by Jane Feather
Maspero’s was shut up, the doors barred, the windows shuttered, the peace of the day of rest lying over the establishment. So she continued down the street until she came to the house that Nicolas had casually pointed out to her soon after her first night in Rampart Street. Without allowing her misgivings to raise an obstructive head, she pulled the bellrope. Silas opened the door and surveyed her with his customary lack of expression.
“Now what?” he demanded unhelpfully.
“Is Monsieur Delacroix here, Silas? I must speak with him.” The tawny eyes implored him and he sighed.
“Monsieur’s busy, and he won’t want them what’s with him seeing you. You’d better go upstairs.” He pulled the door wider, and she slipped into the hall. Silas gave her no time to examine her surroundings, but hustled her upstairs and into a large bedchamber that she knew immediately belonged to Dominic. It carried the scent of him; the furnishings had his distinctive elegance, and there was none of the vulgar opulence of Rampart Street. “Just wait in here,” Silas said. “Would it be wise of me to lock the door?”
“Oh, Silas!” She flushed ruefully. “I will not go where I am not supposed to.”
“Not supposed to be here in the first place,” he reminded her with a grim little smile before closing the door on her.
Dominic tapped his fingers on the rosewood table in the high-ceilinged, paneled dining room and looked around at the circle of expectant faces. “It is an appealing idea, gentlemen, I grant you. But an expensive and complicated plan to implement.”
“There will be no shortage of funds, Delacroix,” an elegant, ascetic man said. “And the implementation of complicated and daring plans is surely to what you devote your time and not inconsiderable intelligence, anyway.”
Dominic smiled, his eyes narrowed as he refilled the glasses of his neighbors and pushed the decanter across the table. “And what will Napoleon do, once we have effected his escape from exile?”
“That will be for him to decide,” another man said. “Of course, we should be overjoyed to welcome him here, should he wish it. But he may have other plans.”
“Highly likely,” Dominic murmured. “I cannot, somehow, see the emperor without an empire. It is said that he has created his own kingdom on Elba.”
“If you succeed in this venture, Delacroix, we assume you would be willing to offer the emperor whatever further services he requires?”
“Should he decide to go to war again?” The fly-away eyebrows lifted on the question. “I would have to be convinced he would have some chance of success, gentlemen, before I committed my neck.”
“Of course,” the ascetic man said, not troubling to hide his scorn. “We are all aware that you are a mercenary, Delacroix, not motivated by principle or ideals.”
“I am glad you are aware of that,” the privateer said gently. “A little more wine?”
This reminder of the host-guest relationship was sufficient to bring an end to barbed comments, and Silas, coming soft-footed into the dining room, heard only an exchange of pleasantries.
“What is it?” Dominic looked over his shoulder at the sailor/servant, standing attentively behind him. Silas knew better than to disturb a business meeting without invitation so his master presumed that a matter of some urgency had arisen. When Silas requested a private word, he rose immediately, excused himself to his guests and accompanied the other into the hall. “Well?”
“Mademoiselle is here,” Silas said woodenly, staring into the distance.
“Is she all right?” For some reason, that seemed a more important question than the hows and the whys of this unlooked-for and inconvenient visitation.
“Seems a bit distressed, monsieur. I showed her into your chamber above stairs.”
Dominic nodded briefly. “Make sure she stays there. I will dispatch my guests as speedily as I may.” Returning to the dining room, he smiled serenely at the group around the table. “Gentlemen, I must ask you to excuse me. A matter of some urgency …” A graceful movement of one hand completed the sentence to the satisfaction of all concerned. They rose with the instant, courteous comprehension of the Creole gentleman, and bowed themselves from the house.
Dominic went upstairs with rather more haste than was his custom, and Genevieve, apprehension clear on her face, swung around from her contemplation of the courtyard as he came into the room.
“Please do not be cross, Dominic. I do not think I could bear to be shouted at again today.”
