Could she lie to Hatchet’s face convincingly? Once he delivered the sacred rattle back into her safekeeping, she could tell him the truth. Becoming a mambo was her destiny. Her heartbeat quickened. This was a desperate circumstance, so Loco might understand.
She steeled her back and resumed a seat at the table. But she couldn’t look him in the eye and, instead, focused on the cards. “I’m sorry, Hatchet. You were right. The picture on the ten of swords paints a thousand words.”
A man lay facedown in the dirt with ten swords lodged in his back, his blood soaking into the earth. She couldn’t have selected a better card had she planned the deception from the onset.
“Who cursed me?”
She tapped her finger on the second card and met his gaze. “Someone in a position of strength.”
Rubbing his eyes, Hatchet let out a measured breath. “Marie Laveau is a priestess, or mambo, as I believe you call it.”
She nodded, and a bead of perspiration trickled down her back. “Marie possesses awesome power and is favored by the spirits. If she hexed you, I’ll have to perform a sacred voodoo ritual using my family’s ceremonial rattle. Even then, I cannot guarantee a favorable outcome.”
At least that much was true.
He wrung his hands, unable to look away from the spread, studying them one at a time. Loco forgive her, but Hatchet believed every word.
“Which one tells me why Marie did this? The devil card, is it not?”
His reading of the cards was too literal. He saw himself as inherently evil, thus deserving of a curse. Every fiber in her being rebelled, wanting to end this farce, if only to wipe that agonized look from his eyes.
“Yes,” she said instead. I will tell him the truth as soon as possible. “Whatever you’ve done was unforgivable.”
Hatchet pointed to the fifth and sixth cards. “What do they reveal?”
“What the curse is, and, finally, what you need to do to end it.”
He studied the picture on the face of the fifth card. “Three of the five cups are knocked over. Do those represent the women in my life who have, or will, die?”
An ache seized her stomach. Hope stood and walked to a sideboard, where she poured herself a glass of wine. Her hands shook, and she nearly confessed the truth. “Are you sure you’ve never studied the art of tarot card reading? You’re a natural. Do you see the cloaked man? He’s in mourning. You’re cursed to a life of sadness.”
She placed a full glass in front of him and sipped from her own. His face had lost all color, and she almost broke down again. Watching him process the reading was beyond heartbreaking. But a greater good would come from finalizing her journey to mambo. Hundreds of lives would be changed for the better with her powers, including Hatchet’s.
He buried his face in his hands, ignoring the liquor. “What must I do to end the curse? Please, tell me. I cannot make heads or tails of the last card.”
Hope picked it up and read aloud, “The ace of pentacles. Come, see for yourself. I can only provide a broad interpretation without knowing the reason why you believe yourself cursed. You must fill in the gaps.”
Still, she could help him along in his thought process and advance her cause.
“The day is bright, and a vibrant garden beckons. The hand holds an offering, one very large coin. Perhaps in your case that could mean performing a good deed, and a magnanimous one, at that.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Like recovering an ancient relic that was stolen from an innocent woman, a relic that has been in her family for centuries and holds special meaning. Tell me what you did to deserve this curse, so I might advise you better.”
After scrutinizing her face for a moment, he stood and leaned his forearm against the fireplace mantle. “Need-to-know basis,” he said before pulling his billfold out of an inside pocket of his jacket and handing her a twenty-dollar bill. “Your stated price for a reading.”
She stared at the money then handed it back. “No, you misunderstood. My reading was in exchange for your services. You must ransack Harmon Grove and recover my asson.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Mrs. Leblonc, but I never agreed to those terms.”
Her mouth fell open, and she sputtered. Had she gone too far with the last card, raising his suspicion? “You asked what I thought was fair, and I told you I’d give you a reading.”
“True.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “But you failed to finalize our negotiations. Never assume . . . especially when dealing with a pirate.”
