Tears of Gold (32 page)

“You never disappoint me, Mara,” Nicholas said.

But Mara waited to hear no more. Turning, she began to frantically make her way through the room, finding her path blocked by gamblers milling around the room, some almost too drunk to stand as they staggered aimlessly from table to bar and back again. She finally managed to push her way through the noisy throng, but as she neared the back entrance, she jumped in alarm as hard fingers closed over her arm. Turning to face her captor, Mara stared, almost in relief, into the dark eyes of Jacques D’Arcy.

“Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed as he pulled her into the quiet darkness of the hallway. “I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you throw that champagne into Chantale’s face. I would bet my life that no one has ever done that to him before—and lived to talk about it,” Jacques said, his face still registering disbelief at the odd scene he’d just witnessed.

“You know Nicholas?” Mara asked dully.

“Nicholas, is it?” Jacques demanded, his gaze sharpening as he stared down at her pale, distraught face. “Well, well, I should like to hear more about this relationship with a man you obviously dislike and seem to fear. But in answer to your question,” Jacques continued with a reminiscent look in his dark eyes, “
oui
. Anyone who’d ever lived in New Orleans would have heard of Nicholas de Montaigne-Chantale. When I saw him in Paris a few years ago, he had dropped part of the name. He belongs to one of the richest and most aristocratic families in all of Louisiana. Or at least he used to, until he was run out of town. The de Montaigne-Chantale plantation, Beaumarais, was famous throughout the state.”

“Nicholas told me he had to leave New Orleans, fifteen years ago, I think,” Mara said. “Because of a duel.”

Jacques smiled. “Oh, but it was not just any duel,
ma chérie
. You see,” Jacques explained as he lowered his voice confidingly, “he killed his brother, François, who happened to be not only the heir to the de Montaigne-Chantale fortune, but the fiancé of the beautiful Amaryllis Sandonet. It had been rumored that it was Nicholas she really loved. It was said that they had been lovers before the lovely Amaryllis’s papa affianced her to the heir to Beaumarais. Some say that Amaryllis wanted both Beaumarais
and
Nicholas, and that they continued to be lovers—discreetly, of course. But you know how these secrets have a way of becoming known,” Jacques said with a wink, “and then one day before the marriage could take place, there was a duel between the two brothers. What the disagreement was about one can only speculate, although Nicholas Chantale claimed there was no argument, that they were only practicing. But what better way to rid oneself of a bitter rival? In an instant,” Jacques spoke softly, snapping his fingers sharply, “Nicholas de Montaigne-Chantale gained both the plantation and the woman. Unfortunately, though, François had been his papa’s favorite. He could not even bear to gaze upon the son who had killed his heir. So he banished him from Beaumarais, never to set foot there again, refusing to recognize Nicholas when they met in town. After a while, no door in all of New Orleans opened in welcome for the infamous Nicholas Chantale. A sad tale, non?”

Mara listened in disbelief, shaking her head. “He killed his own brother? I can’t believe it,” Mara whispered.

Jacques’s fingers grasped her chin as he raised her face. “You are in love with him, aren’t you?”

“No!” Mara denied fervently.

“Bah! You lie,” Jacques spat. With a strange light in his dark eyes he asked, “But what does Chantale feel for you, ma chérie? It would be most interesting to find out.”

“He means nothing to me,” Mara cried, grabbing Jacques’s arm as she forced him to listen, “and I mean even less to him. In fact, he hates me. So I wouldn’t be talking to him about me if I were you.”

Jacques smiled unpleasantly as he moved closer to Mara. He pressed her back to the wall, holding her against it with the weight of his body. “I think in the future you will be much nicer to your admirer, Jacques, non? You are a very beautiful and intelligent woman who knows who her friends are.”

“What do you mean?” Mara asked, turning her face away from the closeness of his lips.

“It is most simple, ma chérie. I do not think you would wish for Monsieur Chantale to know where you live, eh?” Jacques asked softly, his eyes glittering as he lowered his lips to her mouth, his fingers holding her chin in a hard grip.

His mouth was greedy as it devoured hers. Mara could feel the painful press of his teeth into the softness of her lips. His kiss deepened in intensity as he strained her closer against his body, leaving her in little doubt of his passion. Mara managed to free her lips from his suffocating mouth as she gasped for breath, only to feel Jacques’s hard, brushing kisses along her throat. His hands fumbled to push the red velvet from her shoulders, leaving the soft, tender skin bared to his searching mouth.

