She stared at him, a little disconcerted at his complete assurance.
“If you please,” she began, “tell me what you want.”
He seemed to be in no hurry, and she watched with growing impatience as he backed away towards her night table to strike a flint and light a candle. He brought it over to study her face and whistled sharply.
“Christ! If you’re not Rafe’s mistress. I’d like to put a claim on you for myself.” He set the candle down, and Gabrielle could make out a medium frame topped by a smallish head with light brown hair and slender features.
“I don’t know what you have in mind—” she began but found her words stopped abruptly as he reached over and kissed her.
His arms were stronger than she had thought, and she was quite helpless in his grasp. She struggled to free herself and drew in a sharp breath of dismay as his hand boldly slipped down her bodice to cup her breast.
“What are you doing?”
“Listen, wench, I haven’t had a woman in quite a few days. Been in those goddamned swamps so long, patrolling for the governor, that I’m pretty randy right now. Hell, you must be willing. I know the likes that rents out these apartments of Alice’s.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong,” Gabrielle burst out, bringing her hands up against his chest. “Now let me go.”
To her surprise, he obeyed and stood watching her warily. “All right, wench. Then tell me, what’s your name?”
“My name is none of your business,” she returned tartly.
“I think a man who’s had his hand on a lady’s breast might be privileged to know that lady’s name,” he said calmly.
“Why—how dare you!”
He grinned. “It’s just you and me here in this dark room with no one else very close by. I could dare a lot more if I had a mind to.”
She sighed in resignation. “All right. My name really is Gabrielle de Beauvoir—and Mr. St. Claire is—an acquaintance of mine.” She flashed him a look. “And I don’t appreciate strange men coming into my bedroom and scaring me half to death.”
“You don’t look very scared,” he said in the same level voice. “And I certainly didn’t mean to frighten you, but Rafe forgot to give me the number, and I’m sure as hell not used to delivering messages to beautiful young women like yourself.” He shook his head as his eyes roved slowly up and down her figure. “Should have known Rafe would come up with a woman like you.”
Gabrielle felt as though she were playing some sort of game with this man and struggled not to lose her patience. “Please tell me what this is all about. Rafe has a message for me? Where is he?”
“He’s taking my place for a while—searching for swamp rats, pretty lady.”
“Swamp rats! Rafe is hardly the type,” she said, mustering her courage, “and you don’t look like a riverman yourself, for that matter!”
He laughed again shortly. “You’re not the first woman who’s accused me of that,” he assured her. “When I go into some whorehouse, the first thing they say is I’m too thin to push those boats downstream.” He grinned. “They generally don’t protest, though, once the evening gets going.” His eyes flickered over her and she was aware that she had on only the thin nightgown which probably didn’t hide much.
“Who are you?” she asked tightly, abruptly.
“The name is Leigh Owens, miss. I’m a good friend of your—how did you put it—your acquaintance, Rafe St. Claire.”
“If you’re his good friend, why do you think you can come to my house and maul me as though—”
“I beg your pardon if I mauled you, Miss de Beauvoir. Your beauty so enthralled me that for a moment I was not myself. Rafe and I have shared a good many things in the years I’ve known him.” His eyes twinkled wickedly.
Share! Gabrielle felt a rush of hurt overwhelm her as she wondered if Rafe had casually sent his good friend over to his mistress so that he could enjoy her while the master was away.
“Well, then,” she began shakily, “if you know Rafe St. Claire so well, I’m sure you realize that he wouldn’t take it kindly if I told him about your boldness tonight. In fact, I’m—I’m expecting him to come home any minute now. He should be here—”
Owens shook his head with a smile. “I’m afraid I don’t believe a word of it, wench. It’s well after one o’clock, and Rafe is probably up to his hips in swamp water, hoping to catch some of those pirates with their goods on their way to New Orleans.”
