Lady Vixen (18 page)

"I
won't," she panted, twisting her slender wrist in its iron embrace.
"I won't!"

Saber's
hold became even more intense, and Nicole knew he'd break her wrist if she
didn't let go. The pressure was nearly unbearable and then suddenly it was
over. They both heard the sickening sound of the bone cracking, and she sagged
against him, the goblet sliding from her numb fingers.

A
great sigh of relief escaped Saber as he felt her go limp, and almost gently he
lifted the defeated Nicole in his arms and laid her on the bed. Her wrist was
aching in a dull, pounding fashion, and as she lay there, she felt foolish
feminine tears gathering. I
won't
cry, she thought furiously. Her
humiliation was great enough without dissolving into a flood of tears. She lay
on her side, ignoring him, curled in a tight woeful curve of misery.

Saber,
his face expressionless, stood gazing down at her, prey to a multitude of
emotions. Confusingly he discovered he wanted her—again, now! Mixed with desire
was a flicker of tenderness and a feeling of sharp regret at his treatment of
her. And incredibly, he admitted to himself, he felt an odd satisfaction that
she had told the truth about her virginity. Deeply annoyed by his conflicting
thoughts, he turned impatiently away from her.

The
room was in turmoil from their battle, and striding to the bell rope, he rang
for a servant. Then he walked back to the bed, threw on his robe, and pulled
the covers lightly over Nicole. When Sanderson answered the summons, Saber
curtly requested several items and demanded that the room be put into some sort
of order. Sanderson's features did not betray what he thought of such a request
at this late hour or the state of the room. Quietly and efficiently he
straightened overturned chairs, meticulously stationed the satinwood tables in
their normal positions, and swept up the shattered glass. He returned and
brought with him, on a large silver tray, the brandy and other things Saber had
wanted. After putting them on a table he inquired formally, "Will that be
all, sir?"

Saber
dismissed him with a curt nod and poured himself a glass of brandy and lit a
cigar. For some seconds he stood staring thoughtfully at Nicole's motionless
form.

Nicole,
herself, was emotionally spent. At the moment she wished she were dead! No, she
thought suddenly, she wished
Saber
were dead. She rolled painfully onto
her other side—it was best, she reminded herself, always to keep one's enemy in
sight.

Imperviously
Saber returned her stare, although one brow rose quizzically, as though
questioning her wisdom in showing so openly what she felt. He unhurriedly
gathered up the ewer of warm water and a bowl, as well as the cloths he had
requested, and walked over to her. As he looked down on her he was reminded of
a vixen he'd seen once, her foot nearly gnawed in two from her frantic efforts
to free herself from the teeth of the trap that held her. The creature had
looked at the nearing poacher in that same way—half-fearful, yet ready to fight
for its very life. Touched by her look, he hesitated. At last he said, "I
don't intend to hurt you again." Then destroying any kindness the words
may have imparted, he said bluntly, "Unless you force me to."

Nicole
shrugged, her soft mouth tightening with rebellion, the topaz eyes damning him.

Unmoved
by her hostility, he stripped back the covers, laying her body bare to his
gaze. Nicole forced herself to remain motionless as his hand traveled lightly
over the line of her thigh and hip. But with a regretful sigh Saber curtailed
the urge and gently grasped Nicole's injured wrist. She winced at his touch,
slight though it was, and Saber smiled in commiseration.

"Sorry,
brat. I wouldn't have hurt you on purpose, but I had no wish to spend the rest
of my life squeaking in a high girlish tone of voice."

In
any other circumstances Nicole would have giggled at his words, but she was in
no mood to be amused. Yet try as she did to resist it, she was undeniably drawn
to him. Her eyes flat and resentful, she stared at him and wondered bleakly why
she could look at him and still find him attractive. But he was so disgustingly
striking, she thought angrily, with his harsh, sardonic features, the
yellow-gold eyes bright in the bearded face, and the hair so black it held blue
shadows.

