Midnight Bayou

books, made her think of the room as reverently as she did church.
    Now, with Lucian closeted with his father in the study going over the business of land and crops, and the rain drumming against the windows, she could indulge herself in a quiet afternoon of reading.
    She wasn’t quite accustomed to the time to do as she pleased and so slipped into the room as if it were a guilty pleasure. She no longer had linens to fold, tables to dust, dishes to carry.
    She was no longer a servant in this place, but a wife.
    Wife. She hugged the word to her. It was still so new, so shiny. As the life growing inside her was new. So new, she had yet to tell Lucian.
    Her curse was late, and it was never late. She’d awakened ill three days running. But she would wait, another week. To speak of it too soon might make it untrue.
    And oh, she wanted a child. How she wanted to give Lucian a child. She laid a hand on her belly as she wandered along the shelves and imagined the beautiful son or daughter she would bring into the world.
    And perhaps, just perhaps, a child would soften Lucian’s mother. Perhaps a child would bring joy into the house as the hope for one brought joy to her heart.
    She selected Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. The title, she thought, spoke to her. Manet Hall had so much of both. She bit her lip as she flipped through the pages. She was a slow, painstaking reader, but Lucian said that only meant she savored the words.
    Stumbled over them, she thought, but she was getting better. Pleased with herself, she turned and saw Julian slouched in one of the wine-colored chairs, a snifter in his hand, a bottle by his elbow.
    Watching her.
    He frightened her. Repulsed her. But she reminded herself she was no longer a servant. She was his brother’s wife, and should try to be friends.
    “Hello, Julian. I didn’t see you.”
    He lifted the bottle, poured more brandy into his glass. “That book,” he said, then drank deep, “has words of more than one syllable.”
    “I can read.” Her spine went arrow-straight. “I like to read.”
    “What else do you like, chère ?”
    Her fingers tightened on the book when he rose, then relaxed again when he strolled to the fireplace, rested a boot on the hearth, an elbow on the mantel.
    “I’m learning to ride. Lucian’s teaching me. I’m not very good yet, but I like it.” Oh, she wanted to be friends with him. The house deserved warmth and laughter, and love.
    He laughed, and she heard the brandy in it. “I bet you ride. I bet you ride a man into a sweat. You may work those innocent eyes on my brother—he’s always been a fool. But I know what you are, and what you’re after.”
    “I’m your brother’s wife.” There had to be a way to take the first step beyond this hate. For Lucian, for the child growing inside her, she took it, and walked toward Julian. “I only want him to be happy. I make him happy. You’re his blood, Julian. His twin. It isn’t right that we should be at odds this way. I want to try to be your sister. Your friend.”
    He knocked back the rest of the brandy. “Want to be my friend, do you?”
    “Yes, for Lucian’s sake, we should—”
    “How friendly are you?” He lunged toward her, grabbed her breasts painfully.
    The shock of it froze her. The insult flashed through the shock with a burning heat. Her hand cracked across hischeek with enough force to send him staggering back.
    “Bastard! Animal! Put your hands on me again, I’ll kill you. I’m Lucian’s. I’m your brother’s wife.”
    “My brother’s whore!” he shouted as she ran for the door. “Cajun slut, I’ll see you dead before you take what’s mine by rights.”
    Raging, he shoved away from the mantel. The heavy silver candlestick tumbled off, smashed against the edge of the tile, snapped off the corner.
    Declan hadn’t moved. When he came back to himself he was still sitting on the hearth, his back to the snapping fire. The rain was still beating on the ground, streaming down the windows.
    As it had been, he thought, during the . . . vision? Fugue? Hallucination?
    He pressed the heel of his hand between his eyes, where the headache speared like a spike into his skull.
    Maybe he didn’t have ghosts, he thought. Maybe he had a goddamn fucking brain tumor. It would make more sense. Anything would make more sense.
    Slamming doors, cold spots, even sleepwalking were by-products of the house he could live with. But he’d seen those people, inside his head. Heard