The Creole Princess (14 page)

But Lyse shook her head. “It is past time I took the children in to greet their grandpére.” When all three children set up a predictable wail, she firmly began to wrap her line around her pole. “All fine things must come to an end, my little cabbages, even so useful and engrossing an occupation as baptizing the occasional worm.”

Resistance would no doubt have lasted a great deal longer but for Rafa’s loud, awkward, and highly comical attempt to copy Lyse’s efficient movements. By the time he ended with the line wrapped round his legs and its barb hooked in the back of his shirt, the children were giggling and competing to show him the best way to dispose of one’s line, and Lyse had to drop her pole and untangle him.

There might have been, she suspected, another motive behind his feigned ineptitude. He was so tall that he must bend over, resting his hands on his knees, in order for her to reach the hook caught in his collar. She stood with his silky black hair tickling her chin, his aristocratic nose buried in her neck, and his warm breath raising goosebumps along her collarbone. He was real flesh and blood under her hands. There was no moonlight or scent of honeysuckle to blur the lines of social caste, only sunshine and the excited shrieks of the children and the lap of the bayou against the pier. They were, quite simply, a boy and a girl caught in an attraction as inevitable as the tide. She knew it, even before, as she finally worked the hook free and dropped her hands away from
his big shoulders, he slowly lifted his head, letting his lips brush along her jawline.

“Thank you,
prima
,” he whispered, looking into her eyes with a wicked twinkle. “You have saved my fishing expedition from complete disaster.”

“I wonder exactly what you have been fishing for,” she replied breathlessly, trying not to laugh.

“If you don’t know, then I am the saddest excuse for an angler there has ever been.” With a crooked smile he straightened and looked around for the children. His eyes widened. “Uh-oh.”

Lyse followed his gaze, expecting some new prank created by her siblings.

But all three had run back to the end of the pier, where they jumped up and down, waving at a boat drawing closer and closer to the pier. “Papa!” Geneviève shrieked. “Papa! Come see who’s here!”

Rafa knew he should have gone with the morning tide. The ship was laden with goods, its sails repaired, his crew rounded up and put to work, the captain apprised of imminent departure.

But the elderly Señor Lanier’s agreement to make the trip to visit his son’s family had settled the question. He must have one more look into Lyse’s gamine face to assure himself that no one could be so enchanting as he remembered. That she was only a woman, and a very young one at that. Just a drunken fisherman’s daughter, though perhaps brighter and more educated even than his own sister, and possessed of laughter that would charm the stars from the sky.

Oh, yes, and a depth of spirit that drew him like the siren’s song at which he’d stupidly scoffed so many months ago. A way of looking in his eyes and finding the man he wanted to be.

He blinked and saw her father vault onto the pier—miraculously sober and looking as if he might like to haul Rafa into the bay
and drown him like an unwanted puppy. Unsmiling, one by one, Antoine Lanier patted his children leaping at his feet, then inexorably put them aside and strode along the pier.

Rafa thought of the responsibilities that awaited him in New Orleans, he thought of the ship and its precious cargo which must find its destination with all dispatch, and he weighed the present crisis which would determine the happiness of his heart.

He stepped forward and a little in front of Lyse. She must not suffer for his selfishness. “Señor, I bid you welcome.”

Lanier’s response was an inarticulate growl and a quickening of his pace.

Behind Rafa, Lyse gasped, and her hand slipped inside his elbow. “Papa, we have been watching for you! The children—”

Lanier cut her off with a slash of his hand. “Take them inside the house. Tell Justine I am home.”

“But Papa—”

“Step away from my daughter, you infernal Spanish whelp,” Lanier snarled at Rafa. He turned with a scouring look at the children, who stood wide-eyed at the end of the pier. “Get in the house!”

They all ran.

“Papa, I was just taking a hook out of his shirt!” Lyse’s voice was high with strain.

