The Seven Sapphires of Mardi Gras

by Vickie Britton

  The paleness of the mask made his eyes seem even deeper, more hypnotizing as they stared into mine. “Louise Moreland.” His voice, with its soft, almost singsong accent, sent sharp little chills racing through me. Even with my disguise, he had recognized me. I found myself standing frozen, like a small creature entranced by the mighty cobra as he came nearer and nearer. Those piercing eyes never left my own.

  “Be careful tonight, Louise Moreland. I feel danger. Danger all around you.”

  “What—what are you talking about?” I demanded. My mouth felt parched and dry. I tried not to let his words frighten me, but I could not help remembering that he had been right the last time,

  “Tonight is the Mardi Gras. Elica will return.”

  I stood regarding him, awestricken. Brule—Elica’s friend, maybe even her lover. In horror, I stared into those deep, fathomless eyes behind the rough imitation of the voodoo mask. Eyes that glittered like cut glass in the moonlight. And I knew beyond any doubt that he was not just trying to frighten me. He believed what he was saying. Every word!

  Cautiously, I backed away from him. Those disturbing eyes never left my face as I turned and fled away into the safety of the crowd. Now, desperately, I searched for Ian. But the bright yellow crown and flowing purple robe were still nowhere in sight.

  Again I followed the masqueraders to where long cypress tables creaked with freshly baked breads, pastries, and candy confections. Then, with a sigh of relief, I spotted Mrs. Lividais in all her Gypsy splendor, pouring out cider to the crowd.

  “Mrs. Lividais! Have you seen Ian?” I demanded as I came toward her.

  “Why, yes. He’s been looking all over for you. Worried sick, he is.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Over there. Near the water’s edge.”

  Suddenly, I caught a flash of yellow, then a glimpse of purple. Only a few feet away, Ian stood, scanning the crowd, watching for me.

  “Ian!” I called, waving my hand in the air.

  He turned at the sound of my voice. The yellow crown shifted to a precarious angle as he rushed toward me. He was, at that moment, a most welcome sight.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “I thought I’d lost you.” Ian came toward me, taking my arm in his. “There was such confusion after the parade, it’s no wonder that we were separated.”

  I nodded, glad that he demanded no explanation for my sudden disappearance.

  “I hope you weren’t frightened.”

  “Of course not,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “When I saw that you were no longer by my side, I just followed the crowd.”

  “That’s what I guessed you’d do, so I waited for you here. I must confess that I was getting a bit worried. This is really no place for a young woman to be wandering about alone.” Remembering my unsettling encounter with Brule, I stole a glance behind us. He was nowhere in sight.

  “Are you hungry?” Ian was asking now.

  Without waiting for an answer, he began to move toward the community stewpot. I watched as he generously filled two wooden bowls, then handed them to me to hold while he gathered bread and two brimming mugs of Mrs. Lividais’s spiced apple cider. “A feast fit for a king and queen,” he said with a laugh. We scanned the scene before us. The few benches and tables that had been set up nearby were packed with masqueraders. “Let’s get out of this madhouse for a while. Shall we find a spot down by the water’s edge where we can eat in peace?”

  “Yes, let’s do.” Delighted at the prospect of leaving the noise and confusion behind for a while, I followed him to a grassy place beneath a tall cypress tree. Ian took off his purple cape and spread it out upon the ground to serve as a tablecloth.

  “Though we’re not supposed to unmask until midnight, no one is likely to see us here.” Ian tossed aside his disguise, and I did the same. It was nice to see Ian’s face again, a human face instead of the stiff, perpetually smiling features of his mask.

  “What a pleasant place.” From the comfortable spot he had chosen, we could observe the carnival atmosphere without actually being a part of it.

  “Yes, but there’s rain in the air.” Ian studied the sky with an anxious look. “I hope it will pass overhead. If not, it just may ruin our picnic.” As we ate, the branches above our heads rustled in the brisk night wind, tossing their festive streamers wildly to the angry sky. Mrs. Lividais’s cider, deceptively innocent-looking, burned all the way down.

  “Cold?” Ian asked.

