Gavin winced away from the greeting, his breath hissing through his teeth.
Kerr lifted his hand as if he had touched a hot stove. "Hell, but I'm a clumsy idiot. Forgive me."
The injury he had touched was more recent than the dueling slash he spoke of, also less explainable. Gavin let it pass. "The lost has been found, the straying gathered home. You had some reason for searching me out?"
"Rio seemed to think you were at loose ends. I wondered if you might like to change your mind about signing on with the Legion?"
"Hieing off to war while the bands play, old men cheer and women cry? That is, if the happy event ever comes to pass. It's a thought. But my bent doesn't yet turn in that direction."
"Should be a good fight."
Gavin gazed past Wallace's shoulder at the sky that was streaked with layers of rose and lavender and gold, and where a flock of pigeons wheeled in delirious pleasure with the lilac flush of the sunset under their wings. The bells from St. Louis Cathedral were tolling the Angelus, which had, no doubt, startled them into flight. The air was cool and as soft as a woman's caress against his face, as intoxicating as a night of love.
"Oh, certainly," he agreed with utmost politeness. "On foreign soil with overextended supply lines and against foes that know every rock and hot sand wallow and count scorpions among their relatives."
"It won't be that bad."
"No, it will be worse. I thought you pragmatic and dedicated to your own quest, my friend. You even said so, as I recall. Of what use is a uniform and marching orders to you?"
"A way to get to Mexico without fanfare? And without having to rake up ship's fare, either, truth be told. I've learned the man I want has been seen there."
"If you break ranks to find this elusive foe, and are captured, you'll face either Santa Ana's firing squad or else the hangman's rope reserved for deserters. You'll do better to take to the road disguised as a muleteer with a fat wife and two baskets full of little muleteers."
"A fine idea. Now if you'll only point me toward the wife market."
"You're too literal, my friend."
"And you're too obscure," Kerr said cheerfully. "I'd suggest you dressing up in a skirt and bonnet for the job, but fear the suggestion might get my throat cut for me."
"Nothing so plebian," Gavin replied. "It would be an exercise in precision, rapiers at dawn with all the usual witnesses, seconds and doctors, the exquisite preparation and requisite courtesies. Then I would cut your throat."
"I might let you do it, too, just to see such folderol. No. Really, Blackford, have you no yen for adventure, no urge to see the Rio Grande and the army you've been preparing men to fight for these many years?" He made a sweeping gesture with one long arm. "Is your life in the city so fascinating that you can't bear to leave it all behind for even six months?"
It was a point. "You believe it will be over in that time?"
"Washington assures us of it. So does Sam Houston, when he isn't doing his dead-level best to prevent hostilities guaranteed to deplete his treasury before Washington gets its purse out of its pocket. If it ever does."
"I'll consider it," Gavin said.
"Capital." Kerr lifted a hand as if he meant to slap his shoulder again. Then he remembered, for he spread his hands and shook his head. "I'll look forward to hearing from you."
They were still there on the balcony, in a cloud of blue smoke and brandy fumes, when Nathaniel found them. He shouldered out of the crowded salon, almost tripping on the balcony threshold. "Monsieur Gavin! I been looking everywhere for you. A message has come, brought by Solon."
Gavin felt his heart rate increase to a thunderous beat. He took the square of ivory paper, broke the wax seal and extracted the missive. Maurelle's elegant scrawl made little sense for a moment. Then he caught its style and the message leaped from the page.
"What is it?" Kerr asked, his features alert as he straightened from where he lounged against the railing. "What's happened?"
"It's Madame Faucher." Gavin's voice was grim and he began to move before the words left his mouth.
"Madame?" Nathaniel's voice slid upward on the scale with the query.
"She's gone."
Wallace caught up with him in two long strides, and Nathaniel was on the Kentuckian's heels. "What do you mean, gone?"
