Creole Fires (2 page)

A glance behind confirmed that the man named Chester blocked her way to the house. She’d make for the road into town instead—
surely the other one
wouldn’t follow!
But the hoofbeats bearing down on her said he intended to do just that.

Nicki tightened her knees, gripping the flat leather saddle the best she knew how. Her feet didn’t reach the metal stirrups, and her position astride felt so unfamiliar she wasn’t sure she could stay aboard. But as the animal’s speed settled into a steady, ground-eating gallop, her confidence grew. She cleared the swamp and increased her speed. If she could make the stone wall at the end of the open field and still stay mounted, she’d be home free.

At least that was what she thought until she sailed over the wall and her pursuer did the same.

Dear God, what now?
Clutching the horse’s reins tighter, leaning over its neck, she urged the mare faster. There was help in La Ronde, someone who could stop these madmen from their assault.

The little mare was lathered and breathing hard by the time Nicki galloped full tilt down the main street of La Ronde, just a tiny parish town where nearby planters picked up supplies. In her heaven-or-hell ride to safety, she was glancing over her shoulder, trying to see if her pursuer still followed, when a wagon laden with hogshead barrels pulled into her path. The mare saw the impending disaster before Nicki did, rearing on its hind legs in a desperate attempt to wheel away from the heavy dray before it was too late.

Nicki felt the animal’s back tilt crazily, felt herself falling, saw the world spinning by, and closed her eyes to the painful landing she was about to make.

Instead she felt her body jolted against something hard, yet yielding, felt the brush of fabric against her skin, and opened her eyes to find herself cradled in a
man’s embrace. With memories of the one who followed still fresh in her mind, she began to struggle. It was the man’s deep voice, his words spoken softly in French, that stilled her movements.

“You are all right,
chérie.
I won’t let you fall.”

Nicki swallowed hard, fighting for control, finding it difficult to speak. She glanced behind her.

“There’s a man following me,” she told him in the same soft language. “There were two of them. They tried to … they wanted to …” She glanced down at her lacy chemise, torn in several places and covered with dirt and twigs. Her hair had come loose from its pins and tumbled in a copper mass around her shoulders. Above the line of her corset, her breasts rose and fell with every ragged breath.

The Frenchman’s smile faded and his voice turned hard. “You have nothing to fear,
chérie.”

Nicki felt the soft material of his dark blue tailcoat pressing against her skin as his hold tightened protectively. The determined set of his jaw confirmed his pledge, and Nicki believed him.

“My clothes …” she whispered, willing him to understand. But she needn’t have spoken.

Dodging the now-halted wagon, the driver who walked toward them wearing a look of concern, and the crowd beginning to build, he carried her out of the narrow dirt street and onto the wooden boardwalk.

Breathing in the scent of his spicy cologne, Nicki wrapped her arms around his thick neck to steady herself. He was a big man, she realized, feeling his powerful chest and arms. Handsome, too, with smooth skin tanned by the sun, and wavy dark-brown hair that glinted with amber highlights. She could
easily remember the deep grooves etched beside his mouth when he’d smiled at her, though they’d been replaced by a worried scowl. His eyes were a warm shade of brown.

She glanced up at him as he strode the wooden walk, carrying her effortlessly. There was nothing warm about those eyes now, she discovered as he ducked into Gaudin’s General Mercantile. They were dark and forbidding. His mouth, once full and sensuous, had thinned to a narrow line, and a muscle bunched in his jaw.

“Madame Gaudin,” he said to the plump little shopkeeper, “it appears
la petite mademoiselle
is in need of something to wear.” The command in his voice was unmistakable. Carrying her through a curtain that closed off the back of the store, he set Nicki on her feet and flashed her a reassuring smile. “You’ll be safe here until I return.”

