Dark Secrets, Deep Bayous

By Meg Hennessy

Dark Secrets, Deep Bayous (A Secrets of the Bayous Novel) by Meg Hennessy

A love kindled behind two masks...

A wealthy woman of mixed blood, Aurélie Fentonot has few options for marriage, but she also carries a burden: she must break a curse placed on the land of her ancestors. She sells herself to an American planter to reclaim the land he stole, though he stirs a deep, burning passion that could too easily distract her. But her American has dark secrets that threaten her plans...and could shatter her heart.

A curse that demands their unmasking...

Jordan Kincaid must marry the Creole beauty or face arrest as a pirate before he completes his dire mission. Though he'll risk everything for revenge, Aurèlie's soothing and seductive ways remind him there's more to life than vengeance. But he's not as he pretends and when danger closes in on them, Jordan soon learns...neither is she.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Aug 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781622662616

Book preview

Simmering beneath the dark waters, lies love, secrets, and deception…

A love kindled behind two masks…

A wealthy woman of mixed blood, Aurélie Fentonot has few options for marriage, but she also carries a burden: she must break a curse placed on the land of her ancestors. She sells herself to an American planter to reclaim the land he stole, though he stirs a deep, burning passion that could too easily distract her. But her American has dark secrets that threaten her plans…and could shatter her heart.

A curse that demands their unmasking…

Jordan Kincaid must marry the Creole beauty or face arrest as a pirate before he completes his dire mission. Though he’ll risk everything for revenge, Aurélie’s soothing and seductive ways remind him there’s more to life than vengeance. But he’s not as he pretends and when danger closes in on them, Jordan soon learns…neither is she.

Dark Secrets,

Deep Bayous

a Secrets of the Bayous novel

Meg Hennessy

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Meg Hennessy. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Select is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Erin Molta

Cover design by Heidi Stryker & Kerri-Leigh Grady

ISBN 978-1-62266-261-6

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition August 2014

As always, to my family, John, Tressa, Ryan, and Julian.

Thank you.

A special dedication to my father, Julius Netto, the Old Salt of the Gulf Waters. His history and sense of adventure while growing up on the Gulf Coast has oftentimes inspired my writing. I never sailed in my life, but my father, at the age of ninety-two, taught me enough to help Jordan and Aurélie sail the open waters on a majestic tall ship.

To the Wisconsin Romance Writers and especially the Wednesday Night Brainstormers, who meet every week with laptops and coffee in hand, to support and encourage each other. Meeting with these dedicated writers, kept me on track. It was with their support and great ideas, I wrote, The Secrets of the Bayou.

Prologue

Louisiana Bayou, 1804

Boom…

Aurélie gasped and sat up in bed the moment she heard the first strike of the drum. Her muslin gown stuck to the sweat of her body. She drew a raspy breath of courage and listened.

Boom…

Stop, she whispered as the sound penetrated her body. The night had become so suffocating she could not inhale. She stumbled from her bed, dragging in a deep breath of salt-laced air as the sound of drums continued from the shadows of the night.

Boom…boom…boom.

For nearly a week, every night at the stroke of midnight, she’d heard the hollow beats. They’d float atop the evening breeze from the dark bayous just beyond her home.

She opened the casement window and knelt down on the banquette, watching the shadows thicken around her house. All her life, she’d lived on the bayous and had heard every sound of the stirring swamp life at night…until the drums.

She pushed off the banquette, covering her ears, not wanting to hear them anymore.

Stop, she pleaded, "arrêtez, s’il vous plaît."

She braced herself, waiting for the images to invade her mind, pictures of something unknown, as they had every night since the start of the mysterious drums.

First she’d see a ship.

Aurélie closed her eyes, straining to hear the voices of the sailors, knowing they’d always find a man floating in the water and pull him aboard. He was dressed in black breeches, a black but soaked overcoat, and waterlogged boots. His cravat had been stained with blood, and around his neck he wore a silver medallion.

