious, she watched through frightened eyes while Philippe locked the door and dropped the key into his pocket before he turned toward her, a perplexed frown creasing his face when he saw her lying at his feet.
Swaying slightly he reached her side and bent to help her to her feet. Gabby shrank from his touch and Philippe raised his hand as if to strike her, but quickly lowered it when he realized his insane anger was causing him to do something he would regret later.
“Why are you doing this to me, Philippe?” she whimpered.
“You have the nerve to ask me why,” he shot back, eyes blazing, “when night after night you lie beneath me cold and passionless, yet invite the embrace of a man you hardly know!”
Gabby’s heart sank when she realized Philippe had seen her and Marcel together earlier. “You forget,” she reminded him boldly, “that you are a stranger as well, and have shown me nothing but indifference and brutality in the short time we have been together. At least Marcel is kind and thoughtful.”
“You do not know Marcel if you think he has nothing on his mind but friendship,” Philippe raged.
Pushing aside Philippe’s helping hand, Gabby rose unsteadily to her feet. “Don’t touch me,” she spat.
“You allow Duvall to touch you,” he stormed. “I will kill him before I allow him to corrupt you!”
“Why do you hate him so?”
Her question caught him unaware but his brittle gaze did not waver as he answered with one word, “Cecily!”
“Who is Cecily?” The name meant nothing to Gabby.
Though befuddled and confused from too much brandy, Philippe knew he was not ready to tell Gabby about Cecily. Instead he said, “Don’t trap me with your questions, Gabby, Cecily has nothing to do with you.”
Then his glazed eyes fell on the neckline of her dress, which had become unfastened in the foray and hung open revealing a creamy breast. The flash of desire was swift as he ordered harshly, “Take off your clothes!” Gabby ignored his command with stony silence. “Did you hear me,
ma petite?
” he repeated. “Take off your clothes! Or I will tear them from your lovely, frigid body.” Grimly Gabby raised her trembling hands to unfasten her dress. “Do not look so glum,” Philippe laughed sardonically, “just pretend I am Marcel.”
Gabby’s neck corded, and anger was bitter on her tongue. His cruel words and filthy accusations stunned her. She longed to strike out at him but fear held her in check. “Hurry,” he said as he poured himself another brandy and flipped it expertly down his throat, hot eyes devouring her as piece by piece her clothing dropped to the floor. “Tonight,
ma chere,
you will find paradise,” he promised, his voice softening into a hoarse whisper. “I shall not allow you to suppress your natural passion with a pretense of frigidity. When I am through with you your thoughts will never again stray to another man.”
Effortlessly, Philippe plucked her from the mound of discarded clothing at her feet and carried her to the bed, flinging his own clothes off before falling at her side. Gabby shivered, suddenly aware that the wind had risen and the ship was no longer the sedate lady she once had been. Though it had grown dark, streaks of lightning lit up the cabin while thunder rumbled across the heavens.
Gabby lay still as Philippe’s eyes became twin pools of gray velvet, his hands surprisingly gentle upon her flesh. With every ounce of her strength she fought against the sensations that threatened to engulf her, knowing that once she submitted willingly she could no longer despise him for forcing himself on her. When Philippe enfolded her in his arms it was as if a bolt of lightning had pierced the very core of her, his body hot and demanding. Yet, he was gentle. Never had she known such tenderness from him. His passionate kiss was long and deep, and when he released her mouth she wanted him to claim it again. His lips etched a path along the smooth curve of her neck to the tip of her breast where he felt her nipple rise as his tongue flicked hotly against the pulsating bud before moving across the pale goblet of her belly, kissing and caressing all the small hollows and indentations along the way. Her body trembled, tiny seeds of sensation bursting softly into bloom as waves of desire coursed through her. By the time his lips reached the smooth, tender skin of her inner thighs, she no longer had a will of her own. Something was driving her on, insisting she find out the meaning of the powerful force pulsing within her.
“Don’t fight it,
ma chere
,” Philippe whispered, his mouth twisted in a crooked grin, all vestige of drunkenness gone. “There is no greater pleasure than that of the flesh.” Then his lips were where no lips should ever be, teasing, nipping, tasting, as she experienced a terrible, rising ecstasy to which some secret place within herself was vibrating, his questing lips pushing her ever upward.
“Philippe,” she begged in a haze of delirium, “have mercy!”
But Philippe showed her no mercy. Every muscle of her body was as taut as a finely drawn wire as she strove toward a truth she had long denied, even feared. Then all sense of time and reason receded as a million stars burst inside her head, hurtling her skyward to join the maelstrom of the storm raging outside the cabin, powerless before that long withheld surge of emotion until her body had nothing more to give.
