River Road

by R. C. Matthews

  “Don’t lie, love. It isn’t becoming. I saw the way you devoured me from across the market. And I’ve held you in my arms. You’re as drawn to me as I am to you.”

  She shoved him in the chest. “I think not! Do you make a habit of insulting all women you find alluring or only the whores?”

  His eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t ever demean yourself that way again! I’m a rotter, and I apologized for my thoughtless blunder. Have I offered you money in exchange for sex since that first night?”

  “You just—”

  He lifted his hand. “No, you’re making assumptions, yet again. Why would I offer money when you would toss aside the covers and invite me in?”

  Arrogant bastard. For the right price. Those were his words. She had, indeed, assumed. What was brewing in that crooked mind of his? She was almost afraid to ask. But she desperately wanted her rattle back in her care.

  “What do you want?”

  “A meeting with Marie Laveau. The woman cursed me, and I want to know why.”

  “You cannot be serious,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That is nigh on impossible. Marie is over eighty years old and confined to her bed.”

  “Come, we both know you can arrange the meeting.” He walked to a nearby bench overlooking the Mississippi River and sat. “Only family members or a friend would know she is bedridden. You’re a mambo. If anyone can get Marie to agree to see me, it’s you.”

  He made the task sound so simple. But, in truth, it was not. Besides, she doubted Marie had the answers Hatchet sought. Couldn’t he see the failure in his logic?

  “Marie didn’t curse you. I’ve already told you black magic exacts a great price from the one who seeks revenge. Marie wouldn’t have lived to eighty if she’d cursed you.”

  “But her daughter Marie Euchariste has been missing for seven years,” Hatchet said with a knowing smile. “She was also a high priestess of the voodoo religion. Don’t underestimate me. I’m a formidable foe with extensive resources. I want a meeting with the voodoo queen, and you’re going to get it for me.”

  Oh, for goodness sake. He wasn’t even cursed. But telling him the truth now would only muddy the waters between them even more.

  “Might I remind you I can reverse said curse, if only you’d put all your resources toward finding my stolen property.”

  “Don’t lie to me! I’ve completed my homework. Until I know why I’ve been cursed, you cannot properly reverse it. In the meanwhile, I’ll take care not to fall in love with another woman.”

  His lips quirked, and she groaned, stomping away, putting distance between herself and the insufferable man. “It’s a miracle it happened twice already,” she groused, glaring at him over her shoulder.

  The healthy flush in his cheeks turned ashen, and without another word, he stood and walked away, eating up the ground with his quick strides.

  Damn her stubborn nature and insensitive comment. Hatchet had loved those women fiercely and suffered the pain of their loss. She ran after him, hiking up her skirt in an effort to catch up.

  “Wait, please,” she said, managing to latch on to his elbow. “I’m sorry. Please, stop. I shouldn’t have let my frustration cloud my judgment. Truly, I’m sorry.”

  “Shhh . . . ” Hatchet caught one of her hands, pulling her closer. “There’s nothing to forgive. We’ve both lost control of our wagging tongues of late.”

  She held hot tears at bay. “I’ll arrange the meeting. Marie was my mother’s mentor. Her daughter, Marie Philoméne Legendre, will allow you entry if I accompany you.”

  His eyes softened, and her breath quickened. “You arrange for the meeting, and let me take care of your problem my way. No readings, no dowsing. Just good old investigation. But first I need to know why Isaac Moore would have stolen the relic.”

  She gazed at their joined hands. How much should she divulge? “He’s afraid the authorities will seize and search Le Havre. If the police find evidence of voodoo on the premises, I could be thrown in jail. Who would pay his rent then? He has demanded I cease practicing voodoo on his property.”

  Hatchet scrutinized her but seemed to accept her theory. “You should’ve told me this before. If that’s true, he’ll sell the deuced thing on the black market, where it’ll be out of your reach forever. That’s what I would do in his stead.”

  She swallowed back the fear burgeoning in her chest. “We can’t let that happen.”

  “Don’t worry, yet. I know exactly where I’ll inquire next.”

