Tomorrow Olivia Bond would be gone, but Noah reckoned it would be a long, long time before he forgot her. He set the mirror down and picked up a soft piece of cured hide, spread it on the plank flooring of the porch near the oil lamp, and with a small piece of charred wood from the fire, he began to draw a pattern on the leather.
She was dreaming again. The old, familiar nightmare. No escape. She is almost eighteen. The flatboat. Her father. His young second wife, Susanna. Her half-brothers: Payson Junior, five, and Freddie, three years old.
The bearded stranger, Colonel Sullivan. Asking her father for a ride downriver. Shifty and suspicious. Must warn him. “No, Daddy. Don’t take him aboard.”
Suddenly, a hole in the boat. Taking on water. Pulling into shore. Other men. The colonel’s men. Thieves. No, no, it’s a trap. Run. Run. Fight off the darkness. It’s only a nightmare. Struggling to awaken. Still no escape.
“They don’t have much.” The colonel’s voice. “Ought to get somethin’ for that silver teapot.”
Payson Bond reaching for a rifle. How, Daddy? How can you hold off five men?
“You think you can kill us all?” Sullivan laughing. “Try it, farmer.”
“I can kill one of you.” Her father’s voice. His fear so evident. “Which one will it be?”
The leader leers at her. “Give us the girl. We’ll leave you alone.”
Run. Run. Her father’s shock. Susanna’s cry. The little boys clinging to their mother’s skirts.
“Give us the girl. Give us the girl.”
Freddie wailing. Little Pay terrified. Susanna’s sobs. Her father frozen. His long, tapered fingers white-knuckled on the rifle. Helpless. He cannot kill. He can only teach. The pirates with broken teeth. Tobacco-stained beards.
“Give us the girl.” Sullivan’s demand. Two men step toward Payson.
“No!” Her own voice screaming. Her father turns, looks at her. Considering. Her hope dies.
“We’ll spare you. Spare the rest of your brood,” Sullivan promises. “Give up the girl. Nothing else we want. Give her up. Save four lives and that babe on the way.”
Susanna wails. “Oh, God. Listen. Please listen to him, Payson.”
“Susanna, no!” Her own voice again. Desperate. Disbelief. Betrayal.
“Olivia, think of the boys …” Susanna pleads. “I can’t let them harm my boys.” Susanna reaches for Payson. Grabs his sleeve. Begs. “Payson, please. Give her to them.”
Indecision in her father’s eyes. Her heart shatters like spun glass.
“I’m so sorry.” Payson whispers, lowers the rifle. Submits. “What else can I do?”
“But what about me, Daddy?” She screams. “What about me?” Shamed by her selfishness.
Run, run.
She tries to run. The river pirates are on her, dragging her past her father. Payson’s silent surrender. He sheds tears, but cannot fight. Susanna on her knees, sobbing, her arms around the boys. Freddie wailing uncontrollably. Little Pay the only one to plead for her. He breaks away from his mother. Runs to Colonel Sullivan.
“Don’t take my sister, sir. Please, let her go.” The man laughs, cuffs Little Pay. The boy turns to Payson. “Papa, don’t make Livvie go!”
The men shove and pull her. Fight, run! She tries. Scratches them, kicks, twists. But they are too strong. She screams until her throat is raw.
“No, Daddy! No! Don’t let them take me! Don’t let them take me! …”
“Don’t let them take me!”
Shocked awake by the sound of Olivia’s screams, Noah shot to his feet and ran inside. The sun was dawning, filling the cabin with misty blue light, just enough illumination for him to make out her form in the middle of the bed. Her hair was a wild black mane that hid most of her face. She cradled her wounded wrist as she rocked back and forth sobbing uncontrollably. The sheet and blanket were wadded together. The hem of her frayed gown rode up to reveal her thighs. The neck of the dress hung open, exposing her shoulder and the rise of her breast.
