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BASSE-TERRE, GUADELOUPE
September 1798
“Mon Dieu!”
Colonel DuPont stood on the docks of Basse-Terre in the oppressive heat, huffing in disgust as he surveyed the chaos surrounding him. Shots rang out from the distant fort and smoke filled the streets. Ships sat stranded in the port as people ran to and fro on the pier.
“This is a fiasco! They expect me to fix this mess?” The man wrinkled his nose and sniffed. The current governor had sent him to put the city to rights, but the recent slave rebellions had left the city in ruins. The din of revolution enveloped Guadeloupe just as it had in Saint Domingue.
Mimicking his akimbo stance, Pierre sidled up next to him. “Who do they think you are... General Napoleon?”
Arching an eyebrow, DuPont glared at his son. “Humph.”
“Now, Colonel. I’m sure you’ll rebuild Guadeloupe to her former glory.”
Stiffening at the intended insult, DuPont faced the offender. A tall, thin man appeared from behind them, his cane tapping on the dock with every step. DuPont gasped. “Monsieur L—?”
The mysterious Frenchman quickly held up a finger as if chastising a child. “Ah, ah. No names. I have silenced a few people for threatening to reveal my identity.” With his head held high, the regal man bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you in person, Colonel.”
DuPont snapped a salute, his heart pounding like a drum. The livelihood of his cause depended solely on this man’s influence. “Enchanté, L’Archambeau. Have you come to see the progress we’ve made?”
The Frenchman swept his hand across the cityscape. “This isn’t progress, Colonel. It’s bedlam.”
DuPont harrumphed. “And whose fault is that? Pierre and I have only just arrived.”
L’Archambeau tapped his pointy chin and hummed. “C’est vrai. The revolts of Basse-Terre weren’t nearly as organized as Saint Domingue. We’ll need to change tactics before we infiltrate our target in Nouvelle Orleans. I’m counting on the rebels helping our cause there, as well.”
Pushing in front of his father, Pierre sneered at the lanky man. “Indeed, Monsieur? And how will you do that without your ne’er-do-well spies?”
L’Archambeau furrowed his brow as rage emanated from Pierre. DuPont patted his son’s shoulder, eyeing the Frenchman warily. “The Nueva Linda has yet to arrive. And your lackey did promise the girl to my son.”
“Oui!” Pierre demanded, “Where is my fiancée?”
Pursing his lips, L’Archambeau drew his left eyebrow up. “Our plans have changed. Mademoiselle Montrose is our key to conquering Nouvelle Orleans, and it doesn’t include marrying her off to this sniveling boy.”
DuPont clenched his fists. “Now, see here, Monsieur...”
“M’sieu Pont, sah. We’s found ’zee boat.”
As two men of mixed descent hailed them from the beach, DuPont searched the harbor. “Where?” The men pointed south along the beach to a capsized dinghy lying on its side. DuPont snorted. “That isn’t the Nueva Linda. It’s too small.”
Scratching his balding head, L’Archambeau said, “We’d better investigate.”
Hailing the sailors, DuPont boarded a jolly boat with L’Archambeau and Pierre and sailed to the wreckage. As they disembarked upon the beach, DuPont ordered the men to examine the melee.
“I’ll take care of this, father.” Charging down the beach, Pierre stormed ahead of the colored men.
DuPont started to protest, but L’Archambeau stopped him. “Let the boy prove himself, Monsieur.”
Pierre disappeared behind a large boulder. A few moments later, his angry shouts ricocheted off the cliffside. Stepping into view, Pierre beckoned them forward with a spirited wave.
Rolling his eyes heavenward, DuPont muttered, “The boy has always been overly dramatic.”
L’Archambeau sighed. “Indeed.”
They ambled down the beach. As DuPont approached his son, he gasped. The vessel had been flipped on its side with the incoming tide—and it wasn’t empty.
He stuffed his fists on his hips. “What in the world is this?”
The two Spaniards were stripped naked, tied back-to-back and shackled to a bolt on the stern of the boat. They grunted loudly through the white linen cloths secured around their mouths as Pierre worked quickly to release them from their bindings.
L’Archambeau gripped his cane. “What is the meaning of this, Monsieur Perez?”
