Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (7 page)

She carried her wine with her and settled against the arm of
the little sofa. Alistair sat at an angle to her, his knee pressing into the
volume of her skirt. Her gaze slid over his thigh straining the fabric of his
trousers. She wanted him to touch her again.

“I told you Marcel had asked me to join him on the Bayou
Lafourche,” he said.

She could see flecks of yellow in the deep blue of his eyes.
He smelled wonderful.

“What have you decided?”

He took a deep breath. “I leave tomorrow. I’ll catch up to
General Mouton’s forces in Houma by Thursday.”

Nicolette was unsure whether to commiserate or to
congratulate. She knew Alistair didn’t want to fight. And he was fighting for
the wrong side. But at last he had taken a stand.

“I see.”

His fair skin flushed with feeling, he shifted so that he
faced her directly. “Nicolette, I know you would have me join the Union. But I
cannot.” His voice had deepened, roughened as if thorns tore at his throat.

Ah, so he could be roused. He was actually
impassioned. But about the war. His mind was not on the red drapery at all.

“My family, my friends . . . I am a Southern planter. I am a
part of this life. It would be traitorous to join the Union.”

Did he expect her to condone his choice, was that what he
wanted? They had talked about secession, slavery, Lincoln’s election at length
in the months before the war actually began. He knew her mind. She knew his.

Nicolette set her champagne on the side table, considering
whether she could bring herself to send him off to fight – on the wrong side –
with her blessing.

“Nicolette.” He took her hand. “I must do this.” He knit his
brows, his eyes violet with pleading. “Will you forgive me?”

Nicolette withdrew her hand. She stood and walked to the bow
window overlooking the street. Carriages were lined up at the front entrance,
letting gentlemen off and taking them up. The strains of the orchestra in the
main hall came through the floor. “Hear that? It’s a waltz,” she said.

His voice came to her subdued, flat. “Do you want to dance?
We could go downstairs.”

She shook her head, still staring at the street. “A dance
won’t make the war go away.”

Nicolette heard his soft footsteps on the carpet. When he
took her nearly bare shoulders and turned her to face him, she breathed in his
heady scent. This was what she was here for, wasn’t it? To be touched? Not to
talk about the war.

“Nicolette. My darling.” He kept his hands on her shoulders,
those lovely graceful fingers on her bare skin. Alistair would never hurt her.
She wanted to be rid of the shell she’d erected around herself. She wanted to
feel and want and love.

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, breathing in
the scent of sandalwood and lemon. He slid his hand down her arm, a tingle of
anticipation following his delicate touch. His other hand slipped round to the
back of her waist. He moved her into the waltz, slowly, gently rocking her,
then turning her in graceful arcs around the room.

She relished her ungloved hand cradled in his, skin to skin.
She floated on the music, Alistair’s hand at her waist anchoring her. She felt
the warmth of each of his long fingers through her rosy silk, felt his strength
as he guided them in effortless, lazy circles.

At the drapery’s golden cords, Alistair ceased the waltz.
She opened her eyes. At last she saw what she wanted from him. His blue eyes
blazed with lust, vital and unveiled, with intensity enough to match her own at
last.

His gaze shifted to her mouth. Her lips parted, her
breathing quickened. Heat rose through her when his eyes rested on her bosom.

He bent. He pressed his lips into the fullness of her breast
above the silk ruffle. Heat flooded her, melting the lonely cold core of her
body.

He kissed his way to the bottom of her neck, then her ear.
She turned her head, lips parted. They kissed, slowly, hesitantly, then
desperation rising, he pressed warm firm lips against hers. He touched her
tongue with his, gently, then urgently, driving into her mouth. The taste of
wine and desire flamed through her.

She felt transported, wanting, needing more. Alistair leaned
her head back, his mouth hot and demanding, one fevered hand on her neck, the
other roaming down her back, down, down. He pressed her hips against his hard
body, kneading her flesh.

She’d never been kissed like this, with undisguised hunger
and need. She burned for him, yearned for more, for skin and muscle, mouth and
hands.

His breathing, her breathing, came hot and fast and deep.
Glorying in the latent power of his body, she slipped her hands inside his
coat, dug her fingers into the lean muscle of his back.

