Winds of the Storm (15 page)

Her adrenaline finally slowing, she said, “Hello. How are you?”

“Not sure. You shooting everyone tonight, or just Etienne?”

She couldn't stop her smile from showing. “So far, just him.”

“Good to know.” He entered the office fully, saying, “Are you all right?”

“I am.” Just thinking about Barber and his devil-may-care boast of rape started her simmering yet again.

“I think you need a bracing bowl of Aristide's crab bisque. My carriage is nearby. Care to join me?”

Zahra found him as tempting as gold must have been to King Midas, and her nipples tightened as if they eagerly agreed. “No, I think not.”

He dropped his head. “I'm disappointed.”

She grinned. “I'm certain it won't be for long. Go see the twins.”

“I'm not interested in seeing the twins. Only you.”

“We had our one night, Archer. Remember.”

“I do, but do you?”

The intensity in his eyes touched her like a hand, and the memories of being in his moonlit bed rose unbidden.

“If I can't convince you with the bisque, how about we walk outside for a breath of air? I'm sure you could use some after all the excitement.”

Zahra thought that a grand idea. Never mind that she'd vowed to keep her physical attraction to him under wraps; it wasn't working. Resisting him seemed to be futile. “A walk sounds fine, but
I must wait until Alfred returns so he can secure the door.”

As if cued, Alfred and Caleb, who was one of the gardeners, returned with wood and tools. She saw Alfred and Le Veq eye each other for a long moment before Alfred turned from him to say to her, “One of the doctors in the gambling room is patching Barber up. I'll put him out when the doc's done.”

“Good. Mr. Le Veq is going to escort me outside for some air. I'll return shortly.”

Alfred nodded, but she saw his grim visage trained on Le Veq as they left the room.

Outside, they headed for the quiet of the gardens. They could hear the revelry going on inside the house, but as they walked further, the noise faded to silence.

Archer said, “He doesn't care for me much, does he?”

“Who?”

“Your man, Alfred.”

She smiled. “Alfred doesn't care for any man I walk with under the moonlight. He's very protective.”

“I'd hate to get on his wrong side. He looks strong enough to break a man in half.”

“He was a pugilist during slavery.”

“And won many a bout, I'm sure.”

They were now out of sight of the house. When she spotted the stone bench set near the trellises in the winter-bare rose garden, she took a seat. She was glad she'd grabbed a shawl before venturing out. It was chilly. “When will the weather warm?”

“Soon. Mid-February usually brings the spring temperatures.”

“Good.”

“So, you were raised in the South.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn't have to. If you were born up North, this weather wouldn't bother you.”

“Your first clue,” she said.

“No, second.”

“What's the first?”

“That you are a very passionate woman.”

He was seated beside her on the bench close enough for her to smell the faint notes of his spicy cologne. Doing her best to ignore the effects of his nearness on her senses, she said, “I mustn't forget how quick you are, Archer.”

“Not if you plan to keep your secrets.”

Hoping to turn the conversation to something more mundane, she asked, “And how is Aristide?”

Instead of answering, his finger began to lightly trace the rich curves of her mouth with a slow, lingering possessiveness that caused her to shimmer in answer to his silent call. “As much as I want to kiss this mouth, I won't until you remove your mask….”

Leaning in, he licked the tip of his tongue against the corner of her mouth. The sizzling sensation made her want to remove her mask there and then. He leaned in again to set the other corner afire, then traced her parted lips with a magical finger. “But I will kiss other parts of you, Domino….”

Putting action to words, his lips found her jaw and the sensitive lobe of her ear. Brushing his mouth over the soft skin beneath, he stirred her passion to life.

He kissed his way down her throat. Her gold shawl slipped down her shoulder, and he moved his tribute over the bared skin just long enough to fill his senses with the smell of her perfume, then across the yielding flesh above the low-cut indigo gown. “You enchant me,
chérie.
…”

The warmth of his hands moving over her breasts made up for the loss of her shawl. She didn't feel the chill in the night air—only him and her body's burgeoning reaction.

When he freed her breasts from her gown and began to feast, her earlier pledge to never let him make love to her again became nothing more than hollow words. Because of her inexperience, she had no way of controlling the heat spreading through her like warmed molasses, nor could she keep her croons of desire from rising to become one with the night air. When he lifted his head to place his lips against the nook of her trembling throat, she could feel the chill on her damp nipples from his heated play.

The kisses against her throat burned her so badly that her head fell back and his hand slipped down her body to her thighs. He palmed her boldly through the layers of indigo silk, searing her there and coaxing her to open. She surrendered willingly, felt her skirt rising and then his hand on her stocking-encased leg, moving, squeezing, caressing as it sought her ultimate
warmth. When he found her through the slit in her silk drawers, she crooned gratefully, then gasped as he slid his long finger inside.

