“I’ve made provisions for any circumstance,” he said, giving her a comforting squeeze. “Don’t forget, the territory has changed hands many times before, and the Vallerands have weathered it quite well. Do you doubt my ability to take care of you?”
“No, of course not.” Lysette curved her hand around his shoulder, and with her fingertip traced a line from his ear down the side of his neck. “Max… you never told me what you and Bernard argued about, the day of the Seraphiné ball.”
He sighed tautly. “It’s too much to explain right now. I’m tired, my sweet. Tomorrow—”
“Tell me just a little bit,” Lysette coaxed.
He scowled but complied reluctantly. “Very well. After all the comments I’ve made to Bernard about assuming some responsibility around here, Bernard finally did. Much to my regret.”
“He did something wrong?”
“Worse than wrong. Something abhorrent, not to mention cruel and senseless. You’ve met the overseer, Newland? The other day Bernard ordered him to whip a slave for not working hard enough. The slave had been ill with fever last week and was in no condition to be out in the field in the first place. So Newland disregarded the orders, and Bernard had him whipped instead. To my eternal regret, I was in town at the time— I wish to God I had been here to stop it.”
“Oh, Max,” she murmured, feeling ill.
They had reached the bedroom; Max set her on the bed. “When I found out, it was all I could do to keep from skinning Bernard alive. He sees nothing wrong in what he did. It’s clear that I can never allow him to be in charge of the plantation— and he has no real interest in it. Neither does Alex. As long as I supply my brothers with their monthly allowances, they are content to spend most of their time in town. For that matter, I’ve made no secret of my own dislike of farming.”
“I know,” Lysette said, reaching out to untie his cravat. “It’s a duty to you.”
Max sighed heavily. “My father took enormous pleasure in the sight of crops growing. He was a man of the earth— he loved plantation life in a way that I never will. Perhaps it is fortunate that he didn’t live to see that none of his sons inherited his passion for this place. I’ve entertained thoughts long before this incident with Newland and Bernard… thoughts of selling the plantation, or at least reducing its size. But those ideas seem like a betrayal of my father and all that he worked so hard to achieve.”
“And the plantation is a way of life for all the Vallerands,” Lysette commented, drawing the cravat from his neck. “If you reject it, there will be consequences. Your friends and acquaintances may feel betrayed.”
“Oh, they will,” Max assured her grimly. “Fortunately, I’ve been used to public disapproval for so long that their opinions don’t matter.” He was very still, his eyes dark and troubled as his gaze searched hers. “But you haven’t.”
“I am strong enough to deal with any controversy,” Lysette murmured with a faint smile. “I have already become accustomed to being known as la mariée du diable.“
His gaze caressed her as he reached out to twine a gleaming red curl around his finger.
“You are not trapped, you know,” Lysette told him. “You don’t have to maintain this place. Do whatever you like with it. Whatever the consequences may be, I will face them with you.”
“My little rebel,” Max murmured with a swift grin, his hand playing in her hair. “I should have known that you would encourage me to make the unconventional choice. Very well, I’ll tell you the truth— I hate this damned place, for all the work it requires, the memories that it holds, and for the moral compromises it demands.”
“Are you going to sell it, then?”
“Not entirely. I’ve considered selling half of it to our neighbors, the Archambaults. They would pay any price I would name.”
“What about the slaves?”
“I don’t want to own slaves. I’m tired of clouding the issue with questions of economics and traditions and politics.” A frown scored across his forehead as he continued. “I’ve been on the wrong side of the argument for too long— I can’t defend it with any conviction. I don’t want this way of life for myself, and I don’t want it for my children, either. God knows why I can’t share my father’s beliefs, or those of my family and friends, but…” His mouth twisted impatiently. “What I am trying to say is that I want to free the Vallerand slaves.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, all. And hire the ones who decide to stay on as freemen.” Seeing Lysette’s stunned expression, he smiled wryly. “It’s been done before, actually. There is a New Orleans sugar planter of mixed race, Maurice Manville, who has freed his slaves and now pays them wages— and he makes a profit, admittedly a modest one. If I follow suit, and reduce the plantation by half, I would have far more time to give to our cypress mill and the shipping business.”
