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Wronged
(The Cuvier Widows #1)
by
Sylvia
McDaniel
Historical
Romance
Categories:
Mystery/Thriller,
Bigamy
Publisher:
Virtual
Bookseller
Release
Date: December
30, 2012
Heat
Level: Sensual
Word
Count: 100,000
Buy
Links
Blurb
Marian
Cuvier didn't know how to react when she learned that the man she
called husband and father to her children, Jean Cuvier, had been
murdered. Yet, the biggest surprise was when the detective informed
her that she's not the only woman Jean married. There are three
Cuvier Widows and one is suspected of murder.
When
Marian learned of her husband's death, humiliation, shock and anger
were the only emotions she felt for Jean. For the last several years,
their marriage has been in name only. Now she's determined to
safeguard her children's future and save their only source of income,
Cuvier Shipping. Jean's handsome business partner, Louis Fournet
thinks Marian's should not be leading her husband's business. The man
has a way with women that Marian finds alluring and arouses feelings
she's never experienced. Louis Fournet is a temptation she finds
hard to resist.
Excerpt
New
Orleans, 1895
Marian
Cuvier for years thought her husband kept a mistress and that her
marriage to Jean Cuvier wasn’t worth the paper their marriage
license was printed on. Still, the sight of the man she had spent the
last twelve years of her life with—borne two children and made a
home for—lying dead on the floor of a bedroom in the Chateau Hotel
ripped a sob of anguish from her throat
"What
happened?" she cried, her mind reeling with thoughts of her
fatherless children wrenching her heart.
Policemen
stood around the body in small groups, ceased their low whispers and
glanced her direction, their gazes stern, but curious.
A
man half-bent over Jean’s body turned and gazed at her, his dark
eyes intense. "Who are you, Madame?"
"I’m
his wife, Marian Cuvier," she said, starting to tremble from the
shock of her husband’s death. His body lay twisted grotesquely on
the floor, his skin an odd pinkish hue.
Oh
God, no matter how much I hated him, I would never have wished him
dead!
The
man crouching over the body slowly rose to his full height, his brows
drawn together in a frown. "His wife is sitting in the next room
Madame."
"What?"
she asked, not sure she heard him correctly. "I’m Marian
Cuvier. I’m his wife. Who are you?"
"I’m
detective Dunegan." He gave her a stem look and took her by the
arm, leading her from the bedroom.
Unable
to resist, she glanced back perhaps for the last time at the still
form that long ago had been her lover, and of late an absent husband.
She closed her eyes, the image of the handsome man she’d married
twelve years ago foremost in her mind. When she opened her eyes she
looked toward the detective, not at the corpse who’d never been a
good husband.
"Madame,
I will ask you again. Who are you? His wife is sitting in the next
room."
Confusion
rippled through her and she pulled away from the man as they entered
the parlor. "That must be his mistress. I am Mrs. Jean Cuvier,
we’ve been married for twelve years."
The
hotel clerk, who earlier had summoned her from her house and brought
her to the Chateau Hotel, cleared his throat to draw the detective’s
attention. He leaned over and whispered something to the younger man
who glanced again at Marian.
As
if she were at a play, she watched from a distance as the scene
unfolded before her, a sense of uneasiness holding her in its grip.
The body lying on the floor of the bedroom looked like her husband,
Jean, who was expected home today. She supposed the corpse littering
the floor must be her cold-hearted husband, the man who had visited
her bed fewer times than he had the church, which was almost never.
Detective
Dunegan gazed at her, his expression one of bewilderment. "My
apologies, Mrs. Cuvier. There seems to be some confusion. The hotel
clerk confirmed you were indeed married to Mr. Cuvier. If you’re
his wife, then, who is the woman who was with Mr. Cuvier?"
The
detective watched her closely as if he feared she would be overcome
by the news her husband had died in a hotel room with another woman.
Clearly, the detective had no clue that her marriage existed only on
paper. How could she explain that her husband no longer found her
attractive? That Louis often sought the company of other women.
Impossible.
So she said nothing about the state of her marriage. Let the police
figure it out, maybe they could find the reasons why her husband no
longer made love to her.
Marian
lifted her chin and consciously pulled her shoulders back. Made of
stronger fabric than most women, she would weather this storm, just
like all the others Jean put her through. She ignored the way her
insides began to quiver.
