When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(54)

“Don Carlos,” Max said quietly, “I hope you won’t be deceived by any claims Burr might make that he is trying to serve Spain’s interests.”

They exchanged a glance of sharp understanding. “We are perfectly aware,” Yrujo continued after a deliberate pause, “that the only interests the colonel serves are his own.”

Max decided to take another tack. “Then perhaps you can see your way clear to tell me what you know about the letter of introduction Burr has given to one of the Spanish boundary commissioners here in New Orleans, the Marquis de Casa Calvo.”

“I know nothing about a letter.”

“It is suspected that several such letters have been delivered to those who might be sympathetic to Burr’s cause.” Max studied the tip of his boot as he added, “Including Casa Calvo.” Then his golden eyes surveyed the implacable Spaniard once more.

“I am certain I would have heard of it, had Casa Calvo received one. Lo siento.”

The finality in Yrujo’s voice left no room for deeper prying. Max stubbed out his cigar, annoyed even though he had expected nothing more than what he had gotten. He would dearly love to know what was in that letter, to have some written proof as to Burr’s intentions.

———

Twilight was fast approaching as Max rode home to the Vallerand plantation. He slowed his black stallion from an easy canter to a trot when he saw an enclosed carriage stopped at the side of the road. One of the carriage wheels was broken, and only one horse was harnessed to the vehicle. There was no driver in sight. Stopping by the side of the carriage, Max saw a movement inside. He lightly fingered one of the brace of pistols he always wore when traveling.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, reining in the stallion as it fidgeted.

A woman’s face appeared. She was young and reasonably pretty, and most definitely French, although Max did not recall having met her before. Evidently judging from his appearance that he was a gentleman and not a highwayman, she rested her forearm on the edge of the window and smiled. “Merci, monsieur… but there is nothing we require. Our coachman will return at any moment with help.”

“Do not speak to him, Serina,” came a voice from inside the carriage, a strident feminine voice filled with rebuke. “Don’t you know who he is?” A second face appeared at the window.

Max stared at the woman with a slight frown, knowing he had met her before, though he was unable to remember her name. She was at least his age, perhaps a little older, her dry white skin stretched over prominent cheekbones. Her pale green eyes were venomous, and her lips turned down at the corners as if they were anchored by invisible threads.

“Don’t you recognize me?” she hissed. “No, I suppose you would not. Vallerands have short memories.”

“Aimée,” the younger woman protested softly.

With a shock, Max realized the woman was Aimée Langlois. He had known her when they had both been in their teens. He had even courted her for a time, before he had met Corinne. Back then Aimée had been lovely. He remembered having teased her, drawing elusive smiles from her, even stealing a kiss or two when her nearsighted aunt had been less than vigilant.

“Mademoiselle Langlois,” Max said with unsmiling courtesy, remembering that Irénée had once mentioned that Aimée had remained unmarried. Now, glancing at those pinched-in lips, he knew why. No man would ever have the courage— or the incentive— to kiss her. But what had wrought such a change in her? What had made her so bitter?

Still staring at him coldly, Aimée spoke to the young woman beside her. “This is Maximilien Vallerand, Serina. The man who murdered his wife. You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you?”

Embarrassed, the girl clutched at Aimée’s forearm to quiet her. “I apologize for my sister-in-law, monsieur. It has been such an exhausting day, and we—”

“Don’t you dare offer excuses for me!” Aimée snapped, and glared back at Max. “Leave us this moment!”

Max would have liked nothing better, but they were alone and unprotected, and no gentleman would leave them in such a situation. “Permit me to wait nearby until your coachman returns,” he said. “Night is falling, and it is dangerous to—”

“You present the only danger to us,” Aimée interrupted. “Therefore, I would appreciate your immediate departure!”

Max gave her a curt nod. “Good evening, ladies,” he murmured, and urged the stallion away from the carriage.

Max went a bit farther along the road, and watched the vehicle until another carriage arrived for the two women. Disturbed by the encounter, he tried to force thoughts of the past from his mind, but they kept returning. He remembered the innocent days of his boyhood, the happiness he had taken for granted, the stern but comforting presence of his father, his reckless adventures with his friends, his careless assurance that he could have any girl he wanted.

Aimée’s reticence had been an engrossing challenge, until he had been introduced to Corinne— and then he had forgotten everyone but her. Corinne had dazzled him, aroused him, made him crazy with the need to possess her.

However, soon after their marriage, the mercurial moods that Max had found so charming became much worse, and he had been at a loss to know how to deal with her. One day Corinne was vivacious, the next sullen and quiet. She might explode in fury because Max did not pay her enough attention, or she might scream at him to stop hovering about her.