Lysette tried to absorb everything he had proposed. “It’s very difficult to predict what will happen, n’est-ce pas?” She reached out to stroke the indentations between his brows. “Will there be financial repercussions, Max?”
“Are you asking if we’ll lose money? Yes, at first. But the shipping business is growing. You’ll have to trust me to make it a success.”
Lysette smiled and applied herself to loosening his cravat. “That will be no problem, ma cher.“
“But about your children’s inheritance, and Justin and Philippe’s—”
“There are far more important things you can leave them than a parcel of land. And they will still be Vallerands, with or without a great plantation.” Removing the starched linen from his neck, Lysette pressed her face into his warm throat. “Mmmn… how good you smell.” She kissed the pulse that beat in the triangular hollow. “Do what you feel is right, Max.”
Drawing back slightly, Max cradled her cheeks in his hand. His gaze was dark and tender. “This is one of the advantages of having a young wife,” he said with a sudden grin. “You obviously don’t know enough to dissuade me.”
“There are other advantages of having a young wife.” Busily she tugged the hem of his shirt from his breeches.
“Show me,” he said softly, and she did.
———
It did not seem too much to ask that the Vallerand family be granted some peace for a while, but apparently that was not possible. The trouble was started unintentionally by Philippe, who was on his way to a fencing lesson.
As Philippe dismounted his horse and walked to the establishment of the fencing master Navarre, he was only half aware of the sound of voices nearby. As usual, his blue eyes were fixed on the ground, his thoughts far removed from the practical day-to-day routine of living. As Justin so often mockingly pointed out, Philippe was a dreamer, not a realist.
Suddenly Philippe was jolted out of his imaginings when a hard shoulder slammed into his, knocking him off balance. Staggering back a few steps, he looked up in bewilderment. He faced a group of three boys who had just finished their fencing session with Navarre. Excited by their exertions, filled with vigor, they were clearly spoiling for a fight. The bump had been no accident. The leader of the group, Louis Picotte, had clashed with Justin before— it was well known that they hated each other.
Philippe, however, had no quarrel with anyone, and he preferred to keep it that way. He apologized instantly, something his brother would never have done. “Pardonnez-moi— I was not looking.”
“It would be a Vallerand, of course,” Louis sneered. He was a large, husky boy, with a shock of white-blond hair. “They think they own every street in town.”
Philippe felt his heart sink. “I am late,” he muttered, taking a few steps away, but the three blocked his path.
“Your apology wasn’t good enough,” Louis said, a smirk appearing on his lips.
Philippe raised troubled blue eyes to his. “I’m sorry for bumping into you. Now let me pass.”
Louis pointed to the ground, smiling nastily. “Get on your knees and say it.”
Philippe flushed
, wanting to turn and run, but knowing that if he did, Louis would torment him forever. Looking from one face to another, Philippe saw nothing but hatred, the kind of hatred he and Justin had come to expect after years of being known as the sons of Maximilien Vallerand.
“I won’t,” he said, staring steadily at Louis.
“Then let’s take the matter somewhere private,” Louis said, jerking his thumb in the direction of a small lot where hasty duels were sometimes conducted. It was concealed by trees and buildings, and they would not be seen by passersby. His hand settled on the hilt of the sword at his waist.
Startled, Philippe realized the boy wanted something more than mere fisticuffs. Philippe had resigned himself to being bruised and beaten. After all, Justin had survived it often enough. But swords— it was too dangerous. “No,” he said, and nodded in the direction of the fencing master’s place. “We’ll settle it there.” The master often supervised such bouts between his students. Navarre had forbidden them to settle their disputes outside of the school, unless it was with mere fists, not swords.
“Are you afraid?” Louis demanded.
