Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (20 page)

Tom climbed to his feet, adjusted his eye patch, and realized that the sight in his good eye was fading rapidly. “Oh, shit,” he whispered in horror. Tentatively, afraid of what he'd find, he explored the damage and discovered a deep gash on his forehead that was bleeding into his eye. Relieved, he pulled out his shirt-tail, wiped his face, and found he could see again. “Are you all right?” he asked the writhing and moaning Slurry. He bent over and shook the older man's shoulder. “Come on, Slurry. Get up.”

Slurry took Tom's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Swaying unsteadily, he spit out blood and a piece of tooth. “Tol' you the Cottonmouth was a hell of a place, didn't I, mates?” he said, a silly grin spreading over his face.

“That you did, Slurry,” Maurice said from flat on his back. He rolled over, climbed to his feet, and brushed himself off. “I purely hate,” he said, “for them fellers to think they got the best of us. 'Specially when I only got to drink two of them Cottonmouths.” His eyes went to the door of the tavern and a devilish look appeared. “Wha'd'ya say, Tom?”

The bleeding was slowing. Tom flexed his shoulder, found it still operable, and realized that he felt better than he had since the night he'd learned that the boys had been kidnapped. He ripped a strip from the bottom of his shirt and tied a makeshift bandage around his head so the blood wouldn't blind him again. “I say we pay those gents another visit,” he said. “Only this time, throw them
away
from me, not
at
me. I was doing just fine until—”

“Ye must be joking, lads,” Slurry cried as he caught at Tom's sleeve. “We got out alive the first time. There ain't no need to tempt fate again. It'd be a Christian thing to forgive them lads.”

Tom pulled off his belt, wrapped it around his right hand while Maurice did the same. “I'll forgive 'em, all right,” he said.

“We've forgave roisterers like that before,” Maurice agreed, starting toward the door. “After we've read 'em from the book.”

“No!” The soft, feminine whisper came from a narrow alley that separated the Cottonmouth from the coffeehouse next door. A slender figure emerged from the deep shadows and entered the faint illumination that came from the door of the tavern. “Please. Do not go in there again.”

“Adriana?” Tom asked, astonished.

“Yes. You must not go in there a second time. Zebediah will turn Bull Hallam and his friends loose on you, and you could be killed. You must leave and not come back.” She stepped closer and saw the bloody bandage wrapped around Tom's forehead. “
Mon Dieu!
You are hurt!”

“A cut,” Tom protested. “It'll heal.”

Adriana lifted one edge of the bandage. “It is filled with dirt from the street,” she announced. “You will get blood poisoning if it is not cleaned.”

She smelled faintly of wood smoke and lilacs, and the touch of her hand befuddled him. “I've … ah … had worse,” Tom said lamely, aware that Maurice was staring at him. “But …” He took a deep breath, and decided. “We don't want to cause any more trouble where you work,” he said firmly. “We'll leave.”

Maurice snorted in disappointment, but signaled his acceptance of Tom's decision by moving back toward the center of the street. A look of total relief crossed Slurry's face.

“Good. And now, you must allow me to see to your injury.” Adriana glanced at Slurry. “And yours, too, monsieur,” she added, noting the blood running down his chin. “I live here at the tavern, but a friend nearby will let us use her house.”

“I assure you that's not necessary, Adriana. We can—”

“I wish to help,” Adriana insisted. “And gentlemen like yourselves would not refuse, eh, messieurs?”

Slurry gulped and shook his head.

Tom grinned. “Since you insist, how can we refuse? We'll go wherever you want.”

“And you will accompany us, my valiant warrior?” Adriana asked Maurice.

“Well, ah …”

“Good. Come along, then. I must dance again soon. There is little time.”

Tom gave Adriana his arm as she led the way. “You never finished telling my fortune,” he reminded her.

“That is true,” Adriana admitted. “And you never told me your name. Or those of your friends, for that matter.”

Tom introduced Maurice and Slurry. “And I'm Tom Paxton. Thomas Gunn Paxton, really.”

“Tom. Thomas Gunn Paxton.” The name flowed from her tongue, and the mysterious accent made the words sound lovelier than Tom would have dreamed possible. “And you know that I am called Adriana.”

“Adriana—?” Tom prompted, waiting to hear her last name.

