Celine

Book 1: When Hearts Dare

by Kathleen Bittner Roth

Genres: American Romance; Native American & Aboriginal; Viking Romance

Synopsis

A Southern belle finds passion as wild as the American West in this historical romance of antebellum New Orleans and Gold Rush-stricken San Francisco

After a tragic carriage accident leaves her a widow, young Celine Kirkland finds temporary refuge with the Andrews family. But when the infamous flirt Trevor Andrews returns home for a visit, Celine is overwhelmed with temptation. Determined to live as an independent woman, she decides to indulge in one night of passion before leaving for San Francisco. But that one night leads to a love unlike any she’s known before.

Beneath Trevor’s swaggering air and lusty grin is a caring and sensitive man. And he finds in Celine a beauty and strength unmatched by any Southern belle. But as Trevor and Celine each prepare for long journeys across the country, will their paths ever meet again?

"The sexual tension barrels ahead right to the end." --USA Today bestselling author Leigh Greenwood

Release date: October 1, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

April 1853, St. James Parish, Louisiana

Celine Kirkland stared down at the simple wooden casket. Rain drummed against the lid, turning the open grave into a muddy pit. The pungent smell of wet earth and the film of grit in her mouth nauseated her. The wind kicked up. Icy rain swirled around her and stung her cheeks. She shivered and pulled her full-length, hooded cape tight against her body. It seemed as if nature was bidding her mother-in-law a raucous farewell.

Stephen touched her arm. “The weather is worsening. We need to make our way home.”

Numb from grief and cold, she climbed into the wagon with her husband and father-in-law. Lightning fractured the sky, and ear-splitting thunder shook the ground. She clutched her swollen belly as if to soothe the babe kicking inside.

The rain turned into a deluge.

“God, this is foul weather,” Stephen groaned as he snapped the whip in the air and urged the two draft horses into a trot.

Celine shifted about in her seat. How could he possibly see beyond the horses? “Shouldn’t we be coming upon the bridge soon?”

The horses jerked and danced to the left, wild-eyed and whinnying.

“Whoa!” Stephen yelled through a roar of thunder.

The wagon tipped sideways. Celine gasped and gripped the edge of the rough sideboard, her blood running as cold as the pelting rain.

The beasts pawed the ground. One of them whinnied again, nostrils flaring, and braced itself against forward motion. The other twisted hard against the reins, trying to turn back. Stephen lashed out with the whip just as a flash of lightning lit the path in front of them.

Too late, Celine spied the gaping hole where the bridge had been. She screamed.

The horses and wagon jackknifed against each other. The wild shriek of animals and metal grinding against wood vibrated through the air as the wagon careened toward the river.

“Miss Celine!”

Celine jerked awake, and caught herself before tumbling out of the window seat. Rubbing her eyes against the light streaming through the window, she glanced at Marie. Her maid stood near the bed, folding clothes and appraising Celine with a worried frown.

“Sorry, did I moan?” She rubbed her stiff neck.

“Did you have another one of those bad dreams—in broad daylight?”

Celine nodded.

“And sittin’ up, no less. Begging your pardon, mam’selle, but if you kept to your bed nights, you might work into a habit of sleepin’ during proper hours instead of catnapping in the window seat.”

“You know what keeps me awake.” Celine slid off the blue velvet cushions and made her way to the dressing table.

“Only been a year since Mister Andrews found you trapped under that broken-up wagon.” Marie’s voice softened. “That ain’t so long for a bad memory to haunt a person. Especially considering your terrible loss and all.”

Young Lindsey Andrews poked his head through the doorway to Celine’s bedroom, his face aglow. “Trevor’s coming home, Trevor’s coming home!”

His loud voice jarred her senses, and she winced. He paused, the grin on his freckled face even wider. “Hello, Miss Celine. My brother’s coming home.”

With a nod, she managed a meager smile. “I’m well aware of the fact, Lindsey.”

He disappeared, laughter trailing behind him.

She went back to tossing her toilette articles in one basket, ribbons, combs, and brushes in another, and wondered at her glum mood.

The maid gathered a stack of Celine’s unmentionables and laid them in the basket she’d set on the bed. “That scoundrel Mischie Trevor. Did you know he’s been in New Orleans a week now and didn’t even bother letting his father know he’s coming until last night? Tch, tch, tch.”