DuPont’s eyes widened. Perez? “This is the man you hired to find Mademoiselle Montrose?”
L’Archambeau bit out, “Where is the rest of your crew? And your ship?” Pierre loosened the gag, and Perez coughed. L’Archambeau grasped the man by the collar. “Answer me!”
Shaking himself free, Perez rubbed his wrists and croaked, “I am going to kill Señorita Montrose!”
*****
GROANING, TALON SQUIRMED against the stern of their small vessel, his head aching from the aftermath of their ordeal aboard the Nueva Linda. The waves lapped gently at the sides, the sound whooshing through his ears. He drew in a deep breath. The salty air accosted his lungs, and he coughed. Would he ever get that smell out of his nostrils?
It had been nearly twelve hours since they’d escape. Their nightmare with Vargas and Perez had ended, but their chances of survival were waning. They had no oars and mere morsels of food and fresh water to sustain them—if the Caribbean heat didn’t kill them first.
Beside him, Talia laced her fingers with his and squeezed his hand. “Talon? Are you awake?”
Her soft whisper tickled his ear, and he sighed. “Aye, love. I’m fine.” As she brushed her hair from her face, heartache cut through him like a cold rain. Streaks of crimson marred her porcelain skin, resembling a boiled crab. He’d given her his hat, but it hadn’t kept the sun’s harmful rays at bay.
He shielded his eyes and gazed out at the bright horizon. He couldn’t see a thing but sea and sun. Attempting to lift himself to his elbows, he winced. A sharp pain radiated from his ribs as he twisted his torso the wrong way. A groan left his lips, and he sank to the floor.
“You are not fine.” Talia sat up and tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of her shirt. Dipping the linen in the warm ocean waters, she bathed his face gently. “Voila. Salt water is medicinal.”
As she applied it to Talon’s cuts, a stinging prickle ricocheted down his neck and shoulders. He took the towel from her and hissed. “That burns like hell.”
“The pain will subside.”
He grabbed her hand. “Nay, please just leave it be.”
Jutting out her chin, she pulled out of his grasp with a snort. “Stubborn man. You look like a blackberry.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “I’m Talon Barberry.”
She held a small flask of fresh water to his lips and sighed. “At least Marcus thought ahead.”
Indeed, the boy had packed their lifeboat with a small compass and pocket watch along with Talon’s dagger and hat. He’d thrown in some hardtack as well.
Poor Marcus.
Guilt ate at Talon’s soul for having left the little cabin boy behind. After everything Marcus done to help, he was stuck with Alberto and Perez. Swallowing a sip from the cask, Talon shook his head. “I can’t believe we left him.”
Talia’s eyes welled with tears. “I feel terrible as it is. Please don’t make it worse.”
Talon pressed her hand to his lips. “I’m not blaming you, love. I’d grown rather attached to the lad is all.”
“He reminds me of a young one on our plantation—Noel. The boy is nearly as precocious as Marcus.” Her soft smile shot through him like a ray of sunshine.
Warmth poured through his body. He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. He’d never met a woman quite like her. She’d sacrificed herself for him without hesitation, only to be cast out to sea with no guarantees of survival. And now she felt remorse because she couldn’t rescue a little slave boy?
She gave him a sidelong glance. “What is it?”
He arched an eyebrow. “You surprise me, Miss. You live on a plantation with slaves, yet you storm into the hold to save them? You’re a mystery, to be sure.”
Pulling away from him, she situated herself at the opposite end of the boat with a huff. “You know nothing about me, Monsieur.”
He crossed his arms. “Enlighten me, then.” She gave him an incredulous look. He squeezed her bare foot. “Come, now. We’re floating on the sea with nothing but time to spare. Who are you, Miss Montrose? I know you’re a spy. What about your other life?”
Talia pushed the hair from her face. “I grew up near New Orleans. Papa and Maman still live at our plantation, Temptation Hall.” She stopped and stared at him, apparently awaiting his reaction.
Talon merely shrugged. “I’m an Englishman. I have no idea how a plantation works.”