“I am not cross,” he said. “And when have I ever shouted at you?”
She smiled a little shakily. “Never. When you are angry, you become very still and quiet, which is actually even worse.”
“What has happened, sprite?” He took her hands in a warm clasp and chafed her fingers. “You’re freezing, Genevieve!”
“It is a little chilly outside and I forgot my gloves,” she explained.
“Have you had luncheon?” Dominic decided that the tale could wait for awhile, at least until she looked a little less fragile and wan. “Let us go downstairs to the library, and Silas will bring you some soup.” He eased her out of the room and into a cheerful, book-lined salon at the back of the house where a fire crackled cheerfully, and Genevieve began to relax. The world of Victor Latour seemed a long way away from the warmth and security of the privateer’s very private domain. Silas brought her a bowl of seafood gumbo and, to her amazement, she consumed every last drop while Dominic sat on a scroll-ended couch, sipping wine and watching her, that tiny enigmatic smile lurking in the turquoise depths of his eyes.
“Better now?” he asked when she put the spoon down with a sigh of repletion.
“Much. How did you know I was so hungry?” Genevieve responded with a self-conscious little laugh. “I did not realize it, myself.”
“The master of a ship makes it his business to know all sorts of things about those who sail with him,” he said with a smile. “Now, you may tell me what has happened to distress you.”
“Papa is going to try his damnedest to make me marry Nicolas,” she said plainly.
Dominic stood up abruptly, turning his back on her as he walked to the long french door opening onto the courtyard. He stood staring outside onto the winter-bare square for long minutes, until he was sure he had himself well in hand again, and that strange, cold sensation in his chest had dissipated. Then he drawled, “Not a choice I would have made for you.”
“What do you mean?” The silence had puzzled her, just as did the very clear tension between his shoulder blades. However, he suddenly shrugged his shoulders as if shaking free the tension and turned back to her, his expression quite calm, although the azure gaze was hooded and unreadable.
“Nicolas is not strong enough for you, my dear Genevieve,” he said carelessly. “You will ride roughshod over him.”
“But I am not going to marry him,” she said tensely. “You sound as if it is a foregone conclusion, like Nicolas and Papa, and I am sure Hélène and Elise and Lorenzo will also.”
“Nicolas wishes this?”
Genevieve explained Victor’s plan and her cousin’s situation, leaving nothing out while the privateer resumed his seat on the couch and listened in attentive silence. “And Nicolas says that we will leave each other alone, that I may do as I please within the limits of discretion, that we will be independent of Papa and it is all perfectly possible, maybe even desirable,” she finished on a despairing wail. “I will not agree to it, Dominic.”
“Come over here.” He beckoned to her, and when she obeyed, drew her down onto his knee. “I want you to listen to me, and trust that I know what I am talking about,” he said quietly, smoothing her hair as she rested her head against his chest. “Nicolas, for once, seems to have spoken a great deal of sense … No, be still and hear me out,” he told her when she began to protest. “At some point, sooner rather than later, sprite, you are going to have to embrace your destiny—the life of a Creole lady.”
“I cannot,” she said.
“No,
what you mean is that you will not,” Dominic corrected her ruthlessly. “You are eighteen years old, Genevieve, with your whole life ahead of you. Marrying Nicolas will not be the end of the world; indeed, it will ensure you a great deal more freedom than I can imagine your having in any other relationship.”
“How can you talk in that manner?” cried Genevieve, pushing against his chest as she struggled to free herself from his hold.
“I am merely being sensible and farsighted,” Dominic stated, tightening his buckskin-clad thighs beneath her wriggling bottom and holding her firmly against him. “You will be free of your father’s jurisdiction if you do this, and you will have exchanged it for no more than the nominal authority of your husband. You will be financially independent, and if you choose to take no part in the society that you say you dislike so much, there will be no one to censure you. And if you do choose to take part in some of the games that are played …” A cynical note crept into his voice. “Then you may do so with discretion and a clear conscience, knowing that Nicolas will not suffer.”