"Perhaps
she is his mistress," she acknowledged, her suspicions about
Jean realized.
Damn
him, did he never think of their children?
The
door to the room burst open and a blonde woman dressed in an
exquisite, embroidered crepe lisse flouncing with white India silk,
hurried into the room. Her heart-shaped face and soft blue eyes
looked distressed and her complexion pale. "Where is he? Is he
all right? They told me he was ill."
The
detective put himself between the young woman and the door to the
room where Jean’s body lay sprawled.
"Who
are you?" Officer Dunegan asked, halting the stylish woman who
looked almost like a young girl.
"I’m
Mrs. Cuvier," she replied, her face anxious. "I went by
Jean’s office and they sent me over here. Is the doctor with him?"
"Good
Lord, another one?" the detective muttered, gazing at both of
them.
"Who
did you say you were?" Marian questioned as she stared at this
woman in disbelief.
The
woman gave Marian a quick disdainful glance. "I’m Mrs. Nicole
Cuvier, Jean’s wife. Now, where is my husband?"
Marian
wondered if she’d heard her correctly. Did she say she was Jean’s
wife?
The
detective glanced at Marian and then at the other woman. "Jean
Cuvier is dead."
Marion
watched the woman as her trembling hand clutched her delicate throat.
Her eyes reflected horror, while her face tightened with shock and
her body swayed. For a moment Marian thought the newcomer would faint
and she wondered if this whole scene was a bad dream.
"No!
No!" the blonde woman cried, tears rushing to her eyes. "Dear
God, no. He can’t be! Let me see him. Please tell me this is a
mistake. Where is he?"
The
detective glanced at Marian who stood staring at the scene in front
of her, shock freezing her at the woman’s outburst. Jean had likely
never been faithful, but how many women could one man be involved
with? And did he really marry them?
"I’ll
take you to him," the man said taking Nicole by the arm. "I’m
Detective Dunegan, with the New Orleans police."
He
led the latest Mrs. Cuvier into the bedroom where the body lay
sprawled on the floor. Marian stood in the center of the parlor, not
knowing what to do, feeling like the ground had been ripped from
beneath her feet.
Two
other women claimed to be Jean’s wife! The latest wife was young,
attractive, and certainly more appealing for Jean to bed than
herself. Could the women be lying about their marital status? Yet the
newest Mrs. Cuvier certainly appeared the grieving widow, more so
than even Marian. If she were lying, she certainly played her part
well.
Or
could this be some ploy to cover his murder? Extort money? None of
this felt real, but it didn’t feel like a lie either. Speculation,
but possible.
When
the detective and the young woman returned, Marian still stood in the
same place, the policemen walking a wide path around her as she stood
transfixed, staring, stunned by the day’s events.
The
room filled with the sounds of the newest Mrs. Cuvier’s soft sobs,
and Marian felt the most incredible urge to comfort her. To shield
her from the hurt that Jean could so easily inflict. She shook
herself. When Nicole learned of Marian’s identity, she would not
accept Marian’s offer of solace.
"I
think we need to remain calm, sit down, and find out what happened,"
the officer said, his voice firm and reassuring.
Calm?
Remaining composed seemed impossible when you suspect your husband
had found you so inappetent that he kept not one but two women to
stimulate his sexual desires, leaving you to wait for him to return
to the home you shared.
"What—what
... happened," Nicole sobbed, her face streaked with tears. "How
did he die?"
Marian
gazed with interest at the detective. What did it say about her
relationship with Jean that she hadn’t even thought to ask that but
rather just accepted the fact that Jean was dead.
"Poisoning.
We suspect that his wi...
the woman we found him with poisoned him."
Nicole
spun around and glared at Marian through her tears.
Marian
gazed back at the angry and beautiful young woman, until she realized
Nicole thought she had killed Jean. "Not me. There’s another
woman."
"What
do you mean another woman?" Nicole asked.
"You’re
not the only Mrs. Cuvier in this hotel suite."
"I
don’t believe you," Nicole said almost hysterical.
Marian
wanted to laugh, but thought it would be cruel and there was already
more than enough pain in this hotel room. So instead she remained
quiet, let the detective explain the situation.
The
detective took Nicole by the arm and motioned for Marian to follow
him. They walked into an adjoining room where a girl who looked like
she should still be in school sat staring out the window at the
horizon, her dark eyes glazed and distant.
