The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  One dance ended and another began. Before, they had been doing little more than stamping their feet and swaying, but now the men and women paired off. The singing and the beating of the drums merged into a frenetic rhythm that seemed to urge Anne’s heartbeat to keep time. She felt flushed, energized, excited. Beneath her skirt, her toes tapped in tune with the beating of the drums.

  Now, instead of wishing Jeffrey were there to explain the dances to her, she wished Renard were there to share the excitement with her. But she couldn’t imagine him in such a normal situation, in the bright light of day, and outfitted in ordinary clothes. He was her dark, dangerous hero of the night.

  The dancing was growing more and more daring and exotic by the minute. The men were circling the women, then wriggling at their feet like snakes. Here and there couples seemed to be actually emulating the act of … sexual intercourse! Anne watched, fascinated, and—yes!—stimulated! Now she knew why Reggie objected to her coming there. He’d absolutely die if he knew where she was, what she was watching, and how it was making her feel!

  While she didn’t think there was anything wrong or immoral with what the dancers were doing, she was beginning to feel like a Peeping Tom. The dancing suddenly seemed too private to watch, and it occurred to Anne in a blinding revelation that this was yet another example of exploitation of the African people. They weren’t even free to gather together and dance without an audience. Everything they did was monitored, confined, supervised. They were slaves.

  Anne turned away, suddenly just as anxious to leave the place as she’d been to get there. She nudged her way through the crowd as tears stung her eyes. She wanted to go home, to separate herself from the mass of curious onlookers. She wanted no part of such exploitation.

  Anne managed to work her way through the dense crowd and headed for the street. Blinking away the unwanted tears, she looked up and down the block for a cab. Seeing none, she started walking. She would hail a cab as soon as she saw one, but she had no intention of standing around waiting.

  There was always the chance she’d see someone she knew. That could be either a blessing or a curse. Running into Jeffrey would be heaven, but meeting people of society who would condemn her for going out alone would be just the opposite. She was in no mood to defend herself and wasn’t about to make up some outlandish story to justify her behavior.

  She caught her skirts in both hands, kept her chin up, and strode with dignity along the banquette, headed north to the Faubourg St. Mary and home. Looking neither left nor right, she stared straight ahead, taking refuge behind her dark veil. She’d gone four blocks and was passing an alley when her arm was grabbed from behind.

  Forced to stop so abruptly, she was nearly jerked off her feet. Furious as well as frightened, she turned to confront the person who had so rudely detained her. He was a tall, heavy, middle-aged man with a mottled complexion and a nose as red as a radish. His suit of clothes was worn and unkempt, his blond mutton-chop whiskers overgrown and bushy. Judging by his foolish, leering grin and glassy eyes, he was drunk.

  “Now where’s a pretty thing like you goin’ in such a hurry?” He looked around, the slight movement making him weave on his feet, then pushed his face dose to hers. “And all alone, it seems.” His breath reeked of liquor and lunch, supporting her theory that this fellow had had one too many tips of some potent brew along with his midday meal at the local pub.

  Anne tried to pull away, but the man’s grip on her upper arm was as strong as his breath. His thick fingertips pinched into her tender flesh till she knew she’d have bruises.

  “I demand that you release me, sir,” she said. Anne looked up and down the street for possible help, but there was only one couple at the far end who were headed in the opposite direction. She’d have to scream to get their attention, and she didn’t want to make a scene. She could imagine Reggie’s horror if she was brought home by a city patrolman.

  The man chuckled. “You demand I release you, eh? You’ve got a feisty way about you. And such a pretty way o’ speakin’. From jolly ol’ England, ain’t you, love?”

  Anne tugged at her arm, glaring up at the man. “You are breaking the law, sir,” she ground out between clenched teeth, “and if you don’t let me go this minute, I’ll scream for help.”

  “Ain’t no one about, missy. They’s all down at the square watchin’ the heathens dance. And how you reckon I’m breakin’ the law?”

  “You’re holding me against my will. That is a form of assault, sir.”

