The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle

by Gilbert, Morris

  “He’s leaving with us, Tyrone. Come along, Bayard.”

  Simone gasped when Tyrone pulled a knife. He did it so quickly that she barely caught the action. It was a long-bladed knife, and he held it out in front of him, pointed at Colin. His voice was deadly as he said, “Get yourself out of here, Mister, before I cut you wide open.”

  Colin suddenly pulled at the top of his cane, and it separated from the rest. Simone saw that he held a gleaming sword almost three feet long. She had seen sword canes before on display but had not dreamed that Colin would have one.

  Tyrone leaped forward, stabbing with the knife, but Colin’s sword moved and caught the man in the arm. The steel cut him, and Tyrone cried out and dropped the knife to the floor.

  Things happened very quickly then. Tyrone yelled, “Get him!” and all three men leaped to their feet. One pulled a pistol from his belt, but Colin dropped the cane from his left hand and pulled a small pistol from his belt. He shot quickly, and the man grabbed his own shoulder, the pistol clattering to the floor.

  Colin said in a grating voice, “There are more bullets in here. Which of you would like to have one between the eyes?”

  Two of the men were bleeding badly, Tyrone holding his arm, pain etched on his face. The other man slumped back in his chair, hol-lering, “Get me a doctor! I’ve been shot!”

  “You’ll be all right. You other two, pull your pistols out with your finger and thumb. If you do it wrong, you’ll never know it. You’ll be dead.”

  Simone watched as the two men pulled out their pistols and put them on the table. Then Colin stooped to pick up the one that had been dropped. He reached inside Tyrone’s coat, pulled out another gun, and said, “Take these pistols, Miss d’Or.” He waited until Simone had picked them up and said, “Take your brother outside.”

  Bayard’s eyes were wide with shock. The explosion of violence had sobered him up, and he followed Simone without question. When the two were outside the room, Colin said to Tyrone, “You got off easy. I could have put that sword in your throat.” He stooped down, picked up the hollow part of the cane and put the sword back in, all the time keeping his eye on the four. “I expect you’ll get your money. If I hear of you troubling Miss d’Or anymore, I’ll have to come back and fin-ish what I’ve started.”

  “I won’t forget this,” Tyrone gasped, holding his bleeding hand.

  “I hope not,” Colin said coolly. “I’ll leave your weapons at the bar.” He stepped outside and shut the door. After depositing the weapons with the barkeeper, the three stepped quickly outside. Colin helped Simone back into the cab. He turned to Bayard and said, “You’d better go home with your sister.”

  “No, I won’t do that.” He turned to Simone and said, “Tell Father not to pay. That was a crooked game.” He turned and walked off unsteadily.

  “Shall I go get him?” Colin asked.

  “No, it would be useless.”

  Colin got in the cab and gave the d’Or family address to the driver. He saw that Simone was trembling and said, “I’m sorry you had to see all that. It wasn’t very pleasant.”

  Tears ran down her cheeks. Her shoulders began to shake, and she put her face down in her hands. “Bayard—Bayard!” she cried. “What’s going to become of you?”

  When they reached her house, Colin stepped out and helped her down. She turned to him, and he saw that her eyes were desperate.

  Strangely enough, at that moment Simone had the clearest mem-ory of the time he had come to her, begging her to get the duel between Armand and Claude called off. She remembered how cold she had been when she had refused. Shame flooded through her, and she said, “You have no reason to think well of me or to help me, but believe this, sir: I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Accept the thanks of my family and myself.”

  Colin was struck by the vulnerability that he saw in her face. He was relatively sure that she was not a woman who cried a great deal. Perhaps she had had nothing to cry about, but this had brought her face-to-face with one of the ugly realities of life. He felt a sudden gust of compassion, and when she put her hand out, he took it and held it for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed it. “I think you’ve changed for the better, Miss Simone.”

  Simone’s hand seemed to burn where his lips had touched it, and when he released it, she dropped her eyes, unable to meet his. “I hope so,” she said.

  Colin asked, “Did you ever hear of the ancient science of alchemy?”

