“Stop that woman, Dominique!” came the quiet, deadly voice, and Gabrielle realized that there were two men who stood behind the redhead and that one of those men was Jean Lafitte.
Even as the Spanish woman’s cry of hatred seemed to beat against her, a pistol shot rang out and the woman with the red hair began screaming shrilly. Gabrielle turned and stared at the slowly crumpling figure of the woman who would have mutilated her and saw the rapidly spreading blossom of crimson on her breast. She put her fist in her mouth to stifle the scream that was caught in her throat.
In a haze, she felt the warmth of a silk cloak thrown over her bare shoulders and drawn around her to cover her body, heard the continuing screams of the woman and the deliberate, steady cursing of Dominique You as he thrust his pistol back into his belt.
“We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Jean,” he said hurriedly. “This is just the sort of thing that Claiborne would use as an excuse to lock you up in the calaboose. Goddammit, woman, shut up!” he turned viciously to the vocal woman and made as though to strike her.
The red-headed woman shrank away from him and steadied her sobs enough to wave the men away. “Get out of here! Murderers! You’ve killed—and what for? This brazen trollop who’s been rolling in bed with—”
Lafitte’s hand struck her swiftly across the mouth. Without another word, he turned, an arm around Gabrielle's shaking shoulders, and hurried with her and Dominique You to a waiting carriage.
Once inside, Gabrielle was only too glad to lean her head against Lafitte’s chest and give way to a torrent of tears. She was aware of his stiffness, the tenseness in the arm that encircled her. Finally, when her tears had lessened somewhat, she stealed herself to look up at his dark face, seeing the set mouth and distant black eyes that would not meet her gaze.
“Jean,” she began brokenly, “how—how did you know where to find me?”
He did not turn his face down to her. “I was informed of your whereabouts,” he responded coolly.
“By whom? Renée—”
“Renée was not my informant,” he answered. For the first time, he turned his black gaze full upon her, and she read the doubt and suspicion there. “A Mr. St Claire sent a message to me at the old Absinthe House that he had something that belonged to me and would be obliged if I would take it off his hands. My ‘property,’ I think, was how he referred to you.”
Gabrielle felt as though she had been delivered a swift and deliberate blow. Could this Mr. St Claire possibly be the same man who had made love to her so exquisitely the night before?
“Did he touch you, Gabrielle? Was that woman right? Why were you there?” It was Lafitte’s voice, hard and demanding as his hand jerked her chin up so that his eyes could bore into hers.
Unbearable hurt flooded through Gabrielle—to be scorned by one man so callously and cross-examined like a prisoner by another—it was too much! But she would not dissolve into tears again—she would not! Steely pride made her lift her head higher and return Lafitte’s level look. She would wipe any traces of last night from her mind, she told herself firmly, as though it never had been—as though it were only a dream....
“Mr. St. Claire did nothing to me,” she said quietly. “Nothing. He only saved me from the fire. After that . . nothing.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gabrielle looked out of the window of the House that Lafitte had finished building on the island of Grande Terre and smiled slightly to herself as she spied Lafitte lounging in the long red hammock on the veranda, as usual smoking a thin cheroot and talking animatedly to a group of men.
That terrible day in New Orleans was like a faraway nightmare now, and she forced herself not to think of it anymore. Lafitte had silently agreed not to question her and had done his best to help brush any troubled thoughts away from her mind. He had never told her the outcome of You’s shooting Rosa, nor why St. Claire had told him of her whereabouts—or how he came to know of it. The episode was part of the past now, and she had learned before that it did no good to dwell on the past.
Despite her loathing of Lafitte’s business and her jumbled thoughts about his own person and her relationship towards him, she took a feminine delight in having a house for herself now. It was a sturdy place built of brick and coated with a mixture of pulverized oyster shells and plaster that gave it a whitewashed look. He had added a wide veranda that looked out towards the Gulf, and through the iron-barred windows in the Spanish style he could scan the horizon for ships.
