Tainted Lilies (3 page)

A woman’s scream from above told him Nicolette Vernet was still alive. Browne and his
men—Gambi’s men,
he corrected in his mind—were notorious womanizers. Without help, the girl’s fate was as certain as the next tide.

Jean Laffite, his long, dark hair plastered back by the sea, his bare chest glistening in the hard glare of the sun, and his britches clinging to every muscled bulge of his thighs, looked like the terror he was called. His mustachioed lip curled back from his teeth in an angry snarl as he grabbed up a rapier in one hand, a cutlass in the other.

When they neared the ship, he leaped to catch hold of the rope ladder. His men waited above, gripping the outer sides of the ship’s railing, ready to spring at his command.

“Ready, lads?” Laffite whispered with the gruff voice of a man not used to speaking softly. “Mind you, leave Browne to me. We have a score to settle.”

Laffite hurled himself over the rail without further conversation, springing with the ease of a hunting panther and a snarl to match. The yells and whoops of his six men filled the air, freezing Browne’s half-dozen pirates where they stood, but only momentarily. Sabers and cutlasses flashed like fire, sending sparks over the smoldering deck.

Laffite spied Browne, taunting the bound girl, and made a dash for him. The other woman—her aunt-was nowhere in sight.

Another scream tore itself from Nicolette’s throat.

“Your time’s up, Browne!” Laffite growled through clenched teeth, brandishing the cutlass dangerously close to the pirate’s midsection. “Throw down your weapon and tell your men to do the same.”

Browne backed away, circling the dark-haired girl tied to the mast. He smiled through gaping teeth, but made no move to toss his saber aside.

“Have a heart, mate,” Browne wheedled. “I’ll split the booty with you. Even this bit of fluff I’ve taken prisoner.” He jerked his head toward Nicolette Vernet. “Ain’t been a bad morning’s work!”

“Your
last
morning’s work, Browne!” Laffite replied, closing in. “My orders were that no American ships were to be molested.”

“Ah, there, you see, boy, that’s where our problem lies. I take me orders from Vincent Gambi and none other. Had Gambi passed them words on to me, this here ship would be sailing smooth as you please on her way to New Orleans. But Gambi, he says, ‘Loot’s for the taking, lads. A pirate shows no allegiance.’ I go by Gambi’s word alone.”

“Then you’ll pay the penalty for your crimes,” Laffite answered, positioning himself to lunge.

Silas Browne moved quickly for a man of his age and weight. Before Laffite’s blade could contact flesh, he leaped for the girl, putting her and the mast between himself and Jean Laffite.

“Please,” Nicolette whimpered. “No more.”

Laffite backed off, taking in her torn gown, bruised mouth, and the glaze of torment in her blue eyes.

“You’ve sunk low enough to hide behind a woman’s skirts, Browne?” Laffite taunted. “I might have guessed as much from one of your kind.”

“My kind, is it?” Browne sneered. “And what might you mean by that?”

“One who would take orders from the likes of Vincent Gambi, then whine over his punishment. What’s he getting out of this raid? Half? Or is he talking all the cargo
and
the women?”

Browne squinched up his colorless eyes and stared hard at Jean Laffite. “Women?” he said. “There ain’t but this one. If you mean the nigger wench, Hernandez throwed her to the sharks.”

“Never mind!” Laffite snapped. “You know Gambi won’t divide equally. You’ll come away with your tail between your legs and your wounds to lick… if you come away at all!”

“In a pig’s eye!” Browne spat, his face distorting with rage, showing Laffite that his words hit near the mark. “I’ll take the captain’s share and the woman, if I want her. Puny thing, though. I like my chippies with more ass and tits to ’em!” As he said this, Browne slipped his big hands around to cup Nicolette’s breasts.

She cried out, her eyes wide with fright.

Laffite recognized both his advantage of the moment and the further terror his action would cause Nicolette, but there was no help for it.

“Don’t be afraid, Nikki,” he said, but saw that his words had little effect as he lunged his rapier point-blank for her breast.

Sure of his aim and timing, Jean Laffite thrust his arm and body forward, stabbing Browne through the back of his sword hand.

The pirate howled in pain, letting go of Nicolette’s torso in a convulsive jerk. He unleashed a stream of gutter words as he spun away, crouching his body over his wounded hand.

