Felice, p.22
Felice, page 22
Tears flooded her eyes, and she cried out as she rocked against him. On a shattering moan, an orgasm rolled through her.
He stilled, capturing the moment. And then she canted her hips once again. Closer. She was still desperate to be closer. He began to move again, but this time, each supple thrust of his muscled hips held an intense purpose far beyond the act of making love, as if the two of them had entered some sacred dimension.
He whispered to her, his words leaving his throat in a ragged rasp, filled with both pain and desire. “Thoughts of you kept my life worth living for years, Felice. I just didn’t know it then.”
He clutched her tighter, and a shudder went through him. “All these years you were somewhere deep in my heart and mind—you kept me from giving up.”
He pushed onto his elbows so he could look deep into her eyes. Before his final thrusts sent them both into erotic oblivion, his hoarse, barely audible words found her heart. “You have no idea how much I needed this—needed you, tonight. You’ve kept me from dying inside.”
* * *
Rolling thunder drew Felice from a deep sleep. The scent of strong coffee brought her fully awake. She opened her eyes—and found herself trapped in René’s warm gaze.
“Bonjour, mon amour.” He lay on his side atop the covers, his head propped in his hand, his bare feet crossed at the ankles. He was clean-shaven, dressed only in a pair of charcoal-gray trousers. She reached out and ran her fingers through his thick, slightly damp hair. The right side of his mouth lifted, and his dark, glorious eyes sparkled with humor—and something else she’d not seen in those depths. Playfulness?
Shoving her hand through her own wild mass of curls, she pulled the sheet over her breasts and propped herself up against a stack of pillows. “You are already fresh and clean while I . . . I . . . What time is it?”
Something prurient crept into his playfulness. Sensing the restrained power of a man contemplating sinful mischief, she watched his sooty lashes fall against his cheeks as he lowered his lids and openly studied her mouth. “Time to be kissed again, don’cha know.”
His mouth, so darkly sweet, came down on hers, sending her senses flying once again. His tongue traced her mouth, and then swept up to her ear, where his heated breath against her skin coursed through her body like hot lava. “It doesn’t matter what be the time, chère, because it’s Sunday, and the rain, she will be coming down in buckets the day long, so I have decided to hold you captive until the morrow.”
“But I was to go to the shipping office today. Michel hired a new bookkeeper, and I promised to show him the protocols. Then I shall board a steamer and go upriver to spend time with my father.”
“You think to travel in this weather?” He leaped from the bed, took up a carafe on the bedside table, and poured a rich chicory and coffee blend into two cups. “Besides, Michel has likely hauled his small army to church.”
“He’s in a holy place while you and I—”
“Lounge in our own temple.” He shot her a mischievous grin. “At least it must be holy, considering the number of times you called out, ‘Oh my God,’ during the night.”
“René!”
He laughed. Then he seated himself on the edge of the bed, plunged a fork into a bowl of peaches and lifted a slice to her mouth. “Here, I crushed some mint on them.”
“Mmm,” she crooned, grateful for the fruit and mint to freshen her mouth.
He lifted another slice to her lips, set down the bowl, and picked up a cup of coffee.
“I think I am perfectly capable of holding the cup on my own.”
He chuckled. “Ah, you don’t like being pampered? But I like to feed you.”
She’d never seen him like this, so relaxed, so . . . so unrestrained. His soft laughter ran through her, melted all her resolve to dress and return home. Pressing her lips to the edge of the cup, she waited for him to tip it.
A drop of coffee pooled in the middle of her lower lip, about to spill over. Before she could react, René leaned over and lapped up the sweetened liquid with his tongue.
“Oh!” Thought evaporated. His breath fell hot against her mouth, and she knew she wouldn’t stop what was about to happen. His hand at the back of her head gently drew her closer into him. His tongue slid upward to the wet underside of her lip with only the barest of touches.
A soft whimper escaped her lips. “Should we be doing this again?”
