“Yes, mademoiselle, please do not waste my time,” Nicholas agreed with a hateful curl of his sensuous lips, “for you must please me if you want a generous tip for your gracious hostessing.”
Mara ground her teeth as she dealt the cards and watched in increasing annoyance as Nicholas won turn after turn.
“The mademoiselle is a fortune-teller as well,” Nicholas laughed as he collected his winnings after an hour’s successful play. “She predicted that tonight would be my lucky night.”
Nicholas reached out and grasped Mara’s wrist with hard fingers as he added in a soft voice that only Mara could hear, “And I insist that the mademoiselle share a glass of champagne and a light supper with me.”
“I think not,” Mara said in a tight voice as she tried to pull her wrist free. As she glanced around helplessly, she became aware of Jacques standing nearby and watching her table with curious eyes.
“There seems to be some trouble here?” he asked smoothly as he came up behind Mara’s chair. “I can assure the monsieur that I run honest tables, and my dealers are above suspicion. If you think you have been cheated, then I will certainly deal harshly with this woman.”
Mara glanced up in surprise at Jacques’s suddenly subservient manner. He was practically falling on his hands and knees before Nicholas, Mara thought in dismayed anger.
“That won’t be necessary. As you can see, I have no complaints,” Nicholas said as he gestured to his pile of winnings, “but I should like the lady to join me at my table for a drink. It would be well worth her while, as well as yours, monsieur,” Nicholas said silkily. “I believe you take a percentage of the mademoiselle’s tips?”
Jacques smiled slightly, his eyes showing a momentary flash of anger at Nicholas’s contemptuously spoken words. But he only nodded. “The mademoiselle is free to join you, monsieur.” Mara glared up at Jacques, disbelief showing in her eyes as he snapped his fingers and a blond woman appeared to take Mara’s place at the table.
“Go with him, Mara,” Jacques ordered her. “Michelle will take over for you here.”
Mara had little choice, unless she wished to make a scene. With Nicholas’s fingers still wrapped around her wrist, she got up from the table and followed him to a table in the corner of the room. She adopted her haughtiest demeanor and ungraciously declined a glass of champagne.
“I thought a table against the wall the safest,” Nicholas began, catching Mara’s attention with the fury in his voice, “just in case that cousin of yours happens to be lurking under the floorboards.”
“He was only trying to protect me from your attack,” Mara defended Brendan. “And he happens to be my brother.”
“I should have guessed at the closer relationship, considering his lack of character,” Nicholas jeered. “It certainly lends credence to the saying, ‘as thick as thieves.’”
Mara frowned. “And just what is that supposed to mean? Brendan and I are not thieves.”
Nicholas raised his heavy eyebrows questioningly. “Aren’t you, Mara O’Flynn? It doesn’t surprise me to learn that you are a liar as well as a thief. You O’Flynns are incredible, completely without conscience, to hit a man from behind, and then steal him blind while he’s unconscious.”
Mara licked her lips, her mouth uncomfortably dry as she suddenly remembered the money Brendan had given her in Sonoma. Mara’s face showed her confusion and dismay as she looked up into Nicholas’s pitiless eyes. “I—I didn’t know about the money, Nicholas. I swear I didn’t. You must believe me. I did not know Brendan had taken it. I’d never take your money. You know I wouldn’t.”
Nicholas lightly clapped his hands, his even teeth showing as he grinned mockingly. “Your protestation of innocence is brilliant, my dear, with just the right touch of suffering in those beautiful golden eyes. Did I not know you better, I would surely believe you knew nothing of the theft. A nice try, but I remain unconvinced.”
“You bastard,” Mara said softly, trying desperately to hide her love and the hurt she felt at his sneering words. “Who the divil d’ye think you are, that you can harass me this way,” she said to him in a quivering voice. She fumbled inside her purse, her shaking fingers closing over the pile of coins she’d received in tips for the evening. With an eloquent gesture she pushed them across the table to Nicholas. “This should more than repay you for your money.”
