Creole Hearts (2 page)

“I can't claim papa's luck there," Guy said, smiling. "At least not yet."

As he sauntered toward the gaming table, Guy glanced once more at de Laussat, still talking to the group of men.

"I count on you to give the proper toast," the
prefet
had said earlier. "We'll speak of it at the party."

Now didn't appear to be the best time. Guy reached the dice table and looked over the shoulder of one of the players. A Spaniard had a large stack of gold coins piled in front of him. The other players, mostly Creoles, weren't doing as well.

Guy touched the arm of the Creole in front of him, a man he knew slightly. "
Monsieur
," he said politely, "pardon, but is there room for one more?"

Guy won a little, lost a little, then won heavily until the Spaniard was far behind and quit the table. A man slipped into the empty space. Guy glanced at him and stiffened.

Nicolas Roulleaux.

They usually avoided gambling at the same table. Why had Nicolas chosen this one? An accident? Or was the choice deliberate? There was a brief silence as the other gamblers looked from Guy to Nicolas, then began to talk in loud voices.

Nicolas' friend, Marc de la Harpe, came up to look over Nicolas' shoulder and, a moment later, Guy sensed someone behind him, looked back and saw Gabriel. Like seconds for a duel, he thought.

When Nicolas' uncle had met Guy's father near the Bayou St. John for their fight with the colichemarde, the rapier, Guy's father had died on the field while Roulleaux lived but a day, a lung punctured. How would it be when he, Guy, faced Nicolas?

Guy practiced every day with fencing foils, his teacher a master fencer named Francois La Branche, a free man of color sired on a mulatto woman by Guy's father. Black or no, Francois was the finest swordsman in the city. Guy had never bested Francois, though he felt he came closer each day.

If he faced Nicolas there'd be no nonsense about first blood. A duel to the death was the only possibility between a La Branche and a Roulleaux.

"I feel lucky tonight," Nicolas announced.

Guy smiled thinly.

"Lucky enough to challenge the toss of the dice," Nicolas went on, "and lucky enough to win the most beautiful woman in New Orleans."

"
Senorita
Gabaldon?" Marc asked.

"None other." Nicolas threw down a handful of gold coins. "She's already promised me the first dance. Weep while you watch us for I shan't relinquish her."

Guy forced himself to remain silent though the arrogant curl of Nicolas' lip infuriated him.

From the first throw of the dice, Nicolas lost. Lost and lost again while Guy's winnings piled higher. Guy began to feel nothing was out of his reach. When Nicolas lost yet once again, Guy stared at him until Nicolas met his gaze.

"You may have your dance," Guy said. "You may monopolize
Senorita
Gabaldon for the evening. But not after. Before Mardi Gras, Senalda Gabaldon will be my bride, the mistress of La Belle."

There was a dead silence at the table. Voices and laughter came from others in the room to Guy's ears as though from another country. Nicolas' hazel eyes gleamed with anger as he drew himself up stiffly. The moments stretched out as the two men faced each other. Then Nicolas took a deep breath and visibly relaxed, forcing a laugh. He gestured at the gold on the table in front of Guy.

"Every man knows the saying. Lucky at dice, unlucky at love. I don't believe you'll marry her, before or after Mardi Gras."

All eyes swung to Guy. A quiver of fury swept through him.
Dieu
, how he hated this man. Nothing but a challenge could satisfy him now. He started to speak but his words were lost in the roar of cannon. Everyone started.

"The guns!" Gabriel shouted. "We must drink the toasts."

Abandoning the gaming tables, the men hurried to the dining room where candles gleamed in the silver chandeliers overhead. Wine sparkled in crystal decanters and stemmed glasses. Gold braid glinted on military uniforms.

Luis Cirillo raised his glass of white champagne. "To the First Consul of France, Napoleon Bonaparte," he said. "To the French Republic."

The two land batteries and the Argo's cannon boomed through a twenty one gun salvo while the men drank, standing.

After all the glasses were empty, Pierre de Laussat picked up a goblet of rose champagne. "To King Charles of Spain," he said. All drank again while the guns roared.

