by Sandra Hill
“Because it would be too messy?”
“No, because she’s your soul mate.” Cain winked at him, or tried to. His eyelid just twitched.
Etienne snorted with disgust. “At least Pope doesn’t yet associate our names with the gold shipment. That was one bit of good news we found out this afternoon at the Exchange,” Etienne said. “That should give us a few days’ headway. If we lie low at Bayou Noir for a week, he’ll probably think we took the gold out of the city. We don’t want to lose him totally, but we have to lead this chase to our ultimate destination. The final confrontation has to take place in Texas, not Louisiana.”
“That still doesn’t address the woman. Joleen told the kitchen maid that the wench is pacin’ her room, callin’ you names that made even Joleen blush.”
“I find that hard to believe…that Joleen can blush.”
“And Simone says she’s trying to advise her girls.”
Etienne groaned. “I suppose I should go up, but…well, I told her that I’m going to torture her.”
Cain grinned.
He grinned back.
“Forceful seduction?”
“Hell, how should I know? I’ve never tortured a woman before,” Etienne grumbled, “and I sure as sin wouldn’t know how to forcefully seduce a woman.”
“I could instruct you,” Cain offered obligingly.
“Hah! Everything you know, I taught you.”
“Not everything,” Cain disagreed.
“Hmpfh! You’re all vine and no taters when it comes to sex. Talk, talk, talk.”
“Oh, really. Well then, how ’bout I go up and ‘torture’ the secrets out of the little leopard lady?” Cain licked his lips with anticipation. “I think I’m ‘up’ to the task.”
“No chance!” Etienne’s too-quick response caused Cain to hoot with glee. “I’m thinking of leaving her here and paying Simone to keep her locked up till this job is completed. After that, it won’t matter what she divulges. We’ll be safe by then.”
“That could take weeks. The woman is all fired up and full of git now. I can’t imagine what she’d do if you imprisoned her in a fancy house for a month.”
“Probably lead a posse after me. Or whack me another time.” Etienne chuckled, touching the tender lumps on his head. “You’re not suggesting we take her with us?”
“Through the swamps? No. But I do think you should tumble her a few times before we leave. She’s cute as a speckled pup.”
“A speckled pup? Hah! More like a sharp-clawed cat.” Then he added with a smile, “A few times?”
“Yup. I reckon five or six ought to cure what ails you.”
Etienne choked and set his drink aside. “I haven’t gone six rounds in one night since I was eighteen.”
“See,” Cain soothed, “it’s just what the doctor ordered. Get your wick trimmed, good and proper, and those blue devils of yours will fly out the window.”
The young maid, Charity, knocked on the door then and brought in a light dinner. All of Simone’s girls did double duty, on their backs and on their feet around the house. Within seconds, he and Cain were wolfing down shrimp gumbo, fresh bread and butter, pralines…and buttermilk.
The whole time she served them, the girl kept casting nervous glances at Etienne, making sure she never got too close to him. He’d noticed the same reaction from Lily Sue and Erline when they’d passed him in the hall, but he’d figured then that it must be his smelly condition. He’d since had a bath.
Etienne’s brow furrowed and Cain’s did the same when their eyes connected. With a silent signal, Cain stood and followed the girl when she left. Actually, he staggered, muttering something about the floor being uneven.
Etienne heard Cain and Charity murmuring in the hall, followed by a high-pitched squeal. Cain had probably pinched her bottom. Then Cain erupted into laughter. When he returned to the room, he was still chortling.
Before he closed the door, the sound of a sudden, piercing trill of music spilled into the room, coming from the front parlor. A poignant trumpet melody played out, and Simone’s clear soprano voice sang the words Abel had been writing down back on the train.
“Abel,” he and Cain said at the same time. Even though they hadn’t been particularly worried about Abel’s safety, a wave of relief washed over Etienne. They wouldn’t go to him yet, though. Abel and Simone would have some catching up to do.