“Tch, tch,” Nicholas said with a satisfied smile, contemptuously ignoring her proffered restitution, “your Irish temper is showing, ma petite. But it’s most enlightening, so do continue. I look forward to meeting the true Mara O’Flynn at last.”
Mara sighed in exasperation. “Nicholas, leave me alone. Haven’t you had revenge enough against me?”
Nicholas stared at Mara’s delicate features. Though she was thinner than the last time he’d seen her, she was more beautiful than ever. She glared at him in defiance, her full, lower lip trembling slightly. “Perhaps what I want from you is more than just your virgin’s blood,” he speculated softly, his green eyes as cold and hard as emeralds.
Mara moved her hand, feeling the smooth, crystal stem beneath her fingers as she picked up the goblet of champagne and threw the whole contents of it into Nicholas’s arrogant face. She stared in bemusement as the pale liquid fell in drops onto his white shirtfront, staining the clean linen. Mara got shakily to her feet as he pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe the champagne from his face, his eyes never leaving her stunned face.
“You never disappoint me, Mara,” Nicholas said.
But Mara waited to hear no more. Turning, she began to frantically make her way through the room, finding her path blocked by gamblers milling around the room, some almost too drunk to stand as they staggered aimlessly from table to bar and back again. She finally managed to push her way through the noisy throng, but as she neared the back entrance, she jumped in alarm as hard fingers closed over her arm. Turning to face her captor, Mara stared, almost in relief, into the dark eyes of Jacques D’Arcy.
“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed as he pulled her into the quiet darkness of the hallway. “I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you throw that champagne into Chantale’s face. I would bet my life that no one has ever done that to him before—and lived to talk about it,” Jacques said, his face still registering disbelief at the odd scene he’d just witnessed.
“You know Nicholas?” Mara asked dully.
“Nicholas, is it?” Jacques demanded, his gaze sharpening as he stared down at her pale, distraught face. “Well, well, I should like to hear more about this relationship with a man you obviously dislike and seem to fear. But in answer to your question,” Jacques continued with a reminiscent look in his dark eyes, “oui. Anyone who’d ever lived in New Orleans would have heard of Nicholas de Montaigne-Chantale. When I saw him in Paris a few years ago, he had dropped part of the name. He belongs to one of the richest and most aristocratic families in all of Louisiana. Or at least he used to, until he was run out of town. The de Montaigne-Chantale plantation, Beaumarais, was famous throughout the state.”
“Nicholas told me he had to leave New Orleans, fifteen years ago, I think,” Mara said. “Because of a duel.”
Jacques smiled. “Oh, but it was not just any duel, ma chérie. You see,” Jacques explained as he lowered his voice confidingly, “he killed his brother, François, who happened to be not only the heir to the de Montaigne-Chantale fortune, but the fiancé of the beautiful Amaryllis Sandonet. It had been rumored that it was Nicholas she really loved. It was said that they had been lovers before the lovely Amaryllis’s papa affianced her to the heir to Beaumarais. Some say that Amaryllis wanted both Beaumarais and Nicholas, and that they continued to be lovers—discreetly, of course. But you know how these secrets have a way of becoming known,” Jacques said with a wink, “and then one day before the marriage could take place, there was a duel between the two brothers. What the disagreement was about one can only speculate, although Nicholas Chantale claimed there was no argument, that they were
only practicing. But what better way to rid oneself of a bitter rival? In an instant,” Jacques spoke softly, snapping his fingers sharply, “Nicholas de Montaigne-Chantale gained both the plantation and the woman. Unfortunately, though, François had been his papa’s favorite. He could not even bear to gaze upon the son who had killed his heir. So he banished him from Beaumarais, never to set foot there again, refusing to recognize Nicholas when they met in town. After a while, no door in all of New Orleans opened in welcome for the infamous Nicholas Chantale. A sad tale, non?”
Mara listened in disbelief, shaking her head. “He killed his own brother? I can’t believe it,” Mara whispered.
Jacques’s fingers grasped her chin as he raised her face. “You are in love with him, aren’t you?”
“No!” Mara denied fervently.
“Bah! You lie,” Jacques spat. With a strange light in his dark eyes he asked, “But what does Chantale feel for you, ma chérie? It would be most interesting to find out.”