  “A little,” I replied, realizing that I had been shivering. But it was not the persistent wind which caused the sudden gooseflesh to rise upon my arms. I had been thinking about my encounter with Brule. Brule, who Mrs. Lividais’s gossipy tongue had uncovered as Elica’s lover. How could the strange, somehow fascinating man with his gaunt face and frightening eyes really believe that Elica could return from the dead?

  Again, I recalled the face I had seen in that wildly dressed crowd of witches, warlocks, and demons. Had it been Brute’s mask that had caught my eye on the other side of the street during the parade? I still wasn’t certain. I had only gotten a fleeting glimpse of the face. A new crop of goosebumps crept along my skin as I remembered the fixed, malevolent stare of those hollow-seeming eye sockets, the evil, grinning mouth of the voodoo mask. “Wind keeps the mosquitoes away,” Ian was saying. Then he added, “Listen. I hear a fiddle. The dancing will start soon, and that should warm you up.”

  High-pitched twanging sounds pierced the air as a bearded Cajun man struck up a familiar melody. He was joined by a heavyset fellow upon the accordion. Cries from the crowd brought two other fiddlers over to join them, and soon the air vibrated with lively, toe-tapping music. From our spot near the water, we could see masked dancers in glittering costume twine in and out of the cypress trees from the end of the street right down to the water’s edge.

  When we had finished our stew, Ian donned his mask. “Shall we join them?” He retrieved his robe, shook the crumbs away, and, with a flourish, fastened it again about his throat. I was still struggling with my own disguise as he playfully tugged me to my feet. The crown on his head had slipped to a jaunty angle as we once again joined the crowd.

  “I—I’m afraid I’m not a very good dancer,” I confessed hesitantly as Ian drew me into his arms.

  “Just let the music guide you. That’s right. You have to let yourself go!” Following Ian’s example, the awkwardness gradually melted away as I began to feel the pulse of the music.

  One tune ended and another began, the native beat of the songs blending into one another. As we moved in and out among the other dancers, I suddenly recognized Lydia’s elaborate leopard disguise. She was dancing with an imposing figure in a swirling dark cape, a highwayman dressed all in black. Something about the man seemed hauntingly familiar. I tried to catch a glimpse of his face, but the black silk mask and the dark hat pulled low over his brow concealed his features.

  A compelling magnetism about the man drew my eyes toward him again and again. Even masked, he commanded attention. He was tall, I noticed; he seemed to tower over Lydia as they danced. There was an aching familiarity about the way he carried himself, the well-muscled, easy grace of his movements. A sense of recognition made the blood surge through my veins. Could it be Nicholas?

  Of course not! It was impossible. Quickly, I looked away from him, turning my attention back to Ian. There was a pause in the music. We stood still for a moment, flushed and exhilarated by the dancing. The spiced cider was beginning to make me feel giddy, light-headed. Yes, the cider must be to blame for making me think I saw Nicholas in the form of a stranger, a masked stranger, at that!

  Ian reached up to replace his crown, which had slipped over one ear. “Hell’s bells,” he complained, “but this crown is annoying.” Then he added with a roguish laugh, “But I shouldn’t gripe. It’s not every day that one gets to be Prince Charming.”

  “Oh, is that who you are supposed to be?”

  “Why, of course. Who else
?”

  “The Knave of Hearts?” I suggested coyly.

  “Perhaps I’m not Prince Charming, after all,” he sighed. “But surely not a knave, either. How about one of the Lords of Misrule?”

  “Yes” I agreed wholeheartedly. “That might suit you.”

  “Oh, if every night could be Mardi Gras night,” Ian burst out suddenly. “I can’t remember when I’ve had such a time!” His eyes through the smiling mask locked unexpectedly with mine. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are, Louise?” I was taken aback at the sincerity in his voice.

  “Ian, you impossible Lothario,” I teased. “Only you would be bold enough to compliment the features of a lady wearing a mask!”

  “Ah, but a very revealing little mask. I can see your eyes, those dark, expressive eyes with their tiny flecks of green and gold dancing with excitement. And I can imagine your pretty nose and your cheeks all flushed from dancing. And I can see your stubborn little chin and the outline of your lips. Soft, warm lips just waiting to be kissed—“

  “Ian, please—”

  “And now, you are blushing, ma chère. Just like that night in the moonlight of the garden with a rose twined in your hair—”

  His mention of that night put me in mind of Lydia, of the ominous, whispered words I had heard them exchange there in the darkness of the garden. My gaze fell away from him, dropping to the mossy grass beneath our feet.

