Sandra Hill - [Creole]

by Sweeter Savage Love

  Scanning the old freight car, Harriet took in the gowns and button-hook shoes on the floor and spilling from antique trunks. Some Southern lady was going to be awfully peeved at this mess.

  But, no, this is a dream, she reminded herself.

  She noticed the whoosh of air coming from the open door of the freight car and scanned the passing countryside. Not a skyscraper or modern building in sight.

  A weird thought niggled inside her head.

  The sound of the train chugging along hummed in her ears. Choo-choo, choo-choo, choo-choo, choo-choo…

  The thought niggled stronger.

  She turned then to Etienne, who was wiping perspiration from his face and hair with a shirt he’d picked up from the floor.

  “What year is this?” she asked hesitantly.

  His eyes widened with surprise. “Eighteen seventy.”

  She closed her eyes and moaned softly. The niggling thought unfurled, like a banner, into an outlandish idea.

  When she opened her eyes again, Etienne was staring at her oddly, taking in her near-naked appearance with raw, masculine interest, which he quickly masked with a frown.

  “This isn’t a dream, is it?” she whispered.

  “Really, your continual prattling about dreams is tiresome. And very unoriginal.” Now that he’d gotten his arousal under control, he was picking carefully through the clothing in the trunks and tossing various items toward her—a pale marbled lavender gown with a tight bodice and full, stiff underskirt of a deeper purple; a pair of black velvet slipper shoes; a straw hat with lavender satin ribbons; ivory combs; even a frilly parasol. “Put them on,” he demanded.

  When she handed his jacket back to him, he hung it and his shirt to air dry on a nail near the doorway. Meanwhile, he wiped his perspiration-damp body with another clean shirt from the floor. The men’s apparel was plainly too small for his much larger frame.

  Harriet clutched a fringed shawl in front of her, fighting back tears of panic. All the niggling thoughts and ideas in her head were too much for her to handle in her distraught state. What she was thinking, what she now feared, it just couldn’t be possible. Could it?

  Etienne snorted at the woman’s belated delicacy. As if he hadn’t seen all she owned already in that wet, nearly invisible chemise. The flimsy shawl only called to mind what he’d already viewed. He forced himself to look away from her enticing body, but he couldn’t force away the memory of how that body had felt in his arms a short time ago. How she’d responded to his kiss. How he’d bloomed hot and hard within seconds. How—

  “You don’t understand. This is 1997. It has to be,” she whimpered.

  Startled, Etienne turned back from where he’d moved to lean against the doorway, inhaling deeply of the fresh air. He lifted his eyebrows scornfully. What game did she play now? “No, my dear, it is not. This is 1870. Of that I am certain.”

  “I’m not saying it’s not. Eighteen seventy, I mean. It’s just that I come from 1997. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I have no idea what’s happening to me, or why, but I’m not crazy. All I know is that after the train derailed, everything around me changed. It’s almost as if…as if the train derailment opened a door to another century.”

  His eyes widened. “Oh, darlin’, surely you can come up with a more plausible explanation. Because if you don’t, that means you have some devious reason for being here, and I’m going to have to kill you.” Etienne spoke the truth. If she was a spy, working with Pope, he might very well have to commit murder. His mission was more important than any mere woman.

  The nitwit waggled her fingers in the air, waving his threat aside as of no consequence. Obviously she was unafraid of him, but at the same time, it was equally obvious that the bizarre circumstances surrounding them shook her composure.

  “Do you think God sent me here?” she asked, as if desperately grasping for answers.

  Huh? “For what reason?” he scoffed.

  “I don’t know.” She groaned. “Maybe as a punishment for succumbing to those horrible dreams about you.”

  He gave a short laugh of derision. Oh, wonderful! She’s back to the sexual fantasy again. Lord, she’s like a yipping puppy clinging to a man’s pant leg when she gets an idea in her head. She could wear a man down with her nagging.

  “God is punishing you by sending you through time to be with me? Seems to me as if I would be the one punished in that hellish scenario.”

  She scowled at his interpretation of her words. “Don’t be silly.”