“I love you, Nicolette,” he whispered. “You know that, don’t
you?” He kissed her throat, tasted the hollow at the base of her neck. “Say
yes, darling.”

“Yes.”
Yes, pull the
golden cord. Take me to the divan
.

He suddenly enveloped her, tightening his arms around her.
“My darling. You’ve made me the happiest man. You’ll have a house, a carriage,
servants, everything you want.”

Nicolette drew back, her lips, her tongue, still on fire.
“What?”

Alistair dropped to his knee in front of her, his blue eyes
aglow. He clasped her hands and kissed them.

“I’ll take care of you, Nicolette. And the children we’ll
have together. You’ll never want for anything.”

She had been thinking of warm bare skin, of caresses and
kisses, of an end to virginal aching. That’s what she wanted. Alistair’s body
with hers, in hers, on the red divan.

“Kiss me, Alistair.”

“I want you for always, my darling. I want our first time to
be perfect, in our own bed, in the house I buy for you. You understand? For
evermore.”

“Alistair.” She put a hand to her head. “No, I . . . ”

“I can wait, Nicolette, if that’s what you want. Until after
the war. You can continue with your singing, if you like. Continue living in
your mother’s house. I’ll set up an allowance for you before I leave. Then when
the war’s over, I’ll buy you a house. In the Quarter, or in the American
sector, wherever you like.”

For a moment she gazed into his eyes, bright, joyful,
beautiful. She touched his jaw, his ear. Couldn’t she and Alistair be lovers,
just lovers? She wouldn’t have to take his house, or his money.

“I want to take care of you, my darling. You. Our children.
We’ll build a life together.”

He kissed her hands again, his lips hot and fervent. She
wanted that kiss on her mouth, on her breasts. She was flushed and heated, but
she stepped away. At the love seat, she lowered herself slowly, her senses still
dazed.

All she wanted was to make love. Alistair wanted so much
more.

He’d buy her a house, he said. Buy
her
, he meant. He wanted to become her world. She would be idle,
bored, impatient, her life revolving around Alistair and his visits to the home
he provided. Waiting for him to come to her from his other world, she would be
his satellite, no orbit of her own.

Alistair knelt before her, entreating her with his eyes to
take what he offered. She didn’t doubt Alistair’s sincerity. She didn’t need a
certificate of marriage to be sure of his commitment. What she needed was a
love too deep to be dissuaded by convention, a love strong enough to risk what
marriage to a colored woman would entail, one that encompassed acceptance as
well as commitment. She wanted passion, and she wanted affection that included
a man holding his wife’s feet while he read the paper.

Alistair’s offer paled next to that dream. He could never
dismiss the world for her. He wanted to share only a part of his life with her.
He would always be a visitor in her house.

“No, Alistair.”

His voice carried all his frustration, his yearning, his
confusion. “Why, Nicolette?”

When she didn’t answer, he turned from her, his hands
fisted. “You kissed me!”

Nicolette flushed. She had kissed him, had craved his mouth
on hers. Even now, she wanted him. But she’d meant to give him her body, not her self.

“Alistair, you see a colored woman when you look at me. You
don’t see me. You don’t honor me. If I were truly white underneath this white
skin, you would not propose this to me.”

Alistair winced. “Be reasonable, Nicolette. We are known
here.”

Losing patience, she spoke in staccato. “Yes, I am known. As
a free woman who can take care of herself. I do not need to be kept like a
favorite pet.”

An earnest, vertical line creased Alistair’s forehead. “You
don’t understand me, Nicolette. I don’t want a pet.” He captured her hands. “I
want you with me, always. Don’t you see I love you?

How wonderful. To be loved. She could love Alistair. She
nearly did already. But for what? Half a life?

She shook her head. “It’s not enough. I want more, Alistair.
I want a love strong enough that a man would throw over everything to be with
me, strong enough that though my mother was a slave, I’d be worth marrying.”

Alistair paced three steps away, rubbing his hand through
his hair. He turned back to her, resolute. “Nicolette, I will never marry
anyone else,” he declared, commitment in every line of his earnest face. “You
will be my wife in every way.”

