Creole Fires (33 page)

By the time they had returned to the town house, Alex’s thoughts had turned in the direction she had feared.

Seated beside her on the sofa, he watched her with warm, dark eyes while his finger traced circles in the palm of her hand. Nicki’s stomach fluttered and her heart beat a little too fast. Damn him, she thought, struggling to ignore her building desire.

“I’ve been thinking, Alex—about what the factor said.” She smiled, intent on postponing their confrontation as long as possible. “Since you’re determined to keep me here, why don’t you let me be of some use?”

Alex grinned. “You’ve been a good deal of use already. Though I assure you, we’ve only just begun.”

Nicki cast him an exasperated glance. “That’s not what I mean and you know it. I want to help you with the ledgers. I did much of the accounting at Meadowood, and the Ramseys taught me even more. I could save you hours of work, and it would keep me from getting bored.”

Alex leaned down and kissed her, his tongue urging
her lips apart, then sliding inside to tease and coax. “I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen,” he said against her mouth, then he flashed her a second outrageous grin, this one bringing those sensuous grooves to his cheeks.

“I mean it, Alex.” Nicki fought to calm her racing heart. “Don’t you think I can do it?”

Alex sighed. “If you say you can, then I believe you. You never cease to amaze me.” He brushed back a stray lock of her hair. “I’ll have them brought to you as soon as I return to Belle Chêne.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Thank
you.
There’s nothing I hate more than accounting. I thank God every day for Louis Mouton.”

They ate an early supper of oysters, shrimp jambalaya, and
pistolettes
, little rolls of warm, hard-crusted bread. Though Betsy’s home-style cooking tasted far different from that of the French chef at Belle Chêne, Nicki finished every bite on her plate.

“I see you enjoyed the meal.” One corner of Alex’s mouth tilted upward.

“It’s more like what we used to eat back home.”

Alex seemed pleased.

After pralines and café au lait, they retired to the drawing room for sherry and brandy. They had finished only half a glass when a loud knock sounded at the door. In minutes Frederick strode in.

“There’s a message for you,” he told Alex. “A problem’s come up at Belle Chêne.”

Alex set his brandy snifter down and unfolded the note Frederick handed him. “It seems you’ve a reprieve,
ma chère.”

“What’s happened?”

“Problems with the cane crusher. Unfortunately the overseer has been hurt.” “Badly?”

“Let’s hope not. But there’s no one there who knows how to get things running again.” It went unsaid that once the harvesting and refining process started, it continued around the clock. “I’ve got to go.”

Nicki walked Alex to the door, hating to see him go, yet thankful he was leaving.

“Frederick,” Alex said pointedly to the tall, well-built Negro, who spoke better English than most of the servants. Though the Nat Turner laws forbade it, Alex had secretly helped him educate himself. “Since I thought I’d be staying, I gave Ram the night out. That means you are in charge. I’ll expect to find Mademoiselle St. Claire here when I return. If for any reason she is not, you are the one I will hold responsible. Do I make myself clear?”

One look in Alex’s hard, dark eyes was all Frederick needed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “She’ll be here.”

“Now I have two jailers!” Nicki cried, no longer sorry to see him go.

“Ram will be back in the morning,” Alex told Frederick, who nodded. He hauled Nicki into his arms and kissed her so soundly her knees went weak.

Once the door closed behind him, she sagged against it. The man was impossible! Alexandre du Villier was dominating, infuriating—and she fell a little more in love with him every day. He was wearing her down, constantly draining her will, and bringing her closer to his control.

With a glare of betrayal at Frederick, who merely shrugged, Nicki headed up to her room. At least Alex
would be busy for a while. She would have time to think things through and get on with her plans.

“Danielle!” she called down the stairs, and the plump, dark-haired girl poked her head out the dining-room door. “I need you a moment.”

When Danielle arrived at her bedchamber door, Nicki surprised her by pointing to the table and chairs she had arranged before the window. “How would you like to learn to play chess?”

Ever since Nicki’s first game of chess with the Ram, an idea had been forming in her mind. When Ram played chess, the rest of the world went by unnoticed. It seemed the roof could fall in and he wouldn’t care.

