The Creole Princess

by Beth White

  He bit the inside of his cheek. “Must we?”

  “If you don’t wish to stand glowering at her across the room, I do indeed suggest it.”

  “I am not glowering.”

  “Scowling, then. You look like you ate an unripe persimmon.”

  He gave up and allowed her to steer his reluctant feet toward a corner of the room where Niall’s fiery head could be seen beyond the powdered wigs of two or three substantial gentlemen and their ladies.

  No scowling. No glowering. His tongue felt like a side of bacon. What was wrong with him tonight? He never had trouble thinking of what to say to a woman.

  He and Daisy rounded the last powdered gentleman and there she was. The demure dress was buttoned up to her chin, the hideous cap covering nearly all those glorious black curls. He wanted to yank it off, thrust his fingers into the curls, and kiss her smiling lips.

  Instead he gave her what he feared was a supercilious smirk. “Miss Lanier! Well met. And Mr. . . . Mr. . . . Oh dear, I’m afraid I don’t remember your name, sir.”

  “McLeod.” The rooster made an awkward leg. “How d’ye do, Lord Rafael? Are you in town, then?”

  “I believe I must be,” Rafa said. “Unless you perceive me to be somewhere else, in which case I must hurry up and arrive . . . er, here.” He grinned. “I’ve important business with the major, you see.”

  “Major Redmond is in that corner with the Guillorys and Sergeant Anderson.” McLeod glanced over his shoulder. “But I wouldn’t bother him if I were you. He’s been in a bit of a snit lately, begging your pardon, Daisy.”

  “Oh, we’ve already conversed today,” Rafa said. “I just delivered a hundred barrels of wheat to Pensacola, and brought another fifty to leave here in Mobile.”

  He was watching Lyse, and his words brought her eyes to his face. She clung to McLeod’s elbow as if she were about to fall down. What exactly was going on here? Had she promised herself to the rooster while Rafa was in New Orleans?

  McLeod seemed aware of his regard, for he patted Lyse’s hand in a revoltingly familiar way. “How nice. Lyse and I were just about to step outside for some air.”

  But Lyse pulled her hand away and stepped back. “I’m not—I mean, no, let us not go yet, Niall.” She blushed. “Don Rafael, you are very kind, to go to so much trouble to bring us foodstuffs. We haven’t been able to get wheat because of blockaders along the Alabama River, and—oh, it will be so good to have real bread again!”

  “It is my pleasure to bring you pleasure,” Rafa purred, pleased to see the darkening of McLeod’s freckled young face. “Would you like to accompany Miss Redmond and me to address the major? I need to speak with him again regarding arrangements for transfer of the wheat.”

  “I imagine you have to return to New Orleans right away,” McLeod said hopefully.

  “Oh, no, I shall be here for quite a while—a week or more at least.” Rafa extended his free arm to Lyse. “Coming, Miss Lanier?”

  She glanced at McLeod’s stubborn expression and lifted her chin. “Yes. I am.”

  And just that easily, Rafa walked away with the two most beautiful women in the room, one on either arm, leaving Niall McLeod to fume and plot whatever revenge he wished. Rafa simply did not care. The warmth of Lyse’s hand tucked close to his body filled him with a euphoria that no amount of self-scolding could dispel. He wanted to hear her voice.

  “Miss Redmond tells me that you have been helping to teach the little children their letters—and that you have come to live in town with her and the major. I confess, I’m curious as to what brought about such a change.”

  Lyse’s shrug was matter-of-fact. “Sooner or later one grows up and wishes to be less of a burden upon the family purse strings. In fact, I have been able to contribute somewhat to my siblings’ welfare.” There was quiet pride in her voice, and Rafa could only applaud her loyalty and unselfishness.

  Still, he sensed there was something she hadn’t told him—something perhaps Daisy didn’t even know. He longed to get Lyse alone so they could speak more freely.

  Patience, Rafa, he told himself. Secrets often unlocked themselves if one waited long enough.

  “Lyse is too modest,” Daisy said warmly. “I don’t know how I should have managed this fall without her to take the primary levels. The school has nearly doubled in size since the spring.”

