LAVENDER BLUE (historical romance) (4 page)

She caught Trinidad
’s approving grin and the boy’s expression that lost some of its contempt, before the world was blackened by the bandanna. It was a curious feeling, the lack of sight—the shifting motion of the lighter’s planks beneath her feet, the skipping of the cool wind across her cheeks. She could have sought the refuge of the lighter’s cabin, which was little larger than a pup tent. But she preferred to taste the sea’s salt tingling her lips and hear the surfs rhythmic pounding against the sandy shore as the lighter moved out into the harbor. Time ceased altogether.

A while later, came the booming of the l
apping waves against something broad—a ship’s hull? Then the thud of the lighter bumping on wood and the sudden jouncing. After that she detected the swish of what must be a rope ladder, followed by unintelligible conversation far above her. Alejandro put a ladder between her hands. “Climb,” he instructed.

The rope was rough against her palms, and as the ladder swayed with her weight she was glad she could not look down. The scent of smoke
—a pipe, perhaps—reached her, signaling she was nearing the top. And a keen sense of joy filled her. Soon she would be able to participate once more in something that had meaning.

It wasn
’t just her hope of bringing revenue to Columbia again. Nor was it just the idea of avenging Armand’s death that was responsible for giving her life substance once more. Steadily there grew in her a vision of aiding the Confederacy—a vision born of one brief visit to Columbia back in 1859 by Robert E. Lee.

At that time Mexico was undergoing constant political strife, and Brownsville received
, with almost equal frequency, the bullets and the refugees of battles between rival Mexican factions in Matamoros. Deserters from the various factions looted both sides of the river impartially, and so great was the disorder that Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee was sent out from San Antonio to investigate the situation. One evening after dinner he had remained at the table with her father and Armand.

From the parlor she and Aunt Hermione could hear the men talking, could hear Lee
’s low voice speak of his love of the South and his concern for its future. Though he had freed his slaves years before, he still held a passionate devotion to the South.

After he left, when they were in bed, Jeanette wrapped in his arms, Armand said quietly in the dark, “
I felt I was in the presence of a man who was cast in a grander mold and of finer metal than other men.”

She had felt the same. She had been impressed with the fairness and kindness that surrounded Lee like an aura. Much later she often wondered if Armand realized
he was himself cast in that same mold of fairness and kindness.

But just now the vision of actually aiding the Confederacy paled in her excitement at meeting the recklessly daring and resourceful Kitt!

Hands grappled under her arms and hauled her over the ship’s bulwarks. Vertigo attacked her and she lurched unsteadily on her feet until hands at her shoulders steadied her. A few voices could be heard, mostly Spanish; then— yes, she picked up a rich male baritone speaking in French. Oh, why hadn’t she tried to learn more of the language from Armand?

Another voice, at her shoulder, replied, "
Oui
.” Her arm was gripped, and she was led off. The shutting of a door combined with the resinous scent of cedar. The same voice that had answered at her shoulder, sounding like that of a younger man, said in Spanish now, “Our captain wishes to know what is it you want of him?”

“
Can we have our blindfolds removed?” she asked, forgetting that Trinidad was to have taken the part of the negotiator.

The melodious baritone voice she knew instinctively was Kitt
’s snapped an order in French, and she felt her elbow released. Taking it as a signal that permission was granted, her hand slipped up to the bandanna only to be checked by a banded grip at her wrist. At once she could sense another presence standing immediately before her—the heat of a body, much larger than hers; the warm, rum-scented breath.

Him
.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he squeaking of the door’s hinges told her that one or more people had left the room. “Trinidad?” she whispered anxiously.

No answer. Where had they taken him? The man who stood before her, so close, spoke now, and his breath rustled the stray tendrils that had escaped the braid concealed beneath her hat.”
Mon jeune homme, a quoi
. . .”

It was useless; she got no farther than, “
My young man, to what ...” and then she was unable to make any sense of the low, melodious words he spoke.

She began to shake her head to indicate her ignorance of the language when she was surprised by a
nother voice in the room—the younger one that had spoken before, translating the Frenchman’s commands to Spanish for her. “Our captain requests that you do not remove the blindfold, as he desires to keep his identity a secret—and he wishes to know to what he owes the honor of your presence?”

She sensed that the Frenchman studied her closely during the exchange of words. The hand that encircled her wrist like a handcuff released hers. She dropped her hand to her pockets in a boy
’s swaggering stance and pitched her throaty voice at an even deeper level. “Tell him I have heard of his reputation for evading the Federal blockaders—that he has yet to lose a ship. Tell him I have warehouses of cotton that I wish to sell.”

Another exchange in the fluid French, and t
he young voice said in Spanish, “There are other ships in the harbor willing to take on your cargo.”

Such an uncomfortable feeling not to be able to see to whom one is talking! It had to be something like that of a
penitente
at the confession box. No wonder she had never embraced Armand’s Catholic convictions. “Yes, but those ships offer only money or mercantile goods in exchange— liqueurs, dress material, ladies’ hats. I also want guns and ammunition—and quinine for the Confederacy.”

