by Danice Allen
“I know what I’d like to do to you.”
He missed a beat, tripped slightly, and quickly swept her into a smooth turn.
“You covered that nicely, Mr. Delacroix,” she said, stroking his shoulder with the tiniest movement of her thumb. “No one would have suspected that we were about to tumble onto the floor, now would they?”
“If you persist in tantalizing me, Mademoiselle Weston, we may yet find ourselves prone on the ballroom floor, and in a position that might embarrass you in front of all these pillars of society.” He smiled politely.
“Your hints of impending debauchery, Mr. Delacroix,” said Anne with wide-eyed innocence, “trouble me not at all.”
Lucien’s hand on her waist involuntarily tightened. “You look like an angel, and, God knows, you feel heavenly in my arms, but you torture me with the wicked glee of a temptress from hell.”
Her eyes danced with mischief. “You deserve it. Besides, would you have me any other way?”
He gave her a leering grin. “Right now, Anne, I’d have you anyway and anywhere I could!”
They both laughed but grew quickly serious, knowing that they spoke the truth in jest. They stared at each other for a long, lingering moment, till a couple brushed close by and recalled them to reality and prudence. Lucien returned to his droopy-eyed dandy’s persona, and Anne smiled vacuously at passing dancers. When the music ended, he bent briefly to her ear and whispered, “Meet me in the garden behind the statue of the unknown woman,” then bowed and walked away.
Anne was supposed to meet her aunt in the supper room, but she escaped through a side entrance and went around to the back of the house. She saw three other couples who would rather tryst than eat supper, cuddling and kissing in the moonlit Rosedown garden. She had no idea where the statue was, or even what it looked like, and she wandered deep into the lush greenery of trees and bushes searching for it.
At last, far away from the other romantic couples, Anne saw an ancient statue that looked as if it had been transported from some ruined villa in Italy. It was a woman in a long toga with outstretched arms. The look on her stone face was one of longing. Anne stood, staring at the statue’s poignant expression, till a human arm reached out and tugged her into the shadows behind it. Enclosed on all sides by shrubs or stone, Anne was once again alone with Lucien.
“You didn’t scream,” he said, pulling her against his chest.
“I knew it was you. You’re the only man I know who grabs at me out of the shadows.” She locked her arms around his neck. The pattern of moonlight through gently stirring leaves played over his face. She could just make out his smile, then she saw it disappear.
“I had to see you, hold you, one more time before—”
Anne’s heart filled with dread. “Before what?”
He sighed. “Before the night is over.”
“Because something important is happening tonight?”
“I only have two minutes, Anne. Two minutes that I don’t intend to spend talking.”
Before she could say another word, Lucien had covered her mouth with his. His lips were warm and firm, his kisses deeper and more demanding than ever before. She felt his passion and urgency and returned it completely. She pressed against him, her body touching his at every intimate point.
He broke their kiss, gasping, then caught her at the waist and lifted her, nuzzling her neck and chest with his lips. She slid down, and his hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs rubbing over the hard nubs of her nipples.
Blood rushed through her body, pooling in all the sensitive spots. Moisture gathered at her woman’s core. Just in that minute of kissing, he’d made her want him desperately. And, judging by the hard jut of his manhood against her, he wanted her equally as much.
He kissed her again on the mouth, his tongue mating urgently with hers, driving her near madness with desire. She turned her head, saying breathlessly against his cheek, “Two minutes? Perhaps that’s long enough to—”
He chuckled, but his voice was shaky. “No, it’s not nearly enough time to do justice to the passion I have for you, sweet Anne. Another time, another place.”
She pulled away, holding his face between her hands. “Oh, yes, Lucien! Another time, another place. Promise me!” She felt tears stinging her eyelids.
She could feel his sudden reserve, his drawing back, even as she held him close. “It’s time to go back inside. Katherine will be looking for you.”
“I don’t want to go yet.”
“You have to. I’ll watch you till you get inside.” He gently pushed her away.
“I love you, Lucien.”
