by Jackie Ivie
“Y—yes,” Linna replied.
“Bien. He has sent for you. The marquis is waiting. You’ll come with me now? You have purchases I need carry? Come. Everything will be taken care of. With his lordship’s regards.”
The shop mistress was speechless at the amount of coins the servant put in her hand. It was a good thing. Linna didn’t need any more attention drawn to this. She was going to make certain Cord knew about it, too. If he had to decide now to introduce her to the Marquis de Larroquette, the least he could have done was warn her.
Linna was smoothing her hair back as she approached the coach. The servant followed, burdened with a wrapped bundle that was meant to go on a wagon floor. It would look positively shabby in the elegance of the coach. It really was rich, and what had to be the Larroquette family seal was mounted on the door at her eye level.
It didn’t make much sense, though. After months of wondering what he looked like, and what she’d say to him when they met, she was about to get that experience, just when she was bloated with child, tired, wearing an inexpertly crafted outfit made from her brown traveling ensemble, and looking almost as shabby as her bundle. Not an auspicious way to meet anyone, let alone the Marquis de Larroquette.
She watched the door open outward but didn’t hear it. Then the shape of an elegantly dressed gentleman was in front of her, lifting her hand to his lips and looking at her with admiration in his eyes.
In my condition? She felt the urge to laugh, but caught it.
“Ah...Madame. We meet at last.”
“My…lord,” she murmured and attempted a slight curtsey before pulling her hand from his grasp. She didn’t know why, but something about him unsettled her, and it wasn’t just his high-pitched voice.
“Come. We delay. And for no reason other than entertainment for the bourgeoisie. We have business. Private business. Allow me to assist you in. Please. I must insist.”
He was motioning her to the coach. Linna’s feet stopped for a moment of trepidation. Then she let it go. There wasn’t any reason to worry. It was the Marquis de Larroquette. He was a gentleman. Even without the elegant attire, she could tell that. He didn’t look dangerous, either. He wasn’t much taller than she was, and that was with heels; he wasn’t the type to do any physical labor, for his legs in the slick satin of his breeches were thin and spindly-looking; and he wasn’t as young as he tried to portray either. And, she reminded herself, Cord had sent him for her.
He had a hand on her back. It felt a bit like Luthor’s had. Linna had to consciously keep from pulling from him. Actually, with his spindly legs, his bony hands, and his effeminate voice, he reminded her a great deal of Luthor Evans.
“Watch your step now. We don’t want any harm to come to the little one.”
Linna didn’t answer. The benches facing each other were padded, stuffed taffeta, smooth and chilled to the touch. The sides appeared to be tufted velvet, and there was a repast of a ham, croissants, and a bottle of wine on a little table below the opposite window. She’d never seen anything like it.
“I was just finishing a light sup.”
Linna spread her skirt about her on the seat. It felt like she was sitting on air. The door shut. The marquis turned to her, and he didn’t look remotely handsome anymore. He looked sinister, evil, and absolutely malevolent.
“So tell me,” he asked, “how is my dear cousin, Raoul, anyway?”
~ ~ ~
The darkness was the worst part.
Linna slid her hands along a wall. She’d recognized them easily, although they never gave her any light. She knew where she was. She’d spent a day in this room when she’d first arrived on the island. Deep under the street. In Dominique’s control. This time she wasn’t a guest. She was a prisoner.
As near as she could figure, she’d been locked up for two days, but the only way she guessed that, was because someone shoved the door open and pushed food in. If they meant for her to have three daily meals, then it had been two days. If they were giving her two meals, it had been three days. She wasn’t hungry, so if they were giving her a meal a day, she’d been there for six. Details like this drove her to beat on the walls. It hadn’t worked the first time, and it wasn’t working now.
It did nothing except upset the baby. Linna held to her belly, crooning nonsense to the child she loved so much. As much as she loved Cord…but he wasn’t even Cord, anymore. He hadn’t lied to her at the ball in New Orleans. He’d never lied. He really was Raoul Larroquette. Cordean Raoul Larroquette. He was the man startled from his bed when the ship was attacked, been sent in irons to slave for the British Navy, and escaped that life for piracy. And he’d done nothing to deserve it except to be born.
