Lifting a sculpted brow, Charles drawled, "What's the matter? Adam put a flea in your ear?"
Flashing him a wrathful glance, Betsey snarled, "Don't be vulgar, Charles!" And while normally she would have been perfectly content to turn her rage on Charles, or anyone else unfortunate enough to cross her path, she was too angry to bother with such satisfaction now. She wanted revenge. She wanted Adam to be punished, and Charles could help her....
An ugly expression on her lovely face, and her limpid green eyes narrowed and hard, she walked over to him and said fiercely, "I want him dead! He insulted me!"
"I do hope you don't expect me to challenge him to a duel?" Charles responded dryly. "He's reputed to be an excellent shot and pure grace with a sword."
"Don't be silly! I don't want you to get hurt—only him." She frowned, thinking furiously. A gleam of excitement leaped into her eyes. Gleefully, she suggested, "We could hire someone! Maybe not to kill him, but some thugs to beat him. Couldn't we?"
Charles gave her a thoughtful look. "Are you serious?" he asked carefully. "You want me to arrange to harm your wonderful Adam?"
Betsey's mouth tightened in an ugly line. "Yes! I want him to learn that no one discards me!"
Charles gave an ironic laugh. "I wish you'd felt this way earlier—hiring someone to beat him would have been much less expensive." When Betsey looked puzzled, he seated himself casually on a small chair and admitted coolly, "When you seemed determined to marry him in Natchez, I took matters into my own hands and spent a great deal of the capital that we managed to salvage from Virginia on hiring a thug to kill him." Charles's face twisted. "Unfortunately, the bastard took my money and didn't hold up his end of the bargain, and now I'm afraid that with our funds so low, I dare not lay out the amount of money needed to hire someone else."
Betsey looked outraged at Charles's confession, and stepping near him, she slapped him. He flinched from the force of the blow, but catching her wrist in a crushing hold, he twisted her arm until she cried out in agony. "Don't ever," he said glacially, "do that again. I've warned you for the last time."
Betsey began to cry pitifully. "Oh, Charles, you know I don't mean to hurt you, but what are we going to do? I want him punished! It's just not fair!"
He knew how she could work herself up into a frenzy, culminating in tears, tantrums and sulks, making his life and everyone else's around her miserable; and with the possibility of a proposal of marriage from Pierre Michaud in the offing, it was imperative to restore Betsey's spirits immediately. His irritation showing on his handsome features, Charles released her arm and said, "I'll see what I can do. I can't promise you anything, but perhaps I can arrange something...."
Betsey was instantly all smiles. "Oh, could you?"
She lowered her lashes. "It would make me so much more agreeable to tying myself to that mere boy."
Charles snorted. "I'm sure it would." He caught her chin in a painful grasp. "But you're going to tie yourself to that mere, rich boy, aren't you? Whether I can concoct something unpleasant for St. Clair or not."
A sullen droop to her mouth, Betsey nodded. "I hate being poor! It's, it's so uncivilized!"
"Well, keep in mind that it is that mere boy, Pierre Michaud, who can keep you in a very civilized state." Charles retorted brutally. Seeing that Betsey understood, he relaxed and continued in a kinder tone. "You should know that while you were attempting to charm your way into St. Clair's good graces, I received a message from Pierre. He is so eager to see you that he has made plans to meet us here tomorrow morning and intends to escort us to his home." Charles sent his sister a stern glance. "Whatever your personal feelings, tomorrow morning I want you looking your best and I want a beguiling smile on your lips when you see him."
Betsey pulled a face. Sullenly she muttered, "I could probably be more resigned to Pierre if I knew that you would see to it that Adam was beaten... and made arrangements so that I could watch it being done. Oh, please, Charles!"
Charles sighed. Once Betsey got an idea in her head, there was no swaying her, and unless he was prepared to watch her whistle the Michaud fortune down the wind, which he wasn't, it was clear that he was going to have to placate her. "Very well, little sister," Charles said grimly. "If I can have your word that you will behave yourself with Pierre, you may watch and I shall find the wherewithal to hire someone to administer a sound thrashing to Mr. Adam St. Clair."
