by Nancy Morse
She gave him a withered look. “Now you sound like Papa.”
“At least I’m not the only one who thinks we were meant for each other.”
“What a preposterous thought,” she said with a laugh. “Even if I were crazy enough to marry you, where would we ever find a priest to perform a wedding ceremony to unite the undead in holy matrimony?”
“The padre?” he suggested. “I hear he is quite an unusual fellow.”
“Unusual is hardly the word I would use to describe him.” She gave a guilty little smile. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s likely he will be performing any more ceremonies.”
“Prudence,” he exclaimed. “You didn’t.”
“I was hungry.”
Raindrops fell from the shoulders of his coat when he accepted her explanation with a shrug. His mouth tightened, and he forced a laugh, “You’re right. It was a preposterous thought.”
“I’m glad you agree. Your co-conspirator is in the parlor. I’m certain he’s eager to see you.”
“Where are you going?” he asked, when she turned away.
“To see Stede, of course.”
“You won’t find him there.”
She stared at him, alarmed.
“But you said—”
“I said your pirate is on his way back, but unless his horse has sprouted wings, it will take some time for him to get here.”
He watched her spin off. “Prudence, wait. There’s something about your pirate that I must tell you.”
“I don’t wish to hear any more of your disparaging remarks about him.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“You don’t know what I think,” she responded. “Or have you added mind reading to your list of special talents? I’ll wait a day or two and then I’ll surprise him.”
He heaved a black sigh, muttering under his breath as he followed her into the parlor, “I think you’re the one who is in for a surprise.”
Chapter 20
Pru swirled her cloak around her shoulders and drew the hood up over her head. Taking the decanter of potion-laced wine, she left the house.
As she steered the carriage bay down the narrow streets that led out of the city, the hood fell back. The sky was overcast, and there was no need to worry about the sun’s rays on her pale skin. Her hair streamed out behind her on a river breeze, a few ale-colored locks whipping about her face as she drove by the sugarcane plantations with their columned houses and slave villages and past the colorful Creole cottages dotting the winding river road.
She was anxious to see Stede and give him the potion so that they could get on with their life together as she envisioned it. Perhaps then he would turn away from the drink that had gotten him into so much trouble. People could change, she told herself, and with her love and support, there was nothing standing in their way. Except for his love of the sea. And, of course, Nicholas.
Nicholas. Would she ever be free of him? Free of those haunting green eyes, that melodic voice, the power of his music, the touch of his hand that threw her pulse into a frenzy? Was he thinking of marriage now? He might have sounded cavalier when he suggested it, but the vulnerable look in his eyes, of fragile emotions so easily broken, spoke volumes.
She recalled the tale he told about his life as a young mortal man on the threshold of marriage to a girl in his village, and how one night, after hunting wolves in the snowy Carpathians, his life had been forever altered. His darkness had come at the hands of a Transylvanian prince called Draculea. Hers had come at the hands of a handsome Romanian wolf hunter.
She hated him. She didn’t hate him. Her mind pitched and swirled, much as the Evangeline must have done before the sea swallowed her, she thought miserably. No doubt Stede was already making plans to secure another ship and resume his swashbuckling ways. She had to deliver the potion before he disappeared again and she lost him forever.
When she reached Stede’s house on the outskirts of the city, Christophe appeared to lead her horse through the carriageway. She proceeded up the steps to the front door, glancing back over her shoulder to catch the old quadroon’s watery blue eyes fixed heavily on her. She wasn’t afraid of him—she could easily snap his body in two—but there was something about him that set her nerves on edge.
She lifted the knocker and gave it several raps. Delphine answered and stepped aside for her to enter.
“Has he returned yet?” Pru asked.
“Oui,” Delphine said solemnly. “But the Spaniards, they beat monsieur. He is sleeping.”
“I’ll just go up to see him for a moment. I won’t disturb him.”
Upstairs, she followed the cinnabar runner to Stede’s room and gently pushed open the door. The argand lamp threw soft light across the walls. She walked softly to the four-poster.
Nicholas had not told her about this, but even if he had, it could not have prepared her for what she saw. Stede lay sleeping, his body cradled by the feather mattress, dark hair tangled about a face that was swollen with purple bruises. Her hand flew to her mouth to catch a sob. She longed to touch him, to sweep back the dark lock that slanted across his brow, but dared not awaken him. For several minutes she stared down at him, her heart breaking over what he had endured. Tearing her gaze from his battered face, she backed away slowly.
As she walked to the door, her gaze strayed to the armoire. She wet her lips, wondering if the black bag Nicholas claimed to have found was still there. Did she dare look? Listening for the deep and heavy sound of Stede’s breathing, she went to the armoire and quietly opened the door. Dropping to her knees, she rummaged through the contents on the floor of the armoire. The bag wasn’t there. She stifled the urge to laugh with relief.
Closing the door softly behind her, she left the room and headed for the staircase. Nicholas had some explaining to do. She couldn’t wait to tell that scoundrel what she thought of his outrageous accusation against Stede. Vampire hunter indeed.