When she was quiet Philippe raised himself and whispered in her ear, “That was for you,
ma chere
now for me.” She gasped as he plunged deep within her, moving with swift, sure strokes until Gabby felt once again the flood of warmth coursing through her veins. Her eyes opened wide in shock, confusion reigned. Could he be bringing her again to that pinnacle of towering passion in a repeat of the ecstasy she had known only moments before? Then all thought fled as she joined Philippe in his race to the summit.
Grabby drifted in an eddy of quiet contentment aware only of Philippe’s cries of completion ringing in her ears. Before sleep claimed her she felt amazingly at peace. The briefest smile of triumph flitted across Philippe’s face before he, too, sank into oblivion, both unaware of the raging storm and tumultuous sea around them.
The storm blew unceasingly for three days. It was not a full-fledged hurricane, but a fearsome squall nevertheless. During that time Gabby did not leave the cabin, and Philippe only once or twice, and then just long enough to check on the condition of his ship. But the passage of time was like nothing to the lovers as they rode out the storm as well as their pleasure locked in each other’s arms, and time drifted sweetly on, the rocking of the ship a cradle of passion. Sometimes Philippe made gentle, tender love to her, her rapture more intense than any she had ever known. At other times his fierce ardor swept her along on a tide of passion so consuming that she was left drained and exhausted. Then there were times when just lying side by side, bodies touching. was enough.
The innocent, convent-raised, untutored virgin no longer existed. In her place dwelt a woman who had learned volumes about loving, and recorded a thousand ways to please and be pleased. But not once had Philippe’s words implied she meant anything more to him than a vessel for his lust. He still remained a mystery to her. Why did Philippe treat her so shabbily? No matter how intimate they became she could not penetrate his cold reserve. There was always a part of him held back, even in his greatest moments of ecstasy. Sometimes Gabby hated him, as well as her own traitorous body. No word of love passed his lips. And always that same triumphant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth each time she cried out for pleasure.
Gabby awoke just as the day was dawning with a blush of crimson in the eastern sky and realized that the storm had finally blown itself out. Busy sounds drifted in and she knew that the ship was once more responding to the directions of men instead of its capricious mistress, the sea. She ventured a glance at Philippe and saw that he still slept, looking much like a little boy, all the lines in his face smooth and his black curly hair lying unruly upon his forehead. She stifled an urge to brush her fingertips across his brow and arose from the bed careful not to disturb him. She shivered in the cool morning air, hugging her arms across her naked breast.
She was unaware that Philippe had awakened and watched her through slumberous eyes while she washed and dressed. Her fragile beauty never ceased to amaze him. When a knock shattered the silence he was instantly up and donning his trousers. Their early morning visitor was the cabin boy with a request to join Captain Giscard for a hot breakfast, their first in three days.
If Gabby thought Philippe’s attitude toward her had altered during those three days when he had become a tender lover, she was mistaken. His manner remained cool and aloof, as if their shared intimacies meant nothing to him. She choked back the resurgence of hate that rose like gorge in her throat, seething bitterly as she recalled the carnal pleasures he had taught her to enjoy in just three short days.
Philippe’s voice startled her from her reverie and she was surprised to see him dressed and shaved while her mind wandered. “Gabrielle, I expect that Duvall will be at the captain’s table,” he said sternly, as if lecturing a willful child. “You will do well to remember all that I have told you about him and act discreetly.”
Gabby bristled with indignation and her eyes flashed violet flames. She opened her mouth to utter a scathing retort but Philippe forestalled her.
“You cannot begin to know what Duvall is like. You must trust my judgment in these matters. Your experience in the ways of the world is sadly lacking.”
“But I am learning fast, am I not?” she mouthed contemptuously.
Philippe frowned menacingly as her chin shot defiantly upward. “I am beginning to think I made a dreadful error in marrying you,” he said. “Your father was mistaken if he thought the convent had gentled you.”
“I was innocent when I left, Philippe! And you have managed to take my innocence forever. But no one, not even you, can destroy my spirit.”
“Your innocence was not too difficult to take,
ma petite
,” he laughed cynically. “It seems you were ripe for the plucking and I got more than I bargained for. I knew you could not remain an ice maiden forever. But I warn you,” he said, his features darkening, “your treasures are mine alone, bought and paid for. There will be no question of whose child you carry when that day arrives.” He thought of Cecily and the child who might have been his.
“How dare you, Philippe,” cried Gabby, shocked by his words. “I am legally your wife and although I never wanted this marriage I have no intention of breaking those sacred vows. I did, after all, learn something in the convent.”
“More than Cecily, I should hope,” he muttered cryptically.
“Cecily!” Gabby repeated. “Who is Cecily and what has she to do with me?”
“Cecily,
ma petite,
was my wife,” he replied in a sudden burst of confidence.
“Your… your… wife?” Gabby stammered.