“He means nothing to me,” Mara cried, grabbing Jacques’s arm as she forced him to listen, “and I mean even less to him. In fact, he hates me. So I wouldn’t be talking to him about me if I were you.”
Jacques smiled unpleasantly as he moved closer to Mara. He pressed her back to the wall, holding her against it with the weight of his body. “I think in the future you will be much nicer to your admirer, Jacques, non? You are a very beautiful and intelligent woman who knows who her friends are.”
“What do you mean?” Mara asked, turning her face away from the closeness of his lips.
“It is most simple, ma chérie. I do not think you would wish for Monsieur Chantale to know where you live, eh?” Jacques asked softly, his eyes glittering as he lowered his lips to her mouth, his fingers holding her chin in a hard grip.
His mouth was greedy as it devoured hers. Mara could feel the painful press of his teeth into the softness of her lips. His kiss deepened in intensity as he strained her closer against his body, leaving her in little doubt of his passion. Mara managed to free her lips from his suffocating mouth as she gasped for breath, only to feel Jacques’s hard, brushing kisses along her throat. His hands fumbled to push the red velvet from her shoulders, leaving the soft, tender skin bared to his searching mouth.
When she felt his tongue slide along the crest of her breast, she could stand no more. Raising her knee, she quickly and accurately kneed him in the groin. As Jacques let out a surprised gasp of pain, doubling over, Mara escaped from him. She moved out of reach down the hall.
“You can find someone else to work for you. I quit,” Mara flung at him as she searched for her cloak, hanging with an assortment of outer garments on a rack near the door. “Go on and tell Nicholas Chantale anything you wish. I don’t care what you do as long as I’m not having to suffer your foul hands pawing and fondling me all the time. Bon soir, Monsieur D’Arcy,” Mara called defiantly as she stepped out into the night and the fresh, cold air. She slammed the door behind her with finality.
The next morning Mara had a twinge of doubt about her hasty actions. But as she remembered the feel of Jacques’s lips, she gave an involuntary shudder of disgust. Now she was faced with the disagreeable problem of finding employment, for unless she had misjudged her man, Jacques was not one to forgive and forget. He would see that no other gambler hired her…as well as possibly making good his threat. She touched her smooth cheek with a shiver.
Well, she wouldn’t worry about it now, Mara decided as she made her way downstairs. She had enough saved to live comfortably for at least a month, and she’d prefer not to cross paths with Nicholas again—especially as he had yet another grievance to add to the long list he carried against her. Mara wrapped her shawl closer around her shoulders as she sought more warmth from the finely woven, white wool garment she wore over her simply cut yet elegant blue and white gown of shot silk.
Mara heard voices coming from the room Jenny had designated as the salon. It was a plain room with six or seven straight-back chairs, a sofa of questionable origin, and a scarred-top table. Jenny had done her best to create a homey atmosphere, and Mara had to admit that it wasn’t all that bad, especially with a cheery fire crackling in the fireplace.
Jenny was sitting near the fire, her lap cluttered with odds and ends of clothing. She glanced up, smiling behind the end of the needle and thread protruding from her mouth. Taking the needle from between her lips, Jenny shrugged good-naturedly. “If it’s not washing and cooking, then it’s mending. Especially,” she said with a laugh as she eyed her youngest crawling under the sofa in search of a toy, “if they’re on their hands and knees all day long.”
Mara eyed Paddy who, with Jenny’s two oldest boys, was playing with his toy soldiers. She sidestepped through strategically placed troops as she made her way to Jenny’s side. “I suppose boys just have to get dirty or tear something if they’re going to have fun,” Mara remarked casually as she sat down across from a chuckling Jenny.
“Hey! I take exception to that remark,” a deep voice spoke from behind the sofa, startling Mara. She turned around to see the Swede’s blond head rising above its cushioned back. “I dare you to find a tear in my coat, and damned if—pardon me, ma’am—darned if I’m going to get these new breeches dirty,” the Swede said as he stood up to his full height and came around from behind the sofa, the retrieved soldier’s red hat just barely peeking out of his large hand.
