She whirled around to face him, forcing him to drop his hands.
“I don’t want your diamonds and sapphires. I want my freedom. I want to feel safe again. I don’t trust you. You’ll change your mind on a whim and put my life in danger again. I. Want. To. Go. Home!” She threw her shoulders back and inhaled deeply to get control of herself. Don’t cry. She tried to let the angry waves ripple off, but they kept pounding her resistance, reminding her never to trust him because his irresistible charm was a cover for his black heart.
He gave her a slight grin that lasted only as long as a blink of his dark eyes. “Go home?” he asked. “To the fictional Island of California created by Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo in his romance Las Sergas de Esplandián. He described it as east of Asia. Is that where it is, mon Capitaine? Your California?”
What kind of question was that? He seemed completely serious. “It’s east of Asia and west of New Orleans on the Pacific Ocean.”
“I’ll sail there someday.” He sounded like a kid proclaiming that when he grew up he’d do this or that.
“Great.” She took a quick breath, forced a smile in place. “You do that, but take me to New Orleans first, okay?”
He paused, his eyes drilling into hers, and while it made her squirm, she didn’t look away. The muscles in his neck flexed. “We’ll talk again after dinner. I’ll leave you now to finish dressing.”
He took her hand and drew her fingers close to his lips. His eyes never left hers, and his warm breath blew across her knuckles when he said, “A friend told me about women like you—beautiful, intelligent, worldly, warriors from another time—but I didn’t believe my friend. I could have sailed the world and never found you. But here you are, dropped at my doorstep. Not at all a spy. A gift. A woman of knowledge and a warrior. And you deserve to have this back.”
He reached into a pocket, pulled out her class ring, and slipped it on her finger. Then he drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. For a moment, his mind and actions seemed to conflict. He gave his head a little shake before kissing her hand, then gently lowered it and withdrew from the room, letting the door click shut behind him.
She pressed the back of her hand against her cheek, and the topaz was cool against her skin. The coolness and the scent of olive oil soap attacked her senses. The man was insane. That was the only context in which the different sides of him made any sense. He was a jigsaw puzzle without any straight edges to frame him. He had completely lost touch with reality.
But yet, just now, giving her ring back, he seemed utterly authentic. How was all that possible? That would mean she was living in another time zone. And she wasn’t thinking Eastern or Pacific, but a different century.
Now, who’s crazy?
Estelle returned within a few seconds of Lafitte leaving, carrying the Christian Louboutin pumps. “Boss’s guests have arrived. We must hurry. He wants to present you to his guest promptly at nine o’clock.”
“Present me?” Billie balked. As soon as a weapon and an opportunity collided, she might kill him. “Just like he turned me over to his men?”
“Oh, no, mademoiselle. You belong to Boss. You are under his protection. Nothing will happen to you unless you betray him.”
And that was what she intended to do the minute she set foot in New Orleans.
She didn’t want him to present her to anyone, but she’d agreed to his evening plans in exchange for a ride to the city. If he didn’t meet his end of the bargain, she intended to walk out of Barataria wearing her bark shoes if she had to, but she was getting the hell out of there.
And since he gave her the jewels to keep, she’d use them to bribe anyone who would help her.
Lafitte’s reign as Boss of Barataria was coming to a close.
23
Barataria (1814)—Billie
The blue silk empire-waist gown with a square neckline clung to Billie’s curves enticingly, creating a form-fitting silhouette as she swayed down the long corridor lit with flickering candles. The gold filigree woven into the silk shimmered.
She imagined walking a red carpet with photographers flashing cameras. “Turn this way, Miss Malone.” She paused and posed in front of a gilded mirror, teasing the small brown curls framing her face.
Day-umm. Who is that woman?
Whoever said, “Silk does for the body what diamonds do for the hand,” certainly got that right. The silk gown looked melted onto her, and the diamonds and sapphires on her head, ears, and neck sparkled in the lamplight.
If Lafitte was King of Barataria, then for tonight she’d play the role of its queen.
