She was running. She wore her wedding gown. It was torn and stained with blood. Her veil mingled with her unbound hair, streaming out behind her. She looked over her shoulder, and it was Franklin who pursued her. He was grinning, and in his hand, be bald a marble bust. Behind him in a carriage came her aunt, hanging out the window, screaming. The coachman on the carriage box was Nate Bacon, and he was naked. Franklin was gaining on her. He reached out and grabbed her veil and the ends of her hair, twisting them, pulling her to a halt. She cried out and swung at him, slapping, clawing to free herself.
"Lorna, wake up! For the love of God, chérie-"
Ramon held her wrists, shaking her as he bent over her. His eyes were dark with concern and a frown drew his brows together. There was a vibration running through the bed, and she could hear the dull and regular thump of the engines; they were moving. Hard on that discovery, she saw that there was daylight beyond the one small window the stateroom boasted.
"Are you all right?" There was an urgent note in his voice.
She brought her gaze back. to his face, then lowered her lashes. "Yes, except for…for my hair. I think you are on it."
He released her with a quick exclamation, lifting himself up to take his weight from his elbow that had been resting on the silken strands. "I am sorry."
"It doesn't matter. I…I must have been dreaming. Did I hit you?"
"You tried," he answered, his expression lightening. He stretched to retrieve the covers dislodged by her struggle. With his hands holding the quilt, he stopped. His curses then were soft, but as lurid and drawn out as those of any stevedore.
It was only then that she realized the bedclothes had slipped down past her waist. Following Ramon's gaze, she saw what had disturbed him, something that had not been so apparent in the dimness and haste of the night before. The fair, pearl-like texture of her skin was marred by great blue and purple splotches. The bruises spread across her hips and waist, extending upward to her breasts, livid and angry injuries. She flushed, reaching for the sheet, tugging at it to cover herself.
He would not release it. His imprecation ground to a halt. He spoke one other word. "Franklin?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"He must have been more of a mad animal than anyone guessed. If you had not killed him, I think that I would have been obliged to do it, seeing this."
"He…he thought he had the right, that I had wronged him."
He allowed her to draw up the covers, though there was a grim set to his features as he watched. "Men, it's my fault."
She shook her head. Lying back on the pillow, she watched her own fingers carefully smoothing the sheet as she answered. "No. If it had not been that, it would have been something else, I think. He enjoyed hurting people-women. It made him feel more a man."
When he finally spoke, the word was abrupt. "Why?"
"It was an accident, I swear it. I was so afraid!"
"Not that," he said with a sharp gesture of one clenched hand. "Why did you marry him? I thought it was the money, especially when I found out that half the luxury goods I brought through the blockade this last time were consigned to Bacon, including your wedding gown. Even when I saw you on the steamboat going upriver, in the tow of that aunt and uncle of yours, it still seemed likely. You were so aloof, so cool, and your aunt such an obvious snob. I was standing in the doorway of my stateroom one morning after an all-night poker game, and you walked by as if you didn't see me, the future duchess ignoring the common herd, the young woman pointed out by everyone as the future bride of the son of the richest man along the river."
"I didn't see you. I was too busy searching for some way out of it-the marriage, I mean. There was none. But, I thought, at the old house, that you seemed to recognize me. That's why you did it, isn't it? Just like Nate Bacon said. You knew who I was, and you used me to strike at him."
"I can't deny it."
She had thought that he would, had wanted him to, and the realization added fuel to the anger flaring inside her as she swung her head to stare at him,. "iIt was a terrible thing to do. What would you have done, how far would you have gone, if I had fought you?"
He stared at her a long moment, his dark gaze unflinching, before he spoke. "To be honest, I don't know. I had some idea of a pleasant dalliance, of laying a siege that might persuade you to cuckold your husband-to-be, or might do no more than make you dissatisfied with your bargain, causing discord in the new marriage. There was no set plan; it was an impulse born the moment I saw you."
