Her hair was the one thing she’d always liked. Thick, with a natural wave, it shined from her brushing and hung all the way down her back like a curtain of ebony silk. Her aunt, her mother’s sister and the woman who had raised her, once told her that the hair came from
her
side, the Spanish side of the family, but her stubbornness was obviously from her father’s Scottish side.
Bethany, nine years old at the time, had spoke with a Scots brogue every night for a week after that, but though she would have loved to spite her aunt more thoroughly, it was Spain’s history that always held her in thrall. Spanish was the language she’d studied in school, and Spain’s empire the topic of her history thesis. Why couldn’t her aunt have been Scottish?
A noise in the corner brought her back to her awareness of the room beyond the unusual private bath, with its own vanity table and small, cushioned chair.
Isabel’s room. The reason she was here.
The young woman must have been the apple of her parents’ eye, if the room was any indication. It wasn’t the master suite, but it may as well have been. It was a large room with walls the color of the Caribbean Sea. A room with its own bath and a door leading out onto the balcony. A room fit for a princess.
That noise again.
“Who’s there?” She walked into the bedroom and looked around. No one. “Emmanuel? Great. My first night and I’m already talking to a ghost.”
Had the books she’d set on the nightstand been moved? She walked over to the bed. “Michelle told me you were a bit of an imp. But she said you were a good friend, and I shouldn’t be nervous that blood would leak from the walls or you’d toss my bed around while I’m sleeping. She also said Isabel’s hidden panel was in this room, and she’d kept everything there for safekeeping until I arrived. I wonder if you can help me find it. Not that I’m snooping or anything.”
She was babbling to herself. Lovely.
One of the books had fallen to the floor. That must have been the noise she’d heard. She knelt down, her legs tangling in her nightgown as she reached for the book. A cool breeze rode up her spine once more, and she took a deep, calming breath. “Okay, so you’re trying to tell me something. Or this is a very drafty old house.”
She looked at the wooden floor where the book had fallen. There was a board that looked more worn then the others. “She said panel, not floorboard.” The air grew colder, and Bethany shrugged. “All right, I’ll look. But if you make me break the rich man’s house for no reason, I’m totally blaming you.”
It was loose, but not loose enough to have been moved recently. This was
not
the secret hiding place Michelle had been talking about. It couldn’t be.
She lifted the board and reached up for her small book light, flipping it on and lowering it into the small space she’d uncovered. Letters. It looked like there were three of them. Folded carefully, yellowed with age, they were tied together with a ribbon of lace. She lifted them gently and then her light caught something glinting beneath them.
A locket? She reached for the chain and felt a zap of electricity. Strange. “Michelle is going to be mad you didn’t tell her about this, Manuel. I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. Emmanuel just seems like such a big name for such a little boy.”
She waited for the breeze that signified his presence but felt nothing. Had he left now that she’d found what he wanted her to find? “Hey, Shorty.”
Nothing. He had to be gone. She would have gotten a tug on her hair for sure after that remark.
Adrenaline raced through her system. Letters. She gathered up her treasure and hopped onto the bed, lowering the blankets and fluffing the pillows to get comfortable. Were they invitations? Letters from suitors? They must be something special for Isabel, or whoever had lived in this room after her, to have been tucked away so stealthily.
She wrapped the old-fashioned locket around her neck, pinning it to her nightgown. Somehow it felt right to wear it as she carefully untied the lace and unfolded the first letter. She would be the first person to read these since they’d been hidden! The thrill of discovery made her giddy. She slipped on her black-framed reading glasses.
Eighteen twenty-seven. That was the date at the top of the letter. The month of September. Nearly two hundred years ago.
“Good grief.”
There was no formal address at the beginning. No indication of who it was at the bottom. Was it a journal entry? She started to read, biting her cheek to hold back her squeak of excitement.
Other suitors would speak of your beauty, call you “my darling, my dearest.” Others may compare you to a cold and distant goddess. You are far from cold, fiery Isabel. You are passion incarnate, sent to tempt me . . .
