Iron Lace (12 page)

The stuffiness of his room was intolerable, since he not
only had to barricade himself behind closed doors but retreat even
further behind yards of netting, as well, in order to keep the
bloodthirsty little pests from feeding off him while he slept and
leaving only stinging welts in return for favors received.

At least Grandmother Chausson and the girls seemed to take
such inconveniences in their stride, accepting them as a natural part
of life there in the Louisiana colony. Not that Monique was content.
Vidal, who had come to recognize the signs of impending disaster where
his ward was concerned, had noted lately how she was beginning to chafe
at the bit and look for something to break the monotony of her daily
routine.

He decided, therefore, that it was time for him to begin
introducing her to the more technical aspects of plantation life.

"Perhaps you've been wondering what I've been doing these
past few months," he ventured one morning right after breakfast.

Monique had always been curious about her guardian's
comings and goings. "I've never really given the matter much thought,"
she replied airily, trying to keep her eyes from focusing too
noticeably on the patch of dark hairs glimpsed through the opening of
his shirt collar. Until now she had mostly seen him with his
fashionable chin-high cravat, impeccably draped down to the number of
its folds.

The soft fabric of his shirt clung to the sinewy cords of
the muscles beneath it—long, lean muscles hardened by years
of fencing, horseback riding, and constant travel.

"Well, I think you should know I've been meeting and
talking with the authorities in New Orleans and some of the experienced
planters in these parts," he said, ignoring her tone of indifference,
"and I've come to the conclusion that indigo is not the best crop for a
region like this."

"But my father always planted indigo."

"And most of the others around here, but these past two
years have surely demonstrated that the caterpillar makes more profit
from it than the planters do."

"Then what do you plan to grow?"

"Sugarcane. You see, I think the future lies with sugar,
or perhaps cotton. Most certainly not indigo."

"Is that what the other plantation owners are going to
plant, too, now?"

Vidal paused a second before replying. "No," he finally
said cautiously. "Most of them are staying with indigo, but I'm afraid
they're going to lose their crops to the worms again this year. Only a
few of us, like Etienne de Bore and me, along with one or two émigrés
from Santo Domingo, have gone over to sugar. Perhaps because we who are
newer to this region can see things with a broader perspective than
those who can no longer see the forest for the trees."

"But if the majority still think that indigo—"

"Just being in the majority doesn't necessarily make one
right, little cousin. The cane grows very well here as long as it's
kept drained. What has really been holding back the production of
sugarcane in Louisiana is the difficulty in successfully granulating
it. But a young French aristocrat, Henri Ducole, has agreed to sell me
some of his cane cuttings so I can get a crop started and then, when
the time comes to granulate it next year, to share his expert with me
to ensure it's done correctly. I'm paying him a handsome fee, of
course, but our relationship is a friendly one. He has already given me
some very helpful advice. Perhaps you've noticed the sheds going up in
the back? I'd like to show you and Celeste what I'm doing."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Why bother? It seems you've
already made all the decisions and are doing as you please without any
approval from us, anyway."

"I've talked it all over with your grandmother, of course,
and, frankly, I wanted to include you in those discussions, but she
seemed to think you were still too young to understand such details.
Personally, I disagree, for I'd like to think you're old enough to take
some interest in at least the overall scheme of things around here."

"Well, if Grandmother has put the control of our money in
your hands, there's little else we can do now, I suppose, except pray
you're doing the right thing with it."

Her guardian made an almost visible effort to bite his
tongue. His ward could be so exasperating at times. "Well, I certainly
hope so," he conceded, "since I've advanced considerable money from my
own funds to make most of the necessary investments. If the plan fails,
I stand to lose a sizable amount of money on this new enterprise
myself. You seem to forget that my father left me quite well off in my
own right. I can assure you I have little need of going out my way to
pocket any of your own dwindling funds."

"I'd like to show you the changes I've been making and how
I'm preparing the fields for the cane. I thought we might ride around
the plantation today."

