Tender Fury (4 page)

Philippe moved aside and two men entered carrying a large tin tub into the cabin followed by two others bearing buckets of hot water. Gabby was speechless. Though Philippe had gone out of his way to remain cool and aloof toward her, he still thought of her comfort. She watched with trepidation as he approached her once they were alone, his eyes clouded with a strange, smoky haze.

“You cannot take a bath with all your clothes on,
ma petite
,” he admonished gently. “Hold still and I’ll unfasten your dress.”

“I can manage quite well by myself,” she insisted, taking a step backward.

“Nonsense! If your father wasn’t so tightfisted he would have provided you with a maid. But then,” he murmured huskily, “I would have been denied the pleasure of undressing you myself. I wouldn’t,
ma chere
,” he warned sternly when she attempted to pull away from his questing hands.

Soon he had the row of tiny buttons down the front of her dress undone and the heavy material pushed from her shoulders, over her breasts and down past her hips where it spread out in a dark pool around her feet. He uttered an oath at the ridiculous number of petticoats she wore as one by one he loosed the strings at her waist until they, too, billowed around her ankles.

“Please, Philippe,” Gabby pleaded as streaks of crimson stained her cheeks, “allow me to bathe in private.”

“There is no need for privacy between us, Gabby. We are wed,” Philippe informed her boldly.
“Mon dieu,
do you always wear so many layers of clothing?” She still wore corset, corset cover, chemise, and pantalettes. “You will soon learn that on Martinique it is much too hot for such encumbrances. This you have no need for at all,” he said, wrinkling his nose with distaste as he pulled off her whalebone corset. Then to Gabby’s dismay he walked to the porthole and tossed the offending garment into the sea. Dismissing her gasp of shocked outrage, Philippe turned once again to the pleasurable task of disrobing her. With deliberate calmness, belying the inferno raging within him, he added her pantalettes to the pile of discarded clothing. Only the thin chemise now covered Gabby’s flawless skin. Philippe nearly lost control when he saw the pink ups of her breasts peeping through. Though Gabby protested violently, she could not prevent him from removing her remaining garment, leaving her exposed to his hot gaze. He reacted instantaneously. The full impact of pink-tipped, softly rounded globes tilting deliciously upward from tiny waist rising above gently swelling hips caused a painful tightening in his groin. His eyes fell to the junction of her thighs and the softly curled, pale hair, then slid down the sleek line of calf and ankle. He clenched his fits, swallowing hard to control his urge to fall upon her immediately. A constricted moan rose from his throat as he absorbed every inch of her beauty.

After bending to remove her shoes and stockings, Philippe lifted Gabby into the tub, ignoring her protests. Taking a piece of soap from the washstand, he rubbed her body until a thick cloud of lather rose up around her breasts. Gabby blushed profusely as his hands traveled intimately over her.

“Stand up!” Philippe ordered brusquely.

Somewhat subdued by his forceful manner, Gabby had no choice but to comply. The crimson tinge of her skin deepened. His intimate touches sent her senses reeling and turned her legs to jelly, but she stood as if carved from stone, eyes tightly closed, unwilling to betray her humiliation.

“Sit!” he ordered, speaking as if to a recalcitrant child. Automatically Gabby obeyed, only too glad to sink beneath the murky, concealing water. Then, to her further chagrin, he began to lather her hair, scrubbing until she cried for mercy. “Rinse!” he said as he turned away from her. Obediently, she immersed her head beneath the water to remove the soap. After several such dunkings that left her hair gleaming like a bright halo, she looked around for a towel and was startled to see that Philippe had removed his clothing.

“What… what are you doing?” she asked in alarm, lowering her eyes in embarrassment.

“Something I’ve wanted to do from the first moment I laid eyes on you but was obliged to postpone.” He moved closer and handed her a towel.

“I’m not ready to get out yet,” she insisted vehemently, sliding back into the cooling water, trying hard to avoid staring at his rigid manhood.

“Yes, you are,
ma petite
,” he replied with aplomb as he lifted her bodily from the tub and rubbed her briskly with the towel until her skin glowed.

“Now what are you going to do?” Gabby asked, eyeing him warily.

Philippe drew back, a perplexed frown creasing his forehead. “Surely your mother spoke to you about what to expect? She assured me she would.”

