Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Lettie made her decision before he finished speaking. If he was staying, she certainly wasn’t. She moved toward the door with swift, determined steps.

  He dropped his hat and oilskin to one side and stepped in front of her. “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes.” She tried to move around him.

  He blocked her way. “I can’t allow it.”

  “You can’t stop me.” She sidestepped.

  “I think I can.”

  He put out his hand, catching at her arm. She jerked away.

  He closed in upon her, his movements swift and silent and forceful. She only had time to throw up her hands, then she was pressed against the wall with his hard fingers imprisoning her wrists on either side of her face.

  She kicked out and felt the hard toe of her high-button shoe slam into his shin. He exclaimed under his breath but only turned slightly, leaning closer. His hard thigh and calf came up against her legs, holding her immobile.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said in rasping annoyance, “but it seems we have been in this position, or something very like it, before.”

  “Let me go.” She could feel the butt of his holstered revolver against her abdomen. It was a frightening reminder.

  “With pleasure, if you will sit down and be still. You have no need to be afraid of me.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  It was a moment before he answered, and then the words were taut and evenly spaced. “You have my word.”

  “That isn’t much of an assurance, particularly from my point of view at this moment.” She swallowed hard. There was such implacable strength in his hold and something more that she had felt once before, something she did not care to name. The effort to keep her anger and will high was so great that a shudder ran through her, followed by another and another.

  Abruptly he released her, pushing away and stepping back until his shoulders were against the opposite wall. “Go on then, if you think your chances are better with the two men out there.”

  “They — they are on the other side of the river.” The catch in her voice was caused by her trembling, nothing more.

  “Are they?” His laugh was low and hollow. “You only have my word for that.”

  It was true. She lowered her hands, clasping them together as she tried to think. “I s-suppose it was a l-lie about the ferry and the scarlet fever?”

  “Was it? Now I wonder what my reason can have been? Do you think I lust after your beautiful body?” The gibe was at himself as much as at her. He did want her. That was the reason he had taken his hands off her as quickly as possible, the reason for the distance between them at this moment.

  She drew in her breath with a gasp. “How dare you say such a thing.”

  “Why should I not say it when you think it?”

  “I think n-nothing of the kind!”

  “Oh, you acquit me of the desire to ravish you? Now, let me see. I could have killed you long since if that had been my fancy. What then can I want, except … shelter?”

  “How very affecting, to be s-sure,” she returned with scathing sarcasm, “the m-misunderstood man with every hand turned against him.”

  “You have no idea. It seems I offend everyone and please none.”

  “Perhaps it’s your m-manners!”

  “A wicked thrust. Permit me to mend them by offering you a blanket. I fear you have become a little … chilled.” He bent over the small heap that was his oilskin and brought a rolled blanket from under it. Straightening, he tossed it to her.

  So dim had it grown in the corncrib that Lettie did not see the blanket coming toward her in time to catch it. It struck her a soft blow in the chest, then, as she fumbled for it, fell to the floor. She knelt swiftly to pick it up. There was a strong smell of horse about it, but it was dry, protected as it had been by the wide skirt of the Thorn’s poncho. It was also warm to the touch.

  She should refuse it. She knew that much, but the faint hint of warmth was so enticing that it was impossible to do so. With trembling fingers, she shook out the folds and swung the blanket around her, pulling it close about her shoulders. In a tone that had an ungracious ring even to her own ears, she said, “T-thank you.”

  “Delighted to be of service. Shall we sit down, or would that be too compromising?”

  Lightning crackled so brightly outside that it lit up the corncrib with its glowing silver fire. In that instant of luminescence, Lettie could see the ironic twist of the man’s lips. “You’re enjoying this!”

  “Am I? Now why should that be?”

  “Because you think I’m trapped here with you, and you know I would rather be anywhere else, anywhere at all.”

  “You think I wouldn’t?”

