Patricia Potter (24 page)

But even as the terrible possibility ran through her mind, she felt the lingering effects of his hands on her skin, the tormenting unfulfillment of something he had started….

There was a burning, deep in the core of her, as she recalled those insidious hands, the slow seduction of them, the mixture of tenderness and barely restrained violence that was so incredibly, surprisingly alluring.

She remembered the very hardness of them, which had startled her. She expected soft hands since he had always kept them gloved, but they had been callused, the skin rough. Even that had been intriguingly sensual for some reason.

What did he want? What would he do with her?

The questions kept coming back, like the beat of a voodoo drum. Frightening yet hypnotic.

How long before he would return? Once more her hands sought freedom, and once more she failed.

That he had so easily used her body against her was more frightening than any torture he could have devised. She was disgusted with herself, yet she had learned in those few minutes that she was powerless against him, against his touch. She hated him for that. She hated him for the intimate invasion, for showing her how weak she was.

Levi had warned her about many things, but never about this.

Still, no matter what Devereux did, she would tell him nothing. Nothing.

C
hapter 13

CAM EYED
the exclusive hotel from its small but verdant garden.

All the windows were dark and, he surmised, all the residents sound asleep at this early morning hour.

He had already been here once just hours before. After Captain Devereux had told him of his meeting with Miss Seaton, he had walked by and stopped to talk with a man tending the garden.

“S’pose there might be sum work for me here?” he had asked the man.

The man looked at him in surprise. “You free?”

Cam nodded.

There was a longing in the man’s eyes as he shook his head. “Jest slaves here.”

“Looks like a mighty fine place.”

“No better hotel in Noo O’leans,” the servant replied with some pride.

“You stay here?”

The man nodded toward the stable. “Quarters ov’r there.”

Cam sighed. “Mighty hard findin’ a job. An’ a place to stay.”

“Why doan you go North?”

“Got me a woman here.”

The man grinned conspiratorially.

“Fac’ is,” Cam continued, “she’s wi’a plantation nor’ of here and stayed here once wi’ her mistress. She say they need help.”

The man nodded vigorously. “Tha’ right, but they won’t hire no freeman.”

Cam looked desolate. His eyes went to the house. “Where you think my woman stayed?”

His source nodded toward the third floor of the hotel. “Guests’ servants stay up there. Roastin’ in the summer; freezin’ in the winter.”

“I reckon there’s sum there now.”

“Jest one I know of. Purty li’t’ thing.”

Cam hitched up his britches. “I bes’ be gittin’ along. Try to fin’ a place to stay.”

The man nodded and went back to his work in the garden.

Now Cam wondered how he could get to the third floor. There were vines on one side of the building, but he didn’t think they would take his weight.

There would be a backstairs for servants. Probably the female house-slaves were kept in the rear near the kitchen and the servant stairs. How long before they would be up? How much time did he have?

Not enough time to stand here and wonder, he thought disgustedly. If only the door wasn’t locked.

He found the backdoor and tried the knob. It turned, and he said one of the few prayers he’d uttered in his life. His mutilated foot usually dragged, and he was careful to lift it high enough so that it wouldn’t make the usual shuffling noise. But the effort took both concentration and care, which slowed him.

He lit a match and went past two closed doors until he came to a staircase. Cam mounted it carefully. God knew how he would explain his presence here if discovered. By the time he reached the second landing, the match had burned down to his fingers, and he winced with pain. He lit another and climbed the next flight. At the top he had to bend his head because the ceiling was low, several inches less than his own well over six-feet height.

There were three doors. He hoped the gardener had been correct when he had said only one woman was here. He tried the first, and it opened with a creak. The austere room, with only a cot for a bed and hooks for clothes, was empty. The second one was not.

He saw the slight figure on the cot, covered with a rough blanket, and knew instantly that it was Daphne. The match flame reached his fingers again, and he blew it out. In the dark, he walked carefully to her, kneeling beside her bed, and placing his hand over her mouth.

She sprang up almost immediately, her eyes wide with panic until she heard his gentle deep voice. “Daphne…shh.”

Daphne nodded, and he released her mouth, but put a hand on her shoulder. “We’re going. Can you dress without light?”

She clutched his hand desperately, wanting his reassuring touch. She felt dazed for a moment, trying to comprehend the enormity of his being here, of what he was suggesting. Her body trembled with both fear and a new heady anticipation. But she was able to nod once more.

He turned his back, looking out the window at the moon, which had just emerged from behind some clouds. It was only a quarter moon, but it seemed brighter than usual. A beacon, he thought. A promise. He felt her touch on his arm, and her hand was steadier. He smiled to himself, wishing she could see his face and take courage.

Cam lit a third match and turned to her. She was wearing a cloak that looked heavy and warm. He nodded with approval and gave her his hand.

Her small fingers wrapped around his hand trustingly, and he had never felt quite as good. Quite as strong. He started down the steps, heard a board creak and stopped, listening intently to determine whether anyone else might have heard it. When only silence met his ears, he continued, taking care to lift his damaged ankle, to guide her so she wouldn’t stumble. When they reached the main landing, they slipped out the door and across the dark garden. He looked up. The moon had disappeared again, and the sky was filling with clouds. It would start raining soon. He could smell it.

Cam pulled Daphne closer to him, limping rapidly down the street, partially carrying her along. At the end of the street, he looked back. The hotel was still dark; the street clear.

His hand touched her cheek with tenderness and reassurance, and she gazed at him adoringly.

“How?”