  Etienne narrowed his eyes at her. It was the second time she’d called him silly, and the word didn’t sit well with him.

  “Let me explain this in real simple terms,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a moron.

  He gritted his teeth.

  “I’ve been praying for those pesky dreams to stop. I’m a grown woman…a trained psychologist, for heaven’s sake. I should be above erotic fantasies of”—she gave him a disdainful assessment that put him in the same class as frog spit—of forceful seduction.

  Not that again.

  “One of the best ways to overcome an addiction is to face it head-on, wallow in it till its ugliness overshadows its appeal,” she blathered on, this time in her lecturer mode. “Yep, I think God answered my prayers. He sent me here for the cure.”

  Etienne put both hands on his hips and gaped at her. I’m a cure for what ails her? Harriet averted her eyes, but not before he noticed her quick glance of appreciation at his bare shoulders and chest—a glance that followed the path of black curls leading down in a vee to the waistband of his trousers.

  A slow grin began to replace his frown. “You’re upset about some sexual fantasy you’ve been having of late, with me as a partner? And you think the answer is for us to make love, over and over, till you’re sick of me?”

  “Yes,” she said enthusiastically, clearly pleased that he agreed with her.

  “Lady, I’ve been propositioned by all kinds of women, in all kinds of places…even some that were mighty peculiar. But I have never, ever, had a woman beg for my lovemaking as an exorcism.”

  “So?” she said, tapping her foot impatiently.

  She probably yearned to clout him a good one, but was restraining herself to stay in his good graces. Till he could play stud to her perverted whims. Merde! “Thank you, but…no, thank you.” He made the mistake of laughing then.

  With a growl of outrage, the red-faced witch unrestrained herself, and before he could react, whacked him on the side of the head with a lace parasol.

  It didn’t help that she whisked her hands together and remarked, “Laughing at a woman is a six on the MCP scale, you jerk.”

  Chapter Six

  “Sweetheart, this is M’sieur Gautier,” Etienne said with the slick charm of a snake-oil salesman. “M’sieur, may I present my wife, Mrs. Frogash. She’s…mute.”

  Mute? Harriet bit her bottom lip to stifle the impulse to tell her “husband” what she thought of his latest lame-brained scheme. Not that she hadn’t already voiced her opinion to him repeatedly in the hour since they’d left the train. But, considering the fact that she’d knocked him practically unconscious, for a second time, and that Cain had arrived just in time to prevent her being strangled after Etienne woke up, Harriet decided that silence might be warranted…for a while.

  Except that if she didn’t talk, she’d have to think. And if she thought for even a second, she’d have to face the reality of the nightmare she’d landed in. And accept that it wasn’t a dream, after all.

  Could it be time-travel?

  No, no, no! I don’t want to think about that insanity.

  Etienne, back in his undertaker mode—hair center-parted and slicked back with Macassar oil, spectacles, the whole nerd nine yards—waxed doleful—over her being his mate, or mute, she wasn’t sure—as he introduced her to Vincent Gautier, the owner of a warehouse near the railway station in New Orleans. But the speaking glance he cast her way was anything but doleful. It said, loud and clear,
“Say one word and you are dead meat, babe.”

  “Gaaa,” she gurgled, a la Helen Keller, in greeting to Mr. Gautier, ignoring Etienne’s warning glower.

  “Madame Frau-gawsh,” Mr. Gautier acknowledged with a polite bow of his head in her direction, apparently understanding her wordless hello. Then he patted Etienne on the arm with sympathy.

  And Etienne—the jerk—confided to the man, loud enough for her to hear, “Deaf and dumb.”

  “Fuggu,” she grunted to Etienne in a guttural comeback.

  The flash of surprise, then irritation, in his baby blues told her that he knew just what she’d said. “Later, darling,” he promised sweetly and made a little slicing gesture across his neck that only she could see.

  The late-morning sun beat down unmercifully on Harriet as she sat perched on a seat of the buckboard-type wagon they’d used to cart the caskets of gold from the freight car. The lavender walking dress Etienne had given her to wear was a magnificent confection with a rounded neck and cap sleeves—pure Southern femininity, and hotter than hell. Her only protection from the sun’s rays was the whimsical straw hat with ribbon streamers. Etienne had taken the parasol away from her, deeming it a weapon.

