Southern Seduction

by Brenda Jernigan

  When Mammy said nothing, Brooke glanced up expecting to see a look of disapproval. To her surprise, she saw none. Instead, Mammy asked, "Someone mus’ have insulted you, yes?"

  The carriage began to move. Brooke leaned back against the soft cushions and began to brush the knots out of her hair. "That was part of the reason."

  "So I figured. Mr. Travis would never take an insult lightly, you hear. But who’s he fightin’?"

  "Hesione’s father."

  "Lordy, Lordy," Mammy mumbled as she shook her head back and forth. The creases in her forehead seemed to have doubled. "What has gotten into dat boy?"

  "Travis didn't issue the challenge, Mr. D’Aquin did."

  "And why dat be?"

  Brooke finished brushing her hair. She tied the yellow ribbons she'd brought around her hair to keep it out of her face, then placed the hairbrush on the seat beside her. She really wasn't sure what Mammy's reaction was going to be, but Brooke had to tell her. She felt as though she and Mammy had reached a mutual trust, and she didn't want to destroy what they'd built.

  "It probably had something to do with the fact that--” Brooke paused. “Travis told Mr. D’Aquin that he wasn't going to marry Hesione, but would marry me instead."

  Mammy looked to heaven before saying. "Dere goin' t’ be a big ruckus when Miz Margaret and Miz Hesione return, t’ be sure. If Mr. Travis survives dis, his mother just may shoot him herse’f."

  "Are you disappointed?"

  Mammy clicked her tongue then said honestly, "Depends. What you marryin' him fo'?"

  "Because it suits both our needs," Brooke finally said. "We both own the plantation, so it makes sense. What other reason would there be?"

  “Well now . . . dat’s a question. Mebee cause you should love de man you are marryin'."

  "I gave up on love a long time ago, Mammy,” Brooke told her. “I'm not sure I even believe in it anymore."

  Mammy shook her head but said nothing more.

  Brooke gazed out the window, wondering what would happen when they arrived. And then it dawned on her that the person challenged usually chose the weapons, but that had not been the case last night. Why had Travis let the older man choose? Did he want to die? No, that wasn’t even a plausible thought. He had too much fight in him. Maybe it was out of respect for the man's age. Travis did have a strange sense of decency.

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the edge of New Orleans. The carriage rumbled down Decatur Street to Jackson Square where they turned. It was still very early and extremely foggy so it was hard to see, but Brooke could make out the streets where vendors were just beginning to emerge for a day’s work.

  A steeple jutted heavenward though the fog like a beacon. Once they reached Saint Louis Cathedral in Saint Anthony’s Garden, the coach started to slow. They went on around the church to a park like, grassy area with two large oak trees.

  Brooke turned to Mammy, "I guess this is it."

  Mammy nodded.

  The driver opened the door and helped them out. Through the fog, Brooke could see two groups of men separated by a few yards. She spotted Travis about the same time he saw her. He immediately headed toward them.

  "I don't think Travis is glad to see us," Brooke whispered to Mammy.

  "Tell you de trut’ . . . I t'ink you may be rig’t."

  Chapter Ten

  Like a menacing silence, the fog swirled around waiting for the unknown. The scene before Brooke seemed much to eerie -- the huge oak trees, their drooping arms covered in Spanish moss, jutting across the field.

  Through the thick, gray haze Travis marched toward them, looking like the Devil coming up from the depths of hell to pounce on her, and there were times that she truly felt that way.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Travis snapped the minute he reached them. “This is no place for a woman.”

  Brooke pulled her cream-colored shawl around her shoulders to ward off Travis’s frosty stare, but she stood her ground. "We’re here to stop you. We don’t want you to go through with this madness."

  "You're wasting your breath and my time," he informed her, “You have no say in the matter.” Then he gave Brooke a peculiar look. “I see you’re dressed in black. How appropriate.”

  Travis’s tone infuriated her. She’d gotten up early to come here to try and stop this idiocy, and now she had a good mind to tell him to go to the devil. For a brief moment, she didn't give a damn if he were shot or not. It would solve her problem about ownership of Moss Grove. However, that wasn’t her only problem. For whatever reason, she really did care. Even if she didn’t want to. So she took a deep breath and tried again. "Can't you just apologize?"

