Gwyneth Atlee (8 page)

With a trembling hand, Yvette swiped away the tears of gratitude
that blurred her vision. She had never felt such relief in all her life as
when the soldier with the tangled beard handed back her reticule.

“Got me this keepin’ it away from some of ’em.” He gestured
proudly toward a swelling eye. “But I didn’t forget how you gave my
friend here your dinner. What kind of men are we if we’d steal from
an angel?”

The man’s friend slept nearby, his emaciated body partially
wrapped around the empty basket Yvette had left.
Even now, as she neared her stateroom, she could barely believe
that a man—a Yankee—who had almost nothing would fight to protect
her reticule. Before leaving, she’d brushed her lips across his rough
cheek. In her gratitude, she forgot to worry about whatever vermin his
thicket of a beard might harbor.
First Gabriel and now this ragged stranger. Perhaps Yankees varied
in their natures just as much as Southern men. Or perhaps war
brought out the worst in all men, she thought, too conscious of the fact
that her own people had clearly starved these soldiers.
Was it possible, now that this war was ending, that reason would
return and battered hearts could heal?
Perhaps hope blinded her to danger, or perhaps it was only some
combination of the late hour, the dim light, and the attention required
to pick a pathway through the midst of so many sleeping soldiers.
Whatever the cause, as Yvette moved toward the entrance to the main
cabin, she nearly ran headlong into the one Yankee that no truce
would ever compel her to forgive.
Her fingers clutched spasmodically at the black reticule, which
she held tight against her waist. Yvette felt her limbs begin to
tremble, but she could not make them run. Her jaw dropped, but
neither word nor scream would come. She was too aware of the
Union officers inside the main cabin only steps away, officers who
would be quickly drawn by any outburst, who would surely take
this murderer’s side against her.
His hand clamped firmly on her upper arm, yet Yvette barely felt
the throbbing pressure points of thumb and fingers. All she could
think of was the reticule that she was clutching and the folded letter
sewn into its lining. Whatever happened, she must not let Darien
Russell find it there.
“Strange that I don’t hear you laughing now. But perhaps this time
you’re the object of amusement. You’ve led me quite a merry chase,
Yvette.” His voice ran dark and low, as if he, too, had no wish to draw
attention to their conversation.
She jerked her arm free, breaking his grip through sheer determination.
“Take your filthy hand off me, murderer!” she hissed.
“If I’m not very much mistaken, you’re the one who’s charged with
murder, Miss Augeron.”
Frustrated by an urge to slap the smugness off his face, she gripped
the handle of her reticule even harder.
“Killing
you
would have been worth whatever punishment they
gave me, but I have no intention of hanging for your crimes,
Captain.”
She infused the last word with all the contempt she felt, all the wounded
pride that had prompted her to invent insulting songs and paint
General Butler’s face in several dozen chamber pots.
He flinched, and she could swear she felt how much he ached to
throttle her, the same way he had choked her pliant sister. Instead, he
moved forward, backing her closer to the door.
“Just remember you
did
kill them,” he said. “You killed both of
them!”
“Can’t a fella get a drink here? You’re blockin’ th’way, Cap.” A
soldier slurred the words behind Russell.
Yvette’s gaze rode over the sharp angle of the captain’s shoulder.
Drunk or not, the voice sounded familiar. Hope unfurled inside her
when she recognized Gabe’s face. No alcohol dulled his expression.
Instead, he looked grimly expectant. Did he mean to provoke Russell?
Darien glanced over his shoulder.
“You
again!” He spat the words,
as derisive as Yvette had sounded. “What must I do to teach you
some respect?”
“Dunno, how ’bout . . .
this!”
Gabe dropped his shoulder, then
launched himself into Russell’s side.
Caught off balance, the captain went down heavily.
Yvette took the opportunity to run, thanking God for Gabe’s
distraction. She picked her way rapidly among soldiers lounging on
the deck. A few shouted rude questions or comments at her haste, but
no one tried to stop her. With her heart thundering her panic, she
pounded toward her stateroom’s outer door. Shaking as she was, she
could barely fit the key inside the lock. She expected at any moment
strong arms to grab her from behind. But none did, and somehow, on
the third try, she opened the door and rushed inside, then closed and
quickly locked it.
“Mew?” Lafitte’s cry sounded as confused as she felt.
Yvette put her back to the door, then slid down it till she sat. As if
her presence could prevent a man of Russell’s size from entering.
As she waited, trembling, she tried to imagine how Gabe had
divined her need, her terror. How much had he overheard?
But with a beast like Russell on her trail, it was impossible to worry
about what Gabe knew or thought. Guiltily, she thought of what he’d
risked by striking an officer. She might be safe now, but what of him?
If he were arrested, how could she dare help him? And if she did
nothing, could she live with that guilt, too?