Nicolette’s still form hung heavily against the ropes binding her to the mast, mercifully released from her terror for the time by a sudden faint.

She was spared the sight of the bloody battle being waged around her. She didn’t have to view Browne’s death or the hoisting of his body to be tied by the ankles from the jib boom of the
Sea Raven.
This universal form of punishment served as a warning to other would-be offenders of the harshness and swiftness of Laffite’s Law of the Gulf.

Nicolette, though dead weight in his arms, felt light as a feather to Jean Laffite. He lowered her gently to the deck, all the while wondering what the past hours had been for her. Would she survive Browne’s harsh treatment and return to her old self? Or would she awake a dead-eyed shell of the woman she had been?

He had seen that sort of reaction once before in Bianca, the mere child he’d rescued and married to restore some semblance of her honor after these same pirates had taken her by force.

“Poor Bianca. I never knew her as a whole and vital woman. She died, in spirit, long before that stray bullet pierced her tiny breast.”

Laffite realized suddenly that he’d spoken aloud. He cleared his throat self-consciously and glanced about the ship’s deck. No one was close enough to have heard. Only Nikki, and she remained still… silent… pale as death. He quickly erased that thought from his mind.

“Hey, Boss! Look here!” Reyne Beluche, Laffite’s uncle, called out in a jubilant voice.

Reyne, the first of the family to take up privateering as an occupation, had put in twelve years at sea before teaching his nephews the family trade. But Reyne had long since recognized the leadership qualities of his dead sister’s youngest son and addressed Jean Laffite as “Boss,” the same as all the others on Grande Terre did.

Laffite looked up to see his tall uncle escorting a Creole beauty on his arm. She might have just stepped out of a carriage a moment earlier for an evening at the St. Peter Street Theater in New Orleans. Reyne’s large, sun-bronzed frame, his craggy features, and his flamboyant seaman’s costume contrasted violently with the woman’s statuesque perfection and her gown of Paris design.

“So this is your infamous nephew, Reyne?” she said with a smile, not yet aware that her niece lay unconscious just out of her view. “If half the tales that have reached Paris are true, I’m sure I should be fairly quaking in my slippers at this moment!” She turned flirtatious, brandy-colored eyes to Beluche, then gave Laffite a sweetly wicked smile.

Reyne Beluche bellowed his delight and squeezed her ungloved hand affectionately. “You have nothing to fear from this nephew, my dear Gabrielle, but watch out for his brothers.”

“And their uncle!” Madame DelaCroix added.

Beluche laughed aloud again and beamed at her.

“Well, Uncle Reyne, are you going to continue this flirtation interminably or are you going to introduce me to the lady?”

“Ah, Jean boy, you’ve heard me speak fondly of the fabulous Gabrielle Dubois often enough. Now she’s the Widow DelaCroix, but the same charming girl I remember from my courting days. When I was a younger man with hotter blood and a shorter fuse, I fought more than one duel trying to win her favor. She could break a heart with the flicker of an eye or fire a man’s passions past the boiling point with half a smile. Nothing changes, eh, Gabrielle?”

“Everything changes, my dear Reyne,” she said cynically, then softened her tone and added, “except our friendship.”

Jean Laffite felt almost embarrassed watching them, as if he were a guilty voyeur peeking in on some private and very intimate reunion. So this was the love of his uncle’s life—the woman who had fled New Orleans when another man she loved married someone else. The very woman Reyne blamed for his lifelong bachelorhood. Laffite and his brothers had always thought Uncle Reyne made up the romantic tale to amuse them and himself. But it must be true.

“Mon Dieu!
Nikki!” Gabrielle gave a sudden, shrill cry when she spied her unconscious niece. “What’s happened to her?”

She dropped to the deck and cradled Nicolette’s head against the soft mauve silk of her bosom.

“Browne and his men had her; then in trying to save her, I’m afraid I frightened her half to death, ma’am. She should come around soon. Right now, the best thing would be to get her off this hot deck and back to shelter on the island. I’ll take her in one of the lifeboats. Reyne, lend a hand.”

The two men lifted Nicolette gently and placed her in one of the small craft on deck, before lowering it to the lapping waves. Sukey had gone ahead to shore in Dominique’s boat. Laffite was sure Gabrielle DelaCroix would find safe keeping in Reyne’s care.

“Monsieur Laffite?” Gabrielle’s call delayed the casting off.

