by tiffy
White Apache’s Woman
Shirl Henke
PART I
THE PLAYERS
Chapter One
Spanish Louisiana, 1797
What an idiotic way to die. Santiago Quinn wondered if death would claim him or the haughty Spanish Creole who faced him with such venom in his cold black eyes. The Dueling Oaks sheltered them with vast outstretched limbs, holding the chill morning fog at bay. He awaited instructions to pace off the requisite ten strides. The elderly Don Alonzo went through the traditional appeal to call off the duel. Useless. Philipe Castal was determined to avenge his sisterʹs honor against the calumny of Colorado Quinnʹs son.
ʹʹI should have known the spawn of a madman would prefer the barbarity of firearms to civilized French foils,ʺ Philipe said contemptuously. He was smaller and slighter than his brother Raoul and tried to compensate with an air of superiority.
ʺI spent two years in Paris, Philipe,ʺ Santiago replied levelly as he checked his weapon with practiced ease. Then he looked up at his foe and added, ʺWhile there, I learned that I was a far better shot than I was a fencer.ʺ
Philipeʹs hands were sweating as he gripped his pistol. ʺDid your sire teach you to shoot?ʺ
Santiago only stared at him, tight lipped, silent. He taught me much more than that.
ʺYour father was a baseborn Irish mercenary who ended his days in the hellish New Mexican wilderness collecting necklaces of human ears,ʺ Raoul hissed.
ʺEven the savages called him Colorado Quinn.ʺ
Colorado Quinn, the bloody one. How Santiago hated the name and all the painful memories it elicited.
He ignored both Castal brothers, picturing instead the look of dawning horror on Julietteʹs face when her father had summoned her and told her the man she was engaged to wed, known as Santiago de Aranda, was none other than the son of the infamous New Mexican mercenary, Conal Quinn. Even as far east as New Orleans, people knew of his bloody history and fall from royal favor.
Feeling as he did about his paternity, Santiago had used his motherʹs name and the title he had inherited from her family. His fatherʹs memory he buried deep in the back of his mind.
Santiago could feel the hatred radiate from Philipeʹs brother, who stood beside their aging father. Unlike the foppish Philipe, Raoul was a Spanish soldier just returned on leave from New Mexico. Why had he come home to reveal Santiagoʹs past to Juliette? Everything had been so perfect until then.
Santiago had stopped in New Orleans on his return to New Spain. He had not intended an extended visit, until a chance encounter in the market place with a breathtaking young woman changed his life.
Juliette Castal was barely eighteen, enchantingly innocent with big brown eyes and dark chestnut hair. Her family was of fine old Spanish and French Creole stock. The twenty‐two‐year‐old Santiago was instantly infatuated. After proper introductions were made through mutual friends, she seemed to return his ardor. Weeks stretched into months, and wedding plans were made.
Now his dreams were ashes. To the Castal family, Santiago had gone from honored guest to hated outcast. Raoul, the soldier, was the younger of Julietteʹs two brothers, so it fell to Philipe to avenge the family honor by issuing a challenge with a slap of his immaculate white glove.
Honor. Conal Quinnʹs son should possess none. ʺYou should not even have sullied your hand by slapping me, Philipe,ʺ Santiago said. Yet Philipe had made the challenge, and Santiago had chosen the weapons. He was a dead shot.
They were instructed to turn their backs to each other and pace off. I will hit Castal in his right shoulder and end it.
On the count of ten, Santiago began to turn, but just as he raised his pistol, Philipe fired prematurely, grazing his cheek and throwing off Santiagoʹs aimfatally. The bullet intended for the right shoulder of his opponent struck to the left, in Castalʹs heart. He crumpled to the earth as seconds and witnesses rushed to the fallen man.
Swearing, Santiago flung his spent pistol to the ground and strode toward his foe. Raoul and his father were clutching Philipe with all the histrionics Santiago had come to associate with French Creoles, even if half their blood was as Spanish as his own. His own second, an American merchant named Robert Priestly, slipped between him and the cluster of men. A physician worked furiously on Philipeʹs body, but to no effect.