“She said only that I must submit to you, and little else.” The defiant tilt to her chin told Philippe that she had no intention of following her mother’s advice.

“Mon dieu,
am I to be teacher as well as lover?” cursed Philippe disgustedly. “Well, my innocent, I see that I must explain to you that which your mother withheld.” Without preliminary, and in blunt language, Philippe told Gabby exactly what he planned to do. It was time she learned the role she was to play in his life, he reasoned, a smile of indulgent amusement crossing his face as shock, disbelief, and finally outrage registered on her expressive features in that order.

Gabby’s mouth formed a perfect “O” and her delicate, golden brows lifted several inches. “But that is not possible,” she protested in a small voice. “You are much too… I mean… surely, I am too…” Embarrassment caused her to falter. His expression told her that he spoke the truth and that somehow she must endure this final degradation.

“Not only is it possible,
ma chere,
but altogether enjoyable,” he promised mysteriously. Gabby opened her mouth to protest but found her lips captured in an agonizingly slow kiss, his tongue probing, demanding. She began to struggle, Striking out at him with ineffectual blows to his powerful back and shoulders, her pleas and entreaties lost in the sigh of the wind.

He was like a man possessed. Her budlike nipples seemed made for his mouth as he coaxed them into erectness with his tongue. His lips and hands were everywhere as he attempted to arouse a spark of desire from her shrinking flesh. His passion grew as his kisses covered her breasts, her belly, but Gabby was like one dead inside, frightened out of her wits by the man ravishing her. Finally, unable to control the fire raging within him, he forced a knee between her thighs and grasped her buttocks to still her wild thrashings.

“Heed your mother’s advice,
ma chere
,” he urged, “for it will be harder for you if you continue to struggle. It will hurt at first, but I promise you it will be better the next time.” Gabby chose to ignore his words as she steeled herself for his entry, gritting her teeth and tensing her body, silently vowing that she would never willingly submit to his depraved ruttings.

Although Philippe endeavored to be gentle, Gabby’s struggles made it next to impossible. His lust was like a pulsating monster and his need so great that he was unable to stop his manhood from driving into her resisting flesh with brutal force. The pain was so intense she screamed aloud at the cruel violation. He knew he was hurting her but he could not stop as he moved with rapid, breathless strokes, pounding her slim form into the firmness of the mattress. His thrusts carried her into gasping darkness and just when she thought she could bear no more, he grew rigid, cried out, then spasmed, caught up in his own private ecstasy. Gabby was startled by the intensity of the shudders racking his body, amazed that the very act that caused her such terrible agony could bring him such obvious bliss.

“I’m sorry,
ma chere
,” Philippe said raggedly, pulling away from her, “but you would not let me to be gentle with you. You fought me as if I were some kind of animal, so I acted like one. Dry your eyes,” he admonished with a touch of tenderness. “Next time it will be better.”

“You mean you intend to rape me
again?
” Gabby cried reproachfully.

“Rape?” Philippe repeated stonily, raising one eyebrow, giving his face a sardonic look. “Surely it is not rape for a man to make love to his lawful wife?”

Gabby’s violet eyes grew big and round, brimming with unshed tears. He had been cruel and hateful, forcing her to his will by sheer strength. No longer was her body sacrosanct. He had taken her with brutal violence and as far as she was concerned, that was tantamount to rape. “So long as you continue to force yourself on me, rape is an adequate description of that disgusting act,” she said dispassionately. “You took me by force, I’ll never forgive you for that.” By now the tears were flowing copiously down her checks. “I hate you, Philippe,” she cried out, surprising even herself by her boldness, “I hate you!”

With an exasperated sigh Philippe drew back long enough to see the wild expression in her frightened eyes. She looked so young, so vulnerable that he was immediately sorry for the forceful way he had taken her. But in his mind to do otherwise would have been a mistake. He had to prove, if only to himself, that he could not be moved by her innocent beauty. She must learn from the beginning to be submissive to him in all things. So far she had exhibited none of the qualities he required in a wife, but in time she would learn that he could be a stern teacher.

Neither pleas nor struggles could forestall Philippe as desire stirred in his loins. Although he realized that losing her virginity in such a manner was a vicious assault upon her tender sensibilities, he was certain that she was not one of those cold women who tolerated the sex act merely because it was her duty. Once she became accustomed to the intimacies of marriage, he had no doubt that he could arouse a passionate response in her. It was a delicious challenge, one he would enjoy. What better pastime than to teach the intricacies of love to his new bride during the long nights ahead? Then passion engulfed him like a raging tide as he moved to possess her once more, surprising even himself by his unquenchable thirst for the terrified young girl lying in his arms.