  “Indeed?” Rafa would have inquired further, but Major Redmond looked around at that moment.

  Redmond smiled at his daughter. “Well met, my dear!” He turned to the companion on his left, a stocky gentleman in stiff evening clothes and a powdered wig. “Guillory, see who Daisy and Lyse have brought to the party! Our good friend Don Rafael, always a welcome visitor to Mobile.”

  The wigged gentleman smiled. “Indeed. Our Joony will make good use of the wheat as soon as it can be milled.”

  Rafa thought wryly that if one’s notoriety depended on delivery services, then he was destined for immortality. He bowed. “I am only too happy to provide Miss Joony with material for her beignet genius—which played no small role in my determination to remain for several days.”

  Guillory laughed. “Your room is already prepared, sir, and I assure you, you may stay as long as you wish.”

  Rafa scanned the crowded tavern. “You’ve attracted quite a large company this evening.”

  Major Redmond nodded. “Loyalist emigrants from the northern colonies have flooded into West Florida in droves. One wonders if they will stay here after His Majesty’s troops have quelled the rebels.”

  Rafa could detect no lack of confidence in the major’s voice. Clearly he believed British victory was only a matter of time. Rafa stifled a yawn. “No understanding why a man would voluntarily return to all that ice and snow when the scenery is so pretty here in the south.” He winked at Daisy.

  “Don Rafael, you are laying it on too thick.” Daisy tossed her curls and took her father’s arm. “Perhaps you should try your blandishments on some of those northern girls. We southerners are awake to your nonsense—aren’t we, Lyse?”

  Apparently caught off guard at being addressed, Lyse took a sharp breath and allowed her gaze to flick upward to Rafa’s. Her teeth caught that sweet lower lip.

  He stared at her, helpless to come up with further witticisms.

  “Awake,” she finally said, looking away. “Yes, of course.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “I hear the Tully brothers tuning up for another jig. Why don’t the two of you join the set that’s forming, while Papa and I find some refreshments. I declare, I’m parched.”

  Rafa nodded, relieved to have the decision made for him. “I’d be honored, Miss Lanier.”

  Lyse hesitated, then once more slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. As they crossed the room, her gaze remained downcast, her body stiff. “I don’t feel like dancing,” she muttered.

  “Then come outside onto the gallery, where we may converse. I knew something was wrong.” Sorry for her discomfort but giddy with relief that he wouldn’t have to remain separated by the movements of the dance, Rafa steered her toward the front door and then outside into the thick darkness. A lamp threw a smoky splash of light beside the door, but a wooden swing waited in the shadows at the far end of the gallery. He headed there without hesitation. Allowing her to sit first, he settled beside her, close enough to hear the rustle of her skirts and breathe in the faint fragrance of her hair.

  After a few moments of silence underlaid by the muted strains of the dance, she sighed. “Your English has improved since I saw you last.”

  “As has yours.” He laughed. “Your accent has become so very . . . British.”

  “Time spent with Daisy,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “And the children. They’re constantly correcting me.”

  “And—Ensign McLeod?”

  She hesitated. “He doesn’t correct me.”

  “Wouldn’t have the nerve, I’m sure. You seem very close.” There was no jealousy in his voice, he was q
uite confident. Probably. “I mean, I believe you have been friends for a long time, have you not?”

  “We have.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. He wished he could see her face, somehow interpret her emotions. “Rafa, he asked me to marry him.”

  He found that he could hardly breathe around the pain. Somehow he managed, “Did he? And what was your answer?”

  “I haven’t—I didn’t say no, but—you have been gone for a very long time. I didn’t know if you were coming back—”

  He took her face in both hands and crushed her mouth with his. After a long moment, when he felt something warm splash against his thumb, he broke the kiss. “You knew I would return,” he said hoarsely. “I told you I would.”

  “Men lie. You meant it at the time, I told myself, but one cannot live on promises.”

  “I am not like your father.”

  “Neither is Niall. He is very good to me.”

  “But you do not love him.” She would have said so if she did.