Guitar music flowed from the room ahead. If she could pull this off, she’d be on her way home tomorrow. She took a deep breath, pinned her shoulders back, and walked regally into the mansion’s main room with its antiques, brocade chairs, and a roaring fire, and, in the dining room visible from the doorway, a table elegantly set with gold and silver plates, goblets, and silverware.
The entire room sparkled like her jewels.
Four British officers stood in front of the fireplace, three in naval uniforms, and the other in the scarlet of the British army. Lafitte sat nearby in an oversized chair, one leg slung over the arm, strumming the guitar, ignoring them and pretending to be a barbarian so they would underestimate him. It was all part of the game.
As soon as she entered, he slung his leg around and stood, bowing to her. Dominique lifted his goblet and winked. But the officers’ wide eyes and slack jaws were almost comical. If her hair and eyes bedazzled them, then the tiara was doing what Lafitte intended. If they were also fantasizing about her naked wearing only the jewels, then that, too, was what he intended.
The bastard. He’d do anything to have the advantage. And tonight she was it. Again.
“Ah, gentlemen. Our guest has arrived.” He set down the guitar and swaggered toward her. His smile went straight to his ears. “Diamonds and sapphires pale in comparison to your beauty.” His husky voice raked over her senses. “How did I not see that, mon Capitaine? Hurricanes will never spin you out of my mind.”
She refrained from rolling her eyes, but that didn’t keep her suddenly pounding heart from climbing into her throat.
He placed her hand lightly upon the back of his and led her across the room toward the officers. “May I present Mistress Wilhelmina Penelope Malone of New York City?”
Normally Billie would stride right up to the officers, shake their hands, and welcome them. But Lafitte’s eyes told her a more nuanced approach would work best tonight. She smiled demurely. “Gentlemen.”
Lafitte withdrew his hand just as an officer took the tips of her fingers and kissed her knuckles in a well-choreographed move, which must be old Court etiquette.
“Captain Nicholas Lockyer of the Sophie.”
“The Sophie. Hmm.” She reclaimed her hand and tapped her chin with an ivory and mother-of-pearl fan. “An 18-gun class of brig-sloops of the Royal Navy, launched and completed in what year?” She tapped her chin again. “1809? I saw her anchored in the bay. She’s a beautiful ship.” Billie flicked open the fan and gazed up at him through thick-mascaraed lashes. She’d read that move in a book somewhere, and since they were all playing roles, she might as well shoot for an Oscar.
Captain Lockyer picked up the goblet he had set on the mantel and appraised her. “You know your ships, Mistress Malone. A beautiful woman should not clutter her mind with such facts.”
“Knowing the difference in the rigging between a brig-sloop and a ship-sloop is not clutter, Captain Lockyer. It’s attention to detail. But setting that aside”—she gave him a challenging look—“what then should clutter my mind?”
“Art, music, fashion, the finer things in life, as well as marriage and children. Not ships of war.”
She snapped her fan shut and tapped her chin again, hoping she wasn’t sending erotic fan signals. She read about them in a series of romance novels while deployed, but had no idea what they were.
“Not only am I well ve
rsed in ships of war and battle strategies, captain, but political events such as Napoleon’s abdication and the redrawing of Europe’s political map.” She smiled again. “Shall I continue?”
Lafitte cleared his throat and redirected the conversation. “Joining Captain Lockyer is Lieutenant McWilliams and Lieutenant Clinton.”
She lifted her fingers, and Lockyer kissed her knuckles. “Royal Marine infantry captain, I believe.”
“Yes, how’d you know?”
She tapped his medal-covered chest. “I recognized the scarlet uniform beneath all that brass and ribbon.”
“And Navy Lieutenant Maurice Bowes,” Lockyer offered.
She shivered. It was the same reaction she had whenever she met a man with the same last name as her rapist.
“Welcome to Barataria, gentlemen. Have you come to persuade Commander Lafitte to side with the British in a massive attack against New Orleans?”
Captain Lockyer nearly choked on his wine.
“My dear Mistress Malone,” Lafitte said. “Shall we eat before we discuss the purpose of this visit?”
