Patricia Rice (42 page)

Eavin shivered as a cold draft wrapped around her. She pulled her shawl closer and lit a candle on the table. The fire's meager light was no longer sufficient in the winter gloom. An insistent tug at her consciousness made her glance toward the window, but it was too dark to see. She felt as fretful and nervous as a cat over water, but she could discern no particular reason. Jeremy's solid presence should have been reassuring. Instead she wished he would go. Something was wrong, and she couldn't go looking until he left.

"What's done can't be undone, Jeremy. I have asked Madame Dupré to write Gabriella's parents. I cannot imagine them sending a girl that age over here without proper chaperonage beyond that one seasick maid who refuses to leave the city. She has a brother, I believe. She needs someone of her own here. When Nicholas returns, there will be time to make the marriage work. I don't think she's a bad girl, just inexperienced."

A sigh wafted across the room, carrying with it a hint of jasmine. Eavin's head jerked up, and she searched anxiously for the source. Instead she heard the sounds of shots outside, and perhaps the echo of a scream. In accord she and Jeremy raced for the door.

Even Hélène came stumbling frantically down the stairs from her room. Eavin ran to the study, where Nicholas kept his guns, grabbing the pistol she had used earlier, leaving Jeremy to take the rifle. She sent Clemmie scurrying to find the overseer and to send Jim and several of the field hands to the front.

It was already too late by the time the household raced down the stairs to the darkened lawn. The black servants were there before them, and they watched with frightened eyes as a horse came galloping down the drive, its rider hanging crazily to the horse's neck.

"It's Malcolm!" Jim shouted.

The new overseer rode a distinctive Appaloosa. Eavin recognized it even in the dark. Dropping the pistol, she picked up her skirts and ran toward the wild-eyed horse, ignoring the shouts of warning behind her.

The rider was in enough control to bring the horse to a halt before it could ride her down. Slipping from the saddle, clutching his arm, the burly overseer jerked his head in the direction of the oaks. "That sneakin' Spaniard was back here with a carriage. It looks like he took Miss Gabriella with him. Let me get a couple of the boys from the stable and we'll ride after them."

"You're hurt! You can't go back out there like that. Let me see to your arm while the horses are saddled. Jeremy.
.."
Eavin turned to find this
friend already at her side, his usually genial expression twisted with anger.

"Let me see to this, Eavin," he said, reaching for the wild-eyed Appaloosa. "A carriage can't travel fast on these roads. I'll have time to gather a few friends. It's better this way than sending slaves after them."

He didn't give her time to deny him. Malcolm readily relinquished the reins of his sturdy horse, and Jeremy was mounted and on his way before Eavin could find the arguments to stop him.

Perhaps he was right Perhaps this was something a gentleman had to handle, and Jeremy was Nicholas's test friend. It was quite obvious that she had blundered badly.

Assisting the overseer into the house, Eavin called for hot water and bandages. Without a word, a pale
 
Hélène took over the task.

It was the wee hours of the morning before a messenger returned saying everything was fine, that Gabriella was safe and with Madame Dupré in the city. Eavin and
 
Hélène looked at each other through hollow eyes and rose together to find their beds.

Eavin didn't want to think what Jeremy had done to bring Gabriella back where she belonged. She would find out soon enough. The touch of
 
Hélène's hand on her arm startled her, and she turned questioningly to the larger woman.

"I thought I was doing what was best for him. I was wrong," she said simply.

There was no reply Eavin could make. She understood far more than those words could ever say. With a nod she turned her weary feet to the guest house and her own bed.

She wasn't a Creole. She couldn't make Nicholas a proper wife. She was barren; she couldn't even bear him children.
 
Hélène had seen that and had attempted to correct the situation in the only way she could. Had Eavin played the proper role of mistresses around the world and accepted Nicholas's marriage, Nicholas might still be here today, seeing to his wife as he ought, loving his mistress as he wished. Neither of them had known that Nicholas would react so strongly to their decisions. There was no fault to be placed anywhere. Eavin understood that with her mind. It would take her heart a little longer.