De Laussat's eyes fastened on his young aide and Guy frowned. What toast did the
prefet
expect of him? De Laussat inclined his head toward the wine on the table. Guy took a deep breath, realizing the toast must be to what was to come.

Guy reached for a glass of white champagne and raised it. "To President Thomas Jefferson," he cried. "To the United States of America.”

There was a moment's silence. He saw de Laussat's approval, Andre Lafreniere's sardonic glance, Gabriel's raised eyebrows and the mocking smile of Nicolas Roulleaux. Then everyone lifted their glasses and drank as the cannon continued their salute.

Nicolas grabbed a glass. "To the fair and lovely ladies of all countries," he said.

With wild shouts of approval, the men drank, glasses raised in complete agreement.

For the moment.

Chapter
2

The day was clear, the weather mild after the rain. Guy sauntered down along the banquette, the plank sidewalk, past delicately colored two story houses of blue and peach and pale green stuccoed over brick. Across the street a Negro woman, a slave, emerged from one of the tall glass doors onto the lower gallery.

The contrast of dark skin with her red
tignon
, the madras handkerchief tied over her head, was pleasing to the eye. The Spanish hadn’t succeeded in humbling the Creoles of color with Governor Miro’s ordinance twenty five years before that forced
tignons
onto the heads of Louisiana women of color, free or slave. None had dared to appear in public without a
tignon
since then, but female ingenuity had made them ornaments to enhance the beauty of the women.

The slave sloshed water from a bucket across the wooden floor, once, twice. Through the iron scrolls of the carriage gate, Guy caught a glimpse of a banana tree rising in a courtyard. A small yellow bird flew through the space between the tip of the gates and the archway above and soared into the washed blue of the sky.

Blue as the Spanish eyes of Senalda Gabaldon. Guy’s steps slowed as he remembered dancing with her last night, for one dance only. Ah, how beautiful she was, but how aloof. She wished to return to what she called the "civility of Madrid."

He'd have his work cut out convincing her she should stay in New Orleans and marry him. Before Mardi Gras. Not merely because he'd openly announced his intentions, but because he wanted Senalda for a wife. After seeing her, only she would do. He hadn't seriously considered marriage before meeting her.

"Un bon placage vaut mieux qu'un mauvais manage
." A good placage is better than a bad marriage. He muttered the words under his breath. Wasn't it possible for both to be good? He was no different than most of the Creole men he knew, taking a free woman of color as a placee, in place of a wife.

Francois, the fencing master, was born of such a union between Guy's father and a mulatto named Genevieve Olivier. She'd died of yellow fever the same year the disease killed Guy's mother and his baby sister.

Francois was seven years older than Guy, a black half-brother, freed as a matter of course by his father. He bore the La Branche name and was certainly as talented as any La Branche with the sword—as well as with the mulatto women, or so it was rumored. But, of course, no black could ever inherit a white father's property. Francois had no claim on La Belle.

Surely Senalda would be happy at La Belle, Guy thought. He'd make her as happy as she'd make him by consenting to the marriage.

As he neared St. Louis Cathedral, next to the Cabildo at the Place d'Armes, Guy looked to his left, seeing the masts of the ships in the river, French, Spanish and American, stretch out like a forest afloat, as many ships as he'd ever seen anchored there at one time. He turned right onto Orleans, passed the gardens behind the church and walked toward the rue des Ramparts, his pace quickening. He'd not seen Aimee for a week with the press of his duties as aide to the
prefect.

Ah, Aimee, with her skin the color of heavy cream and as smooth and tasty. She had the ripest breasts, the roundest hips of any quadroon in the city. Guy smiled as he remembered how he'd won her from the very arms of Nicolas Roulleaux at one of this year's Quadroon Balls. Aimee had been far and away the belle of the ball.

Gentle Aimee, eager to please him in all ways. Was he to give her up when he married? Not all men deserted their placees when they married. He'd at least see Aimee was provided for. If Senalda was his, he wouldn't need a placee. Would he? Some men said otherwise.

