“Does he live here in New Orleans?”
“No, but he moves in and out of the city often, so I never know when to expect him. He sends word that he has a new shipment of gowns that my clients will be eager to wear, but no mention of when he’ll arrive.”
Marguerite crossed the room and returned with a crystal decanter and another glass. She refilled Sophia’s and poured one for herself. “Do you have children? I know you were hoping to have them with Mr. Jefferson.”
Children. The one topic guaranteed to make Sophia cry. Her heart throbbed at the thought of Lukas. It was rare for her and Pete to be away from him longer than overnight, and she missed her little guy like crazy.
“I have a son. But what about you?”
Marguerite managed a smile, but it was short-lived. “Our daughter died from consumption when she was five. After that, I only thought of my business and never became enceinte again.” She squeezed Sophia’s arm, and a long pause filled the space between them.
“I visited with Mr. Jefferson in Philadelphia. I’ve never seen such grief in anyone’s eyes as I saw in his,” she said. “He told me you drowned in the James River. I fainted in his office. When I recovered, he said they never found your body. Seeing him at such a loss, I knew he would never recover either.”
Sophia was speechless. She’d hoped to ease into a discussion of Thomas and the decisions he and Mr. MacKlenna made that day, but Marguerite addressed the elephant in the room head-on.
“Does Mr. Jefferson know you’re alive?” she asked.
Sophia twirled the glass in her fingers and watched the liquid spin before gulping the fortifying brandy. “We faked my death to explain my disappearance. He decided to send me away based on what was best for his future. Hindsight has proven it was best for mine too. Although I didn’t know it until months later.”
“He’s such an honorable man. I can’t imagine how he’s lived with that lie for all these years.”
My fake death isn’t the only deception he’s lived with for years.
Marguerite sighed. “Polly died in 1804. Did you hear that?”
Sophia’s breath hitched. “I knew. It breaks my heart that she died so young, and I’ll always regret that I never got to tell the girls goodbye.” Reliving the trauma was harder than Sophia thought it would be. Thomas and Patsy were both still living, and she couldn’t reach out to them. She glanced away a moment to regain her composure.
“I never accepted your death. You would never have gone near that river at night.” Marguerite studied her heavily veined hands. “I thought you…went…home.” She returned her gaze to Sophia. “I would have gone with you.”
Marguerite’s pain and disappointment on top of the sorrow of losing Polly broke Sophia’s heart. “I should have taken you with me. I’m sorry I left you behind.” She took Marguerite’s hands, rubbing the calluses on the tips of her thumb and forefinger. Her fingers had the strength of steel and had often steadied Sophia amid all the turmoil.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Miss Sophia.”
“I didn’t have time to make other arrangements.” Sophia’s eyes burned, and she fought back her tears. She wanted Marguerite to know the truth about what happened that night along the James River. But to tell her the truth and reveal the big lie would start the dominos tumbling and expose the rest of the lies. The revelations would hurt Marguerite deeply and destroy the bond of trust they once shared.
“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“Yes, I do,” Sophia said. “We shared a life years ago and depended on each other. I owe you more than an explanation.”
Marguerite slipped a linen handkerchief out of her sleeve and dotted at Sophia’s tears. “If not for you I probably would have died during the revolution. You saved my life. And I’ll always be grateful.”
“I told Pete—” Sophia slapped her forehead. “Oh, my God. I forgot all about Pete.” She jumped up. “I’ve got to go. He’s looking for me, and he’ll be worried sick.”
Marguerite reached for her cloak. “It’s stopped raining. I’ll help you search. What does he look like?”
Sophia narrowed her eyes, thinking back to that afternoon in New York City when she saw Pete for the first time in twenty years. “You met him…in New York…with his friends Mr. Kelly and Mr. Mallory. It was so long ago, though, you probably don’t remember him.”
Marguerite stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “He’s the one who made you cry? There was such anguish in his eyes and yours. It was obvious he loved you very much.”
Sophia grimaced, remembering what happened, remembering their goodbye. “At the time, his love wasn’t enough. I believed a lie more than I believed him.” She adjusted her cloak and pulled up the hood.
“When you were planning to leave New York City, you asked me to go with you, but I was planning to marry and said no. If I had said yes—”
“Oh, sweetie…” She hugged Marguerite. “Let’s not dwell on that. After we find Pete, we’ll have plenty of time to talk about our lives since we last saw each other.”
They crossed the street with their arms linked, dodging carriages, wagons, and soldiers on horseback. Amid this heartfelt reunion, preparations for the Battle of New Orleans were taking shape. “This will sound a bit odd, but this is 1814, isn’t it?”
Marguerite chuckled. “If anyone else asked, I would think it was crazy, but coming from you ma chérie, it is only curious. It’s December 1814.”
Sophia wasn’t sure what to make of that, but doubted Marguerite would say anything more right now. Later Sophia would ask her what she meant. But if she did, Sophia would have to be prepared to tell Marguerite the truth.
On the far side of the square, St. Louis Cathedral, topped with its three iconic steeples, sat between the Cabildo on the left, and the Presbytère—or Casa Curial, as it was first called—on the right.
