“I might have guessed!” she called over her shoulder. “Laffite saved her! Imagine! And how romantic of him to carry her off to his island—their love nest.”
“She might just as well be dead,” Claude remarked glumly. “How could she do this to us? She has a husband! Diego is distraught over her death. How can I tell the poor man that she’s alive, but has run away with her lover? And of all men, that pirate!”
“How dare you say such a thing, Claude Vernet? Jean Laffite is not a pirate! He is an honest man, involved in a slightly dishonest business. But he never plundered or killed for personal gain. And even if he were the most bloodthirsty villain since Blackbeard, I would think that his saving your daughter’s life would temper your hatred for him. I tried to tell you before the wedding that Nicolette was in love with Laffite, but you refused to listen. And Nikki was being so stubborn! Can you believe that the girl feels such family loyalty that she would give up the man she loves just to please you? If we have a pirate in this family, his name is Claude Vernet!”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Gabrielle. Pirate, indeed!” He rose to his feet and started to leave the room, but his sister-in-law blocked the way.
“You’re going to listen to me! I’ve kept quiet all these years. I let you off and never spoke my mind before or after you married my sister. But I will not allow you to make a disaster of Nikki’s life the way you ruined mine, Francine’s, and your own!”
Claude Vernet sat back down heavily. Never before had he heard such a fierce tone in Gabrielle’s voice. Her brown eyes blazed at him and her face flushed with anger. For a moment, he remembered that she had looked much like this the night he had come to ask for Francine’s hand. He had evaded her wrath that evening, but today there seemed no way out.
“Do you love my sister, Claude?” she demanded.
He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Love? Of course I love Frannie. We’ve been married all these years. We’ve had children. We still have Nikki.”
“Don’t change the subject! I asked about love, not marriage, and we both know there’s a vast difference between the two. You and I have experienced both and should be able to recognize that by now. When was the last time you made love to my sister with the kind of fire and passion you showed me that day in the meadow at Belle Pointe?”
Claude Vernet shifted uneasily in his chair. Gabrielle had finally brought up what had remained unmentionable between them all these years.
In spite of his wishes, his mind flashed back to a sun-drenched field where red clover perfumed the spring air. He saw himself—a lusty lad of eighteen, his blood fired with first love and the rising sap of the season. And there beside him lay the most beautiful girl he had ever seen—her skin, magnolia-pale and -soft, her eyes like bright amber, her lips parted, inviting.
He closed his eyes and tried to will the visions away—to push them back into the locked part of his brain where he had kept them for so long, hoping they would fade with time. But the memories refused to be banished. He saw again her virgin breasts, felt their sweet warmth against his bare chest. He relived in an instant his own stallionlike thrust, which initiated them both into the secret society of lovers. And he heard again her sighs, her words of love.
“I love you, Claude Vernet.” But these words came from her lips, not from his memory.
“No, Gabi. You mustn’t say that… or think it!”
“And you Claude, mustn’t lie to yourself. Not any longer. I watched the expression on your face just now. You were thinking about us, weren’t you?”
Emotion choked his words. His Creole reserve melted into an affirmative nod.
“And did you think the scene through to the very end, to the place where we kissed one last time and promised to love each other always? We both knew you were meant to wed my sister, but you said—you promised—you would speak to my father and set things right.”
Claude Vernet hung his head, feeling like the confused and dejected lad he had been that summer. “I couldn’t,” he whispered. “I’ve told you before how sorry I’ve been all these years, Gabi. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Hurt me? Claude, darling, don’t you realize what you’ve done to yourself… to Frannie? She never wanted to marry anyone. Her only wish in life was to enter the convent. But because you let our parents dictate our futures, Frannie has lived her life like a frightened rabbit—terrified of the world, even her own husband. You have been an exemplary mate. No woman could have asked for more kindness and understanding than you’ve given Frannie. But don’t you see? You’ve killed the love that lived in you! And Frannie, who loved the Church above all else, has been dying by degrees all these years. I’m not like my sister. I cling to life! I demand happiness! But my only true and lasting happiness will come when you and I can be together.”
“Gabrielle, what a thing to say! Are you wishing your own sister dead?”
She ignored his question for the moment and went on. “We made a promise to each other, Claude. I mean to hold you to it. Frannie confided in me that the two of you have not shared a bed since Nikki was born. I know about your mistress, Claude, and I feel cheated! You can’t be faithful to my sister because she won’t give you what you need. But if your love must find another home, why not with me instead of that woman on the ramparts? What difference would it make, other than the fact that I truly love you?”
“No.” His answer was barely a whisper.
“Do you love me?”
His head jerked up and their gazes caught and held. He felt new life flowing through his body. For an instant he could have been eighteen once more. Suddenly, his arms went to Gabrielle’s waist and he clung to her, burying his tear-streaked face against the bodice of her gown.
“Yes, Gabi, yes! I’ve always loved you!”
She leaned down then and found his lips. A million times in her dreams, waking and sleeping, she had envisioned this moment. Now, at last, it was real. Her senses soared as Claude Vernet held her, caressed her, whispered out his flood of emotions, which had been dammed for over twenty years.
