Josette (18 page)

Her eyes fluttered open and her hand began to rove. Her fingers traced the scar on his shoulder. “Is this where Trevor shot you?”

He moved her hand from his shoulder. “Good God, is no one in this town ignorant of that foolish duel? Leave that piece of cheese to the mice, if you will.”

Her hand slid to his thigh. “And what of this scar? What happened here?”

He gave her a hard kiss on the mouth and scooted from the bed. “Ask your brother.” He shot her a wicked grin. “That is, if you dare.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh!”

Laughing, he strode to the balcony to retrieve their clothing. He wheeled around to head back to the bed. His sleepy-looking lover sat in the middle of a tangle of bedding, her legs curled under her. He'd done things to her throughout the night—sinful things that made her beg him not to stop. Want rolled through his belly again.

“I wish I didn't have to go, but I must.”

He slipped her night rail over her head and eased her into it, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. Then he helped himself into his own clothes, not minding that she watched his every move. If the day weren't threatening to show its face, he'd climb back in bed without so much as a blink of the eye.

She started to slide out of bed.

“Don't get up.” He plumped the pillows and eased her against them. Then he leaned over and planted a kiss on her swollen lips. “I want you lying right where you are so I can hold the image in my mind for the rest of my days.”

A sultry grin lit her face. “As you wish.”

He moved toward the door. “Did I tell you how good you look in red? But then, you're also well-suited to wearing nothing. I'll see you soon.”

He slipped from the room and moved silently along the darkened corridor. Reaching the stairs, he trotted down them on the balls of his feet. So much seemed to have changed since he climbed these steps mere hours ago. But what, exactly, he couldn't fathom.

Stepping onto the veranda, he shut the door behind him with a solid click. He paused to glance around in a silence so thick he could hear the blood surge in his ears and his lungs at work. Soon, shafts of morning sunlight would spear through the branches of the trees lining the boulevard, warning every living thing that unbearable heat was on its way. He'd not be out in the sticky stuff much. Not this day, anyway.

The hair on his nape bristled.

He was not alone.

But then he'd half-expected this, hadn't he? Still, anger shot through him at the intrusion. He slipped his derringer from his pocket and, palming it, moved through the elaborate wrought-iron gate. After latching it behind him, he strolled along the street at an easy pace, as if nothing were amiss.

Not halfway down the block, Bastièn stepped out in front of him. “Coming or going, Monsieur Andrews?”

Cameron let loose a foul curse under his breath. “Get out of my way before I lay you flat, Thibodeaux. I'm in no mood.”

Bastièn crossed his arms, feet spread apart in a stance that boded ill. “That mark on the right side of your neck. Is that where my sister laid claim to you? Or is it where she tried to fight you off?”

Cameron slammed Bastièn against a tree and shoved the derringer in his gut so fast he had no time to react.

“In case you haven't figured things out, you little prick, your sister did not join a convent when her husband died. She's a widow and a mature woman who can do as she pleases. Your double standards are laughable. While Josette has spent year after year in that big house with no mate to share her life, you're like a stag in heat, busy mounting anything that so much as resembles a female.”

Bastièn's jaw twitched and that irritating smirk appeared. “Ah, but you are so very wrong, monsieur. I only bed women with means. The lovely ones, that is.”

Cameron squeezed Bastièn's throat a little tighter. “Your humor eludes me. If you want to meddle in Josette's affairs, try hunting down your nefarious cousin and cutting him off at the knees. Do the same with Vennard while you're at it.”

“Vennard?” Bastièn stilled. His dark gaze roved Cameron's face. “What does he have to do with my sister?”

Sensing the lust for battle had just drained out of Bastièn, Cameron released him. “Ask your brother, why don't you?”

Bastièn straightened his cravat and gave his collar a tug, setting it to rights. “This is not over between us,
mon ami
.”

“I am not your friend, so do
not
call me that. I'm going to walk away, but as a reminder, should you follow me, you won't have your brother at your side to stick a knife in my leg.”

“You speak with such venom. A pity.”

