Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  If he had been more in control there in the alley, he might not have killed the younger Skaggs brother. To risk leaving him alive and able to follow after them was something he could not afford at that particular moment. Besides, the man had been about to put his filthy hands on Angelica.

  There had been that other one, the man who had paid to have Angelica taken. He had retreated, a more cowardly move than expected. Most fathers would have fought to prevent leaving a beloved daughter in the hands of an enemy.

  His hands. God help him.

  He could not afford to think of Angelica as she had been, bound and helpless, in that back room. He would not remember the feel of her in his arms and the degrading need to take her while she was grateful to him, while she might not, could not, resist.

  No.

  No. But neither was anyone going to take Angelica from him.

  Reeling from the dressing room, he struck the door, then clung to it, breathing in harsh gasps. He put a hand to his face, fighting the disorientation, the hovering stupor. His fingertips were slippery with the sweat seeping from his hair. A violent shudder rattled his skeleton and made his teeth chatter. He clenched his jaw, bracing against it.

  It passed. Somewhat. Enough that he noticed voices coming from the courtyard. He pushed erect, swaying until he found his balance. Fastening his gaze on the French doors to the gallery as a goal, he made toward them.

  Tit Jean had returned. He was there below, surrounded by a half-dozen people, all trying to give him the news that he might end his search, that the lost were found.

  Matters could now proceed. Renold summoned purpose and authority, injected it into his voice as he called out to the manservant.

  “Yes, maître?” Tit Jean’s voice, mellow, concerned, obliging, floated up to him out of the dimness.

  “Pack,” Renold commanded. “With all speed. We leave for Bonheur within the hour.”

  At Tit Jean’s side, another face swam into view. Michel. No doubt he had been alarmed enough to join in the search when Tit Jean came to him for news. He looked as if he had dressed hurriedly, leaving his hair in a tangle of rough curls and merely wrapping his cravat twice around his throat.

  Hands on his hips, his friend called up to him, “Bonheur, Renold? Have you given this serious thought?”

  “Not a great deal,” Renold answered, his voice wavering as he was shaken by a sudden, helpless laugh. “It doesn’t matter. The alternative is — unacceptable.”

  “I see,” Michel said, and perhaps he did. He went on, “If you must go, can you bear to have company?”

  Renold felt an odd coolness brush the back of his neck. Shivering with it, he said, “You have also discovered an urgent need to be gone from New Orleans?”

  “I only thought you might have need of companionship in your exile,” he answered.

  The look on the other man’s face was sincere, and only a little cajoling. Renold wavered while his thoughts moved with something less than their usual precision.

  Another figure separated itself from the group in the shadows. Deborah’s clear tones assailed him. “If you insist on this ill-considered course,” she said with some acerbity, “then you may as well have as much support as possible, not to mention the extra right arm.”

  “Pleading his case for him, chère?” Renold said in carrying tones. “It doesn’t seem like you.”

  His half-sister put her hands on her hips. “I would be less inclined to increase our forces if you appeared more able.”

  “Flattering,” he answered after no more than an instant. “Also amazing evidence of forethought. One would almost think you care.”

  “I care about Angelica and what she has been through, both tonight and all the other nights with you.”

  He tilted his head. “She has been complaining?”

  “Not at all,” came the short reply. “She is as private in her way as you are in yours, dear brother. But I don’t have to hear her complaints in order to understand how she must feel.”

  “Your fellow feeling, then, leads you to think she requires Michel in her entourage. But for what purpose? To prevent her recapture by kidnappers, or to protect her from me?”

  “You are her husband; it’s your job to protect her,” Deborah said. “However, Michel may be required to protect you from her when she discovers what you have done.”

  “Yes, I take your point,” he agreed in haste, then added, “Where is she now?”

  “Taking a bath in the kitchen. She felt the need, and couldn’t wait for it to be brought to her dressing room.”

  She had felt the need because she had been mauled and handled and left trussed up in a barrelhouse like some sordid parcel without worth. Who could blame her for wanting to remove the stench of it? He had a strong urge in that direction himself, and would attend to it when time permitted.

  Coming to an abrupt decision, he said to Michel, “There is something in what Deborah says. The upriver steamer leaves at dawn. We will be on it with or without you.”

  “Fair enough,” Michel said, his face creasing in a grin as he began to back toward the courtyard gate. “I’ll see you at the wharf.”

  Renold lifted a hand in acknowledgment. The moment the gate clanged behind his friend, he swung back toward those waiting below. His voice quiet, yet with the sting of a rebuke, he said, “Well? Is there nothing any of you can do to make ready for departure? Or do you require detailed instructions?”

  They scattered.

  Renold stood where he was with his hands clamped on the railing. Listening to the receding scuffle of footsteps and murmuring voices, he arranged in his mind the various tasks he would need to see completed before the night was over. The first of these was to inform Angelica of their departure. It was not a task he relished.

  Finding exact words, however, much less convenient excuses, proved unnecessary. Angelica emerged from the kitchen a few seconds later. With her hair trailing in wet, wheat gold strands down her back and her dressing sacque pulled around her, she paused to stare up at him.