Oh my God, the captain would always say, do you know who this is?

And that was it. The vision would end.

Slowly, Aurélie rose to her feet, tucked her hair under her capote, pulled a cloak over her muslin frock, and then laced up her leather half boots. She pulled her crucifix off her bedside table and draped it around her neck.

Moonshine hung over the bayou, entangled within the heavy moss woven between the black willows and cypress trees covering the backyard. Aurélie stepped outside and walked toward the shimmering waters and…the drums.

The bayous were at least two hundred feet from the house. From the side yard, a small, narrow chenier extended through the swamp, connecting to the land on the other side. The drums were in there…somewhere…buried within the gloom of the night.

Strangely drawn to the sound, she walked through tall marsh grass thickened around gum trees and thirsty cottonwoods until the ground felt boggy beneath her feet. She had stopped too close to the bayou’s edge, water seeped through the soles of her half boots and crept over her ankles, anchoring her feet to the swamp’s gooey floor.

She drew a sharp breath as the sleeping waters stirred to life. The drums came closer and closer. Their rhythm matching that of her pounding heart and the agitated water. She screamed, struggling to reach shore. The more she struggled, the more she sank deeper beneath the surface of the water.

BOOM…BOOM…BOOM.

Her muscles grew tired and tears filled her eyes. "Père! Mère! Help me!"

Take my hand, child, a man whispered from above her.

She looked up—startled. The drumming had stopped. The night fell silent and the water calmed. She focused on the silhouette standing on the edge of the marsh. He stretched his hand toward her.

"Pa…Papitte?" she whispered.

Her grandfather smiled. You come, child, take my hand.

Aurélie reached out and placed her small hand within the long strong fingers of her grandfather. With one yank, he had her on shore. Water streamed from her boots and nightdress, bringing on another shiver, but he seemed not to notice.

The drumming started again.

Aurélie kept her hand well within her grandfather’s strong grip, frightened by the loneliness of the night. She walked alongside him, winding through the large oaks that grew atop the chenier, until they had crossed through the bayou to the neighboring land that had once been called Yellow Sun. Her grandfather had owned much land on that side of the bayou, but now it belonged to the American family, Kincaid, and had been renamed Liberty Oak. They stepped into a clearing surrounded by sugarcane. A small fire burned in the center.

"Papitte? She glanced around them. You are out here at night, why?"

Because you are, little one. You hear the drums. His dark face, tired and aged like sun-baked leather, reflected the light of his teeth when he smiled. Reaching down, he filled his hand with soil then turned her palm upward to catch the moist dirt as he sifted it through his fingers. "This land, Itcitem Tcaa, belongs to my people, the Chitimacha, your people. Upon the ninth night the land, and all who live here, will be cursed. But you, my child, will break the curse."

"I cannot. I am of many people, Papitte, my blood, much mixed, n’est pas? I have Chitimacha blood, but I too have French, Haitian—"

That’s why you have magic.

He picked her up and carried her back along the chenier.

"And the man, who is the man, Papitte? I see a man pulled from the water and into a ship when the drums start. I save him, non?"

I cannot say about the man in the water. When her grandfather reached the edge of her yard, he lowered her to the ground. Remember the land of your ancestors that you must save.

His voice faded as he seemed to disappear into the night and she found herself standing alone in the darkness. "Papitte?"

Lights appeared near the house. The commotion caught her attention.

Aurélie! her father called to her, his voice most urgent. "Where are you, ti fi?"

"I am here, Père, I am here!" She ran toward his voice until she was swooped up into her father’s strong arms, just where she had so longed to be when the sleeping waters had stirred to life.

"Ah…mon petit, you are not to be outside at night, hein? Your clothes are all wet, what has happened to you?"

"I heard the drums beating, Père, but now I know why, n’est-ce pas?"

He drew a deep breath. The drums again. Why…tell me…why do you hear them when no one else does?