  She inhaled slowly, trying to calm her flighty nerves. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Oh, yes.” Poking a finger in his chest, she growled, “You’re a bloody pirate, with a knack for twisting the meaning of my words. For all I know, you’ll get my asson in your hands just to turn around and sell it yourself. I’m coming with you or our deal is off!”

  His lips twitched, and he pecked her on the cheek, taking her by surprise. “Now you’re thinking like a con man. Or shrewd businesswoman. Either way, I’m proud of you. Be ready tonight at eight. I’ll be by with the carriage.”

  He strode away.

  “Where are we going?” she yelled after him.

  He turned and strolled backward. “Where do all the scoundrels in this town congregate?”

  Of course. They were going to visit Lafitte’s. Once a base for the Lafitte brothers’ smuggling operation, the bar still attracted a certain sort of clientele. If anyone knew of a stolen ancient relic, he would surely be found sipping an ale on the corner of St. Philip and Bourbon Streets.

  Chapter Eleven

  The clip-clop of horses’ hooves halted in front of Le Havre. Hope eyed the coachman from her vantage point behind the gossamer drapes in the parlor. She didn’t recognize the man or the carriage, but a moment later, Hatchet descended from the coach, tugging on his gray vest. He was dressed in less formal attire, with black breeches hugging his thighs and hessians buffed until they nearly sparkled.

  She slipped through the doorway onto the porch and descended the steps with practiced ease, holding her skirt high enough so as not to trip. The silky fabric rustled in the quiet night. Hatchet met her halfway.

  “You cannot accompany us to Lafitte’s wearing that,” he snarled, staring at the capped sleeves of her navy gown.

  A breeze swept by, cooling the damp skin at the base of her neck. She gazed down at her ensemble and cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t approve?”

  “You’re entirely too fetching in it,” he said. “Which is why you’re going to change. Even better, stay home. I can’t fight off an entire bar full of randy men, even with Victor by my side.”

  She grinned while tying a sheer wrap over her exposed bosom. “I’m afraid this one will have to do. The evening is far too hot for full sleeves. Would you have me faint? Besides, no one will touch me,” she said, sashaying past him on her way to the coach. “And my coming along is part of the deal.”

  He stormed past her and pressed his hand against the door of the coach.

  What was his issue? Her claim wasn’t full of bravado, and she had no desire to put herself in harm’s way. He needed to trust her judgment.

  “Lafitte’s is walking distance from here,” she said, meeting his perturbed stare. “Everyone within a square mile of Le Havre knows of my . . . shall we say, reputation? Voodoo is grossly misunderstood and scares the wits out of most, even men.”

  Hatchet smirked. “Maybe the gentry, but not the sort of fellows we’ll find carousing at Lafitte’s.”

  “I assure you, you’re wrong,” she said, tugging on the silver hoop dangling from his ear. “By the way, I like this.”

  “Obstinate woman. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He grunted and tapped on the carriage door. It flung open, and he handed her inside.

  She chose the seat opposite Mr. Blackburn, who occupied one bench, with a six-shooter lying beside him. His fingers drummed on the grip, and her heart leaped into her throat. Did Hatchet truly expect
an altercation tonight, or was he overly cautious?

  “Good evening, Mrs. Leblonc.”

  “Mr. Blackburn,” she said, her gaze still drawn to the sleek barrel of the gun. “Please, you must call me Hope.”

  “If you’ll call me Victor.”

  Hatchet settled on the bench beside her, crowding the confined space with his broad frame. The warmth of his leg permeated the thin fabric of her gown, and his citrusy scent enveloped her. The cabin suddenly felt unbearably hot, and she loosened the shawl draped over her shoulders.

  The carriage took off with a start, and she used the opportunity to scoot over a bit. She needed a clear head tonight. “Has your wife recovered from her morning sickness, Victor? Being confined to one’s bedroom while on vacation is miserable.”

  A smile cracked Victor’s lips, and he coughed. “For some, perhaps. But to answer your question, she is feeling much better. Thank you.”

