Just Once (4 page)

The one tall taper lit near the collection box sputtered as the draft eddied about the room. The heavy door swung shut with a bang. Incense permeated the air, reminding Jemma of countless masses she had attended as a child. Her unwilling companion had not yet uttered a sound, but continued to fight her tight hold.

Jemma let go of the other girl’s wrist and, close to shedding tears of joy, she smiled. God and the saints had been listening after all. It was another miracle that standing before her now was a young woman of nearly the same age and height, with a riot of flowing ebony hair and piercing amethyst eyes shadowed with pain and worry. Here, obviously, was someone else who was desperate. Shoving back the hood of her velvet cloak, Jemma almost danced for joy.

If she could persuade this girl to take her place in the carriage, she could buy even more time. Wheaton would not send up a hue and cry until he reached the Moreaus’ with the wrong passenger. By then, Jemma figured she would have had more than enough time to find shelter and think about her options.

Wanting to put her newfound companion at ease before the harried stranger escaped, Jemma spoke softly, her whisper echoing in the deserted chamber.

“I can’t believe it. God finally answered one of my prayers, and in the nick of time, too. I was beginning to give up.” She unfastened the gold clasp at her throat, drew her cloak off her shoulders, and held it out to the dark-haired girl.

“Here. Take this and be quick. I’ll need yours,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” Her savior glanced frantically about, as if she expected someone to leap at them from the shadowed corners of the church.

“I don’t have all night.” Jemma glanced at the door, afraid Wheaton would become suspicious and come looking for her. She had intended to be long gone by now. She had to either exchange places with this girl or leave immediately by another entrance. Jemma shook the ruby velvet at her stunned companion.

“Take it and give me yours.”

“But—”

“Look, I know there is some reason you were hiding out there all alone at this time of night, and my guess is that you are on the run. Am I right?”

The black-haired girl glanced around again, refusing to answer.

Jemma saw her well-laid plan beginning to crumble. “Please, I’m begging you,” she implored. “You have to help me. I’m trying to get away, too.”

“I’m in no position to help anyone.” The girl seemed to be sizing Jemma up, weighing the possibilities. She was soaked through, her hair limp and tangled. Her strange eyes were haunted, centuries-old eyes in a young face. “You are right. I am in a hurry to get away from here.” It was all the stranger would admit.

“Good. Give me your cloak,” Jemma demanded.

The dark-haired girl glanced into the recesses of the church, into the cavernous building where continuous rituals of birth, life, and death were celebrated.

Certain that things were about to go her way, Jemma forced herself to stay calm and not frighten the girl any more than she already had. Finally, the mysterious stranger untied the plain cord that held a forest-green wool cloak closed at her throat.

She gathered the worn fabric against her heart before she handed it over to Jemma. “Why are you so willing to help me?”

“I’m offering you a way out of here in exchange for my own freedom,” Jemma shook the cloak at her again.

They quickly traded wraps. Donning the threadbare wet wool, Jemma whipped the tie tight, poised to flee, waiting to give the other girl instructions. When the gold clasp on Jemma’s velvet cape was latched, the girl pulled the hood up. Jemma shoved the fugitive toward the door.

“Keep the hood up, run across the street, and get into the carriage.”

“But the driver—”

“He can’t wait to be rid of me.
You
, that is,” she lied. “Just don’t let him see your hair or your face. He’s a lout who won’t even bother to help you aboard. Just climb in and slam the door.”

“Surely I could never pass as you—”

“Where you are headed, no one has ever laid eyes on me. You will have a whole new life if you decide to take it. Just go along with all of it—or not—but by the time they find out you are not me, it’ll be too late by then and I’ll have gotten away.”

It was the perfect out. After all, she was not exactly sending this beautiful, exotic stranger to her doom.

“Will I be safe?”

The question took Jemma aback. She hadn’t thought for a moment that she might be setting the girl up for harm; still, she reckoned the worst that could happen was that the Moreaus would rant and rave a while when they learned the truth. Her father might have sold her into marriage, but he would have never signed the agreement if he had not approved of the Moreaus in the first place.

