Natchez Flame (24 page)

Sitting on the cornhusk mattress, Brendan closed
his eyes and leaned back against the rough timber wall, feeling the splinters bite into his bare back. He still wore no shirt. His hair, matted and dirty, clung to his neck, and a week’s growth of beard roughened his jaw.

Funny, he thought, he’d never been in a tighter jam and yet his real worry was for Priscilla. Whatever happened, he prayed Egan wouldn’t make her life a living hell.

He recalled the hours the two of them had spent together, of the way they’d made love. He smiled to remember her innocent passions, her fiery response to his touch. As exhausted as they’d been, he’d taken her gently, careful of her weariness and the newness of his entry to her body. But he’d hardly begun her initiation into passion—there was so much to teach her, so much they could share.

Brendan’s chest tightened as he thought of Egan taking over where he had left off.

The grating of a key in the heavy plank door leading into the dingy jail drew his attention. A beam of light broke through the darkness, and the jailer, an overweight man in his forties, stepped into the thick-walled building.

“You got visitors, Trask.”

Brendan looked up to see two men outlined in the light of the open door.

“Well, lookee who we got here. Ain’t you a sorry-lookin’ cuss?” Tom Camden walked in, shaking his graying blond head. Another man, bigger and taller, stepped into the room behind him. “Whatcha say, Badger? Think that polecat smell is coming from him?”

Badger Wallace spat onto the dirty wood-plank floor, then wiped at his mustache with the back of a meaty hand. “Must be him—ain’t nobody else in here.”

Brendan came to his feet and stuck his hand through the bars. Tom Camden grabbed it and gave it a hearty shake. “Damn glad to see you, Tom. You, too, Badger—that is, I think I am. You boys here as friends, or just as the law?”

“A little of both,” Tom said.

“I guess you know I’m in a heap of trouble.”

“You kin say that again, boy,” Badger Wallace agreed.

“We found out you were wanted for murder when we landed down in Brownsville,” Tom explained. “Captain Carlyle told us the story. I told him I didn’t believe a word of it. I come here lookin’ for ya, and I want to know the truth.”

Brendan released a weary breath. “It wasn’t the way they say, Tom. I was just passin’ through, seein’ someplace I hadn’t been. I’d stopped at Fort Towson to pick up a few supplies when some young Choctaw got into a skirmish with a fellow twice his size. I stepped in when I should have minded my own business, and the man drew down on me. It was self-defense, Tom, I swear it. It should have been easy to clear up, but the man’s brother turned out to be a federal marshal. He’s determined I’m gonna swing for it, and so far it looks like he may be right.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear, Bren,” Tom said. “I told Captain Carlyle I’d fought with you in Mexico, told him how you saved my life and a whole passel of others.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Brendan said. “You’ve always been a good friend.”

“You got that right, boy,” Badger put in.

“Carlyle said if you was half the man I said you was—and we could find you—he’d try to help.”

“Go on,” Brendan prodded.

“While we was talkin’, I happened to mention you was squirin’ that perty little filly of Egan’s across the country. Seems as though Captain Carlyle don’t think real highly of the man. Fact is, Carlyle thinks the great state of Texas has a rat pushin’ to get in the government—and the rat’s name is Egan.”

“He’s the bastard who put me here.”

Badger lobbed a shot of tobacco into a nearby spittoon. “The cap’n’s got sources say Egan’s involved in a smugglin’ operation in Natchez. They also say he run old Don Domínguez off’n his land.”

“I’m not surprised,” Brendan said. “The man’s as ruthless as they come.”

“Glad you feel that way. Make your job a whole lot easier.”

“What job?” Brendan asked warily.

“Carlyle says he’ll make you a deal,” Tom said. “You get the goods on Egan—whatever it takes—and Captain Carlyle will straighten things out with the marshal. You’ll come out of this a free man.”

Brendan eyed his friend and felt the first subtle stirrings of hope. “Just get the goods on Egan and I’m in the clear? That’s it?”

