Aware that Christopher was like a banked fire ready to burst into flame, and uncertain of his own ground, Jason asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“God, no!” Christopher exploded, leaping to his feet and taking several short, agitated steps about the room. Bitterly he said, “Talking will do no good.” As if contradicting himself, Christopher muttered, “I find myself in the most damnable coil, and no matter which way I turn I see no escape.”
No doubt you do, my young friend, no doubt you do, Jason thought, recalling vividly his own frustration anguish. I suspect you would rather have died than to admit it to me.
He watched the other man consideringly as Christopher stared outside, his back to the room, the broad shoulders squared as if for battle. You bullheaded young animal, Jason thought with surprising affection, you are so like me in so many ways that I know precisely what is eating at your gut. We are such blind fools where our women are concerned. And for you, my young friend, I will offer one piece of advice. I wonder if you will be wise enough to take it?
Before Jason could say anything, Christopher spun on his heel and stalked over to the desk. Furious with himself for having burst out as he had, he wanted only to escape, to deny once again that Nicole presented any difficulty. He did not want to discuss the situation with anyone—especially not Jason Savage, despite odd air of sympathetic understanding that seemed to flow between them. Christopher felt naked and exposed, too proud to say, “By God, yes, let’s talk about it. I need someone with a clearer head than mine!” Instead, he withdrew into himself.
He stood in front of Jason and ignoring the present subject, said coolly. “I shall see you on Thursday as planned, unless I hear differently from you. Now if you will forgive me, I am afraid I must be about my business. If you hear news that you think would be of interest to me, please do not hesitate to send a messenger to Dauphine Street. If I can be of further service to yourself or the governor, you know that I will be more than willing.”
Almost amused by Christopher’s refusal to face what was bedeviling him, Jason nodded. “Fine. Catherine and I look forward to seeing you. Rest assured, should I have need of you, I will demand your presence immediately.”
Christopher bowed and had walked as far as the door when Jason’s soft drawl stopped him. “You are a rather obdurate young man, you know,” Jason said. With a hint of laughter lurking in his voice, he added, “I’m going to break one of my cardinal rules and give you a little unasked-for advice, my mule-headed friend. I once found myself in a dilemma much like, I suspect, the one you are in now. I solved the matter by marrying it.”
Throwing Jason an exasperated look, Christopher stalked from the room, unwilling to speak further on the subject. Damn him, he thought, as he walked in the falling rain, was there nothing that escaped the man?
Unwilling to consider Jason’s suggestion, he dismissed it and turned his mind on the problem of Lafitte—Lafitte and New Orleans and the coming battle with the British.
Finding one of the smaller, quieter coffee houses, he settled in a dark corner and, his eyes on the rain splashing and hissing against the windows, reflected on what he had learned today.
None of it looked good. Claiborne had alienated Lafitte by ignoring his offer of help. Lafitte incensed, had the weapons and men that could turn the tide against a concerted effort by the British. How in the devil was he to reconcile them? Jason, he knew, would be doing his best with the governor, but he suspected that the answer would lie more with Lafitte—would he be willing to forgive the governor and fight with the Americans?
The problem appeared irresolvable. But what about Jackson? As a military man and one who had not been involved in the feud between Claiborne and Lafitte, perhaps he could provide the answer. Provided he was willing to put aside his feeling about “hellish banditti”! Christopher smiled grimly. When Jackson saw the defenses of New Orleans, he was more likely to open his arms to the devil himself than worry over the less-desirable traits of some of Lafitte’s men. The flints alone should make him willing to turn a blind eye to past lawless activities. Yes, Jackson was the answer. Somehow, he must arrange a meeting between Lafitte and Jackson…with Lafitte in the right frame of mind of course. Jackson would need no priming from anyone—New Orleans’s lack of strength and armaments would be argument enough.
On Lafitte’s news concerning Allen Ballard he wasted little time in speculation. His only thought was Nicole would be pleased Ballard was with the British.