As she descended the stairs, a sound drew her attention away from her thoughts. Something inside of her tightened. She knew that sound. She followed it downstairs to the parlor. Parting the portieres, she peeked into the dining room. A girl in a white dress was humming to herself as she set the table.
It was Marie, she realized with a start, the young quadroon girl Nicholas had taken in to live with him. What was she doing here?
Pru stepped into the dining room and approached her. “Good day, Marie.”
The girl turned and smiled sweetly. “Bonjour.”
“I was under the impression that you are living with Nicholas as his…his…friend.”
“That was before he gave me to Monsieur Bonham.”
“Gave?” Pru practically choked on the word.
“Nicholas has been so good to me. I would do anything for him. Even come here to live.”
“Live? How long have you been here?”
“Four days.”
So that’s what Nicholas had been busy doing. Is this what he had wanted to tell her the other evening? Fury flooded her. “And what did he send you here to do? Cook? Clean?”
“Whatever Monsieur Bonham needs,” Marie replied.
At the moment Stede was incapacitated and unable to take full advantage of Marie’s charms, but he would soon be back to his robust self, and that, Pru realized, was what Nicholas was planning on. Well, she would beat that scoundrel at his own game.
Withdrawing the decanter of potion-laced wine from beneath her cloak, Pru said, “Would you be a good girl, Marie, and do something for me? The moment Monsieur Bonham wakes up, you must fill a glass with this wine and give it to him. And see that he drinks it. It contains good gris-gris that will help him regain his strength.”
“Did you get it from the voodoo queen?” Marie asked.
“Yes. She prepared it especially for him. It will speed his recovery.”
There was not a minute to lose. She had to get Stede to drink the potion as soon as possible. Pressing the decanter into the girl’s hands, she said, “
Do you promise you will do this for me?”
“Oh, oui.”
Pru gave her a warm smile, and dropping her voice to a gently warning whisper, said, “But you must tell no one about it. Not Delphine or Christophe, and certainly not Nicholas.”
“I cannot lie to Nicholas,” Marie objected. “He has never lied to me.”
“Then you do not know him,” Pru muttered, but her sarcasm was lost on the girl. “Besides, it’s not really a lie. This can be our little secret.”
The thought of being part of a conspiracy seemed to please the girl. “Very well, I will tell no one. I promise.”
Pru left Stede’s house and turned the carriage bay’s head toward the city, confident that by this time tomorrow her pirate would be thoroughly in love with her, and there was nothing Nicholas could do about it.
Chapter 21
When Stede failed to come the following day, Pru attributed it to his weakened condition from the beating he’d taken at the hands of the Spanish soldiers. When he didn’t come all that week, she told herself he was busy making preparations to secure another ship and resume command of his enterprise. But as another week went by, she began to worry. Aunt Vivienne used to say that men in love made such fools of themselves and that a besotted fool would do anything to be with his beloved. So, where was Stede? Not wanting to appear to be the clinging type, she judiciously refrained from going again to his house outside the city, instead waiting for word from him.
To take her mind off it, she threw herself into her lessons with Sabine Sejour. She still declined to dance in Congo Square and offered convincing excuses not to accompany Sabine to Bayou St. John. But she did wrap her head in a tignon and accompany her to the homes of white women where Sabine dressed and coifed their hair.
“They are so stupide,” Sabine complained. “They think I am deaf and do not hear the things they say to each other. Oh, the things I could tell you.” Sabine taught her how to do their hair, cautioning her to remain mute. “If you speak, they will see you as a human being, and then, just like this—” She snapped her fingers in the air. “You will be out. And even if the way they want their hair done makes them look like creatures from the swamp, you must never tell them.” Pru learned her lessons well, and little by little worked her way into the voodoo queen’s confidence. All that remained was to think of a way to get the witch to chant the words to restore her soul so that she might begin her life with Stede.
On a cloudy Saturday morning in December she donned a woolen cloak and went out to do some shopping. From the open doors of the cathedral came the chants of High Mass, without the padre, Pru thought with grim amusement as she passed the ten-columned building. While crossing a street, she had to jump out of the way of a landau and skirted the banquettes that creaked with pedestrian traffic. The city was a noisy place, with carriage wheels squealing, horses’ hooves clopping in the mud, and the medley of languages on every corner—French, mostly, although English was fast catching up, and Greek and Spanish and German and Irish. And, of course, Creole, which no one but the Creoles could understand. The only quiet place, it seemed, was the river, where ships floated noiselessly against the currents, sails making slow arcs against the sky and the waters of the Mississippi sloshing against the levee.
There was a pale light in the sky, and the sunlight struggling to break through the clouds that splashed down upon the turrets of the cathedral. A crowd of people in the Place d’Armes drew Pru toward the square lining the riverfront levee where a ceremony of some sort was taking place.
Standing among the throng, her hood pulled low over her head, she watched as the French tricolor was slowly lowered and the American flag was raised. Through gaps in the crowd she recognized the figures of William Claiborne and General James Wilkinson, the new commissioners of the territory, as they officially took possession of it in the name of the United States of America.
From their balcony perch, Claiborne loudly declared, “I assure all the residents of Louisiana that their property, rights and religion will be respected.”
