Devil and the Deep Sea (9 page)

Marie-Christine had done before her.

She was roused from her reverie by the sound of a car approaching

up the drive. She went over to the window and stepped out on to

the balcony, peering cautiously over the balustrade.

The car, an elderly saloon, had stopped in front of the house, and a

woman with chestnut hair climbed out of the driver's seat, and went

round to the passenger side. After what could only be a low-voiced

argument, the car door opened, and a child emerged, slowly and

sullenly.

She was small for her age, Samma thought, and not a particularly

attractive little girl, with skinny arms and legs, and dark hair

scraped back into two tight and unbecoming braids. And her

pugnacious scowl didn't help, either.

Samma watched the pair of them disappear into the house, and

drew back with a sigh. It was clear she could expect no welcome

from Solange. In fact, she was probably going to have her work cut

out, but at least that would prevent her thinking about what Roche

and his mistress were doing, each time her back was turned.

She flexed her shoulders wearily. Not that it was any of her

business, anyway. To his credit, Roche had made no pretence about

that. He had been as frank as he thought necessary about the

situation.

As she walked slowly back into the bedroom, there was an

impatient rap on the door, and Roche strode in.

'Why do you stay up here?' he demanded. 'Solange has returned,

and the household is waiting to welcome you. Elvire has even

provided a wedding cake.'

'Then let her eat it herself.' Samma found she was hovering on the

edge of a dangerous combination of tears and temper.

His mouth tightened. 'What is that supposed to mean?' he asked

with dangerous softness.

Samma studied the potential confrontation, and decided to back

down.

'Not a thing,' she said. 'I'm rather tired, and all this pretence is a

strain.'

'I have seen very little pretence as yet,' he said coldly. 'At the

moment, all I recognise is the insolent brat I met on the quay at

Cristoforo.'

'Then maybe you should remember I'm an artist, not an actress,' she

flung back at him defiantly.

'In fact, you are my wife,' he said flatly. 'And you will not boycott

our wedding reception, whatever your personal inclination.' He held

out a hand to her. 'Now, come down and play your part as you

agreed, and let there be no more senseless argument.'

'Very well,' Samma said angrily. 'But I don't guarantee the

performance.'

He was angry, too, as he said grimly, 'Then perhaps there should be

a rehearsal,' and reached for her.

This time, there was no gentleness in him at all. His mouth

possessed hers harshly, and without grace. Her body was crushed

mercilessly against his. She couldn't breathe. She could barely

think.

Some instinct warned that to struggle, to fight, would only make

things infinitely worse, so she stayed mute and passive in the

punishing circle of his arms until the violent ruthless kiss came to an

end at last.

She was very pale, her mouth trembling and swollen from his

passion, as she looked up into his dark, relentless face.

'You—you really are a pirate, aren't you?' she managed. 'I bet the

original Devil Delacroix couldn't teach you a thing.'

'Then learn not to annoy me,' he returned brusquely. 'I give you five

minutes in which to join me in the
salon.'
He paused. 'And you

would be wise,
mignonne,
not to make me fetch you a second time.

I am sure that everyone has already drawn their own—romantic

conclusions about the reason for our delayed appearance.' He

flicked a deliberate glance towards the bed. 'Next time, I might

justify their suspicions.'

The door slammed behind him. Samma sank down on the

dressing-stool, her legs giving way under her. She stared at herself

in the mirror with wide, bruised eyes.

She thought, He couldn't—he wouldn't . . . Not when he promised

...

And paused, shivering. For what did a promise mean to a man who

demonstrated quite clearly that he made his own rules?

And was, she realised, as she laid a finger on the tender, blurred

contour of her mouth, prepared to enforce them.

SHE had expected to find the
salon
full of people but, in fact,

Roche was alone there with Solange and her companion.

Samma hesitated in the doorway, aware of the overt hostility in the

child's face as her presence was registered.

'Come in,
cherie.'
Roche came swiftly to her side, drawing her

forwards into the room. 'Solange,
ma petite,
here is someone I wish

you to meet.'

'Papa.' The child's voice was clear, and simmering with resentment.

'Have you truly married this person?'

Samma saw his face darken, and intervened hastily. 'My name is

Samantha, but usually my friends call me Samma.'

'I do not wish to be your friend,' Solange flared. 'I do not want you

here. But you will not stay. The Delacroix curse will send you

away, like all those other silly women.'

'Solange!' Roche's voice was like the crack of a whip. 'You will stop

this nonsense at once, do you hear? And you will apologise ...'

'I will not. It is not nonsense. She will leave. They all do.' She

glared at Samma. 'Go,
madame,
while you are still safe.'

Coming from an angry little girl in broad daylight, it should have

been ridiculous, yet Samma felt herself shiver involuntarily.

'You are insolent and unkind,
ma fille,'
Roche said icily. 'If you are

not prepared to welcome Samantha, then you may go to your

room—and this time remain there.'

Solange looked as if she was on the verge of protest, then thought

better of it, and left the
salon,
shutting the door behind her with

more than a suspicion of a slam.

Samma realised she had been holding her breath, and released it

slowly.

'You must excuse her, Roche.' The other woman, who had been a

silent spectator until then, rose from her chair, and came forward. 'It

is natural she should find her first meeting with her
belle-mere
a

traumatic one.' She smiled pleasantly at Samma. 'Please make

allowances for
la petite, madame.'