"Layla,"
the detective said, releasing Nicole. "Tell these women how the
man you’re suspected of killing was related to you."
She
turned her oval-shaped face toward the door. Hair as black as night
was swept up off her neck in a coiffure that left wisps of curls
swirling around her pale face. She glanced at the detective and
raised her brows in a disdainful look that was both elegant and
disapproving. "I told you I did not kill my husband."
Nicole
moaned, the knowledge seeming like a blow to her. "What are you
saying? You lie. You can’t be married to Jean?"
The
girl stared at Nicole, not responding.
"Did
you marry Jean Cuvier?" Marian asked gently feeling more certain
that Jean had married each one of them. If Jean had done what she
suspected, she had a sudden premonition they were all going to need
consoling in the next few minutes.
"Yes,"
the young girl said, her voice starting to tremble. Her bright red
lips pouted.
Marian
squeezed her eyes shut, letting the waves of pain almost overwhelm
her at Jean’s deception. How could he do this to her? To the
others? To their children?
"That
can’t be. He married me. He’s my husband," Nicole said, her
voice rising, the pain and hurt audible in her voice.
"And
mine," Marian said quietly, as she sank down onto a nearby
chair. "I’m Marian Cuvier. I married him twelve years ago at
St. Ann’s Cathedral."
Nicole
turned abruptly and looked at Marian in disbelief. "No. That’s
impossible." She paused, her face contorted in disbelief. "No.
We were married four years ago. I don’t understand. He would never
do something so horrible."
"And
I married him a year ago," Layla whispered, her face turning
ashen.
"Impossible.
Jean loved me. That’s ... that’s bigamy!" Nicole said,
shaking her head from side to side.
"Yes
it is bigamy. We’re all married to the same man," Marian
replied, her voice distant and hollow. Her insides were numb. Her
mind slowed to a crawl, as she comprehended the situation. "And
now we’re all Jean’s widows. The Cuvier Widows."
Betrayed
(The Cuvier Widows #2)
by
Sylvia
McDaniel
Historical
Romance
Categories:
Bigamy
Publisher:
Virtual
Bookseller
Release
Date: December
30, 2012
Heat
Level: Sensual
Word
Count: 100,000
Buy
Links
Blurb
Nicole
Cuvier went to New Orleans to share the most wonderful news with her
husband only to discover him in a hotel room murdered, with two other
women claiming to be his wife. It seems there are three Cuvier Widows
and one is suspected of murder.
For
years, Nicole Cuvier had tried to erase the shame of her illegitimate
birth and start the family she longed for with her husband, Jean. As
the mistress of Rosewood, she owns one of the largest plantations on
the River Road in Louisiana. Now, she's pregnant, unmarried-a widow
with a plantation dependent upon the sugar cane crop to survive. She
needs a temporary husband. Handsome Maxim Viel, a drifter, comes to
her rescue and marries her, but unbeknownst to Nicole, Maxim wants
more than a temporary arrangement. He has the power to heal her
shattered heart, but could his past be intertwined with Rosewood?
Excerpt
Excerpt
They
Met Over His Dead Body
New
Orleans, 1895
For
the first time in their marriage, Nicole Rosseau Cuvier disobeyed her
husband Jean. Though he told her never to come to his office in New
Orleans without him, the news she had simply could not wait. And his
office was just several hours by boat down the Mississippi River.
Yet
her joy dimmed when she arrived at her husband's shipping company,
and the clerk mysteriously informed her that Jean was ill and gave
her his room number at the Chateau Hotel.
In
the entire four years they'd been married, Jean Cuvier had never been
ill.
Nicole
burst into the hotel room, uncertain what she would find. Her gaze
swept across the open room to a man dressed in a shabby suit in
conversation with a refined lady with dark hair and smoky-gray eyes.
"Where is he? Is he all right? They told me he was ill."
The
man stepped between Nicole and an open door where she could see
uniformed men standing around an unidentifiable body stretched out on
the floor. Who could that be lying on the floor?
"Who
are you?" the man asked, blocking her path.
"I'm
Mrs. Cuvier," Nicole said anxiously. "I went by my
husband's office and they sent me over here. Is the doctor with him?"
she asked, trying to peer around the man to see into the other room.
"Good
Lord, another one?" the man muttered, gazing back at the lady
he'd been speaking with.
