by Smith, Bobbi
It was then that Adam had decided to track the murderous pirate down and kill him. His heart had hardened, and he became obsessed with the thought of making the killer pay for his deeds. With only the few clues Beau had overheard while pretending to be dead on deck to guide him —that the pirate's name was Shark, that he'd been smuggling slaves, and that he had a female partner in New Orleans — Adam had begun to plan.
Beau had been weeks longer recovering, and Adam had spent that time preparing to go back to sea. He'd ordered his fastest ship, the Sea Shadow, re-outfitted with enough guns to blow the pirate right out of the water. As soon as Beau had been able to sail again, Adam had entrusted Elise to Becky's care and then had gone back to the sea . . . back to find and kill the brutal savage who'd destroyed his world.
Viciously determined, he had begun combing the Gulf for Shark. Not wanting his real identity known, he'd adopted the disguise of a masked avenger named Spectre. He was a ghost from Shark's past, and he meant to haunt him until he could claim his complete revenge.
Adam had concentrated his efforts in the trade routes near New Orleans, challenging and stopping every clipper that resembled the pirate's. He'd released all innocent vessels without looting or damage, but always made sure that those aboard knew of Spectre and of his quest to find Shark.
"There's got to be a better way," Adam declared, no longer fully confident that his plan to catch Shark at sea would work now that the months of useless searching had left him desperate. It was time to come up with a new strategy.
"Right," Beau agreed, "but what is it? The man's as slippery as an eel!"
"Look, we know he's smuggling slaves into New Orleans, and that's what we've been centering our search on, hoping to catch him coming in to port. But maybe there's an angle here that we haven't considered yet." Adam turned to face his friend, wanting Beau's opinion on the new plan he'd devised.
"Such as?" Beau was immediately attentive. He was more than willing to do whatever it took to pay Shark back for the pain he'd caused.
"What would you think if I told you I was going to pay a lengthy visit to New Orleans?" Adam asked, his eyes narrowing as he considered it.
"You're going into New Orleans? As Spectre?"
"No, as the rich Adam Trent, Charleston plantation owner, on a slave-buying trip," he explained. "We have family friends there —the Whitneys —and I'm sure I'll be welcome to stay with them. They should be able to introduce me to society so I can make the contacts I need."
Beau caught his drift instantly and felt a spark of excitement. "You're going to try it from the other angle . . ."
"That's right. You can assume Spectre's identity and keep on searching the trade routes, while I'll start trying to locate this female partner of his."
"It just might work, Adam."
Adam met his friend's gaze across the cabin. "It's got to, Beau. I'm not going to rest until Shark's paid for the attack with his life."
It was dark and noisy in the riverfront dive in New Orleans. Huddled nervously across the table from the infamous Captain Shark, Miller, a weaselly, skinny little man, relayed all that he'd heard.
"He goes by the name of Spectre," he informed him, "and he told us all that he was lookin' for you."
"Why would he tell you?" Shark sneered.
"I dunno. All I know is what I heard, and what I heard is that he's lookin' for Shark and he ain't gonna stop 'til he finds you," the sailor finished off with relish.
"What's he look like?"
"That's the worst part," Miller said with a shudder, his fear obvious.
"What are you talking about?" Shark snapped, grabbing him by his shirt front and almost hauling him across the tabletop.
"I mean he wears this disguise . . ."
"Disguise? What kind of disguise?"
"Well, he dresses all in black, but he wears this mask. It covers most of his face, see, and all you can see of him is his mouth."
Shark was suddenly tense as a haunting premonition jolted through him at the thought of this Spectre hunting him down . . . masked, secretive, and determined never to give up. He tried to imagine who among his enemies would come after him this way, but came up with no one.
"You say he's got a fast ship?" he queried, shoving the messenger back down in his chair.
"The fastest!"
"No ship's quicker than the Banshee," Shark scoffed.
"This one'll give you a race," Miller replied, afraid to tell Shark that he really believed Spectre would be able to run him down with ease. "Why do you suppose he's wearin' that mask?"
