Midnight Flame Page 8

  Laurel could tell her pleas fell on deaf ears as the women refused to even acknowledge Laurel’s comment. The woman sniffed in disdain. Not even money or simple human kindness would make her relent and help Laurel. What sort of a hold did this monsieur have over her to exact such loyalty after the monstrous thing he had done? She appeared to be an intelligent woman. She must realize that her master had kidnapped an innocent woman.

  “Eat, mademoiselle.”

  Laurel moved forward, drawn by the aroma of the food in spite of herself, and the sounds emanating from her stomach demanded to be stilled. Laurel looked at the food, still warm on her plate, and then at the woman. Apparently it was important to her that she eat as a way of appeasing her master.

  “I’m not here of my own free will, and you do realize that.”

  “I realize that monsieur will be very angry if you do not eat.”

  Laurel looked down at the food again, unable to pull her gaze away, but with a strength of will she did. She settled her eyes upon the woman’s worried and lined face. “Tell monsieur that I will not eat until he releases me. Also tell him that he made a mistake. I am not Lavinia Delaney but her cousin, Laurel, and I demand my release. I refuse to eat one bite of this delicious fare until he comes here and apologizes for what he has done to me. Otherwise, he’ll have a corpse on his hands. Someone will start searching for me when they realize I’ve disappeared.”

  “Mademoiselle, no.” She wrung her hands in frustration. “Monsieur will not like this.”

  Despite the fact that Laurel felt drawn to the food like a magnet, she moved toward the cot and sat down. “Return the food to monsieur with my message.”

  The old woman opened her mouth to protest anew, but Laurel stopped her with a severe look. In defeat the woman began to repack the food, but Laurel noticed she didn’t reach for the custard and the spoon. When she picked up the basket, Laurel saw a neatly folded blanket that she must have placed on the table earlier.

  “To keep you warm, mademoiselle,” she said and inclined her head to the blanket.

  Laurel picked up the soft wool coverlet and uttered her thanks to the old woman. “Be certain to tell your master that I’m not who he thinks I am,” Laurel reminded her. Nodding her head, the woman left and closed the door behind her.

  Then came the ominous sound of the bolt.

  Left alone, Laurel reached for the custard, grateful to the woman for purposely leaving the creamy concoction. Deciding that her kidnapper didn’t have to know she had eaten anything, she defiantly shoved the spoon into her mouth but found no pleasure in the dessert although she was hungry. Her throat hurt, and the midmorning sun that warmed the cabin didn’t dispel the sudden chill that settled over her. Placing the half-eaten custard on the table, she wrapped herself in the blanket, lay on the cot, and drifted into a fitful sleep.

  ~

  “I’m very upset with you, Tony. I think you could act the gentleman and apologize for your sudden absence last night. I looked quite foolish to your guests after your departure.” Simone stirred the tea a servant had recently placed in front of her, adding five lumps of sugar to the steaming brew.

  “Careful, Simone, or you’ll get fat,” Tony warned from across the black walnut dining room table where he lazed in a rococo-style chair, calmly smoking a cheroot. He watched as Simone lifted her fluffy blond head, framed by French doors and fan-shaped leaded glass windows behind her. The golden sun emphasized her beauty, which, he guessed, would become overblown in a few years. She would most probably grow quite plump like her mother, but Tony had never cared about a woman’s physical appearance—not if he loved her. And he didn’t love Simone Lancier. They had grown up together, and Simone had even shared his bed on a number of occasions. In fact she would now be gracing his bed if it hadn’t been for the dark-haired temptress he had hidden in the bayou.

  When he returned home last night, blaming Lavinia Delaney for her deviousness and himself for being forced into such a predicament, he had been tempted to seek out Simone, who was sleeping in the guest bedchamber. He had almost knocked on her door but had abruptly turned away, nearly bumping into Jean DuLac in the hallway. Tony realized he disliked the intrusion of overnight guests and vowed that he would not throw another party too soon.

  Simone shot him a waspish smile. “My darling Tony, I worry much less about gaining weight than looking positively skeletal like your little friend last night. What was her name? You never did introduce your gypsy girl. I would think she was quite unhealthy. There wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh on her, and I know you prefer a woman with a good appetite … you who are filled with an appetite to taste life.”