"Who
did you say you were?" the woman inquired as she stared at
Nicole, her gray eyes large and questioning.
Nicole
didn't have time to chitchat with this woman, whoever she was. If
Jean were ill, he needed her. "I'm Mrs. Nicole Cuvier, Jean's
wife. Now where is my husband?"
The
man in the shabby suit coat glanced at the other woman and then
turned his gaze on Nicole. "Jean Cuvier is dead."
Nicole
felt as if someone punched her in the stomach. With a trembling hand
she clutched her throat, trying to hold back the scream that seemed
to swell and lodge itself in her throat. The room swayed precariously
as a dizzy spell overcame her, the words reverberating through her
mind. Her beloved husband was dead.
"No.
No," Nicole cried, tears rushing to her eyes, hysteria bubbling
up, threatening to overwhelm her. "Dear God, no. He can't be!
Let me see him. Please tell me this is a mistake. Where is he?"
"I'll
take you to him," the man said, taking Nicole's arm and gently
guiding her. "I'm Detective Dunegan, with the New Orleans
police."
Nicole
heard the words, but her mind didn't comprehend what he was saying.
Police detective? What was a detective doing here with her husband?
He led her into the bedroom where the same body she'd seen earlier
lay sprawled on the floor, surrounded by people.
Please,
God, that couldn't be Jean.
She
caught a glimpse of dark hair tinted with silver, the color of Jean's
hair. The man wore pajamas the same dark brown that Jean loved, a
silk robe wrapped around his still form.
At
the detective's motion, they moved aside and let her in close to see
the man she loved, who lay twisted on the floor, his skin an odd
pinkish hue that looked unnatural. She knelt beside him, her hand
reaching out as her fingers touched his cold flesh. Quickly, she drew
her hand back, the sensation confirming that her husband's lifeblood
no longer flowed, his warm, loving touch now just a memory. A sob
tore from her throat as she gazed at Jean, feeling as if this
couldn't be real.
Gently
the detective helped her up from the floor and led her back into the
main room of the hotel suite. Nicole sobbed for her husband, who'd
taught her so much about life. Their short time together had been
filled with love and laughter, and even today she'd come bringing him
such joyous news.
"I
think we need to remain calm, sit down, and find out what happened,"
the officer said, his voice firm and reassuring.
Calm?
How could she remain calm when she'd just found out her husband was
dead? That no longer would he hold her in his arms or his smiles
brighten her day.
"What—what.
. . happened?" Nicole sobbed, tears streaking down her face.
"How did he die?"
"Poisoning.
We suspect that his wi—the woman we found him with poisoned him."
Nicole
spun around and glared at the finely dressed woman through
tear-streaked eyes. Could she be Jean's killer?
Her
large gray eyes returned her gaze unflinchingly. "Not me.
There's another woman."
"What
do you mean, another woman?" Nicole asked, confused.
"You're
not the only Mrs. Cuvier in this hotel suite," the woman advised
her.
Another
Mrs. Cuvier? What was she talking about? Nicole didn't understand.
The only other Mrs. Cuvier was a distant relative of Jean's who lived
hundreds of miles away. Why were they lying to her?
"I
don't believe you," Nicole said, fear making her almost
hysterical.
The
detective took Nicole by the arm and motioned for the other woman to
follow him. They walked into an adjoining room where a young woman
sat staring off at the horizon, her dark eyes glazed and distant.
"Layla,"
the detective said, releasing Nicole. "Tell these women how the
man you're suspected of killing was related to you."
She
turned her oval-shaped face toward the door. Hair black as night was
swept up off her neck in a coiffure that left wisps of curls swirling
around her pale face. She turned dark, censorious eyes on the
detective and raised her brows in a disdainful look that was both
elegant and disapproving. "I told you I did not kill my
husband."
Nicole
moaned, the woman's words confirming her worst fears, yet she
couldn't believe this was happening. There had to be a mistake. "What
are you saying? No! You lie. You can't be married to Jean."
The
girl glanced briefly at Nicole, not responding.
"Did
you marry Jean Cuvier?" the distinguished woman asked her.
"Yes,"
the young girl said, her voice starting to tremble. Her bright red
lips pouted.
"That
can't be. He married me. He's my husband," Nicole said, her
voice rising, the pain and hurt audible in her voice, unable to
control the fear that raged through her.
