Authors: Jill Marie Landis
Whether it was hours or seconds that passed as he stood there, he could not be certain, but soon Olivia stopped rocking. Her head came up and she blinked and looked around, as if she had no recollection of where she was or how she got there. When she turned and stared at him, he knew she was trying to place him, to remember where she was.
He watched her expression change from one of acute anguish to one of fear. She did not flinch or take her eyes off him, but slowly, ever so slowly, she slipped one hand across the bed until her fingers came in contact with the bedclothes. She hastily covered herself.
She did not say a word as she pressed back against the wall, almost as if she was waiting for him to pounce.
Noah took a deep breath, willed himself to speak. Despite the fact that she was a stranger, that she was just passing through his life for a night, he found himself involuntarily reacting to her. “If you’re all right,” he said, barely able to put words together, “then I’ll go back outside.”
Ashamed of his physical reaction to her, of his inability to help her, he turned and left her alone again.
• • •
With relief, Olivia watched him go. As soon as he was out of the room she realized she was trembling violently. The old nightmare had left her exhausted, sweaty and shaken, unable to stop her tears. But more than the horrible dream, it was the raw desire on her host’s face that left her terrified.
So, he is human after all
.
Last night, when he had kept his distance—and his hands to himself—Olivia had wondered if perhaps Noah LeCroix was different than other men; if—thankfully—she inspired no lust in him.
But this morning when she finally realized where she was, when she saw him standing there watching her, even the dawning sunlight in the room could not disguise the raw desire on his face or the way his body had responded to the sight of her. He had just been waiting.
She truly feared him in that moment and braced herself, ready to fight, fully expecting him to cross the room and try to take her, then and there. But Noah LeCroix had surprised her. Again.
Even though lust showed plainly on his face, he had not acted on it. Instead, he had turned and virtually run out of the cabin.
Her hands shook as she swiped at her tears and tried to stop quaking. She hated this inability to control herself after the recurring nightmare as much as she hated having to relive it all, over and over—the rending separation from her family, her father’s betrayal, the boys’ terror. Susanna’s face when she had said, “Olivia, think of the boys.” Most of all her own guilt. Her inability to sacrifice herself for them and go willingly. Her shame over the need for self-preservation that had made her cry out, “But what about me?”
“What about me?”
It had been a little over a year since that day. She had been an innocent girl of seventeen, a girl with her whole life ahead of her, a life that held the promise of many happy tomorrows in their new home in Illinois.
Yesterday, at long last, she had thought she was finally close to being reunited with her family—until her life once again took an ill-fated turn and suddenly she had been forced to take refuge in the swamp. Her head still ached from the knock against the log, and her wrist was still swollen and tender, but not nearly as bad as it had been last night. When she thought of how she felt a score older than she had a year ago, she remembered that today was her birthday. Amazingly, she had lived long enough to see nineteen, but there would be no celebration. She would pass this day as she had most every day since she had been taken from her family. She would see to her immediate needs, do whatever it took to survive, try to find a way to get back home to them again.
But now, the fragile illusion that she might be safe here in Noah LeCroix’s treehouse had just been shattered. She had to get away. She looked out the window above the bed, out at the cloudy sky beyond the lattice of leaves. She was literally up a tree and there was no way down, no way out of the swamp without LeCroix’s help. All she could do was hope and pray that when he came back in, he would not give in to temptation and desire, that he would continue to keep his need in check.
New Orleans, Louisiana
To the casual observer, everything in Darcy Lankanal’s world was perfect. As sole owner of a thriving house of chance, liquor, and prostitution, he had a fortune piled up in the bank of New Orleans as well as in a metal box hidden in the wall behind the headboard on his bed. The establishment, inherited from his mother, was named the Palace of Angels and boasted the best gaming tables, the finest liquor, and the most beautiful women in the entire South. His clothing was tailored in France and, despite his usually less than respectable occupation, he was admired by those who deemed themselves the upper crust of Creole society—so much so that he was often invited to their soirees and fetes.
But all was not right in Darcy’s world, nor had it been since Olivia Bond disappeared more than a month ago.
Darcy took a pull on his cigar, blew out a lazy blue smoke ring and watched it fade into the haze of the salon’s smoke-filled air. Then he reached up and ran his palm over his neat blond hair. As he smoothed his hand down the striped waistcoat beneath his double-breasted cutaway jacket, he easily hid his frustration and turmoil, smiled his most charming, carefree smile, and perused the salon.
His mother, Nicolette, God rest her soul, had taught him that the secret of a well-run establishment of any kind was the ever-vigilant, constant presence of its owner. Darcy always took his mama’s advice to heart.
During what appeared to be nothing more than a casual stroll around the huge salon and gaming room, Darcy greeted familiar customers, sized up strangers, flashed eye contact to his many well-paid and therefore very loyal dealers and bartenders, and calculated exactly how much liquor was leaving the bar. His patrons included riverboat captains, wealthy foreign travelers, and plantation owners, and all of them considered themselves lucky to be able to sit elbow to elbow, hunched over cards and dice at his nearly twenty tables. Thieves and cutthroats were not allowed.
