Lady Vixen (24 page)

Coldly
he told himself, it made no difference. And yet . . . Nicole could easily
destroy his prestige with the more respectable members of New Orleans society.
Did it matter?

Privateering
was not a dishonorable profession, but certain eyebrows would be raised,
whispers would follow him, and he would no longer be welcome in some homes. But
it was a risk he would have to take—besides what did he care for
"society"? Of course, he could leave Nick with Lafitte . . . but he
disliked that idea excessively.

Memory
is an elusive thing; as he lay there other memories of Nick came back—the sight
of the small figure, nimble-quick, climbing into the riggings; the blazing
excitement in the topaz eyes at the sign of a fight; the way her lip curled
with determination as she worked at the table in his quarters. There were a
thousand pictures of her as Nick that flashed across his brain, and he wondered
how he could have been so blind not to have fathomed her disguise long ago.

Perhaps
unknowingly he had. He had treated her with a teasing quality that no one else
saw, he had tolerated her insolence to an astonishing degree, and somehow,
whether deliberately or not, he had seen that she was safe during battle. He
admitted with reluctance that there had always existed a careless though
inconsistent affection for Nick. Definitely he had given no thought to Nick
during those times he disappeared and became Christopher Saxon. He wondered how
she had managed those times while he was away. Distastefully he remembered
Ballard. Of course. She had probably lived on
La Belle Garce
while the
ship was at Grand Terre, and as most of the crew kept to themselves, they would
have paid her little attention. But she had run an appalling risk.

Unable
to sleep because of his thoughts, he slipped Nick out of his arms and left the
bed. Crossing to a table, he found a tray of liquors. Pouring himself a snifter
of cognac, he wandered impatiently around the dark room, his thoughts drifting
inexplicably in a direction he didn't like. If he was plagued by the memory of
Nick as his cabin boy, that memory awoke another, one that, like a sleeping
beast, he always kept in the deepest recesses of his mind. When he thought of
Nick, it was inevitable that he would recall her mother and events best
forgotten. But tonight those memories would not be denied—and with despair he
remembered Nick's lovely mother, Annabelle, and his uncle!

Thinking
of how they had so cleverly used him made him almost ill with fury. For how
long, he wondered, had Annabelle's husband been suspicious that there was
another man? It couldn't have been for too long or they could never had made
him the goat. Looking back he could see it all so clearly—the affair between
his Uncle Robert and the neighbor's sultry wife, both enmeshed in marriages
they could not or would not end. Was it fear of exposure that had prompted them
to sacrifice him? Or had his uncle had a more evil design? So easily, he
realized now, he could have died in the Navy, leaving his uncle heir to his
grandfather's and the Saxon estates.

A
controlled fury seemed to burn within him as he brooded over those long-ago
days. God! How he had worshipped her, the scintillating Annabelle, her hair
like flame and a body that consumed a man like fire. Oh, how slyly she had
charmed him, and he, like a fool, had lavished all his young love on her. He
had been unable to conceal his adoration and knew the adults were amused by his
calf love. But little did they know that she met him secretly at the pavilion,
introducing him to mysteries of physical desire. That Robert had known of the
meetings he was sure. But had Robert been aware that those secret meetings had
been torrid, had he known how Annabelle had taken his virginity and initiated
him thoroughly in the arts of love? Somehow he doubted his uncle had known
that!
Annabelle had been like a narcotic in his blood, Christopher recalled
sickly, as she teased and played with him, mocking his avowals of love and
teaching him deception. But for his goddess he could endure anything, even the
way she treated him with amusement in front of others, because he knew that
when night fell he would lose himself within her welcoming flesh. He snorted
with contempt at his own fatuousness. He must have been out of his mind to
believe that a woman, ten years older and at the height of her beauty, would
have fallen in love with a gangling, uncertain boy of fifteen.