“Where did she go?” Russell demanded. His hands grasped the
insolent private’s shoulders, and he tried to shake him as a terrier
might a rat.

Gabe, however, stood his ground and watched surprise steal across
Russell’s features. Gabe’s strength was quite a change for someone
who only moments ago had given the impression he was drunk.

“Didn’t see her, Captain,” Gabe answered clearly. “I was too busy
helping you up from the floor. Sorry about knocking you off your feet
like that. I got a little dizzy there for a moment. Didn’t mean to stumble
into you.”

“You want this man placed under guard?” a voice came from his
left, and Gabe looked up—and into Seth Harris’s gray eyes.
Apparently, his friend had come looking when he hadn’t returned to
the hurricane deck.

Captain Russell glanced at Seth and nodded stiffly. “Is he your
responsibility?”
“Unfortunately,” Seth answered. “I don’t know how he does it, but
he always finds himself a bottle. Maybe someday he’ll get the knack
of drinking without acting the part of a damned fool.”
Gabe lowered his gaze in an attempt to look contrite. Really, he was
suppressing a smile of gratitude at Seth’s lie. He’d certainly have some
explaining to do, but he felt confident his friend wouldn’t arrest him.
“You better keep him out of my way,” Russell ordered, glaring at
Seth. “Otherwise, I’ll have the both of you brought up on charges. Is
that understood?”
Gabe’s glance jerked upward. If there was one thing Seth Harris
hated, it was high-handedness from other officers. As he expected,
Seth adjusted his cracked spectacles. His spine, too, straightened,
emphasizing every inch of his six feet two inches. At the moment, he
didn’t much look the part of the logical professor.
“They didn’t strip me of my rank when I was captured, Captain.”
The harshness in Seth’s voice iced the evening air. “I’ll thank you to
remember that when you’re addressing me.”
Russell said nothing for several moments. Instead, he glared
steadily at both Seth and Gabe, as if he were committing both of
them to memory.
Finally, after far too long a pause, he said, “Just keep this soldier
quiet—and well away from me—and we’ll have no cause for
unpleasantness . . .
Captain.”
With that, he spun crisply on his heel and strode off—thankfully, in
the opposite direction of the one that Eve had taken.
Not Eve, Gabe corrected himself. Yvette. He’d have to keep that
in mind.
Seth looked at him curiously. “What the hell was that about?”
Gabe nodded. “I sort of hit him, sir.”
Seth shook his head disapprovingly. “Don’t give me that ‘sir’
routine. We’re way past that, Gabe. So, did you hit the pretentious bastard
on purpose?”
“I did.”
Seth stared at him, considering. “I thought you’d given up trying to
prove yourself against every jackass that has it coming.”
“It was more than that, Seth. He was troubling a lady passenger
who’d just done me a good turn.”
Seth’s eyebrows rose. “Not that little beauty you were admiring earlier?
That Rebel gal?”
Gabe shrugged the answer, ignoring the objection in his
friend’s tone.
“I’m not happy with it, Gabe, but I suppose that’s better than what
I’d imagined,” the captain said. “I figured you’d maybe run into those
Ohio boys.”
“I did. And I’m likely to again if I don’t get back upstairs.”
“Then by all means let’s go. You can tell me about it up there.”
“I want to check on her first. I think he may have hurt her,” Gabe
said. “I’ll explain what happened later.”
“Stay out of this, Gabe. You need to concentrate on keeping out of
trouble, getting home. Think logically. Or if you can’t do that, think
about that beefsteak you keep dreaming on and not some girl with
every reason in the world to hate you. Let’s go back upstairs.”
“Is that an order?”
Irritation flashed across Seth’s features. He shook his head. “Just
good advice. Why don’t you take it?”
“You’ve got this wrong. I’m not looking for trouble. I just need
to see her for a moment. I have to.” He wanted to explain what
she’d done tonight to prevent him from being pitched overboard
unconscious, but he had to keep it to himself. Otherwise, Seth’s
“good advice” would definitely become an order.
“You want me to go with you?” the captain finally offered.
“Three’s a crowd,” Gabe said.
Seth frowned. “Sometimes I think you’re hell-bent on getting
yourself killed. I don’t want to hear that you’ve been in another
fight, especially not over her. Use your head. Remember this girl’s a
Southerner. Expect little; trust less.”
As Seth headed for the boat’s stern and, presumably, the stairway,
Gabriel thought on his last statement:
“Expect little; trust less.”
Seth had told him those same words after he’d arrived at
Andersonville. As long as Gabe had remained there, that advice
made sense, maybe even helped keep him alive. But now he deliberately
cast aside the notion, the same way he’d discarded the vermininfested rags of his imprisonment.
He was a free man now, and the hellish war was over. Despite what
he had done before, what he had suffered, Gabe intended to start
expecting more. Maybe he could even risk a little trust.
But not on this Yvette. In the wake of everything that had happened,
he didn’t have trust enough to squander on a woman who had lied
about her name.

