A Sneak Peek at Her Impossible Husband
CHAPTER ONE
Saint-Malo, Brittany, France
April 1829
“M’sieur,” called Baptiste, Justin St. Briac’s devoted manservant. “Might I remind you of the time?”
Justin paused at the top of narrow steps leading down into a labyrinthian cellar, where all his treasures from years on the high seas were stored. Even though he now lived in Cornwall with his wife and children, he would always feel a mystical attachment to this three-story mansion in the walled city of Saint-Malo. Facing the ramparts, Justin’s grand residence was part of Corsairs’ Row, an impressive series of homes overlooking the sea, built by the ill-gotten gains of pirates. Here Justin had long enjoyed the reckless, splendid life of a smuggler and corsair, amassing wealth, legendary adventures, and enough lovers to keep him from the altar until he was forty-eight years old.
Every year, Justin brought his family across the English Channel to Saint-Malo. For a several weeks, he could pretend to turn back the hands of time…a fantasy that appealed to him more the older he became.
Turning now to Baptiste, he challenged, “Stop scolding me. It is noon, is it not? My meeting with Giles Taureau is not for another hour. I am taking Anthony down to my secret storeroom to search for a particularly wonderful relic of the past.”
Just then, his tall, broad-shouldered son came into the room while adjusting the cuffs of a snug forest-green coat. Something in Anthony’s expression suggested that he was about to beg off the excursion to the cellar, so Justin started purposefully toward the steps.
“Follow me,” he said, gesturing with one dark hand. “We have not visited the storerooms lately, and you should view the riches that will one day be yours.”
Bending slightly, Justin led the way down the darkened stairway. Father and son continued on through a maze of vaulted stone tunnels, where lanterns were hung at intervals. Occasionally, Justin glanced back to check on Anthony. Noticing that the youth risked striking his dark head as they passed under an arch, it came to Justin that Anthony might now be even taller than he was.
Yet, had it not been just a brief season ago that the little boy had begged for dueling lessons, declaring that he wanted to be a pirate when he grew to manhood? Justin’s heart clenched as he absorbed the swift passage of time.
“It’s thrilling down here, don’t you agree?” he asked his son. It wasn’t really a question, for surely the answer was obvious.
“Indeed,” Anthony replied after a moment, polite yet hardly enthusiastic. “Thrilling.” They came into a gloomy storeroom stacked high with ornate furniture and other forgotten treasures, and he blinked. “But…what do you mean to do with all this?”
“Do?” Justin echoed, wondering if he should take offense at Anthony’s question. He unhooked a lantern and brought it forward to spill golden light over a lifetime of memories. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten our past visits to these rooms, when you begged me to regale you with tales of my adventures with the great corsairs of Saint-Malo! Every item you see in this cellar is infused with history and meaning.” He paused to let his words sink in before adding, “One day it will all be yours.”
“Ah.” Anthony looked around, brows lifted, and raked a hand through his fashionably disheveled black hair. “Right. I do remember.”
Justin pointed toward a carved, thronelike chair, its worn ochre velvet upholstery now spotted with mildew. “That piece once belonged to Robert Surcouf himself, the greatest Malouin corsair of all. Can you not hear it whispering to us? You used to stand on the chair seat as if it were a quarterdeck, waving your wooden sword and proclaiming that one day you too would sail to the Indian Ocean!”
Anthony looked pensive. “When I was young, I think I lived for your smiles. Making you shout encouragement felt like a great accomplishment.” He paused, as if transported back to his childhood, then flashed a reassuring smile. “What a magical adventure it was, being your child.”
Justin frowned. “I’m not dead, you know.”
“Of course, you are not.” The youth glanced away. “It’s just that…it feels like a bit of a fairytale now, that’s all.”
“Indeed? I can assure you, it has been quite real for me, and remains so. In fact, I came down here to look for something that once belonged to the corsair I am going to meet with today.” He handed the lantern to Anthony and advanced toward the jumble of furniture and other goods. Just as the object Justin sought came into focus, Anthony spoke.
