Love and Adventure Collection - Part 1 (Love and Adventure Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  “India,” he said softly, kneeling beside the bed. “Behold our son.”

  Her eyelids quivered, then slowly raised. The ghost of a smile brushed her mouth. “Your son, Ali,” she sighed, and turned her head away.

  Ali flicked a glance at Catherine near the foot of the bed, working now with the chore of the afterbirth. She shook her head. “She is losing blood, too much of it — and she doesn’t care.”

  “India,” he said urgently, placing the black-eyed babe on the flaccid flesh of her arm, pressing her hand to its feebly moving legs. “Feel your child, warm and sweet against you? You must cling to your life for his sake. This time will pass. There will be joy again, and love. All the love I have to give.”

  Her voice was like the rustle of dry leaves in an autumn wind. “That might have been enough — if my baby was not a slave — and you were less a servant — in your heart.”

  Ali’s face altered as the hurt of her words sank into his soul. She was right, of course. The child, under the Black Code of Bienville, took the condition of the mother. But the man born of the desert would not allow his feelings to obscure his concern for India.

  “In this world, my India, there are things more important than freedom or the fire and death of rebellion.”

  “Are there?” she asked in weary disbelief.

  “Yes. Among them are loyalty, love, belonging—”

  “Words. Only words.”

  Ali leaned closer to catch her whisper. “The greatest of these is — love,” he answered, his eyes, liquid and burning, on the angular paleness of her shuttered face.

  India did not answer.

  ~ ~ ~

  The bright gladness of the summer morning was in its full when Catherine walked back to the house. The newly risen sun sparkled on the dew. Birds called from tree to tree, and crickets skirled in the grass. But none of it penetrated the miasma of fatigue and depression in which she moved.

  She found Rafael standing on the back gallery with a coffee cup in his hand, as if he had just come from the breakfast table. He appeared so rested, his linen fresh, his pantaloons neatly pressed, compared to her rumpled and stained state, that she felt irrationally incensed with him.

  “Good morning,” she said briefly and started past.

  “Would you like coffee? You look as if you could use it.”

  “Do I indeed?” she said, her voice sharp. “That shouldn’t be surprising, seeing that I have been all night attending a birth — and a death.”

  His mouth tightened and she thought she detected a hint of defensiveness. “I can only suppose, from your attitude, that you are trying to tell the India has had her child.”

  “Exactly — and died of it.”

  “That is unfortunate,” he said after a moment.

  Catherine realized that this was not the time to discuss it, not while she was tired and dispirited, her feelings overwrought with what she had just been through, but she could not suppress the words which rose to her lips.

  “Unfortunate? Is that all you have to say? Is that all it means to you?”

  Rafael tossed the dregs of his coffee over the railing, his knuckles white around the cup handle as he balanced it upon the narrow ledge of wrought iron for the servants to find. “I am not a hypocrite, Catherine. That woman tried to have us all killed. What would you have the do, go into black for her?”

  “I would have you show a little civilized compassion instead of this cold mask of justice. Even in decadent Europe pregnant women are exempt from punishment for the sake of the innocent unborn. I find what you did brutal and unfeeling. I don’t think I will ever be able to forget it!”

  “Catherine, you are becoming hysterical. I think—”

  “If hysteria brings out the truth, then let us have more of it. Are you quite certain there is none of the hypocrite in your makeup? Are you certain you aren’t glad that India is dead? She was the daughter of the man who killed your father. Is your need for revenge satisfied finally? If not, how much farther will you have to go before you can live with the fact that you were happy when your father was killed?”

  Her words hung on the air while the blood slowly receded from Rafael’s face. He made no attempt to defend himself, however. There was a deadly silence before he spoke. “You cannot erase the sins of the world, chérie.”

  “I quite thought it one of my duties as mistress of Alhambra to play the goddess of mercy to your people.”

