by Danice Allen
“Where does your abigail sleep, cher?”
“In the next room, through a connecting door.”
“Christ! Then I’d better go. You showed admirable restraint, but she might scream if she sees me.”
“In this dark room I can hardly see the nose in front of my face,” she reasoned, “and neither could Sarah if she woke up. Besides, she is a heavy sleeper.”
“Still, I don’t want to take any more risks than necessary, for both our sakes.”
“But you just got here,” she complained, a petulant note in her voice. He could imagine her pouting, and it made him want to kiss her again. His pulse quickened.
“I have to go before I can’t go. Don’t you understand, cher?”
“Then one more kiss,” she suggested breathlessly.
“Your kisses make me dizzy. They make me forget everything but you and how I want to make love to you.”
He felt her tremble. “One more kiss, Renard,” she taunted, holding her lips close to his. “I dare you.”
He laughed. “You aren’t a bit shy, eh?”
“Not with you.”
They kissed again. Lucien felt every inch of him spring to life as she opened herself to him with sweet, virginal abandon. He caressed her back, kneading the firm flesh, reaching lower and lower till his hands cupped her rounded buttocks. He pulled her hard against him, against the heated swell of his manhood. She gasped, and her head fell back. God, how he wanted her! And maybe she wanted him just as much…
There was a shuffling sound and a moan from behind a nearby wall. Lucien’s head reared up. “Is that your abigail?”
Anne’s voice was muffled, dazed. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“I have to go.” He put her at arm’s length, steadied her, then let go.
“Renard! When will I see you again?”
There was a hesitation. “I don’t know.” He moved toward the window.
“What if I want to send you a message?”
“It’s best you don’t know how to find me.” He pushed the curtains aside.
“You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not safe, cher. Good-bye.”
“Not good-bye, Renard,” she said stubbornly. “Till we meet again.”
He knew she couldn’t see him, but he smiled. She was a frisky filly, all right. “Oui, ma petite. Till we meet again.” Then he climbed out the window and down the tree. After his quick descent, he looked up. She was leaning out the window, her hair cascading down like that of a princess in a fairy tale. She threw him a kiss, which he caught and held against his heart. Then he turned and hurried away, hidden by the shadows of a dark night.
Anne paced the floor of her bedchamber. She’d attended church that morning with Reggie and Katherine like the dutiful little Anglican girl she was, but now that services were over, she was wild to do something a dutiful little Anglican girl would never do in a millennium.
Last night’s dreamlike tryst with Renard had served only to underscore her feelings of confinement and frustration. She had lain awake hours after he left, reliving his kisses and caresses, her nerves still vibrant with longing. She wondered why he had actually come to her bedchamber. It seemed too wonderful and incredible to believe he’d risk capture just to kiss her! But he remembered her from the Belvedere, which meant that their encounter on the mist-shrouded deck that night so many weeks ago had meant something to him, too. Maybe not as much as it did to her, but something.
Oh, how she longed to see him again! To talk to him. To discover who he was behind the mask. She hoped that he was as curious about her as she was about him, that she was not just some sort of romantic conquest. She had to admit that it was a possibility that Renard dallied with many women, climbing in through their bedroom windows to steal a kiss and sometimes something more, but she wanted to believe she was special.
He was her hero. He represented all that was free and exciting, while her own life seemed as restrictive as a prisoner’s. Anne sank down on the edge of her bed, looking wistfully toward the window through which Renard had come and gone. She had to get out. If she didn’t get out for a couple of hours, she’d scream.
The logical destination was Congo Square to watch the dancers. Reggie had made it clear he wouldn’t take her, and Aunt Katherine, for some unfathomable reason, had seemed disinclined to oppose his authority in this matter; she wouldn’t go without Reggie. That left Anne with no recourse but deception. It rankled her, at the advanced age of three-and-twenty, to have to sneak away to a harmless afternoon’s recreation!
