Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three

by Vivian Vaughan

But when she reached for his shirt, he held her back.

  “Let me look at you.” As he had done in her stateroom, he began with her hair, stroking and admiring his way down her body, until fire raged inside her.

  “Brett, please—”

  “Let me look,” he whispered. His thumbs teased her nipples until they stood erect in the moonlight. Leaving them, he stretched his fingers around her waist, touching thumbs in front, fingers in back.

  Suddenly she realized what he had done that night in her stateroom. He had memorized her body, thinking he would never see it again. And now? What was he thinking now?

  “Brett, I’m frightened.”

  He spread his palms over her stomach, then moved his hands around and clasped her buttocks, slipped below them, circling again, tangling fingers in the triangled mat of curls, dipping inside her heated, weeping core. “Ah, chère, don’t be frightened. Not tonight.” Slipping his fingers in and out, his lips tasted hers, then moved down her neck, leaving a wet trail to dry in the sultry air.

  When his lips tugged at her breast, her head swayed, and she reached for his shoulders to steady herself. She felt his mouth leave her breast, trail down her chest. He dropped to his knees, laving her belly with his tongue, stoking the heat inside her to almost unbearable heights. She watched moonlight glint in silver beams from his black hair. She saw his head drop lower, felt his tongue trail down her belly, felt his lips touch the curly patch of hair.

  One of his hands went around her, cupping her buttocks, drawing her to him. Her nails bit into the flesh on his shoulders when she felt his mouth against her, kissing her, caressing her, his tongue darting in and out in hypnotic rhythm.

  “Brett …?” she murmured, feeling herself on that cliff again, staring down into the spiraling river of fire again. She shut her eyes against the brightness. “No, Brett …” she murmured, even as her hands slipped to his head, even as she pressed his face against her, filling her with agony. Sweet, fiery agony.

  But still he loved her with his mouth, his lips stroking, his tongue darting and teasing, dipping and tasting, devouring her.

  She felt herself leave the precipice, as though she were being hurled into space. Below her swirled that fiery river. “No, Brett …”

  Still he loved her, until she never wanted it to stop. But it did. She felt her body convulse against him, felt him redouble his sweet assault, felt herself plunge at last into that fiery river.

  When she surfaced, he was retracing his path to her lips. Her breath came heavy, in gasps. When his face reached hers, he stared long into her eyes, his breathing as labored as her own.

  “That was making love.” He grinned, sweeping her in his arms. “Now let’s try it another way.”

  He deposited her on the pallet inside the mosquito netting, and began stripping off his own clothes. “Did the mosquitoes eat you up?”

  “No,” she whispered, feeling him lie down beside her. Their pallet was in shadows, so she couldn’t see his face, but she heard him laugh.

  “Ah, chère, you were buzzing too loud to hear them.” His lips found hers, and she snuggled into his embrace, feeling his rigid arousal, hot and demanding against her belly.

  Boldly moving her hand between them, she grasped his arousal, stroking him with a tight fist.

  His breath quickened. “Ah, chère, non …”

  Her kisses deepened and she knew what he was feeling, knew how wonderful it was, so she didn’t stop. Finally she shifted her hips until she could draw him to her, guiding him with her hands until she felt him plunge to her depths. Afterwards she clung to him, and they rode the crests of passion together, until at last they lay sated and wet in each other’s arms.

  In each other’s arms. Suddenly she recalled thinking the same thing on the boat, the night he went overboard. He had returned to her that night, she’d thought forever. But he had known even as they loved, that he was leaving.

  Fear gnawed inside her, bringing her recently spent emotions to life. Two days on this island, and after that, what? She tightened her hold on him, felt tears rush to her eyes.

  “What is it, chère?”

  “I’m so frightened.”

  “I know. But it’s almost over. Two days.”

  “Then what?”

  He lay still in her arms. She felt his heart steady and strong against her. In two days would it still beat with life and love?

  “Let’s take these two days for what they are,” he suggested. “A gift. Two days alone on a deserted island. What more can we ask?”

