Gabrielle

by Theresa Conway

  “Does such a thought frighten you, Gabrielle?” She did not answer, and his arms tightened. “It does not please you, does it—to think that I might plant my seed in you?”

  His hand forced her face towards him, and in the semidarkness he thought her eyes looked like sparkling amethysts. God, but she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen!

  “Having a child,” Gabrielle murmured as though to herself. “A child—the responsibility—frightens me.” She stumbled over the words. “Out of wedlock, isn’t that being selfish and cruel to the child?” She was thinking of Sally and her infant, but as soon as she said the words she regretted them, for she could feel Lafitte stiffening in resistance to her implication.

  “I have told you before, Gabrielle, a man like me, in my position—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I’m—I’m sorry,” she hurriedly got out, her fingers now coming up to close his lips. Since she could not retract the words, perhaps she could use them to fan his vanity. “Forgive me for being a—a selfish woman.”

  His arms relaxed a little, and she allowed herself a small sigh as she snuggled closer to him. Already she could feel him becoming aroused again as his hands moved slowly over her back and buttocks.

  “I—I suppose I do get a little bored here,” she began haltingly, then taking her courage in her hands: “I was hoping—that is, I wanted to ask you if—if it’s not too much trouble, that is—could you, would you take me to New Orleans with you, Jean?”

  He pulled away from her abruptly and sat up. “To New Orleans?” he said suspiciously, and Gabrielle’s heart beat faster with her heightened fear.

  But, despite her raging emotions, she put her arms around his neck and widened her eyes provocatively. “Oh, please, Jean! Please take me with you! It would be such fun for me, and I could shop just a little, and you—you could show me all the sights, and—oh, it would be wonderful, just this once! Please,” she ended, smiling even though her face felt stiff and her mouth tasted bitter from her lies.

  His hands began to explore her body once more, and she felt the familiar tingling begin again.

  “Please, Jean,” she whispered again, fastening her lips on his.

  He kissed her deeply, then pulled away to look into her face. “All right, all right, you little vixen. I’ll take you with me.” His expression was veiled, but he grinned as he saw the dazzling smile she bestowed on him. “I suppose it is worth it.”

  “Oh, yes!” she cried out, her heart singing within her as she gave herself to him without reservations. “Oh, yes, Jean!”

  Noting her complete surrender, Lafitte redoubled his efforts, and then they were locked together once more, oblivious to the sounds of laughter and revelry that drifted softly through the open windows.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Mama! Just look at that handsome devil!” a slim, young octoroon girl whispered to her dour-faced mother from behind a fluttering fan. “Lord, if he asks me out into the garden, I shall probably faint with excitement!”

  “You’ll do no such thing, girl!” replied the stout matron. “You’ll act like a lady, or I’ll take a switch to your backside when we get home. Now quit your simpering. My guess is, a stallion like that isn’t looking for a giggly girl on his arm!”

  The girl agreed, but couldn’t help another nervous giggle escaping her bejeweled throat as the man turned and looked in her direction. She held her breath as the full impact of dark, emerald-green eyes met hers. Their boldness as they swept over her figure made her step backwards, closer to her mother, as though for protection.

  Rafe St. Claire, newly arrived in New Orleans from Richmond, Virginia, smiled to himself, his sensually molded lips curving into a mocking salute to the girl. She was pretty enough, he thought, to keep him well occupied for the rest of the evening—if, that is, he could manage to get her away from that frowning duenna of a mother.

  He had just arrived a week ago from Virginia where he had filled his ears with the ominous rumblings of war by talking with his father and those members of Congress who elected to risk their reputations by conversing with the black sheep of the St. Claire family. It always amused him to answer their personal questions with as many outrageous lies as they would swallow.

  After a while, though, the relatively peaceful existence at Clairemont, his father’s plantation manor, preyed too much on his nerves, and he decided to seek stimulation elsewhere. The stodgy society of Washington City was part of the reason that he had left home three years before. The men wanted to talk of nothing but politics or other equally dry topics, and the women would not allow their emotions to override their cumbersome etiquette.

