by tiffy
Then a large bronzed hand seized the little Frenchman from atop her and lifted him by his greasy buckskin collar.
Bouchet snarled and pulled his knife. He slashed at Santiago, then felt the bite of cold steel deep in his guts. Staggering back, he fell against the rough logs of the tavern wall and slid to the ground. His larger companion was already lying bleeding at Spybuckʹs feet.
Before Elise could gather her scattered wits, the white manshe supposed he was a white manassisted her to her feet. He was dressed in buckskins and moccasins with an indecent amount of dark red hair visible through the lacing of his open linen shirt. Unnerving green eyes narrowed on her. His face was well disguised by an untrimmed beard and shoulder‐length shaggy hair.
ʺWhat is a lady claiming to know Governor‐General Wilkinson doing alone in this hellish place?ʺ he asked coldly in precise French.
ʺI was to meet someone who appears to be late. I do thank you and your friend for your timely assistance,ʺ she replied. Affront at his peremptory manner kept her panic at bay. Her two attackers lay dead in the alley, their blood soaking into the mud.
She shifted her attention to the giant savage. Good Lord, he was practically naked! His head was shaved, save for one long pigtail adorned with feathers, and he wore huge heavy earrings and copper armbands. This was a Southeastern Indian, far from his homelands; of that much she was certain. She looked from the white man to the savage and wondered for a fleeting second if she had moved from one menace to another, even though these two did not smell so vile as her first two attackers.
ʺFor all your screaming and cajoling earlier, you are surprisingly reticent now, miss,ʺ Santiago said, taking in her appearance. This one was a real mysteryexpensive clothes and the features and speech of an aristocrat. Even Juliette Castal could not match her beauty. She was disheveled and terrified, but there was an arresting self‐possession about her that intrigued him.
Elise knew her only hope was to bluff her way out of the situation. ʺIf you would be so kind, let me pass. I have friends waiting for me inside the White Horse,ʺ
she said imperiously and walked away from the white man, who stood altogether too close to her. The Indian had picked up her silk cape and held it out as a sort of peace offering. Thanking him in French, she seized it and vanished around the corner.
Santiago shook his head as he looked at the two river rats lying in the dark alley.
ʺWhat do you think made one such as that come to this place?ʺ Spybuck asked.
Switching unconsciously to the English of his friend, Quinn shrugged. ʺWho knows what makes a fine‐born lady do anything? Spoiled whim . . . thrill-seeking . . . a tryst with some lower‐class lover.ʺ He bent down and picked up the
.36 caliber Belgian muff pistol she had dropped. It was an expensive but useless toy. A smile spread across his face as he rubbed his whiskers with the cool barrel of the gun. ʺPerhaps Iʹll have a chance to return this to the lady one day.ʺ
Chapter Five
ʺThen it was a trap.ʺ Elise swore as she paced back and forth in Widow Fourierʹs parlor. Lacking any decent inns, travelers without family in the city found the shabby‐genteel poverty of the Fourier house a comfortable accommodation.
Elijah held the note supposedly written by him and shook his shaggy head..
ʺLooks like my poor scrawl, but that would be easy to copy.ʺ
ʺOnly if someone knew who we were and why we were in St. Louis.ʺ
ʺWilkinson?ʺ
She waved her hand dismissively. ʺI donʹt think so. It would be much more in his style to simply have me closely watched so I learn nothingor, failing that, to intercept any dispatches to the president. But I donʹt believe he knows my identity.ʺ
ʺYe say yet attackers are dead?ʺ
She shuddered, recalling the bloody scene in the alley. ʹʹMost definitely. My rescuers were swift and thorough.ʺ
ʺWhoever hired those cutthroats will try again. We must be careful. Yeʹll not receive any notes from me.ʺ
ʺTo be sure, Elijah,ʺ she said grimly.
