Gwyneth Atlee (11 page)

“Keep to your place,” a guard warned Jacob as he neared the stairway.
“Cap’n’s orders.”
Jacob’s gaze swung toward the brusque voice. Damned if it wasn’t
that overbearing sergeant who’d herded them through Vicksburg.
“I’ve been asked to report to Captain Russell in the main cabin,”
Jacob told him, not bothering to explain it had been Pvt. Gabriel
Davis—and not the officer—who had done the asking.
The broad-shouldered young sergeant stepped forward and
warned with a pointed finger. “I find out you’re lying, I’ll have you
shackled to your place.”
Jacob felt his temper rising. After putting up with the poor conditions
for the past two days, he hadn’t a lick of patience to spare this
blustering fool.
“You’d best take that finger out of my face before you lose it.”
The sergeant stepped out of his way, which didn’t surprise Jacob in
the least. He’d never been certain what it was about him that prompted
men to back down, but in his whole life, he’d rarely had to fight to
make his point. Perhaps it was the darkness of his stare or maybe
the matter-of-factness with which he spoke. Once he’d thought it
was his muscular blacksmith’s build, but he realized now that
wasn’t it at all. Despite his current gauntness, men still acquiesced
to his rare demands.
Another guard stopped Jacob as he tried to enter the main cabin.
The short redhead’s gaze swept disdainfully over Jacob’s rumpled,
ill-fitting uniform.
“Where do you think
you’re
going?” the guard asked, showing a set
of teeth so chipped, it looked as if he’d spent the whole war champing
hardtack without bothering to soak it first.
“Got some important information for Captain Russell,” Jacob told
him. This mission of Gabe’s was something he’d enjoy.
The red-haired fellow looked skeptical, but he told Jacob to wait
while he checked with the captain at the bar.
A few minutes later, the guard reluctantly showed him into the main
cabin. After two years in the army and seven months in Andersonville
prison, the room’s opulence nearly overwhelmed Jacob. He set his mind
to ignoring the fancy gingerbread woodwork, the chandeliers, the plush
carpet, and fine bar, but they made him want to shout:
There’s starving
men on every deck, men who’ve lost their limbs or eyes or best friends. What
are you people doing bothering about all this?
Russell turned his head as Jacob approached. Jacob managed a halfhearted salute. Just as Gabriel had suggested, he meant to make up his
own mind about this man, so he could at least begin by showing what
the military deemed respect.
The captain flicked a glance in his direction, but he neither stood
nor stopped fidgeting with the length of string he held. “Don’t waste
my time with idle chatter. If you’ve seen the girl, say so right now.”
Jacob’s anger surprised him, as did his immediate dislike for
Captain Russell. The man stank of high-dollar whiskey, along with a
two-bit case of contempt for common soldiers.
Jacob made up his mind immediately. Gabe didn’t have to drag him
into sending this arrogant ass on a wild-goose chase. “She’s down
below, on the main deck. Saw her heading into the stern cargo room.”
The captain turned and focused on Jacob, his gaze hawklike,
measuring. Jacob held that gaze, and Russell fidgeted, straightening
his spotless frock coat and smoothing his perfectly trimmed beard.
“You’re certain?”
Jacob nodded. “Just like the one you’ve been telling us to look out
for. Small woman, only about twenty. Black hair, pretty face, fine figure.
Shame to think that she’d do wrong.”
A smile lifted the corners of the captain’s mouth without touching
his eyes. He gathered his string—now tied into a slipknot, like a snare
for rabbits— and shoved it deep into his pocket. His hand extracted in
its place a silver coin, which he flipped toward Jacob.
Jacob watched it flash by, but he did not follow its arc onto the carpet.
Nor did he bend to pick it up.
“I’m not saying I couldn’t use that,” he told Russell. “But I only told
you because I thought it was my duty.”
“Surely you don’t think it’s wrong to profit from doing the right
thing?” the captain asked, his brows lifted in an expression of
incredulity.
Jacob shrugged, then turned his back to Russell. As he began to
walk away, he said, “I reckon that’s why Mama named me Jacob and
not Judas.”
As he exited the main cabin, his final sideways glimpse caught
Russell stooping to retrieve the money from the carpet.

Darien Russell strode downstairs to the main deck, eager to investigate the curly-haired Indiana soldier’s report that Yvette Augeron
was hiding among the cargo. Damnable girl was causing him an
ungodly amount of trouble.

In spite of his irritation at the delay, he had to admire the story she’d
concocted for the steward earlier. It demonstrated the kind of shrewdness he’d only seen in one woman before.

Constance, his wife, the very woman who had gotten him into this
situation in the first place. She had forced him into all of it. Her
appetites and expectations had nipped at his heels until he moved forward. Not willingly but as if to escape a jabbing prod.

The investment scheme might have been Darien’s idea, but now
that it had gone so sour, he hated Constance for it. Not for those he
ruined, for like her, they’d all been born to wealth, to believe the fine
things their due for merely breathing. He hated her because she’d
infected him with her tastes and battered him with disappointment at
his defeats.

