by Meg Hennessy
Something cold and wet flashed through her body. She jolted, and her knees started to buckle. Jordan wrapped his arm around her, supporting her against him.
“What do you see?” he whispered in a deep hoarse voice, sounding as determined as she felt faint. “Tell me, damn it.”
“It’s dark…you are on shore. Guns around you.”
“Keep going.”
“I not sure, blurry in my mind.”
“Do you see anyone else there with me on shore?”
“A man—” She gasped. “Much dark hair, a pistol.”
Her mind started to reel, her heart raced and throbbed at her temples, she tried to suck in enough air to ward off a faint. Hardly able to breathe, she struggled to release the medallion.
He shook her, holding her hand firmly in place. “Do you recognize him?”
“No, I cannot. I cannot control my visions—”
“He has dark hair?”
“Oui, I think so.”
“Can you see his hands; does he wear rings?”
“I am not sure, but I think I saw silver on his hand.”
“You must be sure. Tell me more about him.”
“I cannot, I cannot—wait! I hear something. He says something, I do not know. It is hard, it is…Spanish.” Her mind flooded with images. “Wait, I’m seeing a picture. France? Laon, France, a place on a map. I see a map.”
He released her.
The silver piece flew out of her hand. She stumbled, but he steadied her within his arms. “Is that how you do it? What did you touch of the consulate’s?”
She steadied her breathing, frightened by the fact that he had discovered her powers. “I ran into him in the hall after I put Maisie to bed. Images of him going through the library, looking for something flashed through my mind. When he dropped his fork, I picked it up and I saw, zut, I don’t remember, something more.”
“What was he looking for in here?”
“I never saw, but what of the map, I saw?”
“So that is how you do it? Touch something?”
“Non, I do nothing, s’il vous plaît, Jourdain.” She tried to push away from him, but he held her locked next to him.
“Answer me.” He grip on her arms tightened.
“Not all things, I read, it must be of great import, like your medallion.”
“I never said it was of great import.”
“You wear all the time, non? Your heart, I feel through it.”
“You can only get visions of me through this?” He motioned toward the silver medal. “What did you see the night you pulled it off?”
“I don’t remember, ah, a woman, a ship. That’s all.”
“And the goblet with the sleeping powder?”
“If I touch something right after another, I might see.”
“Can you see the future?”
“I have not. Only the past.”
“But you knew Maisie would choose a yellow dress?”
“I had images of her twirling in her old yellow dress and that she was unsure if she wanted a new one. I told her she could choose yellow again.”
“Is the consulate suspicious of me?”
“Suspicious of what? What is it he should not know?”
“I meant only to speculate on what it was he searched for.” His grip on her had not lessened and she sensed he was thinking through his new discovery. His hammering heart vibrated against her cheek. After a deep breath, he looked down at her with a shrug as if to dismiss the subject…and her. “As you could see, Aurèlie, I was ambushed.”
“It is so, oui.”
His hands fell away from her and he stepped back as if to separate himself from her, completely withdrawing into some imaginary womb. “You’ll take a carriage. Loul will go with you to your father’s house. You’ll stay until I send for you. Do not journey back on your own.”
His pretense of well-being confused her. He had seemed nearly desperate and the change in him frightened her. “Does someone wish you harm?”
Jordan shook his head but again changed the subject. “Aurèlie, for once, just once, do as I say. Take Maisie and go.”
“You are in danger, non?” She placed a hand to each side of him and felt the tension in his powerful arms, rock-hard muscles, flexing and curling beneath her fingers.
He forced a stiff smile and removed her hands from his arms. “You tell me. You’re the one with the hocus-pocus.”
“I sense danger around you.”
He stared at her a second, thinking through what she had said.
“We live on bayous infested with pirates, and we’re at war with England. Yes, there’s danger. Even I know that. I allow you to go only if chaperoned by Loul. Go now. Take Maisie.”
As he moved, the medallion dangled on the chain he wore around his neck. Her gaze focused on the piece and she gasped. A wave of discovery nearly collapsed her body. Suddenly she knew, as if lifting the veil from a shrouded picture. She had seen that shiny silver piece once before, years ago, in her mind’s eye right before she’d heard the drums.
Jordan, her husband, was the man in the water.
Chapter Twenty
Jordan watched little Maisie’s hand wave out of the window until they turned beyond the bend of the drive. As soon as they had disappeared, he returned to the house.
He strode back into the library, poured himself a glass of whiskey and drained it empty before looking around the room. If Aurèlie was correct and the consulate had searched the library, what was he looking for? Twice someone had broken into the house but had not taken anything. What were they looking for?
If he trusted Aurèlie’s so-called powers, someone had spoken Spanish the night of the ambush, but that meant little in an area that was so diverse. A couple of his own men were Spaniards. Yet, the tall man he had seen leaving the cabetour in New Orleans was indeed Spanish and possibly he and Babineaux had arranged the ambush. The tall Spaniard had warned him of harm.
Jordan filled the glass and downed the whiskey in one quick shot. The liquor burned down his throat but did little to relieve the tension that had wrestled every muscle into high alert as he accepted one assertion—he had been betrayed that night. Did that mean Colette was still alive? Or was he simply chasing shadows?
