Savage Surrender

by Natasha Peters

  "Bah! Nonsense! Of course he loves you. Do you think any man would battle Lafitte for a woman he didn't love?"

  I smiled and held Jean's hand tightly. "You are wonderful, Jean. But I don't want to burden you with my troubles. I'll go up now."

  "No, sit down," he insisted. "Here, have some of this excellent brandy that Lily managed not to spill. Dear God, what a racket she made! Like she had seen a ghost, which of course she had. Come, tell me everything that has happened, Elise. You need to talk to someone, and I am proud to be your confessor."

  I told him what had happened at La Rêve, and afterwards. Jean listened with a sorrowful expression on his face, and from time to time he made comments like, "How horrible! Ah, Elise, I would cut off my arm if it would help you," and "Garth McClelland is a fool, a blind fool to let you go."

  "We could never be happy together," I said. "Because of Georgette and what she did to me. Because of the way he has treated me. Because of all the things that have happened to me. Oh, Jean, I can't be sure of him. I can't trust him, you see that, don't you? Women are nothing to him. And he doesn't love me. He's never given me a word or a sign. He's the kind of man who has no room in his life for women. And I don't want to be his mistress. I don't want to live on leftovers—and uncertainty."

  "But he doesn't love his wife," Jean said. "He would belong to you, Elise, to you alone."

  "No, Jean. He belongs only to himself. I would rather take my bastard home to my family and live out my life in disgrace and scandal than have to beg for his love."

  Jean said sadly, "You are so proud, Elise. I'm sure if you told him about the child—"

  "I won't! Do you think I want to bind him to me with false ties?"

  "A child of love is hardly a false tie," Jean said.

  "But it isn't a child of love! It's a child of sorrow and anger and—and rape. Do you think I could hold him with a weapon like that? And I don't want my child to be a weapon, Jean. I would rather lose Garth forever than have him resent and pity me. And don't you dare tell him! Promise me, Jean. Promise you'll keep my secret."

  I began to weep. He put his arms around me and patted me soothingly. "Your secret is safe, Elise. You know that. Oh, he is a fool. A fool!"

  I was awakened late that night by someone entering my room through the balcony door.

  "What's that?" I whispered. "Who is it?"

  "Garth."

  "Oh." I sank back on my pillows. "We've played this scene before, as I recall."

  "With a difference," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I didn't have to climb tonight. I'm in the room next door."

  "Really?" I laughed softly. "Lafitte is probably trying to play Cupid. I should have told him he would be unsuccessful."

  "You two were very cozy tonight. He told me later—in a very nice way, of course, no slight intended—that I was a fool. What lies have you been spreading about me?"

  "No lies." I leaned up on my elbow. I couldn't see his face in the darkness, only the barest outline of his figure. But I could feel him, sense him. "I told him the truth. He formed his own opinions. I'm sorry he thinks you're a fool—he shouldn't have told you. But Jean is rather irrepressible, I'm afraid."

  "Do you agree with him?" He began to toy with a lock of hair that had fallen over my shoulder.

  "What if I did? Would you change?"

  "No. I have been foolish, but I'm no fool. What are you going to do in New Orleans?"

  "I'll stay at Jean's house on Dumaine Street until the war is over, I suppose. And then I shall take the first boat to France. Who knows, if the British win I may even take my friend General Ross up on the kind offer he made me in Washington." He rested a hand on my breast. I shrank away from him and pushed him back. "Why don't you go now, Garth. It's so late—"

  "I'm not going, Elise. I'll spend this last night with you, if you don't mind."

  "But I do mind! Please, Garth, you promised—"

  "Everything comes to an end, my dear. Voyages, love affairs, promises."

  A sinking, swirling sensation started in my middle and spread to every part of my body. He threw off my coverlets and slid out of his robe. He was naked. Covering me with his body he showered my face and neck with kisses. I managed to wriggle out from under him and I stumbled out of bed and ran across the floor. He came after me and grabbed me around the waist. I twisted around and went for his eyes with my fingernails. He grabbed my wrists and held them behind my back. I struggled and kicked.

  "You never learn, do you?" he said through his teeth.