“Was
my wife,” Philippe emphasized.
“I had no idea you had been married before. What happened to her?”
“She is dead! As well as the child she carried.”
Gabby’s natural curiosity ran rampant. There was no way she could have stopped the next question even if she had guessed at the shocking answer and the effect it would have upon her life. “How did she die?”
Philippe debated the answer in his own mind, fighting to control the turmoil of his emotions. Only when his anguish subsided and he gained a semblance of control did he speak, his voice flat, devoid of feeling. “I will speak of this only one time and then never again. Do you understand?” When Gabby nodded, he continued. “I killed Cecily.”
Gabby sucked in her breath, her gasp of horror shattering the silence. Fear raged within her and unanswered questions, ones she dare not ask, died in her throat. Did he intent to kill her also when he tired of her? What had the hapless Cecily done to warrant her untimely death? Why hadn’t the authorities arrested him for murder?
Mon dieu,
what manner of monster had she married?
Gabby shrank from his touch when he came forward to usher her from the cabin, her eyes wary and distrustful. Suddenly it came to Gabby that she would not hesitate fleeing from the man she had married.
Breakfast was an ordeal Gabby could have done without. Time and again Marcel tried to draw Gabby into conversation. “I see you have weathered the storm in good condition, Madame St. Cyr,” he said, addressing her directly.
“Oui,”
she answered, dropping her eyes discreetly to her plate of food.
“You were not seasick?” he asked, hoping to elicit more of a response from her.
“My wife was not seasick,” cut in Philippe rudely. “In fact, our seclusion was well spent in pleasurable pursuits.” No one could mistake his meaning.
Gabby flinched, a hot flush spreading across her cheeks when the full impact of his words struck her. Even Captain Griscard cleared his throat in embarrassment. Smiling a secret smile Philippe went on to thoroughly enjoy his breakfast, blissfully unaware of Gabby’s discomfort or of Marcel’s covetous glances.
The following weeks brought little change to the status quo. Philippe continued his assault upon her night after night. And she was powerless to resist. As long as she responded he became a tender, consummate lover, striving to satisfy her as well as himself. He carried her to heights she never knew existed or had even imagined so long ago when she lay alone in her hard convent cot. How could there be so much contradiction in one man? she wondered dismally. By night her rapture knew no bounds, his gentleness deceiving, for during the day his brooding silence clothed her in a cloak of fear. She did not mention Cecily again nor did he.
When they entered southern waters, Philippe’s dark moods lightened somewhat and he grew almost loquacious when she asked him to tell her about the island that would soon be her home. For the first time since their marriage, except when he was making love to her, the harshness of his face gave was to a soft, wistful look.
“First you must know that Martinique is one of the Windward Islands in the Lesser Antilles,” Philippe informed her in a voice that showed excitement for the first time since she had known him. “The Antilles chain stretches across the Caribbean Sea from the eastern reach of the chain between the islands of Dominica and St. Lucie. It is approximately 431 square miles in size and very mountainous.”
“Is it dry like a desert?”
“Just the opposite,” laughed Philippe, showing her dimples she never knew existed. “It is mostly a jungle. Mount Pelee, an active volcano, rises four thousand five hundred fifty-four feet on the northern shores. In the south, low hills rise one thousand to two thousand feet. There are numerous streams and several large rivers.”
“An active volcano!” Gabby repeated with awe. “Is there much danger?”
“None whatsoever, else a city such as St. Pierre would not thrive. The city is located at the foot of Mount Pelee. Although it periodically belches smoke and ash, there has not been a major eruption for years. Of greater danger are the hurricanes that occasionally batter the island, and, of course, the fer-de-lance.”
Gabby shuddered, “Hurricanes? Fer-de-lance?” It was clear she knew practically nothing about either.
“Hurricanes are winds that sometimes reach one hundred miles per hour, accompanied by drenching rains that strike during the months of July through November. In fact, I’m surprised we haven’t encountered one since entering southern waters. The havoc they wreak is indescribable. Huge waves can destroy entire cities with great loss of life.”
Gabby prayed that she would never experience a hurricane. “And the fer-de-lance?” she asked.
“A deadly snake whose bite is sure death,” Philippe answered grimly. “They are everywhere, in the jungle, in the cane fields, in trees, in grass, in bushes. They can be any color or hue. There are eight varieties on Martinique alone, and it has the unpleasant habit of hiding in the roots of trees or in a stalk of bananas. Now is as good a time as any, Gabby, to warn you of the danger. Never, never, put your hand on a tree or your foot anywhere you aren’t sure is safe. Once a ferdelance strikes, you are as good as dead.”
