I just pray that whatever happens in the future, we can face it together….
NEW ORLEANS
7
It was all so familiar; a lingering sense of déjà vu hovered over her as Ginny leaned against the frame of the French doors that opened onto Royal Street below. New Orleans. A teeming city of diverse culture, gracious and bawdy, like an elegant lady clad in tattered silks.
Sunlight graced the day with soft, moist heat. It was still early; servants washed off narrow banquettes before the traffic of the day, chattering in soft tones that sounded like lilting music while soapy water washed over the previous day’s accumulation of dirt and horse droppings.
Ginny only half listened, thinking of her children and how she missed them so much already. Leaving them with Tante Celine until the unrest in Mexico was ended had been wrenching, but best for them. Still, she had wept halfway across the Atlantic until Steve had sworn softly and muttered that the ship had as much saltwater belowdecks as surrounding them.
Tante Celine had taken them on the outing to Brighton, promising them long days spent on the beach to assuage their disappointment at being once more separated from their parents. It had been a tearful farewell, though the sadness was tinged with excitement at their promised treat. They were so young that the time would not be real to them, the realization that two months was a long separation. If all went well, it would pass quickly and she would soon be with them again, though Tante Celine was not at all certain she wanted to go to Mexico.
“It is a barbaric country,” she had said with a light shudder and sigh of resignation. “I cannot bear to think of my precious Laura and Franco living there.”
“It is their home, Tante,” Ginny had reminded her gently, and then hugged her. “This is so hard, but I must go with him. I cannot be apart from him again, especially not now, when it has been so long. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ginette, you know I do. Perhaps this is best, that you and your husband have this time of reconciliation alone, with nothing to distract you from each other. And it will not be so very long until you are reunited with the twins, after all, only a few months. I will care well for them.”
Some of the anguish at leaving them behind was diluted by the knowledge that her time with Steve would give them the opportunity to reacquaint themselves with one another. The three-week long voyage from England to New Orleans had been a revelation of sorts, for both of them.
It could not be her imagination that Steve’s wary reserve had altered to a more open acceptance, and the guarded expression in his eyes had faded almost entirely away now.
Yes, she had made the right decision to come with him, and for the first time, had confidence in their futures together. When he held her in his arms, the ghosts between them evaporated as if they had never existed.
Instead of lodging in her father’s house in the quiet section of the American district, Steve had leased a house in the Old Quarter, near the corner of Royal and Hospital Streets. Painted pink with green wooden shutters over windows and doors, the house was small but gracious.
“It’s more private,” he’d said, but Ginny thought that was only part of the reason for his wanting to be away from the scrutiny of his in-laws. Upon their arrival in New Orleans just two days ago, he had left immediately to meet someone, but would not tell her who or even where. Probably some dark place like Maspero’s Exchange, where men could meet without drawing too much attention from unwanted sources.
The situation in Mexico was even more serious than she had thought it would be. The conflict had not ended, but grew more dangerous every day. Sebastián Lerdo de Tejada was chief justice of the supreme court, a liberal and anticlerical, heartily disliked for using the power of the state to enforce his goals in Mexico. Mexicans resented his, to them, excessive concessions to the United States railway interests.
But to the United States, the potential for huge profits lay in keeping Lerdo in power, and American senators like William Brandon, Ginny’s father, had keen interests in making certain that Porfirio Díaz did not gain power.
Brandon made his position clear that night, when he and his wife Sonya met with Steve and Ginny for an evening meal at Antoine’s Restaurant in the Vieux Carré.
Leaning forward, he fixed Steve with a gimlet gaze that belied his smooth tone. “Since Juarez died, Porfirio Díaz has come out of hiding to lead the country. His revolts against Juarez failed, so now he seeks to gain control of Mexico by ousting Lerdo. It’s a goal that I sincerely hope is quickly extinguished. It would do Mexico no good to continue another revolution.”
“It’s a relief to hear you say so, Senator, especially as the United States government helped fund the French in the last revolt in Mexico,” Steve replied coolly, earning a fierce glare from his father-in-law.