The Place d’Armes looked more prominent than it had two days ago when they sat at the Café Du Monde in the thunderstorm. There were no trees or walkways, and no statue of Andrew Jackson.
Sophia and Marguerite walked along the sidewalk with arms linked. “Do you see him?” Marguerite asked.
“This far away, I can’t tell if he’s in front of the cathedral or not.” A wrought iron fence enclosed the square just as it did in the future, but guards were stationed at both entrances to prevent people from entering the parade grounds. To get to the other side, they would have to walk around.
“He has to be here. We’ll find him.” Although she sounded confident, her stomach didn’t believe it. What if the fog had dropped him in another century or even left him at home?
They strolled along the front of the square, turned right on St. Peter, and right again on Chartres Street…at least she assumed it was since there were no street signs. And then she spotted him, and he saw her, and her heart exploded—the wham-wham-wham thudding against her ribs, and she cried his name, “Pete!” She sucked in a breath. He was her very own six-foot Brawny man, his hands on his narrow hips, posing like the original rugged, flannel-wearing lumberjack on a roll of paper towels.
“I should go back,” Marguerite said.
“No, don’t leave.” Sophia didn’t release her clasp on Marguerite’s arm. “He’s harmless. He only looks like a wild bear.”
Pete’s eyes narrowed—his target sighted—his jaw so granite-chiseled he could easily be featured on Mount Rushmore. But she’d found him now, and if she didn’t touch him within the next ten seconds to confirm he wasn’t a figment of her imagination, she might combust. Boom! She picked up her pace, sidestepping mud puddles, and hurried in his direction.
“Whenever he can’t find me, alarm bells go off in his head, and he goes a little crazy until I’m in his arms.”
The earth seemed to quake as his super-alpha stride ate up the distance between them. When he reached her, he dropped the satchel slung over his shoulder and roughly pulled her into his arms and demanded, “Where have you been?”
&nb
sp; He locked Sophia with a gaze that weakened her legs. Without waiting for a response, he crushed his mouth against hers, even before she could reintroduce Marguerite or even acknowledge her presence with something as simple as a quick nod.
“I thought you got lost in a…black hole.” He stroked her head, her face, down her neck with his larger-than-life yet familiar hands. They were rough and warm and stirred a ripple of awareness deep within her and intimately lower, where the sensations spiraled outward.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You arrived with all your…parts and pieces?” He stood back, and his eyes raked her over. He didn’t wait for an answer before kissing her again with all the urgency the moment demanded.
An eruption of goosebumps trailed down her back, forcing her to acknowledge her fear of losing him—again. She ran her hands up his cut-to-perfection chest, to his shoulders, over his chin, until she clasped his cheeks in her palms, pulling him to her, and all but wilting in his embrace.
Marguerite cleared her throat, interrupting their kiss. “Miss Sophia. You shouldn’t do that out here.” Her condemnation was a dangling rope, yanking their bodies apart.
Sophia laughed. So did Pete, his dimple flickering, as he hugged her to his side.
“Caro, this is Marguerite,” Sophia said. “You met her at my apartment in New York City.”
Pete’s head jerked back slightly. “But that was years ago.”
Marguerite patted the short ringlets framing her face. “I’ve aged, I know, but Miss Sophia hasn’t. There’s not one gray-haired curl on her head.”
“That’s because she colors—”
Sophia stepped on his toes and pressed down hard. Marguerite wouldn’t understand hair coloring to hide the gray.
He bit his lower lip and instead asked, “Have you seen Rick and Remy?”
“No, just you and Marguerite.” Sophia shivered. “It’s damp and chilly. Why don’t you stay here and wait for them? I’m going back to Marguerite’s shop.”
Pete scoped out the square, assessing possible threats, as he did everywhere he went. Sophia always took it for granted, but this time she knew real dangers existed.
“You can’t go by yourself,” he said.
“I’ll be with Marguerite, and her shop is right there on the corner.” Sophia pointed. “I’ll be safe there.”
His narrow-eyed gaze leveled back at her. “You know the deal. You’re to have a bodyguard with you wherever you go.”
“Marguerite and I walked around Paris in the early days of the revolution. We never took our safety for granted. We’ll be inside her shop, not out on the street.”
“I’ll close for the rest of the day,” Marguerite said. “When you find your companions, come to the entrance at the side of the building. There’s a bell there. Ring it, and I’ll come out and unlock the gate.”
Pete huffed out a breath. “I don’t like this, Soph. So don’t make me regret it. And watch where you’re walking. Don’t step in any potholes.”
There was a limit to how much overprotectiveness she could handle before she pushed back, and she just reached it. Fire exploded in her gut. She knotted her hands into fists and, itching to do something with them, snapped them to her hips. “Peter Francis, I survived—”
The brown of his eyes was nearly black as he wagged a finger at her. “Don’t say it, Sophia Frances. You throw that goddamn Bastille at me every time I show concern for your safety. I have a legitimate right to be worried. Don’t fight me on this.”
With several years of therapy under her belt, she understood Pete’s obsession with her well-being, but sometimes it took more than understanding. It took the patience of Job. When she tried to defend her actions, he got weirder. If she silently waited him out, he would eventually realize he was being unreasonable.
