Busbee, Shirlee

by Lady Vixen

  Surprisingly, her body curled confidingly against his, and she did just that. Not so Saber—for quite some time after Nicole's even breathing revealed that she slept, he lay there thinking about the future.

  He and Lafitte had concluded the sale of La Belle Garce this evening, and when morning came he and Nick would be on their way home with a hefty amount of gold. The disposal of the troublesome Allen Ballard had also been taken care of tonight—he would spend the next few months as an unwilling guest in Lafitte's calaboose. Saber had not yet decided upon Ballard's ultimate fate, but in the meantime he was safely under lock and key.

  With La Belle Garce and Ballard removed, there was just one unsolved dilemma, and that dilemma lay warm and trusting by his side—Nick! Soon she would be privy to his secret, and he wondered what she would make of the fact that the Captain and Christopher Saxon were one and the same person!

  Christopher Saxon. He was oddly satisfied to think that in less than twenty-four hours he would resume his own name once again; the dual personality of the bearded privateer Saber and the clean-shaven plantation owner would no longer exist.

  The deception had begun long ago when he and Higgins had jumped ship. To escape detection by the British authorities searching for deserters he had called himself Saber Lacey. But when he had joined up with Lafitte, it had been Lafitte who had suggested there might be a great advantage in a dual identity. Thinking of his grandfather in England, Christopher had agreed. It was thus that Captain Saber had sailed on La Belle Garce and Christopher Saxon had won a fortune and Thibodaux House in the gaming rooms of New Orleans.

  Saber had never appeared in New Orleans, though Saxon did periodically. Saxon lived several months of every year at Thibodaux House. True, Saxon disappeared for months on end, but who cared? And who would notice that during Saxon's absence, Captain Saber appeared at Grand Terre and La Belle Garce wreaked havoc on the seas? No one except Nick!

  Coldly he told himself, it made no difference. And yet . . . Nicole could easily destroy his prestige with the more respectable members of New Orleans society. Did it matter?

  Privateering was not a dishonorable profession, but certain eyebrows would be raised, whispers would follow him, and he would no longer be welcome in some homes. But it was a risk he would have to take—besides what did he care for "society"? Of course, he could leave Nick with Lafitte . . . but he disliked that idea excessively.

  Memory is an elusive thing; as he lay there other memories of Nick came back—the sight of the small figure, nimble-quick, climbing into the riggings; the blazing excitement in the topaz eyes at the sign of a fight; the way her lip curled with determination as she worked at the table in his quarters. There were a thousand pictures of her as Nick that flashed across his brain, and he wondered how he could have been so blind not to have fathomed her disguise long ago.

  Perhaps unknowingly he had. He had treated her with a teasing quality that no one else saw, he had tolerated her insolence to an astonishing degree, and somehow, whether deliberately or not, he had seen that she was safe during battle. He admitted with reluctance that there had always existed a careless though inconsistent affection for Nick. Definitely he had given no thought to Nick during those times he disappeared and became Christopher Saxon. He wondered how she had managed those times while he was away. Distastefully he remembered Ballard. Of course. She had probably lived on La Belle Garce while the ship was at Grand Terre, and as most of the crew kept to themselves, they would have paid her little attention. But she had run an appalling risk.

  Unable to sleep because of his thoughts, he slipped Nick out of his arms and left the bed. Crossing to a table, he found a tray of liquors. Pouring himself a snifter of cognac, he wandered impatiently around the dark room, his thoughts drifting inexplicably in a direction he didn't like. If he was plagued by the memory of Nick as his cabin boy, that memory awoke another, one that, like a sleeping beast, he always kept in the deepest recesses of his mind. When he thought of Nick, it was inevitable that he would recall her mother and events best forgotten. But tonight those memories would not be denied—and with despair he remembered Nick's lovely mother, Annabelle, and his uncle!