She wrenched over in the bed, pushing to one elbow as she glared at him. "You swine You reached out, just like that, and destroyed my life."
"Swine though I may be," he answered, a hard smile curving his mouth, "I have never taken a woman yet who was unwilling. Let us remember that you, Madame Bacon, did not resist. Would you care to explain that oversight?"
She flung away from him back upon her pillow, throwing her forearm across her eyes. "No."
"Shall I say it for you?" he asked quietly, leaning closer. "You regretted your bargain, you had seen something about your bridegroom that you could not like, something that made you afraid of your wedding night." He caught her arm, pulling it away, forcing her to meet his dark gaze. "Compared to that, anything was preferable, isn't that right?"
Tears rose from somewhere deep inside her. Above the gathering tightness in her throat, she whispered, "There was no bargain."
"Then why? Tell me why?"
She told him, the words coming in bursts, bringing such relief that it was a measure of the strain she had endured, but could now share. Finally, she stumbled into silence. Lifting a hand, she wiped at the moisture seeping from the corners of her eyes.
He made no immediate comment. Sitting up, he reached for the bell rope that hung beside the bed, giving it a hard pull. When a steward tapped on the door a short time later, he ordered coffee and rolls, and handed their clothing out to be cleaned and pressed. His movements were swift and decisive. Magnificent in his nakedness, he seemed no more aware of it than another might have been of a favorite coat. Swinging back toward the bed when the steward had departed once more, he sat down on the edge beside her. For the first time, there was a trace of uncertainty in his manner.
"Would you like a formal apology or would it be an insult? I? am sorry for the damage done, the pain you have suffered, but cannot say that I regret the moments we shared."
Nor did she. But, that realization did nothing to restore her self-respect. In stifled tones, she said, "You helped me to get away from Beau Repose. That is enough."
"Hardly. If you had let me stay where I was, you might have gone quietly and not been missed, until-well, until this morning. Instead, you chose to set me free. Since you had no reason to care what became of me, it doesn't make sense."
She shrugged, lowering her gaze to where she picked at the stitching on the quilt. "Call it a whim, if you like."
"I don't like."
As she remained stubbornly silent, he continued. "I. can always suppose it was for the sake of my beaux yeux-or something about me that you enjoyed."
She sent him a quick look and caught the gleam of deviltry in his eyes. "Nothing of the sort!" she said with a gasp. "It was because Franklin told me what they were going to do to you!"
He studied her. "You blush so charmingly at the least mention of anything indelicate. Shall I guess, then, that I would not have enjoyed what my friend Bacon had planned?"
"No, but it doesn't matter; it didn't happen."
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Chapter 6
They were interrupted by the arrival of their breakfast order. A civil inquiry from Ramon elicited the information that it was well past midday, however; it was the darkness of the overcast sky that made it seem earlier. The steward, bowing, informed them that the packet had been making good time since just after daylight that morning. He allowed as how it would be no more than two, maybe two and a half, hours before they were steaming into New Orleans. Would
M'sieur and Madame care for a bite of the late luncheon being served at that moment in the grand salon?
They declined, and the man departed with another of Ramon's coins as an incentive for speeding the pressing of their clothing, and also for procuring a clean and guaranteed new comb for their use.
When they were alone once more, Lorna asked the question that had been troubling her. "What do you mean to do now?"
He came and flung himself back down on the bed beside her. "Rejoin the Lorelei, my ship waiting in New Orleans, and make the run back to Nassau."
"Through the blockade fleet at the mouth of the river."
"It's the only way."
"They say the danger is so great now that almost none get through."
"It's no pleasure outing. I lost a man on the run upriver, a stoker who came up for air just as a Parrott shell took away part of the bulwarks. The delay while the damage was repaired was one of the reasons I came back to Beau Repose. I had the time, and I wanted to look at the old place."
"It had been some time since you had seen it then?"
