She pulled off her stockings and tucked them under the pillows. Renard had apparently taken her boots off when she was unconscious. Dressed as she was only in her chemise, she felt the air hit her exposed skin like a dip in the cool sea. She debated whether to take the chemise off, decided that Renard might think her too forward, then lay back on the pillows and waited.
The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down on the edge of the bed. His shadow loomed above her in the dark. She sensed his hesitation, his regret. “What is it, Renard?”
He sighed. “I wish we could do this with all the candles blazing. I want to look at you, Anne.”
She thought of asking him to trust her. To light all the candles. To reveal himself to her, figuratively and literally. But she didn’t. He wasn’t ready. So she said instead, “It doesn’t matter. We can see each other with our hands and our lips and … our hearts.” She propped on one elbow and reached out to him with her free hand. And he came.
They sank down together into the pillows. The impact of bare flesh against bare flesh—legs tangled, hearts beating wildly—made Anne weak with desire. He was a patchwork of textures, rough here, smooth there—satin and sandpaper. He bent his head and kissed her deeply, their tongues twining and teasing, his hands in her hair.
At this most intimate moment, Anne again thought of Delacroix. A fleeting memory of his kisses intruded. She remembered the similar way they incited her passion, but she thrust the thought aside. Delacroix had no place in bed with her and Renard.
He rolled her to one side, putting enough distance between them to caress her. He smoothed his hand along the swell of her hip, down into the valley of her slender waist, then up where the narrow sleeve of her chemise rode the delicate cap of her shoulder. He hooked his thumb under the fragile material and tugged, gently slipping the chemise down her arm. He eased her onto her back and did the same to her other shoulder, moving the chemise down till the wide neck of the garment bared her breasts.
He bent and trailed his lips along her collarbone, lingering at the base of her throat, where her pulse fluttered like a frightened bird. But she wasn’t frightened. She was mad with wanting him, with needing him to hold her closer and closer. The weight of his manhood pressed against her stomach, suffusing her womb with honeyed heat. There was a wetness between her legs, a tremor in the muscles of her thighs.
Then he moved lower still and took the tip of her breast in his mouth, the nipple tender and engorged. He suckled there, the titillating play of tongue and teeth making her stomach contract. He moved to the other breast and did the same. She buried her hands in his hair, her fingers clutching in the lush curls.
Her head fell back, her body wallowing in the pleasure of it all. She heard herself moan, and wondered at the power of this joining of man and woman. Images of the slaves at Congo Square, their writhing, rhythmic mating dance, floated through her consciousness. She could feel the beat of the drums in her blood.
Anne knew she was ready. She regretted nothing. Whoever Renard really was, she loved him. Though she had freely shared her own feelings, he had said nothing of love. He desired her, and for now that would have to be enough.
Suddenly he surprised her by rolling onto his back and pulling her atop him. She splayed her hands on his chest, half-reclining, his erection still pressed against her stomach, her legs straddling one of his powerful thighs. As he did—possibly more than he did—she wished for a room full of blazing candles. She could tell, just by touch, that he was beautiful.
He seemed to be waiting. His long fingers were curled around her upper arms, unmoving except for the slight up and down motion of his thumb along her sensitized skin. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly anxious. Everything had seemed to be going along wonderfully. She’d loved every minute of it, so far. She knew they weren’t finished. They couldn’t be finished. Her nerves still sang like telegraph wires. Her body was heavy and aching. But perhaps, just at this point, she was expected to do something.
“Do you want to touch me, Anne?”
She wasn’t sure what he meant. Hadn’t she been touching him all along? Shyly she said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Without me … distracting you, would you like to … er … explore a little?”
“Oh.” Now she understood. And she couldn’t be more pleased. “Yes, I do. I do want to touch you.”
She’d start with his stomach. Sitting up, she straddled his hips. His manhood slipped between her thighs, its long hard length pressing against her woman’s core. Wryly she wondered how Renard could think she’d not be “distracted” by a little detail like that. Later, if she stoked up enough courage, she was going to explore that part of him as well. She felt her face warm at her randy thoughts.
His abdomen was hard and flat. He held his breath while she lingered over the perfectly segmented row of muscles that flowed from hips to ribs. And his chest was wonderful, every tendon and sinew gloriously defined beneath the light dusting of hair. By touch, his shoulders were even broader than they appeared to be, and fluid with strength. He was ideally suited for an artist’s model. Oh, he
was
beautiful!
