by Toombs, Jane
She might try to offer him food. He'd wave it away, insist she share the wine he was bringing with him. The red of the burgundy would match the color of her lips—those sensuous lips that had enticed him from the first. He spurred his horse.
She'd drink the wine, feel it warm her blood as he kissed her lingeringly. He wouldn't carry her to the bedroom. No, he'd caress her as they sat on the divan together. He'd run his hands over that soft skin until she was wild with desire, unable to control her need and then ... Guy smiled.
Would he say her own words back? "I don't agree to have you"? Make her caress him until he did what she wanted?
Marquis stumbled, almost pitching Guy over his head. The horse regained his footing but began to limp. Guy cursed, dismounted and, in the dark, ran his hands down each of the gelding's legs, finding he'd thrown a shoe. Damn.
Guy led the horse the rest of the way into town, stopping at a livery stable with a blacksmith shop attached. He left Marquis there, and hired a rig to take him the rest of the way.
It amused him to ride to Estelle's in a buggy, as though he intended to take her to a Quadroon Ball. He might even do that someday, he thought. As he reached the house, he noticed that the only light shone from the bedroom window.
Ah, he'd really surprise her. He still had his key—he'd slip in quietly, and perhaps catch her disrobing.
Guy tiptoed up the steps, making certain his boots didn't click on the porch, slid the key carefully into the lock, and eased the door open. He crossed the living room silently, and was almost to the bedroom door when a wild shriek rent the air. He froze momentarily. He'd heard that same sound this afternoon.
Rage rose inside him. Who was with her? He strode to the door and looked inside. The two bodies writhing on the bed in the lamplight cast dancing shadows on the wall. He started inside the bedroom, feeling for his pistol, then held. He shook his head. He ran from the house and wrenched the buggy whip from its socket, then raced back inside.
He'd made no attempt to be quiet and the man had risen from the bed and put on his breeches.
"You!" Guy exclaimed, staring into Francois' angry eyes.
The sight of Francois lashed him into a murderous fury. How dare Francois touch what belonged to him, to Tanguy La Branche?
Guy stepped back and raised the whip.
Francois sprang backwards, reaching, Guy saw, for his sword cane. Guy flicked the whip so it caught Francois across the back. Francois jerked, missing his grasp at the cane, which clattered to the floor and rolled under the bed.
Guy brought the lash down, again, again. Francois bellowed in pain as the leather slashed across his face, his shoulders. He'd never whipped a man before, but the desire to wound Francois, to punish him, humiliate him, inflamed Guy.
"No, no!" Estelle screamed, flinging herself from the bed. Guy, unable to arrest his next stroke, saw the whip lash across her breasts.
"The window, the window!" she cried. "Francois, the window!"
Francois hesitated.
"Papa, Papa," Denis sobbed from behind Guy. Small hands hugged him around one leg. "Scared, Papa."
Francois dived across the bed and smashed through the window. Guy, trying to free himself from Denis' grip, heard the clatter of hooves as Francois commandeered the buggy.
"I told you!" Estelle screamed at Guy, standing beside him naked, blood oozing from a thin line across her breasts. "I said I didn't choose to have you. Selfish, selfish, you don't listen."
Denis buried his face against Guy's thigh and wept noisily.
Guy picked up the boy and thrust him at Estelle, She reached out her arms automatically, taking Denis.
"I intend to kill Francois," Guy said, his voice taut with anger. "Kill him like the dog he is."
Chapter 13
“Ah, Guy, mon ami, the quadroon belles from Cuba surpass anything you’ve ever seen,” Rafe , eyes sparkling, leaned across the coffee house table. There’s one you must see for yourself, because words can’t do her justice. We all want her, but she hasn’t chosen a man yet.”
Guy didn’t bother to pretend interest, his mind on the vanished Francois,
“Her name is Roxanne St. Luz. Skin like moonlight , breasts like melons, a waist so tiny a man itches to span it with his hands.”
No one had admitted seeing Francois since that night in the rue des Ramparts, Guy thought some of his friends had looked at him askance, wondering why he hadn’t killed Francois on the spot.
