Awakening His Duchess (3 page)

His little fingers dug at her hand covering his eyes.
“Maman!”

He didn’t need to see their world being destroyed.

“You must not speak. We are not safe,” she whispered
directly into his little ear. “We cannot let the slaves hear us or they
will...”

How could she explain the dreaded slave uprising that was
the unspoken horror so terrible to contemplate that a mere mention of the
possibility would sour the entire community for weeks?

“Cut us, like they cut down
mon pere
with a machete?”
Etienne’s voice quivered.

Her knees threatened to give out. As hard as she’d tried
she’d failed to keep him from seeing the horror. She hadn’t seen Henri fall,
but she’d seen too much. If only she could purge the ghastly images branded
into her mind. But the memories swelled and ripped at her until her chest
contained nothing but ribbons of her shredded heart.

She forced herself to survey the open area. Bodies lay near
the side of the house. The roaring blazes illuminated the dark skinned men and
glistened off the spilled blood. At least Henri had managed to kill a few of
the attackers before he went down. But it hadn’t been enough to prevent the
carnage.

She turned Etienne away from the flames that crackled and
undulated against the night sky turning the house into the funeral pyre of her
family.
Mon Dieu,
she could not think of the horrors inside of she would
turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife. No, she had to save her boy from
this madness.

“We must run to Grandpere and Grandmaman’s,” she hissed.

To leave was like ripping her arms off and leaving a part of
herself behind, but they had to go. She had to get Etienne to safety. Grabbing
his little hand in hers she cut into the dark of the night. She ran into the
forest. With the handle of her medical bag in one hand and Etienne’s in her
other, she tugged him faster than he could manage to run. She forced her way
through undergrowth that snagged at her skirts.

A snap behind her sent icy jolts down her spine. Not daring
to look back, she ran faster. Her steps jarred on uneven ground. Etienne
stumbled, but she dragged him until he got his feet back under him. If one of
the slaves saw them fleeing, they would be massacred.

She ran when the stitch in her side made her list to the
side. Her breath came in hard gulps. Etienne stumbled again, his weight jerking
her arm until her shoulder burned in agony. Pausing for only a second, she
scooped him up.

His arms curled her neck and legs wrapping around her waist,
he clung to her. She had to get to her parents’ house, get inside, then bar the
doors and windows. Her father and brother could hold off the slaves if they
were warned in time. It was only a couple of miles. If the first attack was to
her husband’s plantation, she could warn her father. Ignoring her protesting
lungs, she ran faster.

She scanned left and right trying to make sense of the
shapes that loomed out of the darkness. Her heart jolted at each strange object.
Every tree hid a slave waiting to slice her to pieces with a machete. Each
clump on the ground was a huddled figure waiting to snatch her ankle and send
her sprawling to the ground. A branch slapped her face and a scream rose in her
throat. Refusing to let it loose, she swallowed hard.

The trees broke and she plowed into a sugar cane field. The
tall poles smacked her, and the long leaves sliced her as she sped through
trying to shield Etienne from the worst of it. It wasn’t far now.

The loose dirt slipped beneath her feet slowing her flight.
She didn’t dare leave the cover of the foliage for the road. It would leave
them too exposed.

She risked a glance behind and saw nothing. They were going
to make it. God was merciful.

Then the smell of smoke she’d left behind of burning tickled
her nose. A trick of the wind, she told herself. But the smell grew thicker and
an unnatural light flickered through the stalks.
No!

On the far side of the field the scent of smoke was heavy in
the air. Not the pleasant caramel smell from when the cane was burned, but the
thicker smoke of wood and paint. A sob tightened her chest.

Mon Dieu,
was she too late? As the cane thinned, she
slowed. Her throat was raw from her breathing. Her side stabbed.

The home of her childhood was just ahead, but flames lit the
night sky. Then through the thinning stalks her parents’ burning home was
visible.

She stopped before bursting out into the open. She was too
late.
Please, let them have escaped.
Her stomach was a heavy hollow hole
and reality pressed down on her, until it was like she was deep underwater.

