Jemma kept the hood of her cloak up as she zigzagged between the couples and small clusters of pedestrians who vied for space on the wooden walkway that kept them out of the quagmire on the muddy street. She slipped between two groups, hoping each would think she was with the other.
The street was crowded with carriages. Daring a glance over her shoulder, Jemma breathed an audible sigh of relief. There was no sign of Wheaton or the hired carriage.
Sheltered from the rain beneath a balcony, her interest was piqued when she noticed a crowd gathered around a very tall man in a black hat. His leather clothing appeared to be adapted from the style of an Indian tribesman, made of pieces of well-tanned hide stitched together.
Intrigued by the woodsman, frustrated because she was behind him and couldn’t see the big man’s face, Jemma edged along the front of the building, keeping in the shadows but drawing closer to hear what was being said.
The man was apologizing to a dark-haired, sloe-eyed Creole gentleman who was apparently very angry. In a move Jemma thought more than foolish, the Creole struck the giant backwoodsman squarely across the jaw with a white kid glove. Jemma decided the shorter man was either very stupid or very foolhardy.
The man in buckskins had a voice that carried over the crowd. “I told you I was sorry. I stopped your lady friend here because I thought she was someone else. What the hell was that slap for?”
Even Jemma knew what the slap meant, and she suspected the woodsman did too. It seemed ridiculous, such a bold challenge coming from a quaking little Creole with a rapier-thin mustache and oiled hair. He was so much shorter than his opponent that he had to bend backward just to meet the taller man’s eye.
Jemma crept closer to listen and heard the Creole say, “I am calling you out, monsieur. We will meet under the oaks at dawn. I’m sure you can find someone of your kind to stand as second.”
Incredibly homely, the lady the woodsman had mistaken for an acquaintance possessed a long horseface and uneven teeth. While her escort fumed, the brunette stared curiously at the woodsman, carefully looking him up and down.
“Look, mister,” the tall man began, “I’m sorry, but I don’t get up before dawn for anybody, not even you. If you’re smart, you’ll accept my apology and forget it. I didn’t mean the lady any harm.”
Jemma could see that the man in buckskins was trying to win the others over with a smile. At least six foot three, he far outmatched the Creole.
“Never will I forget such an insult to my Colette!” The young man’s eyes glittered as he wove unsteadily on his feet. Too much drink gave him false courage. “Choose your weapon, monsieur.”
The crowd around them gasped—all but Jemma, who hung on every word and action. It was the most exciting scene she had ever witnessed.
The unattractive woman had become the center of attention. She gazed at the crowd and almost preened, apparently thrilled that one of her companions would even consider dueling to defend her honor.
The huge man in backwoods dress sighed so loudly that everyone heard it. “I choose fists.”
The two smaller gentlemen burst into a spate of Creole French, one obviously arguing a case of common sense to the other. The brunette whipped up the fan at her wrist and snapped it open. Holding it above her head, she used it to shield her face from the rain.
When the woodsman drawled, “Excuse me, monsewer,” Jemma almost giggled aloud. The man was well aware of the crowd pressed around them. He shifted his stance and flexed his wide shoulders to make a point of emphasizing his stature and build before he said, “The last man who challenged me to a fistfight never lived to tell about it. If I were you, I’d take that apology and call it a night.” As a coup de grâce, he cradled his long rifle in his arms like a babe. The trigger was level with the little Creole’s nose.
Finally, the challenger backed down and dismissed the giant with a nod. The crowd sighed with relief.
“That’s mighty neighborly of you. No hard feelings?” The huge American finally smiled.
“I accept your apology, monsieur.” The offended Creole was beet-red.
The Creole linked arms with his disappointed admirer and, along with his male companion, began to hustle the brunette away through the crowd. Titters of laughter and conversation filled the night air as the tension was broken and the theater patrons began to move on.
