Gathering the quilt around her shoulders, Lauren went to the door and found that the handle turned easily under her hand. She peered out into the companionway. The darkness made her shudder—but at least no one was guarding the door. Shutting it once more, she turned to survey the cabin, noticing things she hadn't noticed before.
In addition to the bunk, desk, and chairs, the cabin was furnished with a large sea chest, an unlit brazier, and a shaving stand, while the mahogany-paneled bulkheads were lined with latticed cabinets. Through the leaded panes, she could see leather-bound books and various navigational instruments, including a sextant and spyglass, but she had no luck in opening the doors. She didn't see any usable weapons, either, for the pair of mounted pistols which hung behind the desk proved to be unloaded.
She decided to try the sea chest next, but as she passed the shaving stand, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Halting abruptly, she stared at her reflection in astonishment, hardly recognizing herself. She looked just like Veronique did after a night with an arduous lover. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips red and swollen from Jason's kisses, and her hair spilled over her shoulders in wild disarray. But her eyes seemed to have undergone the most change. They were bright and animated, not remote and shadowed. She felt different as well. Her skin was glowing with warmth, while her stomach fluttered with anticipation and excitement.
"My God!" Lauren murmured as a new thought struck her. Even if she could have done so, she wouldn't have changed what had happened that evening. She was actually glad Jason Stuart had found her, despite the fact that he had virtually kidnapped her and imprisoned her on his ship. She couldn't guess what he intended to do with her. But even if she couldn't find a way to escape, she wouldn't worry yet. He would let her go after he saw Lila.
Lila! God, what would Lila think? Distractedly, Lauren pushed a lock of golden hair back from her face. She had had an excuse for letting Jason make love to her that long-ago night in London, but not by any stretch of the imagination could she be pardoned for this evening's revels. How could she explain the wanton way she had responded when he kissed her? She had wanted him to make love to her, had wanted his strength and warmth and passion.
And what of Lila herself? What would Lila feel when her past lover suddenly appeared to disrupt their lives? And Jean- Paul? He was volatile enough to call out any man who threatened his honor.
Oh, why did Jason Stuart have to come to New Orleans just now, when she had managed to bury her past? And why was she so elated by his presence? There could never, never be anything between them, not as long as George Burroughs and Regina Carlin continued their deadly battle over the Carlin Line. She couldn't put Jason's life in danger by dragging him into her affairs.
Besides, he still thought she was someone else, and she couldn't risk telling him the truth, at least not yet. She didn't trust him enough yet to give him such a powerful weapon to hold over her head.
So why was she standing here like a fool waiting for him to return?
Tearing her gaze from the mirror, Lauren bent over the basin and quickly splashed water on her face, trying to remove the lingering traces of passion. She had no brush or comb, so she did the best she could with her tangled hair by using her fingers. Then she turned her attention once more to her escape.
First she had to find some clothes, she decided as she knelt before the chest that had contained Jason's shirt. With one of her hairpins, which she found on the floor, she set about trying to pry open the lock.
After a quarter of an hour and a broken fingernail, she gave up in frustration. The heavy lock proved impossible to budge, and she was shivering because the quilt kept slipping off her shoulders. Rubbing her arms, Lauren looked around the cabin again. The desk! Of course. She should have first searched the desk for the keys.
She managed to open the top drawer with the hairpin, but there were no keys among the various papers and rolled parchments. She was about to close the drawer and try another when she noticed a familiar handwriting on one of the letters. She froze, her gaze drawn to the scrawling signature. George Burroughs. The name leapt up at her like a rabid dog, snapping and snarling and dripping its poisonous venom.
For a long moment, she couldn't move, couldn't think. She simply knelt there, staring with cold fear, her pounding heartbeat echoing loudly in her ears. Finally she reached a trembling hand for the letter.
It was dated a few years earlier and concerned the sale of a ship—an East Indiaman in the Carlin Line—and it was addressed to Jason.
