The Stars We Walked Upon (Seven Sisters Series Book 5)

by M. L. Bullock

  The Stars We Walked Upon

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2016 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is dedicated to all the fans of the Seven Sisters series. Thank you for walking through the Blue Room and strolling down the shady paths of the Moonlight Garden with me.

  May you have many dreams, and may they all come true.

  O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;

  O Night and Stars return!

  And hide me from the hostile light

  That does not warm, but burn

  That drains the blood of suffering men;

  Drinks tears, instead of dew:

  Let me sleep through his blinding reign,

  And only wake with you!

  —Emily Bronte

  Excerpt from “Stars”

  Prologue

  Mobile, AL, 1851

  Sunlight splashed through the tall conservatory windows, and I leaned back in the comfortable parlor chair, a glass of brandy in my hand. I closed my eyes, allowing the music to carry me to places far and away. The sound of the piano lent to the illusion of sanity and comfort, two things perpetually absent from my world of escalating darkness. The notes were light and choppy and full of happiness. If I allowed myself to, I could imagine I was in the music room of some talented debutante hoping to impress me, the elegant Captain David Garrett.

  How many times had this been the case? How many musical recitals had been performed for me?

  Sipping my brandy, I scanned through the memories with pleasure. The first face I recalled was that of the delightful Katrina Phelps, the daughter of Christian and Mary Beth Phelps of Savannah, Georgia. A pretty thing with light brown eyes, a sharp, clever wit and a sultry voice, a voice too sultry for one so young. Still, as charming as her face and figure were, she had not yielded to my ardent desire despite my best efforts to persuade her. The Phelps family welcomed me into their particular society; that is until that wretched letter arrived. And then Katrina was lost to me.

  Ah, but there was always a fly in the ointment. One sour spinster who could not or would not leave the past alone. Yes, the past was my constant companion. I shook the memory of Miss Phelps and her tearstained face away. How she cried over me! At the time, I believed that I loved her—imagine that!

  Oh yes, then there was Miss Virginia Lewis. The mother was so keen to make my acquaintance that I barely knew whom to seduce—the mother or the daughter. However, after meeting the woman’s husband, I decided that the latter would suffice. Unlike many of the maidens I dabbled with, I had not been able to control myself, so willing was she. I did partake of the young woman’s delights and so perhaps deserved the disdain of Red Hills’ society, but in the end, what did I care? Red Hills was no Savannah, nor Charleston nor even a Mobile. It was merely a farm community, and Miss Virginia Lewis nothing more than a glamorous wealthy farm girl with hefty arms, pink cheeks and skin that tasted like butter. My cheeks warmed at the thought of her, or perhaps it was the brandy. I smiled remembering our times together in the milk shed, the store cupboard, the floor of the carriage. But I had been a much younger man then, just hitting my prime.

  The piano’s notes climbed higher and the music became lighter. I yielded myself to the tune, pausing only to sip the decadent drink in my crystal glass. I felt as if the notes could almost carry me to heaven—it was probably as close to that holy place as I could ever hope to reach.

  Especially after what happened to Miss Cottonwood. Dear, sweet, gentle Miss Cottonwood. Now she had been a true lady. That had not been entirely my fault. The girl must have been out of her mind to seek me aboard the Delta Queen—or been encouraged to do so by someone other than me. With slitted eyes I observed my nude piano player. Loose coils of long blond hair hung down her back and stuck to her skin. How she sweated when we made love! She was no pasty-faced farm girl happy to endure whatever pleased me. No, she was an active participant—curious, hungry and eager to please and be pleased. It occurred to me that I should love her. After all, we were bound together in a dark world of our own making; perhaps I did love her in my own perverse way.

  Although I told myself that she was the bane of my existence I admired her ambition, her skilled depravities. How I loved her constant scheming—her spirited aspirations far exceeded mine. She was like that biblical hussy Jezebel, and she deserved to be thrown out of the tower. I was the doomed Ahab.

  I knew all this, and yet I was her slave.