Once he had discovered Nicki enjoyed the game, too, they had played almost every night. Nicki smiled as she pulled out her chair. After Danielle learned to play, Ram would have another opponent. Someone else who could elicit his deepest concentration and keep his mind off Nicole. When their games became routine, Nicki would strike.

The roof might not fall in, but Ram would probably think so. A good hard hit on the head would knock him unconscious. It was just about the only thing she could think of to insure her chance at escape. Of course there was still money to obtain, and Frederick, too, was now a problem ….

One step at a time, she told herself.

Meanwhile, she would teach Danielle all she could about chess, and she would go and see François.

After sending him a message and receiving his reply, Nicki set off with Ram late one morning to François’s suite at the St. Charles Hotel.

“He may not appreciate your interference,” Ram warned as the carriage rolled up in front of the impressive brick building and a liveried doorman helped her alight.

“I know.”

Marching through the extravagant hotel lobby with its beautiful molded ceilings and crystal chandeliers, Nicki climbed the wide carved staircase to François’s third-floor room. It was a bit unseemly, but what did it matter? What little reputation she had left hung in tatters.

“I’ll wait out here,” Ram told her, seating himself on a plush velvet bench in the hallway. Brass-and-crystal sconces lit the corridor, and deep Aubusson carpets covered inlaid mahogany-and-cypress floors.

After Nicki’s light rap on the door, François pulled it open. He stood just inside, dressed in light-gray breeches, a burgundy brocade waistcoat, and a dark-gray tailcoat. Her own cashmere day dress, done in a rusty shade, matched the turn of the leaves outside and the crisp fall weather.

“It’s good to see you,” François said, his voice a little strained. He bent to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” Nicki said, meaning it.

They took a seat on a cream silk sofa that nestled in front of the fireplace, though no fire burned in the hearth. The room was exquisitely done in cream and beige, the carpets thick and luxurious. Colorful floral paintings in gilded frames lined the walls, along with pastoral scenes from nearby farms, paintings of birds winging over the bayous, and ships lined up on the bustling docks of New Orleans.

It dawned on Nicki that each had been done by the same artist, whose abundant talent was obvious. She glanced around the room. “Are these yours?” “Yes. Do you like them?” “I love them!”

Just as before, François’s rigid posture fled, along with his brooding expression. “You really like them? You wouldn’t just say that?” As his eyes searched hers for the truth, he seemed almost childlike in his need for reassurance.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. They’re wonderful, François. Some of the nicest work I’ve ever seen.” Nicki walked around the room, François beside her, surveying each piece, asking questions about his technique, and commenting on the beauty of the work.

“I want to study in France,” he told her, and Nicki turned in surprise.

“Does Alex know?” she asked. “But then, how could he? He doesn’t even know you paint.”

François sighed. “I’m afraid he will think I’m being foolish. I couldn’t stand it if he laughed at me.”

Nicki led him over to the sofa. “I can’t imagine Alex laughing at anyone. And certainly not his brother. Do you really think he would?”

“He was furious with me for the way I mismanaged Belle Chêne. He ridiculed me for making such a mess of things. Called me an incompetent fool. Later he apologized, but it was not that easy to forget.”

“Everyone makes mistakes. You made mistakes with Belle Chêne. Alex made a mistake in the way he treated you. Belle Chêne means a great deal to him.”

“Everything,” François corrected. “But there is more to it than that. He is worried about
Grand-mère
and me. And the people who live and work there. He is terrified of what will happen to them if Fortier becomes master.”

“I’ve heard of his cruelty.”

“In truth, Val is not overly harsh with his workers—at least not compared to some. Slaves are chattel to him, you see. Possessions. A man does not destroy what belongs to him.” François raked a hand through his wavy dark-brown hair in a gesture that reminded her of his brother.

“But to Alex,” he was saying, “they are more than that. He knows most of them by name, urges them to marry and baptize their children, treats them more like trusted servants than slaves. Up until the Nat Turner laws, they were even given schooling. Alex feels responsible for them. Even his own happiness comes second.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Nicki asked, but in her heart she knew.