Yvette sat quivering against the outer door. Before her, Lafitte tumbled
and leapt, as if trying to distract her from her frantic breathing and her
pulsebeats, which hammered like woodpeckers at both temples.
Instead of succeeding, the kitten’s antics annoyed her. Couldn’t the
rascal settle down and let her think of what to do?

It was no use, anyway, she realized. She rubbed at her arms,
where Russell had exerted bruising pressure. How could she
concentrate when his furious face kept flashing in her vision?
How could she plan what to do while she worried that at any
moment he might find her?

Still, snatches of ideas raced around her mind, most too swift to
capture and examine. She might abandon her room and hide somewhere, perhaps among the cargo she’d seen loaded in New Orleans
and Vicksburg. Or she could jump overboard with some piece of
wood to float her out of danger. Perhaps, instead, she ought to find
another Union officer and tell what she knew about Darien Russell
and his ring of Yankee thieves. But each idea seemed more hopeless
than the last until her vision blurred with welling tears.

A faint knock sent her hand flying to cover her own mouth lest she
scream and give herself away. If she could only remain quiet, perhaps
he wouldn’t be certain she was in here. Maybe he wasn’t even sure
this was her room.

Hope faded as she realized that certain or not, Darien Russell
wouldn’t rest until he had the chance to look inside. She wondered
how long it would take him to find a crewman with a key to let
him in and how in God’s name she could hope to escape him if
that happened.

