Left broke and all but homeless by her shiftless husband, widow Margaret Jaffrey turns to his family in hope of a better life for her daughter . . . until she realizes the decaying family mansion in Louisiana comes complete with a domineering matriarch, a drunken uncle, and a madman locked in the attic.
The madman in question is Peter Delacroix, and he doesn't seem that crazy. In fact, Margaret is starting to find him irresistible. But if Peter isn't really unstable, then why did he confess to a murder he didn't commit? And which one of her new-found in-laws hides a lethal streak?
Most of all, how will she keep her daughter safe when she's falling in love with a very dangerous man?
Anne Stuart recently celebrated over forty years as a published author. She has won every major award in the romance field and appeared on the bestseller list of the
. Anne lives by a lake in the hills of Northern Vermont with her fabulous husband.
Prologue
MARGARET O’ROURKE Jaffrey let the aging
Ford Escort roll to a stop outside the big brick building, half her mind
occupied with the coughing noise the overworked engine was making, the other
half watching her nine-year-old daughter with an uneasy mixture of pride and
concern.
"Is this the
place, Ma?” Carrie asked brightly.
Margaret bit her
lip, turning off the engine and pulling the key. If she’d still had insurance
she would have been tempted to leave the key in the hope that some poor fool
would steal the car and relieve her of this automotive misery, but every
possession they owned in the world now lay neatly packed in the back seat, the
trunk and every nook and cranny of the tiny car. If someone stole it they would
steal their life. "Doesn’t look too cheerful, does it?” she said with her own
forced cheer. "I didn’t know they built things out of brick in Arizona.”
"It’s a church, isn’t it? I
think they build churches to last,” Carrie said, rolling down the window and reaching for the outside door handle.The inside one had broken the week before and there’d been
no money to fix it. Margaret had kicked it in her sleep while struggling for a
comfortable position. But there was no way a five-foot-nine body could fit in a
space that had to be five-foot maximum, particularly when an inefficient gear
stick stuck up between the bucket seats.
"It’s a church. We don’t have
to do this, you know. We could probably splurge on a feast at McDonald’s,”Margaret said, her voice light. "It’s going
to be a warm night, though. I think we should sleep in the car again and save
the money for a motel until it’s colder.” If they
still had it, she thought miserably. She had one hundred and fifty-three
dollars and twelve cents in her old leather purse, and no foreseeable income.
All she had left was her pride.
"Come on, Ma. Why spend ten dollars on
grease and cholesterol when we can get a free meal? Where’s your
spirit of adventure?” Carrie was nine going on
twenty-nine, and had been on a health food kick recently.
"God knows,” said Margaret, sliding out
from behind the steering wheel that had dug into her backbone far too many nights."Lock your door.”
The sun
still set early in February, and the murky dusk and cool air of the Arizona
night gave way to light and noise. The basement of the Northside Congregational
Church was filled with shabby people, all lining up against the far wall, away
from the row of cots with their neatly folded blankets. The room smelled of
cooked meat and boiled cabbage and unwashed bodies.
"Hey, Ma,” Carrie said, surveying the depressing row
of beds. "We can sleep here if we want to.
I’m tired of sleeping in the car.”
It took
all of Margaret’s immense self-control for her not to
shudder at the thought. "Darling,” she
said gently, "this place is for the homeless.” She
looked around her at the pinched, hollow-eyed faces, the shuffling bag ladies. "These
poor, poor people.”
"Ma,” Carrie said with the great
patience of the young when dealing with their elders, "we are homeless.”
"But...” Words
failed her. To her utter shame she realized her nine-year-old daughter had
faced reality long before she had. They were no different, no safer than the
drab crowd shuffling through the basement of the old brick church. All Margaret
had left was her pride, and her daughter had been paying the price for it.
"Come on.” She took Carrie’s hand
and led her out of the crowded, noisy room, back into the Arizona night.
"Where are we going?”
"We’re going to find a motel room,”Margaret said, blinking back unshed tears. "And a telephone and a decent
dinner.”
"What’s the telephone for?”
Margaret sighed, and as she did so, a huge weight slid
off her narrow shoulders. "To call your great-grandmother. We’re going home.”
Chapter One
"YOU’RE NOT
WHAT I expected.” Gertrude Delacroix stared up into Margaret’s
carefully blank expression. She was a very tiny, very old woman, with deep-set
brown eyes that were both faded and piercing, a face so lined and wrinkled it
resembled a crumpled tissue, and a complex upsweep of silvery hair atop her
well-shaped head. At four-feet- eight she was no taller than Carrie, but every
inch vibrated with autocratic control.
"You aren’t what I expected either,”Margaret said, clinging to Carrie’s hand as they stood inside the
doorway to Gertrude’s drawing room.
Gertrude
sniffed and moved closer, the silver-handled cane in one birdlike hand
seemingly more for show than support. "You look sensible. Not the sort
I’d expect my grandson Dexter to marry.
Despite that red hair and those gypsy green eyes, you look like you have a head
on your shoulders. Why didn’t you call sooner?”
