“I’m sorry, Hope. I should’ve used a rubber. But you feel so damn good, and I lose my mind a little when we’re together. God, I want . . . ”
He exhaled, running his hands over his head. With his back to her, she couldn’t read his expression, but she felt him pulling away. They hadn’t talked about the exact timing of his departure for England, but the day was inching closer.
She pushed up on her elbows. “What do you want? Please, tell me.”
His lips grazed over hers, petal soft. “Nothing. Wait while I grab a wet cloth.”
He busied himself at the ewer in the corner of her bedroom, dousing a cloth with water then wringing it out. His actions were swift but thorough. After he’d tended to them both, he helped her undress, and they slipped under the sheet, naked, facing one another.
His muscular torso was smooth, without a single hair. In fact, she’d noticed early on he didn’t have hair anywhere on his body. Just gorgeous, tanned skin. Even the jagged scar on his shoulder gave him a decidedly distinguished appeal, though she wished his skin were smooth. Not because she found his body ugly, but because the wounds must have caused him pain.
“This scar is rather wicked.” She kissed the raised flesh. “I shudder to think how painful it must’ve been. But I suppose a pirate’s life comes with danger.”
The warmth in his gaze cooled, and he propped his head on one hand. “I’ve seen my fair share of battles. But pirates are a scurvy lot, so you’ll find those wounds on my back. These are from the Civil War.”
He was older than he looked. “Which battles did you fight in to earn these?”
“Not a battle,” he said, not quite meeting her gaze. “I was defending . . . I attempted to defend a woman from my squad of soldiers, but I’m afraid my efforts were for naught. They had their way with the lass in the end. I was too young and weak to fight them off.”
A bitter taste tainted her tongue. She couldn’t imagine living through the horror of rape. A complete and utter violation of the mind and body. Bad enough to endure one man’s brutality, but an entire squad? A shudder rippled through her.
“Oh, Hatchet,” she crooned, rubbing his cheek. “I’m so sorry. Was she special to you?”
He bit his lip. “Never met the woman before in my life. But that shit isn’t right.” Falling on his back, he stared at the ceiling. The muscles in his jaw tensed, and she felt waves of frustration radiating from his body. He was closing himself off, drifting far away, though they lay centimeters apart.
“Is that . . . Is that what happened to . . . ”
The question died on her lips. She shouldn’t pry about something so tragic and personal. He was silent for a long while, his eyes closed. Was he reliving the horrid episode? Her heart ached. If only she could take back her questions. She wanted the lighthearted Hatchet who’d carried her up a flight of stairs so they could make love.
“I wasn’t there when it happened,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Couldn’t save my fiancée. They called him the Butcher, the monster who raped and murdered Nicolette. I should’ve accompanied her on the journey from Boston to New Orleans, not left her prey to the wolves.”
His heartbeat pulsed at the base of his throat, and she wanted to hold him, soothe him. But what did one say when confronted with brutality that defied belief?
“I wanted to kill him,” Hatchet whispered. “Hunt him down and cut off his nut sack. Torture him the way he’d tortured her. Burn him alive.”
“Are you saying this monster burned her alive?” Hope asked, searching his eyes for the truth.
He glanced away, nodding. “My apologies. I shouldn’t say these things in the presence of a lady.”
She reached for his hand. Stay calm, for Hatchet. He would clam up if he detected any hint of pity, yet talking about this might be what he needed most. “Don’t shut me out because you wish to protect my sensibilities. I’ve witnessed many horrors. Your feelings are normal under the circumstances. Sometimes we just need someone to listen. I’m here for you, Hatchet.”
He kissed the back of her hand. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Ask me about anything else, something to take my mind off the memories.”
There were many things she wished to know about him, but one jumped to the forefront. “Why do they call you Hatchet?”
His snort of laughter caught her off guard, but his grin was welcome.
“That’s my weapon of choice during battle. I’m deadly accurate from twenty feet. You don’t want to step in the way of my knife either.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, tracing his square jaw with her finger. “You confound me. You kill with precision but make love with a tenderness I’ve never known. You’re a pirate, but you enjoy the opera.”
