Bal Masque (30 page)

“I see the direction markers. There’s another on that little sweet gum. It looks recent.”

“You have sharp eyes, Chou-Chou. The sweet gum takes the place of an older tree that fell in a storm some time back. You’d make a tracker, with eyes like that.” Armand nodded approval at her quick perceptions.

“But can we see the markings at night? Won’t we get lost as soon as the sun drops low enough to cut off the light in the woods?” Lucienne felt a chill of alarm. How would they manage the night?

“True enough. We have to stop when we lose the light. I hope we can get as far as a house I saw up the trail a ways. It’s a ruin now, but we can camp there. A fireplace is still standing, and we can make a fire. A hot meal helps at the end of a long ride.”

Lucienne hadn’t thought of this, of spending the night alone with Armand. She’d shared the straw and blanket pallet behind the curtain with Dorcas for the two nights they’d been at the pirates’ retreat. The thought of Armand nearby hadn’t registered. Now they were alone, with no convenient chaperone. What could happen in the long hours of the night? Would he… No, she couldn’t imagine he’d kiss her, or even want to. In the wilds or not, Armand was a gentleman, after all.

Lucienne’s nerves grew taut and edgy as the sun dropped slowly beyond the treetops. She kept glancing sideways at the man in the doeskin shirt. He rode easily, his rifle not far from his hand, his eyes narrowed for signs of the trail in the fading light. He was a man to take the eye, she admitted. Others had found him handsome. Young mademoiselles, the cream of New Orleans society, expressed envy at her luck in becoming his betrothed. She hadn’t seen the appeal, too entranced by Philippe to see any other man, but now she could appreciate the warmth in his smile, his elegant carriage and poise, his classic face, one that might look well on a gold coin. Brown hair, dark as mahogany and with a hint of curl as it escaped his battered hat. Eyes the same color, able to glow with affection or flash with fire when his temper flared. Dorcas was right. Armand did have his own dash and style, though the doeskin shirt and battered hat made him a stranger, but an intriguing stranger, to her eyes. When Lucienne tried to picture life with Armand, her imagination failed her. She couldn’t visualize it happening, certainly not, not after their recent history. She’d done everything a woman could to show him she wanted nothing to do with him. He wouldn’t want her back after that. She shouldn’t even consider the possibility.

“There’s the house I was telling you about.” His words interrupted her thoughts. Lucienne raised her eyes to the knoll beyond. At its crest sat the remains of a house long left to the ravages of time and weather. Two walls stood, perhaps held together by the crude stone fireplace lodged in the corner between them. The floor, an uneven expanse of rock with tufts of green showing between the stones, covered less space than a bedsheet. Lucienne bit back a protest. When Armand mentioned staying the night at a house, she’d envisioned walls and a roof, with at least a door to keep out night-hunting animals.

“It isn’t much, I admit,” he added. “But the floor seems dry, and if the chimney draws, we can have a hot meal. We’ll be all right for one night here.”

It was worse than the Jessups’ fishing cabin, in Lucienne’s mind. At least there she’d had some manner of bed, and the sky hadn’t been the only roof over her.

“Staying dry will be something new,” she answered, determined not to show her alarm. “I don’t suppose it comes with a bathtub?”

Armand laughed at her sally. “No,
chèrie
, you’ll have to wait one more night for that tub of hot water. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

Leaving the horses where they would have grass and water, Lucienne and Armand made a sketchy camp on the rough floor. She spread the big horse blanket over the rocks to pad them as much as possible. Armand rounded up dry wood, started a fire, then strolled off into the woods with his rifle, leaving her to watch the fire.

“Dinner will be whatever I find, Lucienne, but we have good water. We’ll have our fill of that, at least.”

Lucienne watched the heavens darken and the stars shoot golden pinpricks into the lavender sky. Armand had been gone far longer than she expected. She was more than ready for the supper he’d promised. The shadows of the woods grew darker. From beyond the stream came the low call of a wakening owl. Scurrying sounds in the brush nearby brought her a sickening memory of the cottonmouth at the barn that morning. Lucienne moved nearer the fire and tossed a good-sized chunk of wood on it. Listening for every sound that might announce Armand’s return, she tried to shut out the chorus of green tree frogs serenading her.

“Would madame care for the fish course first, or would she like a sweet?”

Lucienne twisted to see over her shoulder. Armand made only a shadow in the dim light with his hat in one hand and a dripping honeycomb in the other, his rifle slung behind his shoulders.