“How would I know that?” Celine caught Marie’s reference to Justin Andrews’s eldest son as mischie, a localized version of monsieur reserved for someone favored. Marie’s mahogany skin glowed from the effort of transporting Celine’s things next door. “Do you need to rest a bit, Marie?”

“I’m fine, mam’selle.” She grinned, and stuck with her subject. “Like as not, Mischie Trevor’s been busy waking up N’awlins. I’ll bet most of England sleeps like a babe since he done left. Likewise, papas in these parts won’t be getting much sleep now.”

Celine threw a brush in the basket and missed. It landed on the floor with a clatter. She swept it up, tossed it back in, and went to sorting ribbons.

Marie lightened her tone. “Pardonnez-moi. Ne vous en faites pas”.

Celine stared at the colorful ribbons tangled in her hand and then tossed them in the basket with a sigh. “Yes, I may as well leave everything to you since I’m only making a mess.”

Marie used the lilting dialect straight out of the French Quarter whenever she attempted to soothe Celine. The maid was a mimic. She could imitate any accent after hearing a few words. Celine couldn’t decide if the crisp French inflections Marie called her own might not be contrived as well. A day in Marie’s company seemed more like a day among a small crowd.

The maid frowned. “You feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” Celine lied. She traipsed to the window seat along the outer wall and sank into it. With another sigh, she set her elbows to the ledge, propped her chin in her hands, and stared at a circle of children playing below, offspring of the field workers and household staff. They danced to the snappy rhythm of an older boy’s clicking tongue and the tap of his foot. Their clever song spun a tale about Trevor that Celine couldn’t quite decipher. Everyone seemed caught up in the enthusiasm of his return—everyone, that was, except her.

Zola stepped outside the cookhouse and wiped her wide forehead with the corner of her apron. Most likely working herself to a frazzle on account of Trevor’s arrival. There would be pots hanging over the fire in that kitchen, rumbling and sputtering, as if they, too, shared in the excitement. Even from where Celine sat, the rich aroma of roux, filé, and the holy trinity of Louisiana cooking—celery, bell pepper, and onion—tantalized her senses. Her stomach rumbled.

“Do I smell gumbo?”

“And jambalaya,” Marie added. “Mischie Trevor’s favorites.”

Celine shot her a scowl.

Marie raised a brow in return. “You know how Zola always fixes someone their special dishes when they comes to call.”

Come to call? Trevor wasn’t a visitor, for heaven’s sake. He’d merely been gone two years. When she’d visited the kitchens, she’d noticed the cook referred to him as mischie, as well. Why did everyone speak of him with such favor? From what she’d heard, he was quite the rakehell.

Well, what did she know? Marie and the cook had been around all of Trevor’s life while she had never met him. After all, if anyone was a guest here, it was she. She’d only met Justin last year, the day of her mother-in-law’s funeral. Since Celine had no living relatives to go to, and she’d been too injured to return to an empty house, Justin had taken her in.

Melancholy tugged at her heart. What the devil was wrong with her of late? She rubbed at her arm. A thin red scar ran from shoulder to wrist, a grim reminder of the accident that had left her widowed and childless.

Marie moved to stand beside Celine. “Mam’selle, you haven’t said a word about the beautiful clothes Mister Andrews had sent upriver for you. Don’t you care for them?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Then, what be the matter?”

She shrugged. How could she tell Marie what was amiss when Celine didn’t know herself?

“Mischie Trevor used to sit in that window seat after his mother died, his chin propped in his hands and staring out at nothing, just like you be doing, Miss Celine.”

Celine’s elbows came off the windowsill like a finger off a hot stove.

Marie frowned. “Seems to me the new wardrobe might not be what’s bothering you. The letter from Mischie Trevor came on the same boat as what brought your clothes.” Her features softened. She reached out and fussed with a tendril on the nape of Celine’s neck. “You be worried about Mischie Trevor and his wicked ways you been hearing of?”

Heat pricked Celine’s cheeks. With a shrug of her shoulder, she cast the maid’s fingers off her hair. “Don’t be a dolt.”

