Blue Moon (7 page)

She could not worry about the boys’ aches and complaints, or a broken plow, or anything else. Not when it was only a matter of time before the devil came to take her away the way he had her little baby girl.

She was damned as that little unnamed baby, damned for all eternity, and sitting here in Illinois she felt one step closer to hell. Bears still roamed the deep woods, and snakes crawled inside the cabin to sleep in warm corners. Their homestead was covered with tree stumps that fought the plow. Last summer they had been swarmed by plagues of mosquitoes and then Payson, like so many of the other settlers, had been hit by a terrible quaking sickness and fever. Once the ague came upon a body, it never left, just kept reappearing without the slightest warning. They had met some of the neighbors, all of them friendly, none of them their equal in education or social graces. Payson had worked himself to the bone in the field that still lay unplanted. He had tried to hunt, but mostly all he brought home were squirrels that he and the boys trapped. Life was more than a struggle,—it was a disaster.

It was safer to let her world dwindle to the rocking chair than to move about in it. The perfect place to sit and await the devil until he came to collect the rest of his due was right here in front of this cold hearth. The baby would not be enough. One by one, he would take them all.

Susanna was sure he would, for she still had to pay for what she had done to Olivia.

New Orleans

The air had grown still, gathering itself into the thick, choking humidity that was as oppressive as a wool blanket in summer. In two more months all but the hearty would leave the city and take up residence in country homes and on outlying plantations where they would not have to fear the yellow fever brought on by the heat.

Closeted in a private office downstairs, Darcy leaned back in his chair and squinted at the slovenly figure across the expanse of rich mahogany.

“I would appreciate it greatly if you would get your fat ass off my desk, Leonard,” he said without a trace of rancor. The lackey slid his bulk up and off the corner of the desk. Darcy squelched the urge to take out a handkerchief and wipe the spot where the man had sat. Instead he picked up a small pair of silver scissors he trimmed his cigars with and began to turn them over and over in his hands.

Miles Leonard scratched the bald spot that stood out like an island in a sea of matted brown hair. “Like I was saying, I don’t think you’re gonna find her anyplace. If she was in New Orleans, my boys would’ve picked up her scent.”

Darcy fought the urge to close his eyes and recall Olivia’s scent himself, telling himself not now, certainly not in front of this idiot. He said nothing as he waited for more of Miles Leonard’s excuses as to why he had found no trace of Olivia.

“Somehow she left the city, probably the very day she disappeared, from all I can gather. There’s no one who even claims to recollect seeing her.”

The fact that right now, at this very minute, someone might be using her for his own was a notion that infuriated Darcy more than the idea that he might never see her again. It was one thing to lose her before he was finished with her, but it was quite another to think that someone else might be enjoying her instead.

He imagined Olivia escaping the house, being approached by someone offering to help her, being too naive to realize she might be stepping into a trap that was not silk-lined this time. Someone may have taken her off the streets and into his own possession. She could be anywhere. Used, abused, cast aside already. With her ebony hair, someone might have tried to sell her as a slave to collect a high bounty. Even though she was white, there was no way she could prove otherwise, not in a city where high-yellow octoroons who could pass for white were greatly valued.

His mind tried to take him down a path he wanted to avoid, flashing dark images of another man, in another room somewhere. The man’s hands on Olivia. What if this time she gave in easily, gave herself without hostility, without the same silent, simmering anger she always showed him?

When he realized he was close to breaking the delicate, embossed silver scissors, Darcy set them down.

“Someone might be hiding her.” He voiced the disturbing thought aloud.

“If they are, it’s the best kept secret in N’awlins,” Leonard told him. “I haven’t heard a thing from any of my sources. With all the house slaves and servants around, someone is bound to talk sooner or later.”

There were dozens of men like Miles Leonard in New Orleans, men willing to do anything for a bit of coin that would buy them their next jug of whiskey, their next whore. Men like Miles Leonard were not welcome through the front doors of the Palace of Angels. The type of whore this man could afford would never work here. But he needed Leonard, and his strict policy of maintaining a certain level of clientele did not extend to the back door, to the men who brought him new girls on occasion, men who would carry out other, less respectable tasks that a man in his business might need to have taken care of.

“If she did leave town, she had to go upriver. Keep asking around the waterfront. See if any of the boatmen who just came down might have seen her along the way.”