“I—I don’t understand, he never told me anything about—”
“Forgive me for keeping you in suspense,” he began, taking off his shirt to reveal a dreadful scar that reached from his right shoulder to his left armpit. “Rafe wanted me to inform you of his whereabouts and to tell you that he won’t be seeing you for, perhaps, a week or more.” He turned towards the bed. “Now come on, wench, get over here and hop into bed. I haven’t talked this much to a woman in all my twenty-five years, and I don’t particularly care for so much conversation before a good roll in bed.” Gabrielle hesitated, and they stood confronting each other, he with the knife still held carelessly in his hand. After a few moments, he shrugged, placed the knife under the pillow, and sat down on the bed to remove his boots and trousers. She modestly kept her eyes from his nakedness as he padded around the room to douse the candles.
When the room was once more in darkness, she heard the bed creak and heard him sigh deeply. “Christ, are you going to stand there all night? If you’re that set against it, I’m not going to press you. After all, maybe Rafe wouldn’t like it if I had a bit of fun with you—although you’re only his mistress, after all.”
The words bit cruelly into Gabrielle’s brain, and she wanted to shriek with the pain of Rafe’s indifference. She waited until she heard Owens’ snores filling the room and her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness again. She could see him against the whiteness of the sheets, his arms flung out carelessly and his legs tangled in the bedclothes.
She felt unbearably weary herself, and angry towards the man who had had the audacity to send this rogue to her house in the middle of the night, knowing, perhaps, what the outcome might be. Oh, what did it matter—-he hardly seemed to care about her anyway and was surely not thinking of her now.
It would certainly have surprised Gabrielle to know that Rafe St. Claire was huddled in the long marsh grasses, hidden behind a bald-cypress tree, cursing the mosquitoes that seemed to be eating him alive.
His eyes pierced the darkness and the murky fog that seemed to get thicker by the minute, trying to make out the form of Rob Martin who had set up his vigil next to a thick clump of seagrass that completely hid him from view of the muddy bayou that ran slowly through the swamp to make its way down to Barataria Bay.
Rafe cupped his hands to his mouth and let out a deep-throated hoot. Five seconds passed, and the call was answered in kind. Then silence. There were only the night noises, the swishing of the muddy water, the hushed breathing of himself and the six other men who had come tonight, waiting for Lafitte to make the fatal mistake that would send him to prison.
He thought briefly of Gabrielle, the woman he had made his mistress through a quirk of fate, the woman whose lovely face had stayed in his mind long after others had receded to the furthest regions. Jesus, she was beautiful, he thought, considering her in his mind’s eye. He hoped that Leigh had been able to give her the message. And, thinking of Leigh with Gabrielle, he suddenly had an uncomfortable stab of jealousy. He shrugged it off quickly. It wouldn’t do to sidetrack his thoughts now.
He’d promised Claiborne he would lead the handpicked crew who would wait night after night, hoping to catch Lafitte’s men unawares. His thigh muscles began to ache a little from squatting so long, and he could imagine how the others felt. After all, the job should have belonged to the customs officials or the militia, but Claiborne had got nowhere with the city council, and so he had had no other choice but to call on his long-time friend, Rafe St. Claire, to try and carry off this little co
up.
Rafe glanced upward through the shrouding mist and saw the moon, full and bright, hanging in the far western sky. It looked like another worthless night, he thought with disgust and was just about to give the signal to disband when the sound of stealthy oars slicing through the thick water caused his skin to prickle with anticipation.
Christ, it had taken the bastards long enough, he thought. Leigh had waited two weeks without a sign of them. He reminded himself that his participation in this business was by no means wholly objective, since his recently purchased shipping firm was suffering losses at the hands of Lafitte’s renegades. And the damn Creoles thought it all so amusing, he thought bitterly. The fools couldn’t even comprehend the disastrous results on New Orleans commerce, results that would stretch to every one of their own concerns unless Lafitte could be stopped soon.
