Beneath a Blood Red Moon

Page 16

 

  “I don’t know. Of course, you should give that some very careful consideration. ”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I could possibly conceive the next Montgomery heiress—without the blessing of the Church. ” He leaned deliberately toward her, meeting her gold eyes.

  “Hell, what’s life without taking a few chances?” he asked her softly.

  Maggie laughed out loud, shaking her head. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright. Sean made a mental note to thank his father for pressuring him into coming here.

  Regretfully, he rose. There had been two gruesome murders in the parish. He had to spend some time at work.

  She stood as he did, ready to see him out. He strode the few steps between them to reach her, taking her hands.

  “Will you come to dinner?”

  “Home to meet your dad?” she inquired.

  He nodded.

  “I . . . ”

  They had come very close. Her breath was a whisper against his lips. She was warm; she smelled intoxicatingly of a soft perfume. He hadn’t meant to . . . not quite yet, but he lowered his head to hers, found her lips, and kissed her.

  Gently at first. He hadn’t meant to do it, and yet doing it beyond his conscious volition, he certainly didn’t mean to touch her with more than the lightest brush . . .

  But there was no way to kiss her lightly. She wasn’t wearing a bra and the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest was alarmingly arousing. His lips molded to hers, he felt a savage thrust of passion tear into him, and he had to taste more, have more. His tongue forced entry into her mouth, ravaged, hungered. A pounding began in his temples, and he wrapped her to him, kissing, tasting, seeking. She wasn’t fighting him. Her tongue played with his, lips molded to his, the length of her body seemed to supply flow against the hardness of his own. In seconds, he thought, he’d be ripping off her clothes, shoving her down to the floor . . .

  He pulled away.

  Just as she did.

  Her lips were damp, slightly swollen. She brought shaking fingers to them, staring at him. But there was nothing accusing in her stare, nor did she seem angry.

  Just shaken.

  Still . . .

  He knew suddenly that she was vulnerable, that a trace of innocence remained about her despite her elegance and worldliness.

  And it seemed that she cast out webs that settled around his heart, drawing him ever more to her.

  Madness. Obsession. He was falling in . . .

  Lust.

  He cleared his throat and stepped back.

  “Can I pick you up at about seven?”

  “I . . . I don’t know—”

  “All right, how about seven-thirty?”

  She arched a brow. Her lashes swept her cheeks, and she smiled again. She stared up at him gravely, searching out his eyes. She seemed to come to some important inner decision.

  “Seven-thirty,” she said.

  “Good. ”

  “I’m anxious to meet Dad. ”

  He nodded, and turned around quickly to leave her. He didn’t want to give her a chance to change her mind.

  Seven-thirty.

  Dinner.

  And then he was sleeping with her.

  In I860, there was life at the old Montgomery plantation again. The heiress came home from Europe; she was called Meg. She was a beautiful woman, sophisticated, confident, sure of herself, serene.

  Meg was ecstatic to be in New Orleans, but she had come in the midst of tempest and turmoil.

  Though sane heads were trying desperately to keep the country together, war was brewing. Most Louisiana plantation owners were avidly vocal and furious against the North. Militia units formed right and left; Louisiana quickly became famous for its colorful Zouave regiments, and men and boys alike cried out that they were going to whomp the Yankees within a few weeks.

  Mr. Sean Canady wasn‘t so sure of victory. Meg met Sean, son of Robert by his first wife, Deirdre, the very week she returned. Since he held property not far away along the river, it was fitting that he call on her, offer his condolences on the recent death of her grandfather, and welcome her home. Though he was charming and good-looking, she wasn‘t instantly smitten. Or so she told herself. She’d traveled, she’d seen Rome, Paris, London, Madrid. She was not easily swayed, impressed, or subdued; she was sophisticated, knowledgeable. It wasn’t until he left her house that she realized she was anxious to see him again. Anxious to hear his deep, resonant voice, even his ideas, his concern that the South might have a few difficulties “whomping” the Yankees.

  His mind fascinated her. As did his dedication, his passion. His underlying strength.