He huffed out another breath. “Come on, then. I’ll walk you across the street. Once you’re safely inside, I’ll come back for Rick and Remy.” Pete picked up the satchel and escorted them to the dress shop. When they reached the door, he handed the bag to her. “I’m going to stand right here until I hear the lock click and see the CLOSED sign in the window.”
Sophia kissed him lightly on the lips. “We’ll see you soon.”
He pulled her in for another kiss. “I’ll be back within an hour, whether I find them or not.”
She laughed and waved, rolling her eyes to herself. “The clock’s ticking, caro.”
18
Barataria (1814)—Billie
Billie reacted instinctively, but her arms were pinned over her head. She twisted and bucked to throw off her assailant, and she screamed. But the screams lodged in her throat, behind the oily rag shoved in her mouth, blocking the sound.
The ogre knelt between her legs and ripped her gown.
This can’t be happening again.
The weight of his rank-smelling dick rested against her. She twisted her body and raised her knee, torquing so she could press the inside of her thigh against her belly to throw him off, but he had her pinned.
“I’m takin’ ya, then I’ll kill ya.” The cottonmouth viper she survived earlier had come to life in the form of this psychopath. He wrapped his meaty hand around her throat, squeezed, then released his grip to land a brutal punch on the side of her head.
As long as he was beating her with one hand and holding both her wrists with the other, he couldn’t rape her. He grunted and hissed, his breath as rancid as the mattress in the brothel. She was afraid she would vomit from the stink of his sweat and aspirate the vomit when it collected behind the gag.
He split her gown to her breasts and bit her hard. His dick rubbed against her, searching for a way in. She was nothing but meat to him, a thing to bear the brunt of his rage. This wasn’t about sex. It was about inflicting pain, making her bleed, beg for mercy, and—most of all—suffer.
She kept struggling until he slugged her, and she saw stars. It was going to happen again. She couldn’t stop him now, and when he finished, he would kill her.
The door burst open, splintering the wood. A pistol fired. Her heart stopped. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Terror was squeezing the life out of her. The explosion echoed off the walls, reverberating through the room like a cannon shot.
Warm, wet sticky blood and gore splattered in her eyes, her nose. In the candlelight, a look of surprise widened her rapist’s eyes.
She shoved him, and he pitched off the bed, groaning and gurgling while he bled out, his skin turning grey as life leaked out of his eyes.
Billie snatched the rag out of her mouth and threw up on the floor. Her heart started beating erratically, but it was so loud she covered her ears, and when she looked down at the pools of blood and chunks of brain and bone all over her and the bed, her self-control disintegrated.
Lafitte stood in the doorway, holding a smoking pistol. The skin of his face was pulled taut, his eyes wide and wild.
“You…killed…him,” she snarled.
“He was going to rape you.”
Her pulse raced, her breath hitching, and a cold sweat broke out all over her, mixing with the blood and filth. She shivered. “You sent him…to rape me.”
“Not this time.” Anguish underpinned his voice. How that was possible, she didn’t know. He was a homicidal bully, and she hated him, feared him, and was repulsed by him.
She crawled to the bedpost and held on, trying to keep her life from slipping away, but even the walnut post wasn’t strong enough to hold her in this world. The rapist’s blood and brains soaked her gown. She gripped the fabric with both hands and yanked hard.
“Get this off!” she shrieked. “Get his blood off me!”
Lafitte shoved the pistol in his waistband and gently pulled the nightgown off over her head, wiping her face with a clean corner of the fabric. She didn’t shy away from the brute, didn’t try to hide her nakedness or the bruises and cuts. She wanted him to see what this asshole had done to her and what Lafitte himself had set in motion.
Her mind whirled
in circles as reason and reality slowly slipped away.
He reached for a blanket at the foot of the bed and wrapped her in its warmth.
“You can’t stay in this room.” Lafitte’s voice sounded far, far away like he was talking to her from another dimension. He swooped her up into his muscular arms, and she clung to him while hating him for encouraging this to happen.
The shivering was worse now, and he held her in a tight, protective hold. Her head pounded, and she wanted to get away from him and from the dead bastard on the Aubusson rug. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you.” Her mouth was thick and pasty, and the words stuck on her tongue.
“You don’t have a choice.” He carried her across the hall and into another bedroom.
Dominique was there, folding back the covers. “We should have known he wouldn’t give up.”
“I want him strung up by his heels. The men need to see what happens when they disobey my orders.”
“That’ll put the fear of God in them,” Dominique said.
“Take care of it. I’ll stay with mon Capitaine.”
“Mademoiselle needs wine. It’s there, already poured. See if you can get it down her throat. Then sing her a ballad. It’ll calm her.”
The fake Lafitte and the fake Dominique talked about her like she wasn’t even in the room. Maybe her body was, but her mind was adrift on Barataria Bay.
And then the soft, crooning voice she’d heard earlier seeped into her soul. The Pied Piper of Barataria, like the sirens in Greek mythology, had lured her here and tried to kill her. She would never forgive him.
The Topaz Brooch Page 22
