by Beth White
“I am, I am!” Elijah clapped his hands. “Mama, I’m famous!”
Judah laughed. “In that case, I left a box of treasures on the front porch, for you and your cousins to go through—as soon as you finish your breakfast, that is,” he amended, catching Maddy’s eye.
“Treasure? Let me down!”
As Elijah attacked his eggs and biscuit, Judah flung himself into an empty chair. “Close call getting into port at all. The Spaniards and the Brits are doing their best to board any ship that even smells American.”
“Where did you sail from?”
“New Orleans.” Judah smiled his thanks when Maddy set a cup of coffee at his elbow. “Interesting goings-on there.”
Elijah bounced out of his chair. “Mama, can I go see what’s in the treasure box? I’m done.”
Maddy nodded. “But first take your plate to the sink.” After Elijah had pelted outside, slamming the front door behind him, she leaned in toward Judah. “Rumor says you’ve been seen with Laffite.”
“Laffite is a gentleman of broad commercial interests, Maddy. Daresay we’ve been in the same port at the same time upon occasion.”
Léon made a rude noise. “We all know what you’ve been up to, Judah, and if the cut of your tailoring is any indication, you’ve been raking in the ready while you’re at it.”
“That’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one,” Judah said with a grin. “But you needn’t look so disapproving. Even if I were one of the gentleman pirates of Barataria, they have letters of marque that give them the right to seize arms and supplies going to the enemy.” He shrugged. “But my own trade is entirely legitimate—transporting goods between Grand Terre and the New Orleans markets.”
Maddy couldn’t resist tweaking the straight-arrow Léon. “And don’t forget your own papa once took twenty-four thousand pesos in gold from my father’s ship—at least, until Papa made him give it back.”
“That’s the story they tell.” Léon rolled his eyes. “But who knows how much embellishment has been added with every telling? Uncle Rafa and his parábolas.”
“Speaking of family parables,” Maddy said to Judah, “did you hear that Léon and Uncle Luc and Oliver helped fend off the British down at Fort Bowyer?”
Judah’s black eyes lit. “I understand the little duchess is quite the heroine as well.”
“Fiona’s grown up in your absence.” Léon scowled. “Not so little anymore, and devilish independent, if you ask me. I left her and Sehoy nursing an infirmary full of wounded soldiers.”
“Sehoy? The Indian girl who used to correspond with Fiona?”
Léon nodded. “Her family was caught in the Horseshoe Bend affair, and she came here to take refuge. She’s grown into quite a pretty thing now—our Oliver seems quite taken with her.”
“Oliver’s just a baby!”
Maddy laughed. “Judah, you’ve been gone a long time. We’ve a new generation of babies—and the children you knew are making their own lives.”
“Reckon so.” Judah shook his head, his expression sobering. “As it happens, all our lives are getting more complicated by the minute. The British might have been temporarily repelled from Mobile, but don’t think they’ve given up. Their plan is bold, and just as arrogant as every move they’ve made so far in this never-ending war. They sent agents to meet with Laffite. They want his help in attacking New Orleans.”
FORT BOWYER
Trying not to retch at the pain exploding in his head, Charlie dragged himself into a sitting position against the infirmary wall, where someone had moved him after Fiona left. He supposed the blast that broke his eardrum and jogged his memory loose had also scrambled his common sense. As an officer of His Majesty’s naval command, this apparent inability to seize a gun and shoot as many Americans as he could before they arrested him might be considered by some to be high treason, punishable by hanging.
On the other hand, he was also apparently a spy, under orders to observe and report whatever intelligence might be useful to Whitehall.
Gaining control over his convulsing stomach, he shut his eyes against the image of Fiona’s face as she’d questioned him. The cipher. She’d seen it, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d also decoded it, though she claimed not to have. She was far from stupid, and what was he going to do about her?
He was going to leave. He was going to get himself and his cipher out of the fort, make his way back to British command—presumably gathering now in Pensacola, if the chatter among the American soldiers could be believed—give his report, and resume his uniformed duties.
