Ryan Bayard’s experience with women or anyone else was not, of course, a concern of hers. The three days they must spend together would soon pass. It was unlikely that, once they were over, the two of them would ever meet again.
She did not approve of him. She hoped she had not made that fact too obvious; it would not be very polite to sit in judgment of the man who had saved one’s life and honor. Nonetheless, she could not change the way she felt. A man should have some allegiance to his country, some loyalty to the land of his forefathers, if not of his birth. Ryan Bayard was of French blood, or so she assumed from his surname and the fact that he spoke the language as if he had learned it in his cradle. Why would he attack French merchant ships when he should, if anything, have been hounding the enemies of France?
It was difficult to know, of course, which faction of the French government to support these days. Her father had been a staunch royalist who had castigated First Consul Napoleon Bonaparte as a Corsican upstart with pretensions to glory. She herself, after her sojourn in France, had a certain sympathy with the cause of liberté, egalité, et fraternité, though the excesses of the revolution had sickened her as surely as those on Saint-Domingue. She could never forget, however, that she was a Frenchwoman. Regardless of who ruled, that would not change.
Beside her, Ryan spoke in quiet tones. “This woman of yours, Devota, can she be trusted?”
“Of course she can!”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. Just because you’ve known her all her life doesn’t mean she wouldn’t like to see your throat slit.”
“If she had wanted that, all she would have had to do is leave me this evening,” Elene said, shivering. “I doubt if I could have gotten away from the plantation house in time without her, or out of the woods. Besides, she isn’t merely a slave.”
“If you mean by the last that she’s a blood relative, that’s no guarantee of loving kindness. However, I’ll take your word that she’s as devoted as her name.”
“Given our position,” Elene said with some tartness, though keeping her voice low, “I hardly think you can do anything else.”
“On the contrary. If one is forewarned, there’s a great deal that can be done to eliminate a danger.”
The dispassionate timbre of his voice was an indication of his intent. She swung her head toward him in the darkness. “How can you think of injuring Devota when she has just brought us food and every available comfort?”
“How many of those who joined in the attack on your home this evening have seen to your comfort in other days?”
She turned away again, staring at nothing. “I … I would rather not think of that.”
He muttered an imprecation under his breath. “Nor did I intend to remind you.”
The scent of her perfume came stealing to Ryan out of the darkness. It mounted to his head along with the fumes of the brandy, curling in his throat and lungs, lingering in his mind. There crept in upon him an insidious image of himself opening the bodice of Elene’s torn gown, burying his face in the soft valley between her breasts, and inhaling the tantalizing essence, seeking its source. The impulse was amazing, unlike anything he had ever felt before. It grew in intensity, becoming so overpowering that he was forced to set his glass down and clench his hands into fists to control it.
After a long moment, he let his breath out in silent relief. His voice sounded strained to his own ears when he spoke. “It’s becoming a little close in here. Do you mind if I take off my coat?”
“Not at all,” she said, wry amusement shading her voice.
“Is something funny?” His words were taut.
“Not exactly. Your request just … just sounded so formal and correct, when I have been parading around in front of you for the past hour with my clothes half torn from my back. And when we have been condemned to three days, perhaps more, of such … such close association as few people are called on to endure, even husband and wife.” The humor left her voice, leaving it ragged. “Then it struck me that this was to have been my wedding night, and here I am with you, a man I never saw before in my life, and you—”
“I understand,” he interrupted her. “There’s no need to go on.”
Elene was not sure he did understand; her own comprehension was none too good. In some strange fashion, she was glad to be sharing this enforced incarceration with Ryan Bayard instead of enduring being shut up alone in a bedchamber with Durant. How she had been dreading that moment, and also Durant’s complacent and practiced possession of her body. She felt as if she had gained a reprieve, one that she might well have to pay for in some terrible fashion.
“Your bridegroom, was he killed?”
She could tell from the quiet rustling sounds that Ryan was removing his coat. She thought he folded it, or rolled it up, and placed it at the head of their pallet for use as a pillow. The further whisper and slide of cloth suggested that he was releasing his cravat, opening the neck of his shirt.
Her voice was compressed as she answered his question. “I don’t know what became of Durant. I lost sight of him in the lighting.”
“It’s always possible he survived.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure he fought bravely.”
So was she. Durant might seem to have little purpose in life beyond the pursuit of pleasure and the wringing of the means to afford it from his sugar plantation, but there was no denying that he had courage.
She closed her eyes, repeating in a subdued tone, “Yes.”
The man beside Elene reached to pick up his brandy glass. As he straightened, his sleeve brushed her arm where they sat with their backs against the wall. The cloth was warm with the heat of his body, and under it she felt the ridged layers of muscle. A tingling sensation ran from her shoulder to her fingertips and she flinched away from him, throwing a quick glance at his dark form. An instant later, she wondered at herself. She had been much closer than this in his carriage. Why shrink from him now?
