Bayou Baby (19 page)

With his back turned, though, she could observe him secretly. His brown hair had grown a bit, curling over his collar and falling across his brow in a tousled mess. His face was unshaven and his chocolate eyes showed a maturity that hadn’t been there before. Rowan turned her attention to the water. Henri was the last person she should find attractive. He was no longer the spoiled rich boy she knew, but he was still the man that violated her first, unlocking the door to the nightmare she was trapped in.

“Hold on,” he said as he pushed the boat into the water.

At once, the boat drifted into the current, tipping to the left. Rowan leaned right, hoping to settle it, but the action only managed to cause Henri to stumble.

“I’ll do the leaning. You two just sit straight and hold on. Do not let go of the boat,” he barked.

Rowan nodded, her gaze meeting Justine’s. The girl held on to the sides, her eyes wide and her face pale. Rowan knew her fear, felt the same deep in her chest, but refused to submit to it. Justine’s lips moved, as if in prayer and Rowan focused instead on Henri.

He frowned, straining to keep the boat upright and pushed against the bottom of the river with the pole. Rowan knew the effort it took; the river was nearly as deep as the pole was tall. She watched the muscles in his back as he worked to keep the pirogue straight. His body had been attractive before, but he’d worked hard while they stayed at the settlement, carrying wood, clearing brush and building huts; now his muscles were more defined.

Rowan scolded herself for thinking like a schoolgirl and looked away from Henri. They were almost across the river. Only a few more feet and they could walk the rest of the way into town.

The pirogue tilted suddenly. Her stomach tightened as Henri swayed and then lost his footing. He plunged into the water, still holding the pole. Justine cried out, but remained frozen in place, her hands still gripping the sides of the boat. The pole bobbed on the surface of the water, just next to the boat. Rowan leapt to grab the end of it, before it drifted away, but the wet wood slipped through her hands. She leaned over the side, searching the water. Soon she spotted Henri swimming toward them. Rowan grappled with the pole to manage a firm grip. Henri caught the other end and struggled to hold on. He shook his head slightly, eyes wide. A hammer-like pain hit her chest as she realized he thought she’d let go.

It’s what you ought to do.

Rowan ignored the whisper in her head. Henri had redeemed himself, and she wouldn’t leave him to drown. She held the pole as he used it to support his weight. As he neared the boat, Rowan pulled the pole back.

“Don’t let go,” he begged, sputtering as water sprayed his face.

“You know me better than that,” Rowan grunted, pulling the pole another agonizing inch. “I still need you.”

Henri glared.

She offered a grim smile and held out her hand. Henri grasped it, but kept his other hand on the pole.

Rowan turned her head, the edge of the boat dug into her chest, against her breasts. “Justine, help me.” Her arms tingled with the effort to hold Henri’s hand. Justine remained frozen, eyes wide. Water sprayed up from the side of the boat, plastering her hair to her face.

“Justine! I can’t do this alone, lay over me and grab his arms.”

Justine’s gaze turned to Rowan’s body, lying across the bottom of the boat, her feet dangling over the opposite side. Rowan’s impatience was almost enough to let go of Henri just so she could beat the idiot girl.

“Now, Justine,” Henri said. He choked and coughed as water filled his mouth. “Do what she says. I can’t hold on much longer.”

His hands slipped and he scrambled to grip Rowan’s arm.

Justine slid off the seat to her knees, and inched toward Rowan. She lifted her leg over Rowan’s waist, clumsily shifting over her back.

Rowan gasped as Justine’s weight forced the hard wood of the boat into her chest and arms. She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the burning in her arms. “Grab his shoulders. Then when I say pull, you pull back with me.” Rowan instructed.

“Okay.” Justine reached out, her breasts against the back of Rowan’s head forcing her face into the boat. “I’ve got it.”

“Shift to your left, just a little. I can’t see what I’m doing.”

Justine shifted a bit too fast, and the boat swayed. Rowan held her breath, but it settled. She closed her eyes. “Okay, pull.”

They pulled. Henri moved a few inches this time.

“Pull,” Rowan gasped, her fingers burning as the roughened wood bit into them, blistering the wet skin. “Pull.”

Justine pulled with her and Henri moved closer, his grip slipping once more.

