Bayou Nights (22 page)

Simms’ eyes widened but the gun he pointed at Christine didn’t waver.

Warwick arrived, dove between the bed and Christine, and opened his arms wide as if his ghostly body could somehow stop a bullet. “Shoot him.”

Drake swallowed. A bead of sweat trickled past his temple. What was taking Mike so long?

There it was. The cock of another pistol. The sweetest sound he’d ever heard—better than church bells, better than rain after a dry spell, better than the way Christine whispered his name when he kissed her. “Took you long enough.”

Mike regarded him with a long-suffering glare. “I had to help Granny with the stairs. She’s resting on the landing.” Then Mike turned her attention to Yvette. “I’ll take that.” She relieved Yvette of the derringer she’d held against him.

Yvette looked mad enough to spit nails, her pretty face contorted by rage.

“Drop your weapon.” He’d shoot the old man if he had to.

With a gun pointed at his wife’s heart, Simms finally complied. He lowered the Colt to the counterpane.

Christine slid down the wall.

“She’s still handcuffed.” The outrage in Lambert’s voice reflected Drake’s feelings exactly.

He took a step toward her.

“Wait,” said Mike. “He hasn’t let go of his gun. I bet this one”—she jabbed her gun at Yvette—“has the keys to those bracelets. I’ll take care of it.” She propelled Yvette toward Christine.

“Let go of the gun,” said Drake.

The old man shook his head.

Dammit. He didn’t want to shoot a sick old man.

A jangle pulled Drake’s attention away from Simms. Yvette held a chain hung with more than twenty keys of varying sizes.

“Can you get up?” asked Mike.

Christine’s eyes narrowed and she pushed herself back up the wall.

“Unlock her. Now.” Mike held her gun steady.

Yvette fumbled with the keys. “My stars. How did I ever acquire so many of these things?” She stepped closer to Christine, a key that looked much too big for handcuffs clasped in her fingers.

“Careful,” said Drake.

The single word came too late. Yvette sidestepped Mike, pulled a knife from her sleeve, and grabbed Christine. She held the knife at Christine’s throat, standing behind her, blocking any possible shot with Christine’s body.

“You”—Yvette jerked her head toward Mike—“over by him.”

Mike did as she was told.

“Now drop your guns.”

“Not going to happen,” said Mike.

Yvette’s lips thinned and she tilted her head as if weighing her options.

“Mr. Drake, put the water on that dresser then stand back. I’d hate for your pretty hat-maker to get cut.”

“Don’t.” Christine’s chin shook slightly. “Don’t give her the water.”

“If you don’t do as I say, she dies.” With the tip of her knife Yvette drew Christine’s blood. It beaded where her set jaw met her graceful neck then trickled toward her dress.

What could he do? How could he save her? He felt as if he stood at the edge of a bottomless chasm, seconds from falling.

“The water, Mr. Drake.” Yvette traced the knife across Christine’s neck.

He took a step toward the dresser.

Christine’s eyes grew wide as if she couldn’t believe he’d trade the water for her life. Again she shook her head.

He followed Yvette’s directions, pulled the bottle from inside his jacket pocket, and placed it on the dresser’s mahogany surface.

“Both of them. I know you brought a decoy.”

“Oh?” His attempt at sangfroid failed miserably.

Yvette donned a kittenish smile. “It’s what I would do. Both bottles or she dies.”

He stared at Mike and after a moment she reached into the pocket of her dress, withdrawing the second bottle. He pulled it from her unyielding fingers and put it on the dresser next to the first. Fury made him precise. Fear for Christine made him notice everything—how closely Yvette held her, the glint of the knife blade, the distance between them.

“Now step away.”

Drake stepped backward. If Christine slumped he might have a shot. He sent her the thought
slump.
For a second, she stared at him as if she was trying to read his mind, then her eyes fluttered shut. This one time she failed to read his mind. Why now?

