Higgins’s appearance coming down from the cliff top a second later she viewed almost with amusement. Tonight was certainly her night for stumbling into one scrape after another. Christopher would kill her if he found her here, she thought with a half-hysterical giggle—but she would rather Christopher throttle her, than live as Robert’s wife.
Higgins was just even with her, when she called to him, “Higgins! I know this is an awkward time for me to call, but would you please tell Christopher that I am here.”
Higgins not unnaturally nearly jumped out of his skin. “Miss Nicole!” he said in an agitated tone, when he squinted in the moonlight and recognized her. “Whatever are you doing here? Christopher is out looking for you—in fact, he is going to miss the ship, because he is looking for you.”
With horror, Nicole regarded Higgins’s apprehensive face. “Oh, Lord!” she muttered, realizing what must have occurred. The thought of Christopher murdering her was no longer funny, especially since there appeared a definite possibility that he would do exactly that when he caught up with her.
Biting her lip, she watched as the small boat drew nearer. “What are you going to do?” she asked at last. “Tell them you aren’t going?”
Higgins shot her an uncertain glance. “No. I am returning with them. This ship sails for America, for New Orleans, and Christopher has given me orders to make it without fail.”
“I see,” she answered, seeing a great many things she would rather not. This rendezvous must have been planned even before he had left New Orleans, and the thought that she was the cause of his failing to keep it filled her with dismay.
“Look!” Higgins cried, interrupting her thoughts, and with a sinking heart Nicole recognized the long-legged figure striding so furiously down the beach. It took him only a moment to reach them, and there was a curious expression on his face when he looked at Nicole, seated on the sand.
“Well, well,” he drawled sarcastically, “what have we here? A maiden in distress? Or my uncle’s runaway mistress?” Giving her no time to answer, he swooped down and pulled her to her feet.
Warily, she eyed him, ignoring the stabbing pain of her ankle. Almost meekly she said, “I hurt my ankle, or I wouldn’t be here. Christopher,” she went on with quiet desperation, “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Christopher stared at her silently, a victim of so many conflicting emotions that he wasn’t certain what he felt. He had thought the only emotion she could arouse was disgust and lust, thought he had said his final good-bye to her in the library. But he discovered that some other indefinable feeling for her was tearing him apart.
There was a stiff breeze blowing now, lifting the sable-fire curls and tumbling them wildly about her shoulders, molding the thin material of her dress against the slim body, making Christopher remember things he wanted to forget. He didn’t want her, he told himself savagely. She was trouble—had been trouble since he had first discovered her in that cove in Bermuda—and now she had nearly been the undoing of months of planning. As the moments passed and Christopher said nothing, Higgins, with a discretion that further endeared him to Nicole, left them and walked down to the surf to wait for the nearing boat to make it through the breakers.
Nicole swallowed, slightly unnerved by the hard, unrelenting features above her. For once her temper had fled before the tightly leashed fury that emanated from Christopher, and falteringly she said, “I…I…”
“You what?” Christopher snapped. “You’re sorry? Isn’t it a little late for that? Two men are dead because of you! I leave you alone for less than a month and what do I find? Chaos and mayhem. Now what am I to do with you?”
Her eyes a stormy topaz in the moonlight, she flared back, “You aren’t going to do anything with me! I’ve managed to get this far by myself; I don’t need any help from the likes of you! Meet your damn ship!”
She spun away, having forgotten the injury to her ankle. A shaft of tearing agony reminded her forcibly of it, and smothering the gasp of pain that rose in her throat, she took another stumbling step before Christopher’s hard hands closed around her shoulders.
A shout from Higgins jerked Christopher’s head around before he could continue further, and with a low, vicious curse he swung a kicking, fighting Nicole up in his arms and carried her down near the surf. Standing her none too gently on the damp sand, he snarled, “Listen to me! Robert and Edward are both dead. And if you didn’t do the actual deed yourself, you are responsible for their deaths.” He finished bitterly, “You are so like your mother.”