“I would never send anyone into danger. So, you will do it?” She could feel precious seconds evaporating with every frantic heartbeat. Jemma grabbed the door handle and opened the door a few inches. Planting her hand on the stranger’s waist, she urged her out into the rain.

Wheaton was still hunched on the driver’s box. She watched him tip his head back as he pressed the mouth of a bottle to his lips.

Just when Jemma thought the girl was about to run for the carriage, she paused once more, turned back, and with a worried sincerity in her eyes asked, “If I take your place tonight, what will you do?”

Jemma could see that the girl was about to falter. She needed just the right answer, something that would convince the fugitive that going along with the plan was the right thing to do.

“I will fulfill my wildest dream. I want to be a nun.”

It was a bald-faced lie, but it worked. Relief and acceptance washed over the dark-haired girl, as if she had been waiting for some sign that it was all right to agree with the scheme. The thought of freeing Jemma to follow a religious calling had done the trick.

Jemma stiffened when she saw Wheaton pocket the bottle and glance over at the church. He placed one hand on the back of the seat, about to climb down.

“Hurry!” Jemma shoved the girl again. “Keep the hood over your face.”

“But—”

“Go!”

The dark-haired girl pulled the edges of the cloak close and drew the hood around her face. Jemma could not afford to waste time to see whether Wheaton would discover the switch. She turned and ran for the side door. The vestibule floor was slick with the muddy water they had tracked in. She took care not to slip.

Heading for a side door near the altar, she ran down the center aisle of the church, rounded the front pew, and skidded to a stop. She ran back to genuflect hastily before the altar, crossing herself with a wave of her hand before she was off again. The door banged shut behind her.

The cold rain was a shock. She took a deep breath to clear her head. The heady scent of incense had given her a headache. Her heart was pounding. She was alone on the streets of one of the most exotic, crowded, dangerous cities in the world.

It was positively exciting. It was absolutely thrilling.

“I hope you’re watching over me, Grandpa,” she whispered as she started running up a busy street behind the church.

Go, girl, go
.

Quickly she lost herself amid the crowd, mingling with the well-dressed pedestrians. Snatches of conversation hummed about her, a lyrical sound, a strange combination of French and English and something more. Beneath many of the balconies overhanging the street, dark-eyed beauties took shelter from the rain on the arms of their escorts.

Jemma kept the hood of her cloak up as she zigzagged between the couples and small clusters of pedestrians who vied for space on the wooden walkway that kept them out of the quagmire on the muddy street. She slipped between two groups, hoping each would think she was with the other.

The street was crowded with carriages. Daring a glance over her shoulder, Jemma breathed an audible sigh of relief. There was no sign of Wheaton or the hired carriage.

Sheltered from the rain beneath a balcony, her interest was piqued when she noticed a crowd gathered around a very tall man in a black hat. His leather clothing appeared to be adapted from the style of an Indian tribesman, made of pieces of well-tanned hide stitched together.

Intrigued by the woodsman, frustrated because she was behind him and couldn’t see the big man’s face, Jemma edged along the front of the building, keeping in the shadows but drawing closer to hear what was being said.

The man was apologizing to a dark-haired, sloe-eyed Creole gentleman who was apparently very angry. In a move Jemma thought more than foolish, the Creole struck the giant backwoodsman squarely across the jaw with a white kid glove. Jemma decided the shorter man was either very stupid or very foolhardy.

The man in buckskins had a voice that carried over the crowd. “I told you I was sorry. I stopped your lady friend here because I thought she was someone else. What the hell was that slap for?”

Even Jemma knew what the slap meant, and she suspected the woodsman did too. It seemed ridiculous, such a bold challenge coming from a quaking little Creole with a rapier-thin mustache and oiled hair. He was so much shorter than his opponent that he had to bend backward just to meet the taller man’s eye.

Jemma crept closer to listen and heard the Creole say, “I am calling you out,
monsieur
. We will meet under the oaks at dawn. I’m sure you can find someone of your kind to stand as second.”

