Winds of the Storm (23 page)

“Evening,
chérie.
”

“Evening to you, too,” she responded in soft welcome. “I thought you were working with the Republicans on their rally.”

“We finished early, so I came to see you.”

“I'm flattered.”

Archer wanted to eat her up right there and then. She was wearing a plain white blouse and a dark skirt. He'd hardened from the moment she'd looked up and met his eyes, and nothing had changed. “Is the lovely Juliana here?”

“No, she went to visit Aunt Vi.”

“Ah, the saintly Aunt Vi. Mother has been visiting her for as long as I can remember. The woman must be a century old by now.”

Zahra hid her smile. “Little Reba left food in the kitchen. Are you hungry?”

He eyed her without shame. “I'm starving.”

The pace of Zahra's heartbeat increased. “For food?”

“For you.”

Her senses opened like petals in the sun. “Then lock that door.”

Archer chuckled and did what he was told.

Now that they were secured in the small room Juliana had converted into an office for Zahra's use, Archer removed his coat and set it, with his hat and cane, on a nearby chair. Zahra was watching his every move.

“So, Miss Zahra Crane,” he said, “have you ever made love to a man before?”

“No, Mr. Le Veq.”

Archer's already attentive manhood stiffened like railroad steel in response to the velvety voice and the intensity in her dark eyes. “Never?”

“Never.”

“Then we'll have to start from the beginning.”

“Just tell me what to do.”

“First, your drawers,” he said softly. “Remove them, please.”

Zahra slowly lifted her full skirt, undid the tapes, and worked the white undergarment down her legs and then off. The pulse between her thighs seemed to be synchronized with her pumping heartbeat.

“Very good. Now come here.”

She crossed the room to him, and he kissed her with a soft heat that made her desire flower and bloom. Soon they were dual participants in an erotic, breathtaking coming together that wildly exceeded all other couplings of the past. And when they'd both experienced
la petite mort
for the final time, they lay against each other in the center of Juliana's imported Turkish rug and willed their breathing and heartbeats to slow. Zahra had never participated in such scandalous games in all her life, while Archer, the master of the bedroom games, realized he had finally found his equal.

Zahra said, “Your mother's going to come home eventually.”

He slid his hand over a plump breast and replied, “I suppose we should get dressed.”

Suddenly there was a sharp knock, followed by his mother calling, “Archer!”

His eyes widened, and he looked at Zahra and grinned. “Yes, Mama?” he called back.

“I'm going to assume you two are in there talking and not ruining the fabric on my sofa or rugs!”

Archer and Zahra looked down at the telltale signs they'd left on the rug. Zahra placed her hand over her mouth to keep her laughter from being heard on the other side of the door.

Then Juliana called, “Get dressed. I have something important I need to share with you two.”

They heard her footsteps retreat. In the silence that followed, the naked lovers turned to each other, then laughed behind their hands until they cried.

Archer and Zahra joined Juliana in the parlor a short while later, and Zahra couldn't quite meet the mild censure in Juliana's dark eyes. Zahra was certain her own mother would be appalled knowing Zahra had repaid Mrs. Le Veq Vincent's kindness and hospitality with such scandalous behavior.

“You can stop looking so meek, Zahra. I know how tempting my sons are, I was married to their father, after all. We ruined more—”

“Mother!” Archer said, cutting her off. His eyes were wide.

Juliana said, “If you and your brothers wish to believe your births were by immaculate conception, that is your choice, but I know better.”

He asked hastily, “What did you wish to discuss?”

Zahra tried to hide her smile and failed.

“Brandon Crete.”

“And?”

“He is not a simple citizen. He's in the upper echelon of a new supremacist group calling themselves Sons of the White Star.”

“How do you know this?” Archer asked.

“A friend.”

He studied her. “Who?”

“Do you wish to hear this or not?”

“I do, but—”

“Then please stop interrupting.”

He looked over at Zahra, but her attention remained focused on Juliana. He sighed and gestured for his mother to continue.

According to Juliana, Crete's group was small, but unlike other groups of its ilk, it was very selective about its membership. “They are based in Georgia but accept only the elite. Most of the members are former Reb officers, rich planters, and politicians from across the South.”

Zahra found that interesting. “Any idea why he's here?”

“Unfortunately, no. He may be here recruiting. He may be here because there is a plot afoot.”

Archer said, “So in other words, we're going to have to keep an eye on him as well?”

Zahra replied, “Might be a good idea.”

“We have enough on our plate,” Archer disagreed. “We can't investigate every supremacist in town—we have neither the time nor the resources.”

“I know, Archer, but Crete's here for a reason.”

He asked Zahra, “Did Alfred have an opportunity to talk to the women who have been trying to infiltrate the homes of Isenbaum and his friends?”

“Yes, he did, but so far, they've not found a way in. I wish we knew where Crete was staying.”

“Zahra,” he said warningly. “We're supposed to be concentrating on those books, remember?”

“I do, but if the two are related?”

“Then we'll find him out.”

She knew he was right, of course, about spreading their forces too thin. Spying was in her blood, however, and she knew she wouldn't rest until the questions surrounding Brandon Crete and his reasons for being in New Orleans were resolved.

Juliana said, “Unless you two have any more questions, I'm off to bed. Zahra, you may want to seek your bed, too. It's late.” She looked at her son. “And Archer, go home.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Come, Zahra.”

Zahra wiggled her fingers in farewell at Archer, and he winked and went to get his coat.