When she felt his tongue slide along the crest of her breast, she could stand no more. Raising her knee, she quickly and accurately kneed him in the groin. As Jacques let out a surprised gasp of pain, doubling over, Mara escaped from him. She moved out of reach down the hall.

“You can find someone else to work for you. I quit,” Mara flung at him as she searched for her cloak, hanging with an assortment of outer garments on a rack near the door. “Go on and tell Nicholas Chantale anything you wish. I don’t care what you do as long as I’m not having to suffer your foul hands pawing and fondling me all the time.
Bon soir
, Monsieur D’Arcy,” Mara called defiantly as she stepped out into the night and the fresh, cold air. She slammed the door behind her with finality.

The next morning Mara had a twinge of doubt about her hasty actions. But as she remembered the feel of Jacques’s lips, she gave an involuntary shudder of disgust. Now she was faced with the disagreeable problem of finding employment, for unless she had misjudged her man, Jacques was not one to forgive and forget. He would see that no other gambler hired her…as well as possibly making good his threat. She touched her smooth cheek with a shiver.

Well, she wouldn’t worry about it now, Mara decided as she made her way downstairs. She had enough saved to live comfortably for at least a month, and she’d prefer not to cross paths with Nicholas again—especially as he had yet another grievance to add to the long list he carried against her. Mara wrapped her shawl closer around her shoulders as she sought more warmth from the finely woven, white wool garment she wore over her simply cut yet elegant blue and white gown of shot silk.

Mara heard voices coming from the room Jenny had designated as the salon. It was a plain room with six or seven straight-back chairs, a sofa of questionable origin, and a scarred-top table. Jenny had done her best to create a homey atmosphere, and Mara had to admit that it wasn’t all that bad, especially with a cheery fire crackling in the fireplace.

Jenny was sitting near the fire, her lap cluttered with odds and ends of clothing. She glanced up, smiling behind the end of the needle and thread protruding from her mouth. Taking the needle from between her lips, Jenny shrugged good-naturedly. “If it’s not washing and cooking, then it’s mending. Especially,” she said with a laugh as she eyed her youngest crawling under the sofa in search of a toy, “if they’re on their hands and knees all day long.”

Mara eyed Paddy who, with Jenny’s two oldest boys, was playing with his toy soldiers. She sidestepped through strategically placed troops as she made her way to Jenny’s side. “I suppose boys just have to get dirty or tear something if they’re going to have fun,” Mara remarked casually as she sat down across from a chuckling Jenny.

“Hey! I take exception to that remark,” a deep voice spoke from behind the sofa, startling Mara. She turned around to see the Swede’s blond head rising above its cushioned back. “I dare you to find a tear in my coat, and damned if—pardon me, ma’am—darned if I’m going to get these new breeches dirty,” the Swede said as he stood up to his full height and came around from behind the sofa, the retrieved soldier’s red hat just barely peeking out of his large hand.

“Now don’t let this fellow wander off again,” he warned Peter who eagerly reached out for the brightly painted toy soldier.

“Come on, Petey,” Gordie called out, “you’re holding up the war!”

The Swede was smiling broadly as he stepped gingerly over a whole regiment of dragoons. Easily lifting a chair, he placed it near Mara’s and sat down. “Don’t need to tell me which three are Mrs. Markham’s. That red hair’s a sure giveaway, and I don’t need to ask who the dark one belongs to, ’cause he gave me hell when I nearly stepped on one of his troops,” the Swede laughed. “‘The divil take ye!’ he told me, and damned if I’ve ever heard it spoken any finer than that,” the Swede said. Then, glancing uncomfortably between Mara and Jenny, he added, “I’m sorry, ladies. I guess I’d better mind
my
tongue as well.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Svengaard,” Jenny told him. “I’m used to that kind of talk by now. It’s hard to close your eyes and ears forever to a town full of fun-loving miners.”

“And Paddy’s probably just copying what he’s heard me say, so I can hardly fault you, Swede,” Mara told him with a slight smile.

