Familiar pinching sensations grew deep within her heart. He’d stirred them once several years ago, and he stirred them again now.
“If one can believe recent Napa rumors,” she continued, “you’ve gone through the A-List of bitchy, surgically enhanced, money-hungry women in Northern California, and none of them would ever think of giving back half of what you want to give them.” She took a few deep breaths and slowly blew them out. “Does that answer your question, or did I get lost in the fog and the sweet scent of your cigar?
He grinned. “So, you’ve been keeping up with me?”
She shrugged. “My older clients love discussing the latest picture of you in the Napa Valley Register. But, you know, I’m there to work and rarely listen to the gossip.”
His dimple appeared again, but only for a moment, then he puffed on the cigar. “You know, we’ve both withstood some of the ugliest things life can throw at us, starting with the loss of a parent we loved, but the one quality we seem to share is an ability to maintain hope for a brighter morning, even during our darkest nights. Although I don’t often show it, that hope is always alive in me.”
The tears she’d been holding back for days were burning her throat, and she didn’t want him to witness her meltdown. “How fast can you ride right now?”
“I can keep up with you.”
She raked her horse with her spurs, and the gelding took off at a gallop. He attacked the incline at full speed, running full tilt, the way he was born to run. She practically stood in the stirrups so she wouldn’t interfere with his stride. Tears caused by the wind and her emotions trickled down her face as her fingers curled into the coarse mane. The power and speed of the animal seemed to feed her soul. She was truly who she was meant to be when riding a beast who responded to her every need.
When she and the horse tired of riding the four corners of the front acres of the Macarté Plantation, she turned back toward the levee where Rick waited, smoking his cigar.
He turned his horse so he could face her. “Feel better?”
“I do,” she said, breathing hard. “Let’s walk the horses toward the canal so this big guy can cool down.” She flipped the reins lightly, urging the horse down the incline. They rode without talking, and she slowly got her breath back. “This time-traveling business isn’t easy at all.”
“We’ve all had to deal with stressful and difficult situations.”
She took a swig of water from her canteen, then poured a bit on her handkerchief and washed the tearstains off her face. “Tell me yours and how you handled it. Because my situation sucks.”
“I haven’t had a moral decision to make like the one you’re facing, but I did kidnap a ten-year-old boy and took him to the future without telling his father.”
“Yikes! Why’d you do that?”
“It was a life or death emergency. Then we had to go back and convince his father if he wanted to see his son again, he had to go to the future. It wasn’t easy, but it’s been seven years now, and the dad has no plans to return to the past.”
“That’s not the same.”
“You’re right. It’s not. How about this one? When Sophia was staying with Thomas Jefferson and his family, she knew his daughter, Polly, would die at an early age, and Sophia couldn’t warn anyone.”
“That would be horrible. You’re getting closer.”
“Well, how about this one? Kenzie went back to World War II and wanted to warn her grandfather that he would be framed, labeled a traitor, and killed before D-Day. If she messed with her grandfather’s life, her actions would drastically change her family history.”
“What’d she do?”
“She couldn’t save his life, but she changed how he died.”
“Those experiences don’t help me.”
“Other than to tell you not to warn Lafitte, the only other advice I can give is to trust your gut and the relationship you have with him.”
“I’ll have to think about that. So what’s with Soph? Why does she want more adventures?”
“Artistic inspiration. Since she’s only seen paintings of certain eras, her interpretations are based on the work of other artists. By visiting different centuries, she can see the past through a future lens. It took me a while to make sense of that, but I understand it now. Pete struggles with it because he wants her to have adventures, but her safety is more important to him.”
“She sounds like she might be an adrenaline junkie.”
“She’s worse. You can get your fix by a fast ride on a horse or motorcycle or jumping out of a plane. She can only get hers by going back in time.”
“She’s giving adrenaline rush a new meaning.”
They stopped at the canal and watched the men construct redoubts for the artillery batteries.
After a moment, she said, “Did Soph tell you about my dreams or nightmares or hallucinations? Whatever the hell they were.”
“The ones similar to David McBain’s? Yeah, she told me. I don’t know what to make of them. But it’s freaky shit. Once we get back and debrief, David might have some ideas, but it’s a mess we’ll have to deal with sooner or later.”
“I’d rather it be later,” she said, “but we can’t put it off. The British officer I met—”
“Bowes?”
“Yeah, him.” Rick’s eyes seemed to look straight through her, causing a small tremble to trickle down her back. She readjusted her position in the saddle to accommodate the trickle. When it faded, she said, “I believe he might be an ancestor of a teacher at West Point who was the supervising faculty member on the staff ride I did. The asshole is up for a promotion. If I could stop it, I would.”
“Sounds like you didn’t get along.”
“I thought he hung the moon until I learned he didn’t. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“M-kay,” Rick said. “So what makes you believe the British officer and the asshole are related?”
She gave him an arch look before continuing. “They have the same name—Maurice Bowes—and they have identical rings. Or there’s only one ring, and Colonel Bowes inherited Lieutenant Bowes’s ring.”
“Must be unique for you to remember it.”