ʺWho were the men who helped ye?ʺ
ʺNo one of importance, Iʹm certain. Just a pair of river drifters, probably from the South. The white one spoke French.ʺ Piercing green eyes and a cold feral smile flashed into her mind. She shook her head and asked, ʺHave you located anyone who can be trusted to take us to Santa Fe?ʺ
ʺI think so. Heʹs a legend of sorts on the plains. A renegade Spaniard with an Irish mercenary for a father. Santiago Quinn.ʺ
She grimaced in distaste. ʺSounds perfectly charming.ʺ
ʺHe makes the trip from Santa Fe to St. Louis several times a year and does business with Manuel Lisa, an arch rival of the Chouteaus, so I donʹt think heʹd likely be a friend to Wilkinson.ʺ
ʺThat kind is friend to no one but the highest bidder, but youʹre rightif heʹs at odds with the Chouteaus, itʹs unlikely heʹs in collusion with their associate, the general.ʺ
ʺQuinn has a reputation for swift and successful trips to New Mexico. Other than that . . .ʺ Coombs shrugged fatalistically.
Elise made a decision. ʺWeʹll just have to be the highest bidders for his services then. Thereʹs no time to lose. Make arrangements for me to meet with him as quickly as possible.ʺ
Elise inspected herself one last time in the mirror and decided she could charm the general and his officers, perhaps even the jaded Auguste Chouteau, if she used all her French wiles. Chouteauʹs estate, located on the edge of the city, was famous for its beauty, but considering how few buildings of any substance there were in St. Louis, she was doubtful.
When she arrived, the house was quite a surprise. Two stories high and of graceful French architecture, it was made of stone and surrounded by meticulously tended gardens and even a small lake of picturesque beauty.
ʺI see you are pleased by Monsieur Chouteauʹs house,ʺ Judge Easton said with a chuckle. The older gentleman and his daughter had arrived with their carriage to escort her to the ball.
Eliseʹs instinct was to trust Jeffersonʹs old friend Rufus Easton, but she would tread warily before revealing to him who she was. ʺI knew the family was wealthy, but this is truly splendid.ʺ
ʺWait until you see the inside,ʺ Rufus said with a twinkle in his eyes as he assisted both women from the carriage.
The ballroom was as grand as every other part of the house, filled with the most elegant furnishings imported upriver from New Orleans, but originally crafted in France. The chandelier cast glittering light around a ballroom whose walls were covered with delicate rose‐printed wallpaper. The walnut floor was waxed to a glass‐like shine. As was the custom in the cityʹs most fashionable homes, none of the first floor rooms had carpets but for small, exquisitely wrought hearth rugs.
Elise let her eyes drift across the sea of laughing faces, listening to men and women converse in French and English with here and there a Spanish phrase interjected. Although American since 1803, the French had settled St. Louis in 1764 and the Spanish had ruled it for nearly forty years. Men from many nations now gathered under the American flag, waiting to see if it would be good for their business or not. She knew that if adventurers like Governor‐General Wilkinson and his Spanish friends offered better prospects, many would follow them.
Santiago surveyed the crowded ballroom from the arched hall doorway. Serene had insisted that he escort her to this tiresome affair. At first he had been inclined to refuse his petulant mistress, but he had decided to humor her, rationalizing that he might learn more about Chouteauʹs plans for expanding his fur trade on the plains. Smiling, he touched a lock of Sereneʹs amber hair. His willingness to escort her had pleased her, and the voluptuous Creole widow always rewarded him well.
ʺDearheart, you must meet Judge Easton, an American but quite the gentleman for all that,ʺ Serene said, leading him toward a portly man of middling height who was conversing with several army officers.
ʺYou make being an American sound as bad as being Creek,ʺ he whispered with amusement. He
knew how scandalized she was by his association with Spybuck.
The usual amenities were exchanged, and Santiago found his attention wandering. But suddenly a familiar face caught his eye. Across the ballroom he saw her, the beautiful Frenchwoman he had rescued from those cutthroats. Then he had thought her striking, but now she robbed him of breath!
Her gleaming ebony hair was piled high atop her head in a cascade of curls interwoven with fresh violets, setting off her unusual eyes and blending with the deep violet of her watered‐silk gown. The low, rounded neckline revealed a fashionable amount of creamy white flesh, accented with an amethyst pendant nestled between the swells of her breasts. She was surrounded by a covey of admirers and obviously had them all drooling, not the least among them that fat, arrogant martinet, Wilkinson. Santiagoʹs eyes narrowed as he drew closer, watching her performance. She was older and far more sophisticated than Julie had been, but some feminine wiles never changedsoft silver laughter, a deftly wielded fan, dancing, sensuous eyes. Yet he could see that there was more to her exchange with the Governor‐General than mere flirtation. She hung on his every word, but at the same time seemed to prompt him at critical pauses, as if directing the conversation. To what end?
