Moontide Embrace (Historical Romance) (2 page)

Gabrielle motioned for Judah to sit beside her near the
warm fireplace. After pouring him a cup of steaming tea
and placing a plate of cakes within his reach, she met his
inquiring glance. "What is your news, Mother? Are you
troubled about something? You are not ill, are you?"

Soft firelight fell on Gabrielle's face, disguising the
worried frown that curved her lips downward as she watched his face expectantly. "I have received a letter
from my father. He has asked that I come to Bend of the
River Plantation and bring you with me. He says he is . . . ill, but that it is not of a serious nature. Can you
imagine the joy that filled my heart when I read his letter
asking me to come home after all these years?"

Judah looked at her through lowered lashes. "I find it
strange that you would be enthusiastic about the prospects of visiting your father when for so long he has turned his back on you. I, for one, have no intention of
going to New Orleans to see a man who has, until now,
ignored my existence."

Linking her arm through Judah's, Gabrielle Slaughter snuggled closer to him for warmth. "I know it is difficult
for you to understand a man like my father. He is proud
and stubborn." She smiled. "Sometimes you remind me of
him."

Judah stared at the fire, lost in thought. His grandfather lived on a plantation outside New Orleans, and
according to his mother, ruled it with an iron fist. "Phi
lippe tells me I am much like my own father," he said with
feeling. "I have no desire to emulate a man who has so
cruelly turned my mother away from his door."

Gabrielle's eyes took on a wistful look. "It is a pity that
your father didn't live to see what a fine son he had in
you." Her eyes misted. "He would have been so proud of
you today."

Judah clasped her cold hand in his. Even though her
husband had been dead for many years, Gabrielle still
mourned his passing. Daniel Slaughter had not been a
wealthy man, since he had enlisted the
Winged Victory
in
the defense of his country, rather than turning to piracy
as many other American ship-owners had. All he had to
leave his wife and son was his good name, the modest Tudor cottage, a small income from property left to him by his father, and of course the
Winged Victory.

"Will you come with me, Judah? Will you visit my father at Bend of the River?"

Judah picked up the wool coverlet that was folded over
the back of the settee, and placed it across his mother's
lap. "Have you asked yourself why my grandfather would
issue an invitation to you after all these years? You will never make me believe he is sorry for how he treated you in the past and wants to make amends." His eyes showed
the skepticism he was feeling.

Gabrielle studied her son's face, trying to see him
through the eyes of the many young ladies who flirted outrageously with him. To people who did not know him,
Judah might appear somewhat arrogant and overconfident. To Gabrielle, he had always been a loving and dutiful son.

There had been many lonely days for Gabrielle since
Daniel had been killed. She sighed, remembering the
lonely nights she had lain awake aching for her husband.
All the medals, the letters of praise from a grateful
country had brought little solace to her widow's bed. The
one bright spot in her life had been her son. Judah had the same blond handsomeness as her dead husband, but
his deep turquoise eyes came from Gabrielle's own father.

Yes, she thought, there had been difficult times in the
past, but she had stubbornly persevered for her son's
sake. Judah was a son any mother would be proud of. His manners were polished, and he was a handsome rogue—
this he had also inherited from his father.

Her hand moved up to brush against his cheek. "I
know how much it will wound your pride to take me to Bend of the River, but it would mean so much to me to
have you with me."

Judah's eyes softened. "I always find it hard to say no to you." His lips curled in a smile, then hardened into a
firm line. "But do not ask more of me than I can give,
Mother."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I suppose I could go alone. ..."

Judah drew in a deep breath, knowing his mother had
won. He would never allow her to face her father without
him at her side. "When would you like to leave?" he asked, admitting defeat.

Her smile was bright. Then she touched her lips to his
cheek. "I believe good things will come from this visit. As you know, my father is wealthy beyond anything you can
imagine. Perhaps I can persuade him to give you the
money to make the needed repairs on the
Winged Vic
tory."

"No, that is the one thing you must not do, Mother. I will never take money from a man who denied my
existence and swore that you married beneath you when
you wed my father. I want nothing from him."

