Winds of the Storm

by Beverly Jenkins

  Without a word, he untied her drawers, eased them from her shaking legs, then picked her up. Crossing the room with long, sure strides, he carried her out of the dining room and down the hall to his bedroom.

  Chapter 7

  Archer gently placed her on the bed, then freed the buttons on his shirt. The moonlight streaming through the windows illuminated her so seductively that he was forced to close his eyes and take in a deep breath to forestall coming right there and then. Her dark-nippled breasts, bared by the disheveled gown and corset, coupled with his thoughts of the damp gate waiting beneath all that silk aroused him to such a fevered pitch that he wanted to fall on her like an untried youth, but he held. His skills in pleasuring a woman were legendary, and he planned to treat her to that expertise until neither of them could draw breath. She’d undoubtedly been with innumerable men innumerable times. The only way for Archer to be remembered above all others was to give her as much pleasure as one night could hold. With that in mind, he tossed his shirt aside. Wearing only his trousers, he joined her on his big four-poster bed.

  As the mattress gave beneath his weight, she welcomed him by cupping his cheek. Kneeling next to her, he turned her hand to his lips, placed a soft kiss in the center, then guided her hand to the root of his pleasure. He felt her hesitate for a moment, as if she’d never offered such a caress before, and it increased his fervor. He loved playing games in bed, and if she wanted to act the role of a woman with little experience, the pleasure would be all his. “Grasp me, chérie,” he instructed in a passion-gruff voice. “Feel what touching you has done….”

  Rather than let him know she’d never done this before, Zahra took hold of a man for the first time in her life and felt the hard promise burn her palm through the soft wool. She almost pulled away, but she held as he whispered, “You play the innocent well, Domino. Shall I teach you love?”

  She realized he thought her reticence an act. Her inexperience would not be questioned, which gave her a modicum of relief, so embracing her role, she responded with a truthful, “Yes, monsieur. Teach me all….”

  In response to the black velvet voice, Archer’s manhood increased, and he placed his hand gently atop hers. “Like this…” he husked out and slowly began to guide her in the way he wished.

  Blood pounding, he threw back his head to savor the way her hand was now moving with passionate confidence. Every cell in his body wanted to climax, but he forced himself away. “You learn quickly, ma chérie,” he told her, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. Needing to touch her again, he made her nipples rise to his fingers’ sweet command, then dropped his head to taste them.

  Still wearing her mask, Zahra braced herself with her arms and leaned back. She didn’t know where to settle her mind. Should it be on the hot mouth making her nipples plead, or the hand moving sensually up and down her leg beneath her gown? Each was filled with its own vivid sensations and she was in no frame of mind to choose, so she gave up and just soared.

  Then his big hands were sliding the gown up her legs, exposing them to his hot eyes, the silence, and the moonlight. He teased a finger over the small red rose centering the garter holding up her stockings, then over the trembling bare skin above. Worshipping caresses moved over her limbs, then up the insides of her thighs; mapping, exploring, tempting. When his fingers found her this time, she groaned, and her legs parted shamelessly.

  For Archer there was something wickedly decadent about pleasuring a woman in a gown. The feel and the sight of her nakedness against the yards of rucked-up silk made him even harder. Bending, he placed a kiss against the warm brown flesh of her inner thigh, and when she jumped as if surprised, he smiled. With a finger he slowly teased the passion-wet core, then asked her softly, “Have you never had a man pay you tribute, ma chérie?”

  His hands were moving so marvelously and erotically over her that Zahra, who had no idea what he was asking her, found it hard to respond, but finally she whispered, “No.”

  “Good…” he said, making her hips respond to the soft circles he was drawing.

  When his tongue tasted her, she threw her head back, having never received this before, and it was glorious to behold. As he boldly parted her, then teased and lingered, her core pulsed hotly. His kisses were so scandalous, his fingers so carnal, that it didn’t take long for her body to break under the passionate conquering, and her shuddering cries of la petite mort pierced the silence.

  Only then did Archer remove the rest of his clothing. Watching her and touching her as she lay there savoring the fading throes of her orgasm aroused him so much that he knew if he didn’t have her now, he’d spill his seed like an adolescent. Tracing her parted mouth, he bent to reacquaint himself with her kiss-dampened nipples, then pulled her atop him.

  Zahra gasped as he slowly filled her. He was big. His earlier preparations had let her accept him without pain, but it was the heat he set off inside that made her groan with pleasure. He reached up to the ties of her mask, and she quickly stayed his hands with hers. “No,” she whispered.

  For a long moment they stared at each other in the moonlight, then he said finally, softly, “Okay, my mysterious chérie. I will let you keep your secrets…for now.”

  Running a palm over her bared breasts, he eased her forward so he could make sure her nipples were as hard as he, then he lowered his hands to her hips. He began to tease her with a soft, enticing rhythm that tempted her body to join in. No, Zahra had never made love this way, but an age-old awareness of how to respond awakened within, claiming her, fueling her. She rose and fell to the impaling bliss and let him guide her as he would. Soon, they were in the winds of the storm, his rhythm hard, faster. Then they were straining for all they were worth and Zahra answered with a hard and fast rhythm all her own. Her scream of completion filled the moonlit room and was followed by his own shouts of glory. Needing to brand the moment in his mind and hers too, he guided her hips in a frenetic pace and thrusted until she screamed again.