  Thinking of how they had so cleverly used him made him almost ill with fury. For how long, he wondered, had Annabelle's husband been suspicious that there was another man? It couldn't have been for too long or they could never had made him the goat. Looking back he could see it all so clearly—the affair between his Uncle Robert and the neighbor's sultry wife, both enmeshed in marriages they could not or would not end. Was it fear of exposure that had prompted them to sacrifice him? Or had his uncle had a more evil design? So easily, he realized now, he could have died in the Navy, leaving his uncle heir to his grandfather's and the Saxon estates.

  A controlled fury seemed to burn within him as he brooded over those long-ago days. God! How he had worshipped her, the scintillating Annabelle, her hair like flame and a body that consumed a man like fire. Oh, how slyly she had charmed him, and he, like a fool, had lavished all his young love on her. He had been unable to conceal his adoration and knew the adults were amused by his calf love. But little did they know that she met him secretly at the pavilion, introducing him to mysteries of physical desire. That Robert had known of the meetings he was sure. But had Robert been aware that those secret meetings had been torrid, had he known how Annabelle had taken his virginity and initiated him thoroughly in the arts of love? Somehow he doubted his uncle had known that! Annabelle had been like a narcotic in his blood, Christopher recalled sickly, as she teased and played with him, mocking his avowals of love and teaching him deception. But for his goddess he could endure anything, even the way she treated him with amusement in front of others, because he knew that when night fell he would lose himself within her welcoming flesh. He snorted with contempt at his own fatuousness. He must have been out of his mind to believe that a woman, ten years older and at the height of her beauty, would have fallen in love with a gangling, uncertain boy of fifteen.

  She hadn't. Of course he knew that now, had known it since that awful, black moment when his grandfather, his face tight with rage, had hurled those condemning words at him while she, deceitful bitch, sobbed piteously into her handkerchief and cried that he had raped her and then held that over her head to compel her to give into his lustful demands. Even now he could recall the dull rage that had ripped through his body, his despair at this brutal end to his dreams. Annabelle's husband had stood stiffly at her side, his dark eyes plainly showing his galling frustration that Christopher was only a youth and unable to meet him on the dueling ground. And pride had forbidden Christopher to answer any of the accusations. His face had frozen, and something deep within him had died that day. On the verge of violence, he had flung himself from the room, only to fall into the tender claws of Robert. Unpleasantly he thought of how easily he had been manipulated. Still unaware of the relationship between Annabelle and Robert, he had been like wax in his uncle's hands as Robert sympathized and suggested that they leave the house for a while and retire to an obscure country inn, where they could thrash out this terrible development. Duplicitous Robert had soothed his bruised, confused young spirit as they sat over their beer in the private backroom of the inn, and then that too had been torn from him. With a great rush of rage he visualized that last ugly scene—himself bound and gagged, beaten viciously by his uncle, and Annabelle in Robert's arms. He had stared with fascinated repulsion as they, unaware or uncaring, had coupled like animals on the rough floor, and with distaste he could still see the look in Annabelle's eyes as she straightened her rumpled skirt and asked, "What about him? Now that he's served his purpose, how are you going to get rid of him?"

  Robert had laughed, pulling her to him. "Don't worry over him. This time tomorrow he'll be somewhere at sea, an unfortunate victim of one of the press-gangs—only my father and your husband won't know that. They'll assume he's run away rather than face the shame."

  She had smiled and her green eyes sp
arkled with glee. "You're so clever, Robert. Who else would have devised such a skillful plan to answer Adrian's suspicions. He believes fully that Christopher is the man I've been meeting." She giggled, obviously pleased with the situation. But her worries were not completely stilled, and with a shade of anxiety she had inquired, "But what if he comes back?"

  Robert had shrugged. "That, my love, is extremely doubtful. The rigors of the Navy should take care of him. Besides, we are at war with France. And if he should survive, he'd be unable to harm us. Who would believe him?"

  "I suppose you're right." She had left without a glance at him, and within the hour Christopher had been in the brawny hands of a press-gang, after having been ushered into the room by a broadly smiling Robert.

