I went into the library and huddled in an armchair, knowing he would seek me out. After a while I heard him outside with Dominique and Pierre. I felt relieved: he could not banish me in front of them, for they would defend me. Then, with something like despair, I heard the other two go away from the house and Jean come in alone. I fought back a desire to run for the shelter of my room. I had wanted to be as good as any man, hadn't I? Then I would take my punishment like a man. I pulled myself together and rose to greet him.
"Hello, Elise," he said warmly. "I missed you on the beach. Have you been terribly bored in my absence? You would have enjoyed the Governor's ball. I found myself watching the other women there, and do you know, not one of them, not the prettiest Creole beauty, could touch you for looks. The Governor and I snubbed each other, of course. He must have been wondering how I got my hands on an invitation, but—"
"Oh, stop it, Jean," I snapped. He looked surprised. "You don't have to heap coals of fire on my head."
He shrugged and turned his attention to the ledgers on top of his desk. "No, that's true. You have promised to come with me to New Orleans another time, and it was rude of me to make you wish you had come along. What would you have done while I was in jail?"
I put my hand to my mouth. "You—you were in jail? Why?"
"Why, because the Governor thought I might have information concerning the brigands who captured the Mary Rose. It wasn't too bad, though. I couldn't help him, and he had to let me go after two days. The food was passable, but the bed! I'm glad to be home. Did you and Pierre get to inventory the cargo yet?"
"Yes. It's on the desk."
He picked up the sheet. "Very nice, very nice indeed. I like especially this little casket of sovereigns. Intended for official bribery, I have no doubt. Can nothing be done honestly these days? You seem to have kept things up to date in my absence, Elise. Admirable. But I suppose you had little else to do. I'm sorry. You must have been bored."
I could not detect the barest glimmer of a smile on his lips or in his eyes, and the anger rose within me. He was going to torment me by not bringing it out in the open. He was letting me off lightly this time because he saw that I was terrified of him, that I was quaking in my boots like a schoolgirl who had just been caught putting a frog in her neighbor's bed. What a devious mind! What a villain! Having escaped punishment this time I would doubtless behave myself in the future. And always this would hang over me. If I ever again expressed a desire to do anything he thought unseemly, he would throw this at me, threaten to punish me belatedly, and voilà, and put me in my place. Damn him! I would not permit it. I had nothing to be ashamed of, anyway. I had done what I wanted to do, and I wasn't sorry.
"If you must know, Jean," I said coldly, "I was not bored. I spent my time killing English sailors and capturing the Captain of the Mary Rose, to satisfy my lust for blood and to bring you that casket of gold sovereigns."
Jean Lafitte sat down in the armchair and smiled at me. "I thank you for them."
"You had damned well better thank me," I said stiffly. "And do you know what else? I'm not sorry. No, I'm not." I was close to tears. "It was wonderful, just wonderful. I like being a pirate and I shall go on being one as long as I feel like it. And if you try to stop me, I'll—I'll go off with some men and I'll start a rival band. A rival band of pirates, and we'll take all the ships and you won't get any, and, oh, I'm so sick of pirates! Why did I come here?"
He caught me as I ran past him and pulled me onto his knee. "Rival band, indeed," he said gruffly. "What a little idiot you are, Elise. Why on earth are you crying? Did you think I was going to beat you? You're no better than a child. You are—remarkable."
I buried my head in his shoulder and wept thankfully for some minutes. "You're not angry with me, then?" I asked in a small voice.
"Of course I am angry. Can't you tell?" He dabbed at my wet cheeks with his handkerchief.
"What—what are you going to do, Jean? Are you going to punish me?"
"Punish you?" He voice was surprisingly gentle. I looked into his face, transformed by the film of my tears into something glowing and saintly. "Punish you?" he said again, with amazement. "If I am not mistaken, you have been punished enough for this rash escapade. Unless you really have a fondness for fighting. I have lost my taste for blood lately, and I cannot believe that you actually like killing. Wasn't shooting a man, two men, enough punishment for you?"