That brought him face to face with what he had been avoiding all day—Nicole. He swore under his breath as her image rose before his eyes, dashing every thought from his mind. Jason’s words came back to him—marry her!
He forced himself to think about it as he admitted no woman had ever moved him, infuriated or delighted him as did Nicole. So why not marry her? It would please his grandfather. And if arranged instantly and with secrecy, it would silence the social flutter that Nicole’s unmarried state would arouse. The Savages would not betray the fact that he had married Nicole after they had arrived in New Orleans. If he moved quickly, by tomorrow night Nicole would be his wife. Thursday’s dinner would be the first social appearance of his bride.
Whether or not she had given herself to Robert no longer mattered. That she was Annabelle’s daughter he dismissed impatiently; to his despair he began to make excuses for Annabelle’s despicable behavior. Ah, Jesus, he thought, you are a besotted fool. Marry her, you jackass, but never let her know how easily she could wrap you around her little finger. Never, never allow her to discover that you have committed the unspeakable folly of falling in love with her.
There! he had admitted it, but it brought him no pleasure, no joy, no relief, just the taste of defeat. How she would laugh if she knew. Laugh and taunt him and make his life a living hell. But marry her he would. Even try perhaps to make her love him? That he considered such a possibility showed how deeply his heart was committed.
All the wild, and yet gentle, emotions he had scorned were pounding in his breast for one woman, and that one woman wanted nothing of him—except her freedom. What an ironic jest. He who had laughed and jeered at unrequited love, sneered at love, denied such an emotion existed, was now himself a victim of it.
There would be compensations, he reminded himself bleakly. Nicole would be his, and someday there would be the children he wanted. Oh, yes, there would be compensations, he decided, as the picture of a topaz-eyed daughter rose in his mind. A daughter on whom he could lavish all the love and tenderness he dared not reveal to her mother for fear of having it thrown back in his face.
His decision made, he rose from his chair, tossed a few coins on the table, and headed for Dauphine Street. If they were to marry, he had better set about arranging it. He refused to think of Nicole’s reactions.
He did not ask Nicole if she would marry him; he told her. To make matters worse, he gave no hint that the marriage was anything more than a matter of convenience. It would please his grandfather, he said. It would save her embarrassment, he said. It was time he married and had an heir, he said.
Ignoring the blaze in Nicole’s fine topaz eyes, he continued blindly to dig a pit beneath his feet, as he trotted out practical reason after reason why Nicole should fall gratefully into his arms.
Christopher had not been the only one to make some decisions that day. Nicole, waking long after he had left her bed, had come to some conclusions on her own. She loved Christopher Saxon and she had decided with a calmness that was shocking that if he wanted her as his mistress, he would have her. It was useless to rail against him, to shout she hated him when all he had to do was touch her and she melted into his arms. She could not forget those odd moments, when she glimpsed something flickering in the gold eyes that left her breathless. It was possible all he wanted was her body, but now and then the thought crossed her mind that Christopher might be motivated by an emotion other than lust. It was a comforting idea to cling to, and that thought more than any other helped make her d
ecision.
Throughout the long day she had paced the confines of the house, waiting for his return, determined to burn all her boats, determined to tell him of her decision before she lost her courage and bolted like a wild thing for whatever safety she could find. She had been nervous when, shortly after dark, Christopher had returned to Dauphine Street, and when he had requested that she join him in the library, her mouth had gone dry. Her chin held proudly, squaring her shoulders, she had walked to the library.
Christopher had been standing, staring down into the fire when she entered, and after sending her a glance that took in the soft hair piled elegantly on top of her head and the deceptively demure gown of emerald wild silk, he had ordered her to sit down. There had been an awkward silence Nicole had the conviction that he was uneasy, even nervous.
When he informed her that they would be married, her heart leaped within her breast; shock mingled with hop. If he had swept her into his arms, she would have blurted out the shameful fact that she loved him. But Christopher proceeded to undermine his own cause by explaining the reasons for their union.