Much later Gabby paced the deck finding it difficult to concentrate on anything but the soreness between her legs and the stiffness of her abused body. After Philippe’s violation earlier that morning (she wondered why they called that painful act lovemaking for she still considered it rape), he had added insult to injury by sitting back and coolly watching her all the while she washed and dressed. Her cheeks flamed when she thought of the stained sheets and traces of blood clinging to her thighs. She had felt positively naked without her corset and had donned petticoat after petticoat while Philippe’s laughter mocked her modesty.

She was only too glad to be alone for a while and vaguely wondered at the need for Philippe to confer with Captain Giscard so often. Gabby’s eyes grew misty when she considered how differently things might be if she had taken the vows of a nun or had been allowed to marry someone who cared for her instead of Philippe, a cruel, hard man who proved to be totally unyielding in his mysterious attitude toward her. Somehow, she knew she would not be the frigid wife he thought her given the right circumstances, for even Philippe’s hands on her body had sent unfamiliar sensations coursing through her veins.

As Gabby paced the deck she suddenly became aware that she was not alone. Abruptly, she turned to face a tall, lean man carrying a gold-headed cane who was rapidly approaching her. Absently she watched the play of sunlight on the head of the cane as he came nearer.

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Madame St. Cyr, but if we are to be fellow passengers, then we may as well become acquainted,” the elegantly dressed stranger said with a disarming smile that immediately put her at ease. “I am Marcel Duvall, and you can be none other than Philippe’s lovely wife. He is a lucky dog, but then he always had exceptional taste in women,” he added cryptically.

“You are a friend of my husband?” Gabby asked, completely captivated by his charming manner.

“Mais oui!”
Marcel replied blandly. “We are neighbors, our plantations bordering on the slopes of Mt. Pelee. Did he not tell you I was aboard?”

“Philippe told me there were to be no other passengers this trip.”

“That was before he knew I was aboard,” replied Marcel, smiling in secret amusement. “Captain Giscard was right, you are a rare beauty. But such a child. Not at all what St. Cyr…” His voice fell off and his face reddened as if suddenly aware that he was talking too freely.

Gabby had never encountered such a man as Marcel. His charm and pleasant manner was the complete opposite of Philippe’s dark, violent moods. She warmed immediately to him even though she knew she was being over bold by speaking with a strange man. “Monsieur?” she questioned, waiting for him to finish the sentence he had ended so abruptly. When he did not, she asked, “Did you also have business in France, Monsieur Duvall?”

“You must call me Marcel; after all, I will be your nearest neighbor on Martinique. And,
oui
,” he answered, “I have just concluded marriage arrangements between my sister and a son of the house of Bonnard.” He looked expectantly at Gabby, as if waiting for her to acclaim the fortuitous alliance. But his words only turned her thoughts inward to her own arranged marriage and the hate and fear she felt toward her husband. Her violet eyes became dark, troubled pools and a small frown creased her forehead as she gazed out over the endless expanse of blue water.

“You are troubled,
cherie!
” Marcel exclaimed, noting her black expression. “What is it? How may I help? A new bride on her honeymoon should be too much in love to display even the smallest amount of unhappiness.”

“Love?” spat Gabby bitterly. “Please, Monsieur Duvall, do not speak of love to me. You do not understand.” Marcel was struck speechless by the animosity in Gabby’s voice. Evidently the bride cared little for the groom, he thought with a kind of perverse satisfaction. He would give half his fortune to possess a woman such as the petite Gabby. Her soft, velvet eyes had the ability to melt the coldest heart, even one as cold as Philippe’s, Marcel thought as he viewed her through startling green eyes. Although he estimated her age at seventeen or eighteen, there was nothing childlike about the lithe, supple figure that was deliciously rounded in all the right places. Time and again his eyes kept returning to the full, sensuous lips that promised a passion he wished was his to unleash.

