Blue Voodoo: A Romantic Retelling of Bluebeard (The Hidden Kingdom Series Book 2) (15 page)

The air in the room chilled despite the warmth and glow of the fire.

“So you’ll marry me and stay married to me as long as it takes to get the invitation to the new kingdom?” The words tasted sour on his tongue and he wished with every fiber of his being for a pint of rum to rinse them away.
Surely Dominique must have some bourbon here somewhere?

“Yes.”

His mouth grew dry. “It could take a long time,
chere
. It wouldn’t do for our marriage to be seen as a sham, we would need to stay married long enough for people to believe it. And who knows how long it will take for—”

“I will remain your wife as long as it takes to satisfy your demands.”

“
All
my demands?”

The teasing innuendo shriveled up and died as quickly as his attempt to anger her. She didn’t even pause in her packing.

“I have many duties to perform, so it won’t be difficult to explain why we spend a great deal of time apart. And of course you’ll be at sea for long periods of time. The occasions when we will have to pretend to be a happy, loving couple will be few and far between, I think. Nothing we can’t manage.”

The jostle of the lid against the crate grated on Julien’s nerves. Out of habit, he dropped his hand to touch the hilt of his sword. His hand brushed the bare skin of his hip, reminding him he was naked—and unarmed. Grateful for the distraction, he gathered his clothes.

“I’m glad you came to your senses.” He slipped into his shirt and tugged at the fabric to settle it properly over his shoulders. “Finally, we can be adults about this whole thing.”

“Mmmm.”

He looked up from his buttons as she disappeared behind a dressing screen. The framework acted as the stage, the beautiful, willow patterned panels the curtains. They were paper thin, the light beaming from the small cottage window over her bed hugging every curve of her silhouette until he could feel her fine curves beneath his fingertips. She unwrapped the bodice of her dress in a slow peel. His rational mind was aware she was trying not re-open her wounds, but if she let that material drift off her shoulders any slower he’d swear she was teasing him.

She folded an arm over her breasts, and he wallowed along the elegant line from her shoulder down her arm as she dropped bandages into the dark impression of a bowl.

Go over there, take her in your arms.

Rooted to the spot, he couldn’t summon the will to close the distance between them. It would be ungentlemanly, it would risk annoying her, make her withdraw her offer, and…and if he took her in his arms and she remained cold and unresponsive, he didn’t know what he’d do. He buttoned his trousers and started wrestling with his belt as if it were responsible for all his troubles. “Perhaps a drink to celebrate our alliance?”

If she noticed that his voice was too loud, with a semi-hysterical lilt to it, she didn’t comment. “There is a bottle of bourbon in the back of the pantry. Help yourself.”

He scooped up his jacket on the way to the pantry and the sanity-saving brew therein. “You’ll have a glass with me.”

“No thank you.”

Still with that awful flat voice, so unlike the fiery-tempered woman who’d been fighting with him since he’d set foot in her village. He draped his coat haphazardly over his shoulder as he upended the bottle, taking several deep pulls before lowering it to draw a breath.

Get a hold of yourself. This is what you wanted, everything you wanted—more than you wanted.

“A binding that will keep you away from me. Forever.”

Why did those words turn his stomach?

I just don’t like being told what and what not to do. It’s sheer stubbornness, that’s all.

The sentiment was half-hearted, but he clung to it, taking another pull from the bottle. Yes, that had to be it. After all, what was the alternative? That he’d wanted to stay married? That he’d wanted to spend his life with Dominique, be husband and wife in truth?

A vivid memory of his last wives’ heckling drove a spike through his thoughts.

“You are no different than the rest of your kind. You yearn for a bond, yearn to serve. It is who you are.”

“Stop fighting and accept it.”

“We know who you are, what you are. Take comfort in that.”

Their voices swirled in his head, mocking tones full of sweet condescension. Julien slammed the bottle back on the pantry shelf and devoured the distance between him and his sword. Once he had the sheath roped on his belt again, the blade’s hilt gripped in a white-knuckled fist, his nerves settled, the voices growing fainter, fading away. “I accept your offer.”

