Tears of Gold (21 page)

“There is nothing civilized in killing a man, but you are correct about the dueling. In New Orleans the place is called the Dueling Oaks. Usually, the morning following an argument, when the contestants were sober, they would meet beneath the oaks to fight with either pistol or sword. However, if it was a matter of urgency and the morrow was not soon enough, we could always fight in Père Antoine’s garden in the Church of St. Louis. The disagreement was usually over some imagined slight or slur cast upon a name, or most likely over a quadroon one had danced with at the Orleans Ballroom, which was just a few steps from the church. Most convenient, wouldn’t you say?” Nicholas asked. “I wonder if you can possibly imagine how many epitaphs in the cemeteries read, ‘
Pour garder intact le nom de la famille
’ or ‘
Victime de son honneur
.’ I think it would surprise you, mademoiselle:’

“What is a quadroon?” Mara asked.

“Usually the child of a white father and a mulatto mother.”

“And you fought in many of these duels over a woman?” Mara wanted to know, intrigued despite herself.

“I was a very hot-blooded young man, no different from other callow youths who imagine themselves in love with every alluring woman they see. I made many foolish mistakes, with many tragic consequences,” he added softly. “But you wished to hear of New Orleans, Miss Vaughan, not of my past indiscretions.

“Do you not think we Creoles are to be congratulated for creating such a beautiful city as New Orleans from the swamps? New Orleans is in the delta country, a place of flat marshlands where the tall grasses and clouds are blown by the gentle Gulf breezes. Where bayous, the sleeping water, we call them, with their sluggish currents, are full of lotus blooms floating on foot-wide pads, and cypresses with gray moss trailing into the dark water seem to slip deeper into the clinging mud of the swamps. There is a certain serenity, a peace in the delta that can be very misleading. You can be lulled into carelessness as you listen to the shrill cries of the cicadas or the cooing of doves, or pause to watch a raccoon fishing in a stream. With the scent of honeysuckle and verbena filling your senses, you might wander beyond the willows and sweet gum and the safety of a stream bank covered in wild azalea and dandelions. There are many dangers for the unwary in the bayous, for swimming beneath that murky surface might be any number of evils. Should you step into the water, a cottonmouth—a most disagreeable and poisonous snake of the swamplands—might swim past your bare ankle. Or if you were lucky, you might be warned away by the roar of a bull alligator.

“Yes, I do think we should be congratulated on overcoming such an inhospitable land and making New Orleans one of the most important seaports on the Gulf coast. And one of the most interesting, mademoiselle, for we are a blend of many cultures. And, of course, we are slave territory as well. But my heritage goes back to the time of the revolution in France when New Orleans was looked upon favorably by those who would rather become exiles from the court of Louis XVI than lose their heads. Those French aristocrats brought with them a certain standard of living, a way of life they had enjoyed in Paris and Versailles and were unwilling to give up in the new land. With the grandeur and extravagances of our European ancestors we also inherited an exotic flavor from the French who fled the slave uprisings in Santo Domingo. Unfortunately they brought along with their servants their beliefs in voodoo, an insidious sickness which has gained control over many of the slaves, as well as many superstitious Creoles,” Nicholas said with a contemptuous laugh.

Mara shivered as a cool breeze touched her shoulders. “And you do not believe?”

“The mind is a very strange thing, Miss Vaughan, susceptible to suggestions, should you let it be. I prefer to think I am strong-willed enough to resist such temptations. I do not like to think of another person controlling my life, manipulating my emotions. I think you would not like that either,” Nicholas guessed.

“You are right, Mr. Chantale, for I am always in control of my own destiny,” Mara told him with assured arrogance. “But tell me, what did you do for entertainment in New Orleans?”