  “Of course I love him. Wait, Rafa!” With a shaky laugh, she put a hand against his lips. “No more kisses—please!”

  He kissed her palm, then held it against his cheek. “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t think, and I need to think!”

  “Thinking is unnecessary in some instances. What does your heart tell you?”

  “Oh, Rafa! My heart is so unwise. I cannot trust it, especially when you appear without warning, on a day when I am crushed by grief and worry—”

  “What? What has happened? Has someone hurt you? I will kill him!”

  “No—no, it is not like that. Of course you mustn’t kill anyone! It is very bad, but there is nothing one can do. It is my cousin, Scarlet. She has been sold to a slave trader, and I don’t know where she is or—or if I’ll ever see her again.”

  Rafa’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that he could see tears flowing freely down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. “That woman is a she-devil.”

  “Yes, she is.” Lyse uttered a shaky laugh. “But cursing her will do no good. If only I knew where the man took Scarlet, I would—but Madame Dussouy refuses to tell. She locked Cain up and slapped my little brother when he tried to let him out.” Drawing back from Rafa, she swiped at her eyes. “It’s a very bad situation.”

  “Yes. It is. I shall fix it, somehow. Depend on it.”

  “You are very much like Simon, you know. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word impossible.” She said it the French way, spitting the word as if it were something nasty.

  Perhaps it was. “I find that most things can be remedied with a little ingenuity and persistence.” He grinned at her and touched her nose. “You will find that we Spaniards are a very persistent race. Now come, let us return to the party before I forget my good intentions and persist in kissing you senseless.”

  Daisy watched Lyse come back into the hall with Don Rafael and knew a pang of envy—not because she wanted the Spanish gentleman’s attention, but because Lyse’s cap was askew, her lips were berry-red, and a significant beard burn marred one cheek. What would she not give to be held in Simon’s arms and feel his kisses as her friends had clearly enjoyed one another! But Simon had lately become so circumspect, so—so careful of her reputation, of her father’s good opinion, that he refused even to be alone with her.

  Every time the door opened, she turned, hoping to see him swing through, bearing the fresh scent of salt air and his unique bold energy. But he had told her he would not come, had no time for frivolities like dancing. No, he was working on some errand of which he would only vaguely speak, except to say that it would enable him to someday apply to her father for her hand in marriage.

  Someday! While time marched on, and beautiful days they could have spent together passed. She wasn’t so ridiculous as to claim loneliness, for she had her father to care for and Lyse’s friendship, and of course her students filled her days with intellectual challenge and laughter. But she longed to share with Simon the sweet oneness she had observed in her parents’ marriage.

  “Miss Redmond—perdón, Miss Redmond!”

  She blinked and focused on Don Rafael’s smiling face. “Oh dear! Were you speaking to me?”

  “Well, I was, but if you are busy, I will take myself off and speak to someone else.”

  She laughed, unable to tell if he was serious or seriously stupid. With him, it was hard to tell. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid.” She looked around and saw that they were relatively alone, tucked away in the corner she had gravitated to when she realized Simon really wasn’t coming. “Where is Lyse?”

  “Serving weak lemonade to thirsty soldiers and fishermen.” He tipped his head toward the refreshments arrayed on the bar, where Lyse officiated with evident pleasure. “Apparently that is all we are to partake of, on this night of free entertainment. Our tenderhearted Miss Lanier was concerned that you might be feeling abandoned and sent me to fetch you—or better yet, to ask you to dance.” He bowed with extravagant grace. “Would you care to dance, Miss Redmond?”

  He really was the veriest dandy, and she should be grateful for his attention, but all she wanted was to go home and take off her shoes and corset, have a cup of tea, and go to bed. She sighed and stood up. “I suppose so.”

  Rafael winced. “And I am thus most firmly put in my place.”

  “Ah, Don Rafael, I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you did.” He shook his head. “But never mind, I am commanded by the queen of my heart to make you dance, so dance we shall.”

  Laughing, she allowed him to tuck her hand through his arm and lead her into the set forming. The men bowed, the women curtseyed, partners crossed and hooked arms, and the dance began.