  He missed the gaiety of Paris, the adventure of smuggling goods under the very noses of French and English blockaders, who knew him as Captain Savage. He longed to experience again the freedom of a place not completely bound by rigid codes. So, he had left Clairemont without any farewells, bent on escaping to the more raw, more booming, more adventurous young city of New Orleans.

  He looked up an old acquaintance from Virginia, Leigh Owens, who had moved to New Orleans some five years before, and through him learned of the Quadroon Balls, which were held every Sunday. Leigh offered to take him to one, and Rafe, naturally, accepted. Liaisons with girls of mixed blood were not uncommon among the gentlemen of Virginia and the idea did not in the least shock him.

  Now, as he eyed the bevy of beautiful, golden-skinned young women whose dark, laughing eyes reminded him of some of those Parisian beauties, he found himself mentally picturing their perfectly formed young bodies against the white bed sheets of his hotel room. Leigh, who had been watching his friend covertly, came up alongside him.

  “Enough time for those beauties later,” he informed him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Come with me to the gaming tables in the other room. You’ll enjoy the stakes as well as the play. Have you brought much money with you?”

  “Enough,” Rafe said lightly, “although most of it is still tied up in my bank in Virginia. If I’m to stay here very long, I suppose I should have my account transferred to a bank here in the city.”

  He followed his friend into the gaming room with its green baize tables and let his eyes roam silently about the various personalities occupied in the different games. He noticed a large, heavyset man at one table, his arm placed quite familiarly around a young woman of color whose own face revealed the prolonged suffering she had endured. The man hiccoughed drunkenly, belched, and rubbed his stomach with one huge paw before transferring it to the bodice of the embarrassed young girl and then back to the gaming table to throw down more coin.

  Leigh, following the direction of his gaze, laughed. “That is Pierre Lafitte, Rafe. Even though he looks like nothing more than a drunken sot, he is probably one of the wealthiest men in the Louisiana Territory, thanks to the daring exploits of his noteworthy brother, Jean Lafitte. You’ve heard of them?”

  Rafe shrugged. “I’ve heard a little of Jean Lafitte,” he said, his dark brows making sardonic crescents in his sun-browned face. “What I’ve heard isn’t anything to enhance a man’s reputation.”

  “True, but Lafitte could hardly care less. He’s intent on building some sort of pirate empire out there on that island of his. He’s just the sort to do it, too, by the look of him. The people here in New Orleans don’t know quite what to make of him. Many of the businessmen are concerned about the effects of his smuggling on the commerce of the city. Legal trade suffers because of the smuggled goods Lafitte can bring in at much lower prices. The governor of the territory, William Claiborne, has tried to take some action against Lafitte and his men, but nothing seems to get through to these fun-loving Creoles.”

  “And where does that gross buffoon fit in to his brother’s scheme?”

  “He’s useful. Comes into New Orleans to gather information, spreads the word on upcoming sales, takes orders for black slaves. Pierre’s a natural-born promoter. Jean Lafitte’s much better at doing the dirty work.”

  Rafe nodded, wat
ching as the man called Pierre Lafitte, coming to the end of his money, proceeded to stumble away from the table in the direction of the double doors that led out into the garden, his arm still firmly wrapped around the mulatto girl. With a shrug, Rafe walked over and took Pierre’s place at the table, placing a modest bet.

  Within two hours, he had scraped up enough to quadruple his original stipend and was becoming bored with the ease of winning. Leigh had already gone to another table, lost heavily, and retired to the music room to select a partner for the dancing.

  Rafe scooped his winnings together, dropped the money into his pockets, and strode back to find his friend. The music was soft and delicate, the partners sparkling on the dance floor as he stood just inside the archway, watching with amusement. He turned to scan the other side of the room and nearly bumped into a pert young girl who was passing through the archway. Her dark eyes looked up gaily into his, and he remembered her from before as the nervous, giggling young girl he had noted upon entering the building.

  “Your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said in French, bowing from the waist, but not troubling to keep the mockery from his smile.