Upstairs, the whores known as “Darcy’s ladies” were busy making him almost as much money as he would clear downstairs. He had hand-picked and personally trained each and every one of them since he’d inherited the Palace. Each one had been his own special “property” at one time or another, his alone to savor and enjoy, to pamper and coddle while she remained ensconced in his personal suite until a new, virginal initiate came along.
Two or three months spent with a new girl had been his routine until Olivia Bond entered his life. Now, despite the noise in the smoky salon, even as he wandered about observing the proceedings, Darcy could still see Olivia’s face, hear her voice, smell her, taste her on his lips.
Somehow the stubborn little witch with coal-black hair and fern-green eyes had gotten under his skin more than any woman before her. Somehow she had unwittingly enchanted him to the point of igniting an obsession. No matter how much the other girls complained about her, teased him, tried to tempt him away, or openly pouted about Olivia’s unprecedented length of special status, Darcy had not been able to cut her loose and launch her in the business of whoring for his customers.
She had lived with him over a year in his private suite, surrounded by luxury, at his beck and call morning, noon, and night. Just when he thought that she was finally warming to him, that she had come to accept her place, she had somehow managed to escape, slipping out onto the streets of New Orleans and disappearing without a trace. He was fast becoming convinced that she was no longer in the city. He had already spent a small fortune on a search and even now men were out combing the streets and waterfront for her, questioning soldiers, slavers, even the nuns at the Ursuline convent.
Darcy snubbed out the cigar in a crystal dish set out on the table for that very purpose. Across the room, one of his most requested ladies of the night, Marcella Champion, made eye contact and smiled at him, then began to weave her way through the maze of tables. Her eyes were as clear as a cloudless blue sky, and her long, blond hair bounced with a vibrant sheen. Whenever one of the patrons stopped her, either by word or touch, Marcella would pause and smile at him as if he were the only man in the world. Then the two would share a laugh and before she moved on, she whispered into his ear and convinced him that he just might be lucky enough to have her tonight.
Marcella, like Darcy’s other whores, had taken to selling her body like a swan takes to water. If only the same could have been said of Olivia. For some reason, even though he tried long and hard, Darcy could never reach Olivia’s heart and soul, never convince her that she would be far better off leaving her old life behind to live like a queen under his protection. He could not charm her, beguile her, bribe her, or tempt her into accepting that she would eventually be working for him. Her body might have been entirely in his possession, but she had never totally surrendered.
He sensed from the first that he would have a hard time convincing Olivia that working for him would give her a percentage of the money she earned and, in turn, give her power in her own right, far more money and power than any man’s wife would ever have, certainly. His girls wore the finest clothes. They had carriages at their disposal and elegant furnishings in their rooms. They used their own money in any way they wished. Not one of them had ever tried to run away, at least not after a few weeks with him. Even the girls who came to him against their will, just as Olivia had, were eventually charmed by him after he had separated them from everyone but himself, made them dependent and spoiled and tutored them in the fine art of pleasing a man, thus taking pleasure himself.
Once he deemed a girl ready for work, once she agreed to his terms, she was no longer a prisoner in any sense of the word. And he was no slaver. When the time came for a girl to retire, or if she was offered a position as some wealthy man’s exclusive mistress, he would let her patron, or the woman herself, pay back his initial investment in her, and then he would bid her fond
adieu
. Some women down on their luck had even come to him voluntarily, begging to be added to his stable of whores.
Eventually, when he was ready to give her up, Olivia would have been afforded all of the same generous opportunities. But no matter how well he taught her, no matter how deftly he had manipulated her body, no matter how often he had coaxed a physical response out of her, he had never been able to persuade her to leave the past behind. She never did become convinced that he and the Palace of Angels were the keys to her future.
But no matter how much she wished it otherwise, no matter how much she tried to deny or hide it, Olivia was very, very good in bed. For that reason alone, no amount of tears or pleading on her part would ever convince him that she would never become what he wanted her to be.
He knew one thing for certain that she did not. Olivia Bond was a sensual, erotic woman, perhaps the most alluring woman he had ever known—but she hated him with a singular passion he had never seen in a woman before, which made her not only tantalizing but unforgettable.
Marcella had finally reached his side. The light scent of her perfume, just enough to entice but not overwhelm, made him aware of her presence even before she said a word to him as he kept his eyes trained on the room.
“Quite the crowd tonight.” Her voice had a husky edge to it, one that her regulars often admired.
“Rainy nights always bring them in,” he said offhandedly.
“Darcy, look at me.”
Slowly, he turned, partially dismissing all the action that pulsed around him. Concentrating on anything was an effort lately. He looked down into Marcella’s kohl-accented eyes.
“The other girls wanted me to talk to you. Tonight.”
“It’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning,” he told her, shifting positions, watching a beefy doorman hoist an unwanted troublemaker and discreetly remove him from the room.
“Tomorrow you will come up with some other excuse not to listen. It must be
now
, Darcy, while I have at least half of your attention.”
