“Look, a dress,” Delta cried, holding up a one-piece cotton garment similar to the dress she wore. “I think I’ll change and wash these things I have on.”
Brett glanced up from where he knelt on the floor, withdrawing the coffee pot, a large cooking pot, and several utensils. Setting everything aside, he rose to his feet.
His eyes sparkled. “I think I’ll help you.”
Before she could move an inch, he grasped her around the waist. Dancing her about the porch, he began to skim her dress up her body. His clothes followed. Lifting her in his arms, he deposited her on the mattress, drew the mosquito netting around them, and proceeded to love her as avidly as he had the night before, as tenderly as on the riverbank in Memphis, with as much passion as in her stateroom on board the Mississippi Princess. And when at length they lay damp and satisfied in each other’s arms, breathing heavily in the sultry air, she knew she lay in the arms of Brett Reall.
Afterwards she fixed coffee in the pot over a fire he built in a pit that had been used numerous times in the past.
“No use trying to clean up that cabin,” he commented. “Especially in this heat.”
But watching him wander around the chênière, she decided his reasons for wanting to spend all their time outdoors had more to do with being home in the bayou than with anything else.
“You missed it very much,” she commented with a lump in her throat.
He turned to take the cup of coffee she handed him. His eyes told her the truth. He sipped the coffee, then finally grinned mischievously. “Not bad.”
“I watched Gabriel’s sisters make café at the causerie.”
“The causerie? For truth, you’re beginning to sound like a bonne bayou femme yourself.”
“I still have a lot to learn,” she admitted.
“Ah, ma chère, I will teach you everything.”
His earnestness caught her off guard. He sounded so certain of their future. How could he be? She strove to lighten her mood. “To dance the fais-do-do?”
“For certain.”
“To pole a pirogue?”
“For certain.”
“To—?”
Suddenly he tossed his tin drinking cup to the ground and caught her in his arms. “I said everything.” His lips closed over hers in a deep, delving, delicious kiss that set her heart to racing with sheer passion.
Lifting his’ lips, he stared lovingly into her begging eyes. “For truth, Delta Jarrett, the more I have of you the more I want.”
She felt herself tremble in his arms. Her fingers traced the lips of her pirate. But when she started to kiss him, he released her, caught up her hand, and tugged her along.
“Later, chère. Right now, there’s another lesson I want to teach you.” Stopping by the galerie, he took up a pile of netting, then led her toward the slow, still water along the backside of the island.
“These little streams are called coulées,” he told her. “We’re going to set crab nets so I can teach you how to make the best jambalaya anyone’s ever tasted.”
She laughed. “Is it like your mother’s gumbo?”
His eyes dimmed for a moment. Would he ever rid himself of the image of that gumbo splattered across the bodies of his family? Somewhere deep inside he began to think it was possible. With Delta Jarrett by his side, anything was possible. With Delta in his heart, there would be no room for hatred or misery. “Maman can fix you gumbo. I’ll make you jambalaya.”
She hugged him. “You’ll make me happy.”
That evening after she had eaten her fill of the bayou man’s jambalaya, which she was sure must match his boast of being the best in Louisiana, after she had watched the sunset on the bayou snuggled in the arms of Anatole Dupré, after Brett Reall had loved her again on their mattress on the galerie, they lay in each other’s arms, content and happy. And proud of themselves for not allowing the events that lay ahead to dampen their pleasure at being together.
He had asked her to tell him about her trip through the bayou with Gabriel. “You weren’t frightened?” he quizzed when she finished.
She shook her head. “Well, maybe a little. It was so wild and new. But deep in the bayou, there’s a sense of—I’m not sure what to call it—of timelessness, perhaps, or peace. I told Gabriel I felt like we had traveled through the Garden of Eden.”
“I’m surprised,” he admitted. “Most—”
She snuggled closer. “I know. Gabriel told me that most Anglais don’t like the bayou.” Sweet heat traveled deliciously up and down her spine with every stroke of his hand. “Do you think I’ll ever be accepted here?”
Pulling her face away from his shoulder, he kissed her soundly. “We are, chère. We’re together. Our lives are as one. But that doesn’t mean you have to live in the bayou.”
“I want to.”
“Ah—” He began, shaking his head.
“I do,” she insisted. “I’m sure I’ll learn to love it—almost as much as you do. But will your people ever accept me?”
He kissed her again, deeply, a kiss that expressed all the love and passion he had pledged to her. “For certain,” he whispered against her skin. “I will see to that.”
The following day he took her at her word, beginning to teach her everything about the bayou that appeared within reach of their small island—the muskrat runs, the mounds where the little animals lived, the most likely places to set traps.
Anatole Dupré, bayou man. She studied him closely, loving him more each moment. Her bayou man.
Even the ground beneath their feet, which trembled more in some places than others, became part of her education.
“Prairie tremblante, it’s called.” He explained how in some places only a foot or two of mud and plants floated on several feet of liquid mud. “I’m a bit rusty. Time was when I could take out at a run and never hit a weak spot. Me, I’m not certain I could do that today, not without falling through.”