Gabe tapped once more, slightly louder. His voice rose just above a
whisper. “It’s Gabe Davis. Let me in.”
A moment passed and then another. Though he thought he might
hear some movement in the stateroom, he could not be sure.
Go away,
the
voice of caution whispered. The longer he dallied, the greater his chances
of running into either Captain Russell or Silas Deming and his friends.
He’d return to his spot on the crowded upper deck and stay there
for the duration of the journey. He ought to feel relieved that he
wouldn’t have to worry about this Yvette’s problems. But instead, disappointment washed over him. As foolish as it was, he’d wanted to
see her again, to hear her softly accented voice, intelligence sparkling
behind each word, to feel her gentle touch once more upon his hand.
Longing overwhelmed him as he remembered how she’d felt when he
had kissed her, and hunger rose, unstoppable as the river flooding
past its banks.
And so he knocked one final time, and at last the door cracked open.
“Get away from here!” Her voice hissed through the narrow gap.
“Did he hurt you?” Gabe whispered.
Her breath puffed out, loud with her exasperation. The gap
widened, and she pulled him inside. As soon as he had cleared the
opening, she closed and locked the door.
“No, but he most certainly will if you stand out there pounding on
my door.” Anger punctuated her words, but still, she kept her voice
low, as if she feared someone would hear. “Why didn’t you just leave?”
Her eyes belied the abruptness of the question. In them, Gabe
glimpsed something like relief. Whatever her trouble, she wasn’t all
that eager to face it on her own.
“I couldn’t,” he said, though the words did not explain his action,
even to himself.
She seemed to accept them nonetheless. The anger in her voice
faded to concern. “Did he hurt you?”
“He didn’t, though I expect that he would like to,” Gabe told her. “I
overheard him near the bow. He was asking about a girl with your
description . . . Yvette.”
She tilted back her head, her chin jutting forward, as if she could
master her emotions with a show of pride. “I had no choice except to
give a false name. I am Yvette Augeron. My family always called me
Yvie. ‘Eve’ is not so very different.”
“Why? The captain said you were wanted for some crime.
Something serious. But I couldn’t imagine you—” He shook his head,
wondering if he’d been wrong. When he’d kissed her, she’d felt so delicate, so fragile. But now, as before, he saw every indication that she
had a spine of steel.
Even so, he remembered her compassion. Clearly, Yvette was a
jewel with many facets. “You helped me earlier,” he explained. “I figured
I owed you at least the warning. But when I saw the way he grabbed
you . . .”
“Now you have repaid the favor, Gabriel. You helped me out of a
difficult situation, just as I helped you.” She looked away from him,
but not before he saw moisture gleaming in the corners of her eyes.
“You owe me nothing more.”
Ignoring the dismissal in her words, Gabe said, “Yes, I do. You
listened to my story. It helped so much to share it. Tell me, Yvette,
what’s happening to you?”
She glared at him for just a moment, then dropped into the room’s
sole chair. The kitten pounced onto her lap and curled into a ball. Gabe
could hear his purring as she stroked him gently. Like Lafitte, Yvette
seemed to have drawn into herself, for she neither looked at him nor
said a word in answer.
Gabe sat on the berth’s edge, as he had before. Remembering their
kiss, he felt a strong ripple of desire, but once again he reminded
himself that Seth was right. Nothing good could come of a relationship
with a Southern woman.
If he had any sense, he’d leave now. He’d done the gentlemanly
thing by offering to listen. That freed him of his obligation, didn’t it?
Just as he’d decided to get up, Yvette took a deep breath. “All right,
Monsieur Davis. I accept the offer of your ears.”
Without further prelude, she began. “Captain Russell is an
evil man.”
He stared at her, studying the way her gaze kept flicking from one
door to the other, as if her words might conjure up the appearance of
her enemy. Though she had paused, he said nothing, sensing that if he,
too, quickly filled the silence, she would not continue.
Yvette’s gaze lost its wariness, and her brows beetled with
anger. “He has used this war for his own profit— and, worse yet,
we let him.”
“Who do you mean,
we?”
Gabe ventured.
“The Creole families of New Orleans, at least the ones who took the
oath. You may not know this, but when the Yankees captured our city,
men like my father were given a choice: swear loyalty to the Union or
lose their businesses, their homes . . . everything.”