Nicole’s face went white, her eyes huge enormous pools of darkness. The news of the deaths was a staggering shock, but what stunned her most was that Christopher was blaming her! She had known he would take the worst possible view, but this? It was so bloody like him, she thought with a burst of blazing fury, to couple her with her mother, to think that they were alike. “If I were a man, you’d not say that. If I were a man, you’d meet me on the field of honor before the sun rises. How dare you! How dare you condemn me! Condemn me without a hearing, without even knowing what happened. You arrogant beast—I hope your bloody ship sinks!” It was a childish taunt, and Nicole bit her lip in frustrated fury.
There was just enough justice in her words to give Christopher pause, but there was no time—no time for further conversation, no time to settle the disagreements between them. Harassed, torn apart by emotions he could not name, or would not name, he was for the first time in his life swayed by indecision. And this one woman was the cause of it all. There was no denying that he still wanted her; even now, knowing Robert had lain with her, had tasted that sweet mouth, he still wanted to feel her slender body naked against his, to feel that quiver her body gave when he entered her. And unbidden the thought leaped in his mind—why leave her behind?
It was madness even to think it, but once the idea was born he could not shake it, and consideringly he gauged the nearness of the boat. It had reached the breakers, and now within seconds he would have to make a move. Higgins was already beginning to wade out into the foaming surf to meet it and he must join him any moment. He turned back to stare down into Nicole’s tempestuous features, his eyes lingering on the ripe fullness of her mouth. And in that second Christopher Saxon vanished, leaving only Captain Saber.
Christopher Saxon had planned to leave her safe with his grandfather. Knowing she was secure with Simon Christopher could have sailed off to America and tried to forget her. But Saber never denied himself anything he wanted, and he wanted this slim woman desperately.
The wind whipping his blue-black hair about his head, the gold eyes glittering with emotions and instincts that had been tamped down and denied during the long months in England, Christopher’s gaze swept down the slender length of her body. He made his decision and swooped down on Nicole before she even guessed his intention. He gave her a long, hard kiss on her half-opened lips, and then effortlessly he tossed her over his broad shoulder.
Ignoring her scream of outrage, oblivious to the fists pounding fiercely on his back and the thrashing legs, he plunged into the surf and strode eagerly forward to meet the incoming boat. He met it in thigh-deep water and cheerfully pitched Nicole onto the wooden planks. A second later, with an enthusiastic hand from Higgins, he levered himself aboard. He took one last look at the deserted, moon-washed beach, aware that now he could truly leave England without regret. Turning to one of the crew, he said lightly, “We’re all aboard. Now let’s get out of here before a British warship finds us.”
There was a brief hesitation from the men, and then with a resigned shrug they began rowing toward the ship. One of them couldn’t help muttering, “No one said anything about a female. Captain Baker ain’t going to be best pleased when he catches sight of her!”
Christopher glanced down into Nicole’s furious features, and carelessly stroking her curls, he replied evenly, “Sorry for the extra passenger, but the lady and I have some very important unfinished business to discuss—and New Orleans is just the place to do it
.”
Chapter 15
The long sea journey back to New Orleans was a nightmare. Twice they were menaced by British warships, once fired upon; only a drifting fog bank saved them, enabling Captain Baker to slip away unseen. The weather was foul; gales and storms seemed to follow the ship every mile of the way, making short tempers even shorter.
The captain was provoked by the unexpected and unwelcome addition of a woman to his ship, and Nicole spent the entire journey isolated in a cramped cupboard of a room. There was no privacy, no comfort, and as she had left England rather precipitously, she grew to hate the bronze silk gown with the ecru lace that she was wearing. She and Christopher exchanged a minimum of words, each aware that now was not the time to begin another acrimonious argument. Higgins provided a much-needed buffer zone between them, quickly changing the conversation when it threatened to flare into a full-fledged battle.
