Tainted Love

by Nancy Morse

  He stiffened, but made no move to leave. “Did you let him penetrate you?” he asked against the darkness.

  He may have been able to detect the scent of sex on her, but even his astute powers could not tell the extent to which her lovemaking with Stede had taken beneath the moss-draped limbs of the live oak tree.

  Her voice drifted cold and harsh from across the room. “With pleasure.”

  He turned his face away to hide his wince. “Two men in one night. I must commend you on your insatiable appetite, Prudence.”

  “And what about you?” she said accusingly, gesturing to his breeches that stood out against his erection. “How many women will it take for your appetite to be appeased?”

  He shrugged in a grandiose manner. “Two, three. One never knows. I’m only just getting started for the night. After all, the way to a man’s heart is through his loins.”

  He gripped the window and swung one leg over the sill. “There was a time when you were afraid to bear the child of a vampire, yet tonight you let me spill my seed in you. And no doubt your pirate’s seed is still within.”

  “I take the necessary precautions,” she said.

  “That’s reassuring.” And with that, he was gone, slipping out the window like mist from the river.

  Pru rushed to the window and watched him make his way down the plastered side of the house like a nimble spider.

  With an anguished groan, his last words reverberated in her mind like pistol shots. Two men in one night. He was angry at her for that, but no more so than she was at herself. What respectable woman did such a thing? But how respectable was a creature of the night who subsisted on blood and sex even if it was through no fault of her own?

  She closed the window and leaned her forehead against the glass, feeling miserable and confused. In Stede’s arms she’d felt modest and innocent, like the virgin she used to be. In Nicholas’s arms she felt wild and uninhibited. The two facets of her sexual self seemed to contradict one another, and yet both were a part of her—the vulnerable young immortal who longed for emotional love from her partner, and the wanton vampire with uncontrollable urgings for whom love only got in the way.

  She lifted her head distressingly as another thought flashed through her mind. Was it true what Nicholas said about the vampire’s eyes at the moment of climax? None of the mortal lovers she’d had over the decades made mention of it, partly because most of them did not live beyond their coupling, but mostly because she had the habit of closing her eyes at the moment of orgasm, imagining that the man penetrating her was the vampire she hated.

  Would she ever be free of him? Tomorrow night, would it be the mortal’s face she saw in the midst of lovemaking or the vampire’s? She put her palm on her forehead, trying to think. She could feign illness when Stede’s carriage came to pick her up and decline to go. Even as she pondered it, however, she knew she would go, for there was more than physical gratification at stake. There was the possibility of finding the kind of love she had always dreamed of.

  Yet still too many questions lingered in the humid, cloying air. Would Stede love her if he knew what she was? Would he be able to be with a woman who remained young while he withered and grew old? If she offered him the gift of immortality, would he take it? The path toward winning the pirate’s love would be long and winding, like the river road. The seeds had already been sewn beneath a centuries-old live oak tree. Tomorrow night she would indeed show him how wicked she could be. After all, like Nicholas said, the way to a man’s heart was through his loins.

  What about the vampire’s loins? She was under no illusion that a creature as potent and vital as he would not hesitate to sate his lust with scores of other women. She didn’t care how many women he bedded. The thought of other women laying themselves bare to his intimate kisses and the surging power of his body aroused only a glimmer of jealousy. But the possibility that he might actually love one of them produced a heartburning resentment. She didn’t want his love, yet she didn’t want him to love anyone but her.

  Chapter 8

  The morning sunlight gleamed on the rosewood furnishings in the parlor, across the dark polished floor, and onto the staircase that pirouetted to the upper gallery when Pru opened the drapes. Papa was still sleeping, so there was no harm in letting a little light into the room. She barely squinted against the rays that fell across her face, frowning as she recalled Nicholas’s explanation for why she was able to withstand the sunlight when her papa wasn’t.

