The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  For the sake of modesty, lest she accidentally run into someone on the deck, Anne threw a light pale blue evening cloak over her shoulders, completely covering the white, ankle-length muslin nightdress she wore. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, and she flipped its long length out of her way as she stooped and slid her feet into soft kid slippers. Then she carefully unlocked and opened the door that led into a narrow gallery, and crept out.

  The minute Anne stepped into the fresh night air, cooled by the movement of the boat and the water, she took deep, cleansing breaths. Instantly exhilarated, she hurried along the gallery to the short flight of stairs that led down to the second deck. She descended into a fairyland of swirling predawn mist. She walked to the rail and looked down, black water showing in snatches through the mist, the ripples shimmering with a silver gilding of moonlight. They were gliding through a channel that brought the Belvedere close to a ghostly-looking shore.

  The air was heavy with scent. Musky, sweet, earthy. Soon the birds would begin their morning serenades. Anne lifted her face to the sky. The three-quarter moon was nearly set. The stars still twinkled like diamonds through the hazy gray light of approaching daybreak. Like diamonds. Like the diamonds in Delacroix’s rings.

  Delacroix … She’d watched him and Bodine in the saloon at supper. The meal had been served banquet-style, and people sat at small tables arranged randomly in the large, rather gaudily ornamented room. Anne had a good view of the table where Delacroix and Bodine sat together eating and drinking. They were drinking quite a lot, actually. She hoped Bodine had drunk so much that he’d been incapable of bedding the slave girl last night. If that occurred, at least Delacroix would have served some useful purpose, though he would have done it without intending to be useful. Anne supposed he was never useful intentionally.

  It was fascinating to observe the differences between the two men. Bodine was, by most standards, a gentleman, but next to Delacroix he appeared coarse and graceless. Delacroix was a paradox, too. While he radiated grace and refinement, he still exuded a vitality that seemed incongruent with his lazy way of life.

  As he sat at the table with Bodine, she’d noticed his legs. Yes, she blushed now to recall her preoccupation with looking at those long supple limbs of his, stretched out as they were beneath the table. His trousers fit closely, and every sinewy calf and thigh muscle had been outlined against the expensive black material. How did such a wastrel get so strong? In the pursuit of pleasure, no doubt, not in anything productive.

  And his hands … They were beautiful. Once he smiled and saluted her across the room, catching her off-guard, making her feel acutely embarrassed to be discovered staring. But when he and Bodine had left the table and retired to the smoking room upstairs, she’d actually been rather disappointed to see him go.

  Anne shook her head, trying to clear them of thoughts of Delacroix. She moved along the rail toward the stem of the boat, through the mist toward the huge revolving paddle wheel and its glistening fall of water. She heard a cow lowing below-deck, down where the animals and the cargo and the slaves were kept.

  The slaves were human beings, yet they were ranked as having the same value—and received the same consideration—as animals and inanimate crates of merchandise and food. It reminded her of all the reasons that she loathed Delacroix. Any man who sanctioned the bondage of other people to maintain his own extravagant lifestyle wasn’t worth thinking about. And he certainly wasn’t worth lusting after, either.

  Anne nearly laughed out loud. Lust? Where had that thought come from?

  She had stopped and was leaning against the rail. She had been looking down at the mist-shrouded water when she suddenly realized that on the bottom deck dark figures were leaving the boat and climbing aboard a raftlike conveyance that was being maneuvered by two men with long poles. Someone was helping them, steadying them as they scrambled over the rail.

  Slaves were escaping! Anne squinted hard. Oh, how she hoped that among them was the family Bodine had brought on the boat last night, tied together like common criminals! To lose them before he’d had time to deflower the girl would really serve the old lech right!

  Anne’s delight in the scene before her came to an abrupt end when a large hand suddenly clamped over her mouth and a strong arm banded around her waist, pulling her away from the rail. She was terrified and completely helpless. Her arms were caught against her sides, held motionless by the strength of her captor. She wasn’t dragged across the deck, but instead was slowly maneuvered backward at a pace that allowed her to walk. Was this a considerate criminal?