The corner of Leonard’s mouth curved into a lurid smile. “You said she’d be pretty hard to miss.”

As beautiful as she was, Olivia would be
very
hard to miss, Darcy thought, but he wasn’t about to elaborate. It was his habit not to engage in conversation with imbeciles any longer than he had to.

“I gave you a full description,” he reminded the other man.

“I’ll need a few more dollars to pass around, something to prime the pump.” Leonard scratched again, this time it was his crotch.

Darcy stood to signal the end of the meeting. Miles Leonard hovered like a stubborn hound unwilling perform without a bone. Darcy had no inclination to open his desk and withdraw any money while the man stood there watching. Instead he leaned across the desk, picked up his pen, and dipped the nib into an inkwell. He scrawled a few words and a figure on a sheet of paper and shoved it at Leonard.

“Give this to the barkeep downstairs and he’ll give you the cash.”

With the promise of more money secure, Leonard finally moved toward the door.

“And Miles?”

The big man paused and turned around. “Yeah?”

“Take the money and leave. Do your drinking someplace else and get back to me the minute you hear anything.”

Chapter 6

Heron Pond

Olivia knew she was in trouble the moment she started to feel safe. It was not something that came over her all of a sudden, but slowly, the way the colors of sunset tinted the sky as she watched it from a wooden stool near the window. Gradually nature added a hint of color here, a pure ray of light there, until the sky was awash with all the colors of the rainbow. Very soon, the first star would appear on a deep indigo sky.

Her feeling of security was not something that had happened in an instant. It had come over her so gradually that it was too late now to guard against it.

In the week since she had been living with him, Noah had not once spoken a single word or made any gesture that gave her cause to fear him. Certainly, there was undisguised hunger in his expression, the same sort of hot intensity she had seen in a man before, one she had learned to recognize, but there was also something more powerful in Noah, a stubborn strength of will that she wished she possessed. He refused to bend, even to his own deep desires.

The colored sky was beginning to fade, so Olivia stood up and walked outside where the evening air felt cool on her skin. She walked to the railing and looked down into the swamp. She rubbed her arms and then let her hands slide over the soft doeskin of the dress Noah had given her.

Even in the dwindling light, she could still see a huge blue heron standing one-legged in shallow water, as still as one of the cypress. With Noah’s help she had come to know the names of some of the birds of Heron Pond. Watching their comings and goings helped fill the long, quiet hours she spent alone recuperating whenever he was out hunting, much needed hours of peace and solitude that had given her time to regain her strength, not only in body, but in mind.

Cicadas started a noisy hum that seemed to vibrate through and around her. Olivia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. No longer did she find the close, damp air cloying. Instead, the now-familiar, fecund scent of the swamp calmed her, just as did the chorus of birds and insects, the spatter of rain on the trees and the roof, the way the ribbons of sunlight cut through the foliage and shifted whenever a breeze touched the leaves of the trees.

Such serenity was so foreign to her that she had fought it at first. She had been so certain that Noah was not what he seemed, that he might pose a threat, that it had been hard to relax. But he never came close to her. Never touched her, hardly even looked her way. Slowly the peace of the quiet swamp seeped into her soul, calming her, lulling her into a contented quiescence.

She was no longer afraid of the dark water below the huge cypress. Instead she saw it as more of a moat, a protective barrier between this lush world and the outside, and she knew why Noah LeCroix had chosen to dwell here.

On Heron Pond he was safe from the prying eyes of those who might shun him because of his scarred face. Here he was master of his own world, content to come and go as he pleased, living off the land with no one to answer to, nothing to fear except perhaps the natural predators who shared his world with him.

Darcy would never find me here
.

Standing alone in the gathering dusk, she dared to remember Darcy Lankanal, what he had done, what she had become at his hands. Those memories never lingered far from her mind. The still-vivid images were always there, always lurking. She had struggled to keep them at bay since her escape, afraid that dwelling on them might somehow link her to Darcy again, might somehow conjure him up and bring him back into her life.

If she hid here in the swamp forever, she would never have to worry about Darcy finding her. Nor would she have to face her father or worry that he would find out what she had become. It was a nice dream, but she could not stay here forever. She loved her family and missed them all, especially the boys. They were her kin. She belonged with them.

Besides, this was Noah’s home,
his
retreat. Not hers. He had taken her in only until she was well, and that day had come.

