Creole Fires (28 page)

By morning, after leaving Zeke and Maximillian in
La Ronde, they arrived at the docks in New Orleans. Ships from all over the globe were moored there, but the steamboats, dozens of them, took up one long line. Most of the more elegant “floating palaces,” as they were known, would be sailing late in the afternoon, though smaller boats came and went all day long.

On Decatur Street, Alex hailed a hansom cab and they rounded the corner onto Toulouse Street, the gentle clip-clop of the horse’s hooves pounding against the cobblestones. It wasn’t far to his town house. Not nearly far enough to suit Nicki. When the driver reined up in front of the wrought iron enclosed courtyard, memories of her first time there swept over her and she felt her stomach roll.

She hadn’t forgotten the wretched creature Alex had brought there from the prison that awful afternoon late last May. Or the beautiful raven-haired Creole woman who had lived there as his mistress. What had happened to Lisette? Was she somewhere pining away for Alex and the love they’d once shared? Was her fate the same one Nicole would suffer when Alex grew tired of her?

“Come,
chérie”
Alex said gently, his hands going around her waist to lift her down.

Nicki didn’t look at him, just let him lead her through the garden courtyard up the front steps to the carved cypress door. The door swung wide even before he knocked. Frederick, tall and ramrod straight, stood in the foyer, very formal until he grinned at her and winked. Danielle flew down the stairs and stopped just short of embracing her.

“Merci le bon Dieu
—you are all right.” She crossed herself and looked at Nicole with round gray eyes
that begged for understanding.
“M’sieur le duc
said you would be arrested. I did not know what to do. I—I was so worried for you.” Her plump fingers twisted the folds of her skirt.

“It’s all right. Danielle.” Nicole reached out for the thick-fingered hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You did what you thought best.” She didn’t add that Alexandre’s timely arrival had saved her from near disaster because she firmly believed she could have saved herself if she’d had to.

“Surely you aren’t planning to stay here with me in New Orleans?” she asked, suddenly remembering Danielle’s betrothed. “What about René?”

Danielle giggled. “It is said that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe René will miss me and set a date for the wedding.”

Nicki laughed softly. “Maybe he will.” She turned her attention to Alex. “You’ve let Frederick come as well?”

“And Betsy.” Betsy was Frederick’s wife. “I trust she’s feeling better …” he said to the tall black butler, his expression one of concern.

“Baby’s settled down now.” Frederick grinned, teeth gleaming white in his coal-colored face. “He’s leaving mama alone till he gets born, then she’ll really have her hands full.” Betsy’s first child would arrive in about six months.

“She’s a strong girl,” Alex said. “She’ll do just fine.”

Nicki looked at him as if to say, how do you know so much about babies? but didn’t. The master of a place like Belle Chêne had to know a little bit about everything.

Alex smiled at her. “I thought you’d feel more comfortable with people you already knew.”

“Yes. Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

“There’s someone else I’d like you to meet.” He guided her into the salon, where a thick-set man with huge arms and shoulders leaned against the gray marble mantel. He wore navy-blue duck pants and a homespun shirt. “Nicole, this is Bayram Sit, a friend of mine for many years. We met in Algeria.”

The friend he had known in prison. “I believe you mentioned him.” By the look that passed between them she felt certain she was right.

“I am sometimes called the Ram,” the beefy man told her with an odd accent and a slight nod of his head that might have been meant as a greeting. “Ram will do.”

Yes. The Ram. He looked like one. His head was completely shorn of hair, his eyelids smooth and slashed up in the way of the Mongols. A thick black mustache drooped below his jaw. She had never seen a man with arms so huge, or thighs as big as a small man’s waist. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ram will be staying for a while,” Alex told her.

“At Belle Chêne?”

“Here,” he said softly.

“Here?” Why would a man like that be staying in the town house?

“He’ll see that no harm comes to you while I’m busy with the harvest.”

“But surely I’m not in any—” Nicki stopped in mid-sentence as she realized why the man was really there. “He’ll see that I don’t escape, isn’t that what you mean?”

“You just need time to adjust.”

“This man is my jailer. I’m a captive here just as surely as I was at the Baronne Street prison.”

