Capture The Night

CAPTURE THE NIGHT

by

Geralyn Dawson

Copyright 1993, 2012 by Geralyn Dawson

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.

Capture The Night is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.

Cover Design by CMW Design

Prologue

CASTLE OF PEROTE, MEXICO, 1851

HE BARED HIS TEETH and snarled as the hand reached out to touch him. Straining against the iron shackles, he fought the assault like the animal he’d become, bucking and twisting, the curled and yellowed tips of his fingernails digging into his palms and drawing blood. He threw back his head, heedless of the matted and lice-laden lengths of hair that whipped into his mouth as he loosened a feral roar.

The sound echoed off the dungeon’s granite walls, then faded into nothingness as he retreated to that place within himself insulated from the rage and pain, isolated from the degradation.

His body jerked spasmodically when the red-hot blade sliced deep into his breast. His nostrils twitched at the stench of singed hair and branded flesh.

The governor of the prison stepped away and plunged the heated weapon into a nearby pail. A hiss rose from the water, and the Mexican pursed his lips in pleasure. What a wonderful beginning to this next amusement.

He faced the animal chained naked to the wall, noting the bruises, the wounds, and the trace of madness in the eyes. A heavy heat curled in the governor’s loins, and as his fingers lifted to trace the filigree and etchings adorning the silver band around his arm, he observed, “It is a shame I have been forced to separate you from your companion. My entertainment lacks that certain edge of one friend watching another’s…pleasure. Never worry, though. I have devised a new delight. We shall begin this evening.” His sinister chuckle echoed off the walk as he added, “Actually, if one is being accurate, it began more than a week ago.”

The governor exited the cell, and as he twisted the key in the lock, he grinned in anticipation and said, “Ah, bestia, you are still my favorite prisoner: Tell me, are you hungry?”

THE MAN called Brazos Sinclair by family and friends ceased to exist while held in the prison’s deepest, darkest cell. For the final eight months of his captivity, a beast roamed he pits of Perote.

Only upon his flight from the fortress did the man, Brazos, surface. Slowly, and with the aid of a beautiful Mexican woman, pieces of his humanity returned to him. As they made their way across the sandy, barren plains at the foot of the mountain range known as the Coffer of Perote, words and language replaced gutteral sounds as his method of communication. He bathed for the first time in years in an icy mountain stream seven thousand feet above sea level. At a village one hundred twenty miles north of Vera Cruz, he stole a razor and shaved away his beard.

When he traded a pilfered Mexican mule for a knock-kneed roan gelding on a South Texas ranch, he wore a gentleman’s attire filched from a brothel along the banks of the Rio Grande. Beneath the black frock coat and white linen shirt lay a scar, puckered and ridged from neglect. Beneath the scar, in the hollow where once dwelt a soul, hissed the breath of evil.

The beast lived, patiently awaiting his freedom.

Chapter 1

ANTWERP, BELGIUM, 1855

“KIDNAPPING IS SUCH AN ugly word,” Madeline Christophe murmured, gazing into the angelic face of the infant she cradled in her arms. It was an ugly word for a monstrous deed—taking a child from its parents for the purpose of extortion. That’s how the police and the newspapers would label her crime, but they would be wrong.

She had absolutely no intentions of ever returning the child she had stolen.

Madeline was a thief, a talented thief, and she’d been stealing all her life. Her earliest memory was of slipping her hand into a green brocade reticule and silently removing the jeweled hand mirror into which her beautiful stepmother so often gazed. Though only four years old, she had already possessed the delicate touch and dramatic flare that would serve her well in the years to come. That day, however, all she’d wanted was to see for herself just how ugly one must be to merit abandonment by one’s mother.

While her beautiful parent had tossed a bag of coins onto a desk at an English boarding school, her scorn-filled voice saying, “See to the loathsome child,” Madeline had stared into the mirror and decided it must be the brown eyes and sprinkling of freckles that made her ugly. Mama had sparkling green eyes and unblemished ivory skin.

Now, more than twenty years later, Madeline’s eyes remained a velvet brown, and a dusting of freckles had yet to fade from the bridge of her nose. She also still owned the mirror.

Madeline never returned the things she stole.

A biting wind swirled across the wharf, the salty scent of the North Sea mingling with land’s dust in a whirlwind that swept over the queue of colonists waiting to board ship. Madeline shivered and tucked the yellow lamb’s wool blanket snugly around the sleeping child. Her life had become a whirlwind—cold ashes of lies, betrayal, and death twirling around an aching emptiness. But the barest hint of refuge rode the squall, and she clung to its promise as she advanced a position in line.

On board the
Uriel
, the packet on which Madeline and the baby would sail, final loading of equipment and supplies was under way. Ropes creaked as heavy bundles swung from shore to ship. Dockworkers shifted crates and lowered hogsheads into the hold.

A hand touched her on the shoulder: “Madeline? Madeline, did you not hear me call?”

She turned to see a diminutive woman with a round, smiling face and bright hazel eyes. “Oh, Lillibet, I’m sorry, I only—”

I only forgot the name I’m using
, she thought. She must be more careful, mistakes like that could be dangerous. Self-disgust swept through her as she searched her mind for an excuse. One would have thought that the quantity of time she spent during her youth playing roles from beggar-child to princess would have better prepared her to slip into a new identity. But apparently, after twenty-three years as “that poor little orphaned Mary Smithwick,” she needed more than two weeks to accustom herself to the name Madeline Christophe.

In apology, she touched the soft velveteen of Lillibet Brunet’s cloak. “It’s the excitement of it all—such a distraction. I vow I’d begun to believe the weather would never clear.”