  Something in his voice puzzled Lettie. She was silent as she considered it. He waited for a moment, as if for her answer, then when she made none, turned from her and picked up the oilskin poncho. He shook the water from it, and though it was difficult to tell what he was doing in the dimness, she thought he turned it inside out and bent to spread it over the cornhusks.

  “Madame,” he intoned with a movement that might have been a gesture of presentation, “your couch.”

  The storm showed no sign of abating. Rain pounded on the roof and poured off it in splattering streams. It lashed against the walls, blowing into the crib, seeping in wet tracks over the logs. Thunder made a rolling roar. A chill draft blew across the floor, swirling grit and bits of trash into the air and stealing under Lettie’s wet skirt hem to increase the gooseflesh that pebbled her skin.

  It seemed foolish to continue standing, yet imprudent to sit. But was it, in truth, any more imprudent than remaining under the same roof as the Thorn? She could not think of how she had come to this or what it meant. All she knew was that she was miserably wet and cold and that if she remained standing she was very likely to shake so uncontrollably that she would fall down.

  Moving with the stiffness of reluctance, she stepped to the poncho-covered heap of husks and knelt upon it, then sank down to sit with her back against the log wall. She flinched a little as the Thorn moved toward her, then lowered himself onto the poncho beside her. She clutched the blanket around her, her every muscle stiff with resistance, though it seemed a waste of effort to protest. He made no move toward her, however.

  After a time, she cleared her throat. Above the sound of the rain, she said, “What will happen if the ferryman isn’t allowed to come back in the morning?”

  “There are other roads, other ferries. I’ll direct you.”

  “My landlady is going to be worried. She may send out a search party.”

  “Is the warning for my benefit or for yours?” His voice was hard, though it still had that husky edge that was peculiarly his own.

  “Certainly not for yours!”

  For his benefit! Did he actually think she meant to warn him that there were men coming who might take an interest in his presence? She would enjoy seeing him captured, taken away in chains. Or would she? Angel and devil, Henry had called him. He had killed her brother, but had saved her from death or some even more unthinkable fate. He had treated her with shocking familiarity, but had also been considerate. His nearness frightened her, but at the same time it made her aware, to her guilty shame, that she was a woman and he was a man.

  “I’ve told you, you have no need of protection.”

  She did not answer. He was dangerous. She must not forget it.

  Beside her, he shifted, drawing up one knee and resting his hand upon it. Lettie turned her head sharply toward him. The faint light gleamed for an instant on the leather of the revolver holster at his waist. She drew a deep and silent breath, her eyes narrowing before she turned her gaze away.

  What if she captured him herself, forced him to ride with her to Natchitoches, then turned him over to Colonel Ward? Her quest could be ended here and now. Her brother’s letters would be enough to allow the authorities to hold him until his guilt, or the innocence he claimed, could be proven. All s
he had to do was move a little closer to him and snatch the revolver that was so close at hand. It would be, in many ways, a vindication.

  A shiver of apprehension ran through her, and she huddled into the blanket. The

  Thorn turned his head to peer at her. His voice was carefully neutral as he spoke.

  “You would be more comfortable if you got out of your damp clothes.”

  Lettie opened her mouth for an acid retort, then closed it again. An awkward movement or two would not seem strange while she was in the act of undressing. Not that she meant to remove more than her bodice and skirt under any circumstances! But there could be little harm in that much; the dark gray dimness would prevent him from seeing her plainly, and in any case she could use the blanket as a shield.

  She moistened her lips. “You — you could be right.”

  Ransom’s brows drew together in a frown. Her agreement was the last thing he had expected. The strain in her voice was also puzzling. Then, as he saw her bend her head and begin to fumble with the buttons of her bodice, a tight feeling grew in his chest, cutting off his air, threatening to choke him. The desire that stirred in his loins was so strong that he pressed his back against the wall and clenched his fists, afraid that he would betray himself.

  The blanket slipped from Lettie’s shoulder, but she let it go for the moment. How very wanton she felt, preparing to remove her clothing in front of a man, regardless of the reason. She was aghast at her own temerity but no less determined because of it.

