by Meg Hennessy
“We found each other. They weren’t captured.”
“And the ones in the Calaboose?”
“Got them, too.”
“And what of those young guards?” Colette asked, envisioning their inexperience against a man like Donato.
“They were no trouble.”
Colette hesitated and wrapped her hand around the large cross hanging over her habit, saying a silent prayer for the guards who had met their fate. A motion Donato seemed to catch.
He waited as his men started to board the other pirogues before addressing her.
“No need for prayers. They’re already in heaven, Colette. I told you I’d be heavily armed.” He pulled a bag of coins from his pocket and jiggled it so the coins made noise. “Amazing what a few Napoleons will buy.”
“You bribed them?”
He looked surprised at her conclusion. “What else would I have done in the middle of the city, in the middle of a prison that they’d like to put me in?”
A lighthearted chuckle escaped her lips. “I don’t know.”
“Pray if you like, but I suspect they’re at the grog shop.” For just a split second, his eyes met hers before he whispered in his thick Spanish accent for only her to hear. “Tal vez, I am not this bad man one thinks.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded, unable to form another word. The heat of his breath touched her cheek lightly before it was gone, more a mirage than real, a tease, nothing more. She fought to maintain her posture when all she wanted was to fall into him. “Perhaps.”
Once loaded, the pirogues were listing at least three to four inches below the water line. The encroaching water nearly paralyzed her. She thought to complain, but noted that the water around their ankles caused no concern for either Loul or Donato.
“You know how to go?” Donato asked, looking a little unsure of their traveling arrangements.
“I do.” Loul nodded, but gave Donato a suspicious glance. “Would you rather steal a ship in port?”
“I prefer not to be chased. There’s a gunboat in port.”
“Then we do it this way. No fear, these are my men.”
“I have no fear.” Donato winked at Loul. “The forty-plus aboard are my men.”
The pilots pushed off and they were slowly gliding down the bayou, each turning to follow the previous. Colette’s feet were cold from the water, and lines of green slime started to collect on the bottom of her robe.
Dark, dense green foliage lined the banks. They pushed beyond tussocks and cypress trees, and the night grew darker, colder, and more forbidding. The men were silent; the only noise was that of a small indiscernible wake as they passed over the still water.
Colette started to shiver. A cool winter breeze pushed against the pirogues. Relieved to still have on her habit, she pulled the wimple and veil in closer around her head and neck. Then a coat was draped over her shoulders. She half turned to see Donato standing next to her. She wanted to turn completely and sink into his warm arms, but she would not be welcome.
“Merci” was her only acknowledgement.
Donato whispered to Loul, who stood to the other side of her. “There is something ahead in the water.”
She inhaled, a deep, wet breath of air. “What is it?”
“A pirogue like us,” said the pilot over his shoulder. “But smugglers.”
“And how is that different?” Donato asked, the sarcasm heavy in his voice. “Will they let us pass?”
“I don’t know,” Loul answered.
“They are thieves.” A man from the back of the first pirogue spoke. He sounded American. Confused, having never heard an American around Donato, Colette glanced over at him, but he was focused on the immediate situation.
“Si, I believe. Tell them we are armed but wish to pass in peace,” Donato instructed.
“That will not work.” Again the American spoke up. Colette leaned back to see who the man was, but he wore a knit cap over his head that shadowed his eyes and a shawl bunched up around his shoulders.
“It is worth a try or I must destroy them,” Donato answered, without looking back.
The pilot did as instructed, but there was no answer from the pirogue as it disappeared into the shadows. Their poles continued to dip into the water as the pilot warned they were armed but only wanted to pass.
“Are they going away?” Donato asked.
“It is an ambush,” the American spoke.
The pilot nodded and whispered to Donato. “Be ready.”
“Draw arms,” Donato ordered in a hushed voice. It was passed quietly through the ranks of men. Flintlocks were pulled and at the ready.
“There.” Loul motioned toward the shore. “They lie in wait.”
Colette couldn’t stop the gasp that stole her breath and left her nearly faint. She’d been here before. On the water, attacked, and only God knows what had happened after that because she couldn’t remember! She tried to tuck her memories to the back of her mind, but they were tenacious and clung to her conscious brain, and though they weren’t at sea, the back bayous of Louisiana were just as lawless.
Slowly they floated forward, toward the waiting trap.
“Colette,” Donato whispered in her ear. “Come here.”
Colette stepped closer to him. He pushed her behind him, shielding her body with his. As they approached the trap, Donato motioned for his men to get down. She crouched next to him, kneeling in the water but hanging on to his powerful shoulders with her hands. Her breathing rasped in and out of her lungs with the feel of the same grit and dirt that covered the pirogues.
One shot was fired from the shore, sending off a puff of light before the sound could be heard. Loul shifted position, coming to his knees next to Colette.
“Loul?” He fell against her shoulder. “Loul?”
“A warning shot,” the pilot whispered.
Donato glanced toward Loul.
“Warning shot, diantre.” He raised his pistol. “¡Fuego!”
