The two men locked arms, then parted and locked again. She could hear the heavy breathing, the grunts of pain, the crack of bones as hands pushed against the fingers that held the shining steel of death.
The fire was surging in a fury towards the bed, and Gabrielle pushed her body up against the wall, pleading silently for the combat to end. Haphazardly, she draped what was left of her nightgown around her. The heat fanned her face, and the smoke was becoming thick in the room. Both men were gasping for air, and they, too, knew the imminent danger that threatened.
Suddenly, St. Claire began pushing West backwards with sharp, chopping stabs of his knife, relentlessly forcing him back towards the inferno of the window. West, beaten both by the other man’s skill and his own whiskey-fumed brain, tripped heavily on the overturned vanity and caught himself at the point where the window ledge had been but now was no more than a gaping hole filling with black smoke. He stood poised for the briefest second, an infinitesimal moment in space, before his weight caused the remaining damaged wood to break, and he was flung out through the window.
Gabrielle thought she could hear his agonized scream as though he were a great distance away. She slumped to the floor, sprawling, only half-conscious now from lack of air. Her eyes were smarting from the smoke so that she could hardly see the figure of the man that ran towards the door, then stopped, turned, and came back towards her, scooping her up over his shoulder. Her head bumped against his back sharply, and something wet and sticky smeared her cheek as she tried to fight off the bursting red lights in her head.
They descended the staircase that led through the kitchens, and Gabrielle could hear the sounds of confusion coming from the front of the house. They were in the courtyard now, circling the house through the side alley. The fresh air seemed to tear through her lungs as she gulped great swallows down her sore throat.
She wanted to tell the man to put her down now. She knew he must be hovering on the verge of exhaustion, but no sounds could come from her stiff, dry throat, and her head was aching with a vengeance.
As they neared the front of the house, she could hear the firebell and more voices buzzing and calling out orders. The man shifted her from his shoulder and settled her more comfortably in his arms in front of him, pressing her smoke-blackened face to his chest. Through layers of fog, Gabrielle could hear the voice of a woman she thought was Renée, talking and screaming, near hysteria.
“Gabrielle, Gabrielle! Oh, thank God, you’ve got her out alive, St. Claire. I wouldn’t give much for my neck if Lafitte found out she had died in all this mess. Oh, my poor girls! Nowhere to go now. Oh, my God, my God!”
Gabrielle could feel a sudden stiffening in the man’s arms. “You say she belongs to Jean Lafitte?” he asked in a rush of suppressed anger.
“Yes, yes. And he paid me in gold to keep her safe. When I think—” and Renée was running around in circles once more.
Through swollen eyes, Gabrielle could make out the distraught woman as she ran from one person to another, checking on her girls, making sure everyone had escaped injury, shouting shrill orders to the volunteers who had manned the fire brigade, nearly tearing her hair out in her nervous frustration. Gabrielle would have smiled if her lips hadn’t been so dry and her tongue so parched.
All she wanted was a drink of water and something to stop the pain that she now felt centered in her chest as though a great weight was pressing down on her, inhibiting her breathing. She was being lowered to the ground as gently as possible, and, instinctively, she clung to her rescuer’s hand, loath to be left alone.
“P-please,” she whispered between short gasps, “don’t leave m-me.”
Her eyes struggled to focus on the sun-browned face that gazed down at her, but her vision was blurring fast and she could only catch a glimpse of it. For a moment in the light of the fire, his eyes, looking so intently down into hers, glinted like green ice. She cried out in sudden, swift surprise, fighting the distant memory, then fell back into the dark chasm that awaited her.
Chapter Eighteen
“But who is she?” a male voice was asking, and its easy warmth penetrated the hazy fog that seemed to be surrounding Gabrielle’s brain.
She felt warm and snug and so relaxed that she couldn’t have lifted a finger if she had had to. The sheets were soft beneath her, and the pillow seemed to be made for a person to sink her head in, to lose track of time in the relief of sleep. She really didn’t want to wake up—hoped that whoever it was discussing her would go away and leave her to the comforting darkness.