  “Oh, assault, is it? I thought maybe you was figurin’ on yellin’ rape, or somethin’.” His grin widened and his gaze lowered, lingering on her breasts. Alarm made Anne’s heart skip a beat “And here I ain’t even kissed you yet.”

  “If you don’t let me go this minute, I’ll scream.” Anne repeated her threat in a low, precise voice. She wanted him to understand every word. She was giving him one last chance.

  His brows lifted, and his mouth curved in a nasty smirk. “That’s what you said before, missy.”

  “This time I mean it.” Anne held her breath. She felt his fingers loosen a little on her arm, which gave her hope, then, suddenly, he yanked her into the alley and pushed her against the brick wall, holding her captive by pressing his heavy body against hers.

  Now Anne couldn’t scream at all. The breath had been knocked out of her when she’d hit the wall, and by the time she got it back, the man had pushed up her veil and covered her mouth with his hand.

  She struggled, kicking and thrashing, but her captor was incredibly strong and only shifted his weight and moved his legs till she was completely confined by muscle-bound thighs and the sheer bulk of the man. They were connected in the most unbearably intimate way.

  Beyond the terror of finding herself at the mercy of this man and not knowing exactly what he meant to do to her, Anne registered the disagreeable odor of human sweat, musty clothes, and breath that reeked of gin and onions.

  Anne’s eyes widened as the man lowered his face to hers, his greasy-looking lips puckered up for the kill. She didn’t take the time to wonder why, but when Anne closed her eyes against the inevitable reality of what was coming next, she conjured up a vision of beautiful hands decorated with emerald and diamond rings, and the chiseled profile of Dandy Delacroix.

  Chapter Eight

  With her eyes squeezed shut and the man detaining her engrossed in the business at hand, neither of them was aware at first that someone else had joined them in the alley. Anne’s first due was a sound that reminded her of a woodpecker’s single thump against a tree trunk—hollow and dull. She opened her eyes and saw a surprised look on the face of her accoster. He held her just as tightly, but it was obvious his concentration had been jarred. By a knock to the noggin? she wondered. In unison they turned their heads and discovered they were not alone.

  Anne’s heart leaped with joy and relief. As if she’d conjured him up, Delacroix stood in all his arrogant splendor not three feet away. Today he was dressed in black, his watch chains and fobs glinting silver in the sunlight, his hat worn at a jaunty angle.

  He looked calm, almost bored. His stance was relaxed, but subtly belligerent. He leaned slightly forward, his hands, glittering entirely with diamonds, rested with languid grace on the knob of a walking cane. Most of his weight was thrown on one hip, his right leg bent minimally at the knee. His obsidian eyes were hooded, filled with lazy malice.

  “Monsieur, I suggest you let go of the lady or suffer the consequences.”

  Anne had never been so glad to hear that languid, imperious drawl.

  “And who are you?” the man said scathingly, skimming his bloodshot gaze over Delacroix’s impeccable appearance. “I suppose it was you what hit me on the bean, with that cane you’ve got there, eh?”

  Delacroix arched a black brow. “I plead guilty.”

  “Well then, I’m givin’ you fair warnin’, pretty boy, that if’n you so much as raise that little stick of yours again, I’ll take it from you and giv
e you a whackin’ with it you won’t soon forget.”

  Delacroix’s eyes narrowed to glittery slits. “Merci, monsieur. So kind of you to warn me of your intentions. But don’t forget, I warned you first.”

  The man threw back his head and laughed, his grimy neck revealed for Anne’s unwilling inspection. Delacroix waited for the foul fellow’s mirth to pass, his expression devoid of emotion, his gaze fixed impassively on the villain’s face. But Anne could feel the tension in the air. She could see it in Delacroix’s taut arms and legs. His relaxed pose was deceptive. He was like a coiled wire, ready to spring.

  “Lord, I needed a good laugh,” said the man, letting go of Anne with one hand while he wiped his watery eyes. “No fella what goes about dressed as slick as you wants to mess up his duds over a female. Now go on with you, I’ve got a kiss to collect.”

