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  “Is that necessary?” Justine asked.

  “Better safe than sorry. Whoever was here might come back.”

  Her eyes widened and Henri turned back to his task, hauling the boat up the bank and into the trees. He dragged it further up until they nearly tripped over Rowan’s boat, hidden under a pile of damp leaves and moss.

  “I’m a little afraid.” Justine said as they trekked to the little shack atop the hill.

  Henri didn’t comment, his thoughts were much the same. He didn’t think Rowan could hurt him, not really, but he had worried what she’d do to herself and what they’d find when they got to Mama Gator’s.

  As they neared the giant oaks that flanked the small structure covered in dirt and moss, he offered a little prayer. God would watch over Rowan and his child, even if she hadn’t been a good person as of late. She used to be a good soul and that should count for something.

  ***

  Standing at the door, her hand on the frame, Rowan watched Henri and Justine approach. She knew they’d find her and deep down hoped that they would. All night she listened to the voices of the two people who had once been her entire world. Mama and Mama Gator argued, they pleaded, while she tried to shake them from her mind. Finally, as the sun peeked over the trees casting an amber glow over the shack, and the swamp came alive with activity, they’d left her alone. In the silence of her own thoughts, she’d made up her mind. Lucien would die, if it was the last thing she did, but she couldn’t do it without help. Justine and Henri had hurt her more than she’d ever admit, but she needed them.

  Now as they approached, she noted how Justine’s tattered sack hung on her frighteningly thin body. Henri wrapped his arm around her waist, giving the jumpy girl comfort. Rowan swallowed the bile that rose to her throat. When had anyone offered her that kind of comfort; that little bit of support? Didn’t she warrant some tenderness too? Just because she was strong didn’t mean she didn’t require tenderness.

  As they stepped onto the porch, she pushed the door open, startling them both. Henri’s eyes searched her face. He knew she’d seen them. Rowan smiled and stood back. “You found me.”

  “It wasn’t too hard,” he grumbled.

  “I’ll try to make it worth your effort next time.”

  Henri glared but he and Justine walked past her into the tiny shack. Rowan heard their sharp intake of breath as they surveyed the scene before them. Indeed, the shack looked nothing like what they’d left so many months ago. Someone had turned it upside down.

  Rowan followed them in, closing the door softly behind her. “Someone visited not too long ago.”

  “We aren’t safe here,” Justine fretted. Her hands wrung the battered old sack, forcing it to ride up her thighs.

  “They won’t come back,” Rowan said. “They didn’t find what they wanted, and I’m sure that this place is the last place they’d continue to come to. That’s far too much effort. Lucien knows I’ll come to him.”

  Rowan walked across the room to the shelves, now almost empty, to continue salvaging what she could out of the destruction. Her head no longer ached, the opium—which thankfully they hadn’t touched—had done its job. She hoped that the pain would stay away.

  What’s that?” Henri asked.

  Rowan turned, setting the bottle on the shelf and she smiled. “Opium, it’s good for headaches.”

  “Have you taken any?”

  “A little.”

  “The baby—”

  “Trust me, the baby is fine. I know how much to use. It won’t hurt the child. Now, if I were to take too much, or ingest it directly, then I’d be in some trouble.”

  “What do you mean?” Justine paused in her perusal of the wreckage, holding an old dress that Mama Gator saved for her trips to town.

  “It doesn’t matter. That dress should fit you.” Rowan smiled at the girl’s blush.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “It’s not like Mama Gator will be wearing it.”

  Justine bent her head, staring at the dress clutched against her frail body. It was clear to Rowan the girl wanted to get rid of the sack, and she didn’t blame her. Rowan’s dress was bursting at the seams, and if she could find one to fit her, she’d have gotten rid of the filthy rag immediately.

  “Go put it on. That sack stinks and I’m tired of looking at your chicken legs.” Rowan turned back to the shelves and pretended to pick through the broken glass.