  I cursed him feelingly. He ripped open my gauzy nightdress and sank his teeth into my nipple. I cried out in anguish as he forced me down on the floor. His lips seared my flesh, and even as I fought I could feel myself growing warm and languid under him.

  "Please let go of my wrists," I said breathlessly. "You're hurting me."

  "So you can claw my eyes out? No, thank you, Elise. I know the tricks a woman uses to defend herself."

  "Garth." I stopped struggling and lay still. I could feel the rapid pounding of his heart on mine. "Garth, please let me go." He waited a minute, then he freed my hands. I lightly stroked the hard muscles in his thighs, buttocks and back. He jerked convulsively and sucked in his breath. I traced the line of his jaw and his mouth. I memorized the contours of his nose, his cheeks, his forehead. I laced my fingers through his hair and pulled his face close to mine so that our lips were nearly touching. "Why do we always fight?" I asked him wistfully. "Why can't we be lovers instead of combatants this time? I want you—"

  He said, "What difference does it make? I intend to have you, woman, here and now, whether you like it or not."

  "It makes all the difference in the world to me," I murmured. "I want to remember this night forever. Please be kind to me, my darling."

  He held me tightly and growled, "Sometimes I swear I could kill you, Elise." He stroked my neck. "I could put one hand around this lovely white throat of yours and crush the life out of you."

  "Why? Am I in your blood, Garth?"

  "You know damned well you are," he said gruffly. We shared a slow, languorous kiss. He thrust his throbbing manhood into me. I gasped and choked back a terrified sob. He must have felt me stiffen. "Are you afraid?"

  "Would—it make any difference—to you if I were?" I asked hoarsely.

  He did not say anything for a long time. He lay still, sheltering me with his fine body, stroking the hair away from my face. Finally he answered. "Yes." His whisper was faint, almost inaudible. Then he said again in a stronger voice, "Yes, damn you, it would."

  I shook my head. "I'm not afraid—only—only that I won't be able to—"

  "Yes, you will." He began to move slowly in me, lulling and soothing me.

  "Is this your famous cure, Doctor?" I asked him slyly. "What if I don't respond?"

  "You'd better," he laughed, "if you don't want to be here all night."

  I lay back in his arms with a contented sigh and let the flames of his love flicker over me. We slept very sporadically that night, so great was our hunger for each other. Somehow he had banished the awful ache I had carried in me since the last time we had made love in the cane cutter's cottage at La Rêve. I closed my mind to the future. The present was all that mattered.

  Just before dawn he tightened his embrace and said, "You're not going back to France."

  "But Garth—"

  "I won't let you go. Don't argue with me, Elise."

  "But you don't—"

  A deep kiss drowned my protests. We held each other close and I heard him murmur, "I need you. God, how I need you."

  The future would take care of itself.

  Soon after dawn we were poling across Barataria Bay in skiffs. Jean and Pierre rode in the first skiff with a stalwart crew and a few of Jean's favorite possessions: his Rembrandt, some gorgeous silver goblets that had been destined to belong to William Claiborne and had somehow been sidetracked, and some simple brass candlesticks that had belonged to his family in Haiti. Garth and I f
ollowed in a skiff manned by Auguste and Jean-Paul and three other burly crewmen. Another skiff followed behind us, carrying the last of the precious cargo that Jean did not want to leave to the looting British.

  I was wearing a simple gray dress with a shawl over my shoulders to ward off the dampness. As he was helping me into the boat Garth said, "Your friend Lafitte is gloating like a cat this morning."

  "That makes two of you," I said. "You're looking fairly smug this morning yourself, Monsieur."

  "It's always nice to know that one need not be branded a fool for life if he has only been a fool part of the time."

  I looked over at Jean, who grinned triumphantly and gave me a Gallic nod of approval. He even rubbed his stomach and mouthed, "Did you tell him?"

  "What's he doing now?" Garth asked.

  "Perhaps he missed his breakfast," I said distractedly. I formed my mouth into a silent "no" that Jean could see. He shrugged and threw up his hands.

  The remnants of fog hung over the water in patches. Even though it was December the air was close and thick and the day promised to be warm and muggy. The only sounds we could hear were scattered birdsongs and the sucking of our poles in the mud that lay under the shallow water.

