When Strangers Marry, Page 2

  “Come, don’t take all day,” the boy named Justin said impatiently. Lysette struggled against him, but his lanky arms were surprisingly strong. He tightened his grip until she subsided with a gasp of pain.

  “Mon Dieu, it’s not necessary to hurt her,” Philippe said.

  “I didn’t hurt her,” Justin replied indignantly. “I just squeezed her a little.” He gave Lysette a warning glance. “And I will do it again if she doesn’t make up her mind now.”

  Numbly Lysette looked from the imperious dark face of the boy who held her to the lighter one of the boy nearby. They were identical twins, she realized. The one called Philippe seemed a little gentler, and there was a trace of compassion in his blue eyes that she sensed was absent in the other. It was possible that she could convince him to release her.

  “You,” she said desperately, looking at Philippe.

  “Him?“ Justin scoffed, letting her feet drop to the ground. He shoved her toward his brother with a contemptuous snort. “There, Philippe, do as you please. I didn’t want her anyway.” He scooped up the bundle on the ground and searched through it, discovering a handful of coins tied in a handkerchief, a rolled-up dress, and an amber comb.

  Unable to stop her momentum, Lysette staggered against the other boy. His steadying hands came to her narrow shoulders. “What is your name?” he asked.

  His voice was unexpectedly kind. Lysette chewed the insides of her cheeks and shook her head, while her eyes stung with sudden tears. She despised herself for the moment of weakness, but she was exhausted and starving, and she was nearly at her wits’ end.

  “Why were you taking the pirogue?” Philippe asked.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. Let me go— I won’t bother you again.”

  Philippe’s gaze took a detailed tour from her head to her feet. Lysette withstood the inspection with resignation. Even at her best, she had never been called a great beauty. Now, after her sojourn through the swamp, she was muddy and strongsmelling.

  As the boy gazed at her, he seemed to come to a decision. “Come with me,” he said, grasping her wrists. “If you are in trouble, we may be able to help you.”

  Lysette was filled with instant alarm. She suspected the boy intended to bring her to his parents. Then it would only be a matter of hours before she was delivered to the Sagesse household. “No, please,” she begged, pulling at her imprisoned arms.

  “You have no choice.”

  She shoved at him as hard as she could, jabbing with her elbows and knees. He defeated her with humiliating ease. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Philippe said, swinging her over his shoulder and locking his arm behind her knees. She gave a scream of mingled rage and despair as she flailed helplessly against his back.

  Justin watched his brother with a sardonic frown. “Where are you taking her?”

  “To Father.”

  “Father? What are you doing that for? He’ll only make you let her go.”

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Philippe said matter-of-factly.

  “Idiot,” Justin muttered underneath his breath, but he followed reluctantly as his brother carried their new acquisition from the bank of the bayou.

  Lysette went limp halfway up the incline, deciding it would be wiser to save the strength she had left to face whatever fate was in store for her. There was no way she was going to escape the clutches of these two arrogant boys. She closed her eyes, feeling sick.

  “Don’t carry me upside down,” she said thickly. “I will be ill if you do.”

  Justin spoke up from behind them. “She does look rather green, Philippe.”

  “Really?” Philippe stopped and let Lysette’s feet slide to the ground. “Would you like to walk?”

  “Yes,” Lysette said, stumbling a little. The brothers each took an arm, guiding her forward. Dazed, she looked from right to left, realizing the boys must belong to a family of great wealth. Like other plantation homes in the exclusive bayou district, the house faced the Bayou St. John, a finger of water that extended from Lake Pontchartrain to the Mississippi River. The lazy afternoon sun glared on the main house’s white and pale gray exterior. All three stories of the home were surrounded with wide shaded verandas framed by sturdy white columns. Abundant groves of cypress, oak, and magnolia trees had been planted around the chapel, smokehouse, and what appeared to be slave quarters.

  Lysette’s stomach churned unpleasantly as the boys propelled her up a flight of steps leading to the main door of the house. They passed through a dark, cool entrance hall lined with narrow mahogany benches.

  “Father?” Philippe called, and a startled darkskinned woman gestured to a room just beyond one of the twin parlors bordering the hallway. Smugly the boys paraded their charge into the library, where their father sat at a massive mahogany desk. The room was splendidly furnished, the chairs upholstered with rich yellow silk that matched the yellow and lapis lazuli print on the walls. Heavy swags of scarlet wool moreen framed the windows.

  Lysette’s attention moved from the room to the figure at the desk. He faced away from them as he worked. He wore no waistcoat, and his white shirt clung damply to the outlines of his powerful muscular back.

  “What is it?” came a deep voice that sent an unsettling thrill of awareness down her spine.

  “Father,” Philippe said, “we caught someone by the water trying to steal our pirogue.”

  The man at the desk shuffled papers into a neat pile. “Oh? I hope you taught him the consequences of tampering with Vallerand property.”

  “Actually…” Philippe began, and coughed nervously. “Actually, Father…”

  “It’s a girl,” Justin blurted out.

  Evidently that was enough to attract Vallerand’s attention. He turned in his chair and stared at Lysette with cool curiosity.

