Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  Then he kissed her, and every thought and memory flew from Anne’s mind like birds scattered by a thrown stone.

  His hands slid down her arms and around to her back, pulling her close as his lips settled over hers, then parted. Anne had been kissed before, but never had she felt the smooth, silken textures of tongue and teeth. She’d never felt the disturbing sensation of a hard male chest against her breasts, either. Nor had she ever felt the urge to throw her arms around someone’s neck and press herself closer and closer…

  A bird’s call, low but distinct, splintered the silence. He pulled away. Dazed, distressed, she gave a small whimper of protest. “I must go, cher,” he told her, his voice grown husky. “Truly you have distracted me too well.”

  “I wish I could help you,” she whispered.

  He touched her lips with his fingers, tracing the soft swollen shape where he’d kissed her. “Just remember me, cher. Remember Renard. Till we meet again, eh?”

  Then he was gone, through the mist and into the night.

  Till they met again? Anne trembled at the thought. Was there a woman on earth lucky enough to encounter such a man twice in a lifetime?

  Chapter 3

  The saloon buzzed with excited conversations, all focused on the slave escape. At Anne’s table, Aunt Katherine unfolded her serviette and placed it on her lap, where it would certainly be useless against dribbles and fallen crumbs that couldn’t possibly make it past her shelflike bosom. She leveled her sharp gaze on the steamboat’s captain, who had joined them for breakfast. “It was the Fox, then?”

  Captain Duval nodded his head. “There can be no doubt, madame, that it was the work of Renard. No one else dares to undertake such dangerous missions. Silent and quick as the cunning fox, he and his comrades boarded the boat last night and got away with ten slaves.”

  “And Mr. Bodine’s latest purchases … were they among the slaves who escaped?” asked Anne, with assumed idle interest as she stirred a third spoonful of sugar into her morning cup of café au lait.

  The captain took a sip from his mug, then nodded again—gravely. “Yes, they were.”

  “And how did he … er … receive the news?”

  “I don’t know yet. He’s still abed.”

  “Gracious!” remarked Katherine, briskly buttering her toast. “Not yet up, and the time already a quarter past eight! The day is practically half-spent.”

  “I believe he may have imbibed a little too freely last night,” the captain speculated. “Delacroix has offered to break the bad news to him when he wakes up, though there really isn’t much to tell. There were no witnesses to the escape.”

  No witnesses except me, thought Anne, reaching for a beignet. She found the sugar-coated pastries very delicious and addictive. Too bad they were so messy. “But surely the other slaves below-deck must have been aware of something going on, Captain? After all, they’re crammed into such close quarters. Why didn’t they all escape when they had the chance?”

  The captain looked indulgently at Anne down the length of the breakfast table, past Aunt Katherine as she busily and lavishly peppered her boiled egg, past Uncle Reggie as he twisted his mustache and disapprovingly watched as pepper sprinkled the white damask tablecloth. The captain had been very kind to Anne on the trip, seeming amused by her intense curiosity and the forthright way she asked questions.

  “If there were Negro witnesses, Mademoiselle Weston,” he said now, “none of them is speaking up. This fact supports our theory that the escape was accomplished by Renard. There appears to be a conspiracy among the slave population to protect the outlaw. Even the slaves who have no desire to be ‘emancipated’ and make no attempt to escape become deaf, dumb, and blind when Renard helps other slaves to their freedom.”

  “But what I don’t understand,” Anne persisted, her hands spread palms up on the tabletop, her fingertips coated with powdery sugar, “is why all the slaves don’t want their freedom? Who wouldn’t want to be emancipated?”

  Captain Duval replied, “The life of slavery is the only life these Negroes have ever known. In most cases, they are treated kindly by their owners, fed well, and given necessary medical attention. They are attached to their homes and wouldn’t know what to do if thrust suddenly into the world to make their own living and set up their own households. Most of them are terrified at the idea of freedom.”

