Free Tender Fury by Connie Mason Page A

body.
    Gabby realized that if she did not say something to stop him his insatiable lust would soon forestall any conversation. “Who is Amalie?” she asked boldly, unprepared for the violence of his reaction as Philippe reared up as if bitten by a snake.
    “You have been talking to Duvall behind my back!” he accused angrily. “What did he tell you about Amalie?” His fingers dug hurtfully into her shoulders.
    “I have not spoken to Marcel,” Gabby protested. “Please stop, Philippe, you are hurting me!”
    “Where did you hear about Amalie?” he persisted, gripping her even harder.
    “I overheard you and Marcel talking earlier today. I could not help it. I was resting inside the cabin when you stopped near the porthole. You both spoke so loudly I could not help but overhear.”
    “Mon dieu,” he cursed, releasing his hold upon her. “I had hoped you would not learn of her so soon, but since you have, I will not lie. She was my mistress.”
    “Was or is?” asked Gabby contemptuously.
    “That remains to be seen,” he answered archly. “As long as you continue to satisfy me I have no need of a mistress.”
    The answer did not satisfy Gabby. She had been humiliated enough already without having to live in the same house with Philippe’s mistress. “I care not what you do, Philippe,” she said carelessly, “but as long as I am your wife, I refuse to have your mistress sharing my home. You will have to set her up elsewhere.”
    Philippe laughed uproariously, but his laughter held no mirth. “You are truly amazing, Gabby,” he said, pulling her roughly into his arms. “Come, demonstrate to me how you intend to distract me from my mistress.”
    Later, sleep eluded Gabby as she lay listening to Philippe’s even breathing. She thought of the hollow victory she had just won be remaining passive in Philippe’s arms. With a disgusted grunt he had rolled away from her when it was over, immediately falling asleep.
    When Philippe’s light snoring told her he would not awaken easily, Gabby stealthily slid out of bed, donned a shift, threw a shawl around her shoulders and let herself quietly out the door. Once on deck she drew in great lungfuls of warm, salt-laden air. The deck was deserted except for the watch and the helmsman at the wheel. She leaned against the railing, a mystical figure whose wind-whipped, silvery locks appeared as illusive as angel wings beneath the shimmering moonbeams. Her mind drifted back to her life in the convent and how safe and secure she had felt. She sighed. Oh to be that innocent and protected again.
    “Do you mind if I join you?” Gabby nearly jumped out of her skin as the voice materialized from out of nowhere. “I did not mean to startle you, cherie ,” said Marcel.
    “Oh, Marcel, you gave me quite a start,” breathed Gabby with a ragged sigh. “I couldn’t sleep and the night is so lovely.”
    “It is indeed a beautiful night,” agreed Marcel. “Look at the moon, cherie. It is a lover’s moon.”
    The moon hung in the sky like a huge, golden ball, its beams dancing amid the gentle swells like cavorting sea nymphs. A smile of delight curved Gabby’s lips.
    “You should always smile, cherie ,” Marcel whispered, his breath warm upon her face. “You outshine even the brightest star in the heavens.”
    Gabby flushed becomingly. His presence, though welcome, made her uncomfortable, especially in view of the growing intimacy he displayed toward her.
    “Do you ever visit Bellefontaine?” she asked, hoping to break the spell the moon and the night had cast upon them.
    “Long ago, I did, but I am not welcome there anymore,” he answered lightly.
    “Did you know Cecily?” She watched him closely for his reaction.
    Her question all but floored Marcel who was startled by the directness of her query. “What do you know of Cecily?” he asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
    “Only what Philippe has told me,” she admitted. “I know that she was his wife and that