Sweeter Savage Love

by Sandra Hill

  “Oh, merde!” He forgot for the moment that Harriet was the talkingest, sassiest, naggingest, orneriest woman that God ever created to plague a man. He forgot all the good reasons why he’d vowed never to touch her again. In fact, he forgot why he’d wanted to forget anything. “Oh, damn, that feels good,” he admitted.

  Harriet tried to fight the seductive pull of the raunchiest, stubbornest, sexiest, slickest, love-’em-and-leave-’em rogue God had ever created to plague a woman. Really, her intentions had been ironclad four days ago when she’d sworn never to let the louse touch her again. Now, the least little sign of affection, and she practically melted in his arms.

  She was going to put a stop to this foolishness right now.

  Well, in a minute.

  With the expertise of a born womanizer, Etienne was doing a really neat trick with his hips that just about amounted to having sex with your clothes on. At the same time, he blew softly into her ear, where he was doing incredible things with his teeth and tongue.

  She ground her teeth and prayed he would never stop.

  “Tell me what you want, chérie,” he whispered. “Whatever you want, I’ll give you. I’ll fulfill all your needs.”

  “Just you. That’s all,” she responded, arching her neck in invitation. “I…need you.”

  Suddenly, like a bullet, the word penetrated through the blinding haze of her passion. Neon signs went off in her head, flashing, NEED…NEED…NEED…Sirens exploded in her ears, Danger…Danger…Danger…

  “No!” She couldn’t need a man. That was the one thing in the world she’d always avoided. Want, yes. Need, never.

  “Don’t go stiff on me now, sweetheart,” Etienne implored as he slipped a hand inside her shirt. “We’re halfway home to Dixie, and it’s time to surrender the flag.”

  Surrender? Oh, Lord! First need. Now surrender. She swatted his hand away, but not before his knuckles grazed a nipple and ignited a wildfire of sensual magic. She whimpered. Is this how my mother felt? All those times? All those men? Needy and vulnerable and weak? Who knew it could feel so good?

  “Stop it! Stop right now!” She shoved against Etienne’s chest and he moved back, at last.

  Stunned at her about-face, he stared at her, disbelieving. Then a cold, icy glower of contempt replaced the flush of passion on his sharp features. “I never took you for a tease.”

  “I’m not a tease,” she protested. “I’m not.”

  She placed a hand on his shoulder, wanting desperately for him to understand her sudden change of mind.

  He shrugged her hand away and said through gritted teeth, “Consider this fair warning. If you touch me again, I’m either going to throttle you or make love to you till neither one of us can walk.”

  Harriet opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Which was probably a good thing.

  Etienne began to stomp toward the house. He had a really nice behind, she observed idly, and could only imagine how he’d look in a pair of tight button-fly jeans. Oh, my, my, my! His neck was way too stiff, though, and she didn’t like his turning his back on her at all.

  “I pick choice number two,” she called after him.

  Etienne stumbled, then pivoted slowly. “Wh-what?”

  “Hey, if I get to choose between being strangled and a nonstop sexual satisfaction marathon…I guess I’ll take the latter.” She was just kidding, of course.

  Etienne’s jaw dropped. Then the anger peeled away from his features like a mask. He burst out laughing. “Truly I inherited my mother’s madness if I can stand here laughing like a hyena…considering my condition.” He peered down at his crotch.

  “You have a beautiful smile, Etienne. You should use it more often,” she said, coming up to his side. “In fact, did you know that laughter creates endorphins—the body’s natural painkillers? It could be the best cure for your migraines.”

  “I should walk around laughing all the time so I don’t get a headache?” He rolled his eyes and continued walking. At least he wasn’t so angry anymore.

  She skipped to keep up with his long strides. “Furthermore, you wouldn’t make so many enemies if you’d stop glaring and snapping. You know what they say? ‘A smile always comes back at you.’”

  A gurgling sound erupted from deep in Etienne’s chest and he halted. He wasn’t smiling now.

  Before she could defend herself, he picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder, stalked the short distance to the stream, and tried to toss her in with an exaggerated heave-ho.