  Delacroix straightened up and leaned his cane against the brick wall. Unhurriedly he removed his right glove—only his right glove—and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he stood with his feet slightly straddled and his arms crossed loosely over his broad chest. “I haven’t the slightest intention of going away, so I suggest you let the lady go, and, as the Americans say, put up your dukes.”

  The man heaved a beleaguered sigh, blowing his rotten breath Anne’s way once again. “You’re like a pesky mosquito what won’t buzz off, ain’t you? Well, guess you’re just a bug what needs swattin’, is all. Stay put, missy. I’ll be fetchin’ that kiss in a minute.”

  He let Anne go.

  “Go home, mademoiselle,” said Delacroix, looking at her for the first time, his expression stem. But Anne shook her head and scurried only a few feet away, deeper into the alley. She pressed herself against the opposite wall at a safe distance to watch. Strongly opposed to violence, Anne had no desire to see blood fly, but she didn’t think she should leave Delacroix alone with this huge brute of a man. Heaven knew Delacroix had a strong-looking body, but did he know how to use it to best advantage? Dueling was one thing, fisticuffs was another. Delacroix might need her help.

  Apparently resigned to her stubbornness, Delacroix turned his attention back to the man, who looked ready to pounce. Anne cast desperately about for a weapon. She spied a plank of rotten wood and picked it up. Ruefully she acknowledged that perhaps a lady ought to carry a derringer in her purse rather than a scented handkerchief, a bottle of smelling salts, and pin money.

  With a drunken roar the man lunged. Delacroix swung once, hit the man square on the jaw, and sent him sprawling.

  The entire ugly affair was settled in less time than it took to say sacre bleu. There had been no scuffle, no grunting, sweating, or thrashing about. With one neat clip to the jaw, Delacroix had flattened his foe. Dazed, Anne moved tentatively forward, as if afraid the man, like a wounded bear, might rise up and attack. He was facedown, a dribble of bloody drool hanging over his bottom lip. She stood over him, then nudged his arm with the toe of her boot. There was no response. He was out cold.

  Anne looked up into the face of her savior. Not even the first dew of perspiration dotted his upper lip. He was as cool as an English lake in spring. He was as unruffled and contained as a lone rooster strutting for the hens in his own personal barnyard. Anne was speechless.

  “Mademoiselle? Are you quite all right?”

  Anne dropped the board she’d been prepared to do battle with, and shook her head wonderingly. “You knocked him out. You completely leveled him with just one punch.”

  Delacroix frowned, working the fingers of the hand that had delivered the decisive blow. “Oui,” he said dismissively. “He was drunk and dirty, and I had no desire to wrestle with the fellow. Rest assured, I did him no permanent harm. He’ll sleep it off in a few hours, wake up wondering how he got where he is, then stagger home only a little the worse for wear.” He scanned her from tip to toe, a furrow of worry between his brows. “But I repeat, mademoiselle, are you unharmed? Are you only a little the worse for wear?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m perfectly fine,” she answered impatiently. “But tell me, Mr. Delacroix, how did you do it? I’d no notion you knew how to fight!”

  Delacroix shrugged. “I sometimes spar for the sport of it. As I am frequently in the company of females, I constantly have to be ready to defend myself against jealous ex-beaux, husbands, et cetera. However, rescuing damsels in distress is my specialty, and my favorite reason for using my pugilist skills.” He smiled slyly. “I usually get a kiss as a reward for my efforts.”

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said Anne, quickly looking away as the heat crept up her neck and flooded her cheeks with warmth. After kissing Renard so intimately last night, she felt it would be inappropriate to kiss Delacroix even as a reward for saving her. It confused her, though, that she still felt attracted to Delacroix after her tryst with Renard. “But I do sincerely thank you for coming to my rescue. How did you know where I was and that I needed help? I saw no one on the street when that lout dragged me in here.”

  Delacroix turned to pick up his cane. “I saw you at Congo Square. When you left, you did not take a cab, and I supposed you meant to walk home alone. That was foolish, mademoiselle, as foolish as coming to watch the dancing by yourself.”

