She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of the linen square. “It’s really 1814?” she asked in a scratchy voice.
“December.”
She cradled her sore hands in her lap, crumpling the damp handkerchief. “Where are we now?”
“I keep several rooms here in the city.”
“Must be the Absinthe House on Bourbon Street.”
“I only know it as a building on Bienville and Bourbon streets.” He rose to his feet and went to the window, where he pushed the curtain aside, letting the chill into the room. “You know everything that’s about to happen.”
“Does that scare you?”
He dropped the curtain, and his eyes jumped from her to a corner of the room, then back again. “I’d be lying if I said no. But it also makes me question why anyone would keep a record of what I own or where I sleep.”
“Or who you bed. That’s in the history books, too.”
“Merde.”
“Your history merges with Jackson’s, that’s why it’s important. As for the Absinthe House, it was reported that you met with him here to plan the city’s defenses, but history also records you meeting him at his headquarters on Royal Street. You’re the only one who might think it’s important enough to write down specifics.”
“What’s not in the history books?”
“The facts of how and where you died. Some reports have you killed in a sea battle. Others say you were drowned in a hurricane, hanged by the Spanish, died from a disease in Mexico, or murdered by your crew. The best one is that you end up in St. Louis, where you’ll find God, marry, father a son, and settle down to the life of a landlubber. Take your pick.”
Lafitte threw back his head in reddening laughter. Dominique burst through the door with his perpetual grin, smoking a cigar. “Jean! Soyez silencieux!. You’ll draw the attention of the militia.”
Lafitte threw his arm around Dominique’s shoulder as he continued laughing. “Mon Capitaine just told me how I might die.”
“And you’re laughing?”
“How do you think I should perish? Hanged by the Spanish, murdered by my crew, or settled down in St. Louis living the life of a landlubber?”
Dominique smiled at Billie. “Becoming a landlubber would kill you for sure.” He picked up the empty wine glass. “Are you ready for dinner, mon Capitaine?”
“I could eat something,” she said. “I’ll come to the table.”
“I’ll tell Estelle.” Before closing the door, Dominique said, “I’ll leave you to keep him quiet using your discrétion.”
“I can think of several ways, Dominique. But they all require violence, and I’m just not in the mood to shoot him right now.”
Chuckling, Dominique closed the door.
Still laughing, Lafitte wiped tears off his face.
She found it almost impossible to reconcile the hardened criminal who sent her to the brothel with this man laughing with almost childlike glee. Seeking revenge, asserting power, proving one’s manhood could turn rational, thinking men into monsters. She’d seen it happen before, with tragic consequences. And she wasn’t just thinking about Lafitte.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“You mean if you don’t shoot me?”
She pointed her finger at him and cocked the pretend gun. “It’s been on my mind for over a week. I doubt I’ll forget anytime soon.”
He returned to the rocking chair and rocked slowly, his elbows resting on the arms, his fingers tented beneath this chin. “I have to visit my partner and arrange for the delivery of the goods we brought from Barataria. Then I want to see General Jackson. My sources have told me he isn’t in the city, but word will get to him.”
Billie swallowed over the strangling knot in her throat. “I’m stuck here for the rest of my life. That’s not how I planned to spend my retirement.”
In the subdued lighting, his eyes glimmered. “Married with children living in St. Louis isn’t how I see mine either.”
His comment hit a nerve, and she answered him in a clipped tone, “But you have a choice. You’ll still be living in your time.”
“Is it that different? Your time?” He tapped his fingertips in time with the rocking chair. “Do men not work to support their families? Do women not bear children and keep a home for their husbands?” He stilled his fingers. “Do politicians not profess to care for the less fortunate, but pass laws to keep them unable to rise above their station? Do countries not fight each other for control? Is there no war, famine, or death? What is different, Wilhelmina? What makes your time better than mine?”
“Science, medicine, justice, freedom for black and brown people, education for the masses, advances for women. It’s an easier life in some respects, but harder in others. In most of the world in the twenty-first century, people have running water, indoor toilets, high-speed transportation, and instant communication. But every minute of every day is full of things to do, places to go, people to see. It’s nonstop. There’s no time for rest, and little time to enjoy the fruits of your labor.”
“And you want to go back to that?”
“It’s my life. And I don’t like living in the past. I don’t want to be a page in a history book. I don’t like knowing what’s going to happen. There’s too much pressure to try to change the bad shit. I just want to go home.”
“As soon as this battle is over and I win a pardon, I’ll take you around the world until we find another woman like you. There has to be a way for you to return to your home.”
“It’s not possible.”
“But you would have said coming here was impossible, would you not?”
“You’re right.”
“If it’s possible to go in one direction, it should be possible to go in the other.” He cocked his head. “How did it happen? Did you walk through a door? Go to sleep and wake up somewhere else?”
“Sort of. I just bought a brooch inscribed in an ancient language.”
“What’d it look like?”
“It was made of braided silver, with a topaz stone in the center. The edges were scratched as if it had once been part of another piece of jewelry, and inside the stone was the inscription. I sounded out the words, and the chant summoned a fog that carried me away. The next thing I knew, I was in the swamp and found my way to you.”