“Do not sound so doubtful, for we are as cosmopolitan a city as London or Paris with our theaters and opera, our nightly
bals de societé
, select soirees, and leisurely afternoons spent sipping coffee or wine at Vincent’s or some other cafe or coffeehouse along the avenues around the Place d’Armes. And of course the cuisine of New Orleans is unparalleled. At large private parties, when all the cousins and distant relatives would come to visit, we would dine on turkey, soft-shell crab and oysters, green trout from the bayou, red snapper from the Gulf, ham cooked in champagne, fresh vegetables from the stalls of the French market, and Parisian gateaux, Lafayette cakes, sherbet, and mince pies. All was accompanied by Madeira, claret, or champagne.

“When the social season was over, we would leave the city and drive to our plantations in the country, riding along the Old River Road beneath the oaks draped in Cherokee roses and gray moss. On one side of the road would be the low, green banks of the Mississippi, while on the other side would be the stately, gracefully columned homes and beautiful gardens of the planters. Odd how one does not appreciate such things until one can no longer gaze upon them,” Nicholas spoke more to himself than to her.

“You miss it.” Mara was strangely touched by his reminiscences.

“Miss it?” Nicholas asked sharply, and Mara could almost see him shrug nonchalantly in the dark. “Perhaps, but to feel nostalgic does not necessarily mean one wishes to return to that time or place. New Orleans has its ugly side too, mademoiselle. Just as people do,” he said coldly, brushing aside any compassion she might have offered him.

“Forgive me for thinking anything so naive of you, m’sieu, for you are obviously a very disciplined man and have no place for emotion in your ordered life,” Mara told him, stung.

“Oh, but I do have feelings, mademoiselle,” Nicholas reassured her. “I have tried to harden my heart against many of them, but I do not go completely unscathed. I was but a boy when I saw my mother die of the yellow fever when the plague took New Orleans. Whole families perished overnight. The streets were littered with the bodies of the dying or dead, many of the corpses half-devoured by packs of dogs, now starving without their masters. I can remember very vividly the roar of the cannons throughout the night and the stench of the tar and pitch fires burning on the street corners to fumigate the disease. Wagons and wheelbarrows full of corpses were rolled down the deserted streets of New Orleans.

“Of course, some people would disagree and say that the real plague was the invasion by the Americans with the signing of the Purchase, which sold the Louisiana Territory to the United States. I wonder what inroads the Americans have made into the Vieux Carré since I have been gone,” Nicholas speculated. “We did not associate with them socially. They were considered uncouth and barbarous—the type who would go into the street coatless. Besides,” Nicholas said with a laugh trembling in his voice, “they were in trade. They worked for a living, mademoiselle, something much frowned upon by Creoles.”

“But you work, don’t you?” Mara interrupted. “Aren’t you one of the many hoping to strike it rich in the gold mines?”

“If my Creole friends could see me bare-chested, my hands calloused and dirty, standing waist-high in icy water as I panned a stream for gold…well, they would not believe such a thing of the elegant Nicholas de Montaigne-Chantale,” Nicholas laughed in genuine amusement, “and would probably call me out for insulting Creole honor.”

“So you are no longer a fine Creole gentleman?” Mara asked.

“I thought I had already proven that to you, mademoiselle, but apparently you do not learn quickly,” Nicholas reminded her. “I lost the refinement of polished manners and genteel speech as I worked on a flatboat up the Mississippi, learning that it would be muscle and sweat, not my gentlemanly breeding nor drawing-room decorum, which would help me survive. I Americanized not only my name but my thinking as well. In New Orleans today I would probably fit in better with the Americans living uptown along the Faubourg Sainte Marie above Canal Street, or possibly,” Nicholas added casually, the darkness effectively hiding his expression but not the contemptuous tone of voice he now intentionally adopted, “in a place called the Irish Channel where all the Irish lived. The men were fit only for working on the docks and their women for burying the dead. They brawled so much there was always a wake being celebrated for some recently bereaved widow. A most quarrelsome race of people, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Vaughan?”

Mara remained silent, not trusting her Irish tongue to remain discrete as she smoldered with rage. She’d love to demonstrate to this Creole just how good the Irish really were at brawling.

