River Road

by R. C. Matthews

  “Sorry, mate, no card,” Hatchet said, loosening his cravat. Damned hot night. “Might I speak with Mrs. Leblonc? Tell her the gentleman from the apothecary is here to arrange for an appointment.”

  The butler admitted him into the foyer. “Wait right here.”

  White marble with splashes of black, decorative tiles covered the main floor, and a grand, black staircase led to the second level. Le Havre was far more refined than Hatchet had imagined.

  “Albert, dear,” a woman purred from the entrance to the parlor. Red satin clung to her curves and dipped at her décolletage, daringly so. She clucked her tongue. “That isn’t the way we treat our guests. Run and fetch Hope while I keep this gentleman company. Come along, handsome,” she said to Hatchet, crooking her finger. “What’s your name? I haven’t seen you here before.”

  Albert turned on his heel and ascended the stairs, leaving Hatchet to fend for himself with the seductress.

  “Hatchet,” he said, as he entered the parlor.

  “That’s barbaric,” the woman declared with a giggle. “I love it. You may call me Adeline. Would you care for a brandy?”

  “Please,” he croaked.

  “Why so nervous?” She ran her hand across the lapel of his jacket. “We’re all friendly here. If Hope turns you down, I’m all yours for the night.”

  His throat tightened, but he grinned, with some effort. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She winked and pushed him gently into an armchair that overlooked the entrance. Men and women lounged on sofas placed at discreet distances from one another, allowing for a modicum of privacy for each pair. In the corner, an elderly man played piano, minding his own business.

  A couple sat nearby, their heads bent over a chessboard, while the man’s hand roamed casually over his companion’s knee. Hatchet glanced around—this was a haven, a place of pleasure. No rushing or gambling. Just simple entertainment and private conversation. Nothing at all like he’d imagined a brothel.

  While Adeline prepared their drinks at the sideboard, he concentrated on breathing. In, out. Mrs. Leblonc would be here any minute. Was she entertaining another guest? His stomach cramped. What had he been thinking to come here? He wasn’t a womanizer, and he didn’t bed strangers. All he wanted was a woman who loved him, wanted to share a life with him, honorably. Le Havre couldn’t offer him that. He stood, intent on departing, and found a glass of brandy thrust into his hand.

  “You’re quite the gentleman,” Adeline said with a coquettish grin. “Standing for a lady.”

  “Thank you.” Hatchet took a fortifying sip of his drink. “But I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t.” The woman gestured toward the staircase with an outstretched hand. “You called on the Widow Leblonc, and there she is, a vision in emerald satin. Don’t you think?”

  Hatchet couldn’t think, or speak, in that moment, but his body could react. Blood pumped through his heart on a direct path to his loins. The woman was elegant, much too refined for the likes of him. She would laugh in his face if he offered for her, but his manhood demanded he give it a try.

  He followed her progress down the stairs, her hand resting on her escort’s forearm. She laughed at something the man said, and the melodious sound brought an unbidden smile to Hatchet’s lips. This woman didn’t hold back in any of her affairs. At the landing, she escorted her guest to the door before walking with cool, measured steps toward him.

  “Mrs. Leblonc,” he said with a bow. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  Adeline squeezed his arm and excused herself.

  The widow smiled in greeting. “I confess, I’m surprised by your visit, Hatchet. How did you learn about my . . . business?”

  He loosened his cravat further. “A few discreet inquiries. I hope you’re agreeable to an appointment?”

  “Of course,” she said, folding her hands. “I’m grateful for your assistance yesterday at the apothecary. However, I must warn you that my services come at a steep price. Twenty dollars for one hour. Is that acceptable?”

  He wouldn’t last more than ten minutes between the sheets with this woman. An entire hour? For that, he would pay any sum she named.

  “Yes.” He wetted his parched mouth with another sip of brandy.

  “We’ll settle up later.” She rubbed her hand along his forearm and leaned in. “Albert will escort you to my room upstairs. I’ll only be a few minutes. I must speak with one of my tenants.”