He listened as the sounds of a boat splashing with muted oars came closer up the bayou, listened for the voices of the men speaking low among themselves. He wondered if Lafitte would be among them and thought, probably not. From the sounds it seemed there were two boats involved, and, a moment later, his guess was confirmed as he peered through the grass to make out two hulls, lit eerily by yellow lanterns.
The first boat slid almost within an arm’s reach of him, and he could see quite clearly the weatherworn faces of the four men who manned the oars—rough, dangerous men who would kill to keep from ending up in the calaboose. The boat went on slowly past him, and now he could see the second skiff, heavily loaded and low in the water, piled high with barrels and crates destined for Lafitte’s secret warehouse so that they could be auctioned to the highest bidder another day.
He noted that a length of thick hemp joined the two boats, and he could see only two men on the second boat. Good, the odds were even. He waited until the boat passed him, and then, stealthily, he crept from behind the marsh grass and waded into the slimy water. They had chosen this place to attack since the stream was barely five feet deep and narrowed into a sort of bottleneck so that it would be impossible for the skiffs to turn about and run the other way.
His hand brushed the barnacled side of the boat, and his fingers clung to the thick rail. He strained unconsciously for the sounds of discovery, but none came. He knew the others had by now maneuvered into their positions, and he took a deep breath before swinging himself in one fluid motion over the side of the boat. At the same time he uttered a high-pitched yell that was answered as his men launched themselves from their positions.
The Baratarians were, at first, too surprised to react. But as soon as they realized that their attackers were small in number, pistol muzzles smoked, and the sound of gunfire added to screams, yells, and curses.
Rafe saw the two men on the first skiff coming towards him—big, barrel-chested men with knives gleaming and mouths screaming foul abuse at him. He aimed his pistol at one and shot him clean through the chest, causing a great gout of blood to spill out onto the deck, but the giant kept coming, grinning menacingly as he grunted an instruction to his companion.
Swiftly, Rafe drew a dagger from his boot, tensing on the balls of his feet as they came for him.
“Over here, you renegades!” It was Rob, brandishing his sword and jumping onto the boat.
The two brutes hesitated, and Rafe dove for the one who was already wounded, bringing his knife up to plunge into his throat. But the man was quicker than he had thought possible and twisted away so that the knife found his shoulder blade instead. The jarring movement of knife meeting bone caused Rafe to lose his footing and slip sideways.
He felt a knife slice through the air close to his face and hurled himself in the opposite direction, noting at the same time that Rob had engaged the other ruffian with his sword. The wounded giant roared in outrage at missing his target and plunged again with his knife only to find empty air.
Rafe struggled to his feet and tacked about behind the man, circling him warily now, aware that his quarry was not unlike a wounded bear who would fight even more fiercely when cornered. The brigand was puffing now, and Rafe could see the blood still spurting all over the deck, streaming down the man’s big belly. He backed away as the man swiped through the air with his free hand, then followed it with slicing motions of the knife.
Rafe was aware of the dangerous footing on the slippery deck and crouched close to a barrel, waiting for the other to make his move. He could hear, above the shouts and clang of steel, men screaming in agony, and he hoped that they were not his men. He risked a quick glance behind him and saw Rob fighting in close combat with the other man, their knives catching the moonlight as they searched for an opening.
Rafe turned his attention to his opponent, who was bellowing curses at him, clutching his chest now and eyeing him with hatred.
“I’ll castrate you, you son of a bitch!” the man screamed and charged him, death on his face.
Rafe sidestepped behind the barrel, and the man flailed the air and lost his footing in his own blood. Quickly Rafe bent down, his hands closing around the man’s throat. The river pirate made horrible gurgling noises that nearly sickened him, but the fat giant refused to die, and with all his remaining strength, he rolled over and brought up his knife.
Rafe felt a white-hot stab of pain against his ribs, and, gritting his teeth, he caught at the fat wrist and pressed down with all his strength until the knife clattered heavily to the deck. His hand reached for the weapon and closed over the rough-hewn handle. The point drove downward into the creased, sunburned neck, and, finally, the ruffian lay still.