He had shown her the pointers—alligator grass, cane, cattails. Each one indicated where the ground was solid or weak. She had learned the difference. At least, she thought she had, until the second afternoon when Brett had gone to haul in their crab traps for the last time. Crazy Mary had speculated it would take two days to entice the governor into the bayou, and Brett wanted to be prepared to return to his mother’s cabin at a moment’s notice.
Delta had remained on the galerie, preparing their packs for this journey that would end their idyllic flight from reality.
Suddenly fear, cold and debilitating, overwhelmed her. What lay ahead for them this day? And afterwards? A chill of foreboding sped along her spine and she wanted to be with Brett. Every instant that remained for them, whether it be a lifetime or this one afternoon, she wanted to spend with him.
Racing from the house her only thought was to be with him, to touch him, to look at him, to hear his voice. She took the path he had taught her to use, she was sure of it.
Until the ground gave way beneath her feet. Without warning her body plunged through the thin layer of sod like a hot knife through butter. Her arms flailed out. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she’d uttered more than “BRE—” she clamped her lips closed.
She couldn’t scream, not with their little island nestled so closely to land on three sides. Brett had said Gabriel’s family and his own cousins were keeping watch, hidden in the dense growth of the forest. But what if the troopers were near? Or Trainor’s spies?
Grasping tufts of grass in both fists, she was able to stop her downward plunge before her shoulders slipped through the opening made by her body. Cold water and mud closed in around her legs, plastering her thin dress about her hips.
Brett would come back along this trail. All she had to do was hold on. At the thought she pressed herself closer to the ragged edge of ground and dug her elbows into the grass.
Brett would come. If she could hold on, he would come. She looked around, trying to decide where she had gone wrong. Palmettos ringed the island in several places
. That’s where she made her mistake, she decided. She had taken the wrong side of the palmettos. He wouldn’t be able to see her from the path, but she could hear him. She would hear him, and she would call out in a normal voice.
A mosquito buzzed around her face and she started to swat it away, only at the last moment recalling her tenuous hold on the ground. Around her, other sounds of the bayou came into sharper focus. The bayou teemed with life, both above water and below.
She wriggled her feet at the thought. What lay below the surface? Crawfish or shrimp or—alligators? She had no idea which animals lived where—or who ate what. As much as she had learned about the swamps the last two days, she was now confronted with how little she knew. Her ignorance began to play on her mind.
Even if she were able to hold on until Brett came along the path, did she dare? Again Ginny’s remonstrations about her fanciful imagination came to mind. She wiggled her feet. Cold liquid swished between her toes and around her ankles. She didn’t feel anything alive.
Yet.
Quickly she began to scramble. Digging elbows into the ground she heaved her body at the same time, lifting herself by inches. On the first attempt she lost as much ground as she gained when she relaxed her arms to try again.
The next time she held on, even though the rough grass and torn earth scratched her arms and her muscles began to ache. The third time she raised herself to waist level. After that it was easy. At length she pulled her feet through the jagged opening.
Dragging herself several yards away from the hole, she lay crumpled on the ground, struggling to catch her breath and steady her jangled nerves.
Just as she rose to her feet, Brett came upon her. “God’s bones!”
Their eyes held, his anxious, hers contrite.
“I was coming to be with you, but I took the wrong path.”
He jerked her roughly to his chest, unmindful of her muddy clothes. “Delta, chère, you could have been drowned.”
When her heart stopped racing, she pulled away, conscious of her filthy condition. Ruefully, she examined her dress that hung in shreds and clung to her body with a thick layer of ooze and sprigs of vegetation. Reaching a hand, she wiped mud off Brett’s shirt.
“I made a mess.”
“Oui.” He chuckled, running a finger down her chest, then holding it up, covered with mud. Then before she knew what had happened, he grasped her dress at the neck and ripped it away. “No use trying to save this one.”
Shocked at finding herself standing nude in the broad open daylight, she attempted to shield her body with her arms.
“No need for modesty, chère.” He shook his head in mock concern, examining her from head to toe. “For truth, your endowments are well hidden by a layer of bayou mud.”
Over her protests that she would get him muddy, too, he swept her in his arms and carried her to the cabin. “We’d better get you cleaned up before Carl comes.”
The reminder of their limited time showered her with enough trepidation to chase away the residue of fright from her plunge through the prairie tremblante.
Outside the rear of the cabin Brett stood her on her feet beneath the tank of the cistern, where, after unhooking a pipe, he directed a stream of clear cold rainwater over her skin. She stood stock still while he bathed her with his hands. By the time he finished, her trepidation had vanished, replaced with an equally urgent, but vastly different emotion.
Before it was over she had stripped his muddy shirt off and washed it in the stream of water, soaking his pants in the process. Regardless, he again picked her up in his arms, this time to carry her to the galerie where he deposited her on their pallet and closed the mosquito netting around them.
“Ah,” he breathed heavily, “we’re away from those pesky insects.”
She laughed. “I believe they bother you more than me.”