All the while Marcel feasted his eyes upon Gabby, she studied him through lowered lashes. What she saw did not displease her. He was tall, yet did not have the ruggedness or look of strength about him that one noticed in Philippe, and appeared to be somewhere in his early thirties; but his vibrant green eyes made him appear much younger. A pencil-thin mustache and long, aristocratic face only served to enhance his distinguished features. Unruly brown hair and soft sensual lips saved him from appearing almost two handsome.

Suddenly aware of the growing silence between them, Marcel was the first to shatter the poignant moment. “Madame St. Cyr,” he said with grave concern, “I do not know what troubles you, but I wish to be your friend. Someday you might have need of a friend and when you do, I shallbe there.”

Gabby was about to thank him when from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of an approaching figure, bearing down at them with alarming speed. She shrank back in fear when she recognized her husband’s massive frame, the look of cold fury in his gun-metal eyes and a ferocious scowl on his darkening features.

“Is it your custom to speak to strange men, Madame?” he asked tersely, barely able to control his rising anger.

“You are unjust, St. Cyr,” Marcel broke in. “The fault lies solely with me. I introduced myself to your lovely wife. Surely you would not have her ignore me under those circumstances?”

“Somewhat presumptuous of you, Duvall, knowing how I feel about you,” Philippe retorted harshly. “Keep away from my wife. She is very young and inexperienced. I would not have her tainted by men of your calibre.”

“I envy your good fortune,
mon ami
,” smiled Marcel affably, choosing to ignore the insult. “Had I such a wife, I, too, would be jealous.” Then he turned to Gabby. “Madame St. Cyr, it has been a pleasure talking with you.” Fuming inwardly, Philippe watched him saunter off with maddening nonchalance.

Marcel’s parting words had strangely unsettled Philippe. Jealous? Could it be jealousy he felt? It was not possible. He wished only to protect Gabby. Unbidden, his mind returned to the fun-loving Cecily and the child who had joined her in death. Bitter experience had taught him that Marcel was no friend. He would do whatever was necessary to keep Marcel from corrupting his innocent wife.

Gabby found herself being propelled along the deck and into their cabin, wincing in pain as Philippe’s fingers dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her upper arm. “Well,
ma chere
,” he said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “Did you learn nothing from the nuns? Henceforth, you will not invite the advances of strange men. Duvall is not a man to be trifled with,”

“Nor are you, Philippe,” Gabby shot back, hurt by his false accusations. “Surely there can be no harm in conversing with a man who is counted among your friends. We are the only passengers aboard the
Windward
and no doubt will see each other often.”

“Duvall is no friend of mine, nor of yours!” he exploded.

“Am I to be allowed no friends? Am I to remain secluded, to be taken out and displayed at your whim?”

“I shall choose your friends!” Philippe shot back.

Red spots of rage gathered behind Gabby’s eyes and her small, pointed chin tilted defiantly upward. “I choose my own friends,” she retorted bravely.

Philippe took one step forward but quickly fell back, suddenly remembering Marcel’s words. Was he jealous? Was there more to his rage at seeing her with Marcel than his need to protect her? His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The sight of her, breast heaving with indignation, eyes blazing hotly, sent the blood coursing wildly through his body. His heart was beating so loudly he could hear it echoing in his own ears. Even though he deplored her show of spirit, he admired her for her courage. She was magnificent when angered, and she excited him beyond restraint. Unable to control his actions, he pulled her roughly into his arms, caressing her body with strong, demanding hands that were surprisingly gentle on her flesh.

Gabby recognized the naked desire in his eyes and immediately sensed his intentions. “Please, Philippe, not again,” she begged, her eyes wide with disbelief. “It has only been a few hours since you… since we…”

“A few hours can be a lifetime with a bewitching creature like you arousing my senses,” he drawled in a voice made husky with desire. What manner of woman was she? Philippe wondered as his body responded eagerly to her nearness. She was innocent of worldly knowledge, yet extremely provocative. She was trained to be submissive, yet her very nature rebelled against authority. She taunted and baited him, yet he desired her with an all-consuming fire. When he spoke, his words sent chills of apprehension down her spine. “I will always want you,
ma petite,
if only to prove to you that you belong to me, that I am the only one with the right to take you, wherever and whenever it pleases me, no matter how many small flirtations you might conduct.”

“But, Philippe,” Gabby protested, “I did not…” The words died in her throat as Philippe claimed her lips.

