Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3)

by Shirlee Busbee

  Christopher swallowed painfully, as it occurred to him that this time he had well and truly leaped to the wrong conclusions. Hesitatingly he said, “Nicole, I…”

  It was too late. Heartsick, wounded more than she could have thought possible, Nicole regarded him hostilely. “What?” she demanded. “Have you thought of further crimes to add to my list?”

  “No. I…” he fumbled, his ready address failing him in the face of the enormity of his accusations.

  Her eyes scornful, Nicole regarded him. “Oh, have you had second thoughts?” she asked sweetly. At Christopher’s curt nod, her face blazed with fury, and crossing to stand in front of him, she gritted, “Well, it’s too late! I’ll never convince you that I am not my mother’s daughter, will I? You cling to that idea, don’t you? I hope it gives you pleasure, and don’t worry that I’ll try to change your mind—I would sooner try to roll back the tide than waste my time with the likes of you!” Her voice breaking, the topaz eyes bright with tears, she said in a small voice, “Get out of my room and stay out of it. At this moment, I don’t think I ever want to see you again.”

  Christopher made a move to touch her, but furiously shrugging off his hand, she whirled away and, running to the bed, flung herself face down on it, the tears slipping down her face. In a muffled sob she said, “Get out! Leave me alone and let me be.”

  He hesitated, but knowing she was too hurt, too angry to listen to him now, Christopher did as she requested, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  His own anguish was almost unbearable; he was aware that with one jealous, thoughtless action he had shattered the fragile bond between them. But I’ll make it up to her, he vowed. Somehow, I’ll make her understand, and if I’m lucky she’ll forgive me.

  If the passing days were anything to go by, Nicole wasn’t going to forgive him, he decided wretchedly. She treated him as if he were a leper, and he, so very conscious of that wrong he had done, was helpless to bridge the widening chasm between them. Was this to be the end of their frail beginning?

  Avoiding his own home, Christopher spent more and more hours at Jackson’s Royal Street headquarters, and because of that he was there on December 23 when Major Gabrielle Villere, Colonel de la Ronde, and Dussan La Croix burst into the general’s headquarters with the appalling news that the British were encamped on the Villere plantation just nine miles from New Orleans.

  Jackson, his body wasted by disease, his face thin and yellowed by jaundice, swayed at the news but then straightened proudly. To Christopher watching intently from the doorway, it was as if he suddenly took strength; the lines of pain smoothing from his face, vitality springing from some unknown inner source, he was like a different man—a fighting man with fire in his eyes and bravery in his heart. Taking a sip of brandy, he ordered the assembly of his secretaries, aides, and other members of his staff. Standing before them, he said, “Gentlemen, the British are below. We must fight them tonight.”

  Epilogue

  What happened in the following days on the plains of Chalmette below the city of New Orleans is history: Andrew Jackson won a most decisive victory over the British. There is no denying that the outcome might have been vastly different had it not been for Jean Lafitte, his men, and his ammunition and flints.

  The Battle of New Orleans was actually two battles with scattered fighting in between, the main and final battle taking place on January 8, 1815, in the cane fields of the Macarty plantation. The loss of life was terrible; the British lost over two thousand men in only two hours in a vain attempt to breach the earthen barriers that Jackson had strewn before them. American losses were a mere seventy men, although those seventy men were as important to the Americans as the two thousand had been to the British.

  The Britishlost two of their most able leaders, Major General Samuel Gibbs and Major General Sir Edward Pakenham. Casualties among the more junior officers and sergeants were crippling—one regiment alone lost twenty-four officers, including its colonel and twelve sergeants.

  Indecisiveness and lack of communication between commanders cost the British the Battle of New Orleans. They should have won it: they outnumbered the Americans almost three to one; they had a powerful fleet to supply them and protect their rear flank; and they were fighting against a polyglot army of untried men. Creoles and English-speaking citizens of New Orleans; lean Kentuckians carrying their rifles in the crooks of their arms; bronzed Acadians from the prairies and bayous; small companies of mulattoes and Negroes—“free men of color”; Mississippi dragoons and Tennesseans in homespun coats; Lafitte’s Baratarians and a small band of Choctaw Indians, indeed a polyglot army‍‍—but an army that brought the British lion to her knees.