  Suddenly the quiet was shattered by the sound of rifle fire. I peered ahead to Jean's skiff, but it had become enshrouded in a thick patch of fog and I couldn't see him. Garth and the other men were tense and alert, their weapons in readiness.

  "For God's sake, somebody give me a gun," I hissed. One of the pirates slapped a knife into my outstretched palm and another gave me a loaded pistol.

  The shots came again, closer this time, and I could hear shouts and see flashes of red around us.

  "British scouting party," Garth said in a low voice. "They probably expected Lafitte to try something after their visit last night."

  They were everywhere. There seemed to be hundreds of them, coming at us from all directions. Our little skiff rocked and tipped as they brought their own boats alongside and tried to board us. Then I heard more shots and a rapid exchange of gunfire close at hand. Pirates. Reinforcements. Once again Lafitte had anticipated the enemy's movements and had been ready for them.

  The skirmish raged around us for some minutes. I could see Garth, his golden head shining, firing and reloading with quick and deadly efficiency.

  He looked over at me. "Get down, Elise," he shouted. "Do you want to get your damned head blown off?"

  I grinned at him. Dear Garth. Always so thoughtful and polite.

  While we were repulsing the attack our skiff had drifted until it struck a small hummock, one of the small lumps of ground that abounded in the bay. I looked up to see a fierce-looking redcoat bearing down on me. I plunged my knife into his belly and he fell into the brackish water. Then a dozen more British soldiers appeared out of the mist and came towards us.

  "Garth!" I shrieked.

  He saw them and leaped to my side. He fought them hand to hand. Then one of them struck him on the side of the head with the stock of a rifle. Garth slumped to the bottom of the skiff. The soldier was about to drive his bayonet into him when I raised my pistol to his head and fired. He fell back out of the skiff and hit the water with a splash. As I bent over Garth to examine his wound, I felt a strangling pressure around my throat. I pried at the fingers but couldn't loosen them. The world began to grow black. I could feel rough masculine hands dragging me out of the skiff, over the coarse grasses of the hummock. A burst of laughter. And overwhelming silence.

  I was drowning. I choked and sputtered. Then I coughed and tried to sit up. A strong wave of nausea forced me back down, and I lay with my eyes closed, trying to decide if I was alive or dead.

  "When she comes around bring her to my quarters."

  "Yessir."

  Someone was hitting me in the face. "Come on, lass, wake up now. You're not dead, you've just had a nice sleep."

  I pushed their hands away and opened my eyes. Strong arms lifted me to my feet.

  I was on a ship and the men who surrounded me were British sailors. They wore blue jackets and hard flat hats like soup plates. Their faces were ugly, grinning.

  "She's the little demon that knifed that sergeant back there in the swamp," one of them said. "She must be one of them Louisiana wildcats we heard about."

  "Come along, little lady," the largest of them said. "The Admiral wants to see you."

  I remembered the voice I had heard as I was waking up. "Admiral—Cochrane?"

  "The very same. Why, you know him?"

  I brushed my hair back and straightened my dress. "We have met," I said. "In older and happier times."

  They laughed at that. My escort clapped me on the back and said, "What a charmin' coincidence, isn't it, mates? Let's go, Ma'am. I'm sure you're just as eager to see him as he is to see you." More guffaws. We went up on deck. Over the starboard side I could see the hazy outline of Grand Terre.

  We were on board the Admiral's flagship, Royal Oak. General Ross had taken me aboard several times while the ship had lain at anchor in the Potomac River. The Admiral had given parties and balls on her for his officers and their wives. My escort, a bo'sun named Kirby, led me to the Admiral's cabin and tapped at the door. A voice bade us enter.

  Kirby saluted sharply and said, "Brought the prisoner as you requested, Admiral, sir."

  Forrester Cochrane looked up from the table where he was seated. His blue eyes were cold, and with his sharp features and shock of white hair he reminded me of a hawk, dangerous and predatory. For the first time I felt a stab of fear.

