Authors: Renee Miller
Lucien read the note several times, elation building in his chest. He wanted to believe it, but doubted his good fortune. In a scrawl that was barely legible, someone had written of Rowan’s death. He wondered at who would do this, but decided it didn’t matter. His slaves were loyal, perhaps one of them had heard from another of their kind. Negroes in the bayou were strange that way, probably because they were all related.
“Rowan Maynor be gone. Gators caught her in the swamp.”
That’s all that it said, but it was enough. He’d have to confirm, maybe send a man to the old witch’s shack to see if Rowan might be trying to pull one over on him. Perhaps he’d send one to the camp that he wasn’t supposed to know existed. The foolish vagrants thought they had everyone fooled, but the only reason he hadn’t gone after them was because it was too far out, too remote for more than a few men to search for them. Lucien didn’t relish the idea of traipsing through the swamps after some useless runaway. There were plenty more where they came from and he could replace them easily.
“Marcel, get the carriage.” Lucien called. The skinny black man rushed around him, off the porch and to the back of the house.
Lucien waited for him to ready the horses, staring up at the brilliant blue sky. Not a cloud dared mar this perfect day. He smiled. Finally, the Maynor women were no longer a problem.
***
Trudging along the street, hands in his pockets, Henri kept his head down, his gaze searching the carriages lined up in front of the brothel. Lucien’s was there, right in front of the stone walk. He’d been in there a long time, most of the morning. Henri continued to walk up and down the gravel road, rehearsing what he’d say. It was imperative that Lucien see him, and that they speak. He took a huge chance, Lucien might shoot him dead on the spot, but Henri wagered his arrogance wouldn’t allow that. Lucien would be basking in his little victory, feeling magnanimous and would most likely feel allowing Henri to live to be a generous gesture he could afford.
Scuffling sounds came from the house and Henri looked up. Lucien almost skipped down the steps, pausing when their eyes met. Henri’s heart fluttered for a moment, but he stilled it, looking away from Lucien.
“Ah, Henri. You would pretend we were strangers?” Lucien called. His voice moved closer and Henri risked another glance.
“I’m sorry, Monsieur Dumas. I was thinking of other things.”
“Mais oui,
you have much to consider. Now that your whore is gone, you have nothing.”
“I should have listened to you. My parents won’t even look my way. Fathers who once pushed their daughters at me now spit in my face. I have been a fool.” Henri lied. In fact, his parents welcomed him with open arms, his mother so bereft at his disappearance that she didn’t question where he’d gone.
His father did, much later, and Henri told him the truth. Trimmed to be more palatable for his parents, but still basically true. His father had shaken his head, frowning, and then hugged him. He’d been proud that Henri stood up to Dumas, a man Charles Fontaine admitted to never liking, and offering him a chance at a new start.
“Later, Papa. I have something I must do first,” Henri had said.
His father mulled this over and nodded. Henri left that night, promising to return within the week to set sail on the ship bound for New York. His request for two tickets was granted without hesitation.
“So, now you see I do not lie,” Lucien gloated.
“Yes, and I am sorry I doubted you. I hope you can forgive me.” The words choked him, but Henri managed to get them out. He wanted to shoot Lucien right there, in full view of the world, but knew that wouldn’t work. He’d never make it out of New Orleans.
“Of course. A day ago, perhaps I would not be so generous, but today, well today I’m feeling quite forgiving. Besides, you have suffered enough. Now you are nothing. That is God’s punishment for you.”
“I know.” Henri looked away.
Lucien clapped him on the shoulder and crossed the gravel street to the saloon. Henri looked to his right. Justine emerged from behind the carriages, giving him a nod as she followed Lucien. Henri turned and hurried toward the edge of town. He prayed Justine made it through the next phase of Claire’s plan. Its success depended on her now.
***
Lucien ordered another drink, placing a card down on the table. The men around him groaned and cursed. Another good hand. The good Lord was certainly on his side today. He looked up as a young serving girl set his drink down. She was a pretty little thing, pale blonde hair and large brown eyes.
His groin tightened when she met his gaze, the innocence in the brown depths sent a fire through him. It had been so long since he’d seen such fear. Perhaps the good Lord knew that too.
“My, my, you’re a sweet little thing,” he murmured, snaking his arm around her waist.
The girl tried to wriggle free, her cheeks reddening. He yanked her down, raising his free hand to her breast. Small, but firm, just as he liked them. She squealed as he pinched the hardened nipple.
“Mon amis,
I must bid you adieu.” Lucien stood, holding the girl against him.
“Come on, Dumas. You have a stable of women next door and you deny us such a prize. Why not leave her for us?”
The girl’s eyes widened and Lucien laughed. “Sorry, Guy. This one is mine. Go on next door and take your pick though, my treat.”
