Michael wasn’t really paying attention. He’d seen it earlier when I had shared what I’d learned from the man in the alley with him and Devlin and Justine.
“And we’re just going to walk in and take Claire, is that it?” Michael asked as he kissed the side of my neck.
I looked back over my shoulder at him. “How is Boucher going to stop us?”
“Indeed,” he replied. “Then all we have to do is keep her safe until Devlin and Justine return from Jamaica. That might not be as easy as it sounds, love.”
“Yes, I was thinking about that. Perhaps we should rent a house. It’ll take them at least two weeks to get back to Savannah and I think a house would be a much better defensive position, just in case Boucher tries to take her back.”
“It’s a good idea,” Michael agreed. “Since Mr. Bennett was so helpful in getting that greedy man from the bank to come by this morning, perhaps you should ask him to send us an estate agent tomorrow?”
I smiled briefly, thinking of the look on the banker’s face when Michael had dropped a bag of gold coins in his lap. “Yes,” I said dreamily, “Mr. Bennett is ever so helpful.”
Michael laughed and returned to trailing kisses up my shoulder to my neck. “As long as he isn’t too helpful.”
I glanced over my shoulder at my husband. “Jealous?” I teased.
“Not in the slightest,” he murmured as he settled himself between my legs.
I sighed happily. “By the gods, you are insatiable.”
He gently bit the back of my neck. “Only when it comes to you, mo ghraidh.”
———
Ben Hennessey was some sort of fisherman. At least that’s the way it appeared from the nets piled in his boat and the pungent aroma of fish and saltwater that emanated from his person. By the looks of his derelict boat he couldn’t be too successful at his trade, or perhaps he simply drank up all his profits. He was a big man with blond hair and bushy sideburns. It was difficult to tell his age because the sun and the liquor had taken their toll; he could have been thirty or fifty, or anywhere in between. He shuffled across the deck of his small steam-powered fishing vessel with a painful-looking gait. There was something wrong with his right leg, which was probably why he was plying his trade here instead of fighting in the war.
“Mr. Hennessey,” Michael called from the dock. “I have a job for you.”
Hennessey tipped his hat back and looked up at us. “I reckon I already got a job, mister.”
Michael held up the bottle of whisky. “One trip down the coast to Devil’s Island in exchange for a bottle of fifteen-year-old Glenlivet single malt.”
Hennessey eyed the bottle covetously. “Well, now, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Although, Devil’s Island—” he said with a lick of his lips and a remorseful shaking of his head. “Take a chance on gettin’ shot goin’ there. Seems to me a man’s life is surely worth two bottles of whisky, don’t you think?”
“Oh, for the love of Danu,” I muttered.
“Done!” Michael agreed, and hopped down into the boat. The little craft was so shoddy that I had momentary visions of him going right through the floor. He handed Hennessey the bottle with the promise of the second one upon our safe return. Then he turned and grasped me by the waist and swung me into the boat.
“You’re wantin’ to go now?” Hennessey asked. “In the dark?”
“Is that a problem?” I inquired.
“No,” he said, shaking his head thoughtfully. “No, ma’am, I guess it ain’t.”
Hennessey fired up the engine while Michael untied the craft from its mooring. The boat had a shallow draft and we hugged the coastline as close as we could to avoid running afoul of any Union gunboats. The trip was interminably long and made worse by the fact that the night was warm and the fog had rolled in. As a result, my lovely green dress was damp and my coiffure was probably ruined. For the first time I was grateful for the popularity of hoop skirts. If it hadn’t been for the belled foundation garment, my skirt would undoubtedly have been clinging obscenely to my legs.
“There she is,” Hennessey said gravely. “Devil’s Island.”