Now she reached up to touch his face, reconciled to being allowed access only to his mouth and the square angle of his jaw. Her fingers explored the contours of his lips, soft yet firm. For a moment she paused, overcome with a sense of familiarity, as if she were acquainted with the shape already. Not just from last night, but from another time.
Her hands stilled, her thoughts trying, by twists and convolutions, to organize into something cohesive. But how could she think straight when her muscles were strung like a tight wire, her heart was pounding like a trip-hammer, and the very core of her sexuality was wet and burning with need? He lifted his hips just then, his manhood rubbing against her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.
“Oh, please, don’t move,” she whispered.
“Why not?” he asked, a teasing note in his husky voice.
“You know why. Because I’m not done exploring, and if you keep that up, I’ll soon be reduced to a state of idiocy.”
“You and me both,” he confessed, chuckling. Anne liked that. She liked knowing that he wanted her as much as she wanted him. And he wasn’t afraid to tell her so.
Her fingers had wended their way up the sides of his jaw, expecting any minute to feel the coarse cloth of his mask, but it wasn’t there!
It wasn’t there!
She gasped.
In a state of cautious delirium, she slowly moved her fingers over his cheekbones. High and sharp. Aristocratic.
Then the bridge of his nose. Straight, no bumps. And the tip was just right—not too long.
His forehead was high, expansive. She smiled. A gypsy would look at that noble brow and say he was intelligent and philanthropic, but she knew that already.
His brows were thick and arched. She could imagine them waggling wickedly.
Her fingers fluttered down to his eyes, carefully testing to make sure they were closed first, then skimming her thumbs over the lids. Deep-set, the lashes long and thick.
She sighed. “You’re beautiful.”
He gave his head a little shake. With a mix of embarrassment and amusement he said, “Men are usually called handsome,
cher
. You’re the one who’s beautiful.” He let loose a ragged breath. “Are you finished exploring? Because I don’t think I can refrain from distracting you much longer.”
“Well, there’s just one more part of you I’d like to explore.”
“One more?”
She sat back, scooting down till she straddled his knees. Then she ran her hand up his thighs—the muscles hard and taut, just like the rest of him—found the coarse cluster of hair at the apex of his thighs, and wrapped her fingers around the proud jut of his sex. He was hot and tumid, marvelously male.
He groaned, and in one fluid movement had her flat on her back. “Anne,” he rasped, “you minx! You’re as curious as a monkey!”
“But a little more attractive, I hope.
N’est-ce pas?”
He growled again and kissed her smiling mouth. And then all conversation was abandoned, every teasing remark, every light thought forgotten as they kissed and caressed each other with the reverence and intensity of first-time lovers. Anne felt a rising tension in her stomach, a tremulous languor in her legs. That most private, sensitive part of her suffused with heat and pleasure.
A piece of her wanted their lovemaking to go on and on, but she knew, logically, unavoidably, there had to be an ending to such bliss. She’d go mad if she remained in such a state of pleasurable delirium for too long. Even now her body cried out for release. She clutched him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Are you ready,
cher?”
His voice was strained, as if he was barely in control.
“Yes,” she whispered, going very still.
“It will hurt a little the first time.”
She felt a small tremor of fear, but nodded her understanding, and tacit consent.
“Don’t be afraid,” he soothed, stroking her hair as he braced above her on an elbow. “I’ll be gentle.”
She nodded again, trusting him completely. He moved his free hand down between her thighs, kneading the tender skin beneath the crisp curls. To be touched in such a private place was so intimate, yet felt so right. Another wave of pleasure shuddered through her. Reflexively she arched against him.
“Patience, sweet Anne, patience,” he crooned. His fingers touched the hot, moist core of her. It felt so wickedly good, she thought she might pass out. She was so tense, so slick with need. Then he slid one long finger into the narrow channel of her womanhood, probing, stretching, preparing for her consummation.
“Please, Renard,” she begged him, hardly knowing what she was pleading for. “Please …”
But
he
knew. He settled himself between her legs again, elbows braced at either side of her shoulders. He shifted forward, then slowly entered her.
She was filled with him, the wonder of it suspending her somewhere between agony and ecstasy. The power of their joining overwhelmed her with emotions, until she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry from joy.
Then came a quick thrust of his hips, and he was deep inside her, past her virgin’s barrier. Anne gave a gasp of pain, and he held her and kissed her till it abated, till the pulsing demands of her body came to urgent life again, stronger than ever. She lifted her hips, taking him even deeper inside her.
She heard him groan. “Sweet Anne,” he whispered hoarsely.