Raucous laughter filled the small room. Lucien tossed some money on the table before dragging the girl toward the door. She put up a good fight, kicking and screaming all the way to the worn patio out front. Then she stilled.
Fear. It made even the bravest man freeze sometimes. Lucien grinned and dragged her to his carriage, tossing her inside. He barked to Marcel who sat at the reins and climbed in after the girl. She sat stone faced in the far corner of the carriage, a mysterious look in her eyes. Lucien felt anger bubble in his chest, burning his throat. She thought she could toy with him, eh? Well, she would soon learn that Lucien Dumas played only some games. Cat and mouse was not one of his favorites.
Lucien patted the seat next to him. She huddled further into the corner and he sighed. “
Mademoiselle,
your game has gone far enough. I don’t enjoy chasing something that has no business running. Come. Sit.”
“So that you may rape me? I will not.”
“Suit yourself. In a few moments, we will arrive at my home. When I’m through, you will be begging me for more.”
“I will kill you first.”
Lucien laughed. What was it about these worthless people that made them think they could do anything to him? Did they believe their empty threats frightened him? He’d met worthier opponents than this girl.
The carriage slowed and she straightened. As it came to a halt, she flung herself at the door. He allowed her to think she might run, following her at a relaxed pace. Outside the carriage, she struggled with Marcel. “Now
, ma petite fille,
there is no need to make this harder for yourself.”
Taking her from Marcel, he dragged her toward the door. She tripped as they walked up the few steps to the veranda but he did not pause. He opened the door and threw her inside. She skidded across the marble tile, landing in a heap in front of the stairs.
To his left, the door to the library clicked shut. Lucien paused. The girl whimpered now, scrambling to regain her footing. Spying the basket in front of the library, he relaxed. Marie must have gone in to clean. Perhaps next time she would remember her supplies. Shaking his head, he turned back to the girl who backed away, foolishly moving deeper into the house.
“It will only hurt a little. If you struggle, I make no promises.” He smiled.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Come now, can we not be friends? Perhaps I will keep you for a while. Surely this fine house is better than that filthy saloon any day.”
“No.”
He lunged, grabbing the front of her thin blue dress and pulling her against him. The girl fought, pushing at his chest, her thin arms swung at him. Moving his arm around her waist, Lucien felt her bones through her skin. He preferred girls with a little more substance, but she would do for today, if she didn’t snap in two before he was finished.
“Your eyes remind me of a frightened doe. So big and brown,” he murmured and shoved her against the wall.
Her hip brushed the little table beneath a large gilt mirror, causing a small crystal vase full of fresh flowers from the garden to topple over. The tinkling sound of glass breaking fuelled him on. “You’ve broken my mother’s favorite vase. We will have to make sure that you pay for that somehow.”
Her eyes met his and she increased her struggles. For a moment, she pushed at him with one hand, while the other dropped to her side. Maybe she wasn’t as reluctant as she let on. Lucien dropped his hand to her bottom, squeezing and pushing her hips against him. She gasped and brought her other hand to his face.
“Don’t pretend you don’t want me. I can tell—”
Her hand covered his mouth. He breathed in, gagging at the bitter taste on his tongue. Releasing her Lucien spat on the floor, his heart skipped at the sight of the brown liquid that dripped from his mouth. She held out her hand to show the remnants of a brownish powder.
He cursed. Opium.
“Little bitch.” He slapped her, sending her stumbling to the ground but this time, rather than crying and moving away, she grinned.
“Tsk, tsk, Monsieur Dumas. I was only giving you a gift from your daughter.”
From his what? Fury boiled in his belly, moving over his extremities until he shook with rage. Still, he could do no more than stare at the girl, his head swam and the room blurred. The door opened and he turned to order Marcel to grab the little bitch, but the words froze on his tongue.
“Rowan sends her regards.” Henri Fontaine stood grinning as well, hands in his pockets. His suit was not the torn rag he’d worn earlier, but a new one, tailored and fitting his slim figure to perfection. He’d shaved, and his hair was no longer shaggy and disheveled.
His gaze moved back to the girl as his cloudy mind worked furiously to put it all together.
She reached up to let down her hair and smiled once more.
The girl from Rosaline’s! How had he not recognized those pathetic doe eyes? Lucien swayed, putting his hand out to steady himself, but to no avail. The room spun around him. Their laughter echoed through his head. He would kill them both. Nothing they could do to him would compare to the torture they would endure at his hands.
Lucien stumbled forward, grasping at Fontaine, but he came up with air. His knee hit the hard marble floor and he vaguely registered the shooting pain in his knee. Then the world went dark.
Lucien woke to a burning sensation over his skin and groaned. His mouth felt stuffed with cotton and his head ached. He moved to wipe the sweat from his brow but his arm refused to cooperate. Frowning he opened his eyes, blinking at the bright blue sky above. Where the hell was he?