ʺI never intended to kill the fool. He turned before the count of ten, dammit.ʺ
ʺLeave it be, my friend. The Castals are a powerful family in New Orleans. Raoul has the Spanish military behind him. Youʹve made deadly enemies, and nothing you can say will change that.ʺ Priestly scooped up Santiagoʹs weapon and handed it to him. ʺA .67 caliber dueling pistol by Egg of London is too expensive to leave behind.ʺ
Nodding his head, Santiago replied, ʺIʹll probably need it. The whole family will line up to take turns at me.ʺ
ʺSince dueling is illegal, youʹd be wise to leave New Orleans as quickly as possible.ʺ
Robertʹs words were prophetic. By the next morning, a warrant had been issued for his arrest. Raoul Castal had half the Spanish army stationed in New Orleans searching for a tall Spaniard with red hair and green eyes. Santiago hid out that day in Priestlyʹs warehouse while his friend made arrangements to smuggle him upriver on a keelboat.
Juliette Castal sat with her small pale hands clenched into fists as her brother paced back and forth in the library of their luxurious city house on Royal Street.
She was dry‐eyed, numb with shock at all that had happened to turn her spoiled young world upside down.
ʺNow that Philipe is dead, what shall we do? I had so dreamed of being Countess of Aranda. Are you certain Santiago has no wealthno estates in Spain?ʺ
ʺPah! His father was dismissed as governor of New Mexico. The Irish whelp has nothing. Nothing but his life, and he will not have that when I am finished.ʺ
ʺPeople are already whispering about Philipeʹs dishonor. We must think of a way to extricate our family name from disgrace rather than worry about Quinn.
Otherwise I shall never find a rich husband, Raoul.ʺ
ʺOur brother has yet to be buried and you prate of husbands!ʺ he screamed at her, his black eyes gleaming with fury as he raised his hand to strike her. ʺYou vacuous little bitch!ʺ
Juliette jumped up and backed away from him. ʺʹTis not just I, but our whole family who will be ruined if I fail to wed advantageously,ʺ she replied petulantly.
ʺYou chose that Irish swine, not I. You unleashed this shame on us. Think on that when the good Creole families of the city turn away from us. What would have happened if I had not come home on leave before you actually wed the imposter?ʺ
She stamped her foot in frustration. ʺDamn Quinn! This is all his fault.ʺ
Castal stopped pacing and studied the beautiful yet selfish young woman who had cost his brotherʹs life. ʺI will tell you what you will do, my dear.ʺ He motioned to the writing desk. ʺSit down.ʺ
Santiago reread the note from Juliette as Robert Priestly pleaded with him. ʺI knew I should never have delivered her message to you. This is insane! Her brother put her up to it. This is a trap, Santiago!ʺ
ʺJuliette wants to talk with me aloneto give me a chance to explain.ʺ
Priestly sighed as he watched the tall young man comb his fingers through curly red hair. How young and stubborn he was. ʺI imagine thereʹs nothing I can do to stop you.ʺ Santiagoʹs clear green eyes fastened on Robert. ʺNo, but there is one last favor Iʹd ask, my friend.ʺ He withdrew a thick sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. ʺI spent the day composing this letter to my family in New Mexico, explaining what has happened.ʺ
Robert took the missive with a nod of acquiescence. ʺIʹll see it posted first thing tomorrow, but with the mails between here and Santa Fe being what they are, youʹll most
likely arrive before your letter.ʺ
ʺPerhaps,ʺ was the enigmatic reply.
When Santiago reached the Castal city residence, he stood in the shadows across the way and studied the east side of the house, watching Julietteʹs window. Just as she had promised, the light in her bedroom was extinguished at midnight. He stole across the street. In minutes he was up the gallery stairs, standing before the floor‐length open windows of her room. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then slipped inside.
Juliette sat in her big bed, half afraid lest anything go wrong, yet also perversely excited by the danger as Quinnʹs tall figure approached.
ʺJulie, it is Santiago,ʺ he whispered in French as he sat on the edge of the bed. ʺI did not intend to kill Philipe. If he had not fired early and spoiled my aimʺ
ʺI will hear no slander of my brotherʹs name!ʺ she cried.
ʺPlease, Julie. I love you.ʺ He touched a soft chestnut curl and felt her stiffen.
ʺYou dare sneak into my bedroom and speak of love!ʺ
ʺYou summoned me to your bedroom, querida,ʺ he said with rising anger. ʺI would not have you soil me with so much as a touch. Be damned, Irishman!ʺ She had the satisfaction of seeing the stricken look on his face. Now Raoul would spring the trap!
