Creole Fires (36 page)

Across the rear yard of the town house, past a small vegetable garden, she hurried out through the heavy wooden gate. Silently, she crept down the alley toward the street, intent on hailing a hansom cab.

She had only gone a short way before she noticed it—the heavy padding footfalls of a man. Picking up her pace, Nicki hurried along the alley, her dark cloak billowing out behind her. A second set of footsteps, crunching against the earth, joined the first, and Nicki’s alarm began to grow. She was running now, racing toward the street. Since it was a little after midnight, the tall gas lamps had been snuffed out, so the darkness didn’t lessen.

And neither did the footfalls, which seemed to pound in Nicki’s ears.

Who are you?
her mind screamed as she raced faster. Surely Alex hadn’t hired more men to watch her.

They were almost upon her now. Nicki dodged to the left in an effort to avoid one of them, but her cloak got caught in the brambles of a bush and the other man cut her off.

“Let me go!” she cried, feeling his hard arm
tighten like a band around her waist. She struggled and tried to break free, but his grip only grew tighter. There was no gentleness in his touch, no regret for the pain he inflicted on her ribs and her arms.

These aren’t Alex’s men!
she realized with a flash of certainty and a surge of terror. It was her last coherent thought before the white cotton cloth they held over her nose and mouth sent her spinning into darkness.

Nicki felt something warm on her cheeks and her eyes snapped open. Blinking against the bright yellow sunlight and the pounding in her temples, she followed the brilliant rays to a window covered by a heavy black wrought-iron grille designed in lacy scrolls.

A glance at her surroundings revealed a white-plastered room furnished sparsely with heavy carved wooden pieces in the Spanish mode. A carved wooden chair with a thick leather seat sat in one corner, while a terra-cotta jug filled with dried willow branches rested in another. The bed she lay in was wide, with a square-cut canopy above her head.

Ignoring the dull ache in her temple, Nicki swung her feet to the cold, wide-planked floor, and realized for the first time that she was wearing a white cotton nightshirt instead of the brown wool dress she’d had on the night before. She shuddered to think who had undressed her.

Where in God’s name was she? And what did they want with her?

Fighting down the urge to panic, Nicki walked to the window. Through the lacy black scrolls that served to bar her escape, she looked down on a courtyard
walled by a high stucco fence. Red-tile walkways formed paths between the shrubbery, and a terra-cotta fountain spewed a cool stream of water in the middle.

The scene looked inviting, in contrast to the memories of her struggle the night before—which had returned with vivid clarity.

Where am I?
she wondered again. But no answer came. Moving around the room, Nicki spotted an expensively cut, navy-blue day dress with velvet-trimmed collar and cuffs hanging from a massive antique armoire. One quick look said the dress would fit her, and Nicki’s heartbeat quickened to match the pounding in her head.

Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble. But how had they known her plans? Had they been watching her ever since she arrived at the town house? Or was this some scheme of Alex’s to punish her for trying to run away?

Finding fresh underthings in a neat little pile beside the gown, Nicki hurriedly dressed and opened the door, surprised to find it wasn’t locked.

The halls were also of heavy white plaster, and decorated in the same Spanish motif.

“The massa awaits you downstairs.”

Whirling at the sound of the woman’s words, Nicki found a tall, cocoa-skinned Negro standing in front of a second bedchamber door.

“Who?” she asked. “Who is waiting for me?”

“Fortier,” the woman said flatly, and Nicki’s stomach turned to ice.

“Feliciana,” she whispered more to herself than the servant who stood nearby.

Without answering, the tall Negro led her down the
stairs to the receiving salon, her long red African
batakarik
billowing out behind her. The house smelled vaguely of incense. “Wait here.”

In minutes that seemed hours, Fortier joined her. He wore tailored black riding breeches and a white linen shirt, clothes not unlike those Alex dressed in when he was working. But where Alex’s chest was wide and muscular, Valcour’s was lean and hard. High cheekbones rose above the sharp planes of his face. Long brown fingers reached out for her hand, and unconsciously Nicki backed away.

“Come,” Valcour said, ignoring her obvious unease, “you must be hungry. I’ve already eaten, but you should have something.”

He spoke as if there was nothing the least unusual in her being there. She was a guest, nothing more.

“Why have you brought me here?”

“I have brought you home.”

She almost said Belle Chêne was her home, but caught herself. The beautiful plantation she had come to love would never be her home again. “I belong to M’sieur du Villier—or have you forgotten the price he paid?”

“I have not forgotten. I shall see that his money is returned.”

“You don’t think he’ll object?” she asked, incredulous.

“It really doesn’t matter. You should have belonged to me from the start. Alexandre had no business getting involved.”

Nicki didn’t answer. She wasn’t in a position to argue.

Fortier led her into the dining room, where a meal of grillades of beef, grits, and fresh-baked bread had
been set out. Her stomach rumbled at the aroma of the hot food.

“When you’ve finished, I’ll show you around your new home.” He left her there, but she was sure he hadn’t gone far.

And even if he had, it wouldn’t matter. Nicki glanced toward the tall, hard-muscled Negro who stood in the doorway. Everywhere she went someone watched her. Someone Valcour owned. Someone who feared him enough to do exactly as he commanded.

Nicki’s eyes filled with tears. Her ship had sailed, her clothes and her money were gone, no one knew where she was, and Valcour Fortier had plans for her she refused even to imagine. Good Lord, why couldn’t things go her way just once?

Nicki took a long, ragged breath. Straightening her shoulders, she drew herself up. She wasn’t defeated yet. She wouldn’t give up till her last shred of hope had died. In the meantime, she would do what Fortier told her. What other choice did she have?

Knowing she’d need every bit of her strength, Nicki ate the meal set in front of her. Valcour returned just as she finished.