Marie dropped her hand and stepped back. She slipped into Louisiana Creole, a whimsical dialect that never failed to lighten Celine’s spirits. “Doan you be worrying ’bout Mischie Trevor. He won’t be botherin’ wif you none. Maybe he be a scoundrel, and mayhap he a fool at times, but I ain’t never heard of him botherin’ no female what doan want no botherin’ wif.”

Celine laughed. “I hadn’t given any thought to your Mischie Trevor bothering me.” She caught sight of Marie’s toothy grin before she turned to the window again. “For heaven’s sake, I didn’t just crawl out from under some rock.” Maybe Marie’s teasing had lightened her mood, or perhaps her bright smile brought a ray of sunshine, Celine didn’t know, but her disposition shifted.

“Would you care for a hot bath, Miss Celine?”

“I’d prefer you continue to remove my things from Trevor’s room and put them in the guest room before he arrives.”

Marie flashed a wide grin. “Oh, he ain’t due till near sunset, and we’ve yet to see high noon.” With a small grunt, she lifted the largest basket and headed out the door.

Justin’s bellow echoed through the hallway, startling Celine. “What in the name of Glory are you up to, Marie?”

“I’m removing mam’selle’s things from Trevor’s room and transferring them to the guest room, sir,” Marie said matter-of-factly.

“Put them back directly.”

Celine shot off the window seat and flew to the doorway, her gaze fixed on Justin while she spoke. “Marie, do as I say.”

Justin’s set jaw gave a silent command.

Marie nodded at Justin and trudged past Celine and back into the room.

He raked his fingers through his thick silver hair and pinched the bridge of his large nose. “May I ask why you are going to all the trouble of having your things transferred to the guest room?”

Celine crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Haven’t you heard? Your son is returning.”

Justin’s bushy brows knitted together in a hooded frown. “He’ll only be here a few days.”

Confusion scattered Celine’s thoughts. “Oh?”

He cocked his head. “Did you actually think my thirty-year-old son would be moving back in with his father? He’s come from London on business—in New Orleans, not here.”

An odd sense of isolation gripped her. How had she missed all of this? Even the servants must know Trevor would remain for only a few days, but she hadn’t a clue. She was out of the circle—a gloomy reminder that she didn’t really belong here. Not permanently, anyway.

She squared her shoulders. “I prefer the guest room anyway. This one is too masculine for my taste.”

Justin stepped closer, using his great height to tower over her. “You don’t fool me.”

His dominant gesture, usually reserved for his unruly children, startled Celine. “Don’t think to bully me.”

He stood there for a moment and then chuckled, backed up a step, and gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “Beg pardon, Celine. Perhaps I didn’t make clear the situation.”

He headed for the stairwell, talking all the while. “Since Trevor’s dealings will take place at our offices in New Orleans, he’ll reside in our townhouse there. As will his cousin and uncle, also due to arrive this week from England. Our shipping company is expecting a new clipper to be delivered soon, so we’re all chomping at the bit.”

Celine called out after him. “Situating your son in the guest quarters still doesn’t seem quite right.”

He paused a few steps down, his hand on the cherrywood rail, and glanced up. “Hush. Trevor’s a grown man. In spite of what you’ve doubtless heard, he was raised with decent manners.”

He continued at a fast clip along the stairs, his voice growing louder as he descended. “Try to tolerate an old man’s wishes, Celine. I purposely placed you in his old room because you needed the privacy during your recuperation. Admit it, you have the best views of the back gardens—not to mention the gallery at this end is virtually yours alone.”

Even though he couldn’t see her, she bit her bottom lip and nodded. “All right then.” She turned and stood in the doorway, surveying the room that had been hers these past twelve months.

Trevor was obviously partial to blue. Except for the burgundy in the Persian carpet, the deep cobalt color dominated. Even the ceramic pitcher and basin on the marble-topped commode were of the same rich hue. She adored the dark, carved cherrywood of the sumptuous four-poster bed and side tables. And the wingback chair—cobalt blue velvet—angled next to the fireplace. She’d spent many a night curled up there with a book.

Too masculine for her tastes? Not really. She loved everything about her quarters.

She suddenly wished Marie wasn’t still around. For some odd reason, she was absurdly close to tears.