She
hadn't. Of course he knew that now, had known it since that awful, black moment
when his grandfather, his face tight with rage, had hurled those condemning
words at him while she, deceitful bitch, sobbed piteously into her handkerchief
and cried that he had raped her and then held that over her head to compel her
to give into his lustful demands. Even now he could recall the dull rage that
had ripped through his body, his despair at this brutal end to his dreams.
Annabelle's husband had stood stiffly at her side, his dark eyes plainly
showing his galling frustration that Christopher was only a youth and unable to
meet him on the dueling ground. And pride had forbidden Christopher to answer
any of the accusations. His face had frozen, and something deep within him had
died that day. On the verge of violence, he had flung himself from the room,
only to fall into the tender claws of Robert. Unpleasantly he thought of how
easily he had been manipulated. Still unaware of the relationship between
Annabelle and Robert, he had been like wax in his uncle's hands as Robert
sympathized and suggested that they leave the house for a while and retire to
an obscure country inn, where they could thrash out this terrible development.
Duplicitous Robert had soothed his bruised, confused young spirit as they sat
over their beer in the private backroom of the inn, and then that too had been
torn from him. With a great rush of rage he visualized that last ugly
scene—himself bound and gagged, beaten viciously by his uncle, and Annabelle in
Robert's arms. He had stared with fascinated repulsion as they, unaware or
uncaring, had coupled like animals on the rough floor, and with distaste he
could still see the look in Annabelle's eyes as she straightened her rumpled
skirt and asked, "What about him? Now that he's served his purpose, how
are you going to get rid of him?"

Robert
had laughed, pulling her to him. "Don't worry over him. This time tomorrow
he'll be somewhere at sea, an unfortunate victim of one of the press-gangs—only
my father and your husband won't know that. They'll assume he's run away rather
than face the shame."

She
had smiled and her green eyes sparkled with glee. "You're so clever, Robert.
Who else would have devised such a skillful plan to answer Adrian's suspicions.
He believes fully that Christopher is the man I've been meeting." She
giggled, obviously pleased with the situation. But her worries were not
completely stilled, and with a shade of anxiety she had inquired, "But
what if
he
comes back?"

Robert
had shrugged. "That, my love, is extremely doubtful. The rigors of the
Navy should take care of him. Besides, we are at war with France. And if he
should survive, he'd be unable to harm us. Who would believe him?"

"I
suppose you're right." She had left without a glance at him, and within
the hour Christopher had been in the brawny hands of a press-gang, after having
been ushered into the room by a broadly smiling Robert.

Christopher's
body trembled with the force of the emotions that surged through him, and his
fist was clenched so tightly that the bones showed white beneath the tanned
skin. Goddamn them! he thought with fury. Goddamn them to hell! His hands
shaking with the rage of the powerful hate that consumed him, he poured himself
another cognac. He swallowed it blindly overcome by fury. With an effort he
pulled himself from the past. It was over and done with, he told himself
heavily, and brooding on it would only destroy
him.

Ah,
you fool, he thought disgustedly, you can't be hurt, you tore out the ability
for anyone to do that to you long ago. Have done with the past. You can do
nothing about what happened, and Annabelle is beyond your grasp, dead, drowned
in the sea!

But
vengeance is a strong emotion, not easily put aside, and deliberately he
focused on Nicole. How ironic that Annabelle's daughter should fall into his
hands. There was, he admitted, a certain amount of pleasure in tormenting her
daughter, in bending Nick to his will and— honesty made him say it—in punishing
Nick for her mother's sins!

"But love
is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves
commit."

—Shakespeare,
The
Merchant of Venice

Christopher
Saxon, his lean, clean-shaven face wearing an expression of weary disdain, was
listening to the idle conversation around him. Why the devil had he let his
friend Eustace Croix talk him into attending the Lavilles'
soirée
he
would never know. Jesus Christ, but he was bored! He should have expected it.
The Lavilles were elderly and so were most of their guests. When Eustace had
begged for his company that night, he must have been mad not to have cried off.