"Ten long years. I was at the naval academy when my father died. He never wrote of his difficulties with Bacon; the first I learned of them was when I received papers from my father's lawyer after his death, showing the transfer of the property. I wrote, made inquiries, but everything seemed legal enough."
"So, you stayed on, in the North?"
"I had no family; my mother died when I was young and my father never remarried. Even after I graduated and had leave, there seemed no reason to return."
She lifted her gray gaze to stare at him. "You are one of the naval officers who resigned to fight for the Confederacy then. I hadn't realized."
"Not for the Confederacy," he corrected.
"Perhaps not in a regular way, but everyone knows the South could not survive without the men who run the blockade, and you risk your life to bring in the arms and ammunition, so our armies can fight."
"For a price."
She frowned. "But, that's-"
"Profiteering? So, it is. Also, good sense. This is a war we can't win. I've been north of the Mason-Dixon line, and I know. They have the factories, the iron and coal and steel, the raw materials of war, while we have-"
"The best fighting men the world has ever known!"
"Oh, I'll grant you that. They should be, since most of them have spent all their lives out of doors, hunting, riding, working in all weather. But, flesh and blood and gut-courage can't stand against ball and steel and exploding shells. The federal army is going to gather itself and roll down upon us like a juggernaut, destroying everything in its path, and it will be the federal navy, like the blockading fleet in the gulf, that will see to it that we have nothing to use as a defense."
Since the war had begun, she had heard little except assurances of victory, and a swift one at that. Even those who did not agree that it must soon be over were certain that the South, with its superior leaders and fighting force, would make the struggle too costly and unpopular for the government in Washington to continue. Was it possible that it could go against them?
She turned her head away. "It will be too terrible to bear thinking of, if we should lose."
"That is why I intend to have a fortune in gold when the conflict is over. Places like Beau Repose will fall like ripe plums into the hands of those who are there to catch them. The home of the Cazenaves will return to the rightful owner. I'll burn that imitation Greek monstrosity to the ground and clear the wasps nests and spider webs out of the house where I was born. Then, maybe my father can rest in peace."
She did not approve of what he was doing; still, she had seen the old house with its wide and shaded galleries in the French manner, could understand his anger at the way it had been used. The edge of bitterness in his tone caught at her attention. "You think there was something wrong about the way Nate Bacon gained possession of the property?"
"I didn't, at first, but since my stay these last few days, I'm convinced of it. You know the tale of how my father lost money to Bacon in a card game?" At her nod, he went on. "That's the explanation generally circulated. What isn't so well known is that he was robbed while on his way to repay the debt, set upon by a gang of men not two miles from the run-down plantation where Bacon was living at the time. Nathaniel Bacon pretended to great understanding, and they entered into an arrangement whereby my father gave him a note of hand against the plantation, pledging himself to pay what was owed plus interest when the cotton crop that had just been planted was harvested."
When he paused, Lorna asked, "What happened then?"
"A crevasse, a break in the river levee that inundated the fields at Beau Repose, burying the new cotton under tons of mud."
A crevasse was a terrible thing, a rushing, thundering flood that could send families in panic-stricken flight or else force them to scramble to the rooftops to escape it. People and animals were drowned, the bloated bodies floating, bringing disease. With the land so flat, there was almost nowhere for the extra water to run off, and so, it formed a great lake, allowing the silt borne in the floodwaters to settle out, leaving thick, rich mud when the water was gone. The next year, the soil would be incredibly fertile, but that did not help the man who had lost a year's work and the investment in seed and labor that had gone into it.
"These things happen; they can't be helped."
"Maybe, maybe not. I began to hear stories in the last year or two. Friends from New Orleans that I met from time to time while on duty in the ports of Europe and New England spoke of other men who had been prevented from making good what was owed to Nate Bacon-of foreclosures, of property bought for the taxes that had, unaccountably, gone unpaid. The case of your uncle is an example. It was most unfortunate for everyone that his cotton crop burned in that warehouse-everyone except Bacon, who was having trouble finding a wife for his son in the normal way."
