by Jane Feather
“Do not be absurd,” Dominic said, momentarily at a loss for a good retort.
“You are being absurd,” Genevieve maintained sturdily. “For the privateer who takes such a pride in his own lack of scruple, his own defiance of all convention, you are being more than a little hypocritical, it seems to me, with this nicety of feeling.”
“What I do, and what you do, Mademoiselle Genevieve, are two quite different matters,” Dominic stated, hanging onto his temper by a thread.
“Then why did you insist that I come to this house?” she challenged him. “It is the house of a kept whore. Why should I behave any differently?”
Dominic Delacroix was, for once, silenced. He had not thought beyond the fact that the house was the most convenient rendezvous. He had certainly not thought that Angelique could possibly object to what he chose to do on his own property, so long as she did not suffer materially. And it had not occurred to him that his chosen rendezvous would inform Genevieve’s perception of herself and what took place between them. He knew, for all her definitely questionable behavior, she was still a Creole lady, daughter of an old, aristocratic family, one who would soon be provided with a husband and the children who would inevitably bless the union.
Genevieve did not hesitate to press her advantage. “You broke your word,” she accused quietly.
Dominic sighed. “Not intentionally, Genevieve. It seems that Angelique planned to ensure that she was alone in the house with you—”
“Yes, so that she could use her voodoo magic that will bring the messenger from the dead to me.” Genevieve interrupted, shuddering as she remembered the terror that had preceded her attack on the quadroon.
Dominic frowned. “Voodoo magic cannot harm you, Genevieve.”
“That is easy for you to say,” she fired. “You did not walk through the sorcerer’s powder and disturb the pattern.”
“What are you talking about?” Impatiently, he walked over to the table where glasses and wine stood on a silver tray. “You need a little fortification, I think.”
Genevieve took the glass of champagne and sipped before telling him exactly what had transpired between herself and Angelique until he had made his own dramatic entrance. “You cannot blame me for what I did,” she finished, the tawny eyes challenging him.
“I most certainly can,” he responded, glad to revert to one area in which he was quite confident that he was right. “You do not behave like a street whore under any circumstances. And I do not wish to hear any further nonsense about my treating you in the way I treated Angelique, simply because we have been using this house. You are a Creole damsel whose lost maidenhood will be a secret between the two of us. At some point soon, you will marry and take your place in this society, and this youthful indiscretion will provide you with a hopefully rich memory for the future.”
Genevieve shook her head. “No, you are quite wrong.”
“You are making me angry again,” he said softly. “I have restrained myself with considerable effort, so far. But I cannot promise to continue doing so. I am right because that is the way it must be.”
“You do not understand!” Genevieve sprang from the bed. “If this makes you angry, then I am sorry for it, but I cannot help it. Do you think that I have not changed since we met, since …” Her hand waved expressively around the room. “Since all this happened? How could I still be the Creole maid preparing for marriage? I was never really suited for the part, anyway, and now it is quite impossible.”
Dominic closed his eyes momentarily, marshaling his forces. “You will see that I am right,” he said eventually. “This little interlude in your life will soon be over, and you will return to your old life, more mature, certainly, more experienced, much improved, in fact. But you will return.”
Genevieve had gone even paler than the evening’s experiences had left her. “Why will it soon be over?” She tried to sound merely curious, to keep the quaver of anxiety from her voice.
“Because I shall be at sea again, soon. I told you yesterday,” he said evenly. “And when … if … I come back, there will be a lot of water under the bridge, sprite. You will be betrothed, or surrounded by suitors at the very least …”
“Take me with you,” she asked abruptly. “What you describe would be a living death for me. Let me sail with you. I will not be in the way or expect anything from you. I understand that you do not wish for ties; neither do I. But now that I have had the excitement and the experience of living outside the rules in this way, I cannot be satisfied without it. Why should it be denied me?” She clasped her hands together, her eyes shining as she made this impassioned plea.