Jeremy rode in after noon the next day. From the rumpled state of his attire, it was plain that he had been up all night and had not yet been home. His face was lined with weariness as he climbed the stairs to the gallery, and Eavin called for a hot drink to be brought in as she led him into the salon, where Hélène waited.

Jeremy made a bow and gratefully took the drink. The scent of the outdoors clung to him, filling the stuffy room with fresh air. Remembering the jasmine she had smelled the night before, Eavin knew Francine's spirit still haunted this house. For Francine's sake, she hoped Jeremy brought good news.

"How is she?" Eavin leaned forward, asking the question Francine would have asked.

"She is fine now. Madame Dupré calmed her down. Raphael didn't hurt her. They meant to elope, but they agreed to let Nicholas's friends accompany them back to town so there could be no question of harming Gabriella's reputation. Unless Malcolm wants to press charges, I think we can let the noise quiet down for a while."

"Nicholas wanted her to remain here. He feels the city is dangerous with the British so close," Eavin reminded him.

Jeremy frowned. "Then let Nicholas return and handle the matter. She is happy to be in town again. To be perfectly frank, I recommended a lawyer to her, and Madame Dupré has called on the priest. Gabriella informed me last night that Nicholas had promised she could have an annulment if she wanted one. I did nothing to dissuade her."

He waited for the repercussions from that announcement, and when both women simply sat there, stunned, he lifted his cup and drank deeply.

"Americans are very rash,"
 
Hélène murmured, picking at the needlework in her hands.

"It wasn't an American who ran away in the dead of night last night," Eavin pointed out with a hint of irony. She turned back to the weary man across from them. "You did the best thing, Jeremy, and we thank you. I'm not certain Nicholas deserves a friend like you, but I'm glad he has one. I think I better go into town now and talk to Madame Dupré."

"You will do no such thing!" The reaction was instant and spontaneous and, surprisingly, from both quarters.

Eavin looked from Jeremy to
 
Hélène with bewilderment. "Why not? I am her daughter-in-law. We share an interest in doing what is best for Francine's cousin. Perhaps I can talk to Gabriella and make her see reason."

Jeremy left the floor open to the lady. Hélène nodded her gratitude before turning a formidable scowl to Eavin.

"Gabriella is Isabel's problem. Jeannette is yours. Nicholas is mine. I see no reason to encourage a marriage that my son never wanted. If Isabel thinks Gabriella is better off in the hands of Reyes, then so be it. None of this has anything to do with Jeannette, so you have no need to bother with it. Isabel knows how to keep things quiet. Perhaps I should return to the city to help her manage. Father Antoine is a good friend of mine."

Those arguments seemed oddly irrelevant, but Eavin agreed to them because she wanted to believe them. It was thoroughly selfish of her. Gabriella didn't deserve a scoundrel like Raphael. Nicholas would be hideously wounded to discover his wife had left him for his enemy. But he couldn't be any more hurt than Eavin had been when he had brought a wife home unannounced. If he couldn't tell her a thing like that, she owed him nothing.

"Nicholas would worry less if he knew you were here," Eavin replied, avoiding the point. "I would worry less if you are here. I don't like being alone."

A look almost of relief crossed the other woman's face. "Very well, I suppose you are right. I promised Nicholas to look after Gabriella, but I can't very well be expected to run after the ungrateful child and leave you and Jeannette alone. What do you think, Mr. Howell?"

That the haughty Frenchwoman turned to him for advice left Jeremy momentarily speechless, but he responded with graciousness. "I applaud your decision,
madame
. I'm certain we'll hear news if the British land upriver. There will be time to bring both Gabriella and Madame Dupré out of the city if necessary. I think it would be better if Eavin and Jeannette were properly chaperoned by someone as respectable as yourself."

Eavin gave him a look of disgust at this pompous speech, but it served the purpose of making
 
Hélène happy. When he rose to leave, Eavin went with him.