"It is the heartbeat of the land that belongs to our people. Your père’s people. She uncoiled her fingers and showed her father the soil in her hand. Papitte told me the message of the drums. He give me the land to take care of, because I hear them. The soul of the soil. It feels alive in my hand."

That is not possible. Her father stopped and set her back on her feet before leaning down to match her height. "Aurélie, you were dreaming, non? There are no drums…and there was no Papitte."

But he showed me—

"Non, ti fi, you remember, Papitte died last year."

Chapter One

New Orleans, 1815

Warm milk to a kitten, that was the plan, or so her parents had said, but one hour to go and still no…cat. Where was Jordan Kincaid?

Aurélie Fentonot looked away from the clock above the door of the Théâtre de St-Philippe. The ball was close to an end and her cat in disguise, Jordan Kincaid, had not yet arrived. Perhaps the man—who claimed not to want a wife—had cleverly slipped through her parents well-set marriage trap.

She drew a deep breath, gently fanning her face, desperate for a cool breeze. In spite of the fall night, the air had been stifling hot. Her lungs felt tight and stiff, refusing to reach out to an uncertain future. Though it had been nearly eleven years since the night she had heard the drums, her destiny was still to reclaim Yellow Sun.

After two years of being educated in Paris, her recent return to Louisiana had been timed to coincide with the Bal De Cordon Bleu, an elegant dance held in New Orleans, where wealthy Creole families introduced their daughters to white male society.

Unlawful to marry a woman of mixed blood, the arrangements were referred to as a plaçage, but more distinctly, it was an expensive contract for services as a mistress. The financial advantages of merging Liberty Oak with her father’s plantation, Les Richesses du Bayou through a common heir were understood. Her family would gain politically as well, for Jordan Kincaid was a powerful man, a white man.

To Aurélie, a plaçage with Jordan Kincaid provided the only way to reclaim what had been stolen—Yellow Sun. If her experience as a child had been nothing more than an old man whispering tales, she might have forgotten about it as she grew older. But she had heard the drums, had felt the heartbeat in her hand, and had often wondered about the curse. How did it affect the Kincaid family?

Aurélie chewed on her lower lip, allowing her interest to migrate back to the lively ballroom, wondering about the absence of the American landowner. The smell of salty ocean waters weaved through the steamy night. Wall sconces and the overhead chandelier reflected off the highly polished floors and sprinkled a thin halo of light over the dancers.

A heavy scent of perfume wallowed in the damp air as prospective white protectors wooed the ladies of mixed blood. Draped in silks, jewels, and plumes, many of the women sipped wine and cordials while awaiting an invitation to dance, always under the watchful eye of their chaperone parents.

The men all wore masks for tonight’s October masquerade dance, but the women, wanting to be coy, carried theirs daintily on sticks and seductively secreted their eyes. Aurélie’s mask was of black, trimmed in sparkling gemstones with golden bobbles hanging from both sides.

Her dress clung to her damp skin as she adjusted the capped sleeve of her emerald satin-wool gown. Her long black hair, drawn around her head and plaited with silk ribbons, had been decorated with pearls. On her bosom hung a dainty locket, a special locket, filled not with the hair of a loved one or a painting of one’s likeness, but with the speck of the soil entrusted to her care the night she had heard the drums.

May I have this dance? asked a thin American with reddish hair, cropped short and combed forward, in the latest fashion for men. Though his mask hid the remainder of his face, she recognized the American standing before her. He was a dreadful bore.

Aurélie scanned the room to catch her mother’s eye for intervention but she was nowhere in sight. Neither was her father, who had been playing vingt-et-un most of the evening.

Her breath eased through her already strained lungs. With no other choice, Aurélie nodded and gave her hand to the waiting gentleman. As she did, she caught sight of another man who stood across the room. He was a tall man in a black mask, who casually leaned against the wall. When he gave her a slight nod of acknowledgment, she sensed he had been watching her for a while.