Jemma edged around the crowd, more compelled to see what the face of the amazing man in leather looked like than she was to stay dry. Squeezing between two burly gentlemen who smelled of bay rum and musty wool, she nudged forward.
Jemma blinked once and then again. The backwoods giant had turned around and she could see him clearly. He had tied a headful of wild blond hair into a queue, but most of it had escaped to hang over his shoulders. The thick shadow of a new beard couldn’t hide his strong jaw and emphasized his moss-green eyes. The long, well-oiled barrel of his rifle caught the lamplight as he cradled it with a practiced nonchalance.
His entire being radiated adventure, daring, the call of the wilderness.
Not so much as a flicker of emotion crossed the woodsman’s face. The crowd was nearly disbanded. Jemma realized her vulnerability. She ducked back into the shadows, unwilling to let the man in the tanned leather see her until she could formulate a plan. He turned and headed off alone in the direction of the cathedral.
“Damn!” she whispered under her breath, dogging his steps while she hugged the buildings. Praying that Wheaton was well on the way to the Moreau plantation, Jemma took a chance and followed the backwoodsman down the street.
She couldn’t help but notice how confidently he strode along, his shoulders as wide as a door, his back as straight as an oak. The people he passed paused to take a second glance at his imposing presence before they moved on. Everything about him appeared savage, from his dress to his unkempt hair and the long, lethal knife strapped to his thigh.
Here was a man who laughed in the face of danger. Here was a man whose middle name was adventure.
Here was a man of honor. She could tell by the way he’d refused to participate in a duel he obviously would have won, no matter what weapons were chosen. Here was a man who could get her out of New Orleans, a man she would feel safe with. All she had to do now was convince this savage-looking stranger that he wanted nothing more than to help save her from a fate worse than death.
She had to find out where he was going and ask him to take her along. She needed to convince him that he was the only one who could help her.
Jemma waited until they had traveled another block and were virtually alone on the street. No one else was moronic enough to stay out in the rain. As she hurried along, trying not to let the woodsman out of her sight, Jemma shoved her splayed fingers into her hair and tugged the wet curls in all directions until her hair stood out around her head like a madwoman’s.
After loosening the string on the worn, sodden cape so that it hung limply off one shoulder, she took hold of the pale silk fabric of her gown at the shoulder and tugged until she heard the stitches pop. With one final jerk, she separated the shoulder seam until there was a wide tear. Her skin showed between the ragged edges.
She gathered up her skirt and started running headlong down the street, her footsteps pounding against the wooden banquette. Launching herself at her objective, she grabbed hold of the stranger’s leather sleeve and tugged on his left arm.
The instant she touched him, he somehow managed to whip out the knife that had been sheathed at his right side. The long rifle clattered against the boardwalk. He had grasped a hank of her hair and had whipped her around, effectively pinning her against him while he held the knife to her throat.
Jemma gasped, afraid to move, yet afraid to hold her tongue and have him slit her throat before she could even utter an explanation.
“I need help,” she whispered, holding her teeth clenched, afraid if she opened her mouth that the cold, Lethal steel at her throat would slide into her skin.
She felt the pressu
re on the blade ease, but the giant continued to hold her clasped against him. He was glaring down at her, his eyes glittering like emerald shards in the lamplight.
His image began to swim before her eyes. Rainwater dripped off the brim of his hat, down into her face. Jemma blinked rapidly. He let go of her long enough to drag her with him until they stood beneath an overhang.
“What’s this all about?” he demanded.
When he spoke, his voice was strong and deep, just as it had been when he apologized to the Creoles on the street. She forced herself to remember how he had offered those men an apology to avoid a confrontation. She prayed she had not been hasty. Surely such a man would not harm her.
Wincing as his hand tightened on her hair, Jemma grabbed the front of his fringed coat. She screwed up her courage and shouted, “You’ve got to save me!”
Chapter 3
“Shit.”
Hunter groaned aloud. He didn’t need this. He really didn’t.
