He pulled her even closer, and the surge of warmth made her ache. She leaned back into the support of his hand, giving herself wholly to him as he twirled her around the dance floor, responding to his every movement with feather-soft delicacy. A sweet ache stirred deep inside, and the pressure of his hand touched every nerve in her body.
“I never want this moment to end,” she managed to say.
“It’s only the beginning for us.”
They danced the waltz as old as time, varying the tempo to match their need until the music ended in a dramatic climax. And when it was over, they stood in the middle of the dance floor unable to relinquish each other.
“What are we doing? Where are we going?” she asked.
“Wherever it is, there aren’t any roads. We’ll make our way, Penny. A step at a time.”
His words washed away the tightness in her gut, the burning behind her eyes, the pain in her soul.
She was dizzy with disbelief. She’d half expected this moment, had at some level determined to accept it, but now that it had arrived, now that Rick had announced his intention, she found her heart was beating too frantically for her to break his heart, to tell him this was impossible.
She was too wounded to ever turn impossible into possible.
55
New Orleans (1815)—Rick
Rick wanted to escape with Penny, away from the Cabildo, but he’d promised Sophia he wouldn’t leave until after the unveiling of the official portraits, and he wouldn’t disappoint her, even though his body was pulsing with a whole lot of let’s-fuck endorphins.
Damn physiology was such a bitch sometimes and having Penny burrowing against him, so hot to touch, hard to hold, and cut to entice, was killing him.
“I want to take you home with me,” he said, his voice sandpaper rough.
“Home? Or to your apartment over the shop?”
Her frown was practically a living, breathing thing. And although she spoke calmly, her super-alert tension screamed just the opposite, and it took Rick a moment to realize what was happening. The thought of being alone with him in a confined space terrified her.
Lafitte had told him what she said about being raped and assaulted. If she was going to find her way back to emotional wellness—hell, if he was going to find his way back to emotional wellness—then he had to tame the churning cocktail of lust and hunger that filtered his reality through a haze of desire instead of responsibility.
He could no longer screw his way through the trove of beauties to escape his pain. Not that he was looping Penny into that group, but just owning up to the fact that he needed to stop using sex to avoid dealing with his issues.
“Home to Napa, Penny, where we can have dinner, dance, go to concerts, drink wine, talk, run, work out. Normal shit couples do without any pressure.”
“What about you? What do you want?” she asked.
There was an undertone of insecurity in her voice, and it seemed to weaken the confidence she always seemed to have in abundance. Until now—until it started to fade beneath the pressure he was exerting.
“Like I told you earlier. We’ll make this up as we go along.”
The orchestra stopped, and Jackson returned to the dais. As soon as the room quieted, he said, “I’m honored to introduce Madame Sophia Orsini, an artist of distinction and Mr. Jefferson’s official portraitist. She has three paintings to unveil tonight.” The general extended his hand to her, and she stepped up on the stage.
The general continued, “Madame Orsini invited me to view my portrait before she finished, but only if I promised not to critique her work, but I confessed that I couldn’t see a painting of me and not be critical. So, like you, I will be seeing it for the first time. But if the painting is awful, it’s because of defects in her subject.”
Jackson gave a self-deprecating chuckle, and the audience laughed. He continued, “Madame Orsini sketched every aspect of this battle and has put them together in a remarkable book of drawings. I hope one day she’ll paint several of them. Her sketchbook is up here on a table, and two of my Tennessee militiamen will guard it”—Jackson chuckled again—“just to be sure no one tries to take the book home.”
Sophia cued Pete, who along with Remy and Philippe, carried the three black-draped easels to the dais. Once they positioned them, the men stood aside, waiting for the signal to uncover the paintings.
“Looks like a funeral,” Penny whispered to Rick.
“I heard once that it was common to cover paintings in black barège when people died. There must be a stockpile of black drapes around here.”
“I’d like to invite Commander and Captain Lafitte to join us,” the general said.
“Me? She didn’t paint me. I never sat for her.” Penny laughed, and the sound slid over Rick’s body, winding down his spine. He took a deep breath, embracing the sensation.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s take a look at Sophia’s masterpieces.” Rick’s chuckle grew into a throatier laugh at Penny’s surprise, and he knew he wanted to see her face light up that way every day for the rest of his life. Coming up with ways to make it happen would entertain him while trail running around Napa Valley.
He’d made a point of not looking at her portrait while Sophia painted it. But over the past few days, he’d spent several hours at the Fontenots’ discussing their exit plan and Philippe and Rhona’s future. He’d resisted the temptation to peek beneath the drape. He wanted to see the painting for the first time with Penny. Now they were probably equally anxious. He escorted her to the dais and stood close by while she waited for the unveiling with Lafitte.
“On the count of three,” Sophia said. “One. Two…” and the audience yelled, “Three!”
56
New Orleans (1815)—Penny
Penny watched the black silk drapes covering the paintings shimmer to the floor, revealing the general’s portrait in the middle, Jean’s on one side—and blue-haired Penny on the other. Audible gasps, the loudest of which was hers, sucked the air out of the room.
