Bayou Nights (14 page)

Christine yanked her wrist free of Thibault’s hold and scrambled higher up the bank.

Thibault disappeared beneath the water.

A second later, he broke the surface with another scream. This one so agonized that the bullfrogs fell silent.

Then whatever had him pulled again and he disappeared.

“What happened?” Drake stared at Christine.

“Zeus.”

“How?” What a way to die.

“I figured he’d circle the island to make sure we left.”

She’d known?

Christine hobbled toward the pirogue. “You have the coin?”

Drake nodded.

“We should go.”

Drake looked at the flat bottom boat. An alligator could capsize the small vessel with a swipe of its tail but it was still safer than the bit of land where they stood. “I don’t know how to get back.”

“I do.”

He helped her aboard and picked up the pole.

She stared at the length of wood in his hands. “Whatever you do, don’t drop it.”

With that vote of confidence he propelled them into the swamp.

…

Christine’s hands clenched in her lap and her teeth kept grinding no matter how many times she relaxed her jaw. She ought to feel guilty. The horror of Thibault’s final scream still echoed in her ears but she couldn’t find any sympathy in her heart. He’d intended to leave Drake alone on a snake-infested island ruled by an alligator named Zeus. Drake wouldn’t have lasted a day. Just thinking about it set molar against molar. Thank God he wasn’t hurt.

“How’s your arm?” Poling a pirogue through a swamp probably wasn’t the best medicine for a gunshot wound.

“I’m fine.” He didn’t sound fine. He sounded furious. “Thibault…what he meant to do…how are you?”

“I’m fine,” she said. Drake was furious because Thibault had threatened her? She hid her smile behind a lock of hair.

“Bastard.”

Her smile grew wider. “May I see the coin?”

Holding tight to the pole, he dug in his pocket with his free hand. “Here.”

She took the piece of eight and held it in her palm. All that trouble for one bit of silver. A man was dead. She tested her feelings…still no regret. She ought to feel pity or sympathy or something. She didn’t. What kind of a person was she?

“What now?” Drake asked.

She stared at the coin. “No idea. Go right here.”

Drake angled the boat in the correct direction. “Who do you think is behind all this?”

Christine slipped the coin into her pocket with the first one. “It could be Youx.”

“Or Hector.”

“Desdemona has a role.”

He nodded. “What about the dead woman? What was her name? Laurie?”

“Delphine LaLaurie,” she supplied.

“What if they’re all after the water?”

Drake had a point. But which one held her father?

His back stiffened. Was his wound bothering him? “Tonight could be a…challenge.”

“Yes,” she agreed. Tonight might end them both.

“We need help. Is there anyone in New Orleans you trust?”

Her cavalier faith that a stranger would do what he was paid to do had nearly gotten Drake killed. Who? Who could she trust? She had friends, women with whom she drank tea and gossiped. They’d be useless in a situation like this one. There was Detective Kenton. She trusted him insofar as what she needed didn’t affect Molly. Granny Amzie? The woman had her own agenda. Who else?

No one.

This was her life. There was not a soul she’d trust except…except for the man with her now. “I don’t trust anyone.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Ever?”

“Never.” It was the safe answer, the wise answer, so why did it fill her with emptiness?

His reply was drowned out by the love song of a nearby bullfrog.

“What?” she snapped. “I couldn’t hear you.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “I said, you can trust me.”

Her gaze caught on the ragged edge of emotion visible in his eyes.

Drake meant what he said. She did trust him. She trusted him to protect her from men with guns or murderous mobs but dare she trust him with more? Had her heart made a decision without consulting her brain? “Thank you, Drake.” Her voice was as clipped as a Yankee’s. “Go right, here.”

The boat moved through the water, through humid air, through swarms of midges and a whole colony of mosquitoes.

Drake slapped the back of his neck. “Why do you stay here?”

“Pardon?”

“Why do you stay in New Orleans?”

“It’s my home.”

“Trula says your hats are good enough to be the toast of Paris, so why stay?”

“Trula said that?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

So what if she was? “What if I failed?” The words were spoken so softly there was no way he could hear them.

“What if you succeed?”

To leave New Orleans for Paris or New York? It was a pretty dream but she’d been forged on the bayous and in the drawing rooms on St. Charles. Her past defined her. Without it, who would she be? She didn’t have an answer. Silence stretched between them.

“Are you sure we’re headed the right way? I don’t remember those.” Drake pointed to a group of cypress stumps rising from the water like stalagmites.