But Guy took a certain pleasure in having humiliated the man with the whip, just the same, And, although it appalled him to recognize such a darkness within him, he secretly relished the knowledge he’d cut Estelle across the breast with the same whip. Accident or not.
“So why not come with me this night to the Quadroon Ball?” Rafe went on, “Roxanne will certainly be there. Guy, are you listening to me?”
Guy considered. The Cuban free Negroes were actually Santo Domingo blacks, and everyone knew that the quadroons from Santo Domingo were the most beautiful of all black women. Such a woman might take his mind off Estelle and her perfidy, and rescue him from her spell. He smiled at Rafe.
"Yes, perhaps I'll join you. I haven't been to a Quadroon Ball in several years. A man shouldn't deprive himself like that, n'est ce pas?"
The ball was to be held, as usual, at the Conde Street ballroom where Guy had met Aimee four years earlier. It seemed like a century ago. Once, the Quadroon Balls had been for the free men and women of color, and white men attended as they pleased. Now the free men of color weren't permitted to attend, except as musicians. Slaves, of course, had never been eligible.
The Negroes sang one of their gombo songs about the change, poking biting fun at the situation, calling the black slave cocodrie, a crocodile, the free man of color trou lou lou, fiddler crab.
Milatraisse courri dans bal
Cocodrie pote fanal
Trou lou lou
C'est pas zaffaire a tou?
Trou lou lou
C'est pas zaffaire a tou?
Yellow girl goes to the ball
Nigger lights her to the hall
Fiddler man, what is that to you?
Fiddler man, what is that to you?
Guy told his man at the townhouse, Leroy, to lay out his new claw hammer tailcoat with the black velvet collar, his fawn trousers and green waistcoat. Since he'd made up his mind to go, he'd go in style.
By the time he and Rafe arrived at the Conde a full moon had risen. Many of the quadroons were already in the hall with their chaperones and Rafe kept nudging Guy, pointing out one girl after another whose dark eyes promised secret delights.
"There's Ancelin Otray, the tiny girl with skin the shade of topaz—exquisite, is she not?"
"But where is this Roxanne?" Guy asked. As he spoke, a murmur of voices made him turn his head.
Entering the room was a young woman dressed in pearl white silk, her skin almost the shade of the gown. The bodice dipped so low that all of her upper breasts except the nipples showed, and the gown's high waist, emphasized by the rose silk ribbon, pushed her breasts to even greater prominence. Guy stared, as did every man in the room.
He knew this must be Roxanne St. Luz. She was every bit as magnificent as Rafe had described her. Desire rose in him. She was what he wanted, what he'd have. Let Estelle take her cochon, her pig lover. What was she to him? Guy started across the room toward Roxanne.
Nicolas Roulleaux reached her first. Guy stopped, watching Nicolas bow to her. Sacre bleu, were they fated to choose the same women forever?
"Ah, Monsieur Roulleaux." Roxanne's voice was clear and soft. Obviously she knew and liked Nicolas, for her smile was brilliant. They moved off to dance together.
Guy walked up to the older woman who'd been standing next to Roxanne, her chaperone. Remnants of beauty in the woman's face made him certain she was Roxanne's mother.
"You are Roxanne's maman?” he asked.
"Oui."
He bowed. "I'm Tanguy La Branche. I haven't
had the pleasure of meeting your daughter, but I am most interested in doing so." He knew that this woman, like all mothers and chaperones of the quadroons, looked out for her daughter's best interests, and that she'd not only recognize his name but would know that La Belle was a richer plantation than En Dela, the Roulleaux holdings.
"If you'll be patient, Monsieur La Branche, I'll bring Roxanne to meet you in a few minutes." She smiled at him, an attractive woman, despite grey hair and a thickened waist. He noticed that her eyes didn't smile, but observed him guardedly —though with obvious interest.
Guy returned to Rafe, who stood talking to Bernard de Marigny.
“. . . asked me to warn the left bank planters," Bernard was saying as Guy came up.
Rafe turned to him. "Bernard says Joubert Le Moyne from upriver thinks we're in for trouble. There's been a mulatto going from plantation to plantation talking to the slaves. Joubert thinks this man preaches revolt."