“A fog carried you from the twenty-first century to 1814?”
“Sounds crazy, but I swear that’s what happened.”
“Where’s the brooch now?”
“It scorched my hand, and I tossed it.”
They fell into a thoughtful silence, then Lafitte said, “Can you sketch the brooch? We could sail to every port in the world and offer a reward for one like it. We’ll start in Europe.”
“France will be at war. We can’t go there.”
“Since I turned down the British offer, we can’t go to England either.”
Her headache scratched at her temples. “Oh, God,” she groaned. “I forgot about that conversation. Did I tell them anything that could change the outcome of the war?”
“You only told them how it would end, and they didn’t believe you.”
“When it’s over, they’ll remember every word I said. Lieutenant Bowes will come looking for me, convinced I’m a seer who can foretell the future, or unlock a secret of some kind. They’ll want to use my knowledge to control governments and financial markets.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m a cynic. I’ve seen too much evil in the world, and I know what men and women are capable of.”
“But you don’t have to tell them.”
“I hate to point out the obvious, but torture will get them what they want. ‘Send her to the brothel,’ will get them what they want. I’m fit and strong, but I wouldn’t be able to fight them for very long.” She sucked in a breath as though it might fortify her soul. “Ever since I woke up after being out of my head for three days, I keep seeing and feeling things I can’t explain—terror and evil falling like a
blanket over the world, over me.”
He inched forward, hand on the hilt of his cutlass, challenging the room, and the unseen evil. “I’ll always protect you, Wilhelmina.”
“I have no doubt you’ll try, but they’ll hunt both of us down.”
“We’ll go to St. Louis.”
An icy chill crept over her skin. “In a few years, St. Louis will be a major hub for pioneers heading west. It won’t be safe there, either.”
“We’ll go to California. They won’t find us there.”
“We can’t outrun or hide from them, from the bad shit. They can only be destroyed at the source, wherever that is.”
“We’ll kill the officers who dined at Barataria,” he said. “That’ll stop it from coming after you.”
“We can’t. They have important roles to play in the Battle of New Orleans, and afterward, they’ll believe I’m a seer, and it will be too late.”
He gave her his signature one-eye look. Tension flexed in the tendons in his neck. “Why are you being so disagreeable?”
“I’m not. I’m being a realist.”
“I have a thousand men, a fleet of ships, and more gold than England, France, and Spain combined. They can come after us, but they’ll never defeat us.”
She let out a long, swollen sigh. “In the nineteenth century that might be true, but I believe we’ll be fighting shit as old as time—ruthless, aggressive, and uncompromising in its pursuit.”
Both eyes were open now, and he seemed to mull it over. After a silent moment or two, he asked, “What makes you so sure?”
She had no concrete evidence to support the gut feeling, but her subconscious was working behind the scenes to ensure she responded the way she was programmed—to stretch, to push out of her comfort zone, to look for future possibilities.
“Do you remember when I kept waking up screaming?”
He pressed his lips together as stress lines etched across his forehead. “I’ll never forget it. Your screams sounded like you were being skinned alive.”
She shivered, shaken at the thought of such a horrific way to die. Then shivered again, knowing he’d probably listened to a tortured victim’s screams—and more than once.
“I’d have knocked me out too. But the narcotics in the wine played havoc with my brain. The drugs induced heightened awareness and an altered state of perception and thought. I saw a tribe of warriors with blue tattoos, but I don’t remember anything specific, except for a word they yelled—Tyr.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a Viking war cry. It means God of War.”
The boulder of tension that had lodged in her chest days earlier was now more prominent and more substantial than it had ever been, and it was picking up steam as it rolled downhill.
Would she be at the top watching it annihilate her enemies…or at the bottom, fearing its arrival and frantically searching for a way to avoid defeat?
She might be a badass pro…but she still couldn’t answer that question.
28
New Orleans (1814)—Sophia
The next morning, before Pete and Rick rode off in search of Billie, Pete reluctantly agreed that since the city was under martial law, as long as Sophia and Marguerite were together, the best use of Remy’s time was monitoring Rhona’s illness.
And that suited Sophia just fine.
The arrangement would give her the freedom to visit General Jackson without a hovering bodyguard who would report back to Pete. Not that she intended to keep anything from her husband, but a report of her actions while he was away should come from her. And her sketches would emphasize the historical significance of her time with the general. Not how she entangled herself in upcoming battle preparations.
She knew in her artist’s gut that being in the center of Jackson’s world was the only way to portray him accurately. And that’s where she intended to be—in the center of it all.
Getting there would be her biggest obstacle. She could have asked Philippe for an introduction, but that would have tipped off Pete. And he might have encouraged Philippe to bar Sophia from Jackson’s headquarters. Would Pete do that to her? As overprotective as he was, he’d consider it, but he wouldn’t interfere, thinking the general would be way too busy to mess with a persistent female artist.
