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  His cheeks reddened as he spoke and Rowan recognized the gleam in his eyes. She backed away, her feet making no sound on the thick rug beneath them. Jacques laughed and advanced. “I didn’t think I would see you again. Indeed, I thought Lucien would have wrung your beautiful neck by now. Seems I get the pleasure of your body one more time, and then I’ll let him have you. Tell me, do you think he’ll kill you right away, or will he play with you for a while? The cat does enjoy a good mouse hunt.”

  “You won’t touch me,” Rowan said.

  “I will touch you, I will taste you, and I will most certainly feel you beneath me. Perhaps more than once. Maybe I’ll let Samuel have a turn later. He has been so depressed. You’ll cheer him up, I’m sure.”

  “No.”

  “Where do you think you’ll go?”

  “I’m going home, after I kill you.”

  His laughter hammered against her brain, and she had to force herself to remain, to resist the urge to flinch. Her head hurt so intensely she wanted to scream.

  Do not stop. Make sure you are ready.

  The pain ebbed at Mama’s voice and Rowan met Jacques’ eyes, squaring her shoulders and slipping her right hand into the folds of her dress.

  “You think you will kill me?” He laughed again.

  “Do what you will to me. Perhaps you’ll overpower me, and you’ll rape me again, but you can be certain I won’t let you live to see the sunrise.”

  “I’m impressed at your boldness, but I am not surprised. I saw what you did to my friend, Pierre. Lucien was most upset when he found him. Me? I was glad to be rid of him. Pierre was a nuisance anyway. And a fool.”

  “And you are not a fool.” She smiled.

  Jacques lunged. Rowan allowed him to drag her against him. His fingers bit into her arm, making it impossible to pull her hand, and the knife, from her pocket. She lifted her face, meeting his gaze, and felt heat course down her legs.

  He laughed as he felt the tremor in her body.

  While she couldn’t stop her body from reacting, she wasn’t afraid. No matter what he did to her, she would make sure she cut his heart out by morning.

  Pressing his mouth to hers, Jacques released his hold on her arm to move his hand down to her bottom. Rowan struggled half-heartedly, wanting him to believe her weak and vulnerable.

  “Lucien will be so pleased,” he murmured, raising his other hand to her breast. Rowan gasped as he squeezed, eliciting a smile from him.

  “So he wants you dead?”

  “His favorite whore has come home. I’ll make sure you’re subdued before he arrives though. He would not like your attitude.” Jacques pushed her to the bed, keeping his hands on her body. He lowered his mouth to her neck, biting into the tender flesh below her ear.

  Rowan cried out, as she knew he wanted her to do. A knot formed in her chest, burning up into her throat. She had only one chance to do it right. Removing the knife from her pocket, she moved her hand between them, giving him a soft nudge.

  “I think we should tie you up like last time,” he whispered.

  “You think so?”

  “Mmm, I cannot trust you, cherie. I fear you might try to hurt me while I am distracted.”

  “You should have done that as soon as we arrived.” Rowan smiled as his lips ceased moving over her neck.

  He raised his head to look down at her. “Why is that?”

  Rowan gripped the knife, pointing it into his belly. She prayed she did it right, the blade wasn’t very long. She pushed, watching his eyes widen. He jerked away but she followed pushing again on the blade until it sank into him. Feeling the warm liquid seep over the wood and onto her hand, Rowan suddenly felt dizzy.

  She took a breath and pressed down on the knife. Jacques made a strange sound, almost as though choking and shoved her away from him. Rowan stumbled back, tripping over the bed. She kept her gaze on him. He stared down at his belly, just below his heart and raised shaking hands to the handle that jutted from his shirt. Blood, bright red against his white shirt, flowered out around it.

  Clenching his jaw, Jacques looked up at her, shock evident in his pale face. He took several shallow breaths through his nose before yanking the blade from his body. “You think this butter knife would stop me?”

  “Long enough.”

  “I was going to be kind, but now you must be punished.” He staggered toward her.

  Rowan edged back, her eyes scanning the room for something she could use to defend herself. Her gaze fell upon a large vase sitting on the floor near the dresser. If she could back toward it, without him suspecting what she planned, maybe she could use it.