  She clung fiercely to his neck, refusing to let go. “Yikes! Don’t you dare!”

  So he walked into the water, boots and clothes and all, up to his waist. Without hesitation, he dunked them both under the water. The last words she heard were, “I should have done this fifteen erections ago.”

  When she came up sputtering through the murky green water, he stood on the bank, sopping wet but smiling from ear to ear. With a grimace of disgust, she pulled a clump of slimy moss off the top of her head and spat out a mouthful of water.

  “You were right, darlin’,” he cooed. “My end-whore-fins are feelin’ mighty fine now.”

  Etienne didn’t laugh for long.

  While he’d been dumping the wench in the creek, Henri Venee had returned home with the midwife. And he was not a happy camper, as Harriet would say.

  Etienne helped Harriet from the water and warned her with a tilt of his head to stand behind him. Reaching down to the ground, he grabbed his gun belt and buckled it on.

  Arman was downstream from them, squawking like a jaybird to his father with wide gesticulations toward them and the cabin. Among the words Etienne caught were nigger, nigger lover, slut and willow switch. In the background could be heard the wailing of an infant.

  The midwife, a short, hammer-jawed Cajun woman with no teeth and a chin that about met her nose, scurried up toward the house, casting suspicious glances at him and Harriet along the way. Shortly after she entered the doorway, Amelie came out. But there was no joyous rush of welcome toward her returning father. Instead, the girl cowered silently on the porch. Cajun families were close-knit and suspicious of strangers. Arman and Amelie would, no doubt, be in trouble for seeking or accepting help from outsiders.

  Henri nodded his dismissal to Arman, and the boy cast a gloating smirk their way.

  Henri was about the same age as Etienne but a little shorter and heavier. He would have been a handsome man if cleaned up and not frowning, and without a huge wad of tobacco in his cheek. Dragging his right leg, he walked grimly toward them in his cantiers, knee-high leather moccasins—apparel still preferred by the Cajun trappers. He held his rifle prominently.

  “Why is he so harsh-looking? And angry?” Harriet murmured.

  “He took a round at Shiloh,” Etienne whispered.

  “What are you doin’ on my property, Baptiste?” Henri growled.

  He’d known Henri Venee as a friendly boy; he suspected that Henri, the man, would have been changed, like he had in the war. Henri was no different from all the other men Etienne ran into these days…all angry men, North and South. While many of Henri’s Cajun fellows had turned mossyback during the war, hiding in the forest to avoid fighting, Henri had been a regular fire-eater, joining up right from the start. Even now he was a violent, uncompromising Southern partisan.

  “Put the gun down, Henri,” Etienne urged. “We just stopped to help. Your wife needed—”

  “We don’t need help from no home-grown Yankee,” Henri snarled, spitting a stream of tobacco juice near Etienne’s feet. “Nor those two smoked Yankees, neither,” he added in reference to Cain and Abel, whom Arman must have mentioned since they were nowhere in sight. “Why don’t you go back North where you’re welcome? Ain’t no place for you in the bayous no more.”

  Etienne wasn’t surprised by Henri’s reaction. It was only five years since the war had ended and many Southerners still carried a deep resentment against the North, but especially against those of their own kind who’d
chosen the “wrong” side.

  “Don’t you even want to know how your wife’s doing? Or the baby?” Harriet interjected shrilly, hands on hips.

  Henri stepped back as if slapped. And raised his gun.

  Etienne tried to shush her imprudent mouth and push her behind him, but she dug in her heels with her usual stubbornness.

  “Really, Mr. Venee, you’re just like a…a man. More concerned about violence and zones of privacy and all that masculine nonsense, when your first priority should be the woman you love and the mother of your children.” She tossed her wet hair over her shoulder with dramatic contempt.

  Henri gave Harriet’s male attire, which clung to her body in an unseemly display, a sweeping assessment. Then he addressed Etienne, “Is she a whore or a half-wit?”

  “Neither,” Harriet stormed, bristling with indignation. “And don’t talk over me, mister. I’m not invisible.”

  “Well, I’ll be!” Henri almost began to grin, casting a commiserating look at Etienne. The silent communication said, Where did you find this one? And how did you get so unlucky?