“Papa, you call your friend a fellow corsair…but isn’t that all in the past?” He paused. “I mean, since you married Mama and we began a new life in Cornwall, you have changed, haven’t you?”
“I would have wagered that you, of all people, would not wish me to forget those glorious exploits!”
Anthony rubbed long fingers against the side of his jaw. “I suppose I thought of it all as a part of your past, A wonderful story, but then it seemed you have chosen to have a family instead.”
Stung, Justin chose a cutlass from the assortment of goods and returned to display the savage weapon in front of Anthony. “This belonged to my comrade, Giles Taureau. Do you see, it is designed especially for daring hand-to-hand combat on the deck of a ship, where space is limited and a longer sword could easily become tangled in the rigging.” Justin gestured toward the short, broad blade, the faded red sash tied around the scabbard, and the initials “G.T.” carved with a flourish near the hilt. His voice deepened as he added, “Once a corsair, always a corsair! It is in my blood.”
Anthony was regarding him with concern. “Are you feeling quite well?”
“Never better. In fact, I have an idea. Giles has written to ask that I meet him on the ramparts of Saint-Malo at one o’clock. Why don’t you come, too! Wouldn’t you enjoy hearing bold tales of our life upon the sea from one of the bravest corsairs of them all?”
There was a pause. “Do you mean today?”
Before Justin could reply, he glimpse a movement in the doorway, and Mouette came into view. As usual, the sight of his ravishing wife made his heart beat faster. If not for the glints of silver in her ebony curls, it would be hard to believe she had recently celebrated her forty-seventh birthday. Clad in a geranium-tinted morning gown with a tulle-edged stand-up collar, Mouette looked fresh and delectable.
“What are you two doing down here?” she inquired, scanning the cluttered room. Her thick-lashed blue eyes soon settled on the cutlass.
“Anthony is always eager to see the fruits of my labor, as you well know, ma belle.” Of course, this wasn’t quite how it had happened, but Justin had always enjoyed a fluid relationship with the truth. He heard his son exhale, but thankfully he did not correct him. “We were just admiring my comrade Giles Taureau’s very fine cutlass.”
He held it toward Mouette, and her nostrils flared. “It is a gruesome thing, and that sash he has tied to the hilt – ” She finished the sentence with a disgusted grimace. “It is filthy. I suspect some of those stains may be blood!”
“You are quite right.” Justin gave a firm nod of approval. “Can you not envision the scene of battle on the deck of Surcouf’s own Revenant? In those moments, a man feels truly alive!” He glanced toward Anthony. “More alive than you can possibly imagine.”
Mouette was clearly making an effort to hold her tongue, while Anthony leaned against a stone pillar and watched his parents. For an instant, seeing him grown nearly to full manhood, Justin was transported back to a long-ago day, when they were newly acquainted. They had been in a tangled Cornwall garden, and young Anthony was begging for a fencing lesson. He had danced about, holding a wooden sword, thrilled to be in the presence of a true corsair.
Justin hadn’t known then that they were father and son, that Anthony had been conceived during one wildly sensual night following too many glasses of wine at the wedding of Justin’s brother, Gabriel to Mouette’s dear friend, Isabella. In the morning, Mouette had hidden from Justin, then taken her young son, Charles, and hurried back to her husband in London. A decade would pass before a widowed, destitute Mouette would return to Justin’s life, shaking its very foundations. Anthony had adored Justin on sight, copying his every gesture, proclaiming, “I want to be a pirate when I grow up. Like you!”
By the time they had all surrendered to being a family and Emeline was conceived, Justin wondered what he had been struggling against all his life. By God, he was happy! Sometimes he could even forget about the deep antipathy he’d always harbored toward marriage, spawned by a lifetime of witnessing the manipulative relationship between his own parents.