Christopher
Saxon was not a particularly sociable young man. He was silent and withdrawn,
and he held himself aloof from those who would have sought his friendship.
Cold,
callous, unfeeling
were epithets frequently hurled at his dark head. He
appeared to be all of those things and would merely shrug his elegant shoulders
and turn his back on whatever displeased him. This is not to say he was shunned
or unpopular. Quite the contrary! Every morning during his sporadic sojourns in
the city, his servant presented a small silver tray upon which reposed several
invitations to attend this party or that ball, or to bear this or that
acquaintance to a cockfight, or to see the latest beauties at the Quadroon
Ball. By virtue of his wealth and handsome face he was a definite favorite of
ladies with marriageable daughters. Most men thought him pleasant enough, if a
bit cool.

But
he never lacked for either companionship or amusement, and he had deliberately
kept himself from making any close friends. Friends had a way of inquiring
after one, of calling upon one when perhaps it was not convenient, and of
interesting themselves in one's affairs.

At
first he had withheld himself from intimate associations because of necessity,
and then because it had become a habit. It suited him that there was no one who
knew Christopher Saxon well.

Polite
society accepted him as he was. His manners were correct, his family in England
well connected, and no one could say much against him. To be certain there were
those members of the Creole aristocracy who still remembered the disgraceful
circumstances in which he had acquired his fortune—his comfortable mansion in
the Vieux Carre, and the plantation, Thibodaux House—but they were few, and
even they could not doubt that young Eugene Thibodaux had been a fool to game
away his entire fortune.

A
sharp inquiry from the formidable matron at his side abruptly brought Saxon
back to the present, and with practiced ease he covered up his lapse and joined
the conversation. The remainder of the deadly evening crept by, and he could
barely restrain his relief when he finally escaped.
Never
would he be
gulled into attending another of the Lavilles' interminable dinner parties.

Returning
to his own grand stucco and brick home a few blocks from the Lavilles' he
discovered he was not yet sleepy. He considered for a moment going to one of
the bordellos or coffee houses in search of amusement but found the idea not to
his liking. After ordering a decanter of whiskey to be brought to his room, he
dismissed the servant for the evening. Stripping off his finery, he shrugged on
a heavy robe of black silk. He poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and stepped
through French doors onto the balcony that overlooked the courtyard.

He
stayed there a long time, staring at nothing, sipping his whiskey. He knew he
should have been well-satisfied, yet he was not, and places and amusements that
had once absorbed his attention were now less than exciting. He was startled to
realize that he was at a standstill, uncertain as to the direction in which he
should exert his energies.

Captain
Saber was no more! The plantation was organized to the extent that it required
only the lightest supervision to run it perfectly. He was not a man to whom
stolid respectability appealed—and right now he wasn't so certain that he had
been wise in selling
La Belle Garce.

Perhaps
he wasn't cut out for a life of indolence and ease, he thought cynically. These
past few weeks had not been as pleasant as he had thought they would be. Some
spark of challenge and excitement was lacking. Yet this visit had been no
different than any other. True, there was the knowledge that he would not
become Captain Saber again, but that could not account for his dissatisfaction.
He was just, he admitted ruefully, plain bored. He should have brought Nick
along, he decided wryly. She would have made for a lively time, he thought with
a grin. And against his will, he wondered what she was doing tonight. Probably
visiting a voodoo queen to obtain a potion to bring about his early demise.

To
his intense annoyance he found his thoughts returning to Nick at the most
inopportune times. Dancing with one of the reigning belles and gazing into her
truly beautiful brown eyes, he discovered that he preferred Nick's.
Hers
were
deeper, more lustrous, and certainly more lively. Attending a
soirée
where
he was introduced to the charming niece of his host, he decided that while her
mouth was delightfully curved, Nick's was softer and infinitely more kissable.
Noticing at the opera one night a striking auburn-haired beauty, he thought her
shining locks insipid and faded next to the memory of the burnished flame in
Nick's dark hair. It was vexing and disturbing to one of his nature to have
these unsettling thoughts, and he cursed his foolish preoccupation with this
rebellious, topaz-eyed vixen. With a derisive snort he walked back into his
room.