Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  “Uncle Reggie, please don’t say, ‘I told you so!’” Anne pleaded. “Obviously not all American men are the type I was hoping to meet here. And America has as many problems with snobbishness as England does. The Creoles and the Americans both think they’re better than the other.”

  Reggie sighed. “Yes, I’m sure that’s true.” He paused, then said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this … but to be fair, you mustn’t judge all American men by Delacroix and Bodine.”

  “I should hope not,” Anne returned with a grim smile. “What a conceited care-for-nobody Delacroix is! He’s very full of himself and thinks he can entertain a woman simply by flashing that smile of his and flattering her excessively. I should hope I’m not so addle-brained that my head can be so easily turned by a few pretty words.”

  Reggie snorted. “Indeed!”

  “But this slavery issue …” Anne’s smile fell away. “I never expected to feel so strongly about it. It’s so wrong, Uncle Reggie. But men like Delacroix and Bodine don’t seem to think there’s anything wrong with it.”

  Reggie pushed back a stray wisp of hair from Anne’s eyes. “I know, dear. But there’s not a blessed thing you can do about it. Now give your old uncle a kiss, and let’s put our minds on something more pleasant, shall we?”

  Anne kissed Reggie, then took his advice and tried to think of something more pleasant, but out of the corner of her eye she could see Delacroix. He was standing with Bodine, their conversation interrupted by some late arrivals. A cluster of women had boarded the boat and headed straight for Delacroix. Peals of feminine laughter rang out, fans waved coquettishly, and many lashes fluttered over blushing cheeks as Delacroix wielded his charm.

  Anne’s own cheeks blazed with color, too. How could those women be so silly? she thought indignantly. What could that scoundrel possibly be saying that could be so entertaining? She strained to listen but, regrettably, could make out nothing. There was just the deep, pleasant rumble of his voice across the deck.

  She lifted a hand and briefly, shyly touched her lips. Were they as soft as an angel’s?

  Lucien watched enviously as Anne Weston stretched on her tiptoes to kiss her uncle on the cheek. He lifted his hand to his own face, imagining the light pressure of her lips against his skin. Having finally warded off the onslaught of female acquaintances as they’d boarded the boat, he was listening with half an ear to Bodine’s meaningless babble, inserting comments when necessary, but, for the most part, allowing himself the indulgence of regret.

  Anne Weston was everything he admired in a woman. Normally he’d never allow an exchange with a beautiful woman to get so serious, but Anne had seemed determined to take his measure by his conversation. The resulting bout of seriousness had been brief, but it had certainly shown Lucien her measure. He’d learned that she was spirited, full of convictions, and as open and unaffected as she claimed the Americans were. She was idealistic and passionate. All this, and packaged so fetchingly in golden perfection. He was intrigued, caught up in a wild infatuation the likes of which he’d never felt before.

  Sharp and tearing, the regret persisted, intensified. To her, he was a flirtatious wastrel, a conceited cad, and so he must remain in her estimation. He’d no business even wanting her to know his true self, the part of him that echoed every sentiment she’d expressed, felt every bit of repulsion she did for the institution of slavery. He watched her rest her head against Reggie’s shoulder and wished it was his own shoulder she used as a prop for those fair curls.

  “Delacroix, what do you say to a game of cards tonight?”

  Lucien bowed, relegating his regrets to the back of his mind. It simply wasn’t meant to be. “You know I can never resist a bit of gambling on a riverboat.”

  “Or anywhere else.” Bodine gave a bark of laughter.

  “You know me too well, Bodine. Directly after supper, I suppose?”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

  “Shall we dine together?”

  “If you like.”

  “Directly, then. J’ai faim. Save the girl for later, Bodine, when you’ve got the leisure to enjoy her. Besides, it’s too damned hot for rutting.”

  Bodine had fully intended to deflower the girl before dinner, but money was money, and he didn’t want to lose out on winning a few dollars by refusing to take supper earlier than usual. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  Bodine tipped his hat and walked away. Lucien watched him strut toward the stairs, so pleased with his latest purchases, and no doubt anticipating an evening of pleasure: good food, gambling, and rape.

  I look forward to the evening as well, you swine, Lucien thought. By the time you leave the card table, you’ll be lucky to make it to bed before you pass out. Unconscious from the sleeping herbs Armande mixed up for me, you won’t be able to lay a hand on the girl, or do a damned thing about it when I send your family of slaves down the river to their freedom.

  He turned away, his eyes returning of their own volition to where Anne Weston stood at the rail, her slim figure outlined against the Mississippi sunset, the cool breeze lifting her ringlets and bouncing them against her cheek as she looked out over the water.

  God, how he hated this masquerade.

  Anne woke up suddenly. Because her abigail insisted on closing the only small window to the tiny cabin they shared on the top deck of the Belvedere, the room was hot. All was silent except for the soft huffing of the smokestacks.

  Anne threw off her covers and pushed aside the mosquito netting that fell in a canopy over her bed. She picked up her watch locket from the bedside table, then swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to the window, shifting back the curtain. Squinting and holding the watch to catch the faint glow of moonlight, she could just make out the time: ten minutes past four. In another hour dawn would break. She had just enough time for a cooling walk on deck before the daily activities resumed and the crew began preparations for landing at New Orleans.

  Three or four of the crew would be on duty in the pilot’s cabin, navigating the boat and watching for river pirates, but otherwise the decks would be virtually deserted. The gamblers and revelers usually retired around two or three in the morning and would be sleeping off their booze by now, so predawn was probably the quietest time on the boat and the best opportunity Anne would have to be alone. She hadn’t been entirely alone since she’d left England, and it was making her feel a bit barmy.

  Anne turned to observe the dark form of her sleeping abigail, Sarah. The girl was sprawled on the small cot set against the opposite wall. Anne couldn’t detect any movement under the tent of mosquito netting, and Sarah’s breathing sounded quite deep. Normally Sarah was a heavy sleeper, and tonight didn’t seem to be an exception to the rule.

  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 perfectly … 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…