“My mother inherited the homestead from my great-grandfather because nobody else wanted it. When my parents married, my father became the sole proprietor—sort of like an English lord.” She leaned back on her elbows. “Our land sits along the Mississippi, a prime place for trade. We were the first to settle on the river, and people are rather envious of our strategic position. Papa is a successful planter. He’s made a fortune.”
Talon stared at her, unable to tear his gaze from hers. The soothing sound of her melodious voice soothed his pain. “What do you grow?”
“We’ve planted indigo, sometimes rice. However, the last ten years, Papa has taken a gamble with sugar cane. Havana is his native home, and he brought many of his ideas from there. However, he’s learned the most about growing cane from his business trips to the islands.”
“And you own slaves.” Talon pressed.
Talia wrinkled her nose. “What plantation in the territories doesn’t? It isn’t something I’m proud of, Monsieur. At least I have the good sense to treat them decently.”
The bitter tone of her voice caught his attention. He hiked an eyebrow. “Your parents?”
Pressing her lips together, she smoothed her skirts. “I have no control over my father’s actions.”
Talon pondered that for a minute and then let it go. He didn’t want to badger the poor girl about decisions her father had made. He furrowed his brow. “How is it you speak French, yet your family is Spanish?”
Talia chuckled. “It isn’t difficult to understand, Monsieur. France and Spain have battled for control of New Orleans for a century or more. Maman was born in Paris, but she traveled to the Americas with her grandparents when she was quite young. My great-grandfather was given a large parcel of land to develop—political royalties for his expertise during the Seven Years War. Great-Grandpére was quite influential in New Orleanian society.”
“And your father?”
She dipped her cloth once again in the salty sea, wringing it out and applying it to her burnt face. “He was born in Havana and sailed to the Louisiana Territories as a diplomat. When the Spanish took control of the city, he helped the government transition from French to Spanish rule. He speaks several languages fluently, and apparently, he charmed my mother with his prowess. Not long after their betrothal, I was born.” She ended her story matter-of-factly.
He smiled. “That was an enchanting tale.” Leaning back, he closed his eyes.
“What is a Romani?”
The hair on the back of Talon’s neck stood. As he opened his eyes, Talia was staring at him inquisitively. Interesting. He cleared his throat. “During all your missions, you’ve never met a Romani? Perhaps you’ve heard of us through our European name—Gypsies.”
Talia frowned. “I’m not as worldly as you think, Monsieur.”
He raised his eyebrows. Most people cringed when they discovered his heritage, but she hadn’t battered her sooty eyelashes. “I apologize. I had assumed you were well-traveled.”
Her lips curved at the corners. “Besides the islands, I’ve only been to Lisbon. Paris still eludes me.” A wistful sigh escaped her lips.
“You aren’t missing a thing. Paris is a dirty, dangerous city, swarming with paranoid revolutionaries.”
Sitting forward, Talia put her hand on his arm. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Placing his hands behind his head, Talon hummed. “My people are called Romani. At one time, my ancestors traveled all over Europe. Like your natives, we were nomadic. But my grandfather, the head of our clan, had decided he’d had enough. He set up a base camp with a few other families outside of London so we could breed our horses. In the spring, we travel the countryside to sell our wares and our livestock. Romani women make and sell their baskets.” He eyed her wearily. “Sometimes they entertain the white folk by reading tarots and palms.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Like the voodoo worshippers in the bayou. It sounds romantic and exciting.”
Pulling his knees to his chest, Talon gave her a sidelong glance. He’d never talked to anyone about his family. Not that anyone had asked. Most had ill-conceived notions about his lineage. “Perhaps to an outsider. But our clan is very structured. There are strict rules and codes of honor we live by.”
She sat forward. “Go on.”
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, and Talon chuckled. “Our extended family lives and caravans together. I have two brothers and a sister, and my brothers’ wives and their children all live in our clan along with my uncles, aunts, and cousins.”
She smiled wistfully. “Incroyable. I can’t imagine that many people living in one place. It must be nice to have such a large family.”
“There’s absolutely no privacy.”
She giggled. “I’m an only child. It has to be better than that.”
“I suppose. My family is musical, and when we’re gathered around a big campfire, they sing the songs of our ancestors and dance.”
Talia gave him a soft smile. “It sounds enchanting.”