  Whoever made it to the shack before them had turned everything upside down. The mess sickened Rowan. Mama Gator always kept things so orderly, not a thing out of place. They’d ripped apart the straw mat the old woman used for a bed, threw bottles and other items on the ground, and Rowan would bet they stomped on most of them to make sure they had been ruined. Only those that rolled beneath the long table and cabinet in the corner escaped the destruction. Various odors, not one of them pleasant, filled the tiny space. She wondered how much bad luck they’d given themselves by releasing Mama Gator’s more powerful potions.

  “I’ll leave so you can dress,” Henri said.

  Rowan raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “Why? Because her body looks different in the daylight? Don’t pretend on my account. I’m a big girl.”

  Henri stared, pressing his lips into a firm line. He reddened but didn’t speak, turning on his heel instead and exiting the shack. Rowan turned back to the bottles, reading the labels and setting them back where they belonged. Justine sniffled, but she heard the girl moving around, shucking the smelly sack and donning Mama Gator’s town dress.

  “I’m going to look for Lucien tonight,” Rowan said. Silence behind her, as she knew would be the case. She waited.

  “Rowan, think of the child,” Justine’s footsteps crunched in the rubble on the floor as she moved closer.

  “I am. That’s why I must find him soon. My belly is growing heavy and the baby is moving more and more. I’ll be too far along in another month. Once the child is born, I’ll have to wait. I don’t want to wait.”

  “Please reconsider. He’ll be there later. You’re not well. I think you should wait until you feel better. It’s not just your baby anyway.”

  Rowan spun around. A dull roaring sound filled her ears and she advanced on Justine. “This is my baby. I didn’t ask to be raped by its father and I certainly won’t ask him to look after it. So, I will do what I please and no one, certainly not you, will tell me otherwise.”

  “I just—”

  “I’m fine. You’re worrying about nothing. Lucien Dumas is going to die, and I will see it happen.”

  Justine bit her lip and looked away. Rowan glared, her breath came in short pants. She tried to slow the spinning sensation in her head, but the stifling air of the shack only intensified it.

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “You may stay or go. Whatever. Do not follow me. I’ll return in a couple of days. If I don’t, well then you know what’s happened.”

  The door closed as she finished speaking. Rowan closed her eyes, waiting for Henri’s argument. When none came, she turned to look at him. He stood in the shadows of the doorway, shaking his head. His shoulders slumped and his cheeks held a faint flush.

  “What?” Rowan sighed.

  “Nothing. I know better than to offer my opinion. I do wish you’d wait, get some rest, but you will do as you please.”

  “Of course I will.” Rowan knelt and picked up the bag she’d filled before they arrived and then slung it over her shoulder.

  Henri moved from the door to allow her to pass, his gaze on the floor. As she placed her hand on the knob, he muttered something.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said be safe. Please.” He did not meet her eyes.

  Rowan opened the door and stepped out into the sunshine. Raising her face to the sky, she breathed deeply, allowing the clear warm air to fill her lungs. Safe wouldn’t get her what she wanted.

  CHAPTER 29

  Rowan wandered the streets of New Orleans, which still bustled with activity despite
the late hour. She hadn’t planned her evening beyond finding somewhere to clean up and change her dirty rags. She found a little Inn near the edge of town, close to the poor section, where the fires had destroyed nearly everything.

  The innkeeper, a woman in her fifties Rowan judged, dressed in a stiff grey dress buttoned to her neck, eyed her dubiously at first, but Rowan spilled her made-up story and the woman softened.

  “You poor thing. How long have you been roaming the streets?” she asked, her gaze taking in the torn and horrible smelling dress that Rowan had worn for far too long.

  “I thought I could find my mama, but she might have died in the fire. I don’t know. No one can tell me anything.” Rowan sniffed, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye.

  “Well, I can give you a room for a couple of nights. Mind you, if you can’t pay you’ll have to work. I don’t give nothing for free.”

  “Of course, I have some money, but I hoped to buy a dress. This one is…”

  “Let me see what I have. You’re a little thick in the waist, but I might have an old dress that will fit. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  A few hours later, Rowan had lain in a clean bed, freshly bathed and wore a loose brown frock that hid her ‘thick’ waist. She paid the woman with the money she’d found stashed at Mama Gator’s and set out as soon as the innkeeper turned into bed.