“Oh, it is. The emblem was two crossed keys. Lieutenant Bowes said it was his family’s crest. But it’s also one of the symbols used by the Illuminati. The keys stand as a reminder of a member’s promise to guard the knowledge entrusted to them.”
“Everything I know about the Illuminati I learned from the Dan Brown books. But crossed keys are in the coat of arms of the Holy See and symbolize the keys of heaven entrusted to Simon Peter. Those keys point up. Which direction did the keys point in Bowes’s ring?”
“Down,” she said. “I guess it doesn’t mean the keys to heaven.”
“I think that’s a safe bet.”
“But here’s the thing. I told the British officers exactly what was going to happen, and the date the Treaty of Ghent will be signed to end the war. When it all comes true, they’ll believe I can foretell the future.”
“Shit!”
“I agree. But that’s not all.” A frightening connection flashed across her brain.
“I’m not sure I want to hear it,” he said.
“In Medieval times, people believed the crossed keys represented the authority of kings and pontiffs to command the earth and the heavens. What makes that scary is the medieval period and the Viking age overlapped.”
Rick shook his head. “I’ve had too many pain pills to work this out. You’ve gotta give me the elementary school version.”
“There isn’t much. Just an idea that I can draw a connecting line from the Vikings to the crossed keys to the Bowes family to me.”
“Fuck, no.”
“Fuck, yeah.”
43
New Orleans (1815)—Penny
Rational thinking and decision-making didn’t leave room for emotion. So whatever decision Penny made had to be a result of analytical thought.
Her plan was simple.
She’d return to New Orleans for the night, then ride out to the Macarté Plantation in the morning, arriving just before the assault on the Carolina began. That way she wouldn’t be tempted to warn Jean.
When she told him she was going back to the city, he insisted on escorting her, but when two soldiers said they were returning to the Royal Street headquarters for supplies, he reluctantly let her go.
Not telling him about the destruction of the Carolina was an act of omission and that—plain and simple—was a lie. But the bottom line was, not telling him guaranteed America would win the battle on January 8. Giving Jean advance notice put that victory in jeopardy. She honestly didn’t know what he would do. So she had no choice and would have to live with the consequences.
At dawn the next morning, she rode out to the plantation and was standing on the balcony holding a mug of steamy café au lait at sunrise. Anxious dread crept through her, tingling her fingers and the back of her neck.
When the British launched their artillery attack against the Carolina, an ear-splitting blast from the five guns of the British battery shook the air and rippled the Mississippi.
Her heart stopped, her hands flew up, and she spilled her coffee. “Shit!” Even though she knew it was coming, the cannonade freaked the shit out of her. Her heart restarted and beat so fast she thought it might just jump out of her chest.
Jackson threw open the French doors of his second-floor sleeping quarters and rushed to the railing of the covered gallery. He shouted, “What the hell’s going on?”
Mr. Livingston burst through the door to the porch with his spyglass in hand, and a few seconds later, Jean joined them, shoving his arms into his jacket. “Whose guns are those?” Jean demanded.
Adjusting his spyglass, Mr. Livingston implored, “Is the British army attacking the Rodriguez Canal?”
At that moment, Penny wished she wasn’t the only one who knew the truth, and she began to second-guess her decision to remain quiet. I should have told him. “The British cannons are bombarding the Carolina.”
Jackson exploded onto the porch, his anger on full display. He was red-faced and gripping his spyglass in a furious fist. “Pakenham established an artillery battery, and I knew nothing about it? What kind of spies do I have?” he shouted.
“The British must have camouflaged them, sir. Or else they did the work last night,” Mr. Livingston said in a surprisingly calm voice.
Jackson scanned the landscape. “Move the Louisiana before we lose her too! She’s moored less than a mile upstream and in range of the guns.”
Mr. Livingston hurriedly passed his spyglass to Jean and left to convey the order. Within a few minutes, two riders galloped off the property, heading toward the Louisiana.
Jean focused the spyglass. “The Carolina is moored on the far side of the Mississippi. She’s returning fire with her twelve-pounder. It’s the only gun on board with the range to hit the British position.”
Jackson lowered his spyglass and propped a fist on one hip, his expression demanding. “For chrissake, will someone tell me how we allowed this to happen?”
“It was all done in the dark, sir,” Penny said. “Pakenham was determined to keep his strategy secret and avoid drawing fire from the Carolina. He was successful—this time.”
She watched in horror as deadly accurate British gunnery began to take its toll on the sloop. Some of the men who accompanied her to The Temple were probably on the ship with Dominique. He would be safe, but what of the others?
I made a huge mistake. This could have been avoided.
“Merde!” Jean lowered the spyglass for a moment and pounded his fist on the railing. “That cannonball crashed through the deck. The flames will spread quickly now.” He looked through the spyglass again.
When he didn’t offer more commentary, Jackson said, “The blaze is consuming her and will ignite the powder magazine below. What are those sailors doing now, Mr. Lafitte?”
Jean adjusted his spyglass. “They’re rolling the cannons overboard. We can salvage the heavy guns, sir, so this humiliating fate isn’t a total loss. They’ve lowered the longboats. There’s no hope of saving her. She’s about to blow up.”
