It seemed he was quite capable of carrying out his threat, and Gabrielle clawed at the hand that was throttling her. “Rafe, please, Lafitte didn’t—didn’t touch me,” she gasped.
“He didn’t touch you! You lie, madame. I can see it in your eyes!” He threw her against the wall, where she crumpled to the floor. He stood there, staring at her for a long moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to control his fury. “Don’t ever come near me again,” he said in a deathly quiet voice. “If you do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself the next time!”
And he was gone down the hall, leaving her to grope against the wall and relieve her tortured throat. My God, she had truly lost him! She wept bitterly and huddled against the wall until a soldier found her and led her away.
Now, as she cheered along with the populace, Gabrielle’s hand went to her neck in remembrance. She knew, through Suzette, that Rafe was working at a feverish pace, drowning himself in papers and orders—anything to get her out of his mind.
Next to her, Suzette put a comforting arm around her. “Don’t worry, Gabrielle, he’ll come back to you once he’s had time to cool down.”
But he didn’t come back. Later, the day of Jackson’s arrival, the general met with Claiborne, Commodore Patterson, Edward Livingston, John Grymes, and Nicholas Girod, the mayor of New Orleans. As the governor’s most trusted aide, Rate St. Claire was also present at the meeting, carrying dispatches and keeping himself busy. The men discussed the military strategy of the British and the numbers of their troops.
The next day, General Jackson rode on an inspection tour to the American encampments. Despite the jaundice that plagued him, he was witty and charming among the men. The troops immediately took to him, and his popularity was widespread. “With a man like that leading us, how can we lose?” they shouted to each other.
In a rather surprising move, Jackson appointed Edward Livingston as his military secretary, and Mrs. Livingston gave a dinner for the general. Rafe noted Jackson’s ease of manner among the ladies, and the Creole women were really quite captivated with him.
“The general does have a way with the populace,” Dussault commented acidly, standing next to Rafe as they sipped champagne.
“It’s easy to see that he’ll have no trouble keeping the rank and file together,” Rafe agreed. “His face looks so tired, though, it’s a wonder he can still stand up!” He set his glass down and moved towards the general, who greeted him cordially.
“St. Claire, I hope you approve of my staying up late,” he laughed merrily.
Rafe started, aware that a frown must have marked his face. “Forgive me, general, my first concern is for your welfare,” he responded quickly.
Jackson clapped him in friendly fashion on the shoulder. “But where is your beautiful wife, St. Claire? I vow I have heard of no one else from everyone tonight. They are wondering why she is not here.”
Jackson’s sharp eyes did not miss the stiffening in the man’s jaw.
“She was not able to join us this evening,” he managed.
“I see. Well, in any case. I’m sure I shall have the pleasure soon. I must say I am looking forward to meeting her!”
“Thank you, general,” Rafe replied coolly and bowed in silence.
What, he wondered, would the general say if he knew his beautiful and charming wife had thrown herself into the very arms of the enemy! Rafe ground his teeth together in controlled rage. How could she do it to him? How could she—knowing how he had fought against Lafitte all these years! And now, to have his own wife go willingly to him—Lafitte must have enjoyed the moment immensely!
“Good God, St. Claire, you look as though you’re ready to go out and murder someone!” Leigh Owens commented at his shoulder. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, Leigh. Nothing that a long night in a spirited whore’s bed couldn’t cure,” he answered, with an ugly twist of his mouth.
Leigh laughed uncertainly. “Christ, man, you don’t need a whore! Your wife—”
“Shut up, Leigh, shut up before I put my fist in your face!”
Leigh blanched and backed away. “Jesus, I didn’t mean anything dishonorable by it, Rafe. I only meant that there’s no need for you to consider—”
But Rafe had already stalked off, and with nervous reservation Leigh watched his tall, dark form disappear in the crowd of guests. What in the hell was the matter with him? he wondered. For the past couple of days, no one had been able to talk to Rafe for fear he would lash out at them in his black mood.
