White Apache

by tiffy

  Santiago caught sight of himself in the Cheval glass. How easily he had slipped back into the role of Spanish nobleman. The dress clothes belonged to Robert Priestly and had been hastily altered to fit him so he could attend the elegant Creole soirée that evening. He had learned that Raoul Castal had indeed returned to the city, but all attempts to locate him had proven unsuccessful. This was a desperate gambit.

  Santiago Quinn was again the Count of Aranda, searching for his long‐lost love, now widowed. If Madame Pleshette was still a flighty romantic and as much of a gossip as she formerly had been, he should know by eveningʹs end where to find Juliette. The irony of his role did not escape Santiago. Will I be as good at this game as Elise?

  Solange Pleshette raised her lorgnette and inspected the tall stranger with the russet hair. Handsome devil. As he wended his way deliberately across the ballroom to greet the reigning social arbiter of the city, she watched his lithe, long‐legged stride. As sinuously graceful as a panther.

  Suddenly she dropped the lorgnette and put her hand to her ample bosom.

  ʺAranda! The Spanish renegade who killed poor dear Pierre. I had heard he fled into New Spain, to that savage land where his deranged father died.ʺ

  ʺImagine his nerve to return here after all these years. Can the American authorities not arrest him?ʺ her elderly companion, Louise, asked.

  Madame Pleshette sniffed disdainfully. ʺAs if the Americans cared a whit for the death of one of our own.ʺ

  ʺBut he is no American, just a half‐Irish impostor posing as a member of the Spanish court,ʺ Louise hissed. Her thin, sallow face puckered like a pale yellow prune.

  ʺHa! The Irish side of his pedigree is sadly wanting, but he is still well and truly Count of Aranda and a member in good standing of the Spanish court.ʺ At her companionʹs look of incredulity and voracious curiosity, Solange continued, ʺWhen I visited my cousins in Bordeaux last year, we made a journey to Madrid.

  They have married most advantageously into the House of Santandar, and we visited the royal court. Imagine my amazement to learn the red‐haired rogue was in fact who he purported to be in spite of his lamentable paternity. He is rich as sin. A pity poor Julietteʹs rash brother Raoul prevented her marriage to Aranda and precipitated the duel.ʺ

  Louise clicked her tongue, not in sympathy but spite. ʺThat Juliette Doubert deserved the wastrel she wed. A good thing her sainted papa and poor Pierre are not alive to see how she has cavorted since she was widowed.ʺ

  Across the crowded room, the subject of the grand damesʹ gossip also inspected Santiago Quinn with luminous brown eyes. All that money and titleand my stupid brother let it slip through our fingers!

  Juliette watched him from her vantage point on the stairs leading to the ladiesʹ

  retiring quarters. With age and maturity, he had become every bit as splendid a specimen as her imaginings over the years had conjured, as virile and sensual as a great tawny mountain lion. She would relish this nightʹs work for the causeevery minute of it.

  She cursed Raoul, her father, even poor cowardly Philipe. Her marriage to Ramon Doubert had been quietly arranged after the period of mourning for Philipe was over, and the scandal of her broken engagement had died down.

  Within two years, Ramon had run through her dowry and bankrupted his fatherʹs plantation. Then he began to drink and finally had the bad grace to get himself killed in a senseless duel.

  Her father lost everything in unsuccessful investments, and after he died, it was left to her to sell off her remaining possessions just to survive. Raoul rode off to play soldier in New Spain.

  Now her brother had returned, embroiled in plots to overthrow Spanish rule in New Mexico. Only yesterday he had informed her of the Irishmanʹs arrival in New Orleans and the role she was to play in Quinnʹs demise. She smiled grimly. We will just see about your schemes, Raoul, dear brother to whom I owe so much!

  The years of Quinnʹs absence had not been easy ones. Juliette had cast about for a respectable marriage, but a penniless widow with a trail of scandal clinging to her was not the match most wealthy New Orleans families wanted for their sons.

  Men and their infantile honor!

  She had been forced to form discreet liaisons with wealthy, powerful menmostly Americans, whom she despised. Juliette had lived in comfort on the periphery of her old world, despising it for its hypocrisy, yet longing to be a part of it once more.

  Someday I shall shake off the dust of this backward place and go to Francein style! She smoothed the high waist of her shimmering gown, a lush concoction of peach satin that clung to every curve of her voluptuous body. At twenty‐nine, Juliette Doubert was a strikingly beautiful and incredibly ruthless woman.