  As the last button slipped free of its hole, she spread the edges of her bodice and shrugged it off her shoulders, leaning first toward the Thorn and then away from him as she freed her arms from the sleeves. Drawing off the garment and folding it in half, she laid it to one side, then reached behind her back to unfasten her skirt placket. She got to her knees when it was done, lifting the skirt and shifting to free the hem that was caught under her before drawing it off over her head. The last was accomplished with more of a flourish than was necessary. The skirt cascaded down to land with a portion of its fullness across the Thorn’s lap. She murmured a word of apology and reached to gather it up. Through the damp material, her fingers brushed his thigh, the holster. She began to pull the skirt toward her, slipping her hand under it.

  In that moment, she lunged for the revolver. Her fingers closed over it. She flung herself back, sliding, pushing away.

  Ransom felt the revolver leave the holster, but so intent had he been on the pale satin gleam of Lettie’s skin, the molded shape of her camisole and corset cover in the gloom, and also on her exploring touch, that it was an instant before he could make himself believe what she had done. He wrenched himself upward with a gathering of powerful muscles, preparing to launch himself after her.

  “Stop!” she cried. “I’ll shoot!”

  He tensed into rocklike stillness, an oath rising to his lips. The epithets continued in fluent — self-scorn. Hearing them, Lettie felt the rise of triumph, and a soft laugh escaped her.

  “Yankee witch,” he said, the word both a salute and a curse. “I won’t forget this.”

  “I hope not. Throw me the blanket.”

  He was immobile for long seconds, then slowly he moved to obey.

  “Carefully,” she warned.

  The blanket sailed toward her, thrown hard, but this time she was ready. She caught it with one hand, shook it out, then draped it around her, all without removing her gaze from the shadowy figure of the man on the cornhusks. Inching back against the wall, she lowered herself to the floor and leaned back.

  He snorted, a sound of derision. “Now what?”

  “Now,” she said sweetly, “we wait until morning.”

  5

  TIME DRAGGED. The storm slackened and started to move off to the northeast, but the rain continued. The floorboards on which Lettie sat grew hard. Her eyes burned from staring into the dimness, watching for any hint of movement from her prisoner. The question began to haunt her: What was she going to do when darkness fell completely and she could no longer see or when she began to grow sleepy? If she had a rope, she could tie the Thorn up. It was possible, of course, that he had some of the same thin grass rope on him he had used to restrain her at Splendora, but to find it she would have to search him, and that was too risky by far. All she could do was guard him.

  The Thorn did not help matters. He settled into the pile of cornhusks, sliding down until he was using the lowest log of the wall behind him for a neck rest. Now and then he stretched as he relaxed or smothered a yawn, for all the world like a man readying himself for the night. She did not expect him to be petrified with terror, but his lack of concern, once past the first surprise, was annoying. It was also suspicious. For that reason, she watched him with extra care, her grip on the revolver so tight her fingers ached.

  All she saw was a faint blur of movement. Something struck the floor in the corner to the Thorn’s left and rolled. So tightly strung were Lettie’s nerves that she swung the revolver and pulled the trigger. The gun roared, spitting flame and smoke. The rolling thing burst into fragments with one piece skittering into the corner and spinning to a stop. Immediately she swung back to cover the Thorn.

  He had not moved. He was staring at her. With amazement in his voice, he said, “You can shoot.”

  “What was that you threw?” Hard on her words, she realized that the object, light and cylindrical, had to have been a corncob.

  “I didn’t throw anything. Must have been a rat.”

  The mock innocence of his words was too much, on top of his elaborate surprise at her skill. She pointed her weapon in the vicinity of his foot. “Oh, yes, I see! There’s another one!”

  It would have been all right if he had not moved. She meant only to give him a start by shooting into the floor beyond his boot in retaliation for the way he had made her heart leap. Instead, he heaved himself away from her, rolling. The bullet struck his foot. He let out his breath in a grunt of pain.

