Tender Fury (28 page)

His total disregard for her feelings while he held her in virtual captivity aboard the
Windward
had been responsible for her ordeal at Daisy’s unscrupulous hands. He could never forgive himself for that! Even now he erupted in a cold sweat when he thought about Rafe’s desecration of her frail body and fervently prayed that she would remember none of it. Never would he reveal to her the manner in which she had been shamed and abused, not even if his heart broke from the pain of concealing the truth. Had he not shamed and abused her himself?” he thought guiltily.

“
Mon dieu!
How have you endured?”
Philippe cried remorsefully, hugging Gabby’s body close.

With deep longing piercing his soul he recalled the time when they were happy and in love, a time when they joyfully awaited the birth of their child. His feelings for her still were intense, moving, but they now included distrust. Was it possible to regain what they once felt for one another?

Gabby stirred in Philippe’s arms and slowly opened her eyes, her face blank with bewilderment, a small frown marring the smooth skin of her forehead. “
Mon dieu!
” she cried, clutching at her temples. “Why does my head hurt so?”

She looked at Philippe, as if seeing him for the first time, and memories came flooding back like rushing water. She recalled her recent escape from the
Windward
and waking up in Daisy Wilson’s establishment, but further than that her mind refused to cooperate. She was whirling around in a dark void where only fleeting glimpses of vague, shadowy memories, some too horrendous to contemplate, confused her thoughts and clouded her brain.

“How did you find me?” she finally asked, feeling Philippe’s intense, gray eyes upon her. “Did Daisy…?”

Philippe watched Gabby warily, and when it became certain that she recalled nothing of the night before, he said, “One of the sailors aboard the
Windward
recognized you when you were carried into Daisy’s house and notified me. When I arrived and identified myself as your husband Daisy had no choice but to release you to me.”

“I… I can’t remember,” Gabby agonized, squeezing her temples in frustration. “Are you certain that is how it happened?” Gingerly she flexed her limps and wondered at the soreness she felt over most of her body. “My baby!” It was more a cry of distress than a question as her hands clutched at her taut stomach.

“All is well,
ma petite,
” Philippe soothed. “The child still lies safely within you. And the reason you can remember nothing is because Daisy gave you a sleeping potion.”

Gabby sighed hugely, and all did seem well until she happened to glance down at herself and was horrified to discover her flawless skin marred with a multitude of bruises, scratches, and teeth marks. Even her scalp felt as if her hair had been torn from her head.

“What have you done to me, Philippe?” she cried accusingly. “Why have you abused me when I was unconscious and could not defend myself? If your brutality costs me my child I shall never forgive you!”

Philippe blanched, his face deathly white beneath his tan. Until this moment he hadn’t thought what he would tell Gabby when she discovered the bruises inflicted by Rafe. Unless he wanted her to learn the truth, which he swore never to divulge, he had no choice but to accept the blame.

“Your child is safe,
ma chere,
” assured Philippe. “As for hurting you, I… I…” What could he say?

“Don’t make excuses, Philippe!” rage Gabby, in a flash of anger. “You have only to look at my body to see that I have been foully used!” Only then did she become aware that she still lay within the circle of her husband’s arms, and she pulled away, glaring at him with such a look of loathing that Philippe was too shocked for speech. To cover his rampant emotions he arose from bed and began dressing.

Gabby, too, made to get out of bed but immediately fell back grasping her head and moaning. Philippe was instantly at her side. “Lie back,
ma petite,
” he urged gently. “Rest until you feel well enough to get up. I’ll not bother you again,” he promised, settling her tenderly against the pillow as if he cared deeply for her. Gabby watched, warily, fearfully. Only when he left the room did she relax and give in to the sickness that pillaged her bruised and battered body.

Gabby was still abed when Philippe returned later with breakfast, her violet eyes luminous in her pale face, her body trembling, ill and wretched. Philippe realized that it was too soon to be entirely certain whether or not she would lose the child. And if that should happen he was powerless to prevent it. There was nothing for it but to insist she remain in bed and watch her carefully.

