Tender Fury (31 page)

“My reasons are my own,” muttered Philippe darkly. “What matters now is Gabby’s health. She is in need of constant care. Her condition, according to Dr. Renaud, is delicate. He cannot even vouchsafe that the child has not been endangered by the drugs she has been given.”

“Your concern is misplaced in view of your conduct toward her these past months. You realize that she will be devastated if she loses this baby. She desperately wants this child.”

Philippe flinched, remembering all too well his own agony when Gabby lost their child in the banana groves. “Tell me, Duvall,” he asked perversely, “were you surprised to learn you were to become a father?” The intensity of his gaze disconcerted Marcel. If ever there was a time to deny any past intimacies with Gabby, it was now. But if he did, Philippe would no doubt reclaim his wife. Therefore, his answer evoked no guilt in him.

“I was overjoyed to learn of Gabby’s pregnancy,” he said carefully. “This child will be most welcome. It just surprises me that you would consent to let her go.”

Marcel’s words sent Philippe’s hopes plummeting. Though they were not what he warned to hear they served to strengthen his belief that Marcel had sired Gabby’s child. But then, he was not entirely stupid, he could count to nine as well as the next person. Time alone would be the determining factor. Suddenly he became aware of Marcel’s expectant look, waiting for him to divulge his reasons for releasing Gabby.

Shifting uneasily, he said, “I realized that it would be a mistake to force Gabby to remain with me against her will. The deaths of two women are already on my conscience and I feared for her life. Better she live with you than die trying to escape from a marriage she obviously detested. I gave her a choice; the decision she made was hers alone.”

With mixed feelings, Marcel accepted the finality of Philippe’s words, though he distrusted Philippe’s motives for letting Gabby go; for throughout his long dissertations his love for his wife was clearly visible. But he had obviously meant what he said. He would gladly put his wife into another man’s keeping rather than cause her harm. That alone was proof of his love. Marcel had no doubt in his mind that Philippe would take his wife back even though he was convinced that she carried another man’s child. Therefore, he reasoned, Philippe must never know that he and Gabby were not now and had never been lovers.

“For once in your life you used good judgment,” agreed Marcel blandly.

Philippe glared balefully at Marcel. “Remember, Duvall, Gabby is still my wife. I shall never divorce her. And if you are thinking of making her a widow, forget it. I have escaped your snare once and can do so again.”

Marcel blanched. Was St. Cyr aware of his futile attempts upon his life? he wondered. Aloud he said, “Your suspicions will gain you naught for nothing can be proved. In any case, it matters little to me whether you divorce Gabby. Once the child is born we will leave Martinique.” Not waiting for a reply he turned to leave.

“Wait!” Philippe ordered, halting Marcel in his tracks. “I told you I would not interfere as long as you take good care of Gabby and I meant it. In return I request that you keep me apprised of her health during the coming months. Considering what you are gaining that is little enough to ask.”

“If that is what it takes to keep you from annoying Gabby then I agree.” Without further comment Marcel left Philippe’s office as abruptly as he had entered.

Philippe sat brooding a long time after Marcel’s departure. Why had Gabby lied about her relationship to Marcel? he wondered uneasily. Why had she insisted the child only be his. Confronted with the truth Marcel had denied nothing. Was there more here than met the eye? Angered, disillusioned, hurt, and confused, Philippe raised his huge fist and struck the desk with the full force of his awesome strength. The resounding crack that split the top of his desk and the pain in his hand combined effectively in clearing his mind of distressing images of Marcel and Gabby pleasurably engaged in the act of love.

The next day Philippe returned to Bellefontaine. Upon his arrival Amalie was on hand to help him dispel all thoughts of Gabby from his mind and body in the ways in which she excelled. But even her passionate welcome could not dim entirely the vision of a flaxen-haired beauty whose violet eyes, turned to him in love, had the ability to melt his heart.

True to his word, Marcel reported regularly to Philippe as Gabby’s pregnancy progressed. These reports must have coincided with Dr. Renaud’s for he appeared satisfied, choosing to remain at Bellefontaine rather than insinuate himself into Gabby’s life at a time when serenity was important to her welfare. Part of the reason for the good report was Gabby’s realization that she had nothing to fear from Philippe as he continued to absent herself from St. Pierre. Just knowing that she was loved and protected by Marcel also served to improve her mental state. That, in addition to plenty of rest and nourishing food, soon put roses back in her cheeks.

