Capture The Wind (24 page)

Sliding his drawn sword back into the sheath at his side, Kit moved away from the bank and toward the encampment tucked beneath towering trees. There was a lot to do, and so much depended upon his moving swiftly and secretly. It was as if she knew his every move, and always managed to elude him. This time, he would find her.
This time,
she would not evade him as she always had before. And she would finally answer his questions, by God.

Shivering in the chill
night air, Angela whispered to Dylan, “Where are we?”

He made an impatient motion with one hand, signaling her to silence. She pulled the dark cloak and hood he’d insisted she wear more tightly around her and waited. Night birds called, and the incessant chirping of crickets heralded the intruders. A deep-throated bellow sounded occasionally. Dylan had told her it was a ’gator, or alligator. Quite tasty, he’d informed her, laughing at her horrified expression. She’d seen the alligators moving clumsily on land, scrabbling like crabs until reaching the water, where they had slid in sinister silence and grace through murky shallows. The rows of sharp-pointed teeth were ample evidence of danger, and were all she’d needed to see to convince her that she did not want to attempt escape and risk overturning into the water or stumbling over one of the creatures in the dark.

“All right,” Dylan said finally, and pulled her with him from the shadows. A road twisted above them on high banks, and he helped her up the side until they stood on level ground. “It’s only a short distance into the city from here. Stay with me, don’t talk, and answer no questions should we run into trouble. Let me take care of everything.”

Still shivering, she nodded. “That’s fine with me. But I still don’t understand why we had to wait so late. And why wasn’t Emily allowed to come along?”

“Too dangerous right now. Don’t worry. Once matters are settled, she can join you.” He flashed her a glance, amber eyes reflecting bright moonlight and the glow of his lantern. “Remember your promise.”

“I remember,” she said crossly. “Do you think I would jeopardize everything by forgetting it? Besides, I gave my word.”

“That’s not usually a deterrent to most females,” Dylan said, so frankly she glared at him.

“Well, it is to me. I can only imagine the sort of females you’re accustomed to consorting with, so—”

“Enough.” Dylan’s grip on her arm tightened. “We don’t have time to argue now. Save it for later.”

“I doubt there will be a
later.”
Angela felt a tremor of shock at her own words. Of course. If she was reunited with Philippe tonight, she would never see Dylan again. Or Kit Saber. She closed her eyes briefly at the thought, and wondered why it mattered. They were pirates. Villains. Thieves and murderers and worse. Why should she care? And how had she grown so fond of Dylan in only a few short weeks?

Maddeningly, however, it was the thought of never seeing Kit again that pricked her most. She should be grateful, relieved, delirious with happiness at the mere suggestion, but she wasn’t. It was inexplicable.

“Come on,” Dylan said, and they began to move toward the glow of city lights that she could see just ahead. Now that the moment was almost there, she felt her doubts loom larger. What if Philippe was gone? What if he had given up hope of seeing her again and left New Orleans? All sorts of possibilities presented themselves until she felt sick with worry.

“Stop it,” Dylan said after a moment, and she gave him a startled glance.

“What do you mean?”

“I know what you’re doing. I can tell by the look on your face. Worry won’t help. Things will work out or they won’t. If you get too nervous you’re liable to do something stupid. If your lover is here—”

“Betrothed, not lover.”

“Fine. Betrothed. If he’s in New Orleans, Turk and Kit can find him. And if he isn’t, you can get on a ship going back to England and wait for him to find you there.”

“But he won’t,” Angela said wretchedly. “He thinks our love is a lost cause.”

“I’m familiar with lost causes. If he’s any kind of man at all, he won’t let a little thing like your parents’ disapproval stand in his way.”

“You don’t understand. Things are simply not done that way. I went far past the boundaries of decency and decorum when I left home as I did.” She drew in a shaky breath. “But I saw no other way to be with the man I love.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Love him.” Dylan shrugged at her exclamation. “I just wondered. I never hear you talk about him. The only man you ever talk about is Saber.”

“Of all the—don’t be absurd. Of course I love Philippe. Why else would I have traveled halfway around the world to be with him?”

“Angela, don’t act too hastily, all right? When you see this Philippe guy again, think about who he is, not who you want him to be.

“What do you think he’ll be? Some sort of criminal? A thief, or even worse—a pirate?”

Dylan just looked at her for a long moment while the night birds trilled around them and the
harrump!
of frogs broke the stillness. Then he gave a shrug of his shoulders and said softly, “Let’s go. It’s getting late, and we don’t want to miss Saber.”

Streets flanked by narrow banquettes threaded between buildings festooned with lacy iron balconies and drapes of flowers. Tall lampposts provided intermittent light. Carriages and pedestrians filled the wayfare, and Angela recognized elegant French fashion and houses of couture. Surprised by the sophistication of the city, when she had visualized it as a crude outpost at the far reaches of civilization, she stared about her in fascination.

Women with dark complexions like Turk’s strolled the streets with large baskets atop their heads, crying out their wares in French. They wore colorful turbans and clothes and seemed unperturbed by the chaos around them, or the late hour.

“In the mornings,” Dylan said, “you will see many people here buying their food. The French Market is over there.” He pointed to a few low buildings surrounded by canopies and vegetable stalls. “Most leave at dark, but you can still purchase certain goods.”

The rich smells of coffee, spices, baked goods, and vegetables mingled with the more pungent odors of fish and chickens. Though most of the canopies had been rolled down, a few were still open to display their wares, and people milled about. Angela caught the cadence of Spanish mixed with French, and another accent she could not place. Dylan smiled when she asked him about it.