Noah’s breath caught in his throat. Suddenly he felt as if his moccasins had been nailed to the floor. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. Even if he had some inkling of what to say to calm her, the words would not have come. He had never been alone with a strange woman—not under any circumstances. Now here he stood before one who was not only hysterical, but half-naked. He was helpless and appalled, not at her, but at himself, for he had no idea how to console her.
Whether it was hours or seconds that passed as he stood there, he could not be certain, but soon Olivia stopped rocking. Her head came up and she blinked and looked around, as if she had no recollection of where she was or how she got there. When she turned and stared at him, he knew she was trying to place him, to remember where she was.
He watched her expression change from one of acute anguish to one of fear. She did not flinch or take her eyes off him, but slowly, ever so slowly, she slipped one hand across the bed until her fingers came in contact with the bedclothes. She hastily covered herself.
She did not say a word as she pressed back against the wall, almost as if she was waiting for him to pounce.
Noah took a deep breath, willed himself to speak. Despite the fact that she was a stranger, that she was just passing through his life for a night, he found himself involuntarily reacting to her. “If you’re all right,” he said, barely able to put words together, “then I’ll go back outside.”
Ashamed of his physical reaction to her, of his inability to help her, he turned and left her alone again.
• • •
With relief, Olivia watched him go. As soon as he was out of the room she realized she was trembling violently. The old nightmare had left her exhausted, sweaty and shaken, unable to stop her tears. But more than the horrible dream, it was the raw desire on her host’s face that left her terrified.
So, he is human after all.
Last night, when he had kept his distance—and his hands to himself—Olivia had wondered if perhaps Noah LeCroix was different than other men; if—thankfully—she inspired no lust in him.
But this morning when she finally realized where she was, when she saw him standing there watching her, even the dawning sunlight in the room could not disguise the raw desire on his face or the way his body had responded to the sight of her. He had just been waiting.
She truly feared him in that moment and braced herself, ready to fight, fully expecting him to cross the room and try to take her, then and there. But Noah LeCroix had surprised her. Again.
Even though lust showed plainly on his face, he had not acted on it. Instead, he had turned and virtually run out of the cabin.
Her hands shook as she swiped at her tears and tried to stop quaking. She hated this inability to control herself after the recurring nightmare as much as she hated having to relive it all, over and over—the rending separation from her family, her father’s betrayal, the boys’ terror. Susanna’s face when she had said, “Olivia, think of the boys.” Most of all her own guilt. Her inability to sacrifice herself for them and go willingly. Her shame over the need for self-preservation that had made her cry out, “But what about me?”
“What about me?”
It had been a little over a year since that day. She had been an innocent girl of seventeen, a girl with her whole life ahead of her, a life that held the promise of many happy tomorrows in their new home in Illinois.
Yesterday, at long last, she had thought she was finally close to being reunited with her family—until her life once again took an ill-fated turn and suddenly she had been forced to take refuge in the swamp. Her head still ached from the knock against the log, and her wrist was still swollen and tender, but not nearly as bad as it had been last night. When she thought of how she felt a score older than she had a year ago, she remembered that today was her birthday. Amazingly, she had lived long enough to see nineteen, but there would be no celebration. She would pass this day as she had most every day since she had been taken from her family. She woul
d see to her immediate needs, do whatever it took to survive, try to find a way to get back home to them again.
But now, the fragile illusion that she might be safe here in Noah LeCroix’s treehouse had just been shattered. She had to get away. She looked out the window above the bed, out at the cloudy sky beyond the lattice of leaves. She was literally up a tree and there was no way down, no way out of the swamp without LeCroix’s help. All she could do was hope and pray that when he came back in, he would not give in to temptation and desire, that he would continue to keep his need in check.
Chapter 3
New Orleans, Louisiana
To the casual observer, everything in Darcy Lankanal’s world was perfect. As sole owner of a thriving house of chance, liquor, and prostitution, he had a fortune piled up in the bank of New Orleans as well as in a metal box hidden in the wall behind the headboard on his bed. The establishment, inherited from his mother, was named the Palace of Angels and boasted the best gaming tables, the finest liquor, and the most beautiful women in the entire South. His clothing was tailored in France and, despite his usually less than respectable occupation, he was admired by those who deemed themselves the upper crust of Creole society—so much so that he was often invited to their soirees and fetes.