Marcel was more than pleased with Gabby’s state of health since she had come to him. More and more he had come to think of the child she cared as his very own. He spent a good share of each day in Gabby’s company and was amazed at the day to day changes in her face and figure. As her waist thickened and the baby grew, her features softened and she appeared lovelier than ever in his eyes. Once the child was born he was positive she would come to love him and he would have his heart’s desire. They had grown quite comfortable with each other, more like married couples than friends. Even now Gabby allowed him certain liberties that normally would be granted only to a husband. She did not protest when he kissed her, nor pull away from him when he caressed her intimately. He especially loved to place his hand upon her stomach and feel the baby’s movements. In Marcel’s eyes, Gabby was never ungainly or awkward; she moved with the grace and beauty of a gazelle. But no matter how much he wanted to make love to her, he curbed his desire. He vowed she would never suffer because of him and after Philippe had told him what had transpired in Norfolk he would never force himself on her. For the first time in his life he loved unselfishly. In his own mind, his love for Gabby was far stronger than Philippe’s, who, according to rumor, had taken up again with his mistress.

Outwardly, Gabby appeared content. Marcel cared for her, and her health, while not robust, pleased the doctor. Inwardly, she was not as happy as she would have been had Philippe accepted his child and taken her to Bellefontaine with him. Because she realized the unlikelihood of such a thing happening she looked to Marcel more and more as her time grew near. He had been so good, so kind, that she had not the heart to deny him the kisses and caresses he seemed to crave. It warmed her heart to see the pleasure he derived from feeling the babe move in her stomach. At times Gabby could almost believe he was the father of her child!

At Bellefontaine Philippe busied himself with the cane harvest, driving himself relentlessly until he fell in bed each night too exhausted to even think. But that was the way he wanted it. His thoughts these days seemed only to lead in one direction… St. Pierre and Gabby. Even Amalie’s golden body failed to push Gabby entirely from his mind. Once he had sated himself upon Amalie and the few moments of bliss were spent, he ordered her from his bed in self-loathing.

Neither Amalie could do seemed to inspire Philippe to the passion she knew him capable of; the spark, the fire of their lovemaking was sadly lacking. No matter how she teased and tantalized, his responses were always the same, automatic, remote, passionless. Sometimes, though, he became brutal and took her fiercely, his lust punishing. No matter what she did to please him, it produced the same results; after it was over he dismissed her from his bed as if she meant nothing to him but a vessel for his lust.

One night, in early August, after Philippe had received a note from Marcel concerning Gabby’s state of health, he sat in his dimly lit room drinking until long past midnight, staring into space, his lean, dark face reflective. Had he not been miles away in his thoughts he would have heard soft footsteps padding across the room. Only when Amalie spoke softly in his ear was he aware of his presence.

“What do you want, Amalie?” he slurred thickly. “I have no need of your body this night.”

Amalie flinched at his jeering words but did not let them deter her from her course, which was to replace Gabby in in Philippe’s heart. “Let me love you tonight, Monsieur Philippe,” she whispered silkily, winding her golden arms around his neck.

“Go away!” Philippe mumbled, shoving her rudely. Suddenly his hand closed on a firm, bare breast and Amalie moaned as Philippe unconsciously squeezed the warm flesh, feeling the nipple turgid against his palm. She swayed toward him and he pulled her onto his lap, burying his head in the soft curve of her neck.

“You need me,” murmured Amalie huskily. “Only me. Forget her, she doesn’t deserve you. Think of all the times she has betrayed you. Think only of your Amalie, Monsieur Philippe. Only Amalie loves you,
mon amour. Je t’adore!
”

“
Oui
,” agreed Philippe, fully aroused by her warm, sensuous flesh beneath his questing hands, shivering, straining toward his touch. Lifting Amalie from his lap, he rose unsteadily and stumbled with her to his bed. “Your soft, sweet flesh belongs to me. You alone have remained faithful to me.”

