Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3) Page 4

  Nicole, instantly contrite and not wanting to hurt Sally’s feelings, said quickly, “I’m sorry and I’m not sulking. But, Sally, I would like to be by myself, if you don’t mind.”

  “All right. I’ll go. Shall I see you next week at the horse fair or has your aunt forbidden you to go?”

  Her mind elsewhere, Nicole answered absently, “Probably. At least I think so.”

  Left alone, Nicole sat thinking for several moments. The sea, perhaps that was the answer. America, far away from the Markhams. Here was an unhoped-for opportunity of the greatest magnitude. Surely a kind fate had led Sally to her today. Her mind filled with schemes and plans, a flame of elation flickering through her body, she scrambled down from her place of concealment and scampered off to Ashland.

  It wasn’t until well after dinner, a strained and uncomfortable meal, that she was able to put her hastily concocted plan into motion. Once she had been dismissed for the evening, amazing her aunt by not arguing, she climbed the stairs to her room and locked the door behind her. Flying across the room, with hands that trembled, she rooted through the few precious effects she had managed to keep of her brother’s. Amongst them were the objects she sought—a pair of faded pants, one of his shirts and his favorite jacket, a soft much-worn brown tweed. She ripped off her dress and pulled on the unfamiliar clothes, using the sash from one of her gowns to hold up the pants. Not daunted by such minor things as baggy pants and a jacket whose sleeves nearly covered her hands, she surveyed herself in the mirror.

  What a laugh she looked, she thought with a giggle, staring at the clownish figure she presented. Sobering, she considered the long sable locks with the glinting auburn lights. That would have to go. Ruthlessly she hacked off the long silky hair, gathering the shorn locks and stuffing them into a pillow case to be dropped in the nearest well. Her hair, what was left of it, stuck out in odd patches, but it gave her a more boyish look—a pretty boy but boyish nonetheless. Feeling more confident, she once again examined her appearance. Thank goodness, she was still bosomless, but frowning she peered closely at her face. Large, wide-spaced topaz-brown eyes, fringed with long black lashes, stared back, causing her some dissatisfaction. Her nose was pert and straight, if still childish in its appearance, and her wide, generous mouth with a full bottom lip and a firm, little chin completed the picture. After some closer scrutiny, she agreed with herself that she made a handsome boy, except for those very feminine curling eyelashes. Desperate actions called for stern measures, and carefully, her face pressed close to the mirror, the scissors in one hand, she painstakingly trimmed the offending lashes until they were practically nonexistent. Taking another long look, she was positive no one would guess her sex and darkly she vowed that whatever the outcome, she was not returning. She would see the man at the Bell and Candle tonight and she would make him take her to sea with him. Without another glance or a second thought she climbed out the window and down the old oak tree that grew near the house.

  Chapter 3

  If Nicole’s spirits were lighter as she fled through the window, Captain Saber’s were not. Seated in the private parlor of the inn, a foaming tankard of ale in his hand, he found his situation intolerable. Yet he was unable to do anything about it. Discreet and careful questioning of several village inhabitants had elicited the information that Robert’s assessment of the situation was correct. Simon Saxon had suffered a seizure in January and the old man’s rages and flights of temper were legendary to the town folk. Despite this news it galled him to allow Robert Saxon to have any say in his affairs. Unfortunately, it appeared he would have to trust Robert’s diplomacy. He knew he was a fool to have returned, a fool to think perhaps Lord Saxon had forgiven him or learned the truth. To have returned alone and unarmed was dangerous. It was dangerous to have left London by himself and dangerous to have said so much to Robert. With hindsight, he realized he should have brought Higgins with him. But he had let it be known that he had no intention of remaining, Saber thought doggedly. He had stated that he was leaving shortly, not to return. That knowledge should keep Robert from planning any unpleasant surprises—surprises such as the last one the man had arranged. He wondered viciously if Robert had told that bitch Annabelle of his return.

  Saber’s mouth thinned and the amber-gold eyes glinted. Four long years it had cost him. Four years of unspeakable brutality and cruelty in the British Royal Navy—all neatly arranged by kind Robert Saxon. Four years in which he grew from an idealistic boy into a hard, calculating man who had fought bloody sea battles and felt the lash of the cat-o’-nine-tails on his back, leaving scars that would be with him until the day he died.

