Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3)

by Shirlee Busbee

  There was little either Christopher or Jason could add to what he already knew and after several minutes of conversation, during which, much to Christopher’s discomfort, the governor praised his accomplishments, the two men departed from Claiborne’s house on Toulouse Street.

  The rain had stopped, but after glancing at the leaden skies above, Christopher remarked, “If we hurry, we might make it to our respective homes before another downpour overtakes us.”

  Casting a wary eye at the gathering rain clouds, Jason agreed. “From the looks of the sky, we may end up swimming, mon ami! I think we have done all that we can. Claiborne will do what he has to, and as soon as I learn anything, I will send you word.” Jason hesitated, before asking, “Would you care to dine with Catherine and me on Thursday? There have been certain events that have taken place in the New Orleans area that I would like to talk over with you. Now is not the time and I’m not free until that evening.”

  “Is it important? Something I should take action on?”

  There was that odd hesitation again, Christopher had the impression that Jason was holding something back.

  “You may consider it important,” Jason said, “and you may feel compelled to do something.” Christopher frowned and Jason added, “I do not mean to be mysterious, but frankly I haven’t the time to go into detail. You may hear it before I tell you; I ask that you keep an open mind and do not fly off in a rage. Remember the Creoles love gossip, and rumors are not always the truth of the matter.”

  Christopher’s eyes narrowed and he snapped, “You may not be trying to be mysterious, but from where I stand you’re doing a bloody damn good job of it!”

  A brief smile tugged at Jason’s full mouth. “I know, my friend, I know, but bear with me. It is definite then? You will come to dine on Thursday?”

  “You know damn certain I’ll be there!”

  Jason strode off and Christopher walked toward home, his thoughts on Nicole.

  Hot-tempered to a fault, a bewitching little baggage, as beautiful as she was mercurial, and hating the very sight of him, he wanted no other woman—at least not for the moment, he thought hastily, unwilling to look beyond the next few weeks…perhaps months?

  He refused to think too far into the future, obstinately determined to take each day one at a time and not bother himself with what eventually happened between them. He never had with any other woman, so why with Nicole?

  Nicole was not in any frame of mind to follow a course of “wait and see.” She was furious at Christopher’s actions—furious, yet aware that with him was where she most longed to be. But not like this, she thought, not thrown over his shoulder like a piece of booty and carried off to shame and disgrace.

  If the choice had been hers, if she had chosen to sail with him, if he had said, “Come,” and she had made the decision herself to follow him, she would not have resented so bitterly the position in which she found herself. Shame and disgrace were something she could have faced, faced gladly if Christopher had given her the choice. But he had not! He had ignored her wishes, her emotions and torn her from England. It was, she decided, another example of his arrogant, high-handed actions.

  Not adept at hiding her feelings, her features grew stormy, and it was only when she noticed the apprehensive expression on the face of the young black girl pressed into service as a lady’s maid that she forced herself to think of something else. Smiling at the girl, she said, “Don’t be frightened of me. I occasionally scowl and I have a terrible temper, but I seldom vent it on my servants. Now, tell me, what is your name?”

  Shyly the girl murmured, “Naomi, ma’am. Mister Sanderson says I am to be your maid until he can hire someone else.”

  Watching as Naomi arranged for a bath to be drawn and reverently laid out one of several gowns left behind when she had sailed for England, Nicole decided that the services of Naomi were all that she would need. There was no reason to hire another Mauer—this time she was not going to be entering polite society. A mistress—and she was guessing that was the role Christopher had picked for her—was a different position from that of a ward. A tight smile curved her mouth. Christopher would find her an uncomfortable ladybird. She’d make certain of that!

  Naomi’s announcement that the bath was ready for her broke into Nicole’s thoughts, and pushing aside the problem of her future battle with Christopher, she let herself be undressed and helped into the large brass tub.