  A cool breeze ruffled her hair. Rowan lifted her face. The night was clear, and although a little chilly, it felt good to be free of Henri and Justine, and to be anonymous on the busy streets. Shouts echoed in the darkness. Rosaline’s imposing home came into view and Rowan paused. Fingering the knife hidden in the deep pockets of her dress, she felt a flutter in her chest. Could she do it?

  Two men staggered down the walk, turning toward where Rowan stood frozen. One of them looked up and she nearly giggled in anticipation. His face, one of the many from that first horrible night at Rosaline’s, had been etched into her mind, haunting her dreams all of these weeks. Now, as he stumbled down the wooden sidewalk, his boots clicking and scuffing, Rowan decided what she would do.

  Slouching just a little, she put her head down and scurried toward them. As she hoped, a hand rested on her arm as she pushed past.

  “What have we here?” the man asked.

  “Looks like a frightened little mouse, Jacques.” Laughed the other.

  Jacques. Now he had a name. Rowan pulled away, careful to keep her gaze on the ground. “Please. Leave me be. I have to get home. My papa will be waiting.”

  “Your papa shouldn’t have let you out on the streets so late, cherie. I think you’re lying.” Jacques reached out to pull a strand of her hair. Rowan cringed.

  “She’s fair, non?” the other man chuckled.

  “Oui, elle est une beauté. But you must go home to the missus. I am expected at Lucien’s.”

  Her father’s name set Rowan’s heart racing. If she could get into the house—no, it’s too soon. She wasn’t prepared.

  “He isn’t even home. You have tie to play just a little.” The other man winked.

  Rowan fought the urge to pull out her knife. She forced herself to release it in her pocket, noting that her palm had grown moist.

  “Perhaps I should bring you with me, mademoiselle. Monsieur Dumas does enjoy a rare beauty. I think without that ugly rag you are a treasure.” Jacques trailed a finger down her cheek and Rowan shivered, remembering when those hands hadn’t been so gentle. When those hands had punched, pinched and his teeth had tormented her skin.

  “My papa will come for me and you will be in trouble,” she warned.

  “I don’t think so, but if he does, Lucien will pay handsomely for the privilege of bedding you. Don’t worry. Your papa will be glad we met.”

  The other man shook his head and continued walking. Jacques tugged on Rowan’s arm.

  She dug in her heels. “Non, I will not go. If I scream, someone will come.” Rowan eyed the revelers exiting Rosaline’s, careful to keep her face averted from his gaze. Indeed, no one on this street, at this time of night, would blink at a filthy urchin screaming, especially when a rich white man dragged her along. She would use this to her advantage somehow. Let him take her to Lucien’s. If she died tonight, at least she would do so trying to see justice was done.

  Her headache returned. Jacques slipped an arm about her waist and pushed her forward. “Come now, I won’t hurt you. I doubt you’ve never pleased a man before. Your kind does that from the cradle, non?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just my papa doesn’t like it when I don’t tell him where I am. He will punish me for going behind his back.”

  “Now, your papa need never know about this. I won’t tell, and if he does find out, well I’m sure Lucien would give you a position of some kind. In exchange for food and shelter, he asks very little.”

  Rowan allowed him to nudge her through the streets, enduring his hand squeezing her backside and his lips nuzzling against her ear. She kept her gaze down and hoped he didn’t recognize her. So far, he looked at little beyond her chest. Given the smell of alcohol that emanated from his body, he probably couldn’t see much.

  People passed them as they walked, men dressed in fine clothes with women on their arms. None paid them much attention, the men nodding to Jacques and continuing on their way. Rowan wondered how many of those women were like her, forced to share the company of their men in order to survive.

  They approached Lucien’s sprawling plantation, and she felt her hands trembling.

  You can do this. You must.