  Turning from the window and thoughts of that scoundrel, she went to the dining room where Babette was carrying in breakfast of hot spoon bread, veal hash, fig preserves in a crystal bowl, and steaming coffee.

  She had the whole day to think about the coming night with Stede, hours in which to daydream and dare to hope for the love that eluded her. And to plan. Yes, she had to plan wisely, from the selection of her dress to the style of her hair. Every detail had to be carefully calculated to achieve the desired result.

  The way to a man’s heart is through his loins.

  With Nicholas’s words in mind, after breakfast she went to the rosewood armoire in her bedroom and perused the gowns inside. After much consideration, she opted for a short-sleeved, high-waisted dress of light pink, the soft hue innocent-looking although not quite virginal. Stede claimed not to mind that she wasn’t a virgin, yet men were such simpleminded creatures, and she had yet to meet one who did not fantasize about being the first to deflower a woman. If she could not give him that, at least she could give him the appearance of it.

  Later that evening, Pru sat at the dressing table running a brush through her hair, but rather than fashion it in a bun with loose waves as was the fashion of the day, she left it suggestively long and loose over her shoulders and down her back, sweeping a pink ribbon up under the burnished tresses and tying it in a simple bow atop her head as the perfect compliment to the virginal-looking dress.

  The wall clock struck the hour just as carriage wheels sounded on the street outside the front gate. Clasping a thin chain necklace around her neck, she slipped her feet into velvet slippers, swirled a golden-colored shawl around her shoulders, and left the house.

  The carriage door was held open for her by a striking figure of a man in a perfectly fitting frockcoat. He was tall in a city of short men. His skin was the color of honey and his hair was tightly kinked and blond. A quadroon, Pru thought as she climbed inside. Eyes almost as blue as her own beneath a shelf of eyebrows matching his hair regarded her with a measure of suspicion as he turned away and took his place atop the perch.

  He steered the carriage’s high-stepping horse down the narrow cobbled streets to the river road. From there, it was a short ride with the moon peeking between spreading boughs to a house on the outskirts of the city bordering the swamp.

  It was a two story structure with a sloping roof of red tiles and a garden on one side. The ragged leaves of banana trees rustled against the wooden walls, and a wild array of red roses cascaded over a fence of iron lacework. The tall quadroon held open an impressive gate for Pru to pass through, his expression stony except for the pale eyes that washed over her just as he turned to climb back aboard the carriage and drive it to the carriageway to the rear of the cottage.

  Pru hesitated at the front entrance to smooth the skirt of her dress with her palms. Before her stood a door with thick panes of cut glass and an immense knocker in the form of a cherub. Lifting it, she rapped several times. It was one of those cool summer evenings so prevalent in New Orleans during the heady days of early September, and she drew the shawl tighter around herself against the chill as she waited.

  It was only moments before her knocking was answered. A Creole woman led her up a curving staircase and across a wide hallway of marble tiles into a drawing room, and then left without a word, closing the French doors behind her.

  While she waited, Pru looked around. The room was huge, with heavy portieres dividing it from an adjoining room and pale golden draperies at the widows.
Framed pictures of pastoral scenes hung about the white walls. Thankfully, there were no mirrors. The divans and chairs were upholstered in gold and blue. A French clock sat on a carved marble mantel. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, each crystal sparkling like diamonds from the candles’ glow. This was not what she expected of a pirate, common or otherwise.

  He was nothing like the dusty pirates she saw about town in their shabby coats and stockings, or the sailors who flooded the taverns whenever their ships docked in the harbor whose clothes were sewn out of worn sail canvas, or those who minced about town in silver-buckled high-heeled shoes, clad in plundered, often mismatched, garments and sporting gaudy ear pendants. Indeed, the clothes Stede had been wearing when he was tossed out of the tavern, and those he wore the afternoon they drove to the river, although flamboyant, were tasteful and costly. What, she wondered, made him so different from the others?