Gabby listened with quiet horror while Philippe explained about the deadly snake. When he finished, she shuddered in revulsion and promised never to venture anywhere on her own. She vaguely wondered if he weren’t exaggerating in hopes of frightening her so she would be afraid to leave the plantation. Did he mean to terrorize her into submission?
As the days drifted endlessly into one another, Gabby learned more about Martinique and Bellefontaine, Philippe’s plantation on the slopes of Mt. Pelee above St. Pierre. He told her he kept a townhouse in St. Pierre as did most of the other planters on the island because of the active social life in that city, especially at Carnival, and a much more popular business and cultural center flourished there than at Fort-de-France, the seat of government.
Gabby found herself eagerly looking forward to reaching Martinique, for she felt stifled by Philippe’s constant attendance. The days were bad enough with his changing moods, but the nights were agony and ecstasy at the same time. To her horror she found that her body was responding to his skills, even while her mind rejected him utterly. And always, his words came back to haunt her. “I killed my wife.”
One particularly warm afternoon, Gabby decided to abandon the sun-washed deck in favor of the dim coolness of her cabin. She removed her dress and stretched lazily on the bunk, drifting almost immediately into a light sleep. She awoke with a start to the sound of angry voices coming through the open porthole. She was sure she had heard her name spoken and recognized the voices as belonging to Philippe and Marcel. She arose stealthily, edging toward the porthole, straining to catch their words.
“You seem quite enamored by your
petite
Gabrielle,
mon ami
,” Gabby heard Marcel saying.
“And you, Duvall, seem overly concerned with my wife and my marriage.”
“Does your bride know about Cecily?” Marcel asked slyly.
“She knows I was married before,” replied Philippe between clenched teeth.
“I’m sure you have not told her the truth,” Marcel implied.
“Keep away from Gabby, Duvall,” Philippe warned ominously. “If you interfere this time I will kill you. I should have done so long ago.”
“I was not the cause of Cecily’s death,” Marcel emphasized. “You were the one who forced her to conceive a child she did not want. You were the one who sent her fleeing through the jungle in the dead of night. You…”
“Enough, Duvall! It is over and done with. It is Gabby I am concerned with now. She is not cut from the same cloth as Cecily. She is a true innocent and knows little of men like you. Stay away from her!”
“Ha!” laughed Marcel derisively. “What about men like yourself,
mon ami?
Who will protect her from your jealous rages, or your insatiable lust? What about that, St. Cyr? Let us speak of your lust. Have you told your little innocent about Amalie, the beauteous, passionate, Amalie? Amalie will not take kindly to your new wife.”
“I can’t see where it’s any of your concern, Duvall,” Philippe said coolly, “but if it makes you feel any better, Amalie expects me to return from France with a bride.”
“I can well imagine how that wildcat took the news when you told her you were ready to take another wife,” smiled Marcel with secret amusement.
“As I said before, it is none of your concern. Amalie will do and act as I say,” insisted Philippe.
“Since when did Amalie follow orders?” Marcel laughed derisively. “No,
mon ami,
Bellefontaine is not big enough for both wife and mistress.” He smoothed his mustache and licked his lips, thoroughly enjoying Philippe’s discomfort. “I will be happy to take the little baggage off your hands.”
Philippe turned on him with such a black scowl that Marcel was momentarily at a loss for words. “Amalie will remain at Bellefontaine,” he growled. “It is her home. Whether or not she remains my mistress is none of your business.”
“I have no doubt whatsoever that she will continue to warm your bed, especially when little Gabrielle’s belly begins to swell with the heir you seem to want so much.”
“Why is it, Duvall, that my women interest you more than any others?” asked Philippe venomously.
“But,
mon ami,
you have such superb taste in women. Take your innocent wife, for instance. I do believe she surpasses even Cecily in beauty. When you succeed in driving her away, I shall be there to pick up the pieces.”
Gabby did not hear Philippe’s angry retort because Captain Griscard chose that moment to join the two men and his booming voice soon put an end to the alarming conversation that cast a pall upon her immediate future. She should have known that Philippe had no intention of keeping his marriage vows!
That night, if Philippe noticed any reluctance on Gabby’s part to participate fully in the farce he called lovemaking, he made no mention of it. His tenderness in bed not only puzzled her but infuriated her as well. She longed to confront him with what she had learned that afternoon and decided to do just that when he finally lay quiet beside her, his mood mellowed by sexual fulfillment.
“Philippe,” she said hesitantly, running her hand along the muscular planes of his chest.
“What is it,
ma chere?
Have I not satisfied you enough for one night?”
“Please, Philippe, be serious for a moment.”
“I am serious,” he said, moving his hand lightly over her body.
Gabby realized that if she did not say something to stop him his insatiable lust would soon forestall any conversation. “Who is Amalie?” she asked boldly, unprepared for the violence of his reaction as Philippe reared up as if bitten by a snake.