Lady Vixen (30 page)

Staring
into the leaping flames, Nicole came to several decisions. She wouldn't think
about Saber—or Christopher, as she would have to remember to call him. Somehow,
though, she felt he would always be Saber to her, no matter what the future
would bring. But from now on she would work very hard to regain her manners and
follow the dictates of polite society. Whatever he was up to, the fact remained
that he was going to do just as she would have wished. The only fault she could
find was that Allen would not be freed immediately. She frowned as she thought
about Allen. Christopher, and firmly she called him that in her mind,
Christopher
had said he would release Allen—but dare she trust him? Yes, she decided
slowly after a great deal of thought. Christopher was a clever devil, but if he
had said he would do something he would see it done. And he had stated outright
that Allen would be set free. Unharmed? Her blood suddenly chilled. Christopher
was perfectly capable of freeing Allen all right—right into the hands of the
American military!

Realizing
suddenly that she should have questioned him more closely, she started to her
feet, only to be brought up short by Galena's admonition that she sit still.
And of course she could not confront him in such inappropriate dress. How
quickly the rules of society overtook one, she thought cynically.

She
slept badly that night, tossing and turning, waking a half dozen times only to
fall back into a restless doze. Though she tried to convince herself that her
uneasy sleep was because of the new room, deep down inside she knew it had
nothing to do with that.

Somewhere
at the back of her consciousness had always been the thought that someday she
would return to England and her home. How, when, or why hadn't been important.
Nicole wasn't given to deep thinking, living for the most part on the surface
of her emotions, but the abruptness with which this had happened made her, for
the first time in her life, look inside at her deepest feelings. And she didn't
like at all what she saw!

Trying
to ignore the pull of physical attraction between herself and Christopher was
futile. It existed and she would have been a fool to pretend otherwise. Whether
she liked it or not, part of her restlessness was due to the unpalatable
knowledge that her body wanted his, and that she would have given a great deal
still to be in that room that adjoined his, knowing that he would be coming to
her bed whenever he chose. She was secretly appalled and ashamed, but she knew
it was true.

She
wasn't so sure of her emotions concerning the return to England. Did she really
wish to go back? She thought not—not if it meant being parted from Christopher!

Uncomfortable
and just a little frightened at where her thoughts were taking her, she twisted
the bedclothes into such knots with her constant tossings that close to dawn
she had to get out of bed to straighten them. Climbing back into the bed, she
lay there giving up all pretense of sleep. She was caught in a trap of her own
making— pride would not allow her to back down from her once fiercely desired
wish to oust the Markhams. And there was the further, lowering knowledge that
even if she threw earlier dreams to the winds, Christopher was not likely to
change his plans. Instead he would be more than certain to question and wonder
at her change of heart— wonder and perhaps guess at something she herself
wasn't even willing to name. Consequently, in view of the night she had just
spent, it was a moody and heavy-eyed young woman that greeted Miss Mauer in the
morning.

Miss
Mauer looked precisely like what she was—a very efficient lady's maid—from the
top of her graying dark locks, neatly combed and arranged in a bun behind her
head, to the sturdy black slippers on her feet. She was not a large woman, nor
an especially pretty woman, but her snapping black eyes, a lively smile, and
her quick, deft movements gave her a pleasing appearance. She had a soft voice
and when she spoke her French accent was noticeable.

After
having ascertained with a swift glance that the clothes had already been neatly
hung in the large cherry-wood armoire near the corner of the room, she folded
her hands and asked in a diffident tone of voice, "Would Mademoiselle care
to dress?"

Nicole,
seated on her bed and viewing the day with an uneasy eye, looked at her with
consideration. She would have liked to order the woman from the room, but
knowing it would only precipitate a scene with Christopher and that this
situation was not of Mauer's making, she said reluctantly, "I suppose I
should." Then in a burst of honesty that endeared her instantly to Miss
Mauer, she admitted, "I've never had my very own maid before, you know, so
you shall have to show me how to go on."

Nothing
could have been more calculated to make Miss Mauer her slave. Used to spoiled
women of fashion and aging beauties fighting desperately against the ravages of
time, Nicole was a refreshing change. And once Nicole made up her mind to bow
to the inevitable, everything was swiftly and agreeably arranged.

It
was, as it turned out, a pleasant morning. Nicole, at Mauer's request, tried on
first one gown then another. And very speedily Mauer made the necessary
notations. As soon as the fittings were over, Mauer set about altering one gown
for Nicole to wear that day, promising, as she was a notable needlewoman, that
the others would be ready in no time at all.

An
amber-bronze gown of serge with the new fashionable long sleeves and tiny
buttons at the wrist was the dress finally selected to be altered first. It had
the high waist that was once again in demand, and what would have been a
shockingly low-cut bodice was filled with ecru-colored lace.

While
Miss Mauer busily plied her needle, the two exchanged pleasantries. On Nicole's
part the exchange was naturally guarded. She had to be careful of what she said
and wished she had thought to question Christopher more closely on exactly what
Miss Mauer had been told.

She
needn't have worried about Mauer's reaction to her careful replies. Mauer knew
better than to inquire too deeply into her employer's affairs, and if by chance
she discovered something of a scandalous nature, her mouth was very firmly
sealed—no one would hire a chatterbox who divulged all she knew!

The
gown completed to her satisfaction, Mauer rather hesitantly suggested that
perhaps before dressing, they should see to Nicole's hair.

Surprised
and a little wary, Nicole asked, "What exactly do you mean?"

"Mademoiselle,
you have beautiful hair, and such a dark, deep auburn, o la la, but perhaps it
is a little, little long and ill-cut,
n'est-ce pas?"