“Madame?” he answered, looking up at the strained but beautiful face peering down from the railing.

“My niece… They didn’t… you got here in time, I pray. Why did I lock myself in my cabin? I might have helped her.”

Laffite shared the woman’s concern, though he couldn’t answer her question. He chose his words diplomatically. “I don’t think she’s suffered any lasting damage, Madame DelaCroix. But whatever has happened, I take full responsibility. And I promise you Nicolette has endured all she’ll have to.”

“She was to be married, you know. As soon as we reached New Orleans. But now…”

Laffite made an instant decision. “She will be married, madame. You have my word on it.”

He gave a signal to his oarsmen and the sleek boat flew across the water toward shore.

Nicolette awoke in a strange bed, in a strange room, out of a strange dream. Or had it been a dream? Some of it seemed so real. She had been taunted by rough-faced men, but a shadowy figure tried to save her. At first, she’d feared him, but as he came closer, she understood that his presence held no menace. During the dream, she had watched her own ghost-white arms stretch out to the man, touch him at last. He had caressed her so tenderly, kissed her with a fire that warmed her soul. When he pressed her body down, she’d known no pain, only a flooding sweetness. She had writhed through the haze-dimmed corridors of this illusion, aflame with her longing for him. She had become lost in a misty world of uncharted passages, warm and cold, bright and dark, finally surfacing into the shocking light of reality.

“Come back… please,” she moaned as she stirred out of sleep. Then she shivered, though the air was close and hot. The boom of cannon fire startled her into hysterical wakefulness. She screamed and arms reached out to protect her.

“Hush now! It’s only thunder, Nikki.”

For a moment she accepted his comfort, snuggling deeper into his embrace. His warm breath against her damp hair felt reassuring. Then she drew away, frightened and confused. “Who are you?”

The pit of her stomach contracted with dread. Her dreams came back more vividly. And the remembered horror of the pirate attack made her shudder.

Her companion smoothed a gentling hand down the length of her bare arm and said softly, “Don’t you remember me, Nikki? I saw you off to Paris. Today I brought you home. I’m Jean Laffite.”

She pulled farther away, staring hard at him, and said, “You are not! Laffite has red hair—as bright as the sunset over the Gulf!”

And gentle lips,
she remembered,
much like the man in my dream.

He chuckled softly, happy to hear from the caustic tone in her voice that her ordeal hadn’t killed her spirit.

“You’re right. My hair was red the night we first met. You see, women aren’t the only vain creatures in the world. I rather enjoy changing my hair color from time to time. Besides, it keeps my enemies guessing. I’ll show you my secret—gunpowder and potash—when you’re feeling like yourself again.” He fingered a stray tendril of her dark hair, where it lay curled on her cheek. “You’d be something with flaming hair and those deep blue eyes.”

“I’m not staying here! I have to get home—to New Orleans. My fiancé is waiting.”

“And who is the lucky man
this
time?” Laffite recognized the sharp tone in his words and could have bitten off his tongue. Who was he to question her plans or the outdated manner in which young Creole women were handed over by their families to the best prospect? But he couldn’t deny the jealousy he felt.

Nicolette’s answer came timidly, as if she were ashamed to admit it to him. “I don’t know yet.”

“Then it won’t break your heart if you don’t see him right away.”

Her temper flared. “And what am I supposed to do that’s going to keep me occupied in the meantime?”

“This!” He pressed her back on the pillows and captured her lips so quickly and expertly that she had no time to protest. The fires from her dream rekindled—liquid flames that flowed with her blood, consuming her whole body with delicious, forbidden feelings. She fought against her desire to respond. She lost the battle.

He pulled away suddenly, leaving her shocked and breathless.

“I’m sorry if I startled you. But you do have a way of provoking me, Nikki!”

“You haven’t any right to…”

“I have every right, but we won’t discuss that now. I’ll be back shortly. You rest.”

She watched him go out the door, feeling relief at the same time that she experienced a curious twinge of disappointment that she didn’t understand. She pushed him from her thoughts with a determined effort.

Suddenly, she caught her breath. Nicolette realized for the first time that she was entirely naked under the satin sheet. Who had undressed her and for what purpose? She felt totally vulnerable. Was that what Laffite meant when he said he had every right? To do what? Or had he already done it?