“By all means,” she said, batting her lashes at him while he escorted her to the table.
Captain Lockyer and Clinton sat across from her, Lieutenant Bowes next to her, Lafitte sat at one end of the table, and Dominique at the opposite end. Spread out before them, served on carved gold plates, were a variety of fish and game and fruits from the West Indies.
Her stomach rumbled, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Please excuse me. I’ve been ill”—drugged, beaten, and almost raped—“and haven’t eaten much for several days.”
“You look well,” Captain Lockyer said.
She patted Lafitte’s hand where it rested at his place setting. “The King of Barataria has taken extraordinary care of me.” If she made it through dinner, she would, without question, deserve a Best Actress Oscar.
“We have important letters for you, Commander Lafitte,” Lockyer said.
“About what?” Lafitte asked, cutting a piece of meat.
“The English War Cabinet made a strategic assessment of Barataria. You control the entrance to New Orleans, and your key positions can be of great benefit when we attack the city. We’ll be there in the next two weeks, sir. Your help can save us time and potential lives.”
“I never talk business while eating,” Lafitte said.
“You want to be on the winning side of this war, don’t you?” Captain Lockyer asked.
Lafitte closed one eye, something between a sarcastic wink and a signal of possible sympathy. She had seen it before, but she wasn’t sure what he was trying to convey this time.
“Whatever side I’m on will be the winning side,” he said.
They ate in silence, and when they finished, Lockyer pushed back from the table and crossed his legs. “I have to admit, Commander Lafitte, you live far more elegantly than I expected.”
Lafitte lifted his eyebrows and flashed a cold smile. “Did you think I’d have a peg foot, a bandage over one eye, and stink up the room?”
She choked on a chuckle, shaking her head because this was all an act, a joke everyone was in on. “I don’t believe that would improve your mood, darling, do you?”
Lafitte picked up his wine and looked at her over the edge of his goblet, giving her a look she couldn’t interpret, but she sensed it was a reaction to her calling him darling.
It’s an act, Lafitte. We’re playing a game.
“Coming here, we didn’t know what to expect,” Lockyer said, “especially a woman as lovely as you, Mistress Malone. What brings you to Barataria?”
“Oh,” she waved her hand theatrically. “I washed up on the shore, and Jean,” she said, giving his name a French pronunciation, “saved my life.”
“How horrible. Were you shipwrecked?” McWilliam asked.
“I have no memory of an accident. All I remember was leaving New York, and here I am.” Which was the truth, except she disappeared from NOLA, not New York City.”
“What were you doing in New York?” Lockyer asked.
Since she was playing an unscripted role in this tableau, she could improvise all she wanted. She just had to remember her lies. “I had recently returned from London.”
“Do you have family there?”
“Not in London, but I have an extended family in Dublin. I should have stayed until this awful war was over.”
“I noticed your ring, Mistress Malone,” Lieutenant Bowes said. “It’s quite handsome. I’ve never seen one like it.”
“It was a gift.” And that was all the explanation she was going to give him. She pointed at the captain’s ring to redirect his attention. “Yours is very interesting as well. The crossed keys symbolize what? Secrecy and trust?” she asked with a lift of her brow.
“It’s our family crest.” Bowes turned it toward her for a better view.
Hell. She’d seen it before or one like it—on Colonel Bowes’s left-hand ring finger when he zipped up his pants and threatened her. She cupped her elbows and shuddered as the memory of him and what he had done to her sent a cold explosion of hatred and splintering fire down her spine.
Get a grip, Billie. Don’t lose it now.
Lafitte put his hand on her knee, and it tightened a little. She glanced at him, but his eyes stayed fixed on his other guests. “How’s the wine? Is it to your satisfaction?” Lafitte asked.
Lieutenant Bowes held up his goblet, nodding. “French, I believe.”
Lafitte plucked a grape from his plate, saying casually, “Italian.” He reached across the table and fed it to Billie, gently patting her knee at the same time.
She chewed the grape, amazed at how deftly he had handled her freak-out. She pulled herself together. “So, what are you offering Commander Lafitte to convince him to join your cause?”