  But then Henri noticed Cain and Abel coming out of the cabin. He stiffened and his face appeared almost purple with rage. “What are those two niggers doin’ in my house? Solange!” he yelled, rushing forward.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Harriet shouted to Henri’s back. “One of those men is Dr. Cain Lincoln. If it wasn’t for his medical skills, your child still wouldn’t be born.”

  Henri slowed, then halted. Raising his rifle, he cocked the trigger and aimed directly at Cain. “Are you sayin’ that black bastard put a hand on my wife?”

  Etienne’s pistol was out in a flash, but not before Harriet had lunged at Henri. She wasn’t able to tackle him to the ground, but she managed to deflect the course of the bullet when the rifle accidentally discharged.

  Instead of hitting Cain, which Henri probably never intended to do anyway—he’d been bluffing, Etienne was sure—the bullet hit another object. Him.

  Etienne glanced down with horror to see a wide red spot blooming rapidly across his right shoulder. He and Harriet would have matching scars, he thought with hysterical irrelevance.

  At first, everyone’s mouth just dropped open as Harriet flew into action. She was now pounding Henri on the chest, trying to grab the offending rifle.

  After the initial instant of shock, Amelie began to cry. Cain and Abel rushed forward to help Etienne, but Etienne was tying to peel Harriet off Henri. The Cajun was now laughing as he fended off her assault. The Cajuns did appreciate good humor.

  “You ignoramus! You terrorist! Who the hell do you think you are, Rambo?” Harriet was shrieking at Henri. “You shot Etienne.” She got one good punch in to his jaw, which surprised everyone, especially Henri.

  “Merde! Somebody get this harridan off me,” Henri pleaded.

  “Harridan? I’ll give you harridan. If Etienne dies, I’m going to kill you, buster. Put that in your mouth along with that repulsive wad of nicotine and chew on it, buddy, ’cause your clock is ticking. If cancer doesn’t get you, I will.”

  “Harriet, I’m all right,” Etienne said, finally pulling her off Henri. He had scratch marks all over his face and neck and the beginnings of a bruise on his chin.

  Blinking up at him, Harriet came back to sanity. “You’re really all right?” she asked in a small voice.

  He nodded.

  With that, she slumped into a dead faint.

  Cain ordered Abel to get a basin of cool water and cloths, both to revive Harriet and cleanse Etienne’s shoulder wound. Etienne sank to the ground with Harriet in his arms.

  Gazing at her with wonder, he concluded that it really had been a long day for the woman, who was rather frail, after all. The grueling boat ride, then helping to deliver a baby, then being dunked by him.

  Well, not so frail, Etienne amended as he cradled her in his lap. His heart constricted at the image of the small-boned warrior woman defending him. Him. It was a picture he’d carry with him forever.

  Within minutes, Harriet awakened, and they all made a hasty retreat toward their pirogue. Henri was inside with his wife and baby. It was best to escape without another confrontation. And it was a good thing, too. Just as they pushed off, Henri came storming outside, rushing after them, rifle raised once again.

  “Where’s the slut? I’m going to blow her head off. She tol’ my wife to stop havin’ my bébés.”

  They paddled quickly and were soon out of sight. Only then did Etienne turn from his spot in front of Harriet in the pirogue and raise an eyebrow. “Birth control?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t help myself. It’s my mission here, I guess.”

  “I thought I was your mission.”

  She smiled at him, and his blasted heart flipped over.

  “You and the downtrodden women of the South.”

  “Oh, Lord!”

  “Etienne, we should be at Bayou Noir by morning,” Cain interrupted, glancing back at him over his shoulder. A worried frown clouded his face.

  Etienne craned his neck to look at Cain. Why did he appear so apprehensive? And why would he think he’d need a reminder of their proximity to home?