  She snuggled into his embrace, her fears unassuaged. She knew she should try to pretend all was well, for his sake. But she was so afraid of losing him.

  “I would go away with you,” she said into his chest. “We could lose ourselves somewhere, anywhere, as long as we’re together.”

  He stroked her hair, his fingers tangling through its length. “I have to clear my name, Delta. I can’t live with you without clearing my name.”

  “It wouldn’t matter to me.”

  “Someday it would. Someday you would get tired of running, tired of hiding. I have to clear my name. I’ve known that for some time now.”

  “Since when?”

  He pondered the question, then answered with a chuckle. “I suppose since that first night on the showboat when we dined at the captain’s table.”

  His answer startled her. Lifting a hand, she traced the outline of his lips with her fingers.

  “When you told me you had six brothers,” he continued, “I knew I’d better clear my name before I met them or my name would be black as bayou mud.”

  Cameron arrived on schedule at the Waterside Tavern where he found two impatient cousins biding their time with his equally impatient agent, Stuart Long-street.

  “It’s been a coon’s age,” Carson said, shaking Cameron’s hand.

  “Sorry for the circumstances.”

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Kale said. “What’d you have to go on?”

  “I just left the state house,” Cameron told them. “The troopers are ready to ride, with or without us. I could tell, from talking to Gerard, that the governor wants us along.” He eyed his two cousins. “Seems he doesn’t trust the two of you not to strike out on your own. He’s ordered his troopers to keep you in their sights.”

  “That bastard,” Kale fumed.

  Carson flipped coins on the table to pay for the drinks and picked up his hat.

  Before they could leave, however, two men entered the tavern. At the sight, Stuart let out a low whistle and headed toward them. He confronted Gabriel with a harsh demand.

  “Where’s Delta?”

  Gabriel and Pierre exchanged glances.

  Stuart motioned toward the group he had just left. “Come over here. I want you to meet some fellers.” The introductions made, he faced Gabriel again. “Let me repeat the question. These two Jarretts are Delta’s brothers, the other a cousin. They’re mighty anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  “You’re damned right we are,” Kale barked.

  Carson eyed the newcomers. “We were just headin’ over to the state house. Why don’t you boys come along and tell your story to the governor?”

  “The troopers are fixin’ to ride out after you and that murderin’ sonofabitch who kidnapped Delta,” Kale added.

  “No one kidnapped Delta,” Gabriel told them. “She’s fine.”

  “What’d you mean by fine?” Carson challenged. “Where is she? We know damned well she didn’t ride off with some criminal who disguised himself as a gambler.”

  “Non,” Gabriel admitted. “Sit yourselves right here, an’ we’ll explain.”

  “The troopers are ready to ride,” Cameron objected.

  “Hear me out,” Gabriel encouraged. “You might decide to join us instead of ridin’ with the gov’nor’s henchmen, oui.”

  Each man eyed the other, then by mutual, if silent, consensus, took his seat.

  “Be quick about it,” Carson commande
d, his glare conveying more clearly than words, his doubt that Gabriel would be able to convince this group of anything.

  Pierre and Gabriel sat facing the Jarretts and Stuart Longstreet. Gabriel did the talking.

  “Me, I’m the one she rode off with.”

  Kale scraped his chair back; Carson shot a restraining hand to his brother’s arm; Kale settled back down, but remained tensed, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

  “When Pierre here and Anatole slipped away from the boat below St. Francisville, Anatole, he left me behind to see after Delta.”

  “To see after her? Why?” Kale challenged.

  “So that gambler is the murderer?” Carson questioned.

  “He is Anatole Dupré, oui, but he is not a murderer, non.”

  Not a man across the table showed a sign of believing Gabriel’s claim.

  “Delta brought herself to my cabin two nights later in Baton Rouge,” Gabriel continued. “She had a dream tha’ convinced her Anatole, Brett she calls him, was in danger, dead, maybe. The way she described her dream, I thought so, too, for truth. Either way, me, I knew Delta was in danger on the boat. Those who hunt Anatole, who have hunt’ him for ten years, they are evil men. They would stop at nothin’, non, not even at takin’ an innocent woman hostage, to draw him out of hidin’.”