“Only if you’ve a mind to.” His tongue touched one corner of her mouth, sending an exquisite rush of heat straight to her womb. His kisses traced a tender line to her earlobe and then to her neck.
He eased back the covers, raised her knee, and kissed the soft inside, his mouth sending a passionate message. “We’ve had a night of it, haven’t we, chère? Perhaps you are feeling too tender to try again.”
She started to say no, but he eased her from the bed, a sultry look overcoming him. She clung to the bedsheet, dragging it along with her. “What are you doing?”
“You owe me a dance.” Snatching his shirt from where he’d tossed it on the chair, he gently pulled it over her head. Taking her hand, he led her to the middle of the room.
“But there’s no music.”
Lightning split the sky and thunder shook the walls. “There be our music, chère. Rolling around in the heavens.”
He was so handsome, so devastatingly beautiful a man. And powerful. Did he even know how very magnetic he could be? Again, she noted the scars on his bare torso, but something told her not to break the magic of the moment. Instead, she smiled at him and slipped her hand into his in a show of acquiescence.
“You are even lovelier when you smile,” he said.
“And you as well, sir. You should do it more often.”
Taking her in his arms, he moved them about the room, all the while trailing kisses over her face and atop her head. “Kissing is so underrated, don’cha know. It happens to be one of my favorite things to do. Therefore, we should spend hours at it today. What do you think?”
She could only nod, reveling in the moment. Reveling in a side of this man she never knew existed. Yes, she would give him—no, she would give both of them—a day and another night together. She would savor every rich moment, experience him in any way he offered himself to her. She’d grapple with her emotions later.
He danced her about the room, through lightning blazing across the sky and thunder shaking the timbers. Then he paused. “Now it is time you had the pleasure of being bathed by my hand—in water scented with herbs that will relieve any tenderness, and then your body will be mine and mine will be yours.”
* * *
Monday’s noon hour had come and gone by the time René strolled into the bustling shipping office, the corner of one eye scraped and beginning to bloom with color. Bastien followed in his wake, looking the worse for wear.
Michel glanced at both of them. “What the devil happened to the two of you?”
Ignoring the question, René and Bastien greeted Meirs and Beauchamp, the two men off the Endeavor who’d been hired to lighten the heavy workload. From there, they moved to where Felice stood beside the new bookkeeper, who was seated at her old desk.
When René’s gaze met hers, she quickly looked to the books, her cheeks flushing. A flash of memory coursed through him, of their time together and how he’d managed to taste every inch of her. He reckoned by the color rising to her face, she shared his visions.
Christ, he found her even more beautiful today. How the devil was he going to let her walk away and never see her again? At least her memory was etched in his soul and would likely remain there evermore.
She turned to her brother. “Why do you ask what happened to their faces when it’s plain they got into it with each other? I doubt it’s anything new where those two are concerned.” She shot René a knowing look. “I am curious as to the why of it, though.”
Fighting his intense physical reaction to her sheer presence, he merely shrugged and made his way over to his desk. Bastien, on the other hand, leaned a hip on the bookkeeper’s desk and chuckled. “Suffice it to say, we paid a visit to the gentlemen’s boxing club by invitation of Lord-High-and-Mighty. He got the worst of it.”
Felice’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t.”
“Has anyone seen my good pencil?” René was already at his desk, riffling through the drawer.
“When did you see it last?” Michel asked.
“When I left on Friday.” He glanced at Felice. “Lord Mayhem didn’t happen by, did he?”
Michel spoke up. “As a matter of fact, he did. He was in here looking for Felice, but she’d already gone home.”
“Had I known my pencil was missing, I would’ve pounded him a bit harder.” René sat back in his chair and tried to keep his attention off Felice. “That was my favorite writing instrument, and I intend to retrieve it.”