He tried to imagine his own father faced with such a difficult
decision. With his wife and daughters to support, even Flint
Maxwell Davis might be forced to swallow back his pride.
Yvette continued. “My father was one who chose the oath, but it
made him unpopular, even in our home, I’m afraid. So when Captain
Russell came along, casting himself as a better sort than the other
Union officers, Papa took him up on his offer of friendship. Russell
beguiled Papa with his talk of operas and French literature. And I
believe, after a time, that he began offering my father advice of a
financial sort.”
She shook her head, and her hazel eyes flashed anger. “Papa barely
seemed to notice how one Creole family after another was falling into
ruin—every one of whom had some association with this man or his
friend Major Stolz.”
“Sometimes we see only what we wish to,” Gabe offered, but he
was wondering how many on both sides had used this war to steal.
“Captain Russell even convinced Papa he had honorable
intentions toward my sister, Marie,” Yvette continued. “And
Papa encouraged the relationship, though he well knew no
decent Creole man would ever offer for Marie if it was learned
she’d entertained a Yankee caller.”
Bitterness edged Yvette’s words. Perhaps it made her head ache,
too, for she raised her hand from Lafitte to press her thumb and
forefinger just above each eyebrow. The kitten rose, arched his back,
and yawned, his pink mouth contrasting with his tiny ivory fangs.
Gabe looked away in hopes the kitten would keep to its own place.
“We have a saying in the Quarter,” Yvette continued.
“Chacun sait ce
qui bout dans son chaudron.
‘Everyone knows what boils in his own pot’
is the translation, but we use it to mean there are no secrets within
society. Marie’s secret didn’t last long, so of course the only proper
thing to do was see the couple wed. Even
Maman,
who hates Yankees
more than a dog hates fleas, could see the necessity of that. Everyone
could . . . except for me.”
Gabe almost felt sorry for the captain. Little as he knew of Yvette,
he suspected she could be a formidable adversary. The kitten leapt
from her lap and rubbed across Gabe’s lower legs.
“I mentioned how many families Captain Russell had befriended
who had so suddenly fallen on hard times, but Papa was quite taken
with him all the same. Still, I wondered more and more about the
man. I suspected he was meeting Marie in secret, spending time
alone with her, yet he did not offer for her hand. I . . . I began asking
among the servants.”
A brief smile lifted the corners of her mouth and touched her eyes
with genuine affection. “But if it is true there are few secrets in society,
there are fewer still among the quadroon nurses, the old house slaves,
and cooks. Before very long, a letter came into my hands. A letter from
this Captain Russell . . . to his wife.”
Gabriel felt outrage as he imagined an older, married man trifling with
one of his two sisters. He would pound the fellow into paste. Lacking
the brute strength to do that, he wondered what Yvette had done and
how it could have led to a criminal charge and a northward flight.
“As bad a shock as that was,” Yvette continued, “the letter also
confirmed my true suspicions. Captain Russell gave instructions
to his wife on how to access the accounts of the Gayarrée family’s
recent New York investments. I know little of such things, but
even I could guess this letter would cause the captain a great deal
of trouble.”
“What happened?”
She poured each of them a glass of water from the pitcher. After
sipping at hers, she continued. “My first thoughts were for Marie, of
course. Before I showed anyone, even Papa, this terrible letter, I had to
speak to her. It was very difficult. Marie imagined I had written it
myself and forged Captain Russell’s name. She accused me of being
jealous that she would wed while I would never—”
“How could she say that?” Gabe asked. “You’re so beautiful, and
you’re her sister, after all.”
Yvette lifted a hand to stop him. “You are very kind to protest, but
perhaps you have guessed already the cost of one mistake. For a
young man such as yourself, there may be a second chance, but for a
proper young lady—”
“What’d you do? Use the wrong fork at some fancy dinner party?”
He offered her a smile, eager to lift her sadness.
She shrugged to indicate indifference, then raised an eyebrow, as if
in amusement. “Perhaps I understated the number of mistakes I have
made. And certainly Marie overestimated their importance. But now,
mon Dieu,
now there is no hope at all for a good marriage. Not after
that monster’s accusations.”
Lafitte rubbed against Gabe’s lower legs and mewed. He rubbed its