Saber's
touch was gentle. He was sure her wrist wasn't broken, as he knew exactly how
much pressure he had exerted, but it was quite swollen and obviously extremely
painful. With almost professional skill he bound it, using the splints and
linen strips he had also requested earlier. It wouldn't hurt for her to rest it
a day or two, and he had some laudanum for the pain. Pouring the laudanum into
a glass, he added some brandy to it and offered it to her.

"Drugging
me now?" she jeered.

He
smiled faintly. "Precisely, my little vixen. For your own good. Be a good
child and drink it down."

With
a resigned grimace she took the glass from him and swallowed the contents in
one gulp. Lying back against the pillows, she glanced up at him, curious about
his next move. Her earlier faintheartedness was vanishing. Her paining wrist
strapped, the warm glow of brandy in her veins and the worst behind her, she
suddenly found she could look forward with more spirit than she had thought
possible a minute before.

Saber
set down the empty glass on the table beside the bed. And then to Nicole's
astonishment, he proceeded to bathe her entire body with the remaining water.
There was no trace of desire in the dark bearded face as he bent over her and
gently sponged away the signs of her lost virginity and his own brutal passion.
How strange that after such violent events he could now be as tender as a
lover. It made her wary, this unexpected kindness. The laudanum was making her
drowsy and she wished he would leave her in peace. He had taken what he wanted,
hadn't he? She stirred resentfully under his hands, glad when he at last threw
the cloth into the bowl.

But
it seemed that Saber was not done with her. She stared wide-eyed as he
discarded his robe and lay down on the bed beside her. The laudanum made her
reflexes clumsy, but she raised her fists to beat against his chest. He laughed
and captured both hands, taking care not to cause more pain to the injured
wrist. Her arms were pinioned on either side of her head, and as Saber towered
dark and determined above her, she spat, "Not again! Not even
you
would
dare to be such an animal!"

His
mouth curved in a mocking smile. Then lowering his body's warm weight against
hers, his knees pressing her legs apart to let him enter, he whispered against
her lips, "You will find that there are many things that
I
would
dare."

As
was his habit, Saber woke as the first pale fingers of dawn were creeping into
the room. Nicole's body was warm and soft as she lay sleeping next to him, and
he lay there half-awake, savoring the sensation.

Saber
smiled slightly, suffering at this moment a trace of remorse. Nick was such a
little firebrand, he thought tenderly. If he were to awaken her, no longer
would she rest so confidingly next to him, but with her eyes spitting black
defiance, she would leap instantly into the fray, damning him and hating him
with every word she uttered.

Pity
. . . that, he thought drowsily. If only she could accept what had occurred as
the natural course of events. It was bound to have happened sooner or later, if
not with him with someone else.

It
was such a simple thing. He had always treated his mistresses well, as Nicole
damn well knew. Grinning, he recalled the astonished look on her face when he
bestowed, as a parting gift to one particular ladybird, a carriage and four
matched bays. Surely she was aware that he would do no less for her, more in
fact, taking into account her untouched state. Why couldn't she be logical? She
offered a commodity he was willing to pay for—simple!

Nicole's
nearness disturbed his wandering thoughts, and with unsatiated hunger he could
feel his own body hardening with desire. Lightly he touched her outflung arm
and lazily nuzzled her ear. But even in sleep she rejected him, turning her
head away.

Regretfully
he let her be. Perhaps it was the sight of her bandaged, curiously defenseless
wrist, or it might have been the sweet softness of her face in repose that
stopped him. Whatever the reason, it didn't cool his awakened passion, but he
restrained his natural inclinations and left her to sleep.

An
hour later, after having dressed and breakfasted, he was on his way back to
Grand Terre. There were things he had to attend to—not the least of these was
Allen's fate! He would discuss it, he decided thoughtfully, with Lafitte.
Together they would explore the most profitable method of disposing of his
one-time lieutenant. Ransom, perhaps... or an outright sale to the American
officials? Wouldn't Nick just love that! But he shrugged his shoulders. It made
little damn difference to him.