Now he was being baited.
Linna knew that’s what she was. Bait. She only wished she could do something to stop it. Anything.
“Settle down, Rachelle,” she murmured to the child, using the name they had decided on. She left her position against the wall to pick her way across the floor, one hand out for safety, the other supporting her baby. She wasn’t due for a month, but babies came early all the time. Fretting might even bring on labor. She didn’t know. She didn’t have anyone to ask. But there was one thing that would worsen the situation. Bringing this baby into the world now.
They’d given her a chamber pot, but then they didn’t empty it but once. The smell was horrid, but she couldn’t help it. The stench was as aggravating as not knowing whether it was day or night, or how many of them had passed. She finally took a rug from the floor and put it atop the pot.
The room had been emptied of furnishings. There was no bed. No chair. They’d taken everything but the heavy braided rugs that covered the floor. Linna had rolled one into a support for a spot that wouldn’t aggravate her back. It didn’t work when she’d first done it. It still didn’t. She reached the roll of carpet and used her hand to make sure of distance, before sitting beside it. It wasn’t comfortable, nor did it soothe anything. She was just maneuvering onto her side when Cord’s voice cut through the dark. Muffled, but recognizable. Hard. Deadly. With the same tone he’d used on her brother the first day in their home.
“There you are, Dominique. Good.”
“Ah. Bonjour Raoul.”
“I’m here for my cousin. And then I’ll be leaving with my wife.”
“What makes you think I’ve seen either of them?”
Linna crawled toward the sound, bumping her forehead on the wall when she reached it.
“Oh. I have a note that says so. Marcelle was seen coming in. He had company with him. You have three seconds. Don’t waste them.”
“Ah. Mon brave. You are mistaken. I only need one.”
“What?”
“Now, Matthew!”
A thud sound filtered through the wall beside her cheek. It was followed by a grunt of pain. Cord’s grunt. Another thud came, and then a series of them. Linna couldn’t see what was happening. But her heart knew. Her mouth was open in shock and horror, while tears covered her face. And still the blows kept coming.
“That’s enough!”
The voice that stopped them came from Marcelle. The imposter. She’d only heard it the once. She didn’t need a repeat.
“Haul him to the waterfront. I need him alive enough to drown. I’m avoiding an official inquiry, not starting one. Yes. Dump him. Nobody questions a drunken fight that turned ugly. Go. Now.”
No!
The cry came from her heart. Inconsolable. Agonized. Quiet. No one could have heard it. And yet the next moment, the distinct sound of her lock turning came clearly through the dark.
~ ~ ~
“Get the hell out of my way!”
“Drew Fletcher!” Elizabeth Fletcher raised herself to all of her four feet, eleven inches and glared at her son. “You are not to speak to the dowager marquise in such a fashion!”
“Sorry, ma’am...I mean, your worshipfulness...I mean...your ladyship. Oh. Bother. Will you please find someone to help me, Mother? He’s heavy!”
&nb
sp; Cord didn’t shift from his slumped position across Drew’s shoulder. And then Drew moved. Cord must not be capable of standing on his own. He fell in a heap when the support disappeared. He looked terrible. Pale. His shirt was in tatters. And there was blood on it.
“Oh my! It’s…Cordean! Rex!” Elizabeth shouted for her husband and glared at Drew. “What have you done to him?”
The dowager marquise was at Cord’s side instantly. The woman started speaking in strange sounds to the prostrate man on the floor.
“I didn’t do anything. I found him in my carriage. Just like this. So I brought him. Don’t take me to task over it. Take Linna. She should have taken better care of him.”
“Linna?” Cord mumbled it, and then groaned.
“What happened to him?”
His mother had unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open. Bruises crisscrossed Cord’s chest, each one marking a fresh, bloodied scrape. Elizabeth exchanged glances with Drew.