He began the rhythm, plunging, then pulling back. Again and again. Anne was in heaven, every part of her blissfully lost in the consuming act of love. It only got better and better. Too good to endure for long. Too sharp, too intense to last.
Her core exploded with sensation. Muscles convulsed, expanded. Her mind slipped. The world contracted. Waves of intense pleasure washed over her. Blood surged into all her extremities, her fingers and toes pulsing with tingling warmth.
“Renard!” she cried out, holding him to her.
She felt the muscles in his chest and arm pull taut as he cried out her name. Then one last powerful thrust, and, shuddering, he filled her with his seed.
Later, lying side by side, they clung to each other in the dark. Outside, the crickets sang their courting calls to the heavens, the moon rode the sky, and daybreak came inexorably closer. Anne knew that if she slept, she’d wake up alone. The room would be filled with light, and Renard would be gone.
But still she smiled. Everything was changed. She belonged to him, now and forever. Contented, she watched the lilting dance of the firefly, hovering jealously outside the net. Then she closed her eyes and slept.
W
hen Anne awoke, the room was filled with the hazy semilight of approaching dawn. She wasn’t alone, as she’d expected to be, but it wasn’t Renard who hovered over her. And it wasn’t Renard’s hand brushing against her temple. It was a black man’s. It was … Armande. She’d been right about him. He was the same man she’d seen last night while she waited outside Mrs. Cavanaugh’s Boardinghouse, and the same man she’d nearly run into at the cemetery on All Saints’ Day.
He wasn’t looking at her when she first opened her eyes; he was fussing with the thin linen strip that held the gauzelike square of cotton against her wound. He was being very gentle. She watched him with overt curiosity. He was something to look at, all right, despite his worn and baggy clothing. The dun-colored shirt and trousers were a far cry from the natty outfit he’d been wearing on Camp Street, but the humble clothing didn’t take away from his attractiveness. This morning he looked like an extremely handsome but down-on-his-luck farm worker.
Then it hit Anne like a ton of bricks.
He
was the farmer from last night, the one who had driven the wagon! Armande was Renard’s trusted cohort, a well-rounded fellow who could drive rickety wagons full of slaves and tobacco hell-bent-for-leather down the muddy Louisiana roads, and still mix up a potent tea that cured a headache within minutes of drinking it!
His gaze shifted, and he looked straight into her eyes. He showed no surprise. “You’re awake.”
A delayed sense of modesty made her look down to check that she was covered. She was, from neck to toe. And underneath the light quilt, she felt the soft lawn of her chemise. She hoped it was Renard who had put it on her. She swallowed her embarrassment. “Yes.”
He nodded, a small, serious smile nudging his lips upward. “How do you feel?”
“I feel wonderful, thanks to Renard.” She’d meant no double meaning, but she blushed anyway. Trying to cover her confusion, she rushed on. “And thanks to you. It was your mix of herbs that got rid of my headache last night. How did you learn such witchery?”
Armande’s finely arched brows lifted, and his smile quirked up on one side. “You think it’s witchery, do you? I’m a physician, Mademoiselle Weston, taught by the finest medical men in Paris.”
Anne winced and made an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you were a witch doctor.”
His smile broadened, his hazel eyes brimming with humor. “I’m not offended.”
“It’s just that our family doctor back in England never uses herbs.” She shivered. “But he does use leeches.”
“Ah, yes, modern science at its finest,” Armande murmured dryly. “And people think voodoo is primitive.”
Anne laughed.
“
Oui
. You are right, mademoiselle, my methods and my medicines aren’t always the most traditional. But I’ve studied science and folk remedies and mixed the two to my own satisfaction. I’m not so narrow-minded that I can’t give credit where credit’s due, taking the best from both worlds.”
Anne thought he must have applied that philosophy to other parts of his life, too. He’d obviously successfully mixed in both the black and the white worlds. Although there shouldn’t be major differences between them, at least in matters of opportunities and justice, there obviously were. He, like Renard, was trying to correct the injustices.
He was looking at her, serious again. She wondered if he guessed her thoughts. “Did your antiseptic paste do the trick?” she asked him.
His gaze shifted. He picked up a small damp towel from the table and wiped his hands. His fingers were long and graceful, the nails clipped short and clean. He had perfect hands for a surgeon. “There is no infection. Your wound should heal quickly and leave no scar.”