  She purposely leaned over her breakfast plate of eggs and sausages, giving him an unencumbered view of her flawless bosom in the tight-waisted and low-cut gown. The seamstress had done wonders showing off Simone’s physical assets to advantage. The gown suited Simone perfectly, and the blue color matched he eyes. Tony guessed she was trying to lure him upstairs to bed, and at any other time, he would have gone.

  But Simone had raised the topic of the woman he had brought to the dance last night, and he couldn’t get her off his mind. He hoped Zelie and Emmanuel hadn’t had much trouble with the tempestuous miss. Zelie was much too kind-hearted for such an undertaking, and no doubt she might be taken in by Lavinia’s silken lies. Emmanuel, however, wouldn’t be so amenable to the emerald-eyed beauty. He was a trusted servant and never questioned Tony’s actions.

  The sound of Simone’s lulling voice brought him out of his reverie, and he silently cursed himself for even now being under Lavinia Delaney’s spell.

  “After we’re married, darling,” Simone was saying, “you’ll never want any other woman but me, you’ll never even look at any other woman. I can make you happy, Tony, I know I can. All you have to do is name the date of our wedding. I saw the perfect pattern for my wedding dress in the latest issue of Godey’s Lady’s Book.”

  Simone’s words caused Tony to feel trapped. The thought of marriage to Simone, to any woman at the present time, was out of the question. He would never marry until he found the perfect woman with whom to share his life.

  He stumped out his cheroot in his breakfast plate and stood up. His expression was utterly bored. Beneath his well-dressed exterior of white shirt, brown frock coat, and matching trousers, his insides grew cold at the thought of marriage to Simone, but he smiled at her disarmingly, his smile brilliant.

  “I thought you wanted to wait until your father had completely recovered from his illness,” Tony said smoothly.

  Coming to stand beside him, Simone reached up and fiddled with a gold button on his shirt. “You know very well that Papa is always ill, Tony, because he drinks too much. He’ll die from the effects of alcohol one day and will never stop drinking until death closes his eyes. I don’t want to wait any longer to become your wife. Let’s announce our engagement soon.”

  The manipulative little minx. Until last night Simone, claiming her father’s health, hadn’t been that eager to marry him, but Tony knew she wavered because she enjoyed flirting with all the men and probably bedding some of them, too. Her virtue, or lack of it, had never bothered him—he was quite knowledgeable on that score himself—but now she felt she had a rival in Lavinia Delaney. He laughed aloud. If only she knew to what extent he had gone to avenge his uncle’s death on her supposed rival for his affections.

  “Whatever are you laughing at?” Simone asked somewhat huffily.

  “I’m sorry,” he answered and disentangled her hand from his shirt button, “but I can’t think of two more mismatched individuals than you and me.”

  “Mismatched? We’re very much alike, Tony.”

  “Exactly why we’d never be happy, Simone. I want a woman I can trust, and you, my pet, are not that woman.” His forefinger touched the tip of her nose, and his expression softened.

  “I can’t marry you, and whether you realize it or not, I’m doing you a favor by not marrying you. Anyway, I’ve never
encouraged you. You’ve taken it for granted that we’d marry because our fathers were friends. Your father may already wonder why I’ve never pressed my suit of you or formally asked for you. I don’t love you, Simone, and have no intention of taking you to wife. I’m sorry to hurt you, but I’ve done you an injustice by not having already told you how I feel. Look elsewhere for a husband, for I’m not about to become one soon.”

  Her mouth fell open, and her eyes clouded with forced tears. She had never been refused anything, or anyone, she had wanted in her life. And now here was Tony Duvalier, one of the wealthiest men in the parish, spurning her. To be honest, she didn’t love Tony, but she loved making love to him and reveled in the way he made her feel. She couldn’t imagine not marrying him. Her father wished the match, and she loved her father despite his weakness for liquor. How would she explain to all her neighbors, her friends in Vermillionville and New Orleans that Tony Duvalier didn’t want to marry her? It was inconceivable to her that he didn’t want to marry her, and oh, so humiliating.

