Gwyneth Atlee Read online

  An inky tide appeared to rise up from the street, and Gabe grasped a young tree to keep from being overwhelmed. Yvette’s face appeared in his vision, looking scared and mouthing incoherent words, all of them running together to join the roaring jet-black flood.

  Matthew. Dear God, it had been him again, but why here, why now, why of all damned things dressed like an abomination in a Rebel uniform?

  Yet he had pointed Gabriel toward Yvette. She was leaning over him, pulling at his shoulder with her one good arm. A tear trail streaked her cheek with brilliance, and slowly, her words coalesced out of the darkness.

  “Gabriel, please, Gabriel, you have to come with me.” The prayer that followed might have been in French, or it may have been the Latin that the Catholics preferred, but each syllable brought more light into his world.

  Until the blackness all receded and his head grew clear again. Clear enough to realize that finding Yvette had been no delusion, no phantasm borne of morphine or the delirium of fever.

  Finding Yvette had been a miracle of grace, even if his mind had surely conjured up the figure that had sent him straight to her.

  * * *

  “God damn it, what do you mean he’s gone!” Darien Russell screamed at the ward master. “Why wasn’t I notified? What about the guards?”

  Butcher sighed, and his bald scalp reddened faster than a crab dropped in a pot of boiling water. “I told you before you left here, I hadn’t a spare man to send. And as for the guards, I don’t remember seeing any. You’ll have to ask around to see if they ever arrived. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “I will not,” Darien insisted. “Not until I know how long Davis has been gone.”

  “I couldn’t pin it down to an exact time, but I expect about two or three hours.”

  Across the ward, a patient began screaming as a nurse struggled to change his dressings. Butcher walked off—probably simply to escape—to assist the younger man.

  Two to three hours, Darien thought, choosing to ignore the insult. Gabriel Davis could be anywhere in town by now.

  Even with the use of the horse he’d borrowed from Colonel Patterson, he’d never find Yvette or Davis on his own. He’d have no choice except to ask for more men to assist him.

  Darien’s head ached with the strain. The more who were involved, the more likely it was that someone else would catch Yvette first, that she’d have time to talk.

  But talk was all that she could do, he realized. Even if she’d had that damning stolen letter he had written in her possession aboard the Sultana, it surely must have been destroyed. So in the end, it would come to only her word against his. As long as he could keep her miles and miles away from Colonel Jeffers and his infernal investigation.

  As long as he could prevent her from returning to New Orleans alive.

  * * *

  Mon Dieu, he’ll never make it. Yvette glanced about, frightened that at any moment Darien Russell might appear.

  “S’il vous plaît, stand up!” she begged Gabriel as she gave his arm another tug.

  This time, Gabriel slowly rose, and she thought she detected color returning to his face. But that may have been only wishful thinking.

  As they completed their walk to the boardinghouse, he never said a word. Nor did Yvette, for she feared doing anything to distract him from the task of placing one foot before the other.

  As they entered the old town house, Widow Beacon looked up from the table she’d been bending over, then laid down the feather duster. A small, round woman with a thick gray chignon, she pushed glasses up her short nose. She looked from Gabriel to Yvette and back again before erupting in a smile.

  “You’ve found your husband!” she said, clapping her hands together. “I told you he’d turn up all right, dear!”

  Yvette couldn’t help returning her smile. It still seemed such a miracle to have him back, where she might touch him, where they could hope.

  “You did tell me,” Yvette said, “and I thank you for it. But I’m afraid Mr. Edwards is rather ill and—”

  “Hungry, I expect,” said Mrs. Beacon. “Don’t you fret, child. You just get him upstairs and into bed, and I’ll bring you both a bite to eat. You’ll know for certain then why we’re known as the Good Samaritan City.”

  “Thank you so much,” Yvette told her. “You’ve already been so kind.”

  The woman waved off the compliment. “Nonsense. I’m only doing what any Christian person would.”

  “Thank you, and thank you for taking care of her,” Gabriel managed as Yvette led him to her room.