  “I—don’t believe so.”

  “It was the search of scientists in the Middle Ages to turn base metals such as lead into gold.”

  “Is such a thing possible?”

  “Not with cold metals, I believe—but there is an alchemy of sorts. It occurs when a heart that is cold and hard is turned into one that is warm and gentle and tender.” His grip tightened and he whispered, “I think I’ve seen something very close to this kind of alchemy in you, Simone.”

  Simone lifted her head and saw a depth in his eyes she had never noticed before. His words were like balm to her wounded spirit, and she whispered, “That was a lovely thing to say.”

  She felt like weeping and murmured “Good night,” then turned and went into the house. As soon as she was inside, she leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. She knew that Colin Seymour had saved her, and Bayard, from a great deal. She did not dare to think what. As she heard the carriage drive off, she thought how strange it was that this man she had once so disdained had put himself in dan-ger for her. “I don’t understand him,” she whispered. Then she straightened up and went to find her father, dreading what she had to tell him.

  PART THREE

  • 1838 •

  Bayard

  Chapter twelve

  A banging noise awoke Bayard from a deep sleep. With a groan, he rolled over and peered around for a moment, not recognizing his sur-roundings. Then a voice said, “Get up! Do you hear me? Get up!”

  Groaning, Bayard sat up in the bed, then paused as a sharp pain struck him in the temples, almost forcing him to lie down again. The banging and the voice continued insistently, and finally he called out, “All right! All right, I’m coming!”

  Getting up, he stifled a cry as the pain hit him again. The taste of stale liquor in his mouth and the pain in his head made him feel as bad as he ever had in his life. He was still dressed, and he vaguely remembered falling into bed after drinking a quart of whiskey. Staggering to the door, he shot the bolt and opened it.

  “Well, I thought maybe you was dead.” The speaker was a tall, slatternly-looking woman. Snuff ran out the edges of her mouth. “I want my money, you hear me? And I wants it now!”

  “I’ll get it to you today.”

  “That ain’t good enough. You said that yesterday and the day afore. You pay up, or you get out.”

  Bayard felt the room reel. He shut his eyes for a moment. He said, “I’ll have it today.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll throw your stuff out in the street. You pay me or out you go!”

  Bayard slammed the door, and the noise seemed to echo inside the confines of his skull. He leaned against the door with both hands and waited for the room to stop spinning. Then he straight-ened up. He had eaten practically nothing, and the hangover was fierce. It was as if someone were driving steel spikes into both sides of his skull.

  Finally he walked over to the wash basin, lifted the pitcher, and drank the tepid water thirstily. He poured the remainder into the basin, leaned over, and sloshed his face. The water helped clear his mind, and as he dried with the filthy towel, he knew he had to do something. With a vague idea of trying to sell his easel and his paints, he pulled on his dingy white hat and left the boardinghouse. As he slammed the front door, he heard the landlady calling after him, “Mind you, money or you’re out!”

  He looked in his pockets and found that he had nothing. He remembered losing the last five dollars he had in a penny-ante poker game at some bar. Hunger gnawed him. He had been drunk for over a week and had e
aten only when the mood struck him. He wandered into two shops and offered his equipment, but in both places the pro-prietors took one look at the rickety easel and box of paints, mostly dried, and laughed at him.

  When noon arrived, he finally came to a conclusion: “I can’t go home again. I’ve got one canvas left. I’ll paint a picture. Someone will buy it for a few dollars.”

  Weak and nauseated, he started walking out of town eastward, toward the bayou. He had walked for over an hour and was growing weaker when a wagon passed by, driven by a black man. Bayard waved his hand and asked, “How about a ride?”

  The black man drew up and stared at him. “You wants to ride with me, suh?”

  “I’m going out to the bayou.”

  “Yes, suh, I go close. Get in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Throwing his equipment into the bed of the wagon, Bayard climbed up into the seat. He was feeling worse by the moment.

  “Been lots of rain lately. The swamp pretty high.”

  “Yes, it has been wet.”