It was late when Charles returned to their rooms, and from the expression on his face when he entered, it was obvious that his errand had been successful.'
"You found someone!" Betsey squealed with pleasure.
"Yes, I found someone—a pair of river rats who would no doubt slit their own mother's throat if the price was right." Charles frowned. "We do have a major problem, though—getting Adam to the riverfront where those two will be waiting for him. I cannot conceive of a reason why he would go there—and late tonight at that."
Betsey looked thoughtful. "What about a message concerning that brother-in-law of his? You know, Jason Savage. Everyone in Natchez talked about how close the two men are, almost like brothers. If Adam received a note implying that Savage was in grave danger and that only Adam's presence could save him, wouldn't that bring him?"
"Very good!" Charles said admiringly. "Since the message wouldn't be directly from Savage, we wouldn't have to worry about him recognizing that the handwriting is not his brother-in-law's either."
When the dirty, crumpled note that the Ashers had concocted was delivered to Adam later that evening, he stood staring thoughtfully at it for a long time. Savanna was asleep in their bedchamber and Adam had been alone in the salon when the message had arrived.
He didn't believe the contents for a moment. Even if Micajah had somehow managed to kidnap Jason, which was unlikely, it was even more unlikely that he would bring him to New Orleans, or that, having done such an inane thing, he would now want to speak with Jason's brother-in-law. The note didn't make sense at all, but because of all that had gone on previously, and knowing that Micajah and Jeremy could still be in a position to cause trouble, Adam didn't see that he had any choice but to follow the note's instructions and go to the Broken Sword Tavern just off Girod Street near the waterfront at midnight.
But there were a few things he could do in the meantime. A visit with the hotel's night clerk confirmed his opinion that the Broken Sword was not a tavern patronized by genteel society—far from it. A messenger sent to the Savage town house returned shortly with news that came as no surprise to Adam: neither Monsieur Savage nor his wife had been in residence lately, nor were they expected to be at any time soon.
That the note was a trap was becoming clearer by the moment, but there was still a niggle of worry for Adam. Just because the meeting was at a tawdry waterfront tavern and Jason hadn't been in New Orleans recently didn't mean that the note wasn't genuine, and therefore, he dared not ignore it.
Briefly Adam cursed the fact that Bodene was at Campo de Verde. He would have felt easier about the situation if he had Bodene at his side. But since he didn't have him...
Not wasting a moment, Adam dispatched an urgent message to Bodene's henchman, Jake, at The Golden Lady. Bodene trusted Jake implicitly and had informed Adam that if ever he needed someone to rely on, Jake was his man. While he waited for an answer, he changed into the plainest clothing he possessed, and when Jake arrived, Adam explained the situation.
Jake didn't like it any better than Adam. "I still think you're wrong," Jake growled when he heard what Adam planned to do. "You're a damn fool for not letting me and Dooley follow you down to that place."
Adam smiled faintly. "I need you and Dooley here to watch over my wife... and I need you and Dooley to rouse the alarm if I don't come back from the Broken Sword."
"Don't think Bodene is going to like me letting you risk your neck this way."
"I don't see that I have any choice," Adam replied sharply. "If the note is genuine, I don't want Jason's life put in further danger, and
while I'm sure that you and Dooley are the souls of discretion, I don't want to do anything that might make our quarry nervous or suspicious. It's possible that the author of the note might recognize you as Bodene's man and realize that I'm not following the instructions... and if Jason's life is at stake..."
Jake grunted. "I see your point, but I still don't like it."
"That may be, but I'm confident that I can handle the situation. Besides, I want you and Dooley here to protect my wife, just in case the note is merely a ruse to get me away from her."