  “Honeymooners,” Hatchet whispered with a sideways glance. “I can’t tolerate being in their presence for more than thirty minutes.”

  She tapped her fan against Hatchet’s arm. Why must he tease his friend when she knew he cared deeply for both Victor and Mercy? He’d lost his cool demeanor the first night at Le Havre when she’d threatened to find him through his friends.

  Music and laughter permeated the coach, a sure sign they were nearing Bourbon Street. A few moments later, the conveyance came to a stop, and Hope peered out the window. Lafitte’s was a quaint stone structure, which seemed at odds with the brutish patrons who crowded around the bar, spilling out into the street. Although the night was still early, many of the men wobbled with laughter, sloshing beer over the edges of their tankards. They were stinking drunk.

  “Wait here with Victor,” Hatchet said, hopping to the street. Her mouth opened to voice her objection, but his eyes bored into hers. “Please?”

  She nodded and watched his every move while Victor locked the door. Would he uncover anything worthwhile tonight? Hatchet strode to the nearest group of sailors, clapping one of them on the back. The man smiled broadly and looped his arm around Hatchet’s neck, pulling his head down until it was locked at the man’s side. They wrestled for a few seconds, bumping into other men, as the group roared with laughter. These men knew Hatchet and accepted him as one of their own. Her presence would’ve only hindered any progress he might make.

  She glanced at Victor. “What do you suppose he’s inquiring after?”

  “The name of a business he found scribbled among Mr. Moore’s papers. If your landlord plans to sell your valuables, then he’ll rid himself of the stolen object as soon as possible.”

  Why hadn’t Hatchet asked her? She’d lived almost her entire life in New Orleans and conducted business with the prominent men in town, on both sides of the law. “What’s the name of the establishment?”

  “Le Grande Maison. Have you heard of it?”

  Not only had she heard of it, but she visited the location regularly out of necessity. The owner of the property was infamous, and clever. And most definitely on the wrong side of the law. Why hadn’t she thought of Le Grand Maison herself?

  A rapid knock on the door startled her.

  “Victor, open up.”

  Seconds later, Hatchet heaved himself inside and the carriage rumbled to life.

  “Well?” Victor asked.

  “That’s the place,” Hatchet said, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Not far from Congo Square, off Toulouse and North Rampart. But we have a problem. An auction starts in fifteen minutes, and it’s by invitation only from the owner. A man by the name of Omère Allemand. Dammit! I’ve been away far too long. I don’t know him, but he has a fierce reputation.”

  “I’m acquainted with him.” She could secure an invitation to the auction, for the right price. Though she was loath to pay it. Even the mere thought raised the fine hairs on her neck. But her asson was priceless, and she was willing to go to almost any length to get it back.

  Hatchet’s eyes widened. “Omère Allemand runs a gaming hell and sells contraband on the black market. He’s the second-most powerful man in New Orleans, next to Isaac Moore. The devil take me, Hope. Why do you know this man?”

  “Don’t look at me that way,” she said, lifting her chin, “like I’m sullied for merely knowing of his existence. Contraceptives are illegal, but I care about the women living in my home far too much to leave them unprotected. Mr. Allemand replenishes our supplies when needed, and at a reasonable price. He isn’t all that bad.”

  Except when he was pressuring her to concede to his deepest wishes. Still, even Omère harbored a healthy fear of her talent and would only push so far. Unfortunately for her, tonight he held the advantage.

  Hatchet snorted. “Either way, I’ve been told the auction is for men only. You won’t be allowed into Le Grand Maison if my sources are right. But perhaps you can secure an introduction for me.”

  “He’ll let us in.” She was never surer of anything in the whole of her life.

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Hatchet said. “Otherwise, your precious rattle may be lost forever.”

  Wetting her parched lips with her tongue, Hope stared out the window, unable to meet Hatchet’s penetrating stare any longer. In a few minutes, they would arrive at their destination and he would be angry as a bull facing a red cape. But there was nothing she could do about it. He would have to trust her.

