Out of the Dark Read Free

enough to find out.”
    “You are wrong.” The words were smooth. “But only tell me how I must pass the time on my hands instead of remaining here, and I will go and do it.”
    “Whatever you like that doesn’t decimate the countryside,” she answered, then added in some haste, “but you will forget I mentioned leaving, if you please. You cannot go just yet.”
    “Can I not? What is to stop me?”
    “Courtesy,” she said stringently. “If you dance a single dance then depart, it will appear there was nothing here to hold your attention.”
    “I am many things,” he said with quiet precision, “but discourteous is not one of them. Suppose I said I might be persuaded to stay for your sake. Would you walk out into the garden with me to ensure it?”
    Anne-Marie stared at him. Did he mean it, or was it only a suggestion meant to confuse and embarrass her, thus putting an end to their exchange? The words not quite steady, she said, “You surely speak in jest.”
    “Do I?” he queried, his gaze steady upon her face. “You should know better, being no convent school mademoiselle.”
    Indeed she wasn’t. According to her stepmother, she was perilously close at twenty to the age when an unmarried woman was advised to throw her corset on top of the armoire and accept the role of a spinster.
    The marriage of her father to the voluptuous, hard-eyed widow had been unexpected; they had met during Lent and were wed just after Easter. By the time they all removed to Pecan Hill, the plantation near Baton Rouge, it was plain the new wife considered Anne-Marie a thorn in her side. When her stepmother began to hint that a marriage might be arranged for her, Anne-Marie had not objected. Her father’s house was no longer her home; to leave it for that of a strange man could hardly be more uncomfortable, no matter what he was like.
    Or so she had thought at the time. It was possible she had been mistaken.
    The words distinct, she said, “I believe it would be best if you returned me to my seat.”
    “Oh, I think not. There would be no satisfaction in that.” He lowered his voice, drawing her nearer so he spoke at her ear. “Madame Picard was right; you are something out of the ordinary. You perplex me, and not simply because you hold me in contempt and are unafraid to say so. There is something about you that—look at me, if you please?”
    She could not resist, though not because of his request. There was an intent note in his voice she needed to decipher. Slowly, carefully, she lifted her lashes.
    His gaze was dark, so dark. It spoke of deep nights and banked fires, of old pain and carefully constructed defenses. It constrained her in some mysterious way, threatening to consume her. She could sustain it no more than an instant before looking away again.
    “Fascinating,” he said in bemused softness. “How did you come by such wanton Gypsy eyes?”
    “I was born with them,” she said in compressed tones. The subject was a sore one; her stepmother often made such remarks. Besides, his interest made her uneasy.
    “Of course you were, and I am well-served for asking,” he said at once. “You must forgive the personal remark, but I was so surprised.”
    “In any case,” she went on quickly to fill the silence, “I am not a Gypsy. My great-grandmother was Indian, of the Natchez tribe.”
    “That explains it, then. A wild child of nature rather than a wanton.”
    “Hardly!” Her stare was suspicious. Most people considered Indian blood to be cause for concern if not scorn. She herself knew the Natchez to be a fine, proud race whose members were equal if not superior to the French with whom they had mingled their heritage. Still, she had learned to be careful of the reactions of others.
    “I wonder.”
    His comment was musing, yet freighted with rich layers of speculation. It required no answer, however, which was just as well since Anne-Marie had absolutely none to offer. They whirled gently for a few moments