Free Iron Lace by Emilie Richards Page B

French and English and read from her own prayer book. She was entirely capable of finding her way to New Orleans and confronting him with his bastard children.
    He had promised her a house in the spring, and if she had a son, there was to be a lugger for him, as well. She would still demand these things, or more. And if Antoine discovered that Marcelite was still in Lucien’s life, he would destroy him. Lucien had brought little more than a good name to his marriage. His finances were so intertwined with his father-in-law’s that Antoine had ultimate control over them.
    Despite the hours of pleasure she had given him, Lucien rued the day he had met Marcelite. The desire, the affection,he felt for her was nothing compared to the threat of losing everything that made him the man he was. Perhaps sometimes in New Orleans he had yearned for the simplicity, the warmth, of his life on the chénière, but never had he considered abandoning all that he possessed to live with Marcelite.
    Now an answer to his troubles was thundering on the horizon. It was possible that the storm, if fierce enough, could work to his advantage. If she was frightened, Marcelite might realize how completely she was at the mercy of the elements. Anything he offered her afterward might seem a lavish gift.
    For the first time since his talk with Antoine, he felt a ray of hope. The worsening storm could be an ally. He resolved not to tell her the purpose of his visit until the storm’s end. Choosing the right moment could make the difference between success and failure, and failure was out of the question.
    As he approached the hut, he noted a crazy quilt of driftwood patching the exterior. He imagined Marcelite, with Raphael’s help, standing on a chair in the rain, trying to make the house watertight. It seemed she had already gotten a taste of what might await her when the storm expanded.
    He paused at the door and tried to shake some of the rain from his overcoat and shoes, but it was useless.
    “Marcelite!” He pushed the door open and peered inside. A lantern flickered, and he saw Marcelite and the two children across the room. He entered, pulling the door closed behind him.
    “Lucien!” She leaped from her chair and crossed the room in three steps. He opened his arms and enfolded her. The children stared at him.
    She spoke in French, not even attempting the English that she knew he preferred. “I thought you were back in New Orleans.”
    “I leave tomorrow. I hadn’t intended to come here today, but when I saw the storm approaching…” He let his voice trail away.
    She circled his waist and held him tighter. He felt her gratitude, and was distantly ashamed because of it. “You’ll stay with us, then?” she asked.
    “Until the storm is over.”
    “A storm killed my father. He and my uncles were out on the water. A storm blew up. Weeks later the boat drifted in to shore, full of rotten fish, fish you could smell across the whole chénière, but there were no men.” She shuddered.
    She had never told him anything about her past. Lucien held her and realized how frightened she must be.
    Raphael got up from the bed where he and Angelle had been sitting. “M’sieu Lucien, if the storm gets much worse, we will go to the church.”
    “Don’t be foolish! Soon the lightning and thunder will be closer. We’ll be safer if we don’t go anywhere. We’ll do what we can to make the house tight, and ride out the storm here.”
    “But the wind!”
    Lucien stared at Raphael. He saw that the boy’s black curls weren’t the innocent, silky curls of childhood; his skin wasn’t brown from hours in the coastal sun. And his nose—how could Lucien not have seen how much stronger and broader it was than Marcelite’s?
    By all that was holy, the child had been like a son to him. How could he not have seen that Raphael was a quadroon? The signs of his mixed blood had been there all along, but Lucien had been too blinded by his infatuation with