"But you will go with me?"

"If it is your wish."

She laid her head against his broad shoulder. "You are a good son, Judah."

"I can only imagine how you must have twisted my
father around your little finger. I myself can never resist
your pleas."

"No, no. It was always the other way around. Your father could charm the birds from the trees when he wanted to. You are a rake, and have your father's glib
tongue. If you can so easily charm me, do you not think
you must be devastating to the inexperienced young ladies
of your acquaintance?"

His laughter was warm. "How can I answer such a question without appearing to be an egotistical fool?"

Gabrielle laughed softly. "No need to answer, you
scoundrel. I have had any number of young ladies inquir
ing as to when the
Winged Victory
would put into port. It
is my belief that you could pick and choose a bride from
among Boston's finest families."

"I believe you are deliberately trying to flatter me,
Mother. Could it be that you are trying to lure me into a
marriage with someone of your choosing."

Gabrielle laughed merrily. "I leave the choosing of a
bride to you, Judah." A mischievous light sparkled in her eyes. "Still, I would not say no to Abby Munsinger. She is
a lovely young lady."

"Her feet are too large, her ankles too thin."

Gabrielle pretended shocked surprise. "How would you
know about her ankles?"

He smiled. "I notice the small details."

"And Carrie Lundigan?"

"I cannot abide her twittering laugh."

"Sissy Dewitt?"

"Too skinny. Did anyone ever tell you that you are a
meddlesome woman, Mother?"

"On occasion," she replied, undaunted in her quest. "How about Maggie Dewitt?"

"Too stout." Judah held up his hand. "Can we not talk about something else? Tell me more about the letter from
your father."

Gabrielle Slaughter removed the crumpled letter from
her pocket and lovingly pressed the wrinkles out before
replacing it in the envelope. "I could not believe it when
the letter came. After all these years, I was sure my father
would never consent to see me again. Imagine him chang
ing his mind."

Judah clamped his jaw together tightly so he would not
be tempted to express his own views on his grandfather's belated invitation—belated by twenty-five years. Judah
thought of the man as an unfeeling bastard who still
wanted his own way. Seeing the wistfulness in his mother's
eyes, he knew it was best to let her put her own interpreta
tion on the letter.

"I know what you are thinking, Judah, but you are wrong."

He smiled down at the tiny woman who had been his
whole world for so much of his young life. She had kept
them going despite impossible odds, and now she never
complained when he was at sea for months at a time, but
welcomed him joyously when he returned. "What am I
thinking, Mother?"

"You are thinking that I should have thrown this
invitation back in my father's face, but you do not know
him as I do. I always knew the day would come when he would want to see you, so he could judge for himself how
you had turned out. He has no family other than his
younger brother's son, Sebastian. He is an old man, and
wants to see his only grandson. I will be proud to present
you to him. I believe he will find you are a credit to the
Montesquieu name."

Judah's reaction was swift. His turquoise eyes blazed,
and his chin set in a stubborn line. "I bear the name
Slaughter, as did my father," he reminded her with a slight
sting to his words. "I will never apologize for a name that
is as old and as prestigious as Montesquieu. Why should I be concerned about whether or not I measure up to your father's idea of what a gentleman should be? If my father
was not good enough for him, then neither am I."

Gabrielle felt tears well up in her eyes. "No one could
have been prouder of your father's name than I. Daniel
was a hero, and died a hero's death. I have letters from
Thomas Jefferson and John Adams praising his heroism."
Gabrielle dabbed at her eyes before continuing. "When I
met your father in France, the summer we were married,
he was acting as an emissary for the Continental Congress. He was a good man, an honorable man. I loved
him well. You must always be proud that he was a hero."

"A hero . . . but dead nonetheless," Judah said bitterly.
"Your father disinherited you for marrying him, since he
felt you had married beneath you, and in all these years
he has returned your letters unopened and has refused to
communicate with you in any way. Why are you not
suspicious about why he wants to see you now?"

