“Oh, Madame Boss, what’s he done to you?”
She could tell he was crying for her and she had to fight back her own emotions. “I’m all right. Tell me, what news?”
“The Boss, he right across the street, he and M’sieu Diego, both. I been outside the blacksmith shop most all night, listening and watching. They got gold like I ain’t never seen stacked up on that green table. But that M’sieu Diego, he tell the Boss that you ain’t here—that he left you at his plantation!”
“Oh, no!” Nicolette’s breath caught at this information. How could Laffite rescue her if he didn’t even know she was there? “Gator-Bait, can you find a way to let Monsieur Boss know where I am?”
“Me, I will!” he answered importantly.
“Go, then. Quickly!”
She watched the diminutive figure disappear over the gallery railing into the magnolia tree to shinny to the ground.
“Hurry! Oh, please, hurry!” she whispered.
“I got his gun,” Dominique Youx announced once he had disposed of Diego Bermudez. “He won’t come back looking for a fight.”
Blanque, de Marigny, and Davezac still sat at the table, staring at Jean Laffite with mingled expressions of shock, awe, and amusement. John Blanque had smoothed out the I.O.U. on the green baize table for all of them to read.
“I’m not concerned about Bermudez at the moment,” Laffite said. “What we have to do is get out of New Orleans fast. No doubt, he’s gone straight to Governor Claiborne to claim any reward he might offer for finding out where we are. I mean to make a beeline for his plantation and collect my winnings. There’s no telling what he’ll do to Nicolette if he reaches her before I do.”
“Your horses are saddled and ready, Boss,” Marie Louise said quietly. “I had the stableboy see to them.”
“Then let’s be off!” Dominique shouted. “Time and the devil wait for no man!”
The three brothers rushed through the back door and leaped onto their horses.
“First man to The Shadows wins all the gold I raked in tonight!” Laffite yelled.
“You’re on!” his brothers chorused.
“Wait! Wait, Boss!” a child’s voice cried.
Laffite jerked at the reins so hard that his black stallion reared and whinnied, pawing the air.
“Who’s that?” Laffite demnded.
“It’s Gator-Bait, M’sieu. Madame Boss, she ain’t out to the plantation. She’s right over there!” He pointed across the street and all eyes followed.
“Blood of a thousand pigs!” Dominique whooped. “The place is afire!”
“Get pails and water, you two!” Laffite ordered. “Gator-Bait, run to the Cabildo and alert the watchmen. Hurry, boy!”
Laffite leaped off his horse and charged across the street. Finding the gate to the courtyard locked, he scaled the wrought iron and tried the carriage entrance to the house. Smoke in the courtyard was so thick already that he found himself choking. He ripped the silk scarf from his neck and tied it over his nose and mouth. He could see the flames inside consuming the first floor and starting up the broad staircase.
“Help me!” came a feeble cry from the window above.
“Nikki!” he called back. “I’m coming!”
With as little effort as the young slave had used earlier, Laffite climbed the ancient magnolia tree and leaped over the gallery railing. The wooden shutters splintered under the force of his boot’s swift kick.
“Nikki!” he called out.
“Here, Jean!” she sobbed. “Cuffed to the bed.”
No lamp burned in the room, but even if there had been light, the thick clouds of smoke boiling up from the floor below would have made visibility difficult.
Laffite worked frantically, trying to pry the lock on the handcuffs. If only he could see what type these were. He had worked his way out of enough manacles in his time to spring any lock, if he knew what he was dealing with.
“Oh, Jean,” Nicolette moaned, “I can’t breathe!”
“A moment, darling.” He located a flint and struck it, holding it close enough to examine her restraints.
His laugh sounded quite out of place in the smoke-filled room. “Child’s play!” he said, twisting a spring, which flipped a lock to free Nicolette from her shackles.
In one swift motion, Laffite grabbed Nicolette up in his arms and fled to the gallery. The street beyond had become a hive of activity. Soldiers and citizens worked side by side, trying to put out the blaze and keep it from spreading. It would never do to try and escape the front way.
