“Well met, my dear sister,” Valcour said in a sibilant undertone.
Félicité flashed a startled glance upward in time to see her brother’s ironic bow and the jerk of his head that indicated that they move deeper into the alcove. Immediately she glanced to where Morgan, easily recognizable for his height, stood on the other side of the crowded dance floor in close conversation with a pair of his fellow officers and, curiously enough, the Spanish noblewoman. He was paying no attention to her. When she swung back, Valcour had disappeared. Her manner casual, she came to her feet, and, plying the fan that hung from her wrist, she stepped into the shadowed recess also.
“You are in looks,” Valcour said.
“Never mind that! What are you thinking of, coming here? In fact, why are you in New Orleans? I thought it was your intention to fly for France.”
He shrugged. “I am in no hurry.”
“It might be well if you could bestir yourself. Did you know the Spanish are watching for you, that Colonel McCormack means to lay you by the heels again so he can continue his interrogation? It seems your release was a mistake.”
“Careless of them, wasn’t it? I don’t believe I should encourage such slack habits by turning myself in. Besides, the Spanish are such petty bureaucrats, writing endless reports about the least little thing. Why should I cause them more work?” He took out his coffin-shaped snuffbox, used it, and put it away, plying his handkerchief in a careless gesture.
Félicité sent him a glance of exasperation. “If Colonel McCormack discovers you are here, he may count the trouble well worth the pleasure of recapturing you.”
“Ah, the good colonel. I saw him arrive, the entrance of a conqueror, with you like a captive on his arm. I had meant to do no more than pay my respects to my hostess this evening, but seeing that nauseating performance, I felt it behooved me to find out the meaning of it.”
“The cause is not hard to find,” she answered, her tone dry as she recounted the circumstances that had led to her appearance this evening with the colonel. As she spoke she grew aware of the rush of the wind that stirred the drapes, and the blue-white gleam of lightning beyond the window opening, coming steadily nearer.
Valcour drew a deep breath, his dark eyes glittering, when she had finished. “That he should dare to use such tactics to force his company upon you surpasses belief, or bearing. Having succeeded thus far, how much more will he require of you?”
“He has acted the gentleman when we are together.”
“Oh, has he indeed?” he sneered, cutting her words short. “A fine cover for his real purpose, I make no doubt.”
“There — there has been no suggestion of anything more,” Félicité said, snapping her fan shut.
“Nor will there be, until one fine night you will find yourself in his bed, wondering how it happened.”
“He wouldn’t dare!”
Valcour sent her a veiled look that included a sweeping appraisal of the gown she wore. “For all your years, Félicité, you are an innocent. If proof were needed, it would only be necessary to look at you. That costume you are wearing is an invitation to be bedded. Why, and how, the colonel has refrained until now is a mystery to me.”
The words, so near to her own misgivings, touched her on the raw. She raised a brow. “Not at all. Like most of what women wear, it is an invitation only for men to contemplate that pleasure while keeping their distance.”
“The colonel had best keep his,” Valcour grated. “The man is beginning to annoy me. It might be well to ensure that he causes no more distress for you, or me for that matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, nothing that need alarm you, ma chère, unless you are forming a tendre for the man?” Valcour’s face was illuminated by the crackle of a lightning streak that flickered with a yellow glow in his eyes.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped.
“Well, then, forget I spoke. Forget, in fact, that you saw me this evening.”
“No, Valcour,” she began, but it was too late. He was gone, melting away into the crowd. She stood staring after him with her teeth set in her bottom lip. Long seconds passed before she realized she was not alone in her interest in her brother’s progress. With a swift intake of breath, she turned to face Morgan.
He transferred his gaze to her face without hurry. Putting the glass of lemon-scented punch he held into her hand, he said, “Bast sent me with this for you. He told me I would find you over here, but until I caught sight of you in the alcove I thought I had misunderstood. The gentleman to whom you were talking left rather abruptly, didn’t he?”
Despite the casual tone of his voice, Félicité’s nerves tightened. “He must needs find a more accommodating partner before the next set forms.”
