Bayou Nights

by Julie Mulhern

  All the color leached out of Josie’s face. “A ghost? Sent you here?”

  Christine nodded. “To see the room. May I?”

  That was not strictly true. Pierre had only told them about the card game. This harebrained trip to a brothel was entirely Christine’s idea.

  Josie glanced at Christine’s swollen ankle then at him. “Why?”

  “We’d like to speak with the ghost who’s haunting it,” said Christine.

  Marigold dropped a glass of water—probably his—on the floor.

  Josie pulled a chair away from the table and sat.

  Thirty seconds ticked by before the madam spoke. “You can communicate with ghosts?”

  “I can,” admitted Christine.

  The madam took a long sip of her brandy. “They listen to you?”

  “Sometimes.” A wistful smile curled Christine’s lips. She was probably thinking of her father.

  An avaricious light shone in Josie’s eyes. “I don’t suppose you could convince the ghost to leave or move to one of the upper floors? It’s such a waste not using that room. I could add another girl if it was available.”

  “I can try.”

  “You’ll have to take the back steps. The front of the house is full.”

  “Fine,” said Christine.

  “They’re steep.” Josie dropped a doubtful gaze onto Christine’s ankle.

  “I’ll carry her,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly.” Christine glared at him, almost as if she was daring him to pick her up. “I can manage.”

  Silly? Him? He bent, gathered Christine into his arms, and lifted. She smelled like moonlight or starlight, or maybe that was just her ridiculous hat. No matter, he drew her scent deep into his lungs and held it there. Maybe he was silly. No maybe about it. He had no business sniffing a woman, no matter how enticing she smelled. He exhaled. “Which way?”

  She tilted her head and scowled up at him. Undoubtedly the demand to be put down was on the tip of her tongue.

  “Don’t argue.” His arms tightened around her.

  She opened her mouth, a parting of perfect pink lips, then closed it. Then, as if lacking the energy to argue, she ceded to his strength. She even rested her head against his chest. Of course, the ridiculous hat tickled his nose. At least it blocked her view of his face. A blessing since he probably looked as overawed as a school boy who’d just stolen his first kiss. Allowing her so much as a glimpse of her effect on him would be lunacy.

  Josie could see his face. She snorted her amusement then crossed the kitchen to a closed door, threw its turn lock, and led them up a very narrow, very steep flight of stairs. It was a good thing Christine was so petite. He might have knocked a larger woman against the walls. Not Christine. She fit into his arms as if she belonged there.

  Drake shook his head, erasing the errant thought. Christine Lambert was a frivolous woman who cared for hats and fashion. She rushed into situations that called for careful consideration. It was only a matter of time before disaster caught up with her. He didn’t intend on being around to see that day—no matter how perfectly she fit in his arms. No matter how right her head felt against his shoulder.

  Josie cracked a door at the top of the stairs and peeked through. “It’s clear.” She opened the door wide. “This way.”

  She led them to a door halfway down the hall. “This is it.”

  He settled Christine onto her feet.

  She smoothed her ruined skirts.

  Josie glanced at them as if to ask if they were ready.

  Christine nodded.

  Josie opened the door.

  A gust of cold air rushed out at them. Drake’s skin tightened. Whoever was inside didn’t want company.

  “I’m Warwick Lambert’s daughter,” Christine announced.

  “Wait, Miss Lambert,” he said. Didn’t she feel it? A near palpable anger emanated from just inside the door. His-wife-left-him, his-dog-died, his-horse-went-lame, the-South-lost-the-war anger. “This is a bad idea.”

  She favored him with a roll of her eyes then limped into the room.

  He followed. What choice did he have?

  Inside, a motley assortment of chairs surrounded a listing table.

  A grey ghost sat, his elbows resting on the table’s scarred top. “Where’s your father?” The ghost turned the question into an accusation. “He missed last night’s game.” Then the ghost shifted his beady-eyed, heavy-browed stare to Drake. “Who are you?”