  Christopher's body trembled with the force of the emotions that surged through him, and his fist was clenched so tightly that the bones showed white beneath the tanned skin. Goddamn them! he thought with fury. Goddamn them to hell! His hands shaking with the rage of the powerful hate that consumed him, he poured himself another cognac. He swallowed it blindly overcome by fury. With an effort he pulled himself from the past. It was over and done with, he told himself heavily, and brooding on it would only destroy him.

  Ah, you fool, he thought disgustedly, you can't be hurt, you tore out the ability for anyone to do that to you long ago. Have done with the past. You can do nothing about what happened, and Annabelle is beyond your grasp, dead, drowned in the sea!

  But vengeance is a strong emotion, not easily put aside, and deliberately he focused on Nicole. How ironic that Annabelle's daughter should fall into his hands. There was, he admitted, a certain amount of pleasure in tormenting her daughter, in bending Nick to his will and— honesty made him say it—in punishing Nick for her mother's sins!

  PART TWO: CHRISTOPHER

  "But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit."

  —Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  CHAPTER 14

  Christopher Saxon, his lean, clean-shaven face wearing an expression of weary disdain, was listening to the idle conversation around him. Why the devil had he let his friend Eustace Croix talk him into attending the Lavilles' soirée he would never know. Jesus Christ, but he was bored! He should have expected it. The Lavilles were elderly and so were most of their guests. When Eustace had begged for his company that night, he must have been mad not to have cried off.

  Christopher Saxon was not a particularly sociable young man. He was silent and withdrawn, and he held himself aloof from those who would have sought his friendship. Cold, callous, unfeeling were epithets frequently hurled at his dark head. He appeared to be all of those things and would merely shrug his elegant shoulders and turn his back on whatever displeased him. This is not to say he was shunned or unpopular. Quite the contrary! Every morning during his sporadic sojourns in the city, his servant presented a small silver tray upon which reposed several invitations to attend this party or that ball, or to bear this or that acquaintance to a cockfight, or to see the latest beauties at the Quadroon Ball. By virtue of his wealth and handsome face he was a definite favorite of ladies with marriageable daughters. Most men thought him pleasant enough, if a bit cool.

  But he never lacked for either companionship or amusement, and he had deliberately kept himself from making any close friends. Friends had a way of inquiring after one, of calling upon one when perhaps it was not convenient, and of interesting themselves in one's affairs.

  At first he had withheld himself from intimate associations because of necessity, and then because it had become a habit. It suited him that there was no one who knew Christopher Saxon well.

  Polite society accepted him as he was. His manners were correct, his family in England well connected, and no one could say much against him. To be certain there were those members of the Creole aristocracy who still remembered the disgraceful circumstances in which he had acquired his fortune—his comfortable mansion in the Vieux Carre, and the plantation, Thibodaux House—but they were few, and even they could not doubt that young Eugene Thibodaux had been a fool to game away his entire fortune.

  A sharp inquiry from the formidable matron at his side abruptly brought Saxon back to the present, and with practiced ease he covered up his lapse and joined the conversation. The remainder of the deadly evening crept by, and he could barely restrain his relief when he finally escaped. Never would he be gulled into attending another of the Lavilles' interminable dinner parties.

  Returning to his own grand stucco and brick home a few blocks from the Lavilles' he discovered he was not yet sleepy. He considered for a moment going to one of the bordellos or coffee houses in search of amusement but found the idea not to his liking. After ordering a decanter of whiskey to be brought to his room, he dismissed the servant for the evening. Stripping off his finery, he shrugged on a heavy robe of black silk. He poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and stepped through French doors onto the balcony that overlooked the courtyard.

  He stayed there a long time, staring at nothing, sipping his whiskey. He knew he should have been well-satisfied, yet he was not, and places and amusements that had once absorbed his attention were now less than exciting. He was startled to realize that he was at a standstill, uncertain as to the direction in which he should exert his energies.

  Captain Saber was no more! The plantation was organized to the extent that it required only the lightest supervision to run it perfectly. He was not a man to whom stolid respectability appealed—and right now he wasn't so certain that he had been wise in selling La Belle Garce.