Several
hours later Grand Terre came into sight, and shortly after dismissing his
coxswain, he walked up the beach. Behind the thin, straggling line of trees
that fringed the island had been built the thatched cottages that housed many
of the pirates and smugglers, with their women. Bordellos, gambling houses,
cafes, and other establishments that catered to the wild drinking and
excitement-seeking pirates were clustered near the middle of the island. The
slave barracoon was at the south end, the massive warehouses not too far
distant, and in the center of the colony, rising like a lily from a refuse
heap, stood Lafitte's brick and stone mansion.

The
mansion was sumptuously furnished: fine carpets lay upon the floor, paintings
by the foremost masters of the day and heavy gilt mirrors adorned the walls,
and crystal chandeliers winked and blazed above. Businessmen, shopkeepers,
plantation owners, and slave dealers all came to Lafitte for the best of any
merchandise. There was hardly a segment of commerce in lower Louisiana for
which Jean Lafitte did not supply at least a portion of the goods. From his
warehouses only the highest quality of silks, laces, brandy, wines, tobacco,
spices, and numerous other costly and sought-after items were sold.

Since
the importation of slaves had been banned several years before, it was only
here on Grand Terre that the thrifty planter was able to buy, at reasonable
cost, additional stock. In his slave dealings alone, he had a thriving concern.
And his was no secret backstreet operation—respectable and prominent
individuals came openly to trade with him. In New Orleans Governor Claiborne
and the American officials gnashed their teeth in impotent rage, unable to put
a halt to this extremely lucrative and highly illegal commerce.

Claiborne
had forgotten himself so far as to have circulated a poster offering five
hundred dollars reward for anyone who would bring him the notorious pirate,
Jean Lafitte. Lafitte had laughed and promptly made a counter offer—
he
would
pay fifteen hundred dollars to anyone who would bring the governor to Grand
Terre!

Remembering
that not-too-distant incident, Saber was smiling as the servant ushered him
into Lafitte's office.

"Mon
ami,
it
is good to see you! I have been expecting you hourly since word of
La Belle
Garce's
arrival reached me. What has taken you so long?"

Grinning,
Saber helped himself to one of the excellent cigars that reposed in a crystal
case on Lafitte's desk and said as he did so, "I had a little matter that
required my attention."

Lafitte
looked arch, murmuring, "Ah yes, the affair of the young boy who is
not
a boy whom the Captain was discovered embracing in his quarters."

"I'll
be damned!" Saber growled, looking annoyed, but shrugging his shoulders,
he selected one of several crimson velvet chairs arranged comfortably about the
large room and sat down, crossing one booted foot over the other.

Lafitte,
still smiling, reseated himself behind his desk. Evidently, from the litter on
top of it, Saber had interrupted him at work, but this was not an uncommon
occurrence, and Lafitte was always pleased to see one of his best captains.

Both
were tall men, Saber perhaps by a little the taller of the two. Lafitte, a few
years older than Saber, was an extremely handsome man with attractive regular
features. His complexion was dark and the lively black eyes betrayed his French
ancestry. His hair was black, as blue-black as Saber's, and there was an air of
culture and elegance about him. Certainly no one would ever take him for a
smuggler.

Lafitte's
background was shrouded in mystery, and beyond the fact that he and his brother
Pierre had opened a blacksmith shop in New Orleans some years ago, little was
known of his earlier days. Even then the brothers had dabbled in smuggled
goods, and from the smithy they expanded to a pleasant cottage near St. Philip
and Bourbon streets and to a warehouse on the docks. Not content with the
slipshod method of the pirate suppliers, Lafitte, along with his brother, had
boldly traveled to Grand Terre and commandeered the whole disorganized
structure of the many pirate gangs; welding them together with the privateers,
he had produced one of the greatest networks in the history of smuggling. Men
like Dominique You, rumored actually to be a member of the Lafitte family; the
notorious pirates Gambi and Chighizola, called Nez Coupe; and the experienced
seaman, smuggler, and cannoneer, Renato Beluche, whom Lafitte called
oncle,
all
acknowledged him as their leader, their
Bos.
And Captain Saber was one
of his most trusted lieutenants.