The Swede grinned engagingly, his eyes locked on Mara’s face as he took in the creamy complexion and golden eyes that were partially hidden behind a thick fringe of dark lashes. He sighed as he took in her beauty, his eyes noticing the smallest detail about her appearance, from the delicate gold earrings to her small, blue satin shoes.

Jenny gave an inaudible sigh as she discreetly watched the big man openly admire Mara. She bit her lip when she carelessly jabbed her fingertip with the needle. It served her right for daydreaming about things that never would be, or could be, she thought in self-disgust. What man would even glance her way when someone as beautiful as Mara O’Flynn was sitting in the same room? Besides, what man would desire a bride with three small sons? It might be true that women of good reputation were scarce in California, and that just about any woman could find a husband, but that didn’t mean she would accept a proposal from just any man. She could make a living for herself and her sons until she found the right man, and until that day she didn’t mind living on her own. Even so, her dark blue eyes noticed the wide breadth of shoulder and the gentle expression in the Swede’s blue eyes. “The gentle giant,” Mara O’Flynn had named him. She was right. There was a gentleness in him which was surprising in so large a man. She had been amazed at his patient attention to her boys and Paddy as they’d run noisily around the room, creating havoc in their exuberant play.

“Are you staying here in San Francisco permanently, Swede?” Mara inquired conversationally, wondering if perhaps he owned a store or a business of some kind in the city.

“I’m living here for now. Maybe forever—who knows? But I’m just recently down from the Sierra,” the Swede told her, then added casually, “me and my partner struck a rich vein of gold and thought we’d celebrate.”

A spark of interest lit Mara’s eyes. She leaned closer toward the big man, and the Swede felt an instant’s disappointment that she would be so obvious. He expected to hear her ask him how rich he was, but was surprised when he heard her say, “Did you ever meet a man named Brendan O’Flynn? He was going up into the mountains to mine for gold late last summer. I thought you might have run into him, or have heard something about him.”

The Swede shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know him. O’Flynn? Your husband, is he?” he asked, unable to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“No, he’s my brother, Paddy’s father,” Mara explained.

“Oh, I see,” the Swede beamed, relieved. “Of course, just because I don’t remember his name doesn’t mean I might not have met him, or even bunked with him, or played a hand of poker with him. You see so many men up there coming and going, you lose track of them after a while and don’t even bother to catch a name. I can see you’re worried about him, Miss O’Flynn, but you really shouldn’t be. The camps aren’t half as bad as they’ve been painted by those who haven’t been there.”

Mara eyed the big Swede thoughtfully as she wondered if a man like him ever found anything difficult. With his sturdy constitution she doubted if he even felt the cold discomfort surrounding him. Brendan, on the other hand, would feel each raindrop, each meal burned over an open fire, each blister on his hands from raising a pick, as insults meant for him personally. “Brendan is less hardy than you,” Mara tried to explain her fears without insulting the big Swede, “more delicate and—”

“More refined, ma’am,” the Swede said with a chuckle. “Not a big, lumbering ox like myself.”

Mara had to smile at the accuracy of his description. “I wouldn’t have put it quite that way. However, Brendan is less familiar with physical labor than most, having been raised a gentleman and earning his living as an actor. I seriously doubt whether Brendan’s ever held a pick or shovel in his life.”

The Swede laughed as he remembered other dandies he’d seen sweating away their refinements as they hunted for gold. “I’ve seen too many men change their silk vests for red flannel and their patent leather pumps for heavy boots while looking for gold, to believe your brother won’t as well. He may learn the hard way, but he’ll learn,” the Swede assured her.

Mara frowned slightly as she remembered the echo of another man’s voice telling her how he’d gotten rid of his gentlemanly ways. And she had personal, firsthand knowledge that he’d succeeded, Mara thought unhappily. “I suppose you are right.”

“Oh, I am. In fact, a friend of mine was once quite a dandy, but you’d never believe it to see him now. Of course, Nicholas would probably be even more handsome to the ladies in New Orleans now than he even was years ago when every skirt in town was after him,” the Swede said with a reminiscent smile. He stopped as he saw the stunned look crossing Mara’s face.

“What’s wrong, Miss O’Flynn?” he asked in concern, hoping he hadn’t offended her. He was always so damned clumsy.

Mara hesitated before she asked softly, “Your friend wouldn’t happen to be Nicholas Chantale, would he?”