Doubting his own sanity, he stared down at the disheveled blond with bewitching china-blue eyes and twin dimples and knew that plenty of the “Kaintucks” roaming the streets of New Orleans would not have hesitated to drag her off to a crib in the Swamp district first and ask questions later. Her breath was coming fast and shallow, her face smooth and pale as moonlight except for twin spots of high color on her cheeks and the shadows in her dimples.
“Save you from what?”
“Put the knife away and I’ll tell you,” she ordered.
“Lady, you’re the one who flew out of nowhere and grabbed me. Start talking.” To appease her, he lowered the knife, but didn’t relax his guard. His gaze flicked to his rifle. It was lying on the boardwalk where he’d dropped it. Then he glanced up and down the street. There was not a soul in sight.
“They’re still after me, trying to track me down and capture me.” A tremor shot through her as her eyes widened in fear.
“Who?” He looked down the street again. There was no one around.
“I’ve sworn not to let them take me, even if I have to kill myself.” Her small hands tightened on his fringed coat.
“Who’s trying to track you down?” Certain she was mad, he spoke slowly and distinctly.
“Do you think you could please let go of my hair? You’re hurting me.”
He could see he was not going to get to the bottom of this very quickly, and his rifle was getting soaked. He let go of her hair, kept one hand on her arm, and sheathed his knife. Hunter dragged her over to the weapon and picked it up before ducking back beneath the overhang. Then he pulled the wool cloak over her exposed shoulder.
“I asked who was after you,” he repeated.
“The emir’s men, the palace guards. They’ve chased me half way round the world … from Algiers.”
“Algiers?”
“It’s on the coast of northern Africa.”
“I know where it is.” He really didn’t need this.
“You do?” She looked him up and down.
“What were you doing there?”
“I’d just left the convent.”
“The convent?”
“You certainly ask a lot of questions.” She took a deep breath. “My father had been forced to send me there after he lost the family fortune. By the time I received the letter carried by special envoy, it was too late. The nuns wouldn’t let me go.” She paused long enough to smile and cast her gaze heavenward. “They believed I had a special calling, certain I was destined for sainthood. Like St. Theresa.”
“Christ,” he mumbled.
“No, St. Theresa.”
“How did you get out of the convent?” Despite his well-greased buckskins, Hunter was nearly soaked through. This was a night he would not remember fondly.
She shrugged. “Why, the way any sane person would. I tunneled under the garden wall.” Her eyes took on a faraway glow. “It took months.”
“And the emir’s men?”
“What I didn’t know, as I made my escape, was that the convent was under siege. It seems there was a fortune in jewels hidden in the old chapel. The emir’s Berber guard had the place surrounded. I tunneled right into their hands. When they saw my hair—you know, blond hair is quite an oddity in Algiers—they realized I had not yet taken my solemn vows. The guards became determined to deliver me to their master for his harem. They expected he would pay a huge sum for a … well, you know.” Her cheeks stained with color and she quickly looked away.
He had no idea what the emir would pay more for, or what hair had to do with taking vows. “But somehow, you managed to escape.”
She nodded. “Barely. And only by slipping into a huge empty oil jar. I stowed away and that’s how I ended up here in New Orleans tonight. Those men will stop at nothing to find me again.”
She paused for breath. Hunter had forgotten he was holding her, until he realized she was actually leaning against him. He abruptly let her go. Although he was fairly certain she was a crazy lunatic and just as unpredictable, she was too small to do him any physical harm. The poor wit-scrambled girl was running from something all right, but he was willing to bet everything he owned that it was from an insane asylum.
“Will you help me?”
Somebody always wanted something.
Hunter took a step back, intent on going his own way. Amelia White had already made a bigger fool of him than any woman had a right to. Not only that, but she had run off and left behind her daughter Lucy, who was no kin to him at all. Even though Amelia had done him a big favor by leaving, he wasn’t about to let any woman talk her way into his life again, especially this addlepated blue-eyed blond with the face of an angel and twin dimples.