“No, because he will be playing them himself,” she snapped. “I do not care for this pragmatic viewpoint, I cannot fit into that pattern that you have described with such eloquence. Maybe, I could have done once, but not now, not after the experiences I have had.”
“Do I detect a note of recrimination?” inquired Dominic drily. “Is it, perhaps, my responsibility that you are no longer fit to live in the world to which you were born? Forgive me, but I was under the impression that you made your own choices, took responsibility for yourself.”
“And so I do!” Taking advantage of his loosened hold, she sprang from his knee. “And for that reason, I do not need your advice. I would prefer never to be married than on the cold, instrumental terms that you and Nicolas describe.”
“Oh, do not be such a romantic little fool,” the privateer said impatiently. “You do not want to look for love in marriage; you will find that elsewhere—love and passion untrammeled by the practical business of living. You know Nicolas, you know his faults, just as he knows yours. There is no reason why you should not deal together in perfect amity, partners in a business that brings you both profit.”
“I would die rather than spend two weeks of a so-called honeymoon locked in a bedchamber with my cousin, Nicolas,” she declared, articulating every unpalatable word. “I do not imagine Nicolas will be prepared to forego his conjugal rights simply because this is a marriage of convenience. And besides, Papa must be provided with the grandchild. That is part of the bargain, is it not?”
Dominic winced. For some reason, the thought of his passionate sprite in the arms of Nicolas St. Denis was utterly repellent, but he was not going to allow it to weaken his case. “Your cousin is young, virile and experienced,” he said with brutal candor. “As are you. I do not think Nicolas will challenge your experience when he discovers that he has no shrinking maiden in his nuptial bed. Another man in different circumstances might well do so, and you might find it difficult to control your natural ardor and to conceal your skills until such time as it would be appropriate to reveal them.”
Genevieve stared at him. “You talk as if you have been thinking about this for some time.”
“So I have.” He walked to the sofa table and refilled his wineglass. “Such a potential problem had not occurred to you, I imagine, my impulsive sprite.”
“No,” she said in a small voice. “But then I had … have … no intention of marrying in the foreseeable future, so why should I have thought of it?”
Dominic sighed. “What had you intended doing, then, Genevieve? You are not designed to be an old maid, I can tell you that. We have already agreed that the nunnery is out of the question. You may have as many loving adventures as you wish, if you can find yourself a complacent husband, but not while you remain under your father’s roof.”
“But I do not think I would want a complacent husband,” she said slowly. “Would you be a complacent husband if Rosemarie was still alive?”
Dominic’s face darkened ominously. “That is beside the point. We are not talking about me.”
“But would you?” she persisted, stubbornly ignoring the warning signs.
“No, dammit, I would not!” he exploded softly. “But then I am not going to be anyone’s husband, so it is an irrelevancy.”
A smart knock on the door heralded the immediate entrance of Silas. The usually impassive features were alive, the brown eyes glowing with excitement. “Monsieur, I am sorry to disturb you, but the British have been sighted on Lake Borgne.”
“What?” Dominic blinked. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, monsieur. A messenger from the mayor brought the news.”
“But I thought General Jackson expected them to come up the Mississippi,” Genevieve said, forgetting her own problems for the moment.
“So he did.” Dominic gave a short laugh. “A devious piece of outsmarting, there. The city is quite unprepared to defend itself.” He put his glass on the table with a decisive click. “We sail with the evening tide, Silas. Pass the word to the others at the quay. The rest of the fleet is already in the safe anchorage so well meet up with them when we reach the lake.”
“What are you going to do?” Genevieve asked eagerly.
“Cut them off, hopefully,” came the reply. “If they’re planning on coming down river, we should be able to offer some resistance, while Jackson gets his defenses together ashore … No, you may not!” he thundered suddenly, anticipating the question that hovered on the parted lips, shone in the bright tiger’s eyes.