“You think it’ll be easy?” Badger asked.

“I think it’ll be damned near impossible. But it’s a helluva lot better than sittin’ here waitin’ to hang.”

Tom chuckled. “Word is, he’s gone to Natchez.”

“So I gathered.” Brendan had heard Mace Harding mention some problem Egan needed to look into. He’d be gone for some time. Mace had joked about Noble being left to run the ranch, at the trouble the boy would have trying to fill his old man’s shoes.

“Egan’s travelin’ with that perty little gal you brung him.” Badger spit another gob of tobacco. “Damn shame she got herse’f involved with a man like that.”

Thanks to me, she’s in far more trouble than you can imagine.
“If I untangle this mess, she won’t be.” Brendan gripped the bars of his cell, the ray of hope swelling inside his chest. “When can I get out of here?”

“Soon as this fella unlocks the door,” Tom said, motioning toward the jailer. The pudgy man grumbled, inserted the key in the lock, and turned.

“You got any money?” Tom asked.

“I had some. Egan’s men took it.” Brendan stepped out of the cell and followed the men toward the door.

“I’ll see you get enough for expenses to Natchez. That do it?”

“I’ve got friends I can count on in Natchez and money in Galveston. Just get me that far.”

Camden clapped him on the back. “Don’t know when the next ship’ll be in. Meantime, looks to me like you could use a drink.”

“I need a bath and a shave first.”

Tom tossed him a bag of coins. “Get what you need and meet us over to Wiley’s Saloon.”

“You got it.” Brendan stepped out in the sunshine. He took a deep breath and smelled the salt-fresh air.
The men skirted the sheriff’s office and walked out into the street.

Brendan glanced toward the docks and the ocean. For the first time he allowed himself to consider that things might work out. At best, trying to uncover Egan’s dirty work, he had a long, tough road ahead of him. At worst, he might wind up dead. Whatever happened, Priscilla’s delicate image loomed strong.

For her he would risk all. And even if he failed, he would never be sorry.

“Not the purple silk crepe, the emerald silk with the gold tulle overskirt.” Stuart leaned back in his brocade overstuffed chair, directing Madame Barrière, New Orleans’s finest French seamstress, and eyeing Priscilla with such cool objectivity it made her temper flare.

Determinedly, she tamped it back down.

“Qui, M’sieur,”
the fragile-boned seamstress agreed. “You are right, of course. Emerald suits Ma-dame’s complexion far better. Never have I seen a man with such an eye for fashion.”

Stuart just smiled.

“I’m getting awfully tired, Stuart,” Priscilla said, standing half-dressed atop the platform while several young women stuck her with pins. “We’ve been at this two days already and I—”

Stuart’s sandy brow shot up, stilling her protest. “I won’t have you dressed improperly. But if you really are fatigued … I suppose we can finish tomorrow.”

She started a smile of gratitude, but Stuart’s next words cut it off.

“Besides, we’ve a dinner engagement, and I want you back at the hotel in time for your new lady’s maid to properly coif your hair.” He turned to the French modiste. “I appreciate your haste in this. As you know, time is of the essence.”

“I shall personally see the gown you need for this evening is finished
tout de suite
, and as many others as possible ready before your departure. The rest I will forward to your address in Natchez.”

Half a dozen seamstresses had been working feverishly to clothe Priscilla in the latest silks and satins. As well as the ballgowns and dresses, Stuart had purchased cloaks, shawls, parasols, bonnets, painted and feathered fans, stockings, and expensive French lingerie.

“Thank you,
Madame”
When he dropped a bag of gold coins into the woman’s thin, outstretched fingers, she sank into a feeble curtsy.

“Merci beaucoup, M’sieur.”

He turned to take his leave. “I’ll await you in the carriage, Priscilla.”

She nodded as he strode out the door.

Four hours later, standing in the elegant salon of their suite at the St. Louis Hotel, the finest in New Orleans, Stuart extended his arm and Priscilla accepted it.

“Shall we, my dear?”

