Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (49 page)

“I must ask you,” he said, as he sat down at last to eat and drink, “if you will accompany me to church on Sunday. I do not know if Père Reynaud will have time to speak to us afterward, but it might be good if we were both there. He must tell us
oui ou non
, if we can be married Friday in the church, or if we must choose the Prefecture Office instead.”

“Who gave you permission to travel to America?”

“The Prefecture.” Louis concentrated on his bread and cheese and did not look her in the eye. “As I said, I have not yet made things right with the Church. The Père owes me nothing, truly, and I have not asked forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness?” she said in surprise. “For what?”

He shook his head and waved away her words. “I murdered someone,
ma cherie
. Nothing takes away that sin.”

“Did Père Reynaud marry you?”

“Oui.”

“Was there premarriage counseling, what they call pre-Cana?”

“
Non
.”

“Then, Louis, how can you — ”

He cut her off. “This is Réunion, Bishou! That’s all fine to talk, in France or in America. But not where a wife comes on a boat, alone, to bed with a strange man she had met only in correspondence. It is no more his fault than mine that we didn’t understand why the wedding band didn’t fit her, why she left me no notes, why she had no messages from family, why she didn’t even have her own rosary — because she would have to open the trunk that was not hers, to look for one.”

“
D’accord, d’accord
,” she said, in a conciliatory tone. “I understand.”

“Do you? It took me years to understand.”

His voice was sharp, and he drank the wine as though he needed it to calm his emotions. She understood the gesture, having seen Bat do the same with many a beer. She placed her hand over the hand that held the glass, and guided it down to the basket. His expression and voice gentled.

“No handwriting except her signature on the bank forms, so I could not compare it with the letters. Family photographs in the trunk, none of her. A ring that was sized for someone else.”

“You have my ring,” she said gently. She grasped his left hand, the hand with the ring.

“That,” he began again, “is part of the reason I wanted it. To feel it. It is real.”

His features showed pain, as she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. He clasped her hand.

“What upset you? Thinking about visiting the church?” Bishou asked. She wanted to bring this discussion down to its roots.

“
Oui
. It brought back so many bad memories. I almost would rather have a registry-office marriage, except … I must see if I can fight this battle.”

“You do not fight it alone, Louis.”

“Oh, Bishou.” He gathered both her hands in his, and looked earnestly into her eyes. “You could go anywhere and do anything, with any other man. I am the problem. Don’t you think I know that by now?”

“Anywhere and do anything, hmm?”

“You are strong. You are intelligent. You get your own money; you are not some man’s parasite.”

“Then — if I am all that — why am I here?”

He was silent.

She persisted, “Why am I here, Louis?”

Silence. He stared at their clasped hands, not at her face.

“Tell me. You must know.” Bishou felt his grip tighten, and saw the tension in his lips.

Louis closed his eyes. He shook his head slightly. He did not know, or — more likely — he needed to hear her say it.

Quite clearly, with her grip firm, she said, “I am here because I love you with all my heart, Louis.
Je t’aime
.”

Barely loud enough for her to hear, Louis mumbled, “She never called me
cheri
.”

“Did she call you
mon amour
?” My love.

“
Non
.”

“Or
mon treasor
?” My treasure.

She saw a smile break through. “
Non
.”

“
Bon
. The good names are left for me.” Bishou kissed his hands. “
Mon cheri
.” Kiss. “
Mon amour
.” Kiss. “
Mon treasor
.” Kiss.

His smile returned. Bishou almost expected him to protest that she was teasing him, but he did not.
He really needs this
, she thought,
a demonstration of my love
. Here, seated on the blanket, hands entwined, Louis Dessant was finally hearing words he desperately wanted to hear.

“What a dream world this is,” Bishou mused. “A French picnic on a beautiful island, with an attractive, sexy man, all the world and time.”

“Soon to be your husband,” Louis added, still smiling.

“What joy,” she agreed.

