Jennifer Wilde Read online

  "Do you always treat women so wretchedly?" I asked.

  "Like I treated Helena? Usually. They invariably come 'round for more. I suppose it's this devilish charm. Gets 'em every time."

  "I don't think I've ever known a man quite so arrogant and conceited," I said, not at all unkindly.

  "High time you did, lass. You don't want a grim, broody chap like Hawke. You want someone who can make you smile, make you laugh, make you feel like a million pounds when you wake up in the morning."

  "I'm quite happy with Derek."

  "I doubt that, lass. I doubt it mightily."

  "I happen to love him."

  "Really? A dour, severe fellow like that?"

  "I love him very much."

  Jeremy Bond shook his head, amazed. "Remarkable," he said.

  "Was he—always so serious?"

  "Always. Even as a boy. Stiff, formal, always scowling. He took himself very seriously, never knew how to relax and have a good time. He was a Hawke, you see, had to live up to the responsibility of the name. He was always the proper son, manners you wouldn't believe, stiff, formal, never indulged in any pranks, never got in trouble."

  "And you, I imagine, were always in trouble."

  "Always. The Bonds were aristocratic, too, frightfully aristocratic, our blood as blue as anyone's. You're never supposed to forget that. You're never supposed to forget your superiority to common folk. The family expected me to revere the family name, live up to it. They pointed to young Master Hawke as a model of deportment. He never got into fights with the farmers brats. He never left muddy boot tracks in the hall or put frogs in the tutor's bed. He certainly never poured water out the second-floor window onto the heads of unsuspecting guests. I was, I fear, incorrigible."

  "I don't doubt it."

  "I found the life of English aristocracy insufferably dreary, far too stuffy and self-satisfied to suit a lad like me. The family gave up on me a long time ago. Booted me out, in fact."

  "You didn't mind?"

  "Hurt my pride a bit, I suppose, but I didn't really mind. I never knew my mother, you see. She died when I was born. My father was cold, my stepmother a horror, my older brother a dreadful prig, always reproving me, always criticizing. He was the fair-haired boy, of course, due to inherit everything. Bloody welcome to it."

  There was just the faintest trace of bitterness in his voice, and I sensed that his family's disowning him had hurt him far more man he cared to acknowledge, even to himself. We turned down another street, moving at a leisurely pace. Lampposts made soft yellow pools at regular intervals, light spilling over the pavement and spreading over the walls. We could hear low voices and laughter coming from the balconies. Someone played a guitar, strumming quietly. The air was heavily perfumed, a languorous atmosphere prevailing over the district. Several prostitutes lingered in doorways, watching us pass, fanning themselves with palmetto fans, graceful, indolent creatures who were very much a part of the district's charm.

  "You were booted out of the army, too," I said.

  "Hawke told you quite a lot about me, I see. Yes, I was booted out. The military life was much too strict, had far too many rules and regulations. I like to make my own rules."

  "I can see that."

  "He told you I was a rotter, didn't he?"

  "More or less," I replied.

  "Suppose I am," Bond said quietly. "Everyone always said I was. After a while I started believing them. I do, however, have a good heart."

  "Oh?"

  "All I need is the right woman to reform me,"

  "I don't envy her the task."

  "Oh, it would be a most delightful task," he assured me, "extremely rewarding."

  We walked two more blocks and turned another comer, moving down a brightly lighted, bustling street lined with cafes and bars. Carriages of every description rumbled over the cobbles, and the pavements were crowded with pedestrians, lively young clerks in chap frock coats, pretending to be dandies and eyeing the pretty girls in second-hand finery who spent their days working behind counters, brawny stevedores who worked on the docks, sailors from all over the world. Music played loudly, almost drowned out by the roar of rowdy voices celebrating freedom from care. One could smell beer and sweat and face powder, fish and salt and sauerkraut. One could feel a merry, highly charged energy in the air,

  "Want to stop for a beer?" Bond asked.

  "I—I think not."

  "I could use one myself, but I guess we're not really dressed fork."

  "I've never been on this street before. Is it safe?"

