Runaway (3 page)

But then the shot rang out.…

Loud, reverberating, like a crack of thunder against the silence that had filled the room.

Amazed, she stared at the man who had sat not a hundred feet from her. He had begun to rise, yet couldn’t. He seemed startled himself.

Tall, well muscled, his iron-gray hair rich upon his leonine head, he had seemed like such an indomitable man. But a bright red spot was burgeoning out on the snow-white frill of his shirt, and no matter how powerful he had always assumed himself to be, it was evident to anyone that he was watching himself die. The shot had been true to the heart. Time seemed to stand still, or to move in incredibly slow motion. And yet, and yet … in split seconds the whole of his shirt turned crimson, and he crashed to the floor, dead.

She looked down at the gun in her hands.

But the bullets in it had been blanks, it had all been fake, it had …

She looked past the dead man and saw a set of eyes
staring at her from a cruel, clever face. She heard a faint rustling behind her and turned.

The large parlor had been turned into a playhouse for the day. She had stood on the makeshift stage staring downstage to the audience arranged in a semicircle before her.

She now looked to the backdrop behind her.

And she looked just in time to see the folds of the backdrop curtains fall back into place. Someone had been behind her. Someone who had fired a gun with real bullets just in time to coincide perfectly with her coldly playacted firing of the blank. Her amazement at the circumstances caused a momentary numbness within her.

Then she heard the cries from the horrified audience that arose swiftly around her, cutting cruelly through her shield of surprise.

“Seize her!”

“She’s killed him!”

“Murder!”

“Oh, my God, seize the murderess!”

More screams and shouts arose. Handsome men and beautiful women leapt to their feet. Eyes narrowed upon her, and it suddenly seemed as if she were staring into a crowd of the most primitive savages. Bloodlust—for her blood—seemed to be abundant.

It had been done to trap her. So heinous, so cruel an act, and all to trap her, dear God!

But she wouldn’t be trapped, she wouldn’t let it happen, wouldn’t pay the price for another’s crime. She’d run as far and as fast as she could, she’d run forever.…

Time again stood still.

She met those eyes one last time. The hard, glittering eyes of the man who would command a cold-blooded murder in order to entrap her.

No. She could not let it happen.

She turned. She was young, very swift, graceful, agile. It seemed like an eternity had passed. In reality the dead man had barely hit the floor before she fled, racing for the window.

In the distant, savage forest he felt a shudder rip through him, and sighed deeply. He could pray that the tense situation between the whites and Seminoles would simmer back down.

The wind suddenly rose. Fallen leaves began to swirl and turn, rising into the air. They rustled as if whispering out a warning.

He swore against himself for being fanciful, then gave a whistle for his horse. He mounted and held still again for a moment. Listening.

The wind died just as quickly as it had come. The leaves were still.

For now.

He nudged his horse and started down the trail.

William!
she thought as she slipped through the window, leaving the sounds of screams and motion behind her.
Dear God, William!
But William could not be entangled in this, and he was with Marina and therefore safe. He would know, of course, he would know that she’d had no choice but to run. He would be sick with worry. He would be afraid.

But he would understand. She was desperate; timing was crucial. She had only seconds.

To run.

Her feet hit the ground, and she began to race, tearing over the manicured lawn, all but flying for the tangle of trees to the rear.

He left the winding trails of cypress behind and came upon the broader road. His horse sensed his mood and began to gallop. He bent low against the creature’s neck and felt the animal begin to move like lightning beneath him. He felt its power, felt its pulse.

Soon he’d be home.

He was anxious to reach it, only so as to be able to leave it. He wanted to feel sea wind sting his cheeks, wanted to escape the mounting tension here, wanted to …

Run.

From the pain that lingered, from the loneliness of the nights, the days.

His horse raced on.

She reached the heavy embrace of the trees, far from the house. They were after her, of course, but they had been confused and slow, and she was well in the lead. She made her way quickly through the trees.

William. Oh, God. William
.

She had to find new clothing, first. Change her hair. And move. Keep moving.

She burst from the trees. She was alone in the coming night. She saw the path that would lead from the town center. She started to run hard. Her lungs seemed to be bursting. Agony gripped her legs. Run! she commanded herself. Run … run …

Run away.

Runaway.…

J
arrett Mckenzie noticed the woman from the moment she first stepped into the entry of the old dockside tavern. Not that he could see much of her at first.

A sweeping, hooded black cape encompassed her from head to toe. He was only certain that it was a woman who had arrived because of the graceful twirl of her body when the master of the establishment, Harold Eastwood, accosted her at the doorway. A new serving maid? Had she joined the ranks of the lovely and available ladies of the New Orleans nights? Was she late reporting for work? Jarrett wondered, and he found himself intrigued, waiting for her to cast off the cloak. If she was working here at Eastwood’s fine dining establishment and parlor, then the class of the place was improving.

Not that Eastwood’s was a total den of iniquity. For a waterfront tavern it could boast being a respectable one. Most men came here when conducting business in this part of Louisiana, and most of them told their wives about the place. There was always good food to be had, pretty girls to sing tunes at the spinet, liquor from around the world, a woman if you wanted one, and now and then a good fight to choose a side for. The place was situated dead center in the port city of New Orleans,
right on the river, and all manner of men and women came here, worked here, traded here, schemed here.

New Orleans was a city Jarrett enjoyed. Established in 1718 by the French, it had grown later in the eighteenth century with the Acadian exodus from the northeast. It had passed to Spanish rule and then back to France before Thomas Jefferson had set forth to find a way to make Napoleon willing to accept his offer on the Louisiana Purchase. Jarrett had come here first as little more than a boy himself when Andrew Jackson had commanded the defense of the city against the British in 1815, and since that time Jarrett had felt a fondness for it. He liked the narrow streets of the riverfront, the charming architecture: French, Spanish, and American. He liked the wrought-iron balconies, the small gardens, the rolling Mississippi, and the lusty quality of life along the river. He had come to Eastwood’s often enough, and though it had a dubious reputation, there were far more debauched places than this along the riverfront. All in all this was quite a respectable place when compared with some of the other establishments it neighbored.

But from his very first sight of the woman enveloped in the black cape, Jarrett was convinced she didn’t belong here.

“I fold,” Robert Treat, his friend and associate sitting to his left, said with a sigh. Robert threw his cards down on the oak playing table.

Jarrett stared at his own hand. Three queens. Two fours. Full house. He looked at the bills and gold pieces on the table. Smiling Jack, the rich Creole from the bayou country, sat across from him with a broad grin on his face. Hell. The man might be able to bluff Saint Peter if he ever made it to the pearly gates.