1
Martinique
French West Indies
April 1831
“One kiss, ma Sapphire douce, one kiss, else I will perish,” the handsome, dark-haired Frenchman declared, bringing both hands to his heart where he stood chest-deep in the pool of crystal blue-green water beneath the waterfall.
Maurice wore nothing but a pair of buff doeskin breeches, soaked through and clinging to his body like a second skin, and the sight of his bare, muscular chest and dripping hair slicked back over his head made Sapphire’s pulse quicken and her knees go weak. “You’ll have to catch me first, Maurice.” She laughed and splashed him, swaying her hips provocatively beneath the transparent shift she wore for her late-afternoon swim.
Maurice lunged forward, his hand striking out, but she turned and dove headlong into the pool, touching the sandy bottom with outstretched fingertips before she came back up, lungs straining for air.
“Got you!” He caught her ankle and began to drag her toward him, running his hands up her bare calf.
“No!” Sapphire squealed, kicking her free leg and laughing. “Release me, kind sir.”
“Not until I have my kiss, fair damsel.” Stepping back, Maurice found his footing on the sandy bottom again and pulled her into his arms.
Surrendering at last, Sapphire looped her arms around his neck and tipped her head back, allowing her wet, waist-length auburn tresses to fall over her shoulders and dip into the water. Closing her eyes, pressing her hips to his, she reveled in the feel of Maurice’s body against hers.
Maurice had caught her eye at a ball last autumn when he and his brother Jacques had returned from school in France to join his father on a neighboring plantation. She’d felt the magic from the first night they met. A few innocent kisses, followed by heated glances across crowded rooms and several furtive meetings, and she’d fallen madly and hopelessly in love with Maurice, and he with her. Visions of a magnificent wedding in the garden at Orchid Manor danced in her head. Her only quandary was convincing dear, sweet Papa that Maurice was the right man for her—the only man for her.
“Sapphire, we should return to the house,” Angelique called from where she and Jacques were floating on their backs by the cliff that enclosed their favorite swimming pool. “If we’re gone too long, Papa will come looking. Remember, we’re supposed to be listening to the baroness’s harpsichord recital.”
Only a year older than Sapphire, Angelique was not only the sister of her heart, but her best friend. The two had been inseparable since Sapphire’s parents adopted Angelique. Though ebony-haired and native born to the island, the daughter of a slave, Angelique’s skin tone merely appeared sun-kissed year round and did not give evidence of her true heritage. “I don’t want to go to dinner and listen to Papa’s boring English guests.” Sapphire pouted, turning to brush her lips against Maurice’s. “I’d much prefer to stay here.”
“Perhaps you should return, ma petite,” Maurice whispered softly in her ear. “I would not want to anger Monsieur Fabergine, my future father-in-law.”
He teased her earlobe with the tip of his tongue, sending little shivers through her body. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the water was cold and she trembled as unfamiliar and exciting sensations coiled in the pit of her belly, making her nipples grow hard and ache with anticipation.
“Meet me later tonight after your dinner, in our special place, oui?” Maurice suggested huskily in her ear.
She grasped his strong forearms and looked into his eyes. “Yes, and then we shall go riding. I adore riding in the dark, through the jungle and along the beach with only the moon to guide me. It would be a hundred times better if we were together.”
“Or, we could pursue…other diversions.”
Maurice covered her mouth with his and she melted into his arms, sighing. Sapphire was not as generous with her affection as Angelique was, and, unlike the beautiful free-spirited native, she had guarded her virginity carefully. But her resolve was beginning to wane. She was fully a woman and eager to experience all there was to being one. What reason was there to wait? she wondered, light-headed as she finally tore her mouth from his, gasping for breath.
“Come sit on the bank and dry a little before you dress,” Maurice murmured, wrapping his arm around her and guiding her toward the shore. He picked up a blanket and led Sapphire just off the path to a clearing among giant ferns, palm trees swaying overhead. He spread the blanket and took her hand again, easing her down onto the soft carpet of the jungle floor.
“I can only sit a minute.” She smiled, inhaling deeply and savoring the scents of the jungle paradise. “Angelique is right. We should go before Papa finds us.”
“Ah, papas,” Maurice sighed, nuzzling her neck. “They are overprotective of their beautiful daughters, oui?”
She lifted her chin to gaze into his eyes and rested her palm on his broad shoulder. “Oui, at least this father is.” Sapphire brushed her lips against Maurice’s and he closed his arms around her, easing her back to the ground, deepening the kiss. When he again molded his lean body to hers, she felt the evidence of his desire, and heat rose in her cheeks.
Maurice drew his hand lightly over Sapphire’s rib cage, up under her breast, and she sighed. Then he moved his hand slowly over her breast and squeezed gently, bringing a moan from deep in her throat. How could anything so forbidden feel so wonderful?
?
?Sapphire! Mon dieu! You, sir, remove yourself from my daughter at once!”
“Papa!” Sapphire had not heard the riders until they were upon the clearing beside the pond. She gave Maurice a push as she sat up and crossed her arms over her breasts.
“Bon après-midi, Monsieur Fabergine. How are you this fine afternoon?” Maurice had asked politely, as if nothing had happened.
“How am I?” Armand Fabergine sputtered, dismounting from his fine bay gelding, waving his white leather crop. He was dressed in a riding suit of white knee-length breeches, a white silk shirt, a pale blue coat and expensive boots. Behind him, several male guests on horseback strained their necks to get a look at Sapphire and her lover. “In truth, Mr. Dupree, I am not good,” Armand said in lightly accented English as he pointed to his daughter. “Fille, get up. Get up at once!” His lips were pale, his eyes narrowed in anger.