He was dressed in a black tailcoat that accentuated the broad width of his shoulders and his well-fitted tawny breeches made him appear tall and slender. Light falling from the chandeliers reflected off his polished Hessian boots and highlighted his shoulder-length, honey-colored hair. His mask hid most of his face but his dark eyes settled on her with a light feathery touch. Her mouth parted slightly as she moistened her lips and breathed slowly through them.

Could he be…Jordan Kincaid?

She acknowledged the man’s obvious interest with a polite nod of her head before shifting her attention to her gentleman partner. The redhead took her hand as he paraded her to the floor to join the other quadrille dancers.

The music began.

She bowed to her partner, but her gaze migrated beyond his shoulder to the man who leaned against the wall watching her. He again nodded and though he wore a black mask, she felt his gaze.

In spite of knowing the steps by memory, she stumbled once and fell offbeat. Her partner reached out to steady her, but her gaze still hovered on the mysterious man in black.

Aurélie’s partner swung her to his right, promenading to the eighth step. They dipped in unison and glided across the floor. Over the heads of the dancers, the man watched from the shadows of his dark mask. She became emboldened. Raising her fan to her lips, she tapped lightly. He gave her a nearly invisible nod, having caught the message that even shocked herself. You may kiss me.

Aurélie closed her eyes, wishing she hadn’t been so forward and not able to explain why she had. Her flirtation had not gone unnoticed by her American partner. The moment the music ended, he snapped his heels, bowed, and vacated the floor, leaving her alone.

She turned and watched as the mysterious man in black pushed away from the wall and walked toward her until his dark eyes met hers beneath the dim light. Her breath hung to the back of her throat making her fingers tingle. The beat of her heart nearly vanished as she stood…waiting. Was he Jordan Kincaid?

Mademoiselle. He bowed low before her, placing a warm touch to her wrist. "Perhaps this time, you honor me with a dance, oui?"

He spoke perfect French, a rarity at this ball. Soft little sensations fluttered along her spine with the sound of his rich, accented voice. He could not be Jordan Kincaid. Her prospective husband was an American.

As a woman with French blood and education, she liked the idea of marrying a Frenchmen; it would be a more perfect match than an American planter. Though she had been prepared as the daughter of one of the richest Creole families in Louisiana to be the woman for whom she had been bred and educated, she couldn’t help the soft yearning of her heart to freely choose her own love.

The music again started with the orchestra playing an elegant dance, "Valse à Deux Temps. The stranger’s warm touch melted around her arm. She nodded slightly to accept his invitation. Oui, monsieur."

Once on the dance floor, he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. A tight gasp caught in her throat but he ignored it. The moist heat of his skin melted into her gloved palm, igniting a hot spark that soaked deeper inside of her until her entire body felt flushed. Soft sounds of music floated around her like a magical spell.

He pulled her closer, allowing the scandalous touch of their bodies in public and glissaded the two of them out onto the gallery…away from the others.

She looked up at her new partner as he gently turned her to the music. The black silk mask that framed his dark eyes implied deception with a dash of danger. His rugged scent wafted through the heavy humid air of the night with a subtle hint of lavender oil that only gentlemen would wear. The evening’s soft twilight surrounded them, crowned by the magical twinkle of the overhead stars.

Finally, she caught her breath, realizing how inappropriate it was to have left the ballroom unescorted. "Monsieur, I beg you, please return to the ballroom. My mère—"

"Your mère is detained, he whispered in that same low voice that rolled over her with the soothing sound of a French accent. You like to dance, n’est ce pas?"

"Oui, Monsieur, but we are out here alone. It is most improper."

"Move with me, mon chérie."

The soft beat of the music and movement of his body lulled her back into the illusion. A soft moan rose from her throat as each beautiful note of magic whispered through her mind.

Aurélie closed her eyes, allowing her hands to glide along the solid muscles of his arms, exploring the top of his shoulders. Enjoying her daring adventure, she looked up at him, parting her lips, willing him to kiss her, relishing the pure recklessness of it. Her spirit, normally, smothered beneath propriety, fluttered to life.