“Sweets first, always! How did you manage to get that? Didn’t the bees attack at the first sign of someone robbing their hive?”

Armand broke the comb into smaller pieces. “I happen to be one of those charming fellows the bees like. They let me take a little from their hives from time to time without too much bother.” He passed one piece to Lucienne. She licked the drips from the edge of the comb before they could fall to the floor and be wasted.

“That’s black magic. I get stung if I just see a bee in the flowerbeds.”

Armand lifted an enormous fish from his hat. “And this will be Madame’s main course this evening. I’m sorry I don’t have wild rice or candied yams to finish, but it should be large enough to make a meal alone.”

“You lure fish, too?”

Armand wiggled a flat stone loose from the ruined wall and rubbed it down with damp grasses and leaves. “This old fellow made the mistake of coming up after a tasty bug just as I stopped for a drink of water. He obligingly toppled right into my hat.” He spread the split fish on the rock and nudged it into the fire with a green willow stick.

“I’ve always heard that fishermen exaggerate, but that’s the worst lie ever.”

“Well, a slight exaggeration, but give me credit for originality.”

As the fish cooked in the fire, Lucienne and Armand sucked the last of the honeycomb dry. Darkness settled in earnest over their camp, and by the time Lucienne and Armand finished their dinner, the night birds had taken up a chorus with the frogs. A wave of honeysuckle perfumed the air, carried on a sweet breeze from the stream. Armand gave Lucienne his dampened kerchief to clean the residue of honey and fish from her fingers.

“My compliments to the chef, m’sieu.” She passed the bandana back to him.

“He’ll be delighted to know you approve.” Armand fed more wood into the fire, then sat with his back against the wall, his knees under his chin. “You manage to adapt very well, Lucienne. You don’t cry about the discomforts or wail about what you don’t have. Still, I think you’ll be glad to get back to featherbeds and regular meals served on real china.”

Lucienne curled her legs up under her ragged gown. “I think I’d like a clean dress and a comb more than anything.” She lifted a tangled braid and looked at it with dismay. “I hate feeling like a scarecrow.” She didn’t want to talk of what life might be like once they returned to daily life.

“Yet you are as beautiful now as you were in your fine gown at the little masquerade when we danced. Tangled hair, torn dress, threadbare shoes and all, you are still very lovely, Chou-Chou. Whatever else, I’ll never regret we had this time together.”

“Hurricanes, pirates, snakes, and all, Armand? You’re a glutton for punishment.”

“Ah, maybe so, but I take my pleasure where I find it.” He raised her hand and left a kiss on her palm. His gesture stirred Lucienne’s senses, and her palm heated from his slight caress.

Her breath caught in her throat. “But I think you prefer the belle in the pretty gown and her conventional conversation to this ragamuffin swamp girl.”

The darkness hid his face so she couldn’t gauge his expression. “No, Chou-Chou.” His words were slow but insistent. “You must realize how much I admire the swamp girl. She’s resilient and clever. She doesn’t abandon her friends or become helpless in the face of danger. I don’t think many of the belles of New Orleans could show such courage.” He leaned forward to grasp her other hand. “In society you wear that foolish mask of social conventions, like the frivolous thing you wore for our wedding, something that hides who you really are. You need never wear that mask for me, Lucienne. I know who you are and I delight in it.” She shivered against the chilly wall. “You’re cold,
chèrie
. Perhaps you should get your blanket and sleep now. We’ll leave as soon as there’s light enough to see the trail.”

“You’re not…” Lucienne didn’t know how to finish the question. “Aren’t you tired? You’ve had a longer day than I did.”

“I’ll sit up a while yet and keep the fire going. Get some rest, Chou-Chou. Tomorrow is a long day, too.”

Mingled disappointment and relief warred as Lucienne smoothed the saddle blanket over the floor. With the day she’d had, she should be able to sleep anywhere she could find to lay her tired bones, but slumber escaped her. His words,
I know who you are, I delight in it,
wouldn’t leave her; they circled round and round her mind. She found herself staring up at the powdering of stars that filled the sky overhead. For a long while she looked up, hearing his words, counting stars and watching the occasional one shooting across the heavens in a blaze of silver light. Armand tossed a log on the fire from time to time.

“Not sleeping yet, Chou-Chou?”

“Not used to rocks for pillows, I guess.”

