Creole Hearts (5 page)

"I want you to be mine," he said. "Say you'll marry me, say you'll live with me and make La Belle as radiant as any casa in Madrid."

She swayed toward him, then straightened. "You must know I can't give you a hasty answer," she said so softly he could scarcely hear her words, "but if anything would compel me to stay in New Orleans . . ." She left the sentence unfinished.

Guy's heartbeat quickened. As good as a yes. He reached to embrace her, but the throb of agony in his shoulder stopped him. She edged away with a cry.

"Your wound—it's bleeding."

Guy glanced down at his right shoulder and saw the stain on the sling of white silk. The pain increased until sweat broke out on his brow. Senalda bit her lip, her eyes frightened.

With an effort, Guy stood up and bowed. "I'm sorry to distress you," he said, feeling his head whirl, his legs tremble. "Please pardon me."

He walked away from her, determined to get out of her sight before he showed any sign of weakness.
Mon Dieu
, why did this have to happen at such a moment?

Once outside the small gate, he leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths. He must get home, get to bed, have the doctor summoned. The rapier wound was putrefying and making him sick. He'd have one of the slaves here send round for his carriage.

No, he wouldn't go back inside. It was less than a mile to his townhouse. He could make it on foot. He would make it. Guy pushed away from the wall. His head spun as he set off and he had a dim awareness that his thoughts weren't logical.

"Feverish," he muttered. "Must get home."

The
banquette
stretched out endlessly, then dirt, mud underfoot. There shouldn't be mud on the way to—where? Where was he headed down these endless streets? He was dreaming, a nightmare . . .

Someone screamed his name and he was falling, falling.

"Guy!" she called again. "Guy!"

With great effort he forced his eyes open and found himself looking into the yellow cat's eyes of Aimee, then everything went dark.

When he came to himself, the first thing he noticed was a pungent but not unpleasant smell. Guy stared about at a familiar room, he lay in a four poster bed, the one he'd bought for Aimee. He was in the cottage bedroom, he was at Aimee's. And the smell—he felt his right shoulder, his fingers encountering a soggy mass of leaves plastered over the wound.

"Aimee!" he shouted, sitting up.

She ran into the room.

"You're better,
merci de Dieu
" she cried.

"What's this?" He touched the poultice bound onto his shoulder.

"Healing herbs from
maman
. She said they'd draw out the evil and heal the wound."

"Voodoo," he said with distaste. He flexed his arm, testing the shoulder. Very little pain. Cautiously he shifted the shoulder. Definitely improved.

"Much evil flowed green and yellow from your shoulder," Aimee told him. "Now it's all gone."

"Voodoo or not, your
maman's
herbs seemed to have cured me overnight," he said in apology. "You must thank her for me."

"Oh, but you've been here three days," Aimee said.

"
Dieu
!”

"Your sister sent a slave to inquire and I told the woman you were sick but recovering."

Guy eased himself onto the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. He only vaguely recalled leaving the party, feeling sick. Surely he'd meant to go home, yet he'd come here. And luckily, for this herb poultice was less repulsive than Goodreau's leeches.

"I worried that you'd never come to me again," Aimee said, sitting beside him. Timidly she touched his face, brushed his hair back from his forehead.

He looked into her eyes, large and fearful, and remembered Nicolas, the duel.

He moved his head and Aimee's fingers fell away. She clasped her hands in her lap, gazing down at them. He sighed, watching her.

Estelle was right—Aimee wasn't a fighter. For all her cat's grace she was only a harmless kitten, afraid to use even her tiny claws.

No match at all for any man who tried to force her. He gritted his teeth. As Nicolas had forced her, there was no doubt in his mind that had been the way of it. Aimee came willingly only to him, to Tanguy La Branche.

How could he hold her to blame? And yet he did.

"Aimee?"

She looked up hopefully.

