Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (19 page)

Had any woman ever danced before? Were those arms only arms, those legs only legs? Adriana danced secrets. The swift secret of young love blooming in an explosion of petals. The slow, provocative secret of mysterious womanhood. The soft secret of femininity, as fragile as the aroma of orchids. The sultry, seductive secret of arousal, the fast, panting secret of lust. Hers was the dance of new life discovered, a dance of promises and desire, a dance of beginnings and climaxes and endings.

His drink forgotten, Tom braced himself against the bar and shook his head to clear his senses. His skull throbbed. The spacious drinking hall seemed stifling and claustrophobic. A drop of sweat trickled down his back, another down his side. He wanted to turn away, to turn and face the bar again, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Adriana. A blur of color floated away from her, gently descended onto a pair of outstretched hands that seemed to come from nowhere. A second veil slipped down her arm and he found himself staring at her shoulder until one of her hands caught his attention, and then he was staring at that as she slowly twined the veil through her fingers and then withdrew it. He couldn't see all of her at once. A flash of copper flesh caught his eye and he was staring at her legs until he realized he was following the motion of her hip, then the whip of her auburn hair that tossed before her face and, a moment later, floated as softly as one of her veils down her shoulders.

And then, before Tom was fully aware that she had stopped, the dance was over and Adriana was bowing, turning slowly to acknowledge the applause, stepping lightly down from the table and working her way across the room to a small table in the corner. “What now?” Tom asked Slurry. “Is that all she does?”

“That's all the dancin' for now,” Slurry answered. “She'll do another turn in a couple hours. Between now and then, she reads palms for a while and then disappears upstairs—for a rest, I s'pose.”

“Reads palms?”

“That's what Gypsies do, ain't it? Cards, too, if you ask her. Good at it too, so they say, for there's men who'll swear by what she's told 'em. Why, one feller, Johnny Spingle it was, ast her one night if he—say, are ye listenin' to me, mate?”

Maurice followed the direction of his friend's gaze. “I'd say he's more interested in someone else right now, Slurry, and don't know that I blame him. What say we try another one of them Cottonmouths? Tom, what about you?”

Tom didn't answer, so absorbed was he in watching Adriana. Gypsy, dancer, reader of palms, she sat quietly like a queen in repose as riverboat men and sailors and men from the frontier flocked around her like a retinue of rustic courtiers about a queen of mystery and fire. Tom watched her speak and knew from her customers' expressions that they were pleased with her predictions. And what, Tom found himself wondering, would she say to
him
? He didn't really believe in palmistry, but the urge to ask if he would get his sons back was almost irresistible.

“What the hell are you doing?” Maurice asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Tom glanced up guiltily from looking at the meaningless jumble of lines traced in his own hand. “Oh, nothing,” he said lamely, and, to cover his embarrassment, “Where's that drink you were going to order for me?”

“Slurry's had his paw wrapped around it for the last five minutes. Look, why don't you just go on over there and get it read, 'stead of tryin' to read it yourself? Don't look like it hurts none. Leastways, them other fellers don't appear to be in pain. Slurry says it only costs a couple of bits.”

“Those other fellows are damned fools,” Tom said, knowing full well that he wanted nothing more than to join them. “The only way we'll find out what the future holds is to go about our business and set sail as soon as possible.”

“Maybe so, but I'd feel a heap better if that gal told us everything was goin' to work out all right.”

“Aye, go ahead, mate,” Slurry put in. “Maybe ye won't learn anything, but what harm can it do? And ye'll have your hand held by the prettiest lass in all of New Orleans.”

“Well …” Tom finished his drink and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. “I guess maybe it wouldn't hurt,” he agreed reluctantly. “But if my fortune turns out to be bad, I'm holding the two of you responsible.”

“'Tis a risk I'll take,” Slurry said. “Go on, lad.”

The press of men around Adriana had eased by the time Tom arrived at her table, and he had to wait only a moment before taking his seat in the rough wooden chair across from her. Feeling shy and a little foolish, he handed her a dollar coin and saw it whisked into a pocket in her skirt, with no hint of an offer of change. “Can you see what the future holds for me?” he asked lamely as he laid his hand palm up on the table.

“If the fates allow, I can,” Adriana said, looking at him with a faint, enigmatic smile.