“Oh—but do forgive me. Your cousin, Mr. O’Sullivan, is part Irish, is he not? I hope I’ve not offended you,” he apologized. Once again Mara caught that faintly mocking quality in his voice.

“Not at all, and I’m sure Brendan would forgive you your lapse of good manners and not challenge you to a duel. Good night, Mr. Chantale,” Mara said softly as she stood up, intending to leave with the last word. Before she could step away, Nicholas’s hand shot out and found her wrist.

“Since I’ve no further reputation to lose in your eyes, mademoiselle,” Nicholas said silkily, as he pulled Mara closer to him, “I’ll not disappoint you. I’ll make the most of having a beautiful woman in my arms.”

In the darkness Mara couldn’t see his face or read his expression, but his arms were warm as they encircled her waist and shoulders, and as she was pressed against his muscular chest, she felt a deliciously languid feeling overwhelm her. His parted lips caressed her mouth and his warm breath mingled with hers. The pressure intensified and he began to kiss her deeply. His mouth moved against hers roughly until she allowed her lips to part invitingly and felt the searching of his tongue in her mouth.

Mara’s slim, bare arms curved around his shoulders and she ran her fingers through the thick black hair curling against his shirt collar as she kissed him back, imitating him as she remembered his derisive comment about her kisses earlier that day. She must have succeeded, Mara thought triumphantly as his arms tightened almost painfully around her as he strained her slender body against him before he lifted his searing mouth from hers and buried his face against her throat, breathing deeply of her fragrance before he whispered in her ear, “I was wrong; you do learn quickly, mademoiselle.”

In the darkness, Mara’s lips curved in a half-smile. She withdrew her arms from around his neck and lightly pressed her fingertips against his chest as he would have sought her lips once again. As he lifted his head, Mara struck quickly, the sound of her hand hitting his cheek echoing loudly across the silent courtyard. “A fairly painless lesson, Mr. Chantale, in remembering not to underestimate the enemy,” Mara told him, a nervous quiver in her voice.

“I wasn’t aware that we were enemies,” Nicholas said coldly as he rubbed his cheek, “but thanks for the warning.”

“Let’s just say that more time is needed before we become better acquainted,” Mara replied lightly. She stepped away, out of reach of his arms.

“I’ll remember that and try to oblige you in future. But don’t wait too long, mademoiselle, for my time is limited and I might have to look elsewhere for diversion,” Nicholas told her in a bored voice. Turning, he walked away, leaving Mara standing alone in the darkness of the courtyard, feeling as though she’d been slapped.

Chapter 5

The strains of guitar and violin filled the courtyard. Torches threw flickering shadows across the gathering assembled in small groups around the patio and beneath the shelter of the long gallery. Laughter and voices wafted across the open courtyard and drifted into the cool night air along with the heavy scent from the flower beds.

Don Luís’s black eyes were burning with the reflection of the fiery torches, and with covetous yearning for the jeweled cross that now hung, suspended from a gold-linked chain, between Mara’s breasts. The tight-fitting bodice of her emerald green gown drew the eye to the cross as well as to the softly rounded curves molded in silk.

It had been Brendan’s idea to surprise Don Luís at the party with Mara’s sudden wearing of the cross. Don Luís would only be able to gaze longingly at it, unable to get his hands upon something he’d waited a long time to acquire. A cruel smile had curved Brendan’s mouth at the thought of Don Luís’s prolonged anguish as he would have to sit through the long evening hours making inane conversation with the cross just out of reach. He would know a despair much like that which Brendan had experienced as he found himself confined to the rancho, his eyes straining to the distant mountains of the Sierra Nevada. It had been a diabolical revenge for Brendan.

“I am very pleased to see you wearing the cross, Amaya,” Don Andres whispered in Mara’s ear. “You bring it to life,” he added softly, his eyes lingering on the rounded smoothness of her breasts.