"I don't know. But I'm sure I'll find out," he replied, acting as though it were of little concern for him, but in truth, the icy fear that had come with his premonition was still with him.
Quickly, forcefully, he shrugged the threat of danger away. Spectre was obviously a coward, Shark told himself, that was why he was hiding behind the mask. When their paths finally crossed, he'd take great personal pleasure in running him through. No one had ever bested Shark before, and no one ever would.
Chapter Three
Six weeks later, north of New Orleans . . .
From the end of the curving drive, the Ducharme plantation home, Belle Arbor, appeared immaculate. Framed by moss-draped oaks, the massive, yet gracefully designed white house bespoke of great wealth. Six huge Corinthian pillars supported the pitched roof, and the balcony that graced the front of the structure was trimmed in ornate wrought iron. The twin garçonnières that flanked the center section were smaller, identical copies of it, adding to the mansion's overall appearance of grandeur.
Yet as one approached the pillared home, it became apparent that all was not well there. Paint that seemed perfect from a distance was fading and peeling. The hot, humid Louisiana weather and a lack of care had taken its toll. The wide expanse of green lawn and the flowering shrubs that surrounded the house were no longer perfectly manicured. Instead, the bushes were growing wild, and the grass was just barely under control. If outward impressions were anything to judge by, it was clear that life at Belle Arbor was no longer troublefree.
Lianne Ducharme sat at the desk in the cool seclusion of the study, her elbows on the desktop, her head resting in utter weariness in her hands. It was not readily evident from her posture that she was a lovely young woman. This afternoon, with her lustrous red-gold hair twisted back in a tight, practical bun, wearing her plainest, most practical daygown, Lianne appeared far older than her twenty years. There was no light of joy in the emerald depths of her gaze, and no smile brightened the loveliness of her features. She was exhausted and it showed.
Lianne pushed away from the desk and moved slowly to stand by the floor-to-ceiling casement window. The view from the study window of Belle Arbor's beautiful reflecting pond usually cheered her, but today she felt only frustrated and empty as she stared out across its mirrored depths. Time was running out. She knew she was cornered.
After her older brother Mark's death in a duel a year ago, Lianne had felt certain that she could hold the plantation together. It was their heritage, their family's roots, and she wanted to save it for herself and for her younger brother, Alex. She'd managed well for a while, but now she was beginning to have doubts that she could do it. Somehow, no matter how hard she worked or how many hours she labored, there just didn't seem to be enough money. This troubled her, for things had been wonderful when Mark had been alive. Their cotton and sugar cane had flourished, prices on the market had been stable, and money had never been a problem.
Lianne frowned as she considered all that had happened. Their crops had continued to be good, prices hadn't fallen. Yet, she was still finding herself in dire financial straits. Even Antoine Ducharme, their uncle who'd been appointed their guardian when Mark had died, was encouraging her to sell Belle Arbor. Lianne had adamantly refused to consider that terrible possibility, for she was determined somehow, someway to keep her home. It was all she had left of her past . . . all that remained of the happiness and love she'd once known.
Lianne's mouth twisted in disgust at the thought of her fraternal uncle. Being a woman, she'd had no recourse when he had been named their guardian. He was, after all, their only living blood kin. Even so, his appointment had left her feeling decidedly uncomfortable, for in no way did he resemble their beloved, long-deceased father, Richard. Her father had been tall, lean, darkly handsome and filled with loving warmth. Antoine, on the other hand, was short and fat, and though he gave the impression of caring deeply for her and Alex, Lianne sensed a certain coldness in him. He'd immediately refused to come live at Belle Arbor with them, claiming that his business interests forced him to stay in New Orleans, and Lianne sensed that Antoine was relieved when she and Alex had chosen to remain on the plantation rather than stay with him.
Lianne grimaced as she thought of his visit to Belle Arbor the week before. He had been very aware of their failing financial situation. Instead of offering to help them, he had tried to convince her in his irritating, arrogant male way that running the plantation was no job for a woman. He'd emphasized rather bluntly that she was in danger of becoming an old maid and that it was time she started seriously thinking about marrying . . . for her sake and for Alex's.