  In the silent aftermath, the still impaled Zahra lay bonelessly on his chest with his arms wrapped around her. She could hear his heart pounding beneath her ear and feel his manhood throbbing dully inside her. Instinctively, her inner muscles answered with a series of soft contractions that made him place his hands low on her bare hips so he could give her a few more growling thrusts, then he went still. Never wanting to move ever again, Zahra lay there, sated, tired, and amazed by the wildness of her pleasure. Raising her head, she looked down into his face and saw that he was smiling. She asked, “Am I to assume you are pleased?”

  “Oh, yes,” he responded, slowly tracing her mouth, “but the more important question is, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because you are made for pleasure.”

  Somewhere in the dark interior of his house, a clock chimed the time. “I must go,” she said. The sadness she felt surprised her, but then again, maybe it didn’t. This night would undoubtedly haunt her for the rest of her days, and truthfully, she didn’t want it to end. But being with him left her vulnerable. Under the mesmerizing spell of his lovemaking, she could easily imagine herself allowing him to remove her mask. She couldn’t chance it or the ramifications it might bring.

  “The night is still young,” he said to her. The large, warm hand circling her hips was a tempting one.

  “Stay…” he invited with an ardent whisper. “We both want more.”

  And in reality, Zahra did.

  He was beginning again; feasting on her nipples, squeezing her behind, touching her heat where their bodies were joined while his manhood slowly awakened and filled her yet again. As it rose, she savored the solidness of his strength. All thoughts of leaving were set aside so that she could rise and fall to his enchanting strokes.

  Her education was thorough, seductive, and so filled with pleasure that Zahra lost all sense of time and place. When he whispered for her to open her legs, she did. When he invited her to turn around and then filled her from behind, she came again wit
h his hands clutching her breasts. Zahra never knew a woman could be given so much pleasure and live. Each time he touched her she caught fire, and when they had finally had enough, Zahra let him drive her home.

  As she entered the quiet house and climbed the stairs, she passed Adam and Eve. The bliss on Eve’s face was no longer a mystery. Zahra knew. And because she did, she could never let Archer Le Veq make love to her again.

  The next morning, as Archer drove across town to visit with Speaker of the House George Carter, his thoughts were on Domino. To say that she’d been made for love was an understatement. Just thinking about the torrid night tightened his groin. Her playacting at innocent had lit a fire within him that still burned. Initially he’d thought one night would satisfy his desire for her, but he’d been wrong. The only thing making love to her had accomplished was to heighten his need for more. The need to discover her true identity had also become acute. None of the inquiries he’d sent out to friends and former war associates had come back with any information. As far as he could tell, the woman who called herself Domino had no past, but he hoped her future would be gracing his bed.

  When he arrived at Speaker Carter’s home, his knock was answered by Carter himself. Archer had never visited him at home before, but he saw that the place was well furnished, and the horsehair sofa Carter directed Archer to was comfortable.

  Once they were settled and had shared the latest political gossip, Archer said, “Tell me about your illness.”

  “The day Oscar died, I was frightfully ill, too. Prolonged stomach cramps, nausea. I feared I’d been dosed.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was at the National Republican newspaper office when the sickness came over me, so I decided to lie down on a sofa hoping it would pass.”

  The National Republican newspaper had been founded by Dunn and others allied with the Customhouse wing.

  “Did it?”

  “No. It worsened. I made my way home and went to bed. I was soon wracked by fever, vomiting, and then delirium.”

  Archer’s shock filled his face.

  “I was for the most part unconscious when Dr. Austen came to see me. I was so ill, everyone here was certain I was about to join Oscar, but Austen filled me with hot drinks, put steaming poultices on my belly, and mercifully, I began to recover.”

  “What was Austen’s determination?”

  “That I was simply ill. He even published a signed statement saying that although I’d been a very sick man, he didn’t believe I’d been poisoned.”

  “And you? What do you believe?”

  “I was poisoned, Archer, and I’ll swear by that until the day I do die.”

  At dinner that evening, Archer told his brothers and mother the rest of Carter’s story. “It seems others suffered from similar symptoms around that same time.”

  ”Like whom?” Juliana asked.

  “Supposedly Warmoth, but he visited Oscar three times the night before Oscar died, and he appeared fine then.”

  Drake added, “Warmoth was also a pallbearer at the funeral, so I think that rumor about him being poisoned too can be laid to rest.”

  Philippe asked, “If all of these men were actually poisoned, any idea who might be behind it?”

  “Besides Democrats, Knights of the White Camelia, and the White Leaguers, you can take your pick.”

  The Knights of the White Camelia had been terrorizing Louisiana’s Black citizens since 1868, and although Congress recently passed the Ku Klux Law forbidding the wearing of disguise with the intent of depriving persons of their rights, new groups like the White League continued to spread across the South, targeting Black office holders, prominent Black farmers, businessmen, and average citizens. Archer knew the only thing keeping supremacist violence from tearing Louisiana apart was the solid presence of the Union soldiers.