Christine didn’t remember them either. Damn. Getting lost in the swamp was not part of the plan. She thrust her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the coins. Now would be a perfect time for one—or both—of the bits of silver to offer a little pulse of energy, a direction or two.

Nothing.

She looked up at the canopy of green, gauged where the sun might be, then tried to find a tree she recognized. “We’re headed the right direction, we’re just taking a different route home.” Please, God, let that be the truth.

Drake pulled the pole into the boat and laid it carefully on the bottom. “Be that as it may, I need a break.” He sat next to her. “Do we have any water?”

She handed him a canteen.

He tilted his head back and drank. Sweat glistened on his throat, on his cheeks, on his brow. The linen of his shirt stuck to his back and his chest, showing off every muscle.

Christine looked away.

He put the canteen back in her hands. “Drink.”

She took a small sip of tepid water.

Drake stretched his legs and rubbed the back of his neck. “So, your father’s still missing, we have potentially four enemies—all of them deadly, and we’re lost in a swamp.”

“That about sums it up.”

“I don’t see how things could get any worse.”

Why would he say that? Things could always get worse. As if to prove her point, the coins in her pocket pulsed.

There? The coins wanted them to go there?

“What?” Drake demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re not lost. See that cypress up ahead?” She pointed to a tree that towered above its neighbors. “When we pass it, turn left.”

“How do you know?”

She swatted a mosquito. “The coins. I know where we need to go next.” She’d almost rather spend the night lost in the swamp.

Chapter Twelve

Christine refused—flatly refused—to go back to the hotel. Only her shop would do.

“We can’t go anywhere without cleaning up first.” She wrinkled her nose. “We smell like the swamp.” Where
anywhere
was, she didn’t say.

A carriage brought them back to Royal Street and now Drake twiddled his thumbs and listened to the sound of running water behind the bathroom door. The thought of Christine standing naked beneath a spray of warm water was a thought best ignored.

He stood. Glanced up at the ridiculously high ceiling. The place must cost a fortune to heat. Wait. Did they need heat in this sauna? There was an ornate fireplace, so presumably the temperatures dipped to bearable from time to time. Not today.

The stench of the swamp clung to his skin, coated the inside of his nostrils, and swam in his lungs. Any moment now, Christine would emerge dewy and sweet smelling.

Drake stepped out on the balcony. Perhaps there she’d be less aware of the odor. Perhaps there she wouldn’t crinkle her nose when she smelled him.

The sound of running water stopped.

Perfect. Now he pictured Beauty in a towel, while he, the beast, lurked just outside her chambers.

She emerged in a garment that covered her from chin to toes. Some sort of robe that Drake wanted to rip from her body. Instead he gripped the railing and shifted his gaze to the street below.

Watching a wagon loaded with kegs of beer trundle down cobblestones, the feelings swirling in his chest were easier to ignore. It wasn’t as if he could act on those feelings. Besides, they were monumentally confusing.

“You’re welcome to clean up now.” Her voice brought his gaze back to her.

He clutched the rail tighter. To let go would mean taking her in his arms…taking her.

A smart woman would hurry to her room and lock the door before his base instincts took over. Christine took a small step toward him.

Did she want him to ravage her?

Perhaps she did. A small smile played across her lips and her eyes sparkled like whiskey in a crystal decanter.

“You should get dressed.” His voice sounded raw, loud, and uncouth. What she
should
do was take off the damn robe and let him feast on the sight of her.

Her hand rose to the lace ribbon tied at her throat.

His body tightened—except for his hands. His hands let loose of the railing. Christine had at best a few seconds to gain the safety of her bedroom.

She didn’t move, almost daring him.

In the time it took to blink, he crossed the room. His hands closed around her upper arms and his wrists brushed against the soft weight of her breasts.

She sighed. A small welcoming sound. Did she know what she invited?

His lips found hers. His tongue, parched for the taste of her, entered her mouth. She was rain in the desert, a mountain stream so cold and pure the water tasted sweet, a gentle spring shower. He pulled her closer to him, encircling her in his arms.

Her hands cupped the sides of his face and she answered his kiss. Her tongue rasping against his. Her lips soft, her skin softer.

“Drake,” she murmured.

Was is it his name, a wish, or a promise?

His hands traveled to the rounded contours of her bottom. God help him, she was perfect. Her tongue dueled with his, her body pressed against him with not so much as a whisper of space between them, her nails scraped the stubble on his cheeks.

