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  DEDICATION

  For My Dear Sister, “Pandora”

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOT IN LONDON ANYMORE

  “Purely of volcanic origin,” Pierre Yonne said to Marie Camaux who stood beside him at the rail of the steamship as Saint-Georges Island appeared even larger on their horizon. “The Pitons du Daunet on the island’s south side is all lava, or agglomerate masses, dating back to the Tertiary Period.”

  The one teacher in the lone, small school on the yet unsighted Isla Charlotte, Pierre was a storehouse of local information. A curious man could find plenty of things to keep himself occupied when he had a spare moment or two. He was headed back to work after a holiday to visit family and friends in the States, actually glad to have escaped his mother’s constant badgering that he jettison his enjoyable bachelor life in favor of wedded bliss (or whatever).

  “Quite different from what we saw at Bermuda,” he continued. The liner had departed Hamilton, Bermuda, a few days before. “Bermuda is coralline formation, mostly white limestone, highest point only two-hundred-sixty feet.”

  “Certainly, this is all different from England,” Marie said, feeling another splatter of sea spray against her face. Since she had reached warmer climes, her skin had taken on a decided bronze cast, although she couldn’t help remembering all the tales of how exposure to the sun could age a woman overnight. Still, Charles had continually commented, in London, on how her peaches-and-cream complexion would be improved immensely with a little more color.

  Charles Camaux was Marie’s husband, and, if he liked her tan, who else mattered?

  “Yes, I should imagine this is different,” Pierre said, having never been to Europe for any first-hand comparisons, although he still had relatives in France—to hear his mother tell it. The Yonne family had come to the New World with Lafitte during the American Revolution and had set up house there ever since. Pierre’s mother had actually considered her son an expatriate when he took up temporary residence on an island that was a French possession.

  Marie felt a small lurch in the pit of her stomach as the ship changed course to begin a more pronounced riding of ocean swells. She hadn’t weathered the sea part of her voyage at all well, getting sick off Port Johns and staying that way most of the way. At the moment, she could think of nothing less desirable than arriving on Saint-Georges even mildly under the weather. Charles would undoubtedly empathize, but she was looking forward to their reunion too much to have it spoiled by an upset stomach.

  “Perhaps, you wouldn’t mind my visiting you after you’re settled in,” Pierre suggested tentatively, having already gathered from brief discussions that Marie was disembarking with literally no friends or acquaintances (save her husband), on the main island. Pierre, who occasionally made it over from Isla Charlotte, had always been curious about the Camaux family. He was even more curious now that its heir-apparent had gone all of the way to England for a bride.

  “Oh, of course, do feel free,” Marie granted, once again diverting her attention from the upcoming landfall to her attractive companion. More than once, she had regretted how her queasy stomach had kept her so confined to her cabin, since Bermuda, and unable to discourse with someone like Pierre who so obviously knew such a great deal about the area. Marie’s knowledge of Saint-Georges, besides the quick cram-course she had attempted on the internet in the rush before departure, was thoroughly lacking. Charles had always been exceedingly vague whenever she’d questioned him.

  “You will have plenty of time to learn all about the island and the Camaux family after you get there,” Charles had said. “Until then, let’s enjoy London, since I certainly don’t know how long it will be before either of us is back here.”

  In the final analysis, Marie knew very little about her husband, Charles Camaux, except that she loved him. That certainly was enough for her, even if her mother had been frankly appalled at the speed of the courtship and the wedding.

  “In my day,” Carolyne Nelson had said to her daughter, having consented to the marriage only after friends had reported the Camaux family was well-connected at the Court of St. James’s, “this type of shotgun proceedings would have caused more than a few raised eyebrows.”

  However, whatever the wagging tongues, if any, Marie would, at least, be far enough away so that they would make little difference. Obviously, Saint-Georges had its own social order, quite separate from that of the British capital.

  “The harbor of Villeneuve,” Pierre said, pointing to bring Marie’s attention back to the growing landmass.

  “It’s bigger than I expected, “she admitted, seeing the rather extensive docking facilities now in the foreground, and the layers of pink and white houses that climbed the hills beyond.

  “About fourteen-thousand, by way of permanent population, at the last census,” Pierre informed. “Actually, the island’s headcount increases substantially during the tourist season, although not as much as some of the more prime travel destinations in the Caribbean.”

  Yes, Marie had read that; so, why had she expected Saint-Georges to be one of those small atolls she could walk across in a day, instead of this three-hundred-square-mile chunk of densely forested lava rock? Probably, it had something to do with how the tellie programs were forever representing the stereotype tropical paradise with half-clothed natives, and meals obtained by machete from the nearest coconut palm.

  “Well, I’m afraid I do have a bit of last-minute packing to do before docking at the quay,” Marie said apologetically as the ship gave another shift to better align for entrance into the mouth of the harbor. “I do hope, however, you’re serious about stopping by whenever you have the time. I’m afraid I’m not sure just where I’ll be staying...”

  The thought suddenly struck her that if Charles wasn’t there to meet her, she wouldn’t know where to go, or what to do.