"Yes," she said, frowning, "I had not realized."
"Think about it. It might help you to see that you are the victim, not the criminal."
"And your father?"
"The slaves at Beau Repose say the levee there was in excellent repair that spring, that it was deliberately cut, just as they say that it was Nate Bacon who hired the men who robbed my father."
Lorna made no answer, only staring straight ahead as she sipped at her coffee. For its flavor, the brew owed more to an infusion of chicory than to coffee beans, and was sweetened by molasses, but it was strong and hot. By the time she and Ramon had drained the pot and eaten their rolls, the steward had returned with their clothing. It had not been washed, but had been brushed and spot-cleaned before pressing, so was at least more presentable than before.
Ramon seemed in no hurry to dress. He lay across the bed, talking, watching the expressions that flitted across her face, teasing her until a smile rose into her gray eyes and color stained her cheeks. It was as if he were attempting to distract them both, to forget that the end of their journey was fast approaching. It was a curiously peaceful time, one in which she learned of the exotic corners of the world he had seen, of the adventures he had enjoyed. She told him something of her childhood and of the more comical things that had happened while living with a house full of girls under her aunt's stem eye. By common consent, they did not speak again of the recent past, nor of the future.
It was a surprise when a tapping came on the door and the steward put his head into the room. "Shall I pick up your breakfast tray, M'sieur? Captain likes everything tidy when we come into port, and we'll be making New Orleans in half an hour." As they agreed, he came into the room. Tray in hand, he started out again. "Funny thing. There's smoke up ahead from the direction of the city. Don't reckon somebody set her afire again, do you?"
"What?" Ramon exclaimed. He jumped to his feet and stepped to the door, moving out onto the deck to lean over the railing, peering at the sky ahead of them.
The steward moved after him. Just as Lorna was beginning to feel somewhat nervous about the door'
s being open while she was in a state of undress, there came a muffled feminine shriek from somewhere farther along the deck. Ramon, with an impatient glance at his nude state and heightened color under the bronze of his face, swung back into the room and closed the door behind him.
"You had better put your clothes on," he said, reaching for his trousers. "I'm going to see what's going on."
She flung back the covers. "Do you think the steward was right, or could it be some kind of assault on the city?"
When he did not answer, she looked up to find him watching her, his gaze resting on the tip-tilted globes of her breasts and the satin smooth flesh of her abdomen. Perhaps it was his own disdain for modesty that had influenced her in so short a time that she felt no desperate urge to cover herself, or it may have been the urgency of the moment. Meeting his dark gaze, she demanded, "Well?"
"He…may be," he answered, almost at random. Then, averting his gaze, he fastened his trousers and began to look for his boots.
She was still in camisole and pantaloons when he was ready to leave the stateroom. He dragged the comb for which he had paid so dearly through his brown-black waves, flung it on the washstand, and strode out the door. She followed as quickly as she could, but it took some time to bring order to her wind tousled hair and twist it into a knot at the nape of her neck. The deck was crowded with people, all craning to see, when she emerged. She made her way toward the prow. Catching sight of Ramon's dark head near the railing, she pushed her way to his side.
She was just in time for the rounding of the wide, crescent-shaped bend that curved in front of the older section of the city known as the French Quarter to the American residents, and the Vieux Carré, or Old Square, to those of French descent. They cleared the wide curve, steaming down the middle of the great, yellow-brown river. Smoke, gray and acrid, blew toward them, lying low on the water. Through it could be seen the sullen orange-red of flames. They seemed concentrated along the levee, in the area of the wharves and warehouses, though they were also dotted here and there over the surface of the river itself. Beyond the town, in the direction of Bayou St. John, where lay a number of great plantations, could be seen spiraling yellow smoke columns, as if from fires just started.
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