To Tame a Rogue (23 page)

There was no snuggling down for the night under reduced sail for Nicholas; his ship sped on, and as he logged the miles, he prayed for continued good winds. Angel, his second in command, a big beefy man whose smile revealed several gold teeth, watched him, a smile now and then cracking his broad face. “Aye, the speed of the Lucinda is more due to her captain than to her hull and rigging. She responds to you like a woman would.”

During the day Nicholas kept a glass glued to his eye, and now and then he sighted a sail. He watched for the flags of
Britain
. The crew thought they were setting a record, but no one talked in the forecastle of it, as the men grabbed every precious spare moment for rest, anxious to keep up with their sleepless, decidedly insane commander.

They sighted a British ship, riding out a gale, but she disappeared quickly in Lucinda’s foaming wake.

When he was once again on dry land, he felt like he’d been away for years even though it had only been a little over a week. And the way he’d behaved, the way Camille had appeared, breathless, her voice quiet and desperate in front of all those guests, and then his horrible behavior,
trying to make her jealous,
how she’d run out of there…it
twisted at his gut. Why had he
been so hard to her?
He knew the reason.

He’d learned that Josephine mistakenly believed that Camille had been staying at the plantation while he’d been away. Back on land, Nicholas told her everything and soon, between Nick, Kipp, Josephine, and Genny, they were questioning the servants of the mansion, the stable hands for information, then canvassing the city. The trail turned cold in a rundown part of the city where houses were covered in chimney soot.

A place that pious ministers often referred to as Sodom at the River’s Mouth, New Orleans was a city that had first been French, then Spanish, and now Creole, a blending of both. Luxurious and gay; hostile yet welcoming. The Creoles had started coming around to the Americans who had so recently come down the
Mississippi
to save the city from the British.

The Battle of New Orleans had cemented that friendship and now Americans were welcomed nearly everywhere. But not all pockets of the city were so friendly. Nicholas shivered despite the fact that he was sweating.

It was Sunday, feast day. The Creole population had gone to mass in the morning. Many would attend a cock-fight in the afternoon and a ball in the evening. Saloons would be overflowing with people seeking pleasure. The streets were filled with Frenchmen, Spaniards, Creoles, and Kentuckians in blue homespun, their pockets stuffed with dollars they’d earned by their long trip down the river. Negro slaves walked barefoot through the streets.

Where was Camille? He had to find her. He’d hurt her. Made her want to curl up inside herself. Guard against everybody. He knew what it was like to feel that way. He’d been selfish and obnoxious because … he was afraid of the way she made him feel. Afraid of love. He’d been hurt before.

They hadn’t been able to find Penley. Nicholas had men fanned out over the entire city looking for Camille, asking questions.

Kipp, Josephine, and Genny headed in one direction and Nicholas in another, basically because the man was so frenzied no one could keep up with him. Up ahead, he could see that the Cathedral was filled with a crowd. Vendors in booths along the iron railings sold oranges, bananas, and ginger beer. Negro women balanced baskets on their heads and cried out their wares. At other stalls, men and women ate oysters fresh from the shell.

Inside the square
,
quadroon girls wearing bright striped tignons were chaperoned by their mothers, who hoped to snag husbands for their daughters from the well-to-do gentlemen of the town. Nuns in black robes and veils passed, their eyes lowered.

 
Nicholas felt claustrophobic. He’d never been more afraid. He had to find Camille. Guilt and fear formed a physical weight that pressed on his chest.

And then, a small miracle. Near the Café des Refuigies, a famous coffee house near the market between Dumaine and Saint Philip streets, he spotted him.
Meletios.
Onlookers sat under orange trees, sipping their sweet drinks.

Nicholas picked up his pace and began to follow Meletios. He’d never met the man in person but had uncovered enough information about him and his unique appearance to know it was him. He stood taller than most men, was a solid wall of muscle, had a telltale scar that ran in a jagged line down his right cheek.

A solid, well-muscled arm blocked his progress and Nicholas nearly exploded.

“Easy mate,” Henree said. “I’m here to help. I’m Josephine’s…well I used to be her butler. She told me about Camille. I’m here to help.”

T
he man appeared to be in his fifties
and in very good shape. Nicholas gave him the benefit of the doubt that he was who he said he was.

“Come along then, no time to lose. That man there,” Nicholas pointed him out, “is going to be sorry he was ever born by the time I get through with him.”

Nicholas and Henree made their way stealthily through the crowd of mostly men, some of whom were busy throwing their last picayunes at the bare feet of exotic Spanish dancers.

Just next door was the Hotel de la Marine, a favorite rendezvous of pirates and gamblers like Jean Lafitte, who had on occasion been seen lounging in the sitting room or drinking next door at the café. The hotel, Nicholas knew, was managed by a frenetic Creole gentleman who gave elaborate entertainments—jugglers and knife throwers often performed along with the dancers.

Meletios had come from the direction of the hotel. Nicholas and Henree followed the rawboned Greek man, who was at least a head taller than both of them.

Nicholas hoped Meletios, who peeled and ate oranges as he walked, dropping the peels on the ground, would lead them to Camille.

The sky was cloudless, the heat oppressive as they followed at a discreet distance, winding down back alleys, deeper into the city of sin.

They were not disappointed when Meletios eventually stopped before a house that looked like it was nearly falling down. It had two floors, the roof a dull blue slate and the walls dull red brick. Solid green wooden shutters hung at crooked angles from the windows. Nicholas could see no movement inside the square glass panes.

The Greek gave a quick turn of his square head, left then right, before his bulky body disappeared inside.