  "No," he replied sharply. "If you remember, this wasn’t my idea. It was his. So I can’t call if off.” For a brief moment, Brooke thought she detected a trace of fear, but Travis swallowed it quickly. She shook off that notion -- she couldn’t imagine him being afraid of anyone. “Since you are both here, you might as well be witness."

  Brooke had been prepared for another argument. However, he'd given in much easier than she’d expected. Glancing down, she noticed the pistol dangling from his hand. She knew little of firearms other than there were many different kinds. The one he held appeared to be specially made for someone because initials had been carved into the smooth, English oak. The long gun barrel was made of cold, blue steel and looked deadly.

  She tore her gaze away from the weapon and back to Travis. "Who are all these people?"

  "The two gentlemen standing next to D'Aquin are his second and a witness. The two men over there," Travis said as he pointed, "are doctors. And, of course, you know Jeremy, who is acting as my second."

  "It's time," D'Aquin's second announced.

  "Ladies," Travis said with a curt bow.

  "Be careful, you hear," Mammy whispered, wringing her hands.

  Travis smiled fondly at Mammy, then glanced at Brooke briefly. "What? No good wishes."

  Brooke had noticed the smirk on his face, but she wasn't about to give Travis the satisfaction of hearing her tell him to be careful. She'd already tried to talk him out of this nonsense, for all the good it had done. She tipped her chin up stubbornly, but he had already turned away.

  In the middle of the field the two men took their positions. Neither of them offered to shake hands. Both were deadly serious.

  A semblance of daylight began to sift through the thick fog as the referee issued his instructions, "On the count of three, you both will walk out twenty paces, then stop. When I yell fire, both of you will turn and take your best shot.” He looked from one man to the other. “Do you understand?"

  Both men nodded.

  "Mr. Dubois and I will watch to make certain the rules are followed." The referee stepped away from the men.

  The opponents turned to stand back-to-back, pistols pointed upward in the air, ready for the deadly confrontation. The click of the hammers being drawn back broke the silence.

  The weak sunlight pressed the fog low to the ground so Brooke could see well enough. Both men had removed their jackets, and now wore white shirts and black trousers. Since D’Aquin faced her direction, she could see his features. His eyes held a lackluster of youth. His skin was dark, and he had heavy jowls. At the moment he leveled hate-filled eyes directly at her. He must see her as the cause of all this.

  The referee began the count. "One, two, three..." Travis and D'Aquin stepped precisely to the count as if they were performing the steps of a dance. Fog swirled around them as they strode across the field.

  Brooke couldn't take her eyes off Travis. He advanced, so tall and proud, appearing not the least bit frightened. With each step that Travis took, Brooke's chest tightened. Soon she could barely breathe. Reaching over, she gripped Mammy's hand.

  "Lordly, Lordly," Mammy murmured under her breath.

  As the count reached eighteen, Brooke whispered a short prayer that nothing would happen to Travis. She didn't want to think of him getting hurt. Who would she have to a
rgue with?

  "Nineteen."

  "Watch out," Jeremy shouted at the same time a shot rang out.

  D'Aquin had fired early.

  Frantically, Brooke jerked her gaze back toward Travis, but she didn't see him. There was nothing there.

  Nothing but fog.

  “No!” she screamed, scarcely aware she’d voiced her fears aloud. Surely Travis couldn’t be dead.

  That wouldn't be fair.

  "Oh, my God," Brooke said over and over again, her hand coming to her mouth. She took a step toward him but Mammy held her back.

  "You cheated, D'Aquin!" Jeremy shouted, leaping toward the guilty man.

  A harsh, hoarse, “No,” came from out of the fog. Everyone turned as, something, someone, slowly emerged from the fog where Travis had been.

  Brooke’s legs turned to mush, and she would have fallen if Mammy hadn't taken hold of her arm.