  The ghost wore a Confederate uniform. He’d been a major. The two of them were not destined for friendship. The longer Drake kept his mouth shut and his accent hidden, the better. He nodded a greeting.

  “He’s no one.” Christine dismissed Drake with a wave of her hand. Then she tilted her head and smiled, the kind of smile that could melt a cold man’s heart. “I couldn’t come here alone and this gentleman was kind enough to escort me.” She fluttered her lashes.

  The ghost returned his attention to her. Then, as if suddenly remembering his manners, he stood. “I declare, Warwick never told me he had such a lovely daughter.”

  She fluttered again.

  The ghost’s eyes looked marginally less beady and he smiled. “How is your daddy?”

  She clasped her hands and covered her heart. “Major”—she tittered—“I’m so overwhelmed by a man in uniform I can’t rightly remember your name.”

  “Quig Haywood, dear lady. Won’t you sit down?”

  Then, incredibly, the ghost pulled out a chair for her.

  “You’re too kind.” She sat and crossed her hands in her lap. Her lower lip quivered. “Daddy is missing.”

  Drake stood in the corner, forgotten. That was probably for the best. If the ghost could pull out chairs, Lord only knew what else he could do.

  “Missing?” Major Haywood’s voice softened. He gave Christine an awkward, ghostly pat on the shoulder then joined her at the table. “Let’s put our heads together and see if we can’t figure out where your daddy might be.”

  She smiled at him as if he was an epic hero. Her lashes danced against the satin of her cheek.

  The ghost looked like a starving man who’d been seated at a banquet. That or a lonely man who’d just met the girl of his dreams. Poor fellow. He didn’t stand a chance against the dual assault of Christine’s dazzling smile and her amber eyes.

  Her smile broadened, as if meeting a cantankerous ghost was the best thing that had happened to her all day. Perhaps it was. “Major, where do you think Daddy might go?”

  She’d claimed her father had been kidnapped. What was she up to? Drake crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall.

  “A boat headed up river?”

  The tips of her fingers touched her cheek and her mouth parted as if she’d been struck dumb by his brilliance.

  “Or,” the major continued, “could be he’s down by the river casting a line.”

  “Do you think?” Her voice was slightly breathless.

  Major Haywood smiled at her and nodded.

  “The last time you saw Daddy, you were playing cards?”

  “That’s right, sugar.”

  Sugar? If Drake called Christine sugar, he suspected she’d stake him with the broken zebra wood cane. She beamed at the Confederate officer. “He won that night?”

  “It was the darnedest thing. I thought sure Youx had him beat, then your daddy laid down his cards and he’d won.”

  Was it his imagination or did her smile look forced?

  “He’d won,” she repeated faintly.

  “You sound surprised, sugar.”

  Her shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug. “Daddy never wins.”

  “Ain’t that the truth? But he did that night.”

  What was she getting at? Had Youx fixed the card game so that Lambert won? Why would he purposefully lose such a valuable secret?

  Because he needed a human to fetch the coin? Or, was there another reason?

  “Do you like it here, Major Haywood?” Chri
stine glanced around the cluttered room and a small furrow appeared between her brows.

  “I reckon.”

  “It’s just that…a man of obvious refinement like yourself in this place.” Her shoulders lifted again—this shrug more delicate than the last.

  “Ahh, sugar.” The ghost leaned his chair back on two legs and crossed his arms. “The girls are pretty.” His eyes twinkled. “Not as pretty as you, mind, but pretty. I like being around life.”

  “Is that why you linger?” she asked. “On this side, I mean?”

  Haywood righted his chair with a thump. Then he cast Drake a beady scowl as if he, and not Christine, had asked the offending question. The temperature in the cluttered room plummeted.

  “Don’t you worry your pretty head about why I linger.”

  Mattias snuck his hand into his coat and closed his fingers around his knife. If the ghost tried to hurt Christine his desire to linger wouldn’t matter. A quick flick of the knife and the old soldier would cross.