Despite Gabby’s feeble struggles, and given Philippe’s superior strength, it took no time at all for him to disrobe them both and carry her to the bed. His ardent kisses and caresses failed to quiet her, but to her dismay she found that his hands began to force a strange reaction from her body. When he paused, she felt hauntingly hollow, as if craving something more. It took every ounce of strength she possessed to fight against the maddening sensations he was arousing in her. Turning her head from side to side she stifled the moan rising in her throat. Finally, Philippe flung himself atop her, plunging deep within her resisting flesh.

When the pain of his forceful entry diminished, Gabby’s eyes opened wide at the pleasurable feelings coursing through her body, careful to give no hint to Philippe that she felt anything but repugnance, or that he was eliciting any kind of response in her. She nearly strangled suppressing the small gasps of pleasure beginning low in her throat, all the while despising the way Philippe’s driving body roused her to wanton desire. Never would she allow herself to enjoy the things Philippe was doing to her! Suddenly his body grew rigid as he exploded in a thunderous climax, and Gabby breathed a sigh of relief.

During the entire ordeal Gabby had raged against the banked fires that threatened to engulf her as the over powering need of her body began to overcome the dictates of her mind. Now, as he withdrew, she experienced a sharp pain of regret, as if she was on the brink of a great discovery and was denied the final knowledge. She sighed, partly from remorse, but mostly from relief. Relief that the act was over and she no longer had to fight against her own body as well as Philippe’s.

“Why the sigh,
ma petite?
” asked Philippe, who had been watching closely the play of emotion upon her face. “Tell me truthfully, was not the pain absent this time as I promised?”

“Oui,”
she admitted grudgingly, “but you will never make me want you or enjoy your so-called lovemaking.”

As the ensuing days passed, Philippe continued to make love to Gabby almost nightly, striving mightily to elicit some response from her, until, in desperation, he took her roughly, disgusted with her lack of response. Even though his caresses turned her insides to the consistency of molten lava, Gabby fought hard to remain passive beneath Philippe. In her heart she knew that were she to give in to Philippe’s passion, no longer would she be in control. It was obvious that his self-esteem was in jeopardy, for he was a man who prided himself on his sexual prowess. Somehow she sensed that her response to his lovemaking would please him and she had no desire to please him. Gabby was amazed at the direction of her thoughts. The shy inexperienced girl had come a long way in the few short weeks since her marriage.

It was days later before Gabby was to encounter Marcel Duvall. Since their first meeting he had been careful to avoid her so as not to provoke Philippe into violence. Even though they took meals together, they ate in silence, the scowl on Philippe’s face deepening each time Marcel so much as glanced Gabby’s way. Gabby had no idea whatever of the nature of Philippe’s hatred for Marcel. She only knew that she felt a kindred spirit in the man who had offered a friendship she was afraid to accept.

Marcel’s green eyes lit up in appreciation at the sight of Gabby standing by the railing, a brisk breeze whipping her skirts about her shapely legs and her silvery locks blowing about her face. He could not resist the urge to join her, and when he pointed out a school of porpoises her look of pure delight moved him more deeply than he would have imagined.

“How fortunate to find you alone,” he murmured intimately, his voice barely audible above the wind. “Your husband guards you jealously,
ma chere.
” Gabby flushed becomingly, thinking how wrong he was about Philippe, but said nothing, turning instead to watch the cavorting fish arch high in the air. Soon Marcel’s hearty laughter joined her merry peals, her gaiety as infectious as her beauty.

Gabby was well aware of the dire consequences should Philippe find her alone with Marcel, but she was starved for companionship, and Philippe’s moody company left much to be desired.

“Amazing, aren’t they, Monsieur Duvall?” Gabby asked excitedly as she pointed to the frolicking porpoises.

“Quite amazing,” he agreed, his eyes devouring her face, thinking how little it took to make her happy. “But you agreed to call me Marcel, remember?”

“Then you must call me Gabby.”

Unconsciously, Marcel drew nearer until silky strands of wind-whipped hair brushed his face like fragile butterfly wings. It seemed only natural for Marcel to encircle her tiny waist with his strong arm as their heads bent toward one another to better catch their words made nearly inaudible by the wind. So engrossed were they that neither saw Philippe watching from a distance, his hands clenched into massive fists, eyes smoking with gun-metal hardness. Try as he might, he could not quite shake the feeling that it had all happened before.