Nora Roberts - Midnight Bayou

MIDNIGHT BAYOU

by NORA ROBERTS

Published by:

G. P. Putnam's Sons

Publishers Since 1838

a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.

375 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014.

Further reproduction or distribution

in other than a specialized

format is prohibited.

Copyright 2001 by Nora Roberts

BOOK JACKET INFORMATION iii

"Roberts weaves a story like no one else."

--Rocky Mountain News

The number-one New York Times-bestselling author of The Villa presents a novel set in the bayou country of Louisiana--where the only witness to a longago tragedy is a once grand house.

There was something about the house that called out to Declan Fitzgerald. The dilapidated mansion on the outskirts of New Orleans, rumored to be haunted, and long taken over by spiders and dust, would require countless hours of labor to restore to its former splendor. Perhaps that was part of the appeal. Having finally purchased Manet Hall after dreaming about it for years, Declan left his Boston law practice, traded in his briefcase for a tool belt, in hopes of rediscovering the deep soul satisfaction of real hard work.

But as he begins the renovation, spending long days in total isolation within the crumbling house, Declan wonders whether the talk of ghosts is more

than just local legend. He has had visions, seen strange things from a century past. More so, he feels inexplicable, unpredictable sensations of terror and nearly unbearable grief.

For a time, a beautiful neighbor named Angelina Simone provides an alluring distraction from the disquieting events--and as Declan focuses on rebuilding Manet Hall, the passion between them grows stronger as well. This dusky, earthy woman has an odd connection to the mansion too, however. Before Declan and Angelina can hope for a future together, they must uncover a secret from the past as deep and dark as the bayou.

Nora Roberts is the first writer to have been inducted into the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame. The number-one New York Times-bestselling author of The Villa, Carolina Moon, River's End, Dance upon the Air, and many other novels, she lives in Maryland.

Jacket design by Honi Werner

Front jacket photograph v

(copyright) Stern Imaging

Photograph of the author

(copyright) 2001 John Earle

Honest Illusions Private Scandals Hidden Riches True Betrayals Montana Sky Born in Fire Born in Ice Born in Shame Daring to Dream Holding the Dream Finding the Dream Sanctuary Homeport Sea Swept Rising Tides Inner Harbor The Reef River's End

Jewels of the Sun Carolina Moon Tears of the Moon Heart of the Sea The Villa From the Heart Dance Upon the Air

WRITING AS J. D. ROBB

Naked in Death Glory in Death Immortal in Death Rapture in Death Ceremony in Death Vengeance in Death Holiday in Death Conspiracy in Death Loyalty in Death Witness in Death Judgment in Death Betrayal in Death Seduction in Death

This book is a work of fiction. vii Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Leslie Gelbman,

a woman who understands

the value of time

ix

God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight; And love is less kind than the gray

twilight, And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

William Butler Yeats

MIDNIGHT BAYOU 1

Death, with all its cruel beauty, lived in the bayou. Its shadows ran deep. Cloaked by them, a whisper in the marsh grass or rushes, in the tangled trap of the kudzu, meant life, or fresh death. Its breath was thick and green, and its eyes gleamed yellow in the dark.

Silent as a snake, its river swam a sinuous line--black water under a fat white moon where the cypress knees broke the surface like bones piercing skin.

Through the dark, moon-dappled water, the long, knobby length of an alligator carved with barely a ripple. Like a secret, its threat was silent. When it struck, its tail whipping a triumphant slice through the water, when it clamped the unwary muskrat in its killing jaws, the bayou echoed with a single short scream.

And the gator sank deep to the muddy bottom with its prey.

Others had known the cruel, silent depths of that river. Knew, even in the vicious summer

heat, it was cold, cold.

Vast with secrets, the bayou was never quite still. In the night, under a high hunter's moon, death was busy. Mosquitoes, voracious vampires of the swamp, whined in a jubilant cloud of greed. Players of the marsh music, they blended with the buzzes, hums and drips that were punctuated by the shocked squeals of the hunted.

In the high limbs of a live oak, shadowed by moss and leaves, an owl hooted its two mournful notes. Alerted, a marsh rabbit ran for his life.

A breeze stirred the air, then was gone, like the single sigh of a ghost.

The owl swooped from its perch with a swift spread of wings.

Near the river, while the owl dived and the rabbit died, an old gray house with a swaying dock slept in shadows. Beyond, rising over a long, lush spread of grass, a great white manor stood watchful in the moonlight.

Between them, teeming with life, vigorous with death, the bayou laid its line.

1 3

Manet Hall, Louisiana

December 30, 1899

The baby was crying. Abigail heard it in dreams, the soft, unsettled whimper, the stirring of tiny limbs under soft blankets. She felt the first pangs of hunger, a yearning in the belly, almost as if the child were still inside her. Her milk came down before she was fully awake.

She rose quickly and without fuss. It gave her such pleasure--that overfull sensation in her breasts, the tenderness of them. The purpose of them. Her baby needed and she would provide.

She crossed to the recamier, lifted the white robe draped over its back. She drew in the scent of the hothouse lilies--her favorite--spearing out of a crystal vase that had been a wedding present.

Before Lucian, she'd been content to tuck wildflowers into bottles.

If Lucian had been home, he would have woken as well. Though she would have smiled, have stroked a hand over his silky blond hair as she told him to stay, to sleep, he would have wandered up

to the nursery before she'd finished Marie Rose's midnight feeding.

She missed him--another ache in the belly. But as she slipped into her night wrapper, she remembered he would be back the next day. She would start watching for him in the morning, waiting to see him come galloping down the alle of oaks.

No matter what anyone thought or said, she would run out to meet him. Her heart would leap, oh, it always leaped, when he sprang down from his horse and lifted her off her feet into his arms.

And at the New Year's ball, they would dance.

She hummed to herself as she lit a candle, shielding it with her hand as she moved to the bedroom door, out into the corridor of the great house where she had once been servant and was now, well, if not daughter of the house at least the wife of its son.

The nursery was on the third floor of the family wing. That was a battle she'd fought with Lucian's mother, and lost. Josephine Manet had definite rules about behavior, domestic arrangements, traditions. Madame Josephine, Abigail thought as she moved quickly and quietly past the other bedroom doors, had

definite ideas on everything. Certainly that 5 a three-month-old baby belonged in the nursery, under the care of a nursemaid, and not in a cradle tucked into the corner of her parents' bedroom.

Candlelight flickered and flew against the walls as Abigail climbed the narrowing stairs. At least she'd managed to keep Marie Rose with her for six weeks. And had used the cradle that was part of her own family's traditions. It had been carved by her grand-pre. Her own mother had slept in it, then had tucked Abigail in it seventeen years later.