After lunch, Reggie and Katherine retired to their separate chambers to read and nap. Anne had complied with this American custom of resting on Sundays, generally spending the afternoon outside in the garden lounging and reading under a leafy tree. But today the idea of staying close to home was as appetizing as eating worms. She was in no mood to be biddable or docile. She was feeling rebellious.
Anne looked at the cabinet clock that stood against the wall. An hour had passed since her guardians had gone to their rooms, and she figured that both of them ought to have fallen asleep by now. She was already dressed to go out, neat and proper in a maroon silk walking dress, sturdy half-boots, and a black velvet bonnet with a starched, netted veil that, when pulled down, would lend her a little anonymity.
In her small beaded reticule she had money for a hired coach; a clean, scented, neatly pressed handkerchief; and a bottle of smelling salts. No lady ever left her premises without these essentials. Now she must slip out the front door without the servants observing her. Because Sunday was as relaxed and casual for the servants as it was for the owners of the house, Anne didn’t think that slipping away unobserved would be too difficult a task.
And it wasn’t. In less than five minutes Anne was a block away from her aunt’s house and waving down a cab. In no time at all she was being let out at Congo Square. Anne paid her fare and generously tipped the driver. He responded with a friendly leer and a wink. Anne felt a little unnerved, but she supposed that one of the disadvantages of going about town unescorted was that people, including cheeky cabdrivers, might think her rather fast. This infuriating fact only made her more determined to do exactly as she pleased.
For at least three blocks she’d heard the chant-like singing of the dancers, the drumbeating, and the hand clapping. Now, as she stood just outside the square, the rhythm of the music seemed to thrum through her blood. And the sight of what must have been nearly five hundred black dancers, male and female adults of a wide range of ages, was overwhelming.
Enclosed in a fenced area surrounded by ancient sycamore trees, the dancers writhed with movement. Anne wished that Jeffrey were with her to explain the different dances. Then she realized that he actually could be there, hidden somewhere in the crowd that pressed against the fence to watch. She glanced around, hoping to pick him out from the dozens of other suited gentlemen.
When an elegant-looking Creole couple passed by and stared at her, Anne realized she must look rather conspicuous, gaping from a distance like a child standing at the entrance to a circus tent but afraid to go in. She lowered her netted veil and moved into the crowd, eventually working her way to the very front when several people vacated a large area. Anne turned her full attention to the dancers.
They were barefoot and dressed in what looked like hand-me-down finery from their white owners. But despite their faded, ill-fitting clothing, the dancers had a dignity about them that Anne admired. They seemed oblivious to the people watching them, caught up in the mood of the music, the rhythm of the drums, the mesmerizing resonance of the singing. Many of them appeared to be going through the motions with their eyes half-closed, almost trancelike in their concentration.
One dance ended and another began. Before, they had been doing little more than stamping their feet and swaying, but now the men and women paired off. The singing and the beating of the drums merged into a frenetic rhythm that seemed to urge Anne’s heartbeat to keep time. She
felt flushed, energized, excited. Beneath her skirt, her toes tapped in tune with the beating of the drums.
Now, instead of wishing Jeffrey were there to explain the dances to her, she wished Renard were there to share the excitement with her. But she couldn’t imagine him in such a normal situation, in the bright light of day, and outfitted in ordinary clothes. He was her dark, dangerous hero of the night.
The dancing was growing more and more daring and exotic by the minute. The men were circling the women, then wriggling at their feet like snakes. Here and there couples seemed to be actually emulating the act of … sexual intercourse! Anne watched, fascinated, and—yes!—stimulated! Now she knew why Reggie objected to her coming there. He’d absolutely die if he knew where she was, what she was watching, and how it was making her feel!
While she didn’t think there was anything wrong or immoral with what the dancers were doing, she was beginning to feel like a Peeping Tom. The dancing suddenly seemed too private to watch, and it occurred to Anne in a blinding revelation that this was yet another example of exploitation of the African people. They weren’t even free to gather together and dance without an audience. Everything they did was monitored, confined, supervised. They were slaves.