“And now, Claude, my darling,” Gabrielle said at last, “I hope you understand your daughter better. She possesses the same fire that runs in your veins and mine. Do you want her to have to endure an agony of years waiting for someone she can truly love? Which is more important—what your friends say and think or what your daughter feels?”
He clasped Gabrielle to him once more and covered her mouth with hungry lips. His kisses held the answer to all her questions.
Belle Pointe, Louisiana
June 20, 1813
My dearest Nikki,
There are no words to describe my emotion on reading your letter. To lose one so dear, then literally have that beloved daughter return from the grave, it is almost beyond human comprehension. I can only say how very much I love you, ma chère, and how your maman and I send up hourly prayers of thanks to he bon Dieu for your return. All our friends join in our joy and thanks.
As for your decision to remain with Monsieur Laffite, I admit to being outraged at first. But you have a wise and understanding friend in your Tante Gabi—we both have. She has made me see that love, above all else, is sacred. Had I known of your affection for Jean Laffite before I forced you to marry Bermudez, I like to think I would have understood. I am trying now to reason with my heart more than with my head. Dear Gabi assures me I will be much better off for it. Perhaps we all would be!
As for your legal husband, he has disappeared amidst a wave of the most shocking rumors. It would seem that you are a far better judge of human nature than I will ever be. At any rate, you are well rid of Bermudez! Should he resurface and attempt to claim you as his own, I will go to any lengths, even to ending his miserable life on the field of honor, to keep you safe from him. I must say that I was mortified to learn that my own dear daughter had been used as a stake in a game of chance, but again Le bon Dieu was watching over my enfant when He gave Monsieur Laffite the winning hand!
I understand that there are legal complications at present which prevent the brothers Laffite from visiting New Orleans openly. But we would be happy to welcome you here at Belle Pointe at any time.
Your maman and Tante Gabi send their love and kisses and I remain—
Your adoring papa,
Claude Vernet
“Oh, Jean! Read what Papa wrote to me!” Nicolette cried out as she ran from the front door of the mansion on Grande Terre to find Laffite sprawled on the veranda in a red hammock, gazing out to sea.
He took the letter from her and scanned the page. His heavy brows, drawn together in a frown at first, raised in pleased surprise as he finished reading. A smile to match Nicolette’s grew on his face.
“Come to me, ma petite,” he said, raising his arms to her. “This is the moment I’ve been waiting for—to see you totally happy again. We’ll visit your papa soon, I promise.”
“Really, darling?” Nicolette cried, sliding into the wide hammock beside him and snuggling close. “Oh, I am happy! No more problems!”
Nicolette rested her head against Laffite’s shoulder and enjoyed the peace and contentment of a sleepy, undisturbed summer afternoon on the island. The sea breeze blew gently over them, and Laffite set the hammock swaying with a soothing rhythm. He ran his fingers through her shining hair. Nicolette shivered. She loved the feel of his hands stroking her.
“When we go to your papa’s, Nikki,” he said in a grave tone, “what will he think of your red hair?”
Nicolette laughed softly. “I’m not sure what Papa will think, but Aunt Gabi will undoubtedly ask to borrow your concoction of potash and gunpowder!”
They spent the long, drowsy afternoon swinging side by side in the hammock—kissing occasionally, touching, reveling in their newfound peace. The whole happy world seemed to belong only to the two of them.
They were too far away to hear the British cannons at the mouth of Bayou Lafourche roaring their deathwish at a group of Baratarians.
By June of 1813, the United States had been at war with Britain for a full year. The battles had raged in far-off places—Canada, Ohio, Detroit—leaving the citizens of southern Louisiana free from worries of attack.
But on June 23, 1813, a British sloop of war slipped past Grande Terre’s defenses to open fire on a pair of Laffite’s ships, which were headed from the Gulf up Bayou Lafourche. Though the audacious British captain bombarded the two ships for hours, the Baratarians emerged victorious.
Still, Jean Laffite did not receive the news with a smile. He realized already what would not dawn on the powers that be in Washington City for some months—that his own island and the bayous above it were the keys to New Orleans. And whoever controlled New Orleans would claim the Mississippi, the entire country, and the war!
“Why don’t those jackasses make some defensive move in this direction?” he snarled at Dominique and Pierre that night at the dinner table.
“Because they are what you name them, little brother,” Dom answered. “The time will come when they will see the error of their ways. Let us hope it won’t come too late!”
Nicolette’s sunny mood of the afternoon faded quickly as she sat and listened to the brothers’ gloomy conversation. She picked at the broiled pompano on her plate and tried to puzzle out all that they were discussing. Dinner discussions in her home had centered around art, literature, and palatable family matters. “Not one word… ever… to upset the digestion!” she could remember her mother admonishing.
“Nikki?” Laffite asked. “Don’t you like your fish?”
She nodded and forced a smile. “It’s delicious. My compliments to Xavier. It’s only that
“Yes, darling?” he prompted.
“This talk of war,” she finally confessed. “I find it upsetting.”
“We all do,” Laffite answered. “But, believe me, my men will fight to the very end to see that the British Dragon doesn’t devour the United States!”