  “Time’s wastin’,” Kale barked. “Where can we find Delta? Are you prepared to lead us to her?”

  “Delta’s in hidin’ with Anatole.”

  “Will you take us there?” Carson questioned.

  Gabriel perused the men.

  “We’re set to ride with the troopers,” Cameron warned.

  “The troopers, they will kill Anatole, and if they think she is a threat, they will kill Delta along with him, certainement.”

  “Delta’s no threat to anyone,” Kale said.

  “She knows the truth,” Gabriel said simply.

  “What truth?” Carson demanded.

  “The truth about who murdered Anatole’s wife and child ten years ago.”

  Even Kale withered at that. Cameron sank back to his chair, and Carson challenged Gabriel. “Tell us your side of this story, and be quick.”

  Complying, Gabriel sketched the story beginning with Nicole’s promiscuity, ending with Anatole learning the identity of the murderer only the day before.

  When he finished, the men from Texas sat in dazed silence.

  Carson found his voice first, but he was unable to hide his skepticism. “You say this Anatole’s mother, the witch, is putting a hex on the governor of Louisiana?”

  “I tell you,” Gabriel said, “Trainor, he’s a wicked man. He will stop at nothin’, and him, he thinks nothin’ can stop him.”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said I can take as gospel,” Kale responded. He looked at Carson. “You saw it, too. Trainor’s a manipulatin’ sonofabitch.”

  Carson nodded.

  “What makes you so sure this witch can stop the man?” Kale questioned.

  “Crazy Mary, she’s no witch,” Pierre defended. “She’s a traiteur.”

  “What can she do?” Carson prompted.

  “She can convince Trainor that she will reveal the truth,” Gabriel responded. “When he goes to the bayou to stop her, he will find planted evidence on his niece’s grave. Then Anatole, he will step out of the woods and force a confession.”

  “Where will Delta be while this is going on?” Kale asked.

  Gabriel and Pierre exchanged glances.

  “Delta, she will be safe. I guarantee it,” Gabriel assured them. “The bayou, it is filled with our kin. No harm will come to Delta, non.”

  “Why can’t we get her out before the action starts?” Carson inquired.

  Gabriel stared hard at Delta’s brothers. “She wouldn’t leave if Saint Peter brought himself down from heaven and took her by the hand. She intends to stay with Anatole, sure.”

  Pierre shifted his bulk for greater emphasis. “They are in love, m’sieurs.”

  Kale and Carson exchanged worried looks, then they turned to the Pinkertons beside them.

  Stuart shrugged. “I told you what Zanna said.”

  “I should have known,” Cameron berated himself. “I should have taken her off the boat at Memphis. I didn’t like the looks of the feller, but I had nothing to base it on, and Delta promised me to get off at Natchez if there was trouble.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “This situation, it developed, m’sieur. No one could have stop’ it, non. It was, I tell you, meant to be.”

  “Wait a minute,” Kale barked. “I don’t cotton to all this Voodoo talk.”

  “Believe it or not—” Pierre returned.

  “Let’s get this straight,” Cameron cut in. “You’re asking us to tie in with you. You say if we go with the troopers, they will likely kill both this friend of yours and Delta.”

  “Oui,” Gabriel agreed.

  “If we come with you, what happens?”

  “We will be there when Anatole confronts the gov’nor. With all of us as backup, especially with the Pinkertons behind him, Anatole’s case will carry more weight.”

  “How do we know we aren’t starting another Civil War down there in the bayou?” Stuart questioned. “What if the troopers start shooting and we shoot back?”

  Pierre shrugged his massive shoulders.

  “That is a chance, oui,” Gabriel admitted. “But it is not likely. Me, I suspicion tha’ when the gov’nor confesses, the troopers will back off. Nobody likes the bastard, non.”

  “Trainor, he plans to run for United States president next,” Pierre added.