He scooped everything back in the basket, brushed crumbs from the blanket, and slipped off his jacket. He rolled it into a pillow for himself, and lay back. He hadn’t worn a tie, his discreet concession to Saturday casual. Bishou realized that the shirt he had on was the same one he had worn that day when they visited the tobacco plantations with the American conventioneers.

“I remember that shirt.”

“You liked it. That is why I wore it.”

“It was not the shirt,” she admitted, “but what was in the shirt.”

With his head pillowed on the jacket, he raised a dark eyebrow in question.

“It was so hot that day,” she explained. “You were falling asleep from the heat. Watching you, asleep beside me, I fought the greatest temptations I have ever faced.”

“And what did you desire that day? Show me.” He shut his eyes.

She realized he was deliberately seducing her. She loosened the cuffs of his silk shirt with the little colored squares, and rolled up each cuff a couple of turns. Her hands stroked the bronzed forearms, a man’s forearms. She leaned over him and unbuttoned one, two, three shirt buttons, from the collar down. She stroked his jaw, his throat, his lips — felt his lips kiss her fingers — and gently stroked down his chin and throat, toward his unbuttoned shirt. Her fingers stroked his chest — no, no undershirt — and she bent and kissed the place where she had stroked, smelling a slight scent of cologne.

His eyes still closed blissfully, he sighed, “Ah, ah
oui
.”

Bishou caught her breath, startled by a powerful emotion that she had never felt. “Louis,” she sobbed. “Someone to love me. Someone to keep me from being alone forever. I just don’t want to be alone all my life. It hurts so much. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drop this load on you. I wanted to be strong, for your sake.”

“Pfah,” said Louis softly. “Don’t you think I know? How many Saturday nights have I spent in my darkened front room, drink in hand, watching car lights go down the roads? Listening to people happily calling to each other? And aching, wishing I was one of them? Knowing I must stay home, keep my reputation tres correct? Why do you think they call us white men
zoreils
, cherie? Because we listen helplessly. It is all we can do. Listen, and ache inside.” He wrapped his arms around her firmly. “Love given freely, to dispel loneliness, is the greatest gift. But — it is a horrible feeling, if one knows it is a bond of slavery.”

She spoke to his ear and throat, not moving her head. “You knew this would happen to me.”

“
Non
. But I understood when it did,
ma
Bishou.” His arms still gripped her body. “You are only learning what I learned. But how could I have explained that to you?”

“And other men have learned this as well?”

“
Oui
. And, thank God, they were merciful to me when I had fallen.”

Bishou saw a glimpse of this unspoken world, a world that Louis and other men shared, that had no place on any map or church roll. There but for the grace of God go I. Please, Lord, give me to a woman who won’t make me a slave in hell. Please, instead, make me petted and loved. In either case, I will give everything to her.

That
, thought Bishou,
is passion
.

“
Qu’est-ce que tu regardes
?”

“
Un bel visage
,” she answered.

“Hah, there is no handsome face here, only mine.”

“An attractive one, then.” She watched his brown eyes open suddenly, as they always did — a trick she suspected he learned in prison. “I wonder if you know you are handsome, and only want to hear me say it.”

He laughed. “
Non
. It is nice to hear, even if untrue. I know that women have said I have nice eyes, though.”

“Oh,
oui
. They are the first thing I noticed about you, the first thing that made me think,
Wow
.”

“Really?” Now there was a light in his eyes that was not a trick of the sun. “In that classroom?”

“You remember that day. I thought your glance was only surprise that I was not a man.”

“Well, that too. ‘Bishou’ is not a feminine name. And you may say it means ‘unexpected,’ but I have not found that in any dictionary.”

“Oh? You looked?” At his blush of admission, she laughed. “I will tell you a secret, if you promise not to share.”

“I promise.”

“My name is Japanese.”

“What?” He burst into laughter, and sat up.

“My father found it in his studies. It is the character in drama who is the unexpected love interest, and who often has the sympathy of the audience. The hero often wins the girl — or the boy — away from the angst-ridden main character, just by being there and being himself or herself.”

“Your father is a wise man,” said Louis.

“Yes, he is. But often the Bishou doesn’t get the girl — or the boy. He just provides contrast for the main characters.”

