Natchez Flame (30 page)

That was ten miles north of Natchez as measured from the Head of Passes, the spot one hundred miles south of New Orleans where the river diffused to make its entry to the Gulf of Mexico.

“We move the markers, figure some way to run the boat aground, then board her and blow the boilers. The passengers and crew’ll be too damn busy runnin’ for their lives to worry about what we’re doin’.”

Not a bad plan. Once in a while, McLeary flashed sparks of brilliance from an otherwise dullard brain. “When?” Stuart asked.

“Ten days. You keep the mayor and his vigilantes busy in the wrong direction until then, and a little more’n a week from now, we’ll all be sittin’ pretty.”

“You’ll store the stuff in the cave, as usual?” Stuart asked.

McLeary nodded. “I’ve got buyers lined up for all the goods we can deliver—no questions asked.”

“And the operation folds afterward?” Stuart pressed the issue because McLeary would expect it. Once his long-time partner was out of the way, along with Jake Dobbs, the only other man in McLeary’s employ who knew about Stuart’s involvement, it really didn’t matter what the other men did.

“We’ll close up shop and fade into the sunset,” McLeary promised.

Stuart smiled and extended a hand. “Let me know what other information you’re going to need and I’ll make sure that you get it.” Caleb met Stuart’s outstretched hand with his own, and the men shook.

McLeary!
The door stood open at the rear of the Keel-boat Tavern on narrow winding Royal Street only for a moment. But it was just long enough for Brendan to make out the big brawny Irishman that Christian Bannerman had told him was the sheriff’s prime suspect in the smuggling operation on the river and the murders on the Trace.

McLeary owned the Keelboat Tavern, a pit of dereliction if ever there had been one. Though Caleb ran the place and worked there most of the time, he lived well above the income a dingy hole like that could earn, and it was common knowledge he kept an expensive mistress. Little else had been discovered, and living high certainly wasn’t cause to arrest a man, or half of Natchez would be in jail.

Brendan watched Egan make his way to a sleek bay saddle horse, his dark brown slouch hat pulled low, his plain twill pants and cotton shirt not much
different from the clothing of any of the other men under the hill. In itself, Egan’s meeting with Caleb McLeary wasn’t much to go on, but now at least Brendan knew for sure where to look for the evidence he so desperately needed.

According to Chris, another robbery had occurred on the river last night, dry goods, whiskey, and a small cache of gold stolen from six men on a flatboat coming down from Memphis. Four of the dead men’s bodies had been dragged from the water. The others were probably fish food by now.

Brendan headed up the hill toward Evergreen. He’d gotten what he wanted from Egan. Now he needed the time and place of the next attack on the river. The Keelboat Tavern held the answer. Unlike the sheriff or any of the other men who lived in town, Brendan could go to the tavern unnoticed, blend in with the hard-drinking rivermen without arousing suspicion.

He could move among them, talk to them freely—unless Mace Harding or some of Egan’s men were drinking there, too. He’d have to be careful. With a man like Egan, there’d be no second chance.

Brendan thought of Priscilla, living in Egan’s house, trusting him and never once suspecting the truth. He had to get her out of there.

As soon as he got the chance, that was exactly what he planned to do.

“Mornin’ Miss Conners.”

The dark-haired woman turned at the sound of Jaimie’s voice and recognized his red hair and gently
masculine features though she’d only seen him once. “Hello.”

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Jaimie sauntered up beside her, matching his long steps to her shorter ones. In her pale green dimity day dress, she looked just as pretty as she had before.

“Lovely. It’s been so hot and muggy, it’s nice to see a few clouds coming in.” She looked as though she expected him to take his leave, but he just kept on walking.

“Might mean a thunderstorm,” he amiably continued.

“Might. But then I kinda like it when it rains.”

Jaimie smiled at that. “So do I.”

They walked along in silence for a while. “Is there something you wanted, Mr…. ?”

“Walker. Jaimie Walker. Not really. I was just enjoying your company. Do you mind?”

