He lay on top of her, breathing rapidly and planting kisses on her cheeks and neck. She lay silent now, trying to put her disordered thoughts back into place. Her eyes flew open, and she pulled his head down to her mouth, kissing him with a sweetness that was exquisite in its simplicity. When he moved away, she saw the inscrutable expression on his face as he gazed down at her.
“Christ!” he said a little shakily. “If motherhood does this to you, I’ve a mind to keep you with a full belly every year!” He was teasing, but there was a serious note in his voice that disconcerted her, and she flushed in embarrassment.
“I—I just wanted to make up for lost time,” she said with a trace of impudence.
He grinned lazily, his head supported on one elbow as he played with a tendril of her hair. “Kitten, you certainly did just that!” The curl felt like heavy silk as it slid through his fingers, and, unexpectedly, he pressed his lips to it in a gesture that nearly unnerved her with its gentleness.
Her mind screamed her love for him, and she fought against the need to tell him, but she folded her lips, and the moment was all the more bittersweet for having been lost.
He got up from the bed, grinning. “All this exercise has made me shamefully hungry,” he said, laughing a little as he put his breeches back on.
Gabrielle sat up, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks. “I—I don’t know if I can face the servants after what they must have heard!”
At the dinner table, Rafe resumed his talk of Lafitte and the governor’s troubles. Gabrielle listened dutifully enough although her mind kept slipping back to the passionate interlude in their bedroom—an episode that Rafe seemed so easily to put out of his mind.
“Kitten, if you’re bored by all this talk of war, please don’t sit there as rigid as a soldier and pretend to be interested,” she heard Rafe admonishing her sternly.
She shook her head, blushing at being caught. “I am interested truly, Rafe, but I—I had something else on my mind.”
She thought he must be able to see her thoughts, for a wicked grin shaped his sensuous mouth as he leaned towards her, his eyes sparkling. “You’re blushing, Madame St. Claire,” he whispered insolently. “Are you already hoping, perhaps, for a sister for Paul?”
“Perhaps,” she answered boldly.
He sat back with a wide grin on his face. “Ah, woman, you are lucky to be married to a man who is fond of children.”
“And you are lucky,” she said impudently, “to be married to a wife who enjoys making them.”
He laughed uproariously. “You’re getting as bold as that handsome Suzette Claiborne,” he said arrogantly. “I’ve a mind to keep you out of her company!”
He continued to smile fondly at her; then, as though with an effort, he set his mind once more on other things. “Word came today,” he began seriously, “that Napoleon has lost a big battle, you could say a crucial one. The battle was fought last October at Leipzig, and he was defeated decisively by as many as two-hundred thousand allied Prussians, Austrians, and Russians. I’m afraid it looks as though this is truly the beginning of the end for the ‘Little Corsican’.” He frowned as his fingers began a soft drumbeat on the table. “The worst of it, unfortunately, is yet to come. More and more French are fleeing to New Orleans—the fools don’t realize that we’re fighting the same enemy they are! New Orleans will be glutted with refugees in a few more weeks. Shanties and makeshift houses are going up faster than anyone believed possible, and all that miserable humanity jammed into such squalid surroundings bodes ill for the other citizens. Looting, robberies, even murder are steadily increasing—not to mention disease and filth. The sewage canals can’t handle everything that’s being dumped into them.” He shook his head. “Claiborne’s got a bigger problem than Lafitte and even the British on his hands unless he can convince some of the people to move out of the city. By summer, the pestilence could reach epidemic proportions.”
“All those poor people—perhaps I could do some volunteer work for the sisters of the Ursuline Convent. I could distribute food or clothing—or just give comfort to some of those poor women.” Her violet eyes looked hopefully at Rafe, but he shook his head deliberately.
“If you think I’d let you put yourself in danger for them, you’re crazy,” he said. “No, you’ll not offer your services in that area. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
She veiled the emotion that showed in her eyes as he went on aggressively, “You’re the mother of my son, kitten, and in spite of everything else, I care enough about you to protect you from as much unpleasantness as possible.”