  But whatever uncertainty Pru had over the source of Stede Bonham’s resources was dashed when the French doors opened behind her.

  “Pru.”

  The sound of her name quickened her pulse. Swallowing hard, she turned around.

  Tonight he was dressed in a shirt of fine linen opened deeply at the neck with handmade lace cascading off the cuffs and tight-weaved woolen breeches whose below-the-knee buttons disappeared into the tops of black leather boots with fancy stitching.

  His boot heels clicked against the marble tiles as he came forward. Taking her hand in his, he lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. “You look real pretty tonight. Just like a pink rose.”

  She saw the way his eyes devoured her and lowered her lashes demurely, confident that winning his heart would be an easy task.

  “Thank you, Stede.” She lifted her gaze to meet and hold his for several moments before looking away. “I was admiring the room. You have very elegant taste.”

  He laughed. “You mean for a pirate?”

  “I mean for anyone. Although, I didn’t know pirates could afford such luxury.”

  “My ventures have been profitable,” he said.

  Pru smiled coyly. “So it would seem.” She suspected there was more to it than he was willing to say, but that was all right with her. She wouldn’t press him to reveal the nature of his ventures. After all, she had secrets of her own to protect. And besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “How did you come to own this house?” she asked.

  He uncorked a decanter and poured wine into two crystal glasses, saying as he did, “The previous owner received a land grant and settled an indigo plantation on the river north of the city. This was where he kept his—” He paused, deciding how to delicately explain the situation.

  “His mistress?” Pru ventured.

  “Ah, yes.” He placed a glass in her hand. “He was quite wealthy and set her up here rather than in a little one-story house on Rue du Rampart where most white men set up their quadroon mistresses. That’s the way it’s done here. You won’t find any self-respecting Creole who doesn’t have a quadroon sweetheart. The arrangement often continues for years, and when broken by his marriage to a white woman or for some other reason, the mistress usually receives compensation to set her up in business. Most of them become hairdressers or nurses and are eventually forgotten. He left the house to her when he married and moved upriver with his white wife. They say she died of a broken heart. Every quadroon woman thinks her partner will prove an exception to the rule of desertion.”

  “How sad for the daughters of quadroon mothers,” Pru muttered.

  “Not nearly as sad as it is for sons of quadroon mothers. Those boys can’t even marry women of their own color who cry ‘ils sont si degoutants’. They’re either shipped off to France or they marry women whose skin is darker than their own.”

  Pru contemplated the Bordeaux in her glass, the deep red glowing like garnets in the candlelight, and frowned at the thought of a quadroon girl calling a quadroon man disgusting. Such things as skin color were trivial compared to the stigma she carried.

  “Your servant,” she said. “The one who drove the carriage. He is quadroon, is he not?”

  “Christophe? Yes.”

  “There is something disquieting about him. I could not put my finger on it, but perhaps that’s it. I take it, then, he is not married?”

  “Christophe is as free as a bird. There was someone once. He doesn’t talk about her, but when a man loves as strongly as I loved Evangeline, you recognize it in another.”

  A feeling of resentment pulsed through Pru at the mention of the young quadroon girl Stede had loved. Would he ever be able to put his love for Evangeline in the past where it belonged and love her in the here and now? It was becoming more and more urgent as she felt herself filling up with emotion for him. Having never been in love, she didn’t know how it could happen in such a brief span of time, but she could not ignore the yearning deep down inside, not for just any man, but for this one.

  Nicholas would call it lust, and there was some truth to that. The crazy notion of marriage sprang into her mind. But first things first. She had to get Stede Bonham to fall in love with her. Judging from the lust she saw in the gray eyes looking at her from over the rim of his glass could love be far behind? A wild hope invaded her heart. Perhaps then she could reveal the truth of what she was and convince him to join her in immortality.

  The room suddenly filled with the aroma of spices. “It smells like dinner is ready,” he said. Lifting the glass from Pru’s hand, he set it down beside his own on a small round table. Offering his arm, he walked her across the room, swept aside the portieres and escorted her into a dining room aglow with candlelight.