Celebratory salvos boomed from the forts surrounding the city, and the Americans in the crowd waved their hats, crying “Huzzah!”
The French and Spanish residents stood by in bitter silence. The French governor who had arrived in March to take charge of the colony, only to turn it over to the Americans, burst into tears.
An American in bay rum and cutaway coat stated loudly that the Creoles were like the Mississippi River, and that both should either flow peacefully or be stopped altogether. To which an enraged Creole responded, “Sir, I will never allow the Mississippi to be insulted in my presence,” and flung his glove in the American’s face, inciting the crowd. The military guard unsheathed their bayonets and rifles and pressed in among the crowd. The American takeover could not have begun any worse.
Pru was bumped and jostled as she fought her way through the hostile crowd. From between the crushing bodies a hand reached out to snag her arm.
It was Nicholas, wind-swept hair blowing about his handsome face, the green of his eyes dark and murky on this cloudless day.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Quite,” she replied. “Although I can’t say the same for the Creoles.”
He drew her away, turning over his shoulder to glance back at the crowd. “They fear their way of life is being threatened. They’re like children, unprepared for the complexities of liberty, and I doubt the Americans will give them a voice in the government of—what did Claiborne call it—oh yes, the Territory of Orleans. The Spaniards, too, are furious. It’s a wonder they haven’t all departed for Texas. Only the Americans are pleased. It’s just a matter of time before they come swarming into Louisiana, lured by ambition, cheap land and posts in the new territorial government. The Americans are a hardy breed. It will be interesting to see what they make of this city.”
They left the angry crowd behind. “I was on my way to a coffee house where the lower classes like to amuse themselves,” he said. “Would you care to join me?”
“I think not,” Pru coolly replied.
“If you prefer, we could go to one of the cafès frequented by Creoles who refuse to admit that their precious New Orleans is now in American hands. We could sit in a dark corner,” he teased, moving forward to press a thigh against hers.
“I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” she exclaimed, eyes flashing with fire as she flinched away.
He nodded with understanding. “You’ve been to see your pirate.”
“I take it that’s what you were alluding to the other evening. But your plan to lure Stede away from me and into Marie’s arms has failed,” she said tauntingly.
“Has it, now?”
“Yes. I’m going there tonight. He should be sufficiently healed by now, and we can begin our life together.”
“Is that what he told you?’
“Not exactly.”
“Yet you seem very sure of it.”
She was sure of the potion, but she did not want to give Nicholas the satisfaction of knowing that she had won Stede’s love through any means other than her own merit. “As sure as I am that Stede is not a member of the Sanctum. I looked in the armoire,” she said hotly. “There was no black bag. You lied about it just to make me doubt him.”
“I didn’t lie. There was a black bag. I saw it.”
Pru was unmoved. “You might be able to fool Marie into believing you are not a liar, but you’ll never fool me.”
“Go to your pirate, then,” he said with disgust. “How much will he love you when he learns what you are? And he will. It’s just a matter of time.”
He pivoted on his boot heels and stormed off, his greatcoat whipping about his legs in the wind.
She hated quarreling with him. Even when she pressed her advantage she never felt very triumphant. At times like that he looked fierce and menacing, much like what his victims must see in their last moments. But what others saw as the work of the devil, she saw as false bravado. Wor
se was the look in his eyes whenever one of her barbs struck a sensitive nerve. For all his inhuman strength, with centuries of living behind him, he was as vulnerable as any mortal, with emotions so easily shattered and dreams squashed.
Muttering to herself, she made her way along the levee where barges, keel boats and flatboats discharged their cargoes, and headed upstream to the French market. Heavy wagons rumbled by, but all she could think about was the look on his face when she told him about starting a life with Stede and all she could hear was the sound of his voice that he had kept low to keep from breaking.
As she crossed the Rue Condè, she looked up from her disquieting thoughts to find her path blocked by a shabbily dressed American infused with the afternoon’s festivities and, from the smell of him, too much whiskey. She stood tall, squaring her shoulders and refusing to budge from the banquette into the muddy street.
The uncouth flatboat man hurled slurred obscenities at her in a pitiful smattering of French.
Pru’s eyes darkened with anger to stormy blue. “It is not that you mistake me for Creole that I find insulting,” she hissed in English, “but that you dare to speak to any woman like that.”
He replied with a drunken smirk, “So you’re not one of those fancified Frenchies?”
“No,” Pru replied evenly.
His bleary gaze washed over her. “No self-respecting white woman would be seen here. What are you, anyway?”
“I am your worst nightmare.”
In a movement too quick for human eyes to detect, she flew at him, knocking him off the banquette.
He landed on his belly in the street and looked up with a face covered in mud. “Why you—!”
Casting a rapid look around to make sure no one was watching, Pru reached down, and with one hand circling his throat lifted the American from the mud, cutting off the rest of his words. He coughed and sputtered, partly from the superhuman grip she exerted and partly from a mouthful of mud.
She smiled, revealing sharpened eye teeth, and watched his expression change from anger to abject fear. “Don’t ever speak to a woman like that again. Because if you do, I will find you. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”