  “But if they were given the same opportunities as the white man—”

  “Anne,” Reggie broke in with a pained look on his face, “perhaps there are things you don’t understand—”

  “Why do you suppose she’s asking questions, Reginald?” Katherine asked tartly. “How’s she supposed to know how to think about a subject if she’s ignorant of it? Ah, but I’m forgetting. You Englishmen think ignorance is a blessing in your womenfolk.”

  “I never said any such thing,” spluttered Reggie, indignant.

  “I’m sure you don’t wish me to be ignorant, Uncle Reggie, though you may certainly wish me to be silent,” said Anne, cutting to the truth. “But sometimes it’s important to understand something no matter how upsetting the facts are. Well-treated or not, who could be truly happy without freedom? If the slaves were allowed to be taught to read and to be educated, I can’t but think they’d all want their freedom eventually.”

  “I daresay it would be a monumental undertaking to responsibly free the slaves,” said Reggie. “And the attempt would, no doubt, horribly disrupt the entire economic foundation of the South.”

  “The South could make the changes slowly. But it would have to be a joint effort, since no man can make the changes by himself.” She was thinking of Renard, of course. She’d been thinking of him constantly since last night. Remembering the conflicting feelings of excitement and safety she’d felt in the notorious outlaw’s embrace was like reliving a wonderful dream. She still couldn’t believe she’d been kissed by a local legend.

  “My dear Mademoiselle Weston,” said the captain, rising from his seat and smiling down at her from his great height. “What makes you think the South wants to make any changes at all? I assure you, most people don’t give the matter a moment’s thought.”

  He reached down and gave her arm an affectionate pat. “I must prepare for landing, as we will arrive at port within the hour. But my parting advice to you, mademoiselle, is this. Enjoy your life. As pretty and bright and passionate as you are, you will be the object of many men’s desires as you are launched into the gay society of New Orleans.” Then he bowed and was gone.

  “How dare he!” exclaimed Reggie, reddening to the color of a ripe tomato. “How dare that coarse man speak so loose and free within hearing of such innocent ears! Passionate, indeed! The object of men’s desires! His terms of expression are straight out of a boudoir scene from a French penny novel. What can he be thinking to talk like that in front of Anne?”

  “I see prudery rearing its ugly head again,” Katherine remarked dryly as she brushed the crumbs off her bodice. “Captain Duval was simply speaking the truth, Reginald, only in more colorful terminology than you’re used to hearing. I wonder whose ears are really the more innocent—Anne’s or yours? Yours are the shade pinker.”

  “Mine are pink, Aunt Katherine,” said Anne, “not because I objected to the captain’s terminology, but because he spoke so condescendingly. Oh, is there no one who takes these matters seriously, or who might take me seriously? What this country needs are more men like Renard!”

  “Like Renard?” croaked Reggie. “He’s an outlaw!”

  “But he’s doing what he believes in. Inside the law, he can do nothing. Don’t tell me, Uncle Reggie, that you agree with the captain!”

  “Anne, of course I don’t. But in England, where people are civilized, such unpleasant matters need not be thought about, much less discussed at such great length.”

  “Well, I’d rather be dead than simpering and silent,” Anne announced, licking the powdered sugar off her fingers one at a
time.

  “Anne, ’tis unbecoming in a young lady to speak so violently, and do use your serviette, my dear!” admonished Reggie, at the end of his tether; but too late. With a thumb knuckle-deep in her mouth, Anne looked up to see Delacroix staring at her from the doorway of the saloon, Bodine at his side. And the dratted man was smiling.

  With all the people in the saloon—many of whom had lingered over their meal in hopes of witnessing the entrance of the unfortunate Bodine—Anne found it rather unlucky that Delacroix’s lazy, mocking gaze had happened to fix on her just as she was sucking sugar off her thumb.

  She quickly looked away from Delacroix’s amusement and removed the offending digit, wiping it dry on the serviette in her lap.

  Anne was embarrassed and reluctant to look back toward the saloon entrance again, but she was just as curious as the other passengers to see how Bodine fared after receiving his bad news. Anne hoped he was wretched. By the quick look she’d had of him, she suspected he was nursing a hangover headache as well as a self-pitying conviction of ill usage at the hand of the Fox. Bravo, Renard! thought Anne. Bodine got no less than he deserved.

