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

by Jennifer Blake

  Or was it? Hadn’t the choice been set before her again?

  “When do you return to Alhambra?” she asked, her voice brisk with decision.

  “The boat waits.”

  “Good. I regret, Ali, that I cannot stay and care for your son. My mother, I promise you, will see to his welfare with more competence than I, and as much sympathy.”

  Ali hesitated. “The boat, Maîtresse, is only a canoe hired for the journey. Swift, but not comfortable.”

  “No matter. My place is at Alhambra.”

  “Monsieur Rafe will not permit you to endanger yourself in such a way.”

  “I hardly see how he can stop me,” she answered, eyes shining. “And, perhaps if I put him to the trouble of keeping me safe, he will also manage to save himself.”

  24

  The wind sweeping across the wide expanse of the river was cold. The boat breasting the current into it was drenched with blown spray. Bundled as she was with shawls, cloak, and woolen scarves, and covered to the eyes with robes of buffalo fur, Catherine could still feel the damp and penetrating chill. Ali and the two Indians, Choctaw in beaded buckskin and a variety of dolman made of buffalo wool, had her sincere commiseration. Tirelessly, endlessly, they leaned into their paddles, sending the long and fragile craft northward against all odds of wind and river and black night danger.

  More distracting than being cold was the taste of nausea at the back of her throat. The movement of the boat, though she had never been troubled by such a thing before, was a torment. Worse still were the smells of long dead fish and rancid bear grease, odors so pervasive even the fresh wind could not subdue them.

  The gray dust of a cloudy dawn was sifting down over them, etching the leafless trees in blackness, when they heard the first drums. Rolling toward them like a murmurous fog, the sound seemed to come from far away, deep in the forest. Gradually, it increased in volume and tempo as the day grew lighter, causing Ali to stare, frowning, at the close-packed trees. No birdsong greeted the day, not even a crow sent out his impudent caw. White cranes sat like wise old men on their perches, solemnly eyeing the passing canoe. But as they skimmed by the slough where Aunt Em’s flatboat lay half-hidden they saw an updraft of buzzards, patiently wheeling.

  There was smoke coming from the chimneys of the Trepagnier house. All appeared orderly and normal, though quiet. Ten miles to go. Ali spoke, and the stroke of the paddles quickened. With daylight they could go faster since they would not have to be so wary of floating logs and other debris.

  There was no smoke at Alhambra. The house sat cold and unwelcoming among the dank shadows. Its shutters were barred; its white paint looked as gray and mournful as the ragged strings of moss blowing in the wind moving among the trees.

  Catherine, her legs cramped from sitting in one position, stumbled as she stepped from the boat. Ali reached to steady her, then turned back, extending payment to the two Indians. They accepted with satisfied nods, but, asked to wait, glanced toward the house then pushed without ceremony back out into the river, letting its swiftness carry them away.

  For an unguarded instant Ali’s rich brown eyes met Catherine’s in a brooding concern that had little to do with personal danger. She smiled, rejecting what she sensed was a sudden onslaught of chivalry. Raising her skirts above the frost-wet grass, she began to march to the house. It was not a pleasant walk. Her knees trembled with an aching weakness not entirely due to sitting, and in the center of her back a spot tingled as at the impact of hundreds of watching eyes.

  Dry, brown leaves lay crushed upon the steps and moved in windblown drifts across the floor of the gallery. The sound of them underfoot, scratching along under the sweep of her skirts, was a sound to tauten the nerves, one nearly as grating as the abrupt screech of hinges when the front door was flung open.

  “What in the sacred name of God is she doing here?” Rafael demanded of Ali.

  “I think, my husband, that you are addressing the wrong person,” Catherine said.

  He seemed not to hear. “You will have to take her back, at once.”

  “How, Maître?” Ali asked, his gaze steady. “The boat is gone.”

  “There are horses, two of them, waiting behind the house.”

  “The swamp road is not safe, Maître, even if I could leave you.”

  “You may discuss this at length, if it pleases you,” Catherine said distinctly, “but I still do not intend to go, especially not if it means taking your means of escape. I would, however, like to come in. I am tired and cold.”