 

With the start of Mardi Gras only days away, incidents of violence and intimidation were increasing on the city's streets. The police had their hands full with roaming gangs of hoodlums harassing and intimidating Blacks young and old, rich and poor. Out in the countryside, White Radicals known to be working for change and equality were being subjected to nightly visitations by mounted masked terrorists blowing horns and carrying torches. Some Radicals had even been
dragged from their homes and whipped like slaves. The Le Veq brothers and the bands of Black vets who were riding each night to meet the threats head-on saw only limited success, because their forces weren't large enough to patrol everywhere.

Thus the need for today's rally called by the Republicans to denounce the terror. Standing near the podium waiting for the next speaker to begin, Archer surveyed the crowd. He was pleased to see that hundreds of people had shown up; at more and more rallies across the South, participants were being shot at and, in some cases, killed by forces opposed to justice. People of all races and ages were in attendance today—even some of the Chinese now being employed on the docks had come, some with their families. There were signs and banners; church associations; Republican ward clubs; sisters from the Ursuline convent; and average citizens. All had come together this afternoon to say No More.

Archer found the speakers inspiring, and he wished Zahra were at his side, but she thought it best to stay in the shadows. He'd spent all morning discreetly looking into the faces of men he'd passed on the street, hoping to come across Brandon Crete, but so far his efforts hadn't borne fruit.

The rally lasted over an hour, and when it ended, the crowd began singing “Amazing Grace.” As the voices rose to embrace the second verse, a succession of shots rang out, sending the screaming, terrified assemblage scrambling for cover. Then around the corner came a hundred or more
masked riders, blowing horns and tin whistles and doing their best to run down any one who got in their path. Archer, who'd sought cover behind the elevated dais, began firing his pistol, as did other men nearby. Their combined shots and the answering fire of the supremacists, both in the crowd and on horseback, filled the street with a deadly hail. Suddenly soldiers on foot and on horseback joined the fray, and the masked riders wheeled their horses and fled. Their supporters did their best to delay the army's pursuit by blocking the way with commandeered vendor carts, backing wagons into the soldiers' paths and continuing to pepper the air with shot. As a result, the bulk of the riders got away, but Archer saw two angry-faced men being taken into custody by the police.

In the aftermath, Archer looked around to see if anyone nearby had been injured. A few feet away he saw a woman kneeling on the ground beside a small boy lying prone in the street. Hurrying over with a number of other people to see what kind of aid the child needed, they stopped when the woman brought the lifeless youngster to her chest and began to rock and wail. Filled with equal amounts of rage and despair, Archer watched as the authorities arrived to take charge. Then he turned and walked away, her cries of sorrow echoing in his head and heart.

 

Zahra's afternoon wasn't progressing much better. Seated at her desk, she was reading the reports sent to her by leaders and veterans groups across the South. None were uplifting; everything
was violence, violence, violence, but some of the most disturbing news came out of South Carolina.

Her home state had made history after the war by electing the largest number of men of color to its legislature, passing color-blind laws and generally showing the nation what progress could be had if Blacks and Whites worked together. Now, however, the race was under brutal assault. In Piedmont County, five hundred masked men had rushed the local jail and lynched eight Black prisoners. In York County, where nearly every adult White male was a member of the Kluxers, eleven murders, along with hundreds of whippings, had been reported. To then read that thousands of her state's Black citizens were being forced to hide in the trees every night out of fear for their lives left her tight-lipped, grim, and worried sick about her parents.

When she glanced up, Archer was standing in the doorway. He looked terrible. “What's happened?”

“A child was shot and killed at the rally.”

“Oh, no.” She went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, then let him pull her close.

He said quietly, “He appeared to be no older than Raimond's and Sable's Desiré. When will this end?”

Zahra didn't know, but she did know that she felt his pain as keenly as if it were her own. What if he had been killed, too? Could she have lived with herself knowing he'd died ignorant of her true identity? “My true name is Zahra Lafayette.”

Archer pulled back and stared down. “What?”

“My true name is Zahra Lafayette.”

He went still for a moment, then said, “Oh, really?”

“I'm a laundress in my real life, and if you laugh at that I will never speak to you again.”

He had a soft smile on his face as he stroked her soft cheek. “Never is a long time,
chérie.
”

She backed out of his arms. Having never revealed herself this way before, she needed some distance. “I'm from South Carolina.”

“That I knew or at least thought I knew. The Gullah, remember?”

“Right.” Zahra couldn't ever remember being this nervous. “I live in the swamps, Archer. I don't like corsets or shoes.”

“Personally, I don't care for corsets either.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the wooden clock on the wall, then he asked, “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because you've earned the right to know the truth. How would I have felt had you been killed too, never knowing who I truly am. Or what if I'm killed?”

“Don't say that.”

“But it's true.”

He crooked a finger and beckoned her back. She came willingly, and he folded her against his heart once more. “I'm honored,” he said, and he was. For her to trust him with her secrets meant more than she could ever know. “So the Butterfly is a country girl.”

“Born, bred, and raised, and I'm worried to death about my parents.”

“Why?”

She told him about the reports she'd read.

“That's not good news.” He pulled back to look down into her eyes. “Is that the reason you're so insistent on leaving me? Your parents?”

His question, so personal, made her heart flutter. “Yes, that and the fact that I don't fit into your world.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“Archer, I'm a swamp brat. I know how to spy, but I don't know all the little things women who are born into your class know.”

“Such as? And I'm not trying to embarrass you, I'm just trying to understand.”

“I don't know forks, or the dances, or how to arrange flowers. None of that.”

“And you think that's important to me.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I do.”

“I see.” He smiled. “And suppose I told you I don't care about any of the things you feel are shortcomings?”

She said softly, “Then I'd say good.” What she didn't say was that she loved him. Even in light of Juliana's take on Archer's feelings, Zahra would not risk her heart by broaching the subject first.

Archer tightened his hold on her and let the pleasure of it fill his being. “So will you consider staying?”