Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (16 page)

He had tanned. He had lost a good deal of weight. But her
heart rose into her throat at how handsome he was. And he was hers. Was to be
hers. Soon.

Her Father emerged from his study at the other end of the
hall. “Chamard!” He strode forward, hand outstretched, and she feared he would
take Marcel away from her.

“Mr. Presswood.”

The men shook hands. Deborah Ann held her breath, waiting
for Marcel to turn back to her. Surely he wouldn’t leave her to talk war with
her father. It had been two months!

This was why she loved him. He disengaged himself from
Father and turned his full attention on her. He looked her over, from her
flowing blonde hair to the white leather slippers on her feet. “Miss Deborah
Ann, you never disappoint.”

“All right, all right,” Mr. Presswood growled. “We’ll talk
later, Chamard.”

Deborah Ann took possession of Marcel’s arm and led him into
the front parlor where the little sofa would allow them to sit close together.

“I did not expect to see you yet, Mr. Chamard.” The faint
scent he wore intrigued her. Jasmine, maybe, with a deeper note as well.

“No. This was a task of opportunity.”

A task? He hadn’t come expressly to see her then.

“General Mouton had communiqués for the allies here in the
city.” Marcel smiled sheepishly. “I was homesick. I volunteered.”

Ah, so he had chosen to come back to New Orleans. He had
wanted to see her.

She discussed with him the hardships of traveling in the
rain, thanked him for his letter, tried to speak sensibly all the while
watching his eyes, his lips, her heart and mind filled with the scent of him,
with the heat of his body next to hers on the sofa. All those lonely nights
these past weeks. Lonely nights to come. She yearned to be in his arms.

“Mr. Chamard. Let’s not wait.” The words tumbled out,
uncensored, un-considered. “You are quite right about the folly of a big wedding
in these times.” She had surprised him, she could see that, but it had been his
own idea. When he could get back to New Orleans, he’d said.

“Let’s marry this afternoon. When you must leave again, I
will at least have the comfort of missing my husband.”

Marcel placed a reins-hardened palm over hers. She wrapped
his hand in both of hers, eyes lowered, waiting, hardly daring to breathe. What
if he said no?

“In such haste? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She was a woman grown. What did she need with a
fairy-tale wedding?

He looked to the side for a moment, thinking. One shoulder
shrugged slightly. “Very well. We’ll speak to your father.”

Before supper, then, clad in last year’s aquamarine silk,
Deborah Ann Presswood walked the aisle of the chapel on her father’s arm.
Candles, lit for the dead and seen through the fine veil over her face, cast a
golden glow around the altar. Marcel waited for her in his perfectly creased
suit of tails and snowy linen, a white gardenia in his boutonnière.

Father Baptiste began the ritual.

The priest’s voice seemed small and far away. Deborah Ann
felt herself slide out of her body. As if she hovered in the air above, she
looked down on Marcel standing solemn and tall, at herself next to him.

She heard herself murmur “I do.”

Marcel slid his mother’s beautiful sapphire ring on her
finger. He raised her veil and leaned down to kiss her lips. There were tears
in his eyes. “I will be a good husband to you, Deborah Ann,” he whispered. “I
swear it.”

Father blew loudly into his handkerchief, abruptly returning
Deborah Ann to herself.

“If only your mother could have seen this day,” he said
through a throat full of tears.

Mrs. Marcel Armand Bertrand Chamard. Married woman.

Deborah Ann took hold of her husband’s arm and clasped it
tightly to her. He belonged to her now.

There had been no scores of onlookers at the church, no
grand dinner with orchestra and dancing. Yet they were married.

The three of them, Deborah Ann and Marcel and Father, took a
fine supper at home. She then endured a decent after-dinner interval,
endeavoring to appear patient in spite of the thundering in her chest.

At last, Marcel took her to his carriage, she still in her
aquamarine silk, he in his tuxedo.

He held her hand in the privacy of the carriage, but neither
of them spoke as they were driven to the Chamard townhouse on Rue Royal. The
old butler led them up the staircase by candlelight. Marcel’s room was already
alight, the gas lamp globes refracted in the crystal decanter on the rosewood
table.