She almost told him, came closer than she had to telling any man since Giuseppe's death. Why, she wasn't sure. Something about him, though, some quality that other men lacked.… “Just Adriana,” she said simply. Sadness and anger were mixed in her voice, but the message was clear: Tom should not ask again.

“A lovely name. One that suits you, I might add,” Tom said hurriedly. “You dance beautifully. Slurry tells me that you're a Gypsy. Was that a Gypsy dance?”

“It was the dance I dance.”

“It was marvelous. I've never seen …” He felt foolish making small talk, but couldn't seem to stop. Fate certainly had a liking for strange circumstances, he mused. Otherwise, why was he flirting with this woman in the street while blood oozed from a cut on his head?

His hand on the hilt of his knife, Maurice kept a sharp eye out. Adriana didn't look like the sort of woman who would lead a man into a trap, but dark and unfamiliar streets made him wary. “You mind tellin' us where we're goin', miss?” he asked.

“As I said, I have a friend who lives near here,” Adriana said over her shoulder. “She'll let us use her kitchen.”

The old and elegant house to which she led them was half-hidden behind an iron fence and a thick hedge. When Adriana knocked, the door was opened by an elderly lady holding an angry tomcat by the scruff of its neck in one hand and a lantern in the other. Her face was a record of beauty faded, of time that had stolen her youthful loveliness, leaving in its place understanding and wisdom. “My goodness, Adriana, whatever are you doing here at this hour?”

“Some friends need help, Madame Villon,” Adriana answered simply. “May we come in?”

They could, and, without a moment's hesitation, did. “This is awfully kind of you, ma'am,” Tom said. “Most people wouldn't open their doors to strangers in the middle of the night.”

“Adriana is no stranger. She is my friend whose youth and beauty bring back many wonderful memories. Her friends are my friends, Mr.—?”

The introductions complete, Madame Villon, regal in her dressing gown, her long white hair let down for the night, led them through the house. The front parlor smelled faintly of musk and jasmine, the dining room of lavender and mint. Tom glimpsed a montage of oil lamps and green growing plants and vases topped with peacock feathers as he passed through the house.

“We sure are grateful,” Maurice said as Madame Villon opened the kitchen door. “We got in a little ruckus over at the Cottonmouth, is how we got banged up.”

“I can imagine,” Madame Villon said. “I have seen a few ruckuses in my time, monsieur. Oh, heavenly days!” she exclaimed to the cat, which had become thoroughly outraged. She put down the lantern and cuddled the animal briefly before setting him free. “Poor Edward. I'm afraid he simply doesn't understand.”

“Understand?” Tom asked, mystified.

Madame Villon busied herself collecting a basin and rags and water. “Why, his usefulness, of course. I'm an old woman, and sometimes very bad men come to my door. But they always leave when I throw Edward in their faces.”

Slurry's eyes widened; Maurice stifled a guffaw. “I sure hope,” Tom said, somehow keeping a straight face, “that you never forget I'm a friend.”

The hour was late and Adriana had to leave soon. She cleaned Slurry's cut lip, washed and bandaged Maurice's knuckles in spite of his protests, and then turned both men over to the tender mercies of Madame Villon, who led them to the parlor for a glass of her homemade scuppernong brandy.

“She's quite a woman,” Tom said as Adriana turned to him.

His face, now in the light, now darkened by her shadow, still seemed familiar. Adriana wet a cloth in fresh water and laid it on the bandage to soak it loose.
But where have I seen him? In England? In New Orleans? In my dreams?
She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, and peeled the bandage from his forehead. “I'm sorry,” she said when he winced.

“'S'all right. Reminds me of the time when …”

He talked, but she didn't hear. In her dreams, then? The oak tree and the brambles? She worked swiftly and efficiently, scrubbing, using tweezers to pluck out more stubborn bits of dirt. That eye—only one eye—so soft and yet so piercing.

“There,” she finally said. She gently dried the skin around the cut and closed it with strips of adhesive, then bound a small wad of moss to it with a fresh bandage. “There should be only a small scar now.”

“Thanks,” Tom said, looking up at her and realizing with a rush how beautiful she was. Even more beautiful close to him than when she'd danced. “You …”—his voice sounded distant, strangely different—“… didn't have to do this. I appreciate it.”