There were no lights, nor anything that indicated this stretch of land was any different than the miles of shadowy shoreline we’d already passed. I trusted that Hennessey knew these waters, though, and watched expectantly as he piloted the boat into an inlet between the island and the mainland. The night was eerily quiet, which seemed to magnify the sound of the steam engine. I was certain that anyone for miles around could hear us coming. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t surprised to see a lone figure on the dock ahead of us. As we got closer I could tell that it was a woman. She was standing still as a statue, holding a lantern aloft. It was as if she’d been waiting for us.
“Anyone but me find that peculiar?” Hennessey mumbled.
I glanced at Michael, but he just shrugged. As Hennessey steered the boat to the dock and Michael tied it up, my eyes were riveted to the woman. The light illuminated her face, casting shadows under her high cheekbones and a golden hue to her cocoa skin. She was dressed entirely in white, from the turban covering her hair to the blouse and skirt she wore. She was young, perhaps in her late twenties, but her dark eyes held wisdom beyond her years. She stared at me, never once looking at Michael or Mr. Hennessey, and I found it hard to drag my gaze from hers.
I heard Michael turn to Hennessey and whisper, “If you’re not here when we get back, you won’t live long enough to finish that bottle.”
Michael leapt onto the dock and I looked up at him as he reached down and helped me from the boat. It was unnecessary, but it was a polite gesture. As soon as my feet hit the boards, though, I turned back to the woman. This close to her, I could feel it. She had magic.
“I been waitin’ for you,” she said to me, her voice thick with a lilting accent I hadn’t heard in Savannah. “I told him you would come. You won’t be gettin’ the girl, but I expect you’ll be wantin’ to see that for yourself. Come.”
She turned and strode off, carrying herself like a queen. With no other option before us, Michael and I followed her. A long, wide road led from the dock, running straight into the center of the island. Giant oaks rose up on either side of the road, their branches forming a canopy over our heads. There must have been hundreds of them stretching out into the distance. Up ahead, perhaps a half mile down the tree-lined drive, I could see the lights of a great house.
“What’s your name?” I asked the woman, thinking that it was going to be a long, quiet walk and perhaps she could be induced to tell me something useful.
“I am Pandora,” she replied.
“Do you work in Mr. Boucher’s house?” Michael inquired.
She laughed. “I do many things for the master.”
I inwardly cringed at her use of the word “master.” The practice of slavery was repellent to me and I wondered with distaste exactly what sort of things Boucher forced her to do for him. By the color of her skin it was obvious that there were least one or two white men in Pandora’s ancestry, and I could think of little that was worse than being owned by a man that you had no right to say no to. Whether or not Boucher was like these men, Pandora still called him master and that made me want to bite him all the more.
Such thoughts flitted in and out of my head as we walked quietly to the house. Pandora’s terse answers discouraged any more questions, so I simply held Michael’s hand and enjoyed the majesty of the oaks and the songs of the night birds in the trees. I wanted to find the whole island as distasteful as I found Boucher but, in truth, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen anything more beautiful. Before long, the tunnel-like corridor of the drive opened up and gave way to an expansive lawn leading up to the plantation house.
“Welcome to Kenneway,” Pandora proudly announced.
It was exactly the way I’d envisioned a southern plantation house would look, sitting like a dazzling white pearl against the green velvet lawn. Eight Doric columns marched in stately elegance alo
ng the front of the house, supporting two stories of wide porches with finely wrought iron railings. Many such railings and decorative iron-works in Savannah had been removed and melted down to help the war effort. Kenneway’s iron still stood, though, like delicate black lace, perfectly complementing the black shutters that graced each of the eight tall windows. As if on cue, the double front doors swung open and I came face to face with Adrien Boucher.
I could well imagine what Miss Evangeline Peyton had seen in this man. He was in his mid-to-late forties and he had a sleek, hungry look about him, very sophisticated and urbane. His rich brown hair was slicked back with not a strand out of place and there was something quite temptingly dangerous about his eyes. They were the same golden brown as a tiger’s, and his swarthy skin only added to his exotic appeal.
“Don’t look into their eyes,” Pandora whispered to him as she sailed through the door. “She’s a powerful bokor. I can feel her magic crawlin’ across my skin like a thousand tiny ants.”