The translation was ma
de. A low chuckle escaped the man who stood immediately before her. She turned her face back up in the direction of his. “You are not in it for the ‘Cause’?” she asked, disillusion slowly worming its way into her brain. Then quickly she remembered to spit on the floor in an imitation of the
aguatero
.

The younger man, whom she suspected by the accent to be a Mexican, made the translation to his captain. The man before her
—he had to be very tall, judging by the source of his voice—laughed again and uttered something in French.

The Mexican said, “
The captain says to tell you that he is in it for himself.”

“
I will give your captain more than a fair share of the proceeds from the sale of the cotton, more than the standard five thousand dollars a blockade-runner captain gets for a round trip.”

It was an easy promise. In the textile mills of England four million workers were dependent on Southern cotton. And in France six hundred thousand people were likewise employed. Europe was willing to pay for the cotton.

The words flowed between the two men, then the Mexican replied, “The captain says that since he owns his own vessel, he is making money quicker than he can invest it, that—” he broke off as the Frenchman interrupted.

She felt what seemed to be the back of the F
renchman’s fingers lightly stroking her cheek. The Mexican made a choked sound and continued. “My captain says that—he sometimes prefers—beardless young boys in his bed.” This was indeed no gallant Armand she was dealing with. Her mental image of a brave and dashing gentleman rapidly evaporated. Sweat broke out under the band of her hat. Where in tarnation was Trinidad? She gathered her wits about her. “Tell him—tell him I prefer girls.”

Another low laugh followed the translation. Suddenly her hat was jerke
d off, and her wrist-thick braid swung down to flop against her shoulder blades. The Mexican swore. The masquerade was over! A hand pulled the braid over her shoulder to lay upon her rapidly rising and falling chest. His fingers continued holding the braid, playing with it. Her breast tingled at the sensation of those fingers resting so brazenly against it.

He murmured something, and the Mexican actually snorted. “
My captain also takes his pleasure with girls. He is still willing to consider a trade other than money for transporting your cotton aboard his ship.”

Her mouth dropped open at the blatant suggestion. Her interest in the French blockade runner dropped well below freezing. “
Tell the gentleman his ship can rot in Davy Jones’s locker first!”

At that t
he Frenchman erupted in laughter. The weasel! He was enjoying toying with her. Watching her squirm. “I wish to leave now,” she said stiffly.

In her anger she missed the exchange between the Frenchman and his man, but the Mexican said, “
He tells you to go back home—where a woman belongs.”

Where a woman belongs! It was too much! Her hand swept out to make sharp contact with the Frenchman
’s jaw. She heard his grunt with a grim feeling of satisfaction—until he jerked her braid, yanking her head forward. She stumbled against him, and his hands grabbed her by her shoulders to steady her. He held her close against his chest. One arm—its muscles seemed as large and thick as an anchor’s cable—slid about her waist. His free hand grasped her braid and tugged, forcing her chin up.

“
Let me—”

But his mouth silenced her. His lips ground against hers with a hunger that stupefied her. Armand
’s passion had been sweet, tender . . . nothing like this savagery she was experiencing. Her head was bent so far back she thought her neck would snap. Frightened for the first time in all the harrowing day, she shoved her hands against the massive chest until he released her.

“
Tell your civilized captain”—she gasped for breath— “that I shall seek out the ships anchored at Bagdad until the day comes I find a captain who isn’t so mercenary!”

The Frenchman did not let the Mexican finish the translation but caught her to him once again. His lips softly moved over hers, as if he were me
morizing the shape of her mouth. Then he released her before she could recover from the shock of the second kiss and vent her anger. “
Bon soir, ma cherie
,” he said and, turning her around by the shoulders, placed a well-aimed whack on her bottom.

Tia Juana laid a finger as large and black as a shotgun barrel to her lips. “Ssssh, missy.”

Jeanette tiptoed through the kitchen, with an anxious Tia Juana following. But the big black woman
’s head brushed one of the many copper plates and kettles suspended from the ceiling. Like dominoes the pots and pans clanged one against the next. Tia Juana’s pupils rolled heavenward to display their whites.

“
Tia Juana, what the thunder is—” Aunt Hermione charged through the door and hauled up short. Jeanette thought the old woman looked as if she would have an apoplectic fit. Not even the news of Armand’s death had seemed to shock the woman as much.

“
I can’t believe my eyes!” The old woman practically whinnied. “All those years trying to train you to be a proper lady—and this.” Her accusing finger trembled as she pointed at the offending getup. “This!”

Jeanette almost expected a snorted neigh from the horse faced woman. “
I told you I was going out riding for the day with Trinidad.”

“
But not—not dressed so scandalously. And not riding all day—and night! I’ve been beside myself, Jeanette. Thinking that you’d been carried off by a band of Kickapoos—or worse, those awful Mexican desperadoes.”

Tia Juana, who had returned to the stove, flashed Aunt Hermione a withering look
and with a haughty expression on her pitch-black face returned to slicing scarlet chilis into a cast-iron skillet.