“No, I just—”
“You are. It’s what everyone says. You’re a coward. If I were you, I wouldn’t be so proud of your dirty Vallerand name.” Louis spat on the ground. “Your father is a murderer, your brother is a blustering bully… and you are a little coward.”
Philippe quivered with sudden rage.
“Ah, look at him tremble,” Louis jeered. “Look at him—” Suddenly he stopped, wincing as he felt a tiny, sharp blow to the back of his head. He clasped the spot and swung around. “What—” Another thud, this time on his chest. Louis stared in disbelief at the sight of Justin, who was lounging behind them and calmly aiming pebbles at him. Justin intently examined a small stone pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “What is it I heard him say, Philippe?”
Philippe gulped with relief and apprehension. “Nothing. Justin, we’re late for—”
“I thought I heard him call you a coward.” Justin dropped the stone to the ground and selected another from the handful he held. “We know that isn’t true. And I also thought I heard him say I was a bully. I don’t agree with that, either.”
“Don’t forget,” Louis sneered, “I also said your father was a murderer.”
Abruptly the handful of pebbles was released to scatter at Louis’s feet. Justin smiled, his blue eyes so dark they were almost black. “Philippe, give me your sword.”
“No,” Philippe said, striding rapidly to his brother. “Justin, not with swords.” They understood each other’s thoughts clearly. “It should be me,” Philippe told him.
“He doesn’t want to fight you,” Justin said. “He went after you in order to get me.”
“Not with swords,” Philippe repeated.
Louis called to them tauntingly, “Are you going to let your brother make a coward of you, too, Justin?”
Justin drew in his breath angrily. His eyes met Philippe’s, and he vowed, “I’ll carve him to pieces before he has time to blink!”
“He has practiced today, and you haven’t,” Philippe said, abandoning moral arguments in favor of practical ones. “He’ll be far more limber than you, Justin.”
Louis interrupted them impatiently. “Let’s get on with it, Justin.”
“Philippe,” Justin growled, “give the damn thing to me!”
“Not unless you promise to stop at first blood.”
“I can’t—”
“Promise!”
They glared at each other, and then Justin nodded. “Damn you, all right.” He reached for the sword. Turning pale, Philippe gave it to him.
The small group made its way to the lot. By tacit consent, they were furtive and quiet, knowing the duel would be forbidden if anyone else learned of it. Boys their age did not usually settle their differences in such a manner— it would not be appropriate for another two years or so.
Keeping to the rules they had learned at Navarre’s, seconds were appointed. Louis removed his coat slowly, glancing over his shoulder at the twins. Philippe was standing with his fists clenched, his tense posture revealing his anxiety. Justin was waiting with unnatural patience.
Louis almost began to regret challenging the Vallerands. Philippe’s gaze had been mild and frightened, but Justin’s hard blue eyes promised far more to contend with. Justin’s swordsmanship was also quite good, Louis reflected, almost equal to his own. He had watched Justin practice at Navarre’s, and as the fencing master said, Justin would be superb but for a lack of discipline. Walking forward until they were separated by only a few feet, Louis assumed the proper stance.
The group was quiet as they saluted each other and began the match with a click of steel against steel. They tried a few elementary combinations, each searching out what he needed to know in order to best his opponent. Double feint, lunge, parry, followed by a quick riposte. Both moved with fine coordination and equal skill. One of Louis’s companions couldn’t help murmuring to the other that he wished Navarre could see this. It was an impressive exchange.
Then the contest began in earnest, and the balance tipped. Louis sweated profusely as he tried to maintain his concentration. Justin fought with a cold, technical aggression that he had never displayed at school. Philippe was the only one who understood the reckless edge that made his brother so proficient. Justin did not care what happened to himself, and the more time went by, the less anything mattered to him. He was not afraid of pain or solitude, perhaps not even of dying… and that frightened Philippe.
Louis jerked back in surprise as he felt the point of Justin’s sword touch his shoulder. In disbelief he looked down at the dot of blood on his shirt. Exclamations broke from the boys, and Philippe rushed over to Louis’s second.