Aware of Sonya’s soft exclamation of dismay, Ginny shot her a warning glance. It would be futile to become embroiled in their discussion; it always was. The man she had always thought of as her father was confident, even brash, she had heard people say, as befitted a United States senator more comfortable in the elegant drawing rooms of Washington than he had ever been in the raw, open lands of Mexico, or even Texas. He was known to be shrewd when it came to politics and money—not always a popular choice.
Yet it had been because of Brandon’s determination to send a shipment of gold to Emperor Maximilian during his brief rule in Mexico that she had met Steve Morgan in San Antonio. It was so long ago, yet she could recall that moment as if it were only an hour before, how the gunslinger calling himself Whitaker had stood in the arid dust of the street below her hotel room, facing a man bent on killing him. The duel had been brief and shocking, seared into her memory as if with a hot iron. Whitaker—Steve Morgan—had been as cool then as he was now in an elegant restaurant with snowy linen tablecloths and crab bisque.
Could William Brandon have forgotten that? Could he have forgotten how dangerous and lethal Steve could be when he chose?
It would not have made Ginny feel a bit better to know that Brandon was fully aware of Morgan’s penchant for danger and survival. It was that very nature that had prompted him to hire the man to guard wagonloads of gold—only to have them stolen, along with Ginny.
Ah, it may all be behind them, and he may wear this polite mask now, but he had not forgotten for an instant how Morgan worked, and he knew instinctively why he was here in New Orleans, though the pretense of returning to ready their home for their children was the prevailing story of the moment. Nor had he forgotten that when New Orleans was occupied by Union soldiers, then Union Captain Steve Morgan had seduced Sonya into his bed. It was not a thing a man was likely to forget, especially when Sonya became a shivering wreck in Morgan’s presence.
But politicians were adept at hiding their true feelings, and even now he could smile blandly as he said, “Mexico still enjoys peace with Spain, though relatively precarious. Díaz would threaten that peace, and send the entire country spiraling into chaos and revolution.”
“Spain is not the greatest enemy to Mexico, sir.” Steve lifted a dark brow, his smile just as prosaic. “At the moment, American politicians are the greatest threat.”
Damn the smiling bastard, did he really believe what he was saying? But what could one expect from a man so ruthless as to abandon his own wife to the riffraff life of the Juaristas, after all?
Schooling his tone, he said, “The United States has only Mexico’s best interest at heart, while her own citizens would destroy the country with greed.”
“And that has nothing at all to do with the fact that you, personally, stand to gain a fortune with your railroad interests, I presume.”
Brandon’s mouth tightened. “If I recall correctly, you own quite a few shares of Union Pacific and Central Pacific railroad stock yourself, Morgan.”
“True. But I have no intention of exploiting Mexico to increase the value. More wine, Senator?”
A waiter clad in spotless linen hovered at the table, solicitous and y
et not overly so as befitted a well-trained sommelier. Wine, a crisp white Reisling, sparkled in crystal glasses. Taking his cue, Brandon turned the conversation to more mundane topics though he made a mental note to do some more investigation into Steve Morgan’s presence in New Orleans.
“Sonya, dear,” he said lightly to his wife, noting her pallor and quick, startled glance, “have you told Virginia about our new house yet?”
Looking almost guilty, Sonya shook her head. “No, I have not had—we have been so busy catching up on all that has happened since last we were together, that I have not mentioned it. You tell her about it, William, since it is all your work.”
Watching Ginny over the rim of his glass, Brandon caught the slight frown that puckered her brow; candlelight gleamed in her green eyes, exotic eyes that had been inherited from another man. It had been painful to realize that he was not her real father, had not been the love of her mother’s life, as Genevieve had been of his. But he could not change that, could not change the fact that most of the world knew Ginny as his daughter. He had been too long in the habit of considering her as his child to stop it now.