Mara returned his look, staring deeply into his eyes, allowing a flicker of warmth to lighten hers with a golden glow. “Gracias, Andres,” she murmured. Then, as she looked beyond him, the gold deepened and her smile became seductive as she stared into the green eyes of Nicholas Chantale. Don Andres drew in his breath at the tantalizing beauty of her face. Even Mara was not aware of the languid look of sensual desire that entered her eyes, curving her lips invitingly, as her gaze dwelled thoughtfully on the Creole.

Andres impatiently drew her attention back to himself as he whispered something in her ear, causing Mara to laugh. The sound drew an amused glance from Doña Ysidora who was sitting nearby, her dark head covered by a lace mantilla draped over her left shoulder. A Chinese shawl, richly embroidered in colorful silks and edged with a deep, knotted fringe, protected her bare arms from the cool breeze. She had shed her figure-shrouding black dress and replaced it with a delicate, yellow silk gown trimmed with lace.

The period of mourning for Doña Feliciana’s father must have come to an end, for she, as well, had donned her most colorful dress. Her bare shoulders were revealed above the rounded neck of the close-fitting, pale blue bodice of her blouse. Around her waist was a sash of purple satin, tied on the side. The fringed ends hung to the bottom of her white muslin skirt, which was flounced and decorated with brightly colored ribbons and gold spangles.

Feliciana was not amused as she stared jealously at Mara and Andres. Feliciana’s fan snapped shut as she watched Mara place a hand lightly against Andres’s sleeve, their heads inclined intimately to catch each other’s words.

Suddenly the musicians began to play a livelier tune and Mara and Andres looked up, Andres’s mouth opening in surprised disbelief as he saw the scarlet, silk-covered ankles of Feliciana as she lifted the hem of her skirts enticingly and stepped lightly around the patio, her blue satin shoes tapping the tiles in time to the fandango melody.

She danced across the patio, her bare arms raised above her head, tightening the thin lawn material of her blouse across her small, rounded breasts. The ends of her sash swung out in an arc as she twirled around, her skirt billowing around her silken legs. She shook a tambourine, its jingling beat bringing an exotic flavor to the dance.

Feliciana’s audience was silent as they watched her dance. Stunned would have been an accurate description, Mara thought in amusement at the disconcerted look on Andres’s face and the haughty dismay on Doña Ysidora’s proud features. Brendan, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying himself, especially as Feliciana seemed to be dancing exclusively for him. She lowered a soft shoulder in his direction and glanced teasingly at him as she whirled. The Creole didn’t seem disturbed by Feliciana’s impromptu exhibition either, Mara thought as she watched him leaning against a rough-hewn post, his green eyes narrowed in speculation as he watched Feliciana’s hips sway.

Feliciana turned a laughing, rebellious face to Don Andres, her steps momentarily faltering as she saw the contemptuous anger in his eyes. She quickly renewed her efforts, increased her tempo, and swirled around faster, her head and shoulders thrown back and her long braids encircling her like twisting black snakes. She was like a small whirlwind as she danced around the courtyard, coming to an abrupt halt near the edge of the patio. Her eyes stared defiantly into Don Andres’s, her breasts moving rapidly beneath their light covering. For the first time, the passionate nature of the woman she was flared in her dark eyes.

It was a stunning discovery for Don Andres to see the woman revealed in the young girl he thought she was. Their exchanged looks of wonder were lost in the outburst of applause. Despite the impropriety of such a dance, Feliciana had performed it well and had given the Californians pleasure. Mara was sitting closest to Feliciana, who had sauntered over to the edge of the group to take her bows and was now staring at Mara with a disdainfully superior look. She took a step backward and curtsied deeply.

Mara was the first to see the flames from a torch carelessly laid down lick into the froth of lace at the hem of Feliciana’s skirts. The light material was quickly caught in a blaze of shooting flames.

