Sweeter Savage Love

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped. Spying on me, I suppose.

  “I came to talk to my daughter, and to get some reading material since I couldn’t sleep,” he replied, loosening his grip on her, then immediately wrapping his arms around her waist and backing her up against the wall. “I thought I’d borrow one of your books to read.” Before she could think, he had lifted her to tippy-toes, a position that seemed to be a favorite of his—chest to breast, hip to hip, groin to groin. It was fast becoming a favorite of hers, too.

  “You came to talk to Saralee?” She was encouraged to know he was willing to make a first step.

  “Um-hmm,” he murmured, up close to her lips.

  She could smell his breath, redolent of cigars along with whiskey and peaches. Peaches?

  “Where did you get peaches?”

  “The orchard,” he said, smiling. Then he nipped at her lower lip, forcing her to open for his kiss. “You smell like gardenias. Been taking another bath, I assume.”

  When her lips parted with anticipation, he teased her with a flutter of a kiss. A butterfly kiss, softer than the fuzz on a peach. “You taste like peaches,” she breathed. “Peach kisses.”

  “You should try them sometime.” He chuckled. “The peaches, I mean.”

  “I thought we agreed not to do this anymore.” She groaned as Etienne moved himself against her and whispered sinful things in her ear. Intimate, wicked words insinuating what he would like to do with her.

  “Darlin’, I don’t recollect agreein’ to anything. But then, I think my brain is melting from all this tree shakin’ you been doin’.”

  “What tree shaking?”

  “Harriet, I told you not to interfere in my life anymore. What were you doing in there with my daughter?”

  “Therapy.”

  “Therapy,” he repeated with disgust. “Another word for meddling.”

  “Now, Etienne, you have to realize that psychologists use many analytical tools.”

  He raised an eyebrow mockingly. “Like Toadienne?”

  “Oh, well, that was just a role-playing game.”

  “Hah? And this?” he added, drawing back to study her. “If wearing this cat garment isn’t tantamount to shakin’ my tree, nothing is.” He growled and drew the shirt off her shoulders so he could view her better.

  She loved…she absolutely loved…the way Etienne’s blue eyes turned dark and misty with passion when he gazed at her. She loved the feel of his heart thundering against hers with rising excitement.

  When he kissed her this time, it was no peach-fuzz kiss. It was sweet and wet and sinfully delicious. Over and over he tasted her, and she tasted back.

  “Oh, Etienne,” she whispered, raking her fingers through his hair to hold him in place so she could see him. They were tempting fate by touching each other so.

  “I try to stay away from you…I really do. But I keep circling back,” he admitted.

  She nodded in understanding. This magnetism that drew them together was powerful, beyond human resistance.

  “Say the words, Harriet,” he urged in a soft whisper. “Just one more time. Then I’ll leave you and go off to my bed. Alone. With a book.”

  She didn’t need to ask him which words he meant. She knew.

  “I love you.” She could hardly breathe over the intensity of emotion engendered by those three words.

  He smiled grimly in satisfaction. “Why don’t you say, ‘I would love you if you would behave as I want.’ Or, ‘I would love you if you were more reliable.’ Or, “I would love you if you…’ You know what I mean.”

  She frowned with confusion. “Love and the qualifier ‘if’ are incompatible. Love comes. No provisos. If there are stipulations, then it isn’t love.”

  He seemed to have trouble swallowing.

  “Where did you get such a stupid idea?”

  He shrugged. Then, “Say it again.”

  “I love you, stupid.”

  “Ah, that’s better,” he murmured against her lips. Then he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her till Harriet wondered who was the stupid one in this relationship. Probably both of them.

  When Etienne looked at her again, Harriet could swear he was about to tell her that he loved her, too.

  But he didn’t.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A shrill scream ripped through the night air.

  Harriet sat bolt upright in bed.

  The room was pitch black except for a stream of light from the full moon filtering through the veranda windows. She had no idea what time it was.