Lifting her expensive peach silk skirts, perfectly fitted to her slender frame, Priscilla let him guide her down the sweeping staircases toward the lavish hotel dining room. Whenever they were in public, it was hard to believe the charming man who escorted her was the same hard man she had seen back on the
Triple R. In private, he was demanding but always solicitous, which made him even more difficult to understand.

Tonight was their second evening in New Orleans. They’d be staying four more—long enough for her to be “properly attired,” then they’d be taking the steamboat,
Creole Lady
, up the Mississippi to Natchez.

“The gown looks lovely,” Stuart said as they strolled through the massive marble-columned lobby toward the elegant gold-trimmed dining room. “Madame Barrière is indeed a genius.”

“It’s beautiful, Stuart. I know you’ve spent a fortune. I never expected—”

“No expense is too great for the wife of a future senator,” he teased, patting her hand.

She felt like a wife, all right. Unfortunately, it was Brendan she still thought of as her husband.

They crossed the marble-floored foyer, heels clicking, echoing in the vastness of the room, Stuart’s expensive black evening clothes immaculate in the light of the crystal chandeliers.

“The food here is exquisite,” he was saying. “I hope you’ll find the evening as enjoyable as I most certainly will.”

Why did his words sound more like an order than the polite conversation they were meant for? Probably because no one, especially not herself, would dare to disagree. Even if the meal were inedible, she would smile and utter mundane pleasantries—as Stuart expected. After just weeks in his company, she was already becoming the consummate politician’s wife, just as he’d planned.

“The hotel is the most elegant I’ve ever seen,” Priscilla said, in an effort to make conversation.

“I promise you, darling, from now on you’ll enjoy only the finest.”

After supper, which had been as delicious as Stuart had predicted, he led her up the wide spiral staircase to their large suite of rooms. As promised, he hadn’t come to her bed. He was giving her time for the arrival of her monthly flux, maybe even two. He intended to be certain she carried no child—and Priscilla couldn’t have been more grateful.

She prayed that during their time together, she could arouse some sort of feeling for the man she had married. At least learn to understand him.

Why, for instance, were Jaimie Walker, Mace Harding, and two other of Stuart’s henchmen staying in a hotel down the street? Why had he brought them? Were so many armed men really necessary? Or did he just enjoy the feeling of power it gave him, having such tough men at his command?

Jaimie was a little different from the other men, though. The red-haired man worshipped Stuart, but he seemed more gentle than tough. Priscilla had enjoyed a bond of friendship with him almost from the start. She could talk to Jaimie, and he would always listen. Unfortunately, they’d had very little time together.

“When we reach Natchez, things will settle down,” Stuart told her, standing in the salon of their suite, just outside her chamber door. “I’ve a town house there—quite a nice one. You can do some more shopping; there’ll be balls to attend—that sort of thing. In a few more weeks, we’ll know the results of your
little … indiscretion. If there are no … problems, well get to know each other as man and wife.”

He smiled down at her with a look that might have been affection. “Once that’s happened, we can put all this behind us.”

“I’d like that,” Priscilla said, never meaning anything more.

“Then we’ll make it happen,” he promised, drawing her into his arms. As he had each night since her return, he kissed her. There was reserve in his touch—and something she couldn’t quite name.

Anger maybe? Or a need to possess her? Maybe a need to punish her a little. She shuddered to think so, and returned his kiss with a reserve that matched his own.

She had learned in a hurry that Stuart believed a woman’s passions were unladylike. She was to submit, nothing more. Since she felt no passion, Priscilla was almost grateful. She’d allow him the “pleasures of the marriage bed,” as he called it, have his children, and go on as she had planned.

Other women did it. She was determined to do the same.

Natchez.
How could she possibly have forgotten such a place? Standing at the rail of the hundred-seventy-two-foot
Creole Lady
, the red-and-white steamboat that had docked nearly an hour ago, Priscilla looked out at the teeming waterfront, the question taunting her again and again. Why did she have no memories of this place?