He watched her a moment, assessing her, it seemed. His finger traveled lightly across her cheek, sending a ripple down her spine, then he turned away. His smile no longer in place, he whispered a few brief words to the shopkeeper, glanced once more in Nicki’s direction, and strode back toward the street. She noticed the width of his shoulders, outlined by the fit of the navy-blue tailcoat that tapered dramatically over his narrow hips. Encased in the tailored gray pants he wore, taut muscle defined his powerful thighs as he moved.

The curtain fell behind him, and the rotund little shopkeeper approached, pulling Nicki’s thoughts in a different direction.

“I have been instructed to take very good care of
you, mademoiselle.” Madame Gaudin tucked a strand of graying hair back in place and smiled.

Glancing toward the curtain, which still fluttered from the tall man’s departure, then down at her torn and dirty clothes, Nicki swallowed hard. Her face still felt bloodless, her mouth dry, her fingers cold and numb.

“Do not worry, mademoiselle,” the woman said, sensing her distress. “I will find you something to wear and none will be the wiser.”

“The whole town will be the wiser,” Nicki told her, finding her voice at last. “
Mon Dieu
, what a spectacle I made.” She sighed in despair. Why did she always manage to get herself into trouble? Her father would be furious and her mother, usually a little more sympathetic to her exploits, would certainly not be pleased.

“Quite a lovely spectacle,” the woman replied, eyeing Nicki’s full bosom and nipped-in waist. Madame Gaudin smiled and touched her cheek in the same spot the Frenchman had, though her fingers felt not nearly so warm. “M’sieur du Villier seems more than a little bit taken with you.”

“Who?” Nicki asked, praying her ears had deceived her.

“Alexandre du Villier. Surely you know of him? His family is the richest in these parts. They own the great sugar plantation, Belle Chêne.”

“That was … that was Alexandre du Villier?” Nicki’s face paled. “But I thought the du Villiers were visiting their estates in France.”

“Le duc
has gone. I have heard he is ill. Alexandre is leaving today to join him. His brother, François, will remain to manage Belle Chêne.”

“Oh, no,” Nicki said, feeling even more despondent. “My father will be furious.”

“Your father and the du Villiers are friends?”

“Yes. Since the war.”

“I have not seen you before. You are not from here?”

“No.” She extended one small hand. “I’m Nicole St. Claire. From Meadowood on Bayou Lafourche. We’re here visiting the Christophes.”

“You are the daughter of Etienne St. Claire?”

“Yes.”

The plump little woman’s voice took on an aura of reverance. “Many know of your father. He was a great hero in the war against the British. It is an honor to meet his daughter.”

“Thank you. I’m happy to meet you too.”

Madame Gaudin smiled, but her eyes whisked over Nicki’s torn and dirty clothing. For the first time, it dawned on her that Madame Gaudin might think Alexandre du Villier had something to do with her missing clothes.

Oh, Lord, what next? “About my dress, ma-dame …” As Nicki hurriedly explained about the men who had attacked her, her half-naked ride through the streets, and Monsieur du Villiers timely rescue, a relieved Madame Gaudin pulled her behind a second curtain that closed off the fitting rooms from the rest of the shop.

She was a seamstress as well as the wife of the storekeeper, she explained when she returned with a pale pink muslin day dress embroidered with tiny darker pink flowers, the sleeves set low on each shoulder.

“It may be a bit too long, but it will be easy to shorten.”

“It’ll be fine just as it is,” Nicki told her. “I’ve got to get back before dark.”

“I am certain M’sieur du Villier would be happy to escort you, even if his journey must be postponed.”

“Ah, non!”
Nicki rolled her eyes. “That is the last thing I need.”

Madame Gaudin clucked at her. “You are right, of course. You are much too young for that wild stallion. But who knows …?” She shrugged her plump shoulders. “Maybe in a few years, when he returns from the Continent …?”

Nicki grinned with the sudden realization that the idea wasn’t at all unappealing. Hadn’t she said she wanted a man who would sweep her off her feet?

“Most likely he will have forgotten me,” she said, wondering if indeed he would. “He’ll probably be married to some dowdy aristocrat.”