Anne turned away, suddenly just as anxious to leave the place as she’d been to get there. She nudged her way through the crowd as tears stung her eyes. She wanted to go home, to separate herself from the mass of curious onlookers. She wanted no part of such exploitation.
Anne managed to work her way through the dense crowd and headed for the street. Blinking away the unwanted tears, she looked up and down the block for a cab. Seeing none, she started walking. She would hail a cab as soon as she saw one, but she had no intention of standing around waiting.
There was always the chance she’d see someone she knew. That could be either a blessing or a curse. Running into Jeffrey would be heaven, but meeting people of society who would condemn her for going out alone would be just the opposite. She was in no mood to defend herself and wasn’t about to make up some outlandish story to justify her behavior.
She caught her skirts in both hands, kept her chin up, and strode with dignity along the banquette, headed north to the Faubourg St. Mary and home. Looking neither left nor right, she stared straight ahead, taking refuge behind her dark veil. She’d gone four blocks and was passing an alley when her arm was grabbed from behind.
Forced to stop so abruptly, she was nearly jerked off her feet. Furious as well as frightened, she turned to confront the person who had so rudely detained her. He was a tall, heavy, middle-aged man with a mottled complexion and a nose as red as a radish. His suit of clothes was worn and unkempt, his blond mutton-chop whiskers overgrown and bushy. Judging by his foolish, leering grin and glassy eyes, he was drunk.
“Now where’s a pretty thing like you goin’ in such a hurry?” He looked around, the slight movement making him weave on his feet, then pushed his face dose to hers. “And all alone, it seems.” His breath reeked of liquor and lunch, supporting her theory that this fellow had had one too many tips of some potent brew along with his midday meal at the local pub.
Anne tried to pull away, but the man’s grip on her upper arm was as strong as his breath. His thick fingertips pinched into her tender flesh till she knew she’d have bruises.
“I demand that you release me, sir,” she said. Anne looked up and down the street for possible help, but there was only one couple at the far end who were headed in the opposite direction. She’d have to scream to get their attention, and she didn’t want to make a scene. She could imagine Reggie’s horror if she was brought home by a city patrolman.
The man chuckled. “You demand I release you, eh? You’ve got a feisty way about you. And such a pretty way o’ speakin’. From jolly ol’ England, ain’t you, love?”
Anne tugged at her arm, glaring up at the man. “You are breaking the law, sir,” she ground out between clenched teeth, “and if you don’t let me go this minute, I’ll scream for help.”
“Ain’t no one about, missy. They’s all down at the square watchin’ the heathens dance. And how you reckon I’m breakin’ the law?”
“You’re holding me against my will. That is a form of assault, sir.”
“Oh, assault, is it? I thought maybe you was figurin’ on yellin’ rape, or somethin’.” His grin widened and his gaze lowered, lingering on her breasts. Alarm made Anne’s heart skip a beat “And here I ain’t even kissed you yet.”
“If you don’t let me go this minute, I’ll scream.” Anne repeated her threat in a low, precise voice. She wanted him to understand every word. She was giving him one last chance.
His brows lifted, and his mouth curved in a nasty smirk. “That’s what you said before, missy.”
“This time I mean it.” Anne held her breath. She felt his fingers loosen a little on her arm, which gave her hope, then, suddenly, he yanked her into the alley and pushed her against the brick wall, holding her captive by pressing his heavy body against hers.
Now Anne couldn’t scream at all. The breath had been knocked out of her when she’d hit the wall, and by the time she got it back, the man had pushed up her veil and covered her mouth with his hand.
She struggled, kicking and thrashing, but her captor was incredibly strong and only shifted his weight and moved his legs till she was completely confined by muscle-bound thighs and the sheer bulk of the man. They were connected in the most unbearably intimate way.
Beyond the terror of finding herself at the mercy of this man and not knowing exactly what he meant to do to her, Anne registered the disagreeable odor of human sweat, musty clothes, and breath that reeked of gin and onions.
