Dark Secrets, Deep Bayous

by Meg Hennessy

  She reached over and touched Jordan’s glass—nothing. She ran her fingers over the bottle of whiskey—nothing. No images, no feelings, yet her stomach slowly turned into knots as intuition churned through her mind. She understood he was here on business and tomorrow they’d see the seamstress and measure for dresses, but there seemed to be a much-stronger energy around him since their arrival, intense and purposeful.

  Jordan left the door slightly ajar as he stepped back to the balcony.

  “Aurèlie,” he whispered, “I have some business to attend to. I’ll be back later. Enjoy the play. Loul will keep watch over you and Maisie.”

  Aurèlie cooled her heated face with a plumed fan, giving Jordan a slight nod as she watched the play, trying for calm, trying not to allow the fear for his safety that was gnawing at her insides. The shadowy world in which he lived seemed everywhere.

  “Jourdain.” She rose from her chair to face him. “Be very careful, oui?”

  His eyebrows drew together in question. “More than you know.”

  Without knowing why, she felt compelled to tuck the chain that held his medallion, the gateway to his soul, beneath his cravat so it would remain unseen, protected. But touching the silver chain flooded Aurèlie’s mind with images so quickly she could not sort them out. Her mind felt caught in the wind with nothing more concrete than danger and worry, nearly buckling her knees. Something was churning around Jordan, something dangerous and unknown, even to him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jordan slowly opened the door to the suite and stepped inside. The play had ended hours ago. Cannons had sounded at nine and now dawn barely rose over the dilapidated tiled roofs of Vieux Carré. The only sound was that of the watchman as he called out each hour.

  Aurèlie had fallen asleep on the settee. He found Maisie sound asleep in one of the sleeping rooms. Jordan tucked the bedclothes up around her little shoulders and placed a light kiss to her forehead, appreciating the care Aurèlie had given her. His little girl shifted position but stayed asleep.

  His bottle of whiskey and glass had been moved to the parlor. He downed a long wet swig straight from the bottle. The expensive liquor burned his throat and started a much-needed fire in his belly.

  Though winter, it was still hot in New Orleans. Jordan stripped off his stuffy cravat, coat, and waistcoat. He carefully set aside his pistol, knowing Loul was nearby. Exhausted, he splashed water over his face and combed his fingers through his hair.

  The knock on the door tonight had been an invitation from Jean Lafitte. After a long secret meeting with Lafitte across the street from the hotel at the Café des Refugié, Jordan finally had a lead that might bear fruit. Yet there was something that nagged at him, like a half shoe that didn’t quite fit. It was wearable, but harassed with each step. Tonight’s conversations rambled about in his head, Colette’s whereabouts still a mystery. Yet an elusive piece to the puzzle hovered just out of reach, out of sight, but there all the same, hidden within the shadows of his mind.

  The trap had been set to meet the man who Lafitte believed had sold Colette’s piece in Barataria. Lafitte, the boss of all illegal trade in or around New Orleans, was not only a dangerous ally, but also an expensive one, requiring much of Jordan’s recent coin and future prize. Fortunately, sales had been good and profits had hit over twenty-five percent. But his two caboteurs were more than angry today to learn their supply of prize had been decreased.

  Jordan needed every dollar, life on the edge was expensive. But he had enough coin to grease the wheels and pay his men. Tomorrow, he’d meet with Monsieur Babineaux, a known caboteur to smuggle prize, and with any luck this stage of Jordan’s investigation would be more than a one-act play.

  He hoped Aurèlie had enjoyed the hotel’s performance and regretted not being able to see it with her. Though hearing how men were always wrong wasn’t a subject he thought he’d enjoy, he did enjoy her smile, her laugh, and how the sound lifted his spirit.

  Yesterday in the square, he wished he could have captured that moment of pretend with the puppets to hold within his heart. The sound of Maisie’s laughter had made him smile. He hadn’t heard her laugh like that in a long time, since her mother had died, but Aurèlie seemed to bring his little girl to life. Their sheer joy over the puppets made him feel incredibly happy, nearly carefree. Without realizing the admission he was making, he had asked Aurèlie if life could be like that…happy. She was surprised by his question because she didn’t understand his world. But what if… Hattie’s words swirled about in his mind. When would he give up his mission and embrace a new life? He so wanted to follow his heart and live like this, day after day, with the two ladies, who gave him joy, Aurèlie and Maisie.