Cain resumed eating, looking up at Etienne repeatedly and smirking.
“Well, spit it out,” Etienne snapped. “What’d she say?”
Cain paused dramatically, then announced, “Everyone now knows about your perversions.” He tried to speak solemnly but was unable to hold a straight face.
“Perversions? Which ones?”
“Just one. Seems you’ve become a…let’s see…what did she call it?” Cain tapped his head dramatically. “Oh, yes, a neck-row-filly-act.”
“Filly-act? Does it have something to do with horses?”
Cain laughed so hard tears filled his eyes. “Oh, oh, oh…” he sputtered.
Etienne glowered till Cain finally stopped howling and explained with great relish. By the time he finished, Etienne’s jaw had dropped practically into his empty bowl.
“Corpses?” Etienne stood and threw his napkin on the table. “I’m going to kill the wench, after all.”
A short time later, Etienne stomped up to the third floor. Joleen flashed him a disdainful scowl, mumbling something about “bloody perverts,” thus confirming she’d heard the story, too.
“Go and have dinner,” he ordered.
She scurried past him so fast that the hall curtains fluttered.
Etienne inserted the key in the door and entered, primed for a fight. Instead, the room was quiet. He saw that the woman was asleep on the bed, her travel case and papers strewn around her as if she’d dozed off. One arm was thrown over her head. Masses of black hair spread about the pillows in seductive display. Wearing only a thin wrapper, which had parted, she slept on her back with one long leg exposed from bare foot to upper thigh.
A sweet swelling flared in his groin. Hmmm. Maybe I could go a bout or two, after all. Or three or four.
He was already unbuttoning his shirt, heading for the bed, when he tripped over something on the floor. He glanced down and his burgeoning arousal died an instant death, replaced by blood-boiling fury.
How dare she? How dare she go through my bag? Could she be a spy, after all? Oh, I should have broken into her travel case and investigated further. Careless! I’ve been too careless.
He picked up the Bible his father had given him before he’d left to fight in the war. His throat closed as he flipped open the cover, reading, To Etienne. God be with you. Love, Papa. December, 1861. Hah! His father had given him the gift on his departure from California, but that was before he’d discovered which side Etienne supposedly fought for—the wrong side. They hadn’t spoken since. He slammed the book shut before he disgraced himself by crying, and put it carefully back into the bottom of his satchel.
Then he contemplated the photos the intrusive woman had riffled through. Checking to make sure she’d done no damage to his precious mementos, he ran a fingertip caressingly over the three frames. Papa and Selene—he couldn’t even bear to look at that photograph. Bayou Noir, which tugged at his heartstrings like an anchor in the raging sea of his life. And his brothers and sisters, whom he missed so very much.
He smiled, despite his sadness, and wondered how they would look now. Almost ten years had passed since he’d seen them last. Rhett would be twenty-four and helping Papa run the ranch. Scarlett was twenty-one and a raving beauty, according to a miniature portrait shown to him last year by Blossom, his old cook at Bayou Noir. Ashley, at twenty, was still studying law at Harvard. Tara, only nineteen, had married early and already had two children, both boys, with her farmer husband. Melanie, the youngest at fifteen, with her incongruous blond hair, would probably still be in the schoolroom.
With a sigh of regret, he pu
t the velvet case into his satchel, and directed his attention to the bed. Eyes narrowed, he sat down gently on the side of the mattress and began to examine the items the witch had scattered so carelessly.
A small black box that he couldn’t identify; he set it aside for now, along with a strange, flat green case holding twenty-eight pills in slotted rows of seven.
Next, he picked up two books. Sweet Savage Love by Rosemary Rogers had a paper cover depicting a man and woman in a close embrace. Steve and Ginny? He turned a few pages and read the copyright page. The latest date, following numerous reprintings, was 1997.
Etienne felt a roaring in his ears as the implications of that date hit him with full force. She hadn’t been lying. She really did come from the future.
