“No, but I’ll find out.” Penny rode up to Mr. Livingston. “Who’s the general talking to?”
“That’s his ward and nephew, Captain John Donelson.”
“Soph was sketching them and wanted a name.” Penny watched the interaction, curious to see how the general interacted with a family member.
“I see you have the extreme left of the line,” Jackson said to Captain Donelson. “I suppose you know that’s the place of honor here.”
“No, General. Jugeat and his damned Choctaws are still to the left of me.”
“Don’t say ‘damned Choctaws,’” Jackson said. “They’re good fellows, every one of them. But where are they? I don’t see them.”
“They’re always out in the swamp,” Donelson said.
“Good. With their penchant for wilderness fighting, that’s where they should be. Matter of fact, the whole line from the Choctaws on the far left to Ross’s Regulars near the river seems as well deployed as could be arranged. Let’s hope the barricades hold.” He shook his nephew’s hand. “Good luck tomorrow.”
Penny filled Soph in on the man’s identity. “Jackson would like to have that sketch for sure.”
“I’ll make a note on it,” Soph said. Penny turned her horse to go back the other direction when Soph said, “Hey, are you and Rick okay? He had a rough time the other night, and I would hate for you to be upset with him…even though he deserves it.”
Penny smiled. “That’s what friends are for. We’ve all been through hell here. But what about you and Pete? You’re both more relaxed right now, so there must be hope for the rest of us.”
Soph smiled. “We had a frank and somewhat unpleasant conversation, but it ended up”—she leaned closer and whispered—“being the best sex we’ve ever had.”
Penny laughed. “Well. Day-um, girl. Right smack in the middle of hell, you two find time for nooky. I knew Pete was special when my men threw him at my feet, and he demanded that I spell his name right on his headstone. I bet those springs were squeaking.”
Sophia chuckled and grabbed Penny’s arm, shaking it. “Marguerite never said a word, but that bed scooted a little farther around the room with each deep thrust.”
Penny fanned her face. “Stop. I don’t wanna hear any more. The visuals will last me for months.”
Soph straightened. “Get those out of your mind, girl. And create your own. I know a man who has the hots for you like crazy.”
“No, Jean and I are like brother and sister.”
“I’m not talking about Mr. Lafitte.”
“Hey, babe, the general is asking for you,” Pete said, beckoning her over.
Soph gave Penny’s arm a good squeeze. “We’ll talk later.”
If Soph had said that before the conversation Penny just had with Rick, she would have laughed, but now Penny was wondering if she was the last person to be let in on a well-kept secret.
Jackson had reached the battery of the Baratarians, where they were brewing coffee, black as tar, and the aroma hit them in the face from twenty yards away.
“That smells like better coffee than we can get,” the general said. “Where do you get it? Smuggle it?”
“Mebbe so, General.” Dominique grinned as he handed the general a mug.
Jackson sipped from the mug. “I wish I had fifty such guns on this line, with five hundred such devils as you and those fellows behind you. I could storm the gates of hell with you as my lieutenant.”
Dominique laughed. “Did you hear that, men? The General said he could storm the gates of hell if we were with him.”
The men lifted up a cheer. “We’re with ya, General.”
Penny smiled, remembering she had thought of Jackson’s comment when she first met Dominique. At the time, she believed the Frenchman was a fake. She rode up beside him and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Good luck tomorrow. You and your men will win this battle for the general.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “Be careful, mon Capitaine. You’re not supposed to be here, so your safety is not guaranteed.”
Jean rode up beside her. “I’m staying here with Dominique and won’t see you again until this is over. You won’t leave yet, will you?”
She reached toward him, almost coming out of the saddle to hug him, and whispered. “I plan to dance with you at the victory ball. Be careful tomorrow.”
“Where will you be?” Jean asked.
“With the general,” she said.
Rick tipped his hat to Jean. “Good luck.”
“Don’t forget your promise.”
“Never.”
As she and Rick galloped off to catch up with the general and the rest of his aides, she asked, “What did you promise him?”
