Chapter 12
NEW ORLEANS
‘Hurry’ was the word of the moment as they were unloaded from the boat along with their luggage. People were rushing everywhere, propelled by an air of impending catastrophe.
With little regard for either Lochranza’s status or Mrs Mackintosh’s obvious refined disposition, they were bundled in the direction of a closed carriage.
The rough men guiding them lashed out with fists and boots at the crowded quay.
They were shunted into a carriage with an interior of dark blue velvet.
Thick curtains of blue and gold brocade were pulled across to protect the interior from the sun.
‘It’s blessed cool in here,’ murmured Moira, her eyes closed, head back and hand resting on her palpitating heart.
Lochranza jerked back the curtains.
Moira sat bolt upright. ‘You’ll let the sun in!’
‘We need to see where we’re going,’ Lochranza hissed.
As the carriage rumbled along, she scrutinised the buildings, the streets, the people the carriage pushed through.
The air trembled with noise, rolling cotton wagons, mule whips, cries to get the hell out of the way. Shouts of protest came from every angle, the coach driver shouting at muleteers to get their goddamned wagons moving faster.
Accents, tongues, high voices, deep voices, voices that trilled with laughter, others that threw drunken insults or suggestions that the driver was an ignorant Seminole who had never known his father.
The driver was quick to respond, his profanities swapping from English to colonial French, to Spanish and now and then a patois she could not understand.
Mrs Mackintosh was perturbed. ‘I do not like this place. It’s heathen.’
‘The British are coming!’
The cry was taken up by other raucous defiant voices, interspersed with foul language. Mrs Mackintosh covered her ears. Gunfire sounded. On rounding a street corner, they came across a row of militiamen carrying out target practice.
Hope of escape was rekindled, for escape it had to be.
Lochranza could not believe that Ethan would purposely entice her into a city likely to be besieged.
And anyway, why would he, an American with British interests, use a Frenchman pretending to be Dutch to whisk her away from Savannah? And bring her here?
New Orleans was not a familiar city, but what she did know was that the French language predominated, even though Louisiana had become part of the newly formed United States.
The carriage lurched its way into a street full of people, so many it was difficult to see the lower floors of the houses.
Only the handsome iron balconies of the first floor, some festooned with flowers and climbing plants, were visible and only then if she stuck her head out of the window and looked up.
Engrossed in surveying her surroundings, she wasn’t in time to leap from the carriage once it came to a stop. The carriage door was rudely wrenched open, her arm grabbed, and she was dragged out.
Lashing out, her foot contacted with a male shin.
At the same time, she did her best to disentangle her arm from his grasp.
Perhaps if he’d been of slighter build and less height, she might have succeeded.
He was a mountain; a small head perched above a barrel chest and shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway.
The coachman, having thrown the reins to a black boy with a barked order for him to catch and watch the vehicle and animals that pulled it, dragged Moira from the other side.
The man mountain barged his way through the surging crowd, knocking heads together and denting chins.
‘Pierre,’ shouted the coachman from behind them. ‘Mon Dieu. Vite!’
In response, the man addressed as Pierre lurched into a man loitering between them and a dark doorway to a house shaded from overhead by a clinging wisteria.
‘Hey!’ The man turned round. ‘Watch who you’re knocking around there, brother!’ In English.
Pierre paused only momentarily to bark that he was not the man’s brother.
‘No. I can see you’re not.’
‘Help us,’ Lochranza shouted. ‘Help us escape. We’re prisoners. You’ll be rewarded!’
The moment the words were out of her mouth, she was flung forward into the shady interior of the house, its door suddenly opening without anyone having knocked or demanded entry.
She glanced over her shoulder to see the American staring after her, his mouth open.
The daylight and the outside world disappeared.
The inner gloom of the house intensified once the door had been slammed shut behind them, yet it was not quite empty. Once her eyes had grown accustomed to shadows, she’d expected to see elegance, instead of which she saw what resembled a zoo.
Space along the walls on either side was given over to large cages, some housing exotic birds, others monkeys and other similar mammals. Bookshelves were crammed into the gaps. Animal smells and those of dusty books mingled freely. The only other perfume was the sweet mustiness of crushed roses.
A woman with a bronze-coloured complexion and blue-black ringlets piled in neat profusion and bound with a brightly coloured turban emerged from the shadows. Gold earrings twinkled. She wore richly coloured dress of what looked like satin.
‘Pierre. Voici la fille?’
‘Oui.’
The dark-skinned woman glanced briefly at them in a haughty, autocratic manner, as though they were little more than skivvies.
She’d at least been aware of our arrival, thought Lochranza, and surely couldn’t have heard the carriage above the din from the street outside. Her instant conclusion was that they’d been expected.
Lochranza shook off the man’s brawny hand and spun round to face the woman. ‘I demand you let us go.’
The woman showed no sign of interest.
Determined to get an answer, Lochranza spun round to the man previously addressed as Pierre. ‘You, sir, are guilty of kidnapping! I warn you. My fiancé will come looking for me. My uncle is a very powerful man. An English duke!’
‘A fiancé?’
A different voice.
She had not seen the man enter the room; such was the gloom when the shutters were closed against the outside world.
Pierre answered, his face slick and oily, humbleness oozing from every pore. ‘She needs to rest. It was a long voyage.’
‘I am not tired!’ Lochranza shouted. The monkeys screeched, the birds, some as bright as day, joined them. Lochranza carried on. ‘I am angry!’
The man who had spoken stepped forward into the single patch of diffused sunlight that had somehow crept through the slatted shutters and into the room.
He had a craggy face, deep-set eyes and shoulder-length hair.
The hair might look softly feminine, but there was nothing at all female about this man, certainly not regarding his face.
Hard. Solid, as though it might have been sculpted from marble.
‘They did not tell me you were to be married. But no matter.’ He pronounced his words with an accent and slowly as people do when English is not their first language. French. He was French. It worried her. ‘You are worth it. A duke’s niece. Useful.’
A cold feeling crept over her because he knew who she was. He’d paid for her. Who had he paid?
Her uncle’s instructions rang in her ears, along with the small book in which he’d instructed her to record those things she thought might be important.
The details were noted and saved to memory.
His attire was well cut, though not overly ornate.
His boots were tan and most probably of Spanish leather.
He wore a yellow scarf around his neck – too loosely tied to be called a jabot.
His waistcoat was of blue brocade. She could just about match that colour with the small paintbox she’d brought with her.
But even if she did manage to write a note and draw a picture, where could she leave it?
She could think of nowhere at present. There was no other recourse than to wait her chance.
Defiance danced in her dark grey eyes. ‘Why am I here?’
His expression was impassive, unsmiling. ‘I have a room prepared for you and your servant. You will be comfortable. You will be obedient.’
There was no emotion in his voice, just a hint of colonial French, which to her mind offended the ear of someone who’d only heard French spoken by governesses and learned from a book.
‘And my fiancé? I am to be married. He will come looking for me?’
‘He will not find you.’
Alarm set in. Her defiance turned to anger. ‘What is this?’ she cried hotly. ‘Why are you keeping me here?’
His smile was as slow as a snake on spotting his prey. ‘You are a pawn in a very big game. Ultimately a pawn is dispensable. In the game of chess, its use is to lure the knight into battle.’
‘You paid for me,’ she whispered, the truth filling her with the most agonising despair.
‘I paid for you. And soon I will get my money back. Now I would suggest you get some rest. I will have your things taken to your room. No doubt you will wish to refresh your person and change clothes. Eugenie, that’s my woman here, will help you.’
‘And your name, sir? Might I ask the name of my jailer?’
‘Just call me Marquis. That is all you need to know.’