Tender Fury (8 page)
Philippe grasped the gnarled hand, moved by the sincerity of the great man and said, “There is one thing, General.”
“Anything within my power, St. Cyr, anything,” replied Jackson sincerely.
“There is a remote chance that my wife may have washed ashore on one of the many islands and cays dotting the mouth of the river and might still be alive. If you could alert your men to be on the lookout for her I would be more than grateful. I am prepared to offer a five thousand dollar reward for information leading to her discovery, if alive, and her body, if dead.”
General Jackson’s deepest eyes were full of pity as they regarded Philippe. He knew the man’s wife had not one chance in a million of surviving. Even if she had washed ashore alive she would immediately become alligator bait. But he had not the heart to say those words. Instead, he said, “Very generous of you, St. Cyr. I will be glad to circulate a description of your wife among my men. You can rest assured that if she makes her way into the city I will know it.” Though his voice remained optimistic his eyes betrayed him. In his heart he knew St. Cyr’s efforts to locate his wife were useless.
Nevertheless, Philippe wrote out a description of Gabby and handed it to Jackson who read it in silence. “There will be no mistaking your wife for another if she is found,” he said. “There surely can be no other woman in New Orleans matching your wife’s attributes. I take it you plan to remain for a while in the city?”
“Oui
, I will sleep aboard the
Windward
while she is being repaired and refitted. Once she becomes seaworthy again I shall make a decision on whether to take lodgings in the city or return to Martinique. Much depends, of course, on whether or not I find my wife… or her body.”
“Keep in touch, St. Cyr,” urged Jackson who had already begun sifting through a stack of papers on his desk. “If I have any news at all I’ll know where to find you.”
The interview had ended. Philippe walked from the office into the broiling sun, suddenly overcome by a bone-deep weariness and a feeling that his meeting with General Jackson was anticlimactic and everything that had happened during the voyage a bad dream. Only it wasn’t a dream. And now that the document was in safe hands there was nothing left to occupy his mind except thoughts of Gabby. He could clearly picture the defiant tilt of her chin the first time he had taken her; the look of shocked outrage when he described what he intended to do to her and the response of her warm body when he had finally broken through her icy reserve and unleashed a towering passion he was not likely to forget. Even now he could feel the lush thickness of her curls, the soft curves of her slender form, the silky softness of her flesh next to his, and his body ached for her. When he had married her he had expected a sweet, pliant girl who would bear his children and make no demands upon him. What he had gotten was a bewitching, untamed, hellcat who had surprised and angered him by her unquenchable spirit and fierce ardor.
From the first moment Philippe laid eyes on Gabby he realized she would present a problem to his scheme of things. But,
mon dieu,
he had wanted her! Neither harsh treatment nor debasement could tame her into submission. He only succeeded in pushing her further into rebellion, even into Duvall’s arms. If Gabby could have only known his actions were spurred by thoughts of Cecily and what had been. He could still see her, eyes spitting violet flames then turning to molten lava as his kisses and caresses tormented her body into the only submission she had ever granted him. Even that would be enough to satisfy him if
le bon dieu
would give her back to him!
Gabby saw the wave only moments before it struck because of the solid curtain of driven rain. She had time for nothing except a brief prayer. Then she felt herself being lifted on the crest and all the bright hurts she suffered during the struggle to save Philippe’s life dimmed in the strangely restful ebb and flow. She was sinking beneath it. Deeper, deeper…
She was dead. There was no other explanation for it. She was reclining on a white cloud and there was even an angel staring solicitously down on her. An angel, with incredible, black, thickly fringed eyes and ebony hair.
“Mademoiselle is awake.” It was a statement more than a question and the angel’s voice was as arresting as her appearance. The soft, lilting words conveyed her concern and she spoke pure French.
Gabby stirred and was immediately aware of hundreds of aches and pains throughout her body. That was the moment she realized she was not dead. Dead people don’t suffer hurts and she had hurts aplenty. She started to rise but the beautiful woman hovering over her gently pushed her back against the soft cloud of the bed.