Men! How many over the years had stared at her and desired her? And yet this one, handsome for all his scars, a man of conflicting violence and gentleness.… Something had drawn her to him, some force too powerful to be denied. “I did only what I wished to do,” she said, making herself speak in the hope that words might break the spell that bound her. She touched his shirt and grimaced. “Your shirt will be ruined. Give it to me now, before the blood dries, and I'll rinse it.”

“All right.” Tom stood, removed his coat, began to unbutton his shirt, and then stopped when Adriana gasped and backed away from him. Confused, he looked down at himself, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “What's wrong?” he asked. “I don't understand.”

The vision became real! An amulet of gold … an oak tree entwined with brambles! It was he, the man she had seen in her dreams! The hair on the back of her neck prickled and her blood went cold. Thomas Gunn Paxton was the man for whom she had been waiting! Awed by the confluence of vision and reality, unable to tear her eyes away, unable to resist, finally, the urge, she reached out and touched the amulet.

Tom stared at her. The amulet was obviously significant to her but why, he couldn't imagine. Inexplicably, her hesitation and the wonder on her face made her seem terribly vulnerable, and Tom found himself wanting to gather her in his arms, to hold and comfort her. “What do you see, Adriana?” he asked.

Adriana closed her eyes and shuddered violently.

Unnerved, afraid she would fall, Tom reached to support her. “For God's sake, what do you see?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes opened. Her voice sounded normal. Matter-of-factly, she began to rebutton his shirt. “It's too late. The blood is dry.” She was careful to keep her eyes from his. “I must return to the Cotton-mouth. Can you and your friends find your way home?”

“I think so.” He shrugged into his coat. “Adriana, I—”

Her voice was cool and distant, a wall between them. “Yes?”

“I …” Something told him that pressing her about her reaction to the amulet would be a grave error. “I would like to see you again, if I might,” he said instead. “Perhaps we could take a carriage ride tomorrow. I can hire a team and rig …”

She needed time to contemplate all that had happened, to sort out her thoughts, her fears, her hopes. “I would love to go for a carriage ride with you, Thomas Gunn Paxton,” she said. “But you shouldn't call for me at the Cottonmouth.” She reflected a moment. “We can meet at the Cabildo. Do you know where it is?”

“I'll be there. Early afternoon. One o'clock, say?”

“That is fine.” The look on her face was dazzling in its loveliness as she hurried to the back door. “I must run. Madame Villon will let you out the front way.” She hesitated, half-in and half-out the door. “Good night,” she whispered. “Until tomorrow.”

CHAPTER XI

The Cabildo had housed the city's government under Spanish rule, and had retained that role during the brief occupation of the French and, more recently, under American authority. Adriana arrived an hour early at the porticoed edifice with its wrought-iron decorations, sculpted facade, and impressive array of arches and cut-glass windows. She had arrived early in order to think—although that was virtually all she had done for the past twelve hours.

The amulet had been a shock for which, despite the warnings, she was unprepared. So great had been her confusion that she had returned to the Cottonmouth, danced, read palms, and danced again without any memory of doing so. First light was softening the sky when, at last, the Cottonmouth closed and she found the time she needed. Alone in her room, she lighted her candle, stared deeply into the flame, and found—nothing.

Nothing! The vision had deserted her! Panic-stricken, she lay on her cot and forced herself to relax by taking slow breaths and imagining the beauty of a sunset … and still no vision. At last, she was forced to conclude that her powers had failed her. One thing she knew, though: whatever else the future held, Thomas Gunn Paxton would play a part. She slept fitfully, dreamed of Giuseppe and Trevor Bliss, but never of Tom. And when, at ten, she rose to bathe and dress, she had reached a decision. The amulet and Thomas Gunn Paxton were inextricably entwined, and she had no choice but to attach her fortunes to Tom's and have faith that he would somehow, eventually, lead her to Trevor Bliss.

The morning was cool, with a high layer of light clouds drifting up from the gulf and slowly burning off. By noon, when Adriana found a seat in the small park across the road from the Cabildo, it was warm enough to remove her shawl. She waited calmly and confidently, sure that he would arrive, for though her visions might not reveal everything she wanted to know, neither did they lead her astray.