No, no, no! It isn’t possible. It has to be a trick.
But who would go to such lengths? Pope? His superiors? It hardly seemed credible.
He put a hand to his head to ward off an impending headache. If anything could cause his migraine to explode, this distressing discovery would.
He turned to the other book, which had a hard cover. Female Fantasies Never Die, by Dr. Harriet Ginoza.
The headache hit like a knife through his forehead. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he finally managed to control its force. He turned the book over then and stared at a photograph in shades of black and white of the woman sprawled out next to him. Wearing a severe dark suit jacket over a white shirt, she looked straight ahead, chin lifted haughtily to its usual elevation. The only concession to her femininity was the pearl earbobs exposed by her upswept hairstyle.
Etienne flicked to the copyright page, but he already knew what he would find. The year 1997.
Maybe I’m going insane. Maybe my mother’s mental illness passed on to me, as I always feared. Maybe the prison dementia I fought off for so long has finally claimed me. Maybe this is God’s punishment for all my sins. Maybe none of this is real and I’m just dreaming, as the lady has been claiming to be all along.
Setting that book aside as well, Etienne picked up the notebook and began to read. Apparently, she’d decided to start a journal of some sort.
August 25, 1870
Today I met my soul mate, and he’s a jerk…
Etienne smiled. Jerk. Selene had often used that word to describe his father. He supposed it was equivalent to that male chauvinist pig term Harriet had mentioned. Probably her cantankerous version of dear or darling.
He read further.
…At first, I thought Etienne Baptiste was Steve Morgan, that MCP who’s been plaguing my dreams so much lately. But he’s not. He’s worse.
Etienne frowned. He was the aggrieved party here, not her. He was the one who’d been knocked unconscious, twice. He was the one whose personal property had been ransacked. He was the one saddled with an unwanted, opinionated, endlessly chattering responsibility.
…He has a killer smile and a body to die for, just like the Steve of my dreams….
Etienne decided that he might not strangle her after all for her slanderous remarks about his sexual inclinations. He sucked in his stomach; being on the run one way or another did keep a man lean and well muscled.
…but, unlike Steve, the crud stud has no interest whatsoever in me….
Well, he wouldn’t say that precisely. And what the hell was a crud stud? Probably the same as an MCP.
He skimmed through the other pages, and there were lots of them. Apparently Harriet liked to write almost as much as she liked to talk. He would return to them later, his headache making even the process of reading a painful chore. Besides, for now, he was most interested in her reaction to his Bible and the three pictures. He flipped to those sections of her journal.
Just as her two books had him wondering if time-travel was actually possible, his personal belongings—the Bible and the three pictures—had done the same to her. She was confused and frightened, as well she should be. Unfortunately, she looked to him for answers and a way out of her unwanted adventure.
And he had no answers.
Tossing the notebook to the floor, he removed his boots. Then he padded over to the table, where he poured a small glass of water from a carafe, dropping in one of Cain’s headache powders.
It was only six o’clock, still light outside, but Etienne felt a debilitating weariness. He needed to lie down. Until his headache passed. Until he slept a little. Until he understood who this woman was and why she’d landed in his life.
Should he wake her?
No, not yet. With the hammer pounding behind his eyeballs, he didn’t think he could stand her jabbering right now. She’d probably start right in lecturing him. Or want to talk about her theories on time-travel. Or hit him over the head again.
Just a little rest. Should he plop down on the fainting couch, which would be uncomfortable for his large frame, or should he ease into the ample empty space left on the bed? He had no trouble deciding.
What about clothing? Should he remove his garments, as he usually did?
Hell, why not? She talks a great game. Let’s see if she throws in her chips or bluffs her way to the end when confronted with a real man in all his glory. Besides, I’d like to show her my full house, and my royal straight isn’t so bad either. Etienne chuckled to himself. His headache must be melting his brain. Either that, or his sense of humor had been absent so long, it was making up for lost time.