  Ironically the Battle of New Orleans was fought after the Treaty of Ghent was signed by the British and United States negotiators on December 24, 1814. Word of the treaty agreement did not reach the United States until February, and by then the Battle of New Orleans was an accomplished fact.

  The United States ratified the treaty on February 16, 1815, and it is ironic that there is no mention of British impressment of American seamen in the treaty—presumably one of the overriding reasons for the War of 1812.

  Christopher and Jason exchanged wry glances when a copy of the treaty reached New Orleans. Neither saw any reason to comment on that curious, and yet not so curious, oversight. America was at peace again and that was all that mattered.

  Walking slowly toward Dauphine Street after his meeting with Jason, Christopher ruefully admitted that all he wanted now was peace within his own household—peace between him and that stubborn spitfire he had married and loved.

  For almost three months now, they had lived in a state of armed hostility—Nicole meeting his attempts at reconciliation with icy contempt. And Christopher, uncertain how to proceed, withdrew behind a mask of indifference.

  He was conscious that he had misjudged her, very aware that the wrong had been his, and because he feared as he had feared nothing in his life to alienate her further, his behavior was exactly the opposite of what it should have been.

  They appeared to live separate lives—Christopher busy with his affairs and Nicole drawn into the lively social circle of New Orleans. They attended functions together, but only for the look of it, riding to and from the various affairs in silence, and at their destination promptly finding their own groups of friends, never meeting until it was time to depart.

  At home they avoided each other. Christopher was up and gone many mornings before Nicole arose, and most evenings he dined out with other acquaintances, leaving Nicole to find her own amusements.

  In the beginning Christopher had tried to break through her wall of silence and disillusionment, but because he had proceeded gently and delicately, instead of with his usual ruthlessness, Nicole had viewed his attempts as only halfhearted.

  He had done one thing, though, that warmed her heart and made her wonder if perhaps all was not lost. Shortly after the final bloody battle with the British, he had arranged for her to meet with Allen. It had been a short visit. Staring unhappily at Allen through the bars of his cell, conscious of the guard a few yards down the hall, Nicole had been reminded of the similar circumstance on Grand Terre.

  For several moments the two could think of nothing to say, but then Allen, with a crooked grin, had murmured, “Either I am a singularly inept spy, or your husband is my nemesis.”

  Nicole swallowed, thinking uncomfortably that this time it was more her fault than Christopher’s that Allen was behind bars. Awkwardly she said, “Allen, I’m sorry I didn’t let you escape when you had the chance.” Her eyes were beseeching on his blue ones as she said huskily, “But I couldn’t let you go—not knowing you might be the cause of Christopher’s death! Please understand.”

  Allen smiled. “I do, little one. I do. Although I don’t really relish the thought of hanging, I can’t blame you for what you did.” His eyes filling with mockery, he added, “I could wish that you were not quite so agile and hadn’t such gri
m determination to stop me, though. What a little bulldog you were.”

  “Don’t tease!” Nicole cried. Her hand curling around one of his as it rested on the bars, she muttered, “I’ll try to help you. Maybe they won’t hang you.”

  “Maybe they won’t. But they sure as hell aren’t going to exchange me with the other prisoners either. Spying is different than fighting on the honorable field of battle.” There was a certain bitterness in his tone that he couldn’t conceal. But shaking off the bleakness that crept through his bones, he said lightly, “Mayhap you can get that husband of yours to do something to lessen my punishment. From what I hear, he is very close to Claiborne and Jackson both, and a loving wife has swayed more than one man.”

  Nicole gave him a watery smile. Allen had enough to contend with without knowing that he was the direct cause of the present estrangement between her and her husband. There had been little more to say, and with a quick, bone-crushing clasp of hands they had said good-bye.