Penny had never experienced anything like this during her tours of duty. The Carolina had been a reliable partner during the night battle, and to watch her go down was heartbreaking.
The powder in the hold exploded, the boom like a thousand shotguns going off at the same time, followed by a sustained roar. She ducked and threw her arms over her head. All the windows in the mansion rattled, but they didn’t shatter. She didn’t need a spyglass to see the flaming remnants of the schooner shoot skyward from the blast and hear them hiss when they hit the water.
Then, in the resounding silence that followed, ash and debris continued to rain down. It was like the world just suddenly ended, and they were left to watch the dust settle. No one on the porch moved. Hope died with the Carolina. It was unlike anything she’d experienced before. In her war, there were always replacements. But not here. Not now.
Before the shock could wear off, enemy fire resumed.
“The Louisiana,” Jean yelled, pointing. “They’ve shifted the trajectory of their cannon fire.”
“Sail away!” Livingston yelled. “Surely, they could see what was happening to the Carolina and unfurled the sails immediately.”
“There’s only a whisper of wind,” Jean said. “And they’re fighting the river’s current. They can’t make any headway upstream.”
“We’re going to lose her, too,” the general said, taking shaky breaths.
“There’s a chance the men will tether ropes to the sloop and tow her to safety.” There was an air of readiness surrounding Jean, as if he was standing on the quarterdeck ordering the men aboard the Louisiana to take action and drop the boats over the side.
A shell smashed into the deck of the immobilized ship, and Jean shuddered.
“It’s too late,” Livingston said.
“No. Look,” Jean pointed. “The men on the shore are pulling too. I believe they can do it.” He leaned slightly over the porch railing as if yelling orders and directing the rescue operation. His hand flexed against the rail, rippling his arm muscles.
He wasn’t on the porch beside her. He was on that ship, filled with determination and belief that his sailors would do what they were trained to do. Power and confidence reverberated off him.
All the cables were taut, but nothing happened. The scene seemed frozen. Then slowly the Louisiana began to move, and the oarsmen pulled her out of range.
Jackson clapped Jean on the shoulder. “They did it!” Then he turned, grinning, and returned to the house.
Jean stepped back from the rail, satisfied, but then he shot an angry glance at her. His chiseled jaw was set and didn’t budge, and his eyes were boiling pools of emotion.
“Come with me now!” he demanded.
She didn’t dare object. She’d prepared for this moment, but suddenly all her logical thinking blew up in a magnificent display of regret.
He didn’t say anything as he directed her down the steps and away from the mansion toward the big oak tree. Anger radiated off him. His brows slanted down like a hawk’s, and his left cheek quivered with fury.
When they were several yards away from the mansion, he turned, slammed his fists on his hips, and fired his first verbal volley. “To use your favorite word, mon Captaine, fuck!”
She’d heard soldiers from around the world say that four-letter word, but coming from Jean Lafitte and spoken with his French accent nearly knocked her to her knees.
He was fiery-eyed, his forehead creased, his nostrils flaring. “You knew”—he thumped his finger against her chest—“this would happen!” He spun around, threw his hat on the ground, and raked his fingers through his long hair. “Why, goddamn it, didn’t you tell me?”
She could feel the violence in him, pulsing like an exposed vein, and ready to burst. She bit her lips and almost wished she was confronting the og
re, not Jean. “I couldn’t.”
“What?” he yelled. He pointed toward the river. “Dominique was on that ship.”
For that singular moment, it seemed they had known each other for years. Even their heavy breathing followed the same pattern. She was just as angry. Not because the British destroyed the Carolina, but because the damn brooch put her in this position, forcing her to lie to him.
He folded his arms across his chest and set his mouth in a stubborn, straight line. He squared up for a standoff she didn’t want to have. Her stomach churned, and sweat gathered between her breasts.
“I knew Dominique would survive—”
He cut her off, demanding to know, “How many men did I lose?”
A breath of cold air from the river mixed with her remorseful sigh. “I don’t know.”
“If you had bothered to tell me, I wouldn’t have lost any!” He gave her a contemptuous glare before picking up his hat and slamming it back on his head. Then he pointed at her. “You took something of mine, mon Capitaine, and you will pay for it.” His hand moved to his pistol.
“Do you want me to pay with my life?” God, she was pissed. “Then, go ahead and shoot me!” She pointed over her wildly thumping heart. “Right here. Point your goddamn pistol here and pull the trigger. Do you honestly think I made the decision not to tell you lightly?” Gooseflesh prickled down her spine. “It nearly killed me not to say anything. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t take the risk. So shoot me, Commander Lafitte.”
He took a deep breath and blew it out, his brows puckered. He dropped his hand, turned, and walked toward the river until the only sounds were those of the waves and their beating hearts. The offshore wind carried the distinct smell of artillery—a distillation of sweat and black powder—which was much more pungent than the lingering stink of death still emanating from the battlefield a mile away.
She let him go. They both needed a minute to calm down. And then she followed after him. If he hadn’t shot her yet, he probably wasn’t going to, and she was still wearing her vest. She wasn’t that stupid.
The Topaz Brooch: Time Travel Romance (The Celtic Brooch Book 10) Page 49