“Honor is satisfied,” Philippe said breathlessly, wiping at the sweat dotted on his forehead.
Louis felt sick with humiliation. He saw Justin through a haze of fury, sickened at the thought that such a minor mistake, one tiny opening of his guard, had led to defeat. His friends would snicker. Even more enraging was Justin’s surprising quietness. Louis would have expected a Vallerand to gloat. Instead Justin wore a serious expression as he watched the seconds confer… and for some reason, that seemed more contemptuous to Louis than open ridicule.
“It’s over,” Philippe said, making no effort to suppress the gladness in his voice. He smiled slightly as he saw the relief in Justin’s eyes.
“It’s not over!” Louis snarled, but they paid him no attention.
Justin started toward Philippe, intending to give back the sword, then stopped as he saw the flash of horror on his brother’s face.
“No!” was all Philippe had time to cry before Justin turned swiftly and saw Louis lunging at him.
Startled, Justin felt a flare of heat in his side, looked down, and saw the thin blade of steel withdraw. There was a glow of pain. Awkwardly he fell to his knees, staring dumbly at the blossoming stain on his shirt. He pressed his hand to the crimson smear and collapsed to the ground as his head swam. Breathing hard, he caught the salty, rich scent of his own blood, and he clutched harder at his waist.
“Oh, Justin,” Philippe gasped, falling beside him. “Oh, Justin.”
Louis was slow to realize what he had done. His friends were staring at him with amazement and disgust. “I didn’t mean…” Louis began, and his voice trailed off into ashamed silence. He had done something too dishonorable, too unmanly, for words. Backing away, he turned and fled.
Justin stirred at the sound of Philippe’s anxious entreaties, and his dazed blue eyes opened. He turned his face away from the cool grass and looked up at his brother, managing to find his old tone of annoyance. “It’s only a scratch.”
Philippe gave a choking laugh. “You’re bleeding, Justin.”
“Where is Louis… the sneaky, goddamned, cowardly bastard!”
“He’s gone,” Philippe said, some of his initial fright dissolving. “I think he was as surpris
ed as the rest of us.”
Justin struggled clumsily to get up. “Surprised? I’ll kill him! I’ll—” He broke off and gasped, his side aching. Under his fingers there was a new surge of hot fluid.
“Stop!” Philippe cried, catching him behind the shoulders. “The blood… we need a doctor… I’ll leave you for just a minute and—”
“No. I’m going home, where Father will probably finish me off.”
“But—”
“Get me home,” Justin whispered with an intensity that silenced his brother.
Philippe tried to stanch the flow of blood with the pressure of his hand, causing a new round of curses from Justin. He did not notice the two other boys standing above them until one of them handed down his wadded-up vest. “Thank you,” Philippe said breathlessly, taking the garment and pushing it inside Justin’s shirt, over the wound.
“Louis shouldn’t have done it,” the donator of the vest commented. “I’ll never act as his second again.”
“There shouldn’t have been a duel in the first place!” Philippe said angrily. There was no sound from Justin, who had closed his eyes. His bloody hands were palms-up on the ground.
The boy regarded Justin’s long, sprawled-out form admiringly. “He’s got courage.”
“And the brains of an ox,” Philippe muttered.
“He’ll win a lot of duels before he’s through.”
“He’ll die before he’s twenty,” Philippe said under his breath.
Justin’s eyes flickered open. They were dark and luminous violet, devoid of their usual snapping energy. Painstakingly he reached up to grasp Philippe’s collar, smearing it with blood. “Let’s go.”
Philippe did not bother to ask how Justin had gotten to town. One of Louis’s friends brought Philippe’s horse, and the three of them pushed and shoved Justin into the saddle. Philippe swung up behind him, checking to make certain Justin was holding the pad over his wound.
“I’ve got it,” Justin said hoarsely, drooping low over the horse’s neck. “Go, before I fall off.”