Triumph in Arms Read Free

himself in front of her.
    “Good day, monsieur, ” she greeted the visitor in polite tones. “May we be of service?”
    He turned toward her, reaching at the same time to remove his hat. Lowering it to rest against the swinging fullness of his long dust coat, he stood square-shouldered and grim of face before her.
    “You!”
    Shock wrenched that single word from her. Thetone of her voice disturbed the hound, for he growled again in deep-throated warning. She put a quieting hand on his head.
    “As you say, Madame Pingre,” the visitor answered with a brief tip of his head. “Christien Lenoir, at your service.”
    Dark hair with the black satin gleam of a swamp panther’s pelt, deep-set dark eyes, strong features that carried a copper-bronze tint: this was the man who lived nightly in Reine’s dreams, yes, and her nightmares. It was he who had saved her and Marguerite from being mangled by carriage wheels or worse on that terrible night four months ago. For an instant, she was back in his arms again, lying against his hard length, caught to him in a hold so secure it seemed nothing could harm her, not then, not ever.
    The urge to sink into that infinite protection had been so seductive she was forced to steel herself against it. Anger at her weakness and the impossibility of ever having someone to share her blighted existence washed over her in that instant. Though it pained her to remember it now, she had screamed at this man like a harridan as she scrambled up and dragged her daughter away from him.
    The heat of a flush rose to her hairline. It was all she could do to sustain his piercing gaze. What mischance had brought him to River’s edge she could not imagine, but the sooner he was on his way, the better. “I ask again if I may direct you, monsieur. ”
    “I’ve come on a matter of business with your father. That is, if he is at home.”
    “What could you possibly have to discuss with him?” The question was less than gracious, though the best Reine could manage at the moment.
    “You doubt my invitation to call?”
    A dangerous undertone shaded Christien Lenoir’s voice, she thought. It was a reminder of a similar dark peril seen in his eyes as they had faced each other in a muddy street. Fear had meshed with the anger inside her as she recognized it, but beneath both had been a strange exhilaration. They had been muddy, disheveled, bruised and shaken, but for a brief instant there flashed between them an awareness so searing she had felt branded by it. They had stood staring at each other, a heartbeat away from quarreling, until Marguerite began to cry.
    Just thinking of it now made Reine feel as if her blood had turned hot and scouring in her veins, mounting to her brain. It was difficult to recall what he had just asked.
    “I…I must confess to being surprised,” she said finally. “My father is expecting you, then?”
    “He should be,” he said in cryptic reply.
    She hesitated, then stepped back, gesturing toward the side gallery. “That way, if you please. Alonzo will take your hat and dust coat, then show you to him.”
    “You’re very kind, madame. ”
    His voice was dry, the look in his eyes ironic as he came up the steps toward her. He seemed a veritable paladin, impossibly tall and wide of shoulder and with his coat flowing around his heels like a cloak. If the presence of the bloodhound troubled him, he gave nosign but only held out a hand for him to sniff. Chalmette availed himself of that privilege, gave a wag of his tail, then trailed away in the direction of the hydrangea again.
    Reine gave the dog a jaundiced look. As she glanced back at the visitor, she caught a glimpse of amusement in his eyes, as if he understood her annoyance at Chalmette’s defection. She only inclined her head in leave-taking before turning away to reenter the house.
    It was possible he paused to watch her departure. She could not be sure for she did not look back.
    The visitor’s arrival was such a