“Ram is here to look after you,” Alex said with growing tension. “It isn’t as though you don’t need it.”

Nicki took a long, calming breath before she tried to speak. “I’m afraid I’m feeling a little tired,” she said, sweeping past him. “I think I’ll go on up to my room.”

Alex didn’t stop her, just let her race up the stairs, then quietly followed her up. He found her standing in the hallway, uncertain which room was hers.

“This one,” he called from behind her, shoving open the door to the master suite.

Nicki’s stomach knotted. Surely he wouldn’t demand she sleep in Lisette’s room—the woman’s cloying scent alone would be enough to gag her.

“Is there no other I might use?” she asked softly, hoping he would understand.

Without answering, Alex drew her inside. Surprisingly, the room was empty except for a huge four-poster bed that dominated one wall.

“I’ll leave it up to you. I want you to be happy here. This is a lovely room, the finest in the house. I had hoped that you would furnish it as you wish. Make it yours in every way. The bed was my father’s. It means a great deal to me, but if it offends you, I will order it removed.”

Nicki looked around, unable to believe the trouble he had gone to for her. “It would be costly to furnish the room. I know you have little money to spare.”

“The amount it would take would be a pittance compared to what I need to repay Fortier. It won’t matter one way or the other.”

It
was
a lovely room. Freshly painted, with beautiful parquet floors and delicate shutters at each of the windows. And so sunny, with the garden below and the prettiest little wrought-iron balcony. “This room will be fine.”

“Shall I have the bed removed?”

It, too, had been stripped and cleaned; every inch of the magnificent hand-carved mahogany glistened with polish. Only the slats of the bed remained, not even the feather mattress.

“It’s a beautiful bed. I would be honored to sleep in it.”

“My father would be pleased.”

Nicki straightened her spine. “Your father would not be pleased to know you intend to share it with me.

Alex could not deny it. Charles du Villier would have had him horsewhipped if he had known the future Alex planned for the daughter of his lifelong friend. In truth, Alex didn’t really understand the reasons himself. “I’m glad you have come to accept it. In time you’ll see that it’s for the best.”

“Damn you! I haven’t accepted anything. What I told you before still stands. I will not come to your bed as a willing
demimondaine.
I am not your whore and I never will be!”

Alex clamped his jaw and forced himself under control. “I’ll be back in one weeks time. I trust by then you’ll see reason. One way or another, we will both find comfort in that bed.” With those hard words, he strode out the door, slamming it solidly behind him.

“Go to hell!” she shrieked after him.

But he’d only go as far as Belle Chêne. It was time
to begin the harvest. They would be working around the clock from now until Christmas, each man taking two of the three eight-hour shifts. Amazingly, the workers didn’t complain about the long, arduous days. There was an air of festivity during harvest, as well as extra rations of food, whiskey, and tobacco, a bonus for each man at the end of the season, and of course, the lavish sugarhouse ball.

Nicki’s mother had helped her father tremendously during the long days of the harvest season. Who would help Alex? No one. At least not this year. But next year he would be married to Clarissa. As efficient as Clarissa Endicott most surely was, she’d be a great help to her husband. She would fill the job of planter’s wife as well as Nicole had been trained to—maybe even better.

Nicki sank down on the wooden window seat and looked out over the garden. Alex’s marriage was scheduled for the tenth day of the new year. Right before Fortier’s note came due. A little over two months from now. Before that time, Alex or no Alex, Ram or no Ram, Nicki had to leave. She would lay her plans more carefully this time. Wait until Alex relaxed his guard. Wait until she understood the man called Ram who was her jailer, and found his weakness. Until she had secured the money for her passage on a ship. Then she would make her escape.

In the meantime, she would occupy herself furnishing the chamber the way Alex wanted. As to his wish she join him in his father’s big bed—on that he was in for a fight.

On Friday, François arrived. Having found her clothes already unpacked and hanging in an armoire
in her temporary room, Nicki dressed in a stylish plum serge day dress. It was one of the two gowns she owned that were suitable for the cool fall weather.

“I’m here to take you shopping,” François told her. “Alex says you need winter things and furniture for your bedchamber.”