"And
mine," the woman said quietly as she sank down onto a nearby
chair. "I'm Marian Cuvier. I married him twelve years ago at
Saint Ann's Cathedral."
Nicole
turned abruptly and stared at her in disbelief. "No. That's
impossible." She paused, comprehension as fleeting as the wind.
"No. We were married four years ago. I don't understand. He
would never do something so horrible."
"And
I married him a year ago," Layla whispered, her face turning
ashen.
"Impossible.
Jean loved me. That's . . . that's bigamy!" Nicole said, shaking
her head from side to side. Jean would never hurt her this way. He
loved her. He told her over and over how he loved her more than any
other woman.
"Yes,
it is bigamy. We're all married to the same man," Marian
replied, her voice sounding uncaring and cold. "And now we're
all Jean's widows. The Cuvier Widows."
Nicole
sobbed. Dear God, she'd come to town to tell Jean that after four
years she finally was expecting their baby. And instead she'd learned
that the father of her child, the man she loved with all her heart,
was a bigamist—and he'd been murdered.
Beguiled
(The Cuvier Widows #3)
by
Sylvia
McDaniel
Historical
Romance
Categories:
Mystery/Thriller,
Bigamy
Publisher:
Virtual
Bookseller
Release
Date: December
30, 2012
Heat
Level: Sensual
Word
Count: 100,000
Buy
Links
Blurb
Jean
Cuvier forced Layla's father to sell his shipping company and marry
his daughter, or so she believed. Until the morning the servants wake
her with the news that Jean is dead and she quickly learns she's not
the only Mrs. Cuvier. Jean has three widows, but Layla is the only
one accused of Jean's murder.
The
District Attorney has enough motive and evidence, to send Layla to
the gallows. Forced to turn to the man she blames for the sale of her
father's shipping company, she must trust Drew Soulier, to save her
life. Though Drew's the best attorney in New Orleans, he doubts her
innocence. As tensions mount, Drew and Layla face a passion they
can't deny. Can Drew save her from hanging?
Excerpt
New
Orleans, 1895
Sunlight
glittered through the windows of the St. Louis Hotel, casting bizarre
shadows over the dead body of Jean Cuvier. A sparrow trilled a happy
song in the courtyard outside the posh hotel suite, the sound eerie
and disturbing. Layla Cuvier stared at the corpse of her husband
lying on the floor and knew that from this day forward, her life
would forever be changed.
No
longer will I have to endure his touch.
Her
eyes confirmed what Colette, her servant, had told her. Jean lay
sprawled on the floor, his brown robe wrapped around him, his face a
peculiar shade of pink. Needing the confirmation of what seemed so
obvious, she reached down and touched his hand. The feel of cool
flesh beneath her fingers sent a shudder through her and she recoiled
in revulsion.
"Mrs.
Cuvier, a doctor is on his way and the hotel manager has sent for the
police," said Colette, wringing her hands in an anxious manner.
Layla
felt numb as she stared at the man she had shared a house with for
the last year. As his wife, she should feel sorrow at his death, but
relief and a sense of peace filled her. She had barely tolerated
Jean’s presence.
She
rose and nodded to her servant and friend. "Please help me dress
before the doctor arrives."
"Of
course," the maid said, but glanced at her hesitantly.
"Did
Mr. Cuvier say anything about feeling ill?" Layla asked, gazing
at her husband’s still form.
"No.
But I went to bed before you retired," the maid said. "Did
you hear him call out?"
"After
I shut my bedroom door, I heard nothing last night," Layla said,
knowing the sleeping draught had ended her insomnia. The draught
created a dream world filled with people and color, and a world so
different from reality. Yet she would have heeded Jean’s call if
she had heard his cry for help. "So many nights he slept in the
chair."
And
Layla loved the nights he left her alone.
"It’s
so sudden. How do you think he died?" Colette asked.
"I
don’t know. He hasn’t been ill." Layla gave Jean one last
glance, stunned at his death. Their last conversation was an ugly
reminder of his evil ways and she couldn’t help but wonder if his
heart could have failed him. Though their marriage had been a farce,
she had never expected him to die. "Let’s hurry. I’d rather
greet the authorities fully dressed."
"Are
you all right?" Colette asked gazing at her worriedly as they
entered Layla’s bedroom. "You seem so composed."
Layla
gave the woman a quick glance as she shed her nightgown. "I’m
a little shaken, yet I feel strangely calm."