  Etienne and Mr. Gautier were back to negotiating their business arrangement, a conversation conducted in rapid, hand-gesturing French. Finally, Etienne pushed his spectacles up on his nose—Geez, he’s a doll, even with glasses and that stupid center part—and fished a roll of antiquated paper currency from his pocket. Peeling off several bills, he handed them to the warehouse owner.

  Meanwhile, Cain and one of Mr. Gautier’s workers were unloading the caskets and carrying them inside. Harriet put a hand over her heart in dismay as she watched Cain wince when he hefted one end of a heavy casket onto his shoulder. In the short time Pope’s men had been there, they’d worked him over horribly. Two bruised ribs, which Cain had instructed Etienne on wrapping with tight strips of linen from some lady’s crinoline, a black eye which was already swollen shut, bruises on his back and arms, and an ugly cut on his chin from Brisk’s beringed fist.

  But Cain dismissed her concern and quipped, “Don’t pay no never mind to these li’l bruises. At least they didn’t loosen my teeth. One thing my women are right partial to is a full…set of teeth.” He’d wiggled his eyebrows at her then. The rogue!

  Business concluded and gold safely stashed, the two rogues now climbed up onto the seat of the empty wagon, bracketing her between them. Clicking his tongue, Etienne gave the reins a brisk shake, then exchanged a worried, silent look with Cain.

  “Let’s make tracks. I have a bad feeling,” Etienne said, using a short whip lightly on the horse’s rump.

  “Me, too,” Cain said as his eyes made a wide sweep of the busy street.

  “Au revoir,” Mr. Gautier called after their departing wagon.

  Harriet turned and waved a hand at Mr. Gautier in a limp-and-languid, exaggerated Scarlett style. The idea for a new book was already churning in her brain—The Scarlett Syndrome: Southern Body Language.

  “Merde!” Etienne muttered, gawking at her as if she were two mint leaves short of a julep.

  Ignoring him, Harriet whispered to Cain, “What does merde mean?”

  “Shit.” Cain’s terse reply was accompanied by a grin.

  “Tsk-tsk!” She elbowed Etienne in the ribs reprovingly. “You should appreciate the fact that, since I landed in Southern belle hell, I’m trying to adapt…act the part. You know, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

  “Hmpfh! Now she thinks she’s in Italy.”

  “Y’all come on over to Tara sometime, darlin’,” she drawled in further demonstration, batting her eyelashes. “Ah do declare, ah might just swoon.”

  Etienne shook his head at her antics.

  “So, husband dear, what do you think of my South mouth?”

  “I liked you better mute.”

  “Oh, you can’t fool me. You act annoyed, but you’re really turned on by me.”

  “Hah! When gators roost in trees!”

  “And I amuse you. Yes, I do. Don’t deny it. I can read your hidden body signals.”

  “Read this signal,” he snapped with exasperation. And the gesture he flicked at her was not nice.

  “What’s a sure sign that a dumb man is going to be unfaithful?”

  “I warned you about those dumb-men riddles, Harry-Hat,” Etienne gritted out.

  “And I told you my name is Harriet.”

  “So, what’s a sure sign that a dumb man is going to be unfaithful?” Cain asked, pulling her back to her joke.

  “If he has a penis,” Harriet said.

  Etienne and Cain both gasped.

  “You should know the answer to this one, Cain…being a doctor and all. What do you call the soft, fleshy tissue surrounding a penis?”

  Cain seemed to be seriously considering her question.

  “A man,” she hooted.

  “Harriet, nice girls…ladies…don’t ever say that word out loud,” Etienne told her with exaggerated patience.

  “What word. Penis? Oh, give me a break. Penis, penis, penis, penis. There! Did the sky fall down?”

  “She has a point, Etienne,” Cain said. “When you think about all the rules that society imposes on—”

  “Mon Dieu, we have two sorry lunatics with guns close on our tails, who knows how many more closing in for the kill, and her tongue won’t stop flapping with nonsensical jokes. And my best friend decides to jump on her side.”