"Aimee, I know you couldn't help what happened," he said. "What I have to tell you has nothing to do with that. I plan to marry in a month or so."

She put her hands over her face and began to sob, rocking back and forth with grief.

He put his arm around her shoulders. "You've always known I'd marry one day," he said. "Don't cry."

She raised a tear stained face. "I knew you'd marry but I hoped . . ." her voice broke but she swallowed and went on. "I hoped you'd come to me sometimes even afterward. Now you won't. Because of what happened. And I—I love you so."

His heart twisted in his chest. He loved her, too, in his way. How could he hurt her? "I'll see you again," he promised. "Now, smile at me and be done with tears."

Her quivering lips trembled into an attempt at a smile and he pressed her head to his chest. She flung her arms about him, her soft full breasts close against him. Guy felt his loins quicken with desire.

Aimee pulled away. “I too, have news.” She stood and put her hands one over the other on her belly. “I carry your child.”

A bolt of joy and pride shot through Guy. A child. He’d sired a child! He smiled at Aimee, a smile that slowly faded,

The baby might well be Nicholas’.

Chapter 5

Madelaine bristled with impatience as she waited for Guy to return to the townhouse. This was February and in only a few weeks more the season would be over and they'd be back at La Belle and she wouldn't be able to attend the public balls, not that many were held in the heat of summer. She twirled in a circle, arms out to an imaginary partner. How she did love to dance!

If only she and Philippe could be together in public, could dance in front of everyone, acknowledging their love.

She tapped her foot restlessly. Why didn't Guy come home? He never let her go anywhere without him in the evenings and he was so often late these days. No one could understand why he'd taken a post as aide to General Wilkinson.

"What, Madelaine, your brother works for the
Americains
?" her friends asked, eyebrows raised.

He had no answers for them or for herself. All Guy would say was that he wanted to do it, that Americans, as he now called them, were human beings not ogres.

Some of the
Americain
dances were so funny—jigging up and down as they did. Still, she thought she'd like to try the reel sometime, though with a Creole, not an
Americain.

With Philippe she dreamed of the quadrille, being held in his arms as they executed the movements of the dance. She circled again, smiling.

"Oh,
mademoiselle
, may I have the pleasure?"

Madelaine whirled to find her brother grinning at her.

"You were lost in a world of your own with your imaginary partner," Guy said. "Who was he? Gabriel?"

"I—no—that is, I imagined I was dancing with a French prince," she said.

His eyes took on the glaze she'd come to associate with his infatuation for
Senorita
Gabaldon. "I, myself, dream of dancing with a Spanish princess," he said.

"Will she be there tonight?"

"At the public ball? No." Guy frowned. "Senalda can't abide the
Americain
s."

How does she like your new position then?"

He shrugged. "What I do must be my concern."

Madelaine suppressed a smile. Senalda could be quite outspoken and she must have told Guy in no uncertain terms what she thought of his being General Wilkinson's aide.

"At least you can dance again," she said, "now that your shoulder's healed."

Guy flexed his right arm, relaxed it, flexed it again. "Come to think of it," he said, "I don't see Gabriel calling on you of late."

"Oh, Guy, will you stop trying to marry us off? I've known Gabriel so long that I think of him as a brother. I'm certain he still sees me as the little nuisance who trailed after the two of you, spoiling your fun."

"You're much prettier now," Guy told her. "Plus certain other differences. Gabriel's noticed the change, there's no doubt of that."

She made a face at him. "Do get dressed," she urged, "or we'll never get to the ball."

As Guy escorted her into the ballroom, Madelaine looked quickly about for Philippe but didn't see him. The orchestra was playing a quadrille, with the dancers circling and dipping through the patterns. She was pleased with her gown, a brilliant green satin with gold embroidery at the edge of the bodice and shirt, and a gold ribbon about the high waistline. It was made in quite the latest Paris fashion. Guy had let her wear a small emerald pendant set in gold that had belonged to their mother, and Madelaine knew it complimented her gown perfectly. Along both sides of the long, girls sat with their mothers in loges against the wall, reached by stairs. Bedoilles, they were called, wallflowers, as they waited to be asked to dance. She rarely sat up there, for when Guy had first allowed her to come with him he had made certain his friends asked her to dance. Now most of the men were eager to dance with her.