“Don’t let go Henri. You’re so close,” Rowan breathed.

“Something touched my foot.” His eyes widened. He tried to climb into the boat, kicking his feet wildly behind him.

“No! Don’t move. Let your body go limp,” Rowan yelled, icy fingers of fear gripping her heart.

Henri stopped struggling. His gaze didn’t move from Rowan’s.

While she knew it was likely a piece of wood or perhaps a bold fish, the possibility that a gator braved the currents to find a meal was enough to paralyze her for a moment. If he moved, it would strike, and even if he didn’t, it still might. Gators were unpredictable.

“Pull,” she said, her arms trembling as her muscles screamed for release. She couldn’t hold him much longer. They pulled, dragging Henri close enough that he could let go of the pole and her hand, but he didn’t try to get into the boat.

“What now?” he asked.

“Slowly climb in.”

Henri lifted his chest over the edge, his arms shaking. His body heaved as he gasped for air, and Rowan worried he wouldn’t have enough strength to pull himself in the boat.

“Justine, get off me and help him,” She shouted.

Justine shifted off Rowan, inching to the middle of the boat. It rocked, sending Rowan’s face into the dirty water. She gulped a mouthful of the gritty liquid, choking as she lifted her face.

“Sorry,” Justine murmured, leaning over Henri to grab the back of his shirt.

“No, you’ll just rip it. Grab his pants,” Rowan said. She glanced toward the banks. They’d drifted quite a distance, but were so close to land she wanted to jump out and swim the few feet to reach it.

“Got it,” Justine said. She pulled while Henri climbed forward. Inch by agonizing inch, he moved his body over the edge until only his legs hung over. “Oh Jesus, that was close.”

“Close is an understatement,” Henri gasped.

Rising on her knees, Rowan put the pole into the water, feeling for the bottom. Only half of the pole submerged. She pushed, turning the drifting boat to the banks.

“Let me.” Henri tried to lift his legs over the side, but Rowan shook her head.

“No, I’ve got it. You just stay put.”

Rowan pushed again, the boat moved over the water, closer to the banks. She ignored the pain in her belly. It tightened and burned but she didn’t stop. If she didn’t get to shore, they’d drift to the levees and someone would see them.

“Almost there,” she said, pushing again against the muddy bottom. The boat was now only a couple of feet from the bank. She leaned on the pole to stop and glanced at Henri. “Can you walk that far?”

He grimaced and heaved himself back over the edge. The water came to his waist. He gave a nervous laugh. “Well, I suppose it shouldn’t be so bad after all that. Come on, before the gators see us.”

Justine hesitated on the edge of the boat. Rowan leaned forward to give her a little push. She squealed as she stumbled, face first into the murky water. Justine came up sputtering.

Rowan grinned, and jumped in after her. The water was cold enough to elicit a gasp of shock from her lips. Then she led them to the banks, scrambling up the loose earth to get a foothold.

“Things just can’t be easy, can they?” she grumbled as she slipped into Henri’s arms.

“At least we’re out of the water. That was the worst thing I’ve ever done.” Justine smiled.

“I wish I could say the same,” Rowan said.

Lucien paced the room, his feet barely making a noise on the large rug that covered hardwood floors. Behind him, Samuel, his cousin, groaned and thrashed about on the bed. The doctor made annoying little grunts and murmurs but said nothing. Lucien grew impatient. He’d called the man several hours ago and he’d examined Samuel for the past two.

“Well? Do you know what’s wrong with him?” he asked.

The small man looked up. Adjusting his wire rimmed glasses he frowned. “He says he’s been ill for months. That’s not good.”

“Samuel exaggerates. Much of his pain is self-inflicted. He likes the bourbon, and the ladies.”

Samuel groaned and opened his eyes, pinning Lucien with a glare. “It’s probably swamp fever from those whores.”

“No one forced you to touch them,
Mon ami,”
Lucien chuckled.

But Lucien worried Samuel might be right. He hadn’t been ill until after he’d visited Rosaline’s with Lucien. Since then he’d grown progressively worse, at times his stomach pained him so that he couldn’t move as it did now. Occasionally headaches blinded him, sending him into fits of incoherent babble and tonight he’d raged like a maniac, trashing the den downstairs. When he collapsed, Lucien had him moved to the guest room and had sent a man to fetch the doctor.