And pray to God that he never received another order to act as a spy.
And if the thought of leaving Fiona Lanier sent him into a pit of desolation, it was only what he deserved.
7
SEPTEMBER 17, 1814
NAVY COVE
With the coast clear of British war ships, Fiona and the rest of the family moved back home to Navy Cove. The weather remained hot as blue blazes but, she was thankful to notice, wasn’t as humid as when they’d evacuated for the fort. The horses had managed not to starve to death during their period of self-foraging. Fiona settled back into her routine of caring for them and her “minions,” as Charlie insisted on calling the Lanier menfolk and himself, who all went back to the shipyard to work with hardly a hitch in their gait.
Oliver’s wounded leg left him on kitchen duty for several days, and Charlie was prone to dizzy spells that frightened Fiona more than she liked to admit. But she kept her mouth shut for fear of drawing Uncle’s attention, contenting herself with watching to make sure Charlie—and the others, of course—drank plenty of water and covered their heads in the scorching sun.
On the Saturday after the Fort Bowyer battle, Léon came back from Mobile with Judah in tow. When she saw him jogging up from the beach behind Léon, hat in hand and face lit by his grand white smile, she let out a scream of joy and threw herself at him. He picked her up, whirled her around in a couple of wild circles, then stood looking around at the yard and barn while she chided him vehemently on the length of his absence.
Eventually he got bored and interrupted with a laughing “Yes, yes, Duchess, I know you missed me, but that’s enough. I have to leave again in the morning, and I don’t have time to waste on nonsense. Where’s Uncle Luc?”
“In the barn.” She put her hands on her hips. “You are not going to leave again so soon!”
“Yes. I am. I’ve a message to deliver, and I’ve already delayed longer than I should.”
“What kind of message? To who?”
“None of your business, missy.” Judah bent to kiss her forehead and headed for the barn.
“Léon, what’s this all about? What was he doing in Mobile before he came home, and where is he going?”
Léon shrugged. “I don’t know why you can’t know. It’s not as if you’ve anybody to tell. Judah is in league with that scoundrel Jean Laffite. Laffite claims the British sent representatives to ask for the Baratarians’ help in navigating the swamps up into the city of New Orleans, in exchange for a few hundred thousand pounds and pardon for all their pirating crimes.”
“They wouldn’t dare!”
“The Brits are arrogant dogs, and of course they’d dare.” Léon gave a short laugh. “The incredible part is that Laffite would have us believe he’s an American patriot. He sent Judah to tell General Jackson that he held the British off for a few weeks while he ‘thought about the proposition,’ giving Laffite time to offer his services to the Americans instead—assuming they’d be willing to pardon him and his cohorts as well.”
Fiona stared open-mouthed. “And did General Jackson fall for that nonsense?”
“Apparently not. He sent Judah back with a flea in his ear.” Léon frowned. “Well, at least Jackson seems to have taken the warning about the British invasion seriously. He’s preparing to march troops to Pensacola and boot them out.”
The implications of everything she had just learned exploded in F
iona’s brain all at once. One, her brother was a free trader, letters of marque or no, a willing compatriot of renowned pirate Jean Laffite. Their mother, God rest her soul, would be rolling in her grave (though Papa, she suspected, might be slightly proud).
Two, the British might have been beaten back from Mobile, but clearly they were in cahoots with the Spanish and probably the Red Stick Indians—or what was left of them, anyway. From Pensacola they could easily sail across the Gulf of Mexico and get to New Orleans from the south or even march overland and approach from the northeast. They were the greatest naval power in the world, and even Andrew Jackson was going to have a hard time fending off, let alone defeating, such a well-trained and fully armed armada.
And third, perhaps most horrifying of all, she had harbored a spy of that enemy nation in her home. She had allowed him unfettered access to her brother’s shipbuilding enterprise. What if Charlie had been sent here for that very purpose? If the British attacked and conquered New Orleans, it could be laid at her door.