Lianne sighed. During the past few months, several men had attempted to court her, but she harbored no deep romantic feelings for any of them. She'd always wanted her own marriage to be a love match, just as her parents' had been. She had always imagined herself falling madly in love with a wonderful, exciting man who would sweep her off her feet and into ecstatic marital bliss. Now she was beginning to wonder if it would ever happen.
Her heart was heavy and her mood depressed as she realized the truth. There would be no handsome prince to rescue her from her fate. She was the one who had to take responsibility for herself and Alex. There was no one else. It was up to her to keep Belle Arbor afloat.
Mark entered her thoughts then, and at the memory of her strong, tall, older brother, tears stung her eyes. If only he were here, she was sure things would be different. He would know what to do . . . he would know how to help her . . .
Suddenly, Lianne was frightened about her future, and with that fear came a desperate fury over the injustices of the past. If only Mark hadn't fallen in love with Suzanne Labadie! Everyone had known how wicked that gorgeous blond really was. She used men as it pleased her and then dropped them without a thought. Lianne had tried to warn her brother about Suzanne, but he'd been too enamored at the time. He had declared himself in love with her and believed that she loved him too. He had even planned to propose to her . . .
The deep, abiding hatred Lianne felt for Suzanne welled up inside her as she remembered the duel Mark had fought over her honor and his senseless death. The other woman had barely shed a tear over it all and had returned to the social scene on the arm of a new beau one short week later.
"Damn her!" Lianne suddenly exclaimed, no longer able to hold it all inside. "Damn Suzanne Labadie to hell!"
Her fists clinched in useless rage as she realized the helplessness of her situation. She had tried so hard to be strong, but now she was cornered by circumstances and she could see no way out.
"Miss Lianne?"
The soft call at the study door took her by surprise and she hurriedly struggled to bring her runaway emotions back in check.
"Yes, Sarah, come on in." Lianne was struggling to control her raging temper as the servant entered the room.
Sarah had been with the Ducharme family for all sixty years of her life. Short, happily rotund, and always filled with a sense of life's joy, Sarah was not only Lianne's mammy, but also her dearest friend. She had raised Lianne, and she loved her as if she were her own.
"I thought you might like something to drink," Sarah offered as she crossed the room.
"Thank you — " Lianne managed in a tight voice.
As Sarah drew nearer she saw the distress reflected in her eyes, and a frown creased her brow. "What is it, honey? What's troubling you?" she asked as she placed the tray on the desktop.
"Nothing . . ." Lianne tried to deny it, and then, desperately needing someone to talk to, to confide in, she answered "Everything . . ."
"Tell me, darlin'. What's wrong?" Sarah went to her, and, when Lianne didn't protest, she took her in her arms, giving her the support and reassurance she needed.
"I don't understand it, Sarah. Nothing's working out right. If Mark was still alive, none of this would be happening . . ."
"Easy, little one," she crooned, remembering how she had comforted Lianne in the same way when she was a little girl facing the death of her parents. It had been a much simpler matter to dry her tears and help her confront her fears then, for the future had not seemed nearly so threatening while Mark was alive. Now, though, Sarah knew that Lianne had no one to turn to, no one to rely on but herself. Sarah had already decided that Antoine Ducharme was no good. She couldn't say exactly why she didn't trust their uncle and guardian, it was just a feeling she had about the man, and Sarah always trusted her feelings. "It's not as bad as you think. You know you can do anything you decide to do!"
Lianne sighed deeply in her distress. "God knows I'm trying, but sometimes it all seems so useless . . ."
"You saying that working to save your home is useless?" she demanded.
"No . . . no, of course not. I guess I'm just tired. . . ."
"And grieving," Sarah added. "You know you've never mourned Mark the way you should have. You were too busy being strong for Alex to ever stop and realize what had really happened."
Lianne knew she was right, but it didn't make what she was feeling now any easier to deal with or any less painful.