With her free hand, Yvette reached for the first bottle and froze…grunted. “Bitch!” She bent from her waist, clutching her stomach as her hand turned red with blood. She lost hold of Christine, slashed at her as she fell.

Crimson bloomed across Christine’s ribs.

“No!” Lambert’s bellow echoed throughout the house.

Christine gasped and collapsed onto the floor.

The world—time—slowed. Drake ran. The second it took to reach Christine lasted an eternity.

He kicked the knife out of Yvette’s hand then knelt and gathered Christine into his arms, propping her against the front of his legs. A small pearl handled knife fell from her hands and clattered against the planks where the rug ended.

“Talk to me. Say something.” His voice shook.

“Undo the handcuffs.” Her whisper—that she could speak—was sweeter than the pralines she liked so well.

He yanked the keys out of Yvette’s hand, the force strong enough to send her colliding with the floor, and searched one-handed for a key small enough to open the cuffs. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Just a scratch.”

A scratch that was soaking her dress. The bark of laughter that escaped his lips sounded raw.

“Help her.” Lambert whirled around the room, ruffling the curtains and chilling the air.

He fumbled with the blood-slick keys. Had her breath grown shallow? He leaned close to her ear. “Don’t leave me.”

She looked into his eyes and her lips twisted. A grimace? A smile?

“I mean it,” he told her. “There are more snakes to toss and mobs to outrun. Don’t leave.” There was also a lifetime of mornings to be spent waking up to kisses, travels around the world, moonlit strolls, and maybe even children to look forward to. His throat tightened.

Her lashes fluttered, but not in the flirtatious way that drove him to distraction. They fluttered as if it cost too much effort for her to keep her eyes open.

Something wet rolled down his cheek. He dashed it away. Where was the damn key?

There!

Drake took the cuffs off Christine’s wrists and she sighed softly. He pulled her against his chest and held his hand over her wound. How deeply had Yvette cut her?

How deeply had Christine cut Yvette? He glanced at the woman on the floor. Blood bubbled from her stomach and her skin looked pale and waxy.

Mike stood above her, looking as pale and remote as a Nordic ice queen—one with an icicle in her chest instead of a heart. “She’s dying.”

Drake cared not at all for Yvette’s fate. He slid one arm under Christine’s knees, the other under her shoulders, and stood.

Christine’s head dropped against his shoulder and the floral scent that was uniquely hers reached his nose and grabbed his heart. She was everything that was pure and bright and brave. He loved her. He knew that now. Now that it might be too late to tell her. His throat tightened.

Bang!
A bullet whizzed by his head. By Christine’s head.

“Bring me the water.” Simms’ hand shook slightly. There was no telling what his next shot might hit.

“You want the water?” asked Mike. “Why? It won’t give you youth or vitality. It just gives life. Do you want to live forever as you are now?”

Mike knew the bare minimum about how the water worked. She was lying.

Too bad she was a terrible liar.

Simms steadied his hand and pointed the Colt at Christine. “The water.”

“Just do it,” said Drake.

“I want the bottle you brought.” Simms used the gun’s muzzle to point at the rum then returned his aim to Christine.

Mike snatched the bottle from the dresser and approached the bed.

“Open it,” said Simms.

Mike removed the cap.

Simms held out his free hand but Mike shook her head and held the bottle beyond his reach. “Put down your gun.”

Simms’ gaze remained fixed on the bottle. He licked his lips as if his throat was parched.

Mike tilted the bottle and poured a generous tot onto the floor.

“Fine.” Simms lowered his gun.

Drake hesitated. Getting help for Christine was more important to him than breathing but he couldn’t leave Mike with a potential killer.

“Go,” said Mike. Her tone was the equivalent of an eye roll. It told him she could take care of herself and she didn’t appreciate him thinking she couldn’t.

He carried Christine into the hallway where Granny waited. The old woman took one look at Christine and said, “You get her to a doctor, right quick. You hear?”

