felt nothing for him, but had decided long ago, after Beauregard had been killed, that she could never love another man.
Although she'd slept with others, it hadn't beenlike Beau. That was love, and Edgar Petigru something else entirely. She hadn't been with a man for pure fun since 1863, but now toyed lazily with the idea. I guess I'm not dead inside after all, she reflected. I should never've let that boy stay here, but it's too late now.
She felt sleepy from so much worry and concern. Leaving the dirty glasses for the maid, she picked up the lantern, headed down the corridor, as rays of moonlight fell like spears all around her. She slowed as she approached the guest room, blew out the lantern, tiptoed to the door, and opened it silently.
The room was dark, but she could perceive Duane's outline against the white sheets, sprawled on his back, his arms like Jesus on the cross. The covers had fallen off him, and she felt a mad urge to bury her teeth in his shoulder. A shiver passed through her, and she stepped back quickly. I don't need this complication, on top of my other complications, she chided herself.
Vanessa entered her bedroom, closed the door, and drew the drapes together. A town like this, a face like thatâeveryone'll be talking about him spending the night here. She relit the lamp, undressed in front of the mirror, and viewed herself critically. Every night she noticed a new wrinkle, sag, or bulge. If I don't get married soon, I may never be able to attract a man, she reminded herself.
She blew out the candle, crawled into bed, and hugged her pillow, thinking of the young man in the guest room. Somebody's got to look out for him, she tried to tell herself. Southern hospitality didn't end the night they burned Old Dixie down. I'm not Petigru'sslave, or anybody else's. If I can't help a young man in need, what kind of world is this?
But she knew that she was lying. If he were a hunchback or midget she would've sent him away with a loaf of bread and a few dollars. I've got to stop thinking about him, she said silently, as she wrapped her long legs around her bedclothes. I'm going to get myself into deep trouble, if I don't settle down.
CHAPTER 3
D UANE OPENED HIS EYES, AND DIDN'T know whether he was in his cell at the monastery, a stagecoach stop, or a hotel room? French perfume arose from the pillow, and he visualized Vanessa Fontaine sipping wine in the darkness of her parlor. He felt electrified, as he contemplated her long, lean body, and breasts that could fill a man's hands.
Sunlight leaked through the drapes of the guest room. He had no idea of the time, but was mildly hungry. Somehow he couldn't get out of the warm comfortable bed. He bounced languidly a few times, and smiled at the continuing motion.
Now he understood thin straw mattresses in the monastery. A soft feather bed tempted a man to indolence and sins of the flesh. He thought of Vanessasleeping beneath the same roof, entwined in her nightgown and Civil War dreams. I've got to move out of here, he prompted himself, otherwise I'm liable to do something unbelievably bad.
He exerted his remaining willpower, and sat up. Unfamiliar clothing was draped over the chair beside him. Black jeans, red shirt, yellow bandanna, and black leather belt with big brass buckle. Quickly, he dressed before the mirror, anxious to see how he looked. Everything fit too big, but he gave the general appearance of a cowboy, except he'd never seen a cowboy wearing sandals.
The house was filled with the aroma of fresh coffee. In the kitchen, a large-busted, middle-aged Negro woman worked at the stove.
âI guess you're the new house guest,â she said. âHave a seat in the dining room. Are the clothes all right?â
âBest clothes I ever had,â he admitted.
âI picked them out myself. My name's Annabelle.â
âDuane Braddock.â
âYou're so pretty, you should've been born a girl.â
Duane pondered her remark, as he
Although she'd slept with others, it hadn't beenlike Beau. That was love, and Edgar Petigru something else entirely. She hadn't been with a man for pure fun since 1863, but now toyed lazily with the idea. I guess I'm not dead inside after all, she reflected. I should never've let that boy stay here, but it's too late now.
She felt sleepy from so much worry and concern. Leaving the dirty glasses for the maid, she picked up the lantern, headed down the corridor, as rays of moonlight fell like spears all around her. She slowed as she approached the guest room, blew out the lantern, tiptoed to the door, and opened it silently.
The room was dark, but she could perceive Duane's outline against the white sheets, sprawled on his back, his arms like Jesus on the cross. The covers had fallen off him, and she felt a mad urge to bury her teeth in his shoulder. A shiver passed through her, and she stepped back quickly. I don't need this complication, on top of my other complications, she chided herself.
Vanessa entered her bedroom, closed the door, and drew the drapes together. A town like this, a face like thatâeveryone'll be talking about him spending the night here. She relit the lamp, undressed in front of the mirror, and viewed herself critically. Every night she noticed a new wrinkle, sag, or bulge. If I don't get married soon, I may never be able to attract a man, she reminded herself.
She blew out the candle, crawled into bed, and hugged her pillow, thinking of the young man in the guest room. Somebody's got to look out for him, she tried to tell herself. Southern hospitality didn't end the night they burned Old Dixie down. I'm not Petigru'sslave, or anybody else's. If I can't help a young man in need, what kind of world is this?
But she knew that she was lying. If he were a hunchback or midget she would've sent him away with a loaf of bread and a few dollars. I've got to stop thinking about him, she said silently, as she wrapped her long legs around her bedclothes. I'm going to get myself into deep trouble, if I don't settle down.
CHAPTER 3
D UANE OPENED HIS EYES, AND DIDN'T know whether he was in his cell at the monastery, a stagecoach stop, or a hotel room? French perfume arose from the pillow, and he visualized Vanessa Fontaine sipping wine in the darkness of her parlor. He felt electrified, as he contemplated her long, lean body, and breasts that could fill a man's hands.
Sunlight leaked through the drapes of the guest room. He had no idea of the time, but was mildly hungry. Somehow he couldn't get out of the warm comfortable bed. He bounced languidly a few times, and smiled at the continuing motion.
Now he understood thin straw mattresses in the monastery. A soft feather bed tempted a man to indolence and sins of the flesh. He thought of Vanessasleeping beneath the same roof, entwined in her nightgown and Civil War dreams. I've got to move out of here, he prompted himself, otherwise I'm liable to do something unbelievably bad.
He exerted his remaining willpower, and sat up. Unfamiliar clothing was draped over the chair beside him. Black jeans, red shirt, yellow bandanna, and black leather belt with big brass buckle. Quickly, he dressed before the mirror, anxious to see how he looked. Everything fit too big, but he gave the general appearance of a cowboy, except he'd never seen a cowboy wearing sandals.
The house was filled with the aroma of fresh coffee. In the kitchen, a large-busted, middle-aged Negro woman worked at the stove.
âI guess you're the new house guest,â she said. âHave a seat in the dining room. Are the clothes all right?â
âBest clothes I ever had,â he admitted.
âI picked them out myself. My name's Annabelle.â
âDuane Braddock.â
âYou're so pretty, you should've been born a girl.â
Duane pondered her remark, as he
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