  “Punish me then.” She taunted, turning slightly so they moved toward the door.

  Jacques struggled to breathe, holding the wound in his belly with one hand, grabbing for her with the other. Rowan jumped away, but he continued to stumble toward her. She took her chance when he tripped over the rug and darted for the vase.

  When she turned, Jacques had fallen to his knees, coughing and sputtering. His eyes were closed as he tried to stand despite the pain. Rowan lifted the vase high above her head and crossed the room. “Goodnight Jacques.”

  She swung the heavy stone vase in a wide arc, connecting with the side of his head. Jacques lurched and fell back. Blood stained his face, running down his cheek but still he tried to rise. Rowan, fear beginning to blossom in her chest, swung again. This time she caught his ear. Blood sprayed from his head, catching her face, and the vase split in two. She tossed it aside and watched as he lay motionless on the carpet, one leg tucked awkwardly beneath him, his hands still at his belly.

  His eyes stared at the ceiling, blank and cold. She didn’t trust him though, had learned the hard way that she could trust no one. Moving toward the French doors, she kept her eyes on him, feeling for the heavy drapes that flanked the opening. Her fingers found the silk rope that tied them back and she turned to loosen the knot.

  Rowan moved to the other side, untying the second rope and then moved back to Jacque. He still had not moved. She straddled him, pushing his body over so that his sightless eyes stared at the carpet. He didn’t flinch and when she grabbed his arms to pull them behind his back, his wrist did not pulse with the beat of his heart. She didn’t have to tie him up, but one could never count on anything and she didn’t want to risk Jacques returning to life before she’d dealt with her father.

  Her hands were sticky with his blood and she fumbled with the ropes. She managed to secure his hands and moved to his legs. A sound in the hallway froze her fingers as she looped the last knot.

  “Lucien?” the voice sounded dull, weak.

  Rowan stood and walked to the door. Samuel would have to die if he entered the room. She listened to his footsteps as they neared the room. Shuffling, awkward, as though he had trouble moving.

  “Lucien? Are you there?” he groaned, cursed and then the footsteps moved away.

  Rowan let out the breath she held and closed her eyes. Samuel would have to die anyway. She couldn’t have anyone around who might help Lucien.

  CHAPTER 30

  The sweet scent left him as quickly as it had come and he chided himself for being so silly. Of course, since the debacle at Rosaline’s, and knowing that the whore who claimed to be his daughter still roamed the swamps, he’d often been on edge. He was not afraid of her; a Dumas did not fear a mere woman. He simply hated how she’d duped him and he longed to wrap his hands around her neck. He wanted to watch the light go out of her violet eyes, to hear her beg for mercy, to see her tears once more. Perhaps he would play with her just a little, allow her to live long enough to feel her lips on him again, to feel her tender skin between his teeth.

  Lucien shivered as he recalled her taste; sweet like honey, but just a little tainted. Of course, that was the Negro in her. One couldn’t hide that. No matter how fair their skin, they had a definite taste. He’d had enough of them to know.

  The house remained in shadows. Perhaps Jacques had enjoyed his ti
me at the House too much and come back to bed. Well, they had plans. He could not sleep yet. Lucien walked through the foyer to the winding stairs. The servants had gone long ago, but he would send Jacques to wake someone to entertain them. They’d just acquired a sweet little thing at the House. With skin as dark as chocolate and soft as a rose petal, barely thirteen but with enough knowledge of men and what they liked to prove very valuable to Lucien. She’d balked at first when Lucien showed her what he liked, but he’d beaten the resistance out of her. Now she did as he ordered without as much as a whimper.

  The hallway was dark. No one left the oil lamps that lined the walls lit. He ground his teeth. There were rules in the Dumas house and it irritated him when they weren’t followed. If his bed wasn’t ready, heads would roll.

  A light shone under Samuel’s door and Lucien paused. He’d grown weary of his cousin’s illness, which had grown worse in the few short weeks since they’d discovered it. Lucien himself felt fine and showed none of the symptoms Doctor Martine described, but Samuel showed the last stages clearly. It would only be a matter of time.