His heart contracted, with a bleeding, unconscious woman in his arms, he heard all too well.

Chapter Nineteen

Christine’s eyelids felt heavy, as if someone had weighted them down with river rocks. Her head hurt. Her ankle hurt. Her heart hurt. Her ribs screamed.

The lavender scented sheets that covered her were familiar. So too was the tick in the fan’s whirring. She was in her own bed.

How?

She pondered. She’d sunk the knife into Yvette’s stomach. That she remembered, then…nothing.

“Is she waking up?” Her father sounded worried.

There was no answer but whoever was holding her hand tightened their grip.

She really ought to open her eyes but sleep called, singing a song worthy of the sirens. She sank back into its embrace.

Minutes later…hours later? She woke. Her head and ankle still hurt. Her ribs still screamed. Her heart still ached. And someone still held her hand. She found the strength to slit her eyes.

Drake was next to her bed—close enough to have laid his head on the edge of her mattress. Somehow, despite the uncomfortable position, he slept.

“He hasn’t left your side in three days.”

Christine slowly turned her head and looked at her father. Rather than displaying fatherly outrage that a man had taken up residence in her room, he looked…indulgent. Almost as if he approved of Drake. Well…Warwick wasn’t in possession of all the facts.

“What about the woman from up north?” Lands, her voice sounded as creaky as old hinges.

“He’ll explain.” Incredibly, Warwick’s expression softened even further. “And you’re gonna listen.”

There was no explaining another woman—not after what she and Drake had shared. Suddenly her heart hurt worse than her ankle, head, and ribs combined. She shook her head. Hard for emphasis. A mistake since a wave of pain washed over the area above her left ear. She reached up and touched a goose egg of a lump.

“You will listen.” Warwick crossed his arms and donned a stern, fatherly expression.

Christine closed her eyes and snorted softly.

Warwick sighed, the put-upon sigh of a man with a recalcitrant daughter. “I betrayed you and your mother.”

That was not news, not worth the effort it would take to open her eyes again. Plus, the word
betrayal
tore at her heart.

“Your grandfather betrayed your grandmother.”

Christine turned her head away from her father’s voice. There was no need to rehash the past. She was all too familiar with betrayal.

“That doesn’t mean that this man will betray you.”

He already had.

Christine shook her head. Slowly this time—a mere inch. She’d had enough pain.

“Give him a chance,” Warwick insisted. “You’re wrong about him.”

She wasn’t. The oblivion of sleep called to her and she let herself tumble into its waiting arms.

The next time she slitted her eyes Warwick was gone. Drake wasn’t. He sat next to her, his hand still wrapped around her fingers. In this, he was dependable as the tides, steady as the Rock of Gibraltar. All that constancy made his betrayal even harder to bear.

If only he’d behaved like a shiftless cad from the start, a man whose potential treachery was easily discerned. Instead he’d been…perfect. So perfect she’d fallen in love despite her misgivings, despite her better judgment, despite the hollow certainty that their affair would end badly. Despite every reason not to, she’d dared to hope. That cruelest of emotions had encouraged her to dream of something more. Now she was paying the price.

She tugged her fingers.

Drake’s grip tightened. “You’re awake.”

“I am and I’ll thank you for my hand back.” She tugged again.

Stubble darkened his cheeks, his hair was mussed, and the collar to his shirt stood open. He looked too handsome by half. Especially when he smiled that way. “I believe I’ll keep it for a while longer.”

She ached too much to engage in a tug-of-war over her hand. He could keep it. For now. Although, if the determined set of his jaw was any indication, Drake wasn’t letting go anytime soon. She had two options. Honey or vinegar.

The sweetness of honey could hide a multitude of emotions while the tang of vinegar showed only bitterness.

Christine smiled—sweetly—then glanced at the joining of their hands. “I declare, I feel quite flattered that you’d want to hold my little hand.” She batted her lashes. “Whatever did happen at the Simms’ house?” She batted her lashes. “I imagine you were quite heroic.”