"Joubert's no fool," Bernard put in. "His slaves have been restless ever since the mulatto was seen at D'Argent, his plantation. He's warned all the right bank planters."
A slave uprising! The fear of a revolt was always in the back of every planter's mind—every Creole's mind, for that matter, for the whites were outnumbered by the blacks—free colored and slaves. There was no certainty who the free Negroes would ally themselves with if the slaves revolted. Now it appeared that a free man of color was agitating for a revolt.
"Did Le Moyne have any idea of who the mulatto is?" Guy asked.
Bernard shook his head. "He's not certain of anything. Just that we should be on our guard, for the mulatto had no business being on his plantation and ran off when he was challenged by the overseer. Joubert's slaves haven't settled down since, and he doesn't like the looks of it."
Guy tried to think if the slaves at La Belle had acted any different of late. Not the house servants, certainly.
"Monsieur La Branche." Guy turned to see Roxanne's maman behind him.
"If you'd care to wait in the 'tite salon, I'll bring my daughter to meet you."
Guy nodded to Bernard and Rafe and followed her to the rear of the hall, where four small rooms had been partitioned off from the dance floor. She indicated the second on the right with a tilt of her head, and left him.
Guy chose to stand rather than to sit on the small divan. He frowned in concentration. Could he completely trust any of his slaves if an uprising began? Odalie, perhaps. She'd see to Madelaine's safety if he was unable to.
As for the rest, no, he couldn't be sure of them. Even old Louis might well follow this mulatto leader.
He was still brooding over Bernard's story when Roxanne's maman appeared in the doorway and ushered her daughter inside.
"Monsieur La Branche, my daughter, Roxanne St. Luz."
Roxanne smiled as brilliantly at Guy as she had at Nicolas. No doubt her maman had whispered to her, telling her who he was.
"I am most pleased to meet you," Roxanne said.
Her breasts were so perfect and round they hardly seemed real. Her face was round, too, with a small nose and sensual lips that cried out to be kissed. She was adorable and she knew it.
"I'm charmed to meet you," he said. "May I have this dance?"
"I would love to dance with you," she told him, each word dropping from her coral lips like a pearl. She was too good to be true.
A quadrille was forming as he led her through the door. He put his arm around her, feeling the tininess of her waist for himself, the enticing curve of her hip.
Before he could take a place with her in the dance, Nicolas appeared, glowering. Roxanne made a sound of distress and slipped from his grasp to run to her maman.
"I've spoken for her," Nicolas said.
Guy lifted his eyebrows. "And has she chosen? I think not."
Nicolas narrowed his eyes and Guy felt a tingling anticipation run through him. A challenge was coming and this time he'd kill the bastard.
He was dimly aware of men shouting and someone running toward them, but he didn't deflect his attention from Nicolas. He smiled thinly, insolently, waiting.
"Nicolas!" Philippe clasped his brother's arm.
Nicolas shook him off without looking at him. "Leave me. This is none of your concern."
"It's everyone's concern," Philippe cried. "The slaves have revolted! They've killed at least one man upriver and are heading for New Orleans."
Both Nicolas and Guy stared at him.
"We're arranging to meet in the Place d'Armes, mounted and armed, to go after them," Philippe said. "Hurry!"
Because of his experience in the trek upriver after Aaron Burr, it was agreed that Guy would lead a group of eight men, Philippe Roulleaux among them. The entire unit of forty odd men was led by an older planter, Rene LaCasse, who'd survived a slave uprising in Santo Domingo in 1791.
"Every last slave who defies us must die," LaCasse warned them. "This is not time for leniency. Kill—don't attempt to take prisoners."
By midnight they'd crossed the river and had their horses trotting along the levee road, heading upstream. Flames from a fired grinding mill, shouts, and sporadic shooting guided them to the fighting. As they neared they heard a woman screaming from the manor house of the plantation, keening, wailing, the high pitched sound setting the teeth on edge.
A man raced toward them on a lathered horse. A dozen pistols were pointed at him before they realized he was white, an overseer.