She appraised him, looking for some motive to his kindness. Finding none, she shook her head, her dark brown hair swinging loose around her shoulders. “I don’t mind, but I have a friend who might.”

“McLeary?”

Rose stopped walking. “If you know him, then you know who I am, what I am, and you had better be on your way.” She started up again, stiff-backed, shoulders squared, but Jaimie caught her arm.

“What I know, Miss Conners, is that you’re a fine lookin’ woman who’s very nice company. You aren’t married to McLeary, so you can do whatever you want. If you like my company, too, then we’ll just keep on walkin’.”

Brown eyes looked into blue. Rose searched his
face, saw nothing there but gentleness and warm masculine interest. She smiled. “Aren’t you afraid of him? Everyone else is.” “Including you?”

“A little. He isn’t as bad as some of the men I’ve known.”

“He’s a whole lot worse than some, too.” He meant himself, and he let her know it by the look in his eyes.

“Funny,” she said, with a steady regard that seemed to be sizing him up, “sometimes it’s the one you never expect turns out to be your champion. Buy me something to eat, Jaimie Walker?”

Jaimie grinned. “It’d be my pleasure, Miss Rose.”

Brendan stood in the darkness out behind the house on Pearl Street. In the servants’ quarters to the rear, Egan’s henchmen played cards; he could hear their occasional laughter between intermittent claps of thunder. A light rain had started. It wouldn’t be long before the city fell prey to a full-fledged autumn storm.

Which, considering his intentions, suited Brendan just fine.

Egan had gone out for the evening, dressed in a fancy frock coat and breeches, hopefully to see his pretty little whore. Priscilla sat upstairs reading. He could see her silhouette in the glow of a whale-oil lantern.

As he had done before, Brendan climbed the back stairs to a door on the second floor. This time the door was locked, but using the knife he carried in his boot, it didn’t take him long to get it open and step
inside. Finding no one around, he moved down the hall to Priscilla’s room, turned the doorknob, and walked in, closing the door behind him.

Priscilla dropped the small leather-bound volume she’d been reading, which landed with a heavy thud as she bolted to her feet.

“Brendan! What are … why are … I can’t believe you’d come back here.”

“I’ve got to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, I told you that before.” She was wearing a prim little white cotton nightgown, her chestnut hair loose around her shoulders, as yet unbraided for the night. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips looked full and inviting. He felt his body stir and smiled at how easily she could arouse him.

“There’s plenty to talk about,” he told her, “but we can’t do it in Egan’s house. I want you to come with me.”

“You’re crazy.” Brendan started toward her, but Priscilla backed away. “Stay where you are, or I promise you I’ll scream.”

He just grinned. “If you do, Egan’s men will come running. They’ll shoot me this time—is that what you want?”

Priscilla swallowed so hard he could hear it. “Of … of course not. But you can’t just come in here and … and …”

“And what, Priscilla? Make love to you again?”

She wet her soft pink lips. “Please don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s what you were thinking. It’s what you want—” His eyes raked her, taking in the peaks of her breasts, growing stiff at his words beneath the
soft cotton nightgown. “It’s what I want, too,” he admitted, his voice husky, “but it isn’t what I’m here for.”

“Then why
are
you here?”

He noticed her tone had softened as her eyes ran over his face. He thought how sweet she looked, how fragile, how desirable. The Priscilla he had wanted to marry—not the untouchable woman Egan had created.

“I’m here to take you away. I’ve got a place for us to go. Someplace safe where we can work things out.” He moved closer, but Priscilla backed away.

“I’m not going with you. I thought you understood. Stuart and I—we’re going to be a family. Everything’s settled.”

Brendan scoffed. “Nothing’s settled, and we both know it.”
Little fool
Damn, if only he could tell her the truth about Egan. But what if something happened to him? What if Egan got away with it? Priscilla wouldn’t be safe for a minute.