In the center of one wall, between the doors onto the
gallery, a massive four-poster dominated the room. Deborah turned her head so
that the bed was no longer in sight.

She felt cold, as if there were no blood in her fingers and
toes.

“Could we have a fire?” she asked. To her own ears, she
sounded small, even frightened. What was wrong with her? Mammy had said it
might hurt, the first time. But she wasn’t worried about that. She wanted to be
here, she did. She wanted to know what it felt like when . . . when they were
in bed together.

Marcel shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the
walnut valet as he nodded to Baudier.

“
Oui
, Madame. I’ll
build you a fire myself.”

She shouldn’t have asked for a fire. It was August.
Marcel would be hot with a fire. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She’d
never been in a gentleman’s chamber before. She stood in the middle of the
room, her heart thumping hard enough to make the ruffles on her bosom tremble.

“Deborah Ann, sweetheart,” Marcel said. “Sit down.” He
poured her a glass of claret and handed it to her.

She clasped it in both hands, afraid to drink lest she spill
it on her wedding gown. Claret would never come out, not on aquamarine silk.
She set it on the little table next to her. Then she had nothing to do with her
hands. She clasped them in her lap.

Marcel stood before her until she looked up at him. “Drink
it. It’ll settle your nerves.”

She really didn’t like claret. And it certainly wouldn’t
settle her nerves. Obediently, she picked up the glass and sipped.

Baudier bustled in with a basket
of firewood. “Got some of that apple-wood your maman
used to like, Michie Marcel. It gone smell good in
here.”

She finished her claret as Baudier
laid the fire. The old man left the basket with additional wood in it and said
good night.

Marcel refilled her glass. Deborah Ann drank this one down
as if it were water.

He took the chair opposite her. “Deborah Ann,” he said, his
voice soft. “We don’t have to do anything but sit her and talk tonight, if
that’s what you want. I can sleep across the hall.” He tipped his head to make
her look at him. “We’ll have the rest of our lives together in that bed you are
so studiously ignoring.”

Deborah Ann felt the heat flash from her chest, up her neck,
to the roots of her hair. Tears spurted from the corners of her eyes, startling
her, and she put the back of her hand up to hide the ugliness of her mouth.
Gulping between sudden sobs, she was helpless to stop the swirl toward
hysteria.

Marcel knelt at her side, stroked her hand, and brought her
back. She drew a deep shuddering breath and got hold of herself.

She blew her nose in the handkerchief he proffered. “I’m
sorry.” She couldn’t look at him.

Marcel drew her into his arms. “No need to be sorry, my darling.”
He wiped his thumb across her wet cheek. “You didn’t think I married you just
so I could scare you to death on our wedding night, did you?”

“No. Because I’m rich,” she blurted.

Marcel barked a laugh. “So am I, Deborah Ann. So am I.” He
took her chin in his thumb and forefinger. Lightly, as if she were made of spun
sugar, he kissed her.

“I don’t want to wait,” she whispered.

Marcel’s smile widened. He had such beautiful teeth, she
thought. And he’d be gone for months. She couldn’t wait. She had to do this
tonight.

“Have another glass of wine,” he said.

Marcel untied his cravat and opened his collar. She
shouldn’t have asked for the fire. Now she’d had this third glass, she didn’t
feel so cold, and poor Marcel must be sweltering in all that starched linen.

She felt a little light-headed, but she didn’t protest when
he poured her another glass. They were very little glasses. “Should we put the
fire out?”

“We’ll let it die down by itself, when you’ve warmed up.”

She drained her glass. She stood up, one hand on the little
side table for balance. “All right. I’m ready.”

She met her husband’s eyes. Such beautiful eyes. His slight
smile broadened into a grin.

She tossed her head back and then had to grip the table
edge. “Are you enjoying my discomfiture, Mr. Chamard?” She might be drunk.

He laughed. “Yes. I believe I am.” Slowly, he closed the gap
between them and took her elbows. Once he had her in the chair again, he gave
her a look-over. “Let’s get this veil off your head, shall we?”

She didn’t help him at all, but he seemed quite competent.
Once he had her hair loose, he ran his fingers through it. “Like silken
champagne,” he murmured.