  The decision was difficult—for Cameron and Stuart, to go against the law in pursuit of justice; for Kale and Carson, to know that whichever way they chose could be the wrong one for Delta. In the end Cameron and Stuart decided to ride with the troopers, where they could handle a volatile situation, should one arise.

  “Know this,” Kale told the two bayou men, “if you turn up liars, you’re alligator meat. All the cousins in this country won’t be able to save your sorry hides.”

  Gabriel and Pierre nodded.

  “One thing about it,” Carson remarked while he and Kale tightened their cinches before riding away from the tavern with Pierre and Gabriel, “the governor’s made his plans for us clear as rainwater.”

  Kale grinned. “Shoot first and shoot to kill.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Delta awoke to a morning hush that was at first lulling, then, when she found Brett gone from their mattress on the galerie, terrifying.

  Hastily she slipped into her clothing. Then she saw him standing at the edge of the small, flat island, hands in his hip pockets, staring out at the swampland that stretched endlessly before them. The sun was just beginning to show its glorious face. From the woods surrounding the island on three sides came the distant call of morning birds.

  Delta remembered Gabriel’s claim that a person could distinguish between the friendly chatter of bayou birds and the sounds they made when danger approached. She had thought of them as sentries. But would she recognize the difference? She started across the island, glancing fearfully toward the woods, then back to Brett, who stood gazing out at the rising sun, still as a statue.

  A myriad of fears tangled inside her head, trapping her happiness at being with him again, the way swamp vines trap a running man. Were troopers out there even now watching and waiting for their chance to capture Brett? Were his cousins still around, alert, guarding them? Were Gabriel’s kin still at their posts?

  Just before she reached him, Brett turned to see her, and his eyes lit up with an infectious joy. Kissing her tenderly, he gathered her to his side. When he spoke, it was to the rising sun.

  “Do you realize, chère, this is the first morning in ten years I’ve awakened and not wondered who murdered my family.”

  Slipping an arm around his waist, she studied his profile, strong, proud, and so very dear to her heart. And yet so different from the cynical man she had met
on board the showboat. She rested her face on his chest and felt his heart beat against her cheek—the heart of Anatole Dupré.

  “I’m free,” he whispered to the breeze. With a hand he lifted her chin, gazed long into her blue eyes. His voice gained strength. “I’m free of that terrible burden, Delta. Free.”

  His eyes shone brighter. His smile animated his entire face. Without warning he swept her in his arms and swung her around in a circle, singing, “Free, free, free!” By the time he set her on her feet, her head was spinning. She held to him for support, and he kissed her long and hard, until she swayed against him, returning his kisses with utter abandon.

  But her brain would not be easily calmed. She even began to consider that this new man, this Anatole Dupré, might be possessed of an impetuous nature. His joy and his words echoed through her mind, tempered by the truth—the truth, that he wasn’t free. Not yet. And they could, at this very moment, be surrounded by the enemy.

  Suddenly she dislodged her lips and buried her face in his chest, clinging to him. “I’m so frightened.”

  Gently he lifted her face, cupping it in his hands. “We’re safe here on the chênière,” he reassured her. “It’s like the eye of a storm. Every year hurricanes strike this part of the country. They blow in a fierce circle, leaving a hole in the center, a space of quiet, still air—the eye of the storm. We’ve passed through the first side of the storm—getting here in one piece. When Trainor takes the bait, we’ll leave and enter the other side. It may be fierce, but it won’t last long, and like in a hurricane, the second side will blow from the opposite direction—our direction. This time Trainor’s at the disadvantage; we hold the cards.”

  The rising sun shone on his face, highlighting his coal black hair, his black eyes. Stretching out of his grasp, she kissed him, unable to share his optimism, unwilling for him to know it.

  But he guessed. “We have two days alone out here, chère. Why don’t we make this an adventure we’ll want to tell our grandchildren about?”

  Later she considered the fact that he always knew how to win her over. How could she refuse to be happy in the face of his own joy? Rummaging through the sacks his mother sent, they found coffee, several tins of food Delta didn’t recognize, some camphor to chase away mosquitoes, a couple of palmetto hats to keep the sun off their heads, even a change of clothing for each of them.