“She’s Lafitte’s mistress, I’ve been told,” came an answering voice, drawling and arrogant with a touch of harshness underlying its tone. “What should I do with her, Leigh? Do you have any suggestions?”
“Jean Lafitte’s mistress! Christ!” the other man whistled softly. “You’re playing with fire, don’t you think, my friend? Mrs. MacDonald informed me that the physician said the girl was healthy enough—just overcome by the smoke. Why don’t you let her go back to Renée’s temporary quarters, and I’m sure Lafitte will come and take her back.”
“I’ll give her back to her lover soon enough, Leigh,” answered the second man indolently. “But first I’d like to sample her charms myself. Jesus—any wench who can tie a can on the pirate’s tail must have something special about her.”
“I don’t know,” began the other man doubtfully, and Gabrielle heard no more as she allowed the blessed calm of sleep once again to overtake her.
Something made her awaken from her dreams, and Gabrielle opened her eyes wide in that first instant of consciousness. She beheld nothing more than a darkened room with the only light coming from the partially opened window that allowed a few moonbeams to scatter on the floor.
She turned comfortably in the wide bed and came up instantly against another body lying beside her. Panic overwhelmed her at first so that she gasped out loud and hovered for an instant on hysteria, her mind rushing back in time to the horrible moment when Jim West had stripped off her nightgown and had looked with such lecherous intent at her unprotected body.
My God! What was she thinking? Jim West was dead! Where—where was she? Who was this beside her? Questions flew furiously inside her head while her heart seemed to stop beating. She struggled through memory to piece together what must have happened to her since the fire but found that she had no recall of events after that.
Carefully, so as not to wake the unknown partner in her bed, she pulled away towards the edge and sat up, attempting to make a mental note of her surroundings. She could not see much in the inky shadows of the night but could make out the outline of a closed doorway some few feet away. Perhaps she could reach the door without awakening whoever it was beside her and go on from there.
So swiftly and silently that she did not even hear a movement—an arm reached out to grasp her around the waist.
Gabrielle stifled a scream and turned her head to try to pierce through the deeper darkness of the shadow beneath the covers.
“Who—who are you?” she whispered shakily, aware of the tightening of the arm against her naked flesh.
No answer came back to her, but the arm increased its pressure until she was drawn back against her will towards the middle of the bed. A gasp escaped her as she felt naked flesh against her own.
“Who are you? Where am I? You—you must let me go!” she demanded breathlessly.
Still the shadow said nothing. She was drawn down against the mattress, an arm still about her waist. She was almost afraid to struggle—afraid to shatter the silence of the figure next to her. It was almost as though she were still asleep, caught in the mists of the dream like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. Struggling would do her little good and might even hasten the moment of terror.
She was lying prone now, her body pressed lightly against warm flesh—a man’s body, hard and unyielding, shaping her softness against it. She lay unmoving, her eyes staring up at the ceiling, her emotions strained nearly to the breaking
point.
Lips—warm and seeking—pressed against her temple, then moved slowly down her face. She strove to move her face away, but the arm at her waist moved up to cradle her head and keep her still. She could not get away from that mouth that moved closer and closer to hers, moving softly and surely, planting soft kisses on her skin that, despite her fear, made her shiver.
The mouth slid upwards from her neck and fastened on her lips, shaping them, molding them so exquisitely that they parted without her conscious volition. She tasted his tongue on hers, a faint aroma of good brandy filling her mouth as he forced her lips wider, pressing them back against her teeth while his tongue worked magic somewhere inside her head.
The kiss seemed to last forever, and she thought she could not stand it any longer—could not endure the breathless, wondering, incredible moment with this man whom she did not even know, could not even see.