“Talk is cheap, little brother,” Dominique said. “Just how is it we are going to fight for a country that will not even allow us to walk the streets of one of her cities?”
“Governor Claiborne’s only being pigheaded!” Pierre answered. “The arrest warrants run out shortly. As long as Jean and I aren’t caught in New Orleans, there’s nothing he can do.”
“I believe Claiborne’s sorry he put himself in this position,” Laffite added. “He would tear up those papers this very day, but he can’t without looking like a prize fool. Pierre, you’re right. We’ll wait it out; then make our move after the warrants expire.”
“And until then?” Nicolette asked, her uneasiness plainly visible.
Laffite leaned toward her and smiled into her eyes. “Until then, my love, my time is all yours!”
“Ho! Ho! Pierre, do you get the feeling that our little brother would as soon we excuse ourselves?”
“I do! And I can’t say that I blame him.” Pierre rose from the table and bent to kiss Nicolette’s cheek. “Were you mine, sweet child, I’d kick both my brothers out for good and never let any man near you!”
Dominique gave a hearty laugh. “And your Marie Louise would scalp that unruly thatch from your head, too!”
Dominique kissed Nicolette on one cheek and then the other, as if she were a French sergeant. He and Pierre said good night and ambled out the front door.
“So! Alone at last!” Laffite said; his eyes had an unmistakable glitter. “What would you like to do this evening, darling?”
Nicolette pushed her chair back and rose—slowly, deliberately—never taking her eyes from Laffite’s face. She swayed toward him and eased herself into his lap, letting her arms twine about his neck.
“This, mon chère,” she whispered huskily, bringing her lips down to cover his.
Laffite marveled at her almost wanton show of desire. How she had changed from the shy, tearful child he had seen off to Paris and the abused maiden he had rescued from the burning ship.
He slipped his arms around her slender waist and pulled her closer so that her unrestrained breasts nestled their warmth against his chest. Still, her moist lips clung to his, fanning fire in his blood which, in turn, ignited hers anew.
When he rose from the chair, lifting her in his arms, Nicolette finally ended the kiss. She stared at him questioningly when he headed, not for their bedroom, but to the front door.
“I wanted you on the beach the night we were wed,” he answered. “Tonight I plan to satisfy that pagan desire.”
He strode out of the mansion into the moon-silvered night with Nicolette clinging to him, whispering her love.
Chapter Eighteen
I, GOVERNOR OF THE STATE OF LOUISIANA, OFFER A REWARD OF FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS WHICH WILL BE PAID OUT OF THE TREASURY, TO ANY PERSON DELIVERING JEAN LAFFITE TO THE SHERIFF IN THE PARISH OF ORLEANS, OR TO ANY OTHER SHERIFF IN THE STATE, SO THAT HE, THE SAID JEAN LAFFITE, MAY BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE.
Given under my hand at New Orleans on the 24th day of November, 1813.
William C. C. Claiborne
Nicolette, home from Grande Terre for a visit with her family, read the broadside hurriedly, then snatched it from the lamp post at the corner of St. Anne Street near the cathedral.
“I’m afraid you have a mammoth task ahead of you, my dear, if you plan to remove every one of those notices from the city,” Gabrielle DelaCroix said. “Monsieur le gouverneur has had hundreds printed. They are plastered all over New Orleans.”
“How dare he!” Nicolette hissed, tearing down a second notice and then a third as they walked along.
“He dares because he must! Don’t you see? Your darling Jean and his men have made poor Claiborne an object of ridicule rather than authority. The most upstanding citizens cheer at Laffite’s every bold escape and laugh behind their hands at the governor’s ineffectiveness in this matter.”
Nicolette turned a shocked expression on her aunt. “How can you voice any sympathy for the man? He’s made our lives miserable the
se past months.”
Gabrielle laughed softly. “And you think Jean Laffite hasn’t provided a bit of hell for him? Mais non, ma chère! The governor has suffered far more. Claiborne may call your man a bandit, but others are calling le gouverneur much worse.”
By the time they turned into Royal Street, Nicolette had collected a dozen or so of the offending documents. At the entrance to Laffite’s showroom, she stopped.
“What are you doing, Nikki? Gabrielle asked, alarmed. “You know you’ve been warned to stay away from this place. You’ve shocked all New Orleans enough by turning up alive and well after your funeral. Now you are supposed to be putting on a grand show of the deserted and grieving bride to worm your way back into the good graces of the crème de la crème.”
“That wasn’t my idea. It was Maman’s.”
“But she’s ailing, Nikki. She needs to be reassured that her daughter isn’t some of the names she is being called around town.”
“You mean ‘Laffite’s mistress’? I can think of worse things to be called!” Nicolette snapped.
Gabrielle put a gentling hand on her niece’s arm and whispered, “I mean ‘the pirate’s whore’! If your maman ever heard that epithet, it would take more than smelling salts or a wine-soaked cloth to bring her around!”
The words stung and Nicolette lashed out, “And what if she should hear the same term applied to her sister, but with her own husband’s name replacing Jean Laffite’s?”
“Touché! But your father and I are at least discreet. Parading into Laffite’s shop in broad daylight is anything but!”
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