  Her mind and heart were racing. Where was this stranger taking her? What did he want? She could feel the man’s hard chest against her back, his muscled thighs against her buttocks as he held her firmly against him. Beneath her thin cloak and nightdress, she wore only a chemise, and without her layers of undergarments, she was especially aware of the intimate contact of their bodies.

  He drew her into a dark corner under an overhanging projection from the upper deck and leaned against the wall, keeping her flush against him. She could feel his breath in her hair, feel the back and forth motion of his chest against her shoulders. He was warm and smelled of brandy and smoking tobacco. Now that the initial shock was over and she could think more clearly, she realized that she hadn’t been seized for the purpose of robbery or rape. She was being detained so that she couldn’t alert the crew about the escape.

  Anne felt a surge of relief and excitement. She wanted to tell this man that she had no intention of alerting anyone, that she was glad he and his friends were doing something so noble and brave. She struggled, but he held her tightly and kept his hand over her mouth.

  “Don’t squirm so, cher,” he murmured, bending close to her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He spoke in a whisper. His voice was deep and clear, with a very slight French inflection to his words.

  Anne nodded yes to tell him she wouldn’t squirm. How could she let this man know she was completely in sympathy with his scheme to free the slaves?

  He chuckled, and she could feel the vibration ripple through his chest. Hearing and feeling his laughter gave Anne a shivery feeling deep inside. “Your spirit tells you to fight, but your mind and heart tell you that I won’t hurt you. N’est-ce pas, mademoiselle?”

  After a slight pause, Anne nodded again.

  “Bon. You are a sensible girl. But still I cannot release you till I know for sure that they have gotten away safely. I have the best task of all, keeping you busy while my compatriots do the work, eh? Mon Dieu, you feel good in my arms!”

  Anne was thrilled by the outlaw’s words. Did he really mean what he was saying, or did he sweet-talk every girl who happened to stumble onto one of his slave escapes? She turned her head toward the voice, straining to see his face. She saw nothing but black melding into black. He pressed closer, till his lips were nearly touching her cheek. “Still you squirm! From boredom, ma petite? But I can fix that.”

  When she stiffened a little after his last remark, the man chuckled again. Anne loved how the sound rumbled up from deep inside him.

  “Don’t worry. If I distract you, I will end up distracting myself from everything outside the circle of your arms. Do you know how distracting you are to me, cher? Do you know how easy it would be for me to forget everything, including my duty?” He sighed. “Do not be nervous, cher. Soon I will release you. But while we wait for my friends to disappear into the mist, lean back in my arms, close your eyes, listen to the paddle wheel, and breathe the sweet perfume that is Louisiana. I will not hurt you.”

  She thought perhaps she was crazy to do so, but Anne believed him. His voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. She took a deep breath through her nose and closed her eyes. There really wasn’t anything else she could do but wait till he was ready to release her. She couldn’t speak, and it was useless to struggle, so she allowed herself to relax against him. The hard planes of his body fit perfectly against her soft curves.

  Too perf
ectly … Whom was she kidding? It was impossible to relax while she was so intimately connected to such an attractive man. Without seeing him, Anne knew he was attractive. His voice, the feel of him, the things he said, all came together to make this stranger the most appealing man she’d ever met. He believed in equality and freedom; he was brave and exciting. He was certainly not an arrogant wastrel!

  Now that she’d encountered a real man, her examination in the saloon of Delacroix’s physical attributes hidden beneath the expensive clothing seemed silly and self-deceiving. What really made a man attractive had nothing to do with his good looks, or the way he dressed, or where he’d been born, or how old and established his family was. What made a man attractive was what he believed in and lived for.

  His hand fell away from her mouth, and now both arms circled her waist. In the earlier struggle, her cloak had fallen from her shoulders and was wedged loosely between them. He moved slightly, and the cloak fell to the ground. The strong, long fingers of both his hands splayed over her midsection just below her uncorseted breasts. He must have known she wouldn’t scream or cry out to alert the crew. She couldn’t speak if she’d wanted to. She could hardly breathe. It no longer seemed necessary to explain how she felt about the escape. Obviously he already knew.