"Oh, Jean," I said softly, "you know, then. You know how it was. Not what I imagined at all, but—awful."
"I know what it is to fight, Elise, and perhaps now you will believe me when I tell you that it is not a fit thing for a woman."
I sighed deeply and leaned my head again on his shoulder.
"One thing makes me sad, though," said Jean. "The fact that you dreaded my return. You didn't want to face me, because you were afraid of me, Jean Lafitte, the man who has been father and brother and friend to you. For shame, Elise."
I hung my head. He was right. I had known nothing but kindness and generosity from him, and yet I had behaved towards him as though he had been an ogre. Other men, many others, had given me good reason to tremble. But Lafitte was different. He ruled by love rather than fear, by understanding rather than intimidation. His whole concept of womanhood was different from any I had ever known. To Jean Lafitte a woman was not just a necessary nuisance, but a person who complemented his own personality, a friend who deserved to be cherished and loved for her own sake.
My heart swelled with gratitude and love, and I clasped him tightly. He was my friend, my only friend. "I'm sorry, Jean," I whispered.
"For what?"
"Because—because," I floundered. "Oh, you know why."
He grasped my shoulders and held me away from him so that he could look into my face. "Yes," he said with a little smile. "I know why."
Something in his eyes made me tremble. I became acutely aware of the pressure of his hands on my arms, and warmth spread through me, igniting the small flame of desire that I thought had been extinguished forever. I felt shaken to my very core, for I had not experienced that sensation since I—since Garth McClelland had been taken off the Charleston Belle. A lifetime ago, two, three lifetimes ago. How was it possible that I had existed so long without wanting a man?
I looked at Jean Lafitte, and I saw him for the first time not as a pirate, a scholar, an outlaw, a benefactor, but as a man. My mouth felt dry and my heart began to pound. I held my breath, waiting.
He lifted his hand to my face to brush back my hair. I shivered, and brought my own hand up to cover his. Touching him delighted me. I wanted his kiss, his tongue, his fire. I closed my eyes.
The fragile anticipation of that moment was shattered by sounds of stumbling and crashing in the hallway. I heard Dominique call my name. He was joined by Pierre and several others.
Jean laughed ruefully and set me on my feet. "I hope they remembered to wipe their feet," he said. "Come on, I think they want you to help celebrate. Now you can see the other side of piracy, the good side. Are you afraid?"
"Of course not," I said. "They are my friends, as you are." I kissed him quickly on the cheek.
"A year ago you would not have been so eager to claim the most celebrated thieves in the western hemisphere as your friends."
We heard pistol shots and the splinter of glass. Lafitte groaned. "They're shooting at the chandeliers," he said. "Damn them, they do it every time."
When Dominique and Pierre and their companions saw me they howled with delight and demanded that I join their party. I laughingly assented, although I really had no choice in the matter, and they hoisted me to their shoulders and carried me out of the house to the beach. Huge bonfires were blazing merrily, and from a distance I could hear music and see figures dancing and moving around. They cheered my arrival, thumping me on the back and plying me with wine from a dozen different bottles. Already the Legend of Elise the Pirate was taking shape. The reality of the terrified, stupefied girl was supplanted by a sp
lendid story of a beautiful witch of the Caribbean who could wish a ball to its target. Only later did I discover what a fluke the shot that disarmed the captain had been; our pistols were crude weapons, inaccurate even at close range, and Jean assured me that it couldn't happen again in a hundred years.
The pirates toasted me lustily, declaring that never again would they undertake a mission without me, for I had brought them luck. Then the question arose of who was to have me when simultaneous voyages were in progress. Blood would surely have been spilled had Jean not intervened, saying that tokens that had my blessing would be just as effective. Since they all half believed in the voodoo practices that had spread from Haiti to New Orleans, and into the bayous, they deemed this an acceptable proposal.
The small orchestra consisted of a concertina, a fiddle, and a flute. Delirious with drink and excitement, the pirates and their women whirled furiously across the sand, not bothering to keep time or even hearing the music, I suspected. The fires cast a warm ruddy glow on the happy faces, and I thought the flickering, dancing flames kept better time than the pirates.