The men she knew best, Durant and her father and their friends, had a gentleman’s usual scorn for well-developed muscles, except perhaps in their sword arms. Such brawn was relegated to slaves and the lower classes who had to labor for their living. It was not only useless to a gentleman but prevented the perfect set of his coat across the shoulders. Elene had seen nothing whatever wrong with the set of Ryan’s coat; still, she was disturbed by his evident strength. The nearest she could come to body structure resembling his was in slave blacksmiths on her father’s plantation, or else the sailors and fishermen of Le Havre. No doubt while on board his ship he turned his own hands to the work of running it.
The thought of his ship reminded her of their host, and returned her attention to the place where they sat. “What is this place? Can it have been a tunnel?”
“The beginnings of one,” Ryan answered. “I believe it was supposed to go through the rock all the way down to the beach, but Favier took fright when the French returned to the island and so stopped work.”
“What of Favier? Dessalines, so far as I have heard, doesn’t think a great deal more of mulattoes than he does of whites. Why should he spare him if there is a mass attack?”
“I would imagine because of the hefty amount in bribes Favier has paid. My hope is that he doesn’t decide to curry favor and protect his own yellow hide by turning over two whites for Dessalines’s delectation.”
“Us? Is it possible he would?” Her voice was hushed in her shock.
“Very possible, if he’s pressed. The only thing that will make him think twice is his fear that I will get to him before Dessalines gets to me,” Ryan said.
“You are depending on that, on his fear, for our lives?”
“Sometimes a man’s fears are more certain than his good intentions.”
“Charming,” she said, her voice scathing.
Ryan laughed without answering as he took another swallow of his brandy. It was good to hear the flash of spirit in her voice. He had been afraid he had frightened her
again. Perhaps he should have kept quiet about his lack of trust of Favier, but he had wanted her to be warned, in case they had to move quickly.
“You seem to know the man well,” she went on. “He must be an associate of long standing.”
“Long enough.”
“I’ve heard rumors of his activities. And, if I may say so, of yours.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You have no cause to be. The tales weren’t complimentary.”
There was a small silence, then he said, “I take it you have no liking for sea merchants like myself.”
“Hardly. You call yourself a privateer, I think. Tell me, whose flag do you sail under?”
“My ship, like most in the trade, is registered in Cartagena,” Ryan answered evenly. “I hold letters of marque from both France and England since they are at war with each other.”
“You made your fortune in the past attacking Spanish and French shipping under a British letter of marque, and British shipping under one from France, and yet you live in a Spanish colony. You scoff at poor Favier for looking after his own interests, but so far as I can see, you’re not a great deal better!”
“How do you know I have attacked Spanish shipping?” he said softly.
“Doesn’t everyone? They are so rich, the Spanish, and so arrogant in their great clumsy crafts that they had become the quarry of every pirate.”
“Privateer. There is a difference,” Ryan corrected her.
“Don’t tell me that you always trouble yourself with wars and treaties and letters of marque when there is booty to be had for the taking?”
“Doesn’t it occur to you that robbing my own good King Carlos would be a perilous undertaking, not to mention a stupid one, since I live under his rule?”
“I see. To leave Spanish ships unmolested is a decision based solely on fear then, rather than loyalty?”
She was throwing his own words back into his face, after what he had done for her. Anger boiled up inside him. He would like to take her and—
Yes. He would like it a great deal too much. His anger subsided to a more manageable simmer. His voice short, he said, “You know nothing of the matter.”
“I know you are a Frenchman who has stolen from his own countrymen.”
“I’m not a Frenchman.”
“Your speech—” Elene began.
“Oh, yes, my speech is French, and my blood is French, though liberally mixed with Irish from a follower of Alexander O’Reilly who sojourned in New Orleans and attracted my grandmother. Legally, however, I am Spanish, since Louis XV of France, to whom my great-grandfather swore his allegiance, gave my country to his cousin, the King of Spain, like getting rid of a troublesome and rather expensive mistress. One of my great-uncles, however, was shot in the Place d’Armes in New Orleans for rebelling against Spanish rule and threatening to set up a republic in the New World. The decrepit Spanish governor at New Orleans, Salcedo, along with Morales, the intendant, this past October canceled the right of deposit at New Orleans for the United States in direct violation of the treaty of 1793. Since the Americans can no longer store their goods at the port before transshipment, the result has been to strangle trade and threaten the livelihood of the city’s merchants, not to mention angering the Americans to the point that they are ready to invade. Why should I love the Spanish? And what then am I?”
“You are French, as I’m sure you well know, since Carlos of Spain returned Louisiana to Napoleon over two years ago.”
“Ah, but Carlos delays in signing the treaty to make it official, and Bonaparte busies himself elsewhere, neglecting to press the issue. Since France has not taken possession of us, the Spanish alcaldes still offer their arbitrary and sometimes expensive protection from crime in the colony, and a Spanish governor presides over the very dull and proper public assemblies. Therefore I am Spanish, at least officially.”