"It is as I said. He wants to meet you. He is an old man, and wants to make peace before he dies. I have
heard that he made his nephew, Sebastian, his heir when
he became displeased with me."

Judah laced his fingers together. "I see that you have
kept up with your family. I wonder how you accomplished
that?"

His mother returned his smile. "My girlhood friend,
Minette, lives in New Orleans, and we communicate each
Christmas. She always keeps me informed on local hap
penings."

Judah glanced down at the envelope on his mother's lap. "Just what does the letter say?"

"It simply states that I am to bring you to New
Orleans. There we will be met and transported to Bend of the River Plantation. Your grandfather was always one to issue orders. He expects everyone to submit to his com
mand. It is his way," she said apologetically. "If one loves
Father, one overlooks his domination."

It was hard for Judah to feel charitable toward a man
who had broken his mother's heart and had left her alone
and floundering after her husband had died. He was thoughtful for a moment while he worked the details out
in his mind. "I will have the
Winged Victory
outfitted
tomorrow. I have always considered testing the trade in the Spanish Territories. I suppose now is as good a time
as any. While I take you to see your father, Philippe can
sail on to the Spanish coast. He will then return to New
Orleans and wait until you are ready to leave. Is this
satisfactory with you?"

Her eyes sparkled happily. "Oh, yes. That is very satisfactory with me."

Judah had no intention of remaining at Bend of the
River Plantation one day longer than was necessary. A
feeling of dread passed over his heart, for he had the
strangest feeling that he would soon be stepping back into
his mother's past and there would be no place for him there.

2

Louisiana, 1811

It was a swamp world of strange undisturbed beauty, a
land of struggle and survival —a majestic wilderness. Great oaks were draped with cloaks of gray Spanish
moss. Willow trees dipped leafy branches in the mirror-
bright water, while the mighty cypress trees stood like
ghostly sentinels, guarding against man's intrusion into this paradise.

Overhead, a heron glided on the soft morning breeze.
Below it, the lazy bayou sheltered a multitude of wildlife before it emptied into the Mississippi River. One of the
swamp's wayward sons, an alligator, eased through the
green blanket of wild hyacinths and disappeared from sight.

Suddenly a small skiff skimmed over the bayou, break
ing the halcyon silence. A family of nutria scurried to the
water's edge. Large turtles, sunning themselves on cypress
logs, occasionally plopped into the bayou. As the skiff
bumped against the mossy bank, the lone occupant, a
young girl, stepped agilely ashore and secured the boat to
a sun-rotted log.

At fifteen years of age, Liberty Boudreaux was as much
a part of this land as the white-tailed deer that now
darted through the blackberry thicket to approach her,
unafraid. She was a frequent visitor and was welcomed by
all the small animals that called the swamp home.

The skirt of her gray homespun gown was tucked inside
her waistband, revealing muddy, knee-high brown boots.
Her golden hair was plaited into a single braid that hung
over one shoulder. Liberty was a child of the earth, attuned to every aspect of nature.

The white-tailed deer nudged the young girl's hand, and
was rewarded by the sound of laughter. The girl reached
into her pocket, then offered the large animal a handful of grain. Other animals, smaller ones, began to timidly poke their heads from the underbrush. A venturesome swamp rabbit hopped across Liberty's boot and was offered a soft pat and a plump carrot.

As Liberty dropped down onto a carpet of soft lilacs, she was immediately surrounded by her strange entourage. In this swampy isolated world, the girl was not
lonely, for she had her animal friends. This was where she
always came when her own world offered her only neglect
and heartache.

There was joy in Liberty's heart as she breathed in the
exotic fragrance of the numerous flowering plants that
dotted the landscape. This wilderness could be harsh and dangerous to anyone unfamiliar with its hazards—but not
to Liberty. She knew every inch of this swamp, knew
where the pools of quicksand were located. They could
swallow a man without leaving a trace of him. She always
avoided the poisonous snakes that lay in wait for the unaware, and she had a great respect for the alligators that ruled the swamp kingdom.