He had to hand it to Bastièn. While the man had to be furious, he appeared impressively unruffled. Hard telling what kind of revenge he'd think up.

Still, Cameron couldn't resist one last jab at the wily Cajun. “Either leave Josette the hell alone, or move out from under your
maman
's wing and in with your sister. Try befriending her instead of skulking about spying on her as if she didn't have the brains God gave a goose.”

Bastièn laughed, a soft chuckle. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” Cameron turned and headed toward his town house. He had something that needed doing immediately.

Before the
Dianah
sailed.

Cameron stood on the foredeck of the
Dianah
, the restless beat of sailor's blood in his veins yearning to match the rhythmic waves of the sea. Behind him, the commotion of an expert crew readying for the journey played a siren's song to his soul. The ship's bell clanged, the sound filling him with a peculiar melancholy.

Merde
, he wanted to be gone. Wanted to wake up in the middle of nowhere to the clean, salty smell of the ocean. Wanted to step onto the clipper's deck with a cup of steaming coffee in hand and greet the morning sun dancing across the water. Wanted to laugh at playful dolphins racing alongside the ship as if nothing more important in life existed.

He blew out a breath. That familiar freedom couldn't come soon enough. What the devil made him think he'd be in any position to set sail in nine or ten days? It wasn't the shipping business holding him here. There was none better to handle accounts than Abbott; and barely six months into his position, Michel had already proved capable of managing the busy office. As much as Cameron hated to admit it, any fool could see that René was an asset to the company. Not to mention Michel got on well with the shrewd Cajun. Providing Felicité took a steamboat upriver tomorrow and forgot Thibodeaux existed.

Alexia's future was what had Cameron tied in knots. He couldn't very well leave until she agreed to sail with Felicité to England, and he saw them safely on their way.

Blast it all, that could be a month from now if Felicité kept to her plans. He glanced over at the
Simone,
and her busy crew. She was scheduled to sail in three days, bound for Liverpool. Why not haul Alexia aboard at the last minute without her expecting it? Once they reached their destination, he could see her well-situated, then leave with a clear conscience.

His gut soured.

Wasn't that the awful way he'd been shipped off in his youth? He wouldn't shanghai his worst enemy, so why would he even think to trick his own daughter? Wanting to leave New Orleans had to be her idea. And who could be more persuasive than Felicité? Alexia was already smitten with her new friend. Hell, her only friend.

But what if his cousin failed?

Bloody hell. He simply could not allow that to happen. As anxious as he was to be on his way, he couldn't leave his daughter behind to follow in her grandmother's footsteps. Or end up Lucien's victim. And if Josette couldn't handle her now, what might things be like in a couple of years?

Josette.

Images of her ran through his mind like quicksilver. He shoved them aside. Now was not the time to be thinking of her. Not when he stood on the deck of this particular ship, holding the letter he'd penned not an hour after leaving Josette's bed.

He raked his fingers through his hair. What was he to do with a daughter who deserved a better life and didn't know it? Blast it all, he could run a worldwide shipping business with his eyes closed, but couldn't begin to manage a willful child. What a pitiful excuse he was for a father.

A seagull wheeled and dove toward the water. A dip of its head below the surface and off it flew, a fish wiggling in its beak. Croxton stepped beside Cameron. “Eight bells, sir. The
Dianah
is ready to pull up anchor.”

Cameron drew in a breath of salt air and dockside smells—goods, people, and decaying fish. Yes, he wanted to be well away from land. He reached inside his jacket pocket and retrieved an envelope. “You're a man I trust, Croxton. Would you do me the favor of burning this once you're well out to sea? Cast the ashes to the wind?”

Croxton glanced at Dianah's name scrawled across the envelope. His brows scrunched together. “Looks like I could've saved myself the trouble of giving you that little speech a few days back.”

Cameron nodded at the envelope, but said nothing. Everything he had to say was written on those three pieces of paper. It had been hard as hell penning those words to Dianah this morning. His fingers had shaken something terrible while writing, but once it was done, the steel band around his chest had loosened.