“Does the courtyard have an alley entrance, Nikki?”
“Yes. Right back there,” she said, pointing into the shadows toward Royal Street and the river.
They were down the tree and halfway across the courtyard before they realized they were not alone. A figure materialized from behind a banana tree and blocked their passage.
“So, you managed to save your winnings!” Diego Bermudez growled. “And all for nothing! You see, I couldn’t possibly let either of you escape. Arson, after all, is a capital crime. And Nicolette saw me start the fire.”
“No! I didn’t see anything!” Nicolette insisted, clutching Laffite’s arm.
A metallic click told Jean Laffite that Bermudez had unsheathed his sword from its cane.
“You’re a poor liar, madame. And since I know I can’t be trusted, I’ve learned never to trust anyone else. Besides, I have a score to settle with your river rat once and for all!”
“Jean?” Nicolette whispered.
Laffite made no answer, but shoved her behind him for safety.
“You won’t get away with this, Bermudez. Every man at the blacksmith shop knows the outcome of the game, what you wagered and I won. Do you think they wouldn’t come after you if Nicolette and I are found murdered?”
“Ha-ha! If they found you, they’d probably come after me to give me a reward. As for my wife, there are certain unwritten laws about adulterous women and the rights of their husbands. But you see, I’d never leave my fate in the hands of anything so unpredictable as the law. Though I’d enjoy toying a bit with the two of you, I plan to put you away quickly and neatly. Your bodies will be burned beyond recognition before the night’s over. Should they recognize your corpses, they’ll be locked in a final, incriminating embrace in the remains of the bed from which you just liberated your lover. Certain parties in another part of town will swear that I was in conference with them all night and nowhere near the scene when the fire broke out.”
“You are a clever man, Bermudez,” Laffite said. “But clever and cautious are two different things. You really should have checked the courtyard to make sure there would be no witnesses to your crime.”
“I did and there won’t be!” Diego snapped. “You might as well save your breath. I’m not buying any of your tricks.”
“Now, Gator-Bait!” Laffite yelled.
The boy, who had returned after running for help, slammed his whole weight against the back of Bermudez’s legs, buckling his knees. Laffite rushed forward and landed a glancing blow to the man’s jaw. The sword cane clattered to the flagstones. Laffite would have reached for it and ended the fight then and there, had the iron gates not swung open to admit the firefighters at that moment.
“Run, Nikki! To the back gate! We have to get to the alley before they spot us!”
“I brung your horse around, Boss!”
“Good boy!”
The three figures disappeared through the oleander hedge and out the wooden gate before anyone knew they had been there. Behind them they heard Bermudez shouting, “Stop them! They set the fire! Don’t let the arsonists get away!”
Laffite leaped onto his horse, pulling Nicolette up in front of him and Gator-Bait behind. The well-loaded beast sent dirt flying as he galloped across Royal Street and down Dumaine toward the levee.
“We’re in luck,” Laffite whispered against Nicolette’s hair. “Every man in the city who isn’t dead or asleep is fighting the fir
e. We’ll make our getaway good!”
Nicolette sat stunned and silent. So many things had happened in the past weeks, days, hours. She felt as if she had aged beyond her years, made more mistakes than one person should be allowed in a lifetime. Now, miraculously, she had the second chance she had prayed for so fervently. The realization made her want to weep for joy. Instead, she clutched the strong arms encircling her waist and let her head press close to the broad shoulder behind her.
It seemed only moments before they reached the levee. As usual, the port of New Orleans was crowded with ships from many nations. The citizens might leave the city from April to November to escape the threat of yellow fever, but the harbor never closed… never slept.
Laffite urged the winded horse on to the foot of Conti Street.
“There she is—our transport to freedom, darling.”
Nicolette looked in the direction he indicated. Already, oyster-sellers were setting up their stalls. Behind them a curtain of crimson fluttered in the light breeze—the red sails of the oyster luggers belonging to the poor Baratarians who eeked a living out of the soil and surrounding waters.