Working his way through the guests, Rafe saw no one. His mind was filled with pictures of his wife—Gabrielle and Leigh, Gabrielle and de Chevalier—how did he know she hadn't encouraged the pitiful bastard? And now she had cuckolded him a third time with the very man he had cursed and stormed at for so long. A woman’s voice called flirtatiously to him, but his eyes would not focus because of the red mist in front of him. Goddamn her! If it was rape she wanted, he would certainly give it to her!
His strides lengthened as he neared the door, and then he was through it, out in the street where the cool air helped somewhat to clear his head. A soft, feminine giggle made him turn around, and he was aware of Melissa Beauville’s face turned up to him in obvious invitation.
“Rafe, darling, I’ve been wondering where that sweet little wife of yours has been lately? No one’s seen her at all the parties in honor of the general.”
“Where is your husband tonight, Melissa?” he asked her sarcastically, his eyes going blatantly to the neckline of her gown.
Melissa giggled again, and her mouth parted. “I haven’t the slightest notion, Rafe. I suppose he’s somewhere about.” She shrugged her shoulders and threw him a challenging look from beneath her lashes. “You look as though you could use some company, darling.”
He laughed savagely, frightening her a little. “Yes, you’re quite right, Melissa. I could use some company at the moment.” He gestured to one of the waiting carriages.
Melissa clapped her hands, amazed at the ease of her conquest. “Oh, Rafe, where shall we go? I know of an adorable place where we could rent a room and—”
Before she could finish, Rafe had caught her hand and was pulling her towards the nearest carriage. He had no idea whose carriage it was or if they were likely to come looking for it soon. He only knew he must punish her—punish that bitch who had made a fool out of him. Without gentleness, he pushed Melissa into the carriage and closed the door.
“But, darling, you’ll have to find the driver first. He—” But Melissa’s words were cut off abruptly by the force of his mouth on hers. “Oh-oh, Rafe—”
He was already pushing her skirts up, crumpling them around her waist, fumbling with his trousers.
“My goodness, lover, you are impatient tonight,” Melissa crooned, delighted at such primitive tactics. She didn’t mind that he was not gentle with her—was, in fact, not even touching her except for his hands tearing at her undergarments. “Not so fast, lover,” she cooed softly. “If you’re worried about my husband arriving, don’t. Nicholas is a fool, and—”
She stopped in mid-sentence, aware of the sudden stillness in him. “Darling, what’s the matter?” she questioned him, beginning to squirm against him with desire. “Rafe?”
He was moving away from her now, straightening his clothes and looking down at her with such contempt that she closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Melissa,” he said unexpectedly, “but I have no wish to punish your husband simply because he’s a fool.”
And then he backed out of the carriage and was gone, leaving Melissa lying, stunned, her skirts still up to her neck and the cool air chilling her legs.
Gabrielle enjoyed a quiet dinner that night with only the Claiborne servants for company. It soothed her not to have to smile and converse politely with everyone when her heart was breaking inside. She ate in her room and then went to the nursery where Paul was sleeping along with two of the Claiborne children.
She kissed her child softly on the forehead and tucked the sheet around his chin, then walked back to her own room. She supposed that the Claibornes would not arrive home until very late and started to undress when she felt a sudden uneasiness, as though someone was watching her. Her eyes searched the room, but in the light of the single candelabrum, she could not see into the recesses that were hidden in folds of darkness. Uneasily, she slipped out of her dress and reached for the nightgown that the maid had folded neatly on the chair.
“You’ll not be needing that tonight, madame.” The male voice caused her to jerk around quickly, her eyes widening as she perceived a man’s tall figure outlined against the window. “I’ve heard,” the voice went on mockingly, “that you give your favors freely, madame, and I have come to claim you this night.”
Gabrielle let out a sigh of relief. “Rafe, it is you, isn’t it?”
What kind of game was he playing with her? He didn’t answer but moved into the circle of light. He reached over and extinguished the remaining candles, and in a moment the room was filled with bright moonlight.
