The Countess' Lucky Charm (15 page)

Somehow the idea of his child being a bastard didn’t sit right with him. He inhaled, filling his lungs with as much air as he could before letting it out slowly with a hissing sound. He had learned this trick to calm himself whilst duelling, to keep his hand steady and his mind clear.

There was, however, another solution. The babe would not be a bastard if he married the mother. Marry Simone? Odd how often that thought crossed his mind lately. Simone wasn’t the genteel woman he had always pictured, but did it matter?

A child. Well, he would abide by his own counsel. It was pointless to speculate until it was actual fact.

Beside him, scant feet away behind one of his chests, slept Simone, oblivious to his churning thoughts. He listened to her breathe, concentrating on the sound, letting it soothe him as it always did.

* * *

As Simone had surmised, Temple carried on as if their encounter on the beach several days ago had never happened. On this particular day, his duties in the warehouse over, he had sought her out in their cabin where she knelt organizing one of the trunks to hold her clothing.

He stood before her now, face illuminated by the glow of sunlight through the parchment window. Her heart bounded at the sight—the radiance infused his face, making his mocha eyes tar black, enigmatic.

“I beg your pardon?” His announcement astonished her.

“I am going to teach you to shoot a pistol,” Temple said, matter of fact. “Pistol shooting is one thing ladies of quality do, particularly at country house parties. Besides,” he leaned closer with a glint in his eye and a grin lurking on the corners of his mouth, “it’s a useful skill to have in these surroundings, don’t you think?” He held both arms out as if to prove his point. “You must keep the animals at bay.”

He said it in such a way that Simone knew he referred to himself. Somehow she doubted that knowing how to shoot would have saved her that day on the beach. “If you say so.”

“I do. So put aside what you’re doing. I’ve already set up some targets.” His demeanour was light-hearted, infectious.

Simone regarded him through dubious eyes. What, shooting pistols? Needlework, yes. Watercolours, yes. Playing the pianoforte, yes. But shooting? Nonetheless, he must be sincere in his offer, for he had a pistol jammed in the waist of his trousers, the same pistol she had found in his trunk that night they left London.

“I agree with your husband.” Lisette interrupted, poking her head through the door. “You must do as your man tells you.”

“Now you can’t say no. I have an ally.” Temple gestured toward
Lisette
.

“I shoot too,” Lisette said. “It is only good to protect yourself and those you love.” She placed a hand on Polly’s tousled head.

Oy
, a shooting lesson would put Simone in Temple’s company, something she had been avoiding, but Lisette’s reasoning was sound. Simone threw her hands in the air. “Very well, I surrender. Pistol shooting it is.”

“Jolly fun, let’s go then. Will you be joining us?” Temple asked Lisette.

“Oh no.” Lisette shook her head. “I came by to ask Simone to come with me to the Indian village later.”

“I should like nothing better,” Simone said. “Shall I find you when my shooting lesson is over?”

“Aye,” Lisette nodded. “I will be in my garden. Come, Polly.” She took her little daughter by the hand and walked away with the graceful stride that reminded Simone of the grand ladies attending the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden.

“I’m ready,” Simone declared, throwing away her apprehension and she followed Temple with a light step as he headed out the door. The brilliant sun matched her mood and she started to hum, a little ditty sung to her a hundred times by Mrs Dougherty.

“Oranges and lemons,” she hummed.

“Say the bells of St. Clemons.” To her amazement, Temple finished the first line.

“You owe me five farthings,” she sang, heartened by his participation.

“Say the bells of St. Martins.” He stopped walking and turned around. A grin lifted one corner of his mouth. With a start, Simone realized he grinned more often these days. Life at Stuart Lake suited him. She liked his new, light hearted manner; it charmed her.

“When will you pay me?” She stopped a step or two away from him, just out of arm’s reach. Golly, he was so appealing right now. If she even so much as brushed against him, she would throw herself into his arms unabashedly. Definitely not the behaviour of a lady of quality. Best to keep back and let only her eyes consume him.

“Say the bells of St. Bailey.” He sang back.

“When I grow rich.”

“Say the bells of Shoreditch.”

Together they sang the last two lines: “When will that be, say the bells of Stepney, I do not know, say the great bells of Bow.” They broke out in laughter at the absurdity of singing about the bells of London’s churches thousands of miles away.

“You have a lovely voice,” Temple remarked, “another accomplishment for your list.”

“
Th
—thank you,” Simone stammered. His admiring gaze warmed her. If only she could capture that admiration forever. But she couldn’t. He belonged to polite society and a position she could never share.

However, one thing she could do capture was his company for the present. This time in New Caledonia would be all she would ever have of him.

And she would enjoy every precious second.

The realization swelled within her, bursting forth in an overwhelming smile that took him somewhat aback for he raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“So singing is one thing I have mastered already,” she exclaimed.

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “Learn a few songs and you would fit in quite nicely at the musical salons.”

His praise bolstered her confidence. “Then let’s begin the pistol shooting. I should like to add that to my accomplishments.”

This time Temple gave her his arm and together they passed through the gate of the palisade.

“Over there.” He pointed toward a fallen log at the edge of the clearing. Several items were lined up on it: a large stone, a small branch, a battered pewter mug.

“We’ll stand here.” He paused, swinging off a leather bag from one shoulder and leaning it against a stump. “This will be our base.” He yanked the flintlock pistol out of his waistband and handed it to her. “It’s ready and loaded.”

She grasped the cool ivory handle firmly in one hand, fitting her index finger into the trigger. The pistol was heavy but she liked the feel of it, liked the sensation of power.