Looking
in the mirror at the burnished mass of dark fire that fell almost to the middle
of her back, Nicole admitted somewhat cautiously, "Yeees, it probably is a
trifle long, and I haven't taken very good care of it."

Encouraged,
Miss Mauer suggested, "Perhaps, if I were to trim a little off it would be
easier to manage and to dress more fashionably?"

A
gleam of mischief in her eyes, Nicole readily agreed, feeling certain that
Christopher would forbid it if he knew. And so in perfect accord, if not for
the same reasons, they set about creating the "new" Nicole.

Some
two hours later it was a
very
fashionably dressed young lady who viewed
herself in the long mirror. Her hair fell a little below her shoulders with a
soft fringe across the forehead. Mauer had then arranged it in ringlets on top
of her head with one long curl coaxed to rest on her shoulder. The amber gown
fit to perfection, and the color was a pleasing foil for her burnished dark
hair. A spangled shawl draped across her shoulders and bronze silk slippers
completed the picture. For a long time Nicole stared at the tall, decidedly
elegant creature before her. It seemed incredible that the fashionable young
woman with the dark eyes and slender full-bosomed figure could be herself.

With
a funny little catch in the region of her heart, she wondered if Christopher
would find this "new" Nick more appealing than the old. Or would he
continue to make half-savage, half-tender love to her one minute, and then
snarl and snap the next.

If
Nicole had been thrown off balance by the events of yesterday, so had
Christopher. He hadn't expected the fierce surge of pleasure that had whipped
through him at the sight of that slim figure in her boy's clothing, nor had he
expected to feel any regret about their eventual parting. That he experienced
both of those emotions left him torn between fury that any woman could arouse
such feeling, and disgust, mingled with uneasiness, about the reasons for these
very unnatural emotions.

He
was not about to fall into the same snare he had years before—and certainly not
with that slut Annabelle's daughter! Venting some of his anger by slamming from
the library and demanding that Sanderson see that a tray of liquors was
prepared and sent to the gun room, he stalked down the hall. Some minutes
later, sprawling on the worn leather couch and staring at the fire, he
proceeded to swallow one glass of whiskey after another. It was something he seldom
did, if ever, but just now he didn't want to think about anything.

He
told himself that events were working out for the best, and any regret on his
part was only because he hadn't yet grown tired of Nicole's body. She meant
absolutely nothing to him. She was a pawn to be used—as was Mrs. Eggleston!

Christopher
was badly rattled. He thought himself a hard man, and he was. Yet since he had
decided to give up all connections with Lafitte and privateering, the
emotionless cloak with which he had clothed himself for so many years was
showing quite a number of tears and rents.

He
could remind himself that his concern in New Orleans's safety was purely
selfish—he didn't want his own interests harmed, did he? He could also excuse
his behavior with Mrs. Eggleston. After all, he argued with himself, she had
always been good to him. Besides, he would be using her for his own ends,
wouldn't he? And if he was doing the proper thing by returning Nicole Ashford
to her relatives in England, it was only because it served his purpose. Having
blackened his character to his satisfaction and convinced himself that he was
indeed the filthy beast that Nick called him, he proceeded to drink himself
blind.

He
woke the next morning in a foul temper, but certain things had clarified themselves
in his mind. He was not going to search and rack his brains to find reasons for
why he was acting as he was—he was doing it because it suited
him.

Dressing
hurriedly in a pair of comfortable buckskins and top- boots, he made
arrangements to spend the morning with his manager, Hans Bartel, going over the
plantation account books and discussing the plans to be carried out in his
absence.

After
spending an agreeable morning with Hans and making plans to inspect several
innovations that had been made in his absence the next day, he returned to the
house in a fairly amicable frame of mind, denying vehemently to himself that he
was looking forward to seeing Nick in some of the finery he had brought for
her. As it was, he returned to the house and was preparing to go upstairs and
change for lunch just as Nicole was coming down. Catching sight of each other,
for a long second they froze—Nicole about halfway down the stairs and
Christopher with one foot resting on the first step.

Nicole's
face paled; she was aware of sudden breathlessness at the unexpected sight of
him, and Christopher couldn't quite hide the quick flame that turned his eyes
bright gold as he stared at the lovely picture she made in the amber-bronze
gown.

They
both recovered quickly, although a muscle still jumped in Christopher's cheek
as he drawled, "Very nice. You'll do me credit, m'dear."

Forgetting
her role, Nicole spat, "I wouldn't count on it! Fine feathers do not
necessarily make fine birds!"

Christopher
only grinned. "In your case they make a delectably fine... er...
bird."

"Ladybird,
don't you mean?" Nick shot back. "A soiled dove to be exact."

Christopher's
eyes narrowed and his voice sharpened. "That will be enough! You know full
well that you are not supposed to know about ladybirds or soiled doves.
Remember it!"

Coming
slowly down the stairs, Nicole approached him, and when their eyes were level
she smiled sweetly and murmured, "I wonder whose fault it is that I know
of such things? Who soiled the dove?"

Christopher
caught her wrist and pulled her abruptly against him. They both were angry now,
and Christopher was also fighting the sudden desire to take her to his bed.
Controlling himself, barely, he snapped in a low tone, "Talk like that in
front of anyone else and you'll be ruined!" And because he was moved by
the sight of her and the memory of her kissing Allen in the gloom of the
prison, he had an urge to hurt and added grimly, "And Allen will
die!"

"Bastard!"
Nicole hissed under her breath, her eyes full of fury as she struggled to free
her wrist.

Disgusted
as much with himself as the sudden ugly scene, he released Nicole's wrist.
Harshly he inquired, "Have I made myself clear?"

Glaring
at him and rubbing her wrist, Nicole muttered, "Very."