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  As the weeks passed, she accepted that speculation concerning her relationship with Brazos Sinclair undoubtedly ran rampant in the ‘tween decks, where most of the colonists made their berths. According to Lillibet, some of the wagers made concerning the status of her marriage of convenience had been collected upon. Everyone aboard ship understood that any relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair had ended. Her own behavior had clarified that fact.

  Seventeen bachelors could be counted among the La Réunion colonists, and Madeline had made it her business to become acquainted with each of them. Having learned from her mistake, Madeline had contrived criteria for the next man in her life. No more reckless marriage proposals for her. Her next husband would share her vision of the future, not be grounded in the past. It wouldn’t matter one little bit whether he made her blood race or not. To her dismay, Madeline discovered the need to remind herself repeatedly of that last part.

  Every day, while Brazos claimed his playtime with Rose, she had strolled the deck with one bachelor and finagled a dinner invitation from another. Through these efforts, she’d become quite adept at flirting, although she made certain that her speech and actions remained well within the bounds of what was considered proper. Of course, considering that her fellow passengers were Fourierists, overstepping the boundaries of the New Amorous World would have been extremely difficult.

  Truly, if she heard one more word about the higher order of erotic pleasure or the Court of Love, she would lock herself and Rose in her cabin for the rest of the voyage.

  Madeline had thought that out of seventeen men, she could find at least one who shared her dream of home and family, and who respected the Fourierist principle of equality for women. She’d gone about her search methodically, and out of the field of available gentlemen, she had narrowed her choice to two: Monsieur Loupot, the botanist, and Monsieur Guyot, the mason. In the beginning, she’d had hopes for Monsieur Loupot. He was closer to her age than was Brazos Sinclair and, truth be told, more attractive. He didn’t have that hard, angry look her husband possessed, and although his muscles weren’t as well developed, the physical work that awaited them in Texas would take care of that.

  He was a gentleman, educated and mannerly. He had all his teeth. She’d given him careful consideration until an incident with Rose had removed him from her list of potential husbands. Really, a man who bounces a baby on his knee should expect wet trousers.

  Monsieur Guyot, too, had met most of her requirements. By the time she’d worked her way down the list to him, she’d realized she’d been comparing each of the bachelors with Brazos, and she’d sworn not to repeat her mistake. She made a determined effort not to compare a balding pate and a thick mane of overly long black hair.

  But after the groping episode, she’d written Monsieur Guyot off also. He’d been such a boiled noodle when Brazos had suddenly appeared with that wicked-looking knife in his hand. Whittling, that’s all it was. He’d been making something for Rose. Had Guyot stood up to her husband, she might have settled on the man then and there.

  As it was, the Uriel was less than a week from Texas, and she had run out of bachelors. What was she to do?

  BRAZOS KNEW WHAT he was going to do. As soon as the boat hit Galveston—right after he saw to the annulment—he was gonna find ol’ Emile and tell him just what a fickle, unfaithful woman he’d picked to be the mother of his daughter. It had been a gradual decision, made sometime between Madeline’s rendezvous with the Italian cobbler on the quarterdeck and the interlude with the French baker with the octopus arms.

  Damn the woman for flinging her men in his face. Damn himself for caring.

  Brazos prowled the deck of the Uriel, dodging the raindrops that dripped from the sails following an early morning squall. The wet pitch used as caulking between the deck planks gave loose an occasional scent of pine, bringing to mind the evergreens of the eastern Texas forests. He couldn’t wait to get home. Soon now, just a few days if the winds held, they’d sail past the lighthouse on Bolivar Point and head into Galveston Bay.

  Then he’d look up the Frenchman. “Emile,” he muttered. “Just what sort of name is that anyway? Sounds like a flower.” Brazos had always intended to check up on the man before saying good-bye to Madeline and Rose. He had doubts about this fella’s suitability as a father for Miss Magic. After all, what sort of man would run off to America, leaving a pregnant lover behind? Not one good enough for Rose; he’d bet his last bottle of French brandy on that.