Last night, British soldiers had pushed through the salt swamps toward Fentonot’s place. He couldn’t be sure of their destiny but had instructed Loul to be wary. Any sign of anything amiss, he was to turn back with Aurèlie and Maisie. He didn’t want to send her, but if her father was a British sympathizer, it might be the safest place for the moment.
A trap seemed to be closing in on Jordan, and he could feel the pressure on his body, unable to breathe from the invisible strain. He might not know the players or the ultimate gain but he knew that he was the bait, fluttering on the end of a hook.
Colette had been missing for nearly three years now, but something connected to her abduction not only lingered, but seemed to be in continual motion, churning in the wind. The crime had never gone cold. Since his father’s death, there had been something twisting and circling through a dark, mysterious labyrinth toward an end, an end Jordan didn’t understand.
He tapped his fingers on the desk, trying to figure out his next move. The British were now moving through the back swamps, and he wasn’t sure whether his wife and her family were on his side or against.
On his desk sat the newly drawn title, witnessed by the city attorney, placing Liberty Oak in Aurèlie’s name. He picked it up, wondering at his wisdom for changing the deed, if she was nothing more than a spy. Yet she had powers he didn’t understand.
He unlocked his drawer to conceal the title, at least for now. When he pulled it open, the letter of marque he kept in there had been rumpled and was no longer folded. Someone had seen it. He slammed the drawer shut and relocked it. Damn it. Who had seen it?
He again scanned the room, noting the dust-free shelves, the polished furniture, oiled leather chairs, and even the old bible sparkled,
though he cared little. Obviously, God didn’t care what happened to the Kincaid family.
His sister abducted, his father murdered, and himself ambushed. What was the common denominator? Remembering the day he and Loul had nearly been killed in Port au Prince, the American voice rang repeatedly in his mind. He closed his eyes, reliving that day.
Don’t kill them, yet, you fools. Don’t kill them, yet, you fools.
What was he not remembering? Don’t kill them yet, you fools. Don’t kill them yet, you fools…find it! Find it!
He opened his eyes.
Find it? What did they want to find?
He jolted.
Was it possible? Could the common denominator be the medallion? His sister was wearing it, his father had found it, and someone believed Jordan had it. But why? It was not that valuable.
Near the bookshelves to the back of the room, stood an armoire of carved cypress. He slammed his glass down, strode over to the furniture, and worked through the secret toggles to open a hidden drawer. Inside rested the other medallion—his sister’s medallion—solid gold and covered with jewels.
He pulled it out and dropped it within the palm of his hand, running his fingers over the jewels. “I wonder what secrets Aurèlie might find in you.”
He sat down at his desk and swung Colette’s piece from the chain hooked to his forefinger, watching it until the focus left his eyes and odd shapes began to form on the gold mantling.
Having always thought the medallions were merely his father’s English coat of arms, the unusual tracings of what appeared to be water and castles between the jewels intrigued him. His interest piqued, he sat forward with the jeweled piece in hand, turning it from back to front. The motto, written in English, spoke of honor and trust. An eagle served as the upper crest. The lower crest was his surname, Kincaid. A gift his father had given his children a few months before they had returned to America to escape the French Revolution.
Jordan removed his own medallion from his neck and compared the two, noting their different designs. So puzzled by the discrepancies, he hardly reacted when Hattie unexpectedly barged into the room.
“Jordan!” she whispered with urgency.
Her sudden appearance startled him. He blinked, focusing as he dropped the medallions into his hand. “What…what is it?”
“There are some men coming ashore.”
“Who?” He glanced around for his pistol. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
“I warned ya, I warned ya of the danger. They have pistols drawn.”
“Who’s here, Hattie?”
“The British.”
…
Aurèlie paced back and forth across the double door of her childhood bedroom. It had been hours and no word from Jordan. From her view, the Kincaid home was dark, unusually dark. Since she had been living there, she had noted that the lantern in the small dining room burned all night. There were no lights along the docks, nor were there any in the two garçonnières and she had seen Loul sneak back as soon as night fell.
She understood little of her intuition, for it had never been in her control. But tonight, a strong sense of urgency strummed through her body. Her muscles were tense, her heart raced ahead of every move, and she could think of nothing else as images of the man in the water, Jordan, flooded every conscious thought. Something was wrong.
Maisie had fallen asleep in Aurèlie’s childhood bed, tucked in for the night. Her parents showed little concern over her husband’s delay and were thrilled to have them for the night. Le réveiller to follow midnight mass on the twenty-fourth had been planned and she hoped Jordan would agree to celebrate at her mother’s house.
Through Aurèlie’s not so coy discussions with her father, she learned her father had not expected a shipment, knew nothing about missing barrels, and still had warehouse stock to move. This meant, there had been no shipment at all.
She again peered through the window toward Liberty Oak, tapping an impatient finger on the glass. There were no signs of life. Even Loul had seemed to disappear. She remembered feeling like this not so long ago when she had awoken suddenly to find Jordan had nearly been killed. Tonight she’d not wait for another catastrophe.