Gavin dodged a white-coated servant passing glasses of burgundy, stepped between twin dandies dressed with absolute sameness down to the monocles attached to their lapels. "Vanished. She hasn't been seen since she went out on an errand just after mid-day. Her bonnet was found on the rue de la Levee, just down from the steamboat office. Solon picked it up while searching for her, since he recognized the black ribbons she'd added a couple of days ago. Maurelle asks if by chance, or mischance, she is with me."
"I never!" Nathaniel said in outrage.
"Failing that, she fears she may have been abducted."
Wallace increased his pace. "I do see your urgency."
Gavin made no answer. It was not that he had no words, but that they were, every one of them, far too profane to utter and far too personal to be heard.
Twenty-Seven
Ariadne stepped from the office of the steamboat line with her head down as she pushed the ticket she had just purchased into the drawstring bag on her arm. Her features were set in lines as somber as the gray velvet walking costume trimmed in black braid that she wore. She had so much to do. The vessel would be leaving in less than four hours. The captain, having been delayed in his departure already by the constant rain, would not wait for her.
A man appeared in front of her just as she reached the banquette. She side-stepped instinctively, and would have passed around him if he had not touched her arm.
"Where are you going in such haste, ma chère? Dare I hope you plan to sail on the Leodes?"
"Why, Sasha," she said in surprise as she raised her eyes to his face where his mustache lifted with a pleased smile. "I thought you had gone."
"In the morning, without fail, since the rain seems to have cleared so the pilot can take the ship downriver without running her aground. And you, madame?"
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I will be taking the Natchitoches packet." She gave a small shake of her head. "My mother left the city, you know, carrying my stepsister and stepfather home for.. .for burial. I should have gone with them, but could not make up my mind to it until now."
"A sudden decision." The scar on his face took on a purplish hue as hope faded from his eyes.
"Slow, rather. It...seems to take considerable time for me to know my own mind." For an instant, she thought of Gavin as she had seen him last, inclining his golden head in farewell as he left her. A knot rose in her throat and she swallowed, taking a shallow, difficult breath against the pain of it.
"You are determined to remain in this benighted country."
"As you say. Paris is so far away. And I do have family here, after all."
A nun in a flowing habit and flying veil was coming toward them on the banquette. Sasha glanced up then took Ariadne's hand and placed it in the crook of his elbow as he moved with her out of the way. It seemed rude to disengage immediately. She allowed her fingers to remain in his grasp as he began to stroll down the street.
"You could have family in Paris as well," he observed in his rumbling bass. "You have only to become my wife."
"Please. Don't let's go over this again."
"You are a stubborn woman."
"Agreed. Once I do know what I want, I'm not easily diverted from my chosen path."
"And your path now leads to the Englishman." He leaned forward to see under the brim of her bonnet.
"How can you say so?"
"Can you deny there is something between you?"
"Oh, indeed there is, if you mean dislike, even hatred." She would not think of what else there had been—the hard strength of his body, the brush of skin again skin, the feel of him inside her. Yes, and most of all, the desolation in his eyes as he turned to leave her.
"The other side of the coin of love, so they say."
"They are optimistic if not downright foolish."
"Are they, my own?" he asked with ponderous dignity. "He is not your usual sword master, low of birth and devoid of manners. He might have made you a husband."
"Please," she said a little desperately. "We should be saying our good-byes since we have met so providentially and will be going our separate ways."
"We did that, as I remember." His grip tightened on her fingers where they lay on his sleeve, and he smiled down at her with sadness and something more in his eyes.
"But this time it's certain. My boat will leave before sunset. I must return to Maurelle's to pack my trunks and reach the dock."
"Will you not stop with me for a small moment, long enough to have a coffee and pastry at some table on the banquette?" He was staring ahead of them, frowning a little as if he sought such a place for their refreshment.
"I'm sorry, truly I am, but there is no time."
"It's such a small thing to ask. I will not keep you overlong."
He was leading her further along the rue de la Levee where began the barrel houses and other such unsavory places catering to the sailors, backcountry boatmen and longshoremen. It was not a particularly dangerous street as long as she had a male escort, but neither was it one she would have chosen as a route to Maurelle's town house. As they approached an intersection, she turned her footsteps automatically in the direction of the cross street that would take them back to a more respectable thoroughfare.