  Simone pulled away from him. “It’s because of that woman you no longer want to marry me,” she said with what she considered to be just the correct amount of pain in her voice.

  Tony pretended not to know whom she meant and started to walk past her, but her hand shot out and stilled him. “You belong to me, Tony.”

  “What a possessive cat you are,” he said and shrugged off her hand before opening the French doors and going outside into the bright morning.

  The endless expanse of fields stretched before him, and he watched the servants as they tilled the long rows of the cotton fields. Then, walking beyond the house, he stopped at a distance and leaned against a barbed-wire fence that separated the grazing land from the rest of the plantation. Cattle contentedly munched on the sweet, green grass. Tony smiled. Not many other plantations in the area could boast such hearty, well-fed cattle. He had recently introduced the Brahman breed into his stock, hoping that by crossbreeding, he would produce a heartier breed of cattle than had previously existed in the prairie area.

  In the past Tony had lost some heads to tick fever, flies and mosquitoes, and drought that sometimes lasted for weeks. But the Brahman was a sturdy breed, used to surviving in hot country and able to live through periods of famine. So far, things had worked out well, and the cattle had thrived except for the loss of an occasional cow to a cattle thief. That seemed to be happening more often in the prairie area, and Tony knew he would have to put an end to that eventually.

  But now a wanton, dark-haired beauty filled his thoughts, and he wasn’t certain he liked expending so much time and energy on such a woman. He knew he would visit her again, maybe this very night, but first, he would let her stew a while until she became completely pliant and would melt in his arms at his touch. He wanted Lavinia to beg for him before taking her in a rush of passion, he ached to humiliate her by making her confess her desire for him. Then after he had spent himself within her and made her realize what a wanton she truly was, he would release her. The plan was quite simple, but the ease with which he had trapped her, of kidnapping her, disturbed him. For such a conniving woman, everything had gone his way too easily. Instead of feeling that Lavinia had gotten her just desserts, he almost felt she was a victim—more disturbingly, his victim.

  As Tony sauntered back to the house, he noticed Jean DuLac waving to him in the distance. When they came within speaking distance, Jean smiled at his cousin.

  “You slept very late, Tony, but then you were out until past three in the morning. Were you with your gypsy girl?” Jean nudged Tony knowingly. “You looked quite flushed when I saw you in the hallway early this morning.”

  Probably from that damn hood I wore over my head, Tony thought in aggravation. He patted Jean heartily upon the back. “The wench was insatiable, mon cousin.”

  “Really?” Jean said in surprise, a bit curious about the woman. “She didn’t seem to be that type of female. I mean she was nothing like Simone and acted more of a lady.”

  “Looks and mannerisms can be deceiving,” Tony uttered harshly.

  Jean grew quiet and followed Tony into the house. When they entered the back parlor, Zelie practically flew into the room after them.

  “I must speak with you alone, Monsieur Tony,” she said, wringing her hands; an urgency in her voice.

  Jean left the room without being asked, and Tony calmly poured himself a snifter of Courvoisier. “How is my prisoner?” he asked.

  Zelie came forward, her brow furrowed, and she lifted her turban-clad head to look into his eyes. “The mademoiselle refuses to eat. She is strong-willed and won’t eat a bite until you come to her and apologize for what you have done to her.”

  Tony practically choked on the brandy. “The woman is mad! Let her starve before I offer her an apology for anything.”

  “Monsieur, I fear you have done her an injustice.” Zelie wiped her perspiring palms on the front of her apron. “She knows her kidnapping is related to your uncle’s death.”

  All color drained from Tony’s tanned face. “Does she know I’m behind it?”

  Shaking her head, Zelie assured him that his captive had no idea he was involved. “However, monsieur, she is not a stupid woman; she may realize this fact very soon. She told me to tell you that she is not Lavinia Delaney but her cousin Laurel, I think she said her name was. She said you have made a grave mistake.”