“Where… where am I?”
“You are among friends, Mademoiselle. No harm will come to you here.”
“The ship… Philippe…” Gabby Stammered, cradling her head in her hands, rendered speechless by pain. When she lifted it she saw that a man had entered the room. He was tall and slim and graceful when he moved. His entire attitude suggested great strength. His hair was long, sleek, and jet black, as were his sparkling eyes, mustache, and sideburns. Gabby thought it strange that he wore a long, dangling gold earring in one ear. The high jackboots that molded his muscular legs clunked noisily against the floor as he neared the bed.
His voice was surprisingly gentle. “It is good to see the color of your eyes. Mademoiselle. For a while we feared you would never open them and that would have been a pity for never have I seen any more beguiling. One does not often see violet eyes in New Orleans.” He laughed, showing an extraordinary expanse of strong, white teeth.
Gabby smiled in spite of herself. “Monsieur, could you please tell me where I am and how I came to be here?”
“Certainly, Mademoiselle. You are on Barataria. I am Jean Lafitte and this is my island Stronghold. As to how you came to be here, well, I can only partially answer. Evidently you were washed overboard during the hurricane and
le bon dieu
must have not wanted you for you were tossed upon Barataria where my men found you. The rest,
ma petite,
you shall have to supply.”
“I was on a ship bound for New Orleans when the storm overwhelmed us,” Gabby said. “Do you know if the ship sank or did it make it to New Orleans?” Somehow it was important that she know if Philippe lived.
“The ship’s name?” asked Lafitte.
“The
Windward
.”
“We saw no sign of wreckage so we can assume the ship reached New Orleans safely. I will send one of my men to check on it. Now, Mademoiselle, if I may know your name…”
Gabby hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders. “I am Madame Gabrielle St. Cyr.”
“Ah, you have a husband. Then we must inform him immediately of your safety. He will be frantic by now, thinking you dead.”
“No, no!” Gabby cried out in great agitation. “Please, I don’t wish to return to him. Do not send me back. I beg you.”
“Madame St. Cyr, calm yourself. We will not talk of it now. Later, when you are stronger we will discuss this further. You are welcome to remain on Barataria as long as you wish. Though some call me pirate, smuggler, and assassin, you shall not be harmed while under Jean Lafitte’s protection.”
“And are you any of those?” Gabby asked, suddenly frightened.
He laughed uproariously. “All of them, Madame, all of them. But above all, I am a gracious host and you are my guest for as long as you wish. I leave you in the tender hands of my own Marie.” He flashed a brilliant smile at the tiny, exquisite woman beside him.
When he left, Gabby looked questioningly at Marie. “Is he really a pirate?”
“
Oui,
you could call him that,” she answered, although the love shining from her eyes suggested that he was anything but that in her heart. “But he only attacks the galleons of the accursed dons, the Spanish. All of New Orleans seeks Jean out to buy the treasures he has taken from the dons. Never has he attacked an American ship,” she vowed, “yet they spurn his help.”
Gabby was confused by Marie’s words and the girl must have realized it for she quickly changed the subject. “But never mind, Madame St. Cyr, it is important that you rest and heal your body. We shall talk later.”
“Please call me Gabby,” she insisted.
“
Merci.
Gabby it will be.”
“How long have I been here. Marie?” Gabby asked while Marie fussed over her, making sure she was comfortable.
“One week.”
“One week!” exclaimed Gabby in disbelief.
“
Oui,
and we were not certain you would awake at all. But you have and now you must concentrate on getting your strength back,” Maria insisted. “I will leave and see that something nourishing is prepared for you. Meanwhile, try to rest.”