"Pride,” Margaret said, keeping her
shoulders back.
"Pride,” Gertrude echoed. "I
understand pride. Not, however, at the cost of my children. This is your
daughter?”
"Yes. Carrie O’Rourke Jaffrey. She’s nine.”
"I know how old my only great-grandchild is,”Gertrude snapped. "Where’s the ‘Delacroix’?”
"I beg your pardon?”Margaret was both mystified and intimidated by this miniature tyrant.
"The ‘Delacroix’! The
family name. Every child descended from the Delacroix bears the name. We accept
Jaffrey because they are cousins—my daughter made a good match
when she married Dexter’s father. But Delacroix is a
powerful name in Louisiana, and all of us keep it. Where do you think you are?”
"Delacroix Landing, Louisiana,”Margaret said dutifully, still not quite believing it.
"And the name of the house?”
"Maison Delacroix,”Margaret said.
"And you’re telling me my only great-grandchild has
no ‘Delacroix’ in her name?”
"Dexter never mentioned it.”
"Dexter!” Gertrude snorted dismissively at the
mention of Margaret’s late husband. She looked
directly into Carrie’s eyes, eyes very much like
hers, and the semblance of a smile cracked her face. "Never
mind. We can always have her name changed. Your cousin Wendell is a lawyer.”
"But...,”Margaret began, but Gertrude had already sailed past.
"You’ll like it here, the both of
you. We’re no longer the family we once were, but
we can afford to take care of our own.” Gertrude sank into a rose
velvet chair that was probably older than she was. "Mind
you, we all have to contribute. No free rides. Mrs. McKinley is our only hired
help, and the Maison requires a great deal of upkeep. We’ll give
you a day or two to get settled before you start your duties.”
"I thought I might get a job,”Margaret said with a trace of desperation.
"You didn’t have much luck out West, did
you?” Gertrude commented shrewdly. "And as
far as I know you’ve never held a job—you
married Dexter right out of college. What are you qualified to do? Didn’t
Dexter support you properly?”
Margaret
wasn’t about to tell Gertrude just how little
the feckless Dexter had provided. "I was planning to teach.”
"A nice, ladylike profession.”Gertrude nodded her approval. "What grade level?”
"College. Reproductive biology was my field,”Margaret said with a hint of defiance, waiting for Gertrude’s
reaction.
The old
lady only sniffed once more. "Clearly you never became an
expert. We Delacroix believe in large families. What happened in the past nine
years after Carrie was born?”
"That’s none of your business,”Margaret replied huffily.
"I beg to differ with you. My
great-grandchildren are very much my business. But that’s
neither here nor there now, since Dexter was stupid enough to die young. You’ll have
to settle for the one child.”
"Unless I remarry,”Margaret reminded her, just to be difficult. She had no intention of
remarrying, no intention of ever putting herself at the mercy of another man.
"We’ll see about that,”Gertrude said. "In the meantime, reproductive biology is
out of the question. Unacceptable for a Delacroix.”
"I’m not a Delacroix.”
"Indeed, you are. When you married my
grandson, then came to Delacroix Landing as
his widow, you most certainly became a Delacroix, and we have standards
to uphold. What else can you do?”
Margaret
had had enough of this. She’d been told often that red hair
signified temper, and by the age of thirty-two she’d come
to believe it. "Anything I set my mind to,” she
said between her teeth.
Gertrude
looked at her assessingly for a long moment, then let out a raspy laugh. "I
believe you can. You should have come sooner, Margaret O’Rourke
Delacroix Jaffrey. My grandson needed you.”
Margaret
blinked, confused. "Dexter is dead, Mrs. Delacroix.
And I don’t think he ever needed me in his life.”
"Pooh.” Gertrude made a little
dismissing motion with her hand. "Call me grandmère. Or ‘Gertrude,’ if you
prefer. And I wasn’t referring to Dexter. I have
other grandsons.”
Margaret
opened her mouth to ask what she’d meant, then shut it again.
There were certain things, she decided, that she’d rather not know.
Gertrude went on, oblivious to Margaret’s mixed emotions. "None of the others are here right now, but you’ll meet
most of them at dinner. I’ll have Mrs. McKinley show you
to your rooms. I’m feeling fatigued.”
The old
woman positively bristled with energy, but Margaret simply nodded. "The
others?”
"You’re not the only relative
seeking shelter at the Maison,” Gertrude said. "We’re a
small but varied group. My son Remy lives here, and my widowed daughter
Eustacia. Her two children, Lisette and Wendell, are also here right now,
though Lisette never stays still long since her second divorce and Wendell is
thinking of buying a cottage down by the river. And then there’s
Peter.”
"Peter?”
"Just another grandson,”Gertrude said shortly. "If Dexter had consented to a
decent wedding or ever thought to bring his family back for a visit, you’d know
these people.”
"Dexter hated Louisiana.”
"What about you, my dear? You’re a
Northerner. What do you think of Louisiana?”
"I haven’t been here long enough to form
an opinion,” Margaret answered politely. Inside a
little voice screamed, I want to get out!