Anne nodded, only half-attending. Looking at his hands had brought to mind thoughts of another pair of graceful hands, memories she’d been working hard to keep at bay. Renard holding her, loving her … But it was impossible. The memories flooded back. Every inch of her body felt imprinted with his touch. Her heart yearned for him.
Her eyes roamed the room. The cabin was even smaller than she had imagined last night by flickering candle-glow, but it was clean and neat. On the pantry shelf, she saw the candle that had burned to the quick last night, leaving her and Renard in the dark. She’d never be afraid of the dark again … She wondered where the firefly had gone. With Renard?
“Why don’t you ask?”
Anne gave a little jerk. She lifted startled eyes to Armande. She’d been a thousand miles away, yet still in the same room. “Ask what?”
“You’re wondering where he is, aren’t you?”
Anne’s eyelashes fluttered down. She stared at her hands, her fingers tightly twined together in a prayerlike pose. “Not really. I expected him to be gone. He wouldn’t let me see him in the daylight.” But she wished that he had said something about seeing her again. Last night had been very special to her. She hoped that it had been special for him, too—at least something more than a single night’s passion.
“I met him here this morning,” Armande continued, not contradicting her statement about Renard shying away from being seen. “He asked me to take you home as soon as you were awake. He’s concerned that your aunt and uncle will have called out the city patrol by the time I get you back, but he was just as worried that a ride home might exhaust you and bring on some return of your symptoms.”
Anne looked up. “Did … did he leave me a message?”
Armande’s expression remained carefully neutral. “No, mademoiselle. There was no message.”
Anne swallowed her disappointment. “How is it that I’m allowed to see you, but not him?”
“He has his reasons, mademoiselle.”
“Reasons that he won’t share with me,” she mumbled irritably. Anne was tired of being kept in the dark for her own “safety.” Was Renard really just protecting her, or was he also using his masquerade as a way of keeping emotional distance between them? Anne hated herself for doubting him, but she’d been loved and abandoned. What sensible woman wouldn’t have doubts?
Feeling more testy by the moment, she said, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll describe you to the police?”
Armande looked back at her, his nicely shaped mouth curved in a wry smile. “Not in the least, mademoiselle. Renard would have nothing to do with a tattle-tongue that couldn’t be trusted.” He spread his hands in an expansive gesture. “My life is in your hands.”
Anne was slightly mollified by Armande’s inference that Renard at least trusted her, but she wanted a lot more than that from a man she’d just given herself to, body and soul. “That’s all very well, but if I can be trusted with
your
life, why won’t Renard trust me with—”
“That is not the issue, mademoiselle. Renard is worried about your safety, not about his.”
“Yes, of course, my
safety
,” muttered Anne.
Armande shook his head at her, then dropped the towel and whisked his hands together as if finished with the subject as well as the task of washing up. Brisk, businesslike, he said, “Now tell me, when do you generally get out of bed in the morning, mademoiselle?”
“About eight.”
“And your aunt and uncle?”
“Breakfast is served at ten. I don’t usually see them till then.”
Armande leaned against the wall opposite Anne’s bed, his arms crossed, the fingers of one hand pulling thoughtfully on his chin. “It is barely six o’clock. I hope we can get you inside the house and up to your room without either of them knowing you were gone.”
“The servants will be up by now, and we’re still quite a ways from the Faubourg St. Mary, aren’t we?” She reached up and touched her bandage. “And what about this?”
“Tell them you slipped and fell against the edge of your dressing table.”
“And I bandaged myself?”
He grinned. “You’re a resourceful woman. They’ll believe you.”
Anne frowned. “Not Uncle Reggie. Lately he doesn’t trust me very much.”
Armande raised his brows in an expression of mock disbelief. “He doesn’t trust you? Goodness, I can’t imagine why. How many times have you sneaked out of the house recently?”
“Don’t vex me, Armande,” Anne warned him with a reluctant smile. “I’m a little tetchy this morning.”
“You’re just hungry. I’m sure you ordinarily have a sunny disposition. I’ve got some bread and cheese for you, and a cup of wine. It’s nothing fancy, but you could probably use a little food on your stomach after last night’s excitement. You must be very tired.”
Again Anne found a double meaning in seemingly innocent words. Indeed, last night had been very exciting in many ways. She wondered how much Armande knew about last night. She dismissed the embarrassing thought and took refuge in pragmatism. “How much time do I have to eat?”
“About five minutes.” He moved to the pantry, prepared a plate of food for Anne, poured the wine from a rustic-looking crock, then set it on the table beside her. “Eat, then get dressed. Your clothes are there on the chair.” He waved a hand toward the other side of Anne’s bed, in a dim corner of the room.