Rafa deliberately turned his back on Lanier and looked down at Lyse. The fear and chagrin in her big eyes made him ill. He had not dishonored her, though the kisses they had shared on the night of the soirée had bordered on . . .

What? Had he treated her with less than the respect with which he would want his own sister to be treated? Though he could claim her invitation, he was no longer a little boy to be swayed by desires of the body. He was a man who should be capable of ruling his emotions. Somehow he must protect her and absorb the consequences of his actions.

He took her hand from his arm and lifted it to his lips. “Go to your grandfather. I will speak to your papa.”

“Rafa, we’ve done nothing wrong. But you don’t understand his hatred of the Spanish. He will kill you.”

Rafa could hear Lanier’s approach, the harsh breath of his rage. “Your grandfather told me. I will talk to him—now go! Hurry!”

With one last anguished look, she snatched her hand from Rafa’s and picked up her skirt to run.

But it was too late. Lanier reached them, grabbing Lyse’s wrist in one hand and Rafa’s in the other. “I told you to leave him!” he shouted, shaking her arm with bruising force. “Don’t you know he’s got no good intentions toward a girl like you? Are you so loose in morals you’ll give him leave to handle you in whatever way he likes?”

Rafa’s instinct to swing at Lanier was overwhelming, but he couldn’t risk hurting Lyse. She had suddenly gone still, as though she knew struggle would invite more violence. And that realization ignited in him a flare of red rage that threatened to burn every thought to cinders.

He forced himself to relax, to look beneath the insulting words of his adversary. A man’s daughter was his property, and he would not let her go without payment of some kind. Then Rafa must think like a merchant. What would Don Rafael do?

Producing a bewildered smile, he stared at the big fist wrapped around his arm. “My dear sir, there is no need for this, er, energetic method of arresting my attention. I assure you, I am listening.” He brightened. “But then, of course you didn’t know. In your absence, your daughter and I were arranging to hire your ferry to transport me and my luggage out to my ship anchored at Dauphine Island.” He squinted up into Lanier’s fierce dark eyes. “But perhaps you have no need of the enterprise?”

There was an infinitesimal relaxing of the grip upon his wrist. Lanier’s expression became cagey. “I might have. But Lyse cannot speak for me. She is a child.”

Rafa suppressed the urge to challenge the man’s absurd denigration of one to whom he clearly owed his dignity and probably his livelihood as well. “Ah, then it is good that you arrived when you did. I should hate to have taken my business elsewhere.” He laughed, casting another confused look at Lanier’s grasp on his arm. “You can let me go now—I vow I shall not escape.”

For now, Lanier’s anger seemed to have been diverted. With a snarling “
pah!
” he released both Rafa and Lyse and turned to stalk toward the cottage. “Come into the house, you Spanish dandy, so that we can strike a deal over a tankard of ale.”

Rafa followed, resisting the urge to take Lyse’s hand. Truly it was in the mercy of God that this man maintained any business at all. A more contentious, sodden derelict he had yet to meet.

“Papa.” Lyse hurried to catch up to her father and took his elbow. “Before you go in the house, you should know we have a guest. I was trying to tell you when—”

“You mean besides him?” Lanier jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Yes.” Lyse glanced back to give Rafa an apologetic smile. “Papa, Don Rafael has brought Grandpére to visit us.”

Lanier stopped dead still to stare at Lyse. “
What
? Why?”

“He wanted to see the children, especially the new baby.” Lyse’s eyes filled. “Papa, he loves us very much. Please be kind to him.”

Rafa couldn’t tell from Lanier’s stony expression whether his daughter’s plea reached him. He resumed walking, but at least he didn’t shake her off. At the house he opened the front door and planted himself in the doorway, leaving Lyse and Rafa on the porch behind him.

“Mon
pére,”
Lanier said with little apparent affection. “I don’t know why this sudden desire to gloat over us, but now that you have satisfied your curiosity, I hope you will take yourself back to your British mansion and leave us be.”