"I'll tell you one thing, Sarah," Lianne swore with a vengeance as she drew away from her, her back stiffening as her sense of pride returned. "I don't know how I'm going to do it right now, but some day, some way, I'm going to pay Suzanne Labadie back!"
"If ever a woman deserved payin' back, it's that one," Sarah agreed bitterly.
"And you know what?" Lianne said avidly.
"What?"
"I'm going to enjoy every minute of it!" Lianne's green eyes glittered like shards of brilliant glass. "Every minute!"
The tense, emotional moment was shattered as young Alex came charging into the study. "Lianne!" Unaware of the undercurrents in the room he raced to his sister's side without hesitation. His face was flushed with excitement as he held up the jar he'd been clutching for her inspection. "Look what I just caught!"
Somehow Lianne managed to put aside all the hatred she felt for Suzanne as she gazed down lovingly at her little brother. At eight, he was a sturdy boy whose dark good looks held the promise of great manly appeal. With the deepest of affection, she ruffled his already tousled sable hair and gave him a quick warm hug as she studied the butterfly he'd managed to trap.
"It's beautiful, Alex."
"I know, and I'm going to keep it forever," he told her breathlessly, his chocolate brown eyes aglow at the though of such a wonderful pet.
"You know, butterflies don't live very long when they're held captive," Lianne explained, frowning slightly.
"They don't?" He was troubled by this news, for he treasured the creature and wished it no harm.
"No, honey." She softened her tone. "But I imagine if you let it go sometime today, it'll be all right."
"That's what I'll do," Alex agreed. "I'll just keep it for a little while."
As Lianne watched him leave the room, she couldn't help but compare herself to the butterfly. If she followed her uncle's suggestion and married just anyone, she'd be trapped in a snare of her own making. No, she decided, she would handle everything herself. She would continue to be strong for Alex, and she would find a way to make it work. She would never give up Belle Arbor — never.
A moan of exquisite pleasure escaped Suzanne Labadie as waves of passion swept through her. She clutched her lover more closely to her, reveling in the touch of his big hands upon her slim body and the feel of him penetrating the very d
epths of her need. Arching against him she offered herself to his ardor. In a heated mating, they came together —he big, dark, and fiercely male; she a golden goddess of sorts with hair the color of dark, spun gold reaching nearly to her hips and a small but lushly curved figure. None of her lovers had ever managed to stir her to such heights of sensual excitement, and Suzanne exulted in his demanding possession.
"Please, Shark . . ." she whispered in his ear as he thrust avidly into her. "Please, please, hurry!"
Her wanton response always aroused Shark, and he quickened his pace, seeking his own pleasure even as he pleased her. Bucking and writhing in a mad, passionate dance, they reached the pinnacle together then collapsed back on the wide comfort of her bed, sated.
Crushed beneath Shark's hot weight, Suzanne rested, enjoying the erotic sensations that still throbbed through her in the aftermath of their joining. He was the most powerful lover she'd ever had. There was an almost animal quality about his lovemaking, and it was that untamed savagery in him that brought out the equally wild side in her.
Their relationship had been a tempestuous one from the very first time they'd met. She'd been invited to one of the secret, illicit slave auctions that were held deep in the bayou country, and Shark had been one of the men in charge there. The attraction between them had been immediate, primitive and powerful. That she was the daughter of a wealthy planter hadn't intimidated Shark, and the fact that he was a smuggler and probably wanted by the law had meant nothing to her. It had been an elemental wanting that had transcended social lines, and now, several years later, they were still carrying on in secret.
Her widowed father had died shortly after they first began to see each other, and her inheritance had been substantial. At Shark's urging she had gone into business with him and invested a large portion of her cash holdings in his slave-smuggling enterprise. The demand for fresh, healthy slaves was tremendous in the south, and Shark's business had flourished. Now, even though the crops had failed numerous times at her plantation, Willow Bend, the return on her investment with Shark had made her an extremely wealthy young woman. She had no financial worries and probably never would have . . . all thanks to him.