  She was about to tell the ingrate off, but he stopped the wagon abruptly in a narrow alley a short distance from the warehouse. Without talking, he and Cain quickly took their gun belts and weapons from the satchel in back and strapped them on.

  Alarmed, Harriet stood. “Etienne. don’t you think—”

  “Damn to blue blazes! Sit still and hush your mouth.”

  “But—”

  “Mind what I say, or I swear I’ll hog-tie and gag you faster’n you can say your prayers.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Harriet said, but she stayed put and decided to ignore the jerk and pay more attention to the sights, perhaps find some insight into her odd adventure. Etienne soon had the horse moving them into the city proper—the Vieux Carré.

  Harriet knew the area well. The picturesque French Quarter of old New Orleans, nestled at the inner curve of the wide Mississippi, was laid out in a block pattern with more than a dozen streets leading from the river to Rampart Street and a smaller number crisscrossing from Canal Street to Esplanade. The famous Place d’Armes, later called Jackson Square, and the Cathedral of St. Louis, sat directly at its center. The wide streets were bordered by brick sidewalks, or banquettes, with lovely shade trees.

  The Creole homes that abounded there, removed from the newer American sector, were two-or three-story affairs with overhanging roofs and wide galleries ornamented with the famous iron lace—cast iron formed into delicate decorations. Tall shutters—mostly forest green—protected the mysterious interiors and hid the bubbling fountains of the center courtyards, while the exteriors boasted such gay colors as grand rouge, which came from a combination of brick dust and buttermilk.

  Etienne and Cain grew more and more tense as they scanned the busy streets. And the fine hairs stood out all over Harriet’s body as she was forced, despite her best efforts, to accept her new surroundings. She saw nothing but men in Yankee blue army uniforms or nineteenth century—style suits and work clothes, or females in long gowns, some of plain homespun materials, other, fancier outfits beribboned and flounced with expensive fabrics. The black women wore kerchief-style turbans. The whole scene was authentic down to the finest fringed parasol and the most intricate opaline buttons.

  Instead of the usual cars and tour buses seen in the center of the city, only horses and horse-driven omnibuses were in evidence. An occasional mule or ox pulled produce-laden wagons toward the French Market or the ships docked near the Mississippi levee.

  What does it mean? No, I can’t deal wi
th this now.

  Blindly, she sought for some way to break the strained silence and avoid the inevitable truth. “One of my stepfathers, Vincent Lafour, is from Louisiana. My family lived outside the city, near Lake Ponchartrain, when I was eight years old,” she said irrelevantly.

  Neither Etienne nor Cain responded to her disclosure…at first.

  “Over there,” Etienne told Cain. “Did you see Brisk going into the Cabildo?”

  Cain nodded, his face grim. “He’ll have the sheriff bird-dogging us in no time. Let’s get out of here.”

  Back on their wagon seats, Etienne shook the reins, directing the horse in the opposite direction from the jail.

  “Somebody had better give me a gun or a knife,” Harriet decided.

  “I wouldn’t trust you with any weapon.”

  “Are you still pouting over that little bop I gave you with my umbrella?”

  “No, I’m pouting over the two ‘little bops’ you gave me. Be forewarned, darlin’, I intend to pay you back, bop for bop. After I’ve tortured all your secrets out of you. And believe me, I know some very interesting torture techniques.”

  I’ll bet you do, honey. I’ve experienced a few of them already. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “That’s because you’re demented.”

  “Besides, you’ve been torturing me for weeks with that forceful seduction routine of yours.”

  “Well, wait till I hang you upside down from a tree and slather buttermilk all over your naked body.”

  Cain leaned forward to scrutinize Etienne with astonishment. The grin he gave his friend translated into a twentieth-century version of, “Way to go!” Normally, it would be accompanied with a high five.

  “Buttermilk?” she squeaked. “I hate buttermilk.”

  “You’re not the one who’ll be licking it,” Etienne informed her coolly.

  Licking? Every erogenous zone in Harriet’s body came alive. “That’s a five, buster,” she blustered. “Keep it up, and I’ll be able to fill my whole book with your macho, sexist tripe.”