  “Then extend a measure to the master — unless you regret me and what I have done so much that you have none—”

  Did she? She could not be objective at this moment. His words were only a challenge to be answered. Her gaze level, she answered, “How can it be otherwise?”

  Anger — or was it pain? — flared behind his eyes. As his hands closed into fists, Catherine took an involuntary step backward, His lashes came down to veil his expression, “In that case,” he said slowly, “perhaps you will be interested in the missive which came for you last evening. It is on your secretary in the sitting room.”

  An aching tightness compressed Catherine’s chest as she watched him walk away. Tears which had nothing to do with anger burned the backs of her eyes. She felt slightly sick, as if she had hurt herself.

  The note lay on her secretary, a white square closed with blue wax impressed with the Fitzgerald seal. There could have been no doubt in Rafael’s mind who the message was from. Did his cryptic utterance just now mean, then, that he had an idea of the purpose behind Marcus’s visit to the area?

  Brushing a hand across her eyes, Catherine broke the seal and bent her mind to deciphering the elegant scrawl of Marcus’s handwriting.

  My dear Catherine:

  I have just learned with horror of the recent events at Alhambra. That you escaped was a miracle for which I thank God, but it leaves me apprehensive for you. The liveliest fears for your safety haunt my waking hours.

  My greatest hope is that you will reconsider my proposal and allow me to take you away from the scene of danger. Failing that, I most earnestly beg you will accept my escort, at least, to the house of your mother in New Orleans.

  I place myself and my vehicle at your disposal. The hour from ten until eleven of the clock tomorrow morning will find me at the usual place of appointment. If I may be of service to you, you have only to appear.

  I remain your most devoted and obedient(servant,

  Marcus

  Tomorrow from ten till eleven. That was this morning, since Rafael had said the missive was delivered the evening before.

  Could her husband have guessed what it contained? It was unlikely. Unless he knew of the meetings between Marcus and herself? They were innocent enough, those meetings, but Rafael could hardly be expected to believe that.

  She was so tired. She could not bear the thought of facing Rafael after the things she had said. The thought of her room, her narrow bed, in the house in New Orleans was like balm. There was peace there, and freedom from the fear of interruption. She would be able to collect her thoughts, obtain a dispassionate perspective on the events of the last few days. She needed that desperately. India’s child, for all his small size, would live. She had found a suitable wet nurse; her responsibility there was ended. Rafael, by telling her of the note, appeared to have indicated his lack of concern. Why not return to New Orleans for a time? Why not accept Marcus’s escort? Come to that, why not accept his proposal?

  With a grim smile, she shook her head. She was not quite so lost to propriety as that. And she did not intend to journey alone with him down the river, either. Pauline must come. The silly young maid would be wild with excitement at the prospect. She might not constitute a very formidable chaperone, but she would be better than no one.

  Her trunk was half filled, chemises, slippers, and bonnets scattered over the floor and bed, when a knock fell on the bedchamber door.

  “Yes?”

  “A lady to see you, Madame,” Pauline called.

  Before Catherine could answer the panel was pu
shed open and Fanny sailed in. “Forgive the informality, my dear. I couldn’t wait about in the sitting room a minute longer. I longed to come as soon as I heard of your trouble here, but I had to stay to speed the departing guests left over from the ball—”

  “That will be all, Pauline,” Catherine said, signaling to the girl to close the door.

  Fanny, after brushing Catherine’s cheek with her own, took off her reticule and dropped it on the washstand.

  “You must tell me exactly what took place the other night—” Seeing the trunk, she stopped in mid-sentence. “Leaving, Catherine? That doesn’t sound like Rafael somehow.”

  “Rafael isn’t going.”

  “He is sending you alone? Alhambra or the river, one is as risky as another, isn’t it? I’m surprised you would consider it.”

  “Are you?” Catherine said quietly. The other girl’s intrusive comments might not have troubled her at any other time, but she was in no frame of mind for them now.