“Now don’t let this fellow wander off again,” he warned Peter who eagerly reached out for the brightly painted toy soldier.
“Come on, Petey,” Gordie called out, “you’re holding up the war!”
The Swede was smiling broadly as he stepped gingerly over a whole regiment of dragoons. Easily lifting a chair, he placed it near Mara’s and sat down. “Don’t need to tell me which three are Mrs. Markham’s. That red hair’s a sure giveaway, and I don’t need to ask who the dark one belongs to, ’cause he gave me hell when I nearly stepped on one of his troops,” the Swede laughed. “‘The divil take ye!’ he told me, and damned if I’ve ever heard it spoken any finer than that,” the Swede said. Then, glancing uncomfortably between Mara and Jenny, he added, “I’m sorry, ladies. I guess I’d better mind my tongue as well.”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Svengaard,” Jenny told him. “I’m used to that kind of talk by now. It’s hard to close your eyes and ears forever to a town full of fun-loving miners.”
“And Paddy’s probably just copying what he’s heard me say, so I can hardly fault you, Swede,” Mara told him with a slight smile.
The Swede grinned engagingly, his eyes locked on Mara’s face as he took in the creamy complexion and golden eyes that were partially hidden behind a thick fringe of dark lashes. He sighed as he took in her beauty, his eyes noticing the smallest detail about her appearance, from the delicate gold earrings to her small, blue satin shoes.
Jenny gave an inaudible sigh as she discreetly watched the big man openly admire Mara. She bit her lip when she carelessly jabbed her fingertip with the needle. It served her right for daydreaming about things that never would be, or could be, she thought in self-disgust. What man would even glance her way when someone as beautiful as Mara O’Flynn was sitting in the same room? Besides, what man would desire a bride with three small sons? It might be true that women of good reputation were scarce in California, and that just about any woman could find a husband, but that didn’t mean she would accept a proposal from just any man. She could make a living for herself and her sons until she found the right man, and until that day she didn’t mind living on her own. Even so, her dark blue eyes noticed the wide breadth of shoulder and the gentle expression in the Swede’s blue eyes. “The gentle giant,” Mara O’Flynn had named him. She was right. There was a gentleness in him which was surprising in so large a man. She had been amazed at his patient attention to her boys and Paddy as they’d run noisily around the room, creating havoc in their exuberant play.
“Are you staying here in San Francisco permanently,
Swede?” Mara inquired conversationally, wondering if perhaps he owned a store or a business of some kind in the city.
“I’m living here for now. Maybe forever—who knows? But I’m just recently down from the Sierra,” the Swede told her, then added casually, “me and my partner struck a rich vein of gold and thought we’d celebrate.”
A spark of interest lit Mara’s eyes. She leaned closer toward the big man, and the Swede felt an instant’s disappointment that she would be so obvious. He expected to hear her ask him how rich he was, but was surprised when he heard her say, “Did you ever meet a man named Brendan O’Flynn? He was going up into the mountains to mine for gold late last summer. I thought you might have run into him, or have heard something about him.”
The Swede shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know him. O’Flynn? Your husband, is he?” he asked, unable to mask the disappointment in his voice.
“No, he’s my brother, Paddy’s father,” Mara explained.
“Oh, I see,” the Swede beamed, relieved. “Of course, just because I don’t remember his name doesn’t mean I might not have met him, or even bunked with him, or played a hand of poker with him. You see so many men up there coming and going, you lose track of them after a while and don’t even bother to catch a name. I can see you’re worried about him, Miss O’Flynn, but you really shouldn’t be. The camps aren’t half as bad as they’ve been painted by those who haven’t been there.”
Mara eyed the big Swede thoughtfully as she wondered if a man like him ever found anything difficult. With his sturdy constitution she doubted if he even felt the cold discomfort surrounding him. Brendan, on the other hand, would feel each raindrop, each meal burned over an open fire, each blister on his hands from raising a pick, as insults meant for him personally. “Brendan is less hardy than you,” Mara tried to explain her fears without insulting the big Swede, “more delicate and—”
Laurie McBain Page 28