  Christine glanced at him. Her eyes begged him to be patient and forgiving.

  He’d had a trying day. Forgiveness wasn’t a priority.

  She mouthed, “Please?” Then she turned to the ghost. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Major.” Flutter, flutter went her lashes. “I do apologize.”

  The major’s scowl softened. The temperature warmed.

  Mattias loosened his grip on the knife.

  “I’ve taken enough of your time.” Christine stood and sighed softly. “I did so hope you could help me.”

  The ghost stood as well. “You go on down to the river and look for your daddy. When you find him, you send him on over. I need a chance to win some of my own back.”

  “He beat you, too?” A simple question but Christine’s tone made it sound as if her father had completed a Herculean task.

  “I reckon the moon was blue that night.”

  “I’ll send him, Major Haywood. Thank you for chatting with me. It’s such a treat to meet a real war hero.”

  Now that she stroked his ego instead of questioning his decision to haunt the mortal coil, the ghost smiled at her. “Sugar, the pleasure was all mine.”

  Mattias opened the door to the hallway and Christine limped out of the room.

  With Christine out of the room, the beady-eyed scowl settled back onto the major’s face. “You keep a weather eye on that girl, hear?”

  Mattias nodded.

  From the hallway, Christine screamed.

  Both he and the ghost dashed into the hall. Along its length doors opened and curious women stuck their heads out.

  Just outside their door, a florid man in a plaid suit had Christine pushed against a wall. He leaned his forearm against her chest, pinning her. His free hand explored the rip in her skirts.

  Tears stood in her golden eyes.

  Mattias hands fisted. “Let her go.”

  The man looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Wait your turn. There’s plenty to go round.”

  The temperature in the hall dropped to freezing.

  Drake ripped the man away from Christine and swung, his fist connecting with jaw in a satisfying crunch. The man stumbled away from Christine then crumpled.

  A ghostly hand patted Drake’s shoulder. “Good man. Wish I’d done that.”

  Christine slid down the wall to the floor.

  Mattias knelt next to her. “Are you all right?”

  She didn’t respond.

  He took her hand. His thumb found the delicate skin on her wrist and he counted her racing pulse. “Miss Lambert,” he crooned. “Christine. Talk to me.”

  Her gaze remained fixed on her attacker.

  The man who’d pinned her pulled himself up, using the bannister for support.

  Good. If the man stood, Drake would get to hit him again. This time harder.

  “You didn’t knock him out, son.” Major Haywood shook his head then straightened his cuffs. “The God damned bastard.” Then the ghost raised his hands—slowly, with effort—as if lifting a heavy weight. The man rose off the floor, hovering over the landing.

  Down the hallway screams erupted from the women watching. A few drew their heads back into their rooms and slammed their doors. Others stepped into the hall, their eyes big as oyster shells.

  The man in the plaid suit scrabbled for purchase in the air. His florid face turned a deep shade of puce and his eyes—well, they made the watching women’s eyes look small.

  The major waved his hands toward the stairway and Christine’s attacker floated over empty space, a twenty foot drop to the floor below.

  The man waved his arms as if he could swim through the air. “Help!”

  One of the girls tittered—a nervous laugh that bordered on the hysterical.

  The major glared at the man hanging in space. “Ain’t no way to treat a lady.” He brushed his hands against each other and the man dropped like a stone. Then the ghost looked down at Christine. “Is she all right? He didn’t hurt her?”

  “I’m fine.” Christine’s voice was pure vinegar. Apparently she didn’t appreciate being discussed in the third person. That or seeing someone thrown off a landing disagreed with her.

  Drake stood and joined a passel of girls looking over the landing at the body below. The man’s leg lay at a funny angle and his groans were pathetic. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at the ghost. “Wish I could have done that.”

  If the major recognized his northern accent, he gave no indication. Instead he grinned back. “Hell. I was trying to kill him but I ain’t that lucky.”