She was quite impossible, he thought with a degree of resignation. Genevieve Latour was one of those people who refused to deviate from the path she had set for herself. If she wanted something, she went out and got it, and did not rest until she had done so. He recognized the quality, since he possessed it himself in generous quantity. He also admired it, since, in this world, there were many worthwhile things that could not be done without an indomitable will. However, on this occasion, Mademoiselle Genevieve wanted the impossible, and his will must prove dominant.
“You are a spoiled child, Genevieve, who has never learned to take ‘no’ for an answer. You persist in believing that simply wanting something is sufficient reason for receiving it. I will most certainly not take you with me. I have never heard such a ridiculous idea.”
“It is not ridiculous. It might be so for an ordinary woman, but I am not—”
“No,” he interrupted drily. “You are not at all ordinary, I grant you that. But you are naive and ingenuous, and you do not know what you are suggesting. Even if I were mad enough to countenance it, my men would be up in arms, and justifiably so. We are not going for a decorous little sail in the Gulf, my dear Genevieve.”
“I did not imagine you were,” she said, still refusing to give up. “I know about piracy and the British blockade. I know there will be danger. But I don’t see why, if I am not concerned, you, and particularly your crew, should be.”
She did not know about gunrunning to supply a revolution, Dominic thought grimly. He sighed and brought the discussion to an abrupt, definitive end. “Put your clothes on. It’s time you went home.”
“I do not usually go home until dawn,” she said, sitting on the bed again with a firm thump, wriggling her bare toes and tossing back her hair. “And I think I am owed some compensation for what I have endured this evening. Particularly when you promised that everything would be all right.”
He looked at her closely. He could read only a certain calculated mischief in her expression, a sensual darkening of those tiger’s eyes. It was as if she had decided to drop the controversial discussion as if it had never been started. Somehow, such willing compliance made him distinctly uneasy, but it was what he had demanded, after all. It would hardly be logical to question it. And besides, the invitation she was extending, as she fell back upon the bed, moving her body with lascivious languor, was utterly irresistible.
Chapter Twelve
Dominic was right to feel uneasy about Genevieve’s seemingly ready compliance in the matter of his next voyage. However, she gave him no reason to persist in his uneasiness over the next few weeks, and he allowed himself to relax. The Latour household removed to Trianon, the plantation on Lake Borgne, and the privateer and his fleet set themselves up in the secluded anchorage in the swamp. The air rang with the sound of hammers and saws, was redolent with the smells of varnish and paint as the ships were scraped, repaired and refitted.
Genevieve was a frequent visitor, paddling a canoe through the twisted mangroves, keeping a wary eye out for alligators, and plucking tree crabs from her skirts when they jumped from the overhanging branches as the canoe glided beneath. It was not a journey she enjoyed particularly, but, as she had said prosaically to the privateer, when there was only the one means at one’s disposal to achieve one’s end, then one had better get on with it. Dominic had simply smiled
in agreement, and smoked his cigar, looking out over the smooth waters of the bayou. It was a smile he had often in her company, Genevieve had noticed, and it was rather a nice smile, one that she did not remember seeing often in the early days of their relationship.
Silas remarked on it, too, and he was not the only member of the crew to do so. But the girl seemed to know how to keep herself to herself, and never intruded on the ship’s business, although they had all become accustomed to the presence of the figure in a print gown, generally barefoot, the silvery-gold hair tied back with a ribbon. She behaved impeccably—there were no more incidents of the rigging-climbing variety—and monsieur’s mood was so equable, barely disturbed by the inevitable irritations and delays of refitting, that her presence was generally considered to be all to the good.
It was a hot Saturday morning at the end of July. Genevieve was lying on her back on the deck, basking in the sun, her belly full of crayfish prepared by the ship’s cook, her mouth still savoring the delicate fishy spiciness. As she waited for Dominic to suggest that they go below for a little privacy, she overheard the bosun and La Danseuse’s master discussing the all-important matter of acquiring a full complement of hands for the coming voyage.