Lauren wasn't aware of the anguished denial that escaped her lips, or that her cry could be heard outside the cabin. She didn't want to believe that Jason was connected with her hated guardian. Yet here was irrefutable proof that he was taking orders from Burroughs.
Pain knifed through her as she realized the full impact of Jason's betrayal. He had lied to her! He had tricked her, just like Jonathan Carlin had tricked her mother, proposing to her, making love to her, when all he had wanted was the Carlin ships. What a stupid fool she had been! She had been so concerned with protecting him, yet he must have known about the deception all along. It was even possible that he had ordered those men to kill Matthew.
Lauren shuddered, realizing suddenly the danger she faced. If they needed "Andrea Carlin" alive in order to maintain control of the Carlin Line, then Jason probably meant to return her to England where she would again be in George Burroughs's power. And if they had found some way to do without her, they might consider it wiser to be rid of her altogether. Then no one would be able to expose the deception. Either way, her life was in danger.
The rapid pounding on the cabin door made Lauren jump. She looked around wildly for a place to hide or a weapon to arm herself, but Tim Sutter burst into the cabin before she could move.
"Crimes!" he breathed, drawing up short. He looked shocked to find her kneeling on the floor, the quilt slipping from her bare shoulders. And the deathly pallor of her face must have alarmed him, for he immediately grabbed the brandy decanter from the desk. "Lord, please don't swoon, ma'am," Tim pleaded, kneeling beside Lauren and holding a glass to her lips. "Here, drink this. You'll feel better."
"No, I don't want it. . . ."
In spite of her protests, he managed to force some of the liquor down her throat, which made Lauren choke and gasp for breath. The burning spirits revived her color, however, as well as her wits, and she realized she would have to overpower Tim Sutter if she hoped to escape the ship.
When her gaze fell on the decanter beside her, she knew she had the weapon she needed. Not giving herself time to change her mind, Lauren grasped the decanter with both hands, closed her eyes, and swung.
The blow struck Sutter on the temple, knocking him out at once. Lauren stared with remorse at his unconscious body. She hadn't wanted to hurt him. But she had to get away—as fast and as far as possible.
She took a deep breath to steady herself, then went to the door to close it before returning to Tim's side. Although she tried to ignore the thin trickle of blood at his temple as she divested him of his trousers and shirt, her hands were shaking so badly that the task took twice as long as it should have. Finally, however, she was dressed in Tim's clothes—sans boots, since she decided stockinged feet would be quieter. She lifted the lantern down from its peg, intending to use it to guide her way, and slipped out of the cabin.
As she moved along the companionway, she felt as if she were reenacting one of her terrifying nightmares. She even heard voices as she mounted the steps to the main deck. But they were human voices, Lauren realized with new alarm. She and Tim Sutter weren't the only ones on board.
She doused the light automatically and dropped to her knees, her heart pounding in her throat, just as it had when she was sixteen years old and running from her guardian. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could just make out two men standing near the gangplank. Neither resembled Jason Stuart, and Lauren suspected they were men who had been ordered to stand guard.
; She crept silently away, edging toward the far side of the ship. She crawled over coils of rope and folds of canvas sail, and twice she collided with cables that were invisible in the curling fog.
When she reached the gunwale, she inched herself up to peer over the side. Oh God, she thought, staring at the glistening black water of the Mississippi. Why had she never recognized such a vast deficiency in her education before now?
She had always been proud of her accomplishments. She could design gowns fit for courtesans or queens, she could sing and play a skillful accompaniment, and she could make investment decisions with a shrewdness that startled even Jean-Paul. She also had learned a great deal from her friends at the casino: the art of Creole cuisine from the Negro cook, the use of firearms from Kendricks, and the complexities of the French language from Veronique.
Yet with all her efforts to make something of herself, she had never learned to swim.
Even drowning, though, was preferable to facing the terror she had left behind in England, just as it was preferable to waiting for Jason to put an end to her existence.