  “You not huntin’ no ’gators, is you?”

  “No, I’m a painter. I’m going to paint a picture of some of the wildflowers by the swamp.”

  “Plenty of them.”

  That was the extent of the conversation. An hour later, Bayard got down out of the wagon with his equipment and nodded. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “You welcome, suh. You be careful. Bad ’gators in that swamp could eat you whole.”

  “I’ll watch out.”

  Bayard began walking toward the swamp. Fifteen minutes later, he was out of sight of all humans, and the smell of humus was thick in his nostrils. He watched as mallards rose in squadrons above a group of willows, trailing in long, black lines across the sun that was yellow as an egg yolk. He continued to walk, and the big cypress trees began to grow thicker. He could hear the bass flopping, breaking water, and more than once he saw the solitary V-shaped ripple of a nutria swimming through the dark waters. Bayard splashed through the muddy pools that began to gather, keeping his eye out for the beautiful, wild orchids. He passed through large areas green with lily pads clustering along the bayou’s banks. They were bursting with flowers, and he muttered, “I can come back and paint the lilies if I don’t find any orchids.”

  On and on he walked, until the trees hid the sun overhead, and the air grew cooler. Once he stirred a flight of egrets, and a blue heron lifted its long legs carefully, its long beak darting down on a fish. Bayard’s breath grew shorter, and finally he reached the very center of the bayou. The air was moist and cool, and it smelled of fish and mud. There was also the smell of something dead that lay heavy in his nostrils. Finally, stepping over roots and struggling with his easel, Bayard came to a spot where he caught the colorful gleam of the wild orchid.

  “Now,” he muttered, “I’ve found you.” The water was around his ankles, but he sought a dry spot, spread the easel, put the single canvas on it, and opened the case of paints. He felt disgusted at how sparse his supply was, but grimly he began to work.

  For two hours he tried to transfer reality to canvas, and as some-times happened, he grew so consumed with the act of painting that he forgot his hunger and the headache that continued to nag at him. He reached a point where the paint seemed to flow onto the canvas, and he wished that he had more of the brilliant colors. Still, he did the best he could.

  Twice he stopped to rest, and once, with his back against a tree, he dozed off. He slept for over an hour and came awake with a start. “Got to finish this blasted painting! Don’t want to get caught in the dark in this bayou.”

  He stayed with the work until finally he had done the best he could. He admired the painting for a moment, and he thought, If I worked at this, I would be really good. Remorse filled him as he thought how he had squandered his talent, but hunger growled like a live thing in his belly. He folded up the canvas, closed the paint box, and put it under his left arm. He carried the easel with his left hand, and the painting he held with the painted side away from him. He started back and paid little attention to where he was going. He thought of how pitiful a sight he had become. Shame rushed through him as he realized what he had thrown away.

  He suddenly realized that he was wading in water up to his knees. Looking around, he saw nothing familiar. “I came this way,” he mut-tered. “I must have.” He surged forward, but the water grew deeper. “It can’t be.” Bayard turned and traced his way back, and for the next fifteen minutes he followed a track that he thought he had taken into the bayou, but then, too, the water grew deeper. “This is wrong,” he said. He tried to ascertain his direction, but the sun was low in the west, and the shadows were deep in the bayou. He heard the sound of a bull ’gator grunting somewhere and grew afraid. He found another path and started stumbling, hurrying to get out. He nearly fell once, and finally the path he had chosen faded out completely into vegeta-tion that seemed to close around him.

  His fear deepened, and Bayard started to run blindly. A root tripped him, and with a cry he fell across a rotten log coated with green moss, his painting flying into the water. He put his arms out to brace himself, but his chest crashed onto the log, and suddenly a pain struck him in the left bicep. Bayard jerked madly and glimpsed a bit of white. He didn’t recognize it at first, thinking it was a flower, and then he saw it was the inside of the mouth of the biggest cottonmouth he had ever seen! It was as big around as his own arm, and with a cry of panic he threw himself over backwards. He scrambled to his feet and saw the huge snake glide away from him.