His intense stare met hers, awakening the same giddy sensations from their first meeting. He had seemed so hard then, almost cold. But he was far from that. Hatchet gave more than he took and formed his own opinions based on experience. He was a white man, and yet, with him, she felt . . . equal. Valued. Adored.
“Thank you,” she said.
His brow creased. “For what?”
She snuggled deeper into her pillow and sighed. “For making me forget we come from different worlds. Tonight was lovely. Your friends, the opera, being with you. Feeling . . . normal.”
He clasped her hand, holding it firmly against his chest. “I’m sorry you don’t feel that way always. I don’t pretend to understand what you deal with on a day-to-day basis. But I’ve seen the ill effects, the prejudice. You’re so courageous. Did your family belong to the upper echelon of Creole families before the war?”
“Not entirely,” she said, closing her eyes, conjuring an image of her mama with her perpetual smile and multicolored tignons. “But we were far from poor. My mother fell in love with a wealthy man she could not marry, and he was good to us, good to her. During the Civil War, I was sent to France with my mother. I had a governess and was taught to read and write. I’m as ‘accomplished’ as any other well-bred lady. Though it matters little. The Black Codes apply equally to me as anyone else with African blood flowing in their veins.”
He kissed the backs of her fingers. “Why did you come back after the war?”
“Mama was in love,” she said with a shrug. “And I was set to marry my second cousin, Donato. Those are the ways of my people. Family is everything. This is my home, the last connection I have to my mother. Not to mention the other ladies boarding here rely on Le Havre for their livelihood. I’m blessed with a talent that pays my bills. I could’ve found myself in the same position as the others here. They’ve little choice in the matter. They support their extended families. And I want them to have a safe and healthy environment. It’s the least I can do.”
Hatchet rubbed her cheek. “I’m glad you found a way to earn a living from your voodoo practice. I can see it means a lot to you.”
“More than you can ever know,” she said, turning and fitting her body snuggly to his. “But I must stop after the ceremony tomorrow. At least for a while, anyway. Le Havre is a target of the Daughters of Dorcas, and I can’t put the boardinghouse at risk. Or myself.”
Her belly tightened at the mere thought of a trial. “My mother was sentenced for practicing our religion,” she whispered. “The conditions of the jailhouse are deplorable. She died of cholera, all alone. I would be a fool not to heed my landlord’s warnings.”
Hatchet kissed the back of her head, his hands squeezing over hers. “I’m so sorry, Hope, for everything. Do you have enough money saved to weather the storm?”
More than enough, because her costs were almost nonexistent. Isaac Moore was an infuriating man, but he was also generous and refused to charge her the going rate for rent, choosing instead to honor his late Creole mistress’s wish that Le Havre aid women of Creole descent in need.
“I’ll be fine.”
He wrapped his arms around her, snug as a cocoon. “Promise me you’ll ask for help if you need it.”
; “I promise,” she said on a sigh, drifting off to sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
With a stretch and a yawn, Hope woke to the gentle prodding of her lady’s maid. As the young woman set a robe at the foot of the bed, she kept her eyes averted, far from where Hatchet lay in peaceful slumber.
Four blissful nights.
“This came for the gentleman late last night,” the maid whispered, dropping a missive on the bedside table. “I didn’t wish to disturb you.”
“Thank you, Serena. That’ll be all.”
As soon as the door clicked shut, Hope propped her head on her hand, ogling Hatchet. His sculpted body was so different from her late husband, who had been more of a scholar than a man accustomed to physical labor.
Everything about her lover excited her senses. From his musky, sandalwood scent to his strong, calloused hands. She touched his skin, tracing every line of the elaborate tattoo claiming his left arm, shoulder, and chest. The black ink formed a series of tribal symbols, both mesmerizing and frightening.
“Are you going to stare at me all morning or touch me more?” Hatchet smirked, though his eyes remained closed. “I’m rather enjoying your scandalous exploration of my body. What will you caress next?”