Near the stroke of midnight, Aurèlie slipped out of her muslin gown and pulled on her riding dress, and over it, she pulled on a brown merino pelisse, trimmed in black velvet. She tied off her black half boots, tucked her hair under a beaver riding hat and pulled on tan gloves.
The night had swollen to pitch darkness as she stepped free of the porte cochère, reminding her of a night long ago when she had became lost in the swamp.
She started toward the front gate but halted.
Someone stood near the road. Across the road, there was another man. Both were men she had seen the night Jordan had been shot. Was that why Loul had snuck back through the bayou? Was she under guard? She retreated down the front drive to her house, knowing she had to get to Liberty Oak and the only route was the narrow chenier between the properties.
She had not walked the chenier since the night she had nearly drowned, the night of the drums. She tried to breathe but the night air had become so thick, it felt heavy and weighted down her chest, just like that night so long ago. Across the yard, about a hundred feet from where she stood, was the path leading to the chenier.
Slowly, she approached, staring into the wavering shadows strident with the sounds of marsh life. Her heart started to pound, as the memory of that night surfaced with a cold rush.
Boom…
She rubbed her temples with the first sound. “No, s’il vous plaît, not tonight.”
Boom…boom…boom… softly at first but the sound grew louder with every beat.
It had been years since she’d heard the repetitive beat of the ghostly drums. Not since she was eight and had foolishly raced off into the marsh, only to need rescuing.
Her intuition made her step away from the chenier but logically she knew it was the only way to get to Liberty Oak, quickly and unseen. Yet the memories of that night, the night the sleeping waters had come to life and she had nearly drowned, pulled her insides taut, the pain doubling her over. The drums were there, faint, relentlessly beating inside her head.
A thin film of perspiration covered her face as her breathing became ragged and choppy. But she was no longer a child and tonight she needed to get to Liberty Oak. Though on shaky legs, she forced herself to walk forward, slowly at first, picking her way along the large oaks and thick underbrush, catching her riding dress on thorny bushes.
The moment she had crossed the chenier and stepped ashore…the drums stopped. She backed away from the marsh into the same spot where the fire had been the night she almost drowned—the soul of Yellow Sun. She halted when she heard something behind her.
“Why have the drums stopped?” She slowly turned to face her grandfather. “Has the spirit of the land died. Too late, am I, n’est pas?”
“No, child.”
“I am no longer a child, Grand père, and understand this curse must be lifted. I no longer wish to save such a land that hurts innocent people.” Her voice began to crack under the strain of feeling Jordan’s pain. “This man, Kincaid, has suffered much, non? I do not know all of his loss but feel it greatly in the house, his family, his life. The house moans at night, and I feel its mourning. Jordan Kincaid searches for someone but I fear it is his life he must find. He is a good man and my heart, it breaks for him. He is the man…Grand père…the man in the water.”
Having said her peace, she waited for her grandfather to respond. A cool breeze pressed against her skirt, whittled beneath her pelisse, and brought on a shiver.
Her grandfather took her hand in his and like the last time, it felt warm and strong. Though she knew this was only his spirit, it mattered none, for he appeared as real as if he had never died. “The curse, there is only you and he to remove it. He is ready.”
“But I am of many people, Papitte. My blood is much mixed.” She swallowed hard, feeling a de
ep ache churn within her stomach. “Why would it be me?”
Her grandfather smiled and touched her cheek with his warm hand. “Because with your pure heart, you hear the drums…and so does he. He has a good heart.”
“Jourdain hears the drums?”
That quickly, her grandfather was gone. The night sounds of the marsh once again filled the dark air. Aurèlie closed her eyes, processing every word of her grandfather’s. Only she and Jordan could lift the curse and together they must figure out how to do that.
She raced across the side yard toward the stairs of the back loggia. There was no one in sight. Where was Hattie or Loul?
She crawled up the stairs, crossed the loggia, opened the door to the small dining room, and then halted. The room was in complete chaos. Fragments of broken glass covered the worktable, and the garde-manger stood open with the shelves bare, utensils strewn about the floor.
Remaining silent, she crossed the hall into the library. The room had been dismantled, book by book. Nearly every room in the house had been turned upside down.
Trying to make sense of it, she walked through the dark house and stood on the gallery. Pulling her pelisse close around her throat, she took the stairs down to the lower level to walk through the loggia to the yard. Remembering Jordan’s backwater route from New Orleans, she continued through the jardin français, her sight set beyond the property and to the bayous.
“Halt!”
Aurèlie froze, not recognizing the voice. She turned to see four British soldiers near the edge of the docks. Slowly they walked toward her. Her body turned cold, sensing danger. She started to back up, one step at a time.
“Do you do this? Do you do this to my husband’s house?”
One of the men motioned toward her with a wave of his hand. “Take her.”
“No.” Aurèlie shook her head and backed away. “No, you will not.”
“Take her. We might need her.”
One of the soldiers reached for her. As she felt the cold touch of his hand on hers, a shot rang out from the dark bayou. The muzzle flash reflected off the water near a tender that had beached on shore. The soldiers pulled out their flintlocks, retreating for their boat. Under continual fire from the bayou, they quickly pushed off shore, leaving her behind.