He moved closer, his jaw set with determination. “You’re coming with me, Priscilla—we’re going to have this chance—we both deserve it, and I mean to see we get it.”

Brendan’s arm snaked out, he caught her around the waist, and jerked her against him. His hand clamped over her mouth, and he held her while she struggled, working to get her arms behind her back, careful not to hurt her.

“You can make this easy or hard, sweetness. Either way, you’re coming with me.”

He’d been prepared for this. Pulling a length of rope from his pocket, he bound her wrists, then
stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth and tied it around her head with another. He didn’t really think she’d scream—then again, looking at the flecks of fury in her wide dark eyes, he wasn’t so sure.

Brendan eased her down on the floor, tied her flailing legs, then went to the bed and pulled off the ice-blue counterpane. She raged at him through the gag as he rolled her in the bedspread, hauled her up, and tossed her over his shoulder. He’d have his hands full when he got her to his quarters at Evergreen.

He could hardly wait.

How dare he ruin my life again!
And this time there’d be no reprieve. Priscilla kicked her feet and shouted muffled words, but it did no good, bound as she was and rolled in the bedspread.

She felt every jarring step Trask took down the back stairs, every jolt along the path through the garden. It was raining steadily now, and she could hear thunder, though she couldn’t feel the heavy drops of rain. The air smelled of damp earth and leaves.

Not far from the house, Brendan settled her into the back of a small flatbed wagon, climbed up on the seat, and clucked the horse into a trot. The wagon rolled away, and the next thing she knew, he was lifting her out, carrying her inside a building, then with a motion that made her stomach turn over, he plopped her down on a soft feather mattress and rolled her out on the bed.

When he knelt to untie her feet and the rope fell free, she jammed one bare foot in the middle of his chest and shoved just as hard as she could. Brendan sprawled on the floor on his backside, knocking over a flower vase, which crashed to the floor. If the gag had been removed, Priscilla would have shouted with glee.

“You little minx,” he said, getting his feet back under him, “you’re gonna pay for that.” But he was
grinning, and even wet from their trip through the rain, he looked so handsome it took her breath away.

Brendan untied the gag and pulled it away from her mouth.

“Damn you!” It was the first swear word she had ever uttered and it made her feel unbelievably good. “You’re the vilest, most despicable—”

“You shouldn’t curse, Priscilla. It isn’t ladylike.” She tried to kick him again, but he stepped away. “Why don’t you just take it easy? We’re gonna have this talk if it takes the rest of the night.”

“I’ve got nothing to say, you—you—abductor!”

“All you have to do is listen.”

Priscilla just glared at him.

“If you’ll behave yourself, I’ll untie your hands.”

She set her jaw, trying not to notice the way a lock of his dark hair had fallen over his brow, or the way the lamplight glistened on his smooth tan skin. When his light blue eyes settled on her mouth, soft heat curled in the pit of her stomach.

And the fact that it did only made her madder.

With feigned indifference, she nodded her agreement, but when Brendan untied the rope around her wrists, Priscilla jerked free and swung at him. Brendan caught her arm, his expression no longer warm.

“You’re gonna listen, Priscilla, if I have to tie you to the bedposts.” He smiled then, as if he might enjoy it. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go. “Not until you hear what I have to say.”

It seemed she had no choice. “All right, talk. But it isn’t going to do a lick of good.”

“First, let’s talk about the murder I’m accused of.”
As briefly as possible, Brendan relayed the events leading up to the shooting at Fort Towson, pointing out that he had only shot the man in self-defense. Then he explained that in Corpus he had spoken to Tom Camden and Badger Wallace, and that together they had worked out a way to help him clear his name. He didn’t go into detail, just mentioned he was gathering information on a gang of smugglers here in Natchez in exchange for the charges being dropped.

She looked at him for several long moments. “That’s really why you’re here, isn’t it? My being in Natchez had nothing to do with it. You didn’t come after me—you just found out I was here, decided you hadn’t quite had your fill of me, and helped yourself. You’re even worse than I thought!”