“A hard bed for you,
chèrie
. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better.” He pulled his own blanket toward her and spread it. A moment later he lay beside her. “I can’t do anything about the bed, but I can offer a pillow.” He lifted her up so that his shoulder cushioned her head. “Better? Will you sleep now?”

Warmth and a heady kind of drowsiness washed over her. Armand’s shoulder fit around her tired head. His lean body cradled her. Her breath came in long sighs. “Yes, much better.” She closed her eyes as the peace of sleep drew her into its web.

The last her conscious mind heard was Armand’s soft murmur. “Ah, little bird, what am I to do with you?”

****

Armand had risen and made them a skimpy meal of two small fish by the time Lucienne woke. She ate and stretched luxuriously, as if she’d spent the night on the finest linen sheets in a proper bedroom.

“Hurry yourself, sleepyhead,” Armand urged. “We need to make an early start so we don’t lose the light before we get to trail’s end.”

A wisp of remorse for the end of their journey touched her. She glanced at the tangled blankets. It had been a moment, just a flicker of time, but in that instant she’d wished she and Armand could go on as they were and never go back to their routine life or the decisions she faced with the next sunrise.

“Can I go to the stream and wash the sleep out of my eyes?” She gave the stream an anxious glance. “Without the company of snakes or alligators, I mean?”

“I was there moments ago and it was safe. Go ahead, but look before you step.”

Lucienne made a cautious pilgrimage to the water’s edge and gave her face a hasty wash in the cool water. She looked at the reflection below in dismay. Could that disheveled urchin be Lucienne Toussaint? Tangles framed a face spattered with a spray of freckles across a sunburned nose. Marie would faint with shock. A Creole lady’s unblemished white skin was not to be risked for anything. Her hair, a crown in itself, had never been seen in such disarray. Lucienne giggled to think what her lifelong watchdog would say to the swamp child reflected in the water.

Suddenly conscious of passing time, Lucienne dried her face on the least grimy square of her skirt. She pulled her hair back and tied it with a scrap torn from her hem, a hem that was becoming more ragged with each hour, and brushed her skirt free of grass and twigs. Armand would be waiting, and the last leg of their journey couldn’t be postponed forever.

Lucienne ran lightly over the scrub grass and up the slight rise. She scrambled around low brush and sidestepped an uneven stone. Armand wasn’t there. His rifle and pepperpot pistols were still at the edge of the stone floor. She looked toward the place where they’d left the horses and saw the mounts saddled and waiting. No sign of the man. Where was he?

The sound of footsteps, heavy and awkward, came to her. Certain he was injured or ill, she started to run toward the footsteps. A man bent with the weight of a massive burden stepped out of the trees.

“Don’t try getting away, missy. I don’t want to hurt you none, but you ain’t runnin’ off this time.”

Lucienne didn’t believe it could be the same man. How could Price be in this place? His red face was flushed to the color of a beet from exertion. Slowly he released his burden, and the limp form of Armand Dupre rolled to the stone floor.

“You’ve killed him, you devil!” she shrieked as she ran to Armand’s unmoving side. “Armand! You’ve killed Armand!”

Price laughed grimly. “Singing a different tune now, are you? Nonetheless, your folks’ll pay me well for bringing you back. Dupre said that was what I should have done in the first place. Looks like he was right.” He pulled her to her feet and dragged her across the ground to the waiting horses.

“Armand! Armand!” Her screams fell on uncaring ears.

“He’s not dead, missy, or at least I don’t think so. I didn’t hit him so very hard. He’ll come around.” Price tried to force Lucienne into the saddle. She kicked his knee as hard as her frayed boot could manage.

“There are snakes! Alligators! You can’t just leave him here!” She tore at his hair and ripped the sleeve from his dingy shirt.

“Little lady, I sure can. I’m doin’ just that!” Wrapping an arm around her waist, he fished a length of rawhide from his pocket and tied her wrists with clumsy haste. He lifted her up toward the saddle. Unable to defend herself with her hands, Lucienne kicked at her nemesis with all her might. She got in a hard blow to his face and was jubilant when blood poured from the cut in his cheek. Regardless of her efforts, Price was able to force her into the saddle. He looped her bound hands over the saddle horn and then mounted Armand’s waiting horse. Leading her mount by the reins, Price kneed the gelding to a trot and both riders, willing and not, disappeared into the trees.