Jeanette crossed to the sink. “
But you can see I am perfectly safe. We were delayed by a rain shower.” Which was true, since showers occurred almost daily that time of year, cleansing the air of dust and sand. She pumped some water over her hands, splashed her dirt-streaked face, and mumbled, “And I plan on riding more often. The year of mourning has made me forget how pleasurable riding can be.”

The following day the muscles of her bottom protested just the opposite. Pleasurable riding was not to be had, at least on one of Trinidad
’s burros. She would openly ride one of Columbia’s fine bays before she would submit her posterior to that torture again.

With each movement of the bay Jeanette ached abominably, but her need to find a willing blockade runner was greater than her suffering. Remembering the whack, the insulting kiss, the cavalier treatment she had endured at the hands of the French bloc
kade runner, Jeanette grew hot with indignation. From now on she would carry a knife or a derringer when she sallied forth on her mission, though she little knew how to use such weapons.

The British and French merchant vessels she and Trinidad called on th
at afternoon openly admitted that, rather than returning with bulky firearms, they preferred liqueurs and silks and other items that occupied a small amount of space in relation to their value. Then, too, they were unwilling to risk the ire of the United States prize courts if they were caught. Penalties were a lot stiffer for smuggling arms and ammunition.

If there was a bold and recklessly brave man among the blockade runners who was interested in her proposal, she didn
’t find him that day. She returned early enough to change and bathe for the opera she had promised to attend with Aunt Hermione. Sitting through the tedious Faust that night was even more agonizing than riding had been. Every so often she would shift uncomfortably, and her rustling taffeta skirts would bring a baleful eye from Aunt Hermione. Intermission could not come quickly enough.

Lady Olivia Mountbatten was in the midst of her grand aria, the glorious finale to the first act, when Jeanette spotted Cristobal in the box of no less a person
age than General Bee and his wife. The plump little woman looked perfectly delighted at something Cristobal whispered behind the back of his beringed hand, one of his witty bon mots, no doubt.

Perhaps Cristobal had better success than she had in locating a
blockade runner with bravado! When the intermission came and the soldiers crowded the curtained entrance to her box, she expressed her desire for fresh air with the hopes she could corner Cristobal in the opera house’s lobby below.

Aunt Hermione practical
ly beamed that her headstrong niece had regained her senses and was behaving like a lady instead of some hoyden. It had never occurred to her that after the year of mourning Jeanette would turn wild again. Aunt Hermione had thought that marriage with Armand had once and for all settled the chit down. To see the young woman married off once more under the thumb of some strong-willed man would mean her duty to her niece and brother had been carried out!

Escorted by her entourage of military admirers, Jeanette
found Cristobal surrounded by a coterie of Brownsville’s younger people, who appeared to hang on every utterance of the effete fop. But Cristobal did cut a fine figure. The new tight black trousers, which had replaced the wide peg-top fashion, displayed his splendid physique. A droll smile lit his heavily lidded eyes at her approach with the three soldiers trailing.

“
A lovely peacock among turkeys,” he quipped.

In the general laughter that followed the man on her left, a lieutenant who stood some seven inc
hes shorter than Cristobal, said, “I take umbrage at that, sir, and wish to call you out!”

With a bemused expression Cristobal looked down from his height at the little man.
‘‘Whatever for?”

“
For the insult, of course!” said the lieutenant, whose face was quickly taking on a choleric color.

“
Fie!” Jeanette intervened with a disarming smile for the young people gathered about. “The two of you look like a cock and a bantam.” She held out a dainty hand. “Cristobal, do escort me back to my box and tell me of your latest travels.”

“
La, Jen,” he said when he had taken her arm and they had moved away from the others, who were still chuckling over the incident, “your rescue came in time. That little poppinjay would have been snapping at my heels all evening.”

“
I was afraid your bravery would cost the life of one of you,” she snapped.

"
Dios
! I’m not so foolish as that,” he said with his imperturbable bonhomie. “About my travels, did I ever tell you that there is a most fragrant, flowering shrub along the Mediterranean called the lavender? The exact same shade as your eyes—lavender blue.”

Her fan never stopped its swaying motion. “
You do say the most flattering things, Cristobal. But tell me, how is your article going? Have you located our mysterious Kitt?”

“
Not a scent of a trail!”

“
But where all have you looked?”

He fixed her with an amused glint in his eye. “
My dear, I have looked in establishments that a proper young lady like yourself would never dream of entering.”

She held back
a grin of triumph. She had succeeded where a man had not. She had found the elusive Frenchman—to no success. “But surely you have heard the whereabouts of other blockade runners who are willing to . . . run risks out of the ordinary?” If she could just worm one name out of him.

“
Bah! They are here today, gone tomorrow. I heard through a good source at the Pelican Pub that the U.S.S. Albatross captured the blockade runner
Two Sisters
off Brazos Santiago yesterday.”

He turned a humorous countenance on her. “
But surely, you still aren’t attracted to such rogues as the French blockade runner?”

“
Hardly,” she snapped heedlessly. Yesterday had cured her of any idealistic notions she had entertained about the Frenchman. There were other ways to market her cotton before she would have to resort to his contemptible terms!