  He held the bottle up to his lips and drank heavily but the sheer burn of it did little to stop the screams he heard in his head if he allowed his mind to idle too long. Hattie had given voice to a fear that had been building in the back of his mind. What if it were true and the land was indeed cursed? If so, who would be next? Having lost his mother, wife, and his sister, was it possible a curse had taken them all? Would the curse put Aurèlie and Maisie at risk?

  Aurèlie stirred, her breasts rose slightly with each breath she took. The shadows of the morning light accentuated her long lashes against her cheeks and dabbled in the hollow dip of her throat. He longed to kiss her there, taste the slight pulsation of her heart, her life’s rhythm. Jordan turned down the bed in the other room and came back for her. He slid his arm under her legs and shoulders. Like the puppet princess, she hung limp in his arms. She had already prepared for bed in her muslin nightdress and her hair hung down in a long braid the full length of her back. Maisie was right. The doll looked much like Aurèlie.

  Gently, he set her atop the bed and pulled the coverlet over her after placing a light kiss to her forehead. He started toward the door when she spoke just above a whisper.

  “So much whiskey…not good for you, I think.”

  He hesitated but kept his back to her and sagged against the door. He was tired, so very tired. Facing Aurèlie now would only make him all the more aware of the man he had become. “Keeps the devil at bay.”

  “I think not.”

  Jordan swallowed hard, the truth bitter and rancid in his throat. He turned toward her, taking in her dark, sultry eyes, shadowed with heavy lashes. The honey tint to her skin reflected the early dawn light drifting in through the window, her breathing shallow…anticipatory.

  Within three long strides, he was beside her, pulling her into his arms. He crushed her lips under his, not able to hold her tight enough, willing to surrender it all, his heart, his life, to purge his mind of all that had gone wrong. Aurèlie was his elixir. The heat of her breath warmed his body. Slipping his tongue inside her mouth, he wanted to marinate himself within her sweet nectar. He wanted to explore, to experience what would never be his. She tasted so good, he wanted to melt into her arms and never surface again. But that was not to be. Every time he was with Aurèlie, a little part of his facade, vital to his survival in the world of cutthroats, melted away. But he was in too deep and had yet to win—just once!

  He broke the kiss, the embrace, and reeled in his heart. She was breathing hard, watching him with those midnight eyes, her lips swollen from his kiss. A kiss he so wanted to finish. He stepped away from her, reminding himself of the fraudulent plaçage, and their empty future.

  “Be grateful, I drink. Keeps the devil away from you.”

  …

  There was no convincing her that Jordan was or could in any way resemble the devil. His kiss might have made her burn with desire, but she knew he was a man of quality, a man of conviction, and a man of loyalty, love, and kindness. Today, as he escorted her and his daughter to the seamstress, only proved her point.

  The last few days in New Orleans had been wonderful. It was how she’d imagined life with a man she loved. But Jordan was still white and her heart could never change that. But she had yearned for a real love and marriage to a man
of mixed blood like her mother. She now understood, the two did not necessarily go together. She had the marriage, dare she think to build on that, allow her feelings that were growing by the day, to have power in her heart?

  She glanced at him as they walked, wanting to stop and run her fingers over the lean cut of his face and taste his kisses, like last night. She looked away, forcing her heart to ease back into a normal rhythm. He was white. She was not.

  Jordan had chosen a beautiful dressmaker’s shop on the American side of the canal, which had layers of black a la mode and crapes, brocade of whites, and camlet dyed in the most wondrous colors imaginable.

  Maisie was so excited, she trilled with delight upon finding a satin she loved. “Papa, can I please have a dress from this, can I, please?”

  Jordan stared at the fabric before nodding his head and then turned toward Aurèlie. “Yellow. The child has chosen yellow.”