  Slowly, Travis struggled to his feet, a bright red stain on the upper portion of his white shirt proclaiming that he'd been hit. Travis had fallen to the ground, but he was still alive.

  Relief filled Brooke.

  "Mr. Montgomery, fire your shot at will," the referee instructed.

  Travis slowly raised his arm, gun in hand.

  "What?" Brooke turned to Mammy. “What’s going on here?”

  "Both men are allowed one shot," Jeremy explained.

  "Mr. D’Aquin mus’ stand his ground or be labeled a coward, yes," Mammy added.

  Travis leveled the weapon at D'Aquin. If he pulled the trigger, it would mean certain death for the old man because the pistol was aimed squarely at the middle of his chest.

  "Shoot, damn you," D’Aquin shouted.

  Travis held his pistol in position. Tension mounted. At the very last moment, Travis pointed the pistol up toward the sky and fired.

  "I believe your satisfaction has been met this day,” Travis rasped. “I'll not take your life, coward that you are, so that you might remember your shame." Then Travis’ knees buckled and he sank to the ground.

  D'Aquin’s shoulders sagged and he hung his head. There was a fury of murmuring all around as the men conferred about what had just occurred. But Brooke’s eyes were only for Travis.

  Before she realized what she was doing, Brooke was halfway across the field to the spot where one of the doctors examined Travis.

  "It's lodged in your shoulder," the doctor said, “but you’ll live. I'll have to remove the bullet, but I cannot do it here. Let’s get into my carriage, and I’ll take you to my office."

  Travis glanced up at Brooke, his eyes sharp and assessing. Her pulse skittered alarmingly.

  After a moment, he reached up and drew Brooke down to him. Then he whispered in Brooke's ear, "Disappointed?"

  "Shut up," she snapped, her voice deceptively brittle. How could he think such a thing? She didn’t want to care. And right now, she wasn’t sure she did. Brooke had a good mind to leave him there. But she didn’t instead she helped him stand. Even wounded, the man was insufferable. If the gun were still loaded, she would shoot him herself.

  "Jeremy, my friend, I've kept you long enough from your harvest." Travis patted him on the back with his good hand. "Thank you for the warning. It could have been much worse if you'd not shouted. I didn't know that D'Aquin was such a coward."

  “You realize now that by not shooting him, you’ve made an enemy.” Jeremy pointed out. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”

  “I know,” Travis said. “I’ve caused enough scandal by not marrying his daughter.”

  “Are you going to stand here and bleed to death?” the doctor interrupted. “Why don’t you let me fix your wound while you still have some blood left in you, son?”

  “I’m ready,” Travis said, his voice beginning to show the weakness he was loath to admit. He allowed the doctor to help him to the buggy.

  With that, everyone dispersed to their respective carriages, Jeremy escorted Brooke back to Travis’s carriage where Mammy was already waiting inside.

  "Why didn't Travis take the shot?" Brooke asked.

  "If he had killed D'Aquin, there would always have been talk of a younger man taking advantage of an older man. By Travis not shooting him, D'Aquin remains a coward because he cheated. Even worse, with Travis having spared D’Aquin’s life, it’s a blot against his character. The Creoles are not forgiving in matters such as this."

  "I see," Brooke said. "Thank you for being here for him today."

  "There isn't much I wouldn't do for Montgomery. We have been friends since we were children.” Jeremy smiled down at Brooke. “I hear that congratulations are in order. He told me that you are planning to wed in two weeks," Jeremy said, grinning. "Personally, I think he has finally made a good choice."

  Brooke found herself blushing, something she'd never done until recently. "Thank you. I think."

  Jeremy chuckled as he walked away.

  The doctor’s office was located on Toulouse Street. Their driver wasted little time getting Brooke and Mammy there. He parked the conveyance behind the doctor’s buggy, who had arrived a few minutes before they had. Brooke leapt to the ground even before the coachman had time to help her out.

  Once inside the building, Brooke glanced about at the neat, clean room. There were several chairs scattered against the walls. She presumed this was a waiting area.