  The butler led him to the last room left of the stairwell on the second floor. Hatchet strolled around the room and gulped more brandy. A round wooden table filled one corner of the space, covered in a black velvet cloth with a series of odd symbols painted in gold on the surface. A deck of cards was stacked neatly to the side.

  In the center of the table stood a gray stone chalice with gems lining the rim. A sizable ruby formed a handle on the lid, covering the contents. His curiosity piqued, he lifted the top and found a pile of bones interspersed with stones and wooden cubes inside. What did his hostess do with these? He hadn’t the faintest clue.

  A leather-bound notebook lay beside the chalice. He flipped it open. The pages were covered in a woman’s flowing script, more in the form of bullet points than anything else. The first entry caught his attention.

  David Hennessy – Will be tried for murder. (Cards)

  Edmond Norwood – Facing bankruptcy, gambled away family fortune. (bergamot leaves)

  Geoffrey Pike – Extramarital affair with wife’s best friend. (Adeline)

  What were these ramblings? Mr. Hennessy was a local hero, not a criminal. The young detective had recently arrested the notorious Italian bandit and fugitive Giuseppe Esposito. Was the widow gathering intelligence about the men who shared her bed? If so, to what end? He would do well to hold his secrets to his vest.

  A breeze wafted through the window, bringing with it a hint of magnolia. Another sip of brandy warmed Hatchet’s stomach, and he began to relax. One half of the room was decorated with fine furnishings, including a couch, two chairs, and a chaise longue.

  He set his empty glass on a side table and removed his jacket. His waistcoat and cravat soon followed. With the top two buttons of his shirt open, he could finally breathe again. As he rolled up his sleeves, he roamed to one corner, where a shrine of sorts was erected.

  A green satin cloth covered a table, and an intricately carved statue stood majestically in the center. The old man carried a walking stick, and a halo hovered above his head. He appeared of a gentle nature, with dogs sitting obediently at his feet. Shallow bowls surrounded him, at least five, filled with herbs or dried flowers. And a pipe fashioned from beautiful cherrywood lay among the clutter. There were even a few goats, made of white or black marble, interspersed with the other trinkets.

  A miniature tree stood as a prop to the left of the figurine. Hanging on the branches were various bags made of straw, stuffed full. Hatchet leaned forward and sniffed one. Its contents were . . . rosemary, perhaps?

  But the most interesting aspect of the shrine was a butterfly fashioned out of green-stained glass with splashes of blue and gold. The wings were as large as Hatchet’s hands, the tips of which had been mounted on the wall directly behind the man, giving him the appearance of an angel.

  Strange. Hatchet turned around in a circle, looking for another door. Where was the bed? Maybe Mrs. Leblonc preferred a less intimate setting. He eyed the chairs and chaise longue. All of them seemed sturdy enough. He sank onto a chair and relaxed against the back, sprawling his legs out. Yes, he could imagine her straddling him here, riding his stiff member.

  His cock throbbed to life, and he inhaled sharply. Perhaps he should take the opportunity to relieve himself once, before she arrived. He hadn’t had sex in a very long time. Shit, had he remembered to bring a condom? Jumping to his feet, he strode to the other chair and riffled through his jacket pockets.

  As he tossed the voodoo doll aside, the lady entered the room. Her gaze lingered on the open collar of his shirt, a
nd she stopped short.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice husky.

  Desire pooled in her eyes, and the realization gave him courage. A spark of energy had sizzled between them on their first encounter as well. With lazy steps, he closed the distance, enjoying the way her breathing quickened. He pulled her into his embrace, threading his fingers through her thick curls. She was taller than most women, so her body molded perfectly with his. They had only an hour. He would not waste a single minute.

  His lips found hers, and the heat of her mouth warmed him. He closed his eyes, drugged by the sweetness of her lips. Shivers of anticipation prickled over his skin, and he wrapped his hand around her neck, pulling her closer as his tongue swept over her sensuous bottom lip, slow, searching. She gasped, and their tongues met, tentatively, exploring.

  A hint of sherry lingered on her tongue, and he drank deep. He would savor every inch of her delectable skin and memorize each unique curve of her body. Show her pleasure beyond any other man, because he cared more about her feelings than his own.