Sasha walked on, tugging her with him as if he had not noticed her preference. She stopped, setting her feet, putting pressure on his arm. "This way, if you please. I really must get back."
"It will be closer if we use the rue St. Louis." He glanced up the street once more, his attention on a hackney that negotiated the corner a few blocks away then rattled toward them at a terrific pace.
"It's the same either way, and I don't care for this area."
"Please, chère, only a few extra minutes of your time. We have so little left to us."
Something was wrong. If the oddness of his manner had not told her, the alarm that skittered along her nerves would have done so. Regardless, she wasn't sure enough of it to make a scene.
"Oh, very well. Shall we say a small coffee then, at the patisserie on Royale?"
"No, you were quite right, chère. I have a better idea."
He wasn't looking at her as he spoke, but watching the hackney that hurtled toward them. In a moment, it would be even with where they stood. She frowned as she saw Sasha lift his hand in a signal for the vehicle to stop for them. "Really, this isn't necessary for so short a distance."
"I insist," he said as the hackney driver hauled on the reins, slowing the horse between the shafts. "You did say you were pressed for time." Before the vehicle had fully halted, he urged her forward, reached to open the door.
Instinct made her hang back. "No, truly, these hackneys are usually dirty and smell vile. I prefer to walk."
He paid no attention as he looked up and down the banquette. It was empty except for a few street boys playing marbles. Abruptly he snatched her around the waist, hefting her against his hip as he hauled her closer to the hackney and jerked open the door. Bending, he thrust an arm under her knees, lifted her against his chest and threw her inside.
White-hot pain exploded in her temple as her head struck the door frame. Her bonnet cushioned the blow but was ripped off as its black ribbons gave way on one side. She plunged toward the floor, caught her elbow on the seat with a numbing blow, landed between the seats.
Before she could right herself, Sasha leaped inside, slammed the door shut and shouted to the driver. The man yelled and cracked his whip. The hackney started with a jerk and careened away down the street, its wheels grating on the muddy paving and the clatter of hooves echoing back on the buildings on either side.
Fury boiled up inside Ariadne. She dragged herself up in the swaying conveyance, trying to get her feet under her. Before she could find her balance, Sasha seized her hips and jerked her down on the seat beside him.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, straining against his hold. "Stop this hack and put me down at once!"
He laughed, a harsh sound in the back of his throat. "I don't believe so, chère. I begged and pleaded with you countless times but you did not listen. I followed you across the world and you do not see me. Now it will be as I say."
"Don't be a fool. You can't force me to accept your proposal." She pushed her elbow between them, shoving at his thick chest.
Snatching her closer again, he pinned her arm against him, his hot breath against her ear as he answered. "Can I not? You may be glad of it after a night or two spent together.''
"You are deluded if you think this will make me care for you."
"Care? My foolish one, I will have you whether you care or not. I have lost my country, my birthright, my family and my honor, but I will not lose you."
She was stunned, outraged, disbelieving, but she had not been afraid until that moment. This was Sasha who had escorted her to musicales and the opera and on drives along the boulevards of Paris. Sasha, whose proposals she had refused and pretensions she had depressed a dozen times over. Always before, he had bowed and accepted her refusals. Why not this time?
"You can't do this," she said, forcing the words through the tightness in her throat.
"Who is to stop me? You have no husband, no father, no brother to come after you. Your swordsman might have interfered had he stayed, but he left, or so I'm told. There is no one. You will be mine."
"Where," she began, then stopped, moistened her dry lips, began again. "Where are we going?"
A rough chuckle shook his chest even as he spread a large hand over her ribs, pushing upward until his splayed fingers captured her breast. "You dare to ask? Such courage, chère. It's what I've always admired in you. Among other things."
Dread expanded inside her like yeast set too near the fire. He was bigger, stronger, and flushed with the triumph of the moment. He had the advantage of his immovable hold gained by surprise. She did not think he meant to force himself upon her while they jostled back and forth in the hackney with its cracked leather seats and fetid smells of sweat, rancid hair oil and illness. It would be better if she saved her strength for the time when she might need it more.