  Juliana said wistfully, “The times held such promise after the war. Who would have thought we’d have five men of color in Congress today, and yet…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head sadly. “Kluxers are breaking into our homes, burning down our schools, killing our teachers. I wonder what kind of country my grandchildren will grow up to see?”

  For a long moment silence reigned, then Drake said, “Speaking of grandchildren—have Raimond and Sable returned?”

  Juliana’s beautiful face brightened. “Yes. Earlier this evening. They’ll join us for dinner tomorrow.”

  Even though the brothers made it their business to aggravate Raimond, they’d missed their overbearing eldest sibling—but they couldn’t wait to tell him they’d missed his wife and children more.

  Zahra was wearing a drab gown and an equally drab cloak with the hood pulled up to mask her hair and face. Under the light of a sputtering streetlamp, she paid the cabbie his fare, then arranged for him to return in an hour. He drove off into the night, and Zahra crossed the road to the small house whose address matched the one in the note she’d received from Araminta.

  Alfred had wanted to accompany her on this rendezvous, but Zahra had nixed the idea. Because of his size and the notoriety of his employer, Alfred’s face had become quite well known in some quarters of the city. Zahra was not wearing her mask tonight, and she didn’t want his presence drawing attention to her.

  Her knock on the door was answered by a short, older woman wearing a flowered head wrap. “Yes?”

  “I’m here to speak with Mr. Adams.”

  “And you are?”

  “A friend.”

  The woman stepped back. “Please, come in.”

  The house’s interior was small and the furnishings worn and few. Zahra followed the woman through the house, then back outside into the night. Surprised but not alarmed yet, Zahra saw a small shack about a hundred meters to the left and deduced by the path the woman was taking that it would be their destination.

  “Go on in. He’s inside.”

  “Thank you.”

  The tiny place was lit by a stub of a candle that cast a wavering glow over a man seated on a stump. The candle was on a large rock near his feet. When she entered, he rose, and she saw that he was of medium height with a small build. “I’m Henry Adams.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Shall I call you Domino?”

  “That’s acceptable.”

  “Araminta has cast you as the spider in the web, I hear.”

  Zahra nodded. She liked his description. “And what role do you play?”

  “I bring food to the spider to pass along the web.”

  “I see. And what do you bring today?”

  “News from across the South and from Kansas.”

  For the next half hour, Zahra listened as Adams related troubling news. The hopes of Reconstruction were all but dead. From Mississippi to South Carolina to Texas and Tennessee, the race was under siege. To Zahra’s surprise, he talked of a group of veterans who, over the past year, had gone to every Southern state in the Union to assess the conditions the freedmen were facing.

  “How many of you are there?”

  “We started out with five hundred, but only one hundred and fifty do the actual traveling.”

  “And your people are all common folk?”

  He smiled. “Yes. No politicianers of any color. We figured if we told the Black Republicans, it wouldn’t be long before one of them told a White Republican and soon the White Leagues would be after us.”

  Zahra agreed with his assessment. An undertaking of such magnitude was not something to be bandied about over cognac and squab. The killing of Black leaders had come to be called bulldozing; had the identities of Adams’s men gotten out, they might very well have been the next victims in a long and bloody line. “What have you found?”

  “That the freedmen are being cheated out of their wages and crops, made to work sometimes for no wages at all, and that more and more of our people are being terrorized by day and by night. Tens of thousands have been killed, and the county courthouses are filled with Black widows coming to report
the murders of their men. We’ve also uncovered something even more unsettling. Death Books.”

  Zahra had never heard the term before. “What are they?”

  “Books holding the names of the men the Kluxers and the Leagues plan to bulldoze.”

  The hairs stood up on the back of Zahra’s neck. “How widespread is this?”

  “As widespread as the lynchings. I need you to get word to Araminta and her friends to be on their guard. My volunteers pose as drifters, laborers, small farmers, and we’ve never made ourselves known to anyone outside of our circle. We don’t plan to change, so we need a spider.”

  Zahra understood. That as many as five hundred Black men were acting as shadowy investigators right under the noses of both the government and the supremacist groups earned her admiration. The Death Books were troubling, however. Were there Death Books in New Orleans, and if so, whose names were listed? She’d start sending coded messages out to Araminta and the others as soon as she returned to the house. “Is there anything else you wish me to relay?”

  “Only that we have members in Kansas assessing conditions there. They are touring town sites, weighing housing possibilities, and discreetly buying land. The race may need to flee the South, and we must have a place to go.”

  “So you are considering Kansas.”

  “And Nebraska and Colorado. Even as far west as California. We must and will survive.”

  As she promised Henry Adams, Zahra sent coded messages by way of Wilma to all of the contacts on Araminta’s list. Zahra also sent some of her house’s staff back to their homes across the South to relay information to their local leaders firsthand about the dreaded Death Books. She and Alfred planned to find out if any existed in New Orleans or the surrounding parishes. Were she able to present one of the books to the president, it might go a long way in convincing him of the race’s plight and of the necessity of keeping the troops in Louisiana.