Incredibly homely, the lady the woodsman had mistaken for an acquaintance possessed a long horseface and uneven teeth. While her escort fumed, the brunette stared curiously at the woodsman, carefully looking him up and down.

“Look, mister,” the tall man began, “I’m sorry, but I don’t get up before dawn for anybody, not even you. If you’re smart, you’ll accept my apology and forget it. I didn’t mean the lady any harm.”

Jemma could see that the man in buckskins was trying to win the others over with a smile. At least six foot three, he far outmatched the Creole.

“
Never
will I forget such an insult to my Colette!” The young man’s eyes glittered as he wove unsteadily on his feet. Too much drink gave him false courage. “Choose your weapon,
monsieur
.”

The crowd around them gasped—all but Jemma, who hung on every word and action. It was the most exciting scene she had ever witnessed.

The unattractive woman had become the center of attention. She gazed at the crowd and almost preened, apparently thrilled that one of her companions would even consider dueling to defend her honor.

The huge man in backwoods dress sighed so loudly that everyone heard it. “I choose fists.”

The two smaller gentlemen burst into a spate of Creole French, one obviously arguing a case of common sense to the other. The brunette whipped up the fan at her wrist and snapped it open. Holding it above her head, she used it to shield her face from the rain.

When the woodsman drawled, “Excuse me,
monsewer
,” Jemma almost giggled aloud. The man was well aware of the crowd pressed around them. He shifted his stance and flexed his wide shoulders to make a point of emphasizing his stature and build before he said, “The last man who challenged me to a fistfight never lived to tell about it. If I were you, I’d take that apology and call it a night.” As a
coup de grâce
, he cradled his long rifle in his arms like a babe. The trigger was level with the little Creole’s nose.

Finally, the challenger backed down and dismissed the giant with a nod. The crowd sighed with relief.

“That’s mighty neighborly of you. No hard feelings?” The huge American finally smiled.

“I accept your apology,
monsieur
.” The offended Creole was beet-red.

The Creole linked arms with his disappointed admirer and, along with his male companion, began to hustle the brunette away through the crowd. Titters of laughter and conversation filled the night air as the tension was broken and the theater patrons began to move on.

Jemma edged around the crowd, more compelled to see what the face of the amazing man in leather looked like than she was to stay dry. Squeezing between two burly gentlemen who smelled of bay rum and musty wool, she nudged forward.

Jemma blinked once and then again. The backwoods giant had turned around and she could see him clearly. He had tied a headful of wild blond hair into a queue, but most of it had escaped to hang over his shoulders. The thick shadow of a new beard couldn’t hide his strong jaw and emphasized his moss-green eyes. The long, well-oiled barrel of his rifle caught the lamplight as he cradled it with a practiced nonchalance.

His entire being radiated adventure, daring, the call of the wilderness.

Not so much as a flicker of emotion crossed the woodsman’s face. The crowd was nearly disbanded. Jemma realized her vulnerability. She ducked back into the shadows, unwilling to let the man in the tanned leather see her until she could formulate a plan. He turned and headed off alone in the direction of the cathedral.

“Damn!” she whispered under her breath, dogging his steps while she hugged the buildings. Praying that Wheaton was well on the way to the Moreau plantation, Jemma took a chance and followed the backwoodsman down the street.

She couldn’t help but notice how confidently he strode along, his shoulders as wide as a door, his back as straight as an oak. The people he passed paused to take a second glance at his imposing presence before they moved on. Everything about him appeared savage, from his dress to his unkempt hair and the long, lethal knife strapped to his thigh.

Here was a man who laughed in the face of danger. Here was a man whose middle name was adventure.

Here was a man of honor. She could tell by the way he’d refused to participate in a duel he obviously would have won, no matter what weapons were chosen. Here was a man who could get her out of New Orleans, a man she would feel safe with. All she had to do now was convince this savage-looking stranger that he wanted nothing more than to help save her from a fate worse than death.

She had to find out where he was going and ask him to take her along. She needed to convince him that he was the only one who could help her.