Calm
and relieved, she hoped that now his ugly secrets would die with him
and she could escape this farce of a marriage and return to her home.
Hurriedly
Layla chose a black dress appropriate for a widow. She had barely
gotten her ebony hair swept up off her neck in a coiffure that left
wisps of curls swirling around her face when Colette opened the door
to the police. They swarmed into the suite, covering the rooms like a
bevy of ants.
Layla
stepped out of her bedroom, and into the doorway of Jean’s bedroom
to watch with interest as a uniformed policeman leaned over Jean’s
prostrate body lying on the floor.
The
voices of the officers seemed distant and removed and the scene
before her surreal, like a colorful nightmare.
A
short ugly little man dressed in a shabby brown suit separated from
the others and walked toward Layla.
"Mrs.
Cuvier?" he asked, his intimidating eyes focused on her.
"Yes?"
She felt as if he stared deeply into her soul, but she had nothing to
hide and met his gaze, undaunted by his beady gaze.
"Detective
Dunegan of the New Orleans Police."
They
walked the short distance to the lavishly decorated parlor of the
suite.
"Please
sit." She pointed to a chair in the small sitting area as she
sat across from him.
"How
did your husband die?" he asked. He took out a notepad and a
pencil from his tattered coat pocket.
"I
don’t know. My maid awakened me this morning with the news that
she’d found Mr. Cuvier lying on the floor of his bedroom. I hurried
into his room, where I found him lying there, his body already cold,"
she said, clenching her hands in her lap. "I have no idea how
long he's been dead."
Layla
glanced toward the bedroom, half expecting Jean to walk through the
door, laughing that he had fooled them all.
"When
did you last see him alive?" the detective asked.
She
thought back to the night before. They had fought fiercely and she
had been determined to return home to Baton Rouge this morning. She
had intended to meet with an attorney to see what kind of legal
recourse was available to her, but miraculously nature had taken care
of things.
Now
she prayed the ugly truth would die with Jean and she could return to
her previous life. She licked her lips nervously.
"The
last time I saw Mr. Cuvier was around midnight," she said,
remembering how she had left him in the parlor asleep in the very
chair the detective occupied.
A
man stood in the doorway to Jean’s room with a stethoscope hanging
around his neck. "Detective Dunegan, can I speak with you a
moment5"
Through
the open window, she could hear laughter in the courtyard of the
hotel, the sound incongruous with the atmosphere in the suite.
The
two men disappeared into the bedroom. Their muffled voices held an
excited undertone, though she could not understand what they said. As
the minutes passed, she sat feeling more nervous, wondering whom she
should contact regarding jean’s death.
"Now
where were we?" he asked. "Oh, that’s right. You said the
last time you saw the deceased was around midnight." He paused
and frowned at her. "Did you and Mr. Cuvier sleep in separate
rooms?"
"Yes.
My husband kept odd hours, and I have trouble sleeping and don’t
like to be disturbed."
"So,
you heard nothing in the night? He didn’t call out to you for help
or assistance?"
"No,
I took a dose of a sleeping draught not long after he came home."
She gave the detective a puzzled glance. "Do you always ask
these kinds of questions when a man dies?"
"I’m
just doing my job, Mrs. Cuvier," he said matter-of-factly.
Layla
glanced around and noticed that more and more policemen seemed to be
filling the hotel suite. They stood around in little clusters
talking, occasionally glancing in her direction. A few of the
officers seemed to be combing the room as if they were looking for
something.
"What
are they doing?" she asked alarmed. She had never heard of the
police doing this when someone died.
The
atmosphere seemed charged with some ominous foreboding that she
didn’t understand.
He
ignored her question. "How would you describe your marriage to
Mr. Cuvier?"
"Why
are you asking me these questions? How could my relationship to my
husband be any of your business?" she asked, distressed. "He’s
dead! Shouldn’t you be calling the coroner?"
"Ma’am,
the coroner is with your husband. Now please, Mrs. Cuvier, just
answer the question."
She
gazed at the detective, feeling suddenly uneasy.
"Our
marriage was fine. My husband traveled frequently and we seldom saw
one another," she said, a cold chill going down her spine. She
glanced back to see a policeman coming out of her room holding her
vial of laudanum in his hand. "Where is he taking my medicine?"
"Don’t
worry, Mrs. Cuvier, it will be returned to you in good time,"
the detective said, not looking at her, but nodding to the policeman.