Steam swirled around Celine, the tension in her muscles slipping away while Marie scrubbed her skin until it glistened. Sometimes being pampered felt simply grand.

“What a beautiful day, Marie. Open the doors to the gallery so we can get more of the scent of roses from the garden instead of Zola’s cooking, will you please?”

Marie flung the French doors wide. A balmy breeze floated in, rustling the lace curtains hanging at the doors’ sides until they floated like the lacy wings of a butterfly. The heady fragrance of roses wafted in and mixed with the mélange of robust smells drifting in from the cookhouse.

“I love this time of year, don’t you? The spring flowers are in bloom. Everything looks so clean and fresh, and with nights still cool enough to curl up in front of a cozy fire. I’m so glad to be alive. How different things are from a year ago.” Celine hummed to herself.

Marie pulled a chair behind the tub and brushed Celine’s thick tresses. “Your hair looked half-dead those first few months with us. Like a string mop dipped in mud.”

“That’s because I was half-dead.”

“Now the color reminds me of rich coffee. And so shiny. Like it’s been shot through with gold. Lovely to look at. Same as you, mam’selle.” Marie ceased her chatter and continued to brush in slow, even strokes.

Celine slipped deeper into the tub and closed her eyes, immersed in the busy sounds and smells of plantation life. A sharp clang of three bells jolted her out of her reverie. They sounded again, a signal that the captain of a sternwheeler had stopped to unload passengers.

Marie jumped. “Lordy, three bells, not two—passengers, not goods. Don’t tell me Mischie Trevor got here so soon?”

The steady pounding of feet down the hallway caught both women’s attention. “Trevor’s home!” Lindsey shouted with a quick rap on the door. The sound of his footsteps disappeared down the stairs along with his whoops and hollers.

Celine sat up, her heart pounding. “I thought you said he wasn’t due until the last steamboat?”

Marie leapt to her feet and waved the brush about as she paced. “Oh, Miss Celine, how can I ever manage to get you dressed and your hair done up before he gets to the house?”

“For heaven’s sake, such a state you’re working yourself into. Settle down and hand me a towel.” Celine stood amidst a cascade of water, wrapped the towel around herself, and stepped from the tub. “I have no intention of greeting your Mischie Trevor with the others. Introductions can be made over . . .” She gave a flip of her hand. “Over his favorite gumbo and jambalaya.”

She dried herself, and then held her new lavender-sprigged muslin dress to her body. Relieved wasn’t an adequate word to describe what it felt like to shed the oppressive black she’d worn for the past year. “What do you think?”

Marie stood at one corner of the bed, fidgeting and watching Celine twirl naked around the room.

She ignored the maid and picked up a purple sash and matching kid slippers. “Perfect. Help me into everything, and you can be off. No need to bother with my hair until evening.”

Chemise and corset in hand, Marie frowned. “You’d best not be running around here nekkid and with the balcony doors open now that Mischie Trevor’s arrived.”

“This corner of the house is private,” Celine said while Marie helped her into her clothing. “He’d have no need to wander around the gallery outside my door, would he? Besides, as you said, he doan bother no woman what doan want no botherin’ wif.”

Marie laughed at Celine’s exaggerated impression of her and slipped into Louisiana Cajun. “Yessah, but Mischie Trevor? Well, he’s got him a way what makes the ladies want to be bothered wif, beggin’ your pardon.” She gave a small curtsy, giggled, and hurried off.

Celine made her way over to the cheval mirror and scrutinized her appearance. Satisfied, she patted a light fragrance of lily of the valley behind her ears and at the hollow of her neck. Then she slipped onto the gallery and headed toward the front of the mansion in hopes of surreptitiously observing Trevor’s arrival.

She made her way to the front of the gallery and stood, hidden behind one of the ponderous Doric columns surrounding the two-story mansion. The open carriage ready to transport Trevor stood some two hundred yards away in front of La Belle Créole, the queen of the Mississippi.

The sight of the regal two-deck paddleboat gliding past Carlton Oaks during its regular runs between New Orleans and Baton Rouge never failed to stir Celine. What wasn’t decorated with ornate iron scrollwork gleamed with fresh white paint. Her elegant twin stacks rose high in the air, billowing thick, white steam into the afternoon sky, her paddles at the stern churning the dark waters around her into white froth. Fashionably turned out passengers lined the upper deck, hoping to catch sight of the parade of ostentatious plantations up and down the river.