  Rafael looked as if he would refuse her, then he stepped back without grace, allowing them to enter.

  A footed, brass brazier threw off smokeless heat in the entrance hall. Catherine went toward it, gratefully holding her hands to the warmth. For all her absorption, she was intensely aware of Rafe, closing the door, bolting it, turning to come toward her. He had the look of weary sleeplessness about his dark eyes, but other than that, he seemed fit There was ready strength in the set of his shoulders, alertness in his manner. The anger narrowing his eyes could not quite conceal the fierce glow of anticipation for what lay ahead. His preparations had been made. On a table beside the door was an array of guns, pistols, fowling pieces, muskets, all loaded, with several powder horns and pouches of ball.

  Inside the thick walls of the house, the silence was suddenly oppressive. It was a long moment before Catherine realized that it was also because the drums had stopped.

  “Well?” Rafe’s voice was harsh in the quiet.

  During that interminable journey Catherine had planned what she would say. It was a pity she had not spent more time committing it to memory.

  “You need not treat me like a trespasser,” she said defensively. “I do have some right to be here.”

  “You chose an odd time to remember it.”

  “I might have done so earlier, given encouragement.”

  His lashes flickered and were still. “I rather thought your sights were set on Cypress Bend.”

  “I found I could not supplant Fanny as hostess there after all. Giles has gone. If he ever returns to Orleans territory, it will not be soon.”

  “It is well, then, that you have a husband to fall back upon.”

  Catherine, feeling that sneering shaft sink home, knew the return of her every doubt of the things Ali had asserted. A swift glance at the manservant’s dark, secretive face revealed nothing. “Yes, isn’t it?” she agreed, her voice constricted. “Now that I am here, perhaps you will tell me the situation.”

  A grim smile lit his face in the shuttered gloom. “Everyone is gone. The field hands and their families were gone yesterday morning, the house servants, even Cook and her daughters, deserted last night. All were not rebellious, I think, just afraid not to join the others. The effect is the same.”

  “Where did they go? What are they doing?”

  “They went deep into the swamp, joining the rebels. I am told their time is spent there shouting their grievances, dancing for unity and courage to the blood-beat of the drums — and forming themselves into companies in the manner of the Haitian armies.”

  “Dear God,” Catherine whispered.

  “Did you think it would be like the other time, a few desperate malcontents who would scatter at the first death? It won’t be so easy—”

  “Monsieur Rafe?”

  Ali stood, an intent look on his fine features. A second later he moved with sinuous quiet to a window and drew aside the drape. Through the slim opening, Catherine could see a wave of black bodies on the far side of the grounds. Here and there above their heads the light of a torch shone. They were advancing toward the front gallery. The silence that had been imposed on their ranks was ominous. Had they been there among the trees that hedged the house all along? Had it been more than imagination, that itching between her shoulder blades? A shudder caught her unprepared. She suppressed it with determination, clasping her hands together tightly before her.

  Rafe swung, and walked with a steady stride
toward the front door.

  Catherine opened her mouth, then shut it. She had forfeited the right to object. The taste of blood made her realize she had set her teeth in her lip.

  The hinge shrieked as the door was drawn open. Unobtrusively, Ali moved to stand beside the table where the guns lay. Step by careful step Catherine eased into a position beside him. It had been hot the day she and Aunt Em and Jonathan had used the black lumps on the buzzard tree for target practice. Pray God she had not forgotten how and her hands were steady. She had knifed a man once, in the heat of the moment. Given provocation, shooting one should be easier. And while these thoughts scampered like mice across the surface of her mind, she never removed her eyes from the man striding out onto the gallery as if the mob below had gathered at his express command.

  His voice, rising above the mutter, held the steady timbre of reason. “Who is your leader? Let him come forward.”

  One man stepped to the fore. He was big, a giant of a Negro man with a barrel chest and matted beard. He carried a musket in his left hand, for his right arm ended in a stump — the removal of the right hand was not uncommon punishment for stealing in some parts of the world. He did not speak, allowing the belligerence of his wide-legged stance to carry his message.