Dominique You had finally joined his fortunes completely to those of Lafitte, and the two men had become the closest of friends. It was hard to resist the hearty bluffness of the short, dark man who was nearly as wide as he was tall, and Gabrielle would not think that there had been a time when she had witnessed his killing a woman.
The summer had passed uneventfully, and she had settled in to her life as the “Bos’s” official mistress. It was now early December, and the winds coming from the south were brisker and spread a cool tang of salt air that prompted an extra blanket at night. She found through the course of the months that Lafitte was not only a superb lover but at times could be uncharacteristically gentle and easy with her so that she could close her eyes and imagine they were like any other two people. But in the morning, she must shake away such childish thoughts, for Lafitte would be brisk and businesslike, never liking to mingle pleasure with work, for he claimed it could blunt a man’s good judgment
Gabrielle knew that he was cooking up some new scheme, but he seldom spoke to her of business and she never questioned him about it A steady stream of buyers was beginning to come to Grande Terre directly to pick and choose their slaves from the big warehouse on the island. This saved costs and enabled those who came first to get the choicest of the merchandise.
In New Orleans, Pierre still took orders for slaves and merchandise from those not brave enough or unable to make the journey to the island, and once every month or so, he would come to Grande Terre to pick up the cargo for delivery. He would fill Jean in on the news from the city.
From snatches of overheard conversations, Gabrielle had learned that the brothers were planning a bold move the very next month. This involved peddling two whole cargoes of slaves along the banks of the Mississippi River all the way to Natchez, where a sizable market was growing. Due to the distance, though, the Lafittes seldom sold merchandise directly to the citizens of Natchez, but dispersed the goods and slaves to agents.
As Dominique put it sagely, “Business is booming.” Lafitte could count nearly a thousand men in his establishment, and a whole network of depots for the disposal of cargoes stretched from New Orleans north almost to Natchez and east towards the Spanish city of Pensacola. It nearly took Gabrielle’s breath away when Lafitte begin to talk of the gold and silver he was amassing, and sometimes, when he seemed in a particularly good mood, she would ask him what he would do with all that money. He would laugh, shake his head, and lift her in his arms, kissing her fiercely to make her forget her curiosity.
“Dreaming again?” Lafitte’s voice called playfully to her now as she leaned against the window frame. “Lord, woman, you’ll be burning my dinner, with your head in the clouds all afternoon!” He laughed, showing his white teeth.
“It’ll be burned anyway if you continue to jabber away as usual!” she returned saucily, wrinkling her nose as he blew cigar smoke towards her.
“I swear I’ll take, a whip to you before too long. The wench is sassing me like a wife!” Lafitte exclaimed, getting up from his lounging position and signalling for the men to join him in the kitchen.
Gabrielle counted four other men besides Lafitte, You, and Beluche—probably new recruits, from the look of them. She placed the tablecloth neatly on the long wooden table and set out plates, mugs, and utensils, although many of the men seldom used the latter.
“Smells delicious, wench! What is it tonight?” growled You, smacking her noisily on the cheek and leaving a wet mark that she wiped off as soon as
he turned his back.
“I’ve fried chicken and made rice with gravy,” she answered, beginning to dish out the meal on a large platter.
Renato stood next to her to take the steaming plate from her hands and pursued his lips with enjoyment. “One would think you were born a Creole the way you cook, my dear.”
“Hmmph,” Gabrielle retorted, her eyes sparkling. “Would that I were paid as well as the cook in the Hôtel de la Marine that you are forever patronizing. I don’t doubt but that I could pay someone else to do the rest of the work!”
“What? And deprive us all of an excellent example of true female aptitude?” You put in, laughing hoarsely.
Gabrielle bristled and faced him squarely with her hands on her hips. “Dominique You, if I thought you meant that, I’d throw this gravy in your lap! Don’t tell me that cooking and keeping house are the only thing you believe I’m good at!”