The smile ran away from his face, replaced by something hard as granite. “No you don’t.”

She blinked. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Drake, I’m sure you saved the day.”

“Stop it.” His voice was as clipped and short as a Yankee’s could be.

“Stop what?”

“You don’t get to flirt and flutter and treat me like some man who doesn’t understand you.”

So much for honey. “If you really understood me, Mr. Drake, you’d be on your way back to Massachusetts before I feel well enough to locate my gun.”

Drake’s lips thinned. “Then it’s a good thing you don’t feel well.” He inched closer to the edge of his chair, closer to her. “Now tell me why you’re so angry with me.”

She gaped at him. He’d taken her into his bed, made love to her, then, less than an hour later, had a different woman in his room. One he hadn’t planned on telling her about. “Who is Mike?”

“You met her.”

Lands but men could be dumb as posts. “Who is she to you?”

“A colleague.”

“Is that what they call it up north?”

He rolled his eyes and his lips quirked. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

“So that’s what you notice?” Her voice squeaked. She took a deep breath and found a more measured tone. “You care how I look, not how I feel?”

“How do you feel?”

“Betrayed!” There it was. One word. Positively doused in vinegar.

Drake looked at the ceiling for a few seconds then shifted his gaze to her, staring as if the mere act of looking into each other’s eyes could create a connection of some sort. “I didn’t betray you. I’ve known Mike for years.”

She turned away and swallowed the lump in her throat. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

He caught her chin and turned her head, forcing her gaze back to his. “There is nothing between Mike and me. There never has been.”

With his mussed hair and serious expression, she almost believed him. But believing left her vulnerable. Christine closed her eyes on the face that ninety-nine women out of a hundred would deem trustworthy. She was the one woman who knew better. “She asked you when you planned on telling me and you said
never
.”

“That was a mistake.”

“That was a lie you didn’t have time or opportunity to tell.” She opened her eyes. Reading his face when he answered her mattered.
Why
it mattered didn’t bear scrutiny.

“I should have explained about Mike. I made a mistake.” He ran his free hand through his hair. “I make plenty of them. I imagine you do, too. But when two people love each other they forgive each other.”

The air around her stilled. Her heart tripped on its own rhythm. Her mouth dried to dust. “Pardon me?

“They forgive each other.”

“No.” She shook her head. “The other part.”

“I love you.” He stared into her eyes—into her soul. “I think you love me.” Drake lifted her hand from the bed and held it against his heart. “I will never betray you, Christine. Never. Please believe me.”

Did she dare?

This was the man who had saved her life over and over again. He’d fought by her side, survived the bayou, faced evil spirits and voodoo witches, and kissed her till her lungs forgot how to inflate.

He held her heart.

With that came the power to crush her.

Did she believe him? Did she trust him? Did she love him enough to risk everything? She stared at the ceiling, listened to the fan whirr, rolled the word
love
on her tongue, tasting its flavor. She found it sweet.

Drake shifted in his chair. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

He rubbed his eyes then his chin. “Believe me.”

She did. “I do.”

His strong face looked as vulnerable as she felt. “And?”

“I love you.” The words lifted from her lips on wings, carrying with them a heavy load of fear and distrust. Her heart felt light as goose down. That alone would have made the risk worthwhile but the expression on Drake’s face…well, the skin around his eyes crinkled. His mouth stretched into a grin, showing off the white of his teeth. His eyes positively danced. He looked incandescently happy. Then his expression softened and he leaned toward her.

His lips touched hers.

Gentle.

Firm.

Perfect.

Her hand closed around the nape of his neck, drawing him closer. This—right here in her bedroom—was heaven.

“Ahem.”

Drake stiffened and pulled away.

Warwick stood in the doorway looking almost misty-eyed. If he weren’t already dead, she’d have killed him for interrupting. After all, how many perfect kisses did a woman get in a lifetime? Hopefully scads.