He’d seen this before and a sickening dread warned him that Samuel hadn’t contracted a simple ailment that the doctor could treat.

The doctor packed his tools away and lifted his little bag. “Monsieur Dumas, I think we should talk downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Outside, please?”

Shrugging, Lucien walked to the door and opened it, allowing the man to walk past him to the hallway. Doctor Martine had been the family physician since Lucien was just a boy. The man had never looked so grave and it sent chills through him to see the worried frown on the old man’s face.

“So? What is wrong with him?”

“There could be many things. I don’t want to raise alarm if it’s not necessary.” He fingered his case.

Lucien heaved an impatient sigh. “Just tell me what things it may be and we’ll deal with it accordingly.”

“Do you know what syphilis is?”

Lucien’s heart pounded against his chest. “Yes. Is that what he has?”

“I think so, and I would treat him, if I thought it would work, but this man has been ill for a long time, a year or more I’d say. The scars on his… body indicate that he has had lesions, which are markers for the disease, although they appear to be symptoms long passed.”

“So? If he no longer has the lesions, then he is getting better.”

“Non, Monsieur Dumas, that’s not how this illness works. First the lesions will show, perhaps the patient will feel under the weather, but not enough to raise alarm. Slowly the bacterium will infect his organs, and then, when it’s too late to treat it, it will attack his brain.”

“Mais non,
he was fine before this. The headache overwhelmed him this evening. I told him to stay out of the spirits, but Samuel listens to few when his mind is set to something. He was healthy just a week ago.”

“Which is common in patients with this ailment. I can try to treat him, but you may find the cure kills him.”

“How can a cure kill someone?”

“He is not very strong. What I must give him is a poison, and a weak body like your cousin’s may not be able to endure it.”

“Give it to him.” Lucien ordered.

The doctor shook his head, and held out his hands. “It will kill him, I am certain.”

“He’ll die if he does not have the medicine, will he not?”

“Eventually—”

“Then we have nothing to lose. Treat him. If he dies, then it was meant to be. If he doesn’t, then all will be well.”

“As you wish, Monsieur Dumas. I must return home to prepare the medicine, and I’ll return in the morning. Until then give him the laudanum I left on the side table. It will help with his pain.”

The old man turned, his shoulders slumped. Lucien watched him walk to the stairs, but he paused at the top. Lucien expected another protest, a warning perhaps, but he merely took a deep breath before continuing down the winding staircase.

Leaning against the paneled wall, Lucien let out a long breath. It had to be the little bitch that had caused him so much trouble. Rowan. He’d known the moment he’d laid eyes on her, as she suckled at her mother’s breast, she meant nothing good for him. He’d lost Jolene, a prize he’d enjoyed for such a short time, and now he might have contracted a sickness from the swamp because of her. He didn’t care about Samuel. The way the fool gallivanted about, lying with anything that had breasts, he’d have caught something eventually, but Samuel hadn’t been ill until he lay with her.

Samuel’s voice sounded from the bedroom and Lucien pushed away from the wall. He didn’t have time for that idiot. He hadn’t heard from Rowan in more than a month. Part of him hoped she lay dead somewhere in her godforsaken swamp, but his heart knew better. She waited for him, and damn if it didn’t send a thrill down his spine knowing he’d face her again. This time, he would show her no mercy. She’d die. Dumas or not.

***

Rowan frowned as Justine and Henri knelt in the grass, catching their breath and staring at the depressing sight before them. They’d made it to Henri’s plantation, now a pile of ashes save the slave quarters at the far end of the property. She found that ironic, but didn’t voice her thoughts. Henri’s eyes had dimmed at the charred remains of his inheritance, and he sank to the ground to mourn the loss of something he’d forgotten about until he needed it. Of course, Justine had instantly knelt next to him and draped her arm around his shoulder.

Rowan sighed and stepped over the blackened rubble. “You can rebuild, Henri. The property is still yours.”

“I know. I just hoped… I don’t know.” He shrugged.

“Well, the little shacks out back are perfectly fine for us. If we can sleep in the dirt for as long as we did, a shack isn’t going to kill us.”