A scream slit the air and knifed down her spine. Her sister
Cecile ran in front of the house a dark man on her heels, his machete raised
high. It came down on Cecile, little Cecile, who was just a week ago chattering
about her upcoming marriage.

The machete sunk into Cecile’s shoulder and she went down. A
ribbon of red ran down her nightgown. The ribbon became a sash. Yvette’s knees
hit the dirt and her teeth sunk into her tongue, crushing the scream swelling
in her throat. A bitter copper tang filled her mouth. She shifted her gaze to
the man slaughtering her sister.
Timothy?

A hard thump hit her chest.

Timothy had worked on her father’s plantation since she was
little. How could
he
hurt
Cecile?
It couldn’t be. Her mind
refused to accept it. Surely she’d mis-seen. Any minute now, Cecile would
stand, laugh at her expression, and explain it was all a charade. A play staged
to amuse—
Mon Dieu,
no one would be amused by such sights.

Perhaps something was wrong with her. A fever that made her
conjure unthinkable thoughts, misunderstand. But it wasn’t so.

Yvette pushed Etienne’s head deeper into her shoulder and
closed her eyes. Every hope drained out of her as if she were bleeding to
death.

A minute passed or perhaps only a second or an eternity.
Time lost meaning. But she couldn’t stay her on her knees only partially hidden
in the sugar cane. She couldn’t let the slaves see her. She was too late to
save her family. Etienne was all she had left, and she wouldn’t let anyone kill
him.

Her son’s little arms choked her, but what did it matter.
She was already dead inside. Silently she rose to her feet and stepped farther
back into the cover of the sugar cane. She had to get to safety in Port-au-Prince
where there were soldiers. Where there were too many
blancs
to be easily
overrun. Where there were ships that could carry her son far away.

All through the night, she walked south through fields,
through woods, running on any unavoidable stretch of road or open field and
running every time a tree or bush rustled behind her.

Countless times she jerked around certain she’d heard
someone following her, but she only saw darkness. When she listened everything
sounded like footsteps behind her. Even the chirps of birds became the coded
calls of a stealthy attack. The beat of wings recalled the drums, but she
stumbled onward. The fear kept her moving long past when exhaustion set in.

Her legs ached and grew numb. They wobbled with each step
she took. She ignored the pain, pushed away any thought except getting to Port
Au Prince, and pawning all she had left in the world, so she might buy safe
passage for her son. Her wedding ring, of course. The gold cross necklace. The
earbobs she wore. Even her dress if it wasn’t destroyed.

The bottom of her medical case banged against her, bruising
her thighs. The case might be worth something, too. Her heart twisted. Inside
was Beau's ring.

The ring was hidden among her bottles of herbs because she'd
been afraid Henri would take it from her. The ring was the only thing she had
left of the boy she'd once loved, the man who'd been her husband for such a
short, blissful moment in time. She nestled her cheek against Etienne’s hair.
Well, it wasn’t the only thing she had of Beau.

But if the ring had any value, any at all, she'd have to
trade it. One way or another she’d get enough to book passage away from
Saint-Domingue. Far away where there weren’t any slaves or whispers of
rebellion, where no one was killing in the name of liberty or freedom. Where
Etienne would be safe.

The sun rose and she trudged on. The heat built and Etienne
who had clung desperately through the night and flinched at every odd sound had
finally gone limp against her. She should put him down and make him walk, but
she didn’t want to wake him.

The sun’s heat beat down on them. Her gown grew damp where
Etienne pressed against her. Her head spun, but she kept putting one foot in
front of the other. In the daylight, she tried to pretend the rust-colored
stains on the hem of her gown were merely dirt.

The leaves rustled heavily and her tired body snapped to
attention. Damn, she
knew
she was not imaging things. Someone had been
following them. Her breath caught in a hard lump under her breastbone.

A man stepped out in front of her. His skin was dark as
midnight and his teeth were bared in a surprised snarl. The machete dangling
from his hand was dulled with a substance that matched the hem of her gown.