A man Celine assumed to be Trevor strolled down the gangplank and climbed into the carriage. She couldn’t quite tell from this distance, but he appeared tall, like his father and brothers, but with dark hair like his sister, whose excited chatter from below gained cadence.

The gangplank behind him disappeared into the boat. A tender closed the gate and with three clangs of the bell, the paddles reversed, waters churned, and the sternwheeler floated gracefully upriver.

The carriage slowly approached, looming larger as the driver made his way along the shaded drive. Majestic oaks lined both sides of the narrow road, their boughs forming a vaulted corridor leading to the mansion. Celine backed away from the rail, hoping the colorful Brasilia vines clinging to the railing and column she stood behind hid the lavender of her wide skirt. Blasted hoops.

Lindsey scrambled down a tree, and ran and skipped behind the carriage, calling excited greetings. Trevor turned, situating himself with his back to the house and toward his brother. Lindsey picked up his pace.

The carriage drew closer, and Trevor turned back to the small crowd of family and servants gathered in front of the grand plantation house. Celine caught a faltering breath. Good Lord! If that wasn’t the most attractive man she had ever seen.

The driver pulled to a stop in front of the gathering. Trevor swung one long, muscular leg down from the carriage and twisted to reach for his valise. The muscles in his wide shoulders rippled beneath his dark blue broadcloth jacket. In one swift motion, he lifted the bag, sprang from the carriage, and set the baggage to the ground. He ran his hand down one thigh, smoothing his tight fawn-colored breeches tucked into shiny black boots that rose to his knees.

Celine’s gaze roved the length of his body in hypnotized fascination. She stepped closer to the edge of the balcony for a better view of this enigma, who now leaned casually against the carriage as if he’d leisurely strolled in. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and his full mouth displayed a set of even white teeth against golden skin. Dark eyes flashed merriment.

Lindsey reached his brother first. Trevor swung him easily in the air. He set the boy down and tousled his hair. Michel, the second oldest son, and Justin, gathered around Trevor. Finally Felicité, his sister, waiting on the sidelines, could stand still no longer. She pushed through the men and threw her arms around her brother.

“Je t’aime, je t’aime,” she cried, smothering her brother with affectionate kisses. Her dark curls bounced gaily about a petite and lovely face. “I missed you so much, mon frère.”

An easy grin settled about Trevor’s startlingly handsome face as he held court with the family. He and Felicité shared similar features, both of them bearing a striking resemblance to the painting of their beautiful French mother hanging in the parlor.

Suddenly confused, Celine leaned into the pillar and pressed her hot cheek against the cool column. He wasn’t anything like she had imagined. He was tall and wide in the shoulders like Justin, but any resemblance ended there. He had neither the Andrews hawk nose of his father and brothers, nor the hard edge about him she had anticipated. Oh, she’d expected him to be handsome enough—the men in the family were—but she’d thought he would mirror those wealthy dandies she used to sidestep at the parties she’d attended before her marriage. No matter how suave they appeared, something usually lurked beneath their façades that repelled her. She’d been curious as to why the other young ladies failed to notice, until she figured out why—they didn’t want to, not where wealth was concerned. Trevor’s demeanor held not a speck of the deceitful dandy.

Felicité stood on tiptoe, one arm hooked in Trevor’s, and whispered something in his ear. He chuckled deeply, lifted her at the waist, and twirled her around in circles. Her dress danced about her ankles, the hems of her petticoats fluttering.

“Put me down!” Felicité squealed merrily, not meaning a word. Trevor laughed and tossed his head back. His gaze caught Celine’s. He ceased swinging his sister in midair and set her down gently, never once taking his eyes off Celine. His lips parted and he stood as if transfixed.

Her breath caught in her throat. A vague fire smoldered in her belly. What a sensual man. He carried an aura of personal magnetism so powerful, a sensation close to fright swept through her. She stood still and aloof, masking her emotions. His intense gaze seemed almost a physical touch. She held her head at a proud, haughty angle, not flinching from his bold scrutiny.