“First, move the hammer from half-cock to full-cock to release the safety lock.” Temple demonstrated for her. “Now, lift it up and point toward your target.” He stood beside her, positioning her body, pulling a shoulder one way, pushing her arm away just so. “The stone is your first target. Sight down the barrel and line it up.”

Simone followed his instructions. It was awkward to hold the pistol at arm’s length but she did her best, looking down the silver barrel toward her target some thirty paces away.

It was awkward, too, to keep her thoughts on the pistol because all she wanted to do was luxuriate in his proximity, luxuriate in his heat burning through the fabric of her dress. It distracted her.

“Now pull the trigger.”

The first shot rang out. Her arm swung up wildly and she dropped the pistol. The ball disappeared in a flutter of leaves behind the target.

“I wasn’t even close,” she said ruefully, looking back over her shoulder to him.

“Not bad for a first effort but this time steady your shooting hand with your other hand. Like this.” He picked the pistol up off the ground and showed her what he meant. “Watch me load it then try it again.”

“I have to learn how to load it too,” she groaned.

“It’s easy. Watch.” He poured powder in the upright barrel then jammed the paper wrapped ball on top. “Finish with more powder in the flash pan.” He handed her the loaded pistol.

She took it from him and resumed her position, lifting up her arm and pointing the pistol toward the targets. Her hand shook a little and she lowered the pistol.

“Simone, you’re holding it like a boiled potato. It’s a weapon. You are the master and you must be firm with it. Now, try again.” He patted her shoulder. “Support your hand with the other hand and sight down the barrel.”

She did as he instructed. Although this time prepared for the recoil, it still jarred her shoulder. Again, the ball whistled past the target.

“See, you’re getting closer. Try again because we’re not going to stop until you hit at least the stone. Load the pistol.”

“You like to order people around, don’t you?” Smiling, Simone turned around to reach over to the bag. Her arm halted in mid-air.

She had an audience from the fort, among them Daniel. More disturbingly, several Indian men also watched in silence from the edge of the forest.

“Who are they,” she squeaked, pointing toward the Indian men.

“Don’t be alarmed. They mean no harm,” Daniel said. “They’re more interested in the colour of your hair than in your abilities as a marksman.”

“Yes, pay them no mind,” Temple added. “They are indeed harmless. I’ve met them at the warehouse.” He lifted a hand in greeting.

“That’s all very well for you to say,” grumbled Simone. “You’re not the one with an audience.”

“Ignore them and load the pistol. I’ve already shown you how to do it.” His voice was brisk, authoritarian.

“Very well,” she pouted. “I still think you like to order people around, though. Were you in the army?”

He hesitated before answering. “Yes. But only a very short time. The military life did not suit me.”

She turned her focus back to loading the pistol. Her fingers shook under the attention of the watching men and she spilled a little powder but eventually she held up the pistol in triumph.

“Well done, Simone.”

Heartened at his encouraging words, she turned to smile at him. And froze.

The Indians had moved closer and stood silent, with hands on the hilts of their knives, charcoal eyes filled with curiosity. They formed an unyielding barrier, blocking their way to the palisade.

“Don’t move.” Temple hissed to Simone, pulling her behind him. “And don’t say anything.”

Tension settled heavily around them, so thick that it stilled even the whispering leaves.

Sweat trickled into Temple’s eyes, dripped off his nose, oozed down his neck. He longed to brush it away but he kept his palms up in plain sight for he did not want to make any threatening movements. The seconds ticked by and still no one moved.

Shouts tumbled over the spiked wall of the fort; a crow, startled from its perch on the gate, squawked then flew off.

Two figures burst through the opening, the welcome shapes of Daniel and Baptiste, both carrying rifles. They pelted toward them. Simone moaned once, more a sigh than a sob and her fingers clutched his midriff, knife-edged nails digging into his skin.

Daniel and the interpreter, Baptiste Bouche, slowed to a walk, waving their rifles over their heads. They sidled around the human wall and positioned themselves one on either side of Temple and Simone.

Immediately Baptiste started talking. A few animated minutes of discussion ensued punctuated by the show of rifles.

In unison, the Indians backed away a few steps,

Temple
heaved a sigh of relief. “I thank you both. I don’t know what would have become of us without your aid.”

“We’re not out of danger yet,” Daniel cautioned, still holding the rifle like a shield cocked and primed for action.

“We are saved,” Simone whispered. Her head itched with sweat and she pulled her hands from Temple’s waist to loosen the scarf from her head, letting it fall onto her shoulders. Her golden curls tumbled free.

Gasps of awe filled the air and gnarled brown fingers pointed to Simone’s head, followed by a torrent of unknown syllables. Baptiste listened intently, offering a comment or two of his own before turning to Simone.

“They want to touch your hair,” Baptiste explained. He turned to Daniel. “They say they want to touch the sun. They want to touch Simone’s hair.”

“Touch her hair?” Temple was sceptical. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I can’t see the harm,” Daniel mused. “We’re armed, they’re not. It should be safe. With the others within the fort, we outnumber them.”

“She’s the first white women they’ve ever seen”, Baptiste interjected. “She fascinates them.”

“Why would they want to touch my hair?” Simone asked, puzzled.

“For luck, superstition, you name it. If you would oblige, that is. I know it is an odd request, but—” He stopped. “It’s your choice, really.”

“I see.” Simone stood silent for a moment, thoughts roiling. She’d attracted a lot of attention on their journey here, if not for the colour of her hair, which she had taken to covering, but also for the colour of her eyes. Until now, that attention had always been at a distance. The thought of having her hair stroked was a trifle odd.

“Why, I can do better,” she exclaimed as a solution presented itself. “I could give them a lock of my hair.”