ears. To quiet it, he told himself. He didn’t want its noise to drown out
Yvette’s soft voice or perhaps draw the attention of a passerby outside
the door.
“Did you ever convince your sister to believe you?” he asked.
“I did not think so at the time. She begged me to let her speak to this
man she claimed she loved, to give him a chance to tell her this was all
some terrible mistake, I suppose. I told her I would go to the Union
lieutenant I had learned was investigating Russell.” She shook her
head. “If only I had done just that . . . But Marie began to cry then, and
she begged me.”
Yvette pressed her fingertips above her eyes once more, as if the
memory pained her. Her jaw quivered, and Gabe heard her teeth chatter.
Just as his had when he’d leapt into the frigid river after Matthew and
when he’d seen his brother’s face above a stranger’s Rebel uniform.
Mute tears slid down her cheeks, and at their appearance, Gabe rose
and went to her.
She glanced up at him, her eyes full of such fear and desperation
that he didn’t hesitate a moment. Instead, he took her hand and drew
her toward him, let her sob while encircled by his arms.
“I would have done it, anyway, but Marie—she said she was with
child. She was hysterical, screaming that she would rather take her life
than face such a scandal. She wanted desperately to believe the letter
was some sort of fabrication, that he would marry her once he knew
of her condition.”
“So you didn’t go to the lieutenant?” Gabe asked. He felt her head
shake against his chest.
“God forgive me, I did not. I had to give Marie her chance. And
then she disappeared . . . within the day. Two days later, she was
pulled out of the Mississippi River. But two days wasn’t long enough
to obliterate the bruises on her throat.”
“He killed her,” Gabe said flatly. The scheming bastard had murdered
a naive young woman—and the mother of his child.
Yvette nodded. “Killed her—and the lieutenant, too. When I tried to
see him, I found his body lying on the carpet of his office. And I know
that Captain Russell plans to kill me also to keep his secret safe.”
Dear Lord, how she had suffered, how she was suffering right now.
He wanted so badly to fix it for her, to keep her safe and see her sister
and the other man avenged. But neither was in his power, so instead
he let her lean into his strength and weep.
How right it felt to hold her, and how natural, though he couldn’t
recall the last occasion he’d held a woman so very close. He bowed his
head and brushed her jet-black crown with his lips, but gently, very
gently, so that she would not pull away. Comforting this woman, who
had eased his pain such a short time before, felt like a balm for all that
ailed him, a salve upon his soul.
To his utter amazement, she lifted her face toward his, as if her
lips felt drawn by the same force that seemed to pull his own. He
kissed her, once again feeling some soul-deep connection, feeling
her woman’s curves against him, imagining her opening like pale
magnolia petals.
His body responded to her need with want, to her softness with
almost painful hardness. His mind reacted, too, part of it appalled by
the recklessness of this attraction, part of it realizing that for all their
differences, their losses had a striking similarity. Her sister, his brother.
Her Louisiana, his Ohio home. As long as the kiss lasted, he felt convinced
that both were dim reflections of something stronger that had been
touched off by their connection. When she broke the kiss, he felt
diminished, a fragment of that newfound, greater self.
“That was very foolish,” Yvette said, though she seemed to be
admonishing herself, not him. Despite her words, she did not step
out of his embrace. “I thought that perhaps I’d grown beyond
such rashness.”
He touched her cheek and gently kissed her temple, then smiled as
he felt a shudder ripple through her. “It didn’t feel at all foolish,” he
whispered in her ear. But he knew exactly what she meant.
“Each of us has trouble enough alone,” Yvette declared. This time,
she turned away.
Gabe felt her absence, as sharp as pain. Lust, he told himself. No
more than physical lust. A stallion felt it for every mare it scented.
What he felt could mean nothing more.
Yet he could not still his reckless tongue. “Each of us needs a friend now.”
She risked a cautious smile, though it vanished quickly. “I have had
many friends, Monsieur, family friends and young ladies from the
convent school.
That
did not feel like friendship. It felt like something
other, something we must not allow.”
He returned her smile. “I’ll admit, it felt like something other to me,
too. Something very . . . pleasant.”