  She slid a glance their way, sideways and surreptitious, out of the corner of her eye. Delacroix and Bodine were moving toward an empty table just next to theirs. Like everyone else in the room, she watched their progress. Delacroix walked with haughty nonchalance, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Anne noticed again that he had wonderful legs. She sighed and looked away. No rogue should have legs like that. He’d only use them to further his nefarious designs on women’s hearts. Thank goodness, she was immune!

  Anne Weston sat in a pool of sunshine, dressed in a butter-yellow dress and with a frothy, feathered bonnet sprigged with daisies perched atop her fair curls. She was sucking on her fingers, avidly enjoying every slick, sugary mouthful. Even from across the room, Lucien could see the white confectioner’s powder from the beignet outlining the curve of her upper lip. One swipe of the tongue—preferably his—and she’d be as clean as a whistle and ready for kissing.

  Kissing. It was not his usual habit to intersperse his undercover activities with romance, but last night he’d been unable to resist such an enchanting armful as Anne Weston had been. When he’d first seen her standing at the railing of the steamboat as it eased against the levee at Biloxi, he’d wondered how much she owed to her corset for that tiny waist. Now he knew that the nipped-in waist and just-right swell of hips and breasts were perfect without the benefit of undergarments; actually more perfect.

  He vividly recalled the feel of her as she’d leaned against his chest and thighs. He’d felt the pulsing warmth of her skin through the fine muslin material of her nightdress. Her lips had been as sweet and eager as a besotted bride’s. But more disrupting to Lucien’s peace of mind than all these luscious physical delights was the unbelievable fact that Anne Weston supported Renard’s cause with the sort of dedicated fervor most females saved for picking out a new bonnet or parasol. She’d been quivering with excitement last night because she was glad the slaves were escaping. Anne had fire and substance. She was an idealist. So far, she was damned near perfect.

  And he must leave her alone. Lucien had no time for such foolishness. He had a masquerade to play out, and he didn’t need such a tempting wench distracting him from his purpose.

  She was watching him as he walked across the saloon toward the unoccupied table near theirs. For a panicked instant Lucien imagined she recognized something about him that might connect him to Renard. He gave her a sly smile and winked. She looked annoyed and turned away. Success, but at a price.

  Before Anne Weston came on the scene, Lucien had actually taken a certain wicked enjoyment in his masquerade, amused by how easily he controlled people’s opinions of him with a little playacting, a few careless, selfish remarks, and prideful allusions to wenching and gambling. But fooling Anne was a bittersweet triumph indeed. With her, Lucien wanted desperately to be himself.

  “Will this do, Bodine?” Lucien gestured toward the empty table.

  Bodine squinted and snarled, “There’s too much sun, but I suppose it shall have to do since it’s the only available place to sit.”

  Lucien knew they were the center of the room’s attention, but he only cared about the presence of the young woman who watched from the nearest table, and the scrutiny of the bluest and most clear-sighted pair of eyes. Bodine plopped into a chair without glancing around him, propped his elbows on the table, and cradled his head in his hands.

  Before sitting down himself, Lucien took the time to briefly visit the surrounding tables. He kissed several hands and got several saucy looks and coy smiles in return. One young girl blushed to the roots of her hair and ducked shyly behind her fan. Having done his roguish duty, he at last approached Anne’s table and bowed low.

  “Bonjour, ladies, Monsieur Weston. I trust you are all well and happy this fine day?” He bared his teeth in the most insouciant smile he could manage. But Anne was watching, and it was hard to appear as unconcerned and carefree as he wanted to. He felt a tic in his jaw.

  “Certainly happier than your friend, Mr. Bodine,” said Katherine, tilting her chin in Bodine’s general direction.

  Lucien spread one hand in front of him to inspect his nails. Between his slightly splayed fingers, he saw Anne’s upper lip—still dusted with sugar—lift in a barely perceptible sneer. He had doubtless irritated her by flirting with all the women within hand-kissing range. How very satisfying.