“I’m afraid I’m getting out of the savior business. You’ll have to find somebody else.” He tipped the brim of his hat and succeeded in sending a stream of water down over his hand. Without a backward glance, Hunter started down the street, fighting to ignore the girl’s startled expression of disbelief.
“Are you just going to walk off and leave me standing out here alone like this?” Her voice came to him through the rain, reed-thin and shaky.
“Yep.” He told himself to keep walking. He didn’t want to dwell on her standing there soaked through, shivering with fright. With those eyes and that figure, she was most likely a whore trying to escape her pimp, not some convent escapee on the run from Berber tribesmen.
For half a block she followed him. He could hear her light, rapid footsteps dogging his on the boardwalk; then there was silence. Hunter warned himself not to turn around, not to get involved. She had come from someplace and she would end up somewhere else. She could damn well get there on her own. He didn’t need to worry about what happened to her.
He put a few blocks between them and was about to step off the end of the walk and negotiate the muddy street when he heard the scream. The sound tore through the night air. He spun around.
In the distance, two shadowy figures struggled beneath a lamppost. The yellow glow from the lantern radiated around the silhouettes locked in a frenetic tussle. Raindrops glistened in a shimmering halo around a head of wild, curly blond hair. Hunter picked up his pace, his moccasins slapping hard thumps against the wooden walk.
A gent dressed like a card shark in a tall hat, cutaway coat, and natty stirrup pants was accosting St. Theresa of Algiers.
The gambler was so intent on attacking his helpless victim that he didn’t see or hear Hunter until it was too late. Six paces from the gambler, Hunter got a strong whiff of whiskey. In two paces he reached out and whipped the man away from the frantic blond, drew back his arm, and sent his fist crashing into his victim’s chin before the gambler knew what hit him. The man’s waistcoat was spattered with blood. The sateen shone in the glow of the lamp as the man lay face up in the pelting rain.
The girl threw herself against Hunter, nearly toppling them both. He drew her under cover of an overhanging balcony once more.
“Good God! I could have been killed … or worse! You jus
t can’t leave me alone like this,” she said, clutching him tight. A sob caught in her throat and she shuddered. Genuine fear was reflected in the tears shimmering in her eyes.
He thought of Lucy, Amelia’s girl, who wasn’t much younger than this one. What if Lucy were out alone on the streets and no one helped her? Not that shy little Lucy would ever find herself in such a fix, but still, he couldn’t help but compare the two. Years of being responsible won out.
“I’m headed for Tchoupitoulas Street. I’ll put you up in a hotel, but you’re on your own from there.”
“Tchoupitoulas?” She worked the word around on her tongue.
“Fronts the river. You might have seen it when you climbed out of your oil jar at the wharf.”
She looked confused and then sniffed. “I was only in the oil jar until it was carried aboard ship.” Trembling as she glanced over at the still-inert gambler, she rubbed her arms and shivered.
“There are some places to bed down, none of them decent, but you’ll be safer than you would be in the Swamp.”
“The Swamp?” Her eyes were huge.
Enough time had been wasted. He started to drag her down the street. “Plenty of other whores down there, too.”
“Other whores?” She stopped abruptly, refusing to budge.
“You heard me.”
“I, sir, am no whore.”
She had thrust her chin at him in defiance until he looked her up and down and had the satisfaction of seeing her quell beneath his glare. Giving her a tug, he started her moving again.
“Then what the hell are you? This time I want the truth.”
She sniffed. “How can you be so cruel? I’m a defenseless young woman alone … trying to … to get to her long lost father … and brother.”
“And where might they be?”
Her gaze touched on his and then quickly slipped away. “Where are you headed?”
Her ability to turn the tables was giving him a headache. “Upriver, but what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Aha! Don’t you see?”
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