  They had not met again, and Nicole dared not ask Christopher what Allen’s eventual fate would be. She had not been blind to the fact that behind his fury had laid jealousy; she dared not awaken it by questions about Allen. Because she knew him to be jealous of Allen, his actions in arranging the meeting between them had been all the more puzzling. What had he hoped for—that they would give him the proof he wanted? Yet astonishingly she had thought for a second there had been a kind expression in his eyes when he had informed her that she was to see Allen. Christopher kind? Ridiculous! Quelling the promptings of her heart, she cloaked herself in righteous anger, telling herself that Christopher was unworthy of her love and not to be trusted.

  But in so doing, she had backed herself into a corner, and now to her horror discovered there was no way out of her predicament. She was ensconced in her castle of icy disdain and Christopher showed every sign of letting her stay there.

  During the weeks that followed the Battle of New Orleans, with the cessation of fear of attack, Nicole had had time for cooler reflections. Without the worry of assault on her mind, there had been room for more introspective thought—and it was not pleasant.

  Did she really want to live out the rest of their days in this state of armed indifference? Did she never want to feel Christopher’s body take hers again? The doors between their rooms had remained securely shut, Christopher denying himself even the rights of a husband. Was all her pious fury worth never again having the laughter and love that had been hers for those few short weeks? That glimpse of paradise that had beckoned to both of them? The answer was a resounding and heartfelt no!

  Brutally honest with herself, she admitted that if she had come across Christopher and any other woman in the same sort of situation that Christopher had found her and Allen in, she would have leaped to precisely the same conclusion. If she would have thought that, could she really blame him for believing as he had? Again, the answer was an unpleasant no. Seated in her elegant room, staring out glumly at the budding leaves on a huge pecan tree, Nicole found herself in an appalling situation.

  She had repulsed Christopher’s attempts to explain or mend the breach between them with such icy scorn that he no longer tried. She had been so proud and fiery in her disdain that Christopher had withdrawn into himself, ignoring her, treating her with cool politeness.

  How was she to climb down from this impenetrable tower in which she had locked herself?

  One sunny March day a note was delivered to Christopher from his overseer, Bartel. As he read it, an idea began to take shape. The note was brief, mentioning only that the spring planting had begun, but that there were several things he wanted to discuss. Usually Bartel came into the city, but Christopher decided he would remove his household to Thibodaux House. Perhaps there, faced only with each other’s company, and without the distractions of the city, he and Nicole could find their way back to each other. His decision made, he wasted little time in informing the staff and, more importantly, his wife.

  There was an air of purpose about him, a new and dangerous vitality that Nicole was aware of when he entered her room, a few minutes later. Gone was the polite man who had been her husband these past months, and in his place was the infuriatingly attractive man she had first married.

  His gaze enigmatic, Christopher stared at her as she sat in a small chair by a window that overlooked the courtyard below, a shaft of sunlight flaming the sable curls and intensifying the topaz gleam of her eyes between the black curling lashes. Appreciatively his eyes roamed over her, making no attempt to hide the appraisal.

  The russet gown she was wearing was rather lower cut than usual and displayed an enticing amount of smooth, milky flesh, and Christopher felt a tremor of desire sweep through him. Damn the little vixen, he had only to look at her and his body was aflame, he thought with a small spurt of anger. He had denied himself too long, he decided sourly. It was time Madame learned that this was not how he had envisioned their marriage.

  Made uneasy by his prolonged stare, Nicole rose to her feet, and asked coolly, “Yes? What is it?”

  Christopher grinned, leaning against one of the posts of her bed. “What?” he mocked. “No welcoming embrace? No sweet greeting from my bride?”

  Nicole’s head snapped up, forgetting her resolve to end the estrangement between them she muttered, “If you have come merely to taunt me, then I wish you would leave!”