  As he drew breath to speak, she shook her head so that water sprayed from the dripping ends of her hair in silver droplets. “Never mind, I heard,” she said in clear, bell-like tones. “Wait there. I’ll come up to you.”

  It was odd, and oddly affecting, to be the recipient of her concern. If he had been more himself, he might have assessed the difference. As it was, he could only seek to minimize the disturbance it caused inside him.

  He was waiting inside the bedchamber when she came through the door. His trenchant glance at Estelle, who followed, was enough to recall to her the many tasks she must accomplish elsewhere. Muttering something about clothing left in the laundry, the maid whirled and went away, closing Angelica in with him.

  “You have no objection to leaving here?” he said abruptly.

  The look in her eyes was speculative. “I don’t know, I haven’t considered. But what of you? This is your home.”

  She considered Bonheur as her property, and why should she not? Hadn’t he kept all other knowledge from her? His thought processes were so muddled, however, that the adjustment to her manner of thinking was an effort.

  He said, “I am at home anywhere. I believe it will be better for you at the plantation. Certainly there will be less disarrangement.”

  “I suppose that’s as good a description as any for what happened,” she said with a wan smile. “Regardless, I will admit I’m surprised. I would have expected you to stay in order to go after whoever is behind it.”

  “Brandishing a sword and dire threats? I might, if there was only my own safety and convenience to consider. It’s different with you involved.”

  She looked away from him, hesitating before she said, “Why am I in it at all? Can you tell me that? Is there someone who has a grudge against you and might consider that you could be reached through me? Or am I an obstacle in some other way I can’t begin to guess?”

  He felt a burning constriction inside his chest as he recogniz
ed the source of her second suggestion. What had he done that she could entertain the notion he was behind her abduction? Why should such a thing occur to her?

  He said with considerable force, “I am capable of many things, but hiring waterfront scum to dispose of my obligations is not one of them.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said as a flush flared across her cheek bones. “I only — that is, you—”

  “I treated you with some violence and a complete lack of the respect due a lady, which makes you consider that I might have a tendency to murder.”

  “You have been saddled with me against your will when you thought, perhaps, that I would die and leave you as you were before I accosted you on the Queen Kathleen.”

  “Now that is an appealing conceit, but we both know who accosted whom. Moreover, you should understand by now that I do nothing against my will. I thought I had made it clear that you are here because of the strength of my desire to have you near me. Why in the name of God’s holy hell should I act contrary to my own interests?”

  “I don’t know, but Ma Skaggs said—”

  “Tell me,” he demanded as she paused, then listened carefully as she complied. He watched her face, analyzed the quiet timbre of her voice, but could discern nothing to show that she realized her abduction might have been planned as a rescue.

  Shrugging when she finished, he said, “As flattering as it may be, the description of the man who paid to have you brought to him is hardly exact or meaningful. To an old harridan like that, any well-spoken man of reasonable cleanliness would have to appear a paragon.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” She lifted a hand, running her fingers through the long, wet strands of her hair. Encountering a mass of tangles, she frowned a little as she worked through it.

  “Allow me,” he said, stepping to the dressing table and picking up the hairbrush that lay there. At the same time, he indicated the stool before the mirror.

  Her manner took on a certain wariness. “I’m sure you have other things to do, if we are to leave so soon.”

  “It’s being taken care of.” That was true only up to a point, but there was no reason to admit it.

  She sent a doubtful glance toward the stool. As he remained politely adamant, she moved to settle upon it. He stepped behind her, gathering the long silken weight of her hair in his hands, lifting it free from where it clung to her dressing sacque. It had begun to dry, but was cool and damp to the touch. With care and attention, he chose a section and began to ply the brush on the ends, working upward.

  In drawing her hair away from her face, he uncovered the dark shadow of a bruise along her jaw. He paused, his gaze lifting to its reflection in the mirror before them. It was necessary to control his sudden rage before he said, “Estelle saw to your wrists and ankles for you?”

  “She applied some kind of salve. It smells of carbolic and something else not exactly medicinal.”

  “Or pleasant?” he suggested. “I thought I recognized it. Contrary to what you might think, it helps.”

  “I never doubted it,” she said with a wry smile.

  He contemplated the curve of her mouth while he worked at a snarl with more delicacy than effect. From there, his gaze drifted to the shadows under her eyes. Abruptly, he said, “I apologize for not allowing you to rest before we go. But you are not to disturb yourself, all will be taken care of for you. You should be able to sleep once we are on the steamboat.”

  “You think so?” she murmured without meeting his gaze.

  “The journey upriver will take some time. From what I know of the plantation, we should not arrive for something more than twenty-four hours.”

  She looked at him, then away again. “I don’t know that I can even board the boat, much less sleep there. The mere idea of it makes me feel — peculiar, as if I can’t get my breath.”

  “As if you were drowning?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Something like that. It may seem foolish, but I would so much rather stay here.”

