Read Online Sweet Piracy by Jennifer Blake - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Blake
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shore, water, and sky a uniform gray. High above them, crows driven before the wind rose and fell, calling back and forth in jubilant warning. Blue cranes passed them flying low, their wing tips dipping into the waves.
An unexpected excitement caught at her as she felt the wind tearing at her hair and flapping her skirts about her ankles. Her spirit seemed to soar, and in wonder she lifted storm-colored eyes luminous with joy to the man beside her. In that instant a strong gust of wind struck the ship, causing it to heel. Unprepared, Caroline staggered. The Marquis reached out at once to steady her with an arm about her waist, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he stared down into her startled eyes.
A vague feeling of recognition stirred in the back of Caroline’s mind. Before it could take definite form, an abrupt downdraft from the opposite direction threw a handful of rain into her upturned face. With a sound — half a gasp at the cold wetness, half a shaky laugh — she disengaged herself. Turning, she made her way with heightened color down the steps of the cabin.
~~~
THE DAY FOLLOWING the river excursion was enlivened by a morning visit from Rochefort and his cousin. Their ostensible purpose was to assure themselves no harm had befallen the young ladies from their rather damp experience, but they were easily persuaded to stay for a luncheon of cold meats and oven-warm tartes aux pêches .
They were not the only addition to the table. A friend of Anatole’s, Hippolyte Gravier from the plantation downriver from Beau Repos, had also been pressed to extend his visit past the noon hour.
The heir to Bonne Chance was a pleasant young man, solidly built, with a high-colored complexion, curling black hair, and a happy outlook on life. Like his father before him, he believed in his great good luck and would place a wager at the drop of a hat. He had once bet on which of two tree trunks floating in the river would reach New Orleans first and, with his takers, commandeered a passing flatboat to follow the sodden logs to town. He had collected. He unabashedly enjoyed good food, good drink, and good company. With less excuse for it in the way of looks, he was a worse dandy than Anatole.
The noise in the dining room as five children, five nurses, five young people, and six adults ate, drank, clattered china and silver, and talked was incredible. M’sieur Delacroix made a determined effort at frequent intervals to reduce the din, but it did little good. Madame did her best to carry on a conversation above it with her noble guest, though more often than not her hardest task was attracting Rochefort’s attention.
The Marquis appeared to find the spectacle of so many drawn up to the table bemusing. Leaning back in his chair sipping his glass of wine, he watched the children with a faint smile, possibly of self-derision, curving one corner of his firm mouth.
Hippolyte Gravier had been a close observer of the Marquis since their introduction. Unconsciously he too lounged back in his chair, his wineglass in hand. He allowed a small smile to play about his mouth before turning to M’sieur Delacroix.
“A good vintage, this. Mon père would be happy to know from what vintner you had it. The last cask consigned to us was just a shade sour. Largest cask I ever saw. Taking forever to see the last drop of it. Tell you one thing, I’ll lay you a dix—”
He was interrupted in his wager by young Baptiste who, reminded by mention of it, decided to taste the watered wine in his own glass. His grip was none too steady. The result was a spreading purple stain on the linen cloth.
Madame signaled frantically. Face impassive, Colossus moved to blot up the spill.
“I don’t know what you must think of us,” Madame said, turning to Rochefort with a nervous laugh. “I’m sure this is not at all what you are used to in your own home.”
“No,” he admitted with a glance at his cousin in close conversation with Amélie.
An unexpected excitement caught at her as she felt the wind tearing at her hair and flapping her skirts about her ankles. Her spirit seemed to soar, and in wonder she lifted storm-colored eyes luminous with joy to the man beside her. In that instant a strong gust of wind struck the ship, causing it to heel. Unprepared, Caroline staggered. The Marquis reached out at once to steady her with an arm about her waist, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he stared down into her startled eyes.
A vague feeling of recognition stirred in the back of Caroline’s mind. Before it could take definite form, an abrupt downdraft from the opposite direction threw a handful of rain into her upturned face. With a sound — half a gasp at the cold wetness, half a shaky laugh — she disengaged herself. Turning, she made her way with heightened color down the steps of the cabin.
~~~
THE DAY FOLLOWING the river excursion was enlivened by a morning visit from Rochefort and his cousin. Their ostensible purpose was to assure themselves no harm had befallen the young ladies from their rather damp experience, but they were easily persuaded to stay for a luncheon of cold meats and oven-warm tartes aux pêches .
They were not the only addition to the table. A friend of Anatole’s, Hippolyte Gravier from the plantation downriver from Beau Repos, had also been pressed to extend his visit past the noon hour.
The heir to Bonne Chance was a pleasant young man, solidly built, with a high-colored complexion, curling black hair, and a happy outlook on life. Like his father before him, he believed in his great good luck and would place a wager at the drop of a hat. He had once bet on which of two tree trunks floating in the river would reach New Orleans first and, with his takers, commandeered a passing flatboat to follow the sodden logs to town. He had collected. He unabashedly enjoyed good food, good drink, and good company. With less excuse for it in the way of looks, he was a worse dandy than Anatole.
The noise in the dining room as five children, five nurses, five young people, and six adults ate, drank, clattered china and silver, and talked was incredible. M’sieur Delacroix made a determined effort at frequent intervals to reduce the din, but it did little good. Madame did her best to carry on a conversation above it with her noble guest, though more often than not her hardest task was attracting Rochefort’s attention.
The Marquis appeared to find the spectacle of so many drawn up to the table bemusing. Leaning back in his chair sipping his glass of wine, he watched the children with a faint smile, possibly of self-derision, curving one corner of his firm mouth.
Hippolyte Gravier had been a close observer of the Marquis since their introduction. Unconsciously he too lounged back in his chair, his wineglass in hand. He allowed a small smile to play about his mouth before turning to M’sieur Delacroix.
“A good vintage, this. Mon père would be happy to know from what vintner you had it. The last cask consigned to us was just a shade sour. Largest cask I ever saw. Taking forever to see the last drop of it. Tell you one thing, I’ll lay you a dix—”
He was interrupted in his wager by young Baptiste who, reminded by mention of it, decided to taste the watered wine in his own glass. His grip was none too steady. The result was a spreading purple stain on the linen cloth.
Madame signaled frantically. Face impassive, Colossus moved to blot up the spill.
“I don’t know what you must think of us,” Madame said, turning to Rochefort with a nervous laugh. “I’m sure this is not at all what you are used to in your own home.”
“No,” he admitted with a glance at his cousin in close conversation with Amélie.
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