  Half way across the room, she knew the Irishman had caught sight of her. She watched as he excused himself from the Baron de San Sebastian and made his way to her.

  Santiago was stunned at her audacity. Robert Priestly had just learned that she was now the mistress of an American banker who was a prominent member of the Mexican Association. As a woman of fallen reputation, she had taken a fearful chance of being cut by Madame Pleshette. But this was not the simpering, convent‐raised schoolgirl he had been infatuated with a decade ago.

  ʺYou are remarkably changed, Juliette,ʺ he said as she offered her hand and smiled beguilingly at him. ʹʹAnd you are even more fascinating than when first we met, Irishman,ʺ she purred.

  What dangerous game did she play? He had hoped the sight of him here would send her scurrying to her brotherwith him following closely behind. ʺStill Irishman? When last we met that word was an epithet on your lips, Julie,ʺ he said, taking her arm to escort her from the press of dancing and laughter.

  ʺMy dear Aranda, I know who you are now. Madame Pleshette and I share the same modiste. But to me you will always be the Irishman. How I loved hating you back thenwith a schoolgirlʹs pique. But I have outlasted the schoolroom and the tiresome fool my father wed me to. You do know I am a widow now?ʺ Her eyes were fathomless and at the same time flirtatious as he escorted her through the double doors onto the gallery.

  Santiago laughed. ʺYes, Julie, I heard about your tragic loss as soon as I arrived in the city several days ago.ʺ

  ʺDaysand you did not come calling? I am bereft.ʺ She made a moue of mock outrage.

  ʺThe last time I saw you, your brother tried to kill me. Scarcely the sort of parting that would lead a man to seek out his former fiancée.ʺ

  ʺPhilipeʹs death had quite unhinged my reason. ʹTwas Raoul who forced me to write that note. After all, Santiago, I was just a seventeen‐year‐old girl.ʺ

  ʺEighteen, Julie, but no matter. You are more beautiful now than ever, and I am certain half the men in New Orleans have told you so.ʺ

  Her eyes narrowed on him for a fleeting instant, then she tapped him flirtatiously with her fan and asked, ʺWhat do you know about me and the gentlemen of the city?ʺ

  ʺI hear you and Clark Jamison have been seen together a good deal here of late.ʺ

  ʺIs that American friend of yours, Priestley, spreading all those ugly, untrue rumors?ʺ

  ʺThen you are not involved with Jamison?ʺ

  ʺMy Cousin Prospere escorted me here,ʺ she evaded, wanting him to reveal just how much he knew about her family situation.

  ʺAh, but I suspect, unless your sensibilities have greatly changed, you would not sleep with your own cousin.ʺ She lost control and raised her hand to slap him.

  He encircled her wrist and held it tightly.

  ʺYou are hurting me, Santiago.ʺ He released her, and she rubbed the spot where his strong, calloused fingers had bruised her pale flesh. She studied him from beneath the thick fringe of her lashes. His expression revealed nothing. ʺYou are right. I have been under Mr. Jamisonʹs protection,ʺ Juliette admitted grudgingly.

  She shuddered with revulsion. ʺIf you know about that, you must also know how destitute I am since Ramonʹs death. I have been alone, with no husband and no father to rely on.ʺ Her voice took on a
piteous note while still remaining oddly seductive.

  ʺNo husband or father, but you do have a brother, Julie.ʺ He studied her face and appreciated for the first time how skillful Elise was at masking emotions. Juliette tried to pass off his question with a burble of frivolous laughter, but it rang false.

  She is up to something. ʺWhat has happened to Raoul?ʺ

  ʺDo you wish to repay him for his clumsy attempt on your life all those years ago?ʺ

  ʺI do not wish to kill him, Julie, only talk with him.ʺ Iʹll kill him after I find Elise.

  She raised one dark eyebrow and batted her lashes, then brushed against his arm with a large white breast, which was barely contained by her daringly low‐cut gown. ʺShould I trust you, Irishman?ʺ she asked, her voice once more a husky purr.

  No more than I should trust you. He stroked her shoulder with the pad of his thumb and worked it lower, toward the deep vale between her exposed breasts.

  ʺTrust me, Julie.ʺ Set the trap, bitch.