Uneasiness
filled her every breath and she didn’t understand why the police
seemed so engrossed with Jean’s death. "How did my husband
die?"
"I’m
asking the questions, Mrs. Cuvier," the detective said, ignoring
her query. "Did you and your husband have an argument last
night?"
She
paused looking at the man, uncertain how to answer the question. "We
had a slight disagreement"
You
selfish bastard!
The words she had yelled at Jean reverberated through her mind and
she knew she could never tell them the whole truth about their
quarrel. Otherwise they would think she had been involved in his
death.
"What
was the fight about?"
"It
was such a minor disagreement, I scarcely recall," she lied. "I
think I’ve told you enough. You need to tell me why you’re asking
all these questions."
The
detective gazed at her, his eyes cold. The room became silent and she
felt like hundreds of eyes were focused on her. A creeping sensation
started along the base of her spine and suddenly she felt afraid.
Everyone stared at her as if she had done something horrible.
Even
the bird that chirped noisily through the window had ceased its
singing and all sound was suspended in uncanny silence.
"How
did my husband die?" she insisted, her voice rising. The
detective watched her, his beady eyes intent. "Tell me!"
"According
to Doctor Benson, your husband was poisoned."
The
room seemed to fade as Layla felt her body go numb. Poisoned? "Oh—Oh
my. No. It couldn’t be, that’s impossible."
As
soon as she uttered the words, she knew a whole host of people who
would like to see her husband dead. And before the day was over,
there would probably be even more who cheered at the news.
"Oh,
God!" she said, realizing the depth of trouble that would soon
surround her.
"Can
you tell me what your husband ate or drank last night?"
Uneasy,
Layla swallowed. "I don’t know what he had for supper, since
he wasn’t here. I gave him his usual cup of tea before he went to
bed."
She
knew she had put laudanum in his drink, as she often did, but she had
not intentionally killed him, and she had definitely not poisoned
him.
Could
she have given him too much?
A
shiver ran through her. Did she, accidentally kill Jean with her
antidote for passion? The detective stared at her, waiting.
He
leaned in close, his voice demanding. "Did you poison your
husband, Mrs. Cuvier?"
Her
heart pounded in her chest. They would think that she killed Jean if
they found out what she had learned last night, the reason for their
fight, the fact that her marriage was a complete farce.
"Of
course not! I would never
kill anyone," she said emphatically.
"You’re
extremely calm and cool, considering your husband just died. You
haven’t shed a tear."
Layla
couldn’t help but realize what he said was true. She didn’t feel
any grief or remorse that Jean was dead, only a sense of relief at
being free, but that didn’t mean she had killed him.
"My
father arranged my marriage to Jean. Ours was more a marriage of
convenience. But I would never poison him. That would be a sin."
Silence
echoed in the room filled with people eager to hear her every word.
She closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them, she would
awake and realize this was just a nightmare, not reality.
"You
said you gave your husband a cup of tea. Did you put anything in his
tea last night Mrs. Cuvier?" She glanced away, wanting to lie,
knowing whatever she said would incriminate her even though she was
innocent.
"I
didn’t kill Jean!" she said gazing at him.
"Answer
the question, Mrs. Cuvier," he said, his voice harsh and
forceful. "Did you put anything in Mr. Cuvier’s tea?"
She
swallowed nervous, knowing no one would believe her innocent. "I—I
put a touch of laudanum in his tea."
A
gasp sounded in the room.
She
responded quickly. "To help him sleep. He didn’t sleep well. I
did it all the time and he’s never had a reaction before." She
clenched her fists. "I didn’t kill Jean."
The
detective tensed, but said nothing. His pencil scratched noisily
against his notepad as he hurriedly wrote her comments.
When
he looked up, his face was expressionless, his eyes intense, like a
hunter closing in on its prey.
"Mrs.
Cuvier, I need to interview your servants. Could I ask you to wait in
your bedroom? When I’m ready to continue our interview, I’ll let
you know."
"You
want me to just sit in my room and wait for you?"
He
raised his bushy brows. "Yes, ma’am."
Layla
stared at him in shock. How could he think she killed Jean? Sure, she
hated him, but she could never harm him or anyone else, for that
matter. This was crazy. Everything seemed to be spinning out of
control. Since yesterday her life had disintegrated into shambles.