In seconds, Trevor regained his cool, casual air. A lusty grin caught at the corners of his mouth, and fire danced in his eyes as he bent ever so slightly at the waist, tipped an imaginary hat, and strode casually into the house.

Damnation! Celine hurried along the gallery back to her room.

Slamming the French doors behind her, she kicked off her slippers in a fury, sending one crashing against the door across the room, the other falling squarely in the fireplace. She sat on the cushions in the window seat, still in a frazzle over being caught spying. Her face heated at the embarrassing thought. She wrapped her arms around her legs, set her chin to knees, and stared blankly out the window, her emotions in a whirl.

Being caught lurking on the gallery wasn’t all that bothered her.

Puzzlement washed through her. Why be so upset because a man returned home? An aqueous haze clouded her vision. She swiped at one corner of her eye. How in heaven’s name could there be any tears left? Hadn’t she cried them all out two weeks ago over Stephen’s grave? Here she thought she’d healed in mind and body, but she’d only managed to fool herself into thinking so.

It suddenly dawned on her that in the year she’d lived with the Andrews family, she’d never stepped off the land but to visit the cemetery. Life at bucolic Carlton Oaks was busy, but predictable as the setting sun. And safe. Had this predictability given her a false sense of how to face the world again once she ventured beyond the plantation’s borders? So, she wasn’t angry at Trevor’s return after all. She was frightened of venturing forward in life; that’s what all the unwanted emotion was about.

Trevor’s returning to Carlton Oaks had upset the plantation’s daily routine—including hers. Worse though was what the mere sight of him did to her insides. Good Lord, from where had those volcanic feelings erupted? Such unrealistic yearnings had been buried so deep before her marriage, she had all but forgotten them.

There had been a time when she and her best friend, Dianah Morgan, had sat under a tree reading erotic books they’d clandestinely transported in their closed parasols. She’d often awaken at night covered in a sheen of perspiration after one of her sensuous dreams. But when she married, she sadly decided the authors had played a cruel trick on her. Reality proved to be little more than a few minutes of fumbling around in the dark under bunched up nightclothes.

Mere fantasy—that’s what Trevor Andrews represented. Any debonair man stepping off a jewel of a sternwheeler, and making his way along a lovely tree-shrouded path to one of the most beautiful plantations in all of Louisiana, was bound to stir romantic notions. Especially in a woman spying on him who’d spent her idle hours as a youth tasting forbidden fruit in the form of unmentionable books.

She reached into a pocket hidden in the seam of her dress and pulled out a letter from Dianah, one she’d carried around far too long. The Morgan family, having recently relocated to San Francisco, had invited Celine to live with them in their new luxury hotel.

A shaft of pain shot through her heart at the idea of leaving a place—and people—she had grown to love. But there was no family left, nothing to tie her to Louisiana any longer. Tonight she would cease her procrastinations and accept Dianah’s invitation.

Celine sat in the window seat for nearly an hour, sorting through her thoughts and fitting all the past year’s events into a jigsaw puzzle in her mind, Trevor’s coming home being the final piece. She convinced herself that with all the confidence she had gained over this past year she could handle him in proper perspective, not like some schoolgirl sitting under a tree reading romantic fantasies—she was a grown woman, nearly twenty-one.

And a widow, for heaven’s sake.

She smiled to herself, still staring intently out the window at nothing in particular when something startled her attention back to the moment. She turned and looked straight up into the beguiling face of Trevor Brandon Andrews.

The man stood before her, his booted feet planted slightly apart, fists on hips. “Lost in thought?”

Celine’s mouth turned to cotton. She swallowed hard. Whether she was widowed or not, how dare he enter her quarters without permission? She stood and faced him, aloof and unswayed. Oh, God, they stood so close. He smelled of sandalwood and musk. And ... and of a delicious body heat that nearly dizzied her. She gazed into midnight eyes framed with thick black lashes.

Something flickered in them, some knowing or realization that set her heart reeling. She tore her gaze from his only to survey his full, lush mouth. The strange smoldering that had nearly burst into flames on the balcony swept through her once again. Surreptitiously, she clasped her hands in front of her to prevent their trembling and diverted her prurient thoughts.

When she forced herself to look back into his eyes, she wasn’t quite sure what she saw, but there was a curi. . .