When she looked up, their eyes locked for a moment, each of them trying to read what was in the other’s.
Chapter Thirty-six
“They’ve arrested Pierre Lafitte!”
The words were on everybody’s lips, muttered in the streets and in gaming rooms and whorehouses. A platoon of dragoons had been sent to scour the usual haunts of the Lafittes and their lieutenants, and Pierre had actually been arrested in the street near the Place d’Armes! Orders had also gone out for the arrest of Jean Lafitte, Renato Beluche, and Dominique You. The Creoles could not believe that the governor had actually been so bold as to carry out his threats.
“He’s asking for trouble!”
“Lafitte won’t stand for having his brother sent to jail!”
“Sauvinet’s money will get him out before the week is over!”
The populace could not believe that this man, the brother of the powerful and terrible Lafitte, could actually have been arrested and locked in the strongest cell in the calaboose. Bail had been denied, and everyone waited, wondering what would happen next.
What did happen shocked nearly everyone—or at least everyone in the governor’s retinue—for a few days later, John Randolph Grymes resigned from the office of district attorney and announced that he and Edward Livingston, an attorney highly regarded in the city, had undertaken the defense of the Lafitte brothers. The Creoles, not to be caught napping, smiled slyly to each other as though to say I told you so, for it was common knowledge that although both men were among the most distinguished members of the Louisiana bar, both were Americans—and Americans would do anything for gold.
Gabrielle was aware of the burning anger in her husband, noting the strained tenseness in his face, the impatient attitude he took with everyone, including herself.
“Damn Grymes!” he muttered one evening in August while he was dressing for a dinner at the house of Bernard de Marigny. “And damn Livingston! I can’t believe he would do such a damn-fool thing, despite the money! Well, dammit, they’ll not get Pierre Lafitte out of prison with their honeyed lawyers’ phrases!”
Gabrielle dressed carefully, willing herself to keep silent, knowing how easily the slightest careless word might set fire to Rafe’s volatile temper. She looked curiously at herself in the mirror, wondering if she was still as attractive to Rafe as that day almost five years ago when they had first looked at each other in the hallway of Alexandre de Chevalier’s house. Certainly, in the eight months since Paul’s birth, she had regained her supple figure, the waist as slim as ever, the stomach flat and smooth, the breasts still impudent beneath her chemise. Why, then, when Rafe looked at her, did she sometimes see anger, distrust in his eyes? Did he think he had been cheated?
It still nagged her that he was more often than not ungentle with her, and tenderness was a rare thing between them these days. She supposed that she could attribute most of this to the worries of the war and Lafitte, but it rankled that she could not tell him of her love for him.
Rafe looked over at his wife from his position by the window and saw her looking reflectively at herself in the mirror. What was she thinking, he wondered? He shook his head and turned back to stare outside. He had always been a man sure of his women, but this woman who was his wife—she was the only one who could make him feel as though he were not getting the last word. His feelings towards her had undergone a change that he could not comprehend.
Christ! He wasn’t going to fall in love with her and make an ass of himself! And then there was this mess with the Lafittes and his new position as aide to Governor Claiborne, a post he would not have accepted if he hadn’t been urged by his wife. His shipping business was stagnant, anyway, with the war going on, and so Gabrielle had reasoned that it would be a good thing to keep him busy. Goddammit! Behind those wide, innocent eyes lurked a woman of iron, he had begun to suspect.
When they made love, he always felt that she was holding something back, keeping something from him. Oh, yes, he was satisfied, more so than with any other woman he’d ever known, but with his sixth sense, he knew that she held back just the tiniest bit—that she was forcing herself to hide something from him.