Liberty also knew where Zippora, the old black
woman, lived with her simple-minded grandson, Reuben.
Liberty avoided the old woman most of all, for it was
said that she was a witch and practiced voodoo. That fact did not seem to stop many fashionable young ladies from
flocking to Zippora when she went into New Orleans to
sell her love potions, gris-gris, and good-luck charms. The old woman was quite the rage among the more prominent women of New Orleans.

It was rumored that Zippora had been very beautiful in
her youth. She was said to have been a slave until her young master fell in love with her and set her free.
Liberty doubted this to be true. Liberty's mother believed that Zippora herself had circulated the story so she would
appear tragically romantic to the young ladies of quality.

When Liberty was in the swamps she would often see
Zippora and her young grandson from a distance. Liberty
and the old woman had an unspoken agreement; they
never invaded each other's privacy. Liberty certainly had
no intention of even nearing Zippora's territory. No one
ever crossed Zippora's land.

Suddenly the soft peaceful sounds of the swamp were
disturbed by the sounds of man's intrusion. Voices were
raised in anger, and there was no mistaking the sound of
the whiplash that filled the stillness. The small animals scurried into dense undergrowth, while the fleeter deer
bounded into the air and disappeared down a grassy slope.

Liberty stood up slowly and moved toward the sound.
Keeping in the shadow of the willow trees, she made her
way to the place where the red cypress-stained swamp
water forked and emptied into the Mississippi River. She
cautiously parted the willow branches and held her breath
as she watched the two men struggling with a young boy.
It took her only seconds to see that the boy was Zippora's
grandson. The poor child was frightened out of his wits,
and was making fearful whimpering sounds.

Liberty had no trouble recognizing the two as slavers
that sailed the Mississippi River looking for runaways.
Everyone knew they were residents of Barataria, the haven
for Jean Lafitte's cutthroats and pirates. Liberty's soft lips curled in disgust as her anger boiled. When one of
the men raised his whip and applied it to the young black
boy's back, she didn't stop to weigh the consequences, but
ran to the river's edge and bounded onto the swamp boat.

Before the startled slavers could react, she had jerked the whip from one of them and had tossed it onto the
riverbank. "How dare you do this!" she cried, bending to gather the sobbing young boy in her arms. "I am appalled
that you would torture a child. My father will hear of this, and you will regret your folly."

The man who had been wielding the whip now turned
his attention on Liberty. "Mayhap I just trade the boy for you, little girl." Grinning, he showed chipped and black
ened teeth. He smelled of the sweat that dripped down his
face and onto his shirt, plastering the material to his body.

The second man reached out and grabbed Liberty's
braid, jerking her face up to his. "Who would your pa be,
that you should want to threaten us with him?"

Now Liberty could see the folly of her actions. She knew she had placed herself in real danger. These men
were unscrupulous, with no regard or respect for human
life. They ran a black-market slave ring, and wouldn't
think twice about harming her. Nevertheless, her eyes sparkled with anger. "My father is Louis Boudreaux, and
he will see you dead if you do not release me at once."

Loud laughter came from both men. "I know about
Monsieur Boudreaux. You can't be the daughter of such
a fine gentleman. You look like nothing more than a poor
little swamp rat."

The young boy had been all but forgotten, and Liberty
surreptitiously watched him crawl over the side of the boat, drop into the water, and swim around the bend of
the river, toward the bayou. She was glad he, at least, had
escaped the two men.

Tears of pain brightened her eyes as the slaver applied
pressure to her hair. "Allow me to introduce myself to you, little girl. I'm Sidney, and this here's my brother, Frank. There ain't no need for last names."

The man called Frank flicked his tongue out and
allowed his eyes to feast hungrily on the delicate young
girl. "Bet she'd be a tender young thing, Sidney. We found
ourselves a prize today. Suppose we take her home with
us, mayhap fatten her up a bit."

"Yeh, she's a mighty spicy piece at that," his brother
added, running his filthy hands down the front of her
gown and pinching her firm young breasts until she cried
out in pain.