“You sonofa—“
He held up his palm. “Please, be reasonable. Twenty dollars is not adequate compensation for what you seek. Do you have any idea of the danger involved? Isaac Moore is not a man to cross, and I daresay you won’t find anyone else willing to trespass on his property. That requires a death wish. Lucky for you, I’m already cursed.”
She seethed, clenching her fists. Not because he had hoodwinked her, but because he was right. How stupid of her to have rushed blindly into her reading without confirming his agreement to the terms. Loco was punishing her for abusing her powers. Now Hatchet held all the cards.
“What do you want?” she gritted out.
He slid his fingers through her hair and cradled her face, gazing deep into her eyes. “You, Hope. I want you, from dusk until dawn. Tonight.”
Chapter Seven
A spark ignited in Hope’s eyes but not one of an amorous nature. Hatchet’s entire body tensed under the weight of her glare. Was his suit truly so offensive? There were moments when he would bet every last dime to his name that she desired him. His offer relieved her of the guilt of bedding the enemy—a white man—and turned it into a business deal. Couldn’t she embrace the brilliance of his plan?
“I should’ve known,” she muttered, untangling herself from his hold. She paced the floor, a tiger caged and feral. “Is there an honorable bone in your body?”
Of course, he had honor; perhaps even more than she. Her attempt at manipulating him with that tarot card reading was not well done of her. Honor was a matter of interpretation. She voiced a problem; he offered a solution. One that might be enjoyable for both of them, if she wished. When cast in the proper light, his proposal was almost noble.
“I’m your knight in shining armor, placing myself in peril to serve you. Plenty of honor in that.”
She halted in midstride, rolling her eyes. “Only a pirate would flip this on its head. You’re despicable for demanding this of me!”
Perhaps she had a point. Stealing her ancient relic from his own father in exchange for one night of pleasure was one of the most reprehensible bargains Hatchet had ever struck. But he was damned to hell, and his loins ached to possess this woman. He’d been aroused since the moment he strolled into her room. Bargaining for the ritual to banish the curse would’ve been smarter, but the widow would accept money for her voodoo services if and when the time came.
Besides, Hope had accused him of thievery, and he was stretching his neck out for her, whether he knew Isaac or not. Unearthing his father’s hiding spot wouldn’t be easy. This was a business transaction, simply put. She didn’t have to agree to his terms, and the longer she glared, the less likely it became that she would concede.
Well, damn, he’d mucked up his chances, yet again.
Seeking the shrine in the corner of the room, she bowed her head for a few moments then sighed. “Please don’t bargain with my body, Hatchet.” She faced him, tears glistening in her eyes. “I’ll pay you any sum you name.”
Her plea struck a chord of shame in him. She didn’t want to whore herself, and truth be told, he didn’t want her to lie with him because he forced her submission. No, better that she surrender to the fierce passion brewing between them of her own free will. Although the ancient relic meant a lot to her, she wouldn’t sacrifice her self-worth to recover the piece. So she did have her limits.
He strolled across the room, halting less than a foot away from her. Hope was the victim, and his father the villain. She deserved a cha
mpion.
“If your asson is at Harmon Grove, I’ll ferret it out. Consider my services in exchange for the ceremony to rid my family of the curse. I’m sorry to have offended you once again. You’re a lady and ought to be treated as such. I haven’t desired anyone in a long time,” he said, smoothing his fingers over her cheek, unable to resist the allure of her buttery soft skin. “But I’ve quite lost my head over you.” And, if he didn’t mistake the sudden wistful look in her eyes, she yearned for him as well. “Please, lie with me because you wish to, Hope, not because you must.”
Her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip, teasing him mercilessly. But she conveyed little else with her still stance. One smile, a nod . . . he waited for a sign. None were forthcoming. He breathed deeply and turned to leave.
“Don’t go,” she whispered, holding out her hand.
He latched on, his heart soaring. “I would’ve paid any price you named, but this . . . this gift of choosing to be with me of your own free will is priceless.”