Snatching a glance out the window, she saw they were rolling past the Place d'Armes, the rounded bell towers of the cathedral and the stalls of the market which lay just beyond. If they did not turn soon, they would leave the confines of the Vieux Carre to enter faubourg Marginy in the Third Municipality. But no, they were swinging onto the road that paralleled the river and its docks. It took only that to tell her where they must be headed.
His ship, he was taking her to the Leodes, bound for Marseilles. Oh, but surely the captain would not allow him to bring an unwilling woman on board? There were laws governing such things, after all.
Rumors abounded of women who disappeared never to be seen again, whispers of females sold into slavery in the desert countries beyond the Red Sea. If that was possible, then it must be managed in some fashion. She had no idea what kind of ship the Leodes might be, or how law-abiding its master.
This was infamous, unendurable. She stole a glance at the hackney's rusty door handle, wondering if she could reach it before she was stopped, calculating her chances of jumping out, leaping beyond reach of the fast-turning wheels.
"I wouldn't try it," Sasha said. "You will not like making the sea voyage ahead of us with broken bones."
"I quite see the difficulty," she answered, her voice a too accurate reflection of the chill inside her. "Release me, and I will undertake to sit quietly until we arrive."
"I have your word?"
She agreed, though it struck her as ironic that he would accept it in the midst of this abduction and after just admitting his own lack of honor. Still, she was grateful to be free of his grasp. R
ubbing her wrist where he had grabbed it, she sat staring out the window as respectable dwellings gave way to rough dives which in turn became mere shanties half-buried in swamp muck.
On the other side of the rutted track, the river could be seen running at yellow-brown flood stage after the long days of rain. Boats of all varieties—from flatboats and keel boats that depended only on river current to the fastest of steamboats—were tied up to rough wooden docks. Ocean-going vessels, both sailing ships and steam packets, ordinarily made their landings closer to the city center. The rain and high water had slowed loading and unloading so many of these were anchored in the river, waiting their turn at the dock or else standing by for the pilot necessary to make their way downriver to the gulf. If Sasha was to sail on one of these, it seemed clear they must be rowed out the short distance to the ship. At some point along this stretch, then, they should be meeting a dingy or longboat supplied by the Leodes.
At a furtive movement beside her, she glanced back to Sasha. He was taking a flask from his coat pocket and removing the top. That he should require a restorative was not greatly surprising. It was a hazardous venture, taking her as his captive, and she would not make it easy for him. It had occurred to her already that a ship's master who could be swayed by money from one person might just as easily be swayed toward another for higher payment.
Sasha was not drinking from the flask but studying it as if dubious of its use. His teeth were clamped together so the muscle in his jaw made a lump under the purple-red streak of his scar. Carefully, he laid aside the top he had removed before turning to her. As he shifted, the liquid inside gurgled and its sickly, familiar smell wafted to her.
Laudanum.
"If I were to ask you, most politely, to drink this, I don't suppose you would comply," he said, his gaze calculating yet mournful.
"Certainly not!"
"I didn't think so."
She guessed what he intended an instant before he reached for her. She whipped her head away, but he was too fast, too close, too big. His shoulders blocked her into the corner of the carriage and he thrust a heavy thigh across her knees to hold her down. The flask knocked against her lips as the hackney bounced into a pothole, bruising them as she struggled. She fought him, raking his neck with her nails, clawing at his hands. But he caught her forehead with his free hand, forcing her head back against the seat before shifting his big, sweating palm down over her eyes and nose, cutting off her air so she must breathe through her mouth. The lip of the flask struck her mouth again, grating against her teeth as he shoved it between them. The vile liquid, a strong tincture of laudanum in brandy, dribbled from the corners of her mouth, wetting her cloak. She choked, coughed, but was forced to swallow. When the flask was empty, he released her and sat back, breathing hard.
Guarded Heart Page 28