“Shall we go?” It wasn’t a question.

Playing the perfect host, Valcour showed her Feliciana. Ten thousand acres—nearly as large as Belle Chêne. They rode the dirt lanes in a small black phaeton pulled by a glistening black horse, Valcour charming and handsome in his own hard way, and obviously proud of his accomplishments. It was difficult to believe he was capable of the cruelty he had shown Lisette.

“It’s taken my family forty years to build Feliciana
into what it is today.” Valcour pointed toward the cane fields, which stretched across the horizon. Workers used long billhook machetes to cut wide swaths through the stalks, while others driving two-wheeled carts rolled along behind, loading the cane and hauling it off toward the mill.

“You’ve obviously worked very hard. Your father would have been proud.”

Valcour swung his dark-eyed gaze to her face. “What do you know of my father?”

“Not much. I know he expected a great deal of you. If he were alive, I’m sure he would not have been disappointed.”

A flicker of some emotion she couldn’t discern lit his eyes and was gone. “He was always disappointed.”

After a tour of the mill, which took much of the afternoon, they turned back toward the house. The outside was also Spanish in style, with a red-tile roof two stories above the ground, and balconies that ran the length of the second floor. It was painted a soft shade of yellow.

“I added the wing you’re staying in some years ago.”

“When you married?” Nicki asked, and Fortier’s look turned hard.

“Yes,” he said. “You are sleeping in the room I prepared for Feliciana. No one has slept there since she left.”

Nicki felt a wave of unease. “Why me?”

“Why not?” he said coldly, putting an end to the conversation.

When they went back inside, Valcour led her to the
room she had occupied upstairs. A little uncertain, Nicki paused outside the door.

“Supper’s at seven,” Fortier said, ignoring her reluctance. “You’ll find proper clothing set out for you.” He smiled. Not the pleasant, charming smile she had seen before, but a hard, cold smile that left no doubt about his thoughts. “I suggest you get some rest,” he said. “I’ve an interesting evening planned—one that will require a certain degree of … participation.”

Nicki’s stomach knotted.

“I’ll see you at supper.” With that he opened the door, held it as she walked into the room, then closed it softly behind her.

Watching the soft yellow lights go on in the window of the main house, René Bouteiller waited until just after dark before making his way toward one of the horses. As head groomsman, it wasn’t unusual for him to be riding, but Valcour Fortier was a man of uncanny insight. And René was afraid of him. Just the thought of being caught turned his insides to water.

Still, Danielle’s mistress was in danger. There would be no marriage, he was sure, if he stood by and did nothing. Besides, this was all his fault.

Picking a docile bay gelding he hoped would go quietly, René saddled and bridled him, mounted, and headed off toward Belle Chêne. The consequences of his involvement in her abduction would be dire—of that he had no doubt. But he was not an evil man. He would rectify his wrong. Maybe M’sieur du Villier would understand his motives, believe he had really meant no harm.

Unwillingly, René remembered a time when he had seen the big Frenchman angry. A time someone had purposely injured one of his beautiful horses. One blow had sent the man spinning into the dust with a broken jaw—not that he didn’t deserve it. René could well imagine what he would do to the man who harmed his mistress.

René shuddered. In that moment he wasn’t certain who he feared most—Valcour Fortier or le Duc de Brisonne.

“Was the meal to your satisfaction?” Fortier arched a sleek black brow. Nicki sat beside him in the dining room, beneath a heavy wood-and-wrought-iron chandelier. Thick hand-carved beams supported the ceiling above their heads.

“Yes,” she answered nervously, “it was lovely.”

“Not nearly so lovely as you.” His dark eyes moved to the curve of her breast above the low-cut bodice of her gown.

The dress of aqua silk and intricate black Belgian lace fit her perfectly. She had examined it earlier and discovered the hem had been shortened, the bust let out just a little. She was sure the dress had belonged to Feliciana, and her worry increased with the thought.

“Thank you.” So far the evening had gone smoothly, Valcour’s charm almost making her forget her perilous circumstances. No wonder Lisette had been duped into loving him.

“A gentleman finds it difficult to accept a woman’s gratitude for merely speaking the truth,” he said.

Nicki glanced away, not wanting to encourage
him. All afternoon, she had searched for some means of escape. But the bedchamber had been secure and a servant always posted in the hallway. She’d tried to get a message to René Bouteiller, Danielle’s fiancé, by begging the tall black woman she’d seen that morning to help her. The woman merely turned away.

Even now she could see the servants’ guarded expressions, their uneasy stance as they watched Fortier for his slightest instruction. They’re all afraid of him, she thought. Well, she was afraid too. Deathly afraid. But this was not the old fear. This man wasn’t some haunting memory from her past. He was flesh and blood and she could fight him.

Fortier twirled the heavy sapphire ring he wore on the third finger of his left hand. “Did Alexandre find you virgin?” he asked, as casually as if they discussed the weather.

Nicki’s head came up in surprise, followed by embarrassment, and then a surge of anger. “I hardly see where that’s any of your concern.”

The dark skin over Fortier’s cheekbones grew taut. “Answer me,” he demanded in a soft, low voice that did nothing to allay her growing fear.

“Yes.”
You’ve got to get out of here!
All evening she’d been looking for an opening, some slight edge that would give her a chance at escape. Each time she’d entertained the thought, Valcour seemed to know. It only appeared to heighten his anticipation.

His smile fell back into place. “We’ll take brandy and sherry in my study.” With a nod of instruction toward the elderly graying slave who stood beside the dining room door, Valcour shoved back his chair and came to his feet. Rounding the table, he pulled out
Nicki’s chair, helped her up, and guided her out of the room.

When he turned toward the staircase, Nicki drew back on the arm that urged her in that direction. “Where are we going?”

“To my study,” he repeated, and started walking again.