  “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble tracking down the bride of Charles Camaux,” Pierre said, giving hint that Marie had, indeed, been self-deprived of a veritable font of information by having been so often confined to her cabin the past few days.

  “Then, I shall be looking forward to seeing you again,” she said, allowing Pierre to take her right hand and squeeze it gently in parting.

  In the rush prior to disembarkation, Marie didn’t catch sight of Pierre again, although, on one occasion, she did look frantically for him when she felt suddenly certain her husband had abandoned her, leaving her to fend for herself on some Caribbean island a few thousand miles from the only people and places she had known all of her life.

  In the end, her face beginning to go damp from a combination of panic and tropical heat, she saw Charles on the quay. She waved. He saw her and waved back. The flooding of relief that rushed through her at that moment managed completely to alleviate all traces of the sickness which had—even until then—lingered in her stomach.

  Soon enough, Marie surrendered willingly into Charles’ welcoming arms. The force of his strength took her breath away. The sudden press of his lips against hers, with such unexpected enthusiasm, was such a surprise in having, frankly, never been matched by anything he’d ever managed during their, albeit brief, London courtship.

  Marie felt each and every line of his decidedly male body pressed against her: his muscled chest, flat belly, firm thighs....

  “It’s so good to see you!” he said, pulling back to look at her. His voice was deeper than she remembered. In fact, he was somehow different. Defining the difference was another matter. Possibly, it just had to do with the time, the place, and the circumstances. After all, this wasn’t London. The brightness of this sun—seeming a totally different than what had shone down on them in England—gave the place a strange air of unreality.

  Certainly, he looked
pretty much the same: so, it apparently wasn’t any kind of glaring physical anomaly that Marie sensed. His skin was burnished a deeper bronze than she remembered, making his blue eyes even bluer, but his jaw still had its characteristic squareness, his mouth its sensuous fullness, and his cheeks their distinctive dimples that balanced the deep cleft in his chin. His neck was still bullish, ending in the hair-covered vee of skin that appeared at the open collar of his white shirt.

  “Give me your baggage tabs, and I’ll have the bags loaded while we have a bit of refreshment at the hotel,” he said, his eyes sparkling in a way that was uncharacteristic of the rather serious and somber Charles whom Marie had known in London. Then, it was only natural he should be more at ease on his own stamping grounds. “Did you have a good trip?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll never make a good sailor,” she admitted.

  He laughed. His lips slipped easily back to reveal his wide expanse of white teeth. He took her left arm in his right hand and exerted the pressure necessary to guide her through the crowd. They stopped briefly while Charles transferred her baggage tags to a Negro man introduced as Petre. Then, Marie and Charles got into an awaiting taxi, the driver apparently having received previous instructions as to their destination.

  The Hotel King Philip was a confection of pink architecture situated on a small rise overlooking the harbor. As it was only a short drive, Marie had only just gotten settled into the cab before its door was again open, and she was stepping back into the bright sunlight.

  “Monsieur Camaux,” a white-liveried Negro on the porch greeted as Charles came up the stairs. He turned dark black eyes on Marie. “Mademoiselle.”

  “Madame Camaux,” Charles corrected.

  The Negro got a decidedly strange expression, and, then, turned to lead the couple down the porch to a small table in the shade. There was a good view of the steamer still disembarking its passengers and baggage on the quay.

  “I believe there’s a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé waiting us on ice,” Charles told the black man before turning his attention back on Marie.

  “I couldn’t possibly drink much wine, Charles,” she protested. She feared a resurgence of her queasiness.

  “We’ll just have enough to keep us in good spirits on the long drive home,” he assured her.

  His use of the plural, by way of who would be drinking, thoroughly confused her. She had never seen him take one drink of alcohol. At the beginning of their relationship, she was sure he had said he was a teetotaler.

  “Oh, I see!” Charles exclaimed, suddenly, as if it dawned on him as to how he was seemingly acting out of character. “You must learn that the Charles you knew in London isn’t quite the same as Charles, here, on Saint-Georges. Or, do you object to your husband occasionally having a nip or two?”

  “Of course I don’t object.” Marie had been raised in a family where wine with the meals was de rigueur, and she could embrace this unexpected turn of events. She had usually foregone wine when with Charles, rather than drink it alone.

  “Good,” he said, settling back in his chair and eyeing his wife as if he were really seeing her for the very first time. “Now, tell me all about your trip.

  She began a brief rundown of all that had occurred since their last meeting, keeping a close watch to make sure her story wasn’t becoming too boring. The wine arrived just as Charles’ interest was peaked by Marie’s mention of her brief encounter with Pierre Yonne.

  “From Isla Charlotte, you say?” he asked while the waiter filled their glasses.

  “He said it wasn’t too far from here.”

  “Oh, it’s not. Just half an hour by sail.”

  “I hope you didn’t mind my telling him he might call. He’s really about the only passenger I had a chance to speak with onboard.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. I’m just curious as to what he might have had to say about our marriage.”

  “Not much of anything, really. The longest conversation I had with him took place just shortly before we docked. That consisted of his commenting mainly on the island topography. I think he said he was just returning from a sabbatical of some kind in the U.S.”

