Patricia Rice (48 page)

Nicholas concealed his shock at meeting Raphael's arrogant dark gaze. Assuming a languid pose, he reclined into the nearest chair and raised an idle eyebrow. "I do. Shall I make introductions?"

Jackson's craggy visage twisted into a scowl. "Cut that bullcrap, Saint-Just. I've had men following him for weeks after a report that he was spying for the British. We caught him trying to sneak out of the city just a while ago. He claims he was working for you and that he thought he was aiding our cause. Would you care to comment now?"

The smile forming on Nicholas's lips was a deadly one that drew some of the arrogance from Raphael's smirk. He didn't feel anger any longer. His soul had died and only coldness replaced it. After the carnage of this day, Nicholas had no desire to ever lift another weapon, except against this one man. Raphael would have to die for what he had done to Francine and to prevent him from doing the same to Gabriella. Calmly, Nicholas reached for the cigars Jackson kept on his desk.

"I'd be happy to, General. Have someone bring up a bottle of brandy; it's a long, involved story. I was on my way to shoot him when you called. I'd be happy to see him hang instead."

Raphael hissed and began to speak in furious Spanish, but his guards jerked him backward and, at a signal from Jackson, led him from the room. The general raised his bushy eyebrows expectantly in Nicholas's direction.

Nicholas didn't feel any better later that night after he had emptied his soul to a man he would have at one time considered his inferior. He wished he could summon enough hatred for Raphael to lie and see him skewered as a spy, but he had no proof of those suspicions. Nicholas could only revile Raphael's character to the general and hope that was sufficient to hold him.

He couldn't help thinking of a proud old man and Raphael's younger brother. Francine was such a long time ago, and the fault didn't lie entirely with Raphael; Nicholas could see that now. A certain pair of accusing green eyes made many things clear. Eavin had not professed her love and then taken another lover, even after he had married and called her his mistress. Even now she was loyally waiting for his return while caring for those in his life who were important to him. She didn't believe the lies and untruths that circulated about him. She defended him against all odds. She did what no one else had done before—loved him without question.

Against common sense, in fact, Nicholas acknowledged wryly as he climbed the stairs to his room. Eavin possessed the same bravery and foolishness of the British soldiers slaughtered today. And for that loyalty he could not let her down now. She had a way of taking away the anger and filling him with hope. Nicholas had a sudden need to believe in a future, and he swung the door open with a surge of hope.

That feeling was shattered the moment he met the gaze of the old black man sitting stiffly in the chair at the window.

* * *

"Are you sure, Belle?" Eavin stared out the window as if she could see through the nighttime. Instead, all she could see was the reflection of the woman lying pale against the sheets. The woman's black hair rocked restlessly back and forth against the pillow, supplying the only answer she would give.

Eavin swung around to face her. "You shouldn't have sent a messenger to Nicholas. He has enough on his mind. You should have let me report it to Clyde Brown. He could gather enough men to look for Raphael."

Belle sent a cynical look declaring Eavin's stupidity and closed her eyes.

Eavin wanted to curse and beat her fist against the walls. Belle had said scarcely two words since she had recovered consciousness, and those words had been to an old black man who had promptly taken the first boat into New Orleans. She could strangle Belle were it not for the fact that the other woman was in such obvious pain already.

"Nicholas will have no choice but to call him out. He could be killed. And if he isn't, if he kills Raphael first, then he will be outlawed. Claiborne will not allow another infraction of the law. You are sending Nicholas to death or exile."

Her lips tightened into a straight line, Belle remained silent. Eavin could almost feel the helpless fury emanating from her. She knew what it felt like to be helpless and angry. There could be no more frustrating feeling in the world. Eavin clenched her fingers into fists and tried to speak reasonably.

"If I tell Michael, he will go after Raphael, too. He doesn't know anything about swords. He will no doubt try to strangle Raphael with his bare hands. He could end up in jail or dead; either way, his past would be revealed. Should he live, it couldn't be here. I don't want to have to choose between Michael and Nicholas."

Belle opened her eyes and glared at her, defying Eavin to make that choice. Belle had been the one to make it; she was the one with the right to make it. Eavin grimaced and looked away.

"I won't be tellin' Michael. There's no purpose in it now. I'll be goin' into New Orleans myself tomorrow. Nicholas can't have found Raphael yet. There's time to stop him."

For the first time Belle looked at her with alarm and spoke. "You can't. You'll lose the baby."

Eavin felt a quiver of fear at Belle's warning. She stopped her hand from straying to that place where she felt the child growing. It wasn't noticeable yet, but it would be soon. Already her breasts were swelling, and she could almost imagine her abdomen shaping into a curve. She kept waiting for the child's first movements, but it was too soon to tell. Yet the infant was very real to her.

She didn't want to lose this baby, but she didn't want to lose Nicholas, either. A cry of desperation escaped her lips as she returned to watching the darkness again.

"I will send Michael before I let you lose that child," Belle announced from the bed. "Nicholas can take care of himself. The child can't. I cannot promise there will ever be another one if this one is lost."

Her anguished cry brought Eavin around again. She stepped toward the bed, read the terrible pain in Belle's eyes, and knelt beside her to take her hand as the woman in the bed whispered her anguish.

"It's gone. I don't know what's happening. They took it away and I may never have it again. Please, don't lose this last piece of my magic."

The cry was hysterical and Eavin gathered the weeping woman into her arms and tried to hold her as the pain and fear finally poured out. Eavin didn't know what Belle was talking about, but she sensed it, and she mourned with her as Nicholas's sister cried herself into oblivion.

Whatever Belle's magic had been, it didn't exist anymore. Remembering her warning earlier of the danger that Nicholas was in, Eavin prayed frantically as she rocked Belle in her arms. She had no way of knowing if Nicholas was safe. The thunder that had rocked the skies all day yesterday had grown silent.

