Lorenzo and the Turncoat Page 5

  “‘Tis a bit of all right. Me and him got along dandy, but I got me eye on a German gent. He’s a civilian, alas. I do so love a uniform.” She dusted the lapels of Hawthorne’s jacket. “You cut a fine figure in the old red rag. Why’d you leave the service?”

  “I decided to set up a law practice in Baton Rouge.”

  “Go on with you now! A barrister? You? Isn’t that like letting the fox guard the henhouse?”

  He laughed. “Perhaps.”

  “I didn’t know barristers transported prisoners.”

  “This one is a special case. I’ll need a room for the night.”

  Patsy pushed back beaded curtains separating the bar from a private room. “Man needs a room!”

  A red-cheeked customer banged his fist on a table. “Where’s that beer, wench?”

  Patsy picked up a mug of frothy beer and blew Hawthorne a kiss.

  Eugenie understood the gist of what Hawthorne and Patsy said, but most of the conversation was nearly incomprehensible. Lorenzo had taught her a smattering of English, but he spoke in a soft Virginia accent that dropped the Rs. She had never heard English spoken this way, with all the Rs burred.

  Eugenie was wet and tired. She hadn’t slept well the night before, a fact she hadn’t told Lorenzo because he worried too much. Now, her throat felt scratchy. Traveling with Hawthorne, not knowing their final destination, frayed her nerves. He promised to treat her well if she behaved herself, but would he keep his word?

  She remained on constant alert. She could not afford to slip up and let him know he had kidnapped the wrong person. He would probably kill her if he learned she was not Felicité De Gálvez.

  Eugenie looked for opportunities to escape, but Hawthorne never left her alone for a moment. He turned his back when she needed to relieve herself behind a bush, but remained close by. Getting away from Hawthorne when he had so many allies around would be difficult. The further she got from New Orleans, the less her chance for escape. Every step took her closer to English territory, about seventy-five miles upriver from New Orleans. She had to get away as soon as possible. Escape would be even harder once they reached English territory.

  A pudgy woman pushed through the beaded curtain and greeted Hawthorne in German.

  He returned the greeting and asked for a room. He paid for it and was given a key. “We will eat in the privacy of our room. Please send a tray.”

  “The kitchen is closed.”

  He laid a wad of cash on the counter and offered the woman an ingratiating smile. “Perhaps you could find some bread and cheese left from supper. Ham would be delightful. And a hot pot of tea.”

  “Ja, ja,” she said, slipping the money into her apron pocket. She drew back a beaded curtain and yelled to a scullery maid to prepare a tray.

  The innkeeper led them up narrow steps to a third-floor bedroom. She cupped her hand around the candlestick’s flame to keep it from going out and stopped in front of a door with peeling paint.

  Hawthorne unlocked it. “After you,” he said to Madame De Gálvez.

  Hands tied together, she stepped inside.

  The room held two small beds covered with handmade quilts, a nightstand and porcelain washbasin, a folding screen, a chest of drawers, and a small table with two chairs. The floor was bare and squeaked with every step.

  If she tries to get away, Hawthorne thought, I’ll hear her moving about. He peeked out the room’s only window.

  Lightning sliced through the sky, illuminating the courtyard below.

  It was a three-story drop to the ground. Madame De Gálvez would break her neck if she tried to escape through the window.

  “You like the room?” the innkeeper asked.

  “Yes, it is quite suitable.”

  After the innkeeper left, Hawthorne locked the door and slipped the key in his jacket pocket.

  Madame De Gálvez stood in the middle of the room, fidgeting.

  Hawthorne untied her hands, removed his wet jacket and spread it over a high-back chair to dry. He took off his shirt, damp around the collar and cuffs, but otherwise dry. He laid the shirt over the folding screen. “Change into this.”

  “No.”

  “You’re soaking wet and will catch a cold if you stay in those clothes.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I will not ravish you. I have never bedded an unwilling woman and I shan’t start tonight. You have my solemn promise that I will return you in the condition I found you.”

