Creole Fires (38 page)

Stifling the cry in her throat, Nicki blinked at a haze of tears. Alex stood in the doorway, his tall muscular frame silhouetted in the lamplight, his broad shoulders nearly filling the entrance. He had come for her! Again he was there when she needed him. How had he known?

Fortier backed off. “Always you interfere, du Villier. Always you win. Not this time.” Moving toward the carved walnut nightstand beside the bed, Valcour slid open the top drawer. The flash of silver in the firelight betrayed the gleaming blade he clutched in his hand as he whirled in Alex’s direction. “Before this night is through, you will watch me take her—again and again—and be powerless to stop me.”

“Be careful, Alex!” Nicki called to him, but Alex ignored her. His concentration centered on the man he intended to destroy.

Pulling his pistol from the waistband of his breeches, Alex tossed it onto the bed. “I ought to shoot you, Fortier, but that would be too easy.”

While Valcour circled him warily, brandishing the knife, Alex removed his jacket and wrapped it around his forearm. “I’m going to break you,” Alex said with soft menace. “This is the last woman who will suffer your cruelly.”

Fortier slashed with his knife, missing Alex’s chest by only the breadth of the blade. Though Alex stood several inches taller and was far more solidly built, Valcour was lean and hard. His knife more than evened the odds.

“Come and get me,” the Spaniard taunted. “I want this done so I can take my pleasure with your woman.”

Alex fought down the rage Fortier worked to build. Anger meant loss of control, something Alex could ill afford. Nor could he chance a look at Nicki. From the moment he’d seen Fortier’s eyes on her breasts, her soft pink lips bruised and tender from the cruelty of his mouth, Alex knew he would kill the man this night.

Fortier slashed and Alex dodged away. Again they circled, Alex keeping his coat-wrapped arm in front of him, waiting for the opening that would leave Fortier at his mercy. Then Valcour feigned left but lunged right, and the blade struck home, slicing through the layers of cloth as if they were barely there, sinking into Alex’s flesh until it struck bone.

Nicki cried out at the sight of his blood on the blade, and Fortier glanced in her direction. Diving forward, Alex grabbed Fortier’s knife-hand and squeezed the man’s wrist until the blade dropped to the floor with a clatter. Alex’s fist connected with Valcour’s jaw, sending him crashing against a chair and onto the floor. Head lowered, Fortier gained his feet and charged, driving both men to the ground. Fortier struck a blow to Alex’s cheek, his heavy gold ring drawing blood. Alex punched him hard in the nose, sending a spray of red across his clean white shirt.

Back and forth they battled, Fortier holding his own though Alex rained blow after murderous blow to his body. Blood drenched Alex’s shirt from the wound in his arm, but still he would not stop. Fortier hit him hard in the jaw; Alex drove a fist into the Spaniard’s stomach, then threw a steel-hard clout to his chin. Another heavy blow sent Fortier sliding unconscious to the wood plank floor. Bending over, Alex grabbed the front of his shirt, lifted him up and punched him again and again.

“Alex!” Nicki shrieked, “You’re going to kill him!”

Alex ignored her, his fist falling with a dull thud that forced a groan from Fortier’s bloody lips.

“Stop it, Alex,” Nicki pleaded. “You aren’t like he is. Please don’t do this.” For the first time that night,
Nicki’s tears fell unchecked. “Please, Alex, please don’t kill him.”

At last her words and the sound of her soft pleas began to reach him. Releasing his hold on Fortier’s shirt, Alex moved unsteadily across the room, picked up Valcour’s knife, and cut Nicki’s bonds. The minute her arms were free, she threw them around his neck, clutching him, sobbing against his chest.

Alex closed his eyes and gripped her tighter, burying his face in the silky copper hair that swirled around her shoulders. So close she had come to being hurt or maybe even killed. A hard lump swelled in his throat, and he blinked against the moisture in his eyes.