  The bath was sheer heaven. After many weeks at sea, of making do with saltwater sponge-downs, the hot fresh water was paradise. Nicole submerged her slender body, delighting in the caress of the delicately scented water. Sighing with pleasure, she leaned back and, resting her head on the rim of the tub, decided it was almost worth going without a bath for weeks to have one feel this good. The water began to cool, and after scrubbing herself from head to toe, she had Naomi help wash her hair.

  Feeling cleaner and more relaxed than she had in weeks, Nicole sat wrapped in a large soft towel before the fire in her room, as Naomi brushed and combed the long strands dry. The soothing motion of the brush nearly put her to sleep, and once the waving hair was dried, Nicole lay down for a nap.

  The threatening sky promised more rain before the day ended, and she slept soundly, waking to a darkened and silent room some hours later. Unwilling to leave the warmth and comfort Nicole snuggled down into the welcoming softness of the feather mattress. But Naomi’s entrance, a lit candle in her hand, put all thought of sleep from Nicole’s mind.

  “Yes? What is it?” she asked.

  “Oh, ma’am, I didn’t mean to wake you! Master Christopher wanted to know if you were still asleep.”

  “You didn’t wake me. I was on the point of ringing for you,” Nicole replied untruthfully.

  Deciding that waiting on Miss Nicole was going to be pleasant work indeed, Naomi lit the lamps and proceeded with ready skill to help her new mistress dress.

  The gown laid out earlier was of soft worked muslin, in a pleasing pale green. It was a beautiful gown, but Nicole, thankful to be out of the hated bronze silk she had worn for the past several weeks, would have adored it if it had been made of cotton sacks.

  The one item of clothing not left behind had been shoes. Staring at her bare feet peeping out from under the flounces of her skirt, she was reminded poignantly of that evening in Bermuda. How different my future might have been if I had followed Allen’s advice, she thought regretfully. And she wondered again about Allen’s fate. Christopher had promised he would be freed, and she wanted to believe he had kept his word. There were bitterness and recriminations enough between them without having the added burden of Allen’s death dividing them. Allen must be free—free and with the British. N Nicole closed her mind to any other explanation, unable to think of Christopher lying to her and coolly turning Allen over to the Americans to be hanged as a spy. There was a great deal she would believe of Christopher Saxon, but not that.

  The problem of the lack of shoes was solved by wearing the disreputable bronze silk slippers she had brought with her. A spangled shawl draped around her shoulders completed her attire, and after a brief glance at herself in the mirror, noting with satisfaction the clean shine to the gently waving locks, Nicole descended the stairs to the main salon.

  Christopher was there before her as she expected, but what she hadn’t expected was the shaft of half pleasure, half pain that shot through her when she saw him standing before the fire, one arm resting on the mantel.

  Glancing up from his contemplation of the leaping flames, Christopher inquired politely, “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes. A genuine bed was a novelty after the accommodations provided by Captain Baker,” Nicole replied evenly, not certain of herself or his mood.

  He appeared very much at ease; his dark features were unreadable as she stared at him. Dressed in a pair of slim-fitting yellow pantaloons and an exquisitely cut coat of bottle green, he was enough to make any young woman’s heart pound in her breast, and Nicole was very m
uch aware of his tall, hard body as he strode across the room and courteously offered her a chair by the fire. She hesitated, then deciding that she, too, could act as if there was nothing between them, graciously consented to be seated.

  They were both stilted in their movements and conversation, both acting much in the manner of two strangers meeting for the first time. “Would you care for a glass of sherry?” Christopher asked. “I believe we have plenty of time until dinner is served.”

  Feeling like a stuffed doll, a painted smile on her lips, Nicole murmured, “Yes. Sherry will be fine.”

  Christopher walked to the other end of the room, where a tray with several crystal decanters was placed, and in silence poured out a small glass of the pale amber liquid. In silence he came to her side and handed her the sherry, their fingers touching as the glass was placed in her outstretched hand. Both reacted as if stung; Christopher’s hand fell away and Nicole’s fingers nearly jerked the glass from his grasp.