  The girl flushed but stood her ground. “Excuse me,” she murmured in the same language. She hesitated, wondering how bold he required her to be before he would accept her invitation to dance.

  “If you would allow me the next dance?” he inquired, making it easy for her. He noted the look of pleasure on her small face and once again pictured her lying back against the pillows, her crimson-tipped breasts pressed flat beneath his hands.

  He took her arm and led her out to the dance floor, pressing her slim waist with one hand while the other took possession of her fingers. These curled gently in his own, and she did not seem to mind when he brought her closer to him. They danced in silence, their eyes on each other, and he could easily see the eagerness reflected in her face.

  He danced with her toward the open French windows leading into another part of the garden that surrounded the building on three sides. And, as she looked to see if her mother were watching, he whisked her outside onto the small terrace. He did not wait for polite conversation but dispensed quickly with formalities by taking her in his arms and pressing a masterful kiss to her soft, full mouth. His lips traveled down her throat to the upper swells of her full breasts, and he pulled the bodice downward to capture one of those crimson points he had imagined only minutes before.

  The girl’s breath was coming faster, and he half-laughed to himself, congratulating his own instincts on selecting this particular girl. It would be ridiculously easy for him to lead her into the tall shrubbery and tumble her on the new grass.

  He was doing just that, his hand pulling on hers to lead her down the steps into the seclusion of the garden, when a sharp tap on his hand made him release her and turn around. He found himself staring into the enraged face of the girl’s mother, her white teeth flaring in her black face, her wide-cleft nostrils bristling with her displeasure. The girl was already weeping, and he could see the strong red mark on her cheek where the mother had already planted a swift but vicious slap.

  “What do you think my daughter is, m’sieur? Some whore you can lead into the night air for a brisk fling in the grass? Some ten-dollar slut who opens her legs for anybody? You’ve made a mistake, then, for my girl is still a virgin and intends to remain so until a gentleman comes and asks me for permission to set her up in style. I’ll not have my daughter whelping a little half-white bastard in the streets without the protection of its father!” The force of the woman’s ire was so great that she would have struck Rafe if he had not caught her hand in his.

  “Keep your little virgin, you ugly old bitch! But may I remind you that she was not unwilling, and your claim as to the state of her hymen could be grossly exaggerated.” He made a mocking bow to the speechless woman, then sauntered away, leaving the hapless girl to face her mother’s wrath alone.

  Once back in the dancing room, he searched for Leigh and signalled to him abruptly. His friend excused himself from the lovely girl he was with, his eyebrows indicating his puzzlement over Rafe’s savage frown.

  “What’s up?” he questioned him.

  “I’ve had enough of these fancy whores, Leigh. Take me where I can get a woman who knows how to pleasure a man without leading him on.”

  Leigh grinned. “You’ve found out how terrible these old dragons can be, eh? Never underestimate the power of mother love, Rafe.”

  Rafe’s mocking smile deepened the grooves in either cheek. “I doubt that I will ever do so again, Leigh, nor the power of greed. This place stinks of it. Let’s go.”

  Obligingly, Leigh led him out onto the street where he hesitated while he thought of a place that would fit Rafe’s description. “Madame Renée’s is the perfect place,” he said finally, snapping his fingers. “It’s on Royal Street too, not far from your own lodgings.”

  “For Christ’s sake, man! Why didn’t you take me there to begin with?” Rafe laughed.

  The two men hailed a carriage and were shortly set down in front of a fashionable-looking residence whose shutters were tightly drawn. They walked to the front door, rang the bell, and waited until it was opened by a sprightly, half-caste maid whose eyes ranged knowingly over them.

  “Yes, sir?” she inquired of Rafe, her red tongue passing speedily over her very white teeth.

  “We’ve come for entertainment, Claudine,” Leigh laughed, stepping into the circle of light.

  The girl, upon recognizing him, smiled warmly. “Why, of course, Mr. Owens. Please come in and sit down. Madame Renée will be so happy to see you—and your friend.”