“There are many cultures here and some of them have grown together to form their own language. It’s not quite French and not quite Spanish. I don’t know what they call it, but it’s very musical, I think.”

As he hurried her past the market, Angela glimpsed parrots in cages, monkeys on tethers, and even a live alligator. She almost forgot their destination and reason for being in New Orleans for a time, until Dylan paused in front of a row of two-story buildings with wrought-iron balconies.

“This is where we wait,” he said tersely. “Keep your hood around your face and stay close to me.”

She curled her fingers around his arm. “Where are we?”

He hesitated, then said, “Café des Réfugiés. We are to wait here until Saber or Turk comes for us.”

“But what manner of place is this?”

Dylan did not reply. Instead he pulled her inside with him. The large common room was filled with smoke and loud laughter, and she found herself edging even closer to Dylan. There was a strain to the laughter that made her uncomfortable for some reason, and she tugged at the edges of her hood to keep it around her face. Men garbed in rough costume sat at tables or stood in groups, and some of them turned to stare. An occasional outburst of profanity rose above the hubbub of voices. Dylan stopped to converse briefly with a tall man with only one ear and a seamed face, then they moved through the crowd.

When they were seated at a table in a far corner, Angela breathed a bit easier. She looked up at Dylan and noted with surprise that he had placed a pistol casually upon the tabletop. Her heart gave an alarming thump.

“Do you expect trouble?”

“One should always be prepared.” His mouth twisted wryly. “This is not the sort of place where trouble fears to visit.”

“Why have you brought me here?” she demanded in a low voice. “And where is Philippe?”

Shaking his head impatiently, Dylan said, “I told you, Turk and Kit will find him if he’s in New Orleans. Just be patient, dammit.”

“Patient? I think I have been more than patient.” Leaning forward, she hissed, “Stop treating me like a child! Tell me what is going on.”

“You can see what is going on, Angela. We are to meet here—”

“And what kind of place is this?” She glanced around, her voice rising slightly. “Most of these men look like outlaws, not law-abiding citizens.”

“They are.” Dylan met her gaze coolly. “Pirates, smugglers, and European outlaws favor this establishment, which is why we are here. We might be too noticeable elsewhere.”

“You mean
you
might be too noticeable elsewhere!”

“Exactly.”

Angela swallowed her nervous laughter. What on earth had she gotten herself into now? Why had she ever thought she would just be escorted to some genteel home where Philippe would be reunited with her? Oh no, Kit Saber would never think of anything like that. He was far too accustomed to the seamier side of life to adjust to anything remotely civilized. She sighed.

“You are impossible, Dylan.”

“But we always get results.”

“Not always the ones you want, however,” she reminded him, and he gave a rueful nod of his head.

“Very true. I admit that I’ll be glad when Kit gets here. I’m not at all sure what you’ll do next. He seems to be able to control you better than I can.”

Her heart gave an odd lurch at the thought of seeing Kit again, and she sternly ignored it. “Mr. Saber is unable to control even his own nature. I hardly think him capable of controlling mine.”

Dylan just grinned, and when they were served glasses of some sort of pale liquor, he advised her to give hers to him. “It’s too strong for you.”

“Is that so?” Angela lifted her glass and took a healthy sip, almost choking on it. It seared her throat like liquid fire. Her eyes began to water, and she saw Dylan’s amusement but refused to acknowledge it. She was getting quite weary of having him think her some sort of naive child. She took another sip, this one more cautious, and she felt the liquid burn a path to her stomach.

“Slowly,” Dylan cautioned. “You’re not used to it and it will go to your head.”

“I grew up on fine wines and liqueurs,” she said haughtily, lifting her chin to glare at him.

Dylan immediately snapped, “Keep your head down! Do you want to start a riot in here? All I need is for some drunken fool to decide he likes the way you look.”

Lowering her head, she muttered, “What is this drink?”

“Rum. You ought to remember it. Don’t you like it?”

“Not really. It’s rather nasty, but does provide some warmth.” She glanced up cautiously. “How much longer?”

“Not long,” Dylan promised.

But it was over an hour before Kit stepped into the smoky common room of the café. Angela saw him immediately across the crowded room and her heart lurched. Despite the rum she’d sipped, her hands began to shake as if she was chilled, and she shivered when Kit approached the table.

He wore buff trousers, knee-high black boots, a red sash, and a white shirt with flowing sleeves beneath a dark cloak. The hilt of a saber was visible at his side. He looked every inch the corsair and commanded the attention of more than one man in the room as he crossed to them.

“I see you’ve managed to keep her relatively peaceful,” Kit observed when he paused at the table. “I confess my admiration, Dylan.”

“It wasn’t as hard as you might think.” Dylan stood and scooped up the pistol from the table. Tucking it into the waist of his trousers, he said, “Did you find her?”

A muscle twitched in Kit’s lean jaw, and Angela sensed his anger. “Disappointed once again,” he drawled. “She left New Orleans at dusk.”

“Damn,” Dylan said softly. He opened his mouth as if to speak further, then glanced away and asked softly, “Any idea where she went this time?”

“Not yet.”

Angela frowned. “Who are you talking about? Who is
she?
Does this person have anything to do with Philippe?”

A faint smile touched Kit’s mouth. “Ever selfish Angela. No,
she
has nothing to do with you or your precious Philippe. This is my business.”

“I only meant—”