When she was alone. Gabby could not help but think of Philippe. Her eyes grew bleak as she wondered if he had survived and if her apparent death had saddened him. No, she decided, her passing could not have caused him too much grief. And if she had her way, he would never learn that she was alive. Eventually she would make her way to New Orleans and find Marcel’s sister. But she would stay on Barataria with Jean and Marie until she was certain Philippe was safely back on Martinique.
It was the better part of two weeks before Gabby felt strong enough to venture outside. Most of those two weeks were spent in the delightful company of Marie in the room Gabby had come to view as her own. Jean Lafltte visited as often as his duties allowed and he was always polite and concerned. No mention was made again of informing Philippe of her whereabouts even though Jean’s men had learned that the
Windward
was docked in New Orleans.
One day Marie appeared with an armful of beautiful dresses and underclothes. There was an array of silks, satins, cambric’s, and brocades in every color of the rainbow. “These are for you,” she said, laughing at Gabby’s dismay.
“All of them?” Gabby gasped. She had never seen anything more lovely than the dresses spread out upon her bed. Surely the trunk full of clothes she had brought from France contained nothing half so beautiful.
“They are a gift from Jean. He wishes you to join us for dinner tonight. We have guests coming and we are to act as hostesses. That is if you feel up to it,” Marie amended.
“Of course I feel up to it. You and Captain Lafitte have been so kind to me that I will be glad to do something in return.”
“Eh bien,”
said Marie. “Now come, let us choose our dresses carefully. We do not want it said that the mistress and guest of Captain Lafitte were anything but resplendent.”
Gabby stared openmouthed at the beautiful, vivacious girl. For some reason she thought Marie to be Lafitte’s wife. Each displayed so much love for one another that it was impossible to think them anything but husband and wife.
Marie saw the expression on Gabby’s face and hastened to reassure her. “Does that shock you?” she asked. “That I am Jean’s mistress, I mean.”
Gabby blinked but tried not to show her dismay. “No,” she quickly assured Marie. “But you and Jean are so much in love that it is hard to understand why he does not marry you. Surely you are not content to remain his mistress?”
“But, Gabby, is it possible that you don’t know?” asked Marie with amazement.
“Know what?”
“That Jean cannot marry me no matter how much he might wish it!”
“But why? I do not understand!”
“I am an octoroon.
Une fille de couleur,
Jean can never marry me.”
Gabby gaped at Marie in shock. The girl’s skin was nearly as white as hers and whiter than Lafitte’s. How could anyone consider Maria to be anything but white?
“Do you hold it against me, Gabby?” Marie asked timidly when she could no longer stand the silence.
Gabby immediately took the girl in her arms. “I hold nothing against you, Marie, only against the society that would label you inferior. Surely you are more beautiful, gentler, and kinder than any French girl in New Orleans.”
“
Merci,
Gabby. If only everyone thought as you do. Then my Jean and I could be happy forever.”
They were silent for a while as they sorted through the stack of dresses. Then Marie spoke again. “You have not told me about your husband, or why you wish to remain dead to him. Is he so old and ugly that you cannot stand him?”
Gabby grew thoughtful as she pictured Philippe’s handsome face and Strong, virile body. “I’m sure most women would find Philippe extremely handsome. Certainly he does not have the classic features of most Frenchmen, but rather a strong, rugged face. One senses an animal magnetism about him.”
“And you are hiding from him?” asked Marie in disbelief. “I certainly would not run from such a man.”
“But you do not know him, Marie. He is cruel and domineering. He married me only to bury me on his plantation and bear his children. I’m sure Bellefontaine means more to him than I do. He even admitted that he had a mistress.”
“Surely you hold yourself in too little regard. A woman with your beauty and obvious charms should have no problem holding on to a man such as your Philippe. If he does not love you now, I’m sure he would grow to love you within a short time.”
“You do not know Philippe. There is no room in his heart for love.”
“But was he not a good lover?”
“Lover and love hold two difference meanings,” Gabby scoffed. “For some reason unknown to me, Philippe wished a wife raised in a convent. My father sold me to him promising that I was submissive and docile. Little did he know that I was unwilling to become the placid brood mare he sought.”