  “What is your quarrel with me?” Rafe asked. “State it plainly, and we will talk about it like men.”

  “Oh, oui, now we be men, with a weapon in our fists,” the big man cried. A traveling chorus of agreement backed him.

  Rafe acknowledged both the truth and justice of that with a brief nod. “And as men,” he said carefully, “what do you want?”

  “Freedom!” the big man shouted. “Freedom for all!”

  There was a moment when it seemed that if Rafe could find a logical, honorable answer to that request the day would be won. Then from the midst of the motley array a different voice screamed, “Revenge!”

  A shot exploded in a burst of orange fire and black smoke. Rafe spun off balance, lurching against the door frame. A full-throated roar came from the crowd, a roar of triumph and frenzied bloodlust. They surged toward the curving steps, brandishing hoes and rakes and machetes, axes and pitchforks and staves, and clubs of tree limbs.

  Snatching up a gun, Catherine raised it and fired into that seething mass. Ali aimed more carefully, and was repaid by a bubbling scream and a minor check as men stepped over or around the victim. In that brief moment of advantage, Catherine and the manservant dragged Rafe, stunned, blinded by the free-running blood from a head wound, into the house, slammed the heavy door, and dropped the bar across it.

  The barricades were up, but for how long? The door and the shutters were stout, built to repel marauding Indians or white men as well as storms, but they could not hold for any length of time before such a force. There had been a hundred men, possibly more, in that swarm.

  Whipping a scarf from a table, Catherine held it to Rafe’s forehead. His hand came up, pressing it to his eyes.

  A knot in Catherine’s throat loosened. Her fingers trembling, she wiped away gouts of blood already growing sticky, the better to see the gory channel that angled across his temple. An inch more to the left, she found herself thinking fearfully, and snapped, “Now what?”

  Blows thudded ineffectually on the door behind them and rattled against the shutters.

  “Do something with this,” Rafe said, gesturing with impatience at the flapping ends of the scarf.

  Now was not the time for laughter. She obeyed, forming a competent turban with the ends tucked in securely. He leapt from under her hands.

  “Smoke, Maître,” Ali reported, breathing deep.

  It was not unexpected in view of the torches, trailing black, pagan incense, so thoughtfully brought along.

  Rafe looked from the guns to Catherine, his black eyes measuring. A sharp nod, and he scooped up a pistol to tuck in his waistband and one for each hand. “The horses, then, and hope the dogs prefer to drag the foxes out the front door of the den.”

  Ali grabbed up a gun, fired it into the door as incentive, then taking three more, pushed one of them into Catherine’s hand as they ran.

  Rafe went first out the back door, first down the endlessly spiraling staircase. He paused at the foot until Catherine was close behind him, then he moved out, crossing the court with swift caution.

  To the right lay the curving road to Cypress Bend. Straight ahead was the quarters, wrapped in stillness. Their direction lay to the left, past the cold bulk of the kitchen, the leafless fig trees and pears, and under the clothesline to the woods.

  Of what use was stealth? Speed, the cunning use of cover, however spare, was more essential. They were running under the wide branches of transplanted wild pecans when a shout rang out.

  “There they go! Don’t let them get away!”

  Catherine stumbled. That voice. Strident, cracking with strain, it was still the voice of Marcus Fitzgerald. She had been right.

  The yelling, like human hounds baying at their heels, increased, A quick glance over her shoulder gave Catherine a view of the howling mob sweeping around the end of the house, emerging from a pall of low-hanging smoke.

  In the distance a clanging began. It was the plantation bell hanging in the quarters. Its clear tone carried for miles. Not for waking, not for resting, but for death. Death to the masters.

  Ali dropped to one knee, firing his pistols one after the other at the blur of a white form to one side. They had no visible effect except to make Marcus duck out of sight. Rafe was only slightly more fortunate, dropping two of the horde before tossing his pistols away as useless. The marksmanship made no difference. The fallen were pounded underfoot before the onslaught. Rafe did not wait for Catherine to fire. Grasping her wrist, he dragged her into step with his long stride, heading for the trees.