  “He deserved it,” said Drake. The bounder had attacked Christine. Even in her torn skirts it was easy to tell she didn’t work at Josie Arlington’s. She possessed an air of refinement the other women lacked. Besides, her body was covered. The girls peering into the foyer were nearly naked.

  The ghost eyed one of the girls who wore nothing but a silk kimono tied far too loosely for decency. “I reckon you better get Miss Lambert on outta here, this ain’t no place for a lady.”

  Drake gathered Christine into his arms and carried her down the back stairs to the kitchen.

  Marigold stood stirring a pot on the stove. “What happened?”

  “Someone attacked her.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “The ghost?”

  “Just a man,” said Christine. “Mr. Drake, you may put me down now.”

  Drake ignored her request.

  “Is that the ruckus I heard out front?” asked Marigold.

  “The ghost pushed the man down the stairs,” explained Christine. Another lie. The ghost had lifted a grown man off the floor, kept him hanging in the air until his eyes bugged with fear, then dropped him twenty feet. All as easily as if he was tossing a pebble.

  Marigold crossed herself. “He ain’t never hurt no one before.”

  “I doubt he will again,” Drake assured her. “He was protecting Chris—Miss Lambert.”

  Josie Arlington burst into the kitchen, took one furious look at him, and said, “What. Did. You. Do?”

  Christine wriggled as is if she wanted him to release her. Not likely. He tightened his hold. “A man accosted Miss Lambert.”

  Josie waved away such a trifle with the tips of her fingers. “So you threw him down the stairs.”

  “I punched him in the jaw. Major Haywood threw him down the stairs.” Off the stairs was more accurate, but now wasn’t the time to split hairs.

  “And who, pray tell, is Major Haywood?”

  “Your ghost.”

  Josie’s ruddy cheeks blanched. “Get out!” She lifted her hand and pointed to the door leading to the alley. “Now.”

  “Miss Arlington…Josie—”

  Josie cut off whatever Christine intended to say with a shake of her finger. “That ghost ain’t never made any real trouble. Not until tonight. You two are here for fifteen minutes and all hell breaks loose. Get out.”

  Christine struggled against his hold. “Put me down.”

  He set her on her fee
t and ignored the empty feeling in his arms.

  Together they walked out the back door into the stinking alley. The door slammed behind them.

  “I think you just lost a customer.”

  “She never bought that much anyway. I’d like to go home.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Her brows rose.

  “No. You’ve been attacked there once already.”

  She squared her shoulder and scowled up at him. “Then where are we going?”

  We? Drake scowled back. Damn it, that plural pronoun made his lips long to curl into a smile. “I have no idea.”

  He walked—slowly—toward the street.

  She followed him. What choice did she have?

  Chapter Five

  Drake held out his arm as if he expected her to take it. Not likely. The man had been behaving like a…like a man.

  Christine ignored the proffered arm and limped toward the lights of Canal Street.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  She hadn’t the slightest idea, but the alley smelled disgusting and Josie might yet appear with a shotgun. She kept walking.

  He caught up within seconds and somehow managed to insert his arm beneath hers. “Until we figure out who or what is attacking you, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  She’d asked for help locating her father, not a bodyguard. Christine slit her eyes. “And if I don’t want you around?”

  “Learn to live with it.” His voice sounded deadly serious.

  Christine sighed her frustration. A sigh was more dignified than stomping her feet like a fractious toddler. Besides, she doubted she could effectively stomp with her ankle throbbing the way it was. If only she had something to throw at his pompous, over-bearing, interfering, disapproving head.

  They exited the alley and Christine drew a deep breath of air into her lungs. “I want to go home.”

  “I already told you no.”

  “I heard you, Mr. Drake, but you don’t decide what I do.”

  He glanced at her. “Zombie.”

  She didn’t need reminding. The zombie had been rather frightening but she’d managed.

  “The possessed mob,” he added.

  That too had been frightening, but she’d escaped with only a twisted ankle. “I want—”