  "Safe as houses. An occasional brawl, nothing serious. Folks come here to have a merry time. Your real vice occurs down nearer the waterfront, knifings, shootings, hefty lads shanghaied by brutal press gangs, unsuspecting females whisked away to work in South American brothels."

  "That actually happens?"

  "White slavery, you mean? Sure it does. When they're not busy raiding and sinking trade ships or attacking coastal villages or waylaying smugglers in the swamps, Red Nick and his men do a thriving business in women. Kidnap 'em, sell 'em to brothels in Caracas, Rio de Janeiro, places like that."

  "How horrible."

  "A lot of the women are Mexican, taken from the villages, but quite a few come from New Orleans. Red Nick has regular contact with ruffians who supply him with women. Most of 'em he sells. The choicest of the lot he keeps for his men, holding them on an island stronghold off the coast of Texas."

  "He's a pirate?"

  "Most notorious pirate on the coast. The very name Red Nick strikes terror in the hearts of the authorities. They know about the island, have a pretty good idea where it's located, but it'd take an armada to capture it. Mostly they just try to stay out of his way."

  "Have you ever met him?"

  Bond shook his head. "Ran into some of his men a while back, crew of cutthroats hiding in the swamps, harassing the smugglers, not more than twenty or thirty. I, uh, helped get rid of 'em, but they represented only a handful of Red Nick's force. He must have three hundred men under his command."

  "You seem to know quite a lot about him."

  "I made it my business to find out all I could. He comes from Scotland originally, grew up in Edinburgh, had a fine education I understand. His name's Nicholas Lyon—they call him Red Nick because of his hair. He killed a man in Scotland when he was sixteen years old, was scheduled to hang. He escaped, killing a couple of guards in the process, took to the sea. By the time he was in his early twenties, he already had his own ship, eventually got his own fleet and began to concentrate on the coast."

  Three drunken sailors came reeling out of a bar directly ahead of us, reeling pleasantly, all three grinning. Jeremy Bond moved me aside as they stumbled toward us. A pretty blonde girl in a faded pink dress and tattered, darker pink feather boa called one of the sailors by name and hurried toward him with a wide, laughing smile on her lips, her long jet earrings dangling. "You're a sight, you are!" she cried, linking her arm in his. He gave her a mighty hug. It touched me to see two young people so merry, so free of care. Bond was watching me. He seemed to read my mind.

  "There hasn't been much of that in your life, has there?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "High spirits. Merriment."

  "I've not had much time for that sort of thing," I said quietly. "Life hasn't been easy, Mr. Bond."

  "I know, lass."

  "Lucille did tell you a lot, didn't she?"

  He nodded. "There won't be much merriment in the future, either, not if you stay with Derek Hawke. You're not cut out for the kind of life he intends to live in England, lass."

  "How would you know?" I asked.

  "I know Hawke. And I know you."

  "You don't know me at all," I retorted. "I never should have agreed to let you walk me home," I continued. "I should have taken the carriage. You really are terribly presumptuous!"

  "And you're awfully touchy. It's true, you know, what I said. In your heart you know it's true."
/>   "I know no such thing!"

  My voice was cool and haughty. I pulled my arm from his, wishing I had the courage to abandon him entirely. I kept my eye on the carriages passing by, hoping to spot an empty one I might be able to hire. Bond grinned, striding along beside me, his elegant cloak swelling and fluttering behind him like dark, silk-lined wings. The heavy brown wave bounced on his forehead, dipping lower and lower until it almost covered one mischievous blue eye. I pretended to ignore him. When we reached the end of the street he took hold of my wrist, holding it tightly when I tried to pull free.

  "This way," he said. "We'll cut through the market. It's shorter."

  "Let go of my wrist!"

  "Promise to behave?"

  I refused to answer. He gave my wrist a brutal twist, still grinning. I gasped, startled.

  "Promise?" he repeated.

  "You're hurting me!"

  "Not really. If I wanted to I could twist it a bit more, have you hollering in pain."

  "Don't you dare!"

  Bond chuckled, releasing my wrist. I rubbed it vigorously, giving him a vicious look.