“A man can’t even take a bath in the privacy of his own—.”
Rex Fletcher tirade stopped the moment he arrived. He finished cinching the belt on his robe and glared at all of them in turn. “A man falls on the floor and you stand gaping at him? Birdie! Fetch a sawbones. Liz-Beth get my scotch. Drew, get him to a sofa.”
“Me? I can’t. He’s too heavy,” Drew protested.
“Oh hell.” Rex swore and bent down to the man on the floor. “I’ve seen you worse laid up than this, Larket. And I want you to know your ass is uncovered, it’s as lily white as a newborn babe, and about as easy....”
Cord came off the floor with a start, already swinging. Everyone got out of the way as he careened off a wall and glanced off Drew. Rex helped him to the parlor sofa, where he sprawled on his belly, more off the couch than on it.
“Does he look like this all over?” Rex asked.
“How am I supposed to know?” Drew answered.
“You brought him here.”
“Fighting me most of the way. I had to do something with him, didn’t I?”
“Where did you find?”
“I didn’t find him. He just showed up. In my carriage.”
“For the love of—! All right. Where did he join your carriage?”
“Dominique’s.”
“God damn your hide to hell, Larket. And back.” Rex attempted to lift Cord’s shoulders to shake him, but had to settle with shaking him where he was. “Is he drunk?”
“How am I supposed to know? I went for a bit of...uh.”
“Whoring. I know.”
“Gentlemen! Please. There are ladies present,” Elizabeth spoke from the doorway, bearing a bucket, rags, steaming water, and a bar of soap. Drew stepped aside as Rex grinned at her.
“Please don’t say we’re using your tea water?”
“You hate tea anyway. Help me get his shirt off.”
“No...,” Cord moaned as they tried to lift him, then he ground out a name. “Linna!”
“Somebody better get him sober. And I mean damn quick.” Rex stood back, pulled out a knife, and started hacking Cord’s shirt away. The same patterns of welts littered the broad expanse of back, and even Elizabeth gasped as she looked at him.
“Who would do such a thing?” she whispered.
“Linna,” Cord choked, spitting bloody drool over the side of the sofa.
His mother was at his side, wiping it away. Elizabeth watched her croon to all six-foot, five inches of him, and found herself smiling at the picture they presented. Then she sobered and bent, too.
“He’s not drunk, Rex,” she announced, getting up from her crouch. “He’s been beaten. Who...or what would do such a thing?”
“Somebody as big as he is, no doubt.” Rex went into his study and came back, strapping a gun belt on as he walked. “Drew, get ready. We’re going for a little sight-seeing.”
Drew looked across at his father before raising his eyebrows. “Oh. I’m ready whenever you are, Pa,” he answered. “That’s a lovely robe. Don’t know if we’ll get much information dressed that way, but I’m willing if you are.”
Rex looked down at himself and swore again. “I’ll be back. Get something that makes sense out of him. Two minutes. Get a gun belt on, son. We’ll need it. Study desk, left drawer.”
“We should wait until he can answer questions, Rex. You can’t just go off and—what is this?”
A grimy piece of paper, in at least eight folds was in the breast pocket of his shirt. Elizabeth unfolded it, read it, and knew she paled. “Rex—?”
He was at her side her instantly.
“What’s it say?” Drew asked.
“I understand my brother is visiting?” A vision in white lace, covering her from her feet to the bottom of her neck stood in the doorway, her black hair swept into an up-do, and her red lips tilted into a confused smile looked across at them. Drew looked like he’d turned to stone.
Rex pulled the paper from his wife’s hand.
“It says...Damn it, and bloody rotten hell! It’s almost too worn to read. Oh, my God. It says ‘You tell anyone, she dies. You go to the authorities, she dies. You get help, she dies. You try to rescue her, she dies. She whelps a boy, maybe they live. She whelps a girl, maybe they don’t. Dominique’s. Tomorrow. Noon.’ It’s signed with an M.”
“Marcelle,” Elizabeth whispered.
“How long has she been missing? Andrew?”