Most especially, she scoffed at his
failed
academy. That was how she
put it. Time and time again.
As much as he resented his wife, with her red hair and her blue
blood, he still derived enjoyment from the skill he’d used to carry out
his plan. She might enjoy the money, but he’d been the one to take it.
And he didn’t take it in the manner he’d described to Constance.
For all his frustrations of the past few days, he smoothed his light
brown beard and felt a smile tugging at it. What
would
Constance say
about his methods, about the delectable little virgin he’d seduced in
his quest to claim her father’s wealth? He wondered how his perfect
wife would like that or if she’d only laugh before going back to her
plans to host the club’s next foxhunt or renovate the house on the New
Jersey estate.
Her
estate. How often she’d reminded him of it, of how successful
her father had been in the import business, of how he’d hired caretakers to maintain his family’s grand tradition of horse breeding. The
businessman, gentleman farmer, and later politician, Frederick
Worthington had been all a man should be. Not a failure like her husband, a man who’d squandered his inheritance by opening an academy
he was ill suited to manage.
It was no wonder that when he’d choked Marie, he’d found himself
imposing his wife’s features on her dying face.
But right now Yvette was the problem at hand. He still recalled the
stinging words he’d overheard her singing in the parlor when he’d
come to visit Marie.

There were other verses, those he’d tried so hard to forget, but soon
they were on the lips of every child in town. He heard servants—
Negroes—singing them in the streets! All of them laughing at him,
many of them guessing at the hints Yvette had woven through the
lyrics.

Colonel Jeffers guessing, too, and sending Lieutenant Simonton to
ferret out the truth. Until he’d been forced to murder Simonton and
sweet Marie as well. But Darien finally realized it was not those
killings he wanted to avenge. It was that detestable, crude song and all
its mocking accusations.

He would damned well kill Yvette for that song.
“Captain Russell.”
He recognized the voice at once and turned toward the diminutive

figure of the head steward. The man’s expression was sour, as if he
found this conversation a distasteful task.
“What is it, Mr. Beecham? I have a report to investigate.”
“Let me add another. The wife of one of the crewmen saw the girl.
She’s in a stateroom on the cabin deck.”
“The cabin deck,” Russell repeated as he fingered the bit of string
inside his pocket. “Can you show me where?”
Beecham hesitated, as if he still harbored distrust. But at length he
nodded. “Those are my orders, sir.”

By early evening, Yvette had finally managed to slip into the
gentle stream of the French novel she was reading. A knock at her
door disrupted the illusion of safety. Instantly, she jumped up,
irrationally certain that at last, Darien Russell had come for her.
Lafitte, who had been sleeping on her lap, barely managed to twist
around in time to land on his feet. He hissed at the rude awakening
and darted beneath the lower berth.

A familiar voice identified the crewmen’s wife, Kathleen Rowe.
Yvette breathed a quick sigh of relief, for the woman’s amiable chatter
had broken up long hours of isolation.

“Feeling better, miss?” Mrs. Rowe asked, but her words sounded
more guarded than curious. The hand-slap birthmark stood out
sharply against her noticeably pale face.

Something had changed, Yvette sensed. Someone must have filled
Kathleen’s head with lies—and a description.
“Yes, I do,” Yvette told her, trying to keep her voice as natural as she
could. “Thank you for bringing me the tea and toast this morning. It
was very kind of you.”
Not to mention it was the only meal she’d had today, since she’d
been too afraid to leave her stateroom.
“I’ve brought you some clean towels and fresh water.” Her blue-green
eyes, so merry earlier, flicked toward Yvette anxiously.
“But you already came this morning,” Yvette told her. There
appeared to be something else tucked between the white squares,
perhaps a wooden box.
Kathleen went about her business, saying nothing. Before,
she’d been so friendly. They’d chatted about the war’s end,
and Kathleen told several amusing stories about growing up
sandwiched among eight brothers in Ireland. Were circumstances
different, Yvette thought they might have become close
friends. Away from New Orleans’s French Quarter, Yvette
began to realize America was a different world in which one
might choose to step outside social boundaries.
Once she’d finished her chores, Kathleen straightened her spine
and looked Yvette directly in the eye. Nervously, she tucked a loose
strand of fine, red-blond hair into her bun. “Is there—is there anything
else you might need . . .
ma’am?”
Something about that last word, after their earlier informality,
struck Yvette as a warning. Did Kathleen mean to tell Russell where
she was? Or had she already done so? Yvette didn’t dare ask, but
Kathleen’s tone all but screamed she must get out of this stateroom
right away.
“Sometimes,” Kathleen continued, her voice little more than a whisper,
“sometimes I’ve no choice but to look out for my husband’s career,
particularly when I’m asked a direct question.”
“I-I believe I’ll step out for a walk,” Yvette said, though her mouth
had grown almost too dry for speech. She bent to capture Lafitte,
intent on placing him inside the handbasket. Perhaps the kitten
recalled his earlier incarceration, for he scooted away from her whenever
she moved close.
“Leave him. I’ll see to him, don’t you fret.” Kathleen’s words were
soft, imploring, and this time there was no mistaking the admonition
in her voice. “Oh, and I nearly forgot.” She pulled a box out from
between two towels. “I packed you some food. I thought you might
want to take it with you . . . for later.”
Kathleen passed it to her. Yvette nodded gratefully, unable to speak
past the knot of terror in her throat. Snatching up her reticule, she hurried
out the door.