  Brazos almost tripped over a sailor scrubbing the deck with a holystone. “Sorry, mate,” he said absently, his thoughts growing blacker by the moment. From the looks of things, Maddie didn’t put much store in her European lover either. She’d up and said as much that one time—said if Emile didn’t give her what she needed, she’d find a man who did.

  “Maybe that’s what she’s doin’,” Brazos wondered aloud when he caught a whiff of roasting chicken drifting up through one of the vents he passed by. “Maybe she’s checking out her options.” Surely, though, she could find better prospects than fellas like Loupot and Guyot.

  Who, Sinclair? the voice inside him asked. You? He stopped short and loudly declared, “Not hardly.” It earned him a puzzled look from the sailor cleaning the deck. “My days as a married man are near over—just a quick legal document, a couple of signatures, and a brief appearance before Cousin Judge Miram P. Tate, and Madeline Christophe Sinclair can shorten her name by two full syllables!”

  Why, then, he wondered as the sailor picked up his holystone and scuttled away, throwing an anxious look over his shoulder, did he feel like he had a clod of mud in his churn?

  CHTEAU ST. GERMAINE

  THE VULGARITY of the woman’s speech, a varied spattering of English, French, and Italian, alerted Julian that his visitor had arrived, kicking and cursing, as he had anticipated. Bernadette Compton likely feared for her life, because the terms of their twenty-odd year pact had been quite specific.

  The illegality of divorce in France had left Julian with few options for ending his marriage to the betraying bitch. The quickest and simplest way had been for Bernadette to die. He’d considered killing her outright; in truth, he’d come quite close to doing so. But after a bit of soul-searching, he’d chosen to fake her death instead. In return for her compliance with the plan, Bernadette received both a large sum of money and the promise that were she ever to set foot on St. Germaine again, Julian would, in fact, kill her.

  “I never envisioned that I’d be the one to bring her back,” Julian murmured, stirring the fire in his library. He remembered the emotions as though it had all happened yesterday—the rage, the anguish, and the love.

  Yes, once he had loved Bernadette above all else. And in his heart, he knew that his daughter Nicole had suffered for it—died because of it. Which meant he was ultimately responsible.

  Julian twirled the brass poker in his hand. Was that the reason he’d never taken Bernadette’s life despite his longing to do so? Was it his own guilt holding him back? Or had he always harbored the hope that she’d come to him with news of Nicole?

  Had Elise now paid for that futile wish?

  “It is time I found out.” Julian returned the poker to its stand. If he chose to end Bernadette’s life this night, he’d not use a weapon like a fireplace tool. He’d use his hands.

  Julian was smiling as he left the library.

  Upon her arrival, as per his instructions, Bernadette had been escorted directly to his bedroom suite. Conducting this interview under such circumstances implied a threat he hoped might put her off balance. He stood outside the door for a moment, drew a deep breath, and straightened his lapels. Exhaling in a rush, he twisted the key in the lock and opened the door.

  She was as beautiful as ever. More than twenty years had passed since he last had seen this woman, but time had worn few wrinkles upon her face. Her ivory skin glowed with a false youth, and her hair remained a golden halo around her head. He gazed into her eyes, recognized the wick
edness, and wondered how he ever had been so blind.

  He’d taken one look at this dazzling woman and forgotten his grief for two-year-old Nicole’s mother his beloved first wife, Anne, who’d died giving birth to a stillborn son. For an entire year he’d allowed Bernadette to push Nicole from his life, and after his daughter disappeared, he’d clung to this woman in his pain. Only when he witnessed her betrayal firsthand did he recognize her for the deceiver that she was.

  Hatred stimulated the syrupy tone of his voice as he walked into the room and said, “Ah, Mère, I am so pleased you could join me.”

  “I am not your mother.”

  “That is true, you were never my mother,” Julian replied, nodding. “You were my wife. You realize, don’t you, Bernadette, that I have had three wives in my lifetime? Two of them are dead, and because they died in childbirth, it could well be argued that I killed them. That is something you should probably remember during your visit to St. Germaine.”