“Oh? You had no wish to be partnered by your brother, then?”
Félicité laughed, an automatic response, a protective gesture for her companion since childhood. “You thought he was Valcour? He would not be pleased, I assure you. The man was quite dowdily rigged out, a provincial from the country, I do swear. To the best of my knowledge, I have never laid eyes on him before.”
“My mistake,” Morgan said, but his eyes were like green glass as his gaze returned to where Valcour was bidding his hostess goodnight, preparing to depart.
6
THE SLOWLY GATHERING STORM had not yet broken when Félicité and the colonel left the masque, though the night sky was rent by silver shafts of lightning, and thunder rumbled unceasingly overhead. They had come away soon after the unmasking. Félicité, a prey to nameless fears and megrims, would have requested that she be taken home much earlier if Morgan had not been certain to see it as a disinclination for his company or a sign of disturbance over her suspected meeting with Valcour. How wearing it was to be forced always to pretend, to watch every word and gesture. Félicité was so tired, her nerves so on edge, that she flinched at every flash overhead, hardly knowing whether she wished to hurry homeward, putting an end to this interminable evening, or to slow her footsteps to conserve her energy.
The rising wind swept along the street, stinging their faces with the fine grit it carried, fluttering the flame inside the pierced-tin lantern the linkboy held and molding Félicité’s gown against her. There was dampness in its breath, and the dank smell of the river. Somewhere down a side street, a shutter swung on creaking hinges, banging to and fro with a monotonous, echoing sound. A dog barked a muffled warning. The voices and lights from the house they had left died away, and they were engulfed in the darkness of the overcast night.
Félicité had ignored the offer of Morgan’s arm. Now as she stumbled on the uneven banquette made of ship’s gunwales laid end to end, he reached out to catch her elbow, drawing her close beside him.
“I heard a strange tale this evening,” he said, his voice low so as not to be heard by Ashanti, following along behind, or the linkboy, a mere youngster this time with an Italian look about him.
The hard grip that held her was disturbing, as was the sense of force that seemed to emanate from the man at her side. “How so?”
“It concerns you, and Ulloa’s nightshirt.”
“Oh.” The monosyllable was flat.
“As I said, a strange tale, and also an interesting one. I can’t picture you sneaking into a man’s bedchamber, rifling his armoire in the dead of night; you, who will not take a step without your maid trailing along behind you.”
Félicité glanced up at him. “It — it was a wager.”
“So I understand, one taken by your brother, though he apparently persuaded you to execute this daring theft for him.”
“That isn’t true. We did it together.”
“It was you who actually crept into the governor’s bedchamber while he slept, was it not? You who were chased by the guards for three blocks before you lost them?”
“Who told you?”
“I’m not quite sure. A female in the guise of Queen Isabella, complete with a huge cartwheel ruff, seeme
d to think I would be amused. She took pains to assure me that the story was common knowledge among your friends.”
“That may be, I don’t know,” Félicité said shortly. “It was a childish escapade, one I would as soon forget.”
“Possibly, though you certainly seem to have a penchant for venturing into lions’ dens.”
His bland tone gave little away; still, Félicité sent him a sharp glance. There was no time for more. They were nearing the Lafargue house, and the linkboy had paused, stepping aside to allow them to enter the arched entranceway that led under the upper floor to the stairs.
Ashanti, with a murmured apology, slipped ahead to rouse the maid left on watch so the girl would unbar the door. As the colonel turned to press a small pourboire into the hand of the linkboy and bid him wait, Félicité stared ahead down the dark passage in irritation. She had left orders for torches to be lit against their return, but either they had not been obeyed, or else the rising wind, funneling down the entrance, had blown them out.
Morgan swung toward her. She moved forward, expecting to see light blossom at any moment from the direction of the stairs, aiding the faint glow from the linkboy’s lantern.