Dominique came out from behind the screen and the rest of what Julien had intended to say died on his tongue. The dress clinging to her curves wasn’t quite a wedding dress, but it could easily pass for one. Layers of white cotton flared from her hips, the lace-trimmed hem rustling around her ankles. The bodice was snug enough to show off the tempting swells of her breasts, the long sleeves belled and tight at the wrists. A matching headband embellished with small pearls took the place of her head scarf, the pale sash a wonderful contrast to her beautiful brown eyes, and the spiraling ringlets framing her face like a halo.

 “Agreed,” she confirmed, her voice as empty as the well inside him.

She crossed the room and offered him her back. He blinked dumbly at the bare skin revealed by the unbound laces of the dress. The trails left by Parlangua’s claws were angry red furrows in her otherwise perfect complexion, the wound’s edges hard with dried blood. She dangled a bottle over her shoulder.

“Could you put some of this on the wounds?”

Without taking his eyes from her back, he accepted the bottle. The scent of lavender wafted past his nose as he removed the cork, the scent growing stronger as he spilled some of the oil onto her skin, smeared it with his fingertips. A few drops tried to escape and he quickly caught them with his thumb, returning them to the broken skin.

Dominique reached around her ribs and gently fingered the edge of the longest wound, the only one she could reach. The bottle sagged in his grasp as he studied the pattern she drew over the injury, smearing the oil so the marks glistened with every flicker of firelight. The symbol flared blue as it sank into the wound. Injured flesh blurred, shifted. He blinked and the wounds were closed, new pink raised scars where once there had been open cuts.

“Thank you.”

 Dominique turned and extended her hand. “Our deal?”

“You want to shake hands on it?”

He couldn’t keep the incredulousness out of his voice, wasn’t sure he wanted to try. Dominique arched an eyebrow.

“It is how business dealings are conducted, is it not?”

The kernel of dread in his stomach grew as he numbly closed his hand around hers.
This is all wrong. All wrong.

“Madame Laveau?”

Julien and Dominique turned and found a young woman standing just inside the doorway. She patted down a mauve and green headscarf, her other hand dusting down her plum skirts. Her bare feet were covered in mud like she’d waded through the swamp water in a hurry. 

“We, uh, we were waiting—wondering, when, uh, if you were ready…?”

She trailed off, her attention flickering between Julien and Dominique like she only just realized she’d interrupted something…interesting. But she seemed more panicked at the notion than anything, yanking at the hem of her blouse like the collar was cutting off her air supply. “My…uh, apologies, Madame Laveau.”

Dominique’s face softened. “I’ll be right there, Genevieve. Thank you.”

The girl half-melted with relief and then took off like a rabbit for the safety of the village.

“We’d better get back. I’ve got to announce our wedding and make sure the
prêt savann
can be here to marry us.”

She met his eyes, but there was tightness in her jaw, a forced lift to her shoulders. Julien stiffened, his gut twisting in a knot..

“You… You want to marry tonight?”

Dominique shoved the crate containing her supplies into Julien’s arms.

“Why not? Best get started as soon as possible. I’m sure you want to get back on your ship sooner rather than later, and my people will expect us to have some kind of a honeymoon before you set sail.”

The word “honeymoon” fell into the space between them like a life preserver falling onto a particularly rough sea. Julien sidled up to Dominique, wanting to put an arm around her but foiled by the armful of crate he carried. His grip worsened around the crate as he wrenched his face into a pale imitation of his usual roguish grin.

“Ah, yes, the honeymoon.” He leaned down to brush the shell of her ear with his lips, ignoring the way the bottles clinked. “I favor a
long
honeymoon, don’t you?”

As serene as ever, Dominique spun away and gathered a few objects from the mantle into a small red satchel that hung from a cord of braided silver thread. She fastened it around her waist and twisted it so the bag hung over her hip before she quickly beckoned him to follow her out the door. Unease rocked Julien’s stomach like the bow of a rickety ship, the crate creaked under the pressure of his hold. This was wrong. Her spark was gone, snuffed out by their wedding, of all things. Where was her sharp tongue? Where was her heated irritation with all things Julien? Where was the fight, where was the legendary haughtiness of the voodoo queen?