He pulled away, looked into her wide amber eyes. They were filled with longing and need.

The need swimming in his own veins was as foreign to him as New Orleans. Like the bougainvillea vine that grew everywhere in the city, need had wrapped itself around his heart…and his mind. Need sent shoots of longing to his fingertips, his lips, his skin. Need made him imagine a future where none could exist.

He needed more than her body, he needed
her.
He needed the brave woman who flung snakes at alligators and shot above crowds who meant her harm. He needed the kind of woman who offered to buy her clerk a wedding dress. He needed the southern woman who flirted and flitted and wore ridiculous hats. The realization left him breathless. He couldn’t need her. Couldn’t.

She traced his lips with the tip of her finger. All the unwelcome need flowing through his veins demanded that he respond. A raw sound escaped him.

A delicate flush rose to her cheeks. “I…I’ve never…I want…”

His heart thudded in his chest.

“I want you.” The pink on her cheeks deepened to rose.

He allowed more air to fill the space between them. The distance wasn’t enough. Opposite sides of the room wouldn’t be enough. “We can’t.”

“You don’t want me?”

“It’s not that.”

Now she pulled away, the flush on her cheeks deepening. “You prefer your women experienced?”

“Christine.” His voice was filled with the weight of a thousand things he couldn’t say.

Her hand returned to the ribbon at her throat. She tugged at it, opening an inch of robe, revealing an inch of skin.

A second ribbon. Another inch of skin.

His mouth went dry.

A third ribbon parted and he caught sight of the luscious curve of a creamy breast.

Holy hell. The woman had lost her mind. Now she was going to cost him his.

“We can’t.” The words tasted of ash.

Her fingers hovered near the fourth ribbon, the one that would reveal her breasts.

He caught her hand and repeated, “We can’t.” His body disagreed.

“We can.” She rose
up on her toes and her lips brushed the line of his jaw.

His mother dead because of his father’s job, his sister dead because of Zeke’s. He wouldn’t risk Christine. “We can’t.”

She nipped his jaw. “You’re sure?”

He gathered his resolve and thrust her away. “I’m sure.”

The raw pain that flashed in her eyes stabbed through him. Better the short term pain of rejection than a knife in her gut or across her throat.

Her chin lifted. Her mouth firmed and she donned the flirtatious smile that hid all—the one that hid her feelings, her thoughts, her dreams. “I think some of my father’s old clothes might fit you until we can return to your hotel.”

“Are you saying I smell?”

His attempt at levity fell flat.

“Just bathe. We won’t make it past the front door if you don’t.”

“Front door of where?”

“You’ll see. I’ll get you those clothes.” Christine crossed the living room, opened a door, then disappeared. A moment later she emerged with pants and a shirt folded over her arm. She laid them over the back of a settee.

She left behind her the scent of flowers. He still smelled of alligator scat. Drake grabbed the clothes.

Ten minutes later he emerged to an empty apartment. Something essential—some bit of energy…or magic—had disappeared. Had she wandered off into the streets alone? He raced down the stairs in Warwick Lambert’s ill-fitting clothes, his heart lodged firmly in his throat.

Christine stood at the counter in her shop, replacing the ripped trim on the hat the complaining woman had dropped off.

“What are you doing?” His voice, sharpened by momentary terror, cut through the scented air.

She looked up from her task and smiled. “Fixing this hat.” Did she really mean to act as if nothing had happened between them? She might look serene but Drake wasn’t fooled. She probably wanted to break her father’s cane over his head.

“You can’t just disappear like that.” Didn’t she realize the scare she’d given him? She could have been kidnapped or murdered or raped.

“I didn’t disappear. I’m right here.”

He said a silent prayer for patience. “Why are you fixing the hat now?”

“So I can return it to her.” She pulled a needle and thread taut then snipped the thread.

Drake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

“I can hardly call on Yvette Simms without a reason.”

“Why do you want to call on her?”

“Because that’s where the coin says we need to go. There.” She held up the hat. “What do you think?”

A broad brim swathed in tulle and feathers and—he squinted—a stuffed hummingbird. It was God-awful. “It looks lovely.”

She rolled her eyes as if she could sense his lie. “I don’t expect a man to appreciate a hat like this.”

“Then why did you ask?”

She paused, tilted her chin, then met his gaze. Anger and hurt still lurked in her eyes. “I honestly don’t know.” She settled the hat into a round striped box with the name Lambert scripted across it. “We should go before it gets too late.”