  They’d entered his home region of Terrebonne Parish that morning, skirting around Houma. Terrebonne was bounded by the parishes of Assumption, St. Mary and Lafourche, as well as Atchafalaya Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. Although one of the largest parishes in Louisiana, Terrebonne was wild, riddled with bayous and untillable land, but that was what Etienne loved most about it. Smaller farmsteads predominated here, rather than big plantations, although there had been a few showplaces before the war—Belle Grove, Greenwood, White Hall, Powhatan, Colomb House, Melrose. Etienne’s home was in the northwest sector of this vast county and they would soon connect with its main artery—Bayou Noir.

  “Etienne, there’s something I need to tell you,” Cain began again, “before we arrive at Bayou Noir plantation. I don’t know how to say this, but, well, you should be aware…”

  A tingly sensation of foreboding passed over the back of Etienne’s neck. “What now? What’s got you all fidgety?”

  Cain took a deep breath, then informed him in a nervous rush, “Some of the old slaves have returned to Bayou Noir.”

  “Why?” A cold sweat turned Etienne’s flesh clammy.

  “Because they have no place else to go,” Cain answered. “No work. No way to support their families. It’s their home.”

  Etienne groaned. “There hasn’t been a sugar crop planted there in years.”

  “Well, actually, some of them have started working on the fields, just in case….”

  “Just in case what?” Etienne snapped. “You haven’t been encouraging them that I’ll be coming back, have you?”

  Cain’s shoulders slumped guiltily.

  Etienne swore under his breath. “How many have returned?”

  Cain hesitated. “Do you mean in addition to the twenty-five or fifty who were already there?”

  “Twenty-five or fifty?” Etienne sputtered. Then he drew himself up stiffly. “Exactly how many are there, total?”

  Cain mumbled something.

  “What did you say?” Etienne asked incredulously, his eyes wide with shock.

  “One hundred and fifty!” Cain said.

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Since he’s already fumin’, you might as well tell him the rest,” Abel advised Cain.

  Cain grimaced.

  Etienne said, “I’m getting a headache.”

  “Well, Etienne, the plain truth is…I know you’re not gonna like this…but, well, Saralee is still there.”

  Etienne closed his eyes with a silent moan. He wasn’t sure how much more shock he could take today. “My head is hurting.”

  “Who is Saralee?” Harriet asked in an icy tone.

  Etienne didn’t have to see her face to know she suspected he was keeping a mistress tucked away at his remote plantation. If only that were the case!

  Wit
h a deep sigh of resignation, he turned.

  Before he could speak, Cain answered for him. “Saralee is Etienne’s daughter.”

  “She is not my—”

  “A child? You slimeball!”

  Etienne should have been prepared. But he wasn’t.

  Harriet picked up a paddle and knocked him overboard. Again.

  Good thing she hit his good shoulder. Good thing she didn’t hit his aching head. Good thing she didn’t hit his ever-burgeoning manhood. Good thing he was still alive.

  Really, it was a perfect ending to a perfect day.

  “Do you two get some type of thrill out of dunking each other in the bayou?” Abel inquired a short time after Etienne had crawled back in the pirogue. “I mean, you do it to each other so often.”

  Etienne’s shoulder ached to high heaven. He still had a goose egg on his forehead and a big lump on the top of his head. He was exhausted from lack of sleep. His ears rang from constant feminine nagging. He hadn’t eaten since that morning, and he’d swallowed a bucket of swamp water.

  Raking his fingers through his wet hair, he took a long look at Harriet. The witch was leaning back in a reclining position with her eyes closed, getting what she called a suntan. A small smile of satisfaction teased her full lips, although he could tell by the ramrod tenseness of her body that she was furious with him.

  “Yeah, I’m thrilled.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The ancient black woman sat rocking on the ground level gallery of the mansion at Bayou Noir. In all of Terrebonne Parish, this was her favorite spot.

  It didn’t matter that she could barely see the stream at the bottom of the oak alley. Or that the overgrown swamp vegetation, redolent with the pungent scents of cypress, pine and myriad flowers, reached almost to the house. Her rheumy eyes knew the scene blindfolded. She preferred to picture Bayou Noir plantation the way it had been in the old days, before the war.

  Not that Blossom fretted over change. Lordy, no! Just the opposite. In fact, she relished the sense of expectancy in the air. Finally, the circle would be completed.