He’d meet in private with Michel this evening, resign his position after she’d gone upriver. The thought left him feeling raw inside. He glanced about the room, his sense of hurt at leaving all this behind growing. Damn it, he’d broken his word to Michel; he couldn’t stay. And there was no pretending that the debacle with Liberty Belle had never happened. By now, every ear in town had heard of the degrading fiasco. His gaze drifted to Felice again.
Her head snapped up and her face drained of color. “Papa,” she cried as she rushed toward the entry. “What are you doing here?”
René turned to see the elder Andrews walk into the room with Jean Robicheaux, one of the company attorneys, at his heels. Christ, he hadn’t seen Justin Andrews since he’d gone upriver to have him sign some legal documents. The man looked as if he’d aged years, not months. Why, his hair was now completely white. Must have something to do with Abbott’s betrayal.
Michel rose and made his way to where his father stood, but Felice was already in her father’s arms. “I’ve come to petition the court on behalf of those slaves Abbott kept,” Justin said. “According to Robicheaux here, it seems I have to purchase the slaves before I can set them free. But set them free I shall.”
“What puzzles me,” Michel said, “is how Abbott hid everything from us for so long.”
“Indeed,” Justin responded. “We learned today that Monsieur Farouche had been the cover for all of Abbott’s affairs for years. If you recall, Farouche had a demeanor that suggested a certain class. Apparently, he’d been a merchant in France who’d run into financial difficulties, so while Abbott had the funds, Farouche had the profile to keep Abbott’s extravagant lifestyle hidden. I intend to see to that run-down tenement he owns as well. Once Robicheaux apprised me of the situation, I couldn’t get here fast enough.”
“Good heavens,” Felice said. “I was about an hour away from taking a steamer upriver. We would’ve missed each other. Now there’s no need for me to go at all. You will be staying with me at the town house, won’t you?”
“Unless you prefer that I board at Le Blanc House.” He lifted the packet he held in his hand. “At some point, I would like to discuss this with you.”
René shot Bastien a speaking glance. With everyone talking at once, his brother made his way to René’s desk. “That packet Andrews has, is that the one from London you sent to him?”
“Oui,” Bastien said. “Looks like whatever is in it has something to do with his daughter, don’cha know.”
“Well, I wish to hell the information I sent for would arrive.” Not that it mattered, he supposed, now that Felice had broken off with her fiancé. Nonetheless, with Ainsworth’s penchant for taking sordid photogravures, René still wanted to look into the man’s past.
Suddenly, the room grew silent, and everyone turned to the entry. “What the hell,” Bastien muttered.
René turned to see four police officers walk through the door, led by their district captain.
“We’re looking for René Thibodeaux,” the lead officer announced.
René stood. “That would be me. What is this about?”
All four officers surrounded him, cudgels in hand. “Monsieur René Thibodeaux,” the captain called out. “You are under arrest for the murder of Mrs. Liberty Belle Worth.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
René eased himself onto the narrow cot shoved into one corner of the jail cell. He took a deep breath. Pain froze the air midway into his lungs. Stifling a groan, he fingered the raw area on his right side. Damn thugs probably cracked a rib. Maybe two.
Forced to stick with shallow breathing, he stared at the bare ceiling with the one eye not swollen shut and tried to make sense of this chilling turn of events. Christ, would someone—anyone—fill him in on the particulars? What the hell had happened to Liberty Belle? Who could’ve murdered her? All he knew was that he’d seen her home and then spent the next two nights and a day locked inside his town house with Felice.
Felice.
My one alibi.
A muscle ticked along his jawline. She was the last person he’d bring into this living nightmare. If vigilantes didn’t end up lynching him tonight, and if he managed to get out of this mess unscathed, he’d ask Michel for an immediate transfer to Jamaica. No matter which way things went, his life in New Orleans was over. What a ludicrous joke—just when he’d decided to make a quiet exit from the decent life he’d built here, Providence stepped in to make certain there’d be no turning back.