She threw one leg over, then the other. Then taking a deep breath, she jumped.
When the river closed over her head, she was almost surprised by her own calm. I'm going to die, she thought as her lungs began to feel the strain of being unable to breathe. The thought wrapped around her, embracing her, chilling her mind like the cold black water was doing to her body. The sensation was so different, yet so similar to her nightmares. . . .
Then denial welled up in her. She didn't want to die! She began struggling against the sucking forces that dragged her down, lashing out in a blind panic. Her hand struck something, a piece of driftwood, and she clung to it instinctively as her head broke the surface. Gasping, choking, she drew great gulps of life-giving air into her lungs.
Her body was racked with spasms as she coughed up water time and again, but she kept a desperate grip on her precious piece of wood, knowing it was her only salvation.
When she had recovered enough to get her bearings, she glanced over her shoulder. Through a veil of wet hair and fog, she could see the faint outline of the Siren, for the decks were ablaze with lantern light. They were already searching for her, she realized when she heard the shouting. Now, more than ever, speed was imperative.
The night closed around Lauren. She floated for some time, unable to tell how far downriver the current was taking her, before nature or a kindly providence swept her close to the north bank. When she had clawed her way up the muddy incline and lay panting and exhausted upon the levee, she realized that she hadn't drifted far. And she knew where she had to go in order to find safety—Matthew.
It was only as she was making her way furtively through the dark streets of the Vieux Carre that she realized the flaw in her plan. Lila would tell Jason about Matthew, and his cabin would be the first place Jason looked when he discovered her missing.
For the same reason, she couldn't go with Matthew and Running Deer on their trading expedition. Lila knew they would be leaving before first light and she would have no trouble figuring out that Lauren had gone with them.
But perhaps she could make that work in her favor. It would entail lying, but she had to take advantage of every opportunity, for one thing was certain: Jason Stuart would come after her.
Another thing was certain, as well. She needed money, clothes, transportation, and food if she intended to leave New Orleans. The first two, Lauren knew, would be the easiest.
A short while later, she found herself knocking quietly on the door to Veronique's bedroom.
It eventually opened, and Veronique let out a startled gasp when she saw Lauren standing there in the light of a flickering oil lamp, her figure hidden by shapeless, overlarge masculine garments that dripped muddy water upon the polished floor. "I need your help," Lauren said in a hoarse whisper.
Without hesitation, Veronique stepped out into the corridor and shut the door carefully behind her. Then enfolding Lauren in her arms, she listened while Lauren explained about Jason being in league with Burroughs and her own need to leave New Orleans.
"Wait here, mon chou. I have some money in my room." Disappearing into her room again, Veronique returned with a purse which she pressed into Lauren's hands. "This is all I have with me, I regret—not quite a hundred dollars."
"It will be enough. Thank you, Veronique." As Lauren accepted the money, she tried to swallow the ache in her throat. "Tell Jean-Paul to repay you from my savings," she said shakily. "And tell Lila—" Her voice broke, but she took a deep breath to steady herself. "I doubt if I will see Lila again. Please tell her why I have to leave New Orleans. She will understand."
"But where will you go?"
Lauren hesitated, regretting that she had to lie. "North, the River Road. I'll be going with Matthew and Running Deer, so tell Lila not to worry. Matthew will take good care of me. And Veronique, thank you for your friendship. It has meant so much to me. I will—"
The words died on her lips as the door suddenly swung open behind Veronique. Kyle Ramsey stood there, his huge, muscular body half naked, a sheet clutched around his hips for modesty. It took Lauren a moment to remember that he was now the captain of Jason's ship.
Her gaze locked with Kyle's, yet somehow she managed not to betray the trepidation she felt. "Pardonez-moi, mon capitaine," she said with only a slight tremor. "I am sorry to have disturbed you. Veronique is tres merveilleuse with the fishing." Lauren pointed to her very wet garments. "As you see, I am not such an expert. Je m'excuse, s'il vous plait?"