“You mean because this is my favorite place on the chênière?”
She nodded, grinning.
“Then you aren’t as smart as I had you figured, chère.” Settling down beside her he let his hands follow his gaze down the length of her freshly washed body. “This is what calls me back.” He tweaked an already rigid nipple, then idly traced his fingers along the valley between her softly mounding breasts, moving downward to the patch of dark curls. “And this.” His teasing hand moved lower. “And this.”
When she arched her body toward him, he retraced his path. With splayed palm, he swept a hand beneath her, bracing her shoulders, lifting her closer to him. “And this,” he muttered just before his lips claimed hers.
Afterwards, lying in his arms, the glow of lovemaking dimmed, leaving her with a heart-rending ache. “They’ll come for us today,” she whispered.
“They should.”
“You mean if the plan works?”
He nodded.
“What if it doesn’t?”
The crease between his eyes deepened and at length he replied, “We’ll think of something else.”
“We could stay here,” she suggested. The fear inside her began to grow. Suddenly it was larger than the fear she had felt while trapped in the trembling earth. With the greatest effort she resisted clinging to him, crying, begging him not to try such a reckless scheme as tricking the governor and exposing himself to the state troopers and the Pinkertons.
He didn’t need to hear her fears. He needed her support. But his hand on her breast had stilled, and she knew he felt her runaway heart.
“You would get tired of my cooking, chère.”
“I can cook.”
“There’s not much to choose from on this island. As much as I love the bayou, this island isn’t big enough. I love the meandering courses, the wild swamps, the boundless wilderness—the freedom.” His hand traced her body while he spoke, mesmerizing her with both his voice and his touch.
“And I love you,” he whispered, kissing her soundly.
Her arms flew around his neck. She pulled him close, remaining silent only by pressing her lips firmly between her teeth.
But worries overwhelmed her. “The governor doesn’t believe in black magic. Your mother said so.”
“Trainor may not believe in black magic, but he believes in the power of the spirits,” Brett assured her. “Living in this country, he’s seen proof. And his constituents believe in the power. Besides it won’t matter what he believes, if his constituents believe him guilty. That fact alone should send him to the bayou. He has to be certain Maman hasn’t spread her suspicions around. And that she doesn’t have proof of his guilt.”
Involuntarily Delta shuddered. With two fingers, he lifted her chin. “It’s a chance, chère. But a chance I must take.” He kissed her. “For us.”
“For us,” she whispered, wishing there were some other way, a way that wouldn’t expose him to danger from so many forces.
Carl came at dusk and Delta soon discovered how dangerous Brett considered their mission.
“I want you to ride with Carl,” he told her.
She stared from his pirogue to the one poled by Gabriel’s cousin.
“To where?” she demanded. In the dusk she watched the cleft between his eyes deepen.
“Carl will bring you to Maman’s after it’s over.”
“Like hell!”
“Delta,” he admonished. “Get—”
Before he could order her not to, she stepped into his pirogue and seated herself on the wooden bench, where she waited with arms folded across her chest. Around her she heard noises of the men loading Crazy Mary’s bedding and other supplies. She concentrated on the shallow bottom of the pirogue.
Finally she felt it dip when Brett stepped on board. Then she felt his hands on her shoulders. He knelt before her.
“It’s for you own good, chère.”
“My good is with you.”
He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “I want you out of the way when I confront Trainor.”
She glared at him, willing tears not to roll down her cheeks.
She bit her lip, knowing she was losing the battle against her tears. “Then don’t,” she snapped. “I’m not the one they’ve been after for ten years. And I’m not stupid. I won’t get in the way. I wouldn’t dare do anything to cause you to have to think about me instead of Trainor and his dozens of troopers and the Pinkertons and— But—” She stopped when she felt a tear spill down her face, then another, and another.
Brett caught them with his fingers.
“I must come with you,” she pleaded. “I must be with you. After we get there, I’ll stay with Carl or Gabriel or anyone you say, wherever you say, but I must come with you.”
He stared at her a long time, then bent and kissed her tenderly. Finally he stood, motioned Carl, and they shoved off.
She rode tensed and quiet, wishing they could talk, but afraid to break the silence around them. At length Brett did.
“Our chances are good.”
She stared at his blackened form standing at the back of the boat. “For what?” she whispered, recalling the way he had dodged this question days before. She couldn’t see his smile, but there was laughter in his voice.
“For a long and lusty life together, chère.”
Hot tears poured down her cheeks and her heart felt as though it might pump itself out. All she could do was grip her hands tightly about her arms and pray he was right.
Gradually she began to hear noises in the distance.
Brett swore softly. “Sometimes I think they’re right to call her Crazy Mary.” Delta turned to see a great blaze in the distance.
“What’s going on?”
The noise grew louder—music, singing, shouting, beating drums, stamping feet. The bayou teemed with life, but tonight it was the human kind.
Before the pirogue could approach the landing near Crazy Mary’s cabin another of Gabriel’s cousins hailed them from shore.
“Over here.”
Brett poled into the reeds.
Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three Page 35