"
Dieu
," she heard Guy mutter, "those men are armed."

Madelaine looked behind him at a large group of Creoles who had followed them into the hall. She picked out Henri Leroque, Antoine Beaumont and others she recognized. She tightened her hold on her brother's arm. "Why?" she asked.

"Trouble." He guided her farther into the room, away from them.

Madelaine saw a few
Americains
forming for a quadrille on the floor, while others stood in groups near the loges. Suddenly, one of them left his group and strode between the dancers to the center of the floor. There he stopped and began to sing at the top of his voice:

"Hail, Columbia, happy land

Hail ye heroes, heaven born band

Who fought and bled in Freedoms’

Cause…”

Other
Americain
voices took up the song and the orchestra playing the French quadrille faltered and fell silent. The dancers paused uncertainly. Men crowded onto the floor.

An armed Creole thrust his way to the front of the crowd, turned his back on the
Americains
and shouted at his friends to join him as he began a new song:

"
Allans, enfants de la patrie

Arise, ye sons of France to glory

Le jour de gloire est arrive
..."

Your day of freedom bids you rise…

A hurricane of cheering burst from Creole throats. Men rushed their partners from the dance floor and Madelaine saw the fear on the women's faces. She felt none. Her pulses pounded with excitement and outrage. How dare these
Americains
cause trouble here?

"A reel, play us a reel," an
Americain
shouted at the musicians.

"The quadrille, continue the quadrille," Creole voices ordered.

A woman screamed as the Creoles swept toward the
Americains
. Guy, seeking to protect Madelaine, was jostled off balance and she was torn from his grasp. Someone bumped into her from the rear and she stumbled forward, falling. A strong arm caught her, brought her to her feet.

"I beg your pardon," the man said. Though he spoke with an accent, his French was understandable. "I'm very sorry this is happening. May I see you to safety?"

Madelaine looked into bright blue eyes.

"John Kellogg, at your service
, mademoiselle
," the man said.

He was quite handsome, a tall man with red hair and a strong jaw. But an
Americain
.

Madelaine pulled away. "Thank you, I can take care of myself."

Where was Guy? She looked about at the shouting, angry men and knew there'd soon be bloodshed. Then challenges, duels . . .

No! Something must be done.

Madelaine tunneled through the men until she reached a wall, climbed the steps to the highest loge and stood on a bench.

"Listen to me!" she cried, speaking French, for in her agitation she couldn't find English words. Her voice was drowned by the clamor below.

She put two fingers to her mouth and whistled in the piercing shrill tremolo Guy had taught her when they were children. The noise lessened. Heads turned, looked up. She whistled again.

"Listen to me," she repeated and now her voice could be heard as the crowd quieted and stared up at her.

"
Americain
monsieurs
," she said, her words ringing with passion. "Think what you do. Why can't we dance as we choose? We had to be Spaniards for many years but Spain didn't force us to learn the fandango. Now that we've become Americans, why should you make us dance the reel?"

A murmur of questions floated up to her in English. "What does she say?" "Who is she?"

A shock of red hair thrust above the other heads and Madelaine realized John Kellogg had climbed on a chair. He translated her words into English, then turned to the musicians who were huddled in their box at the far end of the hall and said in French, "Play a quadrille for the lovely and courageous
mademoiselle, s'il vous plait
."

A few moments later the crowd cleared from the dance floor. Men found their partners and formed patterns for a quadrille. Madelaine, still in the loge, climbed down from the bench and looked for Philippe.