Santiago knew Wilkinson was involved with the Spanish malcontents out west who wanted a convenient little war. Could she, too, be a filibuster? If so, she was certainly the most beautiful one heʹd ever met. But then, they had never been properly introduced. A predatory smile curved his lips as he walked over to Madam Lisle, who made it her business to know everyoneʹs business in St. Louis, and asked her who the beautiful, violet‐eyed woman was.
ʺWhy, I understand she is from Paris, although I have not yet been introduced, Monsieur Quinn. Her name is Elise Louvois and she seems to be a particular friend of our new Governor‐General.ʺ Her puffy little eyes squinted with avid curiosity as she watched the ebony‐haired beauty across the room.
Kissing the plump old ladyʹs hand, Santiago wended his way toward Mademoiselle Louvois like a puma stalking a deer.
Elise watched the tall, russet‐haired stranger from beneath lowered lashes. He was staring at her intently. He looked naggingly familiar, although she was certain she would not forget meeting a specimen such as this arrogant devil. His black suit coat was tailored immaculately, severe amid all the glittering epaulets and ribbons of the army officers. The fit emphasized his lean build, and his graceful long legs were encased in scandalously molded trousers. She studied the chiseled, clean lines of his face, which was patrician, almost Celtic looking, with a prominent straight nose, bold jawline and piercing eyes. His coloring was striking, the deep bronzed tan of an outdoorsman set off by a snowy white silk stock and dark russet hair, immaculately barbered.
He is wise to leave such a beautiful face clean‐shaven. Elise gave herself a mental shake and looked away as she saw a white smile slash across his face. He knew she had been returning his perusal. The bold fellow was making his way toward her!
Before she could escape, some impulse made Santiago seize her hand and raise it to his lips for an intimate kiss. ʺMademoiselle Louvois, I believe this dance is ours?ʺ he said in English. Before she could respond, he swept her onto the dance floor.
ʺYou gamble much, monsieur, for you know full well we have never been introduced, much less have I promised you this dance.ʺ Yet she did not break away, but followed him in the intricate steps of the dance, trying to decide why she was so fascinated with this man. Surely she had met others as handsome, as audacious. Yet there was something about those green eyes. . . .
He was taken aback at her perfectly unaccented English. Here was an enigma.
What an extraordinary color her eyes werea deep violet. ʺAllow me to compliment you. I have never enjoyed dancing with anyone this much.ʺ
She smiled. ʺItʹs just that Iʹm tall for a female and can fit my steps the better to yours. You cannot imagine what a trial it is for a lady to dance with gentlemen shorter than she.ʺ Recalling that she was reported to be from Paris, he asked, ʺHave you ever danced with the emperor? Napoleon is quite slight of stature.ʺ
ʺYou have met him?ʺ
ʺI have seen him from a distance, back in my university days at the Sorbonne.
But you have not answered my question.ʺ
ʺWho are you, monsieur? I feel I should know you, yet we have never met.ʺ
ʺDo you always answer questions with other questions?ʺ he teased as the music ended. Without breaking stride, he led her from the floor through an open patio door.
I am mad to do this. Yet, bemused, Elise accompanied him from the crowded ballroom into the cool stillness of the moonlight. She had often flirted and teased men to gain information, but always her emotions remained completely under control. She felt little but contempt, occasionally mild amusement at their unsuccessful attempts to seduce her. But this man was differentfar more dangerous than any she had ever encountered.
When his hard chest pressed against her soft breasts, she automatically put her hands between them as if to push him away, but he merely held her, staring into her eyes, as if gauging her reaction.
ʺHave you ever danced with the emperor?ʺ he repeated.