  Suddenly the piano made a crashing noise as her hands slammed down on the keys. Quick as a flash she was off her tufted stool and standing before me. Her damp tresses covered her goblet-shaped breasts.

  “What are you thinking? I demand you tell me!”

  As subtly as I could, I glanced at her hands to make sure that they held no object that might injure me, for my love had a deadly temper. Seeing no scissors, knitting needles or any other type of blade, I smiled at her peacefully.

  “I think of nothing but you, my love. What else should I think of?”

  “You’re a fool! Tell me you’re not thinking of her!” Her hands went to the curve of her naked hips, and she stared at me with unbelieving eyes.

  “Calm down, dearest. Sit in my lap. Let us talk of the future—not the past. You promised, remember?”

  I could see the struggle in her eyes as she gave in to my request and smiled that catlike smile. Her arms snaked about my neck, and her frame was as light as a feather as she perched in my lap. With insincere calmness I stroked her hair as she plunged her hand in my open shirt and rubbed my chest lightly. “Now. Where shall we go next, darling?” I spoke carefully in soothing tones. “To Paris? Perhaps to Boston? Where shall I take you?” She kissed my neck with her childlike lips—lips that always tasted of lemonade. How she loved the drink! “Nectar of the gods,” she called it as she added ridiculous amounts of gin into her glass.

  “I want to see all of those places, my darling captain. All of them! But we must wait a little while.”

  I wondered what plan she had concocted in her feverish brain. Isla Beaumont rarely kept me in mind when she planned a scheme. Why should today be any different? She took my hand with her small one and kissed it. “Good news, my love. I am with child.”

  I was shocked into silence. I weighed her mood to determine how to proceed.

  “Isn’t that delightful?”

  I responded with a confident smile. “If you are happy, I am happy. I must say I have never considered myself a family man. My, how you have changed me.”

  She giggled. “Oh no, darling. I am quite sure that I am carrying a Cottonwood. A long-awaited boy for Jeremiah Cottonwood. Won’t he be delighted to hear the news that he will finally have a son!” She hopped out of my lap and spun about as if she were in the ballroom.

  It was my turn to laugh. The whole thing seemed so outlandish I could not wrap my mind around it. “You and Cottonwood? Tell me, my clever love. How did you ever manage that? It was my understanding that the man had no appreciation for young beauties such as yourself, not of the female persuasion.”

  She curtsied graciously, lifting the edges of a pretend dress. “Never underestimate my skills. That would be a mistake. He was like clay in my hands.” She giggled again and pretended to hide a nonexistent blush.

  I raised my glass to her and said, “Well done.”

  She frowned. “You do not seem as pleased as I imagined you would be. Isn’t this the cleverest thing? Just think. In a few months we will have what we wanted—Seven Sisters! Oh, and that is just the beginning! Imagine me with a fat little baby and all that money. Won’t that b
e funny?”

  “Not to doubt your amazing ability to make men do whatever you desire, but what makes you believe that Mr. Cottonwood will welcome this news? We all know that man is an evil-tempered drunk.”

  “I have it all planned out.”

  “I had no doubt of that.”

  “You must trust me, dear Captain. I will tell you more later, but now I need a distraction—a ‘faveur discrète’. Let us go upstairs and celebrate!”

  I swirled the rest of my brandy and tossed it down my throat. The warmth of it invigorated me. Now wasn’t the time to consider the meaning of all this. I would do that when she slept—whenever she slept. Sometimes she would not sleep for days. I pulled her close to me and stared down into her cherub-like face. How could such a face hide such a mind?

  “You are full of surprises, my sweet one.”

  “Happy surprises?” Her coy look stirred my loins.

  “Are there any other kind?” I scooped her up in my arms. She kissed my neck as I stepped over the body of our hostess. I accidentally kicked her and foolishly offered an “Excuse me.”

  To that, she giggled again. “David,” she whispered in my ear, “Lennie Ree can’t hear you. She’s dead.”