Monique couldn't help smiling to herself. The prospect of
going horseback riding always appealed to her, but doubly so now. She
welcomed the opportunity it would offer her to observe her detestable
guardian at closer range. After all, the better one knows an enemy, the
easier it is to defeat him.

Monique
listened intently while her guardian waxed enthusiastic
over all he had been doing and still hoped to do before he was through.
Suddenly, empty sheds, huge iron kettles, smelly cattle pens,
half-plowed fields, and a mill still under construction all seemed to
be fascinating topics of conversation. She had never seen Miguel's dark
eyes shining like that, and the extent of his exuberance surprised her.
It made him suddenly seem more human, for she hadn't imagined a dour
Spaniard could be emotional about anything.

She had to admit, too, that her guardian had literally
performed miracles in just the few months since he had taken over Le Rêve. Never before had she seen the place so well organized. She was
still skeptical about changing over to sugarcane, but he seemed so
sure… Although she felt tempted to taunt him, as she'd so
often done in the past, she couldn't bring herself to belittle his
efforts now.

While they were in the vegetable patch Alphonse Roselle,
the Cajun overseer, came over to talk to them. Smiling down at him from
where she sat sidesaddle atop her black-spotted gelding, Monique
greeted his familiar figure in its coarse homespun shirt and breeches
with the nickname she had called him long ago as a toddler.

"Good day, Phonse, I see we're still in your very reliable
hands, right?"

Vidal sat drawn up to one side on his own chestnut-colored
gelding, watching her with a slight lift of his brows, accustomed as he
was to seeing only the more contrary side of her nature.

"Yes, mam'selle, it's still my pleasure to serve you and
your family. Senor Vidal here keeps me busy these days, but I'm trying
to follow his instructions as best I can. I hope you carry back my best
regards to that fine lady, your grandmother, and your little sister."

"I will, Phonse," she assured him, "and I know I speak for
them as well as myself when I tell you how grateful we are for the way
you've worked so hard to hold Le Rêve together for us ever since my
father died last year."

Roselle invited her to have a closer look at how large the
beans and squash were that year. She and Vidal dismounted. There was
the same glow of pride in the old man's pale eyes that she had seen in
her guardian's all that morning as Alphonse praised the merits of "good
delta soil" to Miguel. The two men hovered over the plants like mother
hens with their chicks, exchanging observations on the progress of each
one's growth. As she bent over and touched one of those bulging pods,
bursting with the exuberance of life, she suddenly sensed what they
felt looking down at their first tangible yield for that year.

After exchanging a few more brief comments with them,
Roselle finally put his tattered hat back on and respectfully took his
leave.

She turned now toward her gelding but was suddenly aware
of her guardian's dark, inquisitive gaze fixed intently on her.

"What… what's the matter?" she asked him,
feeling uncomfortable beneath those disturbing eyes.

"Nothing," he replied, but he still didn't take his gaze
from her. "You just surprised me a little, that's all."

"In what way?"

"It was nice of you to take such a kindly attitude with
old Roselle," he observed. "It meant a lot to him, I'm sure."

"Why should that surprise you?" she asked saucily. "Don't
you think I'm capable of being nice?"

"Well, you must admit, little cousin, you couldn't always
prove it by me." Vidal smiled.

With an exasperated toss of her bonneted head, Monique
lifted the ruffled skirts of her flowered cotton and took another step
toward her mount. Suddenly she felt something sharp jabbing into the
flesh of her right foot as she stepped down on it. With a cry of pain,
she tried to regain her balance.

Vidal quickly lunged forward to break her fall.
Momentarily he stood swaying with her, holding firmly like the trunk of
a tree holding fast in a storm.

For a long, suspended moment, they clung instinctively to
each other, vibrating in the midsummer air from the impact of their
collision, even as a pendulum continues to swing once it has been set
into motion.