Liberty swung wide and caught the man hard across the face. He only laughed and picked her up in his arms. She
shuddered in disgust when he stepped out of the boat. Then she quaked with fear, realizing what the two men
had in mind for her, knowing there was no one about to
come to her rescue.

Sidney carried her up the grassy bank and out of sight of the river. Tossing her onto the ground, he quickly straddled her, while pinning her arms above her head. "Me and my brother will both have us a time with you, little swamp rat."

Grabbing Liberty's chin in a viselike grip, Sidney made
her look at him. He was crude and filthy—she could feel
the bile rising up in her throat. Defiant blue eyes chal
lenged him. Liberty knew she had to try to save herself.
Even though she struggled with all her might, he only
laughed at her puny efforts. Angry and frightened, Liberty spit in the man's face.

"Damn you," he swore, striking a forceful blow that
brought blood to her lips and almost made her lose
consciousness.

Liberty's head was swimming, and she felt as if the ground tilted up and hit her in the face.

"Have at her, Sidney; then I'll take me a turn," Frank said, dropping down and grasping Liberty's arms. "She ain't a bad looker, and I like 'em young."

Liberty knew it would do no good to plead for her
freedom. These men were past reasoning. She fixed her
eyes on a moss-covered tree limb, trying to resign herself
to her fate, but a tear slid down her cheek as she remembered that today was her birthday and no one in
her family had remembered. Since she was about to be ravished by two slimy creatures who would probably kill
her afterward, Liberty prayed for a quick death.

She felt the man's hands slip under her gown, and she
gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. Closing her
eyes, she tried to blot out the sight of his ugly face. It was
so quiet; hardly a sound could be heard above the two men's labored breathing. It was as if time had been
suspended and the whole swamp world was watching and
waiting to see what would happen to the young girl.

Suddenly the sound of a bullwhip crackled through the
air, shattering the stillness. Sidney leaped to his feet, while his brother stared in disbelief at the tall black woman who
wielded the whip like an avenging angel, or perhaps a devil.

"Back away from the girl, white man," Zippora said in
a deadly calm voice—a voice laced with a heavy French
accent.

"Who are you?" Frank asked, releasing Liberty and
standing up beside his brother.

A sudden gust of wind swirled about Zippora, and her
dark eyes blazed with a strange yellow light. "I am one who will horsewhip you if you do not do as I say."

Sidney advanced a step toward the old woman. "Ain't no threat coming from you gonna scare me off. I don't
care if you are an old woman. I'll tear your head off and
feed it to the 'gators."

"You had better take my threat as real, white man." The whip slashed through the air and caught Sidney
across the cheek. Swearing in pain, he reached up to find
blood flowing from a deep gash. "I'll kill you for that," he swore angrily.

By this time Liberty had gained her footing and was
backing away. Again the whip snaked through the air, this
time wrapping around the neck of the second brother.
Zippora yanked on the handle and toppled the man to the
ground, where he twisted and gasped for breath.

"I predict your death," Zippora said softly. "I see your
boat sinking in the river. I hope you can swim against the
current."

Sidney watched his brother unwind the whip from
around his neck before he blurted out. "I know who you
are! You're that damned witch, Zippora."

"That is so. My grandson you met earlier," she answered, nodding to the young black boy who had come up to stand beside Liberty.

Frank stood on shaky legs, and his eyes bulged out in fear. "We been cursed, Sidney. This here's the voodoo
woman. We're as good as dead!"

"Shut up, you fool," his brother commanded, backing
toward the boat while keeping an eye on the old woman.
"We didn't mean no harm, ma'am. We was just funning with the boy."

"Were you also funning with the white girl?" Zippora
asked, pointing a bony finger at both men.

"What should you care about a white girl?" Frank
questioned, as his back came up against a tree that was
blocking his exit.

Zippora's eyes rested momentarily on Liberty and
seemed to soften. "I care about this white girl," she said,
tossing the whip down. "Go. You have already incurred my wrath. Do not force me to send the raven to pluck your eyes from your dead bodies."