  Remembering those years, his hand tightened about the tankard until the knuckles shone white. Angry with himself for allowing the fury to rise so quickly, he drank the cool ale in one long swallow and slammed the empty tankard down. Grimly he forced himself to push the memories away and to remind himself that in a way Robert had done him a favor. That Robert had not had him impressed into the British Navy for his own good was a moot point. A sharp unhappy laugh broke from him and he rose from his chair, wishing that he had not bespoken the private parlor. He needed the companionship of fellowmen tonight—not the solitude of this private room.

  Beddington’s Corner was a small community, and the Bell and Candle, typical of the inns to be found in such places, catered primarily to farmers and village folk. The private parlor was seldom used—few ladies and gentlemen of quality stopped in Beddington’s Corner. Seeking more congenial company than his own black thoughts, he left the private parlor, missing Mrs. Eggleston by a few minutes and joined the noisy group in the dark oak-beamed common room. When he caught the roving eye of the buxom barmaid, he abandoned his plan to drink himself senseless. A few minutes later she was warming his lap, giggling at his bold advances. Between squeals of laughter and false protestations, she let him know her name was Peggy, she was finished at midnight and was perfectly agreeable to sharing his lonely bed. Smiling, he found himself a small table in a quiet corner and watched with interest the behavior of the boisterous farmhands at the bar. Peggy good-naturedly slapped aside their amorous advances, turning frequently to the tall, dark-haired gentleman who lounged with careless elegance in the corner.

  Coo, he was a handsome cove, she thought, and a real gentleman too, with his neatly trimmed beard, white starched cravat, and clean long-fingered hands. A shiver of expectation slid down her spine as it neared midnight. Soon she would creep up the backstairs with that gentleman and as she caught the lazy glance he sent her through his thick black lashes, a pleasurable ache hit her stomach.

  Saber, knowing he would be pleasantly occupied for the remainder of the night, drank little of the dark, heady ale that flowed so copiously throughout the evening. His head was clear and his step steady, as a few minutes after midnight he and Peggy made their way up the stairs. They reached his room at the top of the stairs and Saber pushed the door open and ushered the eager Peggy inside. She stepped into the dark room and gave a cry of pain as a crushing weight smashed into her head and she crumpled to the floor. As Saber realized what had happened, he leaped against the wall of the hallway, pressing himself tightly against it. Alert to the sudden danger, his fingers sought the heavy seaman’s knife concealed under his clothing. With his body hard against the wall, he turned his face toward the open doorway, straining to see inside the room.

  Two shadowy figures detached themselves from the gloom of the darkened room. An expletive broke from one of them as he bent over Peg’s still form. “It’s the bloody barmaid. Where’s the man?”

  They both whirled and ran out into the hall just as Saber, knife in hand, stepped out from his place of concealment. Startled, the two hesitated, then rushed him. He jumped from their path and with a well-placed kick sent one man sprawling into the other, causing both men to tumble down the narrow staircase. Leaping down the steps he was on top of them before they had time to recover. He restrained from killing them only when he realized that for him
to be found near the courtyard of the inn with two still-warm corpses would benefit Robert as greatly as his death or disappearance. Bellowing for the innkeeper, he kept the two ruffians busy avoiding the murderous aim of his boots.

  It was an hour before all was settled and not to Saber’s satisfaction. Peg was conscious—but with a throbbing head that would make her think twice about entering a strange gentleman’s room in the future. The two men cried loudly of their innocence, claiming that they had mistaken the room and hadn’t touched the woman—she must have fallen and hit her head on the floor. Peg couldn’t remember what had happened and Saber guessed there was little to be gained by pressing it, so he coldly accepted their false apologies and allowed the innkeeper to hustle them away. They were well-known local bullies and the innkeeper wanted no trouble from them.

  Glumly Saber surveyed his evening. Dalliance with Peg was out. More importantly he knew he wouldn’t sleep now, remaining in Beddington’s Corner would only give Robert Saxon another chance at him. He paid his shot and ordered his horse brought round. Those men had not mistaken the room and if, as he had planned originally, he’d drunk himself into a pleasant state of euphoria, they would have easily accomplished their task—whether it was murder, as he strongly suspected, or merely seeing him back in the British Navy. He doubted Robert would try that trick again and felt confident that the plan had been to slit his throat then and there. Tonight’s disruption let him know there was little to be gained by staying, and that there existed no likelihood he would have access to Simon Saxon—Robert would see to that.