"Do you think Belle will know how to reach Nicholas?" she asked quietly as they stood by the front door.

Jeremy looked startled. "What do you know of Belle?"

"I've met her and know who she is. Nicholas and I don't have a great many secrets from each other, Jeremy. Do you think she can help?"

A brief flicker of pain crossed Jeremy's face. "You're a fool to love him, Eavin. Nicholas has been damaged in too many ways to ever love you back."

"I know that. But love isn't something you bargain for, something you can take back and return if you don't like your choice. It happens, and you're stuck with it. Sort of like a plague, I guess." Eavin's smile was wry.

Jeremy responded slowly, with a smile of his own. "A plague is a good description, I suppose. Nicholas should be the one afflicted, however. It would serve him right. But the answer to your question is no. I don't think even Belle's talents extend to Mobile. It's possible they're on the march by now. I sincerely hope so. This ghastly waiting can only mean the British are sending for more troops and supplies. We don't stand a chance against them as things stand now."

Eavin's expression sobered. "We don't stand a chance even if Jackson's troops arrive. What fort there was has been burned for firewood these past years, and I've not heard word of anyone hurrying to reconstruct it. You'd think New Orleans almost wants to be invaded."

"A wooden fort won't stop cannon. The Creoles are merely hoping if they laugh and play, the threat will go away. You have to understand, Eavin, these people have been under the rule of three different nations over a period of twenty years. And despite whatever flag flies from the Cabildo, they go on doing what they've been doing for the last century and what they will do on into the next. Why do you think Claiborne had such a damned awful time prying the pirates out of their nest? They're an institution. He can't drive them out any more than he can ban slavery or the Catholic church. The pirates will be back. And there's nothing the British or anyone else can do about it."

"Well, that's a relief." Eavin donned a bright smile. "I rather enjoyed Monsieur Lafitte. Tell him to stop by and say hello if you see him."

Jeremy grinned and kissed her cheek. "I'll do that. There's a band of the cutthroats making a nest in the swamp between here and my place. They're the ones who helped me find escorts for Gabriella last night."

He left to the sound of her laughter.

Chapter 36

A tomahawk thudded into the tree trunk just a few feet above the ground, a few inches from their heads. Michael and Nicholas sprang from the thicket of one accord, sliding down the embankment, rolling and catching bushes until they were almost into the river. Scrambling through the underbrush as arrows flew overhead, they dragged a pirogue from its hiding place. They shoved it into the water, climbed aboard, and paddled furiously.

A volley of arrows erupted as they hit open water, but the current moved swiftly and they were soon out of range of everything but angry war whoops. Slapping water on his perspiring face, Michael ran his fingers through his hair. He shoved the thick tangle out of his eyes as he scanned the banks while Nicholas forced the frail shell of a boat farther down the current.

"Join the militia, the man says!" Cursing under his breath, Michael checked his shotgun. "Fight the British! And all we've seen in months are a pack of lazy redskins and enough alligators to feed the navy."

"You'll see fighting soon enough." Guiding the boat more than paddling it, Nicholas kept to the shallow current. "The packet you're carrying will guarantee that."

Michael looked disgusted. "A glorified messenger boy, I am. I had visions of cannon in mind when I followed you out here."

"You don't know how to shoot one. I do. And the only person with cannon out here besides the British is Lafitte." Nicholas's aristocratic mouth curled in contempt at the remembrance of a certain conversation. "I can't believe even old Hickory is as prejudiced against pirates as Claiborne. You Americans have a strange sense of honor."

"Will you keep your voice down?" Michael continued anxiously studying the banks. "I've had enough near escapes to make me glad I'm the one going to the governor and not you. I don't ever want to see another swamp in my life."

Nicholas remained silent. Michael spoke the truth. They had risked their lives almost every minute of every day since they had left New Orleans. Once, the challenge would have thrilled him. Now it was growing old. Killing alligators and snakes, eluding Indians and quicksand, became a daily grind similar to the monotonous chores of sailing a ship. One did it to survive and got out of it as soon as possible.