  "You'd like to slap me, wouldn't you?" he said.

  "I'd dearly love to!"

  "Don't quite dare though, do you?"

  I saw no reason to answer him. I did indeed want to slap him. I wanted to slap him soundly, and at the same time I wanted to laugh. That surprised me. The man made it impossible to be really angry with him, at least for more than a few minutes. The little boy who had enjoyed naughty pranks was still very much in evidence, however virile and ruthless the man might be. His charm was almost overwhelming, quite, quite dangerous.

  "Are we going to be friends?" he asked.

  "Definitely not," I retorted. "However, as I was foolhardy enough to get myself into this situation, I may as well see it through. You may escort me the rest of the way."

  He cocked a brow. "May I? Really?"

  "I might just slap your face after all!"

  He grinned, leading me across the street and into the poorly lighted labyrinth of the market. Only a few of the stalls were still open. The ground was littered with soiled cabbage leaves and limp carrots, shredded flowers, bits of paper. Torches burned here and there, but much of the area was in shadow, empty stalls closed up for the night. I could smell nuts roasting. A Negro woman moved wearily from stall to stall, bending down to pick up any piece of fruit or vegetable that might still be edible, dropping it into her basket. Jeremy Bond frowned darkly. Taking a wad of money from his pocket, he thrust it into the woman's hands. She looked up at him with tired brown eyes full of amazement, and Bond hooked his arm in mine, hurrying me along before the woman could thank him.

  "I hate that!" he exclaimed. "If these bloody slaveholders are going to set their slaves free, they might at least provide them with some means of livelihood! Sometimes I detest my fellow man."

  His voice rang with genuine indignation, the frown digging a deep furrow over the bridge of his nose. We walked for a while in silence, Bond seething, eventually calming down. We passed bins of coffee beans, the beans glowing a rich red brown in the flickering torch light. Nearby, a husky blond man in a begrimed white apron was packing fish in a barrel of ice, grabbing the silvery fish by their tails, slapping them down onto the ice with resounding smacks. A plump woman with a magnolia blossom behind her ear examined a tray of oranges, idly inspecting them for flaws. We left the lighted area, strolling past rows of empty stalls half in shadow, a misty moonlight alleviating some of the darkness.

  "That was a lovely thing you did back there," I said quietly. "You feel very strongly about it, don't you?"

  "I feel strongly about a lot of things," he replied. "Does that surprise you?''

  "Not at all."

  "I can't abide injustice. I've spent a good part of my adult life fighting it in one way or another."

  "Derek told me—he said you were a mercenary."

  "I'm sure he did. It's true. I've hired my services as a fighter, as a killer if you choose, but I've never gone after any man or any group of men who weren't in the wrong, who didn't deserve to be squelched."

  "You don't have to justify yourself to me, Mr, Bond."

  "I just wanted to set the facts straight. Wouldn't want you to think I was really the cold-blooded killer Hawke undoubtedly made me out to be."

  "He never implied that. He said he admired your valor. He said most of your fighting had been done for a good cause."

  "Indeed? Thought the chap hated me."

  "He does," I replied, "but he's always fair."

  We passed under an archway, leaving the market, moving down a long, narrow passageway thick with blue-black shadows, our footsteps ringing on the cobbles. It never entered my head to be frightened, not with Jeremy Bond beside me. I felt perfectly safe and hadn't given Hart and his friend a single thought since we left Damon's, We left the passageway and started down the Street beyond, lampposts glowing at every corner, an occasional carriage passing slowly.

  "Have you killed many men?" I asked.

  "Dozens and dozens," he said teasingly. "The army trained me well, gave me all sorts of skills before they drummed me out. Only training I ever had, actually. Didn't learn a bloody thing at Oxford except how to cheat at cards. That stood me in good stead, too."

  "You're not half as bad as you pretend to be."

  "Oh, I'm bad, lass. Never doubt it. Mothers warn their daughters about me every day. Of course that only makes the daughters more interested, makes me much more intriguing. Nothing enhances a man's appeal like a reputation for wickedness."

  "Lucille told me about your reputation with women."