  By the time we made it upstairs, I was nearly naked and completely hers.

  ***

  Hours later I slipped out of our stolen bed to go downstairs in search of food. I was thinking not only for myself but also for my beloved, who was always ravenous after a murder. Now that she was with child, I was sure she would be even hungrier. But I needed food myself too. This was no small house—surely there would be something hidden in a larder somewhere. Maybe even some lemonade for my Isla.

  Being the lover of the demanding, demented cherub took a lot of energy, and I needed to build my strength. I walked down the stairs holding up my trousers with one hand and whistling. I paused at the bottom step to give a respectful nod to our dead hostess. Just as I stepped over her the front door opened—there was nowhere to hide. The housekeeper, a tall, thin woman dressed in all black, did not see me at first. She set her basket down on the entryway table and left her purse there while she removed her plain black hat. I could see by her demeanor she was not someone to be trifled with—a no-nonsense kind of woman.

  I decided to take the bull by the horns. Some women preferred to be charmed into doing whatever it was I wanted them to do; others preferred the direct approach. I chose the second option and hoped for the right results. If she failed to amuse me, then of course we would simply have to kill her too.

  “And who might you be?” I asked in a commanding voice.

  The woman appeared calm, not shocked in the least by what she saw or by my question. She had not run out the door, which she very well could have. Out of respect, I buttoned my trousers and my open shirt.

  “Docie Loxley is my name. I am the housekeeper.”

  “Well, Miss Loxley, it appears that my hostess has had an accident and died.”

  “That much I see, and it is a shame. I have not been paid in six months. Who’s going to give me my wages now?” She walked toward the stiff body of Lennie Ree Meadows and touched her with the toe of her black boot as if she wanted to make sure she was dead. She needn’t have bothered.

  Isla said from behind me, “We should bury her. But somewhere where dogs won’t find her. You don’t want the dead to come back. They smell awful.” She hopped on my back as if she were a child and I a child’s party entertainer. I did not argue but gave her a piggyback ride up and down the stairs. Isla giggled with pleasure. At least she was clothed now, although her hair was mussed and she smelled of our lovemaking. She slid off my back and stepped gingerly over our hostess. She presented herself to the housekeeper, her hands on her hips. If the housekeeper knew that her life was in the young woman’s hands, if she understood that Isla could and would kill her if it pleased her, she gave no sign. She sighed and said to her, “You needn’t bother yourself with this mess. I will bury her after breakfast. She’s not in any hurry. Are you hungry?”

  Apparently deciding the housekeeper should live, Isla bobbed alongside, free spirit that she was, and followed her into the larder. I heard Isla ask her as if it were the most natural thing, “After you bury the old lady, would you mind helping me get my hair in order? It’s a rat’s nest.”

  I didn’t hear the woman’s reply but if she had given the wrong one, I would have heard Isla’s angry scream. As they left, I stole a tablecloth from a nearby table and covered the deceased woman’s body. “Again, my apologies, madam.” Leaving her in Miss Loxley’s hands, I walked away from the whole mess in search of more brandy.

  Now there were three of us—three savages and all with black hearts.

  Chapter One—Carrie Jo

  “Dang it!” I woke myself up again faced with a choice—either put my size-seven foot on Ashland’s behind and kick him off our brand new canopy bed or get up and leave. After five nights of unintentional access into his less than faithful dreams I had had about enough. It was too late to get into a knock-down, drag-out fight, so I decided to take the high road. In an angry huff, I sat up like a snapped rubber band and threw back the covers. Naturally, he didn’t flinch.

  Of course not! Why should he stop dreaming about some curvaceous supermodel while I’m fuming right beside him?

  I stared down at the perfectly peaceful face of my sleeping husband, and my heart was a ball of feelings—none of them good. I couldn’t decide which I hated more: that I couldn’t control my dream catching or that I couldn’t stop thinking about what I saw. Maybe it was just that I wouldn’t be able to sleep for the rest of the night—God, I was tired! Call me sensitive, but the images of wanton women twisting under my husband in the throes of passion were just a bit more than I could bear. The last thing I wanted to do was fall asleep again and “enjoy” the big finish.