“But sometimes she does,
hein
?” Louis smiled and stroked her hair.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “If she is very lucky.”

Louis kissed her cheek.

Suddenly, there was a dreadful grinding sound in the air, the sound of a large vehicle downshifting up a steep road. Louis jumped. “Oh, hell,” he said. “It’s the tour autobus. Have I parked far enough off the road? I don’t want to get sideswiped.”

“You’re fine. You’re practically in the meadow.” Bishou patted the blanket and watched the ancient double-decker bus chug into view. “Come on, don’t worry. Probably seeing the famous Louis Dessant picnicking with his fiancée will be the highlight of their trip.”

“
Dieu m’en garde
.” God help me. Louis waved insincerely as the bus hove into sight, every camera focused upon them.

Bishou snickered. “They probably just want photos of idyllic picnickers. They don’t know who we are.”

A loudspeaker from the bus pealed, “
Bonjour
, Monsieur Dessant.
Bonjour
, Mademoiselle Bishou.” The bus ground to a deafening halt. Ostensibly it was for the view, or to meet the local residents, but it was probably for the engine to cool.

“I wish I’d taken that bet,” said Louis. He stood with his jacket under his arm to greet the bus. “
Viens, cherie
. They even knew your name, God knows how.”

They approached the bus together, where a smiling tour guide introduced them to the people on the bus and the tourists to them. Monsieur Dessant of Dessant Cigarettes, and his fiancée, Mademoiselle Bishou. Louis and Bishou asked where the people were from — which turned out to be everywhere from Lyons to Cairo — and welcomed them, playing the gracious hosts of the island.

The bus driver was looking at Bishou with a twinkle in his eye. She was sure she didn’t know him. But she reached into her purse and pulled out four Dessants and gave them to him.

“Who are you related to?” she asked.

“Papa Armand,” he said with a smile. “
Merci
, Mam’selle Bishou.”

The white and very French tour guide had been chatting with Louis, but saw the exchange between Bishou and the driver, and smiled. “Your name is already known in our community, Mademoiselle Bishou. Welcome to Réunion, and congratulations on your upcoming marriage.”

“
Merci
. I am most fortunate. I have a wonderful fiancé, and I’ve made good friends here.”

They chatted a few moments longer, bade the tourists farewell, and stepped off the bus. The driver ground gears and the bus rattled on its way.

“Well,” said Louis, “when you get caught out on moments like this, you have the royal style, for certain.”

“So do you.”

“I’ve been caught before.”

“What, making out with girls on the coast road?”

A mischievous look appeared in his dark eyes. “I am not telling.”

“Ah! Are you saying I must force the admission from you, later?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. At any rate, I am looking forward to it. How do you know the bus drivers so well?”

“I think I’ve already met about half the Creoles in Saint-Denis. I rather like them.”

“I’m glad. Sometimes, they are the true
réunionnais
.”

“
Bien dit
.” Well said. “And, as Madame Ross pointed out to me, I don’t have the tiny figure of a Frenchwoman — I have the more African figure of a
réunionnais
.”

“
Comment
?” He stared at her. “How so?”

“My hips, my chest, even my face. I am a well-fed, well-exercised
Americaine
.”

As they walked back to his car, Louis said, “Well, so I also thought. Strange. I thought of you as
réunionnais
. It hadn’t occurred to me what that meant.”

Bishou got in the white convertible, and he shut the door. She heard the thud of the trunk as he deposited the basket and blanket inside. Then he took the driver’s seat. “You, too, are
réunionnais
, Louis. Not French.”

“More and more,” he agreed. “It is considered bad taste to go native, but — France has not been kind to me.”

Bishou realized that was probably a dreadful admission for him to make. She touched his arm. “This island is our home.”

“
Oui
. This island is our home.”

Louis started the car, and began the drive down the coast road. He rummaged through his pockets, found a pack of cigarettes, extracted one and lit it with one hand. “You will need Dessants by the carton, then, as little gratuities.” He drew on the cigarette, and passed it to her. Not yet married, and they had these married habits in place.