“Thank you,” she said, sitting up against the pillows to eat, pushing her tangled hair out of her eyes. “Where is your brother?”
Armande looked startled for a minute, then said, “Christian? He’s at home … I hope.”
“Did Christian help last night with the escape?” When Armande made a face, as if he didn’t want to answer, she said, “Yes, I know. I’m as curious as a monkey, so Renard tells me. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
Armande shrugged. “I have a hard time talking about my brother. Yes, he helped with the escape, but not directly. He’s actually only minimally involved in what we do, but it’s our hope that by being part of something this important, he’ll … straighten out.”
“A bit wild, is he?” said Anne with smiling sympathy. “Must be his age.”
“I hope that’s all it is,” said Armande. He stood awkwardly for a minute, then moved toward the door. “I have to saddle the horse. I’ll leave you to eat and to dress.” He hesitated, his hand on the latch. “Will you be all right? You don’t need assistance, do you?”
Anne blushed. “Thank you, but no. I shall manage very well by myself.”
Armande grinned, looking genuinely relieved. “Thank goodness. I don’t know how I would have explained to Renard that I was required to help you dress, or convince him that I did it with my eyes closed.”
Anne blushed even more deeply, if that were possible. “Then … then he does care about me?”
Armande’s smile faded. Seriously he answered, “I can’t speak for Renard, mademoiselle.” He turned the latch. “But he has shown much concern for you. You must trust him to do what’s best for both of you.”
After Armande left, Anne stared at the door. She mentally groused over the taciturn nature of Renard’s right-hand man. He could tell her so much, but he obviously had no intention of doing so. She must trust Renard to do what was best. What did that mean? Why did Renard and his friend have to be so cryptic, so vague? If she was ever going to know anything about Renard’s true identity, or his real feelings about her, she was obviously going to have to wait till he was ready to speak for himself. And that might never happen.
As things stood, Anne had no idea when or if she’d ever see Renard again. What if she was just another conquest in a string of conquests? It was a painful, sobering thought, and she ate her food and drank her wine glumly, not really tasting it but well aware that she needed the energy it gave her to get through the morning.
She dressed, then braided her hair and tucked it under the hat again. She’d ride back to town on the back of Armande’s horse, keeping her hat brim pulled low over her forehead. No one would recognize her. Certainly no one among her set of acquaintances would even be out of bed yet.
When they reached her aunt’s house, she’d hurry through the kitchen and past the servants, hoping none of them would comment to her aunt or uncle about her strange clothing and the odd hour she was coming in the back door. There was little chance she would get away without having to offer some explanation, though, and she’d been mentally constructing another lie. She hated lying, but Reggie would have a hard time handling the truth of her latest escapade.
Finally they were on their way. The swampy country they traveled through didn’t look even remotely familiar to Anne, and by the time they emerged from the lush foliage and onto River Road, if not for the flow of the river to use as a compass, she’d not have known which way was north and which was south. Thankfully they weren’t required to travel through the heart of town to reach the Faubourg St. Mary, and they completed the journey without being troubled by anyone.
Word of the escape probably wasn’t out yet, though Jeffrey had likely worked all night writing an exclusive for the
Picayune
. Anne wondered how Jeffrey would relate the story and how she would figure into it. She saw the printed column in her mind’s eye:
“An unknown male youth alerted the Fox to suspicious shadows in the cemetery
…” She amused herself for several moments speculating on all the possible ways the story could be written up, and wondered if Jeffrey would recount it as accurately as she could.
An alley connected Katherine’s backyard with the yard of her closest neighbor to the north. Armande used this approach to the house and let Anne down just outside the far gate, keeping his horse and himself well-hidden from view behind a full-leaved hickory tree. He kept astride the horse, handing down a small container. “Take this paste and apply it to your clean wound every night and every morning.”
“Thank you, Armande.”
He shrugged. “For what?”
“For being my friend today. For trying to reassure me”—she grinned ruefully—“even though you told me nothing.”
Armande doffed his floppy-brimmed farmer’s hat, sweeping it in grand and gallant fashion. He smiled warmly.
“Au revoir
, mademoiselle, till we meet again.”
Anne lifted a hand in farewell, her heart touched yet saddened by his parting words.
Till we meet again
. Renard had not said those words to her last night, and he hadn’t even left a single word of farewell, of love, or even of friendship with Armande to pass on to her. Anne’s spirits flagged.