Tender Fury by Connie Mason Read Free Book Online Page A

thought as he viewed her through startling green eyes. Although he estimated her age at seventeen or eighteen, there was nothing childlike about the lithe, supple figure that was deliciously rounded in all the right places. Time and again his eyes kept returning to the full, sensuous lips that promised a passion he wished was his to unleash.
    All the while Marcel feasted his eyes upon Gabby, she studied him through lowered lashes. What she saw did not displease her. He was tall, yet did not have the ruggedness or look of strength about him that one noticed in Philippe, and appeared to be somewhere in his early thirties; but his vibrant green eyes made him appear much younger. A pencil-thin mustache and long, aristocratic face only served to enhance his distinguished features. Unruly brown hair and soft sensual lips saved him from appearing almost two handsome.
    Suddenly aware of the growing silence between them, Marcel was the first to shatter the poignant moment. “Madame St. Cyr,” he said with grave concern, “I do not know what troubles you, but I wish to be your friend. Someday you might have need of a friend and when you do, I shallbe there.”
    Gabby was about to thank him when from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of an approaching figure, bearing down at them with alarming speed. She shrank back in fear when she recognized her husband’s massive frame, the look of cold fury in his gun-metal eyes and a ferocious scowl on his darkening features.
    “Is it your custom to speak to strange men, Madame?” he asked tersely, barely able to control his rising anger.
    “You are unjust, St. Cyr,” Marcel broke in. “The fault lies solely with me. I introduced myself to your lovely wife. Surely you would not have her ignore me under those circumstances?”
    “Somewhat presumptuous of you, Duvall, knowing how I feel about you,” Philippe retorted harshly. “Keep away from my wife. She is very young and inexperienced. I would not have her tainted by men of your calibre.”
    “I envy your good fortune, mon ami ,” smiled Marcel affably, choosing to ignore the insult. “Had I such a wife, I, too, would be jealous.” Then he turned to Gabby. “Madame St. Cyr, it has been a pleasure talking with you.” Fuming inwardly, Philippe watched him saunter off with maddening nonchalance.
    Marcel’s parting words had strangely unsettled Philippe. Jealous? Could it be jealousy he felt? It was not possible. He wished only to protect Gabby. Unbidden, his mind returned to the fun-loving Cecily and the child who had joined her in death. Bitter experience had taught him that Marcel was no friend. He would do whatever was necessary to keep Marcel from corrupting his innocent wife.
    Gabby found herself being propelled along the deck and into their cabin, wincing in pain as Philippe’s fingers dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her upper arm. “Well, ma chere ,” he said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “Did you learn nothing from the nuns? Henceforth, you will not invite the advances of strange men. Duvall is not a man to be trifled with,”
    “Nor are you, Philippe,” Gabby shot back, hurt by his false accusations. “Surely there can be no harm in conversing with a man who is counted among your friends. We are the only passengers aboard the Windward and no doubt will see each other often.”
    “Duvall is no friend of mine, nor of yours!” he exploded.
    “Am I to be allowed no friends? Am I to remain secluded, to be taken out and displayed at your whim?”
    “I shall choose your friends!” Philippe shot back.
    Red spots of rage gathered behind Gabby’s eyes and her small, pointed chin tilted defiantly upward. “I choose my own friends,” she retorted bravely.
    Philippe took one step forward but quickly fell back, suddenly remembering Marcel’s words. Was he jealous? Was there more to his rage at seeing her with Marcel than his need to protect her? His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The sight of her, breast heaving