“To keep you safe, so don’t make it hard on me, okay? He’ll shoot me in the nuts if anything happens to you.”
She laughed. “I’ll try to keep your manhood safe, O’Grady.”
While the general moved among the Tennesseans, who were huddled around their fires, eating cornbread and bacon and washing it down with whiskey, Penny and Rick followed behind him.
“Who are these men?” Soph asked Penny. “There’s a frontier camaraderie between them and the general.”
“These dirty, unshaven men are the elite of his army. They’ve been living out here for a week, waist-deep in mud, surrounded by the stench of the decaying marshlands and threatened by danger lurking in the shadows of the cypress trees.”
“What a lovely visual. Now that I’ve seen the men, I can take your description and draw them accurately. Look at the way they crowd around the general. They treat him like an old, familiar friend.”
“These men have a deceptive lack of discipline and unimposing breastworks. The enemy will be lured in by that, and Jackson suspects they’ll bear the brunt of the impending onslaught.”
“I’m glad I got to see this,” Soph said, slipping her journal and pencil into her crossbody bag.
“Are you done?” Pete asked. “I’d like to turn the lantern down.”
“Yeah, I have it all in my mind. With my notes and anecdotes afterward, I’ll be able to draw the scenes.”
“Does that mean you won’t complain about not being here tomorrow?” Pete asked.
“I won’t complain,” she said.
When they arrived back at the mansion, the general removed his hat and jacket. “The men are in good spirits, well-fed, well-supplied, and, thanks to the good women of New Orleans, well-clothed.”
“They’re ready,” Mr. Livingston said. “And I must say, General, that the sting of battle seems to be invigorating you as well.”
“General Pakenham has possibly three times our number, but we have advantages as well. He must cross two thousand yards of open ground through withering artillery and rifle fire.”
“The fog will mask his approach,” Mr. Livingston said.
“But we’ve had sixteen days to fortify the Rodriguez Canal, which is presently a redoubtable defensive position,” Rick said.
“The enemy has the advantage of choosing what points in our line to attack and throw heavy columns against us, focusing artillery at those points,” the general said. “But we have better gunneries, and rifles accurate at three hundred yards. Some of our sharpshooters are even accurate to four hundred and, truth be told, gentlemen, our cannoneers are superior to the Royal Artillery.”
“Frankly, I believe artillery will settle the battle when it comes,” Mr. Livingston said.
“For now, we need to rest.” The general stretched and yawned. “Those of us who can sleep a few hours should do so. But keep your weapons within reach. I think they will come at dawn.”
“They will, sir. And you will win the day,” Penny said.
“Then I shall fall asleep with your prognostication in my mind. Goodnight, Mistress Lafitte.”
The general fell asleep on the sofa, the rest of the aides bedded down on the floor nearby, still in their uniforms with their guns and sword belts at their sides—all except Soph, w
ho sat at the table with a single light, frantically drawing while Pete slept on a bedroll at her feet.
Penny bedded down next to Rick, and within minutes she heard his low snore, reminding her of her team sleeping in that filthy room cluttered with weapons at the Special Forces base in Afghanistan. Her heart raced along with the memory, and a shiver zipped down her spine.
Rick took her hand and whispered, “I don’t know what you’re remembering, but I can feel your tension. What can I do?”
She rolled over and faced him, and as her heart raced faster, she looked into his eyes and could see in their depths that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. She took a deep breath and blew it out. Then she laced their fingers together and tugged his toward her cheek. “Nothing more than what you’ve already done unless you want to serenade me.”
“Look at me,” he crooned. “I’m as helpless as a kitten up a tree / And I feel like I’m clinging to a cloud / I can’t understand / I get misty, just holding your hand.”
Listening to him sing, so low only she could hear, she closed her eyes. She wanted his lips on hers more than she wanted to breathe. And while he didn’t move toward her, she moved ten percent closer to him.