Grudgingly, she admitted Alexandre had been thoughtful, as usual. “That’s kind of you, François.” They shared some of the rich black coffee she loved and several delicate French pastries Betsy purchased each morning from the
pâtisserie.
A little while later, they had left the drawing room, readying themselves for their excursion, when Thomas Demming arrived.

“I came to pay my respects,” he said, standing beside Frederick in the foyer, “and to be sure you were getting settled in.”

“Why, thank you, Thomas.” He looked handsome in his navy-blue tailcoat and light-gray trousers, his blue eyes sparkling with cheer.

“I’m afraid we were just about to leave,” François said. “We’ve some shopping to do. You could join us if you like.”

Thomas grinned. “I ought to. Just to set Alex on his ear. But I’ve work to do—”

A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Frederick pulled it wide, and a well-dressed woman stood in the opening. For a moment the bright sunlight obscured her face. Then, stiff-backed and obviously angry, Michele Christophe marched in, passing François and Thomas as if they weren’t there.

“We are supposed to be friends,” she said, rushing
up to Nicki in a swirl of rose faille skirts. “You could have told me. I would have understood!”

Nicki couldn’t help but smile. Michele had rarely raised her voice in all the years she’d known her. “I don’t believe you’ve all met,” she said, and Michele’s cheeks turned as rosy as her dress. “Mademoiselle Christophe, this is M’sieur François du Villier, Alexandre’s brother, and M’sieur Thomas Demming, one of his closest friends.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you both.” Michele glanced briefly at François, then at Thomas, whose eyes had taken on a warm, approving glow. Michele blushed again.

For the first time, Nicki realized how lovely her friend had grown in the years they’d been apart. Gone was the willowy, too-thin schoolgirl, replaced now by a young woman of stature and grace.

Though she still remained slender, her face had filled out and her neck arched gracefully. Her eyes, a gentle shade of green against her pale, peach-hued skin, were fringed with long, dark lashes. Her breasts were small but looked firm and tempting, as Thomas seemed to have noticed.

“We’re going shopping,” Nicki told her, hoping to put off their confrontation as long as possible. “You’re welcome to come along.”

Michele glanced from Thomas to Nicole and back to Thomas. “I am sorry for my outburst. It was unseemly. I hope you do not think I am always so outspoken.”

“Actually, she’s usually shy,” Nicki said with some amusement.

“Friends should certainly be able to speak to each
other as they wish,” Thomas said, adding, “We’d love to have you join us.”

“I would not want to be an inconvenience.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t be,” Thomas assured her. “We’ll go to Chartres Street first, then lunch at Le Petit Trianon down by the square.”

“I thought you had work to do,” François said with a barely suppressed grin.

“On the contrary. A little time off is just what I need.”

They spent the day roaming the streets and shops. At François’s insistance, Nicki ordered six new gowns of finest serge, merino, and cashmere, and a forest-green velvet riding habit, though she had far less use for it than she’d had at Belle Chêne.

François didn’t press her to buy the ball gown the seamstress insisted upon. Alex wouldn’t be taking his mistress to any of the coming extravagant affairs and they both knew it.

Though the subtle reminder dampened a bit of her day, she enjoyed their exquisite luncheon and afterward chose several handsome carved antique pieces for the bedchamber, including a rosewood armoire. She selected a soft pale-peach chintz—a reminder of Belle Chêne—for the curtains Betsy would sew, along with a matching chintz counterpane for the massive four-poster bed.

The room was sure to be lovely. She sighed, thinking how little time she would have to enjoy it.

Thomas and Michele got along famously. Nicki wondered how her friend had managed to escape the watchful eye of her aunt, but didn’t ask. They were both grown women now. Except that Michele, unlike
Nicole, retained her innocence for the man she would marry.

“I believe I see a friend.” François’s soft voice interrupted her thoughts. “If you will excuse me …?”

“Of course.”

He left them a moment and stepped into a fashionable gentlemen’s haberdashery. While Michele and Thomas lost themselves in conversation, Nicki wandered along the street to peek in the windows. When she came to the gentlemen’s shop, she saw François engaged in an animated discussion with a handsome, pale-skinned young man who looked to be about his age.