  The silence between them was uncomfortable; both were unbearably aware of the other, each waiting for the other to make the first move, to say the first word. Neither did.

  The silence was like a third presence in the room; the crack and pop of the fire burning on the hearth echoed in the quiet, intensifying the silence. Nicole shifted on her chair and, for something to do, sipped the sherry, not really wanting it.

  Christopher had returned to his position by the fire; his profile was presented to her and he seemed fascinated by the leaping yellow and orange flame. A half-finished snifter of brandy stood on the mantel. As Nicole watched him, noting the way his blue-black hair curled crisply in damp weather, he reached for the snifter and in one motion tossed the contents down. Straightening, he turned to look directly at her.

  With a quizzical smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he asked mockingly, “Well? Don’t you have anything to say? I’ve been waiting these past moments for that scathing tongue of yours to annihilate me. Don’t tell me you have lost the power of speech. Come now, expectorate your spleen, as I’m certain you have been longing to do for weeks!”

  Nicole stiffened, her eyes flashing with ready temper. With difficulty she controlled the urge to do exactly as he said, but instead she said levelly, “Railing against you will gain me nothing. I have, I hope, outgrown some of my foolishness, and losing my temper is one thing I have no intention of doing, despite the provocation.”

  One black eyebrow flew up. “I’ll take your word for it. But I’m sure you do have something to say. Some condemnation of my conduct?”

  Nicole stood up and placed her unfinished glass on a nearby table. “Yes, I have something to say, but more to the point I have a question to ask. May I?” she inquired sarcastically. At Christopher’s curt nod, she demanded, “What do you plan to do with me?”

  From the bronze slippers on her feet to the top of her head Christopher’s eyes traveled over her, halting for a brief second on the high bosom, the fiery gleam of the dark hair, before returning and stopping on her full mouth. “Oh, I can think of several plans for you, my dear,” he murmured, “but I doubt you would agree with them.” His eyes on her mouth, he walked over to her, standing so close that there were barely inches between them. “I want you, Nicole,” he muttered. “I want you as I have never wanted any woman I have ever known.” The gold eyes were bright with desire as he said, “You were willing to be Robert’s mistress, why not mine?”

  As Nicole stood frozen with icy anger, he continued rashly, “I gave you your chance to lead a respectable life. I saw you launched into society, but no, that wasn’t what you wanted. Oh, no. You were willing to throw it all away to become Robert’s plaything. Well, my dear, you’ll be much better off as my plaything than Robert’s. Believe me, I shall be generous with you—your own house on the ramparts, your own carriage, servants, anything you like. Just name your price.”

  The topaz eyes, like two great golden-brown jewels in her pale face, shimmered with anger, as she spat, “You overestimate your charm! If I were dying and you had the gift of life, my answer would still be the same—no! Be your mistress? Ha!” !”

  Christopher’s lips thinned as angrily he reached for her. “So you say, madame!” he snarled against her mouth. “So you say, but your body tells me something different!”

  His mouth closed over hers, forcing her lips apart. His arms tightened around her, awakening memories of other times in his arms, of other moments shared between them. If he had continued to kiss her in such a rough manner she might have been able to resist him, but as if sensing that sheer force would avail him nothing, Christopher’s mouth slackened its assault and moved gently across hers, urging and yet demanding an answer to his rising passion.

  Feeling the familiar curl of desire swirling in her stomach, Nicole fought against it, determined not to allow him to sweep her into his dark power. But Christopher was too much for her; his hands tightened around her waist, drawing her nearer to the warmth of his body, making her aware even through the restraint of their clothing of how much he did indeed want her. His hands left her waist, exploring her hips, traveling up her slender spine in one tantalizing caress; his lips, warm and desire-drugging, locked on hers, Nicole felt what control she had slipping.