  “Oui, last night’s incident was most regrettable, n’est-ce pas? I understand he paid a pretty penny for the family of slaves. No matter how rich one gets, you know, it’s never easy to part with one’s property in such a manner. I’m sure it irks Bodine all the more because it was the doing of the outlaw Renard.”

  “Yes, Mr. Bodine does look dreadfully drawn this morning,” said Anne with sweet rancor. She sighed and looked mournful. “How I pity him. But perhaps he’ll improve once he’s eaten breakfast.”

  “With a thundering headache and a queasy stomach, he probably won’t order more than a cup of strong coffee,” Lucien said in a voice of mild concern. “But as his friend, it is my duty to persuade him to eat at least a little something. How are the beignets this morning, Mademoiselle Weston? I was going to kiss your hand, but once I got a taste of that sugar on your fingers, I might embarrass us both by lingering overly long … Sugar is so divinely sweet, like a woman’s lips.”

  He watched her blush. It was like watching a rose open, all dewy freshness and color. He stood there most rudely and smiled his enjoyment. Her uncle threw him a fretful glance, then leaned close to Anne’s ear and whispered something. She quickly wiped the sugar off her lip with a serviette, then briskly wiped her fingers, too. Recovering her composure, she lifted haughty eyes to Lucien’s mocking ones and said, “The beignets are especially light and delicious today, Mr. Delacroix, and perhaps even sweet enough to charm away Mr. Bodine’s sour mood. Perhaps you ought to advise him to order some before he sends the server away.”

  Lucien recognized a broad hint when he heard one. She was dismissing him. But it was time he got on with the business of pretending to soothe Bodine’s battered pride, anyway, and proving himself an excellent friend to the blackguard. His false friendship with Bodine was the most repugnant of his deceptions in the masquerade he played.

  “How right you are, mademoiselle,” conceded Lucien with a courtly bow. “I will advise Monsieur Bodine to order a plate of beignets immediately. Au revoir, ladies. Au revoir, Monsieur Weston. I hope we meet frequently in town.”

  Anne’s responding look assured him that she’d probably much prefer meeting the devil to meeting a wretch like him. He ought to be pleased that his wastrel act was convincing enough to make her dislike him so intensely. But instead he found it damned irritating. He returned to the table and Bodine, determined to put the saucy baggage out of his mind and keep his thoughts on the pressing matters at hand.

  As Luc
ien sat down, Bodine lifted his head from his hands. “Doing the pretty, Delacroix?”

  Lucien dispassionately observed Bodine’s bloated face. He looked as though he’d just walked through a sandstorm. His eyes were red and runny, his face unnaturally flushed. No one would think he was suffering from anything worse than a hangover, but Lucien knew differently. The sleeping herbs Armande had given him had done the job wonderfully. “Chirped a little too merry last night, eh, Bodine?”

  “No merrier than I have done on numerous other occasions,” he rasped. “You drank as much as I did, and I’d like to think I can throw down as many goblets of Madeira as the next man. I don’t know why I feel worse than usual after a little brew tipping.” Bodine rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “My head is throbbing.”

  “I had the sorry task of waking you this morning with that damnable news. Learning you were robbed by Renard again must surely contribute to your feelings of misery, n’est-ce pas?”

  Bodine dropped his hands to the tabletop, where they formed into fists. A look of hatred radiated from his bleary, bloodshot eyes. “If I ever manage to get hold of that bastard, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands!”

  Lucien pretended to look slightly awestruck by Bodine’s vehemence. “Mon Dieu, I can only thank the saints that I’m not the man who inspires so much anger in you, Bodine.” Lucien casually crossed his legs. “Pray tell me, just how many times has the Fox crept into your henhouse?”

  Bodine looked truculent and did not reply. Smoothly, mercilessly, Lucien rubbed salt into the adeptly inflicted wound. “I think the henhouse a most apt metaphor, don’t you? He frequently absconds with females you’re interested in. Too bad you weren’t able to have your way with that fetching little wench before Renard took her.”

  Bodine bristled. “What makes you think I didn’t?”