She went rigid so fast, her spine threatened to snap in two.
No!
She couldn’t have come this far for Etienne to be slaughtered now.
She spun to run back the way they’d come.

Another African was behind her.

Trapped.

Her heart pounded.

Etienne stirred against her. Why hadn’t she bothered to
break off a branch to have a stick with a sharp end? Or a rock she could use to
fend off the monsters? If only she had thought of arming herself, she could
have given Etienne a chance to get away. She took a stumbling step backwards.
But no. She pivoted to face the man blocking her path to Port-au-Prince, the
one with the cruel blade.

A deadly calm slipped over her.

“Etienne,” she whispered in his ear. “If I put you down, you
run until you are to the city. Do not stop. Do not wait for me.”

“But, Maman.”

“Promise me, you will run until you get to the city.”

Someone would take care of him. She could fight these men
long enough her son would get away. She scanned the ground for anything she
could use as a weapon.

“Maman,” Etienne protested.

“You can do it. You must. Promise.”

“I promise,” he mumbled. He would do as he was told. Last
night’s defiance aside, he was an obedient dutiful child.

The African behind her spoke, not in French but in their
strange language. Her body tense, she focused on Etienne as she walked toward
the African with the machete.

“Get out of my way,” she snarled at the armed man barring
her path to Port-au-Prince.

Her stomach clenched tighter than a fist as she walked
toward him.
It was over.
She’d nearly made it. God was cruel to let her
get so far and take it all away. But she wouldn’t cower and run. She’d fight
with everything she had.

He stepped to the side.

She blinked, but her surprise flitted away with the surety
he would swing the blade down on her from behind. The same way Cecile had been brought
down, but he had yet to raise it. She didn’t breathe as she strode forward.
Passed him. She fought to keep her shoulders back, to not show fear.

Their footfalls fell in behind her, menacing, steady. She
muttered prayers to every saint she knew bracing to put Etienne down and shove
him forward if a strike came.

Death might not be so bad.

Perhaps she would be reunited with Beau.

The thought stunned her. She’d only had one night with Beau,
and six years with Henri as her husband, yet it was Beau she longed to reunite
with in Eternity. It was wrong to think so. It was wrong to think. Just keep
going forward, she chanted in her mind.

The heavy tread of the men behind her continued. An
occasional word passed between them. They were probably planning how to best
murder her and Etienne. Were they waiting until trees closed in on both sides
of the path? Were there more frondeurs ahead who would want to join in the
slaughter? How could she prepare Etienne to save himself?

She wouldn’t look over her shoulder at the men steadily
trailing her. Instead she listened for the moment when they would come at her,
so she could thrust Etienne forward. At the same time she worked the clasp of
her case loose. Her fingers found a bottle that would serve as a weapon.

But the strike never came.

Why?

As she neared the city, she let go of the bottle and
fastened her case. A glance over her shoulder showed the two men had fallen
back.

Perhaps they were not so keen on killing women and children
in the full light of day.

By the time she’d hit the paved streets the men had faded
away.

People stared at her and Etienne. She set him down and took
his hand. Then the barrage of questions buzzed around her. Yvette waved them
off and continued until her feet carried her to a pawnshop her father had
patronized.

She entered the building grateful for the relief from the
sun. Her face was tight and Etienne’s cheeks were pink. But sunburns weren’t
enough to account for the startled looks that people gave her.

“What has happened to you?” cried the pawnbroker coming out
from behind his counter. He put an arm around her shoulder. “Sit down. Let me
get you a glass of water.”

She shook her head and stepped away. “I need to pawn my
jewelry. I want to buy passage on a ship.”

“Where are you going?”

The question seemed silly. “Away from here.”

“Maman.” Etienne tugged at her skirt. His blue eyes were
pleading. “I’m thirsty.”

“Monsieur, my son would take a glass of water if you would
be so kind.”

The man disappeared for a second and then reappeared with a
piece of bread and a glass of milk. “He looks as though he could use a bit more
than a water.”