“I brought your breakfast,
ma chere,
” he said cheerfully, placing the tray on the bed beside her.

“I… I cannot eat,” Gabby murmured, sickened by the sight of food.

“You must,” urged Philippe gently. “If not for yourself, then for your child.”

His kind words did little to ease Gabby’s troubled mind. Why was he being so solicitous, so tender? she wondered wistfully. Had he devised some new method of punishment? She watched him through cautious eyes as he picked up a spoon and proceeded to feed her as one would a child. Gabby was so surprised by his unaccustomed kindness that she automatically opened her mouth. When nearly all the food from the tray had been consumed and Gabby protested that she could not force down another mouthful, Philippe set the tray aside and studied her intently for several minutes without speaking. Gabby had the distinct feeling that he was trying to memorize her features. The silence between them grew almost painful. At last Philippe spoke.

“Gabby, if you haven’t noticed, the
Windward
is on open sea. We left Norfolk last night.” Gabby remained silent. “Our destination is Martinique. I… I think you need to consult with a doctor concerning your pregnancy. Martinique is the best place for you to be at this time.”

“Why should you care, Philippe? This child means nothing to you.”

“You are still my wife,” came Philippe’s feeble reply. His next words rendered her speechless, his voice low, tortured. “When we reach Martinique you are free to do as you please. I… I will not force you to return to Bellefontaine with me, or resume relations. Whether or not you choose to function as my wife will be your choice alone.”

“Do you mean to divorce me, Philippe?” Gabby asked, mouth agape, stunned by her husband’s complete about-face.

“No!” protested Philippe loudly. Then more quietly, “I will never consent to a divorce.”

“Then what do you mean? I don’t understand, Philippe. What new type of cruelty are you inflicting on me?”

“I have done much thinking since I found you at Daisy Wilson’s and I have come to the inevitable conclusion that you and I would be constantly warring with one another if I forced you to return to Bellefontaine and resume our marriage. For one thing, this child would always come between us. I am as certain of this as I am that I could not live with you in the same house and not make love to you. You are far too desirable to keep my hands off you.” He paused, clearing his throat, as if speaking was causing him pain.

Gabby listened closely but found Philippe’s words impossible to believe, not trusting herself to ask how he meant to free her. All the while he spoke his face remained inscrutable, his eyes hooded, only a muscle twitching along his jawline betrayed what he might be feeling.

“When we reach Martinique,” Philippe continued, as if reading her mind, “you are free to choose where and how you want to live your life. You can return with me to Bellefontaine, become wife to me in every way, remain at my townhouse in St. Pierre, or… or… go to Duvall, if that is what you really want. I won’t stand in your way.”

Gabby was stunned as well as perplexed. Did he actually mean what he said? she wondered. Would he really allow her to live openly with Marcel without benefit of a divorce? For obvious reasons she could not reside with Philippe at Bellefontaine. Nor did she choose to occupy the townhouse where both Philippe and Amalie could easily approach her. She had to think of Philippe’s child, protect it from Amalie, even from Philippe himself. She knew instinctively that Marcel would welcome her into his home, would make no demands upon her, would even care for her child. But did she want that? Eventually he would expect more from her than mere friendship, and under the circumstances his expectations would not be unreasonable. She knew Marcel loved her. How long could a man in love be satisfied with chaste kisses and passionless embraces? Once her baby was born he would want to become her lover, and out of gratitude she would not, could not, refuse him. Perhaps, she mused, perhaps… she could come to love him as she had once loved Philippe.

Philippe watched through a smoldering, gray mist while Gabby mulled over and decided her own future. He was careful to keep the anxiety from his face but in his heart he already knew her decision as ominous shadows from the past suddenly appeared to plague him.

At last Gabby’s violet eyes impaled Philippe as they probbed into the depths of his soul. Before her final decision was made she felt obligated to speak once more of their child. She owed it to that innocent being to try for a reconciliation, to convince him that she had not betrayed him with Marcel. Drawing a deep, agonizing breath, she asked, “If I return to Bellefontaine, become your wife in every sense of the word, won’t you find it in your heart to accept and love this child as your own?” Long, feathery lashes lowered to disguise her emotions, Gabby waited with bated breath for Philippe’s answer; a few simple words that could change the course of her life.