Day after day Nicole stalked the confines of her small prison, her temper smoldering. She was caught like an animal in a trap, a trap that she wanted furiously to escape and yet…
Christopher fared not much better, although he did have the freedom of the ship, and as he had known he was leaving, he at least had a change of clothing. The lengthy journey seemed endless to him; the miles and miles of churning sea stretched out interminably before him.
The only satisfaction he gained was the knowledge that the longshot he and Jason had counted on had paid off, and he had been able to bring back proof of the British plans to invade New Orleans. He smiled wryly to himself—the past weeks the newspapers had been full of that sort of thing.
He could do nothing about Nicole but curse the crazy impulse that had driven him to such reckless lengths. What in sweet hell am I going to do with her? he thought as the ship plowed its way through the stormy seas. What was he going to write to his grandfather? That unpleasant aspect had not occurred to him before, and broodingly he stared out at the tossing, surging waves.
Simon must guess that Nicole was with him. His note to his grandfather had implied it—and he had told Galena he would see to her mistress. The thought occurred to him that even then he had been subconsciously planning to take Nicole with him—if he found her. Even more preposterous and displeasing was the feeling that he would not have left England without finding her.
Christopher was in the worst quandary of his life—he despised the whim that had overtaken him, damned Nicole for being such a temptation, but he could not deny that he wanted her, wanted her so badly that he could not envision life without her. And that was what really ate at his gut, torturing him until he could barely look at her.
The long weeks at sea did nothing to resolve his difficulties. The proximity of Nicole and his inability to feed the hunger that gnawed at his vitals drove him to pace the deck night after night, his thoughts on Nicole, snug in her little cabin.
Oh, he could have forced his way in and taken her, could have ordered Higgins from the room anytime during the day that he wanted, and satisfied his hunger, but he had reached the point where he craved something more than a swift physical release from the passion that welled inside him. Like a man unexpectedly grasping a white-hot poker, he recoiled from the absurd notion that what he wanted from her was love. The idea was ridiculous, and with frustrated loathing he thrust the problem behind him, unwilling to face what was in his heart, what had been in his heart since the night of the thunderstorm at Thibodaux House all those months before.
Their arrival at New Orleans in the second week of November was greeted with relief by everyone. The weather in New Orleans, though, was no more appealing than it had been at sea. A cold, driving rain was blowing in from the coast and whipping across the area, making it a miserable day. The roads were quagmires of mud.
At Christopher’s mansion in the Vieux Carré a warm and welcoming fire danced on the hearth in the main salon when he and his two companions arrived a short while after docking at the port. A hastily written note carried by one of the many dockside loiterers to the house in the Vieux Carré had prepared Sanderson for their arrival. In seconds Nicole found herself escorted away to the room she had stayed in before they had left for England, while Christopher was served a steaming mug of rum punch as he stood by the fire.
Christopher finished his punch while exchanging the latest news with Sanderson, and shortly he departed for the Savage household. He had debated the wisdom of sending a servant around to inquire if the Savages were in residence, but restless and impatient, he decided not to waste the time. Instead he fought his way through the blowing rain the few blocks to the Savage town house.
Jason was at home, scanning some business papers, when Christopher was shown into the library. A welcoming smile flitted across Jason’s harsh features as he stood up and extended his hand. “By God,” he said, “it is about time you returned! I had begun to wonder if perhaps my instincts had betrayed me.”
Christopher grinned as they shook hands. “Believe me, there were times I wondered if we were not both mad to have considered such a scheme!” Unable to help himself he announced, “It worked, Jason! I was at my wit’s end, nearly certain I had failed, when events worked out splendidly. Read it for yourself.” Handing the memorandum to Jason, he sat down on the corner of the desk and added, “It isn’t much—but it is proof of an invasion and it does give us some desperately needed information.”
“Hmm, yes, yes, I see what you mean,” Jason commented as he skimmed the brief facts of the memorandum. “But this is exactly what I was hoping for! I must get this to Claiborne immediately—he has been frantic these past months. The newspapers have not helped matters. It seems every day I read of the imminent invasion of New Orleans, and yet nothing appears to be done about it. The city is still woefully undermanned and the few defenses that exist are inadequate.”