"It’ll grow on you,”Gertrude said smugly.
"Like Spanish moss.”
"Indeed. But Spanish moss grows on the
oldest, biggest, strongest trees. Remember that.”
"Yes, ma’am.”Margaret could feel Carrie leaning against her, still clasping her hand. "I think
we might like a little rest before dinner, too. We’ve had
a long drive.”
"You’re lucky your car made it this
far. I’ll have Wendell arrange for it to be towed
away.”
"No!”
"Dear Margaret, it should be clear that your
little car has breathed its last. It’s fit for nothing but the
junkyard.”
"I want a mechanic to look at it,”Margaret insisted stubbornly.
"Certainly. Do you have the money to pay
someone to come out here?”
"Not right now.”
"Then you’ll have to wait, won’t you?
Mechanics don’t work on promises in Delacroix Landing.
And I don’t want such a monstrosity sitting in the
driveway. Maison Delacroix is famous for its long curving drive.”
"Its long, curving drive is choked with
weeds,” Margaret pointed out.
Gertrude
smiled, but not reassuringly. "So it is. Maybe you’d like
to start work there.”
"I’d like to find a paying job,
Gertrude.”
"Why? We can provide everything you need.
Don’t worry about your car, child. I have a
much better car at your disposal anytime you need it.”
"I need my independence. I need to feel I’m
paying my way. I need to have my own transportation.”
"We don’t encourage independent women
at Maison Delacroix,” Gertrude announced.
"If your son and two grandsons are still
living here, it doesn’t sound as if you encourage independence in your men, either,” Margaret shot back, then bit her lip. She’d thrown herself on Gertrude Delacroix’s mercy. Rudeness wasn’t going
to ensure her welcome, and for Carrie’s sake, she needed that
welcome, for just a little while, until she could get back on her feet.
To
Margaret’s relief and amazement, Gertrude didn’t look
affronted.
"Independence is something ingrained,
Margaret. I doubt if anything I did could keep you meek and subservient, and I
doubt that anything could make Eustacia or Remy stand up for themselves. As for
my grandchildren—there are extenuating circumstances.”
"Such as?”
"You’ll find out soon enough. Don’t ask
too many questions, my dear. One thing the South excels in is quiet, fierce
women, emphasis on the quiet. It wouldn’t do to stir things up too
much. Not at first. You’re like a strong sea breeze.
Very bracing, but not comfortable. We’ve settled into comfortable
ways around here. Don’t be too quick to condemn.”
"I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”
"Yes, it
was. A little rudeness can be refreshing every now and then. I’ll see about a paying job for
you. And you can use the Cadillac for transportation.”
Once
more Margaret had to swallow her pride, an indigestible meal. She looked down
at the little woman who now held her life and that of her child in one
arthritic hand and managed a lopsided smile. "You’re very
kind.”
Once
more Gertrude laughed her rusty laugh. "No, I’m not.
Go with Mrs. McKinley, and I’ll see you down here for drinks
at six.”
"I’m not sure I like her,” Carrie
whispered when they stepped out into the cavernous hallway.
Secretly
Margaret agreed with her, but she gave Carrie’s hand an encouraging squeeze. "Don’t worry
about it,” she said, sotto voce. "You’re
bigger than she is. I’d back you in a wrestling match
any day.”
Carrie
rewarded her with a giggle. "You told me not to fight.”
Before
Margaret could come up with an answer another voice broke through. "Mrs.
Delacroix doesn’t hold with fighting,” she
said, and Margaret felt her stomach drop. How much had the woman heard?
Plastering a serene smile on her face, she turned to look at Mrs. McKinley.
Maison
Delacroix, the moldering antebellum mansion that had the sheltered Delacroix
family for one hundred and seventy-five years, looked exactly as Margaret had expected—huge,
decaying surrounded by live oaks, and Gertrude had lived up to her
expectations. Mrs. McKinley did not. Margaret had been expecting someone akin
to Mammy in Gone with the Wind. Instead she found someone closer to
Gayle King, Oprah’s best friend, a slender,
ageless, fiercely intelligent woman.
"We were kidding,”Margaret said, hoping she didn’t sound as intimidated as she
felt. The woman merely nodded. "Mrs. Delacroix doesn’t have
a sense of humor,” the woman said flatly. "Follow
me and I’ll show you to your rooms.” She
led the way up the winding central staircase with a firm yet graceful tread, as
Carrie and Margaret struggled to keep up with her.
They
had reached the spacious second-floor landing and were heading toward the back
of the house, when a noise above them drew Margaret’s gaze.
A man was descending; a muscular, otherwise nondescript man of middle years,
with a tough face. He didn’t glance at the three women as
he made his way down the stairs, but just as he passed by, his jacket coat
flapped open, exposing a large service revolver tucked into his belt.
"Who’s that?” Carrie
asked, fascinated.
Mrs.
McKinley didn’t bother to look as she fitted a key in the
door at the end of the hallway, then pushed it open. "That’s just
Georges, honey,” she said. "One of the hired men. They don’t talk
to us.”