A hand moved down her neck to her shoulder, and the fingers were warm and knowing on her flesh. They grazed her breast, drifted lazily over the swell of her bosom, brushed the tender spot underneath her arm where her breast blossomed from her side. Fingers traced the line of her breast from her side to the stiffening point, circling the nipple with slow, teasing movements that tautened them to sharp peaks of desire.
Gabrielle gasped as the mouth finally left hers, and she took in quick, short breaths as though she were fighting the urge to slip into unconsciousness. Her whole body felt light and tingling, quivering with sensations that were sweeping over her in a succession of waves that she was powerless to stop.
Lips and tongue teased her breasts and sucked gently at the nipples so that she answered the urge to bring her own hands up to press against his head, feeling the soft thickness of his hair. Her fingertips brushed the nape of his neck where the hair curled slightly, then pressed downward to trap his lips to her bosom.
But he needed no urging, his movements still slow and masterful so that she bit her lip in order not to cry out with a sudden, blind need for fulfillment. She no longer cared who he was, or where she was, or that he was a stranger to her. God! She wanted a man’s body—wanted to feel him inside of her—wanted to release the unbearable tension that was building up within her.
She moved her hips impatiently and heard his soft laughter, muffled slightly against her flesh. His hands brushed the tightened muscles of her stomach as his lips continued to caress her breasts, then moved further down to find the smoothness of her thighs.
Gabrielle abandoned herself to his caresses, parting her thighs without resistance when his fingers asked for entrance. Her breathing was quick and gasping, her eyes were closed now in an attitude of surrender, her body was arched to a fine-tuned pitch, waiting for the moment of release that was coming closer now as she sensed the rising excitement in her partner.
His hand caught one of hers and brought it down to where he wanted her to touch and stroke him. Her other hand curled against his neck to bring his lips back to hers, and she kissed him passionately, pressing her body against his and bringing him closer to her.
Even as they kissed, he was pressing her down, deeper into the mattress, and bringing his body over hers, positioning her as he cupped her buttocks in his strong hands. She waited, breathless and perspiring, poised to receive him as her arms clasped him closer.
His thrust was deep and sure, the stroke of a man expert in the matter of women and aware of his ability to pleasure them. Gabrielle moaned softly as she felt him within her body, and her hands slid down his back. She could feel the burning in her belly, spreading outward to her breasts and thighs, demanding to be quenched.
He moved against her, and she answered his strong thrusts with a quivering eagerness. His movements were enticingly slow, almost teasing her, so that she pressed harder against his back and arched her body to keep him inside of her.
Both of them were breathing hard now, and his movements increased until Gabrielle felt the passion welling up within her, ready to spill out. His lips possessed her mouth once more as they neared the climax of their love-dance, and she thought she would never get enough.
A startled cry of sensual ecstasy escaped her parted lips, and her eyes flew wide with wonder at the exquisite pleasure that flowed through her body as they came together in a rush of passionate desire.
She wanted to say something, to tell him how much he had shaken her, how wonderful had been their coming together like this with no words spoken. But she could say nothing.
As his movements slowed and finally stopped, she felt his lips kissing the tears from her cheeks, and she was surprised at the moisture, hardly realizing that she had been crying. She sighed deeply and kissed him once more, content as he continued to lie atop her, his flesh pressed so intimately to hers.
I must ask him again who he is, why I am here, she thought to herself. I must find out why he made love to me like this, without telling me. . . . She smiled and in a few moments was asleep once again.
The man knew when she fell asleep by the evenness of her breathing, and he allowed himself a congratulatory smile. “Remember this, kitten,” he whispered softly, “when you find yourself in your lover’s arms again.” He moved away from her, but for a moment he felt an unfamiliar rush of emotion steal into his mind. Angrily, he shook it off and got up from the bed.
Gabrielle awoke to bright sunlight. Wrapped in the cocoon of pleasure that she had experienced the night before, she allowed herself a yawn and stretched her arms above her head, sitting up to look around the room in which she found herself. There was nothing extraordinary about it—except that it definitely had the air of being a man’s room.
