The image that came to her mind as she spoke was of a gymnasium that Tim had once described. Tim's boxing days were long since over, but he still got into the ring from time to time, just to prove he could. There were men at the gym who made their income fighting others. They weren't content to be pummeled indiscriminately. They were good enough boxers to give back some of what they took, but only some, and then only so that the men who paid them could hone their own skills.

"You want a sparring partner." She hoped he would deny it.

He laughed. "And what do you know of such things, Rory?"

"Enough to see the similarity."

"Right now I just want the woman."

She shivered. The sun was gone now, and Doris must be, too. The house was theirs, and since the reception had been sumptuous, there was no need to eat a meal before they retired.

She sensed that this was no time to act the shy maiden. Henry would relish signs of weakness, and the results would not bode well for the rest of their marriage. Her gaze didn't waver. "The woman is yours."

"I think not. But she soon will be." He stepped closer. His fingers were warm against the back of her neck, and unyielding. She didn't close her eyes when he kissed her, and he didn't close his. She rested her hands on his shoulders, but she didn't push him away. She let him kiss her, let him take greater intimacies with his tongue, without a murmur of protest. Only when she tried to ease her position and found he wouldn't allow it did she feel the first flicker of fear.

Relief filled her when the kiss ended. He put his arm around her waist and guided her toward the house. From a great distance she could hear the honking of geese, but she and Henry were so very alone.

Inside, the lamps had been lit. There was no electricity here, and the softer glow should have been romantic. Instead, it seemed only to blur boundaries, as if nothing in the house were defined. As undefined, perhaps, as what was about to occur.

He left her alone in the guest room to dress for bed. The covers had been turned down, eyelet-trimmed sheets over a sprigged muslin comforter. A small coal fire burned in a decorative corner stove, but the room was still chilly. She undressed hurriedly, slipping into a gown and robe of handkerchief linen she had embroidered herself. She took her hair down at a table by the window. She was brushing it when Henry came into the room.

He stood near the doorway, watching her. He was wearing dark pajamas and half a smile. She turned so that she could see him as she finished. He stood with his weight on his front foot, as if he were ready to spring. She returned his smile, half for half, as she laid her brush on the table. When she separated her hair to braid it, he spoke. "Don't."

She nodded. "All right." She stood and shook it back over her shoulders. He seemed larger, somehow, and completely a stranger. Without the stiffness of a corset encasing her, she felt far too pliable and tempting, like a rag doll at the mercy of a spoiled child.

"Come here, Rory."

She wanted him to come to her, but even more vital, she didn't want him to be angry. She moved toward him, her eyes focused on his. She could read nothing there, neither desire nor a lack of it. He waited, as still as the water outside their window. Then she was in his arms, and no part of him was still.

Only later, when she was naked against him, her hair twisted tightly in his hands to keep her close as he slept, her body bruised and plundered, did she close her eyes and weep.

He had never lied to her. He had told her that he sought power, and she had foolishly accepted it as part of his masculinity. She had believed her own power was great enough to resist him. In the early hours of the morning, Aurore knew she was a fool.

Henry had taken her joylessly twice more in the night, both times just as she had finally relaxed into a restless sleep. He seemed to savor catching her defenseless, sinking into her before she could prepare for the onslaught, pinning her beneath him so that she couldn't adjust for what was to come.

He had poured out obscenities about her lack of virginity, and she had known better than to deny them. She had felt like a virgin, as if this humiliation were the real deflowering and the foolish joy she had felt in Rafe's arms a childhood dream.

She had stared at him in the darkness, willing herself not to cry or cry out. She had made no attempts to refuse him her body, had not even pleaded with him to be gentle. She had borne his abuse with silence and the shreds of her tattered dignity, and just before dawn, when his l.u.s.t was finally satisfied and he slept, exhausted, she lay quietly beside him and considered what to do next.

Henry knew that she had once had a lover, and when he awoke again, she was certain she would be forced to answer questions. The truth was a great temptation. Henry would investigate and discover who and what Rafe was. He might even be furious enough to take revenge against him.

Aurore's heart quickened at the thought. As sunrise lightened the sky, she realized that today she hated Rafe more than ever. She felt none of the wistful warmth she had felt at the altar. Rafe had taught her love, made her believe in its mystical possibilities, so that a night in Henry's arms seemed even more of a blasphemy. The desire for revenge was a knot inside her that tightened until she could barely draw a breath. If Henry punished Rafe, then some good would have come of the night.

But if Henry punished Rafe, then Nicolette might be punished, too. Aurore couldn't let that happen. Her child's life was precarious enough. She could only imagine what Nicolette was exposed to in that house, that despicable house on Basin Street. If Rafe wasn't there to offer his protection, what might happen? The day he took Nicolette, he had warned her that if she tried to harm him, she might harm their daughter instead. Now she could see how neatly the trap protected him.