You winked at her craftily. “Hell, no, ma’m’selle! From what Jean tells me, you’re quite good in certain other matters.”
The men roared with laughter while Gabrielle turned scarlet and cast a glare towards Lafitte’s amused face. He shrugged lazily and blew her a kiss of apology, but his black eyes gleamed in remembered anticipation. Put out with him for the moment, Gabrielle finished serving the meal in silence, then took her place quickly, keeping her eyes averted from the others.
The talk swerved back and forth from New Orleans to cargoes to the problems cropping up with Governor Claiborne.
“Damn! With Louisiana in contention for statehood, it looks as though Claiborne is going to go all out in his campaign against you, Lafitte!” You muttered between mouthfuls. “The man holds a personal grudge, I think, for I’ve heard that he has boasted repeatedly to bring you to trial and put you away for a goodly number of years in the calaboose!”
“And what, do you think, does the good M’sieur Claiborne have against you and your industrious little band here on Barataria?” Beluche, winking at Gabrielle, asked solemnly.
Lafitte shrugged his shoulders expressively. “I care little for his reasons, men, but I’ve heard the bastard is trying to arouse the customs officials against us. It seems our bribes have soured in their hands, and now they’ve turned into model citizens who are willing to obey his authority.”
“I’d like to see that!” snorted one of the new men. “My brother works in customs, and he’s already boasted that he can make more than double his salary by taking your money.”
“Good for him!” Lafitte laughed. “Would they were all so friendly.”
“Most of them are,” the boy continued, “but Claiborne is putting a lot of pressure on the officials, especially with statehood in the offing.”
Lafitte’s eyes narrowed slightly as he seemed to size up this obviously intelligent newcomer. “And where did you learn so much, lad?” he asked quietly.
The boy blushed nervously and glanced quickly at the other men. “Well, I’ve had some schooling and I can read and write.”
“And, from the sounds of it, you know how to use those ears of yours to good advantage,” Lafitte finished.
The boy nodded. Gabrielle thought he looked like a trapped rabbit and realized that Lafitte could very easily inspire fear in a stranger with his commanding presence and snapping black eyes.
Lafitte considered for a moment and then went on, “Well, in that case, I could use you very well in certain errands I need done from time to time. Report to me after dinner tomorrow night.”
The boy nodded, and the rest of the meal was finished to the accompaniment of belches and gratified murmurs of approval. When the four recruits had been ushered out by Beluche to be assigned sleeping quarters, Gabrielle began clearing the table, listening to the conversation between You and Lafitte as the two of them lit their cigars.
“You know that boy who seemed so knowledgeable this evening—he might be a good one to put in the accounting end of things in the warehouse,” You recommended absently, watching the wreaths of smoke encircle the glowing end of his cheroot.
Lafitte nodded.“ Do you know his name?”
“Renato told me it was Simmons—John Simmons, I think,” You answered. “I suppose the boy is an American.”
Lafitte took a puff of his cigar, then turned it so that the glowing end winked redly at him. “He said his brother worked in customs in the city,” he went on, as though on some specific train of thought. “If that’s true, we might be able to use the relation to our own advantage, Dominique. What do you think?”
The latter shrugged. “We’d have to have someone check on it, of course, but I believe you might be right. After all, if we could arrange some sort of deal between the two of them to our advantage, it might be cheaper in the long run.”
“It shouldn’t be hard to find out the hours this boy’s brother works and go from there,” Lafitte continued. “But we should tread carefully until we’re absolutely sure the boy hasn’t been planted here.”
“You’re right there, Jean. This business is sticky enough without getting involved in a double-cross.” You’s mouth was set in a grim line.
Gabrielle listened curiously but not really understanding all of it, felt a sudden spurt of dread for the boy of whom they were speaking. He didn’t seem to be much older than herself, perhaps twenty, and yet he could present a very real danger to these two men who held such power in their hands. Quietly, she took a seat next to Lafitte and picked up a piece of sewing.