In an inviting voice as thick as the night, he said to her, “Look at me.”

All the while he was seducing, teasing, making it hard for her to even open her eyes, let alone speak. He withdrew, and she moaned with soft complaint.

He smiled, “You must look at me, my greedy
chérie,
so that I can watch you take your pleasure…”

He impaled her again, and she writhed scandalously. She forced her eyes to his, and the heat in them made her passion roar higher.

“Wider,
bébé.
”

She complied without complaint because the pleasure was so glorious. He slid the dress up on her waist and then pushed in another finger with such masterful skill that she shuddered and came, screaming hoarsely.

“Shhh,
ma chérie.
They will hear you in Paris.”

“Ah go dahhh!”
Zahra cried out in Gullah as the orgasm tossed her about.

Setting aside for now this second instance of her speaking in a foreign tongue, Archer watched her through the desire gleaming in his eyes. He could have her this way twenty-four hours a day for years and it would not be enough. Gently bringing her back to herself with soft touches and kisses on her jaw, he politely set her dress to rights and said, “Now. Ready to go back?”

Hardly able to move, let alone walk, she smacked him in the arm. “You are an awful man, do you know that, Archer Le Veq?”

He pretended to flick a piece of lint from his shoulder. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You didn't seem to think I was so awful when you were shouting at the stars.”

Embarrassed to her toes, she looked away.

Archer studied her with surprise. “You're embarrassed.” It was a statement.

Zahra grabbed hold of herself. “No, I'm not.”

He turned her face to his and looked down into her eyes. Even though she met his gaze without flinching, Archer's sense of something being out of kilter was strong enough to touch. “Why would a woman who claims to be a madame be such an innocent sometimes?”

“You said you liked it when I pretended.”

“Are you that good an actress?”

“Yes, I am. Fooled you, didn't I?”

Archer wasn't convinced. He wished he could see her face better. It was night, true, but the damn mask hid her eyes just enough to keep him from being able to see their true nature.

“I should get back before Alfred comes looking.”

“Who are you really?” he asked quietly.

“Domino.”

“I'm going to find out eventually.”

“There isn't anything to find out.” Kissing him on his cheek, she whispered, “Thank you for the pleasure, Archer.”

Picking up the hems of her gown, she hastened back the way they'd come.

Archer watched her go, but instead of following, he sat there alone in the dark for a very long time.

Z
ahra lay in bed, but she wasn't asleep. Every time she closed her eyes, the face of Archer Le Veq appeared, and her body would echo with heated remembrance. Having a man haunt her thoughts no matter where they turned was new for her; new and, in its own way, uniquely disturbing. How was she to conduct business when all she could think about was him raising her gown and filling her with his lush magic? The interlude in the garden had left her weak-legged and damp for the rest of the night. Even now, just thinking back tightened her nipples and inflamed her core. She tried not to dwell on the memories, but her mind couldn't help reliving the sensual moments. What was she to do with the wanton ache that seemed to come over her whenever she thought of him? Believing she could surrender to him without entangling parts of herself had been
fueled by her own naive arrogance. Henry Adams had dubbed her the spider. Well, the spider was caught in Archer Le Veq's web of sensuality, and she had no idea how to break free.

Since sleep seemed to be fleeting, she got up and walked to the French doors, opening them to the chilly night. After wrapping herself in a quilt, she took a seat on one of the verandah's wrought-iron chairs and looked up at the stars. Another problem haunting her was the fate of her parents. She'd written to them a few days ago via Wilma, who would forward it to Araminta. From there the letter would wind its way to Sanctuary in a journey that could take weeks or even months, depending on the circumstances. She prayed they were doing well and that she'd be able to see them soon. She wondered what they would think of Le Veq if they met him. Her father, James, would be wary at first—after all, Le Veq was
gens de coleur
—but she sensed that once he and Archer began discussing politics, the wariness would fade. Her father had been a staunch Republican after the war. He'd voted in the bloody national elections of 1886 and had encouraged others to do the same in spite of the death threats he'd received. As the head man of their small community, he'd helped organize the school and the communal association the local farmers had formed to jointly sell their crops. He'd also instituted Republican meetings, which had been held every Saturday. The meetings had always been well attended by people of all ages, who had gathered to discuss politics and to hear Republican and Black newspapers read aloud. James, like
the other men in his line, was a descendant of the original James, a slave owned by William Armistead of New Kent County, Virginia. The Armisteads' James was also the family's first spy. In 1778, with Armistead's permission, James did reconnaissance work for the young Marquis de Lafayette, who'd come to America to help in the fight against British troops under the command of infamous traitor Benedict Arnold. During the time they worked together, James and Lafayette found much to admire in each other—so much so that after James was freed by the Virginia Assembly in 1786 in reward for his meritous service, he took the surname Lafayette. Zahra's family had been Lafayette and spies for the United States government ever since.