  The explosion of the shot died away. Gunsmoke, blue and acrid, swirled in the dimness. Lettie shook off her blanket, lowering the revolver as she leaned toward him. “Are you hurt?”

  He pushed himself to a sitting position and crouched over his foot. There was a wet red gleam across the instep. Lettie strained to see, rising to her knees and inching forward.

  He sprang with the swift and effortless uncoiling of the muscles of a hunting cat. She saw him coming. She tried to bring up the gun, but it was too late. He crashed into her, driving her back. She struck the floor with a jarring thud. He landed on top of her, his weight driving the air from her lungs in an anguished burst. He reached for the revolver. In desperation, she threw it from her. It clattered on the boards, bouncing, sliding to the far wall. As he whipped his head up to follow its flight, she shoved him with both hands. He rocked backward and she twisted, kicking at him, scrambling, clawing the floor as she dragged herself from under him, trying to reach the weapon.

  He caught her waist in a grip like an iron barrel hoop, clamping her to him. She was lifted, then turned in a dizzying swing as he rolled with her and thrust her upon her back among the cornhusks. Blinded by a red haze of shock and distress, gasping for breath against the tight clasp of her corset and his hold, Lettie lay rigid.

  The anger that had driven Ransom — anger for her attempt to injure him, for the trick she had played and for his own gullibility in being fooled by it — seeped away. In its place welled white-hot desire. The blood sang in his head, and the feel of her warm curves under him was an enticement impossible to resist. He craved the taste of her mouth the way a drunkard craved drink. It was madness, and yet the wild and wet night was closing in, its darkness forcing on them an intimacy that would never come again.

  Lettie sensed the swing of his mood. Her eyes widened as she stared up at his broad form looming over her. She wanted to cry out, to protest, but could not make a sound. Her heart thudded in her chest and her breathing deepened, becoming quieter. She felt strangely bereft of will
, paralyzed by an intimation of danger, by ancient curiosity, and by something more that had to do with the nerve-straining closeness of the man who held her. She was quiescent; her hands, which were trapped between them, rested on the hardness of his chest under his coat. She was acutely aware of the dry rustling of the husks under them, the drum and splash of the rain, and the clean, starched smell of his clothing combined with the male scent of his body. Aware, too, of his sudden indrawn breath, as of some decision made, and the slow, almost hesitant descent of his shadowed face toward her before his mouth touched hers.

  He was a murderer, but his kiss was warm and sure, beguiling in its sweetness, tantalizing with the faint irritation of his mustache. He was a killer, but his arms were cradling, firm yet gentle. He was an outlaw and a rebel, but there was something inside him that some part of her recognized and rose to meet.

  Nothing had prepared her for this betrayal of her own senses, her own bodily responses. It was beyond belief. She despised this man, wanted to see him hanged. She knew she should strike out at him, should struggle to be free. That she could not confused and shamed her. Until she grasped at an idea with relief, the idea that her very stillness might become a weapon. Her fiancé had been quite distracted while kissing her. Perhaps this man might be the same. A moment of inattention, and she could break free and reach the revolver. All it would take was a moment.

  His lips upon hers were gently caressing as he brushed their smooth surface, tasting the moist line where they met and probing their vulnerable corners. The sensation was exquisite. It awakened such tingling and heated sensitivity that Lettie’s lips parted in surprise. Ransom took instant advantage of that inadvertent invitation, deepening his exploration. The velvet roughness of his tongue touched hers, twining, abrading, enticing in amorous play.

  He spread his hand at her waist, smoothing the heavy satin and steel ribs of her corset that covered that trim indentation, sliding lower to her hip, drawing her closer against him so that she was molded to his long length. She felt the rigid heat of him, sensed in some recess of her brain the intensity of his need and the firmness of his control of it. A tremor ran through her at the liberties he was taking, and involuntarily she pressed closer. Her arms and legs felt leaden, while in the lower part of her body grew a burning ache that seemed to fuel the delicious torpor that gripped her. At any moment she could and would break free of it to find the gun. Soon. When the time was right.