Surprise was an understatement, and the shock rippled a path from her head to her toes and landed with a thump in her chest. Shit!
The paintings should be hanging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They were that good. But why in the hell did Soph do this to her? Penny wanted people to forget her, not immortalize her, which is what this painting would do. And considering the backlash it could unleash in her future, it made her stomach lurch, and she tasted the burn of bile on the back of her tongue.
Plus—and this was a biggie—the British officers who came to Barataria would easily see through her disguise. Maybe not on the battlefield, but if they had time to study the portrait, they would see the resemblance and use the painting to track her down.
Jean chuckled.
“Stop laughing,” she demanded, her voice low and hoarse. “This isn’t funny. It’s a disaster. You’ve got to buy this, or…steal it from the city. I don’t care how you get it, but you can’t let this stay in New Orleans. I don’t want it destroyed. I just don’t want it on public display. Those British bastards will use it to find me.”
“How? You won’t be here.” He lifted the end of the sentence to make it sound like a question, and he looked at her, his dark stare—with both eyes—made her feel like what she said was the dumbest thing ever.
But it wasn’t, and she was dead serious.
“Their descendants can find me. They’ll never stop looking. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel it in my bones.”
“I feel you’re overreacting.”
She slammed her fists on her hips and tried to annihilate him with a death stare. “And I feel like we’re exactly where we were six weeks ago. You’re not listening to me.”
A slow grin tugged up one corner of his mouth, forcing the other one to go along for the ride. “Believe me, mon Capitaine, I can hear you just fine.”
She pretended to pout or ponder and rubbed her chin for effect. This was why they liked each other—their sassy
humor, their swagger, and the razzing.
His smile was genuine, and it arrowed into all sorts of places she didn’t want to think about. Their feelings for each other were so confusing. She knew what they weren’t, but she’d yet to figure out what they were, or what they could have been under different circumstances.
The general concluded a conversation with two New Orleans aristocrats—at least that’s how Jean referred to them—and returned to his portrait, and to Soph, who’d also concluded a conversation with similar-looking men.
“When you walked into headquarters and asked for a chance to show me what you could do,” he said to her, “I agreed, based on what you did for Mr. Jefferson. But you are more talented now than you were in the 1790s. Mrs. Jackson has loved every drawing I’ve sent to her, and when she sees this painting, she’ll ask for another one.”
Soph smiled up at the general. “I hope she likes it, but I thought the city wanted to hang these paintings here at the Cabildo.”
“They do, but I hope I can commission you to paint another portrait.”
“If I have time before we leave, I will.”
Penny waited until the general moved away. Then she cornered Soph. “It never occurred to me that you would paint my portrait. It’s fantastic, but it’s dangerous to leave behind a painting of me.”
“You’re a legend, Penny. The general’s men believed you were a good-luck charm for them.”
“Soph, you of all people should know why this isn’t a good idea.”
“Here’s my thinking,” Soph said. “A few years from now, someone will paint your portrait from first-person accounts, and no one will remember you the same way. They might remember your hair, but not your eyes, or your eyes and not your chin. Who better to get it right than me?”
“That’s the thing, Soph. If future artists give me a Roman nose instead of a Greek one, or blue eyes instead of brown, or a square chin instead of a heart-shaped one, that will be enough to alter my appearance. I don’t want people to remember me like that,” she said, pointing at the portrait. “It’s dangerous.”
“The general and the governor asked me to paint your portrait. I couldn’t say no, and now I don’t know how to get out of it.” Soph studied the painting for a minute. “I could tell them I don’t like the scar at your hairline and need to take it home to fix it.”
“What?” Penny turned back to look at the painting. “You painted my scar? Shit. You could at least have left that out.” She studied the portrait again. “Why didn’t you paint the bump on my nose?”
“I never do anything to improve a person’s looks. But this time, even though I painted the scar, for some reason, I couldn’t paint the bump. You’re so beautiful, and your nose is perfect for your face, but the imperfection bugged me. So I left it out. I didn’t think anyone would notice.”
“And I was so busy looking at my one eye that I didn’t notice the scar or the absence of the bump.” She tapped her toe a minute while an easy solution churned in her brain. “This is what we’ll do. Leave the painting. If it causes a problem in the future, I’ll come back to get it.”
“Just as long as you bring me with you,” Soph said.
“Okay, we’ll go shopping one day, and make a detour to 1815.”
“Works for me,” Soph said.
Penny was lifting a hand to do a high-five with Soph when Pete walked up just in time to hear the exchange. “The hell it will. That’s not going to happen. No more wars or revolutions. I’ll take you to early twentieth-century Vienna, but that’s it.”
“We’ve already covered all the wars in the nineteenth century,” Rick said.
“No, there’s one we’ve missed,” Pete said. “The Spanish-American War in 1898.”
“I know even less about that one than I did about the War of 1812,” Rick said.
“Oh, come on,” Penny said. “Surely you’ve heard of Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders charging up San Juan Hill.”
“Oh, you’re right,” Rick said. “Well, I can tell you for sure that we’re not joining the Rough Riders.”