  “Wait,” she said, breathless.

  He lost himself in the liquid fire of her eyes and pressed his mouth to her neck. “I’m afraid I cannot. Since the moment I saw you, I wanted you.”

  She pushed him away. “Hatchet, please.”

  His breath hitched in his throat, and he kept still. Their shared moment had been pure bliss. So why did she turn her back to him now?

  “I’ve offended you,” he said, rubbing his eyes, ignoring the throbbing ache in his loins. “Excuse me, but I’ve never had . . . I’ve never been with . . . We agreed to a price downstairs, so I thought—”

  “Sex?” She whipped around, her eyes flashing with anger. “You thought I bartered for sexual favors with you?” Bitter laughter spilled from her lips. “No, you daft man. Does this look like a bedroom?”

  Daft man? Perhaps he wasn’t Don Juan, but insulting his intelligence was taking her fury too far. He bit his bottom lip, controlling the urge to set her straight. She was a woman, thus deserved his best behavior, and he had somehow offended her, though he couldn’t comprehend how or why.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Leblonc, if I have erred.” He shoved one arm into his waistcoat. “I daresay most men would’ve thought you offered sex. Le Havre is a brothel.”

  “Boardinghouse,” she gritted between clenched teeth. “Le Havre means haven. I offer a clean, healthy, and safe environment for women who have no other options of providing for their families. What they choose to do in the privacy of their rooms is not my concern.”

  “Call the house what you like,” Hatchet said, buttoning his waistcoat hastily. “If you’re not attracted to me, you only needed to say as much in the parlor and I would’ve left without incident. You set the price for your services, not me.”

  “I do not sleep with my patrons.”

  “You needn’t lie to spare my feelings. I saw you escort your last guest downstairs.”

  Her eyes widened, and her mouth gaped open. “Is this the reason you bought the bergamot leaves for me, so I’d let you rut between my thighs?”

  Her accusation sounded crude. Damnation, but the woman was irrational. She wasn’t a brood mare, and he wasn’t a stallion. Had he given off that impression? No, certainly not.

  “Don’t insult me more than you already have. Forcing the pharmacist’s hand was the right thing to do, nothing more, nothing less. The man was an ass.”

  She scrutinized him a moment before blowing out a breath. “I’m sorry. The accusation was unkind. My previous experiences with men like you have tainted my opinion.”

  Men like you. What did she mean by that statement? Sailors? Or men who bedded prostitutes. Or . . .

  “Do you mean white men? The last man you escorted downstairs was Creole, was he not? You’re prejudiced against white men sharing your bed?”

  “Me, prejudiced? No!” She pointed to the round table in the corner, loaded with cards and other oddities. “My last customer paid twenty dollars for a Creole bone reading, you dolt. I’m a priestess, sought after by many. For my advice, not my charms.”

  He glanced at the table and then the shrine. The lack of a bed suddenly made more sense. “You practice voodoo.”

  “Don’t say the word as though it’s filthy.”

  She splayed her hands on her hips, glaring at him. He grinned, unable to help himself. She was spitting mad—and so damned attractive with her cheeks flushed and eyes flashing.

  “Twenty dollars,” he mused, picking up the rag doll from the chair where he deposited it earlier. “What can you tell me about this?”

  She snatched the doll from his grasp. “Where did you find this?”

  “I’m paying you,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “I’ll share information on a need-to-know basis.”

  Worry lines gathered at the crook of her nose. “You angered someone else as well. Kalfu is the petro spirit of the crossroads. With the proper ritual and offerings, he’ll unlock the doors to the underworld and allow the crossing of bad fortune to an enemy.”

  Dammit. His sister’s instincts were dead-on, but he would deal with that later. Right now, he planned to earn his money’s worth from the Widow Leblonc. She didn’t offer him sex but something even better.

  He pointed to the table. “Can you tell me if I’m cursed, using one of those bone readings?”

  “Why do you think you’re cursed?”

  Yanking at one sleeve, he fastened the buttons at his wrist. “Need-to-know basis. If true, can you break the curse? With a ritual? Drums, candles, and the like.”