His father hadn't given up Genevieve for there'd been other children besides Francois, one a girl the same age as Madelaine. All except Francois were now dead of Bronze John, the yellow fever.

The afternoon was too fine to spend worrying about the future. It would take care of itself, would all work out. Meanwhile, he'd enjoy Aimee.

At the rue des Ramparts, Guy turned to his left toward a row of one storied white cottages built directly on the ground. Aimee's was at the far end, somewhat apart from its neighbors. He'd bought it for her. As he hurried his steps, he saw her on the porch, waving. She ran to meet him and Guy caught her in his embrace.

"Oh, I've missed you so," she whispered.

He picked her up, carried her into the house, strode directly to the bedroom and laid her atop a spread of ecru lace covering the mahogany four poster.

"
Un minute, s'il vous plait
,'' she begged, sliding off the bed and taking off the lace cover, folding it carefully. Her hands began to unbutton his waistcoat.

"No," he said. "Take your clothes off. I want to see you as I undress."

With the charming grace of a kitten she swayed and bent as she slipped off her gown and her chemise. The light brown nipples of her breasts came erect as he gazed at her, his coat and shirt in his hands.

She was lovely, a pale yellow Venus, and she was his. Guy tore at the buttons of his breeches, ripping one off in his haste. It rolled onto the floor as he yanked his breeches down, stepped out of them and reached for Aimee.

She came into his arms with a little cry and then he could think of nothing but his need, feeling her silky skin, the softness of her breasts. He lifted her onto the bed and lay beside her, wanting to savor his excitement, but when he touched her he couldn't wait.

Her sex was smooth and warm as he entered her and she clung to him, fueling his desire so that it rose out of control, mounting, mounting, until he exploded in a spasm of release.

A few moments later he lay beside her again, facing her, lazily watching the rise and fall of her round breasts. His fingers moved to a nipple and he caressed it gently.

"What have you done while you were missing me?" he asked.

He thought she tensed. "I—I've done nothing," she said.

Guy raised himself on one elbow to look at her. She stared up at him, her yellow cat's eyes wide.

"Nothing at all?" he said.

Tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. "Oh, why do you ask?" she cried. "You know I'm yours and no other's."

"Sweet Aimee, I wasn't accusing you."

She began to sob brokenly. Guy gathered her into his arms, stroking her back. "Hush," he murmured. "Hush."

She pressed against him, her tears damp on his chest. As he caressed her, his hands moved down her back and along her hips until at last she sighed and wiped at her eyes.

He trailed his hand along her thigh, between her thighs and she quivered and clung to him. His mouth found her breasts, first one, then the other. Aimee moaned, closing her eyes.

He kissed her eyelids, tasting the salt of her tears, then ran his tongue over her lips until they parted.

"My love, my heart," she whispered.

When he mounted her he did so gently, easing inside with a slow rhythm that increased only when she arched to him, her hands insistent on his back. Then he let himself go, pounding into her faster and faster, hearing her small cries of pleasure before his own passion climaxed.

Aimee slid from the bed a few minutes later.

"Don't go." he said.

"But I must find the button you lost and sew it back onto your breeches." She slipped her arms into a peach colored robe whose thin batiste revealed the contours of her shapely body.

He watched with amused affection as she threaded a needle and bent to her task with solemn concentration. She was dear and wonderful and he would take care of her always.

Aimee looked nothing like her mother, Vedette Rusert, f.w.c., free woman of color, who'd once been the placee of a Creole planter from upriver. Vedette was tall and thin and her skin was darker. He'd only seen her once.

"Aimee, does your mother still dance the voodoo?" he asked.

She looked at him in surprise. "She's the
voodooienne
, the voodoo queen—she must dance."

"Doesn't it frighten you?"

"A little. 1 don't like to go to the voodoo. Since I have my house here with you, I never go. My sister Estelle . . ." She paused.

"I've met Estelle," he said. Taller, older, darker, more like their mother. Estelle had never been presented at a Quadroon Ball, no Creole would chose her as a placee, She was the wrong type.