  It was tempting to continue baiting her, but Christopher stifled the desire and remarked, “I thought you would like to know that the war with Britain is officially over. I’ve just come from Jason’s and we’ve seen a copy of the treaty.” Unable to help himself, he added, “Rest easy that your beloved Allen will not hang now.”

  Nicole couldn’t hide the relief that swept through her, and seeing it, all the jealousy he had tamped down came surging to the fore. It had not been easy for him to allow Nicole to see Allen, but he had been trying to show her that he loved her and that he trusted her, that he could, and had, overcome his raging jealousy. But it hadn’t mattered; all the pain he had suffered in winning the terrible battle within himself had been for naught. She had gone gladly to see Allen, she had not softened, nor made any indication that she realized the reasons, or even the effort it had cost him to allow that meeting. And now he could no longer control the bitter rage and jealousy that had eaten him for months. He had tried being compassionate, being understanding, tried to explain himself, had ignored his baser instincts and treated her gently, hoping she would see his outburst for what it had been. But it had availed him nothing and he was through being the polite, courtly gentleman.

  “I wouldn’t look quite so happy if I were you—he’ll still stand trial and more than likely will spend several years in prison,” he said grimly. “Hanging might have been preferable.”

  Her face draining of all color, Nicole grasped the back of a chair. Not looking at Christopher, she asked in a low voice, “Can you do nothing to help him?”

  “Why should I?” Christopher jeered. “I can’t say that he has ever done anything to endear himself to me. Perhaps in your case it’s different.”

  Looking at her husband’s dark face, Nicole said thickly, “He saved my life, once. We were swimming in one of those lagoons in Bermuda, and a shark….” She stopped as the horror of those moments washed over her. Forcing herself to continue, she said, “Allen didn’t have to dive in to save me. He was safe. But he risked his life for mine, and if he had not been there or if he had hesitated a second, I would not be here this moment—I would be just poor Nick who had got eaten by a shark off Bermuda. Now do you see why I will do just about anything for him? It’s not love, you fool,” she cried hotly. “It’s gratitude! And you’re too pigheaded to realize it!”

  The shaft struck home and Christopher stiffened, seeing again where his own blindness had led him. Instead of burning with jealousy over the undeniable affection between Nicole and Allen, he should be thanking God that Allen had been with her that day. It was ironic, he thought bitterly, th
at the one man he had viewed as his most dangerous rival had, in fact, given Nicole to him.

  She could tell nothing from his face. Christopher pushed away from the post and said, in a bland voice, “It seems I must do something for Mr. Ballard, mustn’t I? After all, without him you wouldn’t be here now.”

  Warily she watched him, unable to take any comfort from his words. Cautiously she asked, “What do you intend to do?”

  “I’ll have a word with Jason, and perhaps through him we can see that something is worked out. I’ll see to it this afternoon.” He started to leave the room, but he turned and looked back at her. “What I really came up to see you about, though, was to tell you that we will be going to Thibodaux House at the end of this week. Please have your maids start packing whatever you think you will need.”

  Nicole nodded, uncertain whether the news was pleasant or unpleasant. In a way it would be a relief to leave New Orleans, but to return to Thibodaux House with the future unsettled between them was daunting.

  Christopher had not been making idle conversation when he had said he would speak to Jason about Allen. But he had known there was little he could do. Allen had been caught as a spy, and even the cessation of the war between Britain and America did not lessen that fact. Jason told Christopher as much, when he brought the subject up that afternoon.

  “Hmm. I don’t see that we can do anything, mon ami,” Jason said. “I am afraid that justice must run its course. Monsieur Ballard is not just another prisoner of war, you understand. I will see what I can do, but I doubt my intervention will accomplish a great deal.”

  Not one to give up easily, Christopher paid a call at the calaboose. He did not visit Allen at first; instead, he spent some time viewing the outer walls of the calaboose itself, before having a serious conversation with one of the guards. An observant man might have noticed the wad of notes that were passed between them, but no one paid any attention.