He took her invitation without hesitation.

His lips were soft and warm as he lightly brushed her mouth with his until the kiss became complete. So penetrating was the heat of his touch, her breath vanished, leaving her feeling faint as if her body had melted into an elixir and drained through his fingers. Being held aloft in the strength of his arms, her knees caved and her legs nearly curled beneath her as her spirit took flight.

Incoherent thoughts of Yellow Sun swirled inside her head, battling the strange awakening that stirred within her heart. She pushed his arms away, taking in a deep breath to clear her head of the dreamy illusions.

Who was he?

He stepped back. "Pardonnez moi, mademoiselle. I have overstepped, n’est-ce pas?"

"Oui. She kept her breathing controlled in spite of her desire to experience such a kiss again. Releasing the tension from her lungs, she reeled in her heart and reset her sights on the prize, Liberty Oak. Oui, monsieur. You have presumed."

I offer my apologies, he said in French. Seeming to have caught her yearning tone, he added, "What is it you wish for with such a sigh? A real marriage, n’est pas?"

Of certain, monsieur, I’d prefer a real marriage, a man of mixed blood— She sucked in her breath, realizing her error, for the night’s purpose was for her to land a white protector. The lump in her throat sank heavily to her stomach. She brushed her hand across her middle, trying to ease the sudden pain of knowing she’d never have such a choice.

Monsieur— Moisture flooded her eyes, she blinked the emotion away. "Monsieur, me pardonner, I misspeak."

"I think not, mademoiselle, he said in a soft voice that carried a note of regret. He bowed stiffly from the waist. For the dance, merci."

Aurélie! Her mother stood in the archway of the gallery and from her expression, she was a very angry mère. Aurélie instinctively glanced around her mother, hoping Monsieur Kincaid had not witnessed her indiscretion with the French man.

Her mother rushed out to meet her, whispering in French, I looked everywhere for you.

"Me pardonner, I was with monsieur— Aurélie turned to introduce her masked stranger but he had disappeared. He was here—"

"He took the stairs to the street. But of no matter, your père has given his word for a most profitable match. Her mother took Aurélie’s hand and led her back under the twinkling candlelight of the ballroom, which no longer held the same mysteries, as all the illusions had faded. We have success, mon choux, Jordan Kincaid."

"He was here? I see him, non?"

"Not here, non. He sent his solicitor to make the arrangements. A much-profitable plaçage, oui?"

Her mother’s jubilation was understandable. Aurélie only wished she felt the same, but the stranger’s kiss—the sweet taste of freedom—still lingered on her lips, unraveling her dutiful daughter facade and blurring her memory of the night of the drums.

In spite of her family’s victory in snaring the American planter, Aurélie drew a sharp breath meant to clear her head and purge her heart of lingering emotions. There were no courts to rule, no deeds to argue, no property rights to debate, only her faith in her ability to right a wrong. Chosen by her ancestral spirits to hear the drums, she had to reclaim the land before it died, even if that meant she must sell herself to the very man who had stolen it.

Chapter Two

I have on my special dress, Papa, to meet my new mother. A small voice interrupted Jordan’s thoughts. Do you think she will like it?

Jordan Kincaid turned and saw his little girl beaming up at him with a smile that scrunched her chubby cheeks. Long blond ringlets that only ribbons held in check, parted over her shoulders. The pure spirit and image of her deceased mother, little Maisie curtsied.

A knot formed in his throat, seeing his daughter’s excitement over the impending plaçage to Miss Aurélie Fentonot. A slight twinge surrounded his heart, a tug of uncertainty about his contract with the woman. Would bringing her here cause Maisie more heartbreak? For this marriage was nothing more than a convenience to an end, a fraud.

She is our guest, Maisie. Who spoke to you of a new mother?

Mama did….

