Many, many women must have loved him, I thought, smoothing a damp lock from his brow. They would have found his virility appealing, his ruthless air exciting, his charm irresistible. Buxom barmaids, elegant countesses, blushing virgins, worldly courtesans—all must have longed to touch him as I was touching him now. How they must have vied for his attention, spoiling him deplorably, hoping to entrap him, each doomed to find him as enchanting as foxfire and just as elusive. How many hearts had he broken? How many women lay awake in lonely beds, the interminable hours of the night filled with memories of the handsome charmer who had loved so well and left so nimbly?
He had stopped shivering. His skin was slightly warm to the touch, but it wasn't burning, and he seemed to be sleeping a deep, restful sleep. I attributed that to the laudanum. The opiate was extremely strong, and I was a bit concerned about giving him so much. Although it undoubtedly eased pain and induced sleep, it frequently had dangerous side effects if taken too often or in too great a quantity. Bizarre nightmares, hallucinations, violent behavior often resulted if the drug was used improperly. Giving his brow a final stroke, I stood up and rubbed the back of my neck. Dr. Duvall had given me specific instructions, and I felt sure he wouldn't have left the bottle if he thought there was any danger.
Jeremy stirred, opening his eyes. Moaning groggily, he tried to sit up, the maroon brocade rustling, I put my hands on his shoulders, gently easing him back down.
"It's all right," I said softly. "I'm here."
He frowned deeply, scrutinizing me with feverish blue eyes that seemed to look right through me.
"W—who—"
"It's Marietta, Jeremy."
"Ma—Marietta?"
He might never have heard the name before. Those feverish eyes continued to scrutinize me, suspicious, apprehensive. He scowled angrily, muttering something I didn't catch.
"H—hot," he said.
"I know, darling."
"Thirs—thirsty."
"I'll get you some orange juice."
When I returned from the kitchen with the glass, he drank greedily, although I could see that it was painful for him to swallow. As soon as I removed the glass from his lips he dropped his head back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. In a few moments he was sound asleep again, breathing heavily through parted lips. I stood beside the bed a while longer, watching him, then returned to the kitchen.
Taking the chicken off the stove, I removed the tender, juicy meat from the bones and cut it into small pieces, dropping them back into the rich broth with a cupful of small noodles and cabbage leaves I had carefully washed and shredded into thin strips. A wonderful aroma filled the kitchen as the soup began to simmer. I stirred it listlessly, adding a few herbs and a pinch of salt. I wondered how long it would take him to get well. After the fever was gone, after the danger was over, how long would it be before he was back on his feet and able to go about his business? Two weeks? Three? I couldn't leave New Orleans until he was fully recovered.
He was going to recover. I wouldn't even consider the alternative, despite Dr. Duvall's grim words. Jeremy was young and strong and red-blooded, bursting with vitality and energy, A simple fever wasn't going to down him, not if I had anything to do with it. I would see that he got plenty to eat. I would bathe him repeatedly with cool water when the fever raged, and when he was cold, when he began to shiver and his teeth began to chatter, I would keep him warm. As I stirred the soup, I felt total confidence, but my eyes grew moist nevertheless. It ... it wasn't just whistling in the dark, I told myself. He wax going to get well.
Setting the wooden spoon aside, I wiped my eyes and straightened my shoulders. I needed more sleep. I needed more food, too. After I fed Jeremy, I would eat a bowl of soup myself and make a pallet in the bedroom and try to nap for a little while. I was worn to the nub, tired through and through, so weary I could hardly stand and, as a result, my nerves were frayed, my emotions dangerously near the surface. I wanted to sit down and sob and sob and sob until all the anguish and anxiety were released, but I couldn't let go. If I did, I might not be able to stop.
There was a distant rumble. The walls seemed to shake. Gunfire? It took me a moment to realize it had been thunder. I opened the back door and looked out. Ponderous gray-black clouds roiled in the dark gray sky, hanging low, and it was so dark I could barely see the large round wooden cistern that stood beside the giant fig trees. As I watched, silvery flashes of lightning illuminated the sky like a dazzlingly brilliant web, but it still didn't rain. I closed the door and took the soup off the stove.