"Black bastards killed her husband," the man said. "Cut off his head. Can't get her to leave him. Must be a hundred niggers on the rampage. They're stealing horses now. They got cane knives, clubs . . ."
"We'll flush 'em out," Guy said, spurring his horse toward the stables.
"They got guns," the man called after him.
Guy rode on, pistol in his hand, his eight men galloping behind him. As they neared the stables, a shot rang out and Guy's horse staggered. He urged Marquis on and the gelding stumbled ahead for a few yards, then dropped to his forelegs. Guy pitched forward, over the horse's head to the ground. He pushed himself to his feet.
"Look out!" a Creole shouted.
A dark wave rolled from the stable, some blacks mounted, others afoot. Shouting and cursing, they dashed onward, the firelight glinting on knives and the brass of gun mountings.
One of Guy's men fired his pistol, though the blacks weren't in range.
"Hold your fire!" Guy ordered. He unsheathed his sword, pointed it toward the Negroes. "Attack!" he yelled to the mounted men milling about him.
The horses raced past him. Guns blazed. A Negro came at him on foot, cane knife swishing through the air with a deadly hiss. Guys sidestepped and drove his sword into the man's neck. Blood spurted onto him as the slave dropped. Guy yanked his sword free, ducking quickly as another black swung a club at his head. Guy twisted, turned, and came up with his sword to face his attacker.
He'd lost his pistol when the horse fell, but his sword kept the club wielding slave at bay. When the man rushed him, Guy waited until the moment was right, then lunged forward. His sword reached its mark, and the black fell, screaming, to the ground, his hands pressed against the mortal wound to his chest.
Guy heard a horse pounding toward him and looked up, expecting to see a Creole riding to his aid. Instead he saw a Negro astride a gigantic white stallion, the man as massive as the horse.
"Die," the black chanted, "die, die, die!" He brandished a curved saber, the steel gleaming red.
Guy ran, knowing he was easy game on foot with no gun. If he could get behind the oaks…
The white horse thundered toward him and Guy he had no time to reach the stand of threes. Hooves pounded, pounded. Guy turned to face his doom like a man. The white horse was nearly on him. He raised his sword defiantly, seeing the giant black’s tattooed , hats contorted face, the tattoos flaring out on the cheeks like rays of a dark sun.
Another horse brushed past Guy, almost bowling him over, and slammed into the white horse. Both horses staggered an
d angled to the left. A pistol cracked, the white horse reared, another shot, horses galloped toward Guy, the giant on the white horse wheeled back toward the line of fighting blacks.
"I winged him," Philippe Roulleaux said, reaching a hand to Guy. "Die but he was a big one. I think I've seen him before somewhere."
Guy sprang up behind Philippe and they raced after the other Creoles, swerving off to intercept a riderless chestnut horse. Guy dismounted and vaulted onto the back of the chestnut and, sword in hand, rode toward the fighting.
"Wilkinson's sent an army unit," LaCasse shouted to the Creoles. "His messenger just arrived. We're to contain the slaves until the army gets here to finish them off."
Guy searched the red lit night for the big black on the white horse, determined to meet him on equal terms and vanquish him. He caught a flash of white heading away from the plantation, angling toward the swamps behind the cane fields. He took off in pursuit. Another rider cut in front of him and fury swept through Guy. How dare anyone challenge his right to kill the tattooed giant?
"Get back, he's mine!" Guy yelled, spurring the chestnut forward.
The white horse sprang ahead—the black had heard him—but the second horse stopped. Guy instinctively slowed. He'd assumed a Creole was after the fleeing slave, as he was, but with the flames behind him and only the light of a full moon, who could be certain?
"Who waits for me?" he called.
"Welcome, brother," the man called back. "It is I, Francois, waiting to settle the score between us."
Francois! Was he the mulatto who'd been agitating the slaves? Had Francois planned the uprising?
"Does fear of me make you tarry?" Francois taunted.
"Cachon!" Guy shouted, urging his chestnut forward. As he drew close, he saw that Francois held a pistol. He checked his horse.
Francois laughed mockingly. "No, I won't shoot you, little brother. I see you have your sword. So do I have mine. We'll dismount and discover how much the pupil has learned from his teacher. You first."