  Don Rafael, the musician, demonstrated a keen sense of rhythm and a remarkable ability to keep less-experienced dancers from embarrassing collisions. However, there was nothing he could do about Daisy’s wandering attention. When Simon’s tall figure entered the ballroom, she stopped stock-still, heart beating like a kettledrum. He has come for me.

  The other dancers stepped around her with curious looks, then, following her gaze to the doorway, moved on with indulgent smiles.

  She had never in her life expected to see him dressed thus—like a prince out of some fairy tale. She had heard stories of the American General Washington’s sartorial splendor: the coats imported from France, with buttons ornate but never ostentatious, boots made of fine Italian leather, and a variety of waistcoats in beautiful jewel-toned silk brocades. Yet tonight her Simon would surely have put Yankee Doodle George firmly in the shade.

  Watching him, she stood shaking like a leaf in a winter wind. The Song of Songs flitted through her mind—This is my beloved, and this is my friend.

  He went away from her, threading the crowd along the wall, until he reached the corner where her father stood in conversation with Sergeant Anderson, the Guillorys, and Niall McLeod. She watched her father look around in surprise when Simon touched him on the shoulder, saw his gaze flick up and down, taking in the beautiful evening clothes and hair neatly tied back with a dark blue ribbon.

  Was Simon going to ask to court her? Now? In this room full of people?

  Suddenly aware of the dancers circling awkwardly around her, she skipped to find her place in the set, blushing when Don Rafael teasingly chided her for leaving him partnerless. There wasn’t time to reply, as the motion of the dance pulled her away again. She was peripherally aware of Simon and her father excusing themselves from their companions. They wound back through the crowd to the door and disappeared into the night.

  The next twenty minutes were exquisite torture. Daisy laughed at Don Rafael’s nonsense, tried to cheer up poor Niall, whose obvious jealousy threatened to spoil the party for everyone, and somehow kept one eye on the door. What would Papa say? When she was a little girl, he had treated Simon—when he happened to tag along with Lyse—to the good-natured pity one would accord a half-starved young alley cat. Then, when a more specific
affection blossomed between Daisy and Simon, everything changed. Simon became the interloper—the thief come to steal a beloved possession—and he was tolerated with gritted teeth.

  Only Lyse seemed to understand her anxiety. Her eyes were soft with concern, and once she gripped Daisy’s hand and whispered, “Don’t worry, it will be all right.”

  Daisy couldn’t help glancing at the door, which remained firmly closed. “Maybe,” she whispered back.

  How many sleepless nights had she prayed for this time to come? How many times had she begged God to soften her father’s heart, only to watch the distance grow between the two men she loved?

  She didn’t realize she had drifted toward the door until it opened and Simon came in alone. His eyes sought hers. His sun-bronzed skin had an ashy undertone, as if blood-leeched to deter some dreadful disease, and his mouth was set in a tight line.

  Dread nearly suffocated her as she waited for him to reach her. He bowed over her hand, the heat of his lips burning through her lace mitt, his long fingers clasped loosely around her wrist. She stared at the back of his head, where the black curls were tied at the nape of his neck.

  And then he rose, unsmiling. “Your papa says I may speak to you.”

  “Y-yes. All right.” She swallowed against a dry throat. “Where . . . ?”

  “There.” Simon nodded toward a doorway that led to one of the small anterooms where guests could enjoy a private game of cards or otherwise entertain in small groups. He dropped her hand and walked off without looking to make sure she followed.

  But she did. She would go with him anywhere, God help her.

  Miraculously, the room was empty, lit by a candle someone had left burning on a spindly Louis XIV desk between the curtained windows. A velvet sofa and a couple of wing chairs sat upon a beautiful gold-and-scarlet rug in the center of the room. Daisy stopped just inside the door, waiting to see what Simon would do. His demeanor was so odd, his movements jerky and forced.

  It wasn’t as if they’d never found ways to be alone together. But this occasion, sanctioned by her father, conducted in this bloodless manner in a shadowy room with a noisy crowd just beyond a thin wall, set her adrift in an ocean of anxiety.