“It’s all right,
ma petite,”
he said, his voice husky, “we’re going home.” But she wouldn’t let him go. Just clung to him as if she couldn’t bear to leave him.

Alex stiffened. It was a lie and he knew it. Leaving him was exactly what Nicki wanted. She had tried to tell him, tried to make him understand and yet he had refused to listen. Instead, he’d convinced himself that she needed him, that keeping her with him was only for the best, that with him she would be safe.

He had even believed he could make her happy.

Alex scoffed at his foolishness. He should have kept his emotions in check as he always had. Should have found the kind of woman who was impressed with his title and his lands. The kind who would fall at his feet at the mere thought of warming his bed.

A woman who could satisfy his passions without ever touching his heart.

Alex cursed himself for a fool. The last thing he wanted was a woman who didn’t want him. Nicki
wanted only to be rid of him—and from this moment forward she would be.

He pulled away from her, and Nicki saw the blood that drenched his shirt.

“Your arm!” she cried, cradling it against her to examine it more closely. “We need something to bind it with.”

“Tear a strip from the sheet,” Alex instructed. Nicki did as he asked, then wrapped the white cloth around his arm and tied the ends securely.

Holding the front of the aqua silk gown together as best she could, Nicki leaned against Alex, who leaned against her for support. Together, bruised and battered, they made their way toward the door.

Valcour’s voice, coming from behind them, stopped them cold. “Just remember, du Villier, the girl is Belle Chêne property. You fail—she comes to me!” Alex turned to find Fortier, breathing hard and bleeding, leaning against the wall.

“Alex?” Ignoring a tendril of fear, Nicki glanced up at him. His jaw was clamped, his body tensed again, ready to return and finish what they had started.

“No!” Nicki pleaded. “Please, Alex, please take me home.” Where exactly home was, or just exactly what Fortier had meant by his ominous words, she didn’t know. But all of that could wait.

At the bottom of the staircase, the tall Negro woman with the cocoa-colored skin silently draped a shawl around Nicki’s shoulders. The other servants were nowhere to be seen.

“Thank you,” Nicki said softly. She glanced back up the stairs. “Will you care for him?”

“I will heal his wounds, but I cannot heal his soul.”

Nicki touched the woman’s arm, then let Alex lead
her out the door. Napoleon nickered and blew at their approach. Alex helped her up, then swung himself up behind her. Leaning against him, she was surprised to discover the tension that remained in the bands of muscle across his chest. Though his hard arms surrounded her, he was careful not to touch her, and even the muscles in his thighs felt taut.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t miss the anger seething just beneath the surface. She had seen him enraged a dozen times, had expected no less if she failed when she had set her plan in motion. But this time he seemed different, guarded, as if the fury he still carried was directed more at himself than at her—or was there to protect him.

But from what?

“The bleeding seems to have slowed,” she said with a worried look at his arm. “Are you sure you’ll be all right till we get back?”

“I told you before, I’m fine.” He threw her a glance so cold, she shivered. “And you, Nicki? Are you fine, as well? Are you going to tell me you didn’t need my help? That you could have managed without me?”

“No, of course not. God only knows what would have happened to me if you hadn’t come.”

Alex did not reply.

They rode in silence, covering the distance to Belle Chêne at an easy gallop.

“How did you know where I was?” she finally asked.

“René Bouteiller has been spying on you. He told Fortier about your … voyage … to the north. Apparently his conscience got the best of him. He
didn’t want to see you get hurt.” He waited for her reply, but she said nothing. “What did you do to Ram?”

“I—I didn’t hurt him. I just put a sleeping potion into his wine.”

Alex cursed roundly. “And of course you accomplished all this with no assistance from my loyal staff.”

“I forced Danielle to help me.”

Alex scoffed. “She helped you, all right. She dished you up to Fortier like a prime fillet.”

“You mustn’t blame her, Alex. She trusted René. She’s in love with him.”

“So at last you can see there is no such thing as love.” Words he had spoken to her that day in the dining room so many months ago.