  Sighing, Lucien pushed the door open and stood still for a moment. He clenched his fists, felt his nails digging into his palms at the sight before him.

  Samuel lay atop the blankets, his head propped up on several pillows. His blue eyes stared past Lucien to a point only he could see. At his waist, his hands lay limp, the wrists slashed and blood pooling beneath. Lucien had no doubt his cousin was dead, but he wondered if Samuel had done this himself. The knife lay in his palm, covered in blood as well.

  Lucien backed out of the room and closed the door. The smell of death clung to his nose, a sweet decaying odor that would not leave him. He forced himself to turn and walk further down the hall, his heart pounding against his chest. How could Jacques have missed Samuel moving about the house? If he lay sleeping while Lucien’s cousin, like a brother to him, so violently ended his life, Jacques would have some serious explaining to do.

  As he approached the door, Lucien glanced at the knob. He frowned; ran his finger over the brass L-shaped handle, and then lifted his hand. Blood. Had Samuel come for help?

  Lucien knocked and waited. Hearing no reply, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. The room lay in darkness. Jacques was a champion snorer, louder when drunk and Lucien’s senses went on the defensive when he heard nothing but the sound of crickets outside.

  “Jacques?”

  He walked forward, intending to light the lamp next to the bed, when his foot hit something hard. Knowing what he’d find, but hoping for once he was wrong, Lucien knelt and groped along the floor. Pants, he moved his hand and gripped a booted foot. Moving his fingers up, Lucien let out a breath as he touched Jacques’ face, sticky with drying blood.

  “Little bitch!” he cursed.

  “Evening, Papa.”

  Lucien spun at her voice, his eyes searching blindly in the dark room. She stood by the bed, he was sure of it. He lunged, but grasped nothing but air.

  “Now, Papa, you’re going to hurt yourself stumbling around like that. I just came to see how you were. You look ill. Bad night?”

  “You vile, nasty whore. I’ll see you hang,” he said.

  “How is that when you’ll be under the ground?” Rowan’s voice came from behind him and he spun around.

  His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness so he could make out her shadow, barely. He lunged at her and she brought her arm up, catching his shoulder with something hard. He grunted and fell to the right, against the bed.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this,” she said.

  “For your death? Good, so have I.”

  Her laughter, like dozens of tiny bells, filled his head. He hated bells. “You flatter yourself, Lucien. You see, I have the advantage. Now you are vulnerable. How does it feel?”

  “You have nothing.”

  He lunged again and caught her about the waist, tackling her to the floor. Hearing her breath whoosh from her lungs, Lucien grunted in satisfaction. He placed his hand on her chest and tried to grab her flailing arms.

  “Give up, whore. You’re finished.”

  She raised her knee, wedging it between them and pushed against his groin. Lucien gasped at the searing pain that erupted between his legs and she struggled free once more. He recovered his senses in time to reach for her foot as she scrambled away from him, sending her to the floor once more with a thud.

  She grunted and kicked at him, but Lucien laughed. The girl had spirit, he’d give her that. But spirit wouldn’t defeat him. He grabbed her legs and moved his body over her, pinning her knees with his. She stilled and stared up at him. In the darkness, her eyes almost glowed with a light he didn’t remember in them. Madness? Of course, she’d passed the swamp fever to Samuel.

  Samuel.

  “So, you come into my house and murder my family,” he whispered, yanking her arms over her head.

  “They’re filth, just like you. I killed the men who raped me. You’re the last to go.”

  “Hmm, I wish you could have what you worked so hard for, ma petite. But alas, I am not a fool.”

  He lowered his head and ran his tongue over her lips. She opened her mouth and sank her teeth into his lower lip. Lucien released her arm to lay a hand across her face. He watched with satisfaction as her head whipped to the side and blood seeped at the corner of her mouth.

  “I see you’ve forgotten your lessons, whore.”