“So you will understand why he must marry Clarissa.”

Nicki glanced away, a hard lump swelling her throat.

“The future of Belle Chêne depends on it,” François said softly. “And that future includes all those Alex feels responsible for.”

Nicki raised her eyes to his face. “It seems, in one way or another, Alex and I will both have to pay. But you, François, you still have a chance. Tell your brother about your painting. Ask him to send you to France.”

François’s expression grew bleak. “As much as I want to go, I cannot.” “But why?”

François shook his head. “I wish I could tell you, but some things are best left unsaid.” His dark eyes looked hooded, his boyish features taut.

Nicki laid a hand on his arm. “It’s because of Jean Pierre, isn’t it? You don’t want to leave him.”

François closed his eyes. She could see the battle he waged for control. “I was afraid you had noticed. I had hoped you wouldn’t find out.”

“I know little about such things, but I have come to know you. I believe you are good and kind. That you mean no harm to anyone. If it makes you happy, take Jean Pierre with you.”

François shook his head, his expression even bleaker. “I haven’t the money, and Alex would never understand.”

“He might,” Nicki said, but even she didn’t believe it. In every way, Alexandre du Villier was a completely masculine man.

“I can’t take that chance,” François finished.

They sat quietly for a time, each comforted by the other, though no words were spoken.

“Thank you for explaining about Alex,” Nicki finally said.

“Thank you for coming,” François told her.

He walked her to the door, and she stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Take care of yourself. And please come to see me.”

François smiled. “I shall come on Thursday, if it is all right. We will lunch, then watch the artists painting in the square.”

“That sounds wonderful.” For a fleeting instant, she thought of asking François to help with her escape. But he probably wouldn’t, and even if he
agreed, it wouldn’t be fair to drive yet another wedge between him and his brother.

With a last brief hug, Nicki left him. She found Ram waiting patiently in the hall, just where he’d been before.

“Feeling better?” he asked, coming to his feet.

“Much.” Together, they headed down the stairs. “But I’d feel better yet if I could find some way to convince Alexandre that his brother should study in France—along with his friend, of course. Then everything would be perfect.”

Ram laughed aloud, such a husky roar that people turned in their direction. “Alex bought himself a hundred pounds of trouble, my girl, when he bought you.”

Though it sounded like an insult, Ram’s look said just the opposite. She wished she knew for sure.

Nicki slept fitfully that night. She kept dreaming of Alex, imagining him making love to her. Twice she woke up bathed in perspiration, her nipples hard and aching.

“Damn him,” she swore, but couldn’t help wondering where he was and what he was doing. At least he no longer visited Lisette. Then it occurred to her that in a very short time, he would be sleeping with Clarissa.

“I have to get away,” she resolved aloud. “Before it’s too late.”

Though she received several warm notes from Alex, he remained at Belle Chêne, immersed in the sugar harvest. She spent the following Thursday with François, and Thursday night and much of Friday playing chess with Danielle.

“If I can get some money,” Nicki told Danielle as they sat before the fire in her chamber, “and you can keep Ram busy—I’m leaving sometime next week.” She flashed her friend a pointed glance. “This time, I’ll make it.”

Danielle rolled her round gray eyes. “He can cut out my heart. This time, I will not tell.”

Nicki grinned.

When the chess game was over, she shoved the board away and came to her feet. “You’re getting better,” she said, though she had beaten Danielle with ease.

“It is fun. Besides, I do not have to play well. I shall use my feminine wiles on the big Turk. ‘Please,
M’sieur le
Ram,’ “she mimicked, batting her thick, dark-brown lashes, “‘I know you are far more intelligent than I, but surely a man such as you could teach a lowly woman …?’ “Danielle giggled and Nicki laughed out loud.

They headed downstairs, bent on a
pot de crème
before bed, but voices in the hallway stopped them midway there.

“M’sieur le duc,”
Danielle whispered.

“Yes.” Against her will, Nicki’s heart started thumping and her fingers trembled on the rail.

When Alex glanced up and saw her, his smile went so wide he dimpled. It was all Nicki could do to keep from racing into his arms.