Jeremy made an angry face when I pulled him up into a sitting position and propped the pillows behind him. He grumbled, looking at me with vivid blue eyes that saw something else. The rich maroon robe slipped from his shoulders, sliding down his arms. I pulled it back up, adjusted it and retied the sash. Jeremy made another face, pushing me away.
"I've brought soup," I said gently.
"N—no—"
"You must eat."
"Going to let it hap—happen, not going
"Jeremy—"
"Wrong—bad—"
"Here. Open your mouth."
He pressed his lips tight, glaring at me. His fists were clenched, and I realized that he was seeing some highly disturbing scene that was vividly alive inside his mind. I bathed his forehead and cheeks with a damp cloth. He muttered to himself, and then the snapping sapphire fire left his eyes and he had a contused, bewildered look. He squinted, trying to clear the fog, seeing me at last.
"Ma—Marietta? Is—is that—"
"It's me, Jeremy. I've come to feed you."
"F—food? Not—not hungry—"
"Open your mouth."
He grumbled unpleasantly, obeying at last. The muscles of his throat moved painfully as he swallowed, but I managed to feed him the entire bowl of soup nevertheless. I wiped his lips and gave him water and then carefully filled a tablespoon with the thick, syrupy brown medicine and gave it to him. He grimaced as J wrapped my arm around his shoulders and lowered him back down, moving the pillows and placing one under his head. He fell asleep almost immediately, his lips parting, his breathing heavy, labored, I studied his face, trying to convince myself that some of the pallor was gone, the yellow fading, but in my heart I knew there had been no change.
At the kitchen table, I ate a bowl of soup and a slice of buttered bread, wanting more coffee but deciding against it. As soon as I finished washing the dishes, I would pile some blankets on the floor in the bedroom and try to take a nap. After the soup and the laudanum, Jeremy should sleep for three or four hours, and I would wake up if he stirred. Putting water on to warm, stacking the dishes on the drainboard, I wondered if I could possibly drag the sofa from the parlor into the bedroom. It would be far more comfortable than a pallet on the door. No, it was far too heavy, and the mere thought of exerting myself left me weak.
There was another loud clap of thunder as I washed the dishes.
Splashes of silver light flickered through the louvers of the shutters, causing weird shadows to dance on the walls. When the storm finally broke, there was going to be a torrential downpour, but I knew it could go on this way for hours before a single drop fell. More thunder sounded, noisy, insistent, echoing in the front foyer. It was almost as though someone was pounding repeatedly on the door. It took me a moment to realize that someone was at the door, rapping so hard the wood was likely to splinter.
Drying my hands, frowning, I hurried down the hall, snapped the lock open and cautiously turned the door handle. I didn't open the door all the way, I didn't dare, and I silently cursed myself for not having the foresight to get the pistol.
The man who stood on the doorstep was tall and lean with a lean, tan face and steelly gray eyes beneath highly arched, sooty black brows. His dark golden brown hair was clipped close to the skull, and his thin pink lips spread in a tight, disgruntled line. As I opened the door a few more inches and he got a good look at my face, the gray eyes lost their steelly hardness and took
on an all too familiar gleam. The lips lifted slowly at one corner into an appreciative grin.
"What do you want?" I asked. My voice was like stone.
"Well, now, ain't very neighborly, are we?"
I started to slam the door. He placed his palm against it, pushing hard. I stumbled back. He shoved the door all the way open, and I saw the two men behind him then, saw the wagon in front of the gate with at least seven people huddling miserably under the blankets. My heart seemed to stop beating. My blood turned icy cold. I recognized them now, all three of them.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"Corporal Sanders, ma'am, and this here's Private O'Hara and Private Hopkins."
O'Hara, a husky redhead with sullen brown eyes, nodded curtly. Hopkins was short and stocky and stood in a pugilistic stance, legs spread wide, shoulders hunched, fists planted on his thighs. He seemed to bristle with hostility, black eyes glaring at me as though he longed to knock me down. All three men wore black boots, dark breeches, and silky shirts, O'Hara's and Hopkins' navy blue, Sanders' a deep yellow-beige.