The heat of her touch sent jolts of pleasure through him. She smiled, and his knees almost buckled. This was only the beginning to a night of surrender. God, he wanted to forget about the world around him for a few blissful hours.
They walked in silence across the hallway to another door. When they entered, he stopped in the center of the room, staring at the four-poster bed draped in shimmering green silk and piled with pillows. A white, gauzy material hung from all three exposed sides of the bed to protect against the mosquitos and other insects entering through the open French doors.
A sheen of sweat gathered on his brow, and he unbuttoned his shirt at the base of his neck. When had it become so warm? He focused on the other pieces of furniture in the room while rolling up his sleeves, anything to cool himself.
“Would you care for a drink?” Hope strolled to a side table where a decanter and glasses awaited. “The evening is lovely. We can enjoy some conversation on my private balcony.”
How could she expect him to assemble a coherent thought when all the blood in his head had rushed to his groin? He drew in a breath, finding his center. This was Le Havre, a haven where couples enjoyed each other’s company. Conversation, drinks, and then the pleasures of the flesh. The wait would heighten the anticipation.
So he nodded and perused the bedroom, intent on learning more about her. A portrait displayed prominently beside the French doors caught his attention. The artist had captured the mischievous spark in Hope’s eyes and the adoring smile of the young boy staring up at her while seated on her lap. Her son, perhaps. Had she sent him away to France for schooling, as so many of the Creoles did? He scanned the walls but found no evidence of her late husband.
Seeds of doubt crept into his soul as he stepped onto the balcony. This bedroom was Hope’s personal space, not a room where she entertained men for an agreed upon fee. She had invited him into her life.
A breeze flittered past him, offering relief. He sank into one of the cushioned chairs and glanced back into the room, watching Hope pick up their drinks. The woman was graceful, with long limbs and flawless skin. She must’ve been widowed for more than a year, because she wore vibrant colors that accentuated her beauty, not the dark weeds of mourning. And she cut a fine figure, not one of a woman who bore many children in her lifetime.
“How old are you?” Hatchet asked when she handed him a glass of spirits.
She laughed and shook one finger while settling in the seat opposite him. “A woman never tells. Besides, it’s ungallant of you to ask.”
“We’ve already established I’m a cad. You must’ve been young when you married. You can’t be more than twenty-eight. Is that your son in the portrait?”
“Alfonso,” she said, staring into her cup. “He was a joy, captured the heart of everyone he met.”
“Was . . . ” Hatchet closed his eyes. He truly was an ass, delving into issues that were none of his business. “Hope, forgive me, I shouldn’t have pried.”
She took a sip of brandy and gazed at him over the rim. “Don’t fret. I’ve had three years to adjust to life without my family. Yellow fever devastated many other families in ’78. Most of the women residing at Le Havre suffered similar losses. And you’re no stranger to grief yourself.”
No, his ties with despair were strong . . . and more recent than hers. Perhaps he could’ve borne Emma’s death easier if it had been a matter of illness, not a senseless tragedy he should’ve prevented. A familiar ache welled inside his gut, and he tossed back the rest of his drink.
What was he doing here, pretending to be something he was not? He didn’t want mindless sex tarnishing his beautiful memories of a man and woman joining with a mutual respect for each other. Though he respected Hope, she didn’t feel the same for him.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, standing. “I’m intruding on your privacy. You deserve more than a romp in bed with a man who’ll be gone with the next tide. Hold out for the man who’ll cherish you forever.”
He bowed and strode for the door, desperate to disappear. The glass dome of his life was shattering, the water rushing in. He couldn’t breathe. His mind clouded with the terrified face of his beloved Emma as he fumbled with the doorknob.
“Hatchet, please wait.”
Hope slipped between him and the door and held his cheeks with both hands, her eyes boring into his, searching to the depths of his soul. Could she see his guilt? His heart slammed against the wall of his chest, his body wracked with loathing for himself. Emma didn’t have to die. She should be here with him, enjoying her first trip overseas.