“My friend, Salvator Guadaloupe, has promised us safe passage back through the bayous in his scarlet-winged chariot.”
“Hallo, you!” hailed a swarthy fisherman from the bow of one of the rakish boats.
Laffite waved back and called, “My brothers?”
“Onboard already, Boss!”
“You have room for three more, I hope?”
“You no worry! I pack you like sardines!”
Laffite laughed and dismounted, lifting his arms to Nicolette. As she slid down, making contact with his firm chest, feeling the heat and the tension of his body against hers, she was reminded of their wedding night on the beach at Grande Terre. Everything between then and now she decided to forget. Only the two of them and their love for each other counted.
Laffite pulled her close. Resting his cheek against hers, he whispered, “Once before I brought you to this levee… long, long ago. You were only a child, Nikki, but I loved you even then. I hated myself for wanting you so. I tried to forget I’d ever met you. But fate refused to leave us alone… or apart. Now… ?”
Nicolette went up on tiptoe to reach his lips with hers. She kissed him slowly, tenderly, then said, “I’m not a child any longer, Jean Laffite. I know what I feel… what I want.”
He held her away for a moment and stared into her smoky-blue eyes as if he might read her thoughts.
“What do you want, Nicolette?”
“You!” she answered, circling his waist with her arms and pressing her face against his chest. “You and only you, with all my heart and soul… forevermore!”
He caught her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his. Just before their lips met, she saw his smile. It warmed her through and erased all the pain that had brought them to this point. She thought her chest would burst with the happy beating of her heart. Then his lips took away all other sensations.
For the first time in her life, Nicolette felt free and alive—totally loved and in love.
Chapter Seventeen
The tap-tap of a hammer disturbed the early-morning silence in Bourbon Street. An old man, his dingy shirtsleeves banded in black crepe, went about his task of hanging death notices throughout the city. Later, the citizens would learn from these public announcements that a prominent Creole had died—where, when, and the hour of the funeral.
The crier hung his last black-bordered sheet and ambled on, passing the Vernet/Bermudez house, which still smoldered from the ruinous fire two nights before. Only hours had passed since the rubble had cooled enough to allow rescuers in. It was then that they discovered her body—the remains charred beyond recognition. But, of course, everyone knew who it was.
Père Antoine, with an escort of City Guards, rode immediately to Belle Pointe to break the sad news to the Vernet family.
Such a tragedy, the old man thought, for Mademoiselle Nicolette to end this way when she escaped the flames the day she was born.
He plodded into Royal Street in time to see the Vernet carriage arriving at the townhouse. Tipping his tall hat, he muttered his condolences to Claude Vernet, then moved on swiftly, not anxious to get caught up in the family’s deep grief.
He knew them all—Claude, whose only hint of sorrow now could be seen in the slight sag of his shoulders; Madame DelaCroix, her face set in painful lines but her back ramrod straight. And then there was Madame Vernet, pitiful in her weeping, unable to support herself. The crier watched from the corner of Chartres Street as she was helped from the carriage and carried into the house by a strong servant.
The bells of Saint Louis Cathedral tolled mournfully. The city lay draped in a strange, gray mist as if it too felt the loss. The man shook his head and shuffled on.
The red-haired man and woman lay sleeping under a blanket of blistering June heat, naked and beautiful, the pair.
Her bright tresses swept back from her face to cover the pillow in burnished waves. His hair framed strong features molded by sea, sun, and wind, and glowed a bronzed gold in the morning light.
She lay on her back, peaked breasts thrusting high, one hand demurely placed to cover the dark triangle between her thighs. He stretched, full length, on his stomach, his slim, white buttocks, tense even in sleep, startling in contrast to the mahogany hue of his torso and legs.
All was quiet. Nothing moved in the thick humidity.