  Bernadette tossed her head and straightened, lifting her chest in silent invitation. “Is that why you brought me here? Is it a child that you want? Are you telling me you plan to rape me until I swell with your child?”

  Thoughtfully, he studied her, his gaze making a slow perusal of her assets. Then he sighed and said, “My dear mother-in-law. I wouldn’t touch you with the stable dog’s cock. Besides, you’re too old to bear children.” Ignoring her gasp of rage, he continued, “I’m telling you to take care. I’m closer than I’ve ever been before to wrapping my fingers around your neck and choking the life from you.”

  “What do you want, Julian?” Bernadette demanded, struggling against the ropes tying her wrists and ankles.

  He turned abruptly and walked to the armoire, where he deliberately removed his jacket and stock. Putting them away he said casually, “Family matters, one might say. We do have such close ties. You were Celeste’s mother. You are her daughter’s—my daughter’s—grandmother,” The chill of the Alpine winter seeped into his voice as he looked over his shoulder and demanded, “Tell me, Bernadette, what have you done with my child?”

  Suddenly, she stilled. A wary expression entered her eyes as she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Where is Elise?”

  “Elise! Celeste’s daughter? What has happened to her?” She laughed spitefully and said, “Don’t tell me you’ve misplaced another of your daughters, Julian.”

  He whirled and was upon her in an instant. Grabbing her chin in a cruel grip, he forced her to meet the rage of his gaze. “So help me God, I’ll kill you here and now, bitch.”

  Bernadette read the honesty of his words in his gaze and knew she must convince him of her innocence. Her lies must be well told. So she began with the truth. “I don’t know where she is. I know nothing of what has happened here since my Celeste died.”

  He put his hands on the arms of the chair and loomed over her. “What about before? The nursemaid, Mary Smithwick. Did she work for you? Did you instruct her to kidnap my child?”

  “No! I never cared about that baby!” That, too, was true. Though Bernadette had worked to destroy Julian’s marriage from the day she had learned he’d wed her daughter, her plans never included the child. The Smithwick chit must have thought that one up all on her own. Or Celeste may have helped. By the time Celeste died, Bernadette had managed to destroy the love her daughter had felt for Julian Desseau. Celeste might well have enlisted Mary Smithwick’s help in wresting the baby away from its father. How delicious, really. She held his gaze and spoke with utter sincerity. “Believe me, Julian, I have no idea where your daughter is.”

  He pushed away from the chair and walked to the window, where he stared out across the rose garden. Fingering the heavy damask drapery, he asked softly, “Either of them, Bernadette?”

  “Bah, Julian, give it up. It’s Nicole again, isn’t it? It always has been Nicole. You did it all because you suspected me, didn’t you?” Venom dripped from her voice as she said, “It was revenge.”

  Julian turned and offered her an evil smile. “You figured that out, did you? And it worked quite well. Celeste loved me, more than she loved you.”

  Had Bernadette been free, she’d have spat in his face. Rage made her careless. “Just for a time, Julian. I won in the end. Celeste didn’t love you when she died, did she? She hated you, and she was afraid of you.”

  “It was you!” Three strides brought him to her. He grabbed at her hair, pulled her braid free of its pins, and wrapped the coil around his fist. Tears stung Bernadette’s eyes as he yanked and demanded, “What did you do, bitch?”

  “Celeste! I wanted Celeste back. That’s why I told her—” She snapped her mouth shut. She’d said entirely too much as it was. She couldn’t tell him about the Smithwick chit.

  He truly would kill her then.

  Julian loosened her chin and with a finger, traced a line across her throat, the edge of his nail mimicking a knife slash. In a frigid voice, he quietly asked, “Told her what?”

  A heady sense of power came over Bernadette. This was it, what she had planned for. Let him hurt her; she didn’t care. The moment was at hand for Julian Desseau to learn the price of vengeance. “Celeste was the one person in my life whom I loved, who loved me in return.”

  “What did you tell her!”