  Mama’s voice drifted to her ears as though floating on the wind. Rowan straightened, taking a deep breath as she turned with Jacques up the long walk to Lucien’s front porch. Willow trees flanked the entrance, bowing over the steps as though about to hug their visitors in their leafy embrace. The breeze carried the faint scent of jasmine and Rowan was reminded of lying in Mama’s arms as a child, breathing in the same comforting smell.

  “Monsieur Dumas isn’t due back for hours yet, so we’ll have time to get acquainted.” Jacques half dragged her up the steps and onto the wide veranda. Rowan eyed the swing set on the far side, beneath hanging vines blooming with yellow flowers. It looked so homey, so… pleasant. She knew better. The Dumas house held evil within its walls, a family of liars; lecherous and cruel men who lived to push women down to their proper position. Mama learned that the hard way. Rowan still found it hard to believe that her mother, her wise, tough, and beautiful mother, could love a man like Lucien, but she must have in order to fall for his lies. To add to her demoralization, she’d had to endure Pascal as well.

  Jacques held the screen door open, Rowan stepped past him, turning the brass knob on the heavy oak door and entering Lucien’s home. She blinked as she moved into the foyer, awestruck at its opulence.

  “Is this marble?” she asked, gazing at a white floor with swirls of pearly grey. She’d heard of it, but save for the statues at Rosaline’s, she’d never encountered it in such abundance. It covered the entire floor of the large entry, flowing down the long darkened hallways. She wondered if the entire house was floored in the beautiful stone.

  “Pretty, non? Lucien adores beautiful things. Although, I tried to tell him that it will quickly dull. It will not always look so lovely, not in our climate.” Jacques shrugged.

  “Oh.” Rowan stared at the floor and imagined she could see her reflection in the gleaming tiles. She couldn’t picture them dull.

  “Now, let’s go upstairs.” Jacques took her hand in his. Rowan cringed at the clamminess of his skin. An image of that night, of his eyes staring down at her, their brown depths lit with madness. His face moved closer to hers, the light in them flickering to a flame as she pleaded with him to help her.

  She shivered, dispelling the image and followed him down the dim hallways of the Dumas mansion. The first two doors they passed were closed, but the third opened just enough for Rowan to see a man lying in bed. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him. He looked so lik
e Lucien she thought Jacques had been mistaken. He stared at the window, his face pale and she noted that his trembling hands wrung at the satin covering that hid his legs.

  “That is Samuel, Lucien’s cousin.” Jacques tugged her forward. “He is ill. You do not want to tangle with him.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Rowan asked.

  “We suspect he has caught swamp fever from one of the whores at Lucien’s establishment, but Lucien does not believe that. Indeed, if it were true, then we’d all be sick.”

  “Why?”

  Jacques turned, raising a thin eyebrow. “I think I tire of your questions. This forwardness is above your station.”

  “Sorry.” Rowan lowered her eyes. Had that been a flicker of recognition in his eyes, or simply irritation?

  “Pas de soucis, ma cherie. Do not worry. I will remind you of your place.”

  They walked to the end of the hall. Rowan didn’t look up, keeping her gaze on the worn wood floor beneath her feet. She heard a door click open and raised her eyes to Jacques. He stepped back, allowing her to enter before him.

  The room was much the same as Samuel’s, plush carpeting done in rich reds and gold with a large four-poster bed occupying the middle of the room. A kerosene lamp had been lit in the corner on a small table next to the bed; its pale glow flickered through the ivory shade lending a soft light to the room. French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the gardens. Rowan remembered her last visit to Lucien’s house, in the gardens at night, and a frisson of excitement travelled up her spine. Her head ached, but it dulled when compared to the anticipation of getting even. Perhaps she’d wait for Lucien to come home, and surprise her dear father while he slept.

  “Now, it’s time you came clean, swamp rat.”

  Jacque’s words stopped her cold. Fear replaced her eagerness and she slowly turned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew you the moment I laid eyes on you, Mademoiselle. Those eyes, like the violets that bloom along the water in the spring, and that hair… as rich as copper, oui? I could not forget those things. Did you think to fool me? Jacques Lyon is not so easily tricked, certainly not by a mere woman.”