  The mist swirled in the semidark; the paddle wheel churned and splashed rhythmically. The warmth from the stranger who was holding her permeated Anne’s clothes and seemed to seep into her very blood. A sweet tension vibrated between them. Did he feel it, too? she wondered. She felt as though she could stand there in his arms till the sun rose, the bright morning rays dispelling the darkness to reveal the man she’d been fantasizing about through five dreadful Seasons in London.

  Was she imagining it, or had his restraining hold on her turned into an embrace? He was holding her as if he were her lover, not her captor. Was he as attracted to her as she was to him? Anne felt her nipples harden against the thin muslin of her nightdress. Her breathing was shallow and erratic. So was his.

  Suddenly his hands loosened their grip, and Anne was struck with a different kind of terror. He was letting her go! He was leaving! But no … not yet. She held her breath as, slowly, slowly, his hands slid up and around her ribs—the pads of his thumbs skimming the underside of her breasts—then up along the outside of her arms. Finally his hands cupped her shoulders and turned her around to face him.

  She opened her eyes and released her held breath in a gasp. In the reflected moonlight off the misty deck and at such close range, she could just barely see him. He loomed above her, a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed entirely in black. A scarf was tied around his head, covering his hair completely. He wore a black mask with slits just large enough to see through. His plain long-sleeved shirt was tucked into trim-fitting trousers. He wore tall boots. He was like a shadow, blending into the darkness.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, feeling disoriented, as if she were stumbling through a strange, thrilling dream.

  He didn’t answer, but his mouth curved in a smile—a small, wry, tender smile that made Anne’s heart bound like a rabbit in spring grass. She stared at that beautiful mouth till a memory stirred, something deep in her consciousness that couldn’t quite surface…

  Then he kissed her, and every thought and memory flew from Anne’s mind like birds scattered by a thrown stone.

  His hands slid down her arms and around to her back, pulling her close as his lips settled over hers, then parted. Anne had been kissed before, but never had she felt the smooth, silken textures of tongue and teeth. She’d never felt the disturbing sensation of a hard male chest against her breasts, either. Nor had she ever felt the urge to throw her arms around someone’s neck and press herself closer and closer…

  A bird’s call, low but distinct, splintered the silence. He pulled away. Dazed, distressed, she gave a small whimper of protest. “I must go, cher,” he told her, his voice grown husky. “Truly you have distracted me too well.”

  “I wish I could help you,” she whispered.

  He touched her lips with his fingers, tracing the soft swollen shape where he’d kissed her. “Just remember me, cher. Remember Renard. Till we meet again, eh?”

  Then he was gone, through the mist and into the night.

  Till they met again? Anne trembled at the thought. Was there a woman on earth lucky enough to encounter such a man twice in a lifetime?

  Chapter Three

  The saloon buzzed with excited conversations, all focused on the slave escape. At Anne’s table, Aunt Katherine unfolded her serviette and placed it on her lap, where it would certainly be useless against dribbles and fallen crumbs that couldn’t possibly make it past her shelflike bosom. She leveled her sharp gaze on the steamboat’s captain, who had joined them for breakfast. “It was the Fox, then?”

  Captain Duval nodded his head. “There can be no doubt, madame, that it was the work of Renard. No one else dares to undertake such dangerous missions. Silent and quick as the cunning fox, he and his comrades boarded the boat last night and got away with ten slaves.”

  “And Mr. Bodine’s latest purchases … were they among the slaves who escaped?” asked Anne, with assumed idle interest as she stirred a third spoonful of sugar into her morning cup of café au lait.

  The captain took a sip from his mug, then nodded again—gravely. “Yes, they were.”

  “And how did he … er … receive the news?”

  “I don’t know yet. He’s still abed.”

  “Gracious!” remarked Katherine, briskly buttering her toast. “Not yet up, and the time already a quarter past eight! The day is practically half-spent.”