“Good night, Anne.” He turned slightly, his face suddenly completely obscured by shadows.
She crossed her arms in a viselike hug, as if she could hold in all the worry, all the fear. She looked longingly one more time at his shadowy figure, then turned and walked dejectedly toward the house.
“Be careful,” she whispered under her breath. “Come back to me.”
Lucien watched Anne go inside to sit at supper with her aunt. God! Making her leave him was like losing part of his own soul. He wished he could give her the assurances she craved; he hated seeing her so anxious. But in another minute he would meet Bodine at the spot they’d agreed on to escort the blackguard over a harvested sugarcane field to Bocage, and Lucien was achingly aware that the outcome of events in the next few hours would determine his future … and Anne’s…
As supper was being served, Katherine looked in vain for Anne. She’d watched her dancing with Lucien. She’d seen how they’d pretended indifference. She acknowledged that to the unsuspicious eye they had probably succeeded in making Anne appear as just another target for Delacroix’s flirtatious assaults. But Katherine noticed toward the end of the dance that they were struggling, that they were doing everything in their power to maintain a very tenuous hold on their emotions.
Now she couldn’t see either of them in the throng of people politely pushing their way into the supper room. She concluded with dismay that they’d sneaked off somewhere to relieve those feelings of frustration. She, too, knew what it was to be frustrated, but couldn’t the hot-blooded little fools have waited one more day? Though Lucien had given her no details, she knew he was posing as Renard one last time tonight. She knew Bodine was involved, and she knew the operation was risky. Perhaps that was why Lucien had taken Anne somewhere private. Maybe he was afraid it would be their last time together.
“Mrs. Grimms?” Katherine turned at the obsequious voice at her elbow. It was one of the Bouviers’ liveried slaves, a young man decked out in a white wig and knee-breeches. He held out a silver salver with a small folded paper upon it. There was no envelope, as if the note had been sent in haste. She took the note with trembling fingers. It had to be news of Reggie. She unfolded the paper and read the brief contents, feeling the blood drain from her head at the same moment.
The slave caught her elbow, steadying her as she swayed. Grateful for his support, Katherine forced herself to breathe deeply. Now was not the time to fall apart. Reggie needed her. He had yellow fever.
Jeffrey stood in a dark corner with his arms folded. He’d been watching Anne all night. Dressed as a specter, his face covered with a chalky paste, his eyes smudged and hollowed with black greasepaint, his lips bloodred, and his form covered from head to toe by a hooded cape, he’d had no trouble keeping to himself. He looked like a corpse—like death itself.
He’d seen the way Anne and Delacroix had looked at each other while they were dancing. He’d noticed how she’d glanced Delacroix’s way all night. And Jeffrey had seen her leave the house to meet him in the garden. He’d even followed her, and while he couldn’t see them, he could hear Anne and Delacroix murmuring to each other, kissing and caressing in the shadows. It was obvious they were lovers. The damned girl had barely allowed him a little kiss, but judging by the sounds that came from behind the statue, she had allowed Delacroix access to all her charms!
The hateful f
eelings coursing through Jeffrey’s body showed plainly on his face, making him appear more frightening than ever. No one came near him. A superstitious lot, the Creoles especially kept their distance. He smiled grimly. Maybe they thought he really was a specter of the grave, a bad omen sent by dark forces to warn some unfortunate sinner of impending death.
The image suited his mood tonight. If he had his way, tonight would be the last night on earth for Renard. And Delacroix. Jeffrey bit the inside of his mouth till he drew blood. How could he have missed the obvious for so long? Now he knew. Now he knew that Anne didn’t have it in her to love more than one man at a time. He knew Renard and Delacroix were one and the same.
He smiled again, less grimly. But such a smile on such a face gave an evil effect. He headed for the door, surprised to see Katherine Grimms hurry out before him, her expression full of worry. Outside, an elderly gentleman assisted her into a carriage, and they drove off helter-skelter. Jeffrey’s curiosity was piqued, but he had an appointment to keep with the New Orleans Guardians of the Peace. He ordered his horse to be brought around, mounted the handsome steed he’d rented just for the night, then turned the animal west, toward Bocage.