Twisting the stem of the wineglass between his thumb and fingers, he smiled faintly. “I purchased the old Delery plantation, out on the River Road. It has been neglected for far too long, but was in surprisingly good condition. I’ve been restoring it as best I can, though it is difficult for me to personally supervise the workmen as much as I would like.”
It was an oblique reference to the limp that still dogged his every step, and though he should thank God that he could walk at all, for the rest of his life he would struggle with pain because of the bullet still lodged in his back. An assassin’s bullet, meant for another man, perhaps, though for a long time he’d had his doubts.
But that, too, was behind him, and he had resumed his seat in Congress, reelected by voters grateful and relieved that he blunted as much of the effects of Reconstruction for them as possible, while still promoting the New South of the post-Civil War. As a native Virginian, he walked a tightrope between North and South, both factions believing him to be in their corner. It was a delicate balance, held on to with grim tenacity at times, and at any moment capable of being wrested away from him by a careless decision.
“Andre Delery?” Ginny’s face was pale, gemmed eyes like brilliant emeralds wide and shocked as she stared at him.
“Yes, the old Delery mansion. Since Andre’s death, it has been vacant, and went for taxes this past year. I bought it for a paltry amount. The craftsmanship is exquisite, and there are few like it left now. You must come out to see it, Ginny, for I know you appreciate rare beauty.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she murmured as she looked down, fanned lashes veiling her eyes.
So it is true…. He had wondered if the rumors about her leaving New Orleans with Delery over a year ago when he’d been shot were valid; now he knew they were. Ah, tempestuous Ginny, as passionate and untamed as her mother had been cool and contained. He envied Morgan almost as much as he pitied him at times.
“Sonya,” Ginny said after a few minutes of desultory conversation, “I must visit the convenience. Would you care to go with me?”
Senator Brandon managed to rise courteously from his chair, and watched them leave with an indulgent smile, idly wondering why it was that females always felt the need to travel in pairs on such occasions.
But as he took his seat again, Morgan remained erect. He bowed slightly from the waist, and said tersely, “I see an old acquaintance I must greet, Senator. If you will excuse me for a moment?”
Frowning as his son-in-law walked away without waiting for a reply, Brandon shifted uncomfortably in the chair and sipped French brandy brought by an attentive waiter. Amber liqueur left legs on the concave glass, slipping lazily down the sides as he slowly twisted the snifter.
For all his surface refinement, Morgan was still just an uncouth gunslinger beneath that veneer, a killer and an outlaw. It amazed him that Virginia—reared to be a lady despite all that had happened to her once she’d come to America—still loved him. But then, Morgan never seemed to have trouble attracting women.
In the years since he’d first met him, Brandon had become well aware of the effect Steve Morgan had on women. He had noticed how female eyes tracked Morgan, observant, even hungry at times, widening as they watched him cross a room. It was the unknown, the savage in him; women sensed it.
For a long time, the senator had found it vaguely amusing to watch women throw themselves at his son-in-law. It usually had the same ending—Steve bored easily, had no patience with light flirtations or even secret assignations with restless wives. Nor did he allow women to divert him from his purpose, though there had been a few who had managed to interrupt his life—and his marriage.
But lately, there was an undercurrent to Morgan that made Brandon uneasy, made him regard the man with even more wariness than ever before. The first wild recklessness that had characterized Steve’s actions a few years back had tempered now, melded into a sense of purpose that made him far more dangerous than he had been then.
Eyes narrowed when he saw Steve Morgan pause by a table in the far corner; two men sat in the shadows provided by a folded screen and potted plant, hidden from his view. It sharpened his misgivings. Morgan was an unknown quantity, a man he could neither predict nor avert from his purpose. There was far too much riding on the future in Mexico, and he was damned if he’d allow Steve Morgan to interfere.
His hand tightened on his glass, and he lifted it to his mouth in a swift, angry motion. Brandy coated his tongue and throat, liquid heat, redolent and welcome.
Not this time, by God!