  Had Etienne screamed in the midst of one of his nightmares? Could the sound travel all the way from the main house?

  The scream came again. Not Etienne. The high-pitched feminine wail of agony came from outside.

  Blossom, Harriet realized immediately.

  Grabbing Etienne’s shirt for a cover-up and a pair of trousers she’d worn on her journey here, Harriet checked next door on Saralee, who snored softly. Then she rushed out onto the porch and down the steps toward the street, where a large group of people had clustered.

  To her outrage, Harriet saw a burning cross planted in the ground in front of Cain’s cabin-clinic. A short distance away, a group of about ten riders were galloping off, dressed in white robes and hooded masks. One of them spun in his saddle at the last minute, giving a rude gesture, and Harriet saw a green ribbon badge pinned on his chest. When the force of his prancing horse caused the hem of his robe to lift, Harriet also noticed that the rider wore a pair of the knee-high leather moccasins called cantiers. Just like those Henri Venee had worn.

  Her skin turned clammy with alarm. “Who are they?” Harriet asked Verbena, who stood at the outer edge of the crowd wringing her hands. Large tears streamed down her black face.

  “The Swamp Angels,” Verbena spat out in a venomous voice. “Them low-down white trash what sneaks out at night. Terrorizin’ good black folks. And white folks, too…them what fought fer the Yankees…or them what helps the coloreds. They’s jist like them Knights of the White Camellia.”

  “You’re next, Baptiste,” one of the riders called out. “Ain’t no room in the bayou fer bluebelly nigger-lovers.” Although the man had a thick Cajun accent, Harriet couldn’t be sure if it was Henri Venee or not. As they rode off at a full gallop, the cowardly bunch broke into song:

  “I am a good old Rebel—

  Yes, thass just what I am—

  And for this land of freedom

  I do not give a damn.

  I’m glad I fit agin ’em,

  And I only wish we’d won;

  And I don’t ax no pardon

  For anythin’ I’ve done.”

  “What happened?” Harriet asked.

  “They did a cat-haulin’ on Abel,” Verbena informed her with a shiver.

  “A what?”

  “Cat-haulin’. Some of the mens held Abel down. Then they took a mean ol’ tomcat—a powerful big one-and hauled ’im by the tail down Abel’s back. Over and over. Oh, Lordy, I thought them days of cat-haulin’ was over with slavery. But they ain’t.”

  “Jesus!” Harriet whispered and pushed her way through the throng of people until she reached the source of all their concern. Then she gasped in horror.

  Abel, fortunately unconscious, lay facedown in the dirt, his bare back completely covered with blood. Numerous gashes ran from his shoulders to the waistband of his trousers where the cat’s claws had ripped open the flesh. Even the cloth covering his buttocks had been shredded.

  Blossom was kneeling with Abel’s face resting in her lap. Unmindful of the blood that soaked her muslin nightgown, the black woman rocked from side to side, crooning a sorrowful dirge: “Bad times are acomin’, bad times are acomin’…”

  Etienne and several of his workers were fashioning a makeshift litter out of a solid plank door covered with a thin mattress. No one took the time now to chase after the attackers; Abel’s condition was of utmost priority.

  Harriet forced Bloss
om to stand, taking her into her arms as Etienne and the men lifted Abel carefully onto the primitive stretcher. Abel moaned at what must be excruciating pain, but luckily remained unconscious while Etienne and his helpers hurried Abel into Cain’s clinic.

  “Where’s Cain?” Harriet asked Blossom.

  “He ain’t come back since he went down to Petite Terrebonne this evenin’ to doctor a man’s broken laig,” Blossom told her in between sobs.” “He should be back soon, God willin’. Iffen them Swamp Debbils doan catch up with him, too.”

  Harriet directed Verbena, “You take Blossom back to the overseer’s house and clean her up. Try to get her to lie down. And send some women with water and clean cloths. See if Blossom has any salve to put on open wounds, and something for pain.”

  Verbena’s head bobbed up and down. She was calmer now that she’d been given a job. Blossom, too traumatized to protest, went off willingly with Verbena.