  “Then you spoiled it for me.” Tears spilled from her eyes and rolled down her face. “You took her from me. Well, I showed you, didn’t I? I stole Celeste back from you.”

  Eyes blazing, Julian grabbed Bernadette by the shoulders and shook her. “God damn you, bitch! Talk to me.”

  She cackled like the wickedest of witches. “I told her your secret, Julian. I told her the truth.”

  “What truth?” he demanded.

  “I told her that you and I were married. I told her that you banished me from St. Germaine while I was carrying your heir, and that you told all of France that I had died.”

  He slapped her, hard.

  Blood seeped from the corner of her mouth as she smiled crookedly and said, “I told Celeste, Julian, that you were her father.”

  Chapter 7

  RIPPLES OF ANTICIPATION ROLLED across the Uriel’s main deck as the La Réunion colonists awaited landfall at Galveston, Texas. Passengers crowded shoulder to shoulder and chattered in a mix of English and French, sharing their excitement, their trepidations, and their thankfulness for having safely reached the end of this leg of their journey.

  From her position toward the ship’s bow, Madeline watched as large flocks of diving white gulls fed on jumping shrimp, the occasional splash and roll on the surface confirming the feast was being shared both above and below the waters of the bay. As the city’s buildings came into view, she snuggled Rose close and murmured into her ear “Well, darling, here we are. A new land, a new life. I promise you I’ll do my best to see you safe and happy. I swore as much to your mother; and I swear it to you now.”

  Tears stung her eyes at the memory of Celeste, so weak and pale as she lay dying. So afraid, but not of death. Celeste Desseau had feared her husband, her emotions a confused collection of love and hate. She’d confessed to Madeline her greatest shame, that despite having learned the awful truth, she couldn’t kill the tenderness she felt in her heart for Julian Desseau.

  Then, she’d confessed her greatest fear, that Julian would someday use Elise in the same evil, wicked way he had used Celeste.

  Madeline had wanted to confront him, to bring all the secrets into the light of day. Celeste had flatly refused. She claimed to fear what Julian would do when challenged with the dreadful facts. Madeline believed the dying woman clung to the faint hope that the story was all a lie, and that Celeste desperately needed to take that hope to the grave. She’d done exactly that, after extracting from Madeline the promise to protect at all costs the daughter she was leaving behind.

  Rose’s delighted laughter broke through Madeline’s reverie, and through watery eyes, Madeline watched the nervous winging of waterfowl whose antics entertained
the child. The thoughts of her past and the impending arrival of her future made Madeline more than a little nervous herself. As a result, her palms itched. Before she quite knew what had happened, she’d slid up to Monsieur Thevenet, slipped her hand into his pocket, and relieved him of his purse.

  Almost immediately, she returned it. Madeline had promised herself never to take from her fellow colonists—it was a matter of honor. But old habits brought comfort in times of need, and the familiar action had succeeded in calming Madeline’s overwrought nerves. Until she suddenly realized that, for the first time in her life, she had returned something she had stolen.

  The idea made her shiver. What in the world was wrong with her? Next thing she knew, she’d be returning the penknife she’d snatched from Brazos Sinclair’s bedroll a week ago.

  The uneasy sensation in her stomach grew. She looked over her shoulder and almost moaned aloud. Speak of the devil. Brazos Sinclair was watching her. He began to thread his way toward her through the swarm of people. Had he noticed her sleight of hand?

  “Wonderful,” Madeline muttered. He doesn’t pay her a bit of attention for days on end, but let her do something a tiny bit questionable, and there he was. If he had noticed the theft, would he put it together with the loss of his knife? His gun? That crystal swan he’d stored in that gift box, or any of the other items she’d acquired from him over the last few weeks? “I’ll bribe him with his pocket watch if I must,” she quietly told Rose, who was happily chewing on a teething ring Brazos had fashioned for her out of wood and leather.

  That’s right, Madeline, she scolded herself. Why don’t you just return everything while you’re about it. At that rate, you’ll soon be taking Rose back to Julian.