Drew forced his gaze away from the girl at the door. “Don’t look at me. I haven’t seen him on the plantation. I haven’t seen Linna either. Course, I was warned what would happen to me if I got near her again.”
“Who the hell would warn you?” Rex asked.
“He did.” Drew pointed at the man on the sofa. “He thinks I have designs on his wife.”
“That’s not funny,” Elizabeth said.
“Mother?” The vision at the doorway kept her dark eyes on Cord, although they were awash in tears.
The dowager marquise answered. “It is your brother, Yvette. He has been injured. Assist Mistress Fletcher with his care, please. I must check the street.”
“Whatever for?” Drew asked.
“Observers. You heard the note. You brought him here. This constitutes seeking help. I will see if anyone watches.”
“What was I supposed to do with him? Leave him there?”
“Linna...?” Cord’s voice stopped the arguing voices about him with his groan, then they all started up again. He thought he’d gone to hell.
- - -
The first thing Cord saw when he opened his eyes was his youngest sister, Chantelle. His smile froze the instant his jaw felt it. He watched her eyes fill with tears. His own felt moist, too. He blinked the emotion away, clamped his teeth together to stop the pain, and forced himself into a sitting position.
He didn’t know where he was. It wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Clear, blue sky met his gaze from the curtained window, a satin comforter covered him, and he was bandaged from knee to neck with strips of linen. He lost every expression.
“Chantelle?” he whispered.
“You were brought here two days ago by the blonde man they call Drew. He is below with his family. They have no news of your wife. They have a man...a person, I mean...named Simons. They are questioning him.”
Cord pulled in as much air as he could without moving his ribs, and forced his legs over the side of the bed. Chantelle watched him without saying a word. They’d put a pair of drawers on him that was too tight, too short, and too restrictive. He could hardly move, but at least he was modestly covered. Besides everything hurt too much. He groaned before he could staunch it.
Rex pegged it correctly, he thought. I am definitely going soft. His legs trembled for a bit before they’d hold him. Cord held to the bed post and watched his hands shake in disgust. He didn’t have time for weakness. He certainly didn’t have time to lose two days abed either.
“Where...are my...clothes?” he asked, using small gasps of breath for each bit of sentence. The burning s
ensation in his lungs made him shake before he got control of it. Rex had been right. He had experienced worse. It just hadn’t been for several years.
“We had to cut them off. The bruising swelled. The doctor is pleased with you.”
“Doctor!” The word made everything hurt with the power he gave it. They’d called in a doctor? With Marcelle’s warning? Oh, dear God. Dear God...no. Please...no. Cord started silently praying, and he didn’t even believe in God anymore.
“Do I...have...a robe?” he wheezed through the question.
“You are not to get up. Except of course, to attend your needs.”
“Merde.”
The curse came out silly-sounding since he had to wheeze through it. Chantelle knew how he felt too, for the ghost of a smile touched her lips before it faded. Cord turned gingerly and picking up the satin comforter, pulled it over his shoulders. “Where are...they?” he asked.
“There is soup here. To eat. You must get your strength back. Here.”
She held the bowl out. Cord looked at her a moment longer and turned toward the door. He went two steps before his right leg collapsed, sending him, with too much noise, to the floor. He was unconscious before he hit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Three days later, Cord was completely awake, recovering poorly, and madder than hell. He wasn’t letting it out of his system easily either. He was storing it, keeping it for the right person, and the right time. He knew exactly how to do it, too, because it came back to him the moment he needed it. He hadn’t forgotten the first couple of times he’d fought, and had to come out alive. It hadn’t been pretty, he hadn’t looked pretty, and it had to harden him.
It had.
He finished buttoning his shirt, reached for his knife, and pulled in the small gasps of air that were available to him. Chantelle continued to watch him from her chair. He wondered if she’d moved.
“They waiting?” he asked.
“All except the blonde man named Drew. He is escorting Yvette for supplies.”
“He do that a lot?” Cord asked.
She nodded.
“Tell him he touches her, and I’ll geld him. You do that?”