Curious as to the identity of her shadowy lover, she slid from the bed and went slowly towards the armoire, hoping to find some clue amidst his clothing. She had opened the door when a sharp, hissing sound caught her attention and made her turn quickly.
“Rosa! What are you doing here?” The words spilled out as much in surprise as fear as Gabrielle eyed the wickedly gleaming dagger that was held tightly in the girl’s hand.
“She-devil! Temptress! I knew you were evil luck for me when I first saw you!” Rosa spat at her, moving inside the room warily as though looking around to make sure her victim was quite alone.
“Rosa—what are you talking about?” Gabrielle exclaimed.
“You bitch! You with your golden hair and violet eyes have bewitched my lover! Why else would he bring you here—keep you here, when Lafitte has been looking everywhere for you?”
“Your lover?” Gabrielle put a hand to her mouth. Mr. St. Claire—the man whom Dolly had warned her about—the man whom Rosa considered her own personal property. Was he the man who had taken her last night—who had made love to her so exquisitely that even now she ached for his touch again?
“Your eyes are easy to read, bitch!” Rosa cried out in hatred. “You have tricked him into making love to you! You have tried to steal my lover away from me, and for that you will feel the kiss of my revenge. He will not long for your white body again after I am finished with you!”
Gabrielle backed away from the furious woman, realizing that in her nakedness she had absolutely no protection against the sharp blade of the dagger. Rosa followed her, her dark eyes gleaming dangerously.
“I could kill you,” the woman spoke slowly as though tasting her words. “I could kill you, and no one would know it was I. But I shall not kill you! It will give me greater pleasure to scar that perfect face of yours so that he will turn away in disgust at the sight of you! Your breasts will wither and shrivel, your belly will be hard and ridged with scars that will mar its smoothness!”
“Rosa! What—what are you saying?” Gabrielle began. “I swear to you that I—”
“Shut up, bitch! You will lie to save that fine, white body of yours—only to use it again to entice him!”
With a sudden, swift movement, Rosa lunged forward and Gabrielle dodged quickly so that the knife barely missed her shoulder. She pivoted quickly, aware that Rosa had alre
ady regained her balance and was circling her again awaiting the chance to strike with deadly purpose.
“Rosa, please listen to me!” Gabrielle pleaded. “I have no idea why this man chose to bring me here! I—I was ill after the fire and I—”
“Lies, lies! They will do you no good!” Rosa shrieked and drove forward once again.
Gabrielle sidestepped, but not in time to keep the knife from grazing her arm, causing a tiny trickle of blood to seep slowly through her skin. She gasped at the sudden, stinging pain and noted the smile of cruelty that shaped Rosa’s mouth. Her black eyes glittered, and her tongue darted out to brush her lips as she circled once more for position.
Watching her, Gabrielle could see no mercy or understanding in the closed countenance. The woman was mad, insane with jealousy, and her rage would only be extinguished when her horrible plan had been carried out!
Gabrielle backed slowly towards the bed, her mind leaping over ideas, trying to think of a way out of this nightmare. If only she could summon a servant! Anyone who would hold this mad woman long enough so that she might escape this house.
With a quick movement, Gabrielle reached behind her to the bed and swirled the bedclothes off in a frenzied cascade that settled over Rosa’s head. Screams and oaths issued from beneath the covers, and Gabrielle realized she had no time to lose before the other girl would hack her way free from the blankets and come after her. She rushed out the bedroom door, running blindly down the hall and to the stairs, leaping down them breathlessly, aware of the pounding footsteps behind her now.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the outside door with a sigh of relief. Unmindful of her nudity, she swung it open and came up against the well-endowed figure of a woman with flaming red hair who looked at her as though she were some lunatic to be locked up immediately.
“Well, I never—” the woman breathed, and her eyes dilated at sight of Rosa’s rapidly approaching figure, the knife held dangerously in her fist.
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