I danced with everyone except Jean. Pierre was a capable dancer, but he made it clear that he thought dancing silly, and that he would have preferred to spend his time with me in other ways. I chided him and told him that anyone would think he was smitten with me from the way he talked. He twirled me around, declaring loudly that I was the bravest lass ever to set foot in Louisiana, and that he was madly in love with me.
Dominique was a terrible dancer, worse even than Vincent Gambie, who danced like a bull on the rampage. I ached to feel Jean's arms around me. I wanted us to glide as gracefully as two sea birds coasting on an air current. But he never approached me and seemed to avoid my gaze, while he was dancing with all the other women there, even some that moved, and looked, like alligators.
The highlight of the evening came well after midnight. Dominique called for silence.
"Gentlemen! Ladies! And the rest of you drunken sots, be quiet and listen. This celebration tonight is because Jean over there is the smartest man that ever set foot in a skiff." Shouts of laughter. "And this wench, Mademoiselle Elise, is the bravest lady in the swamp. Tonight we are going to name her Queen of Grand Terre—no, Queen of all the islands. Mesdames and Messieurs, I give you Elise, Queen of Barataria!"
Then some of the men came forward and presented me with a beautiful gleaming sword with a ruby-studded solid gold handle and two of the lightest smallest pistols I had ever seen. I swished the sword around a few times, to their delight, and then I loaded my pistols and fired them at the moon. I missed, but the men roared with laughter, and once again I found myself sitting on a couple of brawny shoulders while they cheered me. I laughed delightedly and smiled and waved my pistols enthusiastically.
When I looked at Jean I saw he was smiling and applauding with the rest. He was king here, no one doubted that; and now I was his queen. I felt that the evening had been a betrothal of sorts, and that the pirates had given us to each other because I had shown myself to be worthy of their leader. I was overwhelmed by the distinctive honor, and by my love for Jean Lafitte. Yes, I loved him. I loved them all.
I spread my arms and made it known that I wanted to speak. The men shouted for silence. "I just want to say one thing," I said breathlessly. "I think—I think that no woman could have led a more exciting and interesting life than I have since I came here, and no woman could have been made to feel more welcome. I—I have experienced some cruel behavior among so-called civilized men, but you, whom they call outlaws and thieves, have shown me nothing but kindness. I am deeply honored that you have named me your queen, and—and this moment shall live in my heart forever!"
We all drank more wine and danced energetically. As the night wore on I began to feel quite dizzy and tired, and I was not surprised to see Lily at my side.
"You come on along to bed, child," she said gently. "Mister Jean says you look tired, and you're not long past being sick and almost dying. Let's go now."
"Oh, Lily," I protested, "I'm not sleepy, I'm not. I don't want to go to bed. I want to—" I searched among the flushed and happy faces for Jean. I wanted to dance with Jean. I saw him standing apart from the crowd, deep in conversation with Dominique and Cut Nose Chighizola. He didn't even see me. I sighed deeply. "All right, Lily, I'll be good. Good night, everyone."
My friends wished me good night and I permitted Lily to lead me up to the house. I climbed the stairs and bathed and fell into my bed, but I lay awake for a long time listening to the waning sounds of merriment that floated in my window from the beach. What a curious day it had been. Now I was not only a full-fledged pirate, but I was Queen of the Pirates. I had proved myself, and I had won their respect and admiration. Why did I feel so sad?
As if in answer to that question a flash of desire came over me. I tossed uneasily, trying to keep back the image that hovered over me of Garth McClelland smiling cynically. I had loved him, he had taught me how to love, but that was all over. Garth McClelland was dead.
What is the matter with me? I asked myself. Surely that kind of need, if it goes unfulfilled, will disappear after a while. But it seemed only to intensify as the night deepened. Garth's image faded, and the evil face of Josiah Fowler took its place. I shivered. Had not the atrocities I suffered at the hands of Captain Fowler put me off men for life? Apparently not. What is wrong with me?
I knew all too well what was wrong. I was a queen and I needed a king. A woman who wanted a man.