  They dined on crawfish etouffèe simmering in a blond roux with tomato sauce over rice.

  “This is delicious,” Pru remarked, grateful it was not a meat dish dripping with blood.

  Stede grinned at her from across the table. “I like to see a woman with a healthy appetite.”

  “This isn’t the only thing I have an appetite for,” she said with a devilish twinkle in her eyes.

  He froze in mid motion with a piece of crawfish half-way to his mouth.

  She slanted a half glance at him and could tell by his expression that her comment had hit its target. “I’m hoping there will be a delicious dessert.”

  He chuckled. “I can ask Delphine to make some hot chocolate to ruddy up your cheeks.”

  “Oh? Do my cheeks need color?” she asked innocently. “It must be the weather here. It’s so hot it tends to drain the color from my face.”

  “You haven’t been in Nawlins that long. You’ll get used to the heat.”

  “There seems to be so much going on in the city,” she said, adroitly shifting the subject away from the unusual paleness of her skin.

  “The French Colonial Prefect arrived in March to receive the province on behalf of France from the Spanish Governor,” he said as he ate. “But instead, a French ship arrived with notice that the Americans were negotiating for the whole damn territory. The Spanish troops are sailing for Havana. I’m sure you saw the battalions of men patrolling the city to protect it from rioting and looting.”

  “Now that you mention it, I have heard a cannon fired every night.”

  His look soured. “In the Place d’Armes they fire the cannon to signal an eight o’clock curfew for sailors to return to their ships.”

  “You do not strike me as the kind of man who adheres to curfews.”

  He acknowledged her insight with a smile.

  “I am given to understand that the Creoles place a high premium on honor,” she said. “Why, just the other day I observed two men quarreling over a matter of etiquette, a venial sin against politeness, if you ask me.” It had been late one evening after she had fed at the cemetery, while strolling the deserted streets, but she didn’t say that. “I half expected them to strike some blows.”

  “Quarrels among Creoles never end in fisticuffs,” he said. “An unwritten law in Nawlins society forbids
it. Those kinds of altercations are settled by duels.”

  Pru looked up from her plate. “How primitive.”

  “It’s been going on for decades. During the French and Spanish days most of the duels were fought in a cleared space behind the Cathedral. These days the ground beneath a grove of giant live oaks outside of the city has seen its share of spilled blood.”

  “And you?” Pru questioned. “Have you ever engaged in a duel?”

  “I know nothing of this dueling business,” he replied.

  “But I am under the impression that no gentleman can refuse a challenge.”

  “I’m not a gentleman,” he said, smiling. “I’m only a pirate.”

  “And quite an enterprising one, it would seem.”

  “Is there anything you need or want?” he asked. “I have connections to obtain any number of things.”

  “Papa and I are quite comfortable,” Pru replied. “But if anything comes to mind, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  There it was again, that suggestive tone of her voice that made him stare at her. “Pru, I do believe you’re teasing me, and doing a fine job of it.”

  She placed her fork down beside the dish and looked at him seductively from beneath her lashes. “Why, Mr. Bonham, I don’t know what you mean.”

  The swipe of his tongue over his lips as if he were gazing at a mouth-watering morsel told Pru she was making headway. Pushing her plate away, she sat back in her chair, and running her fingers suggestively up and down the glass, she said, “I’m quite full. I can’t imagine what more I could possibly put into my mouth.”

  There was a time when such saucy banter would have mortified her just to hear it, but she was no longer the timid little mortal she used to be. The one good thing about her preternatural state, she thought as she watched his reaction, was the freedom it brought to say and do whatever she pleased.

  Stede swallowed hard as his eyes devoured that delectable mouth. He could well imagine what he’d like to put into it. Rising from his seat, he said roughly, “Let’s go out on the gallery.”