“I’ll go to the quay, monsieur,” the bosun was saying. “Plenty of experienced men there, I reckon, who’d be more than glad to sign on with the promise of prize money.”
“Try Latour’s shipyard, also,” Dominic said with a devilish gleam in his eye. “I fancy the idea of stealing his men as well as his land.”
The bosun’s appreciative laugh rumbled in the still air. “I’ll try there tomorrow, monsieur. Bound to have some luck with what we can offer ’em.”
Genevieve kept as still as she could, although her blood raced in her veins and her muscles twitched with excitement. She had been racking her brains for a way to achieve her object, had thought of stowing away on one of the other privateers of the fleet, which might have given her a better chance than an attempt to hide on Dominic’s vessel. She would declare herself to the captain when they were well and truly on their way, and insist that he have her conveyed to Danseuse. But she could see any number of potential hazards in that arrangement, like the ships all taking a different course from each other, so that she might find herself half an ocean away from Dominic and Danseuse. But surely she could produce a disguise that would fool the bosun. He would never see the monsieur’s lady companion in a grubby boy in britches, eager to sail with the privateer—not if he wasn’t looking for such a thing. And Dominic would have no interest in examining his new crew, not unless one of them was unfortunate enough to draw the master’s attention with some error. She had realized that he considered such matters to be the bosun’s responsibility. She had also in the last weeks picked up enough technical information about sailing to answer questions knowledgeably. So long as she could keep her hair out of sight and stayed in the background as much as was feasible, it ought to be possible to keep her identity a secret for the few days it would take until they were too far into the Gulf to turn back.
Something nudged her hip. “Wake up, lazy bones. We are going to swim.” Dominic’s voice, light and amused, drifted down to her, causing her to start guiltily as his foot pressed again into her hip. “You must have been having some very wicked thoughts,” he said consideringly. “Judging by your expression.”
“Very wicked,” she agreed, gathering her wits about her and sitting up on the warm deck. “But they did not include swimming.”
“Later,” he promised, with the deep smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and infused her limbs with a liquid weakness. “Into the dinghy with you, now.”
Genevieve clambered over the side of Danseuse, springing nimbly into the captain’s boat. Dominic followed, took the oars and pulled away, across the bayou and into a narrow, deserted creek. “When will you leave?” Genevieve asked carelessly, trailing a hand through the water, making an ineffectual grab at the bright silver flash of a mullet leaping high out of the water, twisting in the air before falling back beneath the surface again.
Dominic looked at her sharply. He had been waiting for the opportune moment to prepare her for his impending departure, but had been uncertain how she would receive the news. In fact, reluctant though he was to admit it, he was not looking forward to leaving her, and this made the disclosure even more difficult to make. “Tuesday,” he said, deciding that simplicity was the best policy.
Tuesday! How on earth was she to find an unimpeachable excuse for her absence by then? At least, Victor was not at Trianon, and Elise was safely ensconced in Villafranca with her new husband, so she would only have to convince Hélène with the deception. “How long do you expect to be gone?” Again, her voice was casual, her eyes closed against the sun, her body lying back in the thwart, apparently relaxed.
“I cannot say,” he replied truthfully. “Two months, three, perhaps. It depends on many factors beyond my control.”
It would have to be the Ursulines again, Genevieve decided. But this time, she would go on a long retreat to the convent school near the plantation, where she had received most of her education. It would cause no remark, now that Elise was married; Nicolas was in New Orleans with Latour; and Hélène occupied with the social round of the country in the summer. Genevieve’s scholastic inclinations were implicitly tolerated if not actively encouraged, and she could say she was going for an indefinite stay to escape the dullness of the summer furnace. It was well known that Mother Thérèse would always welcome her whenever she wished to go, and for as long as she wished to stay.
“At least on the high seas, you will escape this heat,” she murmured with carefully calculated wistfulness. “I shall melt and die of boredom.”