  Since there was no one there to greet them, Brooke was ready to fling open doors until she found where Travis had been taken. But, before she had a chance, the doctor stuck his head out of the back room and shouted, "I'm going to need somebody’s help. My nurse isn’t here and we don’t have time to send for her. Mammy, get me some bandages and hot water. And you, young woman . . ."

  "My name is Brooke."

  "Brooke, I’ll need you to hold Montgomery down, so I can dig out the bullet. Can’t have him moving about.”

  "But I don't know anything about nursing."

  "It doesn’t matter. All you need to do is hold him down. Let's go." He motioned impatiently for her to come into the back.

  As Brooke followed him she asked, "What is your name?"

  "Doctor Smart or Smarty as a few refer to me," he said with a chuckle. Then he switched to all business as he placed his instruments on a small white table.

  Travis sat, slumped on a table, his booted feet dangling over the edge. He had a bottle of Scotch that he'd evidently been drinking propped on one leg.

  "Don't be shy," the doc said without looking at her. "Help the man get his shirt off. Can't do a thing to him with his clothes on."

  Brooke laughed. "Shy is one thing I'm not, Doctor,” she told him as she bustled over to Travis.

  "Glad to hear it," Travis said to her, his eyes raking boldly over her.

  She got the general impression that he’d rather be removing her top instead of the other way around.

  Brooke positioned herself between Travis’s legs, bracing herself against the edge of the table in case he should weaken and fall. Wasting little time, she unbuttoned his shirt. Her fingers brushed his collarbone, lingering there for just a moment before she continued her task. His muscles flinched each time she touched him. She was glad to know she had an effect on Travis. Finally, she reached the bottom button and glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. A vaguely sensuous light passed between them.

  In response, Travis drew his legs closer together, trapping Brooke between them. The jolt of his thighs brushing her hips made Brooke gasp at the unexpected tingle. But the fact that he was purposely trying to make her squirm brought out her devilish side.

  “Here, let me push the shirt from your shoulders," she purred as she stepped up on a small stool, her breasts pressed against his chest as she peeled the shirt from his body careful not to hit his wound and the temporary bandage the doctor had applied.

  Travis’s entire body tensed. His breath was warm on her neck and she was very conscious of where his warm flesh touched hers. Even wounded, Travis radiated a vitality that drew her to him.

&nb
sp; "There," she said as she stepped back down. She gazed into blue eyes that held her captive. The smoldering flame she saw there pleased her. There was a maddening hint of arrogance about Travis that she liked way too much. An undeniable magnetism was building between them. However, she must be the one in control.

  "I want you to lie on your stomach, Montgomery,” Doctor Smart said, interrupting the moment they were sharing. “And you, young woman, take that bottle away from Travis and stand by his head. I need you to hold his shoulder firmly."

  Brooke did as instructed while Mammy assisted by fetching water and fresh linen bandages for the doctor who had told her where to look for the supplies.

  The doctor placed a pillow under Travis’s shoulder so he could better do his work. "This is going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch,” the doctor warned without bothering to apologize to Brooke.

  Brooke stood on Travis's right side while the doctor sponged off the wound. Then he took the bottle of Scotch and poured some in the wound.

  “That’s good Scotch,” Travis hissed with pain and tensed as the liquid hit the gaping wound.

  Feeling his pain, Brooke cringed. She touched his shoulder to keep him still. His skin was smooth and hot beneath her hand. She didn’t like seeing him in pain.

  "I'm going to have to dig the bullet out," the doctor said.

  Travis nodded. “Get it over with,” he rasped.

  "Here." He handed Travis the bottle of Scotch. “Better take a few more swigs.”

  Travis pushed his body up, and propped himself on his elbow. He grabbed the bottle and gulped the amber liquid down.

  "All right, Doc," Travis muttered, his voice slurring, as he handed the bottle to Brooke, who not thinking, tipped the bottle up and took a swig herself. Very unladylike, she scolded herself when she realized what she done. But she wasn't sure she could stomach seeing the doctor cut Travis without the extra fortification.

  Travis chuckled. "Didn't realize that you were a Scotch drinker, my dear."

  "There are many things you don't know about me," she informed him.