Prologue
New Orleans
1840
"There is nothing wrong with Comte DeVereaux," Magdalena
said. She sat upon the settee in the grand parlor of her
father's great-columned plantation house in the city of
New Orleans. Her feet were firmly on the floor, her back
determinedly straight.
Watching his only child, Jason Montgomery sighed and shook
his head sadly. He hated to hurt her, but the hurt was
necessary. In fact, seeing her there, her rich dark hair
with its glistening hint of red piled atop her head, only
a few delicate tendrils escaping, he felt a sudden shudder
of fear. He must be firm. She was his only child, and he
saw her through a father's prejudiced eyes, but she was
beautiful. She had the classic perfection of face and
figure that belonged to legends. Her soft skin was as
smooth and perfect as alabaster; her eyes were a flashing
hazel-gold. She had incredible dignity, a will of steel,
and a startling intelligence, yet she had the grace of a
gazelle, her every movement was naturally elegant, and at
unguarded moments, she could appear as soft and tender and
sweetly seductive as the most naive of innocent lasses.
She was young, impressionable, passionate. He had taught
her to be strong; she was his daughter, his heiress, and
she must be so. He, Jason Montgomery, was ruler of all
that surrounded him here in their plantation world, and he
was respected by all men in Louisiana, men who were now
Americans--be their ancestry French or British. He was a
wise man, a learned man, indeed a powerful man, and he had
tried very hard to give his daughter all of the things
that made up what he was.
Now, she used them all against him. "You do not like the
comte because he is French," Magdalena accused her father
with quiet reproach.
"I do not like the comte, not because he is French, but
because he is--" Jason broke off just in time. He would
not have her thinking him a madman, he would have her
respect his opinion and his dictates because he was her
father.
"I have chosen to live in this place where my associates
are most likely to be French!" he sputtered. Yes, he had
chosen this place for just such a reason. There were men
and women here of Colonial American descent; there were
the French, the British. There were the islanders, the
Creoles. There were people of mixed blood, coffee-colored
ancients, younger, powerful dusky beauties who knew ...
about the darkness.
This would not do. He raised a fist before him, shaking it
toward his daughter. "I am your father. You will not see
Alec DeVereaux again. I have decided that you will marry
Robert Canady and that you will do so in the next few
months, as soon as a ceremony can be arranged."
"No!" Magdalena cried, leaping to her feet. Passion and
fury filled her eyes. The beauty and grace of her motion
were never more visible than when she was angry like
this. 'Tll not do it, Father." Suddenly she was choking,
sobbing. "You have never treated me like this! You have
taught me to think and feel--"
"But you are not thinking!" Jason cried. "If you were
thinking, you would wonder about this man, Comte Alec
DeVereaux. You would want to know his parents, you would
want proof of who he is, of where he has come from--"
"Papa, you are sounding like such an arrogant fool!"
Magdalena exclaimed. "Listen to yourself! You have told me
that this is now the United States of America. We do not
bow down to kings and queens, a man forges his own destiny-
-"
"And silly girls still swoon over mysterious men with high-
sounding titles!"
"Papa, I am not a silly girl, I have never swooned, and I
am not impressed with titles. Why, my own father is called
Baron of the Bayou, and that is enough for me!" she tried
to tease. But then she grew serious. "You don't know him,
Father. Alec is so well read, Father! He opens the world
to me. He makes me see faraway places, he makes me
understand history and men and women, and things that have
been, and things that will come. I am in love with him
because--"
"No!" Jason gasped.
"I am in love with him because he is brave, because he is
sometimes so serious. Because he can be fierce and so
tender. Because--"
"He seeks to seduce you!"
"Papa, he is an honest man, he wishes to marry me."
"Never!" Jason vowed staunchly. "Never, do you hear me?
Never!" Jason roared. "Tyrone! Come escort my daughter to
her room. She is not to leave it!" he commanded, raising
his voice to call the servant who hovered unhappily in the
hallway, listening to the argument. Tyrone was an
extraordinary black man, born in the bayou country, a free
man. His parents had hailed from the islands, and before
that, his ancestors had come from the far south section of
Africa. He stood well over six feet tall and was pure
sleek muscle from head to toe. He strode to Magdalena
sadly. "I am sorry, Miss Magdalena," Tyrone told her.
Magdalena stared into the handsome, sorrowful face of her
father's right-hand man. Tyrone's one fault was his
absolute loyalty to her father. He would carry her bodily
upstairs if need be.
She turned back to her father, still unable to believe his
unwavering hatred for the young man she had come to
love. "No kings, no queens, Father! No all-powerful men or
women to command us, this is America. I will not bend down
to another's will!"
She spun fiercely about, heading for the stairway with
Tyrone close behind her.
"Magdalena!" her father called.
He was her father. Before this, her darling, her best
friend. She turned back.
"What about love, child? Would you bow to my will because
it comes with a father's love?"
"I will love you all of my life, Papa. All of my life. But
there must be other love, and it is for that I must defy
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