He sighed.
She stepped closer. “You’ve got to forget her and move on. Find someone to replace her. Send your men to scout out another new girl, and do it quickly. None of us can stand the way you’ve been moping around here like a whipped hound.”
“I don’t think,” he said, pulling another cigar out of his vest pocket, “that it is any of your business what I do or how I act. You all answer to me, not the other way around.”
When Marcella laid her hand on his coat sleeve, he let his gaze slide to where she touched him. She immediately let go.
“She’s gone, Darcy. She’s slipped back down whatever rabbit hole it was she crawled out of. Forget her. Lord knows, the way you kept her to yourself for so long did not sit well with the others. You made a pet out of that one. A damned pet, singling her out like that. Before Olivia, you never kept any of us more than a few months. You never
had
to.”
“As I recall, you lasted five months. Didn’t you, Marcella?”
She ignored his remark. “What I want to know,” she said, pressing closer, lowering her voice, “was what
she
had that none of
us
ever had. What little trick, or should I say
tricks
, did she use to get you to keep her as your exclusive property so long? What in the hell did a virgin know that none of
us
knew, Lankanal?”
That very question had been running through his own mind for weeks. Darcy suddenly pictured Olivia lying naked in his bed, remembered what it felt like to run his hands over her unblemished skin, what it did to him every time he took her. He could not forget what she had looked like the day the ruffians from upriver sold her to him. Seventeen years old, terrified, defeated, too frightened to talk, submissive only because she was too weak to fight. Her huge eyes were swollen from crying, her plain but once-adequate gown torn and filthy—but despite it all, she was still lovely and guaranteed to be a virgin.
What he remembered most was the black hatred that smoldered in her eyes, a hatred for him that even her fear did not hide. He saw it there each and every time he opened the door to his suite and went to her. It never faded, was never replaced by submission or even weary resignation. He started to believe it was that very obvious scorn that fired his need for her, stoked his interest and kept it alive. Perhaps it was the challenge in that very hatred that fueled this obsession.
“Well, Darce?”
He had almost forgotten that Marcella was still standing there waiting for an answer. She and the others might just as well keep on waiting. Let them gossip in the private parlor where they waited for their patrons to call for them.
Darcy leaned down to light the cigar off the sulfur match a waiter had hurried to offer him. He held the tip of the tobacco over the flame and inhaled until the end of the cigarillo glowed red. Then he slowly blew another smoke ring and watched it fade before he looked down into Marcella’s eyes again and remembered the way Olivia had felt beneath his hands.
“What did she do to me? You know, Marcella, darlin’, I really couldn’t say. I really couldn’t say at all.”
Heron Pond
Every time Olivia heard a noise outside she held her breath and focused on the door, but so far Noah LeCroix had not reappeared. She had no idea where he had gone, but she had watched through the open door as he disappeared over the edge of the porch, and she assumed he had climbed down the ladder. Deciding to explore, she discovered that it took most of her strength just to throw back the cover, crawl to the edge of the bed, and swing her legs over. Each time she moved, her head would spin, forcing her to take it very, very slowly. When her head continued to pound just as hard as it had yesterday, she decided she was hurt more seriously than she had realized. Finally, she gave up, lay back down, and fell asleep.
When she awoke, she was determined to ignore her pain. She tried to marshal her strength and perched on the edge of the bed. She cradled her injured wrist in her lap and kept her ankles primly pressed together. She could not bear to think of putting on her shoes and having to suffer the burn of the blisters on her heels where they were rubbed raw.
Before she could move, there was a thump outside and within seconds, Noah came striding through the door. A pair of dead mallards dangled from his right hand; his rifle was in the other. He set it stock down and leaned it against the wall.
At some point, he had tied a buckskin eye patch over his scar. She tried not to stare overmuch as he slapped the ducks down on the table and pulled a knife out of the leather sheath strapped to his waist.
Olivia forced herself to breathe. “Would you mind taking me to the edge of the swamp so that I can be on my way?”
He turned around slowly and stared at her, his forehead marred by a frown. Although he had given her no reason to fear him, experience had taught her to be wary. Self-preservation was a hard habit to break. If she had to fight her way out, she would lose. Not only was he a foot taller and physically stronger, but it was taking a concerted effort for her just to hold up her head.
“Where were you headed?” he asked.
“Shawneetown. Is it far?”
“About sixty miles from here as the crow flies. You still thinking of traveling alone?”
She had not intended to—but after trusting a man named Stanley Marlborough to help her get home, she instead found herself running from his lust and his roving hands, and ended up alone. She raised her chin a notch and looked Noah square in the eye.
“Yes. I intend to go on by myself.”
“You didn’t just fall out of the sky and land here in the middle of the swamp. Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing by yourself in the first place?”
“I prefer to find my own way.”
“Like you did yesterday?”
“I’ll definitely be more careful this time.” She refused to think about the bobcat. Or the snakes. Not with Noah watching her with such undisguised desire again. She saw him press his open palms against his thighs, ball his hands into fists and then open them.