Devil and the Deep Sea (8 page)

of her cognac. She said, 'If there's a lady in your life, why don't you

get her to marry you?'

His smile was cynical now. 'Because I have no more taste for

marriage than you have,
ma belle.
And my—lady might not be so

ready to vanish when the year is over as you are. Does that answer

you? And in return will you give your answer? Do you agree to my

terms—yes, or no?'

There was a silence, then she said huskily, 'Yes, but not because I'm

impressed by what you're offering. I just feel sorry for your little

girl.' She put down her glass, and rose to her feet. 'And now I'd like

to be alone for a while.'

'Jerome has prepared a stateroom for you.' As she began to move

away, he detained her, a hand on her arm. 'May I ask if that

ungainly bundle on the floor represents your total wardrobe?'

'I only brought what I could carry,' she said defensively.

'Hm.' His eyes rested with disfavour on the shabby folds of the

yellow sundress. 'Then you will need clothes for your new role.

Shall we call it a trousseau?'

'I'd prefer not to,' she said, with a slight catch in her voice.

'As you wish,' he said indifferently. 'However, I shall buy the

clothes for you, and you will wear them. It is understood?' He

tapped her cheek with a careless finger. 'Now, run away to your

solitude.'

She wished she could run—preferably into the next universe, or

anywhere which would take her away from him.

And this was only the beginning, she thought as she walked to the

door. Ahead of her was a year—a whole year.

Oh, God, she thought. What have I promised? What have I done?

The road to Belmanoir was straight and dusty, flanked by the ripe

gold of canefields. Ahead of her, Samma could see dark green

forest clustering round the foot of one solitary, central peak,

pointing towards the sky in admonition or warning.

But in my case, she thought wryly, the warning has come too late.

She still could not believe the events of the past forty-eight hours.

She felt as if she had been caught up in some hurricane, which had

left her battered, stripped of everything, including her own identity.

She gave a swift downwards glance at the slender white skirt,

topped by the overblouse in a stinging shade of violet. It was not a

colour she would ever have chosen for herself, but she had to

grudgingly admit that it deepened her eyes to indigo. And it had

been selected, like everything else in the new hide cases currently

reposing in the boot of this air-conditioned limousine, by the man

seated beside her in the driving seat.

Well, almost everything else, Samma thought, remembering with

chagrin how he'd made her model the clothes for him. At least he'd

left her in peace and privacy to choose her lingerie and swimwear.

Her eyes caught the alien golden gleam of her wedding ring, and

she covered it clumsily with her other hand, biting her lip as she did

so. It was less than an hour since Roche Delacroix had placed the

ring on her finger, in a brief ceremony which had consisted of joint

and formal legal declarations, and their signatures on a piece of

paper.

Not a word, she thought, about loving or honouring. And, if that

was supposed to make her feel better about the whole thing, then, in

some odd way, it had been a dismal failure.

Easily made, this contract, she realised. And easily broken when its

usefulness had passed.

But the ordeals of the day were not over yet. The next item on

schedule was her meeting with her new stepdaughter. And this

afternoon she had to face a preliminary hearing before a Judge

Lefevre of the custody battle for Solange between Roche and the

Augustins. She wasn't sure which she was dreading most.

She stole a covert look at her new husband. He was wearing a

beautifully cut lightweight suit in pale grey, and the black hair had

been tamed to comparative respectability, but in spite of these

conventional trappings he still looked as tough and uncompromising

as any pirate ancestor could have done.

She wondered if he was thinking about the wedding —and that his

second venture into marriage was even less promising than the first

had been—but his dark face gave nothing away. He was lucky to

have his driving to concentrate on, she thought, although they hadn't

encountered so much as a donkey and cart since leaving St Laurent,

the capital. Roche had been right when he'd warned her that

Belmanoir was remote.

'You are very quiet.' His voice cut across her thoughts, making her

jump.

'I think I'm nervous.' She paused. 'Suppose Solange doesn't like me?'

'You are being defeatist.' His brows drew together. 'Why should she

not like you?'

'Because I'm the stranger you're putting in her mother's place.'

'Marie-Christine had no place in my life,' he said harshly. 'I thought

you understood that. And it is your task to win Solange's

confidence—make her enjoy your company. You have one great

advantage over your predecessors, after all.' His mouth twisted in

faint derision. 'You cannot simply hand in your notice when the

going gets tough.'

Samma swallowed. Lucky me, she thought.

She said quietly, 'You can enforce obedience, but not affection. And

I want Solange to be fond of me—genuinely.'

'In a year?' The reminder was faintly brutal. 'Don't hope for too

much, Samantha.'

She bent her head. 'I don't expect very much at all.'

At dinner on
Allegra
the previous evening, she'd tried to ask him a

little about life at Belmanoir, and Solange in particular, but his

replies had been almost terse. For a man so determined to retain the

custody of his child, he seemed to know very little about her, she

thought unhappily. For Solange's sake, she hoped he wasn't being a

dog in the manger about her.

The car turned suddenly under a high stone gateway on to a drive

flanked by tall hibiscus hedges.

Samma peered ahead of her through the windscreen, aware that her

heart was beating hard and fast. She was on Lucifer's Cay, after all,

and somewhere beyond the bright normality of the flowers was the

house which
Le Diable
had built for himself and his dynasty.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting—a Gothic ruin,

perhaps, with a skull and crossbones fluttering from the

battlements. But it wasn't like that at all—just a rambling white

mansion with a pillared portico, and an elegant wrought-iron

balcony encircling the upper storey.