'I've been a stepdaughter myself,' Samma said neutrally. 'I know

what the problems are.'

'And I have been neglecting my manners,' Roche said, frowning.

'Samantha, may I present Liliane Duvalle, who is our closest

neighbour?'

They shook hands. It occurred to Samma that her new acquaintance

was slightly older than she'd originally thought, but she was

startlingly attractive with her magnolia skin and slanting brown

eyes, coupled with an entirely French air of confidence and chic.

'
La petite
is not the only one to have had a shock,' Madame Duvalle

was saying with a humorous grimace. 'You kept your marriage

plans a great secret,
mort ami.'

He drawled, 'I feared the gods might become envious and steal her

from me, Liliane.'

She laughed. 'A romantic notion! Allow me to welcome you to

Grand Cay,
madame—
also a place of romance.'

'If that is how you regard murder, robbery and rape,' Roche agreed

levelly. He turned to Samma. 'Liliane is writing a guide to the

island,
ma belle,
which naturally includes the history of the

Delacroix family.'

Liliane Duvalle smiled. 'Which your husband would prefer

forgotten. But that is impossible,
mon ami. Le Diable
and his

exploits—the tourists find them fascinating.'

'Solange seems to be equally interested,' Samma remarked. 'Not a

very savoury subject for a child of her age, I would have thought.'

She paused, then said, trying to sound casual, 'What is this curse

she mentioned?'

Roche snorted. 'An old and foolish legend. It is said that
Le Diable

was cursed by one of the prisoners he held to ransom. The surprise

is that it was only one of them,' he added cynically. 'But, of course,

when any tragedy befalls the Delacroix name, it is said immediately

to be the family curse.'

'Well, Solange clearly believes in it,' Samma said, half to herself.

Liliane Duvalle shrugged. 'Perhaps—but it is part of her blood—her

heritage. It is natural she should be intrigued.' She smiled at

Samma. 'They say, too, Madame Delacroix, that the ghost of
Le

Diable
walks at Belmanoir.'

'Then they do not say it to me,' Roche said grimly. 'I have no

patience with such idiocies.'

Liliane Duvalle heaved a sigh. 'I withdraw my earlier statement,

Roche. You are not at all romantic, after all.' She patted his arm.

'And do not frown,
mon vieux.
Remember, this is your

honeymoon—and I am intruding,' she added with a pretty
moue.

'Forgive me. I only wished to see Solange safely home.'

'We are about to have some champagne,' Roche said. 'Won't you

stay and drink our health?'

'Not this time.' She smiled at Samma. 'But perhaps in a week or so,

you will give me the pleasure of dining with me. In the meantime ...'

She paused.

'Yes?' Samma prompted.

Liliane looked faintly embarrassed. 'I am so fond of
la petite.
Will it

be in order for me to continue my visits here? I would not wish to

interfere,
naturellement.'

'Of course.' Samma forced a smile, aware that the idea didn't fill her

with total delight. It wouldn't be easy for her to form a relationship

with Solange, if the child was constantly being visited by someone

she preferred.

'You are too good.' She turned to Roche. 'You have married an

angel,
mon ami.
Now, permit me to leave you alone together, as

you must wish.'

Samma turned away hurriedly, aware of the amused irony in

Roche's glance, as he escorted their visitor from the room.

When he returned, she said, 'This ghost—is this really why the

others wouldn't stay?'

'Understand this,
ma belle,'
he said harshly. 'There are no ghosts at

Belmanoir. Your predecessors were victims of their own hysterical

imaginings, nothing more.'

'And Solange?'

'That is another matter.' He frowned. 'I dislike this preoccupation

with the past. I hope you will be able to divert her thoughts into

healthier channels, more suitable for her age.'

Outside in the hall, there was the muffled sound of voices, and

excited laughter. Roche reached for her hand, drawing it through his

arm. 'Now it begins,' he said, half to himself. He glanced down at

her. 'Play your part well,
mignonne.'

But that, Samma thought, as she pinned on an obedient smile, was

easier said than done.

Judge Lefevre was a small, rotund man with shrewd eyes behind

gold-rimmed glasses.

He said briskly, 'Be seated, if you please.'

Samma sank into the chair he indicated, aware that her legs were

trembling. The awkwardness of the celebration party at Belmanoir

was behind her, but this promised to be the greatest ordeal so far.

She felt such a fraud, she thought passionately. Back at the house,

they'd all been so welcoming, so delighted to see her, from

Roxanne, the fat and smiling cook, to Hippolyte, the

gardener-cum-handyman, not to mention the maids, and the casual

workers employed in the house and grounds. Their delight in the

fact that 'Mist' Roche' had taken a wife, and their robustly

expressed good wishes had been embarrassing in the

extreme—especially under Elvire's enigmatic regard.

Samma had found herself wondering if the other staff knew what

had been going on between their master and his supposed

housekeeper, and disapproved.

Her hands clenched together in her lap as Roche took his seat

beside her, and his attorney, Maitre Jean-Paul Giraud, sat down on

her other side.

The lawyer was much younger than she'd expected, loose-limbed,

with a smiling, attractive face. When Roche had introduced them,

he had kissed her hand with an exaggerated but heart-warming

admiration.

'Madame, when Roche informed me he was to be married in such

haste, I admit I wondered, but now that I have seen you I

understand everything. He is the most fortunate man in the world.'