She thought back over the day, frantically trying to piece things together. After the two pirates had taken Sukey from the cabin, one of them came back for her. She’d been terribly groggy at the time, dazed from the blow to her head. She remembered the man fumbling at her dressing gown, using vile language when she tried to fight him off. Then he’d lashed her to the cabin bunk. The next thing she remembered was seeing the corpse-strewn deck and the second party of men leaping over the side to do battle. Finally, her last waking vision from the ship: this man who claimed to be Jean Laffite poised to strike a killing blow. But how had she escaped that perfectly aimed thrust of his rapier?

How did I get here? she wondered. And where are Aunt Gabrielle and Sukey? Then strange, wistful pieces of her dream crowded in from the edges of her memory—the soothing parts where love took away all the pain and revulsion of earlier in the day. Who was that tender pirate who plundered her while she slept?

In order to avoid answering her own questions, she tried to get up to find her robe. But the effort of moving made her head throb. She lay back against the pillows and studied her surroundings, forcing her mind from all thoughts of Jean Laffite.

The room represented a microcosm of many countries and cultures. The wall opposite where she lay was dominated by a massive armoire of cedar, masculinely handsome in its solid strength of design. Next to it sat a black lacquered dressing table with oriental pictures inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gold. A mahogany half chest like the one her father used for storing spirits stood near one window, its door ornamented with gilt figures of the Greek deities Aphrodite and Apollo.

She turned and spied her tired face in an oval mirror set in an ebony frame, its side candle-holders supported by winged sphinxes.

The bed itself was most elaborate of all, with its fanciful turnings touched with gold leaf, its monogrammed sheets of antique gold satin, and heavy, burgundy velvet hangings suspended from a corona attached to the high ceiling.

“Like a king’s bed,” she marveled to herself.

“It was, once.”

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room for an instant. Jean Laffite lounged against the doorframe, dressed in a gold velvet robe, the exact color of the flecks in his green eyes—eyes now caressing her bare shoulders from a distance.

How long had he been standing there watching her? Nikki had no idea.

“King Carlos of Spain slept in that bed—he and his many lovers shared it. I borrowed it,” he offered her a slightly mocking bow, “especially for you, mademoiselle.”

She hugged the sheet closer, feeling totally defenseless in her nakedness.

“If you’ll kindly give me my clothes back, I’d like to 6e on my way home.”

“Home? But this is home—my home, Grande Terre. Maybe you’ll like it after you’ve been here a while. I hope so.”

She tried to ignore his remarks and the smoldering look in his eyes. “Where are my aunt and Sukey?” she demanded.

“Safe… resting.” He moved closer to the bed.

“How long have I been here?”

An enigmatic smile touched his lips when she made a slight gesture with her hand, which seemed to suggest that by “here” she meant in his bed, rather than on his island.

“Long enough, Nikki,” he answered, reaching out to caress her shoulder. “Don’t you remember anything?”

“No!” she gasped.

She watched one eyebrow cock upward as he drawled, “A shame.”

Those two words seemed to say so much—more than she wanted to hear. Tears gathered behind her midnight blue eyes, but she refused to allow him the satisfaction of seeing her dismay. It had only been a dream! He wouldn’t have…
would he?

Thunder crashed suddenly, making the whole room clatter and quake. Nicolette felt the shock deep inside her and cried out. Laffite took her into his arms to comfort her.

“No!” Nicolette pleaded, terrified by his nearness. “Don’t touch me!”

Jean Laffite rose from beside the bed, looking down on her, his smile vanquished by her words.

When he spoke, each word jolted Nicolette’s nerves and conscience. “But I already have, Nikki.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say. When the full impact of his words struck her, a sob wrenched from her throat and she turned her face into the pillows to muffle it.

“It isn’t the end of the world, you know. Drink this,” he ordered, holding out a steaming cup of tea laced with hundred proof rum, which had been warming over a candle by the bed. “It should calm you. You’ll be able to sleep. Don’t worry. I won’t disturb you the rest of the night. I’ll take the guest bedroom until you get used to the idea of having me with you.”

Still clutching the sheet tightly to cover her trembling breasts, Nicolette turned and allowed Laffite to support her with his free arm while he held the paper-thin china cup to her lips.

Better to drink quickly, she thought, and then he will leave. Her mind refused to remember anything clearly after the initial invasion of her cabin onboard the
Fleur de Lis.
Just as well, she told herself. If Jean Laffite made love to me, I’m better off not remembering.