Ciji Ware (32 page)

Beautiful Martine had affixed her signature with a sure, steady hand. Now she lay languidly upon a flaming red brocade daybed.

She was his. Signed. Sealed. And delivered, intact, upon a silk chaise longue.

Or was it the other way around?
he wondered joyfully, pouring two glasses of champagne into delicately fluted glasses. Julien’s gaze was drawn to the graceful curve of Martine’s right hip.

God… how he wanted her. The mad, wonderful thing of it was—he could
have
her! Tonight. Tomorrow… and always.

She was a Free Woman of Color. She could enter into a business contract like any citizen. She had agreed in writing to allow him to be her patron. He would support her and her family in return for her exclusive favors. One of the documents they had just signed had guaranteed that any progeny of theirs would be named LaCroix. They would build the Canal Street development together—she supplying the land, and he and other investors, the capital—and all would share in its profits. He would have Martine
and
his warehouse. He had bested his father. The latter added a final fillip of pleasure to the entire transaction!

Julien heaved an enormous sigh and smiled broadly at Martine. Her lips curved slightly in response. However, her eyes held the kind of wonderment that he realized his own must be reflecting.

When had he fallen in love with her? At what precise moment had her welfare come to be as important to him as his own? He had begun this strange liaison with the sole purpose of returning the Canal Street property to his control. He still wanted that surely, but he also now wanted something else just as much: a sane life. A life where he was wanted, accepted for who he was, rather than merely tolerated.

Had no other white man in Louisiana seen that there was an alternative to the horrific bonds that strangled the life and joy out of men forced by economic necessity to wed unhappily? Yes, other men had entered into
plaçage
… but not in the fashion he had this blessed day.

The difference, he realized with a profound sense of gratitude, was that he deeply admired Martine Fouché. During the weeks of their negotiation over the documents they had cosigned tonight, he had come to respect her deeply.

He stared intently at Martine’s fine bone structure, amazed by these new, radical thoughts that were spinning through his brain. He saw in Martine’s high cheekbones and straight nose the firm foundations of her young daughter’s burgeoning beauty. He already loved Lisette. Martine was gentle and kind, as he hoped he would always try to be. She was interested in music and poetry. She passionately wanted to build and own something grand—as did he—and be beholden to no one, except to those she trusted.

And it would appear that he numbered in that company. She had willingly signed the documents forging their new partnership this day. The only thing that had stood in their way had been their color. Remove that difference in one’s heart and mind—and then they could be of
one
heart and mind. It was an incredible concept! And look at its power, Julien considered humbly, to change the quality of his life.

Glory of glories, he thought with rising excitement as he glanced around the warm, inviting cottage. He had a legal right to come to this tasteful, welcoming haven whenever he might wish! And right now, he reflected, rising to his feet and walking toward the chaise longue while carrying a glass of champagne in each hand, he wished never to leave.

He handed her the fluted stemware.

“To us both,” he said softly.

Martine smiled but did not repeat his toast. She was still a bit wary, as he would certainly expect her to be. She, far more than he, knew the cruelty that existed outside the thick walls of her tiny cottage. She probably knew firsthand how white men did not always fulfill the promises they made. She sipped delicately from her glass and then smiled more broadly.

“It’s wonderful.”

“That it is,” Julien agreed, taking a seat at the bottom of the chaise longue next to her silk-shod feet.

When he had finished his champagne, he set his glass on a nearby table. First he carefully removed Martine’s right satin slipper. And then the left. Lightly resting his hand on one of her ankles, he drank in the sight of her sipping the golden liquid as he fingered the sheer fabric of her bedclothes. Slowly, languidly, he began to rub his thumb in concentric circles around her ankle, and then slid his fingers up her calf.

Martine sipped the last of her champagne and set the glass aside. She continued merely to gaze at the ministrations of his hand then lifted her eyes to reveal the effect his actions were having on her.

“Monsieur…” she murmured, her lips tilting upward in an appreciative smile.

“Julien,” he reprimanded her softly. “Please, Martine… call me by my Christian name.”

“Julien,” she repeated in a low, husky voice. “Would you enjoy our moving over there?”

Julien glanced at the large bed, a duplicate of the beds to be found in sleeping chambers throughout Reverie Plantation. In fact, he and Adelaide had been given an identical one as a wedding present from his father.

“Perhaps… later…” he murmured, pushing from his mind the woeful memory of his wedding night with Adelaide. “For now, I am exquisitely happy to be just where I am—with perhaps this exception.” He moved farther up the chaise. “May I touch you, Martine?” he asked solemnly. She nodded, smiling faintly. His fingers grazed her right breast, and he heard her swift intake of breath. “There? And… there?”

She cupped her hand over his and pressed his fingers more firmly into her own flesh. “No one has ever asked before they touched me, Julien,” she said, and he thought he saw tears prick the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, my darling Martine…” he replied, pulling her lithe golden body into his arms, “I will always ask. I ask because I want you to know how much I desire you… how much I wish to—”

But Martine put a slender finger to his lips to still his words.

“And may I tell you, too, what I desire?” she inquired, gazing intently into his eyes. “Is
that
permitted as well in this revolutionary relationship you have sworn we are to have, Julien LaCroix?”

Julien was somewhat taken aback by her assertiveness. And then he laughed aloud. She was testing him, testing his sincerity. She probably always would. “And what would you have me do this very second?” he retorted with a mocking smile.