A shower of balls hit the shoreline. Two men fell through the grass and hit the water, the bayou scum rippling around their bodies. The pirogues rocked in the water. Movement started behind the shore trees, followed by the parting of tall marsh grass before all fell silent.
“My warning shot.” Donato nodded to the pilot’s surprised expression to see such a massive response. “Loul, are you wounded?”
Colette pivoted on her knees toward her bother. “Loul? We got through, Loul.”
He didn’t move.
“Loul?
Loul tried to stand but clutched his side as blood seeped through his fingers. He swayed with the rocking planked raft.
“Loul!” Colette shouted seconds before he fell into the black water.
Chapter Five
Within seconds, Donato was in the water, pushing Loul onto the pirogue. Loul’s eyes were closed, and he flinched in pain with every movement, but he remained insistent that it was only he who could lead them through the swamp, and they had to bandage him quickly and get him to his feet.
“Do you have a knife?” Colette asked Donato, lifting a portion of her scapular to be cut for a dressing.
“To be this terrifying pirate, I must have a knife.”
She had never referred to him in such terms, and it bothered her that he’d think she believed that, but for now she held her tongue and focused on the issue at hand. Donato cut a large square from the scapular of the sister’s habit. Colette threw up a quick prayer, entrusting God to understand why she had stolen the habit and now why it would not be returned.
She folded the square over twice and pressed it against her brother’s wound, her heart nearly in a free fall. When her ministries had worked and the bleeding stopped, Donato helped Loul to his feet. She hated to see Loul push himself, but appreciated the gentle care Donato gave him. Only Donato was strong enough and caring enough to see her brother through.
The night had turned dark, and the swamp odors of waterlogged vegetation mingled with the cold. Colette trie
d to keep herself warm in spite of the icy feel of both air and water, even with Donato’s coat over her shoulders; her focus never left her brother.
Donato brought one of Loul’s arms around his shoulders and leaned his broken body against his. Colette could hear Loul’s weakened voice giving directions and the slow, quiet turns of the pirogue. Behind them followed three more pirogues more weighted than they, all working through the dark, silent waters like a huge snake in search of prey.
“I’ll try to take you to the ship,” Loul barely managed a whisper.
Donato shook his head. “For tonight, camarada, you take us to Yellow Sun. I would not take such a ship out on dark waters strange to me.”
Loul winced with pain, then whispered after a slight smile, “Jordan would.”
“Of course he would.” Donato responded drily, but Colette hadn’t missed the slight pull of his lips. He seemed to like Loul, and the idle conversation was for distraction. “It is my life’s dream to sail like Jordan.”
Now it was Loul who laughed, guarding his side from the pain, but Colette was not fooled by his brave mask. The wound was serious. Donato was doing all he could to keep Loul’s spirits up and his condition from worsening before reaching Yellow Sun.
Several hours later, they made the final turn. Colette suspected the ship was hidden where Le Vengeur had been moored, but in this darkness, every direction looked the same. Yet Loul knew the waters as easily as giving directions in New Orleans with named streets and lighted lamps, and the pilot followed his instructions to the letter.
Finally, the large hipped roof of Yellow Sun became visible. Though a commanding white mansion in the light of day, it appeared, dark, large, looming, nearly lifeless. The lightless air, the suffocating night, and the silence of the back bayou waters dulled the approaching outline of the great house. The men rode in silence, including the intriguing American, as they glided toward Jordan’s docks.
Loul was barely conscious. The last hour or so, Donato had held him against his own body so he wouldn’t have to lie in the water, but his color had paled and his breathing had become almost indiscernible.
Slowly the pirogue glided into the wharf, bumping lightly against the wooden deck. The last time Colette had arrived at Yellow Sun like this had been after her rescue. Oddly enough, the man she had been rescued from was with her, and she didn’t want to imagine what this trip would have been like without him.
One of Donato’s men hopped out onto the pier and reached back to offer her a hand. She accepted and stepped clear of the pirogue. Donato was next. With gentle hands, he shifted Loul in his arms. Once on shore himself, Donato started toward the house.
Colette kept pace ahead of them, but hesitated nearing the door. Jordan had always kept a key hidden outside somewhere, but with all that had happened, she could not recollect where. Donato came up behind her.
“I told you before.” He walked past her and kicked in the door. “I don’t need a key.”
Colette followed through the broken door, across the lower loggia, and up the stairs to the butler pantry. Before she could get ahead of him, Donato kicked in the second door and entered. There he waited until Colette caught up.
“Where do you want him?”
Loul was unconscious.
“He usually sleeps in the garçonnières.”
Donato shook his head. “Not going there. Where’s Jordan’s room? The ball is still inside him.”
“No, lay him on the table.” Colette cleared the table off, making room. “We take the ball out first.”
Donato did as she asked, then waited for instruction. She swallowed hard, hoping she could do this. With all of her hospital experience, she had seen many pistol wounds, but with the large group of men that now surrounded her, she had an audience. The men filled the lower loggia, and some had taken the stairs to the kitchen.
“I’ll need fresh water from the well.”
She heard someone yell that they’d get it.
“All right, I’ll need some bandages. Donato, in the dining room, find a tablecloth and cut it into squares with a few long strips to tie it off.”
