Out of the Dark by Jennifer Blake Page B

of another pair of hands. Or she might be sent to be a companion to her father’s elderly aunt in New Orleans, an obese and raddled creature who smelled of snuff and camphor and talked interminably of her days as a belle. A last resort might be the convent in the countryside south of Paris she had heard whispers about, one where wayward females who had embarrassed their families were sometimes shut away.
    To lose her freedom would be a terrible thing; the fear of it haunted her. Yet her mind wandered away to other thoughts and images with distressing frequency.
    She could not stop thinking of Lucien Roquelaire . She had always felt sorry for hapless females who sighed and wept over the men in their lives, yet her spirits were low and everything seemed dull and dreary as she accepted that he was not going to call again. It was true that the two of them had sparred and sniped at each other without letup, yet there had been an undercurrent of something very different between them. He had looked at her in a way no man ever had before; she had felt in him a fearlessness and tolerance beyond anything she had ever known. She might despise him and abhor his past, but she had also been forced to recognize his essential integrity. Almost, she had allowed herself to believe that he had an interest in her, even if it was only because she was not like every other woman he met. Because of it, she had permitted herself to wonder what it would be like to be loved.
    She had ignored that possibility so long, denying it because that was less painful than yearning after it when she could not have it. Even believing it could and would come to nothing with Lucien, she found that it still hurt to have the idea of being wanted removed so quickly.
    Sometimes at night she lay staring into the dark, thinking of the moment he had kissed her. She could remember the sensation as his mouth possessed hers, the taste and liquid warmth of him. She seemed to feel again the heat of hands upon her, and their sure strength that she had recognized even through her clothing. Sometimes her imagination took flight, and she lay naked with him under the trees as her stepmother had suggested. Or else they stretched out on the pristine white sheets of her bed while he demonstrated to her all the many uses of his masculine ardor and power.
    Useless daydreams. Yet they were so disturbing that she did her best to prevent them rather than retreating into them as in the past. The trouble was that they crept in upon her so insidiously that she could not always control the direction of her mind.
    She had another and more insistent worry. She had not seen Satan since the day of the hunt. Though she went into the woods again and again to call him, he never came. It was likely he had retreated deep into the river’s swamplands, beyond the reach of dogs and riders. Cats were notorious for avoiding water, but she had seen Satan swim creeks in flood before, and knew he would have no trouble navigating the interconnected rivers, bayous, and wide, shallow sloughs. In any case, the water receded with the advance of summer, leaving vast areas of open grass or shady and leaf-carpeted bottom land that were reasonably dry.
    She prayed that was where he had gone. If he had not— But she would not think of that. This was not the first time Satan had vanished; he would come back to her in his own good time, or else when instinct told him it was safe to be seen in this vicinity.
    She was returning from another fruitless tramp through the woods when the young boy James came running to meet her. His feet were flying along the path, and he was frowning with the weight of his message. He was still several yards away when he began to yell.
    “ Mam’zelle ! You got to come quick! They been looking for you everywhere. Madame is so mad she’s ‘bout to spit, and your papa is walking up and down with his pocket watch in his hand.”
    “What’s wrong? Why do they want me?” She quickened her