  When John Brown was hanged for his insurrection at Harpers Ferry, most Northerners were irate, and most Southerners were elated— after all, the man had hoped to arm slaves to murder their masters in their beds, not to mention the fact that he had cold-bloodedly murdered men in the Kansas/Nebraska arena unrest, dragging them from their homes to kill them right in front of their families. John Brown might have held some lofty ideals, but in practice, he’d been a murderer, and the Northerners couldn‘t change that fact! But as the strife within the country increased, Sean was neither irate nor elated; he took the matter quite gravely. Yes, John Brown had deserved to hang; he had committed murder. But what had happened was an American tragedy, because they were coming closer and closer to war, and what too many Southerners couldn’t see was that they had no production in the South, and that the North had an endless supply of another factor— manpower.

  Every time they talked, Meg fell just a little bit more in love. She loved his light eyes, his dark hair, the way it curled over his forehead. She loved the sound of his voice, the breadth of his shoulders, his laughter. Mostly, she loved him for what he was inside, loved his soul, his intelligence, the way he thought things out, the sincere way he cared for people.

  He asked her to marry him.

  She turned him down. She couldn’t marry. She wasn’t the marrying kind. But she was enchanted with him. He said he would wait, she told him again that she couldn‘t marry, and yet. . . she admitted she had no desire to be with anyone else.

  “I’m not the proper bride; trust me, I’m not the proper young lady for you, I can’t be—”

  “You are all that I want. ”

  “But I can’t marry you. ”

  “Why?”

  “I—I can’t. ”

  “You will,” he promised her.

  Southern boys whooped and hollered and carried on at barbecues and balls. Meg and Sean went everywhere together.

  It was at the elegant Wynn town house in the French Quarter that she first met Aaron Carter.

  He appeared to be a handsome young man, tall, lean, blond, and dark-eyed. He claimed to be a distant cousin of the deceased Mrs. Wynn. Meg politely acknowledged her introduction to the young man, but paid him little more attention. She had eyes for no one but Sean. Yet, as she stood at the punch table, Aaron approached her. “Miss Montgomery, you are delightful. I would call upon you, if I may?”

  Startled, she met his gaze. She smiled ruefully, realizing his pursuit. “Sir, you are welcome to call, but I must inform you . . . I am nearly engaged, sir. ”

  “Ah. To the Canady. ”

  She nodded. “But you must be aware, we’ve many lovely young ladies here, and many who would enjoy—”

  He stepped closer. “I would have you. ”

  She shook her head, backing away. “I have just told you, sir—”

  “It doesn‘t matter what you’re telling me. I know who you are, I know what you are, and we are one and the same, and I will have you. ”

  Her smile was brittle. She was furious, but determined. “I don’t know what you‘re talking about; we are not the same in any way. And you can go to hell. ” As she turned to leave him, she felt a force drawing on her. And then she knew. Knew
what he was. She gritted her teeth together, and spun on him. “We are not the same. And this is my city.

  You, sir, would perhaps be happier living elsewhere. ”

  “I warn you, Miss Montgomery—”

  “No. I warn you. Leave this place. There is no room for you here. ”

  “So, my dear, you assume it’s your territory. ”

  “I am fiercely fond of my family’s home, Mr. Carter. You cannot imagine with what strength I can defend all that I hold sacred. ”

  She waited.

  He kept smiling. “I understand that you are a favorite with men in high places. ”

  “Now, sir, I really don’t know what you mean. ”

  He shrugged. “Lucian, mademoiselle. I understand that you are among his . . . chosen. ”

  “How dare you imply—”

  “I imply nothing. You are favored, my beauty. But I understand as well that you seek your independence in all things, and so, trust me, his protection will only go so far. I would protect you, my dear. ”

  “I don’t want your protection. I have told you that I am nearly engaged to Mr. Canady—”

  “Nearly. He is not such a man as I. ”

  She smiled. “Thank God. ”

  “Watch yourself, my beauty. There are rules. ”

  “And I abide by them. I pay heed, and I bother no one else. This is my home. Understand that.

  You will leave?”

  “You are magnificent. A challenge. ”

  “I have told you that my interest lies elsewhere. ”

  “I will change that. ”

  “You refuse to listen, and you are becoming a bore, sir, and. . . ”

  “And?”

  “Don’t underestimate my power. I can destroy you. ”

  He bowed deeply, smiling.

  “See that you leave. ”

  She had come across others in her travels across Europe and America. They had acknowledged one another, and moved on. They had never threatened. Sometimes they had talked, and almost been friends. There were the rules, of course. The rules, which kept them surviving. They must respect one another.

  She stared hard at Aaron Carter, then spun again, away from him, and walked on. She met Sean in the ballroom, and danced with him, but she watched Aaron Carter.