"What about her?"

"Estelle understands voodoo. She's not afraid of the snake like I am. She goes."

Aimee bit off the thread and smoothed the breeches across her lap. "There."

He yawned and sat up. "I'm hungry," he said. Aimee rose and placed his breeches on the chair.

"I've made okra gumbo with shrimp and
pain patate
, sweet potato cake."

"Have you wine?"

Aimee bit her lip. "Only
biere douce
, sweet beer, I'm afraid."

Guy liked the Creole beer made from the skins and eyes of pineapples fermented with sugar, rice and water. He smiled at her. "My favorite meal."

Aimee served him, taking nothing herself while he ate, although he urged her to sit with him. "I'm not hungry, that's all," she told him.

"Can you please stay for the night?" she asked hesitantly as she set coffee before him.

He took a sip and sighed appreciatively. She'd made the coffee exactly as he liked it
. Noir comme le Diable, forte comme la mort, doux comme l'amour, chaud comme l'enfer.
Black as the devil, strong as death, sweet as love, hot as hell.

"I can't stay," he said. "I'd like to, but I can't. There's a party tonight, one every night this week to celebrate the Spanish transfer, and the
prefet
expects me to attend them all."

She crossed her arms over her breasts as if cold, though the room was warm enough. He reached out to touch her. "I wish I could be with you tonight," he said. Still she didn't smile or change her posture.

"What's the matter, Aimee? Are you all right?"

She dropped her arms, only to clutch her fingers nervously together. "I'm fine. I'm very well. Nothing is wrong."

"Sit, then, and have coffee with me."

Aimee poured herself a half cup and perched on the edge of a chair next to him. She touched the cup to her lips. The sun slanting through the slatted blind on the window gleamed in the black hair curling to her waist. She turned her head and he noticed the lovely curve of her throat. Desire flickered in him again.

If only he'd ridden instead of walking. There wasn't time. Guy got up from the table. Aimee rose, too, taking his arm and pressing her body against his side as she walked with him to the front door.

"Tomorrow?" she said hopefully.

He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. Something troubled her. Was it his week's absence? "I'll come tomorrow," he promised.

As he walked away from the cottage he saw a dark skinned woman dressed in white, her tignon white as well,. As she passed, he recognized her as Estelle, Aimee's sister. He turned and called her name.

She stopped, looked back at him, then turned to face him. She said nothing, her large eyes as dark and unrevealing as bayou water.

"Estelle, I want to ask you about Aimee," he said. "She's upset. Do you know why?"

"You'd have to ask her, Monsieur La Branche. Only Aimee can say."

"If you know, tell me," he demanded.

He stared at her, certain now there was a great deal wrong and also certain Estelle wouldn't reveal a thing. She looked sullen, almost defiant. He quelled an urge to grab her shoulders and shake the truth from her. It wouldn't do to lay hands on Estelle in the street, and besides, he had little time to spare. Already the gaming tables at the party would be ...

He heard a shriek and looked over Estelle's head to see Aimee running from the house toward them.

Estelle turned just as Aimee flung herself at her sister. "No, you mustn't tell him," Aimee cried. "You promised you wouldn't. Not him or
maman
. You promised."

Estelle put an arm about Aimee and urged her back toward the cottage. "Be still," she said. "Don't be a spectacle for others to watch." She didn't glance at Guy.

He stood for a moment watching them. By damn, he’d discover once and for all what this was about, he vowed, striding after the two women. Aimee wept wildly and he took her other arm, helping Estelle lead her inside. He shut the door.

"You may as well tell me," he said to Estelle, his voice cutting through Aimee's wailing.

Estelle sat beside Aimee on a settee upholstered in gold velvet and held her sister in her arms. She looked at Guy over Aimee's head.

"No," Aimee sobbed. "Please, no."

"I must speak now
, cherie
" Estelle told her. "It's too late to ask for silence." She took a deep breath. "I want you to understand, first of all, that Aimee isn't to blame. She's not like me, not a fighter and she was helpless."