Odd, but when he'd signed off with,
I now release you into the loving arms of God
, it was as if a lightning bolt had struck from the heavens, shot right through him and into the earth, grounding him in place for one shocking moment. A light breeze had wafted through the open window, as if Dianah were blowing him a kiss from another world, bidding him a final
adieu
.

The ship's bells clanged, pulling him out of his reverie. He turned on his heel and departed the clipper, then remained dockside, near the painted figurehead of a sylph-like lady attached to the prow. Legend had it these unique carvings embodied the ship's spirit. They were meant to appease the gods of the sea, to bring both vessel and crew safely to the next port. He'd commissioned this particular carving—it bore a remarkable likeness to his deceased wife.

He glanced up in time to see Croxton raise his hand in signal. At his downstroke, precise maneuvers went into play. A couple of sailors hauled up the gangplank while others gathered in the ropes, set the sails and called out instructions to one another. The grind of metal against metal screeched through the air as the anchor cranked into the ship's hawse.

Cameron's heart kicked up a notch.

Croxton strode toward the foredeck. He paused, then tipped his captain's hat to Cameron and disappeared to the leeward side.

It was monumental, the clipper leaving port with Cameron's letter aboard. He lingered, waiting for the sails to billow and catch the sea breeze. They flapped for only a moment before those snowy-white sheets caught a gust of wind and the sleek vessel eased away from the dock. Before he knew it, she sailed off, a flock of seagulls her winged escort. Cheers and shouts went up from the sailors aboard.

He remained in place as the
Dianah
grew smaller and smaller, until she disappeared along the sharp edge of the horizon. In her wake, an inner calm settled in, a kind of lightness that felt like a peculiar sort of victory, if one could call it that. The feeling took on dimension. Suddenly, he understood. His letter hadn't set
him
free. It was Dianah who'd escaped her earthbound chains. His ability to finally say good-bye, to truly let her go in every sense of the word, had given her a set of wings with which to soar to the heavens. Elation mixed with the need to stifle a sob. He had to get out of there.

He left the dock and headed . . . to where? He stumbled to a halt.
Merde.
He wasn't needed in the office, and he sure as hell wasn't going back home, where Alexia and Felicité were likely chatting up a storm over breakfast. He didn't need to interfere with whatever progress Felicité might be making.

So what to do?

At loose ends and feeling suddenly empty, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and slowly headed for familiar territory—Jackson Square.

Soon, he found himself in the Vieux Carré amid the close-set stucco town houses and narrow streets of his youth. Lines of lacy ironwork galleries stood at attention as he ambled along. Although his father had been of British heritage, his mother had been fiercely French. She and her sister—Trevor's
maman
—had seen to it that he and Trevor adhered to old-world ways and customs while growing up in that enclosed environment. A city within a city, some had called the French Quarter, while others went so far as to label the Vieux Carré as its own country.

Once Trevor's siblings had come along, their father had bought Carlton Oaks, a sizeable plantation upriver. Cameron and Trevor, close as brothers, had divided their time equally between the French Quarter and Carlton Oaks. They'd turned into troublemakers only after both their mothers had died.

Nearing Jackson Square, he paused to purchase a
cala
from one of the strolling
marchandes
. That day long ago, when he'd bought one for Josette, flashed through his mind. Her eyes had lit up before she snatched it from his hands and ran off.

Finding a bench, he settled in to eat the confection. A faint smile touched his lips. How he'd enjoyed his childhood walks in this square with his mother, and with his aunt and Trevor beside them. And how he'd delighted in the single, sugary
cala
he was allowed during those outings.

He glanced up at the huge bronze statue of General Jackson astride his rearing horse. The city had erected the thing smack in the middle of the square after changing its name from
Place d'Armes
to Jackson Square in honor of the hero of the Battle of New Orleans. Even though the renaming had taken place when his mother was young, she'd never approved.

Life seemed so simple and carefree back then. Who would've guessed he'd one day feel like a stranger amidst his own people, and that life would become so complicated he couldn't wait to escape what was truly a lovely city?