She resumed fondling his torso. “Why did you choose a wolf for your tattoo? Is it because your crew is sort of like a pack?”
Instead of answering, he peeked at her through one eye and rolled over, hooking his leg over hers possessively. She squirmed under the onslaught of his delectable mouth, which was inching up her neck. His member grew hard against her belly, and waves of heat flooded her senses. “Stop that, or we’ll be late for my ceremony.”
He slid on top of her, kissing her lips as his mouth widened in a grin. “I’m afraid my cock has a mind of its own, but I shall bring him to heel. Your ceremony takes priority. Are you nervous?”
“Excited, except . . . You’re certain you wish to observe the ritual?”
His eyes sparkled with mirth. “Are you worried I’ll pummel the other men in attendance?”
“You’re incorrigible,” she said, swatting his buttocks. “Promise me you won’t do that.”
He grinned and rolled out of bed. “I would never ruin your initiation into the priesthood. Out of bed with you, before we’re late.”
Tossing her legs over the side of the bed, she sat on the edge and yawned again. Her gaze fell on the note Serena had delivered. “This came for you last night.”
He ripped the envelope open and read the brief letter, his jaw tightening.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, sensing his unease.
His head snapped up. “Fine, love. Let’s go, or we’ll miss the celebration.”
Only, his body language told her he wasn’t fine at all. But he was stubborn and clearly didn’t wish to discuss the contents of his note, so she dressed. She’d approach him on the matter later.
• • •
One hundred lit candles glimmered within the tent, the flames dancing in a silent invitation to Mambo Ayizan, the spiritual patroness of the initiation ceremony. A hint of hibiscus and cloves suffused the air, and Hope closed her eyes as she soaked inside a wooden bathtub.
With every stroke of the herbal soap over her arm, warm water lapped against her chest through her chemise. Adeline worked the linen cloth in a circular pattern, easing the tension from each muscle, one at a time. Congas thrummed in the background, and Hope’s mind drifted on a sea of ambient music.
Suddenly, her head and chest were plunged under the water, and Houngan Médard began chanting in his deep, rhythmic voice. All of the air whooshed out of her lungs in a rush, and she lay frozen, staring at the priest through the murky water. His broad hand held her below the surface, unrelenting.
Her lungs began to ache . . . to burn . . . until they were a mass of flames in her chest. Can’t breathe. I must breathe. Her limbs shook violently, and she emerged to the surface with a start, heaving in a gulp of air.
“You came before the spirits, tattered and as worn as your clothes,” the priest said, motioning for her to rise. “But with the dawn you died and rose again, as mambo.”
Hope raised her arms high, and the threadbare shift she wore was pulled over her head. Gooseflesh raced over her naked skin, and she shivered, welcoming the vibrant energy of the loa into her body and soul.
She accepted Houngan Médard’s hand and stepped out of the bathtub. The beat of the congas grew faster, soon joined by the djembes. Her feet met with a plush wool mat, and several women rushed forward with towels, drying her skin with infinite care. As her chills abated, she sought her lover along the perimeter of the tent, where witnesses sat on velvet pillows.
His keen gaze pierced through her soul, and she could not look away. His skin was ashen, his lips pressed in a tight line. Breathe, Hatchet, breathe. The worst would be over soon. Her heart pounded, and her legs ached to run to his side. Had he suffered throughout the ceremonial bath or only since she was disrobed, naked for all the world to see her rebirth?
She smiled, and his shoulders lifted with a sharp inhale. He would survive. Giggles bubbled up her throat as the women dressed her in a simple, white cotton dress and tignon. With her feet still bare, she began to dance, letting the beat of the drums fill her to the core. Soon the witnesses joined in the dance, slashing their handmade palm fronds through the air in a frenetic tempo.
Houngan Médard handed Hope her family’s ancient voodoo rattle, then raised his hands skyward as he cried out, “Mambo Ayizan, we beg for your presence and seek your blessing for a spiritual bond between Mambo Hope and the asson of her ancestors. May she preserve the knowledge of the spirits and use the gift of communication for the greater good of all who seek her aid or comfort.”