  But his arm! He tore the button off his sleeve, pulled it up, and saw the deadly twin punctures.

  Fear can drive a man into frenetic activity, or it can stun and para-lyze him so that he cannot move. Bayard d’Or stared at the twin punctures and remembered the stories he had heard of the deadly cottonmouth. “I’ve got to try to find help,” he gasped. He started walking, stumbling through the water, but he had not gone far before he began to feel the effects of the poison. It burned like fire, and five minutes later he felt so ill that he tried to vomit. He leaned forward on his hands and knees, retching. The ground was dry beneath him, and finally the heaving stopped. He knelt, willing himself to get up, but all around him the swamp was growing darker. He was lost, his body was full of deadly poison, and a terrible dizziness was overtaking him. He cried out, “Help! Somebody please help me!”

  The echo of his own voice came back to him, and he realized the futility of the attempt. He called out again, this time not for human help. “Oh, God, I’m dying! Help me, God! Don’t let me die in this swamp!”

  Again the echoes of his voice came back to him. He felt the presence of live things around him moving in the dark waters. Night was coming on, and he bent over and touched his head to the ground, covering it with his hands and crying out again, “Oh, God, don’t let me die! Please don’t let me die!”

  Chapter thirteen

  The darkness that surrounded Bayard seemed to be almost pal-pable— soft, thick, and warm as a blanket. But at other times he felt a coldness like the frozen northlands where snow eveloped every-thing. These two extremes covered him, and he cried out at times, for one seemed as painful as the other.

  The voices he heard seemed to come from far away. He strained and tried to make them out but failed. They were the voices of strangers, and he felt frightened that there was nothing familiar in his world of blinding whiteness and stygian darkness. One of the voices came more often than the other, and in time he came to look for it and to try to make sense out of the words. He was not able to do this, but the voice had a soothing tone, and that comforted him.

  The sense of touch was within this world, wherever it was. Besides the burning heat or bitter chill, he felt hands touching him, and he came to look forward to it. They were strong hands, he knew, but they were gentle at the same time. There was the feel of sheets, some sort of cloth, a breeze that touched him lightly, but there was no sense of the passage of time. He might have been in the
terrible place for as long as it took to build the pyramids—or it might have been only a day or less.

  Finally the heat and the cold seemed to modify, and he groaned with pleasure as the pain left him. The words began to have meaning, but there was still something about them that he could barely under-stand. He longed to know who spoke and who touched him.

  Finally reason and order and sense came, almost as if someone threw a switch. One moment he was deep in the warm darkness, knowing that the hands were touching him and the voice was speak-ing, and the next instant he realized that he was lying flat on his back, a sheet was covering him, and something wet was touching his face and the upper part of his body. He opened his eyes then, and directly over him was a face—one he had never seen before. His thoughts swarmed and confusion stirred him, and then he felt fear.

  Where have I been? Who is this? Bayard blinked and stared at a young woman with jet-black hair and eyes that seemed black at first, but as he studied them, he noted that they were a dark blue. Her face was oval, she had broad, full lips, and her expression was friendly but focused. His eyes dropped, and he saw that she had a cloth in her hand and was sponging his chest. He watched as she put the cloth into a basin, wrung it out with one quick motion, then began to wash him again.

  “Where is this place?”

  His words came from his throat hoarsely and creaked almost like a hinge that had frozen in place. They startled the young woman, whose eyes widened. He noticed she had the thickest eyelashes he had ever seen, and that they curved upward gracefully. She answered him, saying, “Ah, you are awake!”

  At first he could not understand her, and then he realized that she had spoken in French. “Oui,” he said. His French was very limited, so he muttered in English, “Who are you?”

  The young woman’s eyes were deep pools, it seemed, and she studied him a moment before she said, “My name is Fleur Avenall. You are in our house, yes.”

  Bayard closed his eyes for a moment, trying to put together what was happening, and then it all came rushing back. He remembered falling in the bayou and the enormous snake and the pain in his arm. Alarm filled him, and he looked down and saw that a bandage was on his arm. “A snake—a snake bit me.”