He pressed his lips together. “Oftentimes, I felt trapped with no way to escape.”
“Pray tell, how did you escape your prison walls?”
“I joined the revolution.”
Wringing her skirts in her hand, she glanced at the endless water, finally asking the question they’d both been avoiding. “Talon... what are we going to do?”
He closed his eyes. “I have no bloody clue. I’m not a sailor. I don’t even know how close we are to the coast. The compass says we’re moving steadily southwest. I guess that’s a good sign.”
“Last evening, Vargas said we were just a day from port,” she said. “But we’ve been floating without sails in a rowboat with no oars. The tides haven’t pushed us as far as we need to go.”
“And where is that?”
“Basse-Terre. That’s where we were supposed to meet the ship to return us home.”
Brushing a hand over the back of his neck, he bit out, “You realize there’s no ship waiting for you. We were pawns, both of us. At this point, we can’t do anything but float along and hope that we run aground.”
Tears fluttered against Talia’s eyelashes as she blinked. “Mon dieu, I never thought I would die like this.”
Wrapping his arms around her, Talon tucked her head in the crook of his arm and brushed his hand over her hair. “Come now, love. I didn’t mean to scare you. We’ll figure something out. We’re resourceful, you and I.”
He swept a thumb across her cheek. As her verdant eyes glistened beneath the tears, he couldn’t help but think how beautiful she looked, blistered skin and all.
He leaned in, capturing her lips with his. Gasping, she deepened the kiss. Sucking in a hiss, he drew back and touched the broken skin around his lips with a wince. “Sorry, love. That’ll have to wait.”
She giggled.
*****
“Dieu, I should send you both to the firing squad, Monsieurs,” DuPont seethed. “You lost the girl and our pawn?”
Seated away from the cacophony, L’Archambeau sipped his cognac, observing his loyal recruits. He glared at the Spaniards. Despite DuPont’s overzealousness, the man had the right of it. The idiots deserved a proper lynching in the wake of how they’d washed up on the beach.
Between bites of food, Perez glowered at their host. “You have no idea the wiles of the Señorita. She got me drunk and tied me up. And she helped that no-good Barberry escape.”
“Then how did Vargas end up strapped to you naked?” DuPont growled.
“Those mutinous bastards.” His shoulders slumping, Alberto slid down in his seat. “Señorita Montrose had stripped Perez and bound him in his quarters. The sailors cried foul. They disrobed me and threw us in the last lifeboat setting us out to sea.” He sipped his ale sullenly. “The second mate is probably at one of the islands selling our slaves right now.”
Bursting up from the bar, Pierre stormed over to L’Archambeau and slammed his fists on his table. “You hired these filthy cretins. Where is Mademoiselle Montrose? I want my fiancée brought to me now. That was our deal.”
Anger blazed through L’Archambeau like a raging bonfire. He shouldn’t have trusted DuPont to capture Talia Montrose. Of course, he hadn’t expected the man would hire Talon Barberry. Dieu, the gamin had become a permanent thorn in his side. It would have been easier had the man died at the Bastille with Edouard Blanchefort.
Unfortunately, I underestimated Blanchefort’s lover.
Pressing his lips together, L’Archambeau gripped the head of his cane and stood. “The woman isn’t yours, you spoiled brat. She never was.”
Pierre whipped around with his fists at the ready as DuPont stepped in front of his son. Clearing his throat, DuPont stuttered, “Now see here, Monsieur—”
With nostrils flaring, L’Archambeau barked, “Enough. The only reason you’re involved, Colonel, is because you have the faith of the French National Assembly. That is no longer necessary to this assignment. We’ll press forward to the territories, but Talia Montrose must be with us when we meet our contact. Only then will we finish this mission.” He pointed at Perez and Vargas, stopping them mid-drink. “And you imbéciles will find her.”
Alberto harrumphed. “What’s the point? She and Señor Barberry are probably dead by now.”
Leaning over Alberto with a menacing glare, L’Archambeau grabbed the man’s shirtfront and noosed it tightly. “You will do as I say, Monsieur, because Mademoiselle Montrose is the key to this mission’s success. She’s our bait.” Staring at the Spaniards, he growled, “Do you want you two want your dues? Then find Montrose.”