  “I believe he may have imbibed a little too freely last night,” the captain speculated. “Delacroix has offered to break the bad news to him when he wakes up, though there really isn’t much to tell. There were no witnesses to the escape.”

  No witnesses except me, thought Anne, reaching for a beignet. She found the sugar-coated pastries very delicious and addictive. Too bad they were so messy. “But surely the other slaves below-deck must have been aware of something going on, Captain? After all, they’re crammed into such close quarters. Why didn’t they all escape when they had the chance?”

  The captain looked indulgently at Anne down the length of the breakfast table, past Aunt Katherine as she busily and lavishly peppered her boiled egg, past Uncle Reggie as he twisted his mustache and disapprovingly watched as pepper sprinkled the white damask tablecloth. The captain had been very kind to Anne on the trip, seeming amused by her intense curiosity and the forthright way she asked questions.

  “If there were Negro witnesses, Mademoiselle Weston,” he said now, “none of them is speaking up. This fact supports our theory that the escape was accomplished by Renard. There appears to be a conspiracy among the slave population to protect the outlaw. Even the slaves who have no desire to be ‘emancipated’ and make no attempt to escape become deaf, dumb, and blind when Renard helps other slaves to their freedom.”

  “But what I don’t understand,” Anne persisted, her hands spread palms up on the tabletop, her fingertips coated with powdery sugar, “is why all the slaves don’t want their freedom? Who wouldn’t want to be emancipated?”

  Captain Duval replied, “The life of slavery is the only life these Negroes have ever known. In most cases, they are treated kindly by their owners, fed well, and given necessary medical attention. They are attached to their homes and wouldn’t know what to do if thrust suddenly into the world to make their own living and set up their own households. Most of them are terrified at the idea of freedom.”

  “But if they were given the same opportunities as the white man—”

  “Anne,” Reggie broke in with a pained look on his face, “perhaps there are things you don’t understand—”

  “Why do you suppose she’s asking questions, Reginald?” Katherine asked tartly. “How’s she supposed to know how to think about a subject if she’s ignorant of it? Ah, but I’m forgetting. You En
glishmen think ignorance is a blessing in your womenfolk.”

  “I never said any such thing,” spluttered Reggie, indignant.

  “I’m sure you don’t wish me to be ignorant, Uncle Reggie, though you may certainly wish me to be silent,” said Anne, cutting to the truth. “But sometimes it’s important to understand something no matter how upsetting the facts are. Well-treated or not, who could be truly happy without freedom? If the slaves were allowed to be taught to read and to be educated, I can’t but think they’d all want their freedom eventually.”

  “I daresay it would be a monumental undertaking to responsibly free the slaves,” said Reggie. “And the attempt would, no doubt, horribly disrupt the entire economic foundation of the South.”

  “The South could make the changes slowly. But it would have to be a joint effort, since no man can make the changes by himself.” She was thinking of Renard, of course. She’d been thinking of him constantly since last night. Remembering the conflicting feelings of excitement and safety she’d felt in the notorious outlaw’s embrace was like reliving a wonderful dream. She still couldn’t believe she’d been kissed by a local legend.

  “My dear Mademoiselle Weston,” said the captain, rising from his seat and smiling down at her from his great height. “What makes you think the South wants to make any changes at all? I assure you, most people don’t give the matter a moment’s thought.”

  He reached down and gave her arm an affectionate pat. “I must prepare for landing, as we will arrive at port within the hour. But my parting advice to you, mademoiselle, is this. Enjoy your life. As pretty and bright and passionate as you are, you will be the object of many men’s desires as you are launched into the gay society of New Orleans.” Then he bowed and was gone.

  “How dare he!” exclaimed Reggie, reddening to the color of a ripe tomato. “How dare that coarse man speak so loose and free within hearing of such innocent ears! Passionate, indeed! The object of men’s desires! His terms of expression are straight out of a boudoir scene from a French penny novel. What can he be thinking to talk like that in front of Anne?”