“Oh my.” Bethany caressed the brass locket as she read. Her body heated, her mouth forming the words that detailed how well this man knew Isabel’s body. About the night he’d come to her room, how he’d climbed up to her balcony. How she’d let him in.
1827
New Orleans
“You shouldn’t be here, Marcel.” Isabel knew herself to be a hypocrite. If he had any inkling of how desperately she’d wanted him to come, how she’d paced her rooms praying that he would, it would make a mockery of her protest. And now . . . what if someone found them?
“Isabel, my fire. How could I stay away?”
Dios mio
, how could one man be so beautiful? She couldn’t tear her gaze away as he shut the balcony doors, turned the lock, and started to undress.
She raised a hand to cover her breasts, easily visible beneath the thin white nightgown, and he bit his lower lip, then spoke, his voice rasping and low. “Don’t cover yourself, Isabel. Not from me. I’ve seen those perfect breasts, held them in my hands, though not long enough for my liking. Our first time was too short. I need more.”
Oh, she did, too. Some of her friends, recently wed, told horror stories about the honeymoon night. Perhaps she was of lesser moral fiber. Or maybe it was her mother’s French blood. Whatever the cause, her desire for Marcel had made their first tryst at her friend’s masked ball the most exciting, romantic night of her life, despite her scandalous behavior.
He’d found her in the library, where she’d gone to get away from all the puffed up Creole dandies. Young and old men of fortune or title, sometimes both. All seeking an alliance with her family. Her name. Praising her beauty, as though it was an accomplishment, her
only
accomplishment. All of them left her cold.
Marcel had taken off his mask and she’d recognized him as the handsome rider she’d seen on her walks with Catherine. The one who always seemed to run into them, getting off his horse to talk to Isabel about the book she was holding, or the weather, or the latest news of the town. The man she’d been dreaming of for months.
Catherine had known everything about him and wasted no time in telling her after their first meeting. Their mothers both studied under Marie Laveau, learning to be hairdressers by day and voodoo priestesses by night. Catherine and Marcel traveled in the same circles. The circles her father would have beaten her soundly for being aware of.
According to Catherine, Marcel’s mother had been the belle of her quadroon ball, so beautiful everyone wanted her, despite the rumors of her ties to voodoo. His father was a Frenchman Isabel knew well, since his acknowledged heir from his
recognized
marriage had been attempting to court her all season. Their fathers talked business and smoked cigars while their mothers had tea, all of them ignoring the arrangement of
plaçage
he’d made with the Creole woman, and the son that had come from that union. It was a scandalous story of lust and infidelity, one Isabel shouldn’t be privy to.
Just as Marcel should not have been allowed to the party that night at all. Yet he had come. For her. And showed her that all the rumors she’d heard about him were true. He was an exquisite lover. She could not resist his advances, did not want to. When he’d set her on the desk and knelt at her feet . . . She’d had no idea a mouth could do such things. It was she who had begged for more, who eagerly bent over her friend’s father’s desk and lifted her skirts for him. For Marcel.
Perhaps there
was
something wrong with her, for even though she had searched her heart these past few days, she could find no trace of regret.
She lifted her chin defiantly, though it trembled. Her body’s reaction to him was frightening. Overwhelming. Perhaps he’d bewitched her.
“You have other lovers. I’ve heard the women whispering about you. Even Catherine says you dallied with one of her cousins for a time. Why not seek out one of them if you are in need?”
He was naked now, aroused. Her thighs quivered, her skin flushing as she tried not to stare. He stalked her like a jungle predator, backing her up until her thighs hit the bed. “Catherine is no authority on my love life, my sweet. And you should never listen to idle gossip.” He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and she shivered. “I will never lie to you, Isabel. There have been others whom I’ve pleasured well. Virgins, as you were, who offered themselves to me, and experienced women who craved more than their fat, pale husbands could provide. It is a fact I have taken great pride in.”