Chapter Twenty
Carrying a low-burning lantern, Lucien and Bodine walked side by side across the marshy field, keeping their separate thoughts, as silent and secret as oysters. Bodine was probably contemplating the treat ahead, the black virgin woman-child Lucien had promised him. Lucien was going over the details of the plan in his head, again and again. Everything seemed to be in order. As one last measure of security, though, he sent a prayer winging upward. May the saints help me do this one final favor for the abolitionist movement, he prayed. May the saints help keep me alive for Anne and the future I hope we will have together.
They were just yards away from the circle of slave cabins. House slaves lived in cabins near the manor house, but field hands were logically placed in cabins close to the acreage they worked. Lucien had chosen the outlying cluster of cabins to play out his farce on Bodine. Naturally he took him to the most remote cabin of all, standing virtually by itself in a grove of trees.
As they approached the door of the small wooden building, Bodine stopped and turned toward Lucien. The lantern glow played over Bodine’s face, revealing the bloating and the deep lines of a depraved life. “This is it?”
“Oui.”
“There’s no light inside the cabin.”
“I told you, I don’t want the other slaves to know about this.”
“If she screams, they’ll know.”
“True.” Lucien shrugged. “But maybe she won’t scream.”
Bodine found this idea interesting enough to spur him to movement. He walked toward the door, lifted the latch. Over his shoulder, he glared at Lucien. “You aren’t going to stand out here all night, are you? I’ll take as much time as I want.”
Lucien spread his hands wide. “As much as you want,” he agreed.
Bodine grunted, then opened the door and went inside. Lucien waited. Less than a minute later he heard a dull thunk and then the sound of a heavy body falling to a dirt floor. Smiling, he went inside.
Armande was standing over the unconscious body, holding an iron skillet. Lucien winced when he saw the size and weight of the weapon. “I hope you didn’t kill him.”
“Of course not,” said Armande, offended. “I knew just where to hit him and how hard. He’ll be out for several hours, long enough to serve our purpose.”
Lucien looked around the small cabin. “Where is the bag?”
“Under the mattress. If something went wrong, I didn’t want the evidence in plain sight.”
“Bon.” He pulled the burlap sack from under the mattress and untied the rope at the puckered closure. “I don’t relish this part,” he said dryly. “We have to touch him.”
Armande nodded, grimaced. “But at least by lantern glow we won’t have to see much of him.”
“True. I suppose we should be thankful for small favors, n’est-ce pas?”
“There’s little time left, mon ami. We’d better get busy.”
“Oui,” said Lucien, then bent to the task.
Anne watched from behind the thick trunk of a sycamore tree. She was breathless from catching up with Lucien as he left the grounds of Rosedown. She had stealthily followed him and Bodine as they crossed the field to Bocage. Then she had seen Bodine go inside the cabin, and a moment later watched as Lucien followed. The cabin was softly lit from the inside by a low-burning lantern, but thin curtains covered the windows. She decided to wait and watch from a safe distance. She didn’t want to jeopardize Lucien’s plan, whatever it was. She just wanted to be on hand in case she was needed.
She’d been waiting only fifteen minutes or so when the cabin door opened and Lucien and Armande emerged, carrying between them the body of a large man. Anne bit her lip. The body of a large, lifeless-looking man!
My God, she thought, they’ve killed him! They’ve killed Bodine! She knew he wanted to stop Bodine’s abuse of his slaves before ending his career as Renard, but she never dreamed he’d do something so drastic.
They carried the body around to the back of the cabin. The lantern dangled from Armande’s elbow, illuminating a small patch of ground at his feet and casting thin, jumpy shafts of light over his sober face. Lucien was in darkness. They moved surprisingly fast, considering their luggage, and soon they were yards away from the cabin, surrounded by cypress woods.