  Perhaps he wasn't cut out for a life of indolence and ease, he thought cynically. These past few weeks had not been as pleasant as he had thought they would be. Some spark of challenge and excitement was lacking. Yet this visit had been no different than any other. True, there was the knowledge that he would not become Captain Saber again, but that could not account for his dissatisfaction. He was just, he admitted ruefully, plain bored. He should have brought Nick along, he decided wryly. She would have made for a lively time, he thought with a grin. And against his will, he wondered what she was doing tonight. Probably visiting a voodoo queen to obtain a potion to bring about his early demise.

  To his intense annoyance he found his thoughts returning to Nick at the most inopportune times. Dancing with one of the reigning belles and gazing into her truly beautiful brown eyes, he discovered that he preferred Nick's. Hers were deeper, more lustrous, and certainly more lively. Attending a soirée where he was introduced to the charming niece of his host, he decided that while her mouth was delightfully curved, Nick's was softer and infinitely more kissable. Noticing at the opera one night a striking auburn-haired beauty, he thought her shining locks insipid and faded next to the memory of the burnished flame in Nick's dark hair. It was vexing and disturbing to one of his nature to have these unsettling thoughts, and he cursed his foolish preoccupation with this rebellious, topaz-eyed vixen. With a derisive snort he walked back into his room.

  And when he awoke the next morning, wondering with disgust at his maudlin mood of the night before, he deliberately shoved all thoughts of the future away from him and threw himself into an orgy of activity. During the week that preceded Christmas he was seen at every party or soirée held in the elegant homes of New Orleans. Finding every minute filled with pleasurable commitment, he convinced himself that this was precisely what he wanted. This restless racketing to and fro might have continued indefinitely except for two incidents that occurred the night of the Governor's Christmas Ball. Christopher, along with a few hundred prominent members of Louisiana society, attended the affair, and it was there, about halfway through the evening, that he encountered a surprising specter from his past.

  She was a small birdlike woman of about sixty-five with bright blue eyes and fluffy white hair; she was neatly but plainly dressed, clearly a governess. He didn't notice her at first, for who paid any attention to those drab individuals?

  He was never su
re why he noticed her. It may have been the way she held her head, or the quick movements of her body that struck a cord of memory. From across the crowded ballroom he found himself watching her, a frown of puzzlement creasing his brow.

  He was sure that he must know the woman, and finally he inveigled an introduction to Miss Leala Dumas, who appeared to be her charge. He then learned the governess's name—Mrs. Eggleston!

  When he heard that name the years vanished, and he was twelve again and wheedling a sugar plum from the colonel's lady. She had changed little in the intervening years, although the soft blue eyes were not as brimful with ready laughter, and her face, though still smooth, had acquired a faintly harassed air.

  He was stunned when, having heard his name, she looked into his face and said, "Why, Christopher, how very nice to see you after all this time!"

  He gave her a rueful smile and murmured, "And you, madame. But tell me, how is it that you are here?"

  She hesitated and he didn't miss the uneasy glance sent her charge, the haughty Miss Dumas, whose expression clearly revealed her displeasure that the elusive Monsieur Saxon was paying more attention to her lowly governess than her own beautiful self. And so he wasn't surprised when Mrs. Eggleston twittered nervously, "Oh, it is much too long a story to bore you with. Did you wish to ask Miss Dumas for the next country dance? I believe one is forming now."

  Gracefully Christopher followed her unspoken plea and led the now-beaming Miss Dumas out onto the ballroom floor. But he was not to be sidetracked, and he deftly extracted the information he wanted from his smug dancing partner.

  Mrs. Eggleston was reduced to earning a meager living at the beck and call of whomever needed her services. Not content with what he gleaned from his partner, at the end of the dance he returned her to Mrs. Eggleston and waited in the vicinity until Miss Dumas was claimed for a dance by a handsome young Creole gentleman. Under the cover of polite conversation he convinced Mrs. Eggleston to meet him privately in two days. She looked doubtful, but had not been able to resist his blandishments. His aim accomplished, he drifted off in the direction of the card room.