Noah
.

Noah was as different from Darcy as night from day. Darcy with his blond hair and fair looks, the angelic smile that most women found devastating. Lankanal was as selfish and arrogant as he was handsome. He was obsessed with bending her to his will, and because he was always so successful at making her body, if not her mind, respond to him, she hated him more than she ever thought she could hate anyone or anything.

She would never forget the day the colonel and his river pirates drove her into New Orleans. They surrounded her, pushed and shoved her through the streets, past apathetic strangers who gave the filthy riverboat crew no more than a second glance. Exhausted, her spirit and heart broken, she had stood unprotesting, her tears spent, hungry, filthy, not caring whether she lived or died.

One of Darcy’s dealers had ushered them through the walled garden and hurried them into a stable area where a shining, black lacquered carriage was stored. The man left them and soon after, Darcy had come sauntering in. She had straightened at the sight of him, daring to hope that the handsome, well-dressed gentleman would save her.

She waited for him to blast the pirates for what they had done to her, to her family. She expected him to call the authorities. Everything would soon be straightened out. She would be sent home. But appearances are deceiving. Darcy asked Sullivan if she was a virgin. When the colonel said he could guarantee it with his life, Darcy counted out five twenty-dollar pieces and handed them over to Sullivan.

She had stood there confused and uncomprehending, clinging to a slim thread of hope that quickly unraveled as Darcy led her into the Palace of Angels. He kept his hand on her arm as he walked her upstairs to his opulent suite and locked the door. He summoned house slaves, ordered a hot bath.

She shed tears of embarrassment and humiliation when he made her strip out of her filthy clothes right there in front of him. She futilely tried to cover herself with her hands while he inspected every inch of her and then told her to get into the tub. He knelt on the floor beside her, took up perfumed soap and scented oil and a washrag, then washed her all over. She sat there and cried silent tears of shame. He washed her hair, rinsed it with clear, warm water that he poured out of a beautiful cloisonné pitcher. He held her hand, pulled her from the tub, towel-dried and combed her hair.

Then he led her to his bed. He told her that life as she knew it was over and that she was his until he was satisfied she was well versed in the art of lovemaking. Then, she would join the other girls who worked for him. He told her that there was no hope of escape, that she should not even consider it, for that would be a foolish waste of time.

Dazed and brokenhearted, she did not fight him when he finally took her. Over the next few days he used her in every way a man could use a woman’s body; by the end of her first week with him, she had lost both her virginity and her innocence and hated herself for what she had become.

From that day on she could not bear to look into a mirror, which was a challenge because his suite was filled with them. Darcy told her she was beautiful, more so than any of the others. He swore she would soon fall in love with him and with her new profession. He tried to convince her that she would eventually accumulate her own wealth, tried to explain that wealth meant power.

She knew that by then it would be too late—that she could never truly be free, no matter how much money she had, for she would never be able to buy back her virginity or her soul.

His words fell upon deaf ears, but his touch was charismatic. Her body responded while her heart lay cold and dead inside. Her mind shut down whenever he took her. It was the only way she could stay sane.

For months she watched and planned and looked for a way to escape. But even now that she was free of Darcy and New Orleans, she could not escape the memories, the old nightmare, or herself.

Now she sighed and turned away from the rail. There was a pot of beans on the hearth. He never failed to leave food for her when he went out hunting. Lately he had taken to avoiding her altogether, returning late at night to bed down outside without disturbing her.

Inside, she lit the oil lamp and replaced the chimney. She looked around the small cabin, knowing it was time to leave and dreading the future. Would her family accept her if they found out what she had become? Could she face her father without hating him for giving her up to the colonel and his men?

Life would be so much easier if she could just stay here in Noah’s treehouse, hidden away from the world and everyone in it, but she sensed that his control was stretched to the limit, and he had made no move to alter their relationship. She had begun to wonder how she would react if he did. They were locked in an impossible situation. It was time to leave.

Noah cleared the opening in the floor of the porch. He was dog-tired from rising early and staying out late, tired of sleeping on the hard floor outside, sick of fighting the demons inside him. He was a man, not a priest. Not an hour of the day went by when he did not think of Olivia Bond, of the way she moved, of the sound of her sigh, of the whisper of her bare feet against the floor.