  Her hand shot out, and she grabbed his other wrist, twisting it to expose the inside of his forearm, where the wings of two swallows were interlaced in an intricate tattoo.

  “You’re a pirate. Of course, you answer to Hatchet,” she said, dropping her hold as though he were a leper. “I should’ve realized it earlier.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Why do you care? I thought your issue was with white men.”

  She stalked closer and pressed her forefinger into his chest. “Yesterday morning, an ancient voodoo relic belonging to my family was stolen by a band of pirates. Today, a pirate shows up asking if I can rid him of a curse.”

  “Pure coincidence.”

  “Get out of my house and don’t come back unless you bring my asson!” she shouted, stomping to the door. “Or I’ll put a hex on you myself.”

  “I don’t have your bloody relic,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “Your biggest mistake was trusting your precious cargo to the captain of The Angelica.”

  She gasped, her face a mask of horror. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I saw you speaking with Captain Corbin on the forecastle deck. Rule number one: never trust a pirate.”

  “Well, you’re a pirate,” she spat. “If I discover you lied to me, I’m coming after you. There are ways to find out!”

  He snorted with laughter. “Good luck finding me.”

  “Clairborne Inn,” she said with a smug smile. “If I don’t find you, I’m sure to find your friends.”

  The crazy woman had gone too far! He backed the widow against the wall, holding her captive with his body, his nose inches from hers. “Do not threaten my friends. You have a problem with me? That’s fine. But keep them out of this, or you’ll regret your decision.”

  “Get out!” She met his gaze head-on, her mouth pinched in anger.

  “You don’t have to ask twice.”

  He breezed past her through the door and stormed out of the boardinghouse. On the street, he fisted his hands and growled. Why the fuck had he listened to Victor? The woman practices voodoo. An illegal religion few dared to acknowledge. Had he waited one more day, his investigation may have led him to her doorstep for advice. After the kindness he had shown in the pharmacy, Mrs. Leblonc would’ve been putty in his hands.

  Dammit! What if she maligned his character to others practicing her faith?

  Chapter Five

  A
nother sunrise, another day without answers. With each day that passed, the likelihood of recovering her family’s ceremonial rattle diminished. Hatchet was right; she shouldn’t have trusted Captain Corbin to transport her relic from Haiti to New Orleans.

  “Oh, Mama,” she whispered, tossing the last will and testament from her aunt Heloise on the bed. “Your sister entrusted our family’s treasure to me, and I’ve failed in my duties before I even set eyes on it. The ceremony is set for one week from today. If I don’t recover the asson by then . . . ”

  She closed her watery eyes, breathing deep. Without binding the sacred rattle to her soul in the final ceremony on her journey to mambo, her impact as a priestess would be immeasurably diminished. Generations of her ancestors had cultivated the essence of the spirits, encapsulating their power within the calabash. A tear slid out of the corner of her eye, streaking down the side of her face.

  “Are there any trustworthy men left in the world, Mama?”

  Of course, dearest. Never lose hope.

  A wry smile twisted her lips as her mother’s words echoed in her mind, eternally optimistic. Hope’s faith in men teetered on the edge of a mountain, poised to tumble over and disappear into the abyss. Turning on her side, she snuggled deeper into her pillow and studied the miniature of her late husband, Donato, resting on the bedside table. The cavity around her heart constricted. He was a gentleman and devoted family man. Honest, gentle, and attentive.

  Only three years, though it seems an eternity. She longed for his kiss, the warmth of his embrace, and the tremors of desire his touch awakened in her body. Sensations long lost to her . . . until she gazed into the smoky eyes of a virtual stranger and felt the caress of his sensual lips.

  Hatchet.

  What attracted her to the man? There was his appearance, but it was more. An undercurrent of righteousness, of standing firm on his beliefs. He claimed to have purchased the bergamot leaves because it was “the right thing to do.” If that were true, she had misjudged him terribly when she accused him of thievery. Was he a villain or an innocent man caught in the crosshairs of her meltdown after their kiss?