  Yvette closed the bedroom door behind them, shutting them inside, and alone. Maman’s admonitions rose up like midnight specters, reminding her of how very far she’d strayed from her upbringing. Standing just inside the doorway, she swallowed hard.

  Although the house had certainly seen better days, Widow Beacon, as people called her, whipped every speck of dust into submission. Even the baseboards glowed with recent polishing, and the bed linens and towels, though thin with age, had been bleached within an inch of their lives.

  But the modest boardinghouse and its condition had little to do with her discomfort. Instead, it was the bed inside this room and the lie she’d told the older woman that smote Yvette’s conscience.

  Strange how, as an accused murderess, she was so bothered by a simple falsehood. She was not his wife yet, and she would do well to remember that. Though she’d promised she would marry him, they must wait until she cleared her name, until she dealt with Darien. If she didn’t, if she foolishly gave way to passion, she’d do nothing but take him with her on the path to her destruction. And she refused to do that. She refused to kill him, too.

  Gabriel sat on the bed’s edge to remove his shoes. “Yvette?”

  His voice raised the fine hairs behind her neck, and she wondered if he’d ask her to come and lie beside him. She almost hoped he wouldn’t, for she knew that despite her better judgment, the memory of losing him was still too fresh. She knew she could deny him nothing.

  “Yes,” she told him, knowing it would be the answer to every question, even those that could cause him so much grief if she gave in.

  “I’m sorry—sorry that you lost your little cat,” he said.

  “Ah . . . poor Lafitte.” He so surprised her with that statement that her mind struggled for an appropriate response. Sorrow filled her at the memory of the little ruffian tumbling about her stateroom. Had the explosion killed him, or had the river swallowed up the basket? She shuddered at the thought of it.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I miss him, and I blame myself. I never should have tried to bring a kitten.”

  “He was from your home,” Gabe said. “Sometimes it’s hard to leave the past behind.”

  He was no longer speaking of Lafitte, she sensed, but something deeper that was troubling him greatly. And in that moment, her misgivings and her shyness disappeared. She crossed the room to sit beside him, to gently take his hand in hers, and it seemed the most natural thing she could imagine.

  She heard him sigh, but instead of asking anything, she laid her head on his shoulder.

  “Yvette,” he whispered once more, and hearing him say her name so wistfully sent shivers rippling down her back, detonating small explosions deep inside her. Some quality in his voice felt warm and sensual, as enticing as his touch.

  “Gabriel . . . I love you,” she answered, and just as his voice had done for her, hers seemed to ignite the dry kindling of his soul.

  He framed her face with bandaged hands and turned it until he was kissing her as fervently as the most desperate prayer. So deeply that time stopped for her, consumed inside the wonder of joined mouths and tongues that touched to spark a blaze that melted every doubt.

  His fingers slipped to stroke her neck and shoulder, and a little thrill of fear convinced her that this time he would not stop.

  The rap came twice before she heard it, then once again before she could force herself to answer. Outside the d
oor, Mrs. Beacon stood balancing a tray on one broad hip. Her fist was poised as if to knock again.

  “Here’s a nice pot of tea and some sweet rolls, fresh out of the oven,” she told Yvette as she handed her the tray. “Now I’ll see you’re left alone. I’m certain that your young man needs his rest.”

  She waved off Yvette’s thanks. But as the older woman turned to go, Yvette thought she detected a sparkle in her eyes, a hidden smile as if . . .

  She knew. She knew what they’d been doing. Backing into the room, feeling more uncomfortable than ever, Yvette kicked shut the door. Mon Dieu, did she have no restraint at all?

  One look in his eyes convinced her she did not. Gabe’s attention was fully focused on her, not lingering for half an instant on the food and drink.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked, uncertain how she wanted him to answer.

  Until he smiled and stood. Until he came to her and took her in his arms once more. Then she knew for certain this was what she’d wished for all along.

  This time their bodies pressed together fully, and Yvette felt Gabriel’s heat from her ankle to her mouth. Yet even as he seemed to lose himself inside their kiss, he avoided her left side so as not to hurt her arm.