ʺBeautiful Juliette, you pledged your love so ardently to Aranda, a Spanish nobleman. Well, take this to your cold bed from a cursed Irishman!ʺ
His fingers slid to her shoulders, and he crushed her breasts against his chest as his mouth savaged hers in a fierce kiss. Then he shoved her into the pillows and walked swiftly to the doorway. She sat up, clutching the sheet to her, waiting expectantly. Where was Raoul?
Just as Santiago stepped into the dim moonlight on the gallery, a shot rang out.
The ball lodged deeply in his side. Quinn saw the elegant blue and gold uniforms of Raoul Castal and several of his fellow officers. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he drew a pistol from his sash and fired it at the man advancing on him. It struck his chest with deadly force. As his would‐be assassin fell backward against his companions, Santiago vaulted over the wrought‐iron railing of the gallery and dropped to the street below. He landed hard but kept his footing, then began to run.
The low curses and pounding footfalls of his pursuers grew dim as he twisted and turned through the back alleys of the city. He left a widening trail of blood on his way to the waterfront. His only chance for survival was to find a boat at the wharf with the name of Tennessee Pride.
The big Creek lounging against the hull of a keelboat watched the elegantly dressed stranger stumble in the mud. Just before the white man slid into the dark water, the Indian bestirred himself. He rolled the unconscious man over and gazed at his face. The fellowʹs eyes blinked open. ʺI say, my good man, are you drunk?ʺ the Creek asked with a precise English accent.
ʺNo, I am shot,ʺ Santiago replied in the same language. Odd, how the speakerʹs cultivated voice did not match his savage appearance. It was Quinnʹs last thought before blackness enveloped him.
Chapter Two
Washington, DC, 1802
ʺI will not do it! Nothing you can threaten will make me sink so low, Edouard.ʺ
ʺThe baron is not an altogether ill‐favored man. I ask only that you respond to his tendresse for you. ʹTis but a passing whim.ʺ
ʺYou ask that I bed him,ʺ she stated baldly, ʺto advance your position in French diplomatic circles. That is no passing whim!ʺ
The sound of violins and flutes floated softly in the gathering darkness. The festivities inside the Kensingtonsʹ ballroom were well underway now, with everyone of consequence in the capital city attending the fìte given in honor of the French Baron Anton Vandamme. But Edouard Louvois, second in command of Napoleonʹs legation in the United States, was not interested in the toasts being raised inside. In the secluded topiary gardens beyond the mansion, his cold pewter eyes studied his wife with insolent amusement. He fought the urge to strike her, an impolitic thing to do at a public gathering where the bruise would be remarked upon. ʺElise, you are behaving in a most unsophisticated manner.
You have traveled in the highest political circles from Vienna to Madrid.ʺ He sniffed and gazed around him disparagingly. ʺʹTis this miasmic American wilderness that has bred such ingratitude. If we are ever to escape this hell, you must obey me.ʺ
Elizabeth Shelby Louvois stared at her husband with shivering revulsion. ʺThe past four years of marriage to you have been hell enough, Edouard. I will not add to your abuse that of your degenerate friends.ʺ
He seized her by one slim wrist and held the delicate bones tightly. ʺYou will return to that ballroom and be agreeable to the baron.ʺ His eyes raked the curve of delicate milky breasts revealed by her low‐cut gown. ʺOr would you prefer to go home with your own dear husband tonight, hmm?ʺ
Elise wrenched free of his hurtful grasp but did not back away from him. A small, scornful smile curved her lips. ʺAn idle threat, do you not agree, considering your performances of late?ʺ
This time he did strike her, a swift, back‐handed slap that left a red welt across one porcelain check. Then, collecting himself, he smoothed his jacket and straightened his shirt cuffs. ʺThat is only a taste of what will be in store for you if you choose to disobey me, Elise. Do you rememberʺ
ʺI remember everything! ʹTis etched forever in my mindevery blow, every accompanying curse.ʺ
At five‐foot‐five, she was tall for a woman. Her clear violet eyes stared levelly into his gray ones, daring him to strike her again. He clearly wanted to do so.