But all was not right in Darcy’s world, nor had it been since Olivia Bond disappeared more than a month ago.
Darcy took a pull on his cigar, blew out a lazy blue smoke ring and watched it fade into the haze of the salon’s smoke-filled air. Then he reached up and ran his palm over his neat blond hair. As he smoothed his hand down the striped waistcoat beneath his double-breasted cutaway jacket, he easily hid his frustration and turmoil, smiled his most charming, carefree smile, and perused the salon.
His mother, Nicolette, God rest her soul, had taught him that the secret of a well-run establishment of any kind was the ever-vigilant, constant presence of its owner. Darcy always took his mama’s advice to heart.
During what appeared to be nothing more than a casual stroll around the huge salon and gaming room, Darcy greeted familiar customers, sized up strangers, flashed eye contact to his many well-paid and therefore very loyal dealers and bartenders, and calculated exactly how much liquor was leaving the bar. His patrons included riverboat captains, wealthy foreign travelers, and plantation owners, and all of them considered themselves lucky to be able to sit elbow to elbow, hunched over cards and dice at his nearly twenty tables. Thieves and cutthroats were not allowed.
Upstairs, the whores known as “Darcy’s ladies” were busy making him almost as much money as he would clear downstairs. He had hand-picked and personally trained each and every one of them since he’d inherited the Palace. Each one had been his own special “property” at one time or another, his alone to savor and enjoy, to pamper and coddle while she remained ensconced in his personal suite until a new, virginal initiate came along.
Two or three months spent with a new girl had been his routine until Olivia Bond entered his life. Now, despite the noise in the smoky salon, even as he wandered about observing the proceedings, Darcy could still see Olivia’s face, hear her voice, smell her, taste her on his lips.
Somehow the stubborn little witch with coal-black hair and fern-green eyes had gotten under his skin more than any woman before her. Somehow she had unwittingly enchanted him to the point of igniting an obsession. No matter how much the other girls complained about her, teased him, tried to tempt him away, or openly pouted about Olivia’s unprecedented length of special status, Darcy had not been able to cut her loose and launch her in the business of whoring for his customers.
She had lived with him over a year in his private suite, surrounded by luxury, at his beck and call morning, noon, and night. Just when he thought that she was finally warming to him, that she had come to accept her place, she had somehow managed to escape, slipping out onto the streets of New Orleans and disappearing without a trace. He was fast becoming convinced that she was no longer in the city. He had already spent a small fortune on a search and even now men were out combing the streets and waterfront for her, questioning soldiers, slavers, even the nuns at the Ursuline convent.
Darcy snubbed out the cigar in a crystal dish set out on the table for that very purpose. Across the room, one of his most requested ladies of the night, Marcella Champion, made eye contact and smiled at him, then began to weave her way through the maze of tables. Her eyes were as clear as a cloudless blue sky, and her long, blond hair bounced with a vibrant sheen. Whenever one of the patrons stopped her, either by word or touch, Marcella would pause and smile at him as if he were the only man in the world. Then the two would share a laugh and before she moved on, she whispered into his ear and convinced him that he just might be lucky enough to have her tonight.
Marcella, like Darcy’s other whores, had taken to selling her body like a swan takes to water. If only the same could have been said of Olivia. For some reason, even though he tried long and hard, Darcy could never reach Olivia’s heart and soul, never convince her that she would be far better off leaving her old life behind to live like a queen under his protection. He could not charm her, beguile her, bribe her, or tempt her into accepting that she would eventually be working for him. Her body might have been entirely in his possession, but she had never totally surrendered.