Her voice was soft, tinged with mystery and an accent Tom didn't recognize. For the first time, he could see her face clearly. Her features were bold, yet seemed softened by an inner light. He marveled at her smooth, high cheekbones and strong, sensual lips. The strange fascination that he had felt earlier rushed back even stronger to snare him as he gazed into eyes as green and deep as the ocean.

The coin was the first hint. Inexplicably, it seemed to burn her hand with an otherworldly heat, and she could not let it go. Beneath the table she withdrew it from her pocket and laid it in her lap. Adriana was certain she had seen the man who sat across the table from her before, but where she couldn't recall, and it was impossible to concentrate with all the hullabaloo surrounding her. Biding her time, for time would tell, she reached out and closed her hand over his—and in that instant, felt a spark more secret than fox fire, quicker than thought itself, pass between them. Her mind stumbled and reeled, and though she tried to distance herself from him, the feeling intensified as she lifted his hand and tightened her hold. She knew this man! Knew him intimately, though he seemed not to recognize her. They were connected, from another life, perhaps, another time, another place she knew only in the dim recesses of memory, which were hidden even to those with the gift of inner sight.

There was a power at work Tom didn't understand. Warmth flooded through his hand and up his arm. Of what was happening he hadn't the foggiest notion, but he knew that he couldn't have broken the contact between him and the mysterious Adriana even had he wanted to. His earlier prejudices to the contrary, the longer she cradled his hand, the more certain he became that she was no charlatan and that she did indeed probe straight to his heart and soul.

Adriana had been taught the meaning of the lines by her grandmother, then taught to forget the lines and read the feel of the hand, to let go and open herself to the essence of self that every man or woman emanated. Many times had she done this, but never had the essence so compelled her, so consumed her. Adriana's breath came faster. She stared at the lines of his palm in an attempt to bring herself back to reality, and a puzzled look came over her face, as if she saw something there that she could not understand, or dared not believe. “I see … I see much passion in your future, monsieur,” she whispered haltingly. “There is … but no. I.… The mists of the future are thick—”

A heavy hand clamped down on Tom's shoulder and broke the spell. “Looks like you better take that hand somewheres else, boy,” a harsh voice thundered, “'cause the little lady here's gonna tell me what I got to look forward to.” The interloper, a Kaintock by the sight and smell of his buckskins, swayed alarmingly from all the Cottonmouths he'd poured down his throat. “Mebbe a dance with her, if'n she's lucky.”

Adriana let Tom's hand go, caught his eyes, and gave him a warning look.

“I don't know who you are, friend,” Tom said mildly, ignoring Adriana's glance, “but you're interrupting here. The lady'll be through in a minute. You'll get your turn.”

The man stood well over six feet, had huge shoulders, long arms, and a chest like a barrel. He wore a fur cap, beaded shirt, greasy trousers, and the calf-high moccasins that were common to the men who roamed the wilderness. His mouth, almost hidden beneath a heavy beard, parted in a snarl. “You don't understand, boy,” he growled, jerking Tom out of his chair. “I'm Bull Hallam, and I want my fortune told now!”

“You tried your way with me last night,” Adriana interrupted in an attempt to avert a fight. “The answer is still the same.” She rose and faced Hallam without fear. “Read your palm? Ha! I spit on your palm!”

“I think you'd better leave the lady alone,” Tom said, stepping between Adriana and Hallam.

“And I think I do not need your help—or your death on my conscience,” Adriana snapped at Tom. “Leave us!”

“Or face Bull Hallam,” the riverboat man threatened.

Tom didn't need a fortune-teller to predict what would come next. Many, many months had passed since he'd last been in a brawl, and though it was probably the wrong time and the wrong place and the wrong man, he was suddenly ready. “And just who the hell,” he asked deliberately, “is Bull Hallam?”

Hallam's eyes widened in disbelief and the men around him backed away and quieted. “Who?” he sputtered. “Who!”

“Must be
deaf
Bull Hallam,” Tom goaded, to the delight of the crowd.

“I'll tell you who I am, boy, and then I'm a-fixin' to kill you! Wah-hooo!”