  "Well, Madame, this is a remarkable coincidence," he said. "When last we met you were the houseguest of General Ross, and now I find you here, in the company of brigands and thieves. Your friendships take in an astonishing array of men, but that doesn't surprise me. Women like you are not particular, I understand."

  I said stiffly, "Both Lafitte and General Ross were my friends. How is the General, if I may ask?"

  "General Ross died a hero's death at Baltimore."

  I felt ill. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said lamely.

  "So was I. But I am sorrier for you, Madame, because you thought you would have a friend in this camp and now you find you have none, only men who know you for what you really are. I am not sorry that Ross died before he learned that he had nurtured a traitoress to his bosom."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "I mean finding you here, in Louisiana, in the camp of a common thief."

  "I told you, Lafitte is an old and dear friend," I said, trying to match his coolness. "I see nothing remarkable in the fact that I choose to visit an old friend."

  "Perhaps not. But I know that Robert had in his possession copies of plans for the British invasion of New Orleans. I know that a few days after you disappeared suddenly and without warning, Robert remarked to me—with incredible naiveté—that he thought his papers had been disturbed. I know that Lafitte has been strangely unreceptive to our overtures—"

  "That is no fault of mine!"

  "So unreceptive, in fact, that one would almost think that he had knowledge of them in advance!" Cochrane said vehemently. "Did he, Madame? Did you warn 'your friend' that we might approach him? Did you warn the Governor of this state and his assistants that we would descend on them and wrest control of the city from their hands? I was suspicious of you from the very beginning, wench. I am not a stupid man. I saw how you were worming your way into the affections of a simple soldier, alienating him from his wife, from his duties!"

  "That's a lie!" I cried. "He was an old acquaintance! He knew my father!"

  "Ah, yes, your celebrated father, one of Napoleon's generals, wasn't he? I find that an unlikely tale, Madame. I suppose Wellington himself dandled you on his knee when you were an infant? I am calling you an artful liar and a spy. I find it not so incredible that General Ross might have befriended a visiting officer in London, but that the daughter of this foreigner would suddenly appear on his doorstep in the midst of war with the Americans! P
reposterous, I call it!"

  I shrugged elaborately. "You have seen enough of life to know that coincidences are indeed preposterous and remarkable, Admiral. How can I convince you that I am innocent of your charges?"

  "You can't," he said bluntly. "Nothing you could say would alter my opinion of you, Madame. You could tell me that the sky was blue and that water was wet, and still I would not believe you. You are an American agent, a French-speaking native of Louisiana. You were sent to General Ross with that ridiculous tale, claiming kinship with a man whom you never even met—"

  "He was my father!"

  "—spying on us and carrying away with you important information that would be invaluable to that rascal Jackson if it fell into his hands. I am not going to have you searched. It is too late for that. And I am not going to prolong the agony of this interview. You are a spy, Madame, and you will hang for it."

  "You can't do that!" I said. "You have no right! I am a citizen of France, not an American—"

  "Spies have no citizenship," he barked hoarsely, "and they have no rights. This is wartime, Madame, and you will get no trial, no hearing. I am in charge of this operation. I am master not only of this ship but of these waters and of this territory. I call you spy, I sentence you to death, and I will see that the execution is carried out. Take her away, Kirby. The sight of her sickens me."

  Kirby put his hand on my shoulder. I shrugged him off.

  "And when is my execution to take place?" I demanded.

  "At my discretion. Perhaps even tomorrow morning, at dawn." Cochrane smiled cruelly. "I'm taking no chances that you might escape and warn our American friends of the forthcoming attack on their city."

  "It's too late already, dear Admiral," I said gloatingly. "They have been warned. And they will be ready for you. I hope you and your ships go up in flames!"

  "Take her below, Kirby, and put her in chains," Cochrane bellowed. "At once!"

  "He is a boor," I sniffed when Kirby and I were alone in the passage. "He is crude and ignorant. A Frenchman would never treat a female prisoner like that, even one that was scheduled to die at dawn. He would show his appreciation for her beauty—and her other good qualities—and express his regrets for having to end so charming a life. Well, you heard him, Monsieur. Take me below and lock me in irons, and take care that I don't knock you down and make my escape. I can be very violent and dangerous, you know."