She searched the garde-manger for anything to be used as a surgical tool, finding a sharp knife, forceps, and a small spoon. Her hands trembled slightly when she picked up the knife.
Donato had returned to stand beside her. Seeing her shaking, he reached over and covered her hand with his, the heat of which soothed her nerves. He leaned toward her and whispered, “You can do this, senora. You can save your brother’s life.”
Loul was lucky. Colette didn’t have to do a lot of exploring to find the ball, and its removal was done. She bellied the wound with a flaxseed poultice, reinforced it with cloth bandages, and secured the dressing with the strips Donato had cut from the tablecloth.
Loul never woke up as Donato and another man he called Silvano carried him to Jordan’s old room. After placing Loul gently on the bed, Silvano turned to leave, allowing a short bow to Donato.
“Silvano, see to whatever the men need. They can sleep anywhere they find in the house.” Donato shifted his attention back to Colette. “Acceptable?”
“Oui,” she whispered, knowing they needed these men to sail after Enio. But with Loul unconscious, she felt adrift, lost, aching for a sense of teamwork.
With the other man gone and Loul sound asleep, Colette stood alone, facing Donato.
“Merci,” she started. “For the care you gave my brother.”
“No las merezco.” He responded that she was welcome. “I need your brother.”
“I need you.” She said it without thinking. It flew out of her mouth without any censorship, without filtering it against the world she had escaped or the world in which she now lived. She corrected. “To—to find Enio.”
“Does your brother have any whiskey?” Donato either purposely ignored the remark or hadn’t heard. Her color must have flushed, considering the heat that seared her cheeks. Either way, she was relieved to move on.
“Oui, in the adjoining parlor.” She led the way into the parlor that was situated between Jordan’s and Aurélie’s rooms. She shivered when she saw the cold, empty fireplace. How nice a fire would feel right now. “There are several decanters on the wine table.”
Donato followed behind her. The room was not that big and for some reason felt incredibly small and…intimate. She faced him, running a tongue over her lips, garnering courage to be alone with him but drained of all strength.
He poured himself a drink of whiskey and downed it in one gulp. She had never known Donato to drink whiskey. It was usually wine they had enjoyed together, but tonight, he did so with purpose.
“What do you think Enio is doing now? Without me—”
“It is late, Colette. He is asleep.”
“He must know his mother is not with him.”
“He does, but he is a good little boy—at least I assume, and will win the hearts of those who take care of him.”
“You believe he is not mistreated?”
“He is not.” He poured another glass of whiskey and handed it to her. “Te hará bien.”
She started to shake her head. “I do not drink whiskey.”
“Tonight, you drink.” He motioned for her to swallow it. “It will stop the shivers.”
She took the glass from his hand, her fingers gliding over his. She closed her eyes for a second, not wanting to remember the feeling of his hands on her, touching her, stroking her body. Memories that seeped through the facade she wore, despite the sister’s habit. But her dress of the sister’s reminded her of her charitable pledge, and the two could not coincide. The prosperity of Donato’s island negated any need for charity. Once, when the British had attacked his island, she had performed the duties of a nurse. Her memories coalesced into soothing images. Life with Donato had been beautiful. Why, after all she had endured, could she not embrace it?
Needing to pull her mind free of him, she threw back the drink in the same way he had. The liquor burned he
r throat and went clear down to her belly. She hadn’t realized how cold she was until the whiskey washed the chill away. She put the empty glass down, facing Donato.
Though his dress was nothing like his usual attire, he still looked the handsome rogue, gentlemen, and insatiable lover. His raven hair, longer than usual, hung around his face in messy waves. He had a broad face, with wide-set eyes framed in dark lashes and brows. His nose had a downward bend from the high cheekbones of his face. A light beard shadowed his face. He looked hard-bitten, rugged, and weathered. In spite of his altered dress, he looked much like the Donato with whom she had spent nearly three years in seclusion.
He said nothing, perusing her in the same way she did him. What did he think? Was she the same woman? Probably not, because she wasn’t. Even she knew that.
“Donato, will we get Enio back?”
“Si.” He nodded. “I will.”
She dared approach him in this dimly lit room, where the sound of their breathing filled the air and they were too close for idle talk. She started to reach out to him, wanting to press her palms against his chest, wanting to feel the wall of power beneath her fingers—but she never engaged his body, held back by some invisible force. She desperately needed him, and that reality was not as displeasing to her as she would have thought.
But Donato was a man of mystery. What kind of woman was Rayna de la Roche, and why would she travel thousands of miles over the ocean waters to simply steal her brother’s son? Donato knew Enio would be well treated because he knew his sister. Colette was not so convinced, and she couldn’t stop the worries from turning her heart inside out.
“Will you tell me now?” She dared to place her hands square on his shoulders. “Who you are?”
“Not tonight, Colette.” He sounded tired. She let it go for now, knowing his answer was final. He opened the door on the other side of the parlor. “Whose room is this?”
“Aurélie’s.”
Donato motioned for her to enter the room. “You sleep in there tonight. I’ll stay in here for Loul.”