"I
didn’t kill my husband," she said one more time as she rose
from her chair. She walked toward her bedroom, her head held high,
wanting to pack her suitcase, knowing instinctively that it would be
the wrong thing to do. She sat down in a chair by the window and
stared out at the courtyard below. How could this be happening?
She
hated Jean, but to the world they had presented the image of a
happily married couple, keeping their problems behind the closed
doors of her bedroom. But to physically harm him would damn her
forever, and even Jean wasn’t worth spending eternity in hell. She
had prayed her life would change, but never this drastically. And
never like this.
For
what seemed like forever, though probably less than an hour, Layla
sat looking out the window, watching the birds flitter about the
courtyard as they flew from one tree to another. Caged and restless,
she wished she could fly away so easily. Finally, the door opened and
the detective walked in followed by two women. Layla refused to
acknowledge them, fear gripping her insides with a tightening hook.
"Ma’am,"
the detective said, releasing a young blonde woman who had come in
with him. "Tell these women how the man you’re suspected of
killing was related to you."
What?
They hadn’t officially charged her with anything. Was this some
kind of trick? She turned toward the door and gazed at the detective,
trying not to react to his words and contain a cool composure. "I
told you I did not kill my husband."
The
blonde woman with eyes red-rimmed from crying moaned. "What are
you saying? No! You lie. You can’t be married to Jean."
Layla
knew in that instant who the two women were and she didn’t know how
to respond. She felt so ashamed, yet she had done nothing wrong. Jean
had duped her just like the others.
"Did
you marry Jean Cuvier?" the older distinguished-looking woman
asked, her expression calm, though her green eyes shimmered with
tears.
"Yes,"
Layla responded, a slight quiver to her voice.
"That
can’t be. He married me. He’s my husband," the blonde woman
said, her voice rising, her pain and hurt audible in the bedroom.
Layla
resisted the urge to tell her she could have Jean. She had never
wanted him.
"And
mine," the other woman said quietly, as she sank down onto a
nearby chair. "I’m Marian Cuvier. I married Jean twelve years
ago at Saint Anne’s Cathedral."
The
blonde turned abruptly and stared at her in disbelief. "No.
That’s impossible." She paused, her face twisted into a mask
of horror. "No. We were married four years ago. I don’t
understand. He would never do something so horrible."
"And
I married him a year ago," Layla whispered, painfully aware of
how they had been deceived and how the world would soon know of
Jean’s deceit.
"Impossible.
Jean loved me. That’s . . . that’s bigamy!" the blonde woman
said, shaking her head from side to side.
"Yes,
it is bigamy. We were all married to the same man," Marian
replied. Her voice sounded hollow and she appeared to be in shock.
"And now we’re all Jean’s widows. The Cuvier Widows."
Layla
stared at Jean’s wives and knew that though she had only found out
about her husband’s perfidy twenty-four hours earlier, she would
never reveal she knew beforehand of Jean’s terrible deeds. For if
the detective found out, he would surely believe that she had killed
Jean in response to learning of his deceit. And though she hated him
for his lies, she could never have killed him.
About
the Author
Sylvia McDaniel and the
love of her life, Don, live in Texas with son Shane, Putz the klutzy
dachshund and Ashley our shy dachshund. During the day, she works for
a small insurance agency, helping clients with their commercial
insurance coverage.
The weekends are spent
working out in the garden until the temperature climbs above ninety
degrees. Recently, with the help of her husband, she learned to make
homemade blueberry and blackberry jam. Cooking is not her favorite
past-time and she prefers Don’s cooking any day of the week.
Currently, she’s
written fourteen novels. Her novel, A Hero's Heart, was a
1996 Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist. Sylvia is
President Elect of Dallas Area Romance Authors.
Connect
with Sylvia McDaniel
*NOTE* We were scheduled for a review but was unable to review all 3 books in the short time before post was scheduled. I do APOLOGIZE. I will post REVIEWS ASAP after read. Thanks, Angie E
Giveaway Info:Prize is 10 eBook copies (1 each to 10 winners) of“Wronged (The Cuvier Widows #1)”. Contest is tour-wide and ends Apr 30. Must be 18 years of age or older to enter.
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Thanks for having me today. You know you're one of my favorite stops! I appreciate all the support you guys give me, Thanks again. I'll be at the RT conference next week. If you're there stop by and see me.
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