Jean’s attention bounced from Rick to Soph to Pete to Penny. “I don’t know anything about the Rough Riders, but I’ve been to San Juan Batista de Puerto Rico and have seen the Spanish stronghold there. The British tried to take San Juan in 1797 but failed. I hope your Teddy Roosevelt is tough enough for the job.”
“It’s a similar situation to General Jackson’s victory here,” Penny said. “The Battle of New Orleans will propel Jackson to the presidency, and taking San Juan Hill will propel Teddy Roosevelt to the presidency at the turn of the century.”
“And that’s all we need to know about that,” Pete said, gazing at Soph expectantly.
“I agree,” Soph said. “So don’t worry about me, caro. I’m holding out for Vienna.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful—the music, the dresses, the waltzes. Let’s go,” Penny said.
“You forgot the paintings,” Soph said. “And I agree. It would be a wonderful holiday. I mean, what could go wrong there?”
Pete laughed. “Tell me you didn’t just say that. Where you go, trouble follows.”
“That’s not fair,” Soph said. “I had five perfect trips before I landed in Paris on that awful day. We could go to Vienna, drink wine, dance, and go to museums. I’m dying to meet Gustav Klimt.”
“With our luck, we’d arrive during World War I. We’ve got to think about this,” Pete said.
“Oh, my God!” Penny said. “I would die to have pieces of porcelain from eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Vienna. We should go. What do we have to do to make it happen?”
“Elliott has to approve it,” Soph said. “And he won’t agree to an adventure unless it’s to rescue someone.”
“Why does Elliott have to approve a trip? The stones all belong to the women in the family, right?”
“Because he’s the Keeper of the Stones,” Soph said.
“Oh. I guess there’s still a lot I don’t know about them.” Penny slowly scanned the crowd to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. The only person close by was Remy, who was standing in front of her portrait, and the way his head was tilted, she knew he wasn’t studying the painting. He was listening to them.
“We’ll just have to change Elliott’s mind when we get back.”
“Maybe if we talk to him together, we’ll have more luck,” Soph said.
Remy walked away after that. Had Penny imagined his interest? And why would he eavesdrop, anyway? He was privy to anything they had to say.
Rick put his hand on Penny’s back to draw her attention, and his touch was steady and reassuring. “I have to settle up with the bass player and conductor. I’ll be right back.”
Churchill left the buffet table with cake crumbs on his face. Pete handed him a handkerchief and pointed to Churchill’s mouth. He politely wiped away crumbs and returned the improvised napkin.
“Captain Lafitte,” Churchill said to Penny, “you are much prettier now than you are in the painting. You look scary in the painting like you did when you found me in the tree. I was scared of you.”
Penny tousled his hair. “And I was scared of you. I didn’t know if you had a gun in your pocket and would shoot me. But look at you now. You’re the most handsome fourteen-year-old I’ve ever seen.”
He shot his cuffs and picked at imaginary lint from a tailored coat sleeve. “Thank you, Captain. I even took another bath today, so I’d look respectable.”
She smiled and leaned over to sniff his hair, which was pulled back in a ponytail. “And you smell squeaky clean.”
Churchill smiled, and his eyes sparkled. “Excuse me. I’m going back to the food table. I saw cookies I’d like to try.”
“Go ahead, son.” Pete wrapped his arm around Soph’s waist. “If you find one you like, bring one back for me.”
Churchill’s hand jerked as if he intended to salute, but then he shook his head and returned to the buffet table.
Penny ch
uckled. What a doll!
Lafitte crossed the dais and stood in front of Penny’s portrait, and she followed him there. He folded an arm over his chest, rested his elbow in his palm, and tweaked his chin. “The blue hair will be what people remember. Not the foul language or the leather pants or even the eyepatch. It’ll be the hair.”
Remy rushed up to them. “Rhona fainted. We have to take her to the hospital now. We can’t wait any longer.”
Penny’s breath caught on a fragment of fear lodged like a rock in her throat. “I’ll go change my clothes, get my trunk, and come straight to their house.”
“That’s not necessary,” Lafitte said. “Estelle packed your belongings and had them sent to the Fontenots’ house.”
“What? Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No, mon Capitaine. I’d rather you stayed here, but I know you can’t.”
“Then why was all my stuff moved?”
Jean’s expression carried two tons of guilt. “We planned this evening down to the last detail.”
“Nobody asked me.” Tears stung her eyes at the same time as a rush of confused emotion surged through her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were putting an exit plan in place? And did Rhona really faint? Or is that part of the plan?”
“It’s not part of the plan. But we decided—”
“Who decided?”
“Pete, Sophia, Remy, Rick, the Fontenots, and me.”
“Well, screw that.”
“If we left it up to you, Wilhelmina, you would have found reasons to delay.”
She frantically tried to hold back the tears with several deep breaths, but her vision blurred anyway. “I wanted this to end on my terms, but you guys were right. Rhona’s health is more important.”
Philippe handed Penny her court train. “Remy’s worried. We’ll meet you at our house.”
“Rick’s settling up with the orchestra. As soon as he does that, we’ll leave.” Then to Jean, she said, “You’ll come with us, won’t you?”
The Topaz Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 10) Page 61