  Lowering his hand, Lucien yanked her dress up to feel the soft skin of her thighs. His heart raced, he wanted her so powerfully his body trembled. He didn’t know what it was that made these Maynor women irresistible, but he’d rid himself of the temptation after tonight. They had cost him too much. Slipping his fingers beneath her dress, he fumbled around while she struggled. A sudden, burning pain in his neck stilled his hands. Gasping at the fire that spread over his shoulder, he raised his head and felt his neck.

  “You wretched little—” He felt the handle of the small knife, barely enough to inflict serious injury but damn painful.

  “I warned you,” she said, attempting to back away from him.

  Lucien struck out, smiling as he connected with her face. A sickening crack and then a grunt, but she did not stop moving, kicking out and catching the blade stuck in his shoulder. The air went from his lungs and he collapsed. Hearing her crawl to the door, he smiled.

  “You can run, putaine, but you cannot hide,” he called.

  She didn’t reply. The door slammed behind her. Taking a few breaths, he gripped the wooden handle of the small knife and steeled himself. Counting to three Lucien held his breath and yanked the blade free. He cursed as pain flashed over his entire left side. Damn her. She’d pushed him for the last time. Lucien Dumas did not fool around. Rowan would die, and he would see it happened very soon.

  ##

  Henri shoved what he could find into a pack, glancing at the door now and then to make sure no one approached. Justine sat in the corner, huddled in deep conversation with Reo and Claire. The two had arrived soon after Rowan left. Claire claimed to have had a dream, and they’d set out in search of Rowan immediately. Henri didn’t believe in such nonsense, but found himself relieved to see them. Claire had been the small camp’s equivalent to a doctor. Someone needed to talk some sense into Rowan—if it wasn’t already too late.

  Claire said they must find her, stop her from endangering herself and the baby. So Henri had set about collecting anything they might need, not wanting to struggle with thirst and starvation as they had the first time they ventured into the swamps.

  “Silence.” Claire held up a knurled hand.

  They obeyed.

  “What is it?” Justine whispered.

  “I dunno. If you hush den I might.”

  Justine reddened and looked at Henri.

  He winked and she looked away. His feelings for her had grown since that night at the old slave quarters. No longer did he see her as a burdensome waif who Rowan dragged along on her i
nsane adventure. Justine had the purist heart of any he’d ever known, and in his arms, she felt right, like an angel sent to heal him. Rowan held a special place in his heart, and he’d stand by her if only she’d let him, but Justine—he’d move the heavens for Justine.

  A noise outside the door brought him out of his haze. Stomping, clawing and what sounded like a sob. Reo was to the door before Henri could drop the bag he held. As it swung open, the sight before Henri made his stomach clench, a ball forming deep in the bottom and expanding with every breath. What he feared would happen now lay before him, a bloodied sobbing heap on the crooked old porch. The sun had risen, casting a golden glow over her, motes drifted through the beam, disappearing at some point over her still form.

  “Mon dieu!” Reo gasped and ran to Rowan’s body.

  Justine followed and Henri forced his legs to move. Despite his warnings, he never believed she would fail. Rowan was too strong, too determined. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away as he pushed through Justine and Reo’s crouched bodies to Rowan.

  “What happened?” he murmured, brushing hair from her pale face. It was soaked, matted with blood and bits of weeds and sticks. Her face, purple along the jaw, was as white as the lilies that grew in his mother’s gardens.

  “Lucien,” Rowan whispered.

  “You didn’t,” Justine groaned.

  “Stabbed him and he hit me… gators…” Rowan coughed and pushed herself up. Henri gathered her in his arms and turned toward the door.

  “Claire, can you help?” he asked, setting Rowan down on the soft pallet he and Justine had prepared the night before.

  “I smell de swamp. She be in de water. Powerful strong dat smell, and de blood.” The old woman’s blind eyes widened as she moved her hands to Rowan’s head. Rowan pulled away as searching fingers touched her swollen jaw.

  “She said something about gators,” Reo offered.

  Henri leaned over and felt along Rowan’s middle, the brown garment she wore so covered in filth and debris it was hard to tell if there was also blood on it. His gaze moved with his hands to her bare legs, causing his heart to skip a beat. Caked with dirt, her slim legs showed long jagged gashes, crusted with blood. “Oh no.”