A slow grin spread across Darien Russell’s features as he caught
sight of Yvette’s retreating form. Though the steward had been called
away to attend to some other matter, the captain was pleased that he
had found her on his own.

Darien followed the young woman onto a relatively clear section of
deck reserved for paying passengers. Noting the rank apparent from
his uniform, a guard saluted him and stepped aside so he could pass.

Unconsciously, he paused to smooth his beard lest the uncharacteristically wide smile had left it in disorder.
Yvette’s presence on this deck confirmed his suspicion that the
steward had been lying. If Darien could prove it, he ought to
have the stubborn little man arrested. Unfortunately, that would
be not only difficult but unwise, for it would bring too many others
into this affair. And too many questions, which he could ill afford
right now.
He quickened his pace, both eager and relieved to end the game he
had begun when he’d allowed her to escape. A game he meant to end
now with a decisive victory.
Despite his elation, Yvette’s carelessness surprised him. After their
last encounter, he’d expected her to be wary. Yet she hadn’t even
looked around to see if anyone was following.
He set aside the thought, instead planning how he’d deal with this
woman who had caused him so much grief. He could lay not only
Colonel Jeffers’s suspicions and two deaths at Yvette’s feet but his
mangled pride as well. He intended to restore it by shredding hers to
ribbons as she died.
Though his school’s failure had drained him of his family money,
Darien considered himself a man rich in refinement. He had not
particularly enjoyed the murder of Lieutenant Simonton, and he still
regretted the way Marie had died. He took a certain pride, however,
that both deaths had been bloodless, neat, precise. He’d left not a single
clue to connect himself to either. If one meant to do murder, one must
plan it carefully.
He must plan Yvette’s as well. But this time felt so different. In her
case, the killing went so far beyond the required punishment, it
qualified as sport. His heartbeat accelerated, and he began perspiring
as he drew closer to the woman. He lengthened his strides, thinking
how she had scored the first point in this deadly contest, had drawn
blood with her witty little song. But as Darien drew nearer, he vowed
that she was finished. From now on, the only points scored would
be his.
He had finally beaten the haughty little Creole. And if he could
prevail against this woman, he could ultimately prevail against his
Constance, too. He knew instinctively that just as when he’d killed
Marie, while Yvette fought through death spasms, his mind’s eye
would rearrange her features into his wife’s face.
Excitement thrummed in his veins as he drew close enough to
touch her. His skin felt flushed with heat, and impending triumph
aroused him. He’d question her inside her stateroom, and who knew
what might happen next? The thought occurred to him that he could
take her if he wanted and she couldn’t do a thing about it.
Let her sing her goddamn ditty as he defiled her. Let her hum a few
bars as her eyes bulged and her face transformed in a gruesome parody
of twilight— scarlet to indigo, then black.
He sucked in a breath of cool air to dispel the memories of Marie’s
nearly endless death. Yvette had killed her, he remembered, Yvette’s
interference, not his hands. And it was time now that she paid in full
for all she’d wrought.
Unable to wait a moment longer, Darien rushed toward her. His
right hand shot forward and firmly grasped her elbow. “You belong to
me now,” he hissed as she tried to jerk away.
The woman spun toward him, her blue eyes round with terror, a
scream already cutting through the deep murmur of men talking a
short distance away.
Darien’s left hand was halfway to clapping over her mouth to
silence her when he realized he hadn’t caught Yvette. Instead, he’d
grabbed a woman perhaps ten years older. Though she was petite and
had dark hair like Yvette, she was also obviously with child.
Frantically, she tried to jerk loose from his grip.
Instead, his fingers tightened on her arm. She must let him explain!
“I-I’m terribly sorry! I thought you were—” he stammered uselessly.
The woman’s screams drowned out his attempted explanation.
As the guard approached, Darien released the woman and tried to
calm her.
“Please, madam, I apologize profusely. I mistook you for another
woman.”
But she was sobbing now, her palm pressed to her heart. Her whole
body trembled, and she collapsed against the guard.
Just what he needed, a hysterical ninny and one More humiliation.
Damn Yvette for putting him through this!
Farther down the deck, a giant of a bald man pushed his way
through the crowd and shouted, “What in God’s name are you doing
to my wife?”
Before Darien could offer a word of explanation, the huge man swung
at him. Darien ducked the massive arm and stepped back. In one swift
motion, he withdrew his Navy Colt and leveled it at the man’s chest.
“Now, perhaps, you’ll feel more inclined to listen.”
The woman quieted abruptly, and the bald man might have turned
to stone, he stood so still. Darien Russell felt power coursing through
his veins. He was in control here; they’d have to listen now.
His calm restored, he offered a cold apology for the inconvenience.
The matter settled, he spun crisply on his heel and strode away. As he
did so, he swore to himself that no matter what obstacles rose up in his
path, he would have Yvette Augeron.
He would have her before the night was out.