“May
le bon dieu
forgive me but I cannot!” cried Philippe, nearly choking on his own words, cursing the pride that refused to give her the benefit of the doubt; a doubt that would follow him to his grave.

“I carry your child, Philippe,” Gabby insisted softly, sorrowfully. “It could not be otherwise. You are the father of this child just as you sired the son I lost. As long as you believe me an adulteress, I cannot return with you to Bellefontaine nor live as your wife.”

Bowing to the inevitable, eyes sad, yet resigned, Philippe said, “You will go to Duvall.” It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

Until that moment Gabby had not been certain she would go to Marcel. But Philippe’s unplacating tone and grim expression made her mind up for her. “If Marcel will have me I will go to him,” she said, her eyes sliding from his stricken face.

“Of course he will have you,” retorted Philippe cuttingly, “a child needs his father, does he not,
ma petite?
”

Gabby could only stare at him. Could this be the same man who had vowed never to let her go? His biting words bolstered her determination to accept whatever freedom he offered and make a life for her and her child without him. “So be it,” Gabby whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Before I allow you to go your own way,” Philippe continued, his face stony, “I would ask but two things of you.” Still mistrustful, Gabby did not respond, eyeing him sullenly. “First, the moment we reach Martinique I insist you be examined by Dr. Renaud.” He went on when Gabby voiced no objection. “Second, as long as we remain man and wife I shall continue to support you. I will arrange with my bank for you to draw funds whenever you need them. I refuse to allow Duvall to support my wife.”

Gabby digested all this slowly. She had no objection to consulting Dr. Renaud, and as for supporting her, it was no more than right. She would be less dependent upon Marcel if she had her own monies and Philippe’s child would be denied nothing.

“I agree, Philippe,” she said tiredly, surprised at the ease with which her freedom had been accomplished.

“Then we have nothing more to discuss,
cherie
. I probably won’t see much of you during the remainder of the voyage. Seaman Laville will see to your needs from now on until we reach Martinique. My only wish for you now is to rest, recover your strength and… and…” He could not continue, his emotions were too near to the surface, too raw. Turning abruptly, he left the cabin. Gabby glared at his retreating back, hurt, bewildered, confused… and strangely bereft.

True to his word, Philippe made no attempt to see Gabby during the following weeks. She had no idea where he slept and cared less. At least he wasn’t torturing her body with his constant lovemaking, demanding from her more than she was willing to give. She had followed his suggestion though and spent long hours in bed regaining her health throughout the tedious voyage, stuffing herself with enough food to please even Seaman Laville who hovered over her like a mother hen.

The farther south they traveled the milder the weather became and Gabby took to the deck for exercise as well as from boredom. Overtimes she sensed someone watching as she strolled and would turn abruptly to find Philippe’s hooded, smoky gaze upon her, intense yet unreadable. Whenever that happened he would nod curtly before turning away.

Thus the days passed. Although Gabby rested, ate, and exercised regularly, she remained desperately thin; her huge, violet eyes seemed to swallow up her pale face. She was not actually ill, but she sensed something strange like a poison sapping away her meager strength. Not only was she plagued by the feeling that all was not well with her and her child, she experienced a deep sense of loss, as if a light had gone out of her life.

On her last night aboard the
Windward
Gabby decided to retire immediately after supper. She wanted to be up early to catch her first glimpse of Mt. Pelee and the white sand beaches surrounding Martinique. She now considered Martinique her home and was pleased to be returning.

Almost absently she began her preparations for bed. Sighing, she lifted her chemise over her head and studied her slightly rounded stomach in the mirror over the nightstand, thinking of how she would look in a few more months.

Suddenly the door opened and Philippe entered, looking just as startled as Gabby to have intruded upon such an intimate scene. The sight of her flawless white body poised on the edge of confusion held him in thrall. “Very fetching,
ma chere,
” he drawled lazily, twin flames of desire darkening his smoky gaze.