“Your father sold you to him?” Marie was aghast with shock. Things like that did not happen to the white gentry.
“No matter how you look at it I was sold. From the first Philippe made it known that he paid off my father’s debts in return for my hand in marriage. Then he became angry when I refused to become the tame plaything he thought me. He even discouraged me from becoming friendly with a… with a passenger aboard the
Windward.”
“
Mon dieu
, he must have wanted you badly.”
“
Oui
,” Gabby admitted, “he wanted me. And he wasn’t satisfied until he taught my body to respond to his. He used me as he would a finely tuned instrument and I had no control over my own emotions. I hated him for teaching me the many ways to love and I hated myself even worse for becoming such an avid pupil!”
“Ha! Then he was a good lover!”
“I have nothing to base his performance on but if making a woman feel as if… as if…! Oh, Marie, I cannot begin to describe the ecstasy I found in his arms!” Gabby’s face heated as she thought of past intimacies.
“I would find it difficult to leave such a man,” Marie said dreamily.
“What if he had committed murder? Would you still refuse to leave him then? Has your Jean killed a woman or child in cold blood? Philippe admitted to me that he had killed his wife and the child she carried.”
“What are you saying, Gabby? Is this the truth?” Marie’s fathomless black eyes regarded Gabby with some skepticism.
“All of it, I swear, Marie. He told me himself. Philippe was married to a beautiful woman named Cecily. He killed her and when she died so did their unborn child. After his shocking disclosure I vowed I would not remain with him. Somehow, somewhere, I would find the opportunity to leave him. I could never live with such a wicked man.”
“Mon dieu,”
cursed Marie, hastily crossing herself. “I understand perfectly and would do just as you are doing.”
“If I stayed with him I would live in fear that sooner or later he might become angry enough to kill me. And perhaps, I, too, would carry an innocent babe to its death.”
“You are safe enough here with Jean. No one would dare come here for you. I will explain to him why you do not wish to return to your husband and he will understand just as I have.”
“You are the first true friend I have ever had, Marie, and I thank you both for your kindness,” said Gabby. “But I cannot remain on Barataria forever. I must make my own way. I know of a woman in New Orleans who might have need of a governess and soon I must leave here and find her.”
“We will speak of that later,” Marie said, pushing the subject of departure aside. “But for now, let us concentrate on which dress most will dazzle our guests.”
While she dressed. Gabby glanced out the window and was surprised to see several English ships anchored in the sheltered bay next to Lafitte’s own ships. She wondered why the British should approach the smuggler’s base. Was Lafitte about to betray the Americans? Evidently the British were to be their dinner guests that evening. A chill of apprehension prickled the nape of her neck as she remembered the important document Philippe had in his possession; a document that Captain Giscard had died for. She wondered if it had been delivered safely to General Jackson and if Philippe was even now heading back toward Martinique. She watched as an oarsman cast off a small boat from the flagship to make its way ashore. Aboard the corsair ships, all gun ports were open and agile seamen swarmed into the riggings. On shore, the Baratarians gathered in apprehensive clusters, some standing ready at the breastwork cannon guarding the island.
Jean Lafitte greeted Gabby and Marie when they walked into the main room later that day. Gabby was fashionable garbed in violet watered silk that made the color of her eyes more startling than usual and Marie’s dress was a sea blue that highlighted her creamy golden complexion. The room was ablaze with soft candlelight and the rich brass candle sticks glowed dully in the diffused lighting. “How beautiful you ladies are,” Lafitte said with a small salute. “
Les Anglais
will be envious of my two ladies.”
Gabby admired Jean as he walked around the room inspecting the china and table arrangements. He wore a crisp, white shirt and a captain’s coat with brass buttons; his shiny hair was combed back and his mustache waxed. Only his rapier hung at his side; his pistols had been put aside this night.