  “It’s a natural fear, perhaps, but will pass. You’ll be fine once you are in your stateroom and we get under way.”

  There was a skeptical lift to her brow, though she made no direct answer. After a moment, her expression turned thoughtful and a little sad. In husky tones, she said, “I’ll be glad to see Bonheur. It meant so much to my father to own the place; he had such plans for it, and for living there.”

  “Did he?” That comment was the most he could manage.

  “It was supposed to be my security when he was gone. I think, too, that he enjoyed the thought of leaving something behind for his grandchildren, and their children after them. He so wanted to see them before he—”

  As she stopped, her voice closed off by grief, compunction moved over Renold. He said, “He must have cared a great deal for his daughter.”

  She tried to smile as she wiped at the moisture under her eyes with the edge of her hand. “All he wanted was to see me settled and happy, to know that I needed for nothing and had a firm and proper place in life.”

  “There was some mention, I think, of a grand wedding.” The tangles had melted away under his slow strokes. Her hair lay like a shining shawl across her shoulders and down her back. A few contrary and shining filaments clung to his fingers, however, as if permanently attached.

  “Oh, he intended to make a great to-do about the affair, but it wasn’t because he cared for it. Rather, he wanted to get off on the right foot with his neighbors.”

  “Now everything is different,” Renold said softly. The words tasted bitter in his mouth because they were so false. She was in pain because of the loss of her father, pain he could banish if he would. Guilt was not an emotion with which he was familiar. He accepted it now with grim recognition.

  “Yes,” she whispered, then sent a quick look at him in the mirror before lowering her lashes and reaching to adjust the position of a jar of hand pomade which did not need it. “He would have approved of you as a son-in-law, I think. You are very like him in many ways.”

  Both the shock of the suggestion and the impulse to repudiate it had to be suppressed. Renold’s voice was still rigid with the effort as he said, “In what particular can that be — unless you mean that we are both not quite reputable?”

  A frown creased her brow, but her voice was even as she said, “My father cared very little for what other people thought and was ready to risk everything for what he wanted. His intelligence was fearsome, and he had an affinity for words and phrases which said more than was readily obvious.”

  Careful, careful, he told himself, even as he felt his conceit expand. To counteract the unwanted gratification, he said, “And he had the devoted love of his daughter.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, then stopped, her gaze flashing up to meet his again. She went pale as she saw where her answer could lead her if he so desired.

  The temptation was overwhelming. Perhaps for that very reason, it had to be resisted. He said, “Unlike his son-in-law.”

  It was a release for her from her fear, even against his best interests and best judgment. He gave it because he did not have the nerve to force the thing to its natural conclusion. He lacked the nerve because he feared that she would say, plainly and without hesitation, that she did not love her husband. Without waiting for a reply, he leaned to place the brush he held on the table before her, aligning it precisely with her comb and mirror. “I will send Estelle to help you dress.”

  He had nearly reached the door before her answer came with a soft sigh. “Yes.”

  The need to turn back, to demand which of his three comments she might possibly be answering, was almost more than he could bear. Logic insisted that it must be, had to be, the last, yet he was in no condition or mood to be logical. It was, perhaps, a good thing that time was pressing and imperative duties awaited him. Forcing himself to continue walking, he let himself out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Dawn hung like a gray shroud over the city when they reac
hed the wharf. There was the glow of lanterns up and down the water’s edge, either hanging from docking poles or gleaming from the decks and windows of the steamers pulled up to the levee. Most of the boats wallowing in the river’s wash were quiet, with gangplanks up and guards posted. It made the activity around the General Quitman seem noisy and even frantic.

  Angelica, glancing at the boat as she was handed down from the carriage, felt a shiver run down her spine. It almost seemed she could smell scalding steam and hot metal, could hear the crackle of flames and screams of women and children. Perspiration garnered across her upper lip. Her hand in Renold’s grasp felt clammy, and it was a moment before she could force herself to release him.

  “Are you all right?” he said, his gaze resting on her face with concern.

  She gave a brief nod. She would not complain. She had voiced her objection without avail, and now it was too late to turn back. Besides, she was tired of being weak and sickly and having allowances made for her. Her apprehensions were the result of overwrought sensibilities, that was all. She would conquer them.

  The distraction of a light carriage rattling up to the dock was welcome. It was Michel who piled out of it and came toward them while his manservant and driver began setting down bags and boxes. He was greeted with a sally by Deborah on the amount of his baggage. Renold, dealing with the unloading of his own party’s luggage from the dray which had brought it, merely gave him a salute. Still, the general atmosphere of the departure became lighter.

  The trunks and bags were carried on board. Up the gangplank after them went the boxes containing spices, oils, and wines to enliven the plantation table, the linens and pillows and fine soaps for making up the staterooms, the bolts of cloth and ribbon Deborah had purchased from the drapers, and various other crates of goods. Attended by Estelle, Angelica stood talking with Deborah and Michel while Renold went aboard with Tit Jean to see that everything was stowed away and the paperwork was in order.