Léon snapped his fingers under her nose. “What is it, Fi? Judah is certainly straddling the law, but it’s not as if we didn’t know he’d taken off into some suspect ventures.”
She swallowed. “Léon, do you remember when I wanted to talk to you about something before you left for Mobile? I was going to tell you about Charlie. I just hope it isn’t too late now.”
“Charlie? If he has dishonored you, I will—”
“No! At least—No, of course not! But I should have told you—Léon, I know him. I’ve known him for a long time.”
“What do you mean? He’s a complete stranger. He doesn’t even know who he is.” Leon’s voice dropped to a growl. “At least, he said he doesn’t. Has he been lying the whole time?”
“No, not about that anyway. Obviously he had a head injury, and I’m certain he didn’t know me at first. But I recognized him almost right off. He’s the youngest son of the Earl of Scarborough. Maddy and I met him when Uncle Rafa and Aunt Lyse took us to England all those years ago.”
“And you didn’t think it important to tell us this, Fiona? Have you lost your mind?” Leon’s face clouded with anger.
Fiona stepped back, fighting tears. “I’m sorry—”
“You’re sorry? You stupid little twit! He’s the enemy! What if he’s been spying, sending information to Pensacola? What if he’d decided to murder us all in our beds?”
“Charlie wouldn’t do that. He’s my friend—his grandfather and Uncle Rafa are friends, for that matter, which is how we come to be connected.” When Léon turned away, hands clenched as if in the effort to keep them off her throat, Fiona grabbed his arm. “Listen, I’ve watched him. He hasn’t sent messages to anybody, and for heaven’s sake, he saved Oliver’s life during the battle!”
Léon whirled to glare at her. “Are you in love with him? Is that why you’ve protected him?”
“No, I—I don’t know—but I couldn’t leave him on the beach to die—”
“Come here, Fiona.” Grim-faced, Léon hauled Fiona toward the barn. “You’re going to tell Uncle Luc-Antoine what you’ve done. We’ll make a decision about what to do next, and you’ll be lucky if you don’t get sent to prison. I hope you’ve said goodbye to your lover, because he’s certain to be hanged as a spy.”
“He’s not my—” Oh, what was the use? Fiona felt as if she were drowning in guilt as she stumbled along behind her brother. She was glad Léon knew her secret, because she couldn’t have contained it one moment longer. She jerked her arm out of his grasp. “Léon, there’s more.”
He halted, eyes closed. “What now?” he said between his teeth. “Are you with child?”
She drew back her hand and slapped him hard. “How dare you, Léon Lanier? How dare you insult me as if I were some trollop? I’m your little sister, raised the same as you to follow God and treat others the way I want to be treated—which includes our enemy, as you insist on calling Charlie. There’s nothing dirty in my relationship with him, and he’s never been anything but kind and grateful and chivalrous to us all. He’s worked like a slave on that stupid ship of yours, without, as far as I know, being offered a penny in return.” Knees trembling, she stalked toward the barn.
Léon caught her after three steps. “I’m sorry, Fiona.”
She ignored him.
He grabbed her arm. “I said I’m sorry! I went too far. I’m just so—so angry!”
“Well, so am I.”
They stared at one another. Léon looked away first. “Come on,” he sighed. “Let’s find Uncle and get this over with.”
They followed the sound of voices and found Judah and Uncle Luc-Antoine in the blacksmith shop under a tin awning on the other side of the barn. Uncle had made most of the iron implements in the Lanier household, including wheels, locks, and hinges, and of course, horseshoes. Judah pumped the bellows while Uncle pounded with fierce precision on the blade of a knife. Fiona stood back until the blade was soused in a bucket of water, setting off a giant, sizzling cloud of boiling steam.
While Judah returned the bellows to its hook, Uncle wiped down the blade on his apron.
Smiling around his pipe stem, Uncle Luc laid the blade on Judah’s gloved palm. “Hone this and carve a nice haft for it, and you’ll have yourself a beautiful weapon, son.”
Judah tested the blade with his thumb. “It’s already pretty sharp, sir. Beautiful work, as always.” He squinted at Léon. “You still doing any carving?”