  When she raised her arm to circle his neck, her eyes swept the deserted gallery for any spectators. They were alone. The splashing sounds of the courtyard fountain drowned out the low conversation of several couples strolling below them, unaware. Juliette pulled him into the shadows and embraced him.

  Santiago kissed her and felt her instantaneous and rapacious response. He let his fingers glide over her large, soft breasts, cupping them. Then he tightened one arm around her waist and kneaded a well rounded buttock as he plundered her mouth roughly.

  She returned the passion, savaging his mouth until she drew blood. Finally, he broke the brutal kiss and stared down at her face. Her eyes were glazed and her cheeks flushed. Every pulse in her body thrummed with excitement.

  Licking the smear of blood from his cut lip with the tip of her tongue, she tilted her head and regarded him. ʺDo you make love like those savage Apaches you were raised with?ʺ

  The sick fascination in her face and voice turned his guts, but he held his revulsion in check and mimicked her breathless arousal. ʺI will show you the Apache way. You will never forget it, I promise you. But first I must be certain your brother will not burst in upon us and kill me even as I . . .ʺ He caressed her breast with one hand while his other hand held a thick chestnut curl tightly, pulling her face inches from his in a punishing grip. He could feel her pulse accelerate. ʺWhere is Raoul?ʺ

  Her eyes glittered in the darkness as she laughed. ʺNo, first you attend to me, then I will serve up Raoul on a silver platterjust for you.ʺ At his cynical look, she added, ʺI, too, bear Raoul a bitter enmity. He not only took you from me with his lies, but then he convinced Papa to saddle me with that wastrel Ramon. I was reduced to enduring the clumsy pawing of Americans like Jamison while my brother rode off into the setting sun without a backward glance. Come, Santiago.

  Let me see if the reality is as fine as the fantasy. Then I will reward you with Raoul.ʺ

  Gritting his teeth, Santiago led her across the gallery to the stairs and his waiting carriage. Before the night was done he would find Eliseor kill Juliette!

  As Santiagoʹs driver slapped the reins and drove off, a tall, heavyset American with sandy hair and cold gray eyes materialized from the shadows of the carriage house. Clark Jamison observed their departure with a wintery smile.

  Raoul would be furious with his sisterʹs little deviation in his plan. But then, Raoul would be even more upset if he suspected Jamisonʹs intentions.

  Just to be certain Juliette was only indulging her insatiable lust and did indeed intend to send Quinn after Castal, Jamison decided to follow them. Juliette was unpredictable at best, and his employer, General Wilkinson, would not countenance another failure. Both Jamison and the general agreed that Castal must be silenced, and Santiago Quinn was the perfect means to that end.

  Chapter Twenty‐Nine

  The bedroom was cluttered with ornate Louis XV furniture. Candles flickered in heavy gold sconces, casting shadows on the gowns, jewelry, and diaphanous sleeping apparel strewn carelessly on the chairs and carpet. The maid had been dismissed for the night.

  ʺAnd now . . . darling,ʺ Juliette said, brushing a lock of tousled chestnut hair from her forehead as she began to push Santiago onto the bed.

  He lay back, letting her play her game out, watching her as she slowly began to peel down the expensive ballgown. Her voluptuous, milky flesh was on the verge of turning plump, but she was still a lushly beautiful woman. Visions of Eliseʹs slender figure and sun‐kissed face flashed before his mindʹs eye with painful clarity. Elise, whose body was as well honed as her mind. She would never go to fat as the indulgent, vindictive Juliette Doubert would. Clad only in sheer silk undergarments, she reached for his lawn shirt and began to unfasten the studs. When it gaped open, she ran her fingers down his chest, tracing the curly reddish pattern that vanished at his belt. Then she slid her hands around to his back and felt the welts. Her eyes lighted with lustful curiosity.

  Santiago quickly seized her by her shoulders and rolled her beneath him on the big, soft bed. Excited, she reveled in his rough treatment, biting his shoulder and ripping his shirt.

  ʺDid the Apaches do this to you?ʺ she asked breathlessly.

  ʺThe Apache do not torture their own. Your brother did this to me. Where is he, Julie? Tell me now or Raoulʹs best efforts will pale in comparison to what I will do to you. I am called the White Apache for good reason.ʺ He reached down to his dress boot and extracted a slim, deadly blade. ʺWith this I can peel that lovely milky skin off, one inch at a time . . . beginning with your face. We are all alone here. No one will hear your screams.ʺ

  Her face grew ashen, all lust now forgotten as she stared at the silvery blade gleaming in the candlelight. Then she looked into his piercing green eyes, filled with rage. Good God! Raoul had scarred him with a whipwhat would the savage do to her?