Rafa heard the hiss of Lyse’s indrawn breath. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

He gave her a cautioning look. “Let your grandpapa handle it.”

There was a moment of tense silence, broken only by the gurgling of the baby. Then Charles Lanier’s cultured French, “It is not so, my son. There is no gloating, only regret that I didn’t come sooner.”

Antoine Lanier moved stiffly into the room and stood, arms crossed, staring at his father, who, still holding the baby, occupied the room’s only comfortable chair. With a nod, Rafa encouraged Lyse to enter as well, and he followed close behind. The two of them hovered just inside the door. Justine and the children clustered around the rough pine table, which had been cleared of the baskets.

Little Geneviève bounced to her knees on the bench. “Papa! Grandpére brought us all lemon drops! See?” She opened her mouth for his inspection.

Antoine’s face softened. “Yes, I see.” As if compelled, he looked at his father again. “Thank you, Father. We are all glad to see you.”

“I miss you, Antoine,” the old man said softly. “Especially now that your mother is gone. I would that you would bring the children home, so they could come to know their heritage.”

“Their home and heritage are here,” Antoine fired back. “When they are old enough, they may visit you on their own—as do Lyse and Simon.” He turned to glare at Lyse. “Though I’m beginning to think I have allowed them entirely too much freedom. They both seem to be short on good sense.”

“Antoine,” Justine said, gently chiding. “Not in front of our guest.” She rose to take little Rémy, who had begun to gnaw on his grandfather’s watch fob, and smiled when the baby buried his face in her neck. “Come, little one, it is dinnertime for you. Lyse, perhaps you’d like to prepare tea for everyone? Bring the children and come with me.” Without waiting for a reply, she dipped a curtsey and glided from the room.

Lyse gave Rafa a helpless look. “Would you like tea?”

Tea was the last thing on his mind, and the stepmother was clearly a beautiful widget. “Of all things, señorita,” he said with a smile.

As she herded the children in a noisy exit toward the back of the house, Rafa and Antoine seated themselves at the table. He couldn’t help comparing the stark simplicity of this small room to the grand salon in which the Dussouys’ soirée had been held. Here there were no Aubusson carpets, no imported furniture or gilt-framed portraits to please the eye. No rich pastries on silver trays and no candelabra with scented tapers to soften the glare of the afternoon sun. No bejeweled guests providing bright conversation to accompany the lilting strains of a string ensemble.

Just three silent men in a fisherman’s cottage.

Rafa waited, prepared to act the mediator.

Antoine finally cleared his throat. “Justine and her tea,” he said gruffly. “I have a keg of ale on the back porch.” He made to rise.

Charles stopped him with an abrupt gesture. “No, my son. I see I’m not welcome, so I’ll not stay. I just wanted to hold the children in my arms once, before—well, before it’s too late.” He glanced at Rafa. “Giving you a chance to earn some Spanish coin was excuse enough. If you’ll conclude your business, we’ll take ourselves back across the bay and relieve you of our unwanted presence.”

Antoine thumped a fist against the table. “You make me the churl, when it is you who cast me out!”

The old man’s lips tightened. “It is you who wanted to go your own way. I merely allowed the consequences to fall where they would.”

“The consequences rest on your grandchildren. They bear the burden of your selfishness.”

Alarmed at the storm boiling to the surface, Rafa half rose, deliberately jarring the table against his thighs. “It seems, gentlemen, that it would be more to the purpose for the two of you to join forces in convincing your British masters of the benefit in
allowing free trade for Spanish ships wishing to take port in your fair city. They do no one good by allowing freebooters to make off with merchandise that would strengthen commerce here.”

“Allowing freebooters?” The old man barked a laugh. “French, American, and Spanish ships alike are being robbed by the English navy, while the Regulars turn a blind eye. And King George does his best to tax us all into penury. My family has owned property here for three-quarters of a century, and it’s been all I can do to hold on to it in the face of his majesty’s greed.”