Turning from the wreckage of the old manor, Rowan strode toward the cluster of shacks nestled in the trees. She didn’t wait for them, and didn’t care if they followed. Her head pounded, and despite what she’d told Henri, the baby had been doing somersaults all morning. Rest was what she needed. Once she’d slept, she could focus on following through on her promise to Lucien. He probably thought she’d died.

Henri and Justine walked behind, so Rowan slowed her pace to allow them to catch up. Henri grimaced at the dilapidated structures before them. Small, with flat roofs and rickety old doors, they looked as though a good wind might blow them over. Rowan didn’t care. Inside would be a cot with a mattress, and that would be a sight better than what they’d had.

“They’re probably infested with all kinds of vermin,” Henri grunted as they approached the first shack.

“And the huts weren’t?” Rowan asked.

Henri didn’t reply. He opened the door stumbling as the hinge gave way and it gaped at an awkward angle. “Well, as long as you don’t need to keep the elements out, they’ll do.”

“You’re hopeless,” Rowan scoffed and walked in. The darkness indoors was absolute, not even a window to allow the sunlight in and she had to blink to adjust her eyes to the shadows.

She’d never seen a slave’s quarters before, but her mother had told her many stories. Rowan thought she exaggerated, but now she realized that Jolene hadn’t described half of it. On the right, bunks had been built into the wall. Three of them, set so close together that the lower two bunks didn’t allow their occupants to even sit up while in bed. On the left, a long shelf bent under the weight of various pots, pans and jars of items long decayed. Below the shelf sat a small stove, its rounded belly showed rust and portions of it had eaten clean through. They wouldn’t be using that to keep warm. She glanced to the corner and repressed a gag at a small bucket, its contents petrified after years of sitting in the heat and humidity, but one could see that it had served as the chamber pot.

Rowan turned. Henri and Justine stood just outside the door, both frowning. “Let’s see the other ones. Mama said the foreman always had the best shack.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard to find better than this,” Henri grumbled.

“You’ll be disappointed if this was the foreman’s,” Rowan said.

They searched all six shacks, deciding that the second one they searched would be the better of the lot. Somewhat larger, it held only two bunks, but no rotting chamber pot and the stove was in good working order. They’d have to find wood to burn, but Rowan felt better after eyeing the bedding. The blankets that lay over the straw mattresses had protected them from the filth that coated the rest of the shack. She could lie down and not worry about what might crawl over her in the night.

She and Justine set about tidying their new home while Henri went scouting for wood. They’d taken food with them when they left the camp, but it wasn’t much and it was now wet, thanks to their trip down the river. Rowan didn’t plan to stay long. She’d worry about food when she had to. As she leaned over the bottom bunk to set the mattress back in place, her stomach revolted, sending waves of nausea over her. She stood and the small room spun.

“Are you okay?” Justine touched her arm.

Rowan recoiled. She glared at the girl, suddenly furious. She didn’t know why, just that Justine’s pale face, with her delicate features twisted into a frown of pity, angered her. “I’m fine. Don’t touch me.”

“I just—”

“I know. You just want to help. You always want to help. Well why don’t you help yourself? It’s what you want to do anyway. You don’t care about me.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Justine’s chin trembled, which sent Rowan’s rage to a full boil.

“No? While you’re busy trying to make everyone think you’re just a harmless child, you’ve forgotten to cover your tracks. I know what you’re up to.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t fool me, Justine. You think you’re better because your skin is lighter than mine, but you’re not. You’re a slave just as much as I am, and Henri might fancy a roll now and then, but he will never give you more than that.”

“What’s going on?” Henri’s voice cooled the fire burning her brain. Her anger fizzled and she found herself lost for a moment.

“Rowan is just upset. She needs rest,” Justine said.

“I don’t need you to—”

“You should just lie down. Please.” Justine motioned toward the bed.

Rowan, the spark of fury gone, bent her head and climbed onto the prickly mattress. “I am tired.” She yawned.

Rolling over, she ignored the other two who murmured in hushed voices. A part of her brain told her they spoke about her, but she couldn’t find the energy to care. Her headache slowly subsided and only a small burning in her belly kept her from relaxing entirely. She’d rest and then she’d feel better.