  He reached out and tilted my chin, forcing me to look at him. I noticed genuine hurt in his eyes behind the smiling mask as he asked softly, “Louise, why do you always turn away?”

  “Ian—” But there was nothing I could say. I was coming to believe that, in his own way, Ian did care for me. But those feelings could never be returned. Even if the conversation in the garden with Lydia could be explained, even if he were innocent of any plot or plan to find the missing jewels, my feelings toward him would not change. I could never care for another man the way I cared about Nicholas.

  I was grateful when the bearded man, with a mirthful cry, resumed his frantic fiddling. “Let’s dance,” I suggested.

  Again, we joined the vigorous dancing. Then, suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape making his way toward us. The form stood out among the other dancers, for the man in his voluminous cloak and heavy black boots was not dancing but walking slowly, purposefully, toward us. The cloak rippled with every movement of the lithe, muscular body clad in such somber black. In a deep voice, the highwayman claimed me. “May I steal your partner for this dance?” he demanded of Ian.

  Startled, I looked up at the stranger. Gleaming, obsidian eyes seemed to penetrate my very soul from behind that black silk mask. Ian hesitated, reluctant to let me go. Then, with forced lightness, he yielded to the stranger. “Very well. After all, this is Mardi Gras night.” He cast a worried glance in my direction. “I’ll be waiting,” he promised me.

  The music continued, a dizzying blend of breathless, abandoned rhythm. The stranger in the dark cloak swept me effortlessly into his arms. I felt his hands lock behind my waist, imprisoning me. Breathless, I clung to him as the dance sped up in tempo, aware of the contours of his hard body pressed so tightly against my own. The masculine scent of him, familiar as leather and woodsmoke, filled my nostrils as my cheek came to rest upon his sturdy chest. “Nicholas?” I whispered.

  I gazed up into his eyes, searching for the dark spot that would positively identify him. As if guessing my intention, he pulled my head back down until it once more rested against his shoulder. Laughter rumbled deep inside his chest. “Tonight I am whoever you want me to be, my darling.”

  His words left me frightened and confused. It must be Nicholas! Surely he was only jesting with me. But a tiny seed of doubt remained in my mind. Was it only someone who vaguely resembled Nicholas in height and manner? Was my need for him taking over, making me fantasize that Nicholas’s face was behind the disguise of some total stranger?

  The voice—But even his voice had seemed different, unreal, muffled by the black silk mask. The folds of silk and low, dark hat concealed his features, even his hair. Only a few blue-black locks spilled out across the forehead. And his hands—But even the strong, powerful-seeming hands were gloved.

  If this dark-clad stranger was Nicholas, then what had compelled him to join the masquerade? And if it wasn’t Nicholas, then who was he? Who was this masterful intruder who held me so tightly in his arms?

  When the music ended, I looked about for Ian. He was nowhere in sight. Then, without warning, the music began again. Strong arms crushed me even tighter, holding me possessively against that strong, sinewy body as we spun around and around, in and out of the glittering crowd of dancers. The bonfires threw their eerie lights across our forms, making us appear as one giant shadow as we moved gracefully together in and out of the cypress trees.

  The speed and force of our movements made me breathless. Senses heightened, I felt so totally alive! For some uncanny reason, I kept remembering how I had felt that day, riding upon Thunder, the wind blowing through my hair as I urged the horse to go faster and faster. The same exhilaration rushed through my veins now. I clung to the stranger for dear life, afraid that if he released me, I might go spinning off into empty space. Merged into one blurred image, the figure in black and I danced, one moving force, one shadow, one soul.

  The music ended abruptly and we stood, exhausted, spent, no longer clinging to each other. While we danced I had been reminded of the wild, joyful abandon of the horseback ride; now I remembered only the fall. As we broke apart, I felt shaken, disoriented, as if a part of my world had crumbled. Something magical had come to an end.