“Rafe, are you all right?” she whispered in some alarm.
His scornful laugh seemed to echo in the darkened room. “I have never felt better, madame. I am looking forward to our night together.”
She backed away a little, her hand still clutching the nightgown against her. “You—you did give me a scare,” she began hesitantly.
He laughed again, and she could imagine the amused mockery in his eyes. “Why should a man scare you—I had heard you were quite used to them in your bedroom.”
“Rafe! Stop it! I—I don’t know why you’re playing this silly game with me, but I don’t like it!”
“I am not your husband tonight, madame. Just think of me as a man whom you must do your best to please. You’re my woman now. Come, don’t be coy with me!” He strode across the room and caught her by the shoulders. She waited in trepidation for his kiss, but he only pushed her backwards toward the bed. She floundered helplessly for a moment, then fell onto the mattress. Her heart began a slow thudding as she felt his body press down against hers, and her arms went about his neck instinctively.
“Ah, that’s better. A man must get his money’s worth,” he murmured, his lips teasing her breasts.
She ignored his words. They didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was here with her—he couldn’t keep away from her, despite what he thought! He was caressing her thighs and her belly, and she welcomed him gladly, moving under him in a way that she knew would excite him even more.
“Oh, Rafe,” she said gently, happily, “I do love you so!”
He stiffened against her, and his tense body seemed poised for a fraction of a second in the air as though she had wounded him.
“Whores mustn’t talk of love!” he hissed ruthlessly, and his body slammed down hard against hers now.
Confused, not knowing what she had done wrong, Gabrielle couldn’t help the cry that escaped her as he entered her flesh. In another moment, his hand had clamped down on her mouth, bruising her lips with the pressure. Oh, God! No, please, her mind screamed, don’t do this to me, Rafe, please! She struggled against the suffocating hand, but he didn’t seem to notice, and soon the lack of oxygen began to play on her mind.
This was not Rafe who was raping her so indifferently. No, this was Charles! My God! She was screaming inside at the violation, her eyes seeing the blond head on her bosom, feeling the hurt he was inflicting on her multiplied ten times over in her dazed mind. No, no, no! Please, don’t hurt me any more, her eyes beseeched him as tears spilled down against the hand on her mouth.
Then, suddenly, the hand was pulled away, and she took in great gulps of air. The whirling in her brain slowed and then stopped. Rafe’s face hovered above hers, and there were pain and self-contempt mixed in those green eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Gabrielle! Forgive me!” he muttered brokenly.
Willing herself not to tremble, she reached out and touched his cheek gently, so unnerving him that he collapsed against her, his whole body shaking.
“Rafe, I don’t blame you, my darling. I don’t blame you,” she whispered. “I love you too much.”
He raised his head again and looked into those wide, candid eyes, and he turned his head away. Silently, he raised himself from her and stood looking down at her. Then, without a word, she saw him walk towards the door and pass through, closing it gently behind him.
Chapter Forty-four
New Orleans was in an uproar over the latest news. Lafitte had gone to General Jackson! The newssheets were scattered over the streets, proclaiming that Governor Claiborne had issued a full pardon against both Lafittes, their lieutenants, and the men of Barataria! This, indeed, was an exciting day, for Lafitte had told Jackson where he would find a large supply of ammunition and weapons, stored close to the Temple. All proceedings against the Baratarians had been dropped by official decree, and, to top it off, because of their artillery skill, Dominique You and Renato Beluche had been made captains!
How the Creoles loved it! Oh, they had known all along that Lafitte was a clever fox—but this was far more than they had ever imagined. He had, without the loss of an ounce of his own pride, neatly turned the tables so that he was practically proclaimed a hero for his part in adding to the supply of arms. No one knew quite how it was done—or why.
Well, no matter the reason, leave that to Lafitte’s own discretion. At least now they had something to use against the British!