  If the devil ever decided to assume a human guise, Lysette was certain that he would look exactly like this… dark, handsome, with a bold nose, a hard sullen mouth, and wicked dark eyes. He was a rampantly masculine creature, possessing the swarthy tan and the obvious physicality of someone who spent much of his time outdoors. Although Lysette was taller than average, Vallerand’s dominating presence made her feel almost tiny. Rising to his feet, he leaned back against the desk and surveyed her lazily, seeming less than enthralled by the sight of a mud-encrusted girl in his library.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Lysette met his assessing gaze without blinking, while she considered various ways to deal with him. He did not seem to be the kind of man who would be moved by tearful pleading. Nor would he be impressed with threats or defiance. There was a possibility that he was acquainted with the Sagesse family, perhaps even was close friends with them. Her only hope was to convince him that she was not worth the trouble of bothering with.

  Justin spoke eagerly before Lysette could reply to his question. “She won’t tell us, Father!”

  Vallerand pushed away from the desk and approached Lysette. She was not aware of backing away until she bumped into Philippe’s solid form behind her. When Vallerand reached her, he slid his long fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. Carefully he turned her face from right to left, dispassionately surveying the damage wrought from her journey along the bayou. She swallowed hard against the callused pads of his fingers. His deep chest was level with her face, the shadow of black hair visible beneath the thin lawn of his shirt.

  Now that he was standing so close, she saw that his eyes were a very dark brown. She had always thought of brown as a warm color, but those eyes provided definite evidence to the contrary.

  “Why take the pirogue?”

  “I am sorry for that,” she said hoarsely. “I’ve never stolen anything before. But my need for the pirogue was greater than yours.”

  “What is your name?” When she didn’t reply, his fingers urged her chin up a fraction of an inch higher. “Who is your family?”

  “You are kind to be concerned, monsieur,” she parried, perfectly aware that kindness was t
he last thing that motivated him. “However, I have no need of your help, and I do not wish to trouble you. If you would release me, I will go on my way and—”

  “Are you lost?”

  “No,” she replied shortly.

  “Then you’re running from someone.”

  Lysette hesitated just a little too long. “No, monsieur—”

  “From whom?”

  She pushed his fingers away from her chin, while a sense of hopeless defeat began to creep over her. “You don’t need to know,” she said curtly. “Let me go.”

  He smiled as if the flicker of spirit had pleased him. “Are you from New Orleans, mademoiselle?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. Have you heard of the Vallerand family?”

  She had, actually. As Lysette stared at the stranger’s lean, dark face, she tried to recall what had been said about the Vallerands. The name had been mentioned at the supper table, when Gaspard and his friends had discussed politics and business. Several Louisiana planters had become some of the richest men in the nation, Vallerand included. If she remembered correctly, the family owned huge tracts of land on either side of New Orleans, including the forest just beyond Lake Pontchartrain. Gaspard’s friends had said with some resentment that Maximilien Vallerand, the head of the family, was a friend and advisor to the new governor of the Orleans Territory.

  “I’ve heard of you,” Lysette acknowledged flatly. “You are an important man in New Orleans, n’est-ce pas? No doubt you have many other things to concern yourself with. I apologize for my little transgression, but obviously no harm was done. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to leave.”

  Holding her breath, she turned away, only to have his large hand close gently around her upper arm. “But I do mind,” he said softly.

  Although his touch was light, he happened to grasp one of the more painful bruises Gaspard had inflicted. Lysette inhaled sharply and felt herself turn white, while her entire arm throbbed with agony.

  Immediately Vallerand’s hand dropped, and he stared at her intently. Lysette straightened her spine, doing her best to conceal the pain he had caused. When Vallerand spoke, his voice was even softer than before. “Where were you planning to go in the pirogue?”

  “I have a cousin who lives in Beauvallet.”

  “Beauvallet?” Justin repeated, staring at her with contempt. “That’s fifteen miles away! Haven’t you ever heard of alligators? And river pirates? Don’t you know what can happen to you in the swamp? What do you think you are?”

  “Justin,” Vallerand interrupted. “Enough.”

  His son quieted instantly.

  “Traveling such a distance by yourself is an ambitious undertaking,” Vallerand commented. “But perhaps you were not planning to go alone. Were you planning to meet with someone on the way? A lover?”

  “Yes,” Lysette lied. Suddenly she was so tired and thirsty and distressed that silver sparks danced before her eyes. She had to get away from him. “That is exactly what I have planned, and you are interfering. I will not stay here any longer.” Blindly she spun around and headed for the door, consumed with the desire to escape.

  Vallerand caught her instantly, one long arm sliding around her front, the other grasping her nape. Lysette clenched her teeth and let out a dry sob, knowing that she had finally been defeated. “Damn you,” she whispered. “Why won’t you just let me go?”

  His soft, deep voice tickled her ear. “Easy, I won’t hurt you. Be still.”

  He glanced at the twins, who were watching the pair of them with fascination. “Leave, both of you.”

  “But why?” Justin protested hotly. “We were the ones who found her, and besides—”

  “Now. And tell your grand-mère I wish her to join us in the library.”

  “He has my belongings!” Lysette said, throwing an accusing stare at Justin. “I want them back!”