And, at the top of the steps leading to the front entrance, someone

was waiting. A girl, Samma saw, no more than in her twenties, with

an exquisite
cafe au lait
skin, and black hair coiled into a sleek

chignon at the nape of her neck. The neat dark dress she was

wearing did nothing to disguise ripe breasts and rounded hips, as

she walked with a graceful, swaying motion down the wide,

shallow flight of steps towards them.

'Roche.' Her voice was like sunwarmed honey.
'Sois le bienvenu.
It

is good to have you at home again.' She turned her smile on Samma.

'And welcome to you also,
madame.'

Samma felt something clench inside her, as Roche bent to kiss the

girl lightly on both cheeks, murmuring something in his own

language as he did so.

'Samantha?' He turned to her. 'Allow me to present Elvire Casson,

my—housekeeper.'

His slight hesitation wasn't lost on her for a moment. Samma smiled

politely, and shook hands, her mind working furiously.

'I have a mistress,' he'd said. Why hadn't he also mentioned that

Samma would have to share a roof with her at Belmanoir? Or did

he think she was so young and naive that she wouldn't think to put

two and two together and come up with the right answer? To which

the answer was—probably.

'Where is Solange?' Roche was looking around him, frowning.

It was Elvire's turn to hesitate. 'She reacted badly to your news,' she

said at last. 'She refused to go to school this morning, because she

claimed to have a fever. I took a pitcher of juice to her room, and

she was gone.'

His firm mouth tautened in annoyance. 'To Les Arbres,
sans doute.'

'Mais oui.
Madame Duvalle telephoned to say she was there, so I

asked for her to be returned.'

Like an overdue library book, Samma thought, bristling, as they

walked up the steps into the house.

'We have arranged a small celebration to greet your bride,' Elvire

announced. 'The staff are naturally eager to greet her.'

Samma wondered if she was merely imagining that faintly derisive

note in the older girl's voice.

She said quietly, 'I'd prefer to go straight to my room, if you don't

mind.'

'Just as you wish,
madame.
I will have Hippolyte bring up your

cases.'

Samma found herself mounting the broad sweep of the staircase,

with Roche's hand cupped round her arm, which wasn't what she'd

intended at all. He didn't have to play the part of the devoted

husband in front of Elvire Casson, she thought, fuming. She, of all

people, would be bound to know the reality of the situation. She

wrenched herself free when they reached the gallery, avoiding the

ironic look he sent her.

'The master suite occupies this entire wing of the house,' he said

after a pause. He pointed to a door. 'That is Solange's room.' He

stopped in front of the adjoining door, and flung it open. 'And this is

yours.'

It was a beautiful room. Even seething with angry resentment as she

was, Samma could appreciate that. The carpet was old rose, and the

walls were ivory, and these colours were repeated in the drapes

which hung at the open windows, and festooned the wide

Empire-style bed.

'It's—lovely,' she said stiltedly. 'Thank you.'

One wall was panelled, concealing a comprehensive range of

closets, and a further door led into a small but luxuriously equipped

bathroom. On the far side of the room was yet another door, and

Samma pointed to it.

'What's that?'

Roche opened it, and she peered in. It was another bedroom even

vaster that the one in which they now stood, its focal point being a

magnificent four-poster bed standing on a dais. The canopy and

coverlet were green and gold, and Samma found herself thinking,

absurdly, that sleeping in that bed would be like lying in some

jungle clearing, with the sun dappling through tropical leaves.

The master suite, Roche had said. And it didn't need the casual litter

of masculine toiletries on the big antique dressing-chest to tell her

that this was the master's bedroom.

She stepped backwards hurriedly, aware that she was flushing

slightly, and that he knew it.

'Satisfied,
ma belle?'
There was open mockery in his voice.

'Not really.' Samma bit her lip. 'There doesn't seem to be a key. I'd

like one—and on my side of the door, please.'

He was silent for a moment. 'That door has never been locked,' he

said. 'I doubt if a key for it even exists.'

She said rather breathlessly, 'Then I'd like one made. I think

our—contract entitles me to some privacy.'

'That is something we will discuss later.' He closed the door. 'Now,

tidy yourself and come downstairs and meet the staff.'

'Is that—strictly necessary -?'

Roche frowned. 'Of course. In normal circumstances, a Delacroix

wedding would be a major event on Grand Cay. Having cheated

them of that, the least we can do is drink some champagne with

them.'

'I—I'm not really in a celebratory mood.'

'Then pretend.' His smile was brief, and unamused. 'That, too,

cherie,
is part of your contract.'

She watched him stride to the door, and disappear.

She took a deep, unsteady breath as she looked around her. She

supposed she should have expected a room that communicated with

his, but she hadn't. Belmanoir was turning out to be full of surprises,

she thought with irony. And Elvire wasn't the least of them.

She bit her lip. He probably thought a door that locked was an

unnecessary refinement, because he knew how little time he'd be

spending in that room. He could hardly make love to his mistress in

that pagan green and gold bed with his wife within earshot, even if

they all knew that the marriage existed only on paper.

She would sleep here in splendid isolation, as no doubt