  She led them into a large candle-lit parlor where a variety of girls lounged in semierotic postures, their dresses cut low over ample breasts and their skirts hitched obligingly over well-turned calves. Madame Renée, a woman of plump proportions, hurried over to them, her hands outstretched in greeting.

  “Mr. Owens! I declare I'm so happy to see you—and on a Sunday! Why, you know that’s our slowest night, what with those cursed balls they have. You’ll have your pick, sir, and you know my reputation for taking in only the finest girls.” She looked at his companion. “Oh, my goodness, and you’ve brought a friend. How thoughtful of you! Girls, girls! We have company.”

  The girls settled themselves in more decorous positions, although a few left their ankles exposed and leaned over to allow their breasts to show beneath their bodices.

  A dark-eyed, dark-haired, olive-skinned woman stood up from her chair and sauntered over to Rafe, inquiring if he wished a drink or perhaps a cigar. He laughed and whispered something in her ear, causing a catlike smile to come over her Spanish features.

  “Of course, señor. Rosa is the best in all of New Orleans,” she said huskily.

  Rafe nodded and his white teeth gleamed at his own smile. “Then, if you will show me the way, Rosa?

  The girl took him up the curved staircase and into a long hallway on either side of which there were several doors. She opened one and led him into a comfortable room, pointing out the enormous, canopied bed that was set in the very center in a blatant invitation to the prospective customer.

  Rafe wasted no time in haggling over prices but quickly opened the girl’s robe to reveal her full-blown body, the tips of her breasts erect with her excitement. His hands captured them easily, and he pushed her backwards onto the bed where she waited for him to disrobe. Her dark eyes fastened on his throbbing manhood, and she laughed in anticipation, her white teeth flashing as her mouth opened wide to receive all of him. She rolled him over onto his back and continued her ministrations, her deft hands caressing his buttocks and legs, her long black hair streaming over his heaving belly.

  “Christ!” he said between his teeth, and she took her mouth away, replacing it with the soft, enveloping warmth between her thighs. She bit at his chest and shoulders until he caught her chin strongly in his hands and brought her mouth up to his. They kissed long and hard, and then he rolled ov
er her and pinioned her to the mattress, driving with masterful strokes within her, causing her to cry out with exquisite pleasure and pain.

  “Dios!” she cried out, her legs writhing around his hips and clenching over his strongly-muscled back. She caught his tongue between her lips and sucked at it while her seeking fingers moved downward over his buttocks until they found that dark, moist place they sought, driving him crazy as they worked urgently to match her own need.

  Finally they released their tensions, and Rafe stroked inside of her with lessening urgency. Then he slowed and stopped, lying against her sweating body, his breath coming fast, as he listened to her gulping for air.

  After a moment, her hands touched his face softly. “You like Rosa, señor?”

  He grinned. “I like Rosa very much,” he affirmed, turning his head toward her breasts.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It seemed to Gabrielle as though they had traveled four hundred miles instead of only forty in the last three days. Her body ached from the unaccustomed ride on the mule, and she was tired of the humid, treacherous bayou land that held too many dangers.

  The small caravan had headed straight for the large warehouse outside New Orleans that Jean Lafitte had acquired nearly four years before in order to store goods for his auctions. The warehouse stood near the levee, and seeing its bustling activity Gabrielle soon forgot her weariness as the long flatboats were unloaded by red-shirted men depositing every conceivable size of box and crate along the dock.

  Lafitte had ordered her to sit down on a big crate that stood just outside the wide doors of the warehouse where he and his men, assisted by dock negroes, worked to unload their cargo. It was a time-consuming job, so Gabrielle had plenty of time to marvel at all the activity on the levee.

  Blacks squatted on sidewalks with baskets of yellow oranges, hawking their wares in strangely soothing singsong voices. There were banana sellers and vendors displaying honey-flavored cakes that made Gabrielle’s mouth water with their spicy aroma. Ginger beer cooled in big tubs of cold water that were guarded by two blacks who had a thriving business on this unusually warm day.