Nicole fell silent once more, her heart aching unbearably. If Alex had ever been close to loving her, he certainly wasn’t now.

When they reached Belle Chêne, Alex helped her down and handed the reins to a waiting groom.

“Maybe we should ride on into La Ronde,” she suggested, thinking of the gossip her arrival was sure to bring. Alex ignored her, guiding her firmly up the front steps and into the foyer. “What about the servants?” Nicki whispered. “What about Clarissa?”

“Mrs. Leander!” Alex called out, and the graying woman appeared in a heartbeat. She flashed an uncertain smile at Nicole, then her face went pale at the sight of Alex’s blood.

“Take Mademoiselle St. Claire up to the guest room. Have a bath sent up and something for her to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Nicki said softly.

“And a goblet of wine,” he added, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Send one of the servants to fetch Mrs. James. Tell her my arm needs stitching.” The overseer’s wife did most of the doctoring on Belle Chêne—which was a full-time job in itself. “And tell Bouteiller he can spend the night in the stables. I’ll speak to him in the morning.”

The housekeeper nodded and left to do as he asked.

“Please, Alex,” Nicki said to him once she was out of sight. “Can’t we talk about this?”

Alex pinned her with a hard, dark glance. “What is there to say? I was a fool for believing I could make you care enough to stay. A fool to believe I could make you happy. It was a mistake I shall not make again. Good night.”

With that he headed up the stairs, leaving Nicole and Mrs. Leander, who had just returned to the foyer, to trail along behind.

Nicki felt sick inside. Alex was angry, all right. Furious, in fact. She had seen him enraged a dozen times, but she had never seen him so cold and remote—and so far from her that she feared she would never reach him again.

Nicki finished her bath and toweled her hair dry in front of the fire. In the corner, the empty bed beckoned, offering the sleep she so desperately needed.

She should be grateful for Alex’s consideration. He was letting her sleep in the guest room, leaving her alone, insuring there would be no gossip among the servants that might reach Clarissa. Some might say he was only protecting his own reputation, but Nicki knew better.

Alex wouldn’t give a damn what his future wife thought—or anybody else!

Pulling on a soft white cotton nightgown that Mrs. Leander had brought her, Nicki climbed up in bed, settled herself between the cool clean sheets, drew the blankets beneath her chin, and closed her eyes.

She had tried to get Alex to let her help him with his arm, but he had refused. Only Mrs. Leander’s heavy footfalls on the staircase, alongside the lighter steps of Nora James, insured that they had finished their grisly task. Stoic as always, Alex made no sound at the painful stitches that pierced his flesh.

Nicki rolled to her side and fluffed the deep feather
pillow. Exhausted as she was, sleep seemed nowhere near. Instead, her mind replayed Alex’s dark expression as he’d stood in Fortier’s entry, calling himself a fool.

A hard lump swelled in Nicki’s throat. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, never dreamed he would believe she had left him because she didn’t care enough to stay. But they never spoke their feelings. Alex seemed unable to tell her how he felt, and she would only make matters worse if he knew how much she cared.

Tears welled, and she tried in vain to blink them away. She thought of the way he had held her at Fortier’s, so close she could hear his heartbeat as he whispered soothing French words. He was always there for her, always protective. Tonight he had risked his life for her.

She thought of his big hard body sprawled in restless slumber on the wide four-poster bed.

She should be grateful for Alex’s consideration. Grateful he hadn’t demanded she join him. Instead she imagined him making love to her, kissing her and caressing her and soothing away her fears.

She wanted Alexandre. Wanted him as she always did. Even more so this night, when she had come so close to a violation of her body far different from the loving they had shared.

She wanted Alex as always, desired him with a desperation that bordered on madness. And so she dared not go to him. Dared not tell him the truth that welled in her heart.

I love you.
So much, I die a little each time you touch me and then have to leave. Each time your hands work their magic, and I know those same hands will soon caress Clarissa. So much, I would
give the sun and the moon to bear your children, to be near you each day of our lives.