Soon his headache eased. He lay on his back under the crisp sheets, his arms folded behind his neck, studying the ceiling. It was a moment out of time and he took great pleasure in it—a soft bed with goose-feather pillows, clean linens smelling of fresh air, a mild breeze rustling through the two open windows, the sound of a dove calling to its mate in the distance. He hadn’t always been so appreciative of the little things in life. A brutal war and a horrific prison had taught him well.
And there were other little pleasures in life that he cherished now, Etienne thought with a smile as Harry-Hat—he knew Harriet rankled when he misspoke her name—grew restless in her sleep and cuddled closer. Yes, there was the scent of gardenias in a woman’s hair, the feel of satiny skin in mysterious places, the wonderful purring sound a female made when she was pleasured, or the even more wonderful scream she released when satisfied.
So many little blessings in this world, and yet Etienne was so unhappy. Why? he wondered as a wide yawn overcame him. Why couldn’t he go back to the way he used to be?
Harriet threw one leg over his and squirmed against his side. With a resigned sigh, he put an arm around her shoulder and drew her warm body closer, her head resting on his chest.
She would be furious when she awakened in this position.
Good.
In the meantime, he hoped he had one of her famous erotic dreams.
“No! Get them off! Get them off!”
Harriet awoke with a jolt to find herself in bed with Etienne. Dusky evening approached, but she could still see in the fading shadows. He was flailing his arms and legs about as if trying to whisk something off his body. In the process, he kicked off the sheet.
He was stark—be still my heart—naked. And she wasn’t much better, her silk wrapper having come unwrapped.
But she couldn’t be concerned about that now. Etienne was having a violent nightmare, and it must involve those Andersonville maggots he’d mentioned earlier. The poor man!
She soothed him with whispers—“It’s all right now. Shhh. It’s only a dream”—and light caresses over his clenched jaw and jerking shoulders. Eventually, he whimpered and slumped into an exhausted sleep.
She tried to rise, but her long hair was caught under his outflung arm. And he’d managed to trap one of her legs between his. Wide awake now, she figured she must have slept at least four hours. Remembering how angry she’d been with Etienne for locking her in this room, she tried to call up the rage. But it had all drained out of her in witnessing his nightmare.
As he slept, his face showed a vulnerability that he masked with cynicism when awake.
His full lips parted slightly. Like most dark haired men, he had a five-o’clock shadow, even though he’d shaved that morning.
I hate that he’s been hurt. By a war, or people, or just circumstances. But that’s crazy. I have no connection to him.
She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a moan as she realized, Yes, I do.
Moving her hand from her mouth to his chest, she felt his heart beating strongly. And that touched her, too. He was a virile, healthy man. And he was hers.
Huh? He’s not mine. And I don’t want him to be mine. No, no. no!
Even so, it was with a proprietary air that she ran her fingertips lightly from the silky black hairs on his chest down to the vee at his waist, and lower. He was a big man—tall and slender and well muscled, but not pumped up like a bodybuilder.
So many scars! Were they the results of childhood scrapes? Or much worse?
Tears welled in her eyes at the pain he must have suffered. And she wished, for the first time in her life, that she could take another person’s suffering on herself.
Her hand had been resting, palm downward, on his flat stomach, very close to another interesting part of his body. And it wasn’t his long, furred legs that drew her now. Or the big, narrow, high-arched feet with the beginnings of a blister on each heel. His manhood had a beauty all its own.
She was about to touch—it she couldn’t help herself—when a hand clamped over her wrist. She glanced up, with dismay, to see Etienne’s eyes, wide open, and staring at her.
Using his grasp on her wrist as leverage, as well as fingers burrowed into her hair, Etienne drew her up so she lay half on her side, half on his chest, eye to eye with him. Her hair spilled out around them.
“Why are you weeping?” he asked softly.
“For you. For your pain. And your beauty.”
“Pity?” His eyes glinted with hurt, and his body tensed defensively.