  Hours later, Etienne released a long sigh of relief, finally satisfied that Abel would survive. He slept soundly.

  Etienne glanced up at Harriet, who’d been working at his side the whole time, cleaning and bandaging the deep wounds. She’d even stitched one of the especially brutal gashes, though she had no more medical expertise than he did. Her only concession to fear had been the slight trembling of her fingers.

  The woman could do anything. As she so often boasted, he thought with a grin.

  “Well, the situation must be better if you can find some humor here,” she commented as she wiped up the last of the blood on the floor.

  Several of the colored workers, men and women, had helped them as well, but he’d finally sent them off to bed. They had to be up at dawn, fully rested, to work in the sugar fields. The demands of the land didn’t lessen even in the midst of human crisis. Not that he’d given orders, or permission, for the plantation to resume operation. They’d just resumed the work they had performed as slaves. And hoped he’d approve.

  Merde!

  With a jerk of his head, he motioned for Harriet to follow him outside. They’d done enough here for tonight. When they emerged onto the porch, he asked Verbena, who sat rocking in a rickety chair, to go inside and watch Abel for a while. She eased her bulk out of the chair, then shuffled into the cabin.

  Looping an arm over Harriet’s shoulder, he sank down to the top step, taking her with him. For once, she didn’t resist.

  “Thank you,” he said in a thickened voice.

  “For what?”

  “Helping with Abel.”

  “Of course I helped. Anyone would.” She looked at him in surprise.

  “Everyone wouldn’t, Harriet. Some wouldn’t care enough. Others, especially women, would faint at the sight of so much blood. A lot of people wouldn’t consider tackling a job for which they have no training, but you…well, you just dive in without a second thought.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Is that a criticism or a compliment?”

  “A compliment.” He smiled and ruffled her hair, which was still sleep-mussed from hours ago.

  “I’m a mess,” she said, putting a hand to her hair, as well.

  “We both are,” he said, but what he really thought was that she looked beautiful. Her black hair was a tangled bird’s nest. Dark circles underlined her eyes, and her full mouth was pinched with worry. The color of the shirt she wore was unrecognizable from blood stains. Baggy trousers hid her curves.

  She was a mess. And she was magnificent to him.

  Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous thoughts.

  He pulled her tighter against his side and kissed the top of her head lightly. All kinds of strange emotions welled up in him. Tears brimmed in his eyes—a delayed reaction to the peril his good friend had faced. He was beginning to see that this woman he was starting to care for was better off without him. Some of the remarks made by the Swamp Angels tonight had made that all too clear. Not only had they believed it was Cain they were brutalizing—“Let’s kill the bastard that dared lay a black hand on a white woman”—but one of them had also mentioned, “And where’s the wench that’s preachin’ ways to stop our women from havin’ any more babes?”

  Undoubtedly, the marauders were led by Henri Venee. Their targets had been the swamp doctor, as well as Harriet. Oh, they wouldn’t really attack a woman. Instead the cowards would issue vile threats through the torture of others. Their warped code of ethics still spared women…at least, white women.

  “As soon as I deliver the gold to President Grant’s agent in Abilene, I’m going to come back and take you to your train,” he told her abruptly.

  She stiffened, no doubt preparing to object to his abandoning her at Bayou Noir.

  He put a silencing finger to her lips. “I can see now that it’s too dangerous for you to remain in this time and place. You’ll be safer in your own home.”

  She drew back slightly to gaze at him. “Etienne, there’s violence in my time, too. And prejudice.”

  “Don’t tell me…more than a hundred years after the Emancipation Proclamation…the Negroes still aren’t free.”

  “Well, of course they’re free. And things are much better. Blacks have more equality in employment and education. But bigotry is by no means dead. For example, the Ku Klux Klan is still alive and thriving in modern-day America.”