“Except that you would be too ashamed to acknowledge me.”

She put her hand to her forehead. Was she being unfair,
expecting him to give up everything for her? If he married her, they would have
to leave New Orleans, never show their faces in Louisiana or even in
Mississippi. His mother would suffer, his sister’s chances would be ruined.

Even if he made such a sacrifice for her, would she do that
for him? Leave Maman, Pierre, Lucinda and the children? Perhaps never see
Marcel or Papa again?

“Alistair, I treasure you.” She dropped her hand to her lap.
“But the sacrifice you would have to make to marry me is one I could not make
either. I don’t expect you to marry me, truly I don’t. I simply don’t want …
less
.”

His eyes took on a determined glint. “You don’t love me,
Nicolette. I know that. But I’ll love you constantly, faithfully, until one day
you
will
love me.”

She shook her head.

He strode to the window, his back to her, frustration
radiating from him.

Nicolette stood. She smoothed her dress. She should go. She
picked up her reticule and arranged the purse strings over her wrist.

Alistair still stared out the window. She wanted to wrap her
arms around him, to comfort him. Even now, she wanted to make love to him,
totally and completely. But he would not understand. If she touched him, he
would think she had relented.

“Good night, Alistair,” she said to his back. “I will pray
God keeps you safe.”

She let herself out. Downstairs, William spied her coming
out and met her at the curb. She hired a cab to take them home, William perched
behind on the baggage platform.

She was already in the carriage when Alistair rushed from
the Blue Ribbon. He leaned in the open window and thrust a leather bag at her.
“Keep this, Nicolette. Please. God knows what the war will bring, or when I
will be back.”

It was his purse, heavy with coin. He retreated from the
window, his face scarlet, his eyes blue fire.

“No, Mr. Whiteaker. Certainly not.”

She leaned out, holding the purse toward him. He backed
away. “Mr. Whiteaker!” she commanded. Anger heated the back of her neck. She’d
said no. She meant no. She did not accept his . . . protection, that archaic
word . . . she would not be bought!

He locked eyes with her, shaking his head.

She reached out further, shoving the purse at him.
“Alistair!”

He turned on his heel. The carriage moved into the street.

Her arm still out the window, Nicolette gazed at Alistair
standing under the gas globe on the steps of the Blue Ribbon. He raised his
hand to her, and her heart lurched. Alistair was going to war. He could be
killed.

The carriage turned, and she could no longer see him. Maybe
would never again see him.

At home, a lantern had been left on for her. She turned up
the flame and lowered herself onto the sofa, the expanse of her rose silk
glowing in the lamplight. She set Alistair’s fine leather purse on the table.
It was heavy. No telling how many gold coins were in it.

He had meant well, giving her his purse. He’d been thinking
about the war, that no one could know what was to come. Even after she’d
rejected him, he wanted to take care of her. He did love her.

Her feelings bubbled up, confusing her, frightening her.
There’d be Yankee sharpshooters, cannons, bayonets. She could lose him. And
Marcel. She could lose them both.

The stairs creaked, and Cleo entered the room carrying a candle.
“You didn’t come upstairs, my love. Everything all right?”

Nicolette’s face crumpled. Cleo crossed to her quickly and
Nicolette buried her face in her mother’s nightgown.

She told Cleo everything. “He might never come back.” She
wiped her face on Cleo’s shawl. “Was I a fool, Maman? Maybe I love him a
little.”

Cleo’s throaty chuckle lightened the moment. “I know you,
sweetheart. If you really loved him, it would not be ‘a little.’”

In the still night, seated together on the sofa, Nicolette
asked her mother what she’d always wanted to know. “Did you love Papa, Maman?
Really love him?”

“Oh, yes. I was desperately in love with that man. Bertrand
Chamard, the handsomest man on the river. I wanted him with all my heart,
Nicolette.”

“But you didn’t let him make you his plaçée.”

“For a while, sweetheart, I did. When I ran away from
Toulouse, Gabriel was a tiny baby, you know. I worried constantly. Did Gabe
have enough to eat? Would the mice and the roaches steal him away in the night?
When your father found us again, I was glad for the little cottage he took for
us.”