Trembling with disappointment as much as rage, forgetting her earlier resolution, Nicole sprang to her feet. With her hands clenched at her side, her eyes glittering with unshed tears, she demanded, “Are you mad? Marry you? I would rather die!” The anger in her voice almost robbed the words of their triteness, and Christopher, his own temper smoldering, shouted, “What in hell’s name do you want of me? I’ve offered you marriage, what more can I do?”
“What about love?” she cried, her face pale and the soft mouth set. “Doesn’t love have anything to do with marriage? Must everything be calculated and done for the advantage one gains?”
Christopher froze, staring hard at her stormy face. Like a man in a trance, he slowly reached out to touch Nicole’s cheek. “Love,” he whispered, “what do you know of love?”
Appalled at how close she had come to betraying herself, Nicole’s eyes fell from his, and she missed the flicker of naked emotion in the golden gaze. Not looking at him, yet unbearably aware of the warm caress on her cheek, she jerked away and muttered, “Oh, never mind! I don’t want to talk about it.’
“Ah but I do,” Christopher retorted and drew her stiff body back against his. His arms about her, he cradled her next to him and, bending his head, murmured into her ear, “Could it be that you are already in love? That there is someone who has captured that wild, stubborn heart of yours? Succeeded where I failed?”
Nicole’s whole body went still, and nervously she toyed with the material of her dress, wanting desperately to confess to that coaxing voice, wanting with all her heart to believe in the note of tenderness in Christopher’s tone. They had fought too often and too bitterly for her to trust him, yet she was powerless to tear herself away from him, to destroy this fragile mood. Even when the silence spun out and Christopher sat down on a couch before the fire, gently drawing her onto his lap, she did not resist. She was frightened, frightened and filled with an exquisite anticipation, a feeling that if she wanted, if she were clever and for once did not fly out in a rage, she would discover something important.
“Aren’t you going to answer me?” he prodded. “Or don’t you know the answer?”
Nicole swallowed, keeping her eyes on the leaping flames of the fire, conscious of his hard arms holding her next to him, of the muscled thighs beneath her and the warm breath gently stirring the hair at her temple. One of Christopher’s hands explored her arm, and she mumbled, “Does it matter? I mean is it important whether I am in love with someone or not?”
“It might be,” Christopher returned equably. “It depends on who it is?”
Cautiously Nicole replied, “Well, suppose I am in love with someone?”
“Hmmm, well if it isn’t me, I suppose I would have to let you go,” Christopher said, adding dryly, “Let you go and help you reunite with your loved one.”
Astonishment swiveled Nicole around to look at the dark face. “You would do that? If I said I were madly in love with…with…” she groped helplessly for a name and when none came finished lamely, “well, with someone, you’d let me go?”
Christopher regarded her steadily for several moments and holding her gaze with his own, said softly, “I’d have to, wouldn’t I? You see when I marry, I want no ghosts in my marriage bed. I want the woman that bears my name and eventually my children to want only me, when she sleeps to dream only of me.” He was gambling, gambling everything on the mad chance that he had not misread the cause of Nicole’s her angry outburst.
Warily they stared at each other, Christopher committed as far as he could go without encouragement from Nicole, and Nicole uncertain how to reply. With all her eager young body she yearned to fling herself into his arms and beg that he let her be that woman, but the past had taught her caution, and carefully she asked, “When you told me that we were to marry, just now, did you think of me that way?”
His eyes narrowed, and with a thread of amusement barely discernible in his voice, he returned, “What do you think?”
Her face was troubled as she looked searchingly into the mocking features. “I don’t know what you thought,” she admitted. “I’ve never known how you felt about me.” As Christopher opened his mouth to reply, she broke in, “Oh, I know you wanted me, you’ve always made that clear. But I’ve never known why you wanted me. Except to use me as you would a whore, and that’s not a very good reason for marriage, is it?” There was a note of sadness in her words that stung and he said harshly, “If I had wanted a whore, I would have bought one! Oh, Jesus, Nicole, don’t tell me you can’t guess? Must I say it out in words of one syllable?”