  I cast a sidelong glance at the dark-cloaked stranger, wondering if he, too, had felt that special closeness that, for one dance, had been ours.

  The cry startled me, shattering my dreamlike state into a thousand pieces. It worked its way toward us through the haze of music and laughter—a woman’s scream, high and piercing, breaking through the merry sounds of the revelers that surrounded us. I glanced over at the dark-clad stranger. He, too, stood tense, listening.

  Instinctively turning toward the sound, I spotted Ian close by, tugging at the edge of his crown, staring through his blandly smiling disguise at the woman he had chosen for the dance. I drew in my breath, recognizing the bright leopard-skin costume.

  Lydia, the pulse of her throat white and throbbing against the darkness of sable fur, emitted another cry, a choked sound that drew the attention of the others nearby. Lydia’s voice burst out in unconcealed fear. “Ian, do you see her?”

  A thrill of sheer terror rushed through me as I looked toward the cypress trees that bordered the nearby swamp. A ghostly figure was standing there in the shadow of the trees. For a moment, she stood illuminated by the dull gleam of the clouded moon. As I watched, she raised one pale hand as if enticing, beckoning, someone to join her. Then, wraithlike, she floated away into darkness.

  I stood trembling, disbelieving what my own eyes had seen. But the dark-haired woman standing on the outskirts of the crowd, her face obscured by shadows, continued to haunt me. A woman with high-piled hair. A woman wearing a long, low-cut gown of blue velvet. Elica, returned from the grave!

  In horrified silence, I watched the dark-clad man by my side. Every muscle in his body had become tense, corded.

  His stance was rigid as if he were made of stone. One hand reached out into the darkness, an imploring gesture.

  All around us, the Mardi Gras continued. Music was playing; the carnival noises remained merry and boisterous. Only the people nearest to us retained a momentary silence, throwing curious glances at Lydia as Ian gently led her away.

  “E-l-i-c-a!” The name seemed to be wrenched from the very heart of the stranger, who I now knew for certain was Nicholas. The remorse, the hurt, the anguish that was released in that one tortured cry pierced me to my very soul. I watched in shocked silence as the dark-cloaked man stumbled blindly away toward the swamp.

  “Nick,
wait! Nicholas, please!” I felt shaken and my knees threatened to buckle under me as I hurried after him, pleading, calling his name. It was damp and chilly down by the water’s edge. Thunder crackled up above as I followed after him, my thoughts a churning maze. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the swaying branches draped with heavy Spanish moss near the muddy water. I could see edge of his dark cloak just ahead of me.

  “Nicholas!” I cried, reaching the spot where he had been. “Nicholas, please wait!” But he had disappeared as if he had been swallowed up by the darkness.

  A light sprinkle of rain began to fall. I stood shivering as cool droplets dampened my hair, thumping against the amber mask like tears. The mask! I had almost forgotten that I was still in costume. I suddenly realized that I had changed my clothing and disguise completely since the last time Nicholas had seen me. An unnerving thought crept into my mind. Had Nick even recognized me as Louise? Or had he, too, been dancing with a stranger?

  A fine spattering of raindrops fell from the sky as I continued my search for Nicholas. I had to find him! The lights from the masquerade grew dimmer and dimmer until they finally vanished into the mist. I was wandering too far away. I should go back—

  Yes, I must return to the dance and Ian. He would be worried about me by now. I would explain what had happened, implore him to help me find Nicholas. And yet something kept me from turning around.

  Heavy Spanish moss draped the trees thickly on all sides, trees that seemed to crouch closer and closer together as I ventured through that damp, eerie vastness, searching for Nicholas. It was as if I had entered another world, a new dimension. Stillness gave way to the night sounds, the low-throated croak of the bullfrog, the drone of mosquitoes, the choked gurgle of the swamp. I moved toward the sluggish sound, knowing that I must be close to the wooden bridge that led to Evangeline.

  Soft and pliable from the rain, damp earth sucked at my ruined shoes, hindering every step. I forced myself to move carefully down the muddy path, keeping watch for the snakes that might lurk within that teeming underbrush. But it was not the possibility of encountering some slimy reptile that frightened me. I was haunted by my own uneasy thoughts.