Next he knelt and removed her shoes. “Your feet are still
cold.” He rubbed each foot and then began to tug at the stockings. They
wouldn’t come down. “May I?” He reached under her hoop, his hands following her
leg up to her garter.

Deborah Ann blessed the wine. She wasn’t the least
embarrassed. She leaned her head against the chair back, acutely aware of his
hands on her thigh. There was that stirring again, down there. Stronger than
she’d ever felt it before.

She wondered if he would let her unbutton his shirt.

He did.

When he’d undone her back buttons and taken care of a hook
or two where she couldn’t reach, he excused himself while she put her nightgown
on. When he returned, she was in the bed, he was barefoot and in his
nightshirt. He turned the gas lights out so that only the dying fire lit the
room.

He crawled in next to her and propped himself on one elbow,
so close she could smell the faint lingering scent of jasmine. Was it in his
hair?

“We’ll do as much as you like, Deborah Ann. It’s up to you.”

She raised her arms to him and brought him down to kiss her.
His hand found her hair, as she’d dreamed, but his kisses were new. Still
sweet, still tender, but more insistent. And then not so tender. Urgent.

This. This is what she’d been aching for.

Morning sun woke Deborah Ann in her new bed. Her naked
husband lay beside her, the clammy sheet carelessly shoved down to reveal his
entire back. She reached out, timidly at first, and traced his backbone down to
the hollow at the base of his spine. He stirred, turned and threw a bare arm
across her body. Claimed. That’s how she felt. Wonderfully claimed.

“Are you one of those men, Mr. Chamard, who can’t be
sociable until he’s had his morning coffee?”

His face half buried in his pillow, Marcel clamped his hand
on the curve of her hip, his tanned skin dark against the light cotton of her
nightgown. He slid his hand up to her waist and ran his thumb over the soft
belly. “I’m sociable.”

He lifted his head. His gaze bore into hers with a wicked
gleam. “The question, Mrs. Chamard, is how sociable are you?”

He shifted his weight on top of her, capturing her between his
elbows. “Hmm? How sociable are you?”

He caught her lower lip in his teeth. His manhood pressed
against her thigh. She fought down the nut of fear caught in her throat. She
felt powerless with him on her like this.

But he kissed her. He caressed her. She relaxed and ran her
fingers over the warm skin of his shoulders.

He touched her down there. She was sore. She hadn’t washed.

She squirmed away.

“It’s all right,” he whispered in her ear. He drew his hand
away and slowly readied her, stroking her thighs, her breasts, kissing and
nibbling. When he entered her, she pulled all the air in the room into her
lungs and wrapped her arms around him.

They lay spent and tangled in the sheets, Deborah Ann
cradled in Marcel’s arms. She slept again. This time when she woke, she was
alone. The sun, rather than the gas lamps, prism-ed
through the crystal on the rosewood table, throwing speckles of colored light
on the marble of the fireplace.

Deborah Ann stretched her hand out to admire her new ring.
Tiny diamonds circling the deep blue sapphire sparkled in a beam of sunlight.
She couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful ring. Or a more tender husband.

What they’d done last night, in this bed, seemed more of a
promise even than the vows at the altar. At that moment, when he’d cried out,
his whole body shuddering over hers, she knew. He was hers now.

After half an hour of drowsy contentment, Deborah Ann
determined to get up and find her husband. She rang the bell and presently a
mahogany brown girl came in with a cup of coffee.

“Where is Mr. Chamard?”

“He say tell you he got work to do.” The girl’s eyes were
black and huge. She stared at Deborah Ann as if she were some rare porcelain
creature.

“What’s your name?”

“I’s Aisha, Madame. Monsieur, he say tell you, he see you
later.”

No doubt he was with Father and the others going over the
plans for Bayou Lafourche. With the girl’s help, Deborah Ann got her corset
laced, her hoop tied, the buttons and hooks fastened on the only other dress
she’d brought with her, a purple striped morning gown.

She looked into the cheval mirror, smoothing the lace at her
throat. Where was the girl who’d been so anxious, so unsure of herself? The
obedient child, the subservient daughter? The face staring back at her had the
same big blue eyes, clear brow, luxurious golden hair, but she could see a
difference even if no one else could. She looked into the eyes of a woman who
knew a man’s touch.