Madame Gaudin’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Maybe … maybe not. I think he will not soon forget
la petite mademoiselle
with eyes the color of a Caribbean sea who rode the streets of La Ronde in her corset and chemise.”

Nicki groaned at the reminder and finished getting dressed. “I don’t suppose I could impose upon your kindness a little more and ask you not to tell him who I am?” Maybe her father wouldn’t find out after all.

The plump woman grinned mischievously. “He will ask—but I suppose for Etienne St. Claire’s daughter, I could forget who you are—at least for the next few years.”

“Thank you, madame. I’ll be forever in your debt. Oh, and if you’ll send the amount due for the dress to
Meadowood …” She hated to spend the money. Times had been hard of late. She and her mother had been careful with every penny.

“M’sieur du Villier has already taken care of it.”

“He has?” Nicki said in English, falling back into the language she spoke at home, though her father was French, and at the Salem Academy, the school she attended.

“Pardon, mademoiselle?
”

“
Excusez-moi.
Tell M’sieur du Villier I am grateful for his kind assistance.” Her father wouldn’t like the idea, but maybe he wouldn’t have to know. And the du Villiers could certainly afford it more than her family could right now. Just this once, she decided, she would ignore her damnable pride and be practical.

As long as she didn’t have to face him.

Determined to be gone before her handsome rescuer returned, Nicki finished brushing the dirt and leaves from her underthings, and pulled the pretty pink muslin dress on over her head.

“Where is she?”

“La petite mademoiselle?”
Madame Gaudin asked, amused by the handsome Frenchman’s obvious interest.

“Who else?” he grumbled. “How many half-naked young women do you have in your fitting rooms?”

Madame Gaudin pursed her lips and shrugged her pudgy shoulders. “Gone, m’sieur. She was afraid her parents would worry. Henri took her home in the wagon.”

Henri was Madame Gaudin’s scarecrowlike husband. Sending the lovely mademoiselle home with no
one to protect her but Henri Gaudin only increased Alexandre’s worry.

“He also took a pistol,” she said in answer to his deepening scowl. “You did not find the men who attacked her?”

“Not a trace. But with the swamp and the river to hide them, there was little chance.”

“Sacrebleu!
What kind of men would harm such an innocent?”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “Who was she? Does she live near here?”

“Non
, she is just here visiting friends.” Madame Gaudin smiled at his look of disappointment. “You should be grateful you are leaving.
La petite mademoiselle
is far too young for you—only fifteen, she said.”

Alex’s brow shot up. “Fifteen?” he repeated, incredulous.

“If you had been paying attention to her face and not her ripe little body you would have noticed.”

Alex chuckled softly. Being twelve years her senior, he should have been more observant, but he rarely found himself attracted to one so young. “I suppose you’re right.”

“What a beauty,
n’est-ce pas?
Like an angel.”

Alex smiled. “An angel with copper hair and aqua eyes and a body ripe for a man’s touch …. As you say, I’m fortunate to be leaving such dangerous temptations to somebody else.”

But all the way to the docks, and later as he watched the cane fields along the Mississippi disappear and the lights of New Orleans approach, he couldn’t help envying the man who would finally bed her.

By the time he reached the shores of France, he had all but forgotten her. Only once, when he caught sight of a woman with eyes not nearly so vivid, did he wonder who that fortunate man might be.

New Orleans, 1840

Nicole St. Claire huddled in the corner of her damp and musty cell in the police prison of the Second Municipality on Baronne Street.

On a rough-hewn plank table a single white candle flickered against the damp rock walls, casting eerie, ominous shadows. Several uniformed watchmen stood outside the door, but they paid Nicole no heed. Instead, their attention focused on the activity in another small cell where two other women had been brought in several hours earlier.

“I can’t stand to hear them screaming,” Nicki whispered, pressing her hands against her ears.
The women’s anguished cries, and the rats.
These were the things she hated most about the dismal prison. And missing the warmth of the sun. She had been cold since the day she’d arrived two weeks ago, cold and desolate, and afraid clear to her bones.