Chapter 16
ALICE
By nightfall, we make a shelter under a blanket of stars. The night is so clear the heavens glitter with promise, the Milky Way spilling across the sky like a smoke signal from some distant fire. If only I understood its message.
Since the creek, Kodiak hasn’t said a word, but has not strayed from my side.
He hovers in a way that feels like possession—helping me from the water, wrapping me in a blanket and wiping my skin clean of dirt and grass with the same care he might use to polish his gun.
By the fire, he studies each bend and line of my hand as if measuring something he intends to keep.
We lie side by side on my bedroll, the grass cool beneath, our shoulders almost touching.
“Kodiak?”
“Yes, little lamb?”
“Where are we going? You’ve only said we’re going south.”
He turns from his back, his body shifting toward me, then drags a thumb down my cheek. “Somethin’ real important’s waitin’ for me in New Orleans.”
“New Orleans?” I ask, sitting up some. I’d only heard about it in dime novels and gossip from travelers. I press a hand to my chest.
He erupts, his body shaking with laughter. “Ain’t nothing to worry about. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He’s an outlaw. What did I expect? He probably associates with the likes of whores and criminals. But even Mary Magdalene walked with sinners before finding the light.
“Do you think perhaps fate brought you to me to be healed? To put you on a faithful path so you can stop running?”
For a heartbeat, he only stares, eyes catching firelight and starlight both. Then his mouth curves into a sardonic grin. “Been runnin’ all my life. Don’t know about no faithful path. Only prayin’ I done lately was between them soft thighs a’yours.”
I gasp and bury my face in my hands. What a vile thing to say, and yet the memory of my release sends a jolt through me.
“Sweetest thing I ever tasted. Sweeter than molasses in that pot.”
I shake my head. “It was carnal sin, and I will not speak of it. You’ll damn us both.”
His thumb drags slow along my jaw, rough as sand. “Heaven can have your soul, but your body belongs to me now.”
The words strike through me, a lash of heat and fear both. “No.” I push his hand away. “I was Joseph’s before. His possession. His property. I’ll not be that again. Not for you, not for anyone.”
For a moment, he freezes and the night holds still, but then the wrinkle in between his brows relaxes. “Yes, Miss Alice.”
The way he says it—not deferent, not polite, but mocking, just as he’d mocked the staff at the inn—makes a startled laugh escape me, sharp and wrong in the hush of twilight. I clap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late.
“Shhh,” he scolds through a chuckle. “You make a piss-poor outlaw, laughin’ loud enough to wake the dead. We’re running from the law, remember? Might as well string up a lantern and wave ’em over.”
My laugh dies in my throat, replaced by a crooked smile I can’t quite smother. Resting on one arm, he leans in and presses his mouth to mine. His kiss is tender, breath warm. The scruff of his beard scrapes my chin, scented faintly with the perfume of our sin.
He draws back. “There’s caged and there’s kept. One’s got bars, but the other’s shelter,” he says, gesturing up to the tanned hide overhead. “Protection. I ain’t meant to trap you, just to keep you safe.”
“For now.” The words comes out cold, wounded, like a spoiled girl, injured he hadn’t proposed marriage under the moon and heavens.
How could I be so foolish? He’s a beast. A killer.
Why would I be hurt if a man like that ever left me behind?
Yet the thought of being abandoned by him makes me want to cry into his chest.
“Now’s all there is. A man like me never knows if he’ll see another day.”
I’ve never met a man who lived his life with such intensity he risked snuffing out his own flame. But tomorrow is not promised for any person. Surely he must have hopes. Dreams.
“Not knowing what tomorrow brings does not change what we want for ourselves.”
His touch returns. A featherlight sweep of his knuckles against my cheek, and my bones turn to jelly.
“Ain’t I made it plain enough?” His hazel eyes lock with mine, steady as the constellations. “I want you.”
The hunger in his voice pours lamp oil on the fire already smoldering in my belly.
I could lose myself in his mouth, bury my hands in that wild tangle of hair and straddle his hips like a woman possessed.
I could mount him and take that monstrous thing inside.
Let him buck and rut and ruin me, stealing every last trace of my virtue.
Just the thought of it makes me ache. My heart erupts into my throat, and a flash of heat scalds my cheeks.