  Tony tightened his hand around the brandy snifter. Laurel Delaney? Was it possible he had kidnapped the wrong woman? The thought of such a mistake momentarily caused a wave of alarm to course through his veins. But such a wanton couldn’t be Laurel Delaney. A woman like Laurel Delaney, reputed to be an elegant if a somewhat cold woman, would be unable to make his passion flare. Not a lofty ice queen as his investigation into Lavinia Delaney’s relative had shown. He preferred a willing, flesh-and-blood woman in his arms—someone who responded to his kisses, his embraces.

  A smile quirked around his lips. That Lavinia was such a woman, and he would congratulate her the next time they met on how easily lies rose to those luscious, strawberry-tinted lips. No, he convinced himself, he had kidnapped the right woman. He waved a tanned hand at Zelie.

  “She is lying to you. You mustn’t believe anything this woman says. She killed my uncle, and I know you wish to see this woman punished.”

  Zelie nodded slowly, but her old hands trembled. “You told me this Lavinia Delaney was cruel and dangerous, monsieur. You said she had hurt Auguste, and for that I will not forgive her. I took care of your Uncle Auguste when he was a little boy and loved him dearly. But this woman I saw today has no evil within her. She is frightened, and I think she means to starve herself. You must go to her, monsieur.”

  So, Tony thought, Lavinia had deceived old Zelie. How crafty she was to enlist Zelie on her side. Well, he wasn’t an old woman with a soft heart. He would make Lavinia Delaney sorry she had ever met Auguste St. Julian.

  “Don’t worry about her,” he spoke softly. “She’ll eat when she gets hungry enough. Just keep bringing her food.”

  Zelie started to say something else but apparently thought better of it. “Oui, monsieur,” she said and shuffled from the room.

  The brandy slid like silk down Tony’s throat, and that drink was quickly followed by two more until he felt sufficiently calm. Taking a deep breath; he turned away from the sideboard and stalked out the house to the barn where he gruffly ordered his horse saddled. Within minutes he was flying down Grand Prairie Road, not at all certain where he was headed until he noticed the cottage of Gaston Mornay.

  Reining his horse in, he hesitated, overcome by a momentary qualm of guilt that he had kidnapped the wrong woman. Could it be that he had unwittingly kidnapped Laurel Delaney and not the treacherous Lavinia? Tony shook himself and decided he must learn the truth. The only person who could provide that truth now was Gincie.

  After Tony had been solicitously handed a cup of coffee with chicory by Lillie Mornay and had conversed at le
ngth with Gaston about the disappearance of another cattle the night before, he and Gincie were left alone. Tony suddenly felt ill at ease with the woman but hid his discomfiture by lounging in a cane-backed chair as he slowly sipped the steaming brew.

  “You’re looking much better,” Tony noted and smiled approvingly. Gincie’s cheeks had a healthy glow about them, her eyes shone like onyx stars in her lined but happy face. She flashed her sparkling teeth at him.

  “I sho’ do feel better, sir. Doctor Mornay’s been takin’ real good care of me, and Lillie is as kind and good as they come.” A slight frown, however, crept across her brow, and she fiddled with the tiny bow on her white nightdress. “But I’d feel a lot more at peace if I had seen my baby before she left for San Antonio today. I thought she’d have told me goodbye, but I guess she was in a fuss to be gone. Her uncle’s been ailing, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Tony muttered, raising his eyebrows in an answering frown. “However, I did see Miss Malone when she boarded the coach the other day. Strange that she went on ahead without your mistress.”

  Gincie lifted her head from the pillow propped behind her, and devilment danced in her eyes. She gave a chuckle and waved her hand in the air in amusement. “That Miss Lavinia is somethin’, I tell you that. Since Miss Laurel is gone now, I guess she wouldn’t mind if I told you the truth about what those two girls did.”

  “What truth is that?” Tony’s face turned ashen, somehow knowing what Gincie was about to impart. He nonchalantly took a sip of coffee but found it tasteless and was unable to swallow.

  Gincie laughed lightly, eager to tell someone about the Delaney cousins and their charade. Tony listened, and by the time she had finished recounting how Miss Lavinia had thrown a temper tantrum on the steamboat because she was forced to look dowdy and unattractive, and how Miss Laurel was the one to remind her that she had better act the part of a lady’s companion or she would have nothing else to do with Lavinia’s problem, Tony hid his quaking hands in the pockets of his frock coat.