His conflicting emotions had driven him away from Gabrielle, it seemed, and, on top of everything else, Melissa had shown up. The silver-haired witch was married. She was Mrs. Nicholas Beauville now—and a more dull or boring husband wasn’t to be found, she complained. Rafe and she had accidentally met on Royal Street, and she had persuaded him to come to her town house for a drink. One thing had eventually led to another, and it had taken considerable restraint on his part not to skewer the bitch in her own bed, but his conscience had won out, and poor Melissa was left, panting abuse at him while he made quick his escape. She was a sly little weasel, though, and they seemed to run into each other too much for it to be mere accident. It was hard enough not to give in to her wiles without this jumble of emotions he felt for Gabrielle stirring him up.
Hell! He’d almost give up the whole mess and return to the life of an outcast if it weren’t for his son. He smiled proudly to himself, hardly believing that he could feel this strange outpouring of love for one individual. Love was somehow alien to him, a thing reserved for children to feel towards their parents before their disillusionment twisted the feeling to pity. There were times when he would walk into his son’s room and see Gabrielle bending over him affectionately, playing with him, laughing at his attempts to talk back to her, and a feeling like none he’d ever known would wash over him so that he would nearly start to shake from its intensity. Because of this unfamiliar weakening, he knew that he was even more brusque and sarcastic with his wife afterwards and he hated himself when he brought that hurt, uncomprehending look to her
“Rafe, I’m ready.”
Gabrielle’s voice, cool and composed, floated over to him and he turned to look at her as she waited for him in the doorway. Christ, she was beautiful! Her blonde hair with just that touch of red in it gleamed in the curled coiffure, sparkling with tiny brilliants. The perfect figure, outlined so maddeningly in the exquisite gown she had had made especially for tonight, was shown to full advantage, from the low neckline to the draped skirt that fell so gracefully from the sash beneath her breasts. Her eyes, dark-violet and slightly tipped at the corners, looked back at him steadily.
He bowed and made his way to her, bending so that his lips brushed the swell of her left breast. “Lovely, kitten. I’m proud of you—very proud, Mrs. St. Claire.”
Gabrielle felt her heart quicken. Why, why was it that he could topple her reserve with just one word or gesture? She trembled when he took her arm possessively and hoped he wasn’t aware of it. At the bottom of the staircase, they waited a moment for the carriage to be brought around, and she looked up to see his eyes on her, speculation in their green depths.
“It—it should be a lovely party,” she said to dispel any uncomfortable silence.
He nodded. “I’m sure Bernard is as proud as a peacock to be chosen chairman of the legislature’s defense committee. He’s a good man—they chose well.”
The ride was relatively short, and in no time, Rafe was handing her out of the carriage and escorting her into the Maison de Marigny where lights shone in every window and the gay music of the Creoles sounded pleasantly in one’s ears. Bernard’s face seemed aglow with pride and laughter, and Gabrielle waited to greet him, her eyes glancing quickly off his wife, Anna, who stood like a sour scarecrow next to him, her dark features pressed into an impatient expression.
“Gabrielle, my dear, allow me to present you to my wife, Anna,” Bernard was saying, clasping her hands and pressing a kiss to her cheeks.
“How do you do, Mrs. St. Claire?” Anna replied formally, her hand as cold and lifeless as a dead fish.
“A pleasure to meet you, madame,” Gabrielle murmured, hurrying to move on. Goodness! No wonder Bernard looked elsewhere for pleasures of the flesh!
Behind her, Rafe was clasping her lightly about the waist, guiding her farther into the room full of milling, buzzing people. She could barely breathe in the heavy, moist air and sought refuge next to a window, where she fanned herself energetically while Rafe disappeared in order to greet some acquaintances.
“Lord, it’s hot in here!” Suzette Claiborne exclaimed, coming to stand next to her friend, her dark hair damp with perspiration. “What a dreadful night for a party, no?” she said fitfully, nearly collapsing on the bench next to Gabrielle. “Such a shame that Bernard couldn’t have been appointed in the winter.”
Gabrielle nodded agreeably. “He’s so pleased with himself, I haven’t the heart to tell him how stifling it is in here.”
After a time the orchestra began tuning up, and, as though that were a signal to the heavens, it suddenly started to pour down rain. Within a few minutes a heavy deluge had begun, cooling things down considerably.