I clutch the blanket and quickly wrench myself onto my side, turning my back between us.
It’s only temptation. It must be the Devil’s voice whispering in my ear.
Inching closer, the warmth of him wraps around me, his chest meeting my back, the weight of his arm curls possessively at my waist. He rests his cheek against my hair, mouth at my ear.
“The way you look at me, the way your body sang for me… Alice, you can try to fight it, but I know you want me too.”
His husky voice sends a rush through me, sparks exploding in my blood like the first glints of starlight breaking through the dark.
I steel myself. “I tended to you because you were gravely injured and I was able to help. My duty was to God, as it is now. I’m flesh and blood, and I gave in to lust. But I am a decent woman, and for my sins, I beg forgiveness. It was wrong, and it will not happen again, Mr. Randolph.”
He pauses and exhales a dark chuckle, the warmth of his breath at my nape. “If lying to yourself helps you sleep, Miss Alice, you go right on and do it. But you ain’t foolin’ me, and I reckon that God of yours knows better too.”
“When you run from the devil, you find him in the road.”
— Creole Proverb
I thought the bustle of the Sherman Inn during the Astral Society’s visits was overwhelming, but I have never seen so many people in all my life.
The streets of New Orleans are swarming everywhere I turn.
And the noise! Voices on every side in tongues I’ve never heard.
My goodness, a silent moment cannot exist here.
Horses clomp past, streetcars rattle on their rails, and steamboat whistles drift in from the Mississippi.
The Hotel de Chartres has six windows stacked one above the other, straight from ground to roof.
Inside, the city’s din fades, replaced by the roar of guests and the clatter of silverware in a French dining room that would put Mrs. Baxter’s humble kitchen to shame.
The ceilings soar with elaborate scrollwork I’ve only ever seen in the postcards Joseph’s parents sent from Europe.
Of all the places I thought we might go, never did I dream of anywhere so fine as this. Kodiak and I—clad in dusty, travel-stained clothes, my petticoat wrinkled—are a tarnish on silver. No wonder he hurries us to the front desk.
“I’m told Mr. Archer arranged a suite for my wife and me,” he says, his voice unusually polished. The concierge appraises us, lip curled, as though weighing whether it is worth searching his book for the name.
Kodiak clears his throat. “I know we must look a fright. We’ve been upriver on the hunt and came straight here to settle in. Our valet usually tends to every arrangement. I could have him send a telegram if you require, but truly, if you’ll check your ledger, you’ll find it in hand.”
There’s no trace of his usual gruff demeanor in his lie.
The concierge’s shoulders ease, his mouth now set in a polite smile. “That will not be necessary, sir.”
We ride the hydraulic elevator so high I press my hand to my middle to steady the leap of my stomach.
The hallway stretches on like a city block.
When the porter opens the doors, I swallow a gasp.
A large bed waits against the far wall, dressed in crisp white linen and a red velvet coverlet to match the chaise in the parlor.
Potted palms stand beside gilt-framed paintings, and in the washroom a porcelain tub gleams, steaming water already brought to the washstand.
“How can we afford all this?” I ask, nearly breathless.
“Paid ahead,” Kodiak says.
“When?” I press, careful not to raise my voice.
He sighs, scratching his stubbled cheek. “Standing reservation.” His face gives nothing away; he scans the room instead. “Why don’t you get comfortable. Have yourself a hot bath. I’ve a few things need tendin’.” He reaches for his hat.
“Where are you going?” I ask, as he tugs the brim low.
He doesn’t answer. The latch clicks sharp behind him.
Splendid.
What now?
I turn to the washroom. The grime of sleeping outdoors clings to me like a second skin. A bath, at least, might do me good. The porcelain tub swallows me whole. The water bites sharp at first, then eases into my bones. I scrub the grit from my hair with lavender soap until the scent fills the room.
Afterward, fresh linen and a clean dress change everything.
Lacing my bodice and smoothing my skirts, I can pass for a woman traveling properly with her husband.
I sit by the window, watching the city below as my hair dries.
My fingers press to the pane as a curious hunger stirs in me.
In the distance, I spy the bright awnings of a market and the spires of a church.
I refuse to sit idle like some caged bird.
Gathering courage, I pin on my hat, draw my gloves tight, and step out of the suite.
If he means to keep me cloistered, he should not leave me alone.