Isabel flinched and turned her back on him, but he gripped her shoulders firmly, refusing to give her space. “You
will
hear this. The stories are true. But they are all in the past. From the moment I laid eyes on my fire flower, my Isabel, no other would do. I’d risk everything for another taste of you, for one smile from those luscious lips. I need you, only you. Look into my eyes and know I speak the truth.”
He turned her back toward him and she found herself lost in his blazing amber gaze. She knew. What was between them was too powerful to be a lie. Too strong for rules to bind. She was his.
“Kiss me, Marcel.”
“
Yes
.”
She cupped his jaw with her slender hand, marveling. They were nearly the same color. Light bronze, golden skin. So similar and yet their worlds were never allowed to touch. “Touch me. Please.”
“I’ve been dreaming of you saying those exact words for days, sweet Isabel. Forever.”
He slipped off her nightgown and lowered her gently onto the bed. But she didn’t want gentle. Everyone treated her as though she were made of porcelain. Cold. But Marcel called to the fire inside her. He knew her need was as great as his own. She wanted to be taken as he took her that first night.
Feeling his hard body pressed against hers, no skirts or ruffles, no buttons between them, was heaven. He lifted his head from her neck and she could see in his expression that he felt the same. Her hands lifted from their lax position by her head, reaching up to run her fingers through his cacao-colored curls. Like warm silk in her palms. She tugged.
Marcel smiled. “Impatient, love? We have all night.”
Isabel moaned in frustration. She was unstudied. One of his other lovers may know how to entice him, how to show him that the slow kisses he was peppering her shoulders with, her breasts with . . .
yes, just there
. . . were not enough.
His erection telegraphed his heartbeat against the curve of her hip and she held her breath. Did she dare to touch him as she had so often in her daydreams? To taste him as he had tasted her? Could she be so bold?
One of her hands left his hair and slid down his tensing back. His lips paused on her hard nipple, his body still as he waited to see what she would do. Her fingers tingled as they slid around his hip, feeling the bone and sinew, the fine hairs on his body. Her hand slid between their bodies and curled around his hot shaft, her lashes fluttering at the bolt of electricity that shot up her arm and into her core.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” Marcel growled. “Is that all you can say? Grip it tighter, Isabel. Yes, like that. It doesn’t hurt. It feels . . .
Merde,
love, it feels so . . .”
PRESENT
“Perfect.”
Bethany nearly tumbled out of bed as the masculine groan echoed through the room. No one was there. She noticed the letter, slightly crumpled in her hand, and swore. What had happened? How could she have fallen asleep in the middle of reading such a priceless letter? She should have been more careful.
Marcel.
“What a dream.”
Somehow the letter from Isabel’s rather descriptive bed partner had become one hell of a realistic sexual fantasy for her. One that had ended too soon. Her body was on fire for her late night lover. For
Isabel’s
lover.
“Why Marcel? There are tons of other names to choose from. Jacques. Pierre. Etienne. Okay, not Etienne, but still, Marcel?” She shrugged, pushing back the covers and refolding the letter to set it carefully on top of the others on the bedside table.
Only she would take a simple piece of correspondence and turn it into a saga of star-crossed lovers. That kind of story always ended badly. The reality was no doubt simpler to explain. Sweet, innocent Isabel was not so innocent, and she had a bit too much fun during her coming out. But, according to Michelle, no one knew what happened to her. There were no records of her existence. No paintings. Not even the ghost, Emmanuel, could tell her what had happened to her.
Maybe she’d run away with her lover.
Maybe she was buried in the walls.
Beth got up and shuffled her feet across the smooth wooden floor. She turned on the faucet on the bathroom vanity sink and splashed her face. “I should have brought my toys. Who cares if the security cameras see them? Or guards pull them out in front of everyone at the airport and embarrass me. Am I supposed to buy new ones every time I travel?”
Bethany looked into the mirror and was swept away. She was Isabel. Beautiful, blue-eyed, raven-haired Isabel. Naked and being fucked against the vanity by a lust-crazed Marcel.