  “Ah…bien, oui?” She ignored the obvious, unstated portion of his comment. She had known, how?

  Aurèlie’s excitement over the shop was short-lived. Moments after their arrival, Jordan took his leave. He said he’d return within two hours and that Aurèlie had complete authority to determine the child’s dress.

  Aurèlie went to protest, being on the American side of the canal made her ill at ease, but seeing Loul outside the door, she tried to relax. Trust him with your life. But he was also a man of mixed blood, yet he seemed comfortable with it as he shot her a quick smile and nod.

  Maisie danced about as the seamstress tried to measure the youngster. After several decisions on what type of dress, colors, and fabrics, Maisie had settled down to a serious session of measurement and fit.

  Aurèlie wandered over and found a glimmering ream of white sarsenet and next to it, a beautiful amber crape with embroidered flowers along the edge. She’d never consider a dress like that but…if entertaining Americans, a dress made of such fabric would be far more appropriate and would certainly please Jordan.

  “Madame Arnale, I measure for a dress in this, oui? The amber over the sarsnet, would be most beautiful, n’est pas?”

  “Ah…but of course, you’d look lovely in such a color.” The seamstress pulled free the embroidered crape for Aurèlie to examine closer. “Such beauty to add, non?”

  Aurèlie nodded trying not to notice the two women who had entered the shop, both were white. Her heart raced as a cool film of perspiration pooled across her forehead. Maisie’s constant chatter to the seamstress faded into Aurèlie’s anxiety.

  “Charming child,” one woman noted, glancing over at Aurèlie, taking in her dress and the tignon, she wore. The woman walked over to where Aurèlie stood, fingering the same crape. “Is the child your mistress?”

  “Mistress? My mistress? You think so, why?” Aurèlie snapped before she could think through the situation. But the assumption made her angry. As the woman fingered the same material, Aurèlie felt the woman’s cold, inner heart and a confrontation with an American woman was dangerous.

  Aurèlie had worn the tignon, required by law, but thinking Jordan would stay by her side as he had the day before, she had dressed in an elegant walking dress of red-and-green satin. As much as she hated to admit it, at this very moment, she needed her white protector. But Jordan had left.

  She glanced toward the street and sucked in a deep breath of shock.

  Loul had abandoned her as well.

  …

  Jordan hurried along the docks toward the establishment of Monsieur Babineaux, having left Aurèlie and Maisie at the dressmaker’s shop on the American side of the canal, with Loul to watch over them. The day was gray, like Jordan’s mood, and hung over with thick, darkened clouds. A rumble of thunder rolled across the southern waters of the gulf.

  After long midnight hours spent with the Lafitte brothers and Dominic Youx, they had pieced together what they considered the plausible journey of Colette’s medallion. Jordan was in search of his sister, but he noted the seemingly great interest in Colette’s piece and speculation over the medallion’s whereabouts and how it had disappeared after William Kincaid’s death.

  Unknown to anyone, Jordan and Loul had found the medallion in the lining of his father’s valise the day he had been murdered in Port au Prince. Finding themselves in the same danger, Jordan had hidden the medallion in a briquette alongside the window of the room at the inn where his father had died. Six months later, Jordan and Loul had retrieved it.

  As a starting point, Jordan, using an alias, would set up a meeting with the man who they believed had sold Colette’s piece to their father at Barataria.

  The sky reflected the gray of impending winter. Tall ships moored along the levee, six-to-eight-deep, riding the waves like giant buoys of the dark sea.

  His gaze glided over the large hulls and furled sails until falling on a large schooner. He hesitated, watching the ship. It triggered something inside his mind, a memory of something dark and vague, trying to surface, trying to focus, only to fall back under the water. The ship bobbed up and down until slowly the letters on the flag came into view.

  Lady Tempest.

  A cold chill raced down his spine and fisted his hands but he didn’t know why. As a man of the sea, Jordan knew most pirates and their ships. Lady Tempest posed as a merchant ship whose captain had been known to more than dabble on the edge of piracy. Jordan had little contact with him and couldn’t understand what about that ship curled his toes and wrapped a breath-robbing grip around his chest. He forced himself to look away, trying to keep his focus on the job at hand, but that ship haunted him as he entered Babineaux’s two-story tavern.