“Later,” he whispered. He put his arm around her shoulders, and rushed her forward. He wished they could move faster. He had thought about bringing a horse, but it would make them seem more suspicious if they were stopped. So he clung to the shadows, going down one street and then another and another until he saw the levees and the
Lucky Lady.
He looked for the watchman but didn’t see him. Instead, there was a familiar dark figure standing at the gangplank, his legs lazily crossed and his arms resting on a crate.

Daphne hung back, and Cam leaned over and whispered, “It’s all right.”

“But he’s…”

“I know,” Cam said softly. He looked at Devereux, who was nodding for them to come aboard. His hand tightened on Daphne’s small one as if to say “trust me.”

But still she tried to stop him. Cam swooped her up in his arms as easily as if she were a feather. He didn’t understand why Captain Devereux was meeting them openly, but he had stopped questioning his friend a long time ago. Quinn Devereux never did anything without good reason.

Cam grinned suddenly at Daphne, pleased that the captain was, in effect, giving him permission to tell her everything. Or almost everything. “We can trust him,” he said. “He told me where to find you and suggested I come for you.”

Daphne’s eyes grew wider. Her hand tightened on his shoulder. “It’s a trick.”

“No,” he said simply, and she knew she couldn’t question him further, couldn’t tell him that she didn’t quite believe him.

Cam saw the doubt in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that Quinn Devereux was a conductor with the Underground Railroad, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

She shivered as he carried her aboard, across the gangplank. She didn’t look at his master, as if by not seeing him he would no longer be there. There was no greeting between the two men, or exchange of words, but she could tell when they passed the captain by the sudden tension in Cam’s body. They ducked through a door and he put her down. He took a lantern and lit it, then led her down into a great black space on the lower deck where most of the cargo was stored.

He moved between bales and barrels, guiding her with assurance to the back wall. He touched a panel and, as if by magic, part of the wall slid open. The pressure on her hand urged her to enter and, as she did, the lantern showed a narrow passage running inside the wall. There were pallets and blankets, a barrel, and a few boxes. She looked up at him in puzzlement.

“Can you stay here on your own…just for a few hours?” Cam said, his eyes demanding her assent.

Daphne thought of the lonely darkness. The room was like a coffin. But then she thought of other places she had stayed, and not by choice, particularly the odorous slave jail in New Orleans. At least this place smelled clean. And freedom lay at the end of the journey. She had never been able to hold that thought before. Not to be sold. Not to be used. The idea was too fine, too achingly wonderful to contain within herself. She laughed for the first time since she had been sold from her plantation home. She laughed with tension, with joy, with anticipation. For she knew she could bear anything now to be free. Anything at all.

Cam heard the exhilaration in her voice and recognized it. He had heard it before when other fugitives had found their hope. “There’s food in the boxes, water in the barrel, but you can’t have any light,” he said gently. “There’s too much danger o’ fire.”

She understood what he was telling her. This place would be black and empty, but her hand merely squeezed his in assent.

“I’ll stay wi’ you awhile,” he said. “There will be others tomorrow.”

“Others?”

“Fugitives. Goin’ North.”

“It’s true, then? Truly true?”

His solemn lips broke into a smile. “Truly true,” he agreed. “You will be safe here.”

She wanted to ask more about his master, about Captain Devereux, but when she tried, he merely shrugged and his arms went around her, holding her, comforting her, reassuring her.

Cam, feeling the too-thin body under his hands, wanted to do more, but he felt she was still too uncertain, too needful. He wanted her, but he wanted to be sure that she wanted him, that she wasn’t just grateful or scared or lonely. With his scars and his limp, and his dubious future, he had little to offer her.

His warmth and succor, his quiet encouragement, were what she needed most now. She rejoiced in it, savored it, held it closely to her heart. She had never known there was such gentleness on this earth, and she knew it was that quality, more than anything else, that had given her courage this night, that would continue to give her courage no matter what happened.

For now she knew there was a God. That there was goodness, and hope, and…love.

Quinn watched the dawn break. The ominous clouds, which had been so threatening earlier, sprinkled a few soft drops and then rushed away as if on some urgent mission. Light came creeping through the blackness slowly, in misty gray drabness before fading into a soft pink, then gold. Bright flashes touched the dirty brown of the Mississippi and made it, for a few brief moments, luminous and shining.

The river went about its business, its currents carrying flotsam down the center, and he knew there must have been a storm someplace farther north. Idly he wondered where. He shook his head in dismay at himself. He had tried to think of anything to divert his mind from the problem at hand.

He had to face it, damn it. Questions had to be asked, decisions made.

The boat was coming alive now. Stewards were cleaning the rooms, parlors, and dining rooms in preparation for passengers. More cargo would soon be loaded. He had not seen Cam since his friend took Daphne below several hours ago. Quinn knew he should alert him, before more cargo was moved. He was beginning to learn again exactly how disconcerting a woman could be.

He thought about Meredith in his cabin. Tied and helpless. Perhaps she would be more cooperative now.

But then such tactics had never worked with him. They had only stiffened his resistance. O’Connell had taught him how to use brutality against itself, how to conquer the complete feeling of helplessness when subjected to the whims and cruelty of the lowest of his keepers. He had learned to husband his feelings, to hide his hate, to endure the unendurable to achieve an end result—escape.

His stomach plummeted as he remembered exactly how painful that helplessness had been, and he also recalled the expression on Meredith Seaton’s face as he had fastened the gag. Defiance had been there, but so had fear, the panic of a trapped animal.