He was confused, befuddled by the intense need that her nearness ignited in him, hated wanting something he had never thought he would need so badly. He ached with the sheer power of it.

Now he made his footsteps silent as he walked across the porch toward the glow of lamplight from within the cabin. Olivia was already asleep, yet tossing fitfully in his bed. Though she had not dreamed it for days, her nightmare was upon her again and he wished there were some way he could keep her from having to suffer it yet again. At the foot of the bed he looked down at her. As if she sensed him there, she calmed and settled back into deep, even breathing.

He turned around and walked out of the cabin. Shoved up against the outside wall, his hard pallet looked cold and uninviting.

Crying. She was crying in a dark, damp place where she did not want to be, but could not escape. Walls of stone surrounded and imprisoned her. Firelight writhed and danced against the rock. Darcy stepped out of the shadows and came toward her. She tried to run but her feet did not move. Something held her. Something made her stay. Kept her from running
.

“It took a while, Olivia,” he drawled, “but I knew I’d find you. You’re mine, you know. Only mine. Did you think otherwise?”

He walked toward her, arms open wide, wanting to embrace her
.

“No!” A dry scream was torn from her throat. “I won’t go back again. I can’t do it, Darcy. I’ll die first.”

He reached out, grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her hard
.

“Let me go!” she screamed. Terror ricocheted through her. “Please, no more. No more,” she sobbed. “Let me go!”

Suddenly there was a presence in the cave with them, one that came from behind Darcy. One that made her feel safe. It grew closer, stronger, until she began to calm and felt surrounded by that calm. She heard a man’s voice, but did not recognize the words. Her fear slowly dissolved as his warmth spread through her. As the angel of the darkness wrapped his arms around her and began to take on reality, Darcy’s image diminished until it finally faded away
.

“Shh, Olivia. Shush,” the comforting presence whispered in her ear. “You’re all right. You’re safe now, Olivia. Wake up.”

When she opened her eyes it was still dark. She was no longer in a cold, dark place surrounded by impenetrable stone walls, but wrapped in a man’s strong embrace. The warmth she had experienced, the intense feeling of protection, was very, very real.

“Shh. You’re all right, Olivia.” Noah was rubbing her back, patting her like a child. Then, as his palm began to move in slow circles, she let his warmth seep into her and settled against him, cherished, protected. Safe. New.

He reached up and brushed her hair off the side of her face. His fingers were tentative, soothing. He held her as tenderly as one might a precious gem. His touch demanded nothing, and yet she felt the need to embrace him. When she slipped her arms around him, she expected Noah to pull away. He stiffened, but did not run from her this time.

They sat unmoving, eyes closed, arms around each other, seconds passing swift and silent, fast as a hummingbird’s heartbeat. She could feel his arousal strong and hard where their bodies met, felt herself slowly melting inside, remembering the tempting opiate of sexual release. More than that, she wondered if being with Noah and giving of herself freely might not cleanse her heart and soul of Darcy.

Her own need began to fill her up, tempt her, make her heart beat faster. Aware of the male hardness of his chest where her breasts pressed against him, she caught his outdoor scent, felt the hush of his warm breath against her cheek. He was a mystery, an enigma, this man of honor.

She wanted to taste him. She lifted her chin slightly, just enough so that she could see his mouth. Clinging to him, she raised herself until their lips met. She traced the seam of his mouth with her tongue and when she felt him shudder, she realized a power that was foreign to the overwhelming helplessness she had experienced for so long. Such heady knowledge made her dizzy.

Slowly, hesitantly, he opened to her kiss and gradually began to imitate the movement of her tongue against his, darting, tasting, delving. She pulled her arms away long enough to be able to reach up and cup his face between her hands as she kissed him long and deep, wishing she could crawl inside him where no one could ever hurt her again.

His arms had tightened around her; his hands no longer moved with the innocence of giving comfort. Now they explored, tentatively, almost as if he were waiting for her to guide him. His hesitancy made her body ache all the more. She wanted his hands on her, wanted him to erase all that Darcy had ever done to her.

When the kiss ended they clung to one another, breathing as hard as befit young animals racing toward freedom. She took his hand in hers, cradled it against her palm, drew it to her breast and molded him until he cupped her with his fingers. She pressed against the heat of his hand, stretched upward again so she could savor his taste, feel his mouth moving upon hers.