Turning his head, Lucien cursed as he took in the tall blades of grass, and a giant cypress, twisting toward the sky. He was in the swamp. He moved his hands. They were loosely bound behind his back, He tried to sit up. His legs gave some resistance.
“Merde!
Wretched little witch. Dead and gone and she still causes me no end of trouble.”
His voice sounded hoarse, and he longed for a cool drink. First, he had to get out of these ropes, and then he’d go home and find Henri Fontaine. If he could not, the bastard’s family would pay the price for his betrayal. Lucien could be forgiving, but Henri had pushed him too far. Birds chirped in the distance and Lucien thought he heard the lapping of water close by. How close? He prayed that he was not right on the banks of the bayou. The gators would come up if hungry enough.
Shivering despite the incessant heat, Lucien twisted and turned in an effort to free his hands. The sun beat down on him, stinging his skin. He still wore pants, but they’d removed his shirt. He felt the itchy dry grass rubbing on his back as he struggled with his bonds. Then he remembered something Henri would not know about and arched his back so that his hands reached the loose pockets of his pants.
Feeling the blade, he closed his eyes in relief. If only he could get it out of his pocket. His wrists felt raw, stinging as he slid them against the rope. Warmth spread over his palm and again, he offered a prayer to the heavens, hoping the warmth was not his own blood. Someone up there listened, because the rope binding his hands loosened. He slipped his hands free. Collapsing to the ground Lucien breathed a sigh of relief and rolled to his back. He held his arms up to inspect them and cursed at the deep gashes left by the coarse hemp they’d bound him with. He sat up and patted his pockets, and then pulled out the knife that Henri and his bitch hadn’t thought to take from him. Stupid fools.
Opening the blade, his hands felt strange, weak, as he had to exert far too much effort in such a simple task. The opium must still be affecting him. That and the damn heat. Lucien leaned over his knees, grabbing at the rope that bound his bare feet together. Bastards. He hacked at the rope, and soon found himself able to move freely once more. Lucien pushed off the ground. He swayed, his stomach revolting and then fell to his knees retching and gagging. He avoided opium, unlike his friends, for just this reason. His body could not tolerate the stuff and he’d hated this feeling of utter helplessness.
Soon the nausea subsided, replaced by a dull ache. He stood once more, gazing around him. They’d taken him to the deeper part of the swamp than he usually ventured into. He didn’t recognize anything around him. The muddy water flowed just a few feet away, carrying a faint fishy odor on the warm breeze. He laughed. They probably hoped the gators would find him and finish him off. Not even gators messed with Lucien Dumas. Despite his certainty of that fact, he moved further from the water, toward the tall oaks that clustered together and away from his exposed position on the banks. First, he’d go home and tend to his wounds, and then he’d round up a few men and seek out Fontaine. It had been a long time since he’d witnessed a good hanging. And Henri
would
hang. One didn’t make an attempt on Lucien Dumas’ life and not pay for it. The police would be very interested in Henri’s recent activities. The girl, he had other plans for her.
He stumbled through the tall grass toward the trees, tripping over rocks and old traps set by poachers, so rusted now that they didn’t even close when he stepped over them. But the metal cut his feet, sending a searing pain over his heel and eliciting colorful curses from his lips. For hours, Lucien walked, or limped rather, until he dropped to his knees in the shade of the tall trees. Bullfrogs called from the water, and a heron squawked as it flew off with its prize. The sun had shifted, moving from its position directly above him to the west. It would be dark in a few hours, he had to get out of the swamp before the sun set.
Lucien pushed to his feet again and dragged himself forward. He moved through the dense foliage, ignoring the branches that scraped his bare arms and tore at his pants. With each step his fury grew, along with a growing sense of panic.
He winced as he reached a clearing, the sun beating down once more and looked up. Spying something along the shoreline, Lucien’s heart picked up speed. The fools hadn’t dragged him out far enough. He laughed when he realized how close he was to home, and revenge. Stumbling in his haste, Lucien ran toward the gator head perched on the large stump. Toward Celestine’s old shack. He paused as a baby’s cry reached his ears, freezing him mid-step. A baby?
Lucien shook his head. He was hallucinating. He continued to move toward the gator and home.
The baby’s cry continued, growing stronger as the shack came into view. Squatters? Who would try to claim such a wretched little hole as this? Shaking his head Lucien dragged himself up the crooked steps and to the door. He wrenched open, knife in hand, prepared to take down anyone who dared stop him, but the sight before him took all thoughts from his mind.
Wrapped in a pale green blanket, lying on a pallet of straw, an infant cried, waving its tiny fists. Lucien looked around the shack, shocked to find it empty, save the bawling baby. He moved forward, closer to the child, noting the brilliant copper hair that covered its small head. The baby turned its head as Lucien approached.