“That Yankee woman with a man’s name is here. Should I send her in?”

Drake didn’t move. Didn’t react. He was allowing her to make the decision.

She was going to have to deal with Mike at some time, it might as well be now. “Fine.”

A moment later, Mike sailed in as if she had no idea that her presence in New Orleans had almost destroyed Christine’s happiness. “Did you tell her?”

A smile touched Christine’s lips and she swallowed a contented sigh.

“Not yet,” said Drake.

What hadn’t he told her? For a half-second fear came rushing back. Christine met it at the gate and turned it away. Whatever Drake hadn’t told her, it wasn’t a reflection of his feelings. She was sure of that. She was sure of him.

Mike frowned at him then shifted her gaze to Christine. “After you fainted—”

Of all the nerve. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”

The skin around Mike’s lips tightened. “After you passed out due to blood loss, Drake carried you out of Simms’ room.”

Christine remembered none of it.

“I gave a bottle of water to Simms.”

Christine sat up in bed. Pain lanced her shoulder and her head throbbed. She ignored them. “Why would you do that?”

“He had a gun. Besides, it wasn’t the real water.”

Mollified, Christine laid back against her pillows.

“While he was drinking, Yvette somehow pulled herself off the floor and grabbed the other bottle.”

“The other bottle?” Christine asked.

“We took two,” Drake explained. “A real one and a decoy.”

“But if Mr. Simms drank the fake water that means that Yvette…” Her voice trailed to nothing and the blood drained from her head. “Do you know who she is?”

Everyone in the room stared at her.

“She’s Delphine LaLaurie’s granddaughter.”

Only Warwick looked anywhere near concerned enough about this revelation.

“Have you found Hector?” asked Christine.

Mike tilted her head. “Why?”

“There must be a way to kill her.” Surely that was obvious.

“You don’t understand,” said Drake. “Both bottles were fake. She’s dead.”

“We knew she’d be expecting us to offer up a fake and keep the reserve. So, we took two bottles with tap water.” Mike sounded inordinately pleased with herself.

“She’s dead?”

“Dead,” said Drake.

Christine smiled as sweetly as she could. “Would you be kind enough to hand me my robe, please?” She pointed at an ecru silk and lace peignoir hanging over the back of a chair.

“The doctor says you are to stay in bed.” Drake’s voice was firm.

“Fiddlesticks. I feel just fine.”

No one made any move to give her a robe. Without the benefit of her peignoir, she swung her legs out of bed and stood.

Stars whirled around her head—a whole galaxy of them. She rested her hand on the mattress and waited for them to fade. They didn’t. No matter. She took a step and the stars faded to black.

…

Drake studied Christine’s face. In sleep, her chin lost its stubborn tilt. She looked delicate…and perfect…and his.

He leaned back in his chair and breathed his umpteenth sigh of relief.

That she’d come so close to turning away from him was still enough to darken the chambers of his heart to bleak mid-winter.

Her lashes fluttered then she opened her golden eyes. “What happened?”

“You fainted.”

She arched a brow. “I never faint.”

“Your injuries overwhelmed you and you returned to bed.”

She pursed her lips as if contemplating an argument. “Where is everyone?”

“Your father and Mike are out looking for Hector.”

“And you stayed here?” A simple question but he heard other more complex questions hiding in its depths.

He looked into her eyes and said, “I won’t ever leave you.”

“I know.” She scooted away from him, leaving a space on the bed. “Will you sit with me?”

Drake kicked off his shoes, climbed onto the four-poster, and extended his arm.

Christine nestled into his shoulder. “Mmmm. This feels good.”

It felt like heaven. He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head.

She reached her arm across his chest, nestling still closer. Her breasts pressed against him and her scent swirled beneath his nose.

Desire stirred.

They couldn’t. Could. Not. She’d spent the past three days convalescing. She had stitches in her side, a lump on her head, and a splint on her ankle.