Feliciana’s scream of terror paralyzed the startled Californians into immobility for a second, just long enough for the panicked Feliciana to begin to run from the group. She sought to escape the hot flames that were eating away the flammable skirts wrapped around her.

Hardly aware of her actions, Mara left her seat and ran after Feliciana as she tried to stop her from fanning the flames out of control, but Feliciana was beyond hearing. Mara stuck out her leg and tripped the girl, causing her to fall flat against the tiles of the patio. Mara began frantically beating out the flames, rolling the screaming Feliciana over and over, her own hands beginning to feel the heat and pain of the fire. Suddenly water was flung over both of them, the water dousing the fire into a harmlessly smoldering tangle of wet material. Mara glanced up thankfully into the hard green eyes of Nicholas Chantale as he bent over her and helped her to her feet, then shook out what remained of Feliciana’s skirts to make sure there were no burning embers.

As Feliciana moaned in shock, the Californians gathered close, all talking in hushed whispers. Andres pushed his way through the crowd and picked up the prostrate form of his ward. Doña Ysidora was issuing orders like a drill sergeant as she sent servants bustling through the hacienda.

Don Andres turned with Feliciana in his arms, his eyes meeting Mara’s. He paused for an instant, then said, “We owe you a debt which can never be fully repaid, Amaya. You have saved Feliciana’s life. She would have run from the courtyard in her panic if you had not stopped her and then—” he broke off abruptly at the vision of Feliciana engulfed in flames. Gratitude still on his face, he made his way through the gathering with the unconscious Feliciana held closely in his arms.

Mara sagged against the arm she felt slide around her waist, supporting her. She leaned her head against the comforting shoulder, then glanced up into Nicholas’s eyes.

“That was a very brave thing you did,” he said quietly. For once there was no sarcasm in his voice. “Most people wouldn’t have thought so quickly. Don Andres was right, you saved that little fool’s life.”

Mara shrugged away his praise, feeling uncomfortable playing the heroine and being the recipient of looks of undying gratitude. The Californians thanked her tearfully.

“Are you all right?” Nicholas demanded as he turned her around in his arms and carefully examined her hands, his eyes intently exploring her face and shoulders for burns. She was smudged with smoke and a few stray strands of hair had been singed but there was no serious damage.

“My hands smart a little and my dress is ruined, but I’m all right,” Mara said looking down at the stained silk of her gown, wrinkling her nose at the smoky stench.

Nicholas gently guided Mara away from the patio and was leading her across the courtyard when Brendan stepped in front of them.

“I’ll take care of Amaya now, Chantale,” Brendan said arrogantly as his fingers closed around Mara’s upper arm. “Come along, dear. Jamie’ll know how to attend to your needs.”

Nicholas relinquished his hold on Mara and, with a mocking bow to Brendan, turned and disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

“Did you have to be so rude, Brendan?” Mara asked sharply, feeling slightly let down that Nicholas had been so easily deterred by Brendan’s cavalier manner.

“God, Mara, you could’ve been killed, or scarred for life,” Brendan said roughly, ignoring her question as he wiped a hand across his sweaty brow. “I aged a lifetime when I saw you rush forward. I could scarcely believe me eyes. To be sure, I’ve sorely misjudged you, mavournin, for I’d no idea you went in for heroics. ’Twas a damned, fool trick,” he muttered beneath his breath, unable to admit even to himself that he’d been scared to death when he’d seen Mara attacking those flames with her bare hands. For the first time he realized the depth of his feeling for her.

“And what was I supposed to do? Let Feliciana burn to death before my very eyes?” Mara retorted, anger sparking her eyes.

“Well no, of course you couldn’t,” Brendan replied uncomfortably, having the grace to look ashamed, “but couldn’t someone else have done it. The Frenchman, for instance? He seems to always be on the spot, taking control of matters like ’twas his right,” Brendan complained as he led Mara to her room. “The divil take him anyway. Tried to talk to him about the gold country. Been up there, he has. D’ye know what he tells me?” Brendan demanded in an incredulous voice.