  The landlord was unhappy at the outcome, and while Saber waited impatiently for his horse to be saddled, he attempted to smooth the incident away. Saber found no comfort from his words and strode away toward the stables, intent upon finding out what was taking the hostler so confoundedly long. By the light from one dim lantern he watched the clumsy movements of the sleepy boy until exasperated, he snapped, “Let it be. Go back to bed, I’ll do it myself.”

  The boy, perfectly agreeable, stumbled away back to his bed in the hay and with quick, sure motions Saber finished the job. He was on the point of leading the horse, a deep-chested bay gelding, from the stables when a gruff little voice halted him.

  “Please, sir, are you the gentleman from London who is looking for seamen?”

  Startled, Saber turned on his heel and gazed with astonished amusement at the small figure before him. In an ill-fitting set of clothes, the boy stared back, his wide eyes fringed by a set of stubby lashes. From underneath a black, floppy brimmed hat, short ragged ends of dark hair stuck out, adding to the boy’s odd appearance. He was young, not more than ten, Saber guessed, and smiling kindly he said, “News travels fast—I did need seamen, but I’m afraid circumstances are such that I find myself compelled to leave earlier than I had planned. Were you interested in a life at sea?”

  Her heart pounding so hard she felt certain he could hear it, Nicole gasped, “Yes, sir! Will you have me? I’m much stronger than I look and I would work very hard.”

  Shaking his head, Saber tried to soften the blow as he confronted the urchin’s pleading eyes. “I’m positive you would, but you are a little…too young. Perhaps next time?”

  He gave the boy a polite nod and turned to mount his horse. One foot was already in the stirrup when a desperate hand clutched his arm and an impassioned voice cried softly, “Oh, please, sir! Take me with you! I promise you’ll never be sorry. Please!”

  Gazing down into those wide, begging eyes, he hesitated, touched by this boy. Sensing he was weakening, Nicole pleaded, “Please give me a chance, sir.”

  Saber might have ridden away, regretful at having turned the child down, if the stableboy hadn’t been aroused by their voices and chosen that moment to interfere.

  Though only a country inn, the Bell and Candle was a proper inn, one that didn’t put up with its guests being plagued by beggars and riff-raff. Bristling, the stableboy approached and ordered Nicole away. Grasping her collar, he attempted to throw her out of the stable and shouted, “Be gone with you, you little tramp! Go beg somewhere else. Don’t bother this gentleman.”

  All her hopes disappearing, Nicole gave into a wave of undiluted anger and spitting with rage, she fought back, clawing and kicking like a wild animal, even going so far as to bite the unprepared stable-boy on the arm. “Let me go! I shall go to sea. I shall! I shall!”

  The stableboy was nearly twice Nicole’s size and once his first surprise vanished he flew at her, intending to give this little beggar the thrashing of his life. But Nicole was fighting mad and she gave as good as she got, receiving a bloody nose in the process. It was an unfair fight and had but one ending until Saber took a hand. Plucking her bodily off the stableboy, as she pummeled him wildly, he said laughing, “Very well, my little fox cub. You shall go with me.”

  Astonishment held her motionless, and ignoring the pain of her bloody nose and a rapidly puffing eye, she grinned. Saber, unable to understand his motives, found himself grinning back.

  Mounting his horse, he reached down and swung her light weight up behind him, and riding out into the black night, they left Beddington’s Corner behind them. Her head pressed tightly to Saber’s back, her skinny arms wrapped around him in a death hold, Nicole could hardly keep from shouting out loud for joy It had worked! She was off to sea!

  Part II

  Christopher

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

  Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  Chapter 4

  Christopher Saxon, his lean, clean-shaven face wearing an expression of weary disdain, listened 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. 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 withdraw, 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. His wealth and handsome face made a definite favorite of ladies with marriageable daughters. Most men thought him pleasant enough, if aloof.

  But he never lacked for either companionship or amusement, but 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 remembered the disgraceful circumstances in which he had acquired his fortune—his comfortable mansion in the Vieux Carré, 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.

  An 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 La
villes’ interminable dinner parties.

  Returning to his own grand stucco and brick home a few blocks from the Lavilles’ he discovered he was not 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 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; 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 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, 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.