“Yes. Yes, in this case, I think you do,” she replied and with sudden confidence leaned into him; her full mouth barely inches from his, she demanded, “Tell me, Christopher! Tell me!”
The soft, warm body was too much for him, driving out the last remnants of stubborn pride, and thickly he said, “Witch! May God help me, but I love you. Now will you marry me?”
His answer was in the ardent mouth that met his, in the melting of the slim young body against his. For a long, long time there was silence in the library except for the crackle of the fire and the muttered endearments that lovers exchange. Explanations could come later, explanations and understanding, and forgiveness, but right now there was just each other—no tomorrow, no yesterday, just the present.
Chapter 17
They were married the next day, a Wednesday, in a small town some twenty miles above New Orleans, by a justice of the peace, with Higgins, grinning broadly, as one of the witnesses. The justice’s wife had been summoned as the other witness, and as she later told her husband, she had never seen such a handsome couple or two people so obviously in love with each other.
Christopher quite frankly could not keep his gaze off Nicole, almost as if he expected her to vanish, and Nicole made no effort to hide the love shining out of her eyes. She could have wished that Lord and Lady Saxon had been there, but all that really mattered to her was that Christopher loved her, loved her enough to marry her, even if it was a hurried, secret ceremony.
They rode back to New Orleans in silence, the persistent rain making it a damp, uncomfortable journey despite the warmed bricks to keep the feet warm and the tight construction of Christopher’s elegant carriage. Higgins, displaying his usual tact, had elected to brave the weather; ignoring Christopher’s and Nicole’s protestations, he sat with the coachman during the four-hour journey back to New Orleans. Ordinarily it would not have taken so long, but the rain had turned the roads into quagmires of mud and silt, and the carriage could gain no speed.
Inside the coach the silence was companionable, both occupants for the first time in their relationship at peace with each other. There were difficulties ahead of them, but with patience, understanding, and love they would overcome them, provided, as Christopher had said with a laugh last night, “We can keep from flying at each other’s throat the second one of
us says something the other takes violent exception to!”
They arrived just before dusk at Dauphine Street, and Christopher wasted little time in assembling his staff and presenting Nicole as his wife, and their new mistress. Later he made it clear to Sanderson that he would appreciate it if the marriage was said to have taken place in England, today’s ceremony merely a reaffirmation of their vows.
His features crinkling into a wide, white-toothed grin, Sanderson replied, “I understand perfectly, sir. There will be no gossip. I will see to it!”
Christopher grinned, dismissing him with a careless flick of the hand. Nicole’s position was now secure as his wife, and Sanderson would see to it that no one dared raise any awkward questions, either in his own home or in the homes of others.
Before he could put the present aside and concentrate on the far more agreeable subject of his very new bride, he sat down and wrote two short messages. One was sent round to Jason Savage’s with the news that he and his wife, Nicole, would be delighted to dine with them tomorrow evening.
The second letter took longer and would take weeks, even months, to reach its destination in England. It was to Lord Saxon; he wrote simply that he was again in New Orleans and that Nicole was with him—this time as his wife. After a fond inquiry as to the state of his grandfather’s health and that of Lady Saxon, Christopher closed the brief note with the promise that come summer, he and his bride would return to England. Tomorrow he would find out from Jason if there were any ships due to run the blockade of the Gulf that might take the letter to his grandfather.
His most pressing tasks seen to, he was able to sit back in the quietness of his library and with a bemused expression recall that he was now a married man.
A tender, half-amused smile on his mouth, with an eager step he left the library, intent on finding that tempting creature, who was now his wife. He found her sitting in the main salon, idly studying some dress pattern plates.
Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3) Page 25