  “Justin,” Vallerand said in a low voice.

  The boy grinned, pulling the knotted handkerchief of coins out of his pocket and tossing it to a nearby chair. He slipped out the door before his father could reprimand him.

  Left alone with Vallerand, Lysette twisted helplessly in his grasp. He contained her easily. “I told you to be still.”

  She went rigid as she felt him tug the hem of her shirt upward, exposing the tender flesh of her back. “What are you doing? Stop that! I will not be abused like this, you high-handed, arrogant—”

  “Calm yourself.” He stuffed the hem of the shirt into the back of her collar. “You have nothing to fear. I have no interest in your…” He paused and added sardonically, “Feminine charms. Besides, I usually prefer my victims to be somewhat cleaner than you before I molest them.”

  Lysette gasped and dug her nails into his hard forearm as she felt the touch of his hand on her back. The tiny hairs on the nape of her neck rose and prickled in response to the brush of his fingers. Deftly he located the tail end of the binding cloth that had been tucked underneath her right arm.

  Realizing that no amount of resistance would stop him from doing as he wished, Lysette spared herself the effort of fighting him. “You are no gentleman,” she muttered, flinching as he loosened the binding.

  The comment did not deter him. “That is true.” He unwound the coarse length of cloth that had flattened her breasts beneath the shirt.

  Despite her distress over being stripped half naked by a stranger, Lysette could not prevent a sigh of relief as the tight, itching binding was removed from her sore back. Cool air swept over her moist skin, making her shiver.

  “Just as I thought,” she heard him murmur.

  Lysette knew exactly what he was seeing, the week-old bruises left from Gaspard’s beating, the welts of insect bites, the mess of smarting scratches and scrapes. She had never been so humiliated, but somehow, as the silence lengthened, she stopped caring what he thought. She was too weary to stand on her own. Her chin lowered until her cheek rested against his shoulder. She couldn’t help noticing his fragrance, the scent of clean male skin mingled with the hints of horses and tobacco. The utterly masculine smell was unexpectedly appealing. Her nose and throat opened, drawing in more, while she began to relax against the solid weight of his body.

  A strange shiver went through her as his fingertips descended to her back, moving in a delicate trail over her spine. She wouldn’t have expected such a large man to have such a light touch. It became hard to think, the entire scene covered in a thick fog that promised oblivion. She struggled to stay conscious, but she must have fainted for a few seconds, because she had no memory of him pulling her shirt back down over her back, and yet suddenly she was covered and he had turned her to face him.

  “Who did it?” he asked.

  She shook her head and spoke through dry, cracked lips. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Mademoiselle, you are in no condition to defy me. Don’t waste my time, or yours. Just tell me what I want to know, and then you can rest.”

  Rest. The word made her entire being surge in longing. Clearly he was not going to let her go, and there was little point in resisting him. Later, she promised herself. Later she would consider what to do next and make a new plan. In the meantime, she had to regain the strength she had lost.

  “My stepfather did it,” she said.

  “His name?”

  Tilting her head back, she stared into his dark eyes. “First promise me that you won’t send word to him.”

  A brief laugh caught in his throat. “I’m not going to bargain with you, petite.”

  “Then you can go to hell.”

  His teeth flashed in a grin. Clearly he was amused rather than annoyed by her defiance. “All right, I promise that I will not send word to him. Now tell me his name.”

  “Monsieur Gaspard Medart.”

  “Why did he beat you?”

  “We have come from Natchez for my wedding. I despise my fiancé, and I have refused to honor the betrothal agreement my stepfather made.”

  Val
lerand’s brows raised slightly. Until a Creole girl was wedded, her father— or stepfather— was considered to be her master, every bit as much as her husband would be. To defy a parent’s wishes, especially in the area of marriage, was unthinkable. “Most people would not censure a man for disciplining a rebellious daughter in such circumstances,” he said.

  “And you?” Lysette asked dully, already knowing the answer.

  “I would never strike a woman,” he said readily, surprising her. “No matter what the provocation.”

  “That…” Her voice seemed to stick in her throat. “That is fortunate for your wife, monsieur.”

  He reached out and pushed back a straggling lock of her hair with gentle fingers. “I am a widower, petite.”

  “Oh.” Lysette blinked in surprise, wondering why the information caused a queer little pang in her midriff.

  “Where is your stepfather staying?”

  “At the home of Monsieur Sagesse.” Her attention was caught by the sudden gleam that entered his eyes.

  He was silent for several moments, before speaking in a soft, almost velvety voice. “Your betrothed is Etienne Sagesse?”

  “Oui.“

  “And your name?” he prompted.

  “Lysette Kersaint,” she whispered in defeat. “I suppose you are acquainted with the Sagesses, monsieur?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You are friends?”

  “No. There is bad blood between us.”

  Lysette considered the information. If Vallerand disliked the Sagesses, it would be somewhat easier to enlist his help.

  “Max? Qu’est-ce qu’ il y a?“ An elderly silverhaired woman, beautifully dressed in lace-trimmed lavender muslin, entered the library. She frowned in consternation as she saw Lysette’s bedraggled form.