She couldn't be honest with Henry, no matter how much she craved revenge. She had to tell him a lie he might believe, one he could neither prove nor disprove. She had considered this before, but not in depth. She had hoped that Henry wouldn't notice or care that she wasn't a virgin. She was older than the average bride. Surely he had considered the fact that, at twenty-five, she might not be pure.

She still wasn't sure that he cared, but he had noticed. His denouncement might well be a way of gaining control over her, but even so, she still had to answer to him.

She decided to tell him that her lover had been a business acquaintance of her father's, an older man, a European perhaps, and that when she went to him, after Lucien's death, she had discovered that he was already married. Heartbroken by everything that had happened, she had sought solace in travel until her heart was healed enough to allow her to return to New Orleans-which would also explain her long absence.

She would beg for forgiveness, a.s.sure Henry that she had only been young and foolish, and that the man had taken advantage of her innocence. She would refuse to give his name, claiming that he was rich and powerful and could create great trouble for Henry if he tried to expose him. She sensed that Henry would like knowing that his wife had once been the mistress of a powerful European, that in Henry's eyes her sins would be at least partially absolved by her good taste.

What to do about the rest of her life was much less clear. She was married to a ruthless man who wanted nothing more than to dominate her completely. She had shut her eyes to the worst truths about Henry, believing that she was strong enough to stand up to him. Now she doubted her strength. He had not won everything he sought last night, but he had already made inroads into her soul. She had to prevent him from destroying her.

She felt him stir beside her, felt his grip tighten on her hair. She turned on her side to stare at him, careful not to let her feelings show. "My wife," he said.

"I would say, my husband, my husband, but the words would stick in my throat." but the words would stick in my throat."

"Don't tell me last night wasn't to your liking?" He smiled; it was a placid, friendly smile. "Were your other lovers better, Rory?"

"There was only one."

"And why should I believe that?"

"Because it's the truth." She didn't shrink away as he slid closer. She made herself return his stare. "I'll tell you about him, if you prefer it that way. Then, perhaps, we can be done with this."

"By all means, tell me."

With no embellishments, she repeated the story she had created. "I was young," she finished. "And ignorant. I made a terrible mistake, but now I ask you to put it behind us. I was wrong not to tell you before we married."

"I would imagine you hadn't yet thought of a story." He released her hair, and his hand traveled to her breast. This morning his fingers were gentle against her bruised skin. "When did this one occur to you? This morning, while I slept?"

She felt him gather her breast in his hand, and then pain streaked through her. "I'm smaller and weaker than you are," she whispered through a haze of tears, "but if you continue to hurt me this way, I'll find a way to hurt you. So help me G.o.d."

"Will you? That could be interesting." He didn't release her, but he didn't hurt her again.

"I've told you the truth. Now let me go."

He flattened her against the bed so quickly that she couldn't defend herself. "You've forgotten the truth," he said. "I'm sure that's all. You wouldn't be foolish enough to lie to me, would you, Rory?"

She turned her head and refused to answer.

"I'll tell you why," he continued. "Lies only work if the truth isn't known. And I always know the truth, because I make it my business. Do you see how simple it is?"

She waited for him to violate her. They were married, but what he intended was a violation. And, despite everything, she couldn't dredge up any hatred for him. She had lied to him, and she could never tell him the truth. Which of them was the more despicable?

When he entered her, she was surprised by the absence of pain. He moved slowly, carefully, as if protecting a precious possession. His thumb traced the path of her tears, caressing her cheek with a featherlight touch. She steeled herself for the return of his brutality, but he seduced her with gentleness, murmuring endearments and soothing words. He didn't trap her against him; when she moved, he accommodated himself to her. When she tried to push him away, he took her hands and kissed them.

She was more shocked by his gentleness than she had been by his violence, and more frightened. She was exhausted and distraught, and her thoughts were no longer clear. She felt herself responding to him, like a beaten dog who comes back to lick the hand of its master. She tried to steel herself against this new, deceitful tenderness, but the feel of his body healing what he had hurt was so welcome, she could only relax into grat.i.tude.

He kissed her cheeks, her lips, her earlobes. He whispered apologies and gathered her close, as if true intimacy were his only wish. Her eyelids closed. She could almost believe him, almost convince herself that he'd had a right to his anger and that she had deserved the abuse of last night. When his rhythm quickened, the first tendrils of desire warmed her. Her body, taught to respond by a man she now hated, was responding to another. Her eyes flew open, and she gasped in confusion; she saw victory in his. She tried again to push him away, but her hands only fluttered uselessly against his chest.

She cried out once, surrendering in pleasure what she had refused him in pain.

Afterward he pulled her into his arms and held her close. His body was slick with sweat, and she wanted to move away. Instead, she forced herself to settle against him. She was confused and appalled by her own response, but she knew better than to let him see it. She had not found release, but she had given him far too much.

"I have something for you."

She sighed, fighting back tears. "Do you?"

"A gift. A trinket, really."

"Why should you give me anything? Haven't you already gotten what you wanted?"