Mara glanced at him wearily. “No, what did Nicholas say?”

Brendan eyed her suspiciously. “Nicholas, is it now? Well, the Frenchman moves fast, indeed he does. But he’ll not be getting anywhere with you, will he, mavournin? You’re too smart to fall for his fancy talk, aren’t you, love,” Brendan warned. “So I needn’t be worrying about that. But d’ye want to know what he says to me, Brendan O’Flynn, the nerve of the swine. I asked him what the mining camps were like, and how much gold he had found so far. I said once I got there I expected it’d be pretty easy to make me fortune. Well, he gives me that cold, green-eyed stare of his, his lips curled contemptuously—at
me
, mind ye—and says ever so arrogantly that there were hardships suffered by the miners that I couldn’t even imagine in me wildest dreams. Spending the rainy season in the High Sierra, tramping through snow drifts, digging and scraping for gold like a pack of wild dogs, was the making or breaking of many a man,” Brendan snorted, continuing almost without interruption as Jamie bustled in carrying a bowl of bandages and medicines.

“‘It’s hell, Mr. O’Sullivan, and very few strike it rich, and then they lose it soon enough over the gaming tables. Do you think you’re cut out for it?’ he asks me doubtfully, as if takin’ me measure and findin’ me comin’ up short. Damn him to hell, who the divil does he think he is anyway?”

Mara sat slumped on the edge of a chair and stared tiredly into space as she half listened to Brendan’s complaints. Jamie rubbed a soothing balm on the tender skin of her hands and wiped a cool cloth across Mara’s smoke-smudged face.

“Ye best be gettin’ undressed. Master Brendan, I’ll be bringin’ the curtain down right now on your recitation. Can’t ye see that ye’ve lost your audience?” Jamie demanded as she placed the bowl of dirty water near the door.

Brendan sighed in offended exasperation and shot Jamie a scowling look. “I—” Brendan began, then broke off abruptly as he heard a step outside the door. “What the divil? Damned if I’ll take any more interference from that Frenchie. I’ve had enough of his insolence,” Brendan swore angrily as he quickly picked up the bowl Jamie had just set aside. Before either Jamie or Mara could make a move to stop him he had swung open the door and let fly the full contents of the bowl.

A muttered imprecation came from beyond the doorway, followed by a choked, “¡Madre de Dios!”

Mara smothered a hysterical laugh as Don Luís stepped into the light. His dark hair was plastered to his skull and water dripped from the tip of his high-bridged nose as he glared at the stunned occupants of the room.

Jamie’s mouth gaped open in surprise as she took a hesitant step backward, then moved quickly around to the other side of the bed. Brendan stood his ground, the empty bowl still held in his hands, pronouncing him guilty as he faced the wet and angry don.

“Damned careless of me, Don Luís. Please accept my most profound apologies,” he said with a devilish smile lurking in his eyes, not in the least bit sorry.

Mara bit her lip nervously, her laughter threatening to erupt as she watched a puddle of water form around Don Luís’s well-shod feet.

“You will forgive me if I do not linger,” Don Luís said frigidly, “but I merely came to claim that which is mine.”

He walked over to stand in front of Mara, his shoes making a squelching sound as he moved. A look of distaste and discomfort crossed Don Luís’s haughty features at the comical noise.

“The cross, if you please,” he said curtly, holding out his hand, palm up, for the treasured heirloom.

“Certainly, Don Luís,” Mara acquiesced with a slight smile as she lifted the heavy golden chain off her neck and over her head, then held it out to him.

Don Luís’s shoulders sagged slightly as he held the cross grasped tightly in his hands. Drawing a deep sigh, he glanced between the faintly amused-looking O’Flynns. Once more in possession of himself, at least as far as his bedraggled appearance would allow, Don Luís spoke in a soft, menacing voice that very effectively got across his message and wiped the humor from the O’Flynns’ eyes.