A half-circle of spectators crowded around the contestants. Behind them, men stood on chairs in anticipation of seeing one of Bull's famous rages and the mayhem he wreaked.

Never one to disappoint a crowd, Hallam leaped into the air, cracked his heels together, then slapped his chest as he landed. “I'm a child of the snappin' turtle, pilgrim, raised by 'gators and weaned on panther milk! I can wrassle a buffalo and chaw the ear off'n a grizzly! I can outrun, outjump, outshoot, throw down, drag out, and lick any man up or down the Mississip'! I'm a roarin' ripsnorter and chock-full of fight, and this is my night to howl, boy!” And as he screamed the last words, he drew back a hamlike fist and prepared to send a killing blow into Tom's face.

“Howdy, friend,” Maurice said as he stepped behind Bull and grabbed his wrist to stop the blow before it got started.

“Wha—?” Bull glanced over his shoulder.

Tom stomped the heel of his right boot onto Bull's moccasin-covered instep, then followed that with double-fisted sidearm blows to the face. Almost as if they'd practiced, Maurice released Bull's wrist, and the Kaintock flew backward and crashed straight through a table to the floor.

Mugs, bottles, harlots, and customers scattered. A bandy-legged Irishman howled at the top of his lungs and leaped onto Maurice's back. “You can't do that to a mate o' mine!” he screeched as he and Maurice went careening across the floor.

Maurice's feet tangled with an overturned chair, and he and his rider fell to the floor. “Hold on a durned minute!” Slurry cried as he grabbed at the Irishman. “Ye ain't bein' fair! Hallam started it.”

“Who gives a damn about fair?” another man asked as he drew back a foot and kicked Slurry.

Slurry yelped in pain and somersaulted over Maurice and the Irishman, and when the riverboat man followed to finish the job, Tom crashed a bottle over his skull. The riverboat man crumpled in a heap next to Slurry, who proceeded to bite a chunk off his ear.

There was nothing like a good brawl to stir the blood. The ring of spectators widened, cheered on the participants, and laid bets. Maurice struggled halfway to his feet and fell again, this time purposely, knocking the breath out of the Irishman. Tom grabbed Slurry and heaved him onto the dais vacated hurriedly by the musicians, then gave Maurice a helping hand before Bull's crew could regroup.

Adriana had fled. Tom, Maurice, and Slurry, their backs to the wall, occupied the dais and faced a dozen riverboat men led by a still groggy and confused Bull Hallam. “C'mon, ye apes!” Maurice howled gleefully. “Twelve agin' three. Almost even odds!”

A blast from a gun stopped the brawlers in their tracks. Zebediah Gibbs dropped the pistol he had just discharged, snatched up a shotgun, and leaped over the bar. “There'll be no more fightin' in here tonight!” he bellowed as he forced his way through the crowd and trained the shotgun on Tom, Maurice, and Slurry. “You three. Out, and out quick, before I have you pitched out!”

“Out?” Maurice protested indignantly. “Hell, we ain't drunk up our ten dollars—”

“You broke up fifteen worth,” Gibbs interrupted, at the same time gesturing.

A half-dozen bartenders armed with bungstarters charged from behind the bar. Bull's crew cleared a path for them.

“Lay hands on us and you'll wish you hadn't, fellers,” Maurice warned.

“Throw 'em out!” Gibbs snapped. “And you boys stay out of it,” he added, turning to train the shotgun on Bull's crew.

The bartenders leaped to the attack. Tom, Maurice; and Slurry tried to defend themselves, but the odds, the bungstarters, the booze they'd drunk, and the punishment they'd already taken were too potent a combination. Slurry was out of action in a few seconds. Tom avoided the first flailing bungstarter, but a second connected with his shoulder and sent him spinning into the grasp of two other bartenders. He heard Maurice's battle cry and then saw a body come flying through the air at him. A second later, a boot came out of nowhere and clubbed him in the forehead, and the world went dim.

He was aware of being dragged, of faces swimming past him, then of flying through the air to land in the dust of the darkened street. Dirt filled his mouth. He raised his head and spat, got his hands underneath himself, and tried to push up. Before he could, Slurry, his arms and legs pinwheeling ludicrously, was pitched from the tavern and landed with a dull thud in the street. Maurice, propelled by at least four hefty bartenders, came last.