Now here she sat in the chilly night air of New Orleans, continuing the family legacy in an operation that she was certain would make no difference to the country one way or another. The minds of President Grant and the members of Congress were probably already made up on how to proceed, and no one would be offering to ease the freedmen's plight. Her talk with Henry Adams had been valuable, however, in the sense that at least someone was trying to fight back. He and his volunteers were doing the work the government should have been doing in surveying conditions and offering solutions, but the country was ready to move on and apparently didn't care about those being left behind.

Zahra got up and went back inside. Discarding the quilt, she poked at the fire roaring in her grate, then crawled back into bed. When sleep finally
descended, her last thoughts were not of her parents or the president but of Archer Le Veq.

 

There was something about Domino, Archer mused as he lay in his bed, that wasn't right. He could feel it in his gut. Her reticence and underlying innocence in bed seemed too real to be an act. So what was at foot here? Was she really a madame? Had she inherited the string of girls somehow? Was there a pimp, and if so, had he put her on display just for window dressing? Archer quickly ruled out that theory. After seeing what she'd done to Etienne this evening, he didn't think she could be manipulated or forced into anything against her will. And why the mask? Was it simply for show, or was she wearing it for a specific reason? He was reminded of the ongoing speculation that she could be scarred, but what if she weren't? During Carnival season masked balls were all the rage and most people donned the disguise simply for fun, but others hid their faces for the express purpose of anonymity. Which category did she fall under? The realization that he was no closer to finding out her true identity than he'd been on the first day he'd met her in his office was frustrating, but Archer loved mysteries almost as much as he did beautiful women.
I'll figure it out sooner or later,
was his last thought as he drifted off to sleep.

 

Have you ever heard the word
waa'ment
before?” Archer asked his brother Raimond the next morning. They were in Archer's office, and the dark-skinned Raimond had his large frame
comfortably settled in one of the upholstered office chairs.

Raimond echoed the word
waa'ment.
He mused on it for a moment, then asked, “Are you sure that's what she said?”

Archer nodded. “Fairly certain. I was standing just outside the door, and I heard her clearly.”

“And she said it after she shot Barber?”

“Yes.”

“I'll bet Etienne wasn't happy.”

“Not at all. Called her a bitch.”

Raimond raised an eyebrow.

Archer added, “I got the impression that the word wasn't a compliment, either. She was rather angry at the time.”

Archer watched Raimond muse on the conundrum for a few silent moments more, then softly repeat the word over and over as if weighing the syllables on his tongue and in his mind.

Raimond said, “Okay, let's leave that one for a moment. Tell me about the other phrase.”

“She said, as close as I can remember,
‘Ah go da,'
or something similar, and the
da
sound was elongated.”

“Like
daaaa?
”

“Yes.”

“What was she doing?”

“None of your business.”

Raimond cocked his head. “What do you mean, none of my business?”

“You heard me.”

Raimond sat up, “How the hell am I supposed to help if—”

“We were making love.”

Raimond's eyebrows rose. “I see.” He studied Archer's tight face, and then he began to laugh.

“What's so funny?”

“You. You're becoming obsessed with this woman, aren't you?”

“No, I'm not.”

“I leave here for a month and Don Juan here falls for a whore.”

“Stow it, Rai. I don't think she is a whore.”

Raimond looked incredulous. “What do you mean, you don't think so? The sign outside says Madame Domino's Gentleman's Club. The girls inside aren't the sisters at the Ursuline convent.”

Archer sat back against his chair and folded his arms. His voice was cool as he stated, “You thought your wife Sable was a Reb traitor when you first married her.”

“But that was different.”

“How?”

Raimond opened his mouth but closed it again, unable to think of a way to back up his claim.

Archer said, “I'm of the belief that Domino is not who she's claming to be.”

“Based upon what?”

“Let's just say a man can tell a lot about a woman in bed.”

Rai dropped his head into his hands and said,
“Sacre bleu.”
Then he said, “The lovely Juliana is going to have my hide for helping you with this. She's not happy with the rumors flying about you and your Domino, but as you noted, I thought Sable was someone she wasn't, so…” And he shrugged, as if no further explanation was necessary.

“So are the phrases familiar to you at all?”

“Yes,” Raimond admitted. “Sounds like Gullah.”