  ʺOr perhaps I should begin with your breasts.ʺ The knife slid, ice cold, down her throat and poised at the tip of one nipple. ʺThey are very large,ʺ he said almost conversationally. He could feel her trembling in pure terror now.

  ʺSantiago, pleaseʺ

  ʺWhere is Raoul?ʺ he interrupted. ʺThe Apache have special things they do to women captives.ʺ The knife moved lower.

  ʺHe is at an old warehouse on Levee Street! He thinks I am sending you into his ambush, but I never intended to do as he wished. If you take the map I have drawn, you can slip in behind him and kill him.ʺ

  He released her and rolled off the bed, then yanked her up beside him. ʺLet me see that map.ʺ She gave him a look of pure loathing, but walked to the dainty escritoire and rummaged through the piles of bills until she found the already prepared directions. Her eyes were glassy with fear as she threw it at him.

  ʺTake it and go,ʺ she hissed.

  ʺAnd be bereft of your charming company?ʺ He watched her face take on a disbelieving expression. ʺYou are coming with meto ensure that I am not walking into your brotherʹs ambush.ʺ He quickly perused the map, still holding the knife in one hand.

  ʺNo!ʺ she exclaimed as furious anger bubbled up inside her, displacing her fear.

  ʺI have explained the trap my stupid brother has set for you. He waits at the old Poitiere Warehouse on the river. If you enter by the upstairs windowʺ

  ʺIf I enter the way you have drawn the map, then I should be able to capture Raouland you should be in no danger accompanying me,ʺ he said smoothly. ʺGet dressed. Something in black, I think. For concealment and for mourning the loss of the brother you profess to hate so much.ʺ

  Juliette began to tremble. This was not the way her scheme was to work. Not at all. She had planned to satisfy her sexual curiosity about the savage Irishman and then betray Raoul to him as Jamison had instructed her. If Quinn killed her brother, she had hoped the renegade Irishman would be grateful enough to become her protector, perhaps even make her his countess in time. If her brother killed the Irishman, she would still be Jamisonʹs mistress. She had thought of every possibilityexcept that Sant
iago would risk her life!

  ʺYou cannot expect me to go! You know how dangerous Raoul is!ʺ

  ʺAnd I know how treacherous you are, Julie.ʺ He rummaged through her trunks and pulled out a dark blue day dress, rumpled and ready for the poor box at the cathedral. Throwing it at her he said, ʺGet dressed or Iʹll take you with naught but your cloak over that pale white flesh. We must not keep Raoul waiting, must we?ʺ

  Santiago was calm and implacable as he scooped up a black velvet cloak and advanced on her. ʺThe dress first, then this.ʺ

  She tried to turn and run, but he caught her and twisted her arm roughly behind her back, holding her tightly. She struggled in his arms, kicking ineffectually with her bare feet and trying to shred his face with the nails of her free hand.

  ʺRaoul was right! It is the American woman you are after!ʺ she blurted out. The moment the words escaped her lips, she felt his body tense and his hold on her wrists tighten until she thought her bones would snap.

  ʺYou know where he holds Elise, do you not?ʺ he snarled.

  ʺNo! Raoul is at the warehouseʺ

  ʺBut Elise would not be. Castal would never risk anyone finding her in the city.

  Claiborneʹs men have combed every hideyhole for weeks! Where is she?ʺ

  She started to scream, but he seized her throat and squeezed. Only a low croak came out. Juliette could not breathe, and the pain was so intense that she feared he was going to kill her on the spot. She could scarcely comprehend his low, gravelly voice as he threatened her. Once his hand loosened from her throat, she gulped in air and then coughed. Santiago shook her to get her attention focused on what he was saying. ʺIf Elise is harmed, even your fertile little imagination cannot envision my retribution, Juliette. NowʺHe held her still and spoke slowlyʺwhere is Elise? She is not in that warehouse with Raoul, is she?ʺ

  Thinking of what Raoul would do to her was almostbut not quiteas frightening as what this white Apache would do. She was caught between them. ʺShe is at my brother‐in‐lawʹs plantation. I will give you directions.ʺ

  ʺNo, dear Juliette. You will show me the way.ʺ