Stunned, Monique suddenly realized she was in her
guardian's arms. Those dark hairs in the opening of his shirt were
brushing her chin, and the scent of lavender and tobacco, mingled with
the heat of his body, filled her nostrils. It was an exciting masculine
aroma that made her feel as though she were sipping wine. More shaken
from the unexpected impact of his nearness than from the fall itself,
she reeled unsteadily. Instinctively he tightened his arm about her
waist and drew her closer, partially balancing her against his
thighs… those fascinating thighs she had so often secretly
watched flexing beneath the tight sheath of his breeches. Now they were
sustaining her, and the feel of them—warm and
pulsating— set her pulses pounding wildly. Once more her legs
were buckling beneath her. She knew she'd surely fall to the ground if
he let her go.

"Are you all right?" she heard him asking, his voice
strangely muffled and labored in her ear.

"I… I don't know," she replied truthfully,
clinging tightly to him, bewildered by the flood of sensations
overwhelming her. She felt a strong desire to arch her body against the
long, hard leanness of him as she clung to the thin fabric of his shirt
and delighted in the feel of the firm expanse of the bare chest beneath
it.

Was this the way it was to be in a man's arms? She felt
strangely alive, with an uncontrollable exuberance racing through her
veins. Shyly she lifted her eyes toward her guardian's face, wondering
whether he was feeling all those exhilarating emotions, as well; but,
aside from his quickened breathing and the deep flush on his
countenance, he seemed unusually tense and his jaw was surprisingly
clenched.

"What's the matter?" he asked her again. "Are you ill?"

She had cried out as if in pain when she had fallen
forward and was trembling so in his arms now that he didn't know what
to think. "I'm sorry if I've kept you in the heat too long."

He was caught in the dilemma of longing to prolong this
moment, yet fearful of the consequences if it did continue. To feel
those soft, sensuous curves molded against him and not be able to run
his hands caressingly over them was more than he could bear. Even now
he could feel the cones of her breasts pressing through the thin fabric
of their summer garments and boring maddeningly into his chest.
Qué
barbaridad
! How much could a man take without reacting? The
palms of his hands were sore from digging his nails into them to keep
from cupping them over those delightful tormentors. He only hoped she
wasn't aware of just how much he was quickening with desire for her.
Yet he was loath to let her go just yet. After months of wanting her,
of longing to hold her precisely like this, here she was finally in his
arms!

He pressed his loins yearningly against the sweet warmth
of her and bit his tongue to stop from murmuring endearments that came
rushing to his lips. Now that her bonnet had slipped back and was
hanging behind her by its ribbons, he could at least brush his lips
against that glorious mane of golden ringlets and leave a kiss
undetected there in its perfumed midst. The scent of her inebriated
him. He could taste it in his mouth as he momentarily nestled there in
the gold of her hair.

"It's my foot," she was saying. "I can't put my weight on
it. Something seems to be cutting it."

She was trying to draw back from him now, her cheeks
burning hotter than the noonday sun. "There must be a stone or burr in
my slipper." Her voice was breathless, but she reached down inside the
soft leather of her shoe and sought out the cause of her discomfort.

"At last! Here it is!" she declared triumphantly, holding
up the offending pebble. Impatiently she threw it off to one side among
the rows of squash and then, with a sigh of relief, broke away from his
sustaining arm. She hoped he hadn't been aware of what she had been
feeling… of the emotions that had racked her body only a few
moments before. How was it possible that a man she hated so much could
have such a devastating effect on her whenever he got less than two
feet from her?

"But are you sure you're all right now?" he asked, taking
a step toward her again anxiously.

"Of course I am!" she snapped crossly, drawing back
quickly in an effort to hide how confused she still felt.

But even after Vidal had helped her back up on her horse,
she found it hard to act nonchalant. Her heart wouldn't stop pounding.
Of course, she noted that her guardian seemed rather flustered himself
as he swung up quickly into his own saddle and proceeded to ride back
to the main house beside her in silence.