“Gullah? The language spoken in the Sea Islands?”

“And in other coastal parts of the country.”

Archer knew that after the war Raimond and André Renaud had spent time with Harriet Tubman and the freedmen in the Sea Islands. “So if it's Gullah, what do the words mean?”

“
Waa'ment
is a Creole corruption of the word ‘varmint.'”

“And the other phrase.”

“Well, brat, whatever you were doing to her at the time must have been good, because loosely translated,
ah go da
means ‘I'm going to die.'”

That said, he began to laugh again, and a pleased Archer simply smiled.

Later, after leaving his office at the end of the day, Archer stopped off at Lynette's before venturing across town to Juliana's for dinner. Lynette had sent a message around earlier in the day saying she had something of importance to speak with him about, so he'd come to hear what she had to say.

She met him at the door wearing a white dressing gown so transparent that her light brown nipples and the shadow of hair at her thighs were unabashedly displayed. “Thank you for coming.”

Archer stepped inside and followed her to the parlor. He had to admit that the sight of her hips swaying seductively beneath the gown caught his eye.

“Do you like it?” she tossed back over her shoulder.

He smiled. “What man wouldn't?”

With a saucy smile, she poured him tea from the pot on the table and offered him a cup. Once she had a cup of her own, she took a delicate sip, then set the cup down on the white china saucer. “I've decided to give you one last chance.”

Archer placed his cup down. “One last chance—to do what?”

“Come to your senses. I talked to my aunt about the problems we're having.”

Archer had never cared for familial interference in his affairs, but Lynette felt differently. “And she said?”

“That I should let you sow your wild oats and not worry. She assured me that once you get over the novelty of that masked whore, you'll come back to me.”

“I see.”

Lynette was smiling, as if she'd just solved the world's most pressing problems. “So, I am content to wait. It won't be that long.”

“Why not?”

“Because you'll eventually come to your senses and realize that she's as used as an old handkerchief. Really, Archer, how can you go where so many other men have been before?”

Archer didn't respond.

“Since I refuse to be the laughingstock of the city, I'm going to go visit my granduncle in Haiti for a few months. By the time I return, you will have gotten over your obsession and we can pick
up where we were before the whore came to town.”

“Is your uncle paying your passage?”

“No, silly. You are. It's the least you can do, considering the circumstances, don't you think?”

“No.”

Surprise etched her doll-like face. “What do you mean, no?”

“No, Lynette. I am not paying your passage to Haiti, or anywhere else.”

She stared. “What has gotten into you?”

“I'll pay the rent here for the next three months. That should give you ample time to find another protector and a new place to live.”

“Archer?”

“It's over, Lynette, and I'll admit to it being my fault.”

She laughed. “You can't leave me. The root I put on you won't allow for it.”

“What root?”

“The strongest root there is. My woman's blood.”

Bile rose in his throat. “You put blood in my food!”

“How do you think I've kept you with me all these years? Woman's blood. Each month I put a few drops of the flow in your food. The magic binds you to me. You can't leave me.”

Nauseous, Archer stood.

“I will kill her if you leave me. I swear I will.”

Archer walked out of the room.

She scrambled off her seat. “Come back here!”

At the door, he stopped and turned to say, “I've
changed my mind. You have two weeks to pack up and vacate, or stay and be evicted.”

He walked through the door, his stomach roiling queasily in response to her admission. Outside, he almost made it to his carriage before having to stop and vomit. When he drove away, she was standing in the doorway, smiling.

 

The next morning, while the girls were at Wilma's being fitted for new gowns, Zahra called her staff together. Some of the eight faces had changed since she'd arrived in New Orleans, but they were all dispatches, and she finally had something worthy for them to undertake.

”We're looking for Death Books,” she told everyone. When she explained what the books were, there were more than a few startled gasps.

“I need your ears and your eyes open when you're in the markets, on the streets, at parties, or simply talking to other servants. If you hear anything of import, let me or Alfred know. One of Matilda's customers, a man named Isenbaum, claims to be a high muckety muck in one of the White Leagues, so we're going to put him under surveillance. Ideally we'd like to get someone inside his estate to pose as a servant, but right now, we need to find out as much about him as we can.”

She looked around until she spotted the two faces she'd been looking for. “Jesse and Caleb, you two take the surveillance of his home.” Jesse was from Biloxi and Caleb from Atlanta. Presently they were posing as members of Zahra's gardening staff. “Choose whatever disguises you
deem suitable.” Then she added, “As we all know, cowards like Isenbaum and his friends rarely conduct their dirty business during the day, so we're more concerned with where he goes and who he visits, or who comes to visit him, after dark.”