  He pulled away just long enough to tickle her ear with his words. “I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been, Yvette. Hungrier than any man alive.”

  He slipped around to mouth her neck beneath her ear, and Yvette gasped. Mon Dieu, how could she have guessed that this was what it was like to be devoured? Her breasts felt as if they’d come alive with aching for his well-remembered touch. Oh, please, she thought, please, soon.

  As if he’d read her mind, Gabriel scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Lowering her gently, he whispered, “If this isn’t what you want, you need to tell me.”

  His eyes brimmed with such awful longing that she wondered if they mirrored her own. Suddenly, she wanted nothing except him against her, the warmth of his bare skin, the almost painful awakening of all her senses.

  So instead of answering him directly, she whispered. “I’ll need your help to get out of this bodice.”

  * * *

  Gabe’s fingers trembled over every button, and he watched her carefully for any sign that she might change her mind. But all he saw was her moist lips, pink with kisses and slightly parted in anticipation. All he heard was the faint rasp of her quick breaths. Like him, she was quivering with anticipation, or nervousness, perhaps.

  With her closeness, his exhaustion and pain receded like the memory of an unpleasant dream. Yet his bandaged hands were clumsy, so she helped him remove her bodice. When his fingertips next grazed the laces of her corset, her eyes closed. A faint flush colored her pale flesh, and he bowed his head to kiss away its bloom.

  “I-I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, her shaking growing more pronounced. “I—”

  “Shhh . . . It will be fine, I promise,” Gabe told her. “I won’t do anything that feels bad. There, you liked this, didn’t you?”

  He kissed her neck again and was rewarded by another gasp of pleasure. Her trembling ceased, and she seemed to hold her breath.

  His mouth slipped lower until he was kissing just above her breasts.

  “Oh. . .” she whispered, and her right hand strayed to the lacings.

  Playfully, he nipped her fingertips, then, with her help, freed her of the constricting undergarment. When he had bared her breasts, he cupped them with his bandaged hands, then followed his fingers with gentle suckling, first at one side, then the other.

  She arched her back and moaned his name aloud, arousing him so painfully that he paused to undress. He saw fear play across her features at the sight of him.

  “You’re not going to . . . ?” Her question trailed off into confusion.

  “Nothing you don’t want,” he swore as he climbed back into bed with her. “Just tell me and I’ll stop. As much as I would like to, we have time. Our whole lives . . . together.”

  “I don’t want you . . .” She closed her eyes once more, and her brow wrinkled with emotion. “I don’t want you to stop. I want to know this, feel this . . . the way you make me feel.”

  Her eyes opened, those long-lashed hazel eyes he’d grown to love. And she looked at him, her face so full of everything he felt that he had no choice but to kiss her, to run his hands along her sides and stroke her hardened nipples with his fingers.

  How could it be that touching had somehow numbed his pain when all his other senses blazed to life? With a smile, he imagined her the cure for all his wounds, inside and out.

  He lingered at her breasts, though he wanted more than anything to undress her lower body and to fully make her his. Instead, he forced himself to aching slowness, determined not to steal from her anything she did not wish to give.

  So it was that Yvette herself removed the last scraps of her clothing, letting them fall carelessly onto the floor. And so it was she eagerly accepted his caresses and eventually took courage to touch and explore his body on her own. So that when he finally entered her, she welcomed him, and after that first pain flashed across her features, he saw nothing but the joy that climbed and climbed until it burst upon the pinnacle into a thousand dazzling shards.

  And with her release came his, so brilliant, so explosive, that he felt, for the first time since Georgia, fully free.

  * * *

  The bay danced and tossed her head as Darien Russell smoothed out the strap and fastened the final buckles on her harness. Colonel Patterson tightened his grip on the driving lines and patted the horse’s sleek brown neck.

  “Needs a bit of a run to get the tickle out of those heels,” Colonel Patterson advised him. “Gabby’s full of the devil, but she’s young and willing. Keep her firmly in hand and she’ll settle right into her work.”