The slightest breeze began to stir the lace curtains at the window of the ballast stone mansion. It eased into the room and slipped soundlessly through the mosquito netting to kiss the woman’s cheek. She smiled, moved her head. Her eyes remained closed. Only a hand awoke fully—to creep across the satin sheet and find her lover. The barest touch against his thigh, no more, and he was there—pulling her into his arms, seeking her lips, caressing her breasts.
Eyes fluttered open momentarily—green-gold searching ultramarine. They smiled. They kissed again. He buried her beneath him and found the hidden entrance to his pleasures, and hers.
Even after their hour of leisurely lovemaking, in which time they explored the wonders of each other’s bodies as if for the first time, after that gentle descent from passion to afterglow, they still clung to each other, their bodies one.
“I’ll never have enough of you, darling,” he whispered huskily.
She only sighed and snuggled closer as if she wished to meld her entire body, indeed, her very soul to his.
A knock at the door brought an annoyed oath from Jean Laffite. “Why must they interrupt us every time?” he said, pulling on a robe and tossing the velvet coverlet over his lover.
Dominique Youx, a sheepish look on his powder-scarred face, stood in the hallway. “A thousand pardons, Nikki,” he stammered, nodding toward the figure in the bed. “I would not interrupt… er… that is, disturb you, if this weren’t of grave importance. One of our ships has come in from New Orleans with distressing news.”
Laffite stared at his older brother. He could tell that whatever Dominique had to say to them was something he dreaded. The man was never at a loss for words, but now he hesitated and stuttered.
“Come in, Dom,” Laffite insisted. “Tell us what it is.”
Dominique’s eyes never left Nicolette, though their expression held a sort of startled wonder rather than the lust or curiosity one would have expected under the circumstances.
“Well, out with it!” Laffite prompted.
Dominique shrugged and said, “I don’t know any other way to say this. Excuse my bluntness. Nikki, it seems your family buried your remains in Saint Louis Cemetery last week. A woman died in the fire on Bourbon Street. Everyone believes it was you!”
“My God!” Laffite exclaimed. “Who could it have been?”
“Papa! Maman!” Nicolette cried. “Oh, how awful for them!”
Laffite went to her and put his arms around her for comfort. “Take it easy, darling. We’ll get word to them immedia
tely. I’ll send Raymond in the courier pirogue. You can write to them so they’ll see the news comes directly from you. But who else was in the house with you when I came?”
“No one, Jean. I was all alone… and so frightened!” She paused for a moment, then remembered. “Jada! She went down to the pantry and left me by myself. When the fire started, she must have been trapped below stairs.”
“Jada? One of the servants?”
Nicolette nodded, deciding not to tell that she was also Diego’s daughter and lover, and would have been his mistress, if she hadn’t died.
“Any word about Bermudez?” Laffite asked.
“Oui! It seems the bereaved husband attended the funeral services, then retired to his plantation for a short rest before setting out on a business trip to an undisclosed destination up the river.”
“He knew it wasn’t me!” Nicolette cried out. “Why didn’t he tell my parents the truth—spare them all this?”
Laffite’s voice softened. “How could he tell them the truth, darling? That he lost everything, including his bride, in a poker game? That he tried to kill her? That he set a fire that could have destroyed the entire city? No! I wouldn’t put it past him to have murdered the serving woman and tossed her body in the flames to make it look as if you were dead.”
“Yes, Diego Bermudez would kill his own daughter to save himself,” Nicolette said quietly.
Laffite took her trembling hands in his and looked into her eyes. “Nicolette, when you write to your father, tell him you are alive, but tell him too that you are with the man you love—the man you want to be your husband. Try to explain to him. We don’t need any more hurt. Let’s see if we can’t reconcile your family to our relationship… our happiness.”
“I will, Jean. They must understand!”
Claude Vernet sat like a zombie in the petit salon of his New Orleans house, holding Nicolette’s letter crumpled in his fist. Gabrielle DelaCroix, a fine gown of royal-blue silk replacing the black bombazine she had worn for the past ten days, moved about the room, ripping down mourning crepe and opening shutters. A relieved smile lit her face.
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