There was not a trace of hostility in her voice; even the envy carried a note of acceptance. Dominic shipped his oars in the rowlocks and let the boat drift as he reached down and pulled her up against his knees. “I shall miss you, sprite,” he said with complete honesty.
Kneeling up on the bottom of the boat, her elbows folded across his lap, she smiled up at him. “Let us not talk of sad things. We have a few days, yet.”
It was amazing how mature she had become, Dominic reflected, bending to taste the sweetness of her mouth with a nectar-sipping tongue, feeling the softness of her breasts against his knees, reveling in the promise of her body under the sun. Somewhere, there was a very lucky Creole gentleman waiting in the wings, as yet unaware of exactly how lucky he was going to be.
“Monsieur?”
The bosun turned at the hissed summons. A grimy lad in a pair of britches far too large for him, held up at the waist by a thick belt, and a jerkin that nearly drowned him, was dancing nervously in the shadows of a low building in Monsieur Latour’s shipyard. “What is it, lad?” he demanded, obeying the summons of an imperatively beckoning finger.
“Can I sign on, monsieur?” the lad whispered, looking anxiously around. “I’ve been round ships all my life.”
“What are you frightened of, boy?” The bosun looked around, but could see nothing in the busy shipyard scene to justify the lad’s very clear nervousness.
“Pa,” the boy said. “He’ll have my hide if he hears me. Won’t let me go, but I got to, monsieur.” A pair of golden eyes glowed in the boy’s dirty face as he begged with a powerful passion. “I want to go to sea … always have, but Pa says I gotta stay here and earn my keep. Please, monsieur, let me sign on.”
The bosun thought. He knew well what it was like when the sea bug bit; all the best sailors had it, and they’d all gone to sea no older than this lad, fleeing family and the heaviness of the land for the freedom of wind and waves. If the lad was truly bitten, then he’d provide years of loyal, experienced service once he was trained. Slowly, he nodded. “Be on the wharf with the others, Tuesday night, then,” he said. “You’ll be picked up by cutter and taken to Danseuse. Bring your kit.”
“Aye, monsieur.” The lady’s eyes shone radiantly. “You’ll not re
gret it, monsieur.”
“It’s to be hoped you don’t,” the bosun said with a short nod. “There’s no room on a Delacroix vessel for the faint-hearted or the insubordinate. But if you keep a clear head, do as you’re told, and move fast, you’ll be all right.” He strode off, whistling, leaving Genevieve to melt into the shadows and scamper back through the trees to change out of her borrowed clothes behind a bush. She then sauntered innocently back to the house.
Hélène was sitting in a hammock on the gracious, pillared porch, a glass of lemonade in her hand, a book opened on her taffeta lap. Her eyes, however, were not on the print, but were fixed on the middle distance. She was missing Elise. Fond though she was of Genevieve, the girl was no substitute for her elder sister who shared Hélène’s interest in matters of domestic and social moment. Genevieve barely noticed what she wore, absented herself whenever possible from the social round, and had no interest in gossip. If Genevieve were not at Trianon, requiring the presence of her stepmother as chaperone and guardian, Hélène could pay an extended visit to Elise at Villafranca. Victor would not object since his business was keeping him in New Orleans at the moment.
“Good afternoon, Hélène.” The light voice of the subject of her thoughts shocked Hélène out of her reverie. Genevieve called to her from across the lush expanse of lawn that was watered night and morning by an army of little boys and girls with watering cans.
“You should not walk in this heat, chère,” Hélène admonished weakly. “You will perspire.”
Genevieve laughed and ran up the porch steps. “It is too late to prevent that, I fear. After a mere three steps, one resembles a wet rag.” She mopped her brow with a lacy handkerchief and sank into a low rocking chair, reaching for the lemonade pitcher. “I would like to visit the convent school for a few weeks, Hélène. Would you mind very much if I left you alone?”