  The horses, excited by the noise and smell of burning, could be heard before they were seen. Sidling, rearing, white-eyed, they would be difficult to mount Rafael stripped the reins from the tree branch and swung into the saddle. Controlling the frantic gelding under him with his weight and iron muscles, he reached down to clasp Catherine’s forearm, heaving her up behind him the instant her foot touched the stirrup.

  Ali was not so adroit. His mount backed, rearing, plunging among the trees and saplings, preventing Ali from approaching his side or Rafael from catching the bridle. The vicious screaming grew louder. Catherine could see the contorted faces, some painted in hideous splotches of white and orange. Leading was the man with one hand, and in that hand he hefted a homemade spear.

  To fire her pistol might destroy Ali’s last chance of controlling his mount, and would be unlikely to be effective from the back of the jockeying gelding. For an instant Catherine leveled her gun, then brought it down.

  Abruptly Rafael was in position. He grabbed the bridle near the bit and dragged the horse’s head down. Ali reached for the pommel.

  In that instant the leader launched his spear. It arched high, rolling with its warped shape, then began its whistling fall.

  “Ali!” Catherine screamed a warning. With one foot in the stirrup, the manservant looked back over his shoulder. The spear’s metal-sheathed point sped to strike, quivering, through his upper thigh and lodged with half its length protruding, glistening evilly with warm blood.

  Ali grunted. The leg budded, spouting blood as he fell. The horse reared in wild terror. With a violent oath, Rafael released his hold on the bridle to prevent Ali from being trampled. Tossing his head, the horse wheeled and broke away through the trees.

  “Give me your hand!” Rafael called. “Now!”

  Ali had taken the spear at an awkward angle. He would not be able to straddle the horse. Standing, even, would be difficult. Face contorted, he shook his head.

  “Obey me!” Rafe grated.

  Never had Catherine heard Rafe use those words, that tone, to his manservant. Nor had Ali. The habit of obedience was strong. He lifted his hand.

  Rafe leaned down, and with an effort that seemed
to wrench the muscles of his back into knots, dragged Ali up and over the withers of his horse. There was no time for care. The first hailstorm of rocks and sticks was falling around them. Rafe kicked the horse into a run. Catherine, twisting back, discharged her pistol. What effect it had, she did not see. Holding on was more important than knowing.

  The gelding was game, but so heavily loaded and unbalanced that he could not quite reach his stride. Still, they began to pull away. The voices faded. The figures faltered, dropped back, drawn, perhaps, by the spoils at Alhambra being destroyed in the fire-shot clouds of smoke rising now above the treetops. A few came on, but then they too were lost to sight among the trees as the horse’s hooves struck the easier going in the soft ruts of the river road.

  Ali, hanging limp, stirred, trying to push himself up. “Maître — Monsieur Rafe. Let me go. Leave me.”

  Rafe did not reply, nor did he slacken the pace.

  “Madame, tell him. The horse can carry two, perhaps, not three, even if I could bear the pain of it. You must leave me.”

  “They will kill you,” Catherine said, her heart torn by the gray cast of Ali’s features where he hung facedown over the saddlebow. Perspiration shone on his face. His lips were drawn back over his clenched teeth.

  “Not now,” he panted. “I have the color of my skin for protection. I can, if I must, become — one of them. The river is there. It has a smoother ride. You cannot take it, not yet, but I can. Hurry — before we — meet — other gangs brought — by the signal bell.”

  Still Rafe did not stop. How could he?

  Catherine saw the tightening about Ali’s eyes, then tensing of his muscles as he pushed with his hands bracing against the bellows-like chest of the horse. She thought he meant to shift in an attempt to find a less painful position. Instead he suddenly kicked out, levering himself up with unexpected force. He teetered for an instant, long enough to grab the pistol at Rafe’s waist, then hurtled backward, falling with a helpless, cracking thud.

  Dirt flew in clods as Rafe drew up. He swung the horse around in time to see Ali pulling the broken spear on through his leg with both hands. At the sound of returning hooves, the manservant looked up and grabbed for the pistol.