Anne’s eyes widened as the man lowered his face to hers, his greasy-looking lips puckered up for the kill. She didn’t take the time to wonder why, but when Anne closed her eyes against the inevitable reality of what was coming next, she conjured up a vision of beautiful hands decorated with emerald and diamond rings, and the chiseled profile of Dandy Delacroix.
Chapter 8
With her eyes squeezed shut and the man detaining her engrossed in the business at hand, neither of them was aware at first that someone else had joined them in the alley. Anne’s first due was a sound that reminded her of a woodpecker’s single thump against a tree trunk—hollow and dull. She opened her eyes and saw a surprised look on the face of her accoster. He held her just as tightly, but it was obvious his concentration had been jarred. By a knock to the noggin? she wondered. In unison they turned their heads and discovered they were not alone.
Anne’s heart leaped with joy and relief. As if she’d conjured him up, Delacroix stood in all his arrogant splendor not three feet away. Today he was dressed in black, his watch chains and fobs glinting silver in the sunlight, his hat worn at a jaunty angle.
He looked calm, almost bored. His stance was relaxed, but subtly belligerent. He leaned slightly forward, his hands, glittering entirely with diamonds, rested with languid grace on the knob of a walking cane. Most of his weight was thrown on one hip, his right leg bent minimally at the knee. His obsidian eyes were hooded, filled with lazy malice.
“Monsieur, I suggest you let go of the lady or suffer the consequences.”
Anne had never been so glad to hear that languid, imperious drawl.
“And who are you?” the man said scathingly, skimming his bloodshot gaze over Delacroix’s impeccable appearance. “I suppose it was you what hit me on the bean, with that cane you’ve got there, eh?”
Delacroix arched a black brow. “I plead guilty.”
“Well then, I’m givin’ you fair warnin’, pretty boy, that if’n you so much as raise that little stick of yours again, I’ll take it from you and give you a whackin’ with it you won’t soon forget.”
Delacroix’s eyes narrowed to glittery slits. “Merci, monsieur. So kind of you to warn me of your intentions. But don’t forget, I warned you first.”
The man threw
back his head and laughed, his grimy neck revealed for Anne’s unwilling inspection. Delacroix waited for the foul fellow’s mirth to pass, his expression devoid of emotion, his gaze fixed impassively on the villain’s face. But Anne could feel the tension in the air. She could see it in Delacroix’s taut arms and legs. His relaxed pose was deceptive. He was like a coiled wire, ready to spring.
“Lord, I needed a good laugh,” said the man, letting go of Anne with one hand while he wiped his watery eyes. “No fella what goes about dressed as slick as you wants to mess up his duds over a female. Now go on with you, I’ve got a kiss to collect.”
Delacroix straightened up and leaned his cane against the brick wall. Unhurriedly he removed his right glove—only his right glove—and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he stood with his feet slightly straddled and his arms crossed loosely over his broad chest. “I haven’t the slightest intention of going away, so I suggest you let the lady go, and, as the Americans say, put up your dukes.”
The man heaved a beleaguered sigh, blowing his rotten breath Anne’s way once again. “You’re like a pesky mosquito what won’t buzz off, ain’t you? Well, guess you’re just a bug what needs swattin’, is all. Stay put, missy. I’ll be fetchin’ that kiss in a minute.”
He let Anne go.
“Go home, mademoiselle,” said Delacroix, looking at her for the first time, his expression stem. But Anne shook her head and scurried only a few feet away, deeper into the alley. She pressed herself against the opposite wall at a safe distance to watch. Strongly opposed to violence, Anne had no desire to see blood fly, but she didn’t think she should leave Delacroix alone with this huge brute of a man. Heaven knew Delacroix had a strong-looking body, but did he know how to use it to best advantage? Dueling was one thing, fisticuffs was another. Delacroix might need her help.
Apparently resigned to her stubbornness, Delacroix turned his attention back to the man, who looked ready to pounce. Anne cast desperately about for a weapon. She spied a plank of rotten wood and picked it up. Ruefully she acknowledged that perhaps a lady ought to carry a derringer in her purse rather than a scented handkerchief, a bottle of smelling salts, and pin money.