  Casting him a doubtful look, she stepped behind the screen.

  While he waited, he cleaned his pistol and set it on top of a chest of drawers. Leaving a loaded weapon near such a cheeky woman would be unwise at best. She would use it on him if given the chance.

  There was a timid knock at the door. Hawthorne opened it.

  A scullery maid stood there holding a tray of cheese, horn-shaped bread, and a teapot. He gave her a tip and took the tray. He placed it on the table, locked the door, and slipped the key back into his jacket pocket.

  Madame De Gálvez stepped from behind the screen, his shirt reaching her knees. She had taken off her bonnet and unpinned her hair. Reddish-gold tresses went halfway down her back. She edged over to the chair where his jacket hung and shifted nervously from foot to foot.

  “Ecoutez, monsieur,” she said, hands knotted behind her. “If you release me, no harm will come to you. I give you my word.”

  “In due time, Madame.”

  “My husband will pay any ransom. Name your price.”

  “It isn’t money I want.”

  “What then?”

  “I will explain when the time is right, Madame. Please sit down.”

  With great reluctance, she obliged him.

  He sliced the cheese into thin wafers, cut slices of bread, placed them on a saucer, and put it in front of her. He poured her a cup of tea.

  She frowned at the food.

  “Eat, Madame.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “We have a long trip ahead of us. Eat.”

  Sighing, she nibbled on a piece of cheese and washed it down with a cup of tea.

  Hawthorne studied her while they ate in sullen silence. She kept her eyes down, glancing up occasionally. The last woman he had supped with in the privacy of his bedchamber had been his mistress. What a scene that had become when he told her he was going to Baton Rouge without her!

  Madame De Gálvez finished eating and sat back in her chair.

  He saw her shiver. “You’re cold.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Get into bed. You’ll be warmer there.”

  “No.”

  “Lord, woman! Do as I say.” He went to the bed and turned back the covers. “If you please.”

  Arms folded over her chest, she trudged to the bed and slipped between the sheets.

  “That’s a good girl.” He tucked the quilt around her. He pushed the second bed next to hers, stretched out beside her on top of the covers and put an arm around her middle. “This should keep you from going anywhere.” In this position, the slightest movement would wake him. “Good night, Madame. I am told I snore, so I apologize in advance for any inconvenience.”

  Eugenie lay in bed, pinned in place by his muscular arm. Little by little, the cold iron key in her hand warmed. She had lifted it from Hawthorne’s jacket right in front of his face and he had not noticed.

  She watched lightning illuminate the room and struggled to stay awake. When he fell asleep, she could get away.

  Light snoring turned to deep, throaty snorts. While she waited for just the right moment, she idly wondered if Lorenzo snored.

  It seemed like hour upon hour went by, but she knew that was not so. Loud drunken voices, most speaking German, drifted through the floorboards from the room below. Tomorrow, they would pass through the Acadian Coast populated with French Canadians, some of them her father’s friends.

  Noises in the tavern became fewer and fewer.

  Hawthorne rolled over. His snores changed to short rumbles.
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  Eugenie waited to make her move until she was certain he was asleep. She eased back the covers.

  A lightning bolt lit the room. She memorized the location of the furniture to avoid running into it. She took mincing steps and prayed the floorboards would not squeak and betray her. Ever so carefully, she eased the key toward the keyhole, but before she could insert it, something rustled behind her. She froze.

  Her abductor lit a candle. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She whirled in surprise.

  Hawthorne raised up on one elbow. “Give me the key. Get back to bed.”

  A flash of lightning lit the pistol on the chest of drawers. She grabbed it and pointed it at him.

  “Go ahead. Shoot. It’s not loaded.”

  She aimed and pulled the trigger.

  The hammer clicked in the pan. Nothing happened. She growled in frustration and threw the pistol at him.

  He caught it in one hand. “Damn, woman! I told you I would do you no harm. How am I repaid? You try to kill me.”

  “Before this is over, I will see you dead.”