  Christopher, blind to anything but the desire scorching his veins, oblivious to the battle raging within the woman in his arms, drew her inexorably down on the sofa near the fire, his hands finding the silken flesh beneath the muslin gown. At the touch of his hand on her thigh Nicole moaned, wanting him to take her, yet knowing if she did, she was lost. Fighting against herself as much as Christopher, she twisted beneath him, seeking to escape. The movements of her body only heightened Christopher’s urge to know again the ecstasy of joining his body with hers, and he kissed her with deepening urgency.

  At the sudden knock on the door, Christopher stiffened. With a muffled curse he sat up, demanding, “Yes, who is it?”

  “Sanderson,” was the reply. “Dinner is served, sir.”

  Standing up and straightening his clothes, Christopher snapped, “Very well. In a moment.” Turning to Nicole, he muttered, “It appears that this interesting conversation, too, will have to wait until later. Are you ready?”

  Not looking at him, with a hand that trembled she rearranged her skirts and said in a voice that shook slightly, “For dinner, yes.

  Christopher grinned at her. “But, my dear, what else?”

  Resisting the urge to slap his face, Nicole walked to the carved doors that led to the main hall, allowing Christopher to open the doors for her, her hand resting on his arm.

  She and Christopher conversed with ridiculous politeness during dinner—partly because of Sanderson’s hovering presence and partly because neither could think of anything to say. They both had their minds on the evening ahead, and perhaps that explained why the cook was disappointed at the amount of food returned to the kitchen.

  After dinner, tingling with wariness, Nicole allowed herself to be led back to the salon they had occupied before dinner. Seated on the sofa that had nearly been her undoing, she accepted the demitasse cup of sweet black coffee that Sanderson offered from a silver tray. Not so Christopher; he waved the butler away, preferring instead a snifter of brandy.

  Dinner had been a time of truce, an uneasy truce, but a truce nonetheless. Christopher made that clear the second the door closed behind Sanderson. “Well?” he asked. “My proposition still stands. Now that you have had a few moments in which to consider it, don’t try to fob me off with the usual feminine prattle that you need time to think.”

  It was an unfair attack—both knew that Nicole had never consented to think over his offer. Her eyes gleaming with resentment, she snapped, “There was never any question of my considering your less-than-respectable proposal. I told you then and I’ll tell you now—I will not become your mistress!”

  Her bosom heaving, she stood up and her voice shaking with suppressed emotion, she continued hotly, “I am surprised you even want such a deprav
ed creature as myself near you. After all, I am so without gratitude that I would turn my back on the agreeable life you had arranged for me, insult the hospitality of your grandfather, align myself with a man unworthy of the name, a man who was my own mother’s lover!” Her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, the red mouth trembling with the effort to hold back those same tears, she cried, “Oh, yes! Let us not forget that I am my mother’s daughter. We both know what she was like—a liar, a betrayer, and an adultress! I promise you—if you force me to, I shall show you how like my mother I can be. For God’s sake let me go! Give me the passage back to England. Send me away from you so that we both may find peace.”

  Christopher whitened at her words. “I cannot,” he admitted bitterly. “I have thought of all you say—it has torn me apart day after day, night after night. But let you go, I cannot!” It was an admission he had not wanted to make, an admission he had tried to hide from himself. Furious that he had given her another weapon over him, with a jerky movement he swallowed the brandy in one long gulp. Slamming the empty snifter down on the mantel so hard that it splintered, without another word he stalked across the room to the door. Standing with his hand on the door, he glanced back at Nicole standing frozen by the sofa; then there was just the banging of the door as he departed. The look he sent her the last moment before hurling out the door was one of such loathing and fury that she recoiled from it, and yet, and yet, for just a second there had been a flicker deep in that golden gaze of something, something like…like…

  Tossing on her bed that night, again and again Nicole relived those tense, revealing moments, unable to believe that he had said what he had. To know that Christopher, too, felt that invisible bond between them was encouraging, but that he also hated and resented it was obvious. What am I to do? Stay? Hope that in time he will come to love me, if he is even capable of love? Or continue to fight against him, try to make him understand that we are better off apart? But would you be?