My Immortal (Seven Deadly Sins #1)(9)
Author: Erin McCarthy

"Cease your playacting," he said, sitting on the bed next to my waist. Having already peeled off his coat, he unbuttoned his vest and yanked his shirt loose, "I allowed it last night, but tonight I am of a mind to taste exactly what I’ve bought."

"I am not playacting. I feel quite ill." Behind the nausea a prickle of panic rose. Surely not. He wouldn’t. He hadn’t before, so he wouldn’t now.

"And I suppose last night you did not lock me out of your room?"

"No!" Such a thought had never even occurred to me, and had it, I wouldn’t have even known where to secure the key. But I never would have locked him out, even if the key had been placed right into my palm. In those days, I was honest and dutiful, lacking in manipulation and deviousness. I looked up at him in astonishment. "My door was open to you."

His green eyes were hard, dull with alcohol. "It does not become you to lie to me." When he leaned closer, I could smell the whiskey, and my stomach churned violently. His fingers brushed my hair back, causing me to tremble. It wasn’t a tender touch, that I knew. It was possessive, angry.

"I understand marriage was not your desire—that if it were left to you, you would have taken the veil."

I gave a slight nod. I could never let him know what it had cost me, how it had broken my heart to leave behind the convent, my sisters, the Church. "But I will endeavor to please you always."

He gave a slow, charming grin. "Will you, now?"

"Yes."

"Then lie back, Marie, and let us lift your skirts."

Do you know the feeling you have when a horse throws you and you land hard, air slapped out of your lungs? That is how I felt when Damien spoke. My shock was sufficient that I couldn’t say anything in return, could only blink up at him, heart racing.

"I am sorry that this marriage was not your choice, I truly am. But you were a gift to me, from King and country, to increase the blue in my offspring’s blood. For such a gift I paid most handsomely to support Louis’ latest building endeavors. I do not expect affection from you, but I do expect you will satisfy your duty to me."

I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak. It seemed much, much wiser not to argue with him. His chest blocked out the light from the candle behind him, and the room felt close, stifling. The boat rocked relentlessly and I felt small and scared, like I did when I was a child and I was momentarily lost in the shop from Maman. I was alone, no one to care, no one to save me. I was now Madame Damien du Bourg, my life would never be the same, and this harsh stranger owned my comfort, my days and nights, my destiny.

I suppose he tried to include me. To engage me. But I felt so cold, so ill, so detached, that I could only lie there stiff, still as a stone. His mouth on mine was suffocating, his hands invasive. He kissed me over and over, in unimaginable places, wrinkling and tugging my skirts and my bodice, and tears rolled down my cheeks, dropping behind my ears onto the bed, I felt a great rocking wave of feat; shame, and sadness, that overwhelmed me as surely as my seasickness did.

"I grow impatient," he murmured once. "Kiss me back,"

I tried, but I failed. My stomach, it hurt ever so much, and I felt the cold, hard eyes of a stranger on me, his hands touching me, his body pressed against mine, crushing bones, muscle, heart, and lungs.

The pain shocked me, took my breath away, set a little yelp tripping off over my lips before I could stop it.

Then it was done and he was standing up, buttoning. He wiped his bottom lip, head going back and forth. His scoff was disgusted. "That most definitely was not worth my ten thousand livre."

When we arrived in the port of New Orleans, the brackish water clinging to the ship, a fetid smell rising up our nostrils, and grasping water foliage swaying and reaching for us, Damien gave a grim smile and said, "Welcome to Louisiana, Marie."

He might as well have welcomed me to Hell.

Marley had grown up in Cincinnati, had spent her whole life on the banks of the Ohio River, knew the mystique surrounding paddle boats, and was aware of how vital the rivers had been in the history of United States commerce. But Cincinnati was nothing like New Orleans. Cincinnati was just as hot and humid in the summer, but it lacked the wild, wet growth of the Louisiana waterways. Her hometown was careful, family-oriented, one foot in a northern climate, one foot in the southern mores of church and chatting.

New Orleans had a wildness inherent to it that Marley didn’t understand, that made her uncomfortable, even as it drew and pulled on her. She wanted to go back to Rosa de Montana—to encourage Damien du Bourg to help her find Lizzie, no question about it, but also because she wanted to see the inside of his plantation house. She was curious whether he had done to it what he’d done to the pigeonnier—blended old-world architecture with modern style. And she was curious about Damien, she had to admit, way more than she was comfortable with.

The night before, she’d rented a car, extended her stay at her hotel until the weekend, and had made a last-ditch effort to find Lizzie by calling their cousin Rachel to see if she’d checked in. Lizzie hadn’t called Rachel, and Marley had spent a restless night staring at the ivory, textured hotel ceiling, the light in the sprinkler head flicking on and off as she worried. In ten days she had to be back at work for the start of the school year, but how could she possibly go home without her sister?

It wasn’t possible, that was the problem.

In the morning, she made herself maps using her laptop and the printer in the business center of the hotel, and drove to the police station. They were polite, but unconcerned, especially since she had no real proof Lizzie had been in New Orleans. She filled out the necessary missing person forms then headed out to River Road, past half a dozen other plantation houses. If she’d been there for pleasure, she would have stopped at each and every one and explored.

But this wasn’t about pleasure, and she was going to stay alert and smart. If Damien knew anything about Lizzie, she was going to have to convince him to tell her.

When she reached the end of the drive and parked in front of the house, Damien came out of the pigeonnier, which she thought he used as an office. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and hiking boots, but not the rustic kind. When she looked at him, she didn’t see an athlete going climbing, or a workman on his way to fix something. What she saw was wealth, confidence, and a slight European flavor that was the influence of his French ancestry.

Marley had never attracted a lot of men, good looking or otherwise. That had been Lizzie’s specialty, and Marley had never minded her sister’s popularity. She herself had never fantasized about or coveted the cream of the social crop. Her goal had always been to find a nice guy who was intelligent and kind and respectful. Never once had she wavered in that desire, that conviction, that certainty. No bad boys for her.