  “I wouldn’t like to leave Giles alone to face this situation. Nor would he consider letting me go downriver without his protection.”

  Catherine’s voice was gentle. “Your case is different, isn’t it? At any rate, I do not go alone.”

  “You can hardly count the boatmen. They are not to be trusted—”

  “I would trust them as quickly as some gentlemen of my acquaintance,” Catherine said dryly. “However, Marcus Fitzgerald had offered me his — protection.”

  The double-edged word was not lost upon Fanny. She sat down suddenly upon the chaise lounge behind her. “Catherine,” she whispered. “You can’t.”

  “Can’t I?” she asked without looking at Fanny.

  “It’s unthinkable. Never try to tell me you prefer him to Rafael.”

  “All right,” Catherine agreed, unrepentant, “I won’t.”

  A frown came between Fanny’s earnest gray eyes. “Was it so bad, the night before last?”

  “It was not pleasant.” Catherine allowed herself a tight smile for this slur upon her courage.

  “Giles tells me the ranks of the runaways were so decimated that it will be some time before they think of attacking again. Now the men know they are in the swamp, efforts will be made to find them and bring them in.”

  “Most reassuring, but I’m still going back to New Orleans.”

  “You are making a mistake, Catherine.”

  At that superior, accusing tone, all desire to relent and admit Fanny into her confidence left Catherine. She ignored the sound of a bedchamber door slamming across the court. “That may be,” she replied, “but it’s mine to make.”

  Time was growing short. She bent over her packing. Cocking her head trying to see Catherine’s face, Fanny asked, “Does Rafael know you are going?”

  Uneasiness moved over Catherine, but she made no attempt to prevaricate. “Is it likely I would tell him?”

  “No,” Fanny answered in an odd tone. “I’m sure it would be unwise.”

  Fanny did not stay long after that. Catherine saw her to the door and watched as she climbed into her brother’s phaeton with her groom perched up behind her. The other girl sat a moment, as if collecting herself, then abruptly she gave her horses the signal to start. Catherine looked after her until the dust of her progress began to settle upon the leaves of the trees.

  The trunk was heavier than Catherine had imagined. It was all she and the maid, Pauline, could do to carry it along the wood trail. They had to set it down often. The leather strap cut into their hands, and with their long skirts they could not see where they were stepping, so that tree roots and vines tripped them. Each time she stumbled Pauline giggled, an inane sound which made Catherine long to slap her.

  Somewhere in the back of her fatigue-numbed brain there was a nagging question of the wisdom of her action. It served only to make her temper short without deterring her in the least. She could not, would not, bear her situation a moment longer.

  Her eyes burned with the sting beneath the lids of salty, unshed tears. How long had it been since she had slept? Not the night before, nor the night before that. In the past forty-eight hours she had kept vigil over two deaths and a birth. And how long before that had it been since she had enjoyed a night of undisturbed repose? It seemed months, years, a lifetime.

  The carriage which waited for her was a gleaming black picked out with silver and blue, the new Trepagnier landau, Catherine thought. How kind of them to offer it. Marcus leaned against its side idly whacking his booted leg with a bushy switch when he was not waving it at the flies that buzzed around him. He tossed it to the ground at once when he saw the pair struggling toward him, and moved to relieve them of their burden.

  “Thank you,” Catherine said breathlessly, trying to smile.

  With a show of ease, Marcus carried the trunk to the back of the carriage and hoisted it up onto the baggage rack where the coachman, descending leisurely, began to tie it into place.

  “Catherine,” Marcus said, taking her hands, and carrying them to his lips. “I can’t tell you—”

  “Nor can I, how much I appreciate your offer to see me to my mother’s house,” she said quickly, letting the clarity of her voice override his low tones. “I will be eternally grateful.”

  A shadow passed over his face and a mulish look appeared at the corners of his mouth. He flicked a glance of comprehension at the maidservant, but as he started to speak, the clearing ran with an aching outcry.