"Consider it a reward of sorts." He moved away, and she felt only grat.i.tude. She watched him stride to the armoire where Doris had hung his clothes. He took something from the pocket of his coat before he returned. She sat up, searching for the gown he had stripped away the night before, but he turned back the covers, burying it somewhere beneath them. She was icy-cold. The fire had gone out, and the sun hadn't yet warmed the room, but when she reached for the covers he blocked her.

He held out his hand. "For you."

She was trembling-whether from exposure or from the acc.u.mulation of emotions, she wasn't sure. She held out her hand in response and watched it waver.

He unclasped his fingers until his hand was flat in front of her. A locket lay against his palm.

She drew her hand back sharply.

"Don't you want it, Rory? I thought you might."

She raised her eyes to his and saw that there was no use in lying. "How did you get it?"

"Stories are better if they start with 'Once upon a time,' but I will tell you that a certain madam in the district is easily bribed."

She wondered if he knew everything, or if he was making guesses, hoping she would confirm them. "Just tell me you didn't hurt her." She pleaded with her eyes. "Tell me she's all right."

"Who, Rory?"

She spoke her daughter's name through a lump in her throat.

"Nicolette," he murmured, as if savoring the word. "She's a sa.s.sy little thing. She's allowed in the wh.o.r.ehouse parlor sometimes, I understand, to entertain the gentlemen."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"You've aimed your little insult at the wrong target, haven't you? Your daughter is the b.a.s.t.a.r.d-a light-skinned n.i.g.g.e.r b.a.s.t.a.r.d, at that. And her father's the same."

"If you hurt her..."

"Finish the sentence." He stroked her cheek. "I think you've forgotten which of us is vulnerable."

She didn't flinch. "Why did you marry me if you knew?"

"I married you because I knew."

She understood then just how far-reaching his quest for power was. He had chosen her because she had a secret he could expose if she fought his control. Her secret, as much as her name and her bloodline, had made her the perfect choice as his wife.

She had only one chance to turn this around, to make the rest of her life tolerable instead of the h.e.l.l her mother had endured. One terrible chance, and if she waited, it would be over. "There's one thing you didn't understand."

"Enlighten me."

"You've badly overestimated what you can do to me."

"Have I? I can expose you for what you are. I know at first I might be tainted, too. But when the gossip dies down, I'll be the martyr and you'll be the outcast. I might lose a little respect, but you'll lose everything."

"You still don't understand." She lifted her head higher. "I have nothing to lose."

"You have Gulf Coast. Do you think you could stay in the city and continue to run it? You would be banned from every social and business gathering. No one would help you. No one would patronize you. In a matter of months, Gulf Coast would be gone."

"I see that." She forced herself to appear calm. "And maybe that would be best."

"There is nowhere you could go, Rory, where your secret wouldn't follow. Be sure of that."

"There are places where my secret would only make me more attractive. Places like Paris, places far away from you and your bed, Henry. And if I'm not in your bed, how will you get the sons you want so badly? This is a Catholic city, and even if your interest in the church is political, you have to respect its laws. You can't divorce me, no matter what I've done, and I don't believe my past is good enough reason for annulment."

He smiled. "I knew you had courage. I didn't realize the full extent. But you've forgotten. I know where your daughter lives. I know who your lover was. And I can affect their lives."

She suppressed a shudder. "Why should I care if you affect Rafe Cantrelle's life?"

She waited one heartbeat, two. There was no change in his expression, but she thought her words had given him pause. "When you were delving into my past, did you discover how much I hate him?" she asked.

He inclined his head, as if to see her from a different perspective.

"I would like to see him punished for what he did to me, but Nicolette is innocent, and I don't believe in hurting children."

"You love her."

"No. I have feelings for her. She's my child. But if I loved her, don't you think I would have kept her? I could have found a way. So make no mistakes when you measure the lengths you would have to go to hurt me. Nicolette is a weapon you have at your disposal, but not of the magnitude you hoped for. And if you harm her, I'll retaliate."

He laughed.

She lowered her voice. "On the blood of my unborn children, I swear to you that whatever you do to my daughter, I will do to a son of yours."

"You're insane."

"Like my mother before me." She smiled, though she felt sick. "There are things I want from you, Henry. If you give them to me, I'll stay with you of my own free will and be a model wife and mother. I want Gulf Coast rebuilt. I want children, and whatever kind of life we can make together. But if you harm my daughter or try to ruin me, you'll find you've married a demon!"

He stared at her, as if gauging her performance. Her own words swirled in her head until she didn't know which were true and which were lies. She only knew she was fighting for what was left of her life, just as she would have to fight him every day of the rest of it.

Finally he reached for her hand and put the locket in it, closing her fingers around it. "We'll see."

"Yes. We will." She saw that his eyes were the same untroubled green, but she thought she saw admiration there. Of course, like everything else about him, it could be a lie, or only a portion of the truth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.