Sonya had changed. Her china doll prettiness was still as delicate as always, but sadness lurked in her blue eyes and in the discontented droop of her mouth. She was garbed with exquisite care. Her elegant gown of dark cream-colored faille and overdress of cream-and-white-striped India silk was trimmed with bows of cardinal red and cream-colored lace. Her creamy chip hat bore a cluster of red roses on the turned-up brim, with lush feathers drooping elegantly forward to brush against blond ringlets on her forehead.
“You look lovely tonight,” Ginny remarked as they made their way back to the dining room. The silence between them was oddly tense. Why had she invited Sonya to come with her? Perhaps she’d just been flustered by the reminder of Andre Delery, another ghost from her past, and wanted only to escape. Yet this was nearly as bad, for her stepmother looked as if she were about to burst into tears or hysteria at any moment. The tension marking her pretty features was eased only slightly when Ginny added, “That gown suits you.”
“I wish I could wear that color,” Sonya said suddenly, and gestured at Ginny’s gown, “but it makes me look washed out.”
“You would look quite pert with more color, I think.” Ginny paused to allow a waiter to pass, biting back the words that trembled on the tip of her tongue. The last time she had seen her stepmother, Sonya had been wailing in her bed with remorse. Guilt, long repressed, had boiled over when her husband was shot and lay in serious condition, and Sonya had blamed herself for it, certain her dalliance with Steve Morgan so long before had invited such a tragedy. It had been a shocking discovery, and had sent Ginny bolting from the house and New Orleans. She had fled with Andre Delery, intent upon going to her children but ending up in Gibara instead, where an earthquake had left her temporarily blind and defenseless—if not for Richard Avery.
The muted clink of silverware and crystal provided a soft hum as they lingered in the bricked passageway between dining rooms. Fluted iron columns braced the low ceiling. So much had happened, so many old wounds that nothing could ever truly heal. She saw in Sonya’s eyes that she suffered still.
Smoothing a hand over the myrtle-green silk skirt of her gown, Ginny managed a smile that was almost genuine. “I remember you wearing a lovely shade of rose that was so deep it was almost red. It was very flattering on you.”
“Yes. Yes, well
…it seems rather brash now, and draws too much attention.”
So that is it…she’s trying to hide.
“It is a centennial year,” she said lightly, “and there have been dozens of festive celebrations for you to attend. I’m certain you draw attention no matter what you wear.”
Sonya shuddered lightly. A faint stain colored her high cheekbones, making her blue eyes bright. “Since…since William’s accident, I’ve found it more agreeable to remain in the background.”
“Are you afraid?” Ginny stared at her in surprise. “It was all a mistake, you know. The assassins shot the wrong man. They meant to shoot Don Ignacio. All that unrest in Cuba should have warned him, for he is a man to earn many enemies.”
“Perhaps.” Her lips were tight, a look of strain marking her face. “It just seems that…that no one is safe anymore, doesn’t it? I mean…during the war here, it was expected, but still, because I was married to William, a Virginian and a United States senator, no one dared accost me. And then it just seemed that there were not as many criminals running loose, or men who don’t mind risking all for so little, as they do now. I—I don’t know anymore, where, if, there’s a place that’s safe.”
She looked up, a beseeching gleam in her eyes, as if she were a child needing comfort and assurance.
At a loss, Ginny didn’t answer for a moment, unsure how to soothe her stepmother, or even if she wanted to. Idly pleating a fold of her cream-colored polonaise between her fingers, she inhaled deeply to stem the old resentment.
Years of wariness were too deeply ingrained to confide in Sonya now, or to allow herself to be drawn into a more intimate discussion despite the first impulse to comfort Sonya’s fears. Her reply was mundane, her assurance uncertain.
“My father would never allow anything to happen to you. You’ll feel much better in the morning, I’m sure.”
Sonya reached for her, fingers curled into claws that gripped Ginny’s arm with surprising strength, digging into green silk as she whispered fiercely, “Ginny, you must not go to Mexico! It’s…it’s too dangerous for you.”
Savage Desire Page 7