“Is that not the truth. Why, these past two weeks have been the longest of my life…well, except for the two right before little Thomas was born.” Lillibet bestowed a prideful, maternal look upon the bundle nestled in her plump arms.

“He is a precious child, Lil.”

Madame Brunet beamed, “Yes, yes, he is. But then, your little Rose is too. Why, in the week and a half that I have been caring for her, I’ve come to love her like my own. Of course, with a mother like you she’s bound to be special. You’ve more courage than most, continuing with your plans when so newly widowed.”

Guilt rolled through Madeline like a North Sea swell. She winced, saying, “It was his dream, our dream. What else could I have done?” She reached for Lillibet’s hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. “I’m so thankful that you offered to assist with Rose. I searched desperately for a wet-nurse willing to emigrate, and I’d almost abandoned hope when we met.”

Lillibet dropped kisses first on Rose’s forehead and then on her son’s. “Think nothing of it, Madeline. I’m happy to help. After all, isn’t that what the Colonization Society of Texas is all about? Man helping his fellow man for the betterment of all, or in our case, perhaps I should say woman helping woman? The fact is that the shock of your husband’s death dried up your milk.” She fingered the edge of the blanket framing Rose’s face. “I, on the other hand, can easily provide for both my son and your daughter, I would be failing in my duty to my beliefs if I refused to help you.”

She shrugged sheepishly and added, “Besides, she’s as sweet as spun sugar, and I enjoy her tremendously. I’m hoping some of Rose’s good nature will rub off on my little scamp.”

Madeline shifted the sleeping baby to her shoulder and gently patted her back. “Still, I am in your debt, Lillibet. If you’d not agreed to feed Rose for me, we could not have joined the La Réunion colonists. You truly are a kind and generous woman.”

Lillibet shook her head, dismissing Madeline’s praise. “Now, don’t start in again, Madeline. I do not wish to hear it. Besides, I haven’t the time. My André has already checked us aboard, and he’s waiting in our cabin. I must get back to him before he wonders whether I’ve changed my mind about sailing.”

She giggled, then lowered her voice. “Dearling, I must tell you. André did speak with the captain about changing our assignment from steerage to the cabin next to yours. Madeline, you’re such a friend to spare the coin, and especially to do so unbeknownst to my husband.”

She huffed. “Men and their silly pride—I think we should outlaw such nonsense at La Réunion. While admittedly, André and I are not nearly as wealthy as most of our fellow colonists, in a true Utopian society like La Réunion, that should not matter.” As she spoke, indignation lifted her chin and sharpened her tone. “My André may not have gold like most of the émigrés, but he was the best farmer in the entire south of France. He’ll be of much more use to the colony in Texas than will Monsieur Robards, the musician, or Monsieur Correll, the banker, or the hatters or the artists or countless other who are members of the Society!”

Madeline nodded, laying her hand atop Rose’s ear. As much as she liked Lillibet Brunet, she wished she’d muffle her voice. “You are right, Lil, André will be central to the success of the colony. It was my pleasure to upgrade your accommodations, so you mustn’t think a thing about it. Why, it would be nonsense to have you anywhere but at my side—what with your caring for Rose—not to mention the fact that you’ve quickly become my very best friend.”

As she made the vow of friendship, Madeline realized that she spoke the truth. Suddenly, an intense and unprecedented need to confide brought the entire ugly store to her lips, and she bit back the confession just in time. With her jaw clenched tight, she scolded herself.
Fool, the madcap dash across Europe must have scrambled your brains
.

Why, never before had she entertained such an imprudent notion. Madeline prided herself on her superior intelligence—she could plot and scheme and connive better than anyone she’d ever met. But talking about the baby would be nothing more than stupid. Even alluding to Rose’s true identity could lead to disaster.

Madeline had risked too much in stealing this child from Château St. Germaine, and she mustn’t allow her own desire for comfort to jeopardize her plan at this critical time. Europe was too small a place in which to hide from one as powerful and wealthy and evil as Julian Desseau.

She swayed beneath the weight of the burden she’d assumed, closing her eyes as fear surfaced.
Is Texas big enough to hide us? Will anyplace be safe? Does Rose have a chance to grow up healthy and happy, or will she forever carry the stigma of her unholy birth?

“Madeline, are you all right?” Lillibet touched her sleeve. “You’re as pale as the mizzen sail. Why don’t you sit for a bit. I’ll hold your spot in line.”

“I’m fine, Lil.” Madeline forced a smile. “I was thinking about—“

Nodding wisely, Lillibet finished for her, “The baby’s father?”

“Yes, the baby’s father,”
Well, at least I’m mixing some truth in with the falsehoods
. She swallowed a self-mocking laugh and waved toward the ship. “Now, you go on to your André, Lil. I’ll bring Rose to you when she awakens.”

Watching her friend make her way aboard the
Uriel
, Madeline sighed heavily. Lying, unlike thievery, stirred her conscience—at least where friends were concerned.

Suddenly, the seabirds’ caws and sailors’ curses were muted by the angry roar of a man who stood before the gangway. Dressed in a simple, navy blue sailor’s jacket over a chambray shirt and denim trousers, he braced his hands upon his hips and glared down at Victor Considérant, the colonist’s leader and the man who had chartered the
Uriel
.

“
Mon Dieu
,” the stranger shouted in the most horribly accented French Madeline had ever heard. “I tell you I’ll do anything, pay anything, to get aboard this ship. I must go home to Texas immediately!”

Madeline frowned as Rose stirred in her arms, disturbed by the man’s bellow.
Don’t wake up, darling, please
, she thought. She’d purposely waited for the child’s nap time to arrive at the ship—the last thing she wanted was to attract the attention of the hawkers selling their wares around the docks. Memories of a crying infant might linger where danger could follow.