Lockyer tucked his hand inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “We offer considerable estates to you and your people, in proportion with your respective ranks.”
Dominique slammed his fist on the table, and a dull thunder exploded in the room. Billie jumped in her seat, and the officers jerked their heads toward Dominique. “Estates! Land for sailors? We don’t need land!”
McWilliam’s eyes widened, and after the remaining dishes on the table stopped rattling, he turned his attention back to Lafitte. “There’s also an offer of a royal pardon for you and your men.”
Dominique huffed. “Jean neither wants nor needs anyone’s pardon.”
Billie almost laughed. She gave Dominique a side-eye, and he winked. Dominique was playing his part with aplomb.
Lockyer cleared his throat. “Commander Lafitte, we are also authorized to pay you thirty thousand dollars.”
The line between Lafitte’s brows deepened as he stared at Lockyer. “Pick up your plate, Captain Lockyer. What’s it made of?”
Lockyer looked closely. “Gold?”
“The gold on this table alone is worth more than thirty thousand dollars,” Lafitte said.
Billie fingered the sapphire that dipped into her cleavage. If that was true, the jewels he gave her were priceless, gifts she would not accept, even if they were part of his pledge to make it up to her. She didn’t want his gifts. She wanted him in jail.
Lockyer tapped his fingers on the folded letters in front of him. “We are also prepared to offer you a commission in the Royal Navy.”
“Why would we want that?” Dominique snapped again.
Lockyer’s face tensed. “I thought I was dealing with the Commandant at Barataria.”
Lafitte ignored the jab. Billie, on the other hand, wanted to reach across the table, grab Lockyer by the collar, and knock the shit out of him. Damn, he was playing his part perfectly. His anger seemed almost real. No, not almost. It was real. His face was flushed, and his pulse beat heavily in his neck. The captain was about to have a stroke.
“And if I refuse?” Lafitte asked casually.
“We have fifty warships,” Lockyer spat out, “and sixteen thou
sand people poised and ready to fight on land and sea, fresh from victory over Napoleon. England is a good friend, sir, but a bad enemy.”
Dominique jumped in. “We need no friends, and we fear no enemy.”
“If you refuse, Commander Lafitte, I have orders to raze Barataria.”
“I will give you my answer in one week,” Lafitte said.
Lafitte and Dominique had a good-cop-bad-cop thing going on, and Billie found them fascinating to watch. Lafitte never lost his cool and remained indifferent while Dominique acted insulted. But again, they were role-playing. She decided to jump into the fray.
“Threatening Jean will do you no good. And if you destroy Barataria and kill him and his men, how will that help you navigate the waterways and bayous? You won’t be any better off than you are right now.”
Lockyer glared at Lafitte. She didn’t have to wonder what Lockyer was thinking. She could hear the voice in his head. This pirate isn’t worth the ink used to write these letters, and he allows a woman to speak for him.
She picked up her wine goblet and swirled the liquid. “It’s a shame you’re unable to communicate with your representatives in Ghent, Captain Lockyer. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Parliament of the United Kingdom has already approved a treaty, and the Prime Regent has signed it into law. So even if you win the battle, you’ll still have to take your wounded and return home without the victory you’re seeking. Each side will have to release all prisoners and restore all captured lands and ships. If you stand down for six weeks, think of all the lives you’ll save, and probably save yourself from being seriously wounded.”
Lockyer broke out in a sweat. God, he was good. Actors could cry on demand, but this guy could sweat.
The fireplace logs stopped popping, and for at least fifteen seconds, no one moved. Then Lockyer scraped his chair across the floor and pushed to his feet. “I find it ludicrous to believe the army that defeated Napoleon would lose to the Americans, or that our representatives would sign such an absurd treaty.”
Billie didn’t overreact. She sipped her wine. “Don’t worry,” she said sweetly. “It won’t be a loss. It will be as if no war was fought, or to put it bluntly,” she slammed down her goblet, “it will be as if you fought the war for no good reason.”
The Topaz Brooch Page 27