There came a thud, as of a slammed door, followed by a cry, a muffled sound that might have come from Ashanti’s throat somewhere ahead in the darkness. Suddenly the night was alive with moving shapes made horrible by the hiss of drawn swords in that enclosed space. Lightning flashed, and in that brief blue-white instant, the figures of three men could be seen hurtling down upon them.
Morgan shifted, unsheathing his sword with a rasp as he whirled the domino he carried around his left arm as a buffer. Behind them the linkboy gave a strangled gasp, then whirled and took to his heels, leaving them in darkness.
Hard hands caught Félicité, and she was flung headlong. She stumbled to her knees, scraping her hands on the rough stone of the passage floor, striking her head on the railing of the stairs. Pain exploded in her brain. Dizzy, half blinded, she pulled herself up, calling for Ashanti and the other maid. Behind her came muffled grunts and curses as the men clashed with Morgan. The shuffing of their footsteps as they jockeyed for position was loud in the windy blackness.
“Imbecile! You nearly ran me through,” came a snarl from the shifting men.
Valcour! Félicité had feared that it was he, though she had not wanted to believe it. This was no vengeance, this cowardly attack in the dark with odds of three to one, no gentlemanly chastisement such as that meted out upon the dueling ground. This was murder, planned with all the deliberation of an assassin. There could be no justification for such a base attack, and no honor in it.
“Ashanti!” she cried. “A light! Bring a light!” If Valcour was in danger of being recognized, he might desist, if it was not too late—
There was no answer. Whirling, Félicité scrambled up the steps. She did not dare think of what had happened to her maid and the others. There would be time enough for that later. She flung herself against the door that led into the rooms she shared with her father. The latch moved under her hand. It was not locked, only pulled to in order to block the light of the single candle that burned in the salle. Snatching up the brass holder, shielding the taper, she threw herself from the room, pounding down the stairs.
Suddenly she halted. At the turn of the staircase stood Lieutenant Colonel Morgan McCormack with a bloodied sword in his hand. There was a tear across the breast and sleeve of his uniform coat surrounded by a dark spreading stain. His face was like a mask, stiff and sinister.
“You won’t need that,” he said, the words falling softly from his lips, “though I don’t doubt it would have been a great help to my assailants. They might have found me with their blades, instead of each other.”
“What do you mean?” she whispered. “Where are they?”
“They could not wait. When your accomplices discovered the contest less unequal than they imagined, they broke ranks and fled, leaving you behind — with me.”
“Accomplices?”
“Your brother and his friends, if you prefer.”
“Oh, but they aren’t — I’m not—”
He made a quick, slashing motion with his sword that set the candle flame to wavering. “Do you take me for a fool? I saw the two of you with your heads together tonight. No doubt if he had had more time to plan, Valcour Murat would have chosen his ambuscade more carefully. A single man always has the advantage against two or more in close quarters, especially when the light is dim. For him all are foes, none friends.”
He took a step forward, and involuntarily Félicité retreated. “I’m glad you were — unhurt.”
“Spare me the pretense. You hold in your hand the only thing that could have aided your brother, a light. That would condemn you if there were nothing else.”
“I knew nothing. I swear.” His slow steps as he mounted the stairs sent a shaft of fear through her. She backed away, aware with every taut nerve in her body of the open rectangle of the doorway behind her.
“You don’t expect me to believe that, you with your honeyed concern for your father, your half-promises dangled like a carrot before the donkey, all sweet and gentle allure. You beguiled me until I was ready to believe you were exactly as you appeared on the surface, until I was ready to follow you anywhere, even into a deathtrap! If you are going to use yourself as bait, you will have to learn to take the consequences.”
There was self-derision mixed with the contempt that blazed in his emerald eyes as they raked over her. A sense of peril vibrated in the air, ringing through her mind with the clamor of a warning bell. As her sandaled foot touched the top stair, she whirled, diving for the door. She wrenched it shut behind her, throwing her shoulder against it as she fumbled for the bar.
Before she could drop it home, she was hurled backward. The candle flew from her grasp, snuffing itself in the pile of the rug as the brass holder hit with a clang, rolling, skittering on the wood floor beyond the rug to fetch up against the wall. It was followed by yet another metallic, ringing clatter as Morgan dropped his sword.