  Anne was instantly defensive. “No one would bring me. What else could I do?”

  “You could have stayed home.”

  “But nothing happened to me!”

  Delacroix’s black eyes flashed. “Nothing happened to you because I had the presence of mind to follow you when you left Congo Square.”

  “I wonder you recognized me in that throng of people.”

  “Pigheaded females stand out in a crowd, mademoiselle.”

  “So do peacocks with a flock of hens in tow, Mr. Delacroix, but I didn’t see you!”

  Delacroix smiled, as if amused and pleased by her description. “You think me a peacock, eh? I have been called worse.”

  “Doubtless you have!”

  “However, I’m sure you meant to insult me. Enchanting, mademoiselle. Is this how young ladies in England are taught to thank their gallant protectors? By insulting them?”

  “You insulted me!” Anne gave a huff of impatience. “Oh, I do appreciate your intervention in this case, Mr. Delacroix, but I daresay the oaf only meant to dally with me. You know … kiss me, et cetera.”

  “It is the et cetera that ought to worry you. He may have meant only to dally with you at first, but passions have a way of running amok. He was drunk and very dangerous.”

  Anne sulked. He was right, and she hated to admit it. Indeed, she had been in grave danger of being raped, and she owed her salvaged virtue to Delacroix. Feeling unaccountably irritable, she changed the subject. “Why did you follow me from Congo Square?”

  “I told you why.” He extracted his glove from his jacket pocket and pulled it on, neatly and methodically tucking down the material between each finger. Anne watched, mesmerized as always by the lean shape and beauty of his hands. “I thought you might run into trouble.” He glanced up, his eyes brimming with wry humor. “And, you see, I was right.”

  “I live just a few blocks away. It really wasn’t such a foolish or unreasonable thing to attempt, you know, walking home such a little distance.” She gestured toward the prone figure of the man. “He was just an unfortunate fluke. Besides, why should you bother to safeguard a female you hardly know? It couldn’t have been convenient to traipse after me as you did.”

  “Oui, it was damned inconvenient. I left some rather scintillating company.”

  Anne took this to mean that, just as she’d assumed, he had been with fawning women. Or perhaps he had been with his mistress. For some reason, either possibility made her feel more argumentative. “Then there must have been some other more compelling reason why you followed me,” she insisted.

  Delacroix rolled his shoulders in a gesture of exasperation. “Is it a crime to be a gentleman? Other than the fact that it’s never safe for a female of your tender upbringing to walk o
ut alone, an additional reason to keep your sort on a short tether is the fact that you, mademoiselle, seem to attract trouble.”

  Anne stuck out her chin defiantly. “My sort! There’s no reason for you to categorize me that way. Uncle Reggie keeps me perpetually on that hypothetical short tether you just mentioned, so I haven’t even had the smallest opportunity to attract trouble since I left England!”

  Except, of course, when she’d interrupted Renard’s escapade on the Belvedere. But there was no way Delacroix could know about that.

  They glared at each other.

  “Mademoiselle, I have observed you in society since we met on the Belvedere. You’ve made no secret of your rebellious nature. Such an unconventional, unfeminine attitude always attracts trouble.”

  Anne put her hands on her hips and leaned forward. “Is that so?”

  “Certainement. You don’t suppose I followed you because I’ve got some sort of tendre for you, do you? Believe me, cher, you’re not my sort. Not my sort at all.”

  Anne leaned closer, till they were practically nose to nose. “If I were your sort, Mr. Delacroix, I believe I’d have sufficient reason to instantly slit my throat. Real men don’t piddle their time away gaming and wenching—”

  “Don’t they?” he murmured.

  “And they don’t spend all their time and money on themselves. Real men do something important with their lives, like fighting for a cause, or raising a family, or building a school, or … or … something!”

  By now, Delacroix’s jaw looked as hard as granite. His eyes glistened like sizzling bits of blackest coal. Anne smiled triumphantly, thrilled to have nettled him out of his usual bored ennui. “And real men don’t—”