  "I must remember to thank her," he said. "Gives me a definite advantage where you're concerned,"

  "Mr. Bond—"

  "If you call me Mr. Bond one more time I fully intend to twist your arm quite savagely. Try 'Jeremy.' "

  "I don't know you well enough to call you by your first name."

  "And stop being so goddamn coy."

  "Really, Mr.—"

  He gave me a warning look, his blue eyes dark with intent.

  "I wasn't being coy," I said smoothly. "I can't abide coy women."

  "You've been coy as hell," he informed me. "Why don't you just admit you find me attractive? You may be all wrapped up in Derek Hawke, you may even believe you love him, but you've wanted to go to bed with me ever since you first saw me this afternoon."

  "You—you're quite wrong about that!"

  "Why can't you admit it? There's no disgrace involved."

  "I happen to love Derek."

  "And you want to sleep with me."

  "I don't intend to argue."

  "No point in arguing. We both know it's true."

  He had released my arm earlier, and now he thrust his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders forward, sauntering along at a leisurely pace. The handsome cloak billowed, fluttering gently. He was indeed wrong, I told myself. I did find him attractive, yes, I couldn't deny that, but the thought of sleeping with him had never entered my mind. His conceit knew no bounds. Because a great many women had made a fuss over him, had spoiled him deplorably, he arrogantly assumed every woman he met found him irresistible. Well, here was one who didn't. I had no desire to sleep with anyone but Derek.

  "Angry?" he inquired.

  "Not in the least," I said coldly.

  "You are. I can tell."

  "Your nonsense isn't worth getting angry about."

  "It's not nonsense, Marietta. It's the truth. I'm a very honest man. I hoped you'd be honest, too."

  "You hoped I'd be easy prey. You hoped—you thought you could offer your protection and I'd be so grateful I'd tumble into your arms the minute you gave the signal."

  "You're right."

  "I told you this afternoon—you're wasting your time."

  Jeremy Bond grinned, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, wave flopping on his forehead as he strolled beside me in that bouncy stride. He wasn't at all perturbed by the cool, alo
of manner I assumed. I was extremely irritated, extremely disturbed, and I felt wonderfully, gloriously alive, as though I had downed a dozen glasses of champagne instead of one. Something seemed to sing inside of me, making joyous music that was felt, not heard. I told myself it was the lovely night, the perfumed air, the smooth caress of red silk against my skin.

  Bond made no attempt to resume our conversation. He seemed to be preoccupied, lost in thought, the grin still curling on that wide, generous mouth. We walked down the street toward the apartment, passing the gray walls dripping with bougain villaea. The balconies beyond were brushed with shadow, moonlight gilding the wrought iron. Lamps glowed behind curtained windows, making hazy yellow-gold squares in the night. New Orleans was at its most bewitching in the evening, sultry and romantic and imbued with an indolent charm that cast a spell over the senses, I was going to miss this city: I had known much sadness here, but I had known happiness, too, a kind of happiness I had never experienced before.

  I was in a pensive mood by the time we reached the gates. The anger and irritation had vanished, and that joyous music had been replaced by a languor that seemed to steal over my entire body. Bond was silent, studying my face as we stood there in front of the gates. I felt no animosity toward him. I felt strangely passive, as though I no longer had a will of my own, as though I had been drugged by the fragrant perfume of roses, lulled by the soft night noises that rustled in the gardens. It had been a long walk, an eventful day, and I was weary, so weary I didn't protest when he touched my cheek, stroking it gently with his fingertips.

  "You're lovely," he said. "You're the loveliest woman I've ever seen. I mean that, Marietta."

  His voice was very low, and there was a husky catch in it, as though the words came from deep inside. I tilted my chin, looking up at him. His face was clearly visible in the moonlight, the eyes half-shrouded, dark blue now, full of meaning, sending a message it was impossible not to read. I noticed anew the generous, beautifully shaped mouth, the slightly crooked nose, the broad, flat cheekbones with skin stretched taut. He was a stranger, a man I barely knew, yet somehow I felt I knew him better than I had ever known any man. I felt he knew me, too, knew me as no man had.