"O'Hara and Hopkins, they're my helpers. I got orders to gather up all th' people in th' neighborhood who got th' fever. City's transportin' 'em to a camp ten miles outta town. Got beds for 'em there, got people to look after 'em."
"You—you're with the army?"
"That's right. Second Regiment."
"You're not in uniform."
Sanders grinned. "It's pretty ugly work, ma'am. Didn't none of us want to get our uniforms all soiled. I got my orders. Hopkins and O'Hara are here to help. Where's th' fever victim?"
Don't panic, I told myself. Don't panic. Think. Think. Calm, Keep very, very calm. Don't let them see how frightened you are. Shoving a long copper wave from my cheek, assuming a haughty air, I stared at the tall, not unattractive man with the lean tan face and short golden-brown hair.
"There must be some mistake," I said coolly. "There's no one here with fever."
"No?" Sanders drawled.
"My—my husband has an extremely bad cold. The doctor came and examined him and said he was very weak and needed a great deal of rest and needed to drink a lot of liquids, but—it isn't the fever."
"How ya gonna explain this cross on the door?"
"It was painted there by error. Someone was confused. My husband has a bad cold."
Sanders' thin pink lips curled mockingly. "Don't see no wedding ring on your linger." he said. "Bet that man in there ain't gotta ring, either. I think you're lying to me."
"She's gotta nice body, ain't she?" O'Hara called.
"Yeah," Sanders agreed, gray eyes studying me. "Real nice."
"Wouldn't mind some of that, would you?"
"Wouldn't mind at all."
"Let's get on with it!" Hopkins barked. "We ain't got time for none of that."
"Hopkins ain't got no appreciation a th' finerthings," O'Hara remarked. "He gets his fun by shovin' people around, beatin' 'em up. I don't see that we're in an all-fired hurry."
"No hurry at all," Sanders said.
His eyes held mine. The grin curled on his lips. The iciness inside me was numbing. I had to do something. What? What? I couldn't let them take him. I couldn't let them put him on that wagon. They were taking the ill away to die, of that I was certain. The conditions at the camp were undoubtedly primitive and squalid, they had to be. Without personal attention, without constant care, Jeremy wouldn't have a chance of surviving. They weren't going to take him. They weren't. What was I going to do? Think. Think.
"Let's get on with it!" Hopkins urged. "She gives you any trouble, let me handle her!"
His black eyes burned. His whole body was charged with brutal energy he could barely contain. Rocking on the balls of his feet, knees bending, he reminded me of a bulldog on a leash, and I knew he longed to attack. Sanders seemed to read my thoughts.
"We ain't gonna turn him loose," he said, "not lessen you try'n keep us from doin' our duty."
"I—I told you, there's no one here with fever, You're wasting your time."
Sanders shoved me back and stepped into the foyer. O'Hara and Hopkins crowded in behind him, I moved quickly into the parlor, praying they would follow and stay away from the bedroom. Sanders strolled in after me, still grinning. O'Hara followed him and began to examine the furnishings with a covetous eye. He fingered a silver box, stroked a pink silk cushion, moving about the room, taking stock. Hopkins hadn't come into the parlor. Where was he?
"Lotta nice things here,"O' Hara observed, "Real fine things. Reckon that fancy clock'd fetch a nice sum. Them little figures on if re real gold. Looks like we got us some rich folks here."
"You can take anything you want," I said quickly, "I won't protest. Take anything you want,"
"Right generous of you, ma'am," Sanders said.
"I—I'll make a bargain with you."
His eyes undressed me. He ran the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, savoring the situation, anticipating delight. I steeled myself.
"You gotta lot to bargain with," he drawled. "Ain't seen a body shapely as yours in a long time. Real tasty lookin'."
"She gonna let ya?" O'Hara asked.