Then he was upon her in the darkness, his hands biting into her shoulders as he dragged her to him. His mouth came down on hers in a fury of possession and punishment. She turned her head, twisting, straining away from him. He jerked her closer, crushing her to him so she felt the muscular strength of his lean frame, taut with anger, and the board-hardness of his chest.
“No — you don’t understand—” she gasped, but the words were smothered on her lips as his mouth bruised hers once more. His hands, smoothing across her back, encountered the deep opening of her gown. His fingers closed upon the braided edges, slipping also beneath the linen underdress, and with a wrench, he pulled them apart. The soft muslin tore with the rending sound of a small scream.
Félicité felt the rush of the night air against her bare back, knew the moment when the rent bodice was dragged down over her arms, exposing her upper body to the waist. For an instant she stood stunned, then rage swept in upon her with a rush, throbbing in her brain with a sickening ache, fueled by the acid rise of fear she dared not face. In that brief flicker of time, Morgan bent and slipped an arm under her knees, swinging her high against his chest. He strode toward the open doorway of the nearest bedchamber, Félicité own.
She fought then, kicking, arching her back, jackknifing, trying to claw despite the confinement of her arms. It did no good. She was swung dizzyingly and dropped upon the bed.
Lightning flashed, streaking into the room in an unearthly glow. Morgan McCormack stood above her, a terrible being, godlike, with the bronzed planes of his face gleaming like sculptured metal and the emerald fire of desire in his eyes. He was stripping the buttons of his waistcoat from their holes, shrugging from his jacket. Félicité rolled, scrambling across the wide, soft surface of the bed, sliding with her gown riding above her knees, reaching for the other side. He dived after her, clamping his arm around her waist, hauling her backward. His hand swept over her naked thig
hs as he lifted her, dragging her toward him. The pins slipped from her hair, allowing the silken mass to spill across her shoulders in a gilded skein, cascading over the corded sinews of his arm as he pulled her beneath him.
She writhed, panting, pushing at him, gasping in triumph as she freed one arm. In desperate wrath she struck for his eyes with her fingers curved into talons. His head snapped back out of range, but she had the satisfaction of feeling her nails rake along his neck and chest before her wrist was caught and imprisoned in an iron grasp.
Her girdling belt loosened as they struggled; she felt it fall from her waist. His mouth seared the tender curve of her neck, trailing a fiery path along her shoulder. She braced her feet, heaving under him. He shifted his weight, stilling her movements, forcing her to straining quiescence. Her breast tingled as his lips found one trembling mound. He tugged at the flimsy muslin of her gown, pushing it lower over the taut flatness of her abdomen.
“No,” she whispered, that rasping word a plea and a denial. This could not be. It could not. It was wrong, impossible, unbelievable.
The protest seemed to inflame him, fueling his rage. He kicked off his boots and divested himself of his clothing in a few quick movements. With merciless strength he stripped the tatter of her gown from her, forestalling her attempt to bring up her knees by sliding his own heavier leg across them. With one wrist fastened beside her face by the iron grip of the hand that passed under her neck, and the other pinned under him, he held her immobile. He cupped her breast, brushing his thumb over the rose peak that was contracted in anguished apprehension. As his hand moved lower, smoothing the slender curve of her waist, tracing the tautness of her stomach and down along her flank, a shiver ran over her. His traveling touch drifted over the marbled whiteness of her thighs, slipping between in a caress of startling, unbearable intimacy.
Convulsively, Félicité lunged away, trying to roll, wrenching her arm in its socket until a red mist of pain rose to cloud her vision. She managed to push one ankle from under him before she recognized her error. He thrust a knee between her opened thighs, raising himself above her. She felt the heated firmness of his manhood against her, knew in shafting horror the tender vulnerability of her own body. In frenzy, she arched away from him, her nerves and muscles shuddering with the force of her resistance. By slow degrees he pressed her against the waiting, unyielding rigidity poised for the relentless entry.
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