Instead, spiderlike, his hand reached out with curved fingers and grazed her injured cheek in a mocking gesture of tenderness. ʹʹI cannot teach you a lesson here, my dear, but I promise grave retribution if you do not follow my orders tonight.ʺ
ʺThere will be no more retribution, Edouard,ʺ she said, switching from French to clear, unaccented English. ʺYouʹve abused me for the last time. Ever since I married you, Iʹve lived for the day you would be posted here. My mother may be French, but Iʹm an American. I grew up in Virginia, and at last a kind fate has smiled on me. This is my home. The Shelby name counts for much more in Virginia than does that of Louvois!ʺ
Edouard Louvois laughed. ʺYou are a Louvoismy wife, my property.ʺ
ʺBut Iʹm on American soil. After my years in exile, I have family and friends to take me in. Soon my brother will arrive from Kentucky.ʺ
ʺI have but to ask for the return of my wife, and your own American law will hand you over to me.ʺ So this was what occasioned her surprising boldness. He smiled nastily and reached for her. To his utter amazement, Elise slapped him with all her strength, leaving a fiery welt across his mouth. He staggered back as a red rage built up, but before he could retaliate, her next words froze him.
ʺI have written letters denouncing you, describing the filthy perversions that I have witnessedthat you forced me to observe. What is whispered about and winked at in Vienna will not be treated so lightly in Washington, I assure you.ʺ
Her eyes glowed with triumph as she watched him step back in dazed shock.
ʺIf you publish such calumny, it will destroy your reputation as well as mine!ʺ
ʺDo you think I care? After what I have lived through?ʺ She laughed shrilly. ʺI felt as filthy as a Paris sewer, enduring your touch. Now you would whore me to other men as well? No, Edouard, I would gladly destroy my reputation to bring you down.ʺ
He regained his composure at last, ever the wily diplomat. Stroking his bruised lips, he murmured, ʺWhat will you do now, eh? Seek a divorce?ʺ
ʺAfter four years of marriage to you, I have no desire to place myself at the mercy of yet another man. You will simply desist from making anyʺshe stressed the wordʺdemands on me.ʺ
ʺA civilized accord.ʺ He nodded, amazed at the transformation of a malleable little fool into a deadly adversary.
ʺCloaked by respectable marriage, you may pursue your lusts in secret. And as a married woman, I shall be free of unwante
d male attentions.ʺ
Louvoisʹ lips curled in a sneer. ʺYou would have no man touch your cold, lifeless flesh.ʺ
ʺYou see, Edouard? We are in accord indeed.ʺ
He sketched a mocking bow and said, ʺI trust you can fend off the baron discreetly then? I shall leave you to your own devices, madam. Good night.ʺ He turned and walked stiffly to the house.
ʺGood‐bye, Edouard.ʺ
Elise let out a long, shuddering breath and felt her knees go weak. I have done it!
At last I am free! She walked toward a small stone bench at the mouth of the topiary maze and sat down, too emotionally drained to cry. ʺI doubt I shall ever be able to cry again,ʺ she whispered on the cool night air.
ʺNever be too certain of that, Liza,ʺ a reedy voice said softly from the shadows.
She leaped to her feet as a tall, thin man with faded reddish hair and stooped shoulders materialized from the opening of the maze. His face was barely visible in the moonlight, but something about him was familiar. ʺYou called me Liza. Do you know me, sir?ʺ
ʺI apologize for eavesdropping, my dear. I would not wish to cause embarrassment to the daughter of my old neighbor, Elkanah Shelby.ʺ
Elise felt her breath catch. ʺMr. President?ʺ She curtsied to Thomas Jefferson, who gallantly took her hand and guided her to sit once more on the bench.
ʺMy condolences, Liza, on the death of your father. After your long absence, he was eager to see you again.ʺ
ʺI was overjoyed to be coming home to him, too,ʺ she said in a choked voice.
ʺWhen we landed, I was told he had just succumbed to the heart ailment he has suffered with for years. I waited for so long . . .ʺ
ʺYou can rely on your brother Samuel,ʺ Jefferson said in an attempt at consolation.
ʺIʹm most eager to be reunited with him, but he has just embarked on a career in the army. I wonʹt be a burden to him. I shall make my own way now that Iʹm free of Edouard.ʺ
ʺI did not intend to overhear such a personal matter, but I was trapped behind the hedge and could not prevent it.ʺ He paused for a moment, then said, ʺYou need never fear Edouard Louvois again.ʺ