Anne followed, keeping the same safe distance as before. Twigs caught and tore at her skirt, bark scratched her exposed skin, wet leaves rubbed against her face, and insects circled her head like buzzards around a carcass. Her slippers sank in the mud. Without the straps around her ankles, she’d have lost them completely.
She was sure they were close to the bayou by now. She wondered if they were going to bury Bodine, or perhaps leave him for the alligators. The thought made her sick to her stomach. Suddenly they stopped moving. She heard the soft snort of a horse. Lucien and Armande whispered to each other, then made grunting sounds, as if they were making a concerted effort to lift a large object. Were they putting Bodine on a horse? Why? Where were they going to take him?
The trees were close together, and what little moonlight had shone through the foliage before was now blocked by overhanging tree branches thick with Spanish moss. The lantern Armande carried didn’t help her to see them better, either; the dim beams bounced erratically off objects, not shining long enough on anything for Anne to get a good look.
Then she realized that there was more than one horse. In fact, there were probably three. The lantern was swinging at least four feet above the ground. She saw the dark, sleek flanks of the horses, a brief flash of a horse’s bit. She heard the suck of hooves in mud, the soft squeak of leather. Armande and Lucien were mounted, and Armande held the tether of the horse that carried Bodine. They turned north and trotted briskly away—or as briskly as they could through the swampy cypress woods.
It didn’t occur to Anne till it was over that she’d been left quite alone in the habitat of alligators and snakes. It hadn’t occurred to her, either, to call out to Lucien as he rode away. She was in shock, she supposed. Shocked that Lucien could commit murder…
If not for her fond wish to survive to a ripe old age, and her dislike of creatures that slithered up a person’s leg uninvited, Anne might have stood there numbly for hours, contemplating what this new development meant to her relationship with Lucien. Instead, she turned and headed back toward the slave cabins.
It didn’t take her long, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the clearing came into view. Her relief was short-lived, however. She saw horses picking their way slowly across the marshy sugarcane field. It was too dark to make out who the riders were, but she could bet they were the police. She counted five altogether. Had they somehow learned that Lucien was planning murder tonight? Did they know he was Renard? Had the snitch in his organization gone to the police with information that coul
d put Lucien in prison for life?
They’d seen her; she heard murmurs among them as they approached. She stood there, tense, waiting. Then one rider separated from the others and pulled up in front of her. His cape billowed out behind him. His white face glowed with preternatural eeriness in the faint moonglow. Her heart nearly stopped. She was staring at the mask of death. Visions of voodoo and gris-gris and strange sacrificial rites flashed through her terrified mind. Then the specter smiled.
“Hello, Anne,” said Jeffrey. “Out for a stroll?”
“Jeffrey,” she said faintly. “What are you doing here?”
“I asked you first.”
“You’re with the police…” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“As if you didn’t know,” he said in an undertone, then turned to one of the officers. “She’s a friend of mine. I’m going to take her up on my horse. It’s dangerous leaving her out here alone.”
The police officer moved his horse closer, staring down at Anne. “You don’t think it would be even more dangerous to take her with us?”
“No,” said Jeffrey. “I’ll keep her well out of harm’s way.”
Anne was sure of this. After all, Jeffrey always managed to keep himself out of harm’s way.
“Who are you, young lady?” asked the officer who was apparently in charge of the patrol.
“Anne Weston,” she answered.
“What are you doing traipsing around in the middle of the night?”
“I was at the Bouviers’ ball,” she began, but she didn’t know how to explain why she was walking the outskirts of Bocage, so fell silent.
Jeffrey, who was clearly a better impromptu liar than she was, supplied her with an alibi. “I was at the Bouviers’ ball till just a few minutes ago. Don’t be embarrassed, Miss Weston. I saw you leave with that young man—someone in a red domino mask and cape?” He turned back to the officer. “It was a tryst, sir, and now the cad has gone off and left her. Isn’t that right, Miss Weston? By the way, Anne, this gentleman is Lieutenant Dutillet.”