47
New Orleans (1815)—Rick
Rick woke up shortly after midnight on Sunday, January 8, 1815, and his first thought was, why the hell didn’t I kiss Penny good night? He would probably spend the rest of his life kicking himself in the ass over that. And because he missed his chance, he had a lousy night’s sleep.
It wasn’t unusual for him to sleep fitfully before a big event, or during his deployment to a high-temp battle zone when he rolled outside the wire, but this time there was a huge difference.
Penny had curled up with her fingers laced with his, and even now, as she slept so peacefully, he didn’t have the heart to disengage and disturb her. So he watched her, studying her profile. Where’d you get that scar near your hairline? He was tempted to trace the faint scar with his fingertip. But he didn’t do that either.
That meant he was batting 0 for 2.
He hadn’t noticed the scar before. Either she covered it with makeup, or she’d been injured since the last time he saw her. And that stirred a stronger urge to protect her, even though she still had blue hair, even though she still cussed like a sailor, and—he sniffed—even though she didn’t smell like her catering kitchen—fresh bread, pot roast, or pumpkin pie. Something had changed in him. Even her natural scent turned him on.
His wakeup wood screamed it loud and clear, and he gnawed on the thought for a while.
Nothing about this version of Billie bothered him. And all he wanted to do now was roll over on top of her and explore every inch of her body—naked and turned on—while he kissed her, getting her wetter and wetter.
“You’re staring at me,” she said, her eyelashes fluttering. “I can feel your eyes on me. I guess you want your hand back.”
“You can keep it. The blood drained out a long time ago.” And straight into my dick. “My hand’s dead now.”
She chuckled and released it. “A dead hand’s no good to me either. Can’t hold a rifle. You can have it back.” She released him, yawning. “Is it time to get up, or did you wake me because you want someone to talk to?”
Now that she was awake and he had his hand back, he could stand, but his erection kept him from doing so just yet. Since Penny couldn’t help but notice, she’d probably tease him about sleeping with a gun in his pocket. Ha! It was better to stay prone.
“The general is dressed and drinking coffee on the porch. His other aides are waking up. I wanted to let you sleep as long as possible.”
“Have you talked to him?” she asked.
“No, but I heard Philippe ask him if he’s worried about the west bank.”
Penny sat up, and her blanket dropped into her lap. He blinked. She wasn’t wearing anything under her wrinkled shirt. He looked away, sucking air as if he’d just sprinted to the finish line. The door opened as an aide walked out, letting a cold breeze whip through the room. Penny shivered, and he glanced over at her just in time to see her nipples pebble.
That does it. Time to get up.
He tossed his blanket aside, stood, grabbed his coat, and thrust his arms into the sleeves when what he wanted to do was thrust into her and feel his balls bump against her warm skin.
“What’d the general say?” she asked.
Rick somehow managed to refocus and said, “That the Kentuckians needed to hold Morgan’s line and defend Patterson’s battery.”
If he didn’t touch her head, her hand—between her legs—in the next two seconds, he might have a heart attack. “Let me help you up.” At least he could hold her hand again. She hopped to her feet, and her head bumped his chin. She could bust his jaw for all he cared because, for a brief second, her breasts pressed against his chest.
She patted his face—“Sorry”—before grabbing her vest and coat. He took the wool jacket from her while she put on her vest, and then held it as she slipped her arms into the sleeves, imagining his cock sliding into her. Again. Talk about a one-track mind. He was acting like a sixteen-year-old, sex-starved teenager. But he wasn’t starving. He hadn’t gone weeks without sex. And he could be around beautiful women without getting a hard-on.
So what the hell was going on with him?
He lifted the strands of hair stuck beneath the collar of her jacket and pulled them free, casually brushing her neck with his knuckles. But it wasn’t casual. Nothing about this morning was casual. Maybe his dick was so out of control because they were heading into a major battle, or perhaps his urge to strip her naked and gaze at her until he’d memorized every curve and muscle, scar and tattoo and bump on her nose, was the natural progression of their developing relationship.
Relationship? What the hell?