His words were slurred but his hands were deft and sure as they traveled the length of her smooth body. His lips, sucking, seeking, drove her senseless with passion as they found the core of her desire. Philippe’s own ardor was mounting steadily. He had not been so consumed with fire since the last time he had taken Gabby on the night before they docked.

“Come into me,
mon amour
, come into me,” urged Amalie, arching to his hard, throbbing body, opening her legs to him.

Unable to hold back another moment Philippe lifted up and drove into her with the force of a sledgehammer. But instead of whimpering at the pain of his forceful entry, Amalie cried out in ecstasy, accepting every merciless stroke, urging him on with her hands and mouth as her legs grasped his body, pulling him closer, devouring him. She possessed such consummate feminine skills that her turning, writhing, moist body soon had him whirling in a vortex of passion where conscious thought dare not intrude. Philippe was unaware of his words at the moment of climax but Amalie heard them clearly.

“Gabby,
ma chere, je t’aime, je t’aime!
”

And then she was oblivious to all but her own thundering peak.

Later, while Philippe dozed, Amalie thought bitterly of his frenzied words and what they meant to her. Somehow she must prove to Philippe that she was the only one who could make him happy, that he did not need his faithless wife. Finally she felt him stir, his hands groping for her again. Immediately she was in his arms.

“You want Amalie again, Monsieur Philippe?” she asked seductively, her small hands already taunting his flesh. “Take me, I am yours. Even that pale wife you brought back from France realized it the moment she saw us together.”

Philippe’s body tensed, then froze, her words hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He grasped Amalie’s shoulders in a bruising grip causing her to cry out.

“What did you mean by that remark, Amalie? When did Gabby see us together?” Her eyes were wide and horror-struck and she was momentarily struck dumb. “Answer me or I’ll have your hide!”

Amalie was well aware of Philippe’s vile temper when aroused and his dark moods and deemed him capable of doing her bodily harm. She had no choice but to answer his question. “Madame Gabby saw us making love the day that… that…”

“What day?” demanded Philippe ominously, his grip punishing.

“The day that she rode to Monsieur Marcel, the day she murdered your child!” she cried with growing alarm.

“Mon dieu!”
cursed Philippe, looking at Amalie with loathing. “The shock of seeing us together must have driven her beyond sanity. No wonder she holds me responsible.” In an agony of remorse he put his head in his hands and moaned. “I wish her nothing but happiness with Marcel. I owe her that much at least for my own betrayal.”

“You are not angry with your Amalie?” asked the amazed Amalie, barely able to believe her good fortune. “If I realized you no longer cared for your wife I would not have offered her to Damballa. But then,” she mused thoughtfully, “she might still be here if I had not…” Her sentence ended in a gurgle as Philippe’s hands found her throat.

“Damballa? What has your infernal Obeah got to do with Gabby?” he asked with cold fury as he rose from the bed and lit a lamp, all signs of overindulgence vanished.

Amalie was truly terrified. She had not meant to divulge so much. If only Philippe hadn’t found his runaway wife in New Orleans, she thought ruefully. She quaked inwardly at the look of pure malice in her lover’s flinty eyes and instinctively knew the time had come to pay her dues.

“Tell me what happened, Amalie,” commanded Philippe, his face a dark and deadly mask. “What did you do to Gabby after I left to cause her to leave Bellefontaine and go to Duvall?
Mon dieu!
She had barely recovered from a miscarriage and you dared to put her life in jeopardy again with your Obeah mumbo jumbo?”

“She was not harmed!” insisted Amalie, cringing beneath his venomous gaze.

But Philippe was driven beyond control. Twin flames of fury burned in his eyes. Before him was someone who had not only caused Gabby great suffering but had been the force behind their ultimate parting. With typical male conceit he had discounted entirely his own callous treatment during their first months of marriage and his past cruelties. In his mind, Amalie was the only one responsible for the loss of his child and ultimately his wife.

Without hesitation, Philippe lashed out cruelly, delivering a crushing blow to Amalie’s face with his open palm. Reeling under the blow, she cringed when she saw him preparing to inflict yet another.

“Please, Monsieur Philippe, have pity!” she begged, one side of her face already beginning to swell. But Philippe was beyond pity. He was like a man possessed, unyielding, unfeeling, determined.