Whirling in a circle, she shook the rattle in tandem with the drums, creating a high-pitched melody that accented the deep timbre of the congas. Her skirt flared, fanning out in a glorious halo.
“Let there be song, let there be dance, let there be food!” the priest shouted.
The morning was young, and her spirits were high. She would focus on the seconds, minutes, and hours of today, because tomorrow was a new dawn, and with it would come her obligation to return her beloved asson to her landlord’s care. Loco, please keep my people safe until the threat to Le Havre has withered away.
• • •
Hatchet snuck outside, leaving the revelers to their celebration. A dead weight pressed against his chest, and he wanted to retch. The sight of Hope’s thrashing limbs was burned in his memory, the sound of her gasping breath, her frantic eyes as she emerged from the water.
A seagull swooped low over Lake Pontchartrain, its shrill cry ringing in his ears. Water stretched for miles in front of him. He turned and strode toward the road, only to face the marsh. Bath water, lake water, stagnant water. He was surrounded, sinking, drowning. Why couldn’t he escape?
He shouldn’t have come, but he was here, and leaving would ruin a defining moment in Hope’s life. The worst was over. All that remained was dancing and singing, a welcome distraction from the abysmal memories pounding in his head.
“Still feeling an urge to pummel someone?” Hope teased, slipping her arms around him from behind. “I warned you I would be naked. You looked truly dreadful.”
He felt skinned alive. She’d warned him of her rebirth but not of the near drowning that signified her death. A shudder rippled through him. Her arms tightened around him, and the warmth of her embrace soothed his agitated nerves, along with the sweet scent of cloves clinging to her skin. He turned and held her close, kissing her sweet lips.
“I’m under control, so you can breathe easy. Just needed a quiet moment to clear my head. Shall we go inside? You’re missing your celebration.”
Nodding, she took his hand and led him into the tent. He forced himself to dance, eat, and smile for hours.
A ghost was communicating with Maribeth, and signs of voodoo were found on the plantation. Was Jenny Cobbs haunting
Harmon Grove, or was he losing his mind? Pauline’s note from this morning was cryptic. Let sleeping dogs lie. Something wasn’t right, because the facts were compounding, pointing in one direction. His family was cursed.
• • •
An eerie creak reverberated through the ballroom. Hatchet glanced up at the dark-green water weighing against the glass dome ceiling. Thousands of cracks rippled over the surface, more intricate than a spider’s web.
“Hatchet, help me!”
He spun around, searching for the source of the desperate plea. Emma dangled by one hand from the escape ladder, screaming in pain as a man stepped on her fingers in his haste to exit.
Hatchet’s stomach plummeted, and he shoved through the throng of guests clamoring to get out. Dammit! What had happened to the waiter manning the bottom of the escape ladder to ensure each guest ascended in a calm and orderly fashion? Emma should’ve been outside long ago.
“Hold on, Emma!” he shouted. “Don’t you let go!”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she howled as another man trampled her hand. People shouted and slammed into his sides, but still he pushed forward, elbowing anyone who stepped in his path, glancing up frequently to gauge Emma’s situation.
“I can’t hold on.” Her eyes were wide, frantic. “I can’t hold on.”
“You can,” he ordered, scrambling up the first three steps of the ladder, his eyes trained on her. “I’m coming, Emma! Don’t you let go.”
Three more steps . . . Sweat trickled over his forehead and into his eyes, but he blinked it away.
“Hatchet, I love you,” she cried, her fingers slipping.
He growled and shouldered past another man. Another two steps. Her fingers released, and he braced himself with one arm hooked to the ladder, the other outstretched. Her body slammed into his arm, stalling her momentum, and she caught hold of his torso.
“I’ve got you,” he said with a grunt, staring into her tear-filled, whiskey-colored eyes. A tremulous smile touched her lips. His heart thundered in his chest, and bile lurched up his throat. That was too damned close.
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