He recoiled as violet eyes blinked up at him.
“Ce n’est pas possible.”
The baby resumed its cries and Lucien backed away, toward the door. The opium had damaged his brain and now he’d hallucinated a child, the child who had caused no end of misery to Lucien and his family. She was the image of Rowan, the child he gazed upon so many years ago, not his child. No. A witch.
Laughter echoed outside, a man and a woman. Lucien, unsure if he imagined it or if Henri and the slut actually waited for him, knew he had to get out of the shack.
***
“You don’t think he’ll hurt her, do you?” Justine fretted as she watched Lucien enter the shack.
Henri shook his head. He trusted Claire’s judgment. She’d been right so far, and her plan worked brilliantly. Now, confused and desperate, Lucien would fall right into place, exactly where they wanted him.
He laughed as he heard Lucien’s exclamation and Justine joined him, albeit a bit nervously. Henri winked at her and took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Claire is right. He will come out in a moment and then you can see to Celestine.”
The door flung open and Lucien stumbled down the stairs. Something glinted at his side and Henri frowned. They hadn’t thought to search him, and now he held a knife, a good sized knife that would most likely be very sharp. “Damn.”
“What?” Justine moved closer to him.
“The knife. We should have checked his pockets.”
She remained silent. Lucien ran toward the water and Henri pulled her back into the trees, they knelt behind the large bush of black-eyed Susans, the sweet scent tickling Henri’s nose. He pushed Justine further back, motioning her to be silent. She nodded and they watched as Lucien stepped into their trap. Henri released the knot tied to the stump next to them and Lucien flew off his feet and into the air. His curses brought a smile to Henri’s lips as the all-powerful Lucien Dumas dangled helplessly over the bayou.
“But what if he—“
“Shh. Just watch.” Henri placed a hand on Justine’s knee. She covered it with her own and they waited. Lucien struggled to bring the blade to the rope that held his feet. Henri had hoped to catch one, but instead they’d caught both in the small loop, making movement even harder for him.
He swung over the water, his struggles slowing as blood rushed to his head. Henri imagined the long day in the sun took its toll as well.
Lucien quickly tired, giving up the struggle and hanging limply from the tree. His hands dropped, fingers pointed to the ground and the knife clattered to the bushes. Lucien passed out.
***
Something stung his thigh. Lucien opened his eyes to dirt and sticks. He turned his head, wincing as a pain stabbed his eyes. Blinking, he remembered the moments before he passed out and groaned. He hung from a tree, now directly over the water. A splash drew his attention to the two gators circling beneath him.
“Good evening, Lucien.” Henri’s voice.
“Get me down and you might be allowed to breathe a while longer.” Lucien ordered, but his command was no more than a whisper.
“In time.”
Henri moved to stand below him, just off the banks of the river. He raised his hand; a hand with a knife: his knife. Another splash forced Lucien to look back to the water. What was the fool up to?
“This is for Mama Gator.” Henri slashed at Lucien’s back, and Lucien grimaced as the blade cut his skin. Warm blood trickled to his neck, and dripped to the water below. At once Henri’s intention dawned on Lucien. He twisted, struggling to break free. The gators no longer circled. They fought for a prime spot beneath him.
Henri moved around him, smiling. “This is for Justine.” He slashed Lucien again. This time the blade caught his arm.
Speechless Lucien stared at the gators below. The pain was terrible, throbbing into his shoulder but he was more concerned with the gators thrashing about only feet from his head. Surely, he wouldn’t—he’d lose everything. They’d hang him for murder if he did what Lucien feared.
“This is for Rowan and her child… and maybe a little bit for me.” Henri reached up and cut the rope holding Lucien above the water. Weightless, his mind working furiously to figure out a way out of this, Lucien hit the banks of the river with a grunt. His feet still bound, he thrashed about, trying to gain some footing. Henri walked toward him, grinning still, the knife now tucked into the waist of his pants.
“No, I don’t think so, Dumas. It’s lunchtime.” He dragged Lucien up, fisting a hand in his hair. Lucien bucked, but his bound feet made it impossible to put much force into it.
“You’ll hang for this. Someone will demand answers,” he babbled.
Henri gripped his arms, yanking them behind his back. Lucien felt his breath on his neck. “I won’t be around long enough for the questions.”
Suddenly Lucien pitched forward into the water.
The gators closed in as he sunk.
Clawing through the thick weeds of the shallows, he tried to move to the shore. Something grabbed his foot. He felt a snap. “No.”
“Au revoir,
Lucien,” Henri called.
Something tugged and ripped, pulling him under further and further into the deeper water. Lucien opened his mouth and the river filled his lungs. He coughed and sputtered. A force slammed into his middle. He spun, waving, twisting, trying to break free from its massive jaws.