  “Marcus!”

  Solange, her hair straggling around her face, her wild eyes puffed and red from weeping, ran with jerky steps from the shadow of the trees. Catherine could only stare, too shocked by the ravaged look of the younger girl to move.

  It was Marcus who filled Solange’s vision as she moved closer. “You can’t go away like this, you can’t. I’ve lost Madame Ti, I can’t lose you too. Not like this, to her. It was bad enough when I knew you were going away, but when I heard her say she was going with you, I thought I would die. Please Marcus — take me. Take me, I beg of you.”

  “Solange, my dear girl,” he began awkwardly.

  “I love you, Marcus,” she cried beseechingly as she read the refusal stamped upon his face. “Don’t do this to me.”

  For an answer, Marcus opened the carriage door and urged Catherine inside. “Hurry up, man,” he shouted in a harassed voice to the driver.

  Solange, with tears starting in her eyes, staggered forward to clutch at his sleeve. “Marcus, listen to me — Please—”

  But Marcus shook her off as he waited impatiently for Catherine to step over the tumbled boxes and portmanteaux of his baggage lying on the floor of the carriage.

  “I love you, I love you! I will kill myself if you leave me behind for her. I will. I will kill myself!”

  “Stupid, deranged, little idiot. Get away from me,” Marcus grated. As Solange clung to his arm, Marcus thrust her away with a vicious shove that sent her sprawling to her knees among the decaying leaves.

  Bending over as if in mortal agony, the girl gave a piercing scream that tore across the stillness around them before it ended in a hiccupping sob. Unnerved, Marcus swung on her as if he would silence her.

  There was no need. She raised eyes swimming with anguished disbelief. “I want to die,” she whispered through quivering lips. “I want to die.”

  With a sound of disgust Marcus turned away. As he set his foot to the carriage door, his gaze fell upon his shaving box. It was the work of a moment to loosen the leather strap and draw out the honed razor. A flip of the wrist, and the straight-edge in its ivory holder landed in Solange’s lap.

  “There,” he said in a tight voice. “By all means, relieve your misery.”

  A shout to the driver, and the carriage began to move. The maidservant, standing quietly to one side until now, started forward. A glare from Marcus halted her in her slipper tracks. He swung inside the carriage, landing heavily beside Catherine as he slammed the door behind him.

  “No, wait,” Catherine said, lean
ing to see around him out the window.

  “Don’t upset yourself,” Marcus told her. “Solange is too much of a coward to harm anyone, least of all herself.”

  Catherine hardly heard him. Through the dust thrown up by the wheels she saw Pauline running after the carriage. Beyond her sat Solange with the razor flashing silver in her hand. Even as Catherine watched, the girl took a deep breath and began to slash at her left wrist.

  “Stop!” Catherine shouted as she saw the blood running in a dark red stream down the girl’s forearm. “Stop the coach!”

  Marcus made no attempt to comply. He did not look back.

  “She is killing herself, you fool,” Catherine exclaimed, holding the hazel gaze of the man beside her. A moment passed, and still he did not move. In that small piece of time Catherine saw that he had no intention of trying to help Solange. He did not care what she did.

  Whirling, she pounded with her fist on the roof of the landau. “Stop! At once!” she screamed, reaching for the door.

  Suddenly her hand was wrenched away and she was thrown back against the seat. Marcus loomed above her, his lips flattened against his teeth. His arm swung back. A blow crashed against the side of her head. The scene before her eyes shattered into a thousand gray fragments, and she saw no more.

  A fiery orange light striking on Catherine’s eyelids brought her back to awareness. It was the last rays of the setting sun slanting through the carriage windows to probe the dusty interior. She turned her head to escape the glare, then gasped as agony thundered inside her brain. After a moment the throbbing died away again. She could be a little easier, though the bone-rattling pace set by the coachman precluded true relief.