* * *

"You have behaved with dishonor, brought shame upon the name of Reyes, yet I cannot allow you to die a traitor's death."

The prisoner looked up with a glimmer of hope at the old man standing outside his cell. His father had aged immeasurably these last days, but he was a Reyes. He could accomplish miracles. Raphael had thought the evidence brought forward at his trial would have caused the old man to disown him, but he was the eldest son after all, and his brother Alphonso was a weeping old woman.
 

Raphael straightened his shoulders and ignored the rattle of chains as he met his father's gaze. "What would you have me do?"

Some time later the old man walked through the wide portals of the Cabildo and glanced upward to the square of heaven visible above the Place d'Armes. "God forgive me," he whispered in his native language, before straightening his shoulders in the same manner as his son earlier and turning his feet in the direction of the men waiting in the shadows.

A Reyes could not die a traitor. He would die honorably, as a man should.

Nicholas wasn't considering honor or safety. He was cursing himself for three sorts of a fool and parading through the Vieux Carré
 
with murder in his heart. The fact that it was nearly midnight and the streets were full of drunken revelers didn't distract him in the least. He had one immediate goal in life, and that was to murder Raphael Reyes. Someone had to put an end to the fiend's existence, and if Jackson couldn't do it, Nicholas would do it for him. Honor required that he kill Belle's rapist

He'd had two days to reflect on this decision while Jackson had kept him from the prisoner. Nicholas had gnashed his teeth with frustration as a hasty trial was called and witnesses were brought forward to seal Raphael's fate. He hadn't wanted to see Raphael hung by the cool justice of the law; he had wanted to see him suffering as Belle was suffering now. But he would have accepted that form of death. He would not accept Raphael's flight from justice.

The message had said that Raphael planned to escape at midnight. It was close to that now.

This wasn't the furiously explosive anger that had ruled his life for so long. This was a different anger, a calculating one, a slow-burning fire in his gut that resolved to right old wrongs. Nicholas imagined even Eavin would approve of his decision now.

It would be better if he didn't think of Eavin. Her fits of anger were like brief summer storms, over and done with in minutes, leaving a cooling, healing rain behind. She didn't hold things inside and let them simmer into corrosion, nor did she lash out at everyone and everything in the way in her fury. She knew her target and struck it accurately, as she had struck him in so many ways. To think of her now would be to drain away this hatred that had kept him going.

But it wasn't even hatred that had him striding down the street now. It was pain, a raw pain that Nicholas hadn't felt in years, that he had hidden and buried so long ago that he had no memory of it The scent of coffee and
beignets
drifted from a nearby shop still lit and crowded with revelers at this hour. One of the men shouted an invitation to join them, but Nicholas was outside their sphere right now, living in a hell that prevented him from joining the world, a hell to which he had been consigned as a child.
 

 
There had been too little time to develop any plan of action. If it wasn't too late, he would warn the guards. But if Raphael was already free... For Belle, for Francine, for the life he couldn't have, Nicholas would fight, even if it meant his own death.

Before he could enter the unlit alley behind the barred exterior of stucco walls, a dark figure darted past him, followed by a second and a third. Without hesitation Nicholas ran after the first one, recognizing Raphael's slender form with ease. His injured foot pounded with pain, but he had no intention of losing the one goal he had in his life right now.

Nicholas shouted a command at two young soldiers staggering from a tavern. They grinned and joined in the chase, cutting off Raphael's escape from a different direction. In a street lined with buildings, there were few exits other than the alleys leading into private courtyards, and most of these were locked. Frantic, Raphael tried to dodge into the same crowded coffee house Nicholas had passed earlier, but a large form stepped from the doorway to block his path. Nicholas stared at Clyde Brown with incredulity, but didn't stop to exchange words as he followed Raphael's erratic path down the street.

It didn't seem possible, but some fool had left their carriage sitting in the middle of the narrow street. Raphael jumped into the driver's seat, only to jump down a minute later and rush toward a gated alley. Nicholas cursed as the alley door swung open and Raphael disappeared into the interior.

Pulling the gun he had carried with him, Nicholas pursued his own personal demon into the darkness.

The alley ended in a garden courtyard. A fountain splashed the noisome liquid that passed for water in New Orleans. Not a soul was in sight, but a black shadow swung around against the far wall as Nicholas ran into the light of the one swinging lantern.

A shot rang out and Nicholas felt the jolt, felt the searing flesh and the beginnings of a slow trickle of blood, but the pain he had carried with him disappeared as he lifted his arm and aimed.

The sound of his shot echoed off the garden walls, and the figure on the far end jerked, twisted, and crumpled to the ground. There was no satisfaction as the gun fell from Nicholas's numbed hand and he slowly started his own descent into hell.

Nicholas looked up to find the unsmiling visage of Raphael's father bending over him, but his last thought was of Eavin. She would be a rich woman now. He hoped the wealth would make her happier than it had made him.

Chapter 41

Eavin stared incredulously at this bearer of bad tidings, her color fading until Michael thought she would hit the floor. Ignoring the other hysterical women in the room, he leapt to his sister's side and steered her toward the nearest chair. It was a measure of her shock that she didn't protest.

"It's not possible. That just wouldn't be fair," she murmured as Michael pushed her into the chair.

"No one said life is fair, and he's not dead yet. Clyde just said he was injured."

The expression had been "mortally injured," but the finesse had escaped Michael. He turned to the lawman for reassurance, but Clyde merely shifted from one foot to the other.

"Well, man?" Michael demanded. "How bad is it? Raphael couldn't be that good a shot. Don't scare the ladies like this."

Clyde turned helplessly to the dapper young man who had entered behind him. Alphonso shook his head, grief written across his features.