“I’d better get back to William. I’m sure we’ll be expected to begin the dancing.”
Gabrielle watched the brilliant red of her dress disappear into the mingling throng, and she searched impatiently for Rafe’s tall figure. A flash of vivid blue appeared at the corner of her eye, and she turned slightly, frowning a little, to see the figure of Melissa Beauville approaching on the arm of her new husband.
“Oh, Gabrielle, my dear,” she trilled, deceptively sweet. “Are you looking for your handsome husband? I’m afraid the poor darling’s been bombarded by the governor and his other aides, all talking the same thing—war and Lafitte.” She laughed again, irritatingly. “Goodness knows I tried to get his attention, but it look as though he prefers the company of those dreadfully boring men tonight.”
Nicholas Beauville, who seemed terribly ill at ease, bowed swiftly to Gabrielle, then negotiated his reluctant wife over to another part of the ballroom. Gabrielle watched the couple with anger and pity, wondering idly what kind of marriage they must have together. She maneuvered her way through a score of people who sought to detain her for a moment until she reached her husband’s side.
“Rafe, the dancing—it’s about to begin.”
Rafe seemed not to hear her as he listened eagerly to the news being imparted by another of the governor’s aides. For lack of anything better to do, Gabrielle hung onto the group, catching snatches of conversation.
“Pierre Lafitte’s been sick for days now—dysentery. Christ! His cell smells like a nigger pen. The guards have to slosh it down with buckets of water every night, or else gag from the odor!”
Gabrielle blanched at the conversation, her mind recalling the happy, gay Pierre she had known a long time ago—a Pierre who hid his wisdom and his sadness behind the cloak of the buffoon, in deliberate contrast to his younger, smarter brother.
“And what of his brother, Jean?” Rafe wanted to know.
“In hiding. We’ve checked at Pierre’s mistress’s house, but those griffes are close-mouthed about the whole thing. Look at us like we’re the criminals.”
Dear, sweet Marie, Gabrielle thought, pretty, young, and so kind to her. She was soon to bear another child to Pierre, their second, and she must be overcome with fear and grief to see her lover in such a horrible place. The memory of her own stay in a prison cell brushed her mind with frightening black wings for a moment, then it receded as she fought down the encroaching nausea.
“W-why must you keep him in heavy chains?” she asked in a small voice.
Several curious
pairs of eyes turned to look at her. “What, madame?” one of them asked politely.
“Pierre Lafitte—if he is ill, helpless—why must you keep him manacled inside his cell?” she asked again, carefully avoiding her husband’s cold gaze.
Dussault shrugged. “Why, madame, Pierre Lafitte is a dangerous prisoner, a man capable of murder to free himself from his cell. We must keep him chained for the protection of the guards.”
Dussault cleared his throat uncomfortably and would have spoken again, but Rafe suddenly pushed his wife away from the group, nodding his apologies for her interruptions. Once in a fairly secluded corner of the room, he grasped her arm and turned her sharply to face him.
“What in hell is the matter with you?” he thundered, nearly shaking her in his anger.
She glared back at him. “I can’t help it. I think it’s terrible, disgusting, to keep a man in chains when he is obviously ill! How can you treat him like an animal?”
Rafe gritted his teeth and stood still for a moment, obviously trying to regain his control. “Listen to me,” he began carefully. “It is none of your goddamn business what we do with prisoners of the state. It comes as no surprise to me that you choose to stand up for your former lover’s brother so bravely, but, for God’s sake, must you make a fool out of me in the process?”
Gabrielle eyed him warily. “What are you talking about? No one has the least idea that I—”
“Well, I don’t give them long to suspect something with your ill-timed remarks, madame!” he interrupted savagely. “Why—why can’t you be like other women,” he continued caustically. “Why must you have a brain that can work against her own husband—a tongue that’s too busy wagging to realize what she is talking about! Kitten, I think I could cut off your head and do very nicely with the rest of you!”
Gabrielle Page 40