Chapter 8
The Belle of New Orleans
The revelers gradually quieted down, and peace settled over the house. I could still hear a few stragglers putting out the fires and some house servants bumping around downstairs, laughing and telling each other that Grand Terre had never had a night like this before, and never would again. Then I heard footsteps in the hallway. The door to the room next to mine opened and closed.
I sat up and threw back my light coverlet. So Jean Lafitte, mighty King of the Pirates, had finished dancing for the night and was taking his gamboling heels to bed. I breathed deeply and tightened my fists as I pictured him undressing and crawling under the sheets, settling down for a nice, long sleep, alone. I hoped he would suffocate in his pillow!
I flounced out of bed and threw on a thin wrapper. No doubt he would sleep like a baby. I certainly wouldn't, in spite of all that wine. I was fully awake now, and I was profoundly angry.
Jean Lafitte, leader of men. Lover of women. A daring, dashing, capricious, devil-may-care corsair. My king? My friend? My nothing. He hadn't danced with me, he hadn't even looked at me the whole evening. I had thought he was about to kiss me when I was sitting on his lap in the library. Couldn't he see I was willing? All too willing. And yet he had given not a word, not a sign—why?
And then I knew. The truth came to me in a flash and left me gasping. He didn't find me attractive. On the contrary, he thought of me as a tragically unloved, ugly, little orphan. What an idiot I was! He was not to blame. I practically threw myself at him, and he behaved as he always had, with the utmost gentleness and propriety. His actions said clearly, this is as far as we go, you and I. Friends. Oh, yes, he would be all things to me—father, uncle, brother, comrade—but never lover. No, not that.
I hadn't lost my looks. I turned up my lamps and ran to my mirror to reassure myself. No, if anything I was more beautiful than ever. Although the sun had browned my skin a little it was still soft and creamy. I stood erect and tried to study myself objectively. Elegant shoulders, breasts that were full and firm, tiny waist, womanly hips. I remembered how I must have looked when they found me. The difference was amazing. He couldn't help but remember, too.
Perhaps he remembered too well. He could only see me the way I was when they found me. Foul. Foul looking, foul acting, even foul thinking. Not only what I had looked like, but far worse, what I had been and what I had done. He knew how Josiah Fowler and his men had used me, and he was revolted. Jean Lafitte was a sensitive,
cultivated gentleman, and his knowledge of my sordid past completely destroyed any desire he might have felt for me. I didn't blame him. The memories were still so shattering that they made me sick. I had been lower than the lowest whore. In his eyes I was still tainted. I was—filth. No man with his sensibilities could possibly associate himself intimately with—filth.
And yet he himself had denied that this was so. He had stood behind me as I looked at myself in the mirrors downstairs, and he had said—oh, he was a smooth talker, was Jean Lafitte—he had said that we are what we are and not what has happened to us. He had made it all sound so easy, so easy to forget. Ignore the nightmare, look ahead, be happy. But be happy alone, for no man will want you.
I turned my back on the image that had caused me so much sorrow. Tears rushed to my eyes, but I brushed them away angrily. I would not cry for a man who did not want me. I would die first. Where was my pride? I was not about to fall in love with a man who looked on me as dirt. All of that fine talk, all those facile compliments, it all meant nothing. He was made that way, that was all, made to charm women with his words and his eyes. That charm was as much a disguise as the fine clothes he affected, it was part of his company attire, his public manner. Yes, he was different from his men. Any one of them would gladly have taken me into his bed with the least encouragement. But Jean Lafitte would not sully his impeccable soul by entering into intimate companionship with—someone like me.
I paced the floor, fighting with myself, feeling utterly wretched and unhappy. I couldn't blame him because he had breeding and taste. I couldn't blame him, but I did, because he had actually made me believe for a while that it didn't matter.
I walked up and down, up and down, working myself into a frenzy. He must know how I feel, I told myself. Surely he could see it in my face tonight. I stopped in my tracks and covered my face with my hands. Oh, what a bitch I was! It wasn't Jean's fault that I suddenly craved him.
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