For a moment, his face softened as he thought of Savanna. A dozen times this evening he had nearly blurted out his feelings for her, but seeing the signs of fatigue, and aware of her pain and exhaustion, he had tamped down his emotions and exerted himself to be a charming, undemanding companion.
His eyes fell on the note in his hand. He sighed. Well, there was nothing for it—he would have to go to the Broken Sword at midnight and hope to God that he could keep his wits about him and avoid whatever trap he felt confident had been laid for him.
When Jake left to go get Dooley from The Golden Lady, Adam checked on the sleeping Savanna several times while he awaited their return. Standing at her bedside and staring down at her face in gentle repose, her flame-red hair flowing over the plump white pillows, he felt his chest tighten painfully. If anything had happened to her!
In the salon, he wrote her a note, explaining where he had gone and why, and when Jake and Dooley returned a few minutes later, he handed Jake the note. With that done, he had no more reason to procrastinate, and having already concealed a small pistol in his waistcoat and a knife down the inside of one polished boot, he felt that he was as prepared as he ever would be to meet the author of the mysterious note.
Adam arrived several minutes before midnight, not at all surprised that the Broken Sword turned out to be a rough-and-tumble sort of place, the ceaselessly churning Mississippi River lapping at its sagging foundation. The small tavern was dimly lit and the air was full of the sour scent of unwashed bodies, liquor and several other offensive odors that Adam didn't want to identify. As he had been instructed, he selected an empty table near the door and after taking a careful glance around, sat down and ordered a whiskey from the slatternly tavern maid who approached him.
Having no intention of being drugged, Adam left the drink untouched when it arrived and lit a long black cheroot. A thin line of blue smoke drifting upward near his dark head, he smoked his cheroot and continued to watch the inhabitants. They were just what one would have expected to find in a low place like this—an obvious whore or two, a few trappers, some riverfront bullies and several raucous members of a flatboat crew. His arrival had caused a stir, but after a moment everyone had gone back to what he had been doing in the first place. No one seemed the least interested in Adam and as the minutes passed and he remained alone at his table, he began to grow uneasy. Surreptitiously, he glanced at his pocket watch. It was by now over a half hour past midnight and there seemed to be no sign of the person who had written the note. Continuing to leisurely smoke his cheroot, every nerve braced for danger, Adam took another long survey of the room.
There were a few candles guttering here and there, and though his gaze tried to pierce the dark shadows of the corners, he could see nothing to alarm him. Growing annoyed and concerned at the absence of the note writer, he eyed the untouched pale amber glass of whiskey. Was it drugged? Was that why nothing had happened? They wanted him groggy or senseless before they made their move? He smiled grimly. Too bloody bad! He had no intention of accommodating them. The minutes continued to spin out and slowly, like a snake oozing into view, another possibility occurred to him: had the note just been some sort of vicious prank? Perhaps he hadn't been wrong when he had considered the note to be a ruse to get him away from Savanna.
Adam was on his feet in an instant. Tossing some coins on the battered table, he spun on his heels and barged out the door. If anything had happened to her! If the entire point of the note had been to get him away from her so that she could be kidnapped or harmed...
It didn't bear thinking about, but he couldn't shake the notion from his mind, Micajah's gloating features floating menacingly in front of him. Heedless of anything but the frantic urge to see his wife, Adam bolted down the uneven street, hardly aware of his surroundings, and because he was distracted by thoughts of Savanna's peril, he was not mindful of his own very real danger....
The first blow caught him by surprise, the viciously swung cudgel striking him fully on his left side, the heavy club savagely crashing against his head and shoulder. The impact nearly drove Adam to his knees, and as the pain surged through him, he fought desperately to clear the dancing black mist that exploded before his eyes.
Adam's attacker had chosen his site well and had been waiting for him in a dark, rank alley, revealing his presence only when the trap was sprung. Fighting to stay on his feet, Adam became aware that there were two men, their voices echoing painfully inside his head.
"Goddammit! Don't kill him! We're just supposed to beat him up. We ain't being paid enough to kill!"