Very quickly, Jackson put the whole city under martial law, an irksome situation to the freedom-loving Creoles, but one they knew they must accept under the difficult conditions.
Gabrielle had not seen Rafe again since the night when he had come to her room at the Governor’s House, and she had not made mention of it to Suzette, although it troubled her that Rafe had seemed, if anything, even further away from her than ever. Governor Claiborne gave her a formal apology, and he added his sincere thanks for her part in bringing about Lafitte’s meeting with General Jackson.
“Are you sure—er—you wouldn’t want me to let it out that it was you—”
Gabrielle shook her head quickly. “No, governor. Let it be a secret between you and me and Lafitte.” And Rafe, she thought, wondering if this news had caused him to think more dispassionately about the meeting she had had with Lafitte that night. Probably not, she thought dejectedly. The bulletins doubtless only served to strengthen his opinion that she had gone to bed with the pirate in order to insure his cooperation.
She was thinking such gloomy thoughts as this one morning when Suzette came rushing in, obviously distracted.
“Oh, Gabrielle, my dear! The general, I should have known he was ill! The poor, brave man is suffering from malaria, of all things. How in the world can he expect to lead our men into battle when he should be in bed under a physician’s care?”
Gabrielle stood up in surprise. “General Jackson is ill? But—but it can’t be—you told me he has attended every party given for him and has been working until late at night with the governor on military planning. How could a sick man—”
“That’s just it! I don’t know, myself! The man can’t be entirely human—anyone else would leave the strategy to one of the others and try to get over the fever before the battle begins. Oh, William is in such a state as you’ve never seen! He even snapped at me this morning!”
She burst into tears, and Gabrielle put her arms around her to comfort her. “There, now, Suzette. If Jackson believes he can do it, there’s really nothing anyone else can do to stop him.”
“Oh, but Gabrielle, you haven’t seen him. His face is positively haggard, and sometimes his eyes look as though they will glaze over at any minute. It’s horrible to watch him put himself through such torture.”
Gabrielle bit her lip. Lord, everyone’s nerves were on edge—if the people found out that Jackson was a sick man, how could their hopes continue to soar? It would be disastrous if they though
t he was incapable of leading the attack! “There is nothing you can do,” she repeated, “except to keep control of yourself.”
“Oh, that will be harder than you think! Jackson will be here for a small supper tonight, and I—I don’t think I can stand to watch him without breaking into tears.”
“Suzette, you’ve always been the perfect hostess. Your upbringing is not going to let you down now. You must pull yourself together. How many will be attending tonight?”
Suzette sniffed, but she seemed to draw some strength from the other’s words. “Only about twenty. Jackson and his staff, of course, and William and his immediate staff. No ladies will be present except myself—and you—you must come, too. William told me expressly that you should be invited because of your—your contribution.” She stopped and shot a look at her friend. “What contribution is that, my dear?”
Gabrielle thought quickly. “I have no idea, unless it has to do with the uniforms I helped to sew.”
Suzette smiled. “Yes, I suppose that must be it. William is a kind man, deep down, but lately I’m afraid we’ve all been at odds, trying to outguess the British and get ourselves in shape.”
Gabrielle agreed. “Come, now, why don’t you rest and think about what gown you are going to wear tonight? I’ll be glad to look in on the kitchen and see what sort of menu to prepare.”
“Oh, I can’t expect you to do that, my dear,” Suzette sighed. “I’ll go speak to the cook immediately. I only hope Jackson doesn’t have some certain preference—I must try to please everyone, you know.”
Gabrielle smiled, recognizing the years of training coming back instantly to the harassed woman. “Well, at least let me see to the table settings.”
“Oh, you are a dear, Gabrielle. I don’t know how you can do it with—with your own problems.”
Gabrielle hurried out of the room, forcing her mind to stay with the difficulty at hand. Rafe will be here tonight, she kept whispering to herself like a refrain. He’ll have to speak to me. I’ll make him! He won’t dare to make a scene in front of the general. I'll make him understand—I must try!
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