Lauren turned then, holding her shoulders back and her head proudly erect, and walked away, while Kyle watched with mingled astonishment and admiration.
He didn't say a word until after she had disappeared around the corner of the corridor, and Veronique tried to distract him with her voluptuous body. "Not now, my dear," he murmured, gently disengaging himself. "Something tells me I had better return to my ship." Then he favored Veronique with a long, assessing look. "Now why could that be, do you suppose?"
Chapter Ten
"Keep your head down, ma'am," a disgruntled voice warned Lauren in a harsh whisper. "That hair of yours is as bright as a new-minted gold piece."
"Perhaps I should have worn a bonnet," Lauren retorted, although she did as she was told. Sinking down behind the protective outcrop of rock, she shielded her eyes from the harsh glare of the noonday sun. "What do we do now?" she asked Ben Howard, the guide she had hired to lead her through the Mississippi Territory.
He indicated the rifle he was holding. "We wait. We conserve ammunition and water. We pray like hell that they decide we're not worth the trouble to come after us."
"Is that likely?"
"No," Howard answered grimly. Then he gave Lauren a long, assessing look. "That scalp of yours will make a pretty trophy. You should have run when you had the chance."
Lauren shook her head, recalling the opportunity she had missed. She and Howard had traveled for nearly a week, avoiding white settlements and Indian villages at her request. They had encountered no one but a French trapper until a few hours ago when they had been attacked by a small band of Creek warriors. Howard had meant to try and hold them off, giving Lauren a chance to go back the way they had come, but she had refused to leave him. Instead, they had abandoned their packhorse and ridden north at a mad gallop. Their mounts had been nearly dead of exhaustion when Howard had spotted the rocky summit. Grabbing their weapons and a canteen, he had pulled Lauren up the bare-faced slope of the hill to the shelter of the rocks. She had loaded the rifles while Howard fired methodically and carefully at the charging band. The Indians had scattered then, and only occasionally would one leave the cover of the trees below and ride into the open— testing his range, Howard said.
For the past three quarters of an hour total silence had reigned, while the merciless sun baked the rocks around them. In the sweltering heat, Lauren could feel rivulets of perspiration running down her back and the hollow between her
breasts. Her homespun cotton dress was soaked in places, and she continuously had to wipe her brow with her sleeve to prevent sweat from getting in her eyes. She thought Howard looked relatively comfortable in contrast. He sat with his back against the rock, a rifle slung across his knees. He didn't seem disturbed by the quiet as she was. In fact, he had only broken his silence when Lauren had raised her head above the rock to peer down the slope.
"Why don't you try to get some sleep?" Howard said now. "They won't try another attack until nightfall. But I don't hold much chance . . ." His voice trailed away. After a moment, he added in his slow drawl, "Have you ever seen what the Creek do to their captives, ma'am? I have. And I saw what was left of Fort Mims, after a thousand of the savage devils broke through the stockade."
He had Lauren's full attention; she looked at him questioningly. "Fort Mims," Howard repeated. "The fort north of Mobile. Only a handful of settlers escaped. The government sent Andy Jackson to put a stop to the killings. 'Sharp Knife', that's what the Creek called Jackson. I fought with him at Horseshoe Bend. We won and the Injuns had to give up most of their lands in '14, but they're still fighting the white man. Like that band down the hill. Those braves probably came from a hundred miles east of here."
Pulling a pistol from his belt, he held it in his palm. "Double barrels," he said grimly. "One for you, one for me. I never thought I would have to use it." He looked up to find Lauren watching him steadily. "Do you understand what I'm saying, ma'am?"
"Yes." Her voice was low and hoarse.
"Well, it's your choice."
You will always have a choice. The words echoed in her head, but it was Jason Stuart's voice she heard. Was this what he had meant? That a quick death was preferable to suffering? She would never know. "Very well," she said slowly. "One for you, one for me."
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