“Do you have any weapons?” Nicholas asked quietly.

“My fists,” Henree said. “Used to be a boxer. I still practice.”

 
“Good. I have a pistol and a knife but I’d get more satisfaction from using my fists.” Henree nodded.

“A little extra protection is never a bad idea.”

“Do you have a preference?” Nicholas asked. Henree shook his head no so Nicholas kept the pistol and handed Henree the knife, which he slid inside his boot.

They waited a few minutes—which seemed like the longest of Nicholas’ life and during which they could hear nothing from inside—before they quietly entered the house and climbed a steep and narrow flight of stairs.

55

They were on the second floor. Down the hall they heard a door shut. They crept along until they stood outside it. They waited. Listened.
It took every ounce of restraint Nicholas had not to knock that door down and pound Meletios into dust.
He looked at Henree. Henree nodded.
          T
he door exploded inward and a surprised Meletios, bent with his fist over someone on the bed, looked up. He smiled wickedly, straightened his spine and Nicholas’ heart almost stopped. Camille lay on the bed, sweat plastering a nightgown to her body. Her eyes were closed, her hair mussed, her face bloodied and bruised.

Though white hot anger raged in his chest, an anger that threatened to destroy all in its path, Nicholas hadn’t missed the fact that Meletios held a knife in his other hand.

Nicholas had heard the rumor that Meletios once had a girlfriend who betrayed him with another man. The man ended up on the bottom of the Mississippi and Meletios cut off the girlfriend’s upper lip and an ear to teach her a lesson.

“Move away from her,” Nicholas growled, aware of the weight of the pistol in his coat pocket. He was a pretty good judge of men and he would wager Meletios was a proud man. He’d guessed right.

Meletios laughed—a big, booming sound in the nearly airless room. He was even uglier up close. Had a rheumy film over one eye. His other eye glittered with hate, probably one of the only emotions he was capable of conjuring.

“Two against one? Well, no matter. I will kill you both. With my bare hands. I’m good at that sort of thing.” He placed the heavy, wicked-looking blade on a table next to the bed.

Camille still hadn’t stirred.

Meletios charged.

The men tangled brutally, savagely, relentlessly. Punches landed with smacks and thuds. Blood spurted. Bone cracked. In his rage, Nicholas saw nothing before him but the man who had harmed Camille. Pain bloomed when Meletios fist connected with his upper right cheek and jaw but he stayed upright.

Henree was light on his feet and surprisingly strong.

Finally Nicholas’ fist found its mark, plowing into Meletios brick-like jaw at the same time Henree landed a solid punch to the huge man’s gut. Like a snorting mammoth, Meletios spit broken teeth into his palm, dropped them to the floor. Smiled through the blood.

Nicholas’ left eye was nearly swollen shut now from a connection with Meletios’ meaty fist. Henree rushed into his man, hitting left and right, but receiving heavy jobs in return. Henree’s mouth was a river of blood but the chap was still smiling. Cut and battered, he kept going. He boxed low, his right hand drawn across his body to block punches.

 
 
 
 
Nicholas landed a heavy blow to Meletios’ shoulder, dislocating it, but the truth was they didn’t have time for this. Nicholas was letting pride get in the way of helping Camille. He didn’t know the extent of her injuries. He was wasting time. About to pull his pistol from his pocket and be done with it, he heard a feminine voice.

“Oh bloody hell.”

There was an odd thudding sound. Meletios froze mid-punch with an odd look twisting his face. He fell over, a knife jutting from his wide back, blood spilling on the floor.

 
             
Camille sat up in the bed now, apparently having woken, cut her bindings lose while the men were fighting, and thrown the knife dead center into Meletios’ back. Then she fainted.

56

 
 
 
Camille felt like she was underwater. Tumbling, being carried along in a turbulent current, bumping, twisting, seeing a bright light high in the sky.

She awoke in Nicholas’ bed. Nicholas, his face swollen and battered, slept in a chair beside her.

Camille was so thirsty. Dreams had swirled about her. Her head, her face, and her ribs ached. Nicholas. Meletios. Lavinia. Arabelle and Damaris. Genny and Kipp. One minute she was on the dance floor in Nicholas’ arms and another Meletios stood over her with a knife. Penley’s horrid face loomed before her, his cruel mouth laughing at her. Her whole body throbbed with pain.

 
 
 
 
“
How’d you get those ropes off and w
here’d you learn to throw a knife like that?” Nicholas smiled through a swollen and cut upper lip. His right eye was nearly swollen shut. He’d woken up, leaned closer to inspect her face.

“
I’d been working to loosen the ropes.
Slipped my wrist through it as you were fighting.
As for knife-throwing, I learned it by playing t
avern games.
C
ame in handy. Where’d
you
learn to fight like that?”

“Would you believe defending myself from my older brother?”

“I would, having met the odious man.”

Nicholas laughed and then grimaced. Camille reached out and traced a finger over his lips. “You're hurt….”

He flinched and she drew her hand back. Heat rose in her cheeks.

“Just some bumps and bruises, bruised ribs, swollen knuckles, and a dislocated thumb.”

She frowned. “If you hadn’t come…if you hadn’t found me ….”

“Don’t think about that right now. You’re safe. You’re …” he looked into her eyes, “home.”

Camille chewed her lower lip and didn’t meet his eyes. “Is Meletios …”

“Dead? Yes.”

She closed her eyes. “I killed a man …”

He took her hand gently in his. “Meletios beat you viciously and was going to kill you,” Nicholas said, his eyes like hard, glinting gold.
“
He certainly wanted to kill me. Henree too. I wanted to punish him…I should’ve shot him ….”