Rafe stood up and clutched at a barrel, feeling the dizziness wash over him in waves. He picked up the knife and made his way to where Rob was still struggling with the other riverman.
“Help me, for Christ’s sake!” Rob was screaming at him.
Rafe could see the long gash on his forehead and the streams of blood that were wetting the deck, but he couldn’t tell which man was the worse wounded. His right arm was beginning to feel like a dead weight, but, making the effort, he plunged the knife into the river pirate’s broad back and was surprised to see him slump immediately to the deck. Jesus, he was glad this one lacked the stamina of his dead friend.
Rob looked at him with a crazy light in his eyes. Both of them turned to the sounds of the other boat and then looked at each other wearily. Out of the corner of his eyes, Rafe saw a furtive figure disengage himself from the fighting, jostling group on the other boat and slip stealthily into the water. He waded towards their boat and the light of the lantern lit up his face briefly.
“It’s Lafitte! Goddammit, it’s Lafitte!” Rob cried in disgust, clutching at the useless leg that had been cut by the pirate’s long blade.
Rafe watched the man move away from the boat and then disappear into the tall marsh grass. He could have spit—or wept. Lafitte had been here—in his hands—and he had got away.
“Goddammit!” he swore deliberately. “The bastard’s escaped!”
The two wounded men sat down on some crates, listening to the lapping of the bayou waters against the sides of the skiff, waiting for the fighting to end, their eyes hard and disheartened, staring at nothing.
Chapter Thirty-one
Rafe St. Claire turned restlessly in the bed, gritting his teeth against the painful ache in his side. He had an idea that that damn doctor had been half-drunk when Melissa had summoned him in the grey dawn.
He could barely make out her clear, cool voice ordering one of the servants to fetch a basin of cold water and some fresh towels.
“Dr. Bernais assures me he will be fine, governor. He had to stitch the wound in his side, but thank God his ribs served to deflect the blow, and nothing internal was touched. There may be a slight fever, but I’ll make sure cold compresses are applied.”
Rafe wanted to grin but found his mouth wouldn’t function for him. How like Melissa—methodical, precise, and so practical when practicality was needed—but, God, she was an animal in bed.
He struggled to open his
eyes and saw the pleasant, rather round face of Governor William Claiborne leaning over him, the candid eyes registering his sincere concern.
“You did well, Rafe,” he was saying in that level voice of his. “We’ve been able to tie some of the names on those crates to certain ships that have been reported missing for the last few months. This gives us additional evidence against the Lafittes.”
Rafe felt the anger surge up within him. “But the bastard got away,” he muttered.
Claiborne shrugged, a habit he had learned from the Creoles. “No matter, we’ll catch him another day. At least we’ve shaken him up.” He smiled. “When your friends brought you back into town, I had them cart you to Miss Lawrence’s house, since I knew that here you would receive the very best of care.”
Rafe nodded. He was at the point where he wouldn’t have given a damn if they’d taken him to the worst whorehouse on the docks. All he wanted now was to sleep. Before he could do so, he knew there was a question he must ask
“What of the others?”
Claiborne frowned. “Martin will mend, although I’m hoping that leg doesn’t continue to give him trouble.” He seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “The only casualty was Bruce Fairchild—pistol wound in the throat. I’ve—I’ve already informed Mary.”
“Oh, Christ!” Rafe groaned, recalling the sweet, dimpled face of Mary Fairchild as she had kissed her young husband good-bye. He closed his eyes and let their voices drift hazily over him.
Sometime during the night, he awoke, sweating with the fever, and he felt cool, soft hands placing a damp cloth on his forehead, pressing him back to the bed. He could see long, golden-blond hair, could feel it brush his arm as the woman leaned over, could see those wide, violet eyes watching him with concern.
“Kitten?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Rafe, honey, you must be dreaming,” came Melissa’s soothing voice through layers of cotton wool that seemed to surround his head. “It’s Melissa, darling.”
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