Alexia.

How would his punctilious mother have responded to a Thibodeaux grandchild—one linked to the very reason he'd been shipped to England. An emptiness echoed through him. Maman had known nothing of that terrible time—she'd already passed away.

With a sigh, he rose from the bench and wandered in the direction of home. He turned up Toulouse Street and headed for Royal. Entering the town house, he found no one home, not even the maid. The idea of shedding his clothing down to his underwear and taking to his room held appeal. Why not spend the rest of the day reading a book and escaping the heat? He strode to the bookshelf and stared blankly at the titles gracing the leather spines. After scanning two shelves, he couldn't remember a single one. This wouldn't do.

The problem was, thoughts of Josette left little room for anything else. She'd been more than an exciting lover last night; she'd helped to free his soul. In between their lovemaking, they'd laughed and talked, completely at ease with each other. He discovered that aside from their powerful physical attraction, he genuinely liked her. In fact, he wouldn't mind some of that conversation about now. His groin hitched. Merely conversation. Nothing else.

Restless, he made for the stairs. Changing his mind, he headed for the door leading outside. He had no intention of dropping in on Josette unannounced. He wouldn't find her at home anyway. Not since she'd mentioned spending the day in her shop preparing creams and lotions.

The Belle Femme. Humph. Now there was a place he couldn't begin to find an excuse to visit. Besides, as much as he'd like to see her again, he needed to keep their visits focused on Alexia. He wasn't fool enough to think there'd not be another night like last night, but he had to take care not to get too involved. No sense complicating things any more than they already were.

Devil take it, he'd go see what Abbott and Michel were up to. Study a few charts and maps. Inspect the current ships in port. Hopefully, his cousin had sent Thibodeaux on some chore that would require his absence for a good part of the day.

No such luck.

When Cameron stepped over the threshold and into the office, René stood in the center of the room, crisp white sleeves rolled back, maps and charts spread across the table. He set down a ruler and pencil. The fiery look in his eyes matched the one in Bastièn's this morning.

Bloody hell if the day hadn't been hard enough as it was.

René crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a hip against the table. “I understand you had a rather enjoyable evening last night,
oui
?”

A rush of anger, and it was all Cameron could do to keep from going after René's throat. “How sweet. You and Bastièn are so close you see fit to discuss every detail in life. The way you go about it, though, one would think you were two gossipy, meddling old ladies.”

He stalked past René without looking his way. “I'd like the morning reports, Abbott.”

Michel, sitting at his desk, held out a sheaf of papers without turning around. “I have them. Thought you weren't coming in today.”

“
Oui
,” René muttered.

“I changed my mind.” Cameron snatched the papers from Michel's hand and strode to the desk across the room. He sat with his back to the men, anger mounting by degrees. “In case anyone has forgotten, I co-own this rather lucrative business, which means I take command whenever I please. If anyone doesn't like it, he can leave. Now.”

Abbott set his pen to his journals and, without a word, scratched away.

René snorted.

Cameron turned in his chair and, seeing René still with his arms crossed and leaning a hip against the table, swallowed the urge to scrounge up a knife and filet the bastard. Instead, he spoke calmly. “I don't give a bloody damn how capable someone is or how they might be connected to me, replacements can always be found. The one thing I won't tolerate is insolence and lack of respect for one's superiors. In the shipping business, to ignore insubordination is suicide. You, Thibodeaux, are no longer employed by this company. Abbott, issue his pay.”

A half-grin caught the corner of René's mouth, the same kind of smirk Bastièn favored. “You recall the little conversation we had in front of your home the other night,
oui
? If not, allow me to give you a hint. It had something to do with two lovely ladies.”

He turned on his heel and walked out.

Michel threw his pen across the room and stood. “What in God's name possessed you to release him when you'll soon be gone? Christ, Cameron, Thibodeaux is a natural at the business. He's already saved us a bundle.”

Abbott glanced up. “He's only been on the job a few days and already he's more efficient than Cooper was. What will he be capable of in six months? A year from now?”