“Nothing seems to have changed then in the months I have been away.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that!” Jason replied. “Certain things have happened, you know. John Armstrong resigned as Secretary of War and Monroe took over his office. Despite the burning of Washington, we haven’t done badly these past months. The news may not have reached London before you departed, but Sir George Prevost’s campaign to invade the United States by way of Lake Champlain and the Hudson Valley came to nothing. One of our young Lieutenants was responsible for that victory. With only a makeshift flotilla of four ships and ten gunboats, he destroyed the British naval support near Plattsburgh, and Prévost was forced to abandon his plan and return to Canada. This news is even older, but in August, General Andrew Jackson put an end to the Creek War—so that is one less problem. You have heard no doubt that the country is in deep financial trouble—the Treasury is bankrupt, and it is becoming harder to find the money to pay for this fiasco. But, all in all, we are managing to hold things together, and given time and a little luck we should come about tattered but whole.”
Christopher growled, “If we can’t defend New Orleans against Pakenham’s forces, we will not be whole. The British would like nothing better than to take over the entire State of Lousiana and control the Mississippi River. Unless we get some troops here, and soon, they stand a good chance of doing so. Admiral Cochrane’s fleet in the Gulf will provide naval support to Pakenham, and combined with the Army, the British run over us like a pack of wolves over penned sheep!”
“Not quite,” Jason said. “There is one more piece of news I neglected to pass on—General Ross is dead. He was killed in September during the assault on Baltimore, which failed, I might add. You see, we have been showing a few teeth of our own.”
Christopher sighed. “Perhaps you are right—but the outlook is not encouraging. Don’t forget that the peace talks in Ghent are traveling at a cripple’s pace, and as far as Ghent is concerned, I would not look there for a speedy remedy.”
“I agree. But come now, with this memorandum we are certain to convince Andrew Jackson that New Orleans is indeed in peril. Once convinced of that he and his army will be here. Jackson is not
about to allow the British to take Louisiana.”
Christopher looked skeptical. “I trust you are right. In the mean-time what do you advise?”
Jason leaned back in his chair. “I want you to come with me when I give this memorandum to the governor. Since you were instrumental in obtaining the information, I feel it is only fair to give credit where credit is due. More importantly, the governor needs every able man on his side.” With a bitter smile he added, “Our Creole population is ignoring the situation, and except for a few Americans most people in the city are pretending that there is no danger. That is part of what Claiborne is fighting against—apathy and ignorance.”
Christopher pulled a face. “I certainly hope you know what you are doing—sponsoring a ragtag privateer like myself to the governor. Aren’t you afraid if he finds out my connection with Lafitte it will ruin your standing with him?”
A peculiar expression crossed Jason’s face, but he recovered himself and the green eyes bright with mockery, he drawled, “My dear fellow, it would take more than a scamp like yourself to ruin me. You must remember that part of my usefulness to the governor is the very fact that I know so many ragtag privateers.”
An answering gleam danced in Christopher’s eyes. “In that case I am at your service, sir.”
The meeting with the governor was arranged and watching Claiborne as he read the memorandum, Christopher was never certain whether the news contained therein pleased him or alarmed him. Claiborne’s face was expressionless as he finished reading the memorandum and laid it carefully on the polished surface of his desk. Calmly he folded his hands before him and with bright eyes regarded the two men seated in front of him.
“Well,” he said slowly, “if this doesn’t rouse Jackson, nothing will! I only hope he will realize that the British objective is New Orleans and not Mobile. He and Monroe both believe that the British will try to attack through Mobile, and they are concentrating their efforts in that area.” Claiborne’s soft Virginia accent, even after eleven years in New Orleans, was evident as he continued, “I am of the opinion the attack will be from the coast. But I am only a mere civilian.”
Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3) Page 21