“The picture of domestic tranquility,” You laughed, winking slyly at Lafitte.
Gabrielle smiled. “Softly please, Dominique,” she teased, “or you will make poor Jean think I am trying to trap him.”
You roared and slapped her knee in appreciation of her jest, while Lafitte gazed at her with an enigmatic expression on his face. “How could I possibly think that, my dear, when you shout and scream at me day after day that you would like to be taken back to New Orleans?” Lafitte questioned, baiting her.
Gabrielle looked up from her work, affronted. “Jean Lafitte, how dare you accuse me of that! I have never asked any such thing. You’ll have Dominique thinking I’m nothing but a shrew!”
“Then you do like it here on the island with me?” he questioned her further, but in a softer tone.
Gabrielle blushed and glanced at You. “Of course I like it here, else why should I stay?”
“I’d keep you a prisoner, if I had to,” Lafitte returned, his swarthy face matching the teasing note of his voice.
“I don’t doubt it,” You put in. “No man appreciates losing a beautiful treasure, whether it be gold or an exceptional woman.”
Gabrielle stuck her tongue out, at which You bent towards her as though to kiss her. She leaned back and he contented himself with a peck on her nose. “You should know better than to offer such a tantalizing morsel out in the open with me around,” You laughed gruffly. “I’m afraid, my friends, I shall have to excuse myself. I’m beginning to feel the need for some female companionship of my own.” He stood up, saluted Lafitte, and went down the sloping trail.
Gabrielle watched him go, then let her eyes focus on the bright orange ball of sun that was firing the water to crimson, feeling the cool breeze fan her cheeks and lift her hair from her temples. With a part of her consciousness, she could feel Lafitte’s eyes searching her face possessively.
“Dominique was right,” he commented after a time. “You really are a beautiful treasure.”
Gabrielle smiled, turning her face to look at this man whom she would never understand. “You flatter me,” she said lightly. “All of the gold and silver you have hidden away somewhere—surely that could bring the pirate of the Gulf more pleasure than one, solitary woman?”
“What good is treasure when there is no one to share it with, to buy things for?” he returned testily.
She sighed. “Oh, Jean, sometimes you can be so fanciful and idealistic. It’s hard for me to equate that part of you with—with the other part that can be so merciless, so all
-powerful.”
“Good God, you’re not going to say that after all these months we’ve had together you are still afraid of me!”
She was silent, and after a little time he stood up and bent over to lift her from the chair. He carried her silently into the house and deposited her on the bed, undressing her with slow, explicit sureness that left her body tingling in pleasurable anticipation. When he had joined her, he held her for a moment, kissing her softly on the neck and bosom.
“Tell me, spitfire,” he said in the darkness, “do you think you might love me a little?”
In the pleasant haze of lust that was beginning to envelope her, Gabrielle bit his shoulder, then licked the spot in apology. “Such a silly question,” she murmured in his ear. “I can only love the idealistic part of you, Jean, the romantic part. But I shall always hate the powerful part.”
He thrust her away to look into her face in the dim light. For a moment, she tensed, sensing that she had said something to wound him. Then, with a small oath, he clasped her back against him and pressed her down into the mattress.
A week had passed, and Gabrielle was cleaning out the huge kitchen pantry, emitting little shrieks when now and then her hand passed over some soft, crawly thing. She was determined to keep the house as clean as she could under the circumstances.
She heard Lafitte’s step and backed out of the pantry, straight into his arms. He swung her around against him, kissing her passionately. His face was smiling, and he tickled her nose with his tongue before letting her down.
“Good news, my sweet. Our venture has been successful. We’ve gotten rid of every slave from those last two cargoes. The profits have been fantastic!”
Gabrielle smiled, happy that he was so elated, but doubtful whether Claiborne looked on the venture in a favorable light. “Has there been any word from New Orleans?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Everything is very quiet there. I’m not sure I like it, but we’re trying to get more information through Simmons’ brother. I only hope we can keep the major portion of the officials on our side.”
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