His mind in a muddle, he glanced around the small cell with its clean brick walls and stone floor. At least there was something to be said for being locked up in a newly built jail here in the wealthy Garden District. Incarceration in the Fourth District would’ve meant a flea-infested blanket and piss-stained mattress. If that. He swiped a film of sweat off his brow with his dirty sleeve. Too bad whoever designed the place lacked the intelligence to position the windows properly. With no cross breeze, the holding area was muggy. Not to mention hot as hell.
The sound of conversation caught his attention. He stilled and listened to the rise of angry voices. Eyeing the doorway separating the three cells from the outer room, he could only catch sight of the lanky jailer with his booted feet atop his desk, a rifle across his lap, and a holstered revolver hanging off one hip.
A litany of Cajun curses erupted from a familiar voice.
Bastien.
Thank the saints, you’ve come.
By the sound of things, his brother was undergoing a thorough search for weapons. And none too pleased about it. Despite René’s miserable condition, a corner of his mouth curled as the volume and string of blasphemes increased. Bastien did not take kindly to being touched by anyone. Unless the fondling involved a lovely female—and by invitation only.
René swung his legs over the bed, pressed his palm against his side to support his injured ribs, then eased himself into a standing position. Making his way over to the cell’s iron bars, he gripped them for support and waited.
Bastien stalked through the open doorway, muttering and tugging at the shirt cuffs beneath his tailored jacket. One look at René’s face and at the blood staining his once-white shirt, and Bastien halted. Color drained from his face. He cursed and broke into their native tongue. “What the devil happened to you?”
“Seems I ran into a few fists along the way to this fine establishment.”
Bastien said nothing for a long moment, his formidable gaze raking René’s disheveled appearance. “I know what a scrapper you are, so how many sonsofbitches did it take to hold you down and beat the hell out of you?”
René swiped the back of his hand over his sweaty brow again. “I doubt not a one from this precinct missed his golden opportunity to get some licks in on a Cajun.”
Fury blazed in Bastien’s eyes. “Well, it damn well won’t happen again. I’ll need to collect Vivienne, have her help me tend to you.”
René shook his head and, trying for a breath, bit off another groan. “This is no fit place for her.”
Bastien’s eagle eyes watched René struggle for air. “Cracked ribs?”
“Most likely.”
“You’re going to need a couple of stitches alongside your eye, don’cha know. Vivienne, she be better at stitching up faces than I am, but I can take care of the rest. I’ll collect some healing herbs from the back garden at Le Blanc House to take the swelling and soreness down.”
René touched the side of his eye. The pain was so damn bad elsewhere, he hadn’t realized the seriousness of the injury. “I doubt they’d let either one of you into my cell to tend to me. Besides, healing my injuries might not matter; they’ve got a hanging planned sometime around midnight. Or so I heard.”
“Like hell, they will!”
René leaned his forehead against the bars. “I’m guilty as charged, so they say. After the hanging, they intend to dump me in a bayou for the gators to feed on, then tell everyone I managed to escape. How about that for a tidy solution to a dastardly crime I didn’t commit?”
Fresh blood seeped through a cut on his lip. He touched two fingers to the wound and came away with a smear of crimson. “Right now, what I could use is some water and a cloth to clean my face.”
Bastien turned on his heel, ate up the floor with long strides, and bellowed at the jailer. “Get my brother a clean cloth and a bucket of water, damn your hide.”
“Did you find out what happened to Liberty Belle?” René asked.
Bastien nodded. “I was at the meeting with our company attorneys, along with Justin, Michel, and the police commissioner. Liberty Belle was strangled. With your cravat.”
René’s jaw dropped. “My cravat?”
“Oui. No mistaking it was yours because your initials were found in one corner, and her maid swears to have seen you with her mistress.”
“Mon Dieu. My necktie, of all things.” René gripped the bars of the cell and lowered his voice. “Do you recall that I removed my jacket and cravat before I escorted her from Le Blanc House Saturday evening?”
“Oui.”