They stood in silence, and even though she was desperately trying to keep her shoulders squared, they slumped. She tried to cover it with deep breaths, but he’d worn that same look of false calm enough to know it on sight. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was solely responsible for the defeat weighing her frame down. It was like catching a playful dolphin in a fishing net. The sensation that something beautiful, something worth treasuring, had been damaged by callous ignorance.

Well, why don’t I put on a skirt and have done with it?

Julien shook his head and sneered at himself. He’d won, hadn’t he? Gotten what he wanted? Was he going to sour his victory with second thoughts and sappy reflection?
No, I’m not.

He balanced the crate on one hip and slammed the door to her cottage shut.
There. That’s for her lousy attitude.
Energy sparked from the door knob, biting his fingers like bottled lightening. He nearly dropped the crate as he jerked back and narrowed his eyes.
Damn door is as snippy as its owner.

Mulch crunched beneath her feet as she started toward the celebration. “When we get to the site, I’ll need to speak with my assistants. I’ll send one of them to fetch the priest, and I’ll have the others arrange a simple archway for us to marry under. We’ll have enough of an audience, and I suppose it will be nice to have most of the village there.” She waited for him to catch up, then added, “I intend to ask that in lieu of wedding gifts, they cook a meal to share with someone less fortunate. After all, you are a man of means and I am not without my own wealth. We don’t need their gifts.”

“That’s…” He looked away. “Fine.”

“The Midsummer Celebration will begin after the opening ritual. We’ll need to be present for most of it, especially the first night.”

Again, the mention of the Midsummer Celebration failed to elicit any of the usual eagerness. Strange since the week long celebration of freedom and passion had long been one of his favorite times. It was one of the things he’d missed most during his time at sea. One of the only things he’d missed. One of the two things.

She chatted on about different spirits that were to be honored, educating him without her usual passion for the subject, and it took a moment to realize the pain aching in his chest was the same he felt whenever he’d thought of her over the years. He…missed her. She was standing right in front of him, and she couldn’t have been farther away.

A carriage was waiting at the edge of the bayou to deliver them to the ritual site. As Julien settled the crate on the floorboard, Dominique swept up to her assistants waiting a few yards away. Clad in colorful clothing, they huddled around her like vibrant petals of a bayou lily. He tried to look away, and almost managed it, but one of them risked a glance over Dominique’s shoulder.

He winked at her, but there was no spirit in the gesture, no mischief.

She lifted her eyebrow like she wasn’t convinced that was the best way to make a first impression as her mistress’s husband, and something about her expression must have alerted Dominique to the exchange because she stiffened and hurried the girls off. She didn’t even bother to glare at him on principle, just went about ordering people to and fro to make arrangements for their marriage, Julien realized that he’d gotten everything he’d asked for.

And lost everything he wanted.

Chapter Twelve

“Why hello, my old friend. Lie to me and tell me what a wonderful idea this is.”

Dominique raised the short glass, and the bourbon glittered in the firelight as if to say
“Of course this was a wonderful idea! Marrying a man who insults you at every opportunity is always a good plan!”

“Sarcastic alcohol.” She closed her eyes, basking in the pleasant bouquet honed by generations of her family. Caramel, vanilla, and ripe peach steeped in an oak wood barrel. The tiny nearly unnoticeable hint of nutmeg spice, her mother’s secret ingredient. It was a warm, familiar cocktail. If only she could really lose herself in that scent. Let it carry her back in time.

“I know a demon who talks to his cigarettes.”

The warm weight of two hearty glasses of bourbon kept her from startling, as the chair beside her that had been empty a scarce second ago now held the familiar form of her stalker from Mu.

“Oh?” she queried. “He talks to his cigarettes?”

Tenoch’s expression remained serious—as she suspected it always was.

“Yes. Although, I do think he does it more to annoy the angel than anything. His cigarette only seems to enter the conversation when he wants to talk about why the angel is blushing.” Tenoch lifted a shoulder. “A childish antic, but the demon enjoys it to no end.”