“No time for that anymore, not since you left.”
Judah sighed. “We’re not going there again, are we?”
“Just stating a fact.” Léon glanced at Fiona. “But it’s good you’re home, because we’ve got a situation here with Fiona.”
She flinched at the sudden wariness in Judah’s eyes. Anytime she was referred to by her name, teasing was off the table, and they all knew it.
Still, Judah tried. “What have you done now, Duchess?”
“She knowingly brought a British spy in and just now thought it was time we knew about it.”
Uncle Luc took the pipe out of his mouth. “Fiona, is that true?”
“Yes, he—but at first I thought he’d been on a Spanish or Dutch cargo ship, so I didn’t think it mattered—’”
“Then why would you keep it from us, child?” Uncle said gently.
“Because I knew him—or thought I did. His family are friends of the Gonzaleses. I met him when we were in England. But then in the aftermath of the battle at Fort Bowyer, he was hallucinating, barking orders to s—sailors, apparently, and I got frightened because I realized he wasn’t just anybody, he must be a naval officer—”
“I’m sure you confronted him about this,” Judah said calmly.
She looked at him, and the compassion in his eyes settled her panic, turned it to something manageable. “Yes, of course I did, but he just looked confused and said he didn’t remember any of that.”
“Why would he admit the truth to her?” Léon demanded. “He knows he’s got her wrapped about his finger. He could tell her he’s the king of France, and she’d believe him.”
Don’t cry, Fiona told herself. Do not.
“There’s no need to be cruel,” Judah said, seeing her distress. “We’ve always protected the little duchess, of course she’s naive.”
“Is there no one who sees the danger here?” Léon flung his hands up. “I’m just trying to speak truth.”
“I’m not stupid, despite what you think,” Fiona cried. “Of course I was suspicious, which is why I admitted all this to you, Léon. But I’ve been thinking about it, and maybe I’ve hit on a way we can turn the tables and use Charlie to our advantage.”
Léon snarled, “Oh, for the love of—”
“No, let her speak,” Uncle Luc said, eyes narrowed on Fiona’s face. “What’s your idea?”
She sucked in a breath. “Suppose we do have a British naval officer, right here in Navy Cove. What if we arrest him and hold him, write to his grandfather, who i
s quite an influential personage still. Maybe he could arrange for a trade—Sullivan for Charlie.”
Dead silence greeted her. She waited, heart pounding. They all thought of her as a child. Nobody would take her seriously, even Uncle Luc-Antoine.
Finally Léon folded his arms. “You know, Uncle, it pains me to admit this, but I believe she may have hit upon a very good plan.”
Sehoy had always thought of herself as Indian rather than American. But when Charlie Kincaid presented her with an opportunity to redress the wrong done to her and her family, she found herself struggling to think like a Creek Red Stick and not like a Lanier.
She stared at him, pulling her thoughts together. They sat together on the beach, propped back on their elbows, bare feet stretched out toward the water. The tide was going out, and lumpy spirals of seaweed decorated the wet sand, tiny shells glistening in the late afternoon sun. Charlie was dressed in ragged homespun breeches and an open-necked white shirt, its sleeves rolled up to expose his sun-browned forearms. Constant exposure to the sun had bleached golden streaks into his hair, making his mismatched blue-and-hazel eyes even brighter by contrast. He reminded her of a prince in one of the fairy tales her father had told her as a child—impossibly beautiful, slightly flawed, and unknowable.
When he’d invited her to walk with him to the beach—without Fiona or Oliver—she’d wondered aloud what he was up to. He’d just laughed and told her not to be so cynical, that he just wanted a favor he couldn’t bring to any of the Laniers. Unable to deny curiosity, she’d gathered her painting supplies and accompanied him. For nearly an hour, he watched her draw, peppering her with questions about technique, until finally she made a rude noise and stuck her pencil behind her ear.
“Charlie, you’re no more interested in art than I am in building lifeboats. What exactly are you after?”