He sensed from the first that he would have a hard time convincing Olivia that working for him would give her a percentage of the money she earned and, in turn, give her power in her own right, far more money and power than any man’s wife would ever have, certainly. His girls wore the finest clothes. They had carriages at their disposal and elegant furnishings in their rooms. They used their own money in any way they wished. Not one of them had ever tried to run away, at least not after a few weeks with him. Even the girls who came to him against their will, just as Olivia had, were eventually charmed by him after he had separated them from everyone but himself, made them dependent and spoiled and tutored them in the fine art of pleasing a man, thus taking pleasure himself.
Once he deemed a girl ready for work, once she agreed to his terms, she was no longer a prisoner in any sense of the word. And he was no slaver. When the time came for a girl to retire, or if she was offered a position as some wealthy man’s exclusive mistress, he would let her patron, or the woman herself, pay back his initial investment in her, and then he would bid her fond adieu. Some women down on their luck had even come to him voluntarily, begging to be added to his stable of whores.
Eventually, when he was ready to give her up, Olivia would have been afforded all of the same generous opportunities. But no matter how well he taught her, no matter how deftly he had manipulated her body, no matter how often he had coaxed a physical response out of her, he had never been able to persuade her to leave the past behind. She never did become convinced that he and the Palace of Angels were the keys to her future.
But no matter how much she wished it otherwise, no matter how much she tried to deny or hide it, Olivia was very, very good in bed. For that reason alone, no amount of tears or pleading on her part would ever convince him that she would never become what he wanted her to be.
He knew one thing for certain that she did not. Olivia Bond was a sensual, erotic woman, perhaps the most alluring woman he had ever known—but she hated him with a singular passion he had never seen in a woman before, which made her not only tantalizing but unforgettable.
Marcella had finally reached his side. The light scent of her perfume, just enough to entice but not overwhelm, made him aware of her presence even before she said a word to him as he kept his eyes trained on the room.
“Quite the crowd tonight.” Her voice had a husky edge to it, one that her regulars often admired.
“Rainy nights always bring them in,” he said offhandedly.
“Darcy, look at me.”
Slowly, he turned, partially dismissing all the action that pulsed around him. Concentrating on anything was an effort lately. He looked down into Marcella’s kohl-acce
nted eyes.
“The other girls wanted me to talk to you. Tonight.”
“It’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning,” he told her, shifting positions, watching a beefy doorman hoist an unwanted troublemaker and discreetly remove him from the room.
“Tomorrow you will come up with some other excuse not to listen. It must be now, Darcy, while I have at least half of your attention.”
He sighed.
She stepped closer. “You’ve got to forget her and move on. Find someone to replace her. Send your men to scout out another new girl, and do it quickly. None of us can stand the way you’ve been moping around here like a whipped hound.”
“I don’t think,” he said, pulling another cigar out of his vest pocket, “that it is any of your business what I do or how I act. You all answer to me, not the other way around.”
When Marcella laid her hand on his coat sleeve, he let his gaze slide to where she touched him. She immediately let go.
“She’s gone, Darcy. She’s slipped back down whatever rabbit hole it was she crawled out of. Forget her. Lord knows, the way you kept her to yourself for so long did not sit well with the others. You made a pet out of that one. A damned pet, singling her out like that. Before Olivia, you never kept any of us more than a few months. You never had to.”
“As I recall, you lasted five months. Didn’t you, Marcella?”
She ignored his remark. “What I want to know,” she said, pressing closer, lowering her voice, “was what she had that none of us ever had. What little trick, or should I say tricks, did she use to get you to keep her as your exclusive property so long? What in the hell did a virgin know that none of us knew, Lankanal?”
That very question had been running through his own mind for weeks. Darcy suddenly pictured Olivia lying naked in his bed, remembered what it felt like to run his hands over her unblemished skin, what it did to him every time he took her. He could not forget what she had looked like the day the ruffians from upriver sold her to him. Seventeen years old, terrified, defeated, too frightened to talk, submissive only because she was too weak to fight. Her huge eyes were swollen from crying, her plain but once-adequate gown torn and filthy—but despite it all, she was still lovely and guaranteed to be a virgin.
Blue Moon Page 3