  Darien thanked Patterson for the loan of his mare and a neat, black, two-wheeled shay. The army mount Darien had borrowed earlier had thrown a shoe and pulled up lame. But that at least gave Darien an excuse to ask the colonel what had happened to the promised guards.

  “Funny you should ask that,” Patterson told him. “Morrison and O’Hara left here about an hour and a half ago. Someone at the Soldiers’ Home told them Private Davis had been moved to Overton. But when they got there to check, nobody knew a thing about him. I sent them back out to ask at the hospitals about the girl. Assuming that they’re not successful, I’ll put both men at your disposal. I’d like both Miss Augeron and Private Davis found as quickly as possible.”

  Patterson glanced down the street toward two soldiers walking in their direction. “There they are now,” he said.

  When the men saw the colonel outside watching, one quickened his pace and broke into a jog. The second hesitated, then fell into step.

  “We have an address on the young woman, sir,” the first and taller of the two men said. He passed a slip of paper to the colonel.

  “Mrs. Beacon’s on Beale Street. She’s at a boardinghouse?”

  “That’s what one of the women at Gayoso told us,” the private answered. Despite the fanged appearance given by a pair of jutting eyeteeth, the young soldier had such a look of steely-eyed intelligence that Darien was surprised by his low rank.

  “Bring her in,” the colonel said to Darien. “I’ll want to speak to her myself.”

  “If this is the right one, she’s going by the name of Mrs. Caroline Edwards,” the gray-eyed private continued, now speaking to Darien, “and she’s played on the nurses’ sympathy with some tale about a missing husband.”

  “But the woman’s description matches?” Darien asked.

  The other soldier nodded in response. A thick scar split his eyebrow, and a surly expression marred his face. Something in his posture convinced Darien he’d be reluctant to respond to any question that couldn’t be answered with a movement of his pointed chin. The soldier reminded him of a sullen schoolboy, but since the colonel made no comment, Darien ignored the impulse to correct the private.
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br />   “Perfectly, sir,” the younger soldier added, as if he felt it necessary to elaborate.

  The woman was Yvette. Darien’s neck tingled with that conviction, but he tamped down his optimism so it would not infuse his voice. He had to find a way to be the one to capture her, and he must be certain he did so alone.

  Colonel Patterson squinted at him, then used his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunshine. “How about if I ride along, Captain? It’s a fair enough day, and I’m feeling anxious to see this little murderess of yours.”

  Darien’s mood plummeted, even as he scrambled for some plausible excuse. He could almost hear the sharp snap of the rope at the New Orleans gallows as his old friend Major Stolz was hung for fraud. Nausea roiled in his stomach as he remembered the way the man squirmed, suspended like a silk-wrapped fly caught in a spider’s web. Darien refused to die in such disgrace, to make lies of his grandfather’s predictions.

  Yet he would if Yvette convinced the authorities where to look for evidence. He would die, and she would watch and, worse yet, laugh. Imagining that moment beaded perspiration on his forehead, sweat unrelated to the brilliant sunlight.

  But the awful images convinced him that, once again, he had no other choice. He had to find some way to silence Yvette before Patterson could meet her.

  * * *

  Beside Yvette, Gabriel slept soundly, one arm draped casually across her shoulder. She watched his short gold lashes vibrate, the way the muscles of his face spasmed just beneath the skin, then saw his expression smooth out, all as if some dream had briefly troubled him, then fled.

  Carefully, so as not to wake him, she stroked his blond hair, so pale and fine against her own black tresses. Noon against her midnight, North against her South. At that moment, all their differences came into sharp relief, and Yvette wondered at the enormity of what they had just done.

  Had they forged an enduring link across the chasm of their varied backgrounds, cultures, and religions? Or had their lust and loneliness leapt the boundary of good sense?

  He might think better of this now that he had taken what he’d desired. No, she might as well be honest with herself. Gabriel had not taken; she had given, willingly. But now that she had, would he still want her? Would he still take her with him?