  Chapter Twelve

  What a damned mess! Hatchet clamped his hand around the edge of the bench seat. He should’ve confronted his father outright and had done with this farce. But Father didn’t believe in black magic and curses. Do not speak of her or this voodoo nonsense again unless you’re keen on spending the night in a dank jail cell. With that attitude, his father wouldn’t surrender his stolen treasure merely because Hatchet called him out.

  The whole situation was spiraling out of control. What would Hope think of him when she learned the truth about his father? He would have to tell her at some point. Or would he? Their paths were intertwined for only as long as he stayed in New Orleans. His family was not her concern.

  Was she even telling the truth about her relationship with this Allemand character? Something was off. If she were being completely honest, she’d look him in the eyes. What was she hiding, and why? Perhaps Victor’s presence stayed her tongue. But, no matter. He’d rather have the added security his friend provided than not.

  As the coach swayed and bounced, Hatchet studied the widow’s upright posture and crossed arms. She hadn’t gazed his way more than once all evening. Was she still annoyed with him? Do you make a habit of insulting all women you find alluring or only the whores? A queasy ache filled his gut. God, what he would give to relive that moment in her bedroom, to never compare her home to a brothel. She was not a strumpet, though many in society painted her with that brush.

  Courageous, empathetic, and compassionate; those were the words that came immediately to mind when he thought of her. Hope had slapped him without hesitation earlier in the day. A punishment he deserved for his crude accusation about his father. The scenario hadn’t played out the way he’d intended. She’d caught him off guard, devouring him from across the market with her hungry gaze. That one look fueled his fury. Because he still wanted her beneath him in bed, surrendering her cries of blissful passion.

  Truth be told, she should’ve slapped him when he refused her offer to couple. His outburst then was abominable as well. But the widow was a kindred spirit. She shared in his crippling pain more than any of his friends. She knew what it meant to lose half of her soul.

  Could she piece his shattered heart back together again, if he let her?

  When the carriage halted, Hatchet shrugged into the jacket he’d brought along for just such an eventuality. He didn’t bother waiting for the driver to open the door or secure steps to assist Hope out. Instead, he leaped to the ground then lifted her out by her waist.

  “All you need to do is secure an invitation to the au
ction for me,” he said, gazing into her upturned face. “Victor will accompany you home. Let me take care of the rest. You’ll have to trust me on this.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Should I place my trust in you?”

  “Aye,” he said, brushing his lips over hers, unable to resist her rosy mouth when she was so close. Her body melted against his, and he smiled, enjoying the slight trembling of her limbs. “I swear, on my mother’s honor, I’ll do everything in my power to recover your treasure and return it to your care.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Do you even love your mother?”

  Oh, my priestess is a fast learner.

  He grinned. “Enough to sail across the ocean at her bidding.”

  Victor poked his head out of the coach. “Move aside, Hatchet, before I toss my dinner on your jacket. You’re beginning to sound sappier than me.”

  Securing Hope’s hand on his arm, Hatchet escorted her to the main entrance of the red-brick building. Though an impressive four stories, the place had more of the appearance of a warehouse than a gaming hell one might find on the streets of London.

  The double oak doors swept open before Hatchet even had an opportunity to knock. An older gentleman in formal attire peered at them through a quizzing glass before stepping aside to allow them entry.

  “Madame Leblonc,” he said with a bow. “Please do come in, though I’m afraid Mr. Allemand is indisposed at the moment. I would be happy to relay a message on your behalf. He will be sad to have missed your visit, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, Miles. May I introduce . . . ?”

  She stared at Hatchet, a blank look on her face. He’d never shared his surname, nor did he have any plans to do so. They were attending an illegal auction, not a coming out ball.

  “Hatchet,” he supplied, matter-of-factly. “And my friend, Victor. We’re here to attend the auction, which is set to begin any minute. Be a good chap and show us inside.”

  The butler held out his hand. “Invitations, please.”

  Placing her hand in the butler’s, Hope pulled him aside, whispering an urgent string of sentences, though Hatchet could only make out a random word or two. He was on the verge of storming through the halls, invitation be damned. But Hope glanced his way, keeping him in check.