They stopped at the hotel where Drake changed into clothes that actually fit him then walked down Royal toward Canal. “Where exactly are we going?” he asked.

“The Garden District.”

It was far easier to talk about the Garden District than their feelings. “What’s that?”

“What do you know about the history of New Orleans?”

“Not much,” he said.

“When the United States acquired the city, the Americans didn’t want to live in the Vieux Carré. They built their own neighborhood.”

“The Garden District.”

“Exactly.” She smiled at him as if she was a teacher and he was a dull pupil who’d managed to answer a difficult question. The hatbox she held by a silken cord whacked against his leg.

“How do we get there?”

“The St. Charles Avenue streetcar.”

Another few steps and a trickle of dread tickled the back of Drake’s neck. He glanced around the crowded banquette but saw neither voodoo witch nor gun-toting henchman. Still, he took the hatbox from Christine then tucked her reluctant hand into the crook of his elbow. “Can you walk any faster?”

“Why?”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“Then, yes.”

He increased their pace.

“Is someone following us?”

He risked a glance over his shoulder. “Maybe. I can’t tell.”

She nodded. “The streetcar stop is just ahead. It looks as if that car is almost full.”

He walked faster, stretching his legs, nearly running. Somehow, even with her cane, Christine matched him step for step.

They climbed aboard and the doors closed behind them. Drake scanned the people still on the banquette. There! A man with a thatch of ginger hair scowled at their car. Had he missed a ride or lost the people he was supposed to follow?

The car pulled away from the stop and Christine settled onto one of the bench seats. “Everything all right?”

He nodded but his chest constricted. How was he going to keep her safe when he wasn’t sure if they had one enemy or four?

The car clacked down the tracks.

“Where does your customer live?”

“Near Sixth Street.”

“You know the house?”

Christine glanced at her lap. “You could say that.”

“Oh?”

“My father lost it in a card game.” Her voice sounded as bleak as the expression in her eyes when she looked up at him. She turned and stared out the window, as if averting her gaze could hide her sorrow.

He’d lost his mind. There was no other explanation for wanting to protect her from past wounds. Tell that to his hands. They fisted ready to slug Lambert in the gut for causing his daughter so much pain.

The passing scenery changed from businesses to homes—homes that grew larger with each passing block.

She stood and pulled the bell cord. “This is our stop.”

They stepped down from the streetcar and she led him toward a wedding cake of a house. It was enormous with a wide veranda and balconies fronted with wrought iron scrollwork. White columns stood out against sunny yellow paint. This was the house Lambert had lost? The family must have been tremendously wealthy.

And now Christine sold hats to the woman who lived there.

She climbed the front stairs and knocked on the front door.

A uniformed maid answered the door then stared at them expectantly.

Christine held up the hatbox. “I’ve brought back Mrs. Simms’ hat.”

The maid reached for the lavender silk cord.

“I wonder, might I have a glass of water?” Christine asked. “I got something caught in my throat on the drive over here and the tickle won’t go away.”

“Who is it, Tillie?” a woman’s voice floated down the stairs.

Tillie turned away from the door. “It’s Miss Lambert. She brought you a hat.”

“My hat!” The sounds of feet descending steps reached them then the door opened wider. “How kind of you, Miss Lambert. It’s my very favorite.” The woman standing in the doorway was as sultry as the weather. Curling wisps of hair escaped her chignon, brushing against her cheek. Her lips were plump. She raised a fluttering hand from her tiny waist to a generous chest barely covered by one of the light, airy dresses the women in New Orleans all seemed to wear. She looked like a Gibson girl come to life and she still couldn’t hold a candle to Christine.

“Won’t you come in? I can’t wait to see it.” The woman caught sight of him and her smile grew brighter. “And your escort as well.”

They stepped into a light-filled foyer.

“Mrs. Simms, this is Mr. Mattias Drake, an old friend of the family visiting from Boston.” Christine handed over the hatbox. “Mr. Drake, this is Mrs. Carlton Simms.”

An old friend of the family? Boston? Where had she come up with Boston? He was from New York. Drake bent over the woman’s hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Simms.”

The woman stared at him, her eyes slightly narrowed, her full lips slightly parted. “What a pleasure.”

“I wonder, might I use your lavatory?” Christine’s voice sounded unnaturally sharp.

“Of course. You know the way?”

Christine froze—a half-second of suspended movement—then nodded. “I do.”

The woman laughed. “Of course you do. How silly of me.” Her gaze lit on Drake. “I’ll keep your escort entertained.”