  “There is a small school on Isla Charlotte, now that you mention it,” Charles said. “So few people, though, on that dismal little rock pile, these days, that you’d think the whole lot of them would have packed up their bags and come back here after over eighty years of waiting, wouldn’t you?”

  “Pack up their bags and come back? Waiting for what?” Marie had been struck by the obvious oddness of Charles’ phraseology.

  “Paranoid lot,” Charles observed, sipping his white wine. “Most of the original bunch went over in 1931. No one wanted the place before then. Now, I guess, their children’s children are still taught to expect another blowup from The Cauldron at any minute.”

  “The Cauldron?”

  “You must have seen it when you sailed in,” he said, filling their glasses with more wine from the bottle he retrieved from the ice bucket after waving off the waiter. “It’s always the first of the island to be seen on the horizon.”

  “Mont d’Esnembuc?” Marie distinctly remembered the emergence of that domed-shape mass, seemingly from the sea.

  “That is what it’s called on the maps.” Charles worked the wine bottle back into the ice. “Around here, it’s simply The Cauldron. I guess a few million years back, there was a collapse of the central part of the mountain, during an eruption, to cause the sizable lake now up there. You’ll enjoy a day trip, by horseback, for a look-see. You do ride?”

  Marie tried to decide if Charles was joking. Twice, they had borrowed horses in London from the Galen-Waydes for trots through Hyde Park bridle paths.

  “Then, every English girl rides, doesn’t she?” He flashed a wide smile and reached across the table to give her hand an intimate pat.

  She was going to answer with something. She didn’t know just what—but something. She had this inexplicable feeling (had since that first unexpectedly passionate kiss on the quay?), that, somewhere between London and Saint-Georges, Charles had undergone several definite changes.

  “Ah, our car!” he said, nodding toward the limousine which had reached the upper curve of the hotel gravel driveway and was pulling to a stop. “If we hurry, we can reach the Château for an early supper.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  INAUSPICIOUS BEGINNINGS

  “Charles, are you all right?” Marie asked. Actually, it was Marie who wasn’t feeling well. Her seasickness of the past few days was replaced by car sickness brought on by the twisting road the driver chose immediately upon leaving The Hotel King Philip driveway.

  “I’m feeling fine,” Charles replied, giving Marie a loving pat on her leg. “I must say, you’re looking rather peaked, though.”

  “Would it be horribly inconsiderate of me to have the driver pull over to the side of the road for just one moment?” She was dreadfully embarrassed.

  “I should have booked us into the hotel for a night to let you get your land legs,” Charles apologized.

  “I’ll be fine,” Marie assured. “Really, I will.”

  “I guess I was just anxious to get you off to the old homestead,” he said. “Forgive me?”

  “If we could just stop for a moment?” She still tasted white wine long after it should have been beyond tasting.

  “Of course.” Leaning forward to tap the Negro driver on the shoulder, Charles said, “Petre, pull off at the next advantageous spot, will you? Mrs. Camaux and I would like to stretch our legs.”

  “I am sorry, Charles,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll be completely fine as soon as I get stopped for a couple of minutes.”

  “I imagine you still haven’t adjusted to the heat and humidity of our little island, either,” he commiserated; actually, the car’s air-conditioner made Marie somewhat chilly. “Besides, the topography, made hinky by ancient lava flows, never allowed our roads, as you’ve noticed, to be built directly from any point A to point B.”


  The car rounded another bend and eased off the road onto a space that provided a spectacular view. The just-traveled highway was a ribbon of pink asphalt, appearing and disappearing amid stretches of flower-specked greenery. In the far distance, Villeneuve, all pink and white, slipped gently down to the harbor where the liner still rested at the quay.

  “Feel like getting out?” Charles asked, once the car was completely stopped.

  “I feel rather ridiculous, making such a fuss,” Marie said. “I really don’t quite know what’s gotten into me.”

  How was she to know she’d react this way? Aside from a couple of summers in Spain (she’d gotten sick, then, too), she’d never been all that far from home.

  “There’s nothing about which to feel ridiculous,” her husband assured, opening the car door. “This road often gets to the best of us.”

  He began circling the car to let Marie out, but Petre beat him to it.

  After the air-conditioned interior of the automobile, the outside would have been unbearable if not for a breeze blowing up from the sea. As it was, Marie found the temperature quite pleasant, although she was conscious of how her blouse had grown disconcertingly damp beneath her arms.

  “Welcome to Saint-Georges, Mrs. Camaux,” Charles said, standing close, and placing his right arm around her in a way that was sensuous in its familiarity.

  Suddenly, she defined what had been so exceptionally unusual about their kiss on the quay. In London, he had hardly ever been affectionately demonstrative in public. Here, however, there had not only been the kiss on the quay but the way he had leaned to touch her hand intimately on the porch of The Hotel King Philip. Now, with Petre watching from a position by the side of the car, Charles’ arm pulled Marie even closer.

  She glanced up at him, somehow embarrassed to find him unabashedly returning her stare.

  “You’re very beautiful!” he said, his voice low.

  Marie’s blush increased. Why? This was her husband, merely having provided a simple endearment. Yet, it affected her as if it were coming from a complete stranger.