  He shook his head sadly. Still, it was clear to Etienne now that Harriet would be safer in her own time. Without him. Not that he’d been considering asking her to stay. Oh, no! But he had been entertaining reckless thoughts about sating some sexual appetites with her in the interim till her departure. Especially since he’d been reading her book last night, which had generated so many tantalizing ideas for…innovation. Who would have ever thought women harbored so many sexual fantasies? Or that men would enjoy them, too?

  But that was before Abel’s attack. Now he recognized the dangers for him and Harriet in becoming involved in any way.

  “Okay, Etienne, what’s going on here?” Harriet shrugged off his arm and glared at him. “You’re sending enough body signals to sink a ship. Or a poor girl’s already wobbly defenses.”

  Wobbly? “You certainly have a way with words.” He laughed. “Actually, I was thinking about your book. I was reading it last night before…before all the commotion.”

  “And?”

  “It was interesting. I’m impressed. Really, I am. And if times were different…and we were different…I wouldn’t mind trying one or two of those fantasies.”

  She smiled. “You are so bad.”

  “I know.” He smiled back.

  “Tsk-tsk!” she chided him. Then, “Now you have my curiosity roused. Which ones appealed to you?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind trying the aural-sex fantasy…where the man, or woman, talks the other person into an orgasm. No touching, just words. I’m not sure it’s possible, but it poses an interesting challenge.”

  To his surprise, and pleasure, Harriet blushed.

  “Then, too, now that I understand forceful seduction a little better, I must say that has its attraction, too. In the right setting.”

  Her blush grew brighter.

  He chucked her playfully under the chin. “So tell me, Harriet. Which are your favorite fantasies?”

  She lowered her lashes and gave him a sideways glance that might have passed for shyness with any other woman. “Maybe someday I’ll show you.”

  That brought Etienne and his banter to a quick, icy halt. He’d forgotten. There was going to be no someday for them.

  Luckily, any further conversation in this tempting territory was cut short by the arrival of Cain, accompanied by a tall, big-boned quadroon who was giving him what-for. The attractive quadroon, about twenty-five years old, wore a prim, long-sleeved white shirtwaist and a black ankle-length skirt. Her straight hair was yanked into a knot at the base of her neck. It must be Ellen, the schoolteacher.

  Etienne realized that he knew Ellen. She was Verbena’s niece who’d studied for a few years at a Negro church college in Ohio,
thanks to some help from James and Selene Baptiste. In fact, she’d taught at Selene’s school in Sacramento until recently.

  By their casual conversation and slow gait, Etienne assumed they hadn’t heard of Abel’s injuries yet.

  “I still don’t see what I’ve done wrong,” Cain argued. But Etienne could see the sparkle of mischief in his dark eyes. He was baiting the unsuspecting Ellen.

  “All that womanizing, that’s what. You got all these people what needs your doctoring here at Bayou Noir, and you just go gallavantin’ all over the countryside.”

  “Gallavantin’?” Cain sputtered.

  “Yes, gallavantin’. The war’s been over for five years now. What’s a doctor doin’ with all this spy business anyhow?” She added a harrumph for emphasis.

  “Who says I’ve been womanizin’?” Cain laughed.

  “Your mother, that’s who. Every female under thirty from here to Tuscaloosa, that’s who. And don’t you be flashin’ them rascal eyes at me. I’m not one of them mush-brained fanfoots that swoon just because one of the Lincoln twins smiles at me.”

  “I would never consider you a fanfoot,” Cain said with a straight face.

  Their dialogue trailed off as they noticed Etienne and Harriet sitting on the steps.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Etienne snapped.

  “Don’t gnash your teeth at me. I stayed overnight after I cared for my patient,” Cain retorted. “The levee broke and couldn’t be fixed till this morning. Then I ran into Ellen coming down from Houma with the grocer boat. We just…” Cain’s words trailed off. The somber expressions on their faces must have alerted him to a disaster. “It’s Abel, isn’t it?” Cain rushed up the steps. “I woke last night, sensing he was in trouble. My back felt like it was on fire, and…” He darted an anxious look at Etienne.