  He’s lucky we have a housekeeper who likes to cook for him because I sure as hell won’t be making him breakfast! Not this morning!

  Still, in the back of my mind I knew how this would play out. He’d wake up as chipper as a beaver with a new log without a clue as to why I was so pissed. I sure couldn’t come out and tell him. Nope. No way was I giving up the high ground now. I might have issues, but I wasn’t the cheater. I’d slap a big ol’ fake Carrie Jo smile on my face and pretend that everything was right as rain. Thankfully, he did not have women’s intuition. For someone who had extrasensory gifts, Ashland Stuart was none too perceptive—at least not when it came to me.

  Swearing under my breath, I got out of bed and walked to the large round window across the room. The moon glowed round and near-perfect above the city of Mobile. A few wisps of clouds passed in front of it, but they quickly skittered away as the breeze blew in and along with it the fog from the nearby bay. According to the weatherman, the temperatures were never this warm in January, but people didn’t seem to mind. They liked wearing flip-flops and T-shirts even in the dead of winter. As my old friend Bette used to tell me, “If you don’t like the weather in Mobile, just wait a few minutes, dah-ling. It will change!” She’d chuckle and shake her head in amusement, white curls bouncing with every shake. I wondered what advice she’d have for me now. She loved Ashland, that much I knew. I had known her less than a year and she was thirty years my senior, but she had truly become one of my best friends ever. I missed her every single day. She had been a second mom—a confidante, my protector. I loved her.

  I leaned against the window with arms crossed and stared down at the quiet downtown streets below. From the top floor of our Victorian home, the view was peaceful, with the exception of the occasional siren from the nearby police station. My friend and assistant Rachel informed me that the quiet façade would quickly fade when Mardi Gras kicked off in a few weeks. Apparently it was such a parking and traffic nightmare that she’d already developed maps to help us navigate traffic and avoid the bead-hungry, moon-pie-seeking masses. We even changed our office hours to accommodate the local parade calendar.
I looked over my shoulder at Ashland—he didn’t stir. Typical.

  Think about something else, Carrie Jo!

  I tried to distract myself with thoughts of work. I still couldn’t believe I had an office—a real business of my own. Word had gotten out about my role in the restoration of Seven Sisters and the additions to the facility. Those old plantation owners were beginning to see what a lucrative venture restoring these beautiful downtown homes truly was. Of course I could not take all the credit. It took a team, and many of those team members were no longer with us. Like it did so often recently, my mind traveled back to the first time I visited this charming yet dangerous city. Some people called Mobile the Azalea City; others called it the Port City. In my own experience I believed a better name would be the Supernatural City. I had never been to New Orleans, but I was pretty sure that old city had nothing on this one.

  I nervously spun the white gold wedding band on my finger and stared at the shiny ring in the moonlight. Tears flooded my eyes. We’d fought so hard to keep it all together, and now here I was staring out the window unable to sleep beside the man I loved. I did love him, and he loved me. I would just have to figure out a way to get my dream catching under control.

  Suddenly I felt two hands on my shoulders. I gasped and nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to find a laughing Ashland standing behind me with his hands raised in surrender. “Sorry! I thought you heard me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “What the hell?”

  He laughed again. Normally I would find the sound cheerful, even sexy. Now I just wanted to slap him. He said in a softer voice, “You were deep in thought. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

  “Well, you did. Let me catch my breath.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come back to bed? Maybe I can find a way to soothe your nerves?” He rubbed my shoulder, but I didn’t encourage him.

  I stammered for a moment, then stomped to the bed and grabbed my blanket, intending to find sleep elsewhere. “I can’t sleep. You go to bed. No sense in both of us being tired.” Playfully he grabbed the other end. He still had no clue how mad I really was. He had no idea that I knew about his breast-centric dreams. “Let go, Ashland!”