ʺOnce. It was quite horrid, really. Like other men Iʹve met, heʹs so vain he expects every woman to swoon beneath his attentions.ʺ
A slow predatory smile spread across his face. ʺAh, a set‐down for my presumption,ʺ he said, not at all abashed by it. ʺHave you ever kissed the emperor?ʺ
Elise stiffened at his effrontery, but before she could decide what to do, his mouth was descending to hers while one hand spread across her bare back, pressing her more tightly against his body. The other hand tilted her chin until their lips met. Her startled gasp gave him entry and the tip of his tongue lightly rimmed the inside of her mouth, then danced a duel with hers for the briefest moment before withdrawing. Her heart was racing, and she knew her cheeks were flushed. In all her twenty‐seven years, she had never blushed!
Santiago sensed her disquiet and was surprised by it. She was sophisticated and witty in a ballroom, cool and imperious in a blood‐soaked back alley, but flushed and breathless over a simple kiss. He brushed aside his own uncharacteristic attraction, deciding it was merely her unusual beauty that aroused his lust. His fingertips grazed the rapidly beating pulse in her slender throat, then felt the heat in her cheek.
ʺDare I hope to get higher marks than the emperor in kissing as well as dancing?ʺ
She slipped from his embrace. ʺYou are insufferably arrogant, and no gentleman to take advantage of me so.ʺ
ʺI was only claiming my reward for saving your life, beautiful oneand for returning this.ʺ He smiled at her gasp of amazement when he spoke in perfect French and handed her the muff pistol with a flourish.
ʺYou!ʺ She looked at the gun as if it were a snake poised to strike, then seized it from his hand and slipped it into the pocket fold of her gown.
ʺI would find a weapon that is more reliable if you insist on frequenting such dangerous places.ʺ
ʺPlaces far better suited to your ilk, I am certain. Where is your great naked companionlurking in the bushes?ʺ He had played her for the fool, and she had fallen for it like a green girl!
ʺSpybuck has other matters to attend.ʺ ʺWhile you masquerade as a gentleman.ʺ
She switched back to clipped English, attempting to step past him and reenter the house. His hand on her shoulder stopped her.
ʺYour coiffure has come undone. Please allow me to repair it while you calm yourself.ʺ He began to arrange several escaped curls back into place with practiced ease.
ʺI donʹt need to regain any composure, and I can attend to my own hair,ʺ Elise snapped.
ʺDarling,ʺ Serene purred as she glided onto the patio. Taking in the intimate tableau with slitted golden eyes, she placed her hand possessively on Santiagoʹs arm while he stood between the two women.
He looks like a Turkish sultan, amused by two female slaves fighting over him! Elise smiled cooll
y and nodded to the blonde. ʺʹDarlingʹ is yours once again. I make you a present of himand his scalping‐hunting cohort lurking in the bushes.ʺ
With that, she walked stiffly to the door, rewarded fleetingly by the blondeʹs nervous glance toward the shadows of the garden. So she knew about the Indian.
And probably everything else about the arrogant rogue who moved from riverfront taverns to elegant ballrooms. He had said heʹd attended the Sorbonne.
That would account for his excellent French, yet the English, although precise, bore the faintest trace of an accent.
Dismissing him from her mind, she made her way through the crowd. There were more important matters to consider, such as her meeting tomorrow morning with the Spanish mercenary who would take them to Santa Fe. What sort of man would Santiago Quinn be?
Chapter Six
Jedediah Scudder sat slouched on an uncomfortable horsehair sofa in James Wilkinsonʹs office. He disliked waiting, but took the time to survey the Governor‐Generalʹs headquarters. The fort, if this rude outpost on the Missouri River could be called such, was manned by just under one thousand troops.
Wilkinsonʹs accommodations here at Belle Fontaine were certainly better than those of his subordinates. The sofa was sided by two equally uncomfortable-looking but expensive chairs. Several paintings of martial scenes adorned the whitewashed walls. A polished cherrywood sideboard on the far wall boasted a selection of decanters and a set of fancy glasses.
Scudder was helping himself to a generous dollop of corn whiskey when Wilkinson finally entered the room. ʺTook yet own sweet time,ʺ he said, tossing down the drink and fixing cold eyes on the short, paunchy man in his gaudy, ill-fitting uniform. James Wilkinson drew himself up in indignant affront. ʺI will thank you to keep a civil tongue, and I do not approve of ardent spirits before the dinner hour.ʺ He eyed the glass with such distaste that Scudder sat it down without refilling it.