There! She waited for him to look up at her, to make some sign to her but he did not, bending over his partner's hand as she smiled at him. He danced with Annette Louise, who looked charming in a blue muslin dress cut low to show the rounded tops of her generous breasts.

"She'll look like a fat cow by the time she's twenty five," Madelaine muttered under her breath, then was immediately ashamed of herself. Annette Louise was her friend, after all, and Philippe was only being careful to mislead everyone. That's what he was doing, wasn't it?

Why did he have to gaze into Annette Louise's eyes so Intently, laugh so uproariously at her every word? Dancing with her was certainly enough.

"Would you do me the honor,
Mademoiselle
La Branche?" John Kellogg's voice said from behind her.

Madelaine whirled about. "You startled me!"

He bowed. "I'm sorry. I thought you saw me climb the stairs. I'd be honored if you'd dance with me."

About to give him an indignant, "no," she bit back the word as she again glanced at Philippe with Annette Louise in his arms. She smiled at the red haired
Americain.
Two could play at Philippe's game.

John Kellogg was a graceful dancer for such a tall man. Not as quick on his feet as Philippe but then no one was like Philippe. Monsieur Kellogg held her just right, firmly enough to carry her with him but not tightly enough to embarrass her.

"You discovered my name," she said coolly.

"When you were scolding us, I heard someone say who you were." He smiled down at her, a charming smile. Madelaine began to like this particular
Americain
.

"I've never been so impressed with anyone in my life," he went on. "You're brave as well as being the most beautiful woman in New Orleans."

"You're very kind," she murmured. "Are you on General Wilkinson's staff?"

"No. I'm a doctor with the United States Army."

"Ah, then it's
Docteur
Kellogg and not
Monsieur
. I heard you tell your compatriots what I said to them."

"We're not all barbarians, even though it may seem that way at times. I think every man here felt ashamed when he understood what you told us."

His hair was such an unusual color, not carroty red but closer to auburn. Really, he was most agreeable for an
Americain
.

"You don't seem to be a barbarian, docteur," she said, then, catching sight of Annette Louise's blue dress, lowered her lashes and smiled coquettishly up at the tall
Americain
.

Let Philippe make what he would of that!

Guy was waiting for her when the quadrille ended. When Doctor Kellogg introduced himself, he acknowledged the American stiffly.

"You will excuse my sister and myself, doctor?” he said. "We must leave."

As soon as Guy joined Madelaine in the carriage, he began scolding her. "Making a spectacle of yourself, whatever possessed you?"

"Someone had to do something," she protested.

"Not that." His tone softened. "Ah, Madelaine, I was proud of you up there in the loge. A true La Branche, fearless and outspoken. It was a dangerous chance to take, but how can I be angry when you were so brave? No, that's not what I speak of at all. This Doctor Kellogg—I don't want to see you dancing with Americans. They're not like us, will never be like us. Your reputation can't fail to be seriously harmed by any association with one."

"You work for General Wilkinson."

"That's business. Besides, I'm a man."

"I see no harm in Doctor Kellogg. His profession is honorable and I'm sure he is as well."

"You didn't see how he looked at you. I won't have my sister's name bandied about in the coffee houses. You will not accept any more invitations from this man or from any other American, Madelaine. I mean what I say. In any case, I shan't take you to a public ball again until the city settles down. Next thing you know we'll have army patrols at all our dances to keep the peace. Disgraceful."

Madelaine said nothing but her jaw was set. I won't promise, she said to herself.
Mon
Dieu
! The
Americain
was far more courteous than some of Guy's friends when they dance with me. No nonsense about letting his hands wander or pressing against me as if by accident.

"Your little friend Annette Louise is turning into quite a beauty," Guy said.

"I don't care to discuss her," Madelaine said coldly.

"You saw her with Philippe Roulleaux, then. Of course you can't approve. I understand. If they marry you'll lose her friendship, it could be no other way. It's a sad thing to lose a lifelong friend."