Even after he heard about her disappearance and the existence of the topaz brooch, he never once considered that he and Penny might be soul mates. They lived a mile from each other in Napa. Date? Sure. Get sexually involved? Sure. But soul mates? Not so sure.
“What’d Philippe tell him?” she asked. “About the Kentuckians?”
Rick cleared his throat, yanking his mind back to the conversation and away from visions of her naked. “That even if the Kentuckians tuck tail and run, he’ll still prevail, and Jackson said the Kentuckians would never abandon their post.”
Penny strapped on her cutlass and picked up her hat. “It’ll crush Jackson when they do. But a court of inquiry will find that the retreat was excusable because of a lack of arms.”
She stepped over to the desk where Sophia was sleeping with her head on her folded arms. Penny gently shook her shoulder. “The general’s awake. If you want to see him before he heads out to the canal, you should wake up.”
Sophia turned her head and peered at Penny through slitted eyes. “What time is it?”
“One-thirty,” Rick answered.
“Really? Wow.” She scrubbed her face with her hands. “I just now dozed off.” She sat back in the chair, closed her eyes, and her chin dropped.
“Soph, wake up,” Penny said.
Sophia straightened. “Okay, okay. I will. Just give me a minute.” She slumped and closed her eyes again.
“Soph, you can’t go back to sleep. You have a masterpiece to sketch today.”
Sophia slowly pushed to her feet and arched, pressing both hands in the small of her back, probably working out the kinks from long hours sitting at the desk. “Where’s Pete?”
“He got up about thirty minutes ago,” Rick said. “Remy drafted him to help organize the surgery.”
Sophia gathered the loose sketches and squared the edges on the desktop. “He doesn’t have any medical experience beyond putting Band-Aids on Lukas.”
“Remy only needed brawn, not medical experience,” Rick said.
“Oh. Got it. I’ll go down there right after I see the general.” She picked up her bag. “First, I need to pee, wash my face, and b
rush my teeth.”
Penny grabbed her duffel. “I’ll go with you.”
While Sophia and Penny went into a small room set aside for their personal use, Rick went outside to see the general.
As soon as Rick saw him, he reached for his cell to take a picture and came up empty. Thank goodness Sophia was here to sketch Jackson in his famous dress uniform—a single-breasted blue wool uniform coat, epaulets, four gold-colored buttons, and a gold star embroidered on each turnback—because he looked like a giant of a man.
“Morning, General,” Rick said.
“Morning, Mr. O’Grady.” Jackson sipped from a mug, and the aroma of the chicory-scented coffee wafted in the air between them. “I believe they’re coming today.”
“I think you’re right, sir. I bet they’re already getting into position, and Pakenham has threatened them to remain quiet, no talking, or even flapping their arms to stay warm.”
“Well, let’s not keep them waiting. Tell the others it’s time to leave.”
Rick returned to the parlor, where Mr. Livingston was rolling up a map. “The general’s ready to go.”
Sophia and Penny returned to the parlor. “What’d you just say?” Penny dropped her duffel behind Sophia’s desk next to her art supplies. Remy had supplied her with toiletries and feminine hygiene products, and keeping her bag squirreled away was smart.
“He’s ready to leave,” Rick said.
“Oh, no. Is he wearing his dress uniform?” Sophia asked.
“Yep, sure is,” Rick said.
Sophia grabbed her notebook and pencils and hurried out to the porch.
Mr. Livingston slapped Rick’s shoulder. “You’ve done a fine job, Mr. O’Grady. The general depends on your advice, as do I.”
“Where will you be today?” Penny asked.
“Uh…” Livingston hesitated a beat. “With the general, of course.” Then he walked away.
“What was that about?” Rick whispered.
“The general once complained that Mr. Livingston has a knack of disappearing when the action gets hot. He pleads ignorance or a sudden illness, but Jackson prizes his shrewd advice, so the general overlooks his lack of military fortitude.” Penny holstered her Glock and packed magazines in all her pockets. “How many do you have left?”
The Topaz Brooch Page 54