  Inside, a few sea rovers sat soaking up the man’s rum, reminding Jordan of a similar tavern in Port au Prince, where things hadn’t gone well. The air inside smelled stale but cooled his face. He ordered a tankard to refresh his parched throat and gather his thoughts before meeting with Babineaux.

  Standing near the bar sipping his rum, he scanned the area. No one in particular caught his eye until he heard someone coming down the stairs. He was a tall man with thick dark hair, worn long and loose. He wore a coat of deep plum that contrasted sharply with his tawny leather breeches and overly polished black Hessian boots. A jeweled cutlass hung at his side, a brace of pistols around his neck. He wore rings on most fingers and two gold earrings in one ear.

  He walked with purpose, striking the wooden floor with his heels. He pulled on one leather gauntlet and as he worked his hand through the other, he halted when he saw Jordan.

  Jordan swallowed hard, suddenly feeling unnerved. Though armed with a pistol under his coat and a concealed blade within his walking stick, he felt outmaneuvered, an underclassmen to the tall stranger. As the captain of Le Vengeur, Jordan was always masked. Today, pretending to be nothing more than a solicitor, he wasn’t.

  Time seemed to stand still. He could hear himself breathing, as his hand slowly migrated to the pistol under his coat. The tall stranger’s hand slowly rose to tap the grip of his pistol, a subtle warning before he stepped toward the bar, ordering a rum. It wasn’t until the stranger finished the drink and put the tankard back on the bar that he faced Jordan.

  “Beware, mi amigo,” he spoke with a heavy Spanish accent. “This man you seeks. He thinks not to be found.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Si.”

  “You know who I seek?”

  “I wish to more warn you than harm.” He tossed a gold coin on the bar. “Beware, mi joven amigo, if we meet again, you won’t be glad to see me.”

  Before Jordan could respond, the stranger had pushed through the tavern door and disappeared down the street toward the docks. His gut feeling was to follow him, but the meeting had been set.

  Jordan glanced up the stairs. By all appearances, he had already missed a meeting of interest. He tucked his pistol beneath his coat and slowly walked up the stairs.

  Within a few minutes, he stood face-to-face with Babineaux. Though Babineaux knew who Jordan was, he sti
ll introduced himself with the code name given to him by Lafitte.

  Once the door closed and they were alone, Babineaux motioned for Jordan to sit down. He did so, taking a seat near the window, where he could watch the street and face the door. He could see the man in the plum coat and ringed fingers continuing to walk toward the docks.

  Jordan’s gaze traveled beyond the man to the docked ships, beyond the Lady Tempest, until he caught sight of a large sloop flying the flag of Spain. His heart started to pound with an inner sense of warning, a peculiar déjà vu that he couldn’t place, but knew with certainty. He had seen that ship before.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Jordan told Aurèlie they’d have to depart immediately the next day, taking a water route home, he had rehearsed in his head several apologies for cutting the trip short. He remembered the promises he had made of restaurants, shopping, and fairs while in New Orleans but now, he doubted Aurèlie would care. She seemed not to think about anything except her sense of violation at the shop by two white women.

  What they had said or had done, he didn’t know. Nor could he make her believe that he hadn’t intended on leaving her for so long, nor did Loul abandon her, but had instead fetched Jordan for help. By the time he and Loul had arrived, the women had left and Aurèlie stood, visibly shaken. Shaken and angry.

  In the wake of her experience, apologies for leaving early were unnecessary. She was more than willing to pack her things and had her and Maisie waiting before dawn.

  Jordan attempted to make every part of their return home appear as legitimate as he could, but only a man who knew the backwaters could have negotiated such a trip. The hired pirogue was manned by one of his own men.

  When Jordan had asked Babineaux who captained the Lady Tempest, he said a man by the name of Edgar Brunette, who meant nothing to Jordan. When he asked who captained the Spanish sloop, Babineaux had turned pale and declared he had no idea. The same reaction Jordan had seen in Port au Prince from the innkeeper when asked who had bought a French captive.