The love of a good woman had healed even Justin’s deepest scars, it seemed. Most of the time, he could believe it…until someone didn’t behave as he expected. For instance, why wasn’t Anthony responding to Justin’s utterance with a grin, or at least a nod that would let him know they were of one mind. Instead, he went to his mother and kissed her cheek.
“You know how Papa is,” he murmured dryly, and Mouette replied with a faintly amused smile.
What the devil did Anthony mean by that? Justin scowled. Hadn’t father and son always been in league together? “I think Cambridge is making you soft. Come out with me to meet Giles Taureau, so you can observe a real man who truly knows how to live.”
“All this talk of pirates makes me wonder if you are suffering some sort of crisis.” Mouette’s tone was deceptively light.
“What does that mean?” he demanded.
She smiled sweetly. “Oh, you know, the kind of distress older men endure when they realize they will never be young again.”
Justin could only swivel slightly to send her a warning stare. Before he could say something he would doubtless regret, nine-year-old Emeline appeared in the doorway behind her mother. Every time he saw their daughter in recent months, Justin was struck anew that she had begun to cross the bridge from childhood to adolescence.
“Hello!” She smiled at Justin before turning her attention to Anthony. “I’ve been waiting for you upstairs. Are you ready to go?”
“Go?” echoed Justin. He wished his enchanting Emmie would rush into his arms when she saw him, as she had done for so many years. He would stroke her soft black curls with his big hand, loving her so much it hurt…but these days Emeline seemed to have more important concerns than her papa. “Where are you going?”
Anthony cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “As it happens, Papa, I was just about to explain that I cannot go with you to meet your friend because I have promised to take Emmie to the beach to hunt for fossils.”
Fossils. Justin clenched his teeth to stop himself from protesting, “Mon Dieu, not those again.”
*
Mouette watched with interest as Emeline crossed to her brother’s side and grasped his forearm. “Yes, we must leave, Anthony,” the girl exclaimed. “The light will fade if we delay.”
“There are no fossils on the beaches here,” Justin declared with a note of finality. “I would have seen them long ago.”
Mouette tried not to smile. Did he really think anything he could say would change Emeline’s mind? She was every bit as hard-headed as he was.
“Papa, perhaps you might acknowledge that you are not an expert on this subject,” Emmie dared to assert. “Villers-sur-Mer may be the superior beach for fossils in Brittany, but we don’t have time to travel there. Therefore, I hope to astound the geologists by discovering something wonderful, like a trilobite, right here in Saint-Malo!” She tugged again at her brother. “Really, there is no time to waste.”
Anthony, who grew more handsome by the day, threw his father an apologetic look. “I did promise Emmie earlier this morning. Perhaps I can meet Giles Taureau another time? Even next summer.”
With that, the siblings took their leave. Justin stood alone in the cellar room, holding the terrible cutlass with its stained, threadbare sash. Mouette’s heart went out to him. Justin was used to exerting a magnetic power over his family, and while the children were young, that had been easy enough. However, they now had strong minds of their own and thought nothing of challenging the authority of their parents.
“Next summer,” he muttered under his breath. “Can he not fit me into his social calendar before then?”
“Our time here is ending. Tomorrow we must begin packing to return to Cornwall, remember?” Mouette reminded him. “The Easter term at Cambridge will soon begin.”
“I never imagined my own son would choose to spend entire years at a stuffy university when he could be out in the world, taking hold of life with both hands, plunging into adventures while he is young, strong, and…”
His voice trailed off, and Mouette narrowed her eyes. “What were you going to say? Virile?”
“Perhaps.” Justin shrugged, but his expression was challenging. “What is wrong with that? He is coming into the prime of life.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I have no doubt that Anthony is perfectly capable of being a rake, if he so chooses, whether he is studying at Cambridge or standing on the deck of a pirate ship.” Sometimes it was difficult to indulge Justin’s flinty moods, but Mouette loved him enough to try. Crossing to his side, she rested a hand on the sleeve of his expertly tailored, midnight-blue coat.