"I ain't taking no chances. He's a damned big bloke and I wants him softened up afore I lays my weapon down and see how handy he is with his fives."
"Never mind that! Grab him! Grab him! Quick, drag him back here, where they're waiting!"
Adam felt rough hands lay hold of him and hustle him swiftly down the alley. It was to his advantage to appear stunned, and since he wasn't far from that state, it seemed simpler to go along with them rather than fight. But he used the time it took them to drag and push him down the twisting alley to gather his senses and prepare for the battle that was to come.
The note had been a bait for him after all, and like a green boy, he'd let his fear for Savanna blind him to dangers outside the tavern. Furious with himself, he ignored his aching head and vowed that someone was going to be in for a big surprise. It was obvious that the men who held him prisoner were only hired bullies, and from their conversation it was also apparent that the beating for which these fellows had been hired wouldn't be administered until the three of them had reached wherever "they" were waiting.
Adam became aware of the faint glow of lantern light and he was flung violently forward and landed painfully on the filthy floor of the alley. He started to spring to his feet, but a boot connected brutally with his ribs before glancing off his head, nearly knocking him out. Trying desperately to clear his head, Adam barely heard the exchange going on over his prostrate body.
"Is this the fellow?" one of his captors growled.
In the faint light of the lantern set on a low post, Adam risked a look, but could only make out two heavily cloaked shapes. They remained in the shadowy darkness out of reach of the lantern's light, and beyond the fact that there were two of them, he could tell little about them, until he heard Betsey's breathless, "Oh, yes! That's him! Now beat him!"
The two men set to work with a will, and, caught at a distinct disadvantage on the ground, too busy trying to protect himself to take offensive action, Adam suffered several vicious blows and kicks to his head and ribs. Dimly he was aware of Betsey's delighted laughter in the background. "Yes! Yes! Kick him again! Again! Make him bleed! I want him to bleed."
Her voice a cruel litany in his head, eventually Adam managed to roll away and stagger upright to his feet. Groggy and in pain, he stood swaying in the flickering glow of the lantern. Icily furious and filled with a fierce need to give as good as he had got, he forgot the weapons he had brought with him.
With a snarl he charged the two men, his powerful fists violently pummeling indiscriminately left and right. His charge surprised them, and in the scramble to avoid those lethal fists, one of his assailants fell down. Adam grinned and aimed a savage kick at the fellow's head even as he continued to rain blow after telling blow upon the other man.
This was not what the two assailants had been led to expect and they were undone. They were bullies and jackals, not figh
ters, and had not planned on their prey inflicting any hurt on them. Filled with sullen resentment at the way things were turning out, they began to retreat, but Adam would have none of it.
Not allowing them any room to escape, he sent a fist flying into the nose of the upright man, another into his mouth, and as that fellow yowled and stumbled backward, Adam turned his attention to the man on the ground, who was attempting to rise. He sent a boot smashing into the creature's belly. When the man groaned and doubled over clutching his belly, Adam said impersonally, "Doesn't feel very good, does it, my good man?"
There was silence, except for the faint groans of the beaten men, as Adam stood there swaying from his battering, but his fists were clenched and ready. His two assailants were clearly no longer a threat, and it was then that Charles rushed him, his malacca cane upraised to strike. Charles was no fighter, and Adam avoided the cane and contemptuously knocked him out with one brutal punch.
As Adam's fist connected with Charles's handsome chin, Charles gave an odd little sigh and collapsed onto the floor of the filthy alley, his black cloak billowing out around him. Dispassionately, Adam stared down at his fallen enemy, disgust and a deep weariness that went beyond pain washing over him.
He glanced over to where he knew Betsey still lurked in the darkness. "Happy, my dear?" he asked with deceptive lightness.
Betsey remained mute, but one of his original assailants whined, "Well, I sure ain't! You was supposed to be a dandy, a way to earn some easy money, and now all I've got to show for it is a busted nose and an aching lip. Don't seem fair."
Each Time We Love Page 31