“Please,” she begged. “I promise I won’t be in the way. I’ll stay below.”
“I said no! And if you’re thinking of arguing with me, I should think again, fast!”
This was one occasion when Genevieve could see no alternative to accepting defeat. It was quite impractical, anyway, since she could not possibly manufacture on the spur of the moment a reason for her absence. Had Dominic agreed, of course, she would have gone nevertheless, and worried about the consequences later. But since he was quite clearly not going to change his mind, and attempting to persuade him to do so could be somewhat hazardous, she shrugged in acceptance. “I had best go home then.”
Dominic hesitated, torn between the need to get himself organized without delay and the reluctance to leave her in this state of unresolved distress. “If you will only think about what I have said, sprite, you will see that I am right.” He brushed a lock of silvery hair from her forehead. “You have a good head on your shoulders once you decide to use it, and I can promise you that it is an infinitely more reliable guide to happiness than one’s heart.”
“Yes,” she said dully. “I expect you are right. You are much more experienced in the ways of the world than I, after all.”
Could he detect a faint note of irony in the statement? Dominic frowned and decided to ignore it. “Yes, I am,” he concurred without equivocation. “We will talk some more, when I return.”
“If you return,” Genevieve said, walking past him to the door.
“I have every intention of doing so! Now, come back here and kiss me good-bye.”
She turned with a reluctant smile, lifting her face for his kiss. But he could feel her holding back restraining that natural, uninhibited passion that he found as entrancing as it was arousing. Deliberately, he set about eroding the defenses, his tongue alternately dancing and plundering in the sweet cavern of her mouth, the heel of his palm lifting a nipple to press against the bodice of her gown, his other hand kneading her buttocks until she sank against him with a little, defeated whimper that changed to an urgent moan as his tongue moved to her ear, stroking delicately then plunging rapaciously, and she squirmed against him in a frenzy of delicious torment.
“I should not have done that,” he murmured, raising his head slowly to look down at her kiss-reddened lips, the tawny eyes heavy with desire, knowing that the matching desire was clearly revealed in his own eyes. “It is never wise to b
egin something that one will not be able to complete.”
She moved out of his arms, smoothing down her skirt, adjusting the folds of the shawl. “It is the time for making war, Monsieur Delacroix, not love,” she said. “Like the rest of my sex, I will be here, waiting patiently when you return.”
“You are not at all like the rest of your sex.” Dominic sighed, seeing her face close against him.
“But isn’t that what you would have me be?” she demanded. “I was under the impression that that was what you have been trying to explain all afternoon.”
“I do not wish to quarrel with you, Genevieve. Go now, before one of us says something that we will both regret.”
At the door, she turned back to him, biting her bottom lip. “Come back, safely.”
“By hook or by crook,” he promised. “We have some unfinished business, after all.”
“Yes, so we do.” She touched her fingertips to her lips and left.
The streets were in a ferment as Genevieve hurried back home. The bells of St. Louis peeled incessantly, and men were running to the square, muskets, pistols, and swords in their hands. Women were gathering on street corners, whispering, their eyes fearful as they looked at their hurrying menfolk rushing to answer General Jackson’s call to arms.
Genevieve reached her bedchamber unseen and threw off her disguise, dressing rapidly before running downstairs.
She could hear Elise’s voice raised in a whine of protesting fear from the salle de compagnie, and Lorenzo’s deep tones, as pompous as ever, drowning out the lighter accents. Victor’s voice chimed in with irascible decision, silencing his son-in-law as Genevieve slipped into the room.
“Oh, there you are, chère,” Hélène fluttered, her normally pale countenance deathly white. “It is so dreadful. The British are on Lake Borgne and will attack the city at any moment.”
Genevieve was about to say that she knew, then remembered that she was supposed to have spent the afternoon behind a locked door upstairs. “Is that why the bells are ringing?”