Even though Justin could be impossibly arrogant and stubborn, age had not dimmed his masculine aura. Even the silk patch that slanted rakishly over his right eye added to his appeal, Mouette thought. Glancing down at her, he remarked, “I never knew it could be so difficult to be a father. No wonder I avoided it most of my life.”
“You might turn your attention to other concerns,” she suggested, forcing herself to look past him to the assortment of old furniture, books, paintings, and other memorabilia from the past. “Why not begin to sort through some of these items?”
Justin looked suspicious. “To what purpose?”
She couldn’t help herself. “Well, do you truly need any of this? The first time you brought me to this house, these pieces were here, but ten years have passed and I do not recall you ever reclaiming any of them.”
“Reclaim them?” A storm cloud passed over his face. “Why should I do that? These are not mere things, but valuable artifacts!” Drawing back, Justin added, “You, more than anyone, should understand that.”
“I do understand, darling,” she soothed. Really, though, what value could these possessions hold? “But I also know that you are a very meticulous person. Every detail in our homes must be perfect or you are not satisfied, and all our servants know it. You insist on flawlessly made clothing and furnishings that reflect the latest fashions and the best of taste.”
“Oui! Of course, I do,” he growled. “What is your point?”
“Only that I find it hard to reconcile this musty clutter with the man I just described.”
Justin walked away from her, staring at his hoard of memorabilia. “Many of these pieces were accumulated before I knew you, when I was a free man, engaging in outrageous adventures as smuggler or sailing with legendary corsairs to defend France in the Indian Ocean.” He picked up a large compass in an enamel case and blew away a layer of dust. “This belonged to Surcouf himself. The very sight of it takes me back to our time together in his cabin on board Revenant, as we planned our secret attacks on British ships in the Bay of Bengal. He was vibrantly alive.” Justin paused, then added hoarsely, “We both were.”
Mouette’s eyes stung in sympathy. Last year, when their family arrived in Saint-Malo for their annual summer visit, Justin had gone off as usual to visit Surcouf and had been stunned to find his old friend on his deathbed. She knew this blow had meant not only the loss of a comrade, but also a stark reminder of Justin’s own mortality. Surcouf had died at age fifty-four, suddenly an old man, ravaged by a wasting disease…yet Justin himself was even older. Mouette knew better than anyone that her husband resisted letting down his protective shield and becoming vulnerable to pain, but she should not encourage that resistance.
“I know how hard it has been for you, losing your friend, Surcouf,” she whispered. “Yet we cannot turn back time.”
Gesturing toward the ramparts that lay beyond the windowless cellar walls, Justin demanded, “Perhaps you would have me build a great bonfire on the beach and burn everything from my past?”
Mouette knew she had pushed him far enough. “Of course not. I only ask that you think about what I’ve said.” Embracing him, she leaned against his broad chest. The scent of Justin’s warm, powerful body stirred her senses, as always. Suddenly, Mouette was hungry for him, and it came to her that they might make love in one of the ancient chairs. It was a long time since they’d done something so wickedly arousing. “I must admit, this cellar does feel like a place out of time… Perhaps we might pretend that you are a corsair and you have captured me from an enemy’s ship.” Even as she spoke, heat coursed through her body and she slipped her hand between them, fitting it to his crotch. Her nipples grew taut as she imagined sitting on his lap, her bodice undone, his warm mouth working its magic.
Justin made a low, primitive sound and hardened against her palm, but in the next moment, he abruptly stepped back, eyes flashing. “I do not need to pretend. I will always be a corsair. And now I must go to meet Giles Taureau.” He picked up the old cutlass and started to turn away.
“Will you not kiss your wife before you leave?” As intended, Mouette’s tone held more of a challenge than a plea.
“As you wish, chérie.”
When he caught her against him with one strong arm, the years melted away. His mouth covered hers, burning, and Mouette responded as passionately as ever. Then, just as quickly as the flame ignited, her husband snuffed it out.
“I must go,” Justin said, stepping back to brandish the cutlass with its bloodstained sash. “Giles is not a man to keep waiting!”