To Sophia, Jackson was the general, not the seventh president, and she wondered if she’d experience a moment of artistic clarity—an epiphany—and suddenly call him Andrew. It had happened with Leonardo and Thomas—a gay man and a widower. It would depend on how deeply she connected with her subject in the limited time she had.
“Are you ready to go?” Marguerite asked.
Sophia closed her journal and tucked her pencils into the pocket of her cape. “Whenever you are.”
Marguerite held up two cloth bags with purple ties. “How do these look?”
“Very creative. You know what? You should embroider ‘Marguerite’s à la mode’ on your gift bags.”
“À la mode? I’ve been working toward that title for twenty-five years.”
“You’ve always created one-off pieces for private clients in your atelier. It’s time you called your business what it is. Besides, Philippe said you’re so well-known that New Orleanians never turn down an invitation to your salons.”
“I watched Mr. Jefferson entertain guests, and I always try to make everyone feel welcome and important, just like he did.”
“He always made his guests feel welcome, but I think everyone came for the wine.”
Marguerite lightly bumped Sophia’s shoulder with hers, her eyes twinkling. “And don’t forget the ice cream.”
They both laughed. “Even with all that was happening in Paris, we found time to have fun and laugh with Polly and Patsy, didn’t we?” Marguerite said.
“Yes, we did.”
“Since I’m taking the general’s wife a gift, do you think I should give the general a bottle of wine? My partner just delivered a case of Italian wine.”
“Sure, why not? Your partner brought a trunk of lovely things. The seamstress who made the ruffle on the embroidered mull cap you’re giving to Mrs. Jackson makes beautiful lace. You should hire her. It’s a shame there weren’t any men’s clothes. You could give the general a new shirt.”
“He needs more than a new shirt. His wardrobe is…well…economical.”
Sophia laughed. “Is that a nice way of saying his clothes are threadbare?”
Marguerite huffed. “Wait till you see him.”
“The next time your partner drops by, you have to introduce me. I want to meet him.”
“How would you picture him?”
Sophia tapped her chin. “You wouldn’t go into business with a mealy-mouthed partner who couldn’t look you in the eye. So he probably wears thick glasses and has a hunched back from spending all day looking over his ledger books.”
Marguerite cracked up, laughing so hard her eyes teared. “He’s neither of those. He’s dark and mysterious, and you would get down on your knees and beg to paint him.”
Now it was Sophia’s turn to laugh. “Ooh-la-la. Dark and mysterious. You know women are drawn to men with dark, brooding looks that scream mad, bad, and dangerous. But you”—Sophia tapped her chin again—“wouldn’t put up with an angry man. So he must be bad or dangerous. Which one is he?”
Marguerite shook her head. “You have to wait until you meet him.”
“No,” Sophia groaned. “Tell me.” Another chin tap. “No, wait. I know now. He’s bad, isn’t he? Handsome, irresistible, and slips in and out of your boudoir at the crack of dawn. I thought I heard the side gate open and close early this morning.”
“You couldn’t possibly have heard that. Your room is at the front of the house—” Marguerite slapped her hand over her mouth, and Sophia fell back on the sofa exploding in laughter.
“You should see the guilty look on your face.”
Marguerite joined her on the sofa, and they both laughed until they cried.
“I tol
d him you were visiting. He wants to meet you but didn’t have time today.”
“You mean he didn’t want to hang around for breakfast.” That started another peal of laughter. “He must be special to make your eyes light up like summer sun,” Sophia said.
“Il est très passionné.”
“He would have to be to satisfy your passion. Now I’m even more intrigued. When’s he coming back?”
Marguerite sighed. “I never know until I hear the bell, and a few minutes later, he is warming my bed. He was quiet last night. It was the first time I wasn’t…dans son coeur.”
“His mind was somewhere else, huh? Another woman on his mind?”
Marguerite sighed again. “He was troubled. If it was another woman, whoever she is, he is in love with her.”
“Didn’t that bother you to be with him when he had another woman on his mind?”
“Non. Whoever she is, she is unavailable.”
“Married?”
“Possibly. But he is very distracted because of her.” Marguerite flitted her hand. “C’est la vie.”
Sophia pushed to her feet. “Well, we’re not going to get maudlin over a woman we don’t know. Let’s go call on the general, but I do want a better description of this bad boy who spent the night in your bed. What color are his eyes?”
Marguerite’s gaze drifted off. “Brown.”
“Brown? You can do better than that. Are they the color of café au lait or café noir? Warm and rich or bold? Does the color go best with blues or warm yellows?”
Marguerite wrapped her cape around her shoulders and picked up the two cloth bags. “Café noir and blue.”
“Brown as cinnamon or brown as oak leaves.” When Marguerite didn’t answer, Sophia said, “Must be brown as a pair of old boots, then.”
That put a smile back on Marguerite’s face. She was either worried about her bad boy or disappointed that she might not see him for a while. So when Marguerite locked the dress shop door and waved to a neighbor, Sophia changed the subject.
“Do you know everyone in town?”
The Topaz Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 10) Page 33