“It doesn’t matter in the least,” Elene said with some heat. “You might have some consideration for the men and women of the land from which you sprang.”
“Oh, I have that. I am a Louisianan, and I attack no ships consigned to merchants who are friends of mine.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“You think I should sail against the enemies of France, perhaps? But I do, when they are laden with goods and gold.”
With indignation swelling in her breast, Elene said, “You persist in turning my words. Tell me this, have you no decent feeling, no affection for France?”
“Which France might that be? The France that frolicked and gambled at Versailles while tossing a pittance to Louisiana now and again to prevent the starvation of the colonists sent out to discover riches for the coffers of a king? Or perhaps the France that spilled blood into the gutters of Paris until it sickened the very rats, and is now embarked on a vast and glorious military campaign that will fertilize the fields of Europe with the flower of French youth. No, spare me your homilies on loyalty. My best hope is that Napoleon will be so strapped for funds and so disgusted with shipping men off to the New World to die of disease as they have on Saint-Domingue that he will sell Louisiana to the representatives of the United States and make a republic of us after all.”
“You must be mad! He would never do such a thing.”
“Being too intelligent to throw away the best part of one of the most fertile continents in the world for the sake of being emperor of France? Then he hasn’t seen Louisiana. Moreover, he has crowns in his eyes.”
Elene sent Ryan a fulminating glance, one it was a pity he could not see. “Napoleon will not be so foolish as to try to set himself up as emperor. The French people will not allow it.”
“Will they not? Even for glory? It’s my impression they are tired of being ruled by pallid, arguing lawyers. They have a soft spot for monarchs who are adept at the grand gesture.”
“What can you know of it,” she said in derision, “plying between New Orleans and Cartagena, never leaving this millpond called the Caribbean?”
“The Caribbean is the most treacherous millpond ever constructed by a vengeful God, my girl, but I have also put into Le Havre and Marseilles. I have touched the stones of the Louvre palace and knelt in Notre Dame, crossed the Pont Neuf to the Left Bank and wenched among the twisting streets of Montmartre and in the salons of the wives of Napoleon’s generals. How do you come by your opinions, my little provincial?”
“Not by wenching!” she returned with heat.
He gave a quiet laugh. “Hardly.”
“You need not take that superior tone, you know! I was in France during the Terror, and afterward. I only returned less than two years ago.”
“You what? What can your father have been thinking of?”
“His estates here mainly. That is—” She had not meant to say that, certainly not with such bitterness. It had just come out. How could she have been so disloyal when her father was dead, killed before her eyes. Her voice was tight, thick with tears, when she went on. “I didn’t mean it, not that way.”
“Didn’t you?” he said, his voice grim. The distress in her voice made Ryan want to reach out and hold her, to remove her pain. He could not, nor could he think of any reason why the need should be so compelling. He downed the last of his brandy and set his glass on the stone floor beside the pallet with a sharp click. “Drink your brandy. And stop thinking of things you can’t help.”
“That’s easy for you to say!” she flared, turning on him. “You’ve never watched your f-father d-die in front of you.”
“Not my father, but a number of close friends. You have not been singled out for sorrow. It only seems that way.”
“Thank you very much for that bit of philosophy. It helps immensely, of course!”
It was better for her to be angry at him instead of retreating into grief. “At least you’re still alive to talk about it,” Ryan said.
“You are the most unfeeling, unprincipled rogue it has ever been my misfortune to meet!” Elene whispered fiercely. “I
cannot wait until we are released so that I may get as far away from you as possible!”
“I take that to mean you aren’t going to New Orleans with me?” Ryan said calmly.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“In that case, there’s the little matter of two men I killed for your sake. I’m sure you intend to shed copious tears over their demise, but will naturally reward me in a suitable manner, afterward, for the service I performed in saving you from their clutches.”
Alarm coursed along her veins. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t have forgotten so quickly. The two men in the woods?”
“Certainly I haven’t forgotten!”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t appreciate being rescued from them?”
“Yes, but—”
“Have you no sense of gratitude then? No recognition of the debt? I thought surely someone of your high principles would have been mulling over ways of recognizing my efforts and planning suitable recompense.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean. You must know that I have nothing except the clothes I stand up in.”
“Rather, in this case, the clothes you are sitting down in. Not that it matters. There is always your own sweet and fragrant person.”
“Why, you — you — You can’t expect me to — to—”
“Words fail you, I see. Do you mean to say that I can’t expect you to surrender to me the same privileges that you had expected to extend to your groom — or rather have him take by right — on this night? But of course I can. It’s not such a great thing, after all.”
Her gasp of outrage was perfectly audible. “Not to you, perhaps! No doubt such things palled for a libertine such as yourself long ago!”
“No, no, I assure you. I still find them infinitely pleasurable, as do the ladies I so honor. But it seems to me a deal of fuss is made over the initial act that could just as well be dispensed with. I am supposing, naturally, that the bridal night would have been an initiation. You will correct me if I’m wrong.”
Louisiana History Collection - Part 2 Page 42