  He looked at her with chillingly cold eyes. “Get back to bed.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rain hammered the warehouse roof. Charles slid back the door a fraction of an inch and peeped out. How could Thomas be sleeping through this? They had finished the inventory some time ago, but decided that the weather was far too bad to venture beyond the warehouse.

  The exhausted boy had curled into a chair, his knees drawn up to his chest. He looked uncomfortable. Charles took a blanket from a box and wrapped it around him, then went back to watching the lightning display.

  Lorenzo walked through the driving rain. It slashed his face, but he didn’t care. He had to find Eugenie. Where could she be? Who was the man she had left with?

  He headed home. His path took him toward the warehouse on the waterfront. Lights in the upper window suggested Thomas was still there, working.

  The howling wind gathered force. A sudden thrust of air hit Lorenzo so hard he had trouble staying upright. He leaned into the wind, only to find it so strong, it actually pushed him back a couple of steps. Rain whipped around him. He grabbed a tree trunk and hung on with all his might. Overhead, branches scraped against each other.

  A wooden house across the way broke up bit by bit. First, roof tiles flew off. A rocking chair on the porch crashed into the wooden railing and smashed apart. Lightning struck the chimney. The loud boom accompanying the crash reminded Lorenzo of a cannon blast.

  A bolt struck the mast of a ship at anchor.

  It wasn’t safe to be under a tree in a lightning storm, but the second Lorenzo let go of the trunk, he felt like the wind would pick him up and carry him away.

  Debris swirled in the air. He put his arm before his face to protect it from flying objects.

  Something whizzed past his head, so close it grazed his ear. If a lightning bolt didn’t get him, a wind-driven object would. He had to get somewhere safe … and fast.

  Charles strained to see in the dark. There was something morbidly fascinating about watching this. Nature seemed to be dissolving before his eyes. A swirling gray cloud of debris whooshed by.

  A new bolt of lightning slashed through the clouds. It was quickly followed by another lightning bolt and another and another.

  Nature was putting on a brilliant display, far more impressive than any fireworks he had seen. It lit the figure of some idiot who didn’t have sense enough to get in out of the rain.

  Lightning blazed.

  Dios mío, Lorenzo thought. I was right. It’s a hurricane!

  There was a bright flash of light. Something cracked overhead.

  Lorenzo looked up.

  A tree branch hurtled toward him.

  Charles saw the branch fall and dashed outside. The force of the wind nearly took his breath away. He struggled forward. Completely drenched in seconds, he swiped hair from his eyes and waited for another lightning flash.

  The whole street lit up. Wind blasted something the size of a bucket through the street.

  Charles found it impossible to move quickly against the strong gale. Plodding along slowly, methodically, he eventually reached the downed man. In a burst of strength, he managed to move the tree branch, throw the man over a shoulder, and carry him to the warehouse.

  Thomas stood at the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  Charles gently deposited his load on the floor. He looked down at the man. It was Dr. Bannister. I have an idiot for a doctor, Charles thought.

  “Lorenzo!” Thomas exclaimed, falling to his knees beside him. He started to shake him awake.

  “Don’t do that,” Charles said. “He might have a concussion.”

  Lorenzo groaned. “I don’t, but my head hurts like the devil.”

  “Serves you right. I’ve heard of people who didn’t have sense enough to get in out of the rain, but never met one before.”

  “Thanks for the sympathy,” Lorenzo said, squinting up at him.

  “You’re welcome.” Charles took a bottle from his pocket and offered it to him.

  “No thanks,” Lorenzo said.

  “It’s the medicine you gave me.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Yeah. Headache’s gone. Works like a charm. You really should take a swig.”

  “It’s just sugar water.” Lorenzo sat up slowly, wincing.

  “Why did you give me that? Did you think I was faking it?”

  “No. But you were out of a job. Probably hadn’t been eating well. It was a logical assumption that your headaches were due to stress. There’s more to doctoring than just handing out remedies. That’s something I learned from my father. You treat the whole patient.”

