By Connie Mason
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Gabby shrank from his touch when he came forward to usher her from the cabin, her eyes wary and distrustful. Suddenly it came to Gabby that she would not hesitate fleeing from the man she had married. Breakfast was an ordeal Gabby could have done without. Time and again Marcel tried to draw Gabby into conversation. "I see you have weathered the storm in good condition, Madame St. Cyr," he said, addressing her directly. "Oui," she answered, dropping her eyes discreetly to her plate of food. " he asked, hoping to elicit more of a response from her.
For the first time since their marriage, except when he was making love to her, the harshness of his face gave was to a soft, wistful look. "First you must know that Martinique is one of the Windward Islands in the Lesser Antilles," Philippe informed her in a voice that showed excitement for the first time since she had known him. "The Antilles chain stretches across the Caribbean Sea from the eastern reach of the chain between the islands of Dominica and St. Lucie. " "Just the opposite," laughed Philippe, showing her dimples she never knew existed.
She leaned against the railing, a mystical figure whose wind-whipped, silvery locks appeared as illusive as angel wings beneath the shimmering moonbeams. Her mind drifted back to her life in the convent and how safe and secure she had felt. She sighed. Oh to be that innocent and protected again. " Gabby nearly jumped out of her skin as the voice materialized from out of nowhere. "I did not mean to startle you, cherie," said Marcel. "Oh, Marcel, you gave me quite a start," breathed Gabby with a ragged sigh.