“You’re not intruding,” Hope finally said. “I, too, have not desired anyone’s company since my husband’s death. Perhaps I deserve a man who’ll treasure me forever, but I’ll settle for one who’ll adore me for the night. My husband isn’t coming back, and I want to begin living once again.”
He leaned his forehead on hers and concentrated on breathing. Was she as lonely as he? Dead inside, yes, that’s how he felt. If he held another woman in his arms, he would have to admit Emma was lost to him forever. His memories of her would fade, all that he had left of her, just like his Nicolette. He couldn’t recall his fiancée’s beautiful face, only the sound of her horrific screams as the Butcher set her on fire, a human torch for the ship.
How could he live without Emma, the one person who had made him whole?
“Your kiss the other night, Hatchet. It was incredibly sweet. Like you were a man in the blistering heat of the desert, and I was an oasis. Cherish me that way tonight, please. Bring me back to life.”
Hope pressed her body to his and ran her hands down his back. Her fingers roamed over the contours of his buttocks while she nuzzled into the crook of his neck, kissed the skin exposed at his collar. The warmth of her lips set a spark of desire coursing through him.
His hands finally came to life, exploring her silky, bare arms. Goose bumps pebbled her shoulders, and he leaned in to kiss the curve of her neck. She smelled of lilacs, with a hint of honey.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispered.
Her lips split in a grin, and she caught his bottom lip for a slight tug. “No, I don’t want this. I want you.”
Oh, God, he wanted her, too. The admission ripped his heart to shreds. Emma would want him to find happiness. But he had to let go.
Could he make love to Hope? Certainly not against the door of her bedroom. In one swift move, he cradled her in his arms and carried her to the bed. She chuckled, the husky sound sending shivers of anticipation down his spine.
“You make me feel dainty,” she said, smiling when she gained her feet again. “I’m rather tall, so that’s quite a feat. You must have arms of steel hiding beneath your shirt. Come, let me see.”
He laughed and swatted her hand away. “I’m supposed to be cherishing you. Turn around. You’ve entirely too many layers on, and undressing you will try my patience.”
“Don’t rip my dress,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Th
is is one of my favorites.”
“Don’t rip my dress,” Emma said, giggling as she slapped his hands away. “You’ve ruined one already, and I have so few.”
Hatchet froze, closing his eyes. His hand stung from her slap, and his ears filled with her cute little snort, the one that always escaped before she gained control again. She gazed at him, her eyes sparkling with joy and love.
“Are you all right, Hatchet?”
Emma’s image dispersed, like dandelion seeds caught on the wind. Don’t go! He grasped for wisps of her fading image, desperate to hold on, but she was gone. At least for now, not forever . . . if he held on.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do this,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting Hope’s gaze. The widow was every man’s dream for a pleasurable evening. She must think him daft, stopping on the cusp of undressing her. “All I have left are my memories, and I won’t part with them for one salacious night in a brothel.”
Her eyes widened, and she inched backward, her shoulders stiff. “A boardinghouse. Believe me, I understand your feelings, but you needn’t insult me. This is my home.”
Fuck! He should leave before he made an even greater mess of the situation. At the doorway, he glanced back. “My sincerest apologies, Hope. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re . . . Dammit. I’m an ass, and you’re a lady. I’ll leave in the morning for Harmon Grove. If Isaac Moore hid your relic there, I’ll find it.”
With the asson back in her possession, she could banish the bloody curse. That is, if she ever spoke with him again after tonight.
Chapter Eight
Hatchet held the reins of his stallion in a loose grip as he clomped down the long drive of Harmon Grove. The wheels of his father’s carriage rattled beside him, like the thoughts jumbled in Hatchet’s mind. Walking away from Hope had been the right decision, yet he couldn’t escape the memory of her desperate plea. Bring me back to life.
She was as lonely as he, stuck in her past. He would find her treasure and breathe life into her again through her religion. Even if it meant feeding his mother’s delusions of him assuming management of the plantation just so he could search the premises without hindrance.
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