"Reckon she is. Reckon she don't have much choice,"
O'Hara chuckled and thrust the silver box into his pocket, I looked at Sanders, calm now, prepared to give myself to him. If it meant saving Jeremy, I would give myself to all three of them. Sanders rubbed his chin with his thumb, his gray eyes full of amusement and kindling desire. He pulled me to him and thrust his hand into the bodice of my gown, grasping my breast and squeezing hard, his other arm curling around the back of my neck. I tried to conceal my disgust as he slowly lowered his head, lips parted,
"He's in here!" Hopkins thundered.
Sanders frowned, annoyed. "Go help him, O'Hara!" he ordered. "I got business with the lady. Alter you've taken him out to the wagon you 'n Hopkins can come back and gather up some loot."
"You bastard!" I cried.
I kicked him in the shin, breaking free. He caught my wrist and jerked me in front of him, slinging an arm around my throat, brutally pressing his forearm again my windpipe as I struggled to escape. O'Hara chuckled again and sauntered out of the room. Sanders loosened his hold a bit and bent his head down, his lips brushing my earlobe. I stopped struggling, standing very still, his forearm firm across my throat but no longer pressing.
"You 'n me, we're gonna have some fun," he taunted,
"We made a bargain," I said hoarsely.
"You made an offer. I didn't promise nothin'. Just relax. Me, I know how to make a gal feel good, real good. We're gonna move over there to that sofa, an' when we're done you're gonna beg me to do it all over again."
Forearm tightening across my windpipe, he forced me across the room and shoved me onto the sofa. I looked up at him, desperate now, desperately trying to think. The pistol. I had to get the pistol. It was in my reticule. Reticule. Money. I would offer him money. He stood over me, leering, delaying his pleasure. I sat up, the bodice of my soiled blue silk gown slipping low, almost exposing my nipples. He liked that. He opened his mouth, his tongue flicking out to lick his lip again.
"I have money," I said.
It worked. "Money?"
"A great deal of money," I replied. My voice was level now. "Before my friend fell ill. he went to the bank. We were planning to leave New Orleans. He took everything we had out of the bank."
Sanders forgot his throbbing member and pulled me to my feet.
"Show me!" he ordered, shoving me toward the door.
I led the way across the foyer and into the bedroom. Hopkins and O'Hara had pulled Jeremy out of bed, each holding one of his arms. He sagged between them, moaning, his eyes closed, the maroon robe hanging limply to his calves. I moved calmly over to the dressing table, picked up the reticule and turned around. Sanders waited near the doorway with a new kind of lust in his eyes. O'Hara and Hopkins gave him puzzled looks. I pulled the pistol out and leveled it at Sanders' heart. O'Hara gasped,
<
br /> "Jesus! She's gotta pistol!"
I stared at Sanders with eyes as hard as marble. "Tell them to put him down," I said.
He heard the deadly deliberation in my voice. His cheeks turned pale, and he valiantly tried to hide his fear from his mates. I cocked the pistol, holding it steady, my eyes never leaving his own.
"Hey—hey now," he protested. "You don't wanna interfere with th' army, ma'am,"
"Tell them to put him down."
"You ain't gonna let no woman intimidate you!" Hopkins snarled. "Knock her down and take that toy outta her hand."
"Looks like I—uh—looks like I'll have to," Sanders said nervously, "Why don't ja put th' pistol down, ma'am."
"Move a muscle," I said, "and I'll fire. I mean it. Tell them to put him down."
Sanders hesitated a moment, then gave the order,
"Gently," I warned.
Hopkins scowled savagely. O'Hara was visibly shaken. They lowered Jeremy onto the bed and straightened up, and then Hopkins roared and lunged at me. I whirled around and pulled the trigger and the explosion seemed to rock the room. The blast knocked Hopkins halfway across the room. He fell to the carpet, his shoulder shattered, hones splintered, blood gushing a bright crimson. In the confusion I whipped open the top drawer of the dressing table, and pulled out the pistol Jeremy had been carrying. O'Hara stared at me in horror through the curling smoke.
"She's got another one!" he exclaimed.
"I happen to be a crack shot," I said. "I could easily have put the bullet between his eyes."
"I believe you, lady!"
"Sanders?"
"I—I ain't gonna argue with you."
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