  Charles was caught halfway between anger and gratitude. On one hand, he was upset that the doctor had tricked him. On the other, he had shown him incredible acts of kindness. Getting him a job. Feeding him the first good meal he had tasted in a long time.

  Lorenzo stood up. He wobbled.

  Charles caught him. “And I thought you were a brilliant doctor with a miracle medicine.”

  “You’re cured, aren’t you?”

  “That’s beside the point.” Charles went to the warehouse door to close it.

  Water seeped in on the dirt floor.

  Charles’s feet squished in his shoes. There was nothing odd about that. He had stepped into a puddle or two rescuing Lorenzo. But his feet felt too wet. He looked down. He was standing in an inch of water. And it was rising rapidly. Water surged in. He tried to slide the door shut, but pressure kept it open.

  “Thomas!” he yelled, horrified to see it up to his shins. “Get upstairs.”

  He leaned his shoulder against the door and pushed with all his might.

  Water was knee high.

  Lorenzo struggled through the water to help him shut the door.

  It was no use.

  “Come on, Doc,” Charles said to Lorenzo. “We have to get upstairs.”

  Thomas splashed through the water and scrambled up the ladder on the far side of the room.

  Water swirled around the warehouse, stopped by enormous bags of rice. Crates with light contents floated to the surface and bounced about. One of them slammed into Lorenzo and sent him splashing into the water. He thrashed about unable to get his footing.

  Charles lifted him up.

  Lorenzo coughed out water. He looked panicked.

  “This way,” Charles said, directing him toward the ladder.

  Lorenzo froze.

  “Come on, man!” Charles seized him by the arm and forced him forward.

  Lanterns hanging from pegs along the warehouse wall sputtered, threatening to go out.

  Charles wanted to grab one, but the water was rising too fast. It would only waste precious seconds, time better spent getting Lorenzo up the ladder.

  The higher the water got, the harder it was to force their way through it. The last ten feet was through chest-high water. Charles ran int
o something and grunted in pain.

  “Are you all right?” Lorenzo asked, coming out of his stupor.

  “I’ll live. Get going.”

  By the time Charles reached the ladder, water hid the bottom rungs. He had to feel for a toehold.

  Lanterns flickered.

  Charles suddenly realized that they were about to be plunged into total darkness. He plowed through water up to his neck and grabbed a lantern. He held it high overhead.

  Lorenzo was halfway up when water doused the other lanterns.

  Charles scrambled behind him, keeping the lantern above the water. The next thing he knew he was on the second floor, wheezing, gasping for air.

  Water dripped off all three of them and puddled on the floor.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Charles yelled in Lorenzo’s face.

  Lorenzo took a step back, his face showing surprise. “What are you talking about?”

  “Why did you freeze, Doc? We could have drowned!”

  Thomas stepped between them. “He’s afraid of water, Charles. Lorenzo almost drowned once.”

  Charles immediately regretted his outburst. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? Saving my worthless hide?” Lorenzo grinned, his usual good humor resurfacing.

  “No, I mean …”

  “I know what you meant. I must say this is a first! I’ve never had someone apologize for saving my life before!”

  Water lapped the top rung of the ladder.

  “You may be premature with your gratitude,” Charles said, nodding toward the rising water.

  They were trapped on the second floor. If it rose much higher, they would drown.

  The crash of a thunderbolt awoke Hawthorne with a start. He still had an arm around his captive but he could feel her trembling. It reminded him of his six-year-old daughter and how she always climbed into bed with him during a storm and huddled beneath the covers.

  “It’s just a little rain,” he said to Madame De Gálvez. That, he thought, was an English understatement. It sounded like the storm would blow the building down at any moment. He stroked her cheek with his knuckle. “No harm will come to you. I promise.”

  She pushed his hand away.

  He put his arm around her and anchored the sheets in place.

  Something troubled him. Her cheek felt unusually hot. He wished she would let him take her temperature, but knew the gesture would not be welcomed.