“I would have you take me to bed,” she said simply, pointing to the enormous bed and its lustrous silk hangings. With no warning she leaned forward and began to kiss him with an intensity that swelled like the scent of night-blooming jasmine on a sultry breeze. With the instincts of a jealous man, Julien suspected that the fervor of her embrace was an attempt to blot out memories of other candlelit evenings in this very boudoir.

“And you do not fear the ghost of Henri Girard lurking in this chamber?” he asked soberly. He heard her breath catch and felt her stiffen in his arms.

“Why say such things?” she chided, pulling away from him.

“Perhaps because… I… am… jealous,” he replied ruefully.

Martine looked him squarely in the eyes and declared, “Let us be done with the subject once and for all!”

“I doubt it’s such a simple thing—”

“I would not have entered into this agreement unless I could come to you willingly, Julien. I mourn Henri’s passing—yes,” she said, slipping from his embrace and gliding toward the silken coverlet that she proceeded to pull off the mattress and throw to the floor. “But we will never achieve any type of union if you remain jealous of a ghost!”

Julien was startled by the ferocity of her words—and pleased. He strode swiftly across the room and enfolded her in his arms, pressing her voluptuous form against his chest.

“Do I dare tell you how much I’ve longed for this?” he murmured into her dark hair. “Do I dare reveal how empty this part of my life has been… this linking of bodies?”

“This is all so strange,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him willingly, “that you should say such things about yourself to me… that you—”

“I know why Henri wanted you to be safe, and why he gave you the land,” Julien interrupted in a low voice as he began to kiss her lips, her cheeks, her ear. “He knew the secret to happiness, too! He knew that by giving freely to you, he would get back a hundredfold.”

Again he felt Martine stiffen in his embrace.

“Please! I beg of you, Julien,” she murmured hoarsely. “Do not compare yourself with Henri! He was a dear, sweet man, but you are totally different from each other. Let us have only two people here in this bedchamber. Just Julien and Martine! It is our only chance for the happiness we both desire.”

“I’m sorry…” he said humbly as she pressed her body hard against his. “I have so much to learn of these things.”

“And so you do,” she whispered seductively, inserting the point of her tongue into his ear. “And I am skilled at teaching you whatever you wish to know.” Her throaty laugh bubbled. “As an example…” She deliberately pressed her torso more firmly against his, moving her hips rhythmically. “This is what can excite a woman, Julien… yes! That’s right! Not wild, unbridled motions that you thought the whores of Paris would find manly.”

“Why, mademoiselle… I am truly shocked,” he said with a mocking smile.

“It is an art to slowly heat both partners to the boiling point,” she persisted, reaching between them and guiding his hand to lightly stroke her. “So few men realize that…” she whispered as her hips continued to undulate slowly, building to a torturous tempo that drove Julien nearly mad with longing.

“Oh… Martine,” he said softly. “Is it your belief, then, that if a man takes time to stir his partner’s fires… he will be repaid in full measure?”

“But of course!” She playfully brushed his hands aside to allow her own gentle exploration. “You feel it already, do you not, Julien? You are an apt pupil, monsieur,” she added in a mischievous tone of voice.

And then they fell effortlessly upon the wide expanse of mattress. Slowly, and with agonizing deliberation, they removed each other’s clothing, article by article, until they lay naked in the golden light cast by the flickering tapers overhead.

Martine stretched out next to him on her side, her head cradled in the palm of her hand. The long, slender fingers of her free hand played delicately up and down his torso, wandering dangerously close to his groin, where his desire for her was ferociously evident. Her long nails sent delicious chills to the very base of his spine. He longed to smother the length of her with his own body, but something in her manner, in the entire direction that their union seemed to be heading, stayed his actions. Instead, he allowed her the freedom and the time to make her own explorations of his skin, his contours… the very essence of his physical self. And in doing so, he learned much about her tender sensibilities… her generosity of spirit… the way in which she gave, as well as received.

And then, to his joy and amazement, she began kissing him on the same spots where her hands had been lightly caressing him. Excited currents coursed through him like the surging, flowing waters he encountered on the frantic trip downriver to New Orleans.

In one gloriously fluid movement, she was hovering above him, a golden-skinned angel with long, glistening hair that gathered like a ring of black fire about her shoulders and singed the voluptuous curve of her breasts. With touching dignity she seized the object of her desire and placed it at the entrance of her most secret self. “May I?” she asked quietly, her mesmerizing caramel-colored eyes staring boldly into his own.

He reached up, placing his palms on either side of her narrow waist above hips that flared in perfect proportion to her magnificent, full breasts. Slowly, confidently, he pulled her toward his pelvis. He inhaled deeply of her warm scent.

“Jesu!”
she cried, closing her eyes as she sank on top of him and flung her arms around his shoulders. “There are things, dearest Julien, you have mastered brilliantly.”

“You are the inventive one,” he protested softly. “I never did… exactly this… before in my life.”

“No,
cher
?
Neither have I. Not precisely… this.”

And then the river on which they sailed ebbed and flowed in rhythmic swells, like the spring tides along the Delta—strong and unstoppable—until the moon rose. Not the full harvest moon, but nearly so. Shafts of golden light played across their tangled bodies lying contentedly in a bed that had been carved by skilled black craftsmen for the pleasures of their white masters.

As for Julien and Martine, they were oblivious to all but the sound of each other’s breathing and their serene drift toward sleep.

Chapter 14

March 12

Without warning, a motorcycle backfired on Common Street.

“Whoa!” Corlis cried, harshly jolted back to the present.

Julien and Martine
—
in bed!

Corlis seriously began to wonder if she was becoming some sort of paranormal Peeping Thomasina!