He halted in tying his cravat, watching as Maisie spun around, enjoying her fancy dress. His wife had died shortly after Maisie’s third birthday. But at the tender age of six, Maisie would often speak of conversations with her mother and had remarkable knowledge of things that only her mother could have told her. Putting that disturbing thought to the back of his mind, he nodded. Your dress is pretty. Why would Miss Aurélie not like it?

Will she like me? She will like me, right, Papa?

What is not to like? He bent down to be eye level with Maisie and lightly brushed her curls aside, wishing he could magically make her world beautiful. You are perfect as you are. Miss Aurélie will like you.

Maisie smiled and again spun around, unraveling the ribbon in her hair. I know I will like her, right, Papa?

Most likely. Go find Hattie and she’ll get you ready.

Yes, Papa. Maisie dipped at her knees before leaving his room. The heels of her laced boots clicked against the hard wooden floor, reminding Jordan of how quickly she was growing, how much time had passed, how much time had been lost in his quest.

Straightening his cravat in the smoky mirror, he squinted to see his reflection in the dimly lit room, not liking who he saw looking back at him, the fake gentleman planter. He smoothed his hair into a queue and tied it off. Tonight he’d meet Mademoiselle Aurélie Fentonot, at least formally. The marriage pact had been decided three weeks ago at the Bal De Cordon Bleu.

He unraveled the cravat and started again.

Bringing a woman into the house truly complicated his life. He didn’t want a wife, not even a mistress. He had too much to hide.

His sister’s abduction at sea, three years ago, had changed their lives. His father had searched for Colette, exposing himself to pirates, and had been killed for his efforts, found dead in Port au Prince. But one clue about Colette had been left behind, hidden within the lining of his valise. Her medallion. Colette had been wearing it the night she was taken.

So where was Colette? And why after three years of searching had they come up empty-handed? If it had not been for the medallion, Jordan might have given up the quest, have given up hope of ever finding her, but three years later, the medallion had suddenly surfaced. It meant something and that something might have cost his father his life. It was then that Jordan and his younger brother, Loul, had made their decision to finish what his father had started.

Find their sister.

Wanting to keep their identity secret and not meet their father’s fate, he and his brother had donned masks, stolen a ship, renamed her Le Vengeur for vengeance, and had plunged into the world of piracy.

He had too much to hide and the danger of this woman unraveling his disguise was too serious to consider. All that he and Loul had accomplished over the past year would be at risk if she learned too much about him and then Colette might be lost forever.

Frustration gnawed at his raw nerves. Damn, his cravat was still crooked. He had untied the silk scarf again when there was a light rap at his door. He turned as Hattie came through.

Maisie is ready to leave.

She is not outside, is she? He never allowed his little girl outside unattended. Since the murder of his father, burglars had come several times, yet nothing had ever been stolen.

No, she is not. She’ll do you proud tonight.

Jordan turned to face his housekeeper who had been like a mother to him. The silver trace to her hair framed the deepening lines of her dark skin. Telltale signs of age haunted her eyes, her mouth, and that blasted stern expression she seemed to wear more now than in the past. I have much on my mind. Please don’t lecture me on my daughter.

I know the crushin’ burden you carry. Undeterred, Hattie stepped closer and worked on his cravat. But Maisie is most excited and she needs some happiness in her life. Have only her on your mind tonight.

She should not think of Aurélie Fentonot as a new mother. You know as well as I that I have been blackmailed into this marriage and when I can, it will be dissolved like it had never happened.

From the time Jordon had tied on the black mask, flown the black flag, and had taken his first ship, he had managed to keep his identity a secret. But somehow, Aurélie’s father, Étienne Fentonot, had figured out his secret life and had threatened to expose him if he refused an alliance between the two properties through a legal plaçage with Aurélie.

He grimaced from the complications this added to his already taxed life. It meant he had to juggle another branding iron in the fire.

The pact to buy Aurélie had been negotiated by his solicitor while Jordan had danced her onto the promenade and had