Adrien’s lips twitched in a smile under his thin mustache but I noticed that he heeded her advice. His eyes focused just below mine, but never met them directly. By doing this he insured that I couldn’t use vampire magic to bespell him, and I was hesitant to use my regular magic at this point because of Pandora. She could feel my power, but I could also feel hers. There was darkness in it and I’d learned long ago not to tangle with black magic unless it was absolutely necessary. If we could get into the house, though, brute force would accomplish our goal.
“Mr. Boucher, I believe we have some business to discuss,” I said. “May we come in?”
He smiled. “I think not. I believe I am much safer with the threshold between us, Mrs. —?”
I narrowed my eyes and looked at Pandora. She knew what we were and that we couldn’t enter the house without an invitation. Somehow she’d known before we’d even arrived.
“My name is Cin Craven and you are in possession of my cousin Claire,” I said coldly. “I want her back.”
“I would be happy to return the girl to you,” Boucher announced, “but she has something I want and until she gives it to me she will not leave this house.”
There were several ways to interpret such a statement and I didn’t care for any of them. “If you’ve hurt her in any way—”
Boucher held up one hand. “I’ve not harmed the girl,” he said. “Yet. But I am running out of time and patience. Perhaps you can convince her to do what’s right. Mr. McCready!”
The doors off the central hallway opened and a stocky man with a bushy red beard and a halo of carrot-colored curls entered the hall. His beefy hand was wrapped around a young lady’s wrist as he dragged her behind him. I knew this was Claire, for she had the stamp of the Macgregors on her—a head full of thick, coppery curls pulled back in a simple bow at the nape of her neck. She was a pretty girl with her father’s height and her mother’s face. Her celery green dress was a trifle loose and though she looked too thin, I could see no marks or other visible signs of abuse. I expected her to be frightened but her blue eyes were merely cautious, and angry.
“Claire,” I said, gaining her attention. “We’ve never met, but I’m your cousin, Cin Craven. Your mother sent me to bring you home.” I held my hand out to her. “Whatever he wants, give it to him and come with me.”
Her anger melted away at the mention of Raina and her expression softened. A tear slipped down her cheek. Mr. McCready still held her wrist but he released it when she raised her hand to wipe away the tear. I didn’t like the way his small, round eyes watched her covetously.
“Tell my parents I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.” She looked to Boucher and her eyes hardened. “I won’t do it,” she said mutinously, “and you can’t make me!”
With that she picked up her skirts, turned on her heel and, with a toss of her copper curls, marched up the stairs. My mouth fell open as I watched her storm off. I wasn’t sure what was going on; this spitfire was certainly was not the fragile, damaged young girl Raina had led me to believe I’d find. When Claire reached the top of the stairs she was met by a tall, lovely brunette in full evening dress. The woman made some comment, but Claire held one hand up dismissively and strode past her.
“Gold,” I said, jerking my attention back to Boucher. “I have quite a lot of it. Name your price for her freedom.”
“While your offer is tempting, I’m afraid what she possesses is without price,” he said as he nonchalantly pulled a pocket watch from his vest. He flipped the lid open and looked down at the time. “You’d be wise to return to your boat, Cin Craven. If you take shelter anywhere on this island, I’ll know about it and I will see you burned come the dawn.”
And with that he closed the door in our faces.
“What the hell just happened?” I said, more to myself than to Michael.
When he didn’t respond, I turned to him. He was leaning back against one of the columns, staring at the front doors with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I prodded.
“You seemed to be handling everything as well as could be expected, given that for once the element of surprise was not on our side,” he replied. “Besides, I was busy noticing other things.”
“What things?” I asked.
He held his hand out to me. “Come on,” he said leading me off the porch, “before Mr. Hennessey drinks himself into a stupor.”
“But what are we supposed to do now?” I asked.
“We tried it your way,” he replied. “Now we’re going to go back to Savannah and try it my way.”
“Your way usually involves a sword and a lot of fighting,” I pointed out.
“Very true, my dear, but I’m getting wiser in my old age,” he said smugly.
I narrowed my eyes at the self-satisfied smile on his face. “What are you planning?”
Michael slid his arm around my waist. “Why don’t you let me surprise you?”
CHAPTER 19
Mr. Barie from the Merchants and Planters Bank arrived at the Pulaski House bright and early at the un-godly hour of nine o’clock. As I was still in bed (where all vampires should be at nine in the morning), Michael escorted the banker to an adjacent room that Mr. Bennett had allowed him to use for the meeting. I briefly wondered what my husband was up to but, before I could dwell on it much further, sleep claimed me again. Perhaps an hour later I woke as the bed dipped and Michael gently shook my shoulder.
“Cin, I need you to wake up for a moment and sign this,” he said.
I rose up off my stomach and pushed my hair out of my face. I signed where I was told and then Michael snatched up the papers, kissed me on the forehead, and rushed off again. By the time he returned I was awake and waiting.
I was used to signing financial documents for him. Rarely did I understand what I was putting my name to, but I did understand account balances. Michael was a genius with money and he handled all the finances for our group. Over the years he’d taken the substantial inheritance I’d received from my father and built a fortune that even a frivolous woman would be unable to spend in many lifetimes. I trusted him implicitly with my money, but he was up to something and I wanted to know what it was.
“What did I sign?” I asked. “And what is going on, Michael?”
He tossed some papers on the bed and then swept me into his arms. “My beautiful wife, I have an early birthday present for you,” he said. “You are now the proud owner of Devil’s Island and Kenneway Plantation.”
My mouth fell open. “What are you talking about? How is that possible?”
“I told you, last night I was busy noticing other things. Like the discolored places on the walls and floors. Paintings and carpets that once graced that mansion have recently been sold.”
“And that led you to believe—”
“That Boucher is in need of funds and that it was possible he’d mortgaged Kenneway to a bank in Savannah,” Michael explained.
“But what about all that gold?” I asked.
“There’s supposed to be trunks of it buried on the island.”
Michael shrugged. “Maybe Boucher really did kill his wife when she refused to tell him where her father’s money was hidden.”
I shook my head. “No, she’s alive. I saw her at the top of the stairs last night. At least, I assume that was Evangeline. Who else would it be?”
“Then maybe Peyton’s gold is just a myth and there was never any to begin with. Or perhaps he spent it all building his plantation. All I know is that just before the war started Boucher mortgaged Kenneway to the hilt. And you, my dear, just bought the mortgage.”
I glanced at the papers on the bed. “Can I do that?”
“You can and you did,” he replied with a grin.
I smiled back. “What does that mean?”
“That means that we can go back out there tonight and call in the mortgage. If he can’t pay it, then you have the right to evict him.”
At that my jubilance floundered. “Yes, and getting him out of that house worked so well last night.”
“Ah, but now you own the house,” he said. “We can walk right in the front door.”
“That’s true, but he’s not going to leave willingly. And he has a witch of his own. It’s not that I doubt my abilities, it’s just that going toe to toe with someone steeped in the dark arts can get rather messy, and rarely ends well.”
“Then we’ll think of some way to do it safely. After all, we have the rest of the day to make our devious plans,” Michael said as he lifted me off my feet and spun me around, depositing me in front of the wardrobe.
I thought that perhaps he meant to have me right up against the doors but the sound of breaking glass forestalled any amorous intentions on either of our parts. As did the canvas curtains that swiftly went